Pesky Brats - Can't Live Without 'Em

Have I told you that my sisters are supermodels? No? First of all, thanks to our mom (she's the one in the middle that all my high school friends used to hit on/drool over) and dad for some good genes. Most of which I did NOT inherit, being the short/chunky one of the family by comparison. I wear heels and black a lot, which helps.

Lemme tell ya - it wasn't always that way. Once upon a time, they were just two funny little girls with messy hair (Pamby) and the most heart-rending fake cry on earth (Roni). NOTE: Those are not thier real names, just what we call them. Being the older than them by almost-five and almost-seven years, I would often look at them and say in my big-sister wisdom, "STOP FOLLOWING ME!" or in other, more touching words, "I'M GONNA TELL MOM IF YOU DON'T GET OUT OF MY ROOM!". There were probably a million times that I smacked them (not hard) , or wanted to. It was never a question of not loving them to bits, they just drove me up the wall in the way only tag-along siblings can do. Before they were born, I'd said to my mom, "Mommy, we have to have a whole handful of people." - meaning five, one for each digit. Bossy is my MIDDLE name. I honestly thought that a baby brother would be a little buddy that I could take around like a live doll. Notice that I said little brother - when I think back on how determined I was to have one, it was probably due to my conviction that I was the Center of the Family and a BROTHER could not usurp that position. Heh.

I also had a deep crush on a little boy in my kindergarten class named Aaron. My parents, being a) young ... actually when I think about it, my mom was pregnant with #2 AT MY AGE, and b) extremely easy-going, decided to let me name the baby. This being before the days of 4=D ultrasounds and such, her gender was unknown. Right up until the day she was born in their bedroom, at which point they actually let me check and see what was there. Or, in fact, not there. They'd also agreed to let me name the baby, a feat of such incredible courage I'm still not over it. I went over to where the leg curled-up, vernix-covered brand new baby was lying and yelled out,

"It's a BOY!"

Blink, blink, baby cries her first heart-rending, goat-y sounding cries. "No sweetie, its a GIRL."

"Well, I don't care, I'm STILL naming her Aaron!" Thankfully for my sister, Erin is a pretty name and my four-year old self didn't know the difference for years.

Imagine what would have happened I'd had a crush on a boy named Jeffery.


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Pamby was another story altogether from the start - she was born dramatic and has never gotten over it. The midwife that delivered her said, "She reminds me of Sandra Bernhardt!" when she was three days old. Always the kid wearing my mom's tall (riding style) boots with a lampshade and a diaper. Or my dad's boots with a gray wig and a giant T-shirt. Jam, crumbs and a smile on her face as wide as the Golden Gate Bridge. At age two, she decided to open the car door (fortunately our babysitter was just about to stop) and flew! out of the car. She earned a few scrapes, a hole punched through her little lip and a scar that you can just barely see, if you know where to look and get really, really close.

She was the girl who would throw herself into any activity she did- sleeping (head on a rock or an old smelly dog or a doormat) eating (till she was coated in food) crying (tears shooting out of her eyes like waterworks, face contorted with anguish) The "brave" one of the two of them, who would dare to ask for a mint for Roni, who was always petrified with shyness. Roni's champion, she would dare to smash a bug with a defiant STOMP of her tiny foot. The same kid who decided to give herself a Little Dutch Boy haircut at age three (cut into her finger whilst going round the back bits) and shave her head at age 16. I have it on good authority that it was "actually cute", and I believe it.

Once Roni decided to "share" a tiny box of raisins with Baby Pamby, who was sitting in our swingset at the time. She dropped them in, one by one, into the little open mouth. Thirty seconds later, when poor Pamby was turning blue and choking, my mom turned back around and immediately upended her and whacked her on the back. Which explains why this is a funny, not tragic story. See? We all survived to tell the tale. The pretty lady in the middle of us is our "Auntie Yoda" (I named her this at age 3, after seeing Star Wars, because she was "so wise"). She was my "other mom" for the first four years of my life when we all lived together.



Than one day, a funny thing happened: Sometime after S. and I got married and they moved away - They both grew up, got jobs and interests and stories that I don't (and probably will never) know about. We talk on the phone often and write letters and cards back and forth. The stories that I'd be able to read on their faces are obscured by time, distance, different schedules and Life. I can't see them every day, and haven't seen most of my family for more than a year. I miss them the way I miss nothing else - Fortunately, I know they're still Those Pesky Brats from once upon A Time. Deep, deep down there. Love you guys!

