Adventures in Real Parenting: Skip Thursdays

I saw the picture on the left Tuesday as I drove to work. For just a moment, I was pleased that I was sitting in bumper to bumper traffic so I could snap this photo. I knew it would be useful at some point.

So what am I doing instead of writing and reading blogs? Well, it's a varied list.

(1) Fretting over things (nothing new here)
(2) Doing the happy dance because I'm down another clothing size
(3) Actually working
(4) Trolling for just the right birthday card for someone special
(5) Wrestling with my desire to nap
(6) Being passive-aggressively difficult and annoyed because it's Thursday which means that I have to drop everything and take another kid to the doctor. This time it's not because someone has blood pouring from an open wound on his leg. No, it's someone who has something itchy on her leg and foot.

Hmmmm. While I'm there, perhaps I can ask about my unresolved itch. No, that's not a metaphor.

Well, at least I've managed to create enough guilt in The Spawn that they are sufficiently obsequious when they know they are causing me a pain in the ass. Upon realizing that I would have to leave work, drive 35 miles back to C'ville to take her to the doctor because she's one week shy of 18, and then come all the back back down to MathMan's school to pick him up later,

The Dancer sent a text of apology that read "I'm sorry I have disrupted your day. Thank you for taking care of this."

To which I responded "It's okay. I assume one day you'll come rescue me every Sunday from the swarming hordes of old coots who follow me around the assisted living facility by taking me to lunch somewhere nice."

Smart girl that she is, she replied quickly. "Of course, but what about Daddy?"

From me: "He'll be busy being cougared by the older gals. I don't think he'll want to leave the joint."

Her response: "I should have guessed. We'll bring him some takeout."

The Dancer is nothing if not practical.

Yes, she finally committed to a school. Phew. Details later if she says it's okay.

Commute Chat 4: Not So Nice

This one might be continued. Didn't want it to go too long.

It's full of camera goofs, random conversation, me nagging Doug, inappropriate language, a short song that we don't really know the lyrics to, and the two of us not being the 100% Midwestern nice we typically are. Plus there's a new theme song and tag line. I'm finally figuring this out, too.

To be continued? Well, we still haven't done this with sock puppets. I swear, they're coming.

P.S. I have a fat lot of nerve mocking someone else for their neck.

Almost As Satisfying as Killing Two Flies With One Whack. Which I Just Did.

Like many of you, I go through my day editing myself. Hard to believe, I know, but I don't actually say the first thing that pops into my head all the time. I do self-censor. I'm careful because the situation warrants a certain amount of respectable behavior (boring!). Other times, I don't say what I'd really like to because it might hurt someone. Or get me fired. Or arrested. Or laughed off the PTA hospitality committee. Or smacked. Or drummed out of general society.

We all feel this way sometimes, don't we?

Today was a day full of those moments. Work, personal relationships, driving on I75. You name it. Picture my words, traveling with lightening speed from my brain to just the tip of my tongue where they are snagged by a large rubber band and catapulted back down my throat. I have to chew them before I can swallow them. Then, after a deep breath, I'm able to come up with a slightly more suitable response.

If I'm not careful, though, after time, those nasty words fester, getting meaner and uglier and more angry. Eventually, they find their way out and my self-censorship ends up being for naught.

To combat this, I'm using this post to let it out. I invite you to do the same in comments. It's not really a confessional, but rather a place to vent one's spleen safely so that there's no real or lasting damage to the people who matter in your life. Or who sign your paycheck, for example.

I'll start. I offer no explanation or tell you to whom something is directed. I'm not looking for a confrontation. I'm just having my say, using the words I wished I'd said, but didn't.

Item one
"If you think this thing is falling apart, perhaps you'd like to take it over and show me how it should be done. I don't like being stuck in the middle of what you want and what they want."

Item two
"Who do you think you're kidding?"

Item three
"Actually, I'm not so crazy about Chinese buffets. I'm not keen on Chinese food and I'm grossed out by the idea of food sitting out in the open on buffet. And I never get my money's worth at a buffet anyway. Unless, of course, it's a dessert buffet."

Item four
"Nice one, douchebag. That got you ahead one entire car length. Bravo. Now don't slow down, you moron! If you don't have the skills to drive in the left lane, please move over."

Item five
"You are exactly what everyone says you are. A coward. A user. A narcissist. A troubled soul. A child. Did I mention coward? Just checking."

Item six
"You know how I said I like your singing voice? Well, I lied. Frankly, I think your voice sounds pinched and tight."

Item seven
"For cliff's sake, we are not made of money!"

Item eight
"If you guys want to keep living here, you must learn how to use the toilet, feed yourselves and help out with something useful like the laundry. I've had enough of your lying around sunning yourselves and stealth pooping."

Item nine
"My passion evaporated because I felt like it wasn't wanted. How do we get that back?"

Item ten
"Next time, don't ask them what they want if you already know what you want. It creates an enormous headache and more work than I need."

Okay. That's plenty from me. Your turn. What would like to say to someone that you held back? Go on. You know you've got those words churning around inside you. Why not let it out here. I make no promises for the Internets, but your secret is safe with me.

Sunburned in All the Wrong Places

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Adventures in Real Parenting: Just Another Saturday without a Nap

Of course, I would say I'm taking a break and then the people around me would hand me all sorts of material. They hate me, don't they? It's also amazing what getting more than three hours of sleep will do for a person.

