The Problem in the Kitchen

We have a problem in our kitchen. And the problem is me. I shouldn't be in there.

Many bad things have happened in our kitchen. I have to hand it to Jamie, he's been really patient about all of it. He's had years of this behavior and yet he still lets me wander around, unsupervised. (Though, truthfully, there has been talk of changing that...)

Consider:

I've demonstrated no ability to remember if the open soda/water bottle/etc. is his or mine. I lived alone for a very long time. I'm used to any open container being mine. So I drink it. It's often not mine. It's often an honest mistake. But not always...

50% of the time when I try to make hard-boiled eggs, I burn them because I forget to turn off the heat and the water evaporates. I've twice blown up eggs in the kitchen. There is a reason why Glade doesn't make Exploded Egg Air Fresheners. A good one.

I don't believe in waiting for something to be done. I have a set amount of time I'm willing to wait before eating and if the food cooking time doesn't fit in, that's too damn bad. I'll eat it cold. (E.g., lean cuisine is 2:30. Pizza is 14 minutes. Fish is at least ten minutes longer than I have ever given it.) And yet, he still lets me prepare dinner once in a while and doesn't tell me to read the box to see how long it will really take to cook.

We can't have bread in the house. We used to have it. And we had this conversation every time:
"Where's all the bread?"
"I ate it."
"There was a loaf here two days ago."
"I like bread. If you want it to stick around, hide it."
Hiding worked for awhile until I discovered all of the hiding places. Of course, there was one place I didn't find, he forgot about, and when discovered, we had a dandy little science project. After that point: no more bread.

I break things: glasses, plates, bowls, vases, promises not to eat the last cookie.

I put things in the dishwasher that don't go there: certain knives, silver, certain plastics, thumb drives, etc.

I drink from the container. I drink from the container and put the empty container back in there.

I spill dog/cat food on the floor. Constantly.

I've left the refrigerator door open.

I've left the oven on.

I've left the faucet on full blast. Several times.

I've forgotten things in the oven.

I've demonstrated very little responsibility in or affinity for the kitchen. And yet, patient Jamie shakes his head, hugs me, and moves along with his life. He accepts me for the klutz that I am. Which is very sweet.

Sweet is not what I'm going for.

I'm going for long-term banishment.

And it's not working...

The ears have it

I have ongoing problems with one of my ears; my kitten also faces some minor ear challenges. This is just one of many reasons that we're inseparable. There are Those Nameless Few who believe that Quintasaurus Rex and I have developed a nearly unnatural relationship. But they're just Haters who don't understand the beauty of sleeping in the warm embrace of a beautiful, strong, brave feline ... and they can pretty much bite it.

Me: My ear's acting up again. I think I'll try hydrogen peroxide.
Hubs: (not looking up from his magazine) Mmm.
Me: It might actually work and I lobster-hate that ENT who tells me to Stop Being So Vocal. What does that even mean?
(Pregnant pause during which Hubs realizes it's his turn to speak)
Hubs: Why don't you try Quinty's stuff.
Me: The stuff from THE VET?
Hubs: Mm-hmmm.
Me: Uhhh, let's see, because it's from ... let me think ... A VET.
Hubs: It's for ears.
Me: It's for CAT ears, not PERSON ears.
Hubs: But there's a picture of a horse on the label, too.
Me: It's for CAT ears and HORSE ears, not PERSON ears.
Hubs: It's probably the same.
Me: Yeah, it's probably definitely the same. I think I'll just go squirt GOD KNOWS WHAT that was prescribed to AN ANIMAL into my HEAD. That's what I'm going to GO DO RIGHT NOW.
Hubs: (returning to his magazine) Mm-hmm.
Me: And when you're DEAD and DYING, I'll just have them prescribe HORSE tranquilizers to YOU and we'll see how well that works out. How's that?
Hubs: Mm-hmm.

This morning I scheduled an appointment with Dr. StopBeingSoVocal. And cancelled my husband's subscription to Big Guys Need Big Tools Monthly.

Letters to Santa

Dear Santa,
This is Laney. I'm always good. I guard the house from everyone (including the man in brown who is here like every day; when will he learn I'm not going to let him in?). So far, no one has gotten past me and stolen my mom. This makes me very good. As so my pretty face and awesome figure. For Christmas, I would like a door I can open by myself, a permanent space on my parents' bed, and to catch a squirrel. If you could throw in a pool so I can exercise in a non-impact environment, that would be good as well. I'm an old lady, you know. On that note, if you could send a bigger cage for the hyper little dog, we could put the cats in there and the children call all play together while I get some peace and quiet. Please be weary of whatever that Mookie writes; he's trouble and has not done much to deserve presents this year. Definitely needs to cut down on the kitty pot. Just saying.

Dearest Santa,
This is Turtle. I have been a very good girl this year. I have made sure to take care of my long pretty hair, I haven't broken anything, and I never ever wake up my mom in the middle of the night for attention (unlike ALL of my siblings). I had some accidents this year, but that's only because my brother is obnoxious and stalks me. For Christmas, I would like some soft treats, a new bed, and for Laney to stop chasing me. And I really NEED for my stupid brother to have more days spent in Time Out. He's a freakshow and I need some alone-with-my-mom time.
Love, Turtle.

Dear Santa,
Having lost/broken all of my toys, I need some new ones: balls, feathers, mice, the strings on my mom's hoodies, the shoelaces on my dad's shoes, etc. I also need some catnip. And before you comment on how much catnip I had last year, I want to say that I just use it recreationally. My dad says I should ask you for a clue, but I don't know what that means. I need some tools -- little ones designed to help me open the back door and don't require an opposable thumb to work. Oh, and something to keep my feet dry and clean when I'm outside. Also, if you could convince Mom to keep that blasted little dog in his cage at all times, I would appreciate it. He's a menace. And my sister Turtle is a big sissy.
Mookie, AKA Button Face

SANTA!!!
I have been a really good boy this year. I remember to go outside to go to the bathroom almost every day and am very diligent about licking my feet. Furthermore, I keep my mom warm by sleeping on her, with her, near her, etc. Sometimes I go to work and I don't even get paid, so I think I'm entitled to some gifts. Definitely need a pink sweater, some fashionable boots, as many treats as possible, and more blankets.
BTW, the stupid white cat likes to swat at me and stand on me when I'm under the blankets and I do not like that, so make sure you adjust his presents accordingly. I think he deserves coal. OH, and please note that Laney smacks me in the face constantly with her tail. Everyone thinks she so perfect, but she abuses me all the time and I never complain. Just more information for you when determining who should have what.
Actually, can you just send a cage for Mookie and make Laney an "outside only dog? That would be great.
Leo
PS: Can I eat your cookies?

Paula

Bouncing blonde ringlets, enormous blue eyes, and cupie-doll lips would have made it easy to write off Paula as a lightweight. She'd have forced you to eat that decision along with a steaming hot cup of Think-Again-Sucker. But then she would have laughed about it and encouraged you to do the same.

Paula always had your back; even when it wasn't in her best interests to do so.

She loved enormous pink peonies. And status reports.
And sparkly blue eye shadow. And team meetings.
And hooker boots. And color-coded project folders.

Two things got Paula hot: Dave Matthews and a Lesson (actually!) Learned.

She was like Chief Mama-Bird to an entire staff of women. She spent her time nurturing us in preparation for the day when she would nudge us out of the nest. Finally dropkicking us out of our comfort zones and into the Big Horrible World of Clients, she was always there to swoop down and catch us if our wings faltered.

Paula had time for neither sloth nor fear; she espoused a strict No Whining policy. She forced us to dig deep and find our best, bravest selves because it was too painful to disappoint her.

But she did have time for ice cream. One day I looked out the window to see Paula and Brian walking hand-in-hand chowing down on ice cream cones. She may have played Whipmaster P in the office, but she knew how to take a moment to enjoy a beautiful day with her favorite food and her favorite guy.

Paula's mantra was about finding and maintaining Balance. Between home and work. Between internal and external demands. She didn't just preach Balance; she strove for it herself. A devoted mom who could light up a room talking about her kids. A hard-working colleague who had always envisioned herself as the respected career woman she embodied. Staunch defender of both The Process and Those who simply could not work within The Process. She championed documented parameters but embraced clients' needs, all the while supporting her team with the ferocity of a lioness defending her young.

