Friday, February 26, 2010

I'll be jiggered

That last post, the one from over a week ago that I thought would maybe be the last one here at blogger (no cap B because that would tip of the spysters who stalk me at night when the tinfoil hat is too crinkly) seems to still be attracting comments.

The manna of bloggers the world over, that comments are. Why write if nobody is going to comment on how relevant/cheeky/interesting you are? So, IDK about the Haloscan; it might be totally down on all new posts, or it might now be for accounts that were existent way back in the stone age, but the reality that could comment on my own stupid blog brought me back around here to say this:

You have not heard the last of me yet.

I've been quiet for a while, but with Spring (read: HELLO mothereffing gorgeous Carolina blue skies and 50 F temps!) comes rebirth...the daffodials I liberated from the abandoned lot next door are poking their turgid little heads above the soil and in a couple of weeks will be showing off their wee pistils and stamens to whoever will look, and by Jimbo that's a pretty fantastic sign the winter is over.

Me = can't wait.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Have sock monkey, will travel

It appears as though Haloscan is closing up shop tomorrow. This blog uses Haloscan comments, so there might be a teeny pinch of impact at NAY. But hey, it ought not to be a huge issue to just turn Blogger comments back on, right? A little clickie here, a little clickie there, and all should be right with the world, opening the door once more to the throngs, nay fully TENS of people who come here for a brief respite from their rush-rush go-go lives and feel the need to leave a witticism or insight in the comments.

Oh yes, I do feel it’s important to maintain a free and open dialog with the spit-shined denizens of the internet. I’m all ABOUT the public discourse.

Well, it would appear that my optimistic naivete has, once again, led me astray in the ‘how bad could it possibly be?’ department. You see, the blog template is written in something very much like Sanskrit and thus is almost impossible to alter unless you know EXACTLY what to do. There have been times that I’ve spent hours searching through line after line of code looking for just that one snippet that needs changing, often doing many things that appear to have no effect (curious, that one). To find the bits that say ‘use Haloscan’ and ‘don’t use Blogger comment function’ is about as easy as locating a liberal in Provo, which is to say it’s not easy at all.

(Yes, I looked it up. Provo is the United States’ most conservative city. If you’re interested, the article says that Detroit is the most liberal. Interesting? I thought so too.)

The long and short of this tale of woe is that as of tomorrow it looks like there will either be 1) no comments here for a while, at least until I have the time to mess with the template and revert back to Blogger, or 2) I’ll move this whole mess on over to Wordpress and start playing in THEIR sandbox.I know a bunch of folks have dome something similar, and all I hear at home is ‘aw come on, just make the switch already! Look! I made you a blog there, it’s all ready for you! What are you afraid of, fraidy-cat?’ and suchlike, so I GET IT, I really do, but….leave Blogger? Break up a 4.5 year relationship just because the template I’m using is written in a mix of hieroglyphics and Navajo and it won’t listen to me when I tell it do stuff? I just don’t know. It’s a big step.

But Wordpress = shiny. With tabs. It’s tempting.


Short-track speed skating is kind of exciting. Also half-pipe snowboarding.

Just sayin’.


Biff is gone again. Y'all, I can’t seem to keep that man down on the farm for very long these days. Hrmph. One week Guatemala, the next week he’s wending his way to the frozen north. This most-recent trip is not a happy errand, which makes things worse, because there’s nothing like having to take time off to do unpleasant things like sift through a house full of someone else’s belonging and talk business with lawyers, creditors, and potential property managers to really sour the whole 'time off' experience. His sisters, who live way up there, have been dealing with the aftermath of their Dad’s death for the past month, and it was time for Biff to go up and literally lend a hand. There’s repair work to do to the house before they can do ANYTHING with it, there are dump runs to make and cleaning out to do. There are yet more papers to sift, I’m sure, and yet more bills to sort. It all takes time, energy, and patience. Oh, and from time to time, it takes being there.

This business of having to miss the spousal unit on such a regular basis is already getting old. Anyone know where I can get a good pair of stout handcuffs to keep him from wandering off again too soon?

