Crankin' one out on the big day

Y'all. It will be a big day.

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First, it's my birthday, a fact that is as inescapable as the rising of the sun and the whining of the dogs, who, in a cruel twist on a familiar theme, whined BEFORE the sun came up today because there was a thunderstorm at 4:30 a.m. in the morning and they were in the bathroom per usual and couldn't get out to the comfort of Mom and Dad and the big scary thunder was GOING TO GET THEM and so they made noise until I, so irritated as to be awakened, got up and let them out so that everyone else could sleep some more. So, yes, THAT kind of birthday greeting is not so much what I was wanting, but it was my reality.

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By 5 I was on the computer pounding out a bunch of e-mails and doing a weekly roundup for my supervisor beause I won't be at our usual team meeting this afternoon at 1, because the house closing, which was to have occurred at 9 this morning, was pushed back to noon so that the paperwork could make it to Raleigh from San Antonio, thereby rendering my presence at this group meeting and a subsequent team meeting something of questionable reality. But oh, the e-mails, they were fairly flying from my brain to fingers to computer to ether to recipient, with the force of 2 good cups of coffee and the early morning urge to succeed because if I wasn't going to DO something (not noisy), why be awake at all?

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Which meant that, once I got INTO work, the responses to those e-mails were ready and waiting for me, and by 8:30 I'd gotten further through my "to do" list that I usually get by noon, which is a very strange feeling indeed and one that, perhaps, bears repeating, but without the whining dogs and thunderstorms next time.

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But back to the birthday for a moment so that I can tell you that opening cards from one's children that contain proclamations of their love for you in their spidery print or newly-acquired cursive skills is a warming thing indeed. One of my boys signed his "from 1 of the 2 best kids around," which tickled me more than a little, because he's the one that, from the time he was a wee thing, would count us all to make sure that we were where we needed to be, which was right together in the same place, which I interpreted to mean that he's a real family guy and likes to be inclusive, so signing his card this way was a way of giving props to his brother, who, characterisltically, took no such efforts with HIS note of luv. Not that that's a BAD thing, because he's a different kid; it's more an illustration of how they both work this world.

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My husband asked me last night what I wanted for my birthday dinner, and I (wisely, I thought) said "Applebees." Simple, inexpensive, good menu, and, perhaps most festively, those big ol' freezing cold tankards of beer just waiting to be consumed. Ah yes, the Applebee's, how I love them there slippery frosty mugs that soak many a napkin with their icy-ness while keeping the golden liquid inside them a lovely frigid temperature. Mmmm-mmmm-GOOD. Plus, no dishes to wash! Woot!

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If I can just get through the working and the closing and the running around that leads up to the Applebee's, all will be well on this, the anniversary of the day on which I made my way (ass first!) from the safety of my Mother into this vast and shining world.

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It's been a great ride so far, I must say.

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A brief note on how my life seems to work - As a little gift from Mother Nature to me, there was a rainbow this morning. The younger child bounded into the bathroom as I was taking a shower, threw open the blinds and eagerly announced its presence. I was, at this point, wet and naked and shampoo-y and therefore not at a point at which I could lean out of the shower to see the rainbow because the seeing required a certain amount of crouching and upward-looking and maybe even shower-exiting, so I missed it. But I heard it was beautiful....and that's enough for me.

Secrets told and not

Oh, where to begin, where to begin?

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Let's begin with a question - do any of you keep a secret blog? Do you write under an assumed name, or at least one that is unknown to the majority of the people that come to your primary site, or do you just have out with it and create something under your regular secret name? If you do have a nother blog, is it by membership only? How do you get someone to want to be a member?

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If you do, why do you?

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Another question - if you DON'T have another blog, into which you write all the things not fit or your "regular" blog, do you have an outlet someplace else that fills the need to give time to another voice, another view, another personality?

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I know there are folks with many many blogs, and wonder what propels them into keeping more than one. Some folks have a poetry blog, or a medical blog, or blog that holds all their long-winded bits and pieces, or a blog that explores a political bent that might not be appropriate on their "primary" blog.

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Blog, blog, blog, blog, blog.....

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How do they find the time?

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If you do, how do YOU?

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So, the closing on our new house is supposed to be tomorow, but our attorney doesn't have the papers from the mortgage company yet, thereby severely decreasing the chances that there will, indeed, be a closing tomorrow. He also doesn't have proof that we will have insurance on the house yet, which, coincidentally, should have come from the same mortagage company, thereby decreasing our already slim chances at a closing tomorrow to almost nil.

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In addition, during this process, we also have had to chase our real estate people around to get them to do their jobs and have had to liase with the mortage people and exhort them to do their jobs more than once, or to clarify something we've already told them, or to provide extra bits and pieces of information to them so that we can expend with a huge chunk of our cash.

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You know, this buying of the house thing is a royal pain in the ass. We thought it was all going so well (believing that "no news is good news"), but once again reality bites, hard, right in the nether bits.

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My husband offers that plunging a fork into one's eyes is more fun than buying a house.

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I'm inclined to believe him.

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Oh, and sorry that this isn't very amusing, but because I don't (yet) have a secret blog, y'all just have to listen to me whine right here.

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And if you're unsatisfied with that, then go here to have a laugh or 2. It's the best I can do right now, y'all, and my apologies for it. Let me know if you see any real jewels....

And now, the news!!!!

Hi there! Oh my gosh it's so great to be here on TIFF teevee! So much to talk about ! So much to discuss! Let's get to it before my face cracks from happiness!

