Seven Things I Like

Juli Ryan, an ex-pat living in New Zealand, tagged me with a great meme that I thought would be perfect for today since lately all I do is tell you what I don’t like.  Juli, who is very funny and smart and sarcastic, might have been trying to tell me something.  And I appreciate it.  Because a nudge into the positive column is a good thing for me.

Seven Things I Like

1.  I like mornings.  Okay, let me qualify that – I like mornings after everyone has left the house.  Having to look at those half-open eyes and disgruntled, yawning mouths, and pulling from them what they might want for breakfast because, yes, like an idiot, I do set myself up to be a short order cook, is hardly worthy of rainbows and birdsong.  The good thing about that is that their requests are pretty simple – cold cereal usually. 

But once they are all gone for the day?  I’m all aaaaahhhh, breakfast on the deck with a book?  Why not?  So there’s the upside to being unemployed.  In the old days, mornings meant driving, driving and more driving.

2.  Which means it’s a good thing I like to drive.  Were it not so expensive and horrible for the environment, I would drive around more.  I love driving fast but not recklessly, I love winding meandering drives through the countryside.  I like city driving.  Emphasis on driving.  Not sitting in traffic.  You can keep that.

The last week or two without access to a car really was a severe clipping of my wings.  Maybe I should consider becoming an OTR driver.  Would I have to have my own truck?  Must research this.

3.  I like old time radio shows.  The Jack Benny Show, The Great Gildersleeve, Fibber McGee and Molly, Suspense, The Shadow, Lux Radio Theater, X Minus One, The Further Adventures of Johnny Dollar, Gunsmoke.   I love how the past is captured in sound and story.  I get a kick out of the dystopian visions of the future in the sci fi shows, the silly, almost verbal slapstick of the comedies, the running jokes in Jack Benny, and Fibber McGee.  Can you guys tell if that influences my writing?

4.  I like order.  Clutter makes me pissy.  But not enough to really do much about it.  Right now, I can see four instances of Lisa-induced clutter, but will I eradicate them today?  Highly unlikely.  Because….

5.  I like having a house fully stocked of groceries. And today is payday so I must go do the gatherer thing.  When we hit the skids, I realized how reliant we’d become on take out and going out.  Now that we eat almost exclusively at home, running out of ingredients and staple goods combined with living in the middle of nowhere is a pain in the cook’s butt.  Hence, I love the Buy One Get One Free things that so many of the grocery stores are now doing.  Except, I always have to question – want or need?  Need has become the filter by which all pennies are spent.  This is not whining.  It’s a statement of fact and something I wish I’d been more capable of when we still had my income.

6.  I like music.  All kinds.   I’ve shared with you my like for the sappy stuff we listened to in the 70s and 80s, but I also like 20s jazz, big band, classical, rock, rap, hip hop, punk, new wave, metal, Argentinian tangos, alternative, old school country, pop, emo….. music is playing throughout most of my day.

Recently, I was nudged by this blogger to expand my listening even further.  He sent me a link to some to Opeth and I was, at first, a bit unsure.  Then I listened and listened some more.  And now while I clean and lift weights, which I do when no one is around, because can you imagine MathMan and the kids’ faces? this is the soundtrack.  You haven’t scrubbed out a bathtub until you’ve done it to Opeth.

Don’t worry, Randal.  I’m not going to muscle in on your territory.

7.  I like getting fun mail.  Like this from Lola who ran a contest which I won!!!!!!

The whole shebang.

I haven’t smelled this good in a long time.

Clearly, Lola was prescient in the choosing of this gift.

You remember the Blue Flying Monkey I used to Gaslight my kids? It went missing. Now I have the IT magnet.  Mwahahaha.

In addition to all this cool swag, Lola included a bag of confetti and a blower so we could have a little party while we opened our gifts.  And we did.  Thank you, Lola.  This made for great fun over the weekend.

You guys know how I hate tagging people so here’s the deal:  Do this in comments.  Or on your own blog when your muse has gone missing as we all know muses do (the unreliable tarts).  You can say I tagged you.  You.  Yes, you.  And you. 

P.S.  Number 8 of the things I like?  You guys.  I mean it.

