Before the tryptophan takes hold

So I hear that something unfortunate will happen to me if I don't say something about gratitude. And bob forbid I appear an ungrateful lout. So here we go - some of the things for which I am grateful. Please note: These are some of the things. Not all of them. It would take me forever to list them all and would likely horrify my children that I have once again mentioned stuff like that online.

1. Family and friends, continued good health and happiness. What is life, after all, without these?

2. My job. I'm pleased to have it and happy to like it.

2.1. I'm also grateful that I still have my job after telling the Master Chairman (aka the top guy) that I'd probably make a fuss over him like the one I made over a coworker's dog if he licked my face, too.

3. I'm thankful that Chloe is home so that I can hear her say things like "I'm pre-gaming our pizza dinner with a bagel." and "Vodka sounds fine to me."

4.  I'm grateful for MathMan's fitness so that he'll be around to appreciate my passive aggressive behavior for many years to come.

5. Art of all kinds and the artists who create it. Again I ask, what would life be without these things?

6.  The ceasefire between Israel and the Palestinians. For the obvious reasons, of course.  But also because Chloe is scheduled to take her heritage tour next month. She'll be gone for ten days and I don't think I can go that long without sleep. Also too, my calls and emails to Bibi continue to be ignored.

7. Faux Spanx aka Fanx. Especially after today's meal. Holy cats. I'm fifty percent pie right now.

8. The internet. It's brought so much into my life.

9. The restorative properties of laughter.

10. I'm thrilled and grateful to have my first published piece in an anthology of wonderful, funny writers. Special thanks to DC Stanfa who read my work at the urging of her sister Sherry and asked me to be a part of Fifty Shades of Funny. (An entire post is yet to come on that, but for now you can learn more on the website. You can also purchase the book on Amazon.)

Okay, let me say that one more time --- I'm published!!!!!!

And I'm fall down on the floor grateful. Don't even try to pick me up. Just bring pie. Fork optional.

And of course, I'm grateful to all of you who come here and read and encourage me to keep writing and living and loving and laughing. You've helped us out when we needed it most. You've been my rock, my touchstone, my classroom full of giggling peers as I perform the beloved duties of Class Clown.

Gratitude doesn't seem a big enough word.

With love and stuffing and a side of mashed potatoes,

Lisa

P.S.  Between now and midnight, Cyber Monday November 26 every Amazon book order of Fifty Shades of Funny softcover or Kindle order will be eligible for a free beach vacation ! It includes a week at the Cottages of Shipwreck in Hilton Head, a four star resort.. and 50,000 US Airways miles--typically good for 2 round-way tickets in the US. 

The instructions are as follows: Purchase a soft book or Kindle version between Thursday November 22 2012 and midnight Monday November 26 and email a copy of the receipt to dcstanfa@fuse.net. 

One random winner will be chosen. Here's a link to the cottages website. The vacation week is August 31-September 7 2013. http://www.spinnakerresorts.com/resorts/hilton-head-island/cottages

Purchase the book 

Some break the rules, and live to count the cost

MathMan and I rode together to work and the Howard Jones song No One Is to Blame played on the radio. I paused in my nostalgic and painful-to-listen-to warbling to note a specific line. It would come in handy some day.

The insecurity is the thing that won't get lost.

Insecurity. So many forms. Emotional. Financial. Professional. A euphemism for hunger. Food insecurity. Why use one word when you can use two?

We're locked in the Battle Royale with our insecurities. We're swaddled in them. They are our shadow, our muse, our nail-biting, bed-wetting, bed-hopping eating disorder.

Sometimes they are the long pole helping us balance on the tightrope. Nothing but the pole, the air and way down below - - the net.

My insecurities and I are so tangled up together it's impossible to tell us apart. They borrow my clothes and force me to eat pie after 10pm. They twirl my hair and suggest that people who probably don't even know I exist are talking smack about me. And then they wonder aloud why those people don't know I exist. They make me ask MathMan if he really loves me and then to pick at the affirmative with a plaintive "why?"

Your insecurities might keep you up at night. Mine mostly keep me inert.

When I hear from someone who is in an insecure situation, I want to do whatever I can to help them out.

I know you guys are of a generous spirit and I've been so grateful for the help you've given us when we were struggling to keep the roof, the food, the lights, etc. Now I'm asking you to help out a friend who has been generous with us in the past.

Robert's car requires repairs so he can get to job interviews. His rent is also due. There isn't enough money for both things. These are the tough choices we make in this unequal world of ours. If you can slide a couple of dollars his way, I'm sure he'd be grateful.

Don't let Robert's gruff demeanor throw you. He's a kind guy who worried that the Golden kids wouldn't get Christmas gifts, who loves his cat Popeye and has blogged for social justice for as long as I've known him. He's also an unrecognized writing talent with a couple of novels in need of a publisher.

You know how much I hate to ask, but it's far easier to ask for someone else than it is for me. And as relieved as I am that we're on the road to financial recovery, I won't feel secure into we all feel, at least, some sense of financial security and justice.

 Until then, we buoy each other when our insecurities threaten to pull us under.

