$igns of the Season

Just in case you missed the pre-Halloween Christmas trees in your local Megalo Mart, here's a few more signs o' the times.





The Obligatory Beatle Christmas offering. Thirty-six years after the breakup, the Beatles have a "new" record out. Yes, Virginia, divorce IS expensive.








The Obligatory WTF Were They Thinking holiday record - Billy Idol's Happy Holidays. Apparently, he didn't make the cut for Dancing With The Stars. Personally, I can't wait to hear it. He looks so ... incredulous.










Christmas Peeps. The Obligatory Holiday Encroachment. There oughta be a law. These are Easter treats. Easter! I smell a conspiracy between the conquering Catholic church and the pagan marshmallow industry. We will entice them with the aroma and ensnare them in the stickiness. mwahwahaha ha!







The Obligatory Support Our Troops Christmas light display.


Enlist today! Travel to exotic lands! Meet interesting people! Kill them!







Feeling all jolly and ho!ho!ho! now?

Photographic Evidence

That I have done at least one thing right!



















21 today.

Still cute as a bug in a rug.

OK, this is disturbing

75% Donald Sutherland?

I'm blaming it on the cell phone self portrait.

Everybody knows I look like a young Lauren Bacall.

But the Joe Strummer comparison is flattering.

Even Pop Stars Get The Blues

First it was the daily challenge of lather, rinse, repeat. David, when do I stop? Then it was the homework and what was "teached" back in the day. Now there's a new dilemma for Posh and Becks: what to get Tom and Katie?

Some suggestions:

1. Anything by Mattel, because Katie's a Barbie girl, livin' in a Barbie world, life in plastic! it's fantastic!

2. His and Hers hyperbaric chambers.

3. A donation to Suri's Therapy Fund.

4. A gift certificate for exit counseling.

5. A honeymoon at the Ice Hotel, because when we see Suri, we think "artificial insemination.

{Insert Texas joke here}

What, they were all out of PBR?

Houston Dynamo defeats the Revolution on PKs. Sorry New England -the third time is not always a charm.

Boogers.

It was a good game, as MLS championships go.

Enthusiastic fans. In orange!

Snappy ensembles.

Clint, did your mama make you wear those?

ABC had The Bruce, Eric Wynalda and Dave O'Brien providing commentary and amusements. Say it with me, Dave. SHALrie. Not SHARlie. SHALrie. Brandi Chastain. Well, I gotta agree with Conrad - she is the most annoying injury/ailment in MLS. Big ups to ABC for showing the whole thing. The cup presentation would have been nice, and, heck, you could've stopped showing TnT's all-American smile for just one minute so we could see the build up to Ching's goal, but overall, a reasonable effort.

When will April get here?

And who will be left to play?

Will anybody (besides me and a few other certified wackos) care? Sure. The whole world will be watching. Beckham, Ronaldo and Figo are coming. Well, at least, presumably, they'll be invited. I'm not sure I'm for this move or against it (and really, does it matter?) - but it will be interesting to see what develops. Is it Once in a Lifetime all over again?

Stay tuned, sports fans. And, btw, that's a pretty good movie to watch while your waiting.

p.s.

Somebody stage an intervention!

Yesterday, I had a record number of hits here. A record number of page views. And that is way, way, waaaaaaaaaaay cool.

Because, if you'll forgive me one last mohawk allusion, while this little blog is largely a grand exercise in spiky self-indulgence, it still wants to be read, to be seen.

So, thanks, y'all.

Mohawk Hall of Fame, Part One - The Icons

The backstory. What that doesn't show you are the pictures: three or four Sevier County football players and their alleged mohawks, which weren't really mohawks at all. Think more USMC or Landing Strip - which pissed. me. off. What the hell are we teaching our children these days? I made up my mind to help save the youth of America. Isn't it amazing what an idle mind and a high speed internet connection can accomplish? Anyway, here's my Mohawk Hall of Fame. Part One.





Squanto, Pilgrim saviour and Native American trendsetter. Other Indians rocked the mo', but nobody carried it off like the Big S. Dignified AND freaky.









Woody Woodpecker. He's cute, he's almost dressed, but he's no Elmer Fudd. Sure he's insane, but in a *nice* way.








Travis Bickle. This is where it gets interesting.

Listen, you fuckers, you screwheads. Here is a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit. Here is a man who stood up.

Need I say more?












Wendy O. Williams. Take that, Farrah Fawcett! Sure, she's everything that's frightening about public transportation; sure, she's the front runner in the Miss Hepatitis C competition; sure, you couldn't exactly take her home to mother - but really, isn't that the point? Inanimate objects - hell, grown men - feared her and her assault on popular culture. Probably the original GWSF. (thanks, Monica!)

The Mohawk Hall of Fame, Part Two - The Flame Throwers

Well, "flame carriers" is so 1985.






Clint Mathis. Is he a rock star? Is he a soccer playing phenomenon? Is he a psychotic freak? Turns out Cleetus is a little bit of all three. With limited consistency. You'll always have Seoul, dude. And Krispy Kreme.









Rancid, particularly the Liberty-esque Tim Armstrong.
The angles in his face! The angles in his hair! Webster's defines photogenic as suitable for being photographed especially because of visual appeal; see Tim Armstrong. Like Robert Duvall and Steve Buscemi, he ain't a handsome man. But can you take your eyes off of him? Give it a whirl and see Lars Frederiksen's colorific mo' on the Ruby Soho video here.




Spongebob Punkpants.

C'mon. I had to. He's got the do, the Docs, the spikes on his wrist AND he's family friendly. He wouldn't have to hang out at Super Weenie Hut Jr. looking this tuff.









The Red Hot Chili Peppers' Anthony Kiedis. Always at the forefront of fashion, I knew he rocked the hawk for a while, but could not locate photographic evidence - thank you, Good Buddy and John Prine Ticket Master who prefers to remain anonymous!

Mohawk Hall of Fame, Part Three - The Best of the Rest

Clichés are us. Or, um, me.

nyrb vanity fair
Originally uploaded by moodinator.

Random members of Red Bull New York doing the Taxi Driver thang for Vanity Fair, which explains the fold. At least they look good *not* winning.

Robbie Robertson.

According to my Good Buddy/JP Ticket Master, who knows absolutely every freaking thing, he's the last of the Mohicans. Or rather, the Mohawks.

Get it?

Bringing it all back home, local radio personalities Jay Adams and Steve Hartford get their freaks on for the Sevier County High School Bears.

