Will Schlep to Help Sale

My sister has had her former home on the market for months. Her husband retired from the navy and took a job across the country, so they slapped a For Sale sign out front and blew out of here in January. Unfortunately, the house is still there, unsold, and no one seems to love it. And it’s a bit stressful trying to manage this business when she’s so far away. Things just don’t go the way she’d like them to all the time.

So she flew out from VA this past weekend to make sure her recent investment in trying to get her house sold in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood works. What that entailed was rounding up the family mules: Gramster Mule, Betty Mule (yours truly), and Officer Mule, the brother who keeps his distance from the female crazies in the family. It also involved rounding up as many yard tools as possible– either by begging, borrowing, or stealing — to get the whole curb appeal thing done, because all her yard tools moved to VA with the family. And most importantly, it meant checking out what she’d very recently paid $20K for on the inside to get the old homestead securely into someone else’s hands as soon as possible (new counters in the kitchen, new appliances, new light fixtures, new light switch plates — yes, I said light switch plates, and new hardware for the front door). It seems reducing the price $100K wasn’t enough for the fickle and taste-lacking Paradise bargain shoppers, (Example: two women who offered $70K under the asking price, with no money down, wanted $20K out of escrow in cash, and could they please rent it cheap and live there until escrow closed?) Uhhhhhh…..And the turnip truck you just got off of is parked where? So a bit of surface glam was called for, as well. You know, staging the house. You’ve heard about it on TV. But the price tag was so high to have furniture sit in the empty house, that props had to suffice. Tricky.

Who figured that after she took a red-eye flight out here and hit the ground running — or digging — that it would rain. And not just rain, but black clouds, wind, a perfunctory bolt of lightning and single clap of thunder just to make it official. But this didn’t stop our dusting and polishing, or our trip to The Home Depot for flowers and bark, our furious activity, or our end of the day sleepover in my mom’s absolutely freezing casita up in big, big hilly type mountainettes way east of Paradise. So freezing that we slept unshowered, with lots of clothes on, thinking that the dirt on us helped a bit with insulation, and that her head-light could double as a light to read in our dirt by. Or maybe ambient heat for our hands. Open and say Ahhhhh……

But we were halted in our fervor to get the place spruced up by the pond that the storm left on the side of the house. So much rain, that the “low spot” pond threatened to become a lake. The low spot that the realtor frets about where the downspout from the gutters sinks into the ground. Where the downspout appears to connect to some unseen drain that will conveniently, and efficiently take away the rain water. But no. The downspout just goes into the ground. There’s no drain. Not the thing an anxious to sell her house person wants. Not the day before the Grand Re-Opening Open House. Not.

The family mules set to the task of leveling a portion of the side yard, digging around the seemingly non-functional drain, and generally spiffing the place up and hiding the pond. And it worked pretty well until we wanted to walk on it, and it had a gelatinous feel to it — all quivery, and spongy. But we whistled while we worked, anyway, gossiping loudly about the neighbors who were in their yard next door, surrepititiously doing yard work even though my sister said they never went out in their yard. Some of us groused about the ridiculous hairs realtors split in doing their work, while blindly over-looking things that should be focused upon. I’m thinking you’ve got to have a bit of stoopidity in your system if you can say things like, “…and maybe you can put a bit of mulch around the roses while you’re at it…” on a Friday afternoon when a couple of rear ends are in the air , heads bent to their task of weeding, turning soil, and trimming brown plant edges. I just don’t think they get it. They seem not to see all the good things.

For example, you have to walk through the pool area to even see the roses. Or to wander up to the back part of the property to remember where the trampoline used to be, and where fruit trees are in bloom. And it’s quite the pool area that has hosted some pretty great parties over the years. My mom once broke some bones in her hand swinging on the rope before launching herself into the pool like the boys were doing. Pool floatie water polo battles were fierce. And many a young girl played water princess, exhibiting exotic underwater poses, and featuring gymnastic feats. The jaccuzzi? Well, the banana mudslides went down well as we stewed ourselves to a prune state. It’s a bit strange seeing it so empty and to know that as much as a family once loved it, others don’t seem to notice what made that family happy living here. In the end, it’s just a house, and there seem to be millions on the market in Paradise right now.

