Pensieve

I know, I'm a shit. I tell you I'll be here on Wednesdays and now my writing is happening somewhere else right now and I won't even show it to you.

My apologies. This is my serious face. This is what happens when I finally stop goofing around and thinking about doing stuff and just do it. And for the record, so far, the story is going well.

But there's so much I want to tell you. There's the blow out I had with Nate. Major. Later, when he was sure it wouldn't result in physical violence, MathMan told me that watching was like that scene in Brighton Beach Memoirs. I'm not sure who was the workhorse and who was the pretty one, but the point is we both felt like we weren't getting what we needed from each other. The argument was cathartic and now we seem to be closer than ever.

This being a mom gig is so not my thing and yet......well, I love them and they love me and want to be around me anyway. I don't get it, but I'm glad for it (mostly).

Then there's Chloe who has put me in the unfortunate role of sounding like my own mother who once, upon having had enough of my tearful pleas to pleeeeeeease be fetched from Ball State and taken back home where I belonged, said to my father "Do not answer that phone or I'll kneecap you." You see, Chloe is having some transition issues and I feel like I'm standing on the edge of the nest kicking at her every time she tries to fly back in and rest her troubled soul. My poor darling. I want to fix things for her, but that's not my job or role now. And it hurts.

There's Sophia who's not off the rails but who is coming into her own and she's different from both siblings. She's artistic and sensitive and smart, but there are just some things she doesn't care about. Until it's too late, that is. Let me just say that playing Good Cop/Bad Cop with Mathman starring in the Bad Cop role during our parent/teacher/principal conference last week was interesting. So far it seems to have been effective, as well.

Also - were I to have the chance, I would love to say sweetly to the smiling teacher that it's bad form to lecture a parent about all the resources available online only to have that parent discover that you have not, in fact, put those notes on the web. Unhelpful.

Work is work. Writing is where my heart is. I want a passport. I want gigantic piles of money. I want a cabana boy who can vacuum better than I can and who loves to fold laundry. I want world peace and for average Americans to understand that we're all fucked as long as money controls our elections.

Veering back.....I want to have the cats laminated after they are de-fleaed. I want more time for everything. I want to drive up I85 without dodging dead deer parts. I just realized that I look like I'm dressed for a funeral today. Oh the irony. I want the passenger side window of the car to stop sounding like a wind tunnel. I want my friend Diane to start writing some of those stories she tells me. The one about the old guy who asked his daughter to take him to he doctor for a prescription for viagra so he can up the fun quotient of his visits with his girlfriend in the nursing home deserves to written, don't you think?

I joined the gym. I am going to get so fit it will only seem natural that when I keel over of a heart attack people can say "Well, how ironic, when she was fat and thought an ice cream and Oreo lunch with an M&M chaser was a bright idea, she was in great health."

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

Oh yeah......

Rescued and Rerun: Green Acres Redux

Backstory
Late July 2003: Without much of a plan, our family packed up and moved from just down the road from O'Hare Airport, Illinois to Georgia. The household goods were packed on a truck and sent south to a smallish town outside of Atlanta. I'd found this town in a book called The 100 Best Small Towns in America. Nate played one last baseball game and then we climbed into our two vehicles, loaded to the roofs with the remaining family possessions, and followed the truck south.

When we arrived, I phoned some real estate "flippers" who had homes for lease purchase. We toured three and chose the third. Paperwork was done, money changed hands, the truck was diverted to a smaller town way outside the smallish town, household goods and furnishings were unpacked and placed. We were ready for our new lives to begin. We may have just voluntarily uprooted ourselves from the Midwest, but we took the large oak next to our new home as a good sign. Things could root here - including us. (Note, or not.)

As it turned out, though, there were differences between our new location and the place we'd left behind. No matter, we were highly flexible people and would adjust. So what if there was no trash pick-up, no cable, and the nearest gas station was seven miles away. (Long-time readers of my old blogs know the folly of that thinking!)

Where We Learn That Overnight Is Too Long and I'm a Blaming Shrew
Trash piled up. Lots of McDonalds throwaways (the Realtor who sold our house in Illinois presented us with $50 worth of Ronald McDonald money which came in handy as we traveled south and got settled in), random other garbage, the usual. The bags piled up. MathMan set about finding out where we could dump the stuff. He finally found the place and we loaded the many bags into the minivan. We drove to the recycling center/dump only to find out that it was closed on Wednesdays. No matter, I would go back the next day. MathMan had to report to school for his first day. We decided to leave the trash in the van overnight instead of unloading and reloading it. It was really hot even at night so we left the van windows rolled down and pretty much forgot about it.

The next day, MathMan headed off to his new school. Chloe had flown back to Chicago to participate in some ballet thingy. Nathan, Sophia and I climbed into the van to haul the trash to the dump. The van was so full of trash bags that Mother of the Year strapped both kids (then 7 and 4) into the front passenger's seat and set off hoping not to pass any police officers on the way.

We arrived at the dump and I began unloading the trash bags. Nathan was turned around in his seat watching because this was a whole new adventure. Watching me schlep trashcans to the curb in Illinois was never this much fun. Shoot - I even had to show my ID before the dump manager would let me drop my stuff. County residents only and I still had Illinois plates on the van.

At just about the same time, Nate and I noticed that something was odd. "I don't remember having rice!" he shouted to me. Shouting was his normal voice back then.

"Me either," I replied puzzled.

Then the rice moved.

The term heebie-jeebies doesn't begin to describe the sickening feeling spreading through my body as I unloaded those squirming maggot-infested black bags. My flesh crawled like so many writhing, moist, white ickies. I held my breath as I finished the task. Inside my oxygen-deprived brain, I cursed MathMan. This had to be his fault. How could he have been so stupid to leave rotting trash with swarming flies in my van overnight in hot, humid weather? What a moron!

That's right - that's how it works. The night before, I could have thought 'hot night, rotting garbage, flies, enclosed van equals recipe for high-quantity maggot production.' But it's just so much more convenient to blame MathMan when something goes wrong. Besides, that sentence had an equals in it and he's the math guy. I'm language, he's math. He should have foreseen some formula for this.

Nathan noticed that the rice was moving and began to pepper me with questions. "What is that?" "How did they get here?" "What will they do?" "Are there more?" "Wow! That's a lot!"

I tried to answer him while I struggled not to throw up at the sight of the maggots still clinging to the van's carpet. What was I going to do?

Foam Carpet Potion, A Vacuum Cleaner, and Girl Fingers
After the kids and I got back to the house, I backed the van up to the garage door and popped the backdoor. The two of them hopped out and raced to the back to get a better look at the writhing carpet. I leaned down to take a closer look and nearly screamed as a shiny, white maggot burrowed up through the carpet. Every where I looked, the little bastards were erupting through the taupe carpet like oozing, white-hot volcanoes.

