My Glass is Half Full. Of Ice.

I haven't seen the teens in about 10 years. I was finishing graduate school in Chicago then. That was my teensy skooch back to the East after eight year stints in Minneapolis and Madison. By teens I mean temps, natch. My own teen years were over two decades ago, and that's the tail end of the rotten pubescent, lemming, un self-aware, unconfident, dorky stuff that make one's teen years so memorable, despite how hard we try to forget.

The temperatures here in Raleigh are taking after stock market line graphs of late and taking a steep dive southward. I didn't move here for this. I remember many a winter not even needing a coat in these parts. It was a welcome change from the mummyesque layering I endured waiting for the bus on 44th Street in Minneapolis or the whip of lake wind chilling me inside out in Chicago. I never did acclimate, despite 10 years out there. Things weren't so bad in Madison because we lived in our own little version of Melrose Place so we rarely had to leave home. That, and we often indulged in Wisconsin's most notable export.

In light of all this frigid weather, folks in North Carolina remind me a lot of the good people of Minnesota. All they talk about is the weather. Instead of the usual "Happy New Year" store clerks remark this time of year (I'll give a week more before I start calling people on the importance of message timeliness.), they call out, "Stay warm!" as they bid you farewell. The neighborhood is quiet, eerily peaceful. No kids. No dogs. Um, why does it seem I'm the only one out walking my dog in these tundra temps?

I'm trying to see some silver lining here. Ice is silvery, right? I'm generally a glass-half-full kind of girl. If you find yourself whooping it up and need to be knocked down a few notches, gimme a call. My alter ego is Debbie Downer. I can make you cringe, cry, or croak in a matter of minutes. Mac Daddy is my optimistic counterpart. He sees the good in everything, which is highly annoying and makes me irritable as hell. I sure hope our sons don't inherit this trait and make their future wives ornery. Sometimes a girl just wants to look into her soap spotted empty wine glass and bitch.

It being 2010, a new year and a new decade and all, I've decided to try on Mac Daddy's disposition. I'm afraid it won't suit me at all but I'm going to give the old college try (Wherever does that term come from?! I surely don't want my boys to try half the stuff I tried in college!). Here's my first, if not feeble, attempt to see the glass half full.

Reasons to not hate the cold weather:

1. No snakes in my yard.
2. Ignored dog poop freezes and is easier to clean up. Granted, Mac Daddy is the often the one faced with this since I jet back inside as soon as Lark has done his business.
3. Children chat less when they are cold because the are busy experiencing chattering teeth.
4. It's perfectly acceptable to have dead leaves, grass, plants and such in one's yard.
5. Snuggling.
6. The Snuggie (never mind that I wear Deal's kid sized one that he got for Christmas).
7. No mosquitoes.
8. I don't have to shave.
9. Jeans and sweaters hide more dietary sins than tank tops and shorts.
10. Boots. Way better than flip flops.
11. Oysters are in season.
12. Beer gets cold quickly if you put it in a cooler on the patio.
13. It's cold and flu season, giving me a fine excuse not to shake hands with people.
14. Conversation common denominator makes it easy to talk to anyone.
15. Scarves hide hickeys (I mean, for those trashy girls who get those kissy bruises. Blech.)
16. Knee socks. (I know Denise at Eat Play Love has my back on this one.)
17. Hot Buttered Rum, Hot Toddies, , Hot Sake, Hot Cider, Hot Chocolate
18. Comfort food.
19. I get wear to that cute chenille hat and scarf set I bought ages ago. Be sure to compliment me profusely if you see me sporting it.
20. An excuse to chill out (pardon the expression) with a good read or a must-see flick.

So tell me, what makes the snot freezing temps more palatable for you?

I Just Don't Get It

Based on some recent and some not-so-recent observations, I've been chronicling things that I just don't get. Some of this stuff simply makes my scratch my head (but not in that "That little itch could be telling you something." kind of way). Some of it simply irks me. All of it leaves me thinking "I just don't get it."


The Dirt & Noise I Just Don't Get It List

People who keep their dining room tables set at all times. Even though they never sit down for a meal there. Ever. Don't those dishes and swan folded napkins just get all dusty? Seems to me that after a while, your dining would start feeling like a restaurant that no one patronizes. It becomes a sad place rather than the hub of family time, festivity, and fabulous fare.

