I'm sprawled across the Davenport of despair*

Thought I'd finally cashed in my chips, did you? I'd see you checking in on me and I'd be all oh, man, I can't think of a thing to write and I'm letting these people down. Think, woman, think! Nothing happens. There's nary a creative thought to be found among the abandoned Habitrails, faded French conjugations, and cravings for Marathon Bars cluttering my cranium.

My pleas for the cats to do something bloggable go unheeded. In a lame attempt at slapstick, the cat who's older than Sophie prat fell off the back of the davenport yesterday. It was like watching someone's grandmother tumble down a flight of stairs. My shocked laughter was muted by my concern with whether she'd broken a hip.

"Oh, Daisy! Are you okay?"

She shot me a reproachful look, shook herself and said, "I don't plan to sue." As she strolled away, she looked over her shoulder, her lip curled in defiance. "This time."

I used the word davenport because it doesn't get used enough. I looked it up on wikipedia. A proper noun first, it morphed into a generic term for sofa in the Midwest and Northern New York. Which would explain why my thoroughly Midwestern mother used davenport interchangeably with the harsher sounding couch. When I was a child, I liked it when she said davenport. It seemed more exotic with its multiple syllables.

The family has been no help either. They haven't said or done a funny thing in over a week. Unless you count Sophie telling me that having sex burns calories so I should keep doing it. The friend she was showing off in front of laughed at the irreverence of the exchange. I pulled out my phone and poked at the keyboard.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm texting Daddy."

"About sex?"

"No. About calories."

I thought about telling you about the strange dreams I've been having, but instead I'll show you this visual and leave the rest to your imagination.

It's fair to say that I have anything to offer. I'm profoundly sorry for this lapse. I'm distracted to the point of scrubbing old cookie sheets with a solution of baking soda and peroxide. They don't yet gleam, but give me time and a few more news stories about the ongoing attempts of the Right to dismantle the hard-won reproductive rights of women or another beating of a gay teen and those cookie sheets will be mirrors upon which we can all scrutinize our foreheads for etched lines of confusion and consternation.

You can't rub those lines out with your thumb either. I've tried.

Now I'm turning to you. Suggestions for topics are welcome. Questions, ideas, a first line, a last one? Want to guest post? Fire away.

P.S. This.


*Not really, but I love this line from the Warren Zevon song Disorder in the House.

Dogpile on the Rabbit

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.

She's got electric boots mohair suit

My feet shouldn't smell like Doritos, right? Not even Cool Ranch Doritos.

I just slipped off my moccasins and was overwhelmed with the smell. I guess it's time to retire them. Not even baking soda has absorbed the odor reminiscent of spin the bottle kisses in someones basement.

For the first time in days, maybe even more than a week, I didn't leave the house yesterday. Well, I did step outside to hang the wash on the line and to fill the bird feeder on the deck, but otherwise, I was like the dog behind the invisible fence - barking at the neighbors, the television and my ringing cell phone, but not crossing the property line without being struck momentarily dumb by electric current. And I'm a quick learner so it only happened twice.

Yesterday it was me and the TV and a fight with the cat with whom I must race every morning to make the beds before she settles into her 6:38 a.m. - 10:15 space next to Nate's pillows. The fight between the cat and me was a draw, by the way. The bed was made and the bite she delivered didn't break the skin. It was a warning bite. If she weren't 13 in human years, I would have given her a tap on the nose and a sharp-tongued rebuke. Instead I gave her the ultimate insult. I talked to her in the baby voice and pet her on the head.

Because I've got obvious masochistic tendencies, I mainlined MSNBC in the morning and again in the evening. At some point, the lunacy that is our national political landscape got to me. I sought solace in chocolate bread pudding and red wine. Good thing I took my Prilosec this morning. And worked out on the elliptical yesterday afternoon.

I'm reading Matt Taibbi's Griftopia so watching MSNBC is a delightful bit of cognitive dissonance. Take this morning. Someone got the bright idea to exhume the corpse of Jack Welsh to talk about unions. You know it's bad when I miss Mika. Who told her she could take Fridays off anyway? What's she doing - working on her book that's going to be released this spring?

I did feel a little sorry for Andrea Mitchell who was on earlier this morning. Taibbi calls her husband Alan Greenspan the Biggest Asshole in the Universe in the chapter about Greenspan's development as a Deep Thinker under the tutelage of the brilliant Ayn Rand.  Bring me the head of John Galt. I need to scrub the toilets. Anyway, poor Andrea. I mean, it's one thing to marry the guy who helps engineer the wrecking of the world's economy, but have you seen Alan Greenspan? Talk about a pity fuck gone awry.

