Black Holes & Macrame

Of Gods and Demigods

2010-09-16T17:36:00.001-05:00

Under the Friday night lights, on any given Sunday, American football fans sit in rapt attention as their gridiron gods face the longest yard at fourth and goal.

Once again, football season is upon us. Soon, the temperature will fall, leaves will begin to change color, and fans will huddle under blankets and drink hot chocolate while cheering on the home team from the stands. Homecoming will be celebrated at every high school and on every college campus across this nation, and grown men with paunches and jowls will fondly reminisce about their glory days in uniform while little boys dream of throwing footballs and scoring touchdowns, and little girls aspire to being cheerleaders or members of pom pom squads.

Make no mistake, we are a polytheistic society in America and our true religion is football. We worship an entire pantheon of football gods and demigods, from peewee to pro.We celebrate their victories and revile their defeats. The hiring and firing of football coaches is more important than the election of a new president or pope. And only in America can a man quit his job in order to play fantasy football full-time.

Recently, we took Darling Daughter to Blue and Gold night at her school. Boys from fifth to twelfth grade wore football jerseys and were introduced to the crowd as this year's line-up of gridiron heroes. I was struck anew by the swagger those boys possess while proudly wearing their football jerseys, even the youngest of them. They move with the confidence of warriors, sure of victory and its spoils.

Darling Daughter and three of her BFFs were walking in front of me, Darling Husband and two other moms. As the girls made their way past a group of fifth grade football players, I noticed the openly appraising looks a number of them gave my daughter and her friends. The girls were completely oblivious to the boys, not even sparing them the most fleeting of glances - they are still at that magical age when boys' opinions of their looks do not matter and boys' romantic attentions are not sought. I was stunned and torn. Stunned because it was the first time I saw my daughter looked at in a boy-likes-girl kind of way. Torn because I can remember wanting to be the object of those same kinds of appraising glances from the football gods of my day, but I'm not sure I want DD to be the object of those glances even when she's older. I worry that today's boys are more reckless, insensitive and narcissistic than they were thirty years ago. Or perhaps today's football gods are no more reckless, insensitive and narcissistic than the ones of yore, perhaps the difference is that my perspective has changed. I am no longer a young girl yearning to win the attention of a football player; instead, I am the mother of a young girl.

That changes everything.

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

2010-08-30T16:27:00.001-05:00

Kroger opened its first Marketplace megastore in Arkansas over the weekend. Here's what was missing from my shopping experience:

Exorcist on aisle 9 for the tot who was in the throes of a major demonic possession over a toy he couldn't have
Fashion police in produce for the white trashionista who failed to properly bag her melons and left them dangling near her navel
Sniper at register 4 to shoot either the clueless cashier or the coupon freak in line in front of me

Maybe it's me, but I don't want to hike over 124,000 square feet in order to do my weekly grocery shopping. I don't want to buy furniture and bed linens along with my milk and eggs. I hate shopping in cavernous warehouse-like buildings that magnify rather than diminish the ambient noise - if I wanted to shop in such a store, I'd just go to the white trash Mecca otherwise known as a Walmart Superstore. I don't need a sushi bar or a café, and I would never in a million years purchase a piece of so-called fine jewelry from the same place I get my deli meat. I am seriously considering defecting to the Fresh Market for most of my shopping - at least the store is a manageable size and there is beautiful classical music playing every time I shop there. Who cares if I don't recognize any of the brands and have to pay twice as much for meat and cheese? It might be worth it to avoid having to march through acres of useless crap to get to the things on my shopping list ...

Looking For Me?

2010-08-18T09:22:00.001-05:00

If you're looking for me, you'll have to wander over to I Wonder Wye to read my latest musings on age (aptly titled "Musings on Age"). I am doing my good friend AGL a.k.a. Wye a solid by providing blog fodder for her while she and her beloved Excy are otherwise occupied at the Cleveland Clinic getting Excy a new heart valve and stem. Madam Wye is one of the few bloggers I know IRL (that's computer/IM/text-speak for 'in real life' for you analog types). She's a class act and one of my closest, dearest friends. She's also the most beautiful woman I've ever heard drop the f-bomb, and I am delighted and enchanted anew each time she does. The juxtaposition of the two things amuses me no end. But that's probably because I'm an incorrigible and incurable potty mouth IRL as well as in my blog writing. I doubt you'll ever see any f-bombs on AGL's blog, though - nonetheless, you should check her blog out. Her blog is a perfect sorbet course you can read to cleanse your palate between my saucy rantings ...

Kato's Plan of War

2010-08-16T07:50:00.000-05:00

Hi, I'm Kato*. I hate my frickin' diet. THIS MEANS WAR!!! Okay ... I overdone that. I have one question: Do you hate diets ... CUS I hate DIETS!!!! ... Okay now that that's over, I will sing a tune: I Hate Diiieeeettts!!!!!! Okay. I'm done now.
Sencirly,
Kato
P.S. I HATE DIETS!
Contact me: Kato@fuud.bowl

*Note: Kato is the other cat in the Dame Nuisance household. This post courtesy of Darling Daughter.

Nyet Diet

2010-08-05T07:50:00.002-05:00

Greetings Readers of Blog, it is I, Cosmo, most magnificent of house kets! I em writing to you this day for hoping you will plead case with Dame. She nuisance now for to being sure since she, how you say? Put me on diet. Da! Diet. Ugly word is diet. And ugly is Cosmo for to being when Cosmo lose hees voluptuous roundness, no thanking to diet. Come winter, Cosmo too skinny to keeping Dame's toes warm. Dame sorry then. So please for to taking pity on thees poor star-ved house ket. Tell Dame nyet diet for Cosmo or I contacting ASPCA. Dame worry for own skin then. Da. ASPCA no laugh when seeing how skinny and bone Cosmo is with diet.

Existential Questions

2010-07-27T15:17:00.002-05:00

I think I have taken leave of my senses. The question is: Is this a permanent vacation or a quick side trip? Answer: Only time will tell. (Yes, I know I'm being cryptic. But explaining just isn't in the cards today, my friends, and tomorrow's lookin' iffy, too ...)

Sometimes I wonder which is harder on me: The holding on or the letting go? Every time I think I know the answer, something happens to make me question it all over again. Maybe the answer is: Both (since I seem to hold on to and let go of the wrong things in equal measure).

How is it that my husband tells me he's had me on the brain for almost twenty years but can't manage to even start thinking about a gift for me for my birthday, our anniversary, Christmas or Valentine's Day more than two or three days in advance of the event? And yet this same man will spend weeks, months, and now years, completely obsessed about which hat or computer game to buy?

Is it me or is there a disconnect somewhere?

Xanax or Valium?

Coffee or tea?

Paper or plastic?

Ginger or Maryann?

Boxers or briefs?

To blog or not to blog? (Granted, it's not Shakespeare, but it will have to do.)

Why don't do-overs exist beyond the pages of fiction and edges of playgrounds?

What is the point? Answers welcome ...

Lebenszeichen

2010-07-18T16:33:00.001-05:00

A sign of life. That's right. I. Am. Alive. I realize you've had absolutely no evidence of this the last (give or take) ten weeks, and I apologize.

They say life is what happens to you when you've already made plans. Actually, life is what happens to you no matter what. Or maybe we should just say life happens (like shit happens) and leave it at that.

But it's me and, of course, I can't leave it at that. Leaving it at that isn't fun. Or sporting. Or much of a blog post.

I have been struggling with a bit of an existential crisis. Deep in a funk for the last ten weeks, I have been unable to blog. Not only that, I haven't been able to read any of the blogs I follow. I have even considered committing blogicide.

Feel free to gasp collectively.

I can't promise this post means that I'm back in the saddle again on a regular basis, although I have put my foot down and told Darling Husband that I don't want to 'share' my laptop with him anymore - the first small baby step towards a new selfishness, a selfishness that doesn't so much take away from others as it gives to me. I am going to be focusing more on my writing - especially my novel. I need to finish editing it and get it published, one way or another. It's too important to me not to.

And in honor of these momentous changes, I have opted for a different look on the blog. Gave the old gal a little makeover. Haven't decided yet how long the new 'duds' will last, but at least it is an outward manifestation of some of the inward changes that have gone on the last few weeks.

To be continued ... hopefully.

Memoir Monday: Confessions of a Former Control Freak

2010-05-03T06:00:00.004-05:00

For this week's edition of Memoir Monday, I am going all the way back to the beginning of my marriage to Darling Husband. When you're done here, be sure to head on over to Travis's place at I Like To Fish to check out his memory and the memories of the other folks who are brave (or crazy) enough to bare it all for your bloggy pleasure ...

Darling Husband and I have been married nearly 15 years now, and sometimes I look back on my newly married self and marvel that DH put up with me. I was a bit of a control freak when we met, and my control freak tendencies intensified during the year we were engaged and planning our wedding. I wasn't a Bridezilla by any means, but suffice it to say, I definitely had the potential. What follows is the story of how DH began to cure me of my control freak ways ...

Instead of going on a honeymoon, we moved lock, stock and two cats to Nashville, TN right after we got married. We loaded up everything DH owned that had survived the Great Purge - you know, the one where most of what a bachelor owns in the way of home decor is usually deemed too fugly for the marriage home and is summarily purged before it has a chance to darken the doorstep of the new abode. DH's stuff was no exception. There's not a woman alive who's willing to live with a Rolling Rock banner, a coffee table made from a Do Not Enter sign, and the fugliest faux Naugahyde recliner ever bought from a flea market auction. Just trust me on this. And since we were moving into a two-bedroom apartment, there was no room for a Man Cave - the second bedroom was already designated as the office where I consequently spent many hours studying and writing research papers because I was a grad student at Vanderbilt.

Not long after we got settled in to the new apartment, DH told me he wanted to get his hair cut. At the time we got married, DH had been rocking a flat top for about two years. The flat top was not a leftover from military service as most people assumed, but rather a matter of convenience and expedience. DH was big into having a no-fuss, no-muss, wash-and-wear 'do, and the flat top was nothing if not that. Being the control freak that I was, I told DH to look in the phone book for a barber shop instead of just getting in the car and driving around. I had already been living in Nashville for a year and didn't recall seeing a single barber shop, only hair salons, and there's not a stylist on the planet who knows how to cut a flat top. You need the crustiest, crankiest ex-Marine-turned-barber for that. I knew there had to be barber shops in Nashville - every city has them, but they were a dying breed back then and not exactly on every street corner. DH looked at me and said, "Okay." Then I told DH to take only $10 out of our account because a flat top wasn't going to cost him more than $10, even in the big city. DH once again said, "Okay," and I left our apartment for the day, cloaked in the warm fuzzy glow of a new wife secure in the knowledge that she and her new Mister were seeing eye-to-eye.

Boy, was I wrong.

When I got home that afternoon, DH was not sporting a flat top any longer. Instead, he'd gotten a buzz cut, and it looked like he'd let a Kindergartner do it, to boot. The conversation that followed went like this:

Me: What the hell happened to you?
DH: (matter-of-factly) I got my hair cut.
Me: Well, I can see that, but that's not the haircut you said you were going to get.
DH: (agreeing) Not exactly.
Me: Was it at a barber shop? A barber did that to you?
DH: No.
Me: (exasperated) Where did you get your hair cut then?
DH: (looking a little sheepish) Fantastic Sam's.
Me: What?!? Fantastic Sam's? That's not a barber shop!
DH: I know. I couldn't find a barber shop.
Me: What do you mean you couldn't find a barber shop? You said you were going to look in the phone book for a barber ...
DH: (cutting his exasperated new bride off) No, YOU said I was going to look in the phone book.
Me: (eyes narrowed) But you agreed to it, you said, "Okay."
DH: I said, "Okay," but I wasn't agreeing with you.
Me: (non-plussed) So, what? 'Okay' doesn't mean 'I agree', it just means the sound waves are bouncing off your ear drums?!?
DH: Pretty much.
Me: (changing the subject, but not really) And did you take out only $10?
DH: (again matter-of-factly) No. I took out $20.
Me: What?!? But you said you were only going to take out $10!
DH: No, YOU said I was going to take out $10.
Me: (with teeth gritted) And. You. Agreed. With. Me.
DH: No, I said, "Okay," but I wasn't -
Me: (finishing DH's sentence) Agreeing with me.
DH: (nodding) Right.
Me: (sighing in defeat) And 'okay' just meant 'I hear you', not 'I agree with you'.
DH: (beaming) Exactly.

I eyed his ugly buzz cut, still fuming at how my new husband had pretty much smiled and nodded and did as he damn-well pleased. But then the strangest thing happened: I began to laugh. At myself. At him. At the situation. And most of all, at that ugly ass buzz cut he got. He looked at me with a slightly alarmed expression on his face, and I stopped laughing long enough to say, "I can't stay mad at you considering that haircut is poetic justice."

Cue canned laughter.

That was pretty much the beginning of the end of my control freak days. I have relapses every now and then, but for the most part, I don't have to micromanage every little thing in life, particularly when it comes to Darling Husband. To this day, however, whenever that man says "Okay," I still ask him, "Is that okay-the-sound-waves-are-bouncing-off-my-eardrum or is that okay-I-agree-with-you-and-or-will-do-whatever-it-is-you're-telling-me-to-do?"

Clear communication is definitely key to having a happy, harmonious and bad-haircut-free marriage.

Memoir Monday: Puking Drunk

2010-04-26T09:09:00.002-05:00

I've been meaning to participate in my bloggy buddy Travis' Memoir Mondays, where those of us who are willing, take a stroll down memory lane. But life, with its usual twists and turns, has gotten in the way of late. It's still in the way, truth be told, but I'm going to regale you all with the story of the one and only time in my life I have ever been puking drunk. And when you're done here, head on over to I Like To Fish where Travis will have links to other participants' contributions.

It was April of 1993. I was 24 and had been living and working in Heidelberg, Germany for a little over six months at that point. My German host-parents invited me to go with them to Austria during Easter break, and I happily accepted their offer. When I had been an exchange student living with them during my senior year in high school, we'd taken a trip to Austria over Easter, and I had very fond memories of that trip, so it was a no-brainer for me when they offered to take me along.

We lucked out that year because there was a Heuriger in the same little village where we were staying that was already open for the season. The word Heuriger (pronounced 'hoy-ree-ger') literally means this year's, as in this year's wine. In Austria, local wine growers are allowed to open their doors to the general public and sell that year's wine, along with cheese and cold cuts, for a two-week period (give or take). Unlike restaurants, they are strictly prohibited from selling any wine that was not produced by their own vines. The various wine growers in the region try to stagger their two weeks so that there is always at least one or two Heurigen open from early spring through late summer.

So off we go, me, my host-mother Siegi (pronounced 'Zee-gee') and my host-father Karl. When we arrived at the Heuriger, things were in full swing, and every table was occupied by at least two or three people. In Europe, however, this is not a problem. If there are any unoccupied chairs at a table in a cafe, restaurant, bar or Heuriger, they are fair game whether you know the people sitting at that table or not. It is perfectly acceptable to walk up to the table and ask those already seated if the empty seats are available. If no one is sitting there, they will tell you the seats are available and you can sit down. This is an utterly alien concept to an American, but because I had already lived in Germany as an exchange student, it didn't faze me when we sat down at a table that was already occupied by a few of the locals.

We ordered wine and a plate with cheese and cold cuts, and then, as these things are wont to happen, particularly whenever my host-mother was around, we ended up in conversation with the folks at our table. I was a bit of a conversation piece because it soon came out that I was an American, but no ordinary one, since I was that strangest of all beasts, an American who could speak German. We talked and laughed, ate cheese and cold cuts, and drank lots and lots of wine. The wine was served in small glass tumblers that had a grape leaf motif along the top of the glass. One of the locals at our table was a spry and frisky 86-year-old named Ferdinand Däubl (pronounced doy-bel). Every time the level of wine in my glass fell below the grape leaf motif, ol' Ferdinand would pipe up and say to me with a wink and a leer "Deine Blätter sind welk!" as he poured more wine into my glass. Roughly translated, "Deine Blätter sind welk" means "Your leaves are wilting," and it was Ferdinand's way of saying I needed more wine in my glass. Before I knew it, the old rascal was proposing he and I take a walk in the tall rye grass. No doubt ol' Ferdinand had gone walking in the rye with quite a few Mädels in his day, but I wasn't going to join their ranks. I declined the offer, which only made the others at the table howl with laughter and ol' Ferdinand blush. Ferdinand was aptly named because 'Däubl' is a dialect version of devil. Ferdinand was definitely a devil, even at 86.

I had a great time that night but didn't realize how drunk I was until it was time to walk home. The damn pavement was suddenly a lot more uneven than it had been earlier in the evening as we walked to the Heuriger. When I got to my room and laid down, the room began to spin like mad and I was burning up. I managed to get myself upright and ripped off all my clothes in an effort to cool off, laid back down but kept a foot on the floor in the hopes it would keep the room from spinning. But I was way too drunk for even that to help. Next thing I knew, I had to hurl. I left my room and made a mad dash for the water closet just down the hall, buck naked. I made it just in time to puke all over the wall and floor of the water closet instead of in the toilet. Once I finished puking, I went and grabbed some towels and attempted to clean my godawful mess up and that's how my host-mother found me, kneeling buck naked in the hall, half in and half out of the WC. I was quite a sight, I'm sure. The only thing that would have been worse was if my host-father had found me instead. I tried to apologize for the mess, but Siegi just shooed me to bed, saying she'd clean the rest up.

The next morning, with the worst hangover of my life, Karl came into the kitchen. I was sitting at the breakfast table drinking coffee but in no condition to eat solid food yet. Karl said to Siegi that there was a funny smell in the WC and wanted to know if she had any idea what was causing it. I looked up quickly and thought my head was going to detach from my shoulders at the movement, and winced at both the pain and the imminent humiliation. But Siegi did something completely unexpected. She shrugged and told Karl she had no idea what was causing the smell. Then, when Karl wasn't looking, she gave me a little wink. It hurt to smile, so my smile was closer to a grimace, but I gave it my best.

Moral of the story, boys and girls: If you ever meet a man named 'Devil', do NOT drink wine with him.

Guest Post: Cosmo, Most Magnificent of All Cats

2010-04-20T12:52:00.005-05:00

Greetings inferior human readers of Blog. It is I, Cosmo, most magnificent of all Cats. I have taken time from busy day (eating, sleeping, pooping, eating, sleeping, eating, sleeping) to ~~hijack blog~~ introduce my most magnificent self. Dame N. says I am merely domestic shorthair, but what know she? I am descending from greatest of all Cats, the Russian Blue. My Father risk life and paw to meet my Mother, but that is story for the telling another day. It is honor for her to be serving me, and she will be knowing my displeasure at her inglorious description when I, how you say? barfing on her shoes. Yes, that is it. I will barfing on her shoes to showing displeasure. It is what I do. I am Cat.

So, why is Cat writing blog, you are asking? Dame N. no write, Dame too busy mumbling about Mister hunting the job, but I no listen. Hunting is for proletariat, and I am indoor Cat, I no hunt. That's what human is for, da? Da. Also, Dame doing the battle with vicious invader, name of Paul Len. I no see him yet, but I plan to barfing on his shoes when I do. That Paul Len make Dame head for to aching, nose for to running, eyes for to itching and sinuses for to clogging - but I confuse on last one. Clogging is form of dancing, not good for Cats because tails for to getting step-ped on. But no matter. That Paul Len, he on barf list, number one spot, da!

Dame N. also do something called the monitor of batch. Was fun for Cosmo because Dame no sleep regular time, Dame stay up late keeping Cat hours, but Dame very tired, very cranky after. Cosmo think Dame need beauty sleep so Dame is for to being as magnificent as Cosmo. But what I say? That is not for to being possible - Dame lowly human, Dame no Cat. Please for to excusing me, Cosmo feeling hairball coming. Must for to barfing now.

It's That Time Again ...

2010-03-31T12:32:00.001-05:00

You ladies will know what I'm talking about and any man with a well-developed sense of self-preservation will, too, if he's living with a woman and has been paying the slightest bit of attention.

I am referring, of course, to that lovely time of the month. The time when all I want to wear to work is sweats because the Period Fairy has replaced all of my clothes with ugly stuff two sizes too small. The time when my bathroom scale is a no-good lying sonofabitch that deserves to be stomped on by a mad bull elephant on a rampage. The time when I don't even want to go to work (wait - that's pretty much every day ... but it reaches mythic proportions during That Time) and will break down crying over the smallest things because I. Simply. Cannot. Cope. The time when I get vicious headaches, backaches and cramps ... yeah. You know.

Some months are better than others. This month isn't one of them. About every three or four months, all of my symptoms are more severe than usual and I have a black cloud hanging over my head two or three days right before it hits and, if it's REALLY bad, a day or two during, as well.

This month is one of those really bad months. It's so bad I can't stand the sound of Darling Husband and Darling Daughter chewing. I even got annoyed at their breathing the other day. I mean seriously, can't they go breathe somewhere else and not around me? Ditto chewing? And wouldn't you know it, Darling Husband just has to eat all of the smelliest foods right when I'm in black cloud mode -- foods that at any other time are merely slightly unappealing smelling for some reason become intolerably pungent when it's one of those months. I damn near killed him over Braunschweiger once.

Frankly, I should be quarantined when I'm having one of those months because I am definitely not fit for human interaction. My husband, bless his heart, is no saint, but when I'm having one of those months, he certainly has his saintly moments. He almost never mentions what a cranky, impossible-to-live-with bitch I am. And I love him for it.

GWA Tuesday: Again?!?

2010-03-23T08:05:00.000-05:00

It's that time again, folks! Just sharing my gratitude with extreme attitude. Won't you join the fun? Head on over to Think Tank Momma's to read all about it. And now, without further ado ...

Dear ~~Piece-of-Shit~~ Minivan:

Thanks so much for turning that 'Service Engine Soon' light in the dashboard on. The repeated flashing was a nice touch, kinda reminded me of a warning light over at Nuclear 1 right before the core melts down. But don't you think it was a little overdramatic? I know I've been daydreaming about ~~replacing~~ upgrading you and all, but it's just daydreaming, nothing to worry about, honest. That is, unless you can't keep your ~~sorry~~ high-maintenence chASSis out of the shop. But if you can manage to stay out of the shop except for regular maintenence, I promise to drive you until your wheels fall off.

Sincerely,
Dame Can't-Afford-High-Cost-Repairs-But-Can't-Afford-To-Buy-New-Either

Dear ~~Motherfucking Bastards~~ Dealership Service Writers and Mechanics:

Thank you for being so thorough whenever I bring my ~~piece-of-shit~~ minivan into the shop - it's a rare thing these days to find people so dedicated to doing good work that they take a fine-toothed comb and a microscope over my vehicle in search of any and all mechanical problems. I can't tell you how happy that makes me, how many warm fuzzies it gives me to know you have my safety and best interests at heart. Really. I mean, you people are so dedicated that when I'm not sure whether to okay $2K-worth of work on my van, you go out of your way to paint a vivid picture for me about the dangers of foregoing all of the recommended work. You can't put a price on safety, now can you? Besides, who needs to eat every day anyway? We all know I could stand to lose a few ell bees and you're looking out for me so well that you're even helping me do that. Wow. What else is there to say?

Sincerely,
Dame Ingrate

Wye Mountain Daffodil Festival

2010-03-21T10:09:00.005-05:00

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

- William Wordsworth

(Photos of Darling Daughter, March 20, 2010, taken by Darling Husband)

Éirinn go brách

2010-03-17T06:00:00.011-05:00

Whoopsie Daisy over at Living In A Toybox tagged me in a meme about my favorite things, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one Blarney Stone and write a meme about my favorite Irish things in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

10. The Irish holiday: St. Patrick's Day, where anyone can eat corned beef and cabbage, drink green beer and proudly wear buttons proclaiming "Kiss me, I'm Irish!" even if they're Polish.

9. Irishmen (and Irish-Americans): Pierce Brosnan, Colin Farrell, Liam Neeson, Gabriel Byrne, Patrick Dempsey, Bono, Colm Meany, Dennis Leary, Conan O'Brien, Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw; even fictional Irishmen such as Connor and Murphy McManus (Boondock Saints) and Sean Thornton (The Quiet Man).

8. Irish humor: The Irish gave the bagpipes to the Scots as a joke, but the Scots haven't seen the joke yet.

7. Irish toasts:

May ye be in heaven an half an hour before the Devil knows ye're dead.
May ye live forever, but may mine be the last voice that ye hear.
May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for.
May your pockets be heavy and your heart be light, may good luck pursue you each morning and night.
May the blessings of each day be the blessings you need the most, may the most you wish for be the least you get, may the Lord keep you in His hand and never close His fist too tight.
May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live.

6. Irish blessings:

May those who love us, love us.

And for those who don't love us,

May God turn their hearts.

And if He cannot turn their hearts,

May He turn their ankles,

So we may know them by their limping.

