Just So

Hello! I miss you guys. You should see how clean this house is! The Pussies for Peace say hello and please send help. They're tired of helping me rework a couple of plot twists in my time shift novel. Maybe I'll make a video of one of our sessions. They get so out of hand.

Wait. No. No, no, nononononononono. I'm writing. And editing. And setting priorities. Like clean sheets for everyone! And homemade dishwasher detergent. And banana bread. Because we couldn't let those bananas go to waste, right?

So here's an edit for you - it's a blog post originally run on PoliTits back in 1947. Maybe 1948. I hope you enjoy it. Also, thanks to those of you who've made donations or, as Drydiggins put it, paid me for writing. You guys complete me.

Finally, if you hear anything about an incident at a CVS in northwest Georgia involving a silver haired beauty and some Dove chocolate, I swear it wasn't me. Well, at least, I didn't start it.


I joke about being obsessive/compulsive. I've never been diagnosed so I really shouldn't joke about it. Were I diagnosed, perhaps I wouldn't find it such an easy thing to joke about.

MathMan didn't realize the extent to which I may be OCD until I mentioned to him that sometimes I count things. He was surprised to hear this. I don't mean that I count lightpoles or the number of times I touch my face before I leave my house, but I count. If I'm not distracted by the television or by talking to someone, I count when I'm jogging or walking for exercise. I prefer to eat my M&Ms in a certain color order. Speaking of color, my clothing is hung in color order. I stack my folded clothes in color stacks.

I'm not licking light switches or plucking out my eyelashes, but the OCD has kicked into high gear again. A neat freak on a regular day, I'm dealing with a specific need to have things just so. Having the living room tidied before I go to bed isn't enough - the remotes have to be in the wooden bowl on the coffee table, the sofa cushions are realigned and I must adjust the blinds so that they are exactly even.  All the beds must be made each morning. Laundry does not pile up. I sweep and vacuum the garage.

The vacuum cleaner is like another appendage. My knuckles are cracking from scrubbing sinks.

I know what's at the bottom of the just so binge. I'm feeling like so many things are out of control that I'm doing nutty stuff to control what I can. It's what I do. That and hold my breath. That's another thing the family just learned about me in the last few months. I. Hold. My. Breath. And then I sigh. And they think that it's pissed off sighing when I'm really just catching my breath - breathe, damn you! - sighing.

I'm not the only freak in the house, though. I suppose it's okay to spill my own secrets, but telling the other occupants' secrets is out of bounds. That's a shame really. But I will tell you that someone in the house eats his food in stages. If there's more than one thing on the plate, say carrots, meat and bread, he will eat all the bread first, then all the carrots, then the meat.

Another person won't eat using metal utensils. Plastic only. And she drinks from glass only. No plastic. She's that particular about some things, but in the morning, she thinks nothing of plucking the chewed gum from her bookshelf where she's let it rest for the night.

Yet another possesses a bionic nose. This one can smell Strawberry Fuze (it's a drink) on a teammate's breath at 3:30 p.m. The teammate drank said Fuse at 9:30a.m. These uber olfactory powers are a blessing and curse, I assure you. He gets the gifts from his mother.

And then there's the one who refuses to wear pants. Well, except for right now and she's blogging it. 

But so far, no one is licking light switches.

It's sharing time! What makes you special? Tics? Habits? Predilections? 

Written Doesn't Mean It Will Ever Be Seen

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you,
Mrs. Sore Thumbs

************ 

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

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

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

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

************ 

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

With love,
Mom/Lisa

*Productive is indeed subjective

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

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

Gratefully,
The woman with the food and litter scoop

************ 

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

Warmly,
Patient number (redacted)

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

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

Droolingly,
Madame Sweet Tooth

************ 

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

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

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

************ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pensieve in Four Parts

It's time once again for The Pensieve. That's where I draw random thoughts from my brain and put them here for you to sort through and make of them what you will. For me it's Carpe Diem. For you, it's Caveat Emptor. See - this is what happens when you learn Latin from The Brady Bunch and the front of iron on t-shirts.

