And this is an edited list

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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??
5. 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.
6. 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.
7. 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.
8. 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.
9. Now that this winter is finally turning cold, my hair is one big ball of static electricity.
10. 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.
11. 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.
12. 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

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

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

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

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

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

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.