Felicitations on the anniversary of your natal day!

Many years ago I declared that I couldn't take the opinions of anyone born in the 70's seriously, because if they were born in the 70's it meant that they were too young to have an opinion.

Much to my shock and chagrin, I realize I must change my views, because people born in the 70's are now, it appears, not only old enough to have opinions but children, jobs, responsibility, and fulfilling lives as well!

Some of them even have a birthday today, one of whom I know. It is to this person that I owe an apology for the very silly voicemail message left last night in a response to a request by a family member to leave voicemail messages in honor or their birthday.

I'm sorry, person to whom I left a very silly voicemail message last night - I should never have used 'gorilla' and 'happy birthday' in the same phrase, and I apologize. I was mic-shocked, and hadn't prepared well. This is what I should have said:

Happy birthday to one of the worlds Greatest Enunciators! You are to be congratulated on NEVER being misunderstood. As if that wasn't enough (because a life of clarity is to be celebrated!), you are also one of the most caring, creative, and clever people I've met. You really live out your best characteristics and therefore generate goodwill and great humor as a result. Also, I dig those inflatable buffet things and your accent.

Because, really, her accent (though I bet she doesn't think she has one) is crazily charming.

----

Not that this has ANYTHING to do with the above sentimentality, but I think you deserve to know that when someone screams 'you have floor ants!' you'd better run, and run FAST, because those suckers will be ON you in a heartbeat looking for anything at all to eat. What you should also know is that they don't like meat, so you're safe, but being covered with millions and millions of them is scary-bad and itch-inducing.

The good thing is they die within minutes of being released from the colony ball, so even though every available surface might be covered in a writhing mass of dark chitinous bodies, the really icky part doesn't last that long and in a little while you can go about the business of sweeping up.

And so now you know part of what I learned from my dreams last night.

This was about the ONLY good thing that happened in them. The other parts about the

• dreadful amusement park full of hazards; traps; and 'lazy bayou' mud bogs featuring fake alligators, kraken, and savages all surging out of the mud at you while you slog through them laden with giant bags of sugar on your back you're not allowed to get wet
• the giant octopus,
• elevators that take you noplace fast when you need to meet with the VP and don't have keys to your dorm room and might be, in fact, mostly naked and slightly singed
• old boyfriends appearing like moths at a light to serenade the crowds of people who are gathering around waiting for you to give a presentation you have no idea you were supposed to give and you're still muddy, slightly singed, mostly naked, and very very angry?

Not so good. Be glad I didn't tell you about them.

---

Well - it's time to go. The shower and work call me to activity. I'd stay here all day, you know, wandering around bumping into things, thinking of taking a nap or making something to eat, but people EXPECT things of me and need me to go to meetings and tell them stuff about things, and then think I might be at my desk waiting for them to swing by and catch up...which is annoying but has the happy side effect of paying the bills.

Begs the Question - If you won a mega-lottery and had all the money you ever needed, therefore didn't have to occupy yourself with a job or home work or other drudgely things, what would you do for the first week?

I think I'd spend it not telling anyone. I might keep going to work, reveling on the inside and feeling very superior to all the other working stiffs who didn't have millions in the bank. I might even shoot for mental haughtiness, recapturing the strong ego I had when I was young and believed I was better, stronger, and faster than most people around me. Ah, the salad days of youth, when the mirror of self-reflection was still firmly packed up in a musty corner of adulthood.

But that's just me - what about you?

Tiff out.

First things first

I have a friend who has written a book. You can buy that book. You don't even have to be her friend. Just be someone who has enough money to buy her book. See? It's simple.

This is her book:

I've heard it makes a great gift. :)

See Lisa? I DO read the copy.

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Also, it's clear to me now that I am of an age where I need to tack on a couple of days AFTER a vacation to recover from vacation.

A week's worth of boating, floating, eating, drinking, singing ,playing, and general FROLIC wore me out so much that upon arrival back home on Saturday afternoon it was all I could do to get the car unpacked and then fall into bed...for a 3-hour snooze.

(Did anyone else just hear the theme song to Gilligan's Island? Just me? OK then, moving on)

Which I followed up with about 10 hours of sleep that night.

Who knew all that treading water and riding about in boats could be so dang exhausting? Well, me, because that's what happens EVERY year. Somehow, in the 12 intervening months, I forget. Old age has its benefits, I guess is what I'm saying...

Once thing I know for sure, and that I will never forget, is that as much I drive them nuts and as much as they make me wish for a padded room sometimes (I like the quiet!!), I love my family. A week is just not enough to spend with the people who know me best.

Even the noisy ones.

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I hope you have been keeping well and that your parts of the world are blossoming with possibilities and the fruit of the money tree.

For now, still basking, Tiff out.

Sorry LL

It seems that someone was complaining a while back about the dearth of posts here lately. Someone was saying how I'm to blame for their lack of posting.

Well, if that's the case, Mr. Complainer, you're off the hook for the next month, as this is my last post for a week. We'll be here (not that house, but at that lake!):


Yes, once again it's Lake Week and the occupants of the Tiny House will be remote, splashing and floating and Special For This Year...FLYING (you knew it was going to happen, right?)! There's an airport right at the lake, so Biff is renting a plane for a day and will take the bravest family members up for aerial tours while my Mom prays like crazy that everything stays on and IN the plane. It's her job. Used to be she's just WORRY on it, but prayer is productive so I'm glad energies are being spent in that direction.

You see where I get it from now, don't you?

---

When we go away, we've learned to pull up the area rug in the living room so that when we return we're not hit with a wall of animal funk from the petses rolling around and dropping hair and blech all over it.

Also, I think it makes it nicer for the pet-sitters not to have to look at a hairy rug each time they show up.

Our pet sitters are friends, and thank God for them, really, because it's a huge peace of mind and cost savings to have friends look after the beasties. They come a couple of times a day, sometimes bringing their OWN dog for Skeeter to play with, and make it look like someone's here.

I do feel bad for Skeet while we're gong on vacation, because it's got to be hella boring for her, but she's getting old and maybe chasing the cats and barking at the mailman is about as active as she wants to be. Once she's gone we won't be getting another dog, I don't think; the benefit:risk ration just isn't there for us. We've talked about it multiple times, and agree that we're a canine-free zone after she goes, but who wants to bet that after a couple of months of 'no dog' we'll stroll past an adopt-a-pet tent at the PetSmart, be sucked into the gaze of some soulful puppy eyes, and walk out with a wiggling mound of warm puppy wondering what the heck just happened?

I wouldn't take that bet if I were you.

---

I suppose I should go wake the troops. My ETD was at about 11, as Biff played out last night and needs his beauty rest before making the drive, which leaves us 90 minutes to wake, eat, shower, pack.

AH-hahahahahaaaa!!!

Never gonna happen, because even though I have the linens, meds, first aid, paper goods, nonperishables, and COFFEE already out and ready to go, I still need a shower, to send a few things out for work, to set the OOTO messenger on email, to give a haircut (though the haircutting rig might just come with us to the lake), and to pull up the dang rug.

And move the refrigerator back into the kitchen. Because Biff FINISHED PAINTING yesterday! Woohoo! 6 months from start to finish - not bad!!

Clearly, planning ahead is not my strong suit. At nearly 50 years old you'd think I would have gotten it together by now, but no. Each year I'm a little better than the one before though, so that might could for something. Yes? Dear Lord I hope so.

Hope y'all have a grand week!

Tiff out.

I lost a follower. SO sad.

Because now, with one less follower, NAY is fully 3% less effective at reaching a mass audience!

Blogging, maybe, isn't what it used to be. I expected to be world-famous by now. Ain't happening, clearly.

No matter. I keep on sporadically boring people with bits of things. It's what I do, the bit-flinging. Or is it bytes?

Perhaps both.

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This past Sunday, my life was placed in a position of extraordinary jeopardy, and I SURVIVED!!

It go like dis:

Saturday afternoon, my beloved Biff became a private pilot (big ol HeeHaw SAH-LOOT! to him!). Therefore, being the total stud-muffin that all private pilots are, he wanted to immediately show off his new wings to whomever would get in the right seat of a rattling bucket of bolts (with wings on!) and fly 'em around, preferably for long distances, as the showing-off needs a few hours to really steep.

Which is why I, as his first victim passenger, found myself in Kitty Hawk NC Sunday afternoon.

Yes, dearies, Tiff got her extra-wide buttal region (and all adjacent parts) in a tee-tiny lil' ol' plane with her man, put MY LIFE in his hands, and agreed to fly over 100 miles (and several LARGE bodies of water) with him.

