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Friday, June 30, 2006

Because I can

I will tell you that next week I, yes I, the all-powerful and very foolish indeed Tiff will be hosting the Carnival of the Mundane!

Let the celebrations BEGIN!!!!

Oh yes, friends, an opportunity for me to weave the disparate entries of a few dozen bloggers together into a seamles and entertaining post that has something to do with....with,,,,,with

Oh shit.

What have I done?

I am a dead woman.

I.Have.No.Theme!!

Unless! Oh- ho!!

Unless, you, the vastly intelligent and refreshingly insightful readers of this little blog would like, maybe, you know, to SUGGEST some ideas for a post theme. Something, well, carnival-ey, or mundane? Or something?

I shall pick my favorite suggestion from your collective stewpot of delicious ideas, and credit you, yes YOU, with the germ of the notion that gave rise to the spectacular infestation of bright pix and shiny links that will BE THE CARNIVAL OF THE MUNDANE, PART 14.

Pretty please?

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AND, you are invited to send me a link to a favorite post of yourn, and I'll wedge it into the tightly-knit creation I intend to craft from ONE OF YOUR IDEAS!

Really, what's not to like?

Itsa chance at fame, I tellya!!! Go for it!!

with major LURVE from tiff 3:25 PM

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Thursday, June 29, 2006

Too much of a good thing

Sometimes, coming up with a post title is the hardest damned thing. Sometimes I just put up some words and see where they take me.

Today, for example!

See, I don't pre-prepare my posts. By and large they just come on out in a stream of consciousness that can take odd twists and turns on the way to cohesiveness. Sometimes, the cohesiveness is elusive, almost indiscernable amidst the convolutions. This is when I start using big words, like "indiscernable," and hope to God I spell them correctly.

Still, there is, usually, a common thread amongst all my "one-piece" posts, a pin on which to hang the whole thing, one kernel of an idea that got me going, that will, ultimately, hold the whole post together.

Today's kernel is this: I think, maybe, that this once-a-day posting is too much of a good thing.

Writing something, anything, every day is becoming an addiction. I keep thinking that I'll just get over the infatuation/need one of these days and will then start posting when I have something REAL to say, something important and soul-stirring and germaine to life in general and the universe in particular. This daily posting is an expurgation of all the extraneous stuff I feel I must get out of my head before starting in on real business; it's a chance to express a part of me that is who I really am, to exorcise some of the idiocy that goes on inside my head or to commit to writing some of the dreams and memories clutter up my brain.

But, how WORTHWHILE is it? How useful? And here's a perfect rhetorical question: How do I balance the time I spend doing this with the time I should be spending doing productive stuff and putting my nose to the grindstone and forging ahead with the business of the day/week/month/life? Is this writing a thing of form and function, or is it merely breathless blathering about nothing in particular to a faceless audience of a faithful few?

So, here's the question, mostly from me to me, who cannot overcome the addiction of daily dumps of brain-goo into the blog-o-sphere: How much is too much?

=========================

Fabulous, now that the angst portion of this post is out of the way, I can move on to better things.

Things like saying that I'll be on vacation part of next week, and WON'T be posting every day. I probably won't be posting at ALL until I get back. Maybe not until Thursday. Almost a whole week.

Yowza!! How's THAT for a turnaround? Like how I did that? Get all anxious and Dickinsonian first, and then BAM! turn it around the next second and pull the rug right out from under ya with a "presto" moment of abandonment?

Is it any wonder I'm the perfect Gemini?

Other things about me that don't make sense in a Gemini-y way - I keep a very neat kitchen but can't self-motivate at work. I get the oil changed in my car every 3000 miles but haven't replaced the windshield that got cracked, badly, in December. I get paid to write but haven't committed word to file in days, with a headline looming large tomorrow. I love to talk, yet hate the telephone.

Oy.

So, the second question of the day, and this one not at all rhetorical:

Y'all got any personal inconsistencies you'd like to share? I'd hate to think I'm the only one bellowing into the wind out here.

===============

Stupid cat pictures are funny!

with major LURVE from tiff 9:53 AM

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Wednesday, June 28, 2006

In which I speak of many diverse and interesting matters

Mr Sun is on a serious roll lately y'all. I mean, deadly serious. If you've got a geek-lovin' bone in your whole entire body somewhere, even if it's just the tiny little stapes or incus or malleus or hyoid, go, read, and be amazed at the love shown to the world by His Solarness.
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Just the article on the sexy building materials ALONE is worth the click.
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=======================
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Never, ever, and I mean NEVER, allow me to watch "Finding Neverland" just before bed again.

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Ever.
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I'm serious.
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The crying (OK, loud gasping sobbing, I'm not ashamed to admit it) brought about by the last 20 minutes of that film, followed by 7 hours of stuporous recumbency, translates DIRECTLY into predawn eye puffage of such proportion that all the makeup in the world only suceeds in making me look Asian.

Which, incidentally, is NOT such a very good look for a freckly German/Irish girl.

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======================
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Hey folks, you are SO missing out on your chance to "amend that tat." I got a nice idea from DebR a couple of days ago, but since then, NOTHING!
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What is wrong with you people that you can't come up with some idea, no matter how small or off-the-wall, of how to add more color and vibrancy to my middle-aged cankles?
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So, again, a plea from me to you to step up to the plate and run out a few ideas (perhaps with illustrations!) of how I should amend the tat. Otherwise I shall be left to my own devices, which may include the addition of drippy blood schmears or a zipper effect that looks like you can see my bones and tendons or somesuch oddity.

And really, do you want THAT on your conscience?

====================

Today at school, in the third grade it's either "big snack day" or "board game day." Yes, these last few precious school dayz are FILLED with learning opportunities of staggering import, aren't they?

Why do they even BOTHER making the kids come in at all?

Wait, tomorrow, in the 5th grade, they're not. They're all going ROLLER SKATING!!!

I do so wish I were a kid again.

with major LURVE from tiff 10:51 AM

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Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Calhoun's, late 80's

If y'all don't know by now, I'm a middle-aged lady who fancies herself as having a colorful past. Well, the part I can REMEMBER is pretty colorful, anyhow.

For some reason I want to talk today about a part of that past life, in which I worked at a place called Calhoun's. Next to a gig at Jess's Quick Lunch, it was the best place to work downtown. I was making ends meet while doing a T.A. in the biology department and being paid $500 a month for the honor.

Yep, The Tiff did the cocktail waitress/bartender/waitron thing, slinging 2-dollar pitchers on Mexican night and hanging out with the DJ on Reggae night and occasionally bartending on Friday Happy Hour (the FIRST female bartender Calhoun's ever had, thanyewverymuchforasking), and having, mostly, a blast.

It was a sweet, sweet gig, because Thursday through Saturday we had live music, for which some of the best bands in the area got booked to play; we got to drink for free (one drink before the shift, one during, and a veritable free-for-all after closing); the place was PACKED with young singles out for a good time; the tips were superb because the bar was frequented by other food-service workers (the dudes from Pargo's KNEW how to tip!); and if a really great song was being played nobody cared if the waitstaff took a time out to cut a rug or two.

I learned how to load up a bar tray in one hand while carrying bills for change with the same hand, keeping the other hand free for serving and making change and fending off ass-grabs from drunk townies and frat boyz. I learned to love reggae and blues and ska, and tripped out with TR3 from time to time. I danced like a fiend with my good friend Grant (who, sadly, lost his life to AIDS several years later) when the good tunes came on, goofed around with my buddy Bloggerwannabe (who was the bookie, wait, no, the bookKEEPER for the place) and thought life would always, always, be just this good, surrounded by free spirits and free booze and half-price food.

And then, in the Spring of 1988, the owners decided to close Calhoun's.

The weeping and gnashing of teeth could be heard far and wide, I tell you.

Oh yes, the owners had OTHER plans, which involved opening up a B&B with a full-service fine dining establishment on the ground floor, and oh yes, it was pretty and refined and most of the Calhoun's staff was hired back on as staff in the new place, and it was all about getting ahead in life for them, and that was all fine and dandy, but I mourned Calhoun's.

