Very Important Information to Have

It's called a Fiber One bar because you should eat only ONE in any 24-hour period.
Eat two and you are courting gas bubbles, cramps, dizziness, bloating, acne, split ends, halitosis, warts, career failure, and stupid offspring.
Eat three and you will be inviting a near-death experience.
No one has ever eaten four...

Dishwashing detergent is not the same as, and cannot replace, laundry detergent.

It is not a good idea to tell someone that your dog, Leo, is cuter than his nephew, Leo. Even if it's true.

Your doctor has no sense of humor because he knows it will get him sued. For example, when he says, "OK. I"m done examining you, you can get dressed and I'll come back.." and you respond, "What are you talking about? I'm going to work in my lovely paper dress." He will not laugh. But it's only because he doesn't want to get sued -- YOU are TOTALLY funny.

If you can see them, they can likely see you. Therefore, if you see a client picking his nose, he can likely see you gawking at him like he's a monkey. Which, while true, will lose you the sale.

If you have a tetanus shot on Monday, you will be able to legitimately whine about the pain until at least Thursday.

While illogical, all doctors have a consistent tendency to call the retired people who have no place to go first while making the professionals who clearly have to get their asses back to the office ASAP wait and stew.

I've almost accepted that a male dog probably doesn't flove pink dog-coats. Almost.

Dry Shampoo, while able to deal with the grease in your hair, does not really fool anyone into thinking you aren't a dirty creature who doesn't wash her hair often enough.

I'm not sure I'm sold on high def TV. Twice on Sunday I saw boogers and/or nose hair on Discovery. Maybe high def is for landscapes only.

The beauty of being local to wherever the holiday is being celebrated is that you can stay blissfully out of the loop, not needing to plan or pack a thing other than what time you can show up for Thanksgiving dinner to avoid doing any prework but still be there when the food is on the table (note: last year we went for a walk while dinner was being prepared. When we got back, they had started 10 minutes earlier without us -- the Kriesen Family waits for no one....)

You do get ironing points just for taking out the ironing board, even if that's as far as that the whole ironing endeavor goes.

It was explained to me that if I eat chocolate and don't work out, that it might affect my weight. I don't know why this wasn't shared with me sooner....

I feel sorry for the middle-aged piano player who just sits around all day waiting for the Glee kids. That's shattered dreams right there. This is not actually an informational statement; just a very important opinion.

I'm not explaining again why a person needs more than one pair of black heels. Or more than ten pairs.

Sometimes I'm not sure what drew Tessa and I into our friendship more: sharing work stresses or a love of over-salting our lunches.

You really do have to scrub your shower; just spraying stuff in there and walking away does, basically, nothing.

That's all I got....

The Journey

The path was rocky and steep, coated with lichen and poop, and trodden by four companions, each armed and ready to encounter whatever laid ahead on The Trail of Misery, of Sore Feet and Quads, of Angry Lungs and Broken Fingernails, of Bruises, of Blisters, of Wedgies, of... well, you get the idea. It's not really the spa.

The brawniest armed himself with gigantic muscles and cloaked himself in shades of darkness. He was called The All Black. (He really wanted to be called The Pirate, but he was vetoed. Even after he insisted on talking with a pirate accent.) He doubted one of his companion's strength. She would prove his doubts unfounded.

The tallest traveled prepared, armed with tools to solve any problem that could possibly face the travelers and a few that they surely would not face but he could imagine and therefore wanted to be prepared for just in case he was wrong about all things in his imagination not being realistic. He was called The Catastrophe Detector and doubted his preparedness.

The fittest armed himself with cardiovascular excellence, skipping along the path lightly, happily, easily -- to the severe dismay and jealousy of his less-fit companions who were often rendered mute and deaf but for the gasping of breath and pounding of heart which filled their ears. He was called The One Who Actually Trained. He doubted he would be able to suck down another trail bar (and he was right).

And the meekest of the four, fearful of what laid ahead (certain death) armed herself with the weapon mightier than the sword: the pink pen with fuzzies on the end. She was called The Scribe. (Even if The All Black described her as a Wolverine, which is different from a Wolf in that they are spelled differently. Differences beyond that were not agreed upon during the argument.) She doubted 75% of what the All Black said. And she doubted four packs of gum would be enough.

The journey began with a minor water spill all over The Catastrophe Detector's pack. This was deemed only a minor catastrophe and they joined The All Black, who was hitting on foreign chicks at the trail head. This led to a lengthy discussion of the Trail Ranking System. He explained, as they began a slow ascent which belied the horrors ahead, that a woman becomes more attractive as you get higher into the mountains. So, a Trail Head 4 could be a Hut 8. The Scribe explained that the male ranking system worked in reverse. A Trail Head 4 would likely be a smelly, dirty, crumpled Hut 1. (Note: it is impossible for a man to be anything more than a Hut 6 unless your name is James Hayslip who manages to hike for three days and still smell good.). The Catastrophe Detector and The One Who Actually Trained did not buy into either theory and ignored both of their companions.

As the path changed from pebbly to rocky to bouldery, the angle from uphill to vertical to insane, the discussion deteriorated to the mundane ("How do you spell Yay? Yeah? Yeah? Yeay? Yea?") and then to the inappropriate ("I am wearing the wrong underwear; severe wedgie happening back here.") and finally to the gross (Poop.) before it was overtaken by huffing and puffing and gasping and quiet whimpers.

They passed a Trail Head 11.

They crawled and crawled. Their legs burned. Their lungs worked overtime. They grabbed at tree limbs to help them keep steady as they moved up the slope that seemed to reach to heaven with climbing that felt like hell. All four made it to the top. But at the top, The All Black would encounter his nemesis: The Lumberjack.

The Lumberjack was a gnarled, rough-looking Irishman with a nose that had surely been broken by no less than two beer bottles and seven angry Scotsmen. The Lumberjack warned The Catastrophe Detector and The Scribe that he snored terribly. The Scribe confessed that she, too, snored. And so they bonded. The Catastrophe Detector pulled out earplugs. Catastrophe averted. The All Black, however, lacked adequate ear protection and was robbed of his sleep by what he described as irregular and deafening chainsaw sounds coming from the bunk 15 feet away. He blamed any performance gaps on his nemesis. And on how his bandanna was folded. And on getting a C in handwriting in the third grade.

At breakfast, the Lumberjack told The Scribe he was headed in the same direction as she was. She shared this information a mile into the hike. Upon hearing The Lumberjack was headed to the same hut as the rest of the travelers, The All Black darted into the forest, abandoning his companions, determined to find safe refuge in the next hut, choosing a bunk far from the audible assault inflicted upon him the previous night. The All Black disappeared.

The One Who Actually Trained chatted with The Scribe who wrote nothing down, apparently disinterested in assuring any sort of accuracy. The Catastrophe Detector feared that The All Black might be lost forever and that the three of them would be forever remembered as those who let their brave/stupid companion journey forth alone into the unknown where he met death. Alone.

When they arrived at their destination, The All Black was holding court on the porch. He had not met death. He greeted the weary three and showed them where he would be fortified for the night: safe from audible terrorism. A few hours later, The Lumberjack entered the hut. The All Black was outside. The Scribe was in the bunk room. And within a few minutes, The Lumberjack was settled in that same bunk room, ten feet from The All Black's bunk. The Scribe claimed it was a mere coincidence.

