Have Yourself a Scary Little Christmas

I would like to officially nominate "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" as the creepiest holiday song ever. Have you listened to this song? I mean, I've known it for years. It's one of those songs that you just run around singing under your breath without realizing it until fellow shoppers start giving you strange looks and you remember that you can't carry a tune in a bucket and you probably shouldn't sing out loud in public anyway, even if you happen to be Kelly Clarkson.

But, the other day, as I was happily singing along, I actually heard what I was singing. The gist of the story is that this little boy sneaks downstairs to try and catch a glimpse of Santa, and what to his wandering eye appears instead is dearest Mommy playing slap and tickle with old Father Christmas. Now, any normal child would of course be traumatized by the sight of Mommy making out with the old fat man who breaks and enters once a year to deliver presents (possibly a guilt offering, I now realize). In the real world, such a scenario would stun and horrify the child, resulting in a Madonna-whore complex the likes of which the world has never seen, one that will haunt every future relationship this poor child will ever have, and the years and years of ensuing therapy go without saying. But in the song, the child doesn't react with the appropriate revulsion. Of course not. No, instead he thinks, "Wow, that's really funny. Ya know what would be funnier? If Dad caught 'em! God, that would be a laugh riot." What kind of child thinks the only thing funnier than Mommy cheating on Daddy would be if Daddy caught her? Seriously. That is some sick shit right there. We may be a tad late with the therapy. Snuggle down with that story on this lovely Christmas Eve. And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

The Un-Chick-fil-A'd Life Is Not Worth Living

One of the great disadvantages of chucking everything and moving to beautiful Oregon (ok, so maybe a general announcement of, "Hey, I'm moving to Oregon—write if you get work," is not chucking everything, but whatever) has been the complete and utter absence of the glory that is Chick-fil-A. My arrival in the Beaver State (shut it) seems to have been timed almost exactly with the closure of the Lloyd Center CFA, the only one in the state. I weep.

And shortly thereafter, the Chick-fil-A in DFW airport was replaced with a Hebrew National. Please. A hot dog stand. I was devastated. Picture, if you will, a 30-something woman bubbling over with the excitement of a 7-year-old on Christmas morning as she sprints through the airport in a quest for the perfection that is the Chick-fil-A sandwich—a perfection that has been denied for months now. Imagine her as she arrives in the food court and giddily beelines for where she knows the beauty of that red and white beacon shines forth, only to pull up short when she sees in its stead a hideous red, blue, and yellow monstrosity hawking kosher hot dogs. Envision the precise moment that her inner 7-year-old realizes that Santa has taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque and the only thing waiting under the tree is the giant hairball that Felix has so thoughtfully horked up. A little piece of me died in the DFW airport that day.

Anyway, the gist of the matter is that CFA sandwiches have sadly become a rarity in my life. I have even sunk so low as e-mailing CFA HQ asking if there were any plans to license a franchise in the area—no dice. It's a bleak future. So I accept alternatives. Recently, McDonald's has come out with their own version of this sandwich. It ain't the same, but it'll do. I may or may not have eaten them three days in a row on occasion. (Yep, it's a shocker that I gained seven pounds in one week. However did that happen?) So, please, Chick-fil-A, consider this a combination open love letter and a desperate plea imploring you to once again bless this great state with the perfect chicken sandwich. I'm pretty sure I could keep you profitable even if you had no other customers—and we both know that ain't gonna happen. Bless us, I beg of you. A location in a county featuring cheese, trees, and ocean breeze would be ideal. Thank you for your consideration.

Tag-errific

Thanks to Creth, I don't actually have to think of a topic this time. And there was much rejoicing. We'll pretend like we don't remember that post I started last week and quickly lost interest in.

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate?
Hot chocolate. With Bailey's.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Santa used to just put them under the tree, but baby bro was (is) a brat and always peeked and Santa had to start wrapping them.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?
White.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
I used to. I wonder why I quit.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
We get the tree the day after Thanksgiving and then decorate in fits and starts as the urge strikes. Then the boxes sit around for a few more weeks. They've yet to be taken back downstairs this year.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
I can't decide. We don't do Christmas dinner, but we have chips and dips and all manner of yummy snacky-type foods on Christmas Eve and then eat the leftovers all day long on Christmas Day. I love it all.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?
Picking out our tree at the tree farm with the hayrides and petting zoo and cookies and cider and tree shaker and baler.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
Quite late and reluctantly. I was not interested in giving up a good thing.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
In MY family, we open them all on Christmas Eve except the Santa presents. J won't let me open ANYTHING early. Spoilsport.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
With lights and ornaments. Duh. Ok, fine, with red, gold, white, silver, and a bit of green.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?
Not my fave. I like to watch it, but I don't like to deal with it.

12. Can you ice skate?
If by ice skate, you mean creep around the rink very wobbly-like and then bitch about my sore ankles for days, then yes.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?
Bratty baby bro climbed a tree and filled up a paper grocery sack with mistletoe for me. It was sweet.

14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you?
Peace, joy, and love.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?
Layered pecan pie. And by layered, we're talking a layer of cream cheese. Heaven on a plate, my friend.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?
Socializing with good friends/family and food on Christmas Eve.

17. What tops your tree?
A star! A star goes on top of the tree. There'll be no angels with Christmas tree enemas in this house.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving?
Both.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?
Olivia Olson's (NOT Mariah "Needless Vocal Frippery" Carey's) version of "All I Want for Christmas is You" from Love Actually. The girl was 10!

20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yum?
Yuck. Me no likey the peppermint. Or any mint, for that matter.

21. What do you want for Christmas?
I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.

If you're reading this, consider yourself tagged. I don't think there are quite five of you and I don't want to embarrass myself. Any further.

A Pound a Day!

No, this is not some amazing new weight-loss program offering impossibly fantastic results. No, no. This is what I supposedly gained over Thanksgiving week. Seven pounds. In one week. I didn't even think this was physically possible. I mean, come on. There's just no way. Theoretically, I reject this number. I'm telling myself it was fluids. Repeatedly. It's the only way I can handle the strain. I have, however, still walked around all week mentally reciting, "Seven, seven, seven, seven," and not in the good way.

On a positive note, because of the constant chorus of sevens, I have been slightly more conscious this week of the calories I've shoved into my mouth. But I did go to a party Saturday night where the table was almost audibly groaning with food and I didn't do so well at ye olde self-restraint. Quelle surprise. But, tomorrow's the big day. Weigh-in day. I'm thinking an eight-pound loss would be nice. I know that this isn't realistically achievable, but I'm thinking this pendulum ought to swing both ways. If it doesn't, someone, somewhere—and I'll let you know who just as soon as I figure that out—will be getting a very strongly worded letter.

Head Explosions

I can't figure this one out. Does no one at the grape farm own a dictionary? Is this some sort of obscure pun? Is "goolish" supposed to be funnier than "ghoulish"? I don't know, but it makes my head explode. Stop it.

And don't even get me started on seasonal marketing ploys to sell the frickin' grapes, for cryin' out loud.

I already edited this one. Couldn't stand it.

