Ivory, Not Pearl

Why is it exactly that blogging inspiration hits me when I’m in the laundry room, devoid of paper and pen?

The world may never know, but I can assure you if I had the presence of mind to put pen and paper in the laundry room, I’d never get another flash of an idea whilst moving the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer.

You know I’m writing a novel, right? Well, I’m still threatening to write about writing, but for now I want to tell you that my children will use any and every opportunity to commit some act of soul-sucking sibling rivalry. I bring this misery onto my own head, of course. It’s all my fault. You see, when they ask if I love them more than the others, I’ve simply taken the easy route. “Yes, but don’t tell the others,” I’d coo at them.

Bad idea.

So last night Nathan and Sophia wanted me to read them the parts of the story that contain characters based on them. So I did. And do you know that turned into a fight about who was depicted in a better light? I kid you not. To cut through the ensuing bickering, I sent Sophia out of the room to finish her homework. Nate stayed behind, alternately rolling around on the floor like a puppy and running on the elliptical that sits, disapprovingly, next to my desk. We talked some about the story and I asked him for some of his expertise on a particular issue. He was glad to oblige.

Sophia, who had apparently been skulking about in the hallway instead of doing the homework she’d been assigned, took great umbrage at the fact that Nate was helping me with some details and brainstorming ideas for a particular scene in the story. She pouted into the room and was sent out again with an admonishment for what included, but was not limited to, eavesdropping, not doing her homework, pettiness, poutiness and being an all around bad sport about things.

For my part, I thanked Nate and busied myself by going back to work on the story. At this point, MathMan got involved, trying like hell to give Sophia some solace in the knowledge that her inclusion in the story mattered just as much as Nate’s. He learned, however, that was not what was eating her. She’d become incensed that I’d asked Nate specific questions about General George S. Patton. Quick thinker that he is, MathMan instructed Sophia to show just how much she knew about Patton by producing a three paragraph essay. She came back to him in under thirty minutes and presented him with a titled, by-lined and perfectly typed three paragraph biography on Gen. Patton. I believe it employed the correct Strunk and White style.

The intense competition amongst our children continues. Even Chloe gets in on the act by leaving snarky comments about her siblings on Facebook. I can see it now, they’ll all three be together, taking care of the arduous duty of scattering my ashes and there will be some conflab about who gets to carry the urn. Next thing you know, I’ll be scatterd all over the parking lot of some Taco Bell where they’ve stopped before carrying out their solemn task. MathMan and his young wife will find their vacation on Aruba interrupted by a panicked call from Sophia while they can hear Nathan and Chloe nearly coming to blows in the background. MathMan’s beautiful, interesting and unmarred by motherhood young wife will take the phone from his hand, tell the three adult hellions to solve the issue themselves and then, purring something sweet into MathMan’s ear, will toss his cellphone into the ocean and hand him his fancy glass of some tropical, rummy drink.

Where the hell was I before I died? Oh yes. Taunting you with the threat of writing about writing.

One of the most delightful sensations I’ve had lately, was the magic I felt when I finally and for the first time printed off what I have thus far written as my novel. 13,000 words. (and growing!) I printed it yesterday so I could take it with me to edit as I waited for MathMan who was in a meeting. Holding that forty-six pages of black letters on white paper that told a story of my own making was magic. All the sudden, it became real. No longer was it something I was going to do – it was something that I’m doing, I’ve done and I continue to do. I held that stack of papers in my hands and just looked at them for a few seconds to savor that feeling. The last time I held my own writing in my hands like that was in 1981 when I used to write horror stories in spiral bound notebooks. Since then, most of my writing has been on the computer and has never materialized from screen to paper.

Right now I’m writing about another kind of magic – the time that I lived and went to school in France is still one of my fondest memories. I loved being there and didn’t want to leave. Nevertheless, the decision to come home to the U.S. and finish my degree created twists and turns in my life that I would have never imagined back in 1987.

One of the ways that I get in the proper frame of mind to write about a specific event or place or time is to listen to the music that was part of my life then. Here’s a brief sampling of the songs of that time. I am not declaring them good, just, um…..representative of that time.

http://www.youtube.com/v/2mlpxOaQinE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1

Man, remember how you used to love when I sang this song with hand gestures and everything, MathMan? I know, so much fun! How could you forget?

