Analyzing My Delusions

To shave or not to shave?

2010-08-18T13:27:00.001-05:00

Tell me: Why do I continue shaving my legs when there's no one here to see them? No, it's not a philosophical tree-falling-in-the-forest question. I'm really wondering. Force of habit, I suppose. Even when I was so pregnant I couldn't tie my shoes, I managed to keep my legs shaved. Well, I was a bit more bendy back then.

I have a new back door--and no, that's not a euphemism for a booty lift. The threshold on the door going from my garage to the back yard was rotting away, which the rental inspector noted as a "must fix" when she was here last month. My laid-back landlord forgot to tell me he was sending a couple of guys here to fix it, and his oversight almost caused a heart attack. In me, that is. This past Saturday, about 7:30 a.m.--an ungodly hour on the weekend, right?--I heard someone pull into my driveway and then pound on my door. It was still dark outside, so I did my best Gladys Kravitz imitation and peered out the window. I saw two strange men loitering outside. Call me paranoid, but no way in hell am I opening the door for men I don't know when I'm still in my pajamas and it's dark outside.

Finally, they left. Just when my dogs had finally calmed down again, they came BACK and pounded on the door longer this time. I don't mind telling you I was freaked out. I lurked in the hallway, trying to see through the living room window. I wanted to get to the fireplace poker, but they would have seen me dashing across the living room to get it. Oh, and here's how freaked out I was: It never occurred to me to call the police. Dumb, I know.

Monday, my landlord called and apologized for not letting me know he'd sent these guys over to work on the door. Christ on a biscuit! Yes, a little advance warning would have been helpful. Later that day, Harold the Carpenter came over to measure the door. He noticed how flimsy the back door was and said he didn't think it was very safe for a "lady living alone." I decided not to correct his assumption that I'm a lady and said it had been worrying me. My poor osteoporosis-ridden Aunt Joan could have kicked that door in with no trouble, even dragging her oxygen tank. He offered to tell my landlord that the door was starting to rot, too, and recommend replacing it with a steel door. Not much of a stretch, really--it was a hollow-core door, and the veneer had already started peeling off because of water damage.

Harold came back the next day and installed the door. It's much sturdier, and I feel a lot safer. I guess I'm keeping my legs shaved because of all these men coming over to do chores for me. If my legs start getting stubbly, I might have to call a plumber next.

That's an oogie mess

2010-08-16T17:22:00.001-05:00

I wish I could afford to have We Mow It come here regularly because my yard has never looked prettier. Two guys showed up last Thursday and cut the grass; edged along the driveway, walkway, and sidewalk (which has NEVER been done before); and even blew dead leaves and twigs off the front steps and back porch. I tried to talk them into letting me get them some iced tea or water because they looked like they were about to have a heatstroke, but they kept insisting they had water in their truck. Maybe I looked like one of those black widow ladies who would poison them and then chuckle evilly? Or Annie Wilkes in Misery. "I'm going to put on my Liberace records, Mr. Man!"

Much to Daniel's eventual dismay when he finds out (because he won't have an excuse not to cut my grass, mwah-ha-ha-ha), I now know how to work that stupid lawnmower. Kevin stopped by Saturday on his way to an art fair and walked me through the process. One of two things might have happened when the mower conked out on Daniel: He didn't back off the throttle (choke? whatever) from its starting speed to its running speed, or he let go of the safety bar on the handle that has to be pressed down while running the mower.

Weird. I just talked to him, and he insists he did neither of those things. Maybe my lawnmower hates him?

The humidity finally cleared off today, so I opened all the windows for the first time in more than a week. I got a burst of energy around 4:30, after talking to my mein boyfriend (how's my Cloris Leachman impression?), and in the past couple of hours, I've vacuumed and shampooed the carpet in the living room and dining room; mopped the kitchen, bathroom, and entryway floors; and cleaned the bathroom. I'm sweaty and my blood sugar is dropping like a rock. Maybe I'm crazy?

A lot of happiness for five bucks

2010-08-11T14:45:00.003-05:00

Man, I was a pill yesterday. Y'all should send Ed a sympathy card. Not only did he have the courage to call me despite my man-hatin' attitude, but also he managed yet again to use his Lisa Whisperer skills to coax me gently out of my horrible mood. Remind me to do something nice for him, will you? That man has the patience of a saint, which is clearly necessary to deal with me.

Until I can figure out what's wrong with my lawnmower, I called We Mow It lawn service (not the company's real name). About 10 minutes later, a truck pulled up in my driveway. I went outside, and Charlie ran out to protect me from The Stranger. Hey, I'm short. I don't need a Doberman for a guard dog; a chihuahua is just about right. The guy was in the neighborhood and stopped by to get an idea of how big the yard is. He said it shouldn't take long and he'd be back tomorrow afternoon. So problem solved--to the tune of $45. Oy. Well, it's just a one-time cost (I hope).

Next, I braved the heat to go to the grocery. I was out of peanut butter, and that just won't do. While I was standing in the checkout line, I looked at the $5 DVDs for sale. To my shock, I saw 1776, one of my favorite musicals. I have an ancient videotape of it, and I thought it wasn't even available on DVD. I've adored this movie since 1976, when I worked on a community theater production of the play. I did old-age makeup for a persnickety little snot who constantly wiped off the makeup I did and ordered me to do it again because he didn't look old enough. He was freakin' 18 years old. What did he want? Miracles?

I suppressed the urge to do a little dance of joy right there in the checkout aisle and put the movie in with my groceries. The cashier picked it up and said "Great movie!" He couldn't have been older than his early 20s, so I was surprised he'd even heard of it. Then, even better, he said, "I'd watch anything with William Daniels in it." I asked whether he'd ever seen St. Elsewhere, and he said, "Could you BELIEVE the ending of that show??" We chattered excitedly about that for a couple of minutes while the bagger looked on in puzzlement.

What happened next made me so happy, so try not to make fun of me. He pointed to the movie and said "GREAT music, huh?" And then, folks, he started to sing. He began with the line "It's ninety degrees," and yes, I joined in with "Have mercy, John, please. It's hot as hell in Philadelphia!" We stood there grinning at each other in delight, and the bagger's mouth dropped open. It was like a scene in a, well... in a musical. I drove home smiling the whole way.

Vexing vegetation

2010-08-10T13:56:00.001-05:00

I hate it when my own damn hubris comes back to smack me in the face. I'm doing great! Just this wee little lawnmower problem, which is easily solved! Whoo hoo!

Yeah, not so much. The problem is that I relied on other people for help: people of the male persuasion, to be specific. I should have known better than to assume Daniel could help me with one chore. The kid has few practical skills and is too busy gallivanting around the country to use the ones he does have. I had to make a series of increasingly threatening and pitiful phone calls just to get him over here to cut the grass. When the mower wouldn't cooperate, I tried to make arrangements to have Kevin come over and show him how to work it, but Daniel's jetting off to a friend's family farm this entire week and is completely unconcerned about what I'm going to do.

I asked Kevin whether he could come over this morning and show me how to get this %^$^%! piece of machinery to run. He said he would ask Sam whether he could use his car and get back to me yesterday afternoon. Naturally, he didn't, and he didn't call this morning. I called him around 12:30, and he said, without a tinge of apology, that he didn't have the gas money to come down here. I said, "You're kidding me, right?" No, he wasn't. I snapped, "I supported your man-child ass for 12 years, and this is the best you can do when I ask for ONE SMALL FAVOR?" What was I thinking? He has no "best."

I should have known better than to rely on a man for anything, and I was an idiot for leaving the task of cutting grass up to Kevin all these years and never learning how to run that stupid lawnmower. Now I'm going to have to pay someone--and probably a GUY--to cut my grass, and that's money I can't really afford this week. No, I don't know any neighbors or friends up here well enough to ask for help, and I'm certainly not going to ask any friends from Mayberry to drive 40 minutes one way to cut my grass. I loathe asking anyone for help, and the one time I'm forced to, I'm disappointed. Gah. My sunny optimism has been felled by goddamn VEGETATION.

Monday, Monday

2010-08-09T07:43:00.002-05:00

Remember Kevin claimed I wouldn't be able to survive without him? He even insisted that he did "so much" around here, and I wouldn't be able to handle doing it all on my own. Well, so far, the house is cleaner than it's ever been--and it's staying that way. I even manage to haul those big ol' trash cans out to the curb with my puny girl arms. The only problem I've had is with the damn lawnmower. I couldn't pull the starter cord hard enough, but Daniel could. However, the first time Daniel tried to cut the grass, it ran for a few minutes and stopped. Turns out it was out of oil. Stupid me, I assumed Kevin kept an eye on the oil level. I went out later that day and bought oil, and Daniel came back Saturday to try again. We put some oil in, but again, the lawnmower ran for a few minutes and then stopped. Daniel's out of town all week, so I'm going to have to call a lawn service until I can figure out what's going on or ask Kevin to come over and see what the hell he did to my lawnmower the last time he used it. :-|

Other than that, I'm surviving quite nicely, thank you. I'm even healthier! I went to the doctor Friday for a checkup, and he was delighted with my weight loss. He was even happier with the reduction in my blood pressure (now an impressive 115/60) and pulse rate. I was tickled that he looks exactly like Paul Winfield with glasses. (Paul Winfield played Captain Terrell in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan, who, along with Chekov, had an ear worm inserted that drove him insane. I hear he's doing fine now.) It's much easier when I'm doing casting for the movie about my life when people already look like existing actors. I still can't think who should play me, however. Any suggestions?

I meant to write about this earlier, but a few weeks ago, the reunion coordinator for my high school class e-mailed and asked whether I could verify that I graduated with the class of 1977. He acted as though he didn't remember me, and he was in the play I assistant-directed my junior year (The Bad Seed). Hmmmph! I wrote back and said yes, I could verify I belonged with that class because I remembered he wrote new lyrics for David Bowie's "Golden Years" to fit our cast and crew. (In his defense, he probably couldn't find a record of me graduating that year because I graduated a year early and took off for college without telling anyone in high school.)

That was enough to jog his memory, and he gave me updates on people we'd done theater with. I was a little upset to hear our drama teacher, Mr. K, died several years ago, but he was middle-aged when I knew him. I was more upset to hear that a good friend, who I even dated a few times after high school, died about 10 years ago, possibly of AIDS complications. I can't help wondering whether he knew he was gay back then. Well, I'm sure we all had things under the surface we were hiding.

Right now, I'm hiding from the thought of the week ahead, which I'm dreading. I have a lot of work to do, the weather is supposed to be brutally hot, and I won't have much contact with Ed. He's in training this week that involves being outside in full body armor--and in August in Georgia, that's not going to be fun. His week is going to be much worse than mine, poor guy.

Follow-up

2010-08-03T11:18:00.001-05:00

Greg just reminded me that I failed to supply a conclusion to Saturday's entry--that is, what happened when Kevin stopped by. If I were writing serial stories for magazines, I'd be fired tout suite, wouldn't I? I can imagine me ending an installment with "The murderer crept ever closer, with a mad gleam in his eye, while Detective Jones sat unaware, reading peacefully by the fire...." and then picking up the next installment with Detective Jones shopping for peaches at the grocery. Outrage would ensue!

Unfortunately, Saturday's story has no such suspense. Kevin stopped by as arranged, and I had his DJ outfit and two bags of laundry ready to go. (Yes, I'd done the laundry for him last week because did I mention? I wanted him out of here.) He played with the dogs for a bit while I gritted my teeth. "Yep, they miss you! Don't you have to go pick up your equipment SOON?" Finally, he grabbed the laundry, and then, to my shock, tried to kiss me good-bye. I managed to turn my head so fast that I think I pulled something, and he wound up getting just my cheek and part of my ear.

He left, and I called Ed back. About five minutes later, I saw Kevin pulling up in the driveway again. Just as I was swearing a blue streak, Kevin came up to my office window and said, "I left my DJ outfit here." Christ, I jumped a mile. I went into the living room, and sure enough, there it was. I unlocked the front door and handed it to Kevin, and he said something smarmy about kissing me making him forget to take his outfit. I faked a laugh and said, "Oh, everyone says that to me," and shut the door. Gah.

Oh, and I avoided the call to Thurston and Lovey Howell by looking up their e-mail address in the church directory. I just wasn't up to a phone call, and with my luck, if I tried to call at a time when I'd normally get their voicemail, one of them would have decided to stay home that day. They replied with a nice e-mail and said that whatever the reason for the breakup, they're sure it was very hard. That's almost exactly the same thing the woman running RE classes said. It must be the politically correct response du jour.

I'm feeling flu-ish today. No fever--just achy and tired, and my throat's sore. I think everything that's happened in the past few weeks is finally hitting me. I've decided to take the rest of the day off, and I'm getting into bed with a logic puzzle book, a novel, and a big glass of iced tea.

Breaking Breakup News

2010-08-02T07:56:00.001-05:00

It's been so long since I broke up with anyone that I forgot about the "breaking the news" task. I've told all the important folks: my family and you people. However, several local friends and acquaintances still don't know. I got one announcement out of the way this morning. A woman at church e-mailed Kevin and me, asking us to teach a religious education (RE) class for high school students. For Unitarians, RE classes don't involve Bible study; the high school curriculum for this fall is a series of classes comparing the major Western religions, discussing beliefs about the afterlife and religious prejudice, examining dogma and creeds, and so forth. Interesting stuff, but I'm not going to be around the entire year, and Kevin, obviously, can't do it because he moved to another town. So I had to e-mail this woman and explain we broke up. Aaaaawk-ward! No reply yet. Heh.

Next, I have to call a couple we'd met at church, who have been urging us to get together for dinner. They sent us an invitation for a pool party at their house, which is almost an hour away. Kind of a cute idea for the theme--Gilligan's Island--but I'm not showing up in a coconut bra in front of people I barely know. Also, they live out in the country, and I can't drive back home that far at night. My night vision isn't what it used to be; I do fine on main, well-lit roads, but dark, gravel-paved roads in Corn Country? No, thank you. I'm not looking forward to making this call and listening to expressions of condolences about the breakup. If they say "Oh, I'm sorry," I'm a little afraid I might blurt out, "Well, I'm not!"

I haven't decided how (or how much) to tell theater friends from Mayberry. Is a group e-mail in poor taste? Etiquette manuals don't address this issue, or they'd probably suggest separate handwritten letters on monogrammed stationery. *snort* What should I do?

A new season of Project Runway started last week. I do adore watching stressed-out people make bad decisions in the face of ridiculous challenges, and every now and then, there's a moment of impresive creativity. What I love most about this show, however, is reading the hilariously bitchy commentary at Project Rungay. Snarky gay humor never fails to cheer me up, and it cracks me up that these two guys invariably refer to Heidi Klum as "Frau Seal." You know she'd hate that!

Oh, I just got a reply from the woman supervising the RE classes at church. She's sorry to hear about the breakup. Should I tell her "Don't be!" :)

My dogs admire my conversational skills

2010-07-31T13:45:00.001-05:00

Kevin's coming over in about an hour because I made a booty call. Kidding! No, he's DJing a wedding tonight and left his outfit here. I wonder whether he'll notice how much better the art room and garage look? I've spent a lot of time this week cleaning both, and when I finish, I'm smudging the hell out of both rooms with sage. If nothing else, it will get rid of the cigar smell.

Daniel came over for lunch today. He was going to cut my grass, but of course it rained this morning. He decided he still wanted his "reward" lunch of a grilled PB&J sandwich, and we watched a Deep Space Nine episode ("Little Green Men," for you other geeks out there). It reminded me of when he was little and we watched Star Trek: Next Generation together, in the Pre-Kevin Days. He had such odd taste in TV shows back then. One of his favorite shows was Murphy Brown. I don't know what a kid his age would have seen in that show, but Murphy getting grumpy and snapping at people cracked him up.

We were both much more relaxed without Kevin around. Before, when Daniel came over for a meal, he'd eat and then make some excuse about why he had to leave immediately. I loved having him hang out for a while today. We had a good talk about his plans for the coming school year, and then we went through some stuff he has stored here to cull items for a garage sale I'm planning to have in a few weeks.

I'm feeling a little antsy about tonight. I've spent a lot of Saturday nights alone the past few years, with Kevin away at DJ jobs or art fairs, so I don't know why it's bothering me. I've been alone all week, and I haven't fallen apart yet. The dogs are wondering why I've gotten so chatty with them, but I haven't been all that weirded out. It started creeping up on me last night, however, and to be honest, I'm kind of dreading tonight. I could go to a movie, but going alone on Saturday night? I might as well just wear a sign saying "Look at me! I'm by myself on Saturday night!" Also, I tend to become a weirdo magnet when I go out by myself at night. Any conspiracy theorists or students at clown schools in the vicinity? They're compelled to strike up a conversation with me.

A bubble bath and a book are sounding much better by comparison--and probably a lot safer.

Insert Title Here

2010-07-28T06:51:00.001-05:00

I'm getting the hang of cooking for one. (Making coffee for one? Still a work in progress.) As Greg pointed out, leftovers are the answer. Last night I made the usual two servings of rice and combined one serving with the leftover stir-fry. Ta-da! Dinner for tonight or tomorrow is done. Sasha, I like your idea of roasting a chicken--or for me, chicken breasts, as I don't care for drumsticks and other dark meat--because I can dice up the leftovers into a salad (Celeste's idea). To be honest, I'm not a big fan of all-vegetable salad as a main course; it leaves me feeling dissatisfied. Greg, your "Salad is what food eats" cracked me up. Even considering the Leftovers Plan, if I make too much of a dish, I do know a young man who adores my cooking and lives only 5 minutes away. After intense negotiations, Daniel agreed to cut my grass in exchange for a home-cooked meal.

I made another discovery about the depths of Kevin's laziness. Monday I asked him whether recycling goes out this week, as it's picked up every other week. He all but whistled and looked at the ceiling and muttered, "Oh, I just check whether the neighbors have put their recycling bins out." I didn't have to rely on my status as a part-time PI to know something was up and finally extracted the story from him. The recycling bins blew away in a storm SIX MONTHS ago. Did he get replacements? Why, no! That would involve all the effort of picking up the phone and making a call. So for the past six months, I've been dutifully putting recyclable items in the basket I keep in the pantry for that purpose, and he's been pretending to carry them out to the recycling bin in the garage, and then putting them in the trash. I don't go in the garage much, so I didn't notice, but I assumed he was keeping the bins in an odd place, such as the shed. Yesterday I called the city's recycling department, and new bins are being delivered today. The entire "effort," from start to finish, took approximately 1.45 minutes. Oy.

My mom keeps moaning that "both [her] girls are single now." Did I mention my sister got divorced? Long story that I'm too lazy to type now, but her husband committed one minor indiscretion, and she cut him (and his balls) off at dizzying speed. I haven't figured out yet how to tell my parents about Ed. Of course, they'd be delighted with anyone who's not Kevin, but from their perspective, the news is going to come out of the blue. When Ed and I first started e-mailing, I told my mom because I was so excited to hear from him. As usual, she listened with only half an ear. She's really not interested in what's going on with me; she calls me frequently so that she can complain about her illnesses, gossip about people I don't remember or barely know, and tell me how wonderful my sister is. I've mentioned Ed a few times since then, but again: half an ear. In addition, her memory has gotten much worse the past couple of years, so I suspect she remembers maybe a third of what I tell her--that is, a third of what she actually hears. Therefore, if she's shocked when I finally break the news, too bad. If she'd been paying attention, it wouldn't be a complete surprise. Also? I'm 50 damn years old, and I don't need her approval or permission. As for my dad, I think he'll be satisfied knowing I'm happy. Maybe the conversation will be easier than I'm anticipating. My dad will be happy for me, and my mom will be over the moon to hear further proof that my sister is far more sensible and perfect in every way than I am.

Coffee talk with Lisa

2010-07-27T12:01:00.003-05:00

A very old, skinny man, pushing a baby in a stroller, just walked by my house. He was trudging along so slowly that I suspect the baby could have gotten out and walked faster.

Holly the Boneheaded Beagle pulled quite a stunt. Well, it was partly my fault. When I take her out at night for her last pee, often I have to put her leash on and pull a little while coaxing her. Her arthritis has gotten so bad that she's reluctant to get up and make the walk outside. Until she can figure out how to sit on the toilet, however, out she goes. Last night, while I was standing in the yard admiring the full moon and waiting for Holly to finish, I heard her leash hit against something metallic. A second later, CRASH! Instead of turning around and walking directly back to the patio, she had walked in a circle, wrapped her leash around a wrought-iron plant stand holding four clay and ceramic pots, and brought the whole caboodle down. Charlie jumped straight up in the air when he heard the crash and did a rather impressive leap over the debris. Miraculously, only two pots broke, but I had one hell of a mess to clean up this morning. I still need to sweep up a pile of dirt. Mental note: Save the moon-gazing for when I'm outside BY MYSELF, with no spazzing dogs.

I finished my purple variegated socks. Here's a blurry, crappy photo that will give you only a vague idea of what the socks look like, but feel free to humor me and exclaim over their beauteousness:

The Room Formerly Known as Kevin's Man Cave is looking better. I finished vacuuming and sweeping away cobwebs, stacked all my art supplies on an empty bookcase he left, and hung a few pictures I'd stored because I had no wall space left to hang them. I have a folding table in the garage that I'm going to set up for a temporary workspace, and I'm going to try to set aside some time to do a little collaging and rubberstamping. With all Kevin's stuff scattered around, I never had room to get my art supplies out and do anything with them.

Weird, this burst of energy I'm having, but I guess it's caused by a major source of stress being removed. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm enjoying it while it does. I'm even going to cook a nice dinner for myself. Last night, I was too exhausted to make more than a bowl of cereal, but tonight, I'm stir-frying chicken, broccoli, and almonds. I think I'll skip the rice because I don't know how to make just one serving in my rice cooker. I've almost forgotten how to cook for one (AND make coffee for one, so I had too much this morning). Any tips?

He's left the building

2010-07-26T14:03:00.001-05:00

It was over before I knew it. He picked the truck up at 11, loaded it, and said good-bye at 2. He got very emotional when he was saying his good-byes, and I thought, for a moment, I was going to cry. Mostly a knee-jerk reaction to another's tears--like Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias, I have a strict policy about no one crying alone in my presence. I "womanned up," however, and stayed strong. Well, one benefit of things getting so bad the past few years is that I was less likely to dissolve in a puddle of sentiment, right? He said a lot of sweet things to me, but I couldn't help thinking, "Too little, too late." I'll give him credit for this: He taught me to pay more attention to actions. That's one lesson I won't have to learn again and again and again, as I have with so many other lessons.

Strange that there are so few reminders of him left. He slept mostly in the guest room, so there won't be any noticeable absence when I go to bed at night. Some dust bunnies and a few pieces of furniture in the art room that he didn't have room for--and that's about it. Don't most people leave more of a physical imprint? I feel as though I've been living with the chalk outline of a person, and a strong wind just blew the outline away. I can still see a faint ghost of it, but one hard rain, and even that will disappear.

Gearing up for Man Child's exit

2010-07-23T15:53:00.001-05:00

I shouldn't complain because I HAVE work, which is more than a lot of people can say, but I will, anyway. The problem is that I took on extra projects a few months ago because my finances were in terrible shape, thanks to Man Child. Now that he's leaving Monday (whoo hooo!), I'm not going to need the additional income as desperately, but I'm stuck with the projects. Oy. Well, I do have an expensive move coming up soon.

Being busy has the benefit of keeping me too occupied to dream about eating chocolate. I haven't lost more pounds recently, but I must be getting smaller somehow because I'm fitting into clothes I couldn't wear a few months ago. My big news is that I bought a pair of boots the other day that I can actually ZIP. With my short, German milkmaid calves (TM Sasha), finding knee-high boots I could zip was difficult. These boots are black leather and bad-ass--well, as bad-ass as I'M capable of being. I'd post the picture I took, but Ed seems to think it's risque and is probably dubious about me posting it on the Innerwebs for the *gasp* public to see (not that hordes of people are eager to see my short middle-aged legs in a pair of boots).

I've been busy this week catching up on grooming that I was too broke to afford while waiting for checks to come in. My eyebrows, for example, were a shanda. I've been getting them threaded for a while, so I've lost my tweezing skills, I'm afraid, and the little Indian lady does a MUCH better job than I could ever do. Wednesday, I stopped in to get my eyebrows back in shape, and I noticed she uses plain old sewing thread. All this time, I thought she used special eyebrow thread or something--and in my imagination, it was imported from India and very expensive. What a letdown!

Next up is my damn hair. Ever since I got it cut extremely short, it's been growing like the weeds in my flower beds (which are flourishing, thankyouverymuch). I feel slightly ridiculous saying "It's too long!" but it is. Another thing I love about Ed is that he adores my cropped hair. Other men I've known have been fans of long hair and were always urging me to grow mine longer. I don't think they believed me when I explained that curly hair grows OUT, not DOWN. No more struggling with longish hair for me. My "styling" process consists of getting out the shower and running my fingers through my hair, and the lazy girl in me loves that.

I'm taking a break from work to watch another episode of True Blood. Good show, great sex scenes (one of the advantages of shows on HBO).

Killer Ballerinas

2010-07-20T07:44:00.002-05:00

Don't let ballerinas fool you, with their wispy bodies and tranquil faces. They're tough as nails and are out to hurt you--that is, if you're foolish enough to think you, a mere mortal, can keep up with their workout. Yes, I tried the NYC Ballet workout last night, and Oh. My. God. I made it about two-thirds of the way through it, which isn't bad, I guess. All the graceful arm movements and pointed toes make the moves look effortless, but that's misleading. These moves are work, and by the end, I was sweating like a chocoholic touring Willy Wonka's factory. The exercise that finished me off involved lying on my stomach (a challenge right there, as my front side is not completely flat) and lifting my legs. The instructor said, with a hint of a sneer, "You shouldn't feel this in your lower back at all." I hollered, "Oh, but I DO!" and had to curl up in the fetal position. I might have whimpered a little--but with a tranquil look and graceful arm movements.

Seinfeld fans, take note: The Soup Nazi is back!

From the Department of Good News: Finally, I got a check yesterday. I've never been so happy to pay bills before. Being broke makes me feel powerless, but now, I have ze power again. I'd like to use it to get Accounts Payable Guy fired, but I'm trying to remember to use my power for good, not evil.

From the Department of Even Better News: Kevin's going to be OUTTA HERE next Monday. Apparently all Dramatic Sam's ditherings about his family objecting to Kevin's presence were simply manufactured melodrama. His family is thrilled and urged him to have Kevin move in earlier than August 7. Remind me to send flowers to DS's family, would you?

Now that I know when Kevin's leaving, I can make other plans. Barring unforeseen complications, I should be in Georgia some time in September, if Ed doesn't get sick of me before then or if the killer ballerinas haven't left me a weeping wreck huddled on the floor. That gives me some time to get ahead on work and pack. I just realized I'm going to be living alone for the first time in many years, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I used to like living alone, but back then, I didn't know the love of my life was waiting for me. Makes a big difference, you know?

29 hours, and oh, how about a few more just for fun?

2010-07-19T07:42:00.002-05:00

Bad Energy Company has quite the sense of humor! Saturday at 7 p.m., a horrendous storm knocked out power for almost 5,000 people here in College Town. Good thing I buy candles like a crazy survivalist. I lit candles all over the house, and the storm had chased away the humidity, so the evening was rather pleasant. I'd just charged my cell phone, so I chatted on the phone with a couple of friends, took a candlelit bubble bath with the hot water remaining in the tank, and read by candlelight, which appealed to the Amish woman who lives inside me. Bad Energy Company's hotline estimated the power would be back on by 10 p.m. Piece of cake! I can stand anything for three hours.

Except the hotline LIED. The estimate changed to midnight, and then noon Sunday. So I woke up Sunday to the horror of no coffee. I threw on some clothes, and I might have brushed my hair but who knows, and went to the grocery store, which has a little coffee station. I bought two huge cups and promptly spilled half of one down the front of my shirt. I don't recommend this technique as a way to wake up. I refilled the spilled cup and bought some ice for the cooler.

Sunday was, of course, hot and humid. By noon, there was no sign of Bad Company's trucks, so I went to the library. I browsed around and found a few exercise DVDs; one's a workout from the New York City Ballet. I took ballet lessons when I was little, and when I see professional ballet dancers, I still get tutu-and-leotard yearnings. Of course, I had no way to play the DVD at the moment, but I assumed my power would be back on when I got home.

The AC in the library wasn't much cooler than the AC outdoors (which is to say NONE), so I went to the mall and wandered around. I don't particularly enjoy malls--at least not often--but it was cool, and I was grateful for the respite from sweating. A tiny Chinese man was offering free massage "samples" and coaxed me into his massage chair. Kevin offered to hold my glasses, but Massage Man glared at him and insisted he would take care of them. Heh. His hands were so warm and felt great. He hit a tight spot on my back and said, "Ooooh, many knots. Very tense, right?" RIGHT.

When I got home, still no power. Bad Company's hotline estimated restoring power at 8 p.m. FINE. I took a cold shower, and let me just say that I can see why it's recommended as a libido-killing method. I continued reading (I finished an entire book) and sweating and peering down the street for a sign of Bad Company's trucks. Meanwhile, the city sent out trucks to pick up tree branches piled in front of every house, but no Bad Company trucks. Finally, at 10 p.m., Bad Company arrived. The workers stood out on the street and, as I believe they're contracted to do, laughed and joked and wasted time while I glared at them through my window like Gladys Kravitz in the throes of a hot flash.

Finally, at midnight, the power was back on! I fired up my computer--my sweet baby, how I missed you--and answered a few e-mails, joyously proclaiming the Return of Electricity, but 45 minutes later, boom! The power was out again. Ha ha, Bad Company! Stellar practical joke! I sat here in total blackness, stunned. I groped around for the flashlight, found my cell phone, and called Bad Company's hotline for the 3,897th time. Estimate: noon Monday. I threw my phone across the room and stomped off to bed.

At 3:00 a.m., power was restored. I got up, closed the windows, turned on the AC again, and went back to sleep, muttering dark curses aimed at Bad Company. I suspect I wasn't the only one.

FRRREEEEEEE-DOOOOOOM!

2010-07-17T08:01:00.004-05:00

Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't be bellowing a line from a Mel Gibson movie, given his inability to keep his trap shut. Nevertheless, I do feel almost giddy with freedom. Kevin left yesterday morning to take some boxes up to his cousin's and won't be back until this afternoon. Wheeee! Amazing how relaxed and happy I am when he's not around. The dogs seem bewildered, however. Eh, they'll adapt.

I finally downloaded some pictures from my camera, so I can tell you about having lunch with Celeste and include a picture. We'd planned to meet at a Greek restaurant near campus, but to my dismay, I discovered the restaurant had closed, after 30-some years in business. We decided to go to Five Guys, which is nearby, and get a burger. Sign of the 21st century: We discussed this change of plans via cell phone WHILE we were in the same parking lot. Hee! I had a great time with Celeste, and two hours just flew by. She's so funny and warm, and as I said to her, why the hell do all the people I like the most live so far away? I did my very first first bump with her, too, and I assume I looked very cool doing it. (Hush, I can hear you snorting.) After lunch, I remembered I'd brought my camera, so I was trying to take a picture of us together. We have an extreme height differential, so poor Celeste obligingly hunched over so that our heads could be in the same photo. A nice young man passing by (that description makes me sound ancient, no?) offered to take a picture for us and didn't even run off with the camera afterward! Awwwww. Here it is:

As part of my Freedom Celebration, I went out to dinner with Daniel last night. He's been so excited for me about Ed and asked me a lot of questions about my plans. I just love that kid, even if he doesn't shave as often as he should. Also? He's incapable of being on time--at least when he's meeting ME. I think he manages to make it to work and classes on time. Hmmmph! I'd put my camera in my purse so that I could get a picture of us together and took a few of myself to while away the time waiting for me. Here I'm concealing my impatience rather successfully, I think:

After three attempts, I finally got a picture of us together in which Daniel wasn't closing his eyes or making a hideous face:

My baby's all grown up, isn't he?

Exercising my patience

2010-07-15T22:20:00.002-05:00

Since the weather has turned sauna-like lately, I've been looking for exercise I can do indoors. I like walking, when the weather's bearable, and I even started "faux" hiking at a nearby park with slightly hilly trails. I just can't get myself moving early enough in the morning to walk before it gets too hot, however.