In a magnanimous display of football solidarity heading into the playoffs, Steve, left, and Jay*, right, cut and dyed for the Purple Pride. Jay's is truly impressive. Imperial inaccessibility and twisted attention-seeking! Really, who knew he had that much hair? Steve's got the shades and he's got the color, but dude, no matter how bad you want to be a Rancid punk, don't quit your day job.

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

I think.

If I missed anyone obvious, feel free to berate me.

*photographic representations may or may not be the genuine Jay.

Parallel Lives/Congruent Spheres*

Or, when I bought a new vehicle, so did everybody else. The exact same color!


Ever notice themes in your life? Recurring leitmotifs? Minor characters and intertwined sub-plots?

Well, I have.

First, with Elvis and all things Costello. I could make a religious experience out of it, should I be so inclined. And I am. First was the Wandering in the Wilderness - the ten year exile where I just raised my kids and re-vamped Beatles tunes for them (she scrubs you, yeah, yeah, yeah). Then the Road to Damascus/Scales Removed experience - that would be the day the cd player was installed in the Green Bean and I purchased The Very Best of Elvis Costello. You can forget how to breathe in ten years. Not long after, I bought When I Was Cruel and found a group of like-minded folks on the old Island board. And Elvis started turning up everywhere: Letterman, People magazine, the Today show. I went to shows, met fellow fans, met Elvis himself on a couple of occasions. In short, Elvis brought me lots of good things, most importantly friends and fellowship. And, with tithes and offerings, some really good tunage. As the moon circles the earth (or the sun?), so EC revolves through my life, constant and illuminating.

Lately, Tim Armstrong is exerting a strong gravitational pull. Or maybe I'm the planet (no fat jokes, thank you) and he's Haley's Comet. I don't have the science for these metaphors. Either way, he keeps popping up. First, the Fructis commercial, then, because soccer seems to be on the same trajectory, in an MLS playoff mashup for my favorite non-contenders, RBNY - and while he's not technically even playing on the song, for some twisted reason they have lifted him out of the one Lordz video he has done (a pretty good song called Outlaw) and added him to this one. See it (and others) here, but be warned that this site is effing impossible to navigate.

well, let's youtube that puppy just in case you're as cyber-inept as I am - Tim's the one in the black leather and brown fedora.



And all this is boring as hell and believe me, I'm sick of thinking about it - and these are people I find interesting! But it's like once you see the coincidence (not that there's any such thing), you can't un-see it, like the Escher print from hell.


* look, ma! I remembered something from geometry!

I'm an Insurrectionist

and you can be one too!


Here's how:


1. Realize that your vote will never count. Not in a million kazillion years, unless you just want to vote for the winning team. And they don't care about *you*.
2. Vote anyway. Vote crazy, vote passion, vote in spite of the pointlessness. Think of it as performance art, a chance at jury duty, just don't be assimilated! The Borg will tell you resistance is futile, but remember - Picard did, and you can too.













3. And speaking of art, grab all the Crackheads for Congress signs you can and do something Christo-ish in a public place. Would this be a felony or a misdemeanor? Somebody let me know ASAP. I have ideas.


This message brought to you by Citizen United against Norms Today.

Matt Reis finds Taylor's Purse!

And the whole team celebrates!


If you weren't watching the MLS playoffs this past weekend, I have one question for you: WTF is wrong with you? There was the thrill of victory, the agony of de feet. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The Revs won one for the Gipper, the Rapids remembered the Titans. Houston had a miracle on grass and New York...well, the Red Bulls did what they do best: playing excellent* soccer and losing to DC. Plus ça change, etc. There were good calls and bad calls, red cards and yellow cards, man hugs and man tears, mangy-looking playoff beards and attempted mohawks, insults and gestures, teenage unknowns showing up teenage phenoms, prodigal players showing some shine (I'm alliterating to YOU, Clint Mathis!), there was drama all over my tv.

Even fisticuffs!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mja9EOX27m4


Cheer on the Revs at DC this Sunday (11-5) 4 PM on ESPN2. Support the Dynamo against the evil Rapids, same day, 7 PM on FSC.


*excellent meaning "not sucking" in this instance.

Hark! The End of the World is Nigh...

Seriously. This is not good. This is tragic. This is indicative of everything that's wrong with the world today: The Transplants' Diamonds & Guns is being used.

To sell shampoo.

Ok, so it's been out there since '02 and I just found out about it, but that's because I have my own little superpower: a nifty ability to tune out commercials, and television in general, which comes from watching waaaaaaaaay too much tv as a child. Yes, you can sit too close to the tv. Tuesday night was that rare exception, when House went to commercial and I didn't refresh my beverage or go to the bathroom. And I heard this vaguely familiar piano riff. I'm staring at the ceiling, saying to myself 'I can name that tune in 5 notes,' and there it is on my tv. Garnier Fructis and Diamonds & Guns.


I bought this product, but not because of this commercial or any other, thank you very much Madison Avenue. It smells all candy-fruity. And what kind of name is Fructis? Not one I can associate with beautiful hair. Hairballs, maybe. I guess it's the old with-a-name-like-Smucker's caveat. But seriously, do these guys look like they'd use it? Or date girls who do? Perhaps those giant containers behind them are full of seized Fructis product and the Transplants are here to free the hair spray. Maybe they want to make some sort of point about the plight of unemployed hairdressers. Maybe they're taking stylin' a bit too far.

Maybe they did it for the money.

And I can forgive that. People gotta eat and Tim does give back. You can hear Diamonds & Guns here, but you'll have to look for it. I can't do all the work.

It's a Conspiracy, I tells ya!

I practice safe computing. All the time. I may have a lot of email addresses, but I am faithful to two: one for people I like, and one for whenever I have to give out an email address to people or organizations that are likely to send me lots of stuff I don't want to read - what I like to call my spam dump.


Lately, everything at the dump is pushing Viagra and/or Ambien. Apparently. I never, never, never, never, never open them. They just scream "unclean!" In spite of my best efforts - or perhaps because of those efforts - I am now getting whammed and spammed by Old Navy Maternity. Do I have to spell it out? They know how old I am. They are puzzled by my (jo's) gender, but covering all bases. They assume I'll be under the spell of their not so cheap and tawdry chemicals long enough to get knocked up or knock someone up, at which point, knowing my retail preferences, I'll be shopping Old Navy.

The government's not watching you, but Sam Walton is. Be warned, America.

He Wants to Ride His Bicycle

Austin has learned to bicycle. Not ride a bicyle, but DO a bicycle. Like these guys -



Well, not quite, but he's new to it. He came home from practice Sunday, all sweaty and eager to tell me. He insisted I watch, so out the front door I go, in my sweat pants and flannel shirt, looking like a sporty redneck. He juggles the ball a little and flicks it up, throws himself backwards, kicks the ball and collapses in a heap on the ground. With a thud. "I just have to work on my aim now!" he says.