Take it away, Howard.

 

The neighbors complain about the noises above

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love all y'all.

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

Another indication you might have too many cats

A brief peaceful moment.

After observing the shenanigans happening in the living room amongst a -- what do we call a lot of cats? You know like a murder of crows, a phrase I love, or a school of fish, what's a set of cats? --- anyway, you know you have too many cats when after watching the cat rasslin' in the living room, your husband invites to you to join him on the bed where you're naively expecting him to give you a nice cuddle.

Alas no. He grabs in you in a headlock and proceeds to rabbit kick you in your belly.

And there's no foreplay.


P.S. It's called a clowder. We now have a clowder of cats. Please pass the hairball medicine.

P.S.S. Thank you for the donations and empathy. You people complete me.

P.S. 2.7 If you're in the path of Irene, please stay safe. We're thinking of all y'all.

XOXO,

Lisa

Care and Feeding

Photo: Lisa Golden

Thanks to those of you who have donated toward the care and feeding of Kitty Noir. You're wonderful. So far KN has no new home, but he has found a place on top of the antique radio where he likes to sleep. His presences is still causing a stir, but we've been through this before. Eventually, everyone settles into a timeshare routine and we move on.

I'm taking the day off from writing here so that I can work on my manuscript and catch up on some reading. Now I have to decide which book to read today because I've started two at the same time. Bad habit, I know.

Source

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury or The Beginners by Rebecca Wolff.

Source

What are you reading?

Is it wrong not to always be glad?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A disappointed head shake can say so much.

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

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


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

Did You Bring Your Agenda?

We will now call this meeting to order. Having dispensed with the reading of the minutes of our last meeting, let's begin with old business.

1. Thank you.
Thanks for the comments of support on this post. The text I got this morning from her sounded much better. When I write posts like that, I'm inclined to turn comments off because really, what can one say to that? But you always know just what to say and I appreciate that.

2. Blog stuff
I haven't stopped reading you if you blog. I've just been away from the computer more than usual. The driving, the writing, the mom stuff, the badminton championship and clogging lessons. Time consuming! Please accept my apologies.

On to new business.

1. Mystery solved!
We now know why the chicken crossed the road. Answer here at Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder. I did a survey for Anna and the results are posted over there.

This concludes this brief meeting of the - - what are we again? Nevermind. I have to take off again. I have a couple of characters locked in battle and if I don't get back there, the wrong one might bleed to death. Thank you for attending.

Here's a little traveling music for you.

Paying Attention Because There Is A Story Here

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” — Thornton Wilder

If you've been visiting here any length of time, you know that our family is adjusting to a new financial paradigm. I just used the word paradigm. Someone please slap me. I wanted to stay away from the prevalent phrase "New Normal" because after reading through some blog archives, it's clear that there is nothing new about this. It's been our normal for a while now except that it's gotten worse.

It's a case of Once You're In It, It's Hard to Get Out of It. Like the mafia or a gym contract.

With the loss of my job last December, we received that apocryphal blow most of the American Middle Class fears. It was that one last thing that would flick us off the edge and tumbling into the precipice of the financial unknown.

I want to tell you all the things we've learned along the way. I want to show you how we've changed and grown. I want to reassure those of you living paycheck to paycheck and in terror of that one disaster that could send you and your family into the financial soup that you will survive. You will be different, but you will get through it. But my first wish for you is that you never find yourself here in the first place.

But there will time for that later.

Some days I'm reluctant to share with you the daily ups and downs of this financial recalibration because it seems like so much whining. I have to preface things with phrases like We brought this on ourselves or We should have done this differently.... I'm forever balancing the reality with my distaste for victimhood. I mine these events for humor because there are so many of us living through this - whether we want to talk about it or not (much less put it in writing) and if I can contribute anything to the conversation, I want it to maybe make people feel a little better instead of worse.

This period of our lives has taught me many things, but one of the most wonderful gifts I've received is the experience of gratitude. When you're the giver, the caregiver, the donor, the contributor, you do so for a lot of reasons. Those reasons are as varied as the people involved. I've not always been good at receiving thanks. I dismiss it, wave it off, minimize my contribution. It was nothing. Don't mention it. I didn't see through the other person's eyes that whatever I'd done - whether big or small - mattered.

When you are the recipient of care and kindness and generosity, your role is simple. Say thank you.

Yesterday, I received an email that left me speechless. A group of people had provided a gift to our family that will help us bridge the wasteland that is January. The writer of the email did what I do when I'm the contributor. She minimized the significance of the gift. When I regained my composure and my ability to mangle the English language, I wrote to tell her how much the gift mattered and how the timing could not have been better. And to please pass our family's gratitude on to the others who'd contributed, as well.

And in case any of them are here, I want to say those important words.

Thank you. 

Right through the very heart of it

Add caption

I recently blogged about my friend Suzy who starred in the Seinfeld episode that featured the Black and White Cookie and the Chocolate Babka.  Suzy played the role of Barbara Benedict, the woman who got the last chocolate babka, leaving Jerry and Elaine to settle for the cinnamon babka, a lesser babka.

