You Can Hire Me, Bring Me Back After a Session

During this - our time of financial recalibration - we've found it necessary to cut back and cut back some more. This has offered us a chance to revisit our priorities and to better understand ourselves as consumers of the vast array of options modern American have vying for their dollars.

Put another way - we see who we really are by what we continue to spend our money on versus what we're willing to do without.

For example:  I'm not willing to give up my nightly glass of wine or occasional beer. Make of that what you will. On the flipside, I am willing to stick my hand into the full vacuum bag, pulling out clumps of cat hair, bits of random things, dirt, dust, and the occasional dried Tootsie Roll of cat poo festooned with litter and feathers.  I can never figure out where the feathers come from.  They're indoor cats.

I figure, why keep buying vacuum cleaner bags when all I'm going to do is throw them away?  Recycle, reuse, repurpose. That's my motto and I'm sticking to it.

I admit knowing that in a week or two, I'll be pulling my shirt up over my face to protect my lungs from the dust particles and rummaging inside the bag to dislodge its contents has made me a bit careless when I wield my magic sucking wand.  Oh, shoot!  I only meant to get the hairs out of that drawer, I didn't mean to suck up that cloth headband.  Oh, well, I'll retrieve it when I clean out the bag.  I can wash it and it'll be good as new.

So yesterday, the vacuum was behaving rather sluggishly while we did our dance around the living room.  I cut the power and hefted it off the floor.  Yeah, it was getting pretty full.  I dragged it to the ceremonial emptying garbage can and tugged my shirt up over my nose in preparation for the job.

Out came the usual suspects.  Cat hair in massive, gray clumps, horrifying dust, part of a pencil, a Q-tip, bingo! my headband, more hair and dust.  And hello!  What's this?

Nathan just happened to walk by as I held up the little surprise that waited, buried deep within the bowels of my beloved vacuum.

"What's this?"  My shock was real.

He looked at the object, then back at me and laughed nervously.  "Don't you know?"

"Whose condom is this?"  I held it, flattened and dusty, between my thumb and forefinger.  It flapped like a yellowish, ribbed-for-her-pleasure flag in the breeze from the ceiling fan.

"Not mine!"

"Whose condom am I holding in my hand?"

Crickets and the batting of his long eyelashes and finally.  "I said it's not mine!"

"And how did it get into the vacuum cleaner?"

"Does it really matter?"

In the grand scheme of things, I suppose he's right.

Happy weekend, lovers.  Careful where you put your condoms.

The Mournful Bleatings of a Former Middle Class Dreg

"Jesus, if I have to see one more person writing their vacation to do lists or bitching about how hard it is to come back from a vacation, I'm going to fucking cancel my Facebook account and never turn on the computer again.  Shit.  When was the last time we took a vacation?  Not work, not visits to family, but a real vacation?  2006?"

"Was that the year we went to D.C. before we went to Indiana and Illinois to visit family?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, lighten up, Lucy.  Your whole life is a vacation.  Just ask your dad.  Now how about getting out and applying for that job at McDonands he keeps talking about."

Some days the thing that really makes this marriage work is the ability to put the other person swiftly and precisely into their place.  When we are kind, it's done with humor.  When we're ready to take out the long knives, not so much.  The truth is, MathMan knows how to get at that deep, dark, ugly place inside me, make me look at it, poke it with a stick, and then bury it back where it belongs until next time.  It's when we deny that that ugly nugget exists that we get into our horrible scrapes.

He neither indulges nor discourages me when I'm being petulant and whiny.  He shoves, lures, cajoles me beyond it so that I can be less self-pitying and like myself just a bit.  Sometimes to his peril.  He's good for me.  The bastard.

If ever I'm standing on the ledge, please get MathMan.  He, to his credit and his everlasting regret, I suspect, knows what makes me tick.  And he knows my preferred chocolate (cheap), wine (Malbec) and ice cream flavor (chocolate marshmallow).

So it's true.  I've been a bit resentful of the social media exposure I've had to other people's fabulous lives and disposable income.  It's made me chew the inside of my cheek and push back from the keyboard on more than one occasion when I want to lash out. 

But then, I thought no.  We're here because of the mistakes we've made, the bad decisions, the drama I have introduced into the fold.  Suck it up, sister.  Deal. And then I read Betsy Lerner's take on vacations and am reminded that I'm a lot like her.  The idea of a vacation is one thing.  The execution of that idea is something else entirely.  No matter where I go, the compulsion to have things just so, the annoying sighs, the short fuse, they all get packed right along with my smelly sandals and that pretty shawl I never take out and wear because I've never worn a shawl in my life.  They don't go well with the cargo shorts, do they?  Even I know that.

So what if you can't actually take a vacation?  That's what books are for!  They transport you.  Well, at least they used to.  Why not stop feeling sorry for yourself and give it a whirl?

Turns out the still do transport.  I picked up Ayelet Waldman's Red Hook Road at the library last week.  I've never been to Maine, but I'd like to go there.  Why not visit through this novel?  If you can overlook the main premise of the story (death of newlyweds, a real downer), it's got those elements that do take me out of my own dreary housewifery and transports me to the salty air and sandy beaches of coastal Maine where I can sail and listen to the seagulls and eat fresh lobster while wearing a swimsuit without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. 

Anyway, I'll be writing a review of it as soon as I'm finished reading it.  It's time to cut the ties binding my to the computer and read.

Before I go, I thought I'd share with you another of life's tiny ironies.  I decided to follow Ayelet Waldman on Twitter.  She tweets almost daily.  And, of course, this week, just when I decide to follow her, she and her husband Michael Chabon and their children are.......on vacation.

Do you take mental vacations?  What are you reading to escape?  When you close your eyes, where do you "vacation?"  And go on - tell me about your favorite vacation, if you'd like.  I can take it.

The Detritus of Life So Far

I don't even remember why I started it, but there I was pulling things from the floor of the closet and asking myself rhetorical questions like "Why is she keeping all these shoeboxes?"

More boxes. Nifty metal rectangular ones from Ikea.  Boxes bursting with photos that will never be put into albums.  The boxes are dented from back in the days when they were pulled off the shelves of the built-in hutch and incorporated into some elaborate scheme involving Tonka trucks, Hotwheels, dinosaurs and those dark green molded plastic soldiers.

"Watch this, Mom!  See this guy, he's going to...."

That was two houses ago.

Stacks of cds, borrowed from the family's collection and never returned to the proper cabinet.  Books by Philip Roth, David McCullough and John Dean.  The entire set of Harry Potter novels in hardback plus some of the audio books.  Old cassettes of Jack Benny radio shows, a full set of David Sedaris books on cd.  Anthony Kiedis's autobiography Scar Tissue.  I wondered where that was.

Some Calculus books.  Did MathMan say he was going to be teaching Calculus next semester?

A Rubbermaid box of things belonging to MathMam.  Baseball memorabilia,  some concert programs from a 1989 Paul McCartney show we attended at the Rosemont Horizon when it was still the Horizon.  That was the same year we went to see Les Miserables at the Auditorium Theater in Chicago.  The same year we moved to Chicago after we graduated from I.U and it snowed on May 5th.  My dad was helping us move in with MathMan's mom.  He looked up at the sky showering us with fluffy snow, then back at me and asked if I was sure I wanted to live in Chicago.

I was sure.

