Seven Things I Like

Juli Ryan, an ex-pat living in New Zealand, tagged me with a great meme that I thought would be perfect for today since lately all I do is tell you what I don't like.  Juli, who is very funny and smart and sarcastic, might have been trying to tell me something.  And I appreciate it.  Because a nudge into the positive column is a good thing for me.

Seven Things I Like

1.  I like mornings.  Okay, let me qualify that - I like mornings after everyone has left the house.  Having to look at those half-open eyes and disgruntled, yawning mouths, and pulling from them what they might want for breakfast because, yes, like an idiot, I do set myself up to be a short order cook, is hardly worthy of rainbows and birdsong.  The good thing about that is that their requests are pretty simple - cold cereal usually. 

But once they are all gone for the day?  I'm all aaaaahhhh, breakfast on the deck with a book?  Why not?  So there's the upside to being unemployed.  In the old days, mornings meant driving, driving and more driving.

2.  Which means it's a good thing I like to drive.  Were it not so expensive and horrible for the environment, I would drive around more.  I love driving fast but not recklessly, I love winding meandering drives through the countryside.  I like city driving.  Emphasis on driving.  Not sitting in traffic.  You can keep that.

The last week or two without access to a car really was a severe clipping of my wings.  Maybe I should consider becoming an OTR driver.  Would I have to have my own truck?  Must research this.

3.  I like old time radio shows.  The Jack Benny Show, The Great Gildersleeve, Fibber McGee and Molly, Suspense, The Shadow, Lux Radio Theater, X Minus One, The Further Adventures of Johnny Dollar, Gunsmoke.   I love how the past is captured in sound and story.  I get a kick out of the dystopian visions of the future in the sci fi shows, the silly, almost verbal slapstick of the comedies, the running jokes in Jack Benny, and Fibber McGee.  Can you guys tell if that influences my writing?

4.  I like order.  Clutter makes me pissy.  But not enough to really do much about it.  Right now, I can see four instances of Lisa-induced clutter, but will I eradicate them today?  Highly unlikely.  Because....

5.  I like having a house fully stocked of groceries. And today is payday so I must go do the gatherer thing.  When we hit the skids, I realized how reliant we'd become on take out and going out.  Now that we eat almost exclusively at home, running out of ingredients and staple goods combined with living in the middle of nowhere is a pain in the cook's butt.  Hence, I love the Buy One Get One Free things that so many of the grocery stores are now doing.  Except, I always have to question - want or need?  Need has become the filter by which all pennies are spent.  This is not whining.  It's a statement of fact and something I wish I'd been more capable of when we still had my income.

6.  I like music.  All kinds.   I've shared with you my like for the sappy stuff we listened to in the 70s and 80s, but I also like 20s jazz, big band, classical, rock, rap, hip hop, punk, new wave, metal, Argentinian tangos, alternative, old school country, pop, emo..... music is playing throughout most of my day.

Recently, I was nudged by this blogger to expand my listening even further.  He sent me a link to some to Opeth and I was, at first, a bit unsure.  Then I listened and listened some more.  And now while I clean and lift weights, which I do when no one is around, because can you imagine MathMan and the kids' faces? this is the soundtrack.  You haven't scrubbed out a bathtub until you've done it to Opeth.

Don't worry, Randal.  I'm not going to muscle in on your territory.

7.  I like getting fun mail.  Like this from Lola who ran a contest which I won!!!!!!

The whole shebang.

I haven't smelled this good in a long time.

Clearly, Lola was prescient in the choosing of this gift.

You remember the Blue Flying Monkey I used to Gaslight my kids? It went missing. Now I have the IT magnet.  Mwahahaha.

In addition to all this cool swag, Lola included a bag of confetti and a blower so we could have a little party while we opened our gifts.  And we did.  Thank you, Lola.  This made for great fun over the weekend.

You guys know how I hate tagging people so here's the deal:  Do this in comments.  Or on your own blog when your muse has gone missing as we all know muses do (the unreliable tarts).  You can say I tagged you.  You.  Yes, you.  And you. 

P.S.  Number 8 of the things I like?  You guys.  I mean it.

Black Magie Theory: The Beck Girl

Sometimes it's fun to come at the whole political commentary thing from a different angle.  That's why I'm providing some adults only entertainment today at Black Magpie Theory.  Please come on over and see if you're over 18.  We will be checking IDs.

Thanks be to Tengrain for the fabulous graphic.

See you back here tomorrow.

Open Your Eyes Open Your Ears

The inspiration for this post's title comes from Jen's Realia who says "Pay attention - there's a story wherever you go."

Yesterday I used up most of my words
So today I keep it simple.
Someone told me to leave the house.  Thanks, Someone, who is kind of turning into a mentor.  I know this isn't exactly what you meant, but it's a start.  Something different.  Like this to go with it.

I finally picked up my camera and stepped outside. (You can click on any of the images to see them better.)

And I didn't even have to leave the yard!

Have a great weekend, lovers.  What's up your sleeve?

Adventures in Real Parenting: Who's Stalking Our Kids Online? Why - It's Us!

My friend Carole sent me a link yesterday that made me laugh and cringe simultaneously Oh, Crap, My Parents Joined Facebook is a delightful website highlighting the online faux pas of parents and relatives. Can you believe some poor kids have to deal with not only mom and dad, but Nana and Papa, too?  Yikes.

Anyway, the link was quite apropos to a Facebook status I posted this week.

Lisa Golden parents by text these days.

It's true.  Just ask anyone with kids, phones and thumbs.

Some days it feels like I communicate more with my kids via texts, facebook statuses and tweets than via the traditional methods of hollering across the house or having serious conversations across the kitchen table while avoiding eye contact.  Okay, "some days" is a boldfaced lie.  It's every day.  But I think we all prefer it that way.  We're mostly a bunch of socially awkward eccentrics so limited face to face contact is less painful physically and mentally.  Except for MathMan.  He's the least socially awkward of us and even he has some trouble in the eye contact department.  So when your most socially adept person is the math whiz in the family?  Doomed.  Is it any wonder my best friends are dead British detectives?

That was like matheism or something wasn't it?  Or am I a Mathist?  What has America come to when the only people you can safely mock are the smarty pants elitists who know how to operate a graphing calculator?

I'm still traumatized by him showing me his Parabola the other night, but I digress.  I'm supposed to be telling you how I found out via a modern day version of the telephone game that one of my kids is "in a relationship."

"So did you see?"  Sophie's eyes were glued to the computer screen.

"See what?"  I stopped cleaning whatever it was that required scrubbing to look her direction.

"It says here that Chloe Golden is in a relationship with (name redacted)."  This pleases her.  She likes Chloe's gentleman friend and just happens to be friends with his younger sister now.  Very cozy.

Today you learn about your child's love life via relationship status changes marked by that heart emoticon.  If you're lucky, this is followed up by a change in the profile picture which now shows the happy couple.  You can at least see what the other half of the relationship looks like. (And you can, of course, stalk their page, if they don't have the privacy controls on too tightly.) 

