Prattle Inc.

Sticking It to the Man, Teen Style

The weeks of scrounging change from sofa cushions, the laundry room, end tables, some light babysitting and paper filing has finally paid off. This is what $121.53 looks like in Bratface's world. Once the $25 I owe is added to the pot we will be skipping along to the Verizon store so that she can upgrade her cell phone to a model more befitting a rising sophomore. (e.g. "Not the free one you get at contract renewal, God Mom!").

In protest of the inflated prices that the cell phone store charges, Bratface plans on making the company work just as hard to collect the money as she did to save up for it. Other than cashing out the check, she will be taking the jar into the store as-is* to pay for her purchase.

* There is paper currency in there, but also exactly $14.53 in change - $7.53 of that in pennies.

C'est La Vie

Oh my lord, y'all. I had no idea that it would be this hard to get cable turned OFF.  When the first day came and went without the cable going bye-bye, I let it go. For three days. When I called they said they had "lost" the work order. Appointment #2 - no show. I let it go for a day, then called again. This time they tried to talk me out of it altogether then to bribe me with a "deal" (which with 40% of the programming at 10% discount off of full selection? Call me crazy, but I don't see the gift here, guy), and rescheduled. You'll just never guess what happened - nothing! When I once again asked why the technician would not show up and just TURN IT FUCKING OFF ALREADY, they had the nerve to go full circle and try to upgrade us (at our expense) to HDTV. Aargh!

Funny thing happened during that time, the kids suddenly developed an insatiable appetite for television programming. Every day for over a week has been like Christmas for Tee and Bratface. They'd pop over to the box, turn it on to find that we still had programming, give a little yelp of excitement and then proceed to be utterly glued to every single waste of brainspace show, no History channel here, no sir, that they could absorb before Doomsday. They were storing up like camels before the long, hot descent into the desert.

When Tee got home from work this afternoon and turned on the tv only a blank blue screen popped up. My poor little sports fan is royally pissed by the thought of having no cable because this means no Pro Football game showings this fall. "What's next Mom? Are you going to take away our heat this winter?"

We're free! Free again to have hours and hours of quality time together. Maybe by chopping wood! We do have a wood stove in the storage space that we can set up.*

*The storage space that we pay monthly for that holds all of the excess items from the blending of Jefferson's bachelor pad and my single mom's abode when we married and bought our current home. Six years ago. Shut up.

------------

Now We're Not Weird, We're "Interesting"

This weekend we went down to a semi-annual three day frisbee-golf tournament on a rustic farm on the Potomac. There's camping, swimming and kayaking, too. It's a hot, sticky blast of a time. Our friend circle has many members who own real live land and quite a few parties like this are staged a year. When they were younger these weekends were the highlight of my kids' summers. Just water, dirt, bugs, fish and frisbee and other kids to run around with all day, then campfire and the sounds of adult laughter and live music lulling them to sleep at night under the stars. What kid can complain about that?

Once they hit the pre-teen/young teen years of their lives all of my kids wanted more "normal" family activities like bumper boats, amusement parks or going to the movies, though. They rebelled against our ideas of fun and had to be dragged kicking and screaming along with us. ("Why do you have to be such hippies? Why can't we stay in a condo or at least a camper, for godsakes? Where am I supposed to plug in my hair dryer?")  Luckily, they all come around and now it is Bratface's turn to move past the Bershon stage and even enjoy bringing her more suburban friends along for these occasions. So do it parents. Be weird! Your kids will appreciate it later on.

The camp-sitey festival-ish atmosphere is culture shock for Brat's friends and she off-handedly explains, "Oh, Tori we won't even bother with showering, but we can take a bath in the river if we get too gross. Mom brought bio-degradable shampoo," while her friend cringes at the thought of getting clean in muddy water. The half (or fully) naked toddlers running to and fro always elicit a gasp from the Friends and it's cute to hear Bratface toss out that "toilet-training is easier this way especially when they're outside and it's the chosen method in so many other countries." She explains tofu barbeque and eggs her friends to "try it, you'll love it". They walk the trails and search for fossilized sharks teeth on the shore of the river and she tells stories like "When I was six, right at that very spot..."

The big game of the weekend for the little kids is to trap insects and bring them over to the "Big Book" to try to identify them. In her normal life, Bratface wouldn't get close enough to a spider to kill it with her shoe, but out there it's all just part of the bigger picture. This weekend while her friend was busy screaming and jumping up and down, Bratface calmly and cooly reported that "It's just a brown water-snake. I don't think they're poisonous - come on, let's check it in the book."

She's turned it into a field trip of sorts and now her friends basically bribe her for turns at getting to hang with the "hippies".

Aw, I kind of feel like singing "May the circle, be unbroken.." right now.

Of course she comes back to her air-conditioned home, plugs in her ipod, immediately checks her Myspace, showers for 25 minutes, applies make-up and hair products for another 30 and then and only then will she venture outside to even get the mail.

Old Mrs. Rose Was In the Window When They Were Under the Lilac

Our Goth teen neighbor and my son are combing the dark street, checking up close in peoples' yards, poking through bushes and calling for Gothteen's missing cat.

His name is "Blood Death".

Sigh. Guess I'll put on a bra so that I'll be presentable when the cops get here.

Unplugged

I've told you all how we are not a TV-oriented family? How our tv sits for days and days without even being turned on? How our 20 year old television has no holes in the back of it to allow for plug-ins such as "modern" dvd players, computer games and the like so my kids also aren't electronically addicted? How when my father decided that he had enough of my child abuse (8 years of my kids' lives were spent with no cable television, no antenna, just a vcr and a handful of tapes) that he secretly paid for cable hook-up for us in the summer of 2001 and that I threw out the remote to at least hinder their tv-watching? (It works, by the way! Kids are lazy. If they have to manually turn channels, or god-forbid, sit through commercials, they'll usually just get so fatigued from the effort they'll give up and go find something else to do.)

I find television horribly lacking in quality programming and both Jefferson and I are pretty anal about what the kids watch. Yep, they're 18 and almost 15 but still - we want our kids to NOT be shallow and vapid and don't encourage tv viewing of the following variety: reality shows, "documentaries" on troubled pop stars like Lindsey and Brittany, crime show after crime show, exploitation of sad and often mentally ill human beings ie: that show Intervention? sick!, and/or disgusting displays of consumerism and over-entitled teenagers (ie: My Super Sweet Sixteen and The Hills, Gossip Girls, etc.)  In fact, to this very moment we make them turn the channel or turn it off. Guess which answer they usually pick? 

