I never wink back at fireflies

I had big plans tonight. I was going to read and write and edit and read some more.

I ended up watching Time Bandits with Sophie. It was an excellent way to spend an evening. We sat around munching on homemade chicken fingers and chortling at the awesome special effects in the 1981 classic film by Terry Gilliam. Sophie noted that the Supreme Being looked an awful lot like the Wizard of Oz except the WoO had better effects.

She kids because she knows the Monty Python guys can take it.

Anyway, I've been dinking around with the novel manuscript - not that I can be bothered to pick it up off the floor and work on it - but turning it over in my head, considering some character development, tying up a couple of loose ends and even finding a way that makes the ending more entertaining (I hope). I'd put it on hold for a long time - months, I guess, but it's been backstroking its way across my stream of consciousness for a week or two and I actually added Edit at least 10 pages on History We Don't Know to my To Do list this week.

Me having a To Do list is huge.

Me adding a goal for the manuscript is massively huge. Like the giant in Time Bandits who wears the ogre's boat for a hat huge.

Today something happened that cinched it though. It being the fact that I have to get back to work on the revisions for this book and get it out there for rejection or publication. I don't even give two shits anymore. I just want to finish it.

I was getting ready to run some errands and I dropped some coins into my hoodie pocket. The coins sounded funny. I fiddled with them and they clinked with a higher pitch than usual. Did I accidentally scoop up that franc from my summer in France? I reached into my pocket and dug out three quarters. One of them was from 1944. Made of silver.

Well.

Part of my manuscript is set in the 1940s.

I'm seeing the signs. It's the yellow lab roaming the neighborhood this afternoon and Teri's post about writers and labs. It's me cleaning out the garage over the weekend and saying to MathMan, "That is not mouse poop." and then running the line from Ferris Bueller's Day Off through my head over and over. You know the line, right? He's in the restaurant pretending to be Abe Froman, the Sausage King of Chicago, and the maitre'd threatens to call the cops and Ferris takes the phone and the rather rodent-like maitre'd grabs for it and Ferris says "You touch me and I yell rat."

And then I go upstairs for dinner and what's on TV? Ferris Bueller. And there's that scene. My ears pop, perhaps my nipples hardened. I'm seeing signs because why can't I hold onto the ridiculous, the nonsensical? If I can't buy liquor on Sunday because somebody's god might take offense, then I'm going to see signs and omens in 1944 quarters, rat poop, movies and dogs.

How about you? Do you see signs? (Smart remarks about No Parking, no smoking signs, etc. will get you a purple nurple. I know some of youse guys and you won't be able to resist.) 

Oh, give it one more try

I've got a busy day ahead so I'm just going to offer for your mocking pleasure this photo of my brother and me in our matching outfits and rockin' boots.  The guy in the red suit had boots, too, but I bet he didn't wear his to an Osmond Brothers concert at the Cincinnati Gardens.

How are you going to rock your weekend boots?  With whom will you be coordinating your outfits?  Plans to sit on the laps of strangers?  Wine, beer or whatever is left on the liquor shelf?  Did you note Santa's zip code just in case?

Not Quite Connecting

I like to call this one coffee with angst creamer.

I'm totally slacking from writing today.  The fact that I keep misspelling writing by typing righting should be a clue that today is a day where I should leave the writing to someone else.  I think the little synapse thing that connects my fingers to my brain is participating in a protest.  I abused my hands this weekend by raking and bagging 42 bags of leaves that then had to be hauled off to the recycling center today (5 trips!) today.  We seriously need a truck.

Since you've bothered to stop by (I typed brothered to stop by at first), let me show you some pictures that I've recently saved from the internets.  Oh, I don't mean saved as in rescued.  They weren't in any danger or anything.  I mean, I don't think they were.  And as far as I know, they're soulless so they don't have to worry about being saved for eternity either.  Come to think of it, since they're here on the internet, they are saved for eternity.  Or posterity.  Or at least until the idiot humans blow themselves and their world to smithereens.

Anyway, there's one up at the top of the post and then there's this bizarre bit of business....

This could be our subdivision.  See the cotton fields and the smokestacks?  Yep.  Just like that.  

Except the one MILFish mom in the neighborhood wears a tubetop and flipflops instead of the awesome halter dress with matching pumps.

Oh wait!  I get it!  It's a cotton factory!  In the U.S.A?

Textiles made in the U.S.  Whoa.  Talk about vintage.

 I know, not your usual money's worth.....apologies to you and yours.  Look - I'm typing a letter of apology now.  It will be full of typos, but my intentions are good.

Not really me.  My typewriter is pink.

So how has your Monday been?

Without Poise

Not really me. I don't look this great.

Still sick.  Cute Dr. Jayson said I have the flu and he sent me on my way with a pinch on my bottom (I wish) and a prescription.  Now he's got me huffing this relenza stuff.  I've never used an inhaler before and I'm a bit shilly shally with it.  I suspect the darned flu will have run its course by the time I've figured out how to use the inhaler properly.  Oh well.

In the meantime I tested the waters to see if I'm ready to be back at it.  Clearly, I'm not up to the task.  I vacuumed the living room and became winded.  Yeah, that was pretty stupid, but it's a good test to see how "well" I am.  Well being such a subjective word.  The truth is, and the female among us will agree, I don't really know how to be sick.  I'd have to be heavily sedated before actually taking to my sick bed and staying there. Sadly, it is how I'm wired.

Just this morning, I would have been quite happy to just lay about in bed, but my own body seems opposed to this idea.  Sophia needed a note for school and as I sat on my bed writing it, the sneezing started.  You guys know about that "issue" I have, right?  Well, I was mid-sentence when I sneezed in rapid succession.  Once, twice, three times.  I was holding tight and hoping.  I felt trapped.  The pen went skittering across the page and then it happened.  Sneeze number four.  I wasn't able to get up in time and I was so worried about not spraying the note with my toxic sneeze as I tried to bury my nose in my elbow and well, my grip loosened.  What's that you say?  Yes, I leaked.