It's Saturday morning. The woman down the next cul de sac is shaming me horribly by being out walking up and down, up and down the street while I sit here on my slow-metabolism butt reading blogs and listening to Saturday Morning Flashback (1983, back when I weighed 101 pounds, wore a girl's size 12 jeans and was working on having wrinkles instead of battling them). I don't know what one calls the thing wrapped around the neighbor's head, but she's pulling off that look beautifully. That's two reasons not to like her.

I'll bet the roof of her mouth doesn't hurt either because she had the sense to not roll out of bed this morning, pop some amphetamines and then proceed to eat three brimming bowls of Cocoa Puffs with a pot of hot tea loaded with sugar. At least the milk was skim. Uh huh.

The birdbath I put out the other day has tipped over, but I'm loathe to go outside and set it upright and refill it. I knew when I placed it the other day, it was unstable. Poor birds. Must they suffer the lack of high quality H20 because I'm afraid to leave the house at the moment because every fifteen seconds a carpenter bee the size of a cargo plane hovers outside my window daring me to step outside......?

Garbo is full of one liners this morning. She seems more rested today, too. She's expecting a little friend over later and so is cramming in as much snacking and alone time now as she can. She has a daily quota of both, apparently.

Me: Before you do anything else, you need to tidy up your room.
Garbo: If by tidy my room, you mean eat this White Castle frozen cheeseburger, then okay.

You know how I wrote about what a nurturing mother I'm not? I suppose one could say that the fact that these children continue to live proves that I nurture them just enough.

MathMan called the exterminators to come back and, naturally, now the ants have disappeared. I guess overhearing that phone call was warning enough for them. However, the standard poodle sized roach I stomped yesterday morning was undaunted.

It's a gorgeous day here so I'm hoping that MathMan and I can make it over to the old place to dig up some plants to bring to the new garden. Not that the new garden is ready, but why let silly details stop us from doing things backward.

So now it's hours and hours later. Alcohol is being/has been consumed. The aforementioned plant digging never happened, but we did manage to have a nice quiet dinner with The Dancer. We spent at least a half an hour grinding her down about the cost of college. Aaaahhhh. I'm relishing this shoe on the other foot thing. It feels mighty fine, oh yes it does. No longer is it a case of "but I need this, can I have, but you said, all my friends, blah, blah, beg, plead, whine...." No indeedy. It was us coming from all different angles, reiterating, repeating, reviewing, making our case, questioning her reasoning, and generally filing down her resolve. I believe we are making headway.

She'll thank us some day when she has money for extravagent things like food and shelter. Until then, she can flip me off behind closed doors all she likes. I consider it a sign of a healthy mother/daughter relationship. It's tradition. I did it to my mom, my kids do it to me......

So the kid count is thus: Garbo's friend has come and gone. A good time was had by all except The Dancer who swore if she heard the current Miley Cyrus single The Climb one more time, she would climb something, dragging the karaoke machine with her so that she could hurl it back to earth from great heights.

Now we are plus one in the kid column. The Ninja's friend The Jedi is over for the night. Good lord, they are like a pack of wriggling puppies shot through with testosterone and root beer. Clearly, they have no shame or they know MathMan and me well enough to know that there's little we'd be shocked about. Some might say we seem like the "cool" parents, but that's a real conundrum when someone finally does go beyond the limits and you're left mouth agape or blushing. Cool goes right out the window.

We're sitting here and it all starts pretty innocently. The Ninja asks his friend why he's not allowed to have text, MathMan and I, misunderstand the question and hear "Why can't you have sex? " Our eyes meet and we laugh because we're mature like that.

We stop laughing long enough for MathMan to do a Public Service Announcement along the lines of "No one better have sex at your age, but if they do they must use condoms." See how MathMan is sucking up to the Father of the Year people? He's so naively optimistic that he has a chance.

The Ninja announces that his friend carried a condom around in his wallet for a while. His friend smilingly confirms this and then goes on to tell us that, after a while, he got tired of carrying it and jacked off in it to see what would happen.

At that point, I was nearly on the floor, dying. I was half embarrassed beyond all belief and half ready to pee my pants from laughing. He described a bubble at the end of the condom and the difficulty he had putting it back in the package when he was done. I didn't catch all of the detail (thank goodness) because by this point, I couldn't breathe anymore......

So here I am again, thinking I might need a break (might?), but the minute I say that, someone will be lighting their farts on fire or tapdancing on the driveway wearing nothing but a neon orange feather boa, tube socks and a smile or making an initial streaking run through the neighborhood.

And that's just what I have planned......

Crimony! How much more honesty can you take?

I've gotten really bad about using this blog to properly to thank my fellow bloggers for awards and accolades. Some of you must wonder "Would it kill her to answer a tag? Is she too good to participate in a meme?"

Oh, where to begin? Well, thank you to Steve Emery, The Crow and Dean Wormer for awarding me with The Honest Scrap award. I am honored. I'm also shocked that y'all come here to see my stand on my head and show my panties. But thank you all the same.

As these events warrant, like proper placement of the fork next to the plate or how to address an Earl, this, too, has a set of rules and customs. I will share them here, but that is likely as far as I will go. I'm put off tagging others just because I hate to choose. Each blog I read adds something lovely to my life, knowledge, art, a giggle, an insight, news, music, beauty, feelings, thoughts.... you get the idea.

The rules of this award are:

1.You must brag about the award.
2.You must include the name of the blogger who bestowed the award on you and link back to the blogger.
3.You must choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. 4.Show their names and links and leave a comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog.
5.List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself.
Then pass it on with the instructions!

