Who's behind the false face

Via Retro Weirdo

Special concern:  If you were in the path of the Hurricane Sandy, I hope you're okay.  Has anyone heard from MSB after the storm? I emailed her, but haven't heard back.

1. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo starting on November 1st. The family has been warned there will be increased neglect and I'll be acting like someone with PMS for the entire month, consuming sickening quantities of leftover Halloween candy (right down to the already-opened Smarties) and overreacting to all interruptions. Plus I'll be squeezing all this fun into the hours when I'm not at work or driving to and from. Predictions:  A 50/50 chance of success with a high probability of martyr-like behavior and an outbreak of adult acne.

2.  I want to write an essay titled "Why the Constitution is an Asshole."

3.  If Mitt Romney becomes our president, I'm cancelling my plans to get my diminished hearing checked. Listening to him lie is bad enough, but if I have to go through four years of listening to him do that ghastly tongue click before he speaks, well, that will be too much to bear. It's even worse than the classical radio announcer out of Cincinnati who always sounded like he was chewing a fistful of nuts when he spoke. I could picture him spraying spittle and flecks of pistachios all over the microphone.

Via Retro Weirdo

4. I spent nearly an hour yesterday evening looking at photos of vintage Halloween costumes. The entire Eastern seaboard is in a shambles and I'm trolling for vintage Halloween photos because the bad news all around is breaking my delicate nature.

5. I'm reading a book with the most atrocious dialogue, but I want to know how it ends. I'm halfway through and want to skip ahead, scanning through the dialogue because otherwise I'm afraid I'm going to lose my damn mind. But some writer - all right, Selden Edwards - worked really hard to write this story. Does skipping and scanning make me an asshole like the Constitution?

6. MathMan and I voted on Saturday. Spiderman was standing the prescribed number of feet or yard away from the polling place holding a sign for some fellow who's running for the local school board. After watching this, I'm thinking that having Spiderman on the school board would be an improvement. Goodness knows he wouldn't be our first mutant.

What are you hoping for in your treat bag?

Caught in a landslide

Not a chicken, but I love his style.

Are these the chickens?

The little signs. The billboards. The shoe on the other foot? One shoe on the floor, the other about to ----

Withholding or absence?

Sandpaper on silk, tongue stuck on a popsicle.
A tango without steps. Without a lead. Fearless or otherwise.

Leaves falling in July. Green grass in December.

Is this the real life or is this just Fantasia?

Where did I put it? Where did you put it?  It's always something. First one thing than another. There you go. And there you are. There's that.

The John Deere in the haystack. The needle in your eye.

Nothing is easy.

Quick! Make haste! Vite! Vite!

Remove all flat surfaces. Depressions and resting places. Fill them with knick knacks and bric-a-brac.

Not here. No no no no. Not here. This is not your soft landing.

You let your mind out somewhere down the road

Links you can use. For good or evil. Links like a dandelion spreading its seeds on the wind,  links like sugar, Johnny Applelink, Malcolm Gladwell's Link.

You know, links you might find mildly or wildly interesting.

David Cay Johnston gives us a Tale of Two Healthcare Plans. Warning: contains graphs, charts and the mention of taxes.

Paul Krugman (who had a cameo in Get Him to the Greek, much to my surprise and delight because if I have to sit through a film featuring Russell Brand and a scene where his character demands that his handler smuggle drugs up his butt (the handler's not his own), then I'm going to need some sort of smartypants liberal elite elixir to provide some balance. One can't sue Hollywood for brain atrophy, can one?) Where was I? Oh, yes, Paul Krugman. His piece on obstruction and exploitation. Also known as <redacted>.

I'm trying to not curse. It's an experiment, an exercise in self restraint.

Which reminds me, I'm listening to the audio version of Frank Delaney's Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show: A Novel of Ireland and have laughed uproariously while driving to and from work. Which is saying something because lately I have been in one pissed off and holler mood. To crack this marble face takes some true comedic talent.

I bring this up because in the book, there's a character who seasons every sentence with a sulfuric dash of that oh so versatile word fuck. When the narrator reports any conversations he has with said cuss monster, his mother insists he use flock instead of the other very bad word.

To wit:

...why in the flock does she need a flocking ladder to get to the flocking flowerboxes when I flocking told her that I would flocking help her in a few flocking minutes.......

It is perfect, of course, with the Irish brogue.

Douglas Coupland offers some advice to writers. Specifically, to young writers, but who's to say what's young anymore? I'm not biologically young, but my writing is young. Anyway, it's a bullet point list so it won't wear you thin with paragraphs and contains some points I haven't seen elsewhere in my search for enlightenment about writing (a procrastination tactic familiar to writers the world over.)

Gwynne Watkins interviews Amanda Palmer.

Super8. Have you seen it? Sophie interrupted her own raving about it to ask me to watch it with her. I said I'd watch a few minutes and then probably get back to whatever it was I'd been doing. Two hours later, I was still glued to the television. It held my interest enough that I didn't multitask once during the entire viewing and it made an ELO fan out of Sophie.

Bra Recycling. Surprisingly, I don't mean turning bras into charming chapeaux. Although one could, I suppose, but let's leave MathMan out of this.

I'm reading Rachel Maddow's Drift: The Unmooring of American Military Power. Talk about taxing my ability to remain curse word free. I'm only up to the part about how Reagan funded the Contras in Nicaragua and have already worn out the phrases holy shit, motherfucker, Jesus Christ, What the hell? and I'll be damned.

Please just stop. For all that was good and holy in Mrs. Johnson's 7th grade language class, please. Stop.

And finally Fred Armisen on Alec Baldwin's Here's the Thing. Via the incomparable Bob Lefsetz. If you've been asking if you should keep chasing your dream, you must listen to this.

What's making you click these days?

And none contented

Things I've learned/rediscovered during my pseudo vacation from the internet. And other things I'm just dying to tell you.