Cheers!

Proof (again) that my husband really loves me

Transcript from actual conversation from this evening, as I was changing from a cute dress into PJ's.

Me: pulling dress off over my head, standing in slip, bra and bare feet, than pulling on sweats and a weird tank top. Sweats are temporarily under my slip.

S: "Oh babe...niiiice. You've got a little Arabian Nights look goin' on there." Please note that S is not the sarcastic one in our family. I have that job. He's the "Big Spender" and the "Musically Talented One" and the "Art Critic".

M: "Are you BLIND? We could both get inside these pants, I have no idea where they came from!"

S: "No - you look hot. Look at your little butt." Ok people - my a@@ is NOT in any way "little".

M - Stares, shakes head.

Proof positive that either he is totally psychotic or he really, really loves me. Even when I look like this. Durrrrr! Sleep much, Maya? (I had, but I was just unable to see due to the bright, bright sun in my face.)

Many questions.

In your life, have you ever...

crashed a friend's car: Nope. Although ask my friend Ciarra about the time she tried to teach me to drive her BMW (stick)
stolen a car: no
been in love: yes
been dumped : No
shoplifted: no
been fired: no
been in a fist fight: Yes - but only when very provoked by larger GUYS - and my sisters. But I don't count those!
snuck out of your parent's house: Of course!
had feelings for someone who didn't have them back: Natch
been arrested : no
gone on a blind date : No
lied to a friend: yes
skipped school: yes
seen someone die: No, thank goodness
had a crush on one of your internet friends: No
been to Canada: Nope
been to Europe: If you count England, Finland and Denmark as Europe. Seems more like UK and Scandinavia to me.
been to Mexico: Yes, but just over the border. It sucked b/c we went for family health-related issues and it was totally scary. (Thankfully everyone is ok now!)
been on a plane: yes
purposely set a part of yourself on fire: Ummm no!
eaten sushi : Yes, but I really hate "real" sushi/sashimi
been skiing : Yes, but not since I was 17
met someone from the internet: Yep! She was really nice!
been at a concert : yes
taken painkillers: yes - puke!
love someone or miss someone right now: Yes
lain on your back and watched cloud shapes go by: yes
made a snow angel: yes
had a tea party: yes
flown a kite: yes
built a sand castle: yes
gone puddle jumping: yes
played dress up: yes
jumped into a pile of leaves: yes
gone sledding: Yes, a couple times
cheated while playing a game: Not on purpose. But I suck at remembering the rules of card games.
been lonely: yes
fallen asleep at work/school: OH YA!
used a fake ID: nope
watched the sun set: yes
felt an earthquake: Yeah....I live in southern california, so...
slept beneath the stars: Yep. It was not that comfy.
been tickled: yes
been robbed: not mugged, but people have stolen from me
been misunderstood: yes. Most days.
pet a reindeer/goat/kangaroo: Not a reindeer, but a goat and a roo
won a contest: Don't think so
run a red light/stop sign: Nope. I don't drive
been suspended from school: No
been in a car crash: Just barely rearended, no damage
had braces: Nope.
felt like an outcast/third person: At times
eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night: I don't THINK so.
had deja vu: many times
danced in the moonlight: Yep. Couple times
like the way you look: ever in my life? yes. always? no.
witnessed a crime: No
questioned your heart: yes
been obsessed with post-it notes: No
squished barefoot through the mud: yes
been lost: Yes, but only for brief periods. And I wasn't navigating.
