Magnum Opus

Not Exactly Jesus, But Just As Impressive

2012-01-21T11:27:00.000-06:00

I've been away for a while and it seems I've lost touch with my dark side, my angry side, my snarky side, my downright hateful side. That side is a huge part of me and frankly, I've missed it. Enough of the Suzy Creamcheese I'm forced to show on my other blog ~ I'm tired of pretending to be always cheerful, creative, upbeat and perky. I'm so much more myself when I let my mean out.

This post isn't exactly about mean, but is pretty disgusting and the subject matter made me think of another post I wrote, which made me think of Faux Ma, which in turn poked at that part of me which has been repressed for the sake of tolerant harmony and support.

The other day Boyfriend and I were having our little dinner together. It had been a busy day for Boyfriend so instead of either of us cooking he brought home some Bruegger's bagle sandwiches. To go along with them we had some potato chips.

I'm not one to get all hyped up over seeing the face of Jesus in an overdone tortilla or the image of the Virgin Mary peering through the crust of a freshly baked loaf of bread. But people travel from far and wide to get a glimpse of these occurrences, claiming they're divine, a message from God. Nor do I get too excited over vegetables that grow to look the face of Richard Nixon or Abraham Lincoln. Like the holy images, these vegetables become famous enough to make the local news.

As Boyfriend and I were munching away on our sandwiches and chatting away about our day I picked up a potato chip. My eyes widened a snicker came out of my nose as it would a nasty-minded 4th grader. I showed the chip to Boyfriend and all he could say was, "Good God." Neither of us could eat the potato chip and still, to this day, sits in a pretty green bowl on our kitchen countertop. It seems wrong to throw away such a freakish creation, and yet neither of us could bring ourselves to eat it.

I'm not kidding you. It's a cooter chip. Feast your eyes on this crispy vision of loveliness. I ask you, could you eat it? Do you think I should contact the local news team to cover this story? Would people come from other lands to get a glimpse of, or even worship, the cooter chip? Could I make millions off of this? Have I completely lost my mind in spending time photographing and writing about the cooter chip? Am I a lesbian? The questions just keep coming and I can't decide what to make of it all.

What would you do if you came across a cooter chip on your plate? Would you blush? Would you gobble it up before anyone could identify the fact that you were eating a cooter in plain view? Would you pass it around to show all of your friends?

Such is the life of someone who doesn't get out much, looking for fame and fortune in the discovery of a cooter chip. I doubt anything will become of my find, but here it will stay for all of eternity, on Meredith's blog filled with all things childish and disgusting.

Fie Fo

2012-01-11T20:00:00.001-06:00

Dear Charlotte,
Thank you.
Love,
Blackie

Do you mean it ?
Do you mean it ?
Do you mean it ?
Why don't you mean it ?
Why do I follow you and where do you go
Aah aah aah aah aah aah

You've never seen nothing like it no never in your life
Like going up to heaven and then coming back alive
Let me tell you all about it
And the world will so allow it
Ooh give me a little time to choose
Water babies singing in a lily-pool delight
Blue powder monkeys praying in the dead of night
Here comes the Black Queen, poking in the pile
Fie-fo the black Queen, marching single file
Take this, take that, bring them down to size
March to the Black Queen
Put them in the cellar with the naughty boys
A little nigger sugar then a rub-a-dub-a baby oil
(aah aah) black on (aah aah), black on every finger nail and toe
We've only begun - begun
Make this, make that, keep making all that noise
March to the Black Queen
Now I've got a belly-full
You can be my sugar-baby, you can be my honey-chile, yes
La laa la laa la laa la laa la la la la la laa
La laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa
A voice from behind me reminds me
(tra la laa tra la laa aaah)
Spread out your wings you are an angel
Remember to deliver with the speed of light
A little bit of love and joy
Everything you do (will bear a will) bears a will and a why and a wherefore
A little bit of love and joy
In each and every soul lies a man, very soon he'll deceive and discover
But even till the end of his life, he'll bring a little love
Aah ah aah
La la la la laa
Ah ah ah ah aah
Ah la la la laa
I reign with my left hand, I rule with my right
I'm lord of all darkness, I'm Queen of the night
I've got the power - now do the march of the Black Queen
My life is in your hands, I'll fo and I'll fie
I'll be what you make me, I'll do what you like
I'll be a bad boy - I'll be your bad boy - I'll do the march of the Black Queen
Ah aah ah aah
Ah aah ah aah
Walking true to style
She's vulgar 'buse and vile
Fie-fo the Black Queen, tattoos all her pies
She boils and she bakes, and she never dots her "I's"
She's our leader
La la la la laa la la laa
La la la la la laa
Forget your singalongs and your lullabies
Surrender to the city of the fireflies
Dance with the devil in beat with the band
To hell with all of you hand-in-hand
But now it's time to be gone - (la la la laaa) forever - forever
La la la laaa aaah aah aah aaah
Written by Freddie Mercury.
Sung by Freddie Mercury.

Pinky! Get Off The Rail!

2011-04-28T10:16:00.000-05:00

OK, well, I keep bugging a blogger friend of mine (who shall remain nameless for fear she will get defensive and lash out in a most unbecoming way) to get busy and write on her blog for crying out loud. What in the hell do you create a blog for if you aren't going to write on it? Well, I realized it's been a while since I've written on my own blog so I guess I can't cast stones.

But because I love to cast stones and need to feel superior to most people in general I decided to dash off a little post here. I have no idea what it's going to say, which means it will be completely worthless, but at least I'll have a new post up, which is more than I can say for some people who haven't written anything in over a year.

Psychology Lesson: The defense mechanism labeled Projection in the immature stage (as opposed to the neurotic stage or the pathological stage) is defined as a reducing anxiety by attributing one's own unacknowledged unacceptable/unwanted thoughts and emotions [or blog-writing practices] to another.

Long and short, I'm the mental one because not only am I not writing blog posts I also have an immature need to blame other people for not writing blog posts while ignoring the fact that I don't write blog posts.

See? I told you this would amount to nothing. Except dig this...

Get it? Pink Freud. Good thing I take my psychology degree so seriously. On the other hand, Dr. Freud would probably applaud my healthy superego, which is nice enough to let my ego make jokes in order to soothe my otherwise troubled emotional state.

Begosh And Begorrah

2011-03-17T06:01:00.002-05:00

Today I *ahem* "celebrate" thirty-one years of service with the public sector. I know, I've been with this job longer than a lot of you have been alive, but I assure you it was very unintentional. Thirty-one years of beige walls. Thirty-one years of customers who suck the life right out of you, some with really sad stories and others who manipulate the system to avoid being productive members of society. Thirty-one years of seeing different administrations come and go. I especially loved the last six years of no raise, which will probably remain the trend until I retire. At this point of my working life I can say it will all be worth it only when I'm loafing around in a hammock collecting my pension.

Today is also St. Patrick's Day. Happy that, to whomever welcomes the greeting. I don't normally go to my day job on St. Patrick's Day, my work anniversary, because St. Patrick's Day in St. Paul, MN can be a little rambunctious. I recall many years ago having to take the bus to and from work, and the ride home on St. Patrick's Day usually consisted of much raucous talk and even a bit of puking. Lovely. And no, the raucous talk and puking didn't come from me. Eventually I just stopped going to work on that day all together to avoid the sour smell of barf. The tradition stuck even after I started driving a car to work.

I'm not really sure why I'm at the day job today, after many many years of skipping it. Perhaps the job zombies ate my brain while I wasn't looking. Whatever the reason I want you to pity me, and also admire my persistence and dedication. I need this from you, because frankly, thirty-one years doesn't much matter to those whom I serve.

Turn Around

2011-03-01T22:23:00.000-06:00

It was a small house on the side of a mountain, and the middle of the night. I was watching this video when I realized we wouldn't be together forever; in fact, it was the end that night. You woke up and came to sit with me as I watched. You had no idea...

Oh My God (Say That In Your Best Valley Girl Voice)

2011-01-31T06:57:00.001-06:00

OK, what could be better for my 200th post than a movie review? Only one of the best movies ever!

Boyfriend and I were sitting around on Saturday night with our 735 channels of cable TV and chose to watch the SyFy original movie Mega Python vs. Gatoroid. I am not even shitting you. And don't judge us. I know you have your stupid guilty pleasure TV shows so you are in no position to throw your self-righteous stones.

First of all there is not much "versus" going on as mostly the giant alligators and pythons are pretty much eating people more than they are each other. Which definitely makes a better movie, but I'm just saying the title should be Mega Pythons And Gatoroids vs. Small And Wimpy People.

Of course the cast is phenomenal. Remember Tiffany? Remember Debbie Gibson?

Oh yeah, they were hot in the '80s, or so I've heard. I wasn't into the little girl music, but that's another story. These young ladies aren't young anymore. And before you get all over me for trashing women who age I just want to say they're they're old has-beens doing a B movie. The formula for success is adding up nicely for Mega Python vs. Gatoroid.

The girls were wearing these exact outfits in the movie throughout all of their struggles with the mutant amphibians. Boyfriend was just waiting for a costume malfunction but not once did Debbie's dress slip off nor did Tiff's boobs fall out. However, he was blessed with a cat fight between the two.

There was also a special guest cameo by Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees. He was hired to play at the soiree at which the girls had their cat fight, but the second before he was going to sing he was swallowed up by a giant snake.

I highly recommend seeing this movie if you'd like to see the oldsters fighting off big scaly things with stuff like sticks and floating rifles. I'd also go out on a limb and say the special effects of this movie are about the worst I've ever seen. Best part about it? The heroines can't survive with their skinny legs and undulating boobs. Yep, they too become vittles for the snakes and gators.

Now that I've totally spoiled the movie for you, go watch it. Because seriously? You totally need to laugh this hard.

A Letter To An Aspiring Writer

2010-08-29T22:40:00.001-05:00

Dear Aspiring Writer (you know who you are),

I'm here to tell you that you must write that novel of yours. Why am I nagging at you? Because recently I was given this for free (by a shirtless cowboy, no less):

Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch. It's a Harlequin Romance. And guess what? I read it. *hangs head in shame* In, like, ten minutes. And I'm telling you right now you need to get going on that novel. You so can do it.

Okay, I know I'm not a big one to talk as you know I haven't written anything nearly close to a novel, or even kept up with this blog very well, but I've been writing otherwise, published or not, so shut up.

Apparently, according to Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch, you don't even need to use big words or create complex characters to write a bona fide novel. Just so you know.

Just sit down at that computer and write. Please. The world needs to read something other than a romance novel written by a person who goes by the name B. J. That's just disgusting.

Tell you what. I'll take you to see the cowboy and he can give you a copy of this very same book. You can read it and see what your competition is. You will be inspired. You will be motivated. You will be so moved to prove to yourself that you can do it. And if you aren't inspired, motivated, or moved, you'll at least get to see a very young, cut cowboy who gives away smutty romance novels for a living.

Yours in literary excellence (wishful dreaming at least),

Meredith

Can't Get It Out Of My Head

2010-07-23T12:29:00.000-05:00

All morning I've had a song in my head. It's a song I learned as a child, probably as early as toddler age. I suppose it should make me feel comforted - you know, like I was a little kid again in the arms of my protective and loving family. Except it doesn't.

I know a little pussy
Her coat is silver grey
She lives down in the meadow
Not very far away
She'll always be a pussy
She'll never be a cat
Well she's a pussywillow
So what do you think of that
Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow
SCAT!

I feel like a lesbian pervert. Help me, please.

Girls, Take Notice

2010-07-09T10:12:00.000-05:00

OK, this video makes me laugh because the older I get the more stupid "beauty" gets and it comforts me to know others feel the same way.

However, there should also be a video about how stupid it is to drop the f-bomb every twenty seconds. Not that I never do it. OK, I do it a lot. I just wanted to warn you all before you blast this from your speakers at work.

I Better Use Blunt Scissors For The Paper Chain Cuz I'm Feeling Pretty Stabbity

2010-07-01T15:26:00.000-05:00

Well I'm just beside myself these days. I have a shitload of things to do and I'm just too tired to do any of it. I blame Boyfriend. No, it's not about climbing to the heights of ecstasy every night. I blame the pirouetts and jitterbugs he performs just as I'm about to fall asleep - while he's fast asleep. Not only does he jump around and kick the mattress constantly, he's got one of the worst snores of anyone I've ever known, and then he blows his breath right on me, irritating my delicate skin while I'm trying to sleep. It's starting to piss me off. Oh yeah, he feels all bad when he sees me sleeping on the couch in the morning after he's had the bed to himself all night long, but his guilt just doesn't fill me with the energy I need to get through the day. Sorry, hon.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to tolerate my stupid-ass job. I'm surrounded by beige all day long. And the air is so damn cold in the office I welcome going out into the sweltering summer heat and the end of the day and then deny Boyfriend any conditioned air in our house because damn it, I'm chilled to the bone from being at work. Not only that, the whole principle behind my job has morphed into something so disgusting and wrong and I feel like I should quit just for the high ethics I hold. I gave up giving money to panhandlers the day one of them didn't say "thank you," so why should I support an agency that gives money to people with pretend mental disorders who work harder to get free government money and finagle their way around the system than they would have to at a real job? I could write a year's worth of posts on the scandal of it all, but that's not what this post is about.

This post is about the what-ifs. What if I didn't have to go to a job every day? My mother says when we aren't working at a job we must fill our time doing volunteer work. She was going to rock crack babies when she retired. Didn't ever see that come to fruition, or any other volunteer work on her part except for doing church lady stuff for free, which doesn't count because church activities are questionable regarding their productivity. She still believes her children should be productive in the community whether or not they are getting paid for it. Piffle.

Now I know there are a lot of you out there who are without jobs against your choice. Boo-hoo. I also know there are a lot of people out there who got laid off of their jobs and it was the best thing that ever happened to them. I secretly wish that would happen to me because I'm too chicken-shit to up and actually quit my job. But for those of you who have the luxury of time and options, quit your complaining. There are plenty of us who would kill to be in your position right now, except we have to work to support the unemployment benefits you're getting.

If I didn't have to go to work for someone else for forty hours a week I would...

1. not care if Boyfriend kept me up all night long with this thrashing and snoring because I could sleep during the day (very vampiresque).

2. not have to look at morons pacing back and forth in the public building hallway with phones growing out of their ears instead of doing the job they're paid to do.

3. win a prize for inventing a technique aimed at the permanent elimination of the dust bunny population in my house.

4. cook dinner for my darling Boyfriend every night of the week.

5. iron clothes at least once a week, except I guess I wouldn't have to because I wouldn't be working for the dress code nazis like I do now.

6. beat computer Solitaire more than 4% of the time like I do now.

7. improve my appearance and hygiene because a) I'd have more time to pay attention to such details and b) I'd like myself much more and would consider myself worthy of luxurious baths and consistent good hair days.

8. laugh in the faces of those who pity me for being unemployed and say to them "you wish you could sit around eating bon-bons and watching I Dream Of Jeannie reruns while simultaneously knowing there are no dust bunnies within a city block's radius of you."

9. become the next hottest thing in social media

10. write a blog post more than once a month, which would in turn make me an awesome writer and I'd be sought after for ad space on my blog and hunted down by publishers everywhere begging me to write a book.

I could go on and on. My house would be exquisitely decorated, or at least be freshly painted. My car would be washed and waxed all the time. I would be friggin' June Cleaver and love every minute of it. I'd even master the art of frosting a cupcake.

Until then I can only count the days to retirement and hope to God I don't die before then. I have a plan to create a paper chain made of very colorful construction paper marking the weeks remaining (well over 200) until my official retirement. I think I'll hang it on the bullet-proof glass protecting my work space, just to cheer things up a little.

Despair

2010-06-28T14:31:00.000-05:00

Life just stinks too much since that one good weekend.

It makes me want to never have good times again for fear of realizing

how utterly senseless my regular times are.

You can't be yourself when you're officious...

That's the curse of a government job.

Maude said that.

I wish I could sleep for a week.

Then clean the house for a week.

Then cook all of my favorite food for a week.

Then watch movies for a week.

Then read an entire book in a matter of days rather than months.

I wish I could sit and do nothing

without thinking I should be doing something

because I have no time to do everything

I need to do

And plus, why can't everyone just be normal?

My standards of normal aren't that stringent.

Beam me up Scotty

There's no sign of intelligent life here.

Mixing The Literal With The Figurative

2010-05-28T11:57:00.001-05:00

Has anyone ever told you you have dancing eyes? This is going just a little bit too far.

A Touching Moment

2010-05-27T11:42:00.005-05:00

OK, I don't know why I'm posting this. It makes me uncomfortable on so many levels. I guess I won't be happy until others are as uncomfortable as I am.

What Next? (Or...Can't I Just Ride Out The Wave In Peace?)

2010-05-04T14:24:00.000-05:00

Well, if I'm not mistaken these flippin' Nazis have placed even more restrictions on my computer at work. I can't upload photos to my blog. I can't upload photos for my Etsy site (to remain nameless). I can't do anything having to do with photos. Is it just a glitch today? Or is this some cruel joke played on a person who ~~devoted~~ threw away thirty years of her life in service to the people of America? Isn't it bad enough I haven't had a raise in, geez, I don't know how many years? Isn't it bad enough I have to now fret over the security of my pension? But now the big shots have to take away my lunch hour free time computer use too? You can all just go to hell, and take your suck-ass computer-head toadies with you.

(Pardon the lack of pictures in this post. It totally isn't my fault.)

OK, Ick

2010-05-03T11:52:00.000-05:00

I've been rather repulsed by society lately. I'm sick of over population and even sicker of the fact that the country is being overpopulated by and with dolts and psychos. I know I sound like some old, right-wing, intolerante crabby-ass hag when I talk like this, but seriously, do we want people like this becoming the majority? There's lots of crap in the gene pool if you ask me.

For more pictures of the shining (and currently breeding) members of society, check out this site. And God help us all.

New TV Show

2010-04-28T15:02:00.001-05:00

Boyfriend is just so clever. I think he should move out to Hollywood and become the next TV show creator genius. I love the way his mind works. He proposes a new show with hosts Tom Bergeron

and Mike Rowe

The show? America's Dirtiest Home Videos.

Huh?! I told you it was genius.

You Can't Impress Me

2010-04-16T17:36:00.001-05:00

What you want me to see...

What I actually see...

Gadgets You Can't Live Without

2010-04-11T20:01:00.000-05:00

Hi kids. It's been a while since I've posted anything here. My excuse? I've been busy getting into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and sucking my thumb as a result of the stupidity of the world today. I know a guy who smokes dope to deal with that same stupidity, but I decided thumb sucking is better. While it is funny looking, it doesn't make me act like a complete moron.

And speaking of morons, who the hell doesn't know how to crack an egg? I learned how to crack an egg in 2nd grade. That would be seven years old. I never did get the hang of cracking an egg with one hand, but cracking an egg effectively I have indeed mastered.

However, this post isn't about how brilliant I am. It's about how much space I have in my kitchen, which is none. It's also about the ineptitude encouraged in our society. Gadgets are for suckers. And gadgets that crack an egg for you are for moronic suckers. Check this out...

OK, first of all, EZ Cracker. While it is an appropriate name for a gadget like this, makes me think of a white southern girl who puts out. Second of all, what kind of spaz cracks an egg like that, or cleans up the mess of spilled egg with a Kleenex? I'll admit separating an egg can be a little more challenging, but the poor boob separating the egg in the commerical is just too stupid to live. But wait! That's not all. While I couldn't find the official commercial for it, there is also a gadget that actually scrambles an egg before it's out of the shell! Who doesn't need that?

Call me Amish, but I believe in cracking an egg with your own two hands (or one if your not a chimp like me) and scrambling it with a utencil found in every kitchen. It's called a fork.

Now if you'll excuse me I have a thumb to suck. Or perhaps instead of focusing on what society is coming to I should go forth and multiply, populating the earth with the genius that allows me such amazing coordination skills to crack and scramble an egg.

It's Eastertime!

2010-04-01T12:22:00.000-05:00

Photo and creative artwork compliments of Terry, the genius behind Bent Objects (some work available here)

Sunday's Fun Day

2010-03-21T17:23:00.000-05:00

Did your dad ever announce "Sunday's Fun Day?" Every dang Sunday? And Sunday meant we played games as a family. My parents had this thing for games. All right, who am I to say it's a bad thing for parents to play games with their kids? It's a wonderful thing. We (my sibs and I) didn't sit around on our bony little butts watching TV or playing video games. And on Sundays we weren't left to our own devices either. Our parents stepped in and spent quality time with us. I admire them for it. Except for they had no idea what the good games were.