The other day, Kevin was cleaning out an old steamer trunk I fixed up a few years ago and found several videotapes I'd stored in there. Most were taped performances of plays I did with the theater group in Mayberry, and I'll hang on to them, in case I need to be amused by bad amateur theater some day. One was a jazzercise tape I used to do when Daniel was little. I popped it in the VCR and started giggling almost immediately. The tape is from 1986, and the instructor and all the women in the class are festooned in headbands, leg warmers, and neon leotards. I haven't seen so much '80s exercise wear since Flashdance. And the music, oh, my God. Tres cheesy.

I've been sticking with it because the routine is short enough that I don't collapse, and it does get my heart rate up. That damn instructor is so perky that I want to strangle her with fluorescent green leg warmers, however. At one point, she actually says, "Are you smiling?? If you're smiling, I know you're breathing!" I'm not admitting anything, but I MIGHT have snapped, "No, I'm holding my breath just to be ornery and frowning at your insanely cheerful squirrel face." I don't handle perkiness well when I'm at my best, so you can imagine my reaction to it when I'm sweating in contorted positions.

I'm determined to keep exercising, mostly because I'm getting positive results, and it helps with stress. A tiny part of my determination is also fueled by proving my mother wrong. About a month ago, I told her I was taking several pairs of pants to my church's clothing drive because they were falling off me. She said (and I'm still angry about this), "Oh, don't get rid of your big clothes! You'll need them when you gain the weight back." Oh, yes. She DID.

A couple of days ago, I told her I'd lost 5 more pounds, for a total of 55. Today I got a big envelope in the mail from her, containing articles she clipped from her "lady magazines"--you know, Good Housekeeping, Woman's Day, etc., etc. Help me decipher my mom's mixed messages, would you? She attached a note to the articles, saying "So proud of you, and you are so pretty," meaning, I'm assuming, I wasn't pretty before. Fine, but I'm choosing to believe her note was largely positive. OK, partially. Now get this: The first article is about "diet derailers." Let me quote the opener for you: "You've been dieting for a few months and have dropped some weight. You're feeling pretty good about your progress and then--bam!--something gets in the way to land you back where you started."

That woman isn't going to be happy until I gain every pound back. Well, I hate to disappoint her, but I'm going to disappoint her.

2010-07-14T16:32:00.000-05:00

Nothing like finding out just how stupid you are, especially on a hellishly hot day. I've had a headache all afternoon, and not even the Ibuprofen God is touching it.

I wanted to get out of the house this afternoon, so I went down to Mayberry to visit Jon and Suzie, my friends who run the secondhand bookstore there. After hugs from both and being plyed with coffee, I told them I'd broken up with Kevin. Yes, you guessed it: They weren't surprised. Then Jon said "Getting high shouldn't be a lifestyle," and I was surprised. I was aware Kevin did occasionally, but he knew I wasn't crazy about it, and when he was unemployed, I informed him he'd better not use my money for it. He agreed--or so I thought. I was SO fucking naive. I'll just say that he bought frequently, and with guess whose money? No wonder he never had the incentive to look for a job.

My head is pounding, and I don't know whether it's still the headache or a combination of fury and embarrassment. If I have to interact with Kevin, I might wind up running him through with the bread knife. I should just go back to bed, huh?

Next!

2010-07-14T00:39:00.001-05:00

For the past few weeks, I've been dreaming about old boyfriends. No, no, not like that. I've never had dreams like these before. They're an abbreviated form of the entire relationship, almost like looking through a kaleidoscope and seeing bits and pieces in a colorful jumble. At the end, the break-up, I summarize what went wrong in one brilliant, concise statement (definitely the stuff of dreams there) and say exactly what I wanted and meant to say--but didn't at the time.

They're the most satisfying dreams I've ever had.

I won't describe every one; I'm too lazy to type all that, and who the hell wants to read about a series of dreams? The dream I had tonight, which was so vivid it woke me up, was about my ex-husband. Trust me, it doesn't take a Freud to figure out the symbolism. I'll skip past the parts representing our relationship to the last "scene." We'd been at a party with a lot of his family and old friends from theater days. The Ex was in his element: He talked to everyone and wound up being the center of attention, holding court while he told jokes and stories. I noticed a lonely-looking teenage boy sitting in the corner; he was around 17 or 18 and clearly miserable. I worked my way over to him and sat down. I attempted a little chit-chat, he responded well, and soon we were talking away a mile a minute. He turned out to be very sweet, sensitive, and smart, with a surprisingly quick wit. We made smart-ass comments about other people in the room and sent each other into fits of giggles. I spent the rest of the party talking to him.

The Ex seemed to be in a good mood on the way home, but as we were getting ready for bed, he turned on me, as he so often did. Now, are you ready for the surreal part? In my dream, I was a real, flesh-and-blood woman, and he was a plastic, life-sized doll. So as he was screaming at me about flirting with someone at the party (yes, the teenage boy, which is exactly as irrational as he was in real life) and embarrassing him, his creepy glass doll's eyes were rolling around. Instead of feeling scared, the way I usually did, I started laughing because he looked so ridiculous. I said, "You put on this charming, caring act with everyone else, and they think you're such a great guy. To me, though? You're cold and unfeeling and cruel, just like the doll you are. I'd like to push your stupid plastic doll's face in!" And then I proceeded to do just that.

I woke up smiling.

I've been puzzling over why I'm having these dreams now, and I've come to this conclusion: It's my brain's way of sorting and summarizing what happened in past relationships so that I don't make the same mistakes again. I've started what I intend to be the last romantic relationship I ever have with a man, and I'll be damned if it's going to end because of my stupidity or his. These dreams are certainly cheaper and more efficient than psychoanalysis; however, I could schedule therapy sessions to not wake me up at 1:00 a.m. Oh, well, there's a trade-off in everything, right?

I'm going back to bed. I wonder who's next in my dreams?

Accounts "payable"? Riiiiiiiiight.

2010-07-12T18:31:00.002-05:00

What's the best way to get back at an accountant? No, it's not the start of a joke. I'd REALLY like to know. Sneak into his office and steal all the lead from his mechanical pencils? Reset his calculator to flash "H E L L O" with upside-down numbers whenever he hits the add button? I found out today that a guy in accounts payable has been sitting on checks for invoices from the entire month of June because, as he snapped to an assistant inquiring about payment for a broke editor in Indiana, he was "too busy" to sign them.

TOO BUSY. Why, what a brilliant and reasonable excuse! The next time I have a deadline, I'll just explain that I'm TOO BUSY to meet it. I'm sure everyone will understand, and it's not as though me missing a little ol' deadline will affect anyone else. The next time my water bill is due, I'll just drop the water company a note and say I'm TOO BUSY to pay my bill. Shouldn't be a problem.

TOO BUSY, my ass. Harrumph!

Let's see, what else is chapping my hide lately? Oh. Last night, Kevin complimented my appearance, and I said "Thanks" politely and tried to change the subject. Awkward, right? Apparently not awkward enough, as he went on to say he's accepted that he's "entering a period of celibacy." 1) That's related how, exactly? and b) Am I supposed to apologize? I pointed out that he could certainly date, and he said, "Anyone else is going to be substandard compared to you." What utter hooey. Also, I have no idea how to respond to that comment, and given the situation, I don't see how I could have felt anything but uncomfortable. But wait! There's more! He remarked, "It's going to be a lot easier for you. You could just throw a rock out the door and hit someone better than me."

Ah, the time-honored tradition of stoning the object of your affections to get his attention. Good idea! Also? The man has a point, but I was too nice to say so. I tried to laugh it off with a joke about trying it on the strange elderly man who walks his chihuahua past the house every day and coos baby-talk to his dog and added, "Hey, you know I've had my eye on him for ages!"

How long is it until the first weekend in August??

2010-07-11T12:35:00.002-05:00

Greg, WordPad is much better--thanks! I guess Blogger has decided it hates .doc files now.

Yes, I had too much caffeine Friday night. I never thought I'd say "too much" and "caffeine" together in the same sentence, but I think I'm going to have to switch to decaffeinated for making iced tea. I cannot tell you how much I hate admitting that I can't handle mass quantities of caffeine as easily as I used to. I can still ingest more than the average bear but not nearly as much as in the past. When I get over my limit, not only do I type very, very fast, but also my heart starts pounding. I almost typed "I start getting heart palpitations," but Jebus, that makes me sound frail and old. Anyway, after finally getting my heart rate to a reasonable level after last year's scary high, I should endeavor to keep it there, right?

Good news: Kevin's been moving stuff to the storage unit he rented last week, and his scary man-cave is starting to empty out. Here's the even better news: He told me this morning that he'll be out the first weekend in August. His family reunion is that weekend, so he plans to take everything that's going in the truck up that Friday--and he's not coming back at the end of the reunion. Did I hear a collective sigh of relief?

He thinks I'm being generous by giving him so much furniture and other stuff (including a TV and DVD player), but I don't need to correct his impression by telling him I'm not that freakin' generous; I just want to get rid of a lot before I move. Integrating my crap and Ed's stuff is going to be enough of a challenge without me bringing along tons o' things I don't need. I'm a little nervous about how this "Yours, Mine, and Ours" thing is going to work. I told Ed the other day that I've never lived with anyone who already had all his stuff in place. I keep thinking of that scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Carrie Fisher is arguing with Bruno Kirby about whether his wagon-wheel coffee table stays. I'm a little worried that EVERYthing is going to be a wagon-wheel coffee table. Anyone ever been in this situation before? I could use some advice--or just tell me to calm the hell down.

2010-07-09T22:32:00.003-05:00

I'm feeling much too scattered tonight to relate any sort of coherent story, so I'm just putting down some random thoughts. Anyone who makes it to the end of this entry gets a MAJOR PRIZE labeled "Fra-gee-lay."

I've been knitting a lot the past few years and have been on a sock kick for a while. I like knitting socks because I can finish them quickly, and sock yarn is bee-yoo-ti-ful. I have about a dozen pairs now in a variety of colors and patterns, and I love 'em. A little while ago, I was working on a sock in subtle variegated shades of violet and remembered a remark Celeste made about not having to deal with snow after I move to Georgia. Suddenly, I thought, "What the HELL am I going to do with handknit socks in an almost tropical climate??" It might get cold-ish there, but cold enough for wool socks? Gah, maybe I should raffle off all my socks. Oh, and Ed doesn't live in Savannah; he's about an hour away. I can't tell you exactly where he lives because then I'd have to kill you, and let's face it: I'm too lazy to do that.

You know the woman in the Columbia Pictures logo, at the beginning of movies? She looks just like Annette Bening. Go look, if you don't believe me.

Why won't Blogger accept entries I write in Word anymore? I tried pasting in a Word file, and Blogger just about had a hissy fit, flagging every other line as "invalid HTML," which kind of hurt my feelings. Now I have to write entries in Notepad, and I loathe Notepad. The lines wrap oddly, and the font is too tiny for my geezer eyes.

Today the rental inspector came over. I decided Kevin could deal with her and escaped to the grocery store because it makes me uncomfortable to have a strange woman poking around my house. I feel compelled to follow her around in case she gets the notion to inspect my unmentionables, too. When I got home, Kevin had to report in exhaustive detail everything she said, including numerous stories about her bazillion dogs. When he got to the story about her Pomeranian's eye POPPING OUT of its socket and the vet shoving it back in, I finally rebelled and said, "No more dog stories!" Jesus Christ, I did not need to know about that poor dog's eye.

Hey, I just figured out how to make the font bigger in Notepad. I'm SUCH a genius.

A few weeks ago, I had to get my new glasses adjusted because they kept slipping down my nose. I've never had that problem before because I have a freakishly large head. I mentioned this fact to the woman adjusting my glasses, and she asked whether I'd lost weight recently. I said yes, and she said, "Well, you know people lose weight from the top down, so maybe your head is smaller now." OK, first, who are these freaks who lose weight in their HEADS? And second, I don't think her theory is right. If it is, it's not working on me. I went down a half shoe size before my waist got smaller, and the last time I checked, my feet are below my waist. Also, I'm still wearing the same cup size in bras, so my boobs haven't gotten the memo about the top-down strategy, either.

Funniest typo ever (seen in a comment on a blog): "triads" for "tirades." Now three times as indignant! I like it.

I didn't get a lot of pictures while I was in Savannah because I kept forgetting to take my camera with me. Someone (ahem) did manage to get one picture of me early enough in the day that I wasn't too hot and sweaty yet, so I'm slapping it up and calling this an entry. It was taken in Monterey Square, where Mercer House is. No laughing at my freakishly large head!

What's Going On (with apologies to Marvin Gaye)

2010-07-08T18:48:00.002-05:00

So where was I before I got caught up in all this kissing folderol? Something about explaining my current situation, reactions to it, and so forth. I've said, I think, that the breakup with Kevin has been coming on for years. It took me a long time to realize I was unhappy. When you're so unhappy for so long, however, I think remembering what happiness feels like is hard. Realizing I didn't respect Kevin anymore took me even longer; as a matter of fact, it wasn't until I typed those words--"I don't respect him anymore"--in an e-mail to a friend that it really hit me. How could I have any respect for a man who sat around all day watching the Weather Channel and porn while I worked 10 to 12 hours every day--EVERY GODDAMN DAY--trying to keep things afloat? Sure, he had occasional DJ gigs and art fairs, but most of what little money he made went to sporadic child support payments. Not that I didn't want his kids to get the money, but I desperately needed a little support (financial and emotional), too, and I sure as hell wasn't getting any.

Lest it sound as though all my concerns were financial, his lack of employment was only a small part of the picture. What bothered me more was his complete lack of interest in me. If someone held a gun to his head, he wouldn't be able to recall the name of a single author or co-worker I talked about or describe what I do for a living, other than "edit books." He knew nothing about what worried me, what I dreamed of for the future, what memories haunted me--and he never asked. Conversations with him--or rather, attempts at conversations--were the oddest experiences I've ever had. I'd try to tell him something, and it was like shouting into a vacuum. Nothing. No response, no follow-up questions, no facial expression. Just... blankness. The only time he got animated in conversations was when he was holding forth on a topic: relating in excruciating detail something he read, reporting what he saw on the news, and the like. He didn't want to hear what I thought, either; actually, he got irritated if I "interrupted" with my reaction or opinion. I don't know whether it was self-centeredness, a complete lack of curiosity in other people, or just ME. Whatever it was, it got worse and more frustrating to deal with.

I mentioned his increasingly bad temper a few entries ago, but I can't pinpoint when it started getting worse. I always knew he had a short fuse, but his fits of temper got more intense, and trying to predict what would set them off became almost impossible. His rage was almost always completely out of proportion to the situation. The screaming, stomping around, and throwing things were bad enough, but when his rage was more directed at me, it was terrifying. I'm too embarrassed to list the names he called me and the hurtful things he said to me, but I'll never forget them or the more physical expressions of his anger.

You're probably wondering how I got into this situation. I claim to be a smart woman, so what's my problem? All I can say is that no one sets out to be treated this way. No one wakes up one morning and thinks, "Hey, today I'd like someone to shatter my self-esteem!" No one wants to be called hateful names or have their feelings ignored. When changes are gradual, they're harder to notice, and then one day you're being knocked across the garage, and when you land, you think, "How the hell did THAT happen?"

When I told Kevin I wanted to break up, my first words were "I can't do this anymore." I talked for a long time about how I'd been feeling and tried to explain the depth of my exhaustion and frustration. His first reaction? "So you're kicking me out? Where am I supposed to go?" Self-centered to the very end! He's nothing if not consistent. I suggested a few possibilities: his sister, his mother (who's in her 80s and alone and really needs someone living with her), a nearby friend who's looking for a roommate. He was furious that I mentioned his sister and mother and accused me of trying to get him out of town. Yeah, AND?

I might have known he'd have little trouble finding someone else to leech on to. He's moving in with his cousin, who lives about 45 minutes away. (So I am getting him out of town! Whoo!) His cousin, Dramatic Sam (DS), is ill and needs a live-in caregiver as well as help running an educational foundation he started. The plan is that he'll pay Kevin for his help, and because Kevin won't have living expenses, he'll be able to save money and look for a full-time job. That's the theory, anyway. Kevin informed me that he and DS had decided he'd move up there in October. OCTOBER. I was stunned and knew there was no way in hell I'd make it through FOUR MORE MONTHS of living with him. DS's brother, who doesn't like Kevin, is doing some repairs on DS's house, and DS has worked up a melodramatic scenario in which his brother finds out Kevin's moving in there and refuses to do the repairs. Whatever. NOT MY PROBLEM. I finally extracted from Kevin the information that the repairs are being done in July, and then stated he could be out in August, and I wasn't in the mood to grant any extensions.

Of course, this conversation was replete with screaming and name-calling and making threats, but through it all, I kept repeating, "You have to be out of here in August." I sounded like a broken record. (Ancient reference. For you kids, records were what music came on before CDs and MP3s, and sometimes.... Oh, never mind. Google it, you young'uns.)

I'd been hoping to have a month or two here to myself to pack and just enjoy the peace and quiet, but that's not likely to happen now. I haven't quite figured out what to do about the packing timeline; it's not going to be the organized, somewhat leisurely affair I'd hoped for. I'm juggling an insane workload right now, too, so I guess I'm going to wind up tossing things into boxes willy-nilly a few days before the actual moving day. I suppose I could start packing now, but Kevin doesn't know about Ed or my move, and I think it's prudent to maintain his "in the dark" state for now. I'm rather fond of my own delicate, Southern belle hide and would like to keep it intact. Both Daniel and Ed have offered to give Kevin a smackdown, and much as I'd love to watch that with a big bowl of popcorn in my lap, I like both of 'em too much to want them to wind up in jail for assault. On the other hand, I could make a boatload of money selling tickets for admission, couldn't I?

Oh, one thing (besides Ed, of course) that's been keeping my spirits up this week: I'm having lunch with Celeste next Tuesday! I could use a good, healthy dose of Funny Lady, and she's just the woman to deliver it. :)

A Kiss Isn't Always Just a Kiss

2010-07-06T21:18:00.002-05:00

In my previous entry, I promised to tell Ed's version of our first kiss. I'm a little reluctant to do so because it will ruin my reputation as a good girl and an arbiter of morality and... *snort*. Yeah, okay. Who am I kidding? However, keep in mind that at the time, I was very inexperienced and innocent. My dating/kissing experiences before that time consisted of 1) an older boy of 16 who tried to ram his tongue down my throat at a church sleep-over for the youth group when I was 13, 2) the editor of the school newspaper, a senior and, therefore, impressive to a sophomore, who invited me to a movie and attempted to climb on top of me in his car right in front of the theater, and 3) another senior from a nearby school who took me to see The Tamarind Seed and kept trying to stick his tongue in my ear and his hand up my shirt when all I wanted to do was sigh dreamily over Omar Sharif. So I was dubious about this kissing thang and a little wary, especially of Older Men.

Now, I didn't remember this story AT ALL, but one of the things I adore about Ed is that he remembers exactly what I was like as a teenager. Talking to him after all these years has been like getting little pieces of my history back. All right, I've delayed long enough. Our first kiss went like this: We'd skated for a while and were sitting and talking. Ed claims I moved in for a kiss, but he'd recently gotten over mono and was worried about passing it on to me, so he pulled back. Yes, the dreaded Pull-Back. We talked a little more, and I repeated the move, with the same result. (I have to state, for the record, that I'm shocked--shocked, I tell you--that I made not one move, but TWO.) Ed was worried about what I was might be thinking about his avoidance tactics, so he confessed that he'd had mono. Without missing a beat or batting an eyelash, I blurted out, "Oh, it's all right. I've already had mono."

TOTAL LIE. I'm afraid that I was not only a complete and utter hussy, but also a little liar lips. Hey, it worked, though. Ed wasted no time in testing my theory on immunity and repeating the test several times to ensure valid results. Scientific method, you know. I changed my opinion about kissing and decided it was my new favorite activity. That experience also showed me that older men could be a lot of fun, especially when they had a little finesse about the whole thing.

Of course, I was mortified when Ed told me this story. I'm still bewildered by my forwardness. I'd NEVER acted that way before, and I don't think I've ever been that forward with anyone else since. Ed says he loved it, though, and I have to say, he did respond rather favorably to it. Even now, I'm a lot bolder with him than I usually am with men. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with trust. Well, and people are more likely to repeat behavior when they get a positive reaction, and Ed's downright delighted when I'm forward.

At 15, I thought he was the best kisser in the world, and over the years, other kisses never quite measured up to my memories of him. I kept telling myself that was silly, and I was remembering him through a romantic haze and all that. I tried to be sensible and realistic. When we were making plans to meet in Savannah, I couldn't help thinking about it, however. The entire, seemingly endless day of flying to Charlotte, waiting through a two-hour layover, and finally flying to Savannah, I kept wondering whether I'd feel the same way when he kissed me again. When he finally did, all the wondering was over: I did feel the same way. After thirty-five years, that seems like a miracle to me. I wish I could explain it better, but the best I can do is to say his lips fit mine perfectly, and I'd be happy to never kiss any lips but those for the rest of my life.

I'd planned to write more about Daniel's reaction to all this and what the current situation with Kevin's living arrangements are and try to answer questions some people had in the comments, but clearly I have kissing on the brain tonight, and that's about all I can focus on. I'll get to the practical stuff in the next entry. Oh, and I'm also thinking I should change the name of this blog to reflect the apparent loss of my sarcasm. What can I say? I'm too happy to be cynical! How about "Finding Love at Fifty: All Sentimental Hoo-ha, All the Time"? OK, maybe I haven't completely lost my edge. :)

What I've Been Up To: Part II

2010-07-06T13:23:00.002-05:00

Now for the happy part: I'm in love, and I'm moving to Georgia. It's a rather long story, but I'll try to condense it for you. In March, I had a sudden urge to look up my first boyfriend, Ed. I dated him in 1975 and 1976, when I was 15 and 16. For those of you who can do math, that was thirty-five years ago. Yes, I yam old. While we were dating, he went into the Army; we wrote lots of letters because, you know, no e-mail back then (gasp). Eventually, we drifted apart, but there was never a definitive break-up, no bitterness, no hard feelings. As a matter of fact, I thought of him often and fondly. Every time I saw a guy with strawberry-blond hair wearing a plaid flannel shirt, my heart beat a little faster.

I met him at a roller-skating rink in February, 1975, when he asked me out for a moonlight skate. He was one of the cool guys who could actually skate backward, and my little 15-year-old self was thrilled. Hard as it might be to believe, I was rather shy back then, but I had no trouble talking to him. Later, we wound up making out in his car in the parking lot, until my mommy came to pick me up. Talk about humiliating! I was sure I'd never hear from him again because he was cool and 19, but I did. I'd kissed a few boys before that, and had a few dates with guys who did an excellent impression of an octopus, but I'd never felt like that before. The minute he put his arms around me, I felt as though I'd come home, after being away for a long, long time. As new-agey as it sounds, I even felt as though I recognized him. (Ed has a slightly different memory of our first kiss that I'll write about in my next entry; I'm a little embarrassed because it shows what a complete hussy I was with him.)

Memories can be deceiving, I know, but I never did find anyone who had all the qualities I loved in Ed. Some had his intelligence, some had his wit, some had his initiative, some had his playfulness, but none were Ed. Quite simply, I never fell out of love with him. Near the end of my marriage, when things got so bad, thinking about him gave me the guts I needed to tell The Ex "I'm done." So one night back in March, I tried to look him up on Google. The only link that had possibilities was at Classmates.com, and I left a message with my e-mail address for him there. I wasn't sure he'd remember me, however.

He did. Two days later, I got an e-mail, starting with "Lisa, Lisa, Lisa," which is the way he used to start so many of his letters to me. Even better, there were no misspellings, no mistakes in grammar or punctuation. Most of you will realize how much that meant to me. I tell you, my heart fluttered with joy. Hey, I have my priorities! We started e-mailing regularly, once a day at first, but soon two or three times a day. I think we made an honest attempt at keeping things friendly, but it was clear pretty fast that we both still had feelings for each other. After a few weeks, we talked on the phone, and although I was so nervous I could hardly breathe, I calmed down right away when I heard his voice. It was a little deeper than I remembered, but in so many ways, he still sounded like the Ed I remembered. My Ed. I don't normally like chatting on the phone very much, but with him, I could talk easily and, apparently, forever. Two hours on the phone with him seemed like only minutes.

Before I make you all hurl by waxing eloquent about how wonderful he is (see how considerate I am? but he is wonderful and sweet and sexy), I'll fast-forward to June 18, when I met him in Savannah for a four-day weekend. I was taking a chance because I'm not immune to the allure of all the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil atmosphere; Savannah's a beautiful city and one of the most romantic places I've ever seen. I could have been in Peoria and still been as happy, however.

A few years ago, I read that when you see people you knew many years ago, after the initial surprise of realizing they've gotten older, you stop seeing the changes and see the people you used to know. Whoever wrote that was describing a high school reunion, but I had the same reaction. Of course Ed's older. I do know that, and hell, I'VE certainly gotten older. None of it mattered. I still saw my Ed: my first love, the man I never got over. In all the important ways, he's the same, and the ways in which he's changed are for the better. He still makes me feel loved and cherished in a way no one else has ever come close to.

I considered writing about how Ed is an improvement over Kevin, but that's not the real (or only) reason I love him. It's enough to say that they're so different they could be entirely separate species. Making occasional comparisons is inevitable and natural, but I'd rather not focus on them. Yes, I believe Ed's a better person, but more important, he's better for me.

To make a long story short (or as short as I'm capable of, being a long-winded girl), I'm moving to Georgia soon, where he lives now. No, he can't move here because he has a J-O-B, unlike some men who shall rename nameless. Ahem. My job's extremely portable. Yep, I'm going to be rash and impulsive and imprudent and all that, but it feels more right than anything I've ever done. Despite the frustration and annoyance and occasional fear going on while Kevin's here, I'm happier and more hopeful than I've been in what seems like forever. About damn time, huh?

What I've Been Up To: Part I

2010-07-05T12:34:00.002-05:00

Not to sound melodramatic (although I am dabbing my forehead delicately with a lavender-scented handkerchief), but writing this entry on the Fourth of July (yeah, and posting it on the 5th because I procrastinate) is fitting because I've declared myself free of Kevin's attempts to drain the life out of me. Being Peter Pan's girlfriend got old years ago, but I loathe confrontation almost as much as I do Michelle Bachman. However, the past couple of years have been leading inexorably to this point, and I finally overcame my fear of The Unpleasantness. I can't keep living with someone I don't love and respect. As Gloria Gaynor said, "Enough is enough is enough." (Gloria, right? Whatever. Some disco queen, which is probably a poor source of wise quotes. I'm too exhausted to look up a pithy saying by Emerson, however.)

Everyone I've told has been encouraging and supportive and has said in one way or another "About damn time." Daniel summed it up succinctly by saying, "Mom, he's mooched off you long enough." Yes, he has. He hasn't been employed full-time since we moved here, a little over two years ago, and has made only a few attempts to look for a job (and none at all for the past year). Enough, indeed. About a year ago, I paid more than $2000 to keep him out of jail for not paying child support. Go ahead, say it: Dumbest. Move. Ever. Yes, I was a sap.

To make all the financial woes even more delightful, his temper has gotten increasingly worse. I realized several months ago that I'd stopped sleeping well because I was constantly tense. I lost my appetite--which is QUITE the symptom of being upset for me--and started having recurring stomach problems. I started walking to get out of the house (in other words, away from the source of my tension) and help me deal with stress. It did help, and as a result, I've lost a little over 50 pounds. About damn time for that, too, but I don't recommend living with a crazy person as a weight-loss method.

Well, there's more to this story, including a very happy ending, but I'm going to save it for another entry. I'm out of practice and need to work up to writing again. To my steadfast friends who have listened to me moan and kvetch and whine and offered insight, humor, and righteous indignation on my behalf, I love you, and you've made all this easier to bear.

Seven things

2008-04-22T07:56:00.001-05:00

Now that I've discovered I've been tagged by two people (Janet and Greg), I guess I should take a stab at this survey meme-thingie. However, I'm having a devil of a time coming up with seven semi-interesting things to write about.

The Rules:

1. When tagged, place the name of the person and URL on your blog.

2. Post the rules on your blog.

3. Write 7 things about yourself.

4. Tag 7 of your favorite bloggers.

The Seven Things:

1. I'm fascinated by tiny things. (First person to make a short joke gets smacked in the kneecaps.) One of my favorite childhood books was The Borrowers, which inspired me to spend many afternoons making little dollhouse rooms from shoeboxes and castaway items I scavenged from my mom's sewing room. Secretly, I hoped a Borrower family would take up residence in one of these rooms. Recently, Kevin's cousin Sam gave me a set of miniature Beatrix Potter books, which thrilled me. Two of my favorites (books and tiny things) in one package!

2. I think I've developed Magpie Syndrome. (I'm not trendy enough to have adult ADD.) I start a task, and then get distracted far too easily by something else. You know: "Oh, something shiny!" This new tendency concerns me.

3. I resist new technology. I didn't own a microwave until 1997, when visiting friends insisted I could no longer exist without one. I still don't have an iPod and can't foresee needing one anytime in the near future. When I moved into this house and had cable hooked up, the cable guy brought a shiny converter box and a remote with enough buttons to land a 747 remotely. With these two devices, he claimed I could use that newfangled DVR technology all you kids are talking about. I tried. Honestly, I did. However, the instruction manual was less than helpful, and after two frustrating hours and generating a blue cloud of cusswords over my house, I unhooked the damn converter box, called the cable company to pick it up, and went back to my tried-and-true method of taping shows: my VCR. Hush! I hear you snickering.

4. If you're knocking at my door, and I don't know ahead of time you're coming, I'm not answering. Period. Door-to-door salespeople and proselytizers have NO chance with me.

5. I order things online partly for the convenience but mainly because getting a package in the mail makes as excited as a child. Even though I know what's in the box, I always have a moment of thinking "I wonder what's inside?" I love that feeling.

6. I'm intrigued by the notion of being organized and having a place for everything. In practice, I find it daunting and exhausting. Since moving, I've done better at organizing my stuff, but I worry I won't be able to keep up my new and improved ways. I yearn to be one of those anal-retentive types with neatly labeled boxes in my closets and an alphabetized pantry, but I lack the follow-through.

7. I get paid for my obsessive-compulsive behavior. Even when I'm not working, I'm editing in my mind: menus, store signs, pamphlets in the doctor's office, instruction manuals, etc., etc.

Good Lord, that was hard. I'm not tagging anyone because everyone I know has done this survey or been tagged by someone else. Get me: I'm a rebel!

Eight legs, two fangs, and an attitude

2008-04-21T14:41:00.001-05:00

When I'm startled, apparently I sound like a chihuahua yelping in pain. How do I know that, you ask? I have an unimpeachable witness: my mom. I was sitting on my bed yesterday afternoon talking to her on the phone, with Charlie snoozing contentedly next to me. My upper arm felt funny, as though somebody was tickling it. Still chatting, I looked down at my arm and Holy Mother of God, the biggest spider I've ever seen was crawling up my arm! I'm not exaggerating one bit when I say it looked like an extra from Arachnophobia. I didn't stop to study it carefully, but I think it might have been a wolf spider. Christ on a biscuit.

The reason I didn't have time to study it is because I was too busy flinging it off me, shrieking, dropping the phone, leaping five feet straight up from a sitting position, and falling on the floor, gibbering in a panic. From far, far away, I heard someone calling my name, and I thought the SPIDER WAS LURING ME TO IT. Finally, I realized my phone was on the bed and still on. I grabbed it and heard my mom yelling "What happened to Charlie? I heard him yelping!"

I was too scared to be embarrassed to admit it was me who made that noise. I told her what happened, and she asked whether I could still see the spider. I peered over at the bed and saw him crawling along the edge of the mattress. He was coming for me! I scooped up Charlie, who was awake now and puzzled about my hollering, and shooed him into the living room. Then I raced back into the bedroom while my mom was telling me to just squish the spider with a kleenex. I said "Mom, you don't understand! He's so big he'd fight back. Besides, if I squish him, he'll crunch!" I picked up a People magazine and swatted ineffectually at him. He paused and chuckled, and then scurried behind the bed.

