Are you worth a fish sandwich?

Source

So I'm reading Mika Brzezinski's Knowing Your Value where she examines how women don't recognize, demand or expect to be valued for their contributions particularly in the workplace, but also in all things. I'm nodding along because I suck so bad when it comes to salary and work negotiations. In fact, I'd venture to say that I've been underpaid for every job I've ever had or ever done. And that's including all the way back when I used to pull tobacco plants for my grandpa and uncles because not only was I in there pulling the little seedlings with the other workers - mostly men - but I was also a sweet young thing providing both comic relief and eye candy. I can almost remember a time when I was pleasant to look at in short shorts and clingy tee shirts.

Anyway, I agree with Mika that I am my own worst enemy when it comes to work and negotiations. So how did this happen? Is it simply because I'm conditioned as a female to be satisfied with the knowledge that an employer appreciates me whether they're willing to pay me for a job well done or not? Do I feel so lucky to have a job that I'm willing to accept whatever I'm dealt?

Evidently, it goes deeper than that. I never learned how to successfully advocate for myself in a way that left me feeling satisfied. I avoid conflict. Rather than speak up, I take what's offered, convince myself that it was the best I could do and dive into the job or situation. Like Mika writes in her book, I figured that eventually my employer would see how valuable I was and the money would follow. At home and in relationships, I toil and give in silence until I explode or act out because no one seems to recognize all that I do for them. I know. Such a martyr. Fat lot of good it does me.

Case in point: I went above and beyond in all my jobs. In my last job, I even went so far as to do a little breaking and entering on behalf of my employer. Did that get me a raise? Hardly. When it came time to make budget cuts, not only did I not get a raise, my boss eliminated my position and I was out of a job.

Anyway, I'm in awe of women (and men) who are comfortable or at least able to know what their value is and to not only expect it, but to respectfully and successfully demand it. I would love to be like that.

In my defense, weak though it is, I come by these issues honestly. Take for example:

I spoke to my mother on Sunday and during the conversation, I asked if Dad had a good father's day. She replied that he had though they hadn't really done anything special. But then, wait, she mentioned, they did go to the Big Boy for dinner.

That sounds good. I could go for some Big Boy. Tartar sauce on cheeseburgers with some extra on the side for dipping my french fries. Mmmmmm.

Well, turns out so could Mom because when they arrived at the restaurant, they were seated all the way back and then servers walked back and forth and ignored them. Finally, they got so angry that they decided to leave. As they left, Dad informed the manager who was tending the cash register about the shoddy service and the insult of being seated in the back of the restaurant when there were plenty of empty seats near the front of the restaurant.

The manager apologized and offered them a free meal, but Dad declined. He was too angry to stay.

So you never got your meal?
No. We ended up going to KFC. But I was really looking forward to a fish sandwich.
And did either of you stop anyone as they walked by you and ask them to get your server?
Well, no, but your father did wave around my menu.
Flashy, but not so effective. So you settled for KFC after neither of you spoke up and then when you did and the manager offered you free meals, but you left to prove a point?

Yes. And besides with such terrible service, my fish sandwich would have probably been cold by the time I got it anyway.

Chloe walked into the kitchen to see me doubled over laughing. I related the story to her and she suggested that Grandpa was waving around Grandma's menu because she'd already decided on a fish sandwich and he was still waffling between the Big Boy and the Swiss Miss.

Chloe is ever so helpful. She also made me call my mother back and apologize for laughing at her frustration. That was rude of me. I'm also not supposed to be blogging about this so if you know my parents please don't tell them I wrote about this or I'll be grounded.

Passive aggression - nature or nurture?

Listen, people of the internets. I'm counting on you. If and (dare I say it?) when I get lucky enough to find my next job, will you make sure that I'm not paying the employer to let me work for them? Thank you.

Do you know your value? Do you Are you good at negotiations? If so, can you handle mine for me?