been on the opposite side of the country: Yes. NYC/Ca are about as far away as you can get, no?
swam in the ocean: yes
felt like dying: No?
cried yourself to sleep: too many times to count
played cops and robbers: when I was really young. I hated it. I wanted to play house. Than I won by locking my friend Byron in a shed.
recently colored with crayons: Yeah - on the paper covered top of a table at a resturant. S and I always do that!
sung karaoke: Nope. And no amount of alcohol could get me to do so.
paid for a meal with only coins: Sure - if you count a balance bar and a drink as a meal.
done something you told yourself you wouldn't: You bet!
made prank phone calls: Yes - back in the good old days before caller ID and star 69. Actually, I used to give people (guys) I didn't like this one phone number to call me at, and once in a while I'd call and ask if I had any messages.
laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose: Yes
caught a snowflake on your tongue: yes
danced in the rain: In the rain? Probably not
written a letter to Santa Claus: Nope
been kissed under the mistletoe: no
watched the sun rise with someone you care about: yes - this year in fact we watched one of the first sunrises of the year together. It was fun
blown bubbles: Yup
made a bonfire on the beach: Some of my most fond memories are around beach bonfires.
crashed a party: Nope.
gone roller-skating: yes - and than "broke" my friend Liz's arm (we fell together)
had a wish come true: yes
jumped off a bridge: No, but I have jumped off lots of other things.
ate dog/cat food: As a little runt, sure
told a complete stranger you loved them: Nope.
kissed a mirror: Yeah - to "blot" my lipstick.
sung in the shower: Maybe. But I'm not tellin!
had a dream that you married someone: yes - my husband!
glued your hand to something: Ya - HOT GLUED it to my OTHER FINGER. OWIE!
kissed a fish: nope, never really liked a fish enough to kiss it.
sat on a roof top: yes
screamed at the top of your lungs: yes
done a one-handed cartwheel: Nope. Not the most coordinated person I know
talked on the phone for more than 5 hours: NO!
stayed up all night: yes - many times!
picked and ate an apple right off the tree: yes - delicious!
climbed a tree: yes
had a tree house: yes
dared to watch a scary movie alone: Hitchcock
believe in ghosts: Noper.
have more than 30 pairs of shoes: Yup, probably now!
worn a really ugly outfit to school: Ummm... I plead the 80's ok? 'nough said
gone streaking: Well - skinny dipping - LOTS of times - with friends, my MOM (ha! I love my parents) and sisters. Fun~
gone doorbell ditching: Yes, to much hilarity - I totally ate it on a slippery wooden deck outside the house we were DDDing and made this huge BAM! noise. Me so sneaky.
gone toliet papering: YES! Fun! With my parents, again.
been pushed into a pool/hot tub with all your clothes on: Oh hell ya
broken a bone: no
been easily amused: Daily
caught a fish then ate it: Don't think so, but I have eaten fresh-caught fish (river fish: YUCK! ocean fish: YUMMY)
caught a butterfly: Yes
laughed so hard you cried: All the time. Usually to myself, which makes S think/know I am nuts.
cried so hard you laughed: yes
cheated on a test : no
forgotten someone's name: yes, many times
french braided someone's hair: yes, but its been forever
gone skinny dipping in a pool/hot tub: Oh ya!
been threatened to be kicked out of your house or been kicked out of your house: Sternly warned, maybe.
loved someone so much you would gladly die for them: yes
talked to yourself: all the time. I have kind of a running internal monologe. But I don't answer.

