what now?

Get Out!

2010-06-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

I have decided that I want to get out and see more this summer; too many previous summer vacations have been filled with trips to Target and the grocery store and not enough time spent doing cool stuff. Sure, we go on family trips and see things then, but on an every day basis I rarely seem to get out and explore my hometown. I always get so caught up in the humdrum that I lose sight of all the cool possibilities. But not this summer, baby.

Today I went to the U of M for the first in a series of free noontime concerts. The band was Romantica, who are awesome, but the weather was lousy. Pouring rain pushed the planned outdoor concert indoors, which meant I got to go inside Northrop Auditorium, a place I haven't been since the day I graduated - in 1991.

It's a beautiful old cavern of a building. The lighting was dim, mostly the rainy light from outside streaming in the open doors, and the place smells a bit like a wet dog, but the acoustics are brilliant, and the band was just twangy enough. And then Jimmy John's started handing out free sandwiches and chocolate ice cream. Very cool, indeed.

I Heart FLOTUS

2010-05-26T18:53:00.000-07:00

Michelle Obama = Coolest Woman in America

I Spy

2010-05-16T16:45:00.000-07:00

I have a certain fondness for people who don't close their curtains.

Especially the ones who have great big windows and keep their lights burning bright.

You see, I love to spy in their windows.

I promise there is nothing creepy about my predilection for peeping in people's windows when driving by at night. I simply enjoy seeing how the houses look inside, and by that I don't strictly mean the way they're decorated. It's more a matter of checking out the many ways in which we live in our homes.

Certain neighborhoods favor this pastime.

Historic districts are usually a sure thing for lots of interior viewing opportunities. There's a tendency for upscale renovations there, and who wants to cover up their painstakingly refurbished trim with a bunch of curtains? Pure viewing satisfaction. I love comparing those homes whose owners have gone strictly period and filled their home with furnishings to match the era of the house with those who've taken a decidedly modern turn and let their gothic moldings coexist with the clean lines of an Eames sofa and Danish teak end tables. I can't say I prefer one over the other; they are equals in my eyes.

There's one suburban development we drive by occasionally that turns my stomach a bit with tacky over-the-top opulence (topulence?). Does the big screen TV need to be that big? Does anyone who lives there actually play that grand piano? Isn't there a legal limit on the amount of wrought iron and granite a house can hold? I'm always struck by the fact that these homes tend to have all their lights on all the time, as if their inhabitants are never in the same room together.

In contrast, there's a house near ours where it seems as if every time we drive by, at least six people are gathered in their kitchen. Their patio doors (with no curtains) face the street, so I can always get a good view of their cramped kitchen, filled with knick-knacks and occupied chairs. They always look like they're having a good time - eating a meal, playing cards, talking around the table while someone washes dishes in the background.

When we travel, I get all excited riding in the shuttle from the airport. There's nothing quite like spying in windows in a new town. It helps remind me that other cities aren't just tourist attractions; actual people live their actual lives in these places. The other night we shuttle bussed our way past a house that had a beautiful two-sided fireplace connecting the kitchen and living room. I could see a man in the kitchen as he unpacked bags of groceries onto the countertops. Just a snapshot of a typical day, I know, but it still makes me smile.

Since my husband usually does the driving, he wasn't aware of my hobby until fairly recently. I think he figured it out when I tried to explain the exact location of something to him and used the phrase "by that house with the ugly blue floral sofa that used to sit by the window 'til they moved it to the other side of the room".

Twice the Legal Limit

2010-05-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

I am forty-two years old; therefore, my status as being old enough to drink is now, well, old enough to drink.

Funny thing is - I never have.

In high school when everyone else was experimenting, I wasn't interested.

By college, I'd seen enough friends puking in the shrubs outside some too-warm, too-noisy party to be at all tempted.

But now.
Now I'm interested.

I have decided that my summer project, as it were, will be to learn how to drink.
It's time.

I figure the first step is to figure out what kind of drinker I'll be.

I have enough life experience to know what I don't want: to have my husband come home some afternoon and find me sitting in a room all alone with the curtains drawn, listening to Morrissey and clutching half a bottle of something. No. That'd be bad.

I picture myself as more of a social drinker - a "cool beverage at the cook-out, surrounded by my friends" kind of a gal. That seems acceptable, yes?

Then, of course, I have to pick my poison.

Hmm, what'll I have?

Again, I start with the no-no's:
- nothing with a ridiculous name (fuzzy navel, sex on the beach, etc.)
- nothing so lamely sweet that seventeen year old girls and soccer moms think it's "yummy" (strawberry daiquiri, wine coolers, etc.)
- nothing that comes from a box
- nothing that comes from a slushie machine
- nothing you'd drink from a plastic cup at a frat party
- nothing they drink on Mad Men

Well, that narrows my list considerably.

I seem to be drifting toward beer, but my wise grandmother had me take a sip of hers when I was about four, and my disbelief that anyone would voluntarily drink that stuff lingers. Of course, she drank Walter's. And I was four.

I'm thinking that something from a microbrewery - something with an exceedingly specific flavor profile (perhaps involving honey or wildflowers) - might just be my bag. It needs to have just enough snob appeal to make sense in the hand of a lady of my age and discerning taste, but it can't be so yuppy pretentious as to be, yanno, unflattering.

Suggestions from the audience?

Why God Invented Cell Phones & Put Cameras in Them

2010-04-10T12:21:00.000-07:00

Behold, my neighbors' driveway ...

The picture doesn't have anything to give you a sense of scale, so you'll just have to trust me that my neighbors' kids used a warm spring day, their idle hands, and some sidewalk chalk to create this masterpiece that can be viewed from low-flying aircraft. Each letter's about five feet tall.

Their use of the exclamation point makes it all feel like an urgent command, which I find ironic, since my dog usually poops in their yard. (Yes, we pick it up.)

The Carpet and the Drapes

2010-04-04T07:23:00.000-07:00

I get my weekly horoscope emailed to me on Sundays. I don't actually take the words as truth, but it's kinda fun to see if life's events in any way follow the predictions from my friends at Astrocenter.

Okay, life never falls in line with the predictions, and I don't know how to unsubscribe.

The writing staff at the email horoscope service (which is probably comprised of different folks than the actual star-reading department, yes?) is getting a little sloppy lately - in a manner of which their English teachers would certainly disapprove. See if you can find the problem with this week's horoscope:

Live it Up! Your horoscope - Week of April 5, 2010
You approach life intensely, Scorpio. On Monday Mercury in your sector of open enemies squares aggressive Mars and you'll come up against someone who isn't on your side, to say the least. Before you aim your stinger, consider if your energy would be better spent creating a new lifestyle for yourself. You may become a mentor to a young person on Saturday. Remember that you have a lot to give to others, and they can benefit from your experience.

Now I ask you, which part of the actual horoscope has anything to do with the concept of living it up, as stated in the title? Hmm?

Shouldn't the title give a hint as to the main idea of the horoscope that is to follow?

Sure, mentoring a young person and giving to others are nice and all, but "live it up" is chock full of connotations - jetting off to Rio, dancing 'til dawn, splurging for the deluxe car wash, etc. Where's that stuff in the text of my horoscope?!

It ain't there, friends.
It just ain't there.

And I didn't even know I had a sector of open enemies.
Now I've got that to worry about.

Boys Rule

2010-03-31T17:35:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about boys a lot lately.
Not on purpose or anything.
I'll just be going along, minding my own, doin' what needs be done, and - whap! - thoughts of boys pop into my head.

Let me give you some examples ...

On the evening of February 13th, I was seated at our kitchen table next to my daughter. We were working on the task of assembling her Valentines to bring to pre-school. She'd picked out some at Target - pictures of cartoon monkeys and little monkey tattoos for each kid in her class. As she folded the cards and I stuffed the envelopes, I got a better look at the tattoos.

Damn.

All the monkeys had flowers in their hair - tucked behind one ear a la Dorothy Lamour in The Road to Bali. There were no monkeys wearing trucker hats or motorcycle helmets. Whatever would the boys think?! Would the boys be upset at these girlie monkey tattoos? Would they reject them and throw them on the floor in a rage?

Then I thought What's the big deal? I'm sure my daughter will get a boatload of Valentines with dump trucks and robots on them, and she'll like them. So, why do I get all worked up about whether or not the boys will be okay with something with flowers on it?

Because girls will accept things that are more stereotypically male, while boys turn up their noses at girl stuff.

Girls will read a book with a male protagonist, while boys bristle at reading one with a female lead character. I know

I'm speaking in generalizations here, but there's research - and more than a decade's worth of my own observations as a middle school teacher - to back these generalizations up.

I do not like this.
It feels wrong.
It seems to say It's still is a man's world, and women (including me) are trained to adjust and adapt to it.

And then last weekend, I was sorting through some of my daughter's toys - the ones she's outgrown and wants to "give to a baby". I was looking at some stacking rings, really nice ones made of wood, imported from France, painted with gorgeous bright colors and patterns.

Our friends' little boy is developmentally at the right stage to play with these, but then I noticed that two of the rings were pink. Hot pink, actually. And I found myself thinking Uh, oh! This might be too feminine for him.

Am I completely nuts?
The boy isn't even a year old yet!
He doesn't know what pink is!
Hell, he doesn't know what a boy is!
And here I am, worried that his parents are going to accuse me emasculating their son by giving him something a little too "pretty" to play with.

I was starting to think it was just me.
Surely, other women don't think like this.

Then at work today I was showing two (female) colleagues this awesome website called the Girl Effect. The three of us watched the video and were immediately moved and impressed and could absolutely see how it fit in with our curriculum and talked about showing it in class. ..

And then each one of us.
Independently.
Came up with the same worry:
How will the boys react?

Wow.

So, I know it's not just me who keeps thinking about boys, which is comforting.
But why are we always so worried about keeping them happy?

Probably because we're a bunch of girls.

My Reasons Are Threefold

2010-03-22T16:33:00.000-07:00

So, why did I order the DVD's of Freaks and Geeks, you ask?

1. It's a critically-acclaimed series I've never seen.

2. Netflix highly recommended it for me. (We've only been an item for about two weeks now, but I swear Netflix can see into my very soul.)

3. When I'm going to watch it, I have an excuse to proclaim to all within ear-shot that I'm, "... gonna get my geek on."

Maybe It's the Fever Talking ...

2010-03-20T09:51:00.000-07:00

Ghostbusters is one of the finest films ever made.

Thank you, Comedy Central, for making my sofa-bound Saturday tolerable.

Now, Wouldn't That Be Sweet?

2010-02-03T19:07:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things about traveling is seeing the diversity not just of people but of lives that exists.

There are just SO MANY possibilities.

Most places I've been have elicited some sort of what-would-my-life-be-like-if-I-lived-here? fantasy. Sometimes it's pretty vague and mild, but once in a while I go so far as to look at real estate listings on the interweb.

It's totally free escapist fantasy fiction, and I let myself indulge in it a bit every now and then.

I weigh the benefits of living in different Tokyo neighborhoods or ponder whether my Seattle home will be a slick downtown condo or a rustic home with a great view of Mt. Rainier. Then I go do the laundry or make dinner and generally get back to the business of living my real life.

Still, it's good to dream.

My most recent foray into the fantasy world of my imaginary other possible life is the clearest and most tempting of all. I can see it in my mind in such happy detail, I've informed my husband that, if I should one day simply disappear, this is where I will be.

I will live on Amelia Island in northeastern Florida. I will no longer be a teacher; instead, I will be waiting tables at the Happy Tomato Cafe. My days will be spent hanging out with the cool and congenial guys who run the place, serving up awesome BBQ sandwiches, and listening to classic indie rock on the radio. I'll put all my book-learnin' and pop culture knowledge to use in witty conversations with patrons - and will be utterly fulfilled by my days there. I will smile often, rarely fluster, and (possibly) get heavily into yoga.

So, if your imaginary other possible life self is ever in town, stop in for a lemonade.
My treat.

I'll Have What She's Having

2010-01-26T18:53:00.000-08:00

I'll never be a runner.
This is a fact I know about myself.

I've always blamed my lack of compatibility with running on my bad ankles.
And my distaste for being too warm.
Oh, and the pain;
I don't much care for the pain.
All of which are pretty good reasons for not running, but, as I recently discovered, these are not the real reasons why I cannot run.

Running, it turns out, makes me talk dirty.
Loudly.
And that's just not the sort of thing I can be doing around the neighborhood - in front of impressionable children and small animals.

I discovered my dirty, dirty runner's mouth thanks to my winter workouts with the Wii. Feeling all amped up and immortal after my forays into expert mode virtual boxing and rhythm parade (What?! It's a sport! Kinda.), I decided to give running a virtual whirl.

And it didn't kill me.
And I liked that it didn't kill me.
So I did it again.
Eventually, I got so full of my virtual runner self that I clicked on the RUN (LONG) icon on the screen.

I maintained a good pace and kept up with my Mii guide through the trail.
About halfway through, I started to realize that this long run was - spoiler alert! - longer and more difficult than the short runs had been.

To keep myself motivated (because I'm far too stubborn to just quit), I started yelling.
To myself.
Cheering myself on, I guess.

As I neared the virtual finish line, I realized what I'd been saying and how, um, wrong it sounded -

Yes!
That's it!
Keep going!
Do it! Do it!
You're almost there!
Uh-huh!
Keep it up!
That's right!
Yesssss!

Oh, and the big sigh of relief at the end did not help matters much either.

I cannot take this show on the open road.
Whatever would the neighbors think?!
One minute I'd be running along the lakeshore, then the going would get tough, and I'd turn into Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.

I like my neighborhood, and I don't want to have to move.

And that's why I'll never be a runner.
Really.

And I Quote

2010-01-14T18:47:00.000-08:00

Yes, I teach at a midwestern middle school.

Among all the other glorious craziness that comes with working with adolescents is the need for constant vigilance to make sure their t-shirts are appropriate.

Since I've been teaching for quite a few years, I've weathered the "Co-Ed Naked" years, the "Big Johnson" craze, and even the hoopla that was "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy".

I've awkwardly explained to a naive twelve-year old girl what her "Co-Ed Nighttime Football Practice: Bring Your Own Equipment" shirt referred to, and one of my female colleagues once had to educate a sixth grade ESL student as to what exactly his "Beavers" shirt was talking about. (He didn't believe her and sweetly insisted, "No, it's an animal.")

My most recent discussion was with a seventh grade boy wearing a "Check Out My Stimulus Package" t-shirt. At least it was timely. And perhaps indicated that he watches the news.

We all roll our eyes and vent, "Why do their parents let them wear these things?! I would never let my kid walk around in that!"

But maybe we need to take a little of the blame in this.

My evidence -

A List of Songs with Inappropriate Lyrics That Have Been Played School-Wide on Our "Wake Up, Wakefield"-esque Show and Were Probably Chosen by the Adult Supervising the Program

1. AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long"

She was a fast machine

She kept her motor clean

She was the best damn woman that I ever seen

She had the sightless eyes

Telling me no lies

Knockin' me out with those American thighs

Yes, that's the part of the song they played.

I stood in my darkened homeroom, mouth agape in disbelief as it blared through the speakers.

And I'm not even a prude or anything.

2. Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me"
Step inside, walk this way

You and me babe, Hey, hey!

Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on

Livin' like a lover with a radar phone

Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp

Demolition woman, can I be your man?

Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light

Television lover, baby, go all night

Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet

Little miss ah innocent sugar me, yeah.

Another classic for the twelve-year old set, yes?

And a great opportunity to discuss metaphor as well.