Also, we have always had the rule that the kids weren't allowed to have televisions in their bedrooms. If we had to have cable (Thanks, Dad), at least we were still going to be a only-one-tv-in-the-household family. Ok, well...We all know how that went bust this Christmas, but I held firm on the no-cable-upstairs rule, so ha! (And we do get Netflix).

Of course we do have access the History channel, PBS and the Discovery channel, although even they have resorted to reality-type shows like Ice Road Truckers, etc., but honestly, we have computers! Every one of these channels and the shows they broadcast can be downloaded and watched for FREE.

Quite frankly, I've carried around a huge load of guilt for the past 7 years of being a cable subscriber. If I don't condone this type of behavior then why on Earth am I paying over $50 a month for the privilege of having round the clock access to 73 channels of shitty shitastic shows that we don't/won't watch? Why am I financially supporting broadcasting that I think is a fundamental travesty of intellect?

Not for long, kiddies. As of tomorrow we've decided to be a tv-free household once again. I'm calling the cable company to tell them to shove off.

I feel cleaner already.

"The Wonder Is that We Can See These Trees and Not Wonder More" -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Do y'all remember the old man in the underwear that I see from the lanai during winter? Guess what, I see him again. And also into the room in the house next to his where the toddler lives.

Boo for tree removal even if for perfectly good reasons! (Bad storm - wind and lightning damage.) Not one, but two 50+ year old Hawthornes had to be taken down from the yard next door and I feel robbed. The cover that those old trees provided was so enjoyable that sometimes we even forgot that we live in the city. I feel naked, exposed to all of my backyard neighbors and them, to me. There's an ugly gaping hole and it's so incredibly bright that I almost have to wear sunglasses in the kitchen. Not to mention the loss of  nature that our little corner of the world is now devoid of. Mornings are noticeably quieter without all of the songbirds that lived right behind us and Sadie, our dog, has been almost bored what with having no squirrels or opossum to chase and bark at for the past few days.

Must replace trees as soon as possible! The Instant Gratification Needer side of me says "Give me shade, privacy and nature or give me death!" I'm looking for the fastest grower I can find that should be drought tolerant, pretty and can't have giant octopus-like roots because our yard is tee-hee-ny and I don't need no foundation cracking or clogged pipes. And did I mention that our yard is tee-hee-ny? Also that now is kind of a bad time to want to buy shade and privacy what with the gas, the food, and both the electric and natural gas company just sent out notices of increase. Now is the time we should be cutting back, not being all spoiled and going out and buying shade just because we want to. That just sounds bad, huh?

But I'm planting hope right? Hope for someone else years down the line to be able to enjoy the shade, the leaves and changing of the seasons, for the wildlife that has been displaced to find new homes in new trees and for all of us to get back that little sense of nature that we enjoyed even though we live right in the middle of downtown. Put back what you take out. Isn't that a law in every household? Doesn't everyone already know that one? I do. And I am.

Note: we are in Zone 7 and if you have any suggestions for what kind of trees I should be looking for by all means pass it on. I need suggestions. Unfortunately, I have some time. Summers are brutal here and we'll have to wait for Fall to plant.
                          

        Before                                   During                                    After

Independence Day

And don't forget the backstory.

We Saw Purple Mountains Majesty On the Drive Down

I know. I know. I know. Am a very bad reporter. I've realized that I'm a Processor. I go and do and be and can't blog about it all while it is happening. I have to come back, decompress, sort it out and then I can tell you about it.

Down in TN: Met my new BFF in person. We talked, and talked and talked for 4 straight days. It's a good thing we don't live closer or we would never shut up and get anything done in real life. As it was, I went down to help out Sumgirl with the kids and the moving and the packing and the painting. We painted one room. I took my 11 years of gymnastic experience and taught her kids how to do handstands against the walls. (You're welcome for the footprints.)  I think I developed a crush on her husband. We moved a handful of boxes. And we talked and we talked and we talked.... I also met AT and Bell. He is quite the rogue and she was horrible and mean and nasty. -Kidding. Still stunned by the miracle that is the internet, we chatted over a couple of beers and it felt like we were all old buddies. I didn't start a blog to make new friends but it's a totally great side effect!

It was our first trip to TN and Bratface and I had a fun little mother/daughter roadtrip. Such lovely country. The mountains, the horse farms and the fresh, fresh air made it such a tranquil drive. It was also an educational experience since, apparently, they don't teach navigational skills in our school system and her's could {ahem!} use some perfecting. We took the scenic route on the way down to the tune of an extra hour because my co-pilot {ahem! ahem!} skipped three steps on the Mapquest directions and we got all jacked up.

I came home to my flowers blooming all over the place
but no vegetable garden. The groundhog to people population in my backyard is now perfectly imbalanced. Our under-the-shed-living pal went off and had five babies! They strip everything to the ground except pole beans. I want to trap and relocate them. Jefferson is at peace with them. We're at an impasse. I pulled up the raised garden beds in protest. So for the second summer in a row the farmer's market and I are going to be pretty tight.

Which isn't all bad. We're big fans of whole food and try to eat food in it's natural state that hasn't been processed, boiled, blanched, reduced, baked, or otherwise cooked to the point that the vitamins and nutrients have all been removed as often as possible. Of course, I cook plenty! I am a foodie you know, but summertime is the perfect time to eat whole food as much as possible because of the bounty of fresh local produce that just needs a little preparation,  or mixing up,  then boom - dinner is done. My kind of supper.

Last evening we had sliced fresh tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and crushed black pepper, corn on the cob and cooked but fresh black-eyed peas (fresh! while they're green - not dried. Hard to find around here. If you have access, mail me some, pretty please) with sauteed onion and sage and homemade cornbread. Easy. Healthy. Yummy.

I'm taking these to a Fourth of July cookout this afternoon. Man I love summer food!

Bean and Tomato Salad
White beans (used canned navies today)
tomato (fresh, chopped)
cucumber (fresh, chopped with peel for more nutrients)
artichoke hearts  (chopped)
sweet onion (finely chopped)
basil (chopped)
olive oil, juice of one lemon and dash of salt to coat

Roadtrip Courtesy of AtomicTumor

The first blog I ever read was Amalah.com. I didn't have young children, have no idea how I stumbled upon Amy's page, don't know her in real life (IRL), had no interest in blogs or the blogoshphere but something about the way she writes instantly hooked me. I read her every day for a couple of weeks and even perused the (now gone) sister site at CafeMom where she noted happenings from around the blogging world. Occasionally, I would click links and soon I was immersed in this whole parallel universe - the internet world where total strangers can sometimes instantly feel like friends that you have known forever.