Paula was a complex woman, as enterprising as she was unpretentious, and as gregarious as she was perceptive. But above all, she was easy to know and easy to love. The world was a better place because she was here, and I'm a better person for having known her.

Over the Edge: A Thanksgiving Story

I don't know why I continue to insist that we can host Thanksgiving dinner and that it will be perfect.

This year's plan was brilliant. And yet, by the end, I was again left wondering why I thought it was a great idea. As I do pretty much every year. I can't be taught.

Here was the plan:

We would invite both sets of parents over for dinner. To accommodate that many people, we bought a new dinning room table which would seat 8. Understanding the reality of my cooking ability (of which there is precious little), I delegated most of the meal to mothers who were eager to make (his mom) or buy (my mom) whatever needs to be made/bought. His mom would bring the cheesy potatoes (which could have been all I ate, quite frankly) and cranberry ecstasy, my mom gave me a turkey, bread, and a frozen pumpkin pie to prepare. Jamie would make the gravy and green beans. I would make mashed potatoes and set the table. For our after-dinner entertainment, his parents would share pictures from their latest trip.

Perfect, no? No.

The super-wonderful table set we bought for the occasion was perfect. Beautiful dark wood, great size for the house (with a butterfly insert), shiny and new and, as of Thanksgiving morning, somewhere in a truck in the Midwest, slowly trudging our way. We still don't have it. So we would have to huddle around a small table for four, with someone sitting on an ottoman and someone sitting in an office chair. Rather imperfect.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

Jamie bounced from bed at 9:30, running to the kitchen in a panic, "Got to put the turkey in!" I laid there wondering what on earth he was fretting about but decided not to interfere. It wasn't until 1:30, when I asked him how much longer the turkey had, that we realized that the turkey was going to be ready an hour before we were ready to eat. Apparently, my email communication which said, "Please arrive between 2:30 and 3:00" confused him into thinking it said, "We are eating at 2:30 on the dot."

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

We turned the oven off, covered the turkey, and left it in the warm oven. By the time we were ready to eat, it was perfect. My father, however, was too ill to make it. Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday -- it was sad to not look down the table and not see his mashed potato volcano. It felt more than incomplete; it felt wrong.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

Once the turkey was out of the oven, we had planned to put in the frozen pumpkin pie. By the time we finished eating, cleaned up, and sat down to look at trip pics, it would be ready. I took the pie out of the freezer and started to open the box. The pie should have slipped right out, but it was stuck. I therefore peeled back the cardboard. The first thing I saw was pie crust -- which is the best part of pie. What I found terribly odd was how much pie crust I saw. And how little pumpkin filling. As I peeled the whole of the box back, I saw the pumpkin: a nice, perfectly rectangular slab of pumpkin neatly stored at one end of the box. Apparently, the pie had melted at some point and then been put in the freezer on its side where it separated. "Uh oh," I said. Parent radar went up.

"Did you drop the turkey on the floor?"

?

"Um. No. But I think we have no dessert." I walked into the family room and showed the box of crust and square pumpkin filling. Not missing a beat, my mother said,

"Gretchen! You are supposed to take it out of the box before you cook it." She's familiar with my work.

"Carolyn!" I replied like the delicate flower that I am, "It's still frozen."

"Oh."

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

We ended up putting the pie in the oven and hoped it would just settle back into place. Meanwhile, I started to clean up. My mother stood chatting with his mother in the kitchen, telling her wild stories about our extended family. I smiled to myself thinking how relaxed everyone seemed to be, sipping wine, feeling comfortable, telling stories, not feeding the dogs people food. But it was just when I finished having that thought when my mother accidentally knocked a wine glass off of the counter and it shattered on the floor. Note: she was the only one not drinking and this was a move I would have predicted I would have pulled.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

We sat around and looked at the trip to China pics and, when those were done, the conversation turned to that inevitable place: when were we going to get married and the fact that I put on my wedding dress all the time. To try to get that conversation off track, and satisfy people's desire to see me in my dress, I pulled up some pictures of me in it. This backfired and only served to heat up the discussion on the wedding.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

After dinner, after China pictures, we stopped by another family-member's house for dessert and drinks. About half way through our time there, I realized that we had forgotten all about the pie which was still in the oven. Whether or not the oven was on (and if the house was on fire) was in debate.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

The oven was not on, the house had not burned down, and the pie was cooked perfectly. Which meant that I would have the pie all to myself.

And that's what did it. After ODing later that night on pumpkin pie, running upstairs to try on my thin pants and finding that they didn't fit (shocker), and that the presence of more pie in the house was going to lead to 20 lb weight gain (overnight) which would lead to ill-fitting clothes which would lead to a general lack of feeling fabulous which would lead to others not buying into my general fabulous appeal (you may not comment on that) which would lead to loss of friends, job, creativity, and ultimately to writer's block which would lead to depression, lack of focus, lack of self-identity, and, ultimately, a catatonic state.

So I threw out the pie.

And wondered why I thought Thanksgiving Dinner was a good idea.

But Christmas dinner will be perfect.

I was tired

by tess

Having been out of the office for a couple of weeks, I'm having a little trouble re-adjusting to my brutal three-day work weeks. I was falling asleep at my computer until I saw it. IT being the Muppets version of Bohemian Rhapsody on youtube. Thankfully Miss Piggy and a L'il Critters Gummy Vitamin revived my interest in the day. At least temporarily.

I made it all the way to 7:35 AM without being thoroughly annoyed. But the sticky note on my monitor tipped me over the edge and into the abyss. Why would you put a sticky note on my computer? Ever heard of voicemail or email? Recognizing the handwriting, I could hear Paul Harvey intoning And Now You Know the Rest of the Story. It was from Brianne, the woman who is physically incapable of sending an email without Replying All and attaching a Read-Receipt Request. I prefer to preview her emails then delete them so that she receives the "Unread Message Deleted" warning. Brahahahahahahahahahaha.

Is it National Can't Be Bothered to Use My Turn Signal Day? I think it is.

It pleased me to no end to snark "Wow, pretty necklace!" when the Queen of Knowledge showed up in a neck brace this morning. [Oh, don't be all judgmental. I happen to know for a fact that she's perfectly fine. She's just trying to make her husband feel guilty for making her clean the gutters. And if I thought it worked, I'd already own one!]

We (and by we, I mean I) officially begin the day at 8:30. This morning at 8:25, only a quarter of the staff had arrived. By 8:29, we were all the way up to a third. I've officially become the old lady in the library who purses her lips and makes the tsk-sigh sound when someone dares to make a noise.

Last autumn, I was (yet again) espousing my child-rearing theories to a colleague, Annie. Specifically, I was encouraging her to avoid the Well-we-don't-want-little-Belinda-to-be-an-only-child-so-we-better-squeeze-out-another-brat pregnancy. I also provided wise counsel that she avoid the Santa Claus trap. After all, I'm an only child, and my parents never thrust me toward a fat, furry stranger's lap. So clearly it's all good, I mean I turned out okay. Right? Not so much. Apparently the advice of a drunken psycho loser no longer carries the gravitas of Nick Nolte or Kirstie Alley, both much-admired among the Order of Drunken Psycho Losers, not to mention the Pajama and Muumuu Wearers Alliance. This morning after sharing the pictures of Belinda on Santa's lap, Annie announced her pregnancy. Tsk-sigh.

As my co-workers' fake-laughs become more girlish, my own becomes more manly. I'm either going through The Change or Steven Segal is hiding under my desk.

As you know, many of my dreams involve flying. In fact, I often encourage my dream-self to fly higher and farther because I like the feeling of weightlessness. And the scenery. The rest of my dreams involve being partially- to mostly-naked but searching frantically for clothing. [And, yes, I know what it means, so don't bother to ever-so-helpfully google it for me, thanks.] Yesterday I had a horrible nightmare that I was working alone as a waitress and too many people came in at once. I awoke in a sweaty panic but once I confirmed that I wasn't about to expire from terror, I had to admit that there were two funny parts:
1. My panic attack bloomed into full-fledged hysteria after just two customers placed drink orders;
2. The restaurant inspector was so freaked out by my insanity that he started taking orders, then commanded me (and the many, many voices inside my head) away from the customers.

My cats are alone for the first time in more than two weeks. I wonder if there will be a Tigergate-like crime scene by 6:15 when I get home.

You're officially old when you begin to refer to all women under the age of 30 as Little Girls.