Nate and Sophia were all whipped up. They'd never seen anything like this. Back in civilization, the trash was gathered by massive trucks who ate it, gave a big diesel belch and then moved on to the neighbor's house. They were unaware of things like maggots and the havoc that fly populations could cause.

Near panic, I was trying to figure out what to do. I was reminded of another panicked moment when my brother battled insects with WD40 and a fire extinguisher. I paced around the newly-organized garage and found some foam carpet cleaner. I grabbed it and the vacuum cleaner and got to work. I enlisted the help of Nathan who held the vacuum hose as I identified erupting maggots. I'd point to one and he'd attack it with the blunt end of the vacuum hose. Sophia alternated between helping identify the little buggers and keeping the vacuum cleaner from tipping over. As Nate continued to wield the vacuum with his sister's help, I started plucking the damn things from the carpet and wiping them on a paper towel. It is still one of the most disgusting things I've ever done. Thinking it looked like fun, Sophia started plucking maggots with her bare fingers. This should not have surprised me. This was the same little girl who, two years earlier while playing around while I dug an edge on a flowerbed, plucked a nightcrawler from the freshly turned earth, gave it a lick an then held it out to me. "It's good, yeah? Good. Want some?"

After we noticed no more maggots coming up through the carpet, I sprayed the whole back of the van with the foam cleaner, hoping to both clean the carpet and smother any remaining nasties. A little later, I dabbed at the fading foam and vacuumed the whole van again. The whole episode took about three hours. Finally satisfied that the maggots were gone, I inspected the van once more, plucked a couple more carcasses from the floor and put the middle and back van seats in place for a trip to town. I wasn't going to rest until I'd thoroughly cleaned the carpet with an industrial strength commercial vacuum and scrubber.

Where The Kids Learn I'm Not Particularly Mechanically Inclined
I put the Sophia's booster seat in the van's middle bench seat and loaded both children into the van. Properly strapped into the newly cleaned van, they chatted happily about the whole adventure. I was driving along, glad to have had a hot shower and looking forward to thoroughly cleaning the van one more time. We came to the corner of Old Alabama and Covered Bridge Roads which is on a small incline. I stopped and looked both ways. There was a big truck coming on the left, but I'd have time to make it if I accelerated vigorously. As I did, the children discovered that I didn't really know how to properly install the van seats.

Hearing screams, I looked in the rearview mirror. Their feet were in the air! The seat had tipped backward at a ninety-degree angle and they just hung there suspended for what seemed like an eternity. In slow-motion, the seat came back forward until it rested in place again. The screams subsided. Nate laughed nervously. Sophia started to cry. I tried to make light of it. "Wow! Wasn't that something?"

Such a lasting memory. Just the other day, I heard Nate say something to Sophia about the time I nearly killed them by not putting the van seat in correctly. "Yeah," Sophia answered. "those were the days....."

Rescued and Rerun: Vaginally Yours

Two posts in one week? Awww, come on. I am consistently inconsistent. You know this about me, don't act as if you don't. Anyway, this one is easy. See, I was doing more cut and paste from the RSS feeds that Buelahman sent me. Then I read this funny TMI Thursday from lilu and I thought, well, this post fits in perfectly with a Too Much Information theme. And so I am, of course, sharing it with you. Again.

Vaginally Yours from PoliTits by DCup (edited)

If you are squeamish, please move on. If you don't want to read what goes on with the female body when she goes through the pregnancy/birthing process - in graphic detail, please, please move on.

First, my body has carried and vaginally bore three babies, weighing in at 7.6lbs., 8.6 lbs. and 8.7lbs. I stand five foot, three quarters inches, have reasonably nice baby-passing hips and enjoy a wide weight swing of about 40 pounds given the year and the mental state. A baby-making machine. That's established. Moving on.

As with most women who've passed smallish people through their birth canals and beyond, my body bears the structural changes from the pressure and passage. Baby number one was kind enough to be head down to make her entrance into the world. Unfortunately, she was facing my front, which in labor and delivery is a FAIL. Not EPIC, but FAIL. The result is that someone, preferably a medical professional, must reach into your no-longer-private parts and turn the tiny person around. In my case, this procedure was performed without aid of painkillers (because I'm either a masochist or a coward, you decide). That done, the little bundle of joy made us wait another hour or more before she finally came blinking and sputtering into this world.

I still remember the sense of unreality. I pushed and huffed and breathed. Never in my life did I work so hard. I lost count of the number of times MathMan and The Midwife encouraged me to push just "one more time." I eventually lost all my sense of humor and proffered that if anyone said the phrase "one more time" even once more while I struggled to expel that kid, I would have risen up from the bed and killed someone with my bare hands.

Sensing my utter fatigue and heeding my pleas for a quick death (it was too late to beg for painless), the Baby Hoover was hauled out and the hose attachment was stuck to my precious darling's wee, soft noggin. She was literally sucked from my body. After all that - the medical fisting, the frenzied pushing and the apparatus, I was left with a tear the size of the San Andreas fault. I thought my vagina would never recover. Of course it did, but first there were other issues to deal with and lessons to be learned.....

Scatalogical Me
No one ever talks about the first poo after you have a baby. Look, you've just pushed a small person through your vagina. Its next door neighbor has likely taken a beating in the process. And if you've got stitches, you're terrified of busting them. The Midwife gave me a stool softener before I left the hospital, but nothing happened. So we went home to the apartment to await the momentous occasion. Baby sleeping, book in hand, off I went to the bathroom. Nothing. MathMan went out for prune juice which I drank with several shots of vodka. Still nothing. Some friends came over and visited. Small gurglings. Something? Friends leave - thank goodness, as you shall see - and I settle in on the toilet with a new American Baby magazine. I think I'm just going to sit there getting tips on how to be the perfect mother (they never tell you how much vodka will help in the longrun) and three days worth of poo will just quietly evacuate. No muss, no fuss. I gingerly attempt to do my business. Still nothing, but I know I have to go. I'm feeling backed up.

Out of desperation, I ask The Honey for his help. He did his best to stifle his horror and dread. "Just look. What's going on down there? It feels funny."

His eys met mine. Wasn't that sleeping angel in the bassinette enough proof of his love? He peeked and a funny look spread across his face. "There's something there."

"A something what?"

"I don't know, like a little plug?"

"A plug?"

In hindsight, my mistake was not sitting down again. That simple act might have prevented the walls, the sink, the toilet, the floor and us from being splattered with the sickeningly sweet-smelling stuff that erupted from my body. The prunes had done their work.