Well, there's something to be said for useful items like Poise pads or the like, but I'll be damned if I'm willing to go that route yet.  And so my wimpy little Always thin absorbed as much as it could but not quite enough.  I finished Sophia's note, made the necessary adjustments to my personal concerns and stripped the damned bed.  The horror of it is that I had to remake it with un-ironed sheets.  Could things get any worse?

That's never a good question to ask, is it?

The phone rang at 10:28a.m.  I looked at the caller i.d.  The orthodontist's office! Oh no! Nate had a 9:30 a.m. appointment.  I coughed my way through telling the staffer that I'd gotten sick and completely forgotten even though I pressed #1 to confirm just the day before.  She graciously made another appointment.

"You wouldn't want me there today anyway," I wheezed.

She laughed politely.  "From the sounds of it, no."

And now I'm watching the clock because I'm to pick Sophia up at 3:15 from honor chorus.  If I don't keep reminding myself of that, I'm afraid that I'll be getting a call from the school at 4:00 wondering where in the heck I am.

Update:  I made it on time to pick up Sophia.  I drove halfway home with the parking brake still on.

It's not everything I've ever wanted from life, but at least I didn't pee myself.  That may be my new motto......

L is for Lisa who (fill in the blank)

Ever have one of those days when you're really, really glad that there's no one following you around with a video camera?

When the day started, I didn't quite feel that way. Oh sure, I began the day by locking myself in the laundry room. Thankfully I'd dropped my cellphone into my pocket and was able to text MathMan to come let me out. Actually, Nate heard me knocking on the door and let me out before MathMan arrived downstairs.

But that was just a fluke, right?

Later, after I dropped MathMan off at work and drove home, I was dealing with an increasing need to pee. Some of you are familiar with my need to squeeze when I sneeze because of um, plumbing issues. (Don't have kids? Laugh away. Your time will come.) Well, I sat at the last stoplight before reaching home and felt a sneeze coming on. The light turned green, I sneezed, forgetting that I had the car in first gear and as I reflexively crossed my legs, the car lurched forward and died.

I arrived home and rushed upstairs, dropping my purse on the floor outside the bathroom door. After I finished my business, I opened the bathroom door, forgetting that the purse had become a little booby trap. It was a nice fall.....

Did I mention that I think I broke a couple of my toes last week by stubbing them on the elliptical?

Typically, though, I'm pretty sure-footed. I suspect that existential pay back stuff is at work again. I have recently had the temerity to joke MathMan about being a klutz.

After I shook off the fall, I ventured back outside to gather up some trash that had collected in our side yard. We have a ditch that attracts all manner of effluvium from the neighborhood. I bent down to pick up a piece of a small, plastic clothes basket. I didn't realize that it was fused to the ground by a tasty mixture of dead leaves and mud. I yanked, but nothing happened. I yanked again, harder. I didn't have my mouth shut all the way which is how I know the mixture was tasty.

The rest of the day has been mostly uneventful. Mostly. After working on my manuscript for a couple of hours, I was feeling peckish. I looked in the fridge and there was the custard sauce I'd made to accompany chocolate chess pie over the weekend. The pie was gone (ahem, not me entirely) so I decided I may as well enjoy the wee bit of custard that was just going to go to waste otherwise. I spooned it out of its little glass cup enjoying its sweet goodness while I watched the birds at the feeder. A cat rubbed up against my leg. I dipped my finger into the custard and bent down to give the cat a lick. He gave me a warm thank you nuzzle and I stood, bumping my head on the edge of the kitchen table. The custard bowl clattered to the floor.

"Well, let's just hope that's the last of my klutziness today," I sighed and rubbed my head. The cat rolled his marble eyes at me and went about cleaning up the custard from the floor.

All Better Like This

And like this...HolidayDecorationsDismantledAndPutAway;WatchedFrostNixon-LikedIt!
ShowerTaken;PantsWithZipperDonned;MakeupApplied,IncludingLipstick.
HadGoodTimeWithBadGirls.
ErrandsCompleted,ToWit:
MathMan'sPrescriptionFetched;MadeIt(n&OutOfTargetWithoutAnyUncessaryPurchases;
TripToLibraryFruitfulforBooksandVideos;SignedUpfortheReadingProgram;
Sophia'sBedroomReorganized(thankgoodness!!!);LaundryinProgress;EmailsAnswered;
OneJobApplicationHalfwayPrepped(WhyIsItSoHardToWriteCoverLetters?);
OneOilBusinessProposalReceivedViaEmail>IBelieveI'llTakeAPass.....

AndIHaveAHugeMusicalBonerForHansZimmer!
AsSoonAsIHitPublishHere,YouCanFindMeInBedDrinkingWine,EatingChocolate,Half-Reading/Half-WatchingAMidsomerMurderI'veSeen4XBefore.
AtLeast.

Photo from here. Courtesy of her.

Sick or Depressed?

Or same thing?

Something has rendered me quiet (except for the complaining), chock full of the mehs, and feeling like doing nothing at all. Or at least nothing productive. Even my cherished act of ironing - the domestic engineering equivalent of Xanax, isn't working it's typical magic today.

The fun has even been taken out of comfort food. Chloe, the Dancer, has taken up her post next to the kitchen door and I can feel her silently judging me as I drift in and out of there hunting for something to make me feel right again. I know that she looks at my growing ass and thinks "dear lord, is that what I have to look forward to?" right before she starts clearing her throat and throwing disdainful glances at my bowl of ice cream or glass of soda or that Duggar-Family sized bag of cheese doodles I'm pulling in the wagon behind me.

Nothing tastes right, I'd really rather just sleep, passively watch old movies or kinda sorta read. And there's this nagging sense that I should be doing something. It's an internal nag, not an external one. Except for the moment when MathMan very sweetly wondered aloud if I'd be joining him at the gym today, I damn near took his head off in a most unpleasant growl "Did you not just hear me say I don't feel like doing anything?" I hit almost every word in that sentence so hard for emphasis that I don't even know where to place the italics.

