The Vacation: A Recap

Picture 1: The Man and I at a brewpub in Parkville, MO, just prior to the big reunion.

I had brought several dresses to KC, not knowing what a) would be appropriate and b) would fit over my hips on that particular day. (Eating at the parents' for 10 days = 5 pound Mags weight gain, on average.)

The invitation stated that the attire would be "business casual." Not believing that in the slightest, I brought many of my nice to fancy-ish dresses. There was the purple linen, the red linen, two clingy black ones, the brown and black patterned sleeveless dress, the feisty aqua party dress with the 50's print. Just as a lark, I threw in the lined pink taffeta dress that I bought last year for $9 at Ross.

I also brought both pairs of cowboy boots, and also some new Clark Artisan sandals that I had just bought. They're not formal, but they are damned near comfortable. Thus, I declare that these will be THE HEELS THAT I HAVE TILL I DIE. (You know your mother has a pair. Come on now, she does!)

Anyway, up until the evening of, I had anticipated wearing either the purple linen or the brown and black dress; maybe the red linen with the teal and red cowboy boots just to shake things up a bit. I couldn't settle on one, maybe due to the gaping maw of apprehension that was suddenly festering in my belly.

And then, it occured to me: Pink. Taffeta. With my favorite necklace and earrings - my grandmother's sparkly beveled plastic beads - ironically, worn many times when I was in high school. It. Could. Work.

Voila! Instant suck-it-uppage. I suddenly had the strength to attend this thing.

It's very different from anything I would have worn in high school - not a big wearer of the pink, me, then or now - but, at the same time, reflects that some things haven't changed.

Picture 2: Erin, me, and Wanda, an old friend (in the "it's been a long time" sense) that I had not seen since high school.


Erin (who, as you can tell from her picture, has clearly been busy lately) flew in from Philly; Wanda from Little Rock, I think mostly to see Erin. We all had a great conversation at the brew pub. I remembered immediately why I had always liked Wanda. And both are clearly still as lovely as ever. Damn them.

This was the best time of the evening; no question. The reunion itself was...actually, it was OK. It was way better than the 10-year, as it had awards and yearbooks and a genuinely sweet slideshow, that sort of stuff. And, it had a live 80's cover band with two soccer-moms-in-fishnets lead singers, singing all your favorites...yes, "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" and "You Shook Me All Night Long" were played, as was, I daresay, "Love Shack!"

But, perhaps most importantly, it had free booze, to which your humble narrator always says "fuck, yes," and at which I partook until they ran out of white wine. They offered the pink zin, saying, "This looks white," but I declined. (That's a Kansas City sommelier for you.) Probably fortuitous, that; I had a lovely buzz, but didn't crash over the edge. But, I did have enough to cut loose on the dance floor with The Man most of the evening...I even closed down the party that I swore I would cut out early on.

(Note: Big snaps to The Man. He was the coolest spouse there. Not only did he dance with me all night, to music that does not involve two-stepping, but he ALSO made sparkling conversation with anyone he met. Seriously, you should have seen the pickle pusses on some of these husbands and wives. I'm a very lucky woman.)

I enjoyed speaking to many people, and the general consensus was that I haven't changed since high school. Good to know. Truth be told, the women all looked fantastic. ("Business Casual?" Sheeright! I'm relatively certain that few of them wear sequins and four-inch heels to their "business," or, if they do, they didn't share that particular detail.)

Many of the men were showing their age. (My age? No, seriously, it can't be. Some of these fuckers were bald and had gray hair.) But, those that I noticed as handsome back then? I still noticed as handsome. Strange.

Weirdly, so many of the people there had four kids. Wanda and Erin decided that four must be the new two. Four! One had FIVE! Many were divorced now. Also, many still lived in the general KC perimeter. However, that could be because that they are the ones that showed up. Most people I know that moved away didn't show. (They were missed, too.) Also sadly underrepresented was the misanthropic theater kids clique; I really could have stood to have seen some more of them.

All in all, though, not too bad. I may actually keep in touch with more people this time.

Or not.

Pictures 3 and 4: Worlds of Fun, in the rain



Oh, sure, I got tons of other, more typical, WOF pics, but I think these are great. This is my archetypal memory of Worlds of Fun when I was a kid. Trapped under some funnel cake stand awning in the rain, freezing my ass off on what was, just minutes before, a sweltering day. (It was pretty awesome, though; I don't ever remember getting hailed on there before.)

OG and I rode the Mamba, a rollercoaster that has a first drop that is so precipitous that it is religion-inducing, and then goes right back up and does the same goddamn thing again. OG liked it, but didn't want to ride it again.

Oh, a bit of hilarious conversation from that ride, as it was pulling into the station:

OG: "OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!" (Looks over at me) "Oh, um...can I say 'oh god?;"

Me: (having had this conversation many times) "Well...not usually, of course, but, hey, on a rollercoaster, it's probably appropriate."

OG: "Oh god, that ride shook the hell out of me!"

We also rode the Detonator a couple of times, one of those things that shoots you straight into the air really really fast. I kind of hate it and love it. It's ever so briefly shit-your-pants terrifying, and then suddenly kind of pleasant.

YG, on the other hand? COMPLETE PANSY. The rides at the SNOOPY PARK were too scary for her, for the love of god! We finally got her to ride the train, and some cars that you just sit in and ride around in circles. She made me sit on a BENCH on the MERRY-GO-ROUND, for cripes' sake! Seriously, who is this child?


Picture 5: OG's first catch


OG wanted so badly to learn to fish. My mother dredged up a rod and some line from somewhere - one my nephews from Boston use when they come to visit - and, though the line was all tangled up and the reel wasn't winding properly, she and OG went down to the dock and just tossed the lure into the water. And, as my mother went to pull it up, there was a fish on it!

OG was, frankly, kind of stunned. And, when it turned out that the poor thing had swallowed the hook and was thusly a goner, I think she was kind of freaked out.

Gamely, The Man chopped off its head and my mother threw it into a saucepan, though I don't think either were very well versed in this sort of thing at all. I instilled upon OG that she should eat some of it, as she caught it, and it gave its life for her and all. (What can I say? I was visiting home. It rubs off.) She choked down a bit, good girl that she is.

However, she did not express any desire whatsoever to go fishing again.

Picture 6: Random Cowgirl Cuties

For no reason whatsoever.

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So, I leave for 10 days, and when I get back, it is HOT AS FUCK.

Summer hits this town like a freight train, don't it?

Back

I'm back!

I'm back from ten days in Kansas City!

I'm back from...

• 12 hours crammed into a compact car - each way - with a husband, two children, a puppy, and an ailing (but better) cat;
• my 20-year high school reunion;
• visiting my mother, sister, and (genuinely) ailing father;
• hanging with Erin and Tricia at an actual great bar in Kansas City (who knew?);
• oohing and ahhing over cute baby shmoopums at Erin's baby shower;
• eating my weight in Arthur Bryant's Barbecue and LC's Hamburgers,
• taking my girls to Worlds of Fun, the amusement park of my youth;
  
• just missing the grand opening of the fab and critically acclaimed new section of the Nelson Art Gallery (which does, yes, on the outside, look like storage lockers to me; but I am a clueless rube)
• attempting to swim in my parents' lake, but mostly just shivering, because it was in the 70's most of the time we were there

And, there were various and sundry other activities, but I am too goddamned brain dead right now to think of them. (Did I mention the 12 hours in the car? Did I mention it was all in one day? And that it was today? And that there was a cat on my foot and a dog in my lap?)

But, you say, you want to know of the reunion?

I shall post of it, and of the drinking of the wine and the wearing of the pink taffeta, tomorrow.

Hiatus

Hey all,

I'm taking a spring hiatus to deal with this here class reunion thingy.

Lengthy posts to follow...

The 1980's High School Geek: A Schemata

The topic of the high school reunion has been broached.

Thus, it is endemic upon me to SHARE with you WHY exactly these years are so very painful to reminisce about. And, words just cannot do justice to the pain of the high school geek.

You must see the painful reality for yourself.