I try not to be overprotective. I try to be reasonable. But this is looking less like a swift soccer move and more like an excellent way to break bones. I remember when his older brother learned to drown. I mean, swim. I was like 400 months pregnant with his sister and we went to the pool. Steven ran to the pool, screaming, "Watch what I can do, Mom!" as I, the leviathan, waddled slowly forth. He jumped in to the deep end and thrashed. It was like a shark attack, only without the shark. Eventually he made it to the edge of the pool, and looked up brightly. "See? I can swim!"

But, back to Austin. This is a child with an extreme sensitivity to pain. He screams when I trim his toenails. When he had his first shots, at the tender age of 6 weeks, he inhaled for a good 60 seconds before he started wailing. And once he started, he didn't stop until we were 10 miles down the interstate. He shows me every tiny bruise as if it were potentially life-threatening, details each ache and every drop of blood lost. Every tiny drop. And here he is, in front of God and the neighborhood, launching himself backwards after a soccer ball.

Kids. I just raise 'em. I don't explain 'em.

I came, I saw, I tried to make small talk

and I didn't even get a lousy T-shirt.

Yes, friends and neighbors, I made it to my high school reunion. The Apocalypse must surely be upon us, because I lived through the event. I took a peek at my senior yearbook and thought, these people don't look so dangerous. It's the burden of expectation that put me off - the old 'so, how did you turn out?' thing. Are you fat? Are you rich? Did you live up to the dreams you told us about in the yearbook? I got behind a nice protective wall of not giving a shit and went. Dare I say it had its "fun"* moments? It had its hellish moments as well.

FUN*
1. Seeing old friends, most -heck, who am I kidding? ALL- of whom I lost touch with soon after high school. I'm a lousy correspondent. I blame it all on the ADD I haven't been diagnosed with.
2. ...gee, seeing old friends is all I can come up with.

Hellish
1. Not recognizing ANYBODY except those old friends.
2. Small talk. I do NOT know how to make it. Especially with strangers I'm supposed to know!
3. That Back-in-high-school-everybody-clique-up vibe. Man, I thought we'd all be past that.

Twenty five years after I got over him, my high school crush deigned to speak to me. For the first time ever. It was a Crush From Afar. I asked him what he did and when he said he worked for the city, I think I can be forgiven for immediately thinking 'garbageman.' He got my vote for Most Changed. Not that I voted. And not that anybody had really changed. The sweet ones were still sweet, the not-so-sweet ones were still not so sweet. That's comforting, and depressing. Somebody told me I looked just like my mother, which is predictable and depressing. The more things change, etc. But it was good to see folks.

And I'll enjoy seeing them again in another 25 years.








*fun being a relative concept and a term applied loosely in this instance.

True Confessions, Old Punk/Soccer Mom Style

photo_tim-armstrong_profile
Originally uploaded by moodinator.

I am obsessed with this man. Well, more specifically, his music, but he does have a fascinating face to boot. Looks pretty good sans shirt, as well. It started so innocently. "Gangsters and Thugs" came up on a playlist made for me by Napster. Aren't they sweet? I liked it. A lot. Soon, I was listening to Haunted Cities on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis. And the buying began.

It's nice to find new obsessions. This one is a tad embarassing, considering I'm a 43 year old mother of four who drives a minivan and frequents soccer fields across the southeast. At the same time, that's what makes this one so fun. Hey, America! Not all us soccer moms are listening to Kenny G! Take note!

Tim Armstrong, I love you, but I'll be content to worship from afar. If the secret gets out, and you start getting swarmed by soccer moms, well, I imagine that would instantly 'uncool' you amongst the 18-24 year old male demographic. But who really gives a shit about them anyway? Come on up and see me sometime.

It's That Time Again!

Banned Book Week!

I am stunned to realize I've read less than 20% of these. I promise to bring that up for next year.

Some surprises:

The What's Happening To My Body? Book for Girls is #40. What's Happening To My Body? Book for Boys is #61. Let's speculate! Girls' bodies are 20% more obscene? Boys are less likely to seek information re: growing up, presaging an adulthood inability to ask for directions? Or, perhaps boys are 20% more likely to scour the library for pictures of naked women than girls are to find same of men? Any way you look at it, gender bias is still here, in spite of all the political correctness in the world.

Where's Waldo? banned? WTF?

Carrie? I suppose that might incite prom riots and ritualistic blood lettings across the country. Could the "girlness" of the gore be the problem? Can you say Stayfree? The Dead Zone and Cujo are also fit to be banned. Congratulations, Stephen King. You're this decade's #1 banned author! At least for "adult" fiction. That anarchist Judy Blume leads the list with 5. Are You There, God? This is fricken ridiculous!

Anyway, read the list and enjoy some moral outrage! March down to your local public library and cause a scene. Not all freedom fighting is being done in I-raq.

I'm Not Going And You Can't Make Me

At least, that was my intention.

Is there anything more freakout-inducing than an invitation to your 25th high school reunion? I mean, besides breast lumps or strange noises from the auto? If I'd just received an invitation in the mail, I could cheerfully drop it in the trash without a moment's hesitation, consideration and with no consternation. Working out my 'ations' today. I got one in the mail. And I've had no less than 3 personal entreaties to attend. Two by phone and one face to face. Make that three by phone. Face to face is hard to turn down. And I feel for her (the sweet girl who has called twice and cornered me at the county fair once). She's worked hard to pull this off. None of the other deadbeats in our class would do it, myself included. I "lost" the invitation in a masterful move of passive-aggression and miraculously found it after the deadline had passed. No worries, Sherry tells me - just see me at the picnic and pay for the events you want to go to. Argh. I went through high school behind an wall of invisibility. Why the fuck isn't it still working?


There are 2 or 3 people from that graduating class of 1981 I'd like to see again. It's the other 97 that I don't really give a damn about. I mean that in the nicest way possible. I wouldn't mind seeing them one at a time, bumping in to them at the grocery store or the fair or soccer or something. It's just hard to face all of them at once. Like getting on the damn bus again and trying to find somewhere to sit. After I talked with Sherry (again) this morning, I decided to go. I'm wavering again, but I'm pissed at myself for letting these people have this much power over me. I'm 43 years old. I should be over this shit.

I'll go.


If I can find something to wear.

Birthday Bashing With The Fun Girls

or, you can fool some of the people some of the time, but I'm on to your tricks now, sister.

My birthday was celebrated today at work. Against my will and without much enthusiasm. It was technically two weeks ago. Approximately. At my age, dates get fuzzier and fuzzier with every passing hour.