If life were more cartoon-like then I could install a trapdoor just outside my cube area. Then every time I heard that annoying faux baby-voice whining, "Tess? I know you're going to hate me but I need you to ..." I could flip the switch, the ground beneath her perfectly manicured toes would disappear, and down, down she'd go. Where she'll stop, nobody knows.

A few minutes ago, I thought to myself:
Wonder if I should actually try to accomplish something today.
Then, because I couldn't be bothered to listen to myself thinking, I responded:
Hmm? What? Oh. Nah.
I'm not sure that a licensed therapist would consider this discussion to be a sign of positive engagement.

The Verdict

When Jamie was away last March, I took out the 24' x 14' rug in our family room.

When he left for a road rally, I removed the wall-to-wall carpeting in the bedroom.

When he traveling to Pennsylvania to get some track time, I ripped out the wall-to-wall
carpeting in the hall and front stairs.

When he was on a business trip, I removed the flagstone walkway and laid out a new one with red pavers. (Laid out does not equal properly installed.)

When he was at work last spring, I laid out a little patio area with the above-mentioned removed flagstone.

When he was at a party with friends, I turned the laundry room into my closet and removed the door.

When he was at a meeting, I removed all of the bookshelves from our living room and redistributed them throughout the house.

When he was asleep in bed, I have, over the past year, purchased several rugs, runner, and carpet treads.

But it wasn't until he arrived home from a quick trip to the store only to find the front door blocked by the kitchen table which I had gotten stuck on its way from the family room to my study where I had decided it needed to be my desk (a decision made before I started to move the desk and accidentally hit my head on the side of it and probably gave myself a slight concussion) that he finally said, "Do we have to make arrangements for you to be supervised when I leave?"

So now I'm on par with the dog.

Questions and Observations, Take 142

Who decided a "serving" of girl scout cookies is two cookies? It's one row. Same for Oreos. And pretty much anything that comes in rows.

Is anyone else started to know that not only are there women out there who are so out of it they don't realize they are pregnant, but that there are enough of these space cadets that TLC has a whole series about it?

Why do ghost hunters always assume the gobbledy guk on their EVPs is in English?

We're having six people for dinner on Thursday. We have four chairs. Is it rude to ask two people to stand? Or would it be better for me to volunteer to eat on the couch (like every other night)?

If there is an English version of a show and a foreign version, watch the foreign version. The FCC ruins everything.

There's a commercial where this woman in an ugly sweater and poorly bleached hair tells me that her fridge is her perfect partner. And I thought, Lady, couple that with the sweater and you really should be somewhere with doors that lock from the outside.

Why do all of the animals follow me into the bathroom? ALL of them. EVERY time.

I consider my dog's job to guard me not only from burly intruders intent on stealing my shoes and thumb drives, but to protect me from ghosts. The dogs are supposed to warn me when some confused spirit is around and just waiting for the right moment to scare the shit out of me. And so I find it highly unhelpful to discover I have adopted a dog that bays and howls in the night, every night. He's in cahoots with the ghosts, no doubt telling them the exact right moment to spook me for maximum scare payoff. "Noooooooooooooooowowowowoowwwwwooooo! Scare her noooowowoowowowowowoowowowowowowwwwww. Before Jamie comes hoooooooooooowowowowowoowowowowooooomm."

I thought putting the chocolate in the garage was enough of a deterrent. It's not.

I started to clean today but got bored half-way through, so now we have a pre-battle tableaux: vacuum in the hall, 409 on the counter, Tilex on the tub ledge -- at any moment, the war will start. "Parties For People You Don't Like But Need to Impress" Tip: If you spray any cleaner that smells of bleach in the air, people will think you spent way more time cleaning than you did.

If I tell you my dog bites and you decide that you are smarter than my dog, and you can, in fact, mess with him and he bites you, what does that tell you about your intelligence?

The case of the vanishing lashes

by tess

So I don't wear a lot of make up. It's not that I think it's evil or anything - I used to trowel that crap on in high school. But now it just seems kind of silly. My daily routine consists of smearing a pencil somewhere (anywhere's fine really!) near the outer edges of my eyes, followed by three-slashes-per-eye of mascara. I've noticed over the past couple of years that my lashes were getting really sparse but assumed that like so many other parts of my body that have given up on life, my lash-loss was simply another sign of the times.

Two weeks ago, my pencil turned up empty so I replaced it, and, on a whim, decided to replace the mascara, too. Imagine my shock and awe when using the mascara showed eyelashes that actually protruded from my eyelids. I mean they're not Johnny Depp lashes but there are actually itty bitty hairs there. And so I realized that I hadn't lost all my lashes, my tube of mascara had just been empty for the past year or two, and I'd been applying air to my lashes each morning.

And that's admittedly pretty funny but what's even funnier is that I've become so accustomed to wiping my eyes whenever I want to that now I perpetually sport raccoon eyes. I was embarrassed the first day or two but now think it's high-larious to discover at the end of each day how much I resemble a pre-lapband Courtney Love fresh off a gig at Satyricon.

Thanksgiving

by tess

We have two gray stray cats who hang out at our office. The nurses from the plastic surgery office next door pet them. The counselors from the drug rehab center across the office park talk to them. And we feed them. The cats have been here for years and must be scrappy little dudes to have fought off interlopers who want a cut of their prime territory.

I don't know what everyone else calls them, but since they're virtually indistinguishable, we call them both Mr. Gray. Mentally, I refer to them as Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey because everyone deserves a special name. Not special like Apple or MoonUnit, but special in the you-may-be-just-a-stray-but-someone-somewhere-thinks-you're-a-very-good-baby-who-deserves-a-name sort of way.

Anyway, Welli and Qman have decided that they're not terribly fond of one particular brand of wet food so I brought it to the office. On days when we give Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey the wet food, they lose their minds in pleasure. Seriously, Tom-Cruise-on-Oprah's-couch frenzied pleasure like you and I wish we could experience at some point in our lives. But won't.

And that's the meaning of Thanksgiving for me this year - as bad as things might be for these little guys, they're deeply and overwhelmingly grateful for 65 cents worth of love. I think there may be a lesson there for us. Or maybe not.

Rollerskates and Olivia: The Gateway Drug

They say to confess is to release a burden from your soul. And so, I find I must confess.

I watched Xanadu last night.

No, it gets worse.

After that, I ended up turning on Lawrence Welk. And I didn't just pause on it while surfing, I went past it and went back. Intentionally.

And then Spongebob.

Oh, God, and then The Worlds Strictest Parents.

What is wrong with me?

If I tune in Hannah Montana, I'm going to have to get rid of my cable, clearly having violated my TV-watching privileges.

Damn you, Olivia Newton-John and your 80's version of hammer pants and feathered hair and lip gloss!

Blanket Power

I need my blanket. I've heard of people who can sleep without one, but they're freaks. You need that protective shield from cold air, bugs, and boogie men. You need a blanket when watching scary movies to hide behind when it's too much to watch (every scary scene I've ever watched has been through the tiny holes in a knit blanket; safer that way). You need a blanket when you have to share your bed with a sibling: one on top of the blanket (don't let it be you), and one underneath. You need a blanket to throw over the head of the person on the couch who is annoying you (try it sometime; it definitely ends a line of conversation).

Blankets are comforting, reminding us of warmth, an embrace, the feeling of your mother throwing a quilt over you in the middle of a chilly night. Because your father turned the heat way down.

I had long believed the power of the blanket to be for humans alone, but it isn't true.

My dog believes in the power of the blanket.

This is the only possible explanation for his insistence on spending at least 60% of his time buried under one. I realized the other day that it is effective armour when my cat decided to sit on him. No blanket = raging fight, much fur flying, and serious injuries (to the dog). Blanket = both of them slept peacefully for an hour. Until I tried to take a picture and then everybody moved.

The other night, I put the dog to bed in his blanket-laden crate. Fifteen minutes later, I heard screaming. I ran downstairs only to find the cat in the crate with the dog. Apparently, he, too, had been embracing the power of the blanket and was in the cage when I put Leo to bed. The cat won the fight. Easily.

So, you see, everyone loves blankets. They are a highly-prized possession. And it is therefore, in my opinion, a despicable crime when someone tries to steal your blanket from you in the middle of the night when it's freezing cold and then holds that blanket hostage by rolling over it and pretending to be "asleep" and "unaware" that all of the blankets are now on one side of the bed -- and not yours.

