Prattle Inc.

Whoa, I May Have Forgotten Everything About Embedding Files

but I'm trying to remember how to post just because I love this so much and you should, too!

When Push Comes to Shove A.K.A. What Do You Mean Spiral Sliced Ham Cake Doesn't Sound Good?

This Winter of our Discontent will forever be burned in my mind. Yes, like many people in the good old U.S. we are living a Depression era phase of life. I've been using brown sugar to sweeten my coffee for days in an effort to avoid charging groceries. I'm hoarding the eggs and home-brewed iced tea has taken the place of  juice in our refrigerator. I buy no cereal to prolong the life of the organic milk that I will not sacrifice (although I think it's time to resort to powdered milk for recipes. Gawd.)  We've gotten rid of our home phone landline and the heat is turned down to 63 at all times. I can't give my daughter the $5 admission to a high school basketball game. In searching for employment, I've learned that I'm both under and overqualified for every job in the world and that I'm in constant competition with at least 300 other applicants for even paltry $10 per hour positions. My negotiating skills have made a dramatic comeback as I successfully plead with the electric service and the gas service and water service.

Thankfully we're not starving, yet. Over the holidays we routinely receive gifts from our vendors (painting supply stores). Often it's fruit baskets and the like, this year our gifts consisted mostly of ham. FIVE of them to be exact. We aren't a big meat-eating family and normally I would re-gift them to our employees along with their Christmas bonus checks, but since a business has to have some business in order to have employees* this year Jefferson and I just shoved them all in the freezer for later consumption. Later came very quickly. We are so roke that we can't afford the B, but at least we've been able to eat. We've been subsisting on ham with biscuits, ham and eggs, ham quiche, ham casserole, ham frittata, ham sandwiches, ham and beans, ham souffle and ham and potato chowder for a solid month.

We keep saying things like "we're all going to have make some sacrifices" and "when the going gets tough..." and "at least we've got love," but the kids have been raised in relative comfort and have led pretty charmed lives so far; they're taking a little longer to acclimate to this sudden nose-dive in our economic welfare. Last night Bratface was craving something sweet to eat. We're out of chocolate and vanilla and I don't really know when I'll be able to grocery shop again. I'll bet by next week Little Miss Spoiled Rotten will not turn up her nose at her mother's offer to bake a Spiral Sliced Ham Flavored Cake. 

*We totally hated to do it but for the first time in five years had to lay-off all of our employees. At least they are all receiving unemployment compensation. We, on the other hand, as self-employed owners (and although we have no work or income coming in and have paid dearly in taxes over the years) do not qualify for even that.  

Blue Eyes Are Better Than Brown Eyes

With all of the Proposition 8 protests and the current climate in the United States where LGBT members of our society are fighting to be recognized as human beings deserving of equal rights under the law, how timely is this transformative Frontline broadcast from 1984?

Think about it.




Part 2:



Please go to PBS.org to view the entire program seamlessly. There are three more parts, including a segment where the exercise is performed on adults in the modern day workplace.

O Happy Day!

For all of us! 

You'll see.

The Definition of Poignant

The Republican Mayor of San Diego made a very moving statement and took an incredibly brave stance yesterday. If he can come out and admit "that his position has evolved", putting his entire political career on the line, I would urge everyone else in California to please reach deep into your hearts and consider the same.

"I have close family members and friends who are a member of the gay and lesbian community. Those folks include my daughter Lisa, as well as members of my personal staff.

"I want for them the same thing that we all want for our loved ones—for each of them to find a mate whom they love deeply and who loves them back; someone with whom they can grow old together and share life’s experiences.

"And I want their relationships to be protected equally under the law. In the end, I couldn’t look any of them in the face and tell them that their relationship—their very lives—were any less meaningful than the marriage I share with my wife Rana."

VOTE NO ON PROPOSITION 8.

We Interrupt This Non-posting Streak...

Oh y'all I'm just so happy I could DIE. Way back in 2006 I said that the Virginia I live in appeared pretty purpley and now it looks like we will finally morph into the beautiful Blue for the first time in 44 years.

P.S. See this shot of him in that pouring rain? I was there. I'm on CNN!

Ok, so I'm not exactly on CNN, maybe vicariously, but I have pictures from that day, too. This shot was taken in between rainstorms. We were relatively close to the stage in the grand scheme of things. Over 26,000 Virginians came out.

Right there. You CAN SO see him. What are you talking about Jefferson?

Ollie Ollie Oxen Free

I can't really fathom what is stopping me from generating a post, any post, even a stupid one at this point in my life but no, I just can't formulate my bazillion thoughts into cognitive sentences right now.  Sometimes I get this way. It's not your fault, and I'm not depressed or upset or anything like that. I'm just quiet and insular and well, being the Me that I am sometimes. But don't you worry for a second that I'm not out here nosing around everyone elses business though, because I so am. I'm all over the blogosphere in a lurky, hanging out behind the hibiscus kind of way, reading and laughing or crying or protesting right along with all of you.

My Life as a Hotfessional is one of my favorite blogs out there and thanks to Ree for providing me the foot to the ass that it appears I need to jump-start this blog again. I've been tagged for the Six Quirky Things Meme. I did a seven things meme once, but this one only calls for six and I am chock full 'o quirks and could possibly fill all of the empty pages from here to infinity so this should be fairly easy to write.

You can guess the rules: post six quirky things about yourself, tag six others*, comment to say you did it.

*My social anxiety kicks in on the tagging. I feel like I'm imposing or something, but here goes my version: 

1.  I am a voracious reader. I read food labels, billboards (out loud, yes, I know it's annoying), informational packets on places or things that I don't give one single solitary shit about and I also read ALL of the paraphernalia, because it's our civic and ecological duty to read it otherwise it is paper waste, that comes along with the credit card bills or your electric bill or whatever.

2. I'm always looking for ways to save money. Back when I was single with three small kids I often had to play the $20 For Groceries For A Whole Week game and I guess I've gotten used to being frugal. My new thing is the electric bill. Now that I know (*see quirk #1) that electricity is charged based on kilowatt hours and that the rates fluctuate and are higher when the most amount of energy has to be exerted to produce such power (during daytime hours when most of the population is active and businesses/offices are open)  I try to do our clothes washing and drying, which is the largest electric user in our house besides heat/ac (those little newsletters can be quite informative), at night or on weekends (lower price per kilowatt hour.) I don't care if I'm up at midnight drying somebody's gym shorts, I'm sure I'm saving hundreds of dollars.

3. I have bat ears. I am sensitive to sound and seriously can not held responsible if I slap you right in the face for eating cereal with your mouth open. It's a birth defect. Or for scraping your metal spoon against the ceramic bowl too many times. I can't say what that number is exactly but if you go past it YOU WILL KNOW.

4. I am an expert packer. I travel light but smart, not too much or too little. I love the packing part of a trip but highly dread the actual traveling.

5. My favorite childhood blanket was crocheted by my grandmother and was made to fit the exact rectangular dimensions of my baby crib. I used that blanket every day until I was 9 or 10 and while being long enough,  it was narrow - only the width of a baby crib. The only way to achieve full body coverage was by tucking the tips of one short end under my toes and lying perfectly straight on my stomach with my arms tucked in, palms on my upper thighs. If it is cold this is still my preferred sleeping position.

6. I can belt out a tune like nobody's business but have stage fright so badly that only a handful of people have ever heard.  

Now tag, YOU'RE it.

Please Hil, Loan The Country Your Pair

While I'm busy fighting with Typepad, which is quickly becoming my arch-nemesis, I'd like to make sure you all have seen this. Because way to go, SNL.

Things That Keep Me Awake At Night

My new neighbor is a skinny younger guy with groomed blonde hair and a farmer's tan. He speaks with a rural Virginia accent and has a four year old son who visits on weekends. They go on walks and throw ball in the field across the street. He dresses kind of like a country version of James Dean - cuffed blue jeans, tan colored square-toed Frye boots, tucked in solid colored t-shirt with a pack of Marloboros rolled up in the sleeve. He plays low and lonesome songs on an acoustic while sitting on the front porch with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His dog sits by his feet and bays along with the guitar a little bit. The cute little brunette who visits seems to be interested in him. The red head is his sister, I'll bet.

But there is one aspect of his character that I just can't seem to wrap my head around.

His car:

Back in the Saddle

Remember last year's Majorly Dramatic Freshman Year on the High School Field Hockey Team grand finale? When she positively refused to participate for one second longer or it was going to scar her  for life (and I concur) so we let her quit? The girl whose life had revolved around field hockey seasons? (Here there are two.)

So the saga continued because she really loves field hockey. Bratface played on the parks and rec team this past Spring and she went to the Shoe Camp in July on credit from last year. {Oh yeah. I paid dearly for my daughter to sleep away from home for 3 nights and to run her hockey ball dribbling ass up and down the treeless fields in 100 degree heat for 8 hours a day and by gum I'm going to get my money's worth.}

Now. For the past week everyday from 7:30-9 a.m. and again from 5:30-7:30 p.m. she's gone to practice for the junior varsity high school team. She's sore and exhausted and I have to sit down just to hear about it. The first thing they do is run 3.3 miles! Just the thought of that makes me DIE on the spot. Poof. Gone. But the whole atmosphere seems better this year. The coaches are bringing back a little something called "fun" (and yoga!) along with the hard work and they've convinced the new crop of Mean Girl upperclassmen to welcome and support new teammates. This was not a welcoming and supporting team last year and they lost many good players. I was egging Bratface on to try out again, but honestly? If those meanie high school bitches and hard-line coaches made my baby cry ONE MORE TIME...

Well she did it. And she's doing it! She didn't just creep back in and hang on the sidelines like a dog with her tail between her legs either, oh no, not only is she doing it, SHE'S KICKING ASS AND TAKING NAMES!  (Did I ever mention that she was Captain of her middle school team?)

Our Last Dog Lived To Be 14

* Since it seems to be Gross Everyone Out week here at Casa Prattle I thought I'd repost this from my old myspace blog circa 2006. FYI: Sadie is now 2.5 years old and I am the only person in this household who will "do the duty". Fuckers.

