Anticipation, Frustration, Obama-Nation

Anticipation: Two weddings, in eight days. e haven't been to a wedding in years (and that one was doomed at the altar, no doubt), and now we've got two. I am looking forward to bringing my camera to both, and also to contributing actual food to the wedding reception for one.

I have received my Food Assignment and I am on it like Paula Deen on a stick of butter. Oooh, yeah.

Frustration: I am NOT getting what I want, on pretty much all fronts, these days. The car is still in the shop, even though they were sure it would be ready yesterday. I keep sending out queries for work and get back, well, the sound of crickets. So far, this week, the dog has peed on my purse, three leather coats, and a carpet. AND YET I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM, or even want to. Hubby's band is defunct, and I have no idea what comes next on that one, so no dancing to slap bass for me anytime soon. I keep telling the Sons to handle their business and my reward is a general sinking feeling that I am becoming an ineffectual nag.

The Beach suggests I get an air horn and striped shirt, for handling all those episodes of Brotherly Love. I think she is a genius. Just gimme that whistle on a string.

About half of our CD collection has been bogarted by a Son, I guess. I keep opening cases and finding nothing. HOW DARE HE MISPLACE GEORGE THOROGOOD? That's just wrong. I may have to toss his room.

On the bright side, the poison ivy seems to be clearing up, Son #1 has been asking my advice on a very sweet project of his own devising, school is almost out and my nail polish is pristine, for once. (Honestly, a successful manicure does lift my mood. I am more girly than I thought, I guess.)

And the Obama-nation?
Well, I just am speechless. We are out of money? Shutting down businesses run by owners who did not contribute to Obama's election? Choosing a Supreme Court justice because she is a Latina? (Hey, maybe she's okay, but her job is to follow the Constitution. Don't need a uterus or a Compelling Personal Story for that.) I haven't been blogging on all this stuff because, well, I don't want to turn into a ranting nutbag, and Dhimmi Carter has that effect on me on a pretty consistent basis.

So, you know, I'll shut up now.

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.

Memorial Day

It's Memorial Day, I'm putting the flag out on the front porch, if it doesn't rain.

I am become Death, the Destroyer of worlds

Or, at least I am to the carpenter bee community.

Son #1 found them in the gazebo this morning and so tonight, as the sun sets, I shall attack them with Raid!

I did give brief consideration to the possibility of letting them live. Carpenter bees are so pudgy and friendly and cute, you know. But by the same token, they are destroying our gazebo, which I love. So, well, tough toenails for the bees.

And, yeah, I figure I can write about the yard all I want, without fear of becoming a Gardening Blog, if I quote the Baghavad Gita.

Cooperation, or Extreme Distaste

We have two cats: littermates.

Generally, that means we have one cat outside, and one inside. It is as if they have coordinated a schedule. Often, they will meet in the doorway, one going out, the other coming in. They'll give each other a quick sniff and go their separate ways.

The way I see it, this can mean one of two things.

Either they cannot stand each other (which is possible, as I get the impression that Ellie is kind of a demanding jerk).

Or, they have taken it upon themselves to guard our perimeter against mice, songbirds, squirrels, koi, snakes, baby bunnies, mummies and other things that require killing, 24/7. This is also a strong possibility, as they both seem to take their jobs very seriously.

It's just one of those situations when I wish I could listen in on their little cat conversations.

When I die, I am tracking down George Orwell

Because that man was awesome. Truly awesome.

I have always loved Animal Farm and 1984, and recently told Son #2 that he had (HAD! NOW!) to read 1984. I scoured the house because I know we had a copy but it was gone...

Anyway. Found a copy of 1984 on Freecycle, told Son #2 to read it and then promptly holed up in my bedroom with it for the next couple of nights, because I LOVE IT SO MUCH AND I COULD NOT HAND IT OFF.

It's a great book. If you haven't read it yet, please, do not continue suffering. Read it. Love it. Discuss it.

I have probably read it 7 or 8 times, over the past 25 years. And so, well, there are parts of it, the reading of which is almost liturgical, for me. I know what is coming. I relish it. I expect it. It is fulfilling.

But then there is that one scene which sends a chill through me, every time. Did it again, this past week. I am not going to tell you which scene, because Son #2 is still reading.

Yesterday I started reading Burmese Days, another Orwell book but one I'd not read before. I am loving it, too, partially because

(oh geez, here she goes)

it reminds me of Thailand: the scenery, the culture, and the obnoxious attitudes of so many of the foreigners. Can't wait to see how it goes.

Had a great conversation with Fiddlin' Writer, today. She makes me want to write--makes me remember I want to write. Thank God for inspiration.

Oh, and I just fired up the grill for the first time in probably 2 years. Burgers, baby. And char.

Spit out that Chantix!

This weekend I was talking w/Hubby's friend and he told me he just got MS.

From taking Chantix.

Yeah, he was trying to stop smoking because smoking is bad for you, and now he has multiple sclerosis.

Apparently, it is a known, but rare, side-effect.

Or, as he put it, "It's like taking an aspirin that gave me AIDS."

So, um, if you are taking Chantix maybe you want to check that stuff out. Holy crap, you know?

Aftermath: a guessing game

First of all, yesterday morning I actually thought, "I have nothing to blog. I am getting boring." So, um, Thank You, Universe, for responding with a car accident. Yeah. I will avoid stupid thoughts in future.

Honestly, though, 18 hours later I am thankful that I came out of it with a tender nose and no traffic citation. Could be worse, you know?

Yesterday, within hours of The Accident, Hubby and I went to a benefit concert: he performed. In the car, on the way, he mentioned the accident to all the people with whom he spoke on the phone:

My brother-in-law: the one the Sons say acts like a 9-year-old.
The singer for the band Hubby just quit.
The singer who fired Hubby a couple of bands ago.
A guitarist I've met once before.
The woman who asked Hubby to fill in for the band originally scheduled to perform yesterday.
My mother-in-law.
A huge biker: pretty much everyone is afraid of this guy, at first glance.
A bass player.
Two drummers.
A body shop owner, after hours, at his home.
And a convicted felon.

Every single one of them, their first words were, "Is Christine OK?"

Except for one. Can you guess?

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.

Mixed feelings, oh, yeah, I got 'em

Part of me can understand and even support the "buy Black" movement this couple hopes to launch.

But if I said, "Let's only buy white", would I get that kind of happy coverage? Would I DESERVE that kind of coverage? Of course not. And I say that as someone who once knew just about every white person in the city where I lived (because I was living in Asia at the time)...it never crossed my mind that I should support white businesses just because they were white.

Ya know why? Because that is racist.

For Women, Girly-Men, and Others Too Weak for the Navy

Yes, Hubby will look down his fully-caffeinated nose at you, and you will feel Less Than those who take it black & unsweetened & by the gallon. In the slightly toned-down words of Marcellus Wallace, "that's just pride, f-in' with ya. Ya gotta work through that..."

And you can, because you will be happy. Truly, deeply happy. For today, I bring you Frozen Mocha 2009.

Here's how it goes:

After Hubby leaves for work, note the half-pot of coffee. Pour a cup in the blender.
Add a cup of 1% milk.
Splenda.
Chia seeds. (trust me. they are good for you)
A heaping tablespoon of cocoa powder, or raw cacao nibs.
Vanilla. I like a lot of that.
And, in a twist for 2009....
Cinnamon.

Feed your blender ice cubes, one at a time, unless you have a Vita-Mix like Superblonde. Then, you know, just dump 'em in.

Blennnnnnnd. Thoroughly. It is a Frosty for grown-ups.

You're welcome.

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.

My Chance to Be 6'2"

Hubby and I went to BJs today, and his membership card had expired so he requested a new one. The clerk took his photo and printed out the card, with MY name on it. So now I have this:I told him I'd carry it so I could tell people it was my ID "from before the surgery".

Steak: a definition, a recipe, and a travesty

We had some spare filets mignon in the fridge, and this morning Hubby decided to have it with his eggs. He offered some to the decidedly carnivorous Son #3, who (being also a wordy chap) offered his definition of steak: "A slab of meat with garlic on it".

Ah, maternal victory. He has absorbed my steak recipe. Which you want, now, right?

Hubby said, "You are definitely your mother's son. I don't put garlic on steak, I put Worcestershire sauce on it."