It was an end-run around the fact the Fun Girl #1 wanted to celebrate Fun Girl #2's birthday, which IS today. We used to celebrate every single person's birthday with a cake. Even if there were two birthdays on one day. And this is quite informal and we all love cake and a chance to not be working, even if it means hanging out with each other. But, 2006 brought a BAN to these festive happenings. No more birthdays were to be celebrated in the office. So, January thru August have slipped by with only one marked (Fun Girl #1 turned 186, so it was a milestone). Suddenly, today, as I'm entering my various types of payroll deductions into their various types of spreadsheets, I am told to come have cake! We are celebrating MY birthday. And all the other September birthdays! Woo hoo!!

I should feel used.

But there was cake. Chocolate cake.


I am weak.

Verbostic* Assault With Literary Intent

Well, maybe that's a tad harsh.



I opened this book at 10 P.M. on a Thursday night. Mistake #1. I had imbibed one or two stupid-making beverages. Mistake #2. I could not find my reading glasses, yet decided to forge on anyway. Mistake #3. While I realize that this is the metaphoric equivalent of poking a badger, of trying to drum up NRA memberships at a PETA rally, I'm the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. Call me Ishmael. Call me Doña Quixote. Just don't call me late for dinner.

I made it through 5 pages that night. Eventually, I made it through the whole (blessedly short) thing. It's not a bad book, in fact it must be a really good book because it won prizes. The blurbs told me so! But Stevens, the Great Butler-cum-narrator, can't contain himself linguistically. If one word will do, he'll use ten. If brevity is the soul of wit, Stevens is bound for Humor Hell. If words were air, the rest of us would suffocate because Stevens has inhaled the entire freaking galaxy. If prizes were given for going on and on and on and not really saying anything, well - you get the picture.

Anyhoo, long story short: the book left me with a larger vocabulary, a tired head and a provocative idea. What if all the words I hear and read were somehow drowning out my own? So, I'm conducting an experiment and turning off the noise. I've gone instrumental, music-wise. At least through the workday. Jazz, classical, salsa. Avoid the singing as much as possible but if it ain't in English, it's kosher. Today's been Buena Vista Social Club derived - all the branches on that tree that Napster has to offer. Yesterday, it was Mozart. Tomorrow? Maybe Japanese pop! I'm still bangin' my head to the Transplants in the car and I'm still overdosing on fiction at home, so no cold turkey. I wouldn't unleash that on my family. It is refreshing to have background noise, not that it's noise, but it's not demanding too much of my tiny little brain and I can just enjoy.

Imagine that!










*Yeah, I made it up. Sue me.

Talkin' T-Shirt Philosophizin' Blues

Indeed.


I've owned this shirt for at least two years now, a souvenir from FANTASTIC Nick Lowe show at the Belcourt. I could only love it better if it had NL inside it. We've gone casual on Fridays at work (waaaay casual), so I wear it maybe twice a month. No one ever commented on or noticed it until...just the other day. One of my many many bosses read it. Out loud. To me. She smiled. Later, a fellow soccer mom read it. Out loud. To me and a few others. They smiled, nodded and agreed that it was an excellent point. A slightly drunk (or borderline sunstroke case - it's hard to tell the diff, sometimes) read 'what's so funny 'bout WHAT'? I had to finish reading it for him. A casually tossed peace sign was my reward.

My conclusion? I should've cornered the market on these and maybe, just maybe, a tide has turned.

*cue voice of Boris Karloff*

Maybe world peace, I think, doesn't come from a store. Maybe world peace... perhaps... means a little bit more!

Give peace a chance, peeps.

Five Things I Can't Live Without (Today)

1. Burt's Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. Technically, Avon's Lip Dew is better, but I don't want to get involved with another Avon Lady.

2. "I Want It All" on my cellphone. Best. Ring. Tone. Ever. At least for me. The sound could be better - not enough bass, and it's tinny if it's too loud. Of course, it's never too loud.

3. Barbara Kingsolver's books. Started The Bean Trees today, after ripping through Poisonwood, Pigs In Heaven and Prodigal Summer. Pigs is the sequel to Bean Trees. Wish I'd known that before I read it! I haven't inhaled books like this since the Vonnegut binge c. 1983. But there needs to be more!

4. Socks. It be getting chilly in the evenings!

5. My nifty, stylish and comfortably over-sized Columbus Crew rain jacket. I'm trying hard not to feel any RBNY guilt when I wear it. My heart's still with you guys! You just have NO merchandise! None!

Out of My Comfort Zone

and into the fiery pits of the hair-chewing, white knuckled hell of nervous insecurity.


Ok, so maybe it's not all that bad. It's just a little dinner party. I've done them before. In 1984 or so. Will they like what I cook? Will my dog bite somebody? Do I have any of those little towels for the bathroom?? Is my bathroom clean and relatively non-aromatic? Where did I put the Oust? Can I get new carpet installed today? Caterers - do I know any? Tranquilizers - do I have any? Can I get to the liquor store on Saturday? What if they've turned tee-totaller on me? Are these hives on my arms or just a shitload of little bitty bug bites? What would Paris do?

I don't see how washing my car in heels and a g-string would help, but at this point I'm willing to try anything.


Almost.


update: I survived. No one got food poisoning. No one hurried home early. I think it was a success.

So, I've been to Ohio.

It's flat.

There's lots of water towers.

The swimming was good.

So was the ironing.

Putt-putting wasn't too shabby, either.

The soccer was most excellent.

My Little Cupcake scored his first goal (that wasn't a pk) in the first 9 minutes - like he was waiting for me to show up. Eds, next year I'll try to be there earlier in the season!

Find The Fact!

A new game. Guess which of these statements is true.


1. Landon Donovan, underachiever extraordinaire, singlehandedly sent Team USA packing yesterday!

2. FIFA referees are the world's best!

3. Bruce Arena is the devil!

4. English soccer is creative and exciting to watch!

5. MIXX 105.5 plays MY favorites from the 70's, 80's and 90's!


OK, so "none of the above" is not an option. It's 98 degrees with 300% humidity. My underwear keeps bunching up and my team went home waaaaay too early. Color me cranky. And sarcastic.
















But this helps make it better.


Big ups to Dempsey, who scored our only goal! Hope to see you playing in Europe, but not for those pissy Englishters:). Big ups to Gooch, who may be going to play for those pissy Englishters, for learning quickly what a referee will tolerate. It's not your fault that people fall down when they run into you. Thanks to Italy and Ghana for showing us where we need to post those "No Diving Allowed!" signs.

