Let the Orgy Begin

About three hours ago I noted that it’s Wednesday and I’m supposed to write a blogpost. I suppose that having been sick is a good excuse for not writing, but since I set a personal goal of writing one post each Wednesday, I’m really resistant to not following through. I mean, this goal doesn’t have anything to do with food or exercise. I’m perfectly comfortable blowing those goals. Repeatedly. Daily.

So what to write about? Should I tell you how much fun it is to be in a house where four of the five people who live here have thrown up since Saturday night when MathMan started this whole thing? Should I tell you how our trip to Rising Sun had to be canceled and so I won’t be indulging in the food orgy that is my mother’s home-cooked food, my father’s homemade ice cream, Big Boys and Skyline chili? Or how about the fact that my parents, wild gamblers that they are, had actually scored us three nights at a nice casino hotel and I had to call my mom and ask her to cancel the reservations because I was dying? The Big R was not happy. Sympathetic, but not happy. Dammit – this intestinal upset foiled her plans to force Christmas upon us. Right after telling me that I sounded awful and that she was sorry we were sick, she casually mentioned that she’d already put up her Christmas tree for the occasion.

Yes, I was appropriately sorry and chagrined. But I just knew when MathMan awoke in the middle of Saturday night to go toss his cookies, it would likely end up with me sitting on the can for long periods of time while I read the latest Philip Roth. In my mind, his book The Humbling, will be forever associated with stomach cramps.

I am saddened that we won’t be spending the long weekend with family. We were all looking forward to this trip. You should see the hang dog expressions around here. (Note to Darling Sis or Chief of Police – that’s the part you’re allowed to share with the parentals.)

Since our plans have changed, we’ll come up with Plan B. Instead of playing Would You Rather? as we drive north on I75, we’re playing Wanna Hear Something Weird? in our living room. And sometimes the something weird doesn’t involve gassiness or gurgling guts.

When we get done with that game, we’ll start the annual explanations of why we won’t be doing Christmas AND Hanukkah this year. I mean, sure, we’ll give them each kid a gift card to the Dollar Tree and some gum for Christmas and they’ll get eight days of gifts beginning with an orange and culminating with a pair of socks (each, not to share) but we won’t be having the gift-giving orgy they anticipate. Oh ye of the mixed faith heritage and short memory.

Of course, MathMan and I are such evil teases, we’ve got the kids thinking that we’re going to get up at the crack of 4am on Friday to go shopping at WalMart. They half believe this, I think. Desire for material goods can make you so gullible.

The rest of the week will include more classic films, a kosher ham dinner, apple pie instead of pumpkin, perhaps a trip to the cinema so we can each sit in different theaters watching the movie of our choice, card games, a few rounds of Family Rock Band, parents whining about a lack of alcohol, children whining about when will we decorate for the holidays (answer: when I have statements signed in blood that they will take down the decorations and store them properly), lots of reading and naps. Plenty of naps (mostly while watching classic films and reading.)

Okay, so here is where I should take an opportunity to tell you all the things for which I am grateful. Well, I’m skipping it. I’m just going to say “it’s personal” and move on. I mean, really, is your day gonna be made if I tell you that I’m grateful for the fact that right before my internal workings went into reverse and overdrive, I ate two Entemann’s chocolate donuts so now I’m really not craving chocolate? See – I thought not.

And do I really have to tell you that I’m grateful for family, friends, health, freedom, etc. for you to know it? If so, then I have failed because I should be showing it everyday, not just saying it on one day of the year.

So I guess this is the kick-off to the holiday season. Are you ready? You know me, I’m not. But the holidays and all the pleasure and pain they bring is coming and no amount of denial on my part is going to change that. It’s like Thanksgiving is carbo-loading for the next day’s marathon shopping. I mean, who doesn’t get pumped about things like Doorbusters, and Super Slashers? Dang, the holidays just get more and more violent, don’t they?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fool for the holiday specials. I love It’s A Wonderful Life and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I should get my hands on those depressing specials from the 70s. Remember The House Without A Christmas Tree? I could show that to my kids while pointing out that, although we don’t have a Christmas tree (five cats!), at least they have a mother so they should just shut up already.

Seriously, though, I wonder about the pressure people put on themselves during this time of the year. It’s just not healthy. I slack my way through the holidays and find them a bit of a pain I marvel at how some of you do it. The fact that people get through this time of year, not just alive, but smiling and joyful seems like a small miracle to me.

