I hear something smelling

When my brother was little, he used to run into the kitchen whenever my mom was baking and yell: "I hear something smelling!" We still use that phrase at Mom's house which always smells like food and flowers and books and soap and furniture polish. It smells like Mom.

I am a visual girl but I am also a big-time smell girl. I huff everything. I guess it’s my way of experiencing as much as I can of whatever I really enjoy, so I often make a point to inhale deeply whatever it is I love. I can remember how all of the most important people in my life have smelled, especially the men. Those smells are usually mixtures of things, all unique, all different, all burned in my memory. My usual deep inhaling includes my favorite places, the kids in my life, my disgusting dog, the roses in my yard, the latte at Starbucks, the newspaper, a new pair of all-leather shoes, my kid’s brand new textbooks—whatever. Certain smells transport and intoxicate me. Sniff something today. I know I will.

Just before my daughter was born, I discovered that Johnson & Johnson had changed the formula of their baby shampoo. It did not smell the same as it had for as far back as I can remember—and that’s a long time. As a very busy babysitter all through high school, I used a lot of the stuff and I remember what it smelled like: sweet and baby powdery. All of J&J’s baby products had the same smell. So, hugely pregnant, I stood in the baby aisle at Albertson’s and popped open the lid of the shampoo and inhaled, expecting to be delighted by the nostalgia of the sweet familiar scent. But alas, I was let down. My olfactory memory knew something was amiss. The scent of J&J’s “No More Tears” had been altered to a sort of fruity scent. Their baby powder still smells the same, but I was told it wasn’t good for a baby’s lungs, so I never used it. I was robbed of my sweet J&J baby shampoo experience with my own baby. Bastards. Why do companies do that? Why mess with a sure thing? Boredom? Job security? Desperately seeking relevance in the marketing department? Whatever the reason, it just doesn’t seem to be a good idea, as those of us who remember the “New Coke” debacle can attest.

But anyway, I have been mentally listing the items that evoke the most vivid memories of my childhood via smell. Here is my list so far of the products that still smell exactly the same to me:

Noxzema skin cream: I used this all through high school because I really believed one morning I would wake up and look just like Christie Brinkley. It never happened (if it had I sure as hell would not be sitting in my pajamas with a flatulent mutt sleeping on my feet while the GITB screams “honey—have you seen my ‘Cat in the Hat‘ boxers?” from the other side of the house. I would be in Manhattan having lunch at the Russian Tea Room with Vera Wang).

Revlon’s Flex shampoo and conditioner: I was a competitive swimmer from the age of 8 until my senior year of high school which meant I lived in the pool. And I used gallons of this stuff. I was thrilled to see it reappear on store shelves a few years ago and I did the store aisle sniff-test. Yes—it smells exactly the same.

Ivory soap. I would never use the stuff now because it strips every bit of natural oil and then some leaving the skin on my arms and legs looking like they were made of raffia. But I loved carving Ivory soap and making all kinds of utterly useless crafty doo-dads out of the thick white bars in girl scouts. Sometimes I pick it up and sniff it when I am in the store. It really irritates my daughter when I do this, by the way.

Vicks VapoRub. Whenever my brother or I came down with a cold, my mom used to rub this on our chests then wrap a towel around our necks and secure it with a safety pin so that the oily menthol greasiness wouldn’t get all over our pajamas. And she is an educated woman. Go figure.

Pepto-Bismol. Yes, it has a smell. It smells like pink. Also, I noticed when I ate a few of Schmoopie’s conversation hearts this past Valentine’s Day that the pink ones taste sort of like Pepto. So do the pink Necco wafers.

Folgers coffee from the can. It must be from the can. Nothing smells like a freshly opened can. The plastic bag stuff just does not smell the same.

Budweiser. When you say Budweiser, you have said it all, honey. And it smells the same. It smells like summers fishing in my grandpa’s boat.

I AM Mrs. Robinson

The mid-life crisis has been temporarily averted. The kid (I mean guy) at my daughter’s school who runs the after-school sports program asked me out on Friday. Yeah. No shit.

“Mr. Jeff” is a grad student from a nearby college so he has to be around 24—young enough to be my son (I mean nephew).

So I am standing in the hallway while Schmoopie crams books into her locker and gathers her PE gear and Mr. Jeff says:

“So, what are you doing for St. Paddy’s Day?”

Me: “Probably heating up a can of Spagettios and hassling Schmoopie for wanting to watch “Deal or No Deal” I mean—what up with that? It’s the stupidest show I’ve ever seen...”

Mr. Jeff: “I’m thinking about hitting ____ (Irish pub here in town). You wanna come?”

Me: “What?”

Mr. Jeff: “I mean---does Schmoopie need a sitter? She really doesn’t, does she?”

Me: “Are you serious?” (Laughing nervously and glancing over his shoulder down the hall. Schmoopie is heading our way and her eyes have narrowed as she strains to hear the conversation).

Mr. Jeff: “Yeah. Can you?”

Me: “Um, Mr. Jeff, Schmoopie’s Dad might have a problem with that.” (More nervous half-assed laugh).

Mr. Jeff: “Oh, man. I thought you were single...you don’t wear a ring…”

Me: “Yeah, I don’t wear my jewelry all the time—I work at home and write all day and my hands always feel dry and so I sort of use hand lotion constantly so I’m always taking my rings off…” (aware that I am babbling incoherently but unable to stop myself)

Mr. Jeff: “Hey--I’m really sorry... I just thought...“

Me: “Oh, sweetie, no problem. You made my day.”

Schmoopie has arrived and she stands looking suspiciously at both of us. Then she says: "What?"

Me: "Okay, thanks, Mr. Jeff, have a great weekend..."

She looks at me funny all the way through the parking lot. When we get in the car, Schmoopie asks me what "that" was all about. I say "Oh, nothing." She demands to know what Mr. Jeff was telling me about her. Kids. They always think it's about them.

But I did tell the GITB about it when we got home. He laughed his ass off but when he realized I wasn’t kidding he was very impressed and high-fived me. He made a good point: I am afternoon pick-up parent. The GITB is morning drop-off parent. Because I do not wake-up for real until at least 10:00 a.m. So “Mr. Jeff” has never seen the GITB. So I can see how he thought I was a single mom. But why an adorable 24-year-old would want to go out with a woman old enough to be his--okay--I can handle it--MOM is beyond me. Maybe it's a school project or something...

Anyway, Schmoopie seems suspicious. Especially since the GITB keeps singing “Stacy’s Mom Has Got it Going On” loudly and quite badly, I might add.

Oh, Canada (bite me)

Dear Satan's Spawn of the Great White North (AKA: Insaitable Horde of Greedy, Selfish Old Locusts): GO. HOME.

Especially those of you from Quebec, Ontario, Toronto, Montreal, New Brunswick and Saskatoon.

Yes, on behalf of all native Floridians and even those of us who are transplants or first generationers who passionately love our state: we are sick to death of your bad driving, shitty tipping, and lousy treatment of our service workers. We are tired of standing in line behind you at Walgreens while you hold it up for 20 minutes arguing with the cashier and trying to make her take your expired coupons, you cheap, chiseling, bastard tight-wads.

We are further disgusted with the fact that you insist on packing all the roadways in your gas-hogging vehicles during rush hour and school opening and closing times. We are appalled that no disabled Floridians can get a disabled parking space anywhere because they are all packed with your Canadian-plated RVs and pimped-out camper-vans. We are weary of not being able to go to a Spring Training game, the beach, doctors offices, restaurants or even the grocery store because there is no place to park and we do not want to hear the gutteral: "Ay?" one more time. You have successfully sucked us dry. We hate you.

The Spring thaw must be in full swing by now, so go, go, please, God, I am begging you, go.

And for the record: I have never for one moment entertained ideas of living half the year in Canada upon my retirement. So I will make you a deal: you stay there and I will stay here and we can all be happy. Now fly, little starlings, fly, fly, fly.