I'm not saying it's worth a life sentence in solitary, but blanket stealing: it's up there.

Transformational Moments

On Monroe Avenue sit the two most important stores in Rochester:

The Wegman's Flagship Store and PetCo.

And because everyone in Rochester wants to go to these stores, traffic is a slow-moving, bumper-to-bumper fat caterpillar of annoyance. So, you've got some time to observe life while you sit in your car and wait to be rear-ended by a Pittsford Wife talking on her cell phone in her Hummer. And by the way, why is she even going to Wegman's? It's not like she's consuming any calories that aren't in Chardonnay form.

But enough of my petty annoyances/holding the mirror up to reality.

It was on one such journey that I had a few moments to observer a down-trodden man sitting on a bench. He was scruffy -- greasy-bearded and dark, cloaked in a long, green threadbare coat, dirty jeans, and sneakers nicer than mine (what is that?). He was hunched over, his head hanging down, silent. And he was young. Maybe 25. And it broke my heart. What had happened to him to land him on the street? Was it the economy? Was it a failing grade in 10th grade PE that, like any of us, he didn't think would go on his permanent record and affect the rest of his life? When had he last eaten? Was anyone taking care of him? Who knew he was here? Or was he lost -- forgotten and alone, wandering?

And it occurred to me as I sat in my warm car, the one I complain is getting old and dirty, that I want to replace for no good reason, that I needed a shift in perspective. While I complain about what really are petty annoyances in my life, here was a man who had real problems. I needed to take a deep breath and realize that I have a great life; truly nothing to complain about. And while I contemplated that and its devastating impact on my writing "career," I looked a little closer at that inspirational man, that man who made me shift my perspective, to laugh at how much I had though I often think it's not much. He sat there. Head low. Hands in his lap. Was he praying? I might pray. Wait. He's not praying. Nope. He's texting.

Hobo is the new black.

And I will never stop complaining about petty things.

Dear Tess

Thank you for your recent correspondence. It's been far too long but, as you might have heard, we've been pretty busy this year. Running the country by day and attending musical soirees in the evening sure takes it out of a guy! Sure, Joshua Bell and James Earl Jones were inspiring but Alison Krauss and Sheila E. rocked The (White) House! Get it? Peace Prize, schmeace prize - still funny after all these years. (Special Olympics joke notwithstanding ... Doh!)

Niiiiiiiiice. I'm facing the worst recession since the 1930s and healthcare reform from hell but the only advice I get from you is "Good luck with that mess, dude!" To out-pith you: HOPE 4 CHANGE. Bwhahahahaha? Get it? Hope? Change? HA!

So sorry to hear about your ongoing problems with the time change. Bo hasn't adjusted yet either so I feel your pain. After I wrap up Gitmo and cap-and-trade, I'll look into dumping daylight savings time. In the meantime, you could move to Arizona, most of which doesn't use DST. (Note to Rahm: What's up with that?!)

AWESOME idea re: sending Britney, Paris, Lindsay, Speidi, and the Gosselins to Iraq. Hillary reviewed your plan but, sadly, the Geneva Convention specifically forbids us to use target-wearing celebutards as cannon fodder. Major bummer!

And ITA, General Hospital is smokin' right now. Flove Sweeps! I called Headwriter Bob Guza per your request but he said that he can't hire anymore writers until "...the economy stops sucking it." You gotta admit, The Guz Man has a way with words!

Hope you can stop by next time you're on this side of the Potomac. The girls would love to see their Auntie Tess and Uncle Hubs again soon. Michelle sends her thanks for the videos, especially "Ten Minutes to Tighter Triceps" and "Your Inner Icon: See It and Be It."

Cordially,
Barack

Cage Fights and Badger Chasers

It's been coming for months.

Leo the Lionheart came barging into Mischievous Mookie's house in March -- disinterested in anything resembling a pecking order. Like Mookie himself, Leo raced in arrogantly and immediately assumed pack leader status.

Mookie wasn't into this at all.

Mookie wasn't into sharing the bed, the couch, the attention, the water dish, the taunting of Laney (the female dog). He did nothing. He's a cat. So he plotted.

For months, Leo tunneled under blankets and Mookie crept forward to sniff. Leo knocked Mookie out of the way when racing in and Mookie acted like he had planned on that all along. Leo ran off with not only his own toys, but Mookie's as well. Mookie decided those weren't his toys. Lying on his back, Leo answered Mookie's tentative curiosity with a low growl. As Leo raced past, Mookie swatted at him. If Leo was in The Prime Spot in the bed, Mookie sate on him on top of the covers. All very passive-agressive on Mookie's part.

And then: a break-through. I saw them close together outside, I thought they might be kissing. I thought they were in love. I thought wrong. In truth, they were disposing of a body. Proudly arriving home with his Kill, Mookie presented the nearly-lifeless chipmunk to Leo, who ate it, thereby destroying the evidence.

This was their bond. They were partners in crime. The one who captured and tortured and the one who disposed of the body. Or tried to (sometimes The Cop came running outside in a green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers to save the body for a more dignified burial: over the fence in the neighbor's yard).

At least it drew them together. I guessed that was something. At least they were friends.

And the friendship continued.

Leo stinks (not enough bath time in the world to deodorize this little hound). A month ago, I bought new bedding for Leo's cage. Because it stank. And something interesting started to happen: Mookie would rest in the cage. After Mookie became so filthy he needed a bath, he recovered in the cage. When he got stuck outside in the rain because he's stupid and decided it would be a great way to spend his day, he dried off in the cage. One would think the cat, who never ever stinks, would hate that warm, musky, vaguely-reminiscent-of-teenage-boy odor repulsive. Nope.

I decided they were definitely in love. They were sharing a bed! Love.

Saturday night, I put Leo to bed. I went upstairs, put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, examined my wrinkles in the mirror, got into bed, turned on the TV, surfed, had a conversation with Jamie about Excel (we're really exciting) and started to read a few pages of my book. And then we heard a horrible, frightening sound. The dog was squealing with fear, howling and screeching and barking. As we flew from the bed down the steps I fully expected to see a dirty, demented, old man cutting Leo into little pieces (in defense of my morbid imagination, it was Halloween). But I did not see a dirty, demented, old man (we don't have those in Brighton). I knelt down in front of the cage and I saw .....

Mookie.

Mookie: standing tall and proud and dignified by the door. And way in the back, in the dark, curled up and cowering, was Leo. Leo the beagle mutt, the breed bred to fearlessly go into holes and flush out badgers. Have you seen a badger? You have to be some sort of crazy brave determined dog to get into a hole with that. Or with a white cat.

Apparently, Mookie was sleeping in the back when we put Leo to bed. And apparently Mookie was not so keen on sharing the cage.

Leo has a slice on his nose, a deep gash in his ear, and he cried for an hour.

Mookie was fine.

And so I have decided they were not lovers.

But then I started thinking: maybe only lovers could have such a violent fight.

Yesterday, Mookie killed two deer mice outside. Leo didn't eat them. He had run and hid in his crate at the site of Mookie an hour earlier. And at this very moment, Mookie is in teh cage and Leo is under the blanket next to me. Badger chaser indeed.

Supermarket Snobbery, Sniffles, and Insights

Tops or Wegmans.

There is no middle ground in Rochester -- you are one or the other. And most good Rochestarians are Wegmans.

We started with Hegedorns, a nice little family-owned supermarket that employed many high school kids and provided my brother with his one and only crime (stealing a candy bar) and my first job. When we went shopping, we were always excited to head down the baking aisle with the chocolate chips. Our mom told us if the bag was broken, you could eat them.

This is not really true.

Wegmans moved in and we were quickly lured in by the size, selection, and ambiance.

We felt like traitors.

Traitors with better, cheaper food.

So I've been Wegmans for 20 years.

I have never been Tops.

I don't know anyone who has ever been Tops.

Jamie and I drive 6 miles to Wegmans rather than 2 miles down the hill to Tops.

I have, of course, been to Tops. Much like Britney sometimes has to slum it in a gas station bathroom, I've found myself in Tops. Annoyed. And yet, strangely, a bit intrigued.

I am amazed by the number of people in there. Where do they come from? Are they bussed in? Are these my neighbors? Because they don't look like my neighbors. Then again, I've only seen three of my neighbors. Who the hell knows what they look like... Wow. That's kind of sad. I feel like crying. Just a little bit.