The Boy Baby - Where Two Become One
Obviously, my body healed and the V snapped back, if you will. My desire for the dark-haired man and a short memory led me to pregnancy number two. More weight, more spider veins. But the birth, now there's a story! This kid was facing the wrong direction, too, so I got more fisting. This time I knew to just close my eyes and think of England. I had a better understanding of the pushing thing and all was going well until The Boy's shoulders got stuck. MathMan tells a good story about the look on the kid's face as his head hung out of me.

This time, the baby was literally wrenched from my body. At one point, I swear that someone propped her foot against my thigh as she stood over me, yanking and tugging on Nate. My reward was another big tear and stitches. This time I knew about the first poo, so that wasn't quite so scary. It didn't take me long, though, to figure out that upon exiting, The Boy must have been hanging on for dear life and as those last final tugs yanked him into the world, he grabbed on and took everything with him. I asked The Midwife about it. "Oh, there wasn't anything separating the in-door and the out-door. We had to put you back together." Well, then.

Baby Number Three- A Photo Finish
Now that you know this, you might be surprised that there is a baby number three. But the need is mightier than the fear and don't you forget it. This baby came out just like the ones in the birthing class videos. I didn't even muss my lipstick. She had the benefit of being the third baby to have passed through that way and it was really quite easy. In fact, I think I just sneezed and there she was, swaddled in a striped blankie, wearing a matching knitted cap on her perfect little head.

After all that, I feared that one could drive a small delivery truck through my birth canal without losing a mirror. As it turns out, that is not the case. In fact, over time, I noticed that certain sexual positions hurt when they didn't before. The Tantric Anansi the Spider with Lemon Drop became especially problematic. That sucked because as sex positions go, it was a favorite. Anyway, I finally went to a doctor a couple of years ago to find out what was going on. Actually, I was there to have an IUD installed so that I wouldn't go through the joys of another pregnancy, but while the doctor was down there plugging in the device, he mentioned that my uterus was drooping and might cause "pain during sex." So there it was - the culprit. My uterus was falling out of my body. After all that, it was trying to escape. I really couldn't blame it.

Sadly, my relief at having an answer about why I could no longer endure a teeth-rattling good pounding was overshadowed by the doctor's unfortunate choice of words.

Drooping is not a word one should use with a vain, forty-something woman, especially when your head is so positioned that it can easily be trapped between her vise-like knees. I understand that in a few days time, the doctor was just fine. And the charges were dropped.

A Thousand Kisses Deep

I know it's Wednesday and I'm supposed to post something today, but last night I actually went out and did something social that wasn't demented and sad and now I have a pile of work to do and so writing a blog post is way, way, way down on the list of priorities.

It's not that I don't love you. It's just that I needed last night. I needed to go out and be with adults and listen to some fine, fine music in a beautiful venue. Blame it on the stars that twinkle among the blue and the wispy clouds of the fabulous Fox Theatre. Blame it on the cold that is making me sit here in socks and sandals. Blame it on that gorgeous creature Beth Coffey who suggested the night out in the first place. Wait - don't blame Beth. Thank her. Thank you, Beth.

Because now I release you from the thrall (not) of these words and into the magic that was last night.....

Or this



And oh my - this...



And THIS, and, of course, this, and this.

You know, last night as I sat and just absorbed the music, it occurred to me that the longer I walk this planet, the more I get Mr. Cohen's music......

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

(photos)

Original Fiction Recycle

Okay - so you know I was a dumbass and deleted my blogs. Well, enter Buelahman (Ray). Who saved my writing ass. He figured out how to send me all of the rss feeds using Google Reader. Google gives aaaaaand takes away. (I still wish they'd give me access to my blogs again, she pouted.)

So here is a rescued post. And here is a big Triple D Cup hug (now you know the truth) and kiss for Ray who really deserves much, much more, but won't except it. And NO, I don't mean sexual favor thank yous. I mean cash money. Or BeautiControl products.

Thank you, Ray. I still owe you big mention in my book, too. I shall not forget. I can't be a dumbass all the time.......

He's a Whiz!

from PoliTits (DCup)

Inspired by the story of George and Laura Bush being sheltered from a tornado warning....

The Secret Service Agent herded Laura, Miss Beazley and Barney into the armored vehicle. "Where's George?" Laura asked, patting her windblown hair back into place.

"We're looking for him, M'am," the unsmiling man in black answered.

George wasn’t there. He'd been out clearing brush when the siren sounded. He thought it was an air raid so he ran to his Gator and pulled out a duffel bag. Tossing his cowboy hat into the vehicle, he quickly strapped on his codpiece and flak jacket. He looked hurriedly around as he strapped on his helmet. Where was everyone and why didn't he hear any planes?

The clouds above were dark, almost greenish. "Dang," he thought, "I shoulda stayed in ta read those reports instead of being out here....heh, heh, heh." He knew that would never happen, but now he was in a real pickle. The winds were picking up and the brush he was cutting starting to blow around. George thought he heard the planes coming with the bombs and looked up just as a branch came crashing down.

When he woke, the brush was gone. The Gator was gone. His chainsaw: gone. George stood up and looked around. He touched his cheek and blood came away on his finger. His shoulder hurt. "What the heck..." he muttered as he unhooked his helmet. Good thing he had it on when that branch came down.

"Hello!" he shouted. Where was he? He stopped. Did he hear something? The Texas landscape had changed. What was going on? He hadn't seen anything like this since he'd given up blow. The trees were orange, pink grass was everywhere. The sky was yellow. Huge blue flowers on read stems sprang up from the ground. A stream of orange water flowed nearby. What kind of hippie nightmare was this?

There was that noise again. George walked toward it. Was that whispering?

A small person stepped from behind a blue, flowering bush. George stepped back quickly, startled. The weight of his flak jacket almost pulled him over. Righting himself, he gulped loudly as he took in the sight before him. The little man was dressed in a red and purple striped suit and he sported a green mustache. “Welcome!” he said jauntily in a cheery, childlike voice. The sound of it made George giggle on the inside. Someone was playing a joke on him.

George bent down and looked the little man square in the eye. “Kucinich, is that you?” he chuckled.

The little man removed a polka-dotted handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed at the blood on George’s cheek. “Well, Sir, no. I’m the mayor of Peaceville. Welcome,” he repeated.

George sneered. Peaceville. He knew this was some hippie hallucination. “Well, look here, Mayor Guy. Where’s Laura? What’s the joke?”

The small man blinked at him wordlessly.

“Come on. I’m a busy man. I’ve got work – hard work. Where’s my detail? Where’s Laura?”

The Mayor of Peaceville smiled gently at George. Poor man. He’d need the village’s help. He finished wiping the blood from George’s cheek and stood back. “There now,” he beamed. “That’s better. Now, tell me, who’s Laura?”

