All the Clever Things I Should Say to You Got Stuck Somewhere

And so I'm punishing you with this YES, WE'RE STILL IN THE PROCESS OF MOVING place holder. Go on, click this link, you masochists. You know you like it when I punish you.

Take me home........no, really, take me home. Because I'm ready to be home. Pick a house, any house. Let's just be done with it already! Actually, look at our new neighbor. No, it's not a nuclear plant, it's coal fired! Bonus! Let's just hope that the coal ash pits are secure because guess who's going to be living in the back yard of this beast?

Cough, cough.

Because I like you so much better when you're naked, that's why!

This Post Approved by Cow Number 22

Cow number 22 is wondering why I keep driving back and forth, back and forth.......

I am about to break the land speed record for most boring blog post ever. Don't brace yourself. In fact, why don't you do me a grand favor, get naked, slather yourself with some canola oil (it's better for your heart), put on some loud music, open your window coverings (blinds, curtains, whatever) and prance around in a trance of utter bliss for about ten minutes. Then when you wish you had the moments you just spent reading this post back, you can at least thank me for making you (1) more soft and supple from all that oil; (2) burn some calories with the prancing; and (3) the talk of the neighborhood.

Okay - here's the long and short of it. I still hope you're not bracing yourself. And put down that oil. You're going to slide off your chair if you're not careful.

Pack, pack, pack. Move, move, move. Unpack, unpack, unpack.

It's so exciting, I'm almost embarrassed to share it with you because I don't want you to feel too badly about your own situation.

Here are the things we've discovered during this move:

(1) Four inside cats dispel a lot of hair (this part isn't really a discovery) and when the main vacuum er kinda sorta gives up on her outlandish fantasy of domestic perfection (that happened right around the time Martha Stewart was sent to prison for insider trading - my domestic bubble burst like so many tiny real estate markets), lots of cat hair accumulates in hard to reach places. Ish, blech, retch. It's enough to choke a bear. Seriously, we could make a new litter of full grown cats from the nasty cast-off fur.

(2) My plan to put away most knick-knacks was a good one from the "I'm over dusting" standpoint. Where I relented and knick-knacks remained range free, but undusted by those who claim to need them in their lives (read: The Spawn), the dust of ages made me sneeze and squeeze. Having to do the sneeze and squeeze makes me a tiny bit peevish.

(3) We have too much stuff. We're Americans - I suppose that goes without saying. Clearing out the clutter feels so good. It's hard to distinguish between what you want to keep because it has a purpose and what you want to keep for sentimental reasons. I've pitched things that made my heart wince a little, but I know a week from now I will NOT be wondering where that thingy is. I know this. Still, the wincing.

(4) We're going to be those people who use their china everyday. Mind you, we don't have everyday china and good china. We have china. It's a bit dated - screaming the era that we got married, but it's quite pretty, quite sturdy, a full set and what the hell good is it sitting in a box? We used to use it for every day. We're going back to that.

Why keep it for special occasions. We're going to let every day be a special occasion dammit, and if that plan doesn't work, well, busting up our wedding china in a dramatic display of smashing dishes in a fit of pique or tossing them into the fireplace to celebrate something seems a lot more interesting than ripping a paper plate in half or crumpling a Styrofoam cup*.

Besides, all the casual stuff we have is chipped all to hell and I'm sick of nicking my fingers on the dings and chips.

So that's it for now. The big stuff gets moved on Tuesday. We'll have the t.v. and phone people coming out to do installs, as well. Fingers crossed that everything goes smoothly because, of course, we now have word that there are two REALLY IMPORTANT kid events on Tuesday evening that we must attend or be expelled from parenthood. You know I lie - we could never be so lucky as to be expelled from parenthood.

Oh - one more thing - The Actor can carry much heavier things at the age of thirteen than he could when we moved into this house in 2003 when he was seven. The end result is that he can help MathMan heft the really heavy stuff so that I don't have to do the lift and squeeze in addition to the sneeze and squeeze.

And that, my friends, People of the Internets, is worth all the china from, well, China. Because ours certainly isn't from anywhere that would regulate the amount of chemical byproducts and lead, you know. I mean - how do you think I got this way?

P.S. Go wash off that oil now before you get it on something.

* We limit our use of paper plates and Styrofoam for environmental reasons. I simply used the examples of paper and Styrofoam because it seemed funnier than saying chain-sawing melamine plates and melting plastic cups.

Obviously, My Body Is Craving Healthy Food

And I continue to deny it.

In other news........

Oh, it might have been the rest, or it could have been the medicine, copious amounts of television did not hurt. But whatever it was, whatever it did, it worked. I am cured. Mostly (the phlegm still runs freely down my throat, Randal)

I am cured. Like a ham? Could be. I am well enough to be out of bed and doing some things. Not necessary things, mind you, but things.

Items still must be packed. And moved. And unpacked. I'm still not doing those things, but I'm doing - things.

For example, I ate cinnamon toast for breakfast. I put sugar in my tea. Had Oreos for brunch. I ate the last two scoops of Mayfield vanilla ice cream because if Garbo and The Actor both decided they wanted ice cream at the same time, there would have been a fight. I ate ice cream to quell an argument that hadn't even started.

I'm on a health kick, can't you tell?

I finally showered and that felt like a good thing. As did vacuuming the bedroom. It needed it. I needed to vacuum. There, I said it. Hi, my name is Lisa and I am addicted to vacuuming.

I looked out the window and I could see a cat leg stretched out over a cat body. The cat was having its own kind of shower. I, however, cannot lick my own ass. (My mother just shuddered and doesn't know why.)

I started watching Mon Oncle d'Amerique and it made me crave pastry. The French language is dangerous to my weight loss plan. So is this health kick, apparently. Yes, I know - most people don't use the term health kick when talking about things that are bad for their health.

My mother always said "Lisa, you aren't other people." That line came right before the "If your friends jump off a bridge...." question. And my mother regretted the question years later when she learned that I did, if fact, jump off a bridge because my friends were doing just that. Jumping off a bridge.

Except - full disclosure - I didn't jump because I really wanted to. I got ready to jump, changed my mind, but couldn't get back over the railing. There was only one way off the bridge. It was 33 feet down. In a sitting position. There's nothing quite as bracing as a creek water douche/enema. I don't care what anyone says.

I'm not saying it's more painful than childbirth, but there is nothing like it either so let's not quibble.