1. My "spare" time is easily filled up by the people I love. I've never been in such demand, not even when I had one hanging off my leg and another hanging off my breast.

2. What "spare" time isn't devoted to staring meaningfully at my children as gems drop from their lips is quickly eaten up by my need to keep things just so.

3. Upon attempting to not give a flying fig about the squalor that doubles as the children's bedrooms, I think I may have pulled something. Or lost something. They'd say my sense of humor is missing. I'd say (in descending order) you're on your own now so no more money, get a job, and how does military school sound?

4.  Nate is like me when it comes to emotional films. He, Sophie and I watched Of Mice and Men with Gary Sinise and John Malkovich, but then Nate refused to watch the end because he's read the book.

I get this. I once became furious with MathMan for renting Jack the Bear from Blockbuster. A kid so traumatized by the death of his mother that he goes mute! Fantastic! Areyououtofyoureverlovingmind? Whatwereyouthinking? !!!

If I'm alone, fine. I snivel. Sob. Wipe snot on my sleeve. Dab at the corner of my eyes with a tissue.

But when I'm with the family, none of whom seem moved by the same things that move me? They can't help themselves. They have to look at me to see if I'm getting misty-eyed. They know it embarrasses me and they make a joke of it to cover their own embarrassment.

Also - Sophie loves the movie Harold and Maude. When did you watch Harold and Maude? I wanted to know.

One night when I couldn't sleep. I watched it on Netflix.

Interesting. When I had seventh grade insomnia, I watched the numbers flip over on my sister's clock/radio while counting to sixty. The trick was to time it just right so I got to sixty as the number flipped.

How times have changed.




5. MathMan's sister sent him some information about the family's last name (Golden is the assimilated name).  Suddenly his family's history has a name. A place. Birthdays. Immigration dates. A million thanks to his cousin who tracked this information down.

I only wish we'd had this information sooner because I can guarantee you that one of Nate's middle names would be Leyzer.

6. People surf the internet more during the traditional working hours than at any other time of the day. Not that it's particularly significant. I'm just glad they do.

7. I've been online off and on, most especially looking at classic car websites. If I had the resources, I could become a gearhead pretty easily. More on that is coming. I know - you're thrilled.

7.a. The Chick Fil A mess was enough to drive me offline. What a disturbing clustertug. Some of my coworkers chipped in and had CFA for lunch last Wednesday. Not surprisingly, I didn't participate. I maintain personal, petty reasons for not eating that dreck (caveat - I'd climb over dead bodies to get at one of their chocolate milkshakes), predating this current fight. For the record, I no longer drink their milkshakes either. Great for my waistline and my conscience.

Knowing my coworkers went out of their way to support that company for any number of reasons made me feel a little less sparkly happy about my job. I'd gotten a bit too comfy pretending that this could be a tiny liberal haven because it's a labor union. I'm so tired of being an ideological minority. I've bitten my tongue so many times that it's mostly numb.

8.  I'm listening to the audiobook of In One Person by John Irving. I haven't read any of his work since Garp. I wasn't sure I'd like this novel, but I do. Very much. I've laughed out loud alone in my car several times. That's a bit awkward at stoplights, but I'd rather a stranger see me laugh than my family see me cry.

9.  The In-Betweeners. It's just another example of how I'm really a 12 year old boy trapped in a pair of Fanx (faux Spanx).

10. Your turn. Epiphanies, random bits of knowledge, book reviews, disappointments, pet peeves, potential hobbies and/or name changes?

Tell me did I go on a tangent?

Slices of life.

Like pie. Or cheese.

Needs a stronger prescription.

It's been hot, but hey, it's summer in Georgia (I don't know what to say for the rest of you sweltering away where you are.) Heat is to be expected. The real problem is the humidity. But then, that's expected, too. Expected, but still lamented.

I step out of the shower, towel off and I can't get dry. It's disgusting. And it makes pulling on those Fanx (faux Spanx) an unpleasant, curse-word laced activity. Before I even attempt it, I aim to rid myself of some of this moisture. And then there's the fact I despise under-boob sweat. One's chest should not be a swampland.

MathMan is still in bed with his eyes closed. I assume he's asleep. I quietly pick up the box fan next to the bed and hold it in front of me. The air feels deliciously cool on my skin.

"You can just stand there and do that all day."

The sweet man. Of course, I can't take a compliment. "Good thing you're not wearing your glasses. I'm so fat and gross."

"I stand by my statement."

Interactive

Don't you think we need some more word play based on Fifty Shades of Grey?

I mean, in this age of online reality, nothing is a phenomenon until it's been parodied four hundred and seventy-two different ways.

Here are is my attempts at Shading:

Fifty Shades of Kiss My Ass.

Okay, that's it for me. Do something with this. I know you're dying to.

Pointy


I'm listening to the audio book Jennifer Egan's Look at Me. (Salon review from November 14, 2001)

First - Egan is an excellent wordsmith.

Second - Egan was incredibly prescient or I have truly forgotten how deep we already were into the internet in 2000.

Third - I'm an impatient reader/listener. Although Egan's writing is beautiful, blah, blah, blah,  I am often thinking "Get on with it! Get to the point! Tell the damn story!"

Do you do this or am I just an asshole?

Holidaze
I'm going to take the month of August off from the internet. I've got some work travel coming up and a stack  of books to read. School starts back up and that's a busy time at Golden Manor.

All of which is to say, expect me to blog every single day next month because whenever I say I'm taking a break is precisely when life presents me with all sorts of writing material.

Crank it wide open and let your thoughts spill out, yo.

And this because I love the lyrics, that's why.

Find the hidden elephant

My mother had it wrong. People without a lick of sense or class are not shunned by society. Some even get their own TV shows.

Every online platform quickly becomes a place to market things.

Chewed gum carelessly wrapped in a tissue and left in a hot car for the entire day will quickly attach itself to every surface - animate and inanimate - you come in contact with after you grab that same tissue while sneezing.

Chewed gum is not so easy to get out of your nose hairs.