We had dopey games like Sorry and Skunk circa 1947. I coveted games with moving parts, unlike the old-fashioned ones we had which consisted of nothing more than dice or cards and a colored peg you would claim as "my guy." Why couldn't we have games with a Pop-O-Matic? And you know what game I wanted most of all? That's right, Mystery Date.

Of course as a kid I didn't know my parents were dirt poor and couldn't afford to buy new games. Besides, I'm sure Dad wouldn't be too interested to see if his mystery boy would be a dream or a dud.

But Saturday morning cartoon commercials would mock my poor family's games most of all with none other than Mouse Trap. How cool was that? Fortunately we had a cousin who's parents were ~~really rich~~ frivolous and he actually had the Mouse Trap game. Whenever we visited we would forego the actual game part of Mouse Trap and just put together the whole trap thing with the kicking boot, the guy in the bathtub, and the marble going down the rickety steps. What fun!

One year for Christmas my dream came true. No, it wasn't a game with a moving part. It was even better. It was a doll that walked! Baby First Step. I remember that Christmas like it was yesterday. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

It didn't matter that she walked around like a little crippled child in leg braces and had no sense of direction. It required batteries and had moving parts!

Mechanical games and toys were the ultimate when I was growing up. I'm really glad Boyfriend and I never had kids though. I wouldn't have any idea how to even approach the mechanical toys of today. Technology is where it's at, and I'm so not on board with all that. If I had kids I'd totally make Sunday Fun Day, but my kids would run and hide the minute I pulled out the old-fashioned deck of cards for a game of Go Fish.

Two Neils And A Skip

2010-03-20T22:21:00.000-05:00

I'm just sitting around this Saturday night, Boyfriend asleep in the chair next to me. There's nothing good on TV and I just can't bring myself to do anything productive. I guess that means it's a good time to donk around on the computer.

I helped Neil Diamond out with some lyrics this evening, via Twitter. Well, he asked. We'll see if he takes my suggestions or not.

And speaking of musical stars, what's with Neil Young? Ugh. It's a guy thing, I think. I've got him on IFC right now and not only am I ready to stick hot pokers in my ears, it doesn't even look like he's enjoying his supposed passion for music. Looks like a crabby old man. I don't know, maybe I'm just too stupid to get it.

And speaking of old crabby people I found out I'm being followed on Twitter by HeadGeezer - Helping Seniors Make, Save, and Invest Money. That's one thing I hate about social media - the "outreach" programs. It's like financial evangelicals. They're out to save me from my sinful monitary ways. Instead of knocking on my door with their white shirts and black ties they're following me on Twitter with their colorful, goofy cartoon guy. And who the hell are they calling a senior?!

I just realized the guys I mentioned tonight were named Neil, except for the HeadGeezer guy, whose name is Skip. I'm totally not kidding. Skip the HeadGeezer.

OK, Neil Young was supposed to be off the TV ten minutes ago and his whiney ass singing is still burning a hole through my brain. Perhaps it's a sign from God that it's time for bed.

What's The Phenomenon Where You Can't Get A Song Out Of Your Head? - I Don't Care, Just Make It Stop!

2010-03-19T09:52:00.000-05:00

I've been reminiscing lately - reminiscing about things from my childhood. What got me to reminiscing is this stupid, stupid song that has been running through my head for three days now.

Green green it's green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green green I'm goin' away
To where the grass is greener still

I can't give credit to the lyricist because I have no idea who wrote those words. I do know that song, along with other like Kisses Sweeter Than Wine, Blowin' In The Wind, and If I Had A Hammer were sung by The Johnny Mann Singers. My parents had more than one of these folksy records and as kids we couldn't get enough of them. Trouble is, it's all come back to haunt me. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, rent the movie A Mighty Wind. The most accurate portrayal of the folk singers and their reunion is pretty funny, and also sad at the same time. Sad as in I can't believe people seriously listened to this stuff.

So get your peppy on and clap along to the old folk tunes. I'm serious. If I can't get this ridiculous song out of my head I can at least put another one into yours. Here's a clip from A Mighty Wind:

More nostalgia to come. What were your favorite board games as a kid?

A Sincere Apology, Sort of

2010-03-17T19:59:00.001-05:00

All right, we've already established I'm going to hell for all the naughty things I said during The Passion of Faux Ma. Isn't that enough? No. Penelope went and made me feel bad for talking about a dead lady's cooter. So now I must apologize.

I couldn't help it. I was overcome with emotions I never though existed and this is my blog - my place to express - my outlet. For all of you who were offended, I'm here to officially say I'm sorry.

The grossest part of that whole post was the icky cooter brooch at the end. I can't believe I did that. I also can't believe people spend their time constructing things like that. Unlike some hairy beast lumberjack nuns I know (yes, I really know some) I really don't think I'm all that special because I have a vagina. Every woman since the beginning of time has had one. I don't even care that it's the gateway to life, it's an ugly piece of anatomy and we should keep it covered at all costs.

Oh, don't be all up in arms about my not worshipping my body and praising the fact that I'm a woman. I have a perfectly fine body image. I just don't get why we as woman are supposed to be all excited over our girly bits. I mean, if men went around making jewelry that looked like their weenskies we'd think they were insane. There are some things on the human body that are just icky-looking. Cooters and weenskies are at the top of the list.

So okay, I'll apologize for speaking so glibly during the passing of a human life. I should have left more time between the death and my post just out of respect. But I will not apologize getting shivers when being forced to see not just any cooter, but Faux Ma's cooter. It was just wrong and bad. I will also not apologize for worshipping a higher power, God if you will, instead of some stupid part of my body.

I will not embrace the cooter.

Irreverence

2010-03-15T21:33:00.001-05:00

All right kids, I now know what it feels like to lose a Faux Ma. I have to admit I feel bad for Boyfriend. After all, no one likes to have a dead mom.

I really, morbidly so, wanted to be in the room when Faux Ma passed to the other side. I've never seen a person die before. Unfortunately I was in the kitchen when it happens. Figures. No, I wasn't stuffing my face. In fact it was even kind of hard to sip on my Diet Dr. Pepper while in the sick house. I was with Boyfriend and the nurse ladies talking about how soon it would be before she dies. Five minutes into the conversation Faux Pa came ~~running~~ toddling out of the bedroom and uttered his usual words, "you better come." That's when one of the nurse ladies said, "she's gone."

Yeah, I was a little disappointed to miss the moment of truth. I hoped to see a glimmer of "the light" in her face. That's assuming she was going toward "the light" and not the firey pits of hell. One never knows for sure, except in my case where I just assume I'll visit the firey pits of hell for all the nasties I pull on this blog.

I guess someone up there figured it was enough for me to see all I did while Faux Ma was dying. The caregivers did a hell of a job keeping her nice and dignified while cancer ate away her body. It bothered me when she wanted her feet "untied." That meant she wanted her feet outside the blanket and sheet. Faux Ma had the biggest feet I've ever seen on a woman, really long and narrow. And her big toes curled up, like cartoon hillbilly toes.

It was disgusting. And there they were, hanging out for all of us to see. Of course it didn't bother anyone as much as it did me, hater of all things feet.

Little did I know cartoon hillbilly feet would be preferable to what came one day when Faux Ma was just a tad agitated. The caregiver was straightening out the sheets and taking the pillow out from between her thin little legs. And then I saw it. The cooter. AAAGGGHHH! Yep, I got a free shot of Faux Pa's wife's cooter. And he saw me see it. He was all embarrassed and hated that I saw the precious jewel of his pleasure. So I was torn between feeling utter horror for seeing Faux Ma's naughty bits and gut-busting hysterics over Faux Pa's fidgeting over my glimpse.

It's ironic how life bites you in the ass. This was just one more point in favor of my theory that everything that brings you shame in life will reveal itself fully in your death and dying. Faux Ma was reserved and would never even think of telling a sex joke. She was all about appearances. She cared way too much what people thought of her and her family. If she realized her little veejayjay was out for all to see her mortification would have taken her life well before the cancer did.

It will be a long time before the mental image of that from which Boyfriend passed at birth leaves me. And longer still the annoyed look Faux Pa shot me, as if I had violated his wife's modesty on purpose. Perhaps on Mother's Day I'll get a little remembrance for Faux Pa...

Au Naturale Lips by artbywinona

Death Watch, 2010

2010-03-09T06:51:00.001-06:00

Boyfriend and I have been sitting close to Faux Ma during her final days. It’s actually been a fascinating journey except for one thing…Faux Pa.

OK, I know people deal with death differently. Everyone grieves uniquely. And the grieving process can begin before a death, as in this case with Faux Ma. She was diagnosed with cancer in 2006. She was in remission after a big series of chemotherapy. Then right before Thanksgiving of 2009 it was discovered the cancer had returned.

Faux Ma has been ~~taking care of~~ doing everything for Faux Pa for at least the last decade. He has been showing definite signs of dementia for quite a while. Nothing has ever been done about this dementia; in fact, Faux Ma did her darnedest for years to cover up his mental decline. By the time she had reached the point where she couldn’t ~~take care of~~ do everything for Faux Pa and Boyfriend and I were spending more time around him during the Death Watch, we discovered things were much worse than we suspected.

But life is full of surprises and Faux Pa’s mental incapacity is just one of those surprises. We’re rolling with it, fully aware that the minute Faux Ma floats into the great beyond Faux Pa will be coerced into the car and taken to the nearest neurologist so we can work with an actual diagnosis.

Until that time he’s dealing with the death of his wife. I have to keep reminding myself he is incapacitated. He is impaired. He is totally, completely, utterly getting on my last nerve.

I am fully aware that I’m going straight to hell because of all the thoughts I’ve been having, picking on an 85-year-old man with the mental capacity of a 7-year-old. Don’t lecture me about having compassion or getting bad karma. I can’t help it. And I’m pretty sure the reason he bugs me so much is because I’m deathly afraid he is what Boyfriend will someday become. ARGH!

For one thing, Faux Pa thinks it must be completely silent in the death house. Silent and dark with no moving air. He believes we are to sit around Faux Ma and simply watch silently as she dies. So when Boyfriend or I try to encourage Faux Ma to express herself, what she’s feeling and seeing (and she’s seeing a lot more around the house than any of us, let me tell you), or if we give words of encouragement that it’s okay for her to let go Faux Pa gets all agitated and annoyed. The poor woman is trying to articulate something, and instead of having the patience to let her just get it out, Faux Pa interrupts and says over and over and over again, just relax and rest. Not only does he not want any of us to make noise, he doesn’t want to hear his wife’s last words. Know why? Because they will be her last words. I’m pretty sure he thinks if she isn’t talking or being talked to she will live forever.

So he just sits there at her side, devoted as he is. Faux Ma must have been awfully devoted too because Faux Pa doesn’t cease to reward her loyalty with the ultimate gesture of validation…petting. Yes, he pets his wife. With his fingertips. Constantly. It’s like he wants to comfort her but is afraid to touch her. It’s like he’s been married to her for over fifty years but has never been intimate with her. (Never mind Boyfriend’s existence.)

There is no way I can convey within the confines of a blog post the bizarreness of this couple’s history. Bizarre to me, at least. The lack of communication. The power struggles. The resentment. The dependency. What do I expect? Do I think Faux Pa should pull a Ryan O’Neal in Love Story and just hop into bed with the dying Faux Ma? That would most likely drive me to poke forks in my eyes.

I can’t articulate my frustration with this man. I guess that makes me just as incapacitated as he is.

Stirring Memories Through Facebook, Part III

2010-02-22T21:31:00.008-06:00

Dear Football Head,

You didn't know we called you that, did you? Yep, that and a lot of other names. We called you Football Head because your head was, well, shaped like a football. Your hair was so thin the shape of your head was way too obvious.

But I'm not here to tell you about the names we called you. I'm here to tell you...I know.

Cruising through Facebook the other day shed light on a very real possibility - a possibility that burned me up today as much as it would have had I figured it out twenty-five years ago.

I'm not saying my suspicions are true, but you've got a history.

I was looking through your list of friends on Facebook and saw all the boinks you had throughout our friendship. Why they decided to befriend you now is beyond me, unless you're still boinking them, which totally wouldn't shock me. When I knew you you lived to boink, because for you boinking is validation. You boinked your friends' boyfriends, you boinked your own boyfriends, you boinked your boyfriends' friends when your boyfriend wasn't looking. For God's sake, the day your dad killed himself you didn't want the consolation of your best friend (me), you chose instead to hunt down the first guy who would boink you.

So I was scrolling through your list of friends which consists of your boinks, your boinks' wives, your boinks' kids. Suddenly I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. There, included in the list was Al.

You boinked him too, didn't you?

Oh, I know I shouldn't care. Except the only thing you two had in common was me. And plus I think you should know he thought you were dumb as a post and quite hideous. He never liked you, which is why we ditched you in San Francisco that one time. If I remember correctly you didn't like him much either. And yet now you are Facebook Friends. WTF? What happened? Has Facebook become your proverbial belt and those friends your notches?

You'd think after two husbands you could have figured out where you went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. But no. As long as their faces are on your friend list, you still believe it's you they love and desire. Sadly, you never latched onto the concept that men will stick their weenies into anything that won't clamp it off. That would be you. Not a clamping kind of gal. In fact, the Grand Canyon is probably second to you.

Old Spice? Really?

2010-02-18T10:32:00.002-06:00

You all have probably seen this already, but I must say it was a breath of fresh air for me. Not only do I get to look at some luscious eye candy, my faith is restored in the magic of marketing. I mean, what is more likely to sell you on something, a dirty mop singing a has-been song from the '80s or a beefy mancake giving you everything you want? This commercial is funny and creative, even if it is Old Spice.

Part III of the Facebook saga will be arriving shortly. I can't put into words my utter disgust and horror associated with my third Facebook find. Stay tuned.

Stirring Memories Through Facebook, Part II

2010-02-09T22:14:00.002-06:00

Dear Al,

All right, so I wrote a letter to your long-time friend Winkie, don't be jealous. It's your turn to get a little attention. And who better to get attention from than your long lost, the one who got away?

I saw you on Facebook and I must admit I was pleased to see your avatar doesn't make you look like some old paunchy thing like your friend Winkie. You still look active and virile. That's considering the massive ski gear you had on. Goggles and everything. So I couldn't really see you. I could tell it was you through your stance, though. You've still got it, that stance. Way to go.

Except then there was this little photo album you included on your page. And there you were. Oh Al, why'd ya do it? Get old, I mean. I still don't think you look as weird as Winkie, but well, yikes. Put your dang shirt on.

Penelope is getting her laughs. I think she was secretly angry for me comparing her old friend to Louie Anderson, so she came back and told me who she thinks you look like.

That's right, Henry VIII. Well I certainly don't think you're looking that doughy, but I have to say there is a resemblance.

Seeing you and Winkie brought back lots of memories for Penelope and me. Stonehenge, St. Cloud, chewing live goldfish, the patio at Sweeney's. Those were fun times for sure. But what happened since then?

You turned into sort of a stepchild. Maybe it was the pot, maybe the older you got the less you could get away with. You tried to crash one of your ex girlfriend's wedding "for the sake of [your] friendship." You tried to seduce me while I was in a relationship. It doesn't matter that my relationship was extremely toxic and dangerous and I was horribly unhappy in it. It was mean of you to flaunt yourself and try to tempt me into your lair. After all, you only had the best damn legs of anyone I ever dated. But still, it was stepchildish of you to keep coming back. Don't you think?

So you got married somewhere along the line, and then divorced. You've probably made a big pile of money and spent it all on toys and trips (read that any way you'd like.) You got a little pudgy around the middle and you're probably kind of full of yourself as always.

But I'll tell you this. It doesn't really matter what you've become because I know I'll never get with you again. Whew. But I did have a taste in the past and baby I got you right in your prime. And there's one moment of our fling I'll never forget. We were riding your motorcycle in downtown Minneapolis on a dark summer night. We were at a stoplight. As we waited for the light to turn, you reached back and rested your hand on my leg, then gave it a little rub right before the green light led us onto Hennepin Avenue. It wasn't about love or commitment or a lasting relationship. It was about you making me feel like a hot little thing on the back of your motorcycle. I thought I was in heaven. And as we rode into the hot city night the speakers of the wind jammer sang to us:

That was thirty years ago. Now go put your shirt on and act your age!

Stirring Memories Through Facebook, Part I

2010-02-05T23:04:00.001-06:00

Dear Winkie,

First of all you're welcome that I didn't use your real name. Despite the fact that most people don't know that Winkies are the guards of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, I named you that for reasons you should remember.

{Just for the record, Winkie doesn't actually look like a Winkie. In fact no one in the world could look less like a Winkie than Winkie does. This picture is posted here merely for the purposes of putting a picture in the post and letting you know (if you didn't already) what a Winkie is. Unfortunately this picture isn't even of a real Winkie, but that of a doll. Doll Winkies are the subject of a whole 'nother blog post, but don't hold your breath as doll making of characters like Winkies for doll collectors is just wrong. Doll collectors are just wrong. Neither deserve a blog post of their own. But I digress...}

Come to think of it, I shouldn't expect that you would remember the circumstances that brought me to naming you Winkie because most of the time in those days you were pretty much stoned or drunk or both. Be that as it may, I'm keeping you anonymous because frankly you don't really want people from your past discovering who I'm talking to.

I experienced the misfortune of seeing your Facebook page at the direction of Penelope, your long time "friend." Neither of us would dream of friending you for obvious reasons, but we're not above checking out your page and gasping at what you've become.

Everyone knows our appearance changes the older we get. But seriously, as someone who hasn't laid eyes on you in over twenty-five years I must say I would never have recognized you, but may have mistaken you for Louie Anderson.

{This is a picture of Louie Anderson. It is not Winkie. But it really looks like Winkie. I know, this is getting confusing because Louie Anderson doesn't look at all like an actual Winkie, but if you've done your homework you'd know that actual Winkies from The Wizard of Oz don't even closely resemble those described in the book, The Wizard of Oz. So maybe Louie Anderson (and Winkie) really do look the the original Winkies. Whoever thought of posting pictures in blog posts? The captions they require are confounding.}

Penelope disagrees, but she's just a little biased. And suffering from complete denial. That's not to say she isn't aghast at your picture, she just doesn't think Louie Anderson is a good comparison.

Anyway, the point is, what the hell happened in the past thirty years? Oh, I know you had a brillant career in the military, got married, had kids and other assorted fun facts. But seriously, what the hell happened? In your Facebook picture - what is that hangy thing under your ear? Oh my God, it's your neck! And what's with the gut? The whole tiny hair thing? It's got to stop. You were wearing that do when you were a ROTC in college. It's the one thing you should have changed and didn't.

What am I trying to say to you here? Have a Facebook page all you want, but keep the pictures to yourself. You caused quite a shocking surprise to your old friends in that you're looking nothing like you used to. It doesn't matter that the rest of us have gray hair and crow's feet; we're smart enough to keep those embarrassments to ourselves and off the internets.

So now I'm seeming all superficial and beauty-oriented. I'm really not. I just want to remember people the way they were. Winkie, seeing you on Facebook today can be compared to going to a funeral. You know how when you walk up to a casket and expect to see the person you've known but instead there lies a completely different person with a bad make-up job? When I saw you on Facebook it was like I was looking in a casket.

On the other hand, maybe you didn't think that the likes of me and Penelope would ever be looking you up in Facebook. Didn't it occur to you that you might be Googled by people from your past? Obviously your Facebook friends didn't know you way back when, or else have grown old with you and probably haven't noticed the semi-grotesque aging process you've undergone. I'm here to tell you, we're watching and looking and the romantic memories of our youth are shattered by the realities that are Facebook pictures.

So please, either take the picture down from your page or put up a different one from thirty years ago. You're disturbing those of us invisibly snooping around in your life.

Who Are You And What Do You Want?

2010-01-25T07:34:00.002-06:00

Dear Internets,

Let me get this straight. I can come visit you and be anything I want? Like, I can be a goat, or a princess, or a bitch? I can retain my anonymity and write anything I want in your presence and the only judgment I'll get is from complete strangers about whom I care nothing? Sweet!