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

Why I Don’t Like to Write Sales Copy – UPDATED

I suck at it. I’d rather let the pictures speak for themselves…..

Thank you, Linda, for these. They are gorgeous.

Ankle bracelets! My favorite!

People of the internets – the holidays will be here before you’ve had time to finish picking last year’s tree needles from your baseboards, so why don’t you consider ordering some gifts, hmmmm?

Here are some more gift ideas: Susan of Phantsythat and Adventures Ink has opened her etsy shop. Handpainted silk bags are vastly nicer than a Target gift card, I say.

Lucinda at Lavender Moon Jewelry and Lucinda’s Charms has some beautiful gift ideas.

Kimonomomo has an array of gorgeous items, too.

Oh, and have you seen Red Hot Pottery? I love Christine’s work!

And of course, there is always the gift of relaxation you can give your friends, family and yourself.

Okay – a little catching up….

Yes, Mother, I’m still working!
I don’t hate the new office. It’s pretty and new and clean and most everything works! It’s pimped out pretty nicely and reflects a rich, new-money sensibility that isn’t my style, but I don’t mind it either.

The commute sucks, but I’m trying to make the best of it. Placing prank phone calls, taking photos of strangers, trying to name the flora and fauna, having long, meaningful discussions with MathMan. Now, if we can stay out of the Dairy Queen drive-thru……

I locked myself out of the office on Friday. That was fun. There are lessons to be learned, but I do know this – I can kill an hour and a half pretty easily and without much blood.

One down, two to go…
Chloe, formerly The Dancer, is now firmly ensconced at her new school. We had a couple of shaky moments where she was calling home a bit too much, but she seems to have recovered from her homesickness by finding a new home.

Shrinking violet that she is, she’s now the Freshman Class President and joined a sorority. Thankfully, she didn’t pay much attention to those derisive things I might have said about greek life at the schools I attended. She paid much more attention to the stories about how I never reached my much-rumored potential. Nothing like having stark, bare-boned mediocrity lorded over you as a child to make you want to run screaming into every activity and leadership role you can find. Thank goodness. If someone can’t learn from my hard-headed mistakes, what’s the point?

Ark for Sale!
Thank you for the concern. We’ve not been flooded, but MathMan’s school is closed, many families and staff at his school have suffered material losses. It’s so sad. I can’t get to my office because of road closures and the one route that I can use is horrendous on a good day, so I’m working from home.

We tried to look contrite and appropriately sympathetic when we sent Nate and Sophia off to school this morning, but I think the party hats and martini glasses were a dead giveaway. “Work from home, indeed,” I heard Sophia grumble as she slouched down the front steps to wait for the school bus. As he left the house a half hour later, I believe Nate caught MathMan and me high-fiving each other. Oh well. Someday, they’ll be adults with all this “freedom.”

In the meantime, I’ll continue to keep my rebel teenage-psyche duct-taped into her safe place. However, she wants you to know that she loves this song is rilly glad it’s out on video finally.

http://www.youtube.com/v/TAP5Sr3R638&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1

P.S. I almost wrote a post about writing, but thought that might make you want to put your head in an oven, too, and I like you too much for that.

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

Only the Lonely….

About the comment moderation I’ve switched on….sorry about that. I hate to inconvenience you guys, but a very brave and highly-principled anonymous someone who doesn’t like me at all visits a lot and makes the most hilarious comments that you can’t see because I am a coward who only blogs under her real name and without the aid of a proxy server, but whatever. I guess it depends on what the meaning of (is a) coward is.

The whole visiting blogs you hate to make nasty comments thing is something I’ll never understand….

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And the Rocket’s Red Glare……

(Note: This post contains real life and imagined sexually explicit information about middle-aged married people getting it on. If you are squeamish or inclined to think ewwwww!, then I suggest you move along. Oh, and if you happen to be a child of mine, please not that this is pure fantasy. Daddy and I only did it three times. We don’t remember it and I would definitely not blog about it. There now. Mama loves you. Shall I call the therapist and make an appointment?)

