That's Why

My Funny Valentine

2012-01-27T08:00:00.000-05:00

MathMan and I are not Valentines Day people. Rebels against most pop culture, we're too busy lamenting the crumbling of our culture as evidenced by Toddlers and Tiaras and Dance Moms to concern ourselves with the hearts and flowers pushed from every angle during the lead up to that special day. We have no use for forced sentimentality. No candlelit dinners. No reenactments of gauzy images from the engagement planning Pinterest boards of single, young women who haven't been scoured clean of romantic notions by reality.

The most romantic Valentines Day we ever shared we didn't actually share. It was 1990. I sat in a Bennigan's on Michigan Avenue drinking beer and sharing mozzarella cheese sticks with a co-worker while Mathman drove three hours through a raging blizzard from the Northwest Side of Chicago to downtown. It may have actually been four hours. Or six. I can't remember because the number grows with every telling of the story. He plowed on through, creeping past abandoned cars and stranded drivers.

That's love. Intrepid. Determined.Who knew the chains I clamped to his heart were better than snow tires? When he finally arrived in the sparkling fairyland of a snow smothered downtown Chicago, I threw my arms around him and hollered something like "Oh, Pa! You made it through the storm and you brought me some calico, too!"

He clicked his tongue at the pair of snow-caked horses and turned the wagon toward Lincoln Avenue so we could get home before daylight.

This year, however, I'm going to surprise MathMan by making a big deal out of Valentine's Day. I don't want to give too much away, but I'm probably even going to shower.

Little does he know, he's doing his part, too. He's buying me this book. In it there's an essay by Suzy who has this post about the book. This is one of my favorite posts by her because it gives you a sense of how she developed her sense of humor and great comedic timing.

And since I'm going to be so happy to get this book as my Valentine's Day gift, you can be assured that MathMan's gift is going to be one that leaves a smile on his face, too.

What's your favorite Valentines Day memory?

Just don't call him baby

2012-01-25T22:36:00.001-05:00

When we were children, my older sister Denise, younger brother David and I were like any other set of siblings. We fussed and fought and hung out watching television and snacking until our mother got home from her job at the courthouse. David went through a phase where he always wanted to watch Popeye. Of course, it's not like there five hundred channels to choose from back in the 1970s so Denise and I suffered through Popeye to watch The Flintstones, Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch.

I am ashamed of how we treated David sometimes. He was just a little boy, but to us he was the enemy. He was the Godzilla stomping through Barbieland, the pencil wielding homicidal maniac who stabbed the rag bodies of baby dolls, the kid who scribbled over my neatly colored pages in coloring books, the hair puller when I hurled the epithet Baby David his direction. Yeah, I deserved that bald spot.

But when he sunk down in his red bean bag chair in front of the TV and uttered the words "will someone make me a PBJ," either Denise or I would make him one without even spitting on it. We loved him and his sweet dimpled cheeks. My first memory of him is when my mother rocked him as a baby swaddled in a blanket. I clung to the back of the chair my toes curled around the rocker's runners and we sang. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

Despite the horror of living with two older sisters and having survived the torture we bestowed upon him, Dave grew up to be a man I'm proud to call my brother. He's a great father, I hope he's a wonderful husband, he has an important job serving his community and he's a great son. He's a much better son than I am a daughter. He's also a talented graphic artist and now he's writing, too, about his love of the outdoors.

Aside from the crazy pride I feel for him, I also enjoy reading Dave's blog because it gives me insight into this man I grew up with, I get to see the past through his eyes. His perspective and experiences are unique.

As the only son and the youngest, Dave had a different relationship with our parents, especially with our father. They spent a lot of time together and while I don't want to give you the impression that it was all back-slapping manly jocularity, the two of them definitely shared interests, information and a language that none of us womenfolk (what?) understood.

When I see my own son Nate and my husband together, I have a better idea of what my brother's relationship is like with our father. Nate reminds me of David - impatient, energetic, occasionally hot-tempered, keenly observant, a deep thinker. At his core sensitive and kind with high expectations for justice. Sometimes when I'm not paying attention, I call Nathan by my brother's name.

Today our father turns seventy-five and Dave wrote a touching and funny post about Dad's influence on him. I wanted to share it with you because you all seem like part of the family, too.

I know, I'm sorry. You didn't ask to be part of this dysfunction, did you?

Also there's a post at that other blog.

You make me wanna get up and scream

2012-01-23T17:32:00.002-05:00

Source

The vixen nudges the kits to the back of the den. The three survivors yip and jostle for the best spot. From her spot near the mouth of the burrow, she opens her jaws and snaps them shut quickly. The kits quiet and tuck their pointed noses into folds of downy fox fur, ears twitching. The smallest one yawns then closes his eyes.

With a last glance over her shoulder at the sleeping pups, the vixen scrambles out of the hole into the mossy damp of the late May evening. The air tastes of the fresh earth of the plowed field and the honeysuckle climbing over the fence. The vixen skims under the fence on her trek into the woods where she's had luck lately catching mice.

Beyond the great rotting body of the ancient white oak, the grass moves. The vixen freezes, her eyes keen, her ears trained forward until she picks up the telltale sounds of rustling. Faster than the human eye can process it, her muscles contract pulling her close to the ground and she launches high into the air.

Once in the air, she sees her target. A small snake. Too late to halt her landing, the vixen sees the glint of metal reflecting the glowering red of sunset. The snap is quick and fierce, the teeth grind into her hind leg.

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

"Are you ready?" The young woman smiles. Wearing a lavender uniform, she stands next to the tray.

Sinopa nods. The tip of her tongue traces her lips and she tastes the Chanel Kensington she applied before she left the office. He crosses her mind. What was it he'd said about that shade of lip color? Oh, yes.

She blushes.

The young woman steps closer to the table as she tugs on a pair of latex gloves and Sinopa settles back onto the futon-like chaise. She notes the young woman's name in a clean, simple font on the white name tag. Diana.

Diana moves the sheet covering Sinopa's lower body. "This is maintenance?" She asks.

Sinopa lets her eyes rest on the smooth eggshell wall and concentrates on her breathing. "Yes. And one of those - oh, what are they called?"

Diana cranes her slender neck to look at the form the receptionist handed her in the lobby. "Ah, yes. The Foxy Bikini. Have you chosen a color?" She lifts the lid off a jar and begins stirring the contents with a wooden tongue depressor.

"I'm hoping to get something that will match my lip color." Sinopa props herself up on her elbows.

Diana pauses mid-stir and furrows her brow. The two women regard each other in confusion until Sinopa lets out a sharp laugh.

"I mean my lipstick!"

Diana exhales. Her breath smells of the cinnamon gum she has tucked between her cheek and teeth. "Oh my god, I thought - " she places the jar on the tray suppressing her embarrassed laughter. "I'm sure we can find something close to that." She moves to the end of the bed. "Okay, please pull your knees to your chest."

Sinopa concentrates once again on her breathing as Diana silently spreads the wax. She bites her lip and winces as Diana pulls the strip of fabric away from her body. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, thinks of him. He raved about the Swarovski jewels. He's going to love the Foxy Bikini.

"Are they really made of fur?" she asks spying a chip in her French manicure that's wrapped around her knee.

Diana's gloved fingers pull her open so she can a closer look at her work. "Mmmmhmmmm. Fox fur."

Inspiration

Anything goes

2012-01-19T18:08:00.001-05:00

Gather together the circle of trust, y'all, because I've got a problem. Also includes open marriage, erotic dreams, feet of clay, fecklessness, tent meetings, paste eating and cats.

Blackout

2012-01-18T08:50:00.002-05:00

No, not another story about my early twenties. This is serious. I'm making my serious face as I type this.

What's all the fuss about SOPA aka the Stop Online Piracy Act? And that PIPA which, as I had it explained to me last night, is not the sister of Prince William's wife Kate. Well, I'm glad we cleared that up because the Queen gets snippy when I text her in the middle of the night. The phone vibrates, the Corgis start barking. It's a mess.

Bob Lefsetz states the case. ~~(I'll be deleting the quote tomorrow morning and replacing it with a link to Bob's blog. Today the blog is blacked out as part of the strike.~~ You can also subscribe to his email by clicking the link below. He's prolific and I've learned so much about where money, creativity, business and innovation meet by reading his emails.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go see if my favorite ~~porn~~ high concept websites are working.

Living the day like it's your last

2012-01-16T23:55:00.002-05:00

One of these things I did not do.
I had a text conversation with my youngest at 1a.m.
Dreamed about walking into Chicago barefoot in the snow.
Woke to the sound of birds squabbling over black oil sunflower seeds.
Answered a question about why there is a bar of Ivory Soap in the freezer.
Had a craving for King Cake.
Went to the grocery store.
Where I encountered a racist.
And I still didn't get any King Cake.
I fell asleep during Dylan Ratigan's show.
I helped the Pussies for Peace and Income Equality form a Superpac.
And watched rich white men talking out of their asses.

The Not So Great Depression

2012-01-13T11:09:00.000-05:00

It feels like one of the cats got my tongue. I've haven't been able to think of anything to say. I partially blame the medication I'm taking. It makes me feel so even. It's strange. MathMan suggested that perhaps what I'm feeling is actually normal and because my moods have been so rollercoasterish I don't recognize it. Normal.

I thought about that. He could be right. Maybe I've been functioning for a long time with a low grade depression using a patchwork of coping methods to get by. Sometimes stressors made it worse and I would feel a deeper sense of gloom and then things would clear. For several years MathMan has patiently waited for me to accept that I might need some medical intervention. He endured my blues, my acting out, my upswings like a champ. Like a champ who knows how to retreat into work, how to deliver a verbal ass kicking when needed, and how to pick around the psychic minefield that has been a life with me.

I have sometimes asked myself which of us is the sick one. Twenty-four years. That man deserves a certificate and a $20 Applebees gift card for perfect attendance.

The tipping point came when the coping skills no longer worked. Food didn't work nor did writing or a variety of other distractions. I was moving deeper within, becoming fearful and anxious about everything, looking for any excuse to not leave the house or have contact with people, losing sleep and gaining weight. I didn't leave my bedroom unless I absolutely had to, "forgetting" to go to the mailbox to get the mail many days in a row, letting the grocery stockpile sustain us to avoid trips to the store, not answering the phone.

And then came the job interview and I had to get out of my head and push myself. I did it. It felt good to get out of the house and into the city, to talk to adults and to revisit the ways I had actually once been a productive, thriving, successful executive. That I'd once been able to do a vast array of things including running a household.

That was a little like touching fire. I'd spent the last two years not letting myself think too much about the professional life I'd had because having it yanked from me made me angry. Oh sure, I tried to focus that anger, to put that energy to work finding other positions, but with each passing month and a visit to the Department of Labor to sit fidgeting and fretful with the other people who just wanted a job, I became less focused and more dispirited.

When you're looking for a job, you start with what you know. Then you expand. You look in other fields, other cities. Then you lower your expectations. And lower them some more. Then you look for seasonal work. And in case you believe the fallacy about unemployment being a deterrent to people finding work, know this - at least in the State of Georgia, you have to show that you're seeking work. You must report to the Department of Labor monthly and show a list of the jobs for which you have applied and they have to be jobs within reason. I couldn't say that I was applying for jobs to be a nuclear engineer, for example.

When nothing came of the interview and then the holidays were looming and my unemployment insurance was running out and the job listings dwindled, I went into full retreat. How were we going to manage on MathMan's salary alone? What do I have to do to get a job? What can we sell? Do we find somewhere less expensive to live? How can we even afford to move? What the hell, you mean we can't take all the money out of the 401k? It's MathMan's money for fuck's sake. All of it. No matching. We'll pay the taxes and penalties, just let us have the money because we can at least pay our rent for the next few months. Shit.

My high tolerance for pain evaporated and I cried uncle.

The doctor gave me two prescriptions - an appetite suppressant which I've taken before, and an anti-depressant. The rationale being that although the anti-d is supposed to be weight-neutral, Cute Dr. J. didn't want me to gain. He knows me well enough to know I'm going to feel better if I'm more fit.

Here's how I know the anti-d is working. In the past, when I've taken this appetite suppressant, the kids have called it the angry pill. For good reason. Without it, I can be a bit, um, mercurial. With it I was like Bobby Knight with a lit firecracker stuck up his butt. I might have even thrown a chair or two.

But not this time. I'm like some Zen master of serenity. I've heard the kids talking about it when they think I can't hear them.

"Oh, man. When is she finally going to blow?"
"I don't know, but I hope I'm not home when it happens."
"She should have gone crazy when saw the mess in Sophie's room. Look at her. She's just lying there on her bed watching TV. No screaming, no raging around, no throwing things in the garbage. It's kind of freaky."
"Oh, yeah, well she didn't even say fuck once when Mitt Romney was lying about the President in his speech."
"Not once?"
"Nope."
"Has anyone talked to Daddy about this?"
"Hey, you guys. I can hear you!"

One of them appeared at the door. "Are you mad?"
"No."
"Okay. We --"
"It's fine. I know."

If this is normal, it's going to take some getting used to and I don't mean that in a negative way. At my last doctor's visit, he doubled the dosage. It's taken me a week to feel less foggy. Writing is difficult. Much of the time, I feel passionless, dulled. I lose minutes staring out the window.The political discourse that would have once had me in a frenzied lather results in a minor froth. I'm the flat beer on the emotional spectrum.

And oh my word, I finally had to ask MathMan to use a taser on my G-spot because either this medication has moved my orgasmic cheese out of my ever-lovin' reach or I'm a guy suffering from Low T or Low Testosterone. Which obviously, I'm not because when I begged him to tase me, bro, MathMan didn't have to move any junk to get at it.

I may have just wandered way off track.

The point is I'm having to relearn normal. The upside is that I've already shed fifteen pounds. That feels good. Working out feels good. Sleeping well feels good. Not running on adrenaline all the damn time feels good. Not losing my shit over little things feels good. And that taser? Well.... mustn't grumble. Too much.

Looking back at this post, I guess it's Lisa - 1; Cats - 0. Please don't tell the cats. They're sore losers with sharp claws.

xoxo

We will fight for the cream and crimson

2012-01-05T23:50:00.000-05:00

So apparently I get a little feisty while watching I.U. basketball. This comes as a bit of surprise to MathMan. When we lived in Bloomington, I didn't appear to pay much attention to the games happening a couple of blocks from our apartment.

Over the years, the games were background noise while I did other things - read, cleaned, folded laundry, separated fighting children, rearranged furniture. While MathMan could focus for the two or so hours it took for a game to play itself out, I was antsy, mentally consumed by the things I felt sure had to be done right then, unable to relent to the blasphemous idea of relaxation.

And the most salient point of all - I.U.'s teams were fair to middling. I'd been spoiled by the 1987 championship and the unmitigated madness in the street that followed. Nothing that came after could compare. Or at least it couldn't compete with the noise and goings on what with two parents with full-time jobs, three kids, a cat with a predilection for vomiting and an old house that was always leaking, peeling, or generally requiring repair.

But now, this fair weather fan is interested. I.U. beat Kentucky, Ohio State and Michigan with only one loss to Michigan State. This is the team's best year in what feels like a very long time. It's fun to watch again.

By fun, I meant I hoot. I holler. I ask repeatedly for the score because the graphic is so tiny and I won't put on my glasses. I conjecture and fuss about whistle happy officials. I become a raw nerve if there is less than a ten point lead. Some of these games have been crazy close and I've nearly lost my damn mind.

If I had pom poms, I'd wave them. Instead I settle for highfiving cats.

Tonight I may have crossed the line. Indiana let a ten point lead whittle down to a tie. There was a tussle of the ball and it got slapped out of bounds. Michigan's possession.

"For fuck's sake!" I yelled in the privacy of my own bedroom out of earshot of my children who have never, not ever, heard me use such language.

"Is all that cussing necessary?" MathMan asked.

"Yes it is. Fuck you." Trust me, we don't normally speak to each other this way. In fact, we speak to each other very much like in Life with Father. I even call him Mr. Golden around the house. As in "I don't know if we have plans. I'll check Mr. Golden's schedule." Very Victorian, see?

Without blinking an eye he retorted, "Bite me...... please."

"Not now, sweetie. There's a game on."

Wouldn't be prudent

2012-01-04T23:30:00.000-05:00

Today while I ran on the elliptical, the kids watched some episodes of Saturday Night Live from 1990. It was strange seeing those episodes that I remember watching live. Mike Myers, Kevin Nealon, Jan Hooks, Phil Hartman, Dana Carvey, Dennis Miller and Victoria Jackson. They used to be older than me and suddenly, via the magic of television, I was older than them. Significantly older.

Chris Rock, Adam Sandler, Chris Farley and David Spade were just kids. Barely out of college. Like I was back then.

Nathan, his friend and Chloe didn't know what to make of some of the skits. They were dated, almost obscure in context of today. Dennis Miller read the news and there was a segment about possibly going to war with Iraq. Desert Storm. There were jokes about Saddam Hussein. A spoof of Live with Regis and Kathy Lee. Kathy Lee not Kelly Kelly was probably still a kid on All My Children. The Bad Ideas Jeans commercial. I had to explain the Chris Rock Pump It Turkey commercial. The kids thought I was kidding about the Nike basketball shoes that you could pump up.

I felt two things watching the shows. Old and sympathy. Not every skit was funny. Some of them were all out clunkers. It has to be damn hard to crank out the funny week after week. You're not going to hit it out of the park every time. I get that now.

Have you ever thought about how many plots of movies and books would be completely different if they took place after the cellphone became ubiquitous?

25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing The good news is that masturbating and robbing liquor stores are not on the list.

Insight from the Intern. Interesting bits for writers.

Morrissey!

Kim W Jung is on Twitter.

Dear Mr. Echo

2012-01-03T23:50:00.000-05:00

I have the plague.

No, no, don't worry, I won't be rolled out to the curb for collection. It's not that bad. Yet.

I"m holed up in my room, huddling inside my hoodie, eating clementines and hoping I don't pee my pants when I sneeze and cough. I know, that whole incontinence thing is embarrassing, isn't it? The upside is that I'm reminded to do Kegels which are their own special kind of fun.

"Why are you making that face?" MathMan asked me.

"What face?"

"I don't know. It's like you're concentrating really hard."

"Oh. I'm counting as I hold a squeeze."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm holding a squeeze. You know - Kegels. I'm counting to ten."

"I see."

"Is it bothering you?" I asked.

"No. In fact, it's kind of improvement over how you've been walking around looking all surprised."

"Ah. Yes. Thank you. I guess."

He's referring to the fact that I've been walking around with my eyebrows lifted up into my hairline. I noticed that my eyelids are starting to get puffy just like my mother's and I can't fucking afford cosmetic surgery.