5. Irish curses: See Irish blessings.

4. Irish character: When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious. (Quote from Edna O'Brien)

3. Irish luck: If you're lucky enough to be Irish, you're lucky enough.

2. Irish proverbs:

A drink precedes a story.
It is better to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life.
A heavy purse makes a light heart.
A man who holds good cards would never say they were dealt wrong.
Any man can lose his hat in a fairy-wind.
A short visit is best and that not too often.
As the old cock crows, so the young cock learns.

1. Irish whimsy: Who else could believe in leprechauns or that freckles are where the fairies have kissed you?

So that's my list of favorite Irish things. Let me raise a glass in your honor and leave you with one last thought this St. Patrick's Day:

As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point the wrong way.

Adding Insult To Injury, Part Deux

2010-03-11T12:56:00.000-06:00

I don't post about my infertility often, but every now and then I run into someone who manages to add insult to injury when they find out that Darling Daughter is our only child and that we can't have more. One such post was just over a year ago and titled WTF? Go ahead and read it so you're up to speed on one of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to the question "Is she your ONLY child?" I'll wait. It is, afterall, my mandatory lunch hour (see GWA Tuesday if you don't know why the mandatory lunch hour is an issue) and I've got plenty o' time.

*Insert Jeopardy music here.*

So, now that you've read my WTF? post and know what NOT to say to anyone who has only one child, especially if you know they have fertility issues, I ran into a variation on the theme just today and, sadly, it will likely not be the last time. A little background first:

Darling Daughter is a very bright little girl. I'm not saying it to brag, I'm stating a fact. Honestly, she's scary smart, and perfect strangers can tell this after talking to her for only a few minutes. She's also got personality out the wazoo. No shrinking violet, my kid; she's an outgoing, never-met-a-stranger people person with distinct and pronounced likes and dislikes which she happily discusses with anyone she meets. To say she's a character is accurate but somehow doesn't really encompass everything she is (I'm her mother, I ought to know).

Many people have commented that she must be a "handful" because of her intelligence and personality. I have to admit this offends me. Like any kid, she tap dances on my last nerve sometimes, but that's normal. I am not threatened by my child's intelligence or big personality - those are not unwelcome parenting challenges for me. In fact, Darling Daughter was a little annoyed with me recently when I noticed that her teacher had given her full credit for an answer on a test which was not a complete sentence and did not actually answer the question. And she was even unhappier with me when I wrote a note to her teacher telling her that Darling Daughter did not deserve full credit for her answer. But it's true. She didn't deserve full credit for it especially because she is capable of writing both a complete sentence and an answer that relates to the question. I'm not going to let her slide, and I'm not going to let her teachers allow her to slide. What's good enough for everyone else is not good enough where Darling Daughter is concerned. It is her blessing and her curse.

But I digress.

For the first time today, someone actually told me it was a blessing that I couldn't have any more children and that God had decided not to give us any more children because Darling Daughter is such a character and ipso facto a handful.

Can I get a 'What the FUCK?!?' here? Loud and pissed off? I canNOT believe anyone feels justified in saying such a thoroughly stupid and hurtful thing. Seriously, where the fuck does that woman get off? She got a WATS line to God that she knows this? Extrapolating a bit here, that must mean the Duggar children are dumber than dirt with the personalities of pet rocks (don't know who the Duggars are? Click here).

It's bad enough that I can't have any more children, I damnsure don't need anyone telling me what a blessing my infertility is because they aren't equipped to raise a kid like mine and assume I'm not, either. I'm well-equipped, fuckyouverymuch, and want more kids because (not in spite of the fact) my kid is fabulously intelligent and full of character.

Stupid. Bitch.

GWA Tuesday

2010-03-09T12:45:00.003-06:00

Yes, it's that time again, boys and girls, time for expressing my gratitude with über-attitude. Want to join in? Head on over to Think Tank Momma's, grab the code, spew in thank you note-style and then link up to spread the love. Easy peasy lemon squeezy (and now I'm queasy) ...

Dear ~~Corporate Asswipes~~ Employer:

It's me again, your hard(ly)-working New-ish Employee. Just a quick note to express my thanks for the new mandatory 1-hour lunch break. I really like having the additional challenge of making up discretionary time before or after work or on weekends now that you've taken my lunch break away as a viable option. My life was definitely not challenging enough. No sirree. And the fact that you've rigged it so that the system will automatically log me as taking a 1-hour lunch even if I clock out for only thirty minutes is, quite frankly, ~~fucking ridiculous~~ a stroke of genius. I mean, I could get fired for falsifying a timecard, but you can't fire the system for doing it, especially not when you set the system up, now can you? Furthermore, I wholeheartedly applaud you for simplifying the mathematics involved in calculating timecards by mandating and automating 1-hour lunches - God knows the folks in HR have enough to do with sending out endless, poorly written, atrociously spelled and never proofread emails regarding policy changes like the new 1-hour lunch policy.

Sincerely ~~pissed off~~,
Your Not-Looking-For-A-Gold-Watch-At-Retirement Employee

P.S. Just so you know, I will particularly enjoy this new 1-hour lunch rule when we're on deadline and you're begging me to keep working through my lunch break in order to git-r-done. Ever conscientious, I will respectfully remind you of your rule before I clock out for 1 hour and leave you high and dry.

Karma's a bitch. Just sayin'.

I Wish You Enough

2010-03-08T13:08:00.000-06:00

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the day may appear.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.
I wish you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger.
I wish you enough to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye.

(Excerpt from an email forward.)

Not So Sweet

2010-03-01T18:03:00.001-06:00

I went to the doctor a couple of months ago. No worries, just blood work being done because I was switching thyroid meds. But while there, I took the opportunity to ask my doctor a few questions about my insulin resistance. I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to reverse it. Sadly, the answer was no. It is only going to get worse as I get older and my metabolism slows to the pace of molasses going uphill in a blizzard in January. But he did give me some guidelines that, if followed, will help stave off the inevitable and improve my overall health. One of the things he said to avoid at all costs was

Now before anyone thinks I'm picking on poor Diet Coke, my doctor's admonitions are good for all diet drinks and foods sweetened with artificial sweeteners. Period. When I asked him why, what he said shocked the hell out of me. Not only will an artificial sweetener increase the body's desire for sugar (thereby leading to weight gain, not weight loss), NutraSweet aka Aspartame causes blindness and dementia.

Blindness and dementia, people.

WTF?!?

Well, that's all I needed. I started doing a little research, and here's what I found:

According to an article written by Marcelle Pick, OB/Gyn NP (http://www.womentowomen.com/healthyweight/splenda.aspx), "aspartame use can result in an accumulation of formaldehyde in the brain, which can damage your central nervous system and immune system and cause genetic trauma." Oh, but wait! It gets better (read: worse): "The FDA admits this is true, but claims the amount is low enough in most [people] that it shouldn't raise concern." (emphasis is mine)

Uh, I don't know about you, but I plan to avoid formaldehyde until I'm dead and gone, thankyouverymuch, not to mention blindness and dementia. So I tossed everything in the house that contained Aspartame - the Diet Dr. Pepper, the Crystal Light, the Diet Lipton Tea, the 25% less sugar Quaker granola bars and whatever else I had.

I then decided to see what I could find out about Splenda. Like everyone else, I believed exactly what the manufacturer wanted me to believe: That Splenda is "natural" because "it is made from sugar" - an assertion parroted by the FDA in its press releases about Splenda. I had begun using Splenda to sweeten my tea when Darling Daughter was less than a year old. When Darling Daughter was old enough and wanted her own tea, I put Splenda in it believing I was providing her with a healthy alternative to sugar. I even experimented with baking with Splenda (or the Kroger knock-off brand Apriva) so that my chocolate chip cookies were only made with half the sugar - I still used brown sugar, just substituted the granulated sugar with Splenda/Apriva. Here's what I learned about good ol' Splenda (again thanks to Nurse Practioner Pick):

Splenda is the trade name for sucralose. Sucralose is a synthetic compound that was 'stumbled upon' in the mid-70s by British scientists looking for a new pesticide formulation. (Mini-biochem lesson ahead!) The Splenda molecule is comprised of sucrose (the chemical name for sugar), but here's the rub: Three of the hydroxyl groups (fancy chemistry-speak for bonded oxygen and hydrogen atoms) have been replaced by three chlorine atoms. The reason Splenda is characterized as having no calories is that it is for the most part unrecognized as food by the human body and isn't absorbed by the small intestine. But our bodies don't like unrecognizable things and will try to digest them regardless, so there is really no guarantee that our bodies aren't absorbing the chlorine molecules in Splenda.

The ugly upshot, my friends, is that Splenda has more in common with DDT than it does sugar and there is damnall that's natural about it. Unless it is created by Mother Nature, it isn't natural, and we're all fools if we allow ourselves to believe what the manufacturer wants us to believe about their product because the manufacturer is chiefly interested in selling its product to us, not in whether the product is actually good for us like they claim. There is an enormous conflict of interest here.

Caveat esor - eater beware.

Needless to say, as painful as it was to do, I tossed every last bit of Splenda/Apriva in the house, too. I hate wasting money more than just about anything, but I couldn't in good conscience give away the Splenda I had in the house knowing what I know about it - I'm not going to participate in the poisoning of America by buying and ingesting anything that contains an artificial sweetener, nor am I going to help poison my friends and neighbors by giving them anything with an artificial sweetener.

I have gone back to sugar, but in very limited quantities. There is after all the issue of my insulin resistance - which is really diabetes, even though I don't have to do insulin shots (yet). And here's the crazy thing - I've actually lost a little bit of weight - nearly five pounds. One more anecdote: Darling Daughter has not had any more rashes on the backs of her knees since I eliminated artificial sweeteners from her diet. That's all the proof I need, right there.

Bottom line: Do your own research, learn the truth for yourself about artificial sweeteners. And accept the fact that curbing our sweet tooth-impulses isn't fun or easy, but it is exactly what we have to do if we want to stay healthy and reasonably trim. There is no such thing as having our cake and eating it, too.

February Funk

2010-02-27T08:46:00.001-06:00

Try as I might, I can't seem to shake the funk I'm in. I've started at least a half-dozen posts this month, only to delete them a few sentences later. I keep admonishing myself to keep a stiff upper lip and to follow the British Royals' example of 'Never complain, never explain' when it comes to my personal life - we all know that I'm more than happy to complain about my fellow man - not for nothin' is the Latin motto at the top of my sidebar:

Quero ergo scribo

(I bitch, therefore I blog)

Nonetheless, I haven't even felt like getting my snark on in the last few weeks. In part, I haven't been able to. Literally. Because Darling Husband (bless his heart) is a computer hog. When we got the shiny new laptop I am currently composing this post on, it was supposed to be for my use exclusively. But I made the mistake of offering to let Darling Husband use it a few times as an alternative to him disappearing into the office to use the desktop computer there for hours at a time. Silly me, I actually wanted his company, even if I had to share it with my computer. Unfortunately for me, he gets on and hours later, when it finally occurs to him that I might like to use my own computer, it's either too late in the evening or my window of opportunity for writing has passed. I have been sorely tempted to change my password so that he can't even get on my computer. But if I did that, he'd just go back to disappearing into the office for hours at a time. Honestly, he spends more quality time with the computers in the house than he does with me. And this has been true for years.

Is it healthy to be jealous of a machine?

Somehow, I don't think so.

Before you're tempted to leave me a well-meaning, nobly-intentioned comment about talking to Darling Husband about my feelings, please note that this has been an on-going bone of contention between us for years. For almost as long as we've been married, he has been obsessed with one computer game or another: Master of Orion, Tomb Raider, Master of Orion II, Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri, Civilization III ... and wouldn't you know it, these aren't the kind of games you can start and finish in say, thirty minutes, give or take. No sirree. In fact, Darling Husband has been playing one game on CivIII now for more than a year. No, don't have your eyes checked. You read that right: more than a year, same frickin' game. He started it in late 2008, people (!).

Adding insult to injury, after the man has finished a multi-hour session of the game, he goes to a website called CivFanatics (the name says it all, doesn't it?) and posts screen shots and play-by-play accounts of his turn sets. And then checks for comments repeatedly for hours after that.

I kid you not.

In addition to this, Darling Husband discovered The Fedora Lounge a couple years ago so that he could indulge in and feed his passion for fedora hats with other like-minded (read: obsessed) hat wearers. So he spends hours and hours on TFL reading posts about hats, posting about hats, browsing for hats, learning how to bash, re-bash, stretch, clean, rehab and convert hats. I've got my very own Mad Hatter on my hands, sans mercury poisoning.

And did I mention e-Bay? The man spends hours and hours trolling e-Bay for, yep, hats. Even though I put a moratorium on hat purchases for him until 2011. I frankly don't understand it. He says it's easier for him to troll e-Bay knowing he can't buy a hat. It would be the opposite for me - why torture myself with looking when I know I can't buy? I'll only find the greatest deal on the most wonderful whatever and be sorely tempted to buy when I know I shouldn't.

He thinks I don't want him to do the things he enjoys, the things that relax him, whenever I bring up just how much time he's spending doing them and suggest I am feeling neglected, which is rather unfair. I just wish he didn't spend so damn much time doing them. Is there no such thing as moderation?

Alas, when you're married to someone with an obsessive/compulsive personality, moderation is simply not a concept.

Add running his own business to the equation, and I come so far down on the list of things to do, it isn't even funny.

Riddle Me This

2010-02-17T12:21:00.001-06:00

According to Darling Daughter:

Q: Where do super villains live?

A: Eville.

Grandma = Suckah

2010-02-06T11:19:00.000-06:00

Not long ago, my mother-in-law invited Darling Daughter for a sleepover. Darling Husband and I were on board with the plan in a flash, looking forward to some *ahem* grown-up time sans child (if you catch my drift).

9:30 p.m. Darling Husband's cell rings. It's his mother. Darling Daughter was having trouble getting to sleep and wanted to come home. We suggested she give Darling Daughter some hot chocolate, hoping that would do the trick.

10:00 p.m. Darling Husband's cell rings again. Darling Daughter still wasn't asleep and wanted to come home.

So much for grown-up time sans child.

*sigh*

We pile into the car, drive across town and get Little Miss. On the way home, I discover why Darling Daughter can't get to sleep: She's hopped up on sugar.

My mother-in-law gave her:

Marshmallows
A frosted pop tart
Two helpings of ice cream
Kool-Aid

And she topped it off with the hot chocolate we had suggested.

My daughter played her grandmother like a cheap fiddle.

Not Much Gratitude But A Whole Lotta Attitude

2010-02-02T12:42:00.000-06:00

Keepin' it short and sweet today, people, short and sweet ... or not.

Dear ~~Slavedriver~~ Employer:

Thank you so much for the mandatory EAP and Customer Service Training you made me attend today. And let me express my undying admiration for the fact that even though it was MANDATORY, I was required to clock out for it because it is apparently company policy to require employees to better themselves on their own time. That being the case, why don't I pick the next training topic? How about a training seminar on how to blog on your employer's time? No? Sounds good to me ...

-Your So Very Ungrateful Servant

Eskimo Kissing - Not Just For Eskimos

2010-01-30T10:50:00.000-06:00

I personally think we developed language because of our deep need to complain. - Lily Tomlin

Dear Mother Nature:

Please let me know where I can return the winter weather you've given us. It's not that I'm ungrateful - I did get a day off from work yesterday because of it, but I'm not sure I can take much more of the sight of Darling Husband in his long johns wearing his boxers on the outside. I now know what a three dog night is all about - except at my house, it's more like a two-cat-one-child-and-a-husband night. In fact, ever since you decided to send us the arctic breezes normally reserved for Canadians, Montanans, Idahoans, North Dakotans and Chicago-ites, I have gained new insight into the advantages of Eskimo kissing, since that means neither Darling Husband nor I have to take our clothes off to show each other affection. Actually, we don't take our clothes off period. I'm pretty sure Darling Husband's testicles have retreated so far up into his body in an effort to avoid being frozen off that he has two sizeable (you're welcome, honey) lumps either side of his bellybutton (not that I've seen them, you understand, but I never thought I'd need Braille to fondle my husband's walnuts). Darling Husband is a two-degree-drop away from growing full facial hair like he did eleven years ago when we lived in Germany. Let me tell you, that was a sight. I accused him of trying to grow his very own ball warmer. And you do NOT want to know how much stuff gets stuck in a full beard, trust me on this. When he wore his faux fur Ushanka (a.k.a. the Comrade Husband Hat) with that beard, little old ladies crossed the street to avoid him. Hell, I almost crossed the street to avoid him. So, please, give winter back to the good folks crazy enough to live above 40 degrees north latitude.

Sincerely,
One Cold Mama

Thank You Note Tuesday

2010-01-26T12:53:00.002-06:00

Thought I'd join in the fun. Think Tank Momma is the mad genius behind Thank You Note Tuesday where participants write thank you notes to all the deserving morons, asswipes and otherwise incompetent idiots in their lives. Since I'm a joiner (not really, but let's just pretend for today, 'k?) and since I didn't do my recurring Misanthropic Monday theme post yesterday, I'm all over Thank You Note Tuesday today. Anything for a good snark, I always say! Read on, o intrepid Snarksters, read on ...

Dear Owner of the Vanity Plate Reading "RUAWARE":
Yes, as a matter of fact, I am aware - I'm aware that you're a complete asswipe with that stupidass vanity plate. Thank you so very much for asking, though.
- Stuck in Rush-Hour Traffic Behind You

Dear Parent of My Child's Friend:
Thank you so much for thinking of my child at Christmas and buying her Bendaroos. I just adore the scorpion Darling Daughter made me create with them by following the step-by-step instructions included. And the residue left on my walls where Darling Daughter tried to create an art gallery with her Bendaroo creations? To die for. Really. I'll be returning the favor sometime. Trust me.
- Thinking About Giving Your Kid Finger Paints

Dear Irritatingly Wholesome Workshop Presenter:
Thank you for making me identify with the Addams Family children at summer camp when they were subjected to an endless stream of Disney movies (Be afraid, be very afraid!). It's really great to see someone so gosh-darn nice and wholesome and all-American. Makes me want to put my pearls and high heels on when I'm cooking and cleaning. Honest.
- Contemplating A Move To Stepford, CT

Long Overdue

2010-01-23T10:24:00.001-06:00

I was given a lovely award way back in December by The Redhead Riter and I am long overdue for adding it to my sidebar and passing it along to other deserving blogs. It is the Lemonade Stand Award.

Here are the rules for this award:

Put the lemonade stand logo on your blog and/or in your post
Nominate at least 10 blogs with great attitude or gratitude
Link the nominees within your post
Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog
Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award

My list of recipients is as follows:

Musings of a Moxie Mama: My gal Mox has loads of attitude and a fair amount of gratitude, too, (just not for the douche bag who hit her grandmother's car at the bakery the other day). I think she and I were separated at birth, and I look forward to the day when she and I can actually meet. Maybe at a SITScation somewhere down the road or a writer's convention ... *crosses fingers*
My Half-Glassed Life: Attitude and gratitude abound over at CCW's. Most recently, the gratitude side has played heavily thanks to a new project CCW has become involved with called Comfy for Chemo. Well worth the price of admission, so go check it out. Just don't forget the tissues. You'll probably need them.
I Wonder Wye: This is the only blogger I know in real life (thus far), and I am proud to count her as one of my best friends. She started her blog this past summer, and I've been waiting for just the right award to give her. Love her attitude and chutzpah, and her gratitude in the face of what life has handed her is humbling indeed. But mostly, it's her attitude, both in writing and in general, that I love. She is hands down the prettiest woman I've ever seen saying the word 'fuck' (outside of porn, that is). Be warned, though: If you shop at Walmart and piss her off, there will be consequences. And don't even think of parking in a handicapped spot if you're not, in fact, handicapped. You have been warned.
Housewife Savant: This woman has a surfeit of attitude. Most recently, she's gotten crosswise of some Southern bloggers who've gotten their oh-so-cotton-pickin'-panties (bless their hearts!) in a bunch over her vitriolic skewering of the redneck denizens in her part of Southern Illinois. She has no need of awards, doesn't seek them and once received, doesn't do anything with them - but that's okay, I still want to give her this one and will likely give her more over time because I love her her bloggy baditude. She says things I don't even have the stones to say. That should tell you something right there!
Batcrap Crazy: This one's a treat. Plenty o' attitude, plenty o' fun. Her recurring posts about Convos from the Hood are laugh-out-loud funny. Having taught in the 'hood once upon a time, I can tell you from experience she's not making that shit up, folks. Check her out.
Think Tank Mama: A master of snarcasm (her word and I'm so jealous I didn't come up with it myself I can hardly see straight), Zgirl is losing it with snarkitude - literally. She has come up with the Lose It, Bitches! Challenge and has set a weight loss goal for herself of 100 pounds. Go cheer her on, and if you dare, take part in the challenge. What've you got to lose except the extra fat on your ass, right? And while you're there, check out her posts. Her Post-It Tuesday posts are particularly good, although I don't recommend reading them while drinking a beverage - unless you like having your morning coffee or Coke come spewing out your nose and all over your computer. Don't say I didn't warn you!
Headaches, Hormones & Hot Flashes: Just the name of the blog exudes attitude, and Lee the Hot Flash Queen has plenty to spare. She's recently moved to Wordpress from Blogger, but we're not going to hold that against her. And if you want, join her Comment Crack Whores Anonymous group. That is, if you're addicted to making and receiving comments. Recognizing you have a problem is the first step ...
A Stone's Throw From Insanity: I love this blog for many reasons, not the least of which is its title. Annie's latest post is about the inevitable slide from lingerie wearin' hot mama to matron in a foundation garment. Wish I could say I was in the former category, but alas, I have long since begun shopping in the no-man's-land known as the foundation garment section, shades firmly in place, thankyouverymuch.
Big Teeth & Clouds: This blog is in many respects kinder and gentler than my own and many of the blogs I enjoy reading, but don't let the sweet smile in Joey's picture fool you: When it comes to championing children with hearing loss issues, this woman has attitude to spare. And her posts frequently inspire me to be grateful for things I often take for granted.
I Like To Fish: The lone thorn among all these roses, Big T's blog is also a lovely mix of attitude and gratitude. He's already been given this award before, and even though I'm a little hurt that he hasn't commented on my recent foray into the dangerous and self-humiliating waters of TMI Thursday - a move he inspired thanks to his recent TMI Thursday posts - I just can't leave him off this illustrious list. Do not hold his unnatural fascination with Lady Gaga against him.

So there you have it. Check all these wonderful bloggers out and be sure to tell them the Dame sent you. Need those under-the-table cash kickbacks they've all promised me, dontcha know!

TMI Thursday: Mye Kwo Fffown

2010-01-21T18:52:00.007-06:00

I boasted in a comment to Travis over at I Like To Fish that I would try my hand at TMI Thursday. The twisted brainchild of LiLu of LivitLuvit fame, TMI Thursdays are the blogging equivalent of cutting our noses off to spite our faces, bloggy style. To quote LiLu:

Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

And she adorns every TMI Thursday post with this lovely button:

And sew, without further adew (like my Ed Sullivan impression?), on with the shew!

One day, when Darling Daughter was but three or so, she toddled in to my bedroom. Unfortunately, I hadn't closed the drawer in my night table all the way. Next thing I knew, she'd reached into the drawer and pulled something out. Pleased as punch with her find, she held it up and declared triumphantly:

Mye Kwo Fffown!

Much to my dismay, I realized she had my ...

*ahem*

*er*

*umm*

personal massager and was holding it like a microphone ...

Moral of the story: Always keep your sex toys under lock and key, girls and boys.

Lock. And. Key.

Memoir Wednesday

2010-01-20T12:36:00.003-06:00

I meant to participate in Memoir Monday (my buddy Travis over at I Like To Fish started it - stop by his place, tell him the Dame sent you) instead of writing my usual Misanthropic Monday bitchfest, but I just couldn't scrape my shit together to get it done. So I'm going to write my Memoir Monday post today and call it Memoir Wednesday.

Have you ever wished you could go back and change a pivotal event in your life? Initially, you didn't realize it was pivotal, you couldn't see past the myopia of your feelings, but time has dulled those tumultuous feelings and sharpened your sight so that you see the significance, realize the pivotal nature of the event and your actions? I do.

Regrets, party of one.

One regret in particular crops up whenever I am in the middle of another fit of ennui-laced melancholy like I have been the past few days.

I was thirteen and in seventh grade. My math teacher seated everyone alphabetically at the beginning of the year, and I ended up sitting right behind a boy named Jack*. He was tall and cute and had hazel eyes. And he drove. Me. Crazy. We sparred verbally for a few minutes at the beginning and end of class every day, and I discovered my first and sweetest (and most innocent) taste of foreplay - the matching of wits.