People who have formal living rooms with hand carved chess pieces left just-so on an ottoman by the fireplace. Keep in mind, these are people who are not clever enough to play chess.

People who have formal rooms that children are banned from. I figure my house is my kids' house too so why would I ban them from playing where they want to? Sure, we have rules. Like no sumo wrestling in the living room. No playing frisbee inside the house. I've been jolted by the sound of a pottery lamp shattering and multiple spills of a kelanchoe plant (three times in just one evening of late). Such is the price we pay to having children dwell among us. What are the alternatives? A kennel? The garage? The neighbor's tree house? Look, having children is what makes this house a home. I'll be damned if I ban them from being playful children in their own home.

Raisins. Why ruin a perfectly good grape that could be eaten in its juicy succulence or smashed into wine? Hmmmm...wine or trail mix filler? You tell me the better use for a grape.

Ferrets. And their owners.

Scrapbooking. Oh, I'm sensing some hate mail here. What I mean is that I don't get the actual crafty act of scrapbooking. I totally appreciate the end result but I don't want to paste a bunch of forget-me-nots and argyle socks and candy canes all over a book laden with cutesy captions. Call me old fashioned but I sorta prefer the ol' photo album (acid free paper, natch). And did I just use "scrapbook" as a verb?

Vanity plates that boast the make of a car. Like "BMW" on a BMW. Um, doesn't the logo already tell me that, dude? Redundancy (and idiocy) at its finest. Waste of money there. Clearly someone who has money to burn yet not a brain cell lit up.

I'd like to add Bible verse license plates too. This is not something I saw until moving to North Carolina. Tell me, Midwestern friends and readers, do you see this anywhere in the frozen tundra? I don't recall any of that from my 10 years freezing my bloomers off up there.

People who eschew cake frosting. Worse are those who prefer whipped cream topping to frosting. Blasphemous cake eaters!

Wall-to-wall carpeting. I've had it in all the apartments I ever lived in. I never liked it. It smells like carcinogens. What's the point exactly?

People who hang a big ass television over the fireplace mantel. In my world, that's an interior design no-no deserving of a Glamour magazine black bar. This one's for you, Sam. wink. wink.

Couples who take separate vacations. I mean separate his and hers getaways all the time yet no rendez vousing together. Nothing better than Mac Daddy by my side and a lazy stroll following our taste buds' every whim through the streets of a new city. I reckon that might happen again in oh, about 14 years. Til then, it's Family Vacation. Chevy Chase style, baby.

People who don't read. Books are my drug. My escape. My fantasy. My brain stretch. My dreams. My love. Nothing in my life has made me prouder than watching my son, my Bird, learn to read.


So tell me, what's on your "I just don't get it" list?

The Problem with Reading a la Bret & Jermain

The problem with Bird learning to read is that I ca no longer wear my favorite T-shirt that my friend Will brought me from a Flight of the Conchords concert (never mind that he bought the shirt in a youth size for his son and in his Newcastle stupor he didn't realize that the shirt looked like this).

Journal Therapy

When I was a junior in high school, Mr. Harrison made us keep a journal. I found writing cathartic, as I do now. I never looked at that black and white composition book as homework. I regarded it as an extension of my brain, my heart. I could be creative or sassy or impudent. I wrote with unabashed flair about my crushes, my longings, my worries. I didn't care that my English teacher was reading. I got lost in a world that was 100% my own.

My pen my voice, my paper my therapy. And being the anal perfectionist that I was (rather, am, ahem), I used lined paper only. Still do.

One of the most simple exercises I'd write every so often was a list of 10 things that made me happy and 10 things that made me shudder. It's been a good 20+ years since I've done this, but here goes:


10 Things That Make Me Smile

1. The sound of Whoppers when you shake them in the cardboard container. Try it. It will make you want to dance.
   
2. Smores. Preferably cooked over our outdoor fireplace, with the boys and I eating the marshmallows before they hit the graham crackers.
   
3. The sound of my Bird when he says "Bye bye, Mommy" as he ambles out of the car to school in the morning.
4. I'm Not Really a Waitress on my toes.
5. Chai, the homemade kind with honey instead of sugar.
6. Deal's voice when he mispronounces his "l's" and turns them into "w's."
   