Black Magie Theory: The Beck Girl

Sometimes it’s fun to come at the whole political commentary thing from a different angle.  That’s why I’m providing some adults only entertainment today at Black Magpie Theory.  Please come on over and see if you’re over 18.  We will be checking IDs.

Thanks be to Tengrain for the fabulous graphic.

See you back here tomorrow.

Open Your Eyes Open Your Ears

The inspiration for this post’s title comes from Jen’s Realia who says “Pay attention – there’s a story wherever you go.”

Yesterday I used up most of my words
So today I keep it simple.
Someone told me to leave the house.  Thanks, Someone, who is kind of turning into a mentor.  I know this isn’t exactly what you meant, but it’s a start.  Something different.  Like this to go with it.

I finally picked up my camera and stepped outside. (You can click on any of the images to see them better.)

And I didn’t even have to leave the yard!

Have a great weekend, lovers.  What’s up your sleeve?

Adventures in Real Parenting: Who’s Stalking Our Kids Online? Why – It’s Us!

My friend Carole sent me a link yesterday that made me laugh and cringe simultaneously Oh, Crap, My Parents Joined Facebook is a delightful website highlighting the online faux pas of parents and relatives. Can you believe some poor kids have to deal with not only mom and dad, but Nana and Papa, too?  Yikes.

Anyway, the link was quite apropos to a Facebook status I posted this week.

Lisa Golden parents by text these days.

It’s true.  Just ask anyone with kids, phones and thumbs.

Some days it feels like I communicate more with my kids via texts, facebook statuses and tweets than via the traditional methods of hollering across the house or having serious conversations across the kitchen table while avoiding eye contact.  Okay, “some days” is a boldfaced lie.  It’s every day.  But I think we all prefer it that way.  We’re mostly a bunch of socially awkward eccentrics so limited face to face contact is less painful physically and mentally.  Except for MathMan.  He’s the least socially awkward of us and even he has some trouble in the eye contact department.  So when your most socially adept person is the math whiz in the family?  Doomed.  Is it any wonder my best friends are dead British detectives?

That was like matheism or something wasn’t it?  Or am I a Mathist?  What has America come to when the only people you can safely mock are the smarty pants elitists who know how to operate a graphing calculator?

I’m still traumatized by him showing me his Parabola the other night, but I digress.  I’m supposed to be telling you how I found out via a modern day version of the telephone game that one of my kids is “in a relationship.”

“So did you see?”  Sophie’s eyes were glued to the computer screen.

“See what?”  I stopped cleaning whatever it was that required scrubbing to look her direction.

“It says here that Chloe Golden is in a relationship with (name redacted).”  This pleases her.  She likes Chloe’s gentleman friend and just happens to be friends with his younger sister now.  Very cozy.

Today you learn about your child’s love life via relationship status changes marked by that heart emoticon.  If you’re lucky, this is followed up by a change in the profile picture which now shows the happy couple.  You can at least see what the other half of the relationship looks like. (And you can, of course, stalk their page, if they don’t have the privacy controls on too tightly.) 

Gone are the days when parents knew when you were “going steady” by the clunky guy’s class ring wrapped in yarn to make it fit your teenage finger so that you could wave it around for everyone to see without accidentally casting it off and blackening some poor bystander’s eye.  That class ring business was when our parents knew to step up the flicking of the porchlight as we sat in our boyfriend’s car parked in the driveway.  The more they flicked that light, the more we wondered if he was, in fact, The One.

Our parents weren’t stupid.  They knew that the good stuff, if there was good stuff, had already happened down Dam Lane or parked behind the Baptist church on the lower end of town.  They just flicked those lights to remind us that they were paying attention.

It’s pretty much the same thing now with the likes of Facebook, Twitter and texting.  Although this “paying attention” requires a bit more nuance.  A text, direct message or email usually requires a response or some follow up action.  A Facebook status or tweet is less defined.  The safest thing to do is not respond.  Don’t be too conspicuous.  Trust me on this.

And if you can’t help yourself, at least have the good sense to respond privately and not where all their friends can see. (See below for more specific tips.)