I'm sorry MathMan. As if you need a grump of a wife to deal with now.

So my question is out there - sick or depressed? Please discuss. Before I make another attempt at the ironing, I'm going to don a disguise and sneak into the kitchen for some pudding. I think there's whipped cream, too.......

In a Mood

Oh, she's got a bug up her ass. A burr under her saddle. A bee in her bonnet. She's been thinking again. It's a bad habit she really ought to break before she loses her some friends or gets her teeth knocked down her throat.

- Someone during/after reading this post

I've been thinking about all the people I'd like to hear shut up. I've been developing a mental list of the people from whom I'd enjoy nothing more than some pure, unadulterated silence. Not a peep. Not a sound. As a teacher at an elementary school said this morning "Your bottom lip should be touching your upper lip."

Like that.

Here's my list, along with some commentary because goodness knows I don't know how to be still. Hell, I'm struggling with being concise. Quiet is problematic. Silence? Wholly unachievable. Hear me shout it now. I am a hypocrite.

Labels aside, I still want to go days, weeks, months, years without hearing from or about the following:

Sarah Palin. Please. Tick a lock. It's embarrassing to see someone who just isn't that intelligent pontificate about things and suffer from a complete lack of self-awareness. Don't make us pity you. It diminishes us all. Have some respect for this nation and its people. Stop telling them that it's cool and awesome to be small-minded, mean-spirited and exclusionary. They believe you and that is not healthy. You - mouth - closed.

(Stop looking at me like that and put down that mirror. I'm very self-aware. My therapist says so.)

Anyone still joking or reporting about Tiger Woods' sex life. Sorry people, but cheap shots? It's been done to death. Sex scandals are funny? Maybe if you're in the seventh grade. Listen up - sex scandals are only truly funny when the person involved has been a sanctimonious twat about (drumroll) S-E-X involving other people. It's when the faux-moralists fall that the real humor begins. Then, by all means, laugh yourselves silly. I do.

As for the media that has jizzed itself exhausted over this? Time to wipe up and shut it. Story over.

My son. When he is on the xBox live, his mouth runs nonstop. And negatory. I will NOT come to the cold basement to listen to the French kids and attempt to translate.

Joe Lieberman. (Seriously, people of Connecticut, why?)

Anyone who doesn't think we need universal, single payer health care. Yeah, yeah, England, yeah, yeah, socialism, yeah, yeah, I got mine - screw you. Here's what I wish for you - a terrible illness - not deadly, only bad enough to make you wish you were dead. Follow that up quickly with the form-letter bad news that you can't afford the care or the cure because your private health insurance won't pay for it. Then let's hear you tell us again how having yours and fucking everyone else is so spectacular.

People who don't "believe" in climate change or that we greedy, resource gobbling humans don't have anything to do with it. Oh, really? I invite you, then, to come stand with me next to the big black candy mountain that fuels Plant Bowen. Watch as the baby-shit brown ribbon of noxious gasses forms and coagulates so that it can float south toward Atlanta. So you don't see the point in cleaning up our ways? Well, here, open wide. Let me stick this hunk of coal in your gaping maw so you can shut up and think about that.

The voices in my head. I hear you - failure, death, destruction, naked snow boarding, sex, drugs, rock and roll, chocolate, debt, pain, self-loathing, guilt, sedimentary rocks, Mad Magazine, and cookies. I hear you. If you don't clamp it, I will seek pharmaceutical duct tape for your mouths.

Sheeple of any stripe. Please. Close your mouth and try to use some critical thinking skills. You can't talk and think at the same time, obviously.

MathMan. Every time he tells me it's time to go the gym, I want him to shut up. What does he not understand about the fact that once I'm in and done for the day, that means I am done. Except, of course, he does run with his cute butt on the treadmill in front of me, so ...... nah, I still want him to shut up.

Whichever cat it is who continues to repeat meow at me even though I am in the process of putting the food right in front of their faces. I get it. You're hungry. Here's the food, now shut up and eat.

I have oh so many more, but MathMan is sitting here right now not shutting up and telling me it's time to go to the gym. I better go, because now I hear him muttering under his breath about cattle prod purchases.

Please feel free to tell me who you'd like to hear shut up. And you'd better not say me because (1) I will hunt you down and probe you ungently with MathMan's new cattleprod; and (2) Clearly, that's not true or you wouldn't come here and read this nonsense, silly.

Instant Karma's Gonna Get You

###########

She was writing a novel and hit a wall. The story just stopped.

"Is that okay? Is it okay for the story to just stop? Because the lives the story is about or rather, based upon, continue. They haven't ended. The story isn't over. So maybe this isn't a good story at all." She was babbling. First she said it to herself. Later, she repeated this to her husband.

"What do you mean? Of course it's a good story. And no, stories don't have to have neat little endings," he was trying to drive and cope with a needy wife. These aren't always fun things to do simultaneously. On the other hand, one (the driving) can provide a jolly good excuse for ignoring the other (the needy wife).

She gnawed on her thumbnail and stared out the window. "Did you feel that? That rowr, rowr thing the car is doing?"

Her husband had that look. His forehead was furrowed, his eyebrows coming together. "It's revving. Yes. I guess you'd better take it in sooner rather than later. You'll have time?"

"I figured as much and already took a vacation day tomorrow so I can take it in. God, I hope it's nothing expensive," she resumed chewing on her nail distractedly. The story was driving her crazy. She just wanted to finish it, but it seemed too busy. It seemed like too many stories happening at once. It occurred to her that she'd have to go back to it and pull it apart. Oh hell.

Her husband ticked off a number of things that could be causing the car to behave the way it was. Neither of them wanted to name the big, horribly expensive thing that could be going wrong. She recognized it from the time she was driving their daughter's car over the summer. They'd just been getting ready to take a little combo trip - her company's annual conference with the family joining her to enjoy the resort for free. She was on her way home from the office when she stopped for some shredded cheese at a local convenience store. When she pulled out of the parking lot, the car bucked and revved and then just quit. The clutch had gone out.