I already had quite a few years of watching TNT** (known today as TCM***) under my belt. I loved the fabulous black and white movies that ran non-stop on TNT - you know the ones: boy meets girl, boy and girl don't like each other but there is an undeniable chemistry crackling in the air, boy and girl trade witticisms and comebacks until one of them finally lays a liplock on the other and fireworks of a different kind ensue. Those movies formed the cornerstone of the male-female romantic ideal for me. And Jack was the first in a long line of boys I had a crush on because they engaged my mind, challenged me intellectually and sparked a physical/romantic attraction as a result.

School dances were a frequent event back then and one night before a dance I got a phone call. The voice on the other end claimed to be Jack, and Jack asked if I wanted go to the dance with him.

My heart pounded, adrenaline rushed through me leaving behind little pinpricks of sensation. I was thrilled. Over the moon. But then doubt crept in. Jack had never called me before so I didn't recognize his voice over the phone. How did I know it's really Jack and not someone else playing a cruel joke on me? I had been the object of a number of cruel jokes of that nature before, and I didn't want to be fooled again. So I asked a fatal question: Is this a joke?

The caller immediately hung up the phone. I felt justified in my suspicions and congratulated myself on avoiding becoming the victim of yet another cruel joke.

Jack wasn't at the dance. I was disappointed, but I didn't connect the dots between his absence and the phone call before the dance. In math class on Monday, Jack was distant and basically ignored me. I was puzzled and a little hurt. But still I didn't connect the dots.

Then our math teacher let us pick our seats, and Jack pick a spot on the opposite side of the room from me. I started racking my brains, trying to figure out why his attitude toward me had changed so much. What had I done?

I don't remember exactly how long it took me to realize that it really had been Jack on the phone and that I had hurt him very badly by asking him if the invitation to the dance was a joke. He naturally interpreted my question as a mean spirited 'no' to his question - he had no way of knowing the history behind it. And after I realized what had happened, what I had done, there was no explaining it to him. He wouldn't talk to me. Over the summer, he and his family moved. I once thought I saw him at a basketball game a couple years later, but I'm not sure. I was too chicken to find out if it really was him. I didn't know what to say.

I have wished many times that I could go back to that day so that I could handle that phone call differently. I wish that I hadn't let the scars from previous hurts get in the way. I wish that I'd had the courage to say yes even though I was afraid someone was playing a mean joke on me. And I wish that I hadn't let my insecurities hurt someone else. The trouble with armor is that, sometimes, it does too good a job.

I have wondered how my life would have been different if I had simply said, "Yes, I'd love to," instead of "Is this a joke?" Would we have started going together? Would that have changed the entire trajectory of my social life in junior high and high school? If so, would I now be married to someone else?

This is where I always make myself stop with the what if game. Because if undoing that one act meant I wouldn't be married to my husband or have the child I have, I wouldn't do it. It could be argued that all those things led me to my husband, and he, in turn, brought me my daughter.

What do you regret?

*Name changed
**Turner Network Television
*** Turner Classic Movies

Mommy Is An Ogre

2010-01-13T13:38:00.003-06:00

Had one of my not-so-finest parenting moments last night when I got home with Darling Daughter. As soon as we hit the door, she disappeared into the bathroom, and I didn't give it much thought, really. (Was too busy checking for new comments from Monday's post, dontcha know ...) Anyway, just about the time I start to wonder what is taking Darling Daughter so long in there, she comes into the living room buck naked from the waist down and asks me to wipe her bottom.

!

Short answer: No.
Long answer: Hell no.

I mean, c'mon, I said bye-bye to poopie diapers three years ago. But Darling Daughter got very upset and said there was too much poop for her to wipe, so I told her to go back to the bathroom and followed. Once in the bathroom, I told her to bend over so I could take a look at things.

Here's where I lost my cool (what little I have) because this was no ordinary poop-job, no sir. My child had an 'accident' at school and pooped her pants.

Oh, but it gets better, folks. She had the 'accident' yesterday MORNING and instead of telling her teacher, she sat in her own filth ALL DAMN DAY LONG and by the time we got home, her little bottom was caked in it.

CAKED and CRUSTY!

Then I discovered that she put her poop-laden underwear and poop-soaked school pants in her hamper with her dirty clothes.

I screamed and yelled and cursed so long and so loud that my poor child cried and begged me to forgive her.

Darling Daughter was ordered into the tub without further ado while I washed the pants. Twice. The underwear was a complete write-off and went directly into the trash. I'll gladly buy her more.
I spent the rest of the evening cuddling with her because I felt so bad about all the screaming, yelling and cursing I did.

Mommy is such an ogre sometimes.

Misanthropic Monday: Sticky Style

2010-01-11T13:24:00.002-06:00

Ah, Christmas

2009-12-22T12:06:00.000-06:00

Q: How do you know the gift you picked out for your three-year-old nephew is a hit?

A: He takes it to the bathroom with him when he has to go poopy.

That says it all, folks!

Here's hoping you get stuff you like so much you have to take it to the bathroom with you. Happy Holidays, everyone!

The Job

2009-12-19T09:26:00.000-06:00

Many of you are curious to know more about this mysterious job I've gotten. So, a few words about that.

To put my role in proper perspective, you have to know a little about mining history. Way back when technology was not what it is today and coal mines did not have decent ventilation, coal miners would take a canary down into the mine with them. Canaries can detect minute amounts of methane and carbon monoxide, both of which are deadly in large enough concentrations. As long as the canary kept singing, everyone knew the air in the mine was safe to breathe. If the canary stopped singing or, worse, keeled over dead, immediate evacuation of the mine was called for.

I am, more or less, a canary in a coal mine. Figuratively speaking.

I have been hired by an information technology firm here in town as a business analyst even though I know absolutely nothing about business processes or information technology. As luck would have it, the particular project I've been hired to work on requires an outside and very basic user perspective because we are designing a customer service website and the powers that be have deemed it necessary and useful to the success of the project to have someone working on it who can ask the obvious dumb questions and make all of the Fachidioten (a.k.a. subject matter experts) design with the users (who know nothing about code writing, web design or anything about the way our client works) in mind.

Hence: My position as coal mine canary. Or flesh-and-blood litmus test. If I can use and understand each screen on the website, then odds are, the various end users out there will be able to, as well.

I will be contributing, which at this point isn't a whole hell of a lot, but I can definitely give them feedback about ease of use and cosmetic issues, i.e., is this screen set up in an attractive and user-friendly manner? Believe it or not, that matters. At least it does for me, and I'll bet it does for lots of others, too.

The other thing I bring to the table is language skills. The majority of employees at this firm are non-native speakers of English, so much of what is written is grammatically and idiomatically incorrect, and I've already been given the green light to go in and correct any usage/language errors I come across. This, at least, is something I know a lot about. This I can do.

I will say this for working for an IT firm: I had employee I.D. within the first thirty minutes and it worked the first time (unlike other places I've worked), email was practically instantaneous, and anything else I need access to is done very quickly. There is no waiting for the surly IT guy to get around to processing me in the system and granting me access to whatever it is I need access to. My boss shoots an email to whoever needs to grant me access to any given area or set of files, copies me on it, and before I can read it, voilà! Another email pops up letting me know that access has been granted. I have a brand new computer with a 22" monitor, too, which I have to say is a first. Definitely can't complain about any of that.

However, my head is about to explode from the volume and types of information I am having to process just to be able to understand the most basic exchange between my co-workers. This is the most stupid and clueless I have ever felt.

I have nowhere to park, and though they were happy to pay for my parking on the first day, no one told me I would have to pay for my parking until they can find a permanent spot for me. I know next to nothing about the parking situation downtown where the company is. When I mentioned that I was still parking where I had parked on the first day, but that at $8.60/day, I was going to go bankrupt soon, the person I mentioned this to said 'There are a couple of lots that cost only $3/day and they aren't that far to walk. You should park there.' As if I'm too lazy to walk! That chapped my hide. Considering how security conscious this firm is and how picky they are about all kinds of things, I assumed they wanted me to continue parking where they told me to park the first day. No one said anything different. So, for a firm that deals with information and its dissemination, they do a piss-poor job of actually communicating useful information to new hires. It's all 'well, duh - don't you know that?' Uh, no, I don't. The orb of confusion is doing too good a job.

Then there is my so-called desk. My desk is, unfortunately, in a hallway, but at least it's a quiet corner of the hallway even if it's a little on the chilly side, but at the moment, they just don't have office space for me. That may change down the road, but for now, I'm the ugly step-child as far as office accommodations go. I don't even have a phone. Or a real desk. It's a table. Thankfully, someone scrounged up a file cabinet for me so I at least have a place to put my purse and a handful of office supplies.

Starting the week before Christmas has been trying in its own way on top of the usual new job aches and pains because Secret Santas had already been assigned, the holiday party was already planned and money was being collected for it. I was a little annoyed about the fact that I was expected to contribute money to the party even though I just got hired on, and I'm probably going to be expected to chip in on the gifts the team have bought for our project manager, even though I had nothing to do with their selection and just started working there this week. But on the bright side, I get both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off as paid holidays. The downside is I actually have to go back on Monday.

It ain't easy being a coal mine canary. I'm feeling lightheaded already.

Brain Dead

2009-12-14T18:49:00.000-06:00

They say that when the gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers ...

You know that job interview I had last week? Well, I got the job. And today was my first day.

I survived.

But. I. Am. Brain. Dead.

I think I'll be in bed before Darling Daughter is tonight, I'm that tired. I may fall asleep mid-bite at dinner, I'm that tired.

My head is going to explode from information overload. And my 'office' is a desk in the hallway. But I will get paid real money for a wild change of pace. Yay.

Random: Darling Daughter drew a picture for our front door this morning. It reads: "Cherry Christmas! And to all a good bite!"

Thank ya. Thank ya verra much. The Dame has left the building.

My Favorite Christmas

2009-12-13T09:29:00.003-06:00

Ten years ago, Darling Husband and I were living in Regensburg, Germany. I had a teaching job at the university, and DH was along for the ride as a househusband. Regensburg is a lovely city in Bavaria, approximately an hour and fifteen minutes northeast of Munich.

When discussing our Christmas plans, we decided to go to Oberammergau, since flying home to the States was not going to be affordable for us. Oberammergau is a village of around 5,000 nestled in the Bavarian Alps. It is storybook beautiful, and people come from all over the world to Oberammergau for two things: the Passion Play and wood carvings.

The story behind the Passion Play is an interesting one. Back in the 1600s when the plague was running rampant throughout Europe, the inhabitants of Oberammergau (devoutly Roman Catholic) promised God that they would perform a Passion Play every ten years if He would spare them. He did, and they have kept that promise ever since. Only residents of Oberammergau are allowed to perform in the play, and the men all begin growing beards a couple years out from the next play year - all in the name of authenticity. For more information, go to this article on the 2010 Passion Play in Britain's Daily Mail.

(A brief word about the photos in this post: At the time Darling Husband and I were in Germany, we used 35mm film cameras, so all of the pictures we took of that trip are in scrapbooks which are, thanks to our aborted move, still packed away in boxes. One of these days I will have to scan all of my favorite pictures so that I have digital copies, but for the purposes of this post, none of the photos seen here were taken by me or DH. They are pilfered from the net and should be understood as representative of our trip without actually being of our trip.)

In addition to the Passion Play, Oberammergau is famous for its skilled woodcarvers. They are true artisans. Take a look at this giant carving of an owl:

If Christmas in Germany is wonderful, Christmas in the Bavarian Alps is absolutely magical. We chose Oberammergau because we had stayed there previously on a short trip with my mother-in-law. We had taken her to Füssen to see Neuschwanstein. We decided Christmas in Oberammergau would be an amazing experience.

We were not disappointed.

Traditionally, Christmas Eve is the main event of the Christmas season in Germany. German families put up and decorate their Christmas trees on Christmas Eve, presents are opened on Christmas Eve and the big holiday meal (with traditional Christmas goose) is served on Christmas Eve. Then it is off to church for midnight mass. Silent Night (Stille Nacht) isn't sung until Christmas Eve at midnight mass, and the service is conducted by dim candlelight until Jesus is born, illustrating the light He brought to the world.

We made reservations for our Christmas Eve dinner and dressed up for it. We ate goose and delicious gourmet food and drank wine. Then we walked from our hotel to the parish church, the church of Sts. Peter and Paul.

(The Church of Sts. Peter and Paul, Oberammergau, Germany.)

The church was already crowded when we arrived, but we found seats in the loft. The church boasts two lofts - one for overflow seating, the other is the organ and choir loft. Tourists and locals sat cheek by jowl at the service. I remember staring at the hands of the man sitting next to me. They were the largest, strongest hands I had ever seen, working hands that were rough and calloused. And yet, when we shook hands at the giving of peace, his handshake was unexpectedly gentle.

(View of the two lofts inside the Church of Sts. Peter and Paul.)

Sitting in the loft for this service was an incredible experience. We had the perfect view of the altar and then, when the choir sang Silent Night, their heavenly voices drifting down to us from the loft above, it was like a chorus of angels singing. I've never heard or experienced anything so beautiful and moving in my life. I was so overwhelmed with unspeakable joy at the sheer beauty of it, I cried. Just the memory of it brings tears to my eyes even now. I am not a particularly religious person, having suffered at the hands of self-professed 'good Christians' too much growing up to be a fan of organized religion, but I have always loved churches - the stone and mortar buildings themselves. Whatever your beliefs, being in a church in Europe is an experience unlike any that can be had in this country.

To top the evening off, as Darling Husband and I walked back to our hotel after the service, it began to snow. There was already snow on the ground, but it had not been actively snowing until that moment. Like I said: magical.

On Christmas day, we went for an hour-long sleigh ride. The sleigh driver, as luck would have it, turned out to be the same man I sat next to the night before at midnight mass. It was bitterly cold, but the sun was shining brightly and everything sparkled. We bundled up under heavy blankets and off we went. The sleigh was pulled by two horses and halfway through the sleigh ride, our driver stopped the sleigh and offered us some homemade Schnaps and cookies. (Schnaps, for those of you unfamiliar with the authentic, German kind, is often a clear distilled alcohol used as a digestif after meals. It is never sweet like its American counterpart, and is quite good and very potent.)

(Horse-drawn sleigh in a winter wonderland somewhere in Germany.)

We stayed in Oberammergau through the 26th of December and drove home the 27th. It was, without a doubt, my favorite Christmas as an adult. One of these days, I hope we can go back to Oberammergau for Christmas and bring Darling Daughter with us.

What is your favorite Christmas memory?

Snappy Answers to Stupid Job Interview Questions

2009-12-11T09:13:00.003-06:00

Let me preface this post by saying that the only thing worse than job hunting is job interviewing. They more or less go hand-in-hand, but it is possible to hunt endlessly without actually interviewing. Trust me on this. Been there, done that, have the T-shirt to prove it. However, Wednesday afternoon I actually had a job interview. While I am grateful to even get an interview at this point, I detest the stupid questions I am continually asked. I'm betting I'm not alone in that, either. So without further ado, here are some of the stupid interview questions I've been asked, along with the snappy answers I would love to give but don't have the balls to actually say. Unfortunately, I need the fucking job and giving the answers these questions deserve will guarantee I don't get it. It's a crying shame.

Interviewer: Would you say you're a quick study?
Me: *shakes head vigorously* Oh, no, definitely not. It takes me at least two days to read and understand the Sunday funny pages, and even then, Doonesbury is still a headscratcher.

Interviewer: How do you handle workplace stress?
Me: *frowns, puzzled* How do you think I handle it? I contact my local friendly mailman, buy an AK47 off of him and get to work on alphabetizing and prioritizing the ol' hit list. Doesn't everyone?

Interviewer: How are you at multi-tasking?
Me: *beams* Awesome. I can surf the net, cruise Facebook, blog, email and text on my cell all at the same time. Easy peasy.
Interviewer: *stunned* I meant multi-tasking on the job.
Me: *matter-of-factly* So did I.

Interviewer: Describe a situation you were in where you didn't get along with a supervisor or project coordinator. How did you cope with him or her?
Me: *laughs, slaps knee* Oh, you're going to love this! I once substituted her usual half-caf skinny mocha latte for a mocha vodka marijuana latte with half-and-half and an extra shot of methamphetamine-laced espresso, then made an anonymous call to HR an hour later, prompting a surprise piss test. Then I sold tickets for window space in my office so that everyone could enjoy seeing her 'escorted' out of the building by security. *laughs, wipes tears from eyes* Ah, good times, good times.

Interviewer: When you were in a new job, and no one could take a lot of time to hold your hand and walk you through things, what did you do?
Me: *deadpan* I would alternately break down crying and fall out all over the floor or follow my immediate supervisor around, tugging on his suit coat and saying "Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom!" over and over until he finally answered me. I felt just like a five-year-old again. I even took naps in the afternoon. It was great.

Interviewer: The position you're interviewing for is full-time, Monday through Friday, 8 to 5 with some overtime expected. Will that be a problem for you?
Me: *disappointed* Well, shoot. I was really hoping I wouldn't have to come in to work before 10 and I can't stay past 2, plus I have to have a four-day weekend starting Friday. Any way we can work around all that?

Interviewer: If we were to offer you the position, how soon could you start?
Me: *consults calendar* Oh, man. Let's see. Christmas is just around the corner, followed by New Year's, so that's out. January is a fucking nightmare weatherwise, February is the shortest month, and March is too windy - I simply cannot work on a bad hair day and I have a bad hair day the entire month of March, thanks to the wind ... hmmm ... How's April first look?

Interviewer: Do you have any questions for us?
Me: *eager* Yeah, how soon can I take vacation?

A Holiday Conversation Between Father & Daughter

2009-12-09T10:39:00.001-06:00

Since it is the season for holiday-themed posts, I thought I'd share this one with you. It is a conversation that Darling Husband had with Darling Daughter last December as they drove to his office. Darling Husband took a sip of coffee from his travel mug just as Darling Daughter spotted a billboard telling people that drinking and driving is against the law. What follows is the conversation as best as Darling Husband could reconstruct it in an email that he sent to me and other family and friends.

First, a little background: At our house, Santa doesn't get cookies and milk. We put out a piece of cheese for Santa Mouse, and Santa gets something sweet along with a wee dram of whiskey. For medicinal purposes, you understand. To fend off the winter chill while riding in that sleigh. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

DD: You can't drink that.
DH: Why not?
DD: Because it's against the law.
DH: *confused* Huh? What?
DD: You can't drive and drink that.
DH: Are you talking about drinking and driving?
DD: Yes.
DH: Well, it's okay to drink coffee and drive. They're talking about grown-up drinks.
DD: Coffee's a grown-up drink.
DH: Well, okay, but they don't mean coffee.
DD: What do they mean?
DH: They mean drinks that have alcohol in them.
DD: Oh.
DH: Do you know what that means?
DD: No.
DH: Okay, well, some grown-up drinks have alcohol in them. Beer, wine, whiskey ... those have alcohol in them.
DD: Oh ... What about Santa?
DH: *confused again* Huh? What? What about Santa?
DD: He could get arrested.
DH: *now thoroughly confused* Huh? Why? Why would Santa get arrested?
DD: He drinks whiskey at our house.
DH: *light goes on* Oh, umm ...
DD: And then he drives his sleigh.
DH: Okay, okay. Um ...
DD: What if Santa gets arrested?
DH: *thinking fast* Okay, um, well, you see, honey, don't worry about Santa.
DD: But he could get in trouble.
DH: *thinking faster* Well, Santa doesn't drink much whiskey. *suddenly realizes that this is a bad line to take, long-term, because he doesn't want to tell Darling Daughter that it's okay to drink and drive if you only drink a little* *backpedaling furiously* But that's not really the issue here. You see, honey, Santa doesn't really do the driving. The reindeer know the way and they're really doing the driving. (Let's hear it for Rudolph the Red-nosed Designated Driver!)
DD: But Santa holds the, umm ... handles.
DH: Oh, the reins. Yeah, Santa holds the reins, but he's not really in control. You see, he's got to hold on to something, and that's what's available. But the reindeer really do the driving, not Santa. They're well-trained, and they know the way.
DD: Oh. Okay.

Moral of the story: You never know what kind of discussion you'll have with a child, but it is never, ever dull.

Merry SITSmas!

2009-12-08T04:00:00.060-06:00

Today, I am dedicating this post to my SITStas. You have made all the difference in my blog since I became a member of the SITStahood back in August. SITS, for those of you who don't know, is the acronym for The Secret is in the Sauce - a blog dedicated to creating a community of bloggers who support one another. To become a SITSta, all you do is put their button on your blog (usually in the sidebar), show up for roll call daily, and visit the blogs of others. Whenever you come across the SITS logo/button, leave a comment letting the blogger know you're a SITSta, and they'll return the favor by visiting your blog and leaving comment love, too. The majority of members are women, hence the concept of the SITStahood, but male bloggers can join, too.

So, for SITSmas, I am going to post a recipe for my favorite holiday beverage: Glühwein (prounounced "glue vine"). Glühwein is the German word for mulled wine. Literally translated, it means "glow wine." It is served hot and sold at Christmas markets throughout Germany to help keep holiday shoppers warm. If you don't know what a Christmas market is, it is an outdoor arts and crafts fair set up every year during Advent where locals and tourists alike can purchase beautifully handmade items ranging from Christmas ornaments to toys to seasonal baked goods like Christstollen and Lebkuchen. Perhaps the most famous of the Christmas markets is the Nuremberg Christkindlsmarkt.

Ingredients:

Red wine, 1.5 liters

Sugar, 1-2 cups or to taste

Stick cinnamon, 4-6 sticks

Whole cloves, ~ 1 tbsp.

Orange slices, 4-6

Orange juice (optional), 1 cup or to taste

Rum (optional), 1 cup or to taste

It really doesn't matter what kind of red wine you use for this - Merlot, Burgundy or Cabernet Sauvignon - but I would not recommend using a very expensive red wine. Just don't go too far in the other direction, because the cheaper the wine, the more sugar you'll have to use. I usually pick a red from Almaden, Beringer, Gallo, or one of the other inexpensive brands that sell wines in 1.5 liter bottles or boxes. I generally use a Burgundy, but again, the type of red really isn't that important. Pick what you like and go with that.

Pour the wine into a large pot and begin heating it on medium low. Add the stick cinnamon. Slice an orange and remove any seeds. Place 4-6 whole cloves in each slice and add the slices (again 4-6) to the pot; toss in remaining cloves. If you want, you can also add about a cup, perhaps less, of orange juice to the wine. Adding the orange juice will give your Glühwein a more opaque look and adds another layer of flavor, but you can make it without the OJ if you prefer. Add in your sugar. Start with one cup and add from there. Glühwein should be sweet but not cloying. Finally, add in the rum for an added kick. Use a white rum as opposed to a dark rum. Add 1/2 to one cup, depending on your preferences. Again, start small and sample as you go to see how each addition changes the flavor. If you decide you've added too much OJ, rum or sugar, you can always add more red wine to balance it back out again.

Heat until hot but do not bring to a boil. Heat it anywhere from 30-60 minutes so that all the flavors mature together. Serve in mugs and enjoy! The longer the orange slices, cloves and cinnamon sticks sit in the wine, the spicier it will taste. Once the Glühwein has matured, you can remove the orange slices, cloves and cinnamon sticks, but I generally don't until the pot has gotten low, then I remove them to keep it from getting bitter. If you don't drink all of the Glühwein, let it cool, remove orange slices, cloves, stick cinnamon and refrigerate. Reheat as desired. Makes enough for a jolly good time for 2-10 people.

Now that you can get your "glow" on with Glühwein, I want to wish you the happiest of holiday seasons. May your feet and hearts be warm, your bellies full, and your souls at peace. May the new year bring you prosperity, happiness and good health. May you renew old friendships and make room for new ones. May you know how much each and every one of you has enriched my life since I joined SITS.

For myself and my family, I hope the new year brings us firmer financial ground. We are hanging on by a thread that continually threatens to unravel no matter how many hours Darling Husband puts in at the office or how frugal I try to be at home. I would rather be a stay-at-home wife and mother, but that is unfortunately no longer feasible. We need a regular income we can count on, and we need health insurance - neither of which are provided by Darling Husband's business. Our life completely blew up on us this year, and we've had some bitter pills to swallow. I hope that 2010 looks very different for us, that we will make our way out of the hole we are in and finally find our footing.

Merry SITSmas and Happy New SITS-Year!

Misanthropic Monday: All I Want For Christmas ...

2009-12-07T11:19:00.001-06:00

... Is a Pap smear. NOT! But for some bizarre reason, CBS Cares has launched a campaign urging men to give the women in their lives a gift even Santa can't give: the gift of a Pap smear. Men are encouraged to call up their wives' and girlfriends' gynecologists and schedule a Pap smear for them. For Christmas.

Is it me or has someone at CBS been having twee many martoonis at lunch? Or sampling something a little more hardcore, p'rhaps? Step away from the psychotropics, boys and girls, and nobody'll get hurt.

Seriously? That has got to be the worst Christmas gift idea. EVER.

Listen to the Dame, men, and do not schedule a Pap smear for the woman in your life as a Christmas gift. She will not thank you for it. And you will likely find yourself sleeping on the couch. Or in the dog house. Literally.