Part One - Taking the Good with the Bad
I am a parental failure and success. I am a failure because I am fed up with The Royal Pains right now and it's my own damn fault that they are lazy, lazy beings.

Some backstory - I am not enjoying a bout of depression that is plaguing my waking hours. Things feel out of control. My response is classic. I control what I can. I clean. So yesterday, I self-medicated with Windex (I only considered sipping it once or twice) and bleach (I would never contemplate sipping bleach. It feels slimy to the touch and it isn't that pretty shade of blue raspberry like window cleaner.) I soothed myself with the overwhelming drone of the vacuum. I may not be able to solve my problems or silence the voices in my head that love, love, love to recite all the mistakes I've made over the last twenty-five or so years, but my house can be spotless, with things just so.

While I self medicated, The Royal Pains remained inert and draped over the furniture, eyes glued to electronic devices, snacks within easy reach. The only time they moved was when I petulantly pointed out to them that I could move the furniture more easily if they weren't sitting on it. The intense cleaning I was engaged in required the moving of furniture, of course.

"You know, my grandmother was a domestic for a Jewish family in Cincinnati back before she was married," I huffed as I shoved the heavy leather sofa from one side of the living room to the other. "Funny, I haven't come so far. I'm feeling a lot like a domestic for a Jewish family in Georgia......"

Crickets.

However, The Dancer did pass the International Baccalaureate (IB) Diploma Programme so there's that. She may be lazy about housework, but she's damned smart. I just hope she's smart enough to make oodles of money so she can hire someone to handle her domestic stuff.

Part Two - Ticktickticktickticktick
Time seems to be on fast forward. Never enough hours in the day, etc. Part of the reason why I've not been blogging much is because I don't have time to read blogs. I hate to blog and not reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blogs. I don't want to be that girlfriend who calls you up, unleashes her own angst on you and then gives a quick excuse for having to hang up before asking how you are.

I've been reading novels to help me get my own writing chops up to speed (sounds so calculated, doesn't it?) I've discovered the unmitigated joy of lolling about in a bubble bath, a glass of wine next to me, candlelight bouncing off the massive mirror next to the tub, book in hand and The Spa Channel playing softly on the XM Radio. It is, quite possibly, the most girly and cliched thing I do. MathMan comes in for a show and I demurely corral the bubbles over my breasts and tell him to look away from my Buddha belly.

He is not fooled. He knows that when he leaves the room, I toss my book aside, take a fortifying swig of wine and amuse myself with bubble beards and hats in the mirror.

Part Three - The Necessary Evil
And then there's work. I don't even know where to start, but it's busy and filled with uncertainty. I'm also doing the part time work for the attorneys who are in Europe right now and I've taken on a new venture that I want to get excited about but I don't feel like I can until after I get through this week (annual meeting for my full time job). Soon I will tell you more about what I'm up to with a second part-time job. Unless, of course, I win the lottery and then I'll just post a picture of myself rolling around in money before I disappear forever.

Part Four - Something Bigger Than Myself
There's all kinds of news going on and I've been ignoring it as much as I can. Honduras? Afghanistan? Iraq? Iran? Thirty chimps escaping from their cage at Chester Zoo in Northwest England? Among the news of celebrity deaths and other mayhem and assorted horrors humans commit against other humans, I hear that Republican Governors have run amok. And new Democratic Senator Al Franken had nothing to do with it.

Sarah Palin stood before microphones again recently and said some disjointed things. Thank goodness for that. I'd really started missing her because she's been so bloody scarce these last few months.

She even figured into some quiet morning bedlam that took place in the kitchen of Golden Manor this morning. I was enjoying an English muffin, fruit salad and tea. Simultaneously, I attempted to finish reading a chapter in The Ten Year Nap, eat my breakfast without getting it on my clothes and watch Morning Joe. The usual suspects were discussing soon to be Former Governor Palin's resignation announcement.