Two days ago, when she was driving home from the office, she noticed a similar feel to this car. She was on the entrance ramp to I85 and when the car kept going, she told herself that she was imagining things.

Her husband was still talking. As usual, she was only half-listening. "Well, whatever it costs, it's money we don't have," he said somberly.

"Fabulous."

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

The nice Toyota man looked a little worried. "Okay, so it's the clutch. Eleven hundred dollars parts and service. I'll have to order the parts, though, don't have 'em in. Ya got someone to pick you up? Because your car isn't safe to drive."

She stood frozen on the spot, opening and closing her mouth, not quite able to respond. Yeah, this was the perfect morning to give up coffee. Again.

"Um. Uh. No. This is our only car. I don't....." she managed.

"Okay. That's okay. I've got another Corolla you can borrow. I'll get someone to bring it around. Tina here will get you all set up. You should have your car back tomorrow, maybe Friday." And with that he was gone.

Tina smiled sympathetically at her and slid a triplicate sheet of paper her direction. "Just sign here. And you'll need these keys."

********

She got into the car. It was familiar, pretty much just like the Corolla she and her husband drove, except this one was an automatic. She got into the car, adjusted the seat, turned on the lights and wipers because the rain was still coming down in sheets and pulled through the large, glass door that had magically lifted up for her exit.

"But I don't have eleven hundred dollars," she finally said aloud.

The drive home was just enough time for her to replay, once again, all the financial mistakes she and her husband had made over the twenty plus years they'd been together.

Uncharacteristically, she went chronologically. She started with the student loan money she'd sent to her boyfriend in France in 1987, clicked through the stupid student loans, her husband's expensive periodontal surgery paid for by credit card in 1990, the stupidity and short-sightedness of quitting jobs when she was first out of college, leaving the best job she ever had because she listened to her mother who was convinced that life would be better in the hometown, agreeing to her husband's adding on to his already massive student loans so that he could be a teacher and make not a lot of money, the financial strain of having children, and her favorite - always, always being a bad negotiator and not getting what she was really worth in the workplace.

She pulled the loaner car into the garage, still wondering how in the world they were going to come up with eleven hundred dollars. The lottery was a seriously long shot. She could unwrap the holiday gifts, find the receipts and begin returning things. She could just leave the car running and stay in the garage. She was worth at least her life insurance policy, right? But then, there's that pesky suicide clause that she's never been sure about. Is that true or not? And besides, how long would that take? No, that was no good.

She went upstairs and did what she always does. She cleaned up after he kids who are old enough to clean up after themselves. She checked her email and Facebook and then sat staring out the window at the rain. A kitten wandered in, merped at her and then jumped into her lap to receive lavish love and kisses on its white belly.

A few minutes later, the kitten jumped down, making her think again that it needed to have its claws addressed. She considered going to the kitchen for a bite to eat - this morning's apple had made only a small dent in her hunger. Instead, she turned back to her computer and opened up the file with her story in it.

###########

I Interrupt This Freeze Pop to Inform You of the Following

I took the day off. Work be damned. The summer is winding down and I have an incredible need to grab hold of it and cling for dear life. I know that for some of you, summer has more or less just gotten started, but here in Georgia, most schools start back on August 6. Today is, in fact, MathMan's last day of official academic summer. As a department chair at his school, he has to go back even earlier. That, my friends, is why he makes the big bucks.

Sadly, the weather isn't cooperating so much today. Our dreams of eating melting Popsicles in the sun, sipping lemonade in the shade of our big magnolia tree and running through the sprinkler and playing gas station with the garden hose down our swimsuit bottoms were somewhat dashed.

We were driven indoors just now by what appears to be a coming thunder storm. MathMan and I were dining al fresco (that's eating on the deck for those of you who don't speak Polish) on fresh, summery kinds of foods when we began to hear the rumbles of thunder in the distance. MathMan turned and shook his fist in the general direction of the heavenly racket. "Damn you, Karen Minton!" he raved, cursing his favorite meteorologist. Now, don't misunderstand, he still lusts and heartily after her, but MathMan was terribly disappointed that she had made good on her threat of scattered showers and thunderstorms across Georgia.

"Couldn't they have scattered somewhere else?" I moaned.

And now that big tease Mother Nature has conjured a big game of hide and seek with the sun an clouds. I guess that's what I get for calling in sick when I was really hungover.

Nevertheless, I'm thinking it's the perfect time to curl up somewhere and read one of the many books that are waiting for me to devour them while flicking the pages in that annoying way I do. But y'all know that's a fantasy right? Oh, I'll read. On the toilet. Maybe. That is - if I'm not too busy sending Facebook pokes from my cellphone. You take your mobile into the bathroom with you, too, don't you?

Now for those unfamiliar with Facebook, I realize this is going to seem like just so much more of that FB nonsense. That's quite all right. I can be fairly snarky and sanctimonious myself about the pop culture things I choose to opt out of, too. To each his own vices and what not.

But for those of you for whom Poking has become yet another way to communicate with your beloveds, then you must know that Poking comes with its own language. For example, my pokes signify different things to different people. The poke I give The Dancer is far different than the poke I might give to Latka, for example.

Allow me to demonstrate:

Let's say I poke Tanya Espanya. That pokes says "I got your poke and I'm poking you back, you hooker."

Sometimes I start the pokes. Those might mean "Hi! I'm thinking about you!" or "Hey! How are you?"

Pokes between myself and those with whom I am more intimate, have more complex meanings. Those are frightfully harder to discern and often require a bit of clairvoyance on the part of my pokee. As I keep telling them - context. Know the context, understand the poke.

To The Dancer, I might poke one of the following:
- I'm poking you back because you poked me and isn't that sweet?
- I love you. Do you really have to grow up and go away to college?
- You're my favorite. Just don't tell the crazy people.
- Go poke Daddy and leave me alone!
- Ow! Stop that! Don't make me cut off those funds!
- This poke is for all the times I should have punished you for that smart mouth.