He told her how he loved to watch her after she showered. He watched her rub the lotion into her skin. The motion was so sensual, the scent of cocoa butter in the air, he watched from the shower as she spread the lotion on her arms, across her breasts, over her rounded belly. It didn’t matter how long he’d known her or how many times he’d seen her naked, he still got a thrill when she stretched her leg, with an utter lack of self-consciousness, up onto the vanity to rub the lotion into her calves. He could just glimpse the pink recess that still made him stiff.

That morning they were sharing that space as usual, but there was a distinct electricity between them. Their affair of so many years, a love life of stolen moments, snatched from the clutching grasp of the mundane – bills, jobs, children, pets, house. They had to find those moments when the obligations of daily life could be swept aside, leaving space in the mind for desire.

On that particular morning, luck was with them. Two of their three children were out of the house. The third was occupied in the Saturday morning ritual of cartoons and sugary cereal. Over the sounds of some science report on NPR, they bantered with each other until she shocked him by turning to him and kissing him hard. Before he could recover from it, she was on her knees in front of him.

Because she wasn’t such a nubile young thing anymore and the tile bathroom floor was cold and hard, it didn’t take long before she suggested that they move to the bed. Once there, they went through the motions of a couple who know well how to please one another. Although new sex is exciting in a breathtaking, heartracing sort of way, sex with someone you’ve been with for years can have the amazing ability of reminding you of the passion you once felt for your beloved.

Mmmmm. Ooooh. Yeahhhhh. Right there. Mmmmm. Like that.

And then – of course – there was a gentle rapping on the door. It was punctuated by a cat who only partially believed that one needed a thumb to turn a doorknob. He was anxiously rattling the knob while the child knocked. Such sweet teamwork. They weren’t going to stop until they were acknowledged.

“Yes, we’ll be out in a minute!” she called.

“But what are you doing?” came the little voice.

In unison: “We’re getting ready to go!”

And then he added, “Now get away from the door and take the cat with you.”

They could hear her harrumphing back down the stairs. She was ten, after all, and could figure out that they were up to no good in there and that it included nudity and private parts. Disgusting. The cat offered two more forlorn rattles of the knob and then gave up, as well.

Now this couple knows each other very well. Momentum had been lost. Could it be regained? During the break in the action, a part of her mind had noted that the bathroom radio was still playing NPR and a promo had just announced that Car Talk would be coming up next. Car Talk? No. That would not do. She could not see herself climaxing to Click and Clack, the Tappit Brothers. Not these days anyway.

“While you’re up,” she smiled at her husband as he came back from checking to make sure the bedroom door was locked, “could you turn on the t.v. and turn off the radio?”

He was happy to accommodate her. She watched him move around the room and smiled at how handsome he still was. He touched the power button on the television and Mussorgsky’s Pictures at An Exhibition flooded the room. They’d fallen asleep to the satellite television music channel that played pops music and short orchestral pieces. He had a wicked habit of looking as though he were asleep and then announcing within just a few notes of a piece, the composer’s name and the title of the piece. A son of a music director, he was raised with classical music in his house. She, on the other hand, had a mother who listened to the local AM station’s Swap Shop in the evening and the obituaries in the morning. With considerable effort, she might be able to tell Dolly Parton from Loretta Lynn, but she didn’t know Rimsky from Korsakov.

He moved back to the bed and hovered over here where she lay waiting. They kissed tenderly at first then letting it build into something deeper, harder, more urgent. These moments seemed so few and far between lately. After a long day of herding cats or wrangling teens, neither of them were terribly interested in sex. Okay – that’s a lie. He was. She was. But it just seemed like too much work. It required too much intimacy, too much concentration. The brain – free of the stresses of the day – was an important component to good sex.

He slid down her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. She gasped quietly (little ears) as he reminded her of where they were before being so rudely interrupted by the child with the “OMG, my parents might be having sex!” radar.

She closed her eyes and let her mind focus on the delicious sensation. The room was quiet. She moved in time with him. Mmmmm. Yeahhhhh. Right there. She could feel herself being pulled toward the edge. Close now.

Her eyes snapped open. She lay there, trying not to listen, instead trying to refocus on what he was doing, on that feeling of build up that was just there – the beautiful explosion of light and color behind her closed eyes, the rush of the endorphins. It had just been in sight. She could feel herself moving toward toward it when…….when, the song changed and the beautiful, mournful Pictures at an Exhibition gave way to the patriotic strains of God Bless America.