And the neighbors. Oh my gawd, the neighbors. Outside of one person who graciously invited the soaked, muddy, and fairly ugly group of us over to have wine and snacks after it became too cold and rainy to work, the rest were fairly grotesque in their behavior. Two were seen across the street smack-talking the fresh, deep green color of the front door, which couldn’t possibly pass the architectural committee’s approval. So we hopped into the car and took a cruise around McNeighborhood to write down the house numbers of those individuals who also had “painted” doors, instead of natural woodgrain doors — some in dire need of refinishing. Or houses that had beyond ugly screen doors, or fences in need of repair, yards in need of care, or just plain butt-ugly anything in front of the house. Routinely, neighbors drove by, slowed down to gawk like we were performing nude rituals in the yard, and to maybe slink over to the For Sale sign and take a flyer with up-to-date information. By the end of the day, the flyers were all gone. All in the hands of neighbors who anxiously waited with bated breath to see what the house could sell for. Waiting to know if they may continue to have the opportunity to brag to one another what they think their houses are worth — whether they actually are or not.

But my sister is going for the jugular. The house is going to sell or else. So she’s dug in there today with my mom, camped out in the back yard — mostly to keep the neighbors out, and to make sure the realtor is actually doing something to sell the house. — like answer questions about it that prospective buyers may have. What a concept, huh?

And when the house does sell within the advertised range this week, the McNeighborhood comps are toast. People will have to get off their high horses and get real about their property values in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood. Perhaps thinking about the place where they live as being a home with a family and memories thrown in instead of a house that has a market value would be a great start. But the experience was enjoyable because my family did the work together — something that doesn’t happen often now. Being able to help in this little way just sort of cemented in the fact that my sister and her family are really gone from this home, and living on the other side of the country. Snif!

My Hair Even Hurts

Oh my gawd.

Can I just say that I am way too old to do the schlepping, digging, raking, bending over, dumping, trimming, and physically working thing. And can I also say, that my mother is almost 70 and she schlepps faster than me, harder than me. Well, everthing better than me. Plus, she’s cute.

My thighs ache, my arms ache, my feet scream out in pain when I set them on the floor, and my back? Well. My back. And the mud on my clothes? This is a long story. But it’s a good one. I just can’t write it now because I need to go die somewhere.

But oh, man, was it fun. You gotta like getting outside and working like a dog. Do dogs work?

The Moh is bringing me take out for dinner. I’m drinking flat sparkling wine from the superior dessert I made a couple of days ago (did you check out Sass & Veracity?) and I’m thinking chick films are in order this evening.

Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to have someone drag me up the stairs and roll me into the sack.

You go have your Saturday night, and we’ll talk tomorrow.

Wait for it.

Teenagers and Circus Hoops

“Mom…MOM,” the RT rumbled yesterday morning, slinking around the corner to the kitchen in his new size 12 tennies. Do they even call them that anymore? And how can a 14-year-old have feet that big? His feel are suddenly the size of very large bricks.

“Huh? I responded, fumbling with the coffee grinder and looking at him cautiously, knowing he was going to ask for something that was going to be challenging for me with only three minutes left until carpool time. Something that may require I had to put clothes on to do. And I was already going to have to do that as the day wore on because I had a dentist appointment. Ugh. I am underwhelmed about ever going to the dentist, but they all know it and take very good care of me.

“When you get a chance today, can you go to Staples and get me a calculator?” he continued.

“What happened to the three we have? I asked patiently — well, it felt patient. Sort of.

“You mean this one?” he said, holding up an old Texas Instruments business calculator that the MoH used in college. Yes, it still works. “It doesn’t have tan, sine, or the other functions I need for math.”

“You have two of those already. Where are they? I saw you using one the other day, adding up stuff for your Warhammer game.”

“Imperial Guard,” he cut in.

“Huh? What guard?”

“You know, my game. Not Warhammer.”