George stood quietly for a moment. This was getting old and he was not a patient man. He looked around, but still couldn’t see his personal agent. “Mr. Whatever you say your name is, stop playin’ games with me. You know Laura Bush is my wife. Everyone knows that. Now, where is she? Is she in on this?”

The man shook his little head. “I don’t know where Laura is, but I can help you find her,” he said brightly. Let me get my assistant and we’ll get to it.” With that he snapped his tiny fingers and an even smaller man in a green and yellow polka-dotted suit appeared.

“Sir?”

The Mayor gestured toward George. “Our guest needs our help. He’s looking for his wife Laura. We need to help him find her.”

The assistant smiled at George. “Of course,” he said. Then he spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating each word with great care. “Where did you last see Laura?”

George was getting really ansty now. This joke had run its course and he was getting hungry. “You know,” he huffed. “She was in the kitchen, reading a book. Look, I’m getting’ hungry. Can we hurry this up? This is starting to feel like a policy briefing and I’m not likin’ it.” He looked across the stream and noticed that a crowd of small people had gathered. There were all dressed like hippies and weirdos.

The Mayor and his assistant exchanged looks. Just then, a loud boom came from across the stream. The little people screamed and scattered. A billow of black smoke rose up from the ground and as it cleared, George could see a tall, painfully thin, blond woman, wearing a tight black miniskirt standing among the scattering of bloody, little bodies.

“Am I glad to see you. I’ve heard about you,” George shouted to the woman who smiled in response as she kicked her way through the dead bodies of little people in brightly colored clothes.

The Mayor and his assistant cowered behind George. “Where’s Laura?” George asked the tall blond as she approached.

The woman made an impatient noise in the back of her throat. Her adam’s apple bobbed up and down as she surveyed the colorful landscape. “God, I despise this place,” she thundered, pushing her straight blond hair behind her ears.

George shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. He realized that his codpiece was starting to chafe him. He shifted from foot to foot. Now he had to take a whiz, too.

The blond glanced at him. “What are you doing here?”

George sighed. Obviously, she wasn’t in on the joke. Back to square one. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where this is,” he pointed to the little people hiding behind him. “These guys call it Peacesomething….”

The blond woman sneered. “Of course they would.” She ran her hands through her hair. Still silky. Still beautiful. Good. “Okay. Here’s the deal,” she said, stepping around George and grasping the Mayor and his assistant by the arms. “You little devils are going to tell this busy and important man how to get back home. Got it?” she growled.

The Mayor and his assistant wriggled to free themselves from the woman’s grasp. The little people on the other side of the stream began squealing and shouting. “Shut it!” bellowed the woman. The little people shrunk back into the shadows.

The woman pulled the Mayor and his assistant closer to her face. “Now.”

The Mayor nodded weakly and the woman placed him and his assistant on the ground. “We can’t help you get home, but we know someone who can,” he said shakily. The woman was tapping the pointy toe of her stiletto heel impatiently. George was shifting around trying to get comfortable in the codpiece.

After a few minutes, George and the woman started off down the yellow brick road. “Do you think that this Wizard Dude can help me get back to Crawford?” he asked the woman.

The woman chewed her lip thoughtfully. More lipstick was in order, clearly. “He’s not the Almighty, so I don’t know. I only trust in the Almighty. But it’s worth a try,” she answered.

George tugged at his jacket. “I’m getting’ hot,” he groused. The blond stopped and looked at him carefully. “Leave the jacket on. You look so strong in it.”

George squirmed. Was she hitting on him?

It was like she could read his mind. “Don’t worry,” she laughed. “You’re safe with me.” This made George feel better, but he still wasn’t sure about this wizard guy. He walked along with his hands in his pockets watching each step carefully. He wished he had his bike. And a tex-mex wrap would be good about now, too.

Suddenly the woman groaned. “Oh, go away!” she shouted. George couldn’t see what she was yelling at. “Who are you talking to?” he demanded.

The woman clucked her tongue. There went that bobbing adam’s apple again. “Of course, you can’t see him. I forgot,” she said, but George was still confused.

“See who?”

“The poor man standing there asking for food and money and health care and shelter. You can’t see him,” the blond grumbled. “True blue-bloods can’t see the poor. Let’s move along. We can’t help him. He has to help himself.”

George looked in the general direction of the woman’s gaze, but still saw nothing. He didn’t see anyone. He shrugged and kept walking. Now the codpiece was really beginning to irritate him, but he didn’t want to take it off and look weak. He was going to have to use some of Laura’s special cream when he got back home. Thinking of Laura and the ranch made his breath catch in his throat.

The blond looked at him. “You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, okay, just thinkin’”

“Well stop it. You’ll feel better. It’s best not to think.”

They’d taken a few more steps when the woman stopped abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” George demanded.

The woman rummaged in her purse and took out a small, shiny, silver handgun. It fit beautifully in her well-manicured hand. Holding it made her feel a little horny. But that would have to be dealt with later. She aimed the gun straight in front of her.

George stood there stunned. Why was this woman aiming her gun at that pile of purple rocks? The woman grinned at him and dropped the gun into her handbag after giving it a quick smooch. She looked squarely at George and smiled. “That problem’s solved,” she grinned widely. Again with the adam’s apple. George wondered quickly why a hot chick like her didn’t get that fixed….

The woman started walking again. George came back to himself. “Hey, what was that all about?”

“Secularists. They were collecting rocks to keep building their “wall of separation.” She made the quote gesture with her fingers.

“What wall?” George asked, quite puzzled.

“Oh, they think that there should be a wall separating Church and State. They’re sooooo tiresome. And they’re in complete denial. They just need to accept that this is a Christian nation or get out,” the blond thundered.

George was puzzling over why he couldn’t see them, but quickly became distracted when a multi-colored butterfly drifted by on gossamer wings. “Oh, pretty!” he whispered.

The blond reached out with both hands and clapped them around the butterfly. “A scout,” she said as she crushed it between her palms. George stopped in his tracks. This chick was intense.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“You’re not supposed to,” the blond said over her shoulder as she walked away. Now George was gettin’ annoyed with her, too. Where was Laura? Where was Condi? Where was Dick? Oh, yeah. Undisclosed location. But Condi, Laura…how could they have let him out of their sight? Bar would not be pleased that they’d let this happen to him.

The blond was skimming along on her stilletos. “We’re getting close,” she said cheerily. George was relieved. He wanted out of the codpiece now.

The blond stopped once more. “Oh, no.” she groaned. Suddenly a swarm of the multi-colored butterflies descended from the sky.

For a moment, George was dazzled by the colors. The blond grabbed his hand and started to run as fast as she could in her high, high heels.

“What’s going on?” George shouted over the flapping of wings which was getting louder.