On the trail the next day, The One Who Actually Trained nibbled on Fig Newtons and Oreos (and not Trail Bars), The Catastrophe Detector wrapped his pack in a garbage bag because there was a hint of possible rain in the morning weather report, The Scribe played with the fuzzie on the top of her pen while blowing bubbles, and The All Black decried the Lumberjack. All. Morning. Long. 

The All Black started to make another break for it, but The Catastrophe Detector, unwilling to let him escape and put them at risk of being viewed as irresponsible companions for a second time, stuck to him like a burr. The One Who Actually Trained chatted with the Scribe and politely never mentioned that she still hadn't written anything down. He also did not mock her when she twice bashed her knee on a rock. Or when she fell on her arse. Or when a 12-lb poodle carrying a pack raced up the trail faster than she did. Meanwhile, The Catastrophe Detector was shadowing The All Black who was scurrying down the mountain like a chipmunk fleeing from the wily jaws of a tom cat.

They made it back to the car. The Scribe laid down on the pavement and her back cracked in four places. She would refuse to walk up any stairs for the following two days. The Catastrophe Detector decided he might have over packed, but couldn't think of anything in his pack that wasn't absolutely necessary. The All Black climbed into his car and proceeded to drive in a deeply reclined position, looking through the steering wheel to see the road. He was so stiff that couldn't get out of the car when he arrived home. The One Who Actually Trained decided to jog home from NH to VA in order to get in a good workout before the weekend was over.

The path was steep. The journey was long. They saw beautiful sites. They met interesting people. And sometimes, when they are snug in their beds, they close their eyes and imagine the smell of the forest, the feel of the rocks underfoot, the taste of the spring water, the stunning views and it's serenity all over again. Until the sound of The Lumberjack wrecks it all.

The Hike Part I: The Lists

Most important provisions:
KV: Beef Jerky and socks
Jamie: Cliff Bars and duct tape
Chris: Peanut M&Ms and bandana
Gretchen: Gum and iPod

Most idiotic conversations:
The proper spelling of the word Yay.
A lengthy discussion about poop and pooping.
How the words Smitten, Smite, Smote, and Smoted are or are not related (or even real words)

Most annoying person encountered:
KV: The Professor who wanted everyone to know how smart he was and pontificated all through dinner.
Jamie: The guy who came into the bathroom at 3am when Jamie was sure to have it to himself.
Chris: The Lumberjack who snored too much and too loud.
Gretchen: Whoever ate that last piece of bacon Saturday morning.

Favorite person encountered:
KV: 5-year old girl named Emma
Jamie: Me.
Chris: All of the foreign chicks
Gretchen: The Lumberjack who snored too much and too loud (and I liked him even more when he was in our hut on the second night as well, "coincidentally" in the same bunk room)

Gear malfunction:
KV: None.
Jamie: Camelback leaked the whole time
Chris: Earplugs that were no match for The Lumberjack
Gretchen: Couldn't text

 Most ridiculous statements said/overheard:

• "The difference is between a Wolf and a Wolverine is that they are spelled differently."
• "I brought the Bible. I think you may need it."
• "I blame Jamie; he selected all of my gear so if I have the wrong stuff -- all his fault."
• "I had a goat killed for me on my 21st birthday."
• "Mount Tom is a bad name for a mountain. I think it should be Mount Saint Thomas. Yeah. Go fix it on the map over there."
• "You have an unfair light-pack advantage." "I'm just a smart packer." "You packed your stuff in someone else's pack." "Smart."
• "Here come the Mickey Mouse gloves!"
• "I climbed the whole way up and didn't complain once." "Me neither!" "I'm 5!" "I'm not!"
• "Gretchen, when Jamie says he's sure this is the right path, is he sure?" "Yes." "When you say you're sure that Jamie's sure, are you sure?" "Absolutely not."
• "Stand over here, I don't want THOSE people in the picture." (Meaning us.)
• "Are you trudging back there? Because there will be no trudging on this hike."
• "Why is God always messing with us?" "Because he can."
• "I am sharing a room with four boys. Uck." "You have a negative attitude." "Yay! I'm sharing a hotel room with four boys! Yay! I love boys! Woopie!" "Much better."
• "We do have to cross a river, but I don't think it will be high." "But is's a river." "Small one." "Small RIVER." "Small river."
• "Hater."
• That downed tree is a sign of The White Man telling us to go no further. As is the yellow marker on the tree...
• "Do not doubt Alex, reader of the weather report."
• "He's in the zone. He's a loner zoner." "He's a DITCHER. And that's how people die and then the companions get blamed for letting him take off alone. I'm not being blamed for his loner zoner death. I'm not going to end up in a book about people dying in The White Mountains because you started out this morning while he was still in the hut because you couldn't wait." "Why is this  my fault?" "Because it's already 9am and I haven't blamed you for anything else yet."
• "All those who enter the bathroom in this hotel room will light a match before leaving out of consideration for their fellow hotel-room inhabitants who do not need to die from methane fumes." "Is she serious?" "Here's your box of matches."
• "I'm calling it the "Snoring Symphony." It's gonna be bigger than Billy Jean."
• "This was the worst day of my entire life." (By the look of him, I believed it.)
• "That is a four-hour hike if you are an 18-year-old guy on performance enhancers. For the rest of us, it's a 10-hour hike." (Note: for the rest of us meant the out-of-shape middle-aged dude and his equally unprepared wife; the other group did it in five ours. However, one member of that group was the "worst day of my life" guy...)
• "I don't like that guy, so I smote him in the bathroom."
• "YOU are an anarchist."
• "Please do not feed the spider."

Winner of the most mountain etiquette violations
The 40-something group of Bostonians en route to Zealand hut. Among the offenses:

1. Destroying our solitude and silence.
2. Announcing that THIS is why we climb mountains (meaning the view. True climbers do not climb for the view; they climb to be in nature, to be with their companions, to escape civilization, to embrace the silence, and, when you can, to see some great views.)
3. Whining about being afraid and then posing when a camera appeared.
4. Yelling to each other to do certain yoga poses for the camera.
5. Yelling.
6. Calling us "those people"
7. Generally ugly clothing.
8. A massive lack of politeness.
9. The presence of hair spray and, I suspect, the early morning use of a curling iron.
10. Annoying accents.

Prose to come...

The Training Program

They told the stories of their adventure over beers and wine. They talked of the physical and mental challenges, of the hilarious moments, the odd folks, the tired but determined dog, and the brushes with death.

He said, "You should go with us next time."

Such a benign little statement. Warm. Welcoming. It seemed to say that if you join us, you will be enveloped in love and laughter. We want you there. You belong there. And you will have tales to tell of your adventure for decades to come. You are one of us. JOIN US. Come, climb the White Mountains.

And so I agreed.

I agreed to a three-day, two-night hike in the White Mountains, sleeping in huts along the trail where I was told I would have no napkins or paper towels and might get to meet a skunk in the middle of the night and definitely would have a chance to pet a friendly bear.

Six months ago, The Brother, The Husband, The Jock and I started talking about training. Fitness levels were assessed and mocked.

The Brother rows. He's in shape. The Husband runs, plays tennis, and enjoys some unfair genetics. He's in shape. The Jock -- hello? He's The Jock. He's going to kick everyone's ass. Me? I play with the dog. AND I sometimes wear those sneakers that simulate walking in the sand. So, clearly, I'm in shape.

Five months ago, The Husband and I started getting in shape for our trip to New Zealand. It would be our spark to start training for the White Mountians. While in NZ, were going to be hiking and walking and bike riding and generally active. The Husband played tennis twice a week and ran. I did a 10-minute butt blaster work out on a Tuesday while waiting for my mozzarella sticks to finish reheating.