So surprise it is or when I open my eyes extra wide -- shock.

He thought he was the only one

2012-01-02T23:57:00.000-05:00

Okay, so maybe I was....

I had a conversation tonight with a friend I've known since the first grade. We went through twelve years of school together and attended the same college for two years before I transferred to another school.

After we caught up on our families, we talked a little bit about what it was like when we were kids. He shared with me a story that will always stay with me. When we were at the toughest age on the life continuum, another friend of ours said something hurtful. One word. But he got hung up on the one word and it affected him for two long years, framing how he viewed himself, how he felt about his place in the world.

One word. And it may have been said in jest. But when you're thirteen, one word is all it takes to shatter you.

I remember being thirteen and feeling like the whole world was staring at me, that I never measured up, that I was awkward and uncool and a million other things that rhyme with spaz and goon.

I've survived the passage of two of my children through that year and have one more on the precipice of thirteen. It's pretty much a roller coaster through a lightening storm with razor blade raindrops. As a mother who is privy to only a fraction of what happens in the lives of my children, the most I can hope for is to be on the side of good, counteracting whatever mental poison is injected through the barbs of a single word.

What do you remember about being thirteen?

But who is going to hold me to it?

2012-01-01T11:32:00.000-05:00

Normally, I eschew things like New Years resolutions. A resolution is nothing more than another opportunity to fail.

Because I'm more than a little tired of who I am naturally, I've decided to try some new things. Push myself a bit. Don't worry. I'm setting the bar pretty low and I've brought a paper bag in case any of this causes hyperventilation.

1. Drink my coffee black. Like the midwife who delivered all three kids once said "it takes a whole lotta sugar to keep me sweet." Hell yeah. But it's time to acknowledge the wafer thin wall between bad eating habits and future ill health. There is no reason to ruin a perfectly good cup of coffee by adding enough sugar and cream to make a dessert. A spoon should not be required to consume coffee.

2. Read more. Anita mentioned that 2012 is the Year of Reading the Books You Own. Yes! I purchased a ridiculous number of books last year from a used book store that was going out of business and at the Friends of the Library book sales. While I can't guarantee that I won't be lured by the siren song of the library's new releases shelves, I am setting a goal of reading at least one of the books I own once a month.

3. Stop making fun of the sound the oldest cat makes when she crunches the dry cat food. She probably isn't that amused by it anyway.

4. Stop projecting my shit onto other people, especially those closest to me. Just because I'm feeling all balled up about something doesn't mean that MathMan has to be. A true challenge. Misery often does love company. Especially if company comes bearing cheap chocolate.

5. Stop worrying and learn to love the bomb. Feel free to project your own shit on me here to get the meaning.

6. Annoy one celebrity a day on Twitter. Hey, it's a branding strategy, okay?

7. Ignore the cesspool of American politics. It's like attempting to ignore an itch on your butt when you're in standing in line at the DMV. You don't want to scratch in front of the people behind you and you can't leave your place in line.

8. Wii Just Dance. No matter who is around to mock me.

9. Stop looking for a job. Is it like love? When you stop looking, that's when it finds you? And if not, why not?

10. Stop censoring myself out of fear that potential employers will see my blog, facebook, twitter, pinterest, etc. and decide that I am not "their kind of people." Maybe my blog and social media is what I should be doing while I finish working on the novel and a couple of other projects I've added to my To Do list. After nearly 500 job applications, it's clear I'm going to have to make my own way.

P.S. If you're a potential employer, I'm kidding! I'm a rule follower. A hard worker. A team player. Versatile, appropriately innovative and I possess strong communications skills. And I come cheaply. See! I use adverbs!

P.S.S. Some of you might be surprised to learn that I censor myself. I know!

11. Stop judging people by the inane stuff they post on Facebook. Being a judgmental asshole says more about me than about the people doing the cut and paste I bet you won't do this statuses, the TGIF posts, the Monday complaints, the weather reports and the questions about which new, expensive phone to buy. It says I'm easily bored, snobbish, pretentious, sanctimonious and jealous. It says they lack creativity. See what I mean?

12. Acquire new skills. I can't really afford to go back to school right now, but my friend Christine posted online a list of free educational opportunities and more than one of them appeal to me. Learning for the sake of learning? Why not?

Twelve for 2012 seems hokey enough, right?

Have you used this arbitrary date to promise yourself anything?

This is not a nap, this is a strategy session

2011-12-29T10:47:00.001-05:00

A golden oldie

Before the year winds down and you become bleary eyed from reading all the year end lists, I want to make special mention of a team of individuals who help make this blog what it is.

I'd be nothing without my pussies.

The cats, who began their long run on my old blog PoliTits, were then dubbed The Pussies for Peace because they were extremely vocal advocates for ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. You may have missed their most recent press release in which they took great pleasure in recapping their presence in the vanguard of peace protests that would eventually lead to a change in public opinion and ultimately the end of the war in Iraq. It is an unparalleled triumph for them only dampened by the ongoing war in Afghanistan.

As they mentioned in the official statement, they maintained their staunch oppositional activities toward the violence and their advocacy for a more peaceful world. In recent months, they have shifted their activities to focus on the biggest threat to peace. Income inequality.

In between lying around the house licking themselves, throwing up hairballs, fighting over the catnip mouse and stalking the sunny spots on the carpet, they managed to sponsor several successful fundraisers to help feed and keep warm the Occupy movement.

As they grow older, they find that it's harder for them to get out to join the protests, preferring instead to occupy their food bowl and brainstorm ways to help from the foot of our bed.

To wit: The staging of the First Annual Pussies for Peace and Income Equality A Christmas Carol. Tickets for all three shows plus matinees sold out in record time. Since I was busy wallowing in my own crapulence of depression and job searches, Sophie took over the directorial and production duties. I must hand it to her for helping the felines produce such a successful event because it truly was herding cats. The casting alone took an unprecedented two weeks. The cat who eventually won the role of Ebenezer Scrooge did a superb job even with the debacle in the second show. He proved once and for all that a long pause to sniff Bob Cratchett's butt in the coal scene would slow the show's pace requiring a speed through of the act with the Ghost of Christmas past.

The reviews were mostly positive.

The PfP&IE also produced a comedy spectacular along the lines of Saturday Night Live Sketches including the musical guests Cat Power, the Pussycat Dolls and Yussef Islam (formerly known as Cat Stevens).

The skit receiving the most laughs was a take-off of the Republican Presidential Candidate debates. With only five cats now in the fold, we had enough players to cover Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul, Michele Bachmann, and Rick Perry. It all worked out in the end. By the time the show was staged, Herman Cain had dropped out of the race with his infamous Pokemon Movie quote and no one could be badgered into playing Rick Santorum anyway. These cats know the score. That whole gay sex leads to man on dog sex has put them off Santorum forever.

Other fundraisers are being planned. They include a pet treat bake sale, a bikini car wash, a Spring Fling, and the opening of a Zazzle shop with all proceeds going to support the work of the Occupy movement. (Less expenses such as cases of Fancy Feast, caviar, and several tons of litter.)

I'd be remiss if I didn't thank the Pussies for all their work and support. And for providing me with so many hours of companionship, forced or otherwise. (They know they love it when I talk in that high voice and kiss their cheeks.) The cleaning up of cat yak and the scooping of their leavings is a small price to pay for the good works they do on all our behalf.

Dogpile on the Rabbit

2011-12-28T21:36:00.001-05:00

Last week I received two gifts I'd like to return - the rejection letter from the job I interviewed for and the official letter telling me I've exhausted all 99 weeks of my unemployment insurance. They came the same day.

I immediately started looking around the garage for things we could sell. Sophie, the youngest, most succulent of the Goldens, sidestepped up the stairs and locked the door behind her.

MathMan aka Dr. Hofstadter regarded me warily. Waiting for the storm.

I tossed the letters aside and went back to the task at hand.

"You okay?"

"Mmmmhmmmm."

No one said anything for a moment.

"I guess it's good to get all my bad news at once," I said as I stomped on the next soda can waiting to go in the recycling bin.

Bob Lefsetz.

Tree Stand Philosophy 101. My brother's blog. He always was the favorite.

My very brief, positive review of The Buddha in the Attic.

The rabbit hole I fell down today.

And then this.

I.U. is losing as I type this, but the game has been exciting. A metaphor for life?

Animals in Midlife Crisis and one more.

Wrapped up

2011-12-25T10:15:00.000-05:00

The funniest holiday newsletter we ever received began with the following salutation:

Happy holidays from the disgruntled Smiths. (I changed the name to protect the disgruntled) The newsletter cataloged the family's year of mishaps, misfires, and messes. It described battles with ill health and other unsavory features that are all too often a condition of being part of the human race. The writer of the letter was clear. In this race, the family was losing.

It was worse than the saddest country song you've ever heard without the weary acceptance of a blues song. It was an airing of grievances before any of us had even heard of Festivus and yet the writer gave the reader the gift of laughter.

I've always aspired to that ability. No matter what I write about, I want to be able to maintain my sense of humor.

While this year has given me plenty to fess about and I've had to dig deep to find the humor at times, it's also been a year that highlights what really matters. Love. Family. Friends. Health. Laughter. Books. Music. A good meal. A decent night's sleep. Shelter. Writing. Those are the things that make a life well lived. For me.

The coming year is full of opportunities for the good, the bad and the absolutely terrifying. But then, that's life, isn't it? We don't get guarantees. Not even if we're willing to pay the extra sixty-nine dollars for the extended warranty.

This is where I go all wobbly on you and tell you how much I appreciate you. How grateful I am that you come and read and share. How being part of this community is another vital part to my life well lived.

Now I have to go take a nap. Sophie woke us up at an obscenely early hour to unwrap her gifts from Dr. Who and I nearly wore myself out yesterday asking MathMan obnoxious questions about how he planned to stuff my stocking.

Wishing you all the joys of the season.

Love,

The Goldens

Bazaar

2011-12-19T15:38:00.000-05:00

Each year we went to the Christmas Bazaar held in the high school gymnasium. Mom dressed us up for photos with Santa. When we got too old for Santa, we dressed ourselves in our holiday best. One year I wore a deep green velvet dress my mother made for me. It was the prettiest dress I'd ever had. It was long, to the tops of my shoes with white buttons and a high neckline.

Years later, I found the dress in the bottom of my mother's cedar chest. My brother, bless his teenage heart, had cut squares out of it to use for cleaning his guns.

The grade school kids sang Christmas songs. Frosty the Snow Man, Silent Night, Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Up on the Housetop, one of our favorites. A couple years in a row, David S. would put on the reindeer suit his mother sewed for him and entertain the crowd while we squirmed on the wooden bleachers and sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

In high school, I dated David S. for two years. I rarely teased him about his days as Rudolph, but if I could have gotten him to put that suit on just once....well......

The gym's wooden floor was protected by canvas tarps stretched across them and taped down. You had to be careful as you walked in your dress shoes. Many a kid caught their toe in a fold and went down, scattering candy canes and other collected loot when they tumbled.

There were tables set up in large squares and moms stood behind them. I can't quite remember what was on the tables. Crafts, I think. We kids walked around in clumps, chattering about the upcoming school break and wishes for snow. We shared our hopes about we hoped we'd find under the tree. We told on ourselves about snooping for gifts.

My favorite part was the Cake Walk. Folded metal chairs were set in a circle and you walked around it music played. When the parent who manned the record player lifted the arm and stopped the music, you looked at the number on the chair in front of you. If your number was called, you won a cake that somebody's mom had baked and brought wrapped in a box or in a Tupperware carrier. At the beginning of the night, I liked to look at the tables holding all the baked goods. My sweet tooth has always been one of my downfalls.

At the end of the evening, we'd gather near the lobby. Our mother would stuff us into our coats reminding us to make sure we hadn't lost a mitten or a dreaded knit cap. We'd go outside making smoke with our warm breath in the cold air. Stars flickered overhead in the winter sky. We'd climb into the car clutching our loot with our mittens and watch as Christmas lights made smudged kaleidoscope shapes on the fogged car windows as we made our way home.

Your turn.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Occupy

2011-12-14T09:14:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again. I'm thinking about bringing the holiday decorations up from the garage and contemplating the green and red boxes for a couple of days before finally opening them up and remembering why it's fun to have the house looking festive.

We're stocked up with Hanukkah candles this year so I'm actually ahead of the game. Now I just need to find out when Hanukkah starts.

Chloe has returned home from school and is conducting her own form of Occupy. She's occupying the living room sofa.

The cats are occupying Chloe. She's warm and that horrid Lisa keeps the thermostat set way too low for their comfort. "If we had our own laptops to keep us warm," they mew petulantly, "we wouldn't complain about the 62 degree setting either."

They are not fond of the phrase hard cheese.

Sophie, who typically is Queen of the Living Room, is occupying her mother's side. She's disgruntled that her big sister has control of the television and the cats and she's determined to keep me informed of this fact. I respond unsatisfactorily in her opinion. Read a book, go outside, find something to do, watch Reverend Al with me, but for the love of bob, stop complaining or you will be occupying your bedroom with no electronic devices to keep you company.

I must admit, her tactics are wearing me down. Today I will likely insist on some sisterly compromise. Sophie totally gets the idea of protest. Make enough noise to get power's attention. Make change.

I'm occupying a space somewhere between optimism and freaking the fuck out. I still haven't heard about the job, but remain positive. I've got one week left before I'm one of those 99ers you hear about. I'll have exhausted my unemployment benefits.

MathMan occupies his Calculus books. Or perhaps they occupy him.

And this kid:

Is now occupying the driver's seat. He got his license yesterday.

Your turn.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Intense

2011-12-12T10:11:00.000-05:00

My youngest daughter and I were watching television when this commercial came on.

She cleared her throat and said, "Okay, so I get the message that it's supposed to enhance satisfaction, whatever that means, but what exactly is the point of KY?"

Blink, blink.

"Rub your hands together. See how that friction feels?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay, now imagine if you were to put some lubrication like oil on your hands, what would happen?"

She looked at her hands for a moment then said, "There would be less friction."

"Right. Do you need me to explain further? You know, you make your own. When a woman is sexually aroused---"

She cut me off. "You can stop right there. The last time we had a conversation like this, you ended up telling me about nipple clamps."

"Oh. Right. Hey, you started it. Did you need me to explain what they mean by satisfaction?"

Under her breath. "My future therapist is going to be one busy person."

Unemployment Diary: Shortfalls and little sins

2011-12-09T10:05:00.001-05:00

On Monday I put on dress clothes. Underneath was a torture device otherwise known as a foundation garment and a pair of pantyhose that have been in the drawer for so many months, they no longer recognize the shape of my leg. Good thing putting on pantyhose is like riding bicycle. You don't quite forget.

I applied makeup and lipstick. Not my usual red, but something more subtle and understated. I put on conservative jewelry and made sure my ankle bracelet didn't peek out from under my pants when I sat down. In that moment, I was glad that I'd forgone that chest tattoo. With a rack like mine, I'm not supposed to wear high necklines. It's a rule, so say my daughters who've watched plenty of What Not to Wear.

I walked out to the garage careful to avoid any contact with the cats. I was wearing black and didn't need to be flecked with cat hair. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw how clean the car was. MathMan had made a special effort to have it tidied up. I would be pulling up to valet parking and I wanted to make a good first impression.

This would be my first in person job interview since February 2010 and I was nervous as hell.

All the way there, I thought about what I would say, the examples I could give for how I was the best qualified person for the job. It's a position outside of my former career industry so it feels like a long shot to begin with, but I kept telling myself that I had years of related experience and therefore had no reason to be so nervous.

You know your strengths and weaknesses, I told myself. Play to your strengths.

And yet, it felt like so much was riding on this. It's only the fourth interview I've had in two years. The further south on I75 I traveled, the more monumental this interview became.

I arrived and introductions were made. Everything was going well.

And then the first question of many more to come was asked. It was, of course, the one question that would expose my most critical weakness.

I admitted I didn't have an immediate answer to the question, but that I would know where to find the answer. Then I saved myself with a follow up comment.

"Oooh, that's good. Yes," the interviewer said with a smile.

Phew!

Okay, I told myself, the worst is over and the interviewer hasn't cut this short.

The rest of the situational interview went well, I thought, and I had plenty of experience to draw from for each answer. I didn't spill my glass of water, curse or lean over and pick lint off the interviewer's suit. (He was dressed impeccably.) My handshake was firm and my personality warm.

As I drove home, I listened to MSNBC. They played a clip of some doof or other repeating the mantra that the unemployed need to just go get a job.

Were it that easy. The unemployment rate in Georgia is 10.2%.

It still feels like a long shot. I'm trying not to make myself crazy wondering if I'll hear back from them. I haven't taken to ironing yet so maybe the steps I'm taking to reduce my anxiety are working.

If I don't hear from them by next Monday, I'll be putting out the following alert: Send laundry.

Give me something good about your week. What's gone well?

Roll me in designer sheets

2011-12-04T13:31:00.001-05:00

Good news, for me, at least. I'm out of my stupor! The exclamation point is there for extra convincing in case you need it.

I came to in time to take a robocall from Newt Gingrich yesterday.

I was just out of the shower when Chloe hammered on the door and rushed in without waiting for my response. Thank goodness I'd reached the panties and bra stage of redressing, but poor Chloe. She got a horrifying glimpse of what her future could hold.

"Newt's calling!" She held out the phone like it might have cooties.

I gave her a puzzled look and put the phone to my ear.

With all the charm of a long-term untreated urinary tract infection, Newt began his appeal by telling the lucky recipient of the recorded call how he would dismantle the European-style socialism rammed down America's throat by Obama.

"But I like European-style socialism and how about calling him President Obama, you tool," I said, forgetting that I wasn't talking to the real thing.

He went on to say how intelligent and effective he was, how he'd led and innovated and saved the planet from Communism, welfare queens not of the corporate variety, Bill Clinton's schlong and the Morlocks. He didn't mention Greek cruises, Tiffany's, his lucrative lobbying businesses, or his disgraced departure from the House of Representatives. I wish I had recorded it. It would have provided a cheery background for the holidays. Hell, I could have set it to autotune and created the next dance craze.

Near the end of the call, my new friend Newt urged me to stay on the line to speak to his representative. My mind shifted into high gear for the first time in days and all the condescending and dreadful things he's recently said that I worried hadn't enraged me sufficiently rallied front and center.

"Oh my god, the things I want to say to this guy," I stage-whispered to Chloe.

Sensing impending calamity, or at the very least, an ugly scene where I'm left foaming at the mouth and screaming expletives into the receiver, she held her hand out for the phone. Time to let her have a say. She's been listening to me yammer on about politics all these years.

The representative came on the line. Chloe smiled. "Hi, hello.," she was all sweet tea and apple pie. "Yes, thank you. But we're actually anarchists so you should probably call another family." She paused. Nothing. And then click.