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9:05 a.m., Animal Hospital

Receptionist: "Hi Ms. Kelliqua who will we be seeing today?"
M.K.: "Our little Sadie."
Receptionist: "Well I see that Sadie is 7 1/2 months old now. Will you be getting her spayed?"
M.K.: "Actually, we went to another (read: cheaper) vet about 5 weeks ago and got her fixed. That's why we're here today. I think she may have an infection."

Later, in the exam room.
Dr. Feelgood: "Well, her abdomen is not swollen, the incision has healed up nicely, why do think she has an infection?"

M.K.: "Well, she has this smell about her. Every evening for the past week or so. It's gotten so bad that we can't stand to have her in the same room with us."

Dr. Feelgood: "Oh, it's probably just her anal sacs."

Now, we are dog people. All of our friends own dogs. Seperately and together, my husband & I have owned dogs throughout our entire adult lives. At one time we had 3 simultaneously, we currently have 2.  Dog people discuss dog antics, medical issues and behaviors like a parent talks about their children. I have never, and I mean NEVER heard of anal sacs before.

M.K.:  eyes wide open "Her WHAT?"

Dr. F: "Her anal sacs. Let me show you."

She proceeds to glove-up, internally violate my poor unsuspecting puppy, remove the digit of violation, then press a kleenex against the area from which her finger emerged.

Sadie:

Looks at me imploringly, eyes clearly saying:

"WTF?"

Dr. F: "Anal sacs are small sack-like nodules on both sides of the inner portion of the anus. They are comprised of millions of microbial secrections that allow the feces to slide out of the anal opening. Sometimes a bit of the feces gets into the sacs and they need to be cleared. All you have to do is insert your fingertip, just like I did and kind of press or pop them to allow the fluid to escape."

Whoa! Whoa! WHOOOOAAA! Shit lubrication? Gross! Disgusting! I feel faint! Did she say ALL I HAVE TO DO?!

Next she holds the slightly soiled, brown-tinged kleenex out toward ME.
Dr. F:  "Does the smell you are talking about smell like this?"

M.K.:  Eyes popping out of head. Takes two steps backward. Considering reporting Vet for crack-usage. Incredulous silence.

Dr. F:  Holds head to side and sternly says  "You're going to have to do this so that we can properly diagnose the situation."

M.K.:  begging now. "For the love of ..."

Dr. F:  Takes two steps forward and masochistically shoves the tissue within .5 centimeters of my nose.

M.K.:  Staggering, grabbing countertop for support while looking for smelling salts that just MUST be around here. "OH MY GAWD! That is horrible, awful, NAS-TY."  Poop-scooping is one thing. This here is chemically enzymed, lubri-damn-cated, highly CONCENTRATED DOG SHIT. One small dropperful in each airvent and the words Evacuation Plan would have been moot in New Orleans. Now openly sobbing. After all that, I have to tell her  "That is not the smell."

Dr. F:  "Can you describe the smell?"

M.K.  Thinking maybe we should have started with this question in the first place. "Easily. ...Fish."

Dr. F:  "Like a tinge of fish, slightly fishy, faint fish aroma? Tuna casserole or tuna can?

M.K.  Becoming more than a little impatient  "Not a tinge, or a slight., or an essence. We're talking supremely fishy. Like a thousand rotting tuna carcasses on a black-tar rooftop during a heat wave in July. In Arizona. Like -bad!"

Dr. F:  "Hmmm..." Proceeds to glove-up, internally violate other oriface of my poor, unsuspecting, previously virginal puppy.

Sadie:

Staring with a hostility never seen before.  Eyes saying

"Piss on both of you!" 

Proceeds to do exactly that.

Dr. F: "Ah-ha"

M.K.: "Ah-ha?"

Dr. F: "This puppy has an inverted vulva."

M.K.:  Trying to conjure up a mental image of said inverted vulva. Yes, I am of the female persuasion. Yes, I have given birth to 3 children and have a pretty good grasp of the female anatomy. But still... "And this means...?"
 
Dr. F:  "An inverted vulva can collect urine. The collection of urine is a breeding ground for bacteria and can cause such problems as vaginitis and urinary tract infections. This is the source of the smell."

M.K.:  Success! We have found the problem. Woo-hoo! What a great doctor. "Well, what do we do? How do we cure it once and for all? A shot? Oral antibiotics?"

Dr. F:  "All you have to do is insert your fingertip into the opening and wipe it out thoroughly with a clean cloth, a baby wipe would be perfect."

M.K.:  With a bit of trepidation. "Well, ok. I guess. How long do we have to do this and how often?"

Evil Doctor:  With a glint in her eye. "After each urination. For the rest of her life."

Parenting Fail Whale

You know, you bring the baby home and he's small and beautiful and perfect. You did good by managing to successfully grow an infant and to get him out with no damage. You earn an automatic A+ in Parenting.

Then he's a toddler and all pudgy and cute and even though his head is bigger than his body and there's still that little equilibrium issue, he learns to walk upright and only has the perma-bruise smack in the middle of his forehead for a couple of months. Rock on, still doing well Mama. Parenting grade: A

Elementary and middle school proves that the boy is turning into a compassionate, fun and likable little guy. Excellent report cards, teachers' notes, sleep overs and jillions of birthday party invites confirm: Good Parenting.

He makes it through high school with no unplanned pregnancies and no arrests. He graduates. He's got upcoming college courses/schedules penciled in on the calender, is a hard worker respected by his peers at his first "real" full-time job and is a mature young man with a good head on his shoulders and generally speaking, makes good choices. Final score: Parenting = successful.

Until.

The DUMB invades.

Scene: Friday night. Four 18 year olds just out of high school. Bored. Small town. Too young to go to a bar, no one on premises with a fake I.D.

No girls around. (Obviously.)

Dumb Idea: "Let's all get tattoos." But the tattoo parlor is closed for the evening. Not enough money pooled for 4 tattoos anyway.

Dumber Idea: "Let's brand ourselves."

Dumbest Idea of All Time: "With cutlery!"

WTF?

Scene: Mom wailing and flailing on the kitchen floor. "Oh how, oh how have I failed you, Tee? I thought I was doing such a good job at the Parenting. I birthed you and borne you and raised you up right. You're smart and fun and good. And now? NOW? You make the deliberate decision to have the permanent scar of seared fork tines on your body? Tell me child, what did I do? Was it all of the hot dogs I made you eat when we were single and poor? The red Kool-aid that only once, I swear, once did I make out of desperation? Were you trying to impress a girl? Get back at us for taking away the cable? Were you drunk? Drugged? BRAIN fucking DAMAGED?"

Yes, they heated up forks and branded themselves like cattle. What's that you say? It doesn't look like a fork-print? No, no it doesn't. Because someone hid it from his mother and step-father for over 24 hours by choosing to spend the day on a well-known bacterially laden body of water in boats and kayaks listening to live bands for 12 hours and got a monstrous infection to the third degree burn. The infection spread to the surrounding cells/tissue etc. and the doctor had to physically scrape off layers of charred, dead skin with a scalpel and sent him home with a healthy dose of antibiotics.

But no pain pills. Maybe that'll teach him not to sabotage his mother's excellent Parenting skills with the DUMB.

Sticking It to the Man, Teen Style

The weeks of scrounging change from sofa cushions, the laundry room, end tables, some light babysitting and paper filing has finally paid off. This is what $121.53 looks like in Bratface's world. Once the $25 I owe is added to the pot we will be skipping along to the Verizon store so that she can upgrade her cell phone to a model more befitting a rising sophomore. (e.g. "Not the free one you get at contract renewal, God Mom!").

In protest of the inflated prices that the cell phone store charges, Bratface plans on making the company work just as hard to collect the money as she did to save up for it. Other than cashing out the check, she will be taking the jar into the store as-is* to pay for her purchase.

* There is paper currency in there, but also exactly $14.53 in change - $7.53 of that in pennies.

C'est La Vie

Oh my lord, y'all. I had no idea that it would be this hard to get cable turned OFF.  When the first day came and went without the cable going bye-bye, I let it go. For three days. When I called they said they had "lost" the work order. Appointment #2 - no show. I let it go for a day, then called again. This time they tried to talk me out of it altogether then to bribe me with a "deal" (which with 40% of the programming at 10% discount off of full selection? Call me crazy, but I don't see the gift here, guy), and rescheduled. You'll just never guess what happened - nothing! When I once again asked why the technician would not show up and just TURN IT FUCKING OFF ALREADY, they had the nerve to go full circle and try to upgrade us (at our expense) to HDTV. Aargh!

Funny thing happened during that time, the kids suddenly developed an insatiable appetite for television programming. Every day for over a week has been like Christmas for Tee and Bratface. They'd pop over to the box, turn it on to find that we still had programming, give a little yelp of excitement and then proceed to be utterly glued to every single waste of brainspace show, no History channel here, no sir, that they could absorb before Doomsday. They were storing up like camels before the long, hot descent into the desert.

When Tee got home from work this afternoon and turned on the tv only a blank blue screen popped up. My poor little sports fan is royally pissed by the thought of having no cable because this means no Pro Football game showings this fall. "What's next Mom? Are you going to take away our heat this winter?"

We're free! Free again to have hours and hours of quality time together. Maybe by chopping wood! We do have a wood stove in the storage space that we can set up.*

*The storage space that we pay monthly for that holds all of the excess items from the blending of Jefferson's bachelor pad and my single mom's abode when we married and bought our current home. Six years ago. Shut up.

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Now We're Not Weird, We're "Interesting"

This weekend we went down to a semi-annual three day frisbee-golf tournament on a rustic farm on the Potomac. There's camping, swimming and kayaking, too. It's a hot, sticky blast of a time. Our friend circle has many members who own real live land and quite a few parties like this are staged a year. When they were younger these weekends were the highlight of my kids' summers. Just water, dirt, bugs, fish and frisbee and other kids to run around with all day, then campfire and the sounds of adult laughter and live music lulling them to sleep at night under the stars. What kid can complain about that?

Once they hit the pre-teen/young teen years of their lives all of my kids wanted more "normal" family activities like bumper boats, amusement parks or going to the movies, though. They rebelled against our ideas of fun and had to be dragged kicking and screaming along with us. ("Why do you have to be such hippies? Why can't we stay in a condo or at least a camper, for godsakes? Where am I supposed to plug in my hair dryer?")  Luckily, they all come around and now it is Bratface's turn to move past the Bershon stage and even enjoy bringing her more suburban friends along for these occasions. So do it parents. Be weird! Your kids will appreciate it later on.