I should probably switch to breath mints.

The Vermont Country Store catalog is retro-lover's wet dream. And you can order something from it to clean up after yourself, too.

People who do Calculus to unwind before they go to bed are (fill in the blank).

There is no such thing as a comfortable underwire bra.

Clumpers on Facebook. Who else gets bored with this?

Over to you...

Shaken and stirred

Wobbly. In between. Ookie. Like the time I took two doses of Dramamine instead of one. Hungover. Tingly in the head, my brain loose in my skull.

For reasons beyond my control, there was a two-day gap where I didn't take my anti-depressants or my appetite suppressant.

Not that one thing has anything to do with the other.

I lay in bed and felt I was melting into the mattress. It was like being comfortable, but it didn't feel right. It's hard to explain. Sleep seized me in its grip and a dream happened.

I was standing next to a wall having a conversation with someone unknown and then a hand was over my face and I was struggling to breathe. I woke up with a start. MathMan asked me what was wrong.

Bad dream.

I was drifting again even as my heart pounded.

Another dream. Nothingness then water closed over my head. Someone held me under water. I thrashed about, struggled to free myself. I wanted to break the surface, but couldn't.

Awake again. - What is wrong with you? - Another bad dream. Was I flailing around? - No. But you look sweaty.

My will to live is alive and kicking.

I was afraid to fall asleep. I fought it, but soon enough I was in another dream. The kind that seems to last a long time, fades into the next and the next and the next. Not a nightmare, thank goodness.

A new place to live. A rental in a mixed neighborhood. A house dead center of Gated Community meets The Projects. Nice neighbors, a kitchen with a tremendous amount of storage space. Commercial areas distributed around the neighborhood with shops, bars and restaurants. Elevators taking residents and the public up and down between the residential area and the commercial areas.

A cameo appearance by a past lover. A friend from high school. Washington Post columnist Jonathan Capehart wearing a bowtie and sitting a couple of tables away. He looks over and smiles. Don't I know you?  Yes. I'm friends with you on Facebook. A fan.

We make a date to visit a gay bar down the block. I hope you'll wear that bowtie.

The high school friend wants to show me something. A new iPhone app that shows you how many times a person looks at you. She wants to tell me how many times my old lover has looked at her over the course of the evening. Over 300 times. I am not surprised. He never stops looking.

All day yesterday, I waited for the dream details to fade. They lingered, littered my mind. I felt the occasional zap of electricity course through me. Felt faint a couple of times. Craved a  nap.

I picked up my prescriptions and took the anti-depressant before bed. I remember no dreams from last night.

I can't wait to reverse the process and get off these pills. What are they doing to my brain chemistry?

Not that one thing has anything to do with the other.

What's your Bunsen Burner?

Drive time

Someone's been playing with Picassa again.

Some random items because stringing together more than a few loose thoughts seems beyond my pay grade right now.

1. I am in desperate need of a blow up doll. Not for that. I need one to ride shotgun so I can use the carpool lane. What? You think I could make this simpler by getting a real person to commute with me? Please. That would be way more trouble than it's worth. A real person would expect me to make conversation. A real person might ask me to compromise on the radio station we listen to. They'd expect me to not let out air. Which I never do, but still. If a chick toots and there's no one there to hear/smell it, it never happened. I'll bet a real person would be offended if I plucked a chin hair at a red light.

Human being = obligations, manners and expectations. Griselda the Amazing Latex Friend = speedier commute without the hassles.

2. There's that guy at the office. Two actually. You know. Very serious. Very busy. And these are very serious times. I don't mean to make light of the good work they're doing on behalf of the organization.

But.

Anytime I'm doing something boneheaded or embarrassing like crawling around on the floor moving my computer tower or missing my mouth with a spoonful of yogurt as I eat lunch at my desk or like when the caterers spilled iced tea in the tiled foyer and needed napkins to sop up the spill and I wasn't supposed to leave the phones at the front desk, but dashed down the hall to the mail room where I know we keep the overstock of napkins....

A top-heavy woman dashing in a pencil skirt and pumps? Not a pretty sight.

Of course one of those guys was rounding the corner. One of them is always there to bear witness to my doofishness.

Then there was the day I filled in for the receptionist, and left one of them on hold for three minutes after I thought I'd transferred his call. Did I mention that these two guys are a couple of the biggest dogs in the kennel? Thankfully, they both seem to think despite my perceived quirks, that I'm doing a good job.

Which reminds me - whoever invented "soft" multi-line phone buttons that change when a new line rings in, should be strung up alongside the sadists who invented underwire bras, pantyhose, The Grapefruit Diet and Fox News.

3. Speaking of that guy, there was a different guy on I75 yesterday. He apparently enjoyed my singing with emotive facial expressions and hand gestures as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic. What can I say? Norah Jones makes me invisible. Or so I thought.

He beeped to get my attention and applauded when I looked his way. Lucky for him, me and my bad singing were walled off from the world. I blew him a kiss and he caught it with a big goofy grin.

My lane started moving. The moment was over.

4.  At our house, they're called Sloppy Jews. But don't be fooled. They taste just like my mother makes them with ketchup, mustard and brown sugar.

5.  I caught the stealth carpet pooper in the act today. Booing him loudly as he finished his business didn't stop him mid-dookie, but it sure made me feel better. Sadly, shame has no sway over felines.

6.  Atlanta needs a decent traffic report that isn't part of the AM right wing talk station. If I have to continue listening to Sean Hannity just to find out if I should take I75, I285 or I20, I will very likely have an aneurysm. Today he and his guests were talking about why George Zimmerman isn't a murderer. One of his young female guests was quick to point out that young Martin had been suspended from school. Can we start executing kids for being suspended from school because that means I should at least be able to taze my kids for backtalk. Or, you know, that electric cattle prod is just collecting dust since MathMan and I gave up those particular role-playing games......

