Sexy Spanish Club in Buenos Aries

OK, the title of today's post is taken from 'blogs of note' I noticed on the blogger sidebar just now.

You know what? In my 2+ years of blogging on Blogger I've never ONCE noticed the name of THIS blog on the 'blogs of note.' What does a girl have to do to get a little recognition around here, anyhow? Jeez!

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I had a brief moment of the thrill of victory this morning. It came while I was matching socks.

You see, I'm a firm believer in the notion that socks don't just go missing. I believe that someday, somehow, even the most odd sock will find its true mate once more, and will be matched up in sockly bliss to be worn by a pair of grateful feet. Ah, the happiness of the moment at which an formerly odd sock is once again assigned to its rightful spot as a useful item and not a clogger-of-shelf-space in the laundry room, which is the sad fate of so many.

Well this morning, after pulling a load of laundry from the dryer that had been lurking around in the Things' room for who knows HOW long, I thought for a brief and shining moment that not one, not TWO, but THREE odd sock matches were made. Oh the joy! I actually got a little jolt of glee while tucking the cuff of one sock tenderly around the top of the other, locking them into one another in satisfactory mating. I could almost hear their little muffled cottony voices shouting 'yippee' at seeing their old buddy again.

Truly, it was a Hallmark moment.

But all too shortlived, for the unthinkable then happened.

Yes, another odd sock of the SAME variety as the long-lost odd sock turned up. What? How does this happen? For MONTHS there's been one 'fubu' sock in the odd sock pile, and just when I thought I'd found its partner ANOTHER one turns up? Same with the red-toe Hanes socks! And the shortie sock with the blue arrow on the cuff.

All of them at one time were singletons, and now there were triplets? Wha?

My glee, she was quashed. My satisfaction at reducing the odd sock pile by a few members was shattered with the realization that I'd got no further, and perhaps, just PERHAPS, the odd socks that remained really ARE odd, and I should start thinking of another use for them.

How sad. To turn a once-comfy hoof cover into something so much more plebeian, like a dust rag? Almost unthinkable. They're socks, and need their friends. At least they need ONE friend. And not the "oh it's close enough" kind of friend that some folks (you know who you are) deem acceptable for their sox. Close enough, isn't. Socks must be precisely mated, or your feet will know it and be unhappy for the duration of the time they're forced to wear something not-quite-right. Don't even get me started on waring one short and one LONG sock. My God, that's an abomination. Gives me the jibblies just thinking about it, really.

The long and short of this tale is that the odd socks went back on the pile to clutter up the laundry room, because I have not yet given up hope that their mates are really out there someplace.

I might even go so far as to send the Things back to their Dad's house at some point with a bag fulla odd ones, and ask HIM to match 'em up.

Does that strike anyone as strange?

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While trying to find a recipe for some kind of something to do with ground beef for dinner, I began by perusing a cookbook that the band parents association put out about a million years ago (ie: when I was in high school).

I started to laugh when I saw a recipe called "50,000 calorie hamburger bake," then saw that the recipe was from my Mom.

Who wants to bet that I made that recipe?

And who wants to bet that it was so effing good that I was hard-pressed not to bury my face in a second serving, even though the first serving I took was big enough for two?

Holy smokes, the yum. 50,000 calories, maybe, and every damn one of them utterly delicious.

UPDATE!!!

Herewith then, for all y'all bravehearts and whiners out there who don't mind a smidge of richness in their diet, the original recipe, straight from the good book itself:


Please note that I used light cream cheese, nonfat sour cream, and nonfat cottage cheese, so the dish that I cooked had only 49K calories. Therefore, I had chocolate cake for dessert.

Also note that the instructions as above are somewhat truncated. Please feel free to layer all three ingredients (noodles, meat n' sauce, and cheez mixture) twice. That way you won't wind up with half your makin's left over, as the printed recipe would suggest.

Also also, the two cups macaroni is UNCOOKED. You should wind up with much more than that once you cook it. As always, I didn't measure, but I suspect that 2 cups of cooked mac won't be nearly enough.

There you go. Enjoy!

Colorful language

I watched the clouds turn color this morning as the sun rose. The first hint that I should take the time to do so was the burnished glow of the normally white house on the corner, which is visible out the window over the kitchen sink. I wondered if some new street light had been installed that changed the color temperature on that one spot, then I turned my head to the left and caught the tail end of a glistening thin cloud out the corner of the window.

Clearly, it was time to visit the back deck, where the sunrise is more easily visible.

The lower part of the horizon, just visible between the old commissary and the newer bank of 4 brick townhouses, was pale turquoise. The upper sky, much more visible above the roofs of both buildings, was the blue of a newborn baby's eyes. Between those two hues were banks of drifting clouds, first salmon-gold, then the glowing pink of an ice-skater's cheeks, then the restful warm color of a faded pink rose.

The change in color from glorious to satisfied took only a few minutes. Things change so very quickly where sunrises are involved.

A family of squirrels was already up and about as the light rose into the sky, their skitterings and races up and down the large oak tee out back were a vibrant counterpoint to the majestic unveiling of earth to sun. I counted no less than a dozen little furry bodies all a-scamper among the tremendous branches, at first mere silhouettes of frenzied energy, then turning to creatures of three dimensions as twilight gave way to day.

The old oak is a favorite gathering spot for starlings, or grackles, or some other variety of squawking bird that flies in groups of four or five, all swooping and beating their wings in unison. By the time the fur on the squirrels was visible, there was quite a crowd of black birds in the treetops talking amongst themselves. Perhaps they were deciding where to get breakfast. Perhaps they were talking about the previous evening's party. Perhaps they were nattering on about the results of the presidential primaries yesterday, who knows? Whatever they were discussing, it brought in quite a number of participants, all shouting and yelping their two bits.

School buses growled around the neighborhood streets, gathering children at regular intervals. Commuters started up their cars, slamming doors and trunks in preparation. Voices of neighbors and workmen could be heard setting plans for they day as the world woke up.

The fluffy banks of pinkly clouds turned thicker and darker as more minutes ran together. A wind kicked up. There was the smell of rain in the air. Time to go inside and make a pot of coffee. Communion was over.

As the Tiny House filled with the smell of fresh hot java, I decided that even though I'm 45 years old, I've seen far too few sunrises, and more particularly I've seen far too few in the peace of whatever those moments may bring. The ten minutes spent this morning experiencing just this one sunrise were as heartfelt as a prayer, as fulfilling as a thick slice of chocolate cake, and as luxurious as a nap on a warm summer afternoon.

Might be time to make that sort of thing a habit.

AInt' gonna happen today

After three hours spent at the NCDMV AND license plate agency this morning (after which time I was the proud new owner of a brand-spankin' new license! Be still my heart! I don't look like crap in my picture either, and the nice man taking the photo called me "sweetie," which I secretly love), another hour spent rolling around town on errands, and some small interval of time spent punishing the minions for not doing the dishes and laundry and bootlicking like I'd instructed, I'm pretty much out of time to blog today, and really, even out of time to blogsurf, which I've been doing less and less of lately anyhow, and it feels like I'm totally out of touch and the my grip on reality is slipping away, much like Britney Spears or Ted Bundy. Either or, because right now I think they're about the same insofar as their BEST skills at "keeping their shit together" goes, and let's not forget that Ted is actually DEAD now.