Within a week or two of my newly acclaimed addiction to Amalah (Oh, those were the days! My daily blog reads are close to out of control, now.) I read her sad report that GAC had died. I clicked and came upon the real-time tragedy that was ensconcing the AtomicTumor family/blog-village. GAC, AT's young wife, had died. I read back through a few of AT's posts and saw how just a couple of weeks prior there was a brief, minuscule mention that it appeared that GAC had the flu and wouldn't be trick-or-treating with her little boys that Halloween night. I was shocked and saddened beyond comprehension to see that a healthy, young, vibrant lady blogger who was fine just a couple of weeks earlier had come down with a mystery illness that quickly took her life. 

AT's writing was so poignant and raw. He was in shock, grieving, questioning, sometimes angry, reminiscently grateful for the time he and his children had with GAC, but always, always just plain old honest and true. And it was placed out there for all the world to see. Granted, I was new to the blogosphere, but this? This was my introduction to the fact that blogs are different than any other print medium I'd ever been exposed to. Often a piece of writing is spit-shined and polished, depersonalized and timeless, held on an editor's desk for months until just the right moment for publication. Through AT at AtomicTumor I realized that Blogs are real people's real lives. Oh, sure we all do some spit-shining and polishing not fully divulging every little detail of life, but for the most part a Blog let's you inside of someone else's little corner of the world. You learn the author's nuances, personality, likes and dislikes. You feel his pain, rejoice in his successes and live vicariously as a neighbor, or friend, watching and being involved in their day to day happenings.

The community that was fostered by that site still blows me away. I read many blogs now, a lot of the A-listers, etc., but I can attest that absolutely none of them seem to have the same personal slant and feeling of friendship and bonding that was instantly manifested at AtomicTumor. IBack when I was known as "VA Bluebelle" the shoutbox (an IM type widget placed on a blog's front page where you could converse in real time pre-Twitter) became the water cooler for a number of people to hang around, standing beside AT during his long, long nights as a new widower and single dad just trying to make it through another day. We would laugh, joke and debate together and on really fun nights would just drunk-talk the night away. Community - it was so there.

AT's life has moved on. He's remarried to a lovely lady and his boys and he are in good hands. AtomicTumor and the shoutbox are now defunct but it's legacy lives on by the many blogs it is responsible for spawning, Prattle Inc. included, and the friendships that were formed there. I count in my heart as "real friends" many of the folks I met at that site and still visit some of them (Sumgirl natch - she'll be back. Mark my words., Deserved Indulgence,and CameraShy) through daily blog reads and some email exchange.

Bratface and I are making our first trip ever to Tennessee later this week to meet at least one of my friends in person. It is too exciting to think that I will finally see, speak to and break bread with a pal that I've been so intimately engaged with by way of the written word for so long. I can't wait.

Thanks, AT. Without your blog I would still think that the Oak Ridge Boys were the only cool people in Tennessee.

Like Sand Through the Hourglass

Holy smokes, Batman! The woman who went directly from child to "with child" is almost child-free. Almost.

On Friday, the great milestone of my youngest son's HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION (gulp!) culminated in cocktails on the lanai with assorted members of the family, one straggler and an internally weepy mother. At the young, young, young dammit! age of 37 I now seriously have two adult children. Whoa.

Tee left his mark on the ceremony by being mentioned in the valedictorian's address to the class and also by his impeccable sense of style. He is a strange man-child, adores wearing the suit that we bought him last year and would wear it and the shiny, black shoes daily if he could. Funerals? He'll be there just so that he can sport the suit. Celebrations? "Say it's formal, Mom, say it. I love those shoes." My son was easily spotted in the crowd of graduates. He was wearing an oxford shirt and shorts but only his bare legs, black socks and shiny, black, square-toed dress shoes could be seen under the cap and gown.

Back to the weepy Mom part...so I have only one child in school, and technically at home now. Have I mentioned, whoa? Just yesterday I was a single mom working, working, working, scrambling to get dinner on, homework done and wrestling dirty kids into bath then schlepping laundry and signing papers at midnight to turn right around and bribe, cajole, threaten three little ones out of bed and into their school clothes at o'dark thirty. Then I would haul them all to school with strict orders for "Everyone sit on your hands, right now, do it!" to alleviate the inevitable "He's touching me." "Am not." part of the morning. For a few years they rode the bus. I was always the youngest mom at the bus stop and ALWAYS mistaken for the older sister (that is still delicious when it happens, though it is rarer these days. Now I occasionally get "girlfriend". Whee! 37 ain't so bad, no sir.) on the first day. After a mere six hours, they'd come home in the afternoon or have the bus drop them off at my work and our little clan would be all up in each other's faces for the next eleventy-million hours. Every single day.

Since I gave birth to Jobie at sixteen and then grew two more children within the next seven years, I have sometimes felt that I would never, ever, ever be alone. There were always children, their friends, the neighbors, and/or relative's kids hanging on or around the porch, the house, me.

Now Jobie lives elsewhere. At 21 he comes by to visit a few times a week poking through the fridge and hauling laundry to do. Tee, rarely at home anymore anyway, is currently at the beach (faithfully calling me once daily to report that no one got busted the night prior) and next week will start working full time for the Company during the summer. He hopes to earn enough money to place deposits on an apartment by the end of the month with a couple of buddies who will also be attending community college in the fall.  Bratface and her menagerie of eight Besties have decided  that each of them will only come home this summer if she is allowed to have at least 6 of the others in tow. Needless to say they are touring the city. None of us parents are willing to take on seven to nine girls each and every day, and if you do the Math each girl has actually only spent a couple of nights in their own bed so far.

Thus far, summer has been great. Jefferson and I are in kind of a honeymoon phase, the first time in our lives that we are child-free. I have looked forward to this moment for 22 years. The house is clean! I am actually looking for clothes to wash to make up a full load! Making dinner for two is a dream. Without any kids in the house we run around naked all night and dance and sing and spill tequila on the pot plants.

Yesterday I called Bratface at her friend Em's house to ask when she would be coming home.

I was bored.

Coffee Italian Style

The final stop on Wedding Tour 2008 was at the Jersey shore. Four more days of camaraderie, drinking, dranking, drunken, this time a beach! and of course, some nuptials. It's been a long party, over the past three weddings I have injected ingested more alcohol into my system than that of any other time my entire life, including that little window that I barely remember from my young twenties. The tip of my liver can now be seen if you hold a flashlight to my mouth and look down my throat. That's how large and spongy it has grown.

Funny thing happened on the way to the shore. We went into a coffee bar and it was owned by Italians. Funny because only 3 days prior, we had been in Italy, where they drink a lot of espresso (but tons more wine Whee! cries Kel-Liver), and the Italians, both here and there, are now personally responsible for my new and improved coffee education.