2010 is just around the corner. But for now, ANYBODY but Germany, Italy, Ghana or England!

The Discovery Goes On

I found my birth certificate. I’ve been looking for it quite a while, ever since my mother handed it over at least one baby ago. I spent two days battling the 400 square foot debris field that was once a laundry room and there it was – in with the old school policy pamphlets, day care agreements and assorted warranties. What was I thinking, putting it in with what were important papers that have evolved in the natural order of stuff into trash. I’m nuts like that sometimes.

Anyway, I now know the hour of my birth. 10:51 PM. Eastern. So, after years of guessing what my rising sign is, I can finally find out definitively. And for some reason, this is vitally important to me. I just can’t keep on being a schoolmarmish Virgo the rest of my days! That’s just soooo not me.

(cue annoying giggle)

So, there it is in black and white – I have a Gemini rising. I knew it. I’ve always been a little schizo. I mean, not as in a tiny and multi-personalitied Sybil, but as in more than one contrasting personality trait. Little or tiny are not words any one would use to describe me, unless perhaps they were describing the limits of my patience or my liquor threshold.

Cherry-picking a few of the more “that’s me!” statements:

Restless in the extreme, you are easily bored because of your short attention span.
You have a great need to be yourself and to explore your latent talents and abilities.
You … will be known for the degree of intensity with which you dislike normal everyday routines and chores.
At times, you prefer to be alone rather than deal with any imperfections in yourself or in those with whom you might relate.
Ideas and philosophies must have some sort of immediately realizable, utilitarian function in order for you to pay attention to them.

Try it yourself! About.com: http://alabe.com/freechart/

The Mother Lode

For Mother's Day, being the kindhearted and caring soul that I am, I'm going to share. I'm going to share some of the knowledge I've gained in 20 years of mothering. I'm going to share the things nobody ever told me, the lessons I've learned the all-too-hard way. Whether you want to know or not.

1. Floam will eventually grow hair if it is played with at the dinner table.

2. Hamsters like dog food. A lot. And you won't know how much until the hamster is no more.

3. The average time it takes a toddler to get a sucker stuck in his hair is 1.5 minutes. Thirteen seconds if you are in a moving vehicle.

4. Teenage boys will know it's time to bring the soccer practice stuff home for washing when they can smell it (in the trunk) from the front seat. The socks will ALWAYS be inside out AND wet and said teenager will disappear before you can make him pull them right side out.

5. If you start feeling complacent and giddy because your kids are playing so quietly and nicely together or alone, find out what they are doing. At once. Something expensive or irreplaceable is about to be broken.

6. There are no sweeter words than an unprompted 'you're the best mom in the world!' from a sticky 6 year old when you give him back his hair-free sucker. And none more cutting than the same when you won't buy a cell phone for him six years later.

7. Some kids bite. Hard. Never turn your back on a biter.

8. Any food can be finger food with the proper amount of wipies.

9. Character traits that are annoying in children are valued in adults. Asking why 40,000 times no doubt led to the invention of the encyclopedia. And the mental institution.

10. It all washes off. Eventually.

Happy Mother's Day!

You Asked For It!

Back by popular demand: Elvis Versus the World. Well, maybe not by popular demand. And demand may be too strong a word. Whatever.





VS.







Elvis, in every album, every song and gosh darn it, almost every note, displays his emotional dictionary, from love and adoration through paranoid jealousy down to revenge and guilt.

Rod Stewart, in every album, every song and almost every note, displays his emotional repetoire: sad horny and happy horny, with nuances of wistful horny sometimes tossed in.

EC has been performing classics from the great American songbook since he was in short pants.

RS has been performing them since Divorce #47. Or was it Baby #62?

Delusions of Celteur: EC pretends to be Irish, RS is a wannabe Scot.

EC and RS both look iconically good in a suit. Worst fashion disaster: for EC, it has to be jeans. He looks like that kid at school, the you're-ugly-and-your-mother-dresses-you-funny kid; for RS, it was the 80's. In fact, I'm convinced he's used all his American songbook profits to buy up the photos, because I have scoured the internet and they just ain't out there anymore. But you know the ones I mean: the spandex, the boas, the pictures that just make you think of the stomach-pumping rumor all over again.

Travels with Dad

Experts say that married people should keep surprising each other to keep things fresh in the relationship. I don't think they had this in mind.

We went to Nashville to see my husband's parents. It's about a 4 hour trip, but the time changes. Normally, on such trips, I pack a few snacks and drinks to keep the Krusty Krew (our four children) from accosting strangers at rest stops. This trip was sudden, unplanned and therefore, unsnacked. But it wasn't really a problem. No one complained. We took a pit stop at the friendly I-40 rest area. I took the girls into the bathroom, Jim went with the boys. The boys browsed the brochures and I gathered them all up and headed back to the car to find my husband standing there with one pack of peanut butter toasty crackers in his hand.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"I figured the kids would get hungry," he answered.

One pack of crackers. Four children. Do the math. Don't forget to factor in a wily dog and sibling rivalry to the power of ten.

O, triumphant hunter! If we don't get more crackers, we're gonna start eating our own. Survival of the One Most Beloved By The Parental Units, after all. And these are nobody's favorite crackers, but the law of supply and demand is unequivocally confirmed.


I did the only sensible thing.


I ate them.

All.

This Weeks Hot List

From the Anti-Paris

1. A bed to oneself. The Anti-insomnia.


2. Eating out. The Anti-cooking.


3. Hellcat samplers at stroke-inducing volume. The Anti-Pop.


4. MLS – Dynaquakes and MetroReds season openers 4/2. The Anti-Sport.


5. Mardy bums. The Anti-Ken.

Mother Knows Best

I have short, maybe even stubby, eyelashes. I wasn't aware of this defect until the other day when my oldest daughter helpfully noted that 'your eyelashes aren't as long as mine.'

As if it were a contest.

After I explained to her that her comment made me feel rejected and worthless, less than human, and played havoc with my inferiority complex, I got to thinking. And that is the beginning of many an ill-fated adventure and pseudo-scientific Lecture From Mom.

Katie, I explained, the length of my eyelashes relative to yours is the end product of a billion years of evolution. Once upon a time, the survival of the human species depended on the ability of the female to attract the male with the best DNA and survival skills. In prehistoric times, these things went together; today, sadly, they do not. Stay away from the modern survivalist! Long lashes to bat, succulent lips to pout, the flirtatious body language of youth - these are the tools you are given to complete your genetic purpose. I am married with children and no longer burdened by Darwinian necessity. My eyelashes can be stubby, as can my legs. In fact, the stubby eyelashes probably enable better vision, thus better maternal protection. The offspring are more likely to survive to bat their own lashes and add their DNA to the gene pool. Once they're in a stable, married relationship, of course.