I had a conversation the other day with a friend who is learning the blogging ropes. She started out with a shot and then kind of petered out. (I've always hated that term, "petered out." I have a cousin named Peter, who's really weird and it kind of reminds me of him, but mostly it just makes me think of dinks, shriveled, droopy ones, which is just plain gross.) Anyway, one of the perks of writing a blog is the fact that you can be anyone you want. In fact, I have more than one blog so I can maintain my integrity no matter what. See, like here, I can be a regular snark face, where on my other blog I'm more, well, reserved.

My friend has yet to grasp this. She doesn't realize she can be whomever she wants in her little corner of the universe. Hell, she can have two or more corners of the universe like I do! It's all a matter of what you have to say and how you want to say it. I can't help but wonder if some of those famous bloggers out there are also some not-so-famous bloggers under some name that isn't familiar to the universe.

Another thing I wonder is how closely blog depictions of the authors' lives reflects their actual lives. I mean, I find it hard to believe one woman can cook, craft, homeschool, housekeep, blog/maintain a website, sew, plumb, garden, perform home renovations, and at the end of the day keep her man uber satisfied by performing acrobatic acts in the bedroom. Really? Can one woman do all of that? Believe me, there are blogs out there that will have you believe it, and make you feel like a shitty slug because you can't. Oh, you'll feel inspired for a minute or two, but reality will kick in and you'll discover you're only good for spotty blogging, take-out food, public school conferences, and a kiss goodnight at best.

As I blather on and on I realize I'm not really saying much of anything in this post. It's terribly boring. But you know what? I don't really care. Because unlike the blogger who gives the impression she can do it all, I'm the blogger who writes a crappy blog and actually does it all. That's right. I'm out skydiving, showing my artwork in galleries, and feeding the poor. I'm just too humble to brag about it in a silly little blog.

Excuse me now, I must go rock Boyfriend's world. Oh yeah, that's another thing I do and totally do not blog about. Except for just now. Oops, secret's out.

I Have A Little Spit-Up In My Mouth Now

2010-01-22T11:31:00.002-06:00

Come on. This is just way...too...disturbing.

Talk about your pots de creme.

The Movie Of Faux Ma's Demise

2010-01-21T20:47:00.001-06:00

Being the uncompassionate person I am I was complaining about how Faux Ma is handling her dire health situation. While I am definitely not directly involved with the situation due to the fact that having a disease like cancer is a private family matter not to include the likes of me, a mere fixture in her son's life for fourteen years, it drives me nuts how she is living the last months of her life. I know, just because someone isn't doing it the way I see fit doesn't mean they're doing it wrong. Except she is. Way wrong. More wrong than wrong. So wrong that she will be questioned at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter. "So, Faux Ma, how did you make a difference to the world in your last days?" Her only response will be "I drove Faux DIL nuts." Not only is it a stupid legacy, being able to drive me nuts isn't really that big of an accomplishment. It's pretty easy to do.

So as I'm ranting to Penelope about how mental I am over Faux Ma's wasted days she gave me a good piece of advice. "Sit back and watch the movie." I've gotten that advice before, from a mental health professional at that, and seriously, it works. One can be engrossed in a movie without becoming emotionally involved. Great advice.

As so often happens when Penelope and I speak we go off on tangents to entertain ourselves. In this case I asked her, "so, who would you cast in The Movie Of Faux Ma's Demise?" I must say, Penelope missed her calling as a Hollywood casting director. She was spot on. So from now on when I refer to people in my blog, you can picture them like this:

Faux Ma, the life-long passive-aggressive, long-suffering, anal-retentive star of The Movie Of Faux Ma's Demise:

Faux Pa, husband of Faux Ma, possessing a fear of too many buttons on electronics, incapable of operating a microwave, and all around useless housemate:

Boyfriend, son of Faux Ma and Faux Pa, and all around good egg:

Meredith, love of Boyfriend's life, bane of Faux Ma's:

Meredith's Parents, also known as "Mom" and "Dad," trying to make Meredith act toward her Fauxs as lovingly as they act toward the entire universe:

Penelope, her husband, and their children, the family Faux Ma would like at her deathbed instead of her own:

Diggy, Meredith's dead brother and reality-check card played when Faux Ma asks, "why me?"

So there you have it. If ever I rant about how weird or uncomfortable or stupid things are in the way of a poor dying woman, you'll know the cast members involved and I'll try remember to step back and simply watch the movie. (Most of us are quite attractive, don't you think?)

Addendum: About thirty minutes after I finished writing this post Boyfriend called the Fauxs and found out Faux Ma's cancer is growing by leaps and bounds. She'll discontinue chemo and commence hospice. Boy do I feel dumb now.

Stupid

2010-01-19T17:04:00.001-06:00

"Stupid" has been a favorite word of mine for decades. For lack of a better word, I've described many things as "stupid." I lived a day today that was completely stupid. Here are the stupid things I have to deal with:

1. My boss. She's so stupid it makes me want to spit up. Well, maybe I better cut her some slack. She's not so stupid as much as uninformed. Actually it's her boss who is stupid, for putting her in the position to be my boss in the first place. She's got no business. Her boss has got his head so far up his boss's ass it's just pathetic.

2. My place of business. I'm sick and tired of watching a government agency try with all its might to run things as a corporation would. The director of this agency is stupid, and looks just like Rosanne Barr's character in that movie She-Devil. Really, I'm not kidding. She even has those stupid moley things on her face. And her ass is huge. And she looks like a guy. The thing I can't figure out is since she's worked in the agency she's been married, like, three times. I can see why the guys would dump her, what, finding a wiener and all, but why would they want to marry her in the first place? She's ugly, she's a blank, and well, she's stupid.

3. The Department of Revenue, doesn't matter which state. WTF anyway? Can't there be some sort of continuity when it comes to paying taxes?

4. People afforded drivers' licenses. I guess I already covered that here.

5. Cancer. Not only is it a stupid disease, it makes the people who have it stupid. OK, only some people. Well, just one that I know of. But she's really stupid and it pisses me off how she plays the cancer card to manipulate people and induge excessively in the passive-aggressive behavior she's harbored her entire life.

All right, that's it for now. I don't feel any better, but now you know just how stupid I can be.

Mama Mia

2010-01-17T21:56:00.001-06:00

Thirty years ago (?!) I saw Queen in concert for the last time. It was a date with a guy I had been dating for quite a while, but with whom I was becoming a bit disenchanted. We were on the outs. He was ready to get married, but alas, I was ready to fly. I didn't want to lead him on, but when he asked me to go to the Queen concert with him I couldn't refuse.

I had been a huge fan of Queen since 1976 when they were introduced to me by my friend Penelope. Nothing matches the guitar of Brian May or the voice of Freddie Mercury. I especially liked their earlier works. To this day Queen remains one of my top five favorite bands.

Freddie Mercury in 1980

The other day Penelope got in touch with me and shared something she'd found on her internet wanderings. It's nothing like the real thing, but then what remake is?

i > u On The Road

2010-01-09T22:41:00.001-06:00

I keep hearing how it's enough to know in your heart that you're better than someone else than to try to prove it to the idiot you're better than. (There's a sentence with very poor grammar. u r > me when it comes to writing, no doubt.) Years ago I vowed to give up proving my point to idiots. However, I've found you can stifle your natural urges only so long before you need to satiate the urge or else spontaneously combust. As I'm not really in the mood to burst into flames at this point in my life I give you...my point.

I'm a better driver than you are and these are the reasons.

1. I know what "yield" means. You obviously don't. It means "you have to wait until everyone else has passed, even if it means coming to a complete stop." This holds true especially if you are at a red light and want to turn right and the oncoming traffic (me) has a green arrow to turn left. I encounter this every day on my way to work. You have a red light, dork, I have the right-of-way, so quit trying to beat me to the on ramp.

2. I know what "merge" means. It's kind of the complete opposite of yield in that you do not stop and wait for the oncoming traffic (which could very well be going 50-70 miles per hour) to stop and let you in. You speed up and merge in. If you are afraid to do this, you should never, ever try to drive on a freeway.

3. There is a misconception that in order to make signal lights work you need some special fluid or something. Or could it be you are just too flippin' lazy to push that little lever on the left of your steering wheel with your finger? I know, and you should know, the appropriate signal light should be turned on when you turn into another lane, when you turn the corner, when you turn into a parking spot, etc. Interestingly enough, the signal lights are also called turn signals. Use them, asshole.

4. I know mirrors are for driving purposes, not for putting on make-up. OK, I'll cut you a break. You can use your rearview mirror to put on your make-up as long as you are not driving. Parked. Oh, and P.S., a make-up job applied while you are driving makes you look like a clown. A scary one.

5. I know the speed limits of all the roads upon which I drive. (Huh? Good grammar that time.) These limits vary, depending on if you are driving on a freeway, a residential street, or a country highway. That does not mean your driving speed should vary while on any of those roads. When driving on the freeway to my job, for example, I drive 60 mph, the speed limit. I don't drive 60 mph for thirty seconds, then drop my speed down to 50 mph for thirty seconds, then speed up to 70 mph for thirty seconds, and so on.

6. I know the left lane is for passing, or driving really fast. If you're in the left lane and the people to your right are passing you up, you should have your license revoked immediately. Get out of my way, and I mean it.

7. I know those lines painted on the roads are wide enough apart to accommodate the width of my vehicle and I drive between them. Even on a curve! Were you also this bad with coloring books? And while we're on the subject of lines, it is especially important to keep your big-ass truck between the lines of the little-ass parking spots in a parking ramp. The rest of us who aren't suffering from Tiny Wiener Syndrome can't get in and out of our normal, self-assured-sized cars. I guess this applies to any vehicle, not just big-ass trucks. I just wanted to say "big-ass" to make a point. Because after all the point of this post is to make a point. Big-ass.

8. I don't need bells and whistles (i.e. cell phone, blackberry, TV, video, GPS, etc) to "engage" me while driving. Driving is engaging enough. If you aren't engaged by the scores of idiots and maniacs sharing the road with you, you just aren't paying attention, which you wouldn't be anyway if you were watching TV or texting your internet soul mate.

I'm getting road rage just by writing this, so I guess that's my cue to stop. Seriously, you should look to me as an example and in fact worship my excellent driving ability. You want to be as good as me because honestly, I'm quite awesome.

Unedited Journalism?

2010-01-08T18:10:00.000-06:00

This has got to be the best headline yet: Naked Man's Suspicious Package Causes Scene

I'm not even kidding about this. I would love to know what makes a naked man's package suspicious. So I read...

http://www.nbcwashington.com/news/local-beat/Naked-Mans-Suspicious-Package-Causes-Scene-80891977.html

Oh Those Kids And Their Music

2010-01-04T19:59:00.000-06:00

How's this for creative? Tres Cool!

Stream Of Consciousness

2009-12-30T20:42:00.001-06:00

You know how it is if you blog (ahem, Mary Ann), sometimes you just can't focus on one thing to write about, and therefore you have to do something like this. A stream of consciousness. Random thoughts as they come into your head. If you're like me, there are many thoughts running around in that little cranium, and they just have to come out, even if you can't find an organized way to do it.

First of all I can't ignore the fact that there is a woman at my work, Teddy I call her because she looks like a cartoon teddy bear, who has taken to hating me. See, there was this instance a week or two ago where she pissed me off and I told her so. Now she won't speak to me and averts her eyes whenever we meet walking toward each other in the office. It's just so damn childish I can't even get over it. The thing is, in our despute she got her way and I was essentially scolded by our boss. I can't understand why she's this upset with me. And here's the funniest part about it - she unfriended me on Facebook. And now she can't even bring herself to talk to me face-to-face. She e-mails every little question she has. Is she embarrassed or actually mad at me? Who knows. But it's making for a very uncomfortable situation. I'm happy to say I'm big enough to have gotten over the initial "situation" and hold no grudge. That just proves i > her.

There's also the thing of Boyfriend and me stepping into the 21st century and getting high-speed internet. It took us a long time to get a computer in the first place, and then we just got dial-up service. Just this week we made the leap to high-speed, and I also have wireless for my laptop, which isn't such a good thing for Boyfriend as every time he sees me sitting on the couch I'm connected to the computer. Like right now. Along with our high-speed we got a cable upgrade, and we're positively whirling with all the channels from which we can choose. Boyfriend has been digging the Country Classics station. Good thing I'm distracted by the computer. Too much country music makes me barf. We'll probably become one of those couples who never talks to each other. Oh well, we'll have our technology too keep us warm at night.

One thing that's been heavy on my mind lately is the state of the world. It may seem like a grandiose worry for someone with such a miniscule little brain, but really, in case you haven't noticed a lot of people are just as concerned as I am. And I'm almost embarrassed to be part of a country that values crap over virtue, profit over pride, and boobs over wit. Everything just seems wrong. I'm surrounded by people who have either lost jobs or are in constant fear of losing the job they have. Corporations do stupid things like lay off hundreds of people, which makes me wonder why they hired that many people to begin with - if they don't need them now, what did they need them for in the first place? I've decided the only way someone can be gainfully employed is if they get a job with the military, because obviously this middle eastern shit isn't going away any time soon. And would you all just stop trying to blow up planes?! Oh, and back to the employment situation? WTF is with outsourcing? The country is struggling with a huge unemployment rate in order to support Chan Yang or Isrib Ysuf? Global economy is starting to suck for the US, and how come no one is doing anything about it?

And I don't even want you to tell me how uninformed my opinions are. I'm perfectly aware that I speak of much I know very little about. It is that ignorance that makes the subject matters so maddening for me. Getting all mad and worked up isn't such a bad thing once in a while.

What about those aging parents? GA! They make me mental. I chose not to have children for a reason and I'm totally unprepared to take on the regressive nature of aging parental units. The other day my mother informed me that as long as we can pick her up she will not move to an institution of any kind. Pick her up? So I go, "what, I'm going to have to pick you up and put you on the potty seat and in the bathtub?" She gave an affirmative answer. Then I said, "ew, I don't want to give you a bath." To that my dad responded, "why not, it's fun!"

Lastly, tomorrow is a blue moon. It's also New Year's Eve. If you think I'm going to be able to stay awake until midnight you are probably having a stroke right now.

The Homecoming

2009-12-29T09:33:00.004-06:00

Rated PG for “brief mild language.” Speculations of culprit terminology: “prissy butt” “poop” “piss ants” “bosoms”

It’s become a tradition for Boyfriend and me, thanks to our friends Mary Ann and The Professor, to watch The Homecoming every Christmas season. You remember, the movie that inspired the series The Waltons. The mom and dad were different actors in the series, but we’re mighty grateful John Boy translated from the movie to the TV, big face mole and all. (For the record, John Boy Walton makes my skin crawl.)

The Homecoming was one of those recurring holiday movies back in the olden days of my childhood, like Elf and The Santa Clause are today, and was required viewing. It depicted good values, family togetherness and an accurate account of how things were in hillbilly country during the depression, which is something every city kid should know.

One of my favorite parts of the movie is how everyone is so suspicious of John Boy locking himself in his room. His mother suspects he’s smoking cigarettes. I’m sure she also suspected he was jerking off to girlie magazines when she demanded he reveal what he had hidden under his mattress. John Boy made a fool of her when he told her how he was merely writing down all of his private thoughts. He’s just so sensitive, having a diary and all.

And what about when John Boy is driving through the snowy woods to find his daddy who could very well be dead in a ditch from the bus accident? He starts having auditory hallucinations of his slave-driving daddy demanding his boy do manly things and John Boy responding to his father’s barks with “I’m trying daddy, I’m trying.” Didn’t John Man know his son was destined to be an effeminate author?

I tease, which is exactly what you’re supposed to do while watching The Homecoming. Let me just say in all my kidding about the fancy John Boy that there is definitely a hottie in the movie. Cleavon Little is just about as delicious as they come as the Reverend Hawthorne. And you know, it is true what they say about those guys. Oh it’s twue, it’s twue!

And what of the Frankenstein-headed daddy? Yikes. His head is huge! And plus he tells a dreadful story about “wrastling” with Santa after throwing a rock at him. Well, at least in the end he comes to terms with his namesake going into the business of writing instead of living out his life on Walton Mountain.

If you haven’t seen The Homecoming you really should for the reasons my parents made me watch it. If you’re one of those oldsters like me who have already watched it for the reverent reasons you should watch it again and poke fun. If nothing more you can pull quotes from the movie and use them in your everyday lives, such as Boyfriend and I, along with Mary Ann and The Professor have. Some favorites:

“You take it out yonder and pour it on the ground!”

“Old woman you’re not the boss of me.”

“I think it’s a doll!”

I’m really surprised this film hasn’t been made into a cult classic. Christmastime midnight showings at the theater would surely draw hundreds. Now what can I do to get that pesky theme song out of my head?

Christmas Cards

2009-12-28T07:45:00.000-06:00

One thing I like to do every year is send out Christmas cards. I don’t send out too many, no more than a couple dozen. I know some who send out upwards to a hundred, but I’ve just never been popular enough to know that many people.

For some reason I'm compelled to tell you this is not a card I would send out, but merely an example of a Christmas card chosen solely for the purpose of illustrating "Christmas Card." It's a blogger thing - having a picture in your post. Not that I think this is a horrible card or anything, but I probably would never send it myself. Let's say it's an example of the cards other people send me. Okay, read on...

It doesn’t matter how many Christmas cards you send out, or if you send any at all. What matters is the motivation behind your actions. My motivation for sending cards to anyone: an acknowledgement at the end of the year that I’m thinking about you, I’m glad to know you, I want you to have a wonderful season, whether you celebrate Christmas or not.

Then there are those people who have completely different motivations than I. I especially love Faux Ma’s approach to the card-giving practice. Every year she keeps the cards she received and only sends cards the following year to those who gave her a card the previous year. It doesn’t matter if the card sender is suffering from a major illness and is unable to send a card, or if the card got lost in the mail, or even if they just decided to not send cards to anyone they are deemed unworthy to receive one of her precious Christmas cards the following year.

Others send “the letter” under the guise of a year-end update when really they just want to brag about their fabulous vacation, their smart children, or even better write them in the voice of their pets. Personally I love getting “the letter” because when I read it I just assume everything is the complete opposite of what is written.

The ~~best~~ ~~worst~~ stupidest cards I receive are the ones sent merely as a reflex to receiving one from me. I’m not on their list to begin with, but because I sent them one, they frantically send one out to me, thinking they owe me one. It’s especially wonderful when I get my cards out just before Christmas and those lame people who feel they need to reciprocate send one out to me after the holiday. Geez.

I send cards because I want to. Not because I think I have to. Not because you gave one to me. If you don’t send one to me I’m not going to snub you next year. I don’t expect anything in return. To that Faux Ma says, “I guess you know the real meaning of giving.”

lieTunes

2009-12-18T07:16:00.001-06:00

Music is a huge part of the Christmas experience. There are all sorts of offerings, everything from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to Steve and Eydie, Silent Night to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Everyone, including famous Jews like Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand, has put out a Christmas cut, if not a whole Christmas album (CDs to you youngsters).

I was talking with Charlotte the other day and she told me her husband just adores the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack, and she’s about ready to snap that CD in two because it just drives her nuts. I can totally relate, as Boyfriend also loves that CD. It’s a guy thing. That annoying jazz piano is probably the last thing a girl would want to listen to while trimming the tree or wrapping presents.

And then ask any guy what his favorite Christmas song is. Eighty percent of the time they’ll answer Little Drummer Boy.

See a pattern?

Over the years I’ve known a lot of guys and by now in my ripe mid-age I have it all figured out. Here’s the deal – the guys are trying to brainwash the girls and are subversively trying to inflict guilt upon us.

You see, they want you to think they’re all sensitive, but the truth is, they want to create the illusion that they’re identifying with the losers. Charlie Brown? Loser. The music on that CD doesn’t move them, it’s all about Charlie Brown. Jazz? Jazz is not Christmas. And I’ll bet you the guy who says he likes the Charlie Brown soundtrack doesn’t listen to jazz at all throughout the rest of the year. What the guys assume is that girls like to take care of the loser, the pitiful Charlie Brown figure. The hope is that the girl’s nurturing instincts will kick in and the guy will never want for a thing, because the girl will pity the loser, pamper him, and give him never-ending validation so he doesn’t feel like the Charlie Brown loser he is convincing you he is. It’s all very Jungian and archetypal.

What about that Little Drummer Boy? Well here’s the thing on that - “I have no gift to bring…” Another loser. That the little drummer boy merely offered baby Jesus his drumming talent and himself, is exactly what your guy wants you to expect from him this Christmas. Okay? 1) Tell me what girl wants to hear a drum solo, and 2) giving of himself? Give me a break. He’s only trying to get out of buying you diamonds and furs, things you totally deserve. Don’t let him send subliminal messages that you should feel guilty for wanting the fine things in life.