7.  Every morning, it's the same thing - straight or curly? Burn myself on the flat iron or the curling iron? Life was much easier when the question was simply  shower or not shower? This morning, I made pin curls which turned out quite nicely, but Mathman was concerned that I was going to leave the house with the coils pinned to my head with bobby pins. Bless his heart. But will he tell me when my shirt is on wrong-side out? Of course not.

8.  Shredding is most gratifying. I like to call it destroying the evidence. I don't think the shredder is supposed to smoke though.

9. MathMan and I are in a bit of a standoff. I had a fit about the lack of division of labor around here. I shouted something about if I was going to do the majority of the housework, baseball bleacher sitting, kid management, hunting and gathering, doctor/dentist appointment making and keeping, bill paying and cooking, then I sure as hell will not be taking care of the yard, too. Then I scooched up a little higher on that cross and got comfortable.

All of which explains the backyard.

Weedy. But don't the dogwoods look lovely?

Hi! What's growing on you?

Did we miss anything?

Dictators fall. No, not really. Like an old sitcom featuring Tom Hanks before all those awards cluttered his mantle, they scamper away dressed like women. Or maybe they slither. That seems more fitting. Oh, screw it, I do so enjoy the vision of them tottering away on high heels, confusion clouding their faces. Toe-heel or heel-toe?

Claimstakers and stakeholders clutch their Blackberries. A talisman for today. What does it mean? Perspiration trickles from somewhere to somewhere, a manifestation of their need to have it all interpreted into dollars, euros, small shiny things that mean the world. Hungry, greedy mouths open. Baby birds craving the spin. Up or down, damn it! The uncertainty is killing us.

I scratch at the mosquito bite on my leg. Disinterested in this week's BIG STORY. When is Masterpiece Mystery going to show something new? So who can dance whether they think they can or not? Who survives? What song of Glee? Whom shall I Idolize? What chef mastered, what Kardashian smoked, what did the chiseled-cheekboned forensics beauty say about the body in the library?

The internet is running slow again. The "R" on this keyboard has gone all wonky. How many days can we go before they shut off the water? Could those gas prices come down any sooner? What are we fighting for? How about a kiss. It was only a kiss. Who has the remote? Did you see my......? Got enough money on your account for lunch this week? I found the missing cable, should I send it to you? I've got no service where I am right now. I keep hearing R.E.M. in my head. What were you laughing at in bed last night while I was trying to sleep? Oh, man, which cat did that? Well, let's refreeze them, make sure we cook them well and hope for the best.

I think world domination is one of those things that sounds good in theory, but the practicalities of it are too taxing for the human spirit. Best to leave it to the aliens when they get here.

We would make great pets,

Lisa

P.S. New post at PoliTits. A shorty.

P.S.S. If you've blogged today, please put your link in the comments. My feed reader is out of control and I don't want to miss your posts. Thanks.

We've got it all until the revolution comes

Some more world-stopping observations to help get you through your day...

1. Scott Farkus and Grover Dill may rule the back alleys between home and school, but they're terrified of the vacuum cleaner. They also enjoy rasslin' on the back of my chair which means they're tumbling around back there behind my head. The joys never end.

2. You know you're a true political junkie/journalist groupie when you vow never to wash your twitter again after WaPo columnist Jonathan Capehart responds to one of your tweets.

Click photo to enlarge

2.1 If you're not on Twitter, you might want to rethink that. Did you know you can interact with fun people like the author Tayari Jones?

Click photo to enlarge

2.2 And if you are on Twitter and not following me, what's up with that? Don't make me deliver a cat to you. Because I will.

Seriously though, be sure to check out who follows me and who I follow. I've made lists, too. Great people, funny people, co-conspirators, authors, political types and my blog friends who fit into any number of those categories.

P.S. If you're on Twitter and I'm not following you, please leave your twitter handle in the comments so I can fix that situation. Thank you.

3. The word super is being overused. It seems to have replaced the now exhausted extreme and mega. We have this new Super Committee of Congressional members who will decide whether or not we flourish or wither and then there's this new Super Group called, of course, The Super Heavy featuring Mick Jagger, Dave Stewart, Joss Stone, Damian Marley and R.H. Rahman.

I think we'd have a better chance of making it out alive if we put the Super Heavy in charge of policy and sent those bought lawmakers into the studio with some kazoos and the much-maligned squeezebox.

4. Want to stir things up on Facebook? Mention Kozy Shack pudding. True story.

Click photos to enlarge

5. I've been listening to the rhetoric coming from the Right, the moderates, the corporate media and anyone who owes their living to fundraising money from deep pockets. I find it chilling that there's this assumption that we all must simply accept the current and very gross income inequality as the "new normal." Listen carefully and educate yourselves, my loves, because that horrible notion frames everything that those folks say.

6. There are two more containers of Kozy Shack pudding in the garage fridge. I've put it as far away from me as possible. So let's say I decide to eat one. But I don't want to gain weight so to balance the input, I just eat it while running on the elliptical. Webcast? Yes or no?

7. I've tinkered with the layout of the blog and my other blog PoliTits, making the font larger, for example, because I notice that when I'm reading blogs with small fonts, I tend to stop reading because it's too much work. I know. First world problems abound. Let me tell you next about how the dishwasher is so noisy that I have to crank up the volume on the television in the living room so I can hear it while I'm puttering around in the kitchen.

8. I'm definitely a Libra. I'm torn between positive visioning that I'm going to get the job in Chicago for which I interviewed this week and fretting that if I think or talk about it, I'll jinx the whole thing.

9. I think politicians should stop trying to sound hip by making pop cultural references and employing folksy sayings. They could stand to lay off the similes, metaphors and euphemisms, too. Play it straight, people, or run the risk of wishing Elvis a happy birthday on the anniversary of his death. Someone spank their handlers and put them in the corner until the next news cycle.

10. Your turn. Observations, thoughts, gripes, confessions, whimsical statements of epic proportions welcome.

Put on a Poncho, Play for Mosquitoes

I'm thinking in lists today.