This, friends, if you were ever wondering, is called 'love.'


The trip was not, however, all wine and roses. In fact, we MIGHT have had a tad more time to look around at the big ol' memorial and replica historical if I had not, um, had a freak-out 60 miles into the trip.

People, the ground looks really freaking FAR AWAY when you're 3500 feet up in a miracle of engineering that is only big enough for 4. My mind kept saying' oh shit, if the engine stops, where will we LAND?' and 'oh shit, if he has a heart attack how will I land?' and other very counterproductive things of that nature.

Despite the frantic mental calisthenics I was putting us through on our way to sure fiery death, I managed to hold it together until the GPS and the navmap (I just made that up! how tecchy!) showed that there was a giant freaking body of water straight ahead and we were going to have to fly right the heck over it and nossir, I'm thinking no. Nonononono to the water, and the instant death, and the terrible news the Things will have to bear (though my death would in fact leave them fairly well off, as I believe in doubling down on the ol company-sponsored life insurance).

H to the ell no, I was not flying over that water, and thus I spake to the pilot - 'I need to get down, NOW.'

I believe I saw disappointment shine in his eyes when he realized I was not in fact talking about boogying like a dancing queen or, *ahem*, engaging in such pursuits as married folk have license to do, but I was rather IN FACT FREAKING OUT AND NEEDED TO FEEL THE GROUND UNDER MY FEET RIGHT NAO!

To his credit, he asked me to locate an airport in the vicinity on the navmap (we are lousy with airports in these parts, thankfully), landed adroitly in a brisk crosswind, told me the flight plan was mine to do with as I wanted (in essence), and then puppy-dog-eyed me when I said I didn't think I could do the water thing.

Did you read that last bit? He frelling PUPPY DOG EYED ME.

The cad.

CAD.

And thus it was that I crammed myself back in to the right seat of the bumblebuzz, strapped on the headseat (remembering to NOT wear earrings the next time, as the little wires are mightily pokey!), got out the map (because by the power of my holding it it would keep us in the AIR), and braced for impact.

Oh, and took a Dramamine.

Dramamine clearly has amazing powers, I think, because I mellowed right the heck out, almost enjoyed flying over the dang ocean once we got to the OBX (the first approach was a little high, apparently, though I suspect some shenanigans on the part of the boss there and I had my eyes closed for the loop-around but for second approach), and REALLY enjoyed getting boots on the ground.

Which, of course, is when the government called Biff, wondering if they ought to send search and rescue after us. Really. I keed not - the government was looking for us! Like we were smuggling exotic reptiles or selling state secrets! Except that, it was not so exciting a reason. Seems that when you cancel a 'flight following,' sometimes that ol' thing doesn't GET cancelled (even though a nervous copilot HEARD control saying they'd cancel over her pokey-eared headset) and the time you spend on the ground comforting your coward wife at an airport in the middle of noplace while she plucks up enough nerve to make it just 40 more miles puts you 30 minutes late to land at your earlier intended destination is cause for people to start thinking you may have, in fact, plunged headlong into the VAST TRACTS OF WATER over which you flew, and people are, apparently, rather concerned about such things, even if you TOLD them your plans had changed.

Phewf for the fact they were looking for us (yay!), and phewf also that when they FOUND us, nothing happened that required 1) bond, 2) a lawyer, or 3) deportation the the Netherlands.

After that scare with Big Brother we had just about as nice a visit as you can have at the OBX in 90 degree weather if you have 15 minutes to kill, then loaded back up in the rattletrap to head to home.

And you know what?

It was awesome.

With navmap in hand, I, singlehandedly, with a little bit of help from Mister Bigshot Pilotman, kept us aloft by spotting landmarks below, only ONCE steering us potentially horribly wrong, which is not so bad, really, when there are 4500 feet of nothing but air below you and an infinite number of things that could go wrong that one also has to concentrate on while trying to spot things like railroads and cell towers.

By the time we touched down, the fact of the matter was that I was already looking forward to the next trip.

Because life isn't about what we can control, it's about what risks we take to really LIVE it that make it worth living. If it takes me hunkering down in a whimpering ball of fear for an hour in order to start to spread my wings and enjoy being aloft and almost alone in the sky except for my best guy then so be it. I'll whimper a while, then straighten out and enjoy the view.

---

And those are my million words on how I spent my Sunday afternoon. Hope you feel better about yourself because of them, and congratulations for reaching the end!

Tiff Out.

Me and the Coen Brothers

The other night Biff and I settled in for the evening with a good meal and a movie, something we only occasionally do, which is a shame because it's enjoyable and it actually makes having Netflix make sense.

Paying for something you don't use is rather foolish, is what we're thinking, so now we're doing the movie nights. Being lazy and watching 2+ hours of TV of an evening is so much more rationalizable when you look at that not-an-activity through the lens of fiduciary responsibility, wouldn't you agree?

Using the Netflix, we're had some hits and misses of late. A few days ago we re-watched 'Batman, The Dark Knight,' and my opinion of it remained the same as the first time I saw it: Heath Ledger is the very best thing about that movie, and Christian Bale's voice work for the Batman should have been overdubbed by someone with actual acting talent. Also, Maggie Gyllenhaal can flip between cute and shockingly unattractive in the blink of an eye. Overall, I'd give the flick a B, based only on the late HL's performance. It's a real shame he didn't live longer.

A couple of nights ago we took in 'Burn After Reading,' a film by the Coen Bros starring lots of pretty men and Frances McDormond. And John Malkovich, who is not pretty but does a fair bit of scenery chewing quite entertainingly.

After watching the movie, my reaction was the following: 'erm, what just happened?'

Often, after watching a Coen Bro film, I have that reaction. Admittedly, I've only seen a few of them, and have heard great things about some that I've not seen, but Fargo, The Big Lebowski, and Burn After Reading have all been head-scratchers for me, like I totally missed the point about why the movie was even made. On the flip side, I loved Raising Arizona, was captivated by Barton Fink, and would watch O Brother, Where Art Thou over and over again, so a 1:1 win ration isn't all that bad, but still, I think I'm missing something fundamental about their genre.

Black comedy is tough, that much is clear. How do you produce a story that is humorous and edgy without stepping over some taste lines that might turn people off? Blending suspense, intrigue, pathos, and comedy sounds counterintuitive, doesn't it? It might well be that that co-mixing of aims is what throws me off, confusing my emotional response until all that comes out at the end is 'erm, what just happened?'

I'll keep trying though. It's possible I'm simply not witty or clever enough to understand all the driving forces behind each plot twist and unfortunate endings, but if Brad Pitt and George Clooney continue to appear in Coen Brothers films, it's worth pretending I get it, just to watch them.

Hey - I might be old (and so are they), but a girl only ever gets so much eye candy in her life and so even old ladies must grasp each opportunity and enjoy it while it's happening, ne? Those 2 pretty boys are totally worth sitting through 2 hours of 'huh?' Esp when they're acting goofy. A pretty boy acting the fool = extra delicious eye candy, and you know I'm right about that.

Do you have a fave Coen Bro movie we should bring up on the Netflix queue? A fave actor you'd watch in anything, no matter how terrible? Take a few moments to dish in the comments, if you would, and then have a great day.

Tiff out.

PS - I have it on good authority (mine) that liking the eye candy does not mean you like your LOML any less. Within a LOML relationship it is permissible and perhaps beneficial to have eye candy. Eye candy is just that - candy. Living on candy is inadviseable, so making a life out of nothing but eye candy would be dangerous to your health. Far better to feast on LOML, as that's real and nourishing, and make sparing use of the eye candy. The food pyramid and the Relationship Pyramid say so! And aren't you totally gobsmacked that there even IS a relationship pyramid? There are! Lots of them! The internet is amazing!

just in case you were wondering

I still freaking LOVELOVELOVELOVE our new kitchen.

Occasionally I forget about it, and take it for granted, but what I've learned is that a new kitchen is like a great partner - you see their beauty every day and maybe forget how attractive they are, but you need to stop every once in a while and pause to drink in how much they bedeck a day with what they are and, to be frank, how much you LIKE THEM - so often overlooked and yet chock full of satisfaction at second (or thousandth) glance.

I'm right, aren't I?

---

OK - I brag now!

Thing 2 is a straight-A student. BRAGBRAGBRAG!

DISCLAIMER - It's all his doing, really. He's resourceful, intelligent, careful, and self-motivating. He does have some curious homework habits (and I won't name them here except that nobody else can 'do their business' while he's doing homework), but if I have to clench for 20 minutes in order for him to get all A's?