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Normal Amtrak service expected to resume
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In a shocking turn of events this week, all the Amtrak trains in the Northeast corridor were on time. "This is certainly NOT up to the caliber of our usual service," head of Public Disgruntlement Harry Mess commented. "We aim to return to the usual 1 to 3-hour delays as soon as possible, so our regular client base can regain stability."
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Sentence for short sex offender draws fire
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"Short sex is bad sex, and this fellow needs to be punished much more severely in order to learn that lesson" said Ms. Harpy Ballstomp, the prosecuting attorney.
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Arcelor reaches deal with Severstal
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The Widgerent index rose 15 pacelburgs on this cafflegringing news.
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Oil prices rise ahead of long weekend
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News flash - They've run out of other reasons to increase the price!
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Artists discuss plan to wrap Arkansas River
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In rebuttal, the Sane People Against Crazy Excess (SPACE) plan to wrap artists to keep them from doing stupid crap like this ever, ever again.
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Chesapeake Bay underwater grasses rebound
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Catfish and eels go in for the dunk.
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2 cloned mules to race in Nevada showdown
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Cloned. Racing.Mules. Y'all, I can't think of a snappy comeback, but just the thought of it makes me want to go to Nevada. It's like monkeys iceskating or squirels water-skiing - something ya just gotta see!
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And now, eet's peekcher time, Americal Idol style!

Schwing!

Schwing!

Sha-WINGGGG!!!!!!

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That'll do it for today, folks! Join us next week, same time, saaaame station, for a recap of all the news that's fit for nowhere else!!!

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Blogger's note - have a terrifical weekend, y'all. Be safe and I'll see ya here next week.

It's up to me, then, is it?

DISCLAIMER:

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There is a chance that this post will have nothing whatsoever to do with the title I've plopped up there as a space-filler and vowed to myself not to change. It's also possible that this post may have some small thing to do with the title, but we won't really know until after it's all said and done, now will we? I may be able to tie together threads of conscious thought into an understandable outpouring of notion and fact, or I might not.
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Let's just see how it goes, in this first ever stream-of-consciousness post on N.A.Y.
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When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be a(n) 1) nurse, 2) teacher, 3) famous person known by only one name, 4) actress, 5) a speech therapist, 6) biologist, 7) famous person known by only one name.
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I have made good on numbers 2 and 6. It is blindingly clear that I have much more to do in this life.
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Numbers 2 and 6 happened because I realized, 3 years into college, that I couldn't be number 5. There are several good reasons for this, and some very bad reasons for this. See if you can pick out which is which!
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1) I was much more interested in anatomy and physiology than anything else they taught me in the program
2) Most of the people in the program were girls
3) Most of them were the sorority-girl type

4) I had actively avoided pledging a sorority throughout my college career because all the girls who did wore Papagallo and madras and had bob haircuts, and that just wasn't my thing.
5) I have little patience with people who don't speak properly
6) The thought of spending my career hunched over trying to teach a little kid how to speak properly through the use of puppets, mirrors, wind chimes, and magic seemed a little short on the whole "life goals" chart.
7) Did I mention most of the people in the program were girls?
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This is not to say that I don't value the work that speech therapists/pathologists do, b because I HAD speech therapy as a kid and it saved me from a lifetime of tongue thrusting (ooooh, how sexy!) and its after-effects. It just wasn't for me....

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During my time in the program, I completely pissed off one instructor; sat in the back of the room between the only 2 guys also in the program, who, interestingly, both had stuttering issues; made jokes; ignored the instructors; mocked the Greek insignias sported by the preppy Richmond girls; and basically became the antithesis of what, to me, a typical speech therapist was supposed to be. As further oil on the fire of my decision to change majors, there was the time when an instructor, on St. Patrick's day, asked the class "what does 'Erin Go Bragh' mean?", and I was the only one who could answer. That was a clear indication that I needed to switch majors to something different. How could I spend my career with people who draw a blank at something like that?
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But I wonder, could I have become a world-famous audiologist who was known only by one name if I had stayed? Because, while the speech therapy thing was a non-starter for me, there was always audiology, a field in which one gets to play with expensive equipment and tinker with computers and analyze things. This was marginally appealing, especially since the 2 guys in the program were going to be audiologists. Gotta go where the goods are, y'all!
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Anyhow, that's my story about why I'm not a world-famous audiologist right now. Of course, I'm no longer a teacher or biologist either, but that's a story for a different day.
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I'm fighting the urge to change the title.

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Finally, without looking it up on Yahoo, who the flaming heck is THIS person????
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I was stunned when I found out.

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I thought it was K.D. Lang post-facelift (rhytidectomy for all y'all medical types)

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It is not, in fact, KD Lang.

Hangin' with Skippy and Doo-dah

Skippy and Doo-dah rolled into town the other day, and have kept Miss Tiff busy for quite a while. Among her other duties, Miss Tiff had to type and print and collate and transcribe and listen and talk and capture and process and dress nicely. This made Miss Tiff very very tired.

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Skippy and Doo-dah remind Miss Tiff of “Pinky and the Brain,” with the smaller one being the more intensely intelligent of the two and the larger one, while still smart (there goes the Pinky and the Brain analogy), is not as verbal (in fact, not really terribly gifted verbally at all, given the stammer that hinders the expostulation of nearly every single word uttered from his resonant voice box).