Yesterday evening, MSNBC ran a segment about Rush Limbaugh's defense of a Republican State Senator who called the protesters in the capitol slobs. Rush Limbaugh did funny voices and called the protesters slobs and long-haired, pot-smoking hippies. Uhhhhh, Rush? Find a mirror and then call your Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, okay? You and the whole looks/drugs thing = glass house. Bad idea, my friend.

I talked to the television and it talked back. It told me about the awesomeness of BP and Chevron and all the good they do for the world. Then came a story from Ameriprise and how people can fix their problems and have fabulous retirements. It all sounded so glorious and wonderful and amazing and as Louis CK will tell you, no one is happy. Me? I'm just looking forward to living the high life on Social Security. Good thing my stockpile continues to grow. Yes, I'm tracking expiration dates. Why do you think I don't have time for blogs and social media anymore? Managing inventory is time consuming. By the way, we may have crossed the point of no return on Advil. Need any?

While watching the evening shows and drinking wine on an empty stomach (pre bread pudding), I got noisy. Poor Sophie retreated to the quiet and warmth of her closet with pillows and a flashlight to finish reading a book. Later, when I asked her why she was in there, she told me that I was disturbing her with the loud TV and even louder commentary.

"On a scale of 1 - 10, how much was I disturbing you?" The wine was wearing off and I wanted to appear concerned.

She looked up at me from the closet floor, considering her answer carefully. "I'd say a six. You were loud and kind of crazy, but not Augusten Burroughs' mother crazy."

That's what I get for letting her listen to Running with Scissors with me in the car. She's accurate though. I was loud, a little too passionate in my response to the television, but I wasn't whipping up a dinner of cigarette butt sandwiches, was I?

I am pleased to know that from now on, I won't be the only standard for crazy around here. I've got Deirdre Burroughs to lean on and you bet I will. These kids give me a bit of trouble and I'll be threatening to find my very own Dr. Finch and we'll see how they like that.

Their therapist has asked me to not use the abandonment card to manipulate my darlings, but this is war, right? I've got to use whatever means necessary to stay one step ahead of them. As if. They're already so much smarter than me. And better looking. They should take pity on me and move over because I could use a safe haven in the closet, too.

"So you haven't sent an SOS text to the Department of Children and Family Services then?" I asked.

"No. I'll just write about in my journal so I can write a book someday," she said. "Can you shut the door now? I want to play a game." She showed me her iPod Touch.

Fair enough. And I take back what I wrote about Mary Karr. Maybe she kept extensive journals.

Unrelated to the TV, I screamed for the first of many times in the coming weeks. And no child was a target of my shrieking. It was phobia induced. Now that I'm hanging wash on the line, I'm going to have to banish this bee phobia. Today as I strolled out with a basket of wet laundry, one of those big bumbleturds aka Carpenter Bees rolled up in his Escalade and gave me a grin.

Cue the scream, the dropping of the wet laundry, the cartoon like spinning of my Dorito-scented slippered feet and the scramble off the deck with the door slamming behind me.

No one except the cats was around to see it. And the cats aren't easily phased so....

Someone get me a sandwich. Cigarette butts or dryer lint. I don't even care.

Do you have phobias? Talk to the TV? Expect a response? Faceplant in some chocolate bread pudding? What's your metaphorical closet floor?

Unemployment Diary Day Four: Chatterbrain

My severance money was supposed to be deposited in our account overnight and it wasn't. I tried to tell myself that it was just some simple snafu, nothing to get all in a tizzy about, but holy cats, the voices in my head know just when to unleash the madness. I fell asleep four times last night to Margaret Rutherford and her many precious chins playing Miss Jane Marple in a swinging 1964 version of Agatha Christie's Murder Ahoy.

And I still don't know who did it. Heck, I still don't know who was murdered. Toss, turn, toss, turn. Worry and fret.

I got up at 1:20 a.m. and checked our account online. No money yet. Do I need this added stress? I asked myself. No I did not, I answered, which is worrisome enough, in and of itself.

Will I survive this latest bump on the road of life? Of course I will, but it certainly was making me twitchy.