So girls, don’t fall for it. It’s not sensitivity or vulnerability these guys are revealing with their Christmas “favorites.” It’s trickery. I’ve been around the block and have it all figured out. They’re secretly loving the song Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer, and you can go ahead and let them know you’re on to them with their Charlie Brown and Drummer Boy façade.

Holidays, Phase II

2009-12-04T07:56:00.002-06:00

Well, I’ve finally gotten over the Thanksgiving blues set off by the Fauxs. Things aren’t good, but they’re as good as they’re going to be, so I’ve decided to just suck it up and be a good little Faux DIL. I’ve taken on the project of making Faux Ma’s remaining days tolerable, if not thought-provoking. I mean, I can’t imagine the absence of some self-examination when you’re looking straight into the light at the face of Jesus. I’m just helping that self-examination along, for better or worse.

So next comes Christmas. Who isn’t jolly at Christmastime? I’ll tell you who. Those fools who went shopping at 3:00 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving. They’re as pathetic as the retailers are greedy. While I was snug in my bed wrapped in a cozy quilt sinking into the downy goodness of my featherbed the mental, sleep deprived, still-stuffed-with-turkey-and-gravy fans of the –Marts were clawing each other to get the best deal on toys designed to keep their kids sedentary and hypnotized. The obnoxious TV ads for the obscene door-buster sales positively ruin the week before Thanksgiving. Thank God the stores are now advertising door-buster sales at a much more reasonable hour, 7:00 a.m. Still way too early for me on a Saturday morning. It’s a good thing though, because I wouldn’t want those kinds of people getting in my way when I’m doing my leisurely albeit more expensive shopping at reasonable hours of the day.

This weekend I undertake the decorating project. The tree is up unfurling its branches to receive hundreds of lights, ornaments, and tinsel. The entire cluttered house is crying to be declutterfied in preparation of the Nativities, Santas, angels, snowmen, and elves anticipating their freedom from the myriad of Rubbermaid tubs in which they have been stored for the past eleven months. A friend of mine once said my holiday house looks as though someone puked Christmas all over it. In my defense I would not say my house looks puked upon so much as being aggressively festive, and not in a bad way.

There will also be some Christmas baking done this weekend. I’ll be baking for two this year as Faux Ma most likely won’t be able to find the energy to do much cookie mixing. In my quest to become the Faux DIL they never had I’m going to cast aside my culinary principals and make a batch of Faux Ma’s fudge for her and Faux Pa. I’m morally opposed to making fudge with graham crackers, but that’s her recipe and I’m going to bite the bullet for a sick old lady. Damn I’m nice.

As judgmental as I may seem, I truly hope everyone can celebrate the season in whatever way makes them happy. I may be all shrimp cocktail and champagne when others are pickled pigs’ feet and Ripple but in the end we’re all thinking the same thing – who the hell invented fruitcake and eggnog? And what’s with graham crackers in fudge? (OK, that last one is just me.)

It Is Later Than You Think

2009-11-30T00:45:00.000-06:00

I had big fantasies about spending the Thanksgiving weekend writing blog posts galore. In fact, in my planner I wrote, "Blog Posts Galore!" It didn't happen. I got too depressed.

My dinner was a fabulous success, at least in my opinion. The turkey was moist and golden brown. The gravy was rich and delicious. The stuffing was flavorful and moist. The potatoes were moist. All right, I know, I'm using the word moist too much, but it is an adjective I haven't been able to use to describe a Thanksgiving meal in many years. Grandma's buns turned out well, as did Other Grandma's pumpkin pie. And the lemon tart was to die for.

But I don't want to talk about dying, because poor Faux Ma is doing just that. Not to make light of the situation, I'm just trying to make sense of my feelings about it all. You know the saying, If you can't be a good example, be a horrible warning? Faux Ma is turning out to be the latter for me. I have compassion for her and all, but really, is being terminal any reason to ruin a perfectly good holiday?

The entire day, all three hours of it, was centered around watching Faux Ma writhe in pain. A shoulder/neck pain. Bursitis, I think, nothing related to her cancer. Anyway, she brought along her heating pad for comfort, but it obviously gave her none. Boyfriend and Faux Pa would just watch her moan, sigh, and shift positions. No one spoke. I grew so terribly uncomfortable with the situation I asked her if she'd like to take one of my Vicodin, it would work a miracle. She said she had already taken one. Then I said, well then, maybe you'd like a glass of wine with that. The humor was not appreciated.

Faux Ma has an expiration date now. I'm sure that circumstance is a difficult one to deal with. The trouble I'm having relates to figuring out where I fit in. On one hand I want to do everything I can to help make this stage of her life comfortable. On the other hand I want her to quit her whining and resistance. I want her to be gracious. I want her to see the fucking light already. Not that one people see when they're stepping over to the other side, but, you know, "the light." I want to just tell her get a clue, tick-tock, your life is nearly over and you're still choosing to be the bitter passive-aggressive you've always been? Doesn't really matter either way as this is a private family matter and I'm basically shut out.

I guess being on the brink of death doesn't have the same effect on Faux Ma as it had on Scrooge. Maybe Faux Ma doesn't care that she has indeed become a burden to deal with rather than a dying parent to nurture and soothe.

Boyfriend has similar feelings to mine, although his feelings don't freak him out as much as mine freak me out. I'm not used to this sort of thing. I've seen people close to me die with dignity and grace. I've seen people with terminal illnesses live their lives with vigor and determination and hope until the very end. To watch this woman resist help yet complain about not being able to do the things she normally does is annoying to me. To see she still holds grudges against other family members is perplexing to me. To know the little voice inside her head is just begging people to pamper her and fall all over her in their grief over her imminent demise pisses me off because the voice I hear coming from her mouth tells me not to bother.

I want to do something even though I'm not truly welcome to. I want to stay away because, well, frankly being around her is just a downer. She's that terrible warning, an example of what I don't want to be when I'm dying. I guess, even in her pitiful physical state and twisted emotional state, Faux Ma is an inspiration to me. A reminder that just because I'm dying doesn't guarantee love and affection. A sign that truly as we sow, so shall we reap.

Boyfriend took his parents home after our delicious meal. When he came back he found me in my comfy chair with a glass of wine beside me as I watched The Brady Bunch reruns on TV. I spent a good part of the weekend in a state of shock and awe over what happened this Thanksgiving. I realize I'm thankful for the good people in my life, the ones who support me and love me no matter how big an asshat I can be. I'm also thankful for those who don't love me so much, for they are the ones who inspire me to be a better person to myself and all those who matter to me.

Gobble Gobble

2009-11-25T07:40:00.001-06:00

Do you like Thanksgiving?

For a long time I did, then for a long time I didn't. The concept of a holiday centered around nothing but huge quantities of food appeals to me. Growing up Thanksgiving was indeed a feast put on by my grandma. When the Thanksgiving torch was passed to her daughters, my mother and Her Sister, things didn’t seem as grandiose. To spare you the details of how things went horribly wrong, let me just say Thanksgiving went from a well-orchestrated and perfectly executed meal put on by my grandmother to a disjointed pot-luck attempt at a feast between four cooks. The food was plentiful, but it just didn’t seem right coming from so many different cooks. Some may think a variety of cooks would make for a diverse and delicious meal. I thought it was a mishmash of culinary styles that led to a relatively unremarkable, albeit large meal.

As disenchanted as I was over the fact that my grandma had to die and end all of that Thanksgiving wonderfulness, I have to say the pot-luck thing we had going was much better than what I was in for when I began having Thanksgiving dinner with Boyfriend’s parents, Faux Ma and Faux Pa.

Faux Ma always pleased the men in her life with her cooking. As an outsider I didn’t know stuffing was supposed to be so dry it crumbled off the table spoon from which it was served. I didn’t know green beans were to be served with relish tongs. I didn’t know there was such a thing as tomato jello, otherwise known as aspic. Ass pick. Opaque red jello-like salad containing brown flecks of something served on a bed of lettuce, which also had to be eaten up because one must not waste food even though it’s really meant to be a garnish. I didn’t know mashed potatoes were supposed to crack when you put your fork into them. I didn’t know a Thanksgiving meal could be served without pumpkin pie with pumpkin fluff as a substitute - a pumpkin-flavored Cool Whip dessert so vile it made the dusty turkey seem delicious. I didn’t know the saving grace to Thanksgiving dinner was gravy, the only form of moisture in the entire meal.

Suffice it to say I grew to miss the pot-luck meal my family made tradition.

It’s easy to criticize another’s attempt to put on a holiday meal, even though I don’t exaggerate in the least in my description of Faux Ma’s meal. Now I must put my money where my mouth is. This year Faux Ma is too sick and feeble to put on the meal, so the burden of delectable lies with me. Of course I’m nervous. It’s not that I feel pressure to please my guests because obviously they’re perfectly happy with ass pick and pumpkin fluff. What makes me nervous is measuring up to my own expectations.

So I’ve decided to channel my dead grandma. Thursday morning I’ll meditate and concentrate and do all those other things people do to channel the dead. She’ll inhabit my body and guide me to cooking the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve had in years. There will be real pumpkin pie and no fleck-laden gelatined tomato soup. The potatoes, stuffing, and turkey will be moist and delicious. For a good measure I’ll channel my other dead grandma and make her sweet, buttery dinner rolls. Being so possessed by these grandmothers I’ll dance around the kitchen singing Everything Is Beautiful and end every sentence with the question “and-so?” I can’t go wrong with my two grandmas in the kitchen with me, inhabiting my very essence.

Wish me luck. With my channeling skills I’ll probably come up with Colonel Sanders and Orville Redenbacher and serve nothing but extra crispy popcorn.

Oh well, better than ass pick.

Do-Si-Do

2009-11-20T08:11:00.001-06:00

Help! I'm having a flashback to junior high gym class, and yet, this is so unlike that. When did square dancing trade do-si-do with "arrow?" What's with the weird holding-the-face-and-rocking-back-and-forth thing? Is it that 7th graders can alamande left better than 70-year-olds? Since when do we square dance to The Black Eyed Peas? It's all just so wrong. I think it's an evil plot to make old people look foolish under the guise of dance and exercise. When I'm old, I'm just going to sit in a chair and look out the window like I'm supposed to.

Bite Me Barnabas

2009-11-17T10:27:00.000-06:00

Coming soon is a new movie in the Twilight series. New Moon, I think it’s called. People are going mental over this whole vampire thing. I’m laughing, because I’ve had a vampire thing for, well, decades. What I don’t understand is, what took everyone else so long? Another thing, this Twilight vampire guy is totally not the one.

I started having the hots for vampires way back in grade school. I didn’t realize then what I was experiencing was “the hots,” but looking back I clearly had romantic feelings. It was back in the '60s, and I would run home from school to watch the horror soap opera, Dark Shadows. Barnabas Collins was the beginning of what would turn out to be a life-long love for the blood-sucking undead. He wasn’t attractive to look at by any means, but he had a certain je nais c'est quoi. In fact a couple of years ago Boyfriend bought for me, from the estate section of Bockstruck’s Jewelers, a Barnabas Collins ring. It’s an oval black onyx stone and fits perfectly on my right pointer finger, just like Barnabas wore his. Next on the list is the walking stick with a sterling silver wolf head handle, but that’s almost too much to hope for.

The story of Dracula is, of course, the ultimate in vampire stories, as Dracula is, of course, the ultimate vampire. I loved Bela Lugosi in Dracula. He made an insect-eating lunatic out of Renfield, and who could resist that “Transylvanian” accent? Plus, I always loved that band of lighting across Dracula’s eyes.

As I grew older Dracula and vampires in general became more of a fantasy than mere fascination. Anne Rice wrote the vampire trilogy (which of course grew into more than a trilogy, but then she found God and things got kind of boring and all about her). Casting Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt in the movie version of Interview With A Vampire was a tragic mistake. While somewhat attractive, these guys lack character. I disregarded the film versions of her books, but the books themselves, delicious.

One of the most intriguing portrayals of Dracula was by Gary Oldman in Dracula. Yow. And yum. I mean, really, what’s better, the skinny boy with the pasty skin or the suave European with the top hat and ever-so-cool blue glasses? There’s no contest.

To go full circle and to arouse my fantasies even further is the upcoming remake of Dark Shadows on the big screen. And who could play the alluring vampire better than anyone in the entire universe, especially for those of us with definite submission-to-the-undead tendencies? Oh…my…God.

Twilight guy, you’re an amateur. And all you young girls out there, grow up. You can do a lot better.

Just Peachy, That's Me

2009-11-11T08:46:00.002-06:00

Boyfriend read my last post and got all disgusted with me for being so hard on myself. So to cancel out any negative feelings I expressed/have about myself I'm making a list of positive things about me. This will place me in the neutral range regarding my self esteem. Neutral is better than loathing.

1. I know good food and eat it well.

2. My hair is very curly with lots of character.

3. I've never been more than five pounds overweight, except for that time I went on antidepressants which compelled me to eat M&Ms by the truckload.

4. I'm unafraid to laugh out loud at really stupid things, blowing milk out of my nose if necessary.

5. When I get an idea in my head I execute it immediately, despite the fact that I could fail miserably. This could be construed as a negative trait, but I choose to believe it is a good quality, because I'm a positive person.

6. I know what the word homomorphism means - it has nothing to do with turning gay.

7. I'm a good liar. Again, this could be construed as a negative trait, but it's really good when you lie to spare someone hurt feelings. Like if someone asks how I like their new outfit and I think it looks like something my great-grandmother would wear while she was picking potatoes in the Old Country. I would never actually say that. OK, maybe I should rephrase the positive statement to say, I can twist my words to project good feelings onto someone rather than saying what I really think. I guess that's still lying, but whatever.

8. I'm a very considerate and humble roulette player. And I tip the croupier.

9. I respond to e-mails promptly, except for those Viagra ones.

10. I don't smell like pee...yet.

So there you have it. Boyfriend has been quite bored with all my negative talk these past few weeks, so I hope he's happy that yes, I do think I have some good qualities. I'm not a loser, I'm a winner!

I'm A Loser Baby, So Why Don't You Kill Me*

2009-11-10T10:44:00.000-06:00

OK, you two people out there who are reading this blog, I’m back at it, at least for one boring post. Boring because I have absolutely nothing to offer. Nothing. I’m an empty vessel. I’m a shell. I’m a big, fat loser.

I found out today that one of my best friends made it to the top. Her life has been one miraculous happening after another. She married the man of her dreams. She bore four children who are about the cutest things alive. She’s smart enough to home school these kids. She’s a wonderful cook. She’s a fabulous photographer. And to top all that off, she blogs every single day. More than once. Her blog has different tabs! Big deal, you say. OK, the blogging thing isn’t really the top of the success list. She wrote a cookbook that is now on the New York Times best seller list at…#1.

Now you two people who are reading this know I don’t actually have a best friend who achieved all this. But that’s what religiously reading blogs has done to me. I’ve been reading this chick’s blog for a long time now, and I feel like I know her. Never mind how blogs aren’t necessarily a true reflection on one’s real life, she’s telling a story and sticking to it, so as far as I’m concerned I know this girl as well as if I had grown up with her.

She’s traveling around the country on a big book signing tour, getting all sorts of praise and worship from her thousands of fans. I also found out she’ll be in my town for a signing. I thought about seeing her at that venue but then I realized the truth of the matter. I would buy her book and stand in line for hours waiting for her signature. Not only would she ask my name, when I tell it to her she wouldn’t blink. She wouldn’t recognize it from all the comments I’ve left on her blog. She’d be better off identifying one cow in a heard of eleventy thousand than she would me. What a crushing blow that would be.

Before you go thinking how I’m being all selfish about this, and petty and jealous, let me just say that yes, I am small enough to be jealous about this and it is indeed all about me. I mean, there is no one in the world more worthy of fame and fortune than I am. I want it more than anyone and yet I have to sit back and watch little miss I-Didn’t-Even-Have-To-Try get it all.**

So I sit here with nothing to say except that I’ll never measure up to the blogging queen my best friend has become. I’ll never be able to capture the hearts of millions with pictures of my cute little offspring because, well, as you know I’m barren. I’ll never write a book that will make it to the New York Times best seller list, much less the number one spot because I’m so consumed with envy I’m left with a writer’s block worthy of a case of scotch, meaningless, tawdry sex with cabana boys in Key West, and a pistol with one bullet meant only to put me out of my misery. ***

Except that part about drunken sex with cabana boys isn't all bad, is it?

* These are actual song lyrics; I don’t really want you to kill me.

** Upon a reread of this post I realize this sounds really snarky and mean. I don’t really hate her, I hate myself, and anyone who’s ever had a shred of psychology training would know that.

*** Again, I have no intention of harming myself or others, so call off the men in the white coats.

It Was So Good It Could Only Get Worse

2009-11-03T10:42:00.002-06:00

I got up on Monday morning and freshened myself up for the day ahead of me. Mornings are a really bad time for me because, well, I have to stop sleeping. But I managed fairly well for a Monday, and as I approached the glass doors of the office building I noticed I was having an incredibly wonderful hair day.

After working for about ten minutes I had this horrible feeling. An urge. I couldn’t avoid it, even though it is the thing I loathe most to do in public. I had to poop. Ugh! So I went to the bathroom and took care of the situation as quickly as I could. As I washed my hands afterwards I looked in the mirror and admired my cute hair.

I had a meeting with my boss about an hour and a half into my day. It didn’t go so badly, I suppose, except for her way of looking at me as though I’m a freak of nature for wanting to actually serve the public ethically and legally like I’m supposed to. She continued her look at me for about forty-five minutes and our meeting was over. I know she was envying my fabulous hair. She also pities me somewhat because it’s becoming clearer with every day my job will eventually be eliminated. When? No one knows. But it is inevitable.

Around 8:00 the construction workers came and started their work in our office space. They were tearing out a wall. Drills and saws and punching things. Loud power tools. Screeching dentist-office-like sounds. Pounding and pounding. And the dust. Oh the dust. This continued until noon when the workers took off for lunch, and of course resumed at 1:00 and nagged at me for the rest of the day.

There was also a point in the day when I dropped a gigantic case file because of a pain my elbow that has been bothering me slightly for about a week. That joint now remains in a constant state of ache and the case file needs to be reassembled…some day.

As the day wore on I started to feel agitated over all of the things I had to accomplish in the next couple of weeks in my personal life. The tasks and chores began whirling around in my head and suddenly I found my presence at the workplace to be a complete waste of time and why do I even bother to do a good job when A) I have too much to do outside of this loud, stinking rat hole and B) what’s the point of spending so much time out of my life to be rewarded with nothing more than the inevitable elimination of my job in the fairly near future?

The anxiety rose in me, and with that also came a second need to poop. Twice in one day? At work?! WTF? When nature calls...at the mirror in the bathroom I caught a glimpse of that great hair, which put a shadow of a smile on my face.

Back at my desk I started thinking about my dead brother and actually began to cry. I hate crying at work more than anything, except pooping at work, but I couldn’t even help myself. I sat in my chair with that achy throat you get from trying to choke back sobs while dabbing the tears that forced their way down my cheeks and blowing gallons of snot out of my nasal passages.

I tried to cheer myself by reading one of my favorite blogs and was disheartened to see my comment of a previous post had been mocked by the author of the blog.

Finally it was time to go home. I crossed the windy street to the parking ramp and breathed a sigh of relief as my day in hell was nearing its end. As I merged onto the freeway I noticed an unbelievable number of cars. Could there have been more traffic? And they were all traveling at an ungodly slow speed. I forgot to tinkle before I left the office. At least I didn’t have to poop.

When I made it to the house I kicked off my shoes and saw I had pierced a hole in the toe of one of my good socks. Don’t go thinking I have talons at the end of my legs; a hole in the sock was just par for the course of the day. I went upstairs to change clothes and looked into the mirror. There it was. That hair. That wonderful hair had been blown by the wind on my way from the office to the parking ramp and turned into a mop of scraggly fur on the top of my head. The one bright spot in my day had been ruined by nothing more than a gust of wind.

What began as a perfectly wonderful hair day turned out to be one of the most miserable eighteen hours I’ve spent in a long time. I can only hope for the rest of the week I’ll be plagued with cowlicks and frizzies to spare me the emotional turmoil that comes with a good hair day.

I Remembered

2009-11-01T15:54:00.003-06:00

Happy Birthyday Bob. Wherever you are.