Well, that was it: No way was I ever sleeping in that bed again. I told my mom I'd talk to her later, and then I paced around the living room, wondering how long spiders live. Suddenly, I had the bright idea of sucking the evil thing up into my vacuum cleaner. (A pity I don't use my cleaning tools to, you know, actually clean more often, but they get quite a workout in home defense.) I hauled my Bissell into the bedroom and quickly set up the tool attachment. I inched the bed back from the wall, switched on the vacuum, jumped on top of the bed, and began sweeping the attachment wildly back and forth along the floor behind the bed. I couldn't see the spider anywhere, however.

Just as well. It didn't occur to me until later that if I had sucked the spider up, he would have been trapped inside the canister alive and really pissed. I don't know how I'd have managed to empty the canister without him attacking me. I shut the bedroom door, just in case the spider was still in there somewhere.

Kevin got home about an hour later, and even though I used very descriptive words and gestures to explain how huge the spider was, I don't think he believed me. I even mentioned Arachnophobia twice to make sure he understood! Despite that warning, he went into the bedroom while I cowered on the couch. I heard him yell "Holy crap!" followed by some muffled bangs and thwacks. I tiptoed down the hall and saw him going into the bathroom, holding a wad of kleenex at arm's length and looking extremely pale. The toilet flushed, and he came out. All he would say was "I'll never think you're exaggerating about spider size again."

Fear my mop!

2008-04-19T07:23:00.004-05:00

Sasha demanded to see a better picture of the women in funny hats, so here it is:

Feel free to add captions!

Hmm, it's not showing up as well as I'd hoped. I posted the picture in Flickr, too. You might be able to see it better there.

******

Good thing I don't have the real-life version of The Truman Show being filmed in my house. I swear, if people could see the bone-headed stunts I pull sometimes, they'd fear for my sanity. Last week, I was chatting online with Sasha. I had the patio screen door open because it was fairly warm outside. Suddenly, I heard the dogs go into a frenzy of barking, and I rushed to the door (after brb-ing, of course). I looked outside and saw the lead dog from Hounds of the Baskervilles sauntering around my backyard. Seriously, this dog was so huge I could have thrown a saddle on him and ridden him off into the sunset, with my feet never touching the ground. Okay, I'm very short, but still: BIG DOG.

I hollered at him to shoo, but he didn't even look my way. I'm not usually afraid of big dogs on principle; as a matter of fact, I'm likely to be the idiot who walks up to a strange dog cooing "Who's a good puppy?" right before getting my arm taken off at the elbow. Something about this dog's complete disregard of me unnerved me, however. I shut the glass door and came back in here to report to Sasha.

I said I was worried about letting the dogs out later, especially Charlie. I'm sure he'd be a tasty snack treat for this beast. I was trying to think of ways to arm myself the next time I took the dogs out, in case the Baskerville Beast came back. Sasha suggested a baseball bat, but my days playing shortstop (snort) are long over, and I haven't had a bat in the house for years. I had a brilliant idea, though. I said I'd take a can of Raid with me and spray BB right in the face if he came back and tried anything! Sasha said, "No, you don't want to spray Charlie by mistake if that dog gets Charlie in his mouth." Holy crap. I hadn't even thought of that possibility. Sasha advised me to just get a big stick and whap BB across the nose.

Later, when the dogs started doing the pee-pee dance, I realized I'd better go find a weapon before taking them out. I peered out the door but saw no sign of BB. I sidled out into the yard to grab a stick, but when you need a big stick, there's never one around, right? The best I could come up with was a foot-long twig, and that would just make BB laugh.

I came back inside to look for an alternative. Meanwhile, the dogs were staring at me fixedly to remind me of their overloaded bladders. I was in the kitchen, looking around wildly for a weapon. Cast-iron frying pan? Too cartoonish. Butcher knife? Too violent! I glanced in the pantry, saw a mop, and grabbed it. It was stick-shaped, sort of, and I figured it was close enough. I turned to the dogs and said, in a falsely cheerful voice, "Okay, outside!"

I got the dogs outside, and while they were busy, I was surveying the backyard, whirling around to make sure BB wasn't sneaking up behind me and waving the mop threateningly. The mop has one of those elongated bell-shaped plastic shields on the end that you slide down to wring water from the mop head, and I realized it resembled those dumbbell things I've seen on American Gladiators. I heard children's voices from across the ravine. When I looked over, I saw the kids from the Montessori school outside for receess, and they were waving at me and laughing. I'm sure they were enjoying the show the crazy lady was putting on! I decided to get back inside before one of the teachers came running over, with a look of horror on her face, to herd the children inside away from the insane woman threatening invisible foes with a MOP.

Every picture tells a story

2008-04-14T08:32:00.004-05:00

Celeste sent me a link to an article in the New York Times about eVites. Ha! I'm delighted to see my distaste for e-vitations confirmed. See? I'm not just a cranky curmudgeon. And now I promise to drop this topic. Really.
******
I got a lot of unpacking-and-setting-up work done on my office this weekend. I've neglected my office a little because I've been working so much on the rest of the house. I did get my desk and computer set up right after we moved in, and really, those two things are all I need to work. I'm a happier worker when I have my things surrounding me, however. I unpacked and shelved books (thank God for all the built-in shelves in this room), hung pictures, and arranged tchotchkes, and I'm pleased with my progress. I still have a few boxes to unpack, but the room looks much less like a warehouse.
Here's an example of a must-have in my office (with apologies for the glare):

This picture came from a book of postcards based on illustrations from pulp novel covers, and it always makes me laugh. A little macabre, but it helps that the editor in this illustration isn't a woman! Such a melodramatic book title, isn't it? The old photographs to the upper left of that postcard were a present from Kevin. I should take a more close-up picture or perhaps scan it, but you might be able to tell that they're old photos of prim-looking Victorian women wearing a series of funny hats. I get a kick out of imagining what was going on when the photos were taken and what the women were thinking.
******
I understand some people have bright dogs who can actually learn tricks and obey commands and all that? Not my dogs. I always knew they weren't the brightest canines, but recently they confirmed that any attempt at training them would be an utter waste of time. A sliding glass door leads out to the patio and back yard, and shortly after I moved in, the screen part of the door came off the track. At the time, there was still snow on the ground, and it was too cold to use the screen door anyway, so I left it. A few weeks later, Kevin cleaned out the track and put the screen door back up. The first time I took the dogs outside after the screen was up, guess what they did? They waited for me to open the glass door, and then promptly galloped smack into the screen door. What's worse is that Charlie saw Holly hit the screen door first and still rushed headlong into the screen. Not even the Dog Whisperer could do anything with dogs that dumb!

Old but new-in-a-way news

2008-04-11T08:51:00.002-05:00

Oh. My. God. This eVite nonsense will not die! Yesterday I got a reminder e-mail, saying that I hadn't responded on the Web site. It might be an automatic function, but the note in the e-mail seemed to have been written by the hostess. The three close friends I mentioned the other day? Haven't responded either. Heh. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

******

I've been trying to think of news that happened during my blogo-hiatus, other than moving-related news, and so far I've come up with only two things. They're fairly big, though. Daniel took his driving test--and on his 19th birthday, too. We went back to Mayberry so that he could take the test with one of the instructors from his driving school instead of at the BMV. We met his dad there about an hour before his appointment because Daniel was going to spend the weekend with The Ex. Daniel wanted to use the time to practice parallel parking because he hadn't done it since the previous summer, when he took driving lessons. Christ on a biscuit. He had NO idea what he was doing! After 10 years in Chicago, parallel parking had become second nature to me, so I couldn't figure out how to explain to Daniel what he was doing wrong. The Ex was giving him useless, contradictory hints, and I got huffy, and things devolved from that point. Finally, I said "Look, we're making the poor kid nervous! Let's just head over to the driving school and hope for the best."

Daniel was barely speaking to us, and I can't say I blame him. I paid for his test, and the instructor told Daniel which car she was going to use. (The school tests students on its cars, which is good because Daniel was familiar with them from his lessons.) He stalked out to the parking lot, and the instructor smiled reassuringly at me and said "He's nervous about parallel parking, right?" "Oh, yeah," I replied. She said not to worry because she gives that portion very little weight in her assessment. Mainly, she wants to make sure students know the steps, not whether they can actually get the car into the space because they use parallel parking so rarely.

While they were gone, his dad and I paced the parking lot and fretted. With it being Daniel's birthday, I kept thinking of the long wait for him to be born. In a way, I felt as though I were going through that process all over again, but this time a full-fledged adult instead of a baby was going to pop out. (Uh, ow. I just had to cross my legs and wince.) When I saw Daniel pull into the parking lot and jump out with a huge smile on his face, I almost collapsed from relief. He passed! Now he just has to pass the written test, but he decided to do more reviewing before taking it. I'm going to pick him up next Tuesday or Thursday, when he has a three-hour break in the middle of the day, and take him over to the local BMV. Keep your fingers crossed he passes that portion, OK?

The other piece of news: The Ex and his wife are having a baby! He called me about a month ago because he was nervous about telling Daniel, remembering Daniel's reactions to the prospect of siblings when he was much younger. The most famous episode happened shortly after I started dating Kevin, when Daniel was 9. He sat down with me one day and informed me that he DID NOT want any baby brothers or sisters and wanted to know "my plans." He also quizzed me on whether I was taking birth control! It makes me laugh now, but at the time? I was glad he was aware of birth control but not very pleased at being lectured on preventing conception by a freakin' 9-year-old.

The Ex was also having a little trouble adjusting to the thought of impending parenthood at his age. He turns 49 this summer. In his shoes, I don't think I'd be looking forward to changing diapers and walking the floors at midnight again. I'm too cranky and need my sleep too much. I love borrowing other people's babies for a short time, but I also enjoy handing them over when they get upset or smelly. At 40, I think I would have been thrilled to have another baby. Almost 10 years later, not so much.

It turns out this pregnancy wasn't planned, either--at least not by The Ex. He said, with a forced-sounding joking tone, "It wasn't my idea!" and grumbled about it being the price he pays for marrying a much younger woman. Well, yeah, buddy. He expected a 30-year-old woman to not want children? Please. I'm sure her parents are overjoyed. They have no grandchildren, and her older brother isn't likely to give them any because it might cut into his working-out schedule.

Of course, Daniel handled the news well and told his dad congratulations. I think he's secretly tickled at the idea of being a big brother, and I know he'll be a good one. I'm happy for The Ex's wife because I've suspected for a while that she's been longing for a baby. Strangely, though, I'm a little sad. I'm not jealous, but I guess I was accustomed to thinking of Daniel as The Ex's only child. Now his dad's attention will be split--and of course it should be. I don't mean The Ex should always show a preference for Daniel; that's silly. Babies do demand almost undivided attention, however, and I think my inner mother lioness is being overprotective of Daniel. He seems to be handling the situation with maturity, however. Now I just need to follow his example.

Dear Mr. Moron

2008-04-09T17:09:00.002-05:00

Thanks for the confirmation that I'm not being rude by refusing to play with my friend's invitation toys. I checked the site today (day after the RSVP deadline), and seven people still haven't responded at all, including three of her closest friends. I don't think I'm alone in my distaste for e-vitations. Hmmmph.

Volunteering at Obama's headquarters yesterday was great! I spent about three hours doing data entry, which is something I can do with one hand tied behind my back and half asleep. Very easy. Figuring out how the database worked took about five minutes, and then the only difficult task was deciphering handwriting on sign-up sheets. People, if you go to the trouble of entering your name, address, and contact info on a sign-up sheet, for God's sake, write legibly! Some poor unpaid (or underpaid) schlub has to interpret your chicken scratches. If your name is "Joan Mason" and you casually scribble it on an sign-up sheet, don't bitch about getting mail addressed to "Mr. John Moron."

I have to admit that I was a little nervous driving down there yesterday, going into a new situation with people I don't know and all. Of course, everyone was friendly, so there was no need for my attack of nerves. I just realized something about myself. (Wooo, an epiphany!) I was painfully shy in elementary school, even through junior high, but I got over it in high school and became somewhat outgoing. I think I started turning shy again when Daniel was a baby, and I'm still having trouble with it. If you met me, I don't think you'd notice; I'm not as visibly awkward as I was as a child. I introduce myself and initiate conversations and, in general, act like a real live grown-up. It's more an internal shyness--agonizing over whether I'm looking, sounding, or behaving like a dork and worrying about what people think of me. Sometimes I wonder whether my inner 13-year-old will ever grow up.

The headquarters are near the courthouse and historic district of downtown Lafayette, which is quaint and pretty but rather eerily deserted. When Kevin and I went there Saturday to register to vote, we decided to walk around the historic district because the weather was gorgeous. We found several antique stores and even an honest-to-goodness soda fountain in McCord Candies, but I didn't see the kinds of crowds I'd expected--just a few other people like us wandering around. Even yesterday, on an weekday, I didn't see many people around.

Celeste, would you believe I haven't seen a single redbud blooming yet? This year is the latest arrival of spring I can remember. I'm just now starting to see a few daffodils and tulips, but most of the trees still look pitifully bare. I'm itching to start gardening, too. Oh, would you e-mail me sometime? (My Gmail address is over there to the left.) I'd love to ask you about the Parthenon and any other Lafayette/Purdue places you can recommend. Go Boilermakers!

You would have been 54 today, Leslie. I think about you on this day every year--and many, many others days of the year, too.

Be my Emily

2008-04-07T15:08:00.002-05:00

Now I know why I haven't moved for the past 12 years. Moving is a major pain in the ass, isn't it? Well, I love my new house, and I'll actually get around to posting pictures soon, after I get more boxes cleared out of the way. I can't tell you how much I adore calling the landlord when something needs to be fixed and having a handyman sent out tout suite! The best part? My handyman's name is Butch, I kid you not.

I have an etiquette question for you. A friend sent an invitation to a surprise birthday party for her husband this Saturday. She didn't send it until this past Saturday, so I can understand not being able to mail written invitations, although this woman does event planning for a living and is constantly trumpeting her superior planning skills. So a mass e-mail is fine, but she sent one of those stupid eVite things. Have you ever gotten one? I hate them, and I think the notion of needing one is ridiculous unless you have 200 guests to keep track of (not the case here). Also, you can see how everyone else replies on the eVite site, and my reason for not being to attend isn't one I care to announce to several people I don't know. I'll tell you, my lovely Internet friends, because I know you. Or I sort of know you and think you're very funny. Anyway, my night vision has gotten so bad that driving at night is downright scary unless it's a trip down the street to the grocery on extremely well-lit roads. Kevin can't go, so I'd have to drive 35 miles back by myself late at night with my old-lady eyes, and I'm not going to get into a head-on crash just to holler "Surprise!" at a man.

ANYway, I e-mailed her privately to tell her why I couldn't attend and sent my best wishes, yadda yadda. Very polite. (I was raised right.) Not three minutes later, she sent out another goddamn eVite e-mail, saying the following:

Some of you have been very kind to RSVP to me directly via email and for that I thank you. However, to make sure I don't miss anyone, would you please click on this link and respond directly on the invitation website? Its pretty kewl in that it tabulates everything for us. Yep! I'm getting lazy in my old age. Thanksabunch everyone! I truly appreciate it.

She's inviting less than 30 people. What the hell is there to "tabulate"? Half the people on her list haven't even responded yet, even though today is the RSVP deadline. Why didn't she just e-mail me back? Clearly, she means the e-mail for me. I guess she wants to prevent any other people who don't follow instructions from doing the same thing, but would sending a personal note to me separately have killed her? Fuck it. I'm not going to do it. Does that make me rude? (Apparently, it DOES make me quite the pottymouth.) I could be really rude and point out her punctuation and spelling errors. Uh, I guess I just did, didn't I? Oh, well.

Tomorrow afternoon, I'm volunteering at Obama's headquarters. I'm excited! I've never worked on a presidential campaign before. When I went there Saturday to sign up, a woman wandered in, looking confused, and asked where Hilary's headquarters are. All the volunteers stared at each other for a minute, and I muttered to the guy signing me up, "Tell her that if you do tell her, you'll have to kill her." He started sputtering and choking on his coffee. Either he was amused, or he's rethinking having me come in tomorrow.

Moving on

2008-02-29T09:32:00.002-05:00

It's been a couple of weeks since my last update, but I think you'll understand when I tell you what's going on. I'm losing my house. I've tried working out solutions, yadda yadda, but I decided giving up was the wisest choice--for me. Honestly, I'm no longer all that enamored of home ownership. I've done it for 12 years, and I'm ready to let someone else worry about repairs and taxes.

Now for the positives: This house is too much house for just Kevin and me, so we're moving into a smaller house that will be much easier to keep clean and in order. Packing to move has forced me to clean out unbelievable amounts of useless crap--things I haven't looked at in five years, things I'd never, in a million years, use. I can't believe I had all that junk sitting around gathering dust. No wonder I've felt overwhelmed and mentally cluttered for the past few years! With each bag of trash that gets tossed, I feel lighter mentally and emotionally.

Next positive: We're moving to a college town (and, yes, it's the town where Daniel goes to school, but I've sworn a blood oath not to intrude too often), and as I told Greg, I feel as though I'm re-entering civilization after 12 years of exile. The new town has live music and theater! An art museum! Tons of restaurants, bookstores, and cool shops! A botanical garden! A historical society! I can't wait to get out and start exploring.

Yet another positive: The job market up there is much, much better than here in Mayberry, so Kevin and I are hoping he can find a job with more of a future. After a little surfing, I've already seen listings for job search, career counseling, and job retraining services, so that's a good sign, I think.

And another one: Rent is going to be far less than my mortgage payment, so I can get caught up financially and maybe even save some money (what a concept).

I know losing my house is a bad thing, but I don't think I'm wrong to feel a little hopeful. This house and this town were a wonderful place to raise Daniel, but that chapter of my life is over. Time to turn the page to the next one.

I won't have Internet access next week because my service provider is switching cable companies, but I might head over to the library a few times and check e-mail (address over there to the left). I'll have plenty to do to keep me busy--just wish me strength to withstand the withdrawal pangs, would you?

Ugh

2008-02-10T19:49:00.000-05:00

Almost exactly 48 hours after Andrew was here, I'm coughing, hacking, sniffling, aching, feeling nauseated, and running a fever. DAMN IT. Anyone know the penalty for ex-icide?

A laugh and a rant about exes

2008-02-09T11:25:00.000-05:00

Celeste has officially stolen my heart, as the person who's made me laugh the hardest in the past 24 hours. She left a comment yesterday about my picture over there in the sidebar to the left, saying she adored my baby picture and it reminded her of Dale Chihuly. Of course, I had to Google him. I clicked the first link that looked promising, fully expecting him to be a photographer like Anne Geddes, who takes nauseatingly sweet photos of babies (inexplicably reposing in giant roses and assorted fruits). You can imagine my surprise when I saw this picture of Dale Chihuly. Bwah! Bless your heart, Celeste. I had a long, tiring day trying to turn an author's meandering incomprehensible prose into something approximating English, so ending my day with that kind of laugh was exactly what I needed. By the way, Dale does very cool glass art--check out some other links for him on Google.

######

Giggling over my younger self's resemblance to Dale also helped me deal with the annoyance that is Kevin's ex-wife. Some of you have heard me complain about her before, so I won't get into repeating the litany of her horrible parenting skills, her nastiness, her lying, etc., etc. Well, I'll give you one example: She's mysteriously been able to afford digital cable services ever since I've known her but whines about not having money to buy new winter coats for her children. Anyway, she's always been a little afraid of me, which delights me to no end because I'm hardly what you'd call intimidating. I'm 4'11" if I stand up very straight, and if I had to compare myself to a celebrity, I'd say Mrs. Claus before her red hair turned gray. Not exactly the stuff of nightmares, but she fears me so much that she's terrified of actually speaking to me on the phone. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.

Here's how I know that: When she wants to call Kevin, she has to work up the nerve to leave a message for him, so she calls about five to six times first, hanging up right before the answering machine picks up each time. (Yes, she is too stupid to realize I can tell it's her because of caller ID.) Finally, she gets brave enough to leave a message, which invariably starts this way, in her slow, whiny voice: "Keeeeeeeevin, you neeeeeed to call meeeeee the second you get this meeeessage." First? I cannot stand it when people say "You need to . . ." Perhaps you'd like me to do something, or you think it's important I do something, but I don't need to do anything, except maybe pee after drinking three cups of coffee. How about "Would you please call me?" or "I need to talk to you soon." Second, she usually calls while he's at work, so he's not able to call her back until he gets home, often a few hours later. When he does call back, she bitches about him not calling the "second" he got the message, which hello? Just because he didn't call the second she left the message doesn't mean he didn't call back as soon as he got it.

Gah. ANYway, The Ex-Wife wanted to talk to Kevin about Andrew feeling "a little sick" because he was supposed to come over last night and spend the weekend. The Ex-Wife said Andrew threw up yesterday morning but was fine now. That didn't sound serious, so Kevin said he'd be there at the usual time to pick him up.

Well. I wish you could have seen this poor kid when he walked in. He threw up three times yesterday, not once, and he had a fever of 102 and a cough that rattled the windows. He couldn't take his coat off for half an hour because he had chills from going out in the frigid air and said he COULD NOT EAT his dinner. I've known Andrew 10 years, and I've never seen him sick enough to not eat. Plus, he was coughing and hacking everywhere without covering his mouth, and I don't want to sound Monk levels of neurotic, but Jesus. I could practically see flu germs arcing through the air and leaping down my throat.

I gave him some cold-and-flu medicine and had Kevin bundle him up in bed, and he fell asleep at 9:00, which is also unheard of for him. And then I fussed at Kevin for about 10 minutes nonstop about The Ex-Wife's idiocy in letting a kid that sick leave his home. It's not just her being inconsiderate enough to let him to infect other people, but when kids are that sick, they shouldn't leave their own homes and beds, where they're more comfortable. I don't like being sick in someone else's house, and I don't think anyone does. I've never let Daniel go over to his dad's house when he's ill enough to run a fever. With a typical cold and sniffles, maybe, but with a fever and vomiting? No way.

When Andrew got up this morning, Kevin checked his temperature, and it was still 102 (which worried me because fevers are usually lowest in the morning). Kevin asked him how he felt, and he said "Okay, I guess, but . . . I'm sorry, Dad, but I want to to go home." So Kevin called The Ex-Wife, and she said "Oh, sorry, I didn't know he was that sick." Argh! I could tell with one look from 15 feet away, and he's not even my kid!

I'm going back to look at that picture of Dale Chihuly again because I need another laugh. Damn it.

I can't get ANYthing to work

2008-02-08T07:41:00.000-05:00

I've been trying this contact lens site because I want to see what I look like with different-colored eyes, but I keep getting an error message. Maybe it'll work for you. Some of the contact colors I saw look so unreal--bright green or purple?--that I'm dying to see whether I look like an alien in them.
Let me explain the "alien." I have a first cousin, Jennifer, who was born with beautiful dark-brown eyes and brown hair. Several years ago, she dyed her hair a rather unnatural yellow-blonde and got bright-blue contacts. She was a pretty woman: tall, great figure, beautiful features, olive complexion. With her new hair and eyes, she looks bizarre, though. At a recent family reunion, my mom told me that Jennifer was talking to my Cousin Dewey. (Yes, his real name, and he's something like my second cousin once removed, I think? I'm a bad Southerner because I can't keep all those convoluted cousin relationships straight.) After Jennifer left, he told my mom, "She's still gorgeous, but she looks like an alien!" My mom and I still laugh about it. Dewey's such a sweet old man that she didn't expect that comment from him. Every now and then, we try to work "alien" into a compliment. "Nice eyeshadow, even if does make you look like an alien." "New haircut? It's a little alien-like, but pretty."
######
I'm such a moron about computer hardware. Software, I can learn, but show me anything with cables and electronic parts, and I'm intimidated. My printer finally died last week, so I bought a new printer/scanner combination. I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I'm stymied about unhooking the old printer and scanner and hooking up the new one. If I don't shut down the computer before disconnecting the old printer and scanner, are sparks going to fly out that start a raging inferno and burn down my house? And if I do shut down the computer and disconnect the old equipment, is Windows going to be confused when I turn the computer back on and repeatedly inform me that some hardware isn't connected? If so, how do I shut it up until I can get the new printer connected? And do I need to uninstall the software for the old computer and scanner at some point? My new printer/scanner has been sitting on the floor of my office for four days, which is pathetic. Any suggestions? Feel free to make fun of my ignorance; I can live with the embarrassment if you can get me past this ridiculous frozen-by-indecisiveness point.

Edited to add: I just found the link for the top 10 Superbowl commercials. If you're slow like me and haven't seen them yet, there you go. Love the last one: I could watch Justin Timberlake getting smacked upside the head with things over and over and over. :)

AI and PR

2008-02-07T14:42:00.000-05:00

I've been working my short little fingers to the bone this week, so in terms of exciting news to report? I have nothing. So far this week, I've been collapsing on the couch around 7:00 or 8:00, watching a little TV, and then going back to work for another hour or two. I'm unduly excited about the variation in this routine planned for tonight. Kevin decreed we're spending the evening upstairs putting away piles of laundry he's washed, cleaning the bathroom, and generally straightening up. Few people see the upstairs, so I tend to neglect it, but the general chaos up there is getting on both our nerves.
I'll spare you the whining and complaining about lazy, incoherent authors and move on to the TV watching. American Idol aired its "Best of the Rest" episode last night, and I was unimpressed, except for Ryan being so familiar with Dolly Parton songs. Watching him sing "Islands in the Stream" and doing a little dance with the auditioner's mom was pretty much worth the time I wasted on that episode. Ryan's such a tiny little man that it was like watching a wee leprechaun caper around.
What else? Oh, Project Runway, of course! SASHA, if you haven't watched yet, STOP READING.
Ricky, the designer who's been sobbing all season at the drop of a hat? Tell him he's awful, and he cries, but tell him he's good--yep, he cries then, too. And he's been weeping and wailing in every episode while wearing the most godawful hats I've ever seen. So last night when he was eliminated, I was bracing myself for the inevitable waterworks. Not one tear, however. What the . . . ? Maybe his Greek fisherman's cap made from mesh (why??) consoled him.

I thought I had a few good years left

2008-02-05T08:11:00.000-05:00

Would you believe I haven't continued reading that stupid Cornwell book? Well, yes, you probably can. I finally gave up and turned to the end of the book to find out who the killer is. I know. I'm just like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, minus the fear of commitment, the wit, the neurotic self-obsession, and the skill at imitating "white man overbite." Other than that, I'm just like him, though!

Recently, Miz S wrote about one of the most devastating effects of aging: Noun Loss. Her description was spot-on and, sadly, all too familiar. You see, I've been suffering in silence for several months about my struggle to pluck the noun I need out of my brain's word soup. Verbs and I play together nicely, and I'm still master of my adjective domain, but nouns and I? We're becoming strangers to one another.

For a person who makes her living with words, this development is upsetting, as you can imagine. Worse, it's embarrassing. I used to laugh, smug in the knowledge I'd never have this problem, when Kevin told me about common exchanges with his mom, which went something like this:

"Kevin, get the thing from my bedroom. It's under the thing."

"Uh, Mom? What thing?"

"You know! Goddammit, the thing. It's under the thing."

If I can remember what letter the word starts with, at least I can reel off several possibilities, as Miz S did when searching for "smoothie." Sometimes, however, the entire word is simply gone, with no clue as to what it starts with or sounds like. A couple of weeks ago, I wanted Kevin to give me the remote because he has no idea how to work it, and it takes him longer than three seconds to find the volume control, and with my patience issues, I can't abide the wait.

ANYway, I started with "Would you please hand over the . . . " and then went blank. I stared at the object of my desire, hoping its name would come to me, but nothing. In desperation, I mimed clutching the remote and pressing buttons on it, but apparently I'm not destined for success in charades because Kevin guessed "The lobster?? You want me to give you the lobster?" I'd like to point out that with a guess like that, Kevin's not about to take the charades crown, either. He's begun referring to the remote as "the lobster," which does amuse us. See? I can still laugh about my . . . uh, the thing that's wrong with me.

Not a meme in sight!

2008-01-30T12:19:00.000-05:00

I figured John Edwards would be dropping out soon, but I'm sorry to see it's this soon. He was a gentlemanly candidate, and I believe he's sincere about issues such as poverty and health care. I'll miss him in debates--and with him gone, who's going to keep Hillary and Barack from coming to blows? (Kidding. I know they'll save slap fights for a more private venue.)

######

Patricia Cornwell is going to do me in. To be more precise, her inept writing is going to kill me. I read a few of her early books because I'm twisted enough to be fascinated by serial killers and forensics procedures; oddly enough, I don't watch any of the CSI shows, though. Anyway, those books were fast-paced and had enough plot twists to keep my interest. I picked up a more recent book of hers at the grocery store the other day. Is it just me, or is she churning out so many books that she's given up on even attempting to write well? I'm going to quote a passage from this book as an example:

"Nice of you to let me know," Marino says angrily as he angrily digs through a saddlebag for his tire-plug kit as he angrily thinks of Joe Amos, getting angrier with each thought."

Just a guess, but do you think Marino was upset about something? Gah. I don't know whether I can finish this book because I want to throw it across it the room. I hate not finishing a book I've started, but she's driving me to thoughts of homicide. "Angry thoughts," I think angrily.

######

Last night proved to me that Indiana has the most bizarre weather in the entire country. Here's what happened: Yesterday afternoon, the temperature was a balmy 54 degrees. Around 8:30 p.m., there was a bad thunderstorm with heavy rain. By 9:00, there was a tornado warning followed by hail. An hour later? It was snowing with near-blizzard-force winds! Needless to say, the temperature plummeted like a rock; I think it was around zero this morning. I'm changing outfits as often as a chorus girl in a musical revue here. Maybe I'll go read some more of that damn Cornwell book. My anger will keep me warm.

AI chatter and some questions

2008-01-24T10:15:00.000-05:00

Oh, my God. A Freecycle message I got this morning offered "2 Small miniature full blooded datsun's (weiner dogs)." Good thing she clarified in parentheses--for a second, my poor brain almost exploded trying to figure out what a full-blooded Datsun might be. And "small miniature" wins the Department of Redundancy Department prize.

######

I have a pile o' work waiting for me, so I'm talking a little American Idol, throwing up a questionnaire, and calling it an entry. So, AI first. I think I've detected this season's theme: chastity. So far in auditions, I've seen the Boy Who's Never Been Kissed (because he made a pledge to his creepy father, and the two of them wear matching lockets as a symbol of his pledge, aaaaaaand it was exactly as disturbing as you think it seems); Nanny Who's Never Seen an R-Rated Movie (and she's married and in her 20s); a crazed-looking man who sang his own composition, "No Sex Allowed"; and Abstinence "Whatevs!" Chick, a 17-year-old girl who preaches perkily and annoyingly to her classmates about the benefits of waiting for marriage to have sex. (Meanwhile, she's captain of the dance team and shakes her booty in an extremely short skirt. Uh, a little more consistency, please?)

######

I saw this questionnaire at Sasha's:

When you walk in your front door, which room do you enter?

I refer to it as the "entryway," but it's more room-sized than that term implies. I have two big bookcases in there, and in the corner, between two windows, is Daniel's reading chair and a lamp.

Do you have a dishwasher?

Yes, thank the Lord.

Is your living room carpeted or does it have hardwood floors?

Hardwood, after I ripped up the hideous beige carpet several years ago.

Do you keep your kitchen knives on the counter or in a drawer?

On the counter in a block, but I'm slowly the replacing the not-very-good knives that came with the block.

House, apartment, duplex, or trailer?

House.

How many bedrooms?

Three upstairs, but one is the art room/music room/Kevin's cave.

Gas or electric stove?

Gas.

Do you have a yard?

Yes, but I wish it were fenced. I'd love to be able to open the back door and turn the dogs loose out there.

What size TV is in the living room?

30-something inches? I think?

Are your plates in the same cupboard as your cups?

Nope. I don't have cups that match my dishes; I keep all the coffee mugs in a cabinet above the coffeemaker.

Is there a coffeemaker sitting on your kitchen counter?

Have we met? Of course!

What room is your computer in?

In my office, which was intended as this house's dining room. It's midway between the bathroom and the kitchen, so it's placed perfectly for me.

Are there pictures hanging in your living room?

Yes, and probably too many. One of my favorites, I actually found in the trash! The man who lived across the alley from my apartment in Oak Park died, and his children threw out an enormous pile of perfectly good stuff. This picture is a watercolor, possibly Victorian era, of a young woman sitting in a rowboat with her head bowed. She could be melancholy or just tired, but I like imagining what she's thinking about.