Gone are the days when parents knew when you were "going steady" by the clunky guy's class ring wrapped in yarn to make it fit your teenage finger so that you could wave it around for everyone to see without accidentally casting it off and blackening some poor bystander's eye.  That class ring business was when our parents knew to step up the flicking of the porchlight as we sat in our boyfriend's car parked in the driveway.  The more they flicked that light, the more we wondered if he was, in fact, The One.

Our parents weren't stupid.  They knew that the good stuff, if there was good stuff, had already happened down Dam Lane or parked behind the Baptist church on the lower end of town.  They just flicked those lights to remind us that they were paying attention.

It's pretty much the same thing now with the likes of Facebook, Twitter and texting.  Although this "paying attention" requires a bit more nuance.  A text, direct message or email usually requires a response or some follow up action.  A Facebook status or tweet is less defined.  The safest thing to do is not respond.  Don't be too conspicuous.  Trust me on this.

And if you can't help yourself, at least have the good sense to respond privately and not where all their friends can see. (See below for more specific tips.)

All this technology extends the ease of meddling a parent can do far into the ages when most of us were already fairly independent.  We're able to peer into our children's lives, delving into the details in ways we might later regret.

For example, I'm sure my parents did not want to know how many times I woke up in strange places, wondering where some missing piece of clothing had gotten to and what was that guy's name again?  Even now, they don't want to know (so if you're from Rising Sun and reading this and you happen to run into my parents, just know that NEVER happened.)  Just like they didn't want to see pictures of me in a bikini wagging my tongue at the camera or putting my mouth right on the beer tap.

"So are you going to do anything?"  Sophie was trying to gauge my reaction to this relationship news.

"What do you mean?"  I stood behind her and looked at the screen showing the photo of my beautiful Chloe in the arms of a very tall, very nice young man.

"Are you going to 'like' the relationship status or are you going to comment?"  Her eager eyes gave her away.

"No, m'am.  I believe that's called 'creeping' and I hate to be accused of that."  I went back to my cleaning as I considered these new unwritten rules for engaging electronically with one's offspring.  What's considered cool, what's completely cringe-worthy, what will cause them to defriend you forever and ever and ever.

I try not to cross the creeper line, but I don't always succeed.  Nevertheless, I feel qualified from a time tested combination of trial and error to offer some tips for how to effectively communicate with your children in today's world without making them wish they and you had never been born.

1.  Do not write terms of endearment on their Facebook walls.  No sweeties, baby girls, honeys, sugars, precious poo poo pants or darlings.  Those belong in a private message, a direct message on Twitter or an old-fashioned email.  Frankly, most kids don't ever want to see that in writing.

2.  Do not comment on photos unless you are 100% goon free.  This is not the typical parent's forte. On second thought - just do NOT comment on photos. 
2.a.  If you cannot resist the urge to comment, be sure to neutralize the creeping accusation by beginning your comment with "Sorry for creeping, but....."  and make damn sure your comment is either spot on, crazy positive without being cloying (a tough, tough balance) or super funny.  And yeah, kids don't find parents funny, much less super funny, so stick with quick and positive (no cliches!) and get the heck out of there fast!
2. b.  Resist the urge to interact with their friends on Facebook.  If you've been allowed into the secret club of being friends with your kids' friends, don't abuse the privilege.  Control your impulses to comment, like, post songs or send links.
2. c.  If you are posting about your kids in your own status, tread softly.  Using their names with a link can be done, but you must be careful with this.  If you're simply referring to them, just be aware that they might see it or, worse, one of their friends might see it.  Teenage boys do not like being called their mother's babies, I assure you.  And when you refer to yourself?  No third person.  No ....and now Mommy has to.... or anything remotely like that.  Resist the urge.  Martyrdom is a delicate business, you know.

3.  Use the "Like" button judiciously.  They're happy that it's Friday?  Fine.  "Like" that.  They're pissed at their English professor?  Finger off the "like" button.  You do not want your thumbs up there.

4.  Some kids post their mood swings like I used to change my hair color.  Do not overreact.  If you're really worried, pick up the phone.  Do not, I repeat, do not post frantic messages to their wall unless you intend to escalate things and blow up Facebook for all of us.

5.  Twitter is a bit trickier.  For Twitter, it's best to look and not touch.  Although being able to offer advice, solace, or the occasional bit of tenderness using 140 characters or less is a gift.  Use your best judgment, but know that the consequences of being blocked are legion and many.

6.  Yes, yes, we all think it's funny to embarrass our kids to a certain degree, but remember what it felt like to have your dad laugh out loud at that school banquet and that food went flying out of his mouth and you wanted to die right there in your chair?  Or how about the time your mom asked you out loud in the grocery store aisle if you needed any sanitary napkins?  Oh, you remember. 

7.  Finally, as a gift to yourself, you might consider setting up a separate email account just for your kids.   This is especially handy for people with children living away from home.  The beauty of this is that on days when you don't want to deal with the drama, trauma or little hiccups of parenting, you can simply create an auto response email that reads "I'm off duty.  If this is an emergency, involves money, technology, a ride somewhere or favors, please call your father.  In case you still haven't added him to your contacts, his number is xxx-xxx-xxxx and he still answers to Dad, Daddy or (fill in name here)."


I should stop here.  I already sound like a complete know it all and even though I've secured her permission to write this post, there's no telling if Chloe would actually approve or agree with my Helpful Tips.  I suspect she'd offer this short, helpful directive.  "Just don't."

Until she needs her papers proof read, of course.

Please feel free to add to the list.  What have you learned about communicating with family, friends, coworkers in this new dynamic?

Short Story: The Playlist

 1984 Sectional Champs - I'm the thrilled chick on the left.

I opened the package from Robert.  

In January, he'd organized an event to celebrate the retirement of the coach who'd lead our tiny high school basketball team to back-to-back championships.  Having just been laid off,  I felt selfish spending the money to take the trip.  I emailed Robert that I wouldn't be there and he emailed me back.

"Watch your mail."

Taking pity on me, I suppose, he'd mailed copies of the slideshow he'd put together and the local AM radio station's coverage of the games where our David beat the Goliath in the last second, creating one of the highlights of our senior year.

I popped some popcorn and settled in to watch the cd.  My daughter Sophia came and sat on the sofa next to me.

"What's this?"
"It's a slideshow from my senior year of high school."
"Is that you?"
"Yep."
"You were skinny."
"I was."
"Look at your hair."
"I know, right?  I miss my dark hair."
"Did you like being a cheerleader?"
"I did.  But cheerleading is different now.  It's more like dancing and stunts.  We didn't do a lot of that stuff."
"Everybody had big hair."
"Yep."

My son came in from outside and flopped on the love seat.  "Why did those guys wear such short shorts?"

"That was the style."

They sat with me for a few more minutes, reading the story of how the team had decided over the summer to give it their all, how no one expected a win two years in a row from this team because we were the smallest school in the tournament and we'd lost so many seniors from the previous year's winning team.  The slides slid over one by one with the story of how they did it.  Determination.  Practice.  Teamwork.  Know your strengths and play to them.

The cd ended.  Tears prickled behind my eyes.  I'd seen some of those people at my twenty-fifth class reunion in June.  I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat.  How silly.  Homesick for the place and the past?  What sentimental claptrap.