Gone would be the smell of smoke and stale beer, the loud music, the dusting of the mostly-dead philodendron that draped almost all the way around the bar walls, the view out to the courthouse clock, the baskets of chips and pretzels, the archeology students who ate dinner off the free Friday buffet, the mix of music and people and drink and youth. All gone.

We had a "Goodbye Calhoun's"party the weekend after it closed. Fifty or more people who either worked there or who had worked there showed up at a state park to get their groove on one last time. Some of us would come back together at the B&B, but none of us would ever have that place back. It was all gone.

Many many years later I went back to the college town to see the women with whom I had lived for a couple of years during college. I was thrilled to see that Calhoun's had reopened, and was determined to make a visit to the shrine of a part of my youth. I was excited to see that the logo was the same, and eagerly anticipated showing my husband the spot wherein so many memories were made.

But, it was gone.

My darkly green brass and glass cozy warm Calhoun's had been ripped out, and in its place was installed a shiny bright version of a small-town brewery and ale-house, with slippery floors and bright lights and muzak and imitation old-time stuff on the walls. Upstairs, where all the action used to happen, was a tiny loft bar, big enough only for a dozen or so people, so different from where two hundred or more used to dance and sweat and drink and smoke and celebrate being alive.

All gone, not even shadows left of what used to be.

This past weekend I found the tee-shirt that was given out at that long-ago going-away party. It's a little ripped, and a little faded, but I'm thinking of framing it anyhow. It's all I really have left, and I want it to last forever.

Or is that silly?

====================

Note to young bloggers and readers out there who didn't have the luck to be of age during the 80's. Sorry about that. You missed a hella good time.

with major LURVE from tiff 9:13 AM

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Monday, June 26, 2006

Skippy and Doo-Dah are in town again

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Y'all. They're baaaa-aaack. (go read the May 24th entry if you're wondering "who? who is back?")
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Yessir, they're arrived, and with a phalanx of friends to fluff up the fun.

All day long today. All day long tomorrow they will be taking up my valuable blogging time, hogging the precious hour I normally reserve for writing to you and for reading your dispatches to me.
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Forgive me. I have not broken up with you, dear reader(s). I am merely taking some time to act like a paid employee of the company for which I work.
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Yes, it hurts me too. So, as proof that I love you very very much, I will leave you with a little picture, and a request.

What would go with this tattoo?

It's on my right ankle, and needs a little embellishing, methinks.

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Your suggestions are most welcome.

(and no, the tat is not all blurry like this in real life...the photo was "enhanced," and not in a good way, and I haven't taken another shot at it yet.)

with major LURVE from tiff 5:15 PM

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Sunday, June 25, 2006

Overheard on 401

(Actors - Thing 1 (10 y.o. boy) and Thing 2 (9 y.o. boy). Setting - the back seat of the the Optima. Time - this afternoon. Place - somewhere on 401 heading toward "The Mall. " Props - 2 Transformers, one for each actor...)

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Thing 1 - "Ah, ha ha, I have you in my robot clutches. You cannot escape me, I am all powerful."

Thing 2 - "No! Nevah! I have PLAN!"

(aside to Thing 1: "I'm gonna make a call OK?" "OK" says Thing 1)

Thing 2 - "You shall nevah capcha mee, you eviiildo-ah! I have the BIG BOOK OF MINIONS and I shall CALL them to assist me!"

Thing 1 - "Ohhh no! Not that!"

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May I tell you right now that the "Big Book of Minions" got me laughing so hysterically that I had church giggles for an hour and a half afterward?

Yes yes, yes...the possibilities!

Aardvark girl, Astrolad, Bugle Boy, Corporal Cretin, they're ALL there in the Big Book of Minions!!!!! Pick a page, pick a line, pick a minion...who ya gonna CALL??

Sweet hoppin' Jeebus, y'all, I'm laughing again.

Gotta go, y'all. Gotta go.

Hee!

with major LURVE from tiff 6:12 PM

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Friday, June 23, 2006

A cavalcade of goodness, just for you

First, please go to the Carnival of the Mundane (hosted this week by the dashing Hyperion) for a spooky eerie, scary, mysterious read, then try to guess who committed the death of 13 stabbings. A marvelous way to spend some time, and a great way to get to know some new-to-you bloggers. I guarantee it's good for at least a half an hour of either looking like you're working or simple enjoyment.

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Next, headlines we love to mock! Yay!!! Happeeee dance!!

Crews holding line against Ariz. wildfire

You know, I was thinking that water would work a tad better, but I'm not all up in the newfangled firefighting methods, so maybe a line would work as well. What do you think it's made of, maybe some kind of asbestos material?

Earth hottest it's been in 2,000 years

I totally blame this on thong underwear and Paris Hilton. Hott!

Presidential candidates take Iraq stance

I've heard "pose of a child" is a good stance to take, they use it there like 5 times a day.

Rob Lowe gets OK for massive dream estate

Different, I suppose, from "real" estate.

'Whistler's Mother' at Boston museum

Singer's mother at NYC theater, Dancer's Mother at Paducah studio, Hummer's mother in court.

Henin-Hardenne beats Clijsters in Hastings

The local papers report,

For Clijsters attended 6 beer and wine tastings,

The day before hitting the court.

Saddam ends hunger strike after missing one meal

(blogger comment - Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!! Woo! Hee!)

Saddam comment - Look y'all, I'm on a hunger strike. Now I'm not. Now I am! When's dinner?

===========================

(the following was updated with links to the products I'm taking - there ya go!)

Lastly, remember those super-dee-duper vitamin/supplement/mystery pills that I started taking a couple of weeks ago? Totally working. How cool is THAT??? Energy, water balance, weight loss, all checked in the positive column. I can see my ankles again, the puffy cloud-like appearance of my abdomen has gone from cumulus to cirrus, and I am staying awake until 10:30 every night (or so), which is about an hour longer than I could manage before. Loves me the pretty pills, even if they do taste like swamp gas and are made for someone with an industrial-size esophagus; no matter, I'm learning to quell the gag reflex to get them down because they're my new favorite thing in the whole wide world!

Let's no dwell on how sad it is that I HAD cumulus-belly, OK? Focus on the positive - which is ANKLES again! Woot!

with major LURVE from tiff 10:14 AM

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Thursday, June 22, 2006

See, there's this thing called a rhomboid major muscle..

There are lots and lots of muscles in your body. Probably over a couple hundred, or maybe LOTS more if you count the teeny muscles that move your body hairs in response to cold or to geese stepping on your grave.

Let's accept, for the purposes of this post, that there are several hundred muscles , and that some of them are big and powerful. Like your tongue, or your butt muscles.

OK, with me so far?

Grand, let's proceed.

One of these big muscles, the rhomboid major (and let's just call it that here, because that is, in fact, what it is called in both professional parlance AND on the street by those who frequent the muscle party circuit and we want to be one of the cool kids and call things by their true names) functions to attach your shoulder blades to your spine and to waggle said shoulder blades back and forth. There is one rhomboid major muscle on each side of your upper back that vigilantly prevents your scapula from flying off your skeleton and perhaps smacking some unsuspecting bystander in the face with a wet meaty "thwack."

I must mention here that I truly believe this is a valuable service to us all.

However, it has recently come to my attention that perhaps I have not been as appreciative of my rhomboid majora as I ought to have been throughout the span of my life. I say this because recently the rhomboid major on my left has set up a picket line of pain, and refuses to do its job without being a COMPLETE JERK about complying with even my most minor request.

My friends, I have come to the awful realization that the rhomboid major is my pimp. I do what it wants, or it'll hurt me.

For example, I like to lie on my right side while I sleep, in order to breathe fresh air and not snore in my husband's face (nor he in mine, let it be said). However, my sinister rhomboid major (a little medical nomenclature double-entendre for all y'all who enjoy things like that) denies this highly accommodating positional mind-bent by pitching a total hissy fit about having to STRETCH a little so that my spine can curve while my left shoulder sinks a little toward my chest.

