Adventures in Real Parenting: The Most Dangerous Game

I am working from home today. MathMan is back in the salt mines. Yesterday you should have seen the row we got into as we launched The Commute Together, Season 2. Too bad that didn’t get on film. He whined about having to wear pants again and I rudely responded by pulling out my sad violin and sang “some of us didn’t get a vacation at all.”

We are so ugly when we fight. I don’t know which is worse – the hair pulling or the scratching. Anyway, today he drove in relative peace since I stayed behind to manage the crazy people and cats.

Right now I am enjoying the quiet. The Pussies for Peace are creeping about on their little cat feet, The Dancer is gone and the other two are still asleep. (Glances at the clock, sees that it is now 11:02am, shrugs.) After the kids are awake, I will likely be called upon to referee fights, make so and so stop breathing the other’s air, retrieve the television remote from atop the ceiling fan, scrape gum off whatever random surface Garbo has stuck it to, ward off cries for food, and any number of other petty, annoying things that kids ask moms to do, but would never dream of asking their dads to do.

I don’t care if it is raining, I will send them outside. I mean, I don’t hear thunder, after all. No matter – I need to keep them busy and out of my hair. Seriously, what are the odds that they would get struck by lightening anyway?

It’s not all fun and games, though. In between the paid work, I will try to get some of those long planned and never achieved things completed. So far, I’ve managed to sort out Garbo’s big bag of markers, pens, pencils and crayons. I was looking for something and had a hunch that it would be there. It was. But so was a lot of other crap. By the time I finished, I did have the items sorted by type. And the dead and dried up pens and markers were tossed. That accomplishment was topped only by a thorough and giggling read of The Fatal Lozenge by Edward Gorey. I love reading Gorey in the bathroom.

A quick check of my To Do list shows that I must find just the right outfit to wear tomorrow night when I attend the Author! Author! event at our local library. Georgia writers Lauretta Hannon and Terry Kay are going to be recording a special event for NPR. I can’t decide between the toned down Dominatrix or the Rock and Roll Fantasy Chick outfit that makes me look like Tawny whatshername in the Whitesnake video. One has to make a good impression, you know. Whatever I choose, will also probably be what I wear to the school meet and greets next Tuesday. Why go through the trauma of finding just the right outfit all over again, right?

Speaking of glamor and good impressions, I must tell you about this website I recently found. Some of you might not know this, but I love the eras of 1920 – 1950. I am especially a fan of the 1930s movie. I love them for their stories, their costuming, the glamor, the hair, the voices and facial expressions. The architecture and settings. All of it. And I love the scritchy scratchy quality of the black and white film. One of my great pleasures about working from home is being able to watch old movies while I work.

I was especially pleased this morning, when I turned on Turner Classic Movies to find that The Most Dangerous Game was being shown. MathMan noted that the movie’s storyline had been spoofed by The Simpsons. Indeed it has. It’s also been done on Gilligan’s Island and, I do believe, Fantasy Island, as well. Anyway, the best part, the most serendipitous part of seeing that movie this morning was that it gave me me an idea for how I could keep the kids occupied this afternoon.

That is, if I can find my bow and arrow set.

I Interrupt This Freeze Pop to Inform You of the Following

I took the day off. Work be damned. The summer is winding down and I have an incredible need to grab hold of it and cling for dear life. I know that for some of you, summer has more or less just gotten started, but here in Georgia, most schools start back on August 6. Today is, in fact, MathMan’s last day of official academic summer. As a department chair at his school, he has to go back even earlier. That, my friends, is why he makes the big bucks.

Sadly, the weather isn’t cooperating so much today. Our dreams of eating melting Popsicles in the sun, sipping lemonade in the shade of our big magnolia tree and running through the sprinkler and playing gas station with the garden hose down our swimsuit bottoms were somewhat dashed.

We were driven indoors just now by what appears to be a coming thunder storm. MathMan and I were dining al fresco (that’s eating on the deck for those of you who don’t speak Polish) on fresh, summery kinds of foods when we began to hear the rumbles of thunder in the distance. MathMan turned and shook his fist in the general direction of the heavenly racket. “Damn you, Karen Minton!” he raved, cursing his favorite meteorologist. Now, don’t misunderstand, he still lusts and heartily after her, but MathMan was terribly disappointed that she had made good on her threat of scattered showers and thunderstorms across Georgia.

“Couldn’t they have scattered somewhere else?” I moaned.

And now that big tease Mother Nature has conjured a big game of hide and seek with the sun an clouds. I guess that’s what I get for calling in sick when I was really hungover.

Nevertheless, I’m thinking it’s the perfect time to curl up somewhere and read one of the many books that are waiting for me to devour them while flicking the pages in that annoying way I do. But y’all know that’s a fantasy right? Oh, I’ll read. On the toilet. Maybe. That is – if I’m not too busy sending Facebook pokes from my cellphone. You take your mobile into the bathroom with you, too, don’t you?