I grew up putting garlic on pretty much everything. Parsley, too. Hubby pretty much weaned me off of the parsley (although I enjoy it when I find it) but garlic is not going anywhere.

And who makes the steaks around here? Yeah, me. So what you want on your steak is garlic, and salt, and pepper. And that is it. Happiness ensues.

The travesty?

This morning he cooked a filet mignon in the George Foreman Grill. He says it was good, but...it just seems wrong to put a good cut of meat on that thing.

I'm just sayin'.

A Post-Gym Palate Cleanser

Y'all know I love the gym: spin class, man, it is great.

Unfortunately, while I love the motion of spin, the atmosphere leaves me cold.

We're tucked into a small, crowded room in the back of the gym. Lights out. And the music! Good lord. Hip-hop, Miley Cyrus and, today, both "Life Would Suck Without You" and "The Pina Colada Song".

I get out of there and need, in addition to a big bottle of water and something with MEAT in it, a serious musical palate cleanser. Thank God for YouTube.

And Tommy Castro.

Oh, the disappointment: Pig Edition

Son #1 heard a rumor that a student at the next school over has swine flu. "And if they have swine flu there, they'll close all the high schools in the county for TWO WEEKS!"

Naturally, I checked. Looks like the first swine flu case in our state is one county over....close enough to cause rumors, but not so close that the Sons get an automatic vacation.

So sad.

Oh, and to the lady in line at Wal-Mart: When your son walks up to my cart and starts shouting and hitting the poster board I bought Son #2...and your other son puts his box of Whoppers on the belt in the middle of my stuff...and your daughter grabs the pen on the credit card machine and starts pushing random buttons...

YEAH, you need to rein them in a bit.

I think today I was the entertainment/babysitter so you and your friend could hang out and ignore the chaos. The kids sure got a kick out of it, anyway...

Wii Feelin' Good

OK, first of all, Hubby & the 2 youngest Sons are home. That is good.

Wii Fit has decided I am 32. I'll take that.

And, well, I have realized, after 3 days without the Powerful Mom 5, that driving Hubby's big, manly truck is a blast. That thing has some power and when you change lanes people get out of the way.

Twitchy

Just got back from the workout-of-the-day. Settling down behind my desk with the giant bottle of water I can feel every last muscle twitching. Man, I love that feeling.

The Teens Who Ate New York

Son #4 turned 13 today. It is official: I am the mother of four teenagers.

His fondest wish was to visit NYC, and there is no way I could ever argue with that, so today Hubby drove Son #3 and Son #4 to The Big Apple. They have called about once an hour, with updates, most memorably:

Son #4 is asleep
New Jersey smells terrible

Now they have arrived, and in addition to calling, they are sending me photos. So far I have seen the fabulous pizza they are eating (they also called so I could hear them chewing) and the black-and-white cookies for afters.

The pizza guy gave Son #4 his cookie, for free, when he heard it was his birthday. So, you know, this birthday trip is going to be a total bargain.

I have put the remains of Son #4's birthday cake in the freezer, mostly so I will not eat it. Instead, I am having carrots. Because I don't feel like cooking, and Sons #1 and 2 have already had dinner, out.

The house is almost silent, almost clean, and I am working on my 2nd article of the day.

It is disconcertingly peaceful and productive over here.

Celtic Festival

The Sons and a friend and I went to the Celtic Festival today, and it was fun. Got my traditional scoop of colcannon, watched a few Highland Games and heard my fill of bagpipes.

Also got a slight sunburn, but I suspect I am a lot less red than the rest of the crowd. I felt downright dark and exotic, amongst all those pink people!

Octo, Mom

Things are chugging along, work, school and housework-wise, and Hubby's amp was ready for pickup yesterday. Good thing, too, since he blew the speaker in his back-up amp, the night before.

At noon, the boys were all doing their thing as they should be, I had made my trip to the gym, the house was relatively clean...I made the trek to retrieve the amp.

After nearly 4 hours in the car ("stop & go traffic" mostly means "stop")I got home, stuffed the family back in the car, and we drove 90 minutes to see Hubby's family for dinner. So, yeah, I spent 9 hours either in traffic or with in-laws, and it was OK.

On the ride home, Hubby & the Sons occupied themselves with an impromptu concert. Disney songs, internet viral songs, classic rock, really bad 80s music...everything.

(I contributed to their rendition of "Money"; I keep change in the car.)

Got home, crashed for a while, and then found myself awake in bed when Son #1 was also having trouble sleeping, so he and I did some housework and birthday prep--Son #4 will be 13 on Sunday.

Then I had 5 minutes to kill, before the washer was done with the laundry, so I watched this:

Wii Flabby

Hubby got Wii Fit 2 days ago, so yesterday I tried it. And today I am doing it again. (It just told me I should take a 15 minute break, so you can thank the Wii for this blog post, not just in content but also in timing).

Although the Wii thinks I am ollllld, and have crappy core strength, it does appreciate my posture and general good balance. So, you know, we have a starting place, at least.

So far, Son #4 is the only other person to try it, so he and I are competing. It's fun. And I am actually a bit sweaty and out-of-breath. So, I guess it will be a good addition, especially on days when I can't get to spin class. No excuses!

Random Thoughts

Flax seed oil and Texas Pete make the world's most awesome salad dressing. As in, I am sad when my salad bowl is empty, every day at lunch. Unlike Caesar salad, which makes me sad when I see it on my plate. Totally different experience.

Painting your nails makes you realize your head itches and you need to brush your teeth.

It also makes you think that maybe all that flax seed oil is making your nails grow.

Today, a dear friend and fellow gigwidow called me so I could hear her guy practicing in the basement. It was a private concert, just for me! I love that.

I also love YouTube, because I can get all obsessy about Simon & Garfunkel or Amy Winehouse or whomever else, even if I can't find my CD. Which is a sadly frequent event.

Watching some woman in her 50s get all giggly and stupid over my 17-year-old son was as creepy as it was amusing. For me and the Son.

Today, Son #2's U.S. Government teacher showed the kids a political cartoon unlike any other she has displayed this year: It illustrated a conservative viewpoint. According to Son #2, two students gasped when they saw it.

I don't care if April showers bring May flowers, I am tired of rain.

The house is mostly clean, the Sons are fed, I submitted two articles today; I feel good.

If you put ground flax seed on your chocolate ice cream, it instantly becomes a healthy food. Especially with some banana slices.

I like the sound of the dishwasher, the washer and dryer, the snorty, sleeping dog. Sounds like home.

Hubby and I loved Slumdog Millionaire, no matter what Salman Rushdie says.

I've been productive enough, today. Some days, it is OK to decide you've done enough and want to take the evening off. I'm going to go read Hard Times.

Our New Rep: Blowhards, Less Ballsy than the French

I think President Sarkozy pinned it. Or maybe he's just feeling stupid for kissing up, back in '06.

Pounding Sand at Cryer's Back Road Inn

Here they are, Hubby & crew with their new guitarist---in his first public performance in 19 years.

Well, his first public performance as a guitarist. He has, in the interim, appeared on Oprah so Dr Phil could berate him for being a shiftless, basement-dwelling layabout.

Congratulations, Catholics of New York

It's kinda weird to go to your email and see someone you know is one of Yahoo's "top stories". Father Dolan served at my church when I was a kid---yeah, when I was a little Catholic kid, not all jaded and snarky and looking for trouble.

My mother is a very devout Catholic, and up until recently worked and volunteered very much in the church. So we knew Father Dolan well. He's a great guy. A wonderful priest. And a loving, hilarious person. I haven't seen him in almost 30 years but just from the few quotes in the article I can tell he hasn't changed a bit.

Tea, anyone?

I'm not going to the Tea Party Protest today. I considered it, but decided not to drag Sons #3 and 4 up to DC to stand in the rain all afternoon.

I have mixed feelings about not going--if I did not have kids at home, I probably would just put on my raincoat & go. And I am not sure that these protests, as uplifting as they are, are able to make any real change.

DHS, though, they're sure. Just last week they released a report about "right-wing extremists." I think it's very likely the report is trying to demonize the law-abiding, peaceful gatherings of tea party protesters.