Adventures in Real Parenting: You can't do this when they're little

Wednesday is penny coupon day at the grocery store so last night I was busy getting my coupons and grocery list together. As I pawed through the Smart Source coupons I called out the more "interesting" ones to Chloe.

A housecoat? You want one of those, right? They're plaid!

 (No reply. She was too busy looking at Pets Who Want to Kill Themselves)

Oh, and Trojans! Do you need any condoms?

Not if you're buying me a housecoat.

She's right. Her anti-depressants have improved her comedic timing.

What are your favorite guilty pleasures on tumblr? Also, what do you need from the store?

Let me swing among those stars

You guys know I'm a huge fan of Quisp cereal, right? I'm such a fan that I actually bought a case of it on Amazon a few months ago. I'm pleased to report three of the original six boxes of that sugary corny goodness remain. Using some murky reserve of uncharacteristic restraint, I allow myself one box per month. Nevermind that I end up eating an entire box in a day. What's life without an occasional binge anyway? It's not like it's heroin or online gambling.

Well. WELL!

It appears that an unnamed chain store has caught on to the fact that there are still Quisp aficionados in this world who crave a return to a simpler time when one could sit cross-legged and sunk into a bean bag chair while wearing Holly Hobby footie pajamas and shoveling those sweet flying saucers of love from bowl to mouth in front of Scooby Doo. Oh to be able to wear footie pajamas again or to sit cross-legged without feeling all gimpy when I stand.

So there I am wheeling my cart around the final bend into the shoot for the cash registers and to what do my wondering eyes should appear?

No, not that miniature weirdo and his eight tiny reindeer. It's June. It was an entire endcap of Quisp!!!

There may have been some Cap'n Crunch and some other lesser cereal, but I only had eyes for the little pink guy with the propeller on his head.

I stopped in front of the display. Should I? I already had three boxes that would technically last me three months, but here were two entire shelves of Quisp offering me a gastronomical visit to1974 and I wouldn't have to pay a cent for shipping costs.

"Mom?" Sophie was impatient. When we left the house for a quick trip into town, she was all for the notion of getting out of the house because there was no one to hang out with. The minute the store's doors swung open for us, she received the first text wanting to know where she was. Her friends were anxious for her to get home to lead the mischief.

"Look! They have Quisp!" My pointing finger working overtime. "Here. And here. Live! In person!"

"Okay, but we have Quisp at home." She tugged on the cart.

I held firm. "But don't you see? We never see Quisp in the store. This is like the moon landing or or..." I struggled to find the right example. "It's like if you were to see Justin Beiber in the hair product aisle!"

She frowned and nodded in my direction. There was a man behind us waiting to get to the cash register.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just so overwhelmed to see they had Quisp," I said before pushing the cart into the lane.

The man sort of smiled like you do when you don't want to engage with someone, but you don't want to be rude.

I was still flying high so I told the sales associate how happy I was to see they were carrying Quisp. She smiled as she slid our items over the scanner. Beep. Beep. I could almost hear her thinking that she should get me out of the store quickly. Sophie floated a small distance away to escape my force field of cereal enthusiasm. I was so excited my hands shook a little as I pulled the cash from my pocketbook.

"This is so huge. It's like...." I handed the checker the money and looked at her. She was younger than me. Maybe twenty-five. Okay, a lot younger than me. Okay, I'm old enough to be her mother. What could I say to make her understand? "It's like if you were to see Posh Spice in the shoe section. Or. Or. It's such a big deal I feel like I could hug someone!"

She hesitated before handing me my change. I realized my faux pas and laughed. "I guess I got a little carried away." I glanced around to see how embarrassed Sophie was, but she'd been spared the public humiliation of being seen with me. She'd moved further away to fool around with the wedding registry kiosk, completely unaware that I was suggesting I should, or even could, hug strangers.

I thanked the checker and pulled the cart out of the way feeling like a moron. The man behind me was still unloading his items onto the conveyor belt, but he looked up and caught my eye. "Still looking for someone to hug? I'm buying Quisp."

