George Bush Doesn't Care About Tone-Deaf People

Today started out sucky. By lunchtime, my coworkers in the newsroom were afraid to come near my desk, because the ooze of awful was sure to spread. But somehow after that it calmed down. And tonight? Tonight was genius.

Son #4 got coupons for CiCi's Pizza, which, for those out of the loop, is a horrible all-you-can-eat pizza place.They have great cinnamon rolls, and a passable salad bar, and it was about $32 to feed all 5 of us, so OK, we went.

And when we got there, they had karaoke.

We stayed for about 2 hours, because we were laughing so hard. It was hilarious. But the best part was when Son #1 grabbed the microphone from the little blonde girl singing a Taylor Swift song and said,

"I think you're a really good karaoke singer, and I respect you, but Beyonce is the best karaoke singer, EVER."

I have not laughed so hard in months. And boy, did I need it.

I can hear the phone call, now

Son #3 requested this morning that, should he move out before the cats die, I call him with the news of their death.

"I want to know," he said.

He asked me to call if one of them catches a terrorist, too.

So let's all hope that some day in the distant future I have to call Son #3 to inform him that Jake and Ellie died valiantly in the cause of freedom, and there is a giant pile of terrorist intestines on the front porch.

Gay wants to know...

Am I working? Am I blogging? Am I still alive, even?

Actually, yeah, mostly. Here's a recap--and so dull you'll understand why I have not bothered to blog, of late.

Friday night I went to the ballet.
Ha!
No, really, Brick and I went, and it was lovely, although I must admit I did not feel like I understood it. Oh, well, one needn't understand to appreciate, I hope.

Saturday was my last day at the newspaper. I drove around the southern half of the county taking photos of Navy people donating their time to Christmas in April, an annual service day. People all over the country help those who cannot afford to maintain their homes. It's a good cause, but of course the motto for the paper is:

We Care About The World, As It Affects Pax River Naval Air Station.

So, ONLY Navy guys. Marines, maybe. Civilians with a tie to the base, OK. Everyone else, well, you will just have to gain satisfaction from some other source, because my photos of you were deleted as soon as I realized I could not use them.

On the cute side, one of the team captains was an older gentleman who said that he could only allow me on the work site if my Mom would sign me in.

Darn. So cute. This is the kind of thing you can say once you are Older. I shall keep that in mind.

Also Saturday was the Celtic Festival. I took Sons #1, 3 and 4. We had a good time, especially as we were making our way there.

Lemme set the scene.

We're walking towards the entrance, and of course my mind is swimming with images of poverty from the photos I'd taken hours earlier. I had also had only a normal person's ration of sleep, since I got home from the ballet at 1 a.m. and was on the road by 7:30.

Coming toward us was a family leaving the Festival. Big, harried mom and 4 or 5 rambunctious kids. They were all but brawling as Mom tried to herd them toward the car.

"Justin, slow down.
Justin, stop that.
Justin, be quiet.
Justin, leave your brother alone.
Justin, put that down."

At this point the child I can only assume was Justin lunged toward his brother, toy sword in hand, and faceplanted in the grass. Mom looked down, and without missing a step, said, "GOOD. I'm GLAD you fell down."

Son #3 looked over at the Mom, and said, "I'm glad you fell down?"

Sons #1 and 4 flipped. "Shut up. Shut UP. Geez, shut UP. Shut UP!"

Me, I just busted a gut laughing, and clearly I needed to. Made my whole day. Granted, I have 4 sons myself. I have had 4 small sons. And one of them is of the rambunctious, hassle-your-brother sort. I know for a fact that there have been times when I have seen Karma befall one or another of the Sons, and I have looked on and thought (and even said), "Yeah, well, you kinda earned that one, kid." It was just funny, though. Trust me. If you're not laughing, well, that's OK, too.

Sunday my parents & sister came down for dinner. Had a lovely time.

Today is Son #4's birthday. He is 14. Holy cow. He is right now calling friends to invite him to his birthday party next weekend, "So we can celebrate the inevitable tightening of the grip of death."

And tomorrow I start my new, part-time job as a Census Enumerator.

See? Lots going on, but not a lot that is really fascinating enough for all 30 of you who read.

Thanks for sticking with me, anyway...

Fashion Victim?

I've been watching the Vera Bradley craze with something sorta like disgust. They are ugly, OK? They have been ugly ever since the first time I saw them.

I remember that first time, because I was there to interview the shop owner, and she wanted to make sure I promoted her line of Vera Bradley bags and shoes, and I did, but the whole time I thought, "You will drive people out of your store, with these ugly quilted things, but OK, what do I know?"