I am turning 45 this month. Fuck.

Mid-Life Crisis Checklist:

Subject matter of chats with girlfriends goes from things like freaking out because the period is late and getting felt up to discussions about menopause and mammograms. Check.

And, further, the "girl’s night out" girl-talk goes from complaints about not being able to go anywhere near the boyfriend without him getting a major boner to your girlfriends mentioning that they are going on anti-depressants because he cannot get it up. Check.

Question every decision you have made since the age of 20. Decide that you may have fucked up some stuff. Check.

Wistfully daydream about the boyfriend--circa 1980s--who ripped your heart out of your body and threw it against a brick wall before stomping it into a lifeless, bloody, pulpy puddle of agony and despair. God, he was SO hot. Check.

Realize that if you have grey hairs on your head you probably have them other places too but decide to remain in denial and do not look. Check.

Notice that your parents look OLD. Notice that your child/children look OLD. Check.

Realize that your kid(s) could survive just fine if you dropped dead tomorrow. Because you could. But you have brought them this far, they will be okay. Check.

Go to the store dressed like a chronically mentally ill homeless woman and don’t give a shit in spite of the horror you inflict on your child/children/spouse. Check.

Vehemently remind your child/children that you WERE VERY COOL once upon a time, dammit. Check.

Have too much to drink at your sister-in-law’s 40th birthday party and shamelessly flirt with your older brother’s best friend, Scott, whom you had a huge crush on in 1977. Make sure you do this in front of Scott's wife, by the way, who REALLY looks old. Feel no remorse about this because he acted like you didn't even exist in high school and now he is panting like a moose in heat and checking you out in your tight jeans. When he responds enthusiastically, suddenly realize that you are tired and no longer give a shit even though he looked really hot in a Speedo 29 years ago. Go pass out in your six-year-old niece’s four-poster pink & white princess bed and wake up the next day with a gauzy canopy panel stuck to your face from all the drooling. Check.

Realize that your parents have way-fewer years ahead of them than they do behind them. Feel very sad about this. Then realize that they have 10-times more crap and tchotchkes crammed into their house than you do in yours and have a panic attack thinking about what to do with all that stuff. Look in the Yellow Pages for estate sale brokers. Check.

Steal your kid’s Clearasil because on top of everything else, you are getting fucking zits again. Check.

While in the car-pool line at your child’s school, fantasize about burning the house down and running away to live in a big sunny apartment in New York City with the insurance money. By yourself. Okay, maybe with the 1980s boyfriend. If he grovels enough and agrees to give you backrubs on demand for life. Check.

Compulsively surf the Internet looking at “Before” and “After” boob-lift pictures on plastic surgery Web sites. Give your husband a dirty look when porn site pop-ups geared toward breast-fetishists keep shooting all over the screen whenever the kid is playing mine-sweeper. Check.

Become weepy when having x-rays done because the x-ray tech did not give you a lead apron to protect your reproductive organs nor did he even ask if there is a possibility that you may be pregnant because you realize that he has noticed that you look old and hag-like and obviously barren and are probably not getting laid. Give him a hateful glare when he tells you to “hold your breath, Ma’am.” Check.

While folding laundry, calculate the number of years until: (1) the kid(s) leave for college (2) the spouse is likely to drop dead from a massive coronary on the ninth hole, (3) the dog dies. Realize that freedom is much closer than you thought. You can almost taste it. Think that you are a horrible person who will burn in hell for all eternity for entertaining such thoughts. Check the plastic surgery Web site again. Boob lifts are expensive. Decide to purchase more life insurance for the spouse. Check.

It is impossible for me to be in love with a guy who:

Probably eats twice his weight in beef and pork in a year

Prefers Wal-Mart over Target (the horror)

Asks: “Wanna watch Sponge Bob?” When I want him to rip my clothes off

Thinks 99.9% of the media are the scum of the earth

Despises coffee and only drinks hot tea with a pound of sugar in it

Cannot spell to save his ever-loving ass

Is of the opinion that Coke is a perfectly acceptable breakfast beverage

Would rather get dressed and go grab a pizza than order room service and fool around some more while kicking it with his girl in a swanky hotel

Leaves his socks on

Insists on silence for at least five minutes after--you know--and actually shushes me when I try to be chatty post--you know. The nerve.

Does not drink liquor. Ever.

Supports the (homophobic Nazis) Boy Scouts

Does not read the New York Times

Eats "grouper bites"

Cannot resist the urge to use the same lame (and by the way, so not funny--okay--sometimes funny, but still...) puns and not-so-snappy retorts to just about anything anyone may utter in his presence. Over and over and over.

Has some of the most hideous tattoos ever inked in the history of humanity but refuses to add just the tiniest little letter of my first name to the unholy mess. Like it would even show or make a difference at this point.

Is a haiku savant who puts me to shame with his skill

Actually enjoys airline peanuts

Insists that Dave Matthews only does songs about wanting to get laid, actually getting laid, or fondly remembering getting laid.

white trash picnic

Sometimes when the girls get together, we like to let it all hang out and celebrate our southern-ness. Honey, we get down on the ground and roll around in it. Every once in a while we throw coronary health and all common damn sense to the wind and have what we fondly refer to as a "White Trash Ho-Down." No mens allowed. Yes, I meant to say "mens." These usually come on the heels of a loss or a triumph or some other life-changing event in one of our lives that requires--no--demands, observation and embracing and thereby, healing, by the girls. Here is part of the spread from the most recent bacchanal which was a celebration of my mid-life crisis.

The menu, left to right, then 'round the clock: what is left of a plate of Laura's deep-fried Twinkies. Of course, we ate those first (note the pretty table decor: a mousetrap), mashed potatoes made with plenty of buttermilk, lime Jell-O mold made with 7-Up and little tiny marshmallows, corn bread made with creamed corn and bacon, loaf of Wonder Bread, macaroni and cheese with hot dogs all cut up in it, collard greens, fried chicken, my famous sheet cake that I make entirely out of Moon Pies, (in the center) pimento cheese spread, bologna, olive loaf, Velveeta (all goes on the Wonder Bread, of course, honey!). And there is plenty of whipped cream, because, you know, you can never have too much of that and it goes with everything.

Beverages: RC Cola, Miller and Schlitz Malt Liquor--all bottles, no cans. Oh, Lord. Wish you could have been there.

my neighbor's latest get $ quick scheme

Did I ever mention that my neighbor is a bit of a nut-job? Well, he is. And not exactly a candidate for gifted classes, were he in middle school, if you know what I mean, and that's all I have to say about that. Except that his idea last year of making millions by breeding Siamese cats (he had never owned a cat before in his life, by the way) was a complete bust. And that wasn't the first great idea gone wrong. The man is just not right in the head. But, is any, really?

So it's no wonder I started getting suspicious when the weird fence showed up last week and now this week: surprise! So I called my brother and said "Dude, you gotta come check out Jim's latest project," and Bro pops by in short order, takes one look and says "Hey!!--is that like half of one of those 'Push-me-Pull-me' things from the Dr. Doolittle movie?!?!" (He refers to the 1960s-Rex Harrison-version of the movie). I slap my head and say "Oh, Jeebus, somebody, please, fix me a drink." But do they listen? No. So I fixed my own damn drink. They sure are cute, though, aren't they? They remind me of this group of coke-head chicks who used to hang out at a nightclub where my friend, Jeff, was a bouncer in the 1980s. I think their names were Kelly, Lisa and Cindy. Same tragic hair.

the three graces

they are sighing sweetness and screaming terror, innocence and sugary, diabolical whirlwinds. We all have the same DNA. How exquisitely righteous that my brother is the father of two future WOMEN and I am the mother of a formidable brainiac who is also a cutie. It indeed is payback time. But I mean that in a good way. Girls rock. Especially mine. By the way, the awesome cheeks are all me. Those who know me can attest.

mom

I am named after her. My daughter looks exactly like her.