What, you don't want to? You're frightened? TOO BAD.

Sadly, though, I have very little in the way of high school memorabilia in my house in Austin. Whatever I have left in the way of high school stuff is still at my parents' house. And I'll be damned if I'm going to schlep it all back here, as, you know, more STUFF crammed into my small house is not exactly high on my list of priorities.

So, this is what I have:

First, a casual shot, of a typical daily Mags look, circa 1987:

1. You will notice the hair, straight off the curling iron; no need to brush those suckers out! Just let 'em sit there like blonde sausages!

2) Oversized hand-me-down (from my sister) dyed pink paisley shirt, buttoned all the way to the collar, accessorized by flea market rhinestone earrings and brooch.

I wore this shirt or my Iggy Pop t-shirt (also courtesy of my sister) every week during my senior year. And I always wore rhinestones.

3) Highlights/hair color courtesy of one friend or another...it was something you used a brush to paint on? What was that crap called? I can't remember.

Next, the Formal Senior Portrait:

1) I've worked on this hair...it is poufier and shellacky!
There's clearly a lot of product in it. I might have been sophisticated enough by that point to have been using Paul Mitchell (awapuhi! awapuhi!) but this was in the dark, pre-Aveda days. It's uncharacteristically brown. Must not have had friends around willing to paint my hair that summer.

But no, look closer! It's really a NEW WAVE hairdo, in disguise! See? It's spiked up on the right side and flipped over to the left! I WAS SO VERY ALTERNATIVE!

2) I, for some reason, must have decided to PREP UP for this day! When, exactly, did I wear fuschia shirts with erect collars and black button earrings? Um...that day! (Someone must have dressed me. This outfit does not smack of something that I could have come up with on my own.)

3) I bet, if you looked closely, that eye shadow might have been purple and sparkly.

4) I used to think that this was a good picture of me, but now I can see that I'm totally gritting my teeth in it. I was probably asphyxiating from the hairspray.

Oh, wait, here's one more, of me and Jimmy, BFFs before BFFs were cool:


I'm so snarly! Aren't I punk?
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Anyways, internets, I never got the hang of the "Forenza sweater with an add-a-bead necklace and Guess jeans" thing that everyone else seemed to be able to do. The hair was never feathered when it was supposed to be feathered, or poufed to the nth degree when it was supposed to be large.

Of course, this is all good now. Clearly, it is with the geeks and outsiders that I stand, now and forever. As it turns out, they're nice, kind, smart, and funny.

In fact, now that I think about it, perhaps I'm being too hard on high school me.

Mags from the past: I take it back. You're all right by me. You go on and let your freak paisley shirt flag fly.

(With that in mind, maybe I just will wear my cowboy boots to the reunion.)

Twelve Days And Counting

OK, people, we have a situation. It's twelve days until my high school reunion.

And I have very mixed emotions about attending it.

And I have not yet lost that 20 pounds that I had planned to.

And it cost me $120 just for the tickets.

And I don't know what to wear.

Musings on this to follow...

Cheezburger!

Oh, fuck, this site is funny.

(If you like pictures of cats with hysterical pidgin captions on them, that is.)

(Which I do.)

I'm so going to make my own later.

Thanks for the heads up, KM!

My word!

The other day, in a meme from Bookhart, there was the question, if I were a word, what word would I be? I responded "fuck."

Now that I think about it, though I do dearly love that word, it's probably not really emblematic of me. I like to put myself out there as all harsh and punk and sharp edges - and YES, I DO TOO pull that off, shut up! - but I'm really probably not as all bad as "fuck."

A better word to describe me? Hmm...how about "quiescently?"

I don't really know what it means, except that it has some connection to popsicles. But it sounds like it could be an adverb that perfectly describes me, doesn't it? You know, something like, "'Of course I'll take the one with the sequins,' she laughed quiescently."

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The other day, I posted the video for "Indian Drum" by The Kids in the Hall, one of my favorite bits of complete randomness. That day, I watched it a couple of times, and suddenly it occurred to me that this would be right up OG's humor alley.

Sure enough, I bet she has watched that clip about twenty times since then.

We walk around the house just looking at each other, giggling, and going, "Drum lost!" "Drum fooound!"

It feels really, really good to laugh with her.

And I can't believe what a geek she's going to turn into.

In Praise of Teachers

Three days left; three short days that OG has to go in this, her first-grade year.

I can't praise her teachers, last year and this year, enough. I know, I just KNOW, that she is more challenging than they let on. But, they've never called me, never gotten her in trouble. (The only school area that OG has ever had difficulty in is music, and even then, it's been fairly minor, and pretty rare.)

This being the end of school, I send a tribute to them, and to all teachers:

Ladies, and gentlemen, of the profession; you have earned my respect.

I've been one of you. I taught for seven years in the public schools. My mother was one of you, but better than I; she lasted for 35 years. And, I continue to count many, many of you amongst my friends.

You hold up, don't you? You show up every year, ready to form twenty-two (or vastly more) wayward minds into some semblance of a civilized human being. In the best-case scenario, you have raw materials that are fed, rested, and parented by concerned individuals, and 185 days, to get this accomplished.

Most of you do not have the best-case scenario. Many of you have the worst-case scenario. If you've been in the profession for longer than a year, you have heard stories that make you shudder. If you've been in it for longer than three years, you have heard stories that have made you cry.

And, what do we hear in the papers about you? Sex scandals! No Child Left Behind! Everything, it seems, is printed to ensure that the American public becomes more and more distrustful of you. You are portrayed essentially as either child molesters or slackers, or people who weren't smart enough to make it in the business world.

All of you out there - teachers, people who had good teachers, people whose parents were teachers, people whose children have good teachers - FIGHT THIS PERCEPTION.

I have known hundreds of teachers in my life. Some were incredibly excellent; most were good to really good. Some, yes, were mediocre, or even poor to really crappy. But they were a SLIM minority. (Sadly, they stand out, even in my memory.)

Undeniably, like in any profession, some are gifted, and others are absolutely not. What's important to realize is is that vast majority of teachers are, at the very least, dedicated and caring professionals who work very, very hard, constantly, to become better at what they do. And buying into the media perception - and yes, that of this anti-education administration - degrades and diminishes them.

I think Taylor Mali says it best, in three minutes:



Send this to a teacher you know, and love.

And, happy summer, y'all.

My Secret Fantasy

(There, let's see if that title brings my Google hits up...)

Now that I've been an official blogger for nearly a year now (it'll be a year on Thursday, I believe,) it has struck me how frequently the paths of my mind intersect with those of the friends and bloggers that I usually read. I can't tell you how many times I've started to formulate in my mind a blog entry about a particular topic, only to check out one of my friends' blogs to find out that they've beat me to it. (And they're usually better written, or funnier, than mine would have been. Damn them. DAMN THEM ALL TO HELL!)

So, the other night, while watching the season finale of Reno 911! - frigging hilarious, by the way, if you haven't seen it - it struck me how much I love and am fascinated by improv/sketch comedy. I was just starting to consider what sort of blog entry it would make when - lo, I check out Badger yesterday, and she has BEATEN ME TO IT.

I swear, I was already going to write it! I'm not copying! I mean, I do copy from her ALL THE TIME, but I'm not doing it now!

So, sadly, and as an also-ran, here it is:

I guess it started in college with The Kids in the Hall (and our old home-grown comedy troupe from Columbia, Missouri, the Monkey Wrench Gang - eh? eh? Trish? You were so good at it!) After that, I got into The State on MTV - who morphed later into the cast of Reno 911! - The Upright Citizen's Brigade, and the British version of "Whose Line is it Anyway." (The American version sucked, but I do have a kind of secret admiration for Wayne Brady...especially after I saw him on "Chappelle's Show" mocking his image. Come on, is Wayne Brady going to have to choke a bitch?)

Anyway, I think that part of my appreciation for improv is because, when I watch it, I am totally consumed by wondering how I would do, up there on the stage, in an improv comedy setting. See, I'll never find out, because I am far too frightened to ever try it for reals.