Slap this on my bumper

I grew up not too far from Corydon, Indiana, which is where Butt Drugs is located. The last time I visited my family in Rising Sun, I planned to make the tiny detour to visit Butt Drugs so that I could take Sophie to a real soda fountain, but our plans got changed and the visit to Butt Drugs was canceled.

Enter amyg from Amy Wrote It. She lives not far from Corydon and somewhere along the line I mentioned that I want to visit Butt Drugs. Well, she couldn't send anything from the soda fountain (she considered it), but she did send me a bumper sticker that is causing quite a stir on Facebook.

Thank you, amyg. Every time I look at this sign, I smile.

For those of you not familiar with amyg and her fabulous writing on her blog and in syndicated columns, you should rectify that right now. Lord, I am such a child that I used the word rectify because it reminds me of the word rectum. Butt Drugs. Rectum. My inner twelve year old is rolling around on the floor laughing. My outer adult is about to send me to the corner.

While I take my punishment (not the good kind), you guys listen to this and try, just try, not to smile. (NSFW means not safe for work so put on your headphones, lovers.)

Thanks to someone special for turning me onto Lucille Bogan.

A Little Less Bob and Emily, A Little More Rob and Laura

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I used to wonder why my parents took separate bedrooms after all the kids moved out of the house. Not to share too many of their secrets, but I think it had something to do with the fact that Dad worked different shifts and he snored in a way that made Fred Flintstone's snore sound charming.

I think the first real shift happened after they realized the waterbed was a huge mistake. Funny how when MathMan and I were first married, my parents offered us the use of their room during our visits. Meanwhile they retired to my and my brother's former bedrooms. What I remember most about trying to sleep on that waterbed with a bedfellow was repeating the phrase "We must be doing it wrong because I do not understand the appeal."

At least my parents got a decent night's rest. Unless, of course, they heard the shouts of "I'm hanging ten!" because we were newlyweds, after all.

No matter, my parents discovered the joy of sleeping alone again and they never turned back.

Now I understand. I love my husband. I love being close to him, I love a before sleep cuddle, but I am so ready to have my own bedroom, or at the very least, my own bed. Our mattress is in desperate need of replacement and when there is finally enough money to purchase one, I'm proposing we go with the Rob and Laura Petrie twin set.

Just imagine, no fighting over the covers, no sheets being pulled all cattywampus by someone who likes to cocoon himself, no hot breath on your neck, no garlic laced burps, no chest hairs tickling your back, no playing Did You Do That? or Dutch Oven. No tangled limbs, no elbows up the nose, no fussing about who is sleeping in the middle of the bed while someone else is relegated to a tiny corner of the mattress and look, I made an outline like at a crime scene to prove it!

I could even wrestle with my pillows on a sleepless night without waking my darling. Hell, when I'm really having trouble sleeping, I could watch TV or read without leaving the bed or without having someone give me the mole-eyed grumpface and heavy sigh routine.

This idea has promise. We'll be better rested. We can place the beds side to side with a swell little table between them just like the Petries and burn extra calories jumping from bed to bed. I haven't done that since I was a kid. We can push the beds together when we feel like it or play eenie meenie miney moe to decide which bed will be that morning's playground. Yes, I said morning. It's how we roll in the hay.

Speaking of - the last couple of mornings I've awakened to find MathMan's pillow over my face. After a brief struggle, I realized that it wasn't a murder pillow, it was an abandoned pillow. Nevertheless, it's a rough way to start the day and I'm not completely convinced that he wasn't as some point holding that pillow in place. When I confronted him about it he looked away and whistled. If my cartoon symbolism is up to snuff, that means a he's lying.

There's also the issue of MathMan's limbs which seem most content when draped over me, pinning me to the mattress so that I can't shift without waking him and if I wake him, we're likely to have that tiresome conversation again about why don't we try sex at 3a.m. instead of 7a.m. all the while some of my body parts are tingling not because of a happy rush of blood, but because they've been deprived of circulation.