Are there any themes found in your home?

I don't go for obsessive themes, I guess. I have a few things with pictures of chubby chefs on them in my kitchen, but I wouldn't say it's a theme. Other than that, I'd have to echo Sasha's answer: "Yeah, that would be the Dogs and Cats Own This House We Just Live Here theme."

What kind of laundry detergent do you use?

I have no idea because Kevin does the laundry.

Do you use dryer sheets?

As a matter of fact, I think he switched from fabric softener to dryer sheets recently.

Do you have any curtains in your home?

Yes, because I'm too lazy to dust blinds as often as they need it.

What color is your fridge?

White.

Is your house clean?

I intended to lie like a rug when answering this question, but I feel guilty doing that. I'd say my house is reasonably clean but cluttered, with pockets of chaos (my office, the basement, etc.)

What room is the most neglected?

Usually, it's my office, but I'm slowly making progress on straightening it up. I guess Daniel's room is the most neglected now because he isn't living in it.

Are the dishes in your sink/dishwasher clean or dirty?

I have clean dishes in my dishwasher waiting to be put away so that I can load the dirty dishes in the sink.

How long have you lived in your home?

Since 1995. (Please do the math for me. Thank you.)

Where did you live before?

In a duplex in Indianapolis.

Do you have one of those fluffy toilet lid covers on your toilet?

No (shudder).

Do you have a scale anywhere in your house?

Yes, in the bathroom. It's dusty, if that tells you anything.

How many mirrors are in your house?

Seven: an antique mirror propped up on a kitchen counter, a candle sconce in the living room with a mirror behind the candle, downstairs bathroom mirror, an antique black-framed mirror in the entryway, two in the upstairs bathroom, and the round mirror attached to my antique vanity in the bedroom. Could I say "antique" more in this answer? I think not.

Look up. What do you see?

On top of the hutch over my desk: a Magic-8 ball, my dictionary, a cardboard standing Einstein, a little statue of John Lennon, two small red-and-black silk Japanese boxes, and assorted framed photos and pictures.

Do you have a garage?

Yes, a detached garage at the far end of the back yard.

Everyone needs a sludge hammer

2008-01-20T12:12:00.000-05:00

After the responses to my plea for dinner ideas ("Yeah, dinner. Whatever. A bowl of cereal is filling! Can we talk about American Idol now?" Heh.), I think I know what my problem is. It's not hatred of cooking; actually, I love to cook--occasionally. What I hate is the daily-ness of cooking dinner. You do it one day, and damn it, you have to do it again the next day, and the next, and the next, etc., etc. Bring on the Soylent Green tablets!

I do get inspired by watching the Food Network, however, and searching the Web site always gives me ideas, especially if I have an ingredient and don't know what the hell to do with it, too--a pack of chicken breasts, for example. What I should do is make a regular-sized recipe and freeze half of it, right? But that involves having freezer containers with matching lids. Oy. Face it: Dinner is just a pain in the ass. That bowl of cereal is sounding better all the time.

######

About a month ago, I joined my local Freecycle group. My first experience making an offer wasn't a good one because the woman who claimed she was "so excited" about getting my book of knitting patterns never showed up and wouldn't reply to my e-mails. I was discouraged, but I've been keeping a box of items to give away, and I'll give it another go soon.

I get the group e-mails in a daily digest, and I have to say that I'm dismayed (and snottily amused) at the near-illiterate messages. Isn't there a spell-check feature for messages to Yahoo groups? Clearly, no one uses it. The grammar and punctuation are just as appalling. I sound overly picky, don't I? Because I'm hateful, I'm copying a few here to show you I'm really NOT that picky. Some are unintentionally funny, too:

"i have over 50 jars of baby food that need gone to day!!"

"Im in need of a sweeper if you have one you no longer use please let me know. i Can pick up anytime."

"THIS IS REALLY CUTE. IT IS WINNIE HANGING ON A BLUE BALLOON AND YOU PULL IT DOWN AND IT PLAYS MUSIC. IT IS KIND OF LIKE A MOBILE BUT IT DOESN'T SPEND." (I applaud Winnie's frugality.)

"I'm Looking for an outdoor fire pit for next summer my fiance gets really cold easy and I like to sit outside with the kids during the evening and I figured since it was the winter someone may be getting a new one next year and I could take the old one off there hands!"

"ALSO ON SOME OF THE CLOTHS THERE ARE STAINS, FOR SOME REASON EVERYBODY BUT ME CAN GET STAINS OUT OF CLOTHS...HA HA."

"Offer: A sack full of paring knifes."

"As it seems my very comfy office chair that I have for my computer chair. Has seen its better days, my hubby gotta love him tried to fix it..Its broke on the bottom of the arm. Now if you happen to not to know and lean back it will come apart or just throw you out of the chair." (Maybe her husband meant to make the chair throw her out?)

Her next message: " I forgotten to put down that I live in [next town over] and that I can pick up..Goodness I forgotten to put that in."

"These chairs are metal, kind of have a roth iron look to them. They are from the 70's or 80's not sure. They still have some good life left in them. And they do swivel."

"i AM LOOKING FOR A DRESSER MY SONS IS HAD AND WE NEED A BETTER ONE FOR HIM. I AM ALSO LOOKING FOR SOME CURTAINS THEY DON'T NEED TO BE NOTHING SPECIAL I JUST DON'T HAVE NONE AND ARE NEEDING SOME FOR THE HOUSE. i AM ALSO LOOKING FOR A RECLINER THAT ROCKS BUT DOESN'T HAVE TOO."

Sasha has seen requests for some unusual items on her Freecycle list: "wemens clothes" and a "sludge hammer," for example. Sasha, what was the other one that was so funny?

2008-01-18T08:08:00.001-05:00

I saw this CD Cover Meme at Alicia's and had to try it. Here are the instructions:

1. Go here. The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. Go here. The last four words of the last quote are the title of your album.

3. Go here. The third picture, no matter what it is, is your album cover.

Here are my results:

"Applying the Wrong Remedy" is a great album title, isn't it?

##########

I need dinner help. Since Kevin started working full-time again, I offered to make dinner during the week. I'm at home all day, so it should be no big deal, right? Kevin cooks on the weekends, which gives me a break, but I'm stymied by cooking for only two people. I don't think it's the math of cutting recipes in half that bugs me. I might be a math moron, but even I can do that. I could make full-size recipes, too, because leftovers are handy for Kevin to take to work for lunch and for me to heat up the next day.

I guess I got used to cooking for three, and I haven't adjusted to the notion that Daniel isn't here for dinner? Whatever. I'm feeling decidedly UNcreative, and I'm bored to tears with making the same thing over and over. Suggestions?

What's next??

2008-01-17T22:15:00.000-05:00

I called Daniel late this afternoon. My main reason for calling was that my mom called me earlier today, saying "Do you think Daniel got the package I sent UPS on Monday? It was supposed to get there Tuesday. Maybe it got lost! I put a loaf of banana bread in there, and it's going to get stale."
You're probably thinking "Why didn't she simply call Daniel to find out?" Wait, let me pause here . . . Bwah! Oh, that's a good one. You're so funny. Silly, if she'd called Daniel, she'd have missed an opportunity to subtly make me realize I've raised a rude, ungrateful son, and IT'S ALL MY FAULT. You think my mom would pass up a chance like that? Please.
Also, I'm sure she knows I don't have nearly enough to do to keep me busy, and she was kind enough to devise a little task that would occupy some of my empty day. Bless her heart.
Anyway, as you might have guessed, he's been busy this week and hadn't checked his mailbox until today. The package, of course, was there, and he was happily munching on banana bread while we talked. I did chide him for not calling my mom right away to thank her, but he said he'd planned to call her tonight. Sure, he could be giving me the party line, but he's been doing better about remembering niceties without my reminders lately. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt here.
We chatted about his classes, and then he confessed that he's developed a new interest. This new interest--it's so unlike him! I've been thinking about what it means ever since I talked to him. I hardly know where to begin . . . I mean, it involves changing partners frequently. Daniel claimed it's good exercise, but I don't know; that sounds like an excuse to me. I would have felt hypocritical discouraging him because I have to admit--embarrassing as it is--that I engaged in this same practice in my younger days.

Well, I guess the only thing to do is just blurt it out: My son has . . .

. . . taken up swing dancing.

Try not to judge him too harshly?

Lifetime movies! Can Harlequin romances be far behind??

2008-01-12T16:31:00.000-05:00

I'm in a quandary. For the first time in my life, I'm considering watching . . . I can barely bring myself to type it . . . a Lifetime movie tonight. Before you gasp in horror, I am not becoming my mother (yet). The only reason I'm considering it is because that adorable Nikki Blonsky from Hairspray is starring in the movie. I don't think she sings in it, however, so I probably won't watch it. Also, I'm worried she's going to get stuck in roles about chubby girls who heroically manage to overcome fat prejudice and triumph in the end, you know? Still, she's awfully cute, and seeing her makes me smile.
##########
Miz S, I hope you didn't get the wrong impression about my attitude or anyone else's attitude toward the younger generation. I was irritated beyond belief at Daniel's irresponsibility, but in general, I consider myself lucky to have him for a son. Except for losing any object not attached to him with a cord and occasional bouts of moodiness, he's a great kid who's never given me a minute's worry about the drinking or the drugs or the inappropriate friends or anything. (I do enough drinking and carousing with inappropriate friends for both of us! Well, in my younger days, anyway.) I'm sure lrw7 didn't mean Daniel when she mentioned entitled, overprotected kids, either; she's actually met him and knows he's a good boy . . . er, young man. After hearing some stories about the people she deals with every day at the college's financial aid office, I can understand where she's coming from, though.
Since I wrote that entry yesterday, I've been thinking, and it's probably true that Daniel's been overprotected somewhat. He's an only child, and it was just the two of us for several years, and I'm sure I made some mistakes in not letting him handle his own problems enough. To be honest, sometimes I'm amazed he turned out as well as he did. It was so hard for me to suppress my urge to do things for him instead of letting him do it himself and learn from his own mistakes occasionally. Even now, when he's out of my maternal grasp about 90% of the time, I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from exclaiming "I can do that for you!" Good thing he had a healthy independent streak--I think it prevented him from turning out completely helpless.
Eh, maybe I'm being too hard on myself. He'll probably always be a little absent-minded and forgetful, and that's not necessarily my fault, right? Some people just are that way. As a matter of fact, there's a chance he inherited that tendency (cough). I know plenty of mature adults who lose their phones and debit cards, and they manage to survive. As Rizzo said in Grease, "There are worse things I could do."
Why, yes, I can sum up everything in life with a song from a musical! Heh.

Edited to add: Guess who called me earlier this evening? My mom, to tell me Nikki Blonsky's in a Lifetime movie tonight. Ha!

Death by absent-mindedness

2008-01-11T09:54:00.000-05:00

My dad's home from the hospital and driving my mom crazy already. Oh, I guess he's not behaving too badly for a stubborn, 78-year-old man. However, the doctor doesn't want him to drive for the next couple of months until he's had a chance to adjust to his new blood pressure meds. You can imagine my dad's reaction to THAT advice. My mom and I have explained ad nauseum that these medications can cause dizziness and lightheadedness--not conditions you want to experience behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle, right? (Um, I don't know how much cars weigh, but "two-ton" is more euphonious than "800-pound" or whatever, so just go with it.) He's not eager to go back to the hospital anytime soon, so I suspect he's more willing to listen and follow instructions than he might be otherwise.

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I certainly don't want my son to have to go to the hospital to make him more biddable, but he's going to send me to the loony bin if he doesn't stop acting like a senile, dotty old man. Daniel's always been a tad absent-minded, but when he was 6 and couldn't find his Lego pirate, it wasn't such a big deal. Now he's 18, and when he can't find his freaking cellphone, it's a slightly bigger deal. He lost the damn thing not once, not twice, but three times while he was home for Christmas. That's roughly once a week. One time he left it at his dad's, and his dad discovered it under the covers of Daniel's (unmade) bed.

Misplacing a cellphone, by itself, isn't that bad, I'll grant you, but here's a short list of other things he's misplaced or lost recently: He left his debit card at a game store in Indianapolis (when he was home for Thanksgiving), he left his iPod in a girl's car, he left a T-shirt at a friend's house, he lost the Purdue hat Kevin gave him for Christmas, and he lost his room key 5 minutes after he'd unlocked his dorm room Sunday when we were moving his stuff back in. (He finally found the key on his desk, but if you could see his desk, you'd understand how something could get lost on it.)

I've saved the worst for last. Sunday I'd taken him to the bookstore to get his books for the semester and used my card to buy them (400-something-dollars, yikes). Monday, he decided to change two classes, so on Wednesday, he took the books he no longer needed back to the bookstore to return them and buy books for his new classes. However, he couldn't get a refund unless the cashier had my card. Being the lovely, helpful person I am (and, of course, I had no objections to any excuse to drive up to Purdue to see Daniel), I agreed to come up Thursday after his botany lab. I pulled up to his dorm, and he came out looking upset. He got in the car and said, "Mom, I can't find the receipt."

People, I almost fainted. The books he was returning added up to $240! We searched his room: no receipt. I asked him where the bookstore bag was, and he said he threw it out, and then added, "Uh, I think the receipt was in the bag." And of course he threw the bag in the trashcan out in the hall that's emptied every night, not in the wastebasket in his room.

I was feeling slightly sick by this time, but I suggested we go to the bookstore anyway and see whether we could persuade the cashier to get a refund. Two of the books had "Used" stickers on them with the bookstore's name, so I thought there was a chance the cashier would believe the books came from there, not from another bookstore. The first cashier we approached--a harried-looking young woman--snapped "No receipt, no refund!" but grudgingly agreed to find the manager for us.

The manager, thank God, was a bookish, middle-aged man, and I'm very good with people of the bookish male persuasion. I'm not embarrassed at all to confess that I went into full-on Southern belle, sweet-talking mode. I flattered him shamelessly and flirted mildly. I threw my own son under the bus without a second thought and bemoaned his typical freshman carelessness, and the manager and I commiserated over the tribulations of dealing with college-age children. The whole time, however, I was thinking impatiently that this idiot had a computer record of my transaction and could easily pull it up, compare it to the number on my card, and verify the books against the record. Finally, I worked around to suggesting gently that he do just that. He pontificated about the unreliability of computer records and said condescendingly, "Well, you know technology is a wonderful thing--when it works." Christ on a biscuit, buddy. JUST GO LOOK. I swallowed my vitriol and smiled sweetly, however, and finally, finally he pulled up the damn record and lo and behold, found the transaction.

I managed to hang on to my smile until I had the new receipt in my hands and the refund credited to my card. The second we were done, however, I grabbed Daniel by the sleeve and marched him out of the store, hissing "And you hang onto THIS receipt, kiddo, or I'll come up here and wait outside your dorm, holding a hat and gloves and fretting over how my baby never dresses properly for the weather IN FRONT OF YOUR ROOMMATE AND FRIENDS."

That damn kid is going to kill me.

Even Blogger is chortling about "erectus"

2008-01-08T12:20:00.000-05:00

Despite the writer's strike, a new episode of The Daily Show was on last night! All is right in my world again. I am, I realize, a wee bit obsessed with Jon Stewart, but the past six weeks or so, I can't tell you many times, while watching the news, I'd think "I bet Jon is dying to comment on that story!" Hey, he knew I was thinking about him. Primary season is going to be much more enjoyable now.

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Last night, Kevin and I were watching a show on Discovery Channel about the "human hobbit," which is a skeleton of a tiny human found on an island near Indonesia that's sparked fervent debate among bearded scientists about whether it's an example of a new species of human ancestors. I was feeling rather smug and faux-intellectual about us watching a science-y show, and then Kevin, who's normally a fairly mature person, snickered unexpectedly when an Australian anthropologist suggested the "hobbit" was related to Homo erectus. I, who am fairly immature and always eager to join in on 14-year-old humor, said "Homo erectus is also the mascot of the Viagra race car team!" Oh, how quick I am to throw the benefits of intelligent TV out the window.

##########

My dad's improving, but more slowly than he'll admit. The doctor is taking the temporary pacemaker out today, so he can finally get up and walk around a little. When I talked to him this morning, he claimed he's going home tomorrow morning. Uh, according to my mom, that's unlikely--it's more like Thursday. Keep your fingers crossed she can bully him into accepting he's not leaving tomorrow as easily as she bossed him back to life, will you? I have a lot of faith in the Power of Bossiness, but my dad is the King of Stubbornness. The nurses had better be cautious entering Room 1103 of that hospital to avoid my parents, Scylla and Charybdis.

##########

I did some Christmas shopping at Half Price Books about a month ago and got a free calendar that included several 15% off coupons to use throughout 2008. The other day, I pulled the calendar out to clip the coupons and stick them on my refrigerator. Before I threw the calendar away, I flipped through it to check what famous literary people were born on certain days and noticed the calendar also had "green" tips for each month. I was a little horrified to see how much power I'm wasting by leaving my cellphone charger plugged in all the time instead of only when I'm recharging my phone. So sure, I can unplug my charger when I'm not using it. That's simple enough, but reading green tips always makes me feel guilty and wasteful, as though I'm stomping around leaving a giant Ugg-sized ecological footprint instead of a small, dainty, uh, thong sandal of a footprint. (One day I'll be able to complete an analogy skillfully.) My anti-guilt immune system is practically nonfunctional, I know, but why don't I feel all motivated and charged up when I read about simple things everyone can do to have an impact?

(By the way, Blogger flagged "erectus" in this entry with a red underline. I know it's a spell-check thing, but I like to think Blogger is giggling childishly.)

No more hospitals!

2008-01-07T09:39:00.000-05:00

I have an announcement: If you're a friend or related to me, you're not allowed to be admitted to the hospital this week. Thank you.

Why the bossiness, you ask? Well, first, my friend Janet's lung collapsed last Thursday, and she's been in the hospital since, getting transfusions and God knows what-all, and bless her heart, she's been freaking me out. Her pitiful little voice on the phone makes me want to cry. Second, after having Daniel home for almost a month, I had to take him back to school yesterday, and the combination of saying good-bye and spending $400 on his books did have me in tears. (OK, that event has nothing to do with a hospital, except that my wallet might need to be put in the ICU.)

Then this morning, my mom called at 8:00. That's early for her to call, so I knew something was up. And it was something, all right: My dad almost died yesterday afternoon. He's been on a slew of medications for his kidneys and blood pressure and has had several spells of dizziness and weakness the past few months. He had another one yesterday afternoon, but he passed out and stopped breathing. My mom had already called 911 and still had the operator on the phone, so she yanked him out of his recliner, got him down on the floor, took his top teeth out, and gave him mouth-to-mouth. My frail, weak, full-of-aches-and-pains mom! She said, "Lisa, you know how bad my knees are--I haven't kneeled on the floor in 10 years. But I got down on the floor to give him CPR, and in between breaths, I kept screaming at him that he's NOT ALLOWED to die on me now." Only my mother could boss someone back to life, I swear.

He started having a seizure while my mom was giving him CPR, but she said his eyes were wide-open the entire time, which scared the crap out of her. Right as the EMTs got there, he started coughing a little, so she figured he was breathing again. However, his blood pressure wasn't even registering, and his heart rate was down to 25. After they got him to the hospital, the doctor had to put a temporary pacemaker in. I don't know yet whether he'll need a permanent one. If his medications get adjusted better, he might be able to avoid that. One medication he's on, Coreg (I think), does tend to slow the heart rate; it's helped quite a bit to control his blood pressure, but its side effects seem too strong for him.

I talked to him this morning for a few minutes, and he's already feeling well enough to grumble about going home. He thinks he's just fine, and everyone's overreacting. Oy. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the doctor is probably going to keep him there at least another night. I did tell him I have the number to the nurses' station (which I do), and if he gives them a hard time, they have my permission to duct-tape him to the bed. It made him laugh, but I was only half-kidding. He's a sweetheart, but I know he's going to pester those nurses to death about going home. Actually, I wouldn't put it past him to get up and try to get dressed and walk out of there. He's just that stubborn. Good thing I didn't inherit that quality, right? I'd appreciate any good thoughts you can send his way (perhaps thoughts about the value of patience!)--and maybe a few for my mom in dealing with him.

2008-01-04T23:40:00.000-05:00

I've been on an archaeological dig in my office for the past month or so in an attempt to get this space clean and organized. Oy, the papers and books and mementos and just plain crap I have to wade through! Some days I get a lot done. If need be, I can be ruthless about getting rid of useless items. Why, earlier today I even tossed a pile of old computer books I'd edited 10 years ago. (Of course, first I tore out the acknowledgements pages where the authors waxed poetic about working with me and saved them in a folder. I'm not embarrassed to admit I reread them occasionally as a ego boost.)

Other days, I unearth an envelope of photos--a six-year-old Daniel dressed up in his homemade wizard Halloween costume; the white rabbit we named Runaway Bunny after one of his favorite books, who ate a good chunk out of the dining room table leg, nibbled his way through an entire folder of important papers, and shortly afterward went to live on a farm (seriously, a real farm, not the "farm" parents use as a euphemism); cast photos of the play I was producing when I met Kevin. I can't just throw them all in a box to await their final resting place in an album, which should happen by the time I'm approximately 72, I figure. No, I have to go through them and reminisce, snort at pictures of me on bad hair days, and get maudlin over Daniel's gap-toothed grin. Needless to say, I don't get much organizing and cleaning done then.

However, I was making some progress this evening until I came across a pile of old letters and cards. Not many people write letters now, do they? Maybe that's why I've saved most of the letters I've received, especially my grandma's because she wrote exactly the way she talked. Getting a letter from her was like sitting down at her kitchen table and chatting while she shelled peas. One thing about her letters used to crack my Aunt Joan and me up, though. Grandma had a martyr streak in her, so she always managed to work in a heavy-handed hint about her children and grandchildren not visiting her lately or a description of some ailment, but she always assured us she'd get through it, thankyouJesus, and maybe we could remember her in our prayers, if we had the time? Bless her heart.

Anyway, I found this letter tonight, and I felt as though Grandma was here for a short visit. I've retyped a little of it, with her own grammar and punctuation. I'd written her a letter for her 83rd birthday in October, 1994, a few months after I moved to Indianapolis from Chicago. Here's her reply with a few comments from me:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

10-26-94

Tues Morn

Dear Baby,

I was so surprised to get the sweet letter from you, I was real happy to get it. So glad you moved closer to your Dad & Mom, I just know they are thrilled too.

I had a very nice birthday, I did not feel like I would since I knew that none of my children would be here with me. [Subtle hint, huh? Heh.] Then I get this call from Italy with the familiar voices [I think my aunt and uncle were in Italy on vacation and called her. Or maybe Grandma was just hearing Italian voices, but ones she'd heard before--that's reassuring!] Joan and Buddy called me too and I got a lot of nice gifts. I was real happy, it's not so hard being 83, is it? Ha ha.

Honey, I hope you can read this but since I cut my hand 2 years ago, I just don't write very good (wasn't too good before).

It sounds like Daniel is some boy. How I wish I could see him. Why don't you and Daniel come down for a visit? Tell Daniel I'll cook him some peas and cornbread. Remember when he was real little, I don't think he could walk, we were at Jerry's, and I cooked him some peas and cornbread. I'm still doing most all my work at 83. However, Eddie [her third husband--Grandma was a hussy] do help a lot. If he did not help as much as he do, I could not get along as well as I do.

I think I better hang it up. I have a headache. [Ha! Love this closing.]

Let me hear,

Grandma

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This picture of her with Daniel, when he was about five months old (I think), is one of my favorites. She had the magic touch with babies. Give her a fussy, colicky baby, and in less than two minutes, she'd have him or her cooing and smiling angelically.

What? It's 2008 already?

2008-01-02T10:47:00.000-05:00

Long time, I know. I don't want to bore you with a long-winded explanation of why I haven't written, so I'll just say "Depression, blah, busy work schedule, blah blah, assorted problems, yadda yadda, major empty nest syndrome, etc., etc." and let it go at that.

I don't do New Year's resolutions; instead, I have two Stupid People stories I'm dying to tell. (If I made resolutions, my first one would be vowing to reduce the number of idiots in the world.)

1. The other day, I was checking out at the grocery and noticed a display of lighters at the counter. They had cartoons of current presidential candidates, and the one of Barack Obama was a particularly funny drawing, so I decided to buy it. The cashier made a disgusted face and sniped "I've been trying to persuade people to buy this lighter and then crush it!" Taken aback, I asked "Why?" (And yes, I should have known better.) She said "Well, I'm no racist or nothing, but I'm not gonna have a Muslim for a president."

Uh. I tried to be polite, but I told her he's not a Muslim and asked what made her think that. She claimed he "took an oath on the Muslim Bible." I said "First, it's called the Koran, and second, I don't know what your source of information is, but that NEVER happened." Unfazed, she went on to call Hillary Clinton "a raving bitch," and I threw up my hands and walked out, clutching my Barack Obama lighter. I swear, I have to get the hell out of Mayberry one of these days.

2. New Year's Eve afternoon, Kevin, Daniel, and I went to see Sweeney Todd, which I've been dying to see. My favorite musical ever, plus two of my boyfriends are in it (Johnny Depp and Alan Rickman). When the credits rolled, the row of people in front of us got up immediately, and one guy said to another, in a disgusted tone, "Well, that was no Pirates of the Caribbean, that's for sure!" ARRRGGGHHH. Yes, Pirates is the standard by which all other movies must be judged. Help me.

Call me "shorty," and I'll fire you!

2007-04-14T11:47:00.000-05:00

Not to beat Don Imus with a dead horse (but come on--how much fun would that be?), but I did want to say something else about the issue. Yes, there's a double standard at play, in that not everyone using offensive terms gets chastised the same way. However, the difference between Don using "ho" and rappers calling women "bitches" and "hos" is that Don used a disrespectful term (and good Lord, let's not forget "nappy-headed," as Anita pointed out--I think I'm more aghast at that term than "ho") over public airwaves. To hear most of the offensive terms used in songs, you have to buy the CD, although I realize plenty slip by on some radio stations and in music videos on TV. As I haven't watched a music video since approximately 1987, I wouldn't know. I don't mean the medium or forum in which something is said should be used as a moral yardstick, but in terms of whether firing someone is justified, it could make a difference. Possibly.

Let's be honest, though: Don was fired not because he used an offensive term, but because sponsors were pulling ads from his show. Money talks, and no way was MSNBC going to lose that much money. So applying the same "punishment" to others who use offensive terms is difficult. How are you going to "fire" Mel Gibson or Michael Richards? As a movie or TV producer, you can decide not to hire them, of course, and as a consumer, you can always refuse to watch whatever TV show or movie they're involved in. I don't know about Mel, but I suspect Michael Richards's career is dead in the water, anyway.

I'm still surprised there weren't any major repercussions for Isaiah Washington. Did any sponsors threaten to pull commercials from Grey's Anatomy? I don't recall hearing about many people threatening to stop watching the show, either (but that's probably because they HAVE to know what's going to happen after George and Izzy sleeping together). What bothers me is that his use of "faggot" was motivated by hate, whereas Don was downright ignorant. Not that ignorance is an excuse, but hate-filled epithets seem worse somehow. I don't know. Being that ignorant is pretty appalling, too!

So that's my 42 cents worth on the topic. Should have been 2 cents, but I'm incredibly wordy.

A stupid quiz and stupid people

2007-04-12T17:01:00.000-05:00

A woman I barely know, but who is very sweet, added me to her e-mail list and is sending me up to 10 e-mails a day with warnings about "dangers" (all decade-old hoaxes), exhortations to get a mammogram and other breast-cancer-related info (thanks, just had mine), "jokes" (and I use that term loosely), and hug certificates (shudder). She's so nice--and I am such a giant wuss--that I'm reluctant to tell her to lose my e-mail address. So I'm answering a survey she sent out today to . . . I don't know. Make me feel better about getting her stupid e-mails? Also, no way in hell am I e-mailing my responses to her. I don't want to encourage her! Y'all probably know most of this stuff about me anyway, so feel free to skip to the end of entry, in which I rant about stupid people.

1. Were you named after anyone? Nope, my mommy just liked Lisa Michelle--and she swore my dad would name me Inez after his mother over her dead body. Heh.
2. When was the last time you cried? Last night thinking about Picard.
3. Do you like your handwriting? Yes
4. What is your favorite lunch meat? Lemon-pepper turkey
5. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? This kind of question makes my head hurt. And seriously, what kind of psycho would say no??
6. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I use it when I deem it’s called for.
7. Do you still have your tonsils? They were taken out when I was six and grew back. So far I've shown no signs of regenerating other body parts.
8. Would you bungee jump? Maybe if I could read while doing it.
9. What is your favorite cereal? Kellogg's Start Smart
10. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not for tennis shoes, but sometimes for boots.
11. Do you think you are strong? I'm freakishly strong, like Monica Geller.
12. What is your favorite ice cream? My current favorite is Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide, but I love any coffee-and-chocolate combination.
13. What is the first thing you notice about people? I had to think about this answer pretty hard. I think I look for a general air that I'd find appealing, such as a sense of humor or a look of intelligence. To be honest, I check to see whether someone's home upstairs, if you get my drift. Vapid or blank people annoy me.
14. Red or pink? Blue-green.
15. What's your least favorite thing about yourself? My indecisiveness. I think. Or maybe my lack of height. I'd have a great figure if you stretched me out about eight inches.
16. Who do you miss the most? Leslie. You would have been 53 on Monday, honey. I wish I could have teased you about it.
17. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? Denim blue pants and white socks.
18. What was the last thing you ate? Coconut yogurt
19. What are you listening to right now? The sound of my freaking furnace blowing because it's 30-something degrees and SNOW FLURRIES fell this morning!
20. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Periwinkle.
21. Favorite smells? The top of Daniel's head when he was a baby, Kevin's neck, oranges, freesias, honey. I could go on and on--I didn't realize I liked so many smells.
22. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? The tech support guy to find out why my e-mail is acting up. (Answer: "We're experiencing latency issues for which we have no ETA for resolving.")
23. Hair color? Red
24. Eye color? Blue-green-gray. Like me, my eyes are Libras and can't decide.
25. Do you wear contacts? Occasionally
26. Scary movies or happy endings? Uh, a happy ending to a scary movie?
27. Last movie you watched? For Your Consideration. I'd watch anything Christopher Guest did.
28. Hugs or kisses? Gah, I hate questions like this one! Both during sex. How's that?
29. What book are you reading now? I'm rereading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix because the movie comes out in July, and I'm a complete HP geek. I'm also reading Hominids and The Queen of the Big Time.
40. What's on your mouse pad? It looks like a miniature Oriental rug.
41. What did you watch on TV last night? Haley finally getting booted from American Idol. Oh, and Medium.
42. Favorite sound? Daniel laughing. I like the sound of my wind chimes when I'm on the front porch reading, too.
43. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Well, I like early Stones stuff, but the Beatles top them any day.
44. What's the farthest you have been from home? California
45. Do you have a special talent? Yes, it involves a cherry stem. Oh, I kid! Close your e-mail windows.
46. Where were you born? Macon, Georgia

Now for stupid people. I just read Jane's entry, and she was saying no one in the "blogosphere" (heh) had said anything about Don Imus, which surprised me. For years, I'd get annoyed whenever I turned on MSNBC in the morning and saw him slurring and mumbling away; I couldn't seem to remember MSNBC aired his show in the mornings, and I always changed the channel as fast as possible. So clearly I didn't think highly of Don Imus, but I never thought he was a big enough moron to call a group of young women HOS. Correct me if I'm wrong, but "ho" is a shortened form of "whore," right? So Don Imus, exactly how much DID you drink before you aired those comments? Does the name "Michael Richards" ring any bells for you? Did you think people would chuckle indulgently and forget the next day?

Since that incident, I've read about the camp he runs for children with cancer and all the money he gives to charity, and I'm sure he has many fine qualities, but none of that negates his downright idiocy. My opinion isn't based solely on the racist tone of his comments, either. As I recall, his remarks included his assessment of the attractiveness of the Rutger's women's team, and I'm sick to death of stupid people judging women on their looks when their looks have no bearing on what they do. If you're judging a Miss America contest, your opinion of the contestants' beauty is relevant. If you're making fun of Madeline Albright because she's not Miss America material, keep your damn mouth shut. I don't want to hear it.