Okay, the honest things about me? This is the tough part because I feel like you all know so much about me already.

I guess I'm just going to dive in. It's typically what I do, right?

(1) I'm attracted to inappropriate things.
I've noticed lately that I like songs even though they have lyrics that could be considered offensive. For example....
Ben Taylor, Wicked Way.
She Wants Revenge, Tear You Apart.
The Decemberists, The Rake's Song.


(2) I wish I could travel across time.
If you watched that last video listed above, you'll have those images fresh in your mind. The footage was shot in New York City. This is especially poignant for me because it's somewhere between picking at a scab and applying salve. Depends on the day, the moment, the nanosecond. We're coming up on the anniversary of all sorts of personal dumbfuckery on my part and, try as I might to forget, it's hovering somewhere in the background making me wish that I could go back in time, rewind my life's recording, hit erase, erase, erase.

(3) I tune out my own thoughts.
I do not like falling asleep without the television on. If I lie there and listen to my thoughts, it's very hard to fall asleep.

(4) I look forward to a future when I have time and a wee bit of disposable income to do things. I really, really, really want to travel back to France and that's not going to happen by magic. Shut up, MathMan. I will not borrow your sister's broom either.

(5) I am not the kind of nurturing mom I thought I'd be. I do funny, sarcastic, honest (there's that word again), and I probably am soft with them in ways they understand, but I'm not traditional, I get really impatient and resentful of the expectations for mothers these days and I find it very easy to react first with anger, then later with something more appropriate. I wish I were a different kind of mom.

(6) Yesterday, when The Actor, who will now be referred to as The Ninja, got injured and the EMTs called me as I drove to the office and I couldn't get MathMan on his phone because he was in a meeting, I came really close to losing it out of frustration. I was proud of myself for taking a deep breath, following my instincts and handling things until MathMan could get involved. You see, he's the primary parent for injury and illness. (see #5) and The Ninja is fine. Three stitches in his shin, no biggie.

(7) This is getting easier as I consume more wine. I really like wine. Alot. Alot, alot. I am not drunk blogging. I am drinking blogging.

(8) I took a nap when I got home tonight. Well, first I ate because all I'd consumed during the day was one and a half of a micro-powdered donut, a cup of coffee and a piece of string cheese. As we drove home, I told MathMan that I could feel my brain being sapped of synapses from a lack of food and sleep. I'm telling you, something has to give. Soon.

(9) I don't like not getting my way. Who does, right? Well, lately, I've been very frustrated with The Dancer who still wants to go to a school she cannot afford. I want to scream at her that we will not let her make the same fucking mistakes we made. NO LOANS. NONE. I do find that when I tell her we don't always get our first choice or what we want, I'm talking to myself as much as I am talking to her.

(10) I'm going to take a break for a few days. I'm wiped out. The move, the adjustments, the longer commute (although the company is very delightful), the lack of sleep, the college-days diet, the late nights of cybersex with MathMan (who knew I would hook up with my very own husband on one of those affair websites?), the general fretting, the torture memos to read, the running and screaming at the sight of carpenter bees, the additional responsbilities at work, the onset of baseball and gardening season, the fact that each and every day brings a new reminder that it's the end of the school year for three kids in three different schools plus one dedicated math teacher, graduation is bearing down on us, looming decisions and disappointments to deal with, the constant negotiations with my id, ego and superego and that unresolved itch that seems to appear when I don't have a Dave handy, have all conspired to wear me the hell out.

Plus, I just want to finish reading my book about Edward Gorey without sitting on the damned toilet. There's also lots of video to edit, finger operas to rehearse and sock puppet to design.

Anyway, you get the picture. Me = tired. The rest is just so much fluffernutter soup with a dollop of yawn floating sadly on top.

See you in a bit, People of the Internets.

Honestly loving you hard, fast and in many inappropriate ways,

Lisa

030909 Lisa 2, originally uploaded by mathman6293. This comes from MathMan's flickr account. Photo taken March 9, 2009.
Sometimes, MathMan really captures the true me in a photograph. That is all.

(Drawing of some woman named DCup - above- by susan at Adventures Ink, Phantsythat and Baby Days. Click the picture for a link)

Oh, I thought it said CORN.

Tonight I got an email from one of my favorite Aussies. The subject line reads: Well, I guess it's official then....

I opened the email and was treated to this message.



After inspecting the declaration of my blog's status as porn, I replied ever so wittily....

Me: LOL! Well, what do you know about that. I have finally arrived! I notice though, at the bottom of this ACCESS DENIED screen, the system allowed you to see a scantily clad....Berlisconi???????

Mountjoy was quick to reply:I was spewing! Any blogspot site is now off limits at work. Luckily tengrain has MPS off on its own.... but that is the only place I can go now. :-(.........
You, too, can enjoy a naked Berlisconi - ignorant oaf that he is - right here: http://www.smh.com.au/news/entertainment/arts/2009/04/24/1240079834786.html
THAT I can open, cos it is on a newspaper website. I hate censorship, and I hate big brother.
I wonder if i can get your blog as a feed? Hmmmmmm I'll have to investigate.

Me: It's worth a try. And I can always email the posts to you. Are you able to watch youtube? Hey, (endearment redacted), Can I blog this?

Mountjoy: But of course you can! Not like I can see it anyway!!!! :-) The only thing I would ask, is for you to use the photoshopped version I've pasted below - (I'd hate to see our IT department getting a bunch of complaints on your behalf!!!!!)