I suspect I wouldn't be good at it. I'm a writer, always more comfortable with the words in front of me; I'm not the best extemporaneous speaker. The nerves get in the way.

But, oh, how I wish that I could just stand up and be funny, off the cuff, all the time.

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Awesome bits of awesomeness, just on comedy in general:

Wayne Brady on Chappelle:


The Kids in the Hall: I've Lost My Indian Drum!


TKITH: The Daves I Know


The State: Kill Tim


and of course the grandfathers of all excellent sketch comedy:

Meme stolen from Bookhart

If I were an hour of the day... I would be 10:00 P.M.
If I were a planet... I would be Venus. (It's cloudy, and mysterious; and HOT. And a bit gassy.)
If I were a direction... I would be West.
If I were a piece of furniture... I would be a pillowtop mattress.
If I were a liquid... I would be a pina colada. With a sparkler and a gardenia in it.
If I were a sin... I would be jealousy.
If I were a rock... I would be mica.
If I were a tree... I would be a palm.
If I were a fruit... I would be a pineapple.
If I were a flower... I would be a hibiscus. (Damn, this pattern of responding is suggesting that maybe I need a beach trip!)
If I were a climate... I would be - what Bookhart said; mid-80's to 90 during the day, 60 at night
If I were a musical instrument... I would be a piano
If I were an element... I would be water
If I were a color... I would be red
If I were an animal... I would be a cat
If I were a sound... I would be "Shave and a haircut, two bits"
If I were music... I would be loud.
If I were a music style... I would be jangly white-boy alternative
If I were a feeling... I would be pleasure
If I were a book... I would be Le Morte d'Arthur
If I were a food... I would be cheese
If I were a place... I would be Bora Bora
If I were a flavor... I would be almond
If I were a scent... I would be vanilla
If I were a word... I would be "fuck"
If I were a verb... I would be "fuck"
If I were an object... I would be a book
If I were a part of the body... I would be the naughty bits
If I were a facial expression... I would be a stoned smile
If I were a cartoon character... I would be Wonder Woman/Diana Prince
If I were a movie... I would be Clue.
If I were a shape... I would be a circle.
If I were a number... I would be 69. Haw!
If I were a season... I would be summer
If I was a sentence... I would be "Holy Christ, I'm tired."

The sum of a cat's life

This is the "Harper's Index" of the summation of the soap opera "Finding Molly" that has occupied me, day and night, during the past week:

Late-night Saturday night animal emergency room visit and 36-hour ER stay: $500

24-hour stay (Monday morning thru Tuesday morning) at the regular vet's office: $75

Tuesday all-day observation and treatment by veterinary specialists and opthamologists at a specialty clinic in South Austin, plus medications: roughly $600

Cost of a cat CT scan that was proposed to me (I declined) - $800-$1000

Projected veterinary visits: possibly many

Number of medications that Molly is currently on: four; two eye drops, and two pills

Number of times per day that I must administer the two different types of eye drops ALONE: four

Diagnosis: Herpes infection in eye and mouth, retinal atrophy (possibly causing disorientation, probably contributing to her getting lost in the first place,) weight loss and dehydration due to being gone so long without food or water. Happily, no kidney or liver failure, though.

Prognosis: She'll lose her eyesight within a year or two, and she may be getting senile. But, she's eaten well since she's been home, and shown every sign of being bloody well relieved that we saved her.

So: in summation; though this has been an enormous friggin' ordeal, I am so glad she's back. And, though I'm shocked beyond reason that saving her cost such an enormous sum of money, I can't think of how I could have not paid it, you know? I take the sucker badge willingly, I suppose.
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On another topic...there are exactly six days of school left.

I have such mixed emotions about this...there's unbridled joy on my part, as my work allows me to follow a school calendar, more or less. (It is my opinion that EVERYONE needs to do this by the way. I believe that the right to a two-month long summer vacation should be written into the constitution.)

But, yes, as always, there is trepidation; what, oh what, will we all do together, all effing summer long?

The summer that OG turned three was such an eye-opener for me. I had so looked forward to spending that summer taking her to the park, to swim lessons, Symphony Square, the library, etc. And, yes, we did all of those things, but in my memory, each event was punctuated by a nightmarish temper tantrum. It was that summer that I really thought that one of us was NOT GOING TO MAKE IT.

YG is three, now. I don't think we'll have quite the same difficulty. Though she is a whining machine, she's not so much for the "throw yourself on the floor and cry" scheme of temper tantrums.

So far, we have a few camps lined up, and are looking for the library and Alamo Drafthouse kids movie schedules. There's swim lessons, of course, and a couple of trips here and there. I'm sure we'll end up at Deep Eddy more often than not.

Yourselves? What are you doing with your children? Anyone got a sweatshop going ?

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OK, my eyes were closed and my head just dipped down a little as I typed this. I think that's a sign.

Stop the Presses!

Molly has been found! And she's alive!

Last night, after a nice gathering over at Clark and Milena's house, The Man and I were just retiring when I thought to look at the answering machine. And, lo, due to OG's signs that I dutifully went with her to hang up (though privately did not feel would help,) there was a phone message sayin that she has been in a backyard, a few houses down.

The Man and I wasted no time in running over there, and when there was no answer to my tentative tapping at the door, I went around to their back fence, as nobody appeared to be home. And, when I heard Molly meow feebly back to me, I totally trespassed and barged into their backyard. (And, that's when I found out that they WERE home. And very nice, thankfully.)

I will not lie to you; she did not look good. She had clearly not eaten or drank anything in four days, and flies had laid eggs in her fur. I rushed her up to the emergency room - and waited for a good hour in a room that was conservatively, oh, 55 degrees - and left her there overnight after they evaluated her.

The good news is that the fly eggs hadn't hatched yet - oh, and can I just say, EWWWWWW? - but, they were JUST about to. They shaved all of those off, and gave her a pill to kill anything else.

The report this morning is that she's eaten a little bit, and is more or less stable, but still needs a lot of care.

Wow; who would have thunk it possible? I must give OG big snaps when she wakes up.

For the record, it's 6:30 A.M. right now, thanks to being woken up by the idiot puppy; I made it home at 2:30 last night. But, despite the lack of sleep, and still more or less unfavorable prognosis for my cat, OG gave me a good gift.

Happy Mother's Day, y'all.

Molly, April, 1994- May, 2007

I'm calling it. 72 hours gone is long enough.

I think she saw the cat carrier, and said, finally, fuck you, I'm not going back to the doctor. I can't believe it took her this long, actually.

Well, Molly...Dizzy got one, so here is yours:

I've had you since you were a week old, and found in a shed outside my work, while I was in graduate school. I've known you longer than almost anyone here; longer than the kids, longer than The Man, even. Since I found you so young, you had not resolved the need to nurse, and you nursed into blankets, cloths, and my shirt your entire life. (Might have caused some of those major neuroses, too, come to think of it.)

Nobody liked you but us. Perhaps it was your vicious, murderous hatred for all of them; we'll never know. But we knew you were deeply sweet inside, and loved nothing in the world more than me. (And kibble.)

I'll miss your grumpy self, sweetie. Karla May, I may finally buy that book.

Sad

My cat, Molly, has been pretty ill for some time, really since about December.

She had a horrible paw infection right before Christmas. After that, she got a lengthy respiratory infection. This was immediately followed by mouth sores that made it difficult to eat, and then an eye infection that would not leave. (My good veterinarian, Dr. Jacob at Brykerwoods, discovered that she had a feline herpes virus, probably contracted at birth, which was causing all of this later stuff.)

Through all of this, Molly has spent many, many nights at the vet's office, hooked up to IV fluids and antibiotics. When she's been home, I've been hitting her at least twice daily with oral antibiotics and eye drops, sometimes more than that.

And - and I cannot stress this enough - she HATED EVERY FUCKING SECOND of all of this. They had to sedate her every time the vet or vet techs wanted to even put their hands in her cage, because she would sooner rip your finger off than let you touch her. And, she would get so depressed, being away from home, that I would generally come get her out a day or so before they wanted me to, just because I didn't want her to give up.

