crease in the pants

The Darkness

2012-02-07T15:35:00.000-05:00

The night can be a savage place, terrors lurking within.

Terrors.

And apathies.

Each of us has walked in this darkness, thrust into it neither by choice nor design, the result of blunt-force emotional trauma or a slowly-growing virus of numb. We linger, avoiding the monsters of loss and regret, despair and loneliness, self-doubt and self-loathing, anger and rage. We linger, perhaps wallow, perhaps even start to drown in that inky blackness rather than face those gatekeepers of the path back to light. In the dark, we are silent. We are still. We are alone. The darkness coats us in its weight. And there we can crumble.

No one wants or sets out to enter this place. It sucks you in. It infiltrates your life: your passions, your relationships, your work. Some of us are better at pushing through, keeping it at bay and let it in when it won't matter: after work, after the dinner party, after it would inconvenience others. And it is an inconvenience to others. It is hard to support someone who is next to you but not there, who can't seem to snap out of it, who can't seem to just move forward. Who "can't." It is inconvenient, certainly.

It is also inevitable.

As a society, we acknowledge but reject this inevitability. We offer elixirs and practices to avoid the darkness. We offer elixirs for the elixirs. We maintain that it shouldn't be that hard to just live, that this darkness is an unnecessary barrier one must get over, so here's a pill, here's a meditation, here's a workout which will remove that barrier and let you get on with your life. Why spend so much energy just trying to function when we can give you ways to use that energy to thrive instead? Why bother with the struggle if you don't have to? The struggle isn't relevant. It isn't helpful. It isn't part of your character. The night and the terrors that it holds are, in short order, to be avoided like a bad section of town or contaminated water. Nothing good can come of it.

And yet, there are those of us who are frequent travelers in this place, those of us who find it every bit as painful as others but find a certain sense of comfort in its familiarity. Those of us who find inspiration there, who find ourselves, our strength, our identity, our voice, and, yes, those ugly aspects of ourselves we try to hide in the folds of black. There are those of us who greet its arrival with bittersweet acceptance and free ourselves slowly, appreciating the struggle to get out, the way it will change us, the things it will teach us, the things it will allow us to see. And there are those who, once free, flee like rats from a sinking ship, never to venture close again, not matter what.
It's an understandable response. Consider how much more you can achieve and give when you are not fighting those monsters in the dark. Consider how much better your relationships could be when you have the fiery passion to embrace them, rather than one dimmed and smoldering.

Consider also the life that has always been in the light. One that has never been touched by the long fingers of heartache, anger, disappointment, despair, insecurity, embarrassment, regret, jealousy, failure. How is such a life defined? How is such a life able to grow? Is such a life really one that has even been lived? Because to live means to risk experiencing all of the light and the dark one can find. It defines itself by both love and loss. By both the songs of bliss and the wails of sorrow. To live means to walk in both the dark and the light, to embrace the terrors and the joys, each necessary to be able to say at the end of the day that you have lived.

Perhaps even thrived.

Losing My Voice

2012-02-03T15:59:00.001-05:00

I always self-identified as one who writes (never bold or arrogant enough to actually call myself a writer).

In sixth and seventh grades, a friend and I wrote seven books together. It was one of the best memories of that time, trading the book back and forth and adding new sections for the other to react to. We regarded those books as sacred and they are still prized possessions. She will always be special because of those stories.

My closest college friends were a couple of writers, both far better than I. Thinking of them, I always see a dimly-lit room, an over-flowing ashtray, CDs spewed on the floor in front of a stereo, and three of us with our big black journals creating what we were sure was genius prose or poetry. While we had many adventures together and many stories to tell, I've lost most of those, left with that image of us which has burned into me, deeper than all others. It was the richest, most emotional writing phase of my life. We all moved away, moved on, and with their exit from my daily life, so too did my writing until it was little more than the occasional journal.

Then I met Tessa. Tessa is a wonderful writer and together we decided to start this blog, both as a means to keep up with our writing as well as something to do. Also, selfishly, I love her work and wanted her to write more. For over a year, we were mad bloggers. It was another wonderful period of writing for me and no matter how busy I was, I was still putting up blogs and writing other stories on the side. And then it started to wane.

Tessa moved to China. She couldn't access the site. Slowly, she stopped writing and then so did I. What had long been a fiery passion was waning down to embers.
I don't write. Or rather, I am not writing. And what does that mean for my sense of self, once so strongly linked to words, to writing, to creating? This was my state of mind when I started reading Lambert's "Digital Storytelling." Reading about writing, about people being successful at writing, made me sad. Jealous. Perhaps even a bit angry. You see, I feel like part of me has gone numb and I'm waiting to see if the blood will flow back in or it it'll rot and fall off. Will I recognize gangrene when it sets in? Reading the book just reminded me of what I seem to be losing, have perhaps already lost.

And then I got to "The Story Circle." He describes the circle and its effect thusly,
"...when you gather people in a room, and listen, deeply listen, to what they are saying, and also, by example, encourage others to listen, magic happens" (2009, p.86).

That had a been a huge part of my best writing times: I not only had a live audience (even if by live it was via email), and not only did we create, share, critique, and recreate, the nature of our collaborations, our relationships, was a story unto itself. Within those two circles, I not only created better work and created it more often, I ended up with deep relationships with people who inspired me. When the circle was broken, things started to decay.

I find hope in the thought that, at least for the rest of this semester, I'll have an opportunity to be a part of a new circle, that I'll be able to reignite my passion.

Lambert, J. (2009). Digital Storytelling. Digital Diner Press: Berkely.

Mind-Bending Puzzles

2011-06-14T12:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Diabolical Engineering Geniuses,

I would like to thank you for creating another brain-teaser puzzle/toy to keep me both occupied/entertained/frustrated while questioning my intelligence and adequacy. Back in the day, I got to feel this way when playing with a Rubics Cube. While my husband now insists there's a formula to solving it, one anyone can master, this toy remains a measure of superior intelligence in my eyes with only three people on earth able to assemble all the sides without popping the pieces out and reassembling. Which, I might note, IS a solution and a practical one.

Yesterday, I found myself in a similar situation: confronted with a maddening three-dimensional game in which I need to reconstruct the components in order to reveal the object trapped inside. I studied it. I analyzed the pieces, running different scenarios through my head. And then I started to "play." I pulled and twisted and turned and bent. I reassessed the situation. I looked for clues I had missed. I reminded myself about the Rubics Cube -- could there be a simple formula to this as well?

I became annoyed with myself. Appalled I was unable to solve the puzzle. Just like the Rubics Cube. Just like those little picture-rearranging games. Just like Sudoku. Just like assembling furniture from Ikea. "I am a smart person!" I shouted to no one.

"I have a master's degree!"

"I read!"

"Real books!"

"I watch documentaries!"

"I am well-respected by my professional peers who do not read my blog!"

"WHY MUST YOU VEX ME, STUPID PUZZLE?"

Yes, I was getting out of control at this point. And so, I decided that the game was over and I started tearing at the puzzle, madly destroying the shell and releasing the object inside.

I will admit that half way through this, I did start to see what the solution could have been.

By the time Jamie got back into the car (all right, yes, this all happened in about six minutes), he spied the destruction on my lap. "What the hell happened there?"

And so I had to explain my ass had been beaten again by puzzle designed by mad geniuses.

"Just so I"m clear, you are talking about the packaging for the cell phone charger I just bought, right?"

"Packaging. Evil Puzzled devised by demonic package engineers to make me feel stupid. Same difference."

"You do realize you could just have waited until we got home and cut it open with a pair of scissors. Like a normal person."

"That is not how they intended it to be opened. There was a system. There was a way to do it without using scissors."

"Clearly, there wasn't."

So thank you, Duracell Cell Phone AC Charger Model DU5203 Package Engineers for creating another experience test my brain, humble me, and start a fight with my husband who has still more ammo to prove the occasional ridiculousness of my problem solving skills. And who, by the way, didn't think this blog was funny at all.

Mildred's Revenge

2011-04-24T12:43:00.000-04:00

When the swarm of flying ants was discovered, I calmly zipped into the kitchen, grabbed the ant killer, and with the press of a calm finger, reigned death upon them.

When my friend raced screeching from her house upon the discovery of a dead squirrel on the porch, I simply picked it up by its tail, walked back to the woods, and flung it.

And when Mookie puked worms, I calmly gathered the angel-hair pile of parasites and bagged them for the vet to examine while my husband was gagging in the bathroom.

I have buried (or flung) more dead bunnies, chipmunks, moles, squirrels, birds, and snakes than I care to remember, all of who were often in various, er, pieces. This is the result of living with cats who have been free to roam outside and embrace their predatory nature and return their prizes to our house with love, if partially consumed.

I'm not squeamish.

Except for spiders. There is only one kind of spider that is allowed to live in my house: little yellow ones that stay far away and seem to move with reasonable speed. We have many. We live in peace.

Wolfgang, a ferocious, enormous, hairy black serial killer, lives above my side door. On the other side of the glass. We had a conversation one day, through the glass. We agreed that he could live there, indulging his bloodlust. He could live there. Not in here. He accepted that he couldn't eat my face and I accepted that I was living with a psychopath attached to my house. But one who surely kept promises.

But then there were Mildred.

I'm not sure if Mildred and Wolfgang were dating, married, or just "friends." Maybe they didn't even know each other. Regardless, he had one side of the house and she the other. Outside.

After last year's ... incident ... Mildred and I had kept our distance. I felt we had come to an understanding. I didn't realize she was spending her time making "babies."

Yesterday, Mildred got her revenge. As I happily vacuumed up the front room, breathing in the first warm air of spring and basking in the rarely-seen Rochester sunshine, I felt life was just pretty darn good. And then it happened.

Awakened by the sound of my Dyson, an army of pissed off Mildreds came racing out of the wall, racing toward me like a platoon of psychotics, screeching in their high-pitched spider voices, intent on ... well, eating my face. That comes after they terrorize and torture me by crawling up my arms and legs and over my eyes and into my hair and ears. Forget water-boarding. Spider torture.

I'm not going to say my scream was bloodcurdling, but it did set off both dogs who were asleep out back, the poodle across the street, a baby at the end of the block, and a hamster three houses over.

I raced to the garage, to Jamie, who was certain some horror had befallen me (it had). He was unimpressed to discover I was "freaking out over a bug."

He went in to face the terror, a Spartan up against the Persians.

He found one beast.

One.

Which presents us with two issues:
1. He thinks I'm ridiculous.
2. They are still there.

I have not and will not return to the room. Ever.

Additionally, I have scolded both cats who spend a preponderance of time in that room and should have been all OVER eating the bugs. Explain how they can take care of 98% of the chipmunk population outside and haven't touched the Army of Black Death that dwells a mere two feet from their favorite bed.

And I swear, somewhere Mildred is laughing at me. Rubbing her little feet together knowing how awesome revenge can be when served cold.

Running Into the Unknown

2011-04-13T09:36:00.001-04:00

I used to dream about retreating to a mountain cabin and spending a month cut off from the rest of the world, alone, unpressured, undisturbed, free. I felt this would be the opportunity to let inspiration take hold and my great American novel would finally come pouring out of my fingertips. I would come back a changed woman: more mature, wiser, independent, and self-possessed.

But people have to work for a living. Such forays mean losing at least all of your vacation if not taking unpaid leave and using up all of your vacation completely eliminates the Spur of the Moment Sunny Friday Afternoon Off (or the I Need to Screw Around at Home Today Day Off).

And so, to the mountains I have never gone.

After a few glasses of wine, feeling particularly lost in my professional life (a feeling which has plagued me since I got my first job at 15), I often decide I'm going to join the Peace Corps. I'm going to go to remote corners of the world and make a difference, focus on what really matters, and shed the petty obsessions that distract me from being a person of integrity and character. Obsessions such as knowing just how much my dog loves me and polling everyone around on this fact until they give me the answer I need: he loves you more than anything in the whole world, Gretchen. But I have a job and a life and leaving that behind for two years (not to mention leaving said devoted dog) is too much of a break from my reality to be realized.

And so, to the Peace Corps I have never gone.

Life is littered with convenient excuses for not taking a risk. I'm not saying that you shouldn't dream about things that you know you've romanticized and will likely never do. You've gotta have those day dreams -- because they can lead to real steps toward what you want to do and who you want to be. However, embracing a barrier that you most certainly can remove means that only you stand in your way.

We are, I'm quite convinced, our own greatest adversaries.

There's no reason I can't go to a cabin. Though whether that will change my life is unlikely. And there are alternatives to the Peace Corpse which I don't bother to investigate.

I am risk averse. I follow the rules. I so dread getting into trouble that I freak out every time my husband walks in the Out doors at Home Depot and nearly had an hysterical melt-down when my father-in-law lied to a gate officer saying we were staying at a resort (which we were not) just so we could walk around. I was convinced we were going to be arrested and thrown in jail at any moment. This was a month ago. I'm still worked up about it.

My point, other than gently pointing out my own neurosis, is that I'm not the type to race into the unknown with reckless abandon. But I'm also getting older. And you start to see the world differently. And you start to have less tolerance for the bullshit, both other people's and your own. Mostly your own.

And so I called a time out.

Sick of wondering "What if" and trying to find enough space to figure out what I want to do with my life, tired of resting on those previously-mentioned stupid excuses, and itching to take control, I quit my job.

I do not have another job.