Jolly good!

3. Semisonic's "Closing Time"

Okay, it was on the last day of school, so I get why the song was chosen, and I can even overlook the "finish your whiskey or beer" part since I LOVE this band, but it was a bit disconcerting to hear the kids strolling out of homeroom singing, "I know who I want to take me home..." Just felt wrong, yanno.

4. Naughty By Nature's "O.P.P."

Don't panic.

We didn't listen to the actual song for this one.

It was a bus safety video that was desperately trying to be hip by having rap music in it.

Seriously.

They sang, "You down with bus safety? Yeah, you know me!" over and over while I died in the back of my classroom.

At the time, I don't think there was a dirtier song out there.

Still, they chose it.

I do kinda love that guys from Naughty By Nature got royalty checks for an educational video, though.

In My Corner

2009-12-28T19:13:00.000-08:00

In my latest endeavor to lose the ten pounds that I've been trying to lose for the last nine years, I went out and got myself a Wii - and all the Wii Fit Plus accoutrements that go along with it.

I'm three weeks in, and 3.6 pounds have been lost.

On the right track, but I know I'll have to pick up the pace (and put down the bon bons) if I really want to see the remaining 7.4 pounds disappear.

Along with learning fascinating facts about my BMI and center of balance (I tend to favor my right side by about 2%.), the Wii Fit has taught me about what it takes to motivate me.

Apparently, it takes Burgess Meredith.

My most satisfying moments on the Wii are spent doing what is called "rhythm boxing". Not exactly an Olympic sport, but, somehow, swinging my Wiimote and nunchuk while stepping on and off the balance board in time is oddly gratifying.

Deep within my pacifist soul, I harbor a desire to throw the occasional punch. And rhythm boxing lets me do it in a socially-acceptable way. It even gives me gold stars when I've done it well, which is, I must say, all the damn time.

Seriously, I'm up to expert mode.

But enough about me.
Back to Burgess Meredith...

You see, I'm put through my daily rhythm boxing paces by the computer-generated approximation of the voice of a grizzled old trainer.

I'm his Rocky Balboa.
And he's my Mickey.

He pushes me to hit harder, calls me Fighter, and always ends the workout by telling me that I'd better hit the gym again tomorrow. Saying, "Nice block!" is as close as this guy gets to gushing.

And I'm totally working my ass off to win his approval.

Yes, I desperately want my virtual rhythm boxing trainer to be proud of me.

Is that odd?

Here's the thing, though. I don't really give a shit what the computerized lady with the perky breasts who leads me through yoga and strength training thinks of me.

When she tells me that how great my balance is, I get all, "Oh, don't patronize me," with her.

And when she gets so nurturing and concerned about me when I "... seem a little shaky" doing the tree pose, I just roll my eyes.

She's fake and soulless, and a bit like too many people I've actually met.

I read an article recently about how researchers figured out that you can't truly fake a smile. Not even to a baby. A smile is too complex, involving a perfectly timed coordination of movements at the corners of the mouth and the edges of the eyes.

Maybe praise is the same way. You can't just program a machine to say, "Good job!" and expect to affect me the way genuine praise from a genuine person can - even if you have programmed the machine to say it fifteen different ways.

So, I turn down the sound when the virtual lady with the hollow words comes on.

And I smile as I throw punches for my own Burgess Meredith, who respects me far too much to ever tell me how impressed with me he is.

Temptation

2009-12-20T17:28:00.000-08:00

I'm sure you've seen them too.
Those super-soft, abundantly frosted sugar cookies they sell at grocery stores and gas stations.

They are disgusting.
Entirely artificial.
Practically plastic.
Loaded with lard.

And I am powerless against them.

My grocery store (I just shop there; I don't actually own one.) puts them right inside the front door, where you have to pause for a moment and pick out your cart. That's when they get you. When it seriously crosses your mind to grab a carton of them and eat them all while walking the aisles.

I theorize that more than once someone has consumed the whole package and gone through the check-out with an empty plastic container, sheepishly explaining themselves to the cashier. In my imagination, the cashier replies, "Happens all the time, Honey. All the time."

Through the power of chemistry, these cookies morph with the seasons. They're red, white, and blue for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, orange and black for Halloween, and an assortment of unnatural pastels when Easter approaches. They've got more colors than Sherwin-Williams.

Right now they are electric green.
With sprinkles.

Normally, I forge ahead, pushing past them on my way to the produce department. But today I needed to buy a treat for school, so into my cart they went.

I couldn't take my eyes off them.

They beckoned to me from behind the broccoli, and I could feel their presence nestled somewhere over by the peanut butter.

What is it about them that bewitches me so?

Is it their softness?
Their sprinkles?
Their unabashed artificiality?

They're the cookie equivalent of a bad boy, and part of me just wants to cast off my nutritionally-sensible upbringing, hop on the back of their motorcycle, hold on tight to their black leather jacket, and ride, baby, ride.

Ever since I got home, my thoughts just keep turning to the fact that they're here.

I can't get them out of my mind.

They're downstairs right now.
In a bag.
On top of the bookcase.

Yes, as they say in the horror movies, the call is coming from inside the house.

I would go take a picture of them to post here, just in case you're having trouble picturing what I'm talking about, but, that would mean opening the box. And I think we both know what that would lead to.

So, for now, I have resigned myself to writing about them, hoping to exorcise a few sugar-laden demons so I can sleep well tonight.

Grant me strength in this my time of weakness.

Can't Stop the Music

2009-12-14T19:01:00.000-08:00

For me, the holiday season has always been about the music.
I have fond memories of stomping along in the snow, going caroling with the other kids from the neighborhood - back when it was still deemed safe to knock on strangers' doors and sing in their foyers for some cookies (and a few coins they'd put in the coffee can we'd conveniently brought along).

   Every year I'd look forward to going to Christmas Eve services at my Grandma's church, just so we could all sing "Silent Night" together, accompanied by a slightly out-of-tune organ, holding candles with those paper drip shields to protect our hands from the wax that would start to melt with wild abandon around the middle of the second verse.
   But, for sheer awesomeness, nothing beats being in a school holiday concert.
   Sure, I did the elementary school thing.
   We all did.
   Then in middle school we were all forced to choose our life path: band or choir.
   Mine was choir.
   Three years of the ridiculously high-pitched desecration of texts both sacred and secular ensued.
   My middle school choir had one boy who could actually sing.
   And I mean he could sing.
   He had classical training, amazing posture, and the ability to hit the high notes with pristine clarity. After getting a load of him, our choir director did the only thing she could do: make the rest of us his back-up singers.
   That year we ditched Frosty and did numbers from Ahmal and the Night Visitors instead. It was probably the most culturally-edifying holiday concert our middle school had ever seen. Of course, most of us spent the evening singing "Ahhh...." and "Ohhh...." in hushed voices, so that the tone-deafness that pervaded our ranks would not overshadow il divo. Still, the applause was hearty that year. Yes, it was.
   Our high school choir was headed up by a dictator who demanded absolute allegiance from his minions. We bought fabric from him and were instructed which pattern to buy so all the girls' skirts matched perfectly. There were shoe rules (pumps, black, one-inch heel, no embellishments) and hideous red poly-blend sweaters.
   He was a perfectionist of the first order, and the only reason I'm still alive to type this is that no one would rat me out when I blurted, "Oh, shit!" after coming in a measure too early during a noontime concert at a shopping mall.
   Our holiday program was entirely sacred, much of it in Latin. We'd start practicing for it in early-October. All that lead time was necessary for the non-Catholics in the room to learn a new language, as well as the notes to sing.
   One year he went all Benjamin Britten on us - not a pretty sight. Totally fucked up my ability to spell for half my junior year.
   And when a Norwegian exchange student with a glass-shattering soprano showed up, we all found ourselves singing in her native tongue too. Man, the crowd lapped that one up like dogs.
   Every year, we ended the program with the same song: "Beautiful Savior" (Finally, something in English!).
   The school I teach at has been holding their holiday concerts this week, and I've been thinking about those adults out there in the crowd. Sure, they're all proud of their whipper-snappers up there belting it out, but it does get to be a long night, doesn't it?
   I recently realized that my parents stopped coming to my holiday concerts when I learned how to drive. Yes, once I had a way to get my sensible-pump/fugly-sweatered self to the venue without them, they were outta there. Can't say I blame them, though. I really can't.
   Now I get my holiday groove on singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" with my daughter. As I watch her stand in the middle of the living room, belting it out solo, smiling proudly, and hitting her marks on all the hand gestures that go along with it, two words enter my mind: show choir.
   And it's a fate I am more than willing to accept.
   Until she can drive.

Taste

2009-12-10T18:45:00.000-08:00

Today, through a random series of events that involved streptococcus, extremely helpful grandparents, and a business dinner with the sales staff, I got a seven-hour long taste of what my life would be like if I had no child, no dog, and no husband.

I'd finally get the house clean.

I'd play awesome music real loud and sing along.

I'd talk smack while virtual kickboxing with the Wii.

I'd eat my dinner in the living room while watching Sex and the City.

I'd ponder major home remodeling projects.

I'd keep looking over my shoulder for someone to need me.

I'd be disappointed when I didn't find someone to need me.

Glitter

2009-11-10T18:27:00.000-08:00

The middle-school girls I teach are doing something weird.
Or, more precisely, not doing something weird.
And that's what's so strange.

I've had a front row seat to the seventh grade for about fifteen years now, so I kinda know what to expect from the kids on many levels.

The boys this year have not let me down. They are folding paper footballs and making origami Freddy Krueger fingers with wild abandon. They truly believe they invented both these things. And they are right on schedule in doing so. Every group of boys before them has done the exact same thing - and believed that they, too, had invented something new and wondrous.

But the girls - that's a different story.

As I looked at my students today, I noticed that something was missing.
Something scores of tween girls have brought to my room every single year.
That something is gobs of inexpertly applied glitter eye make-up.

None of my girls are ridiculously sparkly this year.

In fact, I'd be hard pressed to find many of them with anything beyond a tasteful (?!) touch of mascara. ('Cept the goth girls, but they don't really factor into this. They've adopted a lifestyle that requires eye make-up. Apples and oranges, people. Apples and oranges.)

Having noticed a trend (or it is a non-trend?), I must search for reasons.

I am currently working on two theories vis a vis the absence of tacky eye make-up on middle school girls at my school:

1. Sasha and Malia Obama are already having a profoundly positive effect on girls thanks to their fresh-faced and stylish appearance. (I think of them as the anti-Olson twins.)

2. The economy sucks, and extras like eye make-up for your middle school daughter are no longer in most family's budgets. What they used to spend on sparkles is helping put food on the table.

I'd be happier if #1 were the reason; girls could use some positive peer role models.

But I'm pretty sure it's reason #2, and, much as I mock the make-up when it's there, it makes me sad to see these girls missing out on a truly tacky right of passage that has marked seventh grade for so many who've come before them.

Maybe next year.

There's always hope.

Of Course

2009-10-08T19:50:00.001-07:00

What did I see as I was driving home tonight?

A bowling ball.

Where was it?

In the gutter.

Hide Your Nuts, People

2009-09-24T19:06:00.000-07:00

All the freaks seemed to find me today - an assortment of oddballs that popped up wherever I went. The result of spending my day surrounded by strange strangers has left me feeling rather, um, normal by comparison. Perhaps I am delusional, and I am someone else's epitome of oddity, but at least I'm not these folks -

First: School Picture Photographer (a.k.a. The Bunnyman)
Today was school picture day, so I had to go through the yearly horror that is waiting in line and having my mugshot snapped. I have found that pictures of me are slightly more tolerable if I smile without showing my teeth. True, it can get a bit smirky, but at least my eyes aren't all squinty and bizarre, right?

So that was my plan.
The toothless smile.
Check!

The photographer whose station I end up with has a stuffed blue rabbit attached to the top of his camera. (Note: I loathe Blue Bunny ice cream, so he was already on my bad side.) Anyhow, he wasn't happy with the smirky smile I was trying to cling to while looking relaxed and casual and not at all like someone who's being told to tilt her head fifteen degrees to the left and tuck her chin under just a bit.

Once he's got me all posed up, I can tell it's time. He's about to take the picture. I try to keep my eyes relaxed and fight the urge to blink. He says, "Okay, now give me a great big smile just like - this guy!" And as he says it, he opens his hand that is just to the left of the camera. In the center of his palm he has drawn a big smiley face with Sharpie marker.

It was the schtickiest thing I've ever seen.
And it made me grin.
Damn you, Bunnyman.
I shall curse your name every time I look at my squinty little eyes on my new ID badge.

Second: Fellow Target Shopper (a.k.a. Talkative Tampon Lady)
I was in the politely-dubbed feminine hygiene (where the clean women shop, I guess) aisle at Target tonight when this twentysomething woman appeared next to me and proceeded to narrate her entire tampon selection process.

"Hmmm, tampons, tampons, tampons. Oh, yes, over here. I need the regulars. Reg-u-lars, not the supers. Hello? Generics? Where do they hide the generics? Oh, here. Man, I just LOVE having my period."

And she did it all in this singsongy voice. I half expected her to throw in the occasional "tra-la-la!" as she went on and on.

This seems like the sort of thing that should either be a completely-interior monologue or, if it must be spoken aloud, done in a quiet, talking to myself tone. But not this lady. She was in full-volume conversation mode. Made eye contact and smiled at me too. Like we're besties now or something.

Third: Woman at the Checkout (a.k.a. Visibly Neurotic Lady)
She had a TON of stuff on the conveyor belt, but they only had three lanes open, so I ended up in line behind her. I was kinda zoned out, looking at the mints and skimming the magazine covers, when I noticed the continual prattle of the lady in front of me.

I looked up and quickly figured out that she was methodically going through her pile of purchases and telling the cashier in what order they should be rung up. It wasn't just your run of the mill don't put that loaf of bread under the laundry detergent stuff, either. It was more along the lines of: "Ring up the blue t-shirt first, then the pink one. No, wait! Do the socks before the shirts!" And she had a twitchy, frantic quality about her as she did this. Like she was REALLY worried things might get rung up out of order.

I thought that she might be buying for more than herself and wanted the items bagged according to who they belonged to, but she was ignoring the bagging process entirely. She was fixated on the ringing up - the order of the ringing up.

It was odd enough just at that, but she also kept apologizing to the cashier. "Oh, I'm sorry. I know. I know. Oh, wait! We need the Life Savers next!"

It got to the point where the maternal instincts within the high-school aged cashier kicked in, and she started soothing the woman with, "It's okay. You're fine. We'll get it all right. You'll be fine."

Then the couple who were fighting - loudly - about the fact that he'd wanted to go to Wal-Mart instead of Target pulled in line behind me. Obviously, their entire shopping experience had been nothing but a series of disappointments, and he was about to enumerate them to her and once and for all prove how dumb she was to have dragged him into this damn store.

I was so glad Visibly Neurotic Lady was done.
She was in WAY too fragile a state to be exposed to that.

Right There in Black & White

2009-09-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

During my morning commute I ended up behind a big Chevy pick-up. While we were stopped for a red light, I got a chance to read his bumper sticker:

Eatin Fords and Shitin Dodge's

As an English teacher, a significant part of my day is spent extolling the virtues of correct spelling, punctuation, and grammar. My students leave the classroom knowing that they'll never be taken seriously in this world if their writing presents an image of one who lacks precision and general detail sticklerliness. You'll certainly never be published if you don't clean up your grammatical act, yanno.