Well, today, I had made an appointment for yet another vet appointment, this time to a veterinary opthamologist, who would hopefully be able to address this nagging eye problem. I didn't feel really optimistic. She's lost a lot of weight, and she was starting to smell a certain way that suggested that there were things wrong inside.

But, sadly, I let Molly outside to sit in the sun yesterday morning. And she - she, who has never left the porch or the back yard, not once, not in thirteen years - has not returned.

I cannot decide whether I should be grieving right now or totally pissed off at her.

By default, I'm grieving.

Warning: NOT for the squeamish!

We have ants. Lots and lots of little, tiny sugar ants, and they are on my bathroom sink.

And I don't know how to get rid of them.

You see, in spite of the fact that I regularly pay incredible sums for Aveda haircare products, I generally subscribe to the hippie-earthy sensibility. I'm an Al Gore devotee, a recycler, a composter. I subdue my convertible dreams so that I may drive a low gas-mileage mom car. (Admittedly, I do harbor a white-hot hatred for buses, but I am working on it. It's not the bus, it's the people that inevitably must sit next to me and talk to me. And the fact that, though I know Capital Metro is generally well-run and on-time, for some reason whenever I have to ride it, it is twenty to thirty minutes late. Twiddling my thumbs at a bus stop, being late for what I want to attend, and knowing I have to ride a bus in order to GET to be LATE there...that is nothing short of a small death to me. But, I digress.)

Thus, I am loath to spray poison all over my house. I have two young children, one of whom may have problems from environmental toxins (I've been listening to the voodoo folk from the HaHaSucker Clinic in West Austin,) plus I have a puppy that does NOT need to lose any of the few brain cells that it currently has.

We have had bugs before. It's an old house; we get silverfish a lot, and about once a year, we do get a couple of trails of sugar ants. I used to call ChemFree, the organic pest control company. They were always very nice, but kind of pricey, and I was never really convinced they were doing anything for the bugs other than giving them a nice herbal spa treatment. Usually, I could get rid of the ants with a couple of bait trays, and that would be the end of it.

But, this year, we apparently have been invaded by hyperintelligent ants, ones that recognize my bait trays, and say to their workers "Comrades, avoid the running dog plastic trays; they are a capitalist tool meant to oppress the masses." I put them down over a week ago, and, as far as I can tell, not one of them has been visited, and the ants keep coming.

So, I went back to the store to see what other sort of non-toxic toxin I could lay down on the little fuckers. I found this stuff:


It's this liquid, see, and it's ostensibly "for sweet-loving ants." (That's what mine are, apparently; one night I came upon a carelessly overlooked dab of toothpaste that had become a scene that was absolutely disgusting. And kind of interesting. I found myself watching them for a long time, actually.) But I digress again.) You squeeze a drop of it onto a piece of cardboard, helpfully provided for you on the back of the box, and set it down in the path of the ants.

So...it's been a week now since I put this crap down. This, friends, was what I saw when I woke up this morning:


GAAAAH! I dutifully put down my little droplets, they guzzle the shit up, and then...they DON'T die, they just come back for more, like it's some big fucking kegger!

I am starting to BREAK DOWN. The box on this Terro stuff says that it may take two weeks to take effect. I'm not sure I can wait that long.

Earth: Consider yourself warned. You have exactly one more week to kill these bastards before I pull out the Agent Orange.

I'm totally serious!

Show of hands:

Who, out there, spent every Saturday morning, between about fourth and sixth grade, at the roller skating rink?

Who, when certain songs come on (e.g. "Bad Girls," "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing" "Babe,") will immediately, and forever, think "skating song?"

Who's with me?

OK, you guys? You are my target audience here. You, skating geeks, are hereby directed to go rent this movie:


(Yes, I KNOW it has Bow Wow in it. I don't care. He's really good, as it turns out. And I'm not even defensive.

Mick turned this movie on for me the other night, and man, is it cute! The story's nothing much - it' s the 70's, a roller rink on the south side of Chicago shuts down, and the gang of roller-skating kids has to take the bus to another part of town if they want to skate. WHICH, of course, they do. There's a badass skater at that rink (who is very hilarious, BTW,) and there's a big skate-off, of course.

But...the skating! Is so awesome! And the soundtrack...which is sadly not available in a package, but should absolutely be assembled on iTunes:

"Flashlight" - Parliament
"Bounce, Rock, Skate, Roll" - Vaughan Mason & Crew
"I Wanna Know Your Name" - Keith Sweat
"Lovely Day" - Bill Withers
"Emotion" - Barry Gibb and Robin Gibb
"Love to Love You Baby" - Donna Summer
"Superman Lover" - Johnny "Guitar" Watson
"I'll Keep Loving You" - Carl Douglas
"Barracuda" - Heart
"Rock the Boat" - Hues Corporation
"Baby Hold On" - Eddie Money
"Kung Fu Fighting" = Carl Douglas
"I'm Your Boogie Man" - K.C. & The Sunshine Band
"Pure Gold" - Earth, Wind & Fire
"Let's Roll" - Chaka Khan
"Easy" - The Commodores
"For All We Know" - Donny Hathaway
"Boogie Fever" - The Sylvers
"Pick Up the Pieces" - The Average White Band
"Le Freak" - Chic
"Hollywood Swinging" - Kool & The Gang
"Get Off" - Foxy
"He's the Greatest Dancer" - Sister Sledge
"Boogie Oogie Oogie" - Taste of Honey

Anyhoo, I can promise you that, while nowhere near a really good movie, it is very enjoyable, and has RAD skating scenes. Plus, if you're bored with the storyline, you can amuse yourself by picking out the cameos (Look! It's Tim Kasurinsky! And Wayne Brady!)
---------------------------------
I'm home, in my nice soft bed, while The Man indulges OG in her biannual desperate desire to go camping.

I really do appreciate that, as, though I like many of the trappings of camping (e.g. hiking, swimming, cooking outside,) I really do not enjoy sleeping outside, particularly not in hot, sweaty Austin.

I probably owe him something. (And, I'm certain that he can come up with some way to repay him.)

Bwah-ha-ha!!!

A totally not-made-up headline that was sent to me by The Man:

Royals To Get A Taste Of Angels' Colon

(Sports Network) - Bartolo Colon attempts to win his third consecutive start off the disabled list tonight for the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, who will be aiming to continue their recent dominance of the Kansas City Royals.


Seriously. I shit you not.

http://www.wsoctv.com/mlb/13222064/detail.html

------------------------------------
On a related note, GOD how I love the wireless, as I post this from a workshop (that is indeed interesting, but hey, I'm ADHD).

Under Pressure

You know, the other day - or maybe it was six months ago, who the fuck knows anymore - on one of the memes I've recently done, I was responding rather quickly to the question "What is your favorite song?"

I responded "Ever Fallen In Love" by The Buzzcocks; however, that's not it, really. I can't believe that I didn't respond "Under Pressure" by Queen with David Bowie.

I just remembered how much I love it when it came on my iPod in the car the other day. Three-year-old in tow and in rush-hour traffic, I cranked that sucker to the limits of what is tasteful to have blaring in a car with a child in it, and sang at the top of my lungs.

My first memories of that song were of the video, of course, that played a lot on MTV the year I first got it, in about ninth grade. That video kicked ass - all those old movie clips, even Nosferatu, I think? Remember?

What, you don't remember? Nostalgic You-Tubing commence!*



Brilliance. (And it was probably really cheap, all cut from stock footage, without any star overhead.)

My sister had the album Queen's Greatest Hits, and maybe one or two others, so being the pilfering bratty sister that I was, when she went away to college, I totally swiped it, along with Meatloaf "Bat out of Hell," the B52's first two albums, some Jonathan Richman, and the entire Ramones oeuvre. For at least my sixteenth summer, the year of the '65 Mustang Convertible, that was my soundtrack.

I took that album, and all of the others, away with me when I went to college, as well. Even in the move towards the People In Black, I still listened to all of them, and always Queen.