MathMan got up to go do something private I shouldn't write here (Okay, he peed.) It was 4:00 a.m. I checked the account again. My last paycheck was in, thank goodness, but not the severance. I told myself to calm down, it had to be some simple snafu. Simple snafu, simple snafu. I liked the sound of it as it echoed around in my brainpan. It was oddly calming. Perhaps it was the alliteration. Simple snafu....

I finally fell asleep and stayed asleep until my alarm shoved me into MathMan at 5:15 - that's a.m., not p.m.

I checked the bank account. My last paycheck was still there, but no severance. I sent an email to the person I knew who would either know what was happening with it and who might be able to fix things. I tried to remain calm. Money issues can certainly make a person cranky.

I took a Prilosec.

It's not just that I had some bills very screamingly due - electric, water, but we were running low on groceries. Gin, vodka, olives, tonic, red wine (it's winter, you know?), but what really drew me up short was the fact that now I also had to worry that I'm turning into my father who lives by the credo "expect nothing, you'll never be disappointed." Except I was giving the pessimist knob just one more twist to the right so that it rested on "Expect the worst, then you'll never be surprised."

I'm telling you, People of the Internets, it's mighty tiring to have your facial muscles all cattywampus with your eyebrows up into your widow's peak in a constant state of shock. T-i-r-i-n-g.

To make matters just a bit more, um, intense, the kids needed money for school lunches and drugs (we'd scraped the bottom of the barrel for packing lunches), there was the little Toys for Tot gift to purchase as admission to Sophie's Chorus concert, and the Pussies for Peace had issued incredibly stern warnings threatening to become The Felines In Support of Eating Their People in Their Sleep if we didn't get some cat food into this house.

I had an instant where Calgon or some other agent of our current Nazi-Socialist-Commie regime could have taken me away to Bellevue Mental Hygiene Clinic and I would have been okay with that. Welcomed it, in fact. Treated it like a friggin' vacation, okay?

Then I remembered my vow to hold it together and I took a deep breath. And then another. Hang on a sec, was that me? I looked around to make sure no one was watching and sniffed my arm pit.

Dang, stress sweat is the worst.

It's Not Enough That You Love Blow and I Love Puff

I really wanted to just sit down and write last night. This is nothing new, of course, but the evening slipped away. I was much more interested in goofing off, chatting with friends and family and working out. Okay, that last one is a lie. MathMan had to drag me kicking and screaming to the gym, but after I got there, I was fine. Fine. I was fine.

Last night, I was unfocused. I was the puppy chasing bubbles. The kitten going after the elusive moth. The ping pong ball turned loose. On the internets. First, I had to check out all my usual places. Then I opened the story I've been working on in Word and stared at it for two and a half minutes. Then I checked Facebook.

I swear, Facebook is like the Dairy Queen parking lot when I was a kid. You circle enough times and you just know you're going to see the people you want to see.

At one point, I was led astray, in a good way, by That Cracker Queen Lauretta Hannon who wanted me to tell her whom I prefer - Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn or George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Which meant, of course, that I had to go looking at youtube duets so that I could give a measured response. Because I'm all about calm, cool, controlled, well-thought out answers. You'll have to friend Lauretta to see my answer. Sillies.

Then my good friend David Sirota, yes that David Sirota, wanted me to tell him who I thought was a perfect example of a true narcissist - someone who is actually famous for being a narcissist. Oh, famous. Sure, make it hard. Well, heck fire, David. You mean besides me? I suppose I could give you the names of a couple of old boyfriends, but why should I draw any attention to those narcissists? I'm no enabler! Let them get their own damn press.

Wait - I have to tell you this story about Facebook. It can be used for good and not just evil. Allow me to demonstrate:

I went searching for the woman in the picture above. Her name is or was Bonnie Flowers. I worked with her at AARP. She is one of the wittiest, funniest people I've ever had the pleasure to know. I regret that I did not stay in touch with her. So I tried Facebook. I found a Bonnie Flowers, looked at her picture and was OMG! There she is!!!!! I sent a friend request, she accepted and then I was all wow! it's Bonnie!!!! Except it wasn't that Bonnie Flowers. The resemblance is striking.

But here's the thing. And I use the phrase bless her heart in the sincere way, not the other, passive-aggressive mean way. Bless her heart, Bonnie Flowers sent me a Facebook message that essentially said "Who are you and how do I know you?" I was struck by her honest approach. Struck in a good way. Perhaps I should have used the term impressed. Anyway, I'd already figured out by her profile that I didn't have the correct Bonnie Flowers, but I was too embarrassed to say anything.