OK, one more stupid people rant, and then I'll shut up. People who take nekkid pictures of themselves to a photo-developing center are idiots. Generally, naked pictures aren't supposed to be developed, but in practice, many photo developers do it as long as the pictures aren't extremely graphic and don't involve children and animals. Most people use digital cameras, so I didn't think racy photos were a concern anymore. I was surprised to find out how many people get prints made from their digital photos, however--AND photos of themselves in various states of undress. You don't know who's developing your photos! He or she might be a twisted pervert who takes home a few copies for personal "use" (ick) or gets the bright idea of using them for blackmail purposes or posting them on a public forum, such as, oh, I don't know, the Internet. Highly illegal, of course, but why risk it?

Also, your photo developer might know you. Personally. Why, one photo developer I know (ahem), in the eight months he's been processing pictures, has come across naked pictures an average of once a week and recently developed a batch featuring a young woman he worked with at a different job--and sees occasionally around town. She had taken her photos in to her local drugstore in a neighboring small town, but that drugstore routinely send its photos to a store here for processing because it has high-volume machines. Gah! People's capacity for stupidity never fails to astound me.

Good News and Bad News

2007-04-07T08:48:00.000-05:00

Which do you want first: good news or bad news? Good news is better, so I'll start with that, but you can read this entry from the bottom up if you prefer the opposite, right? That's me: accommodating readers since 2002! (That's actually when I started writing online, although at a now-defunct place.)

The good news: I had an appointment Monday for a mammogram, which I look forward to with all the anticipation of Christmas Eve. I think the worst part is not being able to wear deodorant, powder, or perfume; I feel so unclean without all my girly stuff. I kept hoping I wasn't giving off visible stink rays in the waiting room, although an elderly woman kept eying me suspiciously. Actually, the whole experience is one assault on my dignity after another, I suppose. After I'd changed into the spiffy front-closing gown and walked into the x-ray room, the technician asked me to open my gown and show her my boobs so that she could see whether she needed a different size film plate. There's no graceful way to flash a complete stranger, you know? The request threw me a little because no one's asked me to do that when I've had mammograms previously, and I almost asked her if she planned to toss some beads at me. I restrained myself and opened my gown obediently, but I did turn beet-red when she said hurriedly, "Oh, yeah, I'd better change plates!"

The second worst part is the Positioning of the Breast on the x-ray plate. You'd think after enduring 30 years of pelvic exams; going through labor and childbirth at a teaching hospital, with my lady business on display for every doctor, nurse, intern, and janitor in a 50-mile radius; and breastfeeding in front of a variety of lactation consultants, I'd have not one shred of modesty left, but clearly I do when a strange woman is hauling my boob around like a sack of oranges. I noticed that after the technician pressed the button to take the picture, the plates separated automatically to release my breast from the death grip. What a cool feature, I thought, and said so to the technician. "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "Can you imagine if it didn't? What if I fell over in a dead faint after taking the picture? You'd be trapped there!" We stared at each other for a minute, with that image crystalizing, and then burst out laughing. That's the funniest mental picture I've had in a while, and we both kept giggling and snorting while she finished x-raying my other breast.

The results came in the mail yesterday, and I opened the letter to find this sentence at the top in bold print: We are very happy to inform you that no evidence of cancer was found in your mammogram. Isn't that sweet? They're very happy--and so am I.

******

And now for the bad news: My cat Picard is gone. I noticed last Monday that I hadn't seen him all day, but I was on my way to the hospital for my appointment and worrying about visible stink rays and all. Later that evening, both Kevin and Daniel said they hadn't seen him all day, either. We searched the house, looking under beds, in closets, and all his favorite hiding places. Kevin took a flashlight down to the basement and poked around in the crawlspace, where Picard likes to prowl around sometimes. No portly black-and-white cat anywhere, though.

The few times Picard has gotten outside in the past, he's always stayed nearby. Once he climbed the neighbor's tree and had to be coaxed down, and another time he ran up on the roof, and Kevin had to climb up there and carry him down. So we checked likely places outside, but no sign of him. I put up a few flyers, but no one called. It's been almost a week, and I've about lost hope. He's such a sweet, friendly cat that I'm hoping he's wormed his way into a new family's affections. I keep thinking I see him parading by out of the corner of my eye, with that cowlick he always had near his tail sticking up. It always reminded me of a scruffy little boy. Or I imagine I hear the floor-jarring thud as he jumps down from the windowsill, where he liked to gaze hungrily out the window at birds. Every time I walk into my bedroom, I expect to see him curled up on the corner of the bed. I miss you, big guy. If you come back, I promise you daily catnip for life.

Operation Spring Cleaning: Mission Accomplished (Well, Almost)

2007-04-01T09:06:00.000-05:00

Even though I'm much busier with work now, when I do have time to update, I sit and stare at an empty Word document. I have writer's block! Oooo, how dramatic of me. I'm a tortured, artistic soul, you know. Riiiiiiiiiiiight. I think my problem is frustration over not being able to do the 349 other things I want to be doing but CAN'T because I'm working all the time. And frankly, when I stop working for the day, the last thing I want to do is come back here in my messy office and open yet another document in Word. On the other hand, venting here does ease a little of my frustration, so . . . gah.

One thing adding to my frustration is that spring has finally arrived. My forsythia bushes have been blooming all week, the daffodils are popping up everywhere, and my crabapple tree is covered in little buds that will turn into gorgeous pink flowers soon. At this time of year, I always want to fling the windows open and clear away all traces of winter. I want to pack up sweaters and clean out flower beds and wash windows and mop floors; in other words, I want a fresh start. I've been fretting all week because I've been so busy with work, and warm, breezy days have been going by with nothing getting cleaned.

I decided that with Kevin gone this weekend at the convention, I had the perfect opportunity to get some cleaning done without him getting in my way or distracting me. So yesterday, I dragged the big area rugs out on the front porch and shampooed them, and then while they dried outside, I mopped the wood floors. I shampoo the rugs outside because I can't do it while they're ON the wood floors. At least, I don't think I can. If I can, don't tell me because I damn near killed myself hauling them outside. I can't believe how heavy those rugs are! My arms are killing me today, even though Daniel helped me carry them. Pushing that shampooer around makes me feel like Sisyphus shoving a boulder uphill, too.

Also, I washed windows in the living and dining rooms, which doesn't sound like much, but in those two rooms alone, I have six tall windows. I gathered up tchotchkes and knickknacks and bric-a-brac (all of which sound funnier and more interesting than "junk sitting around," right?) and threw them in the dishwasher. While I had the Windex out, I cleaned the glass on all my framed pictures. And the dusting. Oh my God, the dusting I did! If I didn't know better, I'd swear my furnace filter has never been changed, but Kevin does that twice a year, I think. He SAYS he does, anyway. Hmmmph. I still need to take all the--what do you call them? The metal thingies that go over the heating/AC vents? I need to take them outside and hose them off. The ones I have are big and squarish, which is just more surface area to collect dust and pet hair.

Aaaaand when I finish, I get to repeat all this work upstairs, much to the delight of my aching muscles. I'll have help, though, because Daniel's on spring break this week. I'm sure he'll be delighted I've come up with activities to fill his week. Hey, that's the kind of thoughtful mom I am!

A house plant I haven't killed!

2007-03-26T08:14:00.000-05:00

I would like to state for the record that the little heart-shaped bamboo plant Kevin gave me for Valentine's Day is still alive. ALIVE, I tell you! Impressive, no?

Also, I meant to add last week, after teasing Stephanie with this story, that Febreeze is not the only substance my mom sprays on her dog Sophie. Prepare to be horrified: As my mom explained it, because Sophie's long, white hair gets so flyaway, sometimes she sprays Sophie with Static Guard to tame the flyaways. Oy. I can only assume my sister the vet is ignorant of my mom's dog-grooming habits because she'd throw a hissy fit, if she knew. Maybe I should suggest my mom try using a creme rinse when she shampoos Sophie; I'm sure the dog would prefer that to being sprayed!

Speaking of pets, this picture of Cairo made me laugh because she looks so snooty and haughty:

I definitely captured her personality in that picture.

******

Daniel is driving (haha) me crazy about taking the test for his learner's permit. I told him he needs to study the DMV booklet, but he scoffs at how "easy" it is. Whatever. I think flunking the test would be more embarrassing than waiting a week or two to make sure he knows the rules backward and forward. I took this picture the morning of his 18th birthday, but his look of barely concealed impatience hasn't changed in the two weeks since then:

I definitely captured one major aspect of his personality in that picture.

******

I don't know how Kevin's going to make it through this week. He's so excited about the convention for horror show movie hosts this coming weekend in Cleveland that he can barely sleep. Ghastly Ghoul, the host of the weekend horror movie show in Dayton, Ohio, hosts a big party Saturday night and has asked him to DJ again this year. When I lived in Dayton, the horror show host was Dr. Creep, but Ghastly is his "heir." Apparently, Rob Zombie is a big fan of Ghastly's, so, uh, there you go. Last night at dinner, Kevin was telling me about his plans for music he wants to use Saturday; Ghastly had e-mailed some requests to him. I asked him if Ghastly is married, and Kevin said, "Yes, his wife goes by the name Suspira." I told Kevin not to harbor any delusions that I'M going to adopt some horror show character name. I can't even imagine what name I'd come up with--Grammar-cula? Please.

Kevin's also made plans to get together with his two best friends from his high school and early college years in Cleveland. He found one, Peter, by Googling, and Peter put him in touch with Scott. When That '70s Show first came on, Kevin was thunderstruck by Ashton Kutcher's character's resemblance to Scott, in both looks and behavior, but I understand Scott's matured just a wee bit since then. Heh. I hope so--I can't picture a 48-year-old Kelso. Well, I can, but it's not an attractive image.

******

Work is continuing to get busier, but the increased cash flow is certainly nice. I've been scrimping and juggling bills for months, and it's such a relief not to worry about which utility's cut-off date is coming up first. The trade-off, of course, is less spare time, but until I figure out the road to independent wealthiness, those are the breaks, right?

Now with 101 uses!

2007-03-19T07:03:00.000-05:00

Phone conversation with my mom last night:

Me: "I bet Sophie was glad to see you when you picked her up Saturday." [Sophie is my parents' spoiled, neurotic dog; she stays at my sister's house when my parents are out of town. My sister has, in addition to her dogs and cat, two Vietnamese potbellied pigs. Sophie has long white fur. These facts will be important later--but don't worry. There's no quiz.]

Mom: "Oh, she couldn't wait to get in the car to go home! But you'll never believe what happened to her at Linda's."

Me: "The cat scared her?" [That's happened before. Did I mention Sophie's neurotic?]

Mom: "No, she got poop all over her! She was outside, and when she came to the door, she had black pig poop smeared all over her back and into her fur."

Me: "Gross. What did Linda do?"

Mom: "Well, she bathed her outside--with cold water from the hose, poor thing! But when we got home, Sophie still smelled a little, so I sprayed her with Febreeze."

Note: No animals were harmed in the telling of this story. Between guffaws, I determined that she sprayed Sophie only along her back, and Sophie didn't lick her fur afterward. Good Lord.

What I've Learned from Crosswords: A Partial List

2007-03-18T20:52:00.000-05:00

As much as I love words, I guess it's not surprising I enjoy crossword puzzles. In grade school, I looked forward to the Sunday paper not so much for the comics, but for the big crossword puzzle in the Sunday magazine. The solution to the previous week's puzzle was there, too, so first I checked what I'd missed the Sunday before, and then began the new puzzle. I always did crossword puzzles in pen, but not because I was confident I wouldn't make mistakes. My hatred of writing in pencil was caused by those fat, unwieldy pencils first-graders were forced to use; they were too big for my hand, and I never could write as neatly as I wanted with them. By third grade, when I started doing the Sunday puzzle, school pencils had slimmed down to the standard No. 2, but I'd already discovered the joys of ballpoint and felt-tip pens, which I used at home because my teacher, the writing-implement Nazi, confiscated them if I tried to use them at school.

All week, I looked forward to the Sunday puzzle, but I wanted more than one a week. Then one day, during a trip to the grocery with my mom, I found whole magazines full of puzzles. After pestering my mom all the way through frozen foods until she gave in and bought it, I used my allowance to buy subsequent issues. I dabbled in other puzzles the variety magazines offered; I liked coloring in the squares for diagramless crosswords, but word searches bored me. Eventually, I discovered logic puzzles, which I love even more than crosswords, and I'm one the nerdy subscribers to a bimonthly logic puzzles magazine.

As I mentioned a couple of months ago, now I do crossword puzzles online, although I still like doing them on paper now and then. The other day, I was thinking about the stray facts and odd words I've learned from years of doing puzzles that are completely useless except in the context of crosswords. So if you ever decide to take up crosswords to ward off The Senility, here's a short list to help you:

edda: An Icelandic literary work
iter: A Roman road
sten: A type of British gun
Pele: Some guy who played soccer
alb: A garment priests wear
erose: Irregularly notched
Edo: Tokyo's original name
ogee: A type of architectural molding
Orono: Where the University of Maine is located
alate: Having wings
epee: A type of fencing sword
Ott: Baseball player Mel (and no idea on what team or in which decade he played)
Volga: Longest river in Europe

I've never used one of these words in conversation, with the exception of mentioning "The Volga Boatmen" song (which can't be mentioned often enough, as far as I'm concerned). If I took up fencing or remodeled a house, possibly "epee" or "ogee" would come in handy, and one day, I might find myself in Maine, asking for directions to Orono. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I'll never discuss sports, so I can't foresee using Pele or Ott's names for any reason. Nevertheless, these words and many more occupy space in my brain that could probably be put to use for, say, making sense of the stock market or figuring out why fools fall in love. Neither activity fits as well with my morning coffee, however, so I guess I'll continue amassing useless trivia and remain ignorant of other, more puzzling topics. Hey, it's the iter I've chosen!

The Wearin' o' the Green

2007-03-17T11:49:00.000-05:00

My folks just left about 30 minutes ago. I'll say one thing about them: They never wear out their welcome. They're all about the short visits, which is a sterling quality to have. Daniel was ecstatic about their main birthday present to him--the cutest little docking station (is that the right term? you know, with speakers and a recharger) for his iPod. It even has an alarm clock in it, which will be perfect for a dorm room.
One of my parents' irritating traits, however, is insisting on paying for any restaurant meals, and they always suggest going out to eat. I decided to nip that in the bud by saying I'd already bought ingredients to make my magic meatloaf. To be honest, I don't know what it is about my meatloaf; I think it's pretty good, but Kevin and Daniel go stark raving mad over it and eat like they're playing Henry the VIII in one of those cheesy Renaissance "dining experiences." It was a big hit with my mom and dad, too. My dad, who usually eats like an anemic bird, had an almost trucker-sized portion. I wish I could give you the recipe, but I can't because it's embarrassing. The ingredients are decidedly nongourmet--downright pedestrian, even--and you'd lose all respect for me.
In the middle of the night, however, I had a moment of panic that I'd poisoned everyone with the magic meatloaf. I woke up with horrid waves of nausea and spent the next hour or so getting rid of any remnants of dinner, with thoughts of food poisoning dancing in my head. Daniel and Kevin were fine, but I was an interesting shade of sage green when I got up and felt like a horde of Irishmen had been Lord of the Dancing all over me in my sleep. Happy St. Patrick's Day! I sent Kevin and Daniel out to breakfast with my parents and stayed here, sipping tea and reading People. That Sandra Bullock is the prettiest thang, isn't she?
******
I'm disappointed that American Idol is underwhelming me so far this season, but of course I won't stop watching. The top 12 is such an odd mix, with Melinda and Lakisha standing WAY out from the rest of the pack in talent. The rest can be lumped into fair-to-somewhat-good, with a few "what the hells??" in there. That little Sanjaya is just pitiful, and the sooner that poor kid goes home, the better. I'm worried about the next atrocity with his hair. What's next? Corn rows? Blonde extensions? I suspect the AI stylists gather backstage and hoot "I know! Let's try hot rollers on his hair this week!" "Ha, that's perfect! Let's suggest that dangly earrings are the latest trend for men, too!" STOP IT, you hateful stylists.
Next week is British Invasion music, and normally I'd be excited about it because I love that music, but if Chris Sligh (or anyone else) slaughters "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter" the way he murdered a Diana Ross song this past week, I'm going to be pissed. Now, I know you lovely people who have fine musical tastes know better, but I heard, to my dismay, that teenagers on the AI message boards were all excited because they thought "British Invasion" meant Oasis and the like. I'm scandalized, I tell you!

Noel Coward would have been proud

2007-03-16T10:28:00.000-05:00

I'm rushing to post something before my parents get here because I have approximately 4,372 things to do before the white-glove test, er, my parents arrive. Also, I should pick up my panties from the bathroom floor, no? Kidding. Kevin's the only one who leaves his panties on the bathroom floor.

ANYway, the experiment in Noel Coward Levels of Civility and Sophistication went quite well Wednesday night. We arrived at the same time as the Ex's Wife (hereafter referred to as EW because I am a lazy typist) but before the Ex, who was driving separately from work. The Ex is chronically late, too, although that's not the reason I divorced him. (It was just one of the many reasons I wanted to kill him occasionally.) The time flew by while we chatted and perused the 47-page menu. Man, Japanese menus are detailed and wordy, aren't they?

Finally, the Ex arrived, and Daniel opened some cards from the Ex's family and presents from the Ex and EW. The Ex had bought Daniel's iPod a couple of months ago as an early birthday present, so he got Daniel an iTunes card and an armband holder Daniel can use when he goes for walks. He kept referring to Daniel's "ih-pod" (short "i" sound) because he enjoys jokes that make him sound like an old fogy, and Daniel was kind enough to crack up every one of the 32 times the Ex did it.

Going back to the menu for a moment, I haven't seen so many phonetic misspellings since I tutored in the ESL lab in college. For example, next to one item, the menu said "Ask the Waitless about this Special!!" I kid you not.

The food was great and much less expensive than the sushi restaurant Daniel and I love. This restaurant has the unfortunate name of Ocean World, however, which prompted Kevin to keep making remarks such as "I'll have the Shamu tempura!" or "Is the porpoise sushi good?" Hee.

I had so much sake that at one point, I was standing up acting out a story from the days when Glenn and I ran a dinner theater. Trust me: Telling this story without acting it out is much less funny. If you could see me, I'd act it out for you, too. It was so funny that we spent the next 45 minutes telling old theater stories. (All four of us have done theater, so we could have spent far longer trading stories, believe me.) Poor Daniel was appalled by some of his parents' past antics.

I realized something odd about EW while we were telling theater stories. I really do like her, but she is the worst, most long-winded, boring storyteller. She includes way too many details and explains things that aren't essential to the crux of the story. However, she seemed to think I was the one most interested in her tales and addressed most of them directly TO me, so I had to keep a fascinated look pasted on my face, even though I could feel my eyes slowly glazing over. It was like being hypnotized v-e-r-y slowly. No, the sake had nothing to do with it. Hush.

I think Daniel had a good birthday, though. By the way, he was surprisingly thrilled with the new clothes I bought him. He must be growing up because normally, he reacts to clothes as gifts the same way Ralphie and his brother reacted to getting socks in A Christmas Story. He even wore one of the new shirts to dinner that night and looked quite handsome (mom bias aside). Here's what I was most proud of, however. The waitress gave us comment cards to fill out that said "Thank you very mach!!" at the bottom. So on his card, Daniel wrote "I liked our waitless very mach." Have I mentioned how much I love that boy? His snotty humor fills me with pride!

I'm Twitchy, the Eighth Dwarf

2007-03-13T08:26:00.000-05:00

I should learn how to write shorter entries so that I can post more regularly, I think. Work has been so busy lately that I don't have the time I'd like to write. Besides, I'm far too long-winded. Editor, edit thyself, right?

So here's what's been happening the past week or so: I spent an inordinate amount of time fussing over Daniel's application for federal financial aid and finally got it submitted in the nick of time. Have I mentioned my hatred of paperwork and applications? OH, THE HATRED AND LOATHING. I wouldn't survive working for a government agency.

Also, I gave Daniel his first driving lesson and have developed a new twitch in my right eyelid that hasn't gone away yet. Apparently I didn't explain the concept of power brakes clearly enough, and the first time he stopped, he stomped on the brakes so hard that I nearly went flying through the windshield even with a seatbelt on. I think I have a permanent scar on my neck from the seatbelt cutting into it, and I'm positive I can see finger impressions in the dashboard now. On the outside, I remained remarkably calm, however. Maybe the bottle of rum I had tucked under the seat helped? Heh.

I've also been preparing for Daniel's 18th birthday TOMORROW, OH MY GOD, MY BABY IS TURNING 18, WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN?? In a burst of Noel Coward-esque civility, my ex, his wife, Kevin, and I are taking Daniel out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant. If the conversation gets stilted, I plan to quiz The Ex's Wife on his bad habits and quirks. "Does he still take 6 hours to balance the checkbook because he thinks calculators are newfangled inventions?" "Hey, how many times has he gotten lost between your house and the grocery store? Ha, ha!" That should get the conversational ball rolling, right? I'm the Socializer! Invite me to your next party to get things going!

Oh, for Daniel's birthday, I decided to add him to my cell phone plan and get him a phone. He's mentioned wanting one a few times, and I can get a good deal on it. Also, I got him a sturdier leather case for his iPod, a nice hardback paper journal, some new shirts because his current ones are hanging on him like giant sails flapping in the wind, and the movie Borat. Sacha Baron Cohen makes him helpless with laughter, so I guess he's a typical 18-year-old boy in at least some ways. Besides, I need to make sure I maintain my status as Mother of the Year by buying my son a movie filled with ribald language and crass humor, you know.

The rest of my time has been taken up by fretting about increasingly convoluted work projects that refuse to go smoothly and the disorganized mess my house has become. "Has become." I snort in my general direction. Like it's usually a model of organized cleanliness. I usually do maintain some sort of system to the chaos, but it's gotten way out of hand, and I'll be agonizing over it all week because my parents are driving here Friday to visit for Daniel's birthday. You're looking forward to hearing more about that, I can tell. Awww, aren't you sweet?

For Karen

2007-03-05T09:25:00.000-05:00

I was reading a summary of Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking at Amazon last night to figure out whether I wanted to read it. I suspect that book would turn me into a puddle of tears, but I'd still like to read it--or one of her novels--someday. I've read only a few essays of hers here and there. I started thinking about the first time I heard of Joan Didion, the summer I started graduate school, which inevitably led to thoughts of Karen. She was in my class on Southern women writers, one of the best classes I ever took.

I was a little intimidated by some students in there who had majored in English as undergrads; I'd been a communications major, so although I'd read a wide variety of authors on my own, I wasn't as knowledgeable as they were. Consequently, I kept my mouth shut during most class discussions. Not Karen, though. She had something to say on every topic, and her comments were usually contrary to the general consensus and often involved Joan Didion, her favorite writer (whether Joan was pertinent or not--and she usually wasn't because she isn't a Southern writer).

Neither factor was what made people in the class nervous, however. Karen's contributions to discussions were usually in the form of outbursts: She interrupted, loudly and insistently, and always peppered her remarks with several "fucks" or "fuckings." I've been known to swear like a sailor at times (ahem), but I never thought that was appropriate in a classroom. I wasn't alone, either; you could see other students, and the professor, flinch a little every time Karen let a "fuck" fly out. What made me more uncomfortable, though, were her mannerisms. She was so jittery--constantly twitching and shifting in her seat, jiggling her foot, throwing her hands around while she talked. Sometimes she talked so fast she almost tripped over her own words, and the longer she talked, the louder she got.

The way Karen interacted with people was odd, too. After class, she'd usually run out the door, tossing papers into her backpack and scattering books and pencils in her wake. I overheard her once telling someone she rode her bike five miles to school, but she never looked tired or winded at all when she arrived. On the rare occasions she did hang out with some of us after class, she was given to abrupt announcements that never had anything to do with what we were talking about. Out of nowhere, she'd blurt out "Yeah, I had sex for more than two hours last night!" or "You were so full of shit about that essay." I developed the habit of veering away from groups she was in or making an excuse to get away fast when she approached me. Even when I agreed with her opinions in class--and she did have a good point sometimes, despite her lack of finesse in expressing it--I never spoke up to support her lest I be painted with "The Crazy" brush, too.

Every now and then, I wish I could be 21 again: young, with no real responsibilities but full of possibilities. And then I think about how I treated Karen. I mean, it's clear to me now that she had ADD, hyperactivity, or maybe mild autism. I'm pretty sure that if I met her now, I could react with a little more understanding and sensitivity; I'd like to think I could make the effort, anyway. Back then, I thought I was Miss Open-minded, a model of tolerance for different lifestyles and viewpoints, but I was so full of shit. I couldn't handle someone being the slightest bit different behaviorally, and instead of trying to understand her, I freaked out and avoided her. I don't understand now what I was so afraid of. That her behavior was contagious? That other people would assume I was nuts, too, if I showed her any kindness? I wonder how often she must have felt alone and isolated. How many times was she hurt and bewildered by the way other people treated her? No wonder she usually raced to the door after class was over.

Sure, I'd love being 21 again in some ways. Having my breasts in their original location--very nice. Being able to run up two flights of stairs without breaking a sweat? Great! Not having to worry about bills, empty nests, and gray hairs--yes, yes, and yes. If it meant going back to that level of ignorance and uncertainty, however? No, thank you. I wish I could tell Karen that--and tell her how sorry I am for being so self-involved and afraid that I couldn't put myself in her shoes for one minute.

Mr. COI must die

2007-03-03T13:22:00.000-05:00

I am livid. Mr. COI finally got on my last nerve. I got up this morning to find an e-mail from him--which was unusual in itself because he rarely e-mails or answers my e-mails--and I'm reproducing part of it here with some explanations from me:

Lisa,
This all worked better when the worked/edited copies were emailed back and forth and ALL the authors were cc'd... [That was never the practice. Files are always posted on the FTP server. Occasionally, I've e-mailed files when authors had trouble connecting to it--because I'm a nice, helpful editor.] ...the FTP server is/has been a pain in the ass. The FTP link that was provided does/has NOT worked from the very beginning. I've sent several emails about that, yet the issue has not been corrected and no one has sent me the edited versions until this week. [BUZZZ! Wrong. He never said exactly what problem he was having, despite my repeated e-mails asking him to clarify. And for the record, no other authors have problems with it. The "edited versions" he mentions have been available since December 20 of last year, yet he never asked me to send them by e-mail until now.]
What's humorous here is your willingness to accept my changes/submissions via email if I'm having problems connecting with the FTP server. [Yeah, being helpful--that's funny, funny stuff! I told the putz I'd e-mail them if necessary, but he NEVER RESPONDED. I'm supposed to read his mind?]
That said, when I don't get a copy of the edits/comments, I am working blind. As was the case for this chapter. If I see no need for changes, due to a lack of comments/edits in the first submission, I don't make any. [This makes not one whit of sense. I told him an edited version had been posted. How could he possibly assume there were no edits or comments? Pardon my language, but he's a fucking idiot and a liar. He tried to turn in last year's chapter as his author second submission, and the only place he could have gotten it is from the FTP site. And although I'm repeating myself, I think, this author second he turned in didn't even contain HIS OWN CHANGES to the draft he originally submitted last November--which was more than a month late, I should point out.]
I have about 3-4 hours this weekend to work on Chapter 6 & 7. I'll send what I have, by email, Sunday night. [And it will be promptly returned to him as unacceptable. Three to four hours won't even begin to fix the sloppy crapola he turned in.]

Want to see my response? It's not nearly as snotty as I wanted to be:

[Mr. COI], it's a [publisher] guideline to post all files on the FTP site, which provides a more objective record of when files were submitted and serves as a backup in case someone loses files on his or her system. Chapters were supposed to be posted to the FTP site when we worked on the previous edition, too; it's not a new guideline, and the other authors have been following it with no trouble.
What I find humorous is that I e-mailed you about the files being ready on 12/20/06 and offered to e-mail them if you had trouble with the FTP site, so you had more than two months to request I e-mail the files to you. You never did. I'm glad you find my willingness to be helpful humorous.
In addition, your AU2 submission did not contain [other author's] edits OR your own original Ch. 7 changes. It's exactly the same as the version from the previous edition--which was, by the way, posted on the FTP site.
Three to four hours isn't going to be enough for AU2 passes on Ch. 6 and 7. Had the chapters, particularly Ch. 7, not been submitted in such rough shape for AU1, that might have been enough time.
Hugs and kisses, [OK, I didn't really say that]
Lisa

Stephanie commented that chronic hemorrhoids might be a suitable punishment for Mr. COI. I agreed before I saw today's e-mail from him, and now I don't think that affliction is severe enough. Any thoughts y'all have on what he does deserve would amuse me and perhaps keep me from killing him. ARGGHHHH.

Mr. COI strikes again

2007-03-02T09:04:00.000-05:00

Whew, busy week. I've been working like a dog on that four-author book, but there's no way it's going to be published in time to hit the sales cycle for fall college classes. The authors have been dragging their collective feet and turning chapters in late AND in rough shape, and permissions for software they'd planned to include on the book's DVD are turning into a nightmare. Even with open-source software, they have to get the software creator's permission to distribute it on a CD or DVD. Have they done that? Don't be silly. So Kid Manager and I have been trying to track down that information.

To make matters worse, Mr. Conflict of Interest (the author who can't be bothered to show up for conference calls) said he was dropping off the project because he was having surgery for "an old war injury." FINE WITH ME! For a few blessed weeks, I didn't have to deal with him or his sloppy work. However, when author seconds of his chapters were due, suddenly he was back on the project and claimed he'd have the first chapter done by last Friday. Keep in mind he's had that chapter with my edits and reviewer feedback since December 20, OK? That will be important later.

Naturally, I assumed he wouldn't finish by the date he gave, but when Friday came and went with no chapter, I started e-mailing to ask for updates. Finally, on Tuesday, he e-mailed the chapter files because he said he couldn't access the FTP site to post them. I opened the files and discovered, to my dismay, that not only had all my edits--10 hours worth of work--and the reviewer feedback disappeared, but the chapter didn't even have the original changes for his author first draft! I did some checking and realized he'd gone to the FTP site and downloaded the previous edition's chapter, and submitted that version. So he did NOTHING for his author second pass, and he lied about not being able to use the FTP site. I was livid, I tell you. I wrote a terse e-mail to him, stating what he'd done, and copied all his co-authors, Kid Manager, and the acquisitions editor (the big cheese, in other words). Do not fuck with me, Mr. COI. His co-author tried to apologize for him, saying Mr. COI couldn't get to the FTP site to download my edited version, but I told him that excuse didn't wash. Mr. COI had been notified on December 20 that the chapter was ready and had plenty of time to try to download the files, and I'd specifically told him I'd be happy to e-mail the files to him if he had trouble with the FTP site. Take that, you putz. Gah! Do these people think I'm stupid?

OK, enough about work. I think I mentioned Daniel's Brain Game team was done for the year, but he joined the science AND social studies academic teams, which also have quiz matches with other schools. The kid went for three years refusing to participate in extracurricular activities, except for occasional French Club meetings, and suddenly, he's signing up right and left for activities. I think the Little Red-Haired Girl is on the science team, and I'm sure she's a partial motivation. I'm delighted he's having fun and getting involved in something with a social component, though.

For the past few weeks, he and a few other seniors who have been taking French the past four years have been going to local elementary schools and teaching French to third graders. I thought Daniel might not have the patience to teach young kids, but he loved it. He even asked me for ideas on lesson plans! I'm still useful! Whooo! The last day of teaching, he came home looking exhausted and said he'd learned a valuable lesson. "What's that?" I asked. "Never, EVER, give candy to third graders," he said grimly. He and his partner decided to take in some candy for the last day as prizes for a game they'd devised, and apparently the kids were bouncing off the walls in a frenzy of candy greed and sugar rushes by the end of the lesson. Heh.

Kevin's art class went well last Saturday. Not as many students as he'd hoped for, but the five who showed up had a great time and asked when he'd be teaching another class. He met with the art center's director, who asked him to teach at least one class a month, preferably two. His next class will be on making art dolls, loosely based on the faux voodoo dolls we made as a craft project at our last Halloween party. Mayberry's on the cusp of the Bible Belt, so Kevin's promotional materials for the class have to include a disclaimer that the art center doesn't endorse voodoo, and the dolls aren't meant to be used for actual voodoo practices. Because that's SO likely to happen, you know. Without the disclaimer, who knows what people might try to do with these potent symbols of evil!