Yeah, I think we are required to send too much of our money to the federal government to support programs with which I disagree. I think the federal tax-and-spend system has gotten away from the Founding Fathers' original vision for our country. I think lax enforcement of our borders is foolish and dangerous. Every time some far-off official suggests we should have tighter gun control, I get a little nervous (especially since Hurricane Katrina). And I have grave concerns regarding health care issues, especially where they impact the most vulnerable among us.

In short, I am one of those right-wing extremists. But for God's sake, that does not make me, or anyone I know, a white supremacist or a radical or a violent person. I think this report is a smokescreen, or at best a fantasy on the part of those who would think that people like me are a danger to the U.S.

And now, I shall get back to work. I have at least two articles to write today, and kids to raise, and it's almost time to unload the dishwasher.

Maybe I should read Saul Alinsky.

Happy Easter, Everybody!

Mom is hosting Easter, so all I am bringing are these rolls and some asparagus.



The Bunny brought the Sons way too much sugar. Waaaaay too much.



Hubby remarked yesterday that we need a new nonstick pan. He is also one of those people with no discernible sweet tooth. So, this is as close to an Easter basket as he was going to get this year.

My AIM Expression is not nearly snarky enough

How can THIS







Turn into THIS?

The Nuclear Shadow Over the Happy Boondocks

Last night the county called--time for all of us within a 10-mile radius of the power plant to come pick up our potassium iodide pills. Should we have a meltdown--or, more realistically, should the plant be attacked by terrorists--everyone gets a 2-day supply, to protect our thyroids.

Of course, as the nurse put it this morning, "that's the only protection we provide. The rest of you is still getting irradiated. So really what you want to do is get the hell outta Dodge."

We had a brief discussion about just how to do that---the Happy Boondocks are kind of isolated, there are only so many ways in and out, and in the case of nuclear disaster everyone would be on the same main road. It would be a bottleneck beyond belief.

We also discussed the school thing---last time we received these pills, all four Sons were still at home. These days, two are in school and next fall I suppose they all will be---but apparently the schools within the 10-mile zone keep the pills on hand, too.

They would probably still not give them out. The school would only dose our kids if they knew they would be barricaded in the school building for a day or two. Anything less than that, and our kids would be released to us so we could, as he so cheerfully put it, "run like hell."

It's a small scrap of protection we may never need. And to be honest with myself, if we need those pills we will be in the middle of a crapstorm much worse than a little potential thyroid damage. But, I took my envelope, just the same.

Spring (break) Cleaning

The Sons are home for Easter break and that means that at some point (right about the time the car dealership plucks my last nerve and I become convinced my latest publication is not actually going to pay me and I realize someone has recommended me for a job I'd love but not yet, not yet, maybe in 15 months, but of course it will not wait for me) I come close to losing it on The State of the House.

You know how it is--I am the Mom, which to those of us giving birth sounds like "nurturer" but to the rest of the family sounds more like "char woman".

I think the Sons saw That Look in my eye. The one Jack Nicholson had as he wielded a baseball bat on the stairs of the Overlook Hotel. So they kinda cleaned the den, kinda cleaned their bedrooms, and Son #1 even washed an entire load of dishes so that I could scrub the kitchen w/bleach. It is now sparkly-clean and fresh.

The car dealership must have heard it in my voice, on the phone, when I woke up this morning to discover a completely flat tire...a tire I had just paid nearly $200 for, yesterday. So I got my loaner back, which still looks like a clown car, but it will get me to my meeting tomorrow, unlike the Spare Car, which has a battery completely devoid of life.

The universe itself must have sensed it, as I contemplated calling a certain magazine AGAIN to ask where my check was...because said check arrived in the mail today, and minutes later I got a phone call offering me another gig, one I take on each year but still don't feel is guaranteed to me.

So, now, the house is pretty close to clean, I have at least the impression of money coming in and future work, my car is in the shop where THEY WILL FIX THE GAUGE THEY BROKE, OH YES THEY WILL, and it's 7:15 and the sun is only starting to set, and it is lovely. Stripey, blue and white and orange.

Tomorrow is a busy one, but tonight I can grab a few last things at Wal-Mart and maybe paint my toenails before Hubby gets home.

Aaaahhhhh.

I'm driving a clown car

The Powerful Mom 5 (the Sons' nickname for my trusty and fabulous minivan) needs new tires and front brakes. I sat at the shop for 2.5 hours yesterday while they worked on the brakes, and came home without my car...because they neglected to tell me that the tires I need were not available.

Fortunately I had plenty of work I could do in the customer lounge. I also flipped through a People magazine (do people actually subscribe to that crap?)

They sent me home with a loaner: a Dodge Caliber.

It is miniscule. It comes up to my shoulder, I think, and I have to be careful not to bang my knees when I get in. Good thing I am short. Hubby could not fit in that car, I am sure.

It seats 4, however, so let's just say it's a good thing I didn't have plans to take the family anywhere last night.

The other weird thing? I am low to the road, which I kind of like, but it makes big trucks loom pretty darn large. Some guy cut a corner in front of me last night and I felt like a mouse waiting to see if the elephant's foot was going to miss me.

A Meme Sets Over Slawit

I read this on Rol's blog and I had to give it a try. Thankfully, my beloved John Prine has written or performed a long list of songs, many of which have some pretty quirky titles.

Pick an artist, and using ONLY SONG TITLES from only that artist, cleverly (preferably) answer these questions. This is harder than it seems! (Well, that kinda depends who you pick.)

1. Are you male or female?

Pistol Packin' Mama (although I am, sadly, unarmed)

2. Describe yourself.

Ain't Hurtin' Nobody

3. How do you feel about yourself?

Pretty Good

4. Describe your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend.

Bad Boy

5. Describe your current boy/girl situation.

(We're Not) The Jet Set

6. Describe your current location.

Just the Other Side of Nowhere

7. Describe where you want to be.

Chinatown

8. Your best friend(s) is:

You Mean So Much To Me

9. Your favorite color is:

Flashback Blues (poor John Prine, his songs are pretty exclusively blue)

10. You know that:

You Never Can Tell

11. If your life was a television show, what would it be called?

We Must Have Been Out of Our Minds

12. What is life to you?

Diamonds in the Rough

13. What is the best advice you have to give?

Blow Up Your TV

One less reason to pay taxes

Road repair.

THIS IS BRILLIANT!

I'd feel brilliant, if I didn't feel so ignorant

My yard is a mess. And for the most part I have accepted that, because with the Sons and all I have plenty to do inside the house.

Lately, though, they are slightly less time-consuming. Coincidentally, the days are getting longer, the weather more tolerable. I figure, now is as good a time as ever to chip away at the horror that is our landscaping.

So, I've been raking. I've been appreciating the outdoors, because I am out there. And it hit me, the other day, that although I do not want to plant anything new (I don't trust myself to water consistently enough to keep it alive, for one) there is probably plenty I can do with the existing stuff.

Like prune it all.

OK, so being an internet junkie I decided to look online for information on how and when to prune the various plants in my yard. In a flash of genius, I have been putting reminders--complete with links!--on my Yahoo calendar. So, for instance, I will be told to prune the nandina next at precisely the correct time.

I feel like a genius!

Except that I only can identify a small portion of the plants in the yard. So, should you be at Chez Waste of Time, please feel free to provide the name of any plant you see that you feel needs pruning. Because, well, if I know what it is, it's going on the schedule and will get the proper attention in due time. A year from now, if it looks shaggy, that is because I have no idea what it is and am afraid I'll kill it.

On a side note, today I took the Sons for their 6-month dental cleaning. Son #1 might need his wisdom teeth removed. Son #4 might need braces. And they talked the entire time. The office staff seem to love the Sons, but I think a couple of the more maternal people in the waiting room have decided I am raising the next generation of Hell.

Human Factors FAIL

This is the box for my new contact lenses.



Facepalm.

Solomons Island Tea Party

We attended--Hubby says there were about 500 people there, and that sounds about right. A huge gathering, by Happy Boondocks standards.

Son #4 was amused when some guy drove by, rolled down his window, and shouted, "Obama's gonna save the world!"

I took pictures, naturally, so swing on by if you'd like to see them.

There are lots more tea party protests going on all across the country, not that you'd know that from watching the news, so check out other people's photos on Flickr, too!