"Hell NO!," says the indignant rhomboid major, "You ain't bending THAT way, little missy! You been ignoring ME your whole life and now you are going to perk up and accommodate ME! That's right, bee-yotch, I say what way you lie in bed, and tonight it's gonna be FLAT ON YOUR BACK or I'll keep poking and poking and poking at you with sharp pokety pokes of pain until you give up trying to be comfy any OTHER way, because YOU ARE MY BITCH now and I RULE YOU!!"

Sit up straight? Rhomboid major says no.

Turn my head? Rhomboid major painfully reminds me of just who is the boss around here.

Bend over? Ix-nay in a big way, because the rhomboid major is done with WORKIN' like that.

The rhomboid major has me in its thrall. It reminds me to think more KINDLY of it, to CODDLE it, to LOVE the pain and RESPECT the rhomboid (call me "major," beeyotch!), or else maybe it will get the RIGHT rhomboid major to join in on the pokety stabby pain action and take me right the hell OUT for a few days.

And my God, I can't have that. It's bad enough with one; 2 of those sadists would kill me.

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Oh, and my apologies for getting this out a little late. I spent some quality time at the KIA dealership this morning having my lovely and hardworking Optima "serviced," which reminds me of being locked in a small concrete room with nothing to do but stare at the walls for 3.5 hours while technicians try to figure out how to bleed my bank account dry.

Oh....that's right....that's what DID happen.

with major LURVE from tiff 12:31 PM

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Wednesday, June 21, 2006

A few letters I'd like to write

Dear McDonald's,

Your new "richer, bolder, more robust" coffee tastes like burnt compost mixed with saltpeter and run through a filter of moss. Bring back the poorer, meeker, weaker stuff, please, and hurry up about it.

Gracias,

Tiff

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Dear Naked Lady at the Y,

I wish I had half your stones, lady. You've got a corrguated ass, enough back fat to make a hog farmer salivate, and breasts that look like basset ears, and still you remain unclothed but for the jaunty towel you have thrown over your sloping shoulders while you chat about your new house with your friend.

I want to thank you for being so blatantly nude in the locker room, because, in comprison to you, I don't look half bad. Makes up for having to share space with all the aerobics chicks who are, apparently, crafted out of plastic and bendy straws.

You, my soft round friend, rock.

Gratefully,

Tiff

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Dear Wake County Office of Growth Management,
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Mwah! Kissies for you, lovely people who approved the transfer of our boys to the schools they currently attend but might not have once we moved because we moved out of the base area. Hugs and much love for the speed with which you approved this transfer and not making us go through the appeal process. Sparkly little hearts and stars to you for being cheerful and helpful on the phone and for calling me back and for making a nerve-wracking experience so easy and for providing the "right" outcome for our kids, who have been through enough transitions to last them a lifetime and who deserve a little stability now that we're settled into our newest new home.
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XOXO,
Tiff
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=========================

To the Guys Who Moved Us Last Week,

Did you know that when the clothes washer was in our rental house it worked really well? Did you know that your inept and overly forceful installation of said clothes washer into the second-floor laundry room of our new house cracked the drain hose? Did you know that as a result of this overly forceful installation and subsequent cracking of the drain hose the machine now sprays a fine jet of water out onto the floor as it fills? Did you know that this water then creeps under the drain pan and seeps between the floor and walls and oozes down joists and drywall until it finds its way into the kitchen, where it creates a bubble under the paint that make it look like the wall is melting?

Hmmm? Did you know all that?

Well, if you didn't before, now you do, you freaking inept wastes of skin, you brainless mind-farts, you moronic rejects, you stinking pinheads, you incredible cretins, you vacuous sinkholes of common sense.

Irritatedly,

Tiff

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Dear Person Who Landed on this Blog While Searching for "Spanish Bullfighers Wear Tight Pants,"

Hope you found what you were looking for! Ole, baby!

Tiff

with major LURVE from tiff 10:15 AM

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Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Where's those marshmallows, anyhow?

OK, y'all. I whined about wanting to go to summer camp yesterday, and heard from some of you that you'd like to do the same. I mean, who WOULDN'T want to go someplace where they cook your food and clean up too and tell you when it's time for an activity and where you can hang out or swim or do woodburning and take hikes and drink Kool-Aid and learn songs around a campfire while the night settles in?

Exactly.

Therefore, I offer you the results of my brief search through the internets for "adult camping" sites, which in no way implies anything naughty. This is good clean fun here, y'all!

One in the Sierra Nevadas
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One in Maine
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Advertised as “the best in Jewish Camping,” but this goy would like to go up the Hudson valley to this pretty spot.
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This is the place where we spent a lot of time when I was a kid. Loves me some showboat action!!!

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When they say family fun, they mean it at this place in Connecticut. Plus, Cajun Fest! (Disclaimer - this was in our former hometown, and we know the owners. Still, fun!)
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A sprinkling and smattering of offerings.
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Search for yourself. Looks like a good source for "themed" camps.

And lastly - veritable GOLD MINE!!! Searchable by region/activity/special needs/age group/gender/ etc. Wow!

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So now, there's no excuse for not strapping on the day pack, stocking up the smore's fixins, and heading on down the road to a place where you can be a kid again. It's summer, go play a little.

Maybe I'll see you there.

with major LURVE from tiff 10:47 AM

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Fat man jumping - follow up

In reference to something I posted yesterday, the lovely Rennratt has sent this link so y'all who were not fortunate enough to witness the fat man in a Speedo jumping on a trampoline can join in the fun: click here.

I was hoping he'd be fatter, quite frankly.

with major LURVE from tiff 9:07 AM

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Monday, June 19, 2006

Random random random

On the radio this morning:

"There's a backup in North Raleigh - apparently there's a fat man in a Speedo jumping on a trampoline in front of the Perkins."

Imagine my disappointment that I was nowhere near that spot.

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Our younger son is now nicknaming us. I am Shelby. Our older son is Shelby #2.

As an FYI - this is the kid who has recently been identified as being academically gifted. If his talents develop in this area, there's no telling what I'll be called next year.

And yes, I answer to it.

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Remember that flap-doodle thing on the roof I mentioned a while back? It's doing it again. I'm tempted to get up there and start looking for something to stomp.

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In unpacking this weekend, I came across many many boxes of photos and "memories." I can't believe I was ever that young or that thin. Thank God for hair color, or I wouldn't be able to believe I was ever that blond, either.

In many ways, it's hard to believe that so much time has elapsed on the "I used to" clock of my life. I am now firmly planted in my 40's, with a good 20 years of adulthood behind me, and yet I have only foggiest notion of how to act like an adult. Yeah, OK, I have the house and mortgage and bills and am investing and all that, but when do I start not feeling like I'm pulling a fast one with the whole "grown up" thing?

What I really really want is to just go to summer camp and make keychains and take swimming lessons and sleep in a cabin and have someone else make my scrambled eggs in the morning and tell me when to go to bed and what time the camp store is open so I can get some Laffy Taffy and a Coke. I would LOVE to be a kid again, with strong legs and arms and back and have endless energy and boundless curiosity and dreams of flying.

Sure would be nice.

====================

New cool invention - The "Kingsford Caddy," out just in time for Father's Day. Yes, it's like a big Tupperware for your charcoal, which is why it's cool, because once you've lost yet another bag of charcoal to a rainstorm you start to think that you need to get your act together and put the damn stuff away once you use it, but now you don't have to because the caddy will protect the charcoal!

Woot!! One less thing to have to remember!

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I bought the kids some lacrosse sticks this weekend - and guess which kid took to the whole "catch the ball in the tiny net" thing right away?

If you guess the boy who trips over thin air and can't be trusted not to spill a glass of milk and regularly runs into walls and furniture and has had fine motor control issues since he was a wee lad, you'd be right. Congratulations, you're a genius.

Of course, this is also the kid who knows how to program the remote, run the DVD player, and mastered the GameCube controls in under 10 seconds, so I don't know why I'm surprised.

The other boy? Apparently got his hand-eye coordination skillz from his mother.

Poor lad.