A few days go by and after reading some of Bonnie's status updates, I think "I really like this woman." She's full of heart. She loves animals. In fact, she'd fit in well with some of my dog-loving blogger friends. I'm looking at you, Suzi Riot. My new friend is interesting and funny and sweet and kind. I like her. Now I know two Bonnie Flowers. I just need to find the one from Chicago now.

Okay - here's a story about the other Bonnie Flowers. She and I were "hired" to do some morale building at AARP during a time of stress and change. We decided to do a video chronicle of the build out of new offices. It was a time of physical and mental upheaval.

One day, I was running the video and Bonnie was interviewing people. She was definitely the on camera talent. She's interviewing the woman who was our Big Boss. She asks this woman, who once ran the Department for Senior Citizens Concerns or some other BIG thing for the State of Illinois. Now she was our boss. Bonnie asks, "So, Jan, is it true that you intend to make the motto for the new Midwest Regional Office I want to rock and roll all night and party every day?" and then, thrust the microphone into the Big Boss's face.

I nearly peed my pants, but I was pretty big pregnant with Nate, so that was my excuse.

After years of working in offices, I now know that every office needs a Bonnie.

See how cool this social networking is? If you're willing to let people in just a little, you can find that there's a whole lot of good out there. Good and smart and funny and interesting. We're inundated with bad news. It's nice to know that there's a whole lot more of the good stuff than we're led to believe.

So now I've got a new friend. And we're on a quest to find the woman who shares her name. I love when life presents you with stuff like this.

Sermon over.

Sometimes, it's good to take a step back, a breather, a moment to visit with friends who tell you that Sherman marched right through your house. I mean, his army didn't march through the house - it wasn't here - but they went tromping and burning right through where this house stands.

Turns out, there is all kinds of Civil War (or the War of Northern Aggression, dependin') history right here in our little slice of Georgia. I've been very slow to learn about it. Maybe because I was a transplant and didn't want to seem like I was gloating? Or maybe because I've been much too busy living inside my own head. Either way, it's nice to have a minute to find out something new. Thanks to Kim for taking us over to Tilly's farm to see the old iron bridge and grist mill tonight.

Well, folks, this post is like walking in on a conversation, isn't it? I apologize. This is what happens when the mind races and the track goes all cattywampus.

I mean, just now, I'm hanging out at Rev Coffee, waiting to go to a luncheon meeting. I've got itunes open and my headbuds in, but have I clicked play? Duh. Toooooo decisive. The cinammon bun coffee is good, though.

You know what's fun? Watching men watch women.

Tune in next week for my version of What in the Heck Is That? Could be meat, could be cake*.....

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

*Man, I miss George Carlin. Can you imagine the fun he'd have with the Teabaggers?

The Martyr Speaks. Again.

Can I just tell you that I would hate to be married to me today? Seriously, I'm a pill. And MathMan just hangs in there and hangs in there. He is the Timex watch of husbands.

I am miserable and for no damn good reason except things just aren't as hunky dory as I think they should be. Nope. I'm stewing and fretting and getting all afroth about life and when I'm like this, the best thing would be to just leave me the hell alone. But MathMan doesn't do that because he's afraid I'll carry a hose out to the garage, attach it to the tailpipe of the car and sit with the door shut revving that poor Corolla's engine one last time before becoming part of the great Gothic tale of life gone wrong in Euharlee, Georgia.

Silly guy, that's too much work. Experience demonstrates that I'd mess it up somehow. I'd have the wrong size hose or try to do the deed too soon after driving the car and burn my fingers on the still-hot tailpipe. Or I'd waste a bunch of time looking up exactly how to do it on the internet, then realize I have to pee, then find that funny Edward Gorey book next to the toilet and lose my taste for quick death, then hear the dryer buzzer and go down to fold laundry, get distracted by something on the television, sit on the sofa and fall asleep and then forget what I was up to until MathMan wakes me with a funny look on his face while he holds my neatly penned suicide note out in front of him like a talisman.

I'd surely break a fingernail or the car battery would turn out to be dead and I have to call J's daddy for a jump start. Imagine that conversation. "Mr. M, can you come over and jump my car again? The battery is dead and I need to hurry up and make it run so I can kill myself before my husband gets home....."