The camp-sitey festival-ish atmosphere is culture shock for Brat's friends and she off-handedly explains, "Oh, Tori we won't even bother with showering, but we can take a bath in the river if we get too gross. Mom brought bio-degradable shampoo," while her friend cringes at the thought of getting clean in muddy water. The half (or fully) naked toddlers running to and fro always elicit a gasp from the Friends and it's cute to hear Bratface toss out that "toilet-training is easier this way especially when they're outside and it's the chosen method in so many other countries." She explains tofu barbeque and eggs her friends to "try it, you'll love it". They walk the trails and search for fossilized sharks teeth on the shore of the river and she tells stories like "When I was six, right at that very spot..."

The big game of the weekend for the little kids is to trap insects and bring them over to the "Big Book" to try to identify them. In her normal life, Bratface wouldn't get close enough to a spider to kill it with her shoe, but out there it's all just part of the bigger picture. This weekend while her friend was busy screaming and jumping up and down, Bratface calmly and cooly reported that "It's just a brown water-snake. I don't think they're poisonous - come on, let's check it in the book."

She's turned it into a field trip of sorts and now her friends basically bribe her for turns at getting to hang with the "hippies".

Aw, I kind of feel like singing "May the circle, be unbroken.." right now.

Of course she comes back to her air-conditioned home, plugs in her ipod, immediately checks her Myspace, showers for 25 minutes, applies make-up and hair products for another 30 and then and only then will she venture outside to even get the mail.

Old Mrs. Rose Was In the Window When They Were Under the Lilac

Our Goth teen neighbor and my son are combing the dark street, checking up close in peoples' yards, poking through bushes and calling for Gothteen's missing cat.

His name is "Blood Death".

Sigh. Guess I'll put on a bra so that I'll be presentable when the cops get here.

Unplugged

I've told you all how we are not a TV-oriented family, how our tv sits for days and days without even being turned on? How our 20 year old television has no holes in the back of it to allow for plug-ins such as "modern" dvd players, computer games and the like so my kids also aren't electronically addicted? How when my father decided that he had enough of my child abuse (8 years of my kids' lives were spent with no cable television, no antenna, just a vcr and a handful of tapes) that he secretly paid for cable hook-up for us in the summer of 2001 and that I threw out the remote to at least hinder their tv-watching? It works, by the way, kids are so laczy - if they have to manually turn channels, or god-forbid, sit through commercials, they'll usually just get so fatigued from the effort they'll give up and go find something else to do.

I find television horribly lacking in quality programming and both Jefferson and I are pretty anal about what the kids watch. Yep, they're 18 and almost 15 but still,  we want our kids to NOT be shallow and vapid and don't encourage tv viewing of the following variety: reality shows, "documentaries" on troubled pop stars like Lindsey and Brittany, crime show after crime show, exploitation of sad and often mentally ill human beings ie: that show Intervention? sick!, and/or disgusting displays of consumerism and over-entitled teenagers (ie: My Super Sweet Sixteen and The Hills, Gossip Girls, etc.)  In fact, to this very moment we make them turn the channel or turn it off. Guess which answer they usually pick? 

Also, we have always had the rule that the kids weren't allowed to have televisions in their bedrooms. If we had to have cable (Thanks, Dad), at least we were still going to be a only-one-tv-in-the-household family. Ok, well, we all know how that went bust this Christmas, but I held firm on the no-cable-upstairs rule, so ha! (And we do get Netflix).

Of course we do have access the History channel, PBS and the Discovery channel, although even they have resorted to reality-type shows like Ice Road Truckers, etc., but honestly, we have computers! Every one of these channels and the shows they broadcast can be downloaded and watched for FREE.

Quite frankly, I've carried around a huge load of guilt for the past 7 years of being a cable subscriber. If I don't condone this type of behavior then why on Earth am I paying over $50 a month for the privilege of having round the clock access to 73 channels of shitty shitastic shows that we don't/won't watch? Why am I financially supporting broadcasting that I think is a fundamental travesty of intellect?

Not for long, kiddies. As of tomorrow we've decided to be a tv-free household once again. I'm calling the cable company to tell them to shove off.

I feel cleaner already.

"The Wonder Is that We Can See These Trees and Not Wonder More" -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Do y'all remember the old man in the underwear that I see from the lanai during winter? Guess what, I see him again. And also into the room in the house next to his where the toddler lives.

Boo for tree removal even if for perfectly good reasons! (Bad storm - wind and lightning damage.) Not one, but two 50+ year old Hawthornes had to be taken down from the yard next door and I feel robbed. The cover that those old trees provided was so enjoyable that sometimes we even forgot that we live in the city. I feel naked, exposed to all of my backyard neighbors and them, to me. There's an ugly gaping hole and it's so incredibly bright that I almost have to wear sunglasses in the kitchen. Not to mention the loss of  nature that our little corner of the world is now devoid of. Mornings are noticeably quieter without all of the songbirds that lived right behind us and Sadie, our dog, has been almost bored what with having no squirrels or opossum to chase and bark at for the past few days.

Must replace trees as soon as possible! The Instant Gratification Needer side of me says "Give me shade, privacy and nature or give me death!" I'm looking for the fastest grower I can find that should be drought tolerant, pretty and can't have giant octopus-like roots because our yard is tee-hee-ny and I don't need no foundation cracking or clogged pipes. And did I mention that our yard is tee-hee-ny? Also that now is kind of a bad time to want to buy shade and privacy what with the gas, the food, and both the electric and natural gas company just sent out notices of increase. Now is the time we should be cutting back, not being all spoiled and going out and buying shade just because we want to. That just sounds bad, huh?

But I'm planting hope right? Hope for someone else years down the line to be able to enjoy the shade, the leaves and changing of the seasons, for the wildlife that has been displaced to find new homes in new trees and for all of us to get back that little sense of nature that we enjoyed even though we live right in the middle of downtown. Put back what you take out. Isn't that a law in every household? Doesn't everyone already know that one? I do. And I am.

Note: we are in Zone 7 and if you have any suggestions for what kind of trees I should be looking for by all means pass it on. I need suggestions. Unfortunately, I have some time. Summers are brutal here and we'll have to wait for Fall to plant.
                          

        Before                                   During                                    After

Independence Day

And don't forget the backstory.

We Saw Purple Mountains Majesty On the Drive Down

I know. I know. I know. Am a very bad reporter. I've realized that I'm a Processor. I go and do and be and can't blog about it all while it is happening. I have to come back, decompress, sort it out and then I can tell you about it.

Down in TN: Met my new BFF in person. We talked, and talked and talked for 4 straight days. It's a good thing we don't live closer or we would never shut up and get anything done in real life. As it was, I went down to help out Sumgirl with the kids and the moving and the packing and the painting. We painted one room. I took my 11 years of gymnastic experience and taught her kids how to do handstands against the walls. (You're welcome for the footprints.)  I think I developed a crush on her husband. We moved a handful of boxes. And we talked and we talked and we talked.... I also met AT and Bell. He is quite the rogue and she was horrible and mean and nasty. -Kidding. Still stunned by the miracle that is the internet, we chatted over a couple of beers and it felt like we were all old buddies. I didn't start a blog to make new friends but it's a totally great side effect!

It was our first trip to TN and Bratface and I had a fun little mother/daughter roadtrip. Such lovely country. The mountains, the horse farms and the fresh, fresh air made it such a tranquil drive. It was also an educational experience since, apparently, they don't teach navigational skills in our school system and her's could {ahem!} use some perfecting. We took the scenic route on the way down to the tune of an extra hour because my co-pilot {ahem! ahem!} skipped three steps on the Mapquest directions and we got all jacked up.

I came home to my flowers blooming all over the place
but no vegetable garden. The groundhog to people population in my backyard is now perfectly imbalanced. Our under-the-shed-living pal went off and had five babies! They strip everything to the ground except pole beans. I want to trap and relocate them. Jefferson is at peace with them. We're at an impasse. I pulled up the raised garden beds in protest. So for the second summer in a row the farmer's market and I are going to be pretty tight.

Which isn't all bad. We're big fans of whole food and try to eat food in it's natural state that hasn't been processed, boiled, blanched, reduced, baked, or otherwise cooked to the point that the vitamins and nutrients have all been removed as often as possible. Of course, I cook plenty! I am a foodie you know, but summertime is the perfect time to eat whole food as much as possible because of the bounty of fresh local produce that just needs a little preparation,  or mixing up,  then boom - dinner is done. My kind of supper.

Last evening we had sliced fresh tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and crushed black pepper, corn on the cob and cooked but fresh black-eyed peas (fresh! while they're green - not dried. Hard to find around here. If you have access, mail me some, pretty please) with sauteed onion and sage and homemade cornbread. Easy. Healthy. Yummy.

I'm taking these to a Fourth of July cookout this afternoon. Man I love summer food!

Bean and Tomato Salad
White beans (used canned navies today)
tomato (fresh, chopped)
cucumber (fresh, chopped with peel for more nutrients)
artichoke hearts  (chopped)
sweet onion (finely chopped)
basil (chopped)
olive oil, juice of one lemon and dash of salt to coat

Roadtrip Courtesy of AtomicTumor

The first blog I ever read was Amalah.com. I didn't have young children, have no idea how I stumbled upon Amy's page, don't know her in real life (IRL), had no interest in blogs or the blogoshphere but something about the way she writes instantly hooked me. I read her every day for a couple of weeks and even perused the (now gone) sister site at CafeMom where she noted happenings from around the blogging world. Occasionally, I would click links and soon I was immersed in this whole parallel universe - the internet world where total strangers can sometimes instantly feel like friends that you have known forever.