A little box of jewelry, mostly broken, that had once cluttered the top of my dresser circa 1978.  I picked through it and saved the old spoon ring and two buttons:  I'm Like Freakin Out! and J'aime le Francais.  Stuck them right through some poster board so they can grace my "new" office space.  Tossed the rest.

Oh, right.  That's what started all this - I was going to shift Nate's clothes upstairs since we moved him back up to the small room that had been my office.  He was ready to have his own room again, was tired of sleeping in the wide open space of the basement family room with no door that locked.  He's a fourteen year old boy.  I'm not stupid.  I'm not going to be picking up discarded socks from his floor though.

With an assist from MathMan, the record albums in their milk crates were moved out of the closet and given a place, accessible, but out of the way in the corner of what was now my new office/weight room.

He also took down the mystery box from the top shelf.  So that's where they were - the few photo albums we owned, full of pictures form the early days of our life together.  Back when I had the time and inclination to sit down and enjoy the tedium of inserting photos into plastic sleeves.  Back when I had photos developed and the archivist in me had to sit down and write on the back of each one - the people, places and dates.  It was important.  Back before three kids and jobs and distractions.  Before I used the internet to do more than occasionally search for photos of houseplans people could order from Sears and other mail-order companies.  When I would have laughed at the idea of spending large amounts of time in front of the computer during my non-work hours.

We didn't even bother to unpack those photo albums when we moved into this house.

Time to refold those old baseball jerseys and put them into some kind of box for Nate.  And do we still have this iHome charger/player thing?  Here are the instructions.  Did I see that in Chloe's room?

Two Composition books with only a few pages used.  Those might be nice to have this coming school year. MathMan's bassoon repair kit, still housed in the 1970s orange Tupperware it's been in since I've know him.

Sit down and look through that basket of photos that never even made it into the IKEA boxes?

And when did I put this box of Little Tikes building blocks in here?  Those can go in the garage with the rest of the abandoned toys.  Maybe it's time to donate these things.  I don't see us moving them every time we change rentals just because we might have grandchildren some day.  Better to let some kid have them now to enjoy. 

The stack of board games teeters precariously next to my Conn trumpet case, completely ignored on the top shelf.  Dang, I thought that silver trumpet was hot and I was hot shit playing it.  Until I decided that I'd rather march as a flag twirler in a skimpy halter dress instead of those hideous band uniforms with those fuzzy white tall hats.  The joke was on us, though.  The band kids stayed toasty warm in their wool uniforms and we froze our nipples off when the parades took place on early autumn mornings that plunged down into the forties.  With fog.

Do I really need to keep this old cheerleading patch with my name on it?  It's yellowed.  Might be fun to put it on my desk though.  Just for kicks.

That ceramic tic-tac-toe set that Sophie made two years ago in Art Club should be put in something safe before it's crushed to dust.

What's this?  A Samsung phone box from which Hanukkah?  Must have been 2007 or 2008?  We were still in the John Kay Road house.  It was the used phone we bought for Chloe from her friend who'd upgraded to the first iPhone.  Or was it a Blackberry? It was the phone that she dropped in the Target parking lot then accidentally stepped on while wearing those brown suede boots we used to "share."  The ones with the heel that scraped the side of her newish used phone.  I unkindly teased her about not being so graceful for a dancer.

I finished matching up the pairs of shoes I'd fished from the bottom of the closet and stepped back to consider how they now had feet bigger than mine.

What kind of trouble are you getting into this Wednesday?

My Too Late Submission for Project Mom Casting

They wanted a picture of me, so here it is.

This is my late submission for the Project Mom Casting. The idea is that the producers of a reality TV show will be in New York City at the Blogher Conference auditioning potential cast members.

I missed the deadline because I thought all day yesterday was July 25th.  FAIL is my signature color.

And I won't be at the NYC event because I am, as usual, broke.  This being laid off and having no disposable income has really worn thin.  And that killjoy MathMan is not amused by my offer to turn tricks for some fun money.  Or airfare. 

I realize most of you aren't even aware of my blogher aspirations.  I started as a political blogger who shifted to relationship and bad parenting blogging.  I never identified as a "mom" blogger or a female blogger.  Sure I did blog as a decidedly female writer with the lacy black bra avatar, but that was just a way to lure mostly male readers back to PoliTits.  Ah, the good old days.

But here you are, still visiting and for that I am grateful.  So grateful that I keep my clothes on now.

But what if I didn't miss the deadline?  How would I sell myself?  I could say that I have three well-adjusted, bright, funny children who are important to me, but not the center of my life.  I believe you can be a mom without letting that aspect of who you are overshadow everything else. I'd say that I've been married forever to MathMan who is my best friend and totally hot.  I'd lie and say that I'm well-adjusted, too, except for the delusions about becoming a famous novelist, the Gaslighting of my children, the collection of cats, the mild OCD that kicks in after I clean, my lifelong addiction to sugar and ongoing battle with my weight, my murky past as a high school cheerleader, and my desire to be British.

To demonstrate my onscreen persona, I'd show them my facelift video from my aborted attempt to become a beauty consultant and the series of Commute Chats we made with the camera wedged between the dashboard and the windshield. (Note: I don't have a lisp, but if you need someone with a lisp for the show, I can do that! I'm a great mimic!)

And, of course, I'd mention that what I'm in the middle of is writing my first novel and attempting to find a literary agent so that it can be published and won't they hate it if this all turns out uncharacteristically awesome and they made the mistake of passing me up when they had the chance?

Except it's not their fault that I can't read a calendar, is it?

So what do you think?  Shouldn't they make an exception for me?  Don't you guys want to see me, MathMan and those wickedly photogenic children of ours on TV? Careful with your answers, I'm emotionally "delicate" at the moment.  Which also means sober. 

Love and thanks,

Lisa

Black Magpie Theory: Anyone? Anyone?

I hear you, Ben Stein.  And I'm taking steps.  Over here.

Remember, if you want me to stop kicking puppies and adjusting my boobs in public, you'd better read all those other fabulous posts, too.  There's one a day and it's all good.

See you back here tomorrow, gang.

The One Where That Who Do You Write Like Thing Says I Write Like Chuck Palahniuk and I Go All Fight Club Crazy

 A person can get stuck in a rut, you know?

Wake up, feed the cats, make coffee..............write.........nag my kids and any others who happen to be loitering about........screw around......clean things.....feed the cats again........read.....write.........eat things I shouldn't........go to the gym...lift weights, run on the elliptical.........watch British mysteries..fall asleep.

Like that.

Sometime last week, I'd finished my elliptical workout and Hans and Franz were hogging the weight benches.  I've told you about my impulse control issues so to avoid trouble, I strolled into the small classroom thinking I'd kill some time checking text messages.  As if overcome by instinct, I picked up the pink boxing gloves that lay there like pieces of already-chewed Bubble Yum, slipped them onto my hands where they felt as if they'd been made for me, and started punching away on the heavy bag.

Hey, this feels good!

Since then, I have used the heavy bag every time we've gone to the gym.  Sometimes I use the red dingly bag, too, but that little sucker is wily and needs to be lowered and I'm not climbing up on the folding chair again to do it.  I already had to climb up once and rehang the heavy bag after I knocked it loose.  (Thanks MathMan for doing the heavy lifting, literally!)

But holy cripes, who knew this punching thing was so addictive?

As my brother says, I come from a family where "the only emotion we embrace is anger."  So, yeah.  This should come as no surprise. My pugilistic tendencies are deep-seated and probably genetic even as I strain to keep them smothered under a pile of self delusion and discarded dreams.

