Because I can

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

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Let the celebrations BEGIN!!!!

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

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Oh shit.

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What have I done?

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I am a dead woman.

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I.Have.No.Theme!!

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Unless! Oh- ho!!

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

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

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Pretty please?

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

Really, what's not to like?

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

Too much of a good thing

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

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Today, for example!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Is it any wonder I'm the perfect Gemini?

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

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Oy.

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

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

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Stupid cat pictures are funny!

In which I speak of many diverse and interesting matters

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

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

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

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

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And really, do you want THAT on your conscience?

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

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

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

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I do so wish I were a kid again.

Calhoun's, late 80's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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But, it was gone.

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

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

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

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Or is that silly?

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

Skippy and Doo-Dah are in town again

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

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

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

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Your suggestions are most welcome.

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

Overheard on 401

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

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

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

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

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

Thing 1 - "Ohhh no! Not that!"

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

Yes yes, yes...the possibilities!

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

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

Gotta go, y'all. Gotta go.

Hee!

A cavalcade of goodness, just for you

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

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

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Crews holding line against Ariz. wildfire

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

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Earth hottest it's been in 2,000 years

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

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Presidential candidates take Iraq stance

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

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Rob Lowe gets OK for massive dream estate

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Different, I suppose, from "real" estate.

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'Whistler's Mother' at Boston museum

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

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Henin-Hardenne beats Clijsters in Hastings

The local papers report,

For Clijsters attended 6 beer and wine tastings,

The day before hitting the court.

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Saddam ends hunger strike after missing one meal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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OK, with me so far?

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Grand, let's proceed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sit up straight? Rhomboid major says no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few letters I'd like to write

Dear McDonald's,

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

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Gracias,

Tiff

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Dear Naked Lady at the Y,

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

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

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You, my soft round friend, rock.

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Gratefully,

Tiff

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

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

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Hmmm? Did you know all that?

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

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Irritatedly,

Tiff

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

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

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Tiff

Where's those marshmallows, anyhow?

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

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Exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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Maybe I'll see you there.

Fat man jumping - follow up

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

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

Random random random

On the radio this morning:

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

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Imagine my disappointment that I was nowhere near that spot.

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

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

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And yes, I answer to it.

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

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

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

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

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Sure would be nice.

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

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Woot!! One less thing to have to remember!

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

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

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

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

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Poor lad.

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

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Must. Find. Curtains.

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

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The choice of wine is yours.

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

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Try it yourself and see if I'm wrong!

Friday mailbag!

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

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

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

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

Dear Tiff,

My ears pop when I swallow. Is that normal?

Signed, Eustachianally Concerned

Dear EC,

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

Tiff

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Dear Tiff,

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

Signed - Lovelorn in San Francisco

Dear LLISF,

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

Tiff

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Dear Tiff,

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

Signed - Do-Nothing in Paducah

Dear DNIP,

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

Tiff

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Dear Tiff,

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

Signed - Curious in Seattle

Dear CIS,

Duh, yeah.

Tiff

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Dear Tiff,

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

Signed - Curious in Manahttan

Dear CIM,

Duh, yeah.

Tiff

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Dear Tiff,

You made the last one up, right?

Signed- Curious in Raleigh

Dear CIR,

Duh, yeah.

Tiff

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Dear Tiff,

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

Signed - Devoid of Canine Nomenclature

Dear DOCN,

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

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

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

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

Tiff

Superheros don't sweat

Swing on string through Gotham's towers,

I don't sweat.

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Throw batarangs o'er people's flowers

I don't sweat.

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Immolate with laser eyesight

Stop the world with speed-of-light flight

Bust some heads in a bad-guy bar fight

I don't sweat.

.

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad ideas a deux

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

.

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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WARNING! WARNING!

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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All in all, it was a good thing indeed.

Post the 180th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Oops! Got off topic there for a sec.

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Anyhow - I dislike moving very very very very much.

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How about YOU?