WANTED: Musicians

Are you a musical snob with a long list of songs you refuse to play?
Do you hate the music that gets a bar crowd on the dance floor?
Can we count on you to drink until you pass out on stage, use illegal drugs, or insult other members of the band on a racist or sexist level?
Will you make crude, unwanted comments to the wives and girlfriends of other band members?
If someone offers to help the band, will you accept their help and then act as if their efforts are insufficient to deserve thanks or acknowledgement?
Are you unavailable for practice or gigs on a regular basis?
Does criticism prove to you that the other person knows nothing about music?

THEN WE HAVE A JOB FOR YOU. Please apply.

Currently, our organization is in need of a drummer (adult) and a guitarist (high school-aged) but we will keep any and all applications on file, as turnover is shockingly rapid and needs constantly change.

For my local readers of a conservative bent...

The rest of you can surf elsewhere, but...if you are a Southern Marylander, maybe you'll want to join me at the Solomons Island Tea Party Protest this Sunday afternoon...

photos to follow!

Signs of Spring

Today the weather was wonderful, after a week of steady, grey dampness. So naturally I spent it outdoors, clearing off our decks, raking leaves out of the garden beds and generally just soaking up the sunny warmth of it all.

I found a fern in the back yard--no idea how it got there, as we haven't ever had them in the 14 years we've been here. And then tonight as I was waiting for dinner to cook I looked out the window and saw this guy.

This was the only shot I could get of him before he saw me and took off for a higher branch, with The Wife.

Cut Up, Not Across: A Plan for Diabetics Everywhere

OK, so now a study comes out that indicates that people with diabetes are more likely to get Alzheimer's disease. Oh, but don't worry, diabetics, you probably won't get that because you're gonna die of a stroke before your 70s.

WHY do I read the newspaper?

Worried? You betcha. Discouraged, I don't know...

I spent way too long looking for video of Robert Cray singing the 1040 Blues. I think my brain is dead. But I did e-file, just a few minutes ago.

Now I am going to prod my son over his spelling words, and then I am getting in the car to run errands. We are out of everything, and I am pasty and wild-eyed after all my time at the desk.

And I need a Frosty.

Who's that musician?

Son #1 wore this shirt to school today. He's a musician, and a huge fan, just like Hubby.

An African-American classmate saw the shirt and said, "Bob Marley? You don't know anything about black people."

Son #1's response? "I know enough about black people to know this is Jimi Hendrix."

I feel juuuuust a little sorry for that one teacher

First, you're dating someone with the maturity of a thirteen year old. He won't take you anywhere fun. Then he dumps you for the hot cheerleader. And then YOU go to jail.

Oh, right...because he IS 13.

Geez.

Are there no available adult men in Utah, that this kid looks that good to the female population?

Alternative thoughts:

--We have found the one characteristic that will keep two women who work in the same building from talking about who they are dating. Yup--"He's so cute, he's underage!" just isn't going to happen in the ladies' lounge. So at least they were THAT smart.

--Did all the little 12 and 13 year old girls at the school have crushes on this kid?

--Are we going to institute some kind of mental health screening before we hire teachers, to make sure they're not in the career because they see middle school as a dating pool?

--Perhaps every classroom should be equipped with one of those calendars they have in bars and liquor stores: "You must have been born before this date in 1990 to date the teacher".

--Maybe the school district should have mandatory "singles nights" for all the unattached staff. A chance for them to say, "See all these people? They are adults. You can go out with THEM. Or people who look and act like THEM. Because they are grown-ups."

--If your potential boyfriend is afraid to go into the teacher's lounge, or worried his mom might find out that his girl is older than she is, maybe you should just focus your energies on something other than your social life. Like visiting a shrink.

Gah. Get a grip, people! Stop crapping in the sandbox!

Is it Tuesday?

Man, a couple of days of being snowed in and I am totally disoriented. Perhaps it's the constant gamecube warfare in the basement. Maybe the four snow-capped zombies I used to call Sons, wandering from room to room with a glass of OJ and a slice of frozen pizza.

Hubby made it to work this morning, though, even though the snow plow has not yet been by our street. So I guess there is hope for the future.

Lemme go wash another load of soggy socks.

Mmmmm Snow

It is snowing. So far we have about 3 inches. I did a first pass on the driveway, because it is easier to shovel fresh snow than the full foot they think we're getting by morning. And just now I had a bowl of snowcream.

Mmmmm

Maple.

Plus.....No School Tomorrow!

Yardwork?

Yes, the weather is starting to be less horrible so yesterday and today I have been raking. Our flower beds are so full of leaves as to ensure this is a project I can keep up on for months on end.

I have enlisted the Sons as tarp haulers, so I can focus my energies on raking alone. That, and picking up the odd bits of trash I keep finding under the leaves:

2 practice golf balls
2 toy handguns
2 spent shot gun shell casings
2 children's rubber balls
innumerable airsoft pellets (they are green, so they stay on the ground)
several plastic wrappers
several unidentifiable bits of plastic and metal
a small section of indoor-outdoor carpet
a tool for planting bulbs
a pair of children's toothbrushes, lashed together with dental floss and tape

Ellie, one of our cats, finds the whole process interesting. She has been checking on me as the day progresses, making sure someone sits on each newly exposed patch of dirt.

Son #1 is practicing with his band, out in the garage, so I have musical accompaniment. And I have uncovered some tulips-on-the-way. I love tulips.

It's pretty sweet, all in all.

Like a 9 year old in a theme park gift shop

You've seen the kid---he wants it all, and the prices don't mean anything to him because he's not spending his money, he's just asking Mom for what he assumes she will happily shell out.

"Mom? Can I have a stuffed animal, too? Can I have this pretend license plate with my name on it? Can I have the giant novelty pencil? Can I have a hat? Can I get some rock candy? Can I have this action figure? It's only 19.95. Why not? What do you mean you've already spent enough money today?"

I used to say Bush spent our money like a drunken Democrat. I stand by that assessment. But Obama seems for all the world like a 9-year-old in a theme park gift shop.

From Son #1's World History Class, Today

One of the students turned to Son #1, and said, "Screw you Republicans, because the day Bush leaves office and Obama takes over, you white people are going to be in trouble."

Son #1 said, "I've got news for you; Obama's been president for a month."

The other guy, and his friends, disagreed. Finally, Son #1 enlisted the aid of his teacher.

"Mr George? Who is the President?"

The thing is, our school system had off for the Inauguration. How these kids--16- and 17-year-old kids--had no idea, well...Let's just call me stumped.

Never buy a house from a fall guy's widow

Hubby and I moved to the Happy Boondocks 14 years ago. We'd been living in his mom's vacant house outside of DC while he commuted here, which meant that he left the house before the sun rose, arrived home after the sun set, and often opted to rent a hotel room if he had to work late mid-week. It stank, and he never got to see Sons #1 and 2, but we'd just gotten back from living overseas.

Plus, this was his mom's vacant house. All the relatives had a key. People just walked in, without so much as a knock.

And we weren't too keen on raising the kids right outside the city, in a house next to a pit bull who often roamed the neighborhood. All in all, it was time to move.

We spent a weekend looking at houses. Too expensive, too small, too shabby, too close to those weird people, and then we found it: the house.

You know that feeling you get when something is just right for you? We both got it.

Even better, the house had been on the market for 8 months; the seller knocked a little off the price, just to get away. Her husband had died, suddenly, and she had been trying to sell the house ever since.

We loved the house and have been very happy here, but not too long after we moved in we started to hear the stories. The plumber, the neighbors, the electrician, the guy who fixed our hot tub, everyone who came by shared the same sorts of anecdotes. The preponderance of matching stories made it sounds less and less far-fetched.

Our house was, apparently, a gift from the mob.

The man who owned it before us took the fall in a small-town banking scandal, spent 6 years in jail for a crime he did not commit--but someone influential in the Boondocks had done. When he got out of jail, the house was his.

Not just the house---for years after that, things were repaired and renovated on someone else's dime. New roof. New kitchen counters. Deck. Landscaping. Flooring. Aforementioned hot tub. And when workers would come by, or when he lost at the regular poker games held in what would eventually become Son #1's bedroom, the man would reach into a cranny here, a hidden spot there, pull out a fat roll of cash, and pay.