“Duck!” the blond screamed and she hit the ground. For just a moment she was wishing she’d worn jeans instead of this miniskirt. The thought left as quickly as it came. She knew how hot she looked to the right sort of man.

George and the woman lay face down on the ground as the flapping of wings continued. George pulled a blade of pink grass from his mouth. The dirt was blue! “What’s going on?”

The woman smudged what was left of her lipstick on the back of her hand. Oh, how she hated this place. “The butterflies are the tools of the environmentalists. Those tree-hugging, Birkenstock wearing, granola headed hippies must be nearby,” she whispered.

George lay still listening to the sound of his own breathing. “What do they want?” he finally asked.

“Who knows,” hissed the blond. “Regulations, laws, protections, clean air, clean water, environmental standards, whine, whine, whine. They’re completely unreasonable. They think that the little birdies should have a place to live and all that. Lunatics.”

“The little birdies like to live in the brush I clear…” George mentioned offhandedly.

“Exactly.”

The air went still. The woman moved the curtain of blond hair from her face and peered out from behind it. The butterflies had landed and decorated the trees, rocks, bushes and grass. Slowly, she stood up and dusted off her knees, her flat concave belly, her small, but perfect breasts. George lay on the ground watching her.

“Let’s go,” the blond whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Quietly, slowly.” George stood up slowly. He had trouble because of the weight of the codpiece and flak jacket. The woman bent to help him. She started to help him dust off and their eyes met. She pulled back. “Oh, no, Miss,” she thought. “Not now, not ever. This President would be above reproach, not like that scum Clinton.”

George followed the blond back to the path. They stepped slowing and walked in silence. The butterflies stayed on their perches. George wanted to speak, but didn’t want to disturb them. Finally, the blond whispered. “Just keep walking. Just around that bend there, we’ll see the Wizard’s castle.” This made George smile.

He was still smiling when a long-haired woman, dressed all in green and waving a hand-made sign, stepped into the road in front of them. Quick as a flash, the blond pulled her gun from her handbag and shot the protester dead where she stood. The woman slumped to the ground and the blond stepped over her, her stiletto piercing the woman’s sign.

“Why’dja shewt ‘er?” George asked, stunned at the quick, violent episode.

“We don’t have time to deal with those crazy environmentalists. They’re just like the islamofacsists. The only way to deal with them is quick and deadly. There’s no compromising with them. There’s no need to negotiate. No need for words. Just bang, bang. Problem solved.”

George smiled approvingly. He liked this gal and her straight shootin’ literally.

George stepped over the woman on the ground, but couldn’t look at the blood. He didn’t want to lose his cookies in front of the blond. Blood was never his thing. And he was glad that she was the one who was doin’ the shootin’. Heck, if Dick were here, George himself might be the one lyin’ dead on the yellow bricks, blood spreading out beneath him. He shuddered and skipped a step or two to catch up with the blond.

Finally, the castle came into view. Why, it looked like Donald Rumsfeld’s place on the River! George became excited and a little nervous. Would Don still be mad at him for firing him?

They approached the castle gate. Suddenly a castle guard stuck his head out of the gatehouse window. “Can I help you?”

“Hey, Scooter Libby! What are you doing here? I thought you were preparing to go on trial,” George was happy to see ole Scoots, but he looked around quickly to make sure none of them photojournalists were around to document it. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Scooter.

“Do you have an appointment?” the castle guard asked curtly.

The blond pushed her face close to his. “Look, this is the President of the United States. He doesn’t need an appointment,” she hissed.

The castle guard pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much. The blond still towered over him. He focused on her adam’s apple as he spoke slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The blond stepped back and smoothed her skirt. “Thank you.”

George was shifting back and forth. Oh, the codpiece. What was he thinking when he put it on?

The castle guard closed the window. George and the blond watched him silently as he placed a call on a funny looking phone. He placed the phone back on its cradle and slid the window open again. “The Wizard will see you,” he announced. With that the gates slid silently open and the guard closed his window. As he passed by the window, George realized that the guard was tethered to the gatehouse wall with a chain attached to a special belt around his waist. On the wall behind him was a painting of a young girl in a cage being ravished by a bear.

The blond started through the gate, then stopped. She gestured for George to go ahead of her. He went, ashamed to admit that he was afraid and would have actually preferred it if she went first. As they approached the castle door, it opened silently and they passed through it. The castle was well-decorated, tastefully done. No frou-frou, just good, manly, well-chosen pieces. Probably old family pieces and things collected on someone’s travels.

The blond gestured toward a navy blue curtain and motioned silently for George to approach it. He stood rooted to the spot for a moment and she touched his sleeve to urge him forward. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He looked at the blond and smiled. “It’s Dick, isn’t it?” he said, more than asked.

The blond nodded, smiling.

“George!” Laura kneeled down on the ground next to him.

“We’ve found him, Sir,” a crisp, disembodied voice said.

George started to sit up. Barney was trying to climb on him.

“Down, Barney,” Laura fussed, tugging on his collar. “Why don’t you stay still, Sweetheart, until they can check you out,” she said, touching George’s face.

Yes, that’s good, he thought. “I’ll just let them check me out first. I’m an important man. Wouldn’t be good to have me out of commission.”

“I’m okay,” he said cheerily.

“Well, just in case, they’ve alerted Dick,” Laura said soothingly.

George jumped up. “I’m good. I’m good. Get Condi. Let’s have a meetin.’ What’s going on in Iraq? What’s the good news?”

Filterless

Well crap. As if this week couldn't be more, um, interesting (and by interesting I mean fucked up and interesting), now I have to break up with cute Dr. Jason.

Oh, my friends of the internets, it seems I have lost my filter. You know that thing that goes between my squirrel-powered-with-Mountain Dew-and-crack brain and my mouth? It's missing. I have been a raging, not so adorable, filterless knucklehead. A verbal bull in a china shop. My loose cannon has gone off. My mouse has ROARED.

And I blame Fox News. What? Yes. Well, that and my birthday.

See, the trouble started on Saturday when we took Sophia to have her face looked at. It's a pretty face, to be sure, but she appeared to have developed cat's whiskers. Now Halloween is coming up and it's a cute look and all, but since she's decided that she wants to be a colonial peasant zombie princess or something for Halloween, whiskers are a bit over the top.

Thank goodness for Nate, the King of Poison Ivy. He took one look at her face and made the diagnosis for us so we dragged Sophia to the family practice on Saturday for a walk-in appointment to confirm Nate's diagnosis.

Because MathMan can't stand the embarrassment of watching me hump cute Dr. Jason's leg on a Saturday morning (he knew I was getting ready for it when he saw me shaving my legs in the shower, but the ankle bracelet I put on right before we left the house was the dead giveaway), he volunteered to take Sophia back to see the Good Doctor who just happened to be on call.

