Adventures in Real Parenting: Skip Thursdays

I saw the picture on the left Tuesday as I drove to work. For just a moment, I was pleased that I was sitting in bumper to bumper traffic so I could snap this photo. I knew it would be useful at some point.

So what am I doing instead of writing and reading blogs? Well, it’s a varied list.

(1) Fretting over things (nothing new here)
(2) Doing the happy dance because I’m down another clothing size
(3) Actually working
(4) Trolling for just the right birthday card for someone special
(5) Wrestling with my desire to nap
(6) Being passive-aggressively difficult and annoyed because it’s Thursday which means that I have to drop everything and take another kid to the doctor. This time it’s not because someone has blood pouring from an open wound on his leg. No, it’s someone who has something itchy on her leg and foot.

Hmmmm. While I’m there, perhaps I can ask about my unresolved itch. No, that’s not a metaphor.

Well, at least I’ve managed to create enough guilt in The Spawn that they are sufficiently obsequious when they know they are causing me a pain in the ass. Upon realizing that I would have to leave work, drive 35 miles back to C’ville to take her to the doctor because she’s one week shy of 18, and then come all the back back down to MathMan’s school to pick him up later,

The Dancer sent a text of apology that read “I’m sorry I have disrupted your day. Thank you for taking care of this.”

To which I responded “It’s okay. I assume one day you’ll come rescue me every Sunday from the swarming hordes of old coots who follow me around the assisted living facility by taking me to lunch somewhere nice.”

Smart girl that she is, she replied quickly. “Of course, but what about Daddy?”

From me: “He’ll be busy being cougared by the older gals. I don’t think he’ll want to leave the joint.”

Her response: “I should have guessed. We’ll bring him some takeout.”

The Dancer is nothing if not practical.

Yes, she finally committed to a school. Phew. Details later if she says it’s okay.

Commute Chat 4: Not So Nice

This one might be continued. Didn’t want it to go too long.

It’s full of camera goofs, random conversation, me nagging Doug, inappropriate language, a short song that we don’t really know the lyrics to, and the two of us not being the 100% Midwestern nice we typically are. Plus there’s a new theme song and tag line. I’m finally figuring this out, too.

http://www.youtube.com/v/VGIV6IQvxX4&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1

To be continued? Well, we still haven’t done this with sock puppets. I swear, they’re coming.

P.S. I have a fat lot of nerve mocking someone else for their neck.

Almost As Satisfying as Killing Two Flies With One Whack. Which I Just Did.

Like many of you, I go through my day editing myself. Hard to believe, I know, but I don’t actually say the first thing that pops into my head all the time. I do self-censor. I’m careful because the situation warrants a certain amount of respectable behavior (boring!). Other times, I don’t say what I’d really like to because it might hurt someone. Or get me fired. Or arrested. Or laughed off the PTA hospitality committee. Or smacked. Or drummed out of general society.

We all feel this way sometimes, don’t we?

Today was a day full of those moments. Work, personal relationships, driving on I75. You name it. Picture my words, traveling with lightening speed from my brain to just the tip of my tongue where they are snagged by a large rubber band and catapulted back down my throat. I have to chew them before I can swallow them. Then, after a deep breath, I’m able to come up with a slightly more suitable response.

If I’m not careful, though, after time, those nasty words fester, getting meaner and uglier and more angry. Eventually, they find their way out and my self-censorship ends up being for naught.

To combat this, I’m using this post to let it out. I invite you to do the same in comments. It’s not really a confessional, but rather a place to vent one’s spleen safely so that there’s no real or lasting damage to the people who matter in your life. Or who sign your paycheck, for example.

I’ll start. I offer no explanation or tell you to whom something is directed. I’m not looking for a confrontation. I’m just having my say, using the words I wished I’d said, but didn’t.

Item one
“If you think this thing is falling apart, perhaps you’d like to take it over and show me how it should be done. I don’t like being stuck in the middle of what you want and what they want.”

Item two
“Who do you think you’re kidding?”

Item three
“Actually, I’m not so crazy about Chinese buffets. I’m not keen on Chinese food and I’m grossed out by the idea of food sitting out in the open on buffet. And I never get my money’s worth at a buffet anyway. Unless, of course, it’s a dessert buffet.”