Me: Of course, I'll protect the identity of your company. Wouldn't want those rabid fans of mine coming down hard on the people who sign your paycheck. Thanks!

For those who aren't familiar with my old blog, let me just say "oh the irony!"

Commute Chat 3: Well, I'll Be Dipped

We are taking requests (or attempting to), the following is in response to Steve's insistence that we vlog dipped cones from Dairy Queen. And since Steve isn't really an insist kind of guy, we thought this must be important to him.

Thanks to others who have provided ideas. We're trying to figure out how to work in British accents, hats, the often-threatened (or is it promised?) sock puppets and finger operas. We've been rehearsing our finger opera song, Suzy, never fear!

A couple of administrative things. First - this one has some adult content. Not pictures, but language, so be prepared for that as you consider who might hear this. And second, regarding the audio - we're still working that out on the cheap. This was filmed using Doug's camera, which makes a better video, but distorts the audio, making us sound like we're doing lisps and lateral lisps. Please note that we are not really doing this - it's the equipment. Now, some might find it amusing, others might find it uncomfortable. I'm not sure what the politically correct thing is here, so I'll just offer an apology in advance if anyone is offended. Because a pre-emptive apology is so convincing, isn't it?

Anyway, here it is, we're eating again and talking about things of an adult nature. I fear we've already typecast ourselves.....

I've managed some music on the opening credits this time, but forgot closing music. Baby steps.......

What Should I Put Cream Cheese Frosting on Next?

I think my last post may have been more gloomy than my newer readers are used to. Dude. If you knew me in my political blogging days, you would have been all "what they hell?" and "who needs this angst?" Yeah - those were the days.

So tonight, after he started speaking to me again because I was such a sourpuss on the drive home (What? no video of that?), MathMan asked me if I'd really told The Actor that we only have sex on Wednesdays. I stared at him for a moment before putting my head down on my keyboard to think. Did I?

"Why would you ask me that?" I mumbled into the desk.

"And did you say that sometimes we play naked flashlight tag?" he continued the interrogation.

I whimpered.

There was more to come. I continued to wince and whimper in recognition of my housecat-like mothering skills. "Because it sounds like something you would say. We discussed it on the way home from baseball practice. The Actor, me and his friend." Oh. No.

You see, it's one thing to tell on myself, to show off for you guys and be all la, la, la, look at my whipped up naughtiness and Parenting by Benign Neglect, but when I learn that the crazy stuff I tell my kids spills over to their friends, I get a little embarrassed because some of these kids don't have the sense to not tell their Proper Mamas. And Proper Mamas do not find my loopy brand of humor amusing. At all.

So yes, I'm sure, too, that I said that crazy stuff. What of it now? Well, perhaps we'll see the number of sleepovers slow down as word gets out that I'm foul-mouthed and filthy-minded.

Anyway, I spent the first twenty minutes of our afternoon commute with my eyes pinched shut or by staring moodily out the passenger side window. MathMan was having none of it and without the the benefit of having read my blogpost where I described my testiness and likely blood sugar issues, pressed, pushed and prodded until the dam broke, the words came spilling out and I shared with him my worries about work. (long, boring story) I hate boring him with tales from the workfront, but he seemed not to mind. Just venting helped me. (Thanks, Honey!)

And now the rush of baseball season is upon us. MathMan and The Actor will be gone a lot of the time. This is the time of year when I am left to my own devices too much of the time. When I'm not cleaning the sparkle off things, I'm looking for trouble and indulging in all manner of ill-advised pursuits that end in near-disaster, broken hearts, bad haircuts and unfinished projects in the garden. And that's the good stuff. (Do you ever wonder about the stuff I don't tell you about? Well, if you do, stop that. You'd never sleep again.)

However, with our new situation, Garbo seemed intent on shaking up the dynamic. She only had to ask me once to go to the park with her. I was amazed when I reminded her that we'd have to - gasp! - walk because I don't have a car anymore and she just shrugged and asked if she could ride her bicycle while I walked. No problem.

An hour later, we'd hiked the trail through the woods and along the creek, crossed the covered bridge, gone on the swings, and sauntered home again to spend another hour outside arranging pots and garden stuff and making a home for worms in a little pot. People of the Internets, if you could see the butt-groove in my cheapo, black swivel office chair, you'd realize what a huge deal this was.

Getting out in the fresh air, staring up at those clouds that look like a couple of merpeople about to kiss, listening to the bird who says "Drink your tea" over and over, noticing the smell of wood smoke in the air from the barbecue place down the road, feeling the breeze, enjoying the heft of pots just waiting to be filled with veggie seeds and colorful annuals, noticing the neighbors' houses - the dark wood sided one with the shady woodland garden and ivy-covered trees, and the other one with the lush green lawn and hydrangeas bursting out in pom poms of white? You must be wondering "What is the big deal?"

Plenty. It's been a long couple of years. It's good to be getting back to something closer to normal (for me, that is). I strolled along, watching Garbo on her bicycle, shrinking into the distance as she rode further ahead. I realized I wasn't holding my breath or about to let loose with a tirade of invectives and I didn't feel angry about anything.

I was just taking it all in. Later, I realized that I'd concluded something that had long needed concluding. Sorry to sound so cryptic, but I decided that the best thing to do sometimes is just pretend that a death has occurred. It's irrevocable. Done. Final. And sometimes, it's the inability to retrieve, the lack of hope that allows us to accept something. Finally.