And yet, here I am: slightly afraid but no longer letting myself off the hook with lame excuses not to venture forth. I have no idea what comes next. I have no idea what tomorrow holds. I have no idea -- but I know I'm responsible for it, that I will make it happen, and that even if this turns out to be a disastrous mistake, at least I took the risk. Making the decision is somewhat easy ... but then reality sets in and the adreneline of the decision quickly gives way to fear and panic and that same practicality which keeps most of us on the smarter, more conservative path.

It started to hit home when I was driving away from my office yesterday. It was a warm afternoon, but I noticed that as soon as I closed my door and drove away for the last time that my body started to heat up. As each mile passed, the questions flooded forth like a raging river engorged with snow melt. What am I going to do? Did I make the right choice? How long will my savings last? Will I rise or fall? Will I really grow or is this just going to be a failure? Am I running to something or fleeing? Oh my God, how will I not buy shoes for awhile?

I started to feel the heat running down my back, sweat breaking out on my forehead. I wouldn't be putting on a suit tomorrow. I wouldn't be looking at resource allocation reports. I wouldn't be negotiating to get someone more time on a project. I wouldn't be commuting. What the hell would I be doing? Panic dug its talons into my gut. My temperature continued to rise. Doubt filled me. I noticed I was speeding. Is there a cop around? I noticed the gas tank was half full. How much was gas these days? Maybe I would need to stop driving places. And then I decided the smartest thing was to turn up the radio and try to get my mind off of these nagging and presently unanswerable questions. I looked down to turn on the radio, now in a full-blown panic attack, sweating, overheating, and quite convinced my body was going to melt -- its way of telling me that I had made a huge mistake. When I looked down, I noticed a little light on the center console.

Seat warmer.

Level 5.

I turned it off, opened the window, and let the breeze wipe the sweat off of my brow as the seat cooled down. And I know I'm going to be fine.

AT LAST: A BLOG FROM TESSA

2011-01-21T19:37:00.002-05:00

My gym is called Will's. As in You Don't Have the WILLSpower to go to the gym.
Will mocks me. In the taxi, I look the opposite direction. But Will is always there. Taunting.
I see you there. In the taxi. Looking the other way. Pretending you don't know I'm here. Pretending you've forgotten our whispered promises to one another. You can look the other way. But I'm here. Remembering you. Remembering how it was when we were together. And now we are each alone. Neither forgotten nor forgiven. So go, then. Go to your fancy grocery store. Eat at Burger King. See if I care. There. I see you looking in the rear view mirror. Smirking. Pretending all our time together meant nothing. But I know better. Those two 20-minute sessions were the most precious moments of my life. And you shouldn't pretend they meant nothing to you. Cruel, cruel woman.

Mookie the Cootie Cat

2011-01-08T15:37:00.000-05:00

Let me set the scene:
Two adults go out on a date. They have a great dinner, see a movie, and stop for a drink. Or three. By the time they come home at 11:30, they are very tired and, as our story will reveal, perhaps a bit drunker than they think. They just want to get some sleep. Said adults get ready to go to bed and she sees something on the sheet of the unmade bed.
"I think your cat threw up some string," she said. "ON MY SIDE." She finished.
"Why is he my cat only when he's bad?"
"Those are the rules," she says.
He comes into the room and leans in to see the puked-up string. "I don't think that's string," he said. "I think that's worms or something."

And then the screaming began....
SHE: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN IT'S WORMS? DO YOU REALLY THINK MOOKIE PUKED WORMS? HOW DID HE GET WORMS? HOW LONG HAS HE HAD THEM? DO YOU THINK THIS IS WHY HE'S SO CRAZY? COULD IT ALL HAVE BEEN WORMS?
He: I have no idea how he got worms. And why do you assume it's Mookie?
She: It's always Mookie.
He: True. What should we do?
SHE: HELLO? WHAT SHOULD WE DO? YOU NEED TO PACKAGE THAT UP AND TAKE IT TO THE VET AND FIND OUT BECAUSE WE CAN'T HAVE WORMY ANIMALS AROUND HERE. IS IT CONTAGIOUS? DO YOU THINK WE HAVE WORMS? OH MY FUCKING GOD, I THINK WE HAVE WORMS. WE DEFINITELY HAVE WORMS. NO, WAIT. IF YOU HAVE WORMS YOU LOSE WEIGHT BECAUSE THE WORM EATS THE FOOD, RIGHT? YEAH, I THINK THERE'S A WHOLE DIET BASED ON THAT, THE TAPEWORM DIET. BUT THOSE DON'T LOOK LIKE TAPEWORMS THOSE LOOK LIKE CURLY STRINGS. AND I DON' THINK THAT'S A VERY GOOD WAY TO DIET; I THINK IF YOU ARE FOLLOWING THAT DIET, YOU HAVE SOME SERIOUS ISSUES.
He: I think you are getting a little hysterical. Now, are you going to get something to put it in?
SHE: OF COURESE I'M HYSTERICAL! WORMS. ON THE BED. AND YES I'M GOING TO FIND SOMETHING TO PUT THAT IN.
She runs downstairs and he proceeds to do whatever the hell guys do in the bathroom. Note: don't go to that dark place, readers. We're not that kind of family.
She arrives with a giant freezer bag. He emerges from the bathroom with a Q-Tip and begins gently probing the Mystery Organism with it. She waits about an hour (or three seconds) for him to be done playing with it and starts to scoop it up with the freezer bag.
HE: CAN YOU JUST WAIT A MINUTE FOR ME TO GET ANOTHER Q-TIP AND PUSH IT IN THE BAG?
SHE: NO I CAN'T. I HAVE TO GET THIS OFF OF OUR BED RIGHT THIS SECOND BEFORE IT LAYS EGGS AND WE END UP SLEEPING ON A MATTRESS INFESTED WITH WORMS.
He ignores her and goes back to the bathroom for another Q-Tip. She continues to scoop it up into the bag.
She: You better take this to the vet tomorrow.
He: I will.
She: You better not forget. You forget things, you know.
He: I will not forget.
She leaves and puts the bag on top of his car keys.
She returns and he's back in the bathroom. She takes the fitted sheet off.
He: What are you doing?
SHE: OH MY FRIGGIN GOD. WE CAN'T SLEEP ON THAT!
HE: DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD SLEEP IN THE EXTRA BEDROOM?
SHE: YES! YES! HOW COULD WE POSSIBLY SLEEP IN HERE?
He: OK
SHE: BUT WE CAN'T SLEEP IN THERE BECAUSE LEO'S BEEN CRATED ALL DAY AND NIGHT AND HE CAN'T GO BACK IN THERE BECAUSE IT'S MEAN AND HE CAN'T GO INTO THE EXTRA BEDROOM BECAUSE HE ALWAYS MARKS IN THERE AND I'M SICK OF IT SO WE HAVE TO SLEEP IN HERE. BUT I'M NOT SLEEPING ON THE CONTAMINATED SIDE. YOUR CAT, YOU SLEEP ON THE INFESTED SIDE.
HE: BUT I HATE THAT SIDE. I HAVE TO SLEEP ON MY SIDE.
SHE: TOO BAD. YOUR CAT THREW UP WORMS. YOU HAVE TO SLEEP ON THE WORMED SIDE.
HE: ARE YOU GOING TO WASH ALL OF THE BEDDING?
She: Well, let's not lose our heads; the puke only touched the fitted sheet.
She leaves and comes back with Lysol Disinfectant Wipes and wipes down the area on the mattress and then walks into his bathroom and throws them in the general direction of his garbage can.
HE: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
SHE: HE'S YOUR CAT, YOU SHOULD HAVE TO HAVE THE WIPES CONTAMINATED WITH HIS DISEASE IN YOUR BATHROOM UNTIL WE TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT?
HE: THAT'S FUCKED UP.
SHE: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS IN HERE?
HE: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
SHE: YOU ARE CONSTANTLY IN YOUR BATHROOM SCREWING AROUND.
HE: I AM NOT. AND STOP SCREAMING, YOU ARE SCARING LEO.
SHE: LEO POOPED IN MY BATHROOM LAST WEEK; HE SHOULD BE MUCH MORE SCARED OF ME. AND YOU'RE SCREAMING TOO. YOU MIGHT BE MORE HYSTERICAL THAN ME.
HE: ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP STANDING IN THE DOORWAY BECAUSE I AM DONE WITH MY BATHROOM DUTIES NOW.
She runs from the bathroom doorway and jumps onto his side of the bed.
He walks around to his side of the bed, crawls in over her and proceeds to push her to the edge as he positions himself fully on his side of the bed. Leo sniffs the contamination zone. Meanwhile, Mookie the Cootie Cat is nowhere to be found.
SHE: STOP BREATHING ON ME.
HE: GET OUT OF MY SIDE OF THE BED.
SHE: WE MIGHT HAVE TO BUY A NEW MATTRESS.
HE: WE ARE NOT BUYING A NEW MATTRESS.
SHE: WHAT IF WE HAVE WORMS?
He: Now you're just repeating yourself. We've already discussed that.
SHE: BUT YOU NEVER ANSWERED. DOES THAT MEAN YOU THINK WE DO? DOES IT?
He: I'm going to sleep.
SHE: YOU BETTER NOT PUSH ME OUT OF THE BED.
He: Are you going to stop screaming.
SHE: MAYBE. BUT BEFORE I DO, JUST REMEMBER THIS: HE'S YOUR CAT, HE LOVES YOU, HE LIKES TO SNUGGLE WITH YOU, ON YOUR FACE, AT NIGHT. AND HE'S PUKING WORMS. SLEEP WELL.
He: That's just mean.
She: I think I might be a little bit drunk.

He starts to snore.

Very Important Information to Have

2010-11-23T20:36:00.000-05:00

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

2010-09-08T22:32:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-08T20:20:00.000-04:00

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:

Destroying our solitude and silence.
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.)
Whining about being afraid and then posing when a camera appeared.
Yelling to each other to do certain yoga poses for the camera.
Yelling.
Calling us "those people"
Generally ugly clothing.
A massive lack of politeness.
The presence of hair spray and, I suspect, the early morning use of a curling iron.
Annoying accents.

Prose to come...

The Training Program

2010-08-25T18:34:00.004-04:00

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

2010-08-22T12:25:00.005-04:00

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.

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.
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.
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.
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.)
Did I mention the mini bar? Yeah. That's totally awesome. Saving money AND calories. I LOVE IT.
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.
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!
THE MINI BAR.
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?).
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.
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

2010-08-17T19:44:00.010-04:00

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:

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

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.

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

2010-08-15T18:04:00.001-04:00

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

2010-08-15T10:15:00.006-04:00

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

2010-08-14T20:13:00.003-04:00

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

2010-03-03T11:00:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-28T18:20:00.003-05:00

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).

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.
"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.
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).
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.)
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.
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.
It's OK to think your animals are your kids. But only if you don't actually have kids.
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.
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.
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

2010-02-18T10:25:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-16T16:05:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-04T10:28:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-03T13:09:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-26T16:17:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-24T00:17:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-12T20:45:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-06T13:47:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-05T16:10:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-05T16:02:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-02T22:55:00.002-05:00

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.

The Problem in the Kitchen

2009-12-29T20:25:00.003-05:00

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

2009-12-16T12:03:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-13T17:26:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-09T13:57:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-05T10:48:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-01T12:54:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-28T09:42:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-24T21:14:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-24T12:00:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-24T11:54:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-22T16:02:00.007-05:00

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

2009-11-22T15:41:00.004-05:00

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

2009-11-07T09:39:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-05T11:20:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-02T17:22:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-01T18:23:00.006-05:00

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

2009-10-27T13:32:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-22T09:50:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-21T10:29:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-13T19:26:00.004-04:00

Yes, you can eat cheese and crackers every single day. Yes, there are consequences.
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.
When climbing a mountain, it's better to have a Sherpa than not.
If you are going to know songs by Miley Cyrus, you really should have a tween.
It takes about a two days away from the Internet and TV to see the absurdity of Hollywood Fame.
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.
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.
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.
We paid more to board our dogs than to board ourselves for 9 days. No wonder they wept as we left the Dog Resort.
There is nothing more satisfying than beating, no, creaming, your older brother in Trivial Pursuit.

HGTV: 3 pet peeves

2009-10-07T09:50:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-10-03T16:51:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-02T17:52:00.004-04:00

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,

2009-09-29T12:35:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-24T16:21:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-09-24T16:13:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-23T08:32:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-23T08:22:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-22T08:00:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-09-19T09:20:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-18T09:40:00.003-04:00

Frosting is the difference between a stomach ache and merely a sugar buzz. ONE piece of cake. Never two. Always two cookies.
You know you're in it for the long haul when you're cleaning up dog pooh together in the backyard.
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.
Stay at a hotel. Staying with family/friends sounds like a good idea, but it's not.
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.
Men are not mind-readers. Tell them what you want. It dramatically increases your chances of getting it.
Talking doesn't necessarily mean you are communicating.
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).
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.
A good cookie can always improve a situation.
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.
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.

We don't all end up with our fathers....

2009-09-15T16:31:00.005-04:00

"Your tool chest is all wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"You have all the wrong stuff in the wrong drawers and you have put them in those drawers in the wrong way."
"I have the stuff I need in the drawers I want, thrown in randomly for my convenience. How is that wrong?"
"My dad has the exact same tool chest and you haven't done it that way."
"That's Art's way."
"No, that's the RIGHT way. I can fix it for you.... And your peg board is all wrong as well. As is the way you've arranged the garage. I can draw you a map of the right way."
"Your dad's way."
"Like I said, THE RIGHT WAY."