Totally there.

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In case you didn't know, Biff passed his written exam to be an airplane pilot today!

(PSA - BRAGBRAGBRAG #2)

YAY!

So freaking proud of him. He started out 3 months ago with several hours of undocumented flying ot his credit, and in that time has mastered all kinds of technicalia and pilotage and unsupportabalia of anarchism it's amazing that anyone has room in their head for that nonsense.

Check ride is Sat morn. After that we're taking a ride to....whknowshwere, NC...just because.

Congratulations, Biffster!

---

That's is from here. My typy fingers are getting tired, and it's time fo' bed.

Tiff out.

Letters I'd love to send

Dear God,

You are awesome and wonderful and all-knowing, so you should pretty much know that I'd really love a thunderstorm soon.

I'm not asking you to PROVE your omniscience by sending one, but figured calling you out on my wants might, well, get you to launch a token of your affection for me my way.

The butterfly bush asked me to ask you, BTW. You cannot turn down a thirsty Buddleia!

Love,

Tiff

--

Hi guy in the car behind me today!

Gosh, you were following so close to me I thought we might be dating. I felt this odd attraction and repulsion thing going on, like you were this dude I went out with once in 1987 who was super good-looking but a total asshole that I was torn over whether to put up with his douchiness because of his gorgeousness or split and find a nice guy who wouldn't push the limits every dammmmmm second.

GITCBMT - it is not my fault there is a work truck ahead of me carrying 18 million pounds of rebar on a 1-ton truck. Is it also not my fault that the road crews are out paving. Also, it is not my fault that the flagmen have chosen today to fall asleep at the switch and abandon us to a 5-minute(the nerve!) stretch of time that we need to spend at a dead stop on the hot macadam of a North Carolina late June day.

Lastly, it is NOT my fault that my Jiminy, with his powerful 6 cylinders, can't immediately crank out a tire-squealing start from a dead stop once the flagman says 'go,' like it seems you wanted me to.

I had the A/C on. Priorities, man!

Sweetly, like arsenic,

Tiff

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Dear New Girl at Work.

I kind of hate your voice. Like, a lot. Like, I'm sure you are totally talented and smart and really really super awesome at your job (because hey, you have puh-LENTY of initials after your name), and I kind of adore your laugh, so thanks for that, but dang.

That voice.

It will not surprise you that I am not from the far nothern midwest, as I think you might be. It therefore should not surprise you that my people, the ones from The East Coast, do not understand why you do not use your chest cavity to resonate when you speak.

It's like your voice box is attached directly to your eyebrows.

I am not a fan.

Please, for me, laugh more (for hearing you laugh is like bathing in rainbows, so much is the adorable) and talk less. WAY less.

Love, your as-yet-to-be-met cubemate,

Tiff.

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My dear family,

I love you.

To the under-21s, I love that you do the chores I ask to to within a reasonable time frame from when I ask it. I love that you do not overly complain about doing them. I love you for being mature and of such good humor.

To Biff - I love that you, on a day with nothing much calling your name, went out and got new bath mats. Seriously? What man does this? You rememberd I noted that the old ones were losing their grippiness, and fetched us a very nice pair that will not endanger our lives if we happen to need to run into the bathroom to take care of...things. Grippy bathmats are, it's clear, worthy of a love note.

When a gal comes home from work to find the dishes done, floors clean, chores complete, and new bathmats, it's enough to put a big ol' DB grin on her face.

Much love love love,

Moi

straight from the Good Book

aceldama

PRONUNCIATION:

(uh-SEL-duh-muh)

MEANING:

noun: A place of bloodshed.

Yep - there's a word for that and it's in the Bible! Supposedly this place was bought by Judas with the money he took for betraying Jesus. It's the place he died, it would appear, after he fell over and, I quote,' his intestines burst out.' Or, alternatively, the field the dudes at the Temple bought after he turned the money over to them and then hanged himself.

Either way, that pretty-looking word has some fairly unfortunate overtones associated with it.

In case you're wondering, this is one of the words a day I get from AWAD, to which I've subscribed for years and from which I have learned a great deal. I don't always remember what I've learned from day to day, but at least by reading about new words I've wedged in one nugget of new information a day. Never stop learning, I say, even if you can't recall tomorrow what you learned today!

Interestingly, Aceldama is part of the Valley of Hinnom, which I also just learned about and sounds utterly dreadful, as it was at times a place of ritual slaughter of children, a city dump, a burial spot for the indigent and enemies, and a place the locals associated with Hell. Nice, eh? Of course today you'd never know that a perpetual stanking fire upon which dead people and trash was thrown ever burned there, as it's pretty nicely cleaned up now and there's even a road running through it you can drive on and not even get shot like you would have when one of the many wars that have been waged there was being....waged. Who knew a big ol' ditch could have been the site of so much terribleness? Just proves that history, while invisible, can still knock you for a loop.

So, there you go. A fabulous lesson about blood money, including human sacrifice, gore, war, and other unpleasantries. All there, right in the Bible. The Good Book! Gracious!

---

Oh, it's not all biblical research and such around here, heavens no! We proceed with life, keeping apace of school and travel and the endless vacuuming up of animal hair. The trip to Michigan was great, the final school concert of the year was enjoyable, the end-of-the-year report card was alphabetical, and we're anticipating vacation in a couple of weeks. OK, I'm anticipating vacation in a couple of weeks; I can't speak for everyone else. Biff has been flying a lot and studying for his written exam while practicing for his check ride and getting excited about being let off the leash and being a real pilot soon. Thing 1 is a couple of weeks into summer vacation and is very very busy doing nothing all day long (read: sleeping until noon then playing video games all day which I made worse the other day by buying a family pack of Xbox online gold something or other) except when I give him jobs to do. Thing 2 is finishing up school and looking forward to bothering his brother all day long during the summer and then gearing up for HIGH SCHOOL next year. I'm just praying I make it through July without my head exploding, as it's super busy at work with no relief only on October's horizon. Like, I'm not sure where June went, and it's already the 24th and what I thought would be done by now isn't, so where can I buy a few more days?

And like that.

Speaking of, it's time for me to git. Meeting at 11 and I'm not even at work yet! Y'all have some good times for me, OK? Tiff out.

It's cold up here!

We're in the great white north (OK, really it's green) for a few days, doing some visiting and celebrating and commemorating and other things that end with 'ing' because that's downright festive and verby.

So far one amazing thing has happened: It is 73 degrees right now. At 11:30 in the morning! Freaky!

In NC, it's probably like 100 degrees already with 90% humidity. The 73 is easy to get used to, but the young feller at the check-in desk said it's going to get hot soon, like, all the way to 85! Oh noes! 85? I might have to put on a jacket!

Silly Michiganders, with their warped notions of what makes a day 'hot.' See, maybe they don't understand that it's not really hot unless you sweat while standing still, in the SHADE. It's not really hot until you'll give up 50 close parking spots to find one under a tree. It's not really HOT until you come in from the outdoors, think 'my, it's awfully cool in here' and then see the thermometer is set to 80 F. That, I believe, is the North Carolina definition of hot.

After a while, you can't help but just get used to that brand of long drawn out hot. There is nothing you have do about it but complain, which is what we do a lot of, as there's nothing else to do about it or in it or with it or for it. Just, complain.

Not too enthusiastically though. That might make your sweat sweat, a look that doesn't work for anyone. Not even for tall glasses of iced tea or Richard Simmons at his most ebullient. Nope - best to keep the complaining down to monosyllabic phrases, like: 'hot out, huh?' and 'dang it's hot' and 'if it was more hot we'd all be fried.' I'm sure there are many a darling Southern phrase about heat, and how it scrambles your brain-pan, but usually when it's very hot, in a North Carolina kind of way, the transplants like me can't do much more than pant out an assent at statements of meterological obviousness, then get back to trying to breathe in such a way as to not scorch a lung. We leave the chatty to the natives, who have adapted through years of sweltering summers to be able to remark on things and sweat and not FAINT all at the same time.

But, to get back to the point, it's in the 70's in MI right now. That's a temperature at which I can feel my mental facilities loosen up. Might be that I'll mosey outside and breathe deeply for a few minutes, just to say I did that in June.

And then take a nap. Because, dang. Been up since 3 a.m. (mostly awake) and it's time. Doesn't matter HOW hot it is, if I'm up for 9 hours I'm wanting a nap.

Hope y'all are well, and that this Flag Day is being good to you!

Tiff out.