I come from a long line of hotheads stretching all the way back to Ireland and Scotland, I remind myself.  They weren't the whiskey drinking, song singing fun Irish and Scots you see in movies and travel documentaries.  At least, they weren't by the time they'd come to inhabit a bend of the Ohio River.  They didn't temper their tempers with spirits.  They were mouthy and angry and there would have been a lot of brawling had alcohol been involved.  Maybe it was because they were Protestant instead of Catholic, but rather than enhancing their personalities with fermented drinks, they chose to overeat things covered with gravy and grind their teeth in silent rebuke of the world.

As for me - the only person I've ever actually fought with was my sister.  The last time we bare-knuckled, we pretty much beat the hell out of one another.  Oh, and there was that guy I grabbed by the ears and bashed his head against the car window frame, but that was just good timing on my part.  Had he not been disadvantaged by sitting in a car and being three sheets to the wind, that embarrassing episode would not have happened.

So now I want to learn how to box properly.  I don't want to break my hands.  I like the adrenaline rush of pounding the daylights out of the bag, but I want to do it correctly.

There's one problem.  The eventual opponent.  I shared my concern with MathMan.  "I want to box, but I don't know if I can take the punches."

MathMan reminded me that I'd had three babies with no pharmaceutical assistance.  "I think you can take pain."

"Yeah, but they won't be punching me in the uterus and vagina.  Much."

"How will you know if you never try?"

I wonder if he might enjoy seeing me get the snot beat out of me as a small repayment for my past sins. Sure it's wrong to be so suspicious, but I can't say I'd blame him.

For now, it's me and the heavy bag, those rockin' pink gloves and the instructions I got off youtube.  But I'm serious.  I want to learn to fight.  The stress release benefits alone would make it worth it.  If I'm going to do it, I want to do it right.  Maybe like this....

Video via theotherlisa Lisa Brackman author of Rock Paper Tiger. 

Okay, so maybe not exactly like that, but close enough. 

But What If I Could Land a Job As A Parenthetical?

Thanks to the passage of the unemployment benefits extension bill, there's a chance we'll be living large again on my weekly government hand out.  I can climb down off the ledge and focus on something other than this book titled "Robbing Banks for Dummies."  I picked it up somewhere.  Maybe at the Department of Labor or some church-run food pantry.  I can't remember now.  Anyway, we're not out of the woods yet.  I'm still worried about how to keep the lights on and food on the table because this (if the checks resume at all) is simply a reprieve.

While I continue to seek a position (anything! I'll take anything!) in my old line of work (herding cats), the options are few.  There are positions advertised in Chicago, NYC and the D.C. area, but moving is not an option.  Meanwhile, I'm looking outside my field using my transferable skills or even jobs I did while in high school and college - restaurant server, retail sales associate, pushing grocery carts at Krogers.  So far the results have been the phone not ringing.

The Department of Labor suggests job retraining for those of us drifting in this altered employment universe.  While my long-term goal is to make a living off writing, I still must have plans B, C and D in place.  Things move pretty fast, you know.  And while nothing would please me more than to be able to write that post telling you that not only have I gotten a literary agent, but that also she or he has negotiated an awesome deal with a publishing house and also they see big things for this novel and want two more from me and also Nora Ephron or that chick who beat James Cameron out for the Oscar, I think it was his ex-wife, somehow heard about the manuscript and they want to talk screenplays......

Oh.  Sorry.  Whisper the words #amwriting at me and my brain starts spinning tales of wild! mad! crazy! success!!!! with red carpet walks and book signings that celebrities want to attend!!!!!

A few bills paid and a nice five day trip to France while the kids are tucked up somewhere getting reacquainted with Grandma and Grandpa would be okay, too.

So the writing is what it is - a labor of love that might some day pay a bit.  It's what I want to do.  But I also have to be realistic, damn it.  I want to be Lisa.

So the job retraining thing seems legit.  I've been doing my research.  First I looked at The Hot Jobs for the Future.  Okay, so here's some promising stuff.

Someone still needs to write the books, the screen plays, the TV shows, the music etc. Positions requiring a high level of creativity and originality should still be highly valued.
....Reality TV will have a minor impact on the demand for actors. Unique personalities and talented people will always catch our interests and will be in high demand, at least until we tire of them. 

Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!  There's still a chance for me to finally be an actress! Wait - no. If you've seen the Commute Chat set of videos on YouTube, you know that's not going to happen.

Nevertheless, I'm buoyed by the line up there about needing someone to write the books.  Pick me! Pick me!

But wait.  The silver hair and crows feet scream SEASONED!!!!  otherwise known as old.  Don't most writers begin early to establish their careers?

Taking another bite of the reality cupcake (which tastes like defeat frosted with desperation), I narrowed my search a little and found The10 Best Jobs for Over-Forty Women. Gee, it kind of hurt my arthritis to type that. (I may look over-forty, but I'm eighteen on the inside!)

Some days I really wish I'd had the good sense to find a job with a solid company when I was twenty-three and to have just stayed in that job forever and ever and ever. Played it safe, you know?  No wait - if I'm rewinding - I wish I'd gone to that interview at the big insurance company instead of accepting the job offer from the low-paying not-for-profit!  No wait - if I rewind further - I wish I'd never switched my major from Secondary Education to French!  No wait - go back again - I wish I'd never changed my plans to go to nursing school in Cincinnati to become an R.N. so that I could go to Ball State to be a high school teacher, but party a lot first!  No wait!  one more rewind.  I wish someone had said to me HEY STUPID! YOU'RE A WRITER!  HOW ABOUT CONSIDERING WRITING AS A CAREER????

And there I am again.  (Looks at the list above)  Okay, let's deal with the reality, shall we? I've made notes.  Notes mean I'm serious about this.  I even wrote using black ink instead of my favorite purple felt tip.

Community Service Coordinator/Manager - I could do this.  It's very close to what I've done in the past.  Would probably have to go back to school for my Masters in Public Administration to stand out in the crowd and make new contacts.
Personal Financial Adviser - Only if you want me to teach people how to fail with style.
Environmental Scientist - Does knowing not to mix bleach with ammonia qualify me?  I'm thinking the biology and chemistry classes would be an obstacle I might not be able to overcome. 
Registered Nurse - You don't really want me in charge of medications and needles, do you?
Computer and Information Systems Manager - I'm a user.  That would be like putting the person who takes the meth in charge of making the meth.  The end result is never pretty and things often blow up.
Education Administrator - More schooling.  A possibility. Although I know a few of these who've been laid off recently so.......
Strategic/Crisis Communication Professional - My strategy for Crisis Communication is shrieking Mathman's real name and then shouting "Who in the fuck caused this mess?"
Accountant - Stop laughing.  Oh, okay, laugh. The very idea is hilarious.  I have to ask MathMan to do most of my math after I get past the counting of fingers and toes stage.
Human Resources Specialist - Another maybe.  Would require schooling, I think and, because I once made my living pushing professional credentials, would also require membership and courses toward certification through SHRM.
Small-Scale Niche Farmer - Well, I do have all that experience herding cats and I used to have a huge garden....

The other possibility I've been considering is library science.  It combines the things I love - publications, words, research, information, technology, community. Plus it's Oedipally ordained.  My mother-in-law was a librarian.  I have several friends who are librarians like Liberality and Suzy and Randal! How could I forget Randal?  and whomever else I might be forgetting and offending and I'm really sorry about that.