“Uh…can we get back to the calculator, please? What’d you do with it?” He had that flat look he gets when his patience is being tried — like when I could never get Sun-jay’s name correct and he had to remind me every single time what the correct pronunciation of the former American Idolness‘ name was. “Sanjaya. Not Sun-jay.”

I could feel the beginnings of steam rising over this nonsense of the calculator, like it was something that really mattered — which it wasn’t. But it was an opportunity to make another point about his lovely bedroom. Dirty play by Mom sticking it to the RT again over one of his biggest challenges. “When do you need it? You don’t have a test today, do you? If your room was clean, you’d be able to find your stuff when you need it — like now. See what I mean?”

“Mom. I need it by Monday. Okay?” he said quietly before walking to get his backpack. It was time for the carpool and it was our day.

“You need to spend some time in your room today when you get home and find the calculator. It’s here. Are you going to need it in class today? Do you have a test?” I persisted because maybe it didn’t compute the first time I said it.

“Mom. No. I. Do. Not. Have. A. Test…Okay?” he said, looking right at me, and with the utmost control, as one might display when communicating with something with little or no capacity for language. A boiled potato, maybe.

Sigh. He’s such a good kid, but The Geometry Teacher’s class has been an up and down challenge all year, and this business of him being loosey-goosey about her drill sergeant tactics is getting old. The RT has conformed to some extent, and that actually makes me a bit sad because he has given in to someone who, in my opinion, should not be in a classroom with kids. She has sharp teeth and anti-productive hoops she’s installed for students to jump through like circus animals instead of actually teaching something. The fact that the RT was actually asking me to get something for him for the class was significant. It must be the excellent “B” he got on her last test that has perked him up. Her test, not his. It’s all about Her. In the past, we hadn’t found out he needed something until it was too late, and then we were forced to get out our “DORK PARENTS HERE” sign out and stand under it for making it seem too challenging for the RT to ask us a simple question. Lecture avoidance technique strategy armed and ready. Sigh again.

Yesterday, when I was at the dentist’s office, a woman came in with her own teen-type. I think that’s what it was — a lanky sort of unhappy looking thing who had his attention glued to his cell phone. He must have been playing games on it or something, because at one point, the thing’s mom told him to turn it off, and he completely ignored her. Four times. Four. Then said, “What?” quite loudly in the small room, like she was some obnoxious creature who had slimed in from the swamp and had soiled his air space. I was dying to look at their expressions but was mortified for her and wanted to verbally wring his skinny neck myself with a terse, “Can you step outside for a minute, please?” just to see what he would do. But it was only a fleeting fantasy. To her credit, she persisted, and told him he had to turn off the cell phone because there were signs posted in the office. “Where? What sign?” he barked at her as he slid off his chair to glance over my shoulder at the sign. “That’s for when you’re back there, not here,” he finished, not looking at her. She sighed and picked up a magazine, and I carefully kept my attention on mine, even though I couldn’t see a damn thing because I’d left my glasses at home. All three pair.

Yes. The RT is a very nice young man. By the time I got home from the dentist, he had found the calculator. He said it took him an hour to find it, wedged behind his bed, against the mattress and the wall. I got to hear all the colorful details of the closet and under the bed, too, where he said he spent ten whole minutes. Yes, I know. I’ve been there myself, far too many times, and for much longer.

So with the calculator tucked safely where he can find it himself next time (Yes! All children can learn!) we drove off to Friday morning at L-T-DHS, with no chance of sunshine, and a high chance of rain. But the car crew was bubbly this morning, with the princess grousing about an AP Euro exam like it was a badge of honor, and the two boys talking about the cold and a crash involving two semis being announced on the radio and hypothetically discussing what would happen if one was filled with fish and the other with chips….Yah. It’s not funny, but the RT is. His brain sees the world in comic strip form. At any moment, he breaks into dialog, or an announcement, or narration of some unseen event, reported in some accent that he’s picked up from Monty Python or somewhere. Half the time, I can’t understand him, but he clearly entertains himself. And he makes me smile every day.

So I’m off to my mom’s. You guys may have to live without me for a day because she lives in the serious sticks east of Paradise and has……Dial….Up. It should be illegal for anyone to have to suffer from a dial up connection. My sister is coming from VA, and we have work to do on the house she hasn’t sold here yet. Anyone out there want to move to East Paradise? It has a swell pool, good schools, and a kitchen with a face lift.