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

shank o' life, plus a permission slip

On Sunday there were 7 boxes of cereal in the pantry and a full gallon of milk. This morning there are 3 boxes of cereal in the pantry and just enough milk to faintly lighten a cup of coffee. Such is life with 2 young men in the house.

Cereal is a huge favorite all-occasion food at the Tiny House, particularly among the under-21 set. Thing 1, I think, would eat nothing BUT cereal if left to his own devices, and can plow through 3 or more bowlsful at a sitting if allowed. I suspect that this is one of the main reasons why he’s usually so ready to wake up in the morning and fend for his own breakfast – he knows that I’d probably put the kibosh on multiple bowls if I was awake to see the feeding frenzy. Thing 2 also can chow down on the Cap’n Crunch (or Frosted mini-wheats, or whatever is available), but he’s no match for his big brother.

This conspicuous consumption shouldn’t really come as a surprise, being that both boys are growing like weeds on steroids. This eating thing is necessary to power the many inches of growth they’ve both experienced over the last year; the expansion of shoe size from 11 to 14, the addition of things like ‘leg hair’ and ‘deeper voice’ require sustenance!

It’s expensive, is what it is. Many years ago I had a friend with a 14-year-old son who went from 5’9” to 6’5” in the space of a year, and with that phenomenal growth came an appetite that almost ate the family out of house and home. Their grocery bills were $250 a WEEK, most due to his gigantic appetite. He’d eat 3 pieces of chicken, 2 cups of cooked rice, and a huge salad for breakfast (I know!), and 2 hours later was rooting around for something to eat because he was ‘famished.’ Back then I was amused, but now I am afraid. There are many many more years of this to come, as once they boys are grown to full height they will, naturally, start putting on muscle to get to their eventual adult size. Heaven help us all, because at not-quite-13 Thing 2 is already 6’2” and over 200 pounds, a true thing of beauty of the ‘family size’ variety. Thing 1 is about 6’1” and weighs…..140 pounds. Yes, they’re from the same 2 parents; it’s just that Thing 1 is built like his father (think ‘beanpole’) and Thing 2 has the sad duty of making do after inheriting my far studier frame. On the plus side, when the bomb drops, that kid will join me pulling a plow somewhere, I just know it.

All fueled in large part by cereal. Many many boxes of cereal.


Already it’s Fat Tuesday. Tonight in New Orleans there will be booby flashing, bead tossing ,and general mayhem, all in the name of Christianity.

Wait, what?

Mmhmm! The following from the history channel:

Also known as "fat Tuesday," this pre-Lenten festival is celebrated in Roman Catholic countries and communities. In a strict sense, Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, is celebrated by the French as the last of the three days of Shrovetide and is a time of preparation immediately before Ash Wednesday and the start of the fast of Lent. Mardi Gras is thus the last opportunity for merrymaking and indulgence in food and drink.

The nice thing is, that even if you’re NOT preparing for a season of self-denial like a fair number of churchy folk, you can still get your drink on tonight and party like a renaissance man! Woohoo! Mead and meat all around, let’s work on a specTACular headache as a way to start Lent! Because honestly, who doesn’t want a big ol’ hangover on the first day of the season of penance to remind them of what they ought to be doing for the next 40 days (or 44, or 46, or even 55, if you’re really Orthodox about it).

So go on, work it until you walk like Keith Richards and talk like Ozzy, for tomorrow you will be clutching a banging head and a roiling stomach, all in the name of observance of an ancient rite of Spring. Prosit!


Y’all have a fine Shrove Tuesday. EAT THEM PANCAKES! And have a lovely afternoon.

Friday, February 12, 2010

90% of the universe is inscrutable, so why bother scruting at all?

So, there were cupcakes to be had this morning. Seems one of the folks here has decided that we are not nearly festive enough and has organized little get-togethers to stand around eating baked goods and chit-chatting while our mouths are stuffed with yet another missile of carb-laden death.