That meant Nate and I were left to our own devices in the Dreaded Waiting Room. I slumped down in my chair next to Nate. Foiled again. Damn that MathMan and his puritanical notions!

Nate and I sat alone in the cavernous, darkened waiting room. A receptionist with a quick smile, and nervous eyes, sat behind the glass and glanced at us occasionally. Thinking about it now, she must have been able to see into the next few minutes and didn't like what she saw.

From two televisions bolted to the wall, grown ups screamed at each other on Fox News.

I tried to distract myself with my book. Nate talked to me. We fidgeted and squirmed with our backs to the television, but we couldn't tune out the inane harping and hating coming from the Boob Tube.

I stood and sauntered casually over to the receptionist and smiled at her through the glass. "Any chance you can turn that down or off or change the channel?"

She simply smiled and shook her head. "Nope. The doctors won't let us."

I blinked at her. Once, twice, three times. My smile started to fade. "You're kidding, right?"

She shook her head again and pushed back a little from her desk to give herself some space from the Crazy Lady. The racket from the yahoos on the telly increased. "Seriously? You can't turn it down? You can't turn it off? It's just me and my son. It's deafening, not to mention annoying for a Saturday morning. I'd hate to have to listen to that crap if I were sick!"

The smile froze on her face. My filter - that thing between the brain and the mouth - disintegrated. I demanded to know to whom I should issue a complaint. This was nonsense. It was clear that the television was not there to educate the patients about their health. Obviously, it was not there to entertain us.

To be perfectly honest with you, of course it was particularly irritating to have to sit and listen to the howling and shrieking from Fox, but any news channel is a turn off in that setting. We are bombarded with news enough, thank you very much. How about some music? Discovery Health? I wouldn't even mind Lifetime, HGTV or The NASA Channel. Staring at the stars while some scientist drones on would be more relaxing, at least.. Jon and Kate and the Screaming Children wouldn't be as bad as having to listen to faux intelligentsia trying to shout each other down. I'd be cool with silence punctuated by the raspy breaths and coughs that are part and parcel to a visit to the doctor's office.

The point is (don't you love when I sledgehammer you with that?) is that the television in that waiting room, tuned to that channel full time and providing no lee-way to adjust it in any way is something I find quite insidious. And you know what - it has no place in a doctors' office. It's nothing more than a political statement.

And to that I say - bullshit. I come for your medical opinion, not your political one. Turn the damn news/opinion channel off or I'll find another doctor to whom to give my money.

It breaks my heart to say it, but I don't care how cute you are. I don't want to stare up at the ceiling while you make me feel oh so good and have my fantasies interrupted with newflashes that we are politically incompatible.

See - it's like I turned forty-four years old and decided that I no longer care what anyone thinks. I've been working so hard for so long to hold it in - you're laughing at me, aren't you? - you're thinking 'lord, woman, that's what you call holding it in?' but it's true. I haven't told someone off but good since the day I called MathMan's grandmother "old woman" right before I unleashed a stream of obscenities and bottled up anger at her. That was what? 1993? I guess I was due.

MathMan suggests I blame PMS. More like DNA, but oh well. As soon as I've written this post, I'll go in and have my filter re-installed. Or not.

Dear Google May I Have My Blogs Back!

Dear Google,

Please let me have my blogs back. I was wrong to delete them, I know, but now I am sorry and I want them back. The truth is I am an idiot who didn't understand that one of her email accounts didn't have full access to the blogs in question. I thought I'd done everything right, but when I finally pulled the trigger, hoping to eliminate duplication, I was wrong. I killed PoliTits, Unglued, Have Camera Will Travel, and Unglued Blue.

I am distraught. Four years of writing gone in the push of a single submit button.

What I was trying to do was once and for all kill off DCup. Perhaps that was my mistake. She is me. I am her. We are. I only meant to delete her profile, it seems, but instead when I deleted my blogger account, I was denying her existence in irrevocable ways.

Gone. It is all gone. I dutifully completed the request for access three times. Still you deny me. You want dates of when I started using the account, what other applications I used and dates when I started using them. Seriously? I am nearing senility, off my meds, have three kids, five cats, a husband, a house, a full time job, two part time jobs, and was once a blogger who blogged in several places and often twice a day or more. You want me to tell you when I started using Picassa as DCup? Medic!!!!

I know that you are only doing your job, trying to protect the integrity of everyone's account, but please, where I can I appeal? You will not provide me with a way, other than the form, to contact you. And the form provides no space for evidence outside of the strict criteria you set. I am not going to get nasty with you, but I am definitely frustrated beyond belief. I mean, it's been quite a day already. I ate leftover birthday cake for breakfast. The rain and traffic were so bad this morning that I got part of the way to work and had to turn around and come back home to annoy a cat who had taken up her usual spot in my office chair. I haven't cried yet, but there's still a serious possibility that there will be tears before bedtime.

Is this really all that you're going to say to me? You know, after having completed the form three times, this response is losing its charm....

Thank you for your report. We've completed our investigation and cannot
return your account at this time. We were unable to verify that you own
this account based on the information you provided.

If you can provide additional information to verify that you own this
account, please visit
http://www.google.com/support/accounts/bin/request.py?ara=1 and submit
another report. Whether we can return access to this account depends on
the strength and accuracy of your responses, so be sure to provide as much
information as possible. If you're unsure about specific dates or
information, provide your best guess.

To create a new account, please visit
https://www.google.com/accounts/NewAccount

We apologize for any inconvenience and appreciate your cooperation and
understanding.

Regards,
The Google Team

You, dear Google, tell me that I cannot have it back because you cannot verify that those accounts are mine. Let me show you the evidence. How's this - a cut a paste from the emails I'm now getting. Even there, I am haunted by DCup....and this comes from you.

This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification
Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

Received: from mr.google.com ([10.103.64.19])
by 10.103.64.19 with SMTP id r19mr5113606muk.8.1255374081337 (num_hops = 1);
Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:01:21 -0700 (PDT)
Received: by 10.103.64.19 with SMTP id r19mr2642197muk.8.1255374081321;
Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:01:21 -0700 (PDT)
X-Forwarded-To: dcup84@gmail.com
X-Forwarded-For: lisahgolden@gmail.com dcup84@gmail.com
Delivered-To: lisahgolden@gmail.com

Received: by 10.103.137.5 with SMTP id p5cs254376mun;
Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:01:20 -0700 (PDT)
Received: by 10.211.131.8 with SMTP id i8mr7574137ebn.68.