If you give her a piece of jewelry or an item of clothing, she will always wear it when she knows she is going to see you.

She has a stuffed “Ziggy” collection, one for every holiday and for some insane reason she displays them on the huge sweeping mantle of the fireplace in her formal dining room, right next to her Royal Daulton porcelain collection. She has a vampire Ziggy, a cupid Ziggy, a leprechaun Ziggy, a Santa Ziggy, an Easter Bunny Ziggy and on and on.

She corrects all the grammatical and spelling errors in her sorority and college alumni newsletters with a red pen and mails them back. I don’t think they’ve ever responded and I’ve often wondered if they keep these corrected newsletters in a file marked “nuts." I have one of these files, by the way.

She allows others to take credit for her work, ideas, thoughtfulness, etc. Like when she and Dad give someone a really perfect gift, she won’t correct the recipient if they assume the gift came from my Dad, (like the skil saw she bought for my brother after an exhaustive research and studying of the Consumer Report magazine), and she always beams when Dad gets the accolades.

She sends Hallmark cards to her kids and grandkids for every single occasion large or small, holiday mainstream or obscure: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Sweetest Day, National Grandchildren’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day (we are not Irish), Earth Day, etc.

She has a terrific capacity for remembering obscure anniversaries and special things like my favorite flavor of tea, the date of my first date with my husband, our favorite authors, scented candles, flowers, and musicians.

She knows how to mother my husband without reminding him that his own mother is gone now. She accepts new arrivals into the family with unquestioning friendship and later, love.

When someone tells her “I love you” she smiles and says, “Thank you" (unless it’s one of her grandchildren, then she says it back with abandon).

She is the best secret-keeper in the world.

She never reminds you that you owe her money, but when you remember and pay her back, she smiles at you like she did when you were a kid and got a poor report card. Shame on you, you should know better.

She avoids confronting those she cares about directly when at all possible. Instead, she cuts an article out of a newspaper or magazine and hands it to us with a raised eyebrow. There is never a mention about it afterward. I have perfected the eyebrow move in adulthood. It's really effective.

She reads the obituary section of the paper daily and reads the ones that are under 50 aloud to my father, which drives him nuts.

She has not gotten over the death of her mother, which happened in 1979. She cries at every holiday when there is a mention of the “good old days.”

She speaks French, Italian and a little Vietnamese.

She had polio when she was 15 and spent her sophomore year of high school in the Rainbow Children’s Hospital in Cleveland, Ohio, learning how to walk again.

Her mother was an industrial nurse who worked in the medical clinic of a large steel plant taking care of sick and injured steelworkers who adored her.

Her father worked as a “union-buster” for the corporate heads of a large steel plant and was hated by the steelworkers.

She types a little over one hundred words a minute but prefers to write all of her personal correspondence by hand on beautiful paper.

She keeps in touch with three of her friends from childhood. She is 69 years old, so that’s a lot of handwritten correspondence!

She could have married a rich guy, but she fell in love with a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks and married him instead. My Dad is a lucky man. It's good that he knows this.

She laughs at dirty jokes but would never tell one.

She knows how to twirl a baton.

She plays cards every other week with the same group of women she has been meeting with for over thirty years.

She never tells her daughter or daughter-in-law how to raise their kids. She always bites her tongue.

She is far smarter than her husband but never reminds him of this fact.

She is never fooled but often pretends to be in order to not hurt someone's feelings.

She is fiercely defensive of the ones she loves and holds grudges against those she believes have hurt her loved ones in any way.

She keeps a stuffed animal her high school sweetheart gave to her. He is not my father, by the way.

She used to tell me that if I could count my real true friends on one hand I should consider myself to be very, very lucky. I used to think this was such a stupid idea and that it was sad that she didn’t have as many friends as I did. Now I know what she was talking about.

She loves brussel sprouts and stays away from sweets but keeps a bag of Hershey bars stashed in her lingerie drawer.

She is the first person who told ever told me I am beautiful. This was important when I was a clutzy 13 year-old and had braces and zits and felt like the most hideous creature on the planet. And I believed her.

RIP

Love ya, Kolchak.

I really liked Darren McGavin in the 1970s series Kolchak: The Night Stalker. All of his obits this week spend a lot of time on the Christmas movie he did and that was fine, but he had a long, rambling career in TV playing rumpled, world-wise blue-collar men (my favorites) and the hard-boiled and salty Carl Kolchak was what got my teenage heart beating. I love the anti-metrosexual. Give me a meaty, sweat-stained guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and an empty pint bottle or two in his backseat any day of the week over a manicured and perfumed dandy boy ala: CSI, etc.

Plus those Night Stalker episodes usually scared the shit out of me. Great fun.

And this concludes the three-in-a row celebrity deathwatch.

Dad and me

Monday night is tae-kwan-do night. Usually I am on a deadline or too slammed with work to accompany Schmoopie so the GITB takes her. Because he is an accomplished kick-boxer, he enjoys going and watching his girl. Other nights the GITB will poke his head in the study and say: "Honey, I will pay you $100 to take her tonight," and I sigh and turn off the computer and she and I head out. (We used to have these bargaining sessions re: changing her diaper. He actually did pay me a few times to change a particularly poopy diaper when it was, in fact, HIS turn at the changing table. And did I keep the money? Hell yeah. Mommies need sassy shoes too, girl.)

I love going, actually, because my kid is graceful and lithe and whirls across the floor brandishing her bow-staff like a translucent fairy charged with turbo-pixie dust -- a dangerous one who is now a black belt candidate. I delight in watching the awe on the faces of the boys in her class (all about 3-5 years older) as she flies past them, golden braids whirring like humming birds on either side of her head, completely oblivious to their admiring stares. She is sweetness and speeding havoc and little girl and she-devil all rolled into one. It's heavenly watching her take flight.

So last night I was sitting there transfixed when the door of the auditorium opened and the click of the handle distracted me. When I turned to look, my dad was strolling in. He strode very purposefully toward me, definitely a man on a mission. For a moment my heart quickened and the thought that something might be wrong with my mom skittered through my mind, but I reminded myself that were this the case he would call me on my cell phone which is never not in my pocket. But nevertheless, his appearance alarmed me. He comes to watch Schmoopie in action at class maybe once a month and always when she tests for a new belt, but he is overly-concerned about not "interfering" and he would never want to be construed as being intrusive. He has always been that way--polite to the point of absurd. He respects my adult-ness and my role as a parent and I am appreciative of that but I wish he would quit feeling like he has to ask permission to hang around. Anyway. So Dad comes and sits next to me and calls me by my first name, which no one else does (except for one other soul on the planet--they know who they are) and asks me in a very concerned tone of voice how I am.

"Are you okay--I mean, is your health alright?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. Why?"

"Your mom and I are a little concerned that something may be bothering you. You seemed so distracted during the holidays and we're wondering if everything is okay..."

"Dad--I'm fine. Really. Maybe it's a midlife thing, I don't know. I've been thinking about a lot of stuff that I usually don't think about -- you know -- I wonder what's going to happen when Schmoopie leaves for college, I mean, what do I want to do with the rest of life, all that shit."

Dad looked across the auditorium and squinted, focused on Schmoopie as she ran and jumped and kicked and pirouetted through a line of sweaty, gaggly boys.

"You know, I feel bad that I wasn't around much when you were her age. I don't really even remember you at this age. I guess I was gone too much."

Dad then went on to remark about my brother and all the traveling he does and his concern that my two nieces are missing out on quality time with their daddy.

I said: "He does a great job with them, Dad. He's a great daddy and they know above all else that their Daddy loves them. That's all that really matters."

Dad turned to me and said: "I'm concerned that you didn't feel loved when you were growing up. Did you feel like you were loved?"

Me: "Jesus, Dad, yes. What is going on? Are YOU in okay health?"