If you know me at all, it should come as no surprise that I did not attend this feste fest. Social activities at work are horribly painful things, and unless there’s wine or an open bar involved they do not get much better as time goes on. Seriously – how much do I really want to know about the people with whom I work that I don’t already know and feel comfortable talking about? It’s not like I’m going to engage the Pharter in a political discussion (having seen his list of bookmarked web pages, this is now a 100% Sure Thing) or ask AmpHead how her widdle puppins is, because, to be quite frank about it, I do not care all that much. Is this so wrong? Should I be more involved? Is it customary to want to know all the deets about some random coworker’s mom’s knee surgery and perhaps show interest in another person’s latest Sudoku successes? Ought we to be slavishly following the ins and outs of our cube-mates’ children’s soccer teams or coordinating our schedules to accommodate a daily hashing-out of sibling rivalries that someone needs to vent from her system before the next family gathering so that we're seen as 'team players'?

If its true, that would suck. Might make a nice excuse for why my career ladder only has like, 2 rungs, but even so I don’t know I’d climb and faster or farther if eating pastries with the people who have the effrontery to breathe my air at the office was the key to sure success, such is my total aversion.

So, I ignore the invitations to chomp on down with a dozen or so folks I recognize but don’t speak to, so I can sit in my corner cube and wait for the platter of leftovers to be put out by the coffee machine, whereupon I POUNCE on a delectable item and wolf it down on the way back to my corner, safe in the knowledge that no awkward moments were had in the eating thereof – eg, nobody watched me navigate a quarter-cup of neon yellow icing into my maw, and nobody was subjected to the quasi-sensual licking of fingers that occurred after the last sinful crumb had been lapped up. I’m all about making my coworkers comfortable, it would appear. Thoughtful!


After spending the last cuple too-tree years growing out my hair because someone to whom I am married likes long hair (and I really have no opinion on the matter, so, whatever makes him happy), I am proud to announce that the longest of it is at lower bra-strap length when it's dry and ALMOST to the small of my back when it’s wet. The curliness sproings up almost 4 inches of length! The whole long-hair thing is 90% enjoyable, except that nowadays I have to do things like ‘flip it out of the way when closing the car window’ and ‘bunch it in one hand when laying down to sleep so it doesn’t get pinned under a shoulder,’ which are, admittedly, low-key maintenance items that just take practice and muscle memory to get down pat in order to move toward 100% enjoyment.

There’s a part of me that wishes I had perfectly straight hair so that there could be a cascade of glossy hair spilling over my shoulders that would reflect sunlight like a mirror when I shook my head, but then that would mean that the bouncyness and body would have to go as well, which are two things I like about the hair, so oh well. It’s enough that it’s serious hair now – and probably nearing on an ‘identity’ hairstyle thing. You know what I mean – the Hair That Wears You? Yep – it’s probably only a year or so away.

I’ll just be the little old lady with All That Hair at the nursing home in 30 years, I’m sure. And that would be sweet, because I’m sure by that point I’ll be doing things like "forgetting to put on a robe before showering’ in which case having Lady Godiva hair would come in plenty handy. Also might help if we need to beat a hasty middle-of-the-night retreat out the window for whatever reason. “Hairbraid of Freedom!”


Anyhow. That’s about it from this corner of the universe. Just one last thing you need to know – if you lived on Venus, you’d be dead by now.

Have a nice day!

Thursday, February 11, 2010

fake priests and scab pickers

So, am I really the only one who thought Father Mulcahy was sexier than Hawkeye Pierce?

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, shame on you. Go Netflix you up a bunch of M*A*S*H and get to watching. Especially that one where Hawkeye and Hotlips are alone in a camp tent while the unit is under attack, and the pair, who usually spar like teenage sisters, wind up….KISSING?

Oooh, sexay. At least it was for me when I was a young lass. TINGLY!


So, that leads me to a question: how old were you when you figured out you really really wanted the attention of someone else in a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way (or…boyfriend/boyfreind or girlfriend/girlfriend, if that’s your heart’s desire). I was about 11, I think. Fifth grade. Oh, I did have a little boyfriend in first grade (Hi Bruce Mueller) who would kiss me on the sly once in a while and we’d play in the hallways while our older brothers were in Cub Scout Pack meetings, but that was all very innocent. I think. It was on MY part, you can be sure.