Please, let it be 5 p.m.

Day dragging. Not enough amusement on the interwebs, and too much work to do to enjoy loafing, even if there was something of interest.

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Reformatting stinketh, thou and thine can believe that. Thus it is said, thus it is (re)written. My own fault for having to DO it, as the project I'm reformatting to meet the new specs of the publishing software was supposed to be done over a year ago, when the new specs were not in force, so in addition to the general PITA factor that comes with a wholesale reformat of a 100+ page document is the butt-kicking I'm delivering to myself for being in this position to begin with. Good thing I'm a reasonably flexible gal, as self-administered butt-kickings require a certain amount of bendiness.

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Sometime I wonder what it would be like to have nice legs. Mine are not. I have bulgy thighs, fat knees, cankles, and chubby feet. When I see ladies with gorgeous legs, I am envious. Cute little ankles, feet that fit into strappy sandals, actual visible kneecaps! What luck to be them!

As I get older though, it's nice to know that nobody really expects me to have good legs anymore. Age does have its benefits. Combine that lack of expectation with some high-quality supportive undergarments, and I expect to get a few more decent years out of this old body.

As long as its mostly covered up.

---

I hope you are planning something fun for the weekend. Me, I'm mostly going to be doing practical things ahead of our trip North next week, and napping.

Amuse me with your 'to-do' list in the comments if you have the time and inclination - I'm hoping at least ONE of you will mention something about emus. It's time for a good emu story, I think.

Tiff out.

12 minutes

It's 'make up dinner as you go' night at the Tiny House, which might result in something fantabulous or might results in something along the lines of 'I hope I don't remember how I made that'; only time will tell.

But there's ham and onions involved, so it won't be totally terrible.

I think this is the fourth complete meal I've made off one Easter ham, and there's still a terrifying amount of meat left on the the bone to go. Easily enough for a few hefty sammiches or another entire meal for 4.

Then there's the bone. This one, I might just chuck, as it was 100 freaking degrees here today, which in NO WAY equates to pea soup weather, and besides, I have a tub of it in the freezer from a couple of months ago I've not yet thawed and supped upon, so what's the point of making more?

It's bad enough I'm boiling macaroni right now. The kitchen heats up like MAD with the new Maserati of stoves doing the cooking. Simmering a pot of liquid love (AKA pea soup) for hours would be waaay too much.

Also - Eric the cat is a champion shedder. Are there medals for that? There should be. He would totally win one. Or all of them. Day after day I leave for work in the morning and the living room floor is reasonably hair-free, and by 5:30 there's a clumpy mess of orange hair left thereupon. The culprit can ONLY be Eric. It's a darned good thing he's utterly adorable, or he'd be out on his ear by nightfall.

Funny, I feel the same way about the Things on occasion (anyone else with teenagers care to explain to me how they fail, time after time, to PUT AWAY THEIR DAGGONE CEREAL BOWLS WHEN THEY"RE DONE WITH THEM??). When they were sub-double-digit ages I was OK with telling them how to live like regular folks, but things have devolved to the point that I despair of them ever being able to eat a meal without me saying 'BITE SIZED PIECES' or "MOUTH CLOSED' or 'DON'T TIP YOUR CHAIR' or any one of a number of motherly aphorisms with which I spice our dinner conversation.

I hope it's not just us, or them, or me. They can't be the only semi-domesticated teens in the world, can they?

Tell me all about it in the comments. I must dash - pasta's done!

Tiff out.

Its'a new post! 'Oooray!

Partied like big dawgs Saturday night at the Bela Fleck concert. Our seats were so good!

Not.

The basic math behind out limited seats choice is as follows: General admission + arriving 45 minutes after the gate opens = big wall of SUCK for seating. My view, out there on the vast swathe of grassland that is the 'open-air' seating, was of a garbage can. GLAMOUR! Seriously, that was the best we could get, being unfamiliar with the arrangement of the place and where to snag a good view (hint - on the mulch mound surrounding a tree is good. It's all about the elevation).

HOWEVER, one does not go to a Bela Fleck concert to see the awesome pyrotechnics or the back-up dancers, so the occasional 'stand up and gawk' plan worked fine for viewing opportunities. The rest of the time we just listened, and relaxed. The lawn has its benefits, and the stretching out is one of them. Who wants to be stuck on the concrete risers that are the expensive seats when one can (arrive early), pick a good spot, and LAY DOWN? Nobody, would be my answer.

Thing 1 embraced the lying down, and the star gazing. And the wandering around. I think the last one was his favorite.

Thing 2 was more concerned about the picnic basket, and what might be next in its capacious depths. Also, some walking around. He's only just 14 - large crowds don't hold the thrill that they do for an almost-16-year-old. Thing 2'd rather hang out, snack, and chill.

Biff spent the latter part of the show hanging out in the crowd as well, standing up and getting his gawk on at Victor Wooten, one of his small gods. I have to say, as bass players go, the dude can bring it. I can't appreciate him as much as Biff can, but even I, as uneducated in Things Bass as I am, can tell that he's got magic in his fingers. That, or he's got 8 fingers on each hand and is a freak of nature.

Either way, it was fun to listen to.

---

Thing 1 is out of school for the summer. He is 15, and has no plans.

I don't remember what that was like, though I would like to.

He should enjoy this last summer of total freedom, as the Time of Pure FOlly is rapidly coming ot a close for the boy. I've made him promise me that starting next school year he will join Key Club at school, which, if they're any good, will, along with band and TKD, keep him hopping busy for the year. Next summer it's JOB TIME, so this is the last of the endless summers.

So, I'm buying them each a season pass to the town pool, and will encourage them to spend a fair amount of time 'wandering' the neighborhood. As teenage boys of unusual size, they should be fine walking downtown for hotdogs at Shorty's or taking themselves to the pool or meandering to friends' houses.

Yep - time for him, in particular, to grow up a little more, is what I'm thinking, while the mother I was 10 years ago is hollering in anguish that he's already too grown up and DON'T LET HIM GO!

But I have to. They need to flex them wings a little, before their butts grow into those gaming seats in their room. I swear, if I didn't MAKE them stand up from time to time the only reason they'd get up and walk is when they have to pee.

And even then I'm not so sure they wouldn't find a new use for milk jugs.

---

Well, it's off to the store for me. We're running low on wine, speaking of milk jugs...

I hope y'all are thriving where you're planted, and that each little hair on your adorable heads is a shiny indicator of a healthy digestive tract.

Tiff out.

Snips and snails and the whatnot

Firstly, because I am a lover of the astronomical sciences, though very much a dilettante in scope of knowledge, I present you with this:



Yes, it's 8 minutes long. Believe me, you do, honestly, have 8 minutes somewhere in your day to turn on the speakers and marvel. Get the whole family in on the game! They can get as motion sick as you do! See who can last the longest without needing a peppermint!

And don't forget to MARVEL.

---

Secondly, a vignette. I just returned from a trip to the fabulous Youngsville Food Lion, which I rather like as it's new and a good size and still has the Food Lion prices (CHEAP!).

But that is not blogworthy.

What is notable though, and I'll get to it eventually, is what was said to me in the store. Setup: there was a couple also at the store, a Mom and her daughter, actually. Mom was a white-ponytailed lady of indeterminate age, daughter was a gray-haired, overall-wearing, semitoothless woman, also of indeterminate age. As often happens, we three perambulated the aisles mostly together. It was clear that daughter was sort of 'dependent' on Mom. Not terribly so, but the vibe was there.

At one point, I slipped in behind daughter to go down the chips aisle while Mom was still examining deals on Cheetos at the endcap. Daughter turned around suddenly, thinking I was her Mom, and said 'Oh! You're not Mommy. I was expecting her.'

I felt sad for a moment, and just as I was about to try to help her, she said: 'I wouldn't like to think I'm nearly old enough to have a daughter as old as you.'

*Blink*

Thanks, shiny shirt-wearin' shorty overall-sportin', gray crewcut-havin' toothless wonder of Franklin County - you totally just harshed my buzz.

Go find your own mom.

---

Tonight it's pizza night, as it should be. It's also 'lay around and be lazy night,' which is also as it should be. I love Friday nights. Best night of the week, because Saturday mornings at the Tiny House usually mean a whole lot of nothing is going on. Me and the nothing are tight. If left to my own devices, I will hang out with nothing a lot. Nothing is as easygoing as Nothing.