I am confused by the layout. Nothing is where it should be -- you know, where Wegmans has it. Wegmans is open to the public. There is nothing stopping someone from Tops to head over with a pen and paper and write it all down and then fix their store. When I get lost, I get scared. And sometimes, when I've found myself in the little maze by the pharmacy, I find there's a good chance I might cry.

I am blinded by the light. Sure, a supermarket should be bright and clean and cheery, but seeing as how I'm in there to hide, I wish it was a bit dimmer. Also, it makes me think of changing rooms, bathing suits, ghastly-white skin, and cellulite. Which makes me want to cry. So any time I do have to go to Tops, there's a good chance I might cry.

I've never met a Tops cashier who wasn't cranky and/or annoyed that I was there, interrupting her day. Even the chick who mans the self-checkout area who is doing basically nothing. I want to be liked. So these women make me want to cry.

Even the food is cranky and/or annoyed. During one trip, I walked by the bread display and found a loaf on the floor. I can tell you one thing, it didn't fall off. it was a good three feet from the shelf. It was kicked out. The other loaves kicked it out. And I had to wonder: what did it do? Was it annoying? Did it smell? Had it committed some sliced-bread crime? Was there a trial? Did one loaf just get tired and kick it out? What happened? A few minutes later, I saw a block of cheese in a similar state, which was fascinating because the other cheese had to kick it up and over the refrigerator wall to get it out. What's happening there? Why the hate? Hate makes me cry.

Tops people have no problem hogging the whole aisle. Now, I understand we aren't all like Tessa, who (last I heard) liked to park her cart at one end, go get her stuff to stay out of people's way, and then return. However, I find it surprising that people in Tops will guiltlessly block the aisle and make no attempt to move. Even when to come clicking down the aisle in your heels -- clearly in a hurry -- and then suddenly stop. Mildred and Edward do not care. They are in that space for as long as they damn well need to be in order to figure out which flavor of Doritos they need. Could take all day. I get so frustrated, sometimes I think I could... um. Yeah. Cry.

I did learn that Tops is even more convenient to some people than a convenience store. And I say this having stood in line behind The Wealthy Protestant. This well-dressed woman was purchasing cookies. Just cookies. No other food, beverages, condoms, just cookies. Cookies she got in the bulk section. Cookies she didn't have the time to weigh and label which meant the cashier had to look them up and that took awhile and then she paid in cash (a $50), and that took awhile. And I thought that this woman must really have nothing going on in her life because she had just wasted time driving to Tops, parking, walking in, heading all the way back to bulk, getting her cookies, (but too busy to label), getting in line (not express), paying in cash, getting back in the car and driving home. And why was I so annoyed by this woman who took too long in line and made me spend MORE time in Tops? Because the grand total for her purchase was $0.37. Thirty-seven cents. Paid with a fifty. Ya feeling me, people? Seriously. It's bulk food. Just walk through, eat the four cookies you bought, and leave. You'll save all of us time and tears. Because waiting in line behind such a bobohead made me think about crying.

I'll give Tops one thing, however. Tops customers don't judge. Step into the line with oreos, beer, potato chips, Preparation H, and diet coke and no one cares; they've got their own carts overflowing with beef jerky, nachos, beer, wine coolers (seriously), vagisil, People magazine, and diapers. Do that in Wegmans and you are likely to get judgmental stares from the tight-faced, coiffed women toting their over-priced health food, expensive water (WATER, PEOPLE), and Vogue. Oh yes, the Women of Wegmans do judge. You better walk in there with your game on. Unless you are hitting the East Ave Wegmans. Then anything and everything is cool. Except two old men fighting over bagels on Sunday mornings, screaming and yelling in another language, lots of spitting and eventually some one's dentures land on the floor and it goes downhill from there -- I think that's why they hired Security there.

So remember, if you are: in a hurry and it's on the way, wearing a rig, not wearing make up, not groomed or showered, ready to encounter cranky cashiers and tough food, interested in getting lost on your way to find the beer, need to buy something embarrassing, or have $0.37 burning a hole in your pocket, Tops is tops. And, if you are finding you have some emotional block that you can't break through and you need to let it out, head over to Tops for awhile. I promise something there will make you want to cry.

Tuesday is my Monday

by tess

Since my first day back from the weekend is Tuesday, it is essentially my Monday. So here are my erstwhile Monday morning thoughts.

Diet Pepsi doesn't taste the same now that it's in silver cans. At first I thought it was a different product - Pepsi Zero or One or whatever - but it's just Diet Pepsi re-marketed to silver-can-lovers and/or blue-can-haters ... apparently. Could this difference in taste be my imagination or did they re-formulate it? I don't know but I'm not happy about it. Those little baby cans are my lunchtime guilty pleasure. Okay, the eight ounces of DP along with a little baby can of Beefaroni. They could be marketed together as All the Sodium and Calories, Half the Pleasure! Now that's marketing that we can all embrace!

If we are to believe what we are told, then network owners only really care about the all-important 18-49 demographic. But if that's true, how then can you explain six painful years of Two and a Half Men? Not that Jon Cryer can't be brilliant, he can! (Might Friends have been a better show had his Chandler Bing audition tape arrived in time? Who knows? Who cares.) One thing is certain - where one finds a Sheen, one hears the distinctive, unpleasant sound of a straw draining an already-empty cup: a vortex of suckage.

I'm paraphrasing another blogger when I tell you that October on General Hospital can best be described thusly: Boring people saying boring stuff while wearing boring clothes. (Note: This isn't entirely unexpected as each month preceding a Sweeps Month focuses on exposition rather than action.) She also commented that the sole bright spot of the show was Liz's sweater. Exposition-laden or not, life is sub-awesome in old Port Chuckles when a gray polka dot sweater is the highlight of the month. But since we're talking about that sweater, I'll take this opportunity to share some thoughts. Admittedly I'm five years and 50 pounds past caring One Tiny Bit about fashion so my opinion matters not at all. Having said that, the aforementioned sweater fell just an inch or so above her shirt which is a peek-a-boo look I quite like - just a flash of a different color at the top and/or bottom of a garment adds visual interest and keeps the eye moving. On the other hand, I'm less than fond of a sweater that falls six or seven inches above a tee shirt when it's stretched across jeans. Not even heroin-chic models can rock that. Seriously, stretching a tight, hip-length tee shirt across jeans is an engraved invitation to a Look-at-my-ass-it's-the-size-of-the-Grand-Canyon! party.

Jori, a self-described biblio-fanatic and card shark who occasionally wastes valuable time reading my blog, recently shared:
"WRT being a spectator at the game of your own life - too true, too true. I'll not only see that metaphor but raise it! I compare living my life (or not!) to a motor coach ride through France (lovely trip, btw). I spent the entire fourteen days with my constant companions, Messrs. Fodor, Frommer, and Steves, nose buried deep in my guide books to ensure that I was quite prepared. As the driver would mention la Place Vendome coming up on the left, I'd check the books and my notes, then look up just in time to realize I'd completely missed it. C'est la vie. Or more accurately: Such is the life we've chosen, you and I."

Stupid time change

by tess

I'm already dreading next week's time change. It's not that I flooooove getting up and driving to work when the moon is still bright and shiny, but the time change is so much worse.

1) I hate driving home in the dark. Especially in the rain. I can't see anything and everybody drives like maniacs. (Yes, I am aware that I sound like I'm 800 years old. Shut up.)

2) I hate resetting all the clocks and light timers - too much bending and stretching involved. The only good thing about changing the clocks is creating time zones. (Better because The Hubs doesn't aprove.) Within two square feet we have three time zones (stove vs. microwave vs. toaster oven), just across from the DVR, TV, and thermometer which have time zones of their own. Then of course there's my alarm clock (6 minutes fast) versus the bedroom TV (1 minute fast) versus The Hubs (4 minutes slow) - that's 10 minutes in 6 feet! Think if the whole world tried to operate like that! Oh wait, it does. I'm early and everyone else is late.

3) The cats don't know about the time change. That means they'll be getting up at 3:30 instead of 4:30. Note to cats: 3:30 AM isn't actually an early morning. It's a REALLY LATE last night when the bar slugs are still tearing apart their bathrooms looking for the stash of Chaser that will theoretically enable them to be ready for that 9:00 AM presentation. Good luck with that, kids!