And yes, I'm also looking at programs here in Georgia for the Masters in Fine Arts with a focus on creative writing.  I guess if you pinned me down with your knees and dangled a loogey over my face, I'd say my dream job is writing novels and screenplays and corrupting young adult minds through a position in some mid-level academic scene in a college town with a great faux-English pub.  Unless, of course, I could land a spot in Oxford.....(Oh, Harold! there she goes again!)

See you later, lovers, I've got daydreaming to do.  And as three million and seven people say on Facebook each week Thank God It's Friday.  What are your weekend plans?  Long-term goals?  Dream job?

And In the End He'll Always Be A Numbers Guy

Reality gained another toehold here in our semi-safe haven of a home.  I think that makes six now.  Six toeholds, I mean.  I believe that you get handle reality any way you damn well please.  So in my imagination, reality is required to have all ten toes and its prehensile tail wrapped firmly around the branch of your life and be hanging upside like a sleeping possum before you have to accept it.

And I don't care what Reality thinks. This isn't Reality's blog.

Yesterday, MathMan learned that, despite his best efforts to reduce and manage via diet and exercise, his cholesterol numbers have remained stubbornly high.  He is now a card-carrying member of the Zocor Club.

He is ever so pissed about it.

Last year, during his annual check up, his doctor used the dreaded phrase that begins with the words medically and technically and ends with --ese.  While the doctor meant well and, like lots of bad people of yore, was merely doing his job, this information and the specific use of that phrase cut MathMan deeply.

In response, he became an exercise machine.  He took up running and weight training.  He took on a greenish tinge from eating all those salads.  He's consumed enough steel cut oats to cleanse the Gulf.  Lots of times, when I accuse of him of wasting time on Facebook, he's actually poring over information on realage.com.

The overall results were spectacular.  He shed twenty pounds, ran a (something)K race and now has what is commonly-referred to around here as Lisa-like blood pressure.  See, I was like a vampire before being a vampire became cool.  I have the kind of numbers that spur confused doctors to retake my blood pressure themselves.  The midwife who delivered the kids used to hold a mirror under my nose to ensure I was breathing.  She didn't care that she couldn't see my reflection.  She just wanted to see that silvery glass fog!

So MathMan has some seriously positive items in the "win" column.  I'm incredibly proud of him.  He looks better, feels better and he's staved off some of the worst aspects of heredity - high blood pressure and heart disease.  But genetically, he's been unable to beat the high cholesterol bugaboo.

He hasn't said much about the one thing I know he's thinking even if he doesn't say.  You don't live with a person for 537 years without gaining a little insight. Or, if you do, shame on you.  Here's a karate chop for being daft and self-involved.

The truth is, MathMan's parents - both of them - passed away before the age of sixty.  His father died of a freak aneurysm while he was being hospitalized for something else having to do with a series of heart attacks he had starting in, I believe, his late thirties.  Born in the mid-twenties, he'd suffered damage to his heart during a childhood bout of Scarlet Fever.

We don't know what killed MathMan's mother because there was no autopsy performed, but she died in her sleep one night after feeling ill.  There are still bad feelings, I think, about the fact that he doesn't know what ultimately killed her.  She was both an alcoholic and borderline diabetic.  Looking back at the photos taken between 1988 when we married and 1992 when she died, it's clear that she was ill.  She lost of a lot of weight and her hair had lost its sheen.  Sadly, it was so gradual, she was so stubborn, already a widow and her whole family was pretty wrapped up in their own lives.  No one noticed until it was too late.

So I don't think any of this is far from his mind now that MathMan has been given the word - some things can't be dealt with through diet and exercise.  As we get on, we are going to have to make little concessions to Big Pharma.

Damn it.

Last evening we made a foray into the grocery store.  It took us four and a half hours because MathMan was more like Rain Man.  He stopped and pulled random things off the shelves and read their nutritional content.  Oreos, potato chips, frozen Skyline Chili, Krispy Kreme Donuts, butter.

He was definitely reassuring himself that by forgoing most of those items, he'd been doing the right thing.  Yes indeed, they did have very high numbers.  Four hours in, I finally lost my patience.

"Honey, let's go.  You don't even eat Scrapple."

"I know, but look at the cholesterol count.  Holy shit."

Like that.  And then we forgot the stupid cat food on top it.

So now every decision I make about food prep is fraught with suspicion.  She's serving cheeseburgers and french fries.  She's trying to kill me!   She's making meat loaf!  She's trying to kill me!  She brought home some ice cream from the store.  She's trying to kill me!

It's more likely that I'm trying to kill me, but right now his perspective is a little skewed.

Those of you who know me on Facebook might have seen that I'm trying to convince him that we need to drink more red wine, not less.  He just rattles his long list of Things You Need to Know About This Medication at me and shakes his head.

"Besides.  I'm not going to enable your alcoholism like my father did with my mother's."

Oh.  I see how it is now. 

Time for me to go fry some bacon.....

If People Came In Commercial Packages, We'd All Be Hung or Wear 40DDDs

Please excuse me while I discuss a few matters with the products in my medicine cabinet.

Really, Acid Reflux Medication?  Do you think I'm not going to buy you to just because you're in a small see-through container and I can see that I'm only getting 28 pills?  I can read, you know.  Making the opaque container twice as big as it needs to be isn't fooling me.  I know I'm being taken.  But if it's a choice between being taken or regretting my morning cup of coffee, well hell.  That's easy.  Let's be honest with each other, shall we?  You're making a big profit off my suffering and I'm willing to pay.  The lies diminish us both.

And how about you "medicated powder?"  I held your golden body up to the light in the bathroom and saw that right out of the Target bag, you're only halfway full.  And the sticker still discreetly covers your holes so I know it's not likely that someone has been unscrewing the cap and stealing from you.  Powder is messy,  That's not really an asset when you're shoplifting, is it?

But again I ask, do you really think I would forgo you if I knew the truth?  Would I prefer that my undercarriage (that's that place under my boobs, y'all) becomes a swamp while I work out?  Of course not.  I'm going to buy you and enjoy the refreshing zing! when I apply you because, goodness knows, there are few things worse than an under-the-boob rash.  It's impossible to scratch in public without receiving the small mouth from some eagle-eyed prude or a invitation from some horny goombah.

"Let me take care of that, how 'bout it!"

At least if something in my panties itches, I can deal with it and claim I'm merely "adjusting myself."  Works for guys, right?

But reach for your own boob and you're disrupting traffic.

The fact is that we have a commercial relationship.  I have a need.  You fill that need.  You charge what you think is a reasonable fee and I pay it.  If it gets too out of hand, then I go in search of the generics which means I'll be paying significantly less only to find the opaque container a quarter full instead of half full.

I don't want to love you, but I do need you.  Okay?

The best thing about you is that you either prevent things or make them go away. Put another way - you're the bouncer to the increasingly seedy nightclub that is my body.  Listen, at this stage of the game, I've got enough metaphorical guys wearing too much cologne and too much gold jewelry trying to invade this space.  I know that it won't be long before I'm glad even for those guys because the new crop of losers is likely to be much, much worse.  I'll probably look back fondly on a little boob sweat and acid reflux when the real horrors of aging hit me.  But until then, can we at least honor our relationship with a little honesty?