All this technology extends the ease of meddling a parent can do far into the ages when most of us were already fairly independent.  We’re able to peer into our children’s lives, delving into the details in ways we might later regret.

For example, I’m sure my parents did not want to know how many times I woke up in strange places, wondering where some missing piece of clothing had gotten to and what was that guy’s name again?  Even now, they don’t want to know (so if you’re from Rising Sun and reading this and you happen to run into my parents, just know that NEVER happened.)  Just like they didn’t want to see pictures of me in a bikini wagging my tongue at the camera or putting my mouth right on the beer tap.

“So are you going to do anything?”  Sophie was trying to gauge my reaction to this relationship news.

“What do you mean?”  I stood behind her and looked at the screen showing the photo of my beautiful Chloe in the arms of a very tall, very nice young man.

“Are you going to ‘like’ the relationship status or are you going to comment?”  Her eager eyes gave her away.

“No, m’am.  I believe that’s called ‘creeping’ and I hate to be accused of that.”  I went back to my cleaning as I considered these new unwritten rules for engaging electronically with one’s offspring.  What’s considered cool, what’s completely cringe-worthy, what will cause them to defriend you forever and ever and ever.

I try not to cross the creeper line, but I don’t always succeed.  Nevertheless, I feel qualified from a time tested combination of trial and error to offer some tips for how to effectively communicate with your children in today’s world without making them wish they and you had never been born.

1.  Do not write terms of endearment on their Facebook walls.  No sweeties, baby girls, honeys, sugars, precious poo poo pants or darlings.  Those belong in a private message, a direct message on Twitter or an old-fashioned email.  Frankly, most kids don’t ever want to see that in writing.

2.  Do not comment on photos unless you are 100% goon free.  This is not the typical parent’s forte. On second thought – just do NOT comment on photos. 
2.a.  If you cannot resist the urge to comment, be sure to neutralize the creeping accusation by beginning your comment with “Sorry for creeping, but…..”  and make damn sure your comment is either spot on, crazy positive without being cloying (a tough, tough balance) or super funny.  And yeah, kids don’t find parents funny, much less super funny, so stick with quick and positive (no cliches!) and get the heck out of there fast!
2. b.  Resist the urge to interact with their friends on Facebook.  If you’ve been allowed into the secret club of being friends with your kids’ friends, don’t abuse the privilege.  Control your impulses to comment, like, post songs or send links.
2. c.  If you are posting about your kids in your own status, tread softly.  Using their names with a link can be done, but you must be careful with this.  If you’re simply referring to them, just be aware that they might see it or, worse, one of their friends might see it.  Teenage boys do not like being called their mother’s babies, I assure you.  And when you refer to yourself?  No third person.  No ….and now Mommy has to…. or anything remotely like that.  Resist the urge.  Martyrdom is a delicate business, you know.

3.  Use the “Like” button judiciously.  They’re happy that it’s Friday?  Fine.  “Like” that.  They’re pissed at their English professor?  Finger off the “like” button.  You do not want your thumbs up there.

4.  Some kids post their mood swings like I used to change my hair color.  Do not overreact.  If you’re really worried, pick up the phone.  Do not, I repeat, do not post frantic messages to their wall unless you intend to escalate things and blow up Facebook for all of us.

5.  Twitter is a bit trickier.  For Twitter, it’s best to look and not touch.  Although being able to offer advice, solace, or the occasional bit of tenderness using 140 characters or less is a gift.  Use your best judgment, but know that the consequences of being blocked are legion and many.

6.  Yes, yes, we all think it’s funny to embarrass our kids to a certain degree, but remember what it felt like to have your dad laugh out loud at that school banquet and that food went flying out of his mouth and you wanted to die right there in your chair?  Or how about the time your mom asked you out loud in the grocery store aisle if you needed any sanitary napkins?  Oh, you remember. 

7.  Finally, as a gift to yourself, you might consider setting up a separate email account just for your kids.   This is especially handy for people with children living away from home.  The beauty of this is that on days when you don’t want to deal with the drama, trauma or little hiccups of parenting, you can simply create an auto response email that reads “I’m off duty.  If this is an emergency, involves money, technology, a ride somewhere or favors, please call your father.  In case you still haven’t added him to your contacts, his number is xxx-xxx-xxxx and he still answers to Dad, Daddy or (fill in name here).”