And now you know.

M

Full Circle

(An unremarkable story for all but the key Players, but I will share it nonetheless.)

Me, Circa 1997:
I had graduated and was going to be leaving for England (England! My first journey abroad!) The soundtrack of that summer was probably a homemade mixed CD of U2's "Joshua Tree", something from Rage Against the Machine and Bob Marley, with a touch of Lenny Kravitz and Chic Corea. I was seventeen, working enough to save up for my trip and still enjoy the Summer of my Freefall into the Void of Now-What-Am-I-Going-To-Do. I was dating a guy who was the perfect combination of troubled musician (jazz drums), new/different guy and parental irritation, plus I appreciated his acidly funny humour and other charming attributes. The fact that we had very different ways of looking at most things was not at all a problem, rather an interesting aphrodisiac. We would continue the relationship for another few years, until it was well past its expiration date and in its dying throes, a bit cruel. I had no firm convictions about anything other than the fact that time was on my side. I also weighed about 115 pounds and was perpetually tan with natural highlights. Highlights that I now have to pay $65.00 for, and a tan that I have to baste myself in bronzer to get. Oh the irony.

S, circa approx 1997:


He was a charming man (yes, I am making a Smiths reference) of nine and twenty. Cultured but not snobby, a musician (guitar this time) and interested in lots of things- artists, other musicians and traveling. He'd lived in LA till he was about eight, than Monterey after his father passed away. In the process of moving down to Santa Barbara and leaving behind a whole cast of good friends and a string of girls, girl friends and girlfriends who had knew him for the good egg he was. Some of them he'd even traveled (see: Greece, France, England, Italy) with, to the great relief of their mothers (who knew he'd keep those bloody Euros off thier darling dears. No offense to bloody Euros.) I mean seriously, look:



So there we both were, both living in Santa Barbara, doing our mutual thing(s). Then one day there was a going-away picnic for ... someone, I'm quite embarassed to say that neither of us have any recollection of who that person is. If I knew, I'd definitely invite them over for tacos and beer. Possibly even build them a cake. The picnic was held at the grassy park that overlooks this beach:

Summerland


I knew everyone there, except for S. Being the polite, well-bred girl that I (once) was, I trotted over to introduce myself, as my dear mother taught me. He was sitting with our friends (they are the couple to the far right of the second to last picture) J and L., eating and chatting about... who knows what. Earlier in the day, he'd been up in Monterey, gathering a few odds and ends together. He'd been friends with J and L, (and incidentally, everyone in that same picture except ME!) for years, so when J rang him up to tell him to come down, he "threw everything in my car and jammed down."

I sat down and said, "Hi... I'm Maya, and I'm going to England!" It was not, I repeat, NOT a pick-up line. That naturally started an entire conversation, because S had just gotten back from the land of Engle himself. This is the look he rocks on holiday: (Nowadays that goatee is more cinnamon sugar-y)

My mother circled around, trying to feed me - we'd had about eight years of this number already and I was heartily sick of it. She'd insist that I "never ate in front of boys", which was, sorry mom, a load of crap. What I didn't do was eat when I'd just eaten, or eat when she tried to force me to eat. Which was often, so... you see why I weighed about 115 pounds than, don't you?

After I got up, S. turned to J. and said, "Who's the girl?" and J's poetic words were
"Dude, don't even think about it. She's 17, has a boyfriend, and I work with her dad and he's got a really bad temper." All of which was true - but once we got all that resolved, the rest, as they say, was history. I kept trying to set him up with my older girlfriends, and it never quite worked out. He was my go-to guy in case I went somewhere Sans Boyfriend - someone I knew I could have a good time with, and could be counted not to hit on me. A short three years later, we had the following conversation on our way to a concert.

M: "My dad is so silly - I told him that you're were not a threat, just an old friend when you came to get me - I was like, dad, its S, he's NOT A THREAT! Silly, huh?' - I'd recently dumped prior boyfriend, been in Costa Rica for a month and had been on a string of very casual dates as part of my new policy. My new policy being: Anything Can Happen - I'm Open to Possibilities! By the phrase, "a threat", I don't mean that my dad thought S was a physical threat to my well-being, but rather a Potential Suitor. Who he had not handpicked for me in some strange feudal tradition that I am not aware of. And was also closer in age to my mom (he didn't know that at the time) than me.

S: (Looking sideways in disbelief and horror) "I am A THREAT! I WANT TO BE A THREAT! Consider me officially A THREAT!"

M: (Shocked) "Ok...you're a threat."

We started dating a few weeks later, on a Friday. Two Fridays later on March 31st 2000, he took me to another beach and asked me to be his wife. June 4th of that year found us doing this:







You'll never guess where - t that same beach and park. Funny how what goes around, comes around, isn't it?

M

Do I Have Whiskers?

Everyone has noticed, at one time or another, how people tend to look like their pets. That is, they buy pets that have similar features as them - not always, just often. In our neighborhood, there are quite a few examples:

-The big, "pirate-y looking guy, Jack, and his Boston Bull Terrier - a jutting underjaw, eyes a bit bulgy, barrel chested.

-My neighbor with the overgrown Bull Mastiff "puppy", Bear - Both of them have big, liquid brown eyes and handsome faces with a hint of mischief.

-Ironically, my Hispanic neighbors, Jose and Maria (not a joke) have two Chihuahuas, Lucy and I think Juanita. I swear those dogs bark En Espanol! Its like "que pasa? que pasa? que pasaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

-The rather large and often mussy haired woman next door has a rather large, often mussy cat..

-The redheaded lady from New York walks her white coated, kinda pink around the eyes, lean dog around. The dog has gingery patches on its coat.

We have one orange cat, and yet seem to lack whiskers, claws, fur and a tail. So I've been trying to figure it out - What is it about him that is like us?
Or us that is like him? Let's break it down, shall we?