Today the sun is not shining and a thin veil of rain drizzles from the sky which is currently wearing its own veil of cotton batting clouds that have been stretched over a lamp. The sun is up there somewhere.

None of this will not stop me in my quest to accomplish Something.

I mean, when the ponytail holder got caught in my hair just now, I was quick and decisive. Thankfully, my aim with the scissors was good and I didn't lose too much hair.

And when MathMan called and reminded me that he's going out tonight, I was grateful for the reminder because I had forgotten our conversation from this morning. I bid him a good time with friends. He burped in my ear. There are special ways we show our love for each other. This is one of them.

I am cured like a ham. Or am I pickled?
Ham. That makes me hungry again. Except Garbo and her grabbing hands have probably been in the ham that sits waiting to be eaten in the refrigerator. I do not like to eat or drink after my children. I love them, but they are gross.

But I kiss the cats on the lips and they lick their own asses. Go figure. I'm an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Or I'm just gross. Yes - that's it. I'm gross so I don't share food or drink with my kids to protect them. The kids, not the cats whom I kiss on the lips.

Speaking of cats, I can hear a cat throwing up so I ask "What have you been eating?" As if I expect the cat to stop vomiting and answer me. I know they understand me. They simply choose to not answer.

Another cat has run to investigate the gagging and hoiking sounds. I've asked him to report back. It's a waste of time, of course. He will choose not to answer me either.

Garbo once wrote a story called "The Cat's Been Bad." It could have applied to any of our cats, but she claimed it was fictional.

Now I'm watching Office Space because if I watch a Prairie Home Companion in Spanish, I'll just end up craving Mexican food. That will not do because payday isn't until Tuesday. Dammit. And the Mexican restaurant out here in the middle of nowhere appears to have closed.

No, I am not taking drugs at the moment. I don't think. I've been hoarding my Phentermine since I won't get to see my dealer until at least next Thursday. No wonder my ass has been dragging - lack of speed will do that to a person. The coming down is tough.

You see right through this, though, don't you? It's not about drugs or lack of drugs or illness or cats or burping in my ear. You recognize work avoidance when you see it. I see you now, pointing at those boxes waiting to be packed. I relent because I know you're right.

It's time to get moving......

P.S. I have made it as far as loading up my car. I need a break, of course. Perhaps I'll eat some ham first.

Please Do Not Rattle My Signature Poise and Other Affronts to My Delusions

I really am trying to age gracefully. I'm coming to accept the fact that I have a daughter who is old enough to be graduating high school in May. I've let my natural gray grow in, changing the whole way I view myself. I was always a brunette or, sometimes, a sort of redhead. But this silver which some people think looks blond is a radical change for me.

Perhaps I'm not so much aging gracefully as I am trying not to fight the inevitable in a way that makes me feel ridiculous. I've not entirely forsaken dressing like a teenager meaning you'll have to pry the hoodie from my cold dead body. But you won't find me in butt floss and I only listen to hip hop when I relent and let the kids choose the radio station.

However, when I get an email that begins:

Dear Lisa H. Golden,

It's been 20 years since you graduated from IU and it's a great time to reconnect with your alma mater by joining your Indiana University Alumni Association.

I lose a bit of my signature poise. You can stop laughing now.

It's rather like the proverbial dash of cold water to be reminded in an email that I'm TWENTY YEARS OUT OF COLLEGE!!!!! Hells bells, shouting it in all caps isn't enough to make me feel comfortable with the idea that I'm TWENTY YEARS OUT OF COLLEGE!!!!!!!

In case you're wondering, yes, I AM crying big, fat tears of realization. They're plopping down on the laptop like big age splotches. Because you know that's next, right? I'll be sporting those liver spots, joining the Red Hat Society and planning a trip to Branson, Missouri, to see the Osmond Brothers and Barbara Mandrell and her sisters performing live on stage at 5:30 p.m. Their show will be sponsored by who else? Depends. (Note to MaryCatholic - please send Depends and Poise in discreet packaging. Thank you.)

Accepting the fact that I'm TWENTY YEARS OUT OF COLLEGE!!!!!! is going to take some time. Oh, all along, I've looked in the mirror and noticed the changes, fussing about the wrinkles, the sun damage, wondering aloud how my mother's hand got on the end of my arm, but when Indiana University sends me an email putting a number on the years stretching between then and now? I start to envision my personal decay speeding up like time lapse film.....

I'm not ready to be what? Middle aged? Seasoned? Mature?

Okay - stop right there. We all know that's not going to happen. Me? Mature? I don't have it in me.

If I.U. wants me to send in a little scratch to the alumni association, that's fine. I will. But tell me I'd better do it because The Dancer will get more scholarship money to attend the alma mater of MathMan and me. Or tell me that if I don't, little puppies will go unpetted. Or that without my twenty-five dollars, the Bluebird will close. Or tell me that if I neglect to pay up, I will find that my bras no longer fit, the toilet will overflow and that my favorite tweezers that I just found will get lost again. Anything. Anything!

But do not, I repeat, do NOT tell me how many years it's been since I graduated college!

There are some illusions I'd like to maintain, if you don't mind.

Beer in a plastic cup, anyone?

I Couldn't Remember the Name of the Show with Winnie Cooper

So I called MathMan from my sick bed. He was at his desk in the other room. I called him on the phone.

And thankfully, he had the answer because it would have driven my crazy if I didn't know, but I was too lazy and distracted to google it.

I don't know, but I ended up watching VH1's I Love the New Millennium. Because the history that just happened in 2005 has to be relived right now, that's why.

The following conversations were prompted by having this program on.....

Garbo: I think there should be a television show called "I Love (Garbo's real name)."
Me: No self esteem problems there.
MathMan: Are you kidding me? She's all self-esteem. There's nothing else there.
Garbo: What?!?!
MathMan: All that crying you were doing - you don't care who sees you cry.
Garbo: You're right. I don't.

Me: I'm taking steroids.
The Actor: What? Why?
Me: I'm taking parenting steroids. That's what makes me a great mom.
The Actor: That's what makes you so good at sitting around in bed.
Me: It's been nice knowing you. Enjoy the workhouse, yo.

Garbo: I want to be a vampire.
Me: Me, too.
Garbo: You can't be a vampire. You're a mom.
Me: That's true - only kids are blood suckers.
Garbo: I think my fangs are growing in.

MathMan: Actor, please stop growling like that.
The Actor: How do you want me to growl?
MathMan: I don't want you to growl? I want mom to growl.
Me: Rowrowrowrowrowrowr
The Actor: Gross, people. Just gross.