I should stop here.  I already sound like a complete know it all and even though I’ve secured her permission to write this post, there’s no telling if Chloe would actually approve or agree with my Helpful Tips.  I suspect she’d offer this short, helpful directive.  “Just don’t.”

Until she needs her papers proof read, of course.

Please feel free to add to the list.  What have you learned about communicating with family, friends, coworkers in this new dynamic?

Short Story: The Playlist

1984 Sectional Champs – I’m the thrilled chick on the left.

I opened the package from Robert.  

In January, he’d organized an event to celebrate the retirement of the coach who’d lead our tiny high school basketball team to back-to-back championships.  Having just been laid off,  I felt selfish spending the money to take the trip.  I emailed Robert that I wouldn’t be there and he emailed me back.

“Watch your mail.”

Taking pity on me, I suppose, he’d mailed copies of the slideshow he’d put together and the local AM radio station’s coverage of the games where our David beat the Goliath in the last second, creating one of the highlights of our senior year.

I popped some popcorn and settled in to watch the cd.  My daughter Sophia came and sat on the sofa next to me.

“What’s this?”
“It’s a slideshow from my senior year of high school.”
“Is that you?”
“Yep.”
“You were skinny.”
“I was.”
“Look at your hair.”
“I know, right?  I miss my dark hair.”
“Did you like being a cheerleader?”
“I did.  But cheerleading is different now.  It’s more like dancing and stunts.  We didn’t do a lot of that stuff.”
“Everybody had big hair.”
“Yep.”

My son came in from outside and flopped on the love seat.  “Why did those guys wear such short shorts?”

“That was the style.”

They sat with me for a few more minutes, reading the story of how the team had decided over the summer to give it their all, how no one expected a win two years in a row from this team because we were the smallest school in the tournament and we’d lost so many seniors from the previous year’s winning team.  The slides slid over one by one with the story of how they did it.  Determination.  Practice.  Teamwork.  Know your strengths and play to them.

The cd ended.  Tears prickled behind my eyes.  I’d seen some of those people at my twenty-fifth class reunion in June.  I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat.  How silly.  Homesick for the place and the past?  What sentimental claptrap.

“Mom, what’s this?”  Nate held up a cd with a colorful cover – pictures of downloaded music from itunes.

“Don’t know.  It was in the box, but I haven’t listened to it yet.”

He opened it up and looked at the playlist.  “I don’t know any of these songs except the last one.  Isn’t that on Rock Band?”  He tossed the cd case into my outstretched hand.

I opened the cover and looked at the typed playlist.  “Songs for Lisa”
1.  Lonely Boy / Andrew Gold
2. Broken Hearted Savior / Big Head Todd and The Monsters
3.  Stand Tall / Burton Cummings
4.  Feels Like Home / Chatal Kreviazuk
5.  We Just Disagree / The Dave Mason Band
6.  Always Gonna Love You / Gary Moore
7.  The Air That I Breathe / The Hollies
8.  At Seventeen / Janis Ian
9.  Midnight Blue / Melissa Manchester
10.  Everytime You Cry / The Outfield
11.  Don’t Give Up / Peter Gabriel
12.  Sad Eyes / Robert John
13.  I Don’t Want to Talk About It / Rod Stewart
14.  Leather and Lace / Stevie Nicks & Don Henley
15.  I’m Not In Love / 10cc
16.  What’s Up?  / 4 Non Blondes

“Man.  I haven’t heard some of these songs in forever.”

“Are you going to listen to it?  Or, what I really mean, is are you going to make us listen to it?”  He shifted from foot to foot, itching to make a break for it.  Sophia stood up and slunk out of the room.

I laughed.  “No.  I’ll listen to it later.  Just put it on my desk, will you?”  I tossed it back to him and hit the rewind button on the slideshow.

********

“What’s this?”  Doug pointed at the dashboard.