It's a given that something would foul things up and just like that time I went all drama queen and sped away in my car, stopping at a Jiffy Treat to drown my sorrows in an extra-thick chocolate milkshake, and then discovered that I was stuck because the stupid, ugly Ford Fairmont wouldn't start and the only person I could think of to call was the same person I was so angry at, but I called MathMan anyway to come rescue me and then, and only then did that damn car start......well, you get the picture. When I go for the drama mask, I usually end up with that somewhat sinister looking laughing mask instead. Were I try to kill myself via the running car in the closed garage trick, it would end with me calling MathMan on his cell so I could swear at him in blame because something went horribly wrong on the way to my suicide.

Besides, I don't want to hurt anyone else and suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning could cause trouble for those still living in the upstairs of the house. MathMan should know me better. I'm a no muss, no fuss kind of chick. Pills. In the bathtub with my clothes on because I'm not too keen on my own nudidity at the moment. And the tub wouldn't be filled with water or anything, but at least if I hurl or something, the mess will be much easier to clean. I suppose I could just stand in the shower, too, but what if I bump my head as I take my final slither down, leaving a nasty bruise on my noggin? Now wouldn't that be a pain in the ass for some funeral home makeup artist to have to cover up while adhering to the strict instructions I'd leave in a nicely typed in triplicate note to ensure that if there is some goony open casket thing, my make up better look as natural as it does when I apply it. (see enclosed picture)

Not that I've given it any thought. Funny thing is, as long as I can talk about it and laugh about it, it's not going to happen. It's when I'm quiet that I'm a danger to myself and others.

So what the hell is up my ass, I keep wondering. MathMan is certain that my depression is chemical. Just this morning, he correctly pointed out that if I had a headache, I'd take an Advil. True enough. But this stupid depression just hangs on and on and no matter how much talking I could do with a therapist, the fundamental issues that plague me don't go away. That's just the reality. I will still have to help support this family and be a mother and a wife and do all the grown up stuff that wears you down to a nub.

So pardon me if I'd like to step off once in a while. Take a break. Go a'travelin' for a spell. Who doesn't want that from time to time?

Recently I read a novel that just fueled my feeling of ennui mixed with the acid of worry and regret. In her story The Ten Year Nap, Meg Wolizter writes about some stereotypical Manhattanites who have chosen not to work so they can stay home with their children. Please note that I'm so over the whole work-mommy versus stay-at-home-mommy thing I could scream, but what really made me fidget while reading this book was the idea that I was reading about the angst of women who actually possessed the freedom to stay home with their children. Listen, I realize that I'm not artsy-craftsy lovey-dovey mama material, but when no one is looking, I cover my kids up in gooey mom-love. Were someone to have offered me the chance to stay home with them when they were little, I would have been all "Hell yeah, I'm staying home with them" and I would have never looked back with regret. I suppose that might be the difference between having a "promising career" as described in the novel and my job which is white collar enough (pink collar ghetto more like it), but not something for which my passion burns. It pays the bills, end of story.

Tough as it was to swallow, I slogged my way through the book. MathMan asked me a few times why I didn't just toss it aside? "Why are you still dating that book?" he asked, giving me the stink eye, "You dumped boyfriends with greater alacrity than you've been able to decide whether to stick with this book or not."

If I acknowledged him at all, it was mostly with a rude gesture and then I'd make some meager statement about time invested, blah, blah, blah. The fact is, I promised myself I'd finish reading the book because I wanted to see how it ended and when I sneaked to see if I could just wrap it up in the last couple of pages, was thwarted by the way Wolitzer dragged out the conclusion. I swear, it was like removing a jagged splinter from a wailing child's foot. At some point, I just hung on to the book and yanked the words from it. I finished it sitting in the library, forcing myself so that I could return it on time and having met my goal. So I sat and chewed the inside of my cheek and flicked the edges of the book's pages and read and stewed some more until I could walk across the library and drop the finished, if not enjoyed, book into the return slot with a satisfying plunk.

Have I mentioned I'm all about goals now? I hope not because I don't want you to hold me to that. Yet.

Anyway, completing the book gave me no satisfaction because what it really did was add to my desire to navel gaze and wonder and wish and regret about all the stupid choices I've made over my lifetime. Regret is particularly poisonous when I'm in this mood.

Then, Friday night, we had a hypnotist at the dinner event that I was responsible for planning. He was very good. I had my reservations about booking him, but I was impressed by his message and I'm convinced that some of the subjects he chose from the audience were, in fact, hypnotized. Not to mention the fact that it's pretty dang funny to see your boss "go under" and then claim later that he "never actually was hypnotized." Yeah, right. And, natch, he wants me to destroy the video that I took. Ha, I say. Ha ha ha. And no way.