It made him kind of a suspicious man. You don't keep (probably wholly illegitimate) cash and jewels scattered throughout your house without worrying that someone might notice, and want a slice. Or maybe that the guys who gave it all to you might decide to take it back. He invested in an alarm system.

I know what you're asking: did we find any money? No. And not for lack of looking. But, remember, his wife had nearly a year after his death to look for the money. I'm sure she found it all.

And good thing, too, because the second he died, the gravy train stopped running past our house. All those landscapers and repairmen suddenly forgot about him, and his widow. That's why she sold the house--I guess it was too much of an investment for her, and maybe full of bad memories, and her kids were grown. She just wanted to live in her Winnebago and fish.

We, of course, were a young couple expecting Son #3. We had no fat rolls of cash, no heaps of jewels. We didn't need an alarm system.

We also could not officially disconnect it, because the Winnebago-living widow had neglected to hand off the code. It's still there.

Over the years, as we have had stuff done to the house, we have noticed a common thread among the renovations and repairs done under mob rule. They look good, but the workmanship kinda sucked. It's like living in Carmela Soprano's spec house. So things don't last as long as maybe they should have, and repairmen always look at us and shake their heads, until they realize that we didn't pay for all that stuff--it was the last guy.

The other thing? Whenever the power goes off here, or we have a big energy spike, that security alarm trips. It beeps for hours. The alarm company can't stop it because we don't have the code. All that seems to work is to keep going back to the keypad and mashing the buttons every few minutes until it gets over its fit of pique.

That's what I've been doing, this afternoon.

Beep.

Let's Chatter, shall we?

4th generation American person, here, who cares. Ugh.

I would like to torch today, and start fresh

Last night:
Our cat got stoned and peed all over my bed.

Our son told me he'd been dealing with a guy at school who wants to "make me his bitch" -- and that the teacher who supervises them is this guy's weed-smoking buddy, so he is on his own on that.

I fell asleep before Hubby got home.

Then this morning, I woke up to my more-trashed-than-usual house, and a Son who is so stressed about school that he is sleepless and ill, and could not find the uniform shirt he needs to wear each Wednesday.

I called the principal of the school, and after being on hold for quite some time got a vice principal instead, who says the Son should not have complained to the teacher, but rather directly to him...and that he will talk to both The Bitchmaker and Professor Weed, thereby ensuring Son #1 will return to school tomorrow to two angry potheads.

And then I went to take photos of twins. Only I left my big CF card on my desk. And the CF card I had only had room for one photo on it. And when I went to take that one picture, the girl bit her brother.

I am tired. My head is foggy. Things are going to crap in an undramatic, drizzling way. I think I am going to just pick one thing and make it work, and build from there.

2 down, 2 to go

My kids all know I have a blog, and that sometimes they do something that gets mentioned on here. Recently Son #4 specifically asked me to leave something off the blog---and so I did. But I never told the Sons my url, because I didn't want them telling the extended family where to look to discover Mom's Secret Personality.

Actually, it is not really a secret. But, you know how it is. I am a bit more honest on the blog than I am with my inlaws, maybe. Anyway, I figured they'd find me if they wanted to. It's not like the Bat-Cave, over here.

Yesterday, Son #2 and Son #3 both told me they have been reading my blog for some time. They think I am hilarious. Which is great. I would much rather they like it, than be mortified.

I told them, "Now that you've found me, you should start commenting!"

They may, they say.

So, Welcome to the Blog, Boys! I love you both and am honored you came looking for me.

Genius Product of the Day: Porno Carpeting

The Sons just don't get it. For the life of them, they are incapable of putting laundry in the hamper or trash in the garbage can.

I've tried telling them. I've done the "don't put it away for them, call them into the room and make them do it" thing. I've put wastebaskets in every room. All to no avail. As a friend put it yesterday, they just do not see the baskets and bins I've stationed throughout the house.

And that's when it hit me: They see naked people.

I want Playboy-quality photographs of hot young women on the floors of my house, in both carpet and tile. Not only will my sons constantly be looking down, they'll be loathe to let anything cover the view. The graphic depictions of male sex organs painted on the inside of my hampers and garbage cans will be perfect inspiration for them, too.

Yes, my female friends and I will find the decor a bit unsettling, at first, but I figure it will not only greatly increase the frequency and length of visits from males of all ages, it will serve as diet and exercise inspiration to us all.

And Hubby's friends will constantly remind him that he has the coolest wife ever.

I can't lose.

Say "Great Satan" again.

Yeah, all that to say I agree with Iran, this time around. Telling Ahmadinejad that we want to talk to them doesn't make them want to talk to us. It makes them see we are choosing passivity and weakness, and convinces the crazy, violent portion of that part of the world that they can do whatever they want because we won't even try to slow them down.

Hopefully, at some point, we will wise up and demand Iran takes us seriously.

Birthday Candle Arrangement Tips for the Aged

#1: Don't put them all together in "brick" formation.

Son #4 did that with Hubby's cake this week, and not only did it make a terrifying and rather smokey bonfire, it required quite a lot of lung power to extinguish.

Tip #2: If your family DOES put all your candles together in one spot, and you are going to have to blow really hard to put them out, spit out your cough drop, first, or it will end up on the cake.

That's yucky.

But, we all love Hubby and we all love cake, so it's not like that kept us from eating it all. The Sons just waited long enough to verify it was only a cough drop, not a chunk of lung.

Call me! On the line...

Hubby, Son #1 and I got new cell phones on Thursday. Hubby wanted to consolidate his bill with mine, and to get something with a QWERTY keyboard for his phone, and Son #1 wanted to actually HAVE a phone.

Since then, Hubby has been a bit frustrated with the new phone. All the buttons are different from the last one, so he has to re-learn. And I have been consigned to manually transferring all my contacts, because Verizon and Virgin cannot communicate with each other. So close together in the alphabet, you'd think they'd get along, but noooo.

The only one really happy has been Son #1, who received a naked photo yesterday from some young woman who did not realize that Alex, who she loves, has changed cell phone numbers without informing her. Son #1 is not Alex, but, he really appreciates the thought, you know?

On this day in 1964

The 9th Winter Olympic Games opened in Innsbruck, Austria.


Dr Strangelove was released to theaters.


The Beatles recorded Can't Buy Me Love at Pathé Marconi Studios, Paris, France.


Philip Morris suggested laughter as the best medicine to combat the Surgeon General's report on cigarette smoking.

The San Francisco cable car system was declared a national historic landmark.


NASA launched the Saturn 5.

And, well, a lot of other stuff happened, too. Most importantly, though, to me, Hubby was born.

Happy Birthday, Hubby!

And the seas have not yet parted

The Brits won't take some of the Gitmo prisoners Obama wants to send their way. Can't send them back to Chad, etc., because they might be abused in their home states. Can't keep 'em here, because he has pretty much made that whole Kumbayah thing a major part of his plan as President. And he seemed to think that the Europeans would just jump at the chance to help him out.

Britain and the European countries want some kinda proof that these guys aren't going to be dangerous to them, before they take them in. Which, yeah, is one of those things a lot of Americans want, too. Maybe Obama and friends shouldn't have worked so hard to convince everyone that Bush was holding decent, freedom-loving Muslims at Guantanamo Bay just for shits and giggles.

As Bugs Bunny would say, "It is to laugh."

WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?

Son #2 is 15. He is smart, and sweet, and a great writer (although not entirely committed to the concept of turning his work in on time, at school. He'd rather work on whatever is on his mind, for fun. The school system is only there to destroy him.)

He is also 6'4" and still growing. His hair falls to his collar in glossy, chestnut curls. And he has a very deep voice. For years, I've been telling him, "Don't you worry. You hit college, and the girl thing is going to get very easy for you." He does not believe me. But, trust me, I have complimented him on his appearance. I have encouraged him to go out for theater. I have told him he has a very attractive voice.

But I am Mom.

Last week, the Sons were playing around with a video recorder. First time in years Son #2 had heard himself, recorded. He ran up the stairs, swathed in fake seriousness.

"MOM! Why didn't you TELL me I have such a buttery, man-muffin voice?"

So, there you go. My second son is a buttery man-muffin. Pass it on.

666: The Number of the Blog Posts

Yes, I have been blogging for a bit. 666 posts, today. Feel free to waste time reading the early stuff. Genius, all of it, and scintillating.