"Anarchists?" I said. "I would have said registered Democrats. Or European-style socialists."

She shrugged. "As far as Newt is concerned, it's all the same."

Under the influence

2011-12-01T22:28:00.001-05:00

I keep showing up here to stare at the blank screen. It's pitiful. I hope for a thought, a glimmer of something interesting to say and nothing comes out. I turn on MSNBC looking to get my rage on. Nothing. I can't even work up a lather about the Lexus with the big red bow for Christmas commercials. I yawn at Newt Gingrich.

I am glad for the Herman Cain disaster. At least I know I'm notentirely numb. I find myself cringing for all involved. Goodness knows I've hadmy share of personal failings. However grateful I am to have this"feelings" test, I can't get any joy spelled schadenfreude from this.Cain's an interesting character. That takes some serious balls and a wickeddesire to sell books to think that you can run for the office of thePresident of the United States with those spanx wearing skeletons rattling aroundin your closet.

Hey, here's aquestion for you - if Cain drops out of the race, and we now know that he knewhe had some serious liabilities before the race, does the American Taxpayer getto send him an invoice for his Secret Service detail? His ilk likes to talkabout waste and abuse. Boy howdy.

Meh. Enough ofthat. As you might have guessed, my ability to work on my WIP is suffering thesame blank staring fate. I open the document, peck out a few words and then stop to think.Forty-five minutes later, I realize my eyes have become unfocused and what Ithink is the black vortex of fading star is actually the lens of my portablewebcam.

I have never beenso even-keeled. It's a bit disconcerting. The cats have started taking shifts to make sure I'm still breathing. They blow in my face to see if my ears and nose twitch. Don't feel too gooey about them. They're not really concerned about me. They just don't want to wait until Sophie gets home from school to be fed.

I yawn a lot with or without the Gingrich inspiration. I'm hearing things. I don't feel like getting dressed and shaving my legs feels like a monumental task. Watching my twitter feed feels like the bedspins. I can't read for very long before dozing off. I'm okay if I keep moving, but when I sit, it's like a switch goes off in my brain that reads "She's not going to hurt any major organs if she takes a fall from this height. All systems shut down!"

Meanwhile, the blog stats are going up and up. I continue to ride the FAIL wave.

Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. If I can focus long enough to tell you what it is.......zzzzzzz.

FAIL and FTF FTW

2011-11-28T09:33:00.001-05:00

Over the holiday, the manuscript turned into a rewrite which was not all right because I wanted to be done, but then yesterday the answer about my main character appeared out of the steam as I ironed Nate's white button down.

Good thing I remembered to put the iron down. That's his only white oxford shirt. I gripped the side of the ironing board in something close to ecstasy. Gross, I know. But listen, you take your shots where you can get them. I'm just sorry Nate's shirt had to bear witness to the moaning and thrashing about.

Now I'm going to finish this fucker. I've got the bracelet and I'm wearing it. By wearing it, I am accountable to Amy, Teri (who came up with the bracelet idea), Sherry, Lyra, Averil, Deb, MacDougal Street Baby, Erika, Bobbi, Laura, Cat, Suzy, and the rest of the creative people who make up this ad hoc writers' group that found each other making smart remarks here.

And it's because of you guys, the reader of this blog, who've urged me on and provided all kinds of creative support.

And a special thanks to the beta readers. I handed you a fairly unfinished mess and you gave me the kind of feedback that has not only made the story more time and location authentic, but it also gave me some ideas for plot lines. And? You were all so incredibly kind about it. Not a one of you sent me back a pile of ashes or hate mail. I love you for that.

Now on to the reason I've called this meeting. It seems I've gained a new blogging niche. How I'm to parlay this into mega advertising dollars or finesse it onto my moldering resume is anyone's guess, but it's something to be able to say that my blog is huge in Canada, Europe and Asia among those seeking FAIL photos. Or fotos as one googler put it.

Click the image to see the gory details.

People from Luxembourg, Belgium, Ottawa, France, Switzerland, Romania, Quebec, Tunisia (Africa, represent!), The Czech Republic, Sweden, Slovenia, Holland, Italy, Denmark, Thailand, Slovakia, Turkey, Montreal, Poland, Germany, even Mexico, they're all searching for FAIL and finding me.

I'm not sure I like how that sounds. Let try again. They're landing on this post, but really they're looking for the photos on it. And they're particularly interested in the hairy guy.

I wonder if he knows how sought after he is. Then again, maybe this gets filed under blissful ignorance.

Tell me about your holiday. Good? Indifferent? Bad? Fistfights? Did you eat too much, drink too much, tell your Uncle Jeb to get stuffed? Pumpkin pie or pecan? What did you do with the sweet potatoes?

The neighbors complain about the noises above

2011-11-23T18:48:00.001-05:00

You know you've become a bilious cynic when you catch yourself grumbling about the ubiquitous displays of public gratitude this time of year. That's when you say to your execrable self, sugar, it is time to take your pulse, smooth your creases, and pull the stinger from your tail.

It's not the gratitude so much that rankles as it is the ubiquitous nature of this world we live in. It's the metaphoric blowing of floofloobers, the social media banging of tartinkers. It's the tooting of whoohoovers, the slangs of slooslonkers.

Cause and effect. Take a note. Did you catch that diagnosis? What's the frequency, Kenneth?

The doctor tells me that although my cholesterol is a little high and he would like for me to take the one pill to make my happiness big and another pill to make me small, I am in rude health and have plenty more years ahead of me as long as I don't step in front of any overloaded sleighs pulled by tiny dogs with antlers tied clumsily to their heads. He also counseled me to stay home on Black Friday.

"No worries," I sneered, the white paper crinkling under me. "I plan to sleep in, have some roast beast for a late lunch, watch my heart grow two, maybe three sizes that day."

He chucked a brochure at me and said something about gratitude having its own healing properties.

You don't have to be a doctor to know that.

I love all y'all.

Thank you for being here. I'm grateful for you.

Don't ask me how the foo dog got into the dream

2011-11-20T09:29:00.001-05:00

I lay in bed willing the next new scene of the work in progress to present itself. Between sleep and awake, cozy under the blankets, glad it was Sunday and I could sleep in.

Instead I was rewarded with a dream. We lived in a highrise city apartment. I was in the lobby in a hoodie, sweatpants, no bra and having gone two days without a shower. It suddenly occurred to me that I was enrolled in some seminar that morning but I couldn't remember a single detail or whether or not I'd received a registration confirmation.

MathMan arrived in the lobby, Sophia in tow. He was putting her in a cab to go somewhere unexplained. Nathan and some of his friends sat at a concrete table on the sidewalk. I peered through the window of the building next to me and realized that was where the seminar was happening. I'd dash upstairs, have a quick shower and get back maybe ten minutes late. Not a lost cause.

I yanked open the glass door and bee-lined for the elevator bank. It was only after I stood for a moment in the immobile elevator that I realized I'd gone into the wrong building. I'd have to go back to the lobby and into my own building.

I punched a button and nothing happened. I pushed another. Still nothing. Fine. I hit the open door button. As the doors opened, the elevator lurched. First up, then down. The doors partially opened, I could see the innards of the working system.

The elevator expanded, growing to at least three times its initial size. It was a large, moving room. The doors continued to open and closed but now they looked like a mouth with a crazy grin, sharp teeth.

There were windows in the walls and up on one window ledge sat a large Foo dog with two legs instead of four. More like a garden gnome with a Foo dog head.

The elevator reached the first floor where the seminar was beginning. The attendees were seated on sofas all facing the speaker. In the audience were my childhood friend Tanya and Raj from The Big Bang Theory. Everyone turned and looked at me. I was acutely aware of my lack of hygiene and proper breastwear.

MathMan stood outside on the sidewalk talking to Nate and his friends. I opened the door and joined them.

"I thought you were going to the seminar," MathMan said.

"Not until I've had a shower," I replied.

"Okay." MathMan was looking at me funny.

"I'm going to take the stairs....."

I don't remember many of my dreams, especially not with this level of detail. Do you?

It's time to smash things up

2011-11-15T07:47:00.001-05:00

Now I've gone and done it. I've written my main character into a corner. While I try to get her out, I'm doing all the usual things to distract myself to that I can clear enough noggin space where the solution will land neat and tidy all in one piece.

Ironing, grocery shopping, vacuuming, reading something not even remotely related, looking up British idioms, joylessly eating brownies, contemplating raking leaves, rejecting the idea of raking leaves, watching copious amounts of The Secrets of World War II and watching bits and pieces of my favorite movie.

Which is kind of like a busman's holiday, but some movies are like comfort food and this one is it for me. I've lost count of the number of times I've seen this film. So many times that even Sophie can and does quote lines from it. She absorbed them by osmosis, I swear.

And then there's the moment when I realize that Dish left us with The Cooking Channel and I watch hour after hour of people making vegetable dishes that appeal to me. And then I think I've go that one last Vidalia onion and those potatoes that really must be used before they turn and the left over chicken stock from yesterday so now we have Pommes de terres a la boulangere. Talk about comfort food.

What do you return to over and over again?

We've always got Gosford Park

2011-11-11T09:59:00.001-05:00

I'm sure I underestimate the amount of time I spend with the television, especially when I'm half watching while I do other things. There's no denying it. As I go through my day, the TV provides background noise more often then not. Even if I'm only using it for the music channels and not actually watching programs.

When I become acutely aware the television is when it goes away.

Yesterday smack in the middle of Morning Joe, Dishnetwork diminished our service. If you've never experienced an outage due to the an unpaid bill, here's how it works, for Dish, at least: First they call sixty times a day. Then they start putting a message on your screen every couple of hours reminding you that your bill is late. Next they decrease your number of channels until finally they cut you off altogether and you're stuck watching the instructions on how to use your remote, whatever's on your DVR and that mess of DVDs you've recorded. Thank goodness for all those old Poirots you recorded on A&E. And how historically quaint are those Countrywide Mortgage commercials with the guy who looked like John Kerry?

Then they send you a box and tell you to send your fucking receiver back stat or they're going to send Fred over to yank it out and he won't be putting down the floor mats to keep from tracking mud into your house either!

Not that we've ever gotten to that stage.

Anyway, now we're in the diminished state. When this happens, it's a surprise. You never know exactly when it will happen or which channels they'll leave you with. It's different every time.

This time, we've got the Science Channel, NASA channel, a handful of Christian channels, Current to balance those out, I suppose; ESPN RedZone Preview, Tasty channel so I can learn of all the things I can do with Country Crock, a Spanish movie channel, American Movie Classics, The Military Channel, every shopping channel you can think of, Japanese news and two - count 'em TWO! - holiday music channels. The modern and the traditional. In case you don't want to hear G Love without his Special Sauce, you can listen to Bing croon about A White Christmas.

Because, you know, there's no chance I won't be hating Christmas music by Thanksgiving. I've already heard enough Burl Ives to make me want to build a snowman so I can kick him in his frosty balls and enough Mel Torme to make me demand a martini with a candy cane swizzle stick. The cats are working on the recipe right now. At least, based on the clinking of glasses and hiccuping, I think that's what they're doing.

Not to mention the fact that I find the whip crack sound in the Boston Pops' version of Sleigh Ride oddly arousing.

And what is the idea of keeping the shopping channels? I can't pay my bill, do they really want me buying that set of faux pearl handled vibrators?

But back to the TV. Naturally, none of those channels are my favorite. Even the one movie channel they gave us isn't my favorite. I prefer Turner Movie classics. No commercials.

Do you go through TV phases? Like in the days when my time was spent with young children, I watched PBS from morning til night. I would sing the Celery Bunch and the I Like Fudge songs and close out the day with Nature or Frontline.

Then we were getting ready to move to Georgia and I entered the HGTV days which dovetailed nicely with The Food Network era.

That came after the period when I watched a lot of VH1, catching up with the I Love series. I had no idea my youth was so interesting! Then the kids and I got into watching The N for the Degrassi series and I fell in love with Daria and wanted to be Jane. That coincided with when A&E and The Biography Channel had the wisdom to show the Poirots, Midsomer Murders and Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett on Sundays.

And then there was the complete and utter devotion to BBC America. Sigh.

Some of you will remember the C-SPAN mornings that dragged on all day. Election time, you know.

So for now I'm stuck with the whirring sounds in my own noggin, Christmas music or The Military Channel which I can at least pretend is research for my novel. Thankfully, there's a DVR full of murders committed by people with charming accents. The kids have Netflix. And MathMan has Calculus.

My mother appears at my shoulder like one of those Angel/Devil apparitions and suggests I read a damn book. Yes, but I can't do that and be on the computer......(looks at the stack of books waiting to be read)..... oh.

What's your favorite channel? What's on your DVR or Tivo that you never delete?

The Fundamental Attribution Error

2011-11-10T13:00:00.000-05:00

Source

The Fundamental Attribution Error. Sounds like a Big Bang Theory episode title, doesn't it?

It's actually a psychological term describing how we use internal factors to explain what happens to someone else while we apply external factors to explain the things that happen to us.

Ari Melber covers it in this video. (Here's hoping that the ad preceding the video won't be for a financial institution.)

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

This is a different world, a whole new ballgame. Let's rein in our assumptions. The last thing we need is to support policies based on judgments that aren't founded in reality and facts.

Take the unemployment thing. I didn't lose my job because I didn't do it well. I lost my job because the organization was tied to construction and we suffered serious revenue losses and my job was eliminated and outsourced. The guy sitting next to me at the Department of Labor the other day didn't lose his job because he didn't do it well. He lost it because the place where he worked doesn't have enough demand to keep four techs employed and he was the last one hired so......

If you lose your job, it's not going to be because you woke up one day and said "Fuck this steady paycheck shit. I want to struggle and live with financial insecurity. I'm going to stop doing my job well." If you lose your job, it's going to be because this economy is getting meaner and leaner and someone has figured out how to keep their business running without you. Should that unfortunate thing happen to you, may anyone you encounter understand that your lack of a job is not your fault. And if they can't then may they have the decency to keep their mouths shut. Or better yet - to help you find your next job.

As Melber says at the end of the video, it's time we call out this lack of compassion and understanding. We need to ask the people who still want to believe that large numbers of Americans don't want to work - would rather struggle to survive than get up each day and go to work - that question: Really? That's your argument?

I dick around with Fundamental Attribution Errors all day long. Sometimes they keep me warmer than the cats curled around my feet. Seriously, the sanctimony I can pull together when presented with something like an episode of 16 and Pregnant or those people with forty-two children. Mind you, I'm not advocating we limit the number of babies a woman can have or the age at which she can have them, but it still doesn't make it right when I indulge in that kind of judgmental thinking.

There's a lot of ignorance (that Put Me in Charge screed, for example) perpetrated on social media, but there's plenty of clever thought, too. One of my favorites is this:

The Fundamental Attribution Error says that if you're not wealthy, it's because you don't work hard enough, didn't choose the right career path, didn't plan well and aren't smart enough. If I'm not wealthy, it's because the government takes all my money in taxes and gives it to lazy, poor people.

What are your fundamental attribution errors?

New skill sets for the disappearing middle class

2011-11-09T08:29:00.000-05:00

Last night some ex-urban, middle class kids got a lesson in how to dodge the repo man.

A daddy left a mama because he had to move to another state for a job because he couldn't find a job here. Things happen. Daddy's gone. Mama's stuck with the house and the bills. It's not just hypocritical Congressmen who don't pay to support their families, obviously. Mama and the kid are moving out in a few weeks, giving the house back to the bank because she's out of options. She's hanging on desperately to her car because she needs it to get to her job.

This is a middle/working class subdivision just like thousands of others. It's go the carved wood sign trumpeting the name at the entrance. In better times, when it was newer, there were probably flowers planted by the sign. Now there are a few leggy, colorful shrubs. Reminders of the glory of the 1990s.

If the people who populate these homes were reaching too far, it's hard to see. They should have remained satisfied with their trailers and tiny tract houses and rentals while their wages were being suppressed and the were encouraged to vote against their own economic interests. Their mistake was believing the hype that this was the ownership society and they were fools for not buying these houses. That was going to be their best investment. The American Dream was theirs if they just signed on the dotted line. That mortgage broker skulking out the door with his sly grin? Pay no attention. Just don't try to call him when your ARM loan balloons and you need a new loan in a crashing economy. He made his money up front. He's done with you.

I don't believe our neighbors were craven social climbers. They just wanted something a little nice. It's not the really nice subdivision with the clubhouses, pools and tennis courts and the huge houses with the wrap around porches. The numbered phases that fairly well illustrate how houses evolved between the mid-nineties and the housing bust. The Homeowner's Association fees are due sign that appears at the entrance once a month.

The kids who live in our subdivision love to be invited to their friends' houses over there. It's good for them to see what they can aspire to if they escape the winding deadends and occasionally shabby split-levels of this modest neighborhood. Funny - when I was growing up in a brick ranch, I would have thought these split-levels were the height of sophistication. The house I grew up didn't have a Master Suite. I didn't know a soul with a garden tub.

But standards have changed. The definition of necessity has shifted. Our kids know this. Most of these kids have never known anything else. And those who have to settle for the second and third rate stuff are keenly aware of what they're missing. They can't escape that knowledge. They see it every day held in the hands of their friends, emblazoned across logo bearing chests, screaming at them from the television, billboards and just about anywhere else you look.

And even so, they are hardly deprived. There is, sadly, some gut-wrenching poverty in this county, but the kids in this subdivision don't see it. Not much anyway.

So these kids who have spent most of their lives as part of the donor class - they proudly carried their unwrapped gifts to drop into the Toys for Tots barrels - now they're becoming part of the recipient class and their parents are trying to figure out how to tell them without having to tell them. We want them to figure it out and just deal with it. Their parents aren't high flyers, haven't made the smart career choices with the fat paychecks, have been less than careful with every penny maybe, haven't been given a leg up through family connections. They should feel lucky for what they do have, damn it.

When you go from being able to give to maybe having to receive, there's an acceptance gap. It takes you awhile to accept the fact that you're going to have to take some charity. Even as you become painfully aware that this isn't a financial blip, but a real trend, you can't see yourself going to the food pantry. You go to the grocery store. You use coupons and buy less meat. You don't buy as much produce and fresh foods and you look for long expiration dates. At the check out, you contribute the extra dollar for some charity because you've always done so before. It's a reflex. Later, you look at your bank statement and wonder how you're going to make your car payment next month while keeping the utilities paid up and the house payment current.