The hypnotist talked about how successful people visualize what they want and remain focused as they pursue their dream. I sat, sipping my wine and savoring the Chateaubriand (I know, life isn't that rough, I know) and thought about that. I considered a conversation I'd had with our guest speaker, another motivational guy, the evening before. He asked me why I hadn't done something to make this blog a money-making venture or done more in an entrepreneurial effort to free myself from the shackles of workaday blues. (He must have been able to read the boredom and weariness on my face.)

"Why hold yourself back? You have to make your own way, no one is going to rescue you from an unhappy life......" he stated pointedly. I could have smacked him for being so spot on.

I looked around the large room at the members of the association I work for. They are all there because someone in their family decided at some point that they were going to run their own business rather than sit around and hope that some employer was going to reward them for hard work and brains. We all know that hard work and brains aren't rewarded as much as we're told they are, right?

And so here I am, alternating between droning silence and bursts of venom as I drive along I75 this morning, MathMan riding shotgun. He shifted in his seat. The whole car moved under him, his motions were that deliberate and meant, I believe, to get my attention.

"What are we going to do about the depression?" he finally asked using his firm, I've had it, Lisa, voice.

I smirked and held back from asking him which depression did he mean? Big D Depression or the little, more insidious one? I mean, I know I'm amazing and all, but I do believe that solving the big D Depression is President Obama's job and too many cooks, etc.....

See? I don't want to be serious. I don't want to go and sit and talk and tell some non-judgmental therapist about all the muck inside my head because then I might cry and blow snot bubbles and still walk out feeling utterly ridiculous for being bunged up because I have to work too many jobs and I'm tired and I want a vacation, a looooooooong vacation, and mostly I want my past back so I can fix things.

I brought the budding conversation to a screeching halt by biting MathMan's head off when he said that I needed to "find the time" to write my damn book. The book has now graduated to being "that damn book." I think of it in much the same way. So instead of talking about how I'm about to embark on a new thing that might eventually free me from having a long commute and a job that thrills me not at all, I chose to zero on what really irritated me about that statement - the idea that the reason why I don't have time is because I don't make time. Or rather - I don't have time because I waste time.

I believe that among the huffs and forced hoots, and the "oh no you didn't just go there" hair toss/eye roll, I spat out a few stinging words including magic wand and doing the impossible. So long constructive conversation between adults, hello growly silence, punctuated by heavy sighs and angry staring out the window.

But MathMan is right. I have to make the time. Right this second, we cannot afford for me to chuck my association management "career," but I can tell you this - I am going to make this new venture work so that I can be free to write and make my own way. I am sick to death of having over half of my waking hours dictated to me so that when I get home, I am so tired and distracted by all the unfinished projects that I don't feel like focusing on what matters.

Make Mine a Triple

The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated. No, as much as it would be considered justifiable homicide, MathMan has not finally moidered me. I know this is the longest I've gone between postings in, like, forever, but I've been busy with the usual:

1. Recovering from losing my flash drive. Thankfully, most of lost items were recovered from the home desk computer and a couple of other sources.

2. Shopping at the farmers market for healthy food. MathMan and I have gotten the word from our doctors about our vital statistics. Heredity is gaining on us and we can't outrun it with cholesterol clogging our veins and flub weighing us down.

3. Doing crossword puzzles with Garbo, bidding a fond farewell to The Dancer who is vacationing on the coast with friends this week, and enjoying some downtime with The Actor who seems to be ever so slowly coming out of his seventh-gradeness. Thank goodness.

4. Continuing the gaslighting of The Actor/Ninja and Garbo. This time, I enlisted the help of my boss J who filled out the envelope I used to mail the flying blue monkey to the Royal Pains. They were pleased to report, however, that they knew immediately that it was me because of the postmark. They further reported, looking all smug, that they've dispatched the monkey forever. He is now separated from his head and hidden where I'm never supposed to find him. Killjoys.

5. Demonstrating at work just how much being a blogger has made me a really, really valuable asset. How funny is that? Blogging as a skill set? Who knew?

6. Coping with the fact that not only is The Dancer shimmying away from us toward full-fledged adulthood, but Garbo, the baby of the family, is really growing up. She's shaving her legs and thinking about - gasp! - bras.

