Musings

Heat

2012-01-06T10:53:00.003-06:00

Reason 1,628 why I am glad I am working in the trailers and not in the building:

This just came through email:
"Group X & Group Y* are trying to determine if one or both of the boilers in Room Z* are operational and whether any heat can be generated for the main library."

*Not their real names

New Year

2012-01-02T10:05:00.003-06:00

I woke up on January 1st with a head stuffed full of ickiness. No, it wasn't a hangover (at least I've never had a hangover that involved snot, but I guess there's a first time for everything). So let's hope I'm getting any and all illness for 2012 out of my system right out of the gate so that the rest of the year can be snot-free. There's a new blessing for you: "May your new year be snot free". Amen.

I got my greedy little paws on my new eReader yesterday. Charged it up, took some [expired] cold meds and then tried to transfer books from my laptop. Anyone else see a problem with that sequence of events?

So I've put the eReader away until cold meds, expired or otherwise, are no longer needed. The SyFy channel has a Star Trek marathon on, I have cold pork chops to keep me hydrated(?) and my cat is in desperate need of some snuggling on the couch after four days without me.

Happy New Year! May it be snot free!

New Year

2012-01-02T10:05:00.002-06:00

So I've put the eReader away until cold meds, expired or otherwise, are no longer needed. The SyFy channel has a Star Trek marathon on, I have cold pork chops to keep mehydrated(?) and my cat is in desperate need of some snuggling on the couch after four days without me.

Happy New Year! May it be snot free!

On the radio as I drove to work this morning...

2011-12-09T09:02:00.003-06:00

I heard this traffic update:

"There's also a lot of fog rolling off the river, so be careful if you're southbound on I-65 this morning."

Do they not warn the north bound drivers because they want them to just drive off the bridge? Does the fog only matter if you're driving south? Do the north bound lanes have magical fog-repelling features? If they do, wouldn't it make sense to put them on the south-bound lanes, since that's the direction of rush hour traffic?

Am I the only one who thinks of these things?

Tornado Warning!

2011-11-16T11:33:00.002-06:00

Working from trailers, there is nothing to compare to the rush of hearing the tornado sirens go off.

The excitement never ends around here.

PS Don't worry Mom, we went into a safe place in the building, from which I am blogging.

Incomprehensible

2011-11-10T20:35:00.003-06:00

5:55 AM: I leave for work.

6:16 PM: I arrive home.

6:30 PM: I try to catch up on emails.

6:45 PM: Brain transmits the following: "Bleep. Blurp. Ghag. Wine?".

Bottom line: I'm glad tomorrow is a federal holiday.

Life

2011-10-13T16:12:00.007-05:00

The stress levels have been steadily rising 'round my little slice of the Deep South these past few months, and the forecast isn't looking much rosier for the future. So instead of dwelling on Gah! LIFE! I don't want to be an adult anymore!, Let's focus on the good.

Wait, first I have to say that at work we are now firmly ensconced in our trailers. And they are as trailor-ific as we can make them, which is, sad to say, not so much. On the other hand my department has the only trailer with a sink in it that is not located in a bathroom, which gives us a nice little kitchen-ette area now that we have the mini fridge, microwave and coffee pot plugged in. This is in direct contrast to another trailer, the staff of which chose to convert one of their bathrooms into a break room by covering the toilet with a table and tablecloth. Unfortunately, I don't have pictures of that.

So, on to being an adult:
I made a doctor appointment a few weeks ago. In the whole "let's pretend I'm not an adult" phase of my life - a phase I'm being pushed out of against my will - I've never had annual blood work done. If I don't know that my cholesterol it is over 400, it doesn't count, right? Well, that was my thinking. But The Professor - who sees his doctors regularly whether he needs to or not - started insisting daily (instead of monthly) that it is necessary, and I finally caved. It had been 4 years or so since I'd seen my good ole Doc, and then it had only been to get a note to say I was fit enough to do some PT at work. It's been over seven years since I've needed to see him. Maybe he missed me?

And apparently I am completely un-adept at making routine phone call's to a doctor's office.

Me: Hi, I need to make an appointment with Dr S.
Her: Ok, what's he seeing you for?
Me: Oh, I'm fine, I need just to get some blood work done.
Her: What kind of blood work?
Me: Um, I don't know, cholesterol?
Her: How often do you have that checked?
Me: I never have, that's why I want to come in. I want to get some annual blood work done.
Her: Annual...
Me: Well, let's try this: I'm going to *start* getting blood drawn once a year for whatever it is adults need their blood tested for.
Her: Ok...{silence}... Dr S will talk to you about it and figure it out when you get here.

AND! Did you know that they force you to fast before you come in for this nonsense? Not only can you not eat breakfast, but you already know you're going to get used as a pin cushion! No wonder the receptionist was confused - she was wondering why I was volunteering to come in!

Anyway - yes, I'm finally getting to the good part of the blog post - it all came back wonderful. Cholesterol, triglycerides (What the HECK are those, anyway?), iron, liver, thyroid...my blood is so healthy it could take your blood out in hand-to-hand combat. The technician actually wrote "Great!" at the bottom of the report, which kind of made me feel like I was getting a report card, but I didn't get the gold star.

And just to prove I'm not really an adult yet: They had so much trouble with my veins (I got to get pricked by more than one needle. Fun!), that they had to get out the little bitty needles they use on kids and stick me on the side of my elbow, instead of in the crease like normal. And then I almost passed out. Because they probably took too damn much of my healthy blood.

Renovation Ramblings

2011-09-15T12:28:00.004-05:00

When I started at my library a little over six years ago, there was a small buzz of excitement in the air - the plans for a long-awaited renovation had been delivered a few weeks before, and everyone was still interested in the new configuration (note that I said "interested" and not "excited" - those who had been in the government's employ for longer than 4 hours knew better). What I saw was that my department would be all over the place during the process, so I purposefully did not bring in a lot of personal items into my cubicle world; no need to decorate the place up only to have to move it all around the universe every two months, I told myself.

Six years, three positions and some very full desks later, half of the reference staff has retired or moved on - and the contractors are just beginning the renovation. The hold up was your typical nightmare of problems - contract problems, spending cuts, contracts expiring, squirrels made the contracts into winter nests and had babies in them - you know, the usual excuses.

And now - finally - the time is nigh. They've started Doing Things to the building. This building is something like 382 years old (or 70, whatever) and nothing in it is up to code. Nothing in it even works right - except, of course, the librarians. {cough}.

Broken boilers? Check. We all have blankets, sweaters and fingerless gloves at our desk.
Broken Air Conditioning? Check. We all have ceiling fans, plus at least one fan on our desk. Some of us {ahem} have two. To keep it interesting, however, the A/C also breaks in the other direction - more than one person has been using a space heater on days when the outside temp is over 100.
Bad electrical wiring? Check. The power shuts off randomly several times a month. And then there are the days that the fire alarm claims that the building has turned into an incinerator. So far, it's never been accurate, but I'll take it, since it's best that it be wrong in the right way (Aside: "Wrong in the Right Way" is an awesome name for a rock ballad, and I should get paid for it if anyone ever uses it. I'll be sure to sue and use my blog as proof should it come to that).
They removed the asbestos last year, though, so we're already on the road to improvement!

The fun news is that the power, heat and air will grow even more unpredictable than usual over the next 18 months, since they're literally replacing everything associated with power, heat and/or air. Which doesn't make me feel very safe and secure about this building in which I've been working for 6 years, but I'm still alive so...that which does not kill me really does make me stronger.

The contractors offered us some trailers to use during the Reno. This process is going about as smoothly as could be expected:

They offered us three triple-wide trailers to be used by staff until the project is complete. They took us to view them, told us they would reconfigure the temporary walls inside to our specifications, and that we'd have them next week. That was 7 weeks ago.
A week later, they said "Three triple-wides? No, no, no. You'll get a couple of single wides. Next week."
"Next week" we were told "The two double wides you're getting will be here. Next week".
Last week, the original three triple wide trailers were installed behind our building, and we were told that we'd have to deal with moving the plywood walls ourselves. We are librarians, not carpenters, people!

This week, the building started vibrating.

Need I mention that buildings - especially ones anchored by the wight of over half a million books - are most assuredly not supposed to shake. I'm told it's because they are compacting the soil for the building addition, in preparation for the concrete foundation. My brain - which is rattling against my skull - is Not Happy with life and desperately wants the trailers to be ready. I'm telling myself that it's like a giant body massage, except that my brain is calling bullshit on that as it jumps around inside my skull like it's playing dodgeball with a demented orangutan.

This process is bringing daily surprises to our lives, which I keep telling people keeps our brains youthful. I also keep getting dirty looks immediately after I say that. Ok, so the water main has been accidentally broken into so many times that the toilets always look like they've just been used (you are so very welcome for that visual). And yes, we've been evacuated twice because the contractors created a gas leak. But we'll have a working HVAC system sometime in the future. Optimism, people! They successfully removed the asbestos, remember?

Not that I'm holding to the contractor's 18 month estimate. My current estimate is 3 years.

I don't know if the Wine Cure will hold out that long - I may become immune - but it will be fun to find out!

One thing that made me laugh out loud: Each triple wide trailer has two bathrooms. When we went to take a look at the trailers in the old location, there was a sign on one of the men's restrooms that read something like this:

"Gentlemen: If you need to sit down to complete your task in here, please go to Building 600".

2011-09-11T19:51:00.003-05:00

September 11, 2001.

Being a librarian, that is a date I frequently come across - it's a subject heading, used for both books and also for articles used in the Air University Library Index to Military Periodicals (AULIMP), which my library produces. I guess, as a result of the latter, I've gotten a little immune to what it actually means.

The Professor and I talked today about what we remembered about that day. I was an undergrad - actually, I was due in one of his classes that day. I remember that I woke up and got in the car to go to class, listening to NPR and thinking that the news coverage was about the previous attack on the World Trade Center, because - surely, the US wouldn't be under attack? Surely, it was just a normal day?

After 10 minutes in the car, on my way to class, I realized (ok, belatedly, it was a long night before) that it was happening in real time; it wasn't some kind of anniversary special report. I got to the university and my class was cancelled, so I turned around and went home to the apartment.

I remember calling my mother - I knew none of my family was in New York City, or Washington DC, but I remember needing to hear her voice. I remember standing in my living room, talking to her about what was going on - not the actual words. Just that hearing her voice was all I needed then.

And then I had to work a night shift at the restaurant. It was so quiet. There were few customers, and none of them wanted to be anywhere but the bar - because that's where the TV's were.

I remember being afraid - "what if it's just the first attack? What location is next? What's the new normal?". Living in a small town, in the Deep South, I wasn't in any danger - I'm probably not living where someone would choose to hurt the US. But still, the danger was there in my mind.

I was lucky. I lost no one. But I'll never forget the fear of That Day.

Cell Phones

2011-08-05T16:09:00.003-05:00

I caved earlier this year. I got a smart phone. I'm still not all that convinced that it's worth the monthly data plan. I have ZERO reception at work, thanks to the metal encased room in which I work. My laptop is within 10 feet of me if I'm at home. And I'm boring enough that I spend the vast, vast majority of my time in one of those two places. But I got sucked in to the Android world, and I have to admit, that I do like my shiny little piece of hardware.

What I most emphatically do not like are other people's smart phones.

Yes, I think it's awesome that every little piece of trivia can be looked up in 30 seconds or less. But when you whip out your phone to fact check every statement in our lunch conversation - requiring the words "let me look that up" to be uttered every five seconds - I am going to be annoyed. I went out to lunch with you, not your iPhone.

I think it's wonderful that you are so close to your mom/cousin/Great Aunt Hilda that she sends you a picture to your cell phone every time she buys a new pair of shoes. But the resulting text conversation that lasted for 5 minutes while you kept saying "Sorry, just one more thing" to me? Is the reason we probably won't be hanging out much in the future.

Yes, I know you can check your email/Facebook status/Twitter feed with a flick of your thumb. But I didn't make plans with you to watch you bury your face in your phone and make "uh-huh" noises at my conversation attempts. If I'm that boring, I have a simple solution: don't make plans with me.

And I always feel sorry for people who are with someone who is clearly with their phone, and just happen to be sharing a booth with their dinner partner. When I was waiting tables - back when cell phones were just phones and not mini computers - I saw arguments about it (not to mention that, even today when phones in general have been around for a year or 100, a lot of people don't realize how much louder they speak on a phone). Gah! You are probably not that important! There are very few people who are. Take 45 minutes to talk to your kid, instead of saying "just draw me a picture" and then talking for 15 minutes about yesterday's round of golf.

I am seriously beginning to feel like Ashley Judd in that Star Trek:TNG episode, "The Game". Any minute now, someone is going to hot glue my phone to my hand and wire my eyes open, trying to bring me into the cult. I just hope they slide open the phone so my keyboard is visible first.

Jetlag

2011-06-21T09:35:00.004-05:00

My brain is stuffed with cotton, and that cotton has been soaking in some kind of heavy syrup for a week and then woven into the tightest weave ever before being stuffed inside my skull. I'm not sure where my brain went. I think it's hovering about 2 feet above my cotton-filled cranium, watching everything I do through a haze of cotton plants.

That is how full my head feels at the moment. I'm not drunk, although my ability to think is more impaired than usual.

Jetlag.

I can honestly say I've never experienced it before.

Speaking of travel, I never want to fly again. I say that every time I get off of an airplane, so that statement doesn't exactly express intent. I'm going to Italy next year, after all, and I'm certainly not going to cross the ocean on a freaking boat. Given the choice of 12 hours of panic-ing out (plane) versus a week and a half of hysterics (boat), I'll self-medicate and do the 12 hour thing. I've seen Titanic. I don't think I can be sedated enough to even step foot on the Queen Mary 2.

Speaking of flying, those airlines really have a thing going there. People pay truckloads of money to go to DisneyWhatever and Paramount TakeMyMoney Studios and ride those crazy upside-down-stop-on-a-dime-with-a-side-of-heart-attack machines they call roller coasters. The airlines? Give you the same sensation but charge you $600 for a ticket and $10 for a sandwich. Oh yes, they no longer give you food on trans-national flights without charging you for the fake mayo.

The only fun thing about flying is the few seconds before landing. The Professor and I have a game where we try to guess whether the pilot is former Navy (the pilot doesn't slow much before the wheels touch and the landing is hard enough that it feels like you are going to actually tunnel under the runway) or Air Force (gentle landing from a pilot that knows he has space to not kill every organism on board, that then makes you worry that he is not slowing down enough and you will plow through the buildings at the end of the runway).

So either way I always think I'm going to die. But I get a few seconds every flight to play a game. Somehow, I never find that a worthy trade-off. Yay for games?

And yesterday - or two nights ago, more specifically (I think) - two of my three flights started with the pilot saying "The first half of our flight should be fairly smooth", which leaves my brain an hour and a half to wonder what the hell is going to happen in the second half of our flight. Is there a herd of pterodactyls waiting on the other side of the Rockies? Is the fake mayo going to respond unfavorably to the change in air pressure and spontaneously combust? Why is Blogger telling me that "combust" is not a word?

So, jetlag.

Jetlag

2011-06-21T09:35:00.003-05:00

That is how full my head feels at the moment. I'm not drunk, although my ability to think is more impaired than usual.

Jetlag.

I can honestly say I've never experienced it before.

Speaking of travel, I never want to fly again. I say that every time I get off of an airplane, so that statement doesn't exactly express intent. I'm going to Italy next year, after all, and I'm certainly not going to cross the ocean on a freaking boat. Given the choice of 12 hours of freaking out (plane) versus a week and a half of hysterics (boat), I'll self-medicate and do the 12 hour thing. I've seen Titanic. I don't think I can be sedated enough to even step foot on the Queen Mary 2 herself.

So either way I always think I'm going to die. But I get a few seconds every flight to play a game. Somehow, I never find that a worthy trade-off. Yay for games?

So, jetlag.

2011-06-03T17:41:00.003-05:00

I have one thing to say to the weather at the moment:

Are you flipping kidding me?!?

Wait. I might have a few more things. I usually do.

Hot. Heat. To be heated thoroughly. I'm pretty sure that I could cook on my driveway, although I'm not all that tempted to try it.

The Bestest Friend is prone to hearing my obnoxiously sunny view of any and all weather around The Deep South. "It's raining!" she'll say. "Yes," I reply, "just think of how much my garden is loving it."

"It's raining AGAIN", I'll get a few days later. "Make it stop!".

"No," I sagely reply, "for once we're not going to have a rain deficit".

"I can't take it! It's too hot!" is usually answered with: "But this kind of heat only comes at the end of summer. It'll be over soon."

This year, I'm about to complain. I haven't yet, and this is my attempt to keep it back.

But sweet bleeding jesus, it is freaking hot. And it's only JUNE.

This is August weather. When the weather is like this, I console myself with thoughts like "This is summer trying to break you at the very end. September is a shorter month. If you survive, you get October. Lovely, fall-filled October. You love October. Just a few more days. Don't let summer win..."

This year, I'm wanting to commit murder on July and August. Because it's only June. And I'm already dehydrating.

So, instead of being sad that it's too hot to BREATHE outside, I'm going to focus on the only happy side effect of getting three months of August in one year: I'm going to make more Pina Coladas. That's the only reason God would let it be this hot at the beginning of June, right?

2011: The Year I will break every limit of wine consumption I have ever set

2011-04-25T15:38:00.004-05:00

So there's been a small-to-middling amount of craziness at work this year.

I got yet another new boss. I've been in this job for three years and I've had three bosses; I'm beginning to be glad I keep saying "no" to the possibility of a promotion.

Totally unrelated: The most insane contracting processes in the world must be run by the US Air Force, meaning: I've worked for the government for 6 years, and I thought I knew what kind of paperwork comes with the job.

I have rarely in my life been so wrong as I was in my perspective on government paperwork.

Bonus points! We're starting a building renovation. This will make things much calmer. Especially that part where they take a third of our collection and put it in another building.

Although, in the base's favor: They did add a Taco Bell Express to the food court. That makes me much, much happier than it should.

And then ... For some reason, I decided to do the annual reviews for my six employees on a Monday (?!? Graduate degrees do not prove intelligence). And I learned a few things. Education is good! Right?

I learned 1 of them needs slow down to half-time for about 12 weeks over the rest of the year.

I learned 1 of them is getting her Master's degree in 4 months and will be getting another job (Education! It's Good for you!).

I learned 2 of them are retiring in the next 6 months, possibly within days of each other - probably within days of Ms. Graduate getting her shiny new position.

I came out of the review room and thought "Well, I've got a few things to learn this year..."

So...Yay for Education?

I like my job, and as job's go, it's really not stressful. I always tell my team "we're buying books, not saving lives" when they get over-stressed about things. I think it's time I printed that on a wine glass, so that each time I take a ~~swig~~ genteel sip, I'll be reminded of my own advice.

My advice for you? Buy stock in Rex Goliath.

I feel the need for a rant, and it’s political, and I have a blog, and oh look! I even have a "rant" label!