And then this idiotic bumper sticker shows up and blows my pompous theories right out of the water.

Granted, the guy driving the truck still looks like an idiot, but that bumper sticker was created by someone. Yes, there's a person out there who dreamed up and wrote down that little slogan of excessive automotive pride. And that person is published. Totally published. A company loved his/her words SO much, they printed hundreds - even thousands - of copies to sell to the masses.

Money is being made from these misspelled, poorly punctuated words.

If any of you simply MUST express your Chevy pride in such manner as this, please consider purchasing your sticker from these folks. At least they took the time to do it right. Their English teachers must be so proud of them right now.

It's September, and I Suck

2009-09-15T18:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as I snarfed down the "stress meal" that is the Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburger with a side of Frosty, I realized that I loathe September.

Not just this September, either.

I mean ALL Septembers are on my shit list.

The reason for my extreme ill-will towards this month is simple: It is the month in which I suck on a grand scale. And the source of all this sucking is none other than the beginning of a new school year.

Now, I've been through this MANY times, so you'd think I'd have it down. But I don't. So here I am again, trapped in a swirl of frustration and stress. I pondered the reasons why this time of year always hits me so hard and makes me, a usually calm person, feel so utterly overwhelmed.

And why is it that I seem to suck so hard at so many things right now, when I normally don't really suck that much at all?

It's because I've lost some things that I'd forgotten to appreciate - and I miss them dearly.

The Stuff I'm Mourning

• Knowing my Students' Names In the excitement of the end of the school year in June, I forget how nice it is to be in a room where we all know one another - names, pets, hidden talents, shared experiences. Developing those bonds with this year's batch of kids takes time, and right now it just feels like I spend my days in a room full of strangers.

• Puttering in the Kitchen In the summer, I spent hours chopping fresh fruits and vegetables, trying new recipes, and putting together meals at a leisurely pace = usually while listening to music and singing along (occasionally dancing too - but less often and never with sharp utensils). Cooking was my quality relaxation time. Now it's about rushing to get something on the dinner table and packing my lunches in a zombie-like trance.

• Morning Walks Nothing beats the AM constitutional for me. But there's no way in hell I'm getting up at 4 o'clock to take one. The evening walk pales by comparison - more traffic, hotter weather, and fewer ducks bobbing contentedly on the lake.

• Being an Awesome Mom I know that the physically/emotionally burned-out days of September shall pass, but it bugs me to find myself wishing my daughter would fall asleep a bit earlier, stop continually following me all around the house, stop asking so many questions, etc. In the summer, I have so much more to give. And I do give it. To her.

• Brain-Numbing Television I haven't watched a "marathon" of anything in almost three weeks. No wonder I'm cranky.

• Blogging I've had many blog-worthy moments but lacked the energy to put them to words.

At least September's only one of those thirty-day months.

Check It Out

2009-08-28T15:08:00.000-07:00

Since I'll be going back to work next week and will have TONS of leisure time on my hands, I decided now was the best possible moment to start a new project/blog. Am I right or am I right?

It's focused on a topic I've touched upon here several times: food.

I'll still be keeping this blog rolling for all my non-food related observations and rants, but check the other one out too.

http://visiblevegetables.blogspot.com/

Community Briefs

2009-08-28T07:54:00.000-07:00

Our community newspaper is often an unintentional source of humor. It tries so hard to be folksy with its profiles of local valedictorians and stories about the neighbor's dog who's related to Bo Obama, but it usually devolves into petty little rants about who can park their boat trailer where and the correct protocol for displaying the flag.

I quote this week's Community Briefs, a section that highlights upcoming events of interest, verbatim:

Maplewood Mall is hosting the Bakugan Battle Brawlers Ultimate Battle Tour and a Women's and Children's Expo this weekend.

Let the juxtaposition soak in a moment there.

The Expo is throughout the mall. Exhibitors include home-based businesses, child care, OB/Gyn Services, health, beauty, college and career opportunities and more.

The Battle Tour is in the Sears Court. Challenge other players and get tips from experts.

How often do you see the terms Battle Tour and OB/Gyn Services in the same article?!

Do you think a lot of people will attend both?

This Time It's Personal

2009-08-26T12:25:00.000-07:00

Obscured by the sounds of running water and my toothbrush, I could have sworn I heard my husband say, "According to the scale, I lost thirty pounds since last week."

"Fwee pawnds?" I replied, mouth filled with toothpaste.

"No, not three. Thirty."

Since he didn't have a bout of dysentery or cut off one of his arms last week, a dead battery in the scale seemed the most logical explanation. "Oh, don't change the battery until I have a chance to try it too. I want to know what it's like to get on the scale and feel all tiny!"

Now, I know that men lose weight more easily than women (our bodies need to cling to fat to protect unborn babies, survive the Donner Party, etc.), so I've taken my husband's fifteen to my four pound loss this summer with a grain of salt. (Just a grain, though. Water retention, yanno.)

When I stepped on the scale I saw that, to my dismay, it only registered a twenty pound loss.

Not thirty.

Twenty.

Apparently, it is easier for men to lose imaginary weight as well.

Hmph!

A Tip Relating to Shoes and Relativity

2009-08-20T13:24:00.000-07:00

When shoe shopping online, if you look at the $800 Ferragamo loafers first and then move to the $450 Taryn Rose suede flats, by the time you get to the Repetto ballet slippers for $245, they seem like a bit of a bargain, really.

Today, I Confess ...

2009-08-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

... as I heard the classroom door at my daughter's daycare close behind me at drop-off, I let out a little sigh of relief.

... I have read only one book this summer. It was a diet book. And I didn't finish it.

... I need an inordinate amount of "me time".

... when Ace of Bass comes on the radio, I turn it up and sing along. I know all the words.

... I knew there was dog pee on the carpeting, but I really wanted to check my email and eat lunch, so I did those things first and let it soak in a bit longer.

... I'm starting to think that buying beige carpeting was a bad idea.

... I'm better at forgiving the dog than I am at forgiving people.

... I am looking forward to going back to work - but not necessarily to seeing everyone.

... I'm pissed at Austin's mom for putting a chastising little note in my daughter's cubby, reminding us we need to RSVP for her son's birthday party, even if we're not coming. Like she's Emily Fucking Post. And like I've ever met her or could even pick her kid out of a line-up.

... I can be petty.

... I screen.

... I feel all giddy about how clean my teeth are after I use my Waterpik.

... I hid Chutes & Ladders because I can't stand playing it.

... I can't put the apples and bananas in the fruit bowl unless I tear off those ugly stickers first. I turn the pears so their stickers don't show.

... I inflate my self-esteem by judging people in the supermarket based on what they have in their carts. I know that I am superior to anyone buying a Swanson's frozen dinner, and I roll my eyes at the Lean Cuisine people.

... when something stressful happens, my first instinct is to drive to the bakery and buy a cupcake.

... I am a praise junkie.

... I paid $2.99 to watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High on pay-per-view instead of finishing up the painting in the kitchen. Judge Reinhold rocks.

I Hate This Part

2009-08-16T16:47:00.000-07:00

Every fall our school does this what I did over my summer vacation slide show, and we're all supposed to submit pictures of ourselves committing whatever wacky, school-appropriate hijinks we committed over the summer months.

And I hate it.

It's not that I have any issue with looking at the pictures of my colleagues holding up grandbabies and real big fish, etc.; that's actually kinda fun. It's the having my picture taken - and then put on display - part that bothers me.

You see, I am the least photogenic person on Earth.

I do not believe that I am inherently ugly, per se; it's just that my finer qualities do not translate to photographs well. So, here I am, a not completely unattractive woman with all kinds of pictures of me looking like I have an oddly-discolored face, or one eye that is much larger than the other, or fifteen chins. You get the idea.

Consequently, very few non-required pictures of me get taken.

As I look through our family pictures from our trip to Tokyo (the sort of thing that seems slide show worthy), most of the images are of the scenery or my daughter, who does not carry my non-photogenic baggage.

But I feel that one of the unwritten rules of the welcome back slide show is that we, the staff, must actually appear in the pictures. I can't just send one of Tokyo scenery and not expect to get a certain degree of flak about it.

So I need to find one that I'm in.

In our digital "pile" of pictures, though, most of them that include me are taken from behind - since my husband is snapping away as I walk on to the next sight to be seen. Now, I have enough issues with sending in a picture of my face, how do you suppose I'm going to do sending in a picture of my backside? (Rearview picture self-assessment: butt's too big, but calves are pretty decent. Must throw away those plaid shorts; they're not doing me any favors.)

There is an okay one of me passed out on the bus. We're on our way to the airport, I have a wicked case of food poisoning, and my daughter is sitting beside me making goofy faces.

Is it odd that the picture I find least-revolting is one in which I'm just about to do very unpleasant things to a bathroom at Narita?

By the Skin of My Teeth

2009-08-12T15:55:00.000-07:00

I've been kinda, sorta bad about going to the dentist for the last two years or so - totally avoiding making an appointment, even though my dentist's office sent me several very nice "We Care About Your Dental Health" cards along the way. I think one of them had a picture of a sad puppy on it.

Many a time I drove home from work or woke up on the morning of a day off and thought to myself I should call and make an appointment.

Follow-through has never been my strong suit.

Anyhow, we got a post card from the dentist last week, reminding my husband of his appointment today. I decided the only way to get this done was to bite the metaphorical bullet, highjack hubby's appointment, and atone for my dental sins.

I called the office and told them that I'd be swiping the appointment and making another for my husband. I could hear just a hint of "Whatever gets your butt in the chair, Crazy" in the receptionist's voice.

I'd been feeling some, shall we say, discomfort on the right side of my mouth - for about six months or so - and was dreading the bad news that was due to greet me at the dentist's office. I braced (pardon the pun) myself for the inevitable - multiple cavities, painful extractions, lectures and you-should-know-better looks.

My appointment started with a series of eighteen x-rays.

That is not a typo.

I said eighteen, and that's what I meant.

While I have at times been accused of having a big mouth, the notion of finding eighteen angles from which to take x-rays of something that, on a relative scale, is quite small seemed a bit much, but the hygienist managed to do it.

Then the poking, prodding, scraping, and polishing commenced.

By the time Dr. Bob came in for the exam, my palms were sweaty in anticipation of the bad news.

Here's how it played out...

Diagnosis #1: impacted wisdom tooth

Rx: Ignore it since it's not giving me any trouble and looks fine on the x-rays.

Diagnosis#2: swollen gums (the cause of the pain I'd been feeling)

Rx: Go to Target and buy an electric toothbrush and Waterpik.

I was also given prescription-strength toothpaste and mouthwash, along with the usual dental swag.

That's it.

I hid from the dentist for two years (and didn't even floss), and the edict handed down from the dental gods commands that I go shopping?!

I skipped all the way to my car as I left the office.

Back in the Day

2009-08-11T15:41:00.000-07:00

I bought a Beetle back in 2001.

She was galaxy blue, and I adored her.

I named her Rascal, and driving, which for me has always felt like a bit of a chore, suddenly became, yanno, FUN.

My favorite thing about scooting around town in Rascal was that, since the New Beetle had only been out since 1998, she was still a bit of a novelty. When driving a Beetle, you were part of a small (dare I say elite?) social subgroup comprised of people who shared the common traits of being super cool, fun-o-centric, and exceedingly friendly.

Hence, the wave.

You see, back in the day, the code among the Beetle-driving brethren was that, when we encountered a fellow Beetle on the road, we would wave at each other.

"Hello, friend."

There was one guy in a silver Bug who I crossed paths with every morning on the way to work.

Every day, we waved.

Rain or shine.

Sleet or snow.

When I became a mom, Rascal was traded in for a Jetta.

Mommy needs four doors, after all.

The Jetta was a good car.

A solid car.

A practical car.

But it wasn't, yanno, FUN.

Anyhow, my child's big enough to climb in and out of her own car seat, so this summer I traded in the car of exceeding practicality for another Beetle.

She is sunflower yellow, and I adore her.

Driving is, yanno, FUN again.

But here's the problem: the novelty factor has faded.

There are quite a few of us on the road now and, consequently, the wave has disappeared.

I've done it a few times these last few weeks - trying to resurrect the tradition - but to no avail. I'm either completely ignored by the other driver or greeted with a perplexed expression. (No one-fingered salutes, though. These are Beetle drivers, after all.)

Do you suppose the Mini Cooper people wave at each other?

Or the Hummer folks, perhaps?

Eh, probably not...

Findings

2009-08-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

I've hit the point in the summer where the overwhelming desire to organize things takes over. Today's mission: sort through the mountains of paperwork scattered about the basement.

Here are a few of the things I found as I went through the piles:

• My daughter's Chinese passport. (She was SO tiny!)

• Car insurance coverage information and service appointment details for two cars I no longer own.

• The instructions showing how to put together the crib I set out at the end of the driveway with a FREE sign on it - yesterday.

• The itemized vet bills from my dog's treatment, death, and cremation last fall. :-(

• Our 1040's from 1998. (How long are you supposed to keep those?)

• A recipe for potato salad, written in my grandma's handwriting.

• Pay stubs from 2002. (I so don't want to be a pack rat, but I fear sometimes that I am becoming one. Maybe it's more about my laziness than a need to horde, though. Like that's healthier, right?)

• The receipt from that denim skirt I ordered from Land's End last summer. The one that never fit me and that I still have in its plastic bag in my closet. Can I return it after a whole year? Is there a statute of limitations on such things?

• An unused iTunes gift card I got for Christmas.

Japanese McDonald's Active Kids Milk Carton Puzzle

2009-08-02T19:33:00.000-07:00

Check out the puzzle on the Ronald McDonald milk carton below.

It's meant for kids, so it's a pretty easy one to solve.

But isn't one of the answers a type of, ahem, activity you really wouldn't want to encourage your kids to participate in?

Three Guys

2009-08-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

Guy #1:

As I was making my what seems like daily pilgrimage to Target, I spotted him.

I was on a busy street, and someone had put an old elliptical machine on the boulevard with a "FREE" sign on it. Guy #1 was a big man wearing a dress shirt and khakis; he was trying out the elliptical machine with an incredibly somber expression on his face.

Guy #2:

He was sighted while I was driving to retrieve a take-out order at the dumpy little Chinese place my mom likes.

He was bald, mustached, and wearing a black leather jacket. His motorcycle was annoyingly loud, but, poking out of his backpack was a bouquet - a dozen red roses packed in cellophane. Baby's breath and everything.

Guy #3:

I recently bought a new car - for all my driving around and seeing odd random things needs.

He was the guy from Volkswagen who called to give me the customer satisfaction survey. The first thing I noticed about him was that he appeared to be calling from the Indian Subcontinent (thick accent, two second delay after each of my answers). He introduced himself as "Danny Ocean".

What do these three guys have in common?

I don't actually know any of them, but they all made me smile.

Double Vision

2009-07-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

First of all, I can't wait for Julie & Julia to come out.

Streep can do little or no wrong, and it looks like a clever little film.

When I look at the ads for it, though, I'm startled by how much Amy Adams looks like a younger, hotter version of Miranda Hobbes on Sex and the City.

The hair.

The eyes.

The pose (... as in the episode where Miranda admits she needs to go to the Betty Crocker Clinic after eating devil's food cake out of the trash).

Who's with me on this one?

Is That Summer in My Rearview Mirror?

2009-07-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

As I wrote the date on a check at the grocery store this morning, I had a startling revelation: August is almost here. When I was a kid, it seemed like summer went on forever, but this one is just flying by.