I was so proud of this convoluted analogy, I detailed it out for the husband. His response? Everybody our age is getting divorced and jumping back into the gene pool.

Threat or promise? You decide.

Career Opportunities

It's no good being angry with an anonymous person. There's no satisfaction in it. You might as well fight with a lawn mower. And since I can't be pissy with an anonymous asshole, then I'll be pissy with Those Less Fortunate Than I. Transference. I learned that on Law and Order: Criminal Intent last night.

How to Build Your Resume, Part One*

1. Ask to bum a cigarette during your interview.

2. Bring your child (or better yet, children!) with you to the interview and answer definitively "yes!" when asked if you have reliable child care.

3. Answer your cellphone during the interview.

4. Apply for the job while a policeman writes you a citation for speeding (shows multi-tasking capabilities, after all).

5. Do not show up for your first day of work. Call a few days later with a morbid explanation (death in family, grandmother's foot had to be amputated, car wreck or cancer diagnosis) and get rehired. Do not show up again. Expect to be paid anyway.

6. List "took customer's money" as a Position of Trust.


*names withheld to protect the ignorant.

bored, bored, bored, totally ennuiated!

Bored enough to clean out my desk drawers. It's like an archeological dig. All the detritus - ok, not all - from 18 years of slaving the fuck away in corporate hell. Some interesting (well, I said I was bored didn't I?) findings:

1. I am a closet pyromaniac. I have three packs of matches and I haven't smoked in at least 9 years. Shows a repressed desire to surround myself with candles or perhaps I was a Girl Scout in another life.

2. I have an inordinate affection for Sharpies. I found 7. Red, blue, black. Fat tips, fine points, double-ended ones. And an equal number of highlighters! Please don't ask about the Flairs. I am seeking help.

3. Ketchup is good, but tartar sauce is better.

4. I am incapable of throwing away the plasticware packets from fast food places. You never know when you might need a spork.

5. I've got so much shit to do that I need not just one, but two, count 'em two, 20-year calendars? That is depressing.

6. If you really, really love your lip gloss, it will come back to you.

My Favorite Irishman

Paddy O'Brien. They're always after me Lucky Charms.









Ok, so that's not the right picture, but I did my best. Happy St. Patrick's Day! Green beer for all!

It's tough to be an MLS fan

Once upon a time, in America...







San Jose had a beloved soccer team(formerly known as The Clash - best name ever) whose owners decided to move the team.

To Houston.







A new location, a new name. The 'Quakes became Houston 1836 - a cool name, and the year that Houston was founded. Coincidentally, or not, this was the exact same year Texas decided not to be a part of Mexico. Which some people found offensive.








So the Clash/Quakes/Houston 1836 became the Houston Dynamo, which is an autogol in the Lamest Name Ever Playoffs. And the Metros, who used to be the NYNJ Metro Stars but evolved (sensibly) to the MetroStars, find themselves likewise rebranded as New York Red Bull.



And what should we do, America? That's right.

Blame Donovan.

Just kidding. Be nice to him. He's got to power Team USA out of our group come June. (Can I get you something, Landon? A sandwich? Your slippers? A comely wench?) The Houston name change is, well, I can't think of a better word than stupid. They gain nothing from it. The Metrostars name change I'm ok with - they gain a recognizable brand, money and that elusive soccer specific stadium. And money. Did I mention money? And money trumps political correctness every time.

I can die a happy, happy woman...

John Prine, March 3, Tennessee Theatre.

Ok, Ok, so it's an old photo. From the 2005 Asheville show, to be precise. But the ones I took with my telephone, uh, um....well, they suck. And I think this one is so bad, it's cool. He is some kind of demon fire god. In the most polite way possible.

I got our tickets through an online presale via the John Prine Shrine, thanks to my Good But Anonymous Buddy who pays attention to these things. The deal with their presale is you are guaranteed seats in the first 6 rows, but you can't pick up your tickets until one hour before the show. Because I am never early (and really, isn't being early just as rude as being late?), the opening act was already onstage when we arrived. I showed the girl at Will Call my Sam's Club card because I could not find my license and read PT104. Oh, fuck. We're on row P, which is not in the prescribed first six rows. I regained my composure and looked again. It says Orchestra. Oh, fuck! We're in the Orchestra Pit!! I wait very impatiently for a beer and run to the nearest usher with my ticket, heart beating wildly, I'm beginning to sweat. She looks at the ticket and doesn't have a clue where. Oh, fuck. Maybe we're upstairs. Another usher grabs the ticket, peers at it intently and positively puffs up. He marches us with pomp and circumstance to the stage and points to the very front row. We are center. Dead center. John Prine will be standing 10 feet directly in front of me.

I wait to be escorted back to the plebian horde. There are four empty seats beside me and one by one they fill up (with brothers! hey to you all if you see this!). Each time a brother comes to take a seat, I expect to get thrown out. I have never been front row anywhere for anything and this is possibly the most amazing musical moment of my life. There is no massively huge or tall person in front of me. I will not have to play Bob & Duck all night. I will have an unobstructed view of John Prine. 10 feet away. Twelve o'clock.

I hope he's not a spitter.

The opening act was a lady named Minton Sparks, and I want to apologize to her for walking in on her second to last song. Only they're not songs exactly, being spoken but accompanied by guitar. It was kind of hillbilly poetry slam meets performance art. Interesting but peculiar. A long, long, eternal damnation kind of wait ensues as she exits stage right. The lights come up, the roadies come out and start placing bottles of water everywhere, bringing more and more guitars and mandolins and a stand up bass (which is also orchestrally known as a double bass according to #1 son, who was also present but sitting with the riff raff in row F). Should've done a drink/bathroom run, but I was afraid to leave. Really!