Item four
“Nice one, douchebag. That got you ahead one entire car length. Bravo. Now don’t slow down, you moron! If you don’t have the skills to drive in the left lane, please move over.”

Item five
“You are exactly what everyone says you are. A coward. A user. A narcissist. A troubled soul. A child. Did I mention coward? Just checking.”

Item six
“You know how I said I like your singing voice? Well, I lied. Frankly, I think your voice sounds pinched and tight.”

Item seven
“For cliff’s sake, we are not made of money!”

Item eight
“If you guys want to keep living here, you must learn how to use the toilet, feed yourselves and help out with something useful like the laundry. I’ve had enough of your lying around sunning yourselves and stealth pooping.”

Item nine
“My passion evaporated because I felt like it wasn’t wanted. How do we get that back?”

Item ten
“Next time, don’t ask them what they want if you already know what you want. It creates an enormous headache and more work than I need.”

Okay. That’s plenty from me. Your turn. What would like to say to someone that you held back? Go on. You know you’ve got those words churning around inside you. Why not let it out here. I make no promises for the Internets, but your secret is safe with me.

Sunburned in All the Wrong Places

I used to be such an uber-informed woman, but somewhere along the way, I’ve become so out of touch. I don’t even keep up on what’s going on with PopTart Culture. I guess Maude died, which makes me a little sad (Guess god finally got her, Walter) because she was such an icon of my youth. And Tyra Banks will be testifying about something or other. And I’m sure that somebody said something bad about President Obama’s policies and someone else said something good about them on a Sunday morning talk show, but I’d have to be totally living under a rock to not know those things.

It doesn’t help that MathMan and I made a pact Saturday night before we went to bed to sleep in on Sunday morning, have hot monkey sex upon awakening (after a compulsory tooth brushing first, of course), and keep our computers in the upright and locked position until we had actually accomplished some of the things on our looooooong to do list.

I’m pleased to report mission accomplished on all counts. Well, except, my to do list turned out to have about six things too many on it. Sadly, today is already Monday which means I’m at the office doing work that doesn’t involve folding, scrubbing or digging. Doesn’t sound half bad, does it? Well, that may be true, but while I’m doing busy and important things at the office, the things around Golden Manor that must be folded, scrubbed or dug up (possibly buried?) remain undone.

Such is life, I suppose. If we ever completed our to do list, I think we might just end up like Maude.

So what really kept us busy yesterday was a lot of yard work. And now I remember why people hire other people to do that stuff. MathMan has a tee shirt that reads “Math is hard.” I want a tee shirt that reads “Yard work is hard.” I think I raked leaves that were from the fall of 2002. They were mingled with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam – an empty Jack Daniels bottle, a Playtex tampon plastic applicator and enough styrofoam containers to make the foundation in front of the house look like my mother-in-laws refridgerator back in the day when MathMan and I would open it and play “You Smell It and Figure Out What Food Group That Used to Belong To.”

My favorite part of the day was realizing that I could diabolically use yard work to get back at The Ninja who likes to tease me with misogynistic comments such as “That’s women’s work.” I finally go to turn that line of reasoning around on him. He was ordered off the XBox live to come out and do some manly yard work.

On the upside, we had our first new neighbor introduction/MILF sighting. Pink Tube Top (okay, how sexist can I be?) MathMan thinks we should call her Mrs. Milfington. (Hmmmm. Did MathMan listen to Morning Sedition?) The point is the woman has magnificent boobies and that’s enough to keep MathMan happily working away outside in hopes of catching another glimpse. My only concern in that regard is what does her husband look like in case we get invited to one of those key parties at some point and if MathMan abandons me to go do the hard yard work for Pink Tube Top. (Fill in favorite mowing the lawn joke here.)

On the downside, Garbo’s battle with the little halfwit friend of the boy across the street continues and has escalated. Parents are involved. That’s never a good sign. Especially when I’m the parent who starts stuff.

The little guy just might be sweet on Garbo, but is ill-equipped at the age of ten to show it. Instead he employs the acceptable tween tactics of shoving her down and calling her names. He hasn’t let up and seems to look for every opportunity to provoke an incident. I’m not sure the boy is right in the head, but am loathe to overreact.