I started the season out, as per my usual, with tremendous ambitions as to all I would achieve. Things haven't really panned out as planned, but there have been some moments.

So, as I contemplate summer entering its final month, here's the low-down on how I've passed the weeks thus far:

Week 1: Thank God school was out or I'd have been calling in sick every day. Yuck.

Week 2: Still fighting the cold/flu while trying to get life organized enough to go to Tokyo the next week.

Week 3: Tokyo. Totally fab. Could see myself living there but would have to get WAY more stylish in a hurry. These are the most pulled-together people I've ever seen. Not a Wal-Mart shopper in the bunch.

Week 4: Jet lag sucks. Trying to convince a toddler that she can, in fact, sleep in her big girl bed again, even though the whole family shared a super-cool king bed in Tokyo last week sucks even harder.

Week 5: Ambition and ability to sleep at night return. Yay! Begin tearing down kitchen cabinets and buying paint.

Week 6: In the ER, getting IV fluids while they run tons of tests on me to see if I have H1N1. I don't. The doctor says that I am "swimming in streptococcus". I love when doctors are funny. Antibiotics kill the bug but do very bad things to my digestive system. Managed to get on my feet enough to see the Wallflowers on Saturday night. Listened to great music amid a crowd of drunks. Am starting to refer to Jakob Dylan as a diva because of his band's habit of starting the show late. He gets to be a diva, though. He's talented enough to earn that right.

Week 7: Mood totally boosted by loss of five pounds since June. Know much of that can be attributed to digestive trauma of last week, but vow to behave myself to keep that new number on the scale. It will serve as my motivation. Yes! Then, while grocery shopping, I discovered that Nestle makes chocolate Push-Up's.

Ode to Billie Joe

2009-07-27T18:45:00.000-07:00

My students are always shocked to learn that I've heard of Green Day.

They are, after all, and extremely cool band, and I am, after all, an old person.

The notion of me, the middle-aged lady who nags them about when to use well and when to use good, having a working knowledge of this band is just too much for their little brains to handle.

"Seriously, I have been listening to them since before you were born, Whippersnapper."

Anyhow, a few years ago I saw one of those Behind the Music shows about Green Day, and a comment that Billie Joe Armstrong made just kind of stuck with me. He was talking about "Good Riddance" and how people were so surprised to hear the quiet little acoustic song that could coming from Green Day. Everyone thought they knew what to expect from them: fast, loud, and irreverent. Then they went and hit us with "Good Riddance". I believe gobsmacked is the term the British use to describe our collective reaction to it.

While explaining the process of writing the song and choosing to release it as a single, Billie Joe said that putting out that song at that time was "... the most punk rock thing we could do." It was shocking. It upset the status quo. It flew in the face of the conventional wisdom that says keep doing what's been making you money all along.

I've been thinking about Green Day and this comment a lot lately.

You see, I'm remodeling my kitchen.

I have always been one to pride myself on my lack of fear when it comes to color. There are rooms in my house painted dark brown, lime green, and Caribbean blue. Up until a couple weeks ago, my kitchen featured terra cotta walls and bright red cabinets. I love the drama of these bold hues and enjoy seeing the look of shock on color-shy people's faces when they first experience my home.

But I wanted a change.

I'd been leafing through Dwell magazine, watching snippets of the design shows on TV, etc. and came to an unexpected conclusion: I was craving beige.

So the red cabinets came down, replaced by sleek, sedate ones.

And the terra cotta paint disappeared under two coats of primer and two coats of what Valspar calls Honeymilk. (It reminds me of a freshly opened carton of vanilla ice cream. Yum.)

I love it.

It's clean.

It's modern.

And it's the most punk rock thing I could do.

Such Great Heights

2009-06-23T18:13:00.000-07:00

Now that my flu symptoms have diminished, I've gotten back up on the metaphorical horse and started exercising again as part of my never-ending quest to lose ten pounds.

Running has always eluded me; I have the ankles of a frail, elderly woman. But I've always been fascinated by the notion of the runner's high. I have passed (in my car, of course) many a runner in my day; most of them look miserable. Now and then I pass one who is in the throes, jamming along in a full-on runner's high. And it looks sooooo awesome.

Question: Is the runner's high only legit when achieved through, yanno, running?

I have, in my step-aerobicized past, caught a glimpse of the euphoria.

And I've gotten into the Zone of Awesomeness many a time while hiking.

Tonight I did it on a Nordic Track.

Fueled by the perfect rhythm that is the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin'" and the sudden realization that I'm on frickin' summer vacation (as opposed to thinking that I've just been home sick for the past week), I went there.

Though the music and the mood are crucial, that thing that always pushes me into the Land of the High is the fantasy - the story I make up in my head about how awesome I am and all the magnificent and impressive things I am capable of.

Um, do other people do this?

I always seem to have this hokey Olympic-caliber athlete/Charlie's Angels chasing down a perp movie playing in my mind when I hit the high. And I'm totally starring in it.

Is the fantasy fueling the euphoria?

Is it all just one big dopamine-changed hallucination?

I acknowledge that it's a bit silly, but when the swing of the "poles" on the Nordic Track take on a much-too-funky vibe, I am no longer a fortysomething suburban mom, listening to disco anthems while striding along on a piece of outdated exercise equipment.

I am so strong.

I am so lithe.

I am so high.

My Fortune

2009-06-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

We went out for dinner at our favorite mom & pop Thai hole-in-the-wall last night. The food's always fresh and yummy, and the couple who own it are incredibly sweet and funny. It feels more like going to someone's house to dinner than eating at a restaurant.

I'm one of those people who tends to find a favorite dish (Pad Priew Wan, in this particular case) and stick with it, but I decided to peruse the menu a bit, expand my horizons, etc. I saw something on new on the menu - a salad with sliced steak on it - that looked interesting. Noting that the menu read "also available with chicken", and also noting that I prefer chicken to beef, I ordered it that way.

About five minutes after we placed our orders, "Mom" came out from the kitchen with a copy of the menu in her hand. She asked if I'd ordered this (pointing at the menu), and I said yes (smiling). Then she said, "But you wanted with chicken?!" I nodded and pointed at the line in the menu where it said "also available with chicken". She gave me a highly-dubious yet polite smile and went back to the kitchen.

This was a bad sign.

I knew it.

But I chose to ignore it.

Anyhow, she brought out our food a bit later, and I found my plate stacked with a salad that was topped with slices of chicken. How bad could it be, right?

It had an oddly pungent quality to it, almost as if it had parmesan cheese on it. Even though I have a helluva cold, it only took me a couple bites to figure out the problem: the salad was drenched in liquid with a LOT of fish sauce in it. Maybe beef could support this intense flavor, but that chicken just wasn't doing the job. Not by a long shot.

If you are unfamiliar with fish sauce, it's basically fermented sardine juice. When I cook with it at home, I use it sparingly and wash my hands after touching the bottle. That stuff lingers.

Fish sauce adds a nice salty flavor when used correctly, but this meal was far from correct. It was like eating a plate full of yeast infection. Extreme nasal congestion was the only thing that got me through enough of that plate to not leave an insulting portion sitting there untouched.

When the fortune cookies showed up, here's what mine said:

You constantly struggle for self improvement - and it shows.

What shows?

The improvement?

Or that I'm struggling?

Assorted Goods

2009-06-19T15:31:00.000-07:00

I had some solo time at the grocery store today, which is for me, as you may recall, equivalent to a week at Canyon Ranch. During this fabulous, indulgent time, I had a chance to linger over the produce, smell the flowers, and notice a bunch of goofball stuff worthy of comment.

1. The staff at "my" store has new name tags. Cute, clever ones. Under each person's name, they have a little personalized statement about themselves/food. From these tags I learned that Wendi, my cashier, likes Mexican food, and Jake, who inquired as to my feelings RE: paper vs. plastic, likes steak. (Confession: When I saw that Jake likes steak, I had a sudden urge to yell, "Rhyme time! Rhyme time!" - a sure sign that I've had a lot of quality toddler time this week.)

The tags add a nice, human touch to an otherwise impersonal service economy-based relationship. As an English teacher, I do take umbrage at the decision to use all lowercase letters, choosing a whim of aesthetic flow over correct writing. Examples below -

[ wendi - i like mexican food ]

[ brandon - i make super cheeseburgers ]

I wonder what kind of limitations were placed on their freedom to share via name tag, though.

Was

[ jessica - i eat my feelings ]

rejected by someone in corporate?

Would

[ timmy - i pick my nose while unpacking the tomatoes]

pass muster with the front office?

And what of

[ josh - i drink to make the pain go away ] ?

Probably not, eh?

2. New product alert! The "Helper" people have come up with new one: Asian Helper. Seriously.

Cue up the "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others" song and think about the four basic categories of things the four-fingered glove "helps":

Hamburger

Chicken

Tuna

Asian

Anyone else out there screaming, "Asian is not a kind of meat!" right now?

3. Since I've had the cold/flu thing going on this week and keep repeating, "It's not H1N1. It's not H1N1," over and over to myself, I needed to pick up a little something from aisle #8 to take the edge off.

What I remember about Vick's Formula 44 from my childhood was drinking it down, getting all bug-eyed, and whispering, "That stuff burns, Grandma," once I caught my breath. (I love that I survived a childhood light on seat belt laws and heavy on giving alcoholic cold remedies to children. And Jarts! Jarts rocked!)

The ever-savvy folks at Vick's have followed the soda pop trend of highly-specialized versions of one product (Coke, Diet Coke, Caffeine Free Diet Coke, Diet Coke with Lime, etc.) and have come out with their own Custom Care line of products. So, now you can purchase Vick's Formula 44: Chesty Cough if that's what you need.

I didn't buy it, though.

My cough's more buxom than chesty.

You Tell Me

2009-06-19T13:49:00.001-07:00

This person completely ignored the lines due to:

a) incompetence

b) selfishness

c) obliviousness

d) other

What My Dog's Body Language Tells Me When I'm Grooming Him

2009-06-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

When I'm brushing his back: "Oh, you're petting me with the brush again. I'm going to stand here majestically like a good boy, glancing over my shoulder at you from time to time so you can appreciate my sweet, soulful eyes."

When I'm brushing the top of his head, right between the ears: "I don't like when you tug at those tangles behind my left ear, but as long as you pause now and then to pet me and tell me I'm good, I'll put up with it. I might need to take a shake-my-head break every few minutes, though, okay?"

When I'm brushing his ruff: "Remember that episode of America's Next Top Model when Tyra Banks showed how to hold your head up and look like you're standing in front of a fan when you aren't? Well, I was paying attention to that part, and I'm doing it right now. Cool, huh?"

When I'm brushing his paws: "Don't touch those. No, give that back. Ick. Ick. Ick."

When I'm brushing his legs: "I don't like this, but it's better than the paws, so I'm just going to look peeved at you every thirty seconds or so. Work quickly."

When I'm brushing his butt: "I'm going to give you about ten seconds of awkward gluteal clenching in recognition of the fact that you feed me and stuff. Then I'm out of here, lady."

B-A-N-A-N-A-S

2009-06-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

I got a thing in the mail a few weeks ago advertising this...

Baby Jingles

And I haven't been sleeping very well since.

Coincidence?

Let the Good Times Roll

2009-06-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

I have been on summer vacation for about fifteen minutes.

In that time I have:

• taken 1,000 mg of Tylenol,

• eaten a slice of cold pizza,

• said, "I don't have to go back to work for three months," aloud, and

• parked myself in front of the America's Next Top Model marathon.

So far, so good.

You Disappoint Me

2009-06-10T15:10:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's the cloudy weather, mid-life hormonal fluctuations, or an increase in solar flare activity, but, lately, a lot of things seem to be making me feel really down in the dumps. I'm typically a pretty upbeat (and sarcastic) person, but I've lost that lovin' feeling in recent weeks.

Here's my list of things that I'm currently disappointed about/in:

• Back in late-April, I set a modest weight loss goal of seven pounds by the end of the school year. Tomorrow is the last day, and I have lost a whopping total of two pounds. Am I exercising more? Yes. Eating more fruits and vegetables? Uh-huh. Making fewer trips through the drive-through? You bet.

Still, only two pounds have been shed.

I feel like my Real Age "weight loss tracker" graph is mocking me.

Major lifestyle modifications will need to be made. This will be harder than I thought.

I detest setting goals and not achieving them. Very disappointing.

• U.S. government agencies are not good at communicating with one another, so we are fewer than three weeks away from getting on the plane for Tokyo and STILL don't have a passport for our daughter.

We applied seven weeks ago and were assured that it would take about three weeks tops. This week they sent us a letter saying we need to prove that our daughter - an adoptee - entered the country legally before they can process the paperwork.

The original passport application called for two pieces of documentation - both of which we provided, neither of which could be obtained without proving legal resident status. Not good enough, though. So, we had no choice but to honor their latest demand and Express Mail it to them. Fingers crossed they can process it in time.

• The school year is almost over. Even though I love summer vacation, I always go through a bit of a funk when school lets out. I like working with so many people I consider my friends. I enjoy the work I do. I am oddly comforted by the routine of it all. And I suck at good-byes.

Each spring I go into the last weeks of school with some sort of amnesia of years past and fully expect it to be fun - fun - fun. I forget that the atmosphere in the building can get so emotionally-charged. That there's so much to be done and, sometimes, not enough energy to do it.

Maybe the memories of the last days of school from my elementary years are so firmly imprinted on my brain that I expect to feel that way again. But it's different now. And that's a little disappointing.

• The Fashion Show isn't even a pale imitation of Project Runway. I crave Tim Gunn's wisdom and Heidi Klum's accent. I long to hear Nina Garcia use the phrase "taste issues". I only made it through two episodes of TFS before I just plain stopped caring. Between this and The Real Housewives of New Jersey, I'm losing my faith in Bravo, the network that used to be my happy source of background noise. It has been my default channel for a couple years now, but, lately, I find myself flipping channels a lot. My only ray of Bravo hope is Top Chef: Masters. Again, fingers crossed.

• Mostly, I am disappointed that I'm letting the little things get so far under my skin. I acknowledge that the big things in my life - family, health, career - are all going well. I could be dealing with far bigger things than these, but, even after accentuating the positive, I still feel stuck in a rut of ennui. Ho hum.

Gonna Make You Sweat

2009-06-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

One of the joys of shopping at the Asian market is that, along with getting to eat some of the most AMAZING soup in the world at their deli, I get to revel in the bluntness of foreign food nomenclature.

Since I don't speak an Asian language, I don't know if the tell-it-like-it-is attitude of the food names is a cultural difference or just a sign of the awkwardness of translating into English. Either way, I love that I can find a beverage that has the word sweat it its name...

Pocari Sweat

It's the Japanese equivalent of Gatorade, without all the euphemistic babble. Gatorade is basically the chemical clone of sweat - with food coloring added. I have to respect the Japanese for just putting it out there so bluntly, pretty much saying: When it's hot, you sweat. Drink sweat to replace the sweat you've been sweating. It's delicious. Enjoy. No "Is it in you?" for them.

Speaking of Gatorade, I covered a week of summer school for Holly (of gall bladder fame) a couple summers ago. One of the boys came in toting a big bottle of dark-purple/borderline-black Gatorade. I'd never seen that kind before, so I asked, "What flavor is that?"

He glanced at the label and replied, "Lance Armstrong."

"So, does that mean it tastes like Lance Armstrong?"

"I guess so."

Apparently, Lance Armstrong's sweat is aubergine in color.

I have no idea what it tastes like, though.

Nor any desire to find out.