The Actor: Why wouldn't dad buy me a hotdog?
Me: Because he bought you a hamburger.
The Actor: Yeah, but I wanted a Big Mac and a hot dog.
Me: Nope. You got McDonalds. That's all.
The Actor (who can talk a blue streak): Actually I wanted a Big Mac and a cheeseburger with pickles. Then I saw a commercial for Taco Bell. But dad should have gotten me a hot dog, too........now I have the eater's remorse.
(This conversation was punctuated by lots of coughing. Nasty.)

And now we commence our time of silence.

Before I go - a favor, please. Click this link, scroll down and vote for Nora O'Sullivan. You know who Nora is? She's Bubs daughter. If you don't, my cold will get worse, I'll cough up my other lung and it's quite possible that Garbo might lose a tiny fraction of her self-esteem.

You wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?

I Am the Invisible Woman

Dear People of the Internets,

Before I do a faceplant on the bed and start the nightly wrestling with MathMan for the covers (stop it, you filthy-minded boogers, we're married, we don't frolic anymore - sheesh), I just wanted to say a few things.

(1) Thank you. For everything. For the kind words, the compliments to the family, the laughs, the encouragement and support. You guys buoy me when I need it. And you give me that swift kick sometimes, too. Thank you. Really.

(2) I haven't stopped reading you. I've been swamped at worked (you mean I don't get paid to comment on blogs? what?) and with kid things and work and packing and moving and work and driving and lying in a fetal position in the back of the closet to hide from all the have to things that still manage to find me and drag me clawing and screaming from my safe haven back into reality.

(3) Following up on number 3, I'm sorry I haven't commented like I normally do. My wit and energy got packed in some box and I can't find it. Okay - I know, the wit? It fit in a tiny ring box, but it's packed nevertheless.

(4) I'm easily distracted. And MathMan isn't helping. I just whipped my bra off through my sleeve and threw it at MathMan because I'm feeling churlish, I guess. He is now sitting there with the damn thing on his head.

And it fits.

(5) Hell. Where was I? Rachel Maddow is distracting me now.

(6) Oh, yes, dammit I'm really sick, but I'm not. I mean I'm hacking and wheezing and things are leaking from my body and it's most unpleasant. But like many moms, I'm not sick enough to take to my bed. Fever? Hacking cough? Leaking wee when I cough and sneeze, despite my best attempts to practice my kegels and squeeze really hard to the point where my legs are crossed and my eyes are shut? Please. That's not sick. That's inconvenient. Oh, look! I just coughed up a lung. That might make me a little late for work tomorrow, but if I move double time in the morning, I should still be able to make it....

Shut up. I'm liking the view from this cross.

Now I'm just getting abusive. Sorry.

(6) We're making progress with our move. We've gotten several loads of boxes and things moved to the new place and we've even unpacked a few things. Oh, yes, the love tub decor is nearly complete.

Anyway, this is my long winded stab at telling you I'm sorry I've not been about saying hi and leaving comments and behaving inappropriately on your blogs. I'm stuck here acting the fool and being grouchy and snotty. Literally.

Thank you for visiting. Sooner or later I'll be back out there and then you'll be sorry. You can take that as a threat or a promise. It's up to you.

Love,

Lisa

Blah,Blah, Blah Prom

See? I told you it would happen.....

So The Dancer's senior prom was on Saturday and can I just tell you - proms are not what they used to be. Thankfully, the dresses that look as if they were stolen from the set of Gone with the Wind are no longer in vogue. That's a good thing. The hair is smaller and the tuxedos are much more understated and attractive.

I'm also guessing that no one is dancing to Duran Duran's Hungry Like a Wolf or waiting with bated breath for the final song Stairway to Heaven so that they could hold their date a little closer.

Ah - sweet memories. (Okay - I cop to it. We may have been looking forward to that long, slow dance for public close contact, but the real action was happening in the backs of Chevelles and pick up trucks and family station wagons parked down dark lanes by the river. That was our "after prom.")

However, the professional hairstyles, full blown glamour, limousines, hand held bouquets, and on and on and on are rather over the top and fall into that category of things that serve mostly to part parents from their money and to create a false sense of entitlement to high style in our kids.

And yeah, we totally fall for it every time. Back in my day when we walked ten miles in the snow uphill, both ways, to school, our parents were happy to point out that we weren't anything special. In fact, I remember being told that explicitly. "Hey, who do you think you are?" adults would ask if you got too full of yourself. As parents, we do quite the opposite. We're all about the special. The self-esteem. The reward and praise. The kids in these photos probably have more trophies for simply joining a team that the collective of commenters here ever earned.

Wait - did I want The Dancer's prom post to turn into a rant about the way we parent? Well, it was not my initial goal. But there it is. I'm glad she went. I'm happy that she is beautiful and bright and happy (well, actually, she'll be much happier when this last year of the International Baccalaureate program is over). I'm glad she wore that dress for a second time after we spent more than I wished to spend for it when she was in her school's Homecoming Court last autumn.



But, honestly, I hope the parenting pendulum swings back some. I mean, we don't have to go back to a time when we used the word smart as a put-down (smart alec, smarty pants, oooooh look who's so smart), but the setting of realistic expectations for what's acceptable materialistically would be a good thing. I mean, the bar is set so high now for these kids who've received a trophy for everything, who've never lived in a world where the rich and famous weren't celebrated, who have been raised in a rushed world full of opportunities for instant gratification and who have been promised that anyone can have the good life (read: palace, hot car, fabulous travel) as long as they could be approved for credit.

I'm generalizing, of course. Even our spoiled children have heard their share of "no" and "we can't afford that" and "you don't need it." I guess I'm really speaking in the larger sense of parenting. You get a handful of affluent or affluent appearing parents together and you've got a recipe for overdoing it, going too far and pushing the limits of what our parents would have considered parental indulgence.



Speaking of the after prom (I did speak about it up there somewhere), the mom who very nicely offered to host the party called and chatted with me before hand. She told me what rules she'd put in place to keep the kids safe, etc. She'd put a lot of thought into and I appreciated that she was (a) willing to have a house full of teens and (b) attempting to have reasonable and clear rules so that her house wouldn't be the scene of an all out orgy of sex, drugs and show tunes. (The majority of these kids are in the performing arts.)