Milk and honey

2009-09-15T12:47:00.002-04:00

by tess

Gretchen and I don't shop together. And it's not just the 1,000 miles that currently separate us. No. It started long ago and far away.

I arrived at work wearing my old blue shirt, the one I had pledged never to wear again.
G: (glaring at the frayed, stained shmata I called work-wear) I thought you were going shopping this weekend.
T: I did.
G: And?
T: It's a bad story.
G: (with a this-is-gonna-be-good grin) Oohhhh?
T: Okay, so I went to Bon Ton and I was looking at the shirts and this total beeeeyotch came over with this face like hello-you're-too-fat-we-have-nothing-for-you and asked if I needed HELP WITH A SIZE.
G: (now grimacing) And?
T: And I told her that yes, I did need help with a size. I needed to know where they kept the XLs that were meant for HUMANS NOT FOR FREAKIN' BARBIE DOLLS.
Gretchen closed her eyes, humiliated to be associated with me in any way, and walked to the other end of the conference table, pretending that she'd never met me.

And so it was that I thought of her this morning at the grocery store. I turned the corner from Produce and headed toward the Fish counter. I could hear them before I saw them. It sounded like strip-canasta night at an AARP convention. I looked up and there had to be at least 50 graysters standing there chattering away. And as much as I don't like people, that wasn't the problem. It was the clusterf*ck of shopping carts behind them. It was a veritable Cart Party. Carts Gone Wild! Here, there, everywhere, willy-nilly, and piggly-wiggly. Carts, carts, everywhere freakin' carts.

And standing between Produce and the Cart Convention, stood 20 more boomers, their own carts replete with prunes, matzoh, and Efferdent, seeking a path past Meat toward Dairy but unsure how to get there.

Suddenly I heard a voice, strangely like my own, grinding out: "Are You Freakin' Kidding Me. Jeeeeeeezus Keeeeriiist." And then a woman, who looked shocking like me, started ramming carts out of the way, claring a path for myself and the scores of oldsters who had been standing there waiting for the Congregation o' Carts to disperse.

I didn't bother to glare at the shocked faces of the snarling Seafood squawkers. I had embodied my inner Moses, dammit, and I was leading my parade of blue-hairs across the Red Sea of Cart Anarchy and into the Promised Land of Dairy.

The Evolution of the Remote

2009-09-13T12:28:00.000-04:00

This story will mean nothing to those under 32.

The Bit TV was in our finished basement, a large room with brown carpeting, a pair of beige corduroy couches, and a big coffee table made from a giant piece of driftwood. In a family of 5 everyone has their preferred place in the room and mine was lying on the floor in front of the TV mostly because I had bad eyes from the start and didn't always wear my glasses. It think this also because as the youngest, I was lowest on the totem pole and, therefore, the the human remote control.

The first TV remember had a knob. In the beginning, I would sit up and twist the sticky knob to the right channel. As I got older, I learned to change it with my foot. Because I sat the closest, I was often in control, unless my brother was there in which case, changing the channel with our prior authorization would result in being pummeled. It was my sister, however, who learned how to trump my control. She walked over, stepped on my leg, put the channel on the station she wanted and then, to my absolute astonishment, pulled out the knob and walked back to the couch.

Check mate.

Smart girl, that Michelle.

This basically resulting in wrestling matches for the knob (and she's go the ripped earlobe to prove it). Then the knob would be hidden in order to avoid such brutal confrontations.

Problem here is that you did not want to A. Forget where the knob was or B. Not have the knob in it's proper place when Dad came down to watch TV. STRESS ON B.

Eventually, I started steal the knob and thought I was pretty smart. But she trumped me again. She stole into my father's workshop and took his pliers and changed the channel by using those. And then, of course, you had to sit on or hide the pliers. Which resulted in Dad getting pissed off at us not only for stealing his navy-blue socks (we needed them for our school uniforms and were forever losing ours) but for his pliers as well.

After a few years of this, the knob was long gone, and the pliers were permanently attached to the TV set.

He finally bought us a new TV set: with a remote. A new battle ensued: I sat close to the TV and changed the channel with my toes (even though I was NOT supposed to be barefoot) and my sister sat on the couch behind me and changed the channel back with the remote. When the positions were reversed and I was on the couch with the remote and she on the floor, my sister, STILL smarter than me, learned how to cover up the remote receiver with her foot so I was powerless. I had to watch a lot of Solid Gold and no Smurfs.

My best friend at the time, Christine Wolford, had CABLE. And in the beginning cable came with a long, low box with all of the stations laid out left to right. There was a metal switch that you would drag to the right channel. The fun part of this was to zip that switch from one end to another and see if you could pick out anything on the way -- no remote would ever change channels faster than this thing. My parents didn't get cable until well after Thriller was showing at 9PM every night on MTV, a fact which rendered our house uncool for playtime. Unless you were interested in making mud pies in the woods.

When I was living alone in Virginia, I lost my remote. Sitting four feet from the TV, I was disinclined to get up and change the channel by hand, so I taped together a series of straws in an attempt to created an giant, extended finger to press the Channel Up button. I quickly accepted it was fine to watch the same channel, which is how the Law & Order addiction started. I blame the USA network.

I won't start on the number of remotes we have today -- enough jokes have been told about the idiotic complexity involved in turning on the television. All I'm saying is that wrestling for the remote has eliminated an artform because now there is no other way to change the channel and therefore there is but two options to gain control: negotiation or brute force. And I can tell you which would have ruled in our house growing up.

The Horror of School: Part I

2009-09-12T10:52:00.003-04:00

School has started and, as if on cue, it's suddenly turned cooler and darker. Such is the way in Rochester. As I watch the kids get on their buses, I start to remember those years -- and the dreams about those years which still plague me (can't find my locker; forgot my combination; am late for school; missed the bus; am sitting in Dr. Thibodeau' s Western Civ class and haven't studied for the test and he KNOWS it).

But instead of dwelling on the common nightmares which chase all of us (you are all intimidated by Thibodeau, you just don't know it), let's stroll down the special, scarring, experiences particular to Miss Gretchen.

I was deeply disappointed in Kindergarten when I realized that my snowflake costume for our little performance of The Nutcracker was not something akin to The Good Witch of the North with sparkles and tulle and a wand, but a sad little men's oxford over white tights and NO SHOES. I never got over it.

In first grade, we had a wall of addition tables. You had to go up and do them in front of your teacher, Mrs. Kukucha, who had a long pointer with a black tip. She would point to each card and you would give her the answer. Working on my 6's addition table, she noticed I was using my fingers because I hadn't studied, she made me sit down. I still hate adding anything to 6.

In second grade, I stumbled in my reading group. I decided to sound out the word, slowly... you try sounding out "the" and see how it works out for you.

In third grade, after deciding that I "needed God," my parents transferred me to Catholic school. Shortly into my long stay there (which ultimately led to the exact opposite of becoming a dedicated Catholic), my teacher gave me a lunchtime detention for digging the top of my eraserless pencil into the wood desk. As if that weren't enough, she felt the need to tell the whole class about it. Instead of getting a rep as a rule-breaking trouble-maker, I think I was seen merely as the freaky new girl with the cowlicks.

Every single dress-down day for the 9 years I was held hostage in blue and white uniforms (this will only mean something to other private school prisoners) was preceded by days and days of angst and stress. This was due in part to the pressure to know how to dress "cool" when you have worn blue and white every dang day of your school life since age 7 and in part to having a mom who (though well-meaning) was a child of Camelot/Kennedy Era and believed that you should always dress up and that jeans were "out." I never looked right, no matter how hard I tried.

Did you know there is such a thing as a cool lunch and a geek lunch? I didn't, but I learned. After realizing I was hauling the latter and powerless to change it.

My mother believed in makeovers. No. My mother believed she could cut hair and yet there was this phenomenon about her being left-handed which, not only enabled her to explain why she needed any seat in the house, (I have to sit on the left side; I'm left-handed; I have to sit on the right side; I'm left-handed; ?), it also explained our haircuts which were, without fail, crooked in the back and yielded frighteningly short bangs due to the fact that she had to cut them shorter and shorter to get them even. Becuase she was left-handed. I remember running downstairs to my father in tears becuase she wanted at me with those scissors. Which was pointless. Every haircut was met with much screaming and then mockery at school. "What is wrong with your hair, Gretchen?" And then I came home and yelled at my mom for ruining my life.

Every year I had two halloween costumes: something I hated that my mom made me wear to school (which was never a princess costume) and then whatever I ended up wearing out to trick or treat (which was a sad, pathetic attempt at a princess costume or a ruined version of what I wore to school). (Seriously, how bad are you feeling for my mom right now?)

When they split us up into a boys' group and a girls' group, we immediately knew they were going to have "the talk" with us. "The Talk" in a Catholic School is pretty useless, as you can imagine. The girls left thinking that our periods were going to spontaneously start one day (probably when we were wearing white) and we would be immediately awash in blood and need to run to the nurse's office to get a maxi pad that had STRAPS. After that, each one of us because paralyzed with fear about when this horrible plight would strike us. The boys refused to tell us what they were taught. Seeing as they were taught it by the 70-year-old priest, I suspect very little.

And those are just the high-points from grammar school....

HUH?

2009-09-01T14:19:00.001-04:00

by tess

The Hubs and I have been together for a long, long, long, long time. For better or for worse, we know one another very well. He knows my stories. I complete his sentences. He knows when to give up and I know when to give in.

And so it stunned me when he suggested that we scrap our plans for Madrid and rent an RV to visit The Great Southwest.

In the style of my mentor Lewis Black, let me repeat that so you can be sure to understand its significance: He Suggested that We Rent an RV to Visit the Southwest.

He actually sent me a website that extolled the many virtues of RVing one’s way across this beautiful country of ours.

**In an RV you have the flexibility to see it all!
**Cost effective! Save countless dollars and experience true value!
**Dine in and save money!
**No early checkout!
**Fun for the entire family!
**Grill your own steaks and take in the beautiful surroundings!
**No packing and unpacking!
**Settle in and relax at your leisure!
**Enjoy the comforts of home!

Apparently exclamation marks create an Atmosphere of Awesomeness unrivaled by mere commas! semi-colons! and periods!

Having thoroughly studied the FAQ, ROI, and F&Bs of RVing, I shared a few of my questions with The Hubs.

**SERIOUSLY?
**An RV?
**The SOUTHWEST?
**Who are you and what have you done with My Hubs?
** DRIVING and PASSENGERING in hot, boring, dry NATURE while SWEATING?
**Really?
**Are HIKING and TREKKING part of this not-at-all spa-like wonderland of a vacation?
**Which part of this HELL ON EARTH sounded awesome to you?
**Have we met?
**Which part of this HORROR SHOW sounded like ANYTHING I would like?
**Have you suffered BLUNT TRAUMA to the head?
**Would you LIKE to suffer blunt trauma to the head?

We leave for Madrid on April 3rd.

As seen online

2009-09-01T14:16:00.003-04:00

by tess

Having denigrated Antonio’s personality, tattoos, hair, and clothing, Brain Surgeon ... errr ... Nurse Judy commented:

“And standing with his legs spread wide. People do that who have brain damage. I know, I was a nurse in neurology.”

- A short excerpt from Ms. McIntyre’s lengthy diatribe opposing the physical features of an HGTV Design Star-testant while extolling the on-air strip-tease of another Star-testant

A world of hate

2009-09-01T14:15:00.000-04:00

by tess

Our mothers taught us not to use the word “hate.” I must have suffered a temporary bout of hearing loss that day. Apparently there’s an endless supply of things that I absolutely abhor but in the old making-lemons-into-lemonade spirit, I’ve found that I quite enjoy sharing my pet peeves with you. Today you may recognize some old favorites but please welcome any newcomers.

**I hate being told how to do something.

**I hate the description “… and wacky hijinks ensue.” It’s a lazy description provided by a lazy reviewer traveling from Lazytown to Lazyville via Lazyland Express.

**I hate to sweat, and I hate it when other people sweat, too. It’s ugly, it smells, and it’s disgusting.

**I hate driving. And riding. I’ve imposed a twenty-nine minute limit on all excursions whether as driver or passenger.

**I hate the office toilet which is broken. Again.

**I hate that Some People think dusting requires moving tchochkes, and vacuuming requires moving furniture. Isn’t that the purpose of covering every horizontal surface with stuff – less cleaning is required?

**I hate doing something twice when once was all that was required.

**I hate hearing the word “laxey-daisey” in lieu of “lackadaisical.”

**I hate it when someone brings in day-old fish for lunch then stinks up the office with it.

**I hate my office chair which would be so much better if it reclined like a super-premium first-class airline seat. A flight attendant serving me drinks and snacks throughout the day would be nice, too.

the dupe

2009-08-29T11:44:00.004-04:00

Channel surfing this morning instead of finishing my article, I paused on a music video. It was a catchy little song and I paused because I couldn't tell if the singer was a little girl, a woman singing like a little girl, or actually an adolescent boy. And even then the camera zoomed in on the chic-blond, I still had no idea what I was looking at. But the song was good. Soaring into the chorus, I started humming along, "The one thing I can count on... The one thing I can count on... The one thing I can count on.." and I filled in the end, "Is yoooooooooo." Unfortunately, I was duped, the end was, "Is the Looooooord." I don't appreciate the religious ambush. I want my religion in silly costumes, in dark, cool, uncomfortable seats with standing and sitting and standing and sitting and kneeling and standing and getting in line, having something to eat, skirting the homely woman with the wine, and going back for a little quiet time all the while ignoring the ancient music director who begs the stubborn congregation to sing. You got that? No music videos with androgynous fashion plates. What the hell is up with that?