Him: Soft and very flexible, whilst S is barely able to reach behind his back and I would be hard pressed to get much of my leg behind my head. I could probably manage THIS pose, but...


Us: Quite fond of spicy, multi-cultural food. Him: Pretty happy with stanky cat food, so long as he can pilfer it from the neighbors' pie tins, as opposed to eating the carefully prepared and expensive food I buy for him, due to his food allergies. Fynn makes the exception occasionally - he likes to eat anything I have in my hand, especially cheese and yogurt.

Him: Pretty fond of rolling in the dirt, especially after being bathed. Us: Quite attached to the shower, soap and razors.
Us: Like to sleep in. Him: Like to sleep in ... any comfortable place he can find.
Him: Can bite when not amused, or just for fun. Us: Can bite for amusement, rarely use teeth to express displeasure at inadequate catnip.
Us: Sometimes startled by loud noises. Him: Startled by any noise louder than the crackle of a dry leaf.
Him: Wild about catnip in a sock. Us: Pretty stoked when feet are in socks.


Well, at any rate, the one thing I WON'T be doing is buying any food for him at Petco. Check this out (but not on a full stomach or a bad day: www.petcocruelty.com

And while I'm on my soapbox, don't buy any Canadian seafood (this is worse than the Petco one, FYI) I'm not saying that there's any way that we could stop this, but it seems like a Little Thing that could help make a bit of a difference. Damned Canandians. The seafoods that we shouldn't buy are as follows: Lobster, Scallops, Herring, Yellow Perch, Tuna, Snow Crabs, Shrimp, Perch, Sardines, Whitefish, Cod, Haddock, Mussels, Flounder, Swordfish, Makerel, Oysters, Sole and Trout. But only if its imported from Canada. *@#@# Canadians.

http://www.hsus.org/marine_mammals/marine_mammals_news/canadas_20032004_seal_hunt_huge_death_count_massive_resistance.html

Stepping off my soapbox now,

Maya

Table Dances and Tacos

Remember how I said I've been painting furniture? That up there is a (bad) picture of the stool that I painted. Now, whilst I am somewhat proficient in the Doing Things that Do Not Matter or Help in the Running of my House- I'm not so much with the cooking bit. The crazy table is below - I still need to put a few coats of clear varnish on them both to protect them, but you get the general picture.


I'm not much of a chef - more like a short-order cook with the wrong order. But here is recipe that seems to be a crowd-pleasing hit. So I give you: Maya's Magical Tacos! I learned to make them at the knee of my mom, who is quite a genius in the kitchen and if I had one culinary wish, it would be to be able to duplicate her pinto beans. mmmmm beeeannnns...

They are sooo easy to make even one who is physically incapable of cracking an egg without getting shells in the yolk or boiling pasta without later cleaning up the stovetop, such as myself, can make them. So I wish to share with you in the bountiful ease that is this "recipe" and I use that term lightly, cause sometimes I just don't have something, and I don't use it.

Maya's Magical Chicken Tacos - More chicken and tortillas serves more people. This would probably feed 2 or 3 hungry people and about 4 not-so-hungry. Precision is my middle name.

-One Packet Lawry's CHICKEN, (not beef, but CHICKEN) taco powder. Note: Not optional, but can be substituted with the SPICY taco powder.
-2-3 frozen chicken breastsss (bebos is what we used to call them when I was a tiny tot) Microwave on high for 1-2 minutes and chop them up, just before cooking (duuuh!)
-1 large onion. NOT OPTIONAL Chop fine and divide into two parts. The larger part gets sauted with a little bit of vegetable oil until the onion starts to turn transluscent. Now add the chicken. Cook for a minute or 2 on high, than turn to medium-low and add about a cup of water and all the taco powder. Mix, cover and don't let it burn.
THAN ADD: 1 generous shmear of garlic paste, or some garlic powder, or chopped fresh garlic..whatever, just get some garlic in there.
-1 small handful per person of mixed greens (I use the pre-washed ones from Trader Joe's) and you can chop them up a bit. You could use plain old lettuce or whatever you have handy.
-Throw a few tablespoons of sour cream into a plastic baggie so you can strategically place it in little bits, instead of big blops.
-Grate a bunch of cheddar cheese.
-One or two flour (or corn, but I like flour better) tortillas per person. Fry in a skillet of veggie oil and set on some paper towels to blot.