And, in a similarly beastly vein, WHY have I been getting all these spam emails telling me that someone is going to Fedex me boxes of cash? Honestly, if you want to send me money you can have it wired. Or use PayPal. I would give you my PayPal email to accept the gobs of cash I won in the British Lottery, or inherited from some distant relative in Africa, or whatever. Don't waste a penny of it on shipping, ok?

Pounding Sand at Cryer's Back Road Inn, this Saturday

Plan ahead, all y'all, because Hubby's band, Pounding Sand, is playing at Cryer's Back Road Inn on January 24th.

I LOVE when Hubby plays at Cryer's. It's a great bar for dancing and Doug will be there. Which may lead to a small group of us Doing the Doug away from the Country Store Blues Jam. Can't miss that.

Classic and modern rock, some funky, danceable stuff, and the bass player most likely to get Penelope to move Stateside: it will be awesome. You should come.

Really, you should.

I Been Tagged

Thanks to Jill. So, here are 7 random things about me:

I do not generally drink. When I do, it is almost always Malibu Rum & Diet Coke. I also can be persuaded to suck down one of those girly frozen drinks, or perhaps a Mojito. And Scotch is good, too. But only on occasion.

My grandmother gives me recipes from beyond the grave, in my sleep. So far I know how to make her stuffing and her cheese & bacon turnips, because I woke up from dreams of her with the recipes in my head. These are dishes I never ate at her table, but when I make them, my father is instantly transported back to his childhood in 1940s New York, because that was the last time he ate them. I find this oddly comforting.

I really stink at self-censorship. I pretty much say what I am thinking, and only realize it was horridly inappropriate because of the look of shocked disgust on my listener's face. So, um, feel free to stop me. You may have to make a few faces before I get the hint.

I love tulips and daffodils, gardenias and jasmine.

I really don't like oysters. Let them stay in the Bay, filter feeding. I don't even want to watch you eating them.

I have hot feet. Ask anyone. I nearly always wear sandals, even in winter. And not those clunky Birkenstocks, either: cute sandals. Because I also have hawt feet.

I am not much of a homebody. I come from a long line of women who, when the phone rings, will leave the dishes on the table and run to get in the car. I do eventually make it home and tackle the mess, but...I am not going to turn down a good time just because I have chores to do. That stuff is gonna be here whether I had a blast tonight or not.

(tonight I did not. I have a head cold, instead, like the entire family, and I can barely stand. but you KNOW that last night I made it out for blues jam)

In honor of that head cold, and the fact that my brain is not entirely functioning, I am not going to link to a bunch of you. I am just too beat. So, if you read this far, consider yourself tagged.

Making peace with the clutter

I am not a sentimental person, really. Getting rid of stuff is pretty easy for me, most of the time.

Don't get me wrong, I have kept a few things around just because they came from someone special, or remind me of something that matters. But I do not have collections of knicknacks. I prefer a bare surface to almost anything else. I've got that Spartan spirit! Wooo!

(Please shut up about the giant basket of lip products, the heap of nail products, and the closet full of shoes. This has nothing to do with that. Wipe that smirk off your face.)

A while back, frustrated with the state of our house, I decided to get down to business on the clutter front. Because I hate it anyway, and it was making life a hassle, and making the house feel oppressively crammed with stuff, to me.

I got rid of a lot. If I could come up with any excuse to sell, donate, give away or throw away the item in my hand, it went out the door. I became a big fan of eBay, and Freecycle, and the local thrift store.

Today I drove a carload of stuff to the thrift store, came home, took a look around, and thought, "I don't know that I can get rid of anything else around here, without getting rid of family members, first."

It's an odd feeling.

We still have plenty of books, but let me tell you they are good books. We have plenty of musical gear and CDs, and two talented musicians in the house. We have lots of legos, and every game system known to man, and there's little you can do to make those look tidy. And the kids each have their collections of Stuff. Well, not Son #1, so much. He is not a keeper. But the rest of them do.

But aside from that, there really isn't much here that we don't need, or use, or love, or appreciate somehow on a regular basis.

I'm not sure what to do with that. I mean...decluttering had become a bit of a crusade for me. And now, well, even though the house still has more stuff in it than makes me feel comfortable, I think I have done enough. Just because I like flat, smooth surfaces doesn't mean the entire family has to live like that.

So, I guess, at this point I can move on to what I had always said I would do, once the clutter was under control: keep a clean house, and write more, and enjoy the space.

Having a time wrapping my head around that.

Things They Don't Tell You About Life With Musicians

Hubby and Son #1 are both musicians--Hubby actually gets paid for it, while Son #1 is still hunkered in the garage for the most part.

Everyone knows I love to hear them practice and love even more to hear Hubby on stage. What they might notknow:

--The best way to convince your musician that his new amp is sufficient: tell him you can feel it in your chest, and all along the side of your jaw. Because, truly, he doesn't want to be loud enough. He wants to know that at some point he could be too loud.

--If the vacuum starts making a horrible burning smell, it probably has a guitar string wrapped around the beater bar. This happens once or twice a month.

--I find guitar picks hiding in the oddest places. The ashtray of my car. The back of the linen closet. I usually have one in my purse. Need one? Ask. Or, you know, just reach around.

Victoria's Secret Burned My Dinner!

Last night I joined some local ladies for a night in the hot tub. A sedate affair, and relaxing, but as the youngest woman there I had to rock the cleavage, right?

OK, so today I washed my tankini in the washing machine. And when it came out, the push-up pads had fallen out.

And they look weird.

I wasn't sure how to get them in right, but I gave it a shot. And they didn't look right to me.

"I need a tutorial," I thought. So, I put dinner on the stove and called Customer Service.

Barry just laughed and transferred me to one of his female coworkers. Such disappointment! Isn't that why Barry got a job at the Vic Secret Customer Service hotline? Eh, maybe not.

Boy, that rice smells good. Just about time to put the pork chops on, as soon as I talk to Marissa.

She was no help, either. Apparently all the push-up pads in their suits are the same, they go in the same, there is no instruction or chart or anything, I just have to fiddle with it and play with it and eventually it will smooth out.

Or, you know, not.

Around this time, I noticed the burning smell.

So, now it is nearly 7, I am on a second pot of rice, the pork chops are half cooked, and I have a deconstructed tankini top on my desk. Which I shall play with until it looks right.

I hope.

A Mall, and a milestone

Last night I took Son #3 and Son #4 to the mall, to exchange a Christmas gift and use up their gift cards. The nearest mall is an hour from our house, so...kind of a big deal, if you are 12 or 13.

Leaving GameStop, the Sons noticed a small child frantically calling for his mommy.

Yeah, the Sons get all the credit. I was not paying attention.

OK, so we looked around and didn't see anyone who could qualify for this little kid's mom, so Son #3 volunteered to track down a police officer while Son #4 and I bought the boy a lemonade.

Fear goes better with lemonade, when you are maybe 3 years old, we figured.

The lemonade, mall cops and missing mother all arrived at around the same time. As the Sons and I were relaxing in the food court, I realized: for the first time, our boys FOUND a lost kid, instead of BEING a lost kid.

Pretty flippin' awesome.

For those of you with a particular New Year's Resolution

Today, while bolting through the grocery store, I discovered these: and, damn, they are good.

So, yeah, if you are trying to eat more healthy food but you still love chocolate, you're welcome.

Well, I think it's cool, anyway

A friend of mine joined a Flikr group for the year, and mentioned it to me with just enough time before the deadline so I could do it, too. We're each posting one photo per day.

So far, it is fun.

Wanna see? I am on there as cebasham.

Dear Idiot Bitch

You think you can ignore us for the holiday season and we'll be ready for you when you come back? You think you can just rely on us when you want to, and everything will be just fine?

Think again.

We kinda hate you right now, and you are going to have to just deal with it. Don't come crying to us. It is all your fault, and you know it.

Suck it up,

Your Hamstrings

Stuff I'm not supposed to like

Velveeta. I know. It is not food. But when it comes to mac & cheese, actual cheese does not do it.

Dennis Miller. Everybody says his metaphors are weird, but...he made me stay awake through football, OK? Hilarious.

Teenage boys. Trust me. They are a hoot. And teenage girls are way scarier.