Dad: "I'm fine, fine."

We were silent for a minute as we watched our girl, the sweet-faced dervish.

Then Dad said: "Because if there's anything you need, anything at all, you can come to me, you know. You'll let me know?"

"Sure Dad, yeah. I'm fine."

And that was the end of that. It's funny how here I am, all grown up with a family and a career (I guess) and a big fat life packed with loud, noisy and loving family and friends, freedom and resources to do pretty much whatever the hell I please, swimming in art and beauty and all the things that I need to be happy and yet my parents can still detect something not quite right every now and then. It must be the unparalleled power of DNA. They know me so well. It's maddening sometimes.

Driving home I thought about the evening I got married (14 years ago--God!!), standing in the back of the church with my dad as he and my uncle hovered over me like two anxious nellies. It was a windy November evening, the end of hurricane season in Florida and a tropical storm was brewing. Rain hit the stained-glass windows in staccato splats as it whipped off the palm trees with each gust of wind. Just before we started to make that long walk down the aisle, my dad and my uncle had this little unspoken exchange and then cleared their throats and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the aisle, of the packed church and the grinning groom waiting for me on the dais.

"You know honey, you can change your mind," Dad said.

"WHAT????!!!!!" I sputtered through my veil, clenching my bouquet of roses and gardenias.

"Really, Uncle Paul and I want you to know that you can still change your mind--even now. It's okay. No one would be upset with you."

And I know it sounds odd, but that was the most wonderful moment I have ever had with my dad. I didn't perceive this as a judgment on my judgment or an attack on my soon-to-be-husband. My family liked the GITB and they were all happy for me. No, it was an acknowledgment of the weight of the moment and a declaration of love from the two men who had the biggest hands in raising me. If I wanted to run screaming from the church, they would aid and abet me. If not, that was great too. They just wanted me to know I had options and they backed me no matter what. That's love--it really was a kind and loving gesture. And I did pause and take a deep breath and savor the moment before I slipped my hands through their arms and walked down the aisle, one on either side of me.

I guess that's a big piece of what being a parent is all about--it is a job that never ends. And that's what's nice about it.

RIP

Love ya, McCloud.

PS--This Dennis Weaver link has been added for the chillrens who have no awareness of the 1970s. Sigh.

PPS--not that I am into the whole celebrity deathwatch thing, but that's two in as many days. Who's number three?

the big Velveeta of all songs

Even though he wears my ass out, Miss Otis is one of the loves of my life and one of the many reasons why is that he has the best timing. He always seems to know exactly when I need him and that is when he calls me up and plays this wretched, god-awful song and sings along, loudly adding obscene commentary, of course, in the background just because he knows I hate it and will therefore laugh until I pee. Every girl should have a boy like Randy in her life. That's all I'm saying.

RIP

Love ya, Barney.

adieu Don Knotts.

My favorite performance: The Incredible Mr. Limpet. Need I say more?

His final role: the voice of Mayor Turkey Lurkey in the 2005 animated film Chicken Little.

Jeebus--talk about death with dignity.

Bode Miller: Who gives a shit?

Not I, said the little red hen. The Olympics sucked ass this year, it bored the hell out of me and Bode is as stupid a fucking name as "Picabo." And by the way, if you are going to pronounce it "Peek-a-boo" here's a crazy idea: why not spell it like it sounds? WTF? People wear my ass out.

inner peace my ass

Every day I get up and face the world with the best of intentions, I want to be a good girl, but temptation is everywhere and jesus, people wear my ass out. I tried to get myself into a nice mellow meditative mode this morning but right about the time I snuggled into my favorite big-old reading chair with my nice hot cup of joe and started thinking about all the good things I have in my life and all the people I love and wish blessings on, my cell phone rang and Randy told me he had fallen down the stairs of his front porch last night and woke up covered in blood, oh, and by the way, he can see bone through one of his wounds. Miss Otis is wearing my ass out. So after I was sufficiently satisfied that he is okay, I proceeded to scold him and then he called me "Mom" (not good) and admitted he was totally shitfaced when his buddies dropped him off after a crawl through one of the local really icky dive bars last night, I really let him have it. Miss Otis huffily replied: "Girl, you cannot tell me you have never gone out one night intending to have a great time and woke up the next morning with your hair all over the place, eyeliner smeared halfway down your face and three-quarters of you covered in blood..." I started to tell him that I had not, but then I remembered that I had. But it was the '80s for chrissake. And besides, it wasn't my blood, it was my boyfriend's. And he has since forgiven me.

No more Jello for me, Ma.

My compadre in grammatical terrorism, political incorrectness and gleefully pooh-pooing all that is good and clean and holy about "Ameer-ka" (as her fellow Texan, Dubya, puts it), Miss Sassy-Pants herself, eb has decided to excuse herself from the table that is Blog Land. I am sad but understand. Happy Trails, elizabeth. Stop by to thump my melons soon and often. Love ya!
~ell

Lemme see what's in your purse

a friend of mine loves the Dump The Purse routine. When she meets new chicks she says: "Okay, what's your story--Reader's Digest version--lemme see what you're packing" and most women happily comply.

And since we are all admitted voyeurs and exhibitionists here--hence our collective presence in the Blogosphere--I am showing you mine so let's see yours.

Oh, and I hereby specifically challenge Mel ('cause EVERYONE wants to see what The Church Lady has in her purse) and Steph (ditto The Nun--I mean--really-- I cannot wait), eb (cause the lesbians from Texas MUST be included) and Grace (Because she is as big of a bi-atch as I am and I would love to see what is in her trendy bi-atch bag, plus Grace is an awesome name) to dump your purses and show us what your packin'. Ladies, I am waiting.

PS: (If I didn't invite you to dump and you feel so inclined, please, by all means, share away!)

Now, here is an inventory of the contents that my purse vomited onto the dining room table today: (clockwise from the top) hair clip, Hello Kitty CD holder, lipstick, appt. book with press pass in black case on top, open wallet with Batman action figure and restauraunt receipt on top (Lanna Thai restaurant with Anne at lunchtime day before yesterday. I had the Pad Thai with chicken) a wrapped biscotti from Starbucks that has been in my purse since December, pack of matches from Don Giovanni's restaurant on W. 44th Street in NYC, doggie cookie, notebook with lip gloss on top (Revlon Color Stay--"Flesh"), more matches, silk sunglasses case, cell phone, more matches, Robin action figure (he and Batman are apparently temporarily separated), doggie cookie, iPod Nano in pink leather case purchased at Target (yesssssssssssss!), pressed powder compact, assorted pens, credit card case, loose change, nail polish, doggie cookie, highlighter pen, turquoise bracelet.

John

I love the baggers at my Publix.

Most of them are crusty old guys with Army or Navy tattoos on their forearms that are so faded they look like they were applied with water colors (we have tons of old vets in the area because of the VA hospital and the nearby bases where they like to go shopping and get their liquor and cigarettes tax-free). Anyway, a lot of them are obviously WWII vets and you know that they have seen some shit, sister. And by the way, they saved the world. I love these guys--they are my heroes. My favorite elderly bagger is John, who always winks at me and calls me "Cookie" as he lovingly double-wraps my chicken breasts. He is the only man on the planet capable of getting away with that. I usually choose whichever line John is bagging, no matter the length of the line. He has the sweetest smile and pale blue eyes and I imagine he was quite the hottie when he was a young man.