Accounts vary widely, but I assure you that there was nothing in my tea except for sugar and fat-free half and half. My fruit salad a mere memory of sweet nectar on my lips and one half of my perfectly toasted English muffin eaten, I put down my book and lifted the China tea cup to my lips as I grumbled about the coverage of Palin. The cup didn't make it to my lips before I tipped it and suddenly, I was awash in that sticky, sweet, milky tea.
MathMan giggled from his spot in front of his laptop. "Thought that was pretty funny, huh?" I tried to make light. He couldn't help himself. I realize this. It was funny. However, at that moment, soaked through to my undies and now having to clean the kitchen and change my clothes before I could leave for work, I was struggling to find the humor in the moment.

"Fine. Laugh. I'll get my revenge. I'll tell the world the real reason why Sarah Palin is quitting her job as governor," I issued the threat as I crawled around on my hands and knees wiping the sticky tea from everything it coated.

From my spot on the floor, I could see MathMan look my way. "Which is?????"

"Her wild love affair with you. The story is about to come out and so she's quitting now," I paused to see his reaction. He'd gone back to studying whatever was on his computer's screen. "The people of Alaska thank you, by the way....." I continued. This had become about amusing myself, not goading him. "Of course there will be inquiries into whether you are her baby's father. You'll be invited onto all the talk shows, my first published book will be in your name because I'll end up having to ghost write your tell-all. And your teaching career will be ruined....."

MathMan looked up at me. "What are you talking about?"

I smiled at him. A shiver of excitement passed through me as I envisioned him sitting smooshed between Whoopi and Barbara Walters at the table on The View. "Nothing , Honey. Just thinking aloud about my next blog post......"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satan on My Tail

Life seems a bit surreal right now. We've got the whole blog-worn subject of moving. Enough said? Ha! I'm like my mother who used to yell at Darling Sis and me. She'd say a piece and then stomp back down the hallway to go fume. A little while later, we'd hear the heavy footsteps of her anger, our bedroom door would fling open and in would come The Big R again with more, more, more.

We were most imperfect children who richly deserved our mother's harsh words. But crimony, could she not have delivered them all at once.

And so here I am again talking about moving. Ho la la la hum, right? Right.

We're getting there, People of the Internets. There have been no shouting matches. There has been little bloodshed, no broken bones, minimum hurt feelings, no thrown telephones, Hershey's Syrup cans or broken dishes. Oh - no, I lie. I did break one of our beautiful crystal goblets. We received the pair for a wedding gift. I refuse to address the symbolism of that right now.

Compared to other times in our marriage, we're getting along superbly. Seriously. If we had a little spare time right now, we'd be like those middle-aged couples in Cialis commercials swinging footloose and fancy free down a wooded path in our light colored khakis, polo shirts and deck shoes or curled up lovingly in a hammock, gazing deeply into each others eyes.

Seriously, stop laughing. It's unbecoming. And that snorting? Just stop.

Okay - at least it's not like the time our marriage was breaking down and we did what all disintegrating couples do. We painted our house - together!!!! The living room was this dandy deep rose color (I had illusions of making our little tract house appear to be a Victorian on a tree-lined street). We were painting over the dark rose with a flat cream. During all of this, we were having some pretty heavy discussions as our wedded bliss was long gone and our future seemed rather in peril.

At one point, MathMan said "Hey, Lisa," and I looked up at where he stood. The words "FUCK YOU" stood out in bright white relief against the dark rose wall. Yeah. And I'm sure I deserved it. Later, after having left the room for one thing or another, MathMan returned to find the words "KISS MY ASS" painted on the wall opposing his message to me. I can assure you he deserved it.

And so we merrily trip along, unpacking, rearranging, talking about making lists of things we need to do, things we need to find, one or two simple items we'd like to purchase to finish this set up or that and never quite getting to writing those lists down. But we're making progress. Thank goodness because we're not painting and it would slow us down tremendously if we were to break out into a heated battling of dueling, angry text messages. Besides, we can do that from our cars and workplaces anytime.