Right after college, perhaps the finest concert bill that ever was - Spinal Tap opening for the 75-foot screen version of Queen: Live at Wembly Stadium - came to St. Louis. Chris and I bought tickets and drove all the way down and back for that show. Totally fucking amazing. I will never, ever forget seeing the Tap live, and settling back amongst the thick pot smoke to watch a gigantic Freddy Mercury sing "Bohemian Rhapsody" in what was one of his last concerts, I think. (Weirdly, as many Tap fans as I know, when I tell that story, nobody has ever had any idea what tour I'm talking about. And, damn, it took a lot of searching around to find a website that confirms that I didn't dream it. But I did, and it was apparently May 24, 1992, at the Riverport Ampitheater.)

And, as much as I love many of their songs - jeez, "Bohemian Rhapsody," "You're My Best Friend" "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" "Play the Game" and many many others - I have to think that "Under Pressure" may be my favorite of all. (I have to admit, I'm sucker for a song that builds to a crescendo - see "Meatloaf," above.)

Seriously, think about it; it's a perfect song, starting with that immortal bass line - Wikipedia says that some online music magazine named that the "Best Bass Line of All Time" - followed by David's deep, reassuring baritone:

Pressure pushing down on me
Pressing down on you no man ask for

Then Freddie's punctuated falsetto chimes in, providing a passionate counterpoint:

Under pressure - that burns a building down
Splits a family in two
Puts people on streets

It's the terror of knowing
What the world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming 'Let me out'
Pray tomorrow - gets me higher
Pressure on people - people on streets

By the time Freddie gets to the high howl toward the end and the drums speed the song up, I'm usually in a state of tiny, in-my-own-head-Mom-bliss. Why, indeed, can't we give love, give love, one more chance?

Sigh. And there it is; the Best. Song. Ever. I just thought you should know.

And - and I totally mean this - if I am to meet an untimely end, you are all forthwith instructed to find a karaoke machine for my funeral, and you are all to sing this song aloud, at the top of your lungs.
---------------------------------
Oh, and the green tomato debacle had a minorly happy ending. I roasted the skins off those suckers and combined the flesh with a serrano, some onion, garlic, cumin, and lime juice (and would have put in cilantro, had I had some), and made a Roasted Green Tomato salsa. And it was actually pretty good, considering I had no idea what I was doing.

My cleverness astounds me at times.
----------------------------------
*The YouTube link to the video doesn't seem to be working this morning. Farg.

TELL me this isn't grounds for child abuse!

My evil three-year-old child PICKED ALL of the baby tomatoes off of my tomato plants.

See? See?



Can I beat her soundly and repeatedly about the head and neck for this?

No?

How about a sharp poke in the ribs?

GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!

How to Avoid Jury Duty

I woke this morning vaguely hung over and pissed.

The vague hangover, not severe, was due to a nice Girl's Night Out venture over to Water 2 Wine, the interesting little shop over on Anderson Lane. (Hey, Anita, there's one in Denver, too.) The concept is this: They buy "raw" wine from vineyards all over the world, mix it and ferment it themselves, and then bottle it. The wine is the same as that which comes from the vineyard, but it doesn't have sulfites, and you don't have to pay tax on it for some reason. And, if you so choose, you may bottle and ferment your own batch, and make your own label (for holidays, special occasions, and whatnot). They're REALLY free with the samples...I think we tasted like eleven wines, and by "taste," I mean like 1/3 - 1/2 a glass.

The pissed? Jury duty. And on the very day of the OG's Field Day, a very big occasion at her school at which ALL of the parents of any quality whatsoever must attend, or else be shamed.

In said frame of mind, I got up - sans The Man, who was getting in his Quality Parenting Points by helping the P.E. teacher set up for the Field Day starting at 6:30 A. fucking M. - got myself in some sort of order, smeared sunscreen on OG, rushed her to school, dropped YG off with The Man to transport to her school, and then drove over to a nondescript courthouse that, though I frequently drive this road, I never knew was there. (When I think "courthouse," I tend to think "stately," not "strip mall," but there it was.)

I got there, and sat and read the New Yorker for about an hour - which was actually a fairly pleasant bit of quality time, come to think of it. But, I really, really didn't want to be called to serve on the jury. I'm in a world of hurt at work, and I did feel bad about missing the little bit of Field Day that I could have seen. So, I wondered, privately - what exactly could I say, or do, to get out of this, if I were called? Could I fake a mental illness? Should I come in snarling and drooling, walking like Igor from Young Frankenstein?

But, when we got into the courtroom and sat before the judge, I was humbled into mute silence. The judge was small of frame but big of presence. She read the patter about the importance civic duty - even if it is for something small, like a traffic offense, which this was - and I just sat with my hands folded and nodded solemnly. Yes, ma'am, I absolutely swear to tell the truth. When she asked if anyone had any factors that would preclude them from serving on the jury, I shook my head no, as we all did.

After this, the handsome young lawyer from the state - at least seven years younger than I am, but I digress - got up and asked, "I know that none of you have an exclusionary reason to be here, but we want a fair trial...do any of you not want to be here?"

I thought about answering that, but I just couldn't bear to raise my hand. Nobody said anything for a bit, and then one person mumbled some excuse about work or something. Then, the lady sitting next to me pipes up with, "Excuse me, but it's Field Day at my daughter's school, [OG's Elementary,] and ALL the mothers are already there, and I'd really like to go."

So, you know, I was afraid to say anything on my own, but with that lead-in, I somehow managed to say, lamely, "Um...me too! What she said! The same school!"

As we waited, I have to admit that I was sort of intrigued by the questions that the lawyers started asking us. They started with "Have any of you ever been in an accident?" Many of us had. "Have any of you ever gotten a ticket for being in an accident?" Again, several said yes. "Do any of you have a commercial driver's license?" No, none of us did; several were related to people with one.

Then, there was the one that floored me - "Do any of you watch NASCAR, or Cops?" Hmmm. Not me so much, but one guy raised his hand. Then, he asks, "Do you know what a 'pit maneuver' is?" The guy says, yes, he does, it's when a car hits another car from behind at an angle, so the car in front spins out of control.

And THEN, he asks, "Do any of you think you would be prejudiced, knowing these circumstances, and that the defendant was the driver of a cement truck?" Really? Honestly? You've paired a reference to "NASCAR" with the term "cement truck?" Uh...maybe I am!

(Then, the lady next to me - the same lady with a daughter at my kid's school - says, "Yes, I really hate bad drivers, and what you did was HORRIBLE." So, needless to say, she was totally off the jury.)

In the end, I didn't get picked, and scurried off to see the last race of the day before heading into the last dregs of my workday (nada accomplished). I will admit, I kind of wanted to find out about NASCAR Concrete Guy. But, all in all, it was a good thing. I got in some face time with the girl - and more importantly, the OTHER MOTHERS. I feel much better.

But will they do Stonehenge?

From Yahoo News:

Mock Metal Group Spinal Tap to Reunite

Spinal Tap is back, and this time the band wants to help save the world from global warming.

The mock heavy metal group immortalized in the 1984 mockumentary, "This is Spinal Tap," will reunite for a performance at Wembley Stadium in London as part of the Live Earth concerts scheduled worldwide for July 7.

The original members of Spinal Tap will be there: guitarist Nigel Tufnel (played by Christopher Guest), singer David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) and bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer). Rob Reiner, who both directed "This is Spinal Tap" and played the fake documentarian Marty DeBergi in the film, will also be in attendance.

A new 15-minute film directed by Reiner on the band's reunion will also play at the opening night of the Tribeca Film Festival in New York on Wednesday. The slate for the opening gala, to be hosted by Al Gore, was previously announced, excepting the Reiner short.

The festival is to open with a showing of several global warming-themed short films produced by the SOS (Save Our Selves) campaign. SOS is also putting on the Live Earth concerts, to be held across seven continents.

Reiner spoke to The Associated Press on Tuesday to explain the reunion of Spinal Tap — a band always known more as a parody of rock `n roll excess than environmental awareness.