Now for those unfamiliar with Facebook, I realize this is going to seem like just so much more of that FB nonsense. That’s quite all right. I can be fairly snarky and sanctimonious myself about the pop culture things I choose to opt out of, too. To each his own vices and what not.

But for those of you for whom Poking has become yet another way to communicate with your beloveds, then you must know that Poking comes with its own language. For example, my pokes signify different things to different people. The poke I give The Dancer is far different than the poke I might give to Latka, for example.

Allow me to demonstrate:

Let’s say I poke Tanya Espanya. That pokes says “I got your poke and I’m poking you back, you hooker.”

Sometimes I start the pokes. Those might mean “Hi! I’m thinking about you!” or “Hey! How are you?”

Pokes between myself and those with whom I am more intimate, have more complex meanings. Those are frightfully harder to discern and often require a bit of clairvoyance on the part of my pokee. As I keep telling them – context. Know the context, understand the poke.

To The Dancer, I might poke one of the following:
– I’m poking you back because you poked me and isn’t that sweet?
– I love you. Do you really have to grow up and go away to college?
– You’re my favorite. Just don’t tell the crazy people.
– Go poke Daddy and leave me alone!
– Ow! Stop that! Don’t make me cut off those funds!
– This poke is for all the times I should have punished you for that smart mouth.

Now for MathMan, the pokes are equally varied.
– Please come here. I need you and I’m too lazy to get up and find you in this house. Something is broken, a kid is getting on my last nerve, something itches and I can’t reach it, blah, blah, blah…
– Did you just fart?
– MathMan is a nut! He has a rubber butt! And every time he turns around, it goes putt, putt.
– Make (fill in kid’s name) go away. It’s breathing my air!
– Oh no. I did THAT again.
– White or red?
-I love you, sugar.
– Oh! It. Is. On!

For others of you who might receive the occasional poke, please note that the poke might mean, but is not limited to the following:

– Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
– I poke you because I love you.
– There’s a chance that you might have herpes. I had nothing to do with it.
– Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!
– Wait, let me put my phone back between my legs before you do that again. I have it set to vibrate
-Thank you sir, may I please have another?
– Dance break!
– Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!

You get the idea. The poke is the thing. It means you’re on my mind for good or for ill, I’ve seen you streaking across my mind’s eye.

And some of you are even wearing clothes.

Lifting Off

So you’ve been wondering what new business I’m going into? Well, I’m combining the things I’m good at with something I love and capitalizing on an existing infrastructure. Okay, so that didn’t really tell you anything, did it?

So here’s the skinny: I am now a BeautiControl Consultant (in training). It’s kind of like being a Counselor in Training at summer camp, but without the tipped over canoes and mosquito bites.

People who know me well are chuckling right now because they know that I hate direct sales things. I won’t name the different types of schemes here (most often aimed at women, dontcha know), but I’ve been known to whine loudly and long when invited to “parties” for those unnamed direct sales companies.

I’ve been to direct sales parties for cookware, interior decor, candles, and jewelry. Sadly, I’ve never been to a party for sex toys, but I understand that those are some of your more entertaining events. And not at all embarrassing.

Now, the idea of a direct sales item that is for me and not something I can cook with or hang on the wall? (And no, I don’t mean vibrators.) That’s something I can thoroughly dig.

Well, a chick can change her mind and so I did. I contacted my friend Dora about her career with BeautiControl and she shared with me how it’s been working for her. And you know what they say – timing is everything. I’ve been trying to figure out how to unyoke myself from the 8:30 – 4:30 grind I’m in now. Big changes are coming to my current position (read: the office is moving 2 hours away) and I’m not ready to uproot the family like I thought I might be. The reality of that is different than it was a year ago when I took this job.

Now I could telecommute, but my boss, for reasons of his own, is digging in hard and insists I either relocate my family or make the commute at least four days per week. When I raised the issue with him, he was quick to remind me that I knew the office was relocating when I took this job a year ago. If there can be no compromise on this, then I have to do what’s right for my family.

So back to that timing thing. Enter BeautiControl. I love skin care, relaxation (although my life is sorely lacking in it), make up, beauty products and spa-related activities. The idea behind BeautiControl is to hold spas in your home, with some friends. I’m cool with that. And if I can make a living with it, so much the better.

I’ve tested the products because I’m not going to sell things I don’t believe in or don’t use. The products compare with the expensive items I splurge on at the department store. And they cost a bit less! They are also endorsed by the Pussies for Peace because BeautiControl does not test on animals.

And, hey, fellas, don’t think you’re being left out. We have a men’s line, too. I know, I see you right now, Kitten Toes. You’re swooning over that news, aren’t you?