Yesterday, the Halfwit and his two friends from the neighborhood were “hiding” in the culvert next to our house, hollering rude stuff at Garbo who was reading in a chair in the backyard. I just did what any mama would do, I sneaked up behind him and his buddies and yelled one word these yahoo kids around here understand. “Git!“

He didn’t stop running for a block and a half.

Later, he decided that it would be clever to ride his bike back and forth in front of the house, then stop for a sit and stare in the neighbor’s yard across the street. Garbo and one of the other Covered Bridge Springs tarts were on our front porch mooning over a stray kitten. Words were exchanged, including rude finger gestures. Garbo, who’d been instructed to go the back yard if the Halfwit kept it up, reported the incident, prompting a much put-upon sigh by me. Time to have MathMan handle things with his Teacher Wits. And he did. Thank you, MathMan. Me chasing a little cross-eyed goonbah down the street with a rake isn’t really going to make us any friends.

MathMan was kind enough to bring me inside later for some cream cheese frosting which I ate off a spoon while he spread some on my sunburn. Or maybe that was aloe. I forget which has soothing qualities for the sunburn.

So here it is Monday and I’m wishing for another day of weekend so I can soak in the tub and rest my sore muscles who’d lost their muscle memory for digging and such. What a difference two years makes. I take last year off from gardening and I atrophy to the point of creaking when I stand up from crawling around, placing plants and showing the new neighbors my bottom.

I realize that I have plenty to catch up on and I hope that work will be calm enough this afternoon so that I can actually do some important stuff like check my Facebook page and read blogs because I understand that here’s some big news about swine flu or something?

Adventures in Real Parenting: Just Another Saturday without a Nap

Of course, I would say I’m taking a break and then the people around me would hand me all sorts of material. They hate me, don’t they? It’s also amazing what getting more than three hours of sleep will do for a person.

It’s Saturday morning. The woman down the next cul de sac is shaming me horribly by being out walking up and down, up and down the street while I sit here on my slow-metabolism butt reading blogs and listening to Saturday Morning Flashback (1983, back when I weighed 101 pounds, wore a girl’s size 12 jeans and was working on having wrinkles instead of battling them). I don’t know what one calls the thing wrapped around the neighbor’s head, but she’s pulling off that look beautifully. That’s two reasons not to like her.

I’ll bet the roof of her mouth doesn’t hurt either because she had the sense to not roll out of bed this morning, pop some amphetamines and then proceed to eat three brimming bowls of Cocoa Puffs with a pot of hot tea loaded with sugar. At least the milk was skim. Uh huh.

The birdbath I put out the other day has tipped over, but I’m loathe to go outside and set it upright and refill it. I knew when I placed it the other day, it was unstable. Poor birds. Must they suffer the lack of high quality H20 because I’m afraid to leave the house at the moment because every fifteen seconds a carpenter bee the size of a cargo plane hovers outside my window daring me to step outside……?

Garbo is full of one liners this morning. She seems more rested today, too. She’s expecting a little friend over later and so is cramming in as much snacking and alone time now as she can. She has a daily quota of both, apparently.

Me: Before you do anything else, you need to tidy up your room.
Garbo: If by tidy my room, you mean eat this White Castle frozen cheeseburger, then okay.

You know how I wrote about what a nurturing mother I’m not? I suppose one could say that the fact that these children continue to live proves that I nurture them just enough.

MathMan called the exterminators to come back and, naturally, now the ants have disappeared. I guess overhearing that phone call was warning enough for them. However, the standard poodle sized roach I stomped yesterday morning was undaunted.

It’s a gorgeous day here so I’m hoping that MathMan and I can make it over to the old place to dig up some plants to bring to the new garden. Not that the new garden is ready, but why let silly details stop us from doing things backward.

So now it’s hours and hours later. Alcohol is being/has been consumed. The aforementioned plant digging never happened, but we did manage to have a nice quiet dinner with The Dancer. We spent at least a half an hour grinding her down about the cost of college. Aaaahhhh. I’m relishing this shoe on the other foot thing. It feels mighty fine, oh yes it does. No longer is it a case of “but I need this, can I have, but you said, all my friends, blah, blah, beg, plead, whine….” No indeedy. It was us coming from all different angles, reiterating, repeating, reviewing, making our case, questioning her reasoning, and generally filing down her resolve. I believe we are making headway.