And I didn't get a shot of this one, but a recent airplane I was on had lost some of their "Seat cushion can be used as flotation device" signs and had replaced them with good, ol' Dymo labels, except they opted for "floatation device" instead. I wanted very much to edit these, but was sure I'd be arrested for vandalism/terrorism, or at the very least, annoying the hell out of the people sitting under those tragically misspelled labels.

Grief Outlet

It's been a month now since Milo died and I miss him so much. There are a thousand little things that remind me of him every day and induce fresh bouts of tears at least once daily. Making the bed triggers memories of how that little chug-butt managed to take up a third of the bed when physically he was only about an eighth of the size of each of the human occupants. Every time I drop an ice cube or a piece of food and don't hear him come running to scavenge, it's like a knife in the heart. When we return home after running errands or visiting friends, it takes me a moment to realize that we don't need to take him out, and when that realization hits, it almost takes my breath away. It's those little moments that happen countless times each day when I remember that I will never again experience some simple mundane event that really hit like a sucker punch. It hurts. I miss my baby.

Milo, My Love

Two weeks ago on September 25, we lost our beloved French bulldog, Milo, after a brief and sudden illness. He was the sweetest, most handsome, joyful, joyous, and silliest bundle of love you could ever hope to meet. Our home is colossally empty without him in it.

We adopted Milo in August 2004 from the wonderful folks at the French Bulldog Rescue Network (FBRN). His foster mom, Kate, had done a fabulous job of readying the handsome lug for adoption. I don’t know precisely what that entails, but I do know that Kate diligently brought his health and dental care up to date and probably spent a goodly amount of time and energy socializing this poor boy who had spent the first eight years of his life neglected in a backyard kennel. And after she had poured so much love and care into Milo, she selflessly and happily allowed him to join our family.

When we went to pick up Milo from Kate’s, he was so happy to meet us that it seemed like fate that we were chosen—we would quickly learn that Milo was always happy to meet new people and we weren’t, in fact, all that special. Nonetheless, he was right there in the thick of things as we filled out all the necessary paperwork and Kate filled us in on the few remaining details that we hadn’t heard about Mr. Squishy, as she called him. We took a few pics with his handsome hunkiness and then loaded up the car for the drive back to our place. He hopped right into the car with hardly a backward glance and headed out on the road to his new home. I think the fact that he watched us put his food in the car helped allay any nervous feelings he might have been having. He spent the entire two-hour drive standing with his front legs on the console between Jason and me and his back legs in the back seat, which quickly became his customary riding position. And he spritzed Frenchie mist on us the whole way home—my right arm was positively crusty by the time we arrived.

As soon as we pulled in the driveway and let him out of the car thinking he’d need to go potty, he zoomed straight up to the front door and looked back at us as if to say, “What’re you waiting on?” So, we let him in and he burst right through the door, scattered the cats while barely noticing them, and checked out his new digs. He made himself at home immediately, in our house and in our hearts.

Unfortunately, within a month, it was discovered that Milo had a mast cell tumor and he had three surgeries in the space of one year to have various tumors removed. However, with the fantastic care he received at Hollywood Pet Hospital in Portland, and in particular from Dr. Martin, he came through those surgeries with flying colors and never looked back. It was also during this time that the doctors and staff at the vet’s office gave him the sassy moniker Big M.

A little over a year after he joined our household, we moved to the coast and oh, how he loved to rip and romp on the beach, claiming each clump of seaweed, piece of driftwood, pile of rocks, and, on at least one occasion, some poor child’s sandcastle as his very own. Even if the well had run dry, he would strain and strain until he could manage to squeeze out a single solitary drip with which to lay his claim. More than once, he just marched right into a tide pool and when the water reached his chest, we could almost see the light bulb come on, “Oh, so that’s why my people keep calling me. I was wondering.” And when he got tired, that was it, he just flopped wherever he was standing and you’d best be prepared to give him some recovery time or carry a wet, muddy dog back to the car.

He absolutely loved people and the beach was one of his favorite spots to make new acquaintances. Other dogs, eh—but their people! Now that was some exciting stuff. Some of his favorite times were when we had company. Of course, he had a little incontinence problem, and he’d sometimes greet guests by piddling just a tiny bit on their toes, but what’s a little piddle among friends? And he was normally the most placid, laidback dog I’d ever seen, but let someone ring the doorbell and he’d morph instantly into a crazed junkyard dog. Now if we were on the deck when the visitor arrived and told them to come on in, then no reaction, he’d just trot up to meet the newcomer; but the doorbell always unleashed his inner hellhound. His love for people and his love of car rides also led to several attempts to become a delivery dog. Many’s the time we had to coax him away from the FedEx truck. Combine his laidback personality and his love of people and attention, add his sweet nature, and you get Milo letting me dress him up as Arf Vader and Santa’s Little Helper. He ran all over town many times in his cute little antlers with the jingle bell. He’d wear anything so long as it got him a little more attention than usual.

He was a trusting feller, too. He’d climb up on the couch to snuggle with one of us and then hang precariously off the edge with half of his legs dangling as if he knew we’d never let him fall. Of course, we’d get nervous and move him to a more secure position, but he never dreamed that we’d let gravity run its course.

The thing Milo loved most of all, aside from food, was belly rubs. Rub his belly and you’d made a lifelong friend. Now, that’s the stuff, right there. He also enjoyed a good wallerin’ (that’s wallowing for those of you who are colloquially challenged) session on any sort of textured surface—carpets, driveways, decks—and the sun-warmed ones were always the best.

We took him camping a couple of times and we could never decide if he was the best or the worst camping dog ever. He made nary a peep when the raccoons ransacked us, but nor did he have a barking frenzy or even make any noise at all when the two ginormous bison ambled through our campsite, although he eyed them askance and seemed to be thinking, “Man, those are some BIG dogs.”

He was never very vocal, though. He communicated mostly through snorfles (that’s a combination snuffle and snort) and with expectant or inquisitive looks—with the notable exception of the stealth bark. Occasionally when he needed to go out, and for reasons completely unknown to us, he would sneak up silently behind his chosen victim and then suddenly bark so sharp and so loud that we would inevitably leap six inches out of our chairs and bellow an expletive. To which he would respond with his patented quizzical look.

Milo’s best and first love was food, glorious food. He developed this funny way of “sneaking up” on his food. He would approach his dish from the side, never really looking at it, drop his head down beside the bowl, and then kind of slide his head in a dipping motion over the food. We never really figured that one out. His favorite treats were the Simplylivin’ organic dog cookies, made here locally. I stopped giving them to him in the car because he would eat them so enthusiastically that he’d fling little slobbery bits of dog cookie all over the car interior. Once, a long string of cookie-encrusted drool was actually hanging down from the ceiling of the car. He never quite got the hang of synthetic toys, but he loved rawhide chews and his Antlerz. If he was chewing on a toy upstairs while you were downstairs, he made such a racket that you could be forgiven for thinking a major construction project had started without your knowledge.