I like to look at old geezers and try to picture them when they were at the height of their youthfulness and vigor. I remind myself that these old men were once strapping young studs who liked to party and raise hell and bang as many chicks as they could. Sure, now they are someone’s Grampy and they have enlarged prostates, no hair and bad knees. But once they rocked someone’s world, no doubt. I totally see that when I look at John. John has been places, he has seen some shit. And he can call me “Cookie” any day of the week.

me and mae: Whores-R-Us

So I took the Inner-Bombshell quiz that Trish has on her site and yes, I answered truthfully. Turns out that Mae is my inner ho and soulmate. What a shocker. Here's my result:

"Va-Va-Voom! You're Inner-Bombshell is Mae West. You've definitly got a lot of wit, a lot of smarts, and you know how to use people to your advantage. Ever heard the phrase "doesn't take any crap from anybody"? Well that's you! Just like Mae you never want to settle down, and can't imagine being with just one man for the rest of your life. You don't care about conventions and have no filter from your brain to you mouth. Check out the movie "She Done Him Wrong" to see your inner bombshell in all her voluptuous glory!"

WTFWBD? (or: I totally blew it out my ass)

Regret, remorse, recrimination. Here is the thing about deeply wounding another person: even if there was never an intention to do so, even if, in fact, the total opposite was genuinely intended, albeit in a deluded and misguided sort of way, the damage is irretrievable. It can't be taken back. You can't hit rewind, you can't go back and edit and if you are able to look at yourself in the mirror, you can't forgive yourself. Especially when you realize that as kind and charitable and loving a person you like to think you are, you have visited misery on someone who didn't deserve it, never asked for it and they will carry it with them always.

Sometimes guilt really is appropriate and earned and deserved. And when the shame is earned it feels like Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961) described it in her poem “Iphigeneia in Aulis,”

Shame, scarlet, fresh-opened a flower, Strikes across my face.

I suck and I am going to hell and all the stuff I thought I had managed to learn I apparently did not. Other happy thoughts:

One should sit upright and meditate on the true aspect of all things. All sins are just as frost and dew, so wisdom's sun can disperse them
~Repentance in Buddhism

"If you wind up with a boring, miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest or some guy on TV telling you what to do, then YOU DESERVE IT." ~ Frank Zappa

For all the evil deeds I have done in the past,
Created by my body, speech and mind,
From beginningless greed, hatred and delusion,
I now know shame and repent them all.
~Traditional Repentance Verse from "The Practices & Vows of Samantabadra Bodhisattva" (Avatamsaka Sutra, Chapter 40)

"Accept life, and you must accept regret." ~Henri Frederic Amiel, 1876

My karma is so FUCKED.

I promised to take Randy to see Brokeback Mountain this weekend but he was too tired to get out of bed Saturday and has been napping his ass off. His last t-cell count: 86. Even the idea of a hot gay sex scene, lots of popcorn and the pleasure of my company will not move his ass out of the rack (but he will of course get up and light a cigarette). I am going over there to kick me some Miss Otis ass first thing tomorrow. Beauty sleep my ass. There are movies to be watched and boys to be ogled and smack to talk.

twue wuv

my dad called me at 8:30 this morning to triumphantly announce that I look like my great-grandmother. It's taken him all this time to figure this one out, no matter that my age now begins with a 4. Dad said he and my mother have been at this discussion in earnest for two weeks now, ever since they came to see a performance of a show I was in that was set in the 1930s (see drag queen photo below). Dad has been mystified since then about who in the family I resemble but he just knew it was someone way back there. So I look like Theresa. Theresa was an actress in Hungary and she came to America before the turn of the last century. According to family lore, she lied about her age to get on the ship without a parent or an adult guardian so when she was older and we tried to get her a social security card, no one knew her exact age because (a)she lied about it and (b)she had no birth certificate. I think that took huge balls--the leaving home and going to a new country. And she was beautiful, so I am flattered that my dad thinks I resemble her in some way. Maybe it's just the balls part because I do have those from time to time.

She always said she came to America not to find a better life but to find her true love. She knew he was here. She just knew it. And I guess he was. And they lived happily ever after until his work as a coal miner affected his health and he started to drink a lot then died young of stomach cancer leaving her in mourning for fifty years. But it was great while it lasted. They were madly in love with one another and so I guess her trip across the ocean was worth it.

Theresa was always "Buba" to me and my cousins. She spoke little English (as far as she let on) and she was always ancient. I mean, she was my dad's grandmother, and that was OLD, man. She taught me how to make stuffed cabbage the "old country" way and so nothing is measured. It's a handful of this and a pinch of that and my family begs me to make it a few times a year because it is so yummy. I make it just like she taught me and roll the cabbage just right then let it all cook all day in a huge vat with sauerkraut and pork loin and tomato sauce. To die for.

Buba was arouund 100 when she died. But she was still a huge believer in true love and she adored the movie "The Princess Bride." My favorite part, by the way, is when poor Buttercup is about to marry the creepy evil prince and they are standing in the church and the speech-challenged priest starts to deliver a homily about "Wuv. Twue wuv. It's what bwings us togetha" Totally cracks me up. I also dig the whole Dread Pirate Roberts routine.

But what is the deal with twue wuv, anyway? Is it real? Does it exist? Is there one true love for each of us? In spite of my anti-Valentine's Day stance, I think so. But twue wuv doesn't always bring us together, sometimes it is the very thing that keeps us apart. And so it isn't always wonderful. But it is worth it.

VD

I hereby proclaim Valentine's Day a huge steaming crock of consumer shit.

desolate

sweet boy--yes, now I am employing subtext. Miserable, tortured, agonized subtext. Fire alarm not included.

WTFWOD?

I miss the old Oprah, don't you?

The present-day Oprah just seems too hard-edged and, okay, I'll say it, mean for me. Yes, I think Oprah has joined the ranks of the Mean Girls. And I think she is way too impressed with her own presence, cleverness and moral superiority. Her latest drama queen performance at Coretta King's funeral was embarrassingly cringe-worthy because she seemed so acutely aware of the cameras. The disingenuousness of the whole thing made my skin crawl. For chrissake, get over yourself, girl, and go eat some smashed potatoes.

In my opinion, Oprah has sadly become the antithesis of who we all fell in love with 20-or so years ago--you know--a nice, unassumming, genuine and exuberant real woman. Oprah used to be warm and spontaneous. Now she seems pre-packaged, calculating, steely-eyed and haughty, her warmth frozen over by a fierce devotion to protecting her brand and her image at all costs.

And the $600 blouses and $75 bars of soap and $100 jars of face cream she heralds as her "favorite things" in "O" magazine are far from reach for most of her devoted viewers, I dare say. They are barely scraping by, clipping coupons and shopping at Wal-Mart for their "favorite things" like diapers and mac & cheese and deodorant while dreaming of living their best lives, ala Oprah. Well, hell yeah, I could "live my best life" too if I were paid billions of dollars to run my mouth.

Wow. WTFW (the old Oprah) D?

the best thing about MUNICH

I went to see MUNICH for many reasons. I was born in Germany. We were there during the Munich Olympics. I remember the hideous hostage-taking and murder of the 11 Israeli athletes with vivid clarity. So I very much wanted to see this movie about the aftermath--about how the Massad hunted down the planners of this horrible terrorist act and systematically avenged the deaths of their countrymen. That this gorgeous hunk of manliness was the star of the movie was a bonus--albeit a very distracting one. All I can say, girlfriends,is that Eric Bana = yummy.

still honeymooning with my iPod

If I could make love to my iPod I would. It has brought me so much immense pleasure (and without the hassle of double-A batteries)! I feel like I owe it something.

Anyway, I'll be back soon, promise.

In the meantime, my comments on the week: I loved Chris Penn and I got a big old lump in my throat when I read on the wires that he had been found dead. Loved him in At Close Range, Reservoir Dogs and True Romance. I am a sucker for big-old burly guys. And Jesus Christ, it just sucks when someone dies so young...

Note to Oprah: Give it a fucking rest with the indignant posturing. Like you never lied before. Get over yourself. Go shopping or something.

Randy (the Milkman) is feeling better, his new meds are helping and his T-cells are better. And we have been having a great time lately. Only the GITB is a little irritated that Randy sent me a huge extravagant arrangement of orchids for opening night last week (and he sent Schmoopie a gift and the card read: "with love from your big, gay dad"). The GITB brought me a bunch of daisies. I loved them both. I am a very lucky girl to be so well loved by the incredibly exceptional men in my life.

mop the floor? what floor?