It had to have been my last year in New York that I started realizing that some boys made me feel funny inside. Like, the thought of them touching me, or looking at me, or talking to me, made me all nervous. Yes, I had self-esteem issues even THEN, which did no stop my active fantasy life, oh noes.

By sixth grade I was in full-blown adolescence, and Philip Grifano was the object of my affection. Feathered hair, bell bottoms, PLATFORM SHOES, and he played guitar in a 3-piece ‘rock’ band that know one song. That’s right: Smoke on the Water. Oh, Phillip - a slightly zit-faced good-smelling arbiter of savoir faire! I would sit across the table from him in class, sneaking looks, and once or twice I caught him sneaking looks back, so that was the end of that, because as much as I wanted him to notice me, I was not at all sure what to do if I really captured his attention.

Smooth, I wasn’t. Never have been, to be quite honest. Sometimes painfully so.

Which is why the news that the American Psychiatric Association’s proposal to lump Asperger’s syndrome back in with general autism spectrum disorders is of some interest to me. See, I highly suspect that I am an Asperger’s person, or that I HAVE it, or whatever it is that defines some one who is intelligent (not bragging, just true), socially awkward, and highly focused on repetitive behavior or interests (knee bobbing and Bejeweled Blitz, anyone?). Wonder if a lack of self-discipline is a hallmark of Asperger’s Syndrome. If so, place a check in that box too.

Anyway, those folks who are diagnosed with AS do NOT, by and large, want to be identified as someone with an ‘autism spectrum disorder,’ claiming that AS has a very different effect on people’s perception of them, that AS is very different from autism even in its mildest form, etc etc. They have a point – AS is almost a sexy thing, like that quirky scab-picker in study hall with the smart mouth and the sideways glance that lets a person know she knows ‘stuff,’ while autism is much more like the brilliant yet poorly-dressed kid with unfortunate glasses who shuffles cards incessantly as talks to his shoes. It seems that Asperger’s and autism are like that. One you’d hit, the other you’d mock. Or something.

The diagnostic points of AS make a lot of sense to me: repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. There is relative preservation of linguistic and cognitive development. Although not required for diagnosis, physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are frequently reported.

Oh dear. Hitting close to home, that one. Add in hated of overhead lighting, love of quietness, and a deep abiding romance with sleep, and I’m your poster child, baby!


I’m off to pick some scabs and see if that Spybot’s done running on my nearly ICU-worthy computer. Wacky life, I has it. Y’all have a tolerable afternoon.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

They changed it, I hate it, Bite me

I'm angry.

For no reason.

Anybody else ever get so mad they feel like biting the ass end of an alligator just to see if it'll put up a fight?

Once again, I blame the cats. Or that thing about having to get super-duper-double-plus-tough with Thing 1.

Either way, I'm gnawing ingot out of pencil leads, and doing a fine job of it.

Have a great night, y'all!

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Oh dear.

I'm Bored. Yes, with a capital B.

I made dinner last night, so didn’t have to cook tonight, which would have been a good thing to do being as how when it’s just me around I tend to bore myself to utter tears, which is weird because I think I’m sort of interesting except I don’t DO interesting things when I’m bored except try to beat my stupid high score on Bejeweled Blitz and see if anybody else has done something interesting.

What's that you say? Quit bitching about having sweet sweet alone time and tell us what you cooked? Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you:

Beef/veg soup inna pot. It goes something like this:

Brown a pound or so of ground beef INNA POT.
Throw a chopped onion INNA POT halfway through the beef cooking
Salt and pepper the beef and onion mix INNA POT
Add 3 chopped stalks of celery, 2 chopped carrots, and a 14-oz can of diced tomatoes and their juices INNA POT.
Add a can of Great Northern Beans and their juices INNA POT.
Add a can of water (or to cover the other stuff) and a bayleaf INNA POT.
Add a tsp of garlic powder INNA POT.
Add a dash of balsamic vinegar INNA POT.

Do NOT MIX. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes INNA POT.