Within a week or two of my newly acclaimed addiction to Amalah (Oh, those were the days! My daily blog reads are close to out of control, now.) I read her sad report that GAC had died. I clicked and came upon the real-time tragedy that was ensconcing the AtomicTumor family/blog-village. GAC, AT's young wife, had died. I read back through a few of AT's posts and saw how just a couple of weeks prior there was a brief, minuscule mention that it appeared that GAC had the flu and wouldn't be trick-or-treating with her little boys that Halloween night. I was shocked and saddened beyond comprehension to see that a healthy, young, vibrant lady blogger who was fine just a couple of weeks earlier had come down with a mystery illness that quickly took her life. 

AT's writing was so poignant and raw. He was in shock, grieving, questioning, sometimes angry, reminiscently grateful for the time he and his children had with GAC, but always, always just plain old honest and true. And it was placed out there for all the world to see. Granted, I was new to the blogosphere, but this? This was my introduction to the fact that blogs are different than any other print medium I'd ever been exposed to. Often a piece of writing is spit-shined and polished, depersonalized and timeless, held on an editor's desk for months until just the right moment for publication. Through AT at AtomicTumor I realized that Blogs are real people's real lives. Oh, sure we all do some spit-shining and polishing not fully divulging every little detail of life, but for the most part a Blog let's you inside of someone else's little corner of the world. You learn the author's nuances, personality, likes and dislikes. You feel his pain, rejoice in his successes and live vicariously as a neighbor, or friend, watching and being involved in their day to day happenings.

The community that was fostered by that site still blows me away. I read many blogs now, a lot of the A-listers, etc., but I can attest that absolutely none of them seem to have the same personal slant and feeling of friendship and bonding that was instantly manifested at AtomicTumor. IBack when I was known as "VA Bluebelle" the shoutbox (an IM type widget placed on a blog's front page where you could converse in real time pre-Twitter) became the water cooler for a number of people to hang around, standing beside AT during his long, long nights as a new widower and single dad just trying to make it through another day. We would laugh, joke and debate together and on really fun nights would just drunk-talk the night away. Community - it was so there.

AT's life has moved on. He's remarried to a lovely lady and his boys and he are in good hands. AtomicTumor and the shoutbox are now defunct but it's legacy lives on by the many blogs it is responsible for spawning, Prattle Inc. included, and the friendships that were formed there. I count in my heart as "real friends" many of the folks I met at that site and still visit some of them (Sumgirl natch - she'll be back. Mark my words., Deserved Indulgence,and CameraShy) through daily blog reads and some email exchange.

Bratface and I are making our first trip ever to Tennessee later this week to meet at least one of my friends in person. It is too exciting to think that I will finally see, speak to and break bread with a pal that I've been so intimately engaged with by way of the written word for so long. I can't wait.

Thanks, AT. Without your blog I would still think that the Oak Ridge Boys were the only cool people in Tennessee.

Like Sand Through the Hourglass

Holy smokes, Batman! The woman who went directly from child to "with child" is almost child-free. Almost.

On Friday, the great milestone of my youngest son's HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION (gulp!) culminated in cocktails on the lanai with assorted members of the family, one straggler and an internally weepy mother. At the young, young, young dammit! age of 37 I now seriously have two adult children. Whoa.

Tee left his mark on the ceremony by being mentioned in the valedictorian's address to the class and also by his impeccable sense of style. He is a strange man-child, adores wearing the suit that we bought him last year and would wear it and the shiny, black shoes daily if he could. Funerals? He'll be there just so that he can sport the suit. Celebrations? "Say it's formal, Mom, say it. I love those shoes." My son was easily spotted in the crowd of graduates. He was wearing an oxford shirt and shorts but only his bare legs, black socks and shiny, black, square-toed dress shoes could be seen under the cap and gown.

Back to the weepy Mom part...so I have only one child in school, and technically at home now. Have I mentioned, whoa? Just yesterday I was a single mom working, working, working, scrambling to get dinner on, homework done and wrestling dirty kids into bath then schlepping laundry and signing papers at midnight to turn right around and bribe, cajole, threaten three little ones out of bed and into their school clothes at o'dark thirty. Then I would haul them all to school with strict orders for "Everyone sit on your hands, right now, do it!" to alleviate the inevitable "He's touching me." "Am not." part of the morning. For a few years they rode the bus. I was always the youngest mom at the bus stop and ALWAYS mistaken for the older sister (that is still delicious when it happens, though it is rarer these days. Now I occasionally get "girlfriend". Whee! 37 ain't so bad, no sir.) on the first day. After a mere six hours, they'd come home in the afternoon or have the bus drop them off at my work and our little clan would be all up in each other's faces for the next eleventy-million hours. Every single day.

Since I gave birth to Jobie at sixteen and then grew two more children within the next seven years, I have sometimes felt that I would never, ever, ever be alone. There were always children, their friends, the neighbors, and/or relative's kids hanging on or around the porch, the house, me.

Now Jobie lives elsewhere. At 21 he comes by to visit a few times a week poking through the fridge and hauling laundry to do. Tee, rarely at home anymore anyway, is currently at the beach (faithfully calling me once daily to report that no one got busted the night prior) and next week will start working full time for the Company during the summer. He hopes to earn enough money to place deposits on an apartment by the end of the month with a couple of buddies who will also be attending community college in the fall.  Bratface and her menagerie of eight Besties have decided  that each of them will only come home this summer if she is allowed to have at least 6 of the others in tow. Needless to say they are touring the city. None of us parents are willing to take on seven to nine girls each and every day, and if you do the Math each girl has actually only spent a couple of nights in their own bed so far.

Thus far, summer has been great. Jefferson and I are in kind of a honeymoon phase, the first time in our lives that we are child-free. I have looked forward to this moment for 22 years. The house is clean! I am actually looking for clothes to wash to make up a full load! Making dinner for two is a dream. Without any kids in the house we run around naked all night and dance and sing and spill tequila on the pot plants.

Yesterday I called Bratface at her friend Em's house to ask when she would be coming home.

I was bored.

Coffee Italian Style

The final stop on Wedding Tour 2008 was at the Jersey shore. Four more days of camaraderie, drinking, dranking, drunken, this time a beach! and of course, some nuptials. It's been a long party, over the past three weddings I have injected ingested more alcohol into my system than that of any other time my entire life, including that little window that I barely remember from my young twenties. The tip of my liver can now be seen if you hold a flashlight to my mouth and look down my throat. That's how large and spongy it has grown.

Funny thing happened on the way to the shore. We went into a coffee bar and it was owned by Italians. Funny because only 3 days prior, we had been in Italy, where they drink a lot of espresso (but tons more wine Whee! cries Kel-Liver), and the Italians, both here and there, are now personally responsible for my new and improved coffee education.

Coffee Lesson from the New Jersey Italians: First off, the Jersey coffee shop owned by Italians did NOT even bat an eye when I asked for an iced latte and for this I was so grateful (see: Coffee Lessons from Italians in Italy). The best and most glorious thing about my iced latte though, aside from the fact that I was hung over, had slept through breakfast, it was noon, 100 degrees in the shade and I really, really wanted it, was that the ice cubes were made of frozen espresso.  I kissed Mama Rosa square on the lips. WHY didn't someone think of this before? I hate, hate, hate it when the ice starts to melt and my coffee/milk combo gets all watery. When the frozen espresso melts - you get MORE ESPRESSO! And it's cold! Double your flavor and your money. If you have an at-home espresso machine (you've heard about mine, right? It's my BFF) Go. Now. Fill up an ice-tray with espresso for your 5 p.m. iced latte on the lanai*.

*Sidenote/Tangent: Have I ever told you that I once read that Katherine Hepburn had a standing appointment at 5 p.m. every afternoon with a cigarette and glass of chardonnay on the lanai? Have I ever told you that since then Jefferson and I now emulate this with iced coffee every evening in the summer on the back deck? Because I am so Kate Hepburn-ish. Like that time the wide-wide leg, stovepipe pants came out earlier this year I ran right out and bought a pair because she always looked so swanky in them and as you can tell, if someone told me that Kate ate iron ore with fried mice turds every morning at 3 I'd be all over that, too. Unfortunately, yet again I was reminded that trying on clothing in the actual store before the actual purchase is always a good thing. Now I'm stuck with another pair of brand new pants that I'll never wear or be bothered to take back as having it appear as though one's legs are the same width as one's giant ass is not so very attractive on certain people. 

Coffee Lesson from Italians in Italy A.K.A. How To Really Piss Off a Roman:
Rome, our first day in Italy. The flight landed at 11 a.m. Italy time, 5 a.m. to our east coast U.S. bodies.  Then the major clusterfuck at the airport regarding our ATM card getting rejected for three full hours began. No money, no food, tired. Seriously grouchy - all of us. Finally the hours ticked by and the bank in the U.S. opened. I call to complain that the bank was NOTIFIED of our trip, dammit! and we desperately wanted to leave the airport, and the children were starving and we were penniless in Rome and HOW THE HELL COULD THIS BE HAPPENING? That's when Brad, the very nice bankteller who did not hang up on me at the end of the call as I rightly deserved, asked me if I'd had the cash withdrawal maximum upped to figure in the conversion rates. Sure, I knew about the $300 limit, I was only trying to take out 250, but, conversion rates? Did he say conversion? Heh-heh. Oopsy! Sorry, family. Muh-wah! Love ya!  <---- Did I tell them the truth about how I kept trying to take out 250 EUROS, which is $389 U.S. dollars? For THREE HOURS? Of course I told them. That fucking bank! They're always screwing things up. wink wink

Finally, at around 4p.m. the kids were settled in the hotel in Rome. Jefferson and I were in desperate need of an espresso. We found an empty coffee bar and sidled up. The young lady who worked there and her guy were enjoying their solitude. They were forehead to forehead, holding hands and looking deeply into each other's eyes. When she looked up to see us enter her entire demeanor changed; obviously we were intruding. Jefferson whipped out his very best Italian (not!) and ordered a cappuccino. Jefferson's pitiful Italian spoken loudly and slowly (because all people who speak another language are retarded and deaf, right?) did nothing to endear us to her. The look of disgust from the barista was physically painful.  She slammed the spoon, jerked to machine levers and shoved the tiny (no sizes in Italy - little shots for everything) cup at him¹.

