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.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly - My First Anniversary

Well, it's close now and as usual I can't think of a thing to write about, but also as per usual I refuse to let that stop me. One year of blogging and I've used way more than my fair share cyberspace, abused the English language, and refused to be confined by a strict and structured syntax. I'm a grammatical outlaw! The posts have run the gamut from Really Really Horrible (most of the early stuff, Sundown, my distinctly strange idea re: calendar keeping - my apologies) to the Not Too Shabby (The Gospel, the boob drama, My Musical Epiphany). I got a few comments, only one of which was spam! (note to workfromhome dude - thanks! I open the junk mail when nothing else shows up in my mailbox). Each one was a thrill - it's a big ole cyber world and it's an honor just to be nominated. Noticed! I mean, noticed!

Anyway, it makes me happy.

And it's ALL About Me.

Merry Christmas

From me and my dog.

Bestest! Christmas! Songs! Ever!

In no particular order and subject to change without notice.

1. Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town – Bruce and the E Street Band. The intro makes me smile every single time.

2. Please Come Home for Christmas – The Eagles. I know they’re the Group Everyone Loves to Hate, but I love their version of this song. Schmaltzy growls, tinkling piano, a man who can sing ‘send salutations’ with a straight face – well, that’s not quite fair – he sings everything with a straight face.

3. Frosty the Snowman – Jimmy Durante and Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer - Burl Ives. Television staples of my formative years. I have a birthmark around my nose that gets, um, inflamed, shall we say, in cold weather. Mean kids used to tease me. I took great solace in Jimmy and Burl's tender songs.

4. I’ll Be Home for Christmas – Leon Redbone. I wanted to put him up for Frosty as well, but that seemed like overkill. A credible, understated cover of a classic. He also used to sing an All detergent commercial.

5. White Christmas – Bing or the Drifters. I love Bing’s voice and the way he uses it, more of an instrument than ‘A Voice’ – this is the definitive by-the-fire-with-the-one-you-love version. The fun, traveling to Grandma’s version with four hopped-up-on-sugar kids belongs to the Drifters. Da dooby do!

6. Joy To the World – Blind Boys of Alabama and Aaron Neville. Normally, I like men to sound like men when they sing. Aaron Neville is the exception, and this song is particularly striking to me because he’s singing way on up there and the Blind Boys are filling in all the steps on the ladder, with that gravelly growly bass just suggested, like a whisper from God.

7. Baby It’s Cold Outside – Brian Setzer with Ann-Margret. So, Setzer’s voice ain’t really up to this song, but Ann-Margret! Wow! She gets to play me in the movie.

8. Oi! To the World – No Doubt. Two minutes of ska-punk and also fantastic for over-sugared children. Nice little morality tale, to boot. Better than the Vandals' original (heresy, I know).

9. Up on the Housetop – Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefer Band. The surf guitar version. Christmas is for sharin’. Share that wave with me, dude.

10. Fairytale of New York – the Pogues with Kirsty Maccoll. Happy Christmas, your arse! The seedy yet sublime side of Christmas and my Favorite. Pogues. Song. Ever.

Honorable Mentions:

Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy – David Bowie and Bing Crosby. I remember watching this on tv back in the day. Set new levels for weird: Space Oddity meets Crooning Relic.

Gettin’ In The Mood (for Christmas) – Really, almost anything Brian Setzer does with his Orchestra works for me. Horns! Guitar! Jump! Jive! Wail! This is a cool reinvention of In the Mood that always has me reaching for my Christmas Creepers and a couple of tats. I just wish I could dance!