Finally, the lights go down and there it is. The moment I've been waiting for - face to face with JP, and he's throwing down a raucous version of Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore. If you thought maybe he'd become sedate and conservative in his golden(ish) years, you thought wrong. In April, it was a 'cowboy from Texas' who started his own war with I-raq. In a post-Katrina America, it was 'that asshole from Texas,' and that, I am happy to note, brought a wave of cheers across the beautiful Tennessee Theatre. Mr. Prine played all the 'hits' - not that he has any, but the Ones People Expect: Sam Stone, Grandpa Was A Carpenter, Paradise, Hello In There, Dear Abby. It was often a mammoth singalong. He played The Most Perfect Song EVER, dedicating it to his Ma. The beginning of it makes me think of rain drops running down a windowpane, all cold and lonely and warm and tender, all at once, the absolute sound of bittersweet, and I hear it and I swear I have tears in my eyes. John Prine is singing Souvenirs 10 feet in front of me. It. Was. Amazing. He has fat stubby hands like Elvis, so it gives me hope: one day, maybe, I can get my stupid fingers to make that sound. He played Crazy As A Loon, and dedicated it to One Bullet Barney, a/k/a Don Knotts. He did some Jed Clampett dancing during Bear Creek Blues. I didn't think he could spit after the cancer/radiation thing but he did drop a few wads here and there. Ain't Hurtin' Nobody hit a big fat groove and just went on and on and people should've got up and danced, but nobody did. I heard some concertgoers were taken aback by folks shouting out requests - I don't think it was a problem for Mr. Prine. And I don't think you go to a John Prine concert to sit in respectful silence. He's not that kind of demon fire god.

The band was incredible. Mostly playing mandolin but sometimes on guitar was Pat McLaughlin, who brought a Conehead sensibility (and by that I don't mean that he's strange looking, but that he seems like he's from another planet, a very FUN planet) and some Johnny Rotten punkish/impish fun to the proceedings. Mostly on electric guitar, but sometimes on mandolin and harmonica was Jason Wilbur, who should smile more - and I hate saying that because I was always told that as a child. On that stand up bass was Dave Jacques, who has no web presence, but lots and lots of soul. I know Jason and Pat added some vocals, as well, but I'm not sure about Dave. John Prine was blocking my view.

Damn, it was good to be there.

And don't call me Dempster!

He shoots! He scores! He growls in triumph!!

Twellman gets the assist.

It bounced off his face.

8 o'clock tonight, Tennessee Theatre.







Color me stoked.

I bought the Ron White tickets as kind of a consolation prize, after waiting months and months (or was it weeks and weeks?) for good shows. Kings of Leon was my last show, way way back in October and I kept patiently waiting - well, as patiently as I know how - for something wonderful to pop up.

Nothing.

Months and months (or weeks and weeks for you literalists) of nothing.

So, when I saw the advertisement for Ron White, I jumped on it. So did the rest of East Tennessee. It sold out before I could even figure out how to buy tickets. Fortunately, a 9:30 show was added. After checking my calendar - who wants to go to a 9:30 show and face work the next day? - I grabbed two primo tickets (only to discover at the show that they were dead center in Yuppieville). I figured it would be a late Valentine present. We could be Adults Without Children. So, that's $100 for tickets, $100 for a hotel, $100 for a couple of meals. Doesn't break the budget because there's nothing the fuck else to do the rest of the winter.

And there it was. One week to the day after I committed to Ron White. John Prine. In Knoxville. At the Tennessee Theatre. Six days after Ron.

Of course I had to have them. I'd sell blood and plasma if necessary. My children don't need to eat every day. Those aren't high-waders, honey, they're capris. And next year they'll be shorts! We're not homeless, we're moving. Everything's a matter of perspective, isn't it? And, in T minus 6 hours, John Prine's going to be in mine.

Driving with Katie

or,

Where’s the Clairol #117 and pass me my nerve pills!


At first, it went well. She listened. She did what she was told, braking here, putting her signal on now, staying on her side of the road. And as she learned and the praises were heaped upon her, her confidence grew. And grew. And grew. Until she was the self-styled Princess of Power (steering).

My first experience in Driver’s Ed, post-high school, was teaching my oldest son, who figured ‘hey, I’ve played enough NASCAR 2000 – I don’t NEED lessons.’ And I had to force him to drive. Our state requires a minimum number of hours behind the wheel, certified by a parent or legal guardian, in order to move from permit to license. It’s ridiculously low, like 50 or something, but I still felt perjurious when I signed the statement. Nevertheless, he passed his driving test. And I’ll give him points for that, because he had to drive in rush hour school traffic and they were gone at least 20 minutes. For my test, back before seat belt laws, I had to drive around the block. Literally. One square residential block. Four right turns. Had they been left, I’d be qualified for Bristol.

Lately, the Princess has lost some of her Will to Drive. It’s too cold in the mornings. She wants to watch a movie en route. She doesn’t feel like it. She did deign to drive home yesterday. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand alternately flipping her hair around and pointing at “bad” drivers, we careened through the evening traffic. Wherever she turned her head, there went the steering wheel. We did not maintain our lane. We ran up on other cars and came to a screeching halt. We rousted pedestrians. At last we got home and I dug my fingers out of the armrest. I followed the youngest two into the house and was dumbfounded to realize: I have to do this Two. More. Times.

copy cattin'

http://sosaidi.blogspot.com/


Found that on Recently Updated Blogs today – very nice, kind of reminds me of me (but in a younger, better dressed version) – and, since I can’t think of anything to blog about and there’s a long afternoon stretching out in front of me, I thought I’d steal her idea. I haven’t brought the A game in weeks, but my standards are high and my talent is low. Anyway, thanks to middlegirl!

My weekend – the quick version.

Friday night: ate leftovers, washed a load of clothes, fell asleep in a chair watching some Sci-Fi program.
Saturday: Slept until 9!!!!! Made the grocery list and planned menus for the week. Went Walmarting. Drove to Knoxville with husband. Ate obscenely expensive seafood, saw Ron White. Wondered what a “rim job” was briefly, decided it was better not to know. Stayed up past midnight! Fell asleep with tv on and book in lap in a very cozy hotel.
Sunday: Slept til 10!!! Made tea, watched a stupid Sly Stallone movie (which is of course an oxymoron - what was I thinking?). Had a Coke and a shower. Saw friend in nursing home. Ate a few Krystals, drove home. Did more laundry, washed muddy dog.


My Weekend – the fantasy version

Friday night: Kids and husband went to the Grand Canyon (or somewhere far far away). Ordered pizza (with black AND green olives, mushrooms and pepperoni), which I ate in front of the tv with some Southpaw because Gone With The Wind was on, followed by Parenthood and A League of Their Own.

Saturday: Slept til noon and awoke to find my house meticulously cleaned by magic elves, laundry done right down to the ironing, shelves stocked and a lovely French onion soup for lunch. Kids and husband returned from Grand Canyon and without the ability to argue. Drove to Knoxville, ate seafood in a quiet restaurant with fantastically flattering lighting, saw Ron White. Had champagne on terrace of cozy hotel and watched the demolition of the Summitt Hill Bridge.

Sunday: Slept until eleven. Ate croissants and chocolate covered strawberries while sipping champagne in an enormous bubble bath. Watched back to back episodes of Biography, read an entire book, took a nap and turned back into Mom at the last possible second.