7. Mac Daddy when he sends me a text message just to tell me he loves me.
8. Fall cooking; nothing like the smell of root vegetables roasting!
9. Indulging in People magazine and not having to pretend to be erudite and deep at the coffee shop.
10. Discovering blueberries in my freezer.
    

10 Things That Make Me Gag

1. Ill mannered people.
2. Spam, in my inbox and the icebox.
3. Camel toe and Tammy Faye mascara clad women at the gym.
4. Discovering snot or other bodily juice on my shoulder...at the end of the day when I'm changing out of my clothes.
   
5. Hearing "Stop that or I'm going to spank you" in the grocery aisle.
6. Men who leer and can't make eye contact.
   
7. Gum stuck under the restaurant table.
   
8. My kid rolling said gum around in his hand.
9. Fathers who call parenting their own children "babysitting."
10. The smell of my car when it rains: a most unfortunate lingering effect of leaving my sunroof open during a torrential downpour.
    

So tell me, what makes your Smile/Gag list?

High Jinks

The dude in 28A was picking his nose. Not in that subtle gotta-get-out-a-tiny-dried-booger way. I'm talkin' finger up his nose past the second knuckle. And this was not a quickie. The guy was on a trek, rather his finger was. Mind you that the dude was approaching 40, not 4. During the hour delay to change a flat tire (that somehow went undetected during the maintenance check before we boarded the freaking plane!), he went on to stick said finger into a bag of malted milk balls and nosh away. Sweet and salty treat, eh? I have a hunch this guy knows what ball sweat tastes like.

Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.

The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.

There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.

I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.

Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).

I think I just wrote her match.com profile.

Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.

Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.

The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.

Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.

Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.

Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.

Pennies for My Thoughts: I Accept Paypal

Twitter is but one way for me to find a home for the parade of non sequitors that trample across my brain. My blog, this little verbal hut for my thoughts, is another way I channel all that rolls on the hamster wheel in my head. And so today I bring you the latest round of cerebral confetti flitting about in my brain.

Money with no taste is a shame. Money with no generosity is criminal.

If a woman's work is never done, why is a man's?

Who's making all those hoochie clothes for 10-year old girls? And more pressing, what parents are buying it?

I need a family vacation. But this I mean I need a vacation from my family.

Why are 4, 5, and 6-year olds riding in strollers? A mere three blocks.

Why are those same kids sucking pacifiers? On the way to grammar school?

Why doesn't all the mud tracked into my house stay in the mudroom?

Can someone explain Kate Gosselin's hair to me? Is it an upsidedown mullet? Her stylist must be a beauty school drop out.

Freelance is a misnomer. No wonder I'm not getting paid.

Reality TV has been redefined since I saw the Planet Earth series.

Why is control a character flaw?

The Little Couple?! I'm not sure if I should tune in or look away.

Queen Bee popularity contests don't end. The B just stands for Bitch now.

What exactly is Uniqua?

And why the hell do the Wonder Pets talk in annoying baby talk? Isn't Noggin supposed to be educational?

A perfect playdate means a playmate for Deal and Bird and a playmate for me. George Clooney is preferable.

What's worse: kids who don't get along but moms who do or kids who get along but moms who don't?

Three men with beers standing around a Weber kettle grill. Only one is wielding a spatula. Who says stereotypes aren't true to life?

Stereotypes

Every so often my world is jarred, and stereotypes go all topsy turvy on me. In those moments that little voice in my head sounds strangely familiar. Hmmm...I got it. It's the same robotic monotone as the talking cars that remark, "Door is a ajar." Only my voice sounds more like Rosie and says, "World is jarred."

I was driving behind a car yesterday, and I can't seem to shake the impression. Picture this:

Black muddy pick up truck, a big one, with wheels taller than most people in India. Oh don't get your bloomers in a bunch, I speak from experience. The truck was peppered in bumper stickers like "Here Fishy Fishy," "My rod is bigger than your rod," and "Possum, the other white meat." I'd like to do a socialogical consumer research study on the underpinnings of why people choose bumper stickers. This truck had some sort of rack contraption and a giant green metal tool box in back. The license plate had a rebel flag on it, and there were those tacky mudflaps with the profile of an unnaturally buxom woman straddling this or that (Did Carrie Prejean pose for that too, perhaps?) and a homemade posterboard sign hanging in the back window that read "I love guns and God."