Coffee Lesson from the New Jersey Italians: First off, the Jersey coffee shop owned by Italians did NOT even bat an eye when I asked for an iced latte and for this I was so grateful (see: Coffee Lessons from Italians in Italy). The best and most glorious thing about my iced latte though, aside from the fact that I was hung over, had slept through breakfast, it was noon, 100 degrees in the shade and I really, really wanted it, was that the ice cubes were made of frozen espresso.  I kissed Mama Rosa square on the lips. WHY didn't someone think of this before? I hate, hate, hate it when the ice starts to melt and my coffee/milk combo gets all watery. When the frozen espresso melts - you get MORE ESPRESSO! And it's cold! Double your flavor and your money. If you have an at-home espresso machine (you've heard about mine, right? It's my BFF) Go. Now. Fill up an ice-tray with espresso for your 5 p.m. iced latte on the lanai*.

*Sidenote/Tangent: Have I ever told you that I once read that Katherine Hepburn had a standing appointment at 5 p.m. every afternoon with a cigarette and glass of chardonnay on the lanai? Have I ever told you that since then Jefferson and I now emulate this with iced coffee every evening in the summer on the back deck? Because I am so Kate Hepburn-ish. Like that time the wide-wide leg, stovepipe pants came out earlier this year I ran right out and bought a pair because she always looked so swanky in them and as you can tell, if someone told me that Kate ate iron ore with fried mice turds every morning at 3 I'd be all over that, too. Unfortunately, yet again I was reminded that trying on clothing in the actual store before the actual purchase is always a good thing. Now I'm stuck with another pair of brand new pants that I'll never wear or be bothered to take back as having it appear as though one's legs are the same width as one's giant ass is not so very attractive on certain people. 

Coffee Lesson from Italians in Italy A.K.A. How To Really Piss Off a Roman:
Rome, our first day in Italy. The flight landed at 11 a.m. Italy time, 5 a.m. to our east coast U.S. bodies.  Then the major clusterfuck at the airport regarding our ATM card getting rejected for three full hours began. No money, no food, tired. Seriously grouchy - all of us. Finally the hours ticked by and the bank in the U.S. opened. I call to complain that the bank was NOTIFIED of our trip, dammit! and we desperately wanted to leave the airport, and the children were starving and we were penniless in Rome and HOW THE HELL COULD THIS BE HAPPENING? That's when Brad, the very nice bankteller who did not hang up on me at the end of the call as I rightly deserved, asked me if I'd had the cash withdrawal maximum upped to figure in the conversion rates. Sure, I knew about the $300 limit, I was only trying to take out 250, but, conversion rates? Did he say conversion? Heh-heh. Oopsy! Sorry, family. Muh-wah! Love ya!  <---- Did I tell them the truth about how I kept trying to take out 250 EUROS, which is $389 U.S. dollars? For THREE HOURS? Of course I told them. That fucking bank! They're always screwing things up. wink wink

Finally, at around 4p.m. the kids were settled in the hotel in Rome. Jefferson and I were in desperate need of an espresso. We found an empty coffee bar and sidled up. The young lady who worked there and her guy were enjoying their solitude. They were forehead to forehead, holding hands and looking deeply into each other's eyes. When she looked up to see us enter her entire demeanor changed; obviously we were intruding. Jefferson whipped out his very best Italian (not!) and ordered a cappuccino. Jefferson's pitiful Italian spoken loudly and slowly (because all people who speak another language are retarded and deaf, right?) did nothing to endear us to her. The look of disgust from the barista was physically painful.  She slammed the spoon, jerked to machine levers and shoved the tiny (no sizes in Italy - little shots for everything) cup at him¹.

I then ordered a latte². At first she just looked at me like I was crazy, then fire, real live flames, shot from her eyes when she asked me in Italian if I wanted it hot. When I tried to ask for "iced"³ her eyes rolled out of her head and shot across the room when she replied "No ice". I shrugged and said ok while attempting to be invisible. It was apparent that we were stupid. And bothering her. Jefferson started walking to the door to sit outside. She flew around from the espresso machine and yelled at us that we couldn't take the ceramic mugs outside. If we were going to drink outside, we should have asked first, she said. Then she handed me my steaming, hot glass of MILK**!  I took it over to the bar and Jefferson and I looked at it a minute, took a sip and then just as the barista returned to sit down with Boyfriend, I went back up to the bar and ordered an espresso to go with my milk**. I was smart enough to never look her in the eye and to quickly dodge  the flames this time.   

Jefferson and I mixed the milk into my espresso, slurped it up quickly and got the hell out of there. We thought we'd just interrupted young love and that our sad, touristy attempt at Italian was the cause of the brunt of the barista's annoyance but no...we also found out later that:

¹ Cappuccino is a breakfast drink in Italy. Apparently there is absolutely no deviation to this rule. J could have ordered an espresso, a macchiato, even an Americana at 4 in the afternoon and been just fine but it is a special show of ignorance to order cappuccino. We didn't get that memo.

² Latte is Italian for milk. Creamy, white, cow's milk. Which I ordered a warm glass of at 4p.m. on a hot, sunny afternoon. D'oh! What I was looking for is called cafe latte in Italy, you've got to ask for the coffee. The next barista, who spoke English, gave me that memo.

³ Ice seems to be a luxury in Italy and is not always available, even in restaurants.

Coffee, I had no idea how much there was to learn. (Espresso ice cubes! Brilliant, I tell ya.)

Teaser

Popped home this morning at 1 a.m. Dirty laundry owns my ass. Emails and call backs and business crap, too. Kids back to school with jet-leg, just in time to start exams.

Kelliqua, the very bad blogger, did have internet access while in Italy but puh-lease - Rome, Pisa, Lucca, San Gimignano, Siena, Sovicille, Torri, Florence. A wedding where the hairstylist/makeup artist was flown in from Milan. Lived in a luxurious compound built over a thousand years ago with 24 relatives. Experienced Rome at night - twice!  Ate, ate and ate some more. Drink, drank, drunk. Walked, walked, walked. Marveled at the beauty that is everywhere, in every form. "Owned" an Alpha Romeo for a week (my husband licked that car clean thrice daily - with his tongue) and drove over 800 miles of Tuscan countryside. So many things to squeeze into what felt like 40 seconds.
I FUCKING LOVED ITALY! 
Oh, and I took over 800 pictures. Y'all are so doomed.


           

         

         

        

*Typepad has changed some things around. I don't know why the thumbnails won't embiggen.

 

May I Be Frank, Frank?

Seriously, and I am being so serious with this question, do brides outside of my little world actually wear lingerie? 

Hell, me and most of my inner circle girlfriends don't even own pajamas. Au naturale, baby.