MathMan is never satisfied with my response that I don't do anything well at 3 a.m. so I try to distract him with humor. "You don't want me to just lie there and giggle, do you?"

"Couldn't you work in an occasional 'Oh, god, oh, god?'"

"At 3a.m.? You must be dreaming."

"If I were dreaming your panties would be off already."

Maybe I should start snoring.

On Water and the Importance Thereof

We woke up this morning to a water main break. That means, of course, that everyone has to poo. Like right away. And urgent. Prairie dogs touching cotton. Great week to make sure we're eating enough grams of fiber to move the mountain, aye?

Thankfully, I am married to a genius who is married to me who just happened to fill the inflatable pool with water yesterday. Just as I was stepping into one of the litterboxes out of sheer desperation, MathMan dashed into the room brandishing a bucketful of pool water hollering that we could force flush if necessary!

I tossed my Harpers into the air and shouted hallelujah! which is something I don't think I've ever said aloud.

Obviously, the cats and I are very relieved. Literally.

I'm still waiting out the Water Department before I go bathe in the kiddie pool. Goodness knows, the neighbors don't need to make another call to the authorities.

What innovations are you making today? What are you reading in the litterbox?

Take a good look around

Photos from my hometown.

Home 1965 - 1984.

(It didn't have the swing with the pool in front and the garage door was a garage door)

Sometimes I shared a room with my sister. That's it - the window on the far left.

A visit home with MathMan. My brother lays across the porch.
It's hard to remember him with hair.

circa 1990

I loved that front porch.
Except for that idiotic goose and its ribbon around its neck.
My mother got eyebrow deep into that horrid faux country look.
First it was faux colonial with cheap bedwarmers hung on the wall and eagles.
And there was the Dutch Modern Incident.
My father never bought furniture again without consulting Mother.
And then came the mid 80s with its geese and pineapples in wishy washy peaches, mauve and dusty blue.
 Thank god for Martha Steward who pulled middle America out of that home decor nightmare.
Faux country decor made me long for the avocado green and gold appliances of the 1970s.
Celadon green was the cure.

When I lived there it was called Pavy's Hardware. 

Mr. Pavy's wife and daughter never drove.

They rode their bikes with baskets on front all through the town.

Mrs. Pavy wore cat eye glasses and the daughter had long dark hair.

 Today the building houses an arts center.

That seems right to me.

My friend Craig, who later became a great photographer in his own right, 

took a photo of me standing against that wall.

That was 1985. Long before digital photography.

It was my first introduction to what one could do with black and white.

 

The streets where we ran wild and free down by the river. 

This was in the dark ages before helicopter parents and

P.R. campaigns about stranger danger.

If anyone was buggering you, you were probably related to them

or knew them.

Sadly, nothing has changed, just the displaced fear of people we don't know.

The library where I checked out my very first book I Want to Be A Beauty Operator.

And lots of Bobsey Twins, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys and also discovered the magic of Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steele.

Thank you, Andrew Carnegie, for giving even those of us in tiny towns the gift of the public library.

MathMan and I tried moving to Rising Sun once, but it didn't work out.

This would have been our house if we'd stayed and our place in Illinois had sold.

This house was once a girls' school dormitory.

The attic rooms on the 3rd floor still showed signs of a fire that happened around the turn of the century.

Mark this as regret #4,678 - the expired real estate contract.

Down below town. The bridge I jumped from.

That is not a metaphor. I really was that stupid.

When I say the word home, it's hard to know what I mean. It might mean Rising Sun, Indiana. It might mean Chicago and its suburbs. It might mean the middle of nowhere, Georgia. It might mean my family.


What feels like home to you?

What Took You So Long?

Things I've learned been reminded of this week:

!. You can go "home" again.
2. Just because friends don't call you doesn't mean you shouldn't call them. Maybe they're giving you space and maybe you hurt them just a tiny bit.
3. Three years is a long time and not very long at all.
4. You have to ask for the job.
5. There may be hope for me yet.
6. Lots of things don't change in your absence. Lots of things do.
7. One person's small action can set off a chain of events they don't even realize they triggered. There's a story there. I know, it's been done.
8. It is possible for someone to disappear without an Invisibility Cloak or faking their own death.
9. Old friends fall quickly into established patterns when they're reunited.
10. As much as I hate to admit it and even more, I hate to do it, it's very good for me to get out of my charming domestic box with its cat hair lining and ironed curtains.