This is a time in my life where I am making some radical changes while trying to maintain the ship of state at home. I’m going to have to hang in there and make that brutal commute for a while. Talk about needing some spa time after that! But now that I’ve set my mind to finding a way to write my book and work for myself, I’m ready to make this thing work.

I’ve combined my goofball video skills with some fabulous products so that you can see for yourself what it is I’m selling. There, I said it. I am selling. That didn’t hurt like I thought it would.

http://www.youtube.com/v/_zqlrW6wloE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1

You can learn more about the products we offer and place orders at my webpage. You’re also invited to my official lift off party at 6:45 p.m. (eastern) on Tuesday, August 11th. If you can’t make it, we’re going to see what we can do to include you because you all deserve the gift of relaxation and beauty (she said, trying not to giggle).

Cracker? I Don’t Even Know Her! (But I’m Going to Email Her Anyway)

Last week, MathMan and I popped in to our local library to borrow some dvds to watch as we drift off to sleep. Nothing soothes the savage beast of my inner voices like a good British murder mystery. I’m trying to learn to go to sleep to the calming sounds of babbling brooks and panflutes via the Spa Channel on Sirius/XM, but I’m like an addict. I need my Brits bonking one another over the head with random objects or pushing each other down ancient wells.

MathMan and I are currently working our way through the Rosemary and Thyme series, having viewed all the available Poirot, Hetty Wainthrop, Mrs. Bradley Mysteries and Midsomer Murder collections available in the library. And although PBS has been kind enough to provide us with a couple of new Poirots and Miss Marples (delights each), they are not enough to chase away the nightly parade of hobgoblins and worries so that I can finally escape into my dreamworld.

So there we were, whispering our way through the stacks when a book title struck me and I just had to pick it up. I’m very predictable in how I select books to read. I read the first page first, then I flip around for some dialogue. Bad dialogue will chase me away in no time flat. To me, bad dialogue is like watching a bad performance. I’m embarrassed for the writer.

Never mind that I’d just told MathMan that I wasn’t going to check out another book. I had a stack of them already waiting to be read and I was finishing up the Wolitzer book I told you about last week that irritated me for reasons hard to explain.

None of that mattered after I read the title of the first chapter and started laughing. “Everything You Need to Know, I Learned in a Single Wide.” A few paragraphs in and I was hooked. Now I didn’t grow up in a trailer, nor did I grow up in the south, but a three bedroom brick ranch on the edge of a southeastern Indiana river town is pretty dang close. There’s a reason why I’ve found it easy to blend in here in Georgia.

In her book, The Cracker Queen, Lauretta Hannon, describes her roots, her life, and the lessons she learned along the way to becoming what she calls a Cracker Queen. I’d never considered the idea of being a Cracker, much less a Cracker Queen, but by Hannon’s description, it’s quite possible that I have the makings of being one.

Hannon writes in a way that made me just gobble the book up like a grilled cheese sandwich. I do not nibble grilled cheese sandwiches at the edges. I take big bites and enjoy the heck out of them because they are a rare, simple treat that remind me of my own childhood. Although Hannon’s story isn’t reflective of my own, I grew up in the same timeframe, in a place not unlike where Lauretta came up. Through her writing, it’s easy to feel like you know her.

When I picked up the book that day at the library, I expected to be entertained and perhaps touched, but I didn’t expect to be inspired. But let me tell you, as I’ve been dinking around with this blog and it’s earlier incarnations for a few years now, kept journals and started doing some memoir-writing exercises, I never really thought that the stories I tell here could make a book. I just thought of them as my stories.

But reading Hannon’s wonderful work has made me look again at the things I write. Last week, I wrote this lament and my friend Utah Savage left a comment that sent a shiver up my spine:

Here’s what I think. I think you’re writing the book right now. THIS IS THE BOOK! Yes, it’s that good.

Now, I’m not one to take compliments well, but this compliment from Utah was just what I needed to hear. I connected that with the stirrings of inspiration I was feeling from Hannon’s book. Then last Sunday I was lolling about on the deck with MathMan and The Dancer, having breakfast and reading the last chapters of The Cracker Queen. When I came to the section where Hannon listed the reasons why she’d never let herself quit her day job to be a full-time writer, I read the list aloud. There was much fingerpointing and guffawing. It was all too familiar.

In the book, Hannon quotes Eleanor Roosevelt. “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I read this aloud, too, because this is something that The Dancer needs to hear and often. Like her mother, she’s a bit of recluse in her own comfort zone.

So I did something that scared me. Something I have never before done. I emailed Lauretta Hannon and told her how much I enjoyed her book. To share your happiness and gratitude with someone who has given their art and story to the world seems like such a simple gesture, but I have never been one to be a screaming fangirl. Now, all bets are off.