Royal Clones

2009-10-29T13:32:00.005-05:00

How many of us get to see pictures of our ancestors? I've seen pictures and have even known a few from three generations back. But what about centuries back? Wouldn't that be interesting? Finding pictures of your ancestors from centuries ago is pretty much impossible, unless of course you're royalty and you can just go to the nearest museum and check the portrait painted of your great great great great great grandmother. Or maybe that portrait is hanging in the grand stairway of the castle in which you live. The point is, we have no idea how well these genes are passed down and practically cloned throughout the ages. Until now.

Check this out:

This is Queen Victoria (1819-1901) and Princess Beatrice, her great, great, great, great, granddaughter.

What about this:

Uncanny is the resemblance between King Edward I (1239-1307) and Prince William, Edward's great grandson twenty-one times over.

I wonder what the women and men in my family looked like in the 13th century. I kind of shutter to think.

For more fascinating pictures of royal clones, check out Damn Cool Pics. They really are damn cool.

Addendum: OK, the point was brought up in the comments section of Damn Cool Pics that these people have such a resemblance because there's so much inbreeding going on in royal families. But really, if the inbreeding were so intense wouldn't these people be like dwarfy retards by now?

Made For TV

2009-10-28T07:00:00.004-05:00

A friend of mine just started a blog. Last time I checked she had three posts, which is pretty good for someone who’s never even read a blog before three weeks ago. We had lunch the other day and she was teasing that I hadn’t posted as much as she thought I should. I explained to her how I’m writing for four blogs as opposed to her one, and she should just shut up. I told her if she’s so into the blogging scene now she should be posting every day. And then the truth came out.

She’s afraid.

She’s afraid if she sits down to write that’s all she’ll do and will get nothing else done. I asked her, what else are you going to do? You see, she has this thing where if the TV is on her head automatically turns toward it and her eyes get all spinney like on cartoons and she can’t turn away no matter what kind of crap is on. She has another thing where if she sits down to the computer she starts out with a game of solitaire, which turns into twenty-seven games of solitaire. It’s not like spending some time writing on a blog will take her away from feeding the poor or giving blood. If she was really doing things like that I’d cut her some slack.

But seriously, this woman says she wants to write, become the most sought-after screen writer for Lifetime Television For Women made-for-TV movies and/or become a novelist. The problem is society has etched into our minds that keeping our clothes clean and feeding our children are more important than writing the Great American Novel. Writers like my friend are victims I tell you.

I mean, who’s to say what is productive and what is a waste of time? Granted, we do have to keep our clothes clean and feed our children, but aside from that, how we spend our leisure time is really no one’s business but our own. I have a small crafting business, and I go out and sell my wares at various art and craft shows throughout the year. People frequently ask, “do you make all of this?” When I reply yes, many times they say, “you sure have a lot of time on your hands.” Well, see, no I don’t, because I’m busy making all this stuff. Because I choose to spend my time creatively doesn’t make me less productive than the person who chooses to spend time taking community ed classes or going to church.

So I tell my friend, don’t be afraid to spend too much time doing what you want to do. And don’t tell me that watching Dancing With The Stars is really what you want to do. I know better. I’ll have to delve more deeply into her psyche and determine what she's really afraid of. My guess is she fears success most of all. Anyone who knows her would say she couldn’t stand being rich and famous. That’s just too dreadful.

There's No Easy Way

2009-10-27T07:00:00.001-05:00

Taking a "field trip" during my lunch break the other day I heard a discussion on the radio. The topic: What's this new trend with women wanting to be a princess? The gist of the conversation was about how women today want to be treated as a princess, not having to work, letting a man take care of them.

I've always been an independent person, earning my keep and being responsible for things like car maintenance. I've paid my own bills and have been able to keep a job. I grew up with Women's Lib and was proud to be able to live a full and happy life without needing a man to provide for me. Interestingly enough, most of the men I've dated were ~~deadbeats~~ less financially sound than I. My apartment was the place we could go for privacy as they usually lived with their parents. If I wanted to go on a date, I was the one who picked up the tab. I felt superior and in control. I could totally see why men didn't want their wives to work. Being employed and having financial resources is power.

The people calling in to the radio show, mostly women, were aghast at the fact that there are women out there who don't want to work. They felt it is a woman's responsibility to honor those who paved the way, making it possible for us to have jobs in fields other than nursing or teaching. (Not that those aren't valuable careers, but if you didn't want to see guts, or deal with other people's brats you pretty much didn't work.) We are now allowed to get an education and obtain employment and it is our duty to do so as women, because damn it, we're just as good as men.

And then were spoken words from one of the hosts of the radio show, a man. Words that rang kind of true for me. "We all want to be princesses (including men) because we're lazy!" Hallaluja!

Now before you get all up in my face about how bad it is to encourage laziness, I have to qualify my position. You see, I've been holding my own for almost thirty years. I carryied the load of responsibilities without a man for thirty-five years and have shared the load with Boyfriend for the last thirteen. (By the way, Boyfriend isn't one of those ~~deadbeats~~ less financially sound men I referred to earlier. When I met him he was actually doing better than I was, owning a house and a car, which was a step and a half above me.) I've sucked up to the government big shots I work for in order to keep a job. I've cut coupons to save money at the grocery store. I've tried to adhere to my mother's rule Never Pay Retail. Okay? I've paid my dues. I want out. I want to be lazy.

Shows like The Bachelor set a bad example to young women. It encourages women to look for a rich man and expect everything to be handed to them simply because they ask. It also encourages women to snag that man by means of sex. Listen girls, it's easier to get up in the morning and go to work and provide for yourself than it is to play the sex kitten twenty-four hours a day just to get some guy to buy you nice things. I mean, you have to shave your legs every day, look alluring - it's just too much trouble. So basically, I'm being the lazy one having had a job all these years as I'm just not willing to put in the effort to keep my weight down or submit to unspeakable sex acts, which of course is mandatory when you are a kept woman.

So maybe "lazy" is the wrong word. Perhaps it's just that I'm old and tired and want to have a life sans a boss and a schedule. It's not that I'm trying to get out of doing the work, as was implied by the term "princess" so much as I just want to be done now. I would totally get into someone taking over and steering the ship while I sit back and enjoy all the perks. I have one problem. Boyfriend feels the same way.

Together we trudge on. It makes no difference what our gender is. We're both tired of it, but the world has tied us both to the wheel and we have to share the steering duties until we're dead. All right, hopefully not until we're dead, but for a while, at least.

As for being a princess I can only say this: Even Cinderella paid her dues with the evil stepmother and all that back-breaking work she did cleaning the hearth. In short, you can become a princess once you've put in your time. Otherwise your prince charming will know you're just a whore.

Eat Me

2009-10-26T07:00:00.003-05:00

With Halloween coming up there are so many new parents out there just itching to get their cute little babies out there for Tricks or Treats. Our friend, Martha Stewart, is always coming up with creative ideas and this Halloween is no exception.

I present to you, the Roast Turkey costume:

I'm totally not lying. If you're sick enough you can find the details here. The costume pattern includes all the roasted vegetables and platter. Your little darling will be so cute you'll want to eat her up! And it's a twofer. Lay little customed Tiffany on the Thanksgiving table and watch Aunt Edna stroke right out. It's all around holiday fun!

Addendum: Taking a small infant out Trick-or-Treating is not cool as we all know you're hogging the candy for yourself. Babies can't eat a Snickers Bar and you know it. Note to self: stock up on Melba Toast hand-outs for lame infant-wielding Trick-or-Treaters.

Insomnia

2009-10-25T06:24:00.000-05:00

I've been awake since 2:30 a.m. It's now 6:30 a.m. It's true what they say, it really is darkest before the dawn.

High Maintenance

2009-10-16T10:01:00.000-05:00

I was walking down the street one day and coming toward me walking in the other direction was a woman. A perfect woman. Her clothes fit her perfectly. Her hair was perfect. Her purse hung perfectly from her perfectly square shoulders. Her make-up was perfect. Her teeth were perfect. All right, you get the idea. This woman was perfect.

I was a little surprised at my response to this vision of perfection. Envy? No. Resentment? No. I let out a sigh of relief that I do not have the pressure on me to be that perfect.  Realizing I didn't feel that pressure took me aback because I grew up around several women who placed a great emphasis on appearances, and for many years I also felt appearance was of the utmost importance. Like that Billy Crystal character who claims "It doesn't matter how you feel darling, you look marvelous" I emphasized the surface.

Now before you go thinking how I'm going to stress inner beauty and how what's inside is more important than what's outside, let me just assure you, I'm not that deep. Plus I'm just not in that touchy-feeling, share-your-feelings, I'm-OK-You're-OK kind of mood. Yeah, yeah, inner beauty is good and everything, but that's not the point. The point is, appearance perfection requires high maintenance. Even mere good appearances requires medium-high maintenace. Here's what I have to say about that: if you want to spend your time maintaining an appearance, go for it. Put on your foundation and your powder, your eyeliner and mascara, your ruby red lipstick. Then take out the curling iron, the straitening iron, the curlers, the conditioner, the gel, the hairspray. Spend your thousands on custom clothing and tailoring. Submit to the dentist for a bleached smile. You go girl. You look marvelous!

But what happens on the day(s) when you just don't feel like it? There have got to be days when that just seems like too much work. What happens then?

Here's the thing. I was one of those people who does their hair every day and puts on make-up and wears clothes that have been ironed.  Then one Saturday I was at Target. I had on my cargo pants and a baggy sweatshirt. I had applied no make-up. My hair was so bad I wore a dorky hat. I'm at Target for crying out loud, picking up toothpaste and tampons. In and out and back home again. Oh, except for there's a woman who works in my office. She sees me, and doesn't really know if she recognizes me or not. Her expression is kind of squinty, like if she focuses more she'll see the make-up that supposed to be on my face. I felt so embarrassed, not because of how I looked, but because that's not how I look to most people most of the time.

It's all still about appearances, but when someone can't recognize you on Saturday after they've been working in the office with you week in and week out for years, perhaps your daily appearance is a little less than genuine. No?

Another embarrassing case of presenting a false image: A long time ago Boyfriend and I went on a date. We had just started dating but knew we were destined for something big, and we totally had the hots for each other. There we were, making out on my couch. His hand was on my back, sort of assessing the situation with the bra. You know how they do that. They try to be all nonchalant but you can tell they're totally counting how many hooks they have to negotiate.  Then I thought OMG, he's going to find out! Thing was, I was wearing pretty substantially padded bra. Because I had deep feelings and respect for Boyfriend, I felt obligated to tell him before he went one step further that once the bra came off he might be surprised at what he finds. I just don't want you to be too disappointed, I said. Well, how could he not be disappointed? Luckily it turned out the Boyfriend is more of a leg man and my little mosquito bites didn't bother him in the least.

All I'm saying is, I'd rather have people try to recognize me when I present myself as stunning rather than when I'm just myself. I'd rather put huge effort into my appearance once or twice a month rather than every day. If I'm going to surprise someone with my appearance I'd rather have them be astonished at how well I clean up rather than back away in horror when they realize I actually look like Quasimodo.

As the perfect woman passed me on the sidewalk all I could wonder was, what do you look like when you're cleaning the toilet? Cuz that's the real you.

The Opportunity's On

2009-10-15T14:31:00.002-05:00

So, you know that song on the cell phone commercial. Or is it an iPhone? Blackberry? Blue Tooth? Whatever. The song says, “If you want to sing out sing out, if you want to be free be free, cuz there’s a million things to be you know that there are…” I’ll give a big hug to anyone who knows who sings that song. I’ll give a big kiss with tongue to anyone who knows the movie in which it was featured.

The artist: Cat Stevens. The movie: Harold and Maude

No hugs or tongue kisses now as I told you the answers. Hearing that commercial as many times as I have gave me the hankering to see the movie again for the 249th time. It is, hands down, my favorite movie of all time.

I remember the first time I saw it. I went with a date to the theater to see it (about ten years after its original release – how dare you think I’m that old) as a double feature with The King of Hearts, which is, by the way, another fabulous movie. The guy I went with was quite an influence. I won’t get into too much detail as Boyfriend tunes into this blog once in a while and I don’t want him to feel all threatened or anything. Of course he knows I dated guys before him, but he’s convinced himself they were all eunuchs with hairy ears and skinny legs. Anyway, the guy who took me to this double feature impressed me with his unconventional choice, although I’m sure he had no idea the movie would have such an impact on me.

If you haven’t seen it I highly recommend that you do. But only if you’re cool and have enough intellect and insight to get the message it gives. One time I introduced the movie to a friend of mine and she critiqued it as a knee-slapping comedy. I dumped her immediately.

The quotes in the movie are classics. “Do you enjoy knives?” “Dinner at eight Harold, and do try to be a little more vivacious.” “Don’t get officious. You’re not yourself when you’re officious. That’s the curse of a government job.” “What gives you that special…satisfaction?” OK, so if you haven’t seen the movie these mean nothing, but trust me, they’re perfect and every time I turn around someone is saying something that holds deep philosophical meaning for me.

One of the best things about the movie is the music. Every single song is Cat Stevens. Every single song is so appropriate for the scene in which it is played. In fact this last time I thought perhaps the movie was actually written around the songs. See what I mean? Every viewing brings a different way of looking at things. And it’s a real treat to hear that old Ruth Gordon singing the iPhone commercial song.

And for a special treat that completely unrelated to Harold and Maude but totally related to Cat Stevens and a little tribute to Charlotte. She loves Harold and Maude too, as well as Cat. I guess you'd say we're a peach of a pair. Here's to you, Charlotte!

Reality TV - A Conflict In Terms

2009-10-12T11:20:00.000-05:00

Remember the days when TV was for entertainment purposes? Of course there was the news at 6:00 and 10:00, but for the most part TV existed purely for our enjoyment and was valued for being an escape into fictional circumstances. People were hired to write scripts and actors were hired to play out what was written. Cameras shot straight at a scene or glided along smoothly when movement was required.

There isn't a day in the week that doesn't hold in the schedule a show, or more accurately many shows, that is "reality-based." First there were shows like Extreme Makeover and Extreme Makeover Home Edition. Then came the competition shows like Survivor and Amazing Race. I thought we hit the bottom of the TV viewing barrel when shows like Big Brother and The Bachelor(ette) came out, but alas I was wrong again.

For example, Tila Taquila? WTF? Who is she and why can't she get a date (with either men or women - she isn't picky) without holding a contest, the prize being her precious little la-la? Got news for you, that la-la probably isn't so precious when you get right down to it. And what's the big deal about Jon and Kate? They have eight kids. Oh my! I predict future reality shows featuring the kids and their woes about how their parents screwed them up by putting them on a reality show as they were growing up. I can't forget to mention shows like Celebrity Rehab. I'm sure I would want a camera documenting my most private and personal journey to becoming clean and sober. Not. Unless of course I was starving for attention and was so delusional I believed the entire universe actually cared.

Why does this crap fill the airwaves? Because people actually watch these shows. They watch them and talk about them at the water cooler the next day. Radio shows discuss them. There are shows on TV created especially to recap the crappy shows, filling our leisure time with not only crap, but crap about crap.

I just don't get it. First of all why are these shows on? Second of all why do we feel compelled to watch The Girls Next Door paw the 150-year-old Hugh Hefner? Why is anyone remotely interested in the personal lives of grown up Peter Brady or Danny Partridge? Am I the only person who isn't watching this stuff? Most probably. When I hear who is competing on Dancing With The Stars I have no idea who the "stars" are. They're all has-beens or never-weres. And yet people eat it up like buttermilk pancakes at the Methodist fellowship hall on a fundraiser Sunday morning.

As I write this I realize I'm certainly adding to the problem. These shows have gotten my attention and have inspired outrage. They have succeeded in making some kind of impression in my life. That makes me even more mad, because now I have to admit I'm powerless over the effects of reality TV. Not only do I hate the shows, I hate myself for hating them.

I'm off to read a book. One with big words.

Insights And Anticipation

2009-10-10T12:03:00.003-05:00

Well, she did it. MaryAnn is alive and well and sailing the great seas of literary expression. My consistent prodding introduced her to a world she has never known before, but one which will prove to be very satisfying if she does it right.

I'm very well known for telling people what to do, because of course I know what's best for everyone. I encourage people to take the road that requires guts and determination because the outcome will be that much more rewarding. Bossy and pushy, I realize I've lived vicariously through those who have taken my advice and leaped into the abyss of the unknown to find their happiness and satisfaction. Today I realize that I too must search for my bliss the hard way. Living vicariously through someone else is no life at all.

I've also realized that pushing MaryAnn to start her blog was my own subconscious screaming out it should be me taking to the quill. I don't fancy myself a prolific writer, but I like to do it and I believe people should partake in activities that bring them joy no matter what their skill level.

My excitement over MaryAnn's new beginning is genuine, but is also a giddy anticipation of my renewed insights taking flight into the tangible world. Back to the blog, says Meredith. (That's Mrs. Sparrow to you, MaryAnn.) And so she shall once again attempt to incorporate writing into her daily life.

As for MaryAnn, I hope she can continue to provide inspiration for me. Good luck to her, and to me.

Starting [Over]

2009-10-08T13:33:00.004-05:00

A friend of mine has been talking about writing a book for decades. I’m not sure if she has a definite story in mind or if she’s just like me with a vague fantasy about being an author. Doesn’t matter. The thing is, this girl doesn’t write. Ever. At least not that I know of.

She was telling me the other day about how excited she was, anticipating a viewing of the Lord of the Rings movies. I’ve never been a fan of the movies or even the books, so when she was telling me about elves and other species of creatures whose labels my mind has no way of recollecting I kind of ignored it. You Lord fans know what she means. As she went through the list of names, species, settings, etc., I had to interrupt her and say, “you could totally write a story like that.” I mean, how hard could it be? It’s all gibberish and the kids just eat it up. Anyone with any imagination at all can make stuff like that up, right?

Now before you go and slam my minimalist views on things, the key word in my argument is “imagination.” Triology of the Rings. Harry Potter. Hell, I’ll even throw in Harlequin Romances. These works took a lot of imagination. There’s nothing I respect more than an active and vivid imagination. And if you can capture the images of that imagination and put them into words, well, in my book you’re a genius.

So back to my friend. I’ve been bugging her for years to get going on the writing. A journal even. She always had an excuse, but it was obvious her desire to write never ceased. Finally, I think I convinced her to start a blog. A dumb old blog. “You can write in it every day and it doesn’t even have to be public,” I said. “But if you did publish it publicly I’d be your most loyal reader.” She actually asked me how to get started.

With that I decided to set a good example and get back to my own blog. I’ve neglected it for so long I’m hardly one to criticize. And to make things easy for me I’ve decided to look upon this new beginning as an example to my friend. To show her she can write all she wants to and it can be the most lame thing ever and it just doesn’t matter because she’s writing and that’s what she wants to do.

And who knows? She may turn out to be another Anne Rice or Emily Bronte. And when she writes in her blog every day and publishes all of her books she can dedicate everything to me because I was the one who got her started.

How many of you out there are blogging for pleasure? Not for the ad money. Not to be discovered. Just for the pure joy of it? Not many, I’m sure. Well, join us, won’t you? Do it just for fun. I think you’ll be amused at what ends up on the screen and across the internets.

Wunder Boner

2009-04-21T22:15:00.001-05:00

I've never been an outdoors person, but I'll get in a boat and hook a leech if it will get me a Wunder Boner.

Doesn't Play Well With Others

2009-03-30T12:57:00.002-05:00

In junior high I was a runner in track. In high school I was a singles tennis player. I never liked going to Girl Scout meetings. I hate breaking into small groups. I love being anonymous in a sea of people. When I socialize I do so with one person at a time. I don’t like going out to lunch with my group at work. I would never, ever have group sex.

Recurring theme: I’m solo. I don’t do groups. I’m not a team player.

Nevertheless, I belong to a team. A team of crafts people. I thought it would be a good way to network, solely for my own benefit. I’ve tried hard to contribute to the team. I’ve shown compassion to those struggling and congratulated those with success. And now the team members have decided to change the rules.

Basically each team member is required, in several realms, to participate to a greater extent in an attempt to promote the team as a whole. Social and business networking is much different than promoting the competition. I don’t think they realize that. If someone has information and shares it with the group that’s one thing. If I have to participate, work, research, and report back to the group with my findings? Totally something else. I’m not in business to share my information, especially if I had to go out of my way to obtain that information.