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Skippy and Doo-dah live life at a furiously mentally challenging pace, harboring vast stores of data in their crania that are accessible to their nimble intelligence at any given moment. When Skippy talks it sounds like he’s reading from prepared notes, even if there aren’t any, which Miss Tiff thinks is an amazing feat. Doo-dah can anticipate needs for data display like a savant, throwing up screens full of information and ferreting out point and counterpoint like he’s telling us in what direction we can find the sky. This smoking-hot smarty-pantsedness makes Tiffy feel like the moronic spawn of a cretin and a halfwit who was raised by flatworms under a boulder in a dampish forest in a part of the world that has yet to be discovered by modern man.

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Skippy and Doo-dah like to have Miss Tiff around, all the time. Miss Tiff, while flattered, thinks this is kind of odd, especially when Skippy and Doo-dah don’t seem to actually know she’s in the room. Miss Tiff wonders if Skippy and Doo-dah feel that because they’re paying for her time that she ought to give them her full attention while they’re in town. Miss Tiff has to do battle with her desire to get other things done while Skippy and Doo-dah are around, because she is used to multi-tasking, which means not focusing on stuff for a loooong time, like Skippy and Doo-dah want her to do.

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Skippy and Doo-dah drag Tiffy all over in their shiny white van that smells of new car, which is good, and almost like the white steed on which she always thought her Prince would come, but they make her sit in the back, which makes her feels like someone’s kid, because Miss Tiffy is used to driving, not being driven. Miss Tiff wonders, while in the back of the new white van, what would happen if they were suddenly to overturn on the highway while going 70 miles an hour. How would the police and ambulance crews dissect her splattered remains from those of Skippy and Doo-dah and their sometime-sidekick Scruffy? Would part of her always be intermingled with their corporeal or (shudder) spiritual presence? Would her cremains contain the stain of their comingled funky aura for perpetuity? Miss Tiff shivers slightly in the backset of the new white van and tries to think of something better than being greasily smeared along the pavement of the Durham Freeway with Skippy, Doo-dah, and Scruffy.

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Skippy and Doo-dah do not know that Miss Tiff wrote most of this while they were talking about minor medical events at ten after 5 on a Tuesday evening. Skippy and Doo-dah must have thought she wass taking notes of their important medical conversation. Skippy and Doo-dah believed, Tiff was sure, that she hung on every gold-dipped syllable that emanated from their voluble pie-holes. They would have been very wrong in this belief, but Miss TIff is much too much of a lady to tell them this.

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Skippy and Doo-dah, at long last, left town at 1:30 on Wednesday the 24th of May. Miss Tiff is happy to inform you that she is very very pleased at this turn of events.

No update Tuesday

Meetings, meetings, meetings, and not even the fun telecon kind during which one can troll the net or trade e-mails with buddies.

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Feel free to mill about in the archives or leave nasty anonymous comments in random places.

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Or, as an alternative form of amusement, I invite you to write a little story in today's comments, starting with this line:

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"Annabelle hadn't always been this afraid of the dark. As a child she had had preternaturally sharp night vision, and could swing from treetops using the vestigial tail that had been present at birth."

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Perhaps it could become a group activity? One line at a time per commenter? Your story, your rules......

Oh, Betty! (and weekend-isms)

A forward from a forward of a forward to my husband, who forwarded it to me, introduced me to the wonderful world of Miss Betty Butterfield this weekend. Am I the ONLY one left on the planet who has not been party to this fine woman's search for religion? Whatever you do, if you click the link, close the door, turn up the sound, and try to pretend you're working. I dare you to keep a straight face as Her Braveness searches high and low for a religion that suits her to a "t."
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Question -

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Is there anything better than taking your kid to a baseball game on a sunny Sunday afternoon?
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Why yes, yes there is, and I believe it's called "taking your kid to a baseball game on a sunny Sunday afternoon when it's his BIRTHDAY and his name gets announced on the P.A. system and there's cold beer in your cup and you're in the shade and the seats were only 9 bucks and you're 3 rows away from being able to pat the on-deck batters on the shoulder (or, maybe other body parts, but whatever) and 'your' team wins."
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Oh yes, friends, it was an Opie afternoon in Zebulon.
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Another question, and a baking tip straight from the kitchens of Tiff-

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Did you know that you can make a cake from a box and leave out the oil and it still tastes fine?

Really! My mom was down for the weekend, and, bless her, she made the b-day cake while the #1 son and I wrapped presents. A few hours later, just as we were about to leave for the ball game, she says "you know, I forgot to put the oil in the cake."

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"Dear God," I thought, "let me have another mix someplace that I can whip up when we get back from the ball game, which we're about to have to leave to get to and even though maybe there won't be time when we get back to make it I'll make it work somehow."

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However, before my full-on pissy panic fit set in, I remembered to be an actual ADULT and cut off the edges of the cake and taste-tested it, thereby finding that it wasn't all that bad. I confirmed this impression with #1 and #2, and it was decided that we shoud press on with the cake as it was.
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Here's the tip - if you use peanut butter filling and milk chocolate frosting, you'd never KNOW a cake didn't have oil in it!
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And finally, Rennratt answered the trivia question from Friday's post, so she wins the prize.
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What the prize IS, we don't know, but she answered "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."
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YOUR job is to figure out what the question was.

Needs a Title to be seen

Mr. Mini-announcer says - "It's time for the NEWZ, crazy babies!!!"
Let's get Biiizeee!

Stocks Bounce Back After 2-Day Plunge
Word on the street is the "Bumble and Bumble" stock was the key reason for the rebound.