I’ve embraced, as Lauretta says, my inner Cracker Queen. To continue to laugh with my mouth wide open, to go for what I want and to do what scares me, at least once a day. No one but me could tell Lauretta how her book touched and inspired me and so I wrote. And she wrote me back and I was the screaming fangirl all over again. Okay, so I didn’t scream, but I whooped and called MathMan in from the other room so he could read the message and validate that I wasn’t seeing things.

You’re laughing at me right now, aren’t you? That’s okay. I don’t blame you. What a simple thing to do and what results I got in Hannon’s lovely, encouraging message back to me. And how silly the me of a week ago would have been to hold back from emailing an author of a book I enjoyed because I felt inadequate or inconsequential or …….heaven forbid….like a fan? How many times did I not get an autograph or share my pleasure about something becase doing so, scared me?

So now I’m going to go buy this book because (1) I have to have it and (2) I want to see if Lauretta will sign it for me when she comes to an event at our local library next Friday. I’ll try to not act too goofy, but I make no promises.

Read the book, y’all. Be entertained, touched, inspired. And whatever you do, be sure to do something that scares you. And then come back and tell us about it.

On The Separation of Church and Facebook

Warning to the fainthearted and easily offended. This post contains sexist positions (not sex positions, sexIST positions) and a random tweak to the nipples of organized religion. Or two.

I recently received an email from a friend who was incensed that a Facebook friend of hers was promulgating what is likely some made up “pledge,” penned – or so the story goes – by a kid in Ohio. Here it is in the point size it deserves:

Written by a 15 yr. old School Kid in Ohio :
New Pledge of Allegiance
A Kid in Ohio wrote-

NEW School prayer : Now I sit me down in school Where praying is against the rule For this great nation under God Finds mention of Him very odd. If Scripture now the class recites, It violates the Bill of Rights. And anytime my head I bow Becomes a Federal matter now. Our hair can be purple, orange or green, That’s no offense; it’s a freedom scene… The law is specific, the law is precise. Prayers spoken aloud are a serious vice. For praying in a public hall Might offend someone with no faith at all. In silence alone we must meditate, God’s name is prohibited by the state. We’re allowed to cuss and dress like freaks, And pierce our noses, tongues and cheeks.. They’ve outlawed guns, but FIRST the Bible. To quote the Good Book makes me liable. We can elect a pregnant Senior Queen, And the ‘unwed daddy,’ our Senior King. It’s ‘inappropriate’ to teach right from wrong, We’re taught that such ‘judgments’ do not belong. We can get our condoms and birth controls, Study witchcraft, vampires and totem poles. But the Ten Commandments are not allowed, No word of God must reach this crowd. It’s scary here I must confess, When chaos reigns the school’s a mess. So, Lord, this silent plea I make: Should I be shot; My soul please take! Amen

My friend suggested I might blog about it because she knows that the separation between church and state is an issue about which I have strong feelings. Amen to that, I said.

I mulled it over because I wasn’t sure if I had anything new or interesting to say on the subject and because I told y’all that I was taking it easy on the blogging. But then, and wouldn’t you know it, MathMan hit me with the same kind of issue. He’d already unfriended a family member on Facebook because she had posted some ghastly anti-choice stuff. Apparently not taking the hint, she sent him a new friend invitation. He mentioned it in passing and I pounced on the opportunity to demonstrate my online savvy.

“Well, my policy is to just hide the status and posts of people whose political opinions irritate me,” I offered. MathMan loves when I offer unsolicited advice, it’s so not obnoxious.

After our usual slap-fight, he thought about it some more and eventually accepted his relative’s re-friend invitation.

A couple of days later, he was wondering again what the hell is wrong with this person. This time she sent him an invitation to become a fan of the Creation Museum.

“WTF? ( – we often use text-shortened acronyms with each other * – )” was the subject line when he forwarded his email invitation to me. After I got done ROTFLMAO, I called him. Wiping tears from my eyes, I asked what he was going to do. He was still wildly indignant. “She is oblivious! We’re the Jewish branch of the family and she’s sending this to me?!?!”

I tried to be serious. “Well, maybe she’s thinking that the Creation Museum is celebrating your Old Testament god and so of course you’d want to be a fan!” I am such the cheerleader when it’s not my feathers that are ruffled.

I’d pretty much decided that this relative of his is either hardcore testifying and determined to spread the word no matter who might be offended or she is the village idiot’s sister. Either way, MathMan’s patience was being sorely tested and I must offer support.

“How about three strikes and you’re out?” I offered, once again, behaving like so many men in my life – offering advice when none was requested. You heard me – it’s a very male thing to want to solve the problem when all the partner wants to do is vent. You know when you’re about to start a sentence with something like “Well, you should just…..” or “You need to…..” or “Just (fill in solution here)….”, the smartest thing you can do is shut your yap. But do we ever do it? Nope. We just go on scratching our balls and shooting off our mouths with all kinds of shoulds, justs and why don’t yous………

Lord, I just wandered like James said I do.