XX v. XY

by tess

Joe, a college friend whom I recently rediscovered, works in an industry with miniscule female representation. An Old Boys Club. His colleagues are interchangeable -- balding men between 50 and 60 who are struggling through their second sets of wife-cum-kids. Since South Florida is hardly the epicenter of this emergent-technologies-delivered-a-bullet-to-the-brain industry, most of the guys are grunting their last hurrah and hoping like hell that they can make it to retirement before right-sizing, reduction in force, foreclosure, and/or heart failure destroy what's left of their once-golden lives.

Now into this fraternal den of bears, insert one lone woman, Thwarta. Like her male colleagues, she's divorced, middle-aged, and hardly shy about expressing her opinions ... or scratching her balls. Universally vilified, Thwarta has come to represent, if not The EveryWoman, then certainly The EveryEx. Might The Boys respect her expertise more politely if she were one of The Guys? Probably not. But they might at least accept her input with less muttering and fewer harrumphs. Maybe.

Thwarta the EveryEx is ignored as much as possible and certainly not invited to eat or golf with the Men's Club. Not that she'd care to. Her lunch hours are spent adding eye of newt and hair of toad to the cauldron in her office, then she rides her perfectly-maintained, high-end broomstick straight back to her cave each evening.

It's during the five lunches Joe and The Guys share each week that the difference between men and women is most pronounced. It's not the food -- most are trying to take at least a modicum of interest in their hypertension and cholesterol. It's the conversation. Aside from the occasional mention of sports, lunch-chat is limited to work- and industry-related issues.

Certainly female colleagues frequently eat together and discuss their work --- and sports, too. But I would venture to guess that a half dozen women who eat together every day would be hard-pressed not to discuss what are clearly female-centric concerns -- like men, food, cramps, fashion, pets, undergarments, and kids. You know -- interesting things.

So it was particularly amusing when, apparently suffering from a sudden brain seizure, Joe filled a conversational void with the words:
"So last night on Real Housewives, Sherree said ...."

Poor Joe. Dressing-smeared lettuce, croutons, tomatoes, olives, chickpeas, and mushrooms came flying from every angle. His shirt is a vertiable cornucopia of salad bar stains. From now on NeNe, Kim, and Kandi will have to fend for themselves. A-Rod, Kobe, and Lance are apparently The New Black.

Ten Family Vacation Observations

1. Yes, you can eat cheese and crackers every single day. Yes, there are consequences.
2. Yes, you can indeed burn a magazine. You can ever burn it without tearing out each page, without making sure it's open, and without relighting it. You absolutely can burn a magazine by throwing it into the fire. No matter how much the others insist you cannot.
   
3. When climbing a mountain, it's better to have a Sherpa than not.
4. If you are going to know songs by Miley Cyrus, you really should have a tween.
   
5. It takes about a two days away from the Internet and TV to see the absurdity of Hollywood Fame.
6. In the absence of TV and Internet, entertainment can be found by fighting with family members. Topics include: politics, religion, or accusations of parents loving one sibling more than others. That last one can go on for years and years.
7. After the sixty-sixth time you ask your mate if the animals miss you, you will be slapped. Stay with the evil look at 65.
   
8. Everyone deserves to be messed with. For example, after stating over and over again that he was not going to take any of the extra bread back home, I snuck the last loaf of bread into my father's car. Bwahahhahaaaa.
   
9. We paid more to board our dogs than to board ourselves for 9 days. No wonder they wept as we left the Dog Resort.
   
10. There is nothing more satisfying than beating, no, creaming, your older brother in Trivial Pursuit.
    

HGTV: 3 pet peeves

by tess

Before I begin ranting away, just a note to say that I've always been fond of the term "pet peeve." Not only am I a big fan of alliteration, but I quite enjoy the mental image of a vastly more attractive me sitting on a stunning sofa stroking my pet, Peeve, a la Dr. Evil.

Here then are three ways that HGTV families elicit the The Bitter Sigh of Contempt followed in short order by The Mocking Eyeroll of Aversion.

#1 - "We entertain a lot."
I will grant you, contrary to my own personal experience, that some people do frequently entertain. To quote someone near and dear to the black hole where my heart once beat, "it is statistically improbale" that Every Single Family Ever Shown on HGTV Entertains All the Time. And if these families do, in fact, entertain all the time, how are they then thrilled with the final result of two love seats and a chair? Sounds to me like reasonable seating for three and vastly uncomfortable seating for five. Sorry, that's no party! You're supposed to decorate your house the same way you buy your car - for the way you use it 90% of the time. Besides Heads of State, who entertains 90% of the time? And if you do? Then tell those freeloaders to GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE! You're not entertaining, you're running an adult day care service with free snacks and TV! Get them off the couch and out the door. NOW!

#2 - "I need a crafts room for my scrapbooking."
Three simple words. NO. YOU. DON'T. Back away from the pinky sheers and stop buying those idiotic stencils, punchers, ribbons, stickers, and lace. "Oh, but Scrabooking can be traced back to the 16th century!" You know what? So can the Great Plague of London. That doesn't make it cool. And, by the way, in 1574, there is not a single recorded incident of a housewife demanding a Scrapper Room for her vast collection of rubber stamps. Now I'm not saying that drinking is a better hobby than scrapbooking.... Wait, yes, actually I am saying just that.

#3 - "MYYYYYYYYYY"
No, not "Oh myyyyy, it's beautiful!" although that's sort of annoying unless it's a Candice Olson room in which case it's always true. No, I'm annoyed by the use (and it's always women!) of MYYYYYY kitchen. Not many things turn The Hubs from Phenomenally Patient Man (the guy who would rather be late to work than disturb the kitty sleeping near his briefcase) into Mr. Crabby Pants, but after a woman calls it MYYYYY kitchen ... Dr. Jekyll, please meet Mr. Hyde. It's not yooouuuuurrrr kitchen, it's the family's kitchen. More specifically, it's the kitchen belonging to the bank from whom you effectively rent your house until they decide to foreclose. In any case, unless you pay 100% of the mortgage/groceries and do 100% of the cooking, then it's not yooouuuurrrr kitchen. Similarly, there's MYYYYYYY closet. I get that women have lots of clothes. And I've admittedly claimed primary closet space ownership everywhere I've lived with The Hubs. But must it be a snarky joke Every Single Time we see a straight couple check out the master closet that it's heerrrrrrrr closet and that he'll get nothing and better like it? It's an old and disrespectful joke that's well past its prime. Perhaps it's time to move on.

Do you have our card?

No. I don't.

I don't have your card. I do not want to be on your company email list so I can get insider information and advance notice for upcoming sales. If, by chance, I finally say yes, be assured it's because I am sick of being asked and it in no way indicates my preference for your store -- it's purely to avoid further pestering and wasted oxygen. In fact, I rather wish that, like many an annoying pop up window, you had a button I could click that says, "Please don't ask me again." I've considered getting a hat embroidered with, "Nope, don't have it; don't want it; don't ask about it." But I sense you would still ask.

And while I do respect the sales associate who entices me not with potential emails to clog up my inbox but with instant savings ("You'll save 15%!!"), consider that even if I was tempted, the line of annoyed customers behind me prevents me from prolonging our little date at the register.

So, please. No more cards to save 5% off of every purchase. I'd rather save 5% of my time in your store but not being bothered about this. Or, instead of asking me this question like a metronome, you could replace the text with, "You look so thin today," or "You are going to adore those shoes," or even, "I like Popsicles and jelly beans."

Jamie's with me on this. Although his version of the rant is crankier. Yes. I swear it. The So Very Nice Boy really does turn into cranky pants at the check out.

Opinions while watching MTV

I've seen many a nasty thing in my life. And I deal with it. Dog diarrhea? I deal with it. Mutilated rodents left on doorstep? I deal with it. The bathrooms of college boys? I deal with it. Cat puke all over the couch? I deal with it. I deal with many other such things and I move on.

But I'm seeing something on my televsion right now that I cannot let go: boys in skinny jeans. Friends, this is not the tight-ass jeans a la Steve Perry, this is not even the colorful spandex of David Lee Roth which somehow still didn't offend. No. This is some flabby boy in skin tight jeans who hasn't even had the foresight to put a sock in it. And if you don't get that, we can't be friends.

It's not just that I can clearly see this little boy has a teeny weewee. And I'm not even mentioning the comb-over done with a full head of hair (seriously?), but the pants can't be overlooked. Why would a man want to draw attention to his skinny legs and assless backside? I am not interested in how dainty his ankles are. I'm not impressed by grandpa butt. I'm offended by a lack of quads.