I'm not dead yet, but you couldn't tell it by my interwebs presence lately. Somehow? I think you'll all survive quite nicely without me.

So, yeah, not much to say today, and not much time ot say it, EXCEPT....

Except to say congratulations to Wordnerd for her sweet victory.

And to say congratulations to Tammie for getting her song published at the WVSR.

And to say there's a new Wordsmiths up.

And to say that it's about 70 here today, and I'm infecking LOVE with NC right now. The windows are open, the birds are tweedling quite nicely, gray squirrels chirrup and bother from the bare branches of majestic oaks and arching pecans, and there are motorcycles vrooming about. In January. JANUARY!!! No snow. No cold. No freaking reason to shovel or shiver or slip and fall.

GOD I love it here.

See you tomorrow, when life will proceed at a less frenetic pace, I'm a-hoping.

Thwarted.

The DMV, or so it would appear, hates my guts.

I had the paperwork to get brand-spankn' new license today, even having gone so far as to secure a copy of my SS card in the correct name and finding my passport. I had proof of insurance, proof of my address, I’d read the DMV driver’s guide (all 8 zillion pages of it, including the bits about why it’s important to stay on YOUR side of the road) , and felt that today was a good day to go get legal.

The line wasn’t too long. I was heartened.

My heartening was misplaced, however, because the there was something going on with computers and renewals and there were lots of gruntleless people in the general vicinity because of that. However, the folks at the ol' DMV were still testing people for new licenses, and in my optimistic little heart I thought ‘hey, maybe it’ll be OK for ME because I’m new and they can do all the stuff right here in the local office and don’t need to have me in the system for any reason’ so I showed my (complete!) paperwork to the nice lady behind the desk, got my number, and waited for the big moment.

I took a few minutes to keep on studying that DMV book, because from the appearance of the online practice test it looked like I’d need to know crap like how many points would go on my license if I was convicted of littering or failing to yield the R.O.W. to a blind pedestrian with a limp. Them thar online tests were aksin’ fer HARD stuff, y’all, and I have to admit that I was a little nervous that I’d underprepared in lieu of letting my almost 30 years of driving experience speak for me.

My number was called and I had a lovely, if altogether too brief, conversation with the DMV examiner man, who looked at my paperwork, entered me into the system, noted that I’d love to be an organ donor if the time arose, and said that this was the half of the application he could do today.

Wha?

Half?

But, Mr. Tester man, I’m supposed to be getting my license today! I thought. It’s not fair! Today’s’ the day I decided that after almost X years it was time to be all straight-arrow clean about this whole driving thing, and now I CAN’T?? WHAT??

Damn.

Yes, I’ll go take the written test. Fine.

21 questions later (just one wrong! I CLEP’ed out of the last 4 questions! SCHWEET!) I passed the exam, got the number of what my license WILL be, and walked out with NOTHING.

Fine. I’ll just go get license plates for a new vehicle instead.

But no. I need a license to do that. Crap. I was totally looking around for a grapefruit spoon, a la Tracy Lynn.

Oh, and did I mention that today’s the day Mother Nature decided to ride the bitchin’ bloat float into town? Grrrrr.

The only good thing about this day, other than the fact that it’s gorgeous outside, my children are healthy, I can pay my bills, blah blah, blah, is that we went out to lunch and I had a Yuengling the size of a softball bat along with my chicken tenders.

Stupid DMV. Now I have to make sure my hair looks good and my makeup isn’t smeared all over again TOMORROW. I’m simply not used to that kind of pressure, and it’s making me grumpy.

I think it’s time to just start drinking in earnest…wouldn't YOU?

Itsa major award, you know.

It apears as though I've been bonked upside the blog with an award by Beth. An award for Powerful Writing, if you can believe that. Hee! Some people are so silly.

However, because I am over my early-'07 snit of not wanting to be awarded things, I shall accept this "Roar for Powerful Words" and do my part to pass along the recognition, love, and accolades (which at first I typed "accoldates," and I kind of like!).

Here's the dealio with this thang: Seamus started a Shameless Lions Writing Circle and encouraged bloggers to "tag" other bloggers to receive the honor of "A Roar for Powerful Words." As Seamus explains:

"How does it work? Below are copies of the award that we can each distribute to those people who have blogs we love, can't live without, where we think the writing is good and powerful. I thought interested members could kick things off by publishing the award on their own blog, naming five people they would like to give it to (members or non-members), and accompany the image with three things they believe are necessary to make writing good and powerful. The recipients then do the same, passing it on to five other people, and so on."

Now, I'm not a member of the Shameless Lions Writing Circle, though I do have to admit that the thought of shameless lions writing, and in a CIRCLE no less, is intriguing, but that doesn't make my glee at being a recipient of this award any less. Why, I think I should name 2008 the year of "Gimme More Awards, Y'all!" because I'm all aglow over here, and I'm a person who likes the aglow.

(A quick aside before I move on: Albert the cat is drinking some water right now, and it sounds like someone is stirring macaroni salad. Ew.)

Onward then.

For the sake of clarity and truth, I'm going to hand this award off to people that I consider not only terrific writers, but good friends as well. If they were related to me, I'd be practising nepotism of the most obvious sort, and I don't even LIKE dead people all that much. These folks deserve to be awarded, as often as possible.

1) Topping the list MUST be my partner in writing, Kingfisher. This man knows from writing. From prose pieces of great power and passion to poetry of tremendous beauty and import to pieces so silly they make me laugh out loud, he can do it all, and CARES about the writing. Nobody more deserving, to my way of thinking.

Except...

2) JC. To say I love her like a sister would be an understatement. She is a steadfast friend, warm and understanding, patient and energetic, and a helluva good writer. She uses words adroitly and with flair, getting her point across so elegantly that I'm sometimes left breathless at the emotions packed within. To read her at her most heartfelt is to see into the soul of a real writer.

3) Along the same lines, but in a vastly different kind of output, is Rennratt. As a real-life friend she is strong, accepting, imaginative, and inspiring. As a writer, she is succinct and very often hilarious. She can say in ten words what would take me fifty to capture far less well, which is a skill I greatly admire.

4) Now one for whom writing comes as easy as falling off a leevee, my buddy Wordnerd. Oh, she'll TELL you she's not a writer, but when she's on a roll there is nobody who can tell a story like she does. Whether it's lighting her own nose on fire to remembering her Mama, when the spirit's in her she's got it going on. She's also been with me through some hard times, always there for me, and if she lived around the corner from me I'd be huggin' her neck on a regular basis. The poor dear.

5) Then an award for a woman for whom words are catharsis and salve, Tammie. She's a new friend, but it's already been decided that it's probably a good thing we don't live in the same town or there'd be some kind of explosion of hoopla going on far too often for the local constabulary to keep up with. Her blog is a torrent of words, a rush of activity, a tsunami of feelings that from time to time shouts out with eloquence. Her heart is borne on the sleeve of the internet, which is perhaps foolhardy and yet is admirable. She's a brave, funny, half-crazed new-found friend.

Within my nomination paragraphs I've listed many attributes that I believe make writing good and powerful, but I'll go ahead and list three out as the rules describe.

1) BE YOURSELF. Let the voices in you be heard. We each as writers have more than one way of being, or seeing, of telling. Explore each, stretch them out, give them some air. To do so requires bravery and confidence, which should be in the pocket of everyone who enjoyes writing.