Polishing My Hump

I’ll be the first to admit it: I hate snobs. I don’t necessarily mean members of the aristocracy or Daughters of the Revolution, although they can certainly meet the requirements. I mean anybody who thinks they’re better than me, more qualified, more entitled, more something that I’m not. Yes, I’ve got a 2 ton chip on my shoulder and I’ve earned it, baby. I also detest bullies and when the two combine, well, could there be two less attractive personality traits? I think not. Let’s call the snobbish side “Paris” and the bullying side “Ashlee”. When they merge into the creature we’ll call Parishlee, the synergistic effect might be scientifically fascinating to behold but few of us can appreciate that fact. We’re too busy being Pissed Off To The Power Of Infinity. I wouldn’t call myself a violent person, but many’s the time I’ve longed to bust my knuckles on smug smile.

Years of frustration later, I realize this is my own little (or maybe not so little) snobbishness. I’m so anti-snob, I’m a snob. At least I’m not a bully about it.


Yet.

Jingle Bell Boogie

Or, How I Learned to love Christmas Music


First admission: I’ve always loved Christmas music, so I didn't have to learn to love. One of my fondest memories is of going caroling with my neighborhood gang when I was approximately a kindergartner, looking up into the starry skies, bellowing Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. I saw Santa flying his sleigh across the horizon, and I believed. Ok, now as an adult, I realize that was probably a satellite or an airplane or perhaps the figment of a sugar-frenzied imagination. But why let reality spoil the magic?

Second admission: my favorite way to fill up the gaps and holes in my tattered spirits is to practice judicious retail therapy. Me and my soul-soothing MasterCard have ridden out so many emotional storms together. New babies. First days of school. Graduations. Birthdays from Hell. Bosses from Hell. I can shop happy, I can shop sad. I shop, therefore, I am.

Third admission: I am a music freak. Not a music geek—I’m not that smart (or that anal), but to me, music is necessary. Like air. And Advil. I didn’t realize how necessary until the Great Musical Drought that began—well, before eBay. Literally. When it ended, I was like a sponge in the Gulf of Mexico. And I’m still playing catch up.

To recap: Christmas. Shopping. Music. Let’s head over to Amazon and see what’s in my shopping cart!

Brain Setzer Orchestra – Boogie Woogie Christmas.

Big band. Big hair. Big ups! Sleigh bells ring—are ya listenin’?

Jimmy Buffett – Christmas Island.

Yes, it’s Christmas in Margaritaville. Kick off your flip-flops and find that large shaker of salt. Everybody’s favorite pirate was looking at fifty when he put this album together, and Merry Christmas, Alabama is a loving Christmas card to all the ports he’s known before. A surfer dude Up on the Housetop and an island version of Jingle Bells take the holiday into some uncharted (but fun!) waters. You have my permission to skip his cover of Happy Christmas (War is Over) – why, Jimmy, why? In penance, he gives us Ho! Ho! Ho! And a Bottle of Rhum, a bouncy ode to holiday stress and quite possibly the first Christmas carol to ponder the physical toll a brick chimney takes on Santa’s buns. It ain’t rocket science, but it’s fun.



Leon Redbone – Christmas Island

Same song, different singer and what a difference! Champagne Charlie brings that growling baritone to Christmas Island, looks for Frosty, goes to Toyland, gets lost in a Winter Wonderland—in short, he makes some vintage Christmas fun. (There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays and I’ll Be Home for Christmas bring some Capra-esque nostalgia home—close your eyes and you’ll think you’re in a 40’s train station watching the snow come down—will you be home for Christmas? That Old Christmas Moon and Christmas Ball Blues will give the grownups something to dance to after the kids are in bed.

The Blind Boys of Alabama – Go Tell It On The Mountain

If I could only give you one reason to buy this album, it would be Joy to the World. With Aaron Neville’s help, this song transcends the ordinary, soars above the fantastic right up into the sublime. My. Favorite. Version. Ever. The Blind Boys of Alabama (yes, that’s their real name) throw down some of the leanest, meanest, praising-est sounds since Mahalia Jackson. Add Tom Waits, Chrissie Hynde and Mavis Staples. Stir once and apply liberally to your auditory instruments!