You beat yourself up because what constitutes a necessary utility has changed and you want to do everything to help your kids keep up - schools expect them to have computers and cellphones and to use technology to stay on top of the ever-growing expectations for learning when they're not in the classroom. Pay the phone and wireless bill? What can you defer until next month? You can't do without water, gas, electric. You can do without cable, but that means you do without any TV because the idea of free TV is basically a thing of the past out here in the sticks. No one has an antenna anymore. No TV? Fine. If you can keep the internet service, who needs it anyway?

Preemptively, you tell the kids you may have to use the computers at the library if you can't pay the internet bill and they understand. Some of their friends have learned to sign up for the computer - you get one hour - and while they wait their turn, hang out in front of the general store next door. But you have to watch for changing library hours. Noted.

And then one night, the neighborhood kids, form an information chain, a modern day game of telephone. Mama's car is hidden as best as possible. The lights are off in the house. The porch light is dark. One kid at the front end of the subdivision lets the others know when the tow truck appears. It chugs around the bend and goes to the end of the street and turns around in the cul-de-sac. Text messages track their movements. The tow truck idles outside the wrong house. Everyone waits.

Another mother sits inside her own split-level in the same subdivision, chews the inside of her cheek and remembers what it was like to hand the keys over to the repo man. She was prepared. She needed the relief of not paying that car payment, but it wasn't her only means of transportation. She and her husband could commute together, albeit inconveniently, until her job disappeared.

Never in her life did she think she'd be dealing with things like repossession and foreclosure, but there they are on her list of experiences. Life is full of surprises.

She aches for this other mother who is doing everything she can to hang on, to do what she can to make things work. Who wants to pay her bills, but simply can't. How can anyone think that people are enjoying this in any way? That people who always paid their bills before have somehow decided that living with the stress of collectors' phone calls and the constant threat that something is going to be shut off or taken away is so much better than just getting a job and going to work everyday.

Just get a job! She wishes.

She tells her husband about how she spent an hour online that day completing a job application for one job. She had to fill out the full application and answer an additional forty-five questions for a long shot job in Atlanta that pays barely over minimum wage. He looks up from his computer where he's doing lesson plans for the next day. He worked all day, but he'll put in another four hours before going to sleep. His unpaid student loan statement sits next to him on the nightstand. A reminder that he's not making enough to cover the nut no matter how many hours he puts in.

Meanwhile a low rumble comes from outside. The neighborhood watches as the tow truck driver makes a call on his cellphone......

Gleanings

2011-11-08T12:39:00.000-05:00

I needed a break from the war. How are you guys?

There is a theme here. I can't explain the sudden focus. Sometimes these things just happen organically.

********

First an Aunt B Story because I mentioned her once and didn't follow through.

Aunt B told us how a friend of ours stopped by her house in the country. He was riding a bicycle and when he stopped to ask if the cousins were home, he propped his leg on the bottom porch step.

He wore those vintage 1980 gym shorts and clearly hadn't seen the point of wearing underpants. There was slippage. And then peekage.

I was maybe 13 years old or so and hung on every word of this tale.

Here was Aunt B's dilemma as she told it leaning against the breakfast bar in her kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. "What was I supposed to do if that thing winked at me? Wink back?"

Up until that moment, I was unaware that they winked.

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

Lines that have made me snort with laughter today.

"A crooked penis can be interesting and the ball was probably up there somewhere." Some of you will recognize this.

"Nude wrestling?"
"It got my attention."
"I can see that."
"Whoever wins gets to wear the strap-on."
"And never was there ever a better prize."

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

And now I have to get back to writing. Not about penises.

What's keeping you at attention?

Let the bowerbird do it

2011-11-07T08:30:00.000-05:00

He won't be satisfied until he has everything just so.

susan on little distractions. Distractions abound. Large and small. susan's distraction sucked me in. I stayed awhile.

*********

I was having a bit of a moan about the tiresome lack of compliance the other inhabitants of this house have for my tiny requests that they help out by doing things like rinsing their dishes and putting them into the dishwasher and keeping doors closed so the cats won't nest in the clean laundry.Okay, maybe it was more than a bit of a moan. I'm fed up with their lack of respect for my time. Just because I'm here and able doesn't mean they shouldn't do the things they're capable of, the things they should do just because.

In other words, I'm not their fucking maid.

I'd probably have less anger about it if I were making record profits and getting government bailouts. I wouldn't even give two hoots if they moved their accounts to the smaller, friendlier, lived here all her life housefrau down the street as long as I can continue to use my sweet piles of cash to buy legislative baubles.

I slumped into a chair and drew my bowl of fat free plain Greek yogurt* toward me. Nature was on PBS. The subject? Animal housekeeping. As much as I wanted to be sour about it, I couldn't. The program is fascinating. Even if the honey badger doesn't make a cameo.

Watch The Animal House on PBS. See more from Nature.

*As if

Cotton Rushing By

2011-11-04T09:38:00.000-04:00

I get the Rumpus emails from Stephen Elliott who wrote The Adderall Diaries. It's a favorite book of mine. I love those emails from Mr. E. as you're about to see if I can pull off imitation with any glimmer of success.

Stephen's from Chicago and the time period he writes about is when we lived just off of Warren Park. Stephen tells a story about his friend who busted the window of Devon Bank. I remember seeing that broken window all boarded up. My husband and I used to park next to that bank and walk the block to our apartment.

It's a neighborhood with several big pre-war three floor apartment buildings and some three-flats. Parking is a challenge. You circle the block a couple of times before finding a spot and when you come to an open spot on that first block, you take it. I wrote this paragraph in the past tense and then changed it to the present because I'll bet not much has changed.

It was a Jewish neighborhood. Then, I think, the Greeks moved in and the Jews moved to Buffalo Grove and Northbrook. By the time we lived there, it was full of Russian and Eastern European immigrants, Indians, Syrians and Pakistanis. Devon Avenue was a collection of electronic shops, Indian restaurants and stores with saris like sunbursts and peacocks in the windows. The Woolworth's was still there with its wood floors, that five and dime smell, and the goldfish and parakeets. I used to like to go there and kill time because I was newly married, new to the city, didn't have any friends and my husband worked all the time at his job managing an electronics chain store on Western Avenue.

At the end of our block was a tiny Indian restaurant called Shital. I could never force myself to eat there. The name was bad enough, but the fact that they never bothered to wipe the greasy handprints off the front window sealed it. Call me crazy - I love greasy food, not greasy handprints. There was also a Russian restaurant on Devon. I can't remember its name anymore, but I had a dream that we went there and on the menu was a dish called Beef, Brains and Borscht.

I may have been newly pregnant with Chloe when I had that dream. I got sick after eating fried chicken I'd made myself and we couldn't cook meat in the apartment for the next eight weeks or so. When my appetite returned, I craved McDonald's cheeseburgers. That was swell. The building across the alley had its roof retarred and I thought I was going to have to move back to Indiana to escape the petroleum smell.

My mom told us how when she lived in France and was newly pregnant with my sister, she would put Chanel No. 5 on a hankie and hold it over her nose when she took the bus because the very natural and human scent of people who didn't see the point of deodorant made her morning sickness worse.

As I dashed into the bathroom to return the Kellogg's something or other I'd just eaten, I totally got what my mother was talking about.

When I took the bus to the Loyola station where I'd get the train downtown to my job in the old Polish Consulate building on Lake Shore Drive, I would watch the mouths of the people who spoke Russian and the other languages from the crumbling Soviet Bloc. No vowels. I swear, no vowels. I was fascinated by their clenched jaws and the women with their bleached blond hair, flashy clothes and manicures. I tried not to stare as I listened to the 10,000 Maniacs on my Walkman and pretended to read whatever F.Scott Fitzgerald book happened to be in my hand. I read all his work in those days. Even the Pat Hobby Stories which I quite liked, if I recall.

I've been picking random books off the shelves and looking at tense. Past tense or present? First person, third or something else? My manuscript is inching along, but not enough to suit me because the rent is late and that creates a special kind of pressure. Every day is a mental wrestling match. Work on something that has no guaranteed payoff, spend all day looking for a job and bloody my head on that wall, drive up to the adult superstore on I75 and see if I can make a few dollars in the parking lot. I might opt for the adult superstore idea, but there's no guaranteed payoff there either. It would cost me so much in gas money to get there and who knows how many other young, hot women and men have already staked out the territory. Times are tough for a lot of people, yo.

I'd fumble the whole thing anyway trying to keep things neat and tidy. I'd be fussing at fellas to pick up their used condoms and dispose of them according to appropriate medical waste procedures and suggesting that people watch their aim. If we don't make a mess in the first place......

Old habits die hard.

And then there's the possibility that I'd end up having to entertain one of these anti-government lunatics who seem to gravitate toward Georgia. I'll bet they're shitty tippers, too.

Oh the hell with that idea. I'll stick to getting exciting that a big box store is going to move its call center back from India to Georgia. Maybe my fortune will lie there in a job with a cubicle and a headset. It's all about customer service in the end, isn't it?

MathMan thinks I'm chasing my tail in trying to perfect this manuscript before I send out queries. Uh huh. This coming from a man who spends the hours from 7pm until 11pm doing lesson plans so his students will have the best possible chance for success. He's right, of course. At some point I am going to have to say that this book is good enough and move on, but I know that it's not baked yet. I feel kind of guilty for handing it off to beta readers as it is. And they've been wonderful. I'm so grateful for their feedback. There's nothing like seeing something you've created from another person's perspective.

When all else fails to settle down the magpie brain, I read. And take pictures when I'm driving. Here's what mornings look like here.

As a Midwestern transplant to the South, I marvel at the cotton fields no matter how long I live here.

xoxoxo,

Lisa

Put on some Coltrane, Derail your own train

2011-11-03T11:30:00.000-04:00

I told Mark Twain to shut up.Actually, I told him to shut the hell up because he refuses to stop following me around insisting the report of his death is an exaggeration.

Try looking in a mirror, Sam.

I've received some emails wondering where I've been. That's where Twain comes in. He's the goofball who said “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

That's more or less why I've been keeping quiet. I lost my footing and couldn't write without feeling self conscious. I thought, why not just stay quiet for a while? What's the harm in that?

My mistake was not telling you guys before I decided to be quiet. Sorry about that. I hate to be a cause for concern.

To catch you up and to resolve some old cliffhangers, here's what I've been doing while I haven't been online.

For starters, I never made it to Occupy Atlanta before the mayor closed it down (note: the protests are still happening). I have indeed settled for Occupy the Master Bedroom and I'm having some serious impact on things. You saw that Bank of America is getting rid of their absurd $5 ATM fee, right? You're welcome.

The downside is that MathMan is becoming increasingly unhappy with my encampment. Sounding more like a big city mayor than a calculus teacher, he insists I move out of my corner so that it can be vacuumed and fumigated. His demands also include that I put the comforter back on the bed. I caught him trying to dismantle my makeshift tent over the weekend, but when I called for reinforcements from the Pussies for Peace, he backed off. Fascist.

Good news! The fleacapades are over. I credit my increased attachment to the vacuum cleaner, the flea meds and the cold weather. Hey, here's something creepy a little too late for Halloween. I emptied the bagless vacuum canister into a trash bag, closed it tightly and deposited it in the garage. Some time later, I was in the garage and I heard faint sounds like bubble wrap or something. I nudged the bag with my toe and the sound grew louder. Those fleas for bouncing around in the garbage bag!

Of course I couldn't resist nudging it with my toe every time I went to the garage.

A different kind of change - I've actually been hanging out with a friend. Listen, y'all there's no need to point out that he might be imaginary.

And finally, in case I needed another useless epiphany there's this: The cats, as it turns out, aren't actually felines at all. They're honey badgers.

What's new with you, people of the internets?

Any number above zero is too high

2011-10-28T10:19:00.000-04:00

I shouldn't like Bobbi French. I mean, the woman is living the life I want and I should be crazy jealous. Let's examine the evidence against her.

1. She's tall. (She refers to herself as a giraffe.)
2. She's thin. (Don't listen to her about this. She's thin.)
3. Her silver hair is even more gorgeous than mine ;-D AND AND! she has the bone structure to wear her hair cropped a la Jamie Curtis. Who, I might add, Bobbie resembles.
4. She's smart. As in, she's a doctor smart.
5. She's living in France with a gorgeous husband who cooks and rubs her feet. And there are no surly teenagers or cats weighing her down.

Need I go on?

But here's the thing. Because she's so damned funny and intelligent and witty and kind and interesting and humane and because she's from Newfoundland (it matters, y'all), I am forced to overlook all those superficial reasons for not liking her. I adore Bobbi French. And as if I needed another reason to adore her, there's this post which will give you some context for the video below.

Now get out there and spread this message around. This has to stop now. My kids are going to hear about this tonight when they get home and every day after. I'm going to be a cd stuck on repeat, a record with a needle stuck, a gramophone....well, you get the idea. It's not enough for me to remind them that bullying is wrong and will not be tolerated, but they also need to spread the word among their friends and they need to shame and shun anyone who still thinks bullying is okay.

But I'll be honest with you, adults are a big part of the problem. The high school where Sophie will attend won't even allow a Gay/Straight Alliance to form. That's an adult problem, not a bullying problem.

I'm pledging here and now to call this bullshit out wherever I see it. I hope you will, too.

Lisa Sing the Blues

2011-10-27T11:05:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I tweeted that I was breaking up with TV because I can't take the bad news anymore. Why, in the span of twenty minutes, I was subjected to the news that Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed had ordered the rousting of Occupy Atlanta, I ground my teeth while I listened to Senator Pat Toomey (R - PA) try to explain how Supply Side Economics would solve our problems by bringing down prices (which would be awesome if he means everything will be free because that's the only way people without jobs will be able to become consumers again), and then Arne Duncan came on the air to talk about how we need longer school days and more extracurricular activities for kids because all the activities the working classes can no longer afford to enroll their kids in aren't nearly enough.

At the end of that I was no longer grinding my teeth, I was stomping to the basement in search of ammunition.

The internet isn't much better, except for a few places that serve as doors into other worlds.

In a fit of pique, I hit my Tweetdeck with a hammer and threw eggs at the television. The cats were pleased. Their eyes gleamed as they lined up for a taste of that chirping Twitter bird and a couple of them went after the raw eggs. Not all of these cats are of the discerning taste variety. We have a couple with rather indiscriminate palates. If I don't keep the trash well sorted and the toilet lids shut, they think they're at a saloon with a buffet.

Alas, I wasn't finished. I also shot Facebook in the face because I'm so sick of the constant scroll of recycled photos with pithy sayings, the visual aids demonstrating just how fucking bad the economy is, and the links to the ever-increasing bad news.

I feel myself tumbling into the enormous chasm between the Haves and the Have Nots and wishing that we'd reach the place where violence becomes inevitable because I'm anxious to know the outcome of these dark times. I want to be through them already.

I hope you could follow that. You should see the size of the coffee cup I'm using.

Anyway, as an antidote, I'm spending more and more of my time escaping. While tugging clothes from the dryer and folding them into origami underwear swans is a great way to both stay away from the TV and to get make myself useful, I'd much rather disappear into new and different worlds - my own manuscript, books I'm reading, and especially into the labyrinth of online entertainment. Except for a few minutes of necessary relaxation to help me release my anxieties enough to get some work done, I'm actually talking about wholesome entertainment.

For example, short stories (follow the links to the story Paper Lanterns), and short films by new friends and then this by Nina Paley. In the Nina Paley film, my favorite parts are the cross talk between the narrators. (Click those links, people. I'm not kidding.)

Music is a must on my little island of I'm Ignoring You and You and You!. I bring with me all genres, but right now, I'm awash in jazz and the old standards and especially the old sappy love songs. A friend recently sent me the 1929 CD by Annette Hanshaw who provides the soundtrack for Sita Sings the Blues.

I had an inkling of her work when I stumbled upon some of Hanshaw's music as I searched for a version Am I Blue to use in this post. It all fits so nicely since we seem to be enjoying economic good times just like in 1929.

Another friend and I were talking about how having certain survival skills might become necessity as things worsen. She pointed out that I might be glad I know how to grow food. I agreed, but I'd like better to be able to know how to grow trees that sprout Benjamins instead of leaves then I could start my own SuperPac. Talk about killing two legislative priorities with one big donation.

I think the thing that most irritates me about the state of the world is --- you know what, no. I can't even put my finger on the thing or even the things that most irritate me. We're in such a mess.

Enough with the gloom. I'm going to go round up the cats. We're working on our version of this. You know, just in case...

How are you escaping these days?

And dance by the light of the moon

2011-10-25T10:08:00.001-04:00

I'm an incurable romantic. As such, I'm also an inveterate matchmaker. If you let me know directly or indirectly that you're looking, my wheels are turning.

My record on matchmaking is decent. I'm no Yenta, but I do okay. The truth is, I only stick my pointy nose in when I'm confident about my ideas for the potential couple. That keeps my averages up.

One of the themes of my work in progress (WIP) is how would life be different if you'd never existed. As one of the characters in the story says, "Like It's a Wonderful Life and you're George Bailey but there's no Clarence The Angel. Or Mr. Potter."

Yes, something very much like that.

In 1998, I worked with a single, gorgeous, interesting young woman who was having a hard time meeting guys who suited her. At the same time, my husband had a colleague who I found just as interesting as my coworker. I thought they'd make a great match.

Their wedding was beautiful. It was one of the most interesting wedding I've ever attended because it combined elements of two different cultural traditions. If you've never seen a sari as a wedding dress, you don't know what you're missing. I'll never forget the colors of that wedding.

So why am I thinking of that today?

Well, I saw on Facebook that their second child was born yesterday and I was reminded that our existence leaves tiny imprints more than we realize.

Is it just me being a ridiculous narcissist or have you thought about this? What would be different if you'd never existed?

It's not a message written in the dark or some truth that no one sees

2011-10-24T11:08:00.000-04:00

This is the book I'm reading right now and the description from the author's website:

Crippled by lupus at twenty-five, celebrated author Flannery O’Connor was forced to leave New York City and return home to Andalusia, her family farm in Milledgeville, Georgia. Years later, as Flannery is finishing a novel and tending to her menagerie of peacocks, her mother drags her to the wedding of a family friend.

Cookie Himmel embodies every facet of Southern womanhood that Flannery lacks: she is revered for her beauty and grace; she is at the helm of every ladies’ organization in town; and she has returned from her time in Manhattan with a rich fiancée, Melvin Whiteson.

Melvin has come to Milledgeville to begin a new chapter in his life, but it is not until he meets Flannery that he starts to take a good, hard look at the choices he has made. Despite the limitations of her disease, Flannery seems to be more alive than other people, and Melvin is drawn to her like a moth to a candle flame.