2011-01-28T15:16:00.004-06:00

So apparently a bunch of men in the House of Representatives have taken it upon themselves to decide, once again, that they know more about my body than I do (there are 173 co-sponsors, only five of whom are women*).

This time, they have decided that:

· If I go out and have a drink, and someone slips a drug in that drink to make me pass out, and they proceed to rape me, I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape".

· If I become mentally disabled and incapable of telling a man “no”, it doesn’t count as rape and I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape".

Also not allowed to decide how to handle their own bodies are women over the age of 18 who are victims of incest, because overnight you suddenly became capable of changing your life and all of a sudden it's not rape.

Also, if I get raped and have been putting my money in a tax-exempt Health Savings Account? I can't touch that money if I want to get an abortion.

Is this bill going to become law? It’s a pretty long shot, thank goodness.

Would I even need the option to get a Medicare funded abortion? I sincerely hope not, and since I’m in a fairly privileged segment of society, the odds are long.

But. That’s. Not. The. Point.

The point is that the line keeps being moved for what is “reasonable”. And that line is moving closer to the extreme side.

The point is that once again, people who will never be faced with this decision about their body are saying that I don’t have the right to make that same decision about mine.

The point is that “forcible rape” isn’t even a legal term and isn’t defined in the law – which means it can mean whatever the hell anti-abortion people want it to mean.

The point is that this will not change those mens’ lives in the least.

The point is it could be disastrous for the two people whose lives it will change the most.

*And to the women who co-sponsored the bill: If you stay out of my uterus’s business, I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?

That Stupid Dog

2011-01-16T21:46:00.005-06:00

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. I had a plan: to me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.

That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz into the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.

And that's how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

2011-01-16T21:46:00.004-06:00

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

2011-01-16T21:46:00.003-06:00

That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz in the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

2011-01-16T21:46:00.002-06:00

That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz in the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

I

2011-01-09T15:34:00.006-06:00

And right on time, we have another Alabama Winter Storm of the Century!

2008.

2009.

2010.

This year, we're going to leave off that part about "So Far Because I'm Going To Need A Better One", because I think I've been tempting fate. I should have been more specific. I want SNOW storms. Winter storms can include ice, and Mother Nature finally found that loophole in my pleadings.

It looks like that's what we're in for around here (loopholes, which in this instance is ice). Now, ice has some of the same positive aspects: it's getting The Professor and me a day off work; I get to have a celebratory beer at 3:40 in the afternoon; my favorite meteorologist will have a long-form weather special this afternoon.

The negatives? Oh, the little possibility that ice will end all of this happiness as we know it.

I went out to get a picture of something noteworthy, but so far the only thing noteworthy is my windshield, which is a solid sheet of ice. The driveway is on its way to becoming an ice field, but luckily I only had to take one step on it to get to the car. Knowing my graceful self, you might say "But, D! That's one step to many!" And you're right, I dared fate when I took that one step. Which is why I think I'll stay inside until it's all gone. The next time I step outside, Mother Nature will probably have teleported a polar bear to my front yard to teach me not to taunt her about Alabama Winter Storms of the Century.

PS: Why in the world do I not have a weather label on this blog? I've been putting all of these under "domestic bliss"? The Professor could care less about my weather ramblings. I blame the wine I was probably drinking for the lack of motivation to create a new label. Just as I'll blame the beer I'm drinking now for the lack of motivation to create a new label. See? I'm consistent in my laziness!

Well, this is strange

2010-12-09T15:00:00.000-06:00

We have a Burger King on base, and awhile back one of my coworkers was going to grab lunch. So we pulled up the menu online to play with their little interactive "have it your way" fun thingy. And we discovered a strange thing.

Coworker originally said she'd get a grilled chicken salad, because obviously that's the healthy choice. Choosing the fat-free dressing, this is what the nutritional value of the salad is projected to be:

We decided to compare that to her number one menu choice at BK: The stacker. Two meat patties, two slices of cheese, two slices of bacon. Yum. (Well, yum until she adds mustard, because mustard is one of the fastest ways to ruin a hamburger.) Anyway, naturally, she would get the meal - fries and a drink. And that's when things got surprising:

The Stacker meal (she did remove the stacker sauce in favor of the mustard) had the same amount of Calories and fat as the salad - but it also had far less sodium, and a little less sugar and cholesterol.

The meaning she took from this: A bacon double cheeseburger is obviously God's way of telling you that you've had enough salad in your life lately.

Why November is the BEST Month of the Year

2010-11-01T08:35:00.003-05:00

It's not August.
I have a birthday at the end of it.
The food...all the glorious food...
Two national holidays = two free days off of work. That's probably not why I'm supposed to like Veterans' Day, though.
The high temperature is consistently under 90.
I get presents. Usually in the form of food.
Christmas is right around the corner. Which means more presents.

Sometimes, November is all about me and the food.

Actually, that's pretty much my life.

"A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?"

2010-08-24T10:43:00.004-05:00

I'm not one to try and hurry seasons along. When the seasons change, I always think of what I like about the new one. I like all of them, even summer, as odd as that sounds coming from someone living in Alabama. I love that it stays light so long, I love that I am was growing tomatoes in my backyard, I love that it's light when I drive to work in the morning, I love that I can sleep with a fan on, and I love the excuse to drink as many pina coladas as my brain can manage to wrap itself around. Mostly the last one.

But this year ... y'all, the heat has turned people into what I can only call Crazy Zombie People Who Are Trying To Destroy My Brain With Their Crazy. And it's close to working. Because the Crazy has reached epic proportions and no amount of rum is curing this. Maybe the problem is that I'm the only one drinking it? Solution: The government needs to change all of our water fountains at work to rum fountains.

Fall needs to get here. Soon. The Summer Crazies are making me insane.

Stream-Of-Consciousness Vacation Thoughts That Would Have Been a Weekend-Long Live Blog If I Wanted The Criminals to Know I Was Away From Home

2010-08-13T15:45:00.015-05:00

Thursday, 6 AM: The only reason to get up before noon on the first day of vacation is because my sister, the pool and the adult beverages are 8 hours away and not in my backyard.

10 AM: This whole "travelling with a broken CD player and malfunctioning Zune" means that The Professor and I have two options: babble for hours (that would be me) or listen to stupid morning radio shows. HOW do these people get paid for that job? I'm way funnier (in that they are about as fun as watching paint dry) and I have much better taste in music. I just can't play any of it right now.

11 AM: Solution: Stopped to buy a converter so I can plug my laptop into the car. Peace and harmony are restored. This means it's nap time.

4:30 PM: Sister hugged, beverage in hand, pool in sight. We're making Big Plans for the evening that involve a trivia show, more beverages, beach walking, a meteor shower, and midnight swimming. People, we are serious Partiers. BE WARNED.

1:00 AM: We won the Trivia game, but The Meteor Shower That Wasn't has won in life, in that it is apparently an invisible meteor shower? But all's good, because my brother-in-law has taken over making my drinks. I probably should only have 1 of these if I plan to be able to walk tomorrow.

3:30 AM: Do I think I'm still 21 or something?

Friday, Noon: Yeah. Should've stopped the brother-in-law after one drink (where "one" equals "the first one *he* made for me, not the first of the evening). Life Lesson for us all: Just because you have a Master's Degree does not mean you possess a whole lot of intelligence.

3 PM: My niece put in season 1 of The Simpsons and then - OH DEAR LORD - informed me they have the first 10 seasons on DVD.

6 PM Cooking dinner, almost finished and Sis realized we have no wine chilling for dinner. How will we survive? Either push dinner back by 10 minutes or switch to Rum & Cokes earlier than planned.

8 PM: We will live dangerously and go to a LATE movie. Dear Inception: I hope I still have the brain power at 10:30 PM to understand what the hell you are about. I'm not holding out a lot of hope.

1 AM: Holy Dreamworld, Batman. I may never sleep again. Or maybe I never want to wake up? Either choice seems equally dangerous at the moment.

Saturday, 12:30 PM: The Simpsons is officially the stupidest show ever. Thank god for the Internet. The Professor is loving this, though. Wonder what that says about us?

3 PM: We only had the equivalent of 10 bottles of wine in the house. Obviously I needed to buy more while we were out scouring the area for seafood to make bouillabaisse. No crustacean will be safe from our big pot; no Red safe from our glasses. Red Crustaceans are doubly cursed.

7 PM: Sis just decided we've got this bouillabaisse making thing down, maybe could do it in our sleep. We won't, since we're drinking with candles burning and all. But she's right.

11 PM: If you pour the wine into a beautiful pitcher, it will taste better.

Sunday, 10 AM: We're going to race mother nature and take a trip to the beach as soon as we can all get ready. Who do you think is going to win this?

1 PM: We won - the beach was awesome. Then we came home and lunch has now defeated me. Vacations are for naps, right?

4 PM: Sis and I are making a quick trip out to buy something on sale, and as we're leaving she says gleefully: "By the time we get back, it'll be time for a drink". I love the way this woman thinks. PS: The Simpsons live on.

6:30 PM: Even The Professor has reached his limits on watching The Simpsons. I honestly didn't know this was possible. He has also resorted to rum & juice. Light on the juice, I believe.

6:45 PM: While cleaning the beautiful wine pitcher from the night before - preparing to refill it - Sis finds the warning on the bottom that says "for decorative purposes only; do not use to serve food or drink". Plus side of this: if we grow a third eye anytime soon, we'll know what to tell the doctors!

11 PM: Dr Horrible + Rocky Horror + bottle of red = Best Way to End a Vacation Ever.

Monday, 4 PM: Back home. The cats - oddly - didn't seem to notice we even left. I'm glad no one tried to rob us. The cats would've been useless on the defense front. At least they were smart enough to stay out of my rum.

Discovered:

2010-08-10T14:47:00.003-05:00

A restaurant in town that has "Crab Cake BLTs", which are made of crab cake, melted cheddar, lettuce, fried green tomato, smoked bacon on grilled Texas toast.

If they replaced the Creole Remoulade with a Thai sweet chili sauce, I would probably kill myself eating these sandwiches.

Property Improvement Tour Part IV

2010-08-01T08:00:00.000-05:00

So, let's go through the run-down of what I've already spelled out:

Replace Lawnmower.
Repair Harley.
Replace Dishwasher.
Repair A/C.

Around the time that the lawn mower died -but before the dishwasher died - The Professor began talking to a Neighbor who who happens to have been a boss for a concrete company for some many years, and happens to do some work on the side.

Also for lo these many years, The Professor and I have wanted to expand and screen in our back patio. It's not really big enough for everything we have crammed out there. And I want a June Bug free June.

Old June-Bug Infested Back Patio:

One night, The Professor came home early from his evening walk and tells me he's been talking to Concrete Dude, who as we speak is going around the house to our back yard.

An hour later, we had a plan that included a six gajillion metric tons of concrete and my backyard.

The Professor was giddy. All he could think of was the 300+ square feet that he would no longer be required to mow.

Yes, please go read that again: Over 300 square feet. 3/4 the size of my living/dining room combined. Our total patio now clocks in at 425 square feet.

Ok, I may have been a little giddy too.

Fast-forward two weeks, to the evening that Concrete Dude is supposed to come out and start tearing up the ground to prep it for this glorious Outdoor Escape we will build. That just happened to be the same night that Friend J got electrocuted because *someone* <> flipped a switch the wrong way while he was hooking up our latest new dishwasher.

I briefly thought of cancelling - we seem to be bleeding money this summer - but The Professor got all rational with the "We're fixing things out of that Emergency Fund you made up build, it's not a crime to use 5% of it!" followed by the "We have the money saved for the concrete already, too!" and finally toppled me over with a round of "Let me pour you a(nother) glass of wine".

So. We have a Mass of Concrete in our back yard. And it is a thing of beauty...or as much as a Mass of Concrete can be, anyway.

Appliance Tour 2010 Part III

2010-07-30T14:00:00.002-05:00

I really should have led the whole “We-are-nincompoops-when-it-comes-to-home-ownership” stories with the facts that in the two weeks before the dishwasher died: A) We had to replace our lawn mower, and B) The Professor had to take his Harley into the shop because it wouldn’t start. If I remember correctly – don’t hold your breath here – it was something to do with a spark plug or a fuse or maybe a spark fuse? Whatever it was, it was constantly firing and draining the battery, and even I know a drained battery does not a motorcycle ride make. Basically, the problem was something that plenty of people could do on their own. We took it to the shop and paid 5 times too much to have it diagnosed and fixed.

Aside: The Professor minus the Harley for 4 days = one very sad husband.

So…about a week after the Dishwasher Fiasco was finally over and done with (did I just jinx myself? It will probably devolve into a nuclear weapon in about 20 minutes), I got a phone call from The Professor. It was about 4 PM and I was still at work. I could practically hear the soundtrack of doom playing when the phone rang.

He wanted to let me know that it was 84 degrees in the house. And seeing as how the thermostat was set to 78 degrees…

Can I even tell you how hard and fast my stomach sank? I know even less about air conditioners than I know about Harleys and dishwashers, but what I do know is this: THEY ARE EXPENSIVE AND SCARY. Mostly scary with a scattering of expensive. Because when it comes to expensive, a smattering is more than enough.

So he called up Friend J.

And Y’all, when The Prof told me he had called good ole reliable Friend J, I assumed we would just have to start paying that man for allowing me to call him our Friend. I don’t think all the home cooked meals and bottles of liquor are going to cut it for much longer. And dude’s a vegan so I can’t even bake him cookies.

Anyway, unbeknownst to us, Friend J’s brother in law is in the A/C business. As in “has his own A/C business with a logo’d truck and an assistant and everything”.

So the next evening, A/C Dude & A/C Dude’s Assistant come over and do a few things to the outside unit and then head up into the attic to check out whatever’s up there. All I know is that’s where we go to change the filter, and really we don’t do that as often as we should, because Holy Mary have you BEEN in an attic in July in Alabama? No? Do you know why you haven’t? Because you’re not SUICIDAL.

Anyway, Dude’s Assistant comes back down with a piece of paper and says “Here’s your problem” before showing it to me. So I look down and there is a tiny little fried baby mouse on that piece of paper that he had found inside the unit in the attic.

A mouse electrocuted himself by chewing on the wiring in my air conditioner. You want to know why? Because he was suicidal from being in an attic in Alabama in July.

The Dishwasher Fiasco, Part II

2010-07-22T14:48:00.003-05:00

So, last I left you in this marvelous tale, I was getting a new dishwasher and we all thought the drama was over.

You know I didn’t make the process of getting a new dishwasher easy on anyone, right?

My first bright idea was to go up the Habitat for Humanity Restore and check out what they had. A friend of mine in Nashville had great luck getting one last year, so I told The Professor we’d head that way.

Of course it’s almost an hour away. And when we arrived…the look on The Professor’s face was priceless. “Honey,” says he, says my love, “I’m glad I got a lunch date out of this, because we are not buying anything here”.

Well, I got a little huffy and made him at least walk over to the appliances, at which point he said “I’ll wait in the truck”.

OK, fine, we go to my second choice. Mazers, which sells scratch/dent/show-room models. It’s where he bought his washer, dryer and refrigerator 7 years ago. And our fridge keeps the beer cold, which is all I need. So, we set off for discount appliance land.

An hour later – and after more incompetence & disorder in a sales department than I ever want to see again – oh yes, Mazers, you broke my heart and I’m calling you out BY NAME – I had a dishwasher. It was so disorganized, I almost went up to the loading dock and asked them if they had changed their mind and wanted to keep my little GE for themselves.

The next day, trusty old Friend J comes over to install it for us. And things…well, things did not go so well. First off, I headed to the gym, leaving the Professor in charge of handing over tools and stuff. I was done with dishwashers for the day. I figured if I paid for it, The Prof could watch over the installation.

So, problem #1: There was no “junction box”, which Friend J assured us was necessary although who knows why. Luckily, we still had the old broken machine – sitting in our kitchen, because we’re classy like that – so he just reached over and took it off and put it on the new sucker.

There was also a trip to Lowes involved – although I have no idea what for – because some other $2 part wasn’t included. But finally – finally! – the thing was put together, pushed in and hooked up.

At which point it refused to take in water from our pipes. This dishwasher was not out to make friends with ANYONE.

The reason was long and detailed, and involved a switch of some kind that Friend J discovered was broken. I understood exactly one word: broken.

Guess who spent an afternoon taking the dishwasher back?

Our second trip to Mazers took twice as long and – as incomprehensible as it seems – was even more disorganized than the first. First these people who hadn’t wanted to get rid of such a prime piece of kitchen equipment now couldn’t figure out the process to take it back.

By this point, The Professor had had it with me and my money saving ways. And when I say he’d “had it”, I mean “almost didn’t allow me to have any input on where we went next” and no amount of kissing and sweet talk was going to get me in this conversation. That’s when I pointed out that I had the credit card.

So we ended up at Lowes’, chose a model and had it delivered. Installation was not free – it cost $100+ - they said because they had to get a licensed electrician to install it, and they don’t keep those on staff. I guess that’s true? Doesn’t matter, because Friend J – unbelievably – had promised to help install the new one when it came.

So, 2 days later, the boys are back on the kitchen floor and discover that – Surprise! – there was a different part not included with this model. Off The Professor went to the hardware store, instruction manual in hand to ensure he purchased the right thing...

Where he was promptly told that the instruction manual was wrong and sold a different part.

When he got home Friend J laughed, sighed, and said “let’s go”, taking them to a different hardware store to get the correct part. Back they came, full of confidence that they would get this thing DONE and finally eat dinner.

I was given 2 jobs: Cook said dinner, and turn off the circuit at the breaker box. I can handle that!

It was only after I ELECTROCUTED Friend J while he was helping with my THIRD dishwasher in 2 weeks that I realized I had flipped the circuit without really looking – and it had never been flipped back on after the last fiasco.

It all worked out in the end, leaving 3 important facts: Dinner was damn good, the dishwasher washed the dishes, and Friend J is still a friend.

But…I’m thinking that from now on, The Professor and I should just leave the country when we need something repaired or replaced.

It's been awhile since you've seen Layla

2010-07-03T10:29:00.004-05:00

So, here she is, taking in what the cats call "A Good Morning Sun-Nap".

She loves to sleep on tote bags (our last Bengal loved to pee on them, so I don't argue with her).

That bag was hanging off the back of the chair until she pulled it around and down onto the seat to make a proper bed for her.

“Wishes Won't Wash Dishes"

2010-06-23T12:28:00.004-05:00

It took me five years, 4 book cases, 2 entertainment centers, 1 motorcycle gas tank, 2 flat tires and 1 gas grill to learn it, but I eventually got the message: The Professor and I should not work together on any kind of home improvement/maintenance/upgrade project. The problem is that neither one of us has much skill in fixing/replacing/assembling. I want to study a picture, look at what I’m working on and move slowly, scared that screwing in the wrong bolt will cause my home to spontaneously combust. H e wants to get the entire horrid process over as quickly as possible, so he just starts assembling and/or disassembling – sometimes simultaneously – at will*. And we never seem to find a way to meld these…styles…without a lot of cussing.