The Brother rowed. Claimed other exploits yet to be verified.

The Jock ran. He swam. He lifted. He cycled.

Four months ago, The Husband and I went to New Zealand. We carefully balanced all athletic activity with equal amounts of sloth. Husband emerged thinner and in better shape. I got a blister.

The Brother lifted. The Brother rowed. The Brother engaged in activities with his daughter. The Brother gloated.

The Jock competed. The Jock hiked. The Jock quietly rolled his eyes at us.

Three months ago, The Husband trained for The Corporate Challenge and netted a not-too-shabby time. I hugged him when he came home (arm workout).

Two months ago, The Husband ran another race. I went for a walk.

Hearing of this, The Brother indicated to The Mother his concern about my fitness levels (which he would not be concerned about if my sister, The Stud, was going with them.

And it began.

First, I claimed to be in fantastic shape and that, as happened the last time we hiked, I would beat The Brother to the top and be laying on the grass at the bottom, enjoying my thoughts, when he finally reached the summit.

The Brother insisted that would only be true if I never started the hike.

The Jock noted that he climbed 2534 feet in one mile that morning before work.

The Brother, The Husband, and I decided that he could carry us.

The Husband noted we were training by going for hikes every weekend. While true,  he left out that I kept bringing our small dog along who can't walk fast or long. When the dog bonks out (after a mile), we "have" to go home.

The Brother noted that he was in perfect shape and that I better start training soon.

The Jock said nothing.

I noted that given his advanced age and tendency to carry entirely too much food, I figured we would be about even as I was much younger and would let Husband carry 90% of my crap.

The Husband noted that he would not be coming if the sibling rivalry continued.

The Brother asked The Stud if she wanted to come in my place.

The Stud said yes.

I vetoed.

The Stud said he would run a half marathon pushing her two daughters instead. Because she's The Stud.

Three weeks ago, The Brother started carbo-loading and carrying a 150-lb rucksack everywhere.

The Jock rode from Virginia to Maine on a Tuesday afternoon.

The Husband started running four days a week and took the dogs for walks by carrying them on his shoulders.

I bought zip-off pants AND a pair of socks.

Two weeks ago, The Husband started packing.

The Jock had taken a week of and climbed Everest, just to ensure he's ready.

The Brother claimed to be running 15 miles a day. With a pack. At altitude.

I took the stairs one day.

Three days ago, The Husband started buying all of the high-energy food, printing the maps, memorizing the trail, and checking all of his gear.

The Jock confirmed all travel data.

The Brother wondered which day we were going and where we were meeting.

I asked if the hike would be hard.

Last night, The Husband made me go for a walk with a really super steep section a whole twenty feet in distance. It was brutal.

It occurred to me that I might not be in tip-top shape.

We leave in one week. My new training program is easy: rest so as not to strain myself on the climb by hiking with sore muscles over-spent from a mad week of training. Oh, and buy another pair of socks. Then I'll be all set. And I'll kick arse.

not sent from an iPad

Adventures in Detroit: The Hotel

Dear Tess,

Jamie and I, being the world travelers that we are, have just gotten back from a short stint in exotic Detroit. I was struck by many things (e.g., we drove down 8 Mile to see where he used to live and I did NOT see Eminem which was quite a shocking disappointment), but I didn't realize how much of an impact our hotel would have on my life. I experienced so many new and unexpected things.

1. The Check-In Ladies are Aliens. Or puppets. Hard to tell what's behind the alarming level of calm cheer, slightly like that sugar-sweet demeanor of one Michelle Duggar who is also, I'm quite sure, not human. I was curious as to whether they are pod-born or just land here and, as she offered Jamie a chocolate, I was very alarmed that he was going to either disappear on the spot and be taken to their home planet or that I would wake up and he would be in a cocoon waiting for The Change to happen.
2. They have happily removed the mini-bar to ensure you don't accidentally drink all the wine or eat $10 Jelly Bellies in the middle of the night. They're helping you control your spending and calorie intake.
3. They also help you watch your weight by providing a shocking lack of cream and sugar for your morning coffee. This will also help you get moving in search of cream and sugar, thus increasing your heart rate and contributing to overall good health.
4. To improve your mental skills, the parking garage is specially designed to be a complex maze which you must try to navigate while tired and confused. (Note, we didn't navigate successfully and we're not going to talk about that.)
5. Did I mention the mini bar? Yeah. That's totally awesome. Saving money AND calories. I LOVE IT.
6. In order to help you achieve greater intimacy with your partner, they've removed the sound-masking fan from the bathroom so you can hear each every single sniffle, breath, and thought your loved one makes while in there.
7. To encourage you to relax, they charge you an obscene rate for Internet, unlike other hotels that offer it for free because those other hotels clearly don't care about your ability to unplug and chill out. How thoughtful is that? They are helping to lower my blood pressure!
8. THE MINI BAR.
9. In order to teach you to control your expectations and plan for the unexpected, they will randomly not clean your room. This helps in so many ways, Tess. First, it helps you to not take things for granted and plan for (or deal with) such catastrophic events as having to use a still-damp towel, a shortage of hotel shampoo/soap/conditioner, and the heart stopping horror of walking into your room and having to embrace what a huge slob you really are because no one cleaned up your mess. (Question: why do all of the blankets and sheets end up on the floor in a hotel but this never happens at home?).
10. To help you hone your speaking skills, methods of persuasion, and patience as well as your ability to teach others key aspects of their jobs, they've provided you with Star Rewards Points but carefully trained only some staff members on how they can be used. This allows you to deliver a presentation on how their program works at least three times.
11. Another benefit of the lack of the minibar is that it allows you to work on your people skills by having to order your $4.00 Oreos or your $10 Jellie Bellies or your $6.00 beer and then face the person delivering your late-night snack to you. It also helps you practice looking Judgment in the eye and saying, "I am my own person and if I want to eat Jellie Bellies and Oreos and a Beer at 3am, I can and I do not care what you think. Nor am I tipping you."

So, you see Tess, this was not, as I first thought, crappy service. This was a whole educational program aimed at making me a thinner, stronger, more frugal, more patient, better prepared woman with an increased ability to effectively communicate and embrace the unknown.

BTW, if you tell the woman at the counter that your room wasn't serviced the whole time you were there and she says she'll look into it, how does that help me when I"m checking out? And how does it help me to hear I should have called down to let them know when I got in at 12:40 and was in no way interested in getting the room serviced at that time because it was BED TIME?

Also, just heard China is now the world's second largest economy -- happening just months after you and Dunc arrived. Coincidence? I think not. I think the country should thank you by providing better cable options and unlimited Gene Lite. Who shall I call to make this happen?

Birkenstocks = No Dates

Tess,

You think you already knew why Birks don't equal dates, but you don't.

Let's just get the first part on the table so we can move on: they are ugly. Really ugly. They make all feet that don them look ugly. When I think Birkenstock in my head, I have three images:

1. Clammy, hairy stark white male feet attached to a skinny, slumpy, clammy, stake white male


2. Dark, dirty feet worn by hippy and/or fake-poor college student (note: Birks are not cheap and therefore, that "poor" college student has rich parents.


3. Fuzzy-socked feet attached to cool, folksy, art-teacher nun who would leave the order after 10 to 15 years and many awesome clay pots and art projects.

None of these are images couple easily with the idea of dating. So when on, or looking for, a date, you don't wear them. Unless you want to date one of those listed above and, if so, you're on your own.