“Oh that?  It’s the cd Robert sent me.  I put it in my purse for when the XM isn’t working.  I’m not going to  drive around listening to commercial radio or my own thoughts.  I’d go mad.”

“Well, that explains the Memissa Manchester tweet.”

“Indeed.  Did you like that misspelling?”

“Are you supposed to be texting while you drive?  I think not.”

“It was a stoplight.   A long one.”

“Uh huh.”  He stuck his arm out of the car window.  “Thanks for driving.  My leg is still swollen”

I looked down at his leg. “Ouch.  Ready?”

“Yep.  God, isn’t this weather nice now?”  The humidity had dropped and we drove with the windows down.  The sun had just faded at the horizon, leaving brushstrokes of salmon and lavender at the top of the ridge ahead of us. 

I turned up the music.  “Let’s sing.”

“What?”

“Come on.  Sing with me.  Here’s the Melissa Manchester song….”

“What year is this from?”  Doug pulled the cd case from my purse and looked at the playlist typed on the inside cover.

“I’m not sure.  But here’s something kind of strange.  Some of these songs remind me of things from my childhood.  It’s like Robert knows things about my past.  But I don’t know how he could know.  Does that make sense?”

“Maybe he stalked you.”

“Yeah….no.  But seriously.  Like, I remember I’d gotten my hot pink Huffy ten speed. I must have been about ten or eleven.  I was riding it out to my cousins’ house and I was really excited because I learned how to go with no hands.”

“Look ma!  No hands!”

“Just like that.  But here’s the thing.  I remember riding along and singing that song Midnight Blue all by myself.  I probably did hand motions, I was so happy and carefree.”

“Carefree?”

“Work with me here.  It was a long time ago.”

Doug took up his phone and started messing with the buttons.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking up that song.  Did you know Smokey Robinson has a song titled Midnight Blue?”

“Come on.  Sing with me….I think we can make it, if we try.….”

“Are you sure he didn’t have a thing for you?”

“Who?  Robert?  Nah.”

“Maybe he just never told you.”

I shrugged.  No, that was silly.  We’d never dated.  I probably kissed him during a game of Spin the Bottle, but that was it.  He was always nice, always there, but he never said anything about liking me.  Not like that.  Not even when we went away to the same college.  By the third week at Ball State, I hardly saw my high school friends.

“It’s a funny playlist though, isn’t it?”

“Heh, cheese and more cheese.  Just your kind of thing.”

I hit the button, skipping to another song .  “Okay, so how about this one.  It’s 10cc.  You know this one.  Duet?”  I glanced at him.  “You don’t have to do the hand motions.  Just do back up, okay?”

He glanced again at the playlist, holding his phone over it to illuminate it.  “This is 10cc?  No way. This is their worst song.”

“Honey?  Come on.  I know you can sing.  I’ve heard you when we play Rock Band.  Come on, time to sing.  I’m not in love, so don’t forget it.   It’s just a silly phase I’m going through…”

We rode along for a few minutes, him scrolling through his phone messages, me singing both lead and backround, mentioning that I could really use a synthesizer on the steering wheel.  Sometimes doing hand motions or pretending to clutch a microphone and trying not to sing with my eyes closed.

“Be quiet, big boys don’t cry, big boys don’t cry, big boys don’t cry….”

The song ended and I pushed the button again.  “Oh!  Leather and Lace.  Do you want to be Stevie Nicks or Don Henley?”

He laughed.  I could see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye even as I kept my focus on the road stretching ahead of us into the dark.  The cool wind blew over us and he reached over and tucked some of my loose silver hair behind my ear. 

“I would never have given you a cd with Leather and Lace on it.”

“But I saw Stevie Nicks in concert in 1983.”

“So?”

I pushed the cd button one more time.  “Okay then.  How about this song – you can play the guitar solo, and I know you know the words to this one.”

“This song does not go with the others.”

“I know, right?  But let’s sing it anyway.  Twenty-five years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill of hope for a destination…”

“More like 44 years, Lisa.”

“Don’t remind me.  And I say, hey hey hey hey I said hey, what’s going on?”

Okay, spill it – which of those songs did YOU sing along to? Hand motions? Were your eyes closed?