I explained to the GITB years ago that because I am a creative girl, I cannot be expected to do the whole domestic engineering thing. I do my own laundry and he does his. He cooks because he is more into cooking than I am. I change the oil in my car but I do not mop the kitchen floor every other day because it never occurs to me. It just doesn't. That's how my brain is wired. And I do my laundry when I am almost out of clean underwear. Although I do make sure Schmoopie's laundry basket is always empty and her closet is always filled with clean clothes. It's true that once in a while I will stay up until 4:00 a.m. cleaning the entire house and re-arranging all the furniture but then I usually have to sleep the whole weekend to get over it. I am not a housewife. Never have been, never will be. But that is not to say that I am a slob. I have a very tidy house but there is one corner of each room that is my creative pile of clutter. Not dirt, creative clutter. That's all I have to say about that.

End of the week roundup:
Randy's t-cell count fell below 200 this week and he is a mess. So am I because I love him and I want him to be well.

Saw the 40-year-old virgin movie. I get mel's point now.

Noticed while in the car line at Schmoopie's school today that one of the dads has spinners on his mini van. Muttered "what the fuck???" while noticing the spinners and looked up to see he was looking at me and my guess is he probably read my lips based on the expression on his face. But really: Spinners? On a MIN VAN??? Dude.

Lived through three kick boxing classes this week. Hated it. But glad I went.

Listened to my iPod way too much. Family members are now requiring I be frisked at the door before allowing me to leave the house because I embarrass them in public due to my communing with the tunes. Plus they say I am being rude by popping the ear plugs in when we are in the car together or going out to eat. Hmm.

My extended family is still obsessing over arguments that cropped up at mom's during Christmas dinner and calling each other to bitch about the other ones. Oy.

Went to Wal-Mart at 1:00 a.m. last night (today) to buy baby shower gifts for my friend, Jo, who is having her first child at the age of 40. Thanked god while in the baby section that I will not be doing the labor and delivery thing ever again. Toyed with purchasing a Queen Latifah bra for shits and giggles. Decided it wasn't that funny anyway. Hated myself for shopping at Wal-Mart. It's like screwing an old boyfriend only because he's there and available and the pleasure costs you nothing more than your self respect.

Quote of the week: "When two people love each other, they love each other. And people should hold on to it as hard as they can, whether it's homosexual or heterosexual," Brokeback Mountain star Jake Gyllenhaal told reporters at the Toronto Film Festival. Amen.

more guilty and embarrassing pleasures

my latest embarrassing iPod (thank you, Santa-baby!) uploads with favorite parts noted (which means in part that it is the point in the song where I pause whilst bopping through the kitchen and stand in front of the dishwasher or some other appliance to gyrate and acknowledge my adoring fans):

Three Dog Night: "Out in the Country" (favorite part): "...before the breathing air is gone, before the sun is just a bright spot in the night time...out where the rivers like to run, I stand alone and take back something worth remembering..."

Grass Roots: "Sooner or Later" (favorite part): "...It's just a matter of time before you make up your mind to give all that love that you've been hiding, its just a question of when, I've told you time and again, I'll get all the love you've been denying..."

Moody Blues: "Go Now" (favorite part:) "...We've already said: Goodbye...since you gotta go, oh you'd better go now, go now, go now...before you see me cry I don't want you to tell me just what you intend to do now, 'cause how many times do I have to tell you darlin', darlin' I'm still in love with you now, whoa-oh-oh-oh..."

Oh, yeah, I am such a loser. But a happily humming loser. How cool is this: I am tuning my kid and spouse out with the same shit I used to tune the parental units out with. I'm not old, dammit. I'm cool. And probably working on a good case of hearing loss. But damn, it's good stuff. And I don't feel so dorky since an old hipster friend of mine sheepishly admitted to me last week that he has been listening to Blood, Sweat and Tears in his car lately. Loser 1970s music fans unite!

12 things: post #100

Bikini wax? Never had a bikini wax, but I am not a furry girl anyway…

Favorite bread: Arnold’s seedless rye, toasted with real butta

Last trip: Boston, December, with one slight detour on the way home. Nuff said.

My car if it were free: 2006 Lexus RX, silver with moon roof

My car and it's paid for: Buick Park Avenue with leather seats and a v-6. Hauls ass.

Sleep: Naked. Always. Exception: when Schmoopie is hosting a slumber party

Favorite drink: Southern Comfort & Diet Coke, two cherries. (summer: frozen Cosmo)

Reading: Woe is I and Wicked (always read more than one at a time)

Current anxiety: Opening night is coming up fast. Do I know all my lines? Um, no.

Love this about my job: Do it from home, from the road, wherever,no need to sit in an office 40 hours a week.

Hate this about my job: When I fuck up everyone knows about it, the curse of media.

Hair: Red (not orange)

I'm in love with a dead gay guy

and this would be the reason why: he's been dust for 40 years but still, he can crawl into my soul and make me melt with sappy-ass songs like this:



We love each other so deeply
that I ask you this, sweetheart,
why should we quarrel ever,
why can't we be enough clever,
never to part?

Ev'ry time we say goodbye
I die a little,
ev'ry time we say goodbye
I wonder why a little,
why the gods above me
who must be in the know
think so little of me
they allow you to go.

When you're near
there's such an air
of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere
begin to sing about it,
there's no love song finer,
but how strange the change
from major to minor...ev'ry time we say goodbye.

~Cole Porter, 1944

elizabeth, step away from the blog. Do it now.

jesus is just all right

this is Chewy. He is the office dog. He owns the guy who signs my paychecks. When Chewy first started coming to work every day, my co-worker, Frank, insisted that Chewy's real, true and rightful name is actually Jesus. He tried to argue that somehow, in proper Spanish linguistics, this is true. Whatever. So Frank and I call Chewy "Jesus," mostly to annoy the dude of greatness who signs our paychecks. Chewy likes to nap and get treats and for Chrismahannuahkwanzakha, I got him a nice new cozy bed to sleep in under one of the work tables. He sent me an e-mail that said simply: "woof!" and this photo. What a guy.

I noticed today that the guy in the drive-thru speaker box at McDonald's sounds exactly like Barry White. But he looks like a lithe and delicate baby-faced ballet dancer and his name is Jarrod. His co-worker looks just like Tonya Harding only less trashy. And without the sparkly spandex, of course.

I did a ride-along with the cops today as part of my job. I have covered these jokers for a while now and so they all got a huge yuck-yuck over getting my ass down to the station house and having me sign a waiver that says I realize I may be killed in an unfortunate law enforcement experience gone awry during my ride-along. And they offered me a bullet-proof vest to wear. One of the jerkos offered to help me put it on, "to make sure it's nice and snug." When I smiled sweetly and pointed my finger at him cowgirl-style and asked if I got a gun of my own for the day they suddenly lost their senses of humor and said: "Now, come on, that's not funny." Our first call was a report of an unresponsive woman in a car outside an office building. Turns out she was on her lunch hour and taking a quick nap. How embarrassing for her. Especially to wake up and find all these strapping young EMS dudes and cops looking through the windshield at her and of course her mouth was wide open. She opened her eyes right when one of the paramedics said: "yeah, she looks dead, you know, mouth wide open and all..." I like to think she was dreaming of chocolate or well-hung men or maybe both. My cop buddy for the day was so young that when we were introduced I asked him if his scoutmaster knew the Explorers were packing real guns and driving squad cars. He said he was 28 but he looked like a 16 year-old Boy Scout. Only without the acne. But he was fun once he loosened up and believed me when I promised I wasn't out to make him look bad. Silly boy. Kidding, I am just kidding. I do have some fucking ethics. But I did get him to do the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru for coffee. No shit. I still got it, baby.