John Prine – A John Prine Christmas

‘It was Christmas in prison, and the food was real good…’—has there ever been a truer sentiment? Haven’t been to prison? Well, don’t let that stop you from enjoying Christmas with John Prine. He hasn’t been to prison either. Most of the songs on this aren’t exactly Christmas songs. The first two only mention Christmas in passing, but they’re two of the best songs Prine ever wrote, so look on them as a gradual and seasonal easing into the holiday mode -- that November gloom we all trudge through before the anticipatory arc of the holiday season. Mr. Prine is one of my favorite singer/songwriters and honestly, if he did John’s Polka Favorites or Uptown Boy – Prine sings Joel, I’d buy them.


to be continued....

Elvis v. David Lee Roth

Costello, that is. Let's play!



Elvis radiates intelligence. David Lee Roth oozes sleaze.

Elvis has a 25+ year career. DLR used to be in Van Halen, and they asked him to leave. twice.

Elvis has a receding hairline with a tasteful cut. DLR has a receded hairline and stole Courtney Love's extensions.

Elvis wears black suits with snappy ties. DLR wears spandex animal prints.

Elvis covered My Funny Valentine. DLR covered Just A Gigolo.

Elvis is UCLA's first Artist-in-Residence. DLR is Howard Stern's replacement.

Elvis has worked with Paul McCartney, Burt Bacarach, Lucinda Williams and Chrissy Hynde, amongst others. DLR used to be in Van Halen. and was asked to leave. twice.

Elvis was on a Simpsons episode. DLR was a Behind The Music episode

Post-Thanksgiving Thanks

1. No one died. Or even got sick! A huge blessing, because for the First! Time! Ever!, I cooked everything.

2. My sweet pink Crocs. Because I had to stand in the kitchen for hours and hours doing all the damn cooking, and my size 8 feet ain't used to such abuse.

3. My oldest two children, who are not exactly children, being 15 and 20. Steven volunteered to take the gang to the video store. Katie was such an ace cleaner-upper that it was comparable to folding it up and putting it in the fridge. No bribes, no guilt trips. Just genuine help.

4. The King of the Hill Thanksgiving marathon. Peggy Hill, YOU are my hero.

5. A day when I didn't have to load up the van and take somebody somewhere! I did leave the house, but only to take my frost-nipped plants out on the patio for a haircut. I hunted no car keys, I buckled no seat belts, I scraped no windshields

Life is like an opera

I’ve often thought life would be more interesting if, once in a while, we didn’t speak to each other but sang instead. An opera in real life. Imagine: Hey, you stinking bastard, you stole my parking space! Or One pound of smoked ham, sliced thin please and a chorus of deli workers reply sliced thin! how thin? how does this look to you? People might be more deliberate with their words if they had to sing them. There are far too many people running around the world trying to talk the rest of us to death. Let it at least be melodic.


So, please let us designate
A day to musically enunciate
The humdrum chatter
That doesn’t matter
Our deepest thoughts
About robots
Our jokes, our curses
‘cause it ends in hearses

Let’s have a day of song!


I think it might catch on.

So Says People magazine

Sexiest Man Alive Without Indoor Plumbing.

Sexiest Man Alive With Indoor Plumbing

Sweet Dreams

Don’t you wish you could pre-program your dreams? If I could, I’d have the one I had last night and another one (which I won’t describe on the grounds that I might embarrass myself) on all-night replay. It was impressive and I mean that in the literal sense – I’ve been thinking about it since I was so rudely awakened. Not that anything really happened in it, but, whatever.

It started outside at some kind of lawn party that was part Alice in Wonderland and part Gatsby. The light is that wonderful gray/yellow illumination just before a thunderstorm. I am holding a sweaty drink wrapped in a white napkin standing near a table and up walks Nick Lowe looking indescribably handsome in a black suit with white shirt open at the neck. He says something to me and I follow him, and we’re talking back and forth but he’s always ahead of me. The last thing I remember is looking down at him and there’s this white path that kind of disappears in the overgrowth of some incredibly dense and thick willow. I take a few steps and I can see more of the path. Then, dammit, I wake up.