I understand trends. I get it. But here's the thing: look at cool men (and only a MAN can be cool). If you find a picture of Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Benjamin Bratt, Omar Epps, Taye Diggs, etc. etc. etc. in skinny jeans, I might change my mind. Otherwise, this offensive trend needs to END.

BTW, you would think that with his fame, money, and unbelievable embrace of all things metro-male, that faux-flat-haired Jonas could buy concealer so I don't have to look at his humongous zit when they interrupt my quality MTV time with sugarpop.

How many pairs of total-control panyhose does Beyonce have?
How come no one has commented on the C3PO outfit in her new video?

Why is Lil Wayne in every other video?

I think there's a chapstick shortage -- lots of big stars needing to lick their lips a lot.

I heard someone one say that if you find yourself singing and dancing in front of a triangle of dancers, you missed the point. The more I watch, the more I agree. Except for Michael. Of course.

Can someone explain to me how the pants stay up when the belt and waistline are actually below the boy's butt? And if you are going to show off your boxers, why do they always seem to be white? Why not Santas? Why not hearts? Why not Curious George peeking out to see what's what? White just reminds me of Army and Prison scenes when they hand out uniforms. Do women get granny panties? I've never seen that scene.

I don't care how raunchy and ridiculous she is, it doesn't get more fun than Lady GaGa. However, that bloody chest/eye thing at the MTV VMAs? Weird. Madge and her Like a Virgin? Edgy. I was going to cite some other edgy pop music iconic moment, but I got lost. Back to foot-on-piano (no pants). Weird. And yet I watch. Enthralled by the weird.

This is the fifth video in a row tha tthe woman wasn't wearing pants. When did pants go "out"?
Lotta rigs .... (Rig = publically inappropriate outfit due to tragic decisions of fit, coverage, clashing style/color/texture; Lady Gaga wears rigs. The Olsen Twins: rigs; Gretchen on a Sunday afternoon when she's not leaving the house: rig; certain people I know cleaning the house on a Tuesday afternoon: naked).

Watch enough commercials and you will find that "European" is supposed to equal expensive, refined, cutting edge. I've been to Europe. Italy. And I can tell you one thing: they don't use shower curtains. So I'm not sure I believe they have refined the art of aging when they haven't seem to master how to take a shower AND keep dry clothes in the same room. Just sayin'.

Smooth Away is really just sand paper. Superfine crystals = Sandpaper. How stupid do they think I am? Wait. I think they believe I'm 15. It occurs to me that I might no longer be in the MTV demographic, even though I am the MTV generation.

I'm increasingly afraid of the super-white teeth.

Did I just see a pasty white guy with shaved armpits? Holy shit. I can't watch this stuff.

I think I've pretty much cleared up just how cool I am....

Dear B&S Writers,

If revenge is a dish best served cold, then regret is a dish always eaten in the cold. I refer, of course, to the chilled, lonely nights when couples lay side-by-side longing for those initial torrid nights filled with sin and sweat.

And so it is with Brothers and Sisters and me. I treasure those early memories -- the butterflies in my stomach as you coyly lured me into your world. We shared misery (the loss of both Norah's William and Julia's little William) and joy (Kevin's and Kitty's not-so-private lives, not to mention a memorable dinner or two).

You introduced us to interesting characters in entertaining predicaments. You provided your actors with scenes that showed their talent without ever being show-off-y. You held all 12 million of us in the palm of your hand -- making us laugh in one moment and cry in the next. You gave us clearly flawed characters who were, if not always loveable, then at least likeable; if not always captivating, then at least intriguing.

And then came Season Three and a ratings slump due to such stellar stories as:
The Nora Improbably Takes a (Semi-) Married Lover Fumble,
The Dark but Ultimately Not Terribly Interesting Deconstruction of Kitty-and-Robert,
The Let's Stick Balthazar-I-Mean-Tommy in a Mexican Commune Follies, and
The Ryan Debacle.

And so it was with trepidation that I watched the first episode of the fourth season. Predictably, I was on pins-and-needles waiting to see if it would be Justin or Rebecca who would be wounded/killed by The Evil Speeding Blue Car of Doom and Destruction. Instead, dear writers, you gave us your version of the Sopranos finale -- the moment when millions of Sunday night television viewers across the country shout at their television sets: WTF??!!

You have pointedly positioned R&J as the Bridge o' Peace and Harmony between the two families ... or at least between Nora and Holly. It might have been Great Drama to watch these formidable women working together toward helping R&J through a devastating ordeal -- sometimes fighting, sometimes play-fighting and mugging for a smile from their destroyed kids, but clinging desperately to one another throughout the pain, fear, loss, and grief. You might have given both of these great actresses some seriously great scenery-chewing storyline.

But maybe good drama is too much to ask for? Yes, far better to give us the 18,000,000th iteration of The Dinner Party Gone Wrong during which Nora and Holly eviscerate one another. I no longer believe that the other actors in these scenes are in character when they roll their eyes. They're all wearing Been-There-Done-This tee shirts beneath their costumes.

If I'm honestly to believe that two reasonably intelligent, relatively "together" women like Holly and Nora can't have managed to move on a bit more than this retread, then William Walker was glad to take that eternal plunge into the Great Blue Swimming Pool in the Sky. He had clearly recognized that both women he loved had the capacity for emotional growth of a gnat.

Writers, you have one of the best ensemble casts ever assembled. Use Them or Lose Them. It's a brand new season, so put The Season of Craptastic Television behind you to write funny, tragic, compelling, entertaining scenes. Force the actors to bring their A-game every day. Bring back the B&S I once loved because, dammit, I've lost those lovin' feelin's. Help me to once again enjoy those it's-Sunday-night-wonder-what's-gonna-happen tremors of excitement, the half-thrilling and half-sickening anxiety of panting puppy love. We do still love you, B&S, but you've gotta show us a little love, too. I hear your competition, two little shows you might have heard of called House and Mad Men show their viewers lots of love!

Cordially,
Tess

Morning mayhem

by tess

3:29 Wellington kneads the bedspread, clawing the seams out, trying to awaken her brother.
3:31 Irritated, Welli's mother kicks the bed (NOT THE CAT!) to make her stop.
3:34 Wellington plays with a binder clip on the dresser, successfully awakening her brother.
3:47 Quintus trounces across his mother's chest for the third time.
4:13 A thunderstorm rolls in and the cat flap shoots open as Quinty sprints away from The Rainforest (aka the screened porch) to dry off in his mother's loving embrace.
4:14 Quinty wakes up Welli.
4:36 Having knocked her glasses, watch, and wedding ring to the floor, Quintus leaps, claws first, from the dresser onto his mother's legs.
4:44 Welli climbs to her mother's pillow requesting a belly massage.
5:02 Choir practice begins. After three choruses of the Whutchuduin-Now-Ma-How-About-a-Little-Breakfast-Here blues, Quinty's mother glares at him and informs him that it's not time yet.
5:13 Quintus leaps to the 2" wide headboard, scrambles, and falls onto his father's still-snoring head.
5:26 Quinty returns to the headboard and attempts to climb the frame of the extremely heavy, glass-fronted print hanging above his parents' heads. For the first time in his short life he is told NO, BAD BOY and is thrown/falls unceremoniously from the headboard to the floor.
5:27 His mother feels guilty for yelling and is now two hours past any hope of sleep. Still, she knows better than to reward the bad behavior by feeding him right away.
5:32 Certain that he's forgotten The Picture-Climbing Incident, she slogs out of bed to feed The Monsters.
5:39 She returns to bed, praying for just 20 minutes of sleep before her alarm rings.
6:01 The litter box digging-and-chasing ritual begins.
6:17 Yawning, Wellington returns to bed.
6:23 Quinty cuddles snoozily between his parents for a little nap.
6:29 The alarm rings and the day begins.

Considering that I can just barely survive my mornings, I have tremendous respect for parents who manage to deal with crying babies, whining toddlers, and sullen teens in those precious pre-dawn until office-drone hours. I simply cannot fathom how one wakes, dresses, and feeds children while simultaneously signing homework, making lunches, defrosting dinner, and (occasionally) smiling. Only to be told that four dozen cupcakes are due to the principal's office by 9 AM and that a forgotten Science Fair project is due by third period OR ELSE. Parents of the world, I salute you. I'm exhausted just thinking about your mornings!