... Is chocolate diamonds. Not. *snort* This has got to be the most ingenious marketing campaign ever. Let's pretend to be a fly on the wall and listen to that conversation:

Le Vian Exec: Man, we have a ton of these ugly brown diamonds, but there are only so many drill tips out there that we can put them in. What are we going to do with them?

Ad Man: Brown, you say? How brown? On a scale of tan to poop, how would you describe the color of these diamonds?

Le Vian Exec: I don't know. Kinda chocolate-y, I guess.

Ad Man: Chocolate? *thinks a minute* What woman doesn't like chocolate? We can market them as chocolate diamonds, not brown diamonds. What woman wouldn't want chocolate that will last forever but not make her fat?

Le Vian Exec: *rubs hands greedily* That is fucking brilliant!

Ad Man: I know. It is, isn't it? *grins evilly*

Not that I needed more proof that people are bovine stupid and will buy anything, no matter how ridiculous, if it's been marketed effectively. Which, apparently, chocolate diamonds have been. The other dead giveaway that these are not very high quality diamonds (besides the fact that they are brown like mud and poop) is their size. I have yet to see a single piece of jewelry made with chocolate diamonds that had a stone larger than about an eighth of a carat. It's all pavé. Too many inclusions to do otherwise. That's also why I don't like any kind of pavé jewelry no matter the color of the diamonds. Pavé = fancy French word for pavement = industrial grade gravel.

... Is not to feel like a pervert every time I look at a picture of Taylor Lautner from New Moon. If you have been living under a rock and don't know what I'm talking about, take a look at this pic of Taylor. This is a 17-year-old boy.

Holy. Shit. I'm a dirty old lady.

I'm An Idiot ... And Other Random Things

2009-12-04T14:14:00.004-06:00

I just had a 'Doh!' moment. An I-should've-had-a-V8 epiphany. A why-didn't-I-think-of-that kind of realization. I should have invited some of my bloggy buddies to write guest posts for me while I was ~~killing~~ challenging myself with NaNoWriMo. Instead, I let you all languish for thirty days. Just call me the Moses of the blogging world.

I'm an idiot.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why I didn't think of that. Crappity crap crap crap. Well, chalk it up to experience and move on. Shall we?

Darling Husband and I are done with the dancing lessons that he bought me for my birthday. I enjoyed them immensely, but I nearly died when I found out how much he spent on them. Arthur Murray ain't cheap, kids. And, of course, they want us to keep going. I would love to, but without a second income, namely one I earn, I'm not sure we'll have the cabbage for that soup. But we do have a dance CD, and we can waltz, rumba and foxtrot in the kitchen whenever the mood strikes us. That's something.

I nearly passed out at the first group lesson from anxiety. It's rather daunting to dance with a complete stranger, especially considering I hadn't danced with anyone other than Darling Husband for the last seventeen years. But I managed to get through it, and most of my dance partners went home with their toes more or less intact. I will say this, though. If you know you're going to be dancing with a complete stranger, have mercy on them and DO NOT eat anything with garlic or onions beforehand. Try oatmeal instead. For the love of God, I'm begging you. Most of my partners were so garlicky, they weren't going to have to worry about being bitten by a vampire any time soon. And FYI, breath mints won't hide the garlic. They just add mint to the garlic reek. Trust me, you don't want to scratch and sniff that.

I was a little annoyed with the Arthur Murray folks after our first lesson, too, because they gave us information about where to buy proper dance shoes. It seems all the cool kids wear shoes with suede on the bottoms of the soles to keep them from slipping and sliding unnecessarily. I thought it a bit presumptuous on their part. It was the first lesson, who's to say I'd be back for more? But it became a moot point anyway when I researched the dance shoes. Apparently, the people who make dance shoes don't think women with feet bigger than a size 10 should be dancing because they don't make dance shoes any bigger. I complained to a good friend about it not long ago. His advice? Go to sites for drag queens. I may wear size extra Sasquatch, but I'll be damned if I'm going to buy shoes made for drag queens. Sorry. I gotta draw the line somewhere. And that's my where.

Drag queens indeed!

Didja know you can rumba to "Don't Stop Believin'"? Didja know Nora Jones's song "Come Away With Me" is a waltz? Didja know that "Fever" (Ray Charles or Michael Buble) is a foxtrot? Yup. They are.

I wanna put on my, my, my, my, my boogie shoes ...

I got to substitute in Darling Daughter's classroom for about ninety minutes today while her teacher attended a luncheon. It was fun but a lot like herding cats. Darling Daughter has been looking forward to my subbing for two weeks now. It's flattering. I know when she's sixteen she won't want me anywhere near one of her classes, so I'm trying to enjoy it while I can.

Some of you may have noticed that I'm playing around with things on my blog again. New picture for December, plus I've added LinkWithin and gotten rid of my list of links to my favorite posts in the sidebar. And all my lovely awards are currently on vacay until I can figure out how to get them back to the sidebar in a nice, neat little crawl/slide show. Hope it's not too disorienting. I hope to have things back in order soon ...

Misanthropic Monday: The Bitch Is Ba-ack!

2009-11-30T09:07:00.006-06:00

Oh, how I have missed the joys of a good Misanthropic Monday rant. Chaining myself to my computer over the last thirty (or so) days to bang out 50,000 words for National Novel Writing Month was rewarding on many levels, but creatively draining. I didn't have the energy to blog and so I neglected you. Forgive me? Love me anyway? I hope so. But now that I've succeeded in writing (give or take) 200 pages of ~~schlock~~ the next Great American Novel, I am back in the blogging saddle again. So without further ado ....

To the Schmuck in the FJ Cruiser with the vanity plate "H8IT4U": Get the fuck over yourself. You're driving a Toyota, not a Rolls Royce or a Maybach. Just sayin'.

To Retailers: Back the fuck off and give Thanksgiving its due. You've heard of Thanksgiving, haven't you? It's the holiday between Halloween and Christmas. This year at 12:01 a.m. on November 1, you decked your halls with Christmas-themed crap, loaded the holiday music into the store CD player and prepared to bombard us with ad campaigns whipping us into a shopping frenzy and enticing us into your establishments to buy, buy, buy. Frankly, I'm sick of it. I categorically refuse to buy or put up any Christmas decorations before I have come out of my turkey-dressing-pumpkin-pie-induced coma on Thanksgiving day. And Black Friday? I do not set foot out of the house on that day, not even for grocery shopping. To do anything else is fucking nuts. Just sayin'.

I resent all of the made-for-Christmas crap you peddle to me and everyone else. It is overpriced, of the cheapest quality and so completely devoid of personality as to be utterly meaningless. Why would I spend my hard-won dollars on any of that? I know people who give their children 3 gifts for Christmas, based on the number of gifts given to the baby Jesus by the Magi. This is a little extreme for my tastes, but I'm beginning to think it's not a bad idea to radically limit the number of gifts I give to friends and family on principle. Darling Husband and I have been forced to do this for a number of years now for economic reasons. But here's the paradox: There may be fewer gifts under our tree, but I make every gift count. I really think about the person I'm giving to and find gifts that will be more meaningful to the recipient, rather than just buying crap because it's been packaged prettily. Just sayin'.

To Movie Theaters: $7 dollars for a large popcorn? Really? What's the mark-up on that? About 10,000%? If I could figure out a way to smuggle my own popcorn into your theater, I would. That is highway robbery, and they used to hang highway robbers. Keep jacking prices up on everything from tickets to popcorn, and people will stay home with microwave popcorn and a RedBox movie. Just sayin'.

That's it for today. I gotta pace myself, you know ... can't put everything I've been saving up over the past thirty days into one post. A quick note about the fabulous sign at the top of this post: If you didn't catch it when I noted it before, it was done for me by the multi-talented and uber-patient Tamara over at Cheapskate Designs. Do check her out if you're thinking of sprucing up your own little space on the web, and tell her I sent you. There's nothing but good will in it for me, but 'tis the season, right?

I Did It

2009-11-29T20:05:00.001-06:00

On the first day, I started with great enthusiasm and energy. I knew where my novel would start, and I knew where I wanted it to end - all I had to do was get from point A to point B. Sounded easy enough, right? By the tenth day, I was wrestling mightily with my Inner Editor, who is, by the way, a snooty Frenchman with a superiority complex, and a wily fellow determined to trip me up and sabotage my writing momentum. He very nearly succeeded on a number of occasions. By the fifteenth day, I began to worry that I would not make it to 50,000 words by the end of the month as I wandered aimlessly in the desert of the middle of my novel. Inexplicably, somewhere along the way from point A to point B, I lost my way, and the landscape became unfriendly and unforgiving. Or at least it felt that way. But I bit the bullet and wrote, even when I hated everything I wrote and doubted I would ever find the promised land of point B. These worries plagued me through day twenty-three. Then, suddenly, the wheels turned more easily and the train of my plot gathered speed as if going downhill. On day twenty-nine, the plot of my novel came roaring into the station. I reached 51,517 words and verified my word count just before two-thirty this afternoon. On the thirtieth day, I will rest. The novel is far from finished, but for the purposes of National Novel Writing Month, I have achieved everything I set out to do, and I am satisfied.

Once I have rested up from my month-long write-a-thon, I will return to editing my first novel while this one sits on the back burner and simmers.

Thank you to everyone who wrote me a note of encouragement and read the few posts I did write. I had actually thought I would blog more during the past month than I actually did, and I hope I haven't thoroughly alienated all of you by posting so infrequently. Congrats to Fresh Ribbon, TaterTot Mom and Yankee Girl for making the 50,000 word goal, as well. It was great to have you as my writing buddies and to use your progress as a gauge and a spur for my own progress.

Now that National Novel Writing Month is over, I'll be back in the saddle again and blogging as frequently as possible.

Hitting A Wall

2009-11-17T13:10:00.004-06:00

As those of you who read me regularly know, I decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for short) this month. That is why my posts have been so scarce. It is also why I haven't visited SITS or done roll call or visited any of your blogs. I know you're feeling neglected, and I'm sorry. I noticed that I've even lost a follower - likely over hurt feelings because I have not been sharing the bloggy love either by posting or visiting other blogs and commenting.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

It's not that I don't love you all or have decided to rest on my laurels or am taking you for granted. I'm not, I promise. But banging out 2,000 words a day has been a real challenge. NaNoWriMo goes against my natural circadian rhythm when it comes to writing. My creative process is usually comprised of periods of great industry punctuated by fallow periods. Lying fallow and turning plot ideas over in my head is a luxury I can't afford if I'm going to make the 50,000 word goal by the end of this month.

So I have had days where I must force myself to write, even if I don't feel like it, even if I don't like where the story is going, and especially when my Inner Editor wants to scrap entire sections because they are (in his vaunted opinion) pure, unadulterated merde. If I get nothing else out of my NaNoWriMo experience this year, I will have gained the knowledge that I do have the inner discipline required for this thing called writing, so that, universe willing, one day down the road, when I am a published author working on deadline, I can draw on that discipline and use it to get the job done.

But right now, I've hit a wall with my writing. A great big wall. I am stuck. And my Inner Editor is having a real shit fit over it, too. He thinks since I'm not making any forward progress, I should go back over what I have written and indulge him by poring over every word, checking spelling, casting a jaundiced eye on sentence structure, etc. He's a wily bastard, too. Here's a sample conversation:

IE: Did you seriously just use 'just' in that sentence? That's like the seventh one this page.
Me: Looking. No it isn't. It's only the third time this page.
IE: Ha! Made you look! By the way, if the character is standing still, he's stationary, with an a, not an e.
Me: I'll look it up later.
IE: Philistine. Hey, ever hear of a thing called a thesaurus? It's not an extinct dinosaur, you know.
Me: I know. Fuck off and let me write.
IE: Well, don't say I didn't try to help you.

You, my dear readers, are the fortunate beneficiaries of this bit of writing woe because it means I have decided to blog today. Yes, procrastination is a lovely thing. If I can't work on my novel, I'm going to do some other kind of writing in the hopes it will help me get myself unstuck. Because I have made a lot of progress - I have nearly 30,000 words and am actually ahead of schedule. But the scales could tip in either direction - either towards getting on with the writing no matter what or towards throwing in the towel. I am sacrificing too much to give up now, but I just don't know where to go with the story at this point. The wall I've hit is one giant blank page. A tabula rasa begging me to fill it. But I am out of ideas.

Anyway, enough about that. I promised you that I would faithfully report on my misadventures in dancing. Let me preface this by saying it was not the unmitigated disaster I expected it to be. Some of you will be disappointed, since the greater the disaster, the funnier the retelling of my humiliation. I get it, and I don't blame you. Those of you who suggested I actually videotape this stuff and do a vlog will definitely be disappointed. Sorry guys, but I do have a modicum of self-respect left, if only that. There will be no video evidence of my awkward and oh-so-clumsy self clomping around a dance floor for your viewing amusement. However, read on. There's a chuckle or two to be had anyway. Promise.

Our dance instructor is a gorgeous (if a little too skinny) redhead named Rachel. The first thing we did was link arms and walk around the studio. I could not keep to the same rhythm that she and Darling Husband had. I was constantly going too fast or too slow, but almost never in step. This was not boding well. Rachel assured me that rhythm can be learned, that I can learn to dance in time to the music.

I do not believe her.

I come from a family of professional and semi-professional musicians, and music has been a part of my life since before birth. I even tortured the violin for five years growing up and tickled the ivories for two. So it's not like I was raised in a cave with absolutely no exposure to music and the concept of rhythm. It's just that my own inner metronome is wonky. But I let Rachel's comment pass. She'll learn soon enough that I will be one of her failures. Perhaps not a grand failure, but a failure nonetheless.

After the walking, we side stepped with our arms linked. I stepped on the woman countless times, but she kept assuring me I was doing great. Then we did the rock step. That wasn't so bad except I kept losing my balance. No, I wasn't on a four-inch balance beam three feet off the floor. Yes, the floor was perfectly flat. No, no seismic activity or inner ear troubles. Just plain ol' clumsy me.

Then Darling Husband and I did a 'connection' exercise where he held my hands and we had to push our hands towards each other, creating tension. Rachel had me close my eyes, and Darling Husband began the journey towards learning to lead and I towards learning to follow. Thankfully, Darling Husband wasn't feeling sadistic because he didn't try to fake me out or play tricks on me while my eyes were closed.

Connection exercise over, we moved on to the waltz. I have to give Rachel props here - not only did she teach us the basic waltz step, but she showed us how to rotate AND add in a turn - and I didn't even face plant once! It was a miracle. Truly.

Naturally, we have not practiced since our lesson Friday night. I'm a little bummed about that, but after an aggravating weekend on the writing front for me and an aggravating last couple of days at work for Darling Husband, neither of us has really been itching to waltz around the ol' kitchen. Next lesson is Wednesday. We'll have a private lesson before our first group lesson. I am NOT looking forward to the group lesson because I will have to dance with perfect strangers. Rachel rationalizes this bit of sadism as teaching me to follow in general, not just follow Darling Husband.

Great. Just what I need.

Tune in later this week for a dancing update ...

Sign of Life

2009-11-12T12:55:00.001-06:00

Hello Faithful Blog Readers! It is I, your long lost pal, the mad genius and inky wretch behind Black Holes & Macrame. Please excuse the mess and sorry about the smell. I haven't done any housework in days, nor taken the time to bathe regularly. I should be the poster child for the phrase "If my house is clean, my computer must be broken." Clearly, my computer is not broken ... not that you'd know it since I haven't written any posts of late. Instead, I have been pecking away feverishly at the keys of this ~~accursed~~ glorious machine all in the name of National Novel Writing Month. Please accept my apologies for neglecting you. And this little token of my affection: Tomorrow night, I will unchain myself from my computer, and Darling Husband and I will embark upon our first dancing lesson at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio. As I'm certain chaos will ensue, stay tuned, for I promise to regale you with the madcap antics of yours truly as I defy the laws of musical meter and dance to the beat of a drummer only I can hear.

May God help us all.

And for those of you who care: My NaNoWriMo word count is currently above 21K. I have more writing to do today before I'll update my official word count on the NaNoWriMo site, but it's coming along.

Household Tip

2009-11-03T16:22:00.000-06:00

Trick-or-treating Halloween night reminded me of a clever (if I say so myself) alternate use for those nifty little glow bracelets you can buy dirt cheap at places like Target or the Dollar Store I came up with over the summer.

Darling Daughter was feeling sick to her stomach one night, and Darling Husband and I gave her a large bowl to put next to her bed in case she had to throw up in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, Darling Daughter canNOT sleep with any kind of night light on and we were trying to find a way to make the bowl visible to her since the last time we gave her a barf bucket, she missed the mark and I had to clean puke off the carpet. Not fun, let me tell you. I got the bright idea of using one of the glow bracelets we had stashed. I laid it in the bottom of the bowl so that she would have a visible target to 'shoot' for if she needed to throw up and placed the bowl next to her bed. Thankfully, the glow from the stick wasn't bright enough to keep Darling Daughter up.

Happily, she did not throw up that night. But I plan to keep using the little glow sticks/bracelets for her barf buckets at night. It's the perfect solution, don't you think?

And for those of you who want to know, my NaNoWriMo word count total as of today is 6,527. Thanks so much for all of the encouragement and supportive comments. Y'all are the permanent best (as Darling Daughter used to say to me).

NaNoWriMo Day 2 Update

2009-11-02T18:24:00.000-06:00

Okay, as of this posting my word count is 3,954. I hope to get in a few more later tonight, but I'm pretty happy about my progress. I want to push as hard as I can and write as much as possible every day so that I'm not killing myself by week 4 in a desperate attempt to make the 50,000-word goal.

I hope Travis and Tater Tot Mom are doing well. Sending happy writing karma your way, guys. Ditto to Monda (though I know you don't need it).

Working title: Kudzu
Genre: Literary fiction
POV: First person

I'll let you know more as I make better progress, provided you're curious ...

Cheer Me On

2009-10-31T11:40:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is November 1 and day 1 of National Novel Writing Month. I don't know how much blogging I'll be up to doing on top of my writing for NaNoWriMo, but I plan to post frequent updates on my progress. I would love it if you'd stop by and cheer me on - I've never participated before, so I have no idea what I've actually gotten myself into! I'm excited but also feeling a little trepidation at this point. The organizers and past participants say it is necessary to write 1,667 words per day in order to reach the 50,000 word goal by the end of the month. I've set a personal word count goal of 2,000 words per day, just to give myself a little leeway. Fingers crossed!

Some Good Things About Getting Older

2009-10-28T12:43:00.005-05:00

Although all of you enjoyed my Misanthropic Monday post on getting older (it sucks, remember), some of you expressed a desire to be lied to a little longer about the awful truth of aging. The whole ignorance-is-bliss-thing.

I understand.

I cannot, however, unring the bell once it's been rung. So, to make it up to you, I'm going to talk about some advantages to getting older.

One of the advantages to getting older is that your taste in men, both real and fantasy, starts to evolve. You find yourself less and less attracted to the pretty boys like Brad Pitt. Instead, you start thinking Gene Hackman looks sexy as hell. And sounds it, too. Suddenly you realize that while Brad Pitt is so darn pretty, he probably never had to work really hard at being good in bed because of his looks. But Gene - any man that homely no doubt studied everything he could about pleasing a woman in bed because he knew he had to be able to do something between the sheets that would bring her back again and again. God knows his ugly mug wasn't going to do it. It's what I like to think of as the Nerd Effect - a la Revenge of the Nerds where the character played by Robert Carradine (Louis Skolnik) seduces a rival's girlfriend when she mistakes him for her boyfriend because he's wearing the same costume replete with mask. Louis's bedroom skills are so superior to her boyfriend's that she dumps her boyfriend as soon as she realizes who it really was she had been with. A stretch, I'll grant you, but it illustrates my point nicely. The Gene Hackmans work harder, not only at pleasing a sex partner, but on themselves, too. They're more interesting and multi-faceted because they have to be. Ultimately, it's the Genes who'll curl your toes in much more satisfying ways both in and out of bed. Trust me on this. (I realize this whole section belies my previous post "Ode to Officer Hottie." What can I say? I'm married and middle-aged, not blind or dead. I can enjoy the view without actually wanting to take a hot young thing to bed. I do, however, have a rich fantasy life and hot young things add fuel to the fire now and then. Darling Husband isn't complaining.)

So dally with the pretty boys while you're young if you must, but looks fade. Skills and personality do not.

And while we're on the subject of sex, I'll let you in on a little secret: Sex gets better as you get older.

Yes, it's true that you have it less frequently - the ol' body simply can't keep up the pace of a horny hamster indefinitely. Plus, if you're in a long-term relationship, the need to jump each other every possible moment fades once you're past the lust phase of falling in love. If you're lucky (and I must say here that I am lucky, very VERY lucky), your relationship moves into the attachment phase where you develop a deep bond to one another, a bond based on more than just physical attraction. Once you're attached, and once you've been with the same partner for a number of years, you become less and less inhibited in bed. You may not have sex as frequently, but by God, you make it worth your while (as well as your partner's) whenever you do.

When you're younger, you have a great deal of enthusiasm and energy while making love, but you waste a lot of time wondering if he thinks your thighs are fat or if your ass looks ginormous from behind, or you have other insecurities about your body (boobs too small, aureoles too big, tummy not flat enough - whatever), all of which may keep you from enjoying yourself in bed as much. Not to mention, you don't really know your own body as well. The older you get, the better you know your body. The better you know your body, the better the sex is. Trust me. I wouldn't lie to you about something like this.

Plus, you build on your knowledge of your partner and his/her likes/dislikes in bed. Ricardo Montalban once said pleasing fifty women in one year was nothing compared to pleasing one woman for fifty years. That knowledge is priceless.

The next advantage to getting older is that you stop giving a rat's ass about lots of stupid things that had you tied in knots when you were younger. Like what you look like bundled up in winter. I used to freeze my ass off because I wouldn't wear a bulky coat, a hat, a scarf or footwear designed to keep my feet warm and dry. Why? Because all of it was ugly as sin and made me look fat (or so I thought). Thankfully, I got over that nonsense, and now I'm happy as a clam out of doors in the winter because I don't give a shit what I look like, I just care about staying warm.

A couple months ago, Darling Husband and I decided to take Darling Daughter to the zoo on the spur of the moment one Sunday morning when we were playing hooky from church. It was a warm, sunny day and I knew that I was going to end up with a vicious sunburn if I didn't protect myself. I generally don't go outside in the summer between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. for more than a few minutes at a time. I can't tolerate the heat, and I detest wearing sunscreen. I hate the way it feels on my skin, I hate the way it smells, and to tell the truth, I still get sunburned even with SPF70 if I stay outside for more than 30 minutes between 10 and 4. I'm just that fair. So, what to do? I didn't have sunblock with me, and even if I had, I wouldn't have used it. What I did have was an umbrella which promptly became a parasol. I carried it with me all over the zoo. Yeah, there were a few snickers and fingers pointed in my direction. But I didn't care. All I cared about was not getting sunburned. And it worked like a charm. Couldn't have done that twenty years ago, that's for damn sure. I'd have been a crispy critter.

Age also brings self-confidence. And the ability to be less of a people pleaser - you learn to please yourself. You value the art of patronage - taking your business to the same places and being recognized as a valued customer. You realize the older you get, the less you know, and you make your peace with that fact. As you get older, you gain perspective you simply didn't have in your teens and twenties. You learn to differentiate between permanent and temporary problems, and you realize almost every problem is temporary. Even if it doesn't feel like it.

So, there you have it. I can't say this is an exhaustive list or that these advantages are universal, but they are at least true for me.

What have been the advantages to getting older for you? Share!

Ode To Officer Hottie

2009-10-27T09:00:00.000-05:00

Officer Hottie, you brighten my mornings,
even on rainy miserable days like today.
I love to ~~ogle~~ admire your shapely calves
when you wear shorts.
I am amazed that you can squeeze
your tall, well-built and fit frame
into that tiny car you drive.
I wonder if you have a girlfriend?
I know you aren't married -
it's not the lack of a ring that tells me so,
no, it's the lack of a beer gut that clearly
evinces single-man status.
Have I told you lately that your black cargo
pants bring out the blue in your eyes?
No?
Ah, well, they do. But I digress ...
Oh, Officer Hottie, if you knew
the lewd and lascivious things I think
whenever I see you,
you'd surely feel your breakfast coming up.
Not to worry, I'll never say a word to you,
but you may inspire
a few naughty fantasies and
sex games with my hubby.
It is, after all, the least you can do
for a poor, sex-crazed middle-aged mom.
That and give me eye candy
whenever I have to cross the street.

Misanthropic Monday

2009-10-26T07:36:00.007-05:00

First things first, a few words of praise for Tamara over at Cheapskate Designs for this fabulous mini-banner for my Misanthropic Monday recurring theme post! She did a number of different designs for me and if you go over there, you'll be able to see a couple of them - always interesting for the sake of comparison. I chose this one which, ironically, doesn't read as edgy as the other two she did for me, but it suits my own internal aesthetic the best - no mean feat, I tell you! At any rate, Tamara is a sweetheart and great to work with, not to mention uber-affordable, so if you've been thinking about getting a custom button or banner or mini-banner for your blog, give her a look-see. She also did my button. Love ya, Tam! Mwah!