Kevin made a big deal of saying he wanted me to attend this next class, too. He's been making an effort to take the iniative more on finding things for us to do together, bless his heart. We had a little talk about some of his recent behavior, but I didn't accuse him of having irritable male syndrome or anything. I figured that would put him on the defensive. I are so smart sometimes! One decision we came to is that we need to spend more time together doing things we both enjoy, and art and crafty pursuits are definitely interests we have in common.

Sometimes it seems as though we go for weeks in which our conversations consist mostly of details about picking up milk and stamps, figuring out what to make for dinner, discussing whether shampooing the couch will get rid of the smell from Holly throwing up on it, and other fascinating topics. I guess other couples fall into similar ruts, but with an impending empty nest, I don't want to become one of those couple who go out to dinner and have nothing to say to each other. That prospect terrifies me. My theory is that spending more time together to remind us of what we saw in each other when we were falling in love might help both our irritable moods. And if it doesn't work, I can always make a voodoo doll of Kevin to make him behave. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Maybe I'll just get him a Playboy subscription

2007-02-24T11:26:00.000-05:00

Kevin's teaching his first class, on collage and mixed media, at the Sugarcreek Art Center today. He had to work last night, so he was up late gathering supplies and going over his notes for the intro. I can tell he's nervous because as he was leaving, he said "I wish you were coming to the class!" Fine time to tell me, pal, when I'm sitting here with crazy bed head and wearing pajama pants. Oh, don't feel sorry for him. I think he wanted me there more to boost participant numbers than for moral support. Only five people signed up ahead of time, but the center does get walk-ins for classes. I think the weather and time of year affected the number of sign-ups, too. He's planning to teach a class on rubber stamping later this spring, and I'm sure more people will sign up then. Keep your fingers crossed the class goes well for him, will you?

Oh, and I must say something snotty about his cousin Sam, who's heading up the foundation that Kevin's the artist in residence for. Sam blathers a blue streak about how "marvelous" Kevin's artwork is and how "supportive" he is of Kevin's artistic efforts, but is he attending the class today to support Kevin? Why, no. And Kevin wonders why I snipe about Sam being all talk.

******

That damn Greg (heh) suggested a Playboy subscription for Daniel's 18th birthday. He was kidding, of course (RIGHT, Greg?), but his suggestion reminded me of something I know about Daniel that I'm not supposed to. A while back, Kevin was putting away laundry and went into Daniel's closets to hang a few shirts. (He doesn't usually put Daniel's clothes away FOR him, just for the record. He was carrying a bunch of shirts up and decided to hang Daniel's up so that they wouldn't wrinkle or fall off the doorknob. Anyway, end of unnecessary explanation.) A stack of magazines on the shelves in there caught his eye, and when he took a closer look, he saw they were Playboys. Here's what's funny, though: They weren't current Playboys; they were from the late '60s, early '70s, and quite tame by today's standards. We figured someone brought them in to the bookstore with a box of books to sell, and Jon offered them to Daniel and the other male employee more as a joke. Apparently Daniel took him up on the offer! I had to laugh when I looked at a few issues. I mean, the pictures are almost sweet. If that's as far into porn as he gets, fine with me.

******

I was more upset than I let on by Kevin's touchiness over getting stuck in the snow last weekend. See, when I met him nine years ago, he was one of the sweetest, most laidback men I'd ever met. Frankly, that quality was a huge part of his attraction for me, as it was a diametric opposite to my ex-husband's personality. Over the past couple of years, I've been surprised to see outbursts of anger, irritation, and defensiveness from him. He's not a psycho, but the change has been noticeable. I tried to rationalize it by attributing it to depression (and his moods did improve a little after he started antidepressants) or frustration over being out of work or working in jobs that gave him no opportunities to use his creativity. He's had a lot of problems with his daughter, and Lord knows problems with kids can make you angry and frustrated as hell. I've had some ups and downs in moods, too, what with occasional depression and perimenopause and idiot salesclerks and theater employees (heh), too, so I thought maybe he was reacting to MY moods.

Greg mentioned male menopause after my entry about Kevin's snit fit, and I thought it might be a possibility, but with my usual laziness, didn't look into it any further. Then I got an e-mail from Kathy (more famous as The Millionth Reader at Jane's) talking about dealing with men's midlife crises, and I thought "Second mention in a week: Someone's telling me to look into this more."

So I Googled "male menopause" and lo, there were more than a million hits. I started clicking around, looking for descriptions of symptoms. This WellnessMD article, among many others, listed "dwindling libido and impotence" (which I first typed as "importance"--ha! Freudian, much?) Uh, NOT A PROBLEM. And I'll leave it at that (you're welcome).

I kept looking, and found this article at MSNBC, which also mentioned decreased interest in sex but added increased irritability and feeling "down and discouraged." What's interesting is that the article said testosterone levels start decreasing gradually as early as 30 and continue for many years, whereas woman have a sharper decline in estrogen levels starting at 50, on average. So men do go through menopause (or, more correctly, andropause), but the transition is usually a hell of a lot easier for them because it's more gradual.

I was feeling somewhat put upon, all "Men! And if they had periods, instead of cramps, they'd have soothing, tingling waves of contentment wash over them. Hmmmph!" And then I found the MenAlive site. According to the author, male depression can mimic andropause symptoms, making diagnosis more difficult, and depression often manifests itself differently in men than in women, as anxiety and irritability. Then I hit on irritable male syndrome (IMS), which at first I was tempted to dismiss with "I think that's called just being male," but I don't know. A lot of what I read sounded familiar. IMS is sometimes called Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome because of how drastic the behavioral changes can be, and that certainly fit Kevin. If you're involved with a middle-aged man, I recommend checking out the information. I don't know whether the guy writing the stuff on this site is a crackpot or is making up all these theories or what, but what I read made sense to me.

Now I need to read more about what to do about IMS. I did see something about testosterone supplements, and hell, no. That's the last thing Kevin needs, in my Google M.D. opinion. More testosterone in him? I'd never get anything done!

Edited to add: Y'all should pay attention to the lovely Miz S, if you go check out that site! I'm oblivious to advertising most of the time and didn't notice all the stuff this guy is hawking. That makes me suspicious, but I still think the descriptions of behaviors are interesting, and to be honest, I'm relieved to think there might be something wrong with Kevin, whether it's physical or psychological. Not that I WISH an ailment on him, but that's better than resigning myself to him becoming the world's crankiest old man, right?

Oh, and no worries: He doesn't read anything here. I'm not hiding it from him on purpose, but when I switched sites, I just never gave him the new address. Even at my old journal, he didn't read that often because I think he was afraid of inhibiting my "self-expression" or some such notion. Self-expression, heh. More like aimless babbling, but still, it was sweet of him. See? He is sweet when he's not being Mr. Crankypants.

Heed the snow blob's warning!

2007-02-23T10:18:00.000-05:00

Why do I have to work for a living? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy? It gets in the way of so much I want to do. For one thing, I was enjoying updating more often, but I don't how I'm going to continue doing that if work stays at this pace. More work = money coming in, so I don't want to complain too much. Sometimes the feast-or-famine nature of freelance work gets to me, though.

******

In case you were wondering, the snow finally started melting, and I did indeed survive my Cabin Fever '07 experience. Good thing I wasn't a pioneer woman in one of the plains states who was forced to hole up in a cabin the entire winter. I wouldn't have maintained a Little House on the Prairie cheerfulness in the face of hardship. No, I'd have been the type who wrote increasingly paranoid, disjointed entries in my diary that would one day be found and illuminate for my descendants why I went insane and roasted my family in the fireplace. Or maybe I WAS one in a former life, and that explains my dread at the prospect of one more day of being trapped inside by the weather.

******

Damn, American Idol sucks up a lot of time during semifinals, doesn't it? I read the other day that at 1 minute and 30 seconds per song for each contestant, a night with 12 contestants takes up 18 minutes of actual singing. That's of a two-HOUR show, folks. That leaves 102 minutes for judges' comments, commercials, intro-backstory blather about contestants, and, of course, manufactured drama. Thank God Kevin's been working mostly nights and I've been taping shows; we just fast-forward through all the crap and commercials and save vast amounts of time. I don't think I'd enjoy it nearly as much if I wasted 204 minutes plus the results show in one week.

******

Daniel turns 18 in three weeks! I'd like to get him something special for his birthday, but I'm so broke right now. With all the work I've had, you wouldn't think I am, but payments are at least a month behind the actual work. Anyway, I wanted to give him a present that acknowledges the significance of this birthday--that it marks the transition from child to adult, in a way. I haven't a clue what that might be, however. Any ideas?

Speaking of my boy, he continues to develop a warped sense of humor that fills me with all kinds of strange pride. Heh. The day after the blizzard, he went out to shovel the steps again and took his camera outside to get some pictures of the snow. He said he'd tried to make a snowman, but the snow didn't pack well. However, I found a picture he took the next day, and he did manage to fashion a snowman of sorts--more of a snow blob, I guess:

Bwah! I just love that kid. He's never lost his "Calvin and Hobbes" quality.

He was so excited last week because he got an acceptance letter from Purdue. He'd listed geology as his first choice of major, with history as a second choice. Unfortunately, his math grades and math scores on the ACT/SATs weren't high enough to get accepted into the College of Science, but he made it into the College of Liberal Arts. He's cool with that and figures he can reapply after a year, if he takes some science and math review/remedial classes and does well in them. His grades in natural sciences have always been high, so I think he has a good shot at it; if not, he'd be happy doing something in liberal arts.

******

Netflix finally sent The Departed, so I'll have seen an unprecedented TWO of the nominees for Best Picture before this year's Oscars. Whooo! The other one was Little Miss Sunshine, which I loved, even though I don't think it's going to take the Best Picture award. Daniel and I have already filled out the ballot cards Entertainment Weekly includes in the Oscar preview issue. We've been doing that for the past three years, and then keep score during the show of who predicted the most right choices. I've edged him out every year so far, but his prediction score has been improving. He just might whup my ass this year--our own nerdy little version of the child surpassing the parent. Poor Kevin. The man hasn't got a competitive bone in his body and is slightly bewildered by our intense enjoyment of this game. He adores snarking about the red-carpet interviews and cheesy performances of Oscar-nominated Best Songs, however, so that night has something entertaining for us all.

I'm back in the sweat pants again

2007-02-18T08:50:00.000-05:00

Even with yesterday's fresh snow, I was optimistic about getting out of the house to see a movie. Going down to Mt. Pilot was out of the question, but maybe, just maybe, Mayberry's local theater would show something besides Talladega Nights, which topped the marquee for six solid weeks. Ugh. Holding my breath, I dialed the movie line and was shocked to hear that Music and Lyrics had a 5:00 showing. Matinee prices, even!

About 4:30, Kevin and I headed out to the garage, with me practically skipping down the shoveled path. I was wearing real pants! And a bra! Lipstick, too! Well, I'd wear lipstick in the aftermath of a tornado with a fever of 105, but REAL PANTS, people. Mountains of packed snow lined the driveway on either side, but I stayed positive--until Kevin backed up and got stuck. He kept revving and spinning the tires while I gritted my teeth. I lived in Chicago for 10 years, and I know that technique isn't going to get you anywhere on slick snow. Finally, when the smell of burning rubber began drifting through the air, I suggested Kevin try going forward again and rocking the car back and forth. Apparently this remark was a slur on Kevin's manhood, intelligence, character, etc., etc. "Stop criticizing me!" he yelled. "Oh, I forgot being helpful is CRITICIZING," I retorted.

For God's sake. Am I nuts? It would have been better to let him burn the tires up than offer advice? Meanwhile, the clock on the dashboard was ticking inexorably toward 5:00, and the possibility of a fun movie date began fading. Kevin was getting nowhere fast, so he grudgingly got out of the car to let me try. I told him to get ready to push on my signal, and then rocked the car back and forth a few times. When it felt right, I hollered at Kevin to push and backed up until I was through the packed snow. Kevin ran to the car, and I was nice enough to brake for a few seconds while he climbed in.

Now, let me emphasize that I did not gloat, but Kevin pouted and muttered "Fine, YOU lived in CHICAGO, you know all about driving in snow." All the way to the theater, we "discussed" the difference between criticizing and giving advice, and I bit my tongue about 42 times to stop myself from shrieking "Would you GROW the HELL UP?" Which would have been quite mature of me. Pot, kettle, yadda yadda. I was determined to see the movie, however, so I tried to let it drop.

We raced into the theater at a few minutes before 5:00, and as the teenaged cashier was handing the tickets to us, I happened to spot the movie times listed above him, which said "Music and Lyrics: 4:50 7:00." WHAT? The movie line said 5:00! I asked Teen Cashier whether the movie had already started. He looked blank (well, blankER) and said "I dunno." I asked whether he could, oh, I don't know....FIND OUT? He stared for a few seconds and stuttered that the previews were "probably" still playing. Fine. We walked back to the theater, but when we went in, I saw Hugh Grant talking (adorably, I might add) to Brad Garrett on the big screen and threw a minor hissy fit. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have major dental surgery than watch a movie that's already started. It's just not done. If I started my own religion, that would be number one on the list of deadly sins. (Number two: Talking in the theater during a movie.) I stomped back to Teen Cashier and demanded our money back.

Of course, nothing else worth seeing was playing in that stupid theater, so we went back home. I was crushed. I'd looked forward to this outing so much, and I desperately needed to get out. Instead, I got a stuck car and a ridiculous argument and missed the movie because the idiot girl who records the movie listings read the wrong time. Hmmmph! If we get more snow today, I'm going to commit hara-kiri on the giant icicle hanging next to my back door. At the very least, I could put my eye out!*

*For the three people who haven't seen A Christmas Story, I'm kidding.

All snow and no fun make Lisa an insane woman

2007-02-17T10:44:00.000-05:00

After this week, I'm thinking of writing a book: Diary of a Mad Freelance Editor Stuck Inside Her Freaking House Because of a Damn Blizzard. Possibly with a shorter title. After Tuesday's blizzard dumped about 16 inches of snow on central Indiana--and the 35-40 mph winds created drifts up to four FEET high--going anywhere was impossible. My garage is a separate building out back along an alley, which the city never plows, of course. Kevin shoveled a path from the back door to the garage Wednesday, but too much snow was blocking the driveway and alley to shovel away.

I'd gone to the grocery store last weekend, so food wasn't a problem. Cold weather and snow puts me in a cooking mood, and this week I made two huge pans of stuffed shells and homemade beef-vegetable soup with corn muffins, and I even indulged my guys with pancakes and bacon for brunch on Valentine's Day. I figured if I kept us all stuffed, we'd be too lazy to kill each other from all the enforced togetherness. Heh. I was in a good mood that morning, too, because of the little surprise Kevin left on my desk the night before. Usually, we don't make a big production out of Valentine's Day, but I found a sweet card and this plant waiting for me:

What made me laugh, though, were the little clingy gel hearts and cupids he'd stuck all over my monitor, which I didn't see at first because it was dark. When I moved the mouse, the screen lit up, and all the decorations popped out.

Daniel was delighted to have snow days Tuesday and Wednesday, but a little dismayed to have another snow day Thursday. Three days at home with just your mom isn't any teenager's idea of a good time, I'm sure. Usually, he never has a problem with getting bored; that kid has always been able to amuse himself quite well. When he offered to shovel the front steps and walkway, however, I knew even he was grasping at straws for something to do. I posted a few pictures on Flickr, mostly as proof of his stubbornness. It was 10 degrees outside, but would he wear anything on his head? Don't be silly. He's been a walking furnace since he was a baby, but I can't believe his head wasn't cold! I sent one picture to my parents, and my mom was horrified at his hatless state--which is, of course, the main reason I sent the picture to them.

When Kevin got home from work Thursday, he discovered that a mysterious he-man neighbor had partially cleared the alley with a snowblower. Bless retired men with motorized toys who need to find something to occupy their time. So Friday morning, he was able to get the car out to drive Daniel to school and--even more important--make it to the store to buy Diet Coke and a People magazine for me. I was going through withdrawal, people! No Diet Coke since Wednesday, and the new People had been out for a whole DAY. Besides, being cooped up inside has made me a little crazy, and he was hoping those two offerings would make the mad glint in my eyes subside. They did help, but the prospect of going out today and seeing a movie with him were doing more to keep me sane. You can imagine my dismay when I looked out the window earlier this morning and saw more snow falling. The weather people predicted two to four inches, but we've already got that, and the snow's still coming down in buckets. Arrrghhh! If you read about a middle-aged woman who's been wearing sweat pants and slippers for four days going berserk and chopping her family into bite-sized pieces, don't be surprised.

Storm of the century? BFD!

2007-02-13T08:50:00.000-05:00

Blizzard! Danger, Will Robinson! Oh, all right: It's still just a blizzard warning, but I like to get a jumpstart on overreacting. The weather liars have been trumpeting THE STORM OF THE CENTURY since Sunday, so naturally, everyone's running around freaked out. Kevin said that last night at work, every customer immediately asked, after walking in the door, "Do you still have milk??" What the hell is it about imminent snowstorms that makes people flock in Pavlovian droves to the store to buy up all the milk, bread, and eggs? Do they develop a craving for French toast when it snows? As it turns out, W@lgreen's was indeed the last place in town to have milk stocked. Both the grocery and W@l-Mart were out. That's a LOT of milk, folks. Mayberry-ites must have the strongest bones in the Midwest.

Daniel and I started checking school closings last night, but of course this stupid school district can't plan ahead and put out an early notice. No, every school district surrounding this one had posted a closed notice last night, but not Mayberry. I guess having strong bones means you can withstand a trip to school through a foot of snow and gale-force winds. Kevin had to get up early because he's on the day shift today, so I got up with him and flipped channels impatiently to get to Mayberry's spot in the endless list of alphabetical entries. Daniel's school did close (yay!), but while I was waiting, I noticed that preschools and day care centers have the oddest names these days, especially church-affiliated schools. Among others, I noticed God's Treasures, Tomorrow's Hope (because the children ARE our future), and Lit-O-Lamb Preschool. The strangest, by far, was Excellent in Flight Daycare. What the . . . ? I'm picturing tots in aviator goggles and flight suits toddling around. Remind me to get a good look at the pilot the next time I fly out of Indianapolis, would you?

******

Last night, my editor pal Jill called. Like me, she's a freelance editor and works for most of the same clients; for years, we saw each other's names pop up on e-mails and pub schedules, but had never talked. A couple of years ago, we wound up working on a set of companion textbooks and quickly became phone buddies. We e-mail and call every few weeks and often have delightful bitching sessions about frustrating authors, stupid copyeditors who don't know a comma from a semicolon, Hitler-esque production staff, and other topics that would bore non-editors to tears, I'm sure.

I've wondered a few times if we'd be friends if we weren't in the same field of work. Jill lives way out in the country, about 50 miles outside Phoenix, and spends her spare time riding dirt bikes and motorcycles. I'd feel isolated in that environment, and I fall over if I just see a PICTURE of anything motorized on two wheels. She's almost frighteningly blunt and straightforward, whereas I avoid confrontation and unpleasantness as though they're the main causes of cancer. She considers children an alien lifeform, and I . . . well, sometimes I can see her point. Heh.

Anyway, we're very different, but on anything related to editing, we connect like nobody's business. She called last night to warn me an unpleasant project might be coming my way; she had turned it down and suspected it would be offered to me next. Then we started talking about a nightmare project she's working on: a series of books for the new Office products coming out for the Vista update. A team of authors, editors, and product managers are working on the series, and except for Jill, sound like the most anal-retentive bunch you can imagine. In addition to weekly conference calls for the editors, the style guide is updated two or three times a WEEK (highly unusual) and is up to 86 pages. That's crazy. You simply can't work with a style guide that long. The worst part is that the authors, who have worked together on this series for the past 15 years, have a ton of style rules that exist only in their heads, as Jill keeps discovering. She'll make a correction only to be told "Oh, we don't do it that way." Jill then consults the style guide and can't find that rule. When she asks, they just say "Well, it's not in there, but that's the way we've always done it." Yikes.

Last week, Jill was on a conference call with the entire team, including the head honcho who started this series. (I can't say the name of the series, but it's a major one used in almost every college.) Head Honcho and the author team were arguing about some minor point, so Jill took that opportunity to doze a little while clutching the phone to her ear. Suddenly, she heard Head Honcho snap "Oh, BFD! I really don't care." She jerked awake, thinking "Did I really just hear this guy say 'BFD' on a conference call, or did I dream it?" BFD. Can you believe it? It's unprofessional, to say the least, but what a juvenile expression! I don't think I've heard "BFD" since sixth grade. We had a good laugh about it, but I told Jill she should have asked politely what "BFD" stands for, pointing out innocently that the acronym isn't on the style guide anywhere.

******

I just took this picture out my front door. You can't tell, but the wind is blowing so hard the snow is coming down sideways. Not much accumulation yet, however. Looking at this photo, I'm afraid I'd have to say "BFD!" Hee.

I need to update my TV references

2007-02-12T21:58:00.000-05:00

Lord, was that financial aid seminar boring! Mostly, it consisted of a pinch-faced woman standing at the front of the cafeteria reading every single word in the FAFSA worksheet. Words that were right in front of me. In print. Plus, she was soft-spoken to the point of near-inaudibility. She'd make Low Talker Girl from Seinfeld look like a brassy loudmouth. Hell, I was ready to agree to wear a puffy shirt if she'd just SPEAK UP. Not that she said anything useful. I've been able to read for, oh, a number of years, and I wager I could have figured out the intricate distinctions between single, married, divorced, and widowed without her low-pitched mumbling commentary. Daniel and The Ex amused themselves by making rude observations on the other seminar attendees and snickering like 12-year-olds. I adore being the mature one, you know?

Pinch Face droned on, while several assistants circled the audience like sharks to answer questions from attendees. I was reading ahead (because I are so smart!) in the worksheet, and I got to the question about whether the student had registered for military service. The worksheet explanation stated that male students between the ages of 18 and 25 must register for military service to receive federal financial aid for college. I saw red, and my arm flew up as if independent of my brain to flag down one of the assistants. An assistant shark spotted blood in the water and rushed over, and I asked her whether that statement was accurate. "Yes," she said, looking puzzled. I was trying to keep my voice down, honestly, but I don't think I was completely successful. One clue was Daniel and The Ex whistling and feigning fascination in the ceiling tiles, clearly pretending they didn't know me. "Well, putting aside what I think about REQUIRING military service, why does this apply only to MALE students?" I asked. She looked at me as though I had suddenly started speaking in tongues and explained "Because women aren't required to register for military service." "Oh," I said. "I thought it was 2007. I guess I was mistaken." By this time Daniel was beet-red and The Ex was almost choking, trying not to laugh, so I mumbled "Never mind" and went back to studying the worksheet.

I'm still a little steamed about it, to tell the truth. I'm too lazy to go look up statistics, but from what I've seen on the news and read, a substantial portion of American soldiers don't have penises. If the military is going to continue targeting its recruitment attempts at low-income youth--because people who are rich enough to not need college financial aid have much better things to do than serve in the military, of course--why not do so without this backward, 1950s-reminiscent gender bias?

The seminar wasn't a complete waste of time, however. The worksheet is useful, and the assistants gave out pamphlets with several Web sites to check for scholarships. I found out, too, that I don't have to declare The Ex's income on the application. Considering child support stops next month, and I doubt I'll be able to count on him to contribute much to Daniel's tuition, I think that's fair. Even better, Daniel and I picked up some beautiful salmon steaks in a Dijon-herb marinade at Trader Joe's and had a mighty fine dinner. I broiled the steaks and made some rice pilaf and carrots with lemon-dill butter, and we even lit the candles on the dining room table. Just don't tell the feds! I can see my application coming back with an "Are you KIDDING me?? Rejected!" stamp on it, accompanied by a handwritten note: "If you can afford salmon steaks, missy, you don't need financial aid from us, now, do you?"

Sunday morning babble

2007-02-11T10:57:00.000-05:00

You people know how to hit my funny bone. I think the only joke you missed is a bad pun; I'm embarrassingly fond of puns, and the worse they are, the better. I can't think of one to save my life, but I'm in proper awe of people who can.
******
What an exciting Saturday night I had! I saw Daniel on TV for the first time--and not as the subject of a Cops episode. My Mother of the Year award should be arriving any day now. I mentioned in this entry that one of his Brain Game matches was taped, and last night it aired. I know this is such a mom thing to say, but Daniel looked so good! His voice sounds great on TV, too--very clear and surprisingly deep. Daniel even admitted he didn't look as "dorky" as he thought he would. His best friend, Paul, cracked me up with his facial expressions. Every time he answered a question right, you could see the thought bubble over his head: "Wow, I really got that one??" The team chose him to answer the lightning-round questions, although he's allowed to get answers from other team members. The entire time, Paul had the funniest deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. I could hear Daniel feeding him some answers, which was cool.

Oh! And I finally got to see the Little Red-Haired Girl who broke my son's heart. She's not as smart as she thinks she is; she got more answers wrong than right, and of course I took immense satisfaction in that. Hateful of me, but don't mess with MY BABY. Hmmmph. Also--and I'll admit I could be biased, and she was probably nervous--she had a rather haughty air I didn't care for. I suspect she's a little smug about her self-perceived superiority. It's possible I could have been looking for that, though, because of something Kevin told me. A girl at Daniel's school just started working at W@lgreen's, and Kevin asked her if she knew LRG. She snorted and said "Yes, and she's the most stuck-up thing I've ever met! She always eats lunch alone because no one likes her attitude." Hmmm. Now that I think about it, I feel a little sorry for her. She's probably been the "smart kid" her whole life and been ostracized for it, which can make you painfully shy. Maybe she's adopted that superior air unconsciously as a self-defense mechanism. OK, I feel like a jerk for secretly exulting at her incorrect answers.

Some of the questions involved math calculations, and they're allowed to use paper and pencil to figure out the answers. I noticed Daniel scribbling away industriously after one algebra question, and I was amazed--math isn't exactly his forte, after all. I asked him if he was close to getting the answer, and he laughed and said "I was doodling cartoons there."

The Z'ville team won by three points, BUT the match might have gone the other way if not for the stupid judges. To the question "What's the saintly name for the light surrounding ships' masts at night?" a Z'ville kid answered "Halo." The judges conferred and gave it to him! Not even close to the correct answer: St. Elmo's fire. He got two points for a wrong answer, damn it. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Heh.
******
I'm feeling a little better, mostly because this ^%$^!# rush job is almost done. I'm still not 100%, however; I feel a little weak and shaky, so I'm not looking forward to driving down to Indianapolis this afternoon. Daniel and I are meeting his dad at a seminar on federal financial aid for college. Sounds like a good time, no? I bet you wish you were me. It'll be worth it if Daniel can get some kind of grant, though. To make up for the tedium, I promised Daniel a trip to Trader Joe's afterward to pick up something fun for dinner. Compared to the local grocery, Trader Joe's is a cornucopia of exotic food choices. With that and the prospect of American Idol's Hollywood round starting this week, I don't know if I can take the excitement!

Begonia or orchid?

2007-02-07T16:43:00.000-05:00

Hello, I'm feeling unbelievably crappy. I'm exhausted, and I keep throwing up (TMI, sorry), much like the problem I was having last fall (NOT PREGNANCY). My blood sugar's a little high, which I think is because I'm so stressed with this rush job. I used to handle rush jobs without breaking a sweat and could stay up until all hours working. Now I have to work a little harder than usual, and I'm falling apart. When did I turn into such a hothouse flower? (Hush, Sasha!)
I have no time to post much of anything, but if you like, leave a funny comment for me. It doesn't have to be the height of hilarity, either. You might not know this, but I'm quite the humor slut, and it doesn't take much to crack me up. Make an overworked hothouse flower giggle; it can be your good deed for the day. I promise to be less pathetic soon!

Don't ask me to explain a first down, though

2007-02-04T08:53:00.000-05:00

About Rude Workout Lady, I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks of a good comeback hours later. My normal MO, when confronted with rudeness, is to stare disbelievingly, open and close my mouth repeatedly like a giant guppy, mumble something, and walk away fuming. If I'm pushed past a certain point, however, the words just fly out without my brain even engaging--or so it seems. Sometimes that works in my favor, but more often, I wind up saying things I regret.
After I got home, I thought of a lot more I would have liked to say, but I said enough to stand up for myself without resorting to her level of rudeness, I think. Stephanie mentioned reporting her to the manager, and that did cross my mind. The manager's probably gotten similar complaints about this woman--or maybe not. I doubt any apology from her would be sincere, though, and I suspect she isn't going to be saying anything to me in the near future, much less making rude comments. So I don't know . . . should I complain?
******
I heard a few rumors that a big game of some kind is being played today. Is that right? Heh. Sorry, just pulling your leg, football fans. Y'all get so rabid about the Super Bowl that I can't resist teasing you. Actually, I had forgotten about it until yesterday. Kevin and I had to go to the store to pick up dog food, and the place was jammed. I've never seen lines that long there! Then it dawned on me, as I looked at the contents of people's carts: chips, beer, dip, more beer, chicken wings, oh, and beer. I noticed, too, that not one carton of eggs could be found in the store. Apparently, the entire state of Indiana is making deviled eggs.
My friend Lynn called yesterday, so excited she could barely speak. She's a HUGE Colts fan and is going to a Super Bowl party decked out in a blue tinsel wig, a Colts jersey, and a hat with a horse perched on top. Yeah, I'm not sure why we're friends, either. What cracked me up is the way she kept referring to the Colts as "we," as in "We're going to crush the Bears!" On the other hand, if Lynn were in Miami, I could see her leaping onto the field and giving Peyton Manning some tips. Gah, I can't believe I know the name of the Colts quarterback! I guess I'd have had to be in a coma for the past month not to have some football knowledge seep into my consciousness.
Last night, customers kept asking Kevin if he had to work today. When he said yes, they were aghast and expressed the kind of sympathy usually reserved for a death in the family. He's not much of a sports fan--and I'm deeply grateful he's not--but he reassured them that TVs would be set up in the store, and the other employees had planned to bring in snacks. "Oh, thank God," they breathed in relief. Kevin said he was afraid if he told them he'd miss the game, they would have burst into tears or stormed the manager's office, demanding she provide a TV for employees.
There's not much point in W@lgreen's being open tonight, however. I can't imagine many customers coming in. By 6:00, the town is going to be completely deserted, with tumbleweeds blowing down the middle of Main Street and the faint sounds of people crunching chips and munching on deviled eggs echoing through the cold, still air. Well, I'll watch the half-time show at least, in case there's a wardrobe malfunction or Nelly (Nellie? whatever) grabbing his crotch while he sings to amuse me. The Super Bowl has something to entertain everyone, right?

Double the workout, NOT double the fun

2007-02-03T14:08:00.000-05:00

Whew. It's been a long week. I took on a rush editing project because I need the money, but I'm beginning to regret it. This author uses 4,237 words to say what most people can say in 385. In one chapter, he's trying to set up a hypothetical company as an example, and I swear he spent three paragraphs describing the company and a problem it's having. After taking my editing axe to the description, I boiled it down to four sentences. Holy unnecessary words, Batman!

******

I feel a little guilty about poking fun at Kevin's forgetfulness in my previous entry, especially because I'm not exactly the Queen of Short-Term Recall. He's so darn cute in his absent-mindedness, though, that I can't help myself. I wish my memory lapses were as amusing, but walking into a room to get something and forgetting--in the 10 seconds it took to walk into the room--what I needed to get isn't quite as endearing. Sometimes it seems as though I spend half my day standing in the middle of a room and mumbling to myself "What did I come in here to do?"

The other half of the day I spend doing things backward. This morning I was making corn muffins and carefully put the milk jug and egg carton in the oven and the muffin tin in the refrigerator. Fortunately, I realized what I'd done before I created a HAZMAT accident in my oven. I don't even want to think about the stink of melted egg carton wafting through my kitchen.

There. Now I feel less guilty after confessing my memory inadequacies.

******

I haven't mentioned my progress with better eating and exercising lately. For the most part, I think I'm slowly incorporating good habits so that I don't have to consciously think about food choices or constantly persuade myself to exercise. I have setbacks, of course. Some days I get busy with work and forget to eat lunch, so at 3:00 I'm suddenly starving and want to eat an entire birthday cake (but I don't--really!). Occasionally, I have to force myself to go work out when I'm so tired that all I want to do is collapse on the couch and watch Seinfeld reruns.