I breathed. In and out. In and out. I didn't count my steps. I wasn't biting on the side of my tongue or furrowing my brow. I don't think I was even pursing my lips.....

*********************************************
Thank you, Fantastic Forrest, for pointing me toward your post tonight. I love the movie Garden State and I adore Zach Braff. I've had the Garden State soundtrack for some time now and there are a couple of songs on it that have been my off and on favorites. One is the one you posted (imagine that!) the other is an utter wallow-tune. And I'm just going to let that song go unplayed tonight for the reasons I mentioned above.

I do want to share with you a video I found that combines the artist who sings the song on the Garden State soundtrack that I love to wallow to and Scrubs, the show which brought Braff his popular fame.

I love the richness of Colin Hay's voice. And his hospital gown is pretty cute, too.

Thanks, MathMan, for the title of this post. Those pretzels dipped in cream cheese frosting were delish!

And the winner is.... NO ONE?

No takers? What? You don't want a box full of hungry, surly kid? I'm shocked. SHOCKED I tell you.

Anyway, the answer to the Saturday question - what does She Laughs As She Runs mean?

It's what the name of our new town Euharlee means in a native American tongue. I like that very much. She laughs as she runs. It's got a gleeful quality to it that makes me smile.

Anyway, on a less cheerful note, I'm grumbling away at work feeling overworked, underpaid and just a wee bit under-appreciated. This absorbing someone else's job for a raise a fraction of what they were making sucks ass. Tiny violins, do I hear them? Well, the first person who offers a comment that I should be glad to still have a job gets the kid in a box, ya hear?

Besides, the last thing workers need to be doing is piping up with the corporate "be glad you've still got your job" line to each other. Fuckery, y'all, that's the kind of thinking that will lead to all kinds of worker abuse and erosion of rights. Chew on that.

Well now, didn't this post just take a nasty turn. See what happens when reality meets depression meets more reality meets haven't had a fucking vacation in three years meets Mr. Phentermine meets chocolate chip cookies for breakfast meets me?

This.

Oh, and a song I've been humming to myself. Take it away, Bob.

Because I said so, that's why (she growled).

*About the photo - I could use the Quiet Room about now.

Commute Chat: Episode 2 The Munchies

Like any sophomore effort (not sophomoric, but that word could apply), this one might leave you begging for the sock puppets already!

And again, sorry for the sound quality. We think we've got a solution now, too late for this masterpiece of high art, but for future episode perhaps.

Furries, ice cream, the title of a Kurt Vonnegut book - what's not to like?
(Please don't answer that. I'm fragile, you know.)

She Laughs As She Runs

My little grey cells are brimming over with things I want to blog about. And here I am still repeating "I have to get this video editing done" and fretting about a conference brochure that has to be in a draft form, ready for J's okay tomorrow.

Yesterday was filled with those little necessities in life like grocery shopping purchasing toilet paper. And then there were the kids' things that suck up a weekend, but good. Garbo's school chorus performed in the park down the road from us. It was so nice to get out and walk and just hang out for a little while, catching up with friends and eating (more) junk food.

Later, MathMan, The Dancer and I drove over to Gainesville to one of the schools being considered by The Dancer. We were there to attend a dance performance of original pieces choreographed by the school's seniors. I hope the additional visit helped The Dance with her decision because if she doesn't decide soon, she's going to see just what a control freak I really am.

For the record, MathMan has already decided for her. I'm still just playing the psychological game of having The Dancer think that this is her decision and hers alone. Maybe that's a Mom Thing?

The Actor has really taken to this new location. Not only does he have friends to hang out with, he's also discovered our local history museum. See, we've moved into a town that has preserved its old "downtown" or main commercial area. And by that, I mean, the old Commissaries built in 1860, the 1850 general store (still in operation), a 1900 blacksmith shop, the 1830s district courthouse, the calaboose (jail), and the grist mill ruins next to the community's crown jewel, the covered bridge. Beyond that, there's not much else. Oh, there is a fabulous barbecue place and a couple of churches, a nice park. I don't want to slight anyone.

The Actor, one of his friends and Garbo have been going to a small tributary creek that runs behind the history museum and into the larger Euharlee Creek. They're excavating pieces of a drag harrow that's buried in the creek bank. It's just the kind of thing I loved doing when I was a kid.

So that pretty much catches you up with the new place. Although I'm still concerned about how to redirect the birds from the old place to here, I'm happy to note that we've got a bunch of American Goldfinches, a nest of baby robins in one of our holly bushes, more mockingbirds than I care for and a fair amount of cardinals filling the trees around the New Golden Manor.

We've also got new birds that bring out my bird watching tendencies. We've had visits from eastern towhees (who have a funny habit of hopping from one branch to the next as the travel up a tree) and cedar waxwings, whom I just adore with their taupe bodies and masks of mysterious black.
Now I'm trying to learn their calls. The other evening, right before dusk, I was in our bedroom which faces the back yard, and the window were open. I could here all kinds of songs and non-computer-related tweets and twitters and calls. I looked out and realized that another good name for this location would be Tall Pines. When the developers built this subdivision, they did a good job of leaving a lot of the natural growth and existing trees. We have a stand of tall pines right behind us and they are just alive with bird sounds. It's amazing.