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I learned this weekend that if I don't shut the blinds on our bedroom windows, the sun comes right in through the slats at about 5:15 a.m. onto our sleepy dreamy heads. I believe that this is a very wrong time indeed to be awake.

Must. Find. Curtains.

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And lastly - try this the next time you make a pork roast - rub it lovingly (singing "Little Red Corvette" in your head to get you into the mood) with salt, pepper, garlic powder, cinammon, and onion powder, the plop it in a baking dish with about a half cup of water, and roast it in a 350F oven for a while. Let it sit for a half an hour, slice, and serve with pasta salad and lima beans (which have been cooked with salt and sugar until they're nice and soft).

The choice of wine is yours.

This meal will give you dreams of adventure and derring-do, which star a certain Mr. Johnny Depp and involve color-coded teams who are racing against other teams to capture a bad guy and his minions (also dressed in color-coordinated outfits) who are threatning to blow up a local quarry or something. I'm not entirely sure of the plot, because one Mr. Johnny Depp kept wanting to brush my long black hair and whisper secrets into my listening device, but I can assure you that being on the teevee team is better than being on the "back-up team." Better uniforms, you know.

Try it yourself and see if I'm wrong!

with major LURVE from tiff 9:07 AM

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Friday, June 16, 2006

Friday mailbag!

Yo-ho, ho! 'Tis time fer the Fridee mailbag ree-vyoooo!

Avast, ye bloglubbers, we're pullin' intah port with a vast store of queries and responses what as need tendin' to, or the good ship Tiff'll sink under the weighty matters aboard her. So, watch the sheets and lines, for we're offloadin' cargo!

(and no, I have no idea where the pirate thing came from. Sometimes weird stuff happens inside my brain)

======================

Dear Tiff,

My ears pop when I swallow. Is that normal?

Signed, Eustachianally Concerned

Dear EC,

It's fine, but if they start snapping and crackling, get your head out of the cereal bowl already!

Tiff

-------------------

Dear Tiff,

I'm in love with my next door neighbor, but he doesn't know it. I compliment him on his neat lawn, and on his flower-covered mailbox, and on his several cats, and on his taste in clothing, and I even dress up in cute clothes and wear makeup when I know I'm going to see him, but he doesn't seem interested in me. I'm a very pretty girl (or so my friends tell me). My passion for him is all-consuming; I think of him all the time. What should I do to take this to the next level?

Signed - Lovelorn in San Francisco

Dear LLISF,

Ask him to go to a club with you, and let him pick the venue. If he ditches you at the door and you find him later dancing with a tall hairy man wearing a leather crotch sling, I think you'll have the answer to what his "next level" is. If not, then there's a chance for you. Good luck!!

Tiff

---------------------------

Dear Tiff,

I waste a lot of time at work when I should be doing something productive. How can I turn my focus onto what I'm being paid to do rather than spending time on the internet or hanging out with my friends in the smoking area?

Signed - Do-Nothing in Paducah

Dear DNIP,

From your letter, it doesn't appear to me that you're doing anything differently than most people. Keep up the good work!

Tiff

--------------------------

Dear Tiff,

In recent weeks I've noticed that my toes are slowly turning blue, and a growing some kind of webbing between them that smells like blue cheese. Should I be concerned?

Signed - Curious in Seattle

Dear CIS,

Duh, yeah.

Tiff

-------------------------

Dear Tiff,

Is it true that if human could travel at the speed of light they could reverse time by using a Bernoulli singularity to fold space into a annular ring of plasma and dark matter, thereby creating the possibility of alternate outcomes for a single-unit universe?

Signed - Curious in Manahttan

Dear CIM,

Duh, yeah.

Tiff

------------------------

Dear Tiff,

You made the last one up, right?

Signed- Curious in Raleigh

Dear CIR,

Duh, yeah.

Tiff

------------------------

Dear Tiff,

I have a little doggie that goes everywhere with me. I carry him around in a little purse and feed him little bites of my pate and fois gras when I'm pretending to eat. He wears cute little jackets by Vera Wang and he gets his nails done to match mine. My problem is, I haven't named him yet. What should I call my adorable little friend?

Signed - Devoid of Canine Nomenclature

Dear DOCN,

How about "Shark Bait"? That's kind of cute.

======================

And there you have it, y'all, the Friday mailbag, a recurring feature here on NAY when the headlines are full of doom and gloom and the photos of the day are all boring and there's nothing left to talk about so that I have to actually ANSWER QUESTIONS, when I COULD be doing something far more interesting like making fun of stuff other people do. Lordy, the suffering I endure for you people!!

Oh, yes, please keep those cards and letters coming, because I sure do need the scratchpaper.

Tiff

with major LURVE from tiff 9:34 AM

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Thursday, June 15, 2006

Superheros don't sweat

Swing on string through Gotham's towers,

I don't sweat.

Throw batarangs o'er people's flowers

I don't sweat.

Immolate with laser eyesight

Stop the world with speed-of-light flight

Bust some heads in a bad-guy bar fight

I don't sweat.

===================

But why? Why doesn't Spiderman, in his tight (oooh!) spandex (aaaah!) full-body suit ever have pit stains after flipping and twisting all the way across a major metropolitan area? Why don't we see telltale dark spots on Superman's chest after he pulls a Buick off of little Jimmy? Why doesn't Batman show a sheen of moisture on his upper bat-lip after having jousted with the Joker or pounced upon the Penguin?

Did they take some kind of mega-anti-sweat potion when the super-suits were issued? Are there ultra-absorbent dress shields lining those painted-on outfits? Do they take a vow of dryness supplemented with botox injections to the pittal area?

Whatever the secret, I want me some of that. I want to not sweat like a superhero. It would be nice to be cool and pale and smooth all the time, with no moisture issues. It would be great to take a shower and not have to plaster the pits with something that in all likelihood will give me some form of brain deposts and shove me down the slide of senility a few years earlier than if I DIDN'T have to protect against odor and wetness. I would like to be one of those women who can wear tight-sleeve shirts or turtlenecks or sweaters and look all cute and fashionable and not at all sweaty or uncomfortable. They must have some superhero in them, because I can't figure it out.

What follows is a story about me and sweat, because I believe in "the sharing."

I once went to a cotillion. I was a senior in high school, it was at some military "thing" in Washington DC, and only the girls from some honor society or something were invited to go. This, of course, meant that all my friends (the earliest identified geek team in existence) were going to go, and I was pressured into going as well. This might surprise you, but I am not now, nor was I ever, a cotillion kind of girl, so it took a bit of doing to force my consent to attend.

Once decided on the course of action, I made a dress to go to this cotillion. It was blue, I think, and shimmery, and it fit like a glove and I looked very, very sexy in a non-revealing good-girl kind of way. However, I was terribly self-conscious, and nervous as a caffeinated crack-head. I was so nervous that I forgot to apply the all-important "Secret" before departing for the cotillion, and that sad fact, coupled with the nervousness, started up a stanky flop sweat factory under my arms that became very evident once I took of my "wrap" at the coat check to the ballroom.

The half-moons of perspiration were of tremendous size. The odor was unmistakeable. The embarrassment was paralyzing. As a result, I spent a good portion of the night in the ladies room, absorbing the cascade of perspiration with toilet paper and wishing I were dead already. I was 17, young, surrounded by youths in uniform, and unable to raise my arms.

Emotional scarring anyone? It's being served over there in the corner where the blond girl is sitting. But be careful, something smells a little funny over there, so be prepared to get you helping quickly.

Yeah, I sure could have used whatever those superheros have. Who knows? With THAT kind of protection, I might have caught the eye of some promising young man who would later go on to become an admiral and I would be photographed with him at all sorts of grand parties and would be the smart sassy wife of one of the men short-listed to be the next Vice President.

All lost, all lost, because I didn't have the secret. Super OR powder-fresh, either one would have been fine.

=====================

Feel free to tell me any of YOUR embarrassing stories.....sweaty or otherwise.

with major LURVE from tiff 11:02 AM

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Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Bad ideas a deux

You know what's the best time of all to make a ton of trips back and forth to your car, carrying all the junk out of your rental house that didn't fit into the category of "stuff you have to have so it gets moved right and right away" and seems to spontaneously reproduce when you're not looking?