U2. Monotonous, overplayed, and with that Bono idiot as a frontman. I know. But what can I say? I am of the U2 generation, I guess, so I like them. Sometimes. Would I pay to see them? No. But I like "One".

Driving, especially on long trips or in traffic. Just gimme the keys, ok?

Those couple-or-six grey hairs showing up on the top of my head. Eh, maybe I'll start freaking out about that when they invite their friends, but so far I am ok with them.

Hello Kitty. Yes, in 2009, I am coming clean as a fan. Not all varieties, but she does occasionally catch my eye.

Stubble. Hubby thinks it looks sloppy, but I think the he-hasn't-shaved-all-weekend look can be smokin' hot. Lucky him, huh?

And now, I shall get back to being productive.

Happy New Year 2009

I'm supposed to be working right now, but I just had to mention the Most Awkward Christmas Gift of 2008.

Son #1 received Etiquette for Dummies from his grandmother.

Nothing says "Love" to a 17 year old boy, like a book that says on the cover that his grandmother thinks he is stupid and rude.

I refrained from telling the grandmother that it is rude to give another person a "for dummies" book OR an etiquette book, unless said title has been requested by the recipient. But this was not a case of "Darn, grandma, I need some help over here, can you give me 'Wedding Etiquette for Dummies' so I don't make a total fool of myself?" This was an angry grandmother, making a statement.

Duly noted, and acknowledged, although you can bet she's not getting a thank you note.

A taste of Pounding Sand

Hubby's band played the office Christmas party. Someone nudged the video camera, so you can't see the guitarist or the drummer or the fabulous banner I made, but you CAN see Hubby on bass, and what more do you need in concert footage? Next gig is at Cryer's Back Road Inn, on January 24th. You know you want to be there.

My dog has night terrors

Otis, our pug, is napping by my desk. He just broke into a horrific, keening wail, in his sleep. It is just about the worst sound you could ever hear.

Being the loving pet owner I am, I leaned down and shouted, "Otis! Honey! It's OK! Wake up! Otis! You're OK!" And he did wake up, calm down, and go back to sleep.

He has only done this a handful of times, all within the past few years. Never as a younger dog. Part of me would love to be able to see what he sees, because dear GOD it is terrifying, and his life is about as dull and predictable and gravy-soaked as a dog could ever hope it to be. I have no idea what could be that upsetting. But I will tell you, that sound cuts through me like a buzz saw to the brain.

Then again, anything that scares him that much would probably be a bit more than I want to witness, I guess.

Yeah, that sounds good, too

Weird fact about Christine, #38: I tend to sit here and read about the nutritional profile of my food, as I eat it.

So, yeah, I'm reading about the stuff I just dumped in my tea, and I started adding more stuff. Right now I'm leaning over a hot steaming mug with a tea bag, a couple of cardamom pods, some cloves, a slice of ginger and a cinnamon stick. You instant tea people can have your way, but me, I have something to chew on, later.

Which may be disgusting, I suppose. But, hey, I'm not making YOU fish out a cardamom pod and chew it, so keep yer hands off my mug.

Completely OT? I hate Sears. I hate them all. I hate their crappy selection of stuff, their bizarre system of starting the checkout line a full 15 feet away from the cash register, and the fact that I spent hours there, last night, giving them money in exchange for Christmas gifts.

Perfection Makes Perfect

About 20 years ago, Hubby and I got a fortune cookie that rocked our world. It was not a fortune at all. It said, "Perfection makes perfect."

What the heck? We laughed about that cookie for ages.

At the time, we did not see it for what it was: a harbinger of a new day when fortune cookies wouldd not predict your future, but just piled words on you, or revisited the wisdom of your crankiest elderly relatives.

Tonight, we ordered Chinese food. Here is the sad collection of modern fortune cookie contents we endured tonight; wisdom, opinion, and wishes abound: only one could qualify as a fortune:

Share your joys and sorrows with your family.
Society prepares the crime; the criminal commits it.
Wish you a long life.
You are sociable and entertaining.
If you want to have a friend, you have to be one.
Serious trouble will bypass you.

Honestly, fortune cookie manufacturers of the world: you can do better.

On an unrelated, holiday-oriented note, Christmas preparations continue:
Two of the Sons have purchased their Secret Santa presents for their assigned brothers.
The second Christmas tree is up and decorated.
The presents we already have bought, are wrapped. Which leaves me with an updated shopping list I need to tackle, this week.
My mother came down with her annual gingerbread house extravaganza and Christmas ornament shopping trip. We are all on a sugar high.
For the third year in a row, the ornament I chose broke, before we could get it out of the bag. Traditions, man.

One Christmas Tree is up

Hubby and I have always done a real Christmas tree. A few years ago, we realized that the cats found the secret spots beneath the tree to be the ideal place to, um, "go", so we replaced the Christmas tree in the basement with an artificial tree.

You'd think that meant we stopped having a real tree, but no. Now we have the Christmas Morning Fake Basement Tree for present opening purposes, and the Upstairs Real Tree for smelling-like-Christmas purposes. Kind of excessive, for a Scrooge like me, but, ok, I can get with the program.

Today the house was fairly clean, I have 2 weeks before my next deadline, and so everything else can kind of wait a bit. I decided to crank up the tunes and decorate at least one tree.

The Upstairs Real Tree is now decorated. It is not a great tree--and Hubby has spoiled me with years of consistently breathtaking trees, so maybe a normal person would not even complain about the tree we've got. But I look at it and I think, "This tree is weird".

It's not just the tree. It's the ornaments.

We have a wooden ornament in the shape of Texas. We have no Texas history at all. No Texan family. Hubby and I have never been to Texas. But there is a red Texas on my tree. It says "Merry Christmas, Y'all!" All my blog readers in Texas can feel included in the holiday spirit at chez Waste of Time. Ok.

We also have a china dog bone with holly on it. My mother gave it to us, for our dog. She gives us a dog ornament every year, because one day Otis will move out and have a tree of his own and this way he'll have a head start on an ornament collection. Only this dog bone looks for all the world like an erection. A big brown dog bone is fucking my tree, right by the living room window. But it has holly and ribbons on it, so it's festive, OK?

We have the collection of ornaments made by the Sons, when they were smaller, and even a few I made myself as a young girl. No problem there. A certain level of homemade tackiness is important to the holiday. But WHAT possessed Son #1's teacher to use that photo? The one where his poor little 2nd-grade self looks like he would rather stab himself in the eye than pose for the shot? Eh, she was a crappy teacher and we all hated her, anyway. Fine.

Now that I look at it, I think the tree is perfect, for this year. A little quirky, a little obnoxious, a bit of an attitude problem in spots, but all sparkly-glowy where it counts.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

It's not exactly Frost/Nixon, but...

Penelope has agreed to interview me. If you'd like to play along, the rules follow at the bottom. And you should. It's your chance to be risk-taking AND the center of attention.


1. As we know, you have 4 sons. Were you tempted to try again for a girl or do you think boys are best?
I think Hubby would have enjoyed a girl, but I would not wish a teenage daughter on anyone, so I am very happy with the 4 we have. Not to mention, my great-grandmother was the 17th child in her family, and the FIRST girl...so, you know, there was no guarantee I would have produced one, anyway.

2. You have a super bass playing husband. Would you be tempted to loan him out? (Across The Pond perhaps?) ;o)
For bass playing purposes? Oh, absolutely. He lays down some of the funkiest bass lines you'll ever hear in a crappy southern Maryland bar. He can also play drums, and some guitar. And he can open a beer with anything. So, you know, he is the life of any party. Of course, if he is going to cross the pond to play bass, he will need a roadie---I think I qualify.


3. If you could do any job at all, what would it be?
I would love to be able to write more, and do more creative stuff. Not art, exactly, but interesting and decorative things. All of which requires much more time. Because, dammit, those 4 sons of mine have a nasty habit of trashing the house and requiring transportation all over the known world. So, in a way, I am fortunate in that I can SEE my ideal job, and occasionally brush my hand against it. Makes me think that at some point I will be able to achieve it all.

4. What do you never leave home without?
My GPS. A small, digital camera. My cell phone (although today Son #2 took it to school, so I have been groping for it all afternoon). And a heaping helping of Catholic guilt.