2) LEARN TO EDIT. There's a Regina Spektor tune with the line"you can write, but you can't edit," which says a lot. I would suggest that any of us who think our first draft is good enough and we don't HAVE to edit is kidding themselves. This is a lesson Kingfisher taught me, and while it's humbling it's also of extreme value. When I'm writing "for real," there's never anything that doesn't get a second, third, or (if I have time) fourth look. Even my silly daily blog posts get a bit of a going over. There's no such thing as a "perfect" piece of writing, but editing can help you get darned close.

3) PLAY. If, as a writer, you get stuck on a theme, idea, personna, or mood, change it up on purpose. Too often when I'm writing Wordsmiths pieces, I kill my protagonists or spend far too much time setting up the 500-word stories and then having to rush the end. Or I forecast the story and fail to let it tell itself. These are my ruts, my safe places. When writing for a purpose like WSU, therefore, I've started trying to NOT do those things. Sure, my basic bent might be to wreck mayhem or write in the third person or foreshadow like a dust storm, but if I change it up on purpose very often I wind up with something far better than what my "go to" style might have created.

There. Done.

I'm sure Renn could have done this in a few hundred fewer words, Kingfisher could have done it with more insight, JC could have done it with more impact, Wordnerd could have done it with more humor, and Tammie could have done it more personally, but I'm the one that got the award and therefore I'm the one you had to suffer through.

Let's see what THEY do with it.

HA!

It’s Friday, babies, and it’s time to get all the porn off the front page. Or, well, moved DOWN the front page. I’m grateful to all who commented on what was an odd post to post. Made me feel better that there are like-minded folks out there in this world who aren’t total prudes nor free-for-alling anything-go’ers who believe that pictures of shaved puppies in bondage are titillating.

You KNOW what I mean.

Anywho, here we go with the headlines, because that’s what we do here at NAY on some Fridays, especially when the blogger is in a silly mood and hopped up on café vanilla something or other…could get messy, but I’ll try to keep the throught thread somewhat unsnarled for you.

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Love doesn't necessarily mean marriage: survey

If THAT were true I’d be married to a guy who was (get this) an ORGAN major in college. Go ahead, snicker if you must, I’ll wait.

File this under the “not news” category, and let’s move on.

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British team joins Pakistan Bhutto probe

Oh, to drop two letters from “Bhutto”…the joke would tell itself.

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4 detained after Turkey bombing

Ed, Rerun, Marshall, and Joe-Bob were hauled off to the hoosegow Sunday nite after Emma Beedles spotted them chucking frozen turkeys off the highway overpass near Fenster’s Hollow. “They’re good boys, usually,” said Amos Runting, the local sherriff, “but out here things can get mightly slow-going come January and you’ve got to expect kids to fire up a little trouble." No-one was hurt by the icy poultry launches.

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Man walks free 17 years after conviction

In BIGGER news though,

Texas man freed after 26 years in prison

Showoff.
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Romney seeks rebound in New Hampshire

Looks in the personals under “alt” and “out there” for possible partners.

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Talbots to close 78 kids, mens stores

Didn’t realize you could CLOSE kids. Huh.
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Congestion causes text message slowdown

Take your Sudafed before texting, folks, and everything will run free and clear! Mm-MM!
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Say, don’t you think that’s about ENOUGH for now? I know I do. I left poor Britney alone, but if I try to write any more I’m afraid that I’ll have to gawk at the train wreck that is her life, and I’m almost late for a meeting, and if I go late to the meeting and tell my boss that I was reading about Britney Spears and her kiddie trouble and how her life is a mess and don’t you feel bad for her because obviously she’s a tortured soul, I’m pretty sure he’ll wonder why he hired me in the first place and I need this job too much for any doubt to be cast on my overall mental status, therefore, I’m not going to touch that issue with a 10-foot pole. Let’s not all jump and shout at THAT all at once.

Hope your weekends are enjoyable ones. See y’all next week!

Another post my family shouldn't read

Seriously. If you're related to me or don't care to read posts that have an "adult" theme, please take my advice and don't read further. I don't intend to shock anyone who doesn't want to be. Come back tomorrow if you like, becasue it will be Friday and that's headline day, which is totally family friendly!

(Are they gone?)

OK, here's the deal, all the rest of y'all that are left. For some reason the phrase "brain porn" is circulating in my consciousness right now.

Brain porn.

What?

Is that somehow different from REGULAR porn? Using my powers of roundabout logic, I submit that it is not, for isn't ALL porn designed to tickle the limbic system and get the ol' juices flowing?

Oh, some would say that "porn-porn" is different from BRAIN porn, because the brainal kind could be construed to involve stuff like maths and big words and difficult spatial relationship problems that get your hemispheres to cross-link and comingle signals, but that argument STILL doesn't contradict the notion that the naughty porn is focused on, and processed by, the brain.

Does that make sense?

I'll not make a secret of the fact that I enjoy a bit of porn from time to time; and by porn I'm talking about not only the "big words and difficult word problem" kind but also the kind that involves naked bits. I see nothing wrong with getting a little schwerve on by looking at pictures of people engaging in carnal acts; indeed, I get IDEAS from these pictures, and by and large that's not a BAD thing, is it?

I like a good erotic story too. That stuff can be the total shizz when I'm in the mood. In fact, I PREFER stories; they're just harder to find than the bursting-at-the-seams visual feasts available on every corner of the worldwide interwebs.

There is a limit to my interest, though.

Degrading stuff is out. I'm really REALLY not interested in seeing people tied up so thoroughly that parts of them are in imminent danger of necrotizing and dropping off. I do not want to see people (usually women) crying for mercy while supposedly being "pleasured." Yes, I know there are people for whom this is the ultimate turn-on; I do not happen to be one of them. A LITTLE bondage ain't all bad, just keep it respectful, if that's possible.

Obviously, child porn is so far out that I can't even THINK of anyone for whom this might be arousing. If that's you, please don't tell me. I'd really rather not know. This includes those "BARELY LEGAL" sites that purport to have scads of young girls just DYING to have their cherries popped on camera. I don't believe it, not only because all virginity should be taken in as hushed and furtive a manner as possible, as has been the case since time began, but also because those girls ain't anywhere NEAR 18, and claiming to be is a lie and lying is wrong.

Scatalogical stuff? Not so much. Same for golden showers. I just don't get it. Leaves me conducting the chirping cricket chorus, if you know what I mean.

But, hey, the food sex, the "mature" sex, the midget sex, the amputee sex, the doctor sex, ANYTHING that's being practised by consenting adults is OK by me.

This, I hope, doesn't make me a freak in your minds or anything less of a human. It's not as though I troll through porn looking in desperation for some new thrill on a daily basis. I just happen to believe that we humans are wired to get and receive and seek out pleasure in many ways, some of which might just involve looking at other people get their jollies on or reading about them doing such.

So, yeah. Brain porn. It all starts in the mind.

Still don't know why I thought of it though.

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Feel free to comment on this theme if you like. Do you think pornography and erotic art is wrong, has it gone too far, should it be regulated, should all porn be taxed or restricted, what are YOUR limits?

We're all humans here, and all adults. I'm interested to know what you think.

Let's get this new year started!! Woo!!

Got an e-mail from “grope” this morning telling me I can add 3 inches in length.

Wonder if grope knows I’m 5’10” and am not interested in adding any length whatsoever? Maybe I should say something...