Now, throw the meat, veggies, chopped onions, cheese, sour cream and whatever else you like on tacos in the shell. Make sure to eat them on a colorfully painted table for two. Or three. Or four.


Maya

Just a Small-Town Girl...

I've been thinking, really I should properly introduce myself to the world of the blogosphere, and how best to do that. Thus far, no clear solution has presented itself, so I thought I'd just go ahead and share a bit of Where I Come From, and some random stories from my childhood/growing up.

I was born at home, and lived in the same house until I was about 14. At which point my family (Mom, Dad, two little sisters) moved all the way around the corner. We lived in the same small, southern California beach "village" or "hamlet" -whatever cute term you'd like to use - all my life. I'm used to a sort of modern-day Andy of Mayberry existence, in which everyone knows EVERYTHING about everyone else, and that can be both wonderful (ie. I went to school K-12 with some of the same people, so we are still friends) and really invasive and incestous-feeling. Case in point: I could never really go out with any of my friends that were guys - I'd known them so long they felt (feel!) like my brothers. Not that my (very strict!) parents would ever have allowed me to casually date anyone to begin with.

I guess you could say I'm sort of a lapsed beach bum. What I mean is, as someone who's parents took me to the beach and put me in the ocean when I was three days old (in late November! They say it was really warm and nice out), the beach feels like part of me, not a nice area of the town I live in. However, in the interest of time (busy!) and people to go with (no one! they are all busy, or have moved away) and not wanting to look like a catcher's mitt when I'm 35, I don't really go that often anymore. Swimming in the cool Pacific ocean is more natural to me than walking. Here's what I used to look like, basically year-round: (note: I'm the one in the bikini)


Nowadays when I go to the beach, its SPF 30 or more, re-apply every couple of hours and try to avoid peak hours. You know, because the idea of getting BOTULISM injected into my face...not so much something I look forward to with relish. Or ketchup. Or any other condiment. So more like this: (Note the pale pasty-ness that is my skin. Icky, but oh well)


I've always had a great love for animals (cockroaches and possums excepted) and a passion for traveling, art, and music. I'm married to S, who is a great friend of mine as well as being my husband. I'll tell that story some other time, its' too long for now. He shares most of my interests (not so much with the beach thing, but that is ok by me) and plays guitar. Which is good, because I have Absolutely No Musical Talent Whatsoever and also because he really has broadened my taste in music the last five and a half years or so. He's twelve years older than I am, and I mention that only because it is relevant in some of my rants (ie the kid/no kid decision) and also because he seems younger than that to me. He collects knives and watches and boy/man type "toys" and gadgety things and loves more Baroque art than I do. We talk about art and creative mediums often, and are working on a small but good collection of modern artists. His family is small but they drive me crazy (batty old uncle, b**chy manipulative sister) and I'll probably talk more about that at some point. Or not. Here is an ultra-dorky picture of us in downtown Helsinki a couple years ago. Because I am embarassed, I'd like to point out that I've lost weight since than, thank goodness!


We have one kitty, Fynn, who you will see a ton of pictures of (like you haven't already). He is very, very spoiled (see entry titled "Kitten of Dubai") and we plan for him to remain that way. My wedding "present" was our poor, dearly departed kitty, Moss, who was feral and untameable and REFUSED to stay inside, and sadly was recently hit and killed. No, I don't want to get into the whole indoor/outdoor cat debacle. I've had cats literally all my life, and the great majority of them were indoor/outdoor. Sometimes it really is about quality (read: not going crazy in the house) of life, and not quantity. About animals: I've also had/cared for the following animals at various times in my life: Dogs (dying to get one now) Angora rabbits, kept and raised for their fur (you COMB it out, not rip it from their poor little lifeless bodies, FYI) chickens (seriously fresh eggs) Mallard ducks (Donald and Daisy, natch) and the usual run of mice, mini-hamsters and fish that most kids have at one time or another. I'm aware that this picture is not a mallard - seriously when am I going to have a chance to post it?