I would submit that the best time to do this is NOT when it's raining an inch an hour (bad idea 1) and you can't find your raincoat because you've put it in a box someplace and that box is more than likely buried beneath seven or eight OTHER boxes all of which are mislabeled, and even though you might not LIKE to wear a raincoat because they make you hot and sweaty and they smell like your Grandma's couch, it would save you from becoming soaked to the bone from all the rain that cascades from the roof right down the neck of the shirt you plan to wear to work (bad idea 2).

How do I know this, you ask? Well, it's because this is EXACTLY what I did this morning.

Once I made it to work the situation didn't improve much. I am freaking SHIVERING inside my still-damp shirt (and pants, mustn't forget about the pants), because I didn't bring a change of clothes and today is the day that facilities got the bright idea to turn down (up?) the A/C as a reward to all the office drones who are working up a sweat with all the chair sitting and typing, and the dampness from my shirt is turning into a frosty fog as it slooooowly evaporates. Every time I try to lean back in my chair it feels like I'm putting on a wet bathing suit on a July afternoon after having changed into "regular" clothes for lunch because Mom doesn't like people to eat in their swimwear. I cannot lean back, or that shivery cringe will grab at me and I might spill the decaf coffee I've been mainlining in an attempt to just warm up.

Note - it's not just me. There's a woman around the corner from my office who is wearing a blanket. No lie - a blanket. In June. In North Carolina. Something is seriously wrong with this picture. I'm thinking of asking her if I can snuggle for a little while under the warmth of her blanket, because even though we might be called "Brokeback Sisters" for the next week or so, my cold damp shirt might dry out and I can forget that I'm glad I wore the steel-belted bra today that uses the force of FOAM and WIRES to create a lovely uplifted shape and hides all signs of areolar meteorology, because even though I like the bra, I do not the the nipples acting as a thermometer, which they would have if I had worn the cute lacy one without the foam-tastic figure enhancing powers of this one. So, yeah, a blanket would be nice, even a shared one.

I did have one good idea today, which was not bothering to do anything with my hair this morning after I showered. Though, thinking about it, the shower really was unnecessary, being as how I got ANOTHER one what with all the last-ditch schlepping that went on. A cold shower. In my clothes. That I'm still wearing. In my frigid office. Under the A/C vent.

It's time for more decaf, y'all. The break room is usually pretty warm, and I think I might turn on the toaster and rub my hands over it and mutter about haw sad it is that people don't wear shawls anymore.

=====================

Oh, hey - I finally get all the "Napoleon Dynamite" jokes the cool kids are telling. I saw the movie last night, at long last. Why, oh why, did I wait so long?

with major LURVE from tiff 11:15 AM

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Tuesday, June 13, 2006

In which I whine about being a girl, and it's mostly not funny

Because, from all appearances, my burst of quasi-demi-fame from the whole Michele thing is over and we're back to nearly nobody reading my blog (except all y'all who already know I'm one taco short of a combo plate), I once again feel free to post about crap nobody really needs to know about.

Today's offering is personal, and a little on the "jagged edge" side of Tiff, but while I was writing about it for someplace else I decided it wasn't quite right for that place and decided to just post it here. Your loss. Sorry.

WARNING! WARNING!

If "body stuff" upsets you, or you'd really rather not KNOW about my issues with being a woman who is, aggravatingly, STILL of childbearing years, then please go someplace else, becaues this entry has a distinct whiff of GRRRRL power mixed with the musky overtones of FEMINISM and THE GODDESS-TALK.

Or, maybe it's "MODESS" talk, but if you read more you'll find out what I'm talking about anyhow.

Onward, ye brave ones. Perhaps there will be a joke at the end as a reward for your fortitude.

======================

I am about to delve into the land of the disgusting, so watch out. I already warned you once...
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Here are 2 words in combination that a lady should never have to experience:
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Tampon failure.
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Gentlemen - you will never know this feeling, so tuck your rejoinders of "but you don't know what it's like to get a boner in class" into the back pocket of your egos now and forever. You do not know. You can never know. You don't understand the sudden departure of a date, or why your wife only wears black pants 5 days a month, or why that hidden pocket in her purse crinkles, or why your normally sex-pot lover has a whole DRAWER full of underwear that your grandma would think is dowdy, because you just can't know. It's not how you're wired. We, the suffering females, forgive you for this, as long as you agree to STFU and let us whine.
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Ladies - you know of what I speak. The sudden gushy feeling when you get out of your car, or the warm-ish sensation in your crotchal region while you're in a team meeting, or the wet "uh-oh" as you're pitching to the little league instructional team.

Haven't we all been there? Haven't we all, at one time or another, if we're of the female persuasion, had that moment of "oh shit, something's going on down there that's just not right." Yes, I think we have. If not yet, you will, trust me. Please accept my apologies for telling you in advance.
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One effect of the failure of protection is that I have thrown away more pairs of hopelessly stained underwear than I care to admit. I have thrown some of them away at work, or in public restrooms, or someplace NOT my home, because the result of the failure can be catastrophic, to the point of admitting that trying to save the bloodied undies is not worth the three bucks it will take to buy a new pair.

(I told you this was going to be disturbing.)

Ladies, I dare you to tell me you haven't dumped some undies yourselves. Just as my husband says all real men have chin scars, I would offer that all real women have disrobed in a public bathroom to dispatch sullied undies to the confines of a little trash can on the wall of a stall (y'all).
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A further note - my aging uterus seems to believe that its sole goal in life is to make me guess not only WHEN I get my period, but with what FORCE I'll get it. By golly, when I think that I'm going to have a delicate-flower-type time of it, doesn't that bitch of a 44-year old baby hammock open up the floodgates on day 3. Doesn't Little Miss Uterus 1962 decide to maybe wait 3 weeks between effluvial flows, and then hesitate an extra week or 2 for a couple of times in a row just to be a coy little crone, then stutter-step back to the tri-weekly triathlon of Cramp, Bloat, and Flow for a few rounds, always changing up the heavy days and the time-to-last-tampon just to keep things "interesting."

A word to to young ladies out there - This whole period thing does NOT get any easier as time goes by; because I have recently discovered what the term "menorrhagia" really means, and just how it affects my life now that I'm well past doing anything ELSE useful with The Ute. So many lessons, so many ways to learn them....
.
Between you and me, I'm rooting for menopause right now. Hot flashes and a risk of osteoporosis seem better than dabbing at myself in a gray bathroom stall, trying to clean up the endometrium that tried to make its escape in a sudden explosive bid for gory freedom.

And that's all I'm sayin' about THAT.

====================

Oh, if you stuck around for something funny, just on the hopes that all that slogging through my personal muck might be worth a laugh at the end....I got nothin'; however, I now invite you to sing an iteration of the Hallelujah Chorus (standing is optional) in honor of the passing of "The Move." Yes, it is, for all intents and purposes, finished.

We spent the first night in our new house last night, watching fireflies flicker across the front yard, inhaling the scent of new wood floors, settling each boy in his own room for the first time in his life, eating Chinese takeout, and wondering where we're going to put all the stuff we've accumulated during our 17 years together.

All in all, it was a good thing indeed.

with major LURVE from tiff 11:17 AM

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Monday, June 12, 2006

Post the 180th

Time flies, time flies, until only flies have time.

Stupid Dipterans, hogging all the time I don't have left to get things done.

Remember how a couple of weeks ago I was all happy about the new house and was really looking forward to being there and out in the country with all the quiet and the nature and the porches and the room and the farms and whatnot?

I, in a fit of idiocy heretofore only seen on certain episodes of "Jackass," forgot all about "the moving."

Let me put my distate in this way: I abhor moving with the power of a thousand bilious sweaty camels, with the white-hot fury of a scorned hotel heiress, with the insane crazy-headedness of a proper Alabama woman who;s packed into a full church when the A/C goes out and she's wearing panyhose AND a jacket and it's August and she's wearing the wrong color bra under her white blouse and didn't shave her legs, and with the intensity of a crazed ascetic hermit who's lived for 20 years on rice and ants to purify his body and discovers that he's STILL got high cholesterol and there's nothing left to CUT OUT.