"Mom, what's this?"  Nate held up a cd with a colorful cover - pictures of downloaded music from itunes.

"Don't know.  It was in the box, but I haven't listened to it yet."

He opened it up and looked at the playlist.  "I don't know any of these songs except the last one.  Isn't that on Rock Band?"  He tossed the cd case into my outstretched hand.

I opened the cover and looked at the typed playlist.  "Songs for Lisa"
1.  Lonely Boy / Andrew Gold
2. Broken Hearted Savior / Big Head Todd and The Monsters
3.  Stand Tall / Burton Cummings
4.  Feels Like Home / Chatal Kreviazuk
5.  We Just Disagree / The Dave Mason Band
6.  Always Gonna Love You / Gary Moore
7.  The Air That I Breathe / The Hollies
8.  At Seventeen / Janis Ian
9.  Midnight Blue / Melissa Manchester
10.  Everytime You Cry / The Outfield
11.  Don't Give Up / Peter Gabriel
12.  Sad Eyes / Robert John
13.  I Don't Want to Talk About It / Rod Stewart
14.  Leather and Lace / Stevie Nicks & Don Henley
15.  I'm Not In Love / 10cc
16.  What's Up?  / 4 Non Blondes

"Man.  I haven't heard some of these songs in forever."

"Are you going to listen to it?  Or, what I really mean, is are you going to make us listen to it?"  He shifted from foot to foot, itching to make a break for it.  Sophia stood up and slunk out of the room.

I laughed.  "No.  I'll listen to it later.  Just put it on my desk, will you?"  I tossed it back to him and hit the rewind button on the slideshow.

********

"What's this?"  Doug pointed at the dashboard.

"Oh that?  It's the cd Robert sent me.  I put it in my purse for when the XM isn't working.  I'm not going to  drive around listening to commercial radio or my own thoughts.  I'd go mad."

"Well, that explains the Memissa Manchester tweet."

"Indeed.  Did you like that misspelling?"

"Are you supposed to be texting while you drive?  I think not."

"It was a stoplight.   A long one."

"Uh huh."  He stuck his arm out of the car window.  "Thanks for driving.  My leg is still swollen"

I looked down at his leg. "Ouch.  Ready?"

"Yep.  God, isn't this weather nice now?"  The humidity had dropped and we drove with the windows down.  The sun had just faded at the horizon, leaving brushstrokes of salmon and lavender at the top of the ridge ahead of us. 

I turned up the music.  "Let's sing."

"What?"

"Come on.  Sing with me.  Here's the Melissa Manchester song...."

"What year is this from?"  Doug pulled the cd case from my purse and looked at the playlist typed on the inside cover.

"I'm not sure.  But here's something kind of strange.  Some of these songs remind me of things from my childhood.  It's like Robert knows things about my past.  But I don't know how he could know.  Does that make sense?"

"Maybe he stalked you."

"Yeah....no.  But seriously.  Like, I remember I'd gotten my hot pink Huffy ten speed. I must have been about ten or eleven.  I was riding it out to my cousins' house and I was really excited because I learned how to go with no hands."

"Look ma!  No hands!"

"Just like that.  But here's the thing.  I remember riding along and singing that song Midnight Blue all by myself.  I probably did hand motions, I was so happy and carefree."

"Carefree?"

"Work with me here.  It was a long time ago."

Doug took up his phone and started messing with the buttons.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking up that song.  Did you know Smokey Robinson has a song titled Midnight Blue?"

"Come on.  Sing with me....I think we can make it, if we try....."

"Are you sure he didn't have a thing for you?"

"Who?  Robert?  Nah."

"Maybe he just never told you."

I shrugged.  No, that was silly.  We'd never dated.  I probably kissed him during a game of Spin the Bottle, but that was it.  He was always nice, always there, but he never said anything about liking me.  Not like that.  Not even when we went away to the same college.  By the third week at Ball State, I hardly saw my high school friends.

"It's a funny playlist though, isn't it?"

"Heh, cheese and more cheese.  Just your kind of thing."

I hit the button, skipping to another song .  "Okay, so how about this one.  It's 10cc.  You know this one.  Duet?"  I glanced at him.  "You don't have to do the hand motions.  Just do back up, okay?"

He glanced again at the playlist, holding his phone over it to illuminate it.  "This is 10cc?  No way. This is their worst song."

"Honey?  Come on.  I know you can sing.  I've heard you when we play Rock Band.  Come on, time to sing.  I'm not in love, so don't forget it.   It's just a silly phase I'm going through..."

We rode along for a few minutes, him scrolling through his phone messages, me singing both lead and backround, mentioning that I could really use a synthesizer on the steering wheel.  Sometimes doing hand motions or pretending to clutch a microphone and trying not to sing with my eyes closed.

"Be quiet, big boys don't cry, big boys don't cry, big boys don't cry...."

The song ended and I pushed the button again.  "Oh!  Leather and Lace.  Do you want to be Stevie Nicks or Don Henley?"

He laughed.  I could see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye even as I kept my focus on the road stretching ahead of us into the dark.  The cool wind blew over us and he reached over and tucked some of my loose silver hair behind my ear. 

"I would never have given you a cd with Leather and Lace on it."

"But I saw Stevie Nicks in concert in 1983."

"So?"

I pushed the cd button one more time.  "Okay then.  How about this song - you can play the guitar solo, and I know you know the words to this one."

"This song does not go with the others."

"I know, right?  But let's sing it anyway.  Twenty-five years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill of hope for a destination..."

"More like 44 years, Lisa."

"Don't remind me.  And I say, hey hey hey hey I said hey, what's going on?"

Okay, spill it - which of those songs did YOU sing along to? Hand motions? Were your eyes closed?

Is That a Parable or a Very Subtle Joke

I'm just going to tell you this up front - I don't know how to make this funny.

Every week, and sometimes it feels like every day, I learn of another friend or acquaintance who has lost their job.

Yesterday I drove through an area not far from here that I can only describe as the "Place of Big Ideas, Lack of Financing."  Acres and acres of weeds threaded with ribbons of smooth, black roads with light blue pipes dotting the landscape like PVC stems bearing no flowers.

"Bank Owned Property - For Sale"

What a mess.  Where are the answers?  We grasp at what?   It feels like nothing.

I'm sorry for my friends and acquaintances who find themselves unemployed in this dismal economy.  It's not easy, this recalibration.  We bail out major corporations while those of us in these teeny life boats can't plug the holes fast enough. I asked MathMan the other day if he thought maybe this tipped ship of an economy was righting itself.  Maybe the next generations won't live in a society where it takes two incomes to maintain the illusion of a middle class life.

I hope they learn from our mistakes.  But as so many of them are already indenturing themselves through student loans and will be entering an unstable, uncertain and worker-unfriendly workplace, my confidence in their ability to do better shrinks with each bit of bad news.

Home sales are down.  Another bank in Georgia closes.

We know who to blame.  Or at least we have a pretty good idea. We just can't stop digging.  We'd rather fight over religion.

I'm not a believer, but I know plenty of people who are.  They pray.  I hope it helps.  No matter what, we all must draw together to weather this mess.