On the home front, tax season is over, so the MoH is a human again, and the Momolator or whatever the hell he’s calling the doggo this week is happy to have him back, for obvious reasons. Couch Potatoes The Yack Star Fresh Face Prince Ass Fuzz Bag Flea Incu-Bus hasn’t graced us with a hairball in a week, and I finally completed one food blog obligation last night (ohmygawdyoushouldtastethismousse!), with more to come this morning — well, maybe not.

And a zillion thanks to a techie who, in response to a question I asked, put up a great post about switching my blogs to my own domain, Thought Sparks. If you remember the laughing baby I linked in a previous post, that’s courtesy of him, too. Nice guy. Way.

Have a splendiferous weekend searching for something besides Sanjaya on Google. And then let me know so I can join in!

Avoiding my Food Blog One Meme at a Time

What, oh what to write about now that the Sun-jan-man-jun-isto is like sooooooooo gonzo on American Idol? The mills of fate finally caught up with him. His time in the sun is finished. The party is over. (Elvis was never in this building.) The door has hit the kid in the…. Oh. I forgot. I had recently adopted a new attitude of motherly love about Sanjaya. That’s right. And I did feel the sting of a tear or two last night wanting to squeeze out of the ducts in my eyeballs — or eye sockets, or something — when he was being consoled by Lakisha WHO SINGS CIRCLES AROUND HIM IN THE DARK ON HER HEAD SPINNING UPSIDE DOWN ON ANY DAY OF THE WEEK. It was sad. But time. Finally. The mothers of the world (and lots of cranky people in blogland) united and graciously hid the tweeners’ cell phones.

So, what was I saying? Oh…yes. Whatever will we write about now? Well, I’ve been tagged for another meme, and I have to say that others who have been tagged seem comfortable not completing memes they’ve been tagged to do. Maybe it has something to do with clogging up the Internet. Ahem….I, on the other hand, am a complete sludge, and compelled to torture myself to complete the task. But this one’s fairly odd — clearly intended for someone not remotely in my age group — I don’t care how much I wax about having a youthful mind. So thanks Wacky Mom, whirlwind of activity, and goddess extraordinaire. I am forever indebted to you for this grueling experience first thing today on only my first cup of coffee when I promised myself that I would spend time on my other blog first. Whew. I knew I’d be able to blame my lack of attention to that blog on someone besides myself. Trick.

But you could check out these blogs instead while I’m ignoring mine, because they all work diligently on theirs:

  • La Mia Cucina, and Culinary Concoctions by Peabody, (both are Daring Bakers and are dealing with the mousse challenge for Hay, Hay, it’s Donna Day! and which I am so late in getting done. The deadline is tomorrow. Yikes!
  • Winos and Foodies (who I found yesterday, but I can’t remember where — sorry!) who is supporting Livestrong Day and encouraging everyone to support the fight against cancer by cooking something yellow, and
  • Writing at the Kitchen Table who is hosting the Big Burger Ballyhoo since bar-be-que weather is upon us.

If you’re a foodie, these blogs are fun. Or maybe you are just a salivating type, and like to gaze from afar. Just wipe your monitor off when you’re done. Whatever. Check them out.

Other blog, you say? Sass & Veracity. Yes. The one you never go to. No, don’t go there now, because I haven’t gone there yet, myself. But I’ll get there, and will have stuff for you to drool over. For now, I’m dutifully completing this meme… And I’m going to employ a technique that Mel at Freak Parade taught me. (And today would be a great day to check out her blog, because she is hilarious and talking about testicles again — well it’s what those loser Google searchers are interested in.) You’ll get to decide if you want to join in to do the meme yourself. Tag. You’re sooooooooooooooo it. Whoever you are out there.

Layer One: On the Outside

Name: kellypea

Birthdate: sometime in the last century

Eye color: Bloodshot, with some kind of a bleary, bluish, greenish, greyish, puce-type thingy going on around the edges. Hazel?