But just because they are fugly doesn't mean they are not very comfortable (and not in a disgusting, cheap-arse, slimy croc kind of a way. crocs are cool NEVER). In fact, this is a remarkably well-made shoe that will, after consistent use, mold to your foot so that the shoe will only fit your foot and it fits perfectly. Uber comfortable. I'll acknowledge that. I appreciate it. Sort of.

Anyway.

When I was in college I got a pair. This was during the week I decided I was cool and granola, wearing nothing but baggy jeans and really awesome wool sweaters and no makeup and never do my hair. It was an ugly week. Literally. No dates.

Years later, after a day of marching around in 4" heels, I decided I was going to head out to Borders. Borders, as I imagined it then, was where I would meet Mr. Right. I would be browsing my section and he would come in, think I'm awesomely intelligent, interesting, and wonderful. We would strike up a conversation, I would be witty and calm and not at all the trainwreck I usually was when a boy talked to me.

But my feet hurt.

And there were my purple Birks. Waiting for me. "We're comfortable and flat and we'll hug your feet even though you didn't wear us long enough to break us in."

"No. You are ugly," I said.

"You are mean. And we have character. And those 4" heels look like you are trying too hard. Boys don't like that. Be the cool chick who doesn't need the fabulous shoes."

"I don't need them. I like them."

Right then, my feet entered the conversation, "We hate them. Uggs! Birks! Flip flops! More of those."

"Shut up," I said.

"We'll revolt."

"What?"

"We'll revolt. We'll trip over ourselves and you'll fall down."

I pondered this. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Often. We dislike a lot of your shoes. But if you want to not meet a guy after you fall down because you'll have to immediately leave, fine with us..."

"Please! We want to go outside! We want to see the world! We won't embarrass you!" The Birks pleaded.

I'm only human. Under pleading and threats, I gave in.

And I was somewhat right about Mr. Right. You see, Tess, there was a guy in the same area I was. He was attractive, well-dressed, the right age, the right height, and thumbing through good books. I moved a little closer, ready for us to start talking which would then lead to, "Oh, let's get some coffee in the cafe." And then, "Can I call you?" And then a mortgage payment and dogs.

But as I stepped over to him in my 'We won't embarrass you' Birkenstck, something truly awful happened. As I stepped to within three feet of him, there came through the warm silence the one sound you just don't ever want to come through warm silence: fart sound.

FART SOUND IN THE SILENCE.

And, I'm afraid, it was from me.

I saw him shift his eyes a bit to the right, clearly letting me know I was gross, he was not, and he knew what I just did. I didn't move. He slowly ambled away. Mr. Right: Gone.

Now, there's a reason why I didn't move. I didn't fart.

I foot-farted.

Foot-farting is the sound that your arch makes as it pushes the air out from between your foot and the sole of your leather and cork shoe.

A sound that is particularly prevalent among Birkenstock because of how they are made.

A sound that will not get you a mortgage and dogs.

A sound that doomed those Birks to the back of my closet.

A sound that is highly entertaining when you are bored and home alone on a Tuesday afternoon.

A SOUND OF CONSPIRACY AND BETRAYAL BETWEEN THE BIRKS AND MY FEET.

Mildred's Response To The Disaster

Dear Crazy Person With the Water Sprayer,

I am a single mother. It's not an easy life. It has been up to me to create a safe haven for my 243 children whom that waste of eyes, Dennis, left me with.

I spent several months constructing that house, ensuring it was protected from the elements, built strongly to keep my babies safe, and near enough to a food supply to keep them healthy.

I have been living here for quite some time.

I have never bothered you.

My children have eaten the bugs that have come to your house because you don't know how to clean.

I have kept disgusting creatures from crawling through the hole in the screen and coming upstairs to eat your face in your sleep. (Didn't know about the hole, did you?)

I thought we were working together, lady.

Imagine, if you will, that after a long day of carnivorous eating you are enjoying a well-deserved nap with your little ones. It's a warm, sunny afternoon, and you are happy in your home. Life is good. You're even wearing that Life is Good shirt to show the world that life is good.

And then, just as you are getting to the very best part of your dream (when you catch that evasive cricket in your web), there's a Tsunami in your living room.

What you thought was an attack upon you, you narcissistic wench, was me being half drowned by your Cobher faucet while you destroyed my home, thus eliminating our ability to trap YOUR UNWANTED BUGS and stay alive. You know, FEMA doesn't help us. Well, FEMA doesn't seem to help you much either, so...

But what REALLY gets me isn't that you decided to tell the world that my near-death experience via drowning was the flailings of a mentally-disturbed human-killer (as if). And then you did the same damn thing to me the next morning! WTF? I can see Tsunami in your living room once, but TWICE? Really? You had to do it again in the morning when I had made just the tiniest progress of rebuilding? You didn't tell Tessa about that, did you? No. Because you knew that was just mean.

Who's the psychopath now, eh?

Who's going to hell for cruel and unusual punishment?

Who's going to have extra bugs in her house?

Who's suddenly very worried about that hole in the screen?


Truly yours,
Mildred the Mother Spider Who Was Not Psychotic Until You Demolished Her Home. Twice.

The dangerous side of house cleaning

Dear Tess,

Here's an example of why it's good you moved.


We're having company over today. As such, I decided that it was far past time that I actually clean the house rather than the lame-ass approach I take each week which mainly involves vacuuming some areas and doing some laundry and then bragging about how I cleaned the whole house to Jamie.


First, I cleaned his bathroom. I do not go into his bathroom because it's a generally scary man-space which is hostile to girls. In the process of cleaning his bathroom, I used almost all of the cleaning products, of which we have an alarming amount given that I don't clean. Perhaps I'm thinking if I have enough unused products, they'll clean for me in the middle of the night like little brownies. (Note: brownies in this case = sturdy little fairies, but now all I can think about are moist, chocolaty brownies running around my house with a spray bottle of 409).


After, like 20 hours cleaning the bathroom, I headed down stairs and started in the kitchen. This is where I noticed that there was a prehistoric wall of spiderweb stretched across my kitchen window. While I lied and told myself that this had just been created that morning because how could I have missed such a thing, I'm pretty sure this existed when the house was built in the 50's. It was ghastly. It was horrifying. It needed to go.


First, I opened the window next to it to break up any connections between the two windows. No connection. The web remained.


Then I turned on the water faucet full blast, picked up the little sink sprayer thingy and, emboldened by the screen between me and the evil web of misery and death, started spraying.


This was a mistake.


As soon as I started to spray, the biggest most nasty looking beast of a spider jumped up and he went for my face. I know I always think the spider will go for my face if I bug it. I know this is irrational and stupid, but I assure you, he was coming for me. He was coming for me with rage and anger not unlike the way I reacted when some stupid ho stole my Zappos deliver when we lived in the city. THAT kind of rage and anger.


I didn't really think Spiders could move like this. He was jumping around manically, his thousand legs were twirling and jerking and spazing and his fangs were dripping Gretchen-killing venom. Reflecting on his movements and facial expression, I concluded that not only is he a mean spider, he's a psychotic spider. And I pissed him off by destroying his family domicile. Or he had nap hangover.

Luckily, the screen saved my life, preventing this cranky, mal-adjusted, in need of strong medication, a good psychiatrist, and some cookies from eating my face.

But he's out there.

And he's holding a grudge (because what else will he do without cable?)

So, now I can't go out on that side of the house for at least a month.