And they certainly are popular.

Quite a few women at work have them.

Quite a few women everywhere I go have them.

Every time I see one, I think, "My goodness, that is god-awful."

And I just got one for Easter.

So, now, I am looking at this hideous thing on my desk and wondering, can I return it? FOR CASH? Because in no way do I want anything Vera Bradley offers. It is all the same quilted ickiness. Very Grandma Goes to Florida in the 70s.

On the other hand, they ARE exceedingly popular, and my current purse is not in terrific shape. If you choose to use something fashionable simply because you have it, even though you don't like it, is that crazy? Cheap? Spineless? And if someone compliments me on it, will I be able to resist to urge to say, "I HATE THIS PURSE, IT WAS A GIFT" for more than 2 seconds? Probably not.

I think I will just have to return it to Vera Bradley, because if I use this thing I will hate it every day until it falls apart, which could be years from now.

You know what you can't do at work?

When things get slow because you've finished everything they assigned you, and you've called about 10 people for future stuff and gotten voicemail, so you're just sitting there waiting for the phone to ring like the ugly girl on Prom night, you can't run downstairs and pop in a load of laundry.

This is something of a revelation, to me, as for the past 9 years of working from home I did that all the time----work as long as I can, hit a wall, and fill the time while I wait with other productive stuff.

Today, though, I just kinda fidgeted, and made work for myself. Which is good. Coming up with new stuff to do is good, and studying the style guides (we use 3, they conflict, and I am learning who wins) is good, and trying to understand those numbers and letters and crap tacked on to people's names is good. Because you can't really go through life calling everyone...well, not having any idea what to call anyone.

It's just weird to be desperately trying to come up with useful stuff to do, when I know that at home I could be sanding my bathroom or walking the dog or going through my email to find a Permanent Job That Pays Well. Interesting.

Oh, and today my boss called my blimp photos "artistic". Sounds like he's going to use a bunch of them for the big photo spread on Page 2. Ooooh, yay for me!

The best thing, though, was that it was finally actually kinda warm today. I think it hit 61 degrees.

Awesome sauce.

Odd thoughts

I went looking for razor blades today, for one of those scraper-dealies. You know, snap an old-fashioned razor blade into the plastic handle. Useful.

The KMart only had safety blades, though: the kind that come in a plastic frame. I looked in the shaving department, I looked in housewares, I looked in auto gear, all over.

I came reeeeally close to just flagging down some staff member and asking for "Razor blades. You know, the kind you slit your wrists with."

I decided that was only hilarious if I asked the right person. Ask the wrong person, and I'd be stuck sitting in KMart until the ambulance arrived to have me committed.

I left for the Food Lion, instead, where I found my razor blades and this fabulous cake wreck: Soul-Searching Santa. I guess he saw some stuff that he's not going to forget right away.

May the Worst Present WIN!

First, let me just announce to those of you who do not know me personally that I am not really all that materialistic. If Christmas included no presents it would still be Christmasy enough, to me. And I am quick to remind the Sons to thank the person for the thought, no matter what the gift is. Being rememebered by your extended family is sweet, even if that means they sometimes give you gifts you can't really see yourself using.

But. It is only Christmas Eve, and competition for Worst Christmas Present of the Year is already particularly fierce.

Top contenders so far:
Kelly green microfibre sports coat, given to one of the Sons.

Gift with the giver's company logo on them (we always get a few, they never win, but they have to make the finals, don't you think?)

An Executive Desk Puzzle-type thing, given to another one of the Sons. Uhh...they're teenagers. Are you trying to prepare them for the endless disappointment which is Father's Day?

Nothing else really stands out, at this point, but voting is welcome. Just keep in mind, past winners included:

Stuffed Teletubbies for each Son (they were 12, 10, 9 and 8 at the time)
Etiquette for Dummies (Yeah, insult my boy TWICE, why don'tcha!")

And the all-time most spectacular win ever. God, it is something. I wish I could post a photo of it, but photos do not do it justice (and the giver might see it online)...a lucite cube containing a holographic image of my mother-in-law. Given to Hubby and each of his brothers, by her, a few years ago. Just breathtaking. I keep it behind my desk.

I'm pretty sure they're the same guy...

Charles Krauthammer. He is great. Reasoned, reasonable, witty, way smarter than I. But every time I see him, I am reminded of a beloved icon of my childhood.

Yeah, you know it. Count Chocula.

Next year, in Jerusalem?

The other day I bought a container of hummus.

I LOVE HUMMUS.