* I will note at this point that this “ignore the directions and screw everything together” philosophy could be the reason we had to completely take the grill apart half way through assembly so that we could start over. But I won’t.

All of this is to say that when I got back from a quick 4 day trip to Florida and found my dishwasher was full of water that had failed to drain – 4 days ago – I was kinda glad The Professor was going to be out of town for a week. If he had been home, he would have been yanking things apart before I could even get to Google to ask its opinion on fixing dishwashers.

I did call him and ask if he knew where the owner’s manual could be found, since he moved into the house a year before I did. He laughed at me and said “How the hell do I know? Anyway, we’ll just buy a new dishwasher”.

I asked him how the hell he went from “clogged drain” to “replace the whole damn thing!” in 1.2 seconds, because I was determined to fix it. I am woman, here me roar! Surely I could just take off the drain cover, pull out whatever was clogging it, and move on to my wine and my evening.

But first? I had to empty the water. Did I mention that there was so much water that when I opened the door, some of it ran onto the floor? And I figured that since it was going to require a lot of bending over and standing back up, I should probably wait to open the bottle of red my sister had sent home with me. Suddenly, just replacing the dishwasher sounded like a good idea.

It sounded even better when I got the drain cover off and discovered the things growing in the Deep Dark Places of my Dishwasher.

Needless to say, my little “pull off the drain cover and fix it in five minutes” plan did not work. It took me 45 minutes to get the water out. And then I had to figure out how the hell the drain cover came off, because those suckers needed something more complex than a Phillips head screwdriver, damn them. So it took me ten minutes of looking at my tool kit to figure out which unknown Thingy-With-A-Handle would remove those Weird Thingies holding the drain cover down. I was informed later (not by The Professor) that those are bolt screws. Whatever –I felt like a freaking goddess when I finally got them off.

Do I even need to tell you that I could not, in fact, clear the problem?

It was clearly time for me, Google, and the Wine to have a nice ménage a trios while we figured things out together.

By the end of the evening, I convinced myself that I was NOT going to get into any kind of plumbing situation; that I was done, finished, we’d call a repair guy so I could drink my wine in peace without worrying that I’d accidentally jack up all my kitchen plumbing. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling that to a friend at work the next day, who has a very big “don’t ever call a professional without spending entirely too much time trying to fix it yourself” mentality. And he convinced me to get into the plumbing. My Friday night was shaping up to be a real treat.

Ok, fine, I could do this. It’s just unhooking one little hose from one big pipe. How hard could this be? And he promised to be online to walk me through it when the panic attack hit. So I cleaned out under the kitchen sink, got a big bowl to catch water, and went to it, if by "went to it" you mean "stare at the pipes for 30 minutes before realizing that I actually had to touch the pipe if I wanted to get anything productive done".

30 minutes later – full of furious IM’ing and handholding – I had some things taken a apart, a little more water drained – and nothing fixed.

"Don’t worry", Friend typed. "On Monday I’ll bring you something to slide in the hose and loosen up whatever’s stuck." So I ignored the dishwasher for the weekend, which was easy because I pretty much ingore the dishwasher all the time anyway.

Guess what? The snake-claw-grabber thing didn’t work either.

By now, The Professor was home from his trip and I was finished, done, over it. I turned it over to him and said “I’m NOT pulling this monster out of the cabinets. Call someone, I’m through”. And then I grabbed the rum and the pina colada mix and went outside and pretended I was back in Florida, with the delusion that I had functional kitchen appliances.

So, The Professor calls Friend J, who lives down the street. Friend J is a handy guy to have around, if you happen to be as clueless with tools as The Professor and I happen to be. (True Story: Friend J had to use a hammer at our house once and when I handed it to him he laughed and called it a “Baby Hammer”).

Friend J comes over the next morning (yesterday) and starts taking things apart –in the correct order, no less. And after much handyman-work-that-I-am-in-awe-of, he figured out the problem. A teeny tiny screw had come loose from the teeny tiny blade that chops up any food that gets past the drain cover. And he found it in the motor. Where it had done Considerable Damage.

Guess who’s getting a new dishwasher?

PS – they also found the owner’s manual! When they pulled the dishwasher out of the cabinet, they discovered that the people that installed it had left the manual taped to the top of the dishwasher. Brilliance!

Public Service Announcement

2010-06-21T13:24:00.003-05:00

This was a big topic recently in our library and I meant to write it up, but completely forgot about it. You're about to see the wonderful things we discuss in the break room.

One of our technicians recently started collecting plastic bottles to recycle (I think she's donating them somewhere). And I happened to notice that everyone was throwing their bottles in the bin with the lid attached, which is pretty much a no-no. That's a different kind of plastic than the bottle, and enough of them in a batch of melting plastic can change the chemistry enough that the entire batch has to be thrown away.

Bottom line: Those bottles saved from the landfill? Probably ended up there anyway.

And of course, I wasn't believed, so I had to do research. Yay for research!

And because I firmly believe in getting as much mileage as possible out of my paltry skills (Seriously: Googleing "bottle recycling remove caps" doesn't take much of a feat of intelligence skills), I present to you the evidence I collected:

From Mother Nature Network:

"Bottles and caps are made from different types of plastic, so even if they are both recycled, they generally most be separated first...You can probably improve the chances of the bottle—and possibly the cap, but at least the bottle—getting recycled if you take off the cap. This also allows the bottle to dry out ome."

From Eco-cycle:

Q. Do I need to take the caps and lids off plastic containers before I
recycle them? Can the caps be recycled as well?

A. Remove the caps and lids from all plastic bottles and jugs (and tubs) before recycling the containers. Plastic caps have a different melting point than other recyclable plastics and will contaminate the load. Throw away or find a creative way to reuse plastic caps—they make great paint or glue holders for small projects.

Q. Do I need to remove the plastic ring that is left around the neck of a plastic bottle when I remove the cap?

A. No, you do not need to remove it. The recycling center is allowed a minimal amount of “contamination” in our materials to account for things like the plastic ring and the label on the product.

And Earth 911 has 2 helpful things here: 1) How to recycle those lids, and 2) a handy list of which lids are included in that program, which will also pretty much tell you what lids to keep out of your recycling bin.

So. My good deed for the day is finished. I need a librarian cape or something.

Identity Crisis

2010-06-17T19:03:00.005-05:00

I’m a big fan of Secret, but they're trying to destroy my psyche. I’m not talking about that new-age/self-help/the-world-is-full-of-rainbows-and-unicorns book, but Secret – the stuff you put under your arms* to hopefully make you stink less.

*I absolutely loathe the word “armpit”. Arm Pit. It sounds like a dirty place that sludge would ooze out of. Which, fine, maybe you ooze sludge. Conveniently enough, I glisten and don’t ooze. Mostly. And one of my favorite blogs has a re-occurring phrase of “gushing arm pits” that makes me feel like I’ve just been showered in some else’s under-arm sludge, which makes me want to bathe in lemon scented bleach, because straight bleach stinks. And this is really too long for an italicized note, but I’m not going back and tweaking that now.

So, deodorant. For me, that's Secret. Been using it (Secret) for more than half of my life. I especially like the Soft Solid. The roll-on makes me feel like I’ve added Sludge under my arms instead of preventing whatever Glistening might naturally occur, which kind of defeats the purpose of buying those products in the first place. The dry solids are not really worth having an opinion one way or another. And Aerosol makes me want to scream, but that’s a different rant.

Also, on my deodorant specifications list, is that it should be unscented. If I wanted to smell like baby powder – the smell of which makes me want to lose my breakfast – I would damn well put baby powder under my arms. If I wanted to smell like an odd combination of roses and violets, I’d buy some perfume from the Age 80+ counter at Macy’s. And what the hell is “Spring Fresh” even supposed to mean? Thunderstorms? Because around here, Spring=Tornado Season, not a vaguely-slightly-floral, highly-unnatural scent that one wants to spread on unseen parts of their body.

Thus, for 16 years, it’s been Me + Unscented Soft Solid Secret. We have lived in harmony.

Until this past March, when I inexplicably stopped finding unscented Secret of any variety other than Roll On. A couple of years ago it disappeared from my CVS shelves, and I almost sobbed in the Walgreens deodorant aisle when I found it there. Walmart is always hit or miss. But it’s always been somewhere. But about 3 months ago, someone hit a secret switch that made all of my Unscented Soft Solid Secret disappear from the state. And I panicked – I needed something to freshen my Glistening soon. And unscented had apparently been banned from even being a scent anymore, because – and trust me, I shopped around – there was nothing scent-free to be found on the shelves. So, being a frugal person, I started buying random deodorants when the sales and coupons aligned, which they do quite frequently. The problem?

Apparently, everyone wants to spread “Spring Fresh” or “Green Euphoria”** under their arms, so now I have to smell like something besides, you know – ME - and picking out a new scent for yourself is a LOT of pressure. I now see why Jennifer Lopez has a gazillion “signature scents” in her perfume line.

**What the HELL is “Green Euphoria”? The only things I’ve seen that are naturally body-related and green are: A) vomit and B) snot. Neither of which would I slather in my Glistening Places.

So. I went through a trial and error phase for a couple of months. I’d try a new deodorant scent for a couple of weeks. And every time I moved my arms at work (I move around a lot of books and binders on to and off of shelves), I would notice my deodorant. Which is not something I want to do, especially since I couldn’t find a scent that I liked. So, even though I smelled like products that are supposed to make you smell better, I was always fairly confident that my Glistening smelled better than their Glisten-Preventing-Substances. In any case, I didn’t smell like me anymore, and I couldn’t figure out who I was supposed to smell like. And you know how you smell a shirt to see if you can wear it again (Oh come ON, yes you do)? Well, I didn’t know anymore. I couldn’t figure out what it smelled like, and so suddenly I was doing more laundry (meaning, of course, that The Professor was doing more laundry, but it counts - we’re married – one mind, heart, soul and all of that) all because I couldn’t tell who I was anymore. And it's hard to live with yourself when you don't even know what your shirts are supposed to smell like, so I'd just have another glass of wine.

I’m happy to report that I have ~~discovered the right meds~~ had a breakthrough and am on week 3 of one scent, and I don’t hate it. It’s simply called “Fresh”, which means that it’s an uncomplicated scent that no one else is going to buy because “FRESH” is not quite descriptive enough of what kind of “Fresh”. Is it “Spring Fresh” or “Powder Fresh” or “Mountain Fresh”? Why would anyone buy something as uncomplex as “Fresh”? And in about 3 years it, too, will disappear, which means I should start the stockpile this weekend. Ironically enough, I had a huge stockpile of it last year that I had gotten practically free at CVS …and I sold them for a buck a piece in a yard sale making like 1 million percent profit, but leaving me in a lurch when my Secret disappeared. But at least I'm coming back to the knowledge of Who I Smell Like.

And speaking of deodorant stockpiles (surely a topic that should come up once in everyone’s lifetime)…let’s move on to The Professor. He has also been a big fan of one particular brand and scent since time began. And guess what? About a month after my Crisis hit, his did too. Same. Exact. Story. Although it was a different brand, because - Surprise! - The Professor does not use Secret. And he uses a scented one, which is ok with me because he’s been using that scent since before I met him – so that’s HIS smell, not Speed Stick’s.

To shorten the story, he had to try something new as well. And then I’d walk in the door after not knowing who the hell *I* smelled like all day, and he’d hug me and kiss me, and I’d be like “Hey, who are you, you smell funny” and then I’d just want to cry. Not that he bathes in it or anything, but it was just part of Who He Is - part of his scent was Speed Stick Musk, but suddenty it wasn't, and I couldn't handle it. Because really, A)You should know who you are, and b) you shouldn’t be disturbed by your husband’s “Sports Fresh” scent. Oh yes. The menfolk, they get the Freshness, too. And “Sports Fresh” sounds suspiciously like SWEAT to me.

The Professor got a much happier ending. He discovered that our local Walmart carries his preferred varietal. Which means we have about 10 sticks of it in the cabinet, because he’s buys one every time he passes Walmart, but I’m not laughing. No…I’m jealous. At least he’s found a way to fight back against the identity crisis. Which, to be honest, I did too, I just upped my wine budget and moved on.*

*Because in the end, all roads lead to Wine. Not Rome. Not Hell. Wine.

But today, my lovelies, I discovered the perfect solution on the wonderfulness that we call The Internetz. Behold:

An Unscented Deodorant Patch! I do believe it will solve all of my problems. I’ll have to attach an explanation card to every piece of clothing I send to Goodwill for the rest of my life, but that might just be worth it. At least I’ll always know who I am. There’s only so much wine I can drink to help with that, and I’m not on the Really Good Meds.

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

2010-05-15T08:05:00.004-05:00

Or should that be "A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words"?

I happened to glance in the mirror this morning - something I generally avoid until about 11 AM - and got a nice glimpse of TweedleDum & TweedleDee. And there was no turning back. These babies have to preserved for all time.

And then I tried to actually get a picture of the damn things. After three angles and 10 pictures - and, let's face it, my sense of modesty kicked in - I decided not to tempt you with a shot of the outside of my thigh. I'm going to just save TweedleDum for the grandkids to marvel over in 20 years or so (Did you hear that Dearly Beloved Stepson? TWENTY YEARS.)

TweedleDum

So there you go. No need to rent your horror movie tonight, just picture my (incredibly toned) bruise chasing you around the house. The damn thing is growing by leaps and bounds and may need to be fed on a regular basis.

The cats are going to either get me killed or The Professor arrested

2010-05-13T15:04:00.002-05:00

Sunday, in the early evening, all was quiet. The kitchen was (mostly) cleaned up from a big Family Lunch and I had spent a lovely hour communing with my laptop at the dining room table.

The Professor went out for his evening stroll around the neighborhood (I think he’s part of a secret neighborhood surveillance, but then he thinks I secretly work for the FBI, so maybe we should both tone down the conspiracy voices in our respective heads?), and I decided it was the perfect time for a glass of wine. Granted, there aren’t many times that aren’t the perfect time for a glass of wine, and those are mostly restricted to the hours immediately after you wake up in the morning*, which is why God made Mimosas.

*If you wake up after noon, you can skip those mimosa drinking hours, because it’s lunch time, and wine is perfectly acceptable at lunch. I should really write a rule book or something.

I also decided it was the perfect time to sit outside, which necessitated moving the laptop. Which is when my cat made his move. It was the only move he made that hour, and I guess he decided to make it worth his while.

I removed the power cord from the back of the laptop, stood up with my Precious Darling (the laptop, not the cat) in my hands and turned around to head towards the back door, only to discover that in the 5 seconds I had not been moving, my dear cat had chosen to move from his perch to sprawl on the floor behind my feet. Unfortunately, I only noticed after my foot was coming down on top of him, and then I tried to move my foot, but it was too late, and I ended up falling – with the laptop still in my arms, mind you – towards one of the chairs. I did not manage to stop my fall, but I did manage to slam my arm into the back of the chair, and somehow twisted enough that my thigh smacked into the side, all while clinging on to my laptop for dear life with my other hand.

We had just bought the Stepson a new laptop the day before. A new one for me is NOT in the budget.

This dance was short and it was not graceful, but it probably would have made a hell of a YouTube video. Aside: MS Word recognizes “YouTube” as a word.

The laptop made it through our Dance of Life just fine. I, however, am sporting a bruise 2 inches long by 1.5 inches wide on my arm (yes, I measured just for you so that you could have an accurate description). There’s a similar one on my thigh, but it’s covered by clothing. And they’re getting prettier by the day. I didn’t know some of these shades of blue existed, and I can hardly wait to discover the new yellows that will surely appear. I actually thought about documenting them in pictures, day by day, but that would be like a job or something, and I can barely remember that I have a blog as it is. Maybe I’ll just name them. TweedleDum and TweedleDee sound like good candidates.

Another Aside: Please note that TweedleDum and TweedleDee are NOT recognized by Word, even though they’ve been around for more than 100 years longer.

Anyway, this is not – by a long shot – the first time I’ve come to work with bruises. I am one of the clumsiest people I know, and I bruise very easily. If you stare at me hard enough, my blood vessels burst. And apparently Some People are starting to notice. Today, when I gave my “I’m-the-clumsiest-person-in-the-world-and-bruise-easily” excuse to someone who asked, I got a new response. A pause, a deep look and “Are you sure?”.

So now I have to somehow become more graceful, because I do not want people thinking vile things of The Professor, who would no more harm me than he would voluntarily eat a vegetable that is not deep fried.

Am I too old for finishing school? I hope so, because I have a feeling that they would try to take away my rum.

It's the little things

2010-04-28T20:09:00.001-05:00

Charter, we've had our issues. Since I canceled the TV service, they've gotten fewer, although sometimes your internet speeds Need HELP.

But it's the little things.

Like, when I go to login to my account. And it says "Welcome New Account".

1) I am not a new account. Been with you for 10+ years now.
2) The sentence hurts my heart. Do you mean "Welcome to your new account"? Do you think my name is "New Account?" Really, we know each other better than that by now.

Dear Hollywood

2010-04-26T19:28:00.001-05:00

Dear Hollywood,

I don’t know what’s up with you lately. It seems that every other movie I watch – which, granted, is about 1 in 100 that you put out – that have scenes where people either are or have the potential to drown. It doesn’t even matter if they actually do, it’s enough that the potential is there. They’re underwater, sometimes trying not to gasp in water, sometimes not succeeding.

DO YOU KNOW THAT I’M SCARED OF DROWNING?

Last weekend, we took the Stepson to see Clash of the Titans. It wasn’t just a reshoot of the original movie – it had almost a totally new plot. Which may explain why I wasn’t expecting an underwater scene.

DO YOU KNOW THAT I HAD NIGHTMARES AFTER WATCHING CASINO ROYALE?

And then, I went to see Quantum of Solace, thinking, they’ve done the underwater thing. I’m safe.

I was so not safe, because apparently the flashbacks were a necessary plot point.

So. This is me kindly asking you to Knock It Out. There are millions of ways to try to kill people. Please try a few hundred thousand of them before going back underwater.

Love,

Me

I've either lost it or found it, I don't know which

2010-04-17T11:53:00.003-05:00

The gym is not the place I prefer to be on a Saturday morning, but I've learned that if I don't go first thing, it doesn't get done. Because I will turn on HGTV for "just one show" and then 6 hours later I'm cooking dinner and drinking wine. Yes, I do that at 4 PM on a Saturday. DON'T JUDGE ME.

Anyway, so the gym is made marginally better because of the TVs in front of the treadmills that can keep my mind busy while I sweat through a 5k. Is it ironic that "Don't Sweat It" is usually the show I sweat to? Because by the time I'm done, I'm pretty much just a big pile of sweat. Lovely visual, I know.

The end of my boring little routine involved doing the Arm Machines. I hate them slightly more than I hate the leg machines, although I do kind of feel all "Look at ME" when I notice sore muscles a few hours later. It's proof that I'm doing something.

ANYway - I have really rambled off topic, again - this Serious Weight Lifting Guy came in about halfway through my Arm Torture . He's probably a personal trainer or something, because he was charting his weight routine. Every time he did something, he wrote it down. And he kept staring at me. I HATE it when strangers stare. I'm always convinced I've got spinach hanging out of my nose or something. In this case, I figured I was abusing the machines, and he was going to march over and give me a lecture on how to properly change the weights.