Don't be afraid to ask for help.  Don't be afraid to offer it.

This song is in my head. Maybe because it reminds me of happier times.  Times when I still had more of a future ahead of me.  Or maybe because it reminds me of how we all want answers.  From somewhere.

Still waiting...

Tell me your news.

Black Magpie Theory: Feeling Flush

I'm doing some creative accounting over at Blackmagpie Theory. 

Stay tuned for tomorrow's exciting episode:  What Happened During My Mammogram
Including the bonus feature 50 Ways to Use Those Left Over Nipple Stickers and Save the Planet

The Best Laid Plans of Mice, I Mean Cats and Men

Art imitates life. Or cats imitate art.  Or in a few months, we might have free kittens for good homes.

Yesterday I got my IUD removed which means MathMan and I must use a new method of birth control.  (Please note the copay for the elective surgery called vasectomy is and always has been out of our range of possibilities, so thanks for the suggestions, but no can do.) 

Considering our past inability to find and use effective methods not involving hormones, this should be fun.  We already have three "unplanned" children.  Unplanned does not equal unwanted (most of the time.)  We have living, breathing, food consuming, mess making evidence that neither coitus interruptus nor a wish and prayer - against, not for - are not, I repeat not, no matter what that guy told you in high school - effective methods of birth control.

And while all of our children were wanted and treated like happy little surprises until they pooped that first time, only one of them was a conscious decision.  On my part, that is.  MathMan just got dragged along for the ride.

Which would explain why, in anticipation of my IUD removal, he reminded me of my determined efforts to have a baby back when I was a silly young thing of twenty-five.  I'd stopped taking the pill because of weight gain and as a youngish married couple, we employed methods ranging from Russian Roulette to Hey, Nice Pearl Necklace! and when we were feeling responsible, condoms.  The Diaphragm and Spermicidal Jelly Incident proved both disastrous and traumatic.  MathMan didn't enjoy having a burning wang and I got woozy watching him standing in the shower trying to rinse out his third eye.  We were both such delicate creatures back then.  Parenthood would solve that.

We made that trip into the Carson Pirie Scott Baby Department where I saw those booties and next thing you know, I'm in Mom Training big time.  I started watching Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street on PBS, purchasing books on why midwives are superior to ob-gyns, quizzing my sister-in-law about her cesarean section and tossing around baby names.  MathMan knew trouble was brewing.  He just didn't realize how much trouble and how sinister it would be until it was too late.

So a couple of days ago, he thought it best to remind me of my past determination or folly, if you will.  "Listen, our anniversary is on Saturday.  Please remember what happened the last time you bit a hole in the condom on our anniversary."

Clever gods took their cue.  Chloe walked by our open bedroom door and glanced in.  "What?"  It's how she likes to open conversations these days.

I blinked at her and turned back to MathMan.  "I remember."

We've agreed that we will not tempt fate.  Abstinence, oral sex or butt sex it is.

Put your money on abstinence.

As if we needed our resolve reinforced, those same clever gods delivered this healthy dose of reality:

Nate went downstairs this morning to find Fiona the Not Exactly a Kitten Anymore standing outside the patio door staring back at him.

Oh.  Dear.

Listen, ever since I was that girl watching the city works guy on the cherry picker coaxing my kitten from the top of the electric pole, I've tried to have indoor cats only.  I can't take the stress of what if.  For weeks after that electric pole drama, I would not let that kitten out and when he did sneak out, I would search the streets, sobbing and calling for him before I would go inside to cry into my pillow and dream of horrible things happening to my precious.  So this kitten, who is yet unfixed because we haven't had the extra money to pay for her surgery, has been kept inside, forcibly maintaining her virtue even as she's been serenaded by the neighborhood Toms.

When the urge got to be too much, she'd bump and grind at our indoor male cats.  Since they no longer recognize the need, they responded with uncomfortable looks, searching for a quick escape from her mewling advances.

Last night she got out.  I believe she sneaked out while Chloe and her friend were coming or going. Thankfully, or maybe not, Fiona survived her nocturnal prowlings, but I doubt her virtue remains intact.  Upon her reentry into the house, all the other Pussies for Peace took defensive postures.  It was Crouching Tabby, Flattened Maine Coon Ear. Both male cats sniffed suspiciously around her backside. For her part, she acted a bit bored as she picked spider web from her whiskers.

Someone hissed.  It could have been me, but I think it was our alpha male tabby.

Bad Girl Fiona gave him a look.

"Hey, I offered.  You weren't interested, you eunuch," she said between bites of her food.  She was ravenous.

Before.

Giddyup!

It's tradition that I blog about my annual visit to the doctor to get checked under the hood, as MathMan likes to say.  I do this to show solidarity with my fellow females who also should be going for this slightly messy, slightly embarrassing and very important annual check up.  I also like to remind the males here that the whole turn your head and cough thing?  Cakewalk.

And we all have rectums so there's nothing to argue about there.

I'm a bit chagrined to tell you that I'm two months late with this annual visit and I still have it to look forward to on Monday.  Until then, I will just have to revel in the sweet anticipation of getting felt up, mashed, starved, finger-banged and sucked of my blood. That sounds like a fetish menu, doesn't it?

Here's some good news along the lines of credit where credit is due - I am now IUD free.  Once the insurance was sorted, the doc's office made an appointment right away et voila!  Today's visit wasn't with cute-boy doctor J with whom I normally visit.  This procedure was handled by the more seasoned Dr. Dubya.  Yeah.  I am convinced that there is not a single liberal doctor in this town so I'm stuck.  This is the practice where I once got into it with the front desk staff because she refused my request to turn down the volume or turn off the TV blaring Fox News.  I was the only patient in the waiting room at the time.

I'm certain that the choice of channels isn't so much to entertain or inform that patients.  It's a political statement.  But what's a chick to do?  Drive an hour plus to Atlanta to show her vagina to strangers?  Not unless I'm getting free drinks and big tips, my friends.

Even so, I try to be pleasant.  Our conversations go something like this:

Him staring into the abyss:  "So I see your uterus has dropped a little more."
Me:  "Really?  Wonderful.  I still can't afford the copay for surgery to have things removed and rejuvenated."
Him:  "Well, just try not to sneeze or cough too much.  Or laugh.  I guess I won't tell you anymore Obama jokes."
Me:  "Well there's the silver lining.  Tell me, though, if something does happen, will it look like a bowling ball falling out of me or what?"
Him:  "More like a tennis ball.  Smaller than that even."
Me:  "Fine.  I assume you'd like me to just tuck it back in and call for an appointment."
Him:   "Only after you've washed your hands."
Me:  "Well, of course, I'm not going to go stuffing my uterus back into my vagina with a pair of dirty paws."
Him:  "I meant you can wait until after you've washed your hands to call for an appointment."
Me:  "Why don't you go back to the Obama jokes."
Him:   "By the way, I like what you've done with the landscaping."
Me:  "Oh, I thought you'd like that."
Him:  "Yes, the landing strip is so 1998."
Me:  "Agreed.  And a nuisance to maintain."
Him:  "So how did you get it to look like that?"
Me:  "The Fox News logo?  There's a template for it on their website."
Him:  "You're kidding!"
Me:  "Yes, I'm kidding."