Regarding the surreal mention up there, I've been so out of my element the last couple of weeks, being sick and then packing and moving that I am clearly not in any sort of routine. No matter, really, I suppose, since everything would have to be adjusted anyway. Still, I've been discombobulated, quietly crazed and slightly off kilter. I know some of you are wondering how I could tell a difference considering I'm often skidding around all askew and without a compass. And those are my good days.

Well, let me tell you - see that picture of the truck at the top of the post? I snapped that photo on my way to work on Wednesday. As I flew along, and I was going really fast because I was late, this guy came bearing down on me. I shook my head to clear it because I thought I was seeing things. I blinked and looked again. Nope, that really was a horned semi coming at me.

He got closer and I saw that this guy really did fancy himself somewhat devilish. The truck was red. Then I noticed that he had flames painted around his windshield. I snapped my pictures and this caused me to slow down a bit. He got closer and I wished that he would pass me so I could bet a better look, but when he was right up on my bumper, our eyes met as I glanced in my sideview mirror.

The hell, literally, with more pictures or gaping. I floored it. Seriously, People of the Internets, the guys eyes glowed.........

Sloooooow Saturday

If I were moving any slower, I'd be going backward.
I have now discovered that I can make at least fifty-eight different sounds when I yawn.
I do believe that candle burning at both ends just flamed out with a fingersnap and a whoosh!
The fact that the skies over Georgia are a hazy, taupey, gauzy melange of cloud and more cloud isn't helping.
Fifty-nine. That last yawn was in the key of C, I believe.
The Actor, Garbo and I discussed some pretty edgy plans for filling up our day since MathMan and The Dancer are on their way back from the Land of Hoosiers and Other Delights. We were going to go shop for a dress for Garbo and a pair of much-needed shoes for The Actor, make a trip to the library, the dump, Target and maybe the grocery store.
We are all so meh.
The trip has been whittled down to me going alone to the library to drop off dvds, pick up a couple of new ones and then stopping for an order of Mongolian Beef we'll split three ways.
This life rocks out loud. Oh, yes it does.
Sixty. Same key, but that yawn came in two notes. Aaaah. Ah.
There should be a blog rule that when lack of sleep reduces one to writing posts about yawns (which has become a bit of a running gag - paging Jack Benny, Oh, Mr. Benny!) and about how the gray skies have put a damper on errand running - well, I guess the rule should suggest strongly that one reconsider posting at all. Or maybe strolling over to YouTube to look for a video of the Jackass morons on yet another spin-off show called Wild Boyz, approaching a wild black rhino for the express purpose of giving it a massage. That would be good for a laugh.
And I guess that is what I like about blog rules. They are fluid. They aren't hard and fast and rigid. Open to interpretation, they suggest, support, guide and direct. They never order.
Like the rule that says I should link to the blog where I found this lovely and rib-tickling quote today.

nearly everything improves for being encased in pastry

The blog rule says I shouldn't be a prickish, selfish ass and hoard her to myself. I should link to her so you can go see for yourself just how funny Jawyalker of Belgian Waffle is. So there. I did what the rule says I should do. This time.

And while I'm at it, I'd like to suggest that you check out the bloggers in my sidebar. What a far ranging set of people are there now. Old friends, why not check out the new finds and X-Chromosome bloggers? New friends, check out the people I know, the people I feel like I know and the blogs I read a couple of days a week because if I read them all everyday, my ass would have fused to my black swivel chair by now. Imagine the mutant creature that would spawn from a mingling of my DNA and that of the cheap Office Depot Managers Chair I occupy much too frequently. It's not a pretty sight at all.

And dang it, while I'm thinking about it, I bet I need to clean up my blogrolls as I've collected more rss feeds. I'm sure some of those feeds need to be added. I'm like an old lady at a buffet. I grab rss feeds like they're yeast rolls and I jam them in my big old pocketbook of a Google Reader. And I forget that last step of redoing my feed/blogroll thing. Dang, dang, dang. So much to remember.

I need a secretary for the blog. A nanny for The Spawn, a cook, a chauffeur, a personal trainer, a masseuse, a laundress, an upstairs maid, a pussy groomer, a gardner and someone to finance all of it. Note: I don't require a downstairs maid. Don't want to appear too greedy and helpless.