We were stuck at many red lights, and I have an uncannily keen knack for detail so trust me on the deets here. For the record, I'd be great at spotting the bad guy in a police line up so don't fuck with me.

So upon closer inspection I note a dog in thr front seat with the mustached, mirrored sunglass wearing dude in the driver's seat, tatooed arm hanging out the open window. I was dying to see that tat but couldn't get the right angle (There's a geometry joke here, but since I am the only Indian in the world who's bad at math and science I'm not the girl to crack this particular joke.). So back to the dog.

Tell me what kind of dog you suspect this dude had.

lab (black, yellow, chocolate...take your pick)
pit bull
mutt
bull dog
poodle
yorkie
corgi
husky
beagle

Karma

I just picked up a tiny little quote book my mom brought me from India. I flipped it open, and the first thing I read was this:

"Even a bad thought can create bad karma."

Geez, I'm screwed, and not in the Tantric way.

Interrogation

I spend a lot of time with my sons. I'm a chatty one so we talk. I figure I've got a captive audience until they're at least eight so I babble and ponder and regale. Plus both boys are chatty, so we all fight for air time. We are in the car running to and fro an awful lot. And when we're not staging a singalong to Hit Me With Your Best Shot, Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride, Robot Parade, Shake Your Booty, or anything by Barry White, we are chatting. Mostly I tell them stories, real tales or fabrications of what strike me as better antidotes to the truth.

And there are the questions. Geesh, the constant questions that boggle my mind, wrench my gut, tickle my funny bone, squash or propel my inner cynic, depending on the inquiry. The questions range from the deep to the absurd and back 'round again.

And it all starts with, "Hey, Mommy?"

There's the God/Jesus/Bible line of questioning:
Whom did you talk about school, Jesus or God?
Is God the same as Jesus?
How old is God?
Was God poor?
Where does God live?
How old is Jesus?
Why does the Lord want to take us away and keep us?
Why don't we have a Bible? Why don't we read it before bed?
Did those gods really have all those arms and blue skin? (a nod to the Indian folktales we read)
Who hears our prayers? Is someone listening?
Who are the angels?

And the baby questions that offer no easy way out:
How does the baby get out of your belly?
How did the baby get in your belly?
How does the baby know when to come out?
What does the baby eat?
Where does the baby poop?
Do daddies have babies?
Did you know that we start out the size of a sprinkle? (my personal favorite quip)

Biology, the body, and the like:
Why is Daddy hairy? (not on the back, mind you, for that's a deal breaker)
Do you really have eyes in the back of your head?
Why does your belly touch your belt buckle when you sit down? (badge of motherhood, I say)
Why do we have a belly button? Can it do anything?
Babies drink milk from there?! (guffawing ensues)

And the random deep thoughts, Jack Handey style:
Will our next pet die?
Who's the oldest person on earth? (for a while the boys' debate was between my dad and my brother until I squashed that)
When will I die?
Who invented seeds?
What was the first seed? (Adam's?)
What language would people speak if everyone from around the world met?
How long ago was "back in the day?"
You mean we don't just take some meat and sew up the cow?
Do we kill animals when we eat them or are they killed before they're on our plate?
Why does hair grow crooked? (perhaps because it's cut that way to begin with)


I entertain Mac Daddy every night with tales from the car. We lie in bed cracking up, feeling the oozing warmth of love and pride and amazement that the mantle of parenthood carries. For some reason Bird and Deal don't pepper Mac Daddy with such questions. I guess they realize that Daddy is the fun, wrestling, Super Hero, magic epee wielding playmate, while I am the erudite omniscient one. Or they're simply trying to get me to stop singing Can't get Enough of Your Love off key.

Blowing Over Differences

The difference between men and women is palpable on oh so many levels. To say we are wired differently is a gross understatement (emphasis on gross much of the time). Case in point:

When I hear the term "blow out," I think hair, natch.

When Mac Daddy hears "blow out," he thinks the score of the Carolina/Oklahoma game at half time. Then his mind wanders, he gets a glazed over look, and a wanton smile creeps across his face. His male mind replays the scene and gets stuck on the word "blow."

Differences indeed.

Preconceptions of a Porn Star

I harbor my own stereotypes, preconceptions, misconceptions, prejudices, if you will.