Oh, speaking of songs, at last night's performance, I heard music by the Vitamin String Quartet for the first time. (Well, The Dancer tells me that she did a piece to some of their music a couple of years ago, but whatever). I don't know if I've ever shared with you my love of the violin, but when I heard this music, I was blown away. They take popular music and adapt it for the Quartet. For example:

Old classics like Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven, AC/DC's Back in Black, and Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Newer classics like Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit and R.E.M.'s Shiny Happy People. The Smith's There Is a Light That Never Goes Out. Other newish music like Foo Fighter's Everlong, Red Hot Chili Peppers' Snow (Hey oh), Muse's Supermassive Black Hole, and 3 Doors Down Here Without You.

Their complete library is here. Call me dork, but I love this. Love it.

I have a prize for the first person who emails me at lisahgolden at blogspot dot com and tells me what the title of this post means. No answers in comments, please. Understand though, if you win and the prize arrives and demands food, directions to the nearest XBox360 and grumbles that it didn't think "Mom would really follow through on her threat," I'm absolved of all resopnsibility. You win it, you keep it.

Okay - now I have to get that conference brochure done or I'm going to be up all night. Ah, who am I kidding? I'm going to be up all night anyway......

Ain't No Rest This Saturday

Busy day for the, um, well.....just listen to this.

Until we close our eyes for good.....

Who Sent in These Clowns?

Snippets from the last couple of days. (While I try to edit another video.)

Setting: The home office aka Blogging Ops

The Actor, picking up the Dancer's Agnes Scott College brochure snarks, "What's this - it says "A place for women." Do they mean the kitchen?"

You know, he doesn't look so bad with those missing front teeth.

Setting: Still in Blogging Ops

I am holding up a baggie of Milk Duds that has been riding around in the bottom of my bag of work stuff. They're melted and squished together to form a rectangular clump. I shrug, pull one end of the clump out of the bag and take a bite of it. Chocolate and carmel are chocolate and carmel, no matter what form they take.

"Why are you eating that stool sample?" MathMan asks innocently.

After he regained consciousness, it didn't take him long to figure out that one of his eyebrows is missing.

Okay - that's all I can muster at the moment. Long day, sat in meetings, stubbed my toe, have this unresolved itch. Have figured out how to make blogging part of my paid job. (You heard me.) Had something disappointing at Dairy Queen (note to self: stick with the tried and true). Et cetera.

Now I'm off to FINALLY try out the Love Tub with MathMan. We've got big plans for our inaugural dip. Bubble hats and bubble beards are such a turn on!

Presenting Commute Chat: Episode One and Maybe Only

I swear, I cannot believe I'm showing you this. First of all, it's ridiculous. And self-indulgent. And goofy as hell. I hate seeing myself on video and hearing my voice. I'm still heavier than I want to be. And for heaven's sake, do I have to look that much like my mother? I used to watch her mouth when she spoke and wonder why she did that thing with her lips, etc. I guess this is my due for being so silently critical of my mother back then. And finally, when did I get Dawn French's neck and chins and do you suppose she'd like them back now?

When we did this experiment, I had no idea how disconcerting watching myself would be. It goes back to that question of would you like to be married to yourself, I think. (We actually ended up having a discussion centering around that theme in another video chat that won't get published, but it ended up being a really good discussion). I mean, now that I've seen some of my mannerisms, my tone, the eyerolls, fidgets and tics on a longer format video, I'm painfully aware of how I might look and sound to others. I find myself wanting to be quiet and trying to sit more still after watching this.

The fact that MathMan can barely be seen will have to be remedied if we do any more of these. And if we do more of these, they won't be scripted, but perhaps we'll have some idea of what we're going to talk about. Oh, and the camera will be on something stable. Duct tape will be involved. Perhaps to put over my mouth so that MathMan can get a word in..........(My suggestion that I chew a piece of gum to use as an adhesiveto hold the camera in place was met with MathMan's scorn. In retrospect, I must agree. That would have been wrong. And gross.)

The sound quality is just like being there. The Corolla isn't terribly soundproof. Oh, and you even get an opening song. It is the first time we've been recorded singing. I'm sure, upon viewing, you'll understand why.

Next time - sock puppets!

Love Letter to MathMan

Dear MathMan:

Thank you for the gorgeous earrings you ordered for me from Micgar's wife Lucinda. The garnet earrings are simply exquisite. I am particularly touched to receive these from you because there is no special occasion. You've given them to me just because and that makes me feel very special.

When the package arrived yesterday, I was pleasantly surprised to receive not one pair of earrings, but two. Lucinda included the lavender earrings with the carnival glass effects as a free gift. They are also very pretty and I love their copper clasps.

Thank you for these beautiful gifts and thanks to Lucinda, a very talented jewelry designer and maker. I enjoyed looking through her etsy store. Wow!

Love,

Lisa

P.S. I suppose you finally expect to collect on that thing I promised you. I knew that eventually you would call in that promise I made in 1996 when I said not then, but sometime....well, okay. The earrings are incredibly beautiful.......let's go.



What? I'm going to let him win at Scrabble! What did you think I meant? You naughty, naughty people.

Carpool Log Day One: Ask Yourself This.....

MathMan and I made it through our first co-commute yesterday without a single puppet show. Thanks to those who provided future programming suggestions. What great ideas! However, I want you to consider carefully before encouraging me to vlog. Aren't I insufferable enough using the written word?

So this is how our afternoon commute went as we made the short drive from my office to our marriage counselor's office. Oh the irony.

First, I started out examining my face in the mirror behind the car's window visor. Why is it that I always see stray hairs that must be plucked only when I'm in the car and have no tweezers?

Next up, MathMan made a left turn and didn't stay in his lane. I chided him briefly but then I got distracted by the German bakery on Atlanta Road. My stomach growled.