Thank you for indulging me today.  You know how these little things can build up over time.  So, what is it that you'd like to get off your chest?

Adventures in Real Parenting: Just Wait

Sometimes I'm reluctant to write about my kids and the things that go on here because I don't want you to think ill of them or me.  I don't want you to think that I'm a terrible mother, too.  I mean, we don't have to share every opinion to remain friends, do we?

On the numerous occasions when I let go of my fears and give in to the knowledge that these people with whom I share a home and life are my best material and I'm desperate to write a blog post, I go ahead and write, but that writing makes me fret.  I fret that I'm going to get one of those "Well, you just need to..." or "Well, when I was raising kids..." comments and it's going to alternatively make me angry and ashamed.  And then I'll grumble about it to MathMan and throw myself onto the bed in a fit and vow to never ever ever write about my kids again because some people can't help being advice givers or sanctimonious and I hope their kids drive them over the cliff someday too.

And then MathMan follows me into the bedroom, puts his TI-84+ Silver Edition on the night table and stands next to the bed giving me that look.  "Come on now.  You need a thicker skin. Your readers have a relationship with you and they want to help."

When he's reasonable like that is when I want to refudiate him the most.  With pain.

I realize that this makes me sound a bit too much like politicians who trot their kids out during the campaign only to whine when the media goes after those same kids later. But there it is.  This exploiting your children for money or humor or a stupid blog post or elected office is a complicated thing.  It's a field loaded with emotional landmines.

See it's one of those conundrums of being a domestic artiste.  It's too close to the bone, to the heart.  I'm allowed to poke fun at them.  And you're allowed to laugh, but you are not allowed to join in the poking (much) nor offer parenting advice.  Trust me on this.  I'd bet anyone who writes about family feels the same way.  I've just laid bare more of my inadequacies so that you might laugh.  I'm not looking for someone to come in and tell me what I "need to do" or how they do it so much better than I do.  I have therapists for that.

It occurred to me to check with an expert on this, but so far I've only managed to get distracted reading her quotes and reminiscing about her books.

If you haven't guessed already, I've been reading some of that Erma Bombeck book that's been assigned as bathroom reading apparently because it's been either relegated to or given the highest honor of being tossed into the big basket of bathroom reading material.

Now that I'm eating things like steel cut oats and vegetables, I've got more reading time than ever.  Since it's been brought to my attention that reading on the toilet contributes to varicose veins, I'm careful not to spend more than one paragraph at a time on "business."  While my leg veins that haven't already popped are grateful, I'm pretty sure I'll be dead before I manage to get through the Bombeck book and all those Prevention magazines that are supposed to prevent my death.  Choose your battles, Lisa.  Choose your battles.

But back to Erma, I wonder how she felt about reader feedback.  I so wish she were alive to blog today. And I'm pretty sure she didn't make her career off the backs of her husband and children because kids in the sixties and seventies were any better at doing what they were told or by staying out of trouble.  Bombeck did not once write that she'd be strapping tennis rackets to her children's feet like snowshoes to send them to school even if school was cancelled again because raising children is easy or delightful.  It wasn't then, it isn't now.  Don't let those fetishizers of parenting fool you.

I was one of those kids giving my mother another reason to reach for her nerve pills when I first discovered Erma.  My mom had some of her books around, but I didn't realize how amusing she must have found them because I didn't grasp the misery loves company appeal of it then.  I just saw Mom reading and laughing and thought what an odd thing that was.  Rare really, more than odd.

Even then, I read Bombeck while locked in the bathroom.  There was Just Wait Til You Have Children of Your Own and The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank .  I still remember a Bill Keane illustration of a mom ironing her daughter's hair on the ironing board while speaking into the phone, "Oh, just ironing something for Debbie."

Back when I was laughing at that, I had no idea of the kinds of things I'd one day find myself doing for my own kids.  Or the things I'd find myself saying.  When you're fourteen and tan and can wear pink velour tube tops without the slightest hint of irony, you never imagine yourself telling someone to stop licking the curtains or wondering aloud who you should call to have Cinnamon Toast Crunch delivered via dumptruck load because you're going broke buying it by the box.  No, you just give yourself another misting of Love's Baby Soft, apply some Bonnie Bell Seven Up flavored Lipsmacker and miss the opportunity to be glad for who you are then and how it all stretches out before you.  The way we humans are wired shelters us at that age.  We aren't able to peer into our futures for a reason, yo.

But now Bombeck is hilarious to me.  I'm that mom with my own Debbies and Steves.  It's me fishing keys out of the toilet and shouting down the heating vent in search of a lost hamster and wiping spills that no one else sees and praying to the laundry room gods for the safe deliverance from oblivion of all those random socks and finding new uses for old pantyhose and referring to my husband as "that idiot" under my breath.

And saying to my own darlings "Just wait til you have children of your own."

Black Magpie Theory: That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

Oh, hello.  I'm not here today.  I'm over at Black Magpie Theory.  Panicking.  Not picnicking.  Panicking. Two different things, I assure you. Come to think of it, I'd rather be picnicking on the moors with Colin Firth, but we don't always get to choose, do we?

No, no we don't.  Damn it.

While you're there, check out the awesomeness of the other writers and don't forget to nab the rss feed so you never miss a thing.  I know how you hate to be left out.

See you here tomorrow, my darlings.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Not Guest Ready

She woke up with a start.  Oh my god! Her daughter's friend used the bathroom at the end the hallway last night!  That bathroom was commonly referred to as the Kids' Bathroom so now you know all you need to know about it.

She rummaged around in her mind for the date when last she cleaned that bathroom.  Had it been a Quick Clean(TM) a couple of weeks ago?  Or was it a month or so ago when she'd bribed her youngest to do it?  That was the day when she didn't feel like cleaning it even though it was beyond a health hazard.  She'd just painted her fingernails and there were no rubber gloves to use to protect them.  They'd all gone missing.  Again.  The last time she'd had some, they became part of some neighborhood performance piece - filled with water or pudding and painted up to look like chickens.  Something like that.  Maybe they were supposed to be roosters.

So she asked the youngest to clean.  The oldest was at work, the middle at some baseball field getting covered in red Georgia clay.

When she approached her darling, she didn't seem terribly interested until some payola was introduced as an incentive.  Negotiations ensued.

"I'll give you two dollars for a thorough job."

"Make it ten."
"Two fifty.  Three."
"You're being ridiculous.  Seven."
"Three fifty and don't push it."
"Seven."
"Five and if you say anything other than okay, the deal is off, I keep my money and you run in place carrying two full jugs of water the whole time I'm doing it."
"You've been watching Malcolm in the Middle again."
"Going, going..."
"Done.  Five dollars.  Do I have to do it now?"
"Yes."

And so she did and she did a thorough job.  For one brief, shining moment, her lust for money took hold and she asked if there might be more she could do.  So her mother paid her an extra two dollars to dust and vacuum the living room.

But that was then.  This was retro-active panic gripping her this morning.  She sprang from her bed not to fly to the window and throw up the sash to look for evidence of a jolly little fat man carry a sack of gifts on his back, but to fly down the hallway to confirm just how embarrassed she should be on this otherwise calm Saturday morning.

It was worse than she thought.  She lifted the toilet seat and lid and died a thousand deaths of shame.  Mucky.  Yellow stains.  Flecks. A brown skid decorating one side of the bowl.  Dark, short curlicue hairs scattered over it all.  It looked as though Jackson Pollack had found a new canvas.