In spite of those bad days, I'm still getting results. I've lost another five pounds for a total of 28, I think. Or maybe 30. I have the damndest time remembering the total amount, and I keep forgetting to ask the nurse after I get weighed. I'm just so excited to see any loss; that's all I can focus on at the moment.

I did remember to get measured at the end of January at Curve$, though. I hate getting measured no matter who does it, but when I went in Monday, the one Curve$ employee I actively dislike was there. She's always making little digs about my weight, which is strange for two reasons. One, the other employees never do that; they go out of their way to be encouraging and positive. Two, she's a big ol' husky girl who probably outweighs me by 50 pounds. Granted, I'm short and weigh too much for my height, but she doesn't have much room to talk. Usually, I grit my teeth and ignore her, but I'd finally had it Monday.

She was taking my measurements and bitching about having a hard time finding my waist. I tried to be nice and said, "Yeah, I'm very short-waisted--I have about half an inch between my rib cage and my hip bones!" I'd lost 1.5 inches from my waist (despite the suffering she went through to FIND my waist) and 1 inch from my hips, so I was happy. Then she went one step too far. She measured my bust and reported I'd lost one-fourth inch. I thought that was kind of funny, compared to my other measurements; it's like I can't get rid of my excess knockers, you know? I made some kind of lame joke, laughing about it being only a fourth of an inch. She said nastily, "Well, if you really want results, you have to come three times a week! You've missed some days, you know, and you have to work hard because of all that extra weight."

When I get really mad, I turn beet-red, and my face felt like it was on fire. Honestly, I thought I was going to burst a blood vessel. I snapped "I AM getting results, and I HAVE been coming here regularly. I missed a few days a couple of weeks ago because I had NO FREAKING CAR. Is there anything else you'd like to say, or can I go exercise now and get the hell away from you?"

She started sputtering indignantly, but I didn't want to hear it or waste any more time on her, so I just walked away and started my workout. I've decided there's no point in trying to deal with rude people. Telling them they're rude doesn't work; either they don't believe you and think you're being oversensitive, or they just plain don't care. One good thing came out of that incident, however: I didn't have to exercise very long to get my heart rate up! Who knew getting mad is an aerobic activity? I think I'll stick with exercising instead of throwing hissy fits to get a cardio workout, though.

I can't wait for actual senility to set in!

2007-01-30T10:08:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned this before, but Kevin and I have a running joke about starring in our own sitcom called My Idiot Boyfriend because of all the absent-minded, bone-headed stunts he pulls (and I say that with love, truly). The theme song sounds similar to the one from The Patty Duke Show, in case you're wondering.

Well, last night was a new episode. Kevin got home from work about 10:30 and said it had started snowing again on his walk home, and then asked where I had gone that night. Act I of the episode went like this:

Me: "What do you mean? I didn't go anywhere."

Idiot Boyfriend (IB), looking puzzled: "Then why did you park the car out front?"

Me: "I didn't even go outside, much less move the car for no reason."

IB, now looking worried: "I didn't see the car in the garage when I came in through the back yard."

Me: "Kevin! Are you sure you didn't drive to work?"

IB: "No, no, I walked. Hang on, let me go look out front."

Sound of front door opening. Long pause. The front door slams, followed by the sound of IB running down hallway to my office. Act II begins:

IB: "The car's not out front!"

Me: "And you're sure you didn't drive to work?"

IB: "No!"

Me: "You actually looked in the garage when you came home?"

IB, blank stare: "Well . . . I think so. I'll go look again."

Sound of back door opening and IB's feet crunching on the snow down the path to the garage. Long pause, and then the sound of IB running back inside.

IB: "Lisa, the car's NOT IN THE GARAGE!"

Me, mouth hanging open: "Uh . . . "

IB: "I can't believe someone stole it!"

Me: "Should we call the police? Crap, I'm not dressed!"

IB: "The registration's in the car! Do you remember the license plate number?"

Me: "Of course I don't! And you're positive you didn't drive to work?"

Long pause. The clock ticks. The sun rises and sets repeatedly. Spiderwebs grow in the corner of my office. The buildings outside the window change; some are torn down, and new ones go up. Finally, IB's eyes lose their blank look, and comprehension dawns. Act III begins:

IB: "You know what? I did drive to work."

Me: Wordless sputter, accompanied by look of pure rage.

IB, hastily: "I'll run back and get it!"

IB throws on his coat and runs out the back door. I take this opportunity to look up the benefits of gingko biloba on the Internet and consider hiring a home healthcare worker to accompany IB everywhere.

Finis.

And this is an edited list

2007-01-28T11:10:00.000-05:00

I watched Good Morning, Vietnam with Daniel last night (who liked it a lot), and I kept thinking how young Robin Williams, Bruno Kirby, and Forest Whitaker looked. Does that make me old? Oh, hush.

I've tried to start an entry three or four times, and I keep deleting them. I think I have a low-level general pissiness going on, and nothing seems to satisfy me. I'll type a few sentences, and then think "Oh, who wants to read about that?" Does that ever happen to anyone else?

For lack of a topic, I'm just going to list some things that are bugging me, in no particular order of importance:

The newspaper changed the format of the Sunday insert for the TV schedule. It's much bigger yet more difficult to read, and the arrangement of each day's listings makes no sense. For example, on one left-hand page are the entries for Tuesday night's cable channels; on the right-hand page are the Tuesday night AND Wednesday night network channels. To see Wednesday night's cable channels, I have to turn the page--and that's just not right. And, AND, there are no show descriptions now. Hmmph.
Speaking of the newspaper, would it kill the delivery adult to toss the paper somewhere in the vicinity of my front porch? This morning, I had to scurry outside, in 10 degrees, all the way down my front steps and halfway down the sidewalk to my next-door neighbor's house--while wearing pink pajamas and a huge fuzzy white robe.
Daniel called me the other night from a friend's house. When I answered, he said "Hey, Mom. It's Dan." Dan?? Dan who? I have a son named Daniel, who only a few months ago corrected people who called him Dan. I don't like the name Dan. Dan's a breezy jock who likes to have a few brewskies with his buds. Gah. Freakin' Indiana and its residents' propensity for shortening names in any way possible. Ever since I moved here, teachers and other adults have tried to shorten Daniel's name, and in the past few years, kids at school have, too. I'm not sure whether Daniel's caved or wants to establish a new identity; either way, it upsets me.
I pay most of my bills online and do about 95% of my work on the computer. Why, then, do I still have stacks and stacks of paper in my office??
I've had it with trying to turn over in the middle of the night and being unable to move because a 13-pound cat is draped across my legs. Not curled up sweetly next to me, not lying at the foot of the bed--across my legs.
Holly now snores even when she's AWAKE. I have to turn the TV up to deaf-person levels to hear it above her floor-rattling snores.
Jon's closing the used bookstore at the end of February because he got a great offer to buy the building and, he claims, he's ready to retire. Where am I supposed to get all my books now? His store was within walking distance, plus I got Daniel's 15% employee discount. The place also functioned as an old-fashioned general store; I could hang out there for an hour drinking free coffee and get all the town gossip and news.
Gene, the guy who lives behind me, across the alley in back of my garage, has three grown sons who leave their giant trucks and a freakin' BOAT parked in his driveway, which is approximately two feet long. Therefore, their big-ass vehicles stick partway out into the alley, which means backing out of my garage and into the alley requires excellent hand-eye coordination and split-second timing to turn the wheel at just the right moment. My skillz in both areas? Not so mad.
Now that this winter is finally turning cold, my hair is one big ball of static electricity.
One of my clients lost an invoice I sent in December. Even with an expedite order on it, I won't see the check for another two weeks.
The pain-in-the-ass author I wrote about a few weeks ago is a week behind now on a chapter, and I just found out from another author on the team that he's having surgery for an "old war injury." I don't know what "war" he was in; he's too young to have served in WWII or Vietnam, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't involved in the Gulf War. The other author informed me that PITA author will probably have to drop out of the project. I can't wait to pass that news along to Kid Manager. The poor thing will plotz.
Several movies up for Academy Awards are just now hitting theaters around here. Once again, I'll be watching the Oscars having seen only a handful of the nominated movies. Oh, well. Ellen DeGeneres is hosting, so that's some comfort.

That is all--for now. Heh.

Partly scattered babble, clearing toward morning

2007-01-25T10:12:00.000-05:00

Here are the answers for the word quiz thingie from the other day:

Bart's advice to chill out: Don't have a cow, man
Symbol of Hinduism: Sacred cow
A long time: Until the cows come home
A money-making endeavor: Cash cow

The next word quiz has "saint" or "St." in each answer:

An herb that makes you feel good (no, the other one)
An orange Monopoly property
Two of the three U.S. Virgin Islands
A 1980s TV medical drama

******

I'm feeling scattered this morning, so I'm going to follow up on a couple of past entries to fool myself into thinking I'm all organized and clear-headed and smart. First, Daniel seems to be coping well with the little red-haired girl's rejection of him. He's stopped moping around and dragging his feet, as though the "Volga Boatmen" song was his own personal soundtrack. His dad bought him an iPod as an early birthday present, and a new electronic gadget takes the sting out of quite a few heartbreaks, especially for 17-year-old boys. I suspect he's still harboring a crush for her, but crushes don't go away overnight.

Second, thank you for your understanding comments about my mom. As a few of you pointed out, laughing my irritation off is probably my best option, and usually, I do that fairly well. My sense of humor seems to fly out the window when my mom's around, though. Why is that? I know I'm not the only one with this problem, and I don't think it's confined to daughters, although it might be more common than in sons. I've known friends who are smart, funny, well-adjusted, and capable, yet are reduced to humorless masses of insecurity and self-doubt after one encounter with their mothers. If there's a school where moms learn to wield that power, I missed the enrollment deadline--because of procrastinating, as my mom would be quick to point out.

Third, uh . . . is there a third? I can't think of anything. Well, if I left a question (or participle) dangling, nudge me.

******

AI blather: Tuesday's auditions in Memphis were blessedly less full of The Crazy, although my retinas were still seared by images of unfettered breasts. If that's going to be a theme this season, I'm not strong enough to handle it. A woman named Janita strode into the auditorium with her boobs threatening to escape the tenuous hold of her halter dress and described herself as "innocent and conservative." Clearly, self-awareness has gone out of fashion these days. She also claimed that her attention to fashion details helped boost her "confidentiality." Oy. I swear these contestants say things like that just to cause me pain.

However, I was impressed by a guy with the improbable and vaguely porn-star-like name Sundance Head. Odd Amish beard, but a clear, strong, bluesy voice. I liked Melissa the backup singer, too--gorgeous voice but not much confidence in her talent, or maybe she just has a degree of humility not found in most AI hopefuls. Most surprising was Sean, who looked like a cross between Castro as a young man and a scruffy Jesus dressed in fatigues. Immediately, I thought "Oh, crap, another deluded crazy person." He sang Johnny Cash's "God Is Gonna Cut You Down," an interesting choice (and, much to my relief, not a Christina Aguilera song), and did a decent job. I bet he got a thumbs-up from the Man in Black. If he makes it to the final 10, I'll be curious to see what kind of makeover the AI stylists give him.

Funniest line of the night: When Simon asked Robert "I'm the Next Elvis" Holmes, who also said he's writing a story about his life, how he saw his story ending, he said "With a period." Bwah!

Attack of the bed head

2007-01-23T10:36:00.000-05:00

Robyn double-dog-dared me to post a picture of my morning bead head because I claimed mine was way worse than hers. I think the pictures here speak for themselves. Also, they're proof of my deep, abiding love for y'all. I wouldn't reveal myself in all my puffy, pasty, unmadeup glory if I didn't adore you (and you, especially).

******

I drove Hilda the Honda to Curve$ yesterday, and I'm adjusting to an automatic fairly well, even though my left foot still tries to hit the clutch at times. One feature I haven't tried yet is cruise control. Does anyone actually use it? I hear it's supposed to be handy on long highway trips, but it seems a little silly to me. Is pressing the gas pedal that much work? I think it's my Amish streak that's objecting . . .

Speaking of Curve$, I solved all the word puzzles yesterday and got five Curve$ bucks! They're fake money used as a sort of motivational strategy; for example, you get a buck for each workout, another one each time you work out three times in one week, and so on. The thing is, I'm not quite sure what I can use them for. The manager said something vague about buying special merchandise, but when I asked whether she meant the T-shirts on display, she looked confused and said "Well, not really." Whatever. I'm still collecting them because . . . well, I might amass a huge pile of them and then take over the world! Mwah-ha-ha-ha. Yeah, I'm an easy mark.

Here are the word puzzle questions I answered; each answer phrase includes the word "cow." You can leave your answers in the comments.

Bart's advice to chill out
Symbol of Hinduism
A long time
A money-making endeavor

Uh, I can't remember the last one. I get no points for memory skills. Good thing I can do the daily USA Today crossword puzzle again to exercise my brain. Jane had mentioned doing this puzzle online every day, so a few months ago, I decided to give it a try as part of my efforts to ward off early senility. I got addicted quickly. Last week, I couldn't get the page to display, though--it kept showing up blank! I tried substituting paper crosswords, but I missed the "Ta-da!" sound USA Today's puzzle plays when you finish solving it. And it gives you a grade, which my nerdy little soul delights in. Daniel updated Flash on my computer last weekend, and I think that fixed the display problem. My only quibble is that there are no new puzzles on the weekends, but I have my logic puzzle magazine as an alternative. I'm puffy, pasty, AND a geek! Could I make myself sound more attractive? I think not.

Linda would have picked Babs, of course

2007-01-22T11:24:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was quite a test of the few patience and forbearance molecules I possess. Kevin and I drove to Dayton with my parents, spent Saturday night there, and then drove the Honda back home Sunday. Because I started the weekend out so angry at my mom, I think, I had a harder time than usual handling her. Even if Kevin didn't do any of those things I wrote about last time, he'd deserve a gold star for performing his boyfriendly duties so admirably this weekend. It's very possible he prevented a matricide by spotting signs of me potentially blowing a gasket and skillfully changing the subject, suggesting a walk, or offering to run an errand for my mom and asking me to go with him. Escape is definitely the way to go sometimes.

Despite all the bitching in my last entry, I do love my mom, and I don't know why she gets on my nerves so much when she engages in her incessant babble about trivial, boring topics or reads the newspaper out loud to whoever's in the room or waxes poetic about the wonders that are my sister Linda or makes snippy little comments about my dad or, or . . . As Kevin points out, she's not going to change. All those annoyances are part of my mom's makeup, and I should just learn to accept them. Getting angry at downright rudeness is understandable and justifiable, but the woman isn't going to stop humming tunelessly just because it drives me crazy, right?

Speaking of her humming, a funny thing happened on the drive to Dayton Saturday. Well, first a quick recap of this habit of hers for those who haven't heard about it: My mom can't remember the words to ANY song, but when she hears a song she likes on the radio or TV, she hums along, loudly and tunelessly, occasionally throwing in a couple of words she does know. One of my favorite stories about the brain-numbing quality of her humming happened on a long drive through Georgia when Daniel was about three. My mom was playing a tape of the soundtrack from Yentl--on endless loop, no less. So for four hours, I kept hearing something along the lines of this: "Papa, can you . . . hmmmm HMMMMMMM . . . Papa hmmmmmmmm hmmmmm . . . Did you hmmmm HMMMMMM . . . " YOU try to stay sane in that situation; I dare you.

Anyway, my mom was sitting up front with me while I drove, and she started shuffling through the tapes she had in the car. "Well, I have a tape Linda made me [because Linda is the good daughter, you know] of Sarah Vaughan and Patsy Cline. Oh! I have a Barbra Streisand tape!" I heard Kevin snort in the back seat, and I COULD NOT LOOK at him in the rear-view mirror because I knew I'd burst out laughing. I almost tripped over my tongue saying "Sarah Vaughan sounds good" as fast as I could. Disaster averted: I think I would have driven off the road in self-defense if she'd put that Streisand tape on.

However. I'd given her my brand-new People magazine to read on the drive--one I had not read yet, let me emphasize--and she summarized every damn article out loud to me. Every article. Articles I hadn't read yet. Did I mention that? Sigh.

Wow, I'm wordy when I'm mad

2007-01-20T06:02:00.000-05:00

Waking up at 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. and not being able to go back to sleep has lost all its charm--if it had any to begin with. I'm still angry about something my mom said yesterday, which is why I can't sleep, I'm sure. Also, I might be doing a little cussing, so fair warning for the faint of ears . . . uh, eyes. Whatever.

My parents and I were driving back from the license branch; I don't remember what we were talking about exactly--something about unexpected expenses, probably. Out of what seemed like complete left field, my mom asked, in a snippy tone, "Does Kevin help you AT ALL with finances?" A) None of her damn business, and 2) WTF?

I realize my mom has no idea what the real world is like for most people; except for the first year of marriage, when she worked while my dad finished his degree on the G.I. Bill, she's never had to work a day in her life. My dad worked for the same company his entire career, made decent money, and got a damn good pension and retirement benefits, so she hasn't had to worry about juggling bills or, well, much of anything. My dad handles everything, including a lot of the housework since his retirement and her constant aches and pains started. She's never had crushing, neverending guilt and worry gnawing at her over whether she's spending enough time with her child because she's a single mother trying to keep a roof over that child's head, food in the refrigerator, and shoes on his feet. She's never had to go back to work at 9:30 at night, after yawning through reading a bedtime story, because she stopped working at 3:00 to help her son with homework and cook a real dinner for a change instead of throwing frozen chicken nuggets in the oven (see guilt, above). She's never had to see her biggest client fold, with no warning, after a corporate merger and have a main source of income dry up suddenly, and then overcome innate shyness to pursue new clients aggressively.

Gah, so what am I saying? Right, her concept of the real world is pretty skewed. I could go on and on about Kevin's disadvantages growing up and how they affected--and still do--his adult life, but I don't have the time or heart to get into it. Suffice it to say that supporting a family with the kind of jobs that are open to you when you don't have a degree or other training is difficult, yet he managed to support a wife and two small kids during his first marriage and somehow find time to start a mail-order business making rubber stamps (with no business training, either). He's a hard worker and extremely intelligent, but his "higher" education is self-taught.

Now take the wide disparity in our earnings. My hourly fee for editing is roughly 4.5 times his hourly wage. In addition, he has child support for his son and daughter, so about half his paycheck goes straight to his ex-wife. Family and Social Services has determined a certain amount for the support of two kids, and it makes not one bit of difference how large a percentage of his pay that amount is OR that his ex-wife earns about double his pay. So is it fair to split our expenses straight down the middle? Hardly. We've worked out an equitable financial arrangement, the details of which are no one else's business, particularly my mother's. Do I ever wish I had a partner who could take care of me financially or at least take more of the burden off my shoulders? Of course. I'm human--and even a whiny one at times.

What my mom doesn't seem to see are all the other burdens Kevin handles to try to make my life a little easier. Since I met him, I think I can count on one hand the loads of laundry I've done. I cook dinner only on nights he's working. He does the bulk of the daily cleaning and spends a good chunk of his days off running errands, making repairs, grocery shopping, doing yardwork, and the million other tasks that make up running a house and a family. He takes care of vet appointments and cleaning up the hair, vomit, and various other unpleasant byproducts of four pets.

When Daniel's waited until the night before a due date to begin a school project and discovered he needs poster board, Kevin's the one who makes the mad dash to Wal-Mart before closing time. When I'm sick, he takes care of me lovingly and competently. After the nightmare of going through stomach flu, bronchitis, and killer colds alone when I was single and had no help with child care (or me care), that's not a luxury I take for granted. He's there for me when I'm depressed, discouraged, scared, worried, or one of the other 100 Moods of Lisa, and when I'm frantically working to meet a dealine, he gets the hell out of my way and tiptoes into my office occasionally with coffee or a sandwich. He's loved and cared for Daniel without once crossing the line of trying to take the place of Daniel's father. He's proud of the work I do, and after eight years together, he still gets excited when he sees my name listed in a book's front matter. He's even taken my pub copies to work and shown them off to co-workers (much to my embarrassment). When do you think was the last time my mom asked me anything about my work? If you said "never," you win!

I'm sorry if this entry is scattered and incoherent, and right now, I'm wishing like hell I'd said all this to my mom. I was so taken aback at her rudeness that I just snapped "Of course he helps me financially, as much as he's able to!" And then, because I broke my parents' cardinal rule of no raising one's voice or showing anger *gasp* openly, she changed the subject and started chattering about Hallmark stores and the clothes my sister just bought and other topics no one but her gives a damn about while I sat there fuming. TANGENT ALERT: You think I'm kidding about her listing the clothes my sister just bought? I wish I were, but I'm dead serious. Linda bought a red suit, a black blazer, khaki pants, a white blouse--her clothing taste is as exciting and varied as she is--oh, who the hell cares?

My point--and I've got one or two in here somewhere--is that money isn't the only contribution a man (or woman, for that matter) can make to a relationship. You would think a woman who was a housewife all her life would understand the value of those tasks that don't result in a paycheck but do keep a home and family running with some degree of order and harmony. You would think she'd be proud that I've built a business and an impeccable reputation with clients, but she shakes her head because I've neglected to dust my baseboards and forgot to send a birthday card to my Great-Aunt Eunice, who I met precisely once, 39 years ago. If I were a bigger person, I'd feel sympathy that she didn't have the opportunity to go to college or find a career and that she can't see beyond her own nose to understand a life that isn't exactly like hers. I'm still too angry to be that magnanimous, however.

Mafia mom

2007-01-19T10:08:00.000-05:00

I'm about 99% sure the girl Daniel was planning to ask to the prom turned him down last night. He came home from the Brain Game match looking very downcast, and I knew immediately he'd been crying because of his red, puffy eyes. All he would say when I asked him what was wrong was that he just wanted to be alone and think about things.

Naturally, I wanted to express my anger at this little hussy who turned him down by breaking into Al Capone's rant about Eliot Ness in The Untouchables: "I want him DEAD! I want his family DEAD! I want his house burned to the GROUND!" Everyone expresses their emotions with movies quotes, right? I did show some restraint, however, and limited myself to telling him he could talk to me anytime, if he changed his mind. Arrrgghhh. All the times I thought my heart was broken--they were nothing compared to what I'm feeling now over his first heartbreak. He'll get over it, I know, and I'd be more than a little worried if he never felt anything this deeply. Still . . . well, you know what I mean.

******

My parents are arriving around noon with the car. I forgot to mention that although it's in good shape, it's a '91 model, so don't envy me too much! Still, it's two years newer than the Amigo, so to me, it's practically brand-new. I drive cars forever, until they're falling apart in the driveway. In the case of my first car, a spiffy red Datsun, it was literally falling apart before I got rid of it. It was rusting so badly that chunks of it were dropping off, like a giant red molting snake. It was a great car, though. It withstood all kinds of abuse and neglect from me and always started up obediently, even in subzero weather and on a perpetually near-empty tank. I was so sad when I finally had to admit it was terminal that I think my dad was tempted to tell me it was going to a big farm in the country, where it would have plenty of room to run around and stretch its wheels and lots of other subcompact foreign cars to play with. Scarlett would have liked that.

******

Hee! My mom just called me from her cellphone to tell me they're running a little late. She uses it only when she and my dad are traveling, so she's not used to it and is convinced you have to scream into cellphones to be heard. I had to hold MY phone away from my ear about six inches to avoid hearing damage.

Time to do a last-minute Parental Visit Check for dust tumbleweeds rolling across the floor and dirty dishes in the sink!

Cell phone virgins, old lady cars, and AI madness

2007-01-18T10:18:00.000-05:00

Kevin has his own cell phone now, which is almost as momentous as the Amish deciding to embrace computer technology. Actually, I read that some Amish use cell phones for business purposes, so my analogy isn't all that great. Anyway, when he came home and told me he bought one, I was dreading having to teach him to use yet another electronic gadget. He's slightly technologically challenged. Well, more than slightly, to be honest, but to my surprise, he read the instruction manual and set up his address book all by himself! He also figured out how to lengthen the screen display time; I'd pointed out that it went dark awfully fast but had no idea how to fix it. He's so thrilled with his phone that it's unbearably cute. He even called me from work last night and informed me he was standing out in the parking lot while on break. I didn't get it at first and said "OK, and . . . ?" and he said "Isn't that COOL??" Awww, I remember when I was a cell phone virgin, too.

******

I have sad news: My car died. Well, it still has life signs, but it needs clutch work to the tune of $700, which is way too much to spend on an ancient car. When I wasn't in the depths of pre-empty-nest depression this week, I've been quietly freaking out over the no-car situation. Money's tight right now, and I can't afford to take on a car payment. My parents, bless their hearts, came to the rescue. My mom had offered a few months ago to give us her car so that Daniel had an automatic for learning how to drive; my car's standard transmission was pretty intimidating to him. At the time, he said he wasn't ready to drive, but my mom brought it up again when I told her about my car's imminent demise. So my folks are driving up tomorrow to bring the car, and then Kevin and I will drive them home Saturday and come back Sunday. The car's in great shape because my dad has taken obsessive care of it, but I'm a little sad that I'll have to drive an old lady car. People, it's a taupe Honda Accord. Waaaaaaaa! I'll miss my sporty red Amigo.

******

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh, the American Idol insanity has begun! I can't tell you how happy that makes me. The parade of delusional people during auditions bewilders and delights me. I don't watch many reality TV shows, but AI has captured my undying loyalty, I'm afraid. Prepare yourself for me talking about it regularly, OK?

Tuesday night, Minneapolis auditions: I can't remember most of the auditioners because I was so overwhelmed with horror by the woman who referred to herself as "American Idol's Number-One Fan." Oh, my God, the crazy bug-eyes on this one! I wanted to hide, yet I could NOT look away. After the judges turned her down--and justifiably, owing to her painfully bad singing--she was stunned with disbelief. She insisted she's been taking voice lessons for six years and has a degree in vocal performance. What the . . . ? What educational institution would give her a DEGREE? I almost feel sorry for her because she's been getting robbed right and left. No one with an iota of conscience would take her money and assure her she had talent. Scary, kids.

Wednesday night, Seattle auditions: Is Seattle really the universe's black hole of talent? Damn. Apparently, it's the capital city for insane people, too. Hard to believe such a collection of mentally ill folks could exist outside a psychiatric hospital. Honest to God, it was one bizarre character after another. I think my retinas have permanent scars from the horror of Darwin "Call Me Mischa For No Apparent Reason" Reedy's unfettered breasts. She and her mother were like characters from an SNL skit.

Even though the two men who became fast friends while waiting in line were clearly deluded about their vocal talent, there was something sweet about them. They were so genuinely supportive of each other and took their rejection with a lot more dignity than others did. Kenneth, the short guy who went first, is one of the oddest-looking people I've ever seen, however. If Peter Lorre and Peewee Herman had a love child (biologically improbable, but go with it), it would be little Kenneth.

Who knew ex-husbands could have a purpose?

2007-01-16T09:16:00.000-05:00

So should I go ahead and retitle this blog "Empty Nest Diaries"? Heh. Thank you all so much for your helpful comments, which made me feel a little less nutz. (Oh, and Ang, you can bet your ass I saved some of the things Daniel threw out! I think middle-aged men everywhere were weeping openly at the mere mention of Godzilla figures being discarded.) Oddly enough, I got some more help yesterday from an unexpected source: my ex-husband. I'd called him at work to ask him to kick in on some of Daniel's college expenses; the application fees are adding up faster than I'd imagined. After ironing that matter out, he asked whether Daniel's stomach was still bothering him. I said yes, but I thought the cause was nervousness over asking a girl out. He was surprisingly verklempt at the notion of Daniel having a crush on someone, and we both got teary reminiscing about Daniel's childhood. If you'd told me a few years ago my ex would be a comfort to me about anything, I would have laughed in your face. I guess it shouldn't be a shock that the other person who was there when Daniel came into the world might be able to offer something no one else really can.

Anyway, the highlight of the conversation was what he said when I asked why I'm having such a hard time with this transition. Other parents handle their kids growing up and going off to college without having an emotional nuclear meltdown. What's wrong with me? He pointed out that Daniel's growing up has been faster and more sudden than in most other kids, so it's more of a shock. I think he has a point. Daniel never went through the typical teenage rebellions or wanting to spend most of his time with his friends or stomping around yelling "I can't wait until I'm out of this house!" You know, all the things normal teenagers do.

Until a couple of months ago, he was perfectly content staying at home playing gin rummy or talking about books with me, having one or two friends over occasionally, and going to school and work. He did his chores without complaint, didn't talk back, didn't run around wild on weekends . . . in general, he was happy and well-adjusted and a delight to be around. I did worry a little because he didn't seem interested in going away to college; he talked about staying at home the first year or two and going to a nearby community college to complete his general education requirements instead. Given his personality and his history as a homebody, I figured he'd decided that path would be an easier transition for him. To be honest, I was more than a little thrilled he'd be around for a few more years.

I've always thought that I'm fairly resilient and handle change without too much angst. But sudden, radical change? Clearly, I'm not very adept at handling that--but I think that's all right. I'm not optimistic yet or Rebecca-of-Sunnybrook-Farm sunny and hopeful, and if a time machine that would whisk me back a few years suddenly appeared on my doorstep, I'd hop into it gladly. There's a wee chance I might possibly live through this next step, however, even if I DO need the help of my old friend Johnny Walker.

The constant rain isn't helping, dammit

2007-01-15T10:07:00.000-05:00

Ang asked: How/why did you get into blogging? Good question, and one I'm not sure I could have answered until last week. I was looking through past entries to see when I got Charlie and got caught up reading about the month he was so sick. I'd forgotten a lot of the details--all the tests he went through, how long he was in the hospital, and so on. The entries reminded me, too, how frantic with worry I'd been and how supportive friends were. So I'd have to say being able to look back and relive events and feelings is part of the attraction of blogging/journaling.

So why don't I just keep a paper journal? I think because I need to know others out there hear me and, perhaps, understand. When I've kept a paper journal in the past, expressing myself privately wasn't completely satisfying--it was a bit like yelling into an empty canyon and getting only a faint echo. I knew how I felt, but did anyone else? An online journal makes me feel less alone and reminds me I'm not the only one who's ever felt a certain way.

Lisa said: Anyway I wanted to know what kind of animal you'd be if you could be anything? This answer isn't original, I'm sure, but I'd probably choose to be a cat. Cats can be moody and difficult and still be pampered and adored. What's not to love about that? I could get into their hedonistic, lazy nature, and I'm a big fan of frequent naps, too. Could I skip the killing of small rodents and birds, though? Ick!

******

I think that's it for the questions, but let me know if I skipped one. I'm a little scatter-brained these days because of the worrying. To be truthful, I'm becoming a basket case, and I hope to hell I snap out of it soon. Yesterday Daniel applied online to two colleges that would require living in a dorm--away from ME, in other words. Then, to top it off, he grabbed a trash bag and started tossing piles of junk that had been cluttering up his room. When I took some towels upstairs, I happened to glance into the trash bag. To my horror, I saw all the Godzilla figures he used to collect sitting on top of the pile. It looked like he was throwing away practically everything he played with as a kid, and I couldn't help seeing it as a symbol of getting rid of his childhood. I was reading too much into it, I know, but I'm a big ol' mass of irrationality right now.

I told Daniel there might be some things I'd like to save, and he said impatiently, "Look, Mom, it's just junk! I can't hang on to everything." OK, good point (and who's the adult here?), but does he want to discard his entire life before this year? So I did what any obsessed, crazy mother would do and hauled the bag out of the trashcan after he'd thrown it away. I sat on the back steps, sorting through the stuff, and came across the wooden triceratops skeleton we put together when he was 5. And I promptly burst into tears. I remembered how excited he was while we worked on it, chattering away about what a triceratops liked to eat and how it protected itself with its tail spikes. When the skeleton had dried, he ran to place it on the shelf in his room, letting out a roar as he made it head-butt the stegosaurus skeleton we'd finished a few weeks earlier.

And then I found the lump of coal from the Titanic's engine room that I'd sent away for as a birthday present when he turned 7 and the letter I wrote him on his 17th birthday, telling him how being his mother had made me a better person . . . and I fell apart. I'm sure I looked like a crazy person, sobbing over a bag of trash in the drizzling rain. (Good thing it was too damp for any of my neighbors to be outside.) I know, I know. He's almost 18 and all he can think about is getting away from home and starting an exciting new life. Of course he still loves me, but his home and his family aren't the center of his world anymore. I can't make him feel guilty for growing up; that's not fair to him, and I don't want to be that person. I'm not ready for this next step, though, and right now, I can't see past it. I feel as though I'm going to be sitting on those back steps in the rain forever, longing for something that's in the past and clutching a little wooden dinosaur skeleton.