New readers don't remember when I used to write about work, but some of you will remember the old job where I used to travel with a small, tightly-knit band of rowdies who liked to party late into the night. My role was noisemaker, singles stuffer into g-strings, cheerleader, herder of cats, director of traffic and den mother. Now doesn't that sound more fun than being the Executive Director of a small professional association of people who manage something?

Yesterday, I went as a guest to my old association's luncheon and saw a lot of old friends and acquaintances. I didn't know what to expect since the last time I saw these people, my life was coming apart. After I left that job, I stopped talking to those folks because I was a little hurt and I was embarrassed about my situation. So when I wrote one of the past presidents to ask him for a reference, he said of course and also invited me to the luncheon. I was afraid to go, but just like he used to when we worked together as partners, he insisted in his way. He often knew what was best when I couldn't see the forest for the trees.

It took me no time at all to get my networking legs back. There were handshakes and hugs and many questions about where I'd "disappeared" to. Most of these people thought I'd gone to New York. They didn't know I'd stayed for only one day.

I glossed over the details and collected business cards and suggestions for where to look for work. A recruiter asked me to call her. I even got hired by one of my old friends to do some freelance writing and editing.

I learned about the changes in some of my friends lives and oohed and aahed over photos of kids, lost weight and job promotions. The most familiar moment came when the featured speaker, a Georgia State Representative, was giving his speech. I was seated between two past presidents. The one who insisted I come and the other with whom I once drove from Atlanta to New Orleans. Mr. Insist leaned over and whispered "Your job is to ask during Q and A if he's ever tweeted photos of his privates."

I laughed, drawing the attention of my other president so, of course, I had to repeat the joke to her. They both leaned in and I shared with them that I'd learned to be more subtle than that. I would just raise my hand and ask for the State Rep's Twitter handle.

One said to the other, that's why she's the writer.  

As we chatted in the parking lot afterward, Mr. Insist talked about finding happiness and wondering if he would ever find it. He asked me what had taken me so long to get in touch. I could think of many reasons, but I didn't have an answer. I changed the subject. I told him how I'd been thinking that it was our meeting at a national training for the parent organization back in 2002 that led him to recruit me for the job in Georgia so that my family moved here and all the things that had happened as a result.

He wanted to know if I blamed him?

Blame him? No. How could I? But it made me think of how our actions, no matter how insignificant they seem at the time, have ripple effects we'll probably never be aware of.

Promises were made to not be a stranger and we said goodbye. I drove home and emailed gratitude and resumes to the people who requested one. I got in touch with the fellow who hired me to help him with writing and editing. I wouldn't let another three years go by.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Alone in a darkened room

 

As happens most summers, Chaos is once again in charge. Days go unstructured and we become the playthings of inertia. There's a lot of deciding at the last minute to do things or not do things. A lot of slow-talking about what we might could be doing if only we could get up off the couch and unglue our eyeballs from Hot in Cleveland. A lot of listening to the iPod while waiting for the inflatable kiddie pool to refill. A lot of mixing concoctions made up of the remains of the liquor cabinet. The occasional act of kindness when one of us gets up to go to the kitchen for something and offers to bring back beverages and a nosh for whomever else is lying around in the dark even in the middle of the day.

Our sleep habits are disrupted in disturbing and sinister ways. Once Doug and the kids stop having school, it's anything goes. It's kind of like living in a dorm the day before Spring Break when people are in various states of undress, inebriation and panic because they forgot to turn in their English paper that counts for ninety percent of their grade except the panic has more to do with the paying of bills than it does academics. Thankfully, strongly mixed drinks transform panic into singing and dancing on tabletops with trusted reliability.