She’ll thank us some day when she has money for extravagent things like food and shelter. Until then, she can flip me off behind closed doors all she likes. I consider it a sign of a healthy mother/daughter relationship. It’s tradition. I did it to my mom, my kids do it to me……

So the kid count is thus: Garbo’s friend has come and gone. A good time was had by all except The Dancer who swore if she heard the current Miley Cyrus single The Climb one more time, she would climb something, dragging the karaoke machine with her so that she could hurl it back to earth from great heights.

Now we are plus one in the kid column. The Ninja’s friend The Jedi is over for the night. Good lord, they are like a pack of wriggling puppies shot through with testosterone and root beer. Clearly, they have no shame or they know MathMan and me well enough to know that there’s little we’d be shocked about. Some might say we seem like the “cool” parents, but that’s a real conundrum when someone finally does go beyond the limits and you’re left mouth agape or blushing. Cool goes right out the window.

We’re sitting here and it all starts pretty innocently. The Ninja asks his friend why he’s not allowed to have text, MathMan and I, misunderstand the question and hear “Why can’t you have sex? ” Our eyes meet and we laugh because we’re mature like that.

We stop laughing long enough for MathMan to do a Public Service Announcement along the lines of “No one better have sex at your age, but if they do they must use condoms.” See how MathMan is sucking up to the Father of the Year people? He’s so naively optimistic that he has a chance.

The Ninja announces that his friend carried a condom around in his wallet for a while. His friend smilingly confirms this and then goes on to tell us that, after a while, he got tired of carrying it and jacked off in it to see what would happen.

At that point, I was nearly on the floor, dying. I was half embarrassed beyond all belief and half ready to pee my pants from laughing. He described a bubble at the end of the condom and the difficulty he had putting it back in the package when he was done. I didn’t catch all of the detail (thank goodness) because by this point, I couldn’t breathe anymore……

So here I am again, thinking I might need a break (might?), but the minute I say that, someone will be lighting their farts on fire or tapdancing on the driveway wearing nothing but a neon orange feather boa, tube socks and a smile or making an initial streaking run through the neighborhood.

And that’s just what I have planned……

Crimony! How much more honesty can you take?

I’ve gotten really bad about using this blog to properly to thank my fellow bloggers for awards and accolades. Some of you must wonder “Would it kill her to answer a tag? Is she too good to participate in a meme?”

Oh, where to begin? Well, thank you to Steve Emery, The Crow and Dean Wormer for awarding me with The Honest Scrap award. I am honored. I’m also shocked that y’all come here to see my stand on my head and show my panties. But thank you all the same.

As these events warrant, like proper placement of the fork next to the plate or how to address an Earl, this, too, has a set of rules and customs. I will share them here, but that is likely as far as I will go. I’m put off tagging others just because I hate to choose. Each blog I read adds something lovely to my life, knowledge, art, a giggle, an insight, news, music, beauty, feelings, thoughts…. you get the idea.

The rules of this award are:

1.You must brag about the award.
2.You must include the name of the blogger who bestowed the award on you and link back to the blogger.
3.You must choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. 4.Show their names and links and leave a comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog.
5.List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself.
Then pass it on with the instructions!

Okay, the honest things about me? This is the tough part because I feel like you all know so much about me already.

I guess I’m just going to dive in. It’s typically what I do, right?

(1) I’m attracted to inappropriate things.
I’ve noticed lately that I like songs even though they have lyrics that could be considered offensive. For example….
Ben Taylor, Wicked Way.
She Wants Revenge, Tear You Apart.
The Decemberists, The Rake’s Song.

(2) I wish I could travel across time.
If you watched that last video listed above, you’ll have those images fresh in your mind. The footage was shot in New York City. This is especially poignant for me because it’s somewhere between picking at a scab and applying salve. Depends on the day, the moment, the nanosecond. We’re coming up on the anniversary of all sorts of personal dumbfuckery on my part and, try as I might to forget, it’s hovering somewhere in the background making me wish that I could go back in time, rewind my life’s recording, hit erase, erase, erase.