Hair color: Uhhhh…I can’t remember the number on the box, but it is a different box than last time. On sale for $9.99. Because I’m worth it.

Righty or lefty: Opposite the MoH who says his is the correct one.

Layer Two: On the Inside

Your Heritage: Vintage Heinz Variety.

Your Fears: Waking up and thinking I’ll have to go back to the job I used to have. I think they call it Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome. Really.

Your Weakness: Probably quitting before I’m done, but you’re never really done, so if you don’t quit, then how can you get to the next thing? There’s so many things. Just picture a dessert store, and you’ll get it. Don’t fry brain cells on this one.

Your Perfection Pizza: Recently? Proscuitto, Brie, Arugula and Green Apple. Mmmmmm…….

Layer Three: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Your Thoughts First Thing When You Wake Up: Is it carpool day?

Your bedtime: When my eyes start to cross and the book I’m trudging through begins to fall to the side.

Your Most Missed Memory: If it’s a missed memory, then I’m not going to be able to remember it, because it’s missing. And I understand that this will happen with more frequency and that I may be able to take pills for it.

Layer Four: Your Pick

Pepsi or Coke: Yuck. Chardonnay, Pinot Grigio, Vouvray, Viognier, or Veuve Clicquot, please, and can you super size that?

McDonald’s or Burger King: Neither. But Jose’s, Alaberto’s, and Carino’s, are quite tasty. (Taco Bell, if no one is looking.)

Single or Group Dates: What’s a date?

Tea or Nestea: Irish or Scottish Breakfast tea with milk and sugar. And leave the teabag in for a long time. It will grow hair on your chest.

Chocolate or Vanilla: Cake, ice cream, milk, cookies, pie, pudding, or what? Chocolate. Always. Bittersweet.

Cappucino or Coffee: All of the above. But especially made with a French Press. Mmmmm….In bed on Sunday morning with the newspaper.

Layer Five: Do You

Smoke: Like a train? No, but licking ashtrays instead would help the rest of the world breathe better. Breathing is a challenge for me, so smoking wouldn’t work. Besides. It stinks, wrecks your skin, makes lines in your lips, which makes your lipstick run, and the scar that was left on my grandmother’s body when they cut out one of her lungs out is something I never want to see again.

Curse: Along with my grandmother (post mortem), my mother, and several very good friends. Frequently. And syntactically correct. But only select words.

Take a shower: Uhh…as opposed to…? No, I’m a throwback from the Middle Ages, and think it’s unhealthy, so spend my days like a rancid grease ball. Sweaty and greasy…Lovely. Mmmmm….how ’bout a date?

Have a crush: Okay. Is one of Howard’s Tweeners in the room? A crush? Isn’t that something that 12-year-olds do? Have crushes? Who wrote this thing?

Think you’ve been in love: Think? Know. Still. Hopefully that would be the reason marriage was in order all those years ago. Think? Are there people out there who haven’t been? Really?

Want to get married: Again? The MoH would not think that this would be very cost effective.

Believe in yourself: Yup. Unflappably. Most of the time. Except when…

Think you’re a health freak: Hmmm…maybe just a freak. Of nature. You know. Donate my body to science upon my demise to answer all the great mysteries of life.

Layer Six: In the Past Month

Drank Alcohol: About 12,000 calories less than the month before. And have you tried Acacia chardonnay?

Gone to the mall: What’s a mall? Do they sell sweats and jammies?

Eaten sushi: And have made a mean California roll as well. But we didn’t toast the leftovers for breakfast like the instructor told us to. Ewww….

Dyed your hair: If I only had the money in my pocket now from all those years at the hair saloon, I’d be fiddling on the roof.

Layer Seven: Have you ever...

Played a Stripping Game: Do people actually do this? It’s just so gauche. I’m thinking it’s just an Urban Legend.

Changed Who You Were to Fit In: Yes. My jeans. They didn’t fit. I’m changing myself now, daily.

Layer Eight: Age

Hoped to be Married: Didn’t this already come up? Hope? My grandmother used to say something like, “Hope (wish) in one hand an s*&t in the other and see which one fills up the fastest.” Wise woman. I wouldn’t sit around wishing upon a star if I was you.