The Dancer, a classic oldest child, mother hen sort, isn't one I worry much about. I know some of you might think me naive, but, honestly, except for the politics and her gender - this kid is Alex P. Keaton. Driven, focused, ambitious. Ain't nothing going to mess up her future, especially boys, drugs, or alcohol. If it weren't for the large birthmark on her belly, I'd think they sent the wrong baby home with us when we left the hospital.

Before the prom, she and I were going over plans.

"So you're all set ?" I asked offhandedly. Of course she was.

"Yep," she answered distractedly. She was taking a brief break before heading to the studio and was checking her Facebook.

"Oh, So and So's mom called about after prom. You know the rules, right?"

Heavy sigh. Why must she suffer the indignity of the question? "Yes, I know. So and So's mom even sent home a form with the rules."

"Okay. So......" I began, watching her face pinch together, a crease forming between her eyes. MathMan gets the same look when he thinks I'm about to belabor a point. Frankly, I don't blame them for that pained look. I continued, "So.....I'll clean the bong before you pack it. Have you thought about what to take for the people who huff instead of smoke? What about clean needles? And don't forget the big jar of condoms. I understand someone else's mom is supplying the lube....."

The Dancer laughed. Then her face took on that pained, pinched look again. "Oh, please, please tell me you didn't make that joke to So and So's mom," she said in a rush.

I shrugged. As if. "Of course not," I laughed, shooting her a reassuring look. She smiled and seemed to relax.

I shook my head. "Nope, I just told her that your thirty year old boyfriend would be coming along and bringing his handgun collection with him......."






Because digital pictures make it so easy to overshare, you can see the whole nauseating set of prom pix here.

He Is a Traveling Man

As the great migration from the current Golden Manor to the NEW AND IMPROVED Golden Manor over in Badgers Drift continues, I may find myself writing posts that consist of blah, blah, blah, packing; blah, blah, blah, moving; blah, blah, blah I have a cold and am sick of feasting on post nasal drip.......

But before we descend into the depths of me blogging about the contents of the boxes that I've packed in an utterly willy-nilly fashion (the way I'm packing things, you'd think we're fleeing an advancing horde of hungry teens or something) - I want to tell you about Saturday evening.

MathMan, Garbo and I got to meet Traveling Man Rick who was visiting Atlanta this weekend. Oh my word, I was so excited to meet him and I was fretting that I wouldn't be able to pull it off because The Dancer had prom, we're packing to move, Garbo is difficult (I know, this is not news), The Actor had a birthday party to attend, blah, blah, blah busy.

But Rick - an amazingly warm, witty and wonderful guy - drove all the way up to our little slice of Georgia heaven (read: way outside of Atlanta) to meet us at the local Starbucks. We hung out and talked about all sorts of things and I marveled once again at how you really can feel like you know someone after reading their blog for a while.

Rick is fabulous on his blog. He's even better in person.

Rick - thank you for coming so far out of your way to spend time with us. It was such a delightful time, the highlight of a busy weekend.

And when bloggers meet, there must be pix, right? So here we are....

Photo taken by Garbo.

Heard Around Golden Manor

The soon to be Former Golden Manor, that is....

Setting - MathMan and I sitting at the blogging ops desk, facing each other, laptops glowing on our faces.

Me: I was just looking at my Facebook friend list and assigning my friends to groups. I think I could actually have a list for people I've slept with dated.
MathMan: I think I could, too. I mean - I could have a list of my friends that you've slept with dated.

Help me, Rhonda. It's true. There's been some, um, overlap in our lives.

Setting - MathMan and I sitting at the blogging ops desk, facing each other, laptops on. I'm distracted, looking out the window next to the desk. I spy the outside cat Pyewacket. MathMan is staring at his laptop.
Background - There's been some discussion with neighbors about leaving Pyewacket with them since he's been cheating on all of us and pretending to belong to at least three different households. (As if a cat "belongs" to a household.)

Me (with a sigh): Should we just bring the little guy with us to new neighborhood and hope he adjusts?
MathMan: Yeah, I think we should bring The Actor.
Me: Honey, do we have the option to leave the children behind? Because if we do......
MathMan (cutting me off): I thought you meant should we take The Actor with us to the grocery store.

Dang it. He got my hopes up for a minute there.

I get the distinct impression that MathMan doesn't really listen to me so much when I flap my jaws at him. Perhaps I'll start communicating with him through a serious of burps, baseball signals and finger snaps.

When We Did It, We Called It The Lifestyle

A blogpal emailed me the application to appear on Wife Swap, along with this note:

I did something really silly, I applied for my family to participate on Wife Swap. My religious background was the hook for the show, so yours wouldn't be the same. But, interesting families are what they're looking for and yours is right up there.

They pay (dollar amount deleted) two weeks after the show airs and you get to travel first class somewhere around the country, while your family back home terrorizes some poor woman.

I included an application if you want to know what they want to know. They also do a background check to make sure you're not a sociopath, or a convicted sex offender, as well as psychological screening. They want interesting, but not bat-shit crazy. It's a Disney show after all.

So, think a bout it. In my case, an extra twenty grand could go really, really far.

First of all, the very idea cracked me up, as did Crevass's cover note. I responded with a quick thank you and said that I'd think about it.

And I did think about it. Alot. I asked MathMan what he thought about it. Unfortunately, I picked the wrong time, when he was distracted. "Hey, honey, would you want to go on Wife Swap?" I asked out of the blue while we were puttering around in the kitchen.

He closed the cabinet he'd just finished emptying so we could pack up some things and muttered, "I thought you wanted to lose a few more pounds before we started doing that again."

Have mercy.

I asked The Dancer. She simply rolled her eyes as if she's heard one too many of these get rich quick schemes from me. What a tart. When pressed and convinced with the idea that the money earned from the show could be applied toward her tuition, she conceded. Some. "If they choose us, it better be after I've left for school."

Noted.

Then I asked The Actor and Garbo their opinions. At first they were incredulous. Or maybe really groggy because I asked them as we drove to school. After I'd convinced them that I was really considering it, they started asking questions. Veteran viewers of the program, they had a pretty good idea of what the producers would be looking for.

"So if we're going to be on it, we need to think of what an opposite family would do," announced Garbo.

The Actor offered further clarification. "It' really has to do a lot with how the mom in the family is so we have to think about what the other mom would be like."

The two of them set about tossing out ideas.