I"m not sure he hasn't found a way inside and is raising an army of my indoor spiders to attack me in the night. I think he'll also be accessing my email accounts, cross referencing with whitepages.com, and hunting down all of my friends. Therefore, you're safe. I'm pretty sure psychotic spider won't make it through security at the airport.


Oh, and he kind of looked like this. But bigger. And meaner. And a crazier. Which is another reason why I've decided not to join the military.

Stuffed Animal in a Huge Pool of Pesto

Tessa moved to Shanghai. For three years. THREE YEARS.

And she's not blogging, the shit.

I'm hoping.

Waiting.

Waiting.

WAITING.

Waiting like that Erica Kane person waited for an Emmy. (Did she ever get one?)
Waiting like I waited for my mom to pick me up after work at Hegedorn's only to have to call her to remind her that she had abandoned her youngest child.
Waiting like a rebellious teenager in a po-dunk small town waits to graduate from high school so he can join the army and get the hell out of that place only to end up stationed in the dessert or the arctic.

It's not like she lacks subject matter.

Among the blogs she should have written include the inability of her neighbors to form lines at the cash registers, the frightening lack of decent beer, the never-ending fear that they are going to steal/eat/beat her cat, the desire to see other apartments (and the failed attempt to do so), crazy maids barging into their house and cleaning, taxis, supermarkets, the scientific research to determine how long one person can live off the the Dominos Pizza place on the first floor of her building.

You see, Tessa's just the last person (aside from me) who I would envision living in China. It doesn't make sense, even though she's doing it. Other things that don't make sense but can be done: brushing your teeth with cat food, not eating cheese, keeping your favorite stuffed animal in a huge pool of pesto sauce, putting your cat in a baby stroller, listening to Justin Beiber, wearing unfabulous shoes... you get the picture.

And so, given that she's in another time zone and practically on another planet based on the stories she's told me, I've decided I need to write to her, to remind her of what life here in America is like, to make her laugh, to make her think, and to MAKE HER BLOG, DAMMIT.

So, we'll have some changes around here ... new look on Crease in the Pants, slightly new way of writing, same purpose: avoid taking the dishes out of the dishwasher.

Just words

Lately instead of hearing teenagers order their parental units to "chillax," I've been hearing "chillate." And because I'm old and always a dozen steps out of synch with contemporary culture I've begun to wonder where chillate comes from. Yeah, even I get chillax - that's pretty intuitive. But chillate? Not so much.

Might it be the verb form of achieving chillation? If one chillates, then she can acquire sublime chillation?

Or is it, like chillax, a smush of chill with another verb?
Chill + date? Relax, baby we're goin' to my place.
Chill + gait? Be cool when you walk.
Chill + late? Who cares if we get there last?
Chill + masticate? Chew lazily.



In completing their programs, figure skaters have fluid elements that they sail through and tougher bits that always seem to trip them up. The same can be said of actors: some lines are almost instinctive from day one and others never quite seem to be there.

For me, it's when I pray. (I know, I know, shocking to think that ever happens!) There are certain bits that break the old staccato rhythm.

"as we forgive those who trespass against us" - Except in my mind I'm thinking "Uhhh, nooooo, not at all like that, please."

"fruit of thy womb" - If you can get through that line and not picture the guys in their apple and grape costumes, then you ar a braver, stronger Catholic than me.

"surely goodness and mercy" - Shirley. Followed by the image of Shirley Jones in her velvet Partridge Family tux.



As George Carlin said, "Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things."

Lessons From Tessa: Part I

Tessa and I have known each other for ten years. It's a long time. And in that time, she has made me smile, laugh, cringe, and, on occasion, get over myself. But more than any of that, she's taught me many, many things. Here's Part I of The List (because lists are great).

1. Regarding Salt. While salt is the best thing on earth, you must always do a salt test lest you ruin your meal. I learned this over the countless lunches she and I ate together, though I specifically remember a plate of fries and chicken fingers at Jillian's that was tragically inedible after some unrestrained salting. Note also that you need to do thorough testing of a new salt shaker before you truly adopt it as your meal companion.
2. "You get to choose." One of her favorite statements. I love it because it not only empowers you to do what you want, it makes only one person responsible for your life: you.
3. Never underestimate the importance of properly melted cheese, especially on cheese fries. We used to eat at a little restaurant which seemed to not understand this concept, even though Tessa would remind the waitress every time (and I would die of embarrassment on the other side of the table).
4. No relationship is a total waste of time if you can get material out if it. This includes not only those of a romantic nature, but friends, coworkers, neighbors, and relatives. (The best material, by the way, comes from relatives -- and usually not yours.)
5. An over-active imagination that you continue to indulge into adulthood is way awesomer than being regarded as down to earth (i.e., nice but boring and with ugly shoes). I'll take a very strong belief that your hotel room is haunted and you have to cover up certain pictures in it or an equally firm resolve that your animals are all taking when you aren't home.
6. The Importance of Lists. Lists are the most wonderful things on earth and creating them the best use of one's time. Note, however that after creating a list, it's significantly less important to actually accomplish anything on it or to follow it. Nothing better than a list.
7. It's OK to think your animals are your kids. But only if you don't actually have kids.
8. The greatest thing in earth is hitting 35. Young enough to not have too many wrinkles and still able to get away with long hair and shorter skirts without looking pathetic, but old enough to start not giving a shit what other people think. When I was 26, she told me that I would be way happier in my 30s. Told me that everything would get better, every year. Except your boobs. Le sigh. And so it goes.
9. A real friend tells you the hard truth. Ah, the verbal/written stop-being-an-ass slap. I know it well. And every time she's given it to me, I so deserved it.
10. Embrace your inner whack job. Whenever possible, bring it out and share with others. When not possible, let it run wild on the inside while appearing calm on the outside. It'll make achingly boring conversations go by faster.

No better friend than you, Tess.

Just another week

Apparently knocking on the restroom door is too challenging for some people. If one's hands are full of ... nothing(!), one may opt to scream at the door: IS ANYONE IN THERE???!!! That doesn't get old at all. Even hearing it every 40 minutes for nine hours a day. Nope, fresh and awesome every darn time.

I mentioned to a colleague that we plan to rent our house while we're abroad. When she seemed interested, I wanted to be sure that she didn't have unrealistic expectations. She was fine with the circus tent paint colors, and even with the miniscule plot size. The conversation changed course when it came to the kitchen.
Me: It's stainless but there's no granite.
Her: Oh, that's okay. I wouldn't really expect granite in JUST A RENTAL.
I'm sure she didn't mean it as an enormous insult, but ....

Stan answers the phone with a perfectly normal greeting prior to starting the script. The only problem - each and every phone call sounds a lot like this. "Hi, this is Stan Fields. Good morning, my name is Stan and I'm an account manager from ...." And nobody seems to think this is odd. Fifty to sixty times per day. Nobody mentions, "Uhh, hey, buddy. You know what might sound a little better?" Nope.

NuPerson Nancy left a disgusting bowl of revolting food on the counter overnight. Always grotesque but in a state known for the size of its roaches and ants ... sub-awesome move, dude. So even as Jayne and I were completely grossed out by the mess, there rose a tickling pleasure, a lurking joy. Our eyes met and we knew without words: When Claudia the Kitchen Cleaning Commando wandered in, there would be hell to pay. Eyes lit up, giggles escaped. We pretended to busy ourselves until Claudia's arrival. But then ... nothing. A paltry "Is she serious with the bean slop?" And nothing more. Jayne, still pretending to work, sensed my disappointed eyes boring holes into her. Without glancing up, Jayne whispered, "Don't worry; it's not over." And she was right; it wasn't over. It was explosive and beautiful. It was the shock and awe of the very best 4th of July ever. A day worth living indeed. Sometimes we need those rare and beautiful gifts from heaven to balance out the drudgery. So thanks, heaven, for Nancy and her immortal beanmuck.