Mix. Chomp a carrot to see if it's done. Taste for seasonings. Add more S&P if needed. Simmer INNA POT for 20 minutes more or until you damn well feel like eating.


(Serving suggestion: A nice hunk of baguette goes well with this, as does a nice glass of red wine. Or two.)

Enough for one person for 3 nights, or 4 people for 1 night if they like bread. A lot. It’s more filling with more bread (ta da! The power of logic does not fail me!), plus which the juice-soaking-up thing is fun with multiple iterations of breadly goodness. Sop, sop, sop!

Honestly, you can’t beat that shit for simple. And good for you. Look at all the veg in there! And if you make it yourself, your house too will smell like Auntie Esperanza’s, if she was the type to cook beef soup on a basis regular enough so that her house, clothes, and hair took on a perma-aroma of delicious things bubbling INNA POT!


Clearly, I need to go do something original, fresh, and fun. Washing dishes doesn’t count, does it? Needs to be done though. Been a couple too-tree days since I washed a dish. Or clothes. I tend to let things go when I’m home alone. Let them waaaay go. Like, over the river and through the woods go, if I could see that far, which of course I can’t, because it’s FIGURATIVE and thought-provoking, much like the dishes. You see, each day when I come home there’s a NEW dish in the sink that I’m sure I didn’t put there, because I’m not in the ice-cream eating habit lately and also? I’m not HOME during the day.

I blame the cats.

Though the Things could also have had a hand in this mystery. Methinks that when they get home from school (and particularly on those days when the Tiny House is merely a landing zone before their Dad picks them up), they dig out a big bowl of ice cream, douse it with Ovaltine, then give it to the cats. With 2 spoons.

Yep – I just bet that’s what happens.

Your thoughts?


Eh. The dishes are calling my name, even though we’ve never been formally introduced. I’mma gonna go waterboard ‘em in hot soapy water before the shouting gets much louder.

Dang I miss Biff.

Monday, February 08, 2010

Obviously, I'm not the life of the party.

Overheard in 2 different bars this past weekend:

I’ve never seen her git so druhnk so kweek

I’m Vice President of Quality Assurance at Company X.

More cowbell!

No thanks (when offered a free drink).

Poor thang, losin’ her job and not having balloons for her birthday. It’s just a shame, is all. No wonder she drank so much.


We’re going on a cruise in 2 weeks!

Stairway to Freebird!


See if you can sort that list into Bar A and Bar B.


So, Biff’s band ‘played out’ twice this weekend, and the experiences couldn’t almost not have been more different. (HUH?) Bar 1 was NASCAR-y and pool table-y and video slot-machine-y (but has a great stage), Bud and Bud light on tappy, and smoke-filled; bar 2 was retro design-y, yuppy, nonsmoke-y, 12 beers on tappy. You’d think that Bar 1 would have been full to the gills with enthusiastic people out looking for a good time, and Bar 2 would have been cleared out by 9 as Mummy and Daddy made their Hummere’d way home, and you’d be partly right. Bar 2 did largely clear out as the dining crowd finished chewing, and bar 1 did have several folks out looking to whoop it up, but overall it was Bar 2 that won the crowd participation award, hands down.

The old adage, handed down as lore to me by an ancient bartender years ago, that therere’s nothing like full dance floor to get a band energized, is true. To the point that the lead guitarist got his very own stalker/admirer, a lovely lady who looked to be in her middle 30’s and who therefore should have known better than to KEEP APPROACHING him while he’s playing. Seriously – dancing up to him, hips a-swiveling, arms stretched out to let the batwings wobble in the warm breeze created by her heaving chest. Oh, lovely.

It’s weird to watch grown women flirt like that, weird to watch them gyrate their pelvi on the dance floor, weird to see the hunger in their eyes as the third drink takes hold and their fading hormones rush to fuller bloom, rendering them, for the moment, capable of delicious fantasies involving the lead singer or whoever strikes their fancy.