So all of this, the alleged pledge by the high schooler and the irritating proselytizing by relatives and friends on Facebook, have resulted in my thinking that we need a separation of church and Facebook, too.

Or rather, perhaps some common courtesy is in order. Say what you want in your status, but don’t be bothered if your friends hide your ass and never respond to you. And follow this basic rule (scratches balls again, because look who’s full of unsolicited advice again), if you don’t know someone’s beliefs, affiliations, etc, lay off sending around anything controversial, political, etc. Seriously, they are as bad as chain emails. And I know that some angel of mercy is now going to pass me by or some horrible tragedy is going to befall me because I’m going against the very idea of chainmail hoodoo, but for the love of Cliff (a variation on my much favored oh for Cliff’s sake), why go alienating people? Isn’t’ life hard enough?

Now, as for that pledge, because I need to wrap this up so I can get back to napping at my desk, let us be clear. I’ve Snoped the thing for veracity and naturally, it’s an urban legend at this point. No matter. The pledge is nonsense. God is allowed in school. It’s not like he’s a sex offender or anything. (insert offensive joke about priests here)

Students can pray all they want and do, I’m sure. On any given day across the South, at least, students are participating in Christian Athletes events, having prayer circle, etc. There are at least two In God We Trust wall hangings in Garbo’s elementary school. God is still mentioned in the Pledge of Allegiance and there’s a moment of silence each morning so that kids who are so inclined could certainly say a silent prayer that today is fish stick day instead of beef stew day in the cafeteria.

And, trust me, it ain’t easy to be on a sports team down here without being inundated with the Christian religion. Prayers over the team, prayer at practice, at team dinners before a game. It’s all fairly common. Most people go along to get along, but if push comes to shove, a case could be made that in order to belong to the team, one feels compelled to participate in group religious activities. You know that forced is another word for compelled, right?

And let me tell you this – where Christianity is very much tied to the culture, the folks here aren’t making any attempt to be open to other religious beliefs. God isn’t enough. Nope. It’s in Jesus’s name they pray here and anyone who has a problem with that can get stuffed or go back to where they came from.

According to our laws, however, what is not allowed is the establishment of a religion as The Religion. Forced prayer is not allowed. The teaching of one religion’s tenets as a way for life is not acceptable. That does not mean that there isn’t plenty of god in school. And cruise down the halls of any middle or high school and you’ll probably hear god being invoked in all kinds of colorful ways, too. Even by those kids who go to church and pray over their guns every Sunday.

For more information on what exactly the Separation of Church and State means and doesn’t mean, visit Americans United for the Separation of Church and State. The more we educate ourselves, the better we sound when we do go shooting our mouths off, yo.

* Lie. Well, maybe some. The Actor/Ninja says IDK alot.

Adventures in Real Parenting: The Fine Art of Pussy Procurement

Friday evening while I was out doing crazy, irresponsible things like meeting up with blogger buddies, my cellphone rang and rang. I checked the display to see if it was anyone I wanted to talk to – you know, Sarah Palin finally calling to apologize for being such a Divisive Delores or the lottery commission calling to notify me of some big winning, but no, it was just Garbo calling to ask me to say yes to something her daddy had already said “no” to. This is how the game is played, speaking of divisive.

I chose not to answer the phone.

Eventually, MathMan called for some thing or other and I mentioned the repeated, ignored calls. “She’s just calling to beg you to keep a kitten she found,” came his response.

Uh huh.

People of the internets, it seems that there is a level of cat ownership at which one must stay. Five seems to be our predestined level. We had five before: Tiger, Daisy, Morris, Ivy and Pyewacket. When we moved, Pyewacket, the neighborhood jack about town, stayed behind with the other families who fed him and called him their own. Now we were at four.

Except Friday afternoon, two kittens climbed from the ditch separating us from our neighbors and ran straight for the gang of Covered Bridge Springs Tarts who were horsing around in the yard. Much squealing ensued, I’m sure.

Garbo grabbed one kitten for her own, the neighbor twins grabbed the other. Mama Cat was nowhere to be seen. (She still hasn’t reappeared.) MathMan began in earnest to say the word ‘NO’ over and over again. That’s when my cellphone began ringing.

Later that evening, when I arrived home, I was implored to please at least lay eyes on the sweet little baby. I should have known better. I wasn’t twenty seconds in to my love fest before I declared that we would have to keep her. People, pussy makes me stupid, that’s all there is to it.

Later that evening, as I sweet-talked MathMan about how were now going to have to keep the kitten, I thought I heard another cat. When I couldn’t spot one, I gave up looking. The next morning, though, I heard it again. Thinking it might be Mama Cat crying out for her babies, I walked down to the ditch and called “Kitty, kitty, kitty…..”