No one in the family will try it and that is FINE even though it is healthy and delicious because that means that no matter what, the entire tub is MINE.

But I had no crackers. I had no celery or string beans or snap peas. I had no pita. I have tried hummus before with tortilla chips, and that does not work. And eating it with a spoon just makes me feel like a total, decadent pig. Then I found: pork rinds.

You know what? Hummus is DELICIOUS on a pork rind.

Sadly, I think 90% of the hummus-buying public is never going to know this, from personal experience. So, Muslim and Jewish hummus fans, trust me. It's good.

Write me a Recommendation Letter?

Ok, the job hunt gets quirkier. I saw an ad on Craigslist which has me intrigued. Long and the short of it: they want recommendation letters from people OTHER than current and former employers. And they want creativity.

I figure, calling out to all my bloggy people and then sending a stack of letters from y'all in addition to my more traditional stuff might count toward that.

So, hey, if you want to write me a letter of recommendation, comment and I'll send you my address :)

No Pressure, as they say. Just, you know, if ya wanna.

Workin' the Pathetic OR Sorry Anne Z, I'm really OK

I took out my contact lenses on Friday. For those of you who do not share a bedroom with me, this is a major life event.

I am laughably near-sighted. I have a hard time identifying my own children, without the lenses in, or at least my back-up glasses. And I hate my back-up glasses. So I tend to wear the lenses until my eyes spontaneously reject them. Then, I leave them out until my eyes stop stinging, or I can't stand it anymore, whichever comes first.

This means that when I do take them out, my eyeballs are in shock. They can't believe I expect them to go back to their original shape. It hurts. I become rather photophobic. And for the next week or so I tear up without warning, even when there is no accompanying pain.

I'm kinda used to it. Damp rag over the eyes in bed at night, kleenex at my elbow during the day, don't even bother with mascara.

All that is background.

Saturday I went to the library to pick up the last few episodes of Mad Men Season 2 (Hubby and I are HOOKED). Walking across the parking lot, I saw a woman I don't know all that well, but we like each other. Nice chick. We stopped in the parking lot for a few minutes to catch up.

As I was telling her that yes, all 4 boys are in school these days and yes, I have been looking for full-time work since May and no, I have not gotten anything remotely like a job offer and yes it is crappy what is going on with the economy at large, my right eyeball started its traditional leaking.

So, you know, I'm having this fairly serious conversation, with someone I haven't seen in months, and I am focused on that. Not so much on the sheet of tears rolling down my face. Because, you know, it's just what happens when I take my lenses out. And then I looked up and Anne was giving me The Look.

You know the one.

The look that says, "You're so brave, speaking so calmly when clearly you are heartbroken by your fruitless job search."

But of course at that point you can't say, "Oh, I'm not CRYING. I'm OK." because EVERYONE says that. It is as good as saying, "I am on the verge of suicide!"

So, I just ignored it, got my DVDs and went home.

Now, though, I feel kinda bad. What if Anne is worried for me?

All you local bloggy people, you know who she is. If you see her, please tell her I am fine. Still job hunting, but fine.

And by the way I wrote this entire blog post with tears, and a smile, on my face. I cannot WAIT to put those lenses back in.

To Be Fair

Today Son #3 and I went back to the registrar and got him registered. And she handled it all, in about 45 minutes, with apparent competence and all that. So maybe she is good, once she puts her "working person" hat on.

Still have to go back next week to schedule him for actual classes, but at least they are expecting him, on some level.

Yeah, "Mark", I'm talking to you

I've been in Dell Tech Support Hell for the past couple of weeks, trying to fix Son #4's computer. My joy is made even more full with the knowledge that when I finally get this one fixed, I am going to have to move on to Son #3's computer. Basically, I am spending every free moment, and a lot which are NOT free, on the phone with people with hard-to-understand accents and a script which requires I shoot myself or throw the computer off a cliff before they'll honor the return-to-depot warranty we've purchased.

First, I had to convince them it was a hardware issue. That took about 6 hours, over 2 days.

Then, I had to convince them that the part they sent was not compatible with the machine. That took a while.

Now, I am working on convincing them that the second replacement part they sent is STILL not going to fit into the machine. Because it is not built for the machine we own. Because the tech support guys keep sending stuff that is not designed for our system.

I do not need it explained to me. I do not need to run one single minute of diagnostics, or talk to anyone else other than a supervisor--someone who can put an end to this and just get things fixed.

And I keep requesting said supervisor, which gets me put on hold.

Which is a good thing, because I use the time on hold to cook dinner.

Everyone in Tech Support sounds Indian, or something. I swear, they do not make enough curry to reimburse me for my time.