(3) I tune out my own thoughts.
I do not like falling asleep without the television on. If I lie there and listen to my thoughts, it’s very hard to fall asleep.

(4) I look forward to a future when I have time and a wee bit of disposable income to do things. I really, really, really want to travel back to France and that’s not going to happen by magic. Shut up, MathMan. I will not borrow your sister’s broom either.

(5) I am not the kind of nurturing mom I thought I’d be. I do funny, sarcastic, honest (there’s that word again), and I probably am soft with them in ways they understand, but I’m not traditional, I get really impatient and resentful of the expectations for mothers these days and I find it very easy to react first with anger, then later with something more appropriate. I wish I were a different kind of mom.

(6) Yesterday, when The Actor, who will now be referred to as The Ninja, got injured and the EMTs called me as I drove to the office and I couldn’t get MathMan on his phone because he was in a meeting, I came really close to losing it out of frustration. I was proud of myself for taking a deep breath, following my instincts and handling things until MathMan could get involved. You see, he’s the primary parent for injury and illness. (see #5) and The Ninja is fine. Three stitches in his shin, no biggie.

(7) This is getting easier as I consume more wine. I really like wine. Alot. Alot, alot. I am not drunk blogging. I am drinking blogging.

(8) I took a nap when I got home tonight. Well, first I ate because all I’d consumed during the day was one and a half of a micro-powdered donut, a cup of coffee and a piece of string cheese. As we drove home, I told MathMan that I could feel my brain being sapped of synapses from a lack of food and sleep. I’m telling you, something has to give. Soon.

(9) I don’t like not getting my way. Who does, right? Well, lately, I’ve been very frustrated with The Dancer who still wants to go to a school she cannot afford. I want to scream at her that we will not let her make the same fucking mistakes we made. NO LOANS. NONE. I do find that when I tell her we don’t always get our first choice or what we want, I’m talking to myself as much as I am talking to her.

(10) I’m going to take a break for a few days. I’m wiped out. The move, the adjustments, the longer commute (although the company is very delightful), the lack of sleep, the college-days diet, the late nights of cybersex with MathMan (who knew I would hook up with my very own husband on one of those affair websites?), the general fretting, the torture memos to read, the running and screaming at the sight of carpenter bees, the additional responsbilities at work, the onset of baseball and gardening season, the fact that each and every day brings a new reminder that it’s the end of the school year for three kids in three different schools plus one dedicated math teacher, graduation is bearing down on us, looming decisions and disappointments to deal with, the constant negotiations with my id, ego and superego and that unresolved itch that seems to appear when I don’t have a Dave handy, have all conspired to wear me the hell out.

Plus, I just want to finish reading my book about Edward Gorey without sitting on the damned toilet. There’s also lots of video to edit, finger operas to rehearse and sock puppet to design.

Anyway, you get the picture. Me = tired. The rest is just so much fluffernutter soup with a dollop of yawn floating sadly on top.

See you in a bit, People of the Internets.

Honestly loving you hard, fast and in many inappropriate ways,

Lisa

030909 Lisa 2, originally uploaded by mathman6293. This comes from MathMan’s flickr account. Photo taken March 9, 2009.
Sometimes, MathMan really captures the true me in a photograph. That is all.

(Drawing of some woman named DCup – above- by susan at Adventures Ink, Phantsythat and Baby Days. Click the picture for a link)

Oh, I thought it said CORN.

Tonight I got an email from one of my favorite Aussies. The subject line reads: Well, I guess it’s official then….

I opened the email and was treated to this message.

After inspecting the declaration of my blog’s status as porn, I replied ever so wittily….

Me: LOL! Well, what do you know about that. I have finally arrived! I notice though, at the bottom of this ACCESS DENIED screen, the system allowed you to see a scantily clad….Berlisconi???????

Mountjoy was quick to reply:I was spewing! Any blogspot site is now off limits at work. Luckily tengrain has MPS off on its own…. but that is the only place I can go now. :-(………
You, too, can enjoy a naked Berlisconi – ignorant oaf that he is – right here: http://www.smh.com.au/news/entertainment/arts/2009/04/24/1240079834786.html
THAT I can open, cos it is on a newspaper website. I hate censorship, and I hate big brother.
I wonder if i can get your blog as a feed? Hmmmmmm I’ll have to investigate.