"I've been in back road truck stop restrooms cleaner than this," she muttered.

Her husband walked out of the bedroom scratching his belly and yawning.  "Did you say something?"

She could clean now and at least feel as though she learned her lesson.  Saying out loud to three teenagers and assorted cats "Some one needs to clean the bathroom and I do NOT mean me" was too vague, too imprecise.  Such a loose statement made to children and young adults amounted to an anachronism.  Everyone assumed that "someone" was always somebody else.

She thought of her many mistakes as she cleaned that bathroom and moved on to the next - the basement bathroom.  That was where they kept the litter boxes.  As always happens in these moments of crisis cleaning, one thing led to another.  She scooped out the chunks from the litter, cleaned the sink and toilet, shined the mirror, swept the floor and ultimately got on her hands and knees to wash it.  That lead to the same thing in the kitchen, three loads of laundry, vacuuming and spot cleaning the living room carpet, wiping down the stove, fixing the loose screws on the coffee table, boiling eggs, putting a table cloth on the dining room table and carrying out the trash.

Toward the end of the frenzy, she inspected her damaged manicure and shrugged.  It was time for a redo anyway.

Her daughter finally emerged from the cocoon of her bed and sauntered into the kitchen.  Normally one doesn't speak to this person before she's been awake for two hours, but there was no time to waste.  She had to spread her shame around to someone who might be capable of relating to it.  Later, she would realize the folly of that idea.

"I can't believe you let your friend use that disgusting bathroom."

"Mom, he had to pee.  What was I supposed to do?"

"Well, tell him that it doesn't always look like that."

"But it does always look like that."

She opened her mouth to protest, but saw the futility of it.  Of all of it.

Her daughter sensed her dismay.  "Don't worry though.  He pees a lot.  It's what he's known for among our friends.  The last time a bunch of us went to Six Flags, we had to stop three times so he could go pee."

"Okay so what's your point?"

"My point is that he's probably seen far, far worse."

"I am not comforted by that thought."

"I know, but it's the best I can do."

A Whiney Placeholder Updated and Expanded

Whoa, I did a hit and run on you this morning.  I thought about taking this post down, but that seems wrong since a few of you were kind enough to leave comments.  Thank you.  Instead I'm going to expand it because (1) There's more I wish to whine about and (2) There is no number two.  It's all about the whining and making you glad you're you and not me.  You sitting there all employed and paid up and thin. 

Oh, and it's about the titles.  I added titles because some website about how to blog better said to have subtitles to break up all the whacko text.



We Have Buckets and Bathtubs, We Can Make Do
It's true, I did wake at 3a.m. to worry about how were were going to pay the extra large water bill this month.  blah, blah, blah. I fretted it about that for a while and then I fell back to sleep and had a dream that ties to the next thing on my list.

Dreams of Mirena
(old) My weight has plateaued meanwhile I crave chocolate ice cream and broccoli. (begin upate)  As I mentioned to a friend the other day, I always spell broccoli wrong the first time I write or type it.  Brocolli.  Sounds more exotic.  It still needs butter.

So here's the dream sequence.  I dreamt that this weight and the strange cravings were a result of a pregnancy of which I'd gone unaware.  I swear to you, I am not pregnant in real life.  I would have felt the kid struggling by now.  So, please, don't worry.  Perhaps this whole pregnancy thing is symbolic of the nearly like giving birth experience of writing this manuscript. 

But here's the thing.  In my dream, I was pregnant, but didn't know it.  I went to the guy who looks up my vagina every five years, announces in a loud voice that I have a tilted uterus and then inserts my IUD while making jokes about the size of MathMan's penis in the form of offering to "cut the string on it (the IUD, not MM's cock)" if it's a problem.  Then I joke that he's making great leaps of assumptions about the fact that I'm even bothering to have sex with anyone these days.  We both chortle then we make a date for five years from then.

So I'm on the table, feet in stirrups, listening to some elevator version of a Nirvana song, and counting the dots on the drop ceiling when suddenly the doctor tells me to push and out pops this red, wrinkled, really pissed off little person.  And what do you know?  There's my fucking IUD planted right in that poor baby's forehead.  No wonder he's all annoyed and screaming.

That's when I woke up.  Well, actually, right before that, I said to the doctor "I thought that IUD felt funny when you put it in."

Then I woke up and groaned to MathMan about my back.  I was so ready to get busy bitching, I neglected to tell him about my dream.  Besides, I read somewhere that morning is when most people have heart attacks and why risk it?  I like MathMan.

Paging Doctor Freud (Pronounced the way Bill and Ted pronounced it during their Excellent Adventure)
This part still stands, but I'm rather miffed at the inelegant way I wrote here.  Alcoholism is no laughing matter, yo. I do think my drinking problem is getting worse and it concerns me that wine may or may not be considered an essential as we cut back our spending even further.  And wine is fucking impossible to find at the food pantry.  Plus there's no Trader Joes nearby so I can't even get two buck chuck.  I do like Alecto's suggestion of wine in a box.  At least that way, I won't feel so much like my departed mother-in-law.  Seriously, get me a some jugs of Gallo, cigarettes, a job in a library, and a penchant for computer solitaire and MathMan has married his mother.

Maybe I should have titled that section Winey.

Where I'm Going Is Nowhere Fast
Then:  Now I have to go.  I'm going to visit the Employment Office again.  Cough cough.
Now:  Okay, so I did this.  It was crowded.  Our community just recently lost 250 more jobs so the competition for the twenty-three jobs listed under our county have even more competition. Great.  Just great.  Eight of those jobs come under the agricultural heading and they want you to be able to climb a ladder.  Hell, I might be pregnant and not know it and I'm terrified of heights so those jobs are probably a long shot.

But at least now I know I have one week of benefits left.  One week for Congress to get its act together.  I don't care who is standing in whose way.  Just pull your shit together, folks, and get those checks into the hands of those people who aren't turning down jobs.  They can't fucking find the jobs.  I swear to Bristol Palin's engagement ring, I'm going to start posting the job postings here and let you guys see how much fun it is to try to find a job right now.

I came home and applied for three more jobs, including the one I got laid off from.  Just for laughs*.  Next on my agenda is the selling of books and other stuff, perhaps some plasma, and shaking down Chloe for more of her tip money.  Truth is - she's been contributing already while saving enough to pay her school fees.  It's the other two we should put to work in the fields.  They're not afraid of heights.  It's not like it's cool to sell them on ebay anymore.  Some dope ruined that for the rest of us a few years ago.  But hey - the cats. Surely, there's someone who wants to buy five cats slightly used.

I'm kidding about some of this, of course, so don't freak.  It's venting and amusing myself, hopefully you.  It's okay to laugh, you know.  If we don't find the humor in this, we may as well just quit now.  As for us, we're not considering a mass exodus yet.  Oh, there was one point yesterday when I thought you guys might be referring to The Goldens in the past tense, but that had more to do with the fact the some people around here are really, really loud and I was trying to work on my manuscript.  We all got over it.  They were banished and I started drinking earlier than usual.

Finally.

Cheer me up, people!  (You're still welcome to do this.)
And hey you, that guy who keeps emailing me about his sex life.  Stop it.  Didn't I tell you once that your situation reminded me way too much of a time when I was ready to tie my whole life to the railroad tracks and stand back to watch the splatter?  Why do you think it's clever to continue to send me your "stories?"  How on earth do you think that might cheer me up?  And yes, I'm being wildly passive aggressive by calling you out here, but sometimes it takes a sledgehammer.