It's true, dear friends, it's true. I cannot stand the moving.

It's not the ADVENTURE part I mind so much, really, it's more the SCHLEPPING part I mind. The packing of stuff you don't really need as much of as you have, the cleaning out of places you'd rather not clean, the organizing of items for which you have little to no use, the sifting through of a few months or years of harvest, and hurriedly trying to separate the wheat from the chaff of your literal existence.

And even though we have hired a moving company and a cleaning service, there's still the "non-bulky" items to pack and move ourselves and the laundry to finish and the magazines to take to the trash and the cable box to return and the change of address to initiate and the tromping in and out of old houses and new houses trying to make one house fit inside the other in a way that makes perfect sense to you and all the things that have become yours over time.

When I become queen, all moves will be in body and personal items only....all other materials will be suitable for anyone who chooses to move into your vacated spot, and the spot to which you go is full of things left there for you by the previous inhabitants. A one-size-fits-all world that you can personalize with you own bits of life without having to haul all the stuff that just gets in the way of instant satisfaction and settlement. Don't like the stuff that was left for you? I would create a governmental agency that specializes in interior transformation, but you'd have to pick from the larder of stuff other people didn't want and you'd have to pay a fee for the nicer stuff to support purchase of replacement items when at last the robust furnishings that are standard issue are ready for the burn pile. Want something new? Fine, but you have to give up someting old. Want to decorate? Fine, but paint the walls white when you're done, pull off the slipcovers, and take down that god-awful dining room light fixture before you go. I'd staff this agency with Scandanavian and Japanese people who know about sleek design and making things work in tight spaces and about STORAGE and I would criminalize clutter and I would decree that every Saturday is "hangover amnesty" night so that everyone could get hammered and listen to loud music and not have to cook and not have to watch bedtimes and not have to,

Oops! Got off topic there for a sec.

Anyhow - I dislike moving very very very very much.

How about YOU?

with major LURVE from tiff 10:38 AM

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Friday, June 09, 2006

A mildly amusing thing or 2.

Oh my heavenly days, y'all, it's FRIDAY again.
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Again with the end of the week thing going on, and the expectation that the good folks at Yahoo will provide goofy-ass headlines to mock and distort. Oh, the anticipation as I hungrily scoured the words on the page this morning, my snarkinator set to "stun," which is what I was fully prepared to do to y'all with my dry wit. Stun. Get it?
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Moving on, then.
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Because I had the groove going and the wit sharpened to a finely honed edge, only one thing could happen: the people at Yahoo decided today was the day to write headlines that, if not utterly un-malleable, were almost dead repeats for headlines written not too very long ago, and I do NOT like to repeat myself, even with humor. Oh sure, I can tell the gorilla joke a thousand times or recite a dirty limerick to all who will listen, but making y'all read something that supposed to be funny only to have you think "gosh, you know, I think I've seen this someplace BEFORE, right here on this blog" is kind of sad, so I won't go there so as to spare you the sadness and whatnot.
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HOWEVER,
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Where words fail, pictures do not. Please feel free to praise a baby deity of your own choosing.....
.
Therefore, let us progress onward to the all-visual Friday news recap, HEEEERE on N.A.Y:
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===============================

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Michael Jackson is seen here after his latest surgery being visited by French President Jacques Chirac and a team of plastic surgeons.

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George Germain, of the Quel Fromage Home for the Terminally Stooped, takes a walk yesterday with a bubble-wrapped Micheal Jackson after his release from the hospital. Mr Germain has been hired to attend Mr. Jackson while he gets his color back.

.
Gladys and Pearl can hardly believe that their neighbors are such big chickens that they put up metal bars over their coop-gate instead of the usual wire. "I have a hard time with such MISTRUST," said Gladys (on right). Pearl commented that the snub of their safe neighborhood would make her jaw drop, if she had one.

Newest beauty concern in India - dishpan head.

============================

OK, now I'm well and truly PO'ed, because I had MORE pictures but Blogger (my recent nemesis) is a LIAR, and when it says it's uploaded my pictures it HASN'T, which ticks me off and makes me say bad words because oh! the cleverness cannot come out and I am left here with a big ol bulging sack of snark almost ready to explode with it's lush juicy ripeness, and it's making me so hot under the collar because I can't get it out.....

So I leave you with this wonderful headline instead, sent in by the ravishingly gorgeous RennRatt, who is always thinking of her fellow bloggers and feeds them lines like a cokedealer in a disco, baby:

Mets Select D&E’s Stoner In 16th Round

Dude, that is so radical.

Renn says to read the whole thing - big fun in WV!

===========================

Wait! Oh please wait, for the love of your baby deity! You must READ this, because it's really really important and it made the news and therefore it has relevance to you and your daily life:

KISS Rocks On With New Fragrance and Coffeehouse

from which I quote:

"While the KISS scents do not contain actual band member sweat, they do contain a heady blend of black cumin, white pepper, dark rum, cypress, moss and honeyed amber blend (pour homme) and crushed red peppercorns, wet fig leaves, wild red poppy, musky bare skin accord, shiny patent leather and vintage mahogany (pour femme). And both the men's and women's scents and ancillary products - Party Shower Gel, Lovin' Body Lotion, Rockin' Bath Splash - also contain pheromones, which are said to increase libido and up one's sexual attraction factor."

Wet fig leaves? Moss? Honeyed amber blend? Musky bare skin "accord"? Dark rum? Pheremones?

Holy jumping jeebus, y'all, they're describing a wild night I had in the back of an old boyfriend's car after hiking all afternoon while drinking a sixer of Killians and Captain Morgan's shots. That's EXACTLY what it smelled like when we were done.

You know what? I don't even want to KNOW what's in the coffee.

with major LURVE from tiff 10:37 AM

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Thursday, June 08, 2006

Bits, pieces, flotsam, and detritus

A bit:

I thought this word was made up just for that commerical for something-or-another-that-I-can't-remember-right-now:

floccinaucinihilipilification (FLOK-si-NO-si-NY-HIL-i-PIL-i-fi-KAY-shuhn)

But, I guess not, because it is featured as today's "word of the day" from A Word A Day, which indicates that this very long word means to estimate something as worthless.

As always, use it three times today in conversation and it's your forever. If you do manage this feat, won't you let me know how?

===================

Some flotsam:

Question - do you ever avoid doing something that you know you should do just because you know how the something is going to to turn out and it's not going to be pretty and you'd just really rather pretend it will all go away if you ignore the not-pretty-ness for a while?

I have a situation like that with someone with whom I must work. This someone has more initials after his name than me, which automatically makes him better than me (yes, he's one of those), and has proven to be a bit of a pain in the rumpus room of my reality.

He wants me to call him. I'm not looking forward to the reason why. Therefore I write this blog entry. How lame is THAT?

===================

A piece:

Early last fall, I took the boys for a hike at a local park. We tried and tried to find a nature trail, but this particular park is geared more toward the "pull in and picnic" population rather than the "hike and eat gorp" population. I don't begrudge anyone the right to picnic, of course, but I was lamenting the lack of hikeable area in thie big ol' park. We eventually found a wee trail BETWEEN picnic areas and decided to explore that option for as long as we could, in order to "get a little nature."

And it was a wonderful decision to have made, because in that tiny patch of piney woods the spiders had been at work creating webs that caught the afternoon light and leaving behind long tails of silk that captured falling pine needles. The silks were invisible, so the effect was of suspended animation, as though gravity didn't apply and that, for a moment, the senesced needles could bask in the sun one last time before making contact with the strange dark earth. They swayed on their silks when the breeze blew, and for a long time we watched them do their silent improbable dance in the quiet plot of land that had been their entire home and life.

We counted a few dozen of these terpsichoren pine chats as we made our way along the short picnic trail, and with each one counted I thanked the good fortune that brought us to that place at that time, because for those moments, we shared wonder and amazement.