"It could be a mom who never cusses and doesn't allow any cussing." Boring! was the verdict.
"It could be a fundamentalist Christian mom." They've done that to death.
"A Republican?" "A health nut?" "A mom who hates music?"
"It could be a flat chested mom," offered Garbo. Oh, nice. Very nice. And no.
"I know! It could be a mom who thinks computers and electronics are the tool of the devil and who doesn't blog!"

They agreed that would be perfect. They could stand to learn something from a mom who answers questions with something besides "Google it" or "Well, if it isn't in the Urban Dictionary, it can't possible be true."

Finally, I opened the application and read the questions. I kept thinking about what Crevass had said, "They also do a background check to make sure you're not a sociopath, or a convicted sex offender, as well as psychological screening. They want interesting, but not bat-shit crazy." Hmmmm.

Then I got to question that asked which adult in the family "wears the pants?" Yeesh. Now there's an outdated euphemism. The twelve year old trapped inside me wanted to note that both MathMan and I wear pants. Sometimes. Except on those days when we go without. Oh and on the second Tuesday of the month, MathMan wears a kilt for giggles.

Sure, sure - I get it. Who's in charge? Talk about a snag. I mean, I just asked MathMan who wears the pants in our family and you know what his answer was? You guessed it - "We both wear pants. The question is, who wears the frillier underwear?"

What a sexist thing to say. I took a running leap at him, attempting to deliver a death blow to his temple (I'll show him frilly underwear!), but I missed and landed on my back flat on the floor, MathMan threw the chocolate pudding he was holding at me and then shouted something nasty in Hebrew. I must have blacked out at that point because when I came to, the county sheriff's deputy was there taking statements from the neighbors. MathMan was sitting mute, covered in leaves and grass. Upon closer inspection, I noticed he wasn't wearing his pants.

The deputy mentioned that the house appeared to be in quite the state of squalor (hey! we're packing to move, dumbass!) and our neighbor from across the way shook his head sadly, "Weeelll, the've always been kind of loud, but they kept mostly to themselves," he spoke softly to the deputy who was still surveying the living room with a look of shock on his face.

I looked down and realized that I was tied to a chair in the middle of the living room and a fire was blazing away in the fireplace behind me. I tried to twist around in my chair to see what was on the fire that was making that terrible smell.

"Excuse me," I croaked to the deputy and Mr. Neighbor. "What's burning?"

The deputy's eyes flickered over me and then he exchanged a quick smile with our neighbor. I cleared my throat, getting anxious and impatient. Both men looked my way again and the deputy pulled a serious face.

"Well, ma'am, that's a laptop in the fireplace," he said. I could hear the hint of laughter in his voice.

Mr. Neighbor craned his neck and looked around me at the fireplace. I could feel the heat against my back and I was getting really uncomfortable. Why weren't these yahoos untying me already? My head hurt. My back hurt.

Mr. Neighbor took in a sharp breath. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Ah think there are actually two laptop computers in that fireplace," he choked out, bobbing his balding head up and down.

"What?" I shrieked, struggling to turn in the chair. Damn those ropes were tight! I started to go berserk, fighting against the restraints and wriggling about. MathMan turned his head and watched silently and expressionless as the chair and I toppled over. I lay on my back again, my feet, ankles bound together, in the air. It was then that I noticed that I wasn't wearing any pants either.

I guess we'll have to find another way to earn that (dollar amount deleted) because Disney will never call us now.

On Living Within Our Means

So MathMan and I did a little grown up decision making. We could have chosen the fabulous house with the hardwood floors, outside storage barn and inground swimming pool for $1,450 per month. Nice subdivision, even closer to the nearest biggish town than the house we selected. Garbo would have had to change schools next year, though.

Instead we chose a good enough house with carpet (not my favorite), an okay subdivision, close enough for The Actor to walk to school, Garbo can remain in her school and take the bus. There is no pool, but the rent is $995 per month.

Big difference. We weighed the difference in rent. We considered the associated costs that would come with the pool. We chose prudent. Dare I say it - conservative.

I called the realtor who is handling the more expensive house and told her we thought that the rent would be too much of a stretch, but thank you anyway. Then we finished up the lease signing for the other place and started to handle all the moving things, utilities, collecting of boxes, arranging for movers to help us move that heavy safe full of sex toys.

The realtor called back. The owners thought we'd make great tenants and did we think we could do $1,200 per month? Screeeeeeeeeech! Think. Think. Think. Oh the pool! The pool!!!!!! Hardwood floors! The wraparound porch! The master on the main floor away from the kids rooms!

My inner accountant wagged her finger. It's still $205 more per month plus whatever the added costs of pool care and electricity would be. My father the pessimist's voice became very pronounced in my head. "You just know something will go wrong with the pool anyway and you'll spend half the summer with it out of commission." Shut up, Dad. Go to hell, Inner Accountant.

But. But! But!!!!!! Oh, fuckery. They're both right.

"Thanks, all the same, the house is lovely, but we really must keep our rental expenses as low as possible," I tell the nice realtor lady. Then I hang up the phone and sob like the spoiled child I once was.

Speaking of the house.....for one of the other lisas, (there seems to be a growing army of us) here's a whole mess of pictures of our current location. And here are a couple of pictures of the new place...

The curb appeal shot. Or not.
See, in this here part of Georgia, we don't dig basements, we raise our houses.

The party deck. As if.
Okay - the place where I'll most often be freaked out by wasps who love the wood.
Needs flowers. Stat!

The living room trying to be more posh than is reasonably necessary.
Bets on where the first cat hurl stain will be?

The RED kitchen. I'll bet if we put a radio in there, it will turn itself on in the middle of the night and broadcast recent episodes of Glenn Beck, Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh.
It's that red.

More photos to come! Including:

• The love tub.

• The bathroom that will never match any of our towels.

• The Harry Potter cupboard under the stairs. (Note to MathMan - will that be the tornado shelter? We'd better not cram it full of the suitcases and the sex toy safe like we'd discussed, if that's the case.)

• The fight to the death over the basement bedroom with its own half bath.

• New blogging ops.

And with the money we save, maybe we can stimulate a little bit of the economy with a couple of day trips somewhere fun this summer or by purchasing more sex toys. The safe isn't quite full. Yet.

Good Thing My Name Isn't Erin

Since I don't really have an ethnicity that I identify with, I'm not one to make a big deal at all out of St. Patrick's Day. True many of those ancestors who came to the U.S. practically destitute came from Ireland and Scotland, but I've never really thought of myself as Irish.