A little gray kitten, nearly identical to the one we had ran from the bushes and skidded to a halt on the edge of the ditch. As I was instructing it to be careful and stay put until I could come around and get her? him?, the kitten reared back on its haunches and made the great leap over the deep ditch. It was like watching Evel Kneivel jump that motorbike over the canyon.

And then there were six.

Turns out the neighbor twins were told to put that cat back where it came from. They have a smart mama, you see. Thankfully, MathMan found a home for number six, putting us comfortably back at our five cat level. Again. Thanks be to the fellow school teacher who took that kitten. I’d hate to mess with the number gods on this one.

And so that is my story of pussy procurement. Not as much fun as cruising the redlight district in any given city, but with a lot less chance for STDs, too. You’ve gotta find the good in things, right?

Here’s another home movie for you….

http://www.youtube.com/v/wv3V0bGTT9s&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1

Because I have nothing better to do than make goofy movies, that’s why.

Monday Morning Music

I could have used this last week when I was all growly and impossible….still, it kicks off the week pretty dang well…..

http://www.youtube.com/v/Q-5d5IfdYK4&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1

Nah, I think he’s right.

H/T Busted Knuckles for this. I know it’s country, but dude, it ROCKS.

Where I Begin What I Hope Is a Nice Collection of Steven Emery Originals

About a year ago, I began reading Steve Emery’s blog of art, music and life and became an instant fan of his paintings. Now, for those of you still not aware of Steve and his equally brilliant wife Moomin Light, all I can say is that you are missing some very cool, very interesting blogs. When I read either of them, I am instantly whisked away to somewhere magical.

So when earlier this spring, Steve did a giveaway of some of his original paintings in the form of CD covers, I was incredibly honored to be chosen to receive first dibs on a painting. And this is what I chose.

I love the colors and haunting quality of this painting. In person, it is even more striking, so if any of you are so inclined, come on over and see it. You think I’m kidding? Think again.

Thank you, Steve, for giving me this gift of beauty. I will treasure it always.

*****************************************************

On a side note, I’m launching a new career, going in to business for myself as a………well, you’ll have to wait a couple more days for that detail, but as I’ve been going through the training materials to prepare myself, I’ve noticed that one recommendation to help you build your success is to have a Dream Board where you post photos representing what you want from your hard work. I puzzled over this at first because what I really want – freedom to have time to write – seemed intangible, something hard to visualize (there’s that word again). I know what I want, but most of what I want isn’t in the physical or material realm, it’s more abstract.

But.

Tonight, as I was preparing this post, I realized that there is one very tangible thing I know I want. Ever since I first laid eyes on a particular painting Steve showed us on his blog (in progress, I might add), I knew I wanted it. And so there is one thing I can point to and say “That will be my reward.” When I have made my first profit, I will pay myself, do the business investment that’s needed and then take the proceeds and build them until I can purchase Glee 1 (if it hasn’t already been sold, in which case I will find another Steve Emery painting that I must have and okay, I admit it, I have some ideas already).

So maybe I can’t visualize freedom from my 9 to 5 because it’s just too painful to picture myself dancing around singing “Take This Job and Shove It,” but I can certainly visualize exactly how I would feel by giving myself the gift of Glee.

She Really Isn’t Faint Hearted

When I first started blogging several years ago, I did so for two reasons. First, I needed to write. The other reason to blog was a political life line. Where we live, liberals are in short supply and I needed to express myself politically.

I was surprised, then, when I pretty much lost my mojo for political writing. I still have plenty of opinions, most of which are ranted and raved as I stand half-naked in the bathroom each morning. My ravings and finger-pointing opinions are usually my flurried response to something I’ve heard on NPR. MathMan is my audience and I know that he’s only half listening because he is very easily distracted by things like half-naked women. That’s okay. I’ve learned to accept my limitations as a pundit and to play to my strengths.

And so, my blog has evolved to what you see today. I’ve been thinking about not blogging any more because something is going to have to give. Instead of stopping altogether, I’m going to stick with this scaled back version, posting two to three times a week and doing my best to offer quality over quantity.

One of the reasons why I can’t give up blogging completely is because the most welcome aspect of blogging is the friendship I’ve found among you. I’ve had the pleasure over the years to meet several of my fellow bloggers. Last night, I added another notch to my metaphorical bedpost by hanging out with B., otherwise known here in comments as Notfainthearted. She’s here for an educational function and we got together last night for dinner and drinks and lots of words.

Last year, when MathMan and I were going through our really rough times, B. offered many words of support and wisdom based on her experience. I was touched then by her unflagging and upbeat attitude, even under her own frustrating circumstances. I always felt like she really understood what was going on here, even though we’d never met in person.

Last night confirmed that.

I walk away from such a meeting and I’m floored that what started out as my way of yelling into the darkness about politics has given me the chance to know so many interesting, intelligent and multi-talented people.