Now for MathMan, the pokes are equally varied.
- Please come here. I need you and I'm too lazy to get up and find you in this house. Something is broken, a kid is getting on my last nerve, something itches and I can't reach it, blah, blah, blah...
- Did you just fart?
- MathMan is a nut! He has a rubber butt! And every time he turns around, it goes putt, putt.
- Make (fill in kid's name) go away. It's breathing my air!
- Oh no. I did THAT again.
- White or red?
-I love you, sugar.
- Oh! It. Is. On!

For others of you who might receive the occasional poke, please note that the poke might mean, but is not limited to the following:

- Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
- I poke you because I love you.
- There's a chance that you might have herpes. I had nothing to do with it.
- Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!
- Wait, let me put my phone back between my legs before you do that again. I have it set to vibrate
-Thank you sir, may I please have another?
- Dance break!
- Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!

You get the idea. The poke is the thing. It means you're on my mind for good or for ill, I've seen you streaking across my mind's eye.

And some of you are even wearing clothes.

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......

Heard Around Golden Manor

The soon to be Former Golden Manor, that is....

Setting - MathMan and I sitting at the blogging ops desk, facing each other, laptops glowing on our faces.

Me: I was just looking at my Facebook friend list and assigning my friends to groups. I think I could actually have a list for people I've slept with dated.
MathMan: I think I could, too. I mean - I could have a list of my friends that you've slept with dated.

Help me, Rhonda. It's true. There's been some, um, overlap in our lives.

Setting - MathMan and I sitting at the blogging ops desk, facing each other, laptops on. I'm distracted, looking out the window next to the desk. I spy the outside cat Pyewacket. MathMan is staring at his laptop.
Background - There's been some discussion with neighbors about leaving Pyewacket with them since he's been cheating on all of us and pretending to belong to at least three different households. (As if a cat "belongs" to a household.)

Me (with a sigh): Should we just bring the little guy with us to new neighborhood and hope he adjusts?
MathMan: Yeah, I think we should bring The Actor.
Me: Honey, do we have the option to leave the children behind? Because if we do......
MathMan (cutting me off): I thought you meant should we take The Actor with us to the grocery store.

Dang it. He got my hopes up for a minute there.

I get the distinct impression that MathMan doesn't really listen to me so much when I flap my jaws at him. Perhaps I'll start communicating with him through a serious of burps, baseball signals and finger snaps.

Somewhere in the Middle of Nowhere....

.....a person wonders just why their food isn't grindin' up so good anymore......


Yesterday a couple of Spawn and I saw this sign at the little country store a few miles from our house.

I'm tellin' you, People of the Internets, this was worth climbing through through the sunroof to the horror of my children and the applause of the old couple in the car next to us.

(Sorry I've been not so busily leaving comments around like I normally do, y'all. That whole work thing is so very demanding lately. And then there's the house-hunting, organizing that naked-flashlight tag tournament for next weekend, and the class in How to Be a Republican in a Democrat World I'm taking is so interesting! I can't stop thinking about it! Be back at it soon.)

Do I Detect a Theme?

Yesterday was one of those days when I found myself checking the clock, not because it was going too slowly, but because it was ticking away too quickly. Seems like time is doing that a lot lately. I guess it's a function of getting older. MathMan would explain it to me as a matter of percentages, but that's just far too logical.

Oh, and gang? I worked from home again. And had The (sick) Actor home with me - again. You just know how thrilled I was about that. My lip syncing/porn surfing activities were thwarted yet again. I did paid work done and even managed to cross some errands off my to do list (shit! I forgot to call the attorney about the drop dead date for moving out of this house - um hello? denial?).

I even set aside the School of Benign Neglect protocol a time or two when The Actor was feeling well enough to play mumbly-peg with the good steak knives. Even the rules of Benign Neglect are meant to be broken sometimes.

As I drove into town, I kept my eyes peeled for rentals. I really am beginning to fret some about moving. We appear to be waiting until the very last minute to find a place to live. I feel like the mom in Brighton Beach Memoirs when she says "And suppose the house burns down this afternoon. Why do I need an extra quarter pound of butter?" Why do we need another place to live until we absolutely have to leave this house? We can't live in two places at once, right?

MathMan, ever the practical one, mentioned that it might be a good idea for us to spend a little time each evening weeding stuff out and packing things. Oh, I don't dispute that one bit. In fact, I think it's a fine idea. But I've been banned from asking that obnoxious question "who's taking the lead on this?" and so we continue to stare at each other across our laptops, make the occasional move toward lucidity, then go back to mouth breathing in front of blogs and newsfeeds.

It's so very distinct and palpable, the inertia that hugs us to our chairs, we could get it a Social Security number and claim it on our taxes.

So moving day looms - we think. As far as we know, we have about twenty-seven days left. In another incarnation of myself, there would be reams of lists, packing supplies galore, a new abode already secured and ready to be moved into, necessities properly transferred, etc. etc. etc. But not this time. Today, after working, I had a great time talking on the phone to MNMom, whose family is having its own financial struggles. I made dinner.

The aristocracy of Golden Manor even sat down and ate as a family. Wonders might never cease. We were missing The Dancer, though. That seemed symbolic somehow. Talk about denial! I'm still wrapping my mind around the idea that she'll be living away from home in a few months. She's gotten some wonderful scholarship offers, but I don't want to blog about it in detail because she's still waiting for a couple of responses and I don't want to jinx it.

Yesterday, though, as I drove around town taking care of errands, it seemed quite clear to me that our time in this little community isn't long........

Doing errands still has the added challenge of getting in and out of the car. The driver's side door is still stuck and I'm too cheap to fix the damn lemon. Kia can fix it when they get the piece of crap back.

So I continue to climb in and out of the car over the console. In some perverse way, I've grown to appreciate the challenge of it andwhile attempting to avoic impaling myself on the gearshift, spilling a cup of coffee or banging my head on the rear view mirror. Bonus points if I can do it while wearing pumps and extra bonus points if I can do it without catching some body part on the wires attaching the XM radio and bringing it crashing down. This morning, as I climbed out to pump gas (much to the amusement of the guy in the truck next to me), I did spill my coffee. So it's not all just one fabulous minute after another. Reality bites.