The Nature of People

2009-06-04T10:05:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I had the chance to work with a very kind and generous person named Erin. She was so generous, in fact, that she once donated an entire set of flatware to the kitchen in our office.

Life had provided her with two sets of flatware - either through an upgrade or a gift, I forget which - and, rather than hoarding both sets for herself, she chose to share with us.

Such was the generous nature of my friend Erin.

Recently, I opened the drawer in said kitchen and was semi-shocked to find this ...

kitchen drawer, sans flatware

Yes, my colleagues have pilfered ALL the flatware.

Some of it was probably taken home.

Some wound up in the trash, I'm sure.

I can only imagine what became of the rest.

I ate my applesauce with a plastic knife that day.

The Voices in My Head

2009-05-26T19:16:00.000-07:00

Ever had one of those days when you get a song stuck in your head and just can't shake it? That was my day today, except that the song kept changing every few hours, so it was basically a series of "stuck songs" playing on the radio inside my brain.

Perhaps by sharing this phenomena on the interweb, I can shake this pesky little annoyance and get a good night's sleep, so here it goes ...

My Stuck Songs Playlist for May 26th, 2009

1. "Put It Down" by Mike Doughty - Actually, it's a really great song with a delightfully catchy little melody at the chorus that I totally whistle-jam on. My grey matter spent most of the morning looping this one over and over. Things went dramatically downhill from here.

2. "Close to You' by the Carpenters - This showed up after lunch, and I'm not completely certain why. It popped in and out of my head though the afternoon, finally diminishing during my commute home - only after I gave in and sang the whole stinkin' thing out loud once with feeling.

3. "The Rainbow Connection" by Kermit the Frog - After my impromptu Carpenters concert, this little gem appeared. I didn't actually hear Kermit singing it, though. It was more like a Judy Collins rendition, which is even stranger, now that I think of it. I suppose it could have been Ed Helms doing it in Pig Latin (I had to think about whether or not to capitalize that; I decided I should on the basis that it is the name of a language.) on The Office, which would be stranger still. But definitely funnier.

4. "Stomp the House" by the Jump Arounds - Yes, I live with a toddler, and we own a television. My mind resists the urge to wrap itself around ALL the lyrics, so I mostly just repeat those six seconds of chorus ad nauseam. For those unfamiliar with the power of Toddler TV and brave enough to give it a whirl. (You've been warned.)

Titular

2009-05-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

Now, a lot of people make fun of Sex and the City for its overuse of the pun.

I for one appreciate a clever play on words and like the fact that, having seen all the episodes numerous times, I can immediately set myself in the right frame of mind (comic, tragic, poignant, etc.) for any episode as soon as the theme song winds down and those white, lowercase letters appear against the black screen.

I find that as I'm trying to come up with the title for a new blog, I often click into SATC pun mode. It gets the job done. And I'm usually pleased with the results.

Here are, in no particular order, my ten favorite Sex and the City episode titles:

• "The Fuck Buddy" - Yes, blunt is beautiful.

• "Are We Sluts?" - I love that they dared to ask the question that pretty much everyone with HBO was asking about these women.

• "Belles of the Balls" - A pun with bonus clever points for linking to all four stories. (Trey gets his sperm analyzed, Steve gets testicular cancer, Samantha gets hired because Richard "admires her balls", and Aidan and Big duke it out playing basketball in the mud.)

• "I Love a Charade" - Again, a pun. And Nathan Lane getting married? To a woman? Priceless.

• "A Woman's Right to Shoes" - It seemed like just another clever pun at first, but, after watching the episode, you realize that it really IS about the choices me make. Bonus points for surprising me with that one. And for making me wish I'd registered at Manolo Blahnik when I got married.

• "The Post-It Always Sticks Twice" - The second I see these words, I think I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me. And then I curse the name Jack Berger.

• "Change of a Dress" - More fun with puns. And that scene with Carrie and Aidan in front of the fountain? Heartbreaking!

• "Politically Erect" - Blunt AND a pun. More bonus clever points!

• "Running with Scissors" - I love this one because it suits the episode so beautifully. Everyone's mom warned them not to do foolish, dangerous things, and this is the episode that shows us why.

• "One" - Simple and clever. It's about Brady's first birthday and Miranda's realization that Steve is, in fact, the one. It's also one of my favorite episodes, which for some bizarre reason On Demand tends to skip. Every time I see that this one's an option, I get all happy.

Nine is a Lot of Inches

2009-05-20T18:12:00.000-07:00

I started dabbling in this self-improvement thing a few months ago.

The Campaign for Visible Vegetables has integrated itself quite nicely into our lives, the amount of miles the hubby and I have been hiking continues to grow, and fast food darkens our doorstep with far less frequency.

Here's the problem, though: I see no change in my body.

Okay, there are SOME changes, like I can hike farther now than I could a few months back - and even jogged a few steps the other day. But I mean the measurable changes just aren't happening. My weight has fluctuated up and down in the same three-pound range since late-March. My clothes still fit about the same. My dreams of putting in the effort and seeing dramatic and rewarding results have been dashed.

Fed up with the scale, I recently saw a couple mentions of waist size as an indication of fatitude vs. slimliness and realized that I had NO idea what my waist measurement is. Eager for a new means of telling myself that I'm totally not fat, I grabbed the tape measure.

Bad choice.

According to Real Age, my waist is about three and a half inches bigger than the big end of "ideal".

That's not THAT much, right?

But is that the waist measurement statistic I grab on to?

Of course not.

I decide instead to fixate on the fact that my waist is NINE INCHES bigger than the girl's on Make Me a Supermodel. Now, I appreciate that I am twenty years older than this girl and that I am never going to be a supermodel, but, still, the horror of NINE INCHES burrows into my brain and stays there.

Nine inches is a lot of inches, yes?

Now I'm like a dog with a bone with this whole waist measurement thing ...

On Real Age they have a waist loss tracker, so I get in there and enter my data.

It asks for my goal.

Um, my goal's not to feel like I tub-o-lard.

How does that translate into numbers?

I thought about it for a couple seconds and decided to shoot for the big end of "ideal" since I do have what is politely called a large frame (meaning I have shoulders like a linebacker).

Then it asks for the date by which I will reach this ideal (though still on the big side) state.

Great.

Again, I'm in unfamiliar territory.

The site tells me that half an inch every two weeks is reasonable. (Can't they just say an inch per month? Or 1.3 cm per fortnight?) I decide that three inches by summer's end should be do-able, so that's what I type in.

So, now I have a new number to strive for.

Another benchmark to reach.

Great.

My real goal for myself, though, is to self-improve in the way that makes me no longer feel compelled to compare myself to supermodel wannabes.

To reach that elusive goal of not caring about what the scale and the tape measure say.

To just appreciate the strength of my legs.

My lungs.

My heart.

Now THAT would be some improvement.

But, until then ...

Random Roadside Signs

2009-05-20T10:13:00.001-07:00

I am so grateful to the person who invented those make-your-own sign kits for stores and restaurants, as I find them endlessly entertaining ...

I have this fantastic mental image of Holly trying

to suck a cheese curd through a straw.

Do you suppose the Milk Gal looks like the St. Pauli Girl,

except she's carrying two jugs of milk?

(And WTF happened to the price of gas?!)

I view the world through the lens of

Free to Be You and Me,

so my ethnic pejorative knee-jerk reaction is flaring up.

I hear the sandwich's a tasty one, though.

If I were the manager, the sign would say:

We're Bringin' Mexi Back!

Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams

2009-05-18T08:48:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite games to play is

What I'll Do With My PowerBall Fortune.

Lately, I've been focusing on the various cars I will acquire.

Here are my top three:

For my practical I'm-a-mom moments ...

The Porsche Cayenne

For those two days when MN weather and the desire to have the wind blow through my hair coincide ...

The Audi TT Convertible

For when I'm feelin' old-school ...

1960 Chevy El Camino

('cept mine will be powder-blue)

Dark Corners

2009-05-16T10:47:00.000-07:00

When I was in eighth grade, my best friend Michelle and I trudged through the snow to get to the ice rink. It was after dinner on a school night, dark out, and about a block from my house. We had a blast zipping around on our skates, laughing and talking way too loud about school, boys, etc. It was one of those perfect, joyous moments of friendship, when the world around you disappears, and everything just feels right.

Then we went to the warming house.

As we were taking off our skates, three older boys - probably juniors or seniors - came in with their hockey equipment. I got my skates off and started putting on my shoes while Michelle struggled with a stubborn knot in her shoelace.

Then the boys started talking about us.

They talked about how they'd divvy us up.

Who'd get which one of us.

How we'd be shared.

What each of them was going to do to each of us.

My shoes were on by this time, and the voice in my head was screaming, "Run! The door's right there! You can make it if you move now!"

But Michelle's shoelace was still knotted, and now that her body had gone into fight-or-flight mode, her hands were shaking, making it even harder to open her shoe, get her foot in it, and get out that door.

We were a only block from my house, but the park seemed completely isolated and dangerous now. It crossed my mind that all the windows on all the neighboring houses were closed. No one would hear us scream.

I considered leaving Michelle behind.

Saving myself.

When did it become so difficult to put your shoes on?!

Can't you run through the snow in your socks?!

But I couldn't leave her.

So I stayed.

Michelle finally got her shoe on, and we made it out the door, hearing the boys cackling at how funny they'd been scaring those two little girls.

My heart pounded in my throat as we made our way home.

We didn't talk.

We stomped as fast as we could through the foot-high snow.

And glanced back, afraid they might be following us.

It didn't skate for five years after that.

It's one of those memories I keep stashed away in the dark corners of my mind. It came out into the light again last week as my husband, daughter and I were hiking at the nature center.

We came around a corner and met a couple older, tough-looking boys coming down the trail from the opposite direction. They barely glanced at us, but, all of a sudden, the fear I'd felt in the warming house resurfaced.

We were not far from home but in an isolated place.

That was all it took to make me feel scared and vulnerable.

For most of our hike, even though I was carrying on a conversation with my husband and noticing the birds and flowers with my daughter, my mind was reeling with horrible possibilities:

How my husband couldn't fight or run with our girl strapped to his back.

How they'd hit me.

How I'd be dragged off into the woods.

Or a ditch.

How they could hurt my daughter.

How no one would hear us scream.

Whether I could hurt them enough by stabbing them with a big stick to make them go away.

And I kept glancing back, afraid they might be following us.

Smokin'

2009-05-15T18:45:00.000-07:00

I was doing my leisurely stroll through the grocery store tonight when I saw him.

He was by the smoked meats.

He was wearing an "I (heart) Hot Moms" t-shirt.

Ugh.

How clever.

Then I noticed that he was shopping with a rather plump woman.

He was not, as I had presumed, single.

He was deeply enough into a relationship with an actual woman to be picking out smoked meats with her at the grocery store on a Friday night.

My mind quickly fired off a barrage of judgmental thoughts, stated Jeopardy! style, in the form of questions:

Does his wife/mother-of-his-children take his idiotic shirt as some sort of compliment?!

Why would any self-respecting woman be caught dead with a guy like that?

What sort of message is he sending to his children?!

Then I realized that the woman he was shopping with was, in fact, his mother.

I retracted my initial ugh, replaced it with an eww, and promptly left the meat department.

Stranger in a Strange Land

2009-05-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

The part of the city where I work is not the part where I live, and sometimes I feel like I don't quite fit with the locals in that neck of the woods.

For example ...

At 3:22 today I was about six blocks from work, in the left-turn lane, waiting for that blasted little arrow to turn green. I noticed that the car ahead of me had a decal in the rear window.

It read: Badass Girlz Drive Badass Toys.

The car? A Toyota Corolla. Yep. I know. Totally badass.

As the light was taking forever to change, I had some free time on my hands to ponder the situation.

My Thoughts:

• Shouldn't it read Badass Girlz Drive Badass Toyz (or Badass Girls Drive Badass Toys)? Seriously, if you're gonna eschew tradition and signify the plural form of a noun with a z instead of an s, you should consistently adhere to your own rule, no? You don't hear Elmer Fudd correctly pronouncing his r's from time to time; no, it's "Wascal Wabbit" every damn time. No exceptions. That guy's as dedicated as De Niro, and we all respect him for that.

• I'm all for gender equity, but this decal is so obviously a rip-off of the more commonly seen Badass Boyz Drive Badass Toyz, without the inherent charm of its predecessor's rhyming couplet format. Sequels are never as good as the original (exception: The Empire Strikes Back), and, Ladies, we deserve better than a shoddy sequel of a window cling. Dammit, if I want to tout my car's badassness to the masses, I deserve to do so in rhyme too. And in an original rhyme at that. I am shocked to find myself so blatantly discriminated against in this day and age. Things would be SO different right now if Hillary had won.

• Again, badass? On a Corolla? Is that supposed to be ironic or something?

The green arrow appeared - fleetingly. It only lit up long enough for the cars in line ahead of Badass Corolla and me, so we were stuck there together through another cycle. I was pretty well tapped out on judgmental thoughts about her, but, being where I was, another show pulled in line behind me. And this one had audio.

Actually, I felt the presence of the car behind me before I was even aware that I was hearing anything. It was some non-descript Chevy sedan, driven by a teenage boy who had, apparently, discovered the secret location of the volume and bass controls on his stereo. It was all bass. Entirely bass. Treble need not apply. Only bass.

I sensed an odd fluttering in my lungs and bowels as the Chevy pulled up behind me. My eardrums started pushing in and out with each pulse of the bass, and I wished I had some gum to chew to help them pop.

I assume what Mr. Big Audio Dynamite was playing was music, but with only the bass audible, it really just seemed like a series of low-frequency pulses being sent down through the earth. Perhaps he was calling out to a herd of far-off elephants. Or searching for oil deposits. I duuno. I was just trying to get home from work.

I've always taken issue with the whole play-the-car-stereo-excessively-loud thing. It demonstrates such an odd combination of not giving a crap what other people think while simultaneously seeking their attention. Desperately.

I could see Mr. Big Audio Dynamite in my rearview mirror, and he had that smug expression on his face. He was stickin' it to all of us and our stoopid rules. He'd had to behave at school the whole damn day, and now he was showing the world who was boss.

And everyone at the intersection - the elderly couple in the car next to me, the middle school girls crossing at the light, the dog tied up in the neighbor's backyard - had the same expression on their faces - the one that says: That is just so sad.

Finally, the arrow lit up green again, and we all went on our way.

You don't suppose Badass Corolla and Big Audio Dynamite are out there somewhere, blogging about that judgmental-looking woman listening to MPR in her practical German sedan, do you?

Maybe It's Just Me

2009-04-30T17:26:00.000-07:00

Watch it with the sound off and tell me you don't feel more than a tad creeped out.

Workin' 5 - 9

2009-04-29T19:56:00.000-07:00

I've read in numerous sources that we should eat five to nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day, but, honestly, unless I get all Reagan-administration about it and start counting ketchup (which I DO eat pretty much every day) as a vegetable, I'm having a helluva time getting past five.

I Heart Heinz.