Why I don't take sick days

2009-08-28T17:36:00.000-04:00

I stayed home sick . This is something I only rarely do. There are reasons why...

I laid there. Dizzy. Unable to move my head. I moved my eyes around the room. And this is a problem because Jamie's bathroom door was open. Which meant I could actually see what was going on in there. And what's going on in there -- is a problem.

Being the problem-solver that I am, I decided that one easy fix would be to tame the mad stack of magazines. I don't know why there are 27 magazines in there, but there are. And I've since learned to work around his habits. So instead of emailing him and telling him to throw out all those contaminated mags, I decided to solve the problem by purchasing him a nice metal bathroom-happy magazine rack.

THAT is how this started. I'm not blaming anyone, but it's Jamie's fault.

You gotta buy such things at Overstock.com. Because they have everything you need and if they don't have it, you don't need it.

Magazine rack? Check.

But it was so lonely in the basket.

Just a magazine rack.

Adrift in a virtual shopping cart.

So I needed to find it a friend.

I believe we've earlier discussed the need to buy rugs. It's like a flesh-eating disease with me. Can't get rid of it. So I'm in the rug section.

Honestly, I started looking for a front door mat for under $20. But then I got to thinking about the cold, cold tile in our library and how we really needed to warm up the room which might entice us to sit in there more. And to do that, you get a rug, right? But you need a big rug. Big room, big rug. Very big rug.

So I bought a big rug.

I felt a little guilty after that, but then I saw that if I renewed my Overstock membership, I could save 5% and get free shipping, so I did that as well. Now there were three things in the cart and they were very happy.

I checked out.

But then I got to thinking about the library. And the new rug. And the fact that the cats' litterbox is in there because we need a "safe" zone for the litterboxes where the dogs won't go because the dogs.... are interested in the litterbox contents. Let's leave it at that. So I needed a solution to that.

Overstock did not have a solution. But then I realized my initial statement was wrong. If you can't find it at Overstock OR Amazon, then you don't need it. And this is most certainly true.

So over at Amazon, I found a nice, normal litter box and litter box liners and my plan is to put in two boxes to keep the area well covered. Again, this is because cleaning the litterbox is someone's job and someone should be scooping everyday but someone doesn't and instead of trying to train someone, I've come up with a solution to work with what I've got and work around someone.

And no, in both instances it did not occur to me to clean the bathroom or litterboxes myself. Because that's just giving in. Which is not my thing.

Then I rolled over and looked at the stack of books (and magazines) on his end table. And I got to thinking.... he needs an end table with an area to put his books/shit in so I don't have to look at it (note: I have nearly an equal amount of stuff on my end table which is really his end table but I took it and gave him the crappy end table. I'm not sure why). So I decided that we should take the extra end table from the extra bedroom and put that in our room and then buy a new end table for the extra bedroom.

So back to Overstock.

At this point, Overstock started to crash on me. For three hours, I kept trying to make it work. I do not think this is a coincidence.

Then I looked at the floor and noticed that there was some pet hair on the floor. And I started to think about the fact that we have four shedding machines and wouldn't it be great if I had a robot who could vacuum. Off to the iRobot site I did got to read reviews on Roombas. Which, wait for it, are for sale on Amazon. Free shipping.

Then I emailed Jamie with a list of floor cleaners we needed for the wood flooring. Because it's really easy to make massive cleaning plans when you are in bed and not about to execute those plans.

Response: I'm glad we don't have joint credit cards. Do you feel better.

And I do.

Actors schmactors

2009-08-26T10:38:00.001-04:00

by tess

The Hubs cannot distinguish between Kevin Kline and Harrison Ford. I’ve laughed at him for years about this. They look nothing alike, offer two completely different performances, and work in two distinct genres. I mean really different – Shakespeare in the Park versus Indiana Jones – kind of different.

I guess I’ve been with him too long because I’ve developed the same problem.

I can’t tell Bill Pullman from Bill Paxton from Aaron Eckhart. I mean I know that Pullman was the President in Independence Day, Paxton is in that HBO Mormon thing, and Eckhart is in the latest Aniston snoozefest. But they seem interchangeable to me. They each appear to be vaguely blondish but relatively vapid men who smile a lot. Maybe it’s the smiling. Men don’t seem to smile so much in Hollyweird. Smirk, glare, snarl, and grimace, sure, but not so much with the smiling.

Not the word of the day

2009-08-25T17:26:00.001-04:00

by tess

Today’s word was supposed to be FUNCTIONABLE.

I lived for 46 ½ years without ever once stumbling upon this word. The moment I heard it used – no fewer than three times in one edited-for-television hour – I knew that it was my WOTD.

Lo and behold, I looked up the word and apparently I was incorrect! FUNCTIONABLE is in fact a word that is just as acceptable as the more widely acknowledged FUNCTIONAL.

So, to former HGTV Design Star design-testant, and ruffled pink tux shirt wearing, Jason Champion, I humbly apologize for calling you a “!@#$%^& illiterate *&&^%$#.” Apparently I was wrong when I called you that. But your room did look completely crappy and you totally deserved to have your show cancelled, “functionable” or not.

My life in art

2009-08-25T16:38:00.002-04:00

by tess

For several years I considered myself an artist. I had no actual basis for thinking this, but believed it nonetheless. My junior year term paper for Aesthetics was a cobbled together dog’s breakfast of quotes by Aristotle, Kant, and Schiller – none of whom I understood in the least. My eyelids would collapse during the 3 AM drug- and alcohol-induced What Is Art round-tables favored by my friends.

Decades later I’m still completely illiterate when it comes to art. It’s reasonable, therefore, that I’m not much of an art-lover despite the scores of museums and galleries I have insisted that we visit throughout North America and Europe. Paintings generally fall into one of three categories: pretty, I-don’t-understand-it, and a-four-year-old-could-paint-that. I know. I cringe, too. I have books about Art History but the books are much like the treadmill – apparently it’s not the Purchase of the tool, it’s the Use of the tool that matters. Which is so totally unfair.

Because I know so little about art, nuance and subtlety are anathema to my appreciation. I prefer art, both visual and performance, that attacks the jugular and refuses to release its bloody death grip.

When I lived in Seattle I would visit the museum alone early on Saturday mornings before The Families arrived. Native American masks and “totem poles” were in a corner of the eerily abandoned third floor. They were illuminated by slight pinpoints while spectral music piped through the darkness. I don’t think I ever made it more than twenty steps into that deserted gallery without scrambling away down the stairs, flushed and breathless in abject terror.

My visceral reaction to sculpture is unique among the visual arts. Frequently representational, it’s more immediate to me because it’s three-dimensional. I mean we’ve all seen paintings of people whose eyes seem to follow us. And we’ve all imagined the chilling cries coming from behind murderous masks. But it’s impossible to envisage statues who don’t come to life after the museum closes. Only it’s way cooler than Night at the Museum, and seriously scarier than Waxworks – the Vincent Price version, not that shiteous Paris Hilton remake.

The most emotionally crippling art is Western funerary sculpture. Statues decorating tombs are by their nature haunting and in their suffering inconceivable. To stand in the Richelieu wing of the Louvre surrounded by 500 years of sculpture commissioned to commemorate The Departed is to drown in despair. Empty-eyed angels and ancient effigies silently celebrate grief; each portrayal of greatness and loss is more awe-inspiring, more profoundly cathartic than the one before. If art must captivate us intellectually and provoke us emotionally, then perhaps I have discovered what is to me, if not to Kant and the others, aesthetically pleasing art.

Finally fixed

2009-08-25T16:36:00.001-04:00

by tess

Tim’s Aunt Gertie arrived yesterday from Georgia. This morning he had to leave the office briefly to take a call on his cell.

Tim: Regis and what?
Pause.
Tim: Oh, okay. Let me talk you through how to turn it on.

Pale and frustrated, he returned 25 minutes later.

And so I wondered, not for the first time, when exactly we strayed so far from simplicity that turning on a television requires a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering. Have we perhaps made a once-brainless act too complex?

I know that some of you have been very concerned about my own recent Television Trauma. (Recap: the broken receiver resulted in no DVD, no Roku, and no headphones for an extended period of time.) You’ll be thrilled to know that on Saturday morning The Hubs repaired the whole thing! It’s not exactly 100% perfect (you have to select BlueRay to turn on the cable, choosing TV does nothing at all, and iPod queues up the DVD), but I know how to make each component work and I am eternally grateful to own a fully functioning system again.

I celebrated by (finally) watching the Netflix DVD that’s been accumulating dust for several months, After Hours with Daniel. If you’re not harboring a secret inner foodie, you won’t be entranced by watching chefs and restaurant critics eat and out-smarm one another for two hours. It was so good that I watched it twice, then forced The Hubs to watch it. Of course I had to bribe him by baking chocolate croissants, but he watched it with very little fuss. Probably because his mouth was full.

The Nick-Name Rules

2009-08-22T19:22:00.003-04:00

Tess and I had a discussion awhile back, and by "discussion" I mean email. We've made some decisions, decisions which I passed along to the not-husband this afternoon on our hike.

"Buddy" will only be used for male animals. Not for your male friends, not for your male children. "Little dude" and "Little man" is acceptable for young boys.
"Bro" will only be used between actual, legal, blood-related brothers. If you are an younger brother you might think your name is, "Dweeb," "Twerp," "Stinkmaster," or several less polite words I can't bring myself to type but focus around male anatomy, farts, and poop. Your name is nothing; you are a servant and whipping boy.
"Dude" is acceptable until age 30. Then switch to "man." Unless it's preceded by "The" and addressed to a man in a bathrobe.
"Sis" is right out. If you are an younger sister you might think your name is, "Get out," "Go away," or "Give me back my clothes," but that's not the case. Your name is, "Don't tell Mom."
If you are an older sister, your name is, "I promise I won't tell Mom." (It's a lie; she's totally telling Mom.)
"Princess" is also an absolute no-no. In fact, this should go at the top of the list for parents. Call your daughter princess and you are just asking to pay for eyebrow waxing at 13, pedicures and manicures at 15, and a grandchild at 16 that you get to raise while she goes out and parties with her friends and spends your money. "Princess may only be used for cats (not dogs) and certain friends who actually know you are mocking them out and are totally OK with it because they know you have a point.
"Miss (first name)" or "Mr. (first name)" I'm a little sick of this shit. When I was a kid, everyone was Mr. (last name). Even the ones who were 20. I'm 36 and some dipshit 10-year-old called me Gretchen a few weeks ago. My though here is that until you are old enough to legally pay for a glass of wine for me, I'm Miss Kriesen to you. Miss Crease in the Pants if you're nasty.
FYI, I'm going to get a lecture from the not-husband about calling a 10-year-old a dipshit later.
Pet names are out. You can use "Sweetie," "Hubs," "Baby," and "Honey." As soon as you move on to "Puffin," "Snookems," "Daddy," you have crossed the line. BTW, "Bonehead," "Idiot," "Wackjob," "Freakizoid," "Nutjob," "The Money," "The Warden," and "That insane person who can't seem to remember to turn the oven off and is going to burn down the house" are all perfectly fine.
Fuck-face, dickhead, and the like are all out. We demand you get much more creative. Tessa can give you a list of alternatives. She's got a million.
You will address your mother in only four manners, and please get them right:
"Mom." Everything is fine. Said calmly.
"Ma!" Said either when you are yelling through the house to find her and/or she's not listening to you.
"Mildred." Said when she's really not listening to you, annoying you, or just being slightly insane. And it's Mildred. Not your mom's name.
"Crazy lady." When you catch her singing to herself in Wegman's and/or flirting with your friends.
You will address your father in only three manners, and please get them right:
"Dad."
"Dad?"
"Dad!"
He's your dad. You can't call him anything else. Period. Don't disrespect the father figure.

Who loves YOU this much?

2009-08-21T12:28:00.002-04:00

Arriving home from work yesterday, I found the not husband outside working on the lawn mower I had broken the day before. The dogs were out there with him, wandering around, finding the perfect spot to work on completely ruining our lawn (this is done by digging, pooping, puking, or peeing). As I opened the door, I saw Leo in Poo Crouch. Leo, so excited to see me, abandoned the pooping effort and came running toward me.

With the poo still hanging out of his butt.

Thursday, 4:03 AM

2009-08-20T10:33:00.001-04:00

by tess

Me: You know the white shirt hanging in the guest bathroom?

Him: Yeah.

Me: Don’t wear it to work today.

Him: Why not?

Me: Because I just fished it out of the toilet.

Him: Was there a little black cat involved?

Me: Either that or I just suddenly felt like getting up and throwing your shirt (along with the hanger) into the toilet.

Him: At least he doesn’t know how to flush.

Me: Ooops. I wasn’t supposed to teach him that.

Him: God, don’t even think it.

Word of the Day

2009-08-18T09:18:00.000-04:00

by tess

A popular feature here at “Kriesen the Pants, a Forum for Things 1 & 2” is our Word of the Day segment. Today’s word is FUNNERN appearing along with its cousin-by-marriage FUNNEST.

Funnern:
Embedding the “One Night in Paris” video into the Albertson’s PowerPoint was funnern putting thumbtacks on the seat of Maritza’s chair.

Funnest:
The funnest time I ever had was when we edited John’s byline to read “Britney Spears.”