Written Doesn't Mean It Will Ever Be Seen

Today I write letters in true passive/aggressive style.  That means I won't mail them, but a couple of weeks from now, I'll be telling you how the losers addressed never responded.

Dear Schools,
No more plastic water bottles.  Why not sell reusable bottles with the school logo?  The kids buy them (or steal them) at the beginning of the school year, take them home to be washed by the magic washing elves and bring them back each day.  You provide access to clean water where the kids can fill up their bottles during lunch.  Easy, right?

Thank you,
Mrs. Sick of Schlepping to the Recycling Center

************

Dear Trouser Manufacturers:
Please reinforce the back pockets where men typically carry their wallets.  Patching that spot is next to impossible for a piker with a needle and thread. 

Thank you,
Mrs. Sore Thumbs

************ 

Dear Satellite TV Provider,
I'm sorry we couldn't pay our bill these last two months.  You know how it is - back to school, the car needed four new tires.  I just wanted to let you know we've gotten a good laugh over the Congratulations! You now have a Dish 500! message that flashes on the screen when you turn on the TV.  And that added touch of having the channel switch immediately to the one where the super cheerful people tell you the 526 ways you can pay your bill? Brilliant.

Question - how did you decide to take away all of our channels except Bravo and BBC America?  I mean, I don't really miss having 600 plus channels of wedding planning, little people, ghost hunters, Housewives (who are anything but), and Gordon Ramsay being a pompous twat, but seriously?  Now I have two "real" channels.  The first is brimming with Housewives promos and the other is still a whole lot of Gordon Ramsay being an overwrought dick.

Oh, and what mad logic is this?  I can't pay my bill so you give me 28 shopping channels?  I don't know if that's clever or cruel.  Either way, that's some wicked corporate humor.  Anyway, just thought you'd like to know.

Regards,
Mrs. Will You Take a Kid in Exchange for PBS access?

************ 

Dear Family,
We are moving closer to MathMan and Nate's school.  If they're up at 5:00 a..m., I'm up at 5a.m.  I'm supposed to be a lazy good for nothing living off the system.  Being up and productive* at 5a.m. is bad for the bad reputation, you know.

With love,
Mom/Lisa

*Productive is indeed subjective

************

 Dear Pussies for Peace,
Please get your time share plans sorted out.  Who's on the pile of towels in the bathroom, who's curled at the foot of Nate's bed, who's at the top of the stairs or on the faux marble in front of the fireplace, who's blocking the fridge.  All this hissing and swatting isn't in keeping with your general mission statement of world peace.

Gratefully,
The woman with the food and litter scoop

************ 

 Dear United Healthcare:
Thank you for saying yes to the IUD removal.  Now if I remain fat and crazy it's my own fault.

Warmly,
Patient number (redacted)

************

Dear Zachary's Creme Drops:
Why do you have to be so delicious?  (Please see letter to United Healthcare.)

Droolingly,
Madame Sweet Tooth

************ 

Dear Lady in the White Car:
Please note I understand the need to inch up at the stop sign, but what you did today as I drove by almost made me pee my pants.
Annoyed,
The Bug-Eyed Woman in the Other White Car

************

Dear Georgia Power:
Your website says the Massell Road branch opens at 8:30.  The sign on the door at Massell Road says 9. 
Please fix.  Thanks.
Signed,
A customer who can't get that half hour back and who forgot her just in case book

************ 

Your turn - what letters would you like to write, but not maill?

What Will Make You Believe Me?

I keep dreaming of tornadoes.  I'm not quite sure what to make of that.

Last night, I didn't dream of tornadoes, but at one point I did rest in that in-between state - not awake exactly, not quite gone.
And I thought about how lately I see an abundance of the Chevy trucks like the one I lost my virginity in all those years ago.
Having your cherry popped in the bed of a truck does not make for a great romantic tale.
Except there were stars overhead somewhere, I suppose.
I couldn't see them though because my eyes were probably squeezed shut and the camper shell would have made it impossible anyway.
Those were the days.
When I thought Micelob beer was the height of sophistication.
And he was pretty special.  Or, at the very least, convincing.  No, he didn't have to get me drunk or marry me first.  Yes, I'm now friends with him on Facebook.  I mean, how else would I have a complete set?  He's key to the Old Boyfriend Buffet, right?
So now I see those trucks all over town and here's the thing that causes me to notice:
Those Chevy trucks are adorned with those Antique Vehicle license plates and since it's all about me, I conclude:  My virginity is an antique.

Black Magpie Theory: I'm Fixin' to Fix These Elections

It's time for a new Molly Ivins to come on the scene. Volunteers?

See you around these parts later this week.

Room Service

I call this Make Your Own Vacation

Taking a break to sit in my lawn chair and read that pile of books and Harpers magazines that keeps toppling over and getting underfoot.  It's so hot and buggy out that I've moved the lawn chair to my bedroom.  Luckily, it works with the decor.  Lately, I can't go outside without an encounter with aggressive stinging things.

Before I go, I want to remind you to check out my sidebar.  There's Lola's contest (click the sexy bunny) and lots of great stuff on the blogroll.

Also, a special wish for a safe and wonderful move to susan who has recently retired and will be leaving the Pacific Northwest to go to her new home in Nova Scotia.  That's a lot of change and I can't wait to see what art and stories come from it.

Thanks for the supportive and encouraging comments about the weight gain and IUD.  I called to make an appointment to have the IUD removed and was informed that it would take up to a week to check my insurance benefits.  After that, they'd make an appointment for the simple procedure.  Good thing we don't have that vile socialized medicine.  While I wait a week just to be able to make an appointment because the private bureaucrats have to decide if I'm "approved" or not, I noticed on one of the Mirena message boards that the posting Brits would be on in the morning writing about their symptoms and their decision to go through with the removal and then they'd be back later the same day to about their appointment scheduled in the next day or two to have their IUD removed.  Oh yes, our system is superior.

While I wait for word from the doctor's office, I suggested to MathMan that we do a DIY.  His miner's hat with the light on top (don't ask), some clamps and a pair of needle nose pliers from his tool box and we're all set, right?  Sadly, he declined.  I don't know what he's worried about.  It's not his birth canal.

Oh, BTW, Que.  I mentioned to him how you'd busted me on the sex drive ruse.  You were right.  He knew he was being taken for a ride. Metaphorically.  He responded with a choice one-liner.

"Who am I to get in the way of you and your uterus?"

Indeed.  Tell that to the insurance company.

Have a great weekend, lovers.

Love this guy's lyrics.

Will Be Seeking Other Protection

My fat and I have not become friends.  Even after all this time, I cannot warm to it.  In fact, I recently suggested to this spare 4x4 tire around my middle that I'd like to test that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder theory.

The stubborn fat did not take the hint.

I spend time wavering between the knowledge that I've come by this chunkification honestly and cursing it as I try and try and try again to delete it from my life.

First - the reasons for it, as repeated to myself:  Listen, it's been a rough couple of years.  Job loss, moving, rape, an affair, a near-miss divorce, long commutes, the oldest child leaving the nest, financial difficulties, a bankruptcy, loss of a house and car to the repo men.  So you stress ate your way through it?  Big deal. 