So yesterday, in a desperate bid to SHOW "Mark" that the part he sent is physically different from the part I am trying to replace, I offered to take a photo of the 2 hard drives, side-by-side, and email it to him.

He said I could.

I took the photo.

I saved it in a folder which I then named in a fit of "I am trying to be civil but these people have sent me over the edge and it's not like they'll ever know anyway".

And then he said I could not email it to him. Instead, I had to let him control my computer remotely, and find the photo and look at it that way.

So, yeah, that is when I had to tell "Mark" to look for the photo in the file labeled "Dell Bastards".

I sorta won the dead pool

If you don't count all the people who died since we placed our bets (because none of them made it to our little familial list), anyway. Walter Cronkite is dead, and I did pick him.

I have fond (although, these days, vague) memories of Cronkite, but I have to admit that he started our mainstream news industry on a path it seems completely unwilling to leave: ignoring the facts to shape public opinion, so that public opinion would support a liberal cause, no matter what the tragic consequences might be.

RIP, though. Really.

I don't know him, I'm only driving him and laughing and we look alike

That is what I was thinking today.

Son #2 and I were in the car when we passed a guy in khakis and a dress shirt, biking down the road. He rolled down his window and shouted, "GET SOME SWEATPANTS!"

I just about bust a gut laughing. Because I am a bad mama.

Then tonight Son #1 and I went to the River Concert again (Rogers & Hammerstein) and he beat me in our weekly "how many people do you know here" game, 21 to 18. That was actually pretty impressive, for me.

Leaves of Three, Let it Be...More Specific

I swear to you, I look for poison ivy. I avoid it. So WHY am I covered in itchy spots?

WHYYYYYYYYYYY?

Every summer, it happens. The weather warms up, I get all ambitious, and then this.

Honestly, poison ivy should have some sort of alarm or something. I want it to shriek when I come near. Clearly, anything short of that is not warning enough for me.

Ah, crap. The car.

I'm ok, the Other Guy is OK, but the Powerful Mom 5 is in the body shop. Ugh.

Son #2 just made me laugh

How?
He told me that his teacher's husband's name is Moe Lester.

And that Moe Lester is a therapist.

Yup. Molester, the Rapist, has one loooooooonnnnnng row to hoe.

"Inoffensive" is in the ear of the beholder

Today Son #4 and I took a long walk together, mainly just to spend some time out in the sun. I did have a destination in mind: had to pick up a prescription. We walked, talked, observed the sky & clouds & fine weather and interesting new construction and lovely, lush green grass. We reminisced about the extremely adorable kittens he and Son #3 once found on that very route. It was a great walk, a great time with Son #4.

Except.

The jewelry store pipes music into the parking lot.

Anne Murray.

Now, should I have any Canadian readers Of A Certain Age, I am sorry. Truly sorry. But it has been 4 hours and I still can hear "Can I Have This Dance (for the rest of my life)"

It makes me want to scream, OK? Or maybe hurl a brick through the window of the jeweler's. Probably not what they were aiming for.

Of course, I wasn't buying jewelry, either, so maybe their clientele just cannot get enough of that sort of thing.

On reflection, I think even if I had enjoyed the particular song blasting the street when I walked by, I think we would all be better off listening to the birds, outside. Sometimes, anyway.

I'm Going to Hell with Tomato on My Breath

As part of our Mother's Day celebration, the Total Waste of Time Gang saw the new Star Trek movie. We all enjoyed it.

Sons #1 and 4 and I stood on line for popcorn & soda. A few people ahead of us stood a boy with particularly shaggy facial hair. He looked kinda like Wolverine. Son #1 said "Oh my GOD!" under his breath and whipped out his cell phone, to start fake texting. He does that to tell me what is REALLY going on, without tipping off anyone else.

Turns out Wolverine Jr. is a kid from school. A kid who tells everyone he is a dog. He barks at people. Always. It is a story Son #1 has brought up more than once.

"I'll pay you $8 if you make cat noises," he said.

I pointed to the sign taped to the Coke machine: "Free Kittens".

"Look! They're giving away kittens! Meeeeooooowwwwww!"

Son #1 was both horrified and in awe.

"You're worse than I am, Mom!"

Which is probably true.

After the movie I bought one of those upside-down tomato planter things. It is hanging above the deck, where I will see it from the kitchen window so I remember to water it. And I put "water the tomatoes" in my Yahoo calendar. We shall have BLTs, this summer, with T from my own hand.

So, I may be going straight to hell, but at least I'll arrive there with tomato on my breath.