Melvin is not the only person in Milledgeville who starts to feel that life is passing him by. Lona Waters, the dutiful wife of a local policeman, is hired by Cookie to help create a perfect home. As Lona spends her days sewing curtains, she is given an opportunity to remember what it feels like to truly live, and she seizes it with both hands

Heartbreakingly beautiful and inescapably human, these ordinary and extraordinary people chart their own courses in life. In the aftermath of one tragic afternoon, they are all forced to look at themselves and face up to Flannery’s observation that the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.

Some lines that I would highlight were this not a library book:

Melvin liked the idea that something he told Flannery might appear in a book. His life was a messy compilation of moments that didn't fit together. If Flannery wove them into a narrative, they would have cohesion and significance. He would be able to read about himself and all that was inexplicable in real life would be explained.

The music that has my attention this morning.

What does one have to do with the other?

Please feel free to discuss. There are no right or wrong answers.

You think the honey badger cares?

2011-10-20T18:51:00.001-04:00

So Chloe, my oldest, is home for a few days on a break from school. I'm so glad to see her, but having her here means a few changes in the home dynamic.

1. Her iPhone takes up an enormous amount of broadband and thus my online activities are curtailed. This is not necessarily a bad thing. I'm getting lots done on my WIP. Thanks to the beta readers, this thing is really improving. (Thanks, betas!)

2. Chloe's presence upsets the sibling dynamic resulting in all sorts of jockeying for attention. Again, this isn't exactly a bad thing - I quite like hanging out with my kids once in a while, but there's a shelf life to sibling rivalry and I expect to reach my limit by about 6pm tomorrow. She's staying until Sunday. So....I'll be chewing Xanax and washing it down with a cheap red on Saturday. Be sure to come back and read that blog post. It promises to be a dilly.

2.1. The cats aren't sure what to do with this person who is actually interested in picking them up and carrying them around like babies. I've heard talk of dressing them in doll clothes and enacting scenes from Jane Austen novels. And the cats thought the fleas were nuisances.

3. I get to hear what's going on with Chloe and her friends. I'm sure this is heavily filtered. As it should be. I can still remember the look on my own mother's face when I tried to explain to her what a ......well, nevermind. Let's just say her response began with "Is that legal?"

4. We get to discuss Pinterest and read recipes aloud to each other. The result? A chocolate chess pie in the oven.

5. I cook more. More specifically, I bake more. (See above.)

6. I get to experience new things. Like this:

And this:

After that honey badger video, you'd think I wouldn't be hungry. You would be wrong. Who's ready for some pie?

Thrown

2011-10-18T23:12:00.001-04:00

Sometimes he finishes my sentences and gets it right. Sometimes he finishes my sentences and I want to throw something at him. And I've been known to throw things. Fits. Unopened cans of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup. Cellphones. The bathwater out and that damned baby, too.

"The thing that drives me crazy about this..." that was me. My line. My mistake is trying to reduce it, whatever it is, to just one thing. The thing that drives me crazy. As if.

I know, I know, on top of writing, you're the one doing all the housework. That was him.

True, but that wasn't what I was going to say. I may have snarled. I didn't throw anything. "Yes, but..."

He tried again. I know the money worries me, too.

Wrong again. Well, I mean, he was right. Of course the money stuff is worrying me to no end. I swear that at least 50% of my excess body fat is due to that fucking stress hormone, but no, I was going to say something more specific about money.

"Listen to me!" Now there's a universal cry if ever there was one. "What makes it so hard to focus sometimes is that when I had a job, I showed up, I did my job, I got paid. It was a given. Now! Now, there's a very real possibility that I'll do all this work - the writing, the editing, the fretting over finding an agent - all this time spent on this and there's no guarantee that I'll ever be paid a cent for it."

Saying it didn't make it better. I felt flattened, defeated, over it. Why can't I just find a real job? A job with a paycheck? How did I go from being capable of managing an organization to being unemployable?

"There's one sure fire way to guarantee that you don't get paid for it," he said quickly so I couldn't cut in. It was my turn to finish his sentence. I must have had that look in my eye. "Don't finish it. Don't put it out there. Don't try to find an agent or to publish it on your own. There's your guaranteed failure right there."

There's nothing left to say. I turn back to the computer and get back to work.

What throws you?

30 Day Photography Challenge - One last bit of self reflection

2011-10-15T11:00:00.000-04:00

Hey, loser! Why don't you just go get a job?!?!

Summer has some thoughts on raising children that I enthusiastically endorse. Hey, my kids have turned out just fine. What? Don't look at me in that tone of voice.*

Bonus alert! Randal whistles past the graveyard. And it's a wrap!

UPDATED: We get the many sides of Geoffrey.

UPDATED TWICE! Summer love in bright light.

Thanks to those of you who've stuck with me through this challenge. It's turned out to be a great writing prompt so if any of you are ever casting about for writing ideas, I highly recommend it. And thanks to Summer, Randal and Geoffrey for joining me in this endeavor. I hope you had fun with it, too.

So in case you hadn't gathered from the photo, I want to join The Revolt. Occupy Atlanta is growing and it's time to lend my voice. Especially before it gets cold. Yeah, I'm a weather creampuff. Why do you think I live in the South? The strong labor unions? The politically correct flags? The religious diversity? Heck, I can kill two birds with one hand-lettered and correctly spelled protest sign - I can get involved and make contact with the hippies. Man, I haven't ~~slept around in~~ hung out in a tent city since we had our hemp knickers in a twist about Apartheid.

Yeah, it would be good for me to get out of my head and into the mix. I'd be safer with the threat of pepper spray and cops in need of anger-management classes.

But hey, that's part of my charm!

Take care, be kind to each other and I'll see you on the ramparts, y'all.

*Thanks, Dot!

30 Day Photography Challenge - Black and White

2011-10-14T08:30:00.000-04:00

Something about this appeals to me. The negative space maybe.

I'm thinking about turbulence today. The plane hits a mean pocket of air. The car stumbles over a jagged roadway upheaval. Something comes out of nowhere and jolts your balance. Blindsided. The Surprise! that doesn't come with shouts of happy birthday.

Do you hold on tight, white knuckle grip through it or let your body go slack until you find your balance again?

Tomorrow one last self-portrait and this project will be complete. I'll have proven to myself that I can, in fact, finish something.

Summer on the rose.
Randal does no harm.
Geoffrey has a happy accident.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Flowers

2011-10-13T11:02:00.002-04:00

Catching up!
Summer's paradox at a distance.
Randal put some flowers in his hair.

UPDATED: Geoffrey takes us back to the beginning.

Forty-six is a weird age. Not weird like when you're twelve and itching to be a teenager or you're fifteen and anxious to get your driver's license or when you're between eighteen and twenty-one, the time of being an adult who can get married and fight wars for rich people, but you can't drink alcohol. Legally.

No forty-six, for a woman, at least, is weird because it's the time when you're body is shifting gears from being a potential baby-maker to being a walking exhibit of good and bad choices. It even has its own capitalized name. The Change.

I'm going to go into some personal stuff here so if you're bothered by periods and such, please step away. I'm not in a mood to wrap reality in rainbows and unicorns for anyone. Because I'm 46.

First - this isn't because I just turned 46 although knowing that I'm closer to being fifty than I could have every imagined I'd be, has been a bit of a shock. The reality is that I could have written this post when I was 45 and it will likely be relevant when I'm 47, too.

My body is definitely changing so what do I do? Well, I ask my husband stupid questions like "We didn't have some kind of sperm accident that I've forgotten, did we?"

To which he rolls his eyes and utters a denial and a number that makes it abundantly clear that he's keeping track of how many times we've had sex in the last month.

So where's my period?

The first time this happened, I freaked out. Like when I had sex with my boyfriend in the back of his Chevelle and we counted on his good lord and the pull out method. My period would be late and I'd go into a self-flagellating panic. I was a smart girl with a promising life ahead of me, why on earth would I let an unsheathed penis within six feet of my vagina?

Every time I went to the toilet, I closed my eyes and hoped for the little telltale signs of a bit of pink on the tissue. Please oh please, I prayed to no one in particular, let my uterus shed its lining!

And here I am again. Without my trusty IUD. With pretty much the same careless contraceptive methods that were the hallmark of my teens. And I'm wondering if I'm going to end up with an Oopsy Daisy baby. The horror. I'm over the parenting thing. If I could give Sophie an express ticket to eighteen? In a heartbeat. Selfish? Oh yeah. Think I care? Let's just say if I had baby advice to offer it's this - if you want more than one, do it bam, bam, bam! Four or five years between three kids means I've been at this for twenty-one years and I'm in for the hard stuff for another five with no time off for good behavior.

I love them. Of course, I love them, but I'm ready to be living the life in those Toyota commercials where the empty nesters go horseback riding and dancing and, by god, I won't be satisfied until I've held hands with my love while we sit side by side in matching claw-footed bathtubs admiring the sunset.

So what does this have to do with flowers? Well, I'll tell ya. It might be a stretch, but I'll do my best.

Just keep repeating to yourself "The sweet flower of youth" and you'll get the idea.

Some of you know what Pinterest is, but if you don't here's a link. Right click it and open it in a new tab or window so you can stay here and read my really important words. Go on, I'll give you a sec to get the gist.

Back? Good. So here's the thing - some of Chloe's friends and I follow each other on Pinterest and it's delightful because they are lovely young women with so much promise and talent. I adore them. But there's a dark side to this and here it is: Pinterest is my daily reminder that not only is my flower fading, but that there will come a point when they - those beautiful, intelligent young women - will burst forth with their own flowers of fertility and there's no holding it back. Biology won't let us no matter how many bargains we offer. Where we leave off, they'll begin and so it goes, Kurt.

The itch to mate is taking them by their smooth-skinned hands and leading them toward marriage and motherhood. They're pinning ideas for how their houses will look, wedding ideas, wedding reception ideas, and yes, baby ideas. Sigh.

I love it that they can use technology to visually dream, but sigh. And as an aside, boy am I glad that this kind of thing didn't exist when I was twenty and torturing my own mother with how my life would be so damned superior to the lame choices she'd made. Holy white sofas in high rise apartments, she'd be laughing maniacally and sending me links to all kinds of big ideas that never materialized.

I mentioned this to the Voice of Reason who once again rolled his eyes and reminded me that I was twenty-two when we married and furthermore, by the ripe old age of twenty-five was so desperately in the clutches of the biological need to procreate that I bit a hole in a used condom and inserted into my vagina.

How annoying of him to use my own history to illustrate a point.

So what is it that bothers me about seeing Chloe's friends pinning their dreams on marriage and babies and House Beautiful?

All of it. None of it. It's a reminder of things done, undone and not done. It's my friend who divorced at forty-one and shared with me that she'd heard envy expressed by so many women our age. It's the middle-aged lament is this all there is? It's the grinding sameness of every day because I'm feeling trapped and need someone else to blame because that silver-haired chick in the mirror is busy craving a return of her eighteen year old face unlined by time, stress and sun. It's the emotional adolescence of wanting what I want when I want it, consequences be damned. To blithely ignore the needs of others for a change, to eradicate the contractions can't and won't and shouldn't from my vocabulary so I can finally reach that much rumored potential.

And of course, on my worst days, I want my youth back but with the caveat that I get to take today's knowledge with me.

Because, let's face it, age does give us the gift of experience. I would only want to go if I knew that I could go confident that most of what people say isn't very well thought-through so I shouldn't take it personally. That not everyone is going to like me and that's okay. That it's fine to wear that skirt, to toss out those shoes, to leave the dishes in the sink, to plant my ass in a chair and read a book, to phone that friend, to take that trip, to leave the sadness for another day, to write with abandon, to tell that boss no, to laugh off that joker, to skip the fries and have the milkshake, to say yes to this dress, but not that one.

This isn't about regret. This is about learning. This is about looking at where I am now and figuring out what comes next because, well, fifty is kind of what I see as my personal halfway mark. And there's still so much to do, you know?

But first there are some pressing issues to consider. Do I buy a case of pregnancy tests just to be safe? What I don't use, I could hand out at high schools that teach abstinence only. I won't tempt the fates by wearing light colored pants, but how am I supposed to go on without blaming my chocolate cravings on hormones? That has been part of my personal narrative for so long, it will be like learning a new language.

Maybe I've won the hormonal lottery. My periods were always light and painless. I got pregnant easily. My pregnancies were fairly uneventful if you overlook a little bed rest here or there which was probably my body telling me to lay off the cleaning jags anyway. Is it possible that my uterus just closed for business and didn't leave a forwarding address? I've had one or two things that felt like hot flashes, but otherwise The Change for me has been a breeze. Goodness me, I can't believe I typed all that. I might as well have just done this:

Dear Trouble, come and get me.

What kind of cycles have you guessing?

30 Day Photography Challenge - From a Distance

2011-10-12T15:35:00.001-04:00

I have this friend who says, and rightly so, that Georgia is the Wild West of planning and zoning.

I wish I could distance myself from this, but I can't. It's everywhere begging for the symbolism of it to be recognized, named, called what it is. A crying shame? Criminal? The likely conclusion? The slow motion accident?

Spaces never leased.

Vultures and Herons gossip in the dry retention pond.

What symbolism?

It's their's now.

In or out?

Unfinished business.

Getting out while the gettin's good?

128 empty lots since 2008 or 2009

In my own neighborhood.

Foreclosed.

When we moved here in April of 2009, the guy who lived here rode his lawnmower like a stallion, a sense of lawn-related pride making his ruddy skin glow in the the afternoon sun.

Now it belongs to the bank. The bank has chosen to let Nature be the caretaker.

Yeah, I could use some distance from this. But with the Congressional shenanigans doing nothing to help the 99% of us not sitting on piles of growing money, the corporate media's complicity and the ability of those in the high offices looking down upon Zucotti Park to descend in their marble elevators to waiting cars that purr, I mean purr, when you turn the key in the ignition, and drive away having zero contact with the little people, the impact we've felt so far will be fondly remembered as a feather light touch in days to come.

While those of us who continue to play by the rules because we're bereft of options and imagination and the gas and bail money to join The Revolution are wading into the muddy waters with stones in our pockets, those who made this mess and those who helped and those who refuse to acknowledge it and those who refuse to force some accountability on them all move further and further away into the distance.

Randal and his spooky noochies which aren't nearly as depressing.

UPDATED: Geoffrey takes us on a trip.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Close Up

2011-10-11T16:57:00.002-04:00

Some things require a closer look.

As long as we're not talking about my fine lines and wrinkles, I'm cool with that.

Thank you for indulging me while I'm more or less phoning it in.
I'm taking the liberty of my birthday to play and it has been wonderful. Tomorrow we'll take a step back, but for now....

Geoffrey goes super macro!

Randal runs on, Mr. DeMille.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Pink

2011-10-10T10:14:00.001-04:00

I see you edited my sign.
Mama, it was embarrassing.
Hey, instead of the what I was originally going to put - the god damned door - which, I understand, turns children to dust or something - I chose my next favorite word. Besides, it got your attention, didn't it?
Mama, we cannot have a sign on the laundry room door that says keep this fucking door shut.
I don't see why not. It's my house.
I told you! It's embarrassing!
I'll tell you what's embarrassing - having your friends in a house where they're likely to be bitten by fleas.
They don't get bit! They're gingers. Nothing bites them. Ask them. They'll tell you.
Just keep the door closed. There's clean laundry in there to carry upstairs and I don't want the damn cats on it.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Today, the last day of 45, I'll spend fighting fleas. We've bombed until our eyebrows began falling out, bathed the cats until they're traumatized and we're bloody, I've become genetically fused to the vacuum cleaner and still, I'm walking around in white socks picking up the little monsters and dunking them in glasses of water. And let me tell ya, there's nothing quite so sexy as a chubby chick in short shorts, a yoga top and knee high gym socks. I'm just waiting for TLC to show up with their cameras, y'all.

We've washed all the bedding twice, opened the house for a decent airing and prayed (even though it goes against our nature) for a jolly good cold snap. Freezing would be nice. I'd sit naked in twenty degree weather with my hair wet and twisted into a unicorn horn of flea shampoo if I thought it would rid us of these nasty little buggers.

I'm contemplating setting aside my convictions about no kill shelters and loading the cats into the Corolla and taking them to the Humane Society. Here, kitty, kitty, wanna go for a ride with Mommy?
But they'll put them to sleep!
Are you the one vacuuming eight hours a day?
Yeah, I thought so.

I woke up screaming from a nightmare. Visions of that magnified flea used in commercials danced before me and I clawed at an itch on my leg.

I think we should just move and not take anything.
Okay, now you're being unreasonable. His eyes didn't leave his computer screen.

Fine. Unreasonable I'll be.

For my birthday, I'd like a few thousand dollars, a passport bearing a new identity, a short stay in a posh institution and possibly a lobotomy if it will also do away with my hellacious sweet tooth once and for all.

Or some cough drops from Randal.

Geoffrey goes pink in a way I can truly appreciate.

UPDATED: Summer puts us on hold with cake!

*********

Here's the good news - I finished the revisions on my novel. I know I've teased some of you with the prospect of being beta readers, but I'm a little afraid that if I keep working on it, I'll never take the next step. So I'm going to go ahead and start querying agents while some of you read it for me.

Following is the first draft of my query so you can determine whether or not you want to read the dang thing. I assure you, it's not going to be everyone's glass of sweet tea. If, after reading this synopsis, you want to read the draft, please let me know. Thank you, youse guys.

Julie Rhodes is typical of her time – a wife, a mother, a woman trying to juggle her family’s needs, her own desires, her faltering marriage, her status as one of the many unemployed Americans looking for work, and the speed at which everything moves in 2010. She knows she’s losing the battle and wishes for something different.

When she wakes up in 1944 England, Julie realizes she should have been more specific.

Sure that she's dreaming because her son has been joking that he's General George S. Patton reincarnated, Julie quickly learns that her place in history has been reset and she's gotten the do over she wished for. In exchange, she's lost her family, friends and the internet.

A 73k word mainstream novel, History We Don’t Know tells the story of how Julie adjusts to life in wartime England while trying to find a way back home. Told from several points of view, the story also describes how Julie's family adjusts to life without her and how our perceptions of time and love can change in an instant.

********

Gee, really? A fed up woman dreaming of something different? Full circle!

What's eating you?

30 Day Photography Challenge - Animal

2011-10-09T16:10:00.000-04:00

They roar when you open their mouths for a cookie.

UPDATED: Summer gives us a sparkly two-fer!

Geoffrey on the mend. And with animals galore.

Randal and those puppy eyes.

I couldn't bring myself to show you another photo of the cats and I'm not about to take a snap of the poor smooshed fox on the side of the road into town, so I thought I'd go with something a little less obvious. Or maybe not.

Spot the animal.

This is one of those moments where I can't think of a single nice thing to say so I'm going to do what my mom always advised.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Sunflare

2011-10-07T14:11:00.001-04:00

This could have been the day I finally went meh, I'm over this project because I didn't feel like aiming my camera at the sky.