I Am Obsessed - or Possessed -OR WHATEVER

• "I have to book two nights in Rome for our stay around arrival and departure days. Why the fucking fuck is traveleurope.com* STILL down?"
• "Where the hell is the battery charger for the camera?"
• "Will dark brown silk suffice as a Little Black Dress?"
• "Who's in charge of socket converters?"
• "Why aren't all of your clothes ready for the cleaners?"
• "You'd better get on the phone with her right now, missie! I do not recall loaning out EVERY PIECE of our luggage!"
• "NO, NO, NO, Jefferson! The seer-sucker pants and the brown striped shirt do NOT count as "cocktail attire."

                  10 Days until we leave for the Italy Wedding.

*Hint: for a family of four a bed and breakfast and/or a serviced apartment is often cheaper (and nicer) than the available hotel accommodations.

The Fucking Fish Weighs More Than Four Pounds

My step sister, the hair stylist, has a brand new baby! Aww!

You didn't know that she was having a baby? Well neither did we! Or, for certain, she.

For years my brother in law and she had intimated that they were pretty much d-o-n-e done with the baby-brewing since they already had a 19 year old severely autistic son and 15 year old daughter and were quite happy with that kid to parent ratio. So when she told me two weeks ago that "Your new niece has been born," I was more than a little taken aback. More than a little, like a lot, as in "WHAT THE FUCK are you talking about?" We're fairly close, we talk weekly, she cut Bratface's hair just three weeks ago - how could she NOT have mentioned, and how could we NOT have noticed her pregnancy for all of these months?

Well, she wasn't pregnant. She had taken a teen-aged client with an unwanted pregnancy under her wing and she and her husband even agreed to adopt the baby if the teen parents decided to give her up, but didn't tell any of us because she wasn't 100% sure it was going to work out that way. Then the baby came early, and now my sister is a new mother and we are all happy and surprised and everyone and their dog (doesn't this make you crazy?) has been scouring the planet, but mostly Target, for bassinets, and glass bottles and onesies and sleepers in preemie size.

The sweetest little pea in the entire pod was born at just 34 weeks gestation and is perfectly perfect and healthy in every way except that she is SO INCREDIBLY TINY but she is a whopping (in Preemie World) 4.7 pounds now and is at home with her family right this second!

I get to babysit once a week while my sis works.

Damn straight there will be photos.

Panic at the Disco, If My Kitchen Table Can Be Called the Disco

I like to say I work better under pressure but that's really just an excuse for Procrastination being my middle name.

Thirty days from now I will be on a plane with a jumbo sized bag of "popcorn" a.k.a.nicotine gum for the eight hour ride to Italy. (I think it's 8 hours. Somebody help me out, math and conversions are not my thing. We leave Kennedy in NY at 7p.m. and arrive in Rome at 10 a.m. Did I do the time change right?) Sure, I could try to quit smoking before the trip, but I hear Italy is very smoker-friendly. Why torture myself my family in a country where smoking seems to be embraced? Anyhoo, it has suddenly dawned on me that there are VERY IMPORTANT things that must be accomplished prior to the trip.

Like my teeth. Sure, I haven't been to the dentist since 2004, which I didn't realize until the receptionist tsk-ed me when she pulled my chart, but all of a sudden it seems imperative that I have the two wisdom teeth pulled that came in when I was pregnant with Tee, ahem, 19 years ago.  Because who goes to Italy with two whole extra teeth in their mouth? So declasse'.

Also, I notified the school that the kids would be absent for the trip. Thinking that thirty days prior would be plenty of time, I hadn't exactly sweated this detail. Turns out that the principal has to personally approve the trip and that I will have to explain why it is so important that my children are not sitting mindless and numb during Standard of Learning reviews, instead jet-setting to a foreign country and completely wasting their public education. Item: Compose letter to principal  without an ounce of sarcasm included that pleads for excused absences for this potentially once in a lifetime opportunity. Note to self: Do not point out that Italy has no legal drinking age and that Tee anticipates a big majority of his cultural education to include such phrases as "Youthful, leggy, deeply colored." or "Heavily beaded. Pale, cool climate." 

The across the street neighbor is keeping Sadie while we are away. He's a Dog Park kind of guy. We are not Dog Park kind of people - love the dogs, despise the owners. Also the dog catcher routinely patrols the Dog Park and fines those who do not have the city enforced dog tag. Item: go down to City Hall and pay the fracking $5 for the little tin tag shaped like the state of Virginia already.

Bratface has needed an eye exam since December. I felt no guilt whatsoever and blamed the procrastination on thrift and frugality (she still had three pairs of contacts left in the box!) until last week when she took them out for the night - then dropped and stepped on her only pair of glasses. Seriously, the poor child needs a cane and seeing eye dog to navigate from bathroom to bedroom. Item: optical appointment asap.

You sure got some pretty teeth, boy. Tee heard about my impending dental exam and begged me to schedule a cleaning for him. WTF? Whose kid is this anyway? Item: self-employed, non-insured, self-pay VANITY cleaning scheduled for the same day as my appointment. You'll be proud that I offered no retort whatsoever to the receptionist who noted the irony of the mother who neglects her own dental hygiene until a problem, or a trip, occurs and the son who would gladly show up weekly if permitted.

P.S. This is not procrastination. After a total of 11 new test-patches, I'm just tired.

Dare I Say I Had Fun?

Whew! One wedding down, three to go.

Little sister is hitched!

She made it with only a slight crimp in the program. The tiny problem that was realized exactly 2.5 hours before the wedding was that all of the hydrangeas in her bouquet and all of the hydrangeas, which were the ONLY flower used, for the seven bridesmaids' bouquets had died overnight.

Scene: Seven bridesmaids on cell phones, three soliciting husbands to Save the Day, and four calling every florist, grocery store with a floral shop, and maybe even one of them tried a cemetery in town attempting to round up enough hydrangeas in the exact shade of blue that would be needed to remake eight bouquets.

Simultaneous Scene: Bride bawling and inconsolable in the bathroom.

In the end, it all worked out and the whole thing turned out perfectly.

*Note: Hydrangeas are so delicate that they must clipped underwater. Remember that from now on.

**Also, I'll be back to the posting soon. At this time my every waking moment is being spent stuffing my face with the leftover 5 gallons of the most delectable spinach-artichoke dip on the continent and paring down the 14 bottles of wine that I was left to dispose of. I'm drinking as fast as I can. (Don't judge. Is it my fault that this house doesn't have enough cabinet space?)

I'm 9 Years Old All Over Again

If you lived in the DC metro area during the 70's and 80's you're going to appreciate this. Otherwise, it's still so catchy that you'll have to sing the theme to the "Love Boat" ten times* to get it out of your head.