1. This draft of major rewrites is finished and only one day behind schedule. The sex scene remains unwritten and I'll let beta readers tell me if it's necessary of it's better to let the reader fill in the hot blanks. #amwriting

2. I lied. The draft isn't finished. I must adjust the dates in the chapter headers. Dates are critical to the story. Once I've dropped in those dates, I'll email those of you who have volunteered to beta read. I've added a Work in Progress page (see tab above) with the opening of the novel so you can see if the style and genre are something you might want to beta read. I hate to give this very mainstream writing to those who expect something literary because I promise you, you'll be disappointed. The novel has maybe one or two metaphors in the entire 73k words. So if you've volunteered to beta, but find that this won't be your cup of vodka, that's cool. #amediting

3. Scott Farkus and Grover Dill remain sequestered in the garage. This causes some difficulties because the refrigerator in the kitchen isn't working properly so we've moved all the fridge stuff to the freezer side and all the freezer stuff is in the fridge in the garage. Before you go wondering how broke-ass people like us can afford two refrigerators, take note: the one in the garage belongs to our landlord.

Anyway.

Every time I have to fetch something from the freezer or the overstock in the garage fridge, Scott and Grover rush the door and suddenly it's Kitty Rodeo! Bets on how long it takes me to give up and just introduce those boys to the rest of the band?

Also, this nonsense makes it even harder to sneak the ice cream I have hidden in the back of the freezer.

Also, too, thank you, Randal, for reminding me that Toady's real name is Grover Dill. #yeehaw

4. I did not watch the Republican debate last night on Fox News, but I can tell you this: I hope to hell that Tim Pawlenty's political career is over soon. I don't know if I've ever shared this, but certain words trigger food cravings for me. I know. Weird, but there it is. So whenever Pawlenty's name is mentioned, I'm all Homer Simpson "mmmmm polenta.....aaaaaahhhh." It's kind of disturbing. I don't need this shit. Polenta is high in calories and tricked out with crazy genetic shit thanks to Monsanto's messing with corn seed.

At least if Mitt Romney wins the nomination, I won't get fatter. I'll just have to listen to MathMan call him Mitten for the next year and half. Gain more weight or be jailed because of a domestic dispute turned violent? It's a clear choice to me.

And if Michele Bachmann wins? Let's just say it will be a veritable smorgasbord of tasteless jokes chez nous. Followed by a lot of Bless her hearts because we don't want to be totally cruel. That sets a terrible example for the children. #areyoufuckingkiddingme

5. Speaking of MathMan, I can't convince him to keep a respectful distance when we're in bed, so I'm insisting that he study this. #middleagedsexcapades



6. Now I'm craving some John Stamos with a side of Bob Saget. Fucking inconvenient since the closest I'll ever get to them is watching Full House reruns as I serve Sophie her breakfast. #guiltypleasures

7. My blog stats continue to be enhanced by people doing research on Nancy Pelosi's breasts. I wish some foundation would form to help those people get to the bottom of whatever important social concern they're trying to solve. Maybe that foundation would hire me to be its CEO. #stillneedajob

8. The new Indigo Girls song Making Promises has a Monkees vibe to it. Now I'm craving Pop Tarts and Peter Tork because that's what I remember eating when I watched Monkees reruns as a child. Pop Tarts, I mean. #foodandtv

9. Someone needs to vacuum this house. Know what that leaves me craving? A maid. #suckthis

10. Your comment goes here. The best comment wins two cats (fill in with a lot of legal jargon and disclaimers.)


With all good wishes,

Lisa

Don't cry for me, next door neighbor

He tells me that he is not the Blue Bird of Happiness.

Oh my goodness, friends, People of the Internets, whatever hit me has taken me down but good. Is it Churchill's black dog come to call? A lack of sugar? Brain numbed from the screeching about the Casey Anthony verdict (who knew this nation was so chock full of legal fucking experts? And who let those people loose on Facebook? Shit, man). Maybe it was this morning's skies with the smudgy cotton batting filling the spaces between the hills. Maybe it's because my dreams have been exhibitions of exhausting symbolism, car chases and talking moose, not of the Bullwinkle variety. Maybe it's because I'm emotionally wrecked after sobbing on the elliptical yesterday while I watched Robert DeNiro play an old guy in Everybody's Fine.

Maybe it's some unresolved parental issues I drag around like a battered valise. Maybe it's because my shoulders are aching something fierce from holding up this damned debt ceiling. Maybe it's because I didn't have coffee this morning as I dashed out to relieve RiteAid of two Fusion Proglide razors with blades, a tube of Crest ProHealth toothpaste, John Freida shampoo and conditioner and they paid me seventy cents for the privilege.

All I do know is I need a nap. Okay, another nap. And lately, I don't quite know how I get up in the morning.

Today I think let's just stand back and watch it all burn down. I know it can get worse, but I don't see how. That segment of my imagination has switched off to protect the guilty.

What's dragging you down? What's making you squeal like a pig? What's Ned Beatty doing here anyway? Where's the black dog's kibble?

They Might Be Giants covers Chumbawamba

Let me swing among those stars

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

Well. WELL!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am the id to your superego

I've been taking photos of flowers.

Pardon my hyperbole, but I have the best dang friends. Rulebreakers, the lot of you. And thank you for that. Thank you for the emails and Facebook comments when I wouldn't let you comment on that last post. Today I'm still as dull as ever, but feeling better even if the house is shrouded against the predicted heat. Man, I hate having the house closed up and worse - hate shutting blinds and putting up curtains (or makeshift curtains) - but with predicted highs near 90 degrees, it's either that or be a whining puddle of perspiration by 2p.m. because that thermostat is set at 80 and it's staying there even if I have to break every bone in Sophie's fingers. (She's the thermostat fiddler around here.)

Such is my cross. There are people without enough food to eat, Lisa, you goon.