Why Your Brain Has Atrophied.

It's becuase you are too dependant on directions. You need to rise above directions.

Seriously. Stop it. Figure it out on your own.

Directions should be used to get you back on track, as guidelines. We should look upon everything as a chance to use our problem-solving skills. Additionally, we need to develop those critical thinking skills. Do you need to be told the coffee in your coffee cup is hot and will burn if you spill it on your lap? Apparently, you do. But I'm here to help, with a wee list of areas that you can easily change from mind-numbing experiences to opportunities to beef up those brain cells. Break away from the herd. Do it your way. (But do consider wearing a helmet).

Meat Thermometers.
My mother never had one and I'm still alive. My husband used to insist on using one and was a salve to it. The result? Food was never cooked properly because he would not use common sense (i.e., a knife cutting through the middle) to determine if the food was done. I've finally convinced him to throw that stupid thing out.

Cooking Instructions.
Again. GUIDELINES. You know when something is done. And maybe you like your Lean Cuisine frozen in the middle because you don't have more than 2:30 to wait for lunch. And maybe you don't need to stop and stir. Maybe you know exactly how to cook your burrito.

Sizing Charts.
These are liars, anyway, so I don't know why you read them. Pick the size you think will fit and the size above it. Take both into the dressing room (or, if you ordered online, your bedroom) and try them on. Then return the smaller one that should -- according to the chart--,but doesn't, fit. And remember that for next time.

Test Directions.
If you can't figure out how to take a test, you have no idea how to get to my blog, so I can't possibly make any recommendations that will yield fruit. Suffice to say, test directions are totally useless. If you need the directions, you aren't smart enough for the test. Period. END OF STORY.

The Weather Forecast.
Temperature? Rain Expectancy? It's all crap. To figure out what to wear, take the temperature listed on the Web or on TV, add in what it looks like outside your window, think about what is was like yesterday, factor in the month and the shoes you want to wear, and VOILA: Outfit. Has almost nothing to do with anything officially listed. Many a day I've missed out on wearing cute, open-toed shoes because some dufus on TV told me it was going to snow and it did NOT snow.

Shampoo Directions.
Please.

Owner's Manuals.
All you need are the Quick Start Guide (which is a page). Everything else you'll figure out as you go and when you break it, you'll be online searching for an answer anyway. Waste of paper.

IKEA Assembly Instructions.
Read them. Re-read them. Study them. Memorize them. And even then, you'll make a mistake and have to go a few steps and start over. I cannot stress this enough. Assembling anything from IKEA is going to use your brain a-plenty even with the instructions.

The Oven-Is-Up-To-Temperature Light and Cooking Times.
First of all, who has time to wait for that? Turn the oven on, shove in your food, wait until you can smell your food cooking. That's when your food is done. However, this method does not work when you boil eggs and leave the room to write a paper for a few hours. See previous blog for the cautionary tale.

Another day, another dream

Shelly, Gertrude, and I were in what was clearly a very old car since all three of us were sitting comfortably in the front seat. Suddenly Shelly's brakes went out. She was driving down the center of the street -- only in movies and dreams would there be a center runaway car lane -- blowing her horn, cursing up a storm, and pounding on her useless brakes.

Just as a death-mobile drove straight toward me, Shelly managed to turn onto a slightly uphill side street. But what comes up certainly goes down, and the car is gaining crazy momentum.

Suddenly there's a nearly empty stripmall lot ahead and we circle around the cars to find a fairly steep upward climb. Finally, Shelly gets the car stopped.

Our reactions to this harrowing misadventure define us. Shelly wants to go inside to get some help. I'm hysterical and useless. Gertrude calls her husband (who strangely is her real-life boss) and starts screaming at him to pick up the cat from the vet.

Definition of Wrong

by tess

She: Vikki cut the tree wrong.
He: By "wrong" you mean....
She: I mean that she did it in a manner inconsistent with how I would do it.
He: Ahhhh. I thought that's what you meant.

Minutiae

I loathe ironing and don't know why anyone would subject her/himself to such intense suffering. Just buy stuff that doesn't need it! And if you're wearing something that needs to be ironed, just pretend it got wrinkled on the way to work. It's all about attitude.

I think my hot flashes have started. I spend half my life bathed in sweat. Or maybe I'm just so fat that I sweat all the time. Either way -- EEWWWWWW.

This morning when I was driving to work a napkin fell on my foot. Naturally I thought it was a humongous napkin-sized bug that was going to suck all the blood out of my body through my foot. Screaming, leaping, and lifting my knee closer to my ear than it's been in 15 years is quite a way to enter an intersection. You should try it sometime.

A friend of mine recently backed into her boyfriend's car. The Hubs thought that was the knee-slappinest thing he'd ever heard. When I accidentally downloaded a virus onto his brand new computer -- not so knee-slappin'. In fact, not really amused at all. Not that I confessed, btw, I just let him think it happened magically. Because that could totally happen. Honesty in relationships? Highly overrated.

Good Times in my little life revolve around plopping my butt on the sofa, watching HGTV, and washing down frozen blueberry waffles with light beer. I have no ambition to Be All That I Can Be or to help others embrace their secret Warrior Within. That's what made the dream really strange: I met Jessica Simpson at a fast food restaurant and we became great friends. Over time, she came to rely on me as a confidante, dietician, and mentor. That's some serious crazy.

Like the majority of Floridians, we live in a gated community. Sometimes I see the incoming gate open of its own accord without a car triggering it. That's how I know there are ghosts in our neighborhood. They drive ghost-mobiles that render the gate remotes invisible. I just can't figure out which houses they live in because I can't see which direction they go. Sooner or later I'll solve this mystery and know which houses are haunted.

A few questions.

Why is it no one says "Write me" any more? Before we had email, I never once recall someone saying, "Mail me." You would ask people to write you letters while you were away. But now, even though the method of delivery has changed, we no longer say "Write me." We don't even say, "Type me," though we do say "Text me" which falls in line with "email me" and really both should be "type me." These things annoy me.

What happened to ring around the collar? I recall this was a major issue back in the 80's given the number of Era ads centered on this hideous affliction. And now, all I see are strikingly-uniform stains placed in convenient for TV but hardly apt to happen in real life locations. Can't remember the last time I had a circular grass stain on my Henley. Can't we show stray pen marks on pants, mustard stains in the center of the chest, or dirt/salts splatter on the hems of pants? And, unrelated to this, why is it that despite the number of large-breasted women on TV, I very rarely see any of them get up from eating a meal and wipe off the crumbs on the self? And if you get the joke, I bet I can guess your cup size -- Rock on, sister.

I hate ironing. And this post is an example of ironing procrastination.

Please type me your questions.

Things I have learned

1. Frosting is the difference between a stomach ache and merely a sugar buzz. ONE piece of cake. Never two. Always two cookies.
2. You know you're in it for the long haul when you're cleaning up dog pooh together in the backyard.
3. Figure out if you are a morning person and then communicate this to those who regularly encounter you in the morning. Better to firmly tell your coworkers not to set up meetings with you before 9am then to have them not understand why you've thrown a tantrum about the way the bagels were cut.
4. Stay at a hotel. Staying with family/friends sounds like a good idea, but it's not.
5. You gotta have one friend who totally gets you, makes you laugh, and will actually tell you you're being a jackass when you need to be told you are being a jackass.
   
6. Men are not mind-readers. Tell them what you want. It dramatically increases your chances of getting it.
   
7. Talking doesn't necessarily mean you are communicating.
   
8. Make sure your mate finds your oddities to be imperfections which add to your charm (most of the time; because let's face it: we are all annoying some of the time and someone who doesn't see that isn't being honest with you).
9. If you weren't gawky and nerdy in high school, I am not interested in being your friend. I prefer my friends with interesting histories, a good story about the cruelty of the cool kids, and a general disposition of knowing what it's like to be very imperfect and working with that.
10. A good cookie can always improve a situation.
11. Make friends with the UPS man. If you do, he'll leave your packages better protected. Additionally, he knows a great deal about you, from where you shop, to how frequently you shop (indicative of your financial situation), your name, the names of others in your house, how well you park, when you are home from work, how rude your dogs are, and (for those of us who work from home at times) the rigs you wear when you think you won't see anyone.
12. Spend most of your time with people who share your values. For example, Jamie and I both value cheese, cookies, wine, and pizza. And that is why we are happy.