A day or so later, I got an email from a friend who is pure New York.  No really.  He's born and raised there.  He knows the city like no one I've ever known.  He's has that perfect city accent.  He's also gorgeous, funny as hell, is one of those genuinely nice people, talented, smart as all get out and generally wonderful.

But enough about DCap.  I have food to write about.  So that email.  He asked for our address which I provided.  I didn't think much more about it because we got distracted with an email exchange that I can't tell you about because it may show up later in wikileaks.  I'd hate to ruin the surprise.

So yesterday, the doorbell rang and I went to out to find a box on the porch.  The UPS guys are working in pairs now. I want to assume that's because of the holidays, but maybe it's because word has gotten around about me.  Anyway, when I opened the door, all I saw was a young man running after the UPS truck.  The guy behind the wheel, who may have been the guy I locked in the basement that one time, was already making a break for it.

Confused, I hefted the box and went inside.  On the side of the box was printed Zabars, a place I recognize although I've never been there.  A small sticker announced that the box contained New York Goodies.  Chloe told me later that she could actually see the light bulb go off over my head.

DCap.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of scissors and the squirt bottle of water.  I opened the outer box and lifted out this box.

Which had this postcard attached to it.

And was filled with all this.

Chloe came closer to see. "Black and white cookies!"
 I reached for the squirt bottle.  She was too rapt over the carborrific treats to notice.
"Chocolate Babka!" she sighed right and lunged forward.
I had to shoot her.
You can never be too careful with baked goods around that girl.

Zero Trans Fats!

In case you're wondering what a Chocolate Babka is, BEHOLD.

We had MathMan do the honors.

For the record, Chocolate Babka is divine. The cinnamon rugelach is to die for.  The black and white cookies are fabulous and no one broke a streak after eating them.  I'm hoarding the tea for a special occasion and the Ghirardelli chocolate has been stashed for future biological needs.  The I'm going to have the I heart NYC cookie for breakfast when I'm finished writing this post.

Update:  I ended up sharing the cookie with Sophie who's home on a Georgia snow day which is different from the rest of the world's snow days.  We had hot chocolate.  And maybe I ate another rugelach while, in a nice bit of symmetry, we watched Larry David go into the Yohah Shimmel Knish Bakery in Whatever Works.

And if DCap gives me the okay, I'll show you why that's so perfect for this morning.

Thank you, DCap, for the Zabar's treats.  Thank you for sending some of your wonderful city to a rural corner of Georgia.

P.S.  If you guys don't see me around, it's because I'm on the elliptical trying to keep from turning into a babka.

Avec Gratitude

Dinner courtesy of some wonderful people.

Before we had dinner, I suggested to the family that we go around the table and state for the record what we are thankful for.  They glanced at each other over the rims of their root beer mugs and waited for my temporary insanity to pass.

You'd think we'd be more talkative around here, wouldn't you?  Well, we're not really that expressive when it comes to the positive stuff.  We're aces at pulling each other apart, at dissecting the foibles and tics and pointing and laughing when one of us stumbles.  I should be ashamed, but I'm not.

That's something to be thankful for.  We may not be soft and snuggly and Hallmark Channel fuzzy wuzzies, but I don't think there's a single person in this house who doesn't feel loved.  Right down to the last wretched cat. Hang on a second.  Let me see...

Okay, I just checked.  I asked each of them (the humans, not the cats) if they felt loved.  Here's how that went:

MathMan:  Yeah, who said I didn't?
Nate:  Yeah (with accompanying eyebrow raise)
Sophie:  I don't know.  Can I have a hug first?
Chloe:  Um....yes?

So there we are.  Love.  It is probably the greatest thing ever.  And we have it in spades.

And for that we truly are grateful.  Whether some of us are able to express it or not without a gun to our heads.

Here are some other things I'm thankful for:

RennRatt and her wonderful family who provided us with an authentic and delicious Thanksgiving dinner - Friends near and far - Family near and far - Laughter - Music - The moment right after I take off my bra - Good health - Shared memories - The gorgeous weather we're having - MathMan's job which pays the bills and gives him the chance to save the world - Books - Words - A hot shower - Remembering - Forgetting - Working out - Quiet - My trusty old laptop circa 2007 - The fact that Nate really loves going to school now - My digital camera that allows me to capture life as it happens - The silly cats - Movies that make me laugh or think or cry (as long as I'm alone) - The light and color at sundown when the trees are shadows against the palette of pinks, mauves, purples and blues - Hollyhocks on their tall stems - Art Deco Architecture - Still being able to recite Goodnight Moon - Chloe's happiness at school - The entire Art Nouveau movement - Edward Gorey - Anthony K. and his sock - My active imagination - Catching sight of a hawk on a wire or post alongside the road - When the car starts - The roof over our heads - Dry pavement - The cartoons and reruns I watched as a kid - Comfortable clothes - Major appliances that work - PBS - Agatha Christie and her memorable characters - High count cotton sheets - Lotion - Skype - My wooden back scratcher - The internet - Homemade fabric softener - Ibuprofin - Red wine - Billy Nye the Science Guy - British TV - Edward Hopper's art - Time - Sugar - How Sophie enjoys playing her clarinet - Dogwoods announcing the spring - When we get a little snow - Chocolate - Art created by my friends - A whole mess of other stuff - And you.  I'm grateful for you.