Is That a Parable or a Very Subtle Joke

I’m just going to tell you this up front – I don’t know how to make this funny.

Every week, and sometimes it feels like every day, I learn of another friend or acquaintance who has lost their job.

Yesterday I drove through an area not far from here that I can only describe as the “Place of Big Ideas, Lack of Financing.”  Acres and acres of weeds threaded with ribbons of smooth, black roads with light blue pipes dotting the landscape like PVC stems bearing no flowers.

“Bank Owned Property – For Sale”

What a mess.  Where are the answers?  We grasp at what?   It feels like nothing.

I’m sorry for my friends and acquaintances who find themselves unemployed in this dismal economy.  It’s not easy, this recalibration.  We bail out major corporations while those of us in these teeny life boats can’t plug the holes fast enough. I asked MathMan the other day if he thought maybe this tipped ship of an economy was righting itself.  Maybe the next generations won’t live in a society where it takes two incomes to maintain the illusion of a middle class life.

I hope they learn from our mistakes.  But as so many of them are already indenturing themselves through student loans and will be entering an unstable, uncertain and worker-unfriendly workplace, my confidence in their ability to do better shrinks with each bit of bad news.

Home sales are down.  Another bank in Georgia closes.

We know who to blame.  Or at least we have a pretty good idea. We just can’t stop digging.  We’d rather fight over religion.

I’m not a believer, but I know plenty of people who are.  They pray.  I hope it helps.  No matter what, we all must draw together to weather this mess.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.  Don’t be afraid to offer it.

This song is in my head. Maybe because it reminds me of happier times.  Times when I still had more of a future ahead of me.  Or maybe because it reminds me of how we all want answers.  From somewhere.

http://www.youtube.com/v/AzNzCiZwk28?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1

Still waiting…

Tell me your news.

Black Magpie Theory: Feeling Flush

I’m doing some creative accounting over at Blackmagpie Theory. 

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s exciting episode:  What Happened During My Mammogram
Including the bonus feature 50 Ways to Use Those Left Over Nipple Stickers and Save the Planet

The Best Laid Plans of Mice, I Mean Cats and Men

Art imitates life. Or cats imitate art.  Or in a few months, we might have free kittens for good homes.

Yesterday I got my IUD removed which means MathMan and I must use a new method of birth control.  (Please note the copay for the elective surgery called vasectomy is and always has been out of our range of possibilities, so thanks for the suggestions, but no can do.) 

Considering our past inability to find and use effective methods not involving hormones, this should be fun.  We already have three “unplanned” children.  Unplanned does not equal unwanted (most of the time.)  We have living, breathing, food consuming, mess making evidence that neither coitus interruptus nor a wish and prayer – against, not for – are not, I repeat not, no matter what that guy told you in high school – effective methods of birth control.

And while all of our children were wanted and treated like happy little surprises until they pooped that first time, only one of them was a conscious decision.  On my part, that is.  MathMan just got dragged along for the ride.

Which would explain why, in anticipation of my IUD removal, he reminded me of my determined efforts to have a baby back when I was a silly young thing of twenty-five.  I’d stopped taking the pill because of weight gain and as a youngish married couple, we employed methods ranging from Russian Roulette to Hey, Nice Pearl Necklace! and when we were feeling responsible, condoms.  The Diaphragm and Spermicidal Jelly Incident proved both disastrous and traumatic.  MathMan didn’t enjoy having a burning wang and I got woozy watching him standing in the shower trying to rinse out his third eye.  We were both such delicate creatures back then.  Parenthood would solve that.

We made that trip into the Carson Pirie Scott Baby Department where I saw those booties and next thing you know, I’m in Mom Training big time.  I started watching Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street on PBS, purchasing books on why midwives are superior to ob-gyns, quizzing my sister-in-law about her cesarean section and tossing around baby names.  MathMan knew trouble was brewing.  He just didn’t realize how much trouble and how sinister it would be until it was too late.

So a couple of days ago, he thought it best to remind me of my past determination or folly, if you will.  “Listen, our anniversary is on Saturday.  Please remember what happened the last time you bit a hole in the condom on our anniversary.”