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There’s a new bathroom floor going in at the Tiny House! With the settling in process nearly done, and the desire to unpack multiple boxes of stuff I have nowhere to unpack TO very nearly at the zero level, it seemed only right to attack a problem area in the house in order to create just a wee tad more chaos in a space that supports very little chaos indeed.

By which I mean that the amount of chaos in the TH can be quite small and still have a large impact. Truly, 1000 square feet of house is prone to displaying its chaos right out loud. The trick, I’ve found, is to keep the kitchen and living room organized and allow the ruckus of life to happen in the bedrooms.

Anyhow.

The bathroom floor in the Tiny House was not terribly well installed, and has bugged me since the day I took possession of the house. The Tiny House deserves better than a floor that is STAPLED down.

You heard me right. Stapled. It appears as though whoever laid down that floor tried at first to TAPE it down, because there was old gummy residue along the seam lines. On top of the old gummy residue, along the seams, were rusted staples, some of which were inexpertly applied and therefore rose up slightly from the floor, creating a hazard to sox and feetsies.

To say that the floor was ugly would be a semi-misnomer, because the vinyl floor itself wasn’t all that bad, but the staples and tape gunk were horribly awful and so VERY redneck.

I am not interested in the least in going so far southern that I end up in rednecktown, y'all. There are limits to my love of the souf.

So, in order to combat the creep of 'neckdom, a handyperson's help was secured, a trial lifting of a loose corner of the vinyl was undetaken, and another vinyl floor was identified underneath. Two layers of floor!

Under that was another vinyl floor. That's three.

Under THAT one was a linoleum floor. Way to change it up, former homerowners!

4 layers of floor. Astounding.

To add to the WTF factor, between each layer of old flooring was what appeared to be several years worth of “bad aim,” still slightly moist and redolent of stale pee. People, I was grossed out to the utter MAX! This stained, discolored, stinky-unto-nauseating high-rise of old bathroom flooring was what I’d been walking on for months. What I’d allowed my guests to walk on! What my KIDS step on.

It absolutely HAD to go.

Oh, it was both a curse and a pleasure to rip that nasty NASTY flooring up. I cursed the smell, the years of neglect, the lazy folk who’d lived in the Tiny House before me and who couldn’t work up enough gumption to take up the old floor before putting down new. I cursed the former inhabitants for their inability to pee IN the toilet. I cursed my stomach for being weak enough to want to empty itself of whatever was in it if I breathed too deeply. I cursed the fact that I didn’t have a respirator or a hazmat suit.

Indeed, I cursed myself a little for ever wanting to begin the whole thing.

But I was pleased as well that it was getting done. In spite of the stink and the overall “yuck” factor, it was good to see the fetid leftovers of other people’s existence eradicated from MY house. Once the final shards of brittle old linoluem were shop-vac’ed up, once the plywood subfloor was bleached and vacuumed dry, once the awful smell was gone, I was pleased.

A coat of primer made it even better.

This morning some new vinyl tile was purchased. It’s going to be gorgeous, if only for a couple of years until the planned addition makes its way into existence. If the bathroom floor works out, the kitchen is next, and damn the chaos factor.

Out with the old, and in with the new. I’m all FOR it now.

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Beth, I’m thinkin’ on the tag, and will probably have something up tomorrow. Thanks for the mental exercise!

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Lastly, I went for a hike at Falls Lake yesterday. A brisk wind accompanied a partial circumnavigation of the lakeshore, the sun was strong enough to pink up the cheeks, and I got me enough fresh air to last a day or so.

This wee foray into the big world outside my office and/or kitchen pressed me into deciding that I’m not outdoors often enough for long enough. So, add THAT to my short list of New Year’s resolutions. “Get Outside.” I think that’s general enough, don’t you?

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That'll do it for today, folks. Enjoy this second day of the New Year, and try to not break any resolutions, mmkay?

Route 28 is a hungry beast

A couple of weeks ago the Things and I were making a trip up to my Mom’s house for a family Christmas. It’s not a bad drive, clocking in at just under 4.5 hours. For most of the way I can take major highways, and indeed I could take major highways ALL the way if I really wanted to get involved in the hell that is the 495/66 corridor through Northern Virginia.

Not surprisingly, I do not want to get involved in that breed of idiocy and mind-bendingly crappy traffic, and so routinely veer OFF 95 in Fredericksburg and make my way northwesterlyy via 2-lane highways and such.

This last trip, I decided to utilize Route 28, which is a lovely scenic road that winds its way through the farmlands of Fauquier County. I like me some country roads and farmland, y’all, and will take a few extra minutes of travel time to see what’s off the beaten path.

At about the time I was only 30 minutes away from our destination, I became distracted while driving and went off the “shoulder” of the road. “Shoulder” is in quotes here, because this particular portion of Route 28 has not the broad shoulders of a mighty lumberjack, but rather possesses the narrow shoulders of a pygmy herdsman or maybe even a gnat.

Gnat shoulders, you may have gathered, and almost non-existent. So too with the shoulders of this part of Route 28.

Much to my consternation, this vanishingly small nubbin of shoulder more than made up for its lack of breadth by an astonishing depth. The whump of tires OFF the road were deafened by the BLAM of tires coming back ON the road as I slightly overcorrected the drive path. The car skittered halfway into the other lane of traffic (no one was approaching, thank goodness), a few bad words escaped my lips, the Things were rudely shaken from their DVD-watching reverie, and I had the nauseating feeling that “something” had gone more wrong than right in the return to pavement.

Fairly soon, the oh-so-subtle drifty response of Tinkerbell became more pronounced. Handling started to get spongy. A certain rhythmic beat started, then intensified, and by the time we were getting into Nokesville the slapping from the right rear was a clear indication that Route 28 had taken a tire for its own.

Burning rubber…mmmmm.

I eased Tinkerbell into the parking lot of a 7-11 (sanctuary!), and began to ponder on my options. First things first though, I called Mom to let her know I’d be late to the party. HOW late was going to be anyone’s guess. I know how to change a tire, but hesitated a moment while thinking about if I should call my insurance company (because I pay them a fee every month for roadside assistance) and quite possibly wait two hours for them to show up to help me, or if I should just unpack the trunk and start a-changing on my own. It’s not HARD to do, after all. I just didn’t really want to do it.

And then a beat-up white pickup truck pulled in right next to me as I was hauling boxes and gifts and such out of Tinkerbell’s trunk. The driver stepped out, asked me if I had a flat, and on the affirmative response he said “I’ll change it for you. I’m going to go get a cup of coffee and I’ll be right back.”

On his return he told me that he’s a mechanic, that he does this stuff for a living, that he figgered I’d got this down on south Route 28 where the shoulders are in really bad shape, that this happens a lot, and then he just set to work. In 5 minutes the tire was changed, he’d put the busted one in the trunk, told me not to drive over 50 MPH or more than 50 miles on the toy-sized spare, and he bid me a Merry Christmas before driving off. I barely had time to say “thank you.”

People? I tell you right now that that ball-capped grimy-fingered blue-eyed fellow was my angel that day. Really now – what are the chances he’d be by that particular spot on that particular day with that particular skill set and the time to help me out?

Whether he was angel in fact or just in my imagination, I’m grateful that there are still people like that in this world. You never know where you’re going to find them. You never EVER know what they’re going to look like, or who they might be to the rest of the world, or what’s going on in their lives, except for that at some point in time they’re going to be there for you, paying it forward.