You're so mature

2009-08-18T09:16:00.000-04:00

by tess

Long ago and far away, I worked at a business that was very big into “emotional maturity.” For reasons obvious to anyone who has met me, I scrambled to find a new job. STAT!

On Sunday night, my current boss somehow managed to jam a cotton swab so far and so hard into his ear that it bled for hours necessitating an ER visit. Upon hearing this story, my brain was forced to select between two possible responses:

#1. Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry. I hope that there was no permanent damage!

#2. Ewwwwwwwww. Grosssssss. OH MY GOD. Blaeeecchhhhhhhh. Oh, that is SOOOOOOO DISGUSTING. Ahhhhhhhh. Ewwwwwwwwwwww. God, that’s just so completely GROOOSSSSSSSS. Uuuuuuucccccccggghhhkkkkkkkkk. I’m gonna barf. GAACKK.

Honestly, it was HOURS before a single sentiment in choice #1 came to mind.

Famous Last Words

2009-08-14T16:43:00.002-04:00

"I have so taken vacation time with you this year. I took two hours off last week."
James Hayslip.

The Bouncers

2009-08-13T17:23:00.000-04:00

I am not, have never wanted to be, a mom. I have a few friends who are not moms. Some by choice, some by chance. We all wonder what it would be like, but I also think that at the end of the day we are each happy to have our lives to ourselves, to take care of our animals, and to not have to worry about paying tuition. And after a certain amount of time, our parents stop asking those questions, accepting things as they are. We sit at Christmas Dinner and hear tales of everyone's kids, little to add other than the current state of the dogs' neurosis and our cats' antics. I have a very good group of friends who live this life along with me. The odd women out in some ways. By choice or by chance.

I also have many friends who are moms. Good moms. Cool moms. Easy-going moms.

And then there are The Bouncers. I've only recently been introduced to this sort of thing. You see, I've learned that the mom has controlled access to the children. I've also learned grandparents are jonesing to get by the velvet rope to see those kids. And there's the mom, at the door. And because they want to get in, I've noticed some grandparents are putting up with some atrocious behavior on The Bouncer's part, because if you are mean to The Bouncer, her arms fold over and she looks past you, looking for someone who is more worthy to get into Club Grandchild.

Lotta power there dancing around those velvet ropes.

My childless friends and I talked about this, and we've decided that The Bouncers are drunk with power. But we've also decided that these few years of dictatorship will lead to decades of accepting one simple reality of life: you aren't in charge for long. It comes fluttering home in the form of back talk and disobedience, teenage rebellion and young adulthood independence. And sooner or later, The Bounder is on the other side of the ropes, begging to get in...

Meanwhile, my powerless, inability to control my animals is a pretty steady gig. No velvet ropes to bar or protect. Just nylon collars and shedding.

Floormats Part II

2009-08-12T17:18:00.000-04:00

“I noticed that the floor mat was sitting in the driveway. What’s that all about?” he asked. As if he didn’t know the answer.
“We broke up. Floormat and I broke up, if you must know.”
“Really. Why?”
“Floormat was controlling. Floormat didn’t want to let me do what I wanted to do and I am a strong, independent woman and I will not be controlled and held down, dammit!” I said, slamming my hand down on the counter.
“What did you want to do?”“I wanted to shift. But as I TOLD YOU BEFORE, sometimes Floormat catches my heel of my shoe and I can’t shift. So I ended it. And I will tell you that Floormat wasn’t very mature about the break up at all. When I threw him out of the house –“
“The car—“
“The car, Floormat spewed dirt and stones all over my sandaled foot which I think is just petty and small. And for that, Floormat is now sitting in the driveway, alone, in the rain, thinking about his behavior.”
“That’ll teach him.”
“I’m doing it so he can be better in his next relationship. I’m doing it for all the women who come after me.”
“Listening to Carrie Underwood again?”
“Purchased my new floormats yet?”

BFF

2009-08-12T17:08:00.001-04:00

by tess

We just got the latest batch of new employees and I’m not overly fond of them. Well, I wasn’t … until today.

Sixty-something Linda Loudmouth was announcing web news to the entire office as usual. Twenty-something New Employee #3 is too much of a rookie to feign temporary deafness.

LL: David Cook is giving his pants to the Hard Rock.
NE: Who’s David Cook?
LL: (shocked silence followed by sputtering disbelief) Who’s David Cook?
NE: Yeah, who’s David Cook?
LL: COME ON. Have you been living under a rock?
NE: Uhh, no. Who is he?
LL: That’s sacrilege in this office, buddy-boy.
NE: Huh?
LL: AAAMMMMEERRRICAN IIIIIDOOLLLL Season Seven!!!!
NE: Oh. I’ve heard of that. Is he like a judge or something?

BRWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!

New Employee #3 is my savior; my living, breathing proof that Some Americans Have Not Sullied Themselves with that Dreadful Fox Dreck. After YEARS of being tortured by minutiae about the judges’ integrity, the guests’ brilliance, and the contestants’ virtuosity, FINALLY I have a compatriot and fellow detractor of All Things Idol.

I better go call 911. Linda’s not breathing and has turned sort of an apoplectic purple.

SuperHubs

2009-08-12T14:15:00.001-04:00

by tess

The Hubs is really smart. Waaaaay smarter than I am. He may not know the truly important things like who Jennifer Aniston’s dating this week, but he’s a whiz when it comes to stuff like electricity and geography and carpentry and algebra and plumbing. I can’t even figure out how to edge the stupid lawn without knicking the curb. Not that I want to edge, btw, but I would feel seriously brave and strong if I could install a light fixture or repair the sink. Alas, like so many other middle-aged women, I would be entirely at the mercy of unscrupulous repair men if not for The WonderHubs.

Which is why it’s particularly strange when he proves to be less than infallible.

A couple of months ago our stereo receiver died so we had to buy a new one to make our surround sound, DVD, cable box, and Roku play through the TV. The replacement arrived last weekend and The Hubs can’t make it work. This wouldn’t be a problem except that if the receiver doesn’t work, then the headphones don’t work, and if the headphones don’t work, then I don’t sleep. And that’s massively uncool.

See, between 9 and 10 each school night, The Wee Beasties and I repair to the bedroom to read. We bequeath the remote control to The Hubs who finally gets to watch something he likes … while sporting his wireless headphones.

And before you throw a big fat pity party for his having to wear (next-to top-of-the-line, thank-you-very-much) headphones, our bed is directly next to the television and he enjoys listening to even the news in surround sound at 12 gazillion decibels. And when I’m up before (or after) him, I wear the headphones so as not to disrupt The Snoring which could not be disturbed by a 12.5 earthquake. The man slept through hurricanes Frances, Jeanne, and Wilma (not to mention my own incessant wailing) for god’s sake.

Having read a few chapters, I can usually drift off within 30 minutes. And that’s fine even without his Crown of Thorns (aka the headphones) because he’s watching some boring news show which just drones on in the background, almost as sleep-worthy as baseball.

But sometime after that, he generally flips to HBO which for some completely unknowable reason has a different volume structure than other channels. So inevitably by midnight I’m trying to sleep with the pillow over my head rather than be That Woman, the Monster Shrew perpetually shrieking at her husband to turn down the &@#^ TV.

Still, by 1 AM I fly from my cave like a Ringwraith descending upon poor little Frodo.

And there he snores; fast asleep holding his pistachio bucket in one hand and his half-full glass in the other. Silent as death, I turn off the cable and tippy toe back to bed. I’ve learned the hard way that “Snookums? Sweetie? Honey-baby? Wuggum-bears? Wakey-wakey” doesn’t work out so well.

He startles awake and stares at me as though his worst nightmare has sprouted three chins and come alive. Perhaps it has. He rubs his eyes thinking, “It wasn’t just a nightmare. I really am married to Grimelda the Gray SheBeast.”

In any case, he won’t come to bed whether I wake him or not, so I let him sleep through the ordeal. Later I wake to hear him jolting out of his chair and ambling bed-ward. Without opening my eyes, I grin, knowing that the glass must finally have tipped over drenching his crotch in air condition-cooled wetness.

My glee is short-lived; the Monsters are awake. They took a quick vote and apparently it’s time for breakfast.

And so a new day begins hours before dawn.

Sharin' Sharon

2009-08-11T14:54:00.002-04:00

by tess

Have you ever worked with someone who is vastly mistaken to think of herself as your friend? It’s vaguely awkward and a little frustrating, isn’t it? These are ten reasons why I cannot befriend Sharon.

1. Blog evidence to the contrary, I’m not generally inclined to share my thoughts with strangers. But Sharon likes to share. Wait, scratch that. Sharon lives to share. She’s asked me 167 times, or every single Monday morning of my tenure:
SS: How was your weekend?
Me: (suddenly deeply engrossed by the riveting ad on my monitor) Fine.
SS: Mmm. This weekend I …
And Sharon goes on to chronicle every captivating moment of the 62 hours during which we were apart … because apparently I need to know.

2. She wears shoes that slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap Every Single Day so that I always know exactly where she is. It’s like an annoying bell on the collar of an unwanted cat that you’re too kind-hearted to put out of your misery.

3. Sharon enjoys going to the doctor and having lots of tests. Last year she called an ambulance when she thought cold medicine had somehow interacted with her blood pressure meds. It was nothing. She’s had a dozen MRIs that I know of – all negative. She sees her dermatologist more frequently than I order pizza. “Better safe than sorry” makes sense; “Overkill is the best medicine” does not. Last week she yammered at great length about a forthcoming (next year!) colonoscopy.
Me: (grossed out by the mental image of Sharon’s exposed nether regions) Ewww.
SS: You have to do it. Your time will come. An ounce of prevention…
Me: (moving on with my life) Mm-hmm.
SS: And then you’ll do it because you have to. And then say “ewww.” Tell me all about it then. I’ll remind you of “ewww.”
Me: (deciding it’s time to remove this particular bone from Fido’s jaws) Look, that’s years away and let’s face it, I’m not even going to know you then, so there will be nothing to tell.

4. When she’s not late due to the endless parade of doctors’ appointments, then she’s late because she (I am not making this up!) had to wash her hair. Seriously, in what solar system is that an excuse for tardiness?

5. She orders breakfast delivery so frequently that when the Bagel Bin answers the phone they say, “Hi, Sharon. Lightly toasted salt bagel with fried egg and bacon and a large chocolate milk with a straw?”

6. The volume on Sharon’s iPod is so loud that:
a) Her deafening GOOD MORNING startles co-workers right out of their chairs,
b) I can hear Josh Groban warbling in her earbuds from The Next Room,
c) She can’t hear me the first 4 times I call her for breakfast delivery.

7. She spends the first 30 minutes of each day at her desk troweling on layer upon layer of Mary Kay goo.

8. Like thousands of other lonely, love-starved, middle-aged women in South Florida, she left work early last week to attend AITR (the American Idol Tour of Rejectacons). Wonder if AARP, Ensure, and Hoveround have booths at Senilepalooza?

9. Sharon spends the first half of her lunch break on Facebook. I know it’s my weird personal thing but I think So-Nets should be for kids rather than glitter-wearing, Activia-eating, Glambert-loving suburban granny-panters. She spends the second half calling her sons asking them to explain their Facebook updates and asking who all their little Face-friends are.

10. She has two sons who are interchangeable to me in that I’ve never met either one. I know only that they’re both in their late 20s, both have inexplicably only recently graduated, both still officially live at home, and both receive ridiculous amounts of Xmas booty. (Booty like pirate plunder, not skanky vajayjay.) Son A is currently in NYC and jobless but That’s Not His Fault. Apparently the Satan-worshipping company that hired him for a temporary gig ended the assignment as per the original contract. Thoroughly convinced that they would offer her son permanent employment (and promote him to Emperor of the Universe) once they witnessed his angels-singing-in-heaven glory, she wept for days to hear that he’ll be unemployed and sleeping on a friend’s couch until he’s willing to give it up and return home. Son B is marrying some pop-tart from a “Verrrrrrrry Wealthy Family”, or so I’ve been told 18 bajillion times. Apparently the affianced one is moving in with the gf next month.
SS: (insert interchangeable son’s name here) will be moving out soon. They’ve got a great place in Swinton.
Me: (oblivious to the tell-tale sniffle and looking super busy) Oh, that’s great.
SS: It’s a beeeeeeautiful place. Of course her family is helping to pay. They’re Verrrrry Wealthy.
Me: (using super-human strength to control my rolling eyes) Oh, that’s great.
SS: It looks over a lake. Very park-like gated community with an HOA. Verrrrry upscale.
Me: (thoroughly engrossed in scratching my elbow) Oh, that’s great.
SS: Sigh. So we’ll officially be Empty Nesters in One Short Month.
Me: (with the compassion of a gnat) Oh, that’s great.
SS: Sigh. It was just yesterday when they were little boys. Helping me bake Xmas cookies. Making mother’s day cards. Such sweet boys. Never a problem. Now they’re gooooooonnnnnne.
Me: (looking busy, missing the point, and bored) Oh, that’ll be great.
SS: (finally seeking commiseration elsewhere) Sigh.

Armend and Unsupervised: Update

2009-08-09T13:55:00.002-04:00

As I leave the house to get cat food and paint, I notice it smells like something is burning, something electrical. As I get in the car, I look in the window: Aw, my living room looks so pretty with floor lamp lighting up the Chinese screen.
I arrive home; walk to the living room. And stare at the floor lamp lighting up the Chinese screen.
I don't remember turning that light on.
When would I turn it on?
The last time I touched it was when Turtle had an accident on the cord and I didn't know it was wet, tried to turn it on, and zapped myself. And then did it again because I'm a little brain damaged at times.
Smells like something is burning. WHY IS THE LIGHT ON?