I'm otherwise occupied and distracted and there's this to watch and this rabbithole to tumble into and a request that I listen to something that is going to make me sigh with longing, and those horrible fleas are nipping at my feet so that I have to sit all tucked up on my chair until my feet fall asleep and the light breeze on a sunny day and Betty's eggs and good strong, black coffee and the ongoing manuscript edits and brain numbing job search and the new webcam and the tweeting of birds without hashtags and a bag of Halloween candy that will never hear its first Trick or Treat.

I owe you a photo, don't I?

Randal reminds us of what's coming. And then there's this.

UPDATED: Summer finds the meaning.

What's got your attention? What are you humming when you stare at the sun?

Mine.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Not We Are The World

2011-10-06T07:55:00.001-04:00

When he was little, he would lay his chubby, baby-soft hands on my cheeks and say "I look like Mama" in his gravely voice. When he was about two, I put a real baseball into his outstretched hand and in return he gave me a black eye with it. Now I watch his hands steer the wheel of the car with ease. Almost a man. I see him absentmindedly pet a cat who's taken up residence on his lap as he watches Top Gear and get a glimpse of how tenderly he might treat his own child some day.

May that day be far far off. I'm just putting that out there because there's a condom on his dresser in plain sight. Better that he has one, I tell myself. It does, however, beg the question - should I ask him if he needs it every time he leaves the house? A recent search of old Ann Landers' columns holds no clues. Useless, Ann.

The house is loud when they're around. There's no mistaking it when they offer commentary for everything on the television. No one is safe from their razor sharp tongues. Not Anthony Bourdain, not arod or is it A Rod? Whatever. If they think you're doing something wrong - and there's lots of wrong being done in this world - they're going to point and laugh and holla. With the volume cranked up to eleven.

Guys, let me take some photos of your hands.
Not like that! That's too We Are the World!
What's the statement you're trying to make, Mom?
Do a handshake.
A white guy handshake or a black guy handshake?
There's a difference?
Pay no attention to her, Torezz. She doesn't know what she's talking about.
You can't do a black guy handshake right.
Do this. No this. This. Wait. Let's do this.
Are those gang symbols?
Maybe.
Um....
We won't throw gang symbols on your blog. Jeez.

And when it was done, they took their show into the kitchen and used those hands to grate potatoes to make themselves hash browns to go with their frozen waffles and half a gallon of syrup.

UPDATED!

Randal does a cover up.
Geoffrey on what makes us - us.

UPDATED ENCORE
Summer and the little artist.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Faceless Self Portrait

2011-10-05T10:20:00.000-04:00

If you look really closely, you'll see a binder clipped stack of papers under the table. No, that's not the President's job bill, it's the manuscript in its many iterations.

I'm on a self-imposed deadline to get this work in progress finished. October 11. It's going to be finished come hell or high levels of anxiety. Okay, so the high levels of anxiety are a given.

In the meantime, I'm falling in and out of love, fighting fleas that don't play bass, hanging laundry on the line and scheming to be part of Occupy Wall Street. I might have to settle for Occupy Stonebrook Drive. Fuck. Because I'd rather drive to Chicago or NYC than deal with the lunacy of Atlanta traffic, that's why.

What have you got up your sleeve?

Randal gives me nightmares.

UPDATED: Geoffrey is defined like this.

UPDATED MORE! Summer and the amazing ponyholder!

30 Day Photography Challenge - Bokeh?

2011-10-04T09:29:00.000-04:00

I leaned into the side by side Hotpoint and aimed the blow dryer at the thick layer of frost and ice coating the back of the freezer and thought of my mother. A memory of her standing in front the avocado green fridge aiming the vintage light blue metal blow dryer at the freezer and muttering about being electrocuted.

I've electrocuted myself a number of times so that part of the adventure isn't as glamorous as it once was. As an aside, please note that if you ever see an article written by me about how to rewire lamps, understand it's a humor piece.

While I watched the water melt and trickle down the freezer's sides, I remembered how we used to take cups and scrape the ice from the inside of the freezer to eat like Freon flavored snow cones because we couldn't figure out how to turn Kool Aid into syrup. Not for a lack of trying, mind you, but the failed attempts always ended with ice scrapings melting into red or purple puddles in the bottom of our cups.

You could probably draw some conclusions about why I am the way I am based on the knowledge that I used to eat ice scrapings from the freezer.

Well, now that I would know exactly how to make snow cone flavoring (simple syrup + Kool Aid powder), I'm past the age where I'd find joy in scraping the frost from the freezer and spooning it into my mouth. (Please believe this!)

Timing is everything.

Why am I prattling on about this? I was going through an exercise hoping that I'd remember what I was thinking about writing as I defrosted the freezer. I thought if I put myself back in that place, I might remember what I wanted to write, but was too busy not electrocuting myself to stop and write down before it got crowded out.

And guess what? It worked!

Bokeh means blurry in the photography patois and so I give you this:

If you enlarge the photo (taken on my drive back from visiting Chloe), you'll see the reflection of Betty MacDonald's The Egg and I. I'm a ridiculously slow reader, taking weeks to finish a book. As such, I've been schlepping poor Betty and her eggs around for a couple of weeks. In case you didn't guess, I take a book with me wherever I go. You never know when you're going to need one. They're useful props for social situations allowing one to to not engage with others, for self entertainment, for swatting aggressive bees, and just in case one ever needs to MacGuyver oneself out of a dire situation. Worst case scenario, you have something to read until the factory you're locked in implodes in a planned demolition.

One of the things I've been doing to keep from losing my damn mind during this long work drought is to try to look at things from different perspectives. One way I've done this is by writing my novel from different points of view. Another thing I've found useful is to take a step back and shift the focus of how I internally narrate what's going on. For example, I wasn't laid off and have been unable to find work, but instead, so the new narrative goes, I'm transitioning careers from la di da association executive to being a published writer. Throw in a long stint as a passive aggressive hausfrau and you pretty much have the picture blurry though it may be.

And as long as I can remind myself that nothing I do is as difficult as what Betty MacDonald had to do on that chicken ranch, I know I'm going to be all right.

At Randal's place, you get the blame.

I love what Summer did with Bokeh.

UPDATED: Geoffrey goes in another direction.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Orange

2011-10-03T09:56:00.000-04:00

It's the wide bottom of candy corn. The part I eat first as I dissect each piece - bottom, middle, tiny white top - in an attempt to make the sweet moment last. To toss a handful into my mouth would be an effrontery to the season. Treats such as this are to be savored, relished, sugar melting on your tongue. Then there are the games. One piece, white side down, carefully centered between upper lip and teeth. He calls it egg tooth. Some of us prefer two transforming us into vampires, fangs courtesy of Brach's.

I went looking for the photo of him doing egg tooth, but couldn't find it. I did find this and he's wearing orange.

Now that boy is taller than both of us.

It's the color of my brother's striped shirt when he was a little kid. The Bengals football helmet he wore as he rode his Big Wheel in a hail storm a few hours before tornadoes shimmied across the hills, dangerous sisters they were.

It's the color of the plastic whale we played with in the bathtub.

It's marigolds and citrus stuck with rock and roll earrings. It's my high school boyfriend's Trans Am and the Harvest Moon hung over the Ohio. It rhymes with nothing, but it sounds like basketballs bouncing on the wooden gym floor. It's autumn leaves and packages of Reeses', crepe paper streamers twined with black. It's tigerlillies, zinnias and carrots yanked from the ground. It's the Monarch fluttering by. It's the color of a sunset. It's Blogger and Dunkin Donuts and seasonal frosting on your cupcake. Concentrate it and it becomes focus and energy.

It's sectioned and quartered, squeezed and peeled. It's pies and breads, spreads and cookies. It's spiced and carved and Jack o'Lantered with a candle flickering inside. A beacon.

Fiddlesticks. I just made myself hungry.

Geoffrey goes black and white about orange. Randal is radioactive and Poe dark. Alas.

UPDATED: Summer and the effects of orange.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Shoes

2011-10-01T09:01:00.000-04:00

I would love to tell you that I mince around the house in beautiful, soft leather pumps while I scoop the litter boxes and make the coffee. That I mince when I'm not tottering around the grocery store feeling up the melons while my feet are shod in the most awesome four inch heeled black ankle boots ever made by human hands. And I mince and totter when I'm not throwing my come fuck me heels over MathMan's shoulders.

Except that would be one big fat lie. Case in point:

And what's worse - I have small feet. Size five or five and a half. That size is hard to find in the women's shoes section so I often resort to shopping in the kids section. You'd never guess, right?

Well, I don't know if you know this, but it's difficult to find stripper shoes in the kids' section. Sperry can't be convinced to add five inch acrylic heels to any of their fashions no matter how many pleas I send them.

So it's pretty much canvas for me. But you can rest assured, the sensible shoes conceal some randy nail colors. Flip flops excepted, of course.

But even shoes need a break so I mostly go barefoot until I can't. And then I put on slippers. And I'm not showing you my slippers. Those feathers and sequins are my little secret.

I'm out of here for today. It's family weekend at Brenau and I'm going to go hang with my Chloe who I miss more than I realized.

Don't forget to visit Geoffrey, Randal and Summer, y'all. I'm going to take tomorrow off and pick up on Monday with the color orange. Which rhymes with -------------

xoxoxo

Lisa

What are your favorite pair of shoes?

30 Day Photography Challenge - Technology

2011-09-30T09:59:00.000-04:00

UPDATED: Summer exposes the Mirror of Erised.

There's no question that I am a fan.

I love it that I can Skype with my friend in France or that we can join in the family holidays even when they're in Chicago and we're in Georgia.

I love that I can watch live music remotely.

It's wonderful that people who would have died not so long ago can now live because of science and technology.

An aside - don't you love it when people use technology to proclaim a disdain for science? Silly humans.

I'm glad that when a hurricane or a tornado or a blizzard is heading our way, we can now prepare for it.

I am still a little amazed that I can walk around with a roomful of milk crates jammed full with record albums and audio books in my pocket.

It's pretty damn cool that my kids can watch movies and TV shows and read books on these little devices they hold in their hands.

I like that when I talk to my mother, I share with her the Rising Sun gossip and goings on because I'm on Facebook and she's not.

I will never regret the worlds I've tapped into because of this infernal typing machine. (Love you guys!)

I love it that when my kids need me that they can reach me. And I'm pleased that they've done a good job of figuring out when it's really important to call. Or text. They text when they don't want a lecture.

I don't exactly love it that MathMan can text me every time he pees, but it still makes me laugh.

The daily essentials.

A gratuitously edited shot.

My old friend. I miss you. And all the content that died with you.

I love that I can take a million photos and keep the best.

But all this comes at a price doesn't it?

Technology is changing us.

And I'm not even talking about the ridiculous bitching that goes on when Facebook changes something or that people tweet about what they're eating (me included!) or reality television or spammers who fill our inboxes with penis enlargement emails or that haters can more easily spread their hate and scammers can expand their reach or that I'm struggling to keep up - Google+, Facebook, Twitter, StumbleUpon, Blogger, Wordpress, Klout, iTunes, Amazon, Goodreads, Pinterest, and who knows what else I'm forgetting or that when something doesn't work right, people (read: me) lose their shit in the most appalling displays of crybaby hysterics or that we're seriously fucking up the environment and all this technology won't be able to save us from ourselves.

No, I'm talking about the fact that this technology creep, this influx of stuff is turning me into a charger hoarder.

Summer at Phoenix Berries is someone I know only through blogging, but over the years, I feel like I've gotten to know this incredibly intelligent, talented, and spiritual young woman. One of the beautiful things she shares with her readers is her children. I've watched Summer's little family grow from three to four and it's been a delight to see how she's raising her young children in this changing world. Yesterday she told the story of how Pip got his name.

Randal gets very artsy and angers his muse.

Geoffrey reaches out and touches somebody.

Love/hate technology? Let us count the ways in comments.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Long Exposure

2011-09-29T08:45:00.000-04:00

"Hey, when you take your shirts down from the closet, can you grab the hanger, too? Toss it on the bed or put it in the hamper. That way I don't have to go hunting hangers when I'm in the basement doing laundry." She turned and looked at him. His eyes were on his computer screen and he didn't reply.

"Honey?"

He looked in her direction.

"Did you hear me?" She wiggled the hanger in her hand interrupting the heavy air between them.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Hangers in the hamper. Okay."

"Thanks."

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

Nothing changed in that regard. The hangers remained askew from where he'd yanked the shirt down in his rush to get out of the house. She'd sigh that annoying martyred sigh, reach up and pluck the hanger from its spot, often having to untangle it from its neighbors.

On her bad days, those hangers are the symbol of one more thing she does for people who could do such things for themselves. She knows this because there was once a time when she, too, rushed out the door to get on with her day and the hangers made their way to the laundry room without her morning hike around the house.

On her good days, she'd remember that those hangers never made it to the laundry room unless she reminded him and the children to bring them down. Or, as was often the case, she spent her evenings after work and weekends going from room to room retrieving them and resenting the fact that despite of her job and long commute, she bore most of the domestic duties, as well.

Also on her good days, she'd remind herself that he was busy. Always working. Away from the house and at home. She'd recently joked (okay it wasn't so much a joke) that with the hours he put in planning and grading and answering emails and all the other things a teacher does, his hourly wage was probably hovering near minimum wage.

All their married lives they'd struggled for balance between them - who was giving enough, who was giving too much, who wasn't paying attention, who was using work as an escape, who was looking out instead of in. These last two years had been a real test of their ability to adjust the scales.

So what was it about the hangers that lit the pilot of her ire?

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

"Where's the hanger for my jacket?"

One simple sentence. A legitimate question asked by a reasonable man who just wanted to hang up his hoodie now that the day was warming. At other points in their twenty-three year marriage, she would have been thrilled that he even thought to hang it up.

"I must have taken it when I collected them to take downstairs. I'm sorry."

He stood holding his jacket and frowning. "I just wanted to hang this up."

"I'm sorry. Put it on the chair and I'll bring up a hanger in a little while." Unbelievable. He was pissed at her for keeping the wheels of domestic order in forward motion? Did he think all this shit got done by magic? She'd asked him more than once (and yes, that matters when you're keeping score) to deal with those fucking hangers at the time he took his shirts out of the closet and he'd either forgotten or refused (which would not be unlike him to spite her in a little way like that!) and now he was bitching about not having a hanger.

He repeated his grievance. "You know, I just want one hanger."

"I'm sorry. I said I'd take care of it!"

These words got said over and over, louder and louder until she left the room, slamming the door behind her.

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

Monday morning came and everyone with somewhere to go raced out the door or, in the case of some of them, dragged themselves out. She wandered the house, picking up things that had been discarded without a thought as to where they belonged, making beds, tidying this and that. The closet door stood open and there hung an empty hanger slightly askew. She reached up to take it then stopped.

UPDATED: Geoffrey has a different and essential perspective.
Randal is not Armin Tanzarian, but you might remember him from such blockbuster films as Librarians Go Wild.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Silhouette

2011-09-28T11:06:00.001-04:00

First things first: A lot of you will relate to Summer and her 13 things. Randal's 13 things better not topple over on him or his eye.

UPDATED: Geoffrey is rescued by a cat.

UPDATED Encore: We could call Summer Hazel.

Today I'm supposed to give you a silhouette so I walked around the house camera in hand and determined not to point the dang thing at myself again.

I dicked around with a few things, but it felt pointless because the image stuck in my head when I think silhouette is this one that graces The Storialist's Facebook page.

Now this is what I think about when I think silhouette. Delicate, a beautiful cameo. And if you haven't read Hannah's poetry, you're in for a treat.

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

There's an unemployment diary post at my other blog. I'm feeling a bit raw and ready to nutpunch someone.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Eyes

2011-09-27T08:06:00.000-04:00

If the eyes are the window to the soul, then what do you suppose these eyes are saying?

Randal turns up the pretty on Cleveland.

UPDATED: Geoffrey is being watched.

30 Day Photography Challenge - 13 Things

2011-09-26T16:21:00.000-04:00

First I took a photo of myself with thirteen books that meant something to me.

Okay now that I got that out of the way, here's one where you can actually see the books and not simply the narcissist with the camera and a mad penchant for photo editing.

1. Steven King's On Writing given to me by Lola Sharp.

2. The 3 a.m. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley, a gift from Kirie.

3. Trouble De Ville by Steve Denton who has also published the graphic novel Hip Deep Mountain High.

4. Do Not Disturb - Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. My friend Lillian Ann Slugocki has a deliciously erotic story included.

5. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. One of my favorite stories ever.

6. The Adderall Diaries by Stephen Elliott. Writer's crush does not even begin to describe it.

7. Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees. This book and Betsy's blog opened up a whole new world of friends to me and I'm forever grateful.

8. The Pat Hobby Stories by F.Scott Fitzgerald. I can still see myself reading these as I munched a turkey on rye with lettuce, tomato and mayo in the cafeteria of the Rotary International building in Evanston, Illinois. Back then it never would have occurred to me that I would take an active interest in the writing of screenplays and scripts.

9. Elizabeth Berg's Say When. It's the first of Berg's books I read. I have quite the collection now.

10. The Art of Table Dancing by DC Stanfa. Pee your pants funny. DC does things I only wish I had the gonads to do.

11. The Preacher's Bride by Jody Hedlund. As a sore-headed agnostic, I am clearly not the target market for this book, but I was lucky enough to win this from Jody's blog and by page three, was a fan. Between topnotch research and wonderful prose, Jody writes the kind of historical fiction that has broad appeal.

12. The New Bedside, Bathtub and Armchair Companion to Agatha Christie. It's full of detail about the novels and the movies. And Christie's relationship with her characters.

13. Philip Roth's The Plot Against America. I love Roth's novels. This one knocked my sandals off.

And then I had an email exchange with Randal who gave me an idea. He asked if I'd be photographed with thirteen bags of kitty litter? While that would have mass appeal, I'm sure, I don't have thirteen bags of litter hanging around. (I wish!) I thought about other items I could photograph myself with, but ended up dismissing them mostly because I didn't have 13 of this or that.

1. Thirteen cats. (We're six short and I intend to keep it that way.)
2. Thirteen sex toys. (Where would I hide that many?)
3. Thirteen clean towels. (It is to dream.)
4. Thirteen whistles. (I wish I had thirteen whistles!)
5. Thirteen vintage cars. (Alas I am not Jay Leno.)
6. Thirteen jars of olives. (Not even on my best stockpiling trips did I snag that many jars of olives!)
7. A baker's dozen of donuts. (Come one, like they'd survive past the first photo intact?)

Having hit all those brick walls, I went with this which I fondly call The Writer's Life. The sound I was making was like a cross between the yowling the cats make when I don't feed them fast enough and Fran Drescher's laugh.