Perhaps it's because the small community where I came from never made a big deal out of ethnicity or maybe because we were Protestants and didn't settle in a parish with a lot of other Irish, but we just didn't note the Gaelic background.

As I got older, I realized that what I thought to be hillbilly influence from the Kentucky hills, actually had its basis in the Old World. Some of the tunes that Grandad played on his fiddle were Gaelic-influenced. And potatoes complimented nearly every meal. Though there were some drinkers in the family, most of them were alcohol-shunning Baptists.

Have I covered all the stereotypes? Oh, wait. Yes, there's a certain pugilistic nature to my people and we have a nasty stubborn streak. Ethnically related? I think it's been more of a survival technique.

So do I have anything to say about St. Patrick's Day? And if not, why am I writing this? Well, to answer that last question, it's because I don't think you want to hear a detailed description of the dream I had last night about locked doors and bathroom stalls (really) or about my planned field trip to get my belly button waxed (not really.) Okay, maybe really. It's just not that appealing to make my belly button into a talking butt that's hairy.

Maybe I haven't recovered to the extent I thought I did from yesterday's ague. Nevertheless, I am honoring the day with the wearing of green earrings and a green ring that Garbo got out of a gumball machine. For her part, Garbo went to school wearing a green monkey tee shirt and that fuzzy neon green pimp hat. MathMan, contrarian that he is, wore green yesterday and gave me a frowny face when I mentioned that he should have saved that look for today.

Hey - don't blame me if you get pinched, MathMan.

I wouldn't mind a green cookie, if you have one. But I digress. There probably won't be any green beer or corned beef or cabbage. I might make potatoes, but that's hardly cause for comment or celebration. It's so very ho hum at our house.

I do have fond memories of a couple of St. Patrick's Days. There was March 17, 1984....oh, um, okay - I better leave that one alone. Then there was March 17, 1993 or 1994 when my coworker Bonnie shouted Erin Go Braless instead of the correct phrase into her phone at AARP. She was talking to one of our aged volunteers and was attempting to show the rest of us administrative staff in the cubicle corral just how hard of hearing the guy was. I laughed so hard that I woke my boss Bruce who was asleep in his chair in the office adjacent to my desk. Unfortunately, Bruce, a very large man, had been tipping back in his chair, snoring softly as he slumbered. My guffaw set him to snorting and trying to right himself in the wobbly chair but it was too late. Both Bruce and his chair toppled over onto the floor, causing a loud crash that brought everyone running.

I'm not sure Bruce ever forgave me for waking him like that. Oh, well. It can't be all green lollies and shamrocks, I guess.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day to those of you who do wear the green, kiss the blarney stone, meet the road where it rises......we've gone way beyond you getting the idea. I know.

Good News Sprinkled with Sick

Oh for Cliff's sake. I've been infected by some mysterious bug that's left me achy, feverish and exhausted to the point where I'm so tired I don't even want to surf porn even though I'm home alone. People of the Internets, this is serious.

I'm no doctor, but I know it's not the influenza. I didn't get the shot for it this year because I thought I'd take a pass on that illness this year. I've never quite understood the appeal of the flu anyway, but whatever. If all those people want to get it, let them have the shots. Me? Not interested.

I could also be suffering from an adverse reaction to cleaning supplies since we went to the new house and gave it a middling scrub down before we start moving in. It was actually in great shape, but you know me - if I haven't doused it with bleach, scrubbed it with something abrasive and made it shine with the bluey ammonia goodness of Target's version of Windex, I'm not satisfied that it's clean.

So yes, there is good news and more good news. As MathMan puts it, we have new digs. There will be a new Golden Manor. Details coming shortly.

The second bit of good news is that on Friday I discovered the power of fucking around. Truly, I did. I'd made that arduous climb once again across the gear shift and console to climb out of my car's passenger's side door because the driver's side door was still mysteriously stuck. I'd become quite inured to the stares of strangers so as I did my quick moves up, over, across and out so I just ignored the astonished stares of the woman across from me at the gas station. She smirked a little as I sighingly flicked my hair out of my eyes and went about the business of pumping gas.

I stood there silently cursing the sloooooow pump and decided that I'd had enough of this car door nonsense. I fished the ignition key out of my jeans pocket and inserted into the lock. I turned, jiggled and wiggled it while tugging on the door handle. When the door actually gave way and opened with a pop, I jumped back and let out a little yelp of surprise. Now I didn't care who was looking as I did "Door goes open, door goes shut. Door goes open, door goes shut." and clapped by hands with glee.

After the gas finished it's slow dribble into my car's tank and the meter read "full," I happily got into the car using the driver's side door, closing it behind me and opening and shutting it three or four times in astonished wonder.

As MathMan so indelicately put it, though, it seems as if I've broken up with my gear shift. Oh, well. I'm overjoyed at not having to contort myself wildly each time I get in and out of the wretched vehicle. Oh, the simple pleasures in life.

So for now, I'll just sit here fighting the crud or ague or whatever it is. While the laptop burns vent marks into my legs, I'm testing out the healing properties of DVR recordings of British murder mysteries, copious pots of tea (PG Tips - thank you, my friend!) and those delightful lemon biscuits sent by Bee. I may be sick and tired, but I can manage to munch a few biscuits to keep up my strength. I'm also enjoying the companionship of a couple of cats who think that having cat butt in my face is a tonic for whatever ails me. They are dead wrong.

Will be posting nauseatingly boring pictures of the new Golden Manor soon. We're handling all the necessaries now - transferring utilities, getting television and telephone services sorted out and making sure that we'll actually have high-speed internet for a lovely change.

As for you lot, be well. Really. Because this thing, though an excuse to blog in bed, just sucks.
That's why.

Hey, Dana Perino, Stop Harshing My Sugar Buzz!

Since I've been watching what I eat and losing weight, I've become very protective of the moments when I do sit down to enjoy a sugary snack. This morning, I made the mistake of watching former Bush White House Press Secretary Dana Perino on C-SPAN's Washington Journal while merrily dipping donuts in hot chocolate. Perino was holding forth on the topics of the day: foreclosures, bailouts, helping individual homeowners and AIG's new gabillion dollar bonus plan for its executives. In between bites, I was snorting derisively and making odd noises about fairness and nonsense.

During this discussion, Perino made two contrasting statements that not only left me shaking my head, but also made me laugh a little because they so beautifully summed up and illustrated the current Republican way of approaching economics.