Layer Nine: In a Girl/Guy

Best Eye Color: Don’t they talk about this stuff in junior high year books? I like my doggo’s lovely, soft brown eyes. Don’t you?

Best Hair Color: Blaxter has the silkiest black coat…

Short Hair or Long Hair: Messy Very messy. Cute RT.
Layer Ten: What Were You Doing

1 Minute Ago: Wondering why I’m still doing this stoopid meme…Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

1 Hour Ago: Scarfing down my breakfast ration of Kashi multi grain buds with 1% milk. Spoon clacking against the sides of the bowl while fighting off the cat who always wants my cereal milk, but won’t drink his own on a plate.

4.5 Hours Ago: Snoozing, sweating, throwing covers off, freezing….but not in that particular order.

One Month Ago: Starting this blog thang.

One Year Ago: Beginning to realize, for the ten-thousandth time in ten years, that I should find a different profession before the one I had killed me.

Layer Eleven: Finish the Sentence

I love: my life. All of it.

I feel: lucky every single day.

I hate: nothing. It is an emotion that draws too much energy from everything.

I hide: stuff in my closets when people come to our house.

I need: a job. Anyone out there need someone who wipes their feet before entering the room, has nice hand writing and can cook a mean lasagna?

Layer Twelve: Who I tagged

Explained above — anyone who has writer’s block today and needs something to write about, but can make it more interesting than I have.

Now….for my food blog responsibilities.

The Sun Shines on my Scale but Sadly, not Sanjaya

I woke up with a euphoric sense of fortune today. I know there are others out there who are genetically wired to do this, and others who practice it with great purpose. I’m kind of somewhere in the odd category of those who realize it when they check it off their To Do list for the day. But, there’s no list, so the fact that I’m feeling fortunate right off the bat is a step in the right direction:

  • My boys are healthy;
  • my extended family is safe now and sound some of the time;
  • my rescued animals are well fed and sleep contentedly near me most of the day;
  • the MoH is my true best and most loyal friend;
  • I don’t have a job, but will figure that out one of these days;
  • a foodie has just received the Pulitzer! and
  • I have developed a completely different attitude about our favorite young singer on American Idol. Sad, but true. But first…

When I got up this morning, I remembered that I had weighed myself yesterday and then forgotten about it. Let’s face it — in the grander scheme of things, the whole day was beyond challenging. But I vaguely remembered that the scale had been kind, so I performed the pax de deux with my nemesis today, and the results from yesterday were confirmed. Woo Hoo! 181 lbs. Eight pounds down. Soon to smash that 180 mark. YES! Five weeks have gone by and I’m still creeping along. I know I said 2 lbs. a week, so I should already be staring at 179. But that’s okay. I’ll get there and it will be more likely that I’ll keep weight off once I get to the goal I’ve set for myself. Right? So is the phoodplan working? Well, yes, and no. Yes, because my numbers are down; yes, because I’m thinking about being healthy, drinking less wine, exercising more, and paying attention to what I eat. No, because I’m not following the phoodplan to the letter. It’s kind of challenging, and I just don’t crack the whip to stick to it. Remember when I acknowledged that my VBF and I lack stick-to-it-ive-ness? Well there you go. We aren’t total schlocks, but, well, almost. Some times.

But I didn’t whip up a batch of that Magical Leek Soup published in French Women Don’t Get Fat and suck it down before weigh-in day like I said I was going to do a few days ago either. That would defeat the point of my phoodplan. Have you ever tasted that stuff? Oh my goodness, it’s completely disgusting not very tasty. I get that the whole point that it is to sort of cleanse you or something, but I’m thinking I’ll pass on the whole Make Like a Toilet and flush thing. Ugh. So not worth it.

And speaking of ugh, (how’s that for a slick segue…) I can’t avoid having the morning after discussion about American Idol. I know many of you realize we’ve reached capacity on the Sudden Waning Interest Syndrome meter at our house, but a few days ago, I came across an article that said Sanjaya had been booed while attending a Dodgers game with friends. There’s just something wrong with that. What is up with people? And I thought, “Feh, people don’t boo other celeb-types, like Britney Spears, so how is that fair?” but I stand corrected. You do have to consider the source, however. Have you ever seen Dodger fans? Who are they to boo anyone? Oh, I get it. They’re experienced experts on the characteristics of those in need of booing. Personal experience. The only thing they have to feel good about are big hot dogs — er, um, Dodger Dogs.