Tuesday, I did have one scary moment when the inoperable driver's side door wasn't so charming. I was driving down I75 toward the office when I had the bright idea to take my morning dose of speed. I rifled through my pocketbook, found the little pouch I keep my pill bottle in, opened the bottle and snapped one pill in half. So far so good.

I did the reverse of the fetching and rifling, stuffing the pill bottle back in its little faux leather pouch and dropping it back into the abyss of my purse. Without a thought, I tossed the jagged little half pill to the back of my throat and took a swig of now-cold coffee. At just that moment when I was about to swallow, I felt a tickle in my throat. Trying to clear my throat at the same time I was swallowing the pill served one purpose. It lodged the pill right in my esophagus. For a second I knew it was caught, but I didn't know to what extent. I tried to cough and nothing happened. I wheezed and made a pathetic squeak, realizing that stupid little pill was directly crossways and going nowhere. Trying not to panic, I unscrewed the lid to my water and took a drink with shaking hands. Holy fuck! I couldn't breath! My heart was racing when I felt another cough coming on.

With the second hard cough, the pill flew out of my mouth and hit the car door, landing neatly on the armrest next to me. When I looked down, I swear that evil little pill stuck the landing. I picked it up and examined it as I continued to drive. I thought about throwing it out the window, but decided against it. That pill wasn't going to beat me. I waited a few minutes, clearing my throat and drinking water and then popped that pill again. For good.

And while all of this is going on, all I could think was how I really needed to pee and how when I got to the office, I would have to extricate myself out of the car through the passenger's side, clambering over and out and hoping not to fall or impale or have an accident.

Or worse, what if someone saw me choking, turning blue on the side of the road and tried to help me. There I'd be, trapped in my car - going a lovely shade of azure, pantomiming with the my hands at my throat, the international signal for choking. Help! I'm choking!

Or like some kind of crazed animal, half hanging out the driver's side window, as I try to squeeze through there without falling splat onto the pavement. Or worse, having tried to climb over the console, catching a heel on the XM radio wires, lurching forward to break my fall - hopefully popping the lodged pill from my esophagus, but causing my bladder to give away. The scenarios passing through my head as I choked and coughed and spluttered and hoped with all my might not to wet myself were all pretty much no-win.

Thank goodness it didn't come to that.

For linda. The cowbell explanation. That won't last on the header, of course. Since I can't always be rearranging the furniture, I redecorate the header. It's not so hard on the back and it doesn't scratch the laminate flooring.

Look at This!

Oh, dear lord, you think. What is she doing now?

Well, remember that whole gotta get some work done now that I'm taking on new duties at the paid job thing?

That. That's what I'm up to. So instead of attempting to pound out a few meaningful words that will ultimately fall short of their mark and leave us all wishing we had those eighty seconds back, I will do to you the same thing I do to MathMan when he seems to want to engage on some meaningful level and all I want to do is just stare out the window and breathe through my mouth while thinking of absolutely nothing.

I show him my pussy.

This one just complies because the kibble is worth it.

This one would prefer that we just go away. For good. But leave food. The good stuff.

I know, the joke's getting old, isn't it? Oh, well, come back later and I'll show you pictures of shaved beaver.

See you in a bit.............

Yesterday Was TWOSday

Yesterday was a day of twos.
I drank two cups of coffee in the morning.
In a rush out the door,
I grabbed two strawberry PopTarts
And ate them, cold, for lunch
With a piercing bitterness in my heart
And an angry face.
(Screw you, Kellogg's, and your idiotic hypocrisy!)

The day flew by
As if the minutes were leapfrogging over each other.
TickTick Tock, TickTick Tock
Instead of Tick Tock, Tick Tock.

We arrived at the magic hour
And sat in the shrink's office
A cocoon of calm, lowlighting, quiet voices.
A comforting, unidentifiable scent on the perfectly-regulated air.
When, without warning, a start of low grumblings
Growing into growls of hunger
Emanated from my mid-section.
Breaking the mood with its insistence.
FEED ME.

(Can this marriage be saved?
Not if I don't eat.
Therapy is hard enough, but with low blood sugar?
Impossible.)

We took to our two cars
For the long drive home
I made a stop for takeout
Acquiescing to the whims of two children
Left home to fend for themselves
While we dialogued in measured tones
And considered what it must be like
To be in the other person's skin.

McDonalds it was.
Out of sheer hunger, nearing desperation
My unfortunate food choices would later haunt me
The fries, taken in great clumps
Were consumed so quickly
Nary a grease spot was left
On my clutching fingertips
The milkshake, an alleged flavor, sucked dry noisily
Gone in near record time,
Gifting me with the pleasure of a white-hot streak of
Unrelenting ice cream headache
The double cheeseburger, ordered plain, no condiments, thank you
Left much to be desired
After two unceremonious and unenjoyed bites,
I mentally composed the following letter of critique For McDonalds.

Dear McDonalds,

You are doing it wrong.
There is too much pepper in the double cheeseburger.
And not enough chocolate in the chocolate milkshake.

It's important that you know.

Unsatisfied,

Lisa

Love in the Afternoon

Update on the possessed Kia:

The driver's side door still won't open. I guess we'll get that fixed or at least have a hearty laugh when the repo men come for the damnable vehicle.

Speaking of lemons, I was reading this post from Lisa at Lemon Gloria (there sure are a lot of us Lisas, aren't there?) and it occurred to me that I may be missing an opportunity for a Love Connection...As Lisa explains:

Because it's about this small group of people - all women - who fall in love with objects. Like fences. And the Eiffel Tower. And the Golden Gate bridge.

And when I say they fall in love with them - they fall in love. They imbue them with personalities. They assign gender to these objects. They have sex with them.