So let me just say that if you are a 40-something male sporting a mustache that requires combing, a thick gold chain with a nautical knot and Italian horn, a shirt unbuttoned to your navel, exposing a shag carpet remnant, tight jeans forcing me to have impeccable eye contact, and you approach me and my boys at the playground, my inner voice is screaming porn star!

Seriously, dude, you can't come to a park looking like your resume hails from behind the purple velvet curtain at your locally owned video rental shop.

Wordless Wednesday: Mess Amassed

Delurking Day: Lurk No More

Today in the place I call my second home, the Blogosphere, it is Delurking Day. What? Heavens no, you haven't heard of it?! Truth be told, I hadn't either til Goon Squad Sarah turned me on to it. She did not turn me on, mind you. Not in that way. Although she probably could. That Sarah is something else, I hear. Word gets around this lil Blogosphere. I'm not starting rumors but I'm just sayin'.

Back to today's point.

If you read this blog but never comment, go on. Do it. Get dirty. Make some noise. All the cool kids are doing it. If you've never left a comment on a blog before, free yourself today. Now's your chance. Embrace this global holiday in the spirit of blog peace. Cross the ole "leave comment on Ilina's blog" off your checklist of 2009 goals. Try it. You'll like it. I swear. One lousy little comment won't hurt you. Just this once, I promise. If it doesn't feel good you don't have to do it again. But I bet you're gonna like it. Do it. Just do it. If Nike can just do it, you sure as hell can!

You get the picture. All you lurkers out there, say your piece! Let your voice be heard! Even if it's just a wee whisper I'll really appreciate it. Really, I will.

Hugs and smooches to all who read, lurkers and otherwise!

Now go ahead and post a comment.

The Thing About Facebook

My name is Ilina, and I'm a Facebookaholic.

I dream in status updates and live streams. I only recognize people by their avatars. I find my thumb unconsciously rolling the trackball on my Curve to read updates on the Facebook for Blackberry application that I downloaded, natch. I pore over photos and links and silly videos. I join causes and live chat and play Pathwords (damn you, Will, for hooking me!).

What really has me a bit freaked out is this whole connecting with long lost friends. Yeah, shut your pie hole, folks. I know that's precisely the point. It has me feeling slightly out of sorts, like I live in a parallel universe or something. I am a time traveler and don't recall a thing about the long, strange trip I took.

A bit of background, now keep up. My parents split up. I went to boarding school (my choice, not theirs). I changed schools. I changed schools again. All in all, I went to three high schools in four years (clearly couch fodder but seemed perfectly normal at the time). My parents moved out of my home town. I went to college. I moved to the midwest. I went to graduate school. I visited my home town precisely three times in 20 years, most recently just about three years ago.

You see, many of the people I have been reconnecting with on Facebook were boys and girls when I saw them last. Prepubescent. Innocent. Gawky. I myself was a tiny 4'8 peanut with scraggly hair and geeky tendencies. No self esteem, little confidence, lots of cluelessness. My boobs had not reached their full 32 DD. I shook like a spasming pork butt on the flexed arm hang and huffed and puffed my way around the track for the 600 yard dash (dash, my ass!). I was picked last in gym (no wonder) and faced the evil terror of Mr. Benfer, whose mother terrorized me in math class. I tell you, the Benfer family did not get Christmas goodies from this gal. Where was I? Oh, I was an 82 pound nothing with no athletic prowess, mutated social skills, and a nervous giggle, but I could conjugate the hell out of some verbs in Mrs. Robinson's English class.

Now here I am. A woman of 40. Wife. Mother. Business owner. Wannabe writer. Boobs reduced to a perfectly perky and pleasant 32 B. Yet that geeky little girl still shudders inside me and is about one rope climb away from wetting her pants. I thought I shed her since I lost track of all the people who knew her in the flesh rather than in the stories that I tell. And so she is real again. Watching from the inside out, unaccustomed to her usual view of outside looking in.

The boys and girls I knew then are men and women now. They shave. They're bald. They're fat. They're skinny. They make mortgage payments. They don't have a curfew. They've had sex...with mulitiple partners! They're parents, professsionals. They are on the cusp of a midlife crisis, astonishing considering they were on the edge of preteen angst last I saw them! Some moved to the tropics, some stayed in town. Now, they, and I, are people with a past. When we knew each other before we were people with a future.