Speaking of holiday miracles, it’s 4:15 p.m. on day five of a family-wide plague and I haven’t used my loud shouty voice yet. Seriously, people, mark this day down on your calendar. In fact, I think it needs a name just like Black Friday.

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

P.S. I am already tired of repeating “Please don’t do that – I don’t want to spend the holidays in the Emergency Room. Help me.

It’s Not Enough That You Love Blow and I Love Puff

I really wanted to just sit down and write last night. This is nothing new, of course, but the evening slipped away. I was much more interested in goofing off, chatting with friends and family and working out. Okay, that last one is a lie. MathMan had to drag me kicking and screaming to the gym, but after I got there, I was fine. Fine. I was fine.

Last night, I was unfocused. I was the puppy chasing bubbles. The kitten going after the elusive moth. The ping pong ball turned loose. On the internets. First, I had to check out all my usual places. Then I opened the story I’ve been working on in Word and stared at it for two and a half minutes. Then I checked Facebook.

I swear, Facebook is like the Dairy Queen parking lot when I was a kid. You circle enough times and you just know you’re going to see the people you want to see.

At one point, I was led astray, in a good way, by That Cracker Queen Lauretta Hannon who wanted me to tell her whom I prefer – Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn or George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Which meant, of course, that I had to go looking at youtube duets so that I could give a measured response. Because I’m all about calm, cool, controlled, well-thought out answers. You’ll have to friend Lauretta to see my answer. Sillies.

Then my good friend David Sirota, yes that David Sirota, wanted me to tell him who I thought was a perfect example of a true narcissist – someone who is actually famous for being a narcissist. Oh, famous. Sure, make it hard. Well, heck fire, David. You mean besides me? I suppose I could give you the names of a couple of old boyfriends, but why should I draw any attention to those narcissists? I’m no enabler! Let them get their own damn press.

Wait – I have to tell you this story about Facebook. It can be used for good and not just evil. Allow me to demonstrate:

I went searching for the woman in the picture above. Her name is or was Bonnie Flowers. I worked with her at AARP. She is one of the wittiest, funniest people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. I regret that I did not stay in touch with her. So I tried Facebook. I found a Bonnie Flowers, looked at her picture and was OMG! There she is!!!!! I sent a friend request, she accepted and then I was all wow! it’s Bonnie!!!! Except it wasn’t that Bonnie Flowers. The resemblance is striking.

But here’s the thing. And I use the phrase bless her heart in the sincere way, not the other, passive-aggressive mean way. Bless her heart, Bonnie Flowers sent me a Facebook message that essentially said “Who are you and how do I know you?” I was struck by her honest approach. Struck in a good way. Perhaps I should have used the term impressed. Anyway, I’d already figured out by her profile that I didn’t have the correct Bonnie Flowers, but I was too embarrassed to say anything.

A few days go by and after reading some of Bonnie’s status updates, I think “I really like this woman.” She’s full of heart. She loves animals. In fact, she’d fit in well with some of my dog-loving blogger friends. I’m looking at you, Suzi Riot. My new friend is interesting and funny and sweet and kind. I like her. Now I know two Bonnie Flowers. I just need to find the one from Chicago now.

Okay – here’s a story about the other Bonnie Flowers. She and I were “hired” to do some morale building at AARP during a time of stress and change. We decided to do a video chronicle of the build out of new offices. It was a time of physical and mental upheaval.

One day, I was running the video and Bonnie was interviewing people. She was definitely the on camera talent. She’s interviewing the woman who was our Big Boss. She asks this woman, who once ran the Department for Senior Citizens Concerns or some other BIG thing for the State of Illinois. Now she was our boss. Bonnie asks, “So, Jan, is it true that you intend to make the motto for the new Midwest Regional Office I want to rock and roll all night and party every day?” and then, thrust the microphone into the Big Boss’s face.

I nearly peed my pants, but I was pretty big pregnant with Nate, so that was my excuse.

After years of working in offices, I now know that every office needs a Bonnie.

See how cool this social networking is? If you’re willing to let people in just a little, you can find that there’s a whole lot of good out there. Good and smart and funny and interesting. We’re inundated with bad news. It’s nice to know that there’s a whole lot more of the good stuff than we’re led to believe.

So now I’ve got a new friend. And we’re on a quest to find the woman who shares her name. I love when life presents you with stuff like this.

Sermon over.

Sometimes, it’s good to take a step back, a breather, a moment to visit with friends who tell you that Sherman marched right through your house. I mean, his army didn’t march through the house – it wasn’t here – but they went tromping and burning right through where this house stands.