So, I’ve been noodling around all morning (no, it’s work! real work, I swear!) on dream interpretation websites trying to discover the meaning of this dream, which sounds like a stupid thing to seek when I write it down – I guess I’m just interested in any hidden symbolism. Yeah, that’s the ticket. If I can only find that path…

Anyway, these are some of the things I found.

The sweaty drink: To dream that you are drinking alcohol, denotes that you are seeking either pleasure or escape. Hmmm. Pleasure AND escape for me, please.

The table: To see a table in your dream, represents social unity and the potential for a meeting or gathering. It refers to your social and family connections. Potential is good, unity is good, particularly in this social sector.

Black and White: Black symbolizes the unknown, unconscious, danger, mystery, darkness, death, mourning, hate or malice. White represents purity, perfection, peace, innocence, dignity, cleanliness, awareness, and new beginnings. You may be experiencing a reawakening or have a fresh outlook on life. Oh, my.

Nick’s Neck: To dream about any neck, denotes your present feelings of jealousy and resentment. It involves emotional problems involving a friend or relative. Oh, my redux. My feelings of jealousy and resentment are right now focused on a co-worker, but if I need to, I can work some up over Thanksgiving, taking the trash out EVERY SINGLE TIME it needs to be emptied and other household inequities.

The overgrown path: To see a blocked or windy path, denotes that you need to give serious attention to the direction you are heading in your personal and/or business life. You also need to take time out to consider and rethink the consequences before acting on your choices. Ok, I can go with that. I always do my thinking after the fact.



So, my little dream of delight is a lie! I am a disturbed and resentful bag of malice with homicidal intentions towards a family member, seeking escape but needing to consider the direction I am heading.

Some things are best left unstudied.

Nick, if you want me to follow, just ask!

My Prayer

May I Never Again Hear:

1. “My gyno.” I seem to only read it in Glamour or Cosmo, so I can’t really say I’ve ever heard someone say this offensive phrase. It evokes disturbing images of STDs and Panglossian denial. Is it prudish of me to NOT want to be on nickname acquaintance with the doctor who’ll be examining some of my most interior parts? This is not the ENT dude. This is not the mammogram ma’am. This is the doctor who will see if you’re a swamp-like miasma of excess and kink or an arid desert of denial. If ever there were a profession in need of some good euphemisms, this be it. And “My Gyno” ain’t one of ‘em.

2. Git R Done. Let me be clear: there is only one funny person on the whole Blue Collar Tour. Call him Tater Salad. Larry the Cable Guy – I just don’t get. At all. I live here in the South and I can say, with authority, that he doesn’t come from around here. He is absolutely alien to me. And when I’m at a soccer game, and some moronic boob calls out ‘Git R done!’ I get nauseous. If I worked at McDonald’s and some pinhead told me to Git R Done, I’d probably spit in his food.

3. “In all actuality.” I didn’t think “actuality” was an actual word, so I looked it up on the good ole M-W online. The state or quality of being ACTUAL! Why, you could almost say it was actually actual! A co-worker of mine is always using that phrase with what she thinks is an intelligent and thoughtful look on her face. Reality, actuality, causality, duality – it’s the new black. Or should I say the new Ism? Run; run quickly from the room when you hear those words!

4. “Going to hospital.” You can go crazy, nuts, insane. You can go to work, you can go to hell if you don’t change your ways, but everyone knows you can’t go home again. You can go to pieces, you can go to Wal-Mart, and you can go to school. You can go to Fort Sanders Sevier, but you can’t go TO HOSPITAL. At least not on this side of the Atlantic.

5. “Taking the dog a walk.” WTF? How do you take a walk to a dog? This sounds like one of those carny catchphrases to me. Don’t let ‘em get away, Sammy, I’m almost taking the dog a walk. Check your wallets, folks.

I Love the Smell of Sweaty 12-Year-Olds in the Morning!