I rediscovered the kids who came to my house to celebrate my 13th birthday. I reconnected with the guy I shared my music stand with in band (trombone, in case you were wondering). I found, and have been found by, crushes and heartbreakers and jerks. Instead of being in the cast of their tales, I am a voyeur, playing catch up to a life that went on without me.

I love hearing from these old friends and hope to weave them back into my life. There are so many that I've thought of fondly over the years and wondered how to get back in touch without it seeming creepy or stalkery. Facebook has not opened the proverbial Pandora's Box; it has opened doors, and windows in which I can catch a glimpse of my former self and what I've become. What we've become.

There is something special about Facebook. It is a warming, comforting feeling to get a friend request from someone long lost who touched me and shaped me. It's nice to know that I came across their radar, as they came across mine many, many times. And I would be lying if I didn't say I admit to overt joy when the I see the mean girls who aged very, very poorly (not naming names, of course).

So I haven't hit rock bottom yet. I'm going to keep bellying up to the Facebook bar. Now that we're all old enough to drink legally, I do hope my friends will join me.

Wordless Wednesday: E=MC2 rendered in Playdoh

Paying it Forward

So the movie Pay it Forward actually kinda sucked. Am I wrong here? I mean Helen Hunt rocked it in her Mad About You days, and Haley Joel Osment was still cute then, but overall this movie blew chunks.

But the concept of paying it forward has really stuck with me. Call it karma. Call it divine justice. Call it what you will.

Case in point:

A tow headed young boy of four asks Santa for a train set for Christmas. The real deal. With lights, pretend steam blowing from the engine, tiny faux trees and conductors, a track that doesn't break if someone creaks on the floor next to it. A Lionel. Unparalled in the world of trainmanship. Yes, I realize that's not a word. Work with me and don't act as if you don't know what I mean. This little boy just wants a train set. A perfect train set. And so his grandmother goes on a hunt. A hunt for a steal. More than a bargain. She's become a highway robber.

Goodwill is about to answer this tow headed boy's dreams. Grandma finds a complete train set in fine working condition. For 90 bucks. Oh, excessive for a four-year old, but answering his dreams on Christmas morning is priceless. Thanks for ruining that term, by the way, MasterCard. Grandma collects the various cars, tracks, and accoutrements. She lugs it all to the counter and starts counting out her cash in fives and tens. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty...Eighty. Sounds of rifling through change, receipts, business cards, expired McDonald's coupons, to-do lists fill the air that seems to stand still. A lousy ten dollars short. No train for her fair haired grandson. Shoulders slumped, face forlorn, she gathers the pieces to return them to their spot on the shelf in back.

In sashays an old friend. "Why the long face?" she asks.

Grandma can barely summon an answer. She manages to faintly gesture to the train and mutters something about her four-year old grandson asking Santa for a train set. She's defeated and lacks the energy to catch up on niceties with this old chum.

"Ten bucks?! Why here's ten dollars! Merry Christmas to you and your grandson!"

And so the universe winked in its wily way, reminding her who's in charge.

You see, a few weeks ago this grandmother met a man at Goodwill. This very same shop. A man clean from months of treatment and job training. A man about to graduate to a new, sober life. He wanted to dress the part of success. He had borrowed a tie and had gently used pants in hand. Now if only he could find a collared shirt in which the collar buttoned snugly without choking his Adam's apple when he gulped. He relayed his story in casual yet ripely emotional conversation as they both pecked through the racks of discarded Joseph A. Banks oxford shirts. He hadn't enough money for a proper shirt and he dragged his feet as he somberly walked away, feeling spent, tired, sad,defeated once again.

Grandma slipped him a ten spot.

And the universe paid her back. Sobering indeed.

Getting Trashed

I hate litterbugs. Hate them. Hate them. Hate them. I think they should be jailed in a dumpster behind a Slim Jim factory. There is no earthly reason to open up your car window and toss out trash. No matter how small. Cigarette butts included. Do you hear me, smokers? You're polluting our earth enough as it is with your carcinogens that I don't choose to inhale. Oh, don't get me started on how much I abhor smoking. Did you catch that, Mom? But I digress, as I so often do... I cuss like a mother fucker when I see people litter from their car (in my head, of course, my boys will out-cuss me in due time, but I don't need to be the one to teach them this particular habit).