But back to my friends. They offer understanding, care, their stories of similar feelings. There really is something to that old adage Misery loves company. It really is nice to know you're not alone while you're in full wallow mode. Unless, of course, thinking you're alone is part of the fun.

I also received a gentle ass-kicking from a friend who's been in and out of my life for longer than I care to mention. If you've read the Ethan stories under the Little Love Stories tab, you already know him. His real name is Craig and, aside from MathMan, he's probably my best friend. While this might seem odd and dangerously dangerous due to my proclivities toward bad behavior, it's turned out surprising well. Plus and bonus, he lives an ocean away so safe gets even safer. Add to that the fact that I've sworn off cybersex because typing all those mmmmms and oh yeah, babies, right there gets so bloody boring. If I'm going to type out a blow job, I may as well - - - oh nevermind.

Anyway, Craig read yesterday's post and got in touch with me via Skype. Shortly into the conversation, he made an important point: If MathMan had gone quiet, couldn't I offer him some understanding? Wasn't there a better way to handle things?

"Let's see, he's working three jobs, money is tight, his wife can't find a job, he can't finance his daughter's trip to England or even pay the rest of her tuition and, you said it yourself, it's that time of year with the end of school stuff. That shit is hard on a man."

Who asked him anyway?

Of course he's right. He then went on to note that we're doomed as a species because of our horrible communications skills. "Someone wants to talk when the other person doesn't want to listen. Women want to vent while men want to jump in and fix things. We're a mess."

When the man is right, he's right.

Thinking about what Craig had said, I did the simple thing. I asked MathMan how things were going. And he told me. I swear this relationship stuff can be so easy if we're not stupid about it.

Which brings me to Mother's Day. I'm just going to say this - I motherfucking hate that day. And MathMan summed up why. "I can never get it right," he growled at me after I fussed that it was just another day around here. No gift, two hand written cards, which were lovely, but I opened them in between running the restaurant and doing another load of laundry. I couldn't go on Facebook because of all the dumbass Mother's Day posts. I pretty much stayed off the blogs, too, because I was busy being angry and giving my family the silent treatment.

We went to a matinee showing of Water for Elephants and on the way there, I read a book because I didn't want to be myself - I'm a terrible backseat driver to MathMan. With added snark for giggles. I thought I did really well, but when I related this bit of family trivia to Craig as an example of how I'm trying to do things differently, Chloe, who was in the room at the time, reported that I couldn't help myself.  As MathMan barreled down on the stopped traffic ahead of us, I repeated the word "brakes" without ever looking up from my book. Fuck.

But I really hate that day. Who am I kidding? I a total curmuddgeon. I'm not fond of any holiday and partly because of the highflying expectations for magic and, oh god, I am my father's daughter.

The highlight of Mother's Day may have been dinner on the deck with Sophie and Chloe. Sophie is having trouble finding reading material that suits her and holds her attention. At twelve going on fifty-three, she's a tough nut. Chloe rummaged through the box of books she'd lugged home from school and came up with Jane Eyre, Chronicle of a Death Foretold and Eve Ensler's I Am An Emotional Creature. Really.

Sophie opened Jane Eyre, cocked an eyebrow and closed the book. Chloe clucked her tongue in disgust. "You have to get through the first part. And just ignore the marginalia."

"What's marginalia?"

"The stuff I've written in the margins."

As an aside to Chloe, I said, "I want to make a joke about the marginalia I added to Stephen Elliot's book."

"Mother, you're forgetting that you're the mom, not the friend," she replied with a hint of a smile.

"Is Stephen Elliot the guy who's into S&M?" Sophie laid the book on the table. Jane Eyre couldn't hold a precious candle to Stephen.

Chloe turned and gave me a look.

"Point taken," I said.

Chloe read to us from Jane Eyre. I really like being read to. Sophie declared the book beyond her grasp and asked if we had any Agatha Christie. What a kidder she is. I also gave her A.A. Milne's The Red House Mystery so here's hoping. Too bad I don't have any adult Judy Blume or Sidney Sheldon she can find and read on the sly like I did at her age. I wonder if my old copy of Flowers in the Attic is in one of those boxes in the garage?

We're watching too much political television around here again. Could that be it? Anyway, Chloe noticed yesterday that Howard Dean appears to have lost weight. MathMan mentioned that Newt Gingrich has gained weight or, porked up, as he put it so eloquently. I keep track of Howard Fineman's haircuts. Frankly, I liked it when his hair curled at his collar. It was middle-aged Jewish guy sexy and I'm into that obviously.

A text exchange with another friend also reminded me of how social media has changed the way peer pressure continues into adulthood. Before Facebook, twitter, and blogging, I suppose, lots of us went to work or did our thing around the house, and at the end of the day, did whatever we did, but most of us weren't interacting with a handful or more of people unless one was lucky enough to be a regular at a bar or gym or a joiner of clubs. Okay, well, I wasn't. I went home, did the housework, lavished my kids with fifteen minutes of attention, watched television, read or dicked around in the garden. Aside from not wanting to assault the world with my face without make up or the stray pube at the public swimming facility, I didn't much care what other people thought about me. Sure I followed the social norms to get by at work, but I didn't much follow the crowd. Hell, I didn't even know which crowds there were. I was in the phase of life where you just don't care. You don't even care that you don't care, you're so busy. Peer pressure was mostly a curse of the teen years.

Now peer pressure is served up in the form of Facebook, Twitter, and the other social media that create the brackets around our lives. Were you a shit heel who didn't offer all your fb friends a happy mother's day? I was. The hell with that peer pressure that can render things pretty meaningless after a while. I called my mother and left her a voicemail. Want to know where I got my attitude about holidays? You don't have to look far. Growing up, we just didn't make a big deal out of things in our household, if you know what I mean.

And while I'm at it - um, listen, it's Facebook - noting the fb is redundant. See, there I go. It's like repeating the word brakes except someone should be saying that to me and my mouth.