"They're not that environmentally conscious, but they've heard of global warming," said Reiner, whose other films include "When Harry Met Sally" and "Stand By Me." "Nigel thought it was just because he was wearing too much clothing — that if he just took his jacket off it would be cooler."

Spinal Tap has reunited several times since the film, but hasn't for a number of years. For the band — whose last album was 1992's "Break like the Wind" — the occasion warranted a new single: "Warmer Than Hell."

Reiner provided a sneak peak at the lyrics: "The devil went to Devon, it felt like the fourth degree/ He said, `Is it hot in here, or is it only me?'"

The director said the new short film explains what the band has been doing with their lives lately. Nigel has been raising miniature horses to race, but can't find jockeys small enough to ride them; David is now a hip-hop producer who also runs a colonic clinic; and Derek is in rehab for addiction to the Internet.

Reiner, 60, has for over 20 years worked with the National Resources Defense Council, an environmental action organization. Though the Spinal Tap reunion will be a lot of laughs, he hopes the SOS short films program and the Live Earth concerts have a substantial effect.

"What I think is going to be nice about this whole effort is there will be marching orders for people," said Reiner. "Not only from a personal standpoint of what individuals can do in their lives, but a macro perspective with respect to the public sector and government."

Writer's Block

Man, I'm really stuck. I've started like five posts and subsequently abandoned them.

And, there's so much I had planned to tell you. There was last week's drive out to Llano to see bluebonnets, the NIGHTMARISH annual trip to Sears Portrait Studio, the very fun country swing dance out t' Twin Sisters Dance Hall, a funny yet searingly poignant meditation on my ever-softening gut, and of course the ongoing saga of What To Do With The Older Girl Who Has Clearly Gone Insane.

I swore I'd pour it all out tonight...and then this violent backache hit me. It was bad enough for me to pull out my ever-dwindling stash of pain medication left over from my bunion surgery last February. I started with the Darvocet; it didn't do anything, hence I went for the big guns and took a Demerol. So, instead of channeling the muse (Who is the Blog Muse, anyway? Does she wear leg warmers, like in Xanadu?) I'm lying here on my bed, trying not to move, and waiting for the blessed stupor to kick in.

Oh, yes, back in the day, I'd have jump started this pain medication with additional substances. Don't think it's not tempting, as it is NOT WORKING FAST ENOUGH, but given the lateness of the hour - and the probable badness of the idea - I will resist slamming down a Cabernet chaser. FOR NOW. (Honestly, though, I don't get people who truly abuse this stuff, or who take it all the time. It makes me sick to my stomach and constipated. For which I'm sure you're thrilled that I cared enough to share.)
------------------------------
Though I'm not up to telling the story, I must share at least one picture from the Sears Portrait Studio Hell session, though.

Wow. How sweet they are! There's no inkling whatsoever that I almost left them there, to be raised by the clueless photo girls! After they were an HOUR late showing up for work...and I of course had the first appointment, because I have a hyperactive child who hates a) waiting, b) dressing up, and c) having her picture taken! So, we got to agonize about it for a full hour, on top of the photo session taking forever, because, um, HYPERACTIVE, and then of course there's the viewing and the picking.

In a nutshell, we were sitting in Sears Hell, alternately killing time and making threats, for more than 2 1/2 hours. The girls and The Man were hungry, tired, and pissed.

OG wanted to know why we always have to do this. I tell her, it's for the memories...
-----------------------------
now I go sleeeep......

Don't you think I need this dress?

It's lined, and has a built-in petticoat.

I think I need this dress.

Would you please tell my husband that I need this dress, and that it's TOTALLY worth $115?

This is not my beautiful life!

Lord, how my life has changed since I moved to Texas.

FIfteen years ago, I never, EVER, would have thought that I would personally, and unironically, purchase ONE pair of these:

....LET ALONE, TWO:

...because I was going to my annual country swing dance out in the Hill Country this weekend?

And yet, there they are. The real deal, from Sheplers, where they sell the hardcore cowboy stuff...and not even from some postironic hipster enclave on South Congress run by people with expensive eyewear.

What, in the hell, is wrong with me? That I really like them, and I even think they're kinda sexy with a flouncy skirt?

I think it's true, what Paula Poundstone said. You never think about cowboy boots until you go to Texas, and then you're like, "Do you have anything in...kitten?"
-------------------------
Oh, I made Badger's suggested Ropa Vecchia this weekend. It's really easy...just cook the shit out of an old tough chuck roast - mine was like 10 hours in the crock pot - and then, when it's super-tender, shred it in a tasty Italian sauce with lots of garlic. Serve it with a some unpretentious red wine, a salad, some good parmesan cheese, and some rosemary bread (started in the breadmaker and then baked in the oven,) and you are guaranteed a darn fine meal.

The short ribs experiment the next day did not go as well. Almost all of the recipes that I found suggested a crock pot or a long slow boil. I was certain that I could put barbecue sauce on them and cook them in the oven over a pan of water. Fuck, it was like four hours later when they finally became edible. And, they're really fatty. They were tasty, I suppose, when you finally got down to the meat part...but not really worth all that effort and my superheated house.

No ideas for this weekend, though. Busy life, needy children, trying to eat light, sick to death of chicken. Who has a bright idea for me?
-------------------------
OK, tell me, the layout. Do the pictures and stuff look all messed up? On my Firefox, it's totally fucked. Pictures where they aren't supposed to be, no sidebar...BUT, it looks OK on Safari and Explorer.

Is that happening to anyone else? I've read up on the FAQ's on the Blogger website, and I still don't know how to fix it.

And does this color make me look fat?

For my 200th post...

I'm trying to change my template.

And I kind of hate it.

What is this, you say, of "dragging and dropping" my page parts around? There is no of the dragging and dropping on my Firefox! There is just the click click click click and there is nothing of the dragging.

And the Safari is not much better.

And I lost my SiteMeter!

And my links are fucked!

Wahhhh!

Jeez

What a terrible day.

Those poor kids. I ache so for their parents.

Sigh; can't be funny tonight.

Parent of The Year Award

Last Saturday was a bit of a trying day for me and the OG. By about mid-afternoon, there had been lot of ignoring of my words, a lot of overreactions, and more than a few thinly veiled (or completely naked) threats.

So, when you take all that into consideration, the tale I tell of my ensuing horrible mood will hopefully be more easily forgotten.

You've "seen red" with your kids before, haven't you? Please tell me that you have.

OK, internets, this is what happened.

We have this sixty-year-old house, with sixty-year-old beautiful, extremely heavy wood windows. Sadly, many are just holding on to functionality, and I've certainly sunk a significant amount of money into fixing them. There's one, though, that can't be fixed, and just will not stay up any longer. To remedy this, we paid a contractor guy to drill some holes into the window frame and cut a couple of dowels to shove into the holes to hold up the window, when we want it up.

(Yes, I TOLD you that we don't know how to do any fix-it-yourself projects.)

Anyway, this window, without any hinges and pulleys to hold it up, is extremely heavy. It could break a kid's arm or hurt an animal if it fell on them, and it falls fast. it was a nice day, and said window was up. I was in the kitchen, cleaning up some glasses and dishes and such. From around the corner, I hear a strange pounding sound. When I turn the corner, dishes in hand, I see OG, hanging from the top of the open window. A good ways off the floor; I guess she stood on her little chair to get up there. She was standing on the windowsill, maybe, and literally jumping onto and pounding the top of the windowsill to try to get the window closed.

To complete the picture, there were also a kitten and a puppy right under her feet. In that nanosecond, I became completely unable to employ the nice phraseology that the psychologist is teaching us to use. Literally all that was in my head were the thoughts dead kid dead dog fractured wrist dead cat broken window glass everywhere fuck fuck fuck.

So, this was our interaction:

Me: "OG, GET DOWN!"

OG: "I want the window down!" (pound, pound, pound)

Me: "OG! GET! DOWN! That window is held up by DOWELS! It will not hold you! GET DOWN NOW!"

OG: (still hanging on the window) "But I'm cold and I want the window down!" (pound, pound, pound)

Me: (walking forwards) "GET. DOWN. NOOOOWW!''

She stares at me with a blank stare.