I hope you've had a good day wherever you are.  Tomorrow we'll get back to the pointing and the laughing.

The rack is full and so are we, of laughing gas and ennui

Well, that's what one of my snit fits looks like.  I'm sorry you had to see that.  I really do try to repress as much as possible, but that stuff was leaking out of my ears.   Please keep your eyes peeled for my gratitude post tomorrow.  No really.  I have a long list of things I'm grateful for even in the midst of my midlife meltdown.

Okay, so now I am over it.  This is me letting go of the traditional idea of work.  Once those benefits are gone, I'm going to be one of those people who simply stops looking for work.  If I can't get paid to suck it, fuck it, flash my tits at it, wear it and then sell it on ebay, tweet it, bake it, youtube it or write it, I'm not worrying about it.

We will adjust further.  Priorities will be rent, utilities, food and gasoline.  The doctor, dentist and other small business people who normally enjoy a few dollars from us each month, well, sorry.  The big guys get their money.  Georgia Gas, Georgia Power, AT&T, Progressive Insurance, the water company, the oil company selling the least expensive gasoline.

I still taste the bitter.  Dang it.

Anyway, today has been interesting.  I paid what is likely my last visit to the Department of Labor.  They were holding a farewell party for some of us long-termers.  They even provided party hats and noisemakers.  And cake.  Three kinds.  There was chocolate for the transplants, red velvet for the real Southerners, and a carrot cake for the hippies.  It sat forlornly on the edge of the table next to the cruditees, mostly ignored while we gluttonous slackers attacked the hot wings and store brand potato chips with gusto.

I never did find the alleged cooler holding the beer, but while I was surfing the job search website, the guy at the computer next to me offered me some moonshine in a flask.  I typically don't drink after people, not even MathMan or the kids, but since we're talking serious alcohol here, I figured whatever crud that guy had left on the rim of that flask wouldn't do me any damage.  Plus, I'm pretty good at the waterfall move.  (Just don't mention backwash, please.)

I had to be furtive though.  The security guard was there performing his normal duties - holding up the wall next to the check-in and pushing in chairs after ill-mannered clients get up and lumber after their counselors into the cubicle maze without taking a moment to shove in their chairs.  A couple of clients asked him if he'd give us all a patdown so we could pretend we were going somewhere for the holidays.  He told them to pipe down and have some raw vegetables because that might be the last fresh veggies they see for a while.

I saw some folks pocketing food.  Sometimes you just have to look away.  Or at least don't make eye contact. We all deserve a little dignity, right?

I high-fived the counselor on my way out.  He wished me bobspeed and told me to let him know when my book gets published.  I felt propelled by his confidence.  So much so that I skipped across the street to where MathMan sat in the middle of total chaos at the pediatric dentist's office where he waited with Nate for a 10:45 a.m. appointment.

I sat reading Laura Munson's This Is Not the Story You Think It Is (psst, read this book) while MathMan graphed stuff on a calculator.  He is so hot when he does mathy stuff in public.  I leaned over and licked his ear. Around us a herd of preschoolers thundered about, shrieking and running, climbing into the playhouse in the corner.

The most talked about kid in the waiting room was named The Rattlesnake.  The rest of the kids hollered The Rattlesnake! The Rattlesnake! over and over while I tried to focus on the book and MathMan tried to recover from being licked in front of twenty-seven other adults who lined the room, staring up the TVs showing Food Network and wishing they were anywhere else but in that noisy room with the floofloovers and the tartookas, the whohoopers and gardookas.....

Nate was finally called back for his cleaning at noon.  I was feeling grateful for the guy and his flask of moonshine...

Thanks to all of you who left comments, sent jokes and emails and who contacted MathMan to make sure I hadn't leaped from the top of garage and broken my blogging fingers.  You guys are the best.  I love you all.

xoxoxox,

Lisa

P.S.  What are you reading? watching? doing over the long weekend?  Do you know anyone named The Rattlesnake?

I'm a High-Functioning Sociopath. Do Your Research.

People who've had the questionable judgment to hang around here for a while know that I'm a wee bit of an Anglophile.  Or maybe I fancy myself an Anglophile.  Is there a test? Because I don't have a certificate or anything.  Not yet.  Those of you not made less intelligent by your visits here might wonder why I'm not a Francophone.  I do have a degree in French, after all.  But being a full-time Francophone is too much like work.  It requires too much translation to encompass my growing need to be vapid.  Or is it insipid?  Stupid.  Definitely lazy.

So I cut my love of things Francais avec (that means with) a fascination with and a desire to be English.  It's really not so far afield.  My ancestors are from across the pond.  Nevermind the fact that they were from those places England took great pleasure picking on - Scotland and Ireland.  It's all the same big island, right?

So yeah - I'm a Scots Irish poseur.  That took a huge leap of your imagination, didn't it?