Just so you know, I do not dance in public, especially when I know the band, and here's why: I don’t want people to ID me as ‘that woman who thinks she’s all that.’ Awkward enough being the spousal unit of the sexiest guy in the band, but to go out front and center to dance? Nah, thanks. That’s way too much attention-whoring for this old girl. I’ll keep my insane terpsichorean skillz at home, where I can go all-out pretending to be Miss Janet Jackson busting many a smoove moove, without the added weight of jealous strangers’ scrutiny (because hoo boy, I can dance!) holding me down.

It’s hard to shimmy shoulders with a dozen people’s scorn heaped on them, is what I’m saying.

And no, I SHOULD NO GIVE A DAMN what other people think of me, for I am too old for that nonsense, but my pride is still as strong as it was when I was young and unsure of myself and totally unwilling to make a mistake for fear of someone, anyone, noticing. Those old uncomfortable feelings never really go away, and I realize now that I’ll never have the self-confidence it takes to put myself out there, preferring instead to shine my little light when I know it’s totally safe.

Not like the woman I met this weekend who slow-danced with a stranger. He walked up to her, asked, and off she went. Just.Like.That! If I were her, I would have sooner died, and if death was not an option you can be sure the instant I raised an arm to drape around his neck my pits would rebel and I’d hyperhidrose all over the place. No cool cucumber, me.



Did I mention the 2 big girls on the stripper pole?

That action made me wicked uncomfortable for many reasons, the first of which spring to mind that it seems….pathetic. At the very least, it’s against some of the most basic precepts of my emotional/interpersonal makeup (see above) to be so flagrant. Perhaps this is why I’ve heard, more than once, that I seem to be aloof or cold. Whatever, man. Just because I won’t show you my titties an hour after we meet doesn’t mean I’m cold, it means my decorum is on high alert. Plus which, if we’re not on a date it’s a fair chance that I won’t even let you TOUCH my boobies, so flashing them is pretty much not going to happen. Suffice it to say then that once I saw what was going on (no nakedness was involved, THANK GOD), my internal propriety tyrant shouted 'get the hell out of here' and thus I donned my coat and beat a hasty retreat to the car for 'a breath of fresh air.'

Yep – if I ain’t turning into MY Gramma, then I’m turning into SOMEONE’S. Now get off my lawn before I fetch my cane to beat you with.

I gotta go take my Geritol. Y’all have a fungus-free afternoon.

Friday, February 05, 2010


I think someone needs to write a movie with these lines in it:

"Lobsters and butter. Drawn butter. With pictures of a Dutch village on it, just to add class. Yeah man, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. CLASS."

Sadly, unless I write that movie, there’s real doubt if those words will ever be utter, by anyone.

Must get on that.


Might I just say now that if either of the Things comes home with a Jersey Shore haircut that I’m marching them right into the bathroom and washing that crap out of their hair, pronto?

I might, and did. The same goes for spray tans, those dorktastic hair bands, and LIP GLOSS ON BOYS. Just….no. I’d rather they go full-on emo than Guido. Really. Black goes with everything, while orange skin goes horrifyingly well with douchebaggery.


Work update:

Yet another personal phone call being taken by The Talker. Oh yes, the puppy is being super-super-super sweet! Yes she IS. Poor baby, being alone all day long, missing her mommles. What’s that you say? I’ll be home by 7 or so. Out where? Someplace in downtown is what I’m thinking, the warehouse district. Ya think? I did too, but not sure if he’s going to call again. It was loud. Right. Hey, that’s cool – we could totally do that. Uh-huh. But we’ll need chocolate. M&M’s maybe. Was that a bird I heard? Sounded like a bird. That was the dog? Poor widdle wumpkins, you should go have a snuggle with the sweetie.

(all true people. All true. And she’s not done yet. As an added bonus, it’s almost time for the daily afternoon trip to the vending machine for what must be the LOUDEST CHIPS IN THE WORLD which will be eaten with gusto and an open mouth because she can’t really breathe well through her nose, ever.)


In a couple of days I’m going be home alone for many days in a row. The LOML is travelling to foreign lands to do good works, leaving me the sole protector of the Tiny House until Thursday when the Things arrive once again. It is at this time that I have chosen to go ‘dry’ both in solidarity with Biff who will likely NOT be quaffing, and as an experiment in just how addicted AM I to those nightcaps. It wouldn’t really be fair to Biff for me to do this while he’s around, as I envision my overall mood might be hovering somewhere between ‘feral’ and ‘orc-ish’ as I embrace utter sobriety for 10 days in a row.