My buddy, Randy is having trouble learning to tango, so we have a date tomorrow night to go over it AGAIN. Yes, he's gay. The things I do for my mens. And btw, I am not a fag-hag. I am, as David says with an elegant sweep of his hand: "A Flame Dame, honey." The fag-hags are depressive beasts with no hope of ever getting laid who nurse delusions of converting their gay men friends or some such crap, according to the boys. I say the FHs are sad girls who cannot get laid, have no fashion sense, hence they need mentoring and they cling to the only males on the planet who see their inner beauty because they are usually not so hot: gay boys. And the gay boys need someone to go to the $6.99 Chinese buffet with once in a while, honey. Randy says he is terminally single because gay men are too mean and bitchy. He would know.

All this said, I am thinking that I'm spending way too much time mentally masturbating and I need to take a break to do my real job and pay attention to the other people who live in my house. I know they were here a few minutes ago. So I am taking a blogospheric sabbatical of undetermined length. But in blog-time, it will seem like I ran out for a pack of smokes. So I'll be right back.

My friend, Dan, was telling me the other day about hell. Hell for him, to be specific.

"I am sitting alone in a dark theater and there is no popcorn, of course. And then a movie starts to play and the title of the movie is: All the Women Dan Could Have Had Were he not a Cowardly, Clueless Putz.” And it would be an excrutiatingly loooooooooooong movie.

Dan said that many opportunities in the form of amazing women have presented themselves to him over the years. In hindsight he realizes he completely missed many of them or was just way too chicken to go for it in other situations. Sigh.

Dan’s version of hell brought to mind my second-most favorite William Saroyan quote. It goes like this:

There's a pretty woman for every lucky man in the world. Every man in the world is a lucky man if he only knew it, so why waste time?
~William Saroyan, Jim Dandy: Fat Man in a Famine, 1947

evil, thy name is excess

yeah, I did go overboard this year.

The GITB thinks I must be feeling guilty about something, hence the unusually good mood and the overspending. I have nothing to say about that. A girl should always have a few secrets. It keeps us interesting.

Murry Crimmus, ya'll. We're off to the beach for some kite flying, then to grandma's to stuff ourselves and open more presents. 'Cause, you know, we really need more stuff.

nothing says "happy holidays!" like pimps and ho-ho-hos

The GITB has some pretty questionable and colorful friends, one of whom is a buddy from high school who invented some innovative twist to fire extinguishing equipment and now has more money than he will ever need. I like the guy but he is a little twisted and leering sometimes. Though he is very good to his mom. But that does not mean he is not a jackass. Because he is. And he spends way too much time speaking to my boobs and not my face.

Anyway, so what is Rob doing for the holidays? Purchasing toys for underprivileged children? Helping out the homeless? Easing the burden of those who travail and are heavy-laden?

Why, no. Rob is renting a ballroom at an area beach resort for New Year's and he is throwing a "Pimps and Hos Ball." That's right. All the guys are supposed to dress like, well, pimps. Shiny suits, lots of bling, gold teeth, big hats. And the women are requested to attend said ball dressed as "hos." Which does not look correct but I guess it is the plural of "ho." Because it is "ho" without an "e."

Yep, the Pimp & Ho Ball, 2006. Rob assures me that if I attend, I will love it because he is serving Cuban food and there will be a cigar bar, and he knows how much I love Cubans. But still, do I even need to ask that age-old, hey-let's-make-it-into-a-rubber-bracelet-question? Yeah, I guess I do: WTFWJD?

so I bought the dog a stocking

when we got Daisy last year, my friend, Paul, a dedicated dog dude (his SUV sports a bumper sticker that reads "Dog is Co-Pilot") heckled me and insisted that my cool chickness would melt and I would soon treat Daisy like my second child.

Oh no, no, no, I am so not one of those loser weirdo dog people, I told him. Well, turns out, yeah, I am.

She has crawled into my heart and I do refer to her and Schmoopie (my human child) as "the girls" and yeah, I let her sleep in the bed, especially when the Guy in the Boxers leaves for work--she hops into his spot and even lays her head on his pillow and stares at me with her huge chocolate eyes.

I am besotted with my Daisy-doodle and I don't care that there are dog bombs all over the yard and huge black furry tumbleweeds blowing through the house and someone wakes me up at 2:00 a.m. to go pee. I love her to pieces. And yes, I broke down and bought her a stocking. And I embroidered her name on it. Yeah, I know. I'm a loser, weirdo dog person.

dinner (one of the only good things about living in Florida)

we'll go to Disney World, and that will make it all better

I am happy to report that I indeed survived three fun-filled days and nights at Rodent World/ Rat Land, AKA: Walt Disney World with my entire extended family. This is my parents' idea of ultimate family bonding and Christmas fun. They do this every year--spring for everyone they are related to to join them at WDW to celebrate Christmas. Even my Jew Guy in the Boxers gets into it, skipping down Main Street USA and fa-la-la-la-la-ing and all that stuff. Because we live less than two hours from Orlando ("O-Town" to the hipsters) we often go to Rat World. I think Schmoopie has been there at least 30 times because the grandparents are annual pass holders and they go at least once a month, sometimes just to hang out and people-watch. Anyway. Here is what I noticed about folks at Disney World:

• Jesus Christ, are we Americans fat! Fat, fat, fat. Yes, have some more cotton candy and hot chocloate and feed some more to your three kids who have bigger beer guts than the guys who change the oil in my car down at Jiffy Lube.
• And spoiled. And mindless consuming freaks. Do you really need another Tinkerbell pin to add to your camera strap? Really? REALLY???
• And miserable. I noticed so many miserable men, especially, who looked like they would rather open an artery than spend one more second with the stringy-haired, ball-busting harpie who is snapping at him every five steps while pushing a stroller with a screaming kid or two or three in it. What is it about marriage that makes women wear nothing but sweat pants and develop tummies that slide halfway down their thighs and turn into colossal bitches? I mean, it was weird. I witnessed more incidences of couples going postal on one another (mostly the women going off on their men) than I ever would have imagined. In my book, it is the ultimate unforgivable sin to ball-bust in public. Ladies, never, I mean NEVER, dis your man in front of witnesses and then wonder why he doesn't want to have sex with you for six months at a pop.
• Why do idiots bring infants to theme parks? Why, why, why?
• Why do some women dress as if they are on their way to a cocktail party rather than a theme park filled with screaming, tired children and their stressed-out parents? Spiked heels and mini skirts=dumb-ass in a theme park.
• Why do some women willingly wrap themsleves from head to foot in swaths of scarves and burkas while their men happily amble along in comfortable shorts and polo shirts? Hello? WTF?? And the women push the strollers and the men go on all the rides while the women sit like valet attendants and wait with the strollers. Again, I ask: WTF??? This is enlightenment? If this bullshit set of theme park rules is in the Koran, I would LOVE to have someone point it out to me.

The GITB is a mental health professional and he says that people go to places like WDW seeking artficial happiness and nursing unrealistic expectations. Maybe he's right. And I realize that I sound like a bit of a shrew myself here, because it was an all-expense paid trip on Mom and Dad and yes, it was great to be at the Happiest Place on Earth surrounded by all the people who love me and suspending all sense of reality and responsibilty for a few days while looking at the most beautiful Christmas decorations everywhere I turned.

But still. The Ugly American is alive and unwell and overspending and overfeeding him/her-self in Orlando seven days a week (when not screaming at each other or their kids). And it is a mighty sad sight to behold.

PS: The "Live" Christmas parade on NBC from Walt Disney World is a big fat lie. It is not "LIVE" on Christmas morning. They were taping it last week. We watched.

nipple cookies!

here is my annual Chrismakwanzachuh speciality cookie: regular or unleaded.

My house. Hot cocoa and marshmallows. Come on down.