Banality Defined

A summary of the past month.

"The fact that I just had to purchase a children's small helmet is in no way indicative of the size of my brain."

"I don't understand why you can't just make up an answer like every other man who has no idea what he's talking about. It's an opportunity for you to develop your creative side and for me to hone my bullshit radar. Win Win."

"When the bottle says "One A Day for Men" it definitely does not mean "Two A Day for Women." Trust me.

"I'm not sure that by pulling the measuring tape tighter you are getting an accurate waist measurement."

"We've been on the trail for fewer than two minutes and yet you've already had two technical malfunctions. 1. It's snowing, so a coat seems like a no-brainer and yet, no coat. 2. You live in Rochester; why would you own boots that are not waterproof?"

"Do you think we could eat a slice of the cake and cover the hole with icing and pretend someone else did it? No? But why?"

"I'm really glad we decided to start eating better. Tomorrow. After the cheeseburgers and fries."

"CLOSE THE BROWSER WINDOW BEFORE YOU SEE WHO WON A MEDAL! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING? You can't go online during the Olympics." "Not at all?" "Not at all. Sheesh."

"I know the difference between a human fart and a dog fart."

"I'm rooting for that guy." "Why? He's not the American." "Don't care. Dimples."

"You know what's not fair? It's not fair that you take up 62% of the bed and then Leo takes up another 10% and Mookie takes up 4.2% and that leaves me with 7% of the bed." "You are really bad at math." "You're a bed hog." "No, the DOG is a bed hog. And is supposed to sleep in his cage." "Whatever."

My week

The week started off badly. I saw The Queen of Knowledge barreling down the hall toward me and slammed my shoulder against the wall to avoid contact. Dramatically. The entire left side of my body is now brown and green and yellow. (I don't get pretty black-and-blue bruises.) Why was this violent reaction necessary? I have no clue. Perhaps because I hadn't actually used my vocal chords in three days and wasn't yet ready to speak? No clue. Freak.

How to be popular with your co-workers:
1. Stumble in at 8:30
2. Wander toward the kitchen to see if anybody else has made coffee yet
3. Hide in the ONE bathroom for five minutes waiting for someone else to make the coffee and forcing everyone else to "hold" it
4. Meander toward your desk as the meeting starts
5. Deliver your line, "Ohhhhhhh, wait. Is there coffee? Oh good! We can't start the meeting until I have coffee."

My Glambert-adoring colleagues now have a plant named Adam. Apparently when they went to see him in concert, they yanked some weed out of the ground and now nurture young "Adam." Nauseating, I know. But it's worse to hear on a daily basis:
Fan 1: How's Adam doing today?
Fan 2: Ohhhh, he looks good.
Fan 1: Of course he does. He always looks goooooood.
Fan 2: Cacccckkkkklllllle. You know that, girlfriend.
Me: B A R F.

I might get my ears pierced tomorrow. Maybe. I had them pierced when I was in high school (yes, I was the Last Girl in my class to have pierced ears). And then in college, like every other 18 year old, added a few more earrings. I permitted the extraneous holes to close up, but finally the originals got infected and closed, too. I have really short hair so I'd like to wear earrings if for no other reason than to announce myself as a huge woman rather than a large man; it's admittedly kinda tough to tell right now. So we'll see if I actually do this thing. A couple of years ago I was going to get a tattoo. Absolutely definitely positively going to get a tattoo. Then I had a couple of VERY minor outpatient procedures which should NOT have been a Big Deal at all. But they were a Big Deal. No, they were a CRAZILY RIDICULOUS HUMONGOUS DEAL. And I realized I couldn't take the pain of a tattoo. So we'll see if I get my ears pierced. Not that it's really about pain per se. It's more the fear of infection. I mean who knows if that gun is clean? And they say that piercing with a gun is the worst way in the world to get pierced. But no way am I cool enough to go to a tattoo parlor and ask for pierced ears. I'd feel like an idiot. Plus they're in the bad part of town. Although the gangs hang out at the local mall so that's not exactly the good part of town. Or maybe my skin is the kind that rejects pierced jewelry: I read about it on the web so I know it's real. That sounds like a lot of excuses. We'll see.

By the way, if you're on the phone with a client, you shouldn't say COOL. You must have alternative responses because COOL isn't the answer to every question. COOL in fact isn't a response at all. And it should never, ever be repeated 27 times on a business call no matter how young and hip you think you are. Freak. Oh wait, he just said, "Cool, man." Not sure if I'm going to count that as #28 or if I should start a tally of how many times I hear CoolMan today.

This weekend I'm going to try to make spring rolls. We used to get delicious ones at a Thai restaurant in Rochester. (It might or might not have been the same place where Gretchen saw the woman without shoes. In my imagination, it's the same place.) Anyway this place that may or may not be The Naked Feet restaurant had great fresh spring rolls with this wonderful green interesting-but-not-too-spicy dipping sauce. So I'm going to try to make them this weekend (despite the fact that I must brave the Asian market to do so!). I found instructions on how to fold them so that one end is left open; then after you make all of them, you "plate" them open-side-up in a tall bowl so that it looks like a floral (foodal?) arrangement. I'll let you know how that goes. Because I know you're dying to find out.

Three trips

Travel creates memories, both good and bad. The Hubs and I haven't traveled extensively but we've shared our ... moments.

When we flew to Santa Barbara (on-the-cheap and in pre-9/11 skies), the flight attendant literally dropped our meals on our trays and grunted, "Here's yer food." A decade later, The Hubs knows that whenever I carry food to him, he'll hear those three little words that warm his cockles: "Here's yer food."

One year we traveled to St. Thomas during the off-season. Negative: it was hotter than Hades; positive: we were the only two clients on a snorkeling trip aboard a beautiful old schooner. Although we were smaller people then than we are today, we weren't by any means average-sized people. A smallish man, the captain/owner of the schooner cautioned us both as we entered the water that he was neither young nor strong, "So don't go strokin' out on me." His care for our well-being (and his insurance premiums) was awe-inspiring, and his sentiments are repeated on the rare occasion when one of us puts forth enough energy to actually sweat.

Our first trip to St. Croix found us at a loss for understanding the lilting local West Indian dialect that is both similar to and different from what most of us think of as a Jamaican accent. When locals addressed questions to us, our responses were frequently non-committal noises somewhere between yes and no. Our hope was that one would assume the "right" answer and move on. Finally bored by the inability to communicate, The Hubs blathered on at length to a St. Croix local about some arcane piece of island trivia he'd read in a book. The only words we understood in two weeks were when the West Indian threw back his head in laughter and said very clearly, "You writeen' your own history now, mon." Yes, mon, he tends to do that.

Fathers and daughters

This morning I overheard one half of a troubling conversation between a colleague and his nine year old daughter.


Father: WAIT. WHO did WHAT?

Father: Is he from our neighborhood?

Father: What grade is he in?

Father: Did he MEAN to do it?

Father: Are you SURE?

Father: Were you TEASING him?

Father: Are you SURE?