5. What is your secret to a successful family life?
Forgiveness.

Here is the small print if you would like to play along. Bear in mind that if you do, I'll be the one asking the questions this time!

Link back to the original post - in my case that was this.

Put the rest of the rules in your post:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." (Or email me cebasham at gmail dot com)
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

So, to all and sundry, you really should ask me to interview you. I promise to be...aw, heck, I promise nothing, but it might be fun. Thanks, Penelope!

Son #1 Has Advice on Women, Too

The other day, I posted some advice on guys, from Son #1. Coincidentally, yesterday he offered some advice on us women, too. And although it pains me to say it, he is, again, correct.

Long story slightly less long: Son #1 has a friend--a friend who is on the edgy end of the spectrum, but who seems to have cut back on much of his wilder behavior, in recent years. This boy also has been polite to me and loves my cooking. So, you know, he's OK, even though I know his sordid past.

Unfortunately, Son #1 has started dating this guy's ex-girlfriend. The girlfriend, and her friends, have started some nasty rumors. The other day, Son #1's edgy friend believed all the rumors and assumed they were coming from Son #1, so he sent a group of kids to jump him in the school parking lot.

Son #1 has used a mixture of bravado ("Beat me up? You're half my size. You're not beating NOTHING. Stop sending your friends and fight me like a man.") and reason ("Dude! I don't know anything about these rumors. I don't want to fight you!") to smooth things over.

Last night, I think he settled it all, with one more phone call to Edgy Friend (who, all threats aside, skipped school yesterday). This is what I heard:

"Man, they are teenage girls. They are going to make drama. They are going to start rumors. They are going to blow things out of proportion. You can't let what they say change what you're doing. You can't make them stop spreading rumors and going crazy. You just have to let it go."

I'm proud of my son for his surprising store of wisdom, but just a tad embarrassed for my gender.

So what DOES she know?

Yesterday Hubby and I took 3 of the Sons out for some trashy-but-satisfying fast food and familial conversation, without the need for dish-washing.

Son #2 was talking about his history teacher, who has spent the past few weeks praising the merciful, useful Social Security system which only has minor problems and which protects us from ourselves, by saving our money for us and giving it back to us when we need it, because "Most Americans are too undisciplined to save for their own retirement":

"She had never heard of a Ponzi scheme, so I explained it to her. Whenever there's something like that, that she doesn't know, she calls me up to her desk and asks me to explain it to her quietly, so the other students don't hear it. Then she goes on with her lesson and doesn't mention it to the class."

Son #2 comes home from school most days with some basic piece of information that his teacher swears she's never heard before. Most of the time, according to Son #2, his teacher's main goal seems to be to ensure that the rest of her students never hear about that stuff, either. Is she embarrassed by her own ignorance? Is she using her classroom to promote a political agenda?

In the spirit of "You can learn something from anyone", and "Son #2 should find something to respect in his teacher, because she is his teacher," I asked him, "Well, what does she know?"

I figured he'd say, "Well, she really loved teaching about the War of 1812" or "She gave us so much information on the Whig party that I thought it was going to come out my eyeballs" or something.

No.

"Well, she knows Republicans are evil."

I would say she probably knows a lot about whales, too.


In The Know: Are Our Children Learning Enough About Whales?

A Meme Stolen from Penelope

69 Questions Guaranteed You've Never Answered. (Not sure who guarantees it but that's what it said on the tin.)

1. Would you bang your neighbor? Dear lord, no.

2. What describes your relationship status? Married, but someone last night thought I was hubby's girlfriend, so I guess we're sufficiently affectionate.

3. Where are you? In the living room.

4. What's the last movie you've seen? I think it might have been iGo To Japan--a TV movie. Does that count?

5. The last person you held hands with? Hubby

6. Who Is Your Best Friend? I seem to have several in the running.

7. Who have you talked to most today? Hubby, so far.

8. Do you carve pumpkins every year? I did every year for about 17 years, but this year I didn't...and someone smashed my pumpkin.

9. Color of your underwear? Purple and black

10. Color of your shirt? Navy blue

11. I'm always... swamped

12. Who's on speed dial 2? 4? 6? I don't use it.

13. Honestly, how many people do you have feelings for? I have feelings about everyone I know, I think.

14. Whats your favorite season? Summer.

15. Good advice if you ever go camping? Don't invite me, as I hate camping!

16. Are you a bad influence? On occasion. But I'm not going to make you do something you wouldn't do.

17. Rather have your name or your siblings name? Mine.

18. Would you do anything for someone else? I'll do some things for some people but there aren't too many people I'd do ANYTHING for.

20. Have you ever been called a bitch? Just once, that I know about.

21. Have you ever been called a slut? Yes.

22. What is your ringtone? A horrible piece of non-music.

24. Are your grades good? Thank goodness I don't need to worry about that anymore!

25. Do you ever think people hate you for filling these out? Naaah.

26. Does your best friend(s) have a nexopia? I don't know what a nexopia is!

27. Whose page did you visit last? Penelope's blog--that's when I stole her meme.

28. Last time you went out to lunch? Son #4 and I stopped at Taco Bell on Wednesday.

30. Who is your favorite character from Friends? I take the 5th.

31. Do you have a tattoo? Nope.

32. Do you want one? Not really.

33. Do you have one or more Britney Spears CD? No.

34. What did you do last night? Danced to Hubby's band at the office Christmas party, helped the band load up their equipment. Hung out with Hubby, afterwards. Great fun.

35. Are you a LOST fanatic? No. I kind of hate TV, most of the time.

36. What's your name spelled backwards? Unpronounceable.

37. Do you have a song by Ozzy Osbourne in your library? We have some Ozzy.

38. iPod or Zune? Neither

39. Do you watch Family Guy regularly? I've only seen maybe 2 episodes.

40. King of the Hill? See the answer above.

41. Do you read trashy romance novels often? No.

42. What's the last thing you bought? I'm doing a lot of online Christmas shopping.

43. What's the last thing someone bought you? Hubby bought me a drink at a bar the other day.

44. Do you ever sing obnoxiously in the shower? Not too obnoxiously, I don't think.

45. What's in your CD player right now? Amy's mix CD.

46. What's your favorite movie? Maybe The Manchurian Candidate.

47. Another favorite movie? The Shawshank Redemption.

48. Do you believe everyone has a soul mate? Not really.

49. Can you sing? Not well enough for other people, but I have fun in the car.

50. Do you play any instruments? No.

53. Are you ever a freak about cleanliness or organization? No, unfortunately.

54. Have you ever been to South America or Africa? No.

55. Do you know how to knit? A little.

56. Do you have a job? I work, but I don't have a job.

57. Have you ever written love song lyrics yourself and put them on nexopia? No.

58. What are you doing right now besides this survey? Talking to a friend and wishing I had some tea.

59. Last place you went for vacation? New York

60. Favorite number? I don't have one.

61. Physics or chemistry? I took chemistry.

62. Facebook or Myspace? Neither

64. R-rated or G-rated movies? Can both be good, and both can stink.

66. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, or Star Wars? Star Wars.

67. Fly or road trip? Either.

68. Batman, Spiderman, or Superman, or the Hulk, or SilverSurfer? Spider-Man.

69. What's your favorite Disney movie? Snow White, maybe?

Advice on Guys, from a Guy

Son #1, who is 17:

"You know why I love talking to J--- on the phone? He calls, we make plans to do something, he hangs up. He doesn't ask me how my day went. Because unless you're a girl, and you're cute, guys don't want to talk to you on the phone for an hour."

He knows the words, but not the tune

I took Son #2 to the art supply store and a teenager was running the cash register. The woman behind me (grandmotherly type) approached the register and said sweet-faced teen smiled at her and said, "How's it hangin', ma'am?"

How to be a writer

...a writer cannot afford to give in to feelings of rage, disgust, or contempt. Did you answer someone in a temper? If so, you didn't hear him out and lost track of his system of opinions. You avoided someone out of disgust--and a completely unknown personality slipped out of your ken--precisely the type you would have needed some day. But, however tardily, I nonetheless caught myself and realized I had always devoted my time and attention to people who fascinated me and were pleasant, who engaged my sympathy, and that as a result I was seeing society like the Moon, always from one side.


Alexsandr I Solzenitzyn
The Gulag Archipelago Two