My goal for the next year is to be more like the angel in the beat up truck.

What’s yours?

The more things change...

When I first moved to the South, it was hard to believe it was the "holiday season." Oh sure, the decorations were up, the lights twinkled, the trees smelled as fresh (if you have a live one, that is. The ones people haul out of the garages or attics might not smell so very fresh. Do they sell tree scented spray that you can perfume your petroleum-based tree product with? I wonder) as they did anyplace ELSE, but the cold and snow/ice that I for so long equated with Christmas simply did NOT make an appearance. It was disconcerting for a while, because Christmas and the New Year are SUPPOSED to be ushered in with frigid temps and gobs of snow, right?

Well, after just a few years here below the Mason-Dixon line, I can safely say that I’m over the need for icy meteorological phenomena to accompany any "ho-ho-ho-ing" I might do. Moving south was the last nail in the coffin of THAT particular expectation.

(Cue windchimes and wavy screen; we are going to the flashback!)

The first many years of my life I lived in upstate New York, right in the Binghamtom area. There were hills upon hills, and snow on snow on SNOW from October through May. We kids knew from snow; we knew which snow was good for sledding and which was good for making snowmen and having snowball fights. We knew how to ice down the toboggan run, zip between trees on the sledding hill, dig caves in the snow hills thrown up by the plows, and how to quickly de-ice those metal clasps on the galoshes our Moms made us wear. We were hardy little souls, with frosty soggy mittens, red noses, chapped cheeks, and perma-frozen toes. It was a grand time.

When I was 11 we moved to Virginia, where there just wasn’t as much snow. Go figure. Not so much snow, and plenty of sun. Also? No hills. Why, a person could see around them without a mountain getting in the way! It was big sky country, for sure. Every one in a while that big sky would drop a load of snow on the unsuspecting populace, at which point all activity stopped. Once we were snowed into our house for three days before the plow trucks made it up onto our court.We had ICE on many occasions, and enough snow to keep hoping that we’d always have a white Christmas, but it never came often enough that we would expect it.

I lived in Florida for two holiday seasons. No snow. Imagine that. It was nigh onto surreal to see Santas in shorts. I felt vaguely uncomfortable, like I was sinning. Against what I didn’t know. The Christmas spirit? How it ‘ought’ to be? Maybe.

Fifteen years in Connecticut very nearly got me back in the white Christmas groove, but even then there were the occasional green holidays. One year I sipped cocktails on the back deck on Christmas afternoon. No parka. No snow shovel. Just sun and short sleeves and the smell of damp earth. Oh, we knew from COLD, and for sure there were many White Christmases, and it was the snow that finally starting making us think seriously about moving away from the great white northeast, but somehow I’d lost the expectation of a perfect glinting blanket of white on the ground on the most holy morning of the year.

That lack of expectation was the beginning of the end. I started to WANT a warm Christmas. I started to LONG for a holiday that involved an invigorating walk, and that didn’t involve shivering through a cold dark afternoon. I began to think about the South. I began to believe that those people featured in the Southern Living magazine really had it made with their magnolia-leaf wreaths and their tangerine-laden garlands and their sweater-clad outdoor selves serving up hot cider to their pretty friends while their perfect children romped about in the freedom allowed by the absence of snowsuits. There was something alluring, beguiling, attractive about taking a hike through a crisp brown forest on Christmas afternoon, about the absence of snow shovels, about open front doors and hanging bird seed and peanut butter-smeared pine cones out on the bare pecan trees for the hungry birds on Christmas morning.

“I can DO those things,” I thought. "I can do them if I live where those people do."

And, now that I live in the south, I will do them. Someday. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in ’08. Maybe I will.

Knowing I CAN makes all the difference. Whether or not Christmas is white matters very little anymore. Those long-held notions of “ought to” are melting away in the southern heat, revealing the structure of what always lay beneath.

Snow isn’t what makes the season bright, after all.

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

Here's hoping that your weekend is merry, that your New Year celebrations are shiny and safe, and that '08 brings you more good things than you could have dreamed possible. Take it from me; a lot can happen in a year's time...

Milquetoast and white cheese.

Hey y’all!

I’m still here! NO ceilings fell in on my head, and the sun is out, and the Things are here at the office with me while I download stuff off the shared drive. We just had lunch at the company cafeteria, I ran into someone I know who is married to someone who works here, and my goodness but it’s nice to not get a zillion e-mails every day.

Everybody but me and a few other folks have taken this week off.

They must have vacation accrued, is what I’m thinking.

Me? Not so much. Eh, no matter. I can park the boys in the empty cube next to me, they can play their new handheld gaming devices, and I can actually get some stuff done before utter and complete boredom sets in for the under-20 crowd.

I happen to know from prior experience that utter boredom takes about 30 minutes to fully develop, but utter and COMPLETE boredom takes far longer. At least 90 minutes. If you consider that we just took a 45 minute lunch break after being here for only 45 minutes, then I figure that I have at most an hour to get stuff down off the shared drives before needing to distract the youngins with something shiny.

Hey! A trip to the game store might work. They each got a HUGE freaking gift card for Christmas, and it’s burning a hole in their pockets.

(OK, before the semantics cops arrive, let me just say that the gift card itself isn’t huge. The amount on it is. You know what? If I’d gotten a gift card worth 50 bucks back in the day I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven; except I’m pretty old and so adjusting for inflation I’m thinking that their 50 would be worth a tenner of my youth, which might explain why their heads didn’t explode when they opened that particular prezzie, but 10 bucks in my youth was STILL a lot of money and so there my argument still holds that it’s huge. Just not in size. Moving on.)

As I’ve grown accustomed to saying lately, I have not generated a whole lot of news today. I try to think of things to write about here, but unless you’d like a free-for-all brain dump, things are going to be fairly thin at NAY for the next little while I’m afraid. I should change that. I should generate some news, or have some drama, or go on a big trip, or win the lottery, or, oh, I don’t know, do SOMETHING so that I hold y’all’s interest.

But….what? I’m a pretty boring old broad. I mean, it’s not like I experienced any huge life changes this year. It’s not like I left a marriage, moved out, bought a house, and got a new JOB or anything. THAT shit happens to people who are exciting and who are living life on the ragged edge of disaster!

Heh. I crack me up sometimes. Whee!

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

Not sure what to think about the assassination of Bhuto. It's important, of that there is no doubt, but I can't help but wonder if she KNEW this was going to happen once she set foot on home soil again. Her time there has NOT been easy. Could she have seen this coming? Would she have shied away from the challenge? How did she hope to lead the opposition in a country and region so rife with danger and extremism?

54 years old. Former Prime Minister. Exile. Repatriated. Opposition leader.

That woman knew how to generate news.

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

Have a great rest-o-the-day folks. I’m out, and headed to the game store, no doubt. I hear rumblings of ‘boy’ in the next cube over….and that's almost never a good thing.

Again with the crazy-making!

Woohoo!

It’s raining again. Yay!!!

See? SEE?

Yay!

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

Work today is very very quiet. Why, you could hunt rabbits in here it’s so quiet. Whatever people who are here are walking around in weekend wear, the jeans and flannel shirts of comfort are in full force.

Coming into work when almost nobody else is around is a favorite thing of mine to do. Call me wacky, but I get more done when nobody else is around than when there are people around having conversations and calling and wanting to do silly silly things like ‘have meetings.’ Really, it’s almost too much for my highly distractable brain to take. For some reason, when I’m in the office at a nonstandard time, my productivity goes way the heck up.