Father: Well, then you go outside and yell, "My daddy's gonna kick your ass and your dad's ass, too, when he gets home tonight." Go ahead, yell it right now.

Father: Okay now. You're fine. Go to school.


Far be it from me to wish drama on anyone but I would give anything for this guy to show up tomorrow with a black eye and a broken arm. Not because he provided such an idiotic lesson to his daughter. And not because I want to see him damaged for taking his daughter's side. But because he deserves it for being so damn naive.

I wasn't there but I know two things. First, you cannot possibly understand all sides of any story from a two-minute conversation with a third-grader. And second, never ever physically threaten people until you've at least seen how big they are. Sure, this kid might be just a runty little twerp and his dad a peace-loving pencil-neck geek. Or he could be some cruelty-loving, mammoth psycho-kid with an ex-wrestler psycho-pop who happens to like guns. And nunchucks ... which until just this moment I believed were called nukchuks.

Doesn't get more absurd than this

Christine explains, “When I decided to trim down, I knew I had to be realistic with myself. I didn’t want to cut out my fast food so I started choosing Fresco items from the Drive-Thru Diet menu.”

speechless.

2:1 = Heavy Bag

We live on a part of Penfield Road where many walkers and runners pause at the mouth of our wide driveway to cross the street and walk down Park Lane. Standing on the curb, I wonder if any of them turned tonight and looked into the tall windows on the second floor. Because if they did, they would have glimpsed a crazy woman madly beating a heavy bag with a dreamy-looking guy egging her on all while a white cat screamed his bloody head off while standing on the bed next to her. Just because he can scream his bloody head off while standing on the bed next to her.

And even if they didn't see it, I'm positive they could have heard the lunatic screaming escaping her lips.

I'm surprised the cops didn't show up .

To protect the punching bag.

But let me back up and try to explain how we got to this meltdown on Penfield Road.

The state of my life can easily be viewed as horrifically stressful. Afterall, we're out-numbered two-to-one, ferocious/obnoxious/demanding/manipulative/criminally cute creatures to humans. This means we are slaves to their demands.

For example, last night Little Dog woke up at 3:30 and decided to pierce my lovely dreams with an imitation of Cujo's Mating Call. Fearing the White Cat had gotten locked in his crate with him (again), I ran downstairs to rescue him. No WC. He was just lonely. I let him outside which got the attention of Big Dog who also wanted to go out and suddenly I'm standing in 17 degree weather in satin jammies and fuzzy slippers trying to get nitwits 1 and 2 back into the house. Back into the house and, for one, into our bed (uninvited). Covered with snowy paws. Which he warmed up by placing them on our legs. (Not unlike how females warm up their feet at night).

So there was that.

Continuing on the theme of not being in charge of the house, I woke up at 7:30 with a cat draped over my neck. While we can all appreciate the delicate softness of fur, I assure you it's not as pleasant when it weights 14.5 pounds and has claws. Thankfully, before I engaged the White Stole in combat, he decided he needed to jump on the Big Dog who then woke up and stood next to the bed whomping her tail against the frame until someone opened an eyelid. That increased the rhythm of the whomping to a feverish pace which made the bed vibrate enough that I fell out onto the fur-encrusted carpet.

It's not an optimal way to begin the day: fur in your eyeballs, satin jammie flipped up over your butt, dog breath in your ear, cat walking on you. After three or four minutes of laying there, you just accept the humiliation and get up.

I depend on the hot water of the shower to wake me up and start the day, to soothe the harsh and involuntary awakening. Which is great when I hit the shower first. Which is usual. Unfortunately, this morning Mr. Showers Until It Runs Cold had an early meeting. So I got "cool to friggin freezing with a splash of icy." I shaved one leg and had to get out. Out to the Recluse Kitty who was telling me how much she hates everyone else in the house, especially the Fat Runt Dog who charged in while she was telling her story to cry about... God knows what.

I left them there with their issues and fled to the office.

The office provides, as any office does, a plethora of stress-inducing opportunities that can drive you over the edge. For example, we have small bathroom for the women which is sometimes full and by full I mean occupied by someone other than me. In such cases, there exists the possibility of debilitating bladder shyness which means you have to flee that lavatory and race up three floors to the almost-always-deserted ladies' room. This takes a lot of time and in that time, your inbox gets filled up with all sorts of treats. And, if you are in a cross-functional role, the treats are of a massively varied natures, challenging your brain on a vast array of levels of competency and insanity.

Oh, and did I mention this was the second day in a row I had to work 8 whole hours? Exhausting, I tell you. Just too much. I feel I can no longer function without at least three hours of fucking around at home doing pretty much nothing but being able to come up with a long list of "somethings" to tell Jamie about when he gets home. None of which reveal how much online shopping happened.

Arriving home, exhausted from my crippling 8 hours of productivity, I opened the door to the nut house. Cat ran outside (21 degrees), dog barked at me, another cat hid, and the trapped dog yelled at me from his cage. I stood there and asked my purse, "Do you hear something?" After tripping over the eight pairs of shoes in the tiny entryway, I inched down the steps with the mail, the packages that I needed to hide, and the recycling bin. I opened the cage and the mass of creatures bounced and howled and danced around me as I moved through the kitchen to put things down.

I kicked them all out.

They were back in within 23 seconds. Wusses.

I fed them. They cried. I pet them. They cried. I let them sit with me. They cried. And just when they all calmed down, Jamie opened the door and everyone popped up and ran (screaming) to meet him. And they kept screaming. Mostly the cat.

I grabbed the obnoxious hellion and presented him to Jamie. TAKE HIM WITH YOU, I said as he pulled on his tennis clothes. He took the cat. I then ran downstairs and grabbed the dog. HIM TOO! I screamed. And Big Dog was behind me, AND HER! LET HER LEAD THEM ALL. I CAN'T TAKE IT! I CAN'T TAKE IT! I QUIT!

And that is when we had to go hit the punching bag.

And now I sit, calm, on the couch. Little Dog is under the blanket on my lap. Obnoxious Cat is behind my head on the couch, Big Dog is at my feet, and Elusive Kitty is hiding in the front room. I may have bruised knuckles, but we're all calm. Until Jamie comes back home again. And then I'm back to the bag.

Two steps forward, two steps back

Paula Abdul didn't exactly stun the world with a thunderbolt of untapped knowledge when she warbled that Opposites Attract. Everyone who has dated, or God forbid loved, an opposite knows the attraction is both a blessing and a curse. Sure, we balance one another out but we drive one another to the brink of insanity in the meantime.

My husband and I are opposite in most ways. He's tall, I'm short. I'm punctual, he's tardy. His glass continues to overflow while mine is, and always has been, bone-dry. On the other hand, we're both dreadful slobs who take Eat, Drink, and Be Merry to new places.

Despite being a bit of a shoe horse himself, The Hubs doesn't understand why it's imperative that a woman's closet include at least ten pairs of black shoes. He also think it's okay to wear pants that are too tight. He's wrong. Very, very wrong.

The Hubs fails to comprehend that God Days are the perfect union between Intelligent Design and Evolution. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to attend Sister Mary-Louise's sophomore year "God and You" lectures, I'll summarize. Basically, sure, evolution's all true: it took zillions of years for everything to develop just like science tells us. But the Creationists are also right that it only took a few days - a few God Days which are way longer than mere human days. I mean if you're Infinite, then what's a day? Just because we've arbitrarily decided on 24-hour days doesn't mean that's how God rolls. See? It all works and people can stop fussing over it already. Jeesh.