=============================

Detritus:

Right now, I work on the second floor of a 2-floor building. Above my head (on the roof, y'all) is some kind of metal flap-doodle thingie that must be an inlet for the A/C system or something. The flap-doodle thingie does it's flap-doodling all day long in the heat of a NC late-spring day, and it's irritating the living SNOT out of me, because the flapping and doodling are inconsistent in rhythm and intensity.

It is the modern equivalent of the ol' Chinese water torture, and it's working.

with major LURVE from tiff 8:59 AM

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Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Well, bust my buttons!

Y'all ready for this? Hold onto yer tocques, keeds, because this (to me) is big..... .
This here little blog was linked to at Michele's site as the "site of the day."
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So cool, and yet so weird.

I KNEW something was up this morning when I checked into the e-mail account that bounces comments from this site, and saw that I had 18 messages. "Well," I thought," most of them are probably spam or something that's made it through the censor," but in reality I don't even get 18 SPAM messages a day, so something odd was afoot. Imagine, then, my surprise as I opened the inbox to reveal that all the messages had to do with the blog.
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Then, if you will, imagine the wheels turning in my head as I realized that the number of messages left before 9 this morning almost equals the TOTAL amount of people who normally visit during the course of a regular day, except when I do a Carnival of the Mundane or leave a really off-the-wall comment on some better-read site (Joe.MyGod. or the WVSR come to mind).
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So, to all y'all who are new here, a big ol' Tiffy welcome!
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And to all y'all who have been here for a while and who know just how much this inrush of readers floors me and how the bright light of public inspection makes me blink with shock and awe - mwah!
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And to Michele - muy grande muchas gracias! I feel all sparkly inside.
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============================
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Now, back to the regular programming, because all this gratitude and diva-ing is exhausting.
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============================
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Hey, you know those vitamins I was talking about yesterday? Remember, the ones that were supposed to turn me into a middle-aged superwoman who can lift large boxes of house stuff with one arm while making dinner with the other as her laser-sharp vision watches after the kids and her super-energy would keep her up past 9 p.m.? Those vitamins?
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Well, apparently those vitamins have another, more unsavory, effect. An effect that I think is politely termed "correcting water content. " An effect that, I suspect, is the REAL reason one might lose some weight while taking them (as is advertized as a possible OTHER effect due to "creating a thermogenic metabolism"....), because this "effect" initiates a cascade of events that establish the need to RUN to the bathroom several times a day.
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And I do mean, run.
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Because I am rather bovine in my life outlook, I take this, as I do most things, with a practiced equanimity, and pretend that this is "effect" is good because all that "effect-y-ness" must mean that I have been carrying around WAY too much water and therefore the extra "fluffyness" I've been gathering for the last few years on my hips and waist and arms and eyelids is merely nothing more than the sloshing about of several gallons of water that has been sequestered in my interstitia (oh, yes, the big words, my dears!) in case of emergency, and now it's apparent that the "emergency" comes in the form of a white-and-orange pill and it's time for all that interstital sequestered water to get the hell outta Dodge, hence the new familiarity with door #2 in the ladie's room, if you get my drift.

And as an extra added bonus feature of the new vitaminerrific regimen, I'm getting my workout with all those trots to the loo!

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Yes, oh yes, my skillz of rationalization and wordplay are legend, and to be feared.
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============================
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And that, dear ones, is that for now. There are "things" to be done in the world of illness and health and the management thereof, and I must go do these things else risk coming under the sharp focus of management's magnifying glass.

More tomorrow, and maybe not even anything about my "special effects."
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You may thank me later for my slavish attention to your more delicate sides.

with major LURVE from tiff 11:57 AM

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Tuesday, June 06, 2006

This is the one without a title

As I write this, the window behind me is being all snarky and mean. It's saying "look! Look at me! I show you a sunny day, blue skies, warm temperatures, and puffy white clouds! I show you something that was made for play, and yet you, you drone, you worker bee, sit on your expando-butt and crank out whatever it is that you crank out, while somewhere your inner child screams for relief from the monotony and just wants to go out and PLAY, but ha-ha on you because guess what, you can't. You drone. You tiny cog, you speck of a placeholder in the maelstrom of real life."

My window takes epithet lessons from Shakespeare, so it seems.

Sometimes, I hate the window, and punish it by closing the blinds so that its mocking sneers and gibes will be rebuffed by the slats of the gray metal blinds that cover it. But still, I can hear its small voice, rendered tinny by the aluminum filter, sing out "neener, neener, neener! It's still NIIIIICE out here!" and I have to escape to the break room for something made of sugar and chocolate, because then I will feel better about life.

It's too bad there's not a bourbon dispenser in the break room, because I'd totally be all over it.

===========================

So, anyhow, I know you want to hear about my new house, and how far along we are in the preparations to move, because you are interested like that and I am one to accommodate the polite inquiries of the internet, even if nobody asks right out loud because sometimes y'all are too shy for your own good:

It's fine.

Everything is fine.

We will get through the packing and the moving and the turning off of utilities and the turning on of utilities and the shuffling of schools and the nagging of county officials and the sifting through stuff we own to decide to dump or keep and the painting of rooms and the placing of furniture and the buying of rugs and the maintaining of the sanity.

We will, I say to you, because yesterday I bought myself some super-dee-duper vitamins and fish oil stuff at the GNC that are purported to be just the thing for a "fluffy" woman in her 40's who may or may not be treating herself just exactly right, and by the time the real moving starts in a week I'm going to be so hopped up on natural phyto-whatevers that I'll probably go all green when I get angry or maybe shoot lasers out my eyeballs or steam out my ears. I'll be strong as an ox and as graceful as a dancer while lugging boxes and closet stuff and boxes and kitchen stuff and boxes and boxes and boxes. I'll be patient as a lamb and as righteous as Solomon as the movers ask where does this go and as my children fight over whose toys go in what room and as my husband wonders where all the stuff is going to go because the garage seems to be all full up and the truck ain't empty yet.

I can see it all in the gleaming mirror of positivity that is my optimistic mind, and have great hopes that all this will come to pass due to the wonders of vitaminology and it's effects on my physiology.

Updates as events warrant, you can be sure.

with major LURVE from tiff 12:11 PM

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Monday, June 05, 2006

Dear Blogger

Oh, God, YES, Blogger, darlin'! Make me WAIT for you, baby! Make me WANT you to work for me, to be there for me, to seem to respond to my pleas for your attention!
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Hi, I’m Tiff, and I’m a blogger whore. Harsh words, for sure, but it feels good to be here among friends and fellow sufferers who, I know, would all back flop for Blogger if it would operate on anything resembling a consistent basis. I mean, it’s like when I want it NOW, Blogger holds back, coyly “loading up” my page until I’m fairly bursting with anticipation, then it stalls and leaves me feeling unsatisfied. When I’m not feeling inspired, Blogger pops right up, sturdy and ready to help me get my blog swerve on, instantaneous in its attention and ready to please.
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Why do I get INVOLVED in these complicated relationships? Why can’t I just be with something steady and reliable and nice? Why do I go for the dangerous ones, the ones I can’t rely on to always be there, the ones who think they can tease me and mistreat me and make me want MORE of them because just a little bit of them is better than a whole LOTTA anything that stable and reliable?
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Why, oh why?
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Because, and it hurts me to say this, I’m as frugal as Scrooge, and won’t pay for hosting, that’s why. Blogger is my cheap date, my blingy thing I keep on the side, my exciting addiction, and when Blogger wants me to use it then it’s better than almost anything else in the whole world.
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You can’t get THAT with ol’ reliable.
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But still, it would be nice if Blogger would consider MY needs once in a while, and let me use it when I’M ready, not when it says it’s got nothing better to do.
.
===========================
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Blogger's blatant ignoring of my need to use it today, along with not being able to use my computer until approximately “oh-crap-I’ll-just-go-HOME-and-take-a-sick-day-because-once-it’s-up-and-running-I-won’t-FEEL-like-working” o-clock today has boded little but ill for this Monday, Monday.
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Plus there’s the whole “gotta leave early for a school conference” thing, which takes momentum from the afternoon and makes it fall flat on its face, like some kid who doesn’t see the crack in the sidewalk until it’s too late to skate around it. There’s no real reason to start something you know you can’t finish with THAT kind of ending waiting for you, right?
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I know, it’s amazing I ever get anything done at all with that kind of approach to life. This is why my kitchen countertops are always clean and the floor is always swept, because these are things that can be FINISHED once started. The same cannot be said of doing laundry or paying the bills, because those are 2 things that just keep on comin’ atcha, and so I avoid those things in favor of the instant-feedback loop of the smaller, more visibly “done” chores. Plus, a clean kitchen makes up for dusty furniture.
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I also enjoy weeding gardens. Weird, huh?
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I’m not sure where this post is going. Straight to the dogs, in all likelihood. At least it will seem that way if it ever ends.
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Which it might not.
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I might just keep adding nonsense to the end until you get very bored and click on a link to somebody else’s blog (that’s OK, they’re all better than me so it’s cool) or something, and forget that you didn’t really finish this post at all.
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This post resembles laundry, ‘tis neverending.
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OK, I’ll cut it out now, and try to find a groove into which I can insert myself in order to face the work that should have been started this morning but wasn’t, for reasons I’ve already mentioned and so won’t again here. But go ahead and re-read it if you want to, because that will make this post seem all that much LONGER, and it might get better the second time around.
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Like lasagna, or potato salad, or love.