Oh, hang on. I just realized that I was sleeping in front of my monitor with my eyes open again. My fingers are so well trained on the QWERTY that they can tap out whatever nonsense is passing through my head in the form of dreams.

Anyway, I suggest you check out some of these folks. There's Anita at A Wife, a woman, a mom - Hi, Anita! I hope you're having a great weekend!; Braja at LOST and FOUND in india,whom I plan to hang out with in India, even if I have to prostitute myself as a hausfrau to the messiest people in town or as a sex kitten to the oldest man east of the Mississippi; Miss Healthypants - who was one of MathMan's blogpals long before I had to stick my pointy nose in and see what all the laughing was about.

Okay. The Actor just stopped by my desk/napping cubby to tell me that I'm missing a Wild Boyz marathon. And I still have to haul my carcass to the library. And that Mongolian Beef that we were going to split? I suspect it will have its cousin fried (hey, look! the male bluebird is sitting on top of the birdhouse!) rice with it now that we've all gotten that much more hungry and I'm even less inclined to cook.........

Sixty-one. That yawn almost made me wet my pants, it was so powerful.

See you when I wake up!

(And the real horror is that it took me nearly an hour to write this nonsense. Good thing I don't put my inefficiencies to work for good instead of evil.....)

Administrative Procedure for the Compulsively Worried Blogger

Disclaimer: I realize that in the grand scheme of things, the importance I occupy in your life is about the size of the period at the end of this sentence. But I know bloggers who do a fabulous job of both responding to the comments on their blogs and getting out there and reading and commenting on others' blogs. Dang if I know how they do it.

Anyway, I've learned that my job situation is going to change and I'm going to have far less time in my hands for blogging. I love the fact that you come here and comment. I know I've been incredibly spotty at responding to comments in the last couple of months. So now I guess I'm putting it to you. Please tell me:

Which is more gratifying to you?
a) Having me come to your blog, read it and leave comments
b) Having me respond to your comments here

Just writing this question seems so silly, but you've already figured out that I'm a shameless people pleaser and, more than anything else, I want you to love me. Or at least not hate me.

So I want to know - if I have to choose between activities, which would you prefer? Feedback on what you say to me here or feedback on what you say at your place? Sadly, most days I'm not able to do both.

I keep trying to figure out how to add more hours to the day. So far, nothing. The Shiftless Spawn continue their endless, selfish campaign for food and clean clothing. The lawyer still hasn't found a way for me to legally auction them off. The Pussies for Peace still refuse to pick up the slack, even though I've upped their canned food allowance to two teaspoons per day. And MathMan? Well, what can I say? He's fabulous and has made great strides since the Days of Fury, but he doesn't have enough hours in his day either. Or so he says. Something about students, administrators and an upcoming baseball season.....

So here I am. A pleading mess of goo, begging you to tell me what to do. It's pathetic, isn't it? Perhaps if I cared less what you thought, our relationship would be healthier. Maybe if I didn't answer the siren song of your every rss feed, feel the tug of every email telling me you've left me another sumptuously witty comment, I wouldn't be on my knees before you now, hoping for some clue, some crumb of knowledge about how to keep you not happy - but the happiest.

You see right through this, don't you? You know that I want you to make it easy for me, so I don't have to feel guilty when I open the emails with your comments, greedily drinking in your wisdom, love and humor, knowing full well I don't intend to go back and attempt to respond because the chocolate supply is running low and I haven't played Rock Band in days!!!!

Please advise. Thank you.

Could Be Professionally Upbeat

Okay, y'all. I have a question for you - Do you see me as perky? Ever? Because I know that I'm not always perky, but do you see me as incapable of doing perky?

I ask because my boss J told me this morning that he doesn't think I can do perky. What!?!? After I helped him up from the floor and wiped his blood off my desk, I asked him if he'd never heard me on the phone with our members? Wasn't I perky then?