When asked about the bill that would help individual homeowners readjust their mortgages so they could stay in their homes instead of being foreclosed upon, Perino defended the idea of fairness. With a statement that was pretty much along the lines of "Well, what if you've been someone who's played by the rules, put twenty percent down, bought within your means and paid your bills on time and now you're being asked to subsidize your neighbor who did everything wrong and got into trouble. That doesn't seem fair......"

It's an argument we've heard before. The bottom line is that this fix isn't going to be fair. And what's more, if you're in a community with lots of foreclosures, it doesn't matter how straight up and fiscally perfect you've been. Your property values are going to suffer, your community is affected by a decrease in property tax receipts and who wants to live around a bunch of empty houses, anyway?

But back to Perino's point - it's about being fair. The fix has to be fair in order for Republicans to get on board with it and for it to be right.

Hmmmmmm. Next comments made by Perino? They involved the bonuses being planned for AIG executives. AIG has received $170 billion in taxpayer funds so far.

According to Perino, this is necessary because if AIG doesn't pay those executive bonuses, then those executives won't be inclined to help the company get out of its mess.

So, according to Perino, I should go into the office tomorrow and tell my boss J that unless I get a twenty-five million dollar bonus, I won't be so inclined to do my job and help our industry out of the mess it's in?

Dang, if I'd only known all those years ago that that's all it took.......

But I hope you get my point. Perino's statements illustrate one of the many things wrong with the way Republicans think. According to their current doctrine, it's fine to hand unspeakable amounts of taxpayer cash (with no accountability) to a very small number of people because you fear they won't do what you've hired them to do if you don't reward them for failure and thievery.

Well, I tell you, People of the Internets, I've looked and looked, but I don't see the fairness in that. Not even one tiny little bit.

So it's wrong to ask taxpayers to help their neighbors, family and friends keep a roof over their heads by adjusting what were, in may cases, unregulated, hokey scam mortgages, in turn helping out the whole community and benefiting the many, and not just the fabulously wealthy few.

The Republicans are pretty clear and consistent on this.....
Lots of help for the few = good
Some help for all = unfair

I'd heard enough. I asked MathMan to hand me the remote and we switched to some music. We're going through the foreclosure process right now and we know what it's like to try to work with a lender who is more interested in playing games than actually reaching some kind of reasonable solution that will keep you in your home and still get them the lion's share of the money you owe them.

Now I remember why I've pretty much forsaken political television. It makes my donut eating experience less pleasing..........

Not Ruling It Out

Last night MathMan and I watched Real Time with Bill Mahr (who irritated me to no end when he advocated for the busting of teachers' unions, but that's for another time). Sarah Silverman was a guest on Real Time. Silverman, a popular Jewish comedienne, joked that it doesn't matter that she doesn't believe in god, she's still culturally Jewish. As she explained her statement she used the phrase "I wouldn't rule it out, though." She meant she wouldn't rule out the possibility of god's existence.

Well, I guess that pretty much explains my position on god. I won't tell you how I feel about religion - a completely separate issue - but I remember even in my earlier non-believer days being awed by the fact that people believed enough in something to erect those massive temples and cathedrals in which to worship and honor their god(s).

Well, now I need those of you who believe to do me a favor. I do not pray. Oh, sure, I can keep a good thought and I'm aces at worry and concern. But I don't have anyone or anything on whom I can call to ask for help when I or someone I care about needs it. I know. I know. Why can't I believe? What's wrong with me that I can't have faith? I have no answers for those questions, but I can tell you that in most situations, I don't feel a void. I just accept what is and carry on.

In this case, though, I'm part of a community and I feel it's my duty to honor the community spirit by participating in a moment of silence/prayer at noon today.

You see, a friend and her husband and the man who was driving their taxi on the way to the airport in Mayapur, India were injured in a car crash. Braja, who some of you might recognize as a commenter here, and her husband are in the hospital being treated for serious injuries. As word got out among the blogging community, lisa has made the wonderful suggestion that we all pull together for a moment at noon today (March 14) to pray for Braja and her husband and driver.

That's where you come in, my friends who pray. I need you and your power of prayer that I won't concede to, but I won't dismiss either. Please. And I'll be pausing to think my good thoughts and participate in what I hope is a moment of unexplainable magic that will send the healing strength of many far flung wishes and prayers from around the globe to that hospital in India where Braja recovers.

Thanks, gang, for indulging my request.

Somewhere in the Middle of Nowhere....

.....a person wonders just why their food isn't grindin' up so good anymore......


Yesterday a couple of Spawn and I saw this sign at the little country store a few miles from our house.

I'm tellin' you, People of the Internets, this was worth climbing through through the sunroof to the horror of my children and the applause of the old couple in the car next to us.

(Sorry I've been not so busily leaving comments around like I normally do, y'all. That whole work thing is so very demanding lately. And then there's the house-hunting, organizing that naked-flashlight tag tournament for next weekend, and the class in How to Be a Republican in a Democrat World I'm taking is so interesting! I can't stop thinking about it! Be back at it soon.)

Skin Deep

When we lived in Chicago, I listened to WXRT, a wonderful, eclectic radio station. WXRT does a lot to promote local talent, including the local blues artists. A particular favorite at XRT is Buddy Guy. If you don't know his music, you might want to change that. He's covered all the major blues tunes and has an incredible body of work.

Lately, though, XRT has been playing this new, softer song of Guy's. It's gorgeous. I can listen to it over and over.....

Underneath, we're all the same.......

Life in the Fast Lane

To The Guy in the Gray Infinite on I75 This Morning:

Wow, dude. Seriously? 85 mph wasn't fast enough for you? You know, I'm not opposed to trying new things and I'm not turned off by a little ass play, but you being up my tail pipe without buying me a drink first or worse! no lube? Not cool, pal. Not cool.

I know you were busy tossing back that Red Bull and yapping on your cellphone (you can afford an Infinite, but not a Bluetooth?), but could you not see over or around my little white motorized lemon to see that there was a whole line of cars ahead of me in the fast lane?

And while we're on the subject, as you were not so gently nudging me up the road, could you not tell that I was dealing with my own shit? You know, I was busy, too, and doing the best I could. It's not like I was just driving 85 and edging faster when I could. I was also....

texting*, yawning, listening to Strauss's Death and Transfiguration, staving off the need to pee, drinking coffee, keeping a watchful eye on my hey, dummy, you need gas light, trying to maintain a safe distance between my car and the car in front of me, fielding telephone calls, scratching inappropriately, applying lipstick*, waving at truck drivers, adjusting my bra straps, and contemplating taking some Phentermine but without the choking.