Conclusion A: Someone broke in. Someone broke in and turned on the light and left. Scared away by the dogs.
Conclusion B: It's a ghost! I smell ectoplasm, not something burning.
Conclusion C: Short in the cord.

I decide it's C (shouldn't you always pick C?) because the switch smells and is all black. I unplugged the lamp. Now, if I go back down there and it's back on again, I'm returning to C.

Armed and Unsupervised.

2009-08-09T11:20:00.005-04:00

Jamie has been away, spending the weekend at car races and being generally guy-ish.
I look forward to this time. The house, I believe, does not. The house gets operated on when Jamie is gone. And I'm definitely not a qualified surgeon.

The last time he left me unsupervised, I ripped out the wall-to-wall carpeting in the hall and stairs and decided to electrocute myself (several times) while adding in some additional lamps to the track lighting.

The time before that, I pulled out the carpet downstairs (I'm apparently anti-carpet) and reupholstered two chairs (with pins, rather than sewing, so now they are booby-trapped).

The time before that I adopted a dog.

The time before that I left the oven on for three days.

You get the picture. Jamie never knows what he's coming home to. And the house never knows what my plan is, seeing as how I have several projects going all at once. Here was yesterday's scene, fueled by little more than ice cream bars, soy crisps, and pizza.

Area 1: The Stairs. Having pulled the carpet out, I had decided to fill the holes myself. After being told that you do it with woodfill (and not toothpaste; you aren't living in a dorm, Gretchen), I quickly applied the yellow paste with my hands (not the proper tool, I was later told). Yesterday, this area was in various states of sanding, cleaning, and painting.

Area 2: The Family Room. There was some general rug switcheroo going on as well as various areas of the trim being painted. Not all the trim, just some.

Area 3: The Patio Door. Armed with a paint sample from Home Depot, I decided it was enough to paint the door. It wasn't.

Area 4: The Kitchen. Here, too, there are various areas of trim being painted. Again, not all. Just some.

Area 5: My Bathroom. This is a general shedding effort. A large garbage bag sat in the middle of the floor and every hour or so, another cluster of bottles, tubes, containers, soaps, gadgets, etc. were evaluated, ranked and either thrown out or saved. This had to be done in about 12 passes, until such excuses as, "Oh, but I bought this expensive lotion four years ago when I got a small bonus from work for working a weekend" no longer meant I had to keep something which hadn't been used in five years.

Area 6: The Bedroom. Throughout the day, this room got rearranged several times until I found the "right" layout. Which is remarkably similar to the "original" layout.

Today we are going to mess with Area 7: The Living Room/Library.

The next time he goes away, it's the garage.....

Today

2009-08-05T13:16:00.002-04:00

by tess

Today I’m grateful that North Korea was willing to release the two journalists. I won’t bother making the obvious (but still darn funny!) Clinton jokes that we’ve all heard anyway.

And I’m horrified that those women were murdered at the health club in Pennsylvania. Nothing good ever happens at a gym.

We’ve been watching the Teen Jeopardy finals this week. Alex asked one group about their hobbies. I hate that question because you know these kids just study, and maybe play a dorky instrument. And reading is not a hobby. Reading is an excuse to sit and do nothing else, and even I do that so I know it’s not a hobby. If I had to have one, I guess my hobby would be eavesdropping on my co-workers’ cell chats. Yeah, I know, I complain about being forced to overhear people talking on their cell phones. But choosing something versus having it thrust upon you is a completely different animal. So Abby is shouting, “I’M NOT YELLING!” at her husband. (Are to.) And Laurie is on the phone with her support group discussing whether their friend is just depressed or suicidal. It makes me grateful to not have friends or family.

I’m annoyed that The Smokers in my office won’t stop coughing and sniffling and taking sick days.

I attended real estate classes mere moments before The Big Bust. I was reminded of that this morning while musing over the poor suckers who decided last month to get out of The Car Biz … seconds before there are actually commissions, however short-term that might be.

Our office doesn’t have an I.T. person so this guy who happens to know a little about computers becomes the de facto Not-I.T. Guy. Similarly, our office doesn’t have an H.R. person so some of those duties fall through the cracks onto my desk. So when I walked in yesterday there was a New Person.
First, that’s not allowed because I was not informed. And you knooow how I am about not being informed.
Second, I specifically thought he should not have been interviewed in the first place because he’s clearly a dolt; a very talkative dolt at that. And you knoooow how I feel about talkative dolts.
Third, he “just decided” to come in at 8:00 to make up some time he’ll miss for a doctor’s visit. He spent that 30 minutes “make up time” trying to chat me up. Soooo many problems here – you don’t “just decide” to come in at 8:00, you don’t “make up” time on YOUR SECOND DAY of employment, and you DO NOT SPEAK TO ME BEFORE 8:30 at which time only “Good morning” is acceptable. So you knooooow how I feel about all of that.
Fourth, he whistles. There’s not a shrink in the world brave enough to ask me, “So, Tess, how do you feeeeeel about that?” Are you kidding me? I feeeeeeel that just as there is no crying in football, there is no whistling in the office. EVER.

A colleague discovered this weekend that one of his friends is actually a porn actor. He’s shocked because it was so unexpected. And it’s hysterical because now my colleague can hardly remember his friend’s name, only his porn name. Now thaaaaat’s a hobby! “Well gee, Alex, I’m super-psyched to be here on Jeopardy but in my spare time I’m a porn star. You may recognize me as Rod Golden from such fan-faves as GoldNChains, Goldf#@%er, and Goldif#@%s & the 3 Bares.” (Note: I actually met a man named Rod Golden once but he wasn't a porn star. Also, if those are real pornos, I didn't mean to infringe on your copyrights. But you know I'm not going to research porn movie names here at work!)

Word of the Day

2009-08-04T15:23:00.001-04:00

by tess

Judginess: the quality that permits superior beings to distinguish Good versus Evil.

To paraphrase The Great Colbert, some of you wordinistas might disparage judginess, but I say unto you: Cast not the first glass house lest ye get stoned! If the Colbert Nation can get truthiness into the OED, then Gretchen and I can use judginess in our blog. So there.

And so we shall provide to you the fruits of our judginess-pertise.

Examples of Good:
Wine
Online shopping
HoHos
Slandering co-workers’ fashion choices
Grilled cheese
Wearing pajamas until they walk themselves to the washer
Wine (Yeah, it’s that good! Shut up.)

Examples of Evil:
Sneaky floormat sellers
Being felt up by Russian dressmakers
Jumpsuits
Slow-to-close elevator doors
Parties
Chipmunk-eating pets
The sound of 1,000 Barbie dolls running across the floor in plastic high heels

Gretchen and I have few mutual friends. But one of our common acquaintances, we’ll call him “John” (since that’s his name), swears that when he was a child the word Judgment was spelled Judgement.

Upon hearing this, one might think that John’s a buffoon. He’s not, he’s just misguided. Like so many, many, many other men. Fortunately he had G and me to set him straight. Through the peels of laughter and general rolling around on the floor holding our stomachs and wiping our tears, Gretchen and I informed “John” that judgment has always been spelled with one e, not two.

I know this because Sister Satanica, the Typing teacher, drilled into our empty 15-year old heads the words we would surely need to know how to spell correctly in our future lives as good Catholic wives and mothers: accommodate, annulment, embarrass, grateful, judgment, maintenance, possession, retribution, sincerely, truly, and vacuum.

But back to “John.” I have a few theories about why he thinks the word might have evolved from Judgement to Judgment.

1: He grew up watching the original Japanese Iron Chefs on FoodTV. Toward the end of the show, the word JUDGEMENT is splashed across the screen in 800 bajillion point type.

2: He had a British teacher who also taught him: colour, arse, organise, barrister, queue, and knickers.

3: He was mistaken and didn’t like being corrected by a couple of grilled cheese-scarfing know-it-all doofuses.

I think we can safely rule out number 2. And at the time “John” was new to the office and trying to be our friend, so number 3 is iffy at best. Which leads us to number 1. And, coincidentally, to one of my pet theories.

Warning: Crazy elderly person rant below. Those who wish to remain rant-free, move along with your day now. I repeat: Look Away from the Rant.

(Ascending rant platform)
Like so many others who walked uphill both to and from school in the driving blizzards of south Florida, I grew up in a simpler time and place. Sex didn’t kill you, although your parents did if they found out. Soft-core drugs didn’t kill you, although your parents did if they found out. And even dirty books were edited.

The more frequently we see words spelled wrong (or hear phrases used incorrectly), the more difficult it becomes to recognize properly spelled words (or properly used phrases).

To wit, someone who hears “a whole nother” on a daily basis cannot identify that as improperly used English. Similarly, one who hears “should’ve” might not be able to differentiate “should of” from “should have” if he/she does not read.

And here’s the tricky part. The more frequently that person reads “could of” and “should of” in their unedited glory (i.e., on the Internet), the further reinforced the improper English becomes.

Only it’s a thousand times worse than that. Because the unedited sources (the Internet) also reinforce the use of sentences formed by abbreviations and emoticons rather than punctuation or capitalization, children and young adults who do not read properly edited materials cannot possibly be expected to differentiate between proper English and colloquialisms (aka that crap on the web).

Am I employing my self-appointed judginess to declare The Interwebs evil? No, obviously I am not. Nor will I be convinced that a brain-numbing, consistent bombardment of webspeak (via so-net sites, blogging, chatrooms, etc.) can be compared to a healthy, consistent regimen of edited literature.

Here endeth the rant.
(Descending terminal o’ tirades)

Temporary blindness

2009-08-04T11:25:00.001-04:00

by tess

Our bathrooms are crappy. They’re the kind that you see on low-end can’t-get-this-damn-house-sold-to-save-my-life HGTV shows. You’d recognize the components immediately – the lowest-bidder quality sink/tub/shower fixtures, the cheapo plastic countertops that never looked like faux marble, the bargain basement mirrors, and those god-awful Hollywood light bars.

Every Single Time I force The Hubs to watch a bathroom remodeling show with me, I declare (as though it was the first time!):

See? That’s just like our crappy bathroom. Even that humongous woman wearing a red plaid shirt with yellow striped culottes and ‘70s jelly sandals is sneering at it. We’re never going to sell our house with a bathroom like that.

Sadly he is unable to respond. Because apparently HGTV stands for Hence Goeth The Vision. He suffers coma-like temporary blindness which prevents him not only from seeing the bathroom remodels but also from responding to any words that pass my lips.

Either that or he’s ignoring me.

As a small shove in the right direction – the direction of having bathrooms that look they were built by people who wore more fabric than loincloths – I purchased a new light fixture to replace one of the Hollywood bars. It’s been propped in the corner of the bedroom for 16.5 months now.

But at least it has been put to good use. Quinty uses it as a springboard to the top of the armoire from which he can dive bomb his sister when she’s finished spraying kitty litter all over our beautiful circa 1985 master bath.

Light Fixtures and Floormats

2009-08-03T15:35:00.003-04:00

I asked him to install a light. Drill a few holes. Hook up wires. Simple, I thought.

Home demolition, he thought.

BTW, that exposed beam goes up about three more feet. It's very attractive.

We've encountered much the same disconnect addressing the rust spots on my car What would have taken me two hours (and look like crap, but be functional) has taken him, oh, two months, maybe? It's not finished. It's perfect, but it's still not finished.

And then there were the floor mats. First, let it be known that my car smells. Somehow, I got that dog-in-car musk in there and it's not leaving. So over the winter, Jamie gave me my most favorite gift: he had my car interior cleaned. Part of this was scrubbing the floor mats. And because the thinks about me (or the resale value of my car), he put in some heavy duty rubber mats for the winter and put the floor mats in our "basement" to dry out and then hang out until spring.

Floor mats aren't really high on my priority list and despite their ugliness, I couldn't seem to remember to switch them out for the original ones once spring came. It's August. And here is the conversation:

Me: Oh, I keep forgetting; we need to put my floormats back in. Those rubber ones are great, but I get my heels caught in them when driving.
Pause.
He: hehehe... about that...
Me: What did you do?
He: I had good intentions.
Me: What did you do?
He: I actually was thinking it through this time?
Me: Unlike the last time when you put fox urine in my only pair of stockings without runs in them to drive out the squirrels in the attic?
He: Right. Not like that. You see, well, hehe heee. Well.
Me: WHAT. DID. YOU. DO.
He: Well, I didn't ruin them.
Me: Like the stockings.
He: RIGHT! But I replaced those. You see, I sort of, you see, I
Me: JAMIE!
He: I sold them.
Me: You what?
He: Well, the ones in the Subaru were crappy so I put yours in there when I sold the car. I was going to get you new ones.
Me: You sold the car in April.
He: Right.
Me: It's almost August.
He: Yeahhhhhhh.... yeah.
Me: What are you waiting for?
He: You weren't even supposed to know! It was going to be a surprise.
Me: Can you not see that it IS a surprise?
He: Right.
Me: So, are you actually going to get them or am I just going to blog about this and not have new floormats.
He: I'm going to get them.
Me: This year?
He: Yes.
Pause.
Me: I guess the current mats are OK.
He: I'm going to get you new ones.
Me: I'm sure you are.
He: I am.
Me: I'm not saying you aren't. But I know you. BTW, can you install that light in the hallway this afternoon? It's been sitting around for days, ready to be installed.
He: Yes. That I can do.