Cinderella's Balls

2009-04-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

As spring weather brings out the necessity to speak to the tween girls I work with about appropriate dress (because they are either unaware of the concept or just think it's okay to dress as if they're going to be waiting tables at Hooters instead of attending middle school), I can't help but remember prom season of 1985 - when, even though my dress could be worn off-the-shoulder, I chose not to do so, because that seemed like WAY too grown-up of a thing for me to do.

matching cumberbunds = totally rad

When Pigs Flu

2009-04-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

I remember standing in line with my parents at the Department of Health to get vaccinations the last time a version of the swine flu came around; my mom passed out in front of me as they stuck the needle in my arm, and I think this fact is adding to my general sense of unease/dread at the news coming out of Mexico - except this time there's no vaccine.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

2009-04-26T18:28:00.000-07:00

Last week I ...

went hiking three times,

did not eat ice cream after dinner (but I wanted to),

ate fruit with breakfast every morning,

and only had one BAD meal (pizza, two slices)

... and gained one pound.

?!?!?!

What I'm Doing Over Summer Vacation

2009-04-25T19:57:00.001-07:00

I'm going here ...

Shinjuku

Tokyo, Japan

:-)

Oddest Thing I've Ever Said With Tremendous Sincerity While Heavily-Medicated

2009-04-24T12:18:00.001-07:00

"When I get better, I'm going to be strong like Mighty Mouse; he is very strong for a mouse." - Me, fall 2001

Double Time

2009-04-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

At the exact same spot on the road - where I turn off Sunset Drive and onto 109th - during my drive to work this morning and then again on the way home, the same song played on the radio: "Bad Day", and, though I did sing along with great emotion both times, I would by no means describe this particular day as having been a bad one.

Straight Hair, Limited Options

2009-04-22T18:07:00.000-07:00

Yes,

I've had

the same

haircut

since

the Bicentennial.

The Greatest Story Ever Rolled

2009-04-21T18:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get frustrated when I see the foolish choices my students make, but then I'll remember that, when I was in middle school, I paid money to go to a theater and see THIS ...

... and have a tough time mustering up much of a sense of superiority after that.

Who Says Runners Never Look Happy?!

2009-04-20T20:00:00.000-07:00

I was driving home from the store, wondering what I was going to blog about today, when I saw a man out for a run who, even though he was going straight into a 20 mph head wind, was so amped up by whatever was issuing forth from his iPod that he managed to play the air drums with extreme gusto the entire time.

A Healthier Alternative to Gwyneth

2009-04-19T18:51:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna go make my Team Scarlett t-shirt now.

Twice Shy

2009-04-18T19:59:00.000-07:00

I've hiked at the nature center by my house at least a hundred times and have only seen a snake there once; still, every time I pass the spot where I saw it, I think "This is where I saw that snake," and look around cautiously.

And Then I Laugh at His Pain

2009-04-17T18:09:00.000-07:00

My Ants in the Pants skills are steadily improving,

but about half my shots still hit that poor firehouse dog

right in his plastic crotch.

There Are No Small Roles ...

2009-04-16T19:03:00.000-07:00

Contents of Jean-Claude Van Damme's Resume

(circa 1985)

Recent Roles:

Guy Dancing in Background in Breakin'

Gay Karate Man in Monaco Fever

Does Blogging Count?

2009-04-15T16:02:00.000-07:00

I hate when questionnaires ask me to list my "hobbies",

because I've never really had one,

which used to make me worry that I was dull or odd,

but, upon reflection,

I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing

if I leave those questions blank.

L Is for Literate

2009-04-14T18:17:00.000-07:00

You need to use a comma with direct address, Numbskull.

How to Drain All the Sexy from a Porsche

2009-04-13T18:28:00.000-07:00

Put

Green

Bay

Packer

license

plates

it.

It Wasn't Supposed to Be Like This

2009-04-12T18:45:00.000-07:00

Our whole Campaign for Visible Vegetables thing has hit a bump in the road, and several bags of past-their-prime vegetables ended up in the trash rather than fulfilling their vitamin-rich destiny in our bellies;

however, we have been making excellent progress on the Day-Glo Easter Bunny Cake Eating Project.

The Flu: Day Six

2009-04-11T11:31:00.000-07:00

I needed

to take a nap

before lunch

because

I was exhausted

from

washing

hair.

:-(

In My Day It Was "Afternoon Delight"

2009-04-10T13:05:00.000-07:00

My neighbor's son and his friends are good boys because they told his eight year-old sister and her friend to stop screaming the lyrics to"Crank That Souljah Boy" on the swing set because, "Those words are bad, and you shouldn't say things if you don't know what they mean."

Wonder Buns

2009-04-09T15:25:00.000-07:00

I'd been wondering about the no-bread-with-lunch diet thing, but then I saw a super large woman groping a bag of puffy, white hamburger buns at the store today and thought, "Yep, too much bread'll do that."

Unlimited Talk

2009-04-08T17:52:00.000-07:00

I've had a couple unrelated things jump out in front of me lately that have added up to an inspiration for my next few weeks of blogging.

One is the closets, baskets, and storage tubs I live among, mostly filled with clothes I never wear and stuff I never use. Edit! Edit! Edit! How many episodes of What Not to Wear must I watch before I'm finally able to do this?!

Another was the way the word discipline struck me the other day. As in I have none RE: diet, exercise, fiscal responsibility, filling the gas tank before it hits E, and so forth.

Then there's the colleague who NEVER shuts up and makes me want to scream on a daily basis.

Next came a reference to Jim Brandenburg's book Chased by the Light. (World-famous photographer limits himself to taking only one picture per day for ninety days straight. Now that's discipline!)

Finally, there was an email with too many words. I'll leave it at that.

What all these things taken as a whole have led me to is a bit of a writing experiment. Basically, I've hatched up a plan in which I will limit myself to writing only one sentence per day on my blog. I will blog every day through the end of April, but each post will only be one sentence long.

It will require me to stick with something, and I'm going to have to learn how to edit like crazy, but I'm going to give it a whirl.

FAQ's

Can you include pictures?

Yes, though it's said one is worth a thousand words, I've never really taken that literally.

Will fragments be okay, or will complete sentences be required?

I'm giving myself permission to use fragments sporadically and without guilt.

What about the titles of your posts? Couldn't you just sneak in a whole 'nother sentence there?

I'll strive to keep the titles brief and title-like rather than using full-blown sentences.

What if someone comments on your blog? Will you be required to write single-sentence replies?

It's not a requirement that others limit their comments to one sentence at a time, but I'm going to stick to my one-sentence rule in replying to those comments.

But, couldn't you go all James Joyce and use some sneaky English major, ninja punctuation tricks, adding a bunch of semicolons and stuff, basically writing WAY more than a sentence each day but being able to call them "sentences" on some sort of technicality?

Yes, I suppose I could.

I'll resist the urge, though.

I am, after all, a highly-disciplined person.

I Feel Giddy. Oh, So Giddy.

2009-04-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

Even though my day started out a bit rough (stomach flu, day two - the pain is gone, but the malaise lingers ..), and I spent most of the morning hours sitting comatose on the sofa, two things happened later in the day that gave me a nice hit of giddiness, which was just what the doctor ordered.

Moment Of Giddiness #1: When I finally did snap out of my funk, I was overcome with the desire to engage in a bit 'o my favorite flavor of spring cleaning - the windows. It's not that I enjoy the process of cleaning them per se (though seeing all that grime on the paper towel is oddly satisfying), it is the end product that fills me with delight.

Oh, how I love a clean window.

I get this primal pleasure out of seeing not a single doggie nose smudge, toddler hand print, or rain splotch sullying the sparkly perfection of the glass. Few things in life are cooler to me than that moment when the light comes pouring in and seems so much brighter and happier. I know that I have accomplished something. I know that I have made the world a better place. Yes, all things are possible when my windows are clean.

Moment of Giddiness #2: Ice out. Two simple little words that say so, so much.

I have been ready to kick winter to the curb for some time now, and having a couple square miles of ice sheet in close proximity to my home has been a nagging reminder that winter still hadn't gotten the message, packed up its CD's, and stopped calling me already.

This afternoon, as I drove by the lake, I saw it: water, water everywhere! I literally felt a surge of happiness in my heart. Seriously, the joy I felt at seeing that ice-free lake was palpable. I sat up straighter and thought for a moment that my chest just might burst open, shooting little pink soap bubbles and glitter confetti all over the damn place. It was like falling in love. Or having the first bite of a really good cheeseburger.

Ah, the wonderful optimism that is spring, when a little sunshine, clean windows, and an ice-free lake are all it takes to reassure me that great things are not only possible, but waiting just around the corner.

Inside and Out

2009-04-05T16:40:00.000-07:00

There are a couple of movies out there that, no matter how many times I've seen them, I will always stick with when I'm channel surfing. I am this way about all the Ocean's movies, Notting Hill (a bit embarrassing to admit, but true), Good Will Hunting, and The Devil Wears Prada. Are they the greatest films ever made? Not really, but they make me smile, and between Bravo and TBS, I'm pretty sure to land on one of them at least once per week.

Another movie I feel this way about is Bridget Jones's Diary. I don't love la Zellweger, nor am I a huge Hugh Grant fan - despite the previous Notting Hill reference. I stick with this one for Colin Firth. More specifically, for the moment when he, as Mark Darcy, speaks that simple little line all women dream of hearing: "I like you. Very much. Just the way you are." Sigh.

I couldn't help but think of Mr. Darcy and his heart-go-pitter-pat line as I stumbled upon a string of other programming this week.

First stop: the BBC's documentary Perfect Private Parts. This fascinating, disturbing, and sad film is about labiaplasty - plastic surgery in which women have their labia reduced, reshaped, and generally revamped to make their vaginas, um, prettier.

The film-maker interviewed several women who had either undergone the operation or were considering it. Their reasons varied, but most were centered on having had their privates criticized (and in some cases ridiculed) by men. I'm not a big believer in plastic surgery to begin with, but this struck me as just so bizarre. To go through the risks and pain of surgery to alter a part of you that is so inherently private. It's not like your nose - seen by everyone all day long - this is your vagina, for god's sake.

And who really knows what one's supposed to look like, anyway?

Well, apparently some men think they do...

I could not believe that the men they interviewed had such specific opinions as to what an acceptably-attractive vagina looks like. I blame porn. It's all waxed and out there in the movies, so now the general population thinks they gotta look like that too. Isn't it fabulous how porn gets to influence how college-educated, gainfully-employed, and generally-not-crazy women feel about their bodies? Ah, yes, just as it should be. Right-o.

Among the women who chose not to go under the knife, several were shown at gatherings with other women, where they sat around spread-eagled and discussed their relationships with their vaginas. Really? This is necessary for some people? It was all very solemn and empowering as they sat around in little robes on piles of silk pillows in a dimly-lit room. Each woman took her turn to talk about what she liked and disliked (mostly disliked) about her vagina, and the other women would say reassuring things like, "I don't think it looks like a cauliflower at all."

When the woman who organizes these things started speaking with great earnestness about how the vagina remembers things, my first impulse was to giggle (as did the film-maker). Then I thought how that might come in handy, picturing myself scrambling around the house getting ready for work in the morning and glancing down to say, "YOU didn't happen to notice where I set my keys, did ya?"

I had barely recovered from Perfect Private Parts when I got a gander at an infomercial for Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy. It's a metal (reusable!) vaginal cleansing system invented by a gynecologist named Dr. Dave David. (I'm not making a word of this up, by the way.) Think of it as a tiny, interior shower. Or, better yet, don't think of it at all.

The premise of this ad is that vaginas are super stinky, and plain old bathing just isn't enough to cut through these noxious fumes of womanliness. We must rinse ourselves out with this little gizmo, or else men will run from us in utter disgust. Seriously, they interviewed a slew of women who deeply believe in the power of Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy and would attest to the fact that it has changed their lives for the better.

Now, I always figured that things of a life-changing magnitude were a bit bigger in scale: becoming a parent, losing someone you love, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, etc. Turns out it's actually as simple as squirting tap water into your vagina. And paying $29.95 + shipping and handling, of course. Who knew?

The third and final chapter in my inadvertent, gynocentric trilogy of sorts is a bit more reassuring. It comes in the form of the Discovery Channel's The Science of Sex Appeal. The section I saw focused on the power of scent. It was revealed that, when a woman nears ovulation, she takes on an odor that cognitively impairs men. Literally. When a woman produces this smell, men are drawn to her. He is the moth, and her scent is the flame.

Take that, Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy!

Men's brains are, it turns out, programmed to like us, as Mr. Darcy would say, just the way we are.

The Little Things Mean a Lot

2009-03-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

Let it be noted that at 9:00 PM on Sunday, I toyed with the idea of calling in for a Monday sub just 'cause I felt like I needed "a day". I didn't do it. But the pile of little things that grew into a big stack of baggage on my shoulders after that made me wish - over and over again - that I had.

Sunday, 9:45 PM, Thing #1 appears: According to the Self magazine online quiz, I am overweight. Only by three pounds, mind you, but still. Ouch.

Monday, 6:00 AM, Thing #2 rears its ugly head: In a fit of industriousness, I moved the fridge and cleaned under it Sunday afternoon. Felt fine at the time, but this morning the folly of my actions became evident. Large doses of Tylenol were required. And I mean kidney-damagingly large.

Monday, 7:02 AM, Here comes thing #3, Folks: I nearly ran over my neighbor and his dog as I pulled out of the driveway this morning. I was looking down the street for oncoming cars instead of directly behind me, which is where they were. Now I feel dumb. And potentially dangerous. Worst part: He's one of those chatty older guys who will probably go all paternal and use the tone on me next time our paths cross. And I'll have to fake maturity and comfort while politely acknowledging my mistake. I suck at that. (Granted, it would be worse to confront a jury of my peers had I actually run the guy over, but that's not really my point here.)

Monday, 11:55 AM, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet thing #4: My para is in Vegas for the week, and her sub is about 150 years old. I'm in no mood to talk to anyone, which explains my day's lesson plan, but feel enormous pressure to entertain this woman. Unfortunately, I got plenty 'o nothin', so the hour ends with me feeling like a bad hostess. I didn't even offer her a beverage. And she's coming back tomorrow.

Monday, 1:48 PM, A priest, a rabbi, and thing #5 walk into a bar: A colleague made a crack about how I don't understand the importance of schlepping my kid to the Sears Portrait Studio every three months because I adopted a toddler. "Oh, well, when they're BABIES, they change so fast." Yes, I never had the baby experience - doesn't mean I'm not a real mom. Doesn't mean my child doesn't grow and change in amazing ways every day. And maybe I wouldn't have chosen to buy into the portraiture cult in any case, since I think they're overpriced and unnecessary. And kinda tacky. Of course, I say none of this. I grin. I bear it. I curse my parents for raising me to be so damed polite.

Monday, 2:11 PM, Wow, thing #6 sure got here in a hurry: I can't even write the details here, but, those of you who know me, ask me about it in person. Use the code word darkness to ask. I will look around furtively to see if the coast's clear before I divulge the information. It involves another colleague. And it's both infuriating and AWK-ward!

Monday, 3:44 PM, And then there's thing #7: I'm driving home in a complete funk. It's cloudy and grey for the fifteenth day in a row. I am fat, crabby, and a bit misanthropic, so I decide to turn on the radio. There he is: Beck, and he's singing just for me, "In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey ...." I brace myself for the inevitable lyrics, "Sooooy un perdedor. I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?" I decide to smile and sing along. Real loud-like.

New Emoticon Discovered

2009-03-29T16:23:00.000-07:00

So, what should we name it?

A Trashy Little Story

2009-03-29T11:42:00.001-07:00

Now that the snow has melted, my walks around the neighborhood have turned into an adventure in suburban side-street archaeology. The individual things I see along the roadside among last fall's leaves are just pieces of trash, but, sometimes, the juxtaposition of these things, jettisoned from car windows over the course of winter, can create quite a story.