One of his other favorite treats was what is euphemistically known as kitty roca. In order to dissuade him from indulging, we put the litter boxes in the bathrooms and placed tension rods in the doorways about eight inches from the ground. He could easily have knocked these out or climbed over them, but he never did. We sometimes forgot to warn guests about the Milo-proofing, though, and we always knew from the clattering of the rods hitting the ground when they got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Milo’s relationship with the cats away from the litter boxes was mostly one of oblivion. Stanley was in a constant battle to gain dominance over Milo and Milo usually just stared at Stanley whenever the hissing and histrionics started; and he just barreled through poor Jasper as if he weren’t there. The only time Milo ever showed any aggression toward the cats was if one of them vaguely leaned in the direction of his food bowl. Then it was on. He’d use those wide shoulders and that thick chest and redirect their trajectories to a safer path.

He really was a wonderful companion and a joy to be around. There wasn’t a day that went by in the last four years that he didn’t make us smile or laugh. We are so thankful to FBRN for choosing us as his family and for the support during the mast cell tumor surgeries; to Hollywood Pet Hospital for the wonderful care and love that Milo received there; and to Tillamook Veterinary Hospital for all that they did for him and for us.

Milo, you really were the best and sweetest boy ever and we are so grateful that we got to spend the last four years with you in our lives. We will miss your sweet face and your snuggles, snorfles, snorting, and snoring and we will love you always.

Read This

I'm not going to actually compose anything on my own anymore. I'm just going to regurgitate other people's creativity and find some of my old 10th grade creative writing projects (I really am—I have at least one that is awesome [said in my best singsongy voice]). In the spirit of redirection (sounds so much better than regurgitation, no?), go read this. See if you laugh as hard as I did. Which would be until tears ran down my face and my sides ached. That could be the Pilates, though. The aching sides, not the tears. Well, wait—it could have been either.

I Am ThisClose to Worshiping Stephan Pastis

He has pretty much summed up my life's philosophy with his strip today.




If your local newspaper doesn't run Pearls Before Swine, you should definitely start a letter-writing campaign to get it featured. Genius.

If you know and love Pearls, who is your favorite character? I have a soft spot for Guard Duck. "I'm growing weary of the hamper, Sir."

It Is Time to Raise the Cure for Pancreatic Cancer

(This post ripped directly from the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network's site. This is a cause that is very important to my family and to many others around the nation. Thanks for taking the time to read and eternal gratitude for taking the time to vote.)

The American Express Members Project to Fight Pancreatic Cancer needs your vote!
(you don’t have to be a member to vote)

American Express holds a contest called the Members Project, where card members propose projects to support causes near and dear to them. These projects can be anything from preventing childhood malnutrition to providing clean water to rural areas. Card members and non card members vote for their favorite project, then American Express gives money to the top 5 vote-getters. The winning project is awarded $1.5 million, with 2nd place getting $500,000 and 3rd getting $300,000. Fourth- and fifth-place finishers receive $100,000 each. Go to: American Express Members Project. The deadline is September 1, 2008.

One of our supporters, Carolynn McMahn, PhD has entered 'It is Time to Raise the Cure for Pancreatic Cancer' as her American Express project. If the project places in one of the top spots, the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network will be the recipient of a portion of the winning funds for pancreatic cancer research. A portion will also be shared with another non-profit organization that supports pancreatic cancer research. This is a great way for us to raise funds and awareness of our cause, but we need your help to make it to the top! Go to: American Express Members Project.

The deadline to vote in this first round is Monday, September 1, 2008. We can't make it to the top 5 if we don't get into the top 25, so please act today! Cardmembers can log in to vote, but you do not have to be an American Express cardmember to cast a vote. Simply sign in as a guest, it takes just a few clicks and can make a huge difference. We have a few days left before the first round ends, so please visit the Members Project site today and tell everyone you know about this opportunity!

American Express Members Project

We are grateful for your support.

Blogging Under the Influence

When I logged in yesterday to post a new entry, I saw a draft of an unposted entry titled BUI. "Bui?" I asked myself. What the hell is bui? And then I noticed the date of the draft. And day. Friday. Uh-oh.

There is a trend developing around Friday nights here. A trend that over the last three weeks has seen me exercise something less than moderation where my alcoholic intake is concerned. I blame the French, birthdays, and Chinese restaurants. When we got home after last Friday night's overindulgence, I decided to check my e-mail, and then I posted some obnoxious comments on friends' blogs (sorry!) blathering on about whiskey sours and my "mad backspacing skillz." Seems I was very proud of my ability to correct all the typos I had initially made in the comments.

A short time later, while I was lying in bed singing "It Sucks to Be Me" at the top of my voice, I paused to try to remember the lyrics and heard Jason snoring. How dare he! And how did he manage? I was pretty freakin' loud. I, of course, took umbrage at this critique and made the logical decision to come downstairs and blog about it. I sat down at the computer, decided that wasn't comfortable, dragged the laptop over to the guest bed, pulled back the comforter and shower curtain (to try to keep the cat hair on the sheets to a minimum), climbed into bed (pulling both the comforter and shower curtain back up over me), and proceeded to type this:

so, i odn't erally remember what i had to say her but ia'm sure it ahdd saomthhing to do with my hadusbadn falling amslepp while ai was singing the openingn nibmber of avenue qu

Wow. Apparently, those mad backspacing skillz deteriorated a bit over the course of the twenty or so minutes that followed my claiming them. I recall squinting at this gibberish, realizing it was worse than I felt like dealing with, shutting down the computer, placing it beside my head (where the other pillow would have been if I hadn't been Bogarting both of them), and drifting off to sleep. What I didn't count on was the autosave feature recording the exact composition of the drunken typo-fest. So there you have it—BUI, in all its glory.

W/W = D&D

According to a recent article on Wired.com, Weight Watchers is a role-playing game. At least, the online e-tools version of it is, which is what I use, of course, due to that whole aversion to people thing. I found the comparison to be amusingly accurate and I was also oh-so-relieved that my geekdom is still so slight and insignificant that it took me quite a while to figure out the acronym. Reading, reading, thinking "Yeah, but what does RPG mean?" reading, reading, "Aha!" Dork? Yes. Geek? Not so much.

But maybe I should become one, because frankly, I'm doing pretty well at this RPG thing, if I do say so myself. Knock on wood. Repeatedly. God, I hope I didn't just jinx myself. Anyway, reduction stats for those of you keeping score at home: 37.4 pounds, 4 inches in the chest (plus the 4 from the redux!), 5 inches in the waist, and 4.5 inches in the hip. According to the character name generator I just Googled (I'm getting a jump-start on this geek thing), my Dungeons & Dragons character name shall be: Therkahn Silversgleaming (Female Elf Rogue). Also known as Therkahn the Rogue, Lady Therkahn, Lady Silversgleaming, Lady Therkahn Silversgleaming the Rogue, and Therkahn Silversgleaming the Shepherd. Not sure where the sheep came into this but I rather like the idea of being a rogue. Now excuse me while I go out and kick some W/W D&D (Oh! WWDD—I like!) butt.

U.S.-China Relations (as pertaining to me, natch)

My fellow Americans, if you wish to discuss your political opinions in public—and more to the point, within my earshot—please try and have the tiniest sliver of a clue with regards to what you are speaking of. Otherwise, I may be forced to march over to your table and brain you with a potsticker.

As you may have gathered, we lunched today at the local Chinese buffet in honor of the Games of the XXIX Olympiad of the Modern Era. Or maybe Chinese food just sounded good and I've watched too much Olympic coverage. Oh, and btw, NBC—release your stranglehold. Yeshua. It's ridiculous that the local news cannot even show footage of hometown athletes because NBC hasn't aired their precious coverage yet. I'm thinking the audience for fencing is rather limited in scope to begin with, so ease up a bit, ya Nazis. Ok, deep breath. This too shall pass. Anyway, while lunching, I made the crucial mistake of sitting on an eyeline with the kitchen so that every time one of the proprietors came out with something fresh, they'd hold it up to me and mime encouragement for me to come and get some more. I don't do well with this kind of pressure. With the result that I walked waddled out of there feeling like I'd swallowed a giant gelatinous beach ball. Then we went grocery shopping. Brilliant. We are all constantly warned about shopping on an empty stomach, but let me tell you, shopping with a stomach so full you're on the verge of purging at any moment is not a pleasant experience either. Especially driving home with the smell of roasted chicken wafting around the car. *urp*

Oh, oh, oh!! I almost forgot. The best part was my fortune cookie: "Your respect for others will be your ticket to success this year." BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA. My respect for others? Hoo-hee-hee. That's a good one. Respect for others! Oh God, my sides. Stop it, stop it!

On a completely oxymoronic note from the lunch gorging, I passed the halfway mark for weight loss today and officially moved from "obese" to "overweight" on the BMI scale. This filled me with a ridiculous amount of delight and joy even though I think BMI is a bunch of codswallop. And a final word to all my ex-fat: you can suck it.

Return of the Pelicans

It's that time of year again! And while I would love to ramble on interminably about the seasonal migratory patterns of aquatic fowl, I don't actually know anything about them. But I do know that the brown pelicans show up here once a year, stay a while, and then--well, I was going to say they return from whence they came but maybe they have other stops on their itinerary. I don't know. I just enjoy them while they're here.

Names Have Been Changed to Protect, um, Someone

So, the other day I was catching up on all the D-List episodes I missed while I was at my folks' house and I noticed that the lead-in to the show features Kathy saying, "Ok, here's the thing. . ." And while this has been a verbal crutch of mine for quite some time, I can't be sure I didn't pick it up from Ms. Griffin and don't want to be a copycat or a plagiarist or whatever, so I changed the blog's title. It links up better with the URL now anyway. Of course, I swiped that particular gem from a t-shirt that my brother's co-worker said made her think of him, but that's different. I don't know why, but it is. Shut up. It is.

I do lurve my Bravo shows wholeheartedly, and while discussing recent episodes with some friends, one of them remarked to Jason, "Your wife sure does watch a lot of Bravo. I think she may be a gay man in a woman's body." I loved it and thought it was a great compliment, right up there with when my friend Story told me that the sweater I was wearing made me look like an angel, but really I was the devil. Aw, shucks, y'all say the sweetest things.

Meme from Creth

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Yep. My middle name, DeAnn, is for my dad, Dean. See how they did that?

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
July 14.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Intermittently.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Would tuna fish qualify?

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
*smirks while grabbing crotch* Not that I know of.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Um, hell to the yeah. I think it's a pretty well-established fact that I am enamored with myself.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Um, duh.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
I would assume so. I've not as yet woken up in a hotel bathtub with any part of my body packed in ice.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Let me make this simple for you: NO.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Froot Loops. But they hurt my tongue. And are very bad for me. So I usually have Kashi Go Lean Crunch or Honey Nut Cheerios.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Not if I can avoid it.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Sometimes I think I am, sometimes I know I am, and sometimes I know I'm not. Ooooh, deep.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Plain ol' chocolate frozen really, really hard in a glass with milk poured over it. So good you'll slap your mama.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Whether or not they're laughing at my jokes. Or their shoes. I mean, I notice their shoes, not that they're laughing at their shoes. Although sometimes they should be. Ok, rambling now. Next!

15. RED OR PINK?
Red, bay-bee. Have we met?

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
Laziness.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Ninny.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?
Yes, both of you.

19. WHAT COLOR SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
I don't wear shoes in bed. Were you raised in a barn or something?

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
How embarrassing. Whatachik'n with cheese, no tomato, fries, and a DP.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The ceiling fan.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Cornflower blue.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Bread baking, the ocean, cilantro, clean sheets, rain, fresh-cut grass, honeysuckle, Christmas trees.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
Uh, I give up. Maybe Jason? No, I think it was Mom. No, Dad. Hell, I don't know. I've spent way too much time thinking about this, but after chronologically reconstructing my day, it must've been Shane.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
Ya. I wish she thought she was as cool as I think she is.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Baseball. And we're done.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Dark brown, but soon to be Féria 74, Copper Shimmer.

28. EYE COLOR?
Pale blue to gray.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Nope, but I found some awesome glasses frames the other day that makes me want to buy them without a prescription real bad. I looked a-freaking-dorable, I tell ya. Can you buy just the frames? How much does it cost just to put clear glass in?

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Mexican, Tex-Mex to be precise. And fried catfish with hush puppies and green tomato relish.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
I just say no to scary movies.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Elizabeth.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Um, it's a kinda fuchsia-y pajama top.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer. In Oregon, not Texas.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Well, that all depends on the recipient, now doesn't it?

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Hmm, tiramisu?

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
You.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Me. ('Cause see, I already did.)

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
A Voyage Long and Strange: Discovering the New World by Tony Horwitz. Yes, I'm a geek.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
I'm on the lappy, so no pad of the mouse.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
Elizabeth.

42. FAVORITE SOUND?
Babies laughing, waves crashing, pane-rattling thunder, Milo snorfling.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Da Beatles.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
India.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I like to think I'm a pretty good actor. And I can twirl a baton. And I flirt real good.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Good Shepherd Hospital, Longview, Texas.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Both of yours.

The 1930s Just Weren't Ready for Me

-3 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Hoopty update!!

All right, so I'm not the world's best photographer, especially by camera phone from a moving (nonhoopty) vehicle. Check this beauty out, though.That right there is the mother of all hoopties, my friend. Look in awe.

Two Weeks in Texas

So, two weeks ago last Tuesday (July 1 for the math challenged), I received a call from my parents telling me that tests showed that my 93-year-old grandfather's carotid artery was 95% blocked. He also had at least one mild stroke about a month ago. His doctor recommended surgery despite the risks and told my family that a decision needed to be made immediately and that they needed to call his office first thing in the morning to let him know what was decided. My folks told me that the decision was made to go ahead with surgery and they expected it to happen within the week. I got off the phone with them and immediately bought an open-ended plane ticket home to Texas for the very next day.

That Thursday (July 3), we took PaDad in for an arteriogram and waited all day to get the results. Apparently, the doc usually calls them around 5:30, but when 5:00 rolled around on the day before a holiday, I suggested that my dad go ahead and call the doc's office before everyone took off early. Too late. The receptionist was still there, but the doc and the surgeon had both left early to enjoy their 4th of July holidays, leaving my family swaying in the wind with zero information over the long weekend.

On Monday (July 7), when we finally managed to reach someone at the doc's office, they told us that the arteriogram confirmed the 95% blockage but that the surgeon could not see PaDad until July 14. It was at this point that it dawned on all of us that maybe I should not have rushed home based on the doctor's say-so since he doesn't get to dictate the surgeon's schedule. However, the doctor thought this was too long of a delay and they tried to get our appointment moved up. No luck.

So, finally, this past Monday (July 14), the surgeon assessed my grandfather's mental acuity and quality of life and scheduled the surgery for Friday, July 18 at 1:00 p.m.

[insert standard rant about health care system here]

So, I've been cooling my heels in Tejas for the last two weeks. Although cool is not really an appropriate adjective to use to describe anything about Texas in July. Fortuitously, I developed some kind of blockage in my right ear the second day I was here and have not yet managed to clear it, despite 10 days and $120 worth of medication, so it's not like I can fly anyway. And I can't hear a blessed thing either.

But it's not been a vacation. My job is portable and I brought plenty of work with me and have had to scramble several times to make deadlines. There's been a lot going on around here and focusing has been a challenge. Plus, my mom wanted to take me shopping. Who am I to disappoint her? And, drumroll please, I now present the newest selection of my OMG-aren't-they-just-the-cutest-things-you've-ever-seen-in-your-life shoes. Envy me.

You know you wanna be me. But you can't. The position is filled. That's it, yeah, let your envy flow in my direction, let it wash over me, I bathe in it, I glory-- *ahem*. Sorry. Got a little carried away there.

Anyhoo, despite the situation that brought and has kept me here, and despite the workload that has kept me plenty busy, we have managed to get out and do a few fun things and this has given me ample opportunities for observation. And ok, here's the thing: Texas and Texans, I love ya. I really do. I spent the first thirty years of my life here and I wouldn't change that for the world. Well, I'd omit a few of you, but I'm not going to get into that right now. In any case, even though I love you--nay, because I love you, I have to say that in my absence over the last eight years, y'all have all done gone and lost your minds. Now, Texas has always been a bit different and prides itself on it: It's a whole other country and all that jazz. I'm pretty sure no other state in the nation sells bathroom accessories imprinted with the image of its flag--everything from shower curtains to soap dishes to toothbrush holders. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But that's not what I'm talking about. No, I'm talking about the hoopties and the deranged lizard mascots and the Julius Caesar cast costumed as 1950s engineering nerds.

The little corner of Texas that I call home has always had its share of tricked-out trucks and souped-up cars and general attempts at oozing machismo out from under the hood. And oh, by the way, fellas, I refer to any sort of oversized, lift-kit fitted, ginormous-tire sporting, obvious attempt at stating your manhood sort of vehicle as a teeny weeny peeny machine. We all know you're compensating, but consider not advertising your shortcomings in such an obvious way, mmkay? But to get back on track, what got my attention this time was the new (to me) phenomenon of putting tiny little tires with great big wheels on cars, trucks, and SUVs.Yes, that's a Cadillac. An older model, admittedly, but I've seen these ridiculous-looking things on every kind of car you can imagine, from pickup trucks to compact cars to my personal favorite, a brand new Lincoln Navigator. I don't even know what to say about this. It's nuts. It's ugly. Stop the madness.

On a positive note, Kilgore has a new baseball team, the Kilgore Pump Jacks, and they play in the Texas Collegiate League. For those of you not up on your oilfield terminology, a pump jack is one of those old-timey mechanical devices for drawing oil out of a well . They kinda look like a hammer balancing on a triangle and rocking up and down. If that awe-inspiring descriptive imagery isn't doing it for ya, Google Image Search is your friend. A fitting name for a team in an old oil boomtown. But what to do about a mascot? Well, a pump jack is also sometimes called a nodding donkey. So there you go: Boomer, the donkey. Makes perfect sense. Until some nimrod decides that there should be two mascots. Now Boomer is joined by Derrick the dinosaur. Because of fossil fuels, ya know. Right. Whatevs. The only trouble is that a dinosaur mascot costume is a little tough to pull off. And if you're not careful, he might just end up looking like. . .. . . a deranged lizard. Um, creepy. And I'm not even a masklophobe. At least I didn't use to be.

Another good thing that Kilgore has going for it is the annual Texas Shakespeare Festival. According to TSF's promotional materials, it has been referred to by the Austin American Statesman as "indisputably the best Shakespeare festival in Texas." My parents don't usually attend, but my mom was willing to go with me, and to my utter amazement, my dad agreed to accompany us after some initial hesitation. Come to find out, he was mainly interested in seeing the elaborate sets and costumes. Whoops.Somehow, I don't think that's what Dad had in mind. It really wasn't that big of a deal although it threw me at first. But I got used to it and ceased to notice after a while. What was much more distracting were my parents giggling like schoolkids every time one of the actors sprayed a little spit. I wanted to smack them--in a loving way, of course. The weirdest thing about the production for me were the dance numbers that opened and closed the show. The opener featured the nerd chorus (costumes complete with black-rimmed glasses) running in place and then striking a pose, running in place and then striking a pose, ad nauseum. Strange. And the closer was a little rythmic jig where they all chanted several times, "Caesar Augustus, Caesar Augustus, Caesar Augustus, unh, unh, unh!" I don't know. I actually came home and looked up the ending to see how Shakespeare treated the Octavius becomes Augustus bit because I couldn't remember. He didn't. So, uh, I don't know. But, it was a good show and I enjoyed it and am glad we went. Kudos especially to the actor who played Brutus. My playbill's all the way across the room right now so I can't tell you his name. But he did a fine job. Look him up and send him a telegram of congratulation, why don't you?

So, Texicans, in conclusion, I think I have effectively proven that you're all a little bit whacko. However, as we all know, I heart crazy. So do me a favor and don't ever change. Unless you want to get a little bit nuttier.

Down the Rabbit Hole

I'm feeling quite guilty for being ever-so-neglectful of my poor little bloggy for the last couple of months. But I've been crazy busy and chasing my ass in circles and, oh yeah, I'm still sick. Color me not happy. But I do have two new coloring books. Yay!!!

I don't have any fresh ideas or anything I particularly care to rant about right now, at least not in a public forum where people who I am not terribly fond of at the moment might recognize themselves. Ahem. So, instead, I shall regale you with the tale of the most bizarre dream I have had in quite some time.

In this dream, my lifelong friend and former schoolmate, Dee (Hi, Dee!), was pimping a hookup with a mutual friend--let's call him X (because I will not be sharing that identity here, un-uh, no way, forget it). Now X is not someone I've ever thought about in a sexual way. I mean, I'm sure he's perfectly capable, or a dynamo, or dear God, what horrible road have I wandered down? Never mind. Argh. Anyway, purely platonic. Period.

I'm not quite sure what my marital status was within the dream because Jason was neither seen nor directly referred to, but judging from the furtive, illicit nature of the liaison, I'm guessing my troth was indeed plighted. But the secrecy surrounding the assignation could also have been attributed to my parents staying in the same hotel (in Dallas--apparently, this was an integral detail of the dream because that was, unlike my wedded state, quite clear). Luckily, they were on the 5th floor and I was on the 8th. Whew. Crisis averted.

However, the course of true hookups never did run smooth. Power outage in the hotel. Oh dear. Confounded by the accidental release of some of the caged wild animals also resident in our hotel. This made navigating the hallways quite an adventure. Luckily, the lions and tigers (no bears, oh my) were agitated and you could hear them growling in the dark corridors well before they got near you. To avoid them, you simply climbed up the wall and perched high up out of their reach until they passed by. Yep. What? You were expecting something logical?

After a long and arduous trek through darkened hallways populated by prowling wild beasts, I make it to my 8th-floor room to prepare for the tryst. The power has returned and as I am getting ready, I notice and hazily recall that my goddai friends had all signed my boobs the night before in celebration of my 6-month boobiversary (which really was Friday--happy boobday to me!), clearly accompanied by vast quantities of margaritas, hence the hazy recall. Naturally, the ink will not come off and I am obviously quite discomfited and embarrassed by this because I'm going to have to explain to X why 20 or so of my closest friends have autographed my breasts. Oh well, onward and upward. Winners never quit and oh, never mind.

I would now like to take a moment to thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all the saints, Buddha, Hanuman, Krishna, and whomever or whatever else might have contributed to the filter that cut the next scene either from my dream, or blessedly, from my memory. The next thing I remember is clearly after the deed had been done. There was some cuddling (aww, an extramarital sex dream with cuddling--how sweet!) and then I simply kissed him and said goodbye. And that was that. As far as you know.

THE END

A Banner Health Day

Or not, as the case may be. I woke up yesterday morning with a raging respiratory infection that seemed to have morphed overnight from the sore throat I'd had since Tuesday. I conveniently already had a doctor's appointment scheduled for midmorning due to the abscess on my scar from surgery six months ago. I know I shouldn't be getting abscesses this long after the surgery, but someone forgot to tell my body. Apparently, I'm stitch-absorbing challenged.

Anyhoo, so doc appointment goes fine and he writes me a prescription for cough syrup with codeine so I'm not up all night coughing. The wound has pretty much self-healed (I'll spare you the gory details and you're welcome), so we're just going to keep an eye on it and forego the antibiotics for now. Ok, fine, sure. So, I spend the day pretty much feeling like shit-on-a-stick and popping ibuprofen left, right, and center and a generic dayquil thingy at about 3:00 or 4:00. Typical sick day, right? Ah, a hasty conclusion, my friend.

It gets on toward evening and I'm planning on hitting the sack soon, so I spoon myself up some cough syrup. About an hour later, around 9:30, I get hit with an esophageal spasm the likes of which I have not felt in years. Now, for those of you unfamiliar, an esophageal spasm causes a "squeezing type of chest pain that feels just like heart pain (angina)," to put it mildly. I end up kneeling on the floor with my forehead pressed against the floorboards, whimpering, and endlessly repeating, "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." Poor Jason has never actually witnessed one of these attacks before but luckily, by the time he heard me and came to check on me, I had enough of my breath back to at least give him an idea of what was going on. Unfortunately, the spasms just kept coming. I managed to get back in bed for the rest of them but this just leads to me flopping around like a fish out of water trying to find some position, any position, that might alleviate the nigh unbearable pain. I tend to curl up in a ball around a pillow and try to get my chest higher than my head--I don't know why, it's just what instinct leads me to do. And I endlessly repeat either the "Oh God" phrase above or "No, no, no" or "Why, why, why?" or some such inane idiocy. I did have the presence of mind to avoid "Help me" and "Make it stop" because I knew poor Jason could do neither.

I think I must have had about five episodes within the space of an hour and because of that damned codeine in the cough syrup, I couldn't take a muscle relaxer and didn't know if I could take a painkiller or not. Jason was starting to freak and I was as wrung out as a dishrag, so we called the hospital to see if there was anything I could safely take. They were unwilling to suggest anything on the phone because of the possibility of an allergic reaction (and also a liability issue, I'm guessing) and recommended that we come in to the E/R. Several hours, an EKG, a chest X-ray, a couple of valium, and a late-night episode of What Not to Wear later, I was released on my own recognizance and into the care of Bossy McBosserson, the alter ego of my mild-mannered husband. One, ok two, little sedatives for me and my, but doesn't he feel awfully superior all of a sudden. I think he's just envious that he doesn't share the same strength of character (read: mind-altering drugs) that enables me to happily be seen in Safeway in the middle of the night in my pink Supergirl pajamas while still wearing my hospital ID bracelet. Party on, Wayne. And a happy Friday the 13th to you all.

Things Learned and Not Learned

Things I Have Learned

That you should not eat applesauce with a fork. It'll work but you just might burst something vital in the frustration of attempting it. (This I just learned today.)

That you should not set a full bottle of Coca-Cola on the edge of a tub you are currently bathing in. Unless, of course, you like the sticky.

That you really should be careful what you wish for. Case in point, first I wished to get a part in the play, then I wished I didn't have to rehearse for 20 hours on the weekend in said play. I got both of those mutually exclusive wishes. You do the math.

Why the sky is blue. It's not actually; it all has to do with light and refractions and the way our eyes see light waves. Or something like that.

How to accept a compliment gracefully. Simply smile and say, "Thank you." Although this can backfire, can't it, Jason?

That I don't actually hate to cook. I actually hate the prep. The cooking part doesn't bother me at all.

How to make the best pecan pie you'll ever hope to eat in your life. (I do like to bake. No, it's not the same as cooking. Ask a chef.)

That for every cliché, there is an equal and opposite cliché. For example, does absence make the heart grow fonder or is out of sight really out of mind?

That if you act confident, you will feel confident, and people will believe that you are confident. And people like confidence. And I like to be liked.


Things I Have Not Learned

Why I have this insatiable need to be liked. And why some people are fully and completely exempted from this need. (See preceding post regarding Pilates poseurs. Ms. Newbie has never returned, btw, guess hubby's gonna have to see those flabby abs, after all.)

To keep my big mouth shut. See entire life history.

Why a singular year is plural in the following construction: "1987 called. They want their mullet back."

Why Yellow Freight Lines trucks are orange. This drives me in-freaking-sane. Seriously, are they trying to give me an aneurysm?

Why I continue to read Family Circus even though I know I don't find it even remotely amusing.

On a related note, why I am so enthralled by the adventures of Prince Valiant.

Why Jason likes to infuriate himself by watching/reading/lurking political extremists with a polar opposite viewpoint from his own.

How to finish a project. So far, I've begun but never finished knitting; mosaic making; sewing; learning Latin, Spanish, French, Danish, and Dutch; and the mini-remodel of this house.

How to wrap this post up with some witty remark or hilarious observation. Sorry kids, I got nothin'.

You're Not Doing That Right

Why do certain people in yoga and Pilates classes always seem to think they are so much more advanced than they actually are? And why does it cheese me off so badly? And why do they never think the instructor is talking to them, despite the fact that they are doing the very thing the instructor is cautioning us not to do?

In my observation, there are two types of these posers and they are almost always women. Men are a minority in these classes and seem to realize their limitations pretty quickly, often staring in disbelief (as am I) when a new pose or movement is introduced.

First is Ms. Yoga/Pilates Queen. She feels she looks the part. She's got long, stringy hair and dresses in retro ironic t-shirts and yoga pants (and she really needs to shop for a looser fit). She's been doing these moves since she was born and really needs no further instruction. In fact, she'd prefer a more loosely structured pick-your-own-moves kind of class where she could strut around and swing her hair about and show off her superiority and elegance of movement. She is invariably late for class.

The other is Ms. Newbie. She could be wearing anything, but chances are it won't be good. She freely admits she has never so much as seen a yoga pose before. She acts all giggly and intimidated before class starts but immediately dives into and sticks with the most intense options, despite the instructor's repeated pleas for beginners to go with the less intense options and the constant call of corrections. She is taking the class because she has an event (possibly her wedding) in three weeks and wants to get her abs in shape (I am not making this up). She has something to prove. What and to whom is anyone's guess.

Mind you, these observations are coming from the ungainly, chubby chick in the middle of the room who always looks like she's judging you. I am.

Fighting Kindergartners

14

I really expected to do better than that. What's your number?

Happy Birthday to Me

We're off to the big city to eat Indian food and make a Costco run and just generally muck about. Yes, we do know how to celebrate in high style.

And that's all I have to say about that.


ETA:
Ok, I lied. I have more to say because I have to show you the kick-ass shoes I got at the Rack for $23.

You can see them from all angles at Zappos. And you know you want to. I also got a dress and two lovely screened tees, all for $70. God bless the Rack.

I Blame the Y. And W/W.

Warning: Mild scatological references. Brace yo'self.

And X & Z for that matter. See, I skipped Pilates this morning for two reasons. Firstly, because I had a sudden onset of the tummy rumbles and had to rush home to the restroom. And secondly, because I had a sudden onset of the tummy rumbles and had to rush home to the restroom. I'll explain.

Reason #1: I take Pilates at the Y. There are no private restrooms at the Y. Nobody wants to have embarrassing bodily functions in a giant open room where people are showering and changing clothes and putting on makeup and drying their hair and so on. And the people who are showering and changing clothes and putting on makeup and drying their hair and so on certainly don't want anyone to have embarrassing bodily functions in that room. So I came home.

Reason #2: Today is weigh-in day. I was not best pleased. I didn't gain, but I didn't lose anything either. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Goose egg. So, when the tummy rumbles came on, I couldn't help thinking about the fact that I had not yet consumed any food or beverage today and maybe after the, erm, evacuation I would have a better weigh-in result. Is this pathetic? Undoubtedly. Is it cheating? Probably. Do I care? Not a whit. So I came home.

So, you see, I think I'm perfectly justified in blaming the end letters of the alphabet. After all, it couldn't be my fault.

Songs I Like Better My Way, Vol. I

"I Love a Margarita"
Apologies to Eddie Rabbitt

I love a margarita,
I love a margarita,
I love to taste the tartness,
Feel the sweetness,
As it slides down my throat.
Ya know it makes me feel good.

Tequila washes my cares away,
I wake up to a sunny day.
Yeah, I love a margarita, oo, oo...

"Milo"
Apologies to Smokey Robinson and The Temptations

I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.

I guess you'd say,
What can make me feel this way?
Milo. (Milo. Milo.)
Talkin' 'bout Milo. Milo.

"Tami"
Apologies to Kander and Ebb ("Roxie" from Chicago)

The name on everybody's lips
Is gonna be Tami!
The lady raking in the chips
Is gonna be Tami!

I'm gonna be a celebrity.
That means somebody everyone knows.
They're gonna recognize my eyes,
My hair, my teeth, my boobs, my nose.

(spoken)
Mmmm, I'm a star!
And the audience loves me!
And I love them.
And they love me for loving them,
And I love them for loving me.
And we love each other,
And that's because none of us
Got enough love in our childhoods.
And that's showbiz,
Kid.

And a poem to close out with.

"I Sing of White Tea and Ginger"
Apologies to Walt Whitman

I sing of white tea and ginger,
The suds of Bath & Body Works engirth me and I engirth them.

Ok, so I gave up quickly on that one. But I think I got my point across, no?

Classics Shmassics

I am a voracious reader. I love to read. I will read as the world crumbles around my ears. That being said, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I simply do not care for most classic literature. I never finished Pilgrim's Progress. I struggled through Anna Karenina and immediately forgot most of it. I hated the vast majority of what I was forced to read in British and American literature classes. I adore Jane Austen, but I can take or leave the Brontë girls. I very much like Jane Eyre, but not so much Wuthering Heights. (Sorry, Anne, I never read you.) Right now, I'm halfway through The Satanic Verses with not much hope of ever finishing it. I think TSV is not technically classic literature, but it sure reads that way to me. I keep taking breaks from it and reading other books--this is a bad sign. I guess I just find the classical style, well, a little dull.

I so want to like these books. I feel like I should. I really enjoyed Mr. Rushdie's cameo in the Bridget Jones movie. But I am not enjoying Chamcha and Saladin. My apologies. But here's the thing--I read for pleasure. And this is not pleasurable. So I need to stop feeling guilty and inadequate and suck it up and return this book to the library. It doesn't mean I've failed as a reader. It just means I don't like the book.

At least I did better than I did with The Aeneid. I only got through one page of that. Sorry, Virgil. (By the way, why do we call him Virgil when his name was Publius Vergilius Maro? But that's another post.)

Self-congratulations, Part Deux

Today I received the best compliment of my acting career, such as it is. I went to an audition and the director, who is a professional actor of many years and who has recently purchased a home in the area (psst, this guy), told me that he really enjoyed my performance in Sylvia and that he liked my energy and he said several other nice things that I can't exactly recall because I was REELING and thrilled and excited and internally screaming "Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!" and running around in my head waving my arms and jumping up and down.

Now the reason I feel like this is the best compliment evah is because, while my friends have always been generous with their praise, they are, after all, my friends. They're not going to say, "Eh, you were okay." Or "Ya know, you really sucked." Today's comments came from an unbiased source who has made a career in this field and I am ecstatic and honored and giddy as all get-out.

Now, excuse me while I go run around the living room waving my arms and jumping up and down.

Self-congratulations

Excuse me while I toot my own horn for a mo'.

I started following the Weight Watchers plan 1/29, a little over a month after my breast reduction. (To read a lengthy, slightly incoherent, and heavily drug-induced account of the surgery, see my old MySpace blog.) They removed roughly 4 pounds of tissue during the redux, but I somehow lost a total of 6.4 pounds between surgery date weight and 1/29. My bust measurement decreased by 4 inches! Since that date, I have lost 15.8 pounds and 2 inches from my bust, 2 inches from my waist, and 2 inches from my hips. Commence happy dance.

So results from surgery + W/W results = 22.2 pounds lost and 6 (!) inches from my bust.

Happy dance continues. Besides, it burns calories.