(stet) Love,

Lisa

*Lie

Unemployment Diary: The Day Has Come

Two assignments for you:

1.  My post at Black Magpie Theory

2. This

Short Story: Bad Luck

“That’s bad luck, you know.”

Jesus, I hated Bobby Whitaker sometimes. I even fucking hated his name. Whitaker. His real name was Robert and most of us called him Bobby, but ever since someone asked him if he was that kid actor Johnny Whitaker, he wanted to be called Whitaker.

“Look, Bobby Boy, what makes you an expert on luck?” Thank goodness Crystal was here. She could whittle old Robert down to a nub with nothing more than half a glare. When she deigned to address him, she could demolish him by riffing on his real name.

“I just meant that you shouldn't touch that broken mirror. Besides, you might get cut on it.”

“But I didn’t break the mirror,” I could skate on the coattails of Crystal’s sass now. “So fuck off, Bobby.” I might not have the same ability to deliver a verbal punch, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to call him Whitaker. I had no intention of making him happy.

“Just leave it, Amy. Bobby's right about cutting yourself. You know what happened that time you bashed your nose on the ground when you slipped off the twirl bars.”

So she was going to put me in my place too.

"Are you guys ready to go? I need some gum.” I stood up, and nudged the broken mirror over the edge of the sidewalk with my toe. I could feel my face getting red at the memory of fainting in front of everybody that day on the playground.

Crystal jumped down off the ledge where she’d been sitting with her long, tanned legs dangling. I’d been watching her ankle bracelet with the little ankh catch the sunlight. Now her canvas sneakers, with the words inked all over, made a thud as she landed. “Mini Mart?”

“Okay.” Whitaker bent over and picked up a stick. “Hey, did you hear that Dennis Radcliff’s older brother got killed in a car accident?”

Crystal stopped and turned to him. “He what?”

“Yeah, killed.”

“Which brother?” Crystal looked a little ashen now under her mid- July tan.

“Tom. Why?”

I knew why, but I wouldn’t say. Not in front of Bobby Whitaker. Crystal and Tom Radcliff had made out at the 4th of July fireworks. I was with my cousins and my little sister walking up to the concession stand to get snow cones when I saw Crystal and Tom making out behind the old metal scoreboard. She didn’t know I’d seen. Crystal and I weren’t that kind of friends. She only hung out with us younger kids when her real friends weren’t around.

“I just. Wondered. Wow. Really? Dead?” The only other time I’d seen her even come close to losing her composure was when her kitten had been chased up an electric pole by some idiot boys. She stood in our neighbor’s yard and watched as the city worker went up in the cherry picker to try to rescue the gray and white striped furball that cowered and mewed at the top of the pole.

One of the workers was on the ground with the rest of us who’d come out in the summer heat to gawk. 
“Listen, girlie,” the rough-faced man grunted at Crystal. “You might want to go inside and not watch. If that kitten gets scared and touches the live wire.” He stopped.

Crystal looked up at her kitten. His back arched and he hissed and spit at the man in the cherry picker who was trying to coax it to come to him. A single tear formed and she swiped away at it with the hem of her red Adidas tee shirt. I watched her chest heave as she tried to remain calm. She swallowed hard. I could see her Adam’s Apple play up and down on her lean neck.

“I’m staying.”

Three minutes later, the city worker leaned over the edge of the cherry picker as it was still coming down and handed the struggling kitten to Crystal. As soon as she had that cat in her arms, he calmed down.

“Did you know Tom Radcliff?” Whitaker threw the stick into some bushes as we walked by the old gingerbread house we all used to think was haunted. That was when we were a bunch of little kids with more imagination than sense, as my dad liked to say.

“Sort of. Wow. How sad. He was only like sixteen or something.” Her voice had returned to its normal, I’m kind of bored tenor.

“Hey, Bobby, do you suppose it’s bad luck to make out with someone who’s about to die?” I don’t know where that came from. To this day, I still don’t know. The words just popped out.

Crystal stopped and looked at me with her mouth open, but she just closed it, turned around, and went on walking.

Whitaker fell back alongside me. “I bet you’re about to learn more about bad luck than you ever wanted to know.”

I cast my eyes down and watched the cracks in the sidewalk, careful not to step on any all the way to the store.

Photo credit: Craig Bender

And Now A Craving for Plums, As Well

I know you think I've been slacking.  Not true.

I wrote a shorty story for Black Magpie Theory.  It should be up this week.  I'll let you know when.  And I've clocked my thousand words per day on the manuscript except I took the weekend off.  I finished reading Simon Tolkien's book The Inheritance.  Here's my review.  I watched an extraordinary amount of television, including ten minutes of the World Cup, but I couldn't decide who I wanted to win and started having hornet sting flashbacks from all those horns so I turned it off again.  From the old Bucket List side of things, MathMan and I finished watching the Inspector Morse series.  Yes, I've included watching British Detective Series on my Bucket List.  Look - when you can't even afford a vacation to Mammoth Cave, a Bucket List screaming "Ride a Gondola through Venice" or "Walk the Great Wall of China Backward" is just wrist-slittingly depressing.  So yes - watching an entire series of shows is attainable enough to keep me going another day.

But back to Inspector Morse.  Oh how I miss that man already.  And yes, I cried when he died and Lewis came to the morgue and kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye.  I also crave broccoli with just a bit of butter.  Are you going to draw some conclusions about my character from that, as well?

Hang on.  You don't deserve that attitude.  Sorry. 

See, what I just did there was projection.  That's when you accuse the other person of doing what you're doing to deflect attention away from the fact that you're doing it.  It's a device heavily employed by cheating spouses and politicians.  And no, those aren't always the same thing.  I've never been a politician.  But still I know from projection.  And I know it when I see it, too.

So I was projecting onto you the fact that I have been drawing all kinds of conclusions about things without even the teensiest possession of fact.  And while that might make me a viable candidate for a t.v. show on some cable station or at least makes for a neato parlor trick, it's ..... what?

Thin air.  Nothing.  Nada.  Rien.

But then, isn't that what writers do? She whines.  We make things up.

Oh dear, Harold.  Now she's calling herself a writer.  Does this mean she's going to start drinking whiskey and claiming she's Hemingway reincarnated?

I could, but I won't.  Not today anyway.

Remember a few weeks ago when I told you that one of my bad habits is searching for meaning in nothing?  Oh, baby, baby.  I have symmetry coming out my pores this morning.  But it started last night.

On Saturday MathMan and I made our weekly trip to the library (Please, as you read this, pronounce the word library the way someone who speaks The Queen's English would pronounce it.  That's what I do.)  I sauntered over to the newish books and picked up for the twenty-seventh time Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist.  I did the page flicking test as I read the first page.  Very agreeable page flicking paper.  Test one is a go.  I sauntered back over to where MathMan was reading a Sara Paretsky* novel and sat down.  I hadn't stopped reading Nicholson's funny, engaging writing.  Not even when I tripped over some toddler crawling around on the floor.  She's going to be fine, by the way.