He did say "Bless you" when I sneezed, so his Mama taught him some manners but I was just sure that meant he'd be nice when he told me I was doing stuff all wrong. Hello, I know I'm doing something wrong: I'm sweating on a Saturday, for the love of baby Jesus.

So I finish up and go to leave and he walks by and asks how long I've been a member of the gym. And how often I work out. And what's my name again? And some other little trivia that I've completely forgotten.

And me - the whole time I'm thinking "Gotta go to J's to get those border stones. Going to the garden store with the Best Friend. Think I'll grill out burgers tonight. Should pick up some beer."

And when I get in my car, it slams into my dreams of Dos Equis: Dude was hitting on me. Trying to flirt, fairly blatantly, while I was a steaming pile of sweat - and all I can think of is what kind of meat and alcohol to consume later.

The Professor has officially declared me an "Old Married Lady". And promised me a beer.

Bless My Toes

2010-04-12T15:30:00.001-05:00

Last week, a lady walked up to me on base – I was sitting outside on my break, enjoying one of the 6 hours of Spring we’ll get before summer hits – and told me, with no apparent sarcasm, how brave I was for wearing open-toed sandals with no toe polish.

A couple of my friends are probably staging a toe-nail intervention as they read this; to you I say: Don’t worry. Now that I’ve made this public knowledge, The Best Friend will wrangle my mismanaged peds into shape soon, I’m sure.

Anyway, as this Mystery Lady walked away, I could only stare at her. I couldn’t formulate a reply, and honestly, she didn’t seem to want one. She’s like a fairy, only instead of dropping happy pixie dust on everyone she meets, she must drop these random and totally unwanted opinions on complete strangers, maybe even feeling like she’s done a good deed for the day by complimenting my bravery – I’m so courageous, y’all! An unemployed Pedicurist could happen upon my feet at any minute and take revenge on my negligence, but I still dare to brave the world in my flip-flops! Someone give me a Medal of Honor!

I mean honestly, what do you say to that? I just stared at her dumbfounded, wondering why she thought that was necessary.

Then I woke up and remembered that I’m in the Deep South; merely breathing in this part of the country gives total strangers carte blanche to say whatever they hell they want on any and all parts of your public/private lives. It’s a State’s Rights issue that was passed along with Reconstruction, and no one is going to give it up.

Well, this got embarrassingly long and loud, but we’re just going to hit publish without even proof-reading at this point

2010-04-06T18:54:00.003-05:00

There are some things that I think every Midwife/OBGYN/Birth-Assisting-Person should be required to teach parents: Some people in this world are not going to have kids, and – steady now – that is ok. The world will not end, the Anti-Christ has not come to suck the life out of the precious babies’ lungs, and no one is going to take away the baby aisle at the grocery store.

Some of us even *like* other peoples’ babies. In a few cases, we like the children those babies turn into, although that’s a slippery slope, because all of a sudden, BOOM, you’ve known this kid for 17 years and you loved the baby, tolerated the child and now have to figure out if you’re going to like the adult. That’s a lot of pressure – I mean, 17 years have been invested at this point, and you’d hate to think you’ve wasted their whole life making this decision. And you’re probably related to them anyway, so just make it easy on yourself and like them already.

That last paragraph was completely off my point, which is,

I do *not* want to have children and that is not the first half of a mathematical proof that ends with “therefore I hate all the babies”. It’s a simple statement of intention. So, Lady-that-is-convinced-that-I-am-(apparently)-a-“baby-hating-narcissist”**: Thanks for naming me “soul-less” baby haters. I like babies just fine, but I guess the only way to prove it would be to have a baby, and y’all: there is not enough rum in the world. Also, I don’t think I’m a narcissist, but do narcissists every really admit that about themselves? Wouldn’t they be too self-involved to be aware of their narcissism? I think that’s kind of a pre-requisite. I mean, there are there social groups like The United Narcissists of America getting together for Bingo and Bourbon on the third Thursday of the month? I might be able to get into that, come to think about it, but really: I think if you say you’re a narcissist you are either A) lying or B) in rehab.

**She was involved in a loud conversation behind me in a (long) line, about the evil people who do not have children. I wish I had a transcript of this woman’s opinions, because they were many and they were LOUD. The loudest was “There’s something wrong with people who don’t want kids. They’re baby-hating narcissists.”

And also on the baby front: (Strap yourself in because apparently I’ve needed therapy for this and things could get bumpy): choosing not to procreate does not make my life *less than*, it just makes it different. I cannot tell you the number of times that I've been told something along those lines in the last 10 years. You want to tell me you’re more complete as a person (were you missing an organ or a limb before the conception??),then I will absolutely help you celebrate your NewFound Wholeness and buy you wine and chocolate. I’ll probably bake you cookies, because hell, I bake cookies for everyone. You know why? Because I like celebrations, especially if they involve wine, chocolate and cookies. And if I'm baking you cookies, there's a good chance I'm going to like your baby enough to keep you in cookies for awhile.

And this one Lady years ago … oh this one cracks me up, almost five years after the conversation happened. This lady tells me, upon hearing I wasn’t planning on having children – at the end of a long list of reasons why Children Are Important If You Want To Be An Adult, she adds: “You really should just try it once”.

Please go back and re-read that, because I cannot even describe the brain-exploding that happened in my skull. Babies are not a new flavor of potato chip, Lady! You don’t “just try them out”, because can you even get a refund at that point?

Do you see why I stay home with my wine bottles every night? If my OBGYN were reading this, she’d come out of retirement and sterilize me for FREE.

A Short Rant with an Easter Finish

2010-04-03T11:01:00.001-05:00

Google, you have disappointed me. For months now, when I pull up Google Maps and you think you’re showing me where I live…you aren’t. Oh sure, the address is right. But you’re little pointer is pointing halfway down the street and on the other side of a cul-de-sac. And in Satellite View? Your street labels are off in my little corner of the world. Downtown in the big city is perfect. Looking at the maps of my county? Crazy. And don’t judge me for spending time looking at maps of my county in Google Maps Satellite View. It’s cheap entertainment.

It’s been years since I’ve done anything “Easter-y” on Easter Sunday. I haven’t bought Easter candy in years, and although I usually do make an effort to cook something Nicer Than Usual, it’s such a “get together with the family” day that The Professor and I kind of just stay home and watch movies. Of course, I’m usually watching Easter Parade, and he’s watching something that involves a lot of blood and dismemberment, so we’re watching movies in separate rooms. But we’re doing it in separate rooms TOGETHER. Anyway, all of this is to say that this year, we have Easter Plans! Some friends who are similarly far from their families invited us over for a big ole Easter Dinner. I’ve got the perfect cute Spring-Time skirt and if I’m feeling plucky I might even pull my old Easter Bonnet out of storage, which will cause me to sing “In my Easter Bonnet…with all the frills upon it…” all day, which will in turn drive The Professor nuts. Meaning that this would be the only year we participate in any kind of Easter Festivities, but it will totally be worth it.

Alabama? Ireland? Where the Hell am I Again?

2010-03-20T20:19:00.013-05:00

And we're home. Home to a couple of (surprisingly) unstressed cats, thanks to the Bestest Friend. Home after a week of more fun than should be allowed, interspersed with many pints of beer, lot of food and very little sleep.

I took over 500 pictures (that's all???), and getting them off of my memory card seems like almost more than my mind can handle. We got up 20 hours ago, and I'm determined to stay up til at least 11 tonight (2 more hours) to try and yank my body into the correct time zone. I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see if my brain follows my body back into the Central Time Zone.

Another year, another AWSOFTC(SFBIGTNABO)

2010-02-12T10:49:00.004-06:00

Go here for 2008.

Go here for 2009.

So, snow is becoming an annual occurrence round these parts. I can live with that. Especially since it FINALLY happened on a work day, and work got cancelled*. Especially since Monday is already a federal holiday, making this a 4 day weekend. Especially especially since I stocked the wine rack and the beer fridge. Well, the wine rack is already showing some holes because we started on that last night. But that's OK. I have some rum and whiskey left.

But enough about my alcohol collection! You want to see snow!

Let's see how fierce and mighty this new Alabama Winter Storm of the Century is going to be.

*Dear Firefox: "Cancelled" CAN be spelled with two 'l's, not just one as you think. Please update your dictionary, and thank you for making me doubt my spelling abilities, forcing me to look it up in 3 different places to be sure I was correct, even if I been using the British spelling forever and never knew it. Now I'll have to randomly insert 'u's after 'o's, too. Love, Me.

Heartbreaker

2010-02-05T20:56:00.004-06:00

Dear sweet Deity, I cannot put enough disclaimers on this post.

I've always loved R.E.M.'s song "Everybody Hurts". It's a heartbreaker of a song, that's for sure.

And now, it's a tear jerker for sure.

Simon Cowell, of American Idol fame - of whom and for which I have absolutely no love, in any way - has put together a tribute song to the Haiti earthquake victims, recording multiple artists singing Everybody Hurts. He's releasing it to raise money for the relief effort.

NPR had a few clips of it on the radio one day this week, and I put off looking for it online. I've given, multiple times, to a few charities. Done what I can do, and all that jazz. But I'm sheltered. Privileged. I didn't want to see too much of what's happened. Because there's nothing much more that I can do.

So tonight I looked on youtube for a video of the song, because it sounded beautiful. And I found this.

Giving to relief causes tends to slack off after the first horror has passed. The first horror is quickly passing.

I hope that this video always makes me cry.

I haven't worked this hard for a relationship since I was 16

2010-02-02T20:29:00.004-06:00

So. Layla. I've left you wondering too long.

First of all, she's a cat, so she's a little nuts. Second of all, she's a cat with an unhappy childhood, so she's a lot nuts.

After a couple of weeks, I started letting her have free roam of the house 24/7. And the first night that I was Oh So Benevolent as to unlock her from her jail...

She scared the pee out of me in the morning when she jumped off of the tippiest toppiest of my kitchen cabinets and ran under the dining room table. This is where she spends some alone time. On top of the cabinets I have not dusted in 5+ years of marriage.

She's still cleaning my house for me. Go, Layla!

She's roaming the house a lot more, and Lucius has finally acknowledged her existence, but I don't think he's too crazy about all the butt sniffing she does (nice visual, heh?). He sits down every time she sniffs at his rear, and then she backs her rear up into his face, and he gets a "really? Again?" look before he walks away. At which point she follows him and repeats the entire thing. Then they chase each other around for 3o minutes, until he conveys the point that "no, really, I'm lazy and don't exercise". Then they both sleep for hours.

But last night she got in bed with us for a couple of hours...so I continue to hold out hope that one day I'll be able to touch this fiesty, shy, adorable cat.

Go Read This

2010-01-28T19:08:00.003-06:00

Fed Up: School Lunch Project

First, go back and read the archives.* Add it to your Google Reader or Bloglines or whatever. It's a very short post each day, and it blows my mind. I was a Private School Kid, but didn't have access to a cafeteria until half way through 7th grade - and then the food was very decent. So I was mostly a brown bagger, but my bologna sandwiches and apples were infinitely better than what this (courageous) woman is eating.

The peanut butter and jelly "sandwich" made me lose my appetite.

* I hate reading blogs in reverse chronological order, so I added it to Reader, then went for the "sort by oldest" option and hit "view all". She's only 18 days in, so there's not a whole lot to catch up on.

Then the Sun Came Out and the Angels Sang

2010-01-18T18:04:00.005-06:00

If there's one thing in the world I hate to shop for - and there is, otherwise this post would be wasted time for both you and me (assuming it's not already) - it's jeans. It's like they're made to fit broom handles, and then, so that they don't have to go to the expense of actually fitting around my stomach, the ingenious makers decide to stop the material about 6 inches below what will keep me modest if I happen to bend over. And, due to the fact that I can't hold anything for longer than 30 seconds without dropping it, I have to be careful whom I bend over in front of. That is way more stress than I should have from my jeans. And they frown on me taking a bottle of wine in the fitting room, so I have to do it sober.

So. I dread jean-shopping.

When I walked into Walmart today, I was hit with an urge to check out the jeans, and I hadn't been drinking yet, so I have no idea what came over me. Maybe 12 hours of sobriety? Anyway, ignoring my better instincts, I slunk over to the clothing department. I was cursing before I even arrived, and I just don't think that's healthy. But the jeans I was wearing - my only pair - are stretched out and don't fit right anymore (no complaining here, goodbye 20 pounds, I'm toasting your disappearance as I type!), leading to a threat of exposure greater than what I'm comfortable with. So, I shopped. For jeans. Sober.

I only took 2 in the fitting room, because I figured after that point I would be frustrated enough to leave without buying the necessities we need around here. And, tolerant though he may be, The Professor wouldn't take "the jeans didn't fit" as a suitable explanation for the lack of toilet paper in the house.

The first pair fit. Perfectly. Flawlessly. Comfortably. And with no threat of indecent exposure from my rear side.

After I picked my jaw up off the dressing room floor (gross), I carefully checked the mirrors, because I was pretty sure they were some kind of fun-house-deception. I almost asked the attendant to let me try another fitting room, to make sure they fit if I wore them in a different location. But as I hadn't bought the wine yet, I was afraid that giving the impression of a total loon would flag me from being able to check out with any.

So here I am, wearing jeans I'm not scared of. And terribly afraid that if I wear them in public, the whole backside is going to randomly fall off the first time I sit down.

Is there a phobia for jeans? More importantly, is there medication for it?

You've Got Me on My Knees, Layla

2010-01-10T09:26:00.009-06:00

[Warning: Very Long Cat Lady Post Ahead]

I think we may have picked the most appropriate name ever for a cat.

Yesterday, we got a new cat. A Bengal. A Bengal who has not been loved and properly worshiped. She's 2 years old, and grew up in a breeder-turned-cat-hoarder's house. The neglect has clearly made her what she is - under-sized for a Bengal and afraid of everyone. (technical details: she's an F3 marbled Bengal, gorgeous - but about half the size she should be).

Riding Home, it took an hour for her to come out from underneath her towel.

She's breaking my heart already. I have not heard the first sound - cry, purr, growl or hiss - since we picked her up. She does not react at all to anyone, unless you touch her. Then she darts from whatever place you've crawled under to find her to an even more inaccessible place.

Well, that's what happened the one time I touched her side. I inched my hand ever closer to her face and she didn't move. I wanted her to sniff me, but she didn't do anything. No facial changes. It's like she didn't know my hand was there, and my finger tips were eventually less than an inch from her face. The second time I tried, I actually petted the tip of her tail - and got no response. It was like she didn't even know I was there.

Behind the dryer. On top of the dryer hose. To-do list now includes replacing the dryer hose.

She's had me on my knees a lot. After she moved out from behind the dryer, she found her way under my bed. So The Bestest Friend & I went in a few times over about 3 hours and laid down on the floor looking at her. One time she was in the bathtub, but we didn't try to get in there with her.

Overnight she moved behind my dresser. That's a point in her favor: she's going into all of the dark corners I don't dust often enough and probably pulling out half the dust on her fur.

So the other half of the equation: Lucius. Of course you're dying to know how he's handling all of this.

He was locked up in the bedroom when we got home, and when I opened Layla's carrier she went immediately behind the dryer. When I let Lucius out, he found her carrier and crawled all in/over it, sniffing. Then he sniffed her out behind the dryer, but he can't get back there (too big to slide by the wall, to lazy to go over the top). So he went out in front of the fireplace and took a nap.

Seriously, that was his response. He got up a couple of times and investigated anything that smelled like her, then went to the couch for another nap.

I kept Layla in the bedroom with us last night and locked Lucius out of it. This morning he came in and sniffed out her location behind the dresser (another place he's too big to get behind). Looked at her for a second. Then followed me out to the living room to - wait for it - take a nap.

I'm convinced there's a sweet, lonely cat in that beautiful little body. I don't know if we'll ever be able to reach it. But we've got all the time in the world.

Behind the dresser, cleaning out my dust problems.

What'll you do when you get lonely
And nobody's waiting by your side?
You've been running and hiding much too long.
You know it's just your foolish pride.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

I tried to give you consolation
When your old man had let you down.
Like a fool, I fell in love with you,
Turned my whole world upside down.

Chorus

Let's make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane.
Please don't say we'll never find a way
And tell me all my love's in vain.

BECAUSE THE SNOW IT IS COMING AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE

2010-01-05T13:56:00.001-06:00

It’s just about time to play one of my favorite little games in this whole wide world. It’s a little something special I call “Go to the milk section of Wal-Mart and watch the local citizenry freak the frak out BECAUSE THE SNOW IS COMING”. I’m pretty sure the employees at Wal-Mart must play this game too, because they stuck the wine section next door to the milk cartons, so I can just pretend I’m trying to make up my mind between bottles of wine, and luckily no one has ever asked what I’m seeing in the glass that makes me giggle hysterically for moments at a time, because seriously, y’all, these people are flying around the last gallons of dairy products like someone has told them every cow on the planet is going to stop milk production all at one time and that time is in FIVE MINUTES. One time, a lady was holding up one of those HUGE half gallon cartons of French Vanilla Coffeemate and asked her companion how it would taste on cereal “if it comes to that”.

IF IT COMES TO THAT you will be glad to have cereal, lady, cream or no cream.

Anyway, my alcohol supply is down to 2 bottles of wine, a half bottle of rum and a half bottle of bourbon. The Professor is down to a 6 pack of beer, a half bottle of gin and the other half of the bourbon. IF IT COMES TO THAT I supposed I could mix the bottle of peach schnapps that’s been unopened on my shelf for over a year with some of the Mojito mix that’s been sitting there open for even longer, because that’s just the kind of alcohol martyr that I might become IF IT COMES TO THAT, but I’m not really into dying at the moment, so I think I’ll just buy some more wine. After all, Wal-Mart has gone to the trouble of putting the entertainment so close to the wine aisle, how could I resist a double feature?

Circle of Life

2009-12-13T20:36:00.003-06:00

The Professor and I have started on a grand search to get a new cat. We've decided we definitely want another Bengal. Sultan was so wonderful and neurotic, and I know another Bengal will be neurotic in its own way, but I'm hoping it will be neurotically-related to Sultan.

And so, for the first time since I wrote it, I went back and revisited the post I wrote about him when we had to put him to sleep.

And unexpectedly, he was here again. I'm not a person who has to take their pet on trips, or dress them up (have you SEEN some of those cat outfits?!?!), or treat them as a baby in other ways (I laugh, derisively, at those people, truth be told - a cat is a CAT, for goodness sake!).

But all of a sudden, the days after that one were HERE again: when I'd walk in the house and automatically look for 2 cats instead of one. When I would sit on the couch, ready to hear the sound of a cat not getting the attention He Deserved, and realize that He was gone. When I'd open the bag of food and not get attacked. It was surprisingly hard to read that post.

I'm ready to be attacked again.