Geoffrey makes glorious sounds. Please go and tell him that his butt looks fine.
Summer offers swoon worthy sunsets. SWOONWORTHY.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Sunset

2011-09-25T11:45:00.002-04:00

The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies.
- William Faulkner (source)

Sunset, May 4, 2010

Geoffrey and the Prairie Sunset captured by C3PO.
Randal delights us with blue prose. I mean prose about the color bleu.With bonus poetry.

Last night I sat on the deck and watched the sunset turn the sky a baby chick yellow until it faded to a pale buttery light behind the backdrop of the tall pines that stand guard over our back lawn. Somewhere in that moment I thought I should take a photo for the day when sunset is the subject for this 30 Day Photography project. I took another look, closed my eyes to capture the imprint then picked up the book I'm reading - The Egg and I by Betty MacDonald - and continued to read and guffaw until I snorted red wine through my nose.

Silly me. Today the subject is sunset. Thank goodness for all the photos I have stored over the years (years now?) at Facebook (Flickr won't let me have all my old photos until I pay up my pro fee). There's a cautionary tale here about how we make decisions about our intellectual and artistic property and content vis a vis technology, but damned if I can suss it out. It's Sunday, I'm still feeling like muck and just want to get back to that book. Betty MacDonald is hysterically funny in an Aunt Betty kind of way. And if you're related to me, you know what that means. And maybe you do even if you aren't.

Not that I don't love you for being here. You know I do.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Blue

2011-09-24T15:07:00.005-04:00

Peacock. Indigo. Cerulean. Light. Sky. Prussian. Sapphire. Azure. Federal. Baby. Columbia. Cobalt. Falcon. Electric. Powder. Cornflower. Egyptian. Royal. Ultramarine. Oxford.Turquoise. Brandeis. Steel. Persian. Eton. Teal. Navy. Cyan. Tiffany. Teal. Denim. Air Force. Maya. And true.

These beauties.

From Lunatique.

They are so gorgeous and delicate. Thank you, Cindy!

Geoffrey asks the question....

and I answer his question with a question.

Or this because I cannot decide which version I like better.

On the other hand, Randal has candy colored memories.

And Summer has the man of her dreams. And makes childhood memories.

What do you think, what do you feel when you see blue?

30 Day Photography Challenge - A Childhood Memory

2011-09-23T09:33:00.001-04:00

It was a snow day in January of 1978, but it came before the Great Blizzard, I think.

We'd played in the snow all morning - sledding down the hill at McMurray's where the kids at the bottom watched out for cars for the kids at the top. We were a snow dusted, ragtag bunch. Kids didn't come outfitted in squishy snowsuits back then.

Snowpants? Nah. We toughed it out in layers - a pair of long underwear, jeans, some fleece sweatpants if you had them. On top we wore more layers - those itchy long underwear shirts, a turtleneck that choked you, maybe a sweater, a thin coat and all of it covered with an enormous hoodie you dug from the back of the hall closet.

We were shrouded in knit scarves until they became too caked with snow and became a nuisance. We discarded into a colorful pile of knit hats, lonely mittens and the occasional odd boot.

We wore our fathers' old work gloves when we couldn't find any dry ones (someone forgot to turn the dryer on) and whatever hat made us look the least dorky. I remember my blue and white knit cap with Rising Sun Shiners emblazoned across the front. By the time I got home, the words were twisted around to the back. But who cared? What mattered were the number of times you made it from the top of the hill to all the way across the street without turning over, colliding with a tree or crashing into one of your siblings. A crash with them could turn into a brawl.

We breathed in the cold air, but didn't really feel it. Just like when you jump into the pool during the summer and your skin tingles and goosebumps cover you, it only takes a few minutes to get used to the cold. And besides, you had so many layers on you looked like that poor kid in A Christmas Story and you were sweating down your back anyway.

After hours of that, we finally dragged ourselves inside to thaw out in front of the television. New Christmas toys still held their novelty. Kelly from next door - the same little blond beauty who had once paid the ice cream truck man with gravel - wanted to play at my house. Her mom had worked the swing shift at Seagram's or was it Schinley? and she was asleep in her perfect blue bedroom with her super chic sleep mask over her eyes. Kelly's brother Michael who was dying of something I never quite understood would yell at us if we got too loud and he'd ask her to bring him stuff - one thing at a time. He was dying angry and who could blame him? He never got to have a life the poor kid.

If we played at Kelly's house, we'd have to be quiet. If we played at my house, we'd have to put up with my little brother. We chose my house and settled in front of the TV - we were probably watching soaps on ABC before the afternoon reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island came on - I dragged out the TV trays so we could play beauty shop.

My aunt worked for Kenner and so we got a lot of cool Kenner toys for Christmas each year. That particular year, I got a styling head based on Lindsay Wagner aka Jamie Sommers, the Bionic Woman. Kelly had the classic Barbie styling head. There's a photo of us on that day. My sister took it with the Polaroid camera she got that same Christmas.

I wonder what ever happened to Kelly? Did she keep her Barbie head? I can't believe my mother saved Jamie Sommers. She kind of creeps me out sitting on the shelf of this weird little closet over the stairs, but I can't bring myself to toss her out. She's bionic, after all, and I might want her around to keep me company after the kids put me in a home.

Jersey Shore Style

What did you do on snow days?

P.S. I'm kind of sick today and our internet connection is full of attitude so I'm not sure I'll be back to put up links. Don't forget to check out what Randal, Geoffrey and Summer are getting up to. xoxoxo

Geoffrey takes a stroll down Memory Lane.
Eeek - it looks like Randal has what I have.
I could use some of Summer's bad habit.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Someone I love

2011-09-22T08:40:00.000-04:00

I struggled with this one because, once again, the list is long. I will never believe that the ability to love is finite. There is not just so much to go around. Nor will I ever subscribe to the notion that the most enduring love comes from family ties or proximity. While those things are huge, there's so much more that goes into it. For me, at least.

And as Stephen Elliott said in a recent Daily Rumpus email, maybe we're trying to use the word love to describe many different emotions.

Yes, definitely that.

I photographed two of my favorite subjects. The love I have for them is enough to keep me going. Unfortunately, neither Nate nor Chloe were around so please note that this does not even come close to being a comprehensive list.

Watching Wilco's live webcast on CBS's David Letterman last night and reminiscing about our recent trip to New York City. Yeah, we could live there. And oh my word, watch that webcast. There's a reason Wilco's fans are a passionate crowd.

Sophie.

Monday evening, she opened a book of fifteen one act plays and treated Doug and me to a performance of The Man Who Died at Twelve O'Clock including appropriate accents.

We were blown away. Where did that come from? we wanted to know.

She simply smiled and shrugged, pleased with herself, but not in an obnoxious way.

It's all ahead of her. I hope she grabs it by the tail and never lets go.

Doug. It would take me pages to describe the nuances of how I love this man.

It's complicated and simple. Unquestioning and conflicted. Dizzying and calming.

Now go to a mirror and take a good look because I think that's the only way this post will come close to being comprehensive.

xoxo

Lisa

Geoffrey, my friend, you have such beauty in your life.

And Randal brings Poe and Shakespeare into his bad habits.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Bad Habit

2011-09-21T09:35:00.000-04:00

Too easy? I know. My bad habits are an embarrassment of riches.

I mean, what would you have me do? I damn near exhausted myself with the mustachioed exploits of one clever Red Delicious.

I suppose I could offer photos of the following:

1. A forlorn shot of my last bowl of Quisp. The spoon at just the right angle so that a bit of the ridiculous skim milk shows through. May as well be a photo of a bowl of sugar.

2. A well-centered and garishly colored list of my favorite porn sites. With marginalia. And flash. Dear Brazzers - Yikes. Too much.

3. An artfully angled bottom of an empty ice cream container in black and white with the shadows ratcheted up to show you the ripple of marshmallow left behind.

4. A photo of a pencil sketch of a burning cigarette, but I've quit. Really. I have.

5. A series of photos showing me relieving the liquor shelf of its burden while judgmental cats stare balefully on.

6. Screenshots of filthy and delicious emails I've got buried in various accounts, but that would take way too much effort to protect the guilty. I'm looking at you, Senator.

Oh, it all seemed so cliche as I pondered the possibilities on my chaise aka The Lawn Chair. So I went with the most cliched cliche of them all.

What are your bad habits? Spill it, silly geese.

Also - Randal goes hero. And fruity.

UPDATED: Geoffrey is da man.

Summer's low angle shots are a picnic! And then there's this.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Fruit

2011-09-20T11:22:00.001-04:00

First, please go wish Geoffrey health and healing. He's been sick and yet he continues to post. Feel better, G!

UPDATED: Suzy Vitello is inspired.

So today is fruit and I whined at MathMan that this was a problem because all we had in the house were some pathetic red delicious apples, what's left of my mojito lime from the weekend, a tomato ready to go off and some past due Fuji apples.

It's enough to send a blogger into a murderous rampage.....

Miss Lemon, is there no mail?
I'm sorry, Monsieur. There is nothing. Only the sales ad for KMart.
Bah! Poirot, he is not used to this inaction. My brain will atrophy if I don't have a crime to solve soon!
Perhaps a nice walk? I'll join you.

Miss Lemon. Remind me if you please, when is the last time we heard from Captain Hastings?
Oh, I believe it was when he wired us from his ranch in Argentina. Why?
No reason. I am simply trying to piece together something he told me about his friend from Puerto Rico.
Puerto Rico?
Oui. He mentioned that his friend Monsieur Le Bacardi Rum had taken up residence in a home in Georgia and that he was fearful that he'd in-ad-vertantly become involved in some sort of crime.
Oh, Monsieur, what do you plan to do? Could this be the case you're looking for?
Pas de tout, Miss Lemon. I shall wait. Sometimes Poirot must prevent the crime and sometimes Poirot - he must solve it.

Monsieur Poirot! You've had a call from Inspector Japp. He'd like for you to meet him at Golden Manor.
And now it begins, Miss Lemon. It begins.

My old friend Sunny D! I did not expect to see you here.
Poirot! How are you, old man? Terrible muck up we've got here.
Mais oui, terrible indeed. I'm here to see Inspector Japp. Have you seen him?

Poirot, I see you've already begun interviewing the witnesses. Although, I might say that this particular witness, Sunny D, doesn't really belong here. Fruit, indeed.
Inspector Japp, Miss Lemon said that you'd like me to help with this investigation, n'est ce pas?
Yes, but let's get one thing straight. This is one messed up bunch of fruits. And no one claims to know anything.
Oui. I am not surprised. I understand that the body was found in the library?
Who told you that? No. The body was found right over there. On the kitchen counter.

I see. And this is the knife that was used to commit the murder?
I expect so. Pampered Chef, self-sharpening. We're checking it for finger prints.
Oui, d'accord. And the witnesses? May Poirot speak to them now?

And so you say, Monsieur Le Fugi, that you saw nothing?
That's right, sir. I was in the wooden bowl having a nap.
And my friend Sunny D, you too saw nothing?
Yes, yes, that's right. I was here on the top shelf of the refrigerator keeping myself to myself when I heard some great commotion.
I see. Thank you, Monsieur D, Monsieur Fugi.

What's the question, again, Monsieur?
I merely wanted to know if you were anywhere near the kitchen counter the night that Monsieur The Lime was murdered.
Oh, what a terrible thing to happen to such a small, green jovial fellow. No, I'm afraid I wasn't here. I was still locked in the laundry room waiting for my release.
Oh? You have been in prison, Mademoiselle?
Not prison, Monsieur! No no, not prison. The laundry room. I was locked in there for my own safety. If I'm left out in the open when the young master has guests, I'm likely to be drunk up in a single night.
I see. Hmmmm.
You can ask my sisters, if you like. Several of them are still hidden behind the Minute Rice, bottom shelf on the right.
Thank you, Mademoiselle.

Inspector Japp. Will you ask the Constable Hunt to verify the story of Mademoiselle Minute Maid? She claims she and her sisters were locked in the laundry room the night of the murder.

And why would you tell me this, Madame? Why would you want me to know that Mademoiselle Minute Maid is not telling Poirot the truth about her whereabouts on the night of the murder?
Pardonez-moi, Monsieur. I thought you'd want to know when you're being lied to. Forget I said anything.
No, Madame. Poirot cannot put that genie back into, how do you say it? The bottle? If Mademoiselle Maid was not with her sisters in the laundry room, then tell me, if you please, where was she?
No, Monsieur. It is not for me to give you all the answers. Ask the cats. I heard it from the cats.
Bah, Madame! I assure you the supreme confidentiality and all you tell to Poirot is to ask the cats? Bah!

Do you know this for sure, Monsieur Dill?
I just said so, didn't I? That little juice box was on the coffee table in the living room where the daughter of the Manor left her. She was out all night, the little tart.
Le daughter of the Manor?
No, you daft little apple. The juice box.

There's something else, Poirot.
Go on, Monsieur Farkus.
Well, I don't like being a fink or anything, but I heard the Lady of the house up late last night. And well, you know, she's got a bit of a thing for .......
Go on, please.
Well, she likes her Latin drinks.
I see. Thank you. Poirot believes he has all the information he will need now.

Miss Lemon, if you please, go back to the office and find the letter from Captain Hastings. I must to know the exact address where his Puerto Rican friend was staying.

Et voila! Monsieur Le Bacardi! How long have you been here?
Senor, my friends Mint and Simple Syrup have been waiting to be rescued from this dark place. You will not believe what that monster has made us do.
Oui, Monsieur. It's a crime of many subtle layers.

And so it was when Poirot noticed the glass with the traces of lipstick that he knew for certain who the killer was. Who had sliced poor Monsieur Lime in half in order to make a minty drink? Such meaningless motivations. Some people kill for money. Others for love, even some out of depravity, but this! This!

Revlon's Wine with Everything Madame Golden? Did you not say to me once that it's your signature colour?

Oui, Monsieur. But isn't it possible that someone borrowed my lipstick and used it to frame me?

Ah, yes. That could be, but you were seen, Madame. You were seen in the kitchen assembling the tools. The tools you would use to kill Monsieur Lime!

I see. There's a rat in manor?

Not a rat, Lady Golden. A cat.

I see, Inspector. Thank you. Well, Monsieur. I'm caught. I should have known those cats would see me hung.

30 Day Photography Challenge: From a low angle

2011-09-19T09:59:00.000-04:00

I interpreted low to mean physically close to the ground rather than the emotional low. Who wants to see photos of me lying slack-jawed and staring into the distance in my disheveled bed? Fully clothed. In yesterday's clothes.

Instead, I took up my trusty point and shoot (the only camera I own) and got things like this.

I lay on the ground for this one and after taking a couple of shots, rolled onto my back and looked up at the trees from below. A green canopy filtered the light from the rising sun.

How nice it would be to just stay there enjoying the cool breezes.

Then a neighbor drove by and stared at me.

What?

Getting up from that position required some serious negotiation with my knees.

I am reminded of the noises my mother makes upon standing.

Oy vey.

These guys are waiting to be pressed into service. Lots of trees and all that.

I don't really share their enthusiasm.

Of course cats would enter into this. I can't believe it took six days before this happened.

I realize looking at these photos that living in a split level means lots of stairs. I should be less curvy as a result which means only one thing. I'm going to have to lay off the salads.

Randal gives me a wee bit of vertigo and then redeems himself with a tender gesture.

Geoffrey explores point of view with some leaping results.

Summer gives us grief. And it's brilliant and beautiful and heartbreaking.

30 Day Photography Challenge - From a high angle

2011-09-18T14:19:00.000-04:00

Rapunzel dangles her silver pony tail out the window
Tentatively into the quiet.
She was a brunette, a blond, a red head
Now she contemplates this prison
And wonders how much magic it would take
To get her life back.

And when is someone going to put that fucking dead rose bush on the compost?

Randal Graves goes green.
And cloudy. Don't know about his chance for meatballs.

I need wings.

UPDATED: Geoffrey takes the high view.

30 Day Photography Challenge: Green

2011-09-17T18:12:00.000-04:00

Today.

Lunatique. My friend Cindy is so talented. Go look.

I love seeing her and her husband Ken. And Michele. I'm so lucky to have such delightful people in my life.

So cool. Made from recycled bottles. Especially wine bottles. I should donate my empties to them.

The grounds of Rose Lawn are so lush and beautiful.

The birdhouses are a labor of love, each a memorial to a son gone too soon. They're built to last, the man who creates this told me. The idea came about after the death of the couple's son. He used to love to come and sit with his mama in the backyard and watch the birds. Then one day three years ago, this man in his forties was on a business trip and died, just dropped dead in the bathroom of the B&B where he was staying. Tears came to his mother's eyes as she shared the story.

After he died, she'd go and sit in the backyard and remember. She'd talk to God. She asked for a sign and while she sat there in the porch swing, a flock of birds descended onto the lawn until it was covered up in them hopping around and making a quiet racket.

Birdhouses. Built to last.

It's not a festival without food, y'all.

Alan Young can paint. This is just a sampling because I was sticking the green for this post, but when you see his website, you'll see the rainbow. Congratulations, Alan, on your upcoming exhibit at Fernbank!

Steampunk. The stuff some of my favorite dreams are made of.

And the young woman who makes these rocked her goggles and corset.

My favorite drive home.

Geoffrey has his own take on green. Universal and true.

30 Day Photography Challenge: Clouds

2011-09-16T09:05:00.004-04:00

You've got your head in the clouds.
We were walking on clouds...
They were just clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee...

We've got them manmade and otherwise.

Yesterday, the skies were like steel.

A solid backdrop for the scrubbed pollution leaving Plant Bowen for a trip south.

This morning, we're back to blue skies with scattered cirrus clouds.

Manipulate it a little and what do you see?

Geoffrey waxes poetic on clouds whether he means to or not.

Randal is on Day Two. It's not a shirt. It's Rome, Luxembourg, North America, the League of Nations.

Summer is on Day Two. She has the complete ensemble. And rockin' lipstick, too.

30 Day Photography Challenge: What I Wore today

2011-09-15T10:00:00.000-04:00

Source: whitepeachphoto.com via Lisa on Pinterest

Geoffrey's Day Two. What He Wore.
Summer at Phoenix Berries has her day one up. Thanks, Summer!
My long-time internet homie Randal contributes to the cause.

Day Two: What I Wore Today

Specifically, what I intend to wear today. Could be one of those days where I'm still in my workout clothes when I'm surprised to learn it's 3:30 in the pee em.

I once lived by a regimented schedule - wake, shower, ablutions, dress, tend to the needs of others, race out of the house, drive, work, drive, tend to the needs of others, housework, fuck around, crash - so not having to be anywhere plays havoc with my personal maintenance.