F*#K Jacquie Lawson

Oh, for chrissake, if one more of my efffing friends e-mails me that goddamned animated snow dog Christmas card or anything else created by "Jacquie (like that is even a real name. please. let's all be a little more pretentious, shall we?) Lawson" I will barf and run screaming out into the street. But not in that order. Sheeeit.

I rest my case

Don't even try to tell me that the bearded man is Joseph. Because he is so NOT. This is YUKON (thanks to eb) Cornelius.

And I don't know what "Mary" is about to do to the sweet little vinyl baby Jesus here, but it looks to me like a felony.

Happy Holidays!!!!

“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” Browning

Grace is in town from New York for a few days and she and I are bigtime strolling buddies. We love to walk and talk and since the weather is so glorious lately, what better reason to play hooky? We loaded up the backpack and went downtown yesterday and walked the streets most of the day yammering, gossiping and looking at the dozens of sleek new high-rises going up. The sounds of construction are everywhere (and a plus: cute construction workers too!).

We wound up trolling the brick-paved streets of the historic district where we both lived in the 1980s. We passed by a few places where she used to live and places I used to live, my first garage apartment, my first studio, her old boyfriend's apartment, my old boyfriend's apartment. Grace is thinking about investing in a condo downtown but our feet took us to the old neighborhood as we ambled and she grew wistful talking about the guy who broke her heart 15 years ago because he was constitutionally incapable of monogamy. I listened. I had nothing to say about that. The guy in question had a catastrophic stroke a year ago and so the man who was once her untamable lover is now pretty much a drooling turnip. He exists no more, really. Woulda-shoulda-coulda becomes excruciating for me sometimes, even when they are not my woulda-shoulda-couldas. They hit way too close to home, that's all I'm saying. There is no worse ache than an old ache.

We stopped to meet friends for lunch at a Thai place and later rendezvoused with more friends at a pub on the waterfront for drinks (no martini for me, thank you, I learned my lesson--back to the Janis Joplin cocktail--Southern Comfort and Diet Coke, two cherries).

We passed a young man who was writing poetry in colored chalk on the sidewalk. He told us he is in love. I gave him a few dollars and wished him luck. He handed me a xeroxed copy of his latest poetry. The title: "Between My Lips and The City Lights." He said "Here's one that looks like you," and pointed to a poem titled "Euphoria." I asked him if I could put it up on my blog and he said "Yeah, 'cause you know what? It looks like you." So here is Jacob's poem:

I am coming back to you soon
If you will have me
So let us leave it to Fate
To arrange the coincidence
Of our togetherness

I saw you today
How beautiful you looked
Lost in the distance
Of so long a silence
I wondered what you were thinking
And if in those thoughts
You still contemplate the possibility
If you still recall
Those tangerine nights
When the very air we breathed
Hummed with a vibrant sweetness
So delectable, so instantaneously surreal
Everything Alive
As we walked through
The humble night
We knew it then, didn't we?

Sure, I screwed your boyfriend and so he made me a snowman

The is Mr. Frosty-Jim. He was created for me by my friend, Jim, a few years ago.

Jim (not the frosty one) is an artist and his favorite material with which to work is Styrofoam. Jim creates all kinds of cool stuff with Styrofoam, then seals it with this super hard special paint that makes it like fiberglass and really-really-could-survive-Armageddon sturdy. You know those big-ass Christmas presents and ornaments you see in display windows at Macy's and theme parks? Jim makes those. And he builds sets for several theatre companies around town and has done some museum exhibits, like when we had the King Tut exhibit a while back, his company designed and built a series of sets that made you feel like you really were in a tomb in ancient Egypt. He is a mucho-talented dude.

So, how did Mr. Frosty-Jim come to live with us? Well, several Christmases ago I was seriously ill and in the hospital for a while and Jim called up the Guy in the Boxers to see how I was. GITB mentioned that he needed to get out the Christmas decorations and make the house all festive for me so that when I got home I would be all cheered up by it. He of course forgot that I am in charge of all holiday decorating and he would not do it correctly, but silly sentimental boy, he had good intentions. Anyway, GITB let slip that I collect snowmen. Jim said maybe he would carve me a cute little snowman if he had some scrap pieces left over from the project he was working on. GITB mentioned this to me in passing and I said" "Great! I'll add it to my collection." And I forgot about it.

A week or so later, I was home from the hospital and decided to pop over to my office to pick up my mail and check in when GITB called me on my cellphone. "Uh...honey, Jim is here with your snowman, he wants to know where you want it." I said: "Oh, just leave it on the dining room table and I'll find a place for it when I get home." Silence. A little more silence. Then GITB says: "Yeah, okay. You sure about that?" Well, yeah, I was sure. So imagine my surprise when I opened the front door an hour later to find Mr. Frosty-Jim smack in the middle of the dining room table, all five feet of him, his cute little top hat touching the ceiling.

I love Mr. Frosty-Jim and even though my friend Jim isn't around much anymore because his psycho Greek girlfriend is convinced that we have a thing (We so DO NOT have a thing, never have, never will, she is just a straight-up nut and a Mean Girl), it reminds me of how truly delightful it is when someone goes out of their way to do something special for you. When I called Jim to thank him, he said, "Hey, no problem. But never, ever tell Maria about it. She would fucking kill me."

boston creme pie-eyed

Another life lesson in alcohol abuse: just because it sounds like a sissy drink and there is chocolate involved does not mean you will not end up a drooling idiot who realizes waaaaay too late that you cannot detect your arms or legs anymore, and, oh yeah, your teeth are so numb you would not utter a peep if they were maliciously knocked out by a mallet-wielding chimp. And when you say to Cecil, the adorable latin waiter: "No thanks, I'm good," really, really say it like you mean it, because your kamikazee wild-woman companion will insist you really do need one more and you will give in and end up in the condition described above.

Did ya'll know that they serve these fancy schmancy thingies in Boston called Boston creme martinis? Well, at least at the fancy schmancy hotels, they do. They are $9 each and well worth it. The rims of the martini glasses are actually dipped in smooshed up Boston creme pie and the drink itself amounts to about 5 different shots of likker which I really did not consider until the following afternoon when a few of my surviving synapses finally began firing again. Did I say I had five? I had five. Idiot.

So my friend Christine (who currently lives in Colorado) and I hook up each year at a professional conference held at (gasp) Harvard because we really hit it off a few years ago when we met by chance attending said conference. Actually, it was not chance. It was unavoidable. We were like two magnets flying at each other in a bowl of clotted macaroni. Because that is how fucking boring the people are at this conference. We are both naughty girls who like drinking, cussing and smoking and looking at boys and saying "What the fuck?!?" a lot which is not the standard with this particular crowd and I guess we could tell all of this by looking at each other through a crowd of 500 people. The two cool ones ended up together. Go figure. Anyway.

After all the daylong head-nodding and note-taking and harrumphing at the conference each day, we take off and PAR-TAY like there is no tomorrow because we only see each other once a year and she is a pithy riot and I feel the need to unwind and be no one but me--no one's wife/mommy/sister/daughter/aunt/co-worker, etc. Just me, the great and powerful ell, amok in America for one glorious weekend a year. And god, was I ever amok. Oy.

re: the weekend away fom home & hearth

hedonism abounded, there was much debauchery and yes, some tawdry behavior. I had my digital camera on me all weekend. I took no photos. It's probably best.

outta here

hi kids--

I am out of here for a few days--off to Boston for my annual commune with some of my hard-drinking, man-eating compadres. The she-devils await, I have a plane to catch and there is an appletini with my name on it in adddition to some real Italian lasagna at an awesome little restaurant in the North End.

(Unlike Miss elizabeth, I am able to tear myself away for real). But I will be back next week with tales to tell and a hell of a hangover and maybe even some remorse for tawdry behavior. I'll tell you all about it.

Be good and stay away from Wal-Mart just because you know it's the right thing to do and you really do want to be a doer of right, even though they keep rolling back those prices in their never-ending evil plot to lure you back in. bastards.