She tried not to laugh. She tried again to refocus. She shifted slightly and he changed his pace. Mmmm. That was nice. Oh yes. There. She tried to tune out the rousing stanzas and banish the images of baseball stadiums, waving flags and 9/11 that went skittering across her mind’s eye.

She was just getting her groove back when the room went quiet again. Ah, yes, now perhaps something more lovely, more sensuous or even something less bombastic would come on next. She had no more thought these thoughts and imagined finally getting there when, wouldn’t you know it, the one song that she could actually name came floating over her soft moans.

She opened her eye to confirm her musical acumen. Indeed, she was correct. It was Dvorak’s Humoresque. Also one of the tunes mangled on the violin by Jack Benny, a comedian who had given them many a shared laugh over the years. They loved his old radio and television shows.

Obviously, this orgasm was going to be more difficult than most. She briefly considered announcing her knowledge of the piece, but she knew that once they started laughing, that would kill the mood and the sound of laughter was almost as big a draw to the child as were the hushed rustlings behind the door. If she heard, she’d be back at the door demanding more explanations. Kids hate it when you laugh without them. They hate it more when you laugh without them and you refuse to explain what you’re laughing about.

She closed her eyes once more and tried not to think of the phrase “Just close your eyes and think of England.” Because that really wasn’t the case. She wasn’t enduring – she was enjoying. England need not get involved.

She stopped herself from giggling and figured that the third time was the charm. Focus, focus……

This Ain’t No Disco. This Ain’t No Debate.

Some things do not require debate.
To provide the opposite of the truth is to state a lie.
A lie does not deserve the same respect as the truth.
Here are some things I will not debate:
The grass is typically green.
The sky is typically blue.
Our health care system in this nation is a mess.
Americans need health care reform now.

A long time ago, in a land, far, far away…..okay, it was Chicagoland, but when you live in the middle of nowhere Georgia, Chicagoland does seem far, far away, I worked for a little membership organization called the American Association of Retired Persons. You might know them as AARP, but please don’t call the arp.

Now, I had the good fortune to have worked there in the salad days of deeeee-centralization, staffing the federal legislative department, serving as field secretary for the Regional Representative. A jolly fellow who often slept away his afternoons, snoring so loudly that I had to close his office door to cover his large ass. I liked him and wanted him to keep his job.

Anyway, back then in some insignificant year of, oh say 1993, when this nation was previously considering, and alternatively scoffing at, health care reform, AARP became embroiled in the discussion when there appeared to be some sort of endorsement of what was then called “The Clinton Health Plan.” And, no, that plan did not include therapeutic blow jobs, no matter what Newt Gingrich tries to say now, as he performs his usual historical revisionism. What a douchebag Newt is.

But I digress.

Anyway – the phones at the Midwest Regional Office of AARP lit up with irate members who felt that the plan sucked ass (some even used that phrase, I’m sure of it) or who were seriously ticked off that AARP, a non-partisan organization, would endorse what they believed to be a partisan plan. (For those not in the know – a partisan plan means the other side of the political spectrum. When it’s your own side – it’s a good plan.)

I was lucky enough to field some of the calls. Lucky can be such a subjective term, you know?

One call went something like this. Watch for the irony, okay?

The caller, an angry female in her 80s: “Blah, blah, blah!!!! AND I don’t think the gubmint should be involved in health care!” (she was from Southern Ohio or Indiana and actually used the word gubmint.)

A Much-Younger, More Insolent Me: So then you want to stop receiving Medicare?
The caller, really displeased with that question: Uh. NO. It’s not the same thing!

Me: Um, yeah, it is. Medicare is a government-administered health insurance program.

My colleague, the one who used to narrate her whole fucking day, turned and gaped at me. Then she actually laughed out loud, started holding her sides, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes and finished by falling out of her chair and onto the floor where she rolled around laughing until her ass fell off.

The point is – well, people are really stupid when it comes to this issue and I’m fucking tired of it. Yep. Fucking tired of it. Like when my kids ask me fifty different ways if they can set fire to something or order things online. Neither side is going to be happy until they win.