Bathroom Etiquette

2009-12-08T20:29:00.001-06:00

Ok, y’all, it’s like the Fairies of Employment Fun are following me around these days. I am not even making this up: All of the women in my organization got an email today asking us to “check behind you when using the bathroom” because someone pooped on the toilet seat – and that this is the second time this has happened.

Being the good employee that I am, I immediately forwarded the email to one of my male coworkers and asked him how often the men get emails like this. Apparently, they don't. I told him I pitied G, our building manager, for having to send that email. I can just picture G sitting there, staring at the email with the word “feces” jumping out of his screen at him, thinking “there’s nothing left to do but hit send. I really have to hit send, don’t I?.” The poor man.

Every time I go to the bathroom at work I’m going to think about this email and giggle.

And since we’ve never discussed my work bathrooms before (aren't you glad we're discussing them now?), I’ll tell you another fascinating tidbit: We have an old card catalog in the one of the women’s bathrooms. When they put it in there, I thought it was just going to be a place to store some feminine type supplies. But a few people are using it as an Atomic Event Readiness Reserve. There’s the toothbrush and hair brush, sure. But there’s also a jar of peanut butter, a juice box, bottle of water, cheese crackers, and several other type snacks in there. Who goes in the bathroom and thinks “Oh, look! Food storage!”?

I won't be falling asleep at work this week

2009-12-07T16:35:00.003-06:00

Scene I: Last Monday, 5:45 AM:
My cell phone rings. I’ve been on vacation for a week, so one of my employees calls me to let me know that we don’t have any heat at work, that the damage is bad but they have an estimated completion date: February. We’re on less than 50% of our boiler capacity for the entire building for 10 weeks, because the one boiler that is working isn’t working correctly. Time to break out the scarves & fingerless gloves. And the hot chocolate. And maybe the party supplies – parties always warm me up.

Scene II: Tuesday, 7 AM:
I’m at work and find out that my room is next in the Great Library Recarpeting Adventure of 2009. Nothing goes out of our room except for the old carpet. We’re just moving stuff around the room for the entire week like squirrels re-arranging their winter acorn supply, working around the guys. I would say “like deck chairs on the Titanic”, but no one has actually died (yet) from the fumes of A) the old glue under the old carpet, B) the new glue for the new carpet, and/or C) The disgusting sludge that mysteriously appeared in one spot when the old carpet was ripped out. Also, the tiny particles that have infiltrated my lungs make me wonder if I’ve just discovered what it’s like to breathe fiberglass, but I’m kind of afraid to find out the answer to that question, so I just keep those thoughts to myself. And another Also: can mold spores start growing in your lungs? Mold likes warm, damp places, so if I were mold, I think lungs would be a good place to make a home. Unless the fiberglass got there first and beat me up.

Scene III: Thursday afternoon:
Staring at my inbox, an encouraging email arrives. In a nutshell it says “We think you’re getting too complacent with how things are going this week, so while some work is being done in another part of the building, the power will randomly shut off and on starting Monday, expected to be finished in 2 weeks. This will affect the functioning of the fire alarm, causing you to want to rip out your ear drums. Have a nice weekend!”

Scene IV: Today, Monday, 0730:
I walk into the office. There’s no heat, the new carpet is 85% installed, my lungs remind me that they emptied themselves of mold & fiberglass over the weekend for a reason – namely, so I can breathe – and the power is out for half the hallway & 4 cubicles, and the fire alarm isn’t working correctly, it has in fact decided to amuse itself by randomly going off for 5-6 minutes at a time. My cubicle has power (Yay?) – but the email server, internet server & [Library Software You’ve Never Heard Of] server are all down. Meaning: No emailing, cataloging, book ordering, random internet surfing or other type of work will be done until at least one of them is back up and running.

So, in things I'm grateful for this week:
A) Dear Baby Jesus, I’m glad we lost heat in the winter rather than A/C in the summer;
B) Did I mention our old carpet was oozing, so it was kinda fun to see what was underneath of there – especially since the oozing spot is on the far end of the room from me and I can yell “Hey, Sue! How’s your ooze today?” at random points in time;
C) Everyone needs an interrupted power supply at some point to make them grateful to Al Gore for creating the Internets.

The malfunctioning fire alarm – the bell for which resides on the wall over my cubicle – can go to hell, though.

It's like that time that I thought I was dying from food poisoning. Only worse.

2009-12-05T09:46:00.008-06:00

It was an eventful week at work (nothing bad, just lots of crazy), culminating in a late Friday night snow shower that disappeared before I woke up this morning - which, admittedly, was a little later than anyone wanting to see snow should have been in bed. But all of this is meaningless, in light of what happened to me at the mechanic this morning.

Mike wasn't there.

I called a few days ago to let him know to order the Top-Secret-Super-Special Oil that my Prius takes. Everything seemed fine. Normal. He didn't ask to take today off, didn't tell me that he was putting some unknown woman behind the desk to take the key out of my hand. I walked in and was immediately confused and unsure. It took me a long time to find Mike. I'm not ready to break up with him yet.

Oh, the pain! Oh my breaking heart!

So my car is in the hands of someone named Lora. A nice woman, sure, with a great smile. She's still learning the computer system, so it took awhile. That didn't bother me, because I was frantically peering through the window into the shop, scanning to see if Mike was halfway under a hood or fondling someone else's engine. (Oddly enough, no one found a woman staring at a garage full of mechanics note worthy. Have I not been following protocol all the times that I *didn't* ogle the men?). Luckily for my nerves one of the mechanics was with her. Somehow* he knew who I was, knew about the Top-Secret-Super-Special Oil that my Prius takes and that it had been ordered this week, knew that I wasn't going to stay in the waiting room. He knew my routine. He remembered my old car. He's not Mike. But he'll do.

For now.

*It's the cookies. It seems I always go in there in December, so I usually bring them cookies when I pick my car up. Everyone deserves cookies in December. Especially if you're working on my car. Not-Mike is definitely getting cookies today. I can't take any chances right now, with Mike gone. My heart is too fragile.

Update: Oh Noes! They finished with my car in record time - 1 hour instead of 3-4, so I didn't have time to bake them cookies. I'm getting a bad-car-karma feeling in my stomach that exactly matches the pain in my heart over Mike's defection.

The Professor

2009-11-30T20:44:00.003-06:00

The Professor is the faculty advisor for a fraternity. Meaning: He goes to weekly meetings, yells at them when they make bad grades, and takes me to fraternity parties.

Really: What 32 year old is still going to frat parties?

At the meeting tonight, they passed around a piece of paper labeled: "I love The Professor because..."

A couple of my favorite answers:

" He has an epic mustache."

"I can see my reflection in his head."

There was more, but those are my 2 favorite.

For the record: I, too, love his mustache and his shiny head.

Message?

2009-11-06T18:15:00.001-06:00

At 3 random places around the city today, I've heard 3 different people whistling/humming "If I only had a brain".

How am I supposed to interpret that?

Mind Games

2009-11-01T16:06:00.002-06:00

Whenever I run across the movie "Forbidden Planet" in the DirecTV guide (which has been quite often lately), the opening song of The Rocky Horror Picture Show gets stuck in my head.

Wondering Why

2009-09-29T19:43:00.003-05:00

It's 63 degrees outside.

My windows are open and I'm loving the weather, sitting on my back porch with a glass of wine.

The neighbor's air conditioner just kicked on.

What the hell temperature is it in their house?

No-Longer-Suppressed Rant*

2009-09-04T21:39:00.004-05:00

Really, people? You're upset because the president wants to give your kids an inspirational message? A message to stay in school, work hard, study, be involved, and give a damn about the world? You're afraid to let your kids hear that?

I almost wish I had kids. So that I could point to the president and say "see him? See this man? See what he's made of himself? TRY HARDER".

Obviously, the unraveling of society as we know it will happen in 30.6 seconds after kids hear a person of authority telling them to set their sights high. To make the world a better place. BECAUSE WE LIKE THE WORLD THE WAY IT IS, DAMMIT, AND YOU DAMN KIDS SHOULDN'T DREAM.

And like the kids are going to pay attention anyway. They're counting down the minutes til they can go to recess and play whatever "throw the ball at the unpopular kid" is all the rage these days.

Indoctrination? Cult of Personality?

I need more wine.

*This rant comes to you courtesy of some things I've seen on Facebook, and the fact that I don't want to pick fights with strangers on a mutual friends wall. But let me assure you: THEY'RE WRONG.

77

2009-09-02T20:17:00.002-05:00

The Blessed Year I was born.

The High temperature today.

Either one of these could be the reason that I love the number 77.

That is all.

Taking "There Were Never Such Devoted Sisters" To A Whole New Level

2009-08-29T17:39:00.003-05:00

I seem to have a psychic connection with one of my older sisters. It's kinda freaky sometimes, but - luckily - I happen to like her an awful lot, so occasionally sharing a brain isn't a strain. The examples of this are almost endless, but take tonight for instance.

I've been puttering in my kitchen for about 45 minutes, making Chicken Tikka Masala. I made it for the first time when I was at her place last week, and I wanted to work on the recipe so I can post it online.

Then, about 10 minutes ago, I check Facebook and see my sister has put up:

I really wish there were someone here to cook me Chicken Tikka Masala.

Have I mentioned we're over 400 miles apart? That I never mentioned what I was going to cook?

So, I cook and she craves. Now I have to experiment with this. Maybe tomorrow I'll make a big pot of red sauce and some homemade garlic herb bread. If that doesn't get her attention, nothing will.

The Post That Has Been Demanded By Many*

2009-08-18T23:07:00.000-05:00

*Where "Many" = "More Than One"

So, awhile ago, I commenced on "Operation Make The Professor's Head Explode With Fervent Re-Decorating", as a result of an overload of HGTV Watching. While The Professor's head is still very much intact, I'm claiming victory because dear Flying Spaghetti Monster am I in love with my living/dining room now. Since only a select few - The Chosen, if you will - have had the glory of seeing my* creation, we'll take a little tour of my new living space.

*it wasn't really all mine, I needed The Bestest Friend's help and reassurance every step of the way, because I was convinced I was going to create a room that no one but me wanted to step foot in. She assures me that she still enjoys putting a step in. Maybe even two.

I wish I had before shots, but I don't. I completely re-arranged the furniture and painted the walls. The Professor ripped up the carpet, and we had laminate put down. Then I - with the BFFs help - commenced the decorating. I found some amazing deals, and...well, let's just look at pictures, hmm? Let's go ahead and acknowledge that I need to learn to compensate for all the sunshine coming through the windows.

Looking at the front door: I love those blue curtains. They make my heart sing every time I see them.

Side view of that corner, just because I love the way that little print looks over there.

In case you couldn't guess, that's the fireplace.

And just because I love it so much, that's the painting above the fireplace, with a close up of the ceiling fan pull just for kicks.

The long wall that has the TV station. It looks amazingly blank here, but much better in real life. You'll just have to trust me. (For Those of you who are The Chosen: That's the wall the couch was on before.)

Looking from the front door towards the dining room & kitchen. Funny side story: When The Professor saw the blue pillow he asked why I chose to decorate our living room like a bordello. He actually used the word "bordello". I think he is the first person to do that this century.

That's across from the dining room table, our little "office area", where no office-type work is ever done. Only many, many games of Mah-Jong.

And finally, looking from the kitchen through both rooms. I'm not technically sure if you can even call it two rooms, but I do, so you will too.

I'm wondering if I should finish the kitchen. I painted one wall blue a year and a half ago, and now I Want to paint the rest of it a lighter shade. But...that would require crawling all over the cabinets, which would be drastically against my lazy lifestyle. I may have to over-indulge on HGTV again to find the motivation.

Maybe in 3 or 4 years, I'll get around to that.

Medical Update, which may be a bit of Too Much Information

2009-07-29T20:30:00.004-05:00

1) In the midst of last weekend's Family Festivities, my sister noticed the mole on the back of my shoulder and commented on the shape and color of it. The Professor, never one to take a Medical Emergency lightly, promptly made an appointment with the dermatologist. Assuming that if *I* have a problem, then he should get to be checked out as well: he made back-to-back appointments and he promptly scheduled an hour of dermatological examinations. Isn't it sweet that we do these things together?

2) I spent some time in the squash patch a couple of days ago, weeding and seeing to the General Order of Things. Somewhere in The Proceedings, a Biting Bug made its way down my backside. When it started biting, I started hopping. I'm sure the neighbors got a pleasant view of me with my hand down my pants, frantically swiping at The Nuisance. The result: My behind looks like I sat on a patch of stinging nettles. Thank god for cortisone cream, because sitting is now very...itchy.

Get to Know Me

2009-07-21T18:41:00.003-05:00

Because I don't spill enough about myself already? As my big sister leads, so I follow...

1. What time did you get up this morning? 5:10 AM

2. How do you like your steak? On the rare side of medium rare – just done enough that it’s warm all the way through.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

4. What is your favorite TV show? That would imply I watch TV on a regular basis. I’ll go with anything on HGTV.

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? Amsterdam

6. What did you have for breakfast? Banana and a piece of Canadian bacon

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Italian. Or maybe Mexican. No, wait! Indian…or Italian?

8. What foods do you dislike? More than I can count. Short list of things I absolutely hate: Beans of any variety, sauerkraut, mayonnaise, condiments in general, anything ranch-flavored, corn…

9. Favorite Place to Eat? My mama’s kitchen. Or my sister’s. Or mine, if I did a good job that day.

10. Favorite dressing? Dressing is gross. Enjoy the flavor of the vegetables, people!

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive? 2001 Camry.

12. What are your favorite clothes? My denim skirt and one of several tank tops.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance? Australia. Or Russia. No, Costa Rica. How about “anywhere I haven’t ever been, and most of the places I have”.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full? ½ full, unless I’m angry. Then I throw it at you and it’s 100% empty.

15. Where would you want to retire? Wherever The Professor does, which will probably be near a beach.

16. Favorite time of day? When I get home from work.

17. Where were you born? Louisville, KY

18. What is your favorite sport to watch? Baseball, if I have to.

19. Who do you think will not tag you back? Tara

20. Person you expect to tag you back first? Stacey

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this? My mom’s

22. Bird watcher? If they fly in front of me.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person? Night. But – scarily enough – I enjoy getting up early now…

24. Do you have any pets? 1 cat

25. Any new and exciting news you’d like to share? My living room redecorating project is finished - and so, I hope, is spending money for awhile.

26. What did you want to be when you were little? Teacher

27. What is your best childhood memory? Holding my new baby brother in the hospital for the first time

28. Are you a cat or dog person? Cats.

29. Are you married? Yes.

30. Always wear your seat belt? Yes.

31. Been in a car accident? Yes.

32. Any pet peeves? Don’t get me started.

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings? Cheese, pepperoni, cheese, mushrooms, cheese

34. Favorite Flower? Lilies, Orchids, Tulips…

35. Favorite ice cream? Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked

36. Favorite fast food restaurant? Taco Bell…isn’t it everyone’s?

37. How many times did you fail your driver’s test? None

38. From whom did you get your last email? My boss.

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Amazon…but only if someone else pays off the balance.

40. Do anything spontaneous lately? Not that I’ll write about where my mother might read it.

41. Like your job? Ask me again in 2 weeks.

42. Broccoli? Never.

43. What was your favorite vacation? I love them all. I’m getting the feeling that I don’t do well with picking favorites.

44. Last person you went out to dinner with? The Professor and The Bestest Friend

45. What are you listening to right now? My Broadway playlist.

46. What is your favorite color? Blue.

47. How many tattoos do you have? None.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz? I didn't count, I just started typing names.

49. What time did you finish this quiz? 6:30

50. Coffee Drinker? Not anymore, and thanks for reminding me.

Good Sister / Bad Sister

2009-07-16T19:37:00.002-05:00

Good Sister: My older sister, known to many as Ember Case. She got her second eBook - GO HERE NOW! - published last month, and I'm here to tell you it's melt-your-knickers-off hot. And steamy.

Now, normally I don't do hot and steamy in the middle of an Alabama July. But this time, it's more than worth it.

If you haven't gone and bought it yet...well, hie thee off and set aside an hour or so to get your knickers melted off. I read it pre-polishing and can only imagine the level to which my knickers are about to be melted.

Bad Sister: ME.

See, the book was published the day after I got back from vacation, and I downloaded it but didn't actually OPEN the thing until tonight. And there, on page five are the dedications. And who's in the first line?

ME! She put me first! Me, who didn't even open it til tonight. Me, who may have just forfeited the privilege of reading any more of her works of genius until I pay for them.

I may have to buy her love back with chocolate and wine, but it will be totally worth it.

A Little Help From My Friends

2009-07-11T20:22:00.007-05:00

The Bestest Friend has forcibly reminded me that I have been a lazy blogess, and she's going to faint when she reads this, but ... she's right. Did you hear that?? YOU'RE RIGHT. So.

We are so close to having everything done in my living room. I love just sitting in there now, it's so bright and cheery. So here are 2 of our projects of which I am most proud.

1) The table lamp.

The Best Friend is wicked scary with a bottle of spray paint. Nothing is sacred. Sometimes, I even fear for her dogs. But when I needed a lamp painted, I was glad of this talent. The lamp was just boring black.

Before:

After an hour in her custody:

The next project was a little more labor intensive. The chair was in bad shape. But nothing defeats us!

Before:
Ignore the bedding in the background, it was emptied out of the spare room so the ceiling could be fixed. And that's a cat toy under the chair, in case you're wondering why I just leave blue fuzzy thing laying on my floor.

After:

The fabric was a steal. It cost $17 a yard. But I found a 2 yard piece in the clearance bin for $6. So now I have a bunch more of this fabric to find something to do with. Maybe a pillow? There's no stopping us now!

Briefly

2009-06-25T10:10:00.004-05:00

Yesterday: Beach, National Park, and many Beautiful Views. With a night cap at the local pub.

Today: Wineries, with an end-cap at Powell's.

Why yes, I am on vacation. How did you know?

Conversations in an Airport

2009-06-22T12:31:00.003-05:00

StepSon: "Did you see Slumdog Millionaire?"
Me: "No, was it good? "
StepSon: "Yeah, they-"
Me: "Stop! Don't tell me the end! You always tell me the end!"
StepSon: "The end was really cool! They-"
Me: "No! Stop"
StepSon: "Fine, I'll tell Dad."

Also, the laptop came in helpful for a discussion over the largest city in the world. Occupational Hazard: People expect me to solve these dilemmas, which of course I have to make more difficult with questions like "Define city - do you mean city limits or metro areas?"

Anyway, Wikipedia may or may not be right, but it was a quick way to end a 10 minute debate.

Summertime...And The Living Is Easy

2009-06-21T20:33:00.007-05:00

Do you know what one of the worst parts of June is? This*:

June Bugs. God, how I hate them. I have an infestation this year that makes me afraid to step foot outside after 8 PM, lest I be dive-bombed from all directions by the Minions of Satan. They seem to have an especial affinity for my hair and the window screens - anything that they can cling to with their tiny gripping legs, leaving me convinced I will be forced to live through that horrible scene in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan in which horrible disgusting bugs crawl down ears**. I hope you sleep well tonight.