And speaking of bras, I've spent a good part of today doing something that didn't kill me. It just made me wish I were dead.....I shopped for bras and a swimsuit. Holy cats, people of the internets, what a painful experience.

I finally went online and read about how a bra should properly fit, applied that knowledge and discovered that I've been buying the wrong brassiere size for, well, most of my adult life.

+ one letter - one size = bra that fits

I was so excited that I forgot myself and went running around the Kohl's Department store still wearing just the bra. I was telling anyone who would listen about my new discovery, parading up and down the aisles so that they could admire the perfect fit of my new Bali, shaking hands with little old men, high-fiving their wives and I think I even kissed a few babies.

After the emotional high of that, I don't even want to tell you about the swimsuit except to say that when I put it on and stood, lip quivering, in front of the mirror, I said to MathMan, "Dear lord, I look like someone's mother ......mine."

Woman wearing the right-sized bra out.

Oh, I've been hearing this song in my head. A lot.

Wonder what Johnny Cash would have done with it......

The Post By Which I Alienate More Readers and Make MathMan Wish He'd Married That Nice Girl from Kentucky Instead

UPDATED: Because at 1 o'clock something in the morning when I really have to pee, I don't edit or scan for typos very well. I also added a link to explain Les Nessman for those not familiar with WKRP in Cincinnati and the song isn't really called Zipblahblahblah. I believe it has something to do with bluebirds crapping on my shoulder or something.


Because the nice girl from Kentucky never had an opinion on anything.

I've heard from another one. One of those people who thinks I've gone all soft since I stopped blogging about political things. Says they miss the rants of the old days. Oh yeah? Well stick around because you're in for a rant and a half. And I'll squeeze politics into it even if it's awkward and hurty.

First of all, while I'm sitting here typing this, The Dancer is just yapping the fuck away at me. Does she not see that I'm typing? I swear to you, she is sitting here telling me about all sorts of things including the cat shit she stepped in as she walked in the door just now. She just got home from the studio where the annual orgy of taking company and recital pictures was taking place. It's the kind of thing that used to make me wish I'd never taken her to that first dance class. Now that she can drive, I don't have to stand around the studio all damned night, but I did make the mistake of staying up until she got home.

And now she's talking to me about how she gets hot at night while she's sleeping and and and I can still her voice, but I can't make any sense of it. It's 12:14 a.m. and I'm seeking peace and quiet and this brilliant child is not reading my body language that says "see these Les Nessman walls? see me typing here? what does that tell you?" I hate it when she's a teenager and she wants me to be a mom after midnight.

As if I didn't do enough for this kid today. I worked from home to attend the awards program at Garbo's school so I was available to drive Garbo and The Actor to school this morning while The Dancer slept in. Hence her alertness after midnight and so it's my own fucking fault that she's sitting here talking to me right now.

The Dancer and I left skid marks getting out of that stupid elementary school awards (citizenship award? artistic award? most creative award? most creative thinker award?) I had to rush The Dancer to her school for an afternoon chorus class. When I dropped her off she mentioned that I should pick her up at 3:30., but she would text me if she got done sooner. Fine. I drove the 14 miles home in her car with the clutch that hates me.

All the while, I was exchanging texts with The Actor who was making a case for skipping school the last two days of this week. I finally did what any good parent does in that situation. "I'll discuss with Dad and let you know." Ah, yes, the old stalling method. Why carry that monkey on my back alone?

I was home just long enough to open up my favorite porn site when I got a one word text from The Dancer. "Done." To which I responded "R U Fucking Kidding me?" I closed my porn window, wiped out my internet history, zipped up my slacks and made the 14 mile trip back to The Dancer's school to pick her up.

On my way, I saw Garbo getting off the school bus. Good thing I wasn't looking at porn after all. She waved me down and asked to ride along. I got to spend the next 15 minutes listening to her tearful lamentations that she should have gotten the artistic award instead of the penmanship award and sniffle, whine, something something.

I was trying to drive the car with the clutch that hates me, maintain my sanity and still not make her feel badly about the whole thing. Finally, I could take it no more. "Those awards are just bullshit, Garbo. They're subjective and stupid and unquantifiable and who cares? You know what you're good at, where you excel. Now stop whining about it before I wreck this car and kill us both."

My pronouncement of bullshit was quickly followed by my typical disclaimers that she need not go to school the next day and explain the world according to Lisa. The last thing I want is a call from the principal asking me to expand on what I mean by calling the awards "bullshit." Although, I'd be more than happy to tell her exactly what I mean.