It's all excuses, I respond to myself.  You are fat because you eat too much and don't move enough, you big, fat baby.  Seriously, who do you think you're fooling?  I've seen you eat ice cream.  It's not pretty.

So then I try all the formerly effective methods.  A few years ago, these things worked for me.  I have photographic evidence.

Starvation, speed from a certified dealer, exercise, Body for Life, The Belly Fat Cure, sensible eating of vegetables, fruits, lean meats and whole grains, limiting my sugar intake.  Low carb.  Low calorie.  The beer diet.  The wine and cheese diet.  The oh what the hell, it doesn't matter as long as I run five miles a day and lift weights regime.

My weight resembles the flag tied to the middle of a tug-of-war rope.  An inch this way, an inch that.  And my fat ass?  Usually ends up in the mud in the middle.

I despaired, but didn't give up.  I can feel my muscles shaping up in my legs, my upper arms.  My abs, however, are mush.  Even on days when I nearly starve myself of everything but olives and vodka, I feel bloated.  I take off a few pounds and they come back again and what I'm doing physically and what I'm consuming doesn't seem to matter much.

You're getting old.  All those years of living on speed have wrecked your thyroid or your metabolism.  You are doomed to a life as a fatty.  Go buy some caftans, make that your signature look, pop a colorful turban on your head and move on.  There's a new bakery in town, you know.  My internal conversations become more deadly, more resigned and self-shaming.

Then someone sent me an email suggesting that my IUD might be causing some of my weight and depression issues.  My Mirena IUD has hormones in it, you see.  At first I dismissed the idea because this is the second Mirena I've had.  The first one lasted five years and, although I battled my weight then, too, I simply chalked that up to the stress eating from job change, a move to Georgia, more money problems and my indomitable sweet tooth.  What depressions and mood swings I experienced, I assumed they were the result of those life issues, as well.  I'd always bore a sweet tooth.  It was simply more.  Law of diminishing returns or addiction, you know what I'm talking about.  It took more sugar to get that same feeling of satisfaction.  Before the guilt set in, of course.

What didn't occur to me was the fact that all that stress eating, the cravings, mood swings and depression might be exacerbated by hormones in the IUD.

Then I googled Mirena weight gain and found forums and message boards populated with messages from lots of women experiencing the exact same symptoms I've been having.

Today I'm calling my ob-gyn to have this thing yanked.  I realize that after that, I'll have to deal with the fact that if I remain fat and depressed, it's my own damn fault and will finally have to go in for that lobotomy/liposuction treatment at the boutique medical facility/spa.  I'm prepared for the worst.

Mind you, contraception is not something to be taken lightly.  I knew I'd have to discuss this with MathMan.  I told him what I'd found out - how other women had experienced the weight gain, the mood swings and cravings, the bloated feeling, the boob rash and acne.  I told him what I planned to do.  He listened in his typical fashion - supportive with a hint of skepticism.  I'm pretty used to that.

"Oh and hey, the info I've found suggests that after a few weeks without this thing, I'll get my sex drive back."

I love it when he jumps up and clicks his heels like that.

Looking for That Magic Number

So what is the magic number?  No, seriously - what is it?

Maybe it's just me and maybe it's because I've been spending time on websites offering expert advice on things like writing, getting published, changing your life and losing weight, but there seems to be an extraordinarily high rate of numbered lists ricocheting all over our beloved internets.

It seems to me that experts love numbered lists.  I bet it all started with an article telling writers how to write good blog copy. Picture it:

Ten Great Ways to Make Your Blog Better!
1.  Use numbered  lists
2.  Use a number in your title

You see what I mean, right?

So here's a sampling just from my rss feed reader today:

5 Money Lessons from the Third World

Top Five Methods of Procrastination 

Okay, so maybe five is today's the magic number.

Anyway, this got me to thinking - what numbered lists could I write?  I'm lazy and don't want to do a lot of research so I must draw from my strengths.  Let's see...

Eight Ways to Camouflage Cat Vomit Stains on Your Carpet!
This one would be super easy for me to do.  I've been practicing for this one since we got Phoebe the Boy Cat back in 1990.

Three Never Fail Methods for Losing and Gaining The Same Four Pounds in One Week!
I could speak to this with authority even with one vocal cord tied behind my back.  Although that title may need some polishing.  There may be too many numbers....

How To Make Those Seven Deadly Sins Less Deadly in Six Easy Steps

• 3.1 Extravagance
• 3.2 Lust
• 3.3 Gluttony
• 3.4 Greed
• 3.5 Acedia
• 3.6 Despair
• 3.7 Sloth
• 3.8 Wrath
• 3.9 Envy
• 3.10 Pride
• 3.11 Vainglory

Okay, this one might take more "research."

Oh and deadly sins - no matter how many there are - don't get an exclamation point.  That would just seem to scream bad taste.

What else?  What else?

Four Moves Any Great Lover Should Use.  Every time!
Now that gets an exclamation point.
P.S.  I will not divulge whether I am the great lover or if I've been on the receiving end of a great lover.  Rest assured there's no knuckle involved.

Three Ways You'll Wish You'd Embarrassed Your Children
Yes, Facebook will be mentioned. Of course!

Wine and Chocolate, Porn and QVC Shopping:  Twenty-three Ways to Multitask Your Vices
Okay, you see through the lie on this one, don't you?  I don't have money to shop.

Stunning Simplified - Ten Tips for Rocking The Sweatpants and Flip Flop Look
I admit I don't own sweatpants anymore, but yoga pants are a useful substitute.  And my memory is intact.

So what is it about numbers?  Does it make the writer of the article sound more authoritative?  Does it lend some some air of expertise to the information?

How is Ten Great Ways to Make Your Blog Better! more appealing than an article titled Make Your Blog Better! (question mark.)  Is it the finite quality of the number?  Does that make it seem more manageable?

I know one way to find an answer.  I'll ask our resident numbers expert Mathman when he gets home.   Goodness knows that man needs yet another reason to roll his eyes at me.  It's been days since I inadvertently set anything on fire.

Meanwhile, I think I will do some "research."  I'm thinking about an article entitled "Five Ways to Make Piles of Cash While Napping."


What expert advice do you have to offer? Number or don't.  We're not picky.  Although, anyone suggesting I don't take any wooden nickels gets a karate chop.  Oh, and be sure to check out the sidebar where I've finally added links to my favorite blogs.  There are new friends and old there.  Go visit!

  

My beacon's been moved under moon and star

Something weird is going on around here. It's a new something weird.  Perhaps it's sunspots or some electromagnetic field emanating from all the back to school ions.  I've considered and dismissed any supernatural interference.  I'm not  interesting enough to have my own poltergeist.

It started this morning when I turned on the TV to see the weather. I noticed immediately that something was wrong with our DishNetwork because the channel that normally houses Turner Classic Movies showed something decidedly not classic, nor terribly theatrical.  The woman in the lab coat spoke Spanish while an 800 number crawled the bottom of the screen.

I investigated.