Have I mentioned I am not a fan? That must mean it's time for a Summer Adventure!

The Professor, the Beloved StepSon and I leave tomorrow for a Great NorthWestern Escape. We're heading to Portland for a week to visit family. And visit wineries. And to drink from my sister-in-law's wine cellar. And visit breweries. And to ... have I mentioned the wine?

My biggest Sadness - not really a huge thing, all things considered - is that this Great State Of Mine tells me that it's illegal to ship wine to my house, limiting me to what I can get home in my suitcase. Somehow, I will persevere, and simply enjoy all the wine I can whilst I'm gone. I could ship it to my sister's, in the hope that it will still be there for our August road trip, but then I'd have to trust that she won't drink it all before I get there.

Considering it's summer, and her kids are home for the summer, those may be some steep odds.

The living room is mostly put back together, which makes it much more fun to be in the living room. The concrete floor - while functional, in that it holds up the house - wasn't exactly the warm and inviting place I'd like my home to portray.

So, I'm off to a land of evening temperatures below 80, verdant with grape vines. Hopefully also lacking in Scary Bugs With Gripping Legs.

So tell me. Do you have Scary Bugs? And where are you going this month?

*Photo courtesy of donjd2.
**Yes, those were more slug-like than beetle-like, but it's my nightmare and I'll revisit it as I see fit.

Concrete isn't the most comfy seating in the world

2009-06-08T19:44:00.005-05:00

The living room remodel is in full swing now. And now that we've moved past painting to demolition, The Professor's head has ceased it spontaneous combusting, which is really a win-win for all involved. Very messy stuff, those exploding brains. This is what he did today:

In case you can't tell, the carpet's gone and that's our concrete slab he's sitting on.

Yes, the TV is still in the living room for our enjoyment (seen on the far left, there), although *I'm* certainly not trying to enjoy it.

Today he spent 5 hours ripping up the carpet, padding and the bits of nail-infused wood holding it all down. He's never quite as happy as when he's destroying something.

Mr Floor Dude doesn't actually come out til next Monday to lay the new floor, but since The Professor is gone on his annual trip as of Wednesday night, I get the glory of living in the bedroom for a week.

My ass - apparently - isn't as hardened as The Professor's.

I also moonlinght as a tour guide

2009-05-31T19:47:00.010-05:00

In case you've spent 2 days wondering - the veggies all got cooked, the food all got eaten and we still don't have an empty beer fridge, but that's a result I can learn to live with. The damn gas on the grill gave out when the chicken was just this side of being safe to eat. Luckily, there was plenty of heat left and I just closed the top and drank a beer while I waited. Then I temped them all with my meat thermometer, and then - because I'm paranoid someone will croak one day as a result of my cooking and tarnish my perfect track record of not killing people - I cut them all open with a knife.

Today, we got to play tour guide to the soon-to-be Alabamians. And did I mention they're coming from California? They have so much to look forward to. The Big City up the road really has some good stuff in it, if you ignore all the bad/crazy stuff (I'm looking at YOU Mr. Mayor!).

We took them to an Indian restaurant for lunch, as it's one of The Professor's most favoritest places to eat when up in The Big City and our little corner of this county is not quite ready for that much culture exposure. They've given into Mexican, and someone was brave enough this year to put in a Japanese place with "Sushi" proudly proclaimed on its sign. The Indian subcontinent may have to wait awhile longer.

We took them up the city park that has the public library, museum of art, city hall and county courthouse around it. It would have been a lovely stroll - except every fountain and reflecting pool was empty and being painted. There was so much fresh paint that the scent of paint hung over the park like a cloud. Everywhere we turned (it's a small park, but still) we smelled it. And Mrs Pregnant California had her first experience of not understanding a word out of a Southerner's mouth when one lady asked her when the baby's due. I told her to mark that one off of her Southern Bingo Card and see what happens next. It didn't take long.

Next up was a trip to an antebellum home right in The Big City that survived the Big War (and I hope you know which war that is). Quite a beautiful house and the grounds were lovely, even if it is in a kinda bad area of town.

Arlington Antebellum Home & Gardens

The Californians really liked the look of the huge Magnolia trees growing around the property - some were absolutely huge. I simply love Magnolia flowers, but The Professor doesn't like the vast amounts of leavings these trees drape around your property, so we won't be getting one.

Sugar Magnolia, blossoms bloomin'*

*yes, I know it's not really called a Sugar Magnolia, but that's what the song says.

Ok remember the Southern Bingo Card?
After the pretty house and trees, we set out through the city to visit the most famous landmark of all, but before we got there we passed a gas station with a sign that our guests took to mean "Welcome to Alabama". And they weren't far from the truth:

Are you hungry yet?

I'm glad there wasn't any traffic behind us at that red light, because we all wanted pictures of that sign. And now it's saved for posterity and I feel I've done my good deed for humanity for the day.

After that, it was on to Vulcan park, which I hadn't visited since...well, since I was very small. And I haven't been very small in a while, so it's been a while. Vulcan, God of the Forge, called us to visit his mighty throne:

Hail, Vulcan!

The best thing about going up to see Vulcan (besides the naked iron butt cheeks, I mean) is the view of the city:

After that, we visited another Professor with views of the city even more impressive than Vulcan, stopped for smoothies, tooled around the part of town that they're actually going to be living in, and generally had a good time.

Here's to hoping there's one less person (or two) frightened of our fair state.

More pictures of the day at my Flickr Photostream: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lildebbie77/

I'm fine today, thanks

2009-05-29T14:15:00.007-05:00

This is what I have looking at me:

In a matter of a few hours it will turn into a double batch of couscous tabbouleh, a pile o' guacamole, and a big heapling pile of coconut curry veggies. Then it's just a matter of cooking some basmati rice, grilling up the chicken and cracking open a beer or 4.

Although one of the guests of honor is pregnant, so if she's the only one not drinking, I'll switch that beer to Sprite Zero. And if The Professor happens to splash some bourbon in it while I'm not looking, well...I'll just have to drink it. Thriftiness, you know.

Also? Look at what The Bestest Friend and I found for over my fire place:

The living room is freaking incredible. A new floor and a day spent hanging things on the walls and I'll be good. The Professor may need therapy, but what else is new?

Blue Skies, Smiling at Me

2009-05-28T19:22:00.002-05:00

When you begin your day by walking into work and hearing your boss say “I’m not in a good mood, but we need to talk”, it’s pretty much a sign that this is not going to be a “Hey, you’re so awesome that you get a raise” speech.*

When you end your day with an employee who needs to talk because she feels she’s doing too much work that’s beneath her pay grade, well…we’ll just call it end caps.

Coming home to discover that The Professor isn’t exactly speaking to anyone (he’s in “Deep Thinker, No Talker” mode, which he does when a decision must be made) made me feel less guilty for not offering to share the bottle of red that I ~~dove into~~ began appreciating shortly thereafter.

Tomorrow, I’m off work. It’s the Professor’s birthday. We’re supposed to have an abundance of sunshine and I have a cookout for 10 in my backyard at 4:30. There will be grilled chicken, and damn it, THERE WILL BE FUN. And I will have some of both.

*I am awesome, but I didn’t get a raise. And I wasn’t the one who goofed. This time.

The Very Merry Month of May

2009-05-24T19:46:00.008-05:00

I can say unequivocally that there has been almost no strolling through the park this month. I'm not sure what stars aligned to make this month insane, but it's been quite fun. If exhausting.

First, the parents came and spent some quality time in Alabama. Believe it or not, "quality time" and "Alabama" *can* exist in the same sentence with no irony present. It was fun. As usual, we ate too much. And laughed almost enough. And The Professor discovered a grocery store that carries 8 separate varieties of Sam Adams beer (which is unusual for Alabama).

Four days after they left, it was time for The Professor's Half Century Party. It was a few weeks early, but those pesky Academic types...they don't stick around much past graduation day. So we had the party *on* graduation day, to make sure they didn't have much of an excuse to skip out on our backyard. 1 backyard + 20 people = I don't know how many hot dogs and Bratwurst we went through (oh! Surprise of the year: I like Bratwurst now!), but somehow we ended up with more beer than we started with. I didn't question that, especially since I had more fun already planned.

Five days after the party, it was time to head to Atlanta for a conference. Yes! Another library conference! You had no idea life could get this much fun. Even better - hold onto your knickers - my favorite session was by a librarian that had Improved Work Flows Between Acquisition And Cataloging (Not the actual title) that got me all fired up about how I could, um...improve workflows. No, I was not drunk. Even better, my rental car got triple upgraded again to a Pontiac G6 GT - seen here - and it was quite a sweet upgrade.

The very night I got home, indeed, within hours, The Bestest Friend arrived and The Original Redhead drove in from A Little Ways Up North to help me empty, tape up, paint and re-arrange the living room. We completed it all in less than 24 hours, at which time we made a major dent in the Beer Collection. Here are the remnants after 2 weekends of partying:

I told you there was a ton of beer left after that first party! People brought their own, drank our Coronas and then left their offerings. I should party more often.
Anyway, we accomplished this before we imbibed much beer:

It looks about 3 times as yellow as it actually is because of my flash, but I've never professed to be a good photographer. Somehow, even my white fan looks yellow in that picture. The room's still a work in progress, so...Moving on.

Sidenote that will screw up the timeline of this post: A little later in the week, The Professor was overseeing the Satellite Guy installing a new outlet. Whilst up in the attic, he must have gotten bored, because when I got home, this is what I found in the spare bedroom:

He stepped through the ceiling, but didn't get hurt so let's not dwell on this part.

Last Sunday, after the friends departed, we took the Beloved Stepson out for his 18th birthday (*gulp*). And let's not get into that scariness, because...

This weekend has been taken up with his graduation. From High School. As in, he's now 18 and going to college and has a pocketful of gift money and a huge party on a lake tonight with all his friends and his girlfriend and Oh. My. God. He looks so grown up. Fly little bird, fly. Well, if "little bird" means "one who is now 5 inches taller than I am". And it does.

So I have a few days to rest, and then it's time for another party to welcome a new faculty member to The Professor's department. We've cut the number down to 10 this time, and the damn rain needs to just give me a few hours on Friday evening of niceness, since my house can't hold 10.

Tonight? Tonight The Professor and I bought a nice bottle of wine. I think we're mostly celebrating. But there might also be a little of "Hey, let's look at our wedding album so we can say for the 8,123th time how much The Beloved StepSon has grown, and oh hey! Remember when he wanted to go on a day trip to Prague?"

Maybe I’ve been repressing the best parts of myself

2009-05-01T17:34:00.001-05:00

It’s a Friday morning. Friday morning’s are the mornings least likely to need some form of caffeine to get me through it, because just thinking about the weekend gets me high. Who needs crack when there’s a Saturday around the corner? Maybe we could make every other day a Saturday and then no one would need crack anymore?

So I walk into work, humming a merry little tune. It’s a been a good week with the parents in town. Work is boring, but that’s ok. It’s given me time to think up creative new ways to make The Professor’s head explode. I may start cataloging them soon.

And so I do my morning routine. I really hadn’t noticed I was humming, but then…that’s kind of the point of humming, isn’t it?

And so one of the ladies asks “That sounds kind of familiar, what are you humming?”

I had to stop and think for a second before I told her “Good Morning Starshine”.

The look she gave me was more than blank. It was as if she were still waiting for me to respond. So I said it again, as a kind of question. “Good Morning Starshine?”

Still with that look, so I started singing “Good Morning Starshine….the earth says helloooo…”, hoping to get a reaction. Still nothing from her. And then, because I’m full of goofy Friday-ness, I keep singing: “You twinkle above us…we twinkle below…”. By now, I have an audience.

“Did she just say ‘Starshine’?” a lady that is a little … religiously conservative … whispered. “Is she one of those earth-types and I never knew it?”.

I rolled my eyes and before I could reply, another librarian laughed and said “No, she just sounds like a hippie 30 years out of date.” She totally meant that in a good way. And then she walked back to her desk whistling “Age of Aquarius”.

It’s a Revolution, I tell ya.

The Google. It has failed me.

2009-04-28T15:31:00.002-05:00

I made plans to go to lunch with a coworker today. We decided on a local Thai place that has good sushi (you’d be incredibly un-surprised to hear that’s kinda hard to find in Montgomery). I hadn’t been there in a couple of years, so I pulled up their menu online, and saw an ingredient in their “Beauty and the Beast” rolls that I hadn’t heard of before: “topigo”.

Now, I’ll admit that I’m not a huge sushi connoisseur – I like it, I eat it, but I wouldn’t be able to rate it beyond “good”. But when a Google search turned up nothing other than repeated attempts to get me to change my search (no, Google, I did NOT meant Toigo. Or top igo. Whatever THEY are.), I decided that I must try it. If an ingredient is so exotic, so mysterious that not even Teh Google can identify it, well…give me a fork and a double serving.

The sushi was, as usual, good. Conversation and company even better. I got the “Beauty and the Beast” rolls, since I was intrigued: Tuna, avocado, alfalfa sprouts and cream cheese topped with the mystery item. And, just to be whimsical, I threw in a cup of Wanton Soup - it's so much better than what I usually get from Chinese restaurants, because it’s not a bowl of broth with a huge noodle in it. They use actual vegetables.

The alfalfa sprouts were probably the most dangerous thing I ate: Turns out they’ve been linked to salmonella lately.

The topigo? Was actually “toBigo”. Minor typo in their online menu. And it’s Fish Eggs.

Updates

2009-04-26T19:01:00.002-05:00

First: The Tudors is back on. It’s funny, but now that they’re following history more closely, their viewers are leaving them in droves. I have several theories:

1) The writers used all their imagination while they re-wrote history in the first season, and now they’re just copying lines out of various textbooks.

2.) The story of one man getting married, getting bored when he doesn’t get a son, and then lining up his next queen before the current one is out of the picture.. well, repeating that 5 times gets a tad predictable around Queen Number Three.

3) All anyone ever cared about was the story of how Anne – that dirty dastardly woman – got to be Queen, because we all know she was just a dirty, filthy femme fatale. In fact, the Catholic Church - back then, not today, –told everyone she had a 6th finger as a sign of her evilness. Did that make it to the storyline? It wasn’t in the 5 cumulative minutes that I’ve watched, so I don’t know. I do know that The Professor has not yelled at the TV once this season. He’s been too busy snoring.

I continue to be incredulous that this story can’t be both A) True and B) Fascinating. But there you have it. With “It” meaning “screenwriters can’t do history well and need to just move on to the next comic book”. For God’s sake, look what they (the screenwriters, not the comic books, KEEP UP) did to Beowulf (Ok, not history, but stay with me).THAT made it onto the big screen. Maybe if we could get Angelina Jolie to play all 6 wives, we’d have a winner.

Second: In my newly de-coffeed world, I thought about taking at 2 Liter of my Diet Mtn Dew to work every day. Wine was really my first choice, but then I would start buying romance novels for the library instead of military non-fiction. And then I would get fired. In the end, I’ve just been drinking insane amounts of water. To keep me sane and my employees alive, I still have my Dew every morning with breakfast. But I have another myth to debunk for you: Anyone who says that caffeine makes you pee more (more than WHAT?), has never substituted water and then done scientific comparisons. I haven’t been scientific in the least, but I do know that I’m going to the ladies room every hour.

And if that last sentence doesn't make you glad you read my ramblings, then I'm dead in the water.

Life after coffee

2009-04-21T14:01:00.001-05:00

It’s official. I am no longer a coffee drinker. After a while, I paid attention to all the acid with which my stomach was flooding my esophagus. I tried to outlast it, but apparently, the stomach really doesn’t ever run out of that stuff. It took me wishing for a digestive-track-replacement-surgery to get the message. But now I’m clean. The rest of you can thank your deity of choice for whoever is responsible for Diet Mountain Dew.
Final tally: Stomach: 1, Me: 0

The Bestest Friend and I have officially embarked on Operation: Make The Professor’s Head Explode. We had only planned on the satisfaction of redecorating my living/dining room area; the exploding head is merely an added incentive to get it done sooner rather than later. In many houses across this fine land of ours, repainting and re-arranging a living room is not a matter that makes people wheeze into their gin and tonics. But apparently in Chez Professor-land, the placement of the TV has some kind of mystical meaning. Wish I’d known that four years ago, because I think I’ve missed a lot of mysticism and now I’m feeling left out.
Final Tally: Mysticism: 1, Me: 0, with an option to change to : Professor’s Head: 0, Me : 1

Also – and this is really very exciting, so hold on to your knickers - : The pictures of Dead People are coming off of my living room walls. I don’t know where they’re going, but you will not be confronted with a couple of dead kings and queens when you walk through my front door anymore. I’m definitely afraid I’ll get home one day and find them hanging above my bed, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take since 95% of the time that I spend in my bedroom I’m sleeping.
Final tally: Dead People: 0, Me : 3

We’ve done most of the planning and bought the paint and supplies. And guess what? I have to wait ANOTHER MONTH before I have time to paint. But that also means that it gives me a month to round up people to help with the painting. If I play my cards right, there could be 5 of us. Do you think I could turn that into “I’ll cook a five course meal if you do all the painting for me”?
Final Tally : To Be Determined.

Food That....Excuse Me, WHAT?

2009-04-13T19:24:00.003-05:00

There's a Captain D's at my exit on the interstate, and a couple of miles before you get off, you're treated to a billboard for it. There's a plate of something fish-like, and a huge slogan: "Food That Loves You Back".

Now, I'm not adverse to Captain D's. About twice a year, I get an insane urge for their fish and chips. I don't know what's in their oil, I don't know what kind of fish they use, and I have no idea as to the overall cholesterol content of my chosen meal. And I really don't think I want to.

Maybe it's just me, but the idea of "Food That Loves Me Back" makes me very nervous. How, exactly, does it accomplish this? Can it send me greeting cards? Does Halmark make something for this occasion? Am I required to send a Thank You Gift?

How, exactly, does food love me back? Do I even really want to know? These are the thoughts that permeate my dreams...

I really don't want my meal to remind me of it's presence once it's past my taste buds. As far as my commitment to any one meal, that's kind of my limit. After that point, it's a "better seen and not heard from" situation. I'm great with Food That Loves To Be Eaten. I'm great with Food That Loves, period. Who doesn't want to be loved?

But if my dinner is promising to come back from the great beyond that is my digestive track and in any way tell me at 2 AM "Hey, Thanks for eating me!"...well...

My love of their Fish N Chips may have been cured.

How to be Popular, in 7 easy steps

2009-04-10T13:14:00.004-05:00

1.) Drive into an area that's under a tornado warning.
2.) Get off the interstate and find a truck stop that has free wi-fi.
3.) Power up, do some searching and find a local TV station that has a live stream of their storm coverage.
4) Turn on said stream, volume on low.
5.) Be nice when someone realizes you have outside information and turn your laptop screen so they can see.
6.) When they say "Hey, this girl over here has the TV on!", don't roll your eyes. Just turn the volume up.
7.) Sit back and watch as you become the most popular girl in the truck stop.