Anyone have a theory why?

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

Speaking of distractable, I think there’s a leak in the ceiling right behind my cube. I put my umbrella there to dry out, and every once in a while there a distinct percussive ‘bonk’ of a drop hitting the tight fabric.

Because I am so curious, and also very helpy, I have decided to turn the umbrella upside down to CATCH the drops, thereby being more able to pinpoint the exact spot of drippage, which I will them mark with some tape or something. Once I’ve triangulated the area of interest, I shall call facilities and report my findings.

Ah, there’s another drop.

Oops! And another!

Say now, it appears as though there is a dual drop dispersal pattern going on. Huh. Now that I look more closely, I do believe that there is some suspicious bulging of the ceiling tiles right in the area behind my cube, from whence cometh the interior precipitation.

Hmm, I also spy several areas of water staining on the ceiling, though not in the places from whence arise “my” issues. I can see two right near the windows, aamof.

Dear me. This is disconcerting.

How much time do I have before the whole shebang gives way and washes me in a cold musty rain of leakage and spongy-wet drop ceiling? How much water can your average acoustical ceiling tile absorb before its structural integrity is overwhelmed and it becomes a soggy hazard to life and limb?

This is terrifically distracting. Why, there could be a thousand gallons of cold rainwater above my head, just WAITING for the right moment to come cascading through the roof and onto poor unsuspecting me. Yes, it’s highly worrying. I should call someone. Report my findings. Let them know of my concerns.

The stress is growing. I mean, I do NOT want it to stop raining (rain = hot showers and flushable toilets in this drought-stricken part of the world), but if the rain causes my overall comfort level to plummet from “yay, I’m working and nobody is around to bother me” to “oh shit, at any moment I could be doused in a chilly cataclysm of precipitation that’s been filtered through architecture,” then I don’t think that being HERE is going to do my powers of concentration any good.

My God! It’s like the Chinese water torture! It’s inhumane! They’re testing me, right? The upper management wants to see me crack! Yes? When’s the next drip going to come? At what point will they begin to drop someplace that I can’t catch them? Where’s a bucket?

Ack! There’s another one. When’s the second drop going to fall? Do they come in twos or was I imagining things earlier? Is there a pattern? What microorganisms are breeding in the stanky-ass water than’s falling through this building? I feel a cough coming on…is it Legionnaire’s Disease? Can I get time off for that? Can I get time off for braving the THREAT of Legionnaire’s Disease?

I’m torn here, people. Should I pray for the rain to stop, or suck it up and be glad that it’s raining inside as well as outside?


Gah! From the looks of the weather map, it could be HOURS before the rain stops. I could be quite over the edge by then. If, indeed, I’m not there already.

Oh, and the first one to tell me “you should be glad it’s not snow” gets a kick in the sit-upon. I’d far RATHER the snow. Then I coulda stood at home, y’all. Coulda stood that REAL good.

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

Oh, and Happy Boxing Day! Go put some gloves on a beat the tar out of someone! You KNOW you want to.

And to all

A very Merry Christmas indeed.

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

It's noon here at the Tiny House, and the stockings have been disemboweled, the presents unwrapped, the great breakfast eaten, the toys and games examined, and the festive paper and ribbons disposed of.

We save the bows.

It only took an hour to gift out what took many hours to select, purchase, wrap, hide, and arrange under the tree. The hour, though brief, was well spent, with each gift opened in turn, exclaimed over, appreciated. When that hour was over there was the trying on, the reading of, the familiarization with, the exploration of all new things.

New music on the surround sound. New games on the new XBox. New ringtoneson the new phones. New organization of the new spice rack. New movies to place on the new teevee shelves. Things made and bought, sought for and happened upon, given and received in eager anticipation.

The peaceful absorption of all the generosity is ongoing. The sifting of piles, the immersion in the gifts of the season, the appreciation of the largesse of the worldwide party is a quiet affair at the Tiny House.

Merry Christmas to all. The generous spirit of this season is extended to everyone, whether or not you celebrate the day itself. May the remainder of this joyful Tuesday find you surrounded by peace and goodwill, and might 2008 and all coming years bring you joy.

Love,
Tiff.

Special Edition "Not the News" Break!

Sometimes I'm puzzled as to why time and space were even thrown into writing certain stories that pass as news.

Witness:

Torture chamber found in Iraq

Bush says Congress wasting time, money

Consumer spending surges in November

Study: Insured cancer patients do better

To all four of these "headline" stories I say a resounding "DUH"!

DUH there is a torture chamber in Iraq. Holy schnikes, y'all, have you seen the SIZE of that country? I'd guess, and this is just a guess, that there are several MORE torture chambers in the country, because there are freaks in every crowd wanting to have Mistress A'Kana spank their naughty bottoms or thumb screw them for wanting some pork. I mean, really. Duh.

And DUH Bush says Congress is wasting time and money. We did not need the POTUS to tell us this, nor to make a statement about it. We need him to tell us things we do not know, like when the Whole Iraq thing is going to end, or how we're going to balance the budget or how to pronounce "nuclear." Shoot, any third-rate coffee shop hack could tell us that Congress is wasting time and money; it's a Greek Chorus as old as time itself. Why, I'll just bet that in prehistoric times the first semi-organized tribal councils were accused of wasting time and resources as they sat around chewing the fat (perhaps even literally). This.Is.Nothing.New. Get back to work, Mr. President, and let the obvious lines fall from the mouths of those who have nothing better to do with their time.

And Supah-DUH that consumer spending would surge in November. Just, really. DUH.

Lastly, a monstrous DUH that insured patients who have cancer would "do better" than those who don't. Did anyone out there think that the folks with no insurance would somehow have the upper hand in this? Anyone? Also, what are they doing better IN, exactly? Survival? Yahtzee? Math class? Please, duh.

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

And sometimes the headlines are completely nonsensical.

Witness:

For Scots, hogmanay took season's top spot

Which season? What's hogmanay? And WHY is this showing up in my "local" news?

Va. Tech to put peace program in Norris

Does Chuck know this?

Stocks rise on RIM, Merrill reports

So, Captain Steubing is now a Wall Street expert, eh? (and kids? You do not know how BADLY I wanted to make a joke about "rimming" and "rising" and such....but it's a family-friendly blog, daggone it)

Iraqi Shiite cautions on armed groups

The armless, of course, are not liable to get cautions shiite upon them.

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

Some days it's a mystery why I get out of bed in the morning...

This morning, for example was tough, because after last night's extravapalooza of a TSO concert I was feeling the need to lay abed. Oh, not because I was all partied out, but because after getting home at 11:30 I was too wired to sleep, so stayed up until 1:30 doing putter-y things, like wrapping Christmas presents, and getting a bloody nose, and trying to regain my hearing. When the alarm went off at 6, I shut it off and went back to sleep with the sort of prowess only a dyed-in-the-wool alarm clock ignorer can.

90 minutes later....I woke up for real.

And I think I have most of my hearing back. At least now I can hear my tinnitus again. Who KNEW I'd miss it?

The concert was unlike any I've ever experienced. The first half was some kinda Christmas story thing, in which a lot of carols were welded together around an angel's search for...something. I don't know what. Somehow a lost young girl was involved, and a bar, and liquor, which doesn't exactly scream Christmas, but in the end it all worked.