* That's the cure for getting rid of that song that just won't go away. Sure, you end up with "the Love Boat" theme stuck in your head then, but it works.

Mission: Make A Decision Already

This has gone on far too long.

I MUST make a decision RIGHT NOW. The fam will be here in four days, flying in from all points North and South to behold the spectacle of little sister Keebo's wedding. For four months the areas currently paint-patched by purple (Flexible Grey? Very flexible. Don't get me started...) has been sampled by no less than seven different colors.

I need help and I need it badly.

Fact: This is an interior room, our mock living room to be exact. There are no windows whatsoever. On the brightest, sunniest day a lamp must burn at full force in this room.

Fact: I'm over the current yellow paint. It doesn't match the acquired artwork I wish to hang and it is hard on the eyes when reading at night.

Fact: I am a big reader.

Fact: The fucking fish is STILL a bone of contention. Can I tell you that I painted the front door? The one that a person, such as my husband, walks in and out of forty times a day. Can I tell you that it only took him five days to notice that it was no longer blue, but burnt orange? Now the fucking fish? SEVENTEEN MINUTES. That's how long it took him to notice that I had stealthily removed it from it's out-of-the-way spot last week while he was out in the yard and hid it in a closet.

I implore you, my artistic friends, please,
please give me some advice on a color for this room that will flow with the rest of the wall colors.

I'm this close to calling it a day and just going with basic and boring antique white.

For Now

When the black walnut and oak trees are bare I see the man I've never met walk to the bathroom in his boxers about thirty times a night. He, or his wife(?), hang pants to dry on hangers on their screened in back porch. The teenager at the house beside the old man's performs choreographed dances over and over again in her bedroom. This house's screened porch is filling up quite nicely and I'm sure they call it a storage room. Six houses behind and vertical I can tell when a couple of my friends are up or if they have gone to bed for the night.

The white blooms of the "popcorn trees" all around town have already begun to wither. The flowers are beginning to green and leaf out and now it's called the "pee-pee tree" because those gorgeous bursts of spring turn out to have the absolute worst fragrance - ammonia, and it is strong. Once the Bradford pear trees start going to leaf the bigger trees are right on their tails.

Soon my "friends" will be invisible again until fall.

Oh, Hi

Windows open. Temps in the 60's and 70's for over a week.

Spring, come to Mama!

I don't know the name of these flowers. Do you?

Learning Curve

Scene: Mother (Me) is sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket with laptop on lap like every other non-65 degree day. 18 year old Tee enters house holding numerous ATM slips.

Tee: "Mom, I think something's wrong with my (three month old) bank account."

Mom: "Oh?"

Tee: "Look at these balances. I don't know what's going on. Yesterday my account balance said $134.20, but the day before it only said $100.15. Then today I get this one: $168.25. I don't get it. Are you putting money into my account for me?"

Mom:  "Dream, pal. Let's pull up your account online and see what's going on."

Scene: Mom and Tee peering at computer screen.

Mom: "Tee! Remember in Math how a little minus sign in front of a number means a negative?"

Tee: "Yeah."

Mom: on the verge of losing her shit "And you know that if you put in $129 and spend $127 the same day, you only have $2 left?"

Tee: "Yeah."

Mom: "Then what are all of these debits for $2.05?"

Tee: "Gatorade for lacrosse practice."

Mom: "Hon, remember our talk about the $300 overdraft protection? How the bank will honor the draft but will charge you $32 for each transaction all the way up to the $300 limit? And how you were going to never EVER rely on that money?"

Tee: " ------"

Mom: "You do realize that all of these Gatorades cost you $34.05 EACH?"

Tee: "But Mom, if the debit card doesn't get declined how am I supposed to know I am out of money?"

Mom: Falls forward bonking head on computer. Dies. The End.

Branching Out

My personal handbag of choice has been my mini-Jansport backpack for oh, I don't know, 17 years now. It started out as my way of rebelling against diaper bags. Diaper bags that were way too large and only came in styles that were garish and cutsey - duckies, rainbows, baby blue or pale pink.  A minimalist, even when my children were babies, my little backpack was just the right size to hold a diaper, extra set of clothes, a snack or two and serve as my purse at the same time, because really, what parent needs to haul around a farking suitcase in addition to a baby? Such the perfect bag! Fully machine washable and stylish. My little backpack has served me well over the years and I still carry it today.

Sometimes, though, even a mini-backpack is too big or inappropriate for the occasion. A number of years ago I discovered Maruca Designs. A big fan of all things textile, I fell in love with the fabric first. Then I received my little bag. It was a style that they no longer make, an in-between size version of the City Girl (pg.7) and the New Yorker (pg.17). The heavens opened up, angels sang and petals fell from the sky. I LOVED my simple, chic-yet-earthy, worn diagonally over-the-shoulder, bag that was just the right size for wallet, checkbook, tampons and cigarettes. (Shut up.) It was perfect with jeans or my little black dress.  I machine washed it a thousand times and traded back and forth between, or carried it simultaneously with the mini-backpack (the bag is small enough to fit inside the mini-backpack and still have lots of room) for years. Sadly, about a month ago the strap finally broke, but good and can't be fixed.

Look what I found on ebay, cheap, cheap - woot! It will be in my hot little hands on Tuesday.

And maybe I'm growing up (finally) or just feel the need for the first time in my life NOT to look like a hostel-staying college student with my old nylon (normal sized) backpack as my carry-on luggage because look what else caught my eye for the Italy trip:

Hands off, I say. The auction is still going on and I fully plan on winning. Please don't bid. I would hate to have to hunt you down and stab you in the eye. But know that I WILL IF I HAVE TO.

Badass

A commercial for Schweppes products involving the slowest of slow mo. And water balloons.

A Fly In My Soup

My father is a baby boomer. His childhood in the 50's and early 60's was just like what we all picture in our minds. He was the child of blue-collar factory workers who had lived through the Great Depression. He had a paper route, collected stamps, and gathered soda bottles for the deposit money. My dad tells stories of saving box-tops for prizes, listening to radio shows and jotting off essays and letters to every contest that was announced. 

And bygod, if you were sold a defective or inferior product! Back in the day brand loyalty and production of  quality services and goods was the norm. There was no throwing out a defective or damaged item, or just accepting the fact that the product that you had spent hard-earned money on would last for only a short time, like we do now. Times were different, money was harder to come by and consumers had high expectations of manufacturers/producers. If something was amiss you returned the product or wrote a letter of complaint. No matter if nothing came of it, in my father's family and many others during the 1950's and 60's, it was considered your civic duty to notify the company/store/manufacturer of the transgression.