with major LURVE from tiff 1:05 PM

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Sunday, June 04, 2006

Uh, what?!?!?

I've seen links to this story at several places, and thought I'd link to it here just as a "huh?" kind of thing.
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What would be on YOUR list of national monuments or icons that need to be protected from terrorist attacks?
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I'm pretty sure mine would include the Empire State Building, but apparently I'm not aligned with the governmental decision-makers.

with major LURVE from tiff 2:24 PM

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Friday, June 02, 2006

Deeply disappointing

Yahoo ain't workin' it today for me.

There are no mangled headlines, no WTF-type pictures, no material at ALL from which to eek out even the tiniest smidgen of snark or lame humor or chuckle-inducing somethingoranother. It is NOT happenin' here, y'all, and therefore, I am bereft of anything on which to base the usual falderal that takes place here on Fridays.

So, because I can't let you down, you sweet internets peoples, I've decided to answer a few questions from the mailbag instead!

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Tiff,

My boyfriend tells me I'm pretty, but I don't believe him because I think I'm fat and I have zits. Should I take him at his word?

Confused.

Dear Confused,

Honey, he probably just wants in your pants anyhow, and once he's there it's a pretty good bet he's not concerned with what you look like. Believe what he tells you, as long as you take it with a grain of salt and a condom. Hell, you tell him you love him, even though that's a big lie because you really want to date the fry kid at Bojangles because he slips you a few chicken minis on Thursdays after you get off work at WalMart, so you're both lying and still getting laid. Welcome to the rest of your life, sweetie!

Tiff
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Dear Tiff,

I'm a 40-something guy who would like to meet women, but so far am striking out in the "runs batted in" department, if you know what I mean. I'm a terrific hitter, can haul ass around the diamond, and girls never have to rosin up before taking the plate, so what's striking me out here?

Sporting guy

Dear Sporting guy,

#1 - your baseball analogies are lame
#2 - the fact that you use baseball analogies as euphemisms for your sexual prowess are even lamer, and weird in a "not-ha-ha" way
#2 - rosin would make things sticky, and girls hate that.

Other than that, I can't see why the chicks aren't flocking to your House of Ruth, baby.

Tiff
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Dear Tiff,

What makes you think you can tell us all kinds of stories about yourself and only give us a picture of an eye for reference when we pretend you're our BFF and we're out shopping for Kate Spade knockoffs at the SteinMart?

Awestruck

Dear AS

It hurts me deeply to say this, but it's because most of the stuff here is fake and I'm really a Samoan male with a deep interest in getting to know WASP culture in order to one day right the wrongs perpetuated on my people by hundreds of years of incursions by smelly pale sailors and their watery wandering eyes. Thanks for making me blow my cover, you needy little pest.

Tiff (AKA Pumo Akanoshtrimbulato)

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Tiff,

You lied about that last one, didn't you?

Doubtful.

Dear Doubtful,

Doubtful!

Tiff
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Dear TIff,

If you could be a tree, what kind of a tree would you be?

BW

Hi BW,

Glad you asked. I have given a lot of time and consideration to this question, mostly because Blogger wouldn't let me into my blog for most of today, so I had to find some other way to waste time rather than working, and I've decided that I'd like to be a larch.

OK - I'd also be a eucalyptus if I had to, or, in a pinch, I would volunteer to be a stand of bamboo if all the good trees were taken.

Thanks for asking! Great question! Love your hair! Call me!

Tiff

==============================

Hey, this was kind of fun. Maybe I'll do more next week. Until then, keep those cards and letters coming, and have a super-dee-super weekend!

with major LURVE from tiff 2:35 PM

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Thursday, June 01, 2006

White Rabbit - 2 parts

Oh, so late, so late, so late.......
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Racing to beat the clock, the time, the minutes rushing by toward the dead line across which you may not step unless you too are recognizably dead. Because the deadlines, they do not move themselves, and you'd best be akin to them in outlook and aura to survive the beating you'll take as you approach them.
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Which is to say, you'd best be nearly dead with effort by the time the dead line looms large in your personal horizon, or you haven't been playing the game properly.
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The dead lines are there to beat out your vitality, to suck the shine from your eyes and the song from your heart and to introduce you to the deep dark of night and the silence in your brain as everything you once knew is replaced by the dank omnipresence of the dead line.
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Too much, you might cry out, too much! With a mere 24 hours in a day, I can not create all that is required of me in the time that is left. I am not capable, I am not strong enough, I am not prepared for the face in the mirror that mocks my inability to rise to the occasion. Why am I not better at this? Why am I incapable of beating the deadline at its own game? Why do I find myself here in the dead of night, staring at the flickering mocking screens of my own failure as the white rabbit runs circles in my brain, checking the time on his huge pocket watch of shame?
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Because, once again, I promised more than I could deliver...
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Isn't he just the cutest thing EVER?

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As I was driving to work this morning, I saw an old woman heading out for a day in the garden. She was stooped over, wearing a bright blue sweater in the 80-degree heat, and on her head she wore a green shower cap, which I suppose was there to protect her hairdo from the snags and oily plant residues she might encounter. In her hands were clutched a rake and a bushel-basket; I imagine she was going out to clean out the flower beds of any leaves that may have fallen from the enormous pecan and magnolia trees that dominate her yard.

All this I saw in sharp detail, because she was only about 4 feet from the traffic whizzing by at 60+ miles an hour.

I'll just bet you that she's lived in her house forever and a day. I'll bet you that on "moving-in day" all those years ago she never imagined that her sleepy dirt road would one day be a major commuting route for thousands of people, because her snug new house was miles and miles from Raleigh, and the only neighbors she had were the cows next door, and everyone in her part of the county worked the land. I'll bet she never thought that people would one day carry computers in their pockets or would shun the golden crops of tobacco that her husband raised. I'll bet as a young woman she went into the state capitol only on special occasions and washed her white gloves on Saturday nights. I'll bet that the radio played boogie-woogie as she washed the dishes after dinner and that she pretended "Rock of Ages" was her favorite song when the preacher asked. I'll bet she sat out in the yard on summer nights, creating a breeze with a paper fan cut in the shape of a coconut and painted with Hawaiian scenes, hoping for a storm to come to cool things down so she'd feel like finishing the ironing in the morning. I'll bet that she wore a flowered apron over her housedress as she watched her children play in the road after the rainstorm, they'd create small pinchpots from the wet red clay of the roadbed and watch out for the occasional "CAR!" that would motor past her little house way in the country.

And I'll bet, from time to time, she too wonders where the time went.

with major LURVE from tiff 12:39 PM

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