"Not perky, exactly," he said, edging away from me, keeping a close eye on the sharp letter opener in my right hand. I didn't realize that I was squeezing it as tightly as I was. My hand had gone nearly white with a lack of circulation.

"Well then, what would you call that?" I tried to keep my tone non-murderous. It was taking a lot of effort to keep the fury from playing across my face.

Taking his eyes off me for just a second to make sure his path to the door was clear, he smiled slowly, nervously. "Well, not annoying perky. Professional and upbeat would be the best way to describe it," his eyes flicked furtively to the letter opener.

I considered this for a moment. Okay. I guess upbeat is good. But still - never perky? Never? I looked again at my hand gripping the letter opener and sighed. "Okay. Hmmm. Maybe I don't do perky. But do I seem like a bitch?" I could hear the tinny sound of resignation in my own voice.

J saw his chance. "No, not a bitch!" he blurted out and raced to the door.

So I ask you? Really? Me? Never perky? Incapable of perky? Because if that's true, perhaps I will forgo the venting of my spleen that I feel coming on. I will hold in all the nasty thoughts I'd like to blurt out right here because I don't want anyone to think I'm a bitch or anything.....

Partly Sunny, Partly Cloudy? Updated Sort Of

I am slightly obsessive about keeping all the photos and graphics I use on the blog(s) in folders on a jump drive. I have all kinds of photos of the clean variety. And I have the kinds that I can't open when my back is to the room.

Today I started a new folder and realized with some surprise that I hadn't done so already. Up until this point, President Obama-related material was being tossed into my general government folder.

The above word-cloud from Obama's inaugural (Hey, Gifted Typist, it took me two tries to spell it correctly) is the first thing to go in my new Obama folder under the blogging pix directory.

So fascinating, you want to gauge your eyes out, right?

You're welcome.

Oh, and by special request via a teeth-chattering phone call from MathMan who was on his way to or from a Metro station (ask me about the super-hot text exchange we had about metro stations!), I'm sharing with you a very important link: Eric Philips of WSBTV here in Atlanta is traveling with the MathMan High School band and is blogging the experience. Do a fellow blogger (no I didn't say that with a pouty lower lip because he gets paid to blog) a favor and click here and leave the man a comment. You know how we all like comments, right? And don't give me any lip about having to sign up for the slanty thing to make comments. It takes two seconds. (False alarm! The comment thing is gone. Sorry for any confusion.)

I've been keeping up with the band via Eric's updates. He's a great writer, a keen observer and good humored enough to travel with teenagers and teachers. I think you should leave him very nice comments for having traveled with MathMan, who, I can assure you, is not the easiest person to travel with, most especiallly when he's traveling without his favorite piece of ..., well, without me.

I am so going to be fired as a wife...........



P.S. Be sure to not reference how crass and out of control MathMan's wife is, please. He needs to keep his job and his students need him. Thanks!

Beseechingly Yours

Dear Powers That Be:

I am, once again, submitting my request for more hours in the day. As you may know, I have made this request before, but still find that there are only twenty-four. What's more, I waste five or six of those hours with sleep. This is not working for me.

If you are concerned that I will only fritter away my extra hours in front of the computer, you are wrong. I promise that I will keep a clean house, children well fed with nutritious wholesome meals and my husband well sated. Please note that since you've ignored my previous request, those are the things getting short shrift right now.

I don't mean to sound peevish and threatening, but I find your complete disregard for my need to be beyond the pale. Don't I do enough for you? I toe the line, mind my p's and q's and cover all those bases. I step daintily over cracks so as not to break my mother's back, never count my chickens before they hatch and rarely do I jump to conclusions. I follow the leader, only go when Simon says and always put the Mississippi between my numbers when it's my turn to be "it." I refrain from crossing my eyes so they don't stick like that, never stick my tongue to frozen metal poles and always cover my nose when I sneeze. I eschew tempting the fates, have never jumped the shark and have stayed away from anything remotely resembling ill-repute.