Loudly.

With lots and lots of lights. And fake snow, and fog machines, and mist and girl dancers and a sound system that packed such a wallop I'm sure it could turn charcoal into diamonds and laser lights and long haired guitar players and over-the-top narration and shout-singing and every single thing that every hair band of the '80's could ever have wanted to pack into a show.

All about Christmas. Wow.

Heh - after a few songs a couple of ladies a few rows ahead of us left. I'm pretty sure that the "orchestra" in TSO's name had them fooled. Ah well, their loss.

After the "Christmas part" of the show a bunch more people left, because I'm sure they thought the big doin's were over. But they would have been so very very wrong, for the band was just getting started.

OMG. "Proud Mary," y'all? Awesome. A whole buncha other LOUD tunes too, with FLAMES and elevated stages and gyrating dancers and well well well this isn't the family part of the show now IS it? By this time I was bedazzled and captivated. The drum solo frigging floored me. I let go of all pretense of propriety and started head-banging (in a modest middle-aged white chick kind of way)...and had a ball.

Yep -wired for at LEAST two hours after I got home. Simply excellent.

Thanks for inviting me Renn. And yes, I'm still your friend, you nut.

The midmorning smorgasbord

Dudes – I’m having green tea and toffee for my 10 a.m. (‘not-quite-elevenses’) snack.

I happen to think that this combination is just about perfect. Why, the sugar is a little energy boost, the antioxidants in BOTH the chocolate and the tea are going to help me reverse the all-too-apparent effects of aging, and the ‘cachectins’ in the tea are going to keep residual hunger at bay.

Mmm, cachectins.

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

Kingfisher is on a roll. Check out his ‘9 Christmas Facts’ post, y’all, and tell him I sent you!

It’s just about perfect, is what it is.

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

Also, Tracy Lynn has been running some guests posts at KaplyInc as a build-up to the Big C, and they have all been excellent. Go on over THERE, read some posts by folks with whom you might not be familiar (grammar Nazis, back off!), and comment your little hearts out.

The Christmas Haiku by Mr Fab alone is worth the visit, but scroll down through all the recent posts, and you’ll find our buddy Renn there too! Her Chachi’s got a snarky bone, y’all.

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

Despite my enthusiasm for cachectins, I must say that green tea tastes like swampwater. Not only THAT, but it’s cloudy, and therefore LOOKS like swampwater too. Maybe the cloudiness is all them there cachectins floatings around, or maybe the cachectins are actually just floccing that the green tea people put in the green tea to make it as unappetizing as possible, thereby turning off your hunger mechanisms because it looks for all the world like you’re drinking swampwater, which as we all know is not something that normal people do if they’re not on ‘Fear Factor’ or ‘Jackass.’

Plus which, it’s HOT swampwater.

I feel younger and thinner already.

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

Going to go see TSO tonight. Renn made me.

There will be stories tomorrow, of that you can be sure.

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

Also? I am a curling ribbon and shiny bow MAVEN! Every single daggone present I’ve wrapped thus far has had some kind of glittery decoration applied thereto, except for the stocking stuffer gifts (which, contrary to one of Kingfisher’s 9 truths did NOT come from the 99 cent store), because the stocking gifts get ripped open before breakfast, when vision is blue and blurry and the proper appreciation for a well-wrapped gift is not possible.

I like the shiny bows and such. I’m even color-coordinating the gift tags to the wrapping paper, AND giving each person in my immediate family their OWN roll of paper in which I am wrapping their gifts, so iff’n they’re smart they’ll be able to tell which ones are theirs just by looking at the paper.

Me so clevah.

Which leads me to ask a question: are y’all the highly organized Christmas morning kind of people or are you the ‘free-for-all’ tear-it-up kind of folks?

If you know me even the least little bit you won't be surprised to find out that I’m from a highly organized family. The long-standing tradition was that we would get up, gather together in a bedroom (so nobody could sneak downstairs before anyone else), go out to the tree as a group to oooh and aaah, and THEN go open stockings.

Then have a big breakfast.

THEN open gifts. One.At.A.Time.

As a kid, the present opening could easily take until mid-afternoon to finish. My Mom was and is a terrific gift-getter, and usually wound up with lots more than she thought she’d bought. “An embarrassment of riches” was typical….. We’d have to break for eggnog, open more gifts, go have lunch, open more gifts, and then be ready for dessert before it was all over with and the giant piles of cast-off paper were gathered up, the mounds of gifts arranged under the tree, and the afternoon nap contemplated.

That’s a little much for me, so I’ve kept the organizational bit to the big day, but pared down the actual NUMBER of gifts. Our Christmas morning tends to be over sometime in the actual morning itself, which is about as much jolly as I can stand without wanting a cocktail.

How about y’all? Do tell, won't you?

Tiff go "oooogh!"

Yesterday noontime found me on a semi-frantic search for a tuxedo shirt.

Why? Might you ask.

Well, I would answer, because Thing 1 had a band concert last night and decided to inform his Dad yesterday morning that he needed a tuxedo shirt for his band uniform.

And with that simple statement, gone are the days of “wear your Dad’s white dress shirt and some old tie” as uniforms. Gone are the days when any sartorial requirement could be cobbled together from someone else’s closet, because you just KNOW that I’m not going to be having a tux shirt lying around just any old place.

Not anymore. I got rid of MY tux shirt a few years ago. It was a holdover from my Wilton House days, and was never going to fit again, and was stained, and even though I had a lot of good memories associated with it, it was really JUST a shirt.

When the call came in that a shirt was needed, I volunteered to fetch one, because I am closer to shopportunities than the boys’ Dad is. Plus which, helLO! Shopping? I hate it less than he does, and in the spirit of continued co-parenting and cooperation I said I’d find one.

Sure I did. That’s what the internet is for, right?

Amazingly, there are TWO formal wear places in “The Streets at Southpoint,” which turns out to be this mega fancy-schmancy mall that’s only about 10 minutes from my new office. Right. Sure, I can go to a gigantic Mall I’ve never been to before, find the formal wear place, buy a tux shirt for a 12-year-old, and be back before the lunch hour is over. Yes. I can DO this, for I MUST.

Right.

Little did I know…..

This particular mall is one of those “don’t put all the Mall in one place” kinds of malls, in which a LOT of the stores are in the covered-up bit, but SOME stores are in that nouveau “Main Street” layout that’s ever more popular down here in the temperate south. I wound in and out of those main streets looking for David’s Bridal, because right NEXT to the David’s Bridal would be the After Hours formal wear store.

Right. Yes.

I couldn’t find it.

As frustration mounted, I recalled from a brief conversation I had with the store clerk (who nicely verified to me that they did have the size and style shirt I wanted, because by GOD I was not going to go to this new mall without some guarantee that I was going to get what I went there for!) that there was ANOTHER After Hours store in the Mall proper. Giving up my search for David’s, I girded my mental loins, I parked in the hinterlands by Sears, and hiked my way in.

And then my jaw dropped.

This mall? This mall is awesome. This mall is gorgeous. This mall looks like a town, with a very strong overwhiff of Harry Potter-ish magical streets of wares. The aisles are NOT terribly wide, the store fronts all looks like individual buildings, the upper level is set back from the lower so it’s bright and welcoming looking, and there is plenty of natural light. To say I was bowled over would have been an understatement. THIS is a Mall I can get into. To add to the gee whiz factor, the stores were the hoity-toity kind that I LOVE to browse – Williams-Sonoma, Sephora, Macy’s, Nordstroms! OMG. It’s not like I would ever BUY anything in those places, for I am a cheapskate to the very core, but oh wow can I browse.