"So," I think out loud, rousing my co-worker from her afternoon nap, "perhaps I should change the way I'm viewing the maneuvers I go through each time I enter the car from the passenger's side and climb across the seat and console, trying desperately not to impale myself on the gear shift......"

Maybe from now on, I'll make sure the Sade cd is ready to play when I make the move from one side of the car to the next. A little seductive music, the right attitude and who knows? A little inanimate object love as I'm leaving the office might be just the thing to help me "shift gears" between work and home.

(Insert "balance" joke here.)

Magpie Brain

Things grab my attention
And won't let go
Even as I flit to the next thing
They hang on.
Other things just get stuck in my craw.
And then there's all the crazy shit that goes on around me.

One.
I listen to NPR and think in the shower. Yesterday as I shaved my legs, I fretted about the people we know in Australia. Were they near those devastating wildfires? FranIAm has the update. Thank you, Fran. Now I can go back to fretting about Jessica Simpson's unfortunate wardrobe choices and practicing singing Red Hot Chili Pepper songs in the shower so I can ace them on Rock Band at the expert.

Two.
A few days ago, Kay posted about her miscarriage. A commenter, anonymous, of course, made some hideous statements about hoping that Kay had learned her lesson about "sleeping around." I was so stunned by the callousness of this commenter who clearly thought he/she was doing some god's work by making such inhumane remarks. I want to make a deal with my religious friends - I will continue to tell my atheist friends to not call you a bunch of superstitious loons if you promise to smack "religious" people around when you see this kind of thing sullying your faith. It's going to take all of us calling bullshit on this kind of intolerance to get past our differences. Thank you.

Three.
Of course Kellogg's would go all priggish on us and cancel Michael Phelps' endorsement because he was caught smoking weed. This comes at a very inconvenient time for Golden Manor. You see, we just stocked up on Kellogg's products because we had coupon build-up. And Kellogg's products were on sale at Publix. So here's the thing - we want to participate in the protest/boycott of Kellogg's. But what do you expect me to do? Leave the boxes of cereal to go to waste? Take them back to Publix? Can you really see me standing in line at the customer service to return Apple Jacks and Pop Tarts?

Don't count us out, though. We're going to boycott from here on. And I've instructed The Spawn that when they do eat the Kelloggs' products, they are NOT to enjoy them and they are to do it with bitterness in their hearts and a very angry face.

I'm doing what I can here, people. And I don't even smoke weed. You read this blog - you get peeks inside my hamster infested brain. I ask you - how would weed enhance this?

Four.
I was fully prepared to shout at the television tomorrow morning when I got my masochistic freak on watching Morning Joe. But this time I had some perspective. The shouting, though ineffective as usual, was oh so much more gratifying.

Five.
Willis blogs. Oh yes he does.

Six.
I found some old journals. Hoo boy, can't wait to see what kind of revelations can be found amongst the whining about old jobs and the perceived horror of being a twenty-something married chick before children. I'm afraid if I really go back and delve into them, I might owe some people big,fat apologies for long forgotten slights and misdeeds.

Seven.
Cupcake has a new name again. We're going to call her Garbo here on the blog. Along with hating school and making herself throw up, now she's got a thing about wanting to be alone. Alone, of course, means in the master bedroom with the good television and crumbly foodstuffs that leave nasty gifties in the bordello bed.

If she keeps this crazy up, we're going to call her Sybil.

She spent all Sunday rotting her brain watching America's Next Top Model. When MathMan sent her to bed, she protested with the kind of vigor reserved exclusively for television-related tantrums. MathMan held firm and directed her to bed. A bit later, his cell phone rang. I watched him across the desk as he answered, a bemused look on his face.

"Daddy...." I could hear Garbo's sweetest, most cloyingly precious voice from where I sat. He smiled as he listened briefly to her pleas. When they reached a crescendo of television withdrawal screechings, he said calmly into the phone, "Listen to my answer...." and then he clicked his hang up button.

I roared with laughter. I'm sure Garbo could hear it from down the hallway where she was probably standing at her door, waiting for her daddy to cave in and say 'Of course you can go watch that stupid program just so I can have some peace and quiet.'

It's always worked before. This new resolve is not sitting well with Garbo. A few seconds later, MathMan's phone rang again. He rejected the call. This time, a text message came through. Turns out, it wasn't a text. It was a picture.....

Her mother ought to tell her that her face is going to freeze like that.

The Diet of NY Times Bestsellers. And Other Secrets of Mediocre Fiction

I once harbored illusions of a sophisticated life full of glamor, high culture, trips to fabulous places where I would win the hearts of amazing people with my wit and charm. Or charm and wit. My delusions were non-specific. Actually, I take that back. They were specific enough to provide a clear picture of how I would look (thin, forever young, beautiful), how I would travel (first class), the kind of staff who would serve me (devoted, highly competent, without peer) and just about every other detail of my life (perfect).

Occasionally, it's necessary to take stock and see how my real life is measuring up to the fantasy. It's pretty safe to say that I still have a long way to go toward living that fabulous life. Oh, I'm working on it. The botox, devoted staff, travel, cultural activities and most everything else are still pretty dependent on another delusion - the one where I become a wealthy and famous author of best-selling fiction. (I'll pause here so you can finish laughing. You know that snorting is rather unbecoming, don't you?)

I have, though, taken one aspect of the fantasy by the reins and I'm steering that part of my life in the right direction.

I am losing weight. It is not a pretty process. It is not a perfect process. It is, however, working. I am motivated by a desire to live a long, healthy life, of course. I'm not entirely stupid. But I will be honest with you - I am also driven by the desire to look sleek and gorgeous (and airbrushed) in the dustjacket photo of my first novel that will rocket to Number 1 on the New York Times Bestseller List. (I never said I was attempting to write literature.)

If all goes well, that dustjacket cover photo and the obscene amounts of money I make from that first book and the rights to the movie will carry me through so that I can pound out more fiction while shoveling M&Ms into my mouth and sending nagging texts to The Spawn at their posh boarding schools. In between book tours and the necessary personal trainer appointments to get me back into shape for said tours, that is.