And you know, I can’t help but think that last night, I made a friend for life.

P.S. Now that I’ve told you I’m sticking with less posts, I’ll be posting a small avalanche of things. I’ve got post build up and I need to thank a couple of people for their kindnesses. I know, it’s the blogger’s curse – announce you’re slowing down and boom! you’re all bloggity-blog-blog.

P.S.S. I keep hearing this song and so I’m punishing you with it, too.

http://www.youtube.com/v/e2cXYii0nfU&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1

Because I love you that much, that’s why.

The Martyr Speaks. Again.

Can I just tell you that I would hate to be married to me today? Seriously, I’m a pill. And MathMan just hangs in there and hangs in there. He is the Timex watch of husbands.

I am miserable and for no damn good reason except things just aren’t as hunky dory as I think they should be. Nope. I’m stewing and fretting and getting all afroth about life and when I’m like this, the best thing would be to just leave me the hell alone. But MathMan doesn’t do that because he’s afraid I’ll carry a hose out to the garage, attach it to the tailpipe of the car and sit with the door shut revving that poor Corolla’s engine one last time before becoming part of the great Gothic tale of life gone wrong in Euharlee, Georgia.

Silly guy, that’s too much work. Experience demonstrates that I’d mess it up somehow. I’d have the wrong size hose or try to do the deed too soon after driving the car and burn my fingers on the still-hot tailpipe. Or I’d waste a bunch of time looking up exactly how to do it on the internet, then realize I have to pee, then find that funny Edward Gorey book next to the toilet and lose my taste for quick death, then hear the dryer buzzer and go down to fold laundry, get distracted by something on the television, sit on the sofa and fall asleep and then forget what I was up to until MathMan wakes me with a funny look on his face while he holds my neatly penned suicide note out in front of him like a talisman.

I’d surely break a fingernail or the car battery would turn out to be dead and I have to call J’s daddy for a jump start. Imagine that conversation. “Mr. M, can you come over and jump my car again? The battery is dead and I need to hurry up and make it run so I can kill myself before my husband gets home…..”

It’s a given that something would foul things up and just like that time I went all drama queen and sped away in my car, stopping at a Jiffy Treat to drown my sorrows in an extra-thick chocolate milkshake, and then discovered that I was stuck because the stupid, ugly Ford Fairmont wouldn’t start and the only person I could think of to call was the same person I was so angry at, but I called MathMan anyway to come rescue me and then, and only then did that damn car start……well, you get the picture. When I go for the drama mask, I usually end up with that somewhat sinister looking laughing mask instead. Were I try to kill myself via the running car in the closed garage trick, it would end with me calling MathMan on his cell so I could swear at him in blame because something went horribly wrong on the way to my suicide.

Besides, I don’t want to hurt anyone else and suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning could cause trouble for those still living in the upstairs of the house. MathMan should know me better. I’m a no muss, no fuss kind of chick. Pills. In the bathtub with my clothes on because I’m not too keen on my own nudidity at the moment. And the tub wouldn’t be filled with water or anything, but at least if I hurl or something, the mess will be much easier to clean. I suppose I could just stand in the shower, too, but what if I bump my head as I take my final slither down, leaving a nasty bruise on my noggin? Now wouldn’t that be a pain in the ass for some funeral home makeup artist to have to cover up while adhering to the strict instructions I’d leave in a nicely typed in triplicate note to ensure that if there is some goony open casket thing, my make up better look as natural as it does when I apply it. (see enclosed picture)

Not that I’ve given it any thought. Funny thing is, as long as I can talk about it and laugh about it, it’s not going to happen. It’s when I’m quiet that I’m a danger to myself and others.

So what the hell is up my ass, I keep wondering. MathMan is certain that my depression is chemical. Just this morning, he correctly pointed out that if I had a headache, I’d take an Advil. True enough. But this stupid depression just hangs on and on and no matter how much talking I could do with a therapist, the fundamental issues that plague me don’t go away. That’s just the reality. I will still have to help support this family and be a mother and a wife and do all the grown up stuff that wears you down to a nub.

So pardon me if I’d like to step off once in a while. Take a break. Go a’travelin’ for a spell. Who doesn’t want that from time to time?

Recently I read a novel that just fueled my feeling of ennui mixed with the acid of worry and regret. In her story The Ten Year Nap, Meg Wolizter writes about some stereotypical Manhattanites who have chosen not to work so they can stay home with their children. Please note that I’m so over the whole work-mommy versus stay-at-home-mommy thing I could scream, but what really made me fidget while reading this book was the idea that I was reading about the angst of women who actually possessed the freedom to stay home with their children. Listen, I realize that I’m not artsy-craftsy lovey-dovey mama material, but when no one is looking, I cover my kids up in gooey mom-love. Were someone to have offered me the chance to stay home with them when they were little, I would have been all “Hell yeah, I’m staying home with them” and I would have never looked back with regret. I suppose that might be the difference between having a “promising career” as described in the novel and my job which is white collar enough (pink collar ghetto more like it), but not something for which my passion burns. It pays the bills, end of story.