Me: It’s worth a try. And I can always email the posts to you. Are you able to watch youtube? Hey, (endearment redacted), Can I blog this?

Mountjoy: But of course you can! Not like I can see it anyway!!!! 🙂 The only thing I would ask, is for you to use the photoshopped version I’ve pasted below – (I’d hate to see our IT department getting a bunch of complaints on your behalf!!!!!)

Me: Of course, I’ll protect the identity of your company. Wouldn’t want those rabid fans of mine coming down hard on the people who sign your paycheck. Thanks!

For those who aren’t familiar with my old blog, let me just say “oh the irony!”

Commute Chat 3: Well, I’ll Be Dipped

We are taking requests (or attempting to), the following is in response to Steve’s insistence that we vlog dipped cones from Dairy Queen. And since Steve isn’t really an insist kind of guy, we thought this must be important to him.

Thanks to others who have provided ideas. We’re trying to figure out how to work in British accents, hats, the often-threatened (or is it promised?) sock puppets and finger operas. We’ve been rehearsing our finger opera song, Suzy, never fear!

A couple of administrative things. First – this one has some adult content. Not pictures, but language, so be prepared for that as you consider who might hear this. And second, regarding the audio – we’re still working that out on the cheap. This was filmed using Doug’s camera, which makes a better video, but distorts the audio, making us sound like we’re doing lisps and lateral lisps. Please note that we are not really doing this – it’s the equipment. Now, some might find it amusing, others might find it uncomfortable. I’m not sure what the politically correct thing is here, so I’ll just offer an apology in advance if anyone is offended. Because a pre-emptive apology is so convincing, isn’t it?

Anyway, here it is, we’re eating again and talking about things of an adult nature. I fear we’ve already typecast ourselves…..

http://www.youtube.com/v/GFsbY9tNuZM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1

I’ve managed some music on the opening credits this time, but forgot closing music. Baby steps…….

What Should I Put Cream Cheese Frosting on Next?

I think my last post may have been more gloomy than my newer readers are used to. Dude. If you knew me in my political blogging days, you would have been all “what they hell?” and “who needs this angst?” Yeah – those were the days.

So tonight, after he started speaking to me again because I was such a sourpuss on the drive home (What? no video of that?), MathMan asked me if I’d really told The Actor that we only have sex on Wednesdays. I stared at him for a moment before putting my head down on my keyboard to think. Did I?

“Why would you ask me that?” I mumbled into the desk.

“And did you say that sometimes we play naked flashlight tag?” he continued the interrogation.

I whimpered.

There was more to come. I continued to wince and whimper in recognition of my housecat-like mothering skills. “Because it sounds like something you would say. We discussed it on the way home from baseball practice. The Actor, me and his friend.“ Oh. No.

You see, it’s one thing to tell on myself, to show off for you guys and be all la, la, la, look at my whipped up naughtiness and Parenting by Benign Neglect, but when I learn that the crazy stuff I tell my kids spills over to their friends, I get a little embarrassed because some of these kids don’t have the sense to not tell their Proper Mamas. And Proper Mamas do not find my loopy brand of humor amusing. At all.

So yes, I’m sure, too, that I said that crazy stuff. What of it now? Well, perhaps we’ll see the number of sleepovers slow down as word gets out that I’m foul-mouthed and filthy-minded.

Anyway, I spent the first twenty minutes of our afternoon commute with my eyes pinched shut or by staring moodily out the passenger side window. MathMan was having none of it and without the the benefit of having read my blogpost where I described my testiness and likely blood sugar issues, pressed, pushed and prodded until the dam broke, the words came spilling out and I shared with him my worries about work. (long, boring story) I hate boring him with tales from the workfront, but he seemed not to mind. Just venting helped me. (Thanks, Honey!)

And now the rush of baseball season is upon us. MathMan and The Actor will be gone a lot of the time. This is the time of year when I am left to my own devices too much of the time. When I’m not cleaning the sparkle off things, I’m looking for trouble and indulging in all manner of ill-advised pursuits that end in near-disaster, broken hearts, bad haircuts and unfinished projects in the garden. And that’s the good stuff. (Do you ever wonder about the stuff I don’t tell you about? Well, if you do, stop that. You’d never sleep again.)