(If you can name the movie reference that makes this joke work, mention it in the comments and win a prize!)Senate Votes Twice for English Language

Once in English, once in Spanish
Cruise Officials Say Man Fell Overboard

I'd say the couch jumping was GOING overboard, but if the officials say "fell," who am I to argue?
Scientists Claim New Monkey Species Found

The monkeys assert that they were never lost in the first place.
Enron Jury Takes Weekend Off

The jury on L Ron is still out.
Gore in movie campaign to protect Earth
"It's a puzzlement to me how splashing blood and guts onscreen will have any protective effect at all," one moviegoer was heard to say," but if that's what it takes to save our planet, then that's what it takes, I suppose."Vatican Disciplines Legionaries' Founder

Bring in....the comfy chair!!!!

LATE-Breaking UPDATE:
Stocks Keep Falling After 2-Day Plunge

Guess Cornelius lost the mojo at a critical moment.

(Again, this is obscure, but smirk-worthy when tied in with the previous lame attempt at humor aimed at 40-somethings).

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And NOW, for the Pictures of the Week!

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(a word - this was almost an "all-monkey's all-the-time" picture parade today - what is UP with the people at Yahoo these days and all the monkey snaps?)

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Here we see a screen cap of Kim Il Jung and costars in a rolicking scene from the Korean-language version of "Weekend at Bernie's" that involves attempting to dupe the entire female portion of the army into a game of "what's under your padded jacket?"

Using new techonolgy, scientists have deciphered the first chimpanzee "conversation." A transcript indicates that most of the inteactions involved phrases such as "I don't know, what do YOU want for lunch," "Well there's that new chicken place down onthe corner by the zebra pen," "I don't know, I feel a little bloated today," and "Dammit, you guys can't EVER make up your minds!."

In a horrible turn of events, the revered fruit lion of Mandalay was reported to have devoured several flower-children at a local festival that was designed to promote awareness of the new breed of photosynthetic humans. Tragically, it appears as though the citrusy carnivore has a penchant for floral-scented meats.

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And that will have to be it for today y'all! Have a great weekend from all of us here at TIFF teevee!

It would be funnier if it wasn't true.

Beedle-beedle-beedle, beedle-beedle-beedle!!

Tiff's cell phone is ringing! Answer it, Tiff! Let's see who's there!

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"Tiff, it's the mortgage lady."

"Hi mortgage lady, this is Tiff, what's up?"

"I need written verification that you work where you say you work so we can give you money for your new house."

"OK, but I sent you the pay stub that you asked for, isn't that enough?"

"Well, your company doesn't put their name on the stub, so I can't tell if you work for who you say you work for."

"OK.........so, uh, what do I need to do?"

"You need to get your HR group to fill out a form I'm going to FAX to you, and have them FAX it back to me as soon as possible so we can keep your rate locked at much-too-much percent."

"OK - send it to me and I'll have them step on it."

Tiff receives the FAX and e-mails it off to her local helpful HR rep, who doesn't respond for like a billion hours. Tiff then receives an e-mail from someone who's name she doesn't recognize, which tells her that she needs to go to a WEBSITE to enter some info to give to the mortgage company so that they can go to the WEBSITE to type in the info to get verification that Tiff works where she says she works. This, somehow, is easier than signing the damn paper and sending it back to Tiff.

Tiff goes to the website, sees that it's really EASY to get verification of employment, and happily sends off the information to the mortgage lady in a phone message.

Beedle-beedle-beedle!

The phone is ringing again. Get it Tiff! It might be the mortgage lady saying "Thanks, you're good to go!"

"Hi, this is Tiff"

"Hi Tiff, this is the mortgage lady. I don't have the right code."

"What? But the WEBSITE said that my company code is 12345, didn't that work?"

"Well yes, that's your COMPANY code, but I need a salary key."

"A what?"

"A 6-digit salary key so I can find out if what your pay stub says you make is what you really make."

"Why do you need to know THAT? Isn't the pay stub enough?"

"Not without your company name on it. I'm going to need the salary key."

"OK, fine, I'll get back to you."

Tiff goes to the WEBSITE, but, sadly, cannot remember the username or password that is required for her to log in to the system to GET the salary key, so after a few failed, yet creative, attempts at logging in she dials up the 800 number to get help.

(A vaguely familiar voice, akin to the filmstrip guy's booming tones that described life on the African savannah when she was in second grade, proclaims):

"Thank you for calling 1-800-bite-me, where we will now begin sifting out your will to live through our winnow of despairingly complicated auto-prompts. Please press 1, then key in your last name, then punch the pound button to try to fool me into sending you to a real person, at which point I will start over from the VERY BEGINNING to heighten your sense of futility. Stay with me here! After spending some quality time going around and around in circles, never getting QUITE to the point of satisfaction, we will finally take mercy on you and shunt you off to a help desk representative who will attempt to answer the question you have that is obviously so unusual that we don't yet have a prompt for it, loser! "

(New, disinterested young female voice comes on the phone)

"This is 1-880-bite-me, what's you company code?"

"it's 12345"

"Your name?"

"Tiff Rumplestiltskin"

"Are you calling to get your information or are you calling to get information about you for a third party?"

(brief pause while trying to decipher question.)

"Uh, I'm calling to get my username and password so I can log into the system."

"What's your company code, your name, your address, and your social security number?"

"12345, I told you my name, my SSN is 123456789, and my address is 123 west 3rd lane, Wake forest"

"That's not the address we have on file for you."

"OK, could you give me a hint as to which address you DO have?"

"No."