Now, for the business of bitching - the raison d'etre of this recurring theme post! Today's Misanthropic Monday is all about getting older.

Two words: It sucks.

My good friend A. at I Wonder Wye recently pointed out that getting older was better than the alternative. I got a major guilt complex because she has been battling a rare form of cancer for 24+ years and each birthday she sees is a major triumph. Point well taken. Nonetheless, I have issues, but surely this is no surprise to any of you. I did, after all, create a recurring theme post all about bitching. No uplifting, the glass-is-half-full, there's-always-a-silver-lining crap for me. Nuh-uh. I want to bitch. And in style.

I have no interest in dying, trust me on this. But does getting older have to be such a fucking buzz kill? I mean, seriously - I'm turning into a cranky old lady. The cranky part I don't mind so much, but the old part? Definitely not what I had in mind. At this point in my life, I've begun losing my hair, I'm fighting middle-age spread, and things ache when it's cold and rainy that didn't ache when I was in my 20s. It's only a matter of time before I get to enjoy hot flashes and erratic mood swings thanks to fluctuating hormone levels, all as a prelude to drying up so much in menopause that I not only don't get a period anymore, I have to use prescription-strength vaginal cream just to have sex that won't hurt. Provided, of course, my creaky joints will actually let me contort myself into sex-appropriate positions. Of the hair left on my head, more and more of it is gray. Pretty soon, coloring my hair won't be an option, it will be a necessity. About the only good thing I can say about losing hair is that it will definitely cut down on bikini waxing expenses ... yeah, we lose it there, too. Isn't that a kick in the pants? And it would seem that while I'm losing hair in places I should be hairy, I'm gaining unsightly hairs on my chin. Not a good thing, let me tell you.

As those of you who read me regularly know, I celebrated my birthday this month. I like the celebrating. I do. I just don't like reaching an age that requires a fire permit in order to light the candles on my cake.

Every year around my birthday, I get restless and need a change. That usually translates into a different hair color and some new clothes, maybe even some pictures of myself. The trouble, as I've gotten older, is that the damn camera seems to add more than ten pounds. If anyone makes a camera that takes off ten pounds instead of adding them, let me know. I'll be the first in line to buy it. Because I'm tired of thinking I look like this before the picture is taken ...

... and realizing with horror that I look more like this after the picture is taken.

I said to Darling Husband this morning that I really wish I could lose about twenty pounds. The only problem is that I would have to give up everything that makes life worth living: Bread, cheese, wine, chocolate ...

I recently received this charming message in an email:

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, totally worn out and screaming "Woo-hoo, what a ride!"

I applaud this sentiment. Truly, I do.

However ... I have to admit I'm hoping that, by the time I'm fifty, I'll be able to say "I'm forty and fabulous" with a straight face ... thanks to Botox.

My Greatest Fear

2009-10-22T09:53:00.000-05:00

WARNING: This is not a happy post. Do not read further if you are looking for something light and fun from me. I hope to be back to my usual lighthearted and snarky self soon, but today ... let's just say, recent events in the news are weighing heavily upon me.

Unlike my parents, I live in almost daily fear that if I relax my vigilance just one second, some sick bastard will take my child from me. And it is almost more than I can bear some days. I cannot abide people who seek out children in order to rape, torture and kill them. If I were in charge of the universe, I would feed each and every one of them into a wood chipper, fully conscious, inch by slow inch. It still wouldn't be punishment enough, but it would have to do. I certainly wouldn't offer them a quick lethal injection with a hefty tranquilizer before the potassium chloride finished them off. They should be screaming in utter terror and shitting themselves so hard their intestines fall out - and I would make it as scary and as excruciating as humanly possible. They deserve to die in the same kind of terror and pain their victims did. Anyone who would rape and kill a child is beyond rehabilitation. That filth must be eradicated.

Can you tell I feel strongly about this? When it comes to people who prey on children, I don't give a flying fuck about prisoner rights. They have none. Period.

I can't decide whether we were truly safer when we were growing up or not. Mostly, I think we were lucky. I think we felt safer growing up and our parents felt we were safer, mostly because they couldn't conceive of someone kidnapping, raping and killing one of their children - which, when you think about it, was really rather silly. And foolish.

Just ask the Lindbergs.

Or the Walshes.

But the main difference is that, when we were growing up, there wasn't the same kind of media saturation whenever a child went missing or a child was molested, and there are new opportunities for predators to pursue victims (internet) that didn't exist when we were children.

It damn near kills me every time I hear about a missing child. Most recently, it was little Somer Thompson, and I've been hoping and praying she would be found alive and returned to her family. This morning, I learned that my hopes and prayers were for naught. Somer's body was found in a Georgia landfill, about fifty-five miles from where she went missing.

Glorious Autumn

2009-10-19T14:41:00.000-05:00

We took a rare trip out of town over the weekend - up to Darling Husband's hometown, and it was the best weekend we've spent up there in years. Some friends invited us to go with them to a nearby berry farm that was offering hay rides, a stroll through a corn maze and, of course, the pumpkin patch. So we bundled up (it was quite a bit cooler up there than it is down here), grabbed some blankets and headed out. Here are some of the pictures I took while there:

Darling Daughter

Yesterday was my birthday. I started the day with a homemade card from Darling Daughter that read, "Happy Birthday mommy. Good, mom your [sic] 41 years old!" I thanked her and joked about being 39 for the third time. Darling Daughter looked at me with a little frown and wanted to know why I said that. I told her that after a certain age, people don't like to admit exactly how old they are. She looked at me very seriously and said, "Don't do that. Be how old you are, Mommy." That kid knocks me out. So my gift from Darling Daughter was not only a handmade card, but a lesson in wisdom and self-acceptance.

Darling Husband's card to me was also very sweet. This year for my birthday, he got me dance lessons at the local Arthur Murray Dance Studio. What Darling Husband has really given me is time alone with him doing something (hopefully) fun. We took dance lessons fifteen years ago, just after we got engaged, and we nearly killed each other over it. I had a nasty tendency to lead instead of follow, and Darling Fiance was not amused. Neither was I. I had no sense of humor about the thing because it was For. The. Wedding. Minor bridezilla moment, but it passed and Darling Fiance became Darling Husband ... and we lived happily ever after (give or take). Now that I am older, wiser, and not so inclined to lead, the lessons ought to be a lot of fun. Or at least give me plenty of blog fodder.

Mother Nature's gift to me this year was a glorious autumn day. We woke up to frost on the ground and blue skies overhead that lasted all day long. It was such a welcome change after the seemingly endless weeks of rain. I love chilly fall days filled with sunshine and blue skies. Now if only the leaves would turn beautiful colors instead of boring brown ...

My day was topped off by dinner out with Darling Husband and Darling Daughter where I was serenaded in Italian and given a white gladiolus, and Darling Daughter kissed me as she hummed the happy birthday song (each syllable normally sung was a kiss as she hummed the tune).

It's good to be 41.

Ozzies and Tigers and Pig Lickers, Oh My!

2009-10-15T12:18:00.000-05:00

The Arkansas State Fair started last Friday, October 9, and runs through Sunday, October 18. Darling Husband and I had planned to take Darling Daughter to the fair this past Monday, when she had the day off from school. Unfortunately, it rained. Again. It has rained so much since summer that I think I'm sprouting gills. And I'm pretty sure Darling Husband is getting moldy. Darling Daughter was mucho unhappy when I told her there would be no trip to the fair on Monday because of the rain. She tried to convince me that it would be fun to slog through three inches of mud, sit on wet rides and look like a drowned rat. I wasn't buying, but I did promise we would go as soon as it stayed dry, even if it meant pulling her out of school early one day to do it.

Luckily for Darling Daughter, it actually stayed dry yesterday, so Darling Husband and I took Darling Daughter to the fair yesterday after school.

It's been about three years since we last went. Enough time for me to forget why I hate going to the fair. I loved the fair as a kid, but somewhere between then and now, the fair stopped being a magical, colorful place of fun and adventure with a little Nervenkitzel of danger and the forbidden. Now it is one giant rip-off with overpriced food, loud music, death-trap rides, rigged games, cheap-ass "prizes" made in China and freaks, i.e., the other fairgoers. Like the Asian woman wearing black leggings with buckled straps at the ankles, white open-toed sandals, a tweed page-boy hat and a brocade top. Or the bald guy in the camo overalls, bushman hat, with naked pin-up girl tattoos all down his arms and 10-gauge steel horseshoe barbells in his ears. I kid you not. This stuff can't be made up, I promise.

But, to be fair to the fair, it wasn't all bad. There were the Aussie carnies working the rides and games. No idea how they landed at the Arkansas State Fair, but there were a couple really cute young Aussie guys I got to enjoy looking at. Too bad the cute ones were outnumbered at least 4 to 1 by the greasy, scruffy, smelly, unattractive carnies, but that's the way it goes.

Then there were the tigers! There is a tiger preserve in Florida called the Marcan Tiger Preserve and they had a number of their tigers with them at the fair to perform shows. All of the tigers were Bengal tigers, but interestingly enough, Bengal tigers come in four color/pattern variations. The Standard is orange with black stripes and is the most common. The White is white with black stripes and less common than the Standard. The Golden Tabby is golden with dark reddish stripes and very rare - only about 70 cats in captivity worldwide are Golden Tabbies. The Snow White is white with faint gold stripes and is the rarest of all the tiger color varieties. Only about 25 are known to exist worldwide, 8 of whom reside at the Marcan Preserve. The show was great fun, not because they had the tigers doing anything like jumping through fiery hoops, but because they showcased the tigers doing things tigers enjoy doing naturally - playing, jumping, rolling around. The handlers were very familiar with the cats and very affectionate with them. They kept scratching the tigers under their chins or on the ears and kissing them on the head!

(From left to right: The Standard, Golden Tabby, Snow White and White Bengal tiger color varieties. Picture from the Marcan Tiger Preserve website.)

The final highlight of our trip to the fair yesterday were the Pig Lickers. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking those weird-ass inbred hillbillies in Arkansas actually engage in pig licking as a form of entertainment. Uh huh, don't try to deny it, I can see the wheels turning in your head. I'm sure we do have quite a few folks from the low end of the gene pool who do just that. However, the Pig Lickers to which I'm referring are actually a culinary delight featured at the fair yet again this year (I believe last year was their debut here). What, pray tell, is a Pig Licker? Well, my curious friend, a Pig Licker is a piece of bacon dipped in ... wait for it .... chocolate. No kidding! But even more shocking than that is ... they're actually pretty good. Darling Husband and I both tried them and agreed that the taste combination worked. And for $1 per bacon slice, it was far and away the best deal to be had at the fair (compare that to a whopping $6 for a funnel cake for Pete's sake!), and was the lesser of all evils culinarily speaking when you consider the fact that we could have had fried Oreos (yes, really) or fried peanut butter, banana and jelly sandwiches (yes, REALLY, and I think I saw Elvis eating one). No fried Snickers or fried Twinkies this year, thankfully (look, we're in the South. If you can eat it, we can fry it. Heart healthy? NOT a concept).

So that pretty much sums up our adventures this year at the Arkansas State Fair. I'm good for another, oh, say ten years or so. Or never. But the main thing was that Darling Daughter had fun. And that, my friends, is priceless.

I'm A Featured Friend

2009-10-13T07:27:00.000-05:00

Tamara at Mad Boastings of a Cheapskate Mom has deemed me and my little blog worthy of the prized honor of being a Featured Friend on her blog today. So if you've got an inquiring mind and/or nothing else better to do, hop on over for a look-see. You'll no doubt learn more than you ever wanted to about yours truly, but then, that's half the fun, isn't it?

While you're there, take a look around at Tamara's fabulous blog. She's the queen of cheap and already nationally recognized for her Meatless Monday posts where she shares tasty meat-free recipes that she has prepared for and tried out on her family. Meatless Monday is a growing trend thanks to the economic downturn and can save a family some pretty serious dough while not skimping on flavor.

My personal favorite is the Caption This challenge every week where her hardcore followers and some intrepid newbies vie to out-quip one another. She's also just launched Drabby To Fabby Fridays where she will tackle different ways we moms-in-a-fashion-rut can go from drabby to fabby at least once a week. She's putting it all out there, too - posting drabby 'before' photos of herself and then the fabby 'after' photos. A brave, brave woman is Tamara.

I hope you'll go and read the featured posts and leave me lots of comment love - they're three of my favorites and showcase my warped sense of humor!

Death By Sugar

2009-10-08T21:28:00.001-05:00

My mother-in-law is trying to kill me. I'm sure of it.

Why do I think that you ask?

I ~~cringe over~~ celebrate a birthday this month. The other night, my mother-in-law presented me with a cake she baked in honor of said birthday. But not just any cake. No, my mother-in-law's particular confectionary forte is none other than the Coca-Cola cake. (Pictured below is a slice of Coca-Cola cake. This was NOT baked by my mother-in-law, but it could have been. Hers looks just like that.)

Now, before you get all 'Aww, isn't that sweet!' on me, there's something you need to know. When I was pregnant with Darling Daughter, I developed gestational diabetes. Yes, it did more or less go away once Darling Daughter was born. However, I have insulin resistance thanks to polycystic ovary syndrome, and the odds of my developing full-blown diabetes in fifteen years (give or take) are pretty high. I'm on medication to help with the insulin resistance, but I've been trying (with varying degrees of success depending on the time of year and the state of my hormones) to limit my sugar consumption. The last thing I need is a Coca-Cola cake.

Do you know what Coca-Cola cake is made with? 90% sugar. 10% other crap.

My father-in-law also happens to celebrate a birthday this month, and wouldn't you know it, Coca-Cola cake is his favorite.

Ask me if it's mine. Go ahead. Do it.

The answer is a resounding NO.

I hate Coca-Cola cake. It doesn't even taste good. It tastes like sugar. With pecans on top. And just enough cocoa for color (but not enough for flavor). I ate a piece the other night because I felt guilty about being so damned ungrateful for the cake. And I lived to regret that decision - all that sugar flooding my system gave me a vicious headache.

They say it's the thought that counts. Which is true. It's the difference between premeditated murder and a crime of passion.

I'm telling you, my mother-in-law is trying to kill me.

Shaky & Queasy

2009-10-07T10:43:00.003-05:00

No, it's not the flu, swine or otherwise. Thanks to Monda over at No Telling, I decided to do something absolutely radical - I'm going to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year. It starts November 1 and runs through November 30. For thirty days (and/or nights) more than 100,000 people worldwide will chain themselves to their laptops and brave major carpal tunnel syndrome and caffeine overload to bang out a minimum 50,000-word novel. There will be no time for careful word crafting, for angsty existentialist agonizing over character and plot development or even cursory editing - it's an all-out, balls-to-the-wall writing marathon. The founder of this lark-turned-mission, Chris Baty, assures anyone thinking about participating that most of what comes out of NaNoWriMo is crap. It is more the process of writing than the finished product that is the goal of NaNoWriMo. But that's not to say that what gets written isn't worthy of publication (you know, down the road, after extensive revising and editing). Sara Gruen has sold more than one of her NaNoWriMo manuscripts, including the bestselling Water For Elephants (note to self: read Water For Elephants before Nov. 1).

I decided I needed to participate in NaNoWriMo because I have been asked several times whether I have started working on a new novel. At first I was a little surprised to be asked this because I was still so focused on getting my first novel published that I hadn't even thought about starting a new project. But as the months have dragged on and more and more people have asked this question of me, I have begun to realize that I need to keep writing (no, blogging doesn't count) while I'm working on getting published. I've had other novel ideas kicking around in my head but I lacked the requisite impetus to get started, I guess. Well, no more excuses! I'm making NaNoWriMo my excuse.

50,000 words may sound like a lot, but it works out to be about 175 pages - barely novella length in my opinion. Frankly, I prefer to buy novels with at least 300+ pages myself - otherwise it hardly seems worth the cover price!

If the 30-day write-a-thon seems too daunting to you, consider participating in NaNoWriMo's Night of Writing Dangerously. It's a fundraiser set to take place in San Francisco November 22. But if going to SanFran isn't in the cards (or budget) for you, sit down and write along at home. If you really want to do some good, you can get some sponsors to contribute a penny for every word you write in the six hours set aside for the write-a-thon (or you can pledge to donate a penny for every word you write as a personal incentive to really bang something out). And then give all the money you raise to NaNoWriMo for their Young Writers Program so that they can continue to get kids in school excited about writing and books.

Misanthropic Monday: Random Beefs

2009-10-05T12:58:00.002-05:00

Welcome to the second Misanthropic Monday bitchfest. The Misanthropic Monday will be a recurring post on, you guessed it, Mondays - whichever Mondays I find myself blogging and/or whichever Mondays find me with my knickers in a twist over any number of things. This week I don't have a specific complaint beefy enough for an entire post, but I do have several beefs I need to get off my chest, so read on ...

Inane Vanity Plates: I recently spotted a vanity plate that read "ZUKIBOT." It took me a minute to figure out exactly what the owner of said plate was trying to convey. Apparently, he is inordinately proud of the fact that he has purchased a Suzuki automobile. That's almost as bad as the Lexus owner whose vanity plate read "LEXUS." Apparently, it's not enough that he's driving a Lexus, the license plate must also read "LEXUS." If you have to put the name of your vehicle on your plate, you just might be too stupid to drive.

Insurance Companies: It would seem that insurance companies in Arkansas have been denying coverage to women who are victims of domestic violence. The reason? Domestic battery is a ... wait for it ... pre-existing condition. Nothing like kicking a woman when she's already down. Arkansas lawmakers are proposing legislation that will make it illegal for insurance companies to do business in Arkansas if they deny coverage to victims of domestic violence, and I hope it passes. Have I mentioned that insurance companies are bloodsucking, soulless vampires with no conscience or moral compass? (My apologies to vampires ...)

Improperly Bagged Groceries: Maybe it's me, but household cleaning products should not be bagged with anything edible - I don't want my apples to taste like dish washing liquid or my cookies to taste like dryer sheets. My fresh produce should not be bagged with frozen goods - if I wanted it frozen, I'd buy it frozen. Dry goods in boxes should not be bagged with anything cold or frozen, either, because the condensation will soak into the cardboard, potentially ruining the dry goods (operative word here: dry). There is a limit to the number of canned goods that can be safely crammed into one bag. More than six and you're asking for a torn bag and a very sore foot. This is not rocket science, and I'm sick of having to re-bag my groceries so that it's done right. If I wanted to bag my groceries myself, I'd go through the self-check line. And the male checker who likes to maul my fresh produce? Next time, I'm going to maul your nuts and see how much you like it.

To Meme or Not To Meme ... Wait, What's The Question?

2009-10-02T14:25:00.000-05:00

Moxie Mama over at Musings of a Moxie Mama has done me the honor of bestowing upon me the following award:

Naturally, there's a catch. And the catch is the meme (and picking a few others to bestow this lovely award on). I'm actually thrilled to be participating in my first meme. So the rules of this doohicky are as follows: Answer the questions using only ONE word, link back to the Over The Top Blogger who bestowed this award upon you (already done - thanks, Mox) and then pick six blogs you think are over the top. First things first, the meme:

1. Where is your phone? Charging.

2. Your hair? Impossible.

3. Your mother? Batshitcrazy. (I live in the South, trust me, 'batshitcrazy' IS one word.)

4. Your father? Co-dependent.

5. Your favorite food? Sushi.

6. Your dream last night? Forgotten.

7. Your favorite drink? Bubbly.

8. Your dream/goal? Author.

9. What room are you in? Living.

10. Your hobby? Misanthropy.

11. Your fear? Obscurity.

12. Where do you want to be in six years? Paris.

13. Where were you last night? Here.

14. Something you aren't? Stupid.

15. Muffins? Croissants.

16. Wish list item? Pyrokinesis.

17. Where did you grow up? Didn't.

18. Last thing you did? Cursed.

19. What are you wearing? Jeans.

20. Your TV? Prehistoric.

21. Your pets? Overfed.

22. Your friends? Certifiable.

23. Your life? Complicated.

24. Your mood? Piss-poor. (No, wait, that's my attitude ...)

25. Missing someone? Millionaire.

26. Vehicle? Worthless.

27. Something you're not wearing? Fur.

28. Your favorite store? Target.

29. Your favorite color? Lavender.

30. Last time you laughed? Now.

31. Last time you cried? August.

32. Your best friend? Priceless.

33. One place that you go over and over? Lalaland.

34. One person who emails you regularly? Husband.

35. Favorite place to eat? Out.

Now for the really hard part, the bloggers who I think are Over The Top and hence worthy of such a fine award. Many bloggers are deserving of awards, but there aren't that many who are Over The Top as I understand, interpret, know and love the concept. Mox is, of course, one of them - but she gave me the award, which means she's already a recipient and therefore does not qualify. So. Who to choose? I have run across some blogs that I think are Over The Top, but since I don't officially follow them and have only lurked or possibly commented once or twice, I don't think they would welcome an award from out of left field - that's kinda like taking candy from strangers, right? There are only three bloggers from my list of blogs I'm following whose blogs are Over The Top, and who will give some kick ass answers to the above meme - provided they choose to participate (and I hope they will). So without further ado, the bloggers I nominate are:

Hot Piece of Sass: One Sassy Girl has a unique outlook on life (not to mention a gift for memorable phrases: cunny crunches, anyone?) and never ceases to make me laugh. She fearlessly chronicles her adventures as a single thirty-something gal in search of her Mr. Right while dallying with all the Mr. Meanwhiles out there. A must-read whether you're single, in a relationship or an old married lady like me.

Housewife Savant: Housewife Savant is currently waging a one-woman campaign to rid her neck of the woods of its share of backasswards idiots, and she's neither taking prisoners nor mincing her words nor pulling her punches. And she periodically has a guest blogger named Vlad. He is to being too funny to read. I am for to being serious. You must be checking out the Vlad when Housewife no blog.

The Vegetable Assassin: The Vegetable Assassin is certifiable. Pure and simple. And that's what I love about her. She has a thing for mini VW vans. She's an artist and cartoonist, and she often incorporates her artwork, drawings and photos into her blog. She's got a potty mouth that makes me proud (and puts me to shame when she isn't trying to stifle hers) and writes the funniest memes I've seen to date. She doesn't need the award and will likely not actually pass this one on, but I hope she'll at least do the meme. I apparently can't get enough of her memes.

Well, there you have it. It was good for me. Was it good for you? I need a post-meme cigarette ...

Get Felt Up

2009-10-01T14:10:00.005-05:00

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, so in that spirit, I propose that you get yourselves felt up, ladies!

Now I know as well as you do that monthly self-examination is the best method for detecting breast lumps. And I'm not saying give that up - I'm just saying let the man in your life get in on the action, too. It's a helluva lot more fun than the ol' self exam anyway.

So get yourselves felt up, ladies. You'll be glad you did even if you don't find any lumps.

And guys, this is the perfect opportunity for you to offer to feel up any attractive woman you meet. I won't guarantee she'll take you up on the offer, but what the heck - nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? And who knows? Maybe you'll save her life by feeling her up.

Or lend a hand, grope your girlfriend. Whatever it takes, boys, whatever it takes.

Teaser

2009-09-30T09:09:00.005-05:00

Tune in later today to read a guest post I've written for Janah aka SoNotHotMama at So Not Mom-a-licious. She's in the middle of a move to a new state (including, but not limited to, a state of exhaustion, a state of confusion and a state of frustration to be followed by a catatonic state once everything is unpacked and she can sink onto the couch with a giant chocolate bar and a bottle of red wine ... or whatever her favorite vice/poison is) and so, ~~shameless self-promoter~~ helpful sort that I am, I ~~greedily~~ graciously offered my writing talents as a guest blogger so that she could see to matters on the home front with a guilt-free conscience, knowing that her readers would not have to go into major withdrawal.

And then I started having performance anxiety. Go figure.

But Inspiration struck yesterday (the criminal charges are pending), and SoNotHotMama plans to post my contribution today, just give her a chance to sleep in a little this morning (she's on Pacific Standard Time, poor thing) and drop by her blog after 11 a.m. CST to see exactly what Inspiration did to me. And hence to you. And please, please, please leave me some bloggy love (i.e. comments) if the Muse so moves you (bribe her if you have to).

I'm An Anarchist. Are You?

2009-09-23T10:01:00.000-05:00

Here are my top 10 reasons you should watch Sons of Anarchy (FX, Tuesday 10/9 central):

10. It's more or less Hamlet on motorcycles, minus the Oedipus complex and to-be-or-not-to-be whining.

9. Katey Sagal is Gemma Teller Morrow, a wicked, kick-ass biker 'old lady'. And at 55, she's still got a rockin' bod.

8. Ron Perlman sans hunchback or annoying red comic book character make-up. His best role since The Last Supper.

7. You've been in withdrawal ever since The Shield ended and Sons of Anarchy was created by Kurt Sutter, who was part of the team that brought you The Shield.