The day I was 8 years old and opened a can of chicken noodle soup to find not one, but two flies floating on top of the congealed fat that rises to the top was my first induction into the familial belief system as described above. Dad laid out a pen and paper on the table and carefully tore off the label to inspect for a company address. I was encouraged to compose a letter politely and respectfully describing the problem as I saw it. He advised that I should use the letter as a means of informing the company of the insects in my soup, rather than as a reason to rant or complain. He also made me look up and learn the proper name for the common housefly to incorporate in the letter. (Musca domestica. I still remember.) I mailed it off immediately.

A few weeks later I received an apology letter from the Campbell Soup company accompanied by a case of chicken noodle soup and enough "Free" coupons for another.

The lesson I learned from this might have sparked my inner geek as well as my interest in writing, because after that I became the Queen of letter writing. I saved cereal box tops and sent away for free toys. On behalf of my dark-haired friend Nicole who was never able to find a doll that looked like her when we played together, I wrote my suggestion to Mattel Corporation for Barbie dolls to be produced with jet-black hair and hazel eyes. (Yes, at the age of 9 I personally started the Barbie Realism Revolution. Now you know.) At Dad's urging I wrote to a local tv station about their program scheduling and the reply letter contained free tickets for our entire family to the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus.

A few weeks ago I hastily dashed off an email to a publishing house suggesting that they republish an out of print book that I consider timeless. The (oh so poorly written) email was redirected to the actual editor of the very well known author. Gulp! She personally replied and we've had a few small exchanges. As of today there are two newly released books being sent to my daughter free of charge and I have direct contact with an editor of a major publishing house in the event that I ever consider querying any of my own writing. {Edited: The exchanges were quite friendly. We talked about our mutual love of the book. She said that some of this author's books are being brought out of the closet soon and she'd already wanted to recommend this one for reprint. She was grateful for the timing of my unsolicited email.}

Quick - I need teen novel ideas to pitch while the lines of communication are still open!

Finally

SUCCESS!

It's the piercing. Backstory here and here and here.

Hello Blank Page

Staring at this page for days now, I can't seem to find my jo or my mo regarding what I should place in this space. Shall I report on my tv viewing of the past two weeks? Probably not. Two episodes of Wildfire with Bratface doesn't really call for a play-by-play or running commentary. How about what I had for lunch? No? You don't care? Right, me neither.

Maybe a wedding report... .   

The Italy Wedding. I'm getting more excited, but more apprehensive as well. Our trip has been extended to 11 days. Eleven days with 32 people. Very shiny, happy people. People who are do-ers and joiners. People whose idea of a good time is to do every single thing together. "Let's ALL go out for a picnic. Let's ALL make dinner together. Let's ALL take a walk after dinner. Let's ALL go check out this gallery, then we'll play games all night and no, there is no opt-out." This type of togetherness is not for everyone. Like introverts. It really takes a toll on me. I have discovered that I have a three day threshold for family visits and that all of the over-stimulation requires seven days of peace, quiet and recuperation. In doing the math I expect a full recovery from Eleven Days of Togetherness, even if it is in Italy, by late July or early August.

I helped out at little sister's bridal shower, just like a good bridesmaid should. We had a sisterly tiff. So that was fun. The other two weddings (remember? Four of them from 5/12 - 6/6) are far less painful but that in no way absolves them. My "i hate weddings" mantra is only growing stronger by the day.

This Podunk Town

I know that y'all think I'm stalling. Or that I'm just plain full of shit.

You must understand, in some ways the itty bitty city that I live is quite cosmopolitan. We have theatre and music and artists galore. We have six SuperTargets (mind you), 12 sushi houses, countless art galleries, museums, survived a major war battle and Main Street closes yearly for the Gay Pride Festival.  We have a University, a 10 Year Plan and bus and train service, dammit.

I have a neighbor/friend who is a Pulitzer Prize winner. Two guys I went to high school with, one in my class, the other was a year ahead, are Olympic gold medalists. Another pal is a Grammy award winning musician. In kind of a way our little town has got it going on. We, the people of Itty Bitty City, can ACCOMPLISH THINGS.

So why the fuck can't I seem to get my nose pierced? Let's see - nose piercing? versus a Pulitzer Prize? Hmmmm....which one would a resident of Itty Bitty City be more likely to be able to obtain?

Yesterday, the NAI piercer was back at work. She kindly called me as soon as she got in and told me that the shop in D.C. where she was going to pick up my preferred nose screw { I didn't know that it was called that... I don't think I like it} was out of stock. She said they had to order it. Order it? Does she know who she is talking to?

I co-own a business, forcripessakes. That is so key-word for "I forgot about you, dear client, who I really want to retain now that I've remembered -----"

*Now just erase this whole conversation from your mind. Forget I told you about it. I was not aware that getting a nose piercing around here would take as long as my PhD. would if I aspired to mastering quantum physics. (Ha!)

One day I'll just pop up with a lovely, tasteful, nose piercing and that will be that. Hopefully next** Monday.

**How many times can one say "next" and still be grammatically correct?

-----------------------------------

If I disappear completely for a year or twenty, don't worry, I'm fine. Jefferson has just discovered Permaculture and he's meticulously plotting our escape from this current life.

In the meantime, we're talking about using the back roof, which is sun favored and flat, for cultivating/starting seeds in pallets with screen and cover. As of last year the trees in our tiny back yard block too much sun for any vegetable seed to start. They didn't come up and I had to use transplants. Small, flat, portable greenhouses - that's what I'm thinking. 

Don't "Go Joe!"

For almost a solid year he wore that pair of faux fur lined, navy blue, rubber snow boots everyday. That first winter they served their intended purpose and protected his little feet from the frosty elements. Come Spring, we reasoned at his protest against any other form of sneaker, shoe or boot, they kept his feet dry. He called them his fire boots or his army boots. He played in them, napped in them and wore them to preschool and story time at the library.

By Summer the fur was a matted dingy gray, the metal grommets that held the laces to gather and tighten at the calf had fallen off and the waterproof fabric on the upper part was torn in many places. They smelled so rank that no amount of overnight machine washing, only after he was sleeping could we pry them off his feet, would remove the stench. He still wore them everyday with shorts and no shirt when it was 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. At the age of 3 and 4 a child grows so quickly that no pair of shoes lasts very long and by the time I had to secretly dispose of the "fire boots", blaming the trashman for taking them when I had left them outside to dry, they were two sizes too small. Sadly, we have no evidence of that famous part of my son's childhood other than the retold story and a photo or two.