Parenthood Is Hell: Reason 2,796

2007-01-14T10:36:00.000-05:00

I have a confession: I've sunk to new lows in motherhood. I eavesdropped on my son's phone conversation, breaking every vow I'd made to respect his privacy. I have an excuse, however lame it might be; maybe mothers of teenaged sons will understand. Because Daniel's an only child and for several years, it was just the two of us, we've always been very close. I got used to him confiding in me and talking about his dreams and fears pretty openly.

The past couple of years, though, he's turned into a clam. We still talked about a lot of things, but he wasn't as forthcoming with his feelings. I knew this change was normal and somewhat inevitable, and I've tried not to pry, even though it killed me sometimes not to ask questions. I've learned new tactics to draw him out a little; for example, I tell him how out of place I felt sometimes in high school if I suspect he's worrying about not having a slew of friends. I try to pick good moments, when he's relaxed and the timing seems right, and I try to let him know I'm capable of listening without freaking out or judging him. It's so hard, though. God, all the times I worried myself sick about his eating habits or potty training or socialization--they were nothing compared to the hell of suspecting something's wrong and not being able to do a damn thing about it. Sometimes I want to shake him and say "Just tell me what's wrong! I can make it better!" And of course I can't. I can offer advice, I can empathize, I can comfort, but I can't fix his problems for him. I've lost the power to heal his hurts instantly with just a kiss.

So the conversation I overheard . . . I didn't intend to listen; I was here in my office, and Daniel was in the living room on the phone, but when I heard him mention a girl, my ears suddenly went on red alert. I've had a feeling for a few months that a girl might be at the root of his moodiness. Also, he suddenly stopped eating junk and took up exercising, and he's lost 16 pounds. He's mentioned this girl on his Brain Game team fairly often, too.

Last week, I started getting more worried about him. He kept complaining about his stomach hurting, and he's barely been eating. He's been edgy and staring into space and not acting like himself at all. I thought he might simply be nervous about the Brain Game match being televised last Wednesday, but his symptoms persisted after the match was over.

Well, I have my answer now: Daniel told his friend he's planning to ask a girl to prom, and he's been trying to find the right moment and work up the nerve to ask her. I overheard him say "I'm happy all day if I just get a chance to talk to her." I think my boy is smitten.

Now I'm as nervous as Daniel is, if not more so. He better hurry up and ask her soon because I can't take the uncertainty much longer! I'm agonizing over how she's going to respond, too. If she turns him down and breaks his heart, it's going to take every ounce of self-restraint I have not to hunt her down and ask if she has any idea what she's missing out on. Gah! Now I have to add romance ups and downs to the list of parental worries? I might have to take up heavy drinking or pharmaceutical aids to withstand the angst and drama.

Not quite ready for prime-time

2007-01-12T11:58:00.001-05:00

And now the birds in Australia are dropping like, uh, flies. What is up with the birds, people?? Michael Crichton, you'd best be taking notes.

******

On to answering your questions! I have certain friends who know how easily I blush and have decided to make me squirm in embarrassment while answering their questions. However, I'm not backing down from a triple-dog dare, dammit. Heh. TMI-phobics and the squeamish might want to skip today's answers.

The inquisitive Janet asked: I would like to know when you lost your virginity, along with some sort of story about how it went. DO NOT try to say you can't remember that far back. And don't lie about your age either. See, the problem with people who know you too well is that they foresee all your excuses. All right, here goes--and keep in mind that in 1975, attitudes about sex were pretty lax. It wasn't quite the free-love 1960s but close. Also, incurable and fatal STDs hadn't reared their ugly heads yet.

I was 15 and had been dating my 19-year-old boyfriend for a few months. We'd been slowly inching (um . . . unfortunate choice of verb there?) toward doing "it," and he had recently given me his class ring, which I of course wrapped with the de rigeur strand of yarn to make it fit my ring finger. He'd been scouting around for a more romantic location than the backseat of his car, and one spring evening, we drove to the campus of the college he was attending, which was surrounded by woods. He parked and asked if I wanted to go for a walk through the woods. We walked for a while until we came to a spot where he'd earlier stashed a sleeping bag along with a bottle of Lancer's Rose. Back then, that wine was the height of sophistication--well, for middle-class kids in the Midwest, at least.

He spread out the sleeping bag, and we sat and talked and drank wine for a while. When the time came, I was lying on the warm flannel lining of the sleeping bag, looking up at the stars, and feeling relaxed and very loved. I realize now, after hearing several stories of painful or embarrassing first times, how lucky I was that he had a fair amount of experience and was patient and gentle. To this day, camping makes me feel romantic.

Whew. OK, that question was a snap compared to Sasha's question: What is your preferred sexual lubricant and why? Actually, a timely question because I just switched brands. Shortly before Christmas, I was browsing through the on-sale products on Drugstore.com looking for stocking stuffers for Daniel and Kevin: lip balm, shaving cream, and so on. I noticed a product called Liquid Silk, which sounded interesting (and was on sale, the real clincher), so I impulsively clicked Add to Cart. I'm now a big fan. It feels very natural, and there's no sticky residue at all, my main complaint with most lubricants.

I feel like an episode of Sex Talk with Sue Johansson. Tomorrow's topic: Positions for the Frail and Infirm! (I am SO kidding.)

******

I need a lie-down now to recover from all this frank birds-and-bees talk, so I'll answer more questions in the next entry. If you have a new or follow-up question, post away in the comments. I have a boring weekend ahead of me, so this will give me something to write about. Oh, and Neargem pointed out that I didn't have any pictures of Picard on my Flickr page. I think I posted a picture of him in an entry a few weeks ago, but I did leave the poor thing out of Flickr. He's camera-shy, so I don't have many photos of him, but I added a couple (link over there in the sidebar).

Your burning questions answered!

2007-01-11T14:47:00.000-05:00

I'll try to answer as many questions as I can in this entry, but I'm a wordy thang and would feel responsible if your eyes crossed from reading a looooooong entry. Also, I'm a Libra and can't answer questions simply because doing so would involve making a decision (eeeek). So in the order in which I received them:

Which should you trust more--your head or your heart? I should have known Greg would ask a question that requires pondering instead of blithely dashing off "Why, my favorite color is turquoise!" Heh. By the way, check out the site he mentioned as the source of his question. I got lost for quite a while reading some interesting essays.

So to answer the question . . . I want--with all my heart, even--to say you should always trust your heart, and 20 years ago, I would have answered that way without hesitating. In a heartbeat, even. Since then, I've learned that my instincts can lead me to make some bad choices. For a while, that lesson made me bitter, and I vowed I'd rely only on cold, hard logic. I'd be sensible! I'd make decisions rationally, with a mature amount of consideration and thought! Surely my intellect wouldn't betray me, right?

Wrong. I refused to take some risks because they weren't logical and didn't ensure a known outcome; as a result, I missed opportunities for happiness that I regret now. Sometimes you do have to take a leap of faith, whether it makes sense or not and no matter what warnings your head might be screaming at you. Although my answer sounds like typical Libran waffling, I have to say that trying to balance trusting my head and my heart is what works best for me.

Neargem said: Well, I for one would love to know more about your furballs (age, how you got them, funny personality traits, etc.).

I won't include pictures because I've posted some recently, and there's a set on Flickr here. In order of when I acquired them:

Cairo: Shortly after my ex-husband and I separated in 1996, a theater friend called to say he'd found a stray cat with kittens and invited me over to see them. Daniel and I fell in love with a sleek little gray kitten who he swore was an Egyptian cat (hee)--hence her name. We brought her home, and she promptly began bossing around my elderly beagle, Bridgette. She also seemed to think Bridgette was her mother and occasionally tried to nurse from her. When Bridgette was hit by a car, Cairo paced around crying mournfully for a few months, until Holly (next up) came to join us. Now 11, she's a talkative cat and adept at seething looks of hatred until she's in the mood to cuddle. I realize she's neurotic and bitchy as all hell, but I adore her, and she has the silkiest fur in the world. She and Charlie tease each other mercilessly, and I swear I've caught them playing tag.

Holly: A few months after Bridgette died, my sister, who was volunteering at an animal shelter while in vet school, called to tell me a pregnant beagle there had a litter of puppies. I asked her to save one for me, and my parents took care of Holly until Christmas, when she became Daniel's surprise present. My parents had been calling her Molly, but Daniel decided Holly was a better name for a Christmas gift. She turns 10 this year and is a portly, lazy floor ham, unless she senses the possibility of escaping to run around the neighborhood scarfing up fine cuisine from trashcans. At that point, she's capable of ninja-like stealth and speed. Charlie can still prompt Holly into puppy-like running and playing with toys, but she's starting to show her age. She has occasional mild seizures and moves slowly and stiffly in the mornings, and she's developed a snore that would wake the dead. She's a sweet, affectionate dog who would probably lick an intruder to death.

Picard: Soon after we got Holly, the same kitten pusher I got Cairo from called to tell me about another stray litter. Being the suckers we are, Daniel and I went to his house and again fell instantly in love with a tiny black-and-white kitten. Daniel had just started his fascination with all things Star Trek and decided to name the kitten Picard. That tiny ball of fur is now a 9-year-old, 20-plus-pound behemoth. He's definitely a gentle giant, though. He's so laid-back and sweet--except when he's attacking the water jug, that is. The only other time he gets frantic is when his food bowl seems to be getting empty.

Charlie: Last and smallest, but certainly not least, is Charlie the chihuahua. Our next-door neighbor asked if we wanted him because he felt guilty about leaving three-month-old Charlie alone all day while he was at work. Daniel started the begging and groveling immediately, but I'd never been fond of small dogs, and besides, we had three pets already. Charlie's cute act was hard to resist, as were Daniel's promises to train and take care of him, so I caved. About six months later, Charlie became very sick with a mysterious illness and came close to dying. Worrying about him and caring for him during that time changed my casual affection for a cute puppy into . . . well, let's just say I'm absolutely crazy about that damn dog. I wouldn't go so far as to call him "my child"--I'm not that nuts yet--but I had no idea I could love a dog so much. He turns 4 this year and is cuddly, bossy, and thoroughly spoiled. His favorite game is herding the cats out of the room like a sheepdog, and he's convinced he's the size of a Great Dane.

Carol said: Not really a question but I would love to see more photos of the arts and crafts that you and Kevin do. I haven't done much artistically in a while, although I really want to. Kevin and I used to work on projects together in the art room upstairs quite often, and I miss doing that. Part of the problem is that room has gotten out of control because too many interests are crammed into one space. Kevin started creating electronic music a few years ago, so all that equipment is in there, and now he has projects for his artist-in-residence gig taking up space, too. A major cleaning and reorganizing is in the works so that I can work on some collage and rubber stamp projects again. In the meantime, I added some pictures to another Flickr set here, Carol.

And I said I didn't want to be long-winded! Janet, you dirty-minded girl, I'm going to have to save your question for the next entry, along with any new ones. There's still time to get a question in! Just leave it in the comments.

In the news

2007-01-09T09:51:00.000-05:00

This headline is one of the funniest I've seen in ages. CNN better watch its back, though; some Tony Soprano types might take it as a sign of disrespect at being called the "source of a stench."

That story amused me. Who expects a bad smell in New York? Wow. This story from yesterday, however, is downright bizarre. City officials kept insisting no environmental danger or gas leak existed, but what could cause that many birds to die suddenly and in such a precisely bounded space? An undetected EM pulse? I don't see how a viral infection or poisoning could make 60-plus birds of different species drop dead at once. Doesn't the story sound like the opening of a Michael Crichton novel?

******

Tomorrow Daniel's Brain Game team is traveling to a private college in Indianapolis, where their match will be taped for TV! I'm so excited; I can't wait to see it. He informed me last night that he has to wear a suit jacket and tie. Good thing for him he HAS an outfit already because if I had to run out and buy something with that little notice, he might not have lived to 18. Over his Christmas break, he kept in Brain Game "training" by watching Jeopardy! with me, and if that show allowed teams, he and I would obliterate any competition, I'm telling you. Heh. Poor Kevin almost has to leave the room to escape the intensity when we yell answers at the TV screen. Keep your fingers crossed Daniel's team does well tomorrow, will you?

******

Holly is snoring so loudly in the living room that I can't hear myself think! So instead of babbling on incoherently, I'm going to pull a Robyn and say I'll answer any questions in my next entry that you leave in the comments. Uh, questions about me, that is. I don't mean questions such as "What's the capital of North Dakota?" (Bismarck) or "What's the square root of 458?" (um, a rectangle?). I'll answer just about anything, as long as it doesn't make me blush!

My trip to Mt. Pilot

2007-01-07T11:41:00.000-05:00

Getting the hell out of Mayberry has such a positive effect on my mood and outlook that I really need to do it more often. Kevin and I decided to make the 1:00 movie in Indianapolis yesterday (and a big raspberry to AMC Theater's 4:00 matinee cut-off policy), and then browsed at Half-Price Books for a while. Oh, and we found a new thrift store next to HPB, run by the Jewish Women's something-or-other club, that's full of great clothes (all clean and in nice shape) and assorted housewares. I scored a caramel-colored corduroy jacket with a gorgeous striped silk lining for EIGHT BUCKS, and Kevin found a Dilbert tie for Daniel for 99 cents.

We debated between Dreamgirls and The Good Shepherd and finally settled on Dreamgirls, figuring it would be more fun to see on a big screen. I'm so happy we picked that movie because Oh. My. God. I adore musicals and splashy Broadway shows, and as some of you know, few things make me happier than Motown, so having the two combined with a fantastic cast would have been worth even the full ticket price. Beyonce and Jamie Foxx were okay--about what you'd expect--but Eddie Murphy truly surprised me. Honestly, I didn't think he had that kind of emotional performance in him.

Jennifer Hudson, however, knocked my socks off. I remembered her from American Idol two seasons ago as a woman with a big voice but definite crazy eyes, a sort of diva-in-training. Whew. She's way more than that. Amazing, powerful voice, but even better than that, girlfriend can act. I can't remember the last time I actually got chills watching someone in a movie; she was absolutely riveting every time she was onscreen. Beyonce who? What about Jamie Foxx in Ray? Point the camera back at Jennifer! About halfway through her big number ("And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going"), I had tears running down my face. I couldn't help it; every time I thought I'd gotten myself under control, I'd well up again. The entire theater broke into applause at the end of that song, so I'm only a little embarrassed to admit her singing affected me that deeply. If she doesn't break your heart, too, well, I'm sorry, but you have the emotional capacity of the Grinch before hearing the Whos sing on Christmas morning.

Storywise, I think the movie loses a little steam after that point, and some characters aren't as well developed as they could be. Also, if you're not a fan of musicals, some of the form's cliches might bug you, such as people singing dialogue at each other. Despite the few drawbacks, go see it for Jennifer Hudson. Just be better prepared than I was, and take a kleenex. Maybe several.

I bet I can fit a whole bag of popcorn in my purse

2007-01-06T11:11:00.000-05:00

Of a four-author team, how many do you think showed up for yesterday's conference call about the book being 6 weeks behind schedule? That's right: one. ARRGGHH. One who didn't show is dealing with his father, who's very ill; besides, he's one of the most responsible authors, so I'm not worried about him. Mr. Conflict of Interest didn't show, of course, and the fourth guy just . . . who knows? He never responded to Kid Manager's e-mail about the meeting.

Six weeks might not sound critical, but the problem is the publication date. With the original schedule, the book would have been published July 1, which is good positioning to sell to colleges for the fall semester (also the biggest time for sales). Making that July 1 pub date now is doubtful. August 1 might be possible, but not if these authors continue turning everything in late. Of course, their dragging their feet puts more pressure on me to turn work around way faster than normal to try to make up for lost time. Thanks! Love you authors, too!

******

How much does an intercom system cost? Through some freakish combination of architecture and sound waves, you can't hear a thing from downstairs when you're upstairs in my house, unless you're standing next to a heating vent. A Shriner parade complete with tiny motorcycles and a high school marching band could tromp through the downstairs, and I'd never know it if I were upstairs. I'm usually downstairs, but Kevin and Daniel are often upstairs, Daniel in his room and Kevin in the art room. So when they get a phone call or I need them for something, I have to yell up the stairs for them because I'm not going to hike up and down that damn spiral staircase 40 times a day (although I'd have thighs of steel if I did). I've about had it with yelling, waiting, bellowing louder, waiting some more, and repeating ad nauseum. (On the plus side, if anyone holds a Ma Kettle contest, I'm a shoe-in to win.) I can't afford to install a professional intercom, but surely Radio Shack has a fairly inexpensive gadget? I need to look into that before my vocal cords give out.

******

I just checked movie listings for the theater we usually go to in Indianapolis and noticed that matinee prices are good only until 4:00. Don't most theaters offer matinee prices until 6:00, or has that changed? Money-grubbing bastards. Of course, both movies I want to see start at 4:05. Hmmmph! See if I feel guilty for sneaking my own snacks in.

Bad cats and authors

2007-01-05T06:53:00.000-05:00

I took a day off from updating to let poor Sasha acclimate; I understand that at her age, getting used to change is much more difficult (ahem). I don't know what got me in the mood for updating more regularly. Partly it's because work has been slower the past few months, so I actually have time to sit here in the mornings with my coffee and think about what to write. The bigger reason is, I think, that time seems to be slipping by faster and faster--sometimes careening out of control--and writing an entry is a way to grab time and force it to slow down a little. Also, if all the crossword and logic puzzles I do to ward off The Alzheimer's don't work, maybe I can print out and read old entries to remember the past.

******

Maybe you cat people can tell me what the hell has gotten into my cat Picard. I have a houseful of spoiled or neurotic pets, but he's always been my good boy--sweet, laidback, undemanding. Several months ago, Kevin bought one of those water jugs for animals; you know, it looks like a miniature version of an office water cooler? He was tired of refilling the old water dish several times a day, and this water jug can last for a few days, even with four pets drinking from it. I knew Picard was fascinated by water; he loves to watch me run water in the bathtub, and sometimes he runs into the bathroom when he hears me brushing my teeth, hops into the tub, and looks at me expectantly, like I'm going to run a nice bubble bath for him.

Lately, however, he's gotten downright freakish about water--specifically the water in the water jug. When you fill the jug up and turn it upside down into the tray, the water bubbles loudly a few times until it settles down and starts flowing. Over the past few weeks, I'd heard some strange thumping noises occasionally and noticed the kitchen floor around the water jug was damp. I thought Holly was getting impatient with how fast the water came out and was nudging it with her nose, knocking some water out into the floor. The other night, I decide to catch her in the act, so when I heard the thumping, I ran into the kitchen--and saw Picard attacking the bubbling water jug! That damn cat is convinced an evil water creature is causing the bubbling, I think, and he's going to make damn sure he kills it. He glares at the jug for a minute, slinking up to it slowly, and then pounces, thwacking the jug with both front paws like Rocky Balboa working over a side of beef. He's whapped the jug so hard sometimes that he's knocked it over, and then all that water spills onto the floor. I hate to scold him every time he goes near the water jug because I don't want to make him afraid of drinking from it normally. I can't have a constant puddle of water on my kitchen floor, though. Any ideas?

Speaking of my very bad pets, I added a few pictures of them on Flickr. There's a link over there to the left; I'm not awake enough yet to link to them here. It's 6:30, people, and I've had only cup of coffee. Not fully functional yet.

******

I have a conference call this afternoon with Kid Manager and the authors of the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Late book (my apologies to Judith Viorst). I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to that! Kid Manager has been nagging the authors via e-mail all week, trying to get them to commit to a time this afternoon. They all live near Seattle, and finding a compromise between EST and PST hours isn't always easy. Finally, KM settled on 3 p.m. EST, but she still hadn't heard from one author as of yesterday. This guy is, in general, a pain in the ass. He won't return phone calls or respond to e-mails, he ignores instructions on submission criteria, and he turns in sloppy and incomplete work. He also writes the most cryptic e-mails I've ever read in my life. Half the time, I can't figure out what the hell he's talking about. In response to Kid Manager's notice of the meeting time and call-in number, he wrote the following:

by the time I get home from work it is usually after 7pm PST.... M-F

We just fired an investigator for a conflict of interest issue... I'll have to read the updates via email

OK, so I assume that means he can't make the meeting at noon his time, but why didn't he say so earlier this week?? And what does that investigator have to do with ANYTHING? Is attending this meeting a conflict of interest for him?? What updates is he going to read? Updates about the investigator? From whom?

Arrrrggghhhhh. Wish me luck, yes?

Taco power: Resistance is futile

2007-01-03T09:51:00.000-05:00

Daniel has a blog on a gaming site. I haven't asked to see it (partly because it's on a gaming site and, therefore, mostly about topics that make me yawn with excruciating boredom), but he left a Word document on my computer the other day that he'd copied to his blog. It cracked me up, so I'm including it here--unedited, which as you know, killed me--because I really don't think he'd mind:

"I enjoy the delicious taste of tacos. Why, you may ask? They combine the awesomeness of ground beef, the chesseiness of cheese, the dubious nutrutional value of a few strands of lettuce, the delicious spiciness of taco sauce combined with the coolness of sour cream, all wrapped in a crunchy (or soft) tortilla. Whether or not you like the taco, you must acknowledge that it is the supreme accomplishment of mankind, the culmination of all we've strived to create. Art, technology, literature, even video games, all must bow to the awesome POWER of the taco. Please feel free to post both pro and against comments regarding this, but know that you cannot deny the truth. All hail Taco."

The boy does love tacos, I can tell you that. He likes trying different salsas each time; last night, I think he used mango salsa, which he pronounced "interesting." I can't believe he's the same kid who used to have a list of five foods he deemed acceptable to eat. His tastes have definitely broadened. So take heart, parents of picky eaters: There's hope!

Kevin's been doing some writing lately, too. For his artist-in-residence gig, he had to outline the projects he plans to work on this year as well as a summary of his philosophy on art and its role in, uh . . . I don't know. Society? The community? Something like that. He jotted down several ideas in bullet form and asked me to take a look to see whether he was on the right track for his philosophy. I love him, but his spelling is nearly as creative as his art. Oy. Anyway, he had some interesting ideas about what art is, and he believes the notion of "fine art" stymies a lot of creativity. He's working on a theory of "everyday art" and getting ordinary people--that is, people who don't consider themselves artists or to have any talent or creative ability--to attempt artistic expression, particularly with nontraditional media. I suggested an idea that I think could be effective: a class combining school-age children with adults. Kids, up to a certain age, don't censor themselves as adults do. Ask them to draw a picture, and you'll rarely hear them say "But I can't draw!" Kids just assume they can. So including them in a class might inspire the adults to loosen up a little on their self-criticism.

The only "creative" endeavor I have planned for today is digging through junk in the closet and trying to find my Silver Screen edition of Trivial Pursuit. One of the Curv3s employees comes up with new trivia questions or scrambled words every month, and then prints them in big letters and tapes them to the floor in front of each aerobic station so that you have something to occupy your mind while you're jogging or doing jumping jacks or whatever. For me, it helps cut down on the boredom of exercising, too. I was talking to her the other day about what she's planned for this month, and she said she'd used a ton of questions from the original Trivial Pursuit game and needed a new source of questions. So if I can find my Silver Screen game, I'll bring those questions in for her, maybe as a tie-in with the Oscars? What month are the Academy Awards aired, anyway?

Like my plum lipgloss?

2007-01-02T11:00:00.000-05:00

It's only the second day of January, and already I have a repair guy in my house because something broke down. Arrrghhhhh. The igniter on my furnace cracked, and my ductwork needs to be cleaned out. (Hush.) I was just getting caught up on bills, too. Figures, right?

Who knows what the repair guy thinks of me. It was too cold in the house this morning to shower, so I have some wild-ass hair going on, and I'm dressed like a bag lady in layers and layers of clothes, but I HAVE LIPSTICK ON, by God. I am my mother's daughter, after all. The surgical nurses had to fight her to get her lipstick off the last time she had surgery. When the anesthesia wore off, the first words she croaked were "Jeff, find my lipstick and a mirror--and don't look at me until you do!" Bless her heart.

I'd better go down to the basement and hover helpfully while the repair guy sucks out 40 pounds of dust and pet hair from the furnace ducts. I'm sure he couldn't do his job unless I were peering over his shoulder and making lame attempts at furnace humor. On the other hand, see no showering above. Perhaps staying upstairs would be kinder.

You don't buy wine because the name amuses you?

2007-01-01T12:59:00.000-05:00

I was going to make resolutions for the new year, but you know, I'm not so good at sticking to them. And then there's the matter of being realistic: Saying I'm going to be more organized or follow a budget, for example, does little but prompt wild guffaws and derisive snickers from people who know me. Hmmmph! So I decided instead to vow I'm going to continue doing two things I started last year:

Making better food choices
Exercising--and maybe adding other kinds of activity on alternate days (yoga, possibly?)

I'd like to work on several personal qualities--being more patient with my family, for example--but I have to be around to do them, and I won't be if I don't keep eating better and exercising. So those two things have to come first, right?

******

Kevin got home last night in record time after the store closed at 10:00. Usually, he gets home 30-45 minutes later because of shooing last-minute customers out, cleaning up the photo booth and developing machines, and so forth. The store was practically dead after 8:00, however, so he was home by 10:15. We had a wonderful bed picnic, with lots of fruit and cheese, some delicious French bread, and this wine I picked up at Trader Joe's a couple of months ago. For an inexpensive wine, it wasn't bad. Charlie sampled some cheese and a grape, and then fell asleep, exhausted by his wild partying.

We watched the countdown on the Fox channel, but then switched over to Dick Clark right after midnight. He wasn't as pathetic as I'd feared and sounded much better than he did at the Emmy awards last year. Still, it's bizarre to see him looking old. He was ageless for as long as I can remember.

I have to go throw a pork roast in the oven. It's already marinated in a citrus-ginger combination, and I'm making sweet potato biscuits later. Hmmm, I need a veggie. Maybe green beans? I'd better go see what I have. Kevin's already made one trip to the grocery store today for me, and I think he'd balk at making another one. Heh.

Beware my 40-watt porch light, burglars and murderers!

2006-12-31T09:20:00.000-05:00

Not only do I read too much Stephen King, as Janet pointed out, but also, I've watched way too much TV in my lifetime. Yesterday morning, as I was putting on my tennis shoes to go exercise, I thought "Sock, sock, then shoe, shoe. Your way is styooopid!" And then I giggled to myself.

Confused? OK, in an episode of All in the Family, Michael was putting on his shoes while talking to Archie, and Archie noticed that Michael put on a sock, then the shoe, and then repeated the process on his other foot. Archie was horrified. He told Michael everyone knows you're supposed to put socks on both feet first, and then put both shoes on. Michael pointed out that if a fire broke out in the middle of putting on his shoes, and he had to run out of the house into the rain, he could at least hop around on one foot--the one that already had a sock and shoe on it--and wouldn't get the naked foot wet. Archie's way, he'd be running around in his socks and get both feet wet.

Not that I think all of life can be explained through the medium of TV shows, but sometimes I do find meaning in seemingly meaningless sitcoms or cop dramas or whatever. Remembering this All in the Family episode made me realize that even if there's no good reason for doing something a particular way, we're capable of justifying it--sometimes with sound, simple reasoning and sometimes with convoluted, farfetched logic. And, of course, our way is always the right way.

I get irritated with Kevin, for example, because he never remembers to turn on the outside light next to the back door before coming to bed. I insist that light should be on because if a burglar or an axe murderer--you know, the same one who tried to break in through my creaky basement door the other morning, or one of his pals--is lurking around the back yard, the blazing 40-watt yellow bug light is going to deter him. The police might spot him in the brilliant clarity of that light, after all! I assume all burglars and axe murders are prudent and cautious fellows. You don't get successful in those lines of work by being slapdash and careless.

I say "we" because everyone I know justifies his or her methods of doing things with varying degrees of nuttiness. It's not just my own peculiarity. One friend told me her husband, who's a chef, insists on putting forks in the dishwasher tines down to avoid contaminating the eating surface with bacteria when grabbing the forks to remove them from the dishwasher. His way, you grasp the forks by the handles, thereby preventing bacteria on your hands from contaminating the tines. I pointed out that bacteria could, theoretically, travel down the handle to the tines. I mean, those little suckers can travel, or spread, right? His method seems pointless to me, but I'm sure it makes perfect sense to him.

******

I feel compelled to clarify my complaints about Kid Manager in my previous entry, after reading the lovely Lisa's comment (who has a great name!). It sounded like I was lumping all young recent graduates into the same group, and I didn't mean to do that. Wisdom most emphatically does not always come with age, and I think the young are often beset with uncertainty more than hubris. I know I was. Also, I've worked with many people in their early 20s who are better organized and more capable of staying on top of details than I am.

What bothers me is how common it's becoming to throw inexperienced people into managerial positions they're not ready for--and that it's often done because hiring someone right out of college is cheaper than paying, say, a middle-aged person with several years of applicable experience. I know staying in business is tougher these days for companies, but I think cutting corners without considering the consequences is a disturbing trend in business--at least, the business I'm in. Hiring practices are just one example, too. I could blather on ad nauseum and bore you to tears, but in short, I'm seeing major changes in several clients that are going to drastically reduce the quality of the books they publish. And that's a damn shame.

******

I have no big plans for New Year's Eve tonight. Daniel's going to his dad's, and Kevin is working until 10:00. We're planning a bed picnic--probably fruit, cheese, French bread, and wine--while watching the countdown on some channel. I don't know whether I can bear to watch the post-stroke Dick Clark, poor man, and I get quite enough of Ryan Seacrest on American Idol, so I'll have to find an alternative. Whatever you're planning to do, be safe, yes? Happy last day of 2006!

Analyzing My Delusions

To shave or not to shave?

That's an oogie mess

A lot of happiness for five bucks

Vexing vegetation

Monday, Monday

Follow-up

Breaking Breakup News

My dogs admire my conversational skills

Insert Title Here

Coffee talk with Lisa

He's left the building

Gearing up for Man Child's exit

Killer Ballerinas

29 hours, and oh, how about a few more just for fun?

FRRREEEEEEE-DOOOOOOM!

Exercising my patience

Next!

Accounts "payable"? Riiiiiiiiight.

What's Going On (with apologies to Marvin Gaye)

A Kiss Isn't Always Just a Kiss

What I've Been Up To: Part II

What I've Been Up To: Part I

Seven things

Eight legs, two fangs, and an attitude

Fear my mop!

Every picture tells a story

Old but new-in-a-way news

Dear Mr. Moron

Be my Emily

Moving on

Ugh

A laugh and a rant about exes

I can't get ANYthing to work

AI and PR

I thought I had a few good years left

Not a meme in sight!

More questions! Now with pictures!

AI chatter and some questions

Everyone needs a sludge hammer

What's next??

Lifetime movies! Can Harlequin romances be far behind??

Death by absent-mindedness

Even Blogger is chortling about "erectus"

No more hospitals!

What? It's 2008 already?

Call me "shorty," and I'll fire you!

A stupid quiz and stupid people

Good News and Bad News

Operation Spring Cleaning: Mission Accomplished (Well, Almost)

A house plant I haven't killed!

Now with 101 uses!

What I've Learned from Crosswords: A Partial List

The Wearin' o' the Green

Noel Coward would have been proud

I'm Twitchy, the Eighth Dwarf

For Karen

Mr. COI must die

Mr. COI strikes again

Maybe I'll just get him a Playboy subscription

Heed the snow blob's warning!

I'm back in the sweat pants again

All snow and no fun make Lisa an insane woman

Storm of the century? BFD!

I need to update my TV references

Sunday morning babble

Begonia or orchid?

Don't ask me to explain a first down, though

Double the workout, NOT double the fun

I can't wait for actual senility to set in!

And this is an edited list

Partly scattered babble, clearing toward morning

Attack of the bed head

Linda would have picked Babs, of course

Wow, I'm wordy when I'm mad

Mafia mom

Cell phone virgins, old lady cars, and AI madness

Who knew ex-husbands could have a purpose?

The constant rain isn't helping, dammit

Parenthood Is Hell: Reason 2,796