As proof of my Anglophile cred, please note that I watch a lot of British television and movies, especially the someone gets murdered or a bunch of people dress up in period costume, kinds of programmes. Even better are the a bunch of people dress up in period costume and someone gets murdered programmes.  Did you see how I did that?  Hang on and I'll spell something with an our instead of the boring American or.  Humour.  Behaviour.

I have my Facebook set on UK English.  Fact.  I'm not telling porkies.

Even as I type this (I'm not writing with my biro), I'm watching the new Sherlock on PBS.  And loving it, by the way.  So far I've identified about five British actors I recognize from the other shows I watch.  I drive MathMan a little nuts doing that.

"Hey, you recognize that guy?"

"Which guy?"

"The guy with the thing.  He was in that ----, you know the one where the woman with the daughter got killed."

"Oh, that guy."

"Do you recognize him?"

"Maybe?"

"What was he in?" (It's a quiz.  I'm really just itching to prove my superior skills at recall.)

"Didn't you just say he was in ----?"

"Yeah.  That's right.  You're good, honey." (This is how I'm conciliatory, you see.  I share my success even with the most undeserving.)

I think MathMan should win a medal for indulging me as much as he does.  Sadly, he just has me for his prize.

And yes, since you asked, I love it that the new Watson's therapist suggested he start blogging to help him cope.

So knowing this about me, GMB put together this package of jolly good things...

There are two things in the photo that aren't British made.  

The Palomino pencils are from Japan and the pencil sharpener is made in Germany.  

An interesting point made by GMB and laughed at by me.

Thank you, GMB, for this wonderful package. 

The pencils are a dream, as are the sharpener and the keen eraser.

The bag rocks - I'm the coolest person at the grocery store.

And did I ever tell you lot that MathMan eats crisps not for the crisps themselves, but as delivery systems for Coleman's Mustard?  It's true.  The Coleman's magnet is perfect.

And  those pencils, so wonderful.  I'm doing whatever I can to keep them out of the vortex of office supply doom that is Sophie's room.  I have plans for them.  Big plans.  As in outlining my next book plans.  In pencil. Japanese pencils sharpened by German steel.

Cheers!

Do you have a fascination with a particular place or time period?

The Day After

Dellinger Park Color Edit, originally uploaded by Lisa Golden.

Thank you all so much for the birthday wishes! The day was a blur of well wishes, laughs, UPS fantasies, calls and chats, cards and chocolate cake.

I realize that I'm a huge disappoint to some of you, but one of the highlights of my day was getting into bed between freshly ironed sheets. While I didn't do any work on the manuscript yesterday, I did some meditative ironing as I considered some changes I want to make to that work in progress. I had to bat away thoughts about the next book I want to write. Focus, focus...

I made up for my domestic indulgence by playing drinking games with the cats. Those felines can put away the whiskey when they're drinking competitively. We watched a rerun of Jersey Shores and every time someone got bleeped, you had to drink. I ended up wasted on a combination of what was left in the liquor cabinet, a quarter cup of Marsala wine and a shot or two of cooking sherry with an expiration date of 1997.

I'm probably on the Queen's shit list because I totally forgot to call her back to tell her I wouldn't be coming to tea. In my inebriated state, I did manage to drunk dial three old boyfriends and my Senators' offices. I think I'm supposed to be making a large donation to some conservative cause. Good thing I told them I was Rachel Maddow. They'll never call her office to follow up.

MathMan and Nate arrived home bringing with them a decadent chocolate cake. The annual fight over who would have the privilege of torturing me by scrawling my age in frosting across the top of the fudgey confection broke out, I screamed obscenities and threatened to run away from home, a plate was smashed in the ensuing melee, fire broke out when some whiskey reeking cat jumped up on the counter and yawned next to the 45 blazing candles and then Happy Birthday was sung in double time.

The cake was delicious. Kroger, you done good. We just worked around the flecks of melted wax, cat hair and fire extinguisher foam.

Things eventually settled down. MathMan got to work writing some kind of math test, Nate and Sophie ridiculed the television program they were watching and I went back to thanking people for their birthday wishes while I secretly tried to reconstruct a couple of those drunk dialed phone convos. Had I really told that one guy about what my mother had said about him? I was going to have to send an apology for sure.  Maybe some flowers.  Wait.  No. That would seem like a dig.  A gift card to The Bass Pro Shop.  Yeah, that would sooth my conscience and reinforce his masculinity.  Damn my mother and her opinions anyway.

MathMan stood, stretched, said something about being tired and walked into the bathroom. "Honey?" He opened the door a smidge and stuck his head out.

"Yes?" I looked up from the laptop.

"Why is there a UPS uniform hanging on the back of the door?"

********
How is your Tuesday shaping up? Ever drunk dialed anyone?  And what happened to the UPS guy?

The Number of Candles Remains A Mystery

The day after my parents found me under a cabbage leaf.  Or so my sister said.

The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age. - Lucille Ball

I woke up this morning and checked my phone like I always do.  I do it mostly in case Chloe has sent some overnight angst-o-gram, a wish goodnight or photos of a mysterious rash she wants me to diagnose using my super special mom powers.  Instead, I was overwhelmed by a number of Facebook text messages from friends wishing me a happy birthday.