And what about this #FF bullshit on Twitter? We sure can take something fun and easy and load it with all kinds of obligations in no time flat, can't we? I mean, I get it. It's a way of giving, but criminy, can't anything just be fun without being weighed down with all this Have to stuff? I quote Steve Martin in the movie Parenthood "My whole life is have to" which was more true when I had a paying job, but you should see the frowny face texts I get if someone's favorite pair of socks aren't clean so I stick by that quote.

Why can't we just leave well enough alone? 140 characters, light, fun, maybe profound, if you're into that, a link to something you found interesting, but do we have to create structure and rules? Yes, yes, we do. It's how we know what to do next and with which hand to do it. And how not to wear white shoes while doing it, too. Unless it's between May and September. Wheat and chaff and all that. I'm chaff, nice to meet you.

I think my inner anarchist needs some Funions and red pop to make her quiet down.

I never should have turned on the television this morning. The things you see. Our elected dumbasses (possibly my new favorite word) running around repeating their new favorite catchphrase "An adult moment." I'm sure someone or three hundred and sixty-seven someones have already made this joke on Facebook and Twitter, but An Adult Moment for me would probably include the typed out blow job (referenced above). And I sure as hell don't want to pay taxes on that. Unless I'm making over $250k and then go right ahead and tax dollars 250,001 and above because I'm reasonable even if foulmouthed and vulgar.

Your turn. Unleash your inner (fill in the blank) because I think I've said more than enough.

Unsuppressed

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Alcohol is your yoga, baby

I didn't actually eat Quisp today.
I have five boxes left and I'm going to make them last.

Well, I thought I'd give you guys a couple of days rest after that last post. Nothing like slicing open one's chest for the world, right?

(utter lack of transition) I've been known to declare specific days as "days off." This never works and the eye rolling skills demonstrated by MathMan aren't for nothing. I deserve every roll of his root beer eyes, every knowing smirk. I have shown time and again that I am incapable of taking it easy.

So today I aimed to prove him and me wrong. I went into Sunday with a vengeance. I slept until 10a.m. It's 4:52 p.m. and I'm still in my pajamas and have done the bare minimum of ablutions aka brushing my teeth.

All this doing nothing has turned me into an eating machine. Hershey's kisses. Leftover honey chicken from the Dragon Garden. Welch's fruit snacks (made with real fruit), even real fruit - the fresh pineapple I crave with bananas, raspberries, and blackberries. Those amazing Frosted miniwheats with the mixed berry goo in the middle. Coffee. I could use some more coffee. Beer. I promised to make something for dinner, but I might renege on that because I'm just enjoying this break from the tedium far too much. Let them eat cereal! Let them eat Hostess cupcakes! Let them eat raw spaghetti! I don't care. There's thawed ground beef. They can get creative as far as I'm concerned. They will, too.

Day off. Me. Ass in chair, on bed, rolling around in the metaphorical clover with my honey.

I put the tray of my food debris outside the door like room service, but I'm afraid to open the door again to see if the children understood what that meant. They're not too smart when it comes to householdish things and they've rarely spent time in hotels with something as luxurious as room service so I doubt it. Yes, I know that's my fault for being too indulgent and doing too much for them. You don't have to tell me again.

I don't want to open the door because I know that I'll get pulled by the gravity of all that stuff I normally do that I'm not doing today as I stay in the sunny haven of the bedroom with a stack of books including The Key which you must read, the Atlanta Constitutional Journal with its seriously bizarre ad on the back page of the Jobs (ha, that's a laugh) section, the supersexy MathMan, naked photos of Johnny Galecki (yes, I looked them up when I found out they existed) a drawer full of candy and fruit snacks and the bathroom that completes the suite. Oh, and the dvds of Big Bang Theory and Midsomer Murders for when I must give my eyes a rest from all that reading.

I told you, I'm taking the day off! I don't want to get swept away by the have to stuff. Not today.

See, if I step out that door, I'll end up with a dishcloth in my hand or scooping the litter box again or being held hostage by cats who are always hungry or picking up the trail of crap left all over the house by my less than perfect children whose beds, I'm sure, remain unmade and who are wondering if their father and I have lost our minds because, like me, MathMan has stayed cozily and safely behind closed doors except for when he ventured out for some cold water from the fridge. Which reminds me, we could use a small refrigerator, a coffee maker and a microwave in here and then I would never have to leave this room.

I could get used to this just hanging out idea. It's been too long.

Thanks to all of you for the comments on that last post. I got one taker on the concept. Please visit Dale at his Place of Passion. He posted about where he writes and, I must tell you, it's beautiful, tidy, and tastefully-decorated. Thank you, Dale, for writing your great piece and showing us your writing place. If I ever visit, I won't be able to pee while you write.

I hope you're enjoying a day off, too. After listening to a TV conversation about how hard Americans work themselves (yes, even we Americans without paid jobs), I've decided to embrace the idea that down time is necessary to good health. Maybe I really can become the type of person who figures she'll look back on life and be glad for the laughs, the love and the experiences instead of how neat and tidy her house was. It's an aspiration, you know?

I had to test my dissatisfaction

So I wasn't satisfied to take on nature with just my foray into foliage maintenance last week. Which reminds me - you'll be pleased to know that since the three days I spent raking, blowing and plucking every last dry brown leaf off the property and into the brush in the way beyond, we've had a couple of big, windy, rainy storms pass through and now most of the Klingon oak leaves are on the lawn and it doesn't look like anyone has raked around here in ages.

Nature and control freaks do not mix well.

If last week was Lisa versus the Leaves, this week is like a rerun of Marlin Perkin's and his Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.

Funny, it hasn't been the bees in my bonnet either. Okay, not so funny. I don't find bees so funny. But bees and wasps and other stinging creatures aren't the issue. It appears that they like the gloom and cool weather as much as I do. I wonder if they're holed up in their little bee houses eating copious amounts of sweets and considering naps after a 2p.m. cocktail?