And then, folks, I did it. I stuck my hand into my glass of water, and flicked water on her face. (It wasn't a lot, and most of it went on the wall behind her.)

She looked at me sort of stunned, and then got the hell down.

She sat on the couch, and she said, "Why did you flick water on my face?" By this point, I'm so stunned by my own actions that I'm kind of amused. So, I replied with this gem, "Because I can't slap you!!" (Thankfully, a twitch of a smile crossed her face.)

Me: (calmer) "OG, when I say get down, I mean GET DOWN NOW, and don't keep hanging there!"

OG: "But...I didn't know what 'dowels' were."

Me: "What?"

OG: "Dowels. You said it was held up with dowels, and I didn't know what they were."

Me: "UM, THAT IS NOT ACTUALLY THE POINT."

And, thus, I win Parent of the Year. And, we've all learned a valuable lesson. OG only listens when Mom goes

GNO, RomZomCom

Interestingly enough, I have been invited to four separate "girls' night out" get-togethers this week.

I attended two of them, one of which was a gathering of mothers from my daughter's school (! There were shots! OF TUACA!), and the other was a nice get-together with Karla May and the Malcontent Mama, and their darling daughters. With that kind of invitation, YG of course could not resist coming with, and - voila, a BIG GIRL PARTY ensued.

Of course, I'm so grateful that anyone thinks of me - ever - to invite to parties, I'm absolutely not complaining about the invitations. The more reassurance I get that I'm a reasonably normal and social human being, the better. And I had a very excellent time at both gatherings, especially at Karla May's. That was a lovely way to cap off the weekend.

But, for me personally this week, I'm starting to wonder...when do my "nights out" end, if I'm attending four in a week? Does this at some point not change from "Girls' Night Out" into "Mom's Week-Long Bender?"
---------------------------------------
I watched Shaun of the Dead yet again this weekend. On basic cable, even, with commercials and all the cursing cut out of it. And, I was once again reminded that this is a PERFECT MOVIE, and one that I will apparently watch whenever it is on, from start to finish.

(Note: There are spoilers ahead. Skip this next part if you haven't seen it. And go rent it today, goddamnit. Trust the Mags.)

First of all, I love the genre-bending aspect of it. It manages to be an absolutely hysterical horror-movie spoof, a sweet romantic comedy, and a reasonably creepy zombie flick, all in the same breath. It's even very nuanced and touching in parts, especially in the multilayered interactions between Shaun and his stepfather and his mother. Even the broadest comedic parts - yes, even Ed - are written with some level of depth and backstory to them. God help you, you even end up caring about David and Dianne to some degree, by the end of it. (Even if David is being a TWAT!)

Next, I cannot remember a movie in recent history that has had such amazing dialogue. I knew - I just knew - that this was going to be a movie for the ages when I saw the scene where Shaun and Ed are having to resort to throwing vinyl albums at the zombies, and they debate the relative merits of each album before they do so. Fucking priceless.

And, not to be ignored, is the soundtrack. Queen! My jaw absolutely dropped when they went on the zombie-killing rampage to "Don't Stop Me Now." And, of course, the ending scene, with "You're My Best Friend." This, friends, is the definition of note perfect.

I am so sold on these guys' new movie, Hot Fuzz, which is coming out shortly. I believe that it, as was true of Shaun of the Dead, is already a huge hit in England. It's nice to see that the comedies I love are still rolling off of that isle.

Alanis covers Fergie!

Most amusing...

Life's Little Victories

Anita reminded me of a little joy I experienced last week.

Y'see, I've never been "officially" fitted for a bra. My mother, who is considerably smaller than I am frame-wise (but not boob-wise,) always wore a 38 D, and that is what I assumed I wore, too. O'er these long years, my mother continued to be smaller than I am, and I sure as hell never got around to shrinking to waif-like proportions.

At some point, I became somewhat concerned that I was wearing the wrong size. However, I have an irrational fear of tape measures, especially when they come near my body. Especially after the pregnancies and subsequent looooong breastfeeding of two children, I became convinced that I was actually far bigger than the 38D I'd been buying lo these many years.

But, let one of those shrieking harpies near me with a tape measure? To find out that I'm actually a 52 Triple F? Fuck that! So, I quietly began buying size 40 bras. Weirdly, though, they just didn't seem to "do" anything for me in the area of lift-n-perk, you know what I'm saying? I was finding myself, after getting dressed in the mornings, staring downward, and thinking, "No, I'm just not satisfied with my boobs this morning."

Bra-wise, it was getting pretty awful in the lingerie drawer. I had resorted to attempting to sew up the holes where the underwires had begun to pop out, because I'm pathetic and poor (and the product of my mother, who I believe has kept every cottage-cheese container that she has EVER EMPTIED).

So, last weekend, I made the dreaded trek to Dillard's, grudgingly, feeling that if I perhaps paid for something better than Ross, Target, or Mervyns once in a while, my shit wouldn't FALL APART so much. I walked over to the not-$70-a-pop rack, and picked out a couple of likely candidates. I walked up to the cash register to pay, and then it occured to me - Hey! I don't have my kids with me! I could actually try something on without threatening anyone! So, I dodged into the dressing room, thankful for some alone time.

But - not so fast, here comes the LADY WITH THE TAPE MEASURE. Fuck.

Actually, though, the bra that I'm trying on just doesn't seem to be working out, either. It's gappy and bendy and weird. So, I reluctantly flag the titlady down, to ask what I'm doing wrong.

So, she measures me.

So, I'm not a 38D, or a 40C. According to this woman, and confirmed by the other titlady who happened to be standing next to her (it was FREE SHOW time at the Dillard's, apparently,) I am a...36D!

For once in my fucking life, I'm smaller than I thought I was! Woohoo!

And...well, that's really it. After all that lead-up, you'd think it would have been a better story. Erm, sorry.

It's too cold to post anything original!

Yes, you heard that right. Last weekend, 85 degrees and sunburns. This week, thirty-fucking-five degrees and SLEET.

Do that math.

Jeeminy.

So, you get a meme, stolen from just about every damn person I know and/or read.

10 FAVORITES
Favorite Color: Black for shoes and clothes, red otherwise
Favorite Food: Cheese
Favorite Month: June
Favorite Song: What day is it? I don't think I can pick one. But, "Ever Fallen In Love," by the Buzzcocks, springs to mind, so there you go.
Favorite Movie: Again, do you ask me to pick my children? OK, first thing that pops to mind is "Young Frankenstein." (Ooh, but there's "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," too. Crap.
Favorite Sport: College football
Favorite Season: Summer
Favorite Day of the week: Thursday
Favorite Ice Cream Flavor: Coconut with real, dark, yummy chocolate chips and almonds
Favorite Time of Day: 10:00 PM

9 CURRENTS
Current Mood: Slightly tipsy
Current Taste: a Spanish Rioja
Current Clothes: Eddie Bauer jeans (my mother's comment tonight: "Are you wearing bell-bottoms?") and a brown long-sleeved knit top that I had thought was put away for the season
Current Desktop: a 60's Shag-esque swirly dot motif in purple, blue, and teal
Current Toenail Color: nekkid
Current Time: 10:05 P.M.
Current Surroundings: Living Room! 'Cause I'm working on my LAPTOP!
Current Thoughts: "Oh, yay, there's a murderer loose near my neighborhood. Go lock the doors, honey!"

8 FIRSTS
First Best Friend: Jimmy Black; second grade.
First Kiss: Jimmy Black; second grade. (And don't let on like it wasn't the most memorable fucking thing in your life, JB.)
First Screen Name: Mags
First Pet: A Manx cat named Maxine. Due to my young age, shortly afterwards she "became" my mother's, and I was claimed by her son, Tynwald. Best. Cat. Ever.
First Piercing: Ears. 15 years old, in Ocean City, Maryland, with my friend Debbie Davis. (My mother wouldn't ever let me do it, so I did it on my first vacation away from her, ever. Because I'm sneaky like that.)
First Crush: Jimmy Black, second grade.
First CD: Meatloaf, Bat out of Hell. (Oh, youngun, you mean my first ALBUM? Because that, child, was Shaun Cassidy's eponymous debut.)