So... a story about growing up...hmmmm... Ok. See the picture of me, circa 1992 or 93? The girl to the right of me is my girl Dani who could tell you some stories about us. Some of which I cannot share with.. anyone because blogs have a way of gettiing to The Wrong People and I really charish our little inside jokes. The girl to the left of me is our friend Courtney (moved to Oregon, was back for a summer visit) and the gal to the far right is our friend Joleen, who shortly after this picture was taken moved to Texas. Any rate, the house I grew up in had two stories and the stairway was one of the ones that go down seven steps, have two large square landings, and wrap back around the other way going down. I'm sure there is a concise way to explain that, but it is eluding me at present. I love chocolate (that is relavant, trust me) and the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was/is one of my favorite movies. One day, since I lived convienently close to a 7-11 growing up (sounds great till you factor in my health-food crazed mom who could seriously SMELL when we were chewing Hubba-Bubba.) Dani, Courtney and I decided we would beg my mom to go to 7-11 and get chocolate, and than watch the movie. All went well till it was over, and we were possibly a little high on sugar and also just being Crazy Girls, as my mom would say.

Being the late 80's/early 90's, I had a lovely pink-glitter filled baton (which I could never twirl more than two times without hitting myself in the head with). The three of us decided to "play Willy Wonka", obviously as a direct result of the crack, erm, chocolate we'd ingested and it being Summertime. Now, you have to have seen this movie for the following to make ANY sense at all, but here goes: You know the part where W.W. is bringing all the kids down the stairs and into the Chocolate Room? And he takes two steps forward and one step back and goes WHACK! with his cane when one of the kids (I believe it was Mike Teevee) tries to go past him? Yeah - that was the particular scene we decided to act out. I played W.W. and Dani and Courtney were the "kids". So down the stairs we went and WHACK! down came my pink baton. Dani stopped so suddenly that she flipped HEAD OVER HEELS and LANDED ON HER BACK, looking up at us, stunned.

My life as The Girl Who Crippled her Friend and was Hated Forever By Everyone flashed before my eyes. I could see it all - my family trying to pay the medical bills, me visiting her in the hospital, the looks of recrimination, the whole thing. And just than, I heard the greatest sound in the world:

Laughter. Hysterical, wonderful, laughter. Not hurt a bit, Dani was just lying on the (thankfully large) landing, cracking up.

To this day, all I have to say is "Willy Wonka" and no matter when/where we are, we can crack the hell up.

Kitten of Dubai

I am NOT a morning person. You can call me up till about midnight or so on any given night, and I will not only pick right up, but be totally able to carry on a normal, semi-intelligent conversation. However, if you call me at 8 am, you are definitely going to get my voice mail. Someone better be bleeding, dead or in serious legal trouble. Given all this, oddly enough, I wake up at least two times per morning before actually getting up For the Day. Or, maybe I should say, I am awoken by this:

"Rrrrrwwwrooowrrr? Brrrrrrow? Merrrrroowww!" (soft breathing, tiny chirpy sounds in my ear, a few smacks of furry lips) This is followed by potential kneading of any body part I may have pointing towards the ceiling.

The sounds continue with increasing volume, frequency and intensity until I am forced to slit my bleary, blurry eyes open and say, "Fynn! Shhhhhhhhhhhh! We're trying to sleep because it is 4:45 in the morning!" and rub his little furry head in hopes that he will Go Back To Sleep. Sometimes, it works. Mostly, its followed by 10 seconds of silence and than its MRRRRRRRROWWWR!!!! WOOWWWWWWWRRROW? BRRRRROWWWRRR?" Miraculously, S is completely able to sleep through these proceedings on 9 out of 10 mornings, despite the fact that his head is equadistance (never thought I'd get to use THAT one in a real sentence...wow) from the noise. See why we're not having kids?

Eventually, I get up, scoop him (Fynn, not S) up in my arms and stumble over my upturned heels and his special water glass next to our bed and take him to the living room. In an act of absolutely no sense whatsoever, I'm holding him in my arms, baby style, as if he wouldn't beat me to the door if I let his precious little feet down on the floor. I open the door or window a crack, and he shoots out like he's been ejected by a small cannon. The sunrise is always beautiful through my 20/100 pre-contact lens vision.

An hour or so later, I'm dreaming peacefully and all the sudden who or whatever is in the dream starts saying, "MRRRRRRRROWWWR!!!! WOOWWWWWWWRRROW? BRRRRROWWWRRR?!!!