Each of us reacts to this lack of routine differently. For example, Sophia has metamorphosed into a vampire. She stays up until I don't know when and wakes at 2:30 or 3:00 p.m. at which point she lumbers down the stairs all small-eyed and long-legged asking what's for breakfast. I look up from my book, finish chewing what's left of my afternoon protein bar and announce she's grown a bit more since I saw her at about midnight. (Petty sidenote:  This sudden litheness of body and legginess has created a sour jealousy among the other females in the household who are forced to move through this world on stubby stumps with a bit too much thigh.)

Since Sophie has become a child of the night, it's rather a good thing we continue to draw the Blackout curtains against the sun for energy efficiency purposes. Otherwise, she might turn to dust in the glare or blind us all as she stands glittering in the living room that normally gets a ton of natural light.  Pick your vampire lore, my friends.)

Anyway, I call them Blackout Curtains, but they're actually a mismatched assemblage of dark-colored sheets, duvet covers and discarded bleach-speckled shower curtains thumbtacked over the miniblinds. I've refrained from using beach towels because the backside of the now classic Budweiser can towel just screams white trash and I have my pride microscopic though it is.

I've also discovered that with a bit of patience, sobriety and certain evoked oaths, a twin-sized fitted sheet stretches perfectly over some of our window casings.

It looks like hell from inside, but our thermostat is set at 79 degrees and no one has been diagnosed with heat exhaustion yet. We did encounter some controversy over the psychological effects of the red sheet tacked over the window and filtering a disturbing red light into the room kind of like the Kenny Rogers Effect, but we eventually hit upon a reasonable solution.

When teamed with the somewhat threadbare navy blue sheet over the opposite window, the red sheet's effect is less disconcerting and more patriotic. So much so that I find myself resisting the urge to recite The Pledge of Allegiance each time I enter the bedroom.

The cats, of course, despise having their one method for reassuring themselves that there is a indeed a world beyond this dreary split-level obliterated. They're inconsolable. You can tell by all that sleeping during the day and general lack of interest in anything except sniffing one another's backsides. Which reminds me - why do they do that? In all my years as a slave to cats, I've never figured that odd habit out. I mean, these are the same five cats who have been living together for years. Regarding butt smell, what's going to change?

Anyway, kitty anti Ds are being administered and the bum sniffing as a way to constantly reacquaint themselves with one another continues unfettered by the Summertime Blues.

But I was telling you about Sophie the Creature of the Night. Yes, I'm concerned. While the neighborhood can always use another method for controlling the rat population, I don't like the idea that while her father and I sleep in the Grand Old Flag Suite, our youngest precious is wide awake watching DVDs of the original Upstairs Downstairs, playing First Person Shooter games on her iPod Touch, rearranging furniture, shopping in Chloe's closet and raiding the pantry.

Evidently, twelve year old female vampires don't crave blood. They crave JIF peanut butter straight from the jar. And they don't appreciate being nagged by their mothers to brush their fangs.

We've discussed the messed up sleep rhythms, but reached no conclusions. I'm already fretting about the nightmare it will become in early August when Sophie has to return to the routine of school. Mathman, always the pragmatist, suggests I close my trap and reminds me that at Sophie's age I, too, was a raging insomniac.

Oh, he's heard the stories about how I would lie in bed as the hours crept by. I'd entertain myself with reading by flashlight, mentally creating elaborate designs for tiny houses with not one inch of space wasted, or just counting to sixty as I tried to time it just right when the next glow in the dark number of my sister's white clock radio would flip over slower than anything I'd ever seen in my life.

He's right, of course, but I like to point out that I stayed in bed and didn't wander the house, leaving a trail of mess and peanut butter smeared spoons. My dad worked the swing shift and you never knew when he would be coming through the door. The man who worked sixteen hour days so we could wear clothes from Shillito's instead of Kmart would have had a thing or two to say about insomnia.

To be continued.......

Is it wrong not to always be glad?