Geography, too, is a bit of a problem at our house. Having sailed all over the world, The Hubs actually cares where continents, countries, states, and cities are located. Me? Not so much. I tend to believe in more of a quadrant approach to geography. Quadagraphy, if you will. For instance, I could probably place about 75% of the states into the proper quadrant of a map. Ditto for continents. Admittedly, I would score substantially lower on assigning countries outside of Europe to quadrants. And waterways beyond the Atlantic, Pacific, and Mississippi? Nope. I view this as sort of a Dementia Surprise: each time it's "Oh look, that's where Latvia is! Huh, I didn't think it was there."

Fearing nothing, Dearest Spouse fails to understand my various phobias which include (but are not limited to): snakes, crowds, bridges, crazed midnight murderers, police, Gary Busey, highways, drowning, ghosts, hurricanes, dwarves, rats, and fire. These are specific fears that cannot be diagnosed as the Fear of Everything which is known as pantophobia. And I totally agree, how can pantophobia not be trouser-related?! Next you'll be telling me that agoraphobia isn't the fear of bunnies.

The phobia issue is timely because it's been so damn cold! Freezing to death, our kitten shuns his wee bed and prefers to snuggle with us. When Quinty elects to sleep on top of or beside me, there's no problem. But sleepless nights ensue when he decides to sleep near The Hubs. And for this I blame David Chase. If only Christopher had never accidentally killed Cosette, Adriana's little pooch! But, alas, he did. So now Sopranos-watching women all over the world fear for the lives of their small dogs and cats.

While I patiently explained The Cosette Phenomenon, The Hubs closed his eyes and grimaced in agony. Much the way he did when I taught him about God Days. Or shared why I can't watch Shadowlands. Or failed to know that Madagascar is the fourth largest island in the world. Or told him that his pants were too tight. I call this reaction The Face. If he believed in God, I'd swear that he's praying for patience, but he doesn't so it's not that. Maybe he's counting to ten. Maybe he's missing his ex-girlfriend. Maybe he's picturing the many ways he can dispose of my body after he cuts me into 10,000 Reeses-sized pieces. Who knows?

I'm just grateful that we still amuse one another. After all, if you can't laugh with someone, then at least you can laugh at them, right?

Stuff

by tess

Years ago we moved from a large-ish single-story house with 2,600 sf of basement. That space was divided into: a very cold office that could have been used as a spare freezer for eight months a year, a "storage area" (defined by Mr. & Mrs. Packrat as "noun; Excuse to throw away absolutely nothing for years on end"), and a tool room/boat-building area.

Then we moved to Florida. You know, the place that doesn't have basements. So most of our assorted junk went into storage (which is sort of like the witness protection program for belongings, if you think about it). Then we got too cheap to pay the monthly storage fees. Rather than discarding any of the aforementioned crap, we bought shelves and forced it all into our vehicle-free two-car garage.

Now we keep a vat of Vaseline by the door that leads to the garage so that we can liberally slather ourselves before slithering sideways through the booby-trapped garage. One small step to the left or right will set off an avalanche of winter boots, cooking paraphernalia, scuba gear, archaic files, socket sets, and gardening gloves. Mowing the lawn each week requires a small army of gnomes to remove, re-stack, then restore the tubs of clothes, boxes of paperwork, and bags of gear fitting in and around the mower, whacker, edger, and blower.

And this is how we've lived for six years. An epiphany arrived last week in the form of Mike the Moving Estimator. He asked to see the garage, a space we had apparently forgotten existed. The Hubs and I glanced to the left, then the right, high atop the piles, and deep into their recesses. Then looked at one another and agreed, "Nope, this is all junk." And in that moment we recognized the enormity of our problem. With no shortage of belongings, we have apparently binged. And so begins the inevitable purge.

Aside from the ubiquitous collections of broken luggage, dead computers, mildewed books, pegged jeans, damaged furniture, and expired canned goods, our archaeological dig rendered a few artifacts of interest:
*Repair receipts for cars we haven't owned in a decade
*Drafts of college application essays
*Hundreds of pink plastic hangers
*An obscenely tarnished silver baby cup that once belonged to The Hubs
*Resumes dating back to Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch
*Billions of silverfish
*A loaded spearfishing gun
*Thermal paper that was at one time an important fax but is now a discolored roll of blank
*Skeletal remains of a lizard army and their opponents, the frog brigade
*Thank you notes featuring a (poor) rendering of Mick Jagger and his bong
*1991 Pennsylvania occupational taxes which may or may not have been filed
*A three foot tall plexiglass martini glass complete with huge plastic olive

Each Sunday night we pile our kitsch curbside and are amused to discover which belongings are rescued under cover of darkness. One gains a new perspective by watching long-held (and oft-moved) treasures be summarily rejected at the price of Free to a Good Home.

You'll shoot your eye out

by tess

We shared an uneventful holiday which is exactly the way we prefer them. No decorations. No children or extended family. No drama. Just another day hanging out together. By together, of course, I mean The Hubs in the office and my queen-size butt parked firmly in front of 62" of high-def Awesome. Ahhhh, togetherness!

So we don't do the tree thing. And although I love matchy-matchy trees - the kind that you just know Paris Hilton hires designers for - I also love trees that are anti-matchy. Tree playing the role of display vehicle for miscellanea never meant as ornaments. Tree as anti-establishment, anti-holiday retrospective that expresses one's essence rather than manufactured joy or commercialized cheer. In short, a wickedly cool tree that we're nowhere near super-hip enough to create.

2010 marks the sixteenth year in a row that The Hubs and I have failed to rock out with Dick Clark and his Amazing Dropping Ball of Destiny and Renewal. We celebrated in our own quiet way. I struggled through the final hour of 2009 watching some idiot cook something. And as a new decade began, I glanced over to see the drool spilling from my beloved's lips, down his chin, and onto his dirty t-shirt. Three Two One. Happy New Year!

Stupid Things on TV

The Boy is gone for the day and I'm sick, so I've had entirely too many hours spent watching Lifetime. Lifetime Movie Network is really just a string of long Public Service Announcements for women. For example, today I have learned that:

You should not marry a man you have known for three days because he really just wants you to bear him a son so he can inherit millions of dollars (and then kill you).

You should not believe your husband when he tells you his best friend has been stalking you and that he truly loves you because really he's having a mad affair and he's after your money (so he's going to kill you).

If your husband tells you he has left you and has gone off to commit suicide (therefore killing himself instead of you), you should make sure to see a body. Because it's highly, highly likely that he's freaked out and faked his death so he can start a new life (without you) (but at least he didn't kill you, so...)

If your husband really wanted a boy and you have a girl.... well. I'm sure you can follow the pattern. The lesson is clear: all men are trying to kill you.

But that's not what I found so stupid today. What made me fall off of my chair laughing was the new Taco Bell ad in which a woman says she needs to be realistic about her weight-loss program and therefore, her "diet" will have to involve fast food, but she's going to eat at Taco Bell because they have a new lower-fat menu. Notice that it's lower fat. Not low fat. Humongous difference.

But the best part of the day was when I saw Sully pitching a Sham-Wow-type mop. He drops an entire can of soda on the floor and then, to demonstrate how wonderful his mop is, he swiftly absorbs everything with a few quick swipes. But that's not the part. THE BEST PART is when he talks about the tough economic times and the importance of being thrifty and not wasteful. Which is fine. Or would be, were he not saying this while squeezing the entire can of soda he just mopped up into a glass.

That's when I had to change the channel. Just a little too much to accept.