Above that, the team leaders are turning out to be a bunch of control freaks, treating the rest of the team members like children. I’ll be the first to admit that many of the team members have the business savvy of a child and are completely unworthy of associating with those who have worked hard to make names for ourselves. But there are others of us who have functioning brains and common sense. We have experience in business and in trial and error. We have information. We are valuable.

As much as I dislike how the team is developing and don’t like the methods of the leaders, the bottom line is: I’m looking out for me. I’m not in business to show others the ropes. I’m playing singles tennis. I’m running the race in my own lane. I want all the success and will accept all of the failure. I don’t want to expend energy promoting other people when I could be using that energy to promote me. Does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so. Does it make me selfish? No, not that either. Do you want me on your team? I think not.

Care To Go Postal, Anyone?

2008-12-08T14:30:00.003-06:00

Yes, please, I would love to go postal. OK, so if my employer found out I said that I'd be roped and tied and fired and every other bad thing they could think of. Especially as I work for the...government. But I'll tell you what. You'd fucking die if you knew what went on around here. Fucking die, I say.

I've been employed by the same agency for almost thirty years, and I'm just here to say, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the clients, I'm sick of the coworkers, I'm sick of the superiors, and I'm sick of the administration. I'm sick of driving in every day. I'm sick of driving home every day. I'm sick of having to do everything twice because no one values efficiency like I do. I'm sick of handing out free money to gang bangers. I'm sick of watching really needful people get turned away on a technicality. I'm sick of the ass-kissing and I'm sick of the fear people have around here of speaking up about things that are important.

Boyfriend is of corporate employment. He hates it to no end. I don't blame him a bit. Everything about corporate employment is fake. You have your little fake friends. You give your fake smiles. You nod your fake agreement to whatever the boss says. Fake. There's nothing I hate worse than fake. But check this out - where I work, in a government agency, the administration is faking being corporate! And they want the rest of us to fake corporate with them. We're not public servants anymore, we're Corporate America wannabes. I ask you, what is worse, the fakes of corporate, or faking the fakes of corporate? Hmm, that's a tough one.

Okay, and then there's Moo D., who just booked herself a trip to Meredith's Hell this afternoon with her snide comment. She's got her fat arms undulating all over the damn place while she's pretty sure she's smarter than Einstein, and when I point out something she needs to do differently, she commences to publicly berate me out of the embarrassment she feels for having done something wrong. Moink, the boss, spends her entire day day trading in her office. Yes, you heard me, on taxpayers' money she's playing the stocks, and therefore has no time to take care of the things a manager should be tending to. And don't forget that raging red-headed dyke who thinks she's the Queen of France; she's taken away every piece of office equipment I need to effectively do my job. Have you noticed that all the people of whom I speak are women. Yeah, that's another thing. I think we need some testosterone around here or I'll lose my flippin' mind! And not that wimpy, sensitive kind of testosterone found in the likes of that one guy who wears socks and sandals and smokes with his pinky out. He's not gay, by the way.

Sick of it, I say. I'm ready to quit. After nearly thirty years I've had enough of public service. I've had enough of being a cog in the great machine we call government. Of course I'm way too big of a chicken to just up and quit, what with the pension I've got coming and all. So I come to my little blog and just scream my little lungs out. Hey, maybe I'll turn into the next Dooce. (Does anyone still read her, by the way?)

So the next time you're talking about government employees being slackers, watch your back. There are plenty of them who are, but then you've got the likes of me, who are trying to do the job we were hired to do in the most efficient and effective way possible but are prevented from doing so because of red tape and big egos. I'm through taking abuse from the public and from my employer. It's time to let my little light shine!

It Don't?

2008-10-30T15:02:00.009-05:00

Remember the song It Don't Matter To Me by Bread? Who doesn't, right? It was only one of the best make-out songs in history. Not that I've ever made out to it. It came out in 1969 - I was eight years old. But I've always been a classic rock kinda gal, and usually listened to radio stations that played has-been music. So when I was listening to KDWB in 7th grade, It Don't Matter To Me was playing all the time, and I thought it was just the best, most romantic thing to ever come across the airwaves.

I heard the song on one of my Pandora stations the other day and couldn't believe my ears. Lovely melody and everything, but what's with those lyrics? I heard the song from a whole 'nother angle with thirty-five years of experience under my belt. What a delightful study in emotional and psychological development.

So, for your enjoyment, I present a little music video of It Don't Matter To Me by Bread. Beware, this isn't the original recording of this song. I'm pretty sure it was recorded last year when they were performing at an Indian Casino, their old voices barely able to hit the high notes. While you're listening to it, scroll down and read the lyrics, complete with commentaries by 12-year-old Meredith and 47-year-old Meredith.

It don't matter to me
If you really feel that
You need sometime to be free
Time to go out searching for yourself
Hoping to find time to go to find

12-Year-Old Meredith: I wish my parents would listen to this song. Maybe they'd give me some time to be free and search for myself.

47-Year-Old-Meredith: How nice. What a great guy, giving his girlfriend some breathing space. There's nothing worse than a needy boyfriend.

And it don't matter to me
If you take up with someone
Who's better than me
Cause your happiness is all I want
For you to find peace your piece of mind

12-YO Meredith: How dreamy! I want a boyfriend who will be understanding and realistic enough to know that he might not be the best boyfriend in the universe. Then if I want to be with someone better than him he won't get all icky and cry or something.

47-YO Meredith: What?! Let me get this straight. It wouldn't matter to you if I went out and found someone better? What's wrong with you? It should matter to you because I'm your dream woman. You should be crushed! But thanks for being so considerate of my happiness and piece of mind.

Lotta people have an ego hang-up
Cause they want to be the only one

12-YO Meredith: What's an ego?

47-YO Meredith: The '60s and '70s were a time of free sexual expression, consider the era. Monogamy was a hang-up. AIDS didn't exist.

How many came before it really doesn't matter
Just as long as you're the last

12-YO Meredith: He wants to be with me forever!

47-YO Meredith: Are you implying that I'm some kind of slut? That you are? Does anything matter to you?

Everybody's moving on and try to find out
What's been missing in the past

12-YO Meredith: Wow. This guy is really a poet. I want to be with someone this talented.

47-YO Meredith: What?

And it don't matter to me
If your searching brings you
Back together with me
Cause there'll always be
An empty room waiting for you
An open heart waiting for you
Time is on my side
Cause it dont matter to me
It dont matter to me....

12-YO Meredith: I'm going to get a boyfriend just like this. He's just so...romantic!
47-YO Meredith: OK, you've got to move on already. By now I've found someone "better than you" and you're still holding your breath for my return? He's better than you! Why would I want to come back? Turn that empty room into gym. Get over it.

Letter To A Lover

2008-10-27T17:15:00.003-05:00

Dear Solitaire,

Be you traditional or Spider you are evil incarnate. You thwart my good intentions. You make me hate myself.

Solitaire, you disguise yourself as a means to a sharp mind. You claim to be able to make me think, to use reason. But you’re set up to beat me most of the time, making me feel stupid, or worse, determined to beat you with another game. And another. And another. You keep me playing with your bright colors, fun clicky flippy noises and cheerful ringing sounds. Until there are no more plays left for me. You did it on purpose. I must try again. And again. And again.

If defeating me weren’t enough, you provide statistics. The number of tries I made. The number of failures I had. The number of games I’ve played. The number of minutes I’ve wasted. And the minutes translate into hours. I hate you.

For some you are a more potent hypnotic than television. Like with my friend Ruthie, who you also woo. She won’t take on the NaNoWriMo challenge because it might cut into her time with you. Instead of sharpening our minds, you turn them to mush.

You are the ultimate tool of procrastination. You masquerade yourself as a short time-out when you are really a time sucker, an energy sucker. You keep the laundry hamper full and cause dinner to be late. You push the actualization of dreams so far into the future I feel hopeless. You prevent me.

I’m just letting you know, I vow to keep you hidden deep within my computer, at least for the time being. I have things to accomplish. Dreams to pursue. I have a life to live, damn it. So save your flashy kings and queens for someone else. I’m not going to let you steal my soul.

Except maybe just one more game…

Sincerely,

Meredith

An Important Message From A Relatively Unknown Blogger

2008-10-20T07:23:00.005-05:00

I'm not one to advertise my political views, I can't resist in such an important election as the one we'll be having in a few short weeks. Really, get serious. The change referred to by Sarah Palin has nothing to do with moving forward. She's a scary, scary person. Oh, she's not up for president you say? Doesn't matter, as VP she could very well become president in a blink of an eye.

Yeah, Vancouver is a lovely city...

An Example For Ruthie

2008-10-15T20:00:00.005-05:00

I'm writing this post for my friend Ruthie to inspire her to join me in undertaking the NaNoWriMo challenge. She's afraid writing a 50,000-word novel in thirty days will take away from her TV and Solitaire time. I'm trying to convince her the challenge involves straight writing and no editing, which of course is a challenge in itself. She doesn't think she can do it. Free flow, man. That's the secret. As her mentor I've assigned to her the task of writing now, two weeks prior to the commencement of NaNoWriMo, not the novel itself, but as practice in writing without editing. One-half hour a day. With this post I will demonstrate how this type of writing turns out. It isn't pretty. If you want to read something of sense, I advise you to look at another blog. Ruthie, this is for you, an example of how one-half hour of unedited, unstructured writing looks like. The time is 8:10 p.m. Ready? Go.

Tonight I'm sitting at my fairly new laptop computer in my specially designed room. The room is my own, not to be shared with Boyfriend unless he's invited. He stays far away. So I'm sitting here at my desk, which is situated by the window. Outside my window I can see a full moon rising over the rooftops. As I was driving home from playing tennis with Charlotte this evening around 7:00 the moon was huge and orange and a big contrast from the royal blue sky. The face of the moon was very distinct and I felt like it was peering into my soul. He understood why my day had been so bad, but gave me assurance that tomorrow would be better.

Tomorrow I'll be running around with tons to do, getting ready for a weekend at the lake. The fall colors will be in full force, with most of it laying on the ground waiting for us all to clean up. I'll develop blisters on my hands that will be nursed in front of the wood-burning pot-belly stove in the evenings. I'm looking forward to some hot cocoa, the first cup of the season actually. The air will be cold. I might even get a little rose in my usual pale palor. Boyfriend will be away for the evening for a couple of hours, so that will give me some time to bake an applesauce cake and to whip up some of my mom's delicious chip dip, which will be served with the Bugles Charlotte is bringing along. I've already prepared a beef stew, which I still haven't put into the freezer. I hope I don't poison everyone with salmonela.

Work is a bithc, and I hate most of the people in charge. My boss is all queer about the stock market and I'm tired of her pissing around about how the wold is coming to an end. She's just mad because she doesn't have a pot to piss in and she wants to retire. Well, don't we all. Too bad for her she's got a dolt of a husband whom she's left, and who is demanding half of the pension she's earned in the past 30+ years of State service. Can I help it if she married an idiot? A slothful, non-working, greedy idiot? No. So I don't want to hear about how her life is hell and she's vacuuming the floors of some raggity apartment building, now that she's become a caretaker since separating from her dumbass husband. I don't care.

Then there's Chris, that one who thinks she's the fucking queen of france in her underpants. She walks around like she's hot shit, and treats other people like crap. Too much poop reference in that last sentence. But poop is pretty much what I think of when I look at Chris. She's a dog, and I'm pretty sure she wants to be a lesbian. Not that I have anything against lesbians. It's just that I don't think people who are lesbians should pretend they're not. I know a few, and therefore know of what I speak. Those nuns I know are the same way. They joined the convent to escape the fact that they think they're freaks. Or they just hate men and thought the ocnvent was the best way to avoid them. Chris is from the school where authority keeps secrets from the pepole who actually do the work around the office. She wants to be the one with all the knowldge, won't give updates, and therefore prevents the rest of us peons from being able to do our jobs. I suppose that makes her look good? Like she's doing more work than the rest of us? I don't know. I just want to see her eyes gouged out, and as she's stumbling around looking for them I'll stand there and kick them to the other side of the room and not tell her where they are.

But why do I torment myself over the crappiness of my day job. (more poop references - I have to stop that.) The rest of my life is pretty dang good, except for when I have to share it with someone I haven't seen in thirty years. That's something I had to do recently. This guy I used to know. Ruthie helped me figurre out why the experience was so horrid to me. I don't like myself for what we came up with. What SHE came up with. But I have to admit she's probably right. Do I really want him to think of me as the one who got away? And why would I think the live I lead would disenchant him from still wanting me? It's all just really dumb and I wish the feelings of inadequacy would go away.

How much do I lvoe Diet Dr. Pepper? Way too much. I think the caffiene has made me immune, or else I'm just constantly jittery and don't even know it. But if you're going to drink diet pop, Dr. Pepper is the way to go. Either that or Diet A&W Rootbeer. That's a pretty good diet too. I don't like diets that taste like diets. But I can't believe I used to drink at least a 6-pack of Coke every single when I was young and skinny and wild. I'd go to work with my Coke and ciagarettes and smoke and drink Coke all day long. OK, now I have to confess that I've done some editing in that I keep typing Cock rather than Coke. I didn't think you'd want to read about how I drink Cock. Ish. That's just gross.

I like my little East Wing and I like my new computer. I can't reaally get the internets to work correctly yet, but that could be because I'm still using stupid dial-up.l I've got a router and am ready to switch to high-speed wireless, but I'm afraid. I have no idea how all that works, and even though I've spent the money on all the equpment and even a wireless card for our desktop, I'm afraid to take the plunge. I think I worry about the money it will cost to get a provider. Damn people charge so much for something evgeryone needs. I feel like I'm buying air. Air. Dumb little signals in the air.

And speaking of signals I saw a picture on the internets of all the garbage that is floating around the earth in space. It's scary. Garbage in space. Pieces of satellites and stuff. Maybe it was a hoaxy kind of picture, but it made sense to mee. Why wouldn't there be crap out there. There I go again with the poop. Do I have an obsession? Anyway, I wonder what will become of our universe. Remember when Mr. Henningsgaard told us that technology will advance exponetially? That was over thirty years go. He wasn't kidding. I can't keep up with it all. Those iphones make me mental. Kids texting. People talking on their cell phones in the car. I tell you the world is going to hell. And not because of the stock market. Or maybe the stock market is behind it all. I don't know. I just wish things were a little simpler. Except I do love the internets. I might be as addicted to the internets as I am to Diet Dr. Pepper.

There you have it. It is now 8:42. I've written 3 pages and 1,238 words in a half an hour. It isn't a cohesive piece of writing, but I wrote and wrote and didn't pay attention to typos or grammar. That's the secret to the NaNoWriMo challenge. I'm sure somewhere in that jumble there's a story. Can you pull it out?

Cheerleaders Are Trying To Rule The World

2008-10-02T14:45:00.006-05:00

When I saw the similarities between these two women I nearly peed my pants, from laughter and from fear.

Yikes.

PETA Saves My Joyless Day

2008-10-02T08:21:00.008-05:00

So, I've been feeling a little blue lately. You know how it is. Your job gets you down, your day-to-day life is a grind. The kitchen sink's full of dishes and the toilet is broken. Mundane tasks become mountainous, and you just feel shitty about yourself.

PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, changed all that for me today. They energized me. They made me see myself in a much more positive light. They saved me from the depths of depression because...they proved to me that I am not the stupidest person alive! Hooray!

PETA wants Ben and Jerry to adjust the recipe of their ice cream and replace cow's milk with human milk. Apparently trend has already begun in Switzerland. I'm totally not kidding. You can read the article here. And for your convenience I've included the letter PETA sent to Ben and Jerry. I hope it makes you laugh as much as I did.

"September 23, 2008

"Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield, Cofounders
Ben & Jerry's Homemade Inc.

"Dear Mr. Cohen and Mr. Greenfield,

"On behalf of PETA and our more than 2 million members and supporters, I'd like to bring your attention to an innovative new idea from Switzerland that would bring a unique twist to Ben and Jerry's.

"Storchen restaurant is set to unveil a menu that includes soups, stews, and sauces made with at least 75 percent breast milk procured from human donors who are paid in exchange for their milk. If Ben and Jerry's replaced the cow's milk in its ice cream with breast milk, your customers-and cows-would reap the benefits.

"Using cow's milk for your ice cream is a hazard to your customer's health. Dairy products have been linked to juvenile diabetes, allergies, constipation, obesity, and prostate and ovarian cancer. The late Dr. Benjamin Spock, America's leading authority on child care, spoke out against feeding cow's milk to children, saying it may play a role in anemia, allergies, and juvenile diabetes and in the long term, will set kids up for obesity and heart disease-America's number one cause of death.

"Animals will also benefit from the switch to breast milk. Like all mammals, cows only produce milk during and after pregnancy, so to be able to constantly milk them, cows are forcefully impregnated every nine months. After several years of living in filthy conditions and being forced to produce 10 times more milk than they would naturally, their exhausted bodies are turned into hamburgers or ground up for soup.

"And of course, the veal industry could not survive without the dairy industry. Because male calves can't produce milk, dairy farmers take them from their mothers immediately after birth and sell them to veal farms, where they endure 14 to17 weeks of torment chained inside a crate so small that they can't even turn around.

"The breast is best! Won't you give cows and their babies a break and our health a boost by switching from cow's milk to breast milk in Ben and Jerry's ice cream? Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Tracy Reiman
Executive Vice President"

And thank you, Tracy Reiman, for shamelessly letting your little light shine!

Introducing...The Brat

2008-09-09T16:32:00.007-05:00

As most of you have surmised, I am a much better reader of blogs than I am a writer of blogs. Even though I realize how difficult it is to turn out a good blog (as I try and try to no avail), being an avid reader of blogs gives me carte blanche to criticize what is out there in the blogosphere. OK, not really. But if you are a reader of many blogs, you know there blogs for every interest. Mommy blogs, daddy blogs, news blogs, political blogs, Hollywood entertainment blogs. The list goes on and on.

And because I have my little hole in cyberspace to freely state my opinions, I'd like to say that one of my favorite blogs to read are the craft blogs. Not only do I get lots of good ideas on how to make things and thus label myself an artist, I find lots of craft blogs very easy to make fun of.

This entry has got to be my favorite of all time. I don't even remember the name of the blog, but the creative person behind the blog decided she would like to recycle her old shoulder pads from the '80s. First of all, I can't relate to removable shoulder pads because I'm built like a linebacker and have no need to make my shoulders any broader than they already are. Second of all, why would you save something like removable shoulder pads for twenty years? Third of all, why would you be compelled to recycle them instead of just throwing them away. It's like recycling your stinky underpants. No one does that. Except maybe this person.

So she gets the brilliant idea to transform her shoulder pads into none other than...hats! Beautiful cocktail hats! Check it out:

Very stylish, don't you think? Like something out of '20s Hollywood. She should be smoking a cigarette from a long holder. The hat should have a net veil over the eyes, don't you think? Oh wait, she decided to make another one with fringe on it:

How can she even see through that thing? Is this woman for real? I don't get it. And here's the thing that really escapes me. She embellishes shoulder pads that, in their original state, look very much like the cups of an underwire bra. See?

So I've decided to go into the millinary business myself. It's a bra, it's a hat. It's a Brat!

Look for them at finer department stores.

Go ahead. Make fun of this blog. I deserve it.

Holy Rosaries! Has The World Gone Mad?!

2008-09-05T08:12:00.003-05:00

I think I just had a little stroke. This video completely freaked me and my Catholic upbringing right out. So Fr. Monk looks like he could belong to ZZ Top, but doing the index/pinky pointy thing with his hands in the robe tied with rope is just wrong. Gregorian chants be damned, I guess.

I Think I'm Better Now

2008-08-25T14:51:00.004-05:00

I've been away partying with the African animals. We had a lovely time, as you can see. I'm back, but with a kick-ass hangover.

Benny Lava

2008-02-21T14:28:00.001-06:00

I want to sing this song to Faux Ma and watch her head explode.

Let's Make Fun Of Names

2008-02-08T09:03:00.000-06:00

One of the most fun things about working for a social service agency is the names you run across in the clientele. I can't imagine what some of these parents were thinking when they named their little blossoms of life; perhaps that they would be blessed with the most unique name in all of the universe, and therefore would actually amount to something. But let me tell you this: no kid is going too far if s/he can't even spell his or her first name. And it's always the first name. The last name is always something like Smith or Jones. Here is what I came across today:

1. Meretisa - OK, everyone is going to call this girl Mary for short, so why all the bells and whistles?

2. Marisha - sounds like the stereotypical Asian pronunciation of Melissa

3. Shawndale - makes me think of a breed of dog

4. Luvrahsheda - Is this pronounced Love-Ra-Shee-Da with the emphasis on the first and third syllables? Or is the emphasis on the second and fourth syllables? Was Mama drunk when she came up with this name?