Here's today's story, which unfolded (and I promise this is true) all within the same block and in the order I have presented it here.

Working title:

Epilogue:

The brand of whipped cream is ...

(and I promise this is true)

Darifair.

Do you have any idea how much

I wanted it to be called DarieAir?!

Now THAT would have been perfect.

Misspelled. But perfect, nonetheless.

6:38 PM

2009-03-25T20:03:00.000-07:00

They're running errands,

so I have the house

all -

to -

myself.

I am,

apparently,

starring in an imaginary iPod ad.

The ear buds are in -

tinnitus is imminent.

And I am staggeringly good at dancing.

The only real thing I'm aware of is the dog,

curiously jumping around my feet.

His barks are audible

but muffled by the music.

I'm mostly just reading his lips.

Yes,

it's another of those moments

drenched in awesomeness.

And I needed that.

Those Beans Don't Scan, Sheila!

2009-03-25T14:56:00.000-07:00

I needed to go on a decongestant and low-fat ice cream run during work hours today and, since the nearest place that stocks both these items is CVS, I ended up there.

Driving time from work to CVS: 2 minutes

Picking out items time: 3 minutes

Standing in line while the one person ahead of me was paying time: 7 minutes!

Listening to cursing under breath from old guy behind me in line time: 4 minutes

Wondering why it took seven minutes long for one person to check out?

Let me walk you through it.

The lady in front of me was buying six small bags of jelly beans. (Why she didn't just buy one big, inexpensive bag of jelly beans and divvy it up at home, I have no idea. That's her biz.) Anyhow, the cashier couldn't get the scanner to "read" the jelly beans. After fumbling around at it a bit, the cashier got on the PA, "Sheila to the front, please."

"Thank God. Sheila's on her way. Sheila'll make it all better," I think to myself. (Who else would I be thinking to?)

Sheila, the Honcho on Premises, waddles up to the check out, and the cashier tells her, "I can only get one of them to scan."

What??!!

So, I'm waiting for Honcho Sheila to go crazy on the cashier (whose name I never did catch) and tell her to just push the damn buttons for "times six", since the lady's buying six of the same item.

No dice.

Honcho Sheila makes some attempts at scanning the jelly beans and, when she finds it ain't working, she stomps off. The cashier and customer just stand there, as do I - wondering if there are any other clerks working and if they could pu-leeze open another register so Mr. Swears-Like-A-Sailor and I can get on with our day.

Honcho Sheila comes back with MORE of the un-scannable jelly beans and proceeds to try scanning them.

"Dammit, Sheila! Those beans don't scan! Go to Plan B! You have keys to the register, don't you?! Use 'em, Sheila! Shit, Girl, that's what they're for!!" I'm screaming in my head, trying to look calm on the outside, as if I'm one of those people who is heavily into yoga or meditation or just really digs hearing "Endless Love" on the piped-in music or something.

Suddenly, Sheila gets one of the bags to scan.

It's an Easter candy miracle!

Two down, four to go, ladies!

We're on our way!

Now, I am getting a wee bit impatient about standing there, swinging my basket of decongestant and low-fat ice cream so it bumps my knees in rhythm to "The Pleasure Principle", which is only barely drowning out the string of cuss words coming from Popeye the Sailor Man behind me, but, I have to admit that I'm also getting a little sucked into the drama of it all. Will Sheila and the cashier lady EVER succeed in scanning six bags of jelly beans? After having invested six minutes into this story, it becomes oddly compelling.

I was actually a little disappointed when another cashier appeared out of thin air and signaled me over. She rang up my order in about ten seconds. I had the cash in hand. She gave me my change and receipt. No dramatic tension. No story arc. Ho hum.

As I walked through the doors and back out into the world, I glanced over at the first register. Honcho Sheila, the cashier lady, and the customer were all still there, plugging away on the old Scan the Jelly Beans Project. I'll never know how for sure how their story ended, but I hope it ended well. They deserve it after all they've been through.

I committed a moving violation to bring you this picture,

which isn't even integral to understanding the story

now that I think of it.

I Know What Boys Like

2009-03-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

We do a little thing every spring where we create two-week's worth of phony holidays to celebrate at work. It's silly stuff about wearing fake tattoos and building make-your-own sundaes and such - fluff, basically, to keep morale up during what is traditionally a bit of a slump during the year. We all share a laugh and blow off steam by being just a little bit silly.

All but one of us, that is.

I got word through the grapevine that someone in our office got his undies in a big ol' bundle and went after one of our own. His complaint: the holidays we'd chosen were too girly. Sure, Wear No Make-Up Day is decidedly feminine, but we had actually gone out of our way to make sure that nine of the ten days on the calendar were friendly to both genders. (Office demographics: over 20 women, 4 men).

Hearing about his tirade motivated me to take down our current calendar and replace it with ...

March Man-ness

A Celebration of Straight, White Male Stereotypes

Monday, March 23rd - Bitch About the Dumbass Women You Work With Day

Tuesday, March 24th - Bodily Function Jousting Tournament

Wednesday, March 25th - Talk About Your Car Day

Thursday, March 26th - Malt Liquor and Porn Day

Friday, March 27th - Scratch Where It Itches Day

Monday, March 30th - Eat Cookies the Dumbass Women You Work With Baked Day

Tuesday, March 31st - JARTS, Anyone?

Wednesday, April 1st - Homophobic Comment Day

Thursday, April 2nd - Tater Tot Festival

Friday, April 3rd - Wear That Sexy Cologne You Bought at Walgreen's Day

Party on, Dudes!

(And just 'cause I'm on a forgiveness kick doesn't mean I'm not allowed to get pissed off once in a while. So no bitching about that. Consider yourself warned.)

Critical Literacy?

2009-03-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is real.

And it's available on the 25th.

The F Word

2009-03-21T15:00:00.000-07:00

We had a big wind storm go through our neighborhood last fall, and some people who live by the lake had their stone chimney damaged by a branch from a big oak tree that grows right up next to their garage. It took the whole top off the chimney, and, as I drove by the house this winter, I'd notice the blue tarp that had been put over the damaged part until it was warm enough out to fix it.

Well, the warm weather has come, and the homeowners are making some improvements to the property along with getting the chimney fixed. What is somewhat surprising is what they've done to the tree. Or rather, what they haven't done. Instead of cutting it down because it's in the way of their expansion (or because it thunked one of its big branches down on their chimney - and has plenty more where that came from to toss at them in another storm), they decided to build a new section of their garage and patio AROUND the tree - so it pops up through a specially-built hole in the roof's overhang. This is, in my opinion, a rather impressive act of forgiveness.

Seeing their willingness to not only forgive but embrace that which has "done-them-wrong" got me thinking about my own ability to forgive.

My self-assessment upon reflection: I am not a particularly forgiving person.

I harbor anger, resentment, and petty jealousy about far too many infractions - real and imagined on my part - by friends, family, colleagues, et cetera - to be doing myself any good. And most of what I'm clinging to says more about my own failings than anyone else's.

This can't be healthy.

I gotta let some stuff go.

So, I'm going to do a little spring cleaning of the soul, and you get to come along for the ride.

I'm not going to name any names, but my hope is that by committing to writing my intentions to forgive these folks - on the internet, no less, where everything is true and real - that I will be better at following through on forgiveness than I have managed to be in the past.

Here it goes.

I forgive you for talking shit about me. I never heard your exact words, only the interpretations of others long after you'd said them. I'm going to assume that you were coming from a place of concern for me rather than intentionally trying to be mean. I hope you can forgive me for gossiping about you in an extremely seventh-grade moment of retaliation. That was small of me, and even though we're no longer really friends, you deserved better than that.

I forgive you for not being able to read my mind and know exactly what I want/need from you. You're on the mark more often than not, and I need to be better about appreciating that. For someone who doesn't actually live inside my head, you do a mighty fine job. I hope you can forgive my occasional lack of patience.

I forgive you for succeeding at the things I still struggle with. Rather than feeling resentful of your accomplishments, I should be inspired and motivated by them to improve myself and tackle the tough stuff I've been avoiding. You are a wonderful person. I am proud of you; it just gets buried under far less-appealing feelings sometimes.

Are there more I need to forgive? Of course.

But there's only so much mental clutter I can carry to the curb at one time.

For today, I'm making progress.

And I forgive myself for not being able to get it all done at once.

History Repeats Itself: Dora's a Tween!

2009-03-17T15:19:00.000-07:00

The internet's been all abuzz lately about this not-so-little lady ...

It's Age-Projection Enhanced Dora the Explorer!

Mattel announced plans to introduce a tween version of the intrepid cartoon heroine, and grown-ups commenced to go nuts about this new "sexed-up" Dora. I don't know if I'd go so far as to call her sexed-up, but she certainly did shed the baby fat and bought herself a tube of lip gloss. She looks like a fairly typical, pretty middle school girl. She hasn't stumbled into Bratz territory, so I'm not too worried about her. I just don't think she's particularly necessary. (Frankly, I'm more curious about what happened to Boots. How's middle school treating that monkey, anyway?)

The thing that surprises me most about this whole deal is how short our collective cultural memory is. This, friends, is not the first time a sweet little cartoon girl has skipped a few grades and made the leap from daycare to middle school.

Lest we forget ...

Miss Pebbles Flintstone

Yes, those of us who endured a seventies-era childhood are in familiar territory with this Tween Dora controversy, for we all remember when our favorite Stone Age cutie pie suddenly morphed into ...

Prom Date Pebbles!

There she was in her wasp-waisted, mini-skirted splendor. (Thank God she inherited her mother's figure!)

She was cute.

She had a knack of getting into trouble.

She had that big galloot Bamm-Bamm trailing her with dog-like devotion.

And we hated her.

The show was dumb, and the only reason most of us watched was because we only had three channels to choose from.

Are you listening, Mattel? Kids today have limitless media access, and I fear tween Dora's destiny might just be the clearance rack.

While looking for pictures I did learn something, though. There is an entire website devoted to Flintstone's costumes. It bears the highly original address www.flinstonecostumes.com. I had no idea there was such demand for this.

Teen Pebbles Get-Up

I suspect she's violating the school dress code

in a number of ways.

3:44 PM

2009-03-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

At 3:44 PM today, I was on my way home -

stopped at a light -

facing southeast.

The sun was shining.

It was 67 degrees out.

My car windows were rolled down.

I had my sunglasses on.

I could see kids sitting at the picnic tables at the Dairy Queen.

Stevie Wonder was playing on the radio.

Sometimes life gives you a moment positively drenched in awesomeness.

This was one of those.

The Llama Days of Mid-March

2009-03-15T10:54:00.000-07:00

March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. Here we are, smack-dab in the middle of the month, which would be like what? A moose? A llama? I dunno.

Anyhow, having had my first taste of fifty-degree weather, I feel myself overcome with the giddy excitement that we of the northern climes feel every year when we sense that, though spring is not yet officially here, it is altogether possible.

Bursting with hope, I set about on the tasks crucial to marking the arrival of potential spring. First among these is the packing away of the wool clothes. Farewell, tweed skirts! Adieu, itchy wool cardigan! You have served me well through the dark times of winter, but your cotton cousins need to break free from their bonds of winter storage and find their way back to their rightful place in my closet.

Sunshine on My Woolens

Though this is a joyful time, it is not without its trials. As the warm-weather clothes emerge from storage, I have to check for fit. (Translation: This is when I find out how much weight I gained over the winter.) Knowing that I had half a donut and an entire cupcake yesterday, I decided not to try that khaki skirt and those black pants that only work when I'm feeling skinny.

My floral-print blouse still fits, and I'm going to take that as good enough until I've put down the laptop for a while, laced up the ol' walking shoes, and gone around the block a few times. This is, after all, a time of hope.

I'm So Vain: I've Totally Deluded Myself Into Thinking These Songs Are About Me

2009-03-11T15:26:00.000-07:00

"Secret Garden" by Bruce Springsteen

I love that Bruce gets what a complicated, multi-faceted woman I am. We could spend a lifetime together, and he'd still find new and wonderful things to discover about me every day. I'll always be a bit enigmatic to him, but Bruce is all about the journey of discovery. God, I dig that about him. What could be more tiresome than a guy who thinks he's got you all figured out?

"Your Song" by Elton John

Okay, so I know there's a lot of evidence to suggest that he actually wrote this song about another man, but I don't care. I also don't care that he can't remember whether my eyes are green or blue. Details. Details. His gift is his song, and this one's for me. (And they're green, Elton. Green.)

"Closer to You" by the Wallflowers

True, Jakob Dylan and I have never actually met, yet he feels drawn ever closer to me by the gravitational force field that is our love. I am THAT kind of powerful. Nice of him to acknowledge it publicly.

"Wonderwall" as covered by Ryan Adams

So, I'm not 100% clear on what the lyrics actually mean, but when his voice breaks just a bit and he does that overwhelmed-by-the-power-of-what-he's-feeling thing, I sense that he really NEEDS me. And I'm gonna be the one that saves him. Maybe.

"Act Naturally" by Semisonic

Dan Wilson and I have this tacit understanding thing going on. He knows I love him. I know he loves me. It would all just get SO complicated if everybody else were to find out, so we're just letting it be our little secret. Of course, John Munson and I have a similar agreement. Don't tell Dan, 'kay?

"Keepin' in Real" by Mason Jennings

I'm so convinced this song's about me that I actually blush every time I hear it. Shucks, Mason, I'm sweet on you too.

"Tupelo Honey" by Van Morrison

Normally, calling me an angel would get you little more than a roll of the eyes from me, but Van goes the extra mile and says that I am one "of the first degree." And I know for certain this song is his apology to me for the whole "Brown-Eyed Girl" thing. They're green, Van. Green.

"Something in the Way She Moves" by James Taylor

I'm under JT's spell for about three stanzas of this one. Really, all I have to do is call your name, and the whole big, bad troubled world gets left behind? That is so sweet, James. (See, I just made him go all weak in the knees when I called him "James" like that.)

However, what's this business in the second half - about not really caring what I say, how I think, or where I've been? Am I just a bunch of pretty-sounding, empty words to you, James?! Um, there's a whole line of guys ahead of you writing songs about me, and most of them are totally heterosexual and stuff. You're gonna have to step up your game, James, 'cause I heard John Mayer's workin' on a little ditty for me right this very minute.

What I Am Is What I Am

2009-03-09T16:46:00.000-07:00

I am more -

than -

more -

than -

more akin to -

than to -

and so much more -

than I could ever be -

And that's perfectly fine with me.

Skills

2009-03-06T19:53:00.000-08:00

As I drive to work in the morning, I often see people out going for walks by the lake, jogging, biking, etc. (One lady in our neighborhood has a bunch of exercise videos, one of those yoga ball things, a picture window, a big screen TV, and great devotion to working out at 7 AM. What she lacks, however, are drapes.)

Anyhow, as I look as these people, I often think that if it weren't for the fact that I have to go to work, I'd be spending glorious, morning hours engaging in these same healthy activities - except I'd have drapes, of course.

Yes, I'd get up early, have a nutritious meal (eaten at a leisurely pace), read the paper in its entirety, and then slip into something spandex and head out to fill my lungs with the refreshing air of the sunrise hours. That's precisely what my life would look like if it weren't for the whole gainful employment thing bringin' me down.

I started spring break with the ambition of slipping into such a life for one amazing week. (It should be noted that I start ALL spring breaks this way. And winter breaks. And summer vacation, for that matter.) I imagined myself starting my days with exercise and filling the remaining hours reading great books, tackling enormous home remodeling projects, and treating myself to the occasional well-earned nap. Things didn't really pan out that way, though.