Y’all think I’m joking, but no. You know I likes me some drinkage, but it’s been getting a tad out of hand lately and it’s time to pull the plug. Heaven only knows how much will be accomplished as I wend my way through what is sure to be a weird week - why, I might even do my taxes, and bake a lot, and research ancient societies of Mesopotamian midgets, and possibly discover a hidden treasure in my crawlspace as I start digging it out teaspoonful by teaspoonful in preparation for the Roman-marble natatorium I might just have the energy to install.

Could happen.

Or, I could wind up being fine and simply be as lazy as I usually am.

Let’s hope for the latter, because really? We don’t need a pool in the crawlspace (but the treasure might be nice).


Busy weekend around these parts; two gigs for Biff’s band, which means we’re home by MAYBE 4 a.m. on the next mornings, and Sunday he’s flying out at 7 a.m. which means he’s to be at the airport by 5, which in turn means we’re going straight to the airport after the Saturday gig, after which I need to be at church by 8 to run the info booth (stupidly easy way to serve. I’m all about rocking the stupid), which of course means that if I don’t get a TON of sleep tomorrow I’ll be drooling into the offering envelopes Sunday morning.

Oh, this ought to be good.

Thursday, February 04, 2010

$104.3 Million

The sculpture you see on the left just sold at auction for $104.3 million dollars.

That's right. $104.3 MILLION.

Isn't there a world of good that can be done with that kind of money that doesn't involve the acquisition of copper knick-knacks destined to collect dust in the corner of some mega-rich person's overpriced penthouse?

What is it that's so special about this thing, anyhow? Looks like something any reasonable talented high-school kid could weld together in about a week. Does it somehow speak volumes about man's plight in the post-apocalytic techno jungle, or illustrate our isolation and slowly evolving ultra-limbs as we face the long slow walk into our destiny? Does this thing somehow encapsulate over a million dollars worth of encouragement or angst or inspiration or maybe diamonds? Because if it does, I'm not seeing it.

Sure, if one of my kids came home with this having turned it out for a class or whatever, I'd display it proudly because they're my lil' geniuses, but to pay that much coin for what looks to me to be an entirely ordinary piece of work is....irresponsible? Foolish? Uninformed?

To whomever bought this thing, might I suggest a new course of action when looking to dis-purse some fundage: lay 100K smackeroos on a THOUSAND people and see real joy, do real good, be real change.

Heh. Change. A joke!


Seems this isn't the first time I've bristled at what I perceive to be an astoundingly asinine way to relieve onesself of major amounts of money. Perhaps I am just jealous that it's not ME who has millions of dollars to blow on a few pounds of solder and rebar. OK, yes, I am jealous of that sort of money, but it's more than that. The kinds of people who HAVE ridiculously large bank accounts go about purchasing ridiculously expensive pieces of 'art' when the world is busy clawing its way out of recession, effectively thumbing their noses at those masses who are desperately clinging to the hope that 'things will get better.' It's just not a kind thing to do, the nose thumbing. Didn't we get over this kind of conspicuous consumption sometime last year, or have the closet shoppers come OUT and are now waving their filthy rich freak flag proudly once more?

If so, they should just stop it. Go back into hiding, disgustingly rich people! Go back into your dark wood-panelled hidey holes and be ashamed of your great wealth! Hire personal shoppers to do your dirty work (economic boost for the jobless), and please don't spend more than a thousand bucks at any one time (diversification, it's good for you AND me). Also note: paying 30 grand for a purse is just silly, so knock that off too. It's just a bag.


Of course nobody will listen to me, and we'll continue to see obnoxiously wealthy people wasting their money and perfectly horrible things like spindly art and ugly shoes. It's been like this since...forever, right? Might as well give up and accept it, right? Just be happy with being a little person, right?