I asked "How about if we stop there and buy some German pastries and then we stop at Douceur de France and buy some eclair?. We can do a World War II re-enactment and my mouth can be the Ardennes." (history nerd humor + food humor - Epic FAIL).

MathMan responded with alacrity, "That would give new meaning to the Battle of the Bulge."

I laughed because I actually got that joke and then looked down at my tummy and sucked it in really tightly, trying to meld it with my spine. More FAIL.

As usual, I was not happy about having to go to see our therapist. I don't see why we need to go talk to some guy about our marriage. And hey! he doesn't even have fab eyebrows. When MathMan picked me up at the office I moaned, kvetched and then whined a little. He was unmoved. I decided to take the direct approach - petulance and threats.

"I'm not going to talk. I just going to sit there with my arms crossed and glare at a spot on the wall. YOU can do all the talking," I huffed, then flounced away, shuffled some papers, clicked my mouse and watched MathMan from under my eyelashes as I pretended to concentrate on my computer screen.

Still nothing. His calm demeanor can be so annoying.

So there we sat about forty-five minutes later and my resolve was gone. I was participating, making a go of it, taking an enthusiastic part in the conversation about our relationship with each other and with The Spawn.

Then our therapist picked up this book and held it up so we could see the cover. The title was The One Question That Can Save Your Marriage by Harry P. Dunne, PhD.

Thankfully, our therapist isn't one to expect us to actually read the book, although I'm sure he thinks it might be a good idea. Nor is he one who thrives on the dramatic. He just cut right to the chase.

"The question is pretty simple," he began. MathMan and I waited quietly, patiently. I don't know what MathMan was thinking, but I know what I was thinking. There's just one question?

"The question is What would it be like to be married to you?"

I gasped first, then let out a very unladylike guffaw. MathMan seemed to ponder this quietly. Gathering my wits about me, I sucked in my breath and watched him. When he looked at me, I gestured that I would choke me with my bare hands. He just blinked at me as if to say "As if I haven't considered that a million times and dismissed it because I don't want to go to jail because of you."

We left the office with our next appointment scheduled and some thinking to do. What would it be like to be married to me?

The very idea gives me the shakes......



To be continued.......

Driving Miss Lisa

On Friday night, after the tornado sirens stopped going off and we emerged from our basement like peevish moles, we waved a fond farewell to the lemon Kia. Thank goodness on the one hand. That car was so temperamental and expensive to maintain. On the other hand, we're now tethered together each morning and afternoon and, although we enjoy each other's company immensely, we're about to experience togetherness like we haven't in many, many years.

Gone will be the time to switch gears between work and home at the end of the day. I won't be able to burn through cell phone minutes passing the boring drive by gabbing away with friends. I won't be able to shout "Hey, Brassy!" at MathMan's friend's horse each day on my way to and from work when I pass his paddock.

I'll leave it to MathMan to tell you what he won't be able to do now that I'll be riding snuggled up against him during the hour long commute. I'm sure it would involve listening to sports talk radio in peace - not having a person sitting next to him snorting with derision and lolling her head against the passenger side window, begging him to please, for the love god, please change the channel. How about the weather and traffic?

I'm thinking all this togetherness might make for the occasional blog post, but I don't want to jinx the idea by thinking it now. If I expect something curious or interesting or even funny to happen so that I can write about it, we'll just end up discussing hideously mundane things like what we'll make for dinner, who's responsible for delivering the bedtime beatings to The Spawn and whether or not we'll have time to practice that new square dance we're trying to perfect.
I do have a back up plan, though. I've been contemplating writing the occasional post providing driving tips for the clueless. You see, here in Georgia, there wasn't a mandated formal driver's education program until a couple of years ago. The lack of such formal education shows. A lot. Now, native Georgians might get a little miffed at being singled out, so my driving tips will not be framed in such a way as to make the locals feel bad. Goodness knows, there are bad drivers every where.

If it comes to that, I think my first post will be something like "Go on, inch out into the intersection already! You've got people behind you who know how to make a left turn, dammit!" or maybe "Turning into your own lane - why the road engineers may have overestimated your intelligence..."

For now, though, I'm just planning to enjoy the ride. If MathMan is driving, I will (1) Regale him with stories of my childhood, if I can think of any he hasn't heard; (2) Remove my shoes and socks and perform sock puppet versions of our favorite The Young Ones episodes; (3) Try not to snore too much; (4) Beg him to stop at every Dairy Queen on the way and buy me a Dilly Bar; (5) Explain, in excruciating detail, what I had for lunch, to whom I spoke on the phone during the day, what itches and what doesn't, which work project pained me more and whose blog post made me laugh the hardest when I was supposed to be working.

None of these things are too far fetched. You can thank me later for leaving off number 6 which involves a feather, some Barry White Music, a small container of Crisco Oil, a video camera and that book of extraordinary positions we keep tucked away in the top dresser drawer.

However, if I'm the driver, I will just keep my eyes on the road and bark out orders to the other drivers who are either too oblivious or stupid to know that they are doing it wrong.

Hopefully this morning's inaugural co-commute isn't an omen for things to come. The rain poured down, the wind sheers battered the compact car, the traffic jammed up and then just inched along until right before our exit.

To pass the time, MathMan and I sang rounds of old favorites and shared the banana without nuts bread I baked yesterday.

Old MacDonald will be coming around the mountain.......

Blog Against Theocracy: Leaving it all behind

So you've heard how people who are being foreclosed upon trash their houses?