I'm wondering if Thurston Howell, III's wife was named Luvrahsheda, hence the nick-name Lovie.

What's your name? Can I make fun of it?

Wiener Poopie

2008-01-30T10:00:00.000-06:00

This story is remarkable on so many levels I couldn’t pass it up.

First of all, I applaud the Jesus thief. Not only is he a thief (and I say “he” for convenience, not because I naturally assume all thieves are men), but he will go so far as to hold a statue of Jesus for ransom. With a ransom note! Obviously he couldn’t put a price on Jesus, because A) how do you put a monetary value on our Lord and Savior? and B) Jesus is not the issue, the wiener poopie is. Jesus goes back when the wiener poopie is gone and stays gone. It’s absolutely brilliant.

Then there’s the victim. Jean seems to be so sad and hurt by the whole debacle. She’s sad and hurt by the missing Jesus. She’s sad and hurt by the accusations made against her. She’s sad and hurt that her dogs’ excrement was referred to as “wiener poopie.” She’s not angry that someone stole her personal property. She’s not amused by the ransom note. She’s not happy that at least her dogs are safe. She’s sad and hurt. And humorless.

Finally, that this story actually made it to the evening news is astonishing. Gang crimes and murder are everywhere. Drug activity has run rampant. For crying out loud there’s a war going on. But this station chose to run a story on a missing concrete Jesus from sad and hurt Jean’s front yard. And the reporter – how did he desensitize himself to report this story without so much as a snicker? How can one say the words “wiener poopie” without even a smile? This guy is going places. Or else he and the station he works for, like Jean, are completely without humor. Maybe there’s something in the water.

Eventually it was discovered the Jesus theft and ransom note were the work of a family member. Jean didn’t want to discuss any follow-up and stated it has become a family matter. Was this family member genuinely disgusted by the fact that Jean didn’t clean up after her wieners? Or could it be he was kidding around with this relative of his – that lady with the stick up her ass? I hope it’s the latter, because there’s nothing better than fucking with a mirthless Jesus lover with wieners and the little poopies they leave behind.

Aspic - Or More Aptly Named: Ass Pick

2008-01-15T14:32:00.001-06:00

I can't really say it's the grossest thing ever eaten or will ever be eaten, but it ranks in the top ten. Aspic. Whoever the hell invented this putrid side dish should be drawn and quartered.

Wikipedia defines aspic as:

"...a dish in which ingredients are set into a gelatin made from a meat stock or consommé. When cooled, stock made from meat congeals because of the natural gelatin found in the meat. The stock can be clarified with egg whites, and then filled and flavored just before the aspic sets. Almost any type of food can be set into aspics. Most common are meat pieces, fruits, or vegetables. Aspics are usually served on cold plates so that the gel will not melt before being eaten. A meat jelly that includes cream is called a chaud-froid.

Nearly any type of meat can be used to make the gelatin: pork, beef, veal, chicken, or even fish. The aspic may need additional gelatin in order to set properly. Veal stock provides a great deal of gelatin; in making stock, veal is often included with other meat for that reason. Fish consommés usually have too little natural gelatin, so the fish stock may be double-cooked or supplemented. Since fish gelatin melts at a lower temperature than gelatins of other meats, fish aspic is more delicate and melts more readily in the mouth."

Congealed meat juice? I have to admit I've never had the misfortune of having to eat something as disgusting as gelatinous meat juice; however, Faux Ma has subjected me to one of her favorites, Tomato Aspic.

This slithery, slimy chunk of what she calls a salad ranks up there with one of the worst things ever invented for human consumption.

The first time I saw Tomato Aspic on Faux Ma's table I admit I was curious. Here was this red square of, I don't know, opaque jello, with little flecks of, I don't know, fleck material embedded in it. The red square was placed delicately on a bed of shredded lettuce. Of course when I put a forkful into my mouth I could immediately feel the bile crawling up my esophagus. It's like, tomato, I said to myself. I hate tomatoes. And what's this chunky stuff? These flecks...what are they? Oh my God, how am I going to eat this 3"X3" square of crap? I looked at Boyfriend desperately. "Could you please pass the buns?" I asked him. With every bite of aspic I took three bites of buttered bun, and managed to clean my salad plate with the help of a half dozen rolls.

Little did I know, Faux Ma had included the recipe for her aspic in a little cook book of Boyfriend's favorites, which she gave me at when we moved in together. She enlightened me of this after I gave the obligatory "mmm," upon the first bite. Boyfriend denies aspic is one of his favorites; in fact, he denies any of the recipes she gave me in that little cookbook are his favorites and asserts his mother was subversively telling me how to cook for her boy because she knows better than anyone what's good for him.

So, without further adieu, I give you Faux Ma's V-8 Aspic recipe:

"1 can V-8 juice (beer can size). "Beer can size." Yeah, like Faux Ma has no idea that's 12 ounces. 'Fess up ya little schweel hound. Heat and pour over one 3-oz package lemon jello. OK, right there I'm all, how much acid can one person take? Tomatoes and lemons? Yikes!Add a dash of Worchestershire sauce, 1 tsp vinegar or lemon juice, and less than one-half can of water. Less than one-half can of water? Would that be the "beer can size" can? And how much less than? Half again as much? A tablespoon less? What the hell, Faux Ma? Do you want me to make this stuff or not? A few finely chopped nuts, celery, and/or green pepper may be added. Ah, the mysterious "flecks." Chill until firm. (I refrigerate the aspic in an 8"X8" pan. When firm, cut into six pieces and serve on a lettuce leaf.)"

OK, gross. It's just icky and gross. And plus, she's makes it into such gargantuan servings. She makes her dessert servings 1/4 of the size of her aspic servings. Where are her priorities, not to mention her taste buds?

I've been lucky in that I've had to choke down tomato aspic only three or four times in the last eleven years I've spent with Boyfriend. I'll give it one thing, it's got the right name. Ass Pick is exactly what I would call it.

Show Us Whatcha Got, Boys

2008-01-10T14:31:00.003-06:00

Meredith, fashion queen here. OK, not really, but I'd like to say a few more words about that subculture out there wearing those ungodly pants.

Today I was walking behind a group of young people. Please, will someone explain the baggy pants? They're not simply baggy, they really aren't pants at all as they don't even cover the underpants. One of the young men kept his pants from falling around his ankles with an extremely wide-based gait as the waistband was situated at his mid-thigh. It looks stupid, unless you're Bert the chimney sweep doing a dance with animated penguins in the movie Mary Poppins.

The style, apparently, is associated with gang toughness. If they aren't wielding the guns we all assume they carry, it wouldn't be hard to escape their gangster clutches - just pull the pants down to their ankles, push them over, and run away.

Tough guys, take my word for it. Girls like the bad boys and have since the beginning of time. The thing is, you gotta look good. Wrapping yourself up in what looks like old burlap bags isn’t sexy. Walking like a penguin isn't sexy either. Come on boys, show us your real weapon. Girls want to see the whole package.

Here are some eye-catching bad-boy pants:

The Dancer

The Biker

The Cowboy

The Hoodlum

My personal favorite, The Rock Star

Yum, huh? Show us what you’ve got, boys, unless you’re actually out for a jolly holiday with Mary.

Match.gov

2008-01-07T14:21:00.000-06:00

Corporate couples make me uncomfortable.

Maybe corporate couples wouldn't make me so uncomfortable, but I work in the public sector where outright indications of adultery are, well, uncomfortable. We as government workers in an extremely liberal state are supposed to be politically correct, are we not? Isn't committing a sin against God politically incorrect? (Maybe I'm getting my two wings confused.) Plus, people in the public sector lack the polish and panache of those stereotypically found in the private sector. In other words, corporate couples are much more attractive than government couples.

Take, for example, Bed Head and Mouse Mouth. Both are married to other people, although for the life of me I can't figure out who would have either one of them. Bed Head hasn't washed his hair in three weeks and walks around with a Leatherman attached to his belt loop. He's big in the union. A loudmouth. A dirty loudmouth. Mouse Mouth also has a hard time remembering to wash her hair, although I think she may get around to it every three or four days. She has the lips of a rat. Bed Head and Mouse Mouth have been seen at one of the dingiest bars of the whole city, making out with each other over lunchtime cocktails. I wonder what the union guys would say if they knew Bed Head was schweeling on company time?

Then there's Oompa and Clark. Oompa is really long-waisted and short-legged, taking on the appearance of an Oompa-Loompa, except she has ginormous boobs. Clark is a suave and handsome IT guy. Oompa and Clark meet each other around corners and in closets. They don't exactly hide, but they totally throw off the vibe that they are doing something wrong. Again, both are married to other people. Plus, one funny bonus is that Clark will not acknowledge any woman in passing when he is with Oompa, but will flirt shamelessly with them all when she isn't around.

Don't forget Tina and That Supervisor Guy. Again, both married to other people. Tina and That Supervisor Guy are shameless in the time they spend together, which makes me think there isn't really anything going on. However, if I knew my husband was spending so much time with one woman during working hours, I'd be a little miffed.

Throughout the years there have been many rumors floating about concerning the hob-nobbery of many coworkers in my department. I, for one, have never, ever been attracted to anyone I've shared work hours with. Yuck.

So when I see these little couples walking around the building or chatting over cubicle walls I get a little sick to my stomach. I just don't even want to think about the connections between Big Red and The Whisperer, two married women, inseparable at work.

Gag me.

2008? No, It's 1984

2008-01-02T14:16:00.000-06:00

Here's something that happened to me today that caused a rant in me containing a burning anger of a thousand white-hot suns. E-mail quarantine.

I was writing a particularly gripping piece to my sister today on the concept of the collective unconscious. It's a theory developed by Carl Jung and proposes that not only do we have an individual unconscious unique to our own experiences, but also a collective unconscious shared by every human being since the beginning of time. I applied that theory to receiving messages from dead people through dreams.

As you might imagine, the note I wrote to my sister was quite complex, containing detailed theories regarding the human psyche, the afterlife, and the paranormal. It took me quite a long time to articulate what I was trying to convey. Finally I was able to click "send."

Within seconds I received a message from the e-mail quarantine center stating my message was deemed racially discriminating and it was not only quarantined but obliterated completely.

Now I can understand if my employer doesn't want me writing personal e-mails on work time or on the work e-mail network thingy. I was in error doing that. I will punish myself for not being more sneaky. But to take a piece of writing, copyrighted merely by its creation, and not only block it from its intended recipient but completely destroy it on the basis of a keyword which may have been construed as racially discriminating? That's out and out censorship. Even if my subject matter had been racially discriminating, I think it's wrong for anyone or anything to delete it from existence - well, my existence at least. Reprimanding is one thing. Being the judge of all things written is another.

So I'm pretty down on Big Brother today. I'm down on the fact that nothing is private. I'm down on the fact that my intellectual ramblings are deleted by my employer, and yet the dozens of people who can't/won't do their jobs aren't being fired. Where will the line be drawn? When will people be able to express themselves as themselves without being censored by political correctness? When will the people of the world just lighten the hell up and leave each other alone?

Geez!

The 2008 Pee-On Tour

2007-12-31T13:59:00.000-06:00

Ruthie and Ray came to visit Boyfriend and me this past weekend. We indulged in many glasses of chocolate cherry wine, and other assorted libations. As you may know, drinking chocolate cherry wine makes for some pretty aggressive talk accompanied by laughter most likely to cause one to wet one's pants. I managed the Kegel pretty well, but there is a suspicious spot on the couch where Ruthie was sitting.

One thing I learned about Ray is that he hates Bing Crosby. He doesn't avoid Bing Crosby. He doesn't dislike Bing Crosby. He can not stand (read: hates) Bing Crosby. Why Bing Crosby? I have no idea. What's not to like? Except for the fact that he was a known child abuser to his kids. Ray can't stand to watch him in movies and I'm guessing he throws up in his mouth a little when White Christmas plays on the radio. In fact, Ray got so agitated over his hatred for Bing that he declared his wish to go piss on his grave. And not just piss on his grave, piss on his grave after drinking forty-seven cups of coffee. Ray wants to make the old corpse float away.

Bing Crosby? Piss on his grave? That's just weird. Pretty damn funny, but weird.

The more we talked about peeing on Bing's grave, the more we came up with other names of people we hate. (So much for goodwill feelings of the holidays.) We decided to organize a Pee-On Tour where we map out the graves of these despicable people and pee on their graves. Unfortunately, the people we came up with aren't in graves yet, except for Bing. Ray decided we could just knock them over and pee on them while they were on the ground.

Our list so far:

Bing Crosby (of course)
Rachel Ray
Oprah Winfrey
That icky football player who's too full of himself (Ruthie's pick, but I can't remember his name)

Now that I'm putting this in print it seems really stupid. Peeing on people. Peeing on graves. It's pretty twisted, isn't it? I can't make it sound as funny as it actually was. Oh, just go drink a bottle of chocolate cherry wine and read this post again. Then add some people to the list. I know you'll want to.

Up On The Housetop

2007-12-08T15:10:00.000-06:00

It was many years before I realized reindeer had hooves. You know, because of that song:

Up on the housetop reindeer paws...

Songs are written to reflect the times. Up On The Housetop takes me back to a simpler time when there was no such thing as soccer moms or the obsessive-compulsive overprotectiveness we see hanging like a black cloud over little kids who just want to play and pretend. Take, for example, the booty little Will gets:

Next comes a stocking for little Will
Oh just see what a glorious fill
Here is a hammer with lots of tacks
Also a ball and a whip that cracks.

Will doesn't get these things in modern times because Mom figures he'd probably bonk himself repeatedly in the head with the hammer and swallow the tacks. God only knows what he'd do with the whip.

Hey Mom, do your research and make sure that toy isn't painted with lead! Watch out for those button eyes on that stuffed animal! Don't forget the knee, shin, elbow, and head gear to go along with that new tricycle!

Oh, the good old days, when his whip was a boy's best friend.

Happy Thanksgiving

2007-11-21T13:46:00.000-06:00

Hoping everything goes smoothly for you this Thanksgiving. Gobble gobble.

Protesting Eggnoggery

2007-11-19T08:43:00.000-06:00

Am I the only person in the world who doesn’t drink coffee? I love the smell of coffee. I love the thought of drinking coffee. But I can’t stand the taste of coffee. It totally roups me out.

So you’d think, with all my romanticizing about coffee (sitting in a sunroom I don’t have sipping on a big mug of coffee while perusing the newspaper or one of my favorite magazines during that completely relaxing morning time before going to work (ha!)) by now I might have done some coffee experimenting at my local Starbuck’s or other coffeehouse. I could only imagine that those giant lattes served to the Friends in Central Perk tasted just like a big, thick hot chocolate. And to order something with a “whisper of cinnamon” like Niles Crane would do in Café Nervosa would make me feel so utterly indulgent and grown-up. Why, with all the fancy-schmancy flavored stuff they put in coffee these days, have I been afraid to give it another shot?

Because they’ve just gone too far, that’s why. Getting fancy with coffee by serving café latte is one thing, but pumpkin cappuccino? When I see what flavors are available for coffee today, it makes me think I’m in a malt shop. It makes me want to buy the coffee because I love the flavor of caramel. I love the flavor of chocolate. Yes, I even love the flavor of pumpkin pie. But I quickly remember that these fabulous flavors are mere additions to that hideous and bitter beverage, coffee.

Today I went to the little shop down the way from my office to buy a muffin. I made comment to Ralph, the guy behind the counter every day when I go to buy my muffin, “ew, I see there’s eggnog coffee today.” Eggnog. OK, I said, eggnog. Coffee. Eggnog coffee. Ralph, who is usually jovial and friendly sort of looked down his nose at me and said, “well, you don’t even drink coffee so what would you know about it? It’s actually pretty good.”

All right, I apologize to Ralph and the skillions of people out there who love their eggnog coffee. I don’t know what I’m talking about because I can’t stand that bitter coffee taste, no matter what kind of fluff you add to it. But tell me the truth, do people drink this stuff because they think it really tastes good, or because they, like me, have coffee-drinking fantasies and the only way they can get it down without heaving it right back up again is to add some other flavor to it? If that is the case I applaud coffeehouses around the world for adding a little extra to their brew in order to draw in more customers.

But eggnog?

Pastaforians

2007-11-16T16:30:00.000-06:00

Let's set aside for a moment the rule of thumb: never talk about religion, politics, or sex. Well, in the blogging world everyone talks about sex and lots and lots talk about politics. I haven't happened across many blogs addressing religious issues, but it could be I just have an instinctual aversion to them.

Today I'd like to give you my opinion of organized religion. That's organized religion, not spirituality, faith, or the actual existence of a supreme being. I've kept my opinions on organized religion to myself in my real life simply to avoid the head shakes of pity coming from my family (one member is a nun!) and other devout church goers; today I'm going to come out with it, even though I'm fairly certain my views are shared by many.

To me, organized religion is nothing more than a bunch of people coming together and practicing rituals, listening to readings, singing songs, and sharing similar beliefs that make them all feel good. It's strictly a psychological phenomenon. A religion gives them hope. A religion inspires them try to behave nicely, whether out of fear of damnation or aspirations to be more "God-like." Going to church makes some people feel good about themselves. They are happy to belong to a community. The fantastical beliefs of miracles and an afterlife give them a sense of peace and security.

It doesn't matter what the religion, from Judism to Scientology, the results are the same. Members belong because the psychological effects of practicing a specific organized religion, for them, are positive.

I'm all for happy people. If going to church once a week makes someone a happy person, then by all means, they should go to church. I'm going to stop here, because the tangents I could follow are so numerous and controversial I would most certainly be unable to articulate them.

The purpose of stating my opinion on this matter was inspired by the news regarding the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I'll spare you my attempts to explain the origins and intentions of this magnificent "religion" and simply direct you to this article.

Intelligent design vs. science: what do we teach our children in school? A little of both, the general consensus has been. Where is separation of state? Intelligent design, in my opinion, should be taught at home, at church, at catechism, at least when it comes to kids grades K-12. The Pastaforians argue that their Flying Spaghetti Monster is just as conceivable as God, Buddah, Allah and all the other supreme beings responsible for the inexplicable, and should be included in the intelligent design vs. science teachings in school, if indeed it is determined intelligent design remains in the classroom. They will present that point to the scholars attending the American Academy of Region annual meeting in San Diego this weekend. And what is even more encouraging is the fact that the Academy of Religion is actually allowing them to present their views. Will the Academy come to any conclusions to the question of what actually defines a religion? Will that definition determine what is taught in schools?

I think it is brilliant for someone, a group of people, to approach these heavy and controversial religious issues with a sense of humor. I'm also quite partial to their rendering of the Almighty Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Meredith, You Ignorant Bitch

2007-11-15T20:15:00.000-06:00

One of my favorite blogs is Citizen of The Month. Neil has such a charming, self-deprecating manner you can't help but love him. He toils over becoming an adult in this post and most of the responses, including mine, addressed his consideration of including ads on his blog.

Here's what I have to say to you, Neil: I've said it before and I'll say it again (although I'm very apt to change my mind in the future) - ADS ARE ICKY! Because: A) They mess up a perfectly wonderful template. They're blinking and flashing and distracting. B) You may make a few bucks here and there, but the real reason those guys want ad space is to make a skillion times more money than they are paying you to show their ugly faces on your pretty blog site. Those greedy bastards have no interest in you, nor are they supporting your blogging endeavors by feigning interest in your site. They are paying you to pay themselves.

OK, now to qualify. I'm so anti-corporate these days it's pitiful. I'm also anti-advertising. I'm sick of watching the five-minute commercials for Viagra on TV. I'm tired of wading through pages and pages of ads in my favorite magazines. Ads are icky. (See? I told you I'd say it again.) They are designed to make money for The Man, not for poor schmucks like us. (Excuse the Yiddish verbiage flowing from Catholic fingers; you guys have a way with words I can't resist.)

So Neil, my love, relax and take it as it comes. You've said yourself you think too much. Stop it. You have arrived. You are what you are. If that means you have some notion that not making money is where it's at, then be the struggling artist. I, for one, see your resistance to blog ads as a sign of integrity instead of being less of an adult. But then again, I may very well have a very twisted idea of what purpose blogs should serve. Sure, I'd love to be famous some day, but not at the expense of being in "the clique." And when I make money from my writing, it will be of my own merit, not because Blogher says I belong. Can anyone just write for the sake of writing? I thought that's what blogs were all about. Am I really stupid and naive to believe that?