I reserve my right to bitch and whine and moan about this topic from now unto my very last breaths. It's the only thing I can do lavishly, and you know what? It's also free. So yeah - me being ranty and taking umbrage are good to go.


Speaking of 'going,' I am. Y'all have a great ol' day and try not to think too much about what YOU'D do with 104.3 million dollars. No good can come of it, I tell you. None at all.

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

Things I almost never do

Forget to eat
Forget to wipe
Chew with my mouth open
Cut up sushi before ingesting
Wear a hat
Use a lint brush
Pay attention for an entire meeting, no matter how short
Wish we had more cats
Shop for purses

Thought you should know.

Monday, February 01, 2010

doesn't this just figure

The credit card company that is constantly sending me 'checks to use as I want' and offers to 'transfer balances from other cards and get a 0.00% APR for a year' has just informed me that the interest rate is going to go up starting January 2010.

Not just go up, but DOUBLE.

That's right. Double.

I am now looking around for things to sell so that I can pay off the balance on this card and get serious about paying off the other card. The hole into which I've spent myself over the last 3 years must be filled in so I can start to see some financial daylight.

One bright note: Tinkerbell is paid off. Dave Ramsey's 'debt snowballing' says to pay off the work van next, then the damn-fool HVAC we had to put in last year, THEN the lower-balance card, then the ultimate big-one card, but Lord knows I'd like to put paid to the folks who want to charge me double what they did last year just to walk away from those sorts of shenanigans. My sense of fairplay has been rubbed the wrong way by this recent turn of events, and the brief feeling of being on somewhat firm financial footing is beginning to slip and slide.

Might as well call into play another of the "Financial Peace" tricks - SELL SOMETHING. So, yeah, it's me and the research for the next little while to see how best to get this monkey off my back. Little poo-flinging effer has outlived its welcome.


Day off of school AND work today. It's a bright sunshiny day, it's looking 8 kinds of inviting outside, and yet it's impossible to GET anywhere as 1) Biff had to take Tink to a job today as Lurch the truck won't budge out the driveway due to his very inefficient rear-wheel drive and 2) the local roads are a mess of black ice, slush, and regular old ice.

We went out yesterday afternoon to purchase the final supplies for the bathroom remodel, and what a nice surprise it was to be able to drive on actual pavement once we got to the main roads! Why, it made the torturous struggle of navigating the 3 miles of secondaries and feeders almost worth it to be able to glide along the main highways at regular speed. FORGET the white-knuckling of the neighborhoods - Route 1 was actually DRY in places, thanks to the diligent work of our road crews! Well done, guys and gals! You just keep pushing the shoulders free of snow and we, the taxpayers of this fine state, will continue to hyperventilate in complete terror as mounds of slush on every OTHER road fling our car around like a carnival funhouse cart. And sure, we'll wait a few more days to have even the barest of attention paid to our local roads, never MIND our little ol' dead-end street. It's FINE to hang out here, waiting patiently day after day for some help from our self-funded D.O.T. Why, it's like homesteading, only within a MILE of what we know are good passable roads! Who WOULDN'T think that sounds like a giant LOAD of fun? Not me, I love hearing cars whizzing by in utter freedom while I remain stranded like a flounder on a hot dock, panting desperately for the comfort it knows is but one flop into the water away. That's me - I'm a dehydrated flounder over here, panting for some small breath of attention. Hear me PANT, road doods, and do something about it!!! I am the pretty princess of peril and need your help to find the final jewel to adorn my crown and turn it into the Lost Treasure of the Apocolope, which will free the fettered herds of ungulates that previously roamed the Plains of Yargh! DO IT NOW!



I might just be a little stir crazy, is all. Maybe. Ya think?


Oh, that's about it for today. My blood is starting to boil thinking of that damned credit card situation. They're thisclose to getting a very tersely worded phone call from me asking ohsonicely to put the rates back where they were, dammit, and I won't continue to shoot hate beams at them from 120 miles away. Grrrrr....

But y'all have a lovely day, all right? I'll be here doing all the laundry I can and washing dishes and basically just pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder for yet another day, only without the corsets and petticoats. If it gets really bad, I might just start baking. Again.