"Huh. OK. Hmm, what the heck was the address of that apartment I lived in for 4 months while getting settled in down here? It was 1234 SOMETHING Something down in Raleigh, but I can't remember the name of the street."

(Crickets chirp loudly as young female voice ignores Tiff and probably does her nails).

"Oh crap -I'll have to get back to you."

Click.

No goodbye, no nothing. Tiff feels sad.

However, with hope in her heart, Tiff goes online to search for the address of the apartment she lived in for a few months, finds it, and calls the help line again, wherein she has to navigate the mocking voice of the automatonic man who resonates disdain with every carefully enunciated syllable before she can talk to a real live human being once more, who is actually very personable and helpful and gets Tiff straight on what her username and password and PIN number are so that she can finally, FINALLY acces the super-secret "salary key" to give to the mortgage lady.

With a deep sigh of satisfaction at realizing that her 90 minutes of bumbling around the internet and byzantine phone tree of the online information service is about to end, Tiff keys in her username and password on the WEBSITE, only to see the message:

THERE HAVE BEEN TOO MANY UNSECCESSFUL LOGIN ATTEMPTS. YOU ARE LOCKED OUT OF THE SYSTEM. PLEASE CALL THE HELPLINE FOR MORE INFORMATION.

At which point Tiff beats her head slowly on the edge of her desk to numb the painfully deep disappointment that threatens to manifest itself in a cussing and phone-slamming session of great report.

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Fear not, gentle reader - Tiff finally DID get the super-secret "salary key" at about 8 p.m. EST after letting the computer system "refresh" itself (I suppose it must have felt dirty after giving her the virtual finger), and now the mortgage lady has all she needs to dig deeply into Tiff's personal past life to see if she's the kind of citizen that deserves the loan for which she pre-qualified 3 weeks ago.

One can only hope.

(It still would have been easier just to sign the damn paper.)

When evening comes

Y'all, there is something about it being light out at 8 p.m. that stirs my inner child and makes me want to go out to the yard and play. The lowering light of evening that casts long shadows while the sun is still bright enough to make you squint is powerful mojo for me.

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What is it about this time of day at this time of year? Why the surge of youthful energy just as sunlight gilds the edges of leaves and trunks of trees and possesses the power to warm skin and sidewalk at a time usually reserved to bedtime preparations? Why do I feel it's necessary to remain outside to witness the setting sun, to revere the turning colors of the clouds through every shading?

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I think this affection for the evening started when I was a kid, and summer vacation meant staying OUTSIDE as darkness surrounded our game of kick-the-can or hide-and-seek. Summer vacation meant that we didn't have to go to bed while the sun was still shining. Summer vacation meant that we could go to the creek and build forts after dinner. Summer vacation meant that we could practice trying to swing OVER the top bar of the swing set while the sun sunk into our hair and skin as it fell below the hilltops. Summer vacation was magic to me, and while I might have missed many a dawn, I was always present for dusk.

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The feeling maintained itself through high school, but really reached its peak in college, especially while I was a young single woman in grad school. I remember one party in particular that started at about 5 (and unholy early hour to start a party I thought, but there was barbecue and a keg, so I was there right on time) and stretched into the night, right through the golden hours that I love so much. I was young and thin and tan and blonde and independent and felt that all was right in the world as I hung out on the rope hammock watching the sun glaze all the attendees with a perfect wash of gold, then amber, light. The air was perfect, the breeze was light, and I'm sure the red in my hair was glinting in the sunset, and I felt that nothing could be more perfect than that moment in the backyard of a farmhouse in Keezletown with the crew of carefree hippies that were my friends. In my mind I can still hear Van Morrison on the stereo and taste the tabouleh and hear the shouts of the sporting few on the volleyball court and feel the anticipation of an "anything can happen" kind of night approaching...

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There have been other moments, good ones, that are associated with sunsets -

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--Standing on the front porch the day we brought our first baby boy home, talking on the phone with friends and sharing the good news while watching a parade of ladybugs clothe the house in spotted finery.

--Weeding the big garden in the first house we built together, with a cold cocktail resting on the fencepost and the sound of the neighbor's lawnmower whirring in the background.

--Waiting to wake up baby #2 from a long nap because his face was so perfect in the long reach of evening that I just had to watch it one minute longer.

--Pushing the boys in the tire swing last night and realizing that, if we were to remain in this house, we'd have to shorten the rope a few inches because their legs are so long that their feet now brush the ground on the downswing, and feeling like the light couldn't last long enough to hold that memory in place.

So many golden moments. So many gilded memories. So much potential for anything to happen in the slow turning of the earth toward night.

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Do YOU have a favorite time of day? Tell me, won't you?

Almost in earnest, a game, and a question.

Sometimes I go through the details of my sitemeter report to see just who has been to visit N.A.Y. (cute, an acronym!) and what prompted them to come take a peek at this little chunk of the web.

OK, fine, I check EVERY day......but not obsessively. Six times a day, maybe? That's not obsessive, is it? Please say no, I'm new at this still and haven't developed a thick enough skin to not want people to come by and sit a spell.

The sitemeter is a trove of information. Often I recognize the familiar "names," those people who I know now by their internet provider or town name, and to whom I'm grateful for stopping by on a regular basis (thanks guys!). On occasion there are new names too, those folks who come here through other sites and who, if I'm lucky, return from time to time. And, as I'm sure you can imagine, there are some people who come in search of things, likely never to return.

It's those last few people in whom I'm interested lately. Who are they, those people who are looking for "pictures of Paris Hilton," or are on a quest for information about scintillating scotoma (that's a biggie for this humble site), pictures of Efudex treatment, or links to games?