I'm not wallowing in filth and stench. Gross. I'm a nudge about shaving my legs and armpits after a brief flirtation with going natural during my time in France. I can't stand stubble on myself, can't live with the fear that if I rub my legs together crickets may respond. I shave in the shower to save time and because the days of coating half my body with shaving cream and propping a leg up on the vanity are over. I'm about as interested in a total and complete removal of my leg hair as I am in shaving a charming little heart shape into my pubic hairs.

Eighteen was so long ago.

Efficiency rules. Swipe swipe swipe with the razor, shampoo, exfoliate, condition, wash, take my frustrations out on the bottom of my feet with the pumice stone, rinse, squeegee the shower and done.

Then this:

And I've got this down to three minutes.

When I finally do rouse myself to get dressed, I go all the way. I don't care if it is seven in the evening before I hit the shower. I'm going through the entire process.

After that, I tug on some real clothes. Real can be such a subjective word.

My bra straps will show, but better to wear the bra and bear the straps than to go without the bra at all. If I find occasion to go out into public, I'll swap the tank for a black t-shirt or throw a hoodie over it depending on the temperatures. Just like Jackie O. always did.

Around the house, I mostly go barefoot (hence the need for such rough treatment with the aforementioned pumice), but when I leave the house to pick Phia up from the football game (looks like I will be getting dressed), I'll slip my soft feet into these beauties. My favorites. Versatile, comfortable, simple to get off and get on, easy to throw with accuracy.

You know, when I was little, I watched my namesake Lisa on Green Acres and imagine myself like this:

Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of that goal, fell short of the mark, discovered the benefits of comfort over glamor. Such is the pity. I would look fabulous covered in diamonds and fur. Faux. Not cat.

What are you wearing? How many products are on your skin right now? What's your favorite lipstick and/or nail color? If you're not into color, tell us about your favorite pair of shoes.

30 Day Photography Challenge: C'est Moi

2011-09-14T12:37:00.001-04:00

While a lot of my writing energy has to be directed to my never-ending manuscript tweaks and a couple of side projects, I'm going to do this to help stretch my creativity. It's also going to give me something to blog about because the state of the world has reduced to me shouting expletives at felines and breaking things.

So while I stand by feeling helpless as the American Middle Class circles the drain, I'm going to fiddle. With my camera.

Source: whitepeachphoto.com via Lisa on Pinterest

Starting today.

1. Self portrait. Of course.

I went through a few variations on this. As much as it sickens me to say so, I am my favorite subject because 1) I'm a vain, vain woman and I don't trust anyone else to edit out the fat, wrinkles, and extra chinnery; and 2) I don't have to ask anyone's permission to portray me however I see fit. Those two items are not mutually exclusive.

And of course I couldn't decide which one to use.

Yes, I'm really doing this. What? You've posted your cleavage, you can't seriously expect us to believe the shy act now.

I could use a haircut.

Point, close eyes, shoot. Man, do I have my father's nose.

Feeling ridiculous. Or at least pretending to be.

Saturated.

And sepia-ed.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to the people who created digital photo editing. May all your wishes come true.

Love,

Lisa

P.S. Day 2 is what you wore today. Expect a shot of some cat dressed in my clothes. Because the day you get a full body shot of me? The only way it's tomorrow is like that quote - it never comes.

P.S.S. If any of you decide to do this, please let me know so I can link to you. Thanks. Also, if your self portrait looks better than mine, I'll be by with my Sharpies. You'll look fabulous with a devil beard or a Poirot mustache. And don't let anyone tell you any differently.

UPDATED: I have my first partner in crime. Geoffrey from What's Left in the Church has his Day 1 post up now. Thanks, G!

O is joining the fun, too!

Threads

2011-09-13T15:30:00.000-04:00

I blogged about stories today at PoliTits. I hope you'll join me there.

Unemployment Diary: Swing Time

2011-09-12T08:20:00.000-04:00

Another Monday.
Another week.
Another chance to do good, get something right.
The pressure of Monday and its promise of a shiny new week is making me wish for tired old Thursday where I can gaze lovingly back at Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and take stock of the week. More or less. WINNING? You betcha.
Today I go and play yet another round of Come on, lady, won't you even consider being a home health aide with the Department of Labor Dude.
He means well, but seriously? Take care of the needs of others and be paid precious little for the pleasure?
Now you're just describing my homelife,sucka.
I'll whip out my long list of jobs applied for.
The Excel spreadsheet of shame, a life's work itself these days. A map of failures to make a great first impression.
And he'll nod and remember that oh, yeah! this is that woman who does that thing for a living he doesn't quite understand.
But her old title sounds important. Does it involve the mafia?
Well, you're doing everything you can by the looks of it.
I won't tell him about how I'm looking for work in the sex industry.
He'll smile. I'll smile. It's all we can do.
Given the constraints of the workplace and human decency.You know.
And I'll go home again, enthused not so much, but at least safe in the knowledge that I'm not alone.
The Department of Labor office is rocking.
Especially on a Monday.

Before I Die

2011-09-10T13:17:00.000-04:00

Jen at Jen's Realia shared this on Facebook and I was struck by the brilliant simplicity of it. It's the perfect illustration of creating a space to let people express themselves.

From the webpage. Who is Candy Chang? Candy Chang likes ot make cities more comfortable for people. She is a public installation artist, designer, urban planner, TED Fellow, and co-founder of Civic Center in New Orleans.

It's people like Candy Chang who lift us up. She's using her creativity to spread something intangible. Hope? Direction? Light? Whatever it is, people responded. Go read the piece and look at the responses. And when you're done, let me know how you would fill in the blank.

Before I die I want to_________________________.

xoxo,

Lisa

Queen of Fakes and Imitators

2011-09-08T12:16:00.001-04:00

Source: flickr.com via Lisa on Pinterest

Shoooeeeee. You guys. I went to Craigslist searching for a job working on a phone sex line and ended up applying for several freelance writing jobs. Yeah, I can see how the two are related. We'll see what happens with that. At this point my job search is pretty much in the spaghetti category. Fling it against the wall and hope something sticks.

Everything else gets scooped up and covered in sauce.

Anyway. Today's a day for some other kinds of research and for fulfilling promises made. Before I go, I must ask - Did you watch the comedy on MSNBC last night? Such a hot mess. More hair! Less brains! Execution applause lines! Fuck y'all. What have we devolved back into? I didn't even watch the debate. MathMan was watching the Phillies play somebody and I was reading my Twitter feed and screaming with laughter. At one point Nate popped into the room to make sure I was okay.

And tonight? I'm fully prepared to be underwhelmed. It seems we're a nation incapable of big ideas, bold plans. Unless, of course, big ideas and bold plans include blowing the holy fuck out of brown people. Then we're aces.

Maybe if the phone sex thing doesn't work out, I'll consider the military. Specifically and more lucrative, a job with a military contractor. They need housekeepers, yes?

Oy, let's shift gears. The real world brings me down. Today is a day for art. You know, when everything else seems like it's sliding into the fuckpile (mmm fuckpile), at least we still have art. Thank somebody's god for that saving grace.

Right then. Here's where I will be when I'm not working on my own manuscript.

Book by Kevin Edwards
Poetry by Hafiz
Visuals for inspiration

This song by Gillian Welch (hell, her whole discography if I'm being straight with you) with David Rawlings who appears to be an underappreciated guitar god. I know. I'm late to this one. Yow - Za.

You're welcome.

Where are you escaping to these days?

Unemployment Diary: Call me

2011-09-07T14:31:00.000-04:00

Fun fact: A turnkey operation for that phone sex hotline will cost $799 set up fee plus $50 a month in maintenance fees. All I need is a home phone (got it) and a preamble which identifies the line and the cost per minute. Billing begins in three seconds...

And I'm going to have to create a marketing strategy.

This idea is taking shape. A question remains: Will I be able to do get through a call without laughing? The websites I've researched stress a level of professionalism and good customer service to ensure repeat customers and word of mouth marketing. Really? Do people, guys mostly, I suppose, discuss their phone sex calls? I'm going to have to do some reconnaissance on this. Maybe do a Joyce Hyser like in Just One of the Guys. I guess I'll listen in at bars, the gym, the grocery store. Maybe the local barber shop?

Looks like I'm going to have to improve my game. I can imagine all kinds of things going wrong.(dream waves go here)

Oh, yeah, baby. Yes, right there. Mmmm. Oh, one second. (Stage whisper) Sophie, Daddy will have to help you with that math homework when he gets home. Ooooh, yeah. Do you like that?(Note to self: Lock door)

Or ....

You want me to say what? Um...okay. But do I have to say it in that Edith Bunker voice again? (Note to self: Rehearse!)

Or....

Tell me how you like it. What? No, not your hamburger. MathMan! get off the line! (Note to self: No second extension for the business line.)

Or.....

And then I take your ..... shit, I've lost my notes, what do you like me to call your thing again? (Note to self: Get a whiteboard. And markers.)

Or.....

Yes, you can call me Dcup, Senator. I mean, darling. Senator darling. (Note to self: Confidentiality rules. Remember them.)

Or....

Mmmmm, what? Oh that? It's my new sex toy. It does? It sounds like a mixer? Well, that's interesting. You just keep going, while I pop this cake into the oven.... (Note to self: No multitasking unless the customer requests it.)

It's also been suggested to me that I might want to update my look for the marketing material. Really? Color my hair? Botox the crinkles? Loofah the cellulite? Wouldn't it just be easier to use photos of my younger, more nubile self? I'm still that flexible hottie on the inside. Or a graphic. Why not just a graphic? Like my old DCup avatar? (Let's not discuss how old that thing is.)

What do you think? Maybe I'd better research the ethics of this. I mean, what is not sexy about this?


Would have been better if the sour cream weren't fat free.

Okay, maybe my adviser has a point. And even though I sound quite young on the phone, won't callers figure out pretty quickly that someone with my experience would have to be at least ...... oh nevermind. I'm overthinking this.

First things first. I'll see if I can do this kind of work for someone else. It that works out, then I'll get my own line.

As I mull this over, aside from the initial investment and the fact that I will finally be paid for my sex work, there's little reason to prevent me from giving this a try. It's rather like I've been in training for it for the last oh so many years. And here's another upside to it: Reading erotica can now be considered research and prep instead of just that thing I do when no one is around to hear the buzzing.......

I want to cover every inch of you like ink on paper

2011-09-06T08:00:00.000-04:00

A few reasons why my blogging mojo fled the scene.

1. The long weekend meant that all my verbal ninja skills were devoted to those lunatics with whom I live.

2. I painted my nails a fabulous shade of red and it took a long time for the polish to dry. While I waited, I noticed that the blades of the ceiling fan appeared to have grown fur. While I was standing on the bed wiping down the fan blades, I saw that one of the lightbulbs was out so I went to the basement to get a new bulb. While I was in the basement, I heard the buzzer on the dryer go off......you see where this is going, right?

3. I share a computer with three other people and a cat with an online gambling habit.

4. My office chair makes squeaky fart sounds every time I move which means that MathMan says "Nice one" every time. Which means I lose my temper after the twenty-sixth nice one and must tackle him and dangle spit over his face which means the kids hear the ruckus and call Grandma to tell on me because they always assume I'm the problem which means my mother calls me on the house phone because she doesn't believe in cell phones which means I have to climb off MathMan reminding him that since I won't be able to torture him further I will instead call takebacks on the sex we had that morning which means he says no takebacks on sex, but it's too late because I'm already on my way to the living room to answer the phone where my mother proceeds to ground me which means I remind her that I'm an adult and she can't really ground me to which she says "Don't sass me, missy, unless you want to be grounded for another week."

5. MathMan and I went for a power walk and he made me do lunges and squats. Three times. No, that wasn't the sex, but I could see ways we could combine these things.

6. The long weekend had been long enough by 2pm Monday, but no one would listen to me when I announced that we were moving on with our week.
6.1 It rained so I had to go outside and dance in it.
6.2 The tornado sirens went off so I had to do a quick clean of the house because if we're going to be blown to bits by nature, we're going to start from clean by golly.

7. I got sucked into watching How the States Got Their Shapes on History Channel. It's like crack covered donuts with a side of fries dipped in chocolate Frosty.

8. I started using Pinterest.

9. I hit the bottom again on being depressed about not being able to find a job and so I did what I do when presented with an unmovable obstacle. I rage. I have a lot of rage about this and hence I raged long and loudly. With jazz hands. And props.

10. This song. Over and over. And over again.

Lyrics.

Now I have to go research setting up a phone sex hotline because that is looking like my only viable option to pull in some meaningful amounts of cash. What will you do with your short week, my loves?

Did I tell you about the place called Doo Wah Diddy?

2011-09-03T10:17:00.002-04:00

Another sultry day in the middle of nowhere...

I'm going to go do some sweating and swatting at flies while I peruse the books at the library's used book sale. I've got my church fan and tote bag and I'm ready to go

Later, I'll be committing acts of the domestic kind. There's a big ole watermelon to cut up and a layer cakey to bake. I'm reading Grand Duchy by Kevin Edwards and I hope to have it finished this weekend, too. And naps. I foresee naps. Dr. Who is on tonight and that's our family night activity. A bucket of popcorn and Dr. Who. Jump back, we're a wild bunch.

I used to mourn the end of summer, but these days I welcome it. The dog days aren't over here, but there's just the tiniest hint of change in the air. The light slants a little and by the late afternoon it's like you're tangoing in a tide, but cooler days are coming. I'm ready for it. I am itchin to be itchin in a wool sweater.

Wishing you a wonderful long weekend. What are your plans?

Take it away, Curly....

For blog commenter Denise. Oh, how I love Phil Harris. My favorite Jack Benny programs are the ones featuring Phil, Dennis Day, Don Wilson, Rochester and Mary Livingston.

Shift into freewheeling and let them follow

2011-09-02T11:56:00.001-04:00

During our recent trip, we passed the time by listening to Radio Classics on XM radio. Of all that we listened to - some Phil Harris and Alice Faye, lots of Dick Powell playing various gumshoes, Bob Hope and Baby Snooks, we heard the best episode of Pat Novak for Hire featuring Jack Webb of Dragnet fame. The writing was pulp fantastic. Over the top is what the Radio Classics host Greg Bell called it. He's right.

Here are fragments of dialogue from the episode Rita Malloy from April 23, 1949. (You can listen to the full episode and find more info about the program here.)

It sneaks up and paws you like a wet ghost...
I'm not crazy about waking up with strangers sitting on my bed especially if they got baritone voices....
I don't want chatter and cocktails, now give me those keys....
He didn't even give me time to pick a dream....
I stretched out on the floor, dead as a Philadelphia night club....
If you get any good answers, save a couple for me...
I'd have to do something fast. I had about as much a chance as a pound of liver at a cat show....

Lots of fog tonight, huh, Joe?
You're walkin' on it....

Shift into freewheeling and let them follow.........

He's a good man except he thinks it's a waste of the taxpayers' money to put alcohol in torpedoes.

It was the perfect spot for a missionary. The lobby looked like the first act of Rain. There was a pinball machine in one corner, a couple of last year's girls in this year's slacks, and a bleary-eyed little night clerk. He looked like a well-groomed laundry bag. He gave us the fisheye as we started up the stairs....

I view you as my penance, Patsy. The sackcloth for a misspent life.

You'll always be in trouble because you're a patsy and you're dangerous because you move in the twilight
zone between good and evil without any predisposition toward either one.

I think you'd pick the lock to the gates of Heaven....

It was a pretty room if you like dead women on your rugs....

This all ties together since I've been immersed in researching wartime circa 1944 and I've recently developed a thing for listening to music from that era, as well. When I run on the elliptical, I watch episodes of Homefront on Youtube.

Technology the time machine.

As I listened to these shows, I was listening for the rhythm of the words, the patter, the high points and pauses. For example, I noticed that David Letterman's monologue rhythm is very similar to that of Bob Hope, especially back when he was doing the USO stage shows. Hope, not Letterman. He's not quite that old yet.

Have your eyes glazed over like mine do when MathMan talks Calculus at me? I swear, I wonder sometimes if I couldn't be found on the autism spectrum in the high functioning segment - Asperger's or such because when I'm in, I'm all in. Until the next bright and shiny thing catches my fancy.

Ooooooor, perhaps as one of the bone idle unemployed, I have just a little too much time on my hands. Either way, I quite like escaping into the past where the future looked brighter and you didn't have to fuss with dropped cell phone calls when you're on the phone with AT&T's customer service. I mean, we're in two wars and a chick can't even find a factory job riveting shit.

I know, I know, I'm romanticizing the past, times were tough for a lot of people, you brushed your teeth with powder, tampons weren't mainstream and the internet wasn't even a gleam in the government's eye. I'd never survive without Google for chissakes. Please don't harsh my nostalgia buzz, okay? See this straw? I'm grasping it pretty hard. So.

I've done it again. Completely sidetracked. Back to what I meant to write about. The things that make the dialogue of The Pat Novak show pop are the similes and the wicked turns of phrases that, if you don't listen carefully, you might miss. Sure it's dated and corny, but what's not to love about it? It makes me want to start calling people Bub and Sister and prefacing my declarative sentences with "Listen, see......"

What kinds of dialogue do you like? What are your favorite similes, metaphors, phrases? What movie lines or sentences from novels do you repeat? What's your favorite era?

What Ryan Adams said

2011-09-01T10:27:00.000-04:00

It's funny how in the span of a couple of days one can go from this:

Central Park, Across the Reservoir

Central Park West

Strawberry Fields in the morning.


Metropolitan Museum of Art, Sackler Room

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Sackler Room

Metropolitan Museum of Art

She was so close she could see each of Van Gogh's brushstrokes. Quiet squeals of joy.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Picasso.


Metropolitan Museum of Art, Monet's Rouen Series


Near the end of the trip. You can tell, right?

And bam! We're back. Sophie is back to school today and I'm back to this.

Except she looks much better than I do while I'm doing chores.

From magical adventure to loading the dishwasher, scooping the litterboxes and wondering how much fiber can be counted in all that cat hair you inadvertently consume. This is life, isn't it? If it weren't for the dreary days of the mundane, I suppose we wouldn't appreciate the little sidetrips into fun and whimsy.

And still, I titled this one I know how she feels......

Thank you for the well wishes. We had a great time. It's something we wouldn't have done if we'd thought it through properly because there were definitely a couple of times where I fretted about the details, but there was no turning back. We tossed a few clothes and toiletries in a bag and left our comfort zone. We were rewarded for it by learning that we can manage a trip like this on very little money and have lots of fun together on our own. And that's the lesson I'm sure Sophie and I will take from this. Oh, and that the Cuban food at Sophie's rocks. Right, GMB? (Thanks for lunch!)

What's the most spontaneous trip you've ever taken?