Turns out, there is all kinds of Civil War (or the War of Northern Aggression, dependin’) history right here in our little slice of Georgia. I’ve been very slow to learn about it. Maybe because I was a transplant and didn’t want to seem like I was gloating? Or maybe because I’ve been much too busy living inside my own head. Either way, it’s nice to have a minute to find out something new. Thanks to Kim for taking us over to Tilly’s farm to see the old iron bridge and grist mill tonight.

Well, folks, this post is like walking in on a conversation, isn’t it? I apologize. This is what happens when the mind races and the track goes all cattywampus.

I mean, just now, I’m hanging out at Rev Coffee, waiting to go to a luncheon meeting. I’ve got itunes open and my headbuds in, but have I clicked play? Duh. Toooooo decisive. The cinammon bun coffee is good, though.

You know what’s fun? Watching men watch women.

Tune in next week for my version of What in the Heck Is That? Could be meat, could be cake*…..

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

*Man, I miss George Carlin. Can you imagine the fun he’d have with the Teabaggers?

Better Late Than Never OR Still Waiting to Win

…..the lottery.

I know, as a friend recently reminded me, planning to win the MegaMillions is not a strategy for life. Still.

The things I’ve learned, relearned or had to admit about myself this week:

1. I have an addictive personality. I know, stop ROFLYAO. I know. Nothing like opening with the obvious, right? This week’s addictions (because it’s a busy squirrel factory in this here brain, people) include (a) music – Vitamin String Quartet, Imojean Heap, the adolescent stylings of Jason DeRulo, and Gomez.

In a sad attempt to engage with my neglected children Nathan and Sophia (Chloe won’t let me neglect her, the smart girl), I played bits and pieces of songs by the Vitamin String Quartet and made them guess the original artist and song title. It was a hoot. There were prizes given. Everything was fine until Sophia realized that Nathan was ahead by about 3.47 points in the elaborate point system we’d devised. She got upset. Her bottom of the barrel Halloween candy sucker went flying across the room, connected with a cat instead of the intended target (Nate’s head) and there were the expected, subsequent tears.

The cat will get over it. The hair that came off on the sucker will eventually grow back, right?

My other addiction (why do I sound so proud?) is writing. Lately, I’ve gotten in to some serious writing grooves and I am loath to stop when that happens. It really and truly upsets me. Yes, I know that I have to remove my astronaut diaper occasionally and hit the showers, but seriously? I can suffer for my art. Why can’t the people and felines who live and work and commute with me suffer a little with me? When I’ve made the big bucks, they’ll want to be lavished with gifts, right? Let them earn it, I say.

2. I continue to fight my need to be a complete loner. Sure, y’all see this happy go lucky, cheerful chica who never seems to have a care in the world. I am a cyber-cheerleader, spreading a kind, happy word wherever I go online. But the real me is a dark, dark hellion, desiring nothing but the solitude of the grave. Or a cave. On a mountaintop. Imagine dark. Dour. That’s me. Anyway, I’m fighting it – without meds. Chocolate and red wine have amazing pharmaceutical powers. So does singing loudly to Indigo Girls songs when alone in the car.

But seriously, me + deserted island = paradise. Although, I’m sure at some point I would get sick of me, too.

3. I am still trailing in the Mother of the Year awards race. This week, I parented by text and for bonus points, used the phrase “sucks ass.” To the ten year old. Yeah, I know. I should write a book of parenting tips. Y’all think I should be jailed, don’t you?

4. I am resilient and resourceful. Day before yesterday, I mentioned to MathMan that I should back up my story which has grown to 41,500 words. I expressed concern that I was inviting danger by not having a backup copy of it on a jump drive or something. I had visions of dropping my laptop out the car window on I85 and it being run over by the semi truck that’s tailgating me. Bad, bad dreams.

(Don’t dwell too much on the reasons why I would be dangling the laptop out the window in some unseemly reenactment of Michael Jackson and the Baby on the Hotel Balcony incident. Just stay with me here a minute. And stop clucking your tongue. I know we’re supposed to be all warm and fuzzy about The King of Pop now that he’s escaped this mortal coil too soon, but please. It happened. I’m using it.)

So last night, before I followed through on my very correct idea, I had my own incident. You know the kind, right? I’d gotten into one of those writing grooves and voila! I’d added another 3,000 + words to the story. Some of it was very good writing, I felt sure. And some of it was pretty hard to write because it required me to reach deep for some repressed emotions and memories.