It's pretty cool to think that, in some way, the informational portion of this blog will help someone. Makes me wish I had more medical issues, kinda, so that I could fill this blog chock FULL of tidbits about me and all the stuff that's wrong with me.

For instance, I could talk about how I have amblyopia. Because I do. See? I'm a cornucopia of oddness, with a story for almost every bodily system. Y'all know, if you've read N.A.Y. from the start, that I had the Hirschprung's disease as a kid, and transposed intestines, a smidge of childhood chubbiness, body odor issues (oh, yes, a first-grader who wears deodorant - it has happened!), tallness issues, freckles, paralyzing shyness, tinnitus, a-fib, varicose veins, migraines, and the aforementioned crazy alien vision problems. It's a wonder I can think at all.

Curiously, I still think I'm "normal." Why wouldn't I be? Who cares if I had part of my large intestine removed and skip a heartbeat every once in a while and can't wear shorts and only experienced 3-D vision for the first time a the age of 39 (thanks prismatic lenses!)? Those afflictions, if I dress properly and use the Sure and keep my glasses on and employ my verbal self-edit function on a consistent basis, aren't visible to anyone, and therefore don't affect how people perceive me.

I think.

Getting back to the point, I guess there are a whole LOT of medical-type things I could go on and on about here. Stuff of which I have first-hand knowledge. Things that would ping the hitmeter and bolster my page views and maybe gain me a few more semi-regular visitors.

But, you know, just like I don't really want this to be an "all funny, all the time" blog or a "Mommy blog" or a "stuff I did today" blog, I also don't want this to be a "all about my problems" blog.

Because, really, who wants to read about non-functioning intestines or crazy alien vision issues ALL the time?

So, sorry all y'all who searched on any of those medical phrases and words I just used, and are served nothing but bitter disappointment. It's just not my style to dwell on the unpleasant.

You can always browse the archives for games, I guess.

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Oh fine - I have to give y'all SOMETHING to go on, so here ya go.

"Hi! I'm Paris. Like the city, get it? I'm the pretty Hilton sister. Look! Look at my new dress! See how pretty it is, just like ME? Don't you like how it swirls around all pretty, like me?

Isn't it weird how Nicole and me and Ashlee are all starting to look alike? Isn't that hott? The bobblehead look is so IN right now! Totally! You know, I bet if they wore a dress made out of the sheets their moms used on their bed when they were in grade 3 then maybe they'd be as pretty as me, but I guess that maybe they didn't have 600-thread count ultra-high-density pure Pima cotton in a pretty pretty print like this on their beds because they didn't grow up all that rich, really, so whatever. I'm pretty! See?

My mom says it's neat that this dress covers my crotch, and I think it's cool too because now I don't have to wear underwear or remember not to cross my legs or sprawl. 'Cause I'm a TOTAL sprawler, y'all!. Believe it!

Oops, there's my sister over there trying to look prettier than me, I gotta go now and show her who the REAL popular Hilton is. Bye!"

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There, satisfied now?

Oh, all right. FINE. Don't ever say I never gave you anything...

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Gary Larson needs to come back for just one more. Please, Gar?

P.S - I'm trying out a new font - whaddaya think?

In which I go blow-by-blow on yesterday

I had a list, a reasonably long list, of cute and insightful and amusing things to write about today, and was all set to dive in to write all about them, when, sady, I woke up.

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I hate it when that happens.

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I had a little tune half-written in my head on the ride into work today that I was going to try to set up for an entry here, and then during the elevator ride up (1 floor, people!) I forgot it.

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I hate it when THAT happens.

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So, what's left? How to fill this space on the page? Why, I know! I'll do what all us Moms out there do the day after Mother's Day - THE RECAP.

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Oh yes, all us mamas all do it! You know it, I know it, and everybody who DOESN'T know OUGHT to know it, because that's one bandwagon you want to be on, sweetie. As first order of business Monday morning the Moms get together and discuss "our" day, comparing notes and kvetching or gushing, whatever the case may be.

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Therefore, I present to you- "MY MOTHER'S DAY RECAP "

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Allowed to sleep in - 10 points on the positive side

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Given cards by family - another 10

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Given a hanging basket of scaveola and a pothos - rackin' up the tenners, guys!

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Kisses all around and a group hug - bring on another ten, I'm FEELING the love!

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Go out for b-fast, only to find that the place we'd zeroed in on doesn't open for another 90 minutes - bummer, but can't subtract points for this as it's out of our control. Go to a second place, only to find a line snaking far out the door which is populated by people dressed in nice clothes who look for all the world like they might know a bible verse or 2 and who might just be a little offput by our travelling band of unwashed and barely combed-ness, but still no points taken off because, well, I didn't shower either.

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So, to grocery store for supplies for breakfast and the week, during which husband and children are amusingly adorable - give 'em ten for not running over my feet with the cart, for picking out good wine (that we couldn't buy because it wasn't NOON yet, so sad), and for being very solicitous of what I wanted to have for dinner.

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At the grocery store, I amused myself by watching all the men coming to the checkout with their grocery-store bouquets and accessories - the guy with the cart that contained a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, a 6-pack of English muffins, and flowers; the dude with 3 BIG bundles of flowers (for mother, wife, and girlfriend, perhaps?); the fellow with flowers AND a card AND candy (way to shop, big guy!); etc., etc. The men, so earnest in their pursuit of the "under the wire" giftage, but they still get points on their personal tally sheets, I'm sure, for even remembering that this day was, somehow, special to their wives or mommies. Way to go, flower dudes!