Helper award, indeed.

On our way home from picking up The Dancer, Garbo, who is very locust like when she comes home from school, announced that she was starving. My empty stomach growled in agreement. We decided that we'd stop at the hot dog joint that serves Vienna Beef dogs. It was 3:13 p.m. When we got to the door, we were met by some guy who was not the owner. He explained that "she" was closing down. He jerked his head in the direction of the counter which we couldn't see because it's blocked by a center island that runs from floor to ceiling.

I eyed the good ole boy suspiciously, but Garbo, The Dancer and I left, grumbling. The sign says they are open until 3:30 p.m. for goodness sake. A bit later, it occurred to me that I should have raised a stink about it or at least grabbed a menu by the door so I could call the place to complain. I mean, what if the guy who said they were closed was actually robbing the woman behind the counter and that was a great way to get us out of there. Of course I know that's not the case, but it did make me think that I should question more of the petty nonsense in life just in case.

MathMan just came into the room carrying his laptop, wearing nothing but his underwear. He was half asleep so he didn't process that The Dancer was sitting on the floor grinding on my last nerve with every little petty grievance from her evening. When last I saw our hero, he was breathing loudly and doing school work late into the evening. Finally, he'd had enough, grabbing his laptop, announcing that he was going to go watch Dick Van Dyke on Hulu, he shuffled off to the bedroom where he watched the opening credits and promptly fell asleep.

Well, there's a fine how do you do. I go to the trouble of entertaining him with my version of Zip-a-dee-doo-dah in as many voices as I can manage AND by accidentally squirting Reddi Wip up my nose when I missed my mouth and he has the nerve to skip out and leave me to listen to The Dancer's tales of woe?

And so another busy day comes to a close (12:53am, 1:20 a.m.) and the martyr rereads her words, noting what's missing. Oh yes. Work. Squeezed into all of that other jackassery is the cleaning, the laundry, the full time paid work, phone calls to doctors and dentists and random odds and ends of things I have to do to help keep this place humming in its giddy whirl of activity.

Oh and not to mention all those blogs I'd opened in Firefox tabs only to have firefox crash so the feed was gone and the window closed so I don't know which blogs to go back to.

So if I want to sit on my ass and blog and read blogs and laugh at funny things instead of grinding my teeth at the news of the day or just fuck around all evening seeing how much I don't know about my facebook friends or watching youtube videos of nothing in particular, well then, I hope some of you will understand. I don't ask much of you, do I?

Oh, yes - the political. Here you go......somehow all of this is the fault of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney. I just know it. In fact, let's just say it's the fault of Monsieur Le Torture himself, Dick Cheney. He's cleverly disguised torture as parenting and he must think that I'm part of an Al Qaeda sleeper cell sitting right here in the middle of nowhere Georgia, plotting an attack on the American Way of Life.

Thank goodness for Dick*. He's keeping us safe one over-programmed child at a time................

*You heard me.

Oh, I thought it said CORN.

Tonight I got an email from one of my favorite Aussies. The subject line reads: Well, I guess it's official then....

I opened the email and was treated to this message.



After inspecting the declaration of my blog's status as porn, I replied ever so wittily....

Me: LOL! Well, what do you know about that. I have finally arrived! I notice though, at the bottom of this ACCESS DENIED screen, the system allowed you to see a scantily clad....Berlisconi???????

Mountjoy was quick to reply:I was spewing! Any blogspot site is now off limits at work. Luckily tengrain has MPS off on its own.... but that is the only place I can go now. :-(.........
You, too, can enjoy a naked Berlisconi - ignorant oaf that he is - right here: http://www.smh.com.au/news/entertainment/arts/2009/04/24/1240079834786.html
THAT I can open, cos it is on a newspaper website. I hate censorship, and I hate big brother.
I wonder if i can get your blog as a feed? Hmmmmmm I'll have to investigate.

Me: It's worth a try. And I can always email the posts to you. Are you able to watch youtube? Hey, (endearment redacted), Can I blog this?

Mountjoy: But of course you can! Not like I can see it anyway!!!! :-) The only thing I would ask, is for you to use the photoshopped version I've pasted below - (I'd hate to see our IT department getting a bunch of complaints on your behalf!!!!!)

Me: Of course, I'll protect the identity of your company. Wouldn't want those rabid fans of mine coming down hard on the people who sign your paycheck. Thanks!

For those who aren't familiar with my old blog, let me just say "oh the irony!"