However, with our new situation, Garbo seemed intent on shaking up the dynamic. She only had to ask me once to go to the park with her. I was amazed when I reminded her that we’d have to – gasp! – walk because I don’t have a car anymore and she just shrugged and asked if she could ride her bicycle while I walked. No problem.

An hour later, we’d hiked the trail through the woods and along the creek, crossed the covered bridge, gone on the swings, and sauntered home again to spend another hour outside arranging pots and garden stuff and making a home for worms in a little pot. People of the Internets, if you could see the butt-groove in my cheapo, black swivel office chair, you’d realize what a huge deal this was.

Getting out in the fresh air, staring up at those clouds that look like a couple of merpeople about to kiss, listening to the bird who says “Drink your tea” over and over, noticing the smell of wood smoke in the air from the barbecue place down the road, feeling the breeze, enjoying the heft of pots just waiting to be filled with veggie seeds and colorful annuals, noticing the neighbors’ houses – the dark wood sided one with the shady woodland garden and ivy-covered trees, and the other one with the lush green lawn and hydrangeas bursting out in pom poms of white? You must be wondering “What is the big deal?”

Plenty. It’s been a long couple of years. It’s good to be getting back to something closer to normal (for me, that is). I strolled along, watching Garbo on her bicycle, shrinking into the distance as she rode further ahead. I realized I wasn’t holding my breath or about to let loose with a tirade of invectives and I didn’t feel angry about anything.

I was just taking it all in. Later, I realized that I’d concluded something that had long needed concluding. Sorry to sound so cryptic, but I decided that the best thing to do sometimes is just pretend that a death has occurred. It’s irrevocable. Done. Final. And sometimes, it’s the inability to retrieve, the lack of hope that allows us to accept something. Finally.

I breathed. In and out. In and out. I didn’t count my steps. I wasn’t biting on the side of my tongue or furrowing my brow. I don’t think I was even pursing my lips…..

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Thank you, Fantastic Forrest, for pointing me toward your post tonight. I love the movie Garden State and I adore Zach Braff. I’ve had the Garden State soundtrack for some time now and there are a couple of songs on it that have been my off and on favorites. One is the one you posted (imagine that!) the other is an utter wallow-tune. And I’m just going to let that song go unplayed tonight for the reasons I mentioned above.

I do want to share with you a video I found that combines the artist who sings the song on the Garden State soundtrack that I love to wallow to and Scrubs, the show which brought Braff his popular fame.

http://www.youtube.com/v/6JPzi1Su9T4&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1

I love the richness of Colin Hay’s voice. And his hospital gown is pretty cute, too.

Thanks, MathMan, for the title of this post. Those pretzels dipped in cream cheese frosting were delish!

And the winner is…. NO ONE?

No takers? What? You don’t want a box full of hungry, surly kid? I’m shocked. SHOCKED I tell you.

Anyway, the answer to the Saturday question – what does She Laughs As She Runs mean?

It’s what the name of our new town Euharlee means in a native American tongue. I like that very much. She laughs as she runs. It’s got a gleeful quality to it that makes me smile.

Anyway, on a less cheerful note, I’m grumbling away at work feeling overworked, underpaid and just a wee bit under-appreciated. This absorbing someone else’s job for a raise a fraction of what they were making sucks ass. Tiny violins, do I hear them? Well, the first person who offers a comment that I should be glad to still have a job gets the kid in a box, ya hear?

Besides, the last thing workers need to be doing is piping up with the corporate “be glad you’ve still got your job” line to each other. Fuckery, y’all, that’s the kind of thinking that will lead to all kinds of worker abuse and erosion of rights. Chew on that.

Well now, didn’t this post just take a nasty turn. See what happens when reality meets depression meets more reality meets haven’t had a fucking vacation in three years meets Mr. Phentermine meets chocolate chip cookies for breakfast meets me?

This.

Oh, and a song I’ve been humming to myself. Take it away, Bob.

http://www.youtube.com/v/3g_wpuLCj3w&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1

Because I said so, that’s why (she growled).

*About the photo – I could use the Quiet Room about now.