Yikes. Did all that come out of me? I hope I haven't ruined all chances of becoming one of your blog crushes, but I refuse to show you my boobs.

Dr. Dentist, DDS

2007-11-14T14:56:00.000-06:00

A trip to the dentist. Who’s coming?! I tend to decline a trip to the dentist. For years I declined. The reasons are as follows:

Dentist #1: Childhood – masochistic maniac didn’t believe in Novocain. He simply said, “Bite on this black rubber thing while I insert this screaming drill into your tender little nerves.
Dentist #2: Preteen to early adulthood – married womanizing schmoozer who gave more attention to his bodacious hygienist than the teeth he was treating as she thrust her bosom into my face giving him ample view of the voluptuousness beneath her low-cut blouse. She reeked of Prince Machebelli perfume, which made my head buzz more than the happy gas.

Insert long absence from dental visits here.

Dentist #3: Late twenties to mid thirties – most likely the grandson of Dentist #1. Relished the practice of taking pocket measurements in that he could press that little pick so deep into the gum they bled, diseased or not. As he walked away the hygienist would glare bitterly at him and ask me, “Are you okay?” Eventually he informed me he would need to perform surgery on me. When I asked him to refer me to a specialist he went into a huffy tizz-fit, insulted by the insinuation of his incompetence.
Dentist #4: Mid thirties - Periodontist – no complaints except the treatment he was forced to give caused intense pain.

Insert another long absence from dental visits here.

Dentist #5: Present day – cute little thing, young enough to be my son. Very willing to administer Novocain and any other pain-killing substances when necessary. Also very eager to refer me to Dentist #4, the periodontist. They know each other well.
Dentist #6: Present day still – different dentist in periodontist Dentist #4’s practice. Another cute young thing who pats me on the shoulder as he leaves the room as though I were some old crone needing platonic affection, or out of pity for the painful procedures ahead of me. He presented to me the treatment plan and it doesn’t bode well. However, I’m determined to follow through.

Moral of the story: The reasons you choose to use to avoid going to the dentist will never trump rotting teeth and deteriorating jaw bones.

What I am grateful for today: Codeine.

Author's note: My smile is still beautiful. Don't go thinking I look like some toothless hillbilly with black gums.

Have Mercy On Our Souls

2007-11-07T20:25:00.000-06:00

Boyfriend was going through some boxes of books salvaged from his parents' house during the move. He came across The Lutheran Hymnary, apparently belonging once to his grandpa. The copyright is 1935. And Boyfriend began to recite to me:

Also they teach that men cannot be justified before God by their own strength, merits or works, but are freely justified for Christ's sake through faith, when they believe that they are received into favor and that their sins are forgiven for Christ's sake, who, by His death, hath made satisfaction for our sins. This faith God imputes for righteousness in His sight.

He put down the book, and looked into my eyes with a straight face. "See?" He said. "Don't I do a great job of reading this shit?"

Reverent little fellow, isn't he?

Ophthalmology Lesson

2007-11-02T07:41:00.000-05:00

Walleye

Crosseye

NoWri, BloPo, It's All The Same To Me

2007-11-01T14:41:00.000-05:00

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and also National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). To negligent writers, November demands far too much and has that special way of making us feel impotent.

Last year I succeeded at NaNoWriMo. I'm not going to divulge how I succeeded; suffice it to say there was much scrambling and very little plot line, but 15,000 words I did write.

This month I'm going to concentrate on NaBloPoMo. I haven't signed up officially with the officials, but I'm taking the challenge nevertheless. Between this blog and the secret other one I have, oh, and that one other one which requires the insertion of PayPal buttons and stuff, I should be able to pull off at least one posting per day. No, I'm not going to tell you about the other blogs. They private. They're written by someone totally separate from Meredith, yet embodied by her all the same.

And speaking of blogs, I've decided there is no way in hell anyone will ever figure out I exist unless I go out and advertise myself or something. My subject matters and lack of dirty words apparently make me a bad candidate for a google search. While I crave and relish anonymity, I wish I could be interesting enough for people to look me up once in a while. Which brings me to my point: If you want to be a somewhat popular blogger, in addition to interesting/amusing posts do you also have to be big in the blogger social scene? Do you have to participate in the readings? The parties? Do you have to give out cookies and Best Post awards? Does being tagged for a meme indicate you have arrived? Are blogs only read by other bloggers?

If you have the answers to any of these questions, please let me know. Oh, wait. I'll never hear from you, because you don't even know I'm here.

What A Way To Earn A Living

2007-10-18T14:29:00.000-05:00

I read blogs to inspire my own writing. I procrastinate doing my own writing by reading blogs. Contradictory statements? Or are blogs simply my preferred method of procrastinating on anything and everything?

How some bloggers write every day - post every day - astounds me. When I realized today (although I always knew) some bloggers do it for money, I was a little less astounded and a little more cynical.

The concept of blogging for money blows me away. I can understand news blogs, financial blogs, and other such informational blogs, but personal blogs? I suppose if you have more than an occasional reader like I have, advertising on the blog space might earn a little change. But the concept of getting paid to blog is completely beyond me. Can it be likened to a newspaper columnist? A contributing article in a magazine?

I realize I am too out-of-date to get it. Purchased writing is on paper. Books. Publications. Things the public buys. Freelance blogging? It just boggles my mind.

I read today that a person can make as much as, and exceed, $2000 a month blogging. What I think of as practice writing can actually be a profession. What is the world coming to when one can earn a living chatting away about whatever enters the mind? It's stunning. Simply stunning.

So where does that leave me? In the dark ages, I'm afraid. But I'll continue to blog in my spare time. Why, you may ask, when you aren't making any money? Beats the hell out of me. No, wait. Because it's fun. It's practice. It's bringing me closer to the world of technology. and while I make additions to my little ad-less blog and partake in writing for free, I can dream of the day when my book is published. On paper. The manuscript which is being produced on a machine known as the typewriter.

Trusting Certainty In Old People

2007-10-02T15:13:00.000-05:00

Faux Ma, whispering: Meredith, see this silver chest?

She points to a wooden box on a shelf in her new laundry room closet.

Meredith: Yeah?

Faux Ma: There was another one just like it, only a double size. It had Helga's silver in it. Did you see it during the packing?

Meredith: No.

Faux Ma: It was on the pile of all the boxes with "X"s on them - the ones to be carried in a car.

Meredith: We put all of those boxes in my car, but I didn't see a silver chest on the pile.

Faux Ma: Are you sure? I know I put it on that pile.

Meredith: It wasn't in my car. Maybe Boyfriend put it in his car. We haven't unpacked that one yet.

Pause. Faux Ma doesn't want to confront Boyfriend on the subject. Boyfriend enters from garage.

Faux Ma: Boyfriend, did you see a silver chest like this one, only double size, when you were packing the cars this morning?

Boyfriend: No.

Faux Ma: I know I put it in the pile to be packed in the cars. It was 4:00 in the morning. I remember putting it on that pile of boxes.

Meredith and Boyfriend make suggestions. Maybe she put it in a cardboard box. Maybe it's in her own car that remains at the old house for the time being.

Faux Ma: No. I didn't put it in a box and the car is filled with file drawers.

Meredith and Boyfriend: We didn't move a double silver chest from that pile. There was no silver chest on that pile of boxes.

Faux Ma gets a worried look on her face.

Meredith: It's here. If it was packed, it's here. It will just take a while to find it in all the clutter.

Faux Ma: OK. Thank you.

Faux Ma remains worried and preoccupied.

Faux Ma: I wonder what happened to it.

Meredith: Do you need the silver this week?

Faux Ma: No.

Meredith: You'll find it before the end of the week.

Faux Ma was probably thinking Boyfriend or Meredith were careless and didn't handle the chest properly and it got mixed up with the boxes for the movers. If the movers saw it, they probably stole it.

Faux Ma: It really wasn't too valuable. It wasn't sterling, just silverplate. But it was old.

Meredith: It will turn up, I promise. Unless you threw it out, you will find it.

Faux Ma: OK. Thank you.

Pause.

Faux Ma: I know I put it on that pile for you to take in the car.

Meredith: It will show up!

Later Meredith, Boyfriend, Faux Ma, and Faux Pa went back to the old house to gather the remaining items and to clean up a little.

Faux Ma: Meredith, look!

Faux Ma presents in her arms a double silver chest.

Meredith: Where was it?

Faux Ma: In the bathtub.

Meredith: I knew it would show up.

That Grace, It Be O-Mazing

2007-09-27T11:20:00.000-05:00

Dude, ya gotta lay off the shit, especially in church.

R.I.P.

2007-09-24T12:24:00.000-05:00

Back in, oh, I suppose it was around 1980 or so, I broke up with a guy. It's a long, sordid story that involves Space Invaders, sibling rivalry, a penis with no girth, and accusations of infidelity. I won't get into it because it is so painful...not. More like, boring. Anyway, I had broken up with this guy, and as they always do, he came back. I must have embodied some advice I heard, leave them wanting more. All of them, my old boyfriends, came back at one point or another.

Anyway, a few weeks after we broke up this guy called while I was in the midst of some family event. I remember sitting around the table with everyone when the call came. He wanted to know if I would go to Northrup Auditorium with him, that evening, to see Marcel Marceau perform. I told him no, I didn't think that would be a very good idea. I knew there was more to the package than a free show given by an internationally known artist. All I could think of was that pencil-like weiner and gallons of cold sweat. Ew. Besides, I was in the midst of a family event. Someone's birthday or something.

I hemmed and hawed. I told him I was busy with the family. He practically begged me, and the more he pleaded, the bigger my ego got. My entire family was overhearing the conversation, and my mother finally asked, "what does he want?" I told her, and she gasped and said, "Go! You have to go! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" OK, she didn't know about his, you know, or that I would be expected to touch it at some point in the evening. Then ego says, he wants you bad, and you know you love it when that happens.

I knew it was wrong. My mother always told me not to lead men on. She always told me not to keep friends just for what they can give you. I was going to make the adult decision and say, no, it just isn't a good idea under the circumstances. With him begging me in one ear and my mother telling me to take advantage in the other, what could I do?

He picked me up and we went to see Marcel Marceau. Despite the bad rap mimes get, it was one of the most wonderful shows I'd ever seen. Despite the cognitive dissonance I got from my mother telling me to "take advantage," I'm glad I caved and accompanied this guy. Extra plus, gentialia was not part of the evening's expectations. We merely made out for about five minutes after he took me home. The making out part was always kind of good.

All in all it was a good night.

And a sweet good night to Marcel.

Marcel Marceau, 1923-2007

What Dog Are You?

2007-09-24T08:54:00.000-05:00

The other day my friend Ruthie told me she (and her husband, sort of) had to put both of their dogs to sleep. One of them had cancer. The other was deaf and blind and probably had other problems that I can't think of right now. Angel, the cancer-stricken one, really had to go, and Harry, the sense-less one, wouldn't be able to get around very well without Angel to lead him. Plus, he was about eighty-seven years old. It was a very sad occasion that made Ruthie cry and Ray sleep a lot. Sad, indeed.

Synchronicity led me to a fun video that shows how people can look like their dogs, or just look like a dog, whether he or she owns it or not.

Seeing this made me wonder, if Ruthie and Ray were to get dogs that look like themselves, what would they be? Here is what I came up with:

Ruthie

Ray

Good luck, you guys.

Soft, Silky, and Manageable...Not

2007-09-18T10:51:00.000-05:00

Time to get a haircut. As much as I like a cute hairstyle and looking fabulous in a fresh coif, going to my stylist is way up there on my list of things to procrastinate on.

I've had the same stylist for many years and have gotten several positive comments on the style of my hair. But I let it go until I look like a shaggy Q-Tip, my naturally curly hair in my eyes as it blows up at the slightest hint of humidity.

When I feel like hurting myself for procrastinating on making a hair appointment I look at pictures like these. Suddenly I don't feel so hideous after all. Coming to see you Thursday, Lynnie!

Less Is More...Really

2007-09-13T06:53:00.000-05:00

Could there be a more annoying ad on TV? Today I woke up with this song in my head. While I took my bath my mind's ear heard "a little bit more a little bit more..." While I got dressed my mind's ear heard "a little bit more a little bit more..." While I drove into work my mind's ear heard "a little bit more a little bit more..." And now, after being at work for two hours and my mind's ear hearing "a little bit more a little bit more..." I compound the problem by searching for the damn thing on YouTube so I can share my misery with the rest of the world. Not only is the song bad, the ad features bad spelling. What message is that giving to the young people of today?

And what's with the bald chick?

Brush With Fame

2007-09-07T15:22:00.000-05:00

One day while Boyfriend and I were visiting the Minnesota State Fair we had a brush with fame. Well, fame might not really be the word for it. These two are local celebrities. Well, celebrities might not really be the word for it either. They have a cable access show in Minneapolis a la Wayne's World, only these two show country and western videos. I spotted them as we were perusing the seed art in the ag/hort building (agriculture/horticulture for you tourists). Boyfriend was so excited he had to go up and shake their hands. OK, I admit, I did too. Viva and Jerry. Stars in their own right.

This is Viva.

This is Jerry. Notice the little happy face drawn on his thumb.

These two are stereotypical Minnesotans. I'm sure they were inspiration for the dialect used in the movie Fargo. My descriptions cannot do them justice. I've included an amateur video I found just to give you a taste of what they're all about. Kinda makes you want to pull out the one-hitter and enjoy their magic to the fullest.

Minnesota State Fair, 2007

2007-08-30T10:34:00.000-05:00

I've been so busy going to the fair I haven't had time to write about it. The weather has been perfect - warm enough to wear shorts, yet a hint of autumn in the air. The evenings are chilly, which makes for good snuggling while watching the fireworks.

The 10-In-1 tent was back again this year.* The freak-show-turned-human-oddities is always worth the five tickets to get in. (What does five tickets cost? Who knows? Taking five tickets off of your sheet of twenty makes the attraction seem less expensive than paying actual money to get in. Same goes for the rides. Would you pay $4 to go on a ride that lasts a minute and a half? Would you pay 4 tickets?) They have a bally** and everything. Poobah eats fire. Melinda swallows swords. Come on in and see more. How could you not?

This year the 10-in-1 had Zamora, the woman who turns into a gorilla right before your very eyes. I was pretty disappointed in this cheap knock-off of Zambora, the gorilla girl of years past. Don't ever confuse the two. The illusion of Zambora utilized dim lights and a hidden projector showing the actual transformation of the girl into a gorilla. The illusion of Zamora simply uses a lot of dry ice smoke and a trap door. Zambora scared the hell out of me. Zamora made me laugh.

This banner is for the original gorilla girl. It doesn't actually say "Zambora," but trust me, that was her name. She was alive on the inside, and the illusion was truly fascinating.

This is the banner for Zamora, the current gorilla girl. It says, "see her change," which you definitely do not. But since when do carnivals honor truth in advertising?

I'm very grateful for my nephews, who are now the only ones I'm able to go on the rides with. I've loved to ride the rides forever, and the spinnier, the higher, and the up-side-downer the ride is, the more I like it. However, this year I found my equilibrium to be a little off, and during the rides I couldn't keep my eyes open without hurling. It was kind of sad, and I hope this inner ear or circulation, or whatever problem is rectified by the time I go on more rides. They were fun, though, even though I couldn't watch while I was riding.

One evening we were fortunate to catch the concert at the Leinenkugel Lodge free stage. Dennis DeYoung. Yes, Dennis Frickin'-DeYoung. For free! It was a great concert, and he played for an hour and a half. Everyone loved it from the kids who have no idea who Styx were, to the middle-agers who grew up with Styx, to the oldsters who don't even like that rock-and-roll music. Fab. Absolutely fab. At the end he had the whole audience standing up and singing Sail Away. Dennis sounded as good as ever.

Come on down to the Minnesota State Fair. You just never know what you'll see.

* 10-In-1: Ten acts under one tent.

** Bally: a small demonstration on the outside of the tent designed to lure you into the tent to see more.

Are You A Fair-y?

2007-08-23T13:02:00.000-05:00

Today begins the 2007 edition of the Minnesota State Fair. Of course it is only the most important event of the year, at least in my family. Even Boyfriend likes going to the fair. (He avoided the fair like the plague for many years. As a boy he would attend with Faux Ma and Faux Pa, which had a fun factor equivalent to a burning stick in the eye. Once he discovered that the key to a good time at the fair was the company he kept, he has come to anticipate the event weeks in advance.)

I've been going to the fair my whole life. My dad has worked at the fair for over forty years here:

My piggish, dykey, doofus of an ex-sister-in-law works here:

She is the one negative thing associated with the Minnesota State Fair. She's like a train wreck in that we go out of our way to see if we can spot her (which isn't hard to do; she's the one who looks like a white version of Shirley from the show What's Happenin'). When we do spot her, we stop and stare for a while, until she notices us staring and runs in the other direction out of fear and/or shame. Then we mosey on our way. I hate her.

I don't know what it's like at other state fairs around the country, but Minnesota is known for its food-on-a-stick. The whole concept has gotten a little out of hand, and I've pretty much disregarded new items-on-a-stick ever since they came up with macaroni-and-cheese-on-a-stick. However, the deep fried Twinkie-on-a-stick is just about the most delectable confection ever invented. They take a Twinkie and spear it with the likes of a corndog stick. Then they dip it in what is something like a crepe batter. Next they fry the whole thing. Fruity toppings are offered, but I prefer a dusting of powdered sugar. It runs a close race with Tom Thumb Donuts (which I've been eating for over forty years) for best food on the fairgrounds.

New food at the fair includes Spamburgers and Spam Curds (spam and cheese battered and deep fried) {no way}, Kool-Aid Pickles {maybe}, pork knuckle sandwiches {pig cartilage? You've got to be kidding!}, and Uffda Brats (Norwegian sausage wrapped in lefse) {Hate lefse, much to Faux Ma's dismay.}.

I'll be posting more about the fair, and maybe even posting some pics after I make my first visit tomorrow. Can you just smell the hot oil and cow manure? WooHoo!

Do That To Me One More Time

2007-08-06T07:30:00.000-05:00

This is just too much. I think it's irresponsible and selfish to have this many kids, I don't care if you're a millionaire political/real estate hound. Mr. Dugger has aptly earned the name "Jim Bob" with his hillbillian wankie poking at his wife every night like something out of Deliverance, and his wife ought to know better; a woman simply doesn't have to take this kind of abuse. Read more about the story here.

Apparently this couple has interpreted the Bible as saying you're supposed to have as many kids as you possibly can within the span of fertility. And while the Duggers could be perfectly wonderful parents raising perfectly sound children, I think it's just wrong to purposefully try to over populate the earth for religious, economic, or social reasons. On the other hand, would I want families to be limited in number as determined by, say, a government? No.

I personally know someone who has twelve kids. She's learning disabled, as is her husband. Her children are dirty and ill-kempt. Money is very tight and her mother comments frequently to anyone who will listen how she worries for the health and safety of those children. This woman doesn't claim to be breeding this way because Jesus told her to. She's breeding because she's always liked babies. When she was a little girl and her siblings were born, she wanted them as her own children. Her mother told her when she was grown up she could have as many babies as she wanted. Poor idiot didn't think this through, as she and her husband are barely able to provide for their clan. She claims to be happy, though.

So, on the one hand you have Jim Bob with his millions of dollars and seventeen kids. On the other hand you have this other couple and their twelve kids. That's twenty-seven kids between two couples. It's weird and socially irresponsible regardless of being able to financially provide for those kids or not. Too many people is a burden for this earth.

I have a difficult time articulating what a strong distaste I have for couples who can't or won't stop having children. Why do I feel so adamantly? And when you have sex that often with the likes of rat-faced Jesus freaks like Jim Bob Dugger or bloat-faced emotional and intellectual midgets such as my acquaintance's husband, wouldn't you kind of lose interest? If you're squeezing out seventeen kids, you know old Jim Bob is shaking the headboard way more often than most, and his wife Fertile Mertle is just lying there and taking it like a dutiful wife. I wonder if she fakes orgasm, or if her orgasm, real or faked, is of any consequence at all.

I think that's it. It's not so much the number of kids as it is the whole sex thing. I would be repulsed to have sex with a dullard like my acquaintance's husband, as would I be repulsed to have sex with a man with only Jesus on his mind.

I can't say it enough: it's just weird.