While MathMan burrowed deeper under the covers and gave me a good morning grope, I read the messages and wondered how I could be so lucky.  In a year that has had its ups and downs, the human connections have been the highlight.  There's no question about it.

MathMan and the kids presented me with cards before racing off to school, leaving me to thank the cats for not spelling out Happy Barfday in hairballs this year and to contemplate what to do with my day.  Write?  Read? Work out?  Accept that invitation from the Queen to come for tea? Don my tiara reserved for special occasions and strip the bed linens for laundry?

I'll probably do all of those things.  Except the Tea with the Queen thing.  She's so needy.  It's my day, you know?  I don't want to talk about her favorite Corgi's "nasty habit" or how one can't find a proper set of gloves at WalMart these days.

I looked for my tiara, but couldn't find it.  Instead, I put on Sophie's headband with the devil horns, some matching red lipstick and got busy vacuuming.  One of the nicest things someone like me can do for herself is fix it so that she doesn't think "Dear lord, why do I bother vacuuming on a Friday?" every time she strolls through the living room on her way to fill her coffee cup.  Self-care can too be practical.  It doesn't have to be all spa and chocolate, yo.

The doorbell rang and I went to answer it.  The UPS guy stood there smiling.

"Sign here."  He glanced at the top of my head.

"Okay."  I'd forgotten the horns.

He cleared his throat.  "So Halloween's coming early at your house?"

I blinked at him, then my hand shot up to my head. My fingertips rested on the satiny horns with feathers. I had a choice here, didn't I?

"Actually, it's my birthday," I said, bringing my hand down and resting it on his chest.  "And I couldn't find my tiara."

He looked down at my red nails drumming on his brown shirt and shifted the electronic signing thingy under his arm.  "Well, happy birthday." he smiled and swallowed hard.  I could see his Adam's Apple play up and down.

I patted his chest and then removed my hand.  "I suspect this package is the rest of the costume."  I held up the small package and smiled my sweetest Blanche Dubois smile.

"Are you going to try it on now?" he asked, suddenly eager. So I hadn't lost my touch.

I weighed the package in my hands.  I knew that it was really the book I'd ordered as my birthday gift.  "Well," I drawled.  "Maybe later.  Right now I have some vacuuming to do.  Unless, you'd like to come in and vacuum while I change...."

I shut off the vacuum and went to the door.  A package rested against the porch railing.  I looked up and waved to the UPS driver who was swinging up into his seat.  He gave me a wave and put the van in gear to drive away.  I reached up and patted the satin horns.

Live honestly, eat slowly, lie about your age.

I try to live honestly, but there's always room for improvement in that department.  I will dedicate myself to slower eating and savor the flavors of the birthday cake MathMan will pick up on his way home. And as for that last one, remember how I said I was half way to ninety?  A lie.

Thanks to all who've wished me a happy birthday already today.  It's a great day to turn 29!

Party games are over here at Black Magpie Theory.  No gifts, please.

Getting Figgy With It

He has singlehandedly resurrected the phrase like hubba hubba.
He's been my blog buddy since the very first days of PoliTits.
He and his significant other Sparky share my adoration of British TV.
He's working on a graphic novel titled Hip Deep, Mountain High.  Go see!
And he makes Fig Bomb preserves that are so good you wanna eat the whole jar, diet be damned.

Thank you, Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein, for the wonderful package of treats!

Stupid Sting and his lute.

Everyday Heroes Otherwise Known as Blog Readers

Today looks better.

Ask.

To just ask was one of the hardest things I've had to do in a while.  And you guys did not let me down.

Thank you.  Thank you for your donations, your comments, emails and suggestions. Thank you for showing up here to read my words, to follow the story, to play, to be part of this community.

It really does take a village. So many times I think I'm an island.  I'm bloody Ebetha!  Except, I'm really not.  And I don't want to be.

On behalf of the Goldens, thank you.

See - I'd scheduled our electric payment for the very last minute to make sure that my unemployment money would be there.  But I forgot a quarterly payment for my life insurance.  It came out of our bank account, leaving us short.  Which meant that the electric payment would bounce, triggering our disconnect the next day, a whole mess of reconnect fees, the bounced check fee at the bank....because when you're in the hole, you get punished and punished some more.  Not the good kind of punishment with the safe word, but the kind that makes you want to disappear, to just not exist anymore because how is it ever going to get better?

If you live on the edge, you know the feeling.  It's like panic with a side order of self-loathing.

"So the electricity won't be shut off?"  It was Sophie's first question as she dropped her backpack next to the sofa.  I'd had to prep her for the possibility in case she came home while I was out picking up Nate from baseball workouts.  I didn't want her to come home and freak out when the lights wouldn't come on.

"Yep, thanks to the blog readers, we got enough donations to pay the bill."

"Really?"

"Really."

She stared at me. "Wow.  That's amazing."

"They are amazing."