So how am I achieving this miraculous weight loss? Well, of course there is Mr. Phentermine and the good quack doctor who prescribes him, but let's just gloss on over that. The real strategy is a healthy diet and exercise. I'm reminded here of an old Lockhorns joke. There are some days when jumping to conclusions, stretching the truth and running my mouth are the only exercise I get, but still. I'm trying.

And that eating healthy thing? Well, it's, um, a good intention. I guess the truth is I've really cut back my calories. A lot. Like eliminating a big bowl of ice cream, a cheeseburger, fries and a generous slice of pie cutting back. I haven't calculated the calories I'm consuming, but I think it' somewhere between 1,200 and near starvation.

Let me show you a typical lunch.






But it's not all petulant dry salad green munching and string cheese mutilation. No, there is an occasional treat. Something sweet, creamy, chocolaty. Look - fruit is fruit. It is not a dessert. When I want sweet - bring me chocolate or tempt the wrath of.....wait. I think that might be the PMS talking. Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, yes. A treat.

Cheap ass chocolate.

There will be plenty of time for $10,000 per ounce ultra-dark chocolate made from cocoa beans grown on sacred mountain tops by one-eyed harmonica players in Uruguay after the book sells, but for now, I'll take this "truffle." The package says it comes from Italy. It looks like something that came out of an animal's behind. Whatever. It's gone in one bite anyway......

Nifty, huh? I know it looks like a dollop of fresh muck, but it doesn't taste half bad.
Would I lie to you? Look at that face.
It's the face of a connoisseur of cheap ass chocolate, Hostess Ho Hos and Mountain Dew.

All photos are Lisa Golden originals.
Who else would indulge in this sort of jackassery on a weekday?

Yes, That Was Me.....

Yes, that was me lying through my smile to a ten year old first thing this morning. Oh, yes, I was going to be going to the office later in the day so she could just shut up about her aching tummy and how she really needed to stay home.

Yes that was me, vacuuming, Windexing emptying, folding, sweeping, filling and wiping at 7:30 a.m. because I just couldn't muster the energy to do it over the weekend.

Yes that was me, sighing a martyr's sigh as I walked out into the soft rain to collect things my children had left out in the yard yesterday when they played in the gorgeous sunshine.

Yes, that was me, grumbling to Jim Cramer that he's a fuckhead and wondering how he gets to call himself a financial "expert" when he clearly doesn't know what the term middle class means to most of the middle class.

Yes, that was me, shuffling the bank statement and receipts for the third time and still not sitting down to update Quicken.

Yes, that was me, trying to stay cool on the phone with the school counselor. The ten year old didn't buy my lies and was sure that she was dying and must come home to die in comfort in front of the television.

No, that was the school counselor, laughing as she mentioned that she's got a kid at home, too, who's currently working every possible angle to get out of school. Thank goodness she understands that I'm ready to snap Cupcake in half.

Yes, that was me, hissing invectives, lies and threats over the telephone wire to the crying, dying of a sick tummy ten year old.

Yes, that was me, thinking it's time to seriously consider military school for Cupcake.

No, that wasn't me making that sound, it was the tow truck was beep, beep, beeping backward down the driveway.

Yes, that was me, standing in the rain, explaining to the nice guy from the tow truck company that I don't have a Triple A card. Yes, I could see that his order to pick up the car says that I have a Triple A card, but I don't. I'm sure after I get the bill, I'll wish I did.

Yes, that was me, wondering where in the hell those little black dogs came from and why did they have to show up just as my broken down car was being loaded onto the back of the flatbed.

Yes, that was me, clicking my tongue at the little male dog who was humping the little female dog as she looked mournfully at me. Clearly,this was not her idea to follow me into the garage and get poked by her friend in the corner where the baseball stuff is stored.

No, that wasn't me, it was Andy, the tow truck guy who'd finally given up on trying to force a Triple A card out of me trying not to blush about the fornicating canines.

Yes, that was me, wishing I'd just taken a vacation day instead of using up today as my work from home day. I could use some time in bed watching television, napping and reading the book I'm trying to finish.

Yes, that was me, watching the bickering finches make a mess at the birdfeeder.

Yes, that was me, considering the vodka in the freezer as a potential accompaniment to my second cup of coffee.

Yes, that was me, smiling because some old work pals had confirmed me as friends on Facebook.

Yes, that was me, rememebering to keep a good thought for The Actor's baseball tryouts today. Dang, I hope me makes the team.

Yes, that was me, thinking that the minute I stopped to take a pee, my phone would ring.

No, that was my boss J, who wanted to chat for a few minutes before his next appointment. Did he catch me at a bad time?

Yes, that was me, deciding it would be a bad idea to flush while on the phone with J. He doesn't need to know I was multi-tasking. He's a tad squeamish, as it is.

Yes, that was me, sneaking a handful of M&Ms out of the cabinet while two co-dependent cats looked at me yearnfully, hoping with all their furry might that I'd opened the cabine to fetch tuna. Silly cats. I don't eat tuna.

Yes, that was me, considering making a dumb video, showing you what it's like to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, miles from anything, on a chilly, rainy day, without any transportation.

Yes, that was me, reading The Dancer's emails upon her request - okay, maybe I read one or two that I hadn't been expressly authorized to read, but they were college emails, nothing personal. And wow - I'm impressed at that kid's ability to write a businesslike email. Who says kids aren't being taught how to communicate professionally?

Yes, that was me, marking all my political rss feeds as read. I'm so sick of politics right now, I don't even want to think about the process.

Yes, that was me, wondering how many times I can listen to the Midsomer Murder theme music before I go crazier than I already am.

Yes, that was me, handling The Dancer's toe pads like they are toxic waste. Like? There's no question, they are toxic. Next time I touch them, I'll be sure to wear latex gloves.

Yes, that's me, looking at the rain as it has transitioned from a soft patter to a steady downpour. Wonder if I'll lose internet access? I hope not, but if I do, that idea of going back to bed is becoming more and more likely....