Jobie's childhood passions consisted of legos, "army men" (G.I. Joes), matchbox cars and anything firefighter related. With legos he was never really interested in the sci-fi sets, his favorite things to build were real life action vehicles - police cars, ambulances and fire trucks. Tee was pretty into legos too, and ofttimes the brothers could come close to bloodshed over a single minuscule lego emergency light. In fact, to this very second I have one of the little round legos on my dresser mixed in with my  jewelery. I used to keep a stash of two or three for when the bickering got too intense, these puppies were pure gold around here then. Now the toy blue "siren light" is nothing but dusty sentiment that makes me smile every time I rifle through my earrings and it appears.

Needless to say, there is a very large plastic container in our attic that is filled to the brim with legos. I don't know, maybe I'm saving them for my grandchildren. Or maybe I just can't let go because those little plastic bricks cost a damn fortune and I personally invested the equivalent of three year's salary on their purchase over the span of two boys' childhood. Whatever the reason, I plan on keeping them forever.

G.I. Joes were also a very big deal to Jobie. Many a Christmas Eve night I was still out hunting down that specific Joe that would bring the squeal of excitement that only that special want, the heart's desire gift, his version of the Red Rider BB Gun, could elicit on Christmas morning.Tee was never as enthusiastic as Jobie about G.I. Joes, but often they'd hole up in their room acting out elaborate scenarios, playing together for hours. Jobie would haul the Joes outside for "jungle missions" and a few ended up decapitated by the lawn mower, or were found half buried in dirt piles. Eventually, the collection became quite extensive and it took a 14 gallon plastic storage container to hold them and their 8 frillion weapons and accessories. (Which by the way, I have always thought was part of the appeal since I was adamantly opposed to toy weapons. Inch long G.I. Joe guns and knives were as good as it got for them.)

Although legos and fire boots were outgrown sooner, the Joes had a much longer lifespan. Jobie has been too old to play with toys for quite awhile, but even through the 9th or 10th grade he would occasionally pull them out of the closet and just look them over or line them up. Only about a year ago did I finally clean, organize and sort the dolls (if I may be so bold - the boys always hated it when I called them that) to store away. 

Today Jobie came over and said that he needed to go up into the attic. He brought the box of Joes down. I caught him at the door. He's been unemployed for weeks now and thusly has no cash. He'd negotiated a sale for the entire box. I emotively begged him, then ordered him not to sell them. He belligerently replied "They're mine," and stomped out of the door.

After the past 6 years with the bipolar, the resulting substance abuse, bad choices and all of the other shit, sometimes my mind goes back to before all of that - to my little boy.   

He's wrong about that box being "his". My memories were in there, too. 

Deserves an A+ In My Book

(via opey.com)

A true story...

RECEIVED FROM AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR: This assignment was actually turned in by two of my English students:

Rebecca --last name deleted-- and Gary --last name deleted-- English 44A
SMU'S Creative Writing, Prof Miller

In-class Assignment for Wednesday. Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple.  Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right.  One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story.  The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story.  The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth.  Remember to reread what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent.  The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.

  ----------------------------------------------------------------

At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator.  "Polar orbit established.  No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay.

The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit. He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him.  Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4.  "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning.  The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth --  when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her.  "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

Little did she know, but she has less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles.  The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through Congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race.  Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet.  With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan.  The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded.  The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this!  I'm going to veto that treaty!  Let's blow'em out of the sky!"

This is absurd.  I refuse to continue this mockery of literature.  My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

Yeah?  Well, you're a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.

Asshole.

Bitch.

   True story.

In Lieu Of

No piercing yet. The NAI piercer comes here only once a week from D.C. (the real one, not code) and called in sick today. Bah! So once again I proclaim that next Monday I will show you the teeny sparkle of a speck that I so anticipate.

Your consolation prize is a recipe.

Maintain your excitement.

Really though. This one is a gem. With a side of steamed asparagus (drizzled with lemon and butter) and  warm bread our dinner was on the table in less than 30 minutes and it was fabulous, even teen approved.

It is based on a recipe from Gourmet magazine. Yeah. But lest I remind you that just because it's printed in Gourmet magazine doesn't always mean (like I think it should mean) that you will have guaranteed  success and wildly flavorful results? You should have been here for the macaroni and cheese with 3 types of saute'd mushrooms, soured milk and expensive cheeses recipe that I made from Gourmet last week. Two hours, four pans and I had to use the food processor later and do you know what came of it? Mac-a-fuckin-roni and cheese. With mushrooms. So NOT exciting. And most certainly not worth the FOREVER it took to make.

Aren't you glad I'm here for you to weed out the crappy, time-wasting recipes?

Here's the good one you've been waiting for:

Mahi-Mahi With Shiitakes and Red Miso
(adapted from this recipe via Gourmet)

4     (6 oz./1 inch thick) pieces mahi-mahi
1/2  T. olive oil
2     T. canola oil
1/4   lb.(-ish)   sliced shiitake mushrooms
2      (1/2 oz.) single serve packaged dehydrated red miso soup
1     scallion, thinly sliced

• Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
• In a small shallow baking pan place fillets then drizzle 1/2 T. olive oil and sprinkle with 1/2 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper.
• Toss mushrooms with remaining oil and 1/4 t. salt and pepper.
• Pour over and around fish.
• Roast fish and mushrooms, stirring mushrooms once or twice, until fish is just cooked through and mushrooms are somewhat crisp, about 13 minutes.
• Prepare miso soup as directed on package. (So easy - boiling water + pouch)
  
• Divide soup, mushrooms and fish into shallow plate or bowl. Top with scallion.

Maybe chicken would work, too?

Do it. You won't regret it.

I'm Laughing With You Not At You

Bratface accidentally shaved off half of her eyebrow...while shaving her armpits.

Sometimes it's hard to be the Mom and keep a straight face.

Mom Went to The Piercer and All She Got Was This Lousy Stud

I did it, y'all! I got my nose pierced. Left side.

However,  a great tattoo artist does not a great piercer make.

Immediately I could tell that something was wrong. It was located on the flat part of my nose more than I'd wanted. Also, the "screw" part of the stud was hanging out of my nostril. The piercing guy said you're supposed to be able to turn the stud around and the corkscrew will lay flat against the interior nostril.

Mine dug into my interior nostril when turned.

As soon as I got in the car I inspected it even closer and pretty much hated it.

I drove to a different tattoo parlor for a second opinion. The piercer there, a woman this time, agreed that I was right to be unhappy. The stud was inserted on an angle, not straight through, which caused the tail of it to either show or to poke me in the nose.  She also agreed that it should have been placed a bit farther back on the crease of the nose, not on the flatter part.

The New and Improved piercer removed it and I'm to le