The Lawn

2009-07-31T14:59:00.000-04:00

The lawn was a big friggin deal to the previous owners. Not so to the engineer and the writer (yeah, today I'm a writer). The engineer and the writer would rather tinker and philosophize, drink wine and discuss the tribulations of ice-road truckers, fret over the fate of Formula 1, and basically worship Mike Rowe (well, one of us worships; one just thinks he's dirty a lot). My point, people, is that we inherited a garden and a lawn and we were not prequalified for, and not up to, the responsibility

We don't have time to discuss the "garden."

The lawn, however...

First, we have have a riding mower. It's a small and ancient thing, liberated from The Barn, which is where broken down, rusted out, ready-for-the-dump-but-someone-can't-let-go hunks of junk go to hang out. I am positive that both of the owners (my not-father-in-law and his charismatic friend, Ed) firmly believe that everything in there not only can, but will, be fixed. And that it's worth the time to do it. It won't. And it's not.

The Barn ins't all bad. After all, it minimizes the crap in my garage (and for that matter the garages of many of our friends and family). And, given how things get lost in there, it's possible to find forgotten things. And liberate them. That's how we got the mower. Ed's lawn mower.

And Ed didn't know until a rather embarrassing moment when Jamie was about to thank him for letting us use it and his father quickly intervened and said he had to actually TELL Ed first.... Ed was fine with it. Ed's wife was thrilled ("One less thing for my children to have to haul away..")

I mow the lawn. I mow the lawn because it's a riding mower, which can be fun, and because mowing a lawn seems like something that doesn't require much accuracy. And I've convinced myself it's "exercise," based on all of the ginormous butts I've seen bubbling over the seats of John Deeres.

After a summer and a half of mowing the lawn, I've recently been educated about a few things.

A lawn mower is not a chipper. Though there may be some mowers that have this capability, ours does not. Therefore, I should not be intentionally riding over twigs, sticks, or rocks thinking I'll create mulch.

Taking your foot off of the right pedal means you have disengaged the blade. The blade engagement is somewhat critical to actually mowing the lawn. Otherwise, you're just riding a four-wheeler. Slowly. Over dog poop.

It's probably expected that you might miscalculate the speed and angle of the mower once or twice and slightly hit the fence. However, it's probably an indication of brain damage if you crash the mower into the fence more than twice and get the wheel stuck under the fence/deck/shed more than once.

Driving at about 3 miles an hour, it really should be possible to avoid giant holes the dog has dug.

You are not supposed to mow the tree trunks.

At a 15% grade, I have been assured that I really will not roll the mower and probably do not need to massively lean in the opposite direction to ensure all four wheels stay on the ground.

I'm not supposed to mow the bushes which is apparently what happens if you mow too close.

I'm also not supposed to mow the dog toys.

Or the slate walkway.

That said and despite my clearly questionable mowing "ability," Jamie is still happy to let me do all of this rather than actually mow it himself. Though, soon The Barn might get its mower back...

Her evil twin

2009-07-30T12:04:00.001-04:00

by tess

In an attempt to rejuvenate Gretchen’s flagging interest in writing for you, I’m appealing to her Evil Twin, Wretchen.

See Gretchen is lots of wonderful things – she’s smart and creative and responsible. And that’s all fine and dandy if you select Vanilla when offered 857 flavors. It’s her evil twin Wretchen who rocks the party.

Gretchen whimpers quietly when she is told she’s collating incorrectly.
Wretchen boldly wipes her dirty hands on the office walls daring anyone to comment.

Gretchen wonders about lonely shoes on the highway.
Wretchen spurns common civility by leaving the salt on the table. Daily.

Gretchen frets about her hips then goes for a quick 3 hour run.
Wretchen eats ice cream cake for lunch then drinks 2 bottles of wine for dinner.

Gretchen wears high heels and a tiara when she vacuums.
Wretchen refuses to empty the dishwasher come hell or hot water.

Gretchen works hard to support and inspire her team in good times and bad.
Wretchen refers to my office as The Halfway House for the Mentally Challenged.

Gretchen silently disapproves of asking a waitress for an extra plate.
Wretchen lies unremittingly to her lover about how the cheese got on top of the VCR.

Gretchen may be a friend but Wretchen is my hero. My soulmate. The Laurel to my Hardy; the Lenny to my Squiggy. She is the veritable wind beneath my wings. She is music. And she writes the songs.

And just as the snake offered Eve the apple (Don’t ever get Gretchen started on Genesis!), I am offering Wretchen this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Use this blog for evil, not good. Use this blog to taunt those who abuse the English language. C’mon, you know you want to.

I’ll even start!

1. I won’t expose the website because they’re good people doing a good (albeit profitable) thing. But I found this sentence on their Home page today:
If you know anyone who you think might be interested in learning about XXXXX or may want to become a XXXXXX themself, click here to forward them this e-mail.

And as a follow up, I’d like to add three of my favorite colloquialisms.

2. Baforementioned.
When referring to the attributes of the baforementioned evil twin, our bloggiste quoted two iconic 70s BMs: Bette Midler and Barry Manilow.

3. Dickmatized.
Demi was so dickmatized by Ashton that she financed his inane projects and let him tweet an unflattering semi-nude picture of her.

4. A whole nother.
This phrase has become so ubiquitous in today’s society that people who eschew it must be from a whole nother dimension.

Killers Unleashed

2009-07-30T12:01:00.001-04:00

by tess

Apparently my invitation got lost in the mail. What invitation? Oh, you know, the invitation to the party thrown AT MY HOUSE.

In my own room.

While I was sleeping.

When I went to bed everything was normal. But as I staggered kitchenward this morning to feed The Hell Hounds, I stumbled over a terry cloth visor, walked across two bucket hats, stepped on a baseball cap, and kicked a Britney Spears cowboy hat. Then bent over to retrieve the gnawed remains of a tiny reptile.

We got us a crime scene! Quick! Get the yellow police barricade tape!

My CSI-honed investigative skills indicate that at some point between 11:16 PM and 4:24 AM, there was a Cat in the Hat party not three feet from my prone body. Early forensics evidence suggests that one of the guests (Peoples Exhibit A: the aforementioned lizard) arrived at the soiree not realizing that he was the intended entrée.

It is unknown in my preliminary investigation whether the cats wore their hats before, during, or after the arrival and subsequent dismemberment of their guest, one Gordy de’Gecko.

Questioning the hat-wearing suspects has proven challenging as they refuse to comment without their lawyer, a Ms. Julie Newmar, Esquire, of the firm Morris, Boots, Garfield, and Cheshire.

Further information will be provided as evidence is still being collected and examined.

Cedar, sausage, cigs ... & blueberries

2009-07-28T13:34:00.001-04:00

by tess

Memory is an imperfect thing. It’s a prism through which time is refracted imperfectly. But it’s all we have in the end to document our own flawed history. Often too harsh, occasionally too kind, but always imperfect.

When I was very young, my grandparents, Ruth and Haird (aka Howard), lived in a house in rural Ohio. We would arrive there in the pre-dawn hours after my Dad drove straight through from Baltimore to Dayton. It’s strange to think of him then – younger than I am now, not to mention more capable than I of capping off a twelve hour shift with an eight hour drive. Ruth and Haird would be waiting for us, half-asleep and ensconced in the unfamiliar aromas of coffee, cigarettes, Dial, and Listerine. Ripped from my roadtrip coma, there were bear hugs and the ultimate peace of safety among those who love you. The kind of serenity that not every child is fortunate enough to experience in her life.

I remember their house as being very large although I suspect it was not. My room had a cedar armoire with drawers, a hanging rod, and a mirror inside. It was the most magical piece of furniture I’d ever seen and can’t smell cedar to this day without remembering it. That may be why we have three armoires in our house. Sadly both the smell and sense of wonder are missing now. Aside from the single bed, the only remarkable feature of the room was the window that (as I remember it anyway) looked out over a small unpaved road and acres of open fields. Since our suburban townhouse did not overlook anything more noteworthy than a parking pad and alley, I’m guessing that even a tiny plot might have inspired images of Dorothy’s Kansas landscape come to life. Stashed safely in the middle of nowhere, I played on the little road. I don’t remember that there were other children but, as an only child, I’d have eschewed their company in any case, vastly preferring my own.

Along the wall to the right of their bed, Ruth and Haird had a pretty vanity. Dark wood drawers on either side with a large round mirror in the center. I must have seen one on TV and equated it with glamorous Hollywood mommies. I still consider them quite Old Hollywood – a self-indulgent paean to the process of feminine beauty.

There were two large framed photos in that house. One of Haird in his uniform, WWII, I guess. And a profile shot of JFK and RFK. When I look at my own ridiculously stuffed-to-the-gills home in which every wall is covered with mis-matched art, I find this spartan decoration both arresting and significant.

Most of my Ruth-and-Haird memories are kitchen-related. The early morning smell of sausage burning and sound of coffee brewing on the stove. The big table in the eat-in kitchen was where we’d all sit together for hours on end. After all, our schedules had been left behind in Baltimore. Mom’s job, Dad’s jobs, school, activities, the 1,001 meals that are always rushed through in a busy, modern lifestyle full of plans for a brighter tomorrow. So there was an uncharacteristically slow sitting, talking, and eating at that big table.

When I was born, Ruth offered to “help” my young mother by coming to stay at our house. From what I’ve been told, her assistance consisted primarily of sitting on the sofa holding me and telling my mother what she was doing wrong. The pictures of me in Ruth’s arms show a very happy baby (who is a dead wringer for Uncle Fester) lying peacefully in my grandmother’s copious bosom and fleshy arms.

Once when we were visiting Ruth and Haird, my parents went to see Rosemary’s Baby. I’m not sure if I was upset because they had the unmitigated gall to actually leave me for two hours or if I thought they were going to pay attention to a baby other than me – quelle horreur! In any case Ruth placated my temper with love and blueberries.

Through the years, Ruth would always have a stash of canned blueberries for me. She’d buy them on sale at the Kroger’s and hoard them for my visits.

I don’t remember much about Haird except that he seemed to love me in a quiet and distracted sort of way – like he didn’t quite know what to make of me or what to do with me. Perhaps that was due to the cultural gulf that separated a spoiled, suburban female child of the 60s from a hard-working man born deep in the hills at the end of WWI. When he wasn’t smoking and coughing, then he was coughing and smoking. This man had nothing, but he sent me money every single week — sometimes a dollar, sometimes five -- from early childhood through college until his death some twenty years ago.

Haird and Ruth moved to a dismal, one-bedroom, basement apartment. I slept on the folding couch next to the kitchen. She’d tuck me in with a biting bed bug rhyme that’s a far more terrifying admonishment now that I know they exist. I awoke to the same scents of coffee and sausage, brewed in the same pot and burned on the same cast iron skillet as the old house. And of course there were the cans of blueberries. Haird would smoke and cough and read the paper sitting on his end of the couch while I’d watch reruns of Bewitched, Jeannie, Lucy, and F-Troop.

Then I got too old, too involved in my own life to bother with them — these people who loved me with open hearts and to the very best of their ability. And now they’re both gone. To a better place? As a higher life form? Into the great dark unknown. They were flawed people who lived hard lives. And they accepted me unconditionally. I’m grateful to have known them.

Crushed

2009-07-17T09:03:00.000-04:00

by tess

I’ve read that Crush is the New Black. Specifically, the social networking crush (i.e., “my old MySpace crush” or “that’s from her Twitter crush”). It’s a secure way to experience the short-lived intensity of a crush without exposing yourself, without making yourself vulnerable. So I’ve been thinking of the role various crushes have played in my life.

Because I can’t begin to name the countless hundreds of boys I crushed on throughout The Angsty Years (and because it makes me throw up in my mouth a little to think about any of them), I’ll dispense with the mundane infatuations and proceed to those that are less obvious and ultimately more meaningful.

Given the internet it must be far easier to become consumed by a crush on a celebrity. Now you can catalogue every fact about their lives and essentially stalk their every move. In the olden days, it was a little more esoteric. My first was Bobby Sherman. I had no interest in David Cassidy or Donny Osmond, the standard Tiger Beat crushes of the day. At 7-going-on-13, I kissed the picture on his album every night before bed, knowing he was thinking of me when he sang “Come into my world and leave your world behind” and I was packed and ready to go. Inexplicably my next crush was Michael Lee Aday. Yes, Meat Loaf. If you can’t figure out why then I can’t explain it to you; you either get it or you don’t. To round out this idiosyncratic triumvirate, my current celebri-crush is Richard Schiff. More accurately, I think the crush is on his character, Toby Ziegler, since I don’t actually know Mr. Schiff beyond his 146 brilliantly dark, brooding, intelligent, and occasionally petulant performances on The West Wing.

I’ve luxuriated in a number of author crushes. In college I fell in love with D.H. Lawrence and ardently defended every word, sentence, and paragraph of Women in Love to within an inch of my life. Anne Rice provided me with countless hours of entertainment and a succession of new loves via the early Chronicles, the Rampling fantasies, and her Roquelaure romps. Laurell K. Hamilton is inevitably compared to Rice because she has written for 16 years about vampires and sex. And sex with vampires. I’ll agree with the haters that the first ten Anita Blake books are her best; I gave up after Danse Macabre but reviews seem to indicate that she’s back on track. My new great love is Dani Shapiro. Her writing is sharp and insightful, specific yet subtle, spare but somehow full. Her heart bleeds on the page but from such a distance that her readers aren’t mired in sentimentality. She’s the must-read of the crew.