I then ordered a latte². At first she just looked at me like I was crazy, then fire, real live flames, shot from her eyes when she asked me in Italian if I wanted it hot. When I tried to ask for "iced"³ her eyes rolled out of her head and shot across the room when she replied "No ice". I shrugged and said ok while attempting to be invisible. It was apparent that we were stupid. And bothering her. Jefferson started walking to the door to sit outside. She flew around from the espresso machine and yelled at us that we couldn't take the ceramic mugs outside. If we were going to drink outside, we should have asked first, she said. Then she handed me my steaming, hot glass of MILK**!  I took it over to the bar and Jefferson and I looked at it a minute, took a sip and then just as the barista returned to sit down with Boyfriend, I went back up to the bar and ordered an espresso to go with my milk**. I was smart enough to never look her in the eye and to quickly dodge  the flames this time.   

Jefferson and I mixed the milk into my espresso, slurped it up quickly and got the hell out of there. We thought we'd just interrupted young love and that our sad, touristy attempt at Italian was the cause of the brunt of the barista's annoyance but no...we also found out later that:

¹ Cappuccino is a breakfast drink in Italy. Apparently there is absolutely no deviation to this rule. J could have ordered an espresso, a macchiato, even an Americana at 4 in the afternoon and been just fine but it is a special show of ignorance to order cappuccino. We didn't get that memo.

² Latte is Italian for milk. Creamy, white, cow's milk. Which I ordered a warm glass of at 4p.m. on a hot, sunny afternoon. D'oh! What I was looking for is called cafe latte in Italy, you've got to ask for the coffee. The next barista, who spoke English, gave me that memo.

³ Ice seems to be a luxury in Italy and is not always available, even in restaurants.

Coffee, I had no idea how much there was to learn. (Espresso ice cubes! Brilliant, I tell ya.)

Teaser

Popped home this morning at 1 a.m. Dirty laundry owns my ass. Emails and call backs and business crap, too. Kids back to school with jet-leg, just in time to start exams.

Kelliqua, the very bad blogger, did have internet access while in Italy but puh-lease - Rome, Pisa, Lucca, San Gimignano, Siena, Sovicille, Torri, Florence. A wedding where the hairstylist/makeup artist was flown in from Milan. Lived in a luxurious compound built over a thousand years ago with 24 relatives. Experienced Rome at night - twice!  Ate, ate and ate some more. Drink, drank, drunk. Walked, walked, walked. Marveled at the beauty that is everywhere, in every form. "Owned" an Alpha Romeo for a week (my husband licked that car clean thrice daily - with his tongue) and drove over 800 miles of Tuscan countryside. So many things to squeeze into what felt like 40 seconds.
I FUCKING LOVED ITALY! 
Oh, and I took over 800 pictures. Y'all are so doomed.


           

         

         

        

*Typepad has changed some things around. I don't know why the thumbnails won't embiggen.

 

May I Be Frank, Frank?

Seriously, and I am being so serious with this question, do brides outside of my little world actually wear lingerie? 

Hell, me and most of my inner circle girlfriends don't even own pajamas. Au naturale, baby.

I Am Obsessed - or Possessed -OR WHATEVER

• "I have to book two nights in Rome for our stay around arrival and departure days. Why the fucking fuck is traveleurope.com* STILL down?"
• "Where the hell is the battery charger for the camera?"
• "Will dark brown silk suffice as a Little Black Dress?"
• "Who's in charge of socket converters?"
• "Why aren't all of your clothes ready for the cleaners?"
• "You'd better get on the phone with her right now, missie! I do not recall loaning out EVERY PIECE of our luggage!"
• "NO, NO, NO, Jefferson! The seer-sucker pants and the brown striped shirt do NOT count as "cocktail attire."

                  10 Days until we leave for the Italy Wedding.

*Hint: for a family of four a bed and breakfast and/or a serviced apartment is often cheaper (and nicer) than the available hotel accommodations.

The Fucking Fish Weighs More Than Four Pounds

My step sister, the hair stylist, has a brand new baby! Aww!

You didn't know that she was having a baby? Well neither did we! Or, for certain, she.

For years my brother in law and she had intimated that they were pretty much d-o-n-e done with the baby-brewing since they already had a 19 year old severely autistic son and 15 year old daughter and were quite happy with that kid to parent ratio. So when she told me two weeks ago that "Your new niece has been born," I was more than a little taken aback. More than a little, like a lot, as in "WHAT THE FUCK are you talking about?" We're fairly close, we talk weekly, she cut Bratface's hair just three weeks ago - how could she NOT have mentioned, and how could we NOT have noticed her pregnancy for all of these months?

Well, she wasn't pregnant. She had taken a teen-aged client with an unwanted pregnancy under her wing and she and her husband even agreed to adopt the baby if the teen parents decided to give her up, but didn't tell any of us because she wasn't 100% sure it was going to work out that way. Then the baby came early, and now my sister is a new mother and we are all happy and surprised and everyone and their dog (doesn't this make you crazy?) has been scouring the planet, but mostly Target, for bassinets, and glass bottles and onesies and sleepers in preemie size.

The sweetest little pea in the entire pod was born at just 34 weeks gestation and is perfectly perfect and healthy in every way except that she is SO INCREDIBLY TINY but she is a whopping (in Preemie World) 4.7 pounds now and is at home with her family right this second!

I get to babysit once a week while my sis works.

Damn straight there will be photos.

Panic at the Disco, If My Kitchen Table Can Be Called the Disco

I like to say I work better under pressure but that's really just an excuse for Procrastination being my middle name.

Thirty days from now I will be on a plane with a jumbo sized bag of "popcorn" a.k.a.nicotine gum for the eight hour ride to Italy. (I think it's 8 hours. Somebody help me out, math and conversions are not my thing. We leave Kennedy in NY at 7p.m. and arrive in Rome at 10 a.m. Did I do the time change right?) Sure, I could try to quit smoking before the trip, but I hear Italy is very smoker-friendly. Why torture myself my family in a country where smoking seems to be embraced? Anyhoo, it has suddenly dawned on me that there are VERY IMPORTANT things that must be accomplished prior to the trip.

Like my teeth. Sure, I haven't been to the dentist since 2004, which I didn't realize until the receptionist tsk-ed me when she pulled my chart, but all of a sudden it seems imperative that I have the two wisdom teeth pulled that came in when I was pregnant with Tee, ahem, 19 years ago.  Because who goes to Italy with two whole extra teeth in their mouth? So declasse'.

Also, I notified the school that the kids would be absent for the trip. Thinking that thirty days prior would be plenty of time, I hadn't exactly sweated this detail. Turns out that the principal has to personally approve the trip and that I will have to explain why it is so important that my children are not sitting mindless and numb during Standard of Learning reviews, instead jet-setting to a foreign country and completely wasting their public education. Item: Compose letter to principal  without an ounce of sarcasm included that pleads for excused absences for this potentially once in a lifetime opportunity. Note to self: Do not point out that Italy has no legal drinking age and that Tee anticipates a big majority of his cultural education to include such phrases as "Youthful, leggy, deeply colored." or "Heavily beaded. Pale, cool climate." 

The across the street neighbor is keeping Sadie while we are away. He's a Dog Park kind of guy. We are not Dog Park kind of people - love the dogs, despise the owners. Also the dog catcher routinely patrols the Dog Park and fines those who do not have the city enforced dog tag. Item: go down to City Hall and pay the fracking $5 for the little tin tag shaped like the state of Virginia already.

Bratface has needed an eye exam since December. I felt no guilt whatsoever and blamed the procrastination on thrift and frugality (she still had three pairs of contacts left in the box!) until last week when she took them out for the night - then dropped and stepped on her only pair of glasses. Seriously, the poor child needs a cane and seeing eye dog to navigate from bathroom to bedroom. Item: optical appointment asap.

You sure got some pretty teeth, boy. Tee heard about my impending dental exam and begged me to schedule a cleaning for him. WTF? Whose kid is this anyway? Item: self-employed, non-insured, self-pay VANITY cleaning scheduled for the same day as my appointment. You'll be proud that I offered no retort whatsoever to the receptionist who noted the irony of the mother who neglects her own dental hygiene until a problem, or a trip, occurs and the son who would gladly show up weekly if permitted.

P.S. This is not procrastination. After a total of 11 new test-patches, I'm just tired.

Dare I Say I Had Fun?

Whew! One wedding down, three to go.

Little sister is hitched!

She made it with only a slight crimp in the program. The tiny problem that was realized exactly 2.5 hours before the wedding was that all of the hydrangeas in her bouquet and all of the hydrangeas, which were the ONLY flower used, for the seven bridesmaids' bouquets had died overnight.

Scene: Seven bridesmaids on cell phones, three soliciting husbands to Save the Day, and four calling every florist, grocery store with a floral shop, and maybe even one of them tried a cemetery in town attempting to round up enough hydrangeas in the exact shade of blue that would be needed to remake eight bouquets.

Simultaneous Scene: Bride bawling and inconsolable in the bathroom.

In the end, it all worked out and the whole thing turned out perfectly.

*Note: Hydrangeas are so delicate that they must clipped underwater. Remember that from now on.

**Also, I'll be back to the posting soon. At this time my every waking moment is being spent stuffing my face with the leftover 5 gallons of the most delectable spinach-artichoke dip on the continent and paring down the 14 bottles of wine that I was left to dispose of. I'm drinking as fast as I can. (Don't judge. Is it my fault that this house doesn't have enough cabinet space?)

I'm 9 Years Old All Over Again

If you lived in the DC metro area during the 70's and 80's you're going to appreciate this. Otherwise, it's still so catchy that you'll have to sing the theme to the "Love Boat" ten times* to get it out of your head.

* That's the cure for getting rid of that song that just won't go away. Sure, you end up with "the Love Boat" theme stuck in your head then, but it works.

Mission: Make A Decision Already

This has gone on far too long.

I MUST make a decision RIGHT NOW. The fam will be here in four days, flying in from all points North and South to behold the spectacle of little sister Keebo's wedding. For four months the areas currently paint-patched by purple (Flexible Grey? Very flexible. Don't get me started...) has been sampled by no less than seven different colors.

I need help and I need it badly.

Fact: This is an interior room, our mock living room to be exact. There are no windows whatsoever. On the brightest, sunniest day a lamp must burn at full force in this room.