All I am asking for is a couple more hours! Really - what is the problem? I cannot be wife, mommy, employee, counselor, cook, maid, chauffeur, laundress, Zephyr the Dominatrix, decision-maker, coach, consultant, nail-clipper, band member, blogger and friend without a little more time in which to get these things done. I mean, you do want them done well, don't you?

And since you don't seem terribly quick to grant my other request (you know, the one about entitled birthright and a large, more than adequately talented staff and piles of money), the least you can do is slide me an extra hour or six so that I can do all the have to stuff and still have a little fun.

It's either that, or I start breaking all the rules. You know me. I'll do it. I won't exercise enough or eat right. I'll skimp on sleep, curse, drive too fast, scream obscenties at old ladies, teach my children the finer points of graft and obstruction, kick small animals, cough into those get-it-yourself pastry cases, stop flushing, upend public trashcans, smoke in non-smoking areas, ignore the safety presentation on airplanes, scratch inappropriately during staff meetings, not silence my cell phone in the movie theater and always use my OUTSIDE VOICE.

So? What's it going to be? (Looks at clock that reads 11:54 p.m.)

Yeah, I thought so. Now it's 12:01 a.m. and nothing has changed except now that blasted alarm is going to go off even earlier.

You, The Powers That Be, are cruel sticklers for time.

Peevishly,

Lisa

Until It Shines

I suppose when the day starts with a very nicely worded and very frank email from my boss telling the staff that personnel cuts are likely by the end of the first quarter, it's perfectly natural that I would be vacuuming lint from between the washer and dryer at 10:00 p.m.

The email came early, maybe 9:30ish. By 10:15a.m., I had dusted my desk, wiped my phone down with alcohol, packed up something to be returned to our computer distributor and reorganized my to do list. Which, I think, I later threw away as I was sorting papers and tossing things.

I can't really blame the email. It was just another trigger for my Windex addiction. I've felt this bout of undiagnosed OCD coming on for a while. Over the long holiday break, I did some company cleaning. The Dancer's friends came over for New Years Eve and heaven forbid they go home and report dust and refrigerator grunge to their mothers. I don't even want to think about the repercussions of having the other ballet moms know that I didn't get all the cat hair out of the window sills.

What started as company cleaning last Wednesday ended yesterday with me on my knees, spray bleach bottle in my hand, commanding the gunk along the shower door track to be gone or get up and lend a hand. There was a dusting to be done.

I guess I expected this as we get closer to the date when we'll have to move from this house. Every time I go into the basement, the toys and stacked Rubbermaid boxes remind me that we have a lot of things that need to be sorted for giveaways, carted off to the dump or packed. Things don't feel wildly out of control, since we've made the conscious decision to give up the house, file bankruptcy and start over. I guess I still have some innate need to make order of the chaos.

It's not just personal chaos that's working on me. I listen t the news and things seem so out of control. The economy, the Middle East, the change in Administrations. Even the weather seems to be all discombobulated as the Southeast is drenched, the Midwest is iced over and the Pacific Northwest is buried under snow, snow and more snow.

I'm sure that the little Polly Pockets that accidentally got sucked up into the vacuum tonight as I sought out all those furtive dust bunnies hiding between the treadmill and the toybox won't mind giving up her plastic life so that I can rest easy tonight about the economy. Every time I stand in the pantry and reorganize the snacks and things, I feel like the weather will get right again. It's got to, right? Gaza will be tougher. That's going to require more elbow grease. Maybe washing the car or pulling the refrigerator out and cleaning behind it.

As for that email. I responded the best I could. I thanked my boss for his candor, told him as his friend that it must have been a hard email to write and asked him to give me a heads up if I needed to start looking. Until then, I'd give my best to the organization. What else could I do?

Thankfully, he came out of his office after reading the email and saw me taking a stack of travel magazines off the top of my bookcase and tossing them into the trashcan. No one else was around.

"Pssst!" he hissed to get my attention. "You can stop cleaning. Your job is safe," he whispered.

Okay. Good. Phew! Still, I caught myself later picking up the curled, dead leaves that dropped off the half-dead poinsettia in the conference room......