Now, as my break nears its end, I'm left to ask: What the hell did I DO all week? What did I accomplish? The best way I can think of to explain how I've wiled away the hours this week is by offering you a newly-updated edition of my slacker resume:

Resume of a Slacker

Objectives: to secure a position in which I can utilize my slacker skills, to continue to learn and grow as a slacker

Education:

Master of Arts in Reality Television Viewing

Bravo! University

majors: Top Chef, Real Housewives, and Project Runway

minors: Millionaire Matchmaker and Make Me a Supermodel

(Additional coursework completed at hulu U.)

Bachelor of Arts in Magazine Reading

Conde Nast College

majors: Reading periodicals that encourage me to eat better, exercise, be smart, and self-actualize (Health, Mental Floss, and O) while eating salty, crunchy snacks and wiping fake cheese-covered hands on sofa cushions.

minor: mindlessly reading blogs & online entertainment "news", particularly those pertaining to Gwyneth Paltrow and GOOP backlash

Bachelor of Science in Junk Food Preparation and Consumption

Minnesota Institute of Processed Meats and Cheeses

graduated summa cum laude

Career Highlights

• Fell asleep during third episode of America's Next Top Model marathon after eating a hot dog and some brownies. Woke with face in puddle of drool on arm and shirt. Opted not to change into clean shirt.

• Reacted to discovery of dog poop on family room floor by saying, "Well, I guess I don't need to take him out again for a few hours."

• Only changed out of pajama bottoms to drop daughter up at daycare at 7 AM and pick her up at 4 PM. Cursed societal demand that I put on pants when leaving the house.

• Brought bag containing "homework" reading assignment into the house on Wednesday. Have stepped over it repeatedly in the entryway every day since.

• Took pillow cases off bed to launder. Threw extra blanket over "naked" pillows to avoid hassle of re-casing them. Have slept like a baby that way since Thursday.

Specialized Knowledge and Training

• Able to identify healthy bowel movement due to random channel-flip to Tyra Banks Show. (What WON'T that woman talk about?!)

• Can turn toddler into Wonder Pets! addict with steady supply of DVD's, chicken nuggets, saltine crackers, and apple juice.

• Can kill two hours by creating own SNL Shorts Film Festival on hulu.

• Can kill even more time writing blog about what a slacker I am while avoiding laundry, dirty dishes, and homework.

I Loathe Lanyards

2009-03-05T06:43:00.000-08:00

I wear a lanyard at work.

I hate the damn thing.

I've received a couple of them at work as gifts/prizes/unsuccessful motivational tools. I dutifully stuffed each of them in my desk drawer to find it months later, wonder aloud "Why did I keep this piece of crap?", and throw it in the trash. Or stick it in some unsuspecting victim's mailbox in the office.

I've spent my own hard-earned cash to purchase several different ones, hoping the pretty beads would somehow compensate for its lameness, but, alas, I persist in hating the damn thing.

I hate how my keys and ID go thunk against me with each step I take.

I hate how it makes a really nice outfit look so damed proletarian.

I hate how it's basically a leash, and I'm required to wear it.

I even hate the word lanyard. It is impossible to sound sexy and cool while saying that word. Try it. You will fail.

Now, I understand the reasoning for wearing one at work - identification, safety, keeping me from looking TOO stylish, blah-blah-blah .... I know that no amount of fussing on my part will make the lanyard of wretchedness go away. I accept the futility in trying to throw off these shackles, but that doesn't mean I have get all rah-rah about it and hop on the pro-lanyard bandwagon, which appears, by the way, to be a very crowded bandwagon, indeed.

"Stupid Stuff I Found on the Internets

as Evidence of the Crowded Conditions

on the Pro-Lanyard Bandwagon"

"I Had No Idea It Was This Bad Out There"

The Wrist Lanyard:

When Dangling Crap Around Your Neck Just Isn't Enough

It's dark out!

Where'd my arm go?!

Oh, THERE it is.

Man, that was a close one!

And here I hated the thunk of keys against me.

Imagine the sensation of being whacked with a bottle of

Lipton Green Tea with every step.

Or if you had to run wearing this.

Even our friends at Coach have stepped into the lanyard arena.

It's extra-pricey and comes with bonus dangly crap!

I also found many sites selling products to make your own lanyards, which reminded me of the only lanyard-related thing I've ever truly loved ... Billy Collins reading his poem "The Lanyard".

Back in the late-nineteenth century, the lanyard was originally used to carry a jack-knife, so you'd be ready to whip it out if you happened to need to stab someone that day. Interesting to know if you ever end up on Jeopardy! and have Lanyard Lore as a category. Or if you travel back in time and happen to have your lanyard on.

If IKEA Nomenclature Were a Jeopardy! Category and I Were on the Show

2009-03-01T08:53:00.000-08:00

Me: I'll take IKEA Nomenclature for 100, Alex.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The name of the most everyday of IKEA's everyday line of dishes and linens.

Me: Um, what is 365+?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Correct!

Me: Great! Let's try IKEA Nomenclature for 200.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The styrofoam-peanut free way IKEA packages its assemble-it-your-damn-self furniture.

Me: That's easy. What is flat-pack, Alex?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Yes, you're right again!

Me: Wow, I'm on a bit of a roll here, Alex. Gimme IKEA Nomenclature for 300.

Mr. Alex Trebek: Mammut.

Me: Hmm, what is a line of brightly-colored, polypropylene bedroom furniture for children?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Correct again! You certainly know your IKEA! And that's a lovely sweater you're wearing, by the way. What's next?

Me: Back off, Alex. I'm married, and you're old enough to be my dad. Just act like a professional and hit me with IKEA Nomenclature for 400.

Mr. Alex Trebek: Of course. The tool IKEA shoppers can totally rock.

Me: What's an 'effing Allen wrench?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Yep! Care to sweep the category?

Me: Don't mind if I do. Bring on IKEA Nomenclature for 500, Alex.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The name of the company the makes the big ass fans that keep the air moving in your local IKEA's warehouse.

Me: Oh, it's gonna take more than that to stop me, Alex. What is Big Ass Fans?

Mr. Alex Trebeck: I stand in awe of your highly-specialized brand of trivial knowledge.

Me: I know. I get a lot of that.

Love for Sale. Cheap.

2009-02-25T18:04:00.000-08:00

Y'know how Russian Christmas is after the twenty-fifth and Chinese New Year is in late-January? Well, if there's some nationality out there that celebrates Valentine's in March, they're gettin' one heckuva deal on the sweet treats of love.

I'm thinking of hatching a early-May Easter scheme this year.

Discounted chocolate bunnies?

Jelly eggs at 75% off?

I am so there.

Attention to Detail

2009-02-23T19:18:00.000-08:00

Now that winter is breathing its (hopefully) last breaths, I decided it's time to get up and, yanno, move around a little.

Past winters in my life have been filled with exercise - skating, snow-shoeing, long walks after dinner, etc. This winter has been depressingly inactive, and I'm starting to feel pangs of guilt about it. Sure, I could blame it on those long stretches of bitterly-cold weather we've had, the way that even the temperate days have been super windy, blah blah blah. But the fact of the matter is that I have chosen the warm comfort of a sofa cushion over arduous outdoor activity for the last few months.

Yep, I been all lazy-like. Real lazy-like. But, I can change.

I decided to ease myself back into the world of the non-inert by trying something new: tai chi chuan. (Of course, by "new" I mean new to me, since this stuff WAY pre-dates anything Jane Fonda ever did a leotard.) I bought the Tai Chi for Beginners DVD and let it sit comfortably on top of my dresser for about a week. To find its center.

Two days ago I took off the wrapper. To let it breathe.

Tonight I tried it for the first time.

It is deceptively difficult.

It looks like you're just waving your arms around slowly in big circles, but it requires an amazing amount of concentration. You're not only following directions as to which way to turn your palms, when to inhale, when to exhale, and how to place your feet on the ground - you're also expected to keep the tip of your tongue on your palate the whole time. Yes, this is a workout that is a stickler for detail.

And I loved it.

All the focusing on the big and tiny movements of the body make it impossible for the noise in the brain to be heard. It's like a little twenty-minute vacation from that heap of mental clutter that's rattling around in my head, and I felt a tiny surge of accomplishment when I finally figured out a move to the point where I could relax into it.

I moved my hands like clouds, hugged a giant tree, parted a wild horse's mane, and did something - I forget what - to a crane. This is just the kind of hokey crap that usually sends me packing, but there was something about this that just worked. Maybe it was the stand of aspens the instructor was filmed in front of. Or the natural lighting. Or just the fact that I really needed it.

A single whip is not what you get on your latte at Starbuck's

It's what this guy is doing.

Innocence Lost

2009-02-19T19:29:00.000-08:00

I was working with my students on choral reading and brought out "Old Mother Hubbard" as a practice text; it has lots of rhyme, a sing-song meter, and silly subject matter, so I figured it was an easy one to start out with.

My last class of the day had finished reading the poem together, and I decided to have one of those cool-enough-to-mock-the-text moments and encourage the kids point out some of the odd, borderline-inappropriate for pre-schoolers things that were mentioned in this dusty, old nursery rhyme.

They pointed out that Old Mother Hubbard had bought the dog a beer at the alehouse, that she'd come home to find him smoking a pipe, etc. One girl raised her hand and chimed in about the part when OMH "...went to the hosier's to get him some hose". I figured it was just an odd answer, so I replied with something about dogs not really needing socks.

She'd just gotten out, "Oh, I thought it meant ..." when one of the boys jumped out of his seat and yelled, "NO! Stop!"

I quickly realized that she had mistaken hose (as in stockings) for ho's (as in, yanno, ho's). I thanked the boy for his quick save and moved on to the next thing.

Later, as I thought about it, I remembered that in several of my other classes, kids had mentioned the hose line too. Only now I understood WHY they'd brought it up.

Wow.

I don't know what bugs me more: that my students are so worldly beyond their years that they immediately think of whores when they hear that word or that they're such bad readers that they don't recognize the word hose when they see it.

Now, of course, I have to live with the mental image of Old Mother Hubbard going out to get hookers for her dog. And wonder whether the hookers were dog hookers or human ones. I'm choosing to believe they're dogs, mostly because it gives me an excuse to say things like, "She didn't have much money to spend, so she just got him a paw job."

Surefire Signs That I'm Not the Slightest Bit Interested in What You're Saying

2009-02-17T18:51:00.000-08:00

• My vocabulary has all but disappeared, and the only things I'm saying are "Um, hmm" and "Oh" over and over at polite intervals.

• I am completely avoiding eye contact. And not just in that cagey, looking-at-your-forehead way. I mean you're totally looking at the back of my head while I'm shuffling through papers on my desk or glancing out the window - as if looking for my getaway car to arrive.

• If you do catch a glimpse of my face, you may notice that it's wearing an expression akin to that of a fox who's contemplating chewing off its own paw to escape from a trap.

• I seem to be nodding an awful lot. Maybe a little too much even. And rarely in sync with what you're saying.

• I'm trying SO hard not to roll my eyes at you that my face is starting to hurt.

• When you ask me a question, I reply, "Huh?

• I'm subtly rocking from side to side and bobbing in time to the music I'm imagining in my head in a futile attempt to drown out your voice.

• I back out the nearest door and close it when you're in the middle of a sentence.

Seven Things I Find Freakishly Disturbing About the Pedi Egg

2009-02-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

1. It has blades, and you scrape the bottoms of your feet with it. A simple pumice stone should suffice; no one should need to go all cheese grater on their feet. Seriously, that's just wrong.

2. When they show the person on the commercial emptying the trough of dead footskin (a term I'm considering trademarking, by the way), there's like a quarter cup of shavings in there. If anything, this emphasizes the overall grossness of the product and makes me shun it all the more.

3. As I was looking for a picture to include for this post, I found a whole message board of women talking about how much they LOVE their Pedi Eggs. Really? I love my family, my dog, my job, and, every now and then - a really good cheeseburger; however, I can't picture ever mustering up that level of affection for something that scrapes dead skin off my feet. Nope, I just can't.

4. One woman on said message board warned of the danger of "over-grating". I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

5. It makes me look at people differently - as if I live in a world where everyone has horrific quantities of dead footskin (handy term, ain't it?). There's a rather unnerving Night of the Living Dead quality to it all. Here, I thought I knew my family and friends pretty well, but it turns out they're just a bunch of unexfoliated zombie freaks. "Eggs. Eggs. Must have Eggs..."

6. The feet in the ad are of the gnarly, well-traveled sort. Even foot fetishists would turn away from these hooves in utter disgust. If you're going to shoot an ad that features thirty seconds of gratuitous foot shots, could you at least have the decency to show some reasonably pretty ones? (And I'm not just talking about the befores here; the afters ain't too cute either.)

7. I fear for the repercussions of society's acceptance of this commercial. We already have ads with cartoon mucus sittin' around in someone's sinuses. And don't get me started on the one for the toe fungus stuff - where they flip that discolored toenail back like they're opening a can of peanuts, for God's sake! We have to draw the line somewhere, America; otherwise, we're going to see before and after shots of Brazilian wax jobs, pictures of the kind of robust bowel movements only a diet supplemented with the active cultures of Activia can bring, and so forth. I don't want to live in that world. And I don't think you do either.

Who Am I To Judge?

2009-02-15T19:16:00.000-08:00

I have a bad case of remodeler's envy going on right now. I am fixated on tearing apart our kitchen and bathroom - both of which would require a full-on gut jobs. Unfortunately, we don't have a couple extra grand hiding in a coffee can on top of the fridge, so all I can do is dream.

Unable to actually change my surroundings in any real way, I've been gettin' my fix at HGTV's website, specifically in the Rate My Space section. People send in pictures of rooms in their homes and invite others to rate their spaces on a scale of one to five.

It is, in a word, glorious. I have learned that ...

a. my hideous kitchen ain't all THAT hideous after all,

b. lots of money doesn't necessarily lead to lots of style, and

c. judging others can be a whole lotta fun!

I know I'm being shallow and judgmental when I cruise this site, but that's kinda what it's designed for, so I'm just going to set guilt aside and revel in this a bit.

It's hard to say which I like better - the people who totally own up to their room's ugliness and desperately seek the counsel of others OR the folks who've dropped a small fortune to create a room befitting the home of one Blandy McBlanderson, Mayor of Blandsville, USA. (Hardwood floors. Granite countertops. Beige paint. Yawn.)

What could possibly be finer than seeing the crap that other people treasure? There's just something about seeing someone's butt-ugly rooster collection cluttering up their kitchen that gives me a tiny, gleeful surge in the superiority center of my brain. And I'm gonna chase that high. Yes, I am.

Speaking of high... there was one twentysomething who was seeking advice for updating her kitchen. I wanted to comment on her page that, based on the shocking number of liquor bottles on top of her fridge, I felt she needed AA more than HGTV right now. Of course, I'm too nice to actually post that to her. So I put it here instead.

The comments/advice are also fabulous. One woman actually suggested that someone should stencil seashells on the walls to liven up her bathroom. Um, I don't think the '90's are small enough in our metaphorical rearview mirror yet for their trends to be considered retro, so ixnay on the encilstay. Okay?

I also give a thumbs-down to anything that involved using a hot glue gun.

And all things described as "country" and/or "shabby chic".

And all rooms with a sign with the word ANTIQUES on it.

Man, I am GOOD at this judgmental stuff!

The question now is whether I post pictures of my pad on the site and face the judgment of others...