Fact: I'm over the current yellow paint. It doesn't match the acquired artwork I wish to hang and it is hard on the eyes when reading at night.

Fact: I am a big reader.

Fact: The fucking fish is STILL a bone of contention. Can I tell you that I painted the front door? The one that a person, such as my husband, walks in and out of forty times a day. Can I tell you that it only took him five days to notice that it was no longer blue, but burnt orange? Now the fucking fish? SEVENTEEN MINUTES. That's how long it took him to notice that I had stealthily removed it from it's out-of-the-way spot last week while he was out in the yard and hid it in a closet.

I implore you, my artistic friends, please,
please give me some advice on a color for this room that will flow with the rest of the wall colors.

I'm this close to calling it a day and just going with basic and boring antique white.

For Now

When the black walnut and oak trees are bare I see the man I've never met walk to the bathroom in his boxers about thirty times a night. He, or his wife(?), hang pants to dry on hangers on their screened in back porch. The teenager at the house beside the old man's performs choreographed dances over and over again in her bedroom. This house's screened porch is filling up quite nicely and I'm sure they call it a storage room. Six houses behind and vertical I can tell when a couple of my friends are up or if they have gone to bed for the night.

The white blooms of the "popcorn trees" all around town have already begun to wither. The flowers are beginning to green and leaf out and now it's called the "pee-pee tree" because those gorgeous bursts of spring turn out to have the absolute worst fragrance - ammonia, and it is strong. Once the Bradford pear trees start going to leaf the bigger trees are right on their tails.

Soon my "friends" will be invisible again until fall.

Oh, Hi

Windows open. Temps in the 60's and 70's for over a week.

Spring, come to Mama!

I don't know the name of these flowers. Do you?

Learning Curve

Scene: Mother (Me) is sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket with laptop on lap like every other non-65 degree day. 18 year old Tee enters house holding numerous ATM slips.

Tee: "Mom, I think something's wrong with my (three month old) bank account."

Mom: "Oh?"

Tee: "Look at these balances. I don't know what's going on. Yesterday my account balance said $134.20, but the day before it only said $100.15. Then today I get this one: $168.25. I don't get it. Are you putting money into my account for me?"

Mom:  "Dream, pal. Let's pull up your account online and see what's going on."

Scene: Mom and Tee peering at computer screen.

Mom: "Tee! Remember in Math how a little minus sign in front of a number means a negative?"

Tee: "Yeah."

Mom: on the verge of losing her shit "And you know that if you put in $129 and spend $127 the same day, you only have $2 left?"

Tee: "Yeah."

Mom: "Then what are all of these debits for $2.05?"

Tee: "Gatorade for lacrosse practice."

Mom: "Hon, remember our talk about the $300 overdraft protection? How the bank will honor the draft but will charge you $32 for each transaction all the way up to the $300 limit? And how you were going to never EVER rely on that money?"

Tee: " ------"

Mom: "You do realize that all of these Gatorades cost you $34.05 EACH?"

Tee: "But Mom, if the debit card doesn't get declined how am I supposed to know I am out of money?"

Mom: Falls forward bonking head on computer. Dies. The End.

Branching Out

My personal handbag of choice has been my mini-Jansport backpack for oh, I don't know, 17 years now. It started out as my way of rebelling against diaper bags. Diaper bags that were way too large and only came in styles that were garish and cutsey - duckies, rainbows, baby blue or pale pink.  A minimalist, even when my children were babies, my little backpack was just the right size to hold a diaper, extra set of clothes, a snack or two and serve as my purse at the same time, because really, what parent needs to haul around a farking suitcase in addition to a baby? Such the perfect bag! Fully machine washable and stylish. My little backpack has served me well over the years and I still carry it today.

Sometimes, though, even a mini-backpack is too big or inappropriate for the occasion. A number of years ago I discovered Maruca Designs. A big fan of all things textile, I fell in love with the fabric first. Then I received my little bag. It was a style that they no longer make, an in-between size version of the City Girl (pg.7) and the New Yorker (pg.17). The heavens opened up, angels sang and petals fell from the sky. I LOVED my simple, chic-yet-earthy, worn diagonally over-the-shoulder, bag that was just the right size for wallet, checkbook, tampons and cigarettes. (Shut up.) It was perfect with jeans or my little black dress.  I machine washed it a thousand times and traded back and forth between, or carried it simultaneously with the mini-backpack (the bag is small enough to fit inside the mini-backpack and still have lots of room) for years. Sadly, about a month ago the strap finally broke, but good and can't be fixed.

Look what I found on ebay, cheap, cheap - woot! It will be in my hot little hands on Tuesday.

And maybe I'm growing up (finally) or just feel the need for the first time in my life NOT to look like a hostel-staying college student with my old nylon (normal sized) backpack as my carry-on luggage because look what else caught my eye for the Italy trip:

Hands off, I say. The auction is still going on and I fully plan on winning. Please don't bid. I would hate to have to hunt you down and stab you in the eye. But know that I WILL IF I HAVE TO.

Badass

A commercial for Schweppes products involving the slowest of slow mo. And water balloons.

A Fly In My Soup

My father is a baby boomer. His childhood in the 50's and early 60's was just like what we all picture in our minds. He was the child of blue-collar factory workers who had lived through the Great Depression. He had a paper route, collected stamps, and gathered soda bottles for the deposit money. My dad tells stories of saving box-tops for prizes, listening to radio shows and jotting off essays and letters to every contest that was announced. 

And bygod, if you were sold a defective or inferior product! Back in the day brand loyalty and production of  quality services and goods was the norm. There was no throwing out a defective or damaged item, or just accepting the fact that the product that you had spent hard-earned money on would last for only a short time, like we do now. Times were different, money was harder to come by and consumers had high expectations of manufacturers/producers. If something was amiss you returned the product or wrote a letter of complaint. No matter if nothing came of it, in my father's family and many others during the 1950's and 60's, it was considered your civic duty to notify the company/store/manufacturer of the transgression.

The day I was 8 years old and opened a can of chicken noodle soup to find not one, but two flies floating on top of the congealed fat that rises to the top was my first induction into the familial belief system as described above. Dad laid out a pen and paper on the table and carefully tore off the label to inspect for a company address. I was encouraged to compose a letter politely and respectfully describing the problem as I saw it. He advised that I should use the letter as a means of informing the company of the insects in my soup, rather than as a reason to rant or complain. He also made me look up and learn the proper name for the common housefly to incorporate in the letter. (Musca domestica. I still remember.) I mailed it off immediately.

A few weeks later I received an apology letter from the Campbell Soup company accompanied by a case of chicken noodle soup and enough "Free" coupons for another.

The lesson I learned from this might have sparked my inner geek as well as my interest in writing, because after that I became the Queen of letter writing. I saved cereal box tops and sent away for free toys. On behalf of my dark-haired friend Nicole who was never able to find a doll that looked like her when we played together, I wrote my suggestion to Mattel Corporation for Barbie dolls to be produced with jet-black hair and hazel eyes. (Yes, at the age of 9 I personally started the Barbie Realism Revolution. Now you know.) At Dad's urging I wrote to a local tv station about their program scheduling and the reply letter contained free tickets for our entire family to the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus.

A few weeks ago I hastily dashed off an email to a publishing house suggesting that they republish an out of print book that I consider timeless. The (oh so poorly written) email was redirected to the actual editor of the very well known author. Gulp! She personally replied and we've had a few small exchanges. As of today there are two newly released books being sent to my daughter free of charge and I have direct contact with an editor of a major publishing house in the event that I ever consider querying any of my own writing. {Edited: The exchanges were quite friendly. We talked about our mutual love of the book. She said that some of this author's books are being brought out of the closet soon and she'd already wanted to recommend this one for reprint. She was grateful for the timing of my unsolicited email.}

Quick - I need teen novel ideas to pitch while the lines of communication are still open!

Finally

SUCCESS!

It's the piercing. Backstory here and here and here.

Hello Blank Page

Staring at this page for days now, I can't seem to find my jo or my mo regarding what I should place in this space. Shall I report on my tv viewing of the past two weeks? Probably not. Two episodes of Wildfire with Bratface doesn't really call for a play-by-play or running commentary. How about what I had for lunch? No? You don't care? Right, me neither.

Maybe a wedding report... .   

The Italy Wedding. I'm getting more excited, but more apprehensive as well. Our trip has been extended to 11 days. Eleven days with 32 people. Very shiny, happy people. People who are do-ers and joiners. People whose idea of a good time is to do every single thing together. "Let's ALL go out for a picnic. Let's ALL make dinner together. Let's ALL take a walk after dinner. Let's ALL go check out this gallery, then we'll play games all night and no, there is no opt-out." This type of togetherness is not for everyone. Like introverts. It really takes a toll on me. I have discovered that I have a three day threshold for family visits and that all of the over-stimulation requires seven days of peace, quiet and recuperation. In doing the math I expect a full recovery from Eleven Days of Togetherness, even if it is in Italy, by late July or early August.

I helped out at little sister's bridal shower, just like a good bridesmaid should. We had a sisterly tiff. So that was fun. The other two weddings (remember? Four of them from 5/12 - 6/6) are far less painful but that in no way absolves them. My "i hate weddings" mantra is only growing stronger by the day.

This Podunk Town

I know that y'all think I'm stalling. Or that I'm just plain full of shit.

You must understand, in some ways the itty bitty city that I live is quite cosmopolitan. We have theatre and music and artists galore. We have six SuperTargets (mind you), 12 sushi houses, countless art galleries, museums, survived a major war battle and Main Street closes yearly for the Gay Pride Festival.  We have a University, a 10 Year Plan and bus and train service, dammit.

I have a neighbor/friend who is a Pulitzer Prize winner. Two guys I went to high school with, one in my class, the other was a year ahead, are Olympic gold medalists. Another pal is a Grammy award winning musician. In kind of a way our little town has got it going on. We, the people of Itty Bitty City, can ACCOMPLISH THINGS.

So why the fuck can't I seem to get my nose pierced? Let's see - nose piercing? versus a Pulitzer Prize? Hmmmm....which one would a resident of Itty Bitty City be more likely to be able to obtain?