Fast forward to last night.  Right before bed I'm still reading The Anthologist and I come across some references to Thomas Wyatt's poem They Flee from Me.  Now it's vital to this little scenario that you know and understand that I am not a great reader of poetry. I'm not even a mediocre reader of it.  In fact, sometimes I avoid poetry because it leaves me feeling inadequate.  I know some of the names, but I haven't read the poems much and, although I should be so very ashamed, I am not.  While some of you people were reading poems and getting degrees in English, I was reading and quickly forgetting a mess of French literature and poetry.

For someone who sees symmetry and symbols behind every bookcase and cloud, I simply do not "get" poetry.  I try.  I really do.  But it's beyond my reach mostly.

So anyway - I'm reading and there's this line:

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

And then I read a few more pages and Baker writes about meeting with another local poet who wants to start a reading series in Portsmouth.  I think he means New Hampshire.  Let's not go all crazy with details, okay?

Finally, MathMan finishes his Paretsky book and turns off his lamp.  I take this as a signal that he's ready for sleep and since he's the one with the job and has to be up at 6:30 a.m., I follow suit.  We choose an Inspector Lewis for our evening's entertainment and what do you know?  A little while in and someone is quoting Thomas Wyatt.

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

"Hey! I just read that line in this book!"  I woke MathMan up to impress him with my poetry cred.  He's a real trooper, that one.  When he wakes me up with his mathy eureka moments, I'm not nearly as enthusiastic.  I mean, he opened one eye and gave me a half smile, mumbled something and fell right back to sleep.

I felt like a scholar.  For thirty whole seconds I felt like I could fit in over there in Oxford.  England.

To add credence to my need to find meaning in nothing, when I opened up Firefox this morning, my statcounter was in the saved tabs.  And what do you know?  There was an ISP from Portsmouth, New Hampshire at 8:16 a.m.  "I wonder if it's Baker's poet/housepainter acquaintance Victor?" I asked the cat who had jumped up on my lap for our morning snog.  She just shrugged.  She's the least opinionated of all our cats.

I decided I'd better read the entire Wyatt poem and see if I could make sense of it.  Maybe there I would find out why exactly the universe seemed to be pointing me toward it.  (I know, that's a funny notion for a nonbeliever.)  I googled the poem and clicked the link to poetryonline.org.  And what?  What?  There's a sidebar ad for the World's Best Cat Litter!  A rebate for the entire amount of one bag!  And I was just talking to Chloe the other day about wanting to try that flushable litter!

"Look, Ivy!  There's the answer!  That's why everything transpired to get me to look up this poem at this very moment!"  I pointed toward the screen flashing the ad.

Ivy gave the ad a passing glance then looked up into my face.  Her green-grey marble eyes looked so sad.  "You seek something from nothing to fill the void, you silly woman.  You attach meaning to the abstract and random because you fear that you will die before you ever truly understand."

"Understand what?" I cried .  "Understand what?"

She just yawned,  her turkey and liver pate breath hitting my nostrils like the snap of a wet towel.  I printed out the rebate while I read aloud the Wyatt poem twice.


*Quote by MathMan, Mathematician, Pedagogue, Philosopher and Book Critic:  "Man, that Sara Paretstky sure can write a melee."

Work the Kidney, Work the Kidney

Something tells me it's hot out there.

Even so, that sadist MathMan dragged me into the heat and forced me to go to the gym.  'twas upper body day so I pumped iron with the Beefy Boys.  They don't smile much.  They didn't even giggle when I made that "So do steroids really make your balls shrink?" joke.  I guess steroids shrink the sense of humor, too.

And wouldn't you know, that same sadist drove me home in a car with air conditioning in perfectly good working order, but did he use it?  Heck no.  It's only 98 degrees according to my weather.com desktop thingy.  That little thing even has sweat droplets on its upper lip.  But no, we had to ride with the windows cranked all the way down so the supercharged hot wind could whip our tired bodies.  With a situation like that, maybe I don't need Bikram Yoga.

I fixed him though.  I reeked of sweat and surly attitude as I hung my head out the car window.  After yesterday's soap incident, though, I remembered to keep my tongue in.  All I needed to complete my afternoon was a bug in my mouth.

But you're sitting there melting in your own damn chair so what am I bitching about?  It's hot.  Deal with it.  I'm saying that to me, not you.  In fact, it's so hot shut up in this little office that I haven't managed word one of my word goal yet today.  Writing has not happened.  Staying up til three in the morning isn't conducive to my morning pages nor any other kind of writing so I'm still staring at my manuscript without a clue as to how to get started today.

But you know how it is around here during the month of July.  Any semblance of order disappears.  Without a routine, we're all running wild and even I have to be reminded to floss.  There's no school summer or otherwise to keep us on a schedule.  Baseball is essentially over.  We're too broke for a vacation.  So what do we do?  We stay up until all hours.  Chloe's out partying with friends or sleeping off exhaustion from waiting tables. (heh heh)  Nathan's screaming at his XBox Live.  Sophie's in her room creating art and bedlam while drinking Mountain Dew straight from the 2 liter bottle.  MathMan and I are trying to get comfortable on that slab of concrete we call a mattress and watching British coppers solve murders.  And then when the alarm goes off at five thirty because we forgot to shut it off before finally passing out, we know that's really just a signal to allow the R.E.M. sleep to kick in.

It's like someone steps on our circadian rhythms each summer.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

The good thing about being unemployed is that I don't have to go to an office and try to stay awake.  My bed may be uncomfortable, but it's better than trying to nap upright at a desk.

Okay, I have to go.  MathMan and I need to finish our debate over which is better - sweet or unsweet tea and I'm going to solve this heat thing by dropping a few ice cubes into my bra before I settle in to write.

Try to stay cool, lovers.

Regrettable Product Placement

I've become one of those people who the longer you know them, the more frequently you ask yourself how they get through the day without hurting themselves or others.

My first mistake of the evening was letting Sophia bake another cake while I’m trying to break my lifelong addiction to sugar. And you do realize it will be MathMan and me eating that cake, right? Because the children like to make food, they aren’t always so keen on consuming it. Not that that doesn’t make me question the wisdom of eating it, but clearly it's not enough to keep me from cutting a slice and inhaling it alone so no one has to see me and my food shame up close. I just sit and shovel that guilt-covered cake into my mouth and hope there’s no cat hair or spit or butter wrapper waiting inside like a nasty little surprise.  

Sophie was just mixing the frosting when the hooligans from across the street burst through the front door and demanded she join them in the pool.  I credit her with finishing her task although she left the table and mixer covered in a dusting of confectioner’s sugar and a sink full of dishes.

While MathMan wiped down the mixer and table, I put on my martyr apron and shifted things around in the sink. The measuring cup was slick with Crisco. What a pain that is to get clean. I ran really hot water and hoped that it would melt the stuff. Figuring I’d wait a little bit before actually washing the dishes, I squirted some Palmolive soap into my palm, did my best to scrub off the greasy residue, rinsed and went back upstairs to finish some writing that had been rudely interrupted by some nonsense or other. 

I noticed a small dollop of white stuff on my hand. Thinking it was some of that Crisco I didn’t clean off, I did what any person would do.

I licked my hand.

Set aside for a moment the utter disgust you're feeling because I just admitted to licking solid fat off my hand.  I was punished enough for my poor judgment.

Palmolive soap still doesn’t taste good. After all these years and all that alcohol and casual sex and therapy employed in a failed attempt to forget the taste of Palmolive administered as a deterrent to cursing, there it was once again assaulting my tongue with its tang.

"Fuck!"

It still doesn't work as a deterrent.