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Once b-fast was done (which I cooked, but whatevs, husband was amusing just by trying to get corned beef hash out of a can, complete with scatalogic and canine references, so yay!), I took a BUNCH of time throughout the day doing "the thing that has made me insane with happiness every time I see it":

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I DETAILED THE CAR.

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Oh yes, yes, yes! It's clean! It shines! It has no toys littering the back set and no old fry-shreds greasing up the upholstery! There are no old water bottles rattling around or 5 pounds of McDonald's plastic castoffs lurking under the seats! There's no dust on the dash and no grit on the mats! It's clean, it's clean, it's clean! Woooo!!

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10 points for that.

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Even the wicked thunderstorms and tornado warnings of yesterday afternoon couldn't REALLY get me down, because they didn't crack my car windows and didn't even dent the car too much, and hey-good-for-them they DID wash the outside of the car so that it matches the nice clean INSIDE. Double-plus goodness there, y'all! What might have been disappointing about those storms was the large hail that ripped through the screen in the bathroom, but the thrill of seeing huge chunks of ice fall from the sky made up for any "oh jeeez" moments that might have resulted. Plus, we rent, so the owner has to fix it. :>

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To cap off the day, appetizers (rosemary olive-oil ciabatta with horseradish cheddar and pepperoni) and dinner were prepared FOR me, and served to me as I lounged on the couch watching HGTV, thereby completing the crazy-good day-long bonanza. Ah yes, the remote in one hand and a cocktail in the other for a couple of hours, followed by pasta alfredo and pan-seared salmon with sauteed yellow squash and a fresh green salad (plus wine!) makes Tiff one happy mother.

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30 points for that, dear husband.

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10 points off for the hangover, Tiff.

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But so totally worth it.

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News at noon (ish)

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Guy Smiley reporting for TIFF Teevee.....

We've got a full lineup today, so let's get going before it's all old news!

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From the world of science, this story:

Scientists find genes linked to heart attack risk

The bottom line - The tighter they are, the more heart attacks they cause.

From the international news desk:

Series of Bombs Hit Ethiopia's Capital

Promoters now say it was a mistake to premiere Ishtar, Gigli, and M:i:III the same weekend.

In the human-interest sphere:

Tenn. May Mandate ID for All Beer Sales

Moonshine, on the other hand, will still be available for anyone with a fiver and a fast car.

Back to science for a moment:

Newly Discovered Monkey Rates Own Genus

"I'd give 'em a 7," the primate was heard to say. "They're cute, but sloppy, and look horrible in suede."

In health news:

Study: Vioxx Users Not at Increased Risk

Of........?

From our sports desk:

Nalbandian Reaches Rome Semifinals

In.......?

Hi-ho! As as added feature this week, we bring you visuals of news from around the world!

Bullfighter Carlos Inigo Montoya de Casteneda el Grande Mucho mas Macho was almost impaled on the horns of "El Diablo" this weekend in what onlookers described as a horrific display of poor taste in clothing. "Nobody wears pink and green anymore," said Maria Teresa Esperanza Angelica Schmidt, "too bad the bull didn't go a little to the left to put this guy out of business for a while. A few episodes of 'What Not to Wear' while he's in hospital would do him good."

In a real stunner of a story, it seems as though Marc Anthony and Jimmy Smits are to be the new team on "Dancing with the Stars"! "The chemistry is there for this to be a team with potential to be a contender," says a gushing show insider, "we're very excited by this pairing!"

And, lastly - Jessica Simpson says that winning the role of the head Loompa in the new all-girl version of "Wilhemina Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" was the most exciting thing to happen to her since she learned buffalos don't have wings. The fact that she's already orange was not a major factor in her casting, say the producers of the off-Broadway production.

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There you have it - all the news that's news to us, from TIFF teevee, where our motto is "Weak humor is still humor, dagnabbit!"

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And, to all y'all Muthas out there - Happy Sunday!

Wonka-quoting

For those of you out there that keep a blog (and you know who you are!) - do you ever go back through your archives and re-read your posts?

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I do, obviously, or I wouldn't be starting down this bloggie path, now would I?

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Anyhow, I went back into one post because someone did a websearch for a phrase that led them to a particular post I did a while back on allergies (Monday, April 10th, to be exact), in which was posted not only MY paean to Spring and all her wonderful allergens, but also was festooned with phraseology by Mr. Schprock (who outdid me, naturally) and also contained the "chocolate river" poem from the Gene Wilder version of "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" (Which, BTW, is still my favorite movie of all time. I can't explain why, it just is) because Rennratt mentioned the simliarities between Mr S's contribution and that bit of verse.

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An aside - Did that make any sense at all? I'm not sure even I can follow the loops and whorls of verbiage...... Nevermind, let's forge on regardless of reason or logic. After all, you don't expect that from me anyway, now do you?

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Back to the matter at hand - From that exchange (see paragraph 3 for background) I did some research on the movie, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that it contains generous amounts of references to Shakespearean works (which brings around the circle nicely to Mr S's self-effacing remarks from the original post, I think). Curiously, though, the Chocolate River poem is not among those quotes credited to the Bard. To my mind it certainly SOUNDS like something that could have been uttered on the stage of the Rose by a portly man in tights and doublet! Therefore, in the spirit of global edification in all things Wonka, and to perhaps convince you that the the words are indeed from an ancient English playwright's pen, I present the poem to you here, complete and unabridged:

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There's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going.