Tomorrow, however, promises to see my weekly date with Nothing cancelled, as we will be 1) picking up the pottery we painted last week (a hike down Six Forks road, so round-tip will be at least 90 mins), 2) taking Thing 2 to a pool party in the afternoon (yet another chauffeuring opportunity! joy!), 3) going to a Bela Fleck and the Flecktones concert tomorrow night at the Art Museum, which is way the heck on the other side of Raleigh but thankfully starts at 8 (be there by 7!). Thankfully, the actual rush-around time is minimal, but the day is full. With that kind of schedule, it's clear my weekly date with Nothing will have to be cancelled. Oy, my life. Such hardship.

---

Also - Yahoo, could you please put someone on the job updating the comics page? It's been since TUESDAY since I've seen a new chuckle-worthy strip! Unacceptable! I so totally need to know what Seth and Fernanda are doing in 9 Chickweed Lane, and the hijinks Dilbert and the gang are up to! Not to mention Frazz, For Better or for Worse, and Get Fuzzy. Without that 5-minute humor update in the morning, the day just doesn't get going properly.

So, get snappy. FIX ME UP.

---

I hope y'all have an enjoyable weekend, with plenty of time for nothing and lots of time to do what you want to when Nothing isn't an option.

Tiff out.

some thoughts

Some news makes me angrier than other news. The farm report and anything related to puppies is OK, the rest often engenders a dangerous uptick in seething. Unfortunately, I listened to and read the news today. Thus, I am angry, to wit:

People who kidnap a young girl and keep her hostage for 18 years should get prison. CLEARLY. However, why stop at just prison? Why three hots and a cot, when there's so much MORE that could be done for them? For people who do such things, I propose a special kind of prison, which includes these fun activities:

• live in a tent
• have to poop in a 5-gallon bucket
• no teevee
• no radio
• muzzles for all!
• access to your intimate body bits whenever
• and plenty o' brainwashing.

Seems fair, as that's what people who kidnap young girls usually do with them. Unless they keep her in their basement and father children with them, in which case liberal applications of darkness and unwanted physical advances should be added to the menu, but please keep the brainwashing, as that seems to be a constant.

At the risk of stating the BLATANTLY obvious, this menu of woe goes for people who kidnap young boys too. I have no tolerance for any of them. They are the worst kind of thieves, except those who kidnap then kill. Those people, the kidnappers and murderers, have a truly unique place in my heart, but because that is a very terrible place (but just that one tinysliver! I promise!) indeed I won't share with you what I think should happen to THOSE people once they are made a guest of the state (or country).

Corollary: anyone who kills their own child and shows knowledge of having done it should be taken behind the barn and shot. Or drowned, slowly, in a bucket of pig pee. Or hung out to dry in the vicious Carolina summer sun, without benefit of SPF ANYTHING. These are people for whom I've given up hope, which I KNOW is against my faith as I should always look for the good n' love my neighbor n' seek to turn the hearts of men n' such, but at this point in my Godly walk I can only remember to seethe, and imagine dreadful things happening to them that might, maybe, equal the suffering through which they put their children.

Note: I keep the insane out of this. I have done insane things - and later looked back on them and wondered who that person was that did those things, and was appalled that even in the midst of terrific distress and heartache I could have even considered doing those things, much less done them at all, but I did, and so must pardon those who do other ill-advised things. However, I pretty much stopped short of murder, though I can't discount that people have made me mad enough to wish them dead. Stopping short is a great distiguisher between the truly mad and the very stressed, is my thinking.

Why are some people so wicked? What pushes them to such depths of despair? How horrible have their lives been to think that violence, thievery, kidnapping, execution, was the BEST way to behave?

For all that hurt, I'm sorry - to the victims and perpetrators alike. Doesn't stop me from wanting to somehow make the perp take the walk their victims took, for as long as they took it and in a much similar way.

Me and the Old Testament, in this we are alike. Every day I'm trying to crack into the bit after Psalms as the model of how I should live, but it's a tough row, darlins'. The urge for revenge (or is it justice?) runs deeeeep.

This post brought to you by me being sick of people being evil to each other. I know it's not original, or even very well spelled out, and I don't' care. Sometimes it's just a big ol' serving of warm chopped vitriol here, served with a side of bile.

Mmmmm, bile.

The End.

--

picture link here

Today I am one day older than yesterday

Today is also my birthday. Today I have deemed it such that I turn inscrutably old. Which means, of course, that there shall be NO SCRUTING of me from this point forward. Seriously, you should be done with the scruting of me by now, that's how old I am.

While the number of years is not a 'landmark' this year, it's so close as to be merely a prep for the landmark to come, as it shall take me almost a year to adjust to the notion that next year, it'll be LANDMARK AHOY!

Also, today is about the shouting, in honor of Tracy Kaply. And my youth. Which involved a lot of random shouting. Shouting used to be fun, and sometimes involved no real reason, as in 'drive around with Jeannie and scream' outings when I was 17. If she reads this, she'll get it. Frank Langella, baby, and DIRTY PILLOWS!

God, can I really be as old as I am? Also, as my Mom never made it past 39 (admittedly, she's bound to be older (yes, she's alive and kicking) than that now but won't cop to it), which would make me the product of her womb when she wasn't even born yet, which is really really creepy in a sideshow-I'd-like-to-go-to way. Seriously, next year, when I have one of those landmark years, she's totally going to have to up the burn on her own chronology, or people are going to talk.

So yep. Birthday. I'm going to go stare at the CAKE DOME a while and plan out how to find whoever invented the "Happy Napper," which I just heard an ad for on the teevee and now want to invite to a slap fight with "Princess Unicorn and Love Bug." Good grief...people BUY this crap? What has this world come to, when special TOYS are needed to entice children to sleep? Are dogs mating with goats? Has fire started falling from the sky? Did I miss the Rapture (again) and am left with the dregs of humanity, the sniffers of glues, the pantywaist milquetoasts of creation who wallow in their own fear and sweat when faced with a Double Jeopardy question about 'Governments of the World'? Because that would suck, as it's my birthday, and the RAPTURE IS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN ON MY BIRTHDAY.

Also, get off my lawn. It's gestating.


Love,
Tiff

---

Oh, and just so you know? 14 years ago on my birthday I was in the emergency room. For 8 HOURS. With a newborn perma-sucking away while I waited for someone to maybe come take a look at the possible BLOOD CLOT that had planted itself inside my left knee. Good times, baby, dang good times. Because nothing hollers party like a room full of wounded people. ROCK ON!

DATE DAY!

After yesterday's sog-fest of an afternoon (rain.all.day.), today is bright and shiny and ready for anything. So, in honor of the promise, it has been deemed that today is date day!

OK, that's how I'M thinking of it. Haven't cleared the moniker with the Mister yet.

First, coffee. Then, he zips around in an airplane while I do my walkies. There's a perfect 3-mile loop that takes me a little under an hour to do, so by the time he's down I'm sitting pretty out front of the terminal, cooling off.

Then, after getting prettied up, we're off to make good on a couple of Groupon/Living Social deals. First, we're doing some pottery painting at Bisque Art in Raleigh (20 bucks off! Sweet!), then we're taking a factory/tasting tour at Roth Brewery. Check out the deal I got on the brewery thing - it was 19 bucks for the tour, a pint free, the pint GLASS, and a deposit on a growler (and I think that's it). If we could somehow work in a baseball game, it would be the perfect day.

Oh! And I got tickets to see Bela Fleck and the Flecktones next week at the NC Art Museum! Art musuem? Yep - they have a huge outdoor theater there, some under canopy and some general admission lawn seating. At 22 bucks a tickets you can bet I went with the lawn seating. Should have bought the Groupon for a museum membership last fall when it was offered - I bet I would have saved a bundle on those tix.

So, that's my day. I hope yours is a satisfying as a warm doughnut or a 2-hour nap.

Tiff out.

the one you might not want to read

I will be quite honest with you. You might not want to read this post. It will not be funny, or amusing in any way. This post, though, is nagging on my heart, a thing of darkness and necessity. I feel like someone out there needs to read these words, today, and hear them as if they were talking with themselves. If you are that person, read this and know you are not alone, that you are capable of being more than a scared soul locked in a dreadful spiral of hurt and shame. I know how you feel - I've been that girl.

---

The first time someone imposed themselves physically on me I was 12. It was innocent, as far as he knew, but he'd raided his folks' liquor cabinet on New Year's Eve and was itching for a good time. Somehow, he'd found out where I was babysitting, and called me up. "Hey, can I come over?" No. "Aw, come on" No. "I'm coming over." I won't let you in. Knock knock. "It's raining, at least let me in to dry off" No. "Please?" Oh OK. As soon as he was halfway through the door he grabbed me and kissed me, slobbery, on the mouth. I shoved him back out that door, into he cold rain, without his umbrella, and ran to the bathroom to scrub at my face until it was raw. I should have been happy a boy wanted to kiss me, but I was ashamed.