1255374080738;
Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:01:20 -0700 (PDT)
Return-Path: <bounce-20-525598726@trakken.google.com>
Received: from smtp-out.google.com (smtp-out.google.com [216.239.33.17])

You see, because I had my newish email (lisahgolden@gmail.com) linked to my old one (dcup84@gmail.com), I am still receiving the bouncebacks after having deleted the DCup84 account.

May I pretty please have access to my google account again? I promise not to kill off DCup ever, ever, ever.

The problem may have arisen because in my infinite wisdom, I did at some point last year or maybe early in 2009, change the DCup nickname to lisahgolden (still under the DCup84 email address), thus muddling things further. I repeat - I am an idiot.

You don't really want to punish me for being a technological moron, do you? I mean, I know that you might think I'm cool (I am not) and that I was part of the crowd of people who tortured you in high school (I really wasn't! Promise!), but I was too busy being friends with everyone and getting laid to harass anyone that high school hierarchies define as uncool.

So please. I'm offering you the most information I can to prove that this google account belongs to me. And pictures as evidence. And my first, second and third borns. Five cats? The use of the Unglued tag Hot Married Sex. The lacy black bra avatar. Take it all, please, just give me access to my blogs.

I will delete no more. My cyber world will be as crammed full of stuff as my computer's recycle bin. Old pix, downloaded porn, draft after draft after draft of emails, letters, poems, screenplays and stories. None of it will be dispatched into the great beyond. You have my word. Heck, you can even have my favorite word - FUCK!!!!!!

Please reconsider your hardline. I will be forever grateful and will do a monthly post about how incredibly awesome Google is. And I won't tell you to go fuck yourself. Ever.

Ick! An Emotion! Make It Stop!

I started writing a story and I ended up bursting into tears on I20 heading east into Atlanta.

I don't like to give myself over to that dreadful emotion sadness. I have long viewed crying as a sign of weakness and I take pains to avoid such a common display of despair. I do the big eye stretch, the yawn, the look away, the lip chew, the long, deep breath and the try to think of something funny maneuver. That one works, especially when the something funny includes bodily functions and famous people.

My family is rather dysfunctional emotionally. As my brother is fond of saying "anger is the only emotion with which our family is comfortable." We can be founts of fury, veritable volcanoes of venom. We create spectacular verbal fireworks colored by coarse language once our fuses are lit and our hair trigger tempers are tripped. Some of us vent loudly and are over it quickly, others of us are legendary grudge holders.

So why the tears today? What caused me to allow the salty, hot moisture to overflow from my eyes and run down my cheeks as I swiped at them with the back of my hand in between shifting gears in the stop and go traffic of this raining morning?

Like any individual's emotions, the causes were both complicated and simple. The quick answer is that I finally allowed myself to grieve, to release an emotion that had been bottled up inside me for the past twenty-two years. The longer, more complex answer involves regret, choices, mistakes, misunderstandings, language barriers and matters of the heart.

Last night, I spoke with and saw someone who had all but disappeared from my life back in the late summer of 1987. With this person, I had shared an immediate connection, an intense love affair and a wrenching apart that was both practical and victimizing. In an instant, the last twenty-two years melted away and when I heard his voice and saw his face, I wanted to reach through the computer and squeeze him like he squeezed me all those years ago.

See - we never said goodbye. Circumstances beyond our control separated us, as did an ocean. And as easy as it might be to say "well, silly, it was 1987, not 1887" it wasn't as simple as that. We were both college students without much money and expiring visas. His parents were as unhappy as mine were that the two of use wanted a future together. Phone messages were never relayed, letters were never forwarded and then, in a need to move on without a proper ending, I plunged into a relationship that turned into a marriage that has lasted, albeit bumpily.

Last night's conversation was a chance to ask the question why? Why did you leave? Why didn't you ask me to stay? The air was heavy with longing for those kids we once were. We each confessed that we'd searched for the other over the years and it seems as inevitable that we would reconnect one day as it was that we would connect the first time. For the knowledge that he is alive and well, I am grateful to Facebook.

The memory of that conversation over Skpe will last just like the memories of August 1987 that are captured in my journal. For posterity, I will collect the details that seem of little consequence today, but down the road may serve as markers that what we shared - now a friendship - was real. He drank whiskey, I had red wine. He looks just the same, but wears glasses for close up work. I am heavier and my once auburn hair is now gray and longer. His shirt was a polo the color of the daytime sky. I was wearing a brown tank and shorts with a hole in the pocket that my cellphone always falls through. I turned to my old Collins Robert French dictionary when I couldn't understand something and he tried very hard not to wince at how horribly I mangled French verbs, inventing new conjugations as I went.

We caught up on the old places, the people we both knew. I showed him Fiona the cat and he showed me his guinea pig. We talked about our kids and discussed our careers. He joked me that I'd changed the course of his life when I vanished. Perhaps I threw a wrench into his plans to become the first Moroccan born Prime Minister of France. When the conversation got too close to the subject of what might have been - what would our shared life had been like? Where would we have lived? What would we be doing for a living? Would there have been, not the children who do exist, but others? When we got too close to that, we glided away, toasting each other or asking some harmless question like "so what kind of music do you listen to these days?" I think he even shouted at me in French to show him my boobies, but I can't be sure. He may have been asking me what the weather was like here in Georgia. It's been a long time since I was fluent.

So the tears....today, I finally let myself have that good cry I should have had in 1987. And I refuse to feel silly for it. As I drove and let the pain of loss come this morning, I considered what it would be like if we had the gift of going back. Would we really want to? Would we want to sacrifice what we have now in order to see what might have happened? It's an old question with no answer. It's safe to say that I regret that I didn't do more to stay in contact with this person, to see what could have been had we been able to make a life together, but I cannot regret the lives that have been created because of the choices we made long ago. And I cannot mourn the future that never materialized.

I shared with my friend the parts of the story that include him and he told me that he enjoyed reading it. I can only imagine how it translates into French. For him it is a little bizarre to have his past handed to him in prose. I laughed when he told me that. Even more bizarre is the fact that to make the story work, I'm mixing fact with fiction. Since he was not the obsessive diarist I was, he'll just have to take my word for it when I tell him which parts are history and which parts are embellishment.

I've been lucky to love and be loved by some amazing and wonderful men in my life. Because of our unfortunate and abrupt ending, he was always more of mystery than the others. And now that my tears have dried, I can tell you that I am glad that he is part of the story.

Pour Abdel, avec l'affection.

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

Ivory, Not Pearl

Why is it exactly that blogging inspiration hits me when I'm in the laundry room, devoid of paper and pen?

The world may never know, but I can assure you if I had the presence of mind to put pen and paper in the laundry room, I'd never get another flash of an idea whilst moving the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer.