There's no knowing where we're rowing, or which way the river's flowing.

Is it raining? is it snowing? is a hurricane a-blowing?

Not a speck of light is showing, so the danger must be growing.

Are the fires of hell a-glowing?

Is the grisly reaper mowing?

YES! The danger must be growing, for the rowers keep on rowing

and they're certainly not showing any signs that they are slowing!

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Keep in mind that in the movie the oompah-loompas are madly rowing a rather unstable boat through tunnels that broadcast images of bugs and competing confectioners and other horrific images onto their walls. Now, doesn't that just make you want to go out and rent that movie to show your impressionable children? Isn't that sweet? Isn't that cute? How nice. How educational.

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As an FYI - the original Wonka movie is much darker than the new version (which is more faithful to the book, BTW); the undercurrent of something rotten is real, the threat of failure much more palpable. I think that edge is what makes it my favorite movie of all time. The juxtaposition (say it three times fast, y'all) of saccharine and sludge makes the tension of the adventure through the factory something in which one can get involved.

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Plus, learning Shakespeare by accident doesn't hurt, and the oompah-loompas rock the orange skin.

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Soooo.......

What's YOUR favorite movie of all time?

To Whom it May Concern,

Dear Jawline,
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Where did you go? I miss you. Your cousin, Miss Doublechin, seems to believe that while you’re gone she can hang around, and she's not nearly as good for me as you are. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

Please come back soon.
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Me
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Dear New York City Cab Driver,
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When you get a chance, would you please look around the back seat of your cab for the 2 years of my life I think I left there during your cross-Bronx interpretation of “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride?”
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I’d be most grateful if you’d mail them back to me at your earliest convenience. Or maybe you could just DRIVE them to North Carolina. At the speeds you travel, and with your intimate sense of vehicular proximity and complete lack of fear, you should make it there from NYC in about 4 hours, I think.
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Signed,
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Prematurely Aged Exurban Gal
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Dear Big U in NYC,
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Your bathrooms suck. My dryer has more space than your single-stall restroom. For such a big prestigious school, I should think you could afford more than six inches of knee room and a door that doesn’t require a death grip to keep closed because it doesn't even lock.
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Think about it, won’t you?
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Regards,
Me
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Dear Fort Lee Hilton,
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I love you.
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Seriously, if I could marry you, I would. Your beds are like sleeping in a "me"-shaped cloud, your Italian Resturant makes sinfully good food that comes in a portion large enough for 2 on a plate the colors of a sunny Dutch bedroom, Muhammed your room service guy is funny and sweet and doesn’t expect a tip, your purser - was his name Zoltan? - is personable and helped me pass the time by telling me about his golf vacations while I was waiting for the limo this morning, your teevee is huge and has so many channels worth watching, and even though I stopped to watch Japanese soap operas last night that’s no reflection at ALL on the other fine selections that were available, and your shower has the power to beat sensibility into the most sleep-deprived and business-befuddled guest.
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Don’t tell the Holiday Inn down the street, but I think you’re prettier too.
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Mwah!
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Me
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Dear People On The Airplane Who Think that Standing Up In the the Aisle Once the Plane Lands Will Somehow Make The Flight Attendant Open the Door Faster So You Can Talk Importantly On Your Phone While Deplaning,
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It won’t.
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Now sit down before I take a bite out of that ass you have in my face.
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Thanks!
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Me
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Dear, dear NYC,
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You are so heartwrenchingly beautiful in the pink and blue light of dawn. Your complicated profile is thrilling, the thrum of life in your streets and skies is exhilarating, and the rush of possibility in the atmosphere around you is tantalizing There is no place like you on this whole earth; you are the city of my parents and theirs before them, the place of my roots in this country.
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It was very very good to see you again.
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XO,
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Me

Image courtesy Kevinfreitas.net.

I think I'll be there

Tonight, when this guy crosses the finish line, I think I'll be there.

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Wow. A whole country.

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I wonder what he'll do for an encore?

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Beautiful downtown Fort Lee is, I'm sure, beautiful. Unfortunnately, I am not in that part of Fort Lee.

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However, I AM in a gorgeous hotel with the softest, nicest king-size bed and fresh coffee and room service that delivers until 10:30 from the WONDERFUL Italian place (maybe tonight it will be sushi from the OTHER restaurant downstairs) that makes a calamari Fra Diavolo to make your tastebuds say "Dayum sistah! That's some good stuff!"

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It was THAT good. Seriously.

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Free internet, a bazillion channels on the teevee, a pool, spa, gift shop, and.....karaoke lounge!

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Oh yeah, I don't ever need to leave this place. Too bad I got all them meetins' today.

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On the flight up yesterday (on a small plane, of course!), I got the window seat. Yay! I also was in front of a small child.

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Wait, it wasn't bad!

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This little voice (I did not actually SEE the child) kept up a running dialogue with its Dad for much of the trip, piping up with precious little exhortations throughout.

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"Wook at da pwane! See? It's moving!"

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"When we gonna fwy?"

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"Oh, oh! We're fwying! Up, up, up!!"

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"Here's da sun! What's it doin' up here?"

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I think I got a cuteness overload. Once we landed I took a look at the tiny towheaded moppet, and the overload was complete. Like a little beam of sunshine, she was. Her Grandad was the one who told me that she's three, and that her Mom is 43, and that her Mom is in her first year of medical school.

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Say it with me......FIRST year of medical school. At 43.

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There are worse midlife crises, I guess.