Food Network was now Pakastani TV resplendent with waving flags and echoing commercials.  HGTV appeared to be something from China.  Maybe Korea.  C-SPAN was, we assumed, coming from Japan.  The newsreaders bowed to one another.

"This is odd."

MathMan had to get himself and Nate out on time so he showed barely a passing interest. He must have forgotten that I'm banned from tinkering with the electronics.

Sophia and I watched a few minutes of something that looked suspiciously like Full House except it was in Russian. Possibly Greek.  And Uncle Jesse was some punk girl with a head full of long, dark hair.

Slowly, channels came back on line.  When Fox News returned and MSNBC continued to be some sort of French news broadcast, I considered the possibility of a right wing conspiracy.  My ability to understand the channels is usually the other way around - it's Fox News that doesn't make sense to me.  But then MSNBC, HGTV, and whatever channel it is that's obsessed with Little People came back.  Not that there's anything wrong with Little People, but how many shows following around Little People while they live their lives do we need?

Anyway, I breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out my phone to post a Facebook status.

"Have TV again, breakfast is made, hubby and teen on their way to school, tween in the shower, the sun is shining and laundry is going.  Life is good."

Mid-crisis, shame and practical issues prevented me from contacting DishNetwork.  If I reach out to them now, they're just going to demand I pay my bill already.  They'll get paid what we owe, of course, but since we've been considering letting Dish become the latest casualty of our fiscal revamping, it might just do to let the service run out.  A natural death of sorts.  My main concern is for all those programs tied up on the DVR.  Poirots, Sherlock Holmes, a whole mess of Miss Marples, several Alfred Hitchcock movies.  I never remember to ask MathMan to show me how to record them onto dvds until it's too late, he's too tired or someone is watching something else on TV.

Still - in the grand scheme, losing a bunch of programs is nothing.  Nada. Rien.  Diddlysquat.

Later, other things started going wrong.  First, the DVD player became uncooperative.  The menu wouldn't come up.  The fast forward and reverse buttons revolted.  I changed the batteries to no avail.  If a change of batteries doesn't fix the problem, what next?  Sledgehammer?  Elephant gun?

Throwing the thing across the room is largely frowned upon in this household.  Being a good example is such a drag.

Adding to the electronic curiosities was the fact that when I pushed the remote's volume button, it would shift the sound up to 100 without stopping.  When I pushed it to decrease, it scrolled all the way to 0.  The only way to get it to stop at a somewhat decent volume was to play a sort of game - push the increase volume button and then quickly push it again where it would stop and stay on say level 16.

The final straw was a visit to the upper channels - the Island of Misfit Toys of the movie channels.  Not the premium channels.

Oh, that movie may have been British.  It was made in the 1990s or 2000s.  It was set on a country estate.  But that movie was not Howard's End.  There was no Helena Bonham Carter, no Emma Thompson, no Sir Anthony Hopkins.  I did recognize one of the male leads.  Matthew Goode.  He played  Patrick Simmons in Agatha Christie's A Murder is Announced and was most recently in A Single Man, but I only know that from IMB.  I haven't seen the movie.  Dang it.  A little research tells me what was being passed off as Howard's End was actually Brideshead Revisited.

"Do you suppose all of this electronic humbuggery is due to some cloud around me?  I have been rather difficult, putting off bad vibes and all."  The cat to whom I directed my question yawned and tucked her head under her paw.  "I don't suppose Dish Network would give us a month of free service in exchange for having messed with my head."  The cat remained indifferent.

I realize this is more of the same - modern day complaints.  Back when a person like me would have been out feeding the chickens in a blizzard or poisoning herself with bluing while laundering the Lord's and Lady's bloomers, the notion that pushing a button would cause so much fretting and consternation would have made us peasants laugh with our toothless mouths wide open. But I live now and I have certain expectations and when I turn on the television and can understand Fox and Friends better than I can understand anything else on TV, I think I'm entitled to a little modern day groaning.

I mean, a person can only take so much, right?


What buttons are you pushing today?

I was feeling sensations in no dictionary

A couple of days away from the computer can enlighten a person.  When I look inside, I wish I'd forgotten my flashlight.  I want to tell you about the dark moods, the depression that had me pinned to a chair or the bed.
A book was involved.  Not one I wrote, but one written by Patti Smith.  It wasn't the book's fault.  It was merely an instrument.  A tool.

I started to read Fight Club right after finishing - I mean the same day, the same hour - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand.  (Read my review here, she screamed).  That might not have been such a hot idea.  It caused literary whiplash.  From the English countryside with a dash of curry to Marla Singer and the Brain Parasite Support Group.  It made me want to smoke a pack of cigarettes and kill myself.

I opted for something less smelly and permanent.

I tossed Fight Club aside and picked up Just Kids which had, earlier in the week, passed all those Is This Book Worth of My Time tests and so I took it home from the library and placed it on top of my stack.  Which is more like a tower, but so what?

I'm still reading it.  I am a slow reader, apparently.  MathMan accused me of being devastated by drink.  "One beer," I sighed and accused him of prudery and prohibition-like qualities.  It's not my fault that he's not allowed to drink while taking his Zocor or whatever it is.

I fixed him. I watched a bunch of dvds without him. They were our bedtime dvds borrowed from the library.   British mysteries. After I did that, I told him the ending of an episode of one of the Touch of Frosts.  He said it was okay to tell him.  He could see that I was anxious to spill the beans and emotionally fragile so he gave me that small gift of concession.  I bet he'll hit me with it later - my inability to keep something to myself.  That's the way things go here.

When she is bad, she is really unpleasant.  Somewhat hateful.  Thirty percent bitch.  Easily. I spread the hate around passively and aggressively.

I mocked my friends of Facebook.  Ranted and raved and wished they'd shut the hell up with their posts about what they'd had to eat, what foods they'd prepared, how hot or rainy or whatever the weather was doing.  And those fucking to do lists people post. Really?  The world needs to know that you're doing laundry?  Listen, tell us when you haven't done laundry for six whole months.  That would be interesting.  In fact, I want pictures of that.  Get to it.  Filth it up and free yourselves.  Make being unkempt your gift to the world.

Create dust a la Pigpen.  Please.

This abuse of social media is a scurge. I know.  I'm the person who posts a Smiths song every day.  Or did.
"I'm going to put up a status that says something like "I am judging you and not so silently," I harrumphed at MathMan as we made our way back from the grocery store.  I was checking Facebook from my phone since the desktop computer decided to be all prissy and difficult and we'd run out of things to talk about on our drive. Plus, I could tell his mind had wandered back to its comfort zone of school and mathy stuff.  I can't compete with that.

"Or maybe I'll write something like 'Spare me the details.' and mean it."

Our modern woes are ridiculous.  I would have turned into a quivering mass of jelly right before I keeled over and died if I'd had to live in Victorian England.  I wouldn't have lasted twenty minutes as a homesteader.
My bee phobia keeps me from carrying out the compost, for goodness sake.