With gratitude,

The Goldens

Open Your Eyes Open Your Ears

The inspiration for this post's title comes from Jen's Realia who says "Pay attention - there's a story wherever you go."

Yesterday I used up most of my words
So today I keep it simple.
Someone told me to leave the house.  Thanks, Someone, who is kind of turning into a mentor.  I know this isn't exactly what you meant, but it's a start.  Something different.  Like this to go with it.

I finally picked up my camera and stepped outside. (You can click on any of the images to see them better.)

And I didn't even have to leave the yard!

Have a great weekend, lovers.  What's up your sleeve?

And The Silicon Chip Inside Her Head Gets Switched to Overload

Oh my god, do you do things like this?  Please tell me you do things like this.

I carry whatever novel I'm reading into the bathroom and end up re-reading something in Cat Fancy I know I've already read eight times.

(I feel the need to explain why we have Cat Fancy magazine in the house.  Beyond the obvious, of course.  See, my Delta Skymiles were set to expire so in a fit of corporate thuggery that is yet to be believed by the authorities, Delta came to the house in the dead of night, placed a gun to my temple and demanded I order magazine subscriptions from a specific list of choices.  So it was either Cat Fancy or Cigar Aficionado.)

I buy soymilk and don't use it.  But I have good intentions.

I always forget when I have soap under my thumbnail.  That's precisely when I decide to gnaw on it.

I wonder why it is that people think god was watching over them when they survive an accident, but they never wonder why that same god wouldn't prevent the accident in the first place.

I stack things on top of the cabinet where we keep our medicinal items because if I open the cabinet, I'll see the mess inside and then before I can put things away, will be required to sort out the whole cabinet, taking the time to look at expiration dates and categorizing things before putting them back neatly.

I ask aloud to no one in particular why those things are still sitting on top of the cabinet instead of inside it where they belong.  I am deeply incensed when no one answers.

I make inappropriate jokes to my children and then wonder why they are so astonishingly sarcastic to me.

I listen to Erik Satie and think that perhaps I should reconsider calm.  Often calm also means blue.  A well-adjusted person doesn't have a whole Pandora station based on Satie, does she?

I search for meaning in things where I probably shouldn't.

I tell the cats that if they're willing to wear little chapeaus and sit on the chairs rather than on the table, we'll have that little catnip tea party I've been promising them.

I order my children to leave me alone unless they want me to find something for them to do.  (This sounds eerily as if I'm throwing my mother's voice.  A maternal talent that goes vastly under appreciated and underpaid.)

I don't seize the day as often as I should.

I ask MathMan to find me a beekeeper's suit on ebay so that I can mow without getting stung by those hornets in the ditch.  For those of you wondering why I don't look for it myself, please note that MathMan enjoys the hunt.  And I'm not going to take that away from him.  There remain so few joys in his busy life these days.

I write LOL on people's facebook stuff if I actually LOL.

I sing to every Indigo Girls song on the radio.  Even if someone is in the car with me and begging me to stop.

I laugh with my mouth wide open.

I read blogs but never comment.

I look at my geraniums and think they need to be tended, but then I never get out there to do it.  (May be related to my need for a beekeeper's suit or not.  Could be my inability to follow through on complete thoughts.)

I try to write descriptions of people I see in random places without them noticing that I am actually observing them and then making notes.

I don't get out much.

I long for simpler times that never were.

And you? Let it out.  Isn't confession good for something?

I'll take one.  And the suit, too.

I want to say thank you to Kirie at Three Little Chickies who recently sent me a message telling me to watch my mail.  Well, I did watch the mail even after the mail carrier asked me nicely to get back in the house and put some clothes on.  Then a box from Kirie arrived.  The package inside was wrapped so beautifully, I had to be made to open it.  My daughters, as it turns out, can be very persuasive.  I still can't believe they held the kitten who isn't exactly a kitten any more over the open flame of the gas stove.  Dang.

How cool is this?  I'm all set in my endeavor to get fit. And after the next five pounds come off, I'm using the Sephora card to reward myself with something girlie and decadent.

Thank you, Kirie.

Crimony! How much more honesty can you take?

I've gotten really bad about using this blog to properly to thank my fellow bloggers for awards and accolades. Some of you must wonder "Would it kill her to answer a tag? Is she too good to participate in a meme?"

Oh, where to begin? Well, thank you to Steve Emery, The Crow and Dean Wormer for awarding me with The Honest Scrap award. I am honored. I'm also shocked that y'all come here to see my stand on my head and show my panties. But thank you all the same.

As these events warrant, like proper placement of the fork next to the plate or how to address an Earl, this, too, has a set of rules and customs. I will share them here, but that is likely as far as I will go. I'm put off tagging others just because I hate to choose. Each blog I read adds something lovely to my life, knowledge, art, a giggle, an insight, news, music, beauty, feelings, thoughts.... you get the idea.

The rules of this award are:

1.You must brag about the award.
2.You must include the name of the blogger who bestowed the award on you and link back to the blogger.
3.You must choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. 4.Show their names and links and leave a comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog.
5.List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself.
Then pass it on with the instructions!