Unembarrassed, I’ll admit to three girl crushes. In 8th grade it was McKenna Grace. I told her once that I loved her. I didn’t mean I want you, I think I meant I want to be just like you and can we be best friends forever. I don’t know if it’s still true, but in the 70s the most derisive slur for a junior high school girl was “lezzie.” Especially at an all-girls school. Telling one of the most popular jocks in your class that you love her is a good way to earn that sobriquet and to become the class pariah. In college I fell hard for a beautiful actress named Sarah. Neither one of us was eloquent enough to effectively communicate our affection. Immature and embarrassed, we hid from one another until we both transferred. Sarah remains one of the great regrets of my life. Glamorous Wynn Balboa had semi-naturally blonde hair that she could sit on and looked great in leather pants. I didn’t lust after her but I envied her laissez faire attitude toward the men who groveled at her ankles. Sure, they all wanted her but they respected the hell out of her, too. She’d swan around the room secretly rotating vodka tonics with water until she drank the guys under the table. The first time she subdued The Dentist (who would later break her heart just as The Architect had) she tore his shirt off shooting buttons throughout his office, then couriered an expensive replacement the next day. At the time, I was dazzled by her sophistication. She owned herself as a woman in a way that I had never witnessed and I was deeply in awe of her.

Weepies

2009-07-13T14:49:00.000-04:00

by tess

Normal people arrange their Netflix queues in the chronological order in which they elect to watch the videos. And that makes sense. For them.

I’ve divided our queue into MINE (183 classic dramas) and, at the bottom, HIS (12 Japanese read-while-you-watch five-hour epics which make no damn sense whatsoever to those of us who didn’t major in The Golden Age of Japanese Cinema: Kurosawa thru Kobayashi). Since I’m not too proud to cop to my deep and abiding love of sob-inducing movies and books, I appreciate the value of selecting a video that fits my specific, albeit fickle, emotional needs. Therefore, MINE are subdivided by their potential weep factor.

A “light day” (haha!) would only require a level one weepie, or The Tear Jerker, which is obviously a movie that delivers sniffles during the good parts no matter how many times I’ve seen it: Armageddon, Gone with the Wind, Steel Magnolias, Regarding Henry.

I reserve a special sliver of my withered, gray heart for those movies that tear me from all sense of reality, effectively trapping me within the suspense of a fictional world from which there is no escape. These are level two weepies, The Cathartic Purge. Ancient Greeks believed that the visceral response of catharsis represented an emotional purification. I relish the afterglow of stumbling to the bathroom, collecting tissues, weeping copiously, sighing noisily, and finally releasing the characters, re-inhabiting my own world. Ahhh, the poignant release of Requiem for a Dream, Always, Leaving Las Vegas (despite Cage), High Art, Ordinary People, or Basquiat.

And finally there are the movies that bear the emotional impact of a medieval spiked battle flail to your knee-pits. Level three weepies, Soul Scorchers, have foregone their redemptive qualities in lieu of a Herculean sucker punch of agony. The Passion of the Christ, Seven, United 93, Frances, City of Angels (despite Cage), The Pianist, and Rush are nearly unwatchable as they suffocate the viewer with despair rendering him incapacitated and abandoned in his own wretchedness. Inasmuch as I adore a really good cry fest, I cannot bring myself to watch any of these movies a second time. I keep them on the list and am tempted occasionally to “go there” but it’s simply too much … the emotional equivalent of running back-to-back marathons. To those of you who can watch any of these movies without drowning in misery — congrats, you’re braver and stronger (and likely saner) than me.

Summertime

2009-07-13T09:26:00.000-04:00

by tess

Certain maxims prove inevitably true. April showers bring May flowers. June brides deliver Christmas babies. Summer holidays beget fireworks.

Each Memorial Day our neighbors throw an informal block party. Last year we thought about going and I even made key lime cookies to take with us. But then the actual getting-off-of-the-couch-and-facing-people-we-don’t-really-want-to-know came into play. So we stayed home and ate the cookies. This year we blew off pretending we might go and hid, safe from the strangers within the air conditioned confines of our little house.

Floridians tend to share a deep and abiding affection for fireworks which always strikes me as odd. Admittedly I grew up in a house where one’s safety was of paramount (bordering on paranoid) concern, but isn’t it a generally well-known fact that fireworks can be dangerous? Particularly when handled by children or mixed with copious amounts of alcohol? I haven’t a clue why it’s legal to sell them here. Me? I’d decriminalize pot and clog the penal system with all the idiots who jones for firecrackers. But that’s just me.

The annual block party provides a fiery venue for the Official Kickoff of Fireworks Season. The evening starts with “child-friendly” sparklers, spinners and jacks just as the sun is setting. Clearly one must pass one’s sacrosanct passion for fireworks on to one’s children. By what other means might they become future fireworks aficionados? Then the heavy hitters start exploding: the smoke bombs and snakes, fountains, cones, repeaters. Finally the evening ends with a bang: military and roman candles, Molotov cocktails, raptors, mortar and shell kits.

Of course the season reaches its crescendo on the 4th of July, but leftovers are parceled out for the inevitable Labor Day block party. Good old Floridians even rock their Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations with a bang.

I was worried about Independence Day fireworks because my kitten doesn’t generally enjoy noise of any kind. Boisterous people, loud televisions, and booming thunder send him scurrying for cover. But my concern was for naught; he could not be coaxed away from the sound and the fury. The sizzling, popping, bursting explosions of light and color hypnotized the little guy who finally gave up an hour after the final pop-pop-snap-BOOM. He climbed into bed, exhausted after the excitement of the block party. Come to think of it, he’s the only one of our cats to have been born in Florida. I guess his love of block parties and fireworks comes naturally to him.

The tormentors and the tormented

2009-07-10T14:53:00.000-04:00

by tess

It has recently been brought to my attention that some people find my blogs less than child-friendly. I have a word for you: Harrumph. Proving yet again how open-minded I am, I will hypothesize that when children are locked along with their wardens in their homes away from my ears and eyes, they may be (all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding) relatively smell-free, vaguely cogent human beings rather than vampiric hellspawn.

In South Florida we have zero lot lines and are stuffed into our communities like proverbial tinned sardines. Therefore, we share front, side, and rear yard lot lines with a number of homes, some of which include children. Apparently weekend mornings from nine until noon have been universally declared Special Mommy Daddy Time while the children are vigorously thrust and effectively locked outside. Seconds become hours and hours become centuries as the ceaseless, soul-sucking shrieks continue unchecked. Alas, a bone-weary adult voice ends my torment. The cacophony shifts to another zone. Tranquility is restored and my lungs expand with the serenity so long denied me.

The only time I actually see the caterwauling banshees is during my commute home. From 4:00 to 7:00 PM, approximately eight thousand unsupervised four- to six-year olds effectively close down the single route that filters traffic from the main thoroughfare into our community. The Lord of the Flies-wannabes refuse to move to the side of the narrow road. They continue their games and conversations while glaring at the cars, daring interference in their significant, self-entitled child-functions. All traffic grinds to a halt until one fool-hardy soul breaches the child-fortress. Rat-like, the rest of us follow, flowing through the all-but-impregnable child wall, praying for deliverance to our driveways unscathed by the children of the night.

Might there be a flicker of sentient human residing behind their simian eyes? Certainly.
Do their violent actions toward one another and the adults around them mirror their perception of their own treatment? Possibly.
Will the mean-spirited aggression learned in our streets instruct the men and women responsible for leading our country in the future? Definitely.

Terrifying.

Judgment

2009-07-08T17:04:00.002-04:00

by tess

Brenda Breedlove is the only born and bred Floridian (aka cracker) that I know. She’s one of those people who has never lived more than 10 miles away from her birthplace. IF she has ever been out of state, it was probably Junior year when her high school softball team reached Regionals and they took a bus over the state line into Georgia.

Now her life is consumed with her husband’s softball and fantasy football leagues which require an inordinate amount of her time. Whatever’s left is divided among her three daughters. While not necessarily a blight on society, the vapid trio will add a certain vague “blondeness” to their junior high cheer squads prior to appearances on MTV’s 16 & Pregnant.

Brenda’s reached that point in her life when her waist-length hair reveals a depressed clinging to the rosy days of yesteryear. It languishes listlessly from the center part she’s worn for 35 years, a jagged curtain begging desperately for a good trim if not a mature style.

For reasons known only unto her, Brenda blathered endlessly to me about graduation gifts for her daughter. In Florida children who manage to scale the unfathomable hurdle of sixth grade receive graduation gifts and parties. I guess it’s a consolation prize for the few local girls who don’t get either a quinceanera blowout or bat mitzvah celebration.

Mistaking me for someone who cares, Brenda asked me what to buy the kid. The sum total of my knowledge about 12 year old girls is that they probably want boobs. Or a date with one of the Jonai, Zac, or P-Ratz. Or all of the above.

Summoning my very best Ebenezer Scrooge, I reminded her: “I don’t have any kids so I don’t really know what’s up with them.”

“But what do your friends do about the gifts?”

Incapable of admitting to a woman who has many dear, life-long friends that I have none: “None of my friends have kids.”

And it’s true. Sort of. If I had friends, they certainly wouldn’t have children. Or at least those children would be adults rather than mindless revenants stumbling around in the haze of pre-pubescence. Only my parents’ sheer grit and steely determination salvaged my own adolescence. Razor-sharp fork tines to my eyes would be preferable to experiencing those years through a mother’s suffering.

And I meant “None of my friends have kids” not only in the God-isn’t-this-freaking-conversation-over-yet kind of way, but also (I’m ashamed to admit) in an I-belong-to-a-secret-society-of-women-who-have-better-things-to-do-than-procreate kind of way.

And my own arrogance forced me to reflect.

Clearly the choices I have made are neither better nor worse than Brenda’s. She elected to marry her high school sweetheart and squeeze out a few mouth-breathers. I doubt that she ever considered leaving the neighborhood she grew up in. And there’s value in that. The kids are close to their grand-parents and they enjoy a small town everybody-knows-each-other’s-business safety. Brenda’s husband still plays poker with his high school buds and Brenda goes to “girls’ night out” with friends she’s known for 30 years. There’s a sweet simplicity to that and I’ll admit that a small part of me yearns for it.

I’ve lived for a number of years in each of 7 states. And with each move I’ve separated thoroughly from friends and foes alike. Yes, I’ve met lots of interesting people but I’ve also left them all in my dust. The result being that I have no long-term connection to anyone.

It can be liberating that acquaintances don’t know your history, can’t reference former lovers, or snicker about past mistakes. But there’s something to be said for living next door to the first girl you snuck a smoke with. Or observing the swaggering teenage sons of the first boy you loved. Or getting highlights from the girl who once helped dye your hair blue.

I have few regrets about the choices I’ve made. And, happily, I bet Brenda feels the same way. At each crossroads, we choose our own paths. That’s the easy part. The tough part is moving forward in peace without judging ourselves or our peers too harshly.

Name game 2

2009-07-06T09:57:00.000-04:00

by tess

Officially I’m an Accounting Manager. But, trust me, that’s just as contrived a title as anything The Hubs dreams up. My main task at work is to narc on my co-workers. Fortunately I’ve been a brown-nosing tattletale for 46 years now, so it’s a job I embrace. Specifically I inform my manager about my colleagues’ tardiness. Alas, a job I was born to do! One’s inability to arrive in a timely fashion is by far the peeviest of my copious pet peeves. Let’s envision my response to lateness together, shall we? See Rumpelstiltskin completely losing his shit, stomping his little feet and bashing his little fists, completely deranged in an orgy of blood vessel-bursting frustration? Now imagine him with gray hair and red bifocals wearing wrinkled mom-jeans and pink Isaac Mizrahi flats from SuperTarget. Yup. That’s me at 8:35 every morning.

As Human Timeclock, I enjoy the benefits of sitting in the pseudo-Receptionist area between the front door and the restroom. Until a few months ago, I could count the number of times The Smokers went outside for ciggy snacks and cell phone chats. Now that they’re restricted to just two breaks, I have a lot less to do. But I can still count the number of times Katie gets up to wash her hands per hour. She’s not OCD, she just can’t sit still. If she’s not washing her hands, then she’s wandering into the kitchen eating other people’s food. While she’s in there the ring of any phone in the office will elicit an eardrum-shattering Fran Drescher-esque: “Is thaaat miiiiiiiiine?”

Another advantage to sitting at the front desk? The immeasurable reward of hearing iterations of the same comments over and over and over again.

Whenever possible, an external force must be named as the culprit for one’s lateness.
Huuuuuge accident on 95. Right in front of me.
Turnpike is a parking lot. I left home like 3 hours ago!
I had to stop and get milk for everyone’s coffee.
It’s raining soooooo hard and my dog’s really afraid of thunder.

If I have food on my desk, then it’s
Wow, that looks good.
What is that?
Where did you get that?
Is it good? I bet it’s good.
How much was that?
Do you have anymore?
Have you had that before?
You know what? I’m just gonna run over and get one of those. Tell everyone to hold the meeting, I’ll just be a second.

And when it’s warm outside (as it is wont to be during South Florida summers)
God, it’s hot.
Can you believe how hot it is?
It’s AFRICA hot out there today.
It’s supposed to hit 103 today.
I’m already completely soaked. This sucks.
It’s not bad enough to go through The Change. This is just unacceptable.
Can you believe my stupid A/C doesn’t work again so I’ll be late tomorrow.

And Rumpelstiltskin begins her dance anew.