Not us. I understand the anger that people feel when they must leave their homes, but why do damage? How can that possibly make you feel better?

As we finish closing up our house to turn the keys over to Citibank, I'm vacillating between an odd melancholy and a sense of relief. I can assure you, though, that it has not occurred to me to damage the house.

Perhaps the fluorescent light bulbs have disappeared. And the good shower heads. And some of the heavy-duty dowel rods from the closets. But these are all things we purchased on my credit card and will continue to pay for as part of our Chapter 13 bankruptcy settlement. I figure that as long as that chunk of money for creditors is subtracted from my paycheck, then I'll be damned if I'm going to leave those things behind.


It's really as much what you don't do as what you do, I think, when it comes to leaving a house. Luckily, we've been able to take our time. The Sheriff didn't knock on our door and demand that we leave. I'm glad for that.

However, knowing that we were leaving, things like simple repairs didn't get done. Why bother? Screens are damaged and go unreplaced. The Actor and Garbo cracked a window in her bedroom a while back and we didn't fix that. We never finished the painting job we started in 2007 when our lives derailed and today I peeled some blue painters' tape from a door jamb, chuckling to myself about how many times I'd said "we really need to finish those touch ups and be done with this."


As I walked through the house this afternoon, I listened to the echoes of my footsteps, playing off the walls. And what was that? The wild footfalls of the kids running down the hallway, the sound of a cat mewling behind an accidentally closed closet door, the crackling of bacon frying on a Sunday morning, a hushed laugh in the master bedroom, the faint racket of the washing machine winding down its cycle in the basement.

I stood for a moment in the master bathroom and stared out the window at the cedar tree that stands alone in the back yard. As odd as it seems now, this was the room where I experienced my most intense emotions. It was where I hid to cry, where I mulled things over as I got ready for my day, where my eyes met the eyes of my beloved in the mirror as we shared that space.

I snapped a picture and then moved on. The neglected garden waited for me. I joined MathMan in the back yard, sorting out the hardscaping and emptying pots of soil into the tangle of weeds that would have been, in other years, a dark patch of earth with new growth already poking through. I plucked the low iron fencing from the edge of the herb bed and considered which plants to dig up and bring with us to the new place.

There won't be too many more trips to the old house now to tidy up. All that remains is a second hand weight bench, some pots from the back yard, an odd box of bunting that needs to go back to The Dancer's high school, and some cleaning supplies.


I did leave one thing behind. I couldn't help myself. Of course we'd left our marks all over the house. The color of paint on the walls, the type of flooring. The dings and scratches on the walls where pictures once hung.

That just wasn't enough for me, though. I wanted to leave a message. In the master closet, I'd done my handiwork.


All the way up and down the closet. Keep Church and State Separate. It's my little way of participating in The Blog Against Theocracy and spreading the word.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Look at Me! My Pee Has No Color!

I think I may change The Dancer's blog name to Ed Begley, Jr. Junior. Over spring break, she's developed this really annoying habit of watching Planet Green and then attempting to impart the information to us boring us to tears and sharing her views on how unhealthy and unfriendly to the environment we, as a family, are. I guess it's better than the moody moping on the floor of blogging ops, but still.

Wanna know why an increase in pork consumption is bad for the environment or why we should eat more anchovies? How about the process for composting human waste? Nope? Neither did I. That didn't stop her from telling me as I slumped over the kitchen table and whined for MathMan to come rescue me from the onslaught of information.

Perhaps more worrisome is the fact that she's also developed a nerd crush on Bill Nye the Science Guy. And when you say Bill Nye the Science Guy at our house, you have to do the Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill! from the theme song. Not that I have anything against science guys per se, but on top of all the other weird young adult angsty stuff we're suffering with The Dancer, the idea that she might run off with some guy with a super hot Bunsen Burner provides some cause for alarm. Outside of her short-lived drooling over Edward of Twilight fame, The Dancer is not one who crushes.

Before she turned all low-flow toilets and bamboo sheets on us, she could at least be coaxed to do some rather environmentally subversive things. Mind you, this had limits. Just as she was not prone to crushes, she was not much of a rule breaker. Even so, she had her fun moments.

For example, recently, she and I visited the the bottled water aisle of our local grocery store a few days ago. We were desperate for drink. We discussed the different types of water, which bottle shapes and colors we preferred, compared prices and perused the nutrition labels of the various bottles stacked on the shelves.

Skating right up to the edge of full tilt jocularity, we burst into giggles after misquoting the bit by comedian Lewis Black thinking it was New Jersey instead of Pittsburgh, then, upon looking at the next bottle I picked up, found that it was, indeed, distributed from New Jersey.

Half loopy from the hilarity, we left with several bottles of melted glaciers, tears of angels, ionically separated, and organically filtered spring, artesian, mineral and purifed waters so that we could do a "taste test."

The good news is that we can reuse some of those really nice bottles. However, The Dancer cautions that they cannot be washed in the dishwasher. So we will reuse. That's a good thing.

The bad news is that the waters have not lived up to their promises. I have not turned into the tall, blond, cool-eyed Nordic goddess I expected to be. Imagine my astonished disappointment. I mean, if I can't believe in the transformative powers of melted glaciers, why the hell should I care about climate change?

When Ed Begley, Jr. Junior finds out that I wrote that, there's going to be a fight. Bring it on, I say. Bring. It. On.*



*I'll get her with my high fructose corn syrup gun. That'll teach her.