The nest time, I was 13. The Dad of the kids I was sitting for offered to drive me home. He'd had a few drinks while out which had aroused his inner Lolita complex. He locked the car doors and wouldn't let me out, pawing at my breasts and grabbing at my head to kiss him. I clocked him in the jaw good one, spat at him, and when he sensed defeat, he let me out, hissing 'that's the last time you'll sit for us, bitch.' Good, I thought. I went upstairs and scrubbed at my face until it was raw. Maybe I should have felt grateful an older man was attracted to me, but I was ashamed.

I avoided dating in high school, though I was desperate to be loved. I didn't know how to act around boys, and made myself so aloof and awkward that nobody asked me out. Except for one semi-disastrous date Freshman year, I didn't go out with any boys.

In college and grad school I had many adventures, some of which were with boyfriends who taught me many things, mostly fun and good and so I felt grand and forgot those early shameful experiences.

Later in life, when I was in a new place and lonely, I was asked out by a guy I met at a bar. He was going take me to dinner, I said yes. Then he offered to cook me dinner, and I said yes. Then, after dinner, he wanted to go up to his room to 'play backgammon and talk" to get away from his roommates. I, stupidly, said yes. This was all he needed to assume I wanted to do far more than play backgammon, and once the door was shut and locked (I said no to that, but he didn't listen), I was taken advantage of in the most awful way. Being physically overpowered while my accoster whispered "I bet you like this, huh?" as my clothes were torn away with his one hand (because his other was over my mouth) was horrifying, demeaning, and embarrassing. When he was done, I shoved him off me, spit in his face, grabbed my clothes and ran. Thank God I'd driven my own car there. I should have been thankful a big strong handsome man wanted to sleep with me, but I was ashamed, and a tankful of hot water couldn't wash that off of me.

I avoided guys after that for a while. Then I met someone, again while I was in a new place and lonely, in a bar, and he offered to take me out to dinner. I said yes. At dinner he acted like a total tool, and I decided I hated him. He was driving though, so I had to live through the ride home. He locked the doors, leaned across the seat, and said 'I'll let you go if you kiss me.' With gritted teeth I did so, and kissed him so angrily I hurt him. He did not like that, one bit, and twisted my right breast so hard I thought he'd torn it off. I punched him in the crotch. He unlocked the door, shoved me out, and cussed me a blue streak while tearing out of my yard. I never went back to that bar. I should have been thrilled someone wanted to date me, and wanted to kiss me, but I was ashamed.

I've been awakened with someone's hands around my throat. I've had the shirt ripped off of me. I've had dishes broken because 'I wasn't paying attention.' I've been cussed out, called names, threatened, and berated for hours on end for things real and imagined. I've had hate poured out on me in such heavy bucketloads I thought I would break. I've given up so many bits of my soul that I thought I'd lost myself forever. I should have been happy to have a home and job and health, but I was ashamed at how I let myself be treated. Ashamed, and angry.

Anger is key.

Anger helped me to, one day, stop being the victim. One day, when I was being told again how useless I was because of something utterly stupid, trivial, untrue, and spiteful, I got so furious that quit taking it. Funny how being attacked while you're folding laundry puts a fresh new perspective on the abuse you've been willing to take. Funny how the coping you've done for years all of a sudden falls apart like a ragged old shirt that just yesterday you wore out in public but would never dare put on again. Funny how once the fog of shame lifts, there's abundant harsh clarity to inform the next steps you have to take.

I quit being a victim just about 30 years after the first man pushed himself on me, making me his prize to be taken, his treasure to be tarnished. I quit believing so little of myself that I believed this is what life was about, that I had to take the abuse.

On that day, anger something cracked open inside me fierce and raw. On that same da, unfortunately, I quickly sealed up the crack, afraid of the knife-sharp edges of ferocious sadness, and pretended that what was bubbling up out of it was better sealed inside. On that day, I thought I could make a new me through grit and a knack for forgetting bad things, but I was wrong.

You see, denying those experiences does me a disservice. Who I was then is part of who I am now. Her actions then inform my actions now. That woman IS me. That life WAS mine. Those experiences, brewed together over 30 years of negative experiences, drugged my sensibilities to the point where forgetting, sweeping away, seemed the wisest course to take. It was, most certainly, NOT.

Forgetting, denying, belittling of those experiences takes some of the depth of my experiences away, fills in the crags of who I am with complicit agreement with how I was treated. I thought I could soften their impact with a thorough coating of "I choose to not think about this right now,' but that's like filling a boxing glove with broken glass and goose feathers - as much padding as you put in, those sharp parts are still there and will, eventually, hurt you, bad.

Acknowledgement of those dreadful experiences, and moving BEYOND them, is the key.

First though, you have to acknowledge.

If you are in this situation now, do not be like me. Do not let that second dish be broken because 'you made me do it.' Realize that you are worthy of real love, of nourishing and acceptance, that you are not the broken thing. You can be whole, can be beautiful for someone just as you are, for who you are and not who they think you should be or how they think you should act. Do NOT let 30 years, or 3 MONTHS, go by, thinking 'this is how it is.' It's NOT how it is. Not at all, and even if you live alone for the rest of your life, there's far more peace in that than in waiting for the next attack, the next bad thing to happen at the hands of someone else.

There's never an acceptable amount of predation in a relationship. There's never an acceptable amount of violence. If you've been attacked once, seek out what it is that allowed that to happen, and don't do that again if it's within your power. If you're in a nasty relationship, walk away. You deserve far more than a life of dreading the sound of a car coming up the driveway or dating 'that guy/girl' because s(he)'s the only one who has shown interest.

Please, learn from my lessons. It took me long enough, and once I turned around and walked out my life changed for so much more good that I'm stunned, daily, how liberating it is to just BE. Not perfect, not even close, but by just being me it's enough for some people.

Me included.

Whoever you are that made me write this - I love you, and hope you get the help you need to make a new life, for YOU. You deserve so much more than you have right now.

Funny-looking kid strikes gold

Driving to Thing 2's middle school this morning, we were intercepted by a glittering string of light brown floss, floating on the wind, impossibly thin and supple, without weight or form, as though freed from a coffin...

Fascinated by its movement, I stupidly drove straight into the writhing mass. For a moment I was cofused by its form as it resembled what might be near-historic impossibility, a gutted cassette tape, which went extinct in 1988!

A TAPE? A real TAPE? Nonsense!

And yet, there it was, caught on Jiminy's (the new van has a name!), antenna and flapping dangerously close to other cars' netherbits with their spinny things and the so-and-so and the pudding pops and what have you.

Something in my head stupidly thought 'oh no! We have to haul in the relic before it gets caught in the catalytic converter of the car(s) behind us and twists up in a knot of improbable strength and proportion, sucking us and the cars behind us into a daisy chain of twisted metal that, somehow, has snagged the tape in such a way as to send it reeling through the radiator grills of all involved vehicles with just enough traction to play 'Take My Breath Away' over and over again until the last cylinder stops spinning the only functioning timing belt and we all die!'

Because y'all, it could happen.

And thus it was that Thing 2, at his mother's insistence, spent a good 5 minutes hauling in through the passenger window a VAST amount of shiny brown tape, a complete archeological find as far as he's concerned as he is not familiar with 'the tape' except the there's a slot for it in Jiminy's dashboard and so the concept needed to be explained a while ago. He has never played a cassette in his LIFE, people, and CDs are almost as quaint as antimacassars!

Nevertheless, in it came, a source of small amazement and a full smack upside the head to this older mama that what she used to think was too cool is now viewed by my kids through the same filter as I looked at the 1950's of MY parents' generation.

And so it goes, y'all. We are born to be replaced, and that's becoming more and more fine with me. I'm comfy down here in this ol rut, anyhow.

---

Being that I'm seemingly all about the reveal lately, let me tell you something about my lovely Thing 1's band concert tonight.

It was enjoyable. It would have been MORE enjoyable if the band director didn't bury my baby in the last row of the back row of the kind-of-small band, but such is the way for all trombone players, and thus it was with him tonight.

Nevertheless, the selections chosen by the director were perfect for the band, challenging, and ended with a real bang ('Abram's Pursuit,' Holsinger 1945, but not quite as fast as in that vid). Even if I could only HEAR my kiddo, I knew he was there, and that's enough. From my days as a 'buried in the back' horn player, I know that some of us aren't as flashy as a flute player, but as necessary to getting the job done as the glitz holding down the front row.