Clever gods took their cue.  Chloe walked by our open bedroom door and glanced in.  “What?”  It’s how she likes to open conversations these days.

I blinked at her and turned back to MathMan.  “I remember.”

We’ve agreed that we will not tempt fate.  Abstinence, oral sex or butt sex it is.

Put your money on abstinence.

As if we needed our resolve reinforced, those same clever gods delivered this healthy dose of reality:

Nate went downstairs this morning to find Fiona the Not Exactly a Kitten Anymore standing outside the patio door staring back at him.

Oh.  Dear.

Listen, ever since I was that girl watching the city works guy on the cherry picker coaxing my kitten from the top of the electric pole, I’ve tried to have indoor cats only.  I can’t take the stress of what if.  For weeks after that electric pole drama, I would not let that kitten out and when he did sneak out, I would search the streets, sobbing and calling for him before I would go inside to cry into my pillow and dream of horrible things happening to my precious.  So this kitten, who is yet unfixed because we haven’t had the extra money to pay for her surgery, has been kept inside, forcibly maintaining her virtue even as she’s been serenaded by the neighborhood Toms.

When the urge got to be too much, she’d bump and grind at our indoor male cats.  Since they no longer recognize the need, they responded with uncomfortable looks, searching for a quick escape from her mewling advances.

Last night she got out.  I believe she sneaked out while Chloe and her friend were coming or going. Thankfully, or maybe not, Fiona survived her nocturnal prowlings, but I doubt her virtue remains intact.  Upon her reentry into the house, all the other Pussies for Peace took defensive postures.  It was Crouching Tabby, Flattened Maine Coon Ear. Both male cats sniffed suspiciously around her backside. For her part, she acted a bit bored as she picked spider web from her whiskers.

Someone hissed.  It could have been me, but I think it was our alpha male tabby.

Bad Girl Fiona gave him a look.

“Hey, I offered.  You weren’t interested, you eunuch,” she said between bites of her food.  She was ravenous.

Before.

Giddyup!

It’s tradition that I blog about my annual visit to the doctor to get checked under the hood, as MathMan likes to say.  I do this to show solidarity with my fellow females who also should be going for this slightly messy, slightly embarrassing and very important annual check up.  I also like to remind the males here that the whole turn your head and cough thing?  Cakewalk.

And we all have rectums so there’s nothing to argue about there.

I’m a bit chagrined to tell you that I’m two months late with this annual visit and I still have it to look forward to on Monday.  Until then, I will just have to revel in the sweet anticipation of getting felt up, mashed, starved, finger-banged and sucked of my blood. That sounds like a fetish menu, doesn’t it?

Here’s some good news along the lines of credit where credit is due – I am now IUD free.  Once the insurance was sorted, the doc’s office made an appointment right away et voila!  Today’s visit wasn’t with cute-boy doctor J with whom I normally visit.  This procedure was handled by the more seasoned Dr. Dubya.  Yeah.  I am convinced that there is not a single liberal doctor in this town so I’m stuck.  This is the practice where I once got into it with the front desk staff because she refused my request to turn down the volume or turn off the TV blaring Fox News.  I was the only patient in the waiting room at the time.

I’m certain that the choice of channels isn’t so much to entertain or inform that patients.  It’s a political statement.  But what’s a chick to do?  Drive an hour plus to Atlanta to show her vagina to strangers?  Not unless I’m getting free drinks and big tips, my friends.

Even so, I try to be pleasant.  Our conversations go something like this:

Him staring into the abyss:  “So I see your uterus has dropped a little more.”
Me:  “Really?  Wonderful.  I still can’t afford the copay for surgery to have things removed and rejuvenated.”
Him:  “Well, just try not to sneeze or cough too much.  Or laugh.  I guess I won’t tell you anymore Obama jokes.”
Me:  “Well there’s the silver lining.  Tell me, though, if something does happen, will it look like a bowling ball falling out of me or what?”
Him:  “More like a tennis ball.  Smaller than that even.”
Me:  “Fine.  I assume you’d like me to just tuck it back in and call for an appointment.”
Him:   “Only after you’ve washed your hands.”
Me:  “Well, of course, I’m not going to go stuffing my uterus back into my vagina with a pair of dirty paws.”
Him:  “I meant you can wait until after you’ve washed your hands to call for an appointment.”
Me:  “Why don’t you go back to the Obama jokes.”
Him:   “By the way, I like what you’ve done with the landscaping.”
Me:  “Oh, I thought you’d like that.”
Him:  “Yes, the landing strip is so 1998.”
Me:  “Agreed.  And a nuisance to maintain.”
Him:  “So how did you get it to look like that?”
Me:  “The Fox News logo?  There’s a template for it on their website.”
Him:  “You’re kidding!”
Me:  “Yes, I’m kidding.”

Written Doesn’t Mean It Will Ever Be Seen

Today I write letters in true passive/aggressive style.  That means I won’t mail them, but a couple of weeks from now, I’ll be telling you how the losers addressed never responded.

Dear Schools,
No more plastic water bottles.  Why not sell reusable bottles with the school logo?  The kids buy them (or steal them) at the beginning of the school year, take them home to be washed by the magic washing elves and bring them back each day.  You provide access to clean water where the kids can fill up their bottles during lunch.  Easy, right?

Thank you,
Mrs. Sick of Schlepping to the Recycling Center

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Dear Trouser Manufacturers:
Please reinforce the back pockets where men typically carry their wallets.  Patching that spot is next to impossible for a piker with a needle and thread. 

Thank you,
Mrs. Sore Thumbs

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Dear Satellite TV Provider,
I’m sorry we couldn’t pay our bill these last two months.  You know how it is – back to school, the car needed four new tires.  I just wanted to let you know we’ve gotten a good laugh over the Congratulations! You now have a Dish 500! message that flashes on the screen when you turn on the TV.  And that added touch of having the channel switch immediately to the one where the super cheerful people tell you the 526 ways you can pay your bill? Brilliant.

Question – how did you decide to take away all of our channels except Bravo and BBC America?  I mean, I don’t really miss having 600 plus channels of wedding planning, little people, ghost hunters, Housewives (who are anything but), and Gordon Ramsay being a pompous twat, but seriously?  Now I have two “real” channels.  The first is brimming with Housewives promos and the other is still a whole lot of Gordon Ramsay being an overwrought dick.

Oh, and what mad logic is this?  I can’t pay my bill so you give me 28 shopping channels?  I don’t know if that’s clever or cruel.  Either way, that’s some wicked corporate humor.  Anyway, just thought you’d like to know.

Regards,
Mrs. Will You Take a Kid in Exchange for PBS access?

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Dear Family,
We are moving closer to MathMan and Nate’s school.  If they’re up at 5:00 a..m., I’m up at 5a.m.  I’m supposed to be a lazy good for nothing living off the system.  Being up and productive* at 5a.m. is bad for the bad reputation, you know.

With love,
Mom/Lisa

*Productive is indeed subjective

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 Dear Pussies for Peace,
Please get your time share plans sorted out.  Who’s on the pile of towels in the bathroom, who’s curled at the foot of Nate’s bed, who’s at the top of the stairs or on the faux marble in front of the fireplace, who’s blocking the fridge.  All this hissing and swatting isn’t in keeping with your general mission statement of world peace.

Gratefully,
The woman with the food and litter scoop

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 Dear United Healthcare:
Thank you for saying yes to the IUD removal.  Now if I remain fat and crazy it’s my own fault.

Warmly,
Patient number (redacted)

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Dear Zachary’s Creme Drops:
Why do you have to be so delicious?  (Please see letter to United Healthcare.)

Droolingly,
Madame Sweet Tooth

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Dear Lady in the White Car:
Please note I understand the need to inch up at the stop sign, but what you did today as I drove by almost made me pee my pants.
Annoyed,
The Bug-Eyed Woman in the Other White Car

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Dear Georgia Power:
Your website says the Massell Road branch opens at 8:30.  The sign on the door at Massell Road says 9. 
Please fix.  Thanks.
Signed,
A customer who can’t get that half hour back and who forgot her just in case book

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Your turn – what letters would you like to write, but not maill?