6. TV rated MA: LSV. That means mature audiences only. Language, sex and violence. This is grown-up TV, folks. No talking animals, no animated characters, no goofy voices or syrupy sweet storylines. Put the kids in bed, grab yourself a grown-up drink and enjoy.

5. The main character (Jax Teller) is a bad boy you can't help loving.

4. Where else can you get a Jewish accountant biker who moonlights as an Elvis impersonator in night clubs and at bar mitzvahs?

3. A kick-ass theme song called This Life. You can listen to it here.

2. The show is set in fictional Charming, CA. You gotta love the irony.

And the number 1 reason to watch Sons of Anarchy:

1. Charlie Hunnam (a.k.a. Jackson 'Jax' Teller). I don't usually like the long-haired, scruffy greaser type of guy, but there's something about Charlie Hunnam that strikes a chord with me - and lemme tell you, under all that loose biker garb, he's got a rockin' hot bod which, I'm happy to report, the viewers get to see every couple of episodes. And I was floored when I learned that Hunnam is a Brit and not American. His accent is impeccable.

Misanthropic Monday: MILFs

2009-09-21T10:09:00.001-05:00

I've decided to start my own recurring theme post: Misanthropic Monday, where every Monday (or any Monday I find myself posting), I'm going to discuss the people and things that make my life hell.

My inaugural Misanthropic Monday post has to do with MILFs. Not just any MILFs, though - I'm talking about the MILFs at Darling Daughter's school that I see every morning and afternoon, Monday through Friday.

These MILFs are more annoying that the average MILF because they tend to drop off and pick up their kids in teeny tiny workout clothes (because being a size negative two isn't enough). They show off their long, lean legs, toned arms and flat abs while toting the ubiquitous and requisite water bottle. Adding insult to injury is the fact that they look great without make-up. They have perfect skin that glows. And their hair always looks great even though it's up in a ponytail or hair clip. By and large, these women all drive monster SUVs, sport diamonds that do double duty as Klieg lights, and are the pinnacle of Ladies Who Lunch in my neck of the woods.

I loathe them.

And I'm getting a major complex seeing them five days a week, twice a day. Because I have rosacea. Because I'm losing my hair. Because what hair I have on my head frizzes up so bad that I tend to look like a middle-aged Orphan Annie - not exactly a flattering look, KWIM? Because I'm a size 12. Because even if I were cremated, I wouldn't be as small as they are. Because I wear a size 11 shoe. Because I'm awkward and frumpy. Because I can't afford membership fees to a gym or athletic club. Because, because, because.

Some days, I loathe myself.

This weekend, I was complaining to Darling Husband about this new uber-affluent species of MILF at DD's school and he did something that had me gobsmacked: He shrugged and said, "Those women are boring."

I looked at him with quite the jaundiced eye, trying to decide whether he was being sincere or not. He saw the look of skepticism on my face and said, "What? They are boring - they're all the same. I wouldn't want to fuck them."

And he meant it.

Wonder of wonders, he meant it.

Avast, me hearties!

2009-09-19T09:35:00.009-05:00

Today, as ye may know, is Talk Like A Pirate Day, and if'n ye be curious, ye can click on the link an' it'll take ye to the home page fer TLAPD. Cap'n Slappy an' Ol' Chumbucket be the scallywags responsible fer this here holiday o' extreme silliness, bless their rum-soaked livers an' hearts, an' ye can read all about their adventures in pirattitude. Of partic'lar innerest be the bits about how to pick a pirate up (an' I ain't talkin' 'bout gettin' squiffy knaves off o' the quarterdeck after too many black jacks o' spirits) - Cap'n Slappy an' Ol' Chumbucket provide pick-up lines fer Salty Dogs and Saucy Wenches lookin' fer a little company from the opposite sex. They're good fer a guffaw an' knee slap or two at the very least.

I went to piratequiz.com to get me own pirate name an' below is what it spit out at me. Has a nice ring to it, so I'm keepin' it. My pirate name is:

Captain Bess Kidd

"Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!"

The Mister's pirate name turned out to be Bloody Davy Flint, an' I think he's satisfied wit' it. I know I am.

The Little Miss (a.k.a. Darling Daughter fer ye landlubbers new to me blog) went to school yesterdee dressed as a pirate - the fine folks at her school decided to study pirates in honor of TLAPD. Her pirate name is Captain Bandit Bruce - she picked it out herself. Brings a tear to me eye, I tell ye - she's a chip off this ol' Captain's block fer sure.

When the Little Captain turned three, she was obsessed wit' pirates, so we threw her a pirate-themed birthday party complete with buried treasure, pirate grog and all the trimmin's. We bought bandannas, eye patches and tattoos fer all the little pirates attendin'. A grand time was had by all, I can tell ye. An' the next day at church, there was a slew o' little lasses dressed in their Sunday best an' sportin' pirate tattoos on their upper arms. Brings a smile to me face ever' time I think on it, it does.

An' if'n ye've not quite got yer sea legs when it comes to piratese, ye can read up on the best pirate jargon at the Pirate Glossary. Spyglass optional.

Have a fine day talkin' like a pirate!

Piratically yours,
Captain Bess

Mommy Lies

2009-09-17T16:35:00.003-05:00

I keep seeing a commercial on TV where the daughter has a can of some sort of processed food product in her hand and is looking at the label. She asks her mother what V-E-G-E-T-A-B-L-E-S spells. Mom stands there looking like a deer caught in the headlights thinking she doesn't want to tell her daughter what it spells because she wants her to eat the ~~crap~~ allegedly healthy culinary delight-in-a-can. She considers lying for a brief moment, but rejects that plan because "mommies don't lie."

Come again? Where is that written? In the super-fine print of the fine print in the mommy contract? Where's my damn magnifying glass!

*fumbles through piles of stuff*
*grabs magnifying glass*
*mumbles under breath while reading*
*whoops in triumph*
*collapses in relief*

Nope, no such thing is written anywhere in the mommy contract I've got. No sirree. So lemme set you mommies with overactive consciences straight: Mommies do too lie. It's either that or say 'so long, nice knowin' ya' to our sanity.

Mark Twain once wrote, "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics." If I may be so bold, I'm going to tweak Twain's statement and say there are three kinds of lies: lies, big fat lies and mommy lies, i.e. the lies you tell to preserve your sanity. The Santa-Easter Bunny-Tooth Fairy triumvirate of big fat lies aside, here's a list of some of the lies I've told Darling Daughter. And believe you me, I don't feel remotely guilty about telling them. I was preserving my sanity.

I have no idea where the blue light-up ball with all the little rubber bits that keep falling off on my carpet went.
Of course I can tell what that is in your drawing.
Yes, I love the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles just as much as you do. Of course I'll wear a mask if you make me one.
No, I didn't put any pepper on your food.
Daddy ate all the ice cream. I'll buy more tomorrow.
That dog is just trying to give the other dog a back massage. He'll be done in a minute.
We can't go to Chuck E. Cheese's because they're closed for renovations.
The cat chewed it so I had to throw it away.
Mommy's got a headache today, so we can't have ~~that~~ ~~hateful~~ ~~ill-behaved~~ ~~hellion~~ your friend over for a play date. Sorry.
Sure, you can be a ninja animal rescuer when you grow up, no problem.

This list is not comprehensive, merely representative.

C'mon. Tell the truth. Which mommy lies have you told?

Farewell Patrick

2009-09-15T11:10:00.001-05:00

I never thought I would be one of those people who cried when a movie star died. And yet here I sit a sloppy mess because I learned this morning that Patrick Swayze has died. I can't explain it. It seems positively ludicrous. But I am unbelievably sad that he lost his battle with pancreatic cancer at the age of 57.

For more than 20 years, Patrick has been one of my boyfriends. Everyone has a list like this - a list of gorgeous celebrities they'd have sex with if they ever got the chance. Patrick was pretty much at the top of my list ever since I sat in a darkened movie theater in August 1987 watching, enthralled, as he dirty danced his way across the big screen as Johnny Castle.

That movie gave me a much-needed escape from my life. I had just returned to the United States from Germany where I had been an exchange student during my senior year in high school, and I was having trouble adjusting to life in the States again. So much had changed during my exchange year - both externally and internally - and I was having a serious case of reverse culture shock. My parents had moved from Texas back to Arkansas while I was gone; in the first two days I was back, my mother dumped all the bad stuff that had happened to them and my siblings while I was gone on me; my former best friend decided to tell me how she was raped by two different guys in the previous year; I found out that I would have to stay in Arkansas to go to college; and I fell for my sister's ex-boyfriend.

So I escaped. In a darkened movie theater, watching Dirty Dancing, I was transported to a different time, a different place and a different way of life. A more innocent time in many ways, socially and politically. I loved the dancing. I loved the music. I loved the love story. I loved the coming of age and loss of innocence of Frances 'Baby' Houseman. And most of all, I loved Patrick Swayze as Johnny Castle. The swagger. The grace. The strength. The masculinity. The tenderness.

I saw Dirty Dancing twice in the theater - something I hadn't done before. I hadn't seen any movies worth seeing a second time in the theater before Dirty Dancing. Nor have I since, for that matter. I don't have to tell you that I own a copy of Dirty Dancing on DVD, I'm sure you already assumed as much.

When People Magazine named Patrick the Sexiest Man Alive in 1991, I thought, "Duh. Took 'em long enough!" When I first found out he was married, it put a slight damper on my fantasies of him. But the older I got and the longer he stayed married to his first and only wife, the sexier that made him to me. He and Lisa Niemi got married on June 12, 1975 - twenty years to the day before I married Darling Husband, it turns out. How's that for a weird little coincidence? And they celebrated their 34th anniversary this year in June. Their marriage survived his battles with alcohol and insecurity, as well his meteoric rise to fame after Dirty Dancing and Ghost.

Patrick was uncomfortable with his good looks. He once commented, "Good-looking people turn me off. Myself included," and he fought hard to overcome the pretty boy label, to be taken seriously as an actor and as a man.

My crush on Patrick Swayze may have started because of his good looks, but it endured because of the extraordinary depth of character he had and his determination to fight his cancer. He went down fighting in true Texas style.

Farewell.

100th Post

2009-09-14T09:55:00.000-05:00

This is my 100th post. It'll have to be a short one because I just found out that the new dishwasher we bought at Lowe's on Saturday will be delivered and installed tomorrow sometime between noon and two o'clock. It looks like a tornado whipped through my house, and I wish I could say 'I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto,' but I know damn good and well that the way my house looks has nothing to do with any natural phenomena such as tornadoes. Just a six-year-old, two cats, one husband and me, the domestically challenged wife.

So, I'm going to crank up my favorite classic rock station on the radio and get to cleaning because I don't want the installers to see my house in its most natural state: Disaster Area 51.

*sigh*

Manuscript In Hand

2009-09-13T16:59:00.000-05:00

I picked my manuscript up from FedEx Kinko's today. Got it printed up on 3-hole paper so I can stick it in a binder. All 433 pages of it. It's a little surreal. But in a good way.

I picked it up at 3:30. Or rather, I went in at 3:30 but because they were in the middle of a shift change, I didn't actually have it in my hot little hands until just before 4. Note to self: Avoid FedEx Kinko's like plague at shift change. Employees have terminal headupassitis. Although, now that I think about it, the terminal headupassitis probably has little to do with the fact that it was shift change, and everything to do with the fact that the employees I encountered were one blunt shy of talking monkey status.

Done

2009-09-12T09:23:00.000-05:00

The edit is done. I'm now waiting for Darling Husband to convert my manuscript from a WordPerfect document to a pdf file so that I can take it down to FedEx Kinko's and get it printed up.

I really enjoyed going through my manuscript again. I have no idea whether this happens to other writers or not, but I found myself getting caught up in the story all over again - and I wrote it! I know what's going to happen, how it's all going to end, yet I still found myself gripped and wanting to read more as I went along. Is that goofy? Or weird?

I'm really nervous about giving my manuscript to this published author for a critique. Friends of mine have read bits and pieces of the manuscript and given me feedback, and Darling Husband has also read it as I've finished writing chapters/sections, although he has yet to sit down with the entire manuscript and read it through from start to finish. All have pronounced it better than good. And I have been immensely grateful and reassured. But all have a vested interest in keeping yours truly happy - especially DH. I am now about to hand my baby over to someone who has absolutely no reason to take my feelings into account, who isn't afraid of fallout if she doesn't like it as a whole or has serious issues with specific parts. She's been published and she edits manuscripts all the time for others. She's going to tell me like it is, not like I want to hear it. I'm hoping like hell that she'll have some good things to say about it. I'm not expecting to be told that it is perfect as is and doesn't need a little rewriting, but I really hope she doesn't give it back to me with a match taped to the front and a note advising me to put my MS out of its and everyone else's misery by burning it. That would sting. And not just a little. Short of that, if there are any major flaws that I can't see because I'm so close to the project, I hope she'll point them out so that I can fix them. I know there's no such thing as a perfect MS, but I'd like to get as close as humanly possible before it goes to print.

I just want to say thanks to all of you for understanding why I couldn't read your blogs and make comments or respond to your comments to my posts while I was immersed in this edit. I actually wrote a post Thursday morning even though I had said Wednesday that I wouldn't even be posting while I was still in the middle of my edit, but the idiot drivers on the road Thursday morning when I took Darling Daughter to school were tap dancin' on my last nerve - I just had to vent my frustrations. I'll do my best to catch up over the weekend.

An Open Letter To The Idiots Behind The Wheel I Encountered This Morning

2009-09-10T09:32:00.003-05:00

To the Chick with a lead foot driving the Mazda hatchback:

Do your parents know you drive like a bat out of hell? I realize you were in a hurry to pick your boyfriend up early so you could squeeze in a quick fuck before school, but you can't enter the left turn lane a quarter of a mile back and then proceed to pass everyone on your right - some of them may want to turn left, too, just like I did this morning. But I didn't feel bad about slowing you down a little when I merged in front of you - you see, I was once a teenager with a teenage boyfriend, and I know teenage boys don't need forty-five minutes to get their rocks off. Two will do. Trust me on this. So maybe you need a little more time to get your rocks off, and maybe you had to fake it for the first time this morning or risk being late to class. No need to thank me - knowing how to fake an orgasm well is part of every woman's sexual tool kit.

To the Member of Little Rock's Finest:

I'd like to apologize for giving you the nerd treatment this morning and slowing down to well below the speed limit. I'd like to, but I hate it when other drivers ride my bumper, so I'm actually not sorry I gave you the nerd treatment. I realize you were probably overdue for your doughnut break or maybe you were just really amped up about your speed trap assignment this morning, since pretty young things with lead feet will do just about anything to get out of a speeding ticket. Lord knows, you gotta take your perks where you can get them, right? Hey, here's a tip for you: Keep an eye out for a chick driving a Mazda hatchback. She drives like a bat out of hell and I bet she'll be more than willing to flash her tits to get out of a speeding ticket. Just do me a favor and stay off my fucking bumper, 'Ociffer.'

To the Inconsiderate Mom blocking me in so you could drop your lazy ass kids off ten steps closer to the crosswalk:

No, you don't need to get your eyes checked, I really was waving at you with only one finger this morning. There's plenty more where that came from, too, you stupid bitch, if you can't be bothered to pull into a parking space to drop your fucking lazy ass teenagers off.

Sincerely,
The Pissed Off Mom in a Minivan

M.I.A.

2009-09-09T08:42:00.001-05:00

This is just to let you all know that I'll probably be M.I.A. for a couple days while I'm going over my manuscript with a fine tooth comb yet again. I've managed to convince a published writer I know to actually read it and give it a critique (granted, I'm paying for this privilege, but nothing of any value in this life is free, no?). So, as much as I'd love to do my bloggy rounds and monitor my blog for new comments and followers, if I have any hope of ever getting my baby published, I've got to suck it up and put in the time and effort. I will miss reading and commenting on your blogs and will have to neglect my bloggy duty in responding to any comments you all are thoughtful enough to leave, but I discovered yesterday after more than three hours had gone by that, like Hershey's kisses, I can't just stop at one - if I start reading and commenting, I'll spend half my day doing it.

In the meantime, feel free to peruse some older posts. My favorites are listed in the sidebar under The Good, the Bad and the Unrepentant.

TTYL. <3

You Like Me, You Really, Really Like Me

2009-09-08T10:55:00.015-05:00

I got home yesterday completely exhausted after an afternoon at the park and then dinner and games at a local pizza joint with Darling Husband, Darling Daughter and two other families. I was 'poohed out' as DD once said, too poohed out to pass on the love that Redhead Riter gave me in the form of two awards which you now see proudly displayed in my sidebar.

Being a fellow redhead myself (natural strawberry blonde frequently enhanced to a more fiery shade befitting my personality and temper), when I spotted her name in the SITS roll call (if you're a blogger and don't know what SITS is, go check them out - trust me, you'll be glad you did), I just had to go check her out. Her blog is amazing - she's been blogging only four months (give or take) and she's already been nominated for Mommy Blogger of the Year at Project Mommyhood (she didn't win, but she got lots of votes) and she's currently in the running for a couple of Blogger's Choice Awards. So run on by and tell her I sent you!

To say I'm tickled pink to know that I add sunshine to someone's day or that I am considered a Superior Scribbler - particularly by someone so gifted - is an understatement, but it will have to do. This is Me. Tickled. Pink.

And now it is my turn to pass the Superior Scribbler Award on to someone else, er, rather 5 other someone elses. Here are the guidelines:

Download it here

Each Superior Scribbler I name today must in turn pass The Award on to 5 other most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
Each Superior Scribbler must link to the Blogger and the Blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog and link to this post which explains The Award.
Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky list. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor.
Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

In making my selections, I decided I wanted to pass the Superior Scribbler Award on to other bloggers who, like me, had not yet received an award or who had received perhaps only one, but who deserved recognition for their efforts and fantastic writing. So, without further ado, here are the five bloggers I'd like to pass this award on to:

Moxie Mama at Musings of a Moxie Mama: Two must-read posts from Moxie Mama are Muffin Bottom? and My Baby Can't Read. Laugh-out-loud funny. Seriously.

Paperback Writer at In Progress: Paperback Writer is new to blogging - she just started in August, so don't accuse me of short-changing her when I recommend her post Who knew laundry was so inspiring? Just go read it. Then make an offering to your own muse.

Bad Mommy at Bad Mommy Moments: Bad Mommy's blog celebrates the moments when motherhood sucks, when we mommies are sooooo not at our best, because it is those moments that bring the greatest clarity and understanding to us and help us realize just how lucky we are to be mothers. If we can. Just. Avoid. Killing. Our. Little. Darlings. Two recommended posts: Jobs I'm now qualified for and An early walk.

The Vegetable Assassin* is the name of both blogger and blog. Two words: Fucking. Hilarious. In *&$#?9@, The Vegetable Assassin talks about her efforts to clean up her language. Clearly, I'm a bad influence. And 111 is a quirky little post with enlightening and little known facts about The Vegetable Assassin. You will laugh your ass off. Trust me on this.

Leslie the Pirate at Swashbuckling Through The Murky Waters of On-Line Dating: I love this blog for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the pirate theme. Leslie's blog is for grown ups only, so no reading in front of the kiddos, especially if your baby can read, savvy? Two posts to check out are Douchebag of the Week #5: Mid-Life Crisis Mo and What Not To Post On Your On-Line Dating Profile: Lesson 9.

Okay, so those are my five. Go forth. Read. Laugh. Comment. Become inspired. I do.

And thanks again, Redhead Riter - you rock, girl!
_________________________________________________________________
*VA actually has more than one award, but she's just that good.

Praise For Tamara

2009-09-07T18:57:00.000-05:00

Just a quick shout out of praise for Tamara over at Cheapskate Designs (as well as Mad Boastings of a Cheapskate Mom) for designing the button for my blog. I was a tough customer, and she stuck with it until we found something that worked for me and my vision for the blog. So if you're a blogger in the market for a button for your site, go on over and check her out. She's running a special right now, only $5 for a button. How can you beat that? And if you feel like taking a little Black Holes & Macrame with you, drop me a quick comment and grab the code you see below the button!

Praying for a Miracle

2009-09-06T09:47:00.001-05:00

I attended my first writer's conference yesterday and loved every minute of it. The guest speaker/author was Jodi Thomas and she was wonderful. I really enjoyed hearing her personal story of how she became a writer. It gave me hope because she didn't decide to become a writer until she was 35. I've known I wanted to become writer when I grew up for a long time now, I just didn't start doing anything towards actually becoming one until I started to write my novel three and a half years ago. I finished my novel last September about a month before I turned the Big 4-0. Then I started trying to find an agent. With no success thus far.

I've mentioned in previous posts that I had to go back to full-time work outside the home last year. I was definitely not a happy camper about that - I wanted to finish my novel and try my hand at blogging and maybe start freelancing. I didn't want to have to work for someone else. But we didn't have health insurance and couldn't get it through my husband's work because he is the sole employee (To qualify for any kind of employer-based insurance, a company must employ a minimum of 2 people). And, as I've mentioned before, private insurance was out because of my history of infertility. After a six-month search, I found a job last year in June. I was really happy about it until I realized that my bosses hadn't been entirely forthcoming with me about the 'ease' of making commission. I quickly soured on the whole deal (you can read about it here and here) and when Darling Husband and I decided we wanted to move, it seemed like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I wasn't going to be in that job forever - there was an end in sight! I was still going to have to work outside the home doing God-knows-what, but at least I would no longer be writing classified ads on commission.

But my life was turned upside down by circumstances beyond my control and we were forced to scrap our plans to move. Naturally, this happened after I had given notice and worked my last day at the paper. Darling Daughter had just started her summer break and I decided to stay home with her instead of paying nearly $1,000 per month for daycare so I could go back to work. But now that she's back in school, what I should be doing this fine Sunday morning is perusing the jobs classifieds as well as cruising various sites on the web looking for jobs I can apply for.

Instead, I am praying for a miracle. I don't want to work as an administrative assistant, receptionist, girl Friday, gopher, customer sales rep or wage slave. I have no accounting skills, no management experience, I know absolutely nothing about actuarial tables, insurance law, billing practices, marketing, electronics, programming, web design or manufacturing. I don't want to teach anymore because I can't stand the idiocy that is public education in this country since No Child Left Behind was enacted and standardized testing became the sole measure of a school's quality and a student's abilities. I don't have the stomach or disposition for nursing, the practice of medicine or the practice of law.

All I want to do is write. Novels and short stories. The occasional poem. And my blog. Nothing else. I'm not a journalist, copywriter, technical or grant writer. I could do that kind of writing, as well, if I had to. But I'd rather not.

I can also edit copy like nobody's business because I detest spelling, mechanical and grammatical errors. Strunk & White's Elements of Style is my bible. Eats, Shoots and Leaves is my Pentateuch. I confess I am a Grammar Nazi. What can I say? It's a gift and a curse.

I recently applied for a job working in a public library. I wasn't even called for an interview. And you know the worst part? I wasn't even all that upset about not getting an interview.

But money is running out and we have no health insurance.

I need a miracle and I need it fast. Because thanks to the writer's conference I attended yesterday, I am even more certain that being a writer is the path for me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. I was home. I'd found the mother ship.

And I am so grateful to Jodi Thomas because she helped me renew my determination to keep swinging until I hit.

Maybe It's Me

2009-09-03T16:15:00.002-05:00

Lately, I've been alienated by the fashions I find in stores. And by lately, I mean pretty much since I turned 40 39 for the second time.

Is it just me or are fabrics getting flimsier and flimsier? The tissue paper-thin blouses and tops for sale these days are definitely not for me - not even with a cami underneath. Not happenin' folks. This Voluptuous Earthmother needs support and opaque coverage, thankyouverymuch. And I damn near passed out today at the price of one of these delightful bits of see-through gauze: $89.00. Seriously. There's more cotton in the top of an aspirin bottle than what was used to make that blouse. If I knew how to make cloth and sew, I could just go buy a bottle of Bayer for less than $10 and use the remaining $79 for dinner out.

I used to love to buy t-shirts at Old Navy, but they've stopped making t-shirts you can wear alone - all their stuff is supposed to be layered with other t-shirts. Being a woman of a certain age who carries the majority of her weight through the chest and midsection, layering tops is not exactly a fashion 'do' for me. And wearing a single t-shirt is not an option due to the see-through factor. See above.

Target used to have cute stuff, but almost all their brands have changed. Now I walk through the clothing section and I don't recognize any of the so-called designers. What's more, I don't think their designs are remotely wearable. And the quality has gone down while prices have gone up.

Adding insult to injury, the 80s are making a comeback in all of the stores. Slouchy oversize tops that fall off a shoulder, tiered miniskirts, skinny jeans and all. Can uber-big glam rock hair that's teased, moussed and sprayed to within an inch of its life be far behind? I fear not.