You know I'm writing a novel, right? Well, I'm still threatening to write about writing, but for now I want to tell you that my children will use any and every opportunity to commit some act of soul-sucking sibling rivalry. I bring this misery onto my own head, of course. It's all my fault. You see, when they ask if I love them more than the others, I've simply taken the easy route. "Yes, but don't tell the others," I'd coo at them.

Bad idea.

So last night Nathan and Sophia wanted me to read them the parts of the story that contain characters based on them. So I did. And do you know that turned into a fight about who was depicted in a better light? I kid you not. To cut through the ensuing bickering, I sent Sophia out of the room to finish her homework. Nate stayed behind, alternately rolling around on the floor like a puppy and running on the elliptical that sits, disapprovingly, next to my desk. We talked some about the story and I asked him for some of his expertise on a particular issue. He was glad to oblige.

Sophia, who had apparently been skulking about in the hallway instead of doing the homework she'd been assigned, took great umbrage at the fact that Nate was helping me with some details and brainstorming ideas for a particular scene in the story. She pouted into the room and was sent out again with an admonishment for what included, but was not limited to, eavesdropping, not doing her homework, pettiness, poutiness and being an all around bad sport about things.

For my part, I thanked Nate and busied myself by going back to work on the story. At this point, MathMan got involved, trying like hell to give Sophia some solace in the knowledge that her inclusion in the story mattered just as much as Nate's. He learned, however, that was not what was eating her. She'd become incensed that I'd asked Nate specific questions about General George S. Patton. Quick thinker that he is, MathMan instructed Sophia to show just how much she knew about Patton by producing a three paragraph essay. She came back to him in under thirty minutes and presented him with a titled, by-lined and perfectly typed three paragraph biography on Gen. Patton. I believe it employed the correct Strunk and White style.

The intense competition amongst our children continues. Even Chloe gets in on the act by leaving snarky comments about her siblings on Facebook. I can see it now, they'll all three be together, taking care of the arduous duty of scattering my ashes and there will be some conflab about who gets to carry the urn. Next thing you know, I'll be scatterd all over the parking lot of some Taco Bell where they've stopped before carrying out their solemn task. MathMan and his young wife will find their vacation on Aruba interrupted by a panicked call from Sophia while they can hear Nathan and Chloe nearly coming to blows in the background. MathMan's beautiful, interesting and unmarred by motherhood young wife will take the phone from his hand, tell the three adult hellions to solve the issue themselves and then, purring something sweet into MathMan's ear, will toss his cellphone into the ocean and hand him his fancy glass of some tropical, rummy drink.

Where the hell was I before I died? Oh yes. Taunting you with the threat of writing about writing.

One of the most delightful sensations I've had lately, was the magic I felt when I finally and for the first time printed off what I have thus far written as my novel. 13,000 words. (and growing!) I printed it yesterday so I could take it with me to edit as I waited for MathMan who was in a meeting. Holding that forty-six pages of black letters on white paper that told a story of my own making was magic. All the sudden, it became real. No longer was it something I was going to do - it was something that I'm doing, I've done and I continue to do. I held that stack of papers in my hands and just looked at them for a few seconds to savor that feeling. The last time I held my own writing in my hands like that was in 1981 when I used to write horror stories in spiral bound notebooks. Since then, most of my writing has been on the computer and has never materialized from screen to paper.

Right now I'm writing about another kind of magic - the time that I lived and went to school in France is still one of my fondest memories. I loved being there and didn't want to leave. Nevertheless, the decision to come home to the U.S. and finish my degree created twists and turns in my life that I would have never imagined back in 1987.

One of the ways that I get in the proper frame of mind to write about a specific event or place or time is to listen to the music that was part of my life then. Here's a brief sampling of the songs of that time. I am not declaring them good, just, um.....representative of that time.

Man, remember how you used to love when I sang this song with hand gestures and everything, MathMan? I know, so much fun! How could you forget?

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

Why I Don't Like to Write Sales Copy - UPDATED

I suck at it. I'd rather let the pictures speak for themselves.....

Thank you, Linda, for these. They are gorgeous.

Ankle bracelets! My favorite!

People of the internets - the holidays will be here before you've had time to finish picking last year's tree needles from your baseboards, so why don't you consider ordering some gifts, hmmmm?

Here are some more gift ideas: Susan of Phantsythat and Adventures Ink has opened her etsy shop. Handpainted silk bags are vastly nicer than a Target gift card, I say.

Lucinda at Lavender Moon Jewelry and Lucinda's Charms has some beautiful gift ideas.

Kimonomomo has an array of gorgeous items, too.

Oh, and have you seen Red Hot Pottery? I love Christine's work!

And of course, there is always the gift of relaxation you can give your friends, family and yourself.

Okay - a little catching up....

Yes, Mother, I'm still working!
I don't hate the new office. It's pretty and new and clean and most everything works! It's pimped out pretty nicely and reflects a rich, new-money sensibility that isn't my style, but I don't mind it either.

The commute sucks, but I'm trying to make the best of it. Placing prank phone calls, taking photos of strangers, trying to name the flora and fauna, having long, meaningful discussions with MathMan. Now, if we can stay out of the Dairy Queen drive-thru......

I locked myself out of the office on Friday. That was fun. There are lessons to be learned, but I do know this - I can kill an hour and a half pretty easily and without much blood.

One down, two to go...
Chloe, formerly The Dancer, is now firmly ensconced at her new school. We had a couple of shaky moments where she was calling home a bit too much, but she seems to have recovered from her homesickness by finding a new home.

Shrinking violet that she is, she's now the Freshman Class President and joined a sorority. Thankfully, she didn't pay much attention to those derisive things I might have said about greek life at the schools I attended. She paid much more attention to the stories about how I never reached my much-rumored potential. Nothing like having stark, bare-boned mediocrity lorded over you as a child to make you want to run screaming into every activity and leadership role you can find. Thank goodness. If someone can't learn from my hard-headed mistakes, what's the point?

Ark for Sale!
Thank you for the concern. We've not been flooded, but MathMan's school is closed, many families and staff at his school have suffered material losses. It's so sad. I can't get to my office because of road closures and the one route that I can use is horrendous on a good day, so I'm working from home.

We tried to look contrite and appropriately sympathetic when we sent Nate and Sophia off to school this morning, but I think the party hats and martini glasses were a dead giveaway. "Work from home, indeed," I heard Sophia grumble as she slouched down the front steps to wait for the school bus. As he left the house a half hour later, I believe Nate caught MathMan and me high-fiving each other. Oh well. Someday, they'll be adults with all this "freedom."

In the meantime, I'll continue to keep my rebel teenage-psyche duct-taped into her safe place. However, she wants you to know that she loves this song is rilly glad it's out on video finally.

P.S. I almost wrote a post about writing, but thought that might make you want to put your head in an oven, too, and I like you too much for that.

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa