Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Precious things.

I should be packing up my briefcase because my husband will be picking me up in about an hour so we can drive up to the college for our classes tonight. But I couldn't tear myself away from the big Christmas tree in the living room. . . . .

Every ornament on it means something to me. I know the circumstances behind the purchase of every single one.

Many of them are angels, shepherds, drummer boys, and soldiers. The fact that those are still on my tree makes me happy, too. Because, you see, those aren't really mine for keeps.

The angels will go with my daughter, when she moves out of her apartment and into a real home of her own. The shepherds, drummer boys, and soldiers will go with my son.

Every Christmas, from their first one till this one, I have added another angel, and another shepherd, drummer boy, or soldier, to our tree. That makes 26 angels, and 24 shepherds, etc, hanging on my tree. They aren't mine to keep. They belong to my children. Soon, those ornaments will be gone from my tree, and they will be hung on another tree in another house. They will be symbols of the past, hung on a tree that symbolizes a future, for my children. THEIR children will point to them and ask about them and I hope my children will tell their children how the ornaments were purchased, one at a time, year after year, hung on Grandma's tree, and finally packed up and eventually hung on THEIR tree. And I hope my children will add to their collections, that I began for them when they were newborn, and add to their tree a new collection for their own kids.

Christmas is many things to many people, but I think one common bond is tradition. No two families have exactly the same traditions, but then, why should they? It is just the fact that families have their own traditions, that is important. Children cherish tradition.

No, the most precious ornaments on my tree aren't mine to keep. They will belong to my children, the most precious things in my life. They aren't mine to keep, either.

Yes, children cherish tradition.

So do we.

(Oh my dear Lord, when I said "Grandma" up there, that will be ME! Holy scheiss.)

Euphemisms

I give up. You win tonight, BE.

Surfing began well, with several favorites popping up in succession. Then the occasional advertisement slipped in.

"Crap," *** says I.

But I was in the surfing mood and continued on valiantly.

Several more favorites, and then a political blog.

"Crap,"*** says I again, perhaps a little louder and this time with feeling.

Two more good blogs, and then the internet turned on me.

Not political blogs. Not advertisements. Not motivational blogs. Not knitting. Not even pets. What other annoying boring blogs could possibly be out there to torment me at this hour? What could be worse than politics, ads, cross-stitch, or motivation? I'll tell you.

Health blogs.

Blogs about exercise and vitamins and stationery bicycles and symptoms to ignore and symptoms to panic about. Blogs about herbal supplements. Blogs about working out.

I yawned so wide I almost broke my jaw.

And then I signed off.

Eight health blogs in a row. It was an omen.

It was the internet telling me to go get some sleep.

So I will.

G'night, all.

***euphemism for something else

Don't read this if you're easily influenced.

Don't you just hate it when you've got a song running through your head and you HATE the song? You hate the song and you don't understand why you can't stop humming it, and even singing along to it? You hate the song and hadn't thought of it in years and you don't know why you suddenly started thinking about it?

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . .

Where do these songs come from, that we find ourselves for no reasonable reason humming and thinking about?

Why is it always a stupid song you're embarassed to admit you even knew at one time?

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . .

Why is it never something classical, or cool? Nooo, it's always something you HATE.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . .

It's never even a song you can confess your hatred of to a friend, because then the friend would know you know this song.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . .

And another thing: Why aren't Yellow Cabs yellow? They used to be yellow. Hence the name. But now they are white. Yellow Cabs are white. This makes no sense to me. If they're going to buy white cars they should change their name.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . . .

Why weren't there any Three Musketeer bars in the vending machine at the college tonight? There are always Three Musketeer bars. Who ate my Three Musketeer bars? There were plenty of Snickers bars left, but much as I love those, I don't like to pick peanuts out of my teeth while I'm teaching.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . .

And then I remembered the video my son showed me a few weeks ago online. It was playing that song. THAT SONG.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . . .

And in the video, the song drove people to scream and yell and go berserk and kill each other.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring Banana Phone. . . .

Sounds like a plan.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

I am a crazy mother. The female parent kind, not the half-a-compound-word kind.

The incredible beauty of my children still awes me.

The only thing about their faces that is reminiscent of those newborn faces, is their eyebrows. I remember lying there in the hospital room, tracing their eyebrows with my thumbs, and trying to comprehend that these babies were mine, to take home and care for, until they were able to care for themselves.

That time has come, of course; but every good mommy knows that even precious babies in their twenties still need to be cared for. Whether they want you to or not.

I remember wondering how a person went about caring for a baby.

I remember being terrified that I would drop a squirmy soapy baby and injure it.

I remember being afraid to take my baby to a store, because I might set down the carrier and walk away without it, and not remember till I saw my picture on the nightly news.

I remember being afraid to dress and undress them because those little arms and legs might snap like matchsticks.

I remember being deathly afraid that I might hurt my baby through total ignorance, and in my nightmares I would see headlines that read "Mother arrested because she has proven far too stupid to care for a baby."

I remember boiling my daughter's toys till she was two years old.

I remember giving my son an unsterilized bottle when he was five months old and thinking that lightning would surely strike me.

I remember putting tiny Levi's on my son, watching him toddle across the room, and immediately taking them off and replacing them with corderoy overalls because in the Levi's, he looked like a child, not a baby. And crying.

I haven't lost my touch as far as public embarassment goes, either. When it comes to publically embarassing my children, I am the Queen. Step aside, all you pretenders to the Embarassment Throne, for I am she whom you all seek to emulate.

Or not. Suit yourselves. But I sure have fun, even when I do it accidentally. Which is most of the time. The expressions on their little faces are just so memorable.

Oh, my babies. . . . don't think for a MINUTE that just because you are now the age I was when I had you, that you can ever be anything except my precious children.

You are my babies. Babies who became children. Children who became teens. Teens who because adults. Adults who are leading productive useful interesting lives, in spite of being raised by a mother who didn't have a clue what she was doing.

I do now, but you're already raised! Hurry up with the grandchildren, would ya, before I forget all this good stuff.

I hope you don't do some of the things I did. But how could I know until I did them?

What kind of mother takes a little girl with walking pneumonia, and a little boy with chickenpox, to the big city to ride in glass elevators and walk ten blocks to magic stores to buy invisible dogs and fart spray?

What kind of mother wraps a toddler in a blanket and takes him outside at four a.m. to show him crocuses pushing up through the snow?

What kind of mother wakes her small children up at midnight because "the time is right for a movie and some popcorn?"

What kind of mother lets her tiny children play outside in the nude, and sits on the steps sprinkling them with the hose? (We live way out in the country.)

What kind of mother lets a little girl wear her cowgirl dress on her first trip to the dentist? Complete with boots and hat?

What kind of mother lets a little boy wear an Alf sweatsuit to school three days in a row because "it feels good on my back, mommy."

What kind of mother would say things like "Let's have Hostess cupcakes for lunch today!"

What kind of mother dips the daddy's big boot in flour to make Santa's snowy footprints in the living room by the Christmas tree?

What kind of mother said 'no' when ALL the other mothers said 'yes?'

What kind of mother said 'yes' when ALL the other mothers said 'no?'

What kind of mother would be horrified on the outside and laughing on the inside when a little girl announced at Grandma's house, "Oh mommy, I wish I could say SHIT!"

What kind of mother cuts up her favorite dress so a little girl would have something new on third grade picture day?

What kind of mother would sit up all night making a ninja outfit for a little boy on Halloween? Especially when it was special-ordered by the little boy after dark on October 30? And when the little boy already had a perfectly good costume.

What kind of mother lets a sleepover of little boys jump on the sofa beds till the springs break off? And laughs?

What kind of mother would buy a set of bagpipes because a little boy said he wanted to learn to play them? BAGPIPES!!!!!!

A crazy mother, that's what kind.

Hello. I am a crazy mother.

And so are you, if you're worth a toot.

(Crazy fathers included in honor.)

And honor it is.

I am many things, some good, some bad, but very few are boring.

My children will say that many things about me are boring, but what do they know? They're babies!

I love you, you big babies. And what are you going to do about it?

Thanksgiving is over except it never really is.

I have so many things to be thankful for.

My family.

My friends.

My cat.

My job.

The mega-case of toilet paper stashed in the linen closet. (Hey, winter's coming; if you lived way out in the country you'd be thankful to have a stash of toilet paper on hand, too.)

My computer. (Even though it keeps going black on me with that stupid 'system 32\DRIVERS\Ntfs.sys' error thing, it still puts me in touch with all of you really cool internet people.) (And gives me free music.) (And lets me cruise Amazon and Ebay and Half.com, to buy Christmas presents for people.) (And stuff.) (Etc.)

Blog Explosion. (Nothing is perfect of course, but with all its faults, BE has proven to be a source of great comfort and company and enjoyment to me. Even the political blogs are fun to mock and whine about. And the ads are fun to add to my list of products to NEVER buy. And the motivational blogs are when I go to the bathroom.)

NEW friends. (Most of whom have blogs on BE. I haven't picked up an actual book in two months. This is of course disgraceful, but it's not like I'm not READING. I'm just reading, um, autobiographies right now. Yes. Autobiographies. And a little fiction. And a little fantasy. And occasionally, a little soft porn.) (You didn't read that here.)

The Party. (Not a political party, doofus. Look up at the title of this blog; I'm the old chick who hates politics. I'm referring to the real party. The GENUINE party. The one that was fun, not either of the ones that were childish.) (Does that link work? I've never done that before.)

My bed. (I can hear it calling to me as I type. Can you hear it? You can? Then get away from my window, you pervert. Or at least come to the door and knock. Sheesh.)

Friends. (I know I said it already, but it's important enough to say again. I'm thankful for my friends. Very thankful. I'd get all smooshy here but I'm way too sophisticated.)

Misc. things and etc. (All the stuff I'm thankful for that I forgot to mention by name on this post. There are many. They are important. I'm just too sleepy to think straight right now.)

Thanksgiving isn't just a one-day holiday, you know. It's every day we remember the reasons for our occasional smiles. Or even just one reason. Or even a glimmer of a smile.

That should be every day.

And it is.

Satan's little blogger flunky.

Every time I'm told to click on '666,' that same blog always pops up.

The very same blog. 666. SAME BLOG. Every single time.

The first time it happened, it took me a minute to realize whose it was. I'd only seen it a few times before, and I had to stop and think why it seemed familiar.

When I finally realized, my first thought was, 'How appropriate.'

Then I forgot about it.

Till it happened again. Twice was coincidentally funny.

The third time this same blog appeared when I clicked on 666, I thought, 'Creeeeepy.'

The fourth time was when I started wondering about this person's possible Satanic connections.

The fifth time, I figured her connections were obvious.

The sixth time, a few minutes ago, when BE told me to click on 666, I almost didn't do it. Then I figured, hey, five coincidences, this time it'll be some other blog.

It wasn't. I clicked on 666 and the SAME BLOG appeared.

Are we creeped out yet?

I think I am.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

How many of you even know what a persimmon IS?

The last of the family left for their homes this morning, and I went back to bed. I don't think I'd slept more than three hours since last Wednesday, and even for someone with night-owl syndrome as severe as mine, I was exhausted.

It was a wonderful holiday. I packed off most of the leftovers with the relatives, and my refrigerator looks really bare with the two huge turkeys gone. Nothing was left of turkey1 at all, and I kept only a freezer bag of leftover turkey2 and sent the rest home with the relatives who had kids, along with some pie and the rest of the persimmon pudding.

Speaking of those same kids, they are the coolest kids ever. I love them dearly. I mean, I absolutely and truly love those kids. I also love their parents and grandparents, but they never seem to want to come visit me for a week at a time and be spoiled rotten in the process, like those kids do. Too busy being grown up or something. What a drag THAT is.

As for my own kids, let me just tell the world that they are the best people on the face of the earth. Every time I think of them, my heart melts with love for them. They are not perfect, but I fear they got that from me. I'm sorry, rest-of-planet, but the prize for Most Wonderful Offspring will have to go to mine, no recount necessary. You may all hold your own elections; each household will have a different winner. Unless you know mine personally, of course, in which case you will have to vote for mine without a backward glance.

My family is the greatest family on the planet. They sing, they play, they laugh, they talk, they eat, they bolster, they advise, they love. They even love me. I find that incredible.

I wish they would visit every week.

Now, I think I've got holiday letdown syndrome. Sigh. I love my house best when it is full of people.

It's been a traumatic year, full of disillusionment and betrayal and backstabbing, and I think I really, really needed the therapy of family, even more than usual. I had lost a good deal of the dangerously naive trust I once had. After grooving with the family a while, I think I'll be fine now. Never the same, but eventually fine.

This new community of Blog Explosion has also made me feel better about the world. Thank you all, new friends, for sharing your lives with me, and for showing interest in mine. It's true that "it takes a village to raise a child," but it is also true that adults need that village input just as much. We not only need the village, we ARE the village. And to properly care for our children, we must also properly care for each other. Thank you all for helping take care of me. God knows I needed a keeper.

I was too tired tonight to go out with my husband and eat steak. Now that's pathetic. My poor hubby had to go eat steak all alone. (You notice he didn't stay home and watch me doze. Well, why should he? Would you?)

As for the gaps in the 'fridge interior, I suppose I should go to the grocery store and do something about them. Maybe next week some time. I never shop in the few days after Thanksgiving because I have never wanted or even needed anything badly enough to risk being trampled by hordes of rampant bargain-seeking early-risers for it.

My house smells like the bacon I fixed for the guests this morning. I'd spray, but I like it when the house smells like bacon.

It smells good, and it's also proof that I got up this morning and cooked for people.

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday, and I hope your Christmas will be joyful as well. And if you don't celebrate either, then just have a joyful general existence during these times.

Happy times to you all.

Friday, November 26, 2004

When did my babies get so tall?

It's a good thing those turkey-bags come in packages of two, because that first one split right smack down the middle when I put today's turkey in it.

It's also a good thing I put the turkey in the bag over the kitchen sink. Otherwise I would have been chasing an escaped and scooting turkey across the floor.

And right now I would have been on my hands and knees scrubbing the grease-streak off that floor.

Hahahahaha, do you really believe that? That I would SCRUB THE FLOOR? Heck, there's scrapings on that floor from 1997.

Okay, not really. But it's only because we had the floor installed just last year. The carpet we had before that was a memorial to various meals from way, way back. It was like a calendar, or maybe a memory quilt of stains.

Kind of like the hideous tie one of my former bosses wore to school every day. That tie bore the stained and crusty traces of many a meal. This is the same man who used to remove his false teeth all the time and keep them in his pocket. Then he would forget the teeth were in his pocket and sit down. Almost every day he bit himself on his own butt.

We all hated him because he was stupid and stolid and humorless. You know, a typical administrator-type. When he sat down and jumped right back up, we laughed.

My husband's family is arriving in about four hours. I am so happy they're coming, and so excited! Both families are lovely kind funny people; is there a better compliment than that? Oh, probably, but nothing comes to mind just now. Lovely, kind, funny people were sitting around my table yesterday, and in a few hours another group of lovely, kind, funny people will be sitting around my table.

Life is good.

My kids are still here but they have to leave immediately after the meal today. They're all grown up and they have jobs and stuff. Like real adults. They might have the general public fooled, but I know better. When I look at them, I see my beautiful babies, not responsible adults who look at me funny when I say things like "put that on the children's table for you and your brother, please."

I suppose they're old enough to be promoted to the grownups' table now, but that table is full of old people. Oh man, look at that one fat frumpy woman sitting there! Scheiss, that's a mirror! How could this have happened? And when did it start showing? And where did she get that shirt? Somebody needs to get that rag off her and bury it in the back yard.

Old people often refer to themselves in the third person. I think that's because they simply refuse to use first person pronouns for that wrinkly stranger in the mirror.

It seems like only yesterday that my sisters and I were at the children's table.

We still behave as though we were at the children's table. Does that count for anything?

And no matter how grown up your children are, it's still scary to see them in your kitchen, using sharp knives and taking hot things out of the oven. Be careful, children. Let an old person do that.

That would be me.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Nobody died, and one to go.

One reunion down, one to go. Everything went smoothly today; nobody's feelings were hurt, nobody fell down (not even me!!) there was plenty of food, everybody who wanted pecan pie got some, I put too much sage in the dressing but it was all eaten anyway, and one of my sisters brought that awesome dessert made with chocolate pudding and pecans and Cool Whip and some other stuff that'll kill ya. ("Better Than Robert Redford" is one of its names, but the younger generation probably says it's better than someone else. . . .) (I always called it the "Better Than Sex" cake but I ran with a different kind of crowd than my sister did.) My husband asked her to leave the leftover pieces here and she did it! Boy, growing up, she never minded ME like that.

Oh, and the turkey split in half exactly like the Titanic, when we tried to pick it up and transfer it from the roaster to the platter. But after we stopped laughing, we realized it made carving it a lot easier. Not that I would really care about that, because I always make my sister carve the turkey. I'm no good at anything that requires a sharp knife. Unless, of course, my GOAL was to slice my hands all up like that. . . .

After we ate, we sat around and talked about Christmas plans, and gave each other hints for Christmas presents, and debated the qualities of Barnes and Noble bookstores with Borders bookstores (one has better music, the other has better restrooms) and talked about the same stuff my family has talked about for years. And then everybody went home except my niece and her husband, who asked politely about burning some cd's on my computer. Six burned cd's later, they started for home. I love to burn cd's for people.

My computer keeps going black and displaying this message: "System 32\DRIVERS\Ntfs.sys missing or corrupt." Is this serious? Should I be despairing and making arrangements to sit up with it and mourn it when it's gone? Is it a hoax to make me purchase some kind of software? And why won't my computer let me back on for at least an hour after I'm kicked off? These are all questions to which I do not know the answers. So if you do, give me a break, would ya?

My kids were bored so I dug through my purse and gave them my last penny so they could go see a movie. I'm selfless that way. It really was my last penny. I still have a few nickels and dimes and even a couple of quarters, but if you don't count those, I'm broke.

Tomorrow, the three beautiful children who are loaned to me for a week every summer, will be here with their parents and grandparents. I can't wait to see them again ; it's been months! I am happiest when my house is filled with people.

I love it when the whole family is together. Today was wonderful; tomorrow will be good, also. How could it be otherwise? My family will be together. It just doesn't get any better than that.

Whenever I go check out my daugher's journal, I'm freshly flabbergasted. Her writing style is EXACTLY like mine! And my cousin (who is also one of my best and dearest friends) has an IP number that is only one digit removed from mine. Freaky. Freaky and cool.

My son is an excellent writer, but his style is uniquely his own and bears no resemblance whatsoever to anybody's existing blog.

Even the cat had a guest for dinner tonight. But when a cat has a turkey neck and a bag of innards overflowing his cat dish, it's only natural that he'd have to beat off the hungry woodland creatures with a sharp stick. (is THAT how it's done?)

More later. Too tired to focus eyes for now.

We're having boiled hair for Thanksgiving dinner.

Thanksgiving morning. When all the normal people are doing all those last-minute things to get their big dinners ready, and visiting with family members, and running the sweeper, etc.

I'm going to run the sweeper in a few minutes, honest I am. Visiting family members might not be as tolerant as we are, if they hear their footsteps crunch. In the living room. So I plan to take care of that.

You know, like normal people do.

I wonder, though, if a normal person would be sitting here blogging while the egg noodles boil down to a thick paste, forcing this person to serve bow-ties and cheese in front of PEOPLE.

I don't know what a normal person would do because I've never been one. Have you?

And I always fix noodles and cheese along with all the regular Thanksgiving fare because my daughter (the most beautiful young woman in the world, by the way) pretty much lived on macaroni and cheese for a few years back in grade school. Oh, I tried to get her to maintain life by eating other things, but I met with great opposition from her. So no matter what kind of big meal she sat down to, there must always be macaroni and cheese. And for Thanksgiving she would eat noodles and cheese. Because noodles and cheese is DIFFERENT from macaroni and cheese. Um, yes.

So anyway, noodles and cheese is part of our traditional Thanksgiving meal now.

Today, she's going to eat bow-tie pasta and cheese, because of that little business of her mother sitting here blogging and letting the noodles boil down to unrecognizable mush.

Actually, the mush is somewhat recognizable. It looks like a pile of boiled hair. And while I might throw a pile of boiled hair into the homemade cheese sauce for just us, I can't do that when PEOPLE are dining here.

Besides, isn't pasta pretty much the same thing, regardless of shape? I guess we'll find out, and soon, too.

Probably nobody will notice.

I guess I'd better go back to the kitchen though, before the bow-ties cook down to a pile of boiled hair. The only other kind of pasta in the house is spaghetti, and I think PEOPLE would notice a casserole dish of spaghetti and cheese. We probably wouldn't, but those PEOPLE would.

Okay, I'm leaving now and morphing into a normal mom-type person who keeps a close eye on the cooking food.

Normal. Heh.

Sigourney Weaver is my new best friend.

Every time I check my stats, my rating has gone down. Good thing this doesn't bother me at all.

Was it something I said, or didn't say? Is it because I have a slight tendency to mock the stupid, and cry over the victims of evil? Did I offend you? Do all the lopsided links that dance around on the blog give you seizures? Should I ask for help in getting the layout laid out?

Some of you don't like my blog. But that's ok. It doesn't bother me at all. No, not at all. The world is full of all kinds of people, and some of those people don't like my blog. Well, there are lots of blogs out there that I don't like, either. So I guess we're even.

It would be nice if people liked my blog but it isn't absolutely necessary. Not a bit.

And it doesn't bother me that people don't like my blog and are giving me bad, bad ratings. I don't blog for popularity. (Obviously. . . . .) (Apparently.)

I don't blog because I'm beautiful, or smart, or thin, or knowledgeable. I blog because there are things inside me that are rampaging to get out, and if I don't blog I'll explode. No, I'm not talking about alien seed that will burst through my chest and wrap you in waspish slime so you will be fresh when you are eaten at a later date. That was Sigourney Weaver. She's the same age as me but she looks really good. That doesn't bother me either.

Okay, that one was a big lie. I'd LOVE to look like Sigourney Weaver. If I had Genuine's millions, I'd pay some guys to carve me up like the turkey we're all going to cut into tomorrow. I'd pay them to slice, trim, grab handfuls of fat and throw it in the body bag, shorten, lengthen, enlarge, reduce, and more or less turn me into someone else. Someone who looks more like Sigourney Weaver, but who is really me.

Sigourney, if you are reading this blog, please give me a high rating. Um, I mean, please don't panic; our fingerprints will still be unique and nobody will confuse us as I will be the one wearing the dowdy K-mart fashions and carrying a kid on my hip, and you will be the one surrounded by hot bodyguards, and wearing Versace. With aliens in your chest, and Bill Murray levitating you in your living room. Sigh.

The kid will be borrowed, as my own kids are grown up and living on their own, as you all already know because I've told you so. But I love to borrow other people's kids, both to give them a break, and to get to hang out with a kid.

Got any kids to loan out for a couple of hours? I'll meet you in the K-mart parking lot. I'm driving a maroon Honda, and I look exactly like Sigourney Weaver. You can't miss me.

Fair warning: I'll fill your kid with candy and chocolate shakes and junk burgers, let him press all the buttons in the toy store display cases, ride that little bitty merry-go-round till just before the junk food shows itself again, wear the Burger King crown in the mall, and buy gummi worms. I'll return him to you filthy, loaded with sugar, and falling asleep standing up. Oh, and probably with a few creative cuss words added to his vocabulary. On the other hand, you have had some TIME to yourself, and you've napped, or shopped, or seen a movie with an R rating, or hung out with friends.

Even weighing those creative verbal outlets he's got now, I bet you'll take me up on it.

Yeah. Me and Sigourney Weaver. Just like THAT, we are. People confuse me with her all the time.

It doesn't bother me at all.

You know, just like you guys who have brought my rating down don't bother me at all. You don't need to feel bad. I'm fine with your opinion.

It probably serves me right. When Blog Explosion first started, I thought a '1' was the highest. Sorry, some of you out there.

(Unless you're strictly politics or an advertisement trying to pass as a blog; I gave those a '1' on purpose.)

I need Harold Ramis. Where is Harold Ramis when you need him? Who you gonna call?

If we didn't have refrigerators we'd have to wrap our food up like aliens do, to keep it fresh for later. Maybe we'd evolve a gland that spewed silk. Or saran wrap. That might be kinda cool. If I could spew silk, maybe people would rate my blog higher. Not because it was any better. Because they'd be afraid of me, with my silk-spewing powers.

Sigourney Weaver, with silk-spewing powers. Could it get any better than that?

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Monsters walk the earth and live amongst us. Evil, twisted monsters.

I was thinking about that woman in Texas who cut off her baby's arms. . . .

There are people out there who will pity this woman, and beg the courts to give her another chance. There are people out there who will rally around this woman, and circulate petitions on her behalf. There are people out there who will say that with the right treatment, and perhaps some medication, this woman could be back in her home with her remaining two children and live out the rest of her life as a good mother. There are people out there who will maintain that the most important issue here is 'keeping the family together.' There are people out there who will claim that this woman couldn't help it, that she had a temporary aberration, that she is a good person who had an 'episode,' that none of her actions were really her own fault because of her background, or because of her upbringing, or because she was having a bad day and just lost control, or because she had a seizure, or postpartum depression, or because she was possessed by demons. . . . .

You name it, and somebody out there will be defending this woman in the name of SOMETHING.

I am not one of those people. I think she is a monster, and I think hanging is too good for her.

The only thing I might agree with, is the use of the word 'demon.' Not that she was possessed. I think she IS one.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Warning: political incorrectness ahead.

People with no concept of personal space are either clueless idiots, or just inconsiderate creeps. Not much of a choice, is there.

Tonight's rant is about people who have no concept of personal space when parking their car in a large grocery store lot with PLENTY of empty spaces.

Why do these people insist on parking their car right smack on the elbow of another car? Are they really that stupid? Apparently they are, because they do it. And stupidity is the only reason I can think of, for doing such a thing.

When I came out of the grocery store tonight, there still were very few cars in the lot, all spaced appropriately except for the brand-new white Cadillac (the ugliest car ever made, by the way) parked right next to my car, so close to the driver's door, I couldn't open it. I had to get in through the passenger door, and climb over, all the while hating the people who owned the Cadillac (voted 'car of choice' by geezers with more money than taste).

I am large and singularly ungraceful, and I'm sure the security people inside the store are still rolling on the floor laughing.

Actually, I giggled almost all the way home, at the thought of the show I must have put on for their cameras.

Fortunately, I had heeded my mother's advice and worn my good underwear. Although pretty underwear on a woman my size is pretty much a moot point. Picture a snowman in lingerie. Is that attractive? No, it's merely ludicrous.

Jean Kerr described putting a swimsuit on a fat woman as just like trying to put sheets on a waterbed. I'm a big fat chick, and I find that description not only embarassingly accurate, but also hilariously funny. Hey, just because a girl is huge doesn't mean she has no sense of humor! That's funny! Go ahead and laugh!

Another description I found funny was an article describing a fat woman's bikini as "two rubber bands on an egg." Again, hilarious. But seriously, ladies, why would you wear a bikini if your stomach completely hid the bottom and your boobs were falling out of the top and your upper arms were sliding down over your cleavage? That is NOT attractive. NO no no no no. Cover that up. Please.

That reminds me, I think I'll rewatch "Shallow Hall" again tonight. That scene where she throws the gigantic thong underwear at Jack Black absolutely cracks me up.

Thong underwear. "Cracks" me up. Oh man, I'm hilarious.

And thank you, Farrelly brothers, for NOT showing us the thong underwear ON the fat Gwynyth.

I think I'll go into the kitchen now, crank up 'Shallow Hal,' and have a few Hostess cupcakes.

The chocolate ones, with the squiggles on top.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

My house is beautiful and glowing. . . the clouds are fluffy but not snowing. . .Willy Wonka's way of rhyming. . .uses perfect tone and timing. . .

I just put up a second Christmas tree in my dining room. I've never done such a thing before. Why did I do it now?

Well, the only reason I really have, is that I've collected Hallmark ornaments since 1973 and I have too many for one tree. Other years, I've been content to let most of them sit in a box and make no appearance.

For whatever reason, this year I couldn't stand the thought of those beautiful ornaments sitting in the dark, under the stairs, in a box, so I got them out. I saw things I hadn't seen in years, and the moment I looked at them I knew I couldn't NOT put them out.

Fortunately, my bargain-seeking husband bought an extra tree last year during the sales, and I burrowed through all the stuff in the garage, found it, and put it up. I had to leave off the back branches so it would fit snug against the window, but it's beautiful.

I had to sacrifice a little ambience to make room for it, but why should I worry about ambience now? It's never bothered me before.

My family won't mind if the dining room table sticks out a few feet into the living room, will they? Well, will they? The people sitting on that one end might be sitting in the dark, but I'll put some candles on the table and maybe they won't notice. And the fact that half the table will be sitting on the hardwood floor and the other half on the carpet won't be noticed either, I bet. And if somebody spills cranberry sauce on the grey carpet, well, it'll be in good company.

There are red creme soda stains on that carpet from 1996. (My kids covered them with furniture and I didn't find them till it was too late.) What's a little cranberry stain to me?

(I'm not even going to tell you about the felt tip pen marks under the coffee table.)

Oh, and Willy Wonka? He's one of my HEROES. Gene Wilder rocks. And Johnny Depp probably will, too. And if he doesn't, well, who cares? (droool. . . . .)

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

(I've always thought that was the coolest book title ever.)

Dear Genuine Family,

What a great idea, having a blog party! Thank you for inviting me, and I hope you have more of the same.

When do we all draw names for Christmas?

Next step: finding a central location and renting a hall.

I think it would be awesome.

Sincerely,
Mamacita

P.S. I hope your hangover isn't too bad. . . .

Half a pot roast, and a flat grilled cheese, please.

Remember that anecdote about the young bride whose husband asked her why she cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan?

She told him she did it that way, because her mother always did it that way.

So the young husband asked his mother-in-law why she had always cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan. Her reply? She did it that way because HER mother had always done it that way.

At the next family dinner, the husband asked his wife's grandmother why she had always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply? Because her mother had always done it that way.

His wife's great-grandmother was still alive, so he went to the nursing home and asked her why she always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply?

"I only had the one small pan, and the only way a roast would fit in it was if it was first cut into two pieces."

When my children visit, I often think of this story. I don't know if it's true or not, but it might as well be, because so many of the things we do make no sense except in the context of the past.

First of all, both of my children love grilled cheese sandwiches. I mean, who doesn't? Secondly, neither of my children will touch a grilled cheese sandwich unless it was made with Velveeta.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I can grant these wishes because A. I won't eat a grilled cheese sandwich unless it was made with Velveeta, either, and B. Velveeta is a name brand food I can actually AFFORD!

My son is visiting again this weekend, and the minute he enters the house, he requests grilled cheese sandwiches. When he was a little boy, the only way he could eat a grilled cheese sandwich was if I mashed it down flat with the spatula after the Velveeta had melted. THEN his little mouth could close around it, and he could eat the sandwich "like a man."

He is 24 years old now, but he still wants his grilled cheese flattened with the spatula. Because that's how his mother always made them.

When he gets married, I can't wait to hear his wife's reaction when he asks her to mash a perfectly good sandwich flat. Will she question it, or just do it?

Sometimes, family traditions have serious beginnings and funny middles. As for the endings, there aren't any, not really.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Saturday afternoons: Oh baby.

Saturday afternoons are important and exciting for my husband and me. We have certain romantic traditions, and Saturday afternoon is one of the best ones. Even when the kids were little and lived at home, we always reserved Saturday afternoon for our little private tradition.

Yes, there's nothing like a trip to the county dump, and a hamburger at Snow's Drive-In, to liven up a marriage.

That shaved ice they have at Snow's would make anybody swoon.

Especially if you eat it too fast. Whoa, massive brain-freeze there.

Ah, our weekly Saturday afternoon romantic county-dump shaved-ice brain freeze, plus onion rings. We are a couple of wild things, we are.

All marriages need their romantic traditions. And this one counts as both a get-away, and dinner.

I recommend it. Take a walk on the wild side.

Go ahead. What's a marriage without these little thrills?

Carpet scraps and clutter.

I've spent most of today cleaning.

Correction: I've spent most of today trying to clean.

It's hard to clean, when there are boxes and bags of thises and thats all over the floor. I'd carry them out to the garage, but the garage is full of other peoples' things. The garage is stuffed so full of other peoples' things, that there's no room for the cars. The cars sit out in the driveway in the rain, while our two-car garage is being used as storage for things that, most of them, aren't even ours.

We are selfless with our storage space. Maybe that is why our own stuff is sitting in boxes and bags all over the floor, while closets and garages and all kinds of shelves are stuffed full of other peoples' stuff.

It's hard to vacuum around boxes and bags of stuff, sitting all over the floor. Ordinarily I solve that problem by simply not vacuumming. Who's going to see all that dust, with all those boxes and bags all over the floor?

Well, this weekend, we're having PEOPLE over, and I've found, over many years of being somewhat cluttery, that PEOPLE are not as lax about dust as I am.

I'm very dust-tolerant. I agree with Erma that dust is a protective covering for furniture.

But when there are PEOPLE in my house, I like to have things nicer. Besides, it's embarassing when the children of these PEOPLE draw pictures in the dust. So I got out the Pledge and went all Heloise on my furniture. I even cleaned and waxed the stairs.

Watch your step on there, by the way. It's slicker than snot. But oh baby, it's clean and shiny. I hope nobody breaks a bone slipping on those waxed stairs. Fortunately, the bags and boxes of stuff would probably break their fall.

I picked all those bags and boxes up, one by one, carried them across the room, and stacked them all against one corner wall of the family room. I should have been able to scoot them across the floor easily; but I couldn't because of the pile of leftover carpet that's still piled there two years after we had it installed.

Well, what should we do with it? There's too much to throw away, and not enough to do another room! Unless it was a really small room. And the garage is full of other peoples' stuff.

Maybe someone's bathroom? But then, carpet in a bathroom is so, well, how shall I phrase this. . . . filthy? I don't care how often you spray the carpet cleaner on the carpet around the toilet bowl, it's just not going to get all 'that' out of it. Especially if there are men in your home. Men with a poor aim. Does the word 'absorption' mean anything to you? No? How about the word 'odiferous?' Does that apply? Well, if it doesn't now, eventually it will. Both words will.

So anyway, one corner of the family room has a mountain of boxes and bags, immediately behind a smaller mountain of carpet scraps. I'm going to call it "Art." Because it's my house and I can call it anything I want. "Art" sounds way better than "scrap heap." Especially when applied to one's family room.

Besides, it's nowhere near the tv so who's going to even notice? Especially with that burned-out bulb in the ceiling fixture in that corner. I'd replace the bulb, but it's too high to reach, and I'm scared to balance a chair on that mountain of carpet scraps.

In the dark, you can't even see the mountain of carpet scraps. I know, because I've fallen over it twice today.

Fortunately, I landed on a bag of soft stuff. Both times.

I am no domestic goddess. I hate cleaning. But somehow, for a holiday reunion, I'm finding great pleasure in preparing my house for a celebration. I love dressing it up, for PEOPLE to see. I like to think of PEOPLE having fun in my house. I'm adorning my house for PEOPLE.

I bet you are, too. Admit it. And I bet you love it.

I know I do.

Friday, November 19, 2004

I think I'm past my prime, too.

My newly-mortgaged house will be full of beloved people on both Thursday and Friday! Am I ecstatic? You betcha!

Tonight I'm going to go buy another turkey. I will have to ask my mom to store this one for me in her refrigerator; mine has no more room.

Of course, if I cleaned out all those expired cottage cheese and yogurt cartons, I might have room. But those are in there still, as a matter of principle. My husband bought them, and it's his job to either eat them or pitch them.

I also don't understand his philosophy of spoilage when it concerns foods that are, in my opinion anyway, already spoiled. Cottage cheese? That's CURDLED MILK! Yogurt? Isn't that by reason of its name and nature, already spoiled? He figures they're still edible until the mold starts growing. This used to bother me greatly, and I would always throw them out when I judged them unfit to eat. But I already think they're unfit to eat, straight out of the factory showroom, so who's to say when already-spoiled things are TOO spoiled? How can you tell?

I gave up on that one. It wasn't worth the time. It only bothers me now when I don't have room for a second turkey in there.

But if you ask me, yogurt from June 2004 is too old to eat. Even for something that was already spoiled in April 2004.

Archaeologists have found honey in the Egyptian tombs that was still fit to eat, but that's a whole 'nuther story. My husband would probably say "cool" and dip some graham crackers in it.

And then we'd hear a knock on the door and when we opened it, the curse of the mummy would be upon us.

And I would blame it all on cottage cheese and yogurt. Two foods past their prime because they have no prime to begin with.

Some days, I totally sympathize.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Janice, The Menopausal Loan Officer. (I do the sweating so you don't have to!)

This message is for the people who emailed me about my previous post:

Dear Helpful People,
Thank you very much for caring enough to contact me and tell me that the Chevy Chase who was on SNL, and the Chevy Chase who is holding my new mortgage, are very different entities. Maybe I need to take some writing courses, because the intention of that post was humorous sarcasm, and obviously I failed miserably in my attempt. Anyway, thank you very much, all you nice people out there; I appreciate your concern.

I might also add that I got my loan through Janice, the Menopausal Loan Officer (I do the sweating so you don't have to!) and I highly recommend her services. She researched every loan in existence before she found one that suited her. And I know for a fact that before a loan will suit her, it has to be a perfect fit for her client. Highly recommended. Superior service. Awesome lovely person. You would all love her. She's simply the best there is. (This is not humorous sarcasm; I really did get my loan via Janice. She's a real business-person, and if you are in the market to re-finance your home, you should call her. She'll do all the work, and all you have to do is show up and sign your name on about ten thousand dotted lines. )

That's Janice, The Menopausal Loan Officer.

Here's how to contact Janice. BE SURE YOU ASK FOR JANICE!
1-888-336-8750, ext. 209. ASK FOR JANICE. Nobody else will do.

Seriously, readers, you'd be crazy to get your loan anyplace else.

(Janice did NOT ask me to write about her. I did it on my own because she's so cool.)

This is a testimonial, on a real blog. NOT an advertisement thinly disguised as a blog.

Yay, Janice! Thanks a million for doing up my mortgage! You're the greatest!

On a different note, I bought a 24-pound frozen turkey at the supermarket on my way home from class tonight, and I did NOT drop it on my foot! Well, not yet anyway. So far, so good.

I had to put it on the milk shelf in the refrigerator, and move the milk to the juice shelf. We have no juice, so that works for the time being. Until my husband reaches for juice.

I always buy the turkey a week ahead of time and let it thaw in the 'fridge. It's usually thawed enough after a week, to allow me to reach my entire arm up to the shoulder into the maw, remove the bag of guts, and claw away any stalactites that are still holding on. I always feel like I've delivered a hideous baby, complete with afterbirth.

Maybe that is why I don't much like to eat turkey. Maybe that's why I also usually buy a ham.

With a ham, all you have to do is rub brown sugar on it, stick a few cloves here and there, throw it into the oven and presto. No delving into its interior. No leaky gut-bags.

Remember this name: Janice, the Menopausal Loan Officer. I'm not kidding; she's the best thing to ever happen to the fascinating world of high finance.

I will have to say, the cat loves the turkey's gut-bag. So all is not lost after all. Next Thursday morning, Cat-boy.

Clark Griswold is holding my mortgage.

I've been a fan of Chevy Chase for a long, long time. Remember how funny he was, on his one season of SNL? Doing the news, and making those faces behind everyone's back, and saying "I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not."

And then making those National Lampoon movies? They were hilarious! Clark Griswold was always trying to make things fine for his family, and it never worked. Poor guy, I sympathize. And dragging that dog along the highway. . . . . and the old obnoxious aunt dying in the back seat. . . . and Randy Newman with the camper, and Chevy's reaction to the bummer bonus gift from his boss. . . .and having his video camera stolen and then his wife's picture on all those French billboards. . . . and the boring cheese channels. . . .and dancing in those liederhosen. . . .and demanding that they open up the theme park since they'd driven all that way. . . . .

And that video with Paul Simon, where Chevy stood behind Paul and the band and lip-synched "You Can Call Me Al." I never realized how tall Chevy was till I saw that video. I know Paul is short but Chevy is really tall.

That's the kind of banker I wanted.

I will have to say that Paul Simon has never offered to loan me any money.

Chevy Chase, on the other hand, did.

Yes, I have been fond of Chevy Chase for many, many years.

And now, to think he's holding my mortgage!

Chevy Chase is holding my new mortgage.

We signed the papers yesterday, and there was that name, right on the top of all the documents. "Chevy Chase."

It's such an odd name, it HAS to be the same one, right? I mean, who else could possibly be named 'Chevy Chase?'

And he's just as nice as Clark Griswold! He gave us a really low interest rate, and four choices of amount-to-pay every month.

I highly recommend borrowing your mortgage money from Chevy Chase. He's a great actor, a great banker, a great liederhosen-dancer, and a great lip-syncher.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a little work to do. Randy Newman's shitter is full.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

We are Santa Claus. And Superman.

The three stages of man:

1. He believes in Santa Claus
2. He doesn't believe in Santa Claus
3. He IS Santa Claus.

That struck me as being funny, and true. And also, even, a little bit sad, and I'm not sure why. Poignancy is always a combination of emotions, and knowing something wonderful is temporary makes us sad, even while we revel in it.

I am Santa Claus. And I do NOT want to ever let the people I love down, at Christmas or any other time. But I also realize that the people we love most, have the most potential for hurting. And for being hurt. Any people who are emotionally involved, have tremendous power over each other. I hope we all try to use that power only for good.

You know, like Superman. Superman used his powers for good. Unless he was under the influence of kryptonite, in which case he became a flying armageddon.

Let us never allow the influence of 'something else' to turn us into anything other than good.

"Something else" being possibly another person, or just, something else. "Under the influence" is "under the influence," whatever outside 'something else' is influencing us.

You are Santa Claus for someone. Do not let them down.

And if you are a person who does not believe in Santa Claus, then, um, uh, hmmm. . . . . okay, I'll say it. You are stupid. Grow up and become Santa Claus. Somewhere out there is a child who desperately needs your powers. It might be your own child, or it might be a stranger's. What difference does it make what child it is? Get out there and make someone happy. Or, at least, happier. Make a difference. Ho ho ho.

Shifting gears. . . . .

Why do some of you only have part of a post on your blog, and expect me to click to read more? I don't do that. Sorry.

I've seen a lot of interesting recipes on blogs. I've printed some of them. Thank you! Although I will have to tell you that if there is nothing on your blog EXCEPT recipes, I probably won't read it. But those of you with great blogs, who happen to post a recipe, those I read. And those are the ones I've printed.

Maybe we should ask Blog Explosion to publish a cookbook, with recipes contributed by us. You know, like the ladies' aid does in churches.

Maybe Blog Explosion should have a Central Blog, that posts extra-good quotes from various journals, that people submit, or that they've noticed themselves.

Maybe Blog Explosion should have a Banner Contest. Winner gets points, or whatever.

Maybe Blog Explosion should survey us all about our music preferences, and burn a BE CD and sell it to us.

Maybe Blog Explosion should have trivia contests.

Maybe they've already got enough to do and wish I'd shut up.

Okay, I will. In a minute.

But first, a word about my knees: ouch.

Now I'll shut up.

Grrrrrrr. . . . .

I got up early this morning, and thought I'd do some Blog Explosion surfing since I had the time.

However, after SEVENTEEN political blogs in a row, and then four ads for web design, I decided to quit for a while and try again later tonight when the interesting blogs are in rotation.

Oh dear me, was there an implication up there that political blogs and ads are not interesting? Not at all. An implication is subtle. I'm stating outright that political blogs and ads are boring, repetitive, repellent, condescending, and did I already mention BORING?

And speaking of repetitive, can we still count on only one hand now, the many times I've gone off on this same topic? I bet we need both hands. And maybe both feet, to do it up right. I might need to borrow your hands, and your abacus, and a few calculators, to tot up accurately how often I think thoughts of hatred concerning people's obsession with politics, their assumption that their opinion means jack to me, that annoying colored map, and feeble attempts to disguise an ad as a blog. AAAAAAAAAGH. SO BORING. Boring, boring, boring.

Please note that I am not asking to borrow your feet. Feet kind of gross me out. My own, yours, and even George Clooney's. If you really needed me to care for your feet, I would, and I'd be happy to give you any help you might need. But be prepared to hear me make fun of your toes while I was trimming your nails. (I might not make fun of George Clooney's feet while he was still in the room. For George, I might wait till he was gone.) But as a general rule, feet kind of make me say 'ick.'

Aaaand, why am I up so early in the morning, when I don't have to be at work until six? Good question.

Our phone number is one digit removed from the phone number of a big church in the middle of town. They must have someone on duty there 24 hours a day, because the same people are constantly calling me at all hours. Mostly the early morning hours. Mostly very old-sounding people. One old man, in particular, calls all the time. I hate to put my phone off the hook because we have two elderly mothers and two out-of-town kids, and if there was ever an emergency and they couldn't find me because the phone was off the hook so I could sleep in, I'd feel really, really bad. And to see the caller id, I have to get up and squint.

So, dear sweet quivery-voiced old man who calls my number a dozen times a week in the pre-dawn hours of the morning: LEARN HOW TO DIAL THE DAMN PHONE. And stop arguing with me when I tell you, in the politest tone I can summon at that hour, that you've got the wrong number. Stop calling me Nancy. Stop that infernal cackling-of-disbelief when I tell you that I am not Nancy. Why do you get up at that hour when you don't have to? Are you crazy? But then, of COURSE you are. Your consistent inability to dial a simple phone number proves that. Please, have your keeper put the church's number on speed dial for you. Don't call me ever again. Thank you very much. Till next time then. . . .

Sheesh.

I know what you're thinking.

In person, though, I am really very kind and polite. Honest, I am.

In my blog, I can be myself. The self hemmed in and supressed by the kindness thing.

(Please note: Ed McMahon can call me at any time, concerning delivery of the big check.)

Oooh, cool, leftover pork tenderloin. At this hour? Well, why not?

Oh, the joy of believing!

Every Tuesday night, as we drive home from our classes, my husband sees a deer on the lawn of a particular house. He gets so excited, talking about the incredible coincidence of timing, that puts a deer in the same spot on this lawn, every single Tuesday night. As we round the curve, in the pitch blackness of night, coming towards this house, he will say, "Just wait, there will be a deer on the lawn of this house!" And we round the curve, and sure enough, there's a deer on the lawn of this house.

"It's not a real deer, dear; it's a statue." I tell him every Tuesday night.

"No, no, its head is moving; it's a real deer!" he replies every Tuesday night. "There must be something in that lawn that it likes. A salt block or something. That deer likes that lawn for some reason. Something is keeping that deer on that lawn."

And then I change the subject, and we keep on driving. And he is smiling at the thought of the deer with predictable habits. And because of the deer, and its predictable habits, and the smile, he will reach out and scratch my head. It's the best part of the drive home, every Tuesday night.

I love having my head scratched. It feels wonderful. No wonder the cats love it.

In a way, he's right. You know, about something keeping that deer on that lawn. I know what it is, too.

Spikes.

It's a bobble-head deer statue. The kind hunters use for target practice. I drive that road in the daylight and I see it daily. It's a bobble-head deer statue.

I hope he never finds out.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Not us, but they probably look like us.

To counter the two whiny posts I made earlier, I just want to add a big thank-you to most of the bloggers out there. Your blogs are interesting, well-written, and cool. When I gripe about the boring blogs, I'm not talking about yours. I'm talking about those OTHER people's blogs. Blog Explosion has opened up a 24-hour library to me, and I'm taking full advantage of it. You should, too.

From reading other people's blogs, I've learned more in these past few weeks than I learned my entire junior year of high school. But then, that was the year I was going steady with Chris, and my mind was on other things.

I did my grocery shopping tonight, on the way home from class. I forgot bread. I blame this on President Bush.

Does this count as a political post now?

667: Neighbor of the beast.

Tonight as I was cavorting about the 'net via Blog Explosion, I kept getting blanks where a blog should have been. What's with that? Are those the blogs I put on my "Do Not Allow This Blog To Appear On My Screen Ever Again" list? If so, then, THANK YOU, Blog Explosion! Because I'd rather tap my foot and hum at a blank screen, than look at one more political treatise, advertisement, nearly-illiterate evangelical, or motivational business blog.

I'm sure the fact that I had to click on "911" three times in one hour had nothing whatsoever to do with the blank screens.

As for the blog that popped up when I clicked on "666," well, I can only say that I wasn't the least bit surprised.

"You stink," she said politely.

I am still wheezing. My eyes are still watering. One of my students is a heavy smoker, and whenever she comes near me, I think I'm going to die. She smells so bad, some nights I think I WANT to die.

My allergies are getting worse as I get older. Or maybe it's just that I notice them more. All I know for sure is, no amount of soap or sandpaper is ever going to remove the accumulation of stenchy sludge from her skin and hair. And whenever she gets near me, I have a near-death experience.

How can I deal with this without hurting her feelings?

But then, if she really cared about other people, would she insist on standing an inch from my face, knowing she smells like the inside of an Auschwitz chimney? Or does she even KNOW she smells so awful? The other students are getting fed up with it, too. None of us knows quite what to do about it, though. Other than wear clothespins on our noses, that is.

I've heard that heavy smokers are so used to the smell that they truly don't notice it. (Kind of like people who live across the road from a rendering plant . . . .) And that sometimes, they are shocked and even outraged, that other people think they stink.

But the truth of the matter is, this woman stinks. She stinks up the entire classroom. I can even smell her breath when she answers questions from her desk. I can smell her breath across a crowded room. Her stale smoky breath is different from her stale smoky body. The combination could level armies. It's really bothering the other students. And me.

She's not unwashed. It's just that the smoke smell has permeated her entire being, and I don't think there's any help for it now. Tonight I finally got up the courage to ask her to step away from my desk, and I know it made her mad. In fact, whenever anyone in the room coughs or wheezes, she jerks her head around and glares.

I guess my main whine for tonight is, why are people who reek of old smoke always the ones who have no concept of personal space?

Monday, November 15, 2004

We are all magic, if we choose to be magic.

Oh, I KNOW it's really too early for a Christmas tree. I'll have to make fun of myself now, because I've always made fun of people who start getting out the lights before Thanksgiving.

But, but, but. . . . this is DIFFERENT.

(Please hold while I try to rationalize this somehow. . . . . . . .)

Okay, here's my reason:

I'm hosting two Thanksgiving dinners here and, um, I want the families to see our tree. Yes, that's it. I want both families to see our tree. Our Christmas tree. On Thanksgiving. Oh poop. Let me think some more.

Okay, how about this? It's too much work to be displayed only for a week.

Nah, I wouldn't accept that one myself. It smacks of either an unconcerned holiday amateur, or a jaded burned-out lazy ass who doesn't really care one way or another about making a house festive.

How about this: Parents are magic. We have, in our fingertips and in all those old boxes, the power to transform ordinary things into things of magic and wonder. We have the power to transform an ordinary day into a Holiday. There is more than tinsel and glass and molded Hallmark treasures in those boxes. There are memories, stored in those boxes. There is each child's First Christmas, in those boxes. There is the Christmas we were all too sick to go to Grandma's, so we had to stay home and entertain each other. There is an ornament from the Christmas of the Emergency Room visit. There are ornaments made of styrofoam and glue and glitter. There is the ornament someone bought in the Chicago airport, just because it caught his eye and he thought someone else might like it. There is the ornament a little girl used to lie under the tree and watch, JUST IN CASE the elves would peek out the window of it and wave at her. There is the ornament with sad eyes that a little boy worried about, year after year. I have a Christmas angel made out of a torn purple pillow case and a toilet paper tube, and a piece of that same pillow case with "Oh come holy spit" written on it in black magic marker. It's worth more to me than anything in Tiffany's. Erma Bombeck had one, too; when I read about hers I felt kinship! I know where and when everything on that tree was purchased, or made, or given. A real Christmas fanatic can tell you the circumstances under which almost any ornament on that tree was obtained.

I can look at my tree and see more than just a beautiful twinkling tree. I look at my Christmas tree and I can see all the years of my family's life, represented on the branches.

I can remember, as a child, sitting on the floor and just staring at our tree. It was almost beyond my comprehension that our house could contain such glowing wonder. It was like magic. My mother created magic, in our house. How did she do it? I still don't know. I only know that I have tried to create that same magic in my house, for my children, and I hope I have succeeded.

This is the first year, in almost thirty years of marriage, that I have started creating it this early. Part of me screams, "You idiot, why so early?" And the rest of me answers, "Because."

Power. Parents have power to change a mundane day into a day of wonder. Our children's memories depend on our willingness to use that power.

Sometimes we are so physically exhausted that it's difficult to put out the effort. Don't ever let yourself get caught in that trap. Once you start, it's easy to continue.

Your children are worth the time. And so are you. Get up from that chair, get those boxes down from wherever they're stored, and get busy. Make magic for your children.

Otherwise, they won't know how to make magic for their own children.

At Christmas, I turn into my mother. You should turn into my mother, too.

I was thinking today as I was putting up my Christmas tree, how I try to imitate my mother's ways when it comes to holidays.

My memories of holidays back home, when I was a child, are so awesome, so full of tradition, it's hard to even separate one year from another. We have 8mm movies of almost every Christmas with my parents, and each movie starts out exactly the same: A few seconds of the lighted tree in its full glory, and then two, a few years later three, and a few years later four, kids running into the room, in excited ecstasy and new pajamas, towards the presents Santa brought in the night. The same Christmas stocking from year one. (The same Easter basket, too.) It would not have been right, to replace them. A brand new one would never have worked. Everything she put in that stocking, or that basket, was hand-picked by her, and placed individually in the stocking or basket.

I still look at those pre-made stockings and baskets, full to the brim with cheap candy and junk, or even those expensive monstrosities filled with Godiva chocolate and perfume, and covered with colored saran wrap, that people buy and just give to someone. I look at them with horror, and averted eyes. They give me cold chills, for they contain no memories, no careful planning, no continuity of tradition. . . . . they scream "I didn't think enough of you to make it myself but here's one some woman in Taiwan made especially for K-Mart, that I picked off a shelf for you."

Maybe that kind of stocking or basket IS your family's tradition. I don't know.

My mother would lay out that stocking or basket on her bed, and place everything that was to go into it, below it on her bedspread. That was to make sure each stocking/basket held the same amount of loot. Then she would place each little toy, etc, inside the stocking/basket, and lay it lovingly aside and begin on the next.

She did these things when she was a stay-at-home mother, and she did these things when she went back to work. She was never too busy to disrupt the continuity of her children's holiday traditions.

As a child, she had virtually nothing; all her ideas about holiday traditions she picked up from the books she read, and the movies she saw. She deliberately set out to create holiday memories and traditions and continuity for her own children, and she succeeded.

When I got married, and had children of my own, it was important to me that I do the holidays just right. And 'just right' meant, 'just like mom did them.' Even when I rebelled against her methods and worked overtime to do the opposite of any advice she gave me, when it came holiday time, I turned into my mother, and I did what she did. I still do.

I always felt sorry for people who went on vacations over Christmas. What is Christmas if you're not at home, making and experiencing traditions? You couldn't pay me enough to spend Christmas on a cruise ship, or in the Bahamas, or anyplace except home.

My husband's family on Christmas Eve, our own family on Christmas morning, my family on Christmas afternoon. It's what we do. It's what we will always do, as long as we are able to do it. We will never change until we have to. We don't want to change. Why should we change it? It's perfect. It's what we do.

Young families: honor those traditions. BUT, be sure you are also making traditions of your own. Visit your families, yes, if you can at all. But time in your own home on Christmas is extremely important, too. Traditions are awesome. Just be sure you make them, as well as keep them.

Oy, such a rant. But we are now into the time of year I love the most: holidays with family and friends.

And a Christmas tree in a room, makes the whole house a magic place called home. My mother didn't teach me this. She showed me, every year of my life.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Enquiring minds? Isn't that spelled wrong?

I made sure my jack-o'lanterns were removed from my porch before I started putting up my Christmas tree.

It was today, but they ARE REMOVED now.

Intermarriage of the holiday ritual icons isn't pretty. It produces mutant icon children of the most horrid and extreme nth degree. Not the cool kind. Professor X doesn't want this kind.

For evidence, I submit that house down the street. The one with so many mixed-holiday icons that the grass can't grow because the whole yard is in shadow.

On the bright side, they keep the concrete-goose factory in business.

On the dark side, they keep the concrete-goose factory in business.

In southern Indiana, the lawn-ornament people really go for those concrete geese. You can even buy seasonal clothing for them. You know, the clothing the goose would have worn in its natural habitat. Over its feathers. While swimming. Or flying in a V.

I am starting to be skeptical about that theory, however. If geese really wore seasonal clothing while flying in a V, wouldn't there be the occasional report of someone getting bonked on the head with a little pilgrim shoe falling from above? Wouldn't there be an indie film called "The Geese Must Be Crazy?" Wouldn't we have reports of "Little House on the Prairie" bonnets washing ashore? Wouldn't biologists be finding dead geese on the bottoms of lakes, weighted down with Santa boots? Someone should contact the Enquirer about researching goose lore.

Enquiring minds want to know.

Some holiday feng shui.

Driving home a few minutes ago, I passed by a house that still had its Halloween jack-0'lanterns on the front porch. It also had a concrete goose dressed like a pilgrim beside the door. There was a pile of gourds and a plastic turkey by the top step. A huge hideous scary inflatable Santa was bobbing about in the yard. And the windows were glowing with Christmas lights.

I figure, tie some easter eggs to the tree branches, put a leprechaun in the swing, glue some red hearts to the garage door, put Santa hats on the pink flamingoes, and their holiday feng shui is complete.

Alert the media. This house has "HGTV" written all over it.

Nuts must be in season right now.

I just read a blog that disturbs me greatly. It's the one where the lady is grateful for all the monetary donations from people since all her own money was automatically deducted for her churchly tithe.

I do have a few questions for this lady:

Are you nuts? No decent church would ask that a person go begging amongst internet strangers for money to buy food for her children, while purchasing wall art and carpeting for a building with that same money.

Are you nuts? Why would you do ANYTHING that would make it difficult to feed your kids? Real churches do not require that level of sacrifice.

Are you nuts? "Sacrifice" connotes doing without YOURSELF, not depriving children of food so your church can send boxes of canned goods a zillion miles away.

Are you nuts? If you continue to sacrifice your children's welfare for the sake of a 10% cut to the church, maybe a different sort of Welfare should become involved. Before you STARVE AND DEPRIVE THEM TO DEATH!!!!!!

Finally, since I think we've established that you are nuts, maybe you should learn a lesson from this:

"It's better to do a good deed at home, than to go far away and burn incense."

Feed your kids and pay your bills. THAT'S what makes a person good. And by 'feed,' I don't mean merely food. You are not setting a good example when you give to an institution that which should be used to sustain and maintain the children you have at home.

Now, get to the bank and change that automatic deduction before somebody reports you to Child Protective Services.

And yes, you are definitely nuts. A moocher by any other name. . . . .

At David Bowie's request:

Pay attention, because this is important.

It's IGGY Pop. IGGY.

It's ZIGGY Stardust. ZIGGY.

Don't get them confused. People will think you don't know what you're talking about.

One is IGGY. One is ZIGGY. They are not interchangeable. Get it right.

It's bad enough they keep getting each other's mail without YOU mixing them up, too.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

I agree with Bill Engvall.

Warning: If you are one of those 'politically correct' people, you'd better skip this post.

I think I hate stupid people.

After reading the news online tonight, I'm really depressed about the state of our nation. Its biggest problem seems to be an enormous population of truly stupid people.

When did we start to tip-toe around the feelings and rights of these stupid people, over and above the feelings and rights of everybody else? When did stupid people become more important than smart people? When did we allow stupid people to be the bosses of us? Why do we condone the stupid behavior of stupid people? Why do we allow them to become wealthy because of their stupidness?

I fear the growing threat of the feeble-minded.

I'm very upset about this issue.

I think I'll go through the McDonald's drive-through, get a cup of hot coffee, and hold it between my thighs as I drive to the railroad tracks, park, and take a little walk. There's no need to be cautious; trains don't use the tracks except in movies. Next, I'll run over to my child's school and ream out his teacher for requiring him to bring his own pencil, keep his hands to himself, and stay in his own seat. Then I'll drop in on the coach to complain about my son not being eligible to play in the game next Friday just because he flunked a few classes. I pay taxes, you know. A test is just a stupid piece of paper, but I've got ten bucks riding on that ball game. Where are these people's priorities? If my kid doesn't play, I'll sue. I guess I'll go home after that. I wish I felt better; this extra hundred pounds really drags me down. Damn that fast food place for making me fat! Once I'm on the road, I'll set the cruise control so I can go in the back of the van and get a cold beer out of the cooler. Hey, this lemon-scented furniture polish smells really good; I think I'll take a swig. What could it hurt? Anything that smells like food has to BE food, right? Ahh, nothing like a cigarette and a good Jerry Springer episode. Cough, cough, cough, hack, cough. . . . Darn virus. "But baby, it was dark, and your grandma looked like you!" Lighten up, woman. It could happen to anybody. Woot! Woot! Woot! You go, Jerry. I love reality TV. You know, that was really peaceful, walking on those railroad tracks. Maybe I'll go back again tomorrow night.

People scare me.

Doesn't the expression "thinning the herd" mean anything any more?

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Michael Eisner is stupid.

Dear Michael Eisner,

Aren't you supposed to be so smart about all things Disney? I question your brain cell count.

Bulletin for you:

Sleeping Beauty's dress is supposed to be BLUE!! Do you hear me, stupid man who allows stupid toy manufacturers to use the wrong dye? Her dress is not pink. Her dress is blue.

BLUE!

Not PINK!

BLUE!

Pink dress: wrong.
Blue dress: right.

No wonder Disney keeps firing their executives. Anyone who doesn't know Sleeping Beauty's dress is supposed to be BLUE, doesn't deserve to be paid a zillion dollars a year.

What's next, a silver gown for Belle? A purple gown for Cinderella? City clothes for Pocahontas? Pants for Donald Duck?

Don't mess with tradition, Mr. Eisner. We Disney fans don't NEED no friggin' creativity with the clothing of our beloved characters.

We want them dressed in their original outfits. Like they were in real life.

I hope Comcast buys you out.

Sincerely,
Aging "Sleeping Beauty" fan

P.S. I don't CARE if the pink dye is cheaper. You can afford it.

It was funny when Chevy Chase used to say it.

So. . . . . Yasser Arafat has died in a French hospital? Are we sure?

Or is this going to be a running joke on Saturday Night Live now?

Yasser Arafat and Generalissimo Francisco Franco walk into a bar. . . .

==============

I used to laugh at my own jokes till I got so old I peed my pants when I laughed.

It's not as bad as it might be. But you really don't want me to be sitting on your lap when I sneeze.

+++++++++++++++++

This just in: Yasser Arafat and Generalissimo Francisco Franco are both STILL DEAD.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

How to kill a mouse and all its kin.

I really would like to rearrange the furniture in our bedroom, but my options are somewhat limited. One wall is entirely closet, there are windows in the middle of two other walls, and the fourth has a, how shall I put this, sort of a large man-made flaw. . . . .

You see, we hadn't lived in this house very long, when one night, we heard noises coming from inside the drywall.

"Just don't pay any attention," I told him. "In a few days, whatever it is will be dead and the noise will stop."

Ordinarily that would have been true. Unfortunately, whatever it was that was trespassing inside the walls had invited a few friends over for some drinks and heavy partying, and one thing must have led to another, and, well, in a few days - far from quieting down - the noise and activity level had picked up to the point where we could actually feel the wall quivering. They were reproducing in there, and carousing, and whooping and yelling and making those scary little buck-tooth-mousie noises, and apparently living off each other, because I don't know how else they could have stayed alive for so long.

One night, my husband couldn't stand it. He shoved the bookcase aside (see, that's what ADRENALINE will do!) and blasted a hole into the wall with a shotgun. He must have hit them right in the heart of the community, and the flak must have taken out quite a few, too. We never heard another peep after that night.

I occasionally have a nightmare about critters using that hole as a means to get in the house proper and poop in my shoes, and sometimes I remind him that the hole is still there and really ought to be patched for the sake of aesthetics and other fancy words, but then we both think, isn't that what furniture is for? Besides sleeping and sitting and putting our feet up and storing things, that is? It hides holes that were blasted with a shotgun, to kill CREATURES, lest they scamper over us in our beds as we sleep, like that snake in the Sherlock Holmes story, "The Speckled Band." That hole is a monument of sorts. It reminds us that my husband is ever the protector of this family. Nothing's going to prance in our drywall, by golly.

Besides, now that I think about it, the last time I rearranged our bedroom furniture, back in our old house, my husband got out of bed that next morning and walked right into the wall. Almost gave himself a concussion.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Please don't 'special order' your hamburger if you're in front of me in the long, long line. . . .

There have been times when I asked for a 'special order' at a certain fast-food restaurant. I always apologized for the inconvenience, because I know that one of the things that makes a fast food restaurant fast, is the fact that their food is uniform.

Everybody knows that certain fast food restaurants have uniform food. EVERYBODY knows that. That's what makes them FAST. If you don't like their food, go somewhere else.

People go to fast food restaurants for the fast food, the happy meal toys, and the uniformity, AKA "no surprises," of the food.

There are lots and lots of conventional restaurants for people who have special requests on a regular basis. LOTS of restaurants that will happily and easily serve a plain hamburger, or a hamburger with mayonnaise, or anything deviating from the fast food norm of mustard, catsup, and pickle. I prefer something other than that norm, myself. But I wouldn't ask for it at a fast food restaurant most of the time. I'd go to a conventional restaurant if I HAD to have my own way. Which I usually do, so I usually go to a conventional restaurant. Duh.

I've only asked for special favors at certain fast-food places a few times, and only then at a few places. Did I mention that I always apologized, and I was truly appreciative of the special effort?

However, none of those few times was PRIME MEAL TIME, when the crowds of people with not-a-lot-of-free-time-to-wait-around-for-meeeee, descended on the place. That would have been very, very rude of me to do it at any of those times. It would have slowed things up, and made the fast-food restaurant into a slow-food restaurant. Most unfair to the waiting people behind me. I have better manners than that.

Moreover, none of those few places was a drive-through window. You know, a drive-through window: for the speed and convenience of considerate people who don't hold up a line with a special order, in a restaurant that sells speed and uniformity. It's right across the parking lot from the conventional restaurant that LOVES special orders, and even encourages them, because they are set up for them and it doesn't SLOW EVERYTHING DOWN for the busy people-with-not-much-time-to-eat-before-they-have-to-go-back-to-work crowds.

Special-order-people: PLEASE do your fast-food-eating during the odd hours of the day, NOT during prime time.

Oh, and if your kids are just picky, not allergic, you could always try my mother's secret method of getting people to eat things they think they don't like. She gave us two choices for every meal: Take it or leave it.

After a few 'leave it' decisions, it's surprising how quickly even the pickiest kid will come around and give something new a try. As long as you don't break down and give the poor little thing some crackers and peanut butter because, bless his heart, he's HUNGRY. If you do that, you've lost this war and your child has a new secret weapon to use against you in public.

Item: When I was seven years old, I once went without food for almost four days, in protest of her methods. She made sure I had plenty of juice and milk, so I wouldn't pass out cold on the linoleum, but until I at least TRIED that dish, there was fasting to pay. And it paid.

All of us are fat as heifers now. And we NEVER special-order at a fast-food restaurant during prime time.

I know I swore not to pick at people's kids any more, but I changed my mind. Bite me.

Monday, November 08, 2004

I'm not worth the extra fifty cents anyway.

"All is forgiven, Darling please come home."

=========================================

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, (you young readers might have to look up that word in the dictionary) we have no money. So tonight when I stopped at the supermarket on my way home from class, and the Name Brand Cereal of my Dreams was on sale, I had to push my cart around the store several times before I mustered the nerve to pick a box of it up and contemplate buying it.

I felt guilty just touching it.

I felt even guiltier while standing there reading the box. It had a Name Brand on the cover. It had a Box Top that could be saved up and exchanged for toys and silverware. It featured a Real Person of Celebrity Status on the cover, apparently with the exact same tastes as MOI, chowing down on OUR favorite cereal. I was excited way out of proportion to the occasion. I fantasized about eating breakfast with the Real Person of Celebrity Status. I mean, having the same favorite cereal means we're soul mates right? And I know it's really his favorite cereal because he was PHOTOGRAPHED while eating it. They couldn't say it if it wasn't true.

I cased the joint like a hardened criminal before I dropped the box into my cart. What if I was seen, making a luxury purchase purely for myself, while my family would be dining on GenericKrispies, and NoNameFlakes, and StoreBrandCharms. But, but, but, I kept reminding myself, my cereal is on SALE. With the coupon, it would cost FIFTY CENTS more than the NoNameFlakes!

Was I or was I not, worth fifty cents?

I decided I was.

So I checked out and was sauntering guiltily-yet-merrily towards the exit, when I was accosted by a large display that said, "Show the True Christmas Spirit This Year: Give A Family A Christmas Meal."

Sigh.

Breakfast is a meal, right?

So I put the box of cereal in the bin.

A child deserves better than StoreBrandCharms for breakfast on Christmas morning.

The post where I apologize in public.

I certainly never intended to actually offend anyone with my (apparently) feeble attempts to convey my opinion about a certain situation in an (apparently not) humorous way. I'm sorry that this person took offense, and I will try to convey my opinions about (apparently) touchy scenarios in a more sensitive light from now on.

Annnnd, maybe he should, too.

(That post was supposed to be funny, people. I guess it wasn't, to some people. One person.)

Something else that's funny: A dozen people who think you're nice and one who thinks you're awful. And all I can concentrate on is that one. His assumptions were hurtful.

There are several definitions for 'funny' in the dictionary.

Anyway, I'm sorry somebody was offended. I'll try to do better.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Feral hogs and sleeping babies.

My dear sweet mother-in-law took us to Pizza Hut again tonight. Bless her, she knows we don't have any money now and she treats us whenever she can.

We used to eat out several nights a week; that was our main vice. Yeah, we're wild ones. Those days are over, but we still manage one on our own, and one with her, most weeks. Our son is visiting again this weekend, and we had a lovely time.

In spite of it all.

We do have a knack for hitting the Pizza Hut when all the Socially and Behaviorally Disadvantaged are there. Last week it was Witch Hazel with the dimpled thighs and cleavage all the way down to her toes, and her entourage. Tonight, it was several groups of ten-year -old boys, each with parental units that might as well have been nonexistent as far as control went. I sat entranced at their cuteness and at their energy and at their sweet smiles. And I sat appalled at their manners. Or rather, their lack of manners. To be out of control like that at home or on the football field is one thing, but to behave like that in public is quite another. They plowed through the Pizza Hut like a pack of feral hogs in a field of sleeping babies. And that's no exaggeration.

The table of little girls sitting across from us was disgusted. (Don't get your hopes up, girls; things won't improve all THAT much with time.)

To be perfectly frank, I love kids. I love their energy and their enthusiasm and their bright innocent faces and their questions and their jokes. I think a well-mannered kid is great company. Kids are awesome. I LOVE kids. But I don't like inconsiderate, boorish behavior in a public place, from anyone of any age. I'm talking about you, too, Grandpa.

Allowing your kid to run wild in a restaurant is in itself inconsiderate, boorish behavior. Get a clue, Mom and Dad. Nobody else thinks your kids are cute when they act like that. And everybody thinks you are pathetic stupid losers for allowing it.

In a public place, shared by others, everybody has an obligation to exercise self-control. And if you don't have any, stay home. If your kids don't have any, don't inflict them on other people. I mean it. Keep your brats (however young or old) penned up where they can't hurt or annoy other people. We've paid money to be here. Take your screaming child and get OUT. Nobody else on the planet thinks the way your kid picks his nose is cute. And nobody else wants to watch him run around in circles, or burp the alphabet, or sing, or dance, or recite naughty limericks, or pinch people (come a little closer, kid. . . .) or honestly do anything besides sit there like a sentient being and eat. And if your child is an infant, we don't want to smell anything, either. Go home.

I am not talking about childhood's sweet giggles, or even some audible conversations. I think a child who talks in low tones and knows how to use a fork is one of life's most beautiful sights. I think we all know what I'm talking about.

Any mothers who don't believe in raising kids who know how to behave in public, come on over and fight. Bring it on, sissies.

Spiders falling on my head, I can't wait till they are dead, hoo HAH.

I am an indifferent housekeeper, but with two different family reunions being hosted here, on Thanksgiving Day and the Day After, I guess I should start getting things in shape for "people" to see.

However, I wish I hadn't looked up at the ceiling just now. There are, to semi-quote Carl Sagan, billions and billions of spiders and ladybugs up there. I am assuming the spiders are corralling the ladybugs for later consumption. My main thought is, what if they let go of the stucco and start falling on my head, and eating a hole in my brain, or worse, crawling on tiptoe on top of those invisible hairs on my back, just out of my reach? How many bugs can one ceiling sustain before the clinging legs pull it down? Where are they coming from? Did we build our house over a cesspool, or a mass grave?

The spiders and ladybugs haven't started falling yet. I mean, the kitchen floor is crunchy, but not with bugs. It's crunchy with cereal. Nobody in this house can eat cereal without scattering it all over the floor. It's a genetic quality we all share. Probably because only one of us ever puts milk in it. My husband is a freak. The rest of us like our cereal as God intended: coated with sugar, injected with red dye # 2, and shaped like cartoon characters. You know, natural.

And it was easier on my nervous system to suck up ladybugs and spiders with a vaccuum cleaner that had a bag in it. At least then I couldn't see them partying through the clear plastic tank.

Pay no attention me my rants tonight. I am coming down with a cold, and nothing seems to help. You know there is something really wrong with the world when you can't even get a buzz from your over-the-counter codeine cough medicine.

Plus, I live in the country, and there is no one near to hear my cries for help, when those bugs start to fall on my head.

And the nearest town is a real hoker; it couldn't support a JoAnne Fabrics store, for cryng out loud. And a Waldenbooks lasted just under a year. Heck, even Starbucks knows better than to try to open a franchise there. Where would they put it? Next to John Deere, or the Lowe's parking lot? A Starbucks between two pawn shops, across the street from the shoe repair, and cater-corner from the tattoo parlor, just doesn't seem right.

I haven't dusted my ceiling fans in so long, they look like spinning prom decorations, trailing expensive silk threads around and around the room. The cobwebs are so thick, I think glitter would stick. Well, that's fine with me. Christmas is coming.

The more I think about it though, the more I realize that there's probably nothing wrong with me tonight that a big bowl of pecan-studded brownie batter wouldn't cure.

And then I could cash in that sugar high to help me clean the house all night!

Good and bad things sometimes come in groups of four.

Four blogs in a row, all by the same guy? What are the odds? And why? And isn't anybody else's blog on the rotation today?

I also got four knitting blogs in a row. And then four mommy blogs in a row. And then four political blogs in a row. And then four (insert profanity here) political and four advertisement blogs in a row.

I'm not putting them down. They were interesting. (except the ads. and the politics.)

It's just weird, topics and people coming in fours like this.

Would there be three other blogs mine could run with? That thought both intrigues and frightens me.

Also: why does one person need four blogs? It gets a bit annoying, you know, to see the same picture and read the same profile, four times in a row. Because, you see, I always read profiles.

Now back to surfing. I've got another fifteen minutes before we have to leave.

If I get another group of four, I might take that as an omen to either: shut down for the day, or, never shut down again. The computer, I mean.

I think sometimes that if Blog Explosion had been around when my children were babies, they might have had to learn to change each other's diapers.

Another restaurant bites the dust.

I have added another restaurant to my 'never return unless hell is freezing over' list.

The Colorado Steak House.

I hate sitting at a table in the middle of the room, in a restaurant. I absolutely hate it. I feel like I'm stuck in a public foyer with a klieg light pointed at me, while strangers watch me eat and comment when I spill French dressing on my chest. I much prefer a booth, where I can pretend I have privacy, and I can douse my steak with ketchup without having same said strangers stop in the aisles on both sides of me and comment on my crudeness.

Speaking of ketchup, what's the difference between dousing one's steak in ketchup and dousing same steak in A-1? Isn't the color and consistency pretty much the only difference? Back off my ketchup, or I'll hit you with my corncob pipe and sic one of my hound dogs on you.

And when the restaurant has three out of four walls lined with lovely cushy-looking booths, and you request any of those booths, and you are told that the booths are unavailable because all of those servers have gone on break, and you are seated at a table in the middle of Grand Central Station, with swarms of people walking to and fro on all four sides of you, to the point where you actually put your elbows on the table to keep them out of the way, well, let's say it made me sulky. My husband noticed.

"You don't like this place, do you." he said to me as I sharpened my butter knife on the edge of one of the interesting-looking biscuits that looked like a butter cookie gone berserk.

"I might like it better if I wasn't sitting in the middle of the busiest intersection in town," I replied.

"You are so picky. Just eat, and pretend they're not all staring and wondering if you're ever going to notice that piece of lettuce balanced on your left boob."

As I was sitting there in the spotlight eating my salad I couldn't help but notice that the booth-servers must have all come back from their break at once, because they were seating people in those booths like mad.

If they had let us have a booth, the content of this post would have been quite different.

All those customers, walking past us, bashing me with purses and folded newspapers, on their way to have dinner in a soft out-of-the-way booth, while there we sat in the center ring, eating stolidly away, whispering because our every word was, acoustically speaking, public domain, wishing we'd gone to the Outback. Or even McDonald's.

Plus, our bill was outrageous. Way more expensive than Outback.

I guess it all comes down to timing.

Such as, next time, we're going someplace else.