Yesterday, the NAI piercer was back at work. She kindly called me as soon as she got in and told me that the shop in D.C. where she was going to pick up my preferred nose screw { I didn't know that it was called that... I don't think I like it} was out of stock. She said they had to order it. Order it? Does she know who she is talking to?

I co-own a business, forcripessakes. That is so key-word for "I forgot about you, dear client, who I really want to retain now that I've remembered -----"

*Now just erase this whole conversation from your mind. Forget I told you about it. I was not aware that getting a nose piercing around here would take as long as my PhD. would if I aspired to mastering quantum physics. (Ha!)

One day I'll just pop up with a lovely, tasteful, nose piercing and that will be that. Hopefully next** Monday.

**How many times can one say "next" and still be grammatically correct?

-----------------------------------

If I disappear completely for a year or twenty, don't worry, I'm fine. Jefferson has just discovered Permaculture and he's meticulously plotting our escape from this current life.

In the meantime, we're talking about using the back roof, which is sun favored and flat, for cultivating/starting seeds in pallets with screen and cover. As of last year the trees in our tiny back yard block too much sun for any vegetable seed to start. They didn't come up and I had to use transplants. Small, flat, portable greenhouses - that's what I'm thinking. 

Don't "Go Joe!"

For almost a solid year he wore that pair of faux fur lined, navy blue, rubber snow boots everyday. That first winter they served their intended purpose and protected his little feet from the frosty elements. Come Spring, we reasoned at his protest against any other form of sneaker, shoe or boot, they kept his feet dry. He called them his fire boots or his army boots. He played in them, napped in them and wore them to preschool and story time at the library.

By Summer the fur was a matted dingy gray, the metal grommets that held the laces to gather and tighten at the calf had fallen off and the waterproof fabric on the upper part was torn in many places. They smelled so rank that no amount of overnight machine washing, only after he was sleeping could we pry them off his feet, would remove the stench. He still wore them everyday with shorts and no shirt when it was 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. At the age of 3 and 4 a child grows so quickly that no pair of shoes lasts very long and by the time I had to secretly dispose of the "fire boots", blaming the trashman for taking them when I had left them outside to dry, they were two sizes too small. Sadly, we have no evidence of that famous part of my son's childhood other than the retold story and a photo or two.

Jobie's childhood passions consisted of legos, "army men" (G.I. Joes), matchbox cars and anything firefighter related. With legos he was never really interested in the sci-fi sets, his favorite things to build were real life action vehicles - police cars, ambulances and fire trucks. Tee was pretty into legos too, and ofttimes the brothers could come close to bloodshed over a single minuscule lego emergency light. In fact, to this very second I have one of the little round legos on my dresser mixed in with my  jewelery. I used to keep a stash of two or three for when the bickering got too intense, these puppies were pure gold around here then. Now the toy blue "siren light" is nothing but dusty sentiment that makes me smile every time I rifle through my earrings and it appears.

Needless to say, there is a very large plastic container in our attic that is filled to the brim with legos. I don't know, maybe I'm saving them for my grandchildren. Or maybe I just can't let go because those little plastic bricks cost a damn fortune and I personally invested the equivalent of three year's salary on their purchase over the span of two boys' childhood. Whatever the reason, I plan on keeping them forever.

G.I. Joes were also a very big deal to Jobie. Many a Christmas Eve night I was still out hunting down that specific Joe that would bring the squeal of excitement that only that special want, the heart's desire gift, his version of the Red Rider BB Gun, could elicit on Christmas morning.Tee was never as enthusiastic as Jobie about G.I. Joes, but often they'd hole up in their room acting out elaborate scenarios, playing together for hours. Jobie would haul the Joes outside for "jungle missions" and a few ended up decapitated by the lawn mower, or were found half buried in dirt piles. Eventually, the collection became quite extensive and it took a 14 gallon plastic storage container to hold them and their 8 frillion weapons and accessories. (Which by the way, I have always thought was part of the appeal since I was adamantly opposed to toy weapons. Inch long G.I. Joe guns and knives were as good as it got for them.)

Although legos and fire boots were outgrown sooner, the Joes had a much longer lifespan. Jobie has been too old to play with toys for quite awhile, but even through the 9th or 10th grade he would occasionally pull them out of the closet and just look them over or line them up. Only about a year ago did I finally clean, organize and sort the dolls (if I may be so bold - the boys always hated it when I called them that) to store away. 

Today Jobie came over and said that he needed to go up into the attic. He brought the box of Joes down. I caught him at the door. He's been unemployed for weeks now and thusly has no cash. He'd negotiated a sale for the entire box. I emotively begged him, then ordered him not to sell them. He belligerently replied "They're mine," and stomped out of the door.

After the past 6 years with the bipolar, the resulting substance abuse, bad choices and all of the other shit, sometimes my mind goes back to before all of that - to my little boy.   

He's wrong about that box being "his". My memories were in there, too. 

Deserves an A+ In My Book

(via opey.com)

A true story...

RECEIVED FROM AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR: This assignment was actually turned in by two of my English students:

Rebecca --last name deleted-- and Gary --last name deleted-- English 44A
SMU'S Creative Writing, Prof Miller

In-class Assignment for Wednesday. Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple.  Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right.  One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story.  The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story.  The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth.  Remember to reread what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent.  The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.

  ----------------------------------------------------------------

At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator.  "Polar orbit established.  No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay.

The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit. He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him.  Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4.  "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning.  The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth --  when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her.  "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

Little did she know, but she has less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles.  The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through Congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race.  Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet.  With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan.  The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded.  The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this!  I'm going to veto that treaty!  Let's blow'em out of the sky!"

This is absurd.  I refuse to continue this mockery of literature.  My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

Yeah?  Well, you're a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.

Asshole.

Bitch.

   True story.

In Lieu Of

No piercing yet. The NAI piercer comes here only once a week from D.C. (the real one, not code) and called in sick today. Bah! So once again I proclaim that next Monday I will show you the teeny sparkle of a speck that I so anticipate.

Your consolation prize is a recipe.

Maintain your excitement.

Really though. This one is a gem. With a side of steamed asparagus (drizzled with lemon and butter) and  warm bread our dinner was on the table in less than 30 minutes and it was fabulous, even teen approved.

It is based on a recipe from Gourmet magazine. Yeah. But lest I remind you that just because it's printed in Gourmet magazine doesn't always mean (like I think it should mean) that you will have guaranteed  success and wildly flavorful results? You should have been here for the noodles with three types of sauteed mushrooms, soured milk and expensive cheeses recipe that I made from Gourmet last week. Two hours, four pans and I had to use the food processor later and do you know what came of it? Mac-a-fuckin-roni and cheese. With mushrooms. So NOT exciting. And most certainly not worth the FOREVER it took to make.

Aren't you glad I'm here for you to weed out the crappy, time-wasting recipes?

Here's the good one you've been waiting for:

Mahi-Mahi With Shiitakes and Red Miso
(adapted from this recipe via Gourmet)

4     (6 oz./1 inch thick) pieces mahi-mahi
1/2  T. olive oil
2     T. canola oil
1/4   lb.(-ish)   sliced shiitake mushrooms
2      (1/2 oz.) single serve packaged dehydrated red miso soup
1     scallion, thinly sliced

• Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
• In a small shallow baking pan place fillets then drizzle 1/2 T. olive oil and sprinkle with 1/2 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper.
• Toss mushrooms with canola oil and 1/4 t. salt and pepper.
• Pour over and around fish.
• Roast fish and mushrooms, stirring mushrooms once or twice, until fish is just cooked through and mushrooms are somewhat crisp, about 13 minutes.
• Prepare miso soup as directed on package. (So easy - boiling water + pouch)
  
• Divide soup, mushrooms and fish into shallow plate or bowl. Top with scallion.

Maybe chicken would work, too?

Do it. You won't regret it.

I'm Laughing With You Not At You

Bratface accidentally shaved off half of her eyebrow...while shaving her armpits.

Sometimes it's hard to be the Mom and keep a straight face.

Mom Went to The Piercer and All She Got Was This Lousy Stud

I did it, y'all! I got my nose pierced. Left side.

However,  a great tattoo artist does not a great piercer make.

Immediately I could tell that something was wrong. It was located on the flat part of my nose more than I'd wanted. Also, the "screw" part of the stud was hanging out of my nostril. The piercing guy said you're supposed to be able to turn the stud around and the corkscrew will lay flat against the interior nostril.

Mine dug into my interior nostril when turned.

As soon as I got in the car I inspected it even closer and pretty much hated it.

I drove to a different tattoo parlor for a second opinion. The piercer there, a woman this time, agreed that I was right to be unhappy. The stud was inserted on an angle, not straight through, which caused the tail of it to either show or to poke me in the nose.  She also agreed that it should have been placed a bit farther back on the crease of the nose, not on the flatter part.

The New and Improved piercer removed it and I'm to let it heal for a week.

So next Monday I'll have a nose piercing.

Let this be a lesson:

• Make sure that the piercer marks the spot and lets you check it - FIRST. I thought that's what we were doing but the pain convinced me otherwise before I'd even had a chance to speak.

• Make sure that a cork or rubber device is used. This ensures a straight path through the nostril. (He did not use one - just free-formed the needle with his hands like he was sewing.)

• Make sure that you are happy with the size of the stud - on the actual nose the teeny tiny is still too large for some. Like me. (The NAI Piercer is buying me a special 1.5 gauge in D.C., where everyone and everything is cooler than we have here, rather than the 2.0 that is stock and what I first got.)

Sigh.

How anticlimactic.

Bacon and Bling

My mother-in-law lightly coats raw bacon slices with flour to make crispier, tastier strips.

Although we eat little meat, there is simply no way to make old-fashioned fresh green beans like grandma does without bacon. {Edited to add that I CAN make a mean pot of green beans using almond oil and sliced almonds in the same manner as described when we're feeling totally vegetarian but there's really no substitute for Grandma's beans, now is there?} I cook 3 or 4 pieces in the bottom of the stock-pot that I will be using for the beans. Then remove cooked bacon, add raw beans directly to leftover bacon grease, cover and shake, shake, shake every little while to coat all beans and keep from sticking. Keep heat on low but don't remove the top! After about 5-7 minutes the beans will have "steamed" and will be a bright green. Now add water and cook as usual to get the best old-fashioned green beans you've ever tasted. Sprinkle the crisp bacon crumbles on top, if you wish.