How To Make Sure an Argument Doesn't End

2009-04-10T08:05:00.003-05:00

Scene: Wife getting ready for overnight trip, buzzing around. Hubby getting ready for a typical day. Somehow, a meaningless comment turns into a meaningless argument. Which turns into sarcasm all around.

Both realize it's stupid and pointless at the same time. She laughs, he laughs, and she says "Why are we arguing?"

He says "I don't know, why DID you start this?".

Really, it's quite remarkable that nothing was thrown at his head.

How My Day Went

2009-04-09T18:44:00.004-05:00

6:01 AM: The Professor tries to tell me it’s really time to get up, the alarms haven’t been lying, I-can-do-it-he-knows-I-can, and as an extra special bonus he’s able to do all this without speaking more than one word. He gets to live another day.

6:12 AM: I convince myself that no, really, that light is indeed sunshine, meaning my boss will soon be looking for me. I roll over (on top of a cat) and try to imagine what I could wear this morning. I decide that today is the day I will eat that can of soup I put in my desk last week for a day when I didn’t want to fix lunch before going to work.

6:15: I have to pee, I can smell the coffee and I’ve told myself that if I can drag myself out of bed, I will be rewarded with an Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Deal.

6:32: I get in my car. How in the world did it take me 17 minutes to pee, brush my teeth, put on some clothes, pour my coffee in the thermos, the Mountain Dew in my travel cup and kiss The Prof goodbye? Was I moving underwater with chains on my ankles? On days when I fix my breakfast AND my lunch, I’m usually done in 20 minutes.

6:35: I cruise into McD’s for my “I got out of bed almost all on my own” reward. An Egg McMuffin is never as good as I think it will be, because what I really want is a pound of bacon. With cheese melted over the top.

6:45: I get to leave the Hell that is the McD’s drive through. Why do they have to power wash their drive through during morning rush hour?

7:45: I arrive at work. Angels sing and rainbows appear. Most importantly, I pour my first cup of coffee. This week I’m really spoiling myself – I bought flavored cream. (Cinnamon Bun, if you’re interested).

8:00 On my 2nd cup of coffee. I’ve looked over emails and read a couple of librarian-ish things. Decision time: Work, or look like I’m working? Why do I ALWAYS choose work?

9:00 Begin flurry of emails with My Girls Up North (Where “Up North is really just “Less South” than my garden spot in Alabama). I’m visiting tomorrow and we have a menu to negotiate. A menu that we are going to make as unhealthy as possible, just because we are adults and we can do that if we want to. So there.

9:42 : Get an email from The Professor. He’s made a dentist appointment for me.

9:43 : Regret my decision to let him live.

9:50 : Realize that really, when I can’t order books, there isn’t a whole lot for me to do. Still I must look busy, so I start reading some of the history in the personnel folders in my desk. Fascinating stuff. No really, no sarcasm.

10:00: Curse a lot because of {name redacted} for doing {information you really don’t need to know}. Actually, the cursing was because of things NOT done, but that’s just semantics. The cursing takes 15 minutes, because my boss fuels it and adds some words of her own. All of this snatches away the caffeine buzz I had going on.

10:58: We (The Girls and I) approval the final menu:

Appetizer: Tator Tots (Oh, Maybe with some cheese melted on top? I just thought of that and must email…)
Entrée: Boxed Mac N Cheese, tossed at your discretion with or without a portion of Weiner; Fish Sticks.
Dessert: Chocolate Pudding
All served with the finest vintage Kool-Aid (or cheap knock off) and your choice of alcoholic additives. Or a glass of wine.
Pizza rolls will be in reserve in the freezer.

11:29 : Now I’m hungry, thanks to the food discussions, but suddenly soup (Campbell’s Select Light Vegetable and Pasta) isn’t as appealing as it was. I eat my cheese and crackers instead. And pour another cup of coffee. I need to watch it – I think there’s only about a cup left, and 3:45 is a long way away.

1200: Open Google Reader for some updates, and discover that the internet filters have gotten stricter again. I can still see Reader, but the USA Today Tech Section is blocked?

1201: Remember that my book vendor site was also blocked this week. Wonder how many other things I can’t get to. Decide to just let those surprises come as they will.

1207: Realize I’m in the midst of yet another flurry of emails, this time work related, about details that are so minuscule that none of it will ever matter to anyone. Still, it can be fun to drive these things on because one person takes it so seriously and the other will laugh with me later.

1252: Decide that my frame of mind is entirely too pleasant and begin writing an employee’s interim review.

1255: Decide I’ll wait for her self-assessment to hit my inbox before I write anything. That leaves my own self-assessment to work on.

1325: Realize that saying “I exceeded these goals” 5 times in the same paragraph might be overkill and try to find alternative ways to let my chain of command know how much I rock.

1345: Change the placement of my desk lamp. Thanks to cubicles that haven’t been updated in over 30 years, this is way harder than it needs to be.

1400:The soup finally sounds good to my stomach.

1405 : Read this and wonder why I continue to live in Alabama. It must be my crazy love of fried foods.

1408 : Read this and make a mental note for the 273,619th time to NEVER move to Texas.

1446 : Less than an hour to go! I can make it. I think I can, I think I can…

I’m becoming my father: A Pop Quiz (in run-on sentences)

2009-03-18T14:30:00.003-05:00

When Person A says “the system won’t let me print the information” and I say “That’s ok, I just need to see it, not print it”, and I go into the system and click “display”, and the info most assuredly does NOT display, and Person A says {gleefully} “I told you that it won’t print!”, I will :

A) Say, “oh, that’s what you meant, thanks” and move on to the other 254 things on my to-do list, or

B) NOT IGNORE THIS OBVIOUS LACK OF UNDERSTANDING OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, because it is IMPERATIVE that everyone know the difference between print and display. RIGHT NOW.

When Person B (who is, by the way, also Person A) says “That Office is across base. It’s next to Building 200” and I say “Building 200 is right next door” and s/he says “Well, That Office used to be next door, next to 200” – and this happens 3 times in the SAME conversation, on the third time that I am told “That office is across base. It’s next to Building 200” (which is now OBVIOUSLY WRONG), I will finally say:

A) “Thanks, I’m sure I’ll find it”, while planning on calling and asking for directions later; or

B) “But you just said that the office is across base. Building 200 is next door. Which is it?” And NO MATTER WHAT they reply (because I need them to say they’re wrong at this point), I’ll say “But you just said…”

I have about 4 more examples of this, but I’m going to let it go.

Until tomorrow that is, when Person A/B tells me to go next door to print a report that won’t display. Then, we will have A LESSON IN THINKING ONE THING AND THEN NOT SAYING SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

And Now, Happier Things (AWSOFTC(SFBIGTNABO), Part II)

2009-03-02T18:37:00.010-06:00

Sidenote: If you sent The Professor and me a very beautiful rose, please let me know! It wasn't signed!

A little over 13 months ago, we had what some wonderfully witty person titled the "Alabama Winter Storm Of The Century (So Far, Because I'm Going To Need A Better One)". That person has had her (*ahem*) wish fulfilled.

Friday, appropriately, was a Very Stormy Day. We were under tornado watches, severe thunderstorm watches, TORNADO WARNINGS, flash flood warnings - you get the picture - all day. And night. The arriving Original Redhead from Tennessee complained around 8 PM that no one told her to bring an arc.

And then, Sunday morning we woke up to snow.

We took a drive down to The Professor's University for lunch, and it was still coming down.

The University is always pretty; in the snow, it's beautiful.

I loved this tree:

These were pretty too:

In the hour we were there, though, the sun came out; by the time we left, it was starting to melt.

Still, there was plenty on the ground when we got home to try and whack The Professor in the butt with a snowball.

I missed. But I was distracted by my target.

A Very Loud (and Long) Weeping and Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

2009-02-27T14:58:00.001-06:00

A week before That Blessed Date when The Professor and I legally linked our lives together, we went to fill out the requisite paperwork at the county courthouse. I knew that on the way home, we’d be passing the local shelter, and I spontaneously asked The Professor if we could stop and look at the cats. His reaction was a little more … dramatic than I expected:

“Damn it woman, I was going to surprise you! Are you going to be two steps ahead of me for the rest of our lives?”

{Hint: The answer is yes. But I digress}

And so, The Professor got me the best wedding present in the world: A cat.

There weren’t a whole lot of cats, and I really didn’t want one of the babies – those are always the top pick and have the best chance of getting adopted. I wanted a young adult.

The choice was between two cats: A steel grey charmer, who purred and rubbed against our hands, and a sulky exotic looking cat who cried nonstop and didn’t want to be touched.

The Professor made the decision very quickly – he wanted Mr Sulky (named “Shelby” by the shelter) because he was convinced an unaffectionate cat wouldn’t get adopted by anyone else.

The shelter told us he had been left on their doorstep in the middle of the night that Hurricane Ivan blew through town. Being this far from the coast, a hurricane isn’t as bad as it could be – but it was still a hurricane when it got here. And Mr. Sulky had spent the storm alone, in a box.

We debated what to name him while we filled out the paperwork and waited for the volunteers to bring him to us. “Shelby” didn’t seem right. It just didn’t fit, but we couldn’t think of anything better. When we got in the car, the song “Sultans of Swing” was playing on the radio – and we both yelled out – “Sultan”!

Sultan immediately made it known that he was not a quiet cat. He paced, prowled and yowled non-stop. So much so that on the first visit, we asked the vet if we should be worried that something was wrong. He just laughed and said that he was almost positive Sultan’s a Bengal – and Bengals have amazing voices.

We left him at home when we went on our honeymoon, leaving The Bestest Friend to come by to take care of him. I think that's when she started referring to him as "Senor Mau-Mau", because of his crazy voice. Halfway through the week, he was hoarse from talking so much. A few months later we introduced the Ever-Fluffy Lucius to the house – and Sultan never talked himself hoarse again.

“Crazy Cat” is probably too gentle a term – “Spastic” may be better. But there’s no way to describe a cat to someone who hasn’t met him, except to say “WOW”. Also “Makes Stinky Litter Box”, but then, what cat doesn’t?

He warmed up to us very quickly. He claimed The Professor, and every morning he's on the floor for the hour that The Professor does his morning workout - laying down next to him for The Professor to put out a hand and pet him as he does his 100's of crunches - this goes on for about 30 minutes every morning.

At night, he's either curled up behind The Professor's shoulder to watch TV, or lounging in front of the fireplace if it's the correct season and we're treating him right.

Two weeks ago was the annual checkup, and there was a bunch of fluid coming out of his eyes. He’d also lost 3 pounds in the past year, but he just seemed a little tired lately. The vet put him on ointment for the eyes and scheduled a follow-up for 10 days later (this past Monday) – by which point he’d stopped eating and lost another 1 ½ pounds. We did blood work and some other tests, but couldn’t find anything conclusive, so we scheduled some x-rays.

And now, because the past 24 hours are interesting only to a very few people, we still aren’t completely sure what’s wrong. But we do know that it’s one of two Very Bad Things – a tumor that I can’t afford to A) find out about, or B) fix if it’s there; or FIP . The vet is pretty sure it’s FIP, and at such an advanced state that there’s no way to even make him comfortable for long. He hasn’t eaten in a week, so he’s literally wasting away. You know what’s coming…

I went to visit him this morning, and I can honestly say it’s the most heart-breaking thing I’ve ever done. He’s lost another half pound this week. I knew then that this afternoon would be the end, but seeing him at half the weight he was just 2 years ago hurt more than I thought. He’s not talking anymore – he doesn’t even make a peep when a large dog barks on the other side of the wall. He just snuggled down into my lap and closed his eyes. In my head, I told myself that he was asking me to make him better. And all I can do is stop him from getting worse.

The Professor just left to go be there when they put him to sleep. I had planned on going up to the minute it was time to walk out the door. And I couldn't. For once, I let myself back out of something I didn't want to do.

And now...it's time to go buy more wine. I drank just about everything in the house last night, and an empty wine rack is a sad wine rack.

Frightening Thought of the Day

2009-02-20T13:49:00.003-06:00

Whilst sending an email to my sister this morning, making plans for a summer vacation, I had an epiphany:

Six months from today, StepSon will be living at college. In a dorm. Where no parents are present.

Prayers and presents of an alcoholic nature (for ME! Not him!) are much encouraged and appreciated.

National Day of Service (or, Boy Do I Sound Full of Myself)

2009-01-13T17:27:00.005-06:00

It might have been a tad bit obvious close to the end of the last election cycle - and even once it was over - that I had high hopes for this presidential election.

Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but our Prez-Elect's community service past always spoke to me. Not in the "I-hear-voices-in-my-head" way, (I think?), but in a good way. A "Hey-I-can-do-more" way.

I'm a pretty mean sales shopper these days, stockpiling food and toiletries that I have no hope of ever using. Last year, I picked a shelter near my workplace to donate my extras to. I've actually started buying MORE stuff, just for that.

At the end of December, I discovered that there was a new facet to the inauguration - Obama And Company were calling for a national Day of Service, scheduled for the day before the inauguration - which just happens to be Martin Luther King Day, and a federal holiday. I checked out the website, but there weren't any projects listed for my little section of the state. BUT! These people were ahead of me - I could add my area to my blog reader, and get notices as projects were added.

And BOY! Were they added!

Yesterday, Michelle Obama put out a video call - really, you should watch it, it's only 2 minutes long. And finally, I signed up for a project in my area.

Now, there are projects that are more involved than the one I've chosen. But this one is being organized by friends who own a local business. And since I already have the stockpile to take care of things, I've chosen the lazy way out and decided to go to Eclipse Coffee and join in their food pantry drive. The donations will go to an organization that serves my community, which means a lot to me.

The Professor is also off of work that day, so I've recruited him to come along with me. Even more importantly, I've also convinced The Bestest Friend that it's worth getting up out of bed at 7 AM on a holiday to do something worthwhile.

So...my question is...what are YOU going to be doing for the National Day of Service?

Oh, Christmas Tree

2008-12-12T08:49:00.017-06:00

Last Saturday was designated as the the Official Day of Christmas Making. The Bestest Friend came over for cookies, eggnog and so much decorating that she would lose face if she admits she enjoyed it.

I've struggled for 6 days now to get a good picture of my tree. There have been many obstacles.

Obstacle #1 is the tree itself - I admit, it was a cheapy. In fact, I disliked it so much the very first time I put it together, that the next year I didn't even have a tree. I couldn't bring myself to buy another one, and I didn't want to decorate the one I had. This year, I pulled it out of the attic; it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - maybe it's seasoned? I still lost five tufts off of various fake branches.

Obstacle #2: the top of the tree. It's not very sturdy, so anything weighing more than .02 ounces topples the thing over. I forgot about this and tried to put my star on top...and now the top of the tree is permanently crooked.

Obstacle #3 : My photography skills. They are not great. I can get the lights to show up freakily bright (especially the blue), but they blind you and hide the rest of the tree. I can get the ornaments and every fake pine needle to show in amazing detail, but then it looks like there are no lights. So, here are a few extreme choices. Merge them together in your brain, take care of the lights (They're LEDs, and very bright and beautiful) and you'll have somewhat of an idea of my tree.

Oh, you noticed the lack of an appropriately festive top to my tree? Not to worry. The Bestest Friend made the supreme sacrifice of going to Old Time Party and rectifying the situation for me before the week was out with a finial that is so light it could float away. And yet it STILL does this to my pansy-ass tree:

The cats have also decided that they like the tree skirt. I have to admit, it is very thick and soft. And this year, it's captured their attention more than the ornaments. Although Sultan does have one branch he likes to attack on a daily basis. At least they're not chewing on the lights this year.

Sultan:

Lucius:

SO, since we're here and all Christmasy, what else have I got here?

We have an entertainment center:

We have some bookcases:

We have the cookbook bookcase:

We have the Precious Moments display on yet another bookcase:

We have another bookcase with a couple more nativity scenes:

Did you see the craziness in that picture? Somehow, that bookcase has now become the home of The Bestest Friends least favorite of decorations. Separately, she calls them the Alien Reindeer (I remind her every year that they used to be my grandfather's, and were always displayed beneath his tree) and the Demon Doll. At a dinner party this week, Some forty-something males who shall remain nameless found them and put them together. The Professor has taken to moving this Christmas Miracle around the house:

But to end this on a somewhat happier scene, this is probably my favorite part of the Christmas decorations. The Mama of all my nativity scenes:

Now, I need some eggnog.

In Which My Family Laughs In Scorn and My Best Friend Calls Me Old

2008-11-25T17:31:00.002-06:00

Today, I went to the eye doctor. I hadn’t been in almost 5 years, but The Professor’s university just added a vision plan to their offerings this month and we jumped into that pool feet first with our palms open for handouts. He’s getting Lasik-ized next month. I decided that maybe it was time I could tell the difference between a Prius and Suburban whilst driving down the interstate. It’s all in the priorities.

I just got back from my appointment, and the glasses – which will only be made cuter by the librarian-chain they will hang ‘round my neck by – have been ordered. (And as an aside, I am very glad I passed linguistics before I started butchering grammar as I just did back there).

The Bestest Friend has promised me a Seeing Eye Dog for my 50th birthday. That’s more of an excuse to A) Call me old, and B) get me to own a dog, than it is a necessity, but she’s occasionally good at planning ahead and killing two birds with one stone. Or two eyes with one dog, as the case may be.

My family…well, I and the baby brother have been blessed with our lack of a need for eyewear. I’m pretty sure a couple of them are legally blind without some kind of device on or in their eyes. So when I tell them I have 20-30 vision in one eye and 20-25 in the other, I’m sure I’ll get a “Yeah, kid, come back when you have an actual need for vision correction”.

To them I say: “Please. Call me kid again. It sounds kinda nice.”

Two Totally Unrelated Things

2008-11-21T09:16:00.002-06:00

Thing the First: Everyone knows that we have a crazy-liberal, give-the-Dems-glowing-praise-no-matter-what, fall-all-over-themselves media in the US, right? Ok, good.

Thing the Second: Friend Rob pointed me towards this handy little garden-style-analyzer and it got me spot on:

Eclectic and sweetly rumpled, a cottage-style garden isn't the buttoned-up type. Relaxed, romantic and informal, the cottage garden overflows with multiple blooms, often set off by picket fences, arbors, and trellises. Heirloom and vintage plants are quite at home here as well. It's often the melange of plants that makes it so charming. Practical herbs for kitchen and medicine chest stand side by side with roses. It's truly a garden of the heart, of the hearth and of the home.

Conclusion: I really need more days off to play around these here internets.

I < heart > Charleston

2008-11-08T10:06:00.003-06:00

I know it sounds like I’ve been complaining non stop about this trip. And looking back Saturday on the problems that I’ve focused on…I need to make one thing clear:
I have fallen in love with Charleston.

Granted, anytime I get 70 degree weather in November, an open air market, a ton of history, easily walked streets, shopping to die for and food! Oh my gosh the food! Fresh seafood. I love salmon. Sing with me…

“I love salmon in the springtime…I love salmon in the fall…”

You know what else I love?

PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA.

What? He has nothing to do with Charleston? Well. Get your own blog.