So after seeing Sanjaya last night, I have to admit to being in serious Mom mode and felt all fuzzy and very sorry for him. Seriously. I just don’t get what he’s trying to do. And I definitely didn’t understand the bandana, its connection to country music, or the song he chose: “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.” So he did, and it worked very well. The MoH — who was showing glimpses of his pre-Tax Mine self last night– was emphatically succinct. “Oh. This just sucks. It’s horrible. It’s just bad,” in much the same way he may malign his favorite local teams right before he breaks into a series of very loud boos. No, he isn’t a Dodger fan. But he was right. It was horrible. It made my bottom lip protrude and quiver in melancholy support. And part of me thinks the San-jan-isto is doing it on purpose so he can escape the dread of it all and move on with his life — hopefully to more voice lessons, or modeling, or toothpaste ads. No, I didn’t do this. But he’ll make a fortune because he really is a very cute kid. And his parents have lots to be proud of. Sniff, sniff.

But Phil and Jordan totally rocked last night! Doncha think? Woo Hoo! Geet out those gee-tars, saddle up yer harse, and twang along. Who knew they would be country stud-like? So we’ll see what’s up tonight.

Oh my gawd — I just made the bandana connection!

Well, slap me silly three times and pass me my Geritol so I can take a big swig. Feh.

Sadness: Random Senseless Purposeless Pointlessness

It’s not an accident that on days like today, the newspaper is folded in a particular way when I slide it from its clear bag. The “Currents-Health” section is strategically viewed first, along with the latest piece on “Portion Patrol.” But the largest article on the page, “A sense of urgency” seems vague so I’m forced to flip it over to find information that will help me know if my indigestion is bad enough to seek assistance at the ER. This is where the publisher’s strategy of trying to cover up the main page headlines fails, because now I can see them. And even though I knew they’d be there today, they are sobering. How can they not be? And how can I not read what’s written there regardless of how sad and angry it makes me?

Quite a long time ago, our local paper ran a dramatic and now famous photograph on its front page of a fireman carrying a small child from the rubble of a building destroyed by a madman. So many people complained about the inappropriateness of that photo being the first thing they saw that morning when they opened the paper, that now, sensitive material is always buried behind another section. Or tastefully covered, so that it can be avoided, or perhaps made more palatable after they have had the opportunity to read something far more important about how granola “hangs with bad calories,” or whether that fart stuck crosswise is worth seeing a doctor about. Continue reading “Sadness: Random Senseless Purposeless Pointlessness”

Tax Day & the Haves and Have Nots

Since waking at 3am today, I’ve read three days worth of our local paper, April’s edition of O, and done a great job of not reading the book in the side bar that I’m supposed to be reading. As a result, I’ve been preoccupied by something that used to happen frequently when I was part of the working world; things and issues of the day connected. No matter what I read, or what conversation I had, at some point, ideas converged — whether they were supposed to or not. You know, the lights are on and someone is finally home. The point is, it happens rarely now. My brain has relaxed and now gets to think about what it wants, so it meanders everywhere, taking in often unrelated pieces of information that could be useful, but will most likely not synthesize into earth shattering points of lucidity.

You wouldn’t think that reading pieces about the Imus fallout — some better than othersInternet spawned narcissism, “Who pays what on TAX DAY,” or a pathetic letter to the editor of O grousing about “class privilege” regarding the actions of women who will do anything to conceive a child, would have anything to do with one another, but they must. I can feel the telltale signs of defensive belligerence on low burn right now, so after reading the post in Wonderland or Not today, I’ve decided that the only way to sort it out is to write. Not complain, or snark, or whine. Just express myself about something that has been on my mind for a very long time. This would be an excellent place to stop reading if you don’t want to delve into my dark side. Continue reading “Tax Day & the Haves and Have Nots”