Thanksgiving Side Dish night is Bratface's favorite dinner. Tee calls it Turkey Dinner Without the Turkey night; he says it would be his favorite if turkey were involved in more than just the title.

I decided that you just couldn't live another minute of your life without knowing these facts.

Also, I'm going to get my nose pierced tomorrow. I want one of those teeny sparkles of a speck of diamond. I think it'll be cute.

But which side? Is there a correct one? Please confer and report back.

    

Cripes, Whatever Happened To Living In Sin?

Have I mentioned my disdain for weddings?

Not only is my baby sister Keebo getting married in April and I am one of SEVEN bridesmaids {shudder}, Jefferson's sister is getting married in May in Italy (hello, that means that we will have to go to Italy) and four days after our return we will travel to Jersey, the bride's home state, to witness the marriage of two of our dearest friends and Jefferson's most famous partner in crime.

Did I mention that two of the betrothed are our sisters? The other being one of our closest friends? That means what? 

Weddings in April, May, June.
Ready set go,
March!

The festivities (and bullshit) shall now begin. The phone calls and emails from sisters, bridesmaids and mothers so excited about the plans, themed bridal showers (Around The World Bride - What the hell? Please. Explain.) out of state and over-night bachelor and bachelorette parties, travel accommodations this state, that state, another continent, menu planning, invitation choosing assistance, registries to check, cars to rent, money to gather falling from the trees (that's going to happen, right?) and dress fittings are really starting to interfere with my ruminations on figuring out WHAT I SHOULD WEAR IN ITALY.

I've never even been there but I'm pretty sure my usual daily attire (big silver hoops and red silk scarf over my ever-present brown/black/tan/green and jeans counts as dressing up in my world) just ain't gonna cut it. We're staying in a castle turned villa for 32. With a chef. For seven days. Cool, right? Now WHAT DO I WEAR?

Every weekend from the beginning of March we are booked with wedding crap for someone. The phone calls and emails are taking over our lives. Have these people never heard of cc'ing?

And I knew it. I just knew something was up when I suggested to Jefferson that we eat out tonight and he not only said yes, he seemed happy about it. <------- Sign. Note it. He always balks. We could be down to a packet of dressing from a salad bar and salt in the cupboards, have a 'copter on the helipad waiting to take us to an all-expense paid dinner and still he would balk. "It's Monday for godsakes!"  I don't get it either. He likes going out on weekends but for some reason it is absolutely taboo during the week.

Tonight, safely after I'd been handed my margarita in the Mexican restaurant, we started talking about all of the weddings and some of the drama-issues for each. We got onto the Major Problem of the Italy wedding. Seems that Relative Mr. X, who just got one of those "who'd have ever thunk it after 15 perfect years" divorces less than a year ago announced his upcoming nuptials to Mrs.Will Be Divorced On the Wednesday Before The Wedding, over Christmas. Unfortunately, this wedding would be right on or around the exact day that most of the extended family on Jefferson's mother's side would be leaving the country for Italy and J's sister's wedding. It would be difficult to attend both. Needless to say, conflicting family weddings is a bride's mother's worst nightmare.

I asked if he'd talked to his mom in the last couple of days. Jefferson said that the issue had been resolved. Woot!

"My mother sold us down river and used OUR departure as reason to talk them into changing the date to a week or so earlier. She explained to Aunt X (Mr. X's mother) that we would be devastated if we couldn't be a part of his wedding."

Gah.

Eight weeks, four weddings, three states, two countries and DAMMIT I ALREADY WORE MY BLACK SKIRT AND MY TWO GOOD DRESSES TO THE ENGAGEMENT PARTIES.

Still On Topic

No, I'm not fully committed and I don't have to decide until next week, but I must admit that in light of my last post referencing "hope" on the ballot I got completely overtaken with chillbumps when I saw this video and read the full text.

Check it out.

(via youtube)

(speech text via red stapler)

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation.

Yes we can.

It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom.

Yes we can.

It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness.

Yes we can.

It was the call of workers who organized; women who reached for the ballots; a President who chose the moon as our new frontier; and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the Promised Land.

Yes we can to justice and equality.

Yes we can to opportunity and prosperity.

Yes we can heal this nation.

Yes we can repair this world.

Yes we can.

We know the battle ahead will be long,
but always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change.

We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics...they will only grow louder and more dissonant. We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope.

But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

Now the hopes of the little girl who goes to a crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of LA; we will remember that there is something happening in America; that we are not as divided as our politics suggests; that we are one people; we are one nation; and together, we will begin the next great chapter in the American story with three words that will ring from coast to coast; from sea to shining sea --

Yes. We. Can.

Even If It's Only A Primary

As Americans we have become so acclimated to the privileges that we call Rights and Freedoms that we forget to appreciate them. Think of all the things we take for granted on a daily basis - free and public education for our children, personal choice without fear of opposition, violence or persecution for our religion, thoughts or speech. We choose everything, everyday -our schools, our spouses, our professions, our homes and location, our church, our reading material, our travel - our lives. All of us. No gender, race or ethnic barriers exist. How many humans world-wide can count on this every day of their lives?

We also get to choose our governmental leaders - and this is power that should not be ignored. Though the system is imperfect and the players merely flawed mortals, the ability of the people to choose the individuals who will be in charge of policies that affect their lives is a gift that shouldn't be looked upon with ambivalence. Democracy calls for voice.

Cast your ballot in any direction as is your privilege. Just don't opt-out.

There will never be a perfect candidate but as long as there is a ballot "Hope" will be on it somewhere. 

Yes, Virginia, There Is A Recession

As I sit at the table gathering forms for the home equity loan officer, Contractor A tells me that he will surely pay the bill he was supposed to pay last week tomorrow - as long as Contractor B pays him the bill that was due 14 days ago.

He describes the phone call that he received earlier in the day from Contractor C whose business is at a standstill - he can no longer order heat pumps until at least eight subcontractors (including Contractor A) pay him the bills they owe. Contractor A says that we are both lucky. Neither of our businesses are in that position. (Yet? Yikes.)

Contractor A assures me that the home equity loan is easier to obtain than the business line of credit that he is attempting to get. He says he should know, he had to file for the home equity back in October.

The biggest builder in the metro area, a mega millionaire, who owes a measly $300 says he just can't pay, either. "Soon," I've been assured for three months now.

The hardwood floor contractor/friend that I talked with today (no bills involved) hasn't had a day's work since Christmas.   

Auntie tells me that her single daughter's hours have been cut back at the restaurant to two days a week. Social Services has given her seven days to find another job or they will stop paying for her son's daycare during her working hours because a person must work 35 hours a week to receive childcare assistance. After paying the full cost of daycare for two days a week, her take home pay would be  exactly $22. DSS advised her that quitting the job and being on the dole would be more lucrative. {Ed. note: Aaaargh! This mindset infuriates me.}

Jobie says he'll take her two days - he got laid off the week after Christmas.

Tee's job at the big-name retail store is "So damn boring lately." Everything in every store is on Super Duper Sale, but there are no customers. All of the employees' hours have been drastically cut. Tee said he's glad that he only has to work for gas and spending money; he's not the head of household like his manager who is having daily panic attacks while trying to keep up on the rent and put food on his children's table on half pay.

The classified ads in our local paper have flip-flopped. Used to be the Help Wanted ads took up three or four pages and the Legal Notices/Foreclosures only half a column.

It's not just rhetoric, hard times are here.

Yeah. No, really.

I did. I totaled a police car.

It's a good story actually.

So I'm heading West, pulling out of the post office. Da' Po Po swings around the corner, now heading North...fast, right? (But do you think anybody cared? Nooooooo.)

My Bobo (in her gappy little baby-toothed way Bratface had christened the Volvo years ago) had to creep around a parked van on the roadside. A PARKED VAN! (Do you think anybody cared?)

Attempting to make a left turn, only noticing him from the "thunk" when my right (passenger side) front hit his right front wheel area, I immediately hopped out of my car. He immediately hopped out of his car. The deputy and I spoke at the same time.

Me: "FUCK, shit. Fuckin' SHIT! ...Mo-THER FUCK-er!" -.-.-. Dammit."

Deputy (who I just notice is someone I knew in high school. FUCK): "Are you ok? Is anyone hurt?"

Hello there first impression in 20 years.
Hanging head.
No. Thank you.

Let me tell you, if you ever need quick response time from a fire truck, an ambulance, the Chief of Police and/or three (if I'm lying, I'm dying) back-up squadcars, just go right out and smash into a police vehicle. 911 will not put you on hold.

It was so efficient - info exchanged, the report was made, my ticket was written, shook the Chief's hand, and the wrecked po-mobile was up on a tow truck within no time. The whole process took less than 20 minutes.

Still a little shaken, once I was free to leave (no handcuffs, whew!) I drove on around the block to my original destination to meet with a friend and client. I apologized profusely for being late. He offered me a chair and said "Accidents wouldn't be accidents if they could be foreseen." Odd. All I had said was so, so sorry to be late. I hadn't told him about that yet.

Mr. Miller, a mutual acquaintance of both of ours, had called ahead to tell him that I was going to be late.  (???)(To this day.)

I asked if I could have a minute to call Jefferson before we talked. Working out the story in my head (PARKED VAN! whizzing by!), as I wasn't sure how he was going to react when I broke the news that I'd had an accident
with a police car
and it was my fault.
Bonus: the ticket to prove it.
I called Jefferson's cell. But when he answered he was calm, kind, even drippy sweet - all "He-yyyy, hon."

Ms. Mouse, another acquaintance, had seen the commotion and called him directly.

So had Mrs.BugEye and MetroMan.

My Dad beeped in to check on me. (This happened right outside of the post office that he worked at for 20-something years. He's not at that branch now, but someone recognized me.)

Within 15 more minutes I think there must have been a town crier with a hand bell on every corner shouting out the news. My phone just kept ringing and ringing.

Forfucksakes.

Oh yeah, the icing on this cake? The Bobo had only a broken headlight, but the police car was struck just perfectly on the wheel so that it caused the front axle to break. Total loss.