Josephine’s final 2005 soccer game was last Thursday. We have been truly blessed by the Great Soccer Gods this fall – only one slightly drizzly game and this final one turned off cold as hell, but all in all, sun and fun at games and at practices. I’m strictly a vicarious athlete, but I’m an excellent Soccer Mom. I knew I was going to miss yelling ‘boot it!’ and ‘go, red!’ (or blue, depending).

Then, before I could completely thaw out from that colder-than-a-well-digger’s butt final game, there was Coach Mark on the phone wanting to organize an indoor team for the winter.

What I like best about indoor is that it starts on time every time, it takes one hour and we never have practices. It’s a minimum 3-hour time investment, being an hour away, but there are several large liquor stores on the way. If our first game was a barometer, it’s gonna be a long season. We did score. Once. On a PK, but it was my kid that kicked it in so big ups to the austinator. The scoreboard read 6-1 at the end, but the other fabulous thing about indoor is that the winning team can only be 5 points ahead. In the interests of sportsmanship and self-esteem and all that noble stuff they don’t teach in sports anymore. The actual score was probably 20-1, but I quit counting when it went into double digits. It’s a rebuilding year.

But the kids enjoyed it. Most of them are new to indoor, and it’s a major adjustment, going from large grass field to small enclosed astro-turfed oval. It’s like pinball-meets-basketball-but-with-no-hands. Very fast paced, lots of action and NO offsides rule to worry about. The perfect game for the average 12-year-old PS2 addict. And for the average Soccer Mom: cappuccino and warm cinnamon buns in the deli!

But does it have to start at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning?!?!?!

The Second Sign of the Apocalypse

Or, Shoeless in Sevierville

You know those days, the days where it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. The days when even your dog doesn’t love you. The days when you walk thru a spider web in the dark and beat yourself silly trying to kill the brown recluse you just know is poised to bite. The days when the only possible reply to cheery good mornings is ‘eat shit and die.’ The days when there isn’t enough liquor, and automatic weapons are looking like the only solution to Sartre’s vision of hell. Have you had days like those? I have, and I had a really simple cure. Just kidding about the automatic weapons, btw. At least until the statute of limitations runs out.

My cure involved shopping. Shoe shopping, to be specific. There’s nothing like the little boost one gets from a new pair of saucy sandals or the pick-me-up provided by the smell of real leather. Sure, it’s bought love, but that’s the only kind of love I need on Those Days.

Yesterday, it didn’t work. No shoe in the store could do anything for me. For once, the Power of the Shoe failed. I went down every single aisle, tried on 45 different pairs and bought nada. Was it that I couldn’t find the right shade of brown? Were there no pumps to pump me up? (I am almost ashamed of that) Has Mootsies Tootsies run out of style? Or was it me? The boots failed to excite. The flats fell flat (I am ashamed of that one). There was nothing new under the fluorescent lights. I’m hoping it was just my mood, because damn I’d hate to lose my cure. I’ll try it again without children. It’s hard to focus holding a sticky hand.

Fall Grumblings

I hate autumn. Erase it from the calendar, please.

Oh, they try to sell it to me every year with visions of nubby tweeds and riding boots. Pictures of some LL Bean-created autumnal utopia of pumpkins and Indian corn, where rosy-cheeked children drink apple cider whilst diving into piles of beautiful leaves, where everything smells like apple pie (again with the goddam apples!) and all God’s people are off on a hayride!

But it’s all a lie.

Autumn is the last hurrah before winter and Mother Nature tries to put on a fabulous song and dance so we won’t realize we’re on our way to the slaughterhouse. She fools us into believing summer will last all year long, or at least until we’re in the mood for snow when Christmas rolls around, and damn, we wake up and it’s the ruins of January and the Most Miserable Time of the Year. I used to believe in harvest festivals and Halloween. Until I figured out it was it was the carrot on a stick before the jackass’s eyes.

You have been warned.