First, let me dispense with the item I know you're all dying to hear from me about.

It was indeed a certain member of Congress's member in the twitpic. It was Anthony Weiner's wiener. How did I miss out on that? Life is so freaking unfair sometimes. I already have the book title in mind when I write the would be story about sexting shenanigans with an elected official. The Congressman Who "Loved" Me. I guess it will remain fiction, not memoir. Dang it.

My favorite part of Rep. Weiner's presser yesterday? The word women. Not woman. Women. Oh, Anthony we're such kindreds only you're much better hung than me.Seriously, though. I'm trying not to judge because well, I've been my own kind of dumbass, but for cliff's sake, you're thinking of running for King of NYC and you just married your own hot chick and hello, those are tweet photos not email. Way to hand the opposing political party a deflection from the fact that they're tearing apart all the good things a government does.

It's been a strange few days, but before I get to that, I want to thank the Patrons of The Arts who provide PayPal donations to this blog. Thank you so much for paying me to write, youse guys. Sometimes that's just the boost we need to keep the lights on and the vodka flowing. Special thanks to Susan and to my long-time reader and steady contributor to the cause whom I won't name but if that person wants me to mention them by name, I'll hope they'll let me know. You know who you are.

Also, I want to thank Lyra and her son M. for making and sending me this power bracelet which is seriously cool and has already drawn some great compliments. Thank you, Lyra. I love it and wear it all the time.

If I can remember where I stored my trumpet, we'll be playing Taps to honor my laptop which gave its final blue screen performance yesterday. After a few days of wheezing and intermittently shutting down, it finally died and took with it some edits that I'd neglected to email to myself. I'm to blame. The computer was sick and tired of being an accomplice to my crimes. The never finishing a manuscript, writing boring blog entries and conducting illicit online threeways with a man who likes to be tickled and his cousin The Biter.

Before the vintage laptop groaned and went dark, Doug googled the issue and found that this Gateway model had a motherboard flaw. How very typical, Sigmund Freud. Blame the mother.

That's it, I fussed. I'm wasting my time writing. This is a sign that I'm done. Finished. Through.

Doug came to the rescue, as always, using his succinct and direct manner. "That's bullshit and you know it."

But don't you think the loss of my edits on DDay when DDay figures prominently in the story is a sign that I should stop writing this story?

A disappointed head shake can say so much.

So for now I'm a computer nomad borrowing the desktop the kids share and Doug's rebuilt laptop when he's not using it to obsess over fantasy baseball stuff and Calculus demonstrations. I'm typing this post on Doug's work computer, but I don't want to use it very much because it belongs to the school and it feels wrong. As a practical matter, I understand if I type a swear word or chew gum while using this laptop, it will issue me a detention. What a drag, too, because I can't view any you know what and I definitely won't be able to tweet Rep. Weiner and I have a dumb phone, not a smart one. Mine only makes calls and sends texts and photos. Oh. Heh. Anyway...

This is all just another not so gentle reminder to back up your work, people. Everytime. Save and email to yourself every important document like it may be your last. If you're going to OCD, this would be a good thing to be compulsive about.


Do you back up your work everytime? What method(s) do you use?

The One Where I Discuss Unruly Members of Congress

Recently, I was unfriended on Facebook by someone from my hometown because I used the proper term for the male genitals in a blog post. Apparently, that word offends some people, especially when used by liberals who are the only people who use that term according to the person who unfriended me. It's all such a silly thing, but now I know that I should warn people before they go reading this stuff and stinging their eyes with bad words. So consider yourself warned. Don't read this post if you are:
1. Under the age of 18
2. Related to me and therefore embarrassed by me and want to avoid dying of shame in your chair right now
3. Offended by words and phrases in general and by those of a somewhat sexual nature specifically
4. At work

Oh dear lord, this business about Anthony Weiner's wiener is making me crazy. How can I not address this hard issue? I am a fan of penis and have conducted extensive studies so it seems wrong to remain silent while the world is talking about this particular Member of Congress. Of course, I have my penis preferences regarding length, girth, curvature, cut, color and ability, but let's just say I haven't really seen a penis that would upset me to the point of demanding that every news organization run hour long specials on it. Well, unless you count that unfortunate situation involving Anthony Kiedis back in 1995. I contend it was his fault for wearing nothing but a sock, but the conflicting accounts make speaking about it with any certitude difficult.