Okay, the honest things about me? This is the tough part because I feel like you all know so much about me already.

I guess I'm just going to dive in. It's typically what I do, right?

(1) I'm attracted to inappropriate things.
I've noticed lately that I like songs even though they have lyrics that could be considered offensive. For example....
Ben Taylor, Wicked Way.
She Wants Revenge, Tear You Apart.
The Decemberists, The Rake's Song.


(2) I wish I could travel across time.
If you watched that last video listed above, you'll have those images fresh in your mind. The footage was shot in New York City. This is especially poignant for me because it's somewhere between picking at a scab and applying salve. Depends on the day, the moment, the nanosecond. We're coming up on the anniversary of all sorts of personal dumbfuckery on my part and, try as I might to forget, it's hovering somewhere in the background making me wish that I could go back in time, rewind my life's recording, hit erase, erase, erase.

(3) I tune out my own thoughts.
I do not like falling asleep without the television on. If I lie there and listen to my thoughts, it's very hard to fall asleep.

(4) I look forward to a future when I have time and a wee bit of disposable income to do things. I really, really, really want to travel back to France and that's not going to happen by magic. Shut up, MathMan. I will not borrow your sister's broom either.

(5) I am not the kind of nurturing mom I thought I'd be. I do funny, sarcastic, honest (there's that word again), and I probably am soft with them in ways they understand, but I'm not traditional, I get really impatient and resentful of the expectations for mothers these days and I find it very easy to react first with anger, then later with something more appropriate. I wish I were a different kind of mom.

(6) Yesterday, when The Actor, who will now be referred to as The Ninja, got injured and the EMTs called me as I drove to the office and I couldn't get MathMan on his phone because he was in a meeting, I came really close to losing it out of frustration. I was proud of myself for taking a deep breath, following my instincts and handling things until MathMan could get involved. You see, he's the primary parent for injury and illness. (see #5) and The Ninja is fine. Three stitches in his shin, no biggie.

(7) This is getting easier as I consume more wine. I really like wine. Alot. Alot, alot. I am not drunk blogging. I am drinking blogging.

(8) I took a nap when I got home tonight. Well, first I ate because all I'd consumed during the day was one and a half of a micro-powdered donut, a cup of coffee and a piece of string cheese. As we drove home, I told MathMan that I could feel my brain being sapped of synapses from a lack of food and sleep. I'm telling you, something has to give. Soon.

(9) I don't like not getting my way. Who does, right? Well, lately, I've been very frustrated with The Dancer who still wants to go to a school she cannot afford. I want to scream at her that we will not let her make the same fucking mistakes we made. NO LOANS. NONE. I do find that when I tell her we don't always get our first choice or what we want, I'm talking to myself as much as I am talking to her.

(10) I'm going to take a break for a few days. I'm wiped out. The move, the adjustments, the longer commute (although the company is very delightful), the lack of sleep, the college-days diet, the late nights of cybersex with MathMan (who knew I would hook up with my very own husband on one of those affair websites?), the general fretting, the torture memos to read, the running and screaming at the sight of carpenter bees, the additional responsbilities at work, the onset of baseball and gardening season, the fact that each and every day brings a new reminder that it's the end of the school year for three kids in three different schools plus one dedicated math teacher, graduation is bearing down on us, looming decisions and disappointments to deal with, the constant negotiations with my id, ego and superego and that unresolved itch that seems to appear when I don't have a Dave handy, have all conspired to wear me the hell out.

Plus, I just want to finish reading my book about Edward Gorey without sitting on the damned toilet. There's also lots of video to edit, finger operas to rehearse and sock puppet to design.

Anyway, you get the picture. Me = tired. The rest is just so much fluffernutter soup with a dollop of yawn floating sadly on top.

See you in a bit, People of the Internets.

Honestly loving you hard, fast and in many inappropriate ways,

Lisa

030909 Lisa 2, originally uploaded by mathman6293. This comes from MathMan's flickr account. Photo taken March 9, 2009.
Sometimes, MathMan really captures the true me in a photograph. That is all.

(Drawing of some woman named DCup - above- by susan at Adventures Ink, Phantsythat and Baby Days. Click the picture for a link)

Love Letter to MathMan

Dear MathMan:

Thank you for the gorgeous earrings you ordered for me from Micgar's wife Lucinda. The garnet earrings are simply exquisite. I am particularly touched to receive these from you because there is no special occasion. You've given them to me just because and that makes me feel very special.

When the package arrived yesterday, I was pleasantly surprised to receive not one pair of earrings, but two. Lucinda included the lavender earrings with the carnival glass effects as a free gift. They are also very pretty and I love their copper clasps.

Thank you for these beautiful gifts and thanks to Lucinda, a very talented jewelry designer and maker. I enjoyed looking through her etsy store. Wow!

Love,

Lisa

P.S. I suppose you finally expect to collect on that thing I promised you. I knew that eventually you would call in that promise I made in 1996 when I said not then, but sometime....well, okay. The earrings are incredibly beautiful.......let's go.



What? I'm going to let him win at Scrabble! What did you think I meant? You naughty, naughty people.