Weak as water.  Okay, maybe not the poison water around here.  The stuff loaded with mercury and lead and arsenic.  You could walk across that stuff without being someone's savior.  But weak.  Like me standing in the line at Dairy Queen..  A small blizzard is a triumph over evil.  I'll harbor anger while I eat my small treat while wishing for a large.  With lots of M&Ms and chocolate sauce.  Want to see me get pissy?  Let the DQ skimp on the chocolate sauce swirled into my blizzard and I'll turn thirty shades of purple, but will I ask for more?  Of course not.  They might spit in it.

Things I hope to never see on Facebook again:

1.  Hubby.  Does he not have a name?And oh my word, the noise we'd all make if men started referring to their wives not by their names but by the term wifey.
2.  Woot.
3.  Bilgewater.  Okay, I made that up.  Someone please use it.
4.  Hot.  Cold.  Windy.  Humid.  I know you mean well.  You're just making conversation.  It's an ice breaker.  But please.  Times are tough.  Let's not put our meteorologists out of work, too.  The last thing we need are those folks competing with the rest of us for jobs at McDonalds.
5.  Whoo Hooo!  See #2.  I'd rather see you saying something new like Ta Da!
6.  Referring to your family with the same label every damn time.  I get it.  Your son or daughter isn't a kid anymore, isn't quite a teen. 

You guys stop and I promise you - no more Smiths songs (except for those I put right on La Belette Rouge's and Kirie's walls) and no more cat photos.  I'll even stop posting pix of my favorite beverage of the day.

That book. That bloody book.  The good thing is I don't flinch anymore when Brooklyn is mentioned.  Small victories of memory.  Robert Mapplethorpe, with whom Patti Smith had an affair in the late sixties, was so beautiful. Their affair morphed into a lifelong friendship.  Back when his art was causing a stir, I didn't pay much attention to the artist.  The fisting, the crucifix submerged in piss.   (Thanks for clearing that up, Nan!  I got my avant gardes mixed up.  I do like your take on it, though.)  That was salaciously interesting enough without letting my eyes slide over to any photos of the artist himself.  But there was so much more to that guy who, like so many of his contemporaries, died young.

"Pioneers without a future."  That's a quote of a quote. From the book.  It may have been Allen Ginsberg who said that.  MathMan tells me that the Beat Generation stuff was not his favorite time period for art.  It mystifies me that he even thinks about poetry or words.  That would be like me saying I stop thinking about writing and reading long enough to consider the curve of a slope of sign or co-sign and Pi or all that other stuff he tries to talk to me about and my eyes glaze over and he pushes his finger into the fleshiest part of my arm and says "Hey, are you in there?"

Actually, no, I'm not. 

I don't know enough to declare about poetry, much less Beat poetry, but I would like to see the movie Howl which is about Allen Ginsberg and stars that delectable James Franco.

Someone just recently introduced me to Peter Orlovsky.  Who is mentioned in passing in the book.

The truth is - I don't know that I "get" poetry. I like what I like.  A lot of the meaning is lost on me and my shallow self.  I read poetry with reference books by my side.  If I bother at all.

Anyway - back to my new friends Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe.  It's hard to believe that he was resistant to photography at first.  He preferred mixed media and collages made from found objects.  But then, there you are.  I still remember when MathMan suggested I use his Tandy 1000 to write a paper for some French class and I delivered those now infamous words "No, thanks.  I'll stick to the typewriter."

Their lives were full of art and The Scene of the Hotel Chelsea and all those artsy types in poetry, music, art, homosexual hustling, the book business, movies.  Andy Warhol, blah, blah, Silver Factory, blah.  I haven't gotten to the part where Patti breaks into the music scene.  It's coming. That's the thing about reading nonfiction about the lives of celebrities.  I know what's happened, in very general terms, up to this point.  The rest of the story is a mystery, of course.  Everyone's future is a mystery. Thank goodness.

And I'm interrupting that interesting retelling of an art-filled life to read a text telling me that someone has moved on from laundry to dusting their downspouts?  And it's not even a clever euphemism.  They really are telling the world about their Saturday chores.

Help. Me. Rhonda.

Here's how I know it may have been a visit from the Black Dog - I couldn't even pull myself out of the stupor? torpor? enough to shut off the sms messages that were annoying me.  Lazy or depressed or just meh meh meh.  Does it matter?  A mood. Cranky.  Not devastated by drink.  Not manic.  Not quite depressive.  People overload perhaps.  Being drunk would have been infinitely more fun.  For a while.

"I'm going to stay in our bedroom and not inflict myself on you guys.  I'd appreciate the same small courtesy."
Compliance is nice.  Safe.  Scream free.

All this meh-ness.  It's a build up to something.

A lovely stay in a padded room?  The cognitive dissonance of Snoop Dogg featured in a Katy Perry song?

The fact that I'm not really that fascinated by the whole seventies art scene, but Patti Smith's recounting of her life with Mapplethorpe is well-written, straightforward the way I like them, and a great reminder that one can go from feeling lucky to be able to afford a grilled cheese sandwich to being a household name in the cooler of households.

Imagine if Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe had Facebook pages circa 1969.

Patti Smith is leaving her favorite spot in the Hotel Chelsea lobby and going down to the El Quixote for a tequila shot with @Jim Carroll.  May watch him shoot smack later.  Maybe not.  Have some laundry to do.
Patti Smith hanging out in our small room, waiting for @Robert Mapplethorp to get dressed so we can go to Max's for another night at the Roundtable.  He's worse than a girl or some of our favorite drag queens.
Patti Smith at the laundromat washing @Robert Mapplethorp's black mesh t-shirt and wondering what he's making us on the hot plate.  Hope it's not beans and weenies again.
Robert Mapplethorpe finished washing the walls of our new studio, wonder if I can find any good mags at the bookstall down on 42nd.
Robert Mapplethorpe tired and bored.  Wish @Andy Warhol would notice me already.
Robert Mapplethorpe found a crucifix in the trash as I walked home from hustling down at Times Square.  Wonder what I could do with this?  But first I have to pee.

I love posts where people wonder what famous dead people might have done with the tools of our time.  Have you read those?  You know, for example:  Dorothy Parker would have used Twitter, not facebook.  Those kinds of posts.  However, now I can't find one to save my Google.  Plus my stomach is growling so my attention span for searching wanes.

But you get the idea.

Two kids, one adult down.  One to go.  A couple of more weeks of Chloe.  Now if I can figure out what to do with that cats, life will be perfect.  The house will be all mine again.  From 7:30 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. all mine.

I just posted a photo of Sophie on her first day of middle school and now friends are leaving nice comments.  How dare they?  Don't they know I'm fed up with all this?

This heat is making my brain melt.  There, I said. it.  Now I have to go fold clothes and make some startlingly fabulous baked good so I can post about it on Facebook, me thinks.  I'm sick of posting pix of my kids and cats. Or maybe I'll just write about the day of the week.  How will people know it's Monday if I don't add my voice to that cacophony trumpeting the day of the fucking week? 

I'm thinking of a live webcam of me ironing.....

Your assignment, you may choose, but you can't choose not to choose:  (1)  Imagine you're a famous person - dead or otherwise (alive, I guess).  What would you post on Facebook or Twitter?  OR (2) What do  you mock on FB or Twitter?  And if you say Smiths songs, I'll hunt you down to administer a titty twister.  Your titties, not mine.