As you jumped from lane to lane, I could have told you that it was a waste of time. At that time of day, on that looooong stretch of I75, if you're willing to drive at breakneck speeds, your best bet is to jump in the fast lane and cook at a happy 85mph. Faster is folly. Slower is inviting death with pain.

So there you were, getting more and more frustrated, more and more jacked up on whatever the hell you were swilling out of that can and getting more red in the face.

But was I going to lose my spot in line so you could get one car ahead? Not on your life. I've been the nice driver before and found myself boxed in for miles. So you could just cope like the rest of us. Sorry.

When you finally broke free, switched lanes and even jumped up a few car lengths on the far right lane, I cheered you. Did you hear me holler "Run, Forrest, Run!!" ? Because I did. I even interrupted Strauss's poetic work to do so.

But did it work for you? Shhhhhyeah. You learned the painful lesson we've all learned at the hands of morning metro Atlanta I75 Southbound traffic. Stay put, be patient, lane jumping will lead to one thing: The dreaded boxed in scenario. Yep - there you sat between the semi on the right and the two miserably plodding cars in front and in back of you. They were going what? 70mph? Sheesh.

You shook your head, watched mournfully as the left lane zoomed on past you. I watched you as you banged your steering wheel with rage. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw you hold your mobile phone to your ear again, looking forlorn.

Next time, you'll know. 85mph is just going to have to be fast enough.......

Love,

Your fellow commuter Lisa

P.S. Nice care, BTW. I'm guessing your air conditioner works and your driver's side door opens, so there's that.

The Not So Silent Scream

I know, I know. I said I was taking a break.
Then I opened Facebook to leave comments on the statuses of friends.
Then I remembered that I needed to download stuff off my camera.
Then I came across a video I made yesterday as I drove home from fabulous Macon.
Then I called about some houses to rent. (How do you like those priorities?)
Scratched my right butt cheek.
Hollered at a kid. Or two.
Played footsie with MathMan under the desk.
Convinced him (don't ask how) to phone up the storage unit place. Thank you, MathMan.
Listened to MathMan holler at a kid. Or two.
Told the Fighty McFightersons (aka The Actor and Garbo) that no one should want to watch television in the master bedroom since that's the primary place where MathMan and I have hot, sweaty, dangling from the ceiling fan monkey sex.
Asked MathMan if he thought we should dial 9-1-1 to send someone out to revive The Spawn. He said no. The quiet was kind of nice.
Did some photo editing.
Considered scratching my left butt cheek, decided it could wait. Ate a Pop Tart instead.
Asked MathMan if he thought we could pick up a banjo while we were out today.
Twirled my hair as I waited for the internet to come back on line.
Remembered to take my Phentermine at half past noon. Whoops. Guess who's gonna be up all night?
Remarked for the sixty-sixth time that I'd better get in the shower so we can get started on our quest for living arrangements, etc. (1:15 p.m.)
And put the finishing touches on this.......

Language alert - if you don't like to hear the lord's name taken in vain, please mute or do not watch.

Okay. Now I can move on with my day. I've gotta get that shower. And I better fetch MathMan. I believe he said something about wanting to watch. How unproductive of him though. Honestly. I mean, if he's going to be in there anyway, he may as well (fill in the blank.)

P.S. I'm inching closer to actually being on the video.

Friday Flashback - Hanging On

I once started a post at my old blog PoliTits with the following sentence: It's no coincidence that the same day I pay bills, I'm later seen vacuuming the garage.

So last night, after a busy day with an odd emotional twang to it, I found myself standing in the laundry closet holding several kid-sized hangers in my hands. I was sorting them by color. All the sudden, it was excruciatingly important that the pink go with the pink, the dark blue with the dark blue, the light blue with the light blue.....you get the picture.

I won't go into how I also wiped down the washer and dryer because they'd accumulated a bit of dust and effluvium, but I will tell you that the cat who has been conducting the furtive pooping campaign around the basement was caught in the act. My bellowed accusation of "So it is you!!!!!" sent him skittering through the basement and clomping up the stairs. Now he'll probably shift his pooping to the backs of closets. Oh, well.

I wasn't particularly grateful for something else to clean since I'd just gotten the OCD out of my system. And cat poo is never my OCD medium of choice. My OCD is only self-diagnosed and it only seems to come out when things seem incredibly out of control. I do these stupid little things so I can feel like things aren't flying apart. It's not the funny light switch licking of David Sedaris, nor is it the twitchy habit of an old dorm mate who would sit in a sink in the community restroom and pluck her eye lashes out one by one. Although, I suppose I could see the fun in that.....

There's stuff to deal with. And I guess I'm going to have to stop rearranging hangers and get to it.

I'm away from my computer today, staffing a seminar in Macon. I know that some of you are just grinding your teeth with envy over my obviously glamorous, jet-setting life. Envy not - it's not all gold-threaded linen wrapped soaps and fancy chocolate covered strawberries. This is one is what do you mean you thought I was bringing the LCD projector? and Why isn't the print on my name badge the same point as his?

Hooooooo boy! (Since I'm putting this up to post early, let's just hope that I remember the projector. And my emergency Reddi-Wip, just in case I forget.)

For willis.

Oh, the other day I said ennuinnie - a combo of ennui and me just plain old being a weenie, whining about this and that, which is my signature sound lately.....

Wow, willis, being in Vietnam, dropping acid and listening to this music? I'm thinking you have some incredibly interesting stories to tell......I'm wondering if you've considered writing about your different experiences? Nag, nag, nag....

And, willis, this song is a good one. I watched the video twice and wished that I could have been one of those go go dancers. The song itself is perfect for right now.

An administrative note: I'm going to give myself a little vacation from the blog. A couple of days. I need a break. In the meantime, please check out the blog roll. Read some archives. Take a break yourself. I'm going to be lying around bemoaning the fact that I still don't have a staff to carry out the hard labor. Or I might don my superhero outfit and go fight some injustice. I might even take up the banjo. It's just going to be a couple of wild, free and easy days where I wake up in the morning and consider clothes? No clothes?

You know what they say, this blog may be monitored for quality control purposes, but in the end, it's meaningless. I've just outsourced it to some far flung place where the lovely person on the telephone only sounds like she understands English.

See you soon........for now, set me free, why don't you, babe.........