I think I've fallen into a kind of fashion no-man's land. The fashions available today are either way too young for me or too old and frumpy. Where's the happy medium? I wouldn't be caught dead in a miniskirt these days, but I'm not ready for powder blue and soft pink polyester coordinates, either. I'm not about to wear anything that bares my midriff even if I were strung up on a rack with my arms over my head, but wearing a holiday sweater with embroidery, lights, bells or any other ~~hideous~~ er, rather, whimsical detail is absolutely out of the question. *shudder* I will eat fugu prepared by an auto mechanic first.

R.I.P. Santa

2009-09-03T09:41:00.002-05:00

Well, I knew Santa's days were numbered. I mentioned this back in April in a post titled 'Endangered Species: Silvilagus petrus' after Darling Daughter expressed her doubts about whether the Easter Bunny really existed. I did my level best to allay her doubts, to stall and buy us and her a little more time to enjoy the magic that is the EB, but a few months later she asked me if the EB really was real. When I hesitated, she quickly interjected, "Tell me the truth, Mom." (It's almost always 'Mom' when she's serious, not 'Mommy.')

Ah, crap, busted!

So I fessed up about good ol' EB, and she was okay with it. I was relieved because I had been slightly worried that once the truth was known, there'd be a teary backlash. And oddly enough, her disbelief did not yet extend to the jolly old elf himself.

Until yesterday.

She no doubt came to her conclusion much earlier than yesterday, but she doesn't always share what's on her mind right away - she's like her father and especially her paternal grandmother (Secret Service code name: Sphinx) in that regard.

So, we're in the ol' minivan on our way to drop BFF off at home (this week is my week for afternoon carpool duty). DD and BFF are talking about the various Nintendo apparati on the market in anticipation of BFF's soon-to-be acquisition of one for her birthday. And suddenly my ears prick up because DD has said, "Mom gave me a Nintendo DS Lite."

Come again? "No, no," I say to DD and BFF, "I didn't give you the Nintendo DS Lite, Santa did."

DD replies, completely deadpan: "No he didn't, Mom. You did."

I tried once again to deny, deny, deny, but DD had already made up her mind on the issue. I asked her later why she thought I had been the one to give her the DS Lite and not Santa, but she just shrugged and said she didn't know. Which is DD-speak for 'I don't think you'll like the answer, so I'm going to feign ignorance.'

I told Darling Husband the news last night after DD had gone to bed. DH was a little broken up about it - more so than I if I'm to be perfectly honest here. Mostly, I'm just completely blown away by the fact that DD came to this conclusion 1) on her own and 2) at least four years sooner than her St. Louis cousins did. Both her cousins believed in Santa at least until they were ten, possibly even a little older. And because her cousins have a half-brother who's just about to be three years old, I know they haven't let it slip to DD that Santa isn't real.

Like with the EB, she doesn't appear to be broken up about the fact that Santa isn't really real. Unlike my siblings when I ~~disillusioned~~ enlightened them, much to my mother's displeasure. Many years later, I wrote a poem about it, which I posted here.

So, here's to you Santa - we had a good run while it lasted. Thanks for the memories.

Happy Birthday

2009-09-02T12:43:00.001-05:00

Darling Daughter turned 6 on Monday, and I got to indulge my inner June Cleaver by bringing homemade cupcakes to her class.

Darling Daughter requested a cupcake with both blue and purple sparkling sugar on top of the vanilla icing, and everyone else got a cupcake with only one color on it.

Darling Daughter was stretched out on the couch Monday morning before school and commented to me as I was preparing her morning cup of Earl Grey tea (yes, really) that she felt distinctly taller. I don't remember ever thinking I would wake up on the morning of my birthday magically transformed overnight, but it makes me smile whenever DD does. The morning of her fourth birthday, she got out of bed, marched up to her full-length mirror and looked at herself for a moment. Then she stomped her foot and said all indignant: "Hey, I'm not any bigger at all! Hmph!"

There've been many changes over the past year in Darling Daughter's life. In September, she got her first pair of high top Chucks. They were light blue and quickly became the only shoe she would wear. In October, she learned to tie her shoelaces all by herself. November brought a visit from her St. Louis cousins and suddenly, DD was all about getting a Nintendo DS for Christmas. Santa, for reasons unknown to me, decided to grant her Christmas wish, the bastard. Along with the New Year, January saw the arrival of the Tooth Fairy - first on January 6, then on January 22 when DD lost her front two teeth on the bottom. In February, she started going to the first grade classroom for reading since there was no one else in her kindergarten class even close to her in reading ability. Around March or so, DD discovered a heretofore latent black phase and traded in her raggedy pair of light blue Chucks for a pair of black Chucks in a larger size. And in April, DD got her hair, which had been past her shoulders, cut into an angled chin-length bob. Not her idea, but she liked the result and we had no more problems combing out her hair. In June, she asked for nail polish and nail decals. When I asked her if she was sure she really wanted both the polish and the decals, she declared: "I'm still a tomboy, but I am getting a little girlier, Mommy." So we got the polish and the decals and had big fun doing our finger and toe nails.

She still loves the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and pretends that she knows Ninjitsu. Her favorite color is still blue, too. She's become obsessed with cheetahs and saving the remaining cheetah population in the wild. Her favorite song is Joan Jett's "I Love Rock-N-Roll." Her favorite food is a cheeseburger, although cheese pizza comes in a close second. And she loves anything chocolate: chocolate milk, chocolate cake, chocolate chips, chocolate ice cream, hot chocolate ... if she were in charge of the food pyramid, chocolate would be its own food group and have an RDA of 6 servings. At a minimum.

Over the past year, she has learned that her father and I don't necessarily know what she knows and has thus begun experimenting with fibbing. Fortunately for Darling Husband and me, she's not very good at it. Yet. We know our days are numbered in that regard, though.

It's hard to believe she's already six years old and in first grade. Wow. And it'll be interesting to see how she grows and changes over the next 365 days.

Happy birthday, Baby Girl.

Overheard

2009-08-30T09:34:00.003-05:00

Darling Daughter's sleepover was a success until bed time - unfortunately, BFF decided she wanted to sleep in her own bed, and I couldn't really complain because DD had decided the same thing a couple weeks ago when she was spending the night at BFF's. So we called BFF's parents, and they came to get her ...

But before that, the girls were having a pretty good time. Although DD became somewhat frustrated by the fact that BFF wasn't as cooperative as she's been in the past. Here's what Darling Husband and I overheard from DD:

"You don't ever want to do my decisions. When did you become my wife?"

DH and I discussed it later, when the girls were in a different room. I was puzzled - I couldn't figure out where that statement (When did you become my wife?) had come from. Here's how DH accounted for it (with a glint of mischief in his eye and his tongue firmly in his cheek):

DH buys a new computer game and wants me to play it with him. I don't.
DH buys a new board game and wants me to play it with him. I, for the most part, don't.
DH wants me to watch really bad sci-fi on TV with him. I don't.

So, he hypothesizes, what DD sees is that if you're a wife, you don't ever do what your husband wants you to.

That's not necessarily a bad thing, right? Right?

Even if I had promised to love, honor and obey (which I most certainly did NOT - at least not that last part, we asked the officiant to leave out the whole 'obey' thing), I do cooperate on the important stuff ... like ... like ... oh, hell's bells, I'm drawing a blank. But I'm sure I have.

At least once or twice.
__________________________________________________________

Addendum: Phew! I later learned that DD actually heard said phrase uttered on iCarly. So I'm not actually to blame for the comment, even though DH enjoyed hypothesizing that I was ... Word to the wise: Pulling a spouse's leg becomes a source of major sport after so many years together. If you're lucky. And I am.

Wolf Whistle

2009-08-29T18:50:00.003-05:00

Ah, the arrogance of youth ... when I was in my 20s and still firm in all the places a nice young thing is firm, I bristled at wolf whistles. I wasn't flattered by a wolf whistle at all - I thought it was blatant sexual harassment from uber-creepy guys who likely couldn't get girlfriends thanks to said creepiness.

What a difference 20 years make!

Don't get the wrong idea, Darling Husband is frequently quite vocal in his appreciation of my physical attributes (for some bizarre reason the stretch marks, surgical scars and wind-sock boobs haven't turned the man off ... note to self: Have DH's eyes checked); he thinks I'm beautiful and I feel beautiful because of it (oh, okay, you got me - not every day or all the time, but knowing that he does at least gets me believing it myself once in a blue moon).

But here's the thing: Darling Husband and I have been married fourteen years, together seventeen. The awful truth is that while appreciated, his admiration doesn't give me the lift it once did. I mean, after being together so long, he knows which side his bread is buttered on and his mama taught him well - honey always catches more flies than vinegar, and will definitely get him laid with greater frequency, too. A smart married man knows it pays to compliment the wife. Regularly. And with convincing sincerity. And DH is nothing if not smart when it comes to his domestic bliss.

So, DH has a vested interest in complimenting me, right? The motivational dynamic demands it. Which kinda dilutes the potency of the compliment, I guess. I'm not saying it's fair, I'm just tellin' it like it is.

This afternoon, after picking Darling Daughter up from a birthday party, along with her BFF who's spending the night tonight, I'm in the driveway getting said BFF's gear from the van when much to my middle-aged delight, I get whistled at from a passing truck pulling a trailer loaded with lawn mowing equipment.

Is it too unseemly that I'm still grinnin' like a fool because a perfect stranger - likely someone suffering the effects of heat fatigue - whistled at me?

At this point, I'll take my thrills where I can get them.

Retro Subversiveness

2009-08-29T08:34:00.000-05:00

I have recently discovered the delights of retro subversiveness. The look and feel of vintage 40s, 50s & 60s ads but with a modern, sardonic twist, like the sign you see here.

So, considering the fact that I am ferrying Darling Daughter to a birthday party this afternoon and hosting a sleepover tonight, I'm going to drink coffee - so I can do stupid things faster with more energy.

Enjoy!

Struggling

2009-08-26T11:07:00.006-05:00

I am struggling. It's been a long time since I've struggled this much with my infertility, but every now and then, it sneaks up on me and wham! knocks me on my ass.

Lately I've been reminded of my infertility, my inability to have more children, a lot. Darling Daughter started a new school, and we were invited to attend a new family reception. Every time I turned around, I was being asked how many children I have. Frequently, the response to my answer of 'one' was a disbelieving 'JUST one?' Yes, I'd grind out through gritted teeth, just one. I had to fill out form after form that not only wanted information on DD, but on DD's siblings, as well. It got to the point that I had to stifle a scream of frustration every time I had to write 'N/A' in the spaces for siblings. On the last form, I just drew a giant, slashing 'x' across the whole section.

Recently, a friend of ours let it casually slip on Facebook that he and his wife are expecting again. The wife was less than pleased at his slip because she's still in her first trimester, but he was just too excited, I guess, to observe the usual silence until the second trimester. It was a blow to read that they're pregnant. Somewhere deep down, I guess I kind of expected them to have trouble trying to conceive again. After all, they tried to conceive their first child for many years unsuccessfully, much like my husband and I had. Their daughter turned one this year in May. And now they're pregnant. Again. I am happy for them, but at the same time, I'm sad for me, for us, for DD. And if I'm being completely honest, I think I irrationally hoped they'd be able to have only one child just like us, too.

Darling Husband commented to me this past weekend that it breaks his heart sometimes when DD pleads with us to come play with her because he knows she must be a very lonely little girl. She hasn't asked me for a sibling in awhile and the few times she has, I've told her very simply that we tried to give her a baby brother or baby sister, but that I can't get pregnant. She, of course, has asked the beloved question of young children the world over: Why? Why can't I get pregnant and give her a little brother or sister?

The simple answer to that, the answer I give DD, is: I don't know why, I just can't. The more complicated answer, the answer I can barely grasp myself, much less simplify enough for DD, encompasses a whole host of things: Endometriosis, hypothyroidism, insulin resistance, polycystic ovary syndrome and, last but not least, age. Any one of those things on its own is enough to keep a woman from getting pregnant. Put them all together, and the chances of my conceiving naturally are less than nil.

Most days I am, if not exactly at peace with my situation, at least in a place of acceptance. Some days more, other days less. I know there will be no more children, and I have long since stopped trying to have another baby. Nonetheless, the ache, while mostly dull, is still there. And every now and then, the dull ache becomes a piercing, searing pain. And I tell myself to just keep breathing, there's no way around the pain, the only way is through it.

In. Out. Better now.

Life Is What Happens To You

2009-08-25T13:41:00.008-05:00

I was going to blog today from my favorite coffee shop. It is part of a major chain, yet one of the things I like best about this chain is that each individual store is just that: individual. My favorite coffee shop is furnished with upholstered chairs and chaises grouped around reading lamps and end or coffee tables. It is comfy and cozy like a pair of broken-in Levi's and a cable knit sweater.

I love sitting in a coffee shop to write. Many people find it too distracting to write in a coffee shop, but I don't. I wrote the majority of my novel in coffee shops all over town. The hiss of steam, the rich, earthy aroma of freshly-made espresso and the background babble of voices and music function more or less as white noise for me. They allow me to immerse myself in my own thoughts and feelings and then put them on paper. I find that I write better when I'm in a coffee shop. If I'm at home, there are too many distractions, too many things I feel I should be doing instead of writing, and if I'm trying to write at home with Darling Daughter around, I'm too accessible - Darling Daughter interrupts me incessantly so that I can't put two sentences together before I am once again called upon to fetch this, fix that or otherwise dance attendance. It is maddening.

I've had to curtail my coffee shop writing trips mainly because I feel too guilty about buying a five-dollar beverage whenever I go. Being once again jobless and under pressure to find gainful employment has definitely put a damper on my coffee shop writing. But I was going to splurge today in the spirit of the Blog Improvement Project - the latest blogging exercise was to blog in a different place than usual in the hopes of gaining inspiration for a post - and go back to my favorite coffee shop since I hadn't been to it in more than a year. I was also going to blog by hand, using a notebook and my favorite fountain pen.

I love writing with fountain pens; my favorite fountain pen is a Sheaffer. I love its inlaid nib and medium point. From the first time I used it, it glided smoothly over paper and never needed any breaking in. Over the years, I have filled many a journal page and written hundreds of letters and thank you notes with it. In fact, I've had that pen longer than I've been married. It is my go-to pen for any kind of hand written project of importance to me. The barrel is a little scratched up and the cap bears the unmistakable toothmarks from my cat Cato - whom I caught gnawing on it while it was clipped to my writing tote (I nearly committed feline murder because of that). My Sheaffer is the pen I want to be writing with when I breathe my last, and after I'm gone, I hope whoever ends up with it will find as much joy and pleasure writing with it as I have.

But I digress; back to my best-laid plan gone badly awry. As I stated above, I had planned to write today in my favorite coffee shop, but that plan was derailed by a trip to the dealership to have the headlights on my van fixed. Naturally, a trip to the shop is never as simple as it seems at first. The mechanic discovered that my engine mounts are weak (translation: are in imminent danger of giving way). So I agreed to have them replaced along with the bulbs in the headlights. Then I got a phone call telling me I need to replace the timing belt, too. All in all, the trip to the dealership is going to cost us in excess of $1,200.

I have said it before, and I will say it again: I hate spending money on my vehicle. This is not your garden-variety hate - it's a hate-it-with-a-pink-and-purple-passion-would-rather-go-to-the-dentist kind of hate. And I hate it that the dealership goes looking for things to fix other than what I brought the vehicle in for in the first place. I swear car dealerships make crooks look like boy scouts.

I am not a happy camper.

So I am not at my favorite coffee shop writing with my favorite fountain pen because life - once again - has happened to me. But, hey, at least there was plenty of inspiration for this post.

Orchid In Bloom

2009-08-24T10:32:00.004-05:00

I love orchids. I am by no means an orchid expert, but I am happy to say that I have kept two different orchid plants alive for more than five years. The Phalaenopsis species of orchids are easy growers - they thrive on benign neglect so I'm a whiz at not killing them because I don't over-water them. Phalaenopsis are the orchids most often available in grocery stores or places like Home Depot in the garden section. They can have blooms that range in size from 1 1/2 inches to 5 inches, depending on the specific variety. What I love the most about the Phalaenopsis orchids is that their blooms last anywhere from 6-8 weeks before dying. And their primary blooming season is in the winter - exactly when most of us are craving a bit of color. But the one thing that I have always missed is fragrance. Phalaenopsis orchids are not fragrant (at least, none that I've run across) and it has always seemed to me that such an extravagantly beautiful flower should also be fragrant.

Darling Husband gave me a fragrant miniature orchid for Valentine's Day this year. It's called Oncidium Ornithorhynchum and is pictured at the top of this post. Its flowers are rosy pink and only 3/4 of an inch overall and have an intense chocolate/vanilla aroma. The aroma is only noticeable in the morning (when the pollinators in nature would be out and about) and you have to be very close to the bloom to smell it - the fragrance is not pervasive like a gardenia is - but wow, it's fantastic. It took nearly six months for me to get it to bloom, but it is considered free-flowering and should flower throughout the year under optimal conditions. This variety of orchid needs a little more care than my Phalaenopsis orchids, but I'm so thrilled to finally have a fragrant orchid that I'm already looking forward to getting my next one.

Gravity Well

2009-08-19T18:06:00.002-05:00

I fell into a gravity well today.

I got absolutely nothing done.

I had planned to go shopping - fun shopping, not grocery shopping - maybe take myself to lunch, get a pedicure, stroll through the mall, check out the sales ... I thought I'd indulge in some serious me-time doing frivolous things without being under a time crunch or schlepping a recalcitrant five-year-old with me. Or worse, a five-year-old waging a major campaign to 1) get me to go into Build-A-Bear Workshop and 2) get me to buy something once there.

I had thought I'd get some light housework done, too. Pick up here and there, straighten this and that, maybe dust the TV ...

Instead, I wandered through the house a little lost. And oddly bereft. Then I took a nap.

I guess, after a summer of near-constant arguing with, wrangling, cajoling and catering to Darling Daughter, after being her personal chef, chauffeur, social director and girl Friday, I just didn't know what to do with myself once she was no longer dictating the ebb and flow of my day.

I guess, no matter how crazy she makes me, I just plain ol' miss her when she's gone.

But I am soooooo doing something tomorrow. I swear.

Darling Daughter, First Grader At Last!

2009-08-19T08:20:00.002-05:00

Today was Darling Daughter's first day of school. It's a new school - thanks to the largesse of my in-laws, DD is attending a private school this year. Darling Husband and I took her to school today, and on the way back home, we talked about the differences between the public school DD attended last year and the private school she's attending this year.

Kids at the public school are treated like zoo animals. They are forced to sit outside their classrooms until the teacher deigns to let them in, they are repeatedly screamed at by the staff in charge of monitoring them while in the halls, the noise level throughout the building is tremendous and kids are constantly pushing, shoving, running and yelling wherever they go. Last year, I practically had a panic attack on the first day, the chaos and noise were so overwhelming to me - and I'm an adult.

In stark contrast, the first day of school at the private school was orderly and almost quiet. There was no shouting, running or shoving. Kids are not kept waiting in the hallway outside their classrooms. Teachers and school staff are everywhere helping students and parents find classrooms. The kids are definitely not treated like zoo animals. Amazingly, the school gave each of the kids in DD's class a water bottle to keep at his/her desk throughout the day so that they can get a drink of water whenever they want. That would never happen at a public school in this town - because the majority of the kids can't be trusted not to bombard each other with the water.

I hate accepting any kind of financial help from my in-laws, but I am so relieved that DD is going to such a wonderful school that swallowing my pride on this one isn't as difficult as it would otherwise be.

Darling Daughter, First Grader At Last.

Life With Cats

2009-08-17T09:47:00.005-05:00

Meet Cato. He's our 4-year old Lynx Point Siamese. I named him Cato after Inspector Clouseau's wacky surprise-attacking manservant. My Cato lives up to his name - he'll frequently leap out from hiding places to attack my ankles and feet, but thankfully, the attacks aren't painful because he's a clawless wonder.

In my experience, cats generally fall into two categories: perchers and burrowers. Cato is definitely a burrower. If I can get him to do any snuggling, it's only under the covers on my bed. Whenever I open a cabinet door, it's all I can do to keep him from climbing in. And if I bring a box of any sort or paper bag into the house? Forget about keeping him out - he's in like Flynn and will stay there for hours if left to his own devices (which seldom happens because Darling Daughter usually comes along and unceremoniously dislodges him).

A few weeks ago, Darling Husband and I were cleaning out the garage and came across a tackle box DH had purchased to house all his architecture supplies when he attempted to study architecture many years ago. We decided to give it to Darling Daughter for her burgeoning collection of crayons, colored pencils, markers and regular pencils. Recently, DD left the art box (as it is now known) open even though she was no longer coloring, and Cato decided to crawl into the lid.

A perfect fit.

It's Contagious

2009-08-13T09:12:00.005-05:00

Darling Husband and I have played word games as long as we've been together. One of our favorites is where we come up with variations on a theme. To give you an example, Darling Daughter received a "Darth Tater" Mr. Potato Head toy as a party favor a couple of years ago. So DH and I started riffing on Darth Tater: And if he likes to fish? Darth Baiter. And if he is hired to bring food to a party? Darth Cater. And if he likes to go out with lots of girls? Darth Dater. And if he works in a restaurant? Darth Waiter ... you get the idea.

So last night we're watching TV and a commercial for the iPhone comes on talking about more of the many apps available to iPhone users. Apparently, there's an app for the Paris subway system. DH pipes up and says 'Or there's a map for that.' After that, the game was on. He quickly followed up with: If your battery dies, there's a zap for that.

Me: If you want to sit down, there's a lap for that.
DH: If you're at the gynecologist's, there's a PAP for that.
Me: If you need a fall-guy, there's a sap for that.
If you're doing Morse code, there's a tap for that.

Darling Daughter then pipes up with: If you've got a DJ, there's a rap for that.

DH and I looked at each other and burst out laughing and clapped our approval to DD, so DD added two more: If you're tired, there's a nap for that. And: If your blankie smells, there's a wrap for that.

Sniff, sniff. Baby's first word game - Mama's so proud!

'Up' and Down

2009-08-12T13:28:00.005-05:00

I took Darling Daughter to a matinee showing of Disney's Up today. I knew precious little about it beforehand and was woefully unprepared for the emotional wrenching I received.

Ellie and Carl meet as goggle-wearing, adventure-loving kids and become fast friends. Ellie and Carl eventually marry and set up house, still dreaming of going on adventures. We see a montage of their life together as they fix up an old wreck of a house, put money in a jar labeled "Paradise Falls" and try to have a family. Along the way, they discover they can't have children and the money jar is repeatedly raided to pay for life's unexpected pitfalls like car repairs and hospital bills. Ellie and Carl grow old together, still dreaming of one day going to Paradise Falls. Then Ellie dies, leaving Carl all alone. After her death, Carl comes across her adventure notebook, the one she started as a girl. He remembers how Ellie had left the majority of the notebook blank for all the adventures she would have once she made it to Paradise Falls. Carl decides to go to Paradise Falls; he attaches helium balloons to his house and up, up, up he goes to have the first real adventure of his life.

Lord, the buttons that pushes for me.

About four weeks after I started dating Darling Husband, I had a very powerful waking dream. It's hard to explain how vividly I saw myself and him as old people surrounded by children and grandchildren, but it felt more like a premonition than a mere daydream to me, and I knew, really and truly knew that I wanted to marry him and grow old with him. We've been together for seventeen years, and my dream of a houseful of children is just that: a dream, unfulfilled and unfulfillable. That we have a child at all is no small miracle, and we both know it. But we're never going to be that couple from my waking dream surrounded by children and grandchildren and there are moments when the pain of that knowledge is so sharp, I almost can't breathe.

Darling Husband and I both have career dreams we're pursuing around all the other stuff that makes up our everyday lives. We're both 40 now, and I've caught myself wondering of late just how many more dreams are in us? And how much more time do we have to make our current dreams come true? It's getting harder and harder to believe we'll realize them. It feels like we're running in quicksand because things like paying the bills, keeping a roof over our heads, putting food on the table and clothes on our backs, not to mention getting health insurance, all seem to get in the way ...

Blog Improvement Project

2009-08-11T17:41:00.004-05:00

Surfing the net the other day to find out more about blue-stockings and I ran across a reference to the Blog Improvement Project. Kim at Sophisticated Dorkiness is the driving force behind it this go-around (in my wanderings I have found other BIP's from the past sponsored by other bloggers), and I have decided to participate. To that end, I have added a gadget on my sidebar titled "The Good, the Bad and the Unrepentant" which is a list of links to the best or most thought-provoking posts I've written on this blog thus far. So go check 'em out and leave me a comment or two while you're at it, just to let me know you were there. I'm trying to grow my readership. I'll be tinkering with the blog on and off over the next four and a half months(the BIP ends December 31, 2009), so don't be thrown off if it changes between visits. And visit often!