However!There was no time for browsing! I had to put me blinders on and find the formal wear store.

Which, as you may have already guessed, was alllll the way at the other end of the Mall from where I entered. Ah well. Call it exercise. The mall-length purposeful hike took me past tantalizing shops of tempting goodies, but there was not time to stop. No time. Must get the shirt! Must. Get! Don’t stop to look at the life-sized mechanized skating scene. Don’t look to the left or right at the kiosks of good-smelling, pretty-looking, beguilingly beeping things, just do not. Indeed, in my haste and because of my pinpoint focus on the goal, I may have looked a little scary, maybe a little "Neo-on-a-mission" kind of way….and I really really wished I had some kind of cool coat to billow out behind me as I strode on down the mall.

Never let it be said that I don’t have an active inner life, y’all.

After several daydreamy moments thinking about how awesome it would be to ride a huge motorcycle through this mall or to be able to fight all “Matrixy” through its side alleys and over its parapets, I found the store, found the shirt, and found out that it was 20% off. Sweet. I had hunted and gathered, I was the victor! Woot!

(Success can be found in small things, people. Feel free to celebrate with me.)

Oh, you can be sure I’ll be going back there. THIS time to idly wander, maybe let the gals at Sephora give me a makeover, maybe wander around stores that sell expensive chocolate, maybe get me a shoulder massage from the lovely woman who has her shop set up right in the middle of the Mall. Who knows? That place seems positively RIFE with opportunities to treat myself to something nice. You know, as soon as I pay off those credit card bills...which should be sometime in 2010. Sigh.

Oh, the shirt fit Thing 1 perfectly. My boy, in tux shit, bow tie, cummerbund, and his Daddy’s pants. So freaking cute.

And the band wasn’t half bad either.

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

Hugs all around, for I am feeling festive today! Have a good ‘un, y’all!

When only PopTarts will do

Hey friends! Is everyone feeling good today?

I could be better. Oopsie! Leettle too much party with C and P last night. Sigh. It was fun while it lasted, and it was so VERY good to see them again. Well, to see 2/3rds of them. Both of them have lost a significant amount of weight this year; fully one-third of their former body mass has disappeared. Astrounding what a difference that can make. P doesn’t even LOOK like himself, really. I’d heard that he had to have a new driver’s license picture taken because his old rotund self wasn’t a fair or accurate representation of the new thin self. The folks at the DMV were right...and his new goatee changes the look even more. Dude's got hisself a nice set of chin whiskers, he does. ;)

The chili was tasty, the bourbon more so, but the absolute best part was getting to reconnect with an old friend and to catch up on the happenings in her life. Oh, and there are happenings. The stories went on for hours until we all started yawning. Me being the good hostess that I am finally asked ‘what time did y’all get up this morning to fly?’ and when the answer came as ‘4:30’ I pretty quickly decided that I’d kept them up quite long enough. Of course, the fact that I’d also been up since early morning had nothing to do with my hostal generosity, you understand? Nor that fact that I’d had rather a lot of likker and a tummy full of supper…..nope, that had nothing at all to do with any decision to leap up and announce I was tired and was going to bed.

Why, all hostessess should be so accommodating! That’s right, you heard me, everyone should have permission from their host to just go to bed already because she’s also tired and maybe a little tiny wee bit drinkified and wants to get some shuteye before the world starts spinning. Again.

So, today it’s all about the water water water, and maybe a trip to the vending machine to see if they stock PopTarts here, because PopTarts are the alltime best hangover food.

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Do hangovers usually involve chills? Mine is.

Of course the chills could also be coming from the ‘wet hair’ look I’ve got going on today, or the fact that it’s about 50 degrees in the building, or that winter temps fell upon our fair land with a thunderous PLOP last night and it’s frigging COLD out now.

Last week – 75.

This week? 35.

Where’s the justice in that?

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Also, there's somthing about the area underneath a Christmas tree that cats seems to love. Is it the tinsel streaming down from above? Is it the cave-like space? Is it the cushy red velvet tree skirt that coddles their little underbellies?

Whatever it is, it’s powerful, for never has there been a more favortie ‘go-to’ spot in the Tiny House than right UNDER the tree. Why, I’m having ot put the wrapped presents on the mantel out of respect for the ultra-mega kitty-fu that the new feline hideout has. No sense disrupting the zone of cat-dom before it’s necessary, right?

Plus which, cats under Christmas trees? Hella cute.

Sleepy, Cleany, and not-so-Meany

Do you know what it’s like to take a nap in the afternoon of a gray Sunday?

It’s freaking GLORIOUS, is what it is. Man, I love my naps.

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This evening I’m expecting to be in the company of some old friends from New England, who might just be making the move down here to the promised land. To say I’m excited would be an understatement.

It’s not everyone that gets me to clean the baseboards, y’all.

I met C and her husband a number of years ago at the large pharmaceutical company for which I then worked. Well, OK,. I met C there, because she joined my group as a new writer. Over time I got to know her pretty darned well, and eventually was allowed to meet her husband, the effervescent P, and was invited to their home on many an occasion. They are wonderful people, and though we have not stayed in constant contact with one another over the almost three years I’ve been gone, talking with her was like falling off the proverbial log into warm water.

C is interviewing for a job down here. After a lifetime in New England she and Mr. P are ready for a change. The kids are grown, one is out of the house and one nearly so, and it’s time to think about the rest of their lives.

Plus which, the large pharmaceutical company for which we both worked is, once again, changing. Downsizing, laying off, whatever you might call it, the smell of blood is in the air and C has decided it’s time to look for greener pastures.

If I didn’t mention it before, she’s a pretty smart cookie.

So, tonight I’ll be hosting she and Mr. P. There’s homemade chili and good brown bread on the menu, the 12-pack is chilling and a large bottle of merlot has been procured, and the guest bed is airing out in preparation for clean sheets and new pillows.

And, or course, the baseboards are clean.

The things I do for friends. Oh my yes.

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I am nearly finished with Christmas shopping. 2 days is all it took. I suppose I COULD have completely finished yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t feel like it. After experiencing the absolute wreck of a store that was Kohl’s I'd really had quite enough.

Which leads me to ask this question: what IS it with people? The men’s section at Kohl’s looked like a hurricane had swept through it, and everywhere I looked there were piles of stuff draped over clothes rods, on the floor, where they didn’t belong, etc.

Why can’t people just put the shit away neatly if they don’t want it, or at least give it to an employee to put away? Why do they just throw it back in the general vicinity of the correct place or drop it on the floor or just leave it wherever? It’s disrespectful, lazy, and rude.

Perhaps as a former department store worker I get my gruntle on a little more than the ordinary bear would at this kind of stuff, but daggone it, where’s a little common courtesy? The folks who work at stores don’t make a lot of money, and they sure as HECK don’t want to be standing around refolding shit they’re folded once before, and finding where the stuff goes, and sorting through rack after rack of clothing and other goods looking for misplaced items. It’s boring, tedious, maddening work, and yet customers by the score must believe that it’s their RIGHT to make the underpaid store workers do their dirty work for them.

As if just putting things back where you found them is dirty work.

Some people….jeez.