7 LASTS
Last Cigarette: The SXSW party a few weeks ago. Prior to that was...well, whenever I saw Karla last.
Last Car Ride: Hair salon, Bark-n-Purr (What? You want $26 for that case of effing CAT FOOD? Oh...so it WON'T poison my cats, you say? Sigh. Erm...OK. Fuck.), La Casita for awesome tacos, and then H.E.B. for milk and T.P. and such.
Last Kiss: OG, who was very sweet this evening, after a bit of a trying start this morning.
Last Movie Seen: In the theater - "The Queen," at home, "Strangers With Candy."
Last Phone Call: my sister
Last CD Played: Fountains of Wayne. But I have the decency to be embarrassed about it.

6 HAVE YOU EVERS
Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Guy Friends: Define "dated."
Have You Ever Broken the Law: Yes, but I was very nervous about it. Every time.
Have You Ever Been Arrested: Yes, twice, both at age 16. Once for driving with alcohol in my car (it wasn't mine, and I didn't drink any of it,) and once for careless and imprudent driving.
Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: Yes. Grew up on a lake, y'see.
Have You Ever Been on TV: Yes, age 11, when I was interviewed for the local TV station for playing Queen Gertrude in Hamlet in the 6th grade. Since then, it's been incidental; "Hey, look, there's me (at Austin City Limits, at that peace march, at some concert at Auditorium Shores.)
Have You Ever Kissed Someone You Didn’t Know: Erm, yes, isn't that what my parents financed college for?

5 THINGS
Thing You’re Wearing: As I stated, boring brown knit top, probably from Ross. It's warm, though.
Thing You’ve Done Today: HEB shopped. And why? Because they have cascarones!
Thing You Can Hear Right Now: KXAN news at 10; fixin' to be SNL, which I will probably turn off after the first skit or two. Because it sucks so hard.
Thing You Can’t Live Without: The Man. Is he a thing? How about a vibrator? Same diff.
Thing You Do When You’re Bored: Web surf.

4 PLACES YOU'VE BEEN TODAY
1. My yard, several times, with the puppy, in the sleet.
2. H.E.B.
3. La Casita
4. Bark-N-PUrr

3 PEOPLE YOU CAN TELL ANYTHING TO
1. The Man
2. Anita
3. Connie

(There are more...Erin, Tricia, Christie, Mick...but it said three.)

2 CHOICES
1. Black or White: Black
2. Hot or Cold: Hot

1 THING YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE
Fuck. Both Bookhart and Karla said "Live in London for a year." But I DO WANT TO LIVE IN LONDON! OK, I'll go with "Visit the South Seas."

-------------------------------
Updates...Kerry's in chemo, and sounding positive in her e-mails, though she's apparently being tortured with the Hodgkins/Non-Hodgkins debate. Hang in there, K. Good thoughts abound. And, Dave and Shannon had their baby...I heard he was nine pounds, ten ounces, or something like that? Congrats, Dave, and you owe her BIG TIME.

OG is in OT, officially. The OT wants me to go consult with some crazy-ass alternative medicine practitioners who deal with disorders like she has (e.g. executive function stuff like ADHD, Tourette's, OCD, and Asperger's/high-functioning autism,) and who are IN NO WAY covered by my insurance.

I just don't know where to go with all this. We're talking testing for "food sensitivities" "heavy metal exposure" (e.g. via thimerosol in the vaccines,) and other theories that are not endorsed by most western doctors. And, I just don't know what to do about it. Western medicine has produced only middling results. Medication works - except when it often doesn't - and cognitive behavioral therapy works - except when I'm tired and forget to practice it. I do have an open mind to alternative medicine, but I do not have a bottomless pocketbook with which I can trifle with quackery, you know?

Damn, though, if I could "cure" her by just cutting, say, milk or wheat out of her diet...that is tempting. I'm just the sucka they want to talk to, I'm sure.

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Gosh, listen to me go on and on. And you? How are you today?

Absentia

A visit from Mom is afoot.

It hath allowed me to get my hair colored this morning (joy!) and my younger daughter baby-sat on the Friday off from school that I completely spaced off until, like, Wednesday.

I have to make conversation, and such. More later.

Stop the Presses!

Breaking news, folks...I just won the Bobnoxious Brigade March Madness Bracket Contest!

Yes, it's true...out of 58 (!) people, paying 10 dollars eaches, I chose the most winning teams.

I was coerced into it by my husband. I spent exactly five minutes on my bracket, armed with intuition only - and a vague understanding of who is good in college basketball - as my guide. And I WON $340!!!!!!

Sweet. Aveda hair color, here I come. Do I want the Color Conserve shampoo and conditioner with that, and maybe that new Uruku Eye Accent shadow? Why, yes! Yes, I do!

**late add... totally go check out my husband's bitter, jealous comments to this post. So transparent!

Closure

(Note: The Man made me - well, OK, he suggested that I should - excise this latest commentary on the last and final comeuppance of my personnel review, fearing for my professional life, 'cause I'm all petty and name-callingy in it.)

That's a shame, as it was funny.

If you know me, and you want to read it, e-mail me and I'll send it to you.
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It's YG's third birthday today. This was the conversation we had tonight, as I was putting her to bed:

Me: "Happy third birthday, honey."

YG: "Yes, I am three now."

Me: "You know, three years ago tonight I was holding my brand-new, newborn baby girl. And it was you."

YG: "And you were a princess?"

Me: "Erm...no, not exactly. I was not looking very princessy."

Anyway, happy birthday, sweetie. You're fabulous and funny. Good luck with the genetic stew.

I got nothin'.

Yes, it's me; yes, I do have a blog. No, I have no excuses for not having posted anything meaningful in, like, ever.

I'm appear to be in a creative dry spell. Where's that AstroGlide?

--------------------------------
YG got a trip to Amy's Ice Cream with a couple of her buddies today to celebrate turning three. (The actual birthday day is tomorrow.) As is true to form of the typical three-year-old, she talked about this party all week long, asking repeatedly about when she was going to get cake and ice cream and have her friends sing to her and so on and so forth - AND, when it was actually time to sing "Happy Birthday" to her, she refused to a) come over to the table, b) blow out her candles, and c) eat a damn bite of cake. In all the pictures, I'm, like, literally holding up her slumping body by the arms, FORCING her to receive the singing. And, I'm in a tank top and bending over, so my boobs are, shall we say, prominent.

(And why, may I add, do I always have to do some sort of child management when I'm in a tank top? If I'm wearing a ginormous t-shirt and a jog bra, I don't seem to ever be bending over or kneeling down or pulling a screaming kiddo away from something. But, you get me in spaghetti straps and a tenuous little strapless bra, and then I suddenly have to engage in some sort of wrestling match.)

Despite all her fears to the contrary, OG made it through her sister's party without a panic attack or a major disciplinary event. She was moody - especially when she got hot; it was 85 degrees, after all - and fairly solitary, but reasonably stable. So, there's that, which is better than the alternative by a long stretch...but, I must say, I'm really wondering if there's going to be a point, ever, that she is just normal and pleasant to others without having to be programmed or bribed into doing so. Will empathy ever develop? Will she end up being an asshole as an adult? Please, please, not. There are enough assholes in the world.
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And that's all I have. World, forgive; it's been a taxing few weeks.

Except this:

Your Theme Song is Beautiful Day by U2

"Sky falls, you feel like It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away" You see the beauty in life, especially in ordinary everyday moments. And if you're feeling down, even that seems a little beautiful too.

What's Your Theme Song?

Random Crap What I Got Forwarded

Why? Because you deserve the best, darlings.

Menopause Jewelry

My husband, being unhappy with my mood swings,
bought me a mood ring the other day so he would be
able to monitor my moods.

We've discovered that when I'm in a good mood, it turns green.
When I'm in a bad mood, it leaves a big
fucking red mark on his forehead.

Maybe next time he'll buy me a diamond.

--------------------------
I'll admit it, I laughed.