So while I've been busy driving kids around trying to find someone to buy them for a decent price and brandishing fistfuls of coupons at the grocery store cashier, I gather the political media and otherwise has gotten its rocks off via close examination of this photo.

And I'm all - we're in three wars, the debt ceiling dropping chunks of plaster on Wall Street has Chicken Little squawking all over the box, fourteen gabillion people are out of work or underemployed, aliens and tornadoes are attacking the United States, kids across the nation are singing or are preparing to sing the Alice Cooper standard and it was 95 degrees at 11:19 a.m. today and you're enjoying a freak out over this allegedly tweeted photo of a dingler? Once again, our media uses all its resources to fail us in our quest for the Truth. Even a little Truth.

Go ahead and point and laugh, but make a Federal case out of it? Absurd. It's a penis. Cock. Johnson. Willie. Member. Summer Sausage. Tallywhacker. Schlong, Dong. Dick. Choad. Rod. Pickle. Wang. Prick. Chubby. Junk. The One-Eyed Wonder Worm (thank you, George Carlin).

I know. If the media is still after this story because Rep. Weiner has said too much or said not enough, then there must be something there, right? Well, certainly. There's something there and it's dressed to the left and shyly erect just the way I like my emailed and tweeted wiener. I mean, seriously, I don't mind a photo when done right and this one is minimally artistic, draped and pointing away from the camera instead of staring at you with that one demanding eye.

But is this a big deal? Why?

Oh, I hear Andrew Breitbart, of the Truth Challenged Breitbarts, is involved. A friend of his uncle's neighbor's poodle saw the Wiener tweet and alerted the ever vigilant Andy B who undoubtedly clicked the link to see the photo and, instead of winking back as required by the International Penis Protocol, shrieked like a little girl (who should never be exposed to a man's penis, FYI), clutched his pearls and made straight for CNN to report it before it could ruin economies and bring down Middle Eastern Dicktators.

Such sacrifice for his nation. As an antidote, I've been tweeting photos of my vagina to Breitbart all afternoon. Lucky him, I beautified downtown this morning and I did most of my tweeting before god punished Georgia for electing Nathan Deal as Governor by putting the state under the cosmic broiler and oh my word, I never new labia could sweat. Gee, I hope Andrew B. doesn't faint or anything. I did my best to make things extra special employing a jaunty chapeau, the plastic mustache borrowed from Mr. Potato Head, and I even cracked open the new Vajazzling kit I'd been saving for a special occasion.

So why am I spending all these words on such nonsense? Well, because my brain is seriously fried from the heat, I'm tired of being all serious and grown up and shit and because I do, in fact, really like penis. Not to put too fine a point on it, but penises are fun! Exclamation point. I'd suggest all members of Congress swan through the halls of power stark naked all the time and thus we'll become desensitized to the idea of Congressional nudity and then we won't have to waste so much media time on such things, but then Congress is kind of like Hollywood for people who either never had it in the looks department or who have fucking given up and so that's a really bad, bad, bad idea.

In the meantime, I suppose we'll endure this scandal which just isn't as much fun as Republican sex scandals because theirs possess the added element of weepy hypocrisy. They're the ones who keep bringing up Family Values and all that other bullshit coded language which essentially means People Like Us. After this dies down, we'll move on to the next one.

In the meantime, I'm waiting to see if any eyerolling media "professional" will ask the right question that has eluded them all day. I mean, it's not that damn hard. It goes like this: "Representative Weiner, have you taken photos of your penis clad only in gray boxer briefs?"

And if he answers yes, I want him to know that I, too, follow him on Twitter. (@lisagolden)