So proud of him for sticking with the trombone. It's 'his thing,' and long my it be so. And thing 2 as well! In a couple of years they'll be able to sit in the same GROUP and play together, and then I will be that lady in the corner with the tissues and the bawling and the proud and, if lo, they only still made them, the pudding pops.

Well, maybe not the pudding pops, but certainly the puffed-upedness and the joy of seeing my kids being taken where nothing but music can take them, together. RAPTURE!

Oh dear, have I just predicted something?

Tiff out.

How to break my heart

I had to take off from work a little (2 hours!) early this afternoon to get home to pick up Thing 1 to go to his Dad's house so he could root through his bedroom over there to find his tux for the band concert he's playing in tonight so we could get home at a decent hour so I could check back in with work before stopping at 5:30 or so to get ready for a meeting at the TinyHouse tonight.

That's right, by 2:30 in the afternoon I already knew what I was going to be doing at 9 p.m. Mostly involving running around, with a certain dearth of lollygagging and slothfulness. Shameful, really, the lack of laziness.

While en route, Thing 1 was unusually talkative, even for a young man as talkative as he normally is. He filled the transit with tales of what he's done at school, how he's learning commands in Spanish 2, what his grades are, and how he likes being a happy person. Being happy is much better than being an old grump, says he, and he's found out that by just smiling at someone you can almost always make them smile back, which he said was a good thing because...

get ready for this....

and I quote: "well, I'm a pretty funny-looking kid Mom. I'm tall and skinny and have big feet, wear glasses, have a big nose, am paler than Florida sand, and I'm covered in freckles."

*Tink*

*Clink*

SHATTER, there went my heart.

My beautiful boy, my tow-haired toddler turned into a fine young man, thinks he's funny-looking.

He thinks he's funny-looking.

My baby.

*Crack* There goes another piece.

This parenting thing, it doesn't ever get any easier, does it?

---

On a totally different note, and well prior to the above heartwrenching scene (you're wiping a tastefully shed tear from the corner of your eyes, aren't you?) I had to tell some coworkers today the terrible truth about me. It was so very difficult to tell them, but I did come forth with the potentially embarrassing truth that I did not, in fact, have a family of rabid badgers (once again!) living in my cubicle, but instead was experiencing a terrifically pronounced case of borbyrigmi, and for the near future would be bringing them the dulcet tones of the LaBrea Tar Pits. Straight from my alimentary canal.

Don't know what I ate to make it so, but whatever it was was colossally distracting, if not to them, then to me. I'd never heard such cacaphony coming my my gut before, not even on those other 5 occasions I've talked about this very thing on this very blog - nope, today's gastrointestinal concert was the loudest, longest show ever put on - a veritable Wagnerian scope of output by a normally more Bach-like tract.

And I told my cubemates all about it, so, you know, in case they hadn't noticed before they'd certainly be listening for it now.

Maybe that wasn't the best idea, huh?

Tiff out.

with just moments to go

So, tomorrow should be interesting what with the end times coming nigh and all.

Therefore, I'd better make this post interesting, as it may, quite possibly, be my last (if all goes well for me, that is. If it doesn't, I'll just keep on keeping on, looting the closets of the stylishly-dressed chubby ladies like myself who will have been enraptured and therefore in no need of their wardrobes. Hey, it'd be a sin to waste all that good stuff, right?).

I've taken lately to scanning through the Wake County mugshot roundup on WRAL.com, checking if I know any of the naughty girls and boys, and taking particular note of those folks who are committing crimes in my neighborhood. Just yesterday, a dude was arrested in YOWF (Ye Olde Wake Forest) or 'fleeing the scene' or somesuch, and I think I now have put 2 and 2 together to explain why there were at least 5 cop cars zooming through our neighborhood yesterday afternoon. Who wants to bet that none of them obeyed the many stop signs that are posted? When in pursuit of a bad guy, the specific particulars of road rules are quickly forgotten, no doubt. It was all very exciting for a moment.

The mugs are good for some amusement as well as being a source of information regarding 'who should I not say hi to in the grocery store.' There are many many variations on how to be human, is what I'm saying, but one thing appears to be semi-constant - felons like diamond stud earrings. Preferably 2. And I'm talking the men here! The females don't seems constrained by the studliness (perhaps coincidence?), but the guys, wow! Oh, and neck tats are popular as well. And nicked eyebrows. What is up with the nicked eyebrows? I am very sheltered, apparently, and need some schooling on those of y'all with a little more street smarts than me. That would be approximately all of you, so pipe up about the eyebrows and earrings!

It is my sincere hope that neither of our boys ever appears in the mug shot round-up. There are tons of young folks represented who are hauled in for pot possession, for instance, and their faces are plastered up there with the be-diamonded strong-armed robbers and surly thieves. Most of the kids with the pot charges look scared out of their minds, and I hope they learn a lesson about how they're choosing to live their lives. It's still a crime to possess dope in NC, kids. While I don't believe 100% that it SHOULD be a crime, nevertheless it is one. ALWAYS have your friends hold your stash! Sheesh! And if the Things are reading, remember that Mommy knows what reefer smells like - you will not convince me that you're carrying around dried tomato leaves or that Kevin from the Bus (or Jane, or whoever) was nice enough to give you some of the oregano from her Mom's garden 'to try out'. Just....don't even try. Mom has been around the block a few dozen times, and hasn't lost so many brain cells as to believe absolutely EVERYTHING you say. Takes one to know one, and babies, I got what it takes to know.

Ten years ago I didn't have to worry about dope fiends in my family. Now, I do. Will the testing never cease?!?

So, Happy Friday, Day-Before-the-Great-Uptake, Day-Before-Thing-2's-Birthday, and the last freaking work day of the week. Enjoy your afternoons and the weekend, what little there will be of it. Let me know if I can root through your wardrobe on Sunday, OK?

Thanks. Tiff out.

If There's No Laundry, Is a Horse Really Flying?

OK, first off, still celebrating the fact that Katalina Miks has been found as is, according to reports, well and cared for.

BLESS!

Second off, it's after 10, it's raining, and I'm thinking of baking. Um, what?

Third off, that access road the new giant conglomerate of car dealerships put in a few months ago next to Route 1, in the process of which they ripped out a FOREST and paved paradise? Um, thanks. For now. You totally saved us from sitting in traffic on ol' #1 waiting to 'eench' by an accident at 1 and Durant tonight. So, OK, you do have your uses. But did they have to take down ALL those trees, really?

Fourthly, did I mention the baking? That I've been planning to do since about noon? It might be too late for that right now, I'm thinking, but banana bread! Chocolate swirl banana bread! Seriously, is it ever too late for that? EVER?

Also, and quintupally, I folded a metric assload of laundry last night. It did not really help all that much, as apparently there's still an equivalent amount left to do. Some of which involves a very funky-smelling comforter that sat in the machine too long after the first go-round, and smells a little like cheese n' feet. Mostly, laundry around here is done by Biff, but as he's getting ready to start taking a test to see if he knows the bookwork to fly solo, I'm thinking funkylicious quilts are not on the top of his mind right now. Where flying is concerned, there is no higher calling. At least not now, this minute. Not for laundry, anyhow. But hey! If I don't do it, then it doesn't need to get folded and put away! HEY! Cha-ching! And thus an idea of continued slothliness is conceived, gestated, and borne.

Also, I want chickens. People I know, TWO OF THEM, now have chickens. I want me some chickens. Live ones, with pretty feets and curly feathers on their heads and keen lil' eyes and glossy backs. THOSE chickens. My friends have them, why not me? GIMME CHICKENS!

And that, as they say in showbiz, is that. Other people probably say that too, but I'm pretty sure Ethel Barrymore said it first. Maybe Ethel Merman, but if it was EM you can be sure just about everyone knew about it and would be, therefore, easily attributable. Further research is needed on that point.

With that, Tiff out. Perhaps, as they say in show-jumping circles, to 'bake.'

tempered idiotcy is the best kind

What had this past week brought?

For one, a lost child. She might be 21, but lost still she is, and a community is hoping and praying that she will be found. When someone more fragile than the average bear goes missing, the hearts of a village break in synchrony, and mine is among them. For Katalina then, a moment from all of us to think of her. Not necessarily pray (but if you do pray, go at it like the game is depending on your next swing), but just THINK.