The Slog Is Over

2009-08-09T08:28:00.005-05:00

I finished Augusta Jane Evans's novel St. Elmo a little after noon yesterday. It remained a slog until the end. And while there was a happy ending - Edna Earl and St. Elmo marry - I didn't really enjoy it. What follows is, I assure you, Dear Reader, a synopsis of this extremely long plot.

The novel starts out with Edna witnessing a duel at the age of twelve. She is a pious little girl thanks to her upbringing by her blacksmith grandfather and sees the duel as murder rather than an accepted method of satisfaction for social slights. One of the men is killed instantly and the body is brought to the blacksmith's home as it is the nearest place for it. Then the unfortunate duelist's wife arrives and swoons over his corpse, falling into a broken-hearted stupor which lasts for many days before she, too, dies. The unhappy couple are buried next to one another not far from Edna's home. Thus is our heroine traumatized in the opening chapters.

Not long after this, she is sent by her grandfather's wife (not her biological grandmother) to the blacksmith's shop because her grandfather forgot his lunch pail that morning. As she arrives, she finds her grandfather attempting to shoe a very temperamental horse while its owner repeatedly curses him for his slowness. Edna takes an immediate dislike to the stranger, seeing in him a sinner of mythic proportions. Her grandfather confirms this impression by telling her to steer clear of one so rude and sinful. Edna's grandfather refuses payment for his work because he doesn't want to be soiled by the stranger's money. The stranger leaves in such a great hurry that he loses a beautifully bound copy of Dante's Divine Comedy. Edna is immediately fascinated with it and decides to keep it even though her grandfather advises her to burn it. But Edna's love of piety is at this point exceeded only by her love of books and learning. She already aspires to becoming a teacher, an ambition not supported by her grandfather's wife - she thinks a girl is better off staying home and learning how to cook and clean rather than read and write. Edna's grandfather, however, fully supports Edna's desire to continue her studies.

Alas for poor Edna, her grandfather dies very shortly thereafter and Edna falls into a catatonic stupor. Her grandfather's wife also dies in short order, leaving Edna utterly orphaned. A kindly miller and his wife take Edna in and care for her even though they, too, are very poor. Edna, after many months, comes out of her stupor, grieves her grandfather's loss, begins to help out at the miller's house to justify all the care they are giving her, but eventually decides that she must leave them to go work in a factory in a large city. She hopes she'll be able to not only earn enough to support herself, but to educate herself, as well.

The miller's family tell Edna she is welcome to stay with them as long as she needs and advise her not to follow through with her plan, but Edna is nothing if not resolute once she's made her mind up to do something. The miller takes her to Chattanooga and puts her on a train. But unlucky Edna is then severely injured - both feet are crushed and broken - when the train crashes horrifically, killing many, including a small child who'd been in the seat behind her. Edna is ministered to by a doctor called to the scene of the crash and he ascertains that she is an orphan with no one to take care of her in her convalescence. He brings Mrs. Murray to Edna, who then graciously agrees to allow the pitiable orphan to convalesce in her home.

As I told you, Dear Reader, in my previous post, Mrs. Murray then decides to allow Edna to live with her. She offers to clothe, feed, shelter and educate her. She tells Edna she will not adopt her, but will in every other way treat her as if she were her own daughter. Edna is grateful and agrees to stay, but soon regrets this decision when she discovers, oh horrors! that Mrs. Murray's son, St. Elmo Murray, is the owner of the Dante she still carries with her. Her revulsion is complete, and Mr. Murray does nothing to dispel her revulsion - in fact, does everything to increase it. He objects to his mother taking Edna Earl in and tells his mother that she will find she has been taken in by the scheming little orphan who no doubt only wishes to get money and valuables out of Mrs. Murray. Then St. Elmo decides to leave, but not before pressing a golden key into Edna's hand and exacting a promise from her to keep it with her always, but not to use it to open the miniature Taj Mahal that rests in his quarters unless he fails to return in four years' time and she has reason to believe he is dead. Edna reluctantly agrees to do this, but she is uneasy about keeping a secret from Mrs. Murray as well as doing a favor for a devil such as Mr. Murray. However, her relief at his imminent absence is so great that she does finally agree to Mr. Murray's wishes and takes the key.

Four blissful years pass in which Edna is tutored by Mr. Hammond, the local vicar, and Edna is free of the loathsome presence of the sinful and dissipate Mr. Murray. Over the four-year period, Edna's intellect is guided and richly developed and grows by leaps and bounds. She learns Greek and Latin and at 17 decides to add Hebrew to the mix. Mr. Hammond agrees to teach her as well as a promising young attorney, Mr. Gordon Leigh. Edna and Mr. Leigh are thrown together several times a week for nearly a year; Edna has grown into quite a beauty and it is easy for the reader to guess that Mr. Leigh will find Edna's charms irresistible. Edna shies away from his attentions, particularly after Mrs. Murray insists she come out into society and she overhears some catty society types saying that Edna is only tolerated as a favor to Mrs. Murray, but all know her for the social-climbing little schemer that she undoubtedly is. They believe she is out to bag herself a wealthy husband and are convinced she's set her sights on Mr. Leigh. Edna, however, has no intention of ever marrying unless she loves her husband - whether he's wealthy or not. When Mr. Leigh pursues his suit and asks for her hand, she denies him firmly.

Adding to her discomfort is the fact that St. Elmo Murray has returned after four years abroad. She is as wary of him as ever and he seems to be as contemptuous and suspicious of her and her motives as ever, as well. St. Elmo is shocked to learn that Edna has kept her promise not to look in the Taj Mahal, and Edna learns that St. Elmo was testing her, for he believed her incapable of keeping her word. But, Dear Reader, you know as well as I do that Ms. Evans has set these two opposites up as romantic partners (in spite of a twenty-one year age difference). Trouble arises when, much to her shame and self-loathing, Edna realizes that she somehow has come to love St. Elmo Murray. Once she realizes this, she determines she must leave Le Bocage, because she cannot forsake her own beliefs in order to satisfy a heart so foolish as to love a sinful, unworthy, ungodly man. She takes a position as governess with a family in New York city. In addition, she has begun to write a novel and has had a number of articles published in a magazine.

Do you see the writing on the wall yet, Dear Reader? On the eve of her departure, St. Elmo comes to her in the church where she is practicing the organ and confesses his love for her. He also discloses to Edna the events that formed the man she sees before her. St. Elmo, once a marvelous, god-loving, churchgoing, promising young man, strayed from the path of God - and we learn that he killed Mr. Hammond's son, Murray, in a duel at the age of 19. The causus belli is that St. Elmo came upon Murray Hammond and Agnes Hunt, St. Elmo's love and soon-to-be betrothed, one evening, saw them kissing and heard them laughing at him, St. Elmo, because they were duping him. Murray and Agnes loved each other but poverty stood in the way of their marriage to one another. So Agnes was going to marry St. Elmo for his money and Murray was going to play the role of dear friend and reap financial rewards there, as well, because St. Elmo would deny him nothing in the name of friendship. St. Elmo was so consumed by rage that he ran home, fetched a set of pistols and lay in wait for Murray. He goaded Murray into the duel and when both men fired, Murray was shot through the heart and died instantly. St. Elmo was grievously injured but lived and thus began his downward spiral into sin and dissipation. He trifled mercilessly with the affections of a number of young women, one of whom ended up in a convent, another dead of a broken heart. All this and more he confesses to Edna in the spirit of full-disclosure. Unfortunately for him, Edna is an over-pious, humorless, unforgiving, rigid prig and she spurns him. She cannot marry a man, though she may love him, who has done what St. Elmo has done. She does not trust him and doesn't see any way to learning to trust him after what she's just learned of his character and actions.

So, Edna leaves and starts her life as a governess, and her literary career takes off, as well. Many people plead with Edna on St. Elmo's behalf, including Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Murray, but Edna is unmoved. Edna also receives repeated offers of marriage from Mr. Leigh, Mr. Manning (her editor at the magazine) and Sir Roger Percival, an Englishman. For the life of me, I cannot figure out what the men see in Edna Earl, except her remarkable physical beauty. Some, like Manning and Percival, also appreciate her intellectual gifts, but all underestimate her obstinacy. And I am certain, had she agreed to marry any of them, all would have rued their decision quite soon once her unbending piousness made itself felt.

In the final chapters, St. Elmo reconciles with Mr. Hammond, sees the light, and becomes ordained (!). Edna's young charge, Felix, dies and when Edna hears of St. Elmo's ordination, she finally decides he was sincere in his love and that he has become fully rehabilitated in a life dedicated to God and God's work. She returns to St. Elmo and they marry. The End.

Ugh. Do yourself a favor, Dear Reader, and skip this one.

Portrait of a Blue-Stocking

2009-08-07T10:13:00.007-05:00

I once asked my grandmother where her name came from. I've always thought it an exceedingly unattractive moniker and wondered how my great-grandmother chose it since it wasn't a combination of family names. My grandmother said that her mother had read a novel as a girl in which the character was named Edna Earl. She thought it the prettiest name she'd ever seen and named my grandmother Edna Earle, adding the 'e.' When I pressed her for the name of the novel, she said she had no idea.

I've been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately and decided recently to try to find the literary source for my grandmother's name. The first novel the search engine spit out under 'Edna Earle' was Eudora Welty's novel The Ponder Heart, whose main character is named Edna Earle Ponder. But Welty's novel wasn't written until 1954 - thirty-two years after my grandmother was born - so that wasn't it. A little more digging unearthed St. Elmo by Augusta Jane Evans. Written in 1866, it sold a million (!) copies within four months of publication and remained in print well into the twentieth century. This, I determined, must be the novel that inspired my great-grandmother to name her daughter Edna Earle. I decided to see if my local library had a copy for me to borrow, and indeed it did. It's been a bit of a slog to read since it is peppered with allusions to Biblical and classical figures, places and events that are sadly obscure to me, and the sentence structures employed by the author are convoluted and meandering at best. It took me forever to get through the first chapter; I repeatedly put it down for the reasons listed above and because the story was off to a very slow start - I wasn't being drawn in and I didn't much care about the characters.

But I persevered because I really did want to know what all the fuss was about.

Things pick up after the protagonist, Edna Earl, is injured in a train accident and is taken in by an older, wealthy woman, Mrs. Murray, to convalesce. Edna Earl is by this point in the novel twelve years old and an orphan with no one to take care of her. Mrs. Murray decides to make Edna Earl a permanent resident of Le Bocage, her sprawling mansion, and takes Edna to meet Mr. Hammond, the local vicar. Mrs. Murray has arranged for Mr. Hammond to tutor Edna. During their first meeting, Mrs. Murray says to Mr. Hammond, "I think the child is as inveterate a bookworm as I ever knew; but for heaven's sake, Mr. Hammond, do not make her a blue-stocking."

Edna doesn't know what a blue-stocking is, so Mr. Hammond tenders the following definition: "A 'blue-stocking,' my dear, is generally supposed to be a lady, neither young, pleasant, nor pretty (and in most instances unmarried); who is unamiable, ungraceful, and untidy; ignorant of all domestic accomplishments and truly feminine acquirements, and ambitious of appearing very learned; a woman whose fingers are more frequently adorned with ink-spots than thimble; who holds housekeeping in detestation, and talks loudly about politics, science and philosophy; who is ugly, and learned, and cross; whose hair is never smooth and whose ruffles are never fluted."

With the exceptions of being unmarried and ugly, that description pretty much fits me to a T!

Mr. Hammond goes on to explain how the term 'blue-stocking' came about: "The title of 'blue-stocking' originated in a jest, many, many years ago, when a circle of very brilliant, witty and elegant ladies in London, met at the house of Mrs. Vesey, to listen to and take part in the conversation of some of the most gifted and learned men England has ever produced. One of these gentlemen, Stillingfleet, who always wore blue stockings, was so exceedingly agreeable and instructive, that when he chanced to be absent the company declared the party was a failure without the 'blue stockings,' as he was familiarly called. A Frenchman, who heard of the circumstance, gave to these conversational gatherings the name of 'bas bleu,' which means blue stocking; and hence, you see, that in popular acceptation, I mean in public opinion, the humorous title, which was given in compliment to a very charming gentleman, is now supposed to belong to very tiresome, pedantic, and disagreeable ladies." Mr. Hammond then asks Edna if she understands what a blue-stocking is and Edna answers that she doesn't know why "ladies have not as good a right to be learned and wise as gentlemen." Mr. Hammond tells her that the answer to that requires more study and discussion than they have time for that day, but promises her they will tackle that thorny issue at some point. He then tells Edna, "Meanwhile you may study as hard as you please, and remember, my dear, that where one woman is considered a blue-stocking, and tiresomely learned, twenty are more tiresome still because they know nothing."

I'm now on chapter 13 and have decided I will definitely finish the novel, slog or no, because I want to know what happens with Edna Earl. I'll let you know how it all ends.

Misery Loves Company

2009-08-05T14:35:00.008-05:00

If you've never experienced the Museum of Discovery, you've missed out.

Who wouldn't want to pay through the nose for admission, move from exhibit to exhibit like a fruit fly on speed, dodge groups of loud, obnoxious summer day camp kids and suffer endless whining and begging in the gift shop because the child you're with wants this bug, that snake and those doodads guaranteed to cause bodily injury in the middle of the night when you step on them on your way to the kitchen for a midnight snack?

Me, that's who.

We'd been to the Museum of Discovery once before - a classmate of Darling Daughter's from pre-school hosted a birthday party there. I was underwhelmed to say the least, but I knew that we'd only seen a small part of the museum and thought it worth a second look.

It wasn't.

They say there are three kinds of people in the world: Those who learn by reading, those who learn by watching and those who have to pee on the electric fence themselves. If you fall into the last category, by all means go.

Misery loves company.

Feline Theology

2009-08-04T15:31:00.010-05:00

Years ago when I was a grad student at Vanderbilt University, a newly minted philosophy professor, all shiny and unjaded by tenure and academic backstabbing, told me the following joke when our paths crossed one day in the copy room:

What's the difference between canine and feline theology? A dog will look at its human and think, "She loves me, she feeds me, she gives me a warm place to sleep ... she must be a god!" A cat will look at its human and think, "She loves me even though I ignore her, feeds me even though I eat her plants and gives me a warm place to sleep even though I claw her furniture ... I must be a god!"

When I met Darling Husband, before he was Darling Husband, he had a cat named Spook. Spook was all black except for a white patch on his chest, and his coat was incredibly silky and shiny. Spook's most identifying physical characteristic was a pair of oversized canines that were visible even when his mouth was closed. I liked to refer to Spook as the vampire kitty as a result.

Spook earned his moniker as a stray cat who wandered up to DH's parents' house one day, half starved for food and attention. He was very skittish and any sudden move sent him scampering out of reach. But once he warmed up to DH's family, he would rub against a leg and allow himself to be petted before he would eat any of the food left out for him. DH has always said that Spook adopted him, not the other way around, and I believe him.

Spook was a man's cat. He loved to scratch his head on DH's goatee. When I met DH, he smoked, and Spook loved the way DH smelled because of it. (Many years later I learned that male cats love smokers because they smell like girl cats to them right after they've smoked.)

Because Spook was an adult when he came to live with DH, he still had all his claws, and they were razor sharp. But Spook was extremely careful with his claws, leaving them sheathed during play time with humans or other cats, especially the declawed ones. He was such a gentleman, so very dignified. I can remember how much it hurt his pride to get caught up on a counter - which didn't happen very often. Spook was generally above standard cat misbehavior, mischief and mayhem.

When DH and I decided to bring a kitten home, Spook accepted the newcomer with quiet disdain. There was no hissing or spitting, no growling, and I never worried about leaving Spook and the new kitty alone together. We named the new cat Puck (as in mischievous sprite, not hockey). Puck was not the easy-going, low-maintenance cat that Spook was. He quickly began asserting himself as the alpha male, but Puck wasn't as smart or as experienced as Spook, nor was he much of a tactician. Time and again, Spook would ambush Puck from above as pay-back for whatever alpha-male shenanigans Puck had been up to. Puck never learned to look up, never learned to think three-dimensionally. Puck was probably more primo don than alpha male, truth be told. He ended up the alpha male by default more than anything because Spook wouldn't lower himself to fight for the job. Why be a mere feline alpha male when you have the soul of a gentleman? Why indeed.

Darling Daughter doesn't remember Spook; she was about 2 years old when we had to put him to sleep. We think Spook was somewhere in the neighborhood of 17 years old when he died - the George Burns of kittydom. I hated having to put him to sleep, but the vet convinced us it was more humane to do so than to let him die on his own. The odd thing about putting a cat to sleep is that cats die with their eyes open when euthanized - which makes an already horrible situation more so.

I miss Spook a lot. Once he got used to me, he slept on my pillow every night. He had the most magnificent purr, loud and rumbly, with pops and backfires like an old jalopy. He could sustain a purr for more than 30 minutes at a time, and I fell asleep to the sound of his purring most nights, it was such a comforting and relaxing sound. If I or DH reached out and petted him in the middle of the night, that purr started up instantly and we didn't need to keep petting him for him to keep purring. Once started, he just purred and purred.

Spook was a one-of-a-kind cat.

Light in August

2009-08-03T09:07:00.003-05:00

Faulknerphiles will recognize the title of today's post. I've borrowed it for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that it makes a great title for the first post in the month of August. August is actually one of my least favorite months. Temperatures are frequently in the upper 90s with heat indexes well over a hundred degrees, the humidity hits you like a wall whenever you step outside, and everything is brown and shriveled. Weatherwise, August is a miserable month. Ragweed and hay fever begin to rise in August, too, making it miserable for anyone who suffers from seasonal allergies. But ever since Darling Daughter came 5 weeks early, there's been light in August for me. Hard to believe, but she'll be six this month, and in just over two weeks, she'll start first grade.

There's another reason today's post is titled 'Light in August' - to reflect my uplifted mood at seeing that I have acquired a new follower! This is a big deal for me because I recently posted a link to the blog on my Facebook page only to get this response: crickets. I've been checking it neurotically for three days hoping one of my FB friends would have given me any kind of feedback or indication that they actually followed the link, like bread crumbs in the forest, to my blog and read a post or two. No such luck. I was hemming and hawing about whether to re-post the link and had almost chickened out when I checked my blog this morning and discovered the new follower. So, thank you, Thrifty eBay Mommy, and welcome! You brought light to what was looking like a dark August for me.

It's crazy, this whole writing thing. At first, the only people who read and follow are friends and family. But sometimes, the writing is too personal, means too much, comes from such a vulnerable place that asking friends and family to read it is like walking around naked in front of them. It took me forever to get up the courage to even post that link to my blog on FB. Finding a following outside of the circles of family and friends is more difficult and in a weird way, more validating. Friends and family have to read what I write whether it's good or not. But a stranger? There's no obligation whatsoever, so if someone from outside reads my writing and thinks it good enough to follow, well, that's a helluva rush.

Day 31: The Ninth Circle of Hell

2009-07-31T13:11:00.004-05:00

If the Divine Comedy were written today, the ninth circle of hell would be reserved for indoor play areas at fast food restaurants. It seems like every ill-behaved hellion within a two-hundred mile radius ends up at the same play area whenever I allow Darling Daughter to talk me into taking her to one. The parents of said hellions should be shot for reproducing in the first place; they should furthermore be shot for letting their demon spawn loose on the world with no earthly intention of monitoring them in any way. I let DD talk me into taking her to play in one of those god-forsaken play areas because she has been going stir crazy thanks to all the rain we've been having, but I regretted my decision almost immediately. There is nothing like enduring the piercing, high-pitched screams of little girls in an enclosed space to make you wish for a do-it-yourself lobotomy kit. Those screams could melt tooth fillings, not to mention drive an otherwise sane person around the bend. DD got fed up with the other kids and asked to go home, but not before I left with a souvenir headache. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here ...

Day 30: Rainy Day Rescue

2009-07-30T22:25:00.004-05:00

It rained buckets today, just like it did yesterday and the day before. This July has been one of the wettest on record - great for everyone's lawn, but bad for very active little girls who love to run, jump, climb, swim and bike. If Darling Daughter can't go outside, we both climb the walls - literally and figuratively.

Today Darling Daughter discovered origami, a perfect rainy-day activity. She found some short origami videos on Activity TV and wanted to try to fold some of the items, so I dug out my origami paper and we made origami swans, frogs and boats. I was tickled over DD's interest in origami, although I was aware of the irony that she became interested only after she'd seen some videos of it. I had offered to teach her some origami a while back, but she snorted derisively as only a five-year-old can at that suggestion. Too analog, I guess.

I also decided to test my memory of how to fold a lily. The first try was unsuccessful, but as you can see from the photo above, I did manage to do it.

I don't remember exactly how old I was when I first became interested in origami - I think I was twelve or so. My mother had bought a birthday present for my little sister at a store called The Silk Road, and instead of a bow, there was an origami crane on top as decoration, made from the same wrapping paper. The minute I laid eyes on the crane, I was immediately fascinated with it. I asked my sister if I could have it, and being the contrary little sister she was, she said no. I swiped it anyway and spent hours learning to fold the crane by carefully and painstakingly unfolding and refolding it until I could fold one on my own. Then I gave the crane back. It was only slightly the worse for wear after being unfolded and refolded so many times ...

Years later I bought a book on origami and learned a few tricks that made folding a crane a little easier, but for the most part, the reverse engineering method I used to first learn to fold a crane worked well. Of all the things I have learned to fold, the crane is the most complicated. And it's still my favorite.

I don't know how long DD's interest in origami will last. She doesn't particularly enjoy the actual folding because she has trouble making crisp and even folds - she wanted me to help her a lot. I assured her that with enough practice, she'll be able to make her folds as crisp and even as I can, but she's impatient and wants it to be easy right now, not down the road. More than anything, she loves the finished product, so I have a feeling I'll be making a lot of origami in the near future. For me, origami is akin to meditation, only better because in addition to re-established equilibrium and sense of peace, there is a tangible result and sense of accomplishment, too. What more can you ask for?

Day 29: Simon's Cat

2009-07-29T13:04:00.005-05:00

If you love cats (and I do), you have to check out Simon's Cat. Simon Tofield is an illustrator and director at Tandem Studios, and he's created four very funny animated videos that showcase the antics of Simon's cat as he tries to get Simon to feed him. You don't have to own a cat to appreciate the humor in "Cat Man Do," "Let Me In," "TV Dinner," or "Fly Guy," but you'll laugh that much harder if you do. Check it out. You'll be glad you did.

Day 28: Gut Feeling

2009-07-28T17:21:00.007-05:00

Standing at a RedBox this afternoon, I was chatting with another mother about family appropriate movies. She and her three boys were thinking about renting Pink Panther 2 starring Steve Martin, and since we had recently rented it, I was giving her my take on the general appropriateness of the film for the whole family when we were interrupted by a perfect stranger.

I stood there more or less patiently while he told us his story, but I can't say that I listened very well. I was too busy thinking about how quickly I could get me and Darling Daughter away from him because I don't like people approaching me, begging for money, when I'm with my child. It makes me very nervous. He mentioned something about a wife and four kids, a broken-down vehicle and needing money for a bus ticket. He also said that he'd spoken to the chief of police in town and showed us what he claimed was one ticket, but he needed $90 for the other ticket. He didn't ask for money directly, instead he asked whether we had any small jobs around the house he could do in exchange for money. I told him I didn't have anything for him to do and left as quickly as I could.

I suppose he could have been telling the truth, that his need was real and legitimate, but that's not what it felt like. It felt like I and this other woman were targeted because we were out with young kids and no husbands anywhere in sight. And it simply didn't ring true that he had spoken to the chief of police in Little Rock about his plight. Why would he talk to the chief about his situation? He hadn't been robbed or mugged. And even if he had been, would he really have seen the chief of police about it? I don't think so.

The man's spiel was put together fairly cleverly - I imagine most people would have felt more inclined to help him with the mention of the police chief and not really questioned whether or not his statement actually made sense. The mention of a wife and four kids was calculated to get a sympathetic response, since most mothers with small children would be hard pressed to turn down a father in need; they can easily imagine how much they would appreciate help if the tables were turned. But there are better ways to get help if the need is legitimate than walking up to strangers on the street. I also wonder whether the offer to do handyman work was sincere, or was it designed to make people more inclined to give him a few dollars just to make him go away? One thing was certain: Letting him anywhere near my home was the last thing I was going to do. There's a difference between charity and stupidity, something Elizabeth Smart's parents discovered the hard way after Elizabeth was kidnapped and held captive by a homeless man her parents had hired to do some handy work around their house.

Was he telling the truth? Possibly. But my gut feeling was that he had concocted an elaborate sob story to get money from sympathetic strangers and targeted me because I was out alone with my daughter. I guess he thought I would be likelier to help him out with my daughter watching. His strategy backfired. I try not to assume the worst about people, but when it comes to my safety and the safety of my daughter, I'm going to go with my gut every time.