Anyway, I love the city. The conference is pretty good; I don’t know that I’m feeling the raptures I’ve heard from a couple of others, but, eh..that’s work. This post is about play.

Wednesday night I took the time to stroll along King Street and all the shopping that:
A) I cannot fit into the small suitcase I brought with me, and
B) I cannot afford, and
C) I drooled over anyway.

Thursday I came across the market shops:

Ok, these pictures aren’t great because I was so busy drooling over the overpriced handmade baskets and jewelry that I forgot to take pictures until I was leaving. Yes, I bought some jewelry. I also found a Harley Davidson store and grabbed an overpriced T-shirt for The Professor.

I also found a street cart selling some kind of Caribbean jerk chicken on a stick that was absolutely delicious – the spices were crusted into the chicken and the whole thing was a crispy, spicy awesomeness that made me very thirsty. Luckily, there was a bar across the street and I popped in for a beer before I went back to work.

Later in the afternoon, walking between two sessions of the conference, I had to cross Marion Park:

And then after my last session for the day, I made it back to my hotel just in time for the beginning of the wine and cheese hour. I love this place.

On Friday, I skipped an afternoon session and – after dropping by my hotel to leave off the laptop - I found a restaurant that's over the harbor. It seemed like a good place to get seafood, so I stopped in. Lunch:

And the view from my table:

I headed out from lunch - that was grilled amber jack with steamed green beans and red rice spiced with Andouille sausage - and had one of several places in mind to visit along Museum Mile. I ended up passing the Old Exchange & Provost Dungeon five minutes before the next tour, so that's where I ended up.

That's the Tour Guide in the Dungeon with the Tea.

I still had 45 minutes to kill, so I moseyed back down the street that's just dripping with history...

...to my hotel ...

...for a quick 20 minute lie-down before heading back to the conference.

After the afternoon sessions, I went back to the market - one of the buildings has different vendors at night - and then stopped and found a great local beer and some Bruschetta Salmon for dinner. AWESOME. I never would have thought of bruschetta and salmon together, but it was great.

Then I decided I didn't want to walk around the city after dark by myself. So I came back to the hotel, got some more free wine, and spent some quality time with the internets, which have greatly missed my presence this week.

Now I'm just back from my last conference session, waiting for it to be time to wing my way back through the skies to The Professor, The Cats, and Life As I Know It.

More of the fun that I had on Wednesday

2008-11-07T08:16:00.002-06:00

It was Wednesday night. I had survived the panic attack, I had re-met a lovely French lady (I don’t remember her name – is it bad that I call her Juliette in my mind? Complete with the pronunciation that Meg Ryan used in French Kiss? Because I totally think of her as JJhhuuliette); I got to my hotel with no incident, checked in and totally fell in love with my room – here’s why:

This wing of 5 rooms has only been open for 10 days. Brand new, and I found out later that I was the first person to stay in mine. So, I lounge around for an hour looking at maps and restaurants online, chatting with my sister and watching TV– did I mention the free wifi? – and then head out to the conference reception where I find – blessed be! – free wine. I drink about a glass and a half and head back to the hotel on foot.

My feet are killing me – I vow that the shoes I am wearing will never be on my feet again after I get to my room – and so I call the Bestest Friend to distract me for the 12 minute walk. It works (I developed a new mantra for her in her classroom: “The Children are the future and the volunteers are free” – say it, BFF!) and I arrive in my hotel ready for another glass of wine.

Problem The First : My card key doesn’t work. No problem, they gave me 2!

Problem The Second : It doesn’t work either.

So I go back to the front desk – it is, of course, across the building - they cheerfully reprogram my keys and I head back.

Problem The Third: They don’t work either.

I stand in the hallway wondering if this is the kind of place that will mind if I run around in my socks and try to convince myself that someone with a master’s degree should really be able to open a hotel room all by herself. Unfortunately, the lock didn’t listen to me and I had to go back up front the lady working the desk.

I want to say right now that this woman was incredibly nice, funny and just an all around great receptionist. I almost looked forward to going up front. Except…Have I mentioned my laptop was on the other side of that locked door? I was beginning the early stages of withdrawal.

This time, she gave me some kind of master key that will open any door in the building. As I trekked back down the hallways – they were growing about a yard on each trip – I had fun imagining what was behind all the doors I passed, because some of them weren’t numbered. They could be ANYthing and I wondered if each one held the secret wine stash for the complimentary 5 o’clock cheese and wine fun that I had missed out on.

Problem the Fourth: The master key did not work on my room. It did work on the unmarked door next to my room (it was a conference room, no wine in sight). So I begin walking back up front.

Have I mentioned I’m lugging around a bag of conference materials which – since I am a librarian – is just full of publishers’ catalogs?

This time, the lovely lady sends her assistant with me without pointing out that trained monkeys have fewer problems getting into hotel rooms. But… Guess what? His key doesn’t work either.
The lock is completely malfunctioning. We begin our walk back up front.

I’m terrified to look at my feet – I’m convinced that by now, they are oozing out of the seams on the sides of the shoes. But then something wonderful happens.

Halfway between the desk and my room is the hospitality suite; we meet the angel from the front on our meanderings and she guides me in, seats me at a very comfy table, brings me the newspaper and asks would I like a glass of wine? Red or white? Do I need a cigarette? She has a Camel Light.

I take the wine, refuse the cigarette and settle in to watch Brian Williams on NBC talk about President-Elect Obama, OMG I LOVE TYPING THOSE WORDS SO MUCH I HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. President-Elect Obama. Can you see my grin?

Angel floats in the room 10 minutes later to refill my glass and let me know the repairman’s on his way and they would be more than happy to give me another suite to wait in, if that’s what I’d prefer. Later they would bring my stuff to my new room.

At this point, I was more annoyed that she was talking over Mr Williams recap of PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA’S life (because we don’t all know the story by heart by now), but she had brought wine, so I just said no thanks and settled back in.

45 minutes later, the repairman – also an incredibly nice person – came and told me he had replaced my lock. He escorted me back to my room – he refilled my wine glass on the way and apologized profusely for the problems. He’s the one that renovated this wing, and he was horrified that the first person to stay in this room was having a problem. I found out he lived in Birmingham 20 years ago, and we chatted about Riverchase. I did NOT add him to my Christmas card list, but I liked him enough to almost ask his name before I realized I was on the slippery slope of making connections with random strangers all over the place and never remembering any of their names. I may have flirted a little, but I blame it on the wine and the fact that he was reconnecting me with my laptop which I hadn’t touched in TWO AND A HALF HOURS.

I have to say that a hotel that cures all its problems with complimentary wine is a place that I will be happy to stay in the future.

My Yankee Husband’s Bad Influence Has Made Me Suspicious Of Everyone

2008-11-06T08:19:00.001-06:00

While I was sitting in the Atlanta airport finishing my last post and trying to forget that in another 45 minutes I’d be on yet another plane, I noticed a woman watching me.

She was a little older than I am and she seemed to be alone. And she stared at me and her book for equal amounts of time during the 30 minutes that I typed. I had my back firmly against a wall and kept her in my peripheral sights as I did my thing. I’m not usually a paranoid person, but in large airports and strange cities I tend to be more aware. And when my dearest-darling-life-giving laptop is in my clutches, I’m like a mother with a premature baby in the middle of a crowd: convinced that every molecule approaching is the one that will bring an infection and yank the precious baby away.

Where do I get my metaphors?

Anyway, I kept her in my sights. She had a book, but she was only looking at it half the time. She stood up and walked in front of me once, and I waited to see where she would settle in a new seat so that I could discreetly get up a few minutes later and move in the opposite direction. Instead she walked away and then walked back. And sat down and kept glancing at me every few minutes. I started to tell myself that I was being paranoid – she’d never met my eyes as I glanced at her; maybe she was looking at someone else? Maybe there was a spider on the wall behind me, and she was waiting in case she needed to save my life? Maybe she was figment of my freaking-out imagination?

I packed up my laptop and got in line to board the plane, and guess what? You’ll never guess. I wound up sitting behind the woman on the plane. I did meet her eyes as I passed her seat and she smiled at me, lowered her eyes and blushed. AHA! It could only mean one of two things: She had picked me out to commit some horrible act of violence upon or….she’s in love with me.

Since it wouldn’t be the first time a woman has hit on me, and since I tend to go with the happier of two solutions, I silently voted for the love-factor.

When she turned around in her seat to speak to me, I was still debating which was right.

“You do not remember me, I don’t think?” An accent. She definitely had a French accent. The only person I “know” that is French is definitely male – and married to one of my best friends. IF he’d had a sex change operation, I would’ve heard about it.

So, no, lovely yet strange French lady. I don’t know you. And now I’m chatting with a total stranger in a plane. Damn it, I have become my sister.

“I think you were in France a few years ago?” she volunteered. Um. I was? Oh yeah! I was in Paris two and a half years ago. But…again, the only person I knew while I was in Paris is back in the Deep South, still male, and very still speaking sans accent.

And I’m still chatting with her. Damn it, I don’t need another person to make cookies for.

“You helped me. In the airport. My baby was sick on my blouse, and you picked up his toy and washed it for him? You remember?”

Well, Holy Vomit Batman. Yes I do. She was walking into the bathroom in front of me in THE WORST AIRPORT EVER – Charles de Gaulle – and her very small baby chose that moment to lose his cookies all over her. She dropped his toy on the floor, and I picked it up and washed it for her and handed it to him on the changing table while she changed her shirt in the middle of the bathroom. We barely exchanged a word. I assume that I finished what I had gone into the bathroom to do – it was probably to remind myself that I still loved my husband, because I DO remember that we had a huge fight in the middle of Charles de Gaulle.

So I ended up chatting with her for a few minutes (I did not ask for her address to send her a Christmas card – I may have become my sister, but I have not become my godmother. Yet.).

I have no French beyond vous lez vous coche a vec moi, and I speak English entirely too fast, but she DOES speak English quite well. And right before she turned around to put her seatbelt on, I asked how in the world she recognized me – because I had looked her straight in the eyes and not known her at all.

She smiled and said something to the effect that if I had had a small baby, and a total stranger helped me, I would remember too.

“Also,” she smiled. “The eyes. You have very beautiful blue eyes and all that red hair. It’s a shame we are both married to men, no?”

Well.

I don’t know that it’s a shame – but I welcome compliments on my eyes from all comers.

Moral of the story: Baby vomit creates international relationships.

Surviving the panic attack

2008-11-05T19:55:00.001-06:00

I wrote this in the middle of a layover. I’m posting it unedited 6 hours later because…well, hell, because this is my blog and I CAN. Obviously, I survived.

I’ve never been a lover of airplanes. They get me less and less efficiently from point A to point B on every trip, but for some destinations – say, Europe – they really are necessary since I don’t have the kind of vacation time it would require to cruise back and forth across the Atlantic.

I’ve learned that I’m going to be nervous. That the first step on the plane is accompanied by the tightening of a tail that evolution still hasn’t convinced my body is unnecessary; the deep-lung-breath of air that holds me over til the next deep one comes when I set foot off the plane; the temporary hand-clutching that slowly eases as I make my way to my seat.

It’s a ritual. I was raised Catholic – I’m good with rituals.

Sit in the seat, open the book. Read merrily along through jostling, crying babies, The Stewardess Address, The Captain’s Welcome. When the plane actually begins to move, my eyes close, I say a prayer to the first saint that comes to mind, and then I concentrate on breathing and pretend to read until the plane is winging it’s way through the air that surely it was never meant to occupy.

I’ve flown many times before. I’ve flown alone. I’ve flown with a large group. I’ve flown with just a few people.

I’ve flown through turbulence so bad that 20 people I knew personally were throwing up in their bags. I’ve sat next to a pregnant woman who had a seizure and threw up on me, causing my own gag reflex to rear its head. I’ve flown across the ocean a few times and I’ve flown around the US. I’ve spent hours watching movies, sleeping, reading, talking, eavesdropping.

So why in the name of all that is holy did I have a freaking panic attack this morning as the wheels left the ground?

I broke out in a cold sweat. I clenched my hand so hard that I still have indentations in my hand. I took deep breaths and got scared looks from the woman next to me. 50 minutes later, when the plane landed in Atlanta, I felt a relief on the level that I felt last night when I realized My Guy won.

Where the hell did that come from? And how am I supposed to get on a plane in another 80 minutes?

Funny thing - the second half of the trip? No big deal. I dozed, I read. What the heck was that about?

This is what ELATED looks like

2008-11-04T22:28:00.002-06:00

Election Day. I'm Scared. Hold Me.

2008-11-04T14:08:00.003-06:00

I voted - there was almost no line at 2 PM. My hand was shaking. Have I mentioned I'm terrified?

I'm supposed to be packing for my conference. I need to triple check my travel orders and reservations. I need to make those stuffed mushrooms for the election party tonight. I need to clean the litterbox, take out the trash, put the recyleables in my car, charge all my batteries...

But I'm glued to the TV - and they're NOT REPORTING anything yet since, ya know, there's like a half a day left til this thing's over.

Please, dear God, Zeus, Flying Spaghetti Monster - Anyone Who Will Help - let this be over today, in whatever time zone that today ends. Please don't make me get on a plane tomorrow while there's still 24/7 discussion about who might win because no one knows that I'll miss out on.

I'm beginning to think the Taco Bell I had for lunch was a bad idea.

Look! Cat Pictures!

2008-10-31T19:03:00.005-05:00

Because they are so much more soothing than watching the news.

Well, there goes my self control

2008-10-31T18:00:00.005-05:00

I can't keep it in anymore. I have to spew it somewhere and The Professor has taken to answering me with grunts and silent nods. Next thing I know he'll be stuffing his ears with cotton that I won't notice due to the fact that I haven't actually looked at his face in days. Why?

Because his face doesn't reveal the latest shimmer of motion in the polls, or tell me the latest stupid thing some campaign person has said, or give me some slight glimmer of what 50.1 percent of the voters in this country might do. I wake up to the morning show on the cable news station with at least 3 people talking. I turn on NPR as soon as my body is in my car. Due to the wonders of a program called VBrick, I check in with various news sources on my PC all day. Another hour of NPR on the way home...and I arrive home just in time for the evening rounds. Obviously, someone needs to stage an intervention. Just give me a few more days.

Being Another Bright Blue Dot in a Really Red State - and a state (like 48 others) that doesn't divide its electoral votes proportionally - I always have this Shadow in my head when it's time to vote. The shadow asks "Why bother?". Electoral-vote.com - my first online stop in the morning these days - tells me that the other guy is currently ahead 61%-36%. And since the popular vote means next to nothing in this country...why am I doing it? It is just a Shadow, though, and I beat The Shadow down with a stern lecture on rights, responsibilities and patriotism that I won't go into, because you would probably barf all over your computer monitor. And no one wants to see that.

I'm excited this year. I'm terrified. Frustrated, too - My Guy's not perfect. But he's a damn sight better than Mr My Friends. Oh! Speaking of him...go check this out - I endorse its message 1000%.

I'm also so incredibly hopeful that this time, My Side won't screw things up. And every time I dare to think those words, my heart seizes up - Oh NO! I Just jinxed the entire election with the awesome and terrifying power of thinking that the best might happen!

I want Tuesday to be NOW. This very second. This election has been going on for 2 years and I'm sick of it.
I want Tuesday to be 6 months from now because I'm not ready to deal with the disappointment if we lose again.
I want to fast forward to Wednesday morning so that I know if it's worth staying up all night watching election returns when I have a plane to catch at 9:30 AM.
I want it to be the moment that we win RIGHT NOW.

I want John McCain - and most especially, Sarah Palin - to disappear. I want to never hear their names again, and I want that to happen because enough people realized that they're loony in the head and that they should be put out to pasture. A very large pasture. Not in an evil or vindictive way, but in the way that you don't allow mentally disturbed people alone unsupervised with your three month old and a butcher knife. The world needs to be sheltered from them.

Ok, I have to go put on a costume and party with a bunch of ...how does my blog-friend Karen put it? Oh yeah, a bunch of "tree-hugging bleeding-heart liberal pinko commie ~~Massachusetts~~ Alabama Democrat{s}".

So, to leave you with a happy note, I have a present for you: This video has been linked all over the internets this week - and here's a warning: Get Tissues. Many of them.

You're welcome.

To Keep my brain from exploding in a rainbow of political ramblings...

2008-10-30T20:16:00.003-05:00

Here's the obligatory post of the cats getting their annual dose of the first fire of the season. I got the camera in hand before we turned it on, and - Honestly - this was 90 seconds after the fireplace was turned on for the first time this year:

What are they getting from the fumes that I'm not?
Jealous?
Absolutely.

Playing Chicken with the Birds

2008-10-11T09:54:00.004-05:00

There are 3 birds outside, chasing each other and doing who-knows-what other kind of birdly activities in my bushes.

All Lucius and Sultan know is this: if they combine the terrifying power of their direct, compelling and oddly supernatural stares, they will surely lure the birds through the glass and into their waiting clutches.

He'd be embarrassed, but..

2008-09-26T22:09:00.005-05:00

I am so proud right now.

Of my nephew.

Watching the debate, my sis and I were on direct link via Google Chat (And, I daresay, a scary psychic link). And she told me at the beginning that my nephew, M, was watching with her. Now, M is 14. How many 14 year olds watched the debate tonight?

But every now and then, my sis told me a comment that M had made. After it was over, he had a few more. More importantly - he watched the whole thing. And had opinions.

Regardless of his politics, I am incredibly glad that my 14 year old nephew cares enough to watch one and a half hours of political discourse when he could be playing online, or reading one of his books, or doing one of a million other things. I know adults that don't care that much.

I'm proud of him. I know he's involved in an organization at school - completely on his own, my sis wouldn't push him into something like that - and I'm so glad that he cares. That says a lot about the person he is, and the person he will become. About the kind of parents my sister and brother-in-law are.

In short, I'm proud (have you gotten that fact yet? Well, I just watched a debate where they repeated things).
And I've had enough to drink during the presidential grandstanding (I had to - "I have a bracelet too" - we're in a jewelry war?) to share that with the world at large.

It's enough to make me think that the future won't be so bad.

The benefit to still having acne at age 30:

2008-09-25T14:57:00.003-05:00

When you walk in the door to your house with your arms full, and a cat-who-shall-remain-nameless (LUCIUS, I WILL NEVER LET YOU GO, STOP TRYING!) makes an escape attempt through your legs, causing you to land flat on your face on the carpet at 80 mph, causing, in turn, a large rug burn right under your nose and a smaller one on your chin that actually get bloodier and more painful 36 hours after they happened

……People will assume it’s just another massive zit gone bad. Or that your husband belted you one.

I guess it speaks well of The Professor that everyone assumes I’ve had a facial eruption.

PS: Said not-so-unnamed cat stopped an inch outside of the door, sat down and looked at me. When I stood up, he made a beeline back in the house and went to his food bowl. I will never understand why he needs to go out so badly, when every time he makes it free from my tyranny, he immediately heads back inside. Life's about the journey, Deborah, not the destination...

PPS: My arms were not full of my laptop at the time, so the only thing you need to worry about is my face, if you feel so inclined.