______________________________________
P.S. Jason is also on the program and is doing great. You'll have to ask him exactly how great because I won't let him tell me his numbers. You see, intellectually, I know that men lose faster than women without working as hard, blahdy blah blah. But, emotionally, living with the actual results is difficult. And so to save Jason (who is after all innocent of any wrongdoing) from physical harm, I respectfully request, erm, demand that he keep the facts to himself. I really don't want to have to yank his head off of his neck and dropkick it over the deck.

Chapter 3, In Which Local Commercial Enterprises Unite to Drive Me Insane

Sweet lord 'n butter, WHAT is going on around here? As if the antics of Safeway and Fred Meyer weren't enough, U.S. Bank has decided to get in on the fun.

A little background info, if you don't mind. (Even if you do,tough toodles. You no make-a the blog, you no make-a the rules. First rule, btw, was any grammar I like is fine regardless of its technical correctness. But I digress.) When we first started up our own business four years ago, we were told that we would be able to link our personal and business accounts online so that we could easily make transfers and, ya know, pay ourselves. This never happened. And when we'd mention this to bank employees, they would scratch their heads and appear sympathetically confused for a moment and then go right back to picking their noses and conducting important bank business. Still, it was not that big a deal when we lived in the city. There were a couple of branches nearby and one happened to be right smack in the middle of the shopping district we frequented. No problem.

But then we moved to the coast. The nearest branch is six miles from our house. That got old but quick. So, we talked to the local branch and they suggested that we call in the transfers. I was not so fond of that for two reasons: firstly, it would involve communication with actual people, which I frown upon; and secondly, we'd have no written record and I just can't shake those twelve years of accountancy and consequently, I must have documentation for each and every transaction that occurs. So we settled on fax transfers. Mildly annoying. But workable.

Today, however, today was when all that stopped. Big problem. Hugely annoying. We faxed over a transfer request and a short time later received a phone call informing us that they can no longer make fax and/or phone transfers and all such requests must be made inside the bank in person. I must confess, I lost my shit. I was infuriated that at a time of record gas prices, I am being forced to make a twelve-mile round trip so that I can move money from one account that belongs to me into another account that belongs to me--all because the bank never got our online access correctly linked. Can you say ridiculous? I bet you can. Anyway, I won't go into any further gory details here because I'm bored with this story, but suffice it to say that our online access will be righted by Monday. And our transfer was made over the phone. Funny what a little hissy fit can accomplish every now and then.

And let this be a lesson to any other local establishments who are thinking about tryin' sumpin' crazy wit' me. Hunh.

It's Not Nice to Taunt, Freddy

So I'm in Fred Meyer this morning, browsing for shirts because all of a sudden mine are all too BIG. Ain't it grand? : D Anyway, an announcement comes over the loudspeaker, "Attention all employees. Today is Norma Whosit's* birthday. Please be sure and wish Norma a happy birthday when you see her. Also, there is cake available in the breakroom if any employees want some."

Que? Did I just hear you correctly? Did you just taunt me with cake? Did you just announce to your customers that there is free cake in the store and that they are not allowed to have any? Let me see if I can translate this into a language we can all understand. That would be, "Nyah, nyah, we have cake and you can't have any!" I was so gobsmacked by this that I didn't even think to stomp my feet and burst into tears, which is the only rational reaction one could expect to have to that message.

Fredje**, darling, it's not nice to taunt.


*Name changed so as not to tax my memory.
**Belgian diminutive, means Freddy. You learned something today, now didn't you?

Say My Name

Yeah, you, Safeway. I'm talking to you. Let's face it. None of the employees in any of your stores knows my name, nor have they ever known my name, nor will they ever know it. And if they did know it, they wouldn't be able to pronounce it. Hell, I went through 13 years of public school with people who failed to learn how to pronounce it. But never once in all of those 13 years, did any of my classmates hold my receipt hostage until I gave them the correct pronunciation. And then forget it again by the next time I saw them.

What is the point of this anyway? Why do you need to call me by my name? I just came in here for some red potatoes and a shallot. I don't need to feel like we connected on some deep personal basis. Just give me my damned receipt and let me go.

I might add that the fact that you DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW MY NAME detracts from this careful image of a personal encounter that you have so painstakingly created. The fact that you have to look at the receipt every freaking time so that you can then mangle my name and render it unrecognizable to me (except that you now have a death grip on that little slip of paper and are staring at me with that quizzical, expectant look on your face) gives me just the teensiest hint that maybe this show of being my local, friendly neighborhood grocer is just that--a show.

So please, Safeway, I'm begging you. Learn my name or don't bother saying it at all. I'm on to you.

Kelowna pics

Ok, for reasons that remain unclear, I cannot add pics to the previous post without inserting mutilple line spaces between the bullet points. And that is ugly and a waste of space. So, I'm just putting the pics in a separate post. Nanner, nanner, Blogger, you can't stop me.


Raging blizzard




Gray Monk Winery

Mission Hill Winery

Kelowna in Outline

Sunday

• Drove
• Drove some more
• Passed through Nooksack, WA & Chilliwack, BC
• Composed "Nooksack, Chilliwack, Give the Dog a Bone" and giggled for hours
• Drove through raging blizzard and did not giggle
• Arrived, checked in, unloaded, and had some yummy Indian food

Monday

• Stocked up on non-HFCS Coca-Cola and Miracle Whip and found some fancy Crystal Light flavors
• M got prom dress, http://www.morilee.com/ViewLarge.aspx?C=4&D=7065&P=1, the one on the right, it looks better on her
• Visited a few nice galleries
• Window shopped a little, but sadly, not much shopping to be had
• Had St. Patty's Day dinner at Kelly O'Bryan's

Tuesday

• Had tasting at local microbrewery, Tree Brewing, http://www.treebeer.com/home.html
• Discovered I still don't like beer, so you'll have to ask the aficionados for a review
• Educated M on slang meaning of beaver
• M decided not to buy undies with beaver logo on them

Wednesday

• M had fun skiing at Big White
• We had fun sleigh riding and tubing

Thursday

• Visited wineries, did tastings, bought a few bottles
• Had sushi (I'm a newbie, but M seemed pleased, so we'll say it was good)

Friday

• Lazy day
• M got purse stolen (passport ok, but all other ID & c/c + iPod gone)
• Met Mountie but disappointed because no red jacket, no funny hat, & no horse

Saturday

• Got BC honey at Farmer's Market
• Got really pissed at hotel security and sicced management on them (to little avail)
• Saw The Other Boleyn Girl (I'm of three minds about it) with M while J went back to room and watched hockey
• Packed

Sunday

• Spent Easter driving and blaspheming when the winds in the Gorge kept yanking the car out of my hands
• Got home to find the Easter Bunny had visited M and left a basket
• Picked up our snore machine (Milo) from the boarder
• Cuddled with the cats
• Had Easter pizza for dinner
• Cussed cats for unwelcome present in our bed

Postcript: Tuesday

• Received call at 6:53 a.m. from Canada Post that M's purse, apparently with all contents intact, had been shoved into one of their red letterboxes and they're shipping it to us
• Deemed Canada trip a success
• Celebrated by going back to bed

NOTE: I'll work on trying to add some pics later as my attempts to this point have frustrated the living daylights out of me.