And really, is that too much to ask?

There Oughta Be a Law

Maybe you can’t legislate morality, or common courtesy, or even reasonable concern for the rest of the world, but if I could, these would be capital crimes…

1. Spitting in public. And it becomes especially heinous when it involves that godawful sinus-clearing schnurping noise and therefore subject to special punishment. Someone did this to me in Walmart. In the cereal aisle! Well, to be truthful, he didn’t spit, but he did schnurp right in my ear. Which is an egregious invasion of my personal space. His dog must die with him.
   
2. People who take up more than one parking space deliberately. You in the massive assault vehicle! If you can't park it, keep it at home. In fact, just owning a massive assault vehicle ought to be a felony. Criminal conspicuous consumption. Embezzlement of eco-resources. Driving Under the Influence of Middle Class Suburbanism.
   
3. People who toss their cigarettes out their vehicle windows. I'd like to go all Skink on them, but I don't have the cajones. Watch out. One day I will.
   
4. People who whisper in public. I’m not talking about those with itty bitty voices incapable of projection. I’m talking about the people who will, when in a group, lean in to whisper to a particular ear. Unless you are someone privy to state secrets and you are at the UN, this is rude. And rudeness will get you killed. At least, it would if I were Queen of the World.

You Got a Reason to Cry...

Last night, I wrote the best opening line for a poem. It came to me in a dream, and I woke up savoring the words, feeling the electric rightness of every syllable. It was the beginning of the poem that would succor the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick and just generally make the world a better place. I don’t think Jesus could’ve written it better. Like Bode Miller, I was about to Live Up to My Potential! I was inches away from publication, from having my Emily Dickinson moment in the sun.

And I rolled over and went back to sleep.


Poems are hard to write. Every word has to perform. And it has to sound good performing. Straight pipes, not fart mufflers. And I write them so badly that I haven’t tried any ‘serious’ poems since this abortion:


Incantation for Lost Souls

At night I sleep cocooned and healing.
Each morning I tear the wound open, conjuring memories.
Tasting the exquisite sweetness of it
Piercing dream flesh with invented emotion
Until fresh blood seeps beneath the bandage.
A self-inflicted injury—I created this, made this
For you.

Darkness brings the cure. A potent oblivion caresses the scab.
In the black warmth of nothingness, something grows that wants this hurt.


Which, I think, was about my craving for drama. There are some nice phrases in it, I think. ‘Potent oblivion’ is good. Too much sibilance overall. Too Poetry I. Actually, I think I did better in Poetry I. So, that’s sad. I’ve lived 23 more years, graduated, got married, had 4 kids and got a real job and I still have nothing to say!

And it was given to me in a dream.

And I went back to sleep.


Damn. Damn. Damn.

The Hangover This Morning Had A Personality*

Last night, CBS brought us the 48th (??) Annual Grammy Awards, my yearly exercise in drinking games (think of God and Mama), almost witty yet strangely irrelevant commentary, and prognostication. With my Rolling Stone Guide to the Grammys in one hand and a nice cold Southpaw in the other, I observed the ant farm. This year was a little bit of a disappointment – even Mariah dressed decently! But I have a few leftover observations:


Madonna! Honey, you’re at an age where support hose will soon be more than some kind of freaky fashion statement. Don’t try to make capris out of them. And give Farrah Fawcett back her hairstyle.

Coldplay. Chris Martin didn’t drool this year, but he skipped through the audience, around the stage, and did some interpretative dancing while wearing assorted bandaids and Gwyneth’s maternity jeans. Study those Stones tapes harder Chris! Mick combs his hair and his pants fit.

Kelly Clarkson, thank you! Until you came on to sing that annoying song, everyone was dressed reasonably. But you, you punk rebel you! You took a page from the Scarlett O’Hara Book of Dress Design. Getting your grandma’s housecoat and shredding it to ribbons! Inspired! And when you won, not one mention of that blight on the American entertainment landscape. Edgy!


Paul McCartney. Yawn. I think we use the same hair color. His performance was frustrating for me. I can’t think of anything bad to say about it, but I think he’s an abysmal human being. Don’t buy his record.

And speaking of hair color, should Gwen still be hitting the peroxide? She looks fabulous anyway. And way more pregnant than I thought she was. I’m glad she wasn’t wearing the Harajuku shoes.

Note to Keef: not only is Johnny Depp stealing your look, Steven Tyler is too. Get your beads and baubles down to the Patent Office, stat!

U2. Why don’t Larry and Adam ever speak? Will this album EVER go away?

Michael Buble. Michael Buble. Michael Buble. That’s just fun to say, isn’t it?




John Legend is, to borrow my nemesis’ favorite adjective, HOT. .

*thanks, Elvis.

I Got A Phone Call. A Phone Call From Hell.

I think I’m a disappointment to obscene callers.

Not that I want to be an appointment for them and not that I have tons of experience receiving or sending them, but my spidey sense tells me that somehow I’ve not cooperated properly with a disturbed mentality when I hang up the phone and go back to drooling in to my pillow. Cooperated probably isn’t the right word. It’s a failure to cooperate, but less emotional – like a business forfeiture. I don’t play along. I don’t get scared. I really don’t get that angry, because as obscene callers go, mine have been on the polite side of the Great Scales of Craziness. One, maybe two hang-ups and they give up. I had a regular caller my first year of college. Once or twice a week in the wee hours (why do they never call in the daytime anyway?), he’d call up and say the things he wanted to do with my dainties. After the third week or so, I said something along the lines of ‘dude, you need help that I can’t give, but try this number – they’re specialists in diseased minds.’ And that ended that. A recent one called me by name and said he’d found my name on the bathroom wall at Walmart. Yes, I have officially been hit on by the Markdown Smiley Face! I can’t wait to add that to my list of accomplishments. Age 22, graduated with honors from the University of Tennessee. Age 42, became Lower Priced Sex Goddess to bargain hunters everywhere!

I just have one thing to say to my discount admirer: caller id.

Why I Love My Dog

1. She has never called me ‘the meanest mother ever’ because I would not drive her to Bath & Body Works.


2. She has yet to ask me for money. Belly rubs, yes. Bucks, no.


3. She’s always glad to see me, even if I don’t have presents or candy. Even if I’ve only been gone 15 minutes. When I walk in the front door, she treats me like Jesus resurrected.


4. She doesn’t care what we listen to or what we watch. She might be more opinionated if she could talk, but she’s happy to sit on the couch and watch 101 Greatest Fashion Mistakes Ever with me.


5. She has never asked ‘do I have to eat this?’ Whatever I cook, it’s gourmet grub to her.