Anyway, this week, it's me versus the Animal Kingdom, Domestique. Dogs, cats, sugar ants. I still can't figure out how the sugar ants got onto the Igloo water cooler we use for our filtered H20, but finding them crawling on the surface made damn sure that I'd be launched into some exhausting project to cure the situation.  A half hour later, the place where the cooler sat empty and wiped down (with vinegar, of course) and the refrigerator had been rearranged and washed out so that I could move the shelves to accommodate the eighteen inch chubby red plastic monstrosity.

Truth is, I really hated how the cooler looked sitting on the counter, so thank you, ants. You gave me a reason to fix the situation.

Other domestic disturbances include two - no three cats - a fourth if you consider the new feral kitty I've been feeding because I'm a sap for poofs who ask nicely and a dog.  Sorry about that sentence structure.

So the first cat at issue is Morris, aka The Butterscotch Lion aka The Fluffball of Love. He's not so fluffball anymore because he discovered what happens when he drags his dirty ass across my carpet. If he's not groomed often, clumps of poo get matted and ick!

I spent Saturday evening locked in battle with him, my only weapons a pair of scissors and a bad attitude. That was not how I intended to spend Saturday evening and I made sure everyone knew it. At one point I shouted to MathMan through the bathroom door that I need one of those wooden thingies sheep farmers use when they shear their sheep. It could double for some kinky sex, too. MathMan was appropriately amused, thank goodness, and you know he's going to hold me to the kinky sex part, right? Anyway, I've created a search on eBay for a small shearing platform. Will keep you posted.

The second cat at issue is Tiger. All the sudden, he's Mama's Boy. This cat is on top of me, breathing my air, killing me softly with his purring. In all our married years, MathMan and I let only one animal sleep with us (if you don't count the children) - a cat named Phoebe. That was before Chloe was born nearly twenty years ago (I'm trying to get used to saying that.). Phoebe loved me, too, and liked to show me by snogging and drooling on my neck. It was beyond gross, but just like now, I was ridiculously accommodating. One night while I was pregnant with Chloe, I dreamed that instead of a precious baby, I gave birth to a litter of kittens. I woke up panicked and panting to find Phoebe asleep on my swollen belly. It was then that animals not of my own making were banished from the bedroom.

Tiger rattles the doorknob and fusses until I relent and let him in. After a few minutes kneading, I'm ready in his opinion and we can settle in to sleep. I turn over on my side and spoon with MathMan and Tiger spoons me. It's much more wholesome than it sounds.

The third cat causing difficulties is whichever one high stepped it across my laptop keyboard yesterday after I dashed out of the house without shutting my computer, as is my custom. She (I'm looking at you, Fiona) hit just the right combination of keys to make something print and the printer jammed and although MathMan was able to get the offending sliver of paper out of the printer (who knew it opened up on the back?), I have yet to work the magic to make the printer go back online. Why in the devil, in the year 2011, does anyone need to print anyway, you ask?  Coupons, of course!

Finally, there's a little dog wandering the neighborhood with his toadie, a black lab mix. I went out to finish shoving a log that had been jutting into the yard into the underbrush because I'm sick of mowing around the damn log, when the Chihuahua apparated behind me and barked, startling me so that I lost my grip on the log and fell on my ass. The Chihuahua and his friend the lab had a good laugh. I invited them to come closer so that I could get a look at their tags and perhaps escort them home. They stood pointing and laughing. I tried speaking in Spanish to no avail. Maybe vamanos was not the word I was looking for. Oh well, when they were finished mocking me, they set out across the dry creek to irritate the neighbors dogs by running along the fence going neener, neener and nyah, nyah, we're loose and you're not.

I gave up on the log and came back into the house to pound on the printer with a hammer. As long as that little yellow triangle with the exclamation point is over the printer icon on the bottom of this laptop's screen, I've got a reason to rage.  Without rage, I am nothing.

Okay, now that I have that off my chest, here's what else I'm doing....READING! Reading and reading some more. I'm beta reading for a friend and having fun with it. (She's gooooood.) I'm editing something (almost done if you're reading this) and having fun with it, too, because it's a funny piece, I'm reading Stephen Elliott's The Adderall Diaries and estalking him like a goon. He's so nice, he emailed me back and didn't even mention a restraining order.

And I'm getting ready to read this after I check to make sure my vibrator is in good working condition. Yes, you read that right. Don't act so shocked. Get that book and check your battery inventory, yo. I've read Averil's other work. You'll be glad you were prepared.

And I'm finally joining some of you in a near cult like love of the TV show Big Bang Theory. I know, I'm late to the party, as usual. Can I just tell you that the biggest achievement in my writing life would be to create a set of characters like Sheldon, Leonard, Raj, Wolowitz and Penny? Some have likened MathMan to Leonard. I'll admit they look alike. And my darling husband has a bad habit of trying to explain things to me that I am neither interested in knowing nor capable of grasping. But Leonard is a physicist while MathMan is, well, pretty simple, huh?

Mind you, I'm no Penny. She's cute and young and can wear revealing clothing without upsetting the Time/Space Continuum. Plus she still has her future ahead of her while I'm on the downward slope and gaining speed. But there are some similarities. I have the annoying habit of calling people terms of endearment when I'm about to deliver a verbal blow. I also can't keep the Star Trek movies and derivatives straight. Was the one where Spock dressed like Olivia Newton John number four or five? I think Wrath of Khan was number three, but don't quote me.

But really, I cannot tell you how much I would love to create a character like Sheldon Cooper. Doctor Sheldon Cooper, PhD. In the past I would think how cool it would be to create a character like Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Sherlock Holmes, Scarlett O'Hara, Spock, Harry Potter, Mary Poppins, the Fonz. A character so iconic that when you say their catchphrase or say that someone is like a Richie Cunningham, a lot of people will know what you mean. Now I must add this character - Dr. Cooper - to my list of icons.

Oh, Dr. Sheldon Cooper, live long and prosper.