Last night, I posted on my Facebook about this because I am soooo tired of this “conversation.” It’s ridiculous. Health care is a human rights issue. I asked the question: If you weren’t in a position of having insurance right now – would you oppose reform? Because I honestly do believe that it’s easy to oppose change when you are comfortable. One of my commenters there linked to this article that demonstrates, that even when you are insured, you are not guaranteed coverage. The insurance companies hold all the cards.

Well, here’s the thing I say to those opposed:

We’ve heard your side and we’ve tried it your way. For years. The insurance companies get rich. People die waiting for health care. Or go broke. And bankrupt. Mine and Mathman’s first money troubles started as a result of a huge dental bill. I myself, can’t do anything that requires quick movements like running, throwing or jumping because when I do, I pee myself because carrying and birthing three babies wrecked me. Even with our insurance, I cannot afford the co-pay for the surgery to get my pee place fixed. Not life threatening, but damned inconvenient and annoying. I mean, what if I needed to run for my life? It’s bad enough that I run like a girl, but a girl with wet drawers? Come on now! You’ve heard me refer to the sneeze and squeeze, yes?

TMI? Well, this is a health care post. You’ll live.

There is no more need to debate this issue another second because the opposed will not be convinced. So let’s do this – let’s try something new and radical like universal, single-payer health care. If in three years, people hate it, then they can go back to the mess we have now.

My guess is that we’ll be happy enough with the new and radical, but we’re going to have to drag some Americans’ asses along. That’s how it always is, you know. I mean, just ask MathMan. Back in 1987, when he tried to get me to use his brand, spanking-new hotrod of a Tandy 1000 personal computer to write a paper for some college class, I looked him dead in the eye and uttered these words….”No thanks, I’ll stick with the typewriter.”

What in the Hell Is SHE Talking About?

So it comes to pass that this woman, this transplanted woman, initially a Hoosier – a resident of Indiana, then a domestic foreigner trying not to be called out as the fraud small town hick she is, living and working in Chicago and its environs, with stops along the way in the home of Ball Jar and Dijon Mustard, and let us not forget that young adult stint in the coolest town in all of Indiana – and there when Bobby Knight lived and won there, too. Now settled, even if briefly, in the hills of Northwest Georgia, U.S.A.

This woman. Me.

I am done for now. My heart’s not here. It’s somewhere else scribbling madly, writing bits and pieces of stories, dictating to myself and transcribing in the in-between times when I don’t have other things tugging at me. Devouring books of all kinds. Looking at faces and places and things and thinking about how to describe them so that you can see them, too.

There is so much unfinished business. And then there is business. Which demands my attention to be done properly. The Royal Pains think they need food, shelter and stylish clothing. Selfish gits.

There’s the fact that I hate being a bad friend and if I cannot reciprocate and come visit you, then I feel it’s rude for me to expect you to come visit me. There’s so much good stuff out there, you don’t need to be wasting your time popping in here to see if I’ve said something goofy or done something boneheaded.

So here’s the deal – I’m going to post once a week on Wednesdays. The best way to know if I’ve done something embarrassing or have something irrelevant to say is to grab the rss feed. Then your reader will tell you when I’ve posted. If you don’t use rss feeds, but want to start, this article explains how to use them. (Scroll down when you get there.)

Since I am actually producing something, I will be posting bits of the work here (maybe?) or telling you about how the process is going (maybe?) or I’ll just be blowing off steam. Or pushing skin care products that YOU MUST HAVE. You guys know me. Anything is possible. Except outright sanity.

Until then, thank you. Thank you for being here with me when I laughed, cried, ranted and raved. When I swung from plucky political pundit to purveyor of plucked chicken porn. When I took gratuitous pictures of the now gone garden. Thank you for not shaming me when I ran away from home for a day. For not abandoning me when I was broke, losing my house and running out of gas.

Thank you for not calling the Department of Children and Family Services to report me for founding and promoting The School of Benign Neglect. Thank you for not calling the Humane Society about the way I make the Pussies for Peace ears bleed when I screech at them in the high kitty voice. Thank you for not submitting my name to What Not to Wear. That, in and of itself, is HUGE.

But most importantly, thank you for being my friends. Everyone should be so lucky as to have such a swell posse in their corner. You guys rock.