She's out there. Think of her, for a minute. Maybe that's what it takes to bring a young woman to the realization the she needs to, like ET, just phone home.

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In other, perhaps completely no-sequitur news

Sunday was good. I was just issued a proclamation that I am loved, so things are even better than good, so Yay! While it seems a bit out-of-whack to have a good day while those you know are having a very bad one indeed, things do march along.

Thus, Biff spent a fair chunk of the day flying airplanes, and I spent a fair chunk of day doing....nothing.

Like, serious nothing.

As in, I feel rested. And full of the f*ckit attitude that defined my middle 20's.

• Dishes? Eff no
• Laundry? Eff no.
• Shower? Eff NO!
• Exercise? Eff NONO.
• Cook? Hahahahahahahaha!! NO! who is here to eat the cooking? NOBODY, and so eff no again.

For hours and hours is went. The nothing. Doing NOTHING, and loving it.

But...

There is a problem. The problem is that I am not truly and really capable of doing nothing for a whole day. By about 9 hours into the effort I get itchy and wibbly about the not-doing, and....

Thus, at 10 pm on Sunday, I have gobs and GOBS of pent-up Momnergy and feel like cooking, baking, folding clothes, and cleaning the kitchen sink, all at the same time. I am fighting the need to cook something wholesome and put fresh sheets on the bed, right his instant.

Clearly, it's time for a drink and some "How It's Made." That pretty much cures the urge to do anything productive, right?

Oh yes, that's right.

Tiff out.

Bite me!

So, hi. It's me again. This time with a learny thing that you may or may not want to stick around for, depending on your current level of domesticity.

Grant, you can leave now. This will not appeal to you, I'm pretty sure.

Yes, I have a recipe again today. It's like I'm freaking Betty Cracker or something, right? Six or more recipes a year makes me practically a food blogger!

Anyhow, this is a dish I kind of made up with the help of a dozen different ideas gleaned from the internet that seemed 1) too hard. 2) too time-intensive, 3) too recipe-rich, or 4) too not-what-I-want-to-bite-right-now.

Clearly, dinner is a time fraught with choice-making at the Tiny House. FRAUGHT, I say, and with the FRAUGHT comes the desperations, from which this recipe was born.

Forthwith - - -

Chicken/Spinach bake, Tiny House style

This recipe serves 4 people generously. And, according to the calorie-converter site I just used, has the following properties:


Kind of fuzzy and awful, I know, but the bottom line is that a serving (generous, remember?), has lots of good stuff mixed in with probably too much fat (cut the half and half if you want to ameliorate the impact) and salt (I overestimated the Parm cheese to be on the safe side), but also has the following awesome things:

only 442 calories (not freaking bad at all!)
44 g protein (whoa!)
15% of the RDA of fiber (can I get a woot woot?)
High in niacin, selenium, vitamin A, and vitamin C (icing on the cake, babes!).

The good > the bad, IMHO, so here we go.
You will need:

2 boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into small finger-size pieces (that's right. 2. No more! It's plenty!)
1 medium onion, diced
1 medium tomato, diced
1 16-ounce package frozen spinach, thawed
2 TBSP olive oil
2 TBSP half and half
1/2 c skim milk
1/2 cup bread crumbs
1/2 c grated Parmesan cheese
herbs to taste

• Brown the chicken pieces in 1 TBSP of olive oil, season with pepper while browning, set on paper towel to drain
• Saute the onion in the remaining oil until golden, add spinach.
• Add half and half and milk, top with herbs of choice and tomatoes, heat through. Add 1 TBSP grated Parm and herbs as desired (Basil? Oregano? I'm calling your names, darlings). Let bubble for 10 minutes to thicken slightly.
• Mix bread crumbs, remaining Parm, and remaining 1 TBSP olive oil in a medium bowl into moist crumbs, adding other herbs as desired (fresh oregano, dried basil, and dried parsley worked today).
• Place spinach mixture in baking dish (11X17 works great), top with chicken, then spoon bread crumb mix on top, coating evenly.
• Bake, uncovered, in 375F oven for 20 minutes or until coating is nicely browned.
• Let set for 10 minutes, serve with rice (adds calories) or alone (my choice).

NOTE: From start to finish this took about 40 minutes, which is like fast food at our house. ALSO NOTE: We sometimes cook dinner for 2 or more hours a night, which makes us weird, but it's our time to just revolve around each other and 'be' without having to plan an activity, so hush with the 40 minutes. When the kitchen window is serving up gushes of honey-colored sunbeams, and the birds are chirping as merrily as the day Mary Poppins jumped through a chalk painting, and the kids aren't arguing, why then 40 minutes of THAT is a bit of heaven on this earth, amiright?



Honestly, this could serve 6 modestly-eating people, but it took 4 of us (recall - 2 teenage boys among us) to almost finish off the dish, so I'm going with 4 servings in an attempt to be calorie-honest. Be aware, there is a significant amount of fat and sodium in this dish, but it's not all THAT bad, right?

If you try it, let me know. The Things said to save the recipe, so I'm encouraged that others might also like it.

With that, Tiff out. In the immortal words of Mama Celeste - ABBONDANZA!

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Image courtesy of this Zazzle site. I think I want me one.

Trifecta

(ED note: thanks to LL, I stand corrected on the Kentucky Derby thing...it was Saturday. D'OH!)

Reason to have a party #1 - the Kentucky Derby is today! Break out the big hats and the bourbon, we gonna get wild for 2 minutes and then eat things that are bad for us.

There is a family in our neighborhood (well, OK, on the edge of our Mill Village neighborhood - they live in the house that used to be the mill supervisor's, so it's a touch more grand than the mill houses, but like 4 times.) who throws a Kentucky Derby party every year. Convenient, really, as the event is always on a Sunday in May, so the weather is generally nice and pretty much everybody has the day off. They do it up big, with hats and porch festivities and lots and lots of people, and it looks really fun, but nobody has ever invited us so I can't vouch for the quality of the offerings or company.

Reason #2 to have a party - it's Mother's Day, and my Mom deserves a party. Seriously, the woman taught me to drive, and with my terrible depth perception that could NOT have been an easy task. Also, she's my Mom, which makes her awesome, because if I'm awesome then I had to get it from someplace, and let's face it, I'm probably twice as awesome as most people so at least one full dose must have come from her (unless, of course, she's 4X awesome and my Dad didn't contribute any awesome at all, but I don't think that was the case as my Dad was pretty dang awesome too). So, at least one full dose of awesome from om, which is pretty awesome.

I love my Mom, and though we have our differences, I always will love my Mom. Because, as just mentioned, my Mom is awesome. Probably more awesome than your Mom, so I'm sorry about that, but that's how it goes sometimes. My Mom was on the field hockey team, for goodness sake, can your Mom say that?

Case closed.

Reason #3 to have a party, and the real reason why I'm about to make homemade chocolate cake: It's Biff's birthday.

May I just share a little secret with you about that man? I think his parents were both 2X awesome, and it's a dominant trait, because he is the most awesome guy ever ever on the face of this or any other planet, and lo I would argue with you until I'm blue in the face if you were to try to promote some other man ahead of him in the awesome derby. You would not win that argument, because not only do I have a large stock of awesome things he is and does to fall back on for opening, rebuttal, and closings, I am devious and sneaky and would try to make you AGREE with me, and pretty soon you'd be Daffy Ducking your way to 'Duck Theathon!' and I'd still win, so don't even start with me.

For he is awesome. Just today at church he was featured in an intro video piece about 'being an influencer,' and I about swooned when his do-ragged, carpenter-pencil-totin' noggin appeared on screen. Lordy, that man is good-looking, but even if he wasn't my opinion of him wouldn't change, as he is, as mentioned, awesome. Well-stocked in skills, intelligence, empathy, humor, insight, energy, and love, the man is fully enough reason to celebrate this day.

So, even though homemade chocolate cake isn't really enough of a tribute to just how much I think of him, and the few presents I bought are mere tokens of my affection, a party in his honor we shall have, and I don't even CARE that it's Mother's Day and I should be hanging out in my PJs with a glass of wine, a good book, and my teen boys at my beck and call! For in a few weeks it is my birthday, and that's what I'll ask for. :)

Devious, remember?

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• To all the moms out there - I appreciate all of you for the hard work it is to raise children to become useful citizens.
• To my Mom - thanks for not drowning me when I deserved it (see 1974-1980, or maybe 1990).
• To the horses about to run in the Derby - don't break a leg!
• To Biff - happy birthday to the very best LOML that ever was made. You do, in fact, rock.

Tiff out.