Tough as it was to swallow, I slogged my way through the book. MathMan asked me a few times why I didn’t just toss it aside? “Why are you still dating that book?” he asked, giving me the stink eye, “You dumped boyfriends with greater alacrity than you’ve been able to decide whether to stick with this book or not.”

If I acknowledged him at all, it was mostly with a rude gesture and then I’d make some meager statement about time invested, blah, blah, blah. The fact is, I promised myself I’d finish reading the book because I wanted to see how it ended and when I sneaked to see if I could just wrap it up in the last couple of pages, was thwarted by the way Wolitzer dragged out the conclusion. I swear, it was like removing a jagged splinter from a wailing child’s foot. At some point, I just hung on to the book and yanked the words from it. I finished it sitting in the library, forcing myself so that I could return it on time and having met my goal. So I sat and chewed the inside of my cheek and flicked the edges of the book’s pages and read and stewed some more until I could walk across the library and drop the finished, if not enjoyed, book into the return slot with a satisfying plunk.

Have I mentioned I’m all about goals now? I hope not because I don’t want you to hold me to that. Yet.

Anyway, completing the book gave me no satisfaction because what it really did was add to my desire to navel gaze and wonder and wish and regret about all the stupid choices I’ve made over my lifetime. Regret is particularly poisonous when I’m in this mood.

Then, Friday night, we had a hypnotist at the dinner event that I was responsible for planning. He was very good. I had my reservations about booking him, but I was impressed by his message and I’m convinced that some of the subjects he chose from the audience were, in fact, hypnotized. Not to mention the fact that it’s pretty dang funny to see your boss “go under” and then claim later that he “never actually was hypnotized.” Yeah, right. And, natch, he wants me to destroy the video that I took. Ha, I say. Ha ha ha. And no way.

The hypnotist talked about how successful people visualize what they want and remain focused as they pursue their dream. I sat, sipping my wine and savoring the Chateaubriand (I know, life isn’t that rough, I know) and thought about that. I considered a conversation I’d had with our guest speaker, another motivational guy, the evening before. He asked me why I hadn’t done something to make this blog a money-making venture or done more in an entrepreneurial effort to free myself from the shackles of workaday blues. (He must have been able to read the boredom and weariness on my face.)

“Why hold yourself back? You have to make your own way, no one is going to rescue you from an unhappy life……” he stated pointedly. I could have smacked him for being so spot on.

I looked around the large room at the members of the association I work for. They are all there because someone in their family decided at some point that they were going to run their own business rather than sit around and hope that some employer was going to reward them for hard work and brains. We all know that hard work and brains aren’t rewarded as much as we’re told they are, right?

And so here I am, alternating between droning silence and bursts of venom as I drive along I75 this morning, MathMan riding shotgun. He shifted in his seat. The whole car moved under him, his motions were that deliberate and meant, I believe, to get my attention.

“What are we going to do about the depression?” he finally asked using his firm, I’ve had it, Lisa, voice.

I smirked and held back from asking him which depression did he mean? Big D Depression or the little, more insidious one? I mean, I know I’m amazing and all, but I do believe that solving the big D Depression is President Obama’s job and too many cooks, etc…..

See? I don’t want to be serious. I don’t want to go and sit and talk and tell some non-judgmental therapist about all the muck inside my head because then I might cry and blow snot bubbles and still walk out feeling utterly ridiculous for being bunged up because I have to work too many jobs and I’m tired and I want a vacation, a looooooooong vacation, and mostly I want my past back so I can fix things.

I brought the budding conversation to a screeching halt by biting MathMan’s head off when he said that I needed to “find the time” to write my damn book. The book has now graduated to being “that damn book.” I think of it in much the same way. So instead of talking about how I’m about to embark on a new thing that might eventually free me from having a long commute and a job that thrills me not at all, I chose to zero on what really irritated me about that statement – the idea that the reason why I don’t have time is because I don’t make time. Or rather – I don’t have time because I waste time.

I believe that among the huffs and forced hoots, and the “oh no you didn’t just go there” hair toss/eye roll, I spat out a few stinging words including magic wand and doing the impossible. So long constructive conversation between adults, hello growly silence, punctuated by heavy sighs and angry staring out the window.

But MathMan is right. I have to make the time. Right this second, we cannot afford for me to chuck my association management “career,” but I can tell you this – I am going to make this new venture work so that I can be free to write and make my own way. I am sick to death of having over half of my waking hours dictated to me so that when I get home, I am so tired and distracted by all the unfinished projects that I don’t feel like focusing on what matters.