Well, it wasn’t a laptop dropped from a moving car into the path of an oncoming semi, but the little spinny thing that Microsoft Word does has the same effect. I tried saving the document, but it just spun and spun and spun. I muttered and went to the bathroom because I had to leave to pick up MathMan from a late meeting at school. When I returned, Word had reopened and the options for auto-saved documents appeared at first to be promising. Feeling hopeful, I clicked on the most recent one. It came up with nothing. I clicked the second, which was auto saved about 25 minutes before I’d finished writing. A very large piece of what I’d just written was gone, daddy, gone.

I didn’t have time to rewrite the piece just then, because I was already late to get MathMan. I panicked momentarily, which looked more like losing my shit, to the untrained eye. Trust me – losing my shit is much more disturbing than what happened last night. I kicked the desk and cried in spite of myself. The kids didn’t quite know what to do. They looked concerned and then got out of my way as I dragged my sorry ass out of the house.

I sat in the car and pounded the steering wheel for a second, then remembered my camera. I pulled it out, turned it on video and recorded myself telling the story, the best I could from memory. Today I wrote the scene over again, without using my recording. And I think it’s even better than the first writing of it. Maybe that’s not a bad writing strategy? Write, erase, rewrite. Maybe not. That would make me crazy. Anyway, I was glad to have the piece rewritten, saved to a jump drive and feeling like it was even better than before.

But really? Talk about cruel jokes of fate. I mean, who doesn’t want to write a rape scene two days in a row?

Until next Wednesday, my lovelies…..

Lisa

Pensieve

I know, I’m a shit. I tell you I’ll be here on Wednesdays and now my writing is happening somewhere else right now and I won’t even show it to you.

My apologies. This is my serious face. This is what happens when I finally stop goofing around and thinking about doing stuff and just do it. And for the record, so far, the story is going well.

But there’s so much I want to tell you. There’s the blow out I had with Nate. Major. Later, when he was sure it wouldn’t result in physical violence, MathMan told me that watching was like that scene in Brighton Beach Memoirs. I’m not sure who was the workhorse and who was the pretty one, but the point is we both felt like we weren’t getting what we needed from each other. The argument was cathartic and now we seem to be closer than ever.

This being a mom gig is so not my thing and yet……well, I love them and they love me and want to be around me anyway. I don’t get it, but I’m glad for it (mostly).

Then there’s Chloe who has put me in the unfortunate role of sounding like my own mother who once, upon having had enough of my tearful pleas to pleeeeeeease be fetched from Ball State and taken back home where I belonged, said to my father “Do not answer that phone or I’ll kneecap you.” You see, Chloe is having some transition issues and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of the nest kicking at her every time she tries to fly back in and rest her troubled soul. My poor darling. I want to fix things for her, but that’s not my job or role now. And it hurts.

There’s Sophia who’s not off the rails but who is coming into her own and she’s different from both siblings. She’s artistic and sensitive and smart, but there are just some things she doesn’t care about. Until it’s too late, that is. Let me just say that playing Good Cop/Bad Cop with Mathman starring in the Bad Cop role during our parent/teacher/principal conference last week was interesting. So far it seems to have been effective, as well.

Also – were I to have the chance, I would love to say sweetly to the smiling teacher that it’s bad form to lecture a parent about all the resources available online only to have that parent discover that you have not, in fact, put those notes on the web. Unhelpful.

Work is work. Writing is where my heart is. I want a passport. I want gigantic piles of money. I want a cabana boy who can vacuum better than I can and who loves to fold laundry. I want world peace and for average Americans to understand that we’re all fucked as long as money controls our elections.

Veering back…..I want to have the cats laminated after they are de-fleaed. I want more time for everything. I want to drive up I85 without dodging dead deer parts. I just realized that I look like I’m dressed for a funeral today. Oh the irony. I want the passenger side window of the car to stop sounding like a wind tunnel. I want my friend Diane to start writing some of those stories she tells me. The one about the old guy who asked his daughter to take him to he doctor for a prescription for viagra so he can up the fun quotient of his visits with his girlfriend in the nursing home deserves to written, don’t you think?

I joined the gym. I am going to get so fit it will only seem natural that when I keel over of a heart attack people can say “Well, how ironic, when she was fat and thought an ice cream and Oreo lunch with an M&M chaser was a bright idea, she was in great health.”

Until next Wednesday,

Lisa

http://www.youtube.com/v/wYn7rr4yZ9U&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1
Oh yeah……