Here are some things that I've spotted on the roadside and in the brush in the last couple weeks. I've been jotting them down in my blog fodder notebook (not while driving, only at red lights and in the car pool line). Note that I usually drive within a five mile radius of my house, and most of it does not involve a freeway. That's means that this crap is littering my neighborhood streets. And my water. And my soil. It is not only unsightly; it is unsafe (and not just because I am gawking at it while trying to write in my little notebook).

Getting Trashed gets a whole new meaning:

• a pair of boxing gloves
• one shoe, looked like a sneaker
• bag of apples
• ballet slippers
• pair of twisted up jeans
• stuffed plastic Hefty bag that I feared contained body parts so I did not stop for closer inspection
• small wooden crate...perhaps some woodland creature ate the clementines it once housed
  
• speakers, really big ones from back in the day that pass for end tables
  
• dog leash...in my head the dog once attached to said leash is perfectly happy and safe
  
• lawn furniture cushion
• various mega size soda cups and burger wrappers
• pillowcase
  
• baseball cap
• backpack (feared explosives were inside so I hightailed it outta there)
• strap of some sort that looked like a yellow karate belt
• malt liquor cans, really big ones
• velveteen Crown Royal bag
• tube socks
• sand pail
• something tangles that looked like pieces of a blow up holiday lawn Santa
• plastic milk jugs, liter bottles, cans
  

So I wonder what the story is behind all this lost/littered stuff. Did some fed up minivan mom toss out her daughter's ballet slippers when the whining reached fever pitch? Did the baseball cap blow off some dude's head when a double rig sped by? Did some party animals toss the malt liquor cans in haste when they spotted an under cover cop trailing them?

What do you think? Tell me a story about how one item ended up littering my path.

On My Mind in Downward Dog

I got my body flowing at the gym this morning. I took some new class called Body Flow that supposedly adds a dash of pilates, a dollop of tai chi, and a whole stinkin' handful of yoga, mixes it all up, and gets your chi centered and your abs shakin'. Only not so much. Like with anything, when you take the best pieces of stuff thinking it's going to make a magnificent new widget, it fails miserably. This was the crazy quilt of gym classes. The indiviual elements are way better than the sum of their parts. I just wasted an hour getting gyped. One hour of time that I'll never get back. You know how much I hate to work out anyway so this was particularly irritating.

So instead of feeling all centered and relaxed and other such stuff that I'm pretty much incapable of achieving anyway, here's a taste of what galloped around my mind while doing sun salutations, warriors 1 - 3, and downward dog:

John, Paul, Ringo,.... Who the heck is the other Beatle? Hmmm, can't even picture him. John, Paul, Ringo, drawing a blank. Must remember to ask Kate.

I have organic beets in the fridge. What shall I do with them? Maybe I'll try making soup. It is soup season. Damn, it's cold.

I need to pay some bills. Must remember to pay bills. Must remember to pay bills.

Whatever happened to my old friend Portia Barnhart? She's not on Facebook. Why the heck aren't people on Facebook?!

It's only been 15 minutes?! Egads.

Where can I find those mitten and boot warmer thingees that you pop and use to stay warm? I need to find some before we march in the Christmas parade on Saturday morning. Too bad it will be too inappropriate and too early to add some bourbon to my coffee to stay warm. Or will it?

I really need a haircut. What am I going to do about this gray hair?

Gary is a funny name. Funny name for a sweet swaddled newborn. Baby Gary. Not working for me. Roxanne too.

Is it going to take us seven hours to drive to DC again this Thanksgiving?

When is this class over?

That's girl's pose looks totally worse than mine. Look at me, rockin' the yoga pose. Ooops, not so much.

I think I don't like yoga because the clothes show every bulge. I would look great in fencing gear.

My friend Nancy fenced in college. She's not on Facebook either.

Grilled cheese for lunch?

I haven't bought new shoes all season.

I went to Target three times this week. I have a feeling we'll go again before the week's over.

Deal's room needs a rug.

How can I be Indian and suck so much at yoga? My people must be ashamed of me, first math and science, now yoga. We invented this stuff, didn't we?

That instructor is so thin she's concave.

I hate that she is saying tushie. What, are we three year olds in here?

Um, what time is it?

Don't let me fall asleep during this vibration meditation thing. This is not my idea of a good time.


So you see, the class was a bust. And I have recipes to find and people to track down on Facebook.

Grease is the Word

The highlight of our summer trip to LA? Seeing the real deal Grease Lightning live, in person at the Peterson Automotive Museum. That's me and Bird in the photo (nevermind that my arm looks fat and mushy). He was pretty pumped to see it too but he melted down when I told he couldn't sit in it. Seriously, I practically hyperventilated and broke into song and dance when I spotted this vehicular treasure, much to my cool LA brother's dismay. I know all the moves. I committed them to memory years ago. Now I'm teaching them to Bird and Deal. Mac Daddy thinks I'm prediposing them to get the snot kicked out of them on the playground with such shenanigans. I say, Dude, Grease is the word.

I have written before about my embarrassingly bad taste in music.Where there is crappy music there are crappy movies. No brainer, right?

I am a sucker for girly movies. I secretly love when Mac Daddy has poker night so I can watch chick flicks without enduring his sneering and snickering (as he is known to do during my Gossip Girl guilty pleasure). Some of my best girlfriend time is with my pal Christy when we hang out in our pajamas and watch girly movies, wine in hand, chocolate within reach.

Here are some of my favorites. And note that the heady stuff like Schindler's List ain't making this list. This is pure cheese.

Grease - What girl who grew up in the 70s doesn't love this movie? Heck, what girl doesn't love this movie, period?! I had the trading cards, album, and even have my own Pink Lady jacket. really. I just wore it for Halloween last year. Grease kicks High School Musical's scrawny overly computer produced ass.

13 Going on 30 - Come on, so cute! I never watched Alias and thought Jennider Garner was a bit manly, but this movie made me love her.

Princess Diaries - We watched this and its sequel on a girls weekend. We were in our pajamas all day with a stack of Us Weekly magazines spread among us, chips and salsa within reach, Diet Coke by our side, and giddy, giddy girliness all around.

The Sweetest Thing - Oh, this movie almost made me long to be single again. Then I remembered I never had abs like Cameron Diaz or lived in a sweet apartment in San Franciso or looked as hot as Christina Applegate in a white shirt and pencil skirt so I quickly shed that envy. The penis song alone is worth watching this movie. Really. Funny. Stuff. Dang, now it's stuck in my head. The song, folks. The song.

27 Dresses - Worth watching just for the hot reporter guy.

Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful - Oh, the 80s. I was about 16 when these movies were out. I still love 'em 25 years later. Great soundtracks. Even people with good taste in music would say so.

Sex and the City - Clearly the year's best girlfriend flick. Seizure enducing handbag and shoe envy.

Mean Girls, Heathers - Wow could I relate to those movies. I was a four foot tall, 80 pound, smart girl runt. One guess where I fell in the popularity spectrum.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants - I love Gossip Girl and Ugly Betty. Of course I dig this movie! And hell yes I'll be watching the sequel.

So tell me, what bad movies are lurking in your DVD collection? It's OK to fess up. You're in the cone of safety here, folks.

Get Clean Before You Get Dirty

The book Freakonomics is on my nightstand. This is irrelevant at the moment, but you'll get my point shortly.

I suppose this is technically a so-called "Mommy Blog." Well, in order to become a mommy, there is but one requirement (adoption aside for the moment). Nookie. Action. Play. Getting frisky, as the Cunninghams used to say. Call it whatever euphemism you like, but let's keep it clean. I like things to be clean, remember?

Mom, Dad, Big Brother, I recommend you stop reading now. Go on, go book a flight or something. The Internet is good for stuff other than blogs ya know. Go on now. Scat. Get outta here.

Since this is a smut-free zone, I'll be brief and as June Cleaver as possible (then again, how smut-free was she with a kid called Beaver?). The fine folks at Eden Fantasys indulged me in a bit of swag. As a neat freak, I was drawn to the aromatherapy bath and shower stuff. Hubba Hubba, nothing like a spanking clean man. Whoops, probably could have used a better word than "spanking." Delete those visuals from your minds, folks. The massage lotion was a buttery dream, and the foot stuff was porn for my feet. Hmmm, another poor choice of words. You get my drift.

I'm a Virgo. We like stuff clean. We prefer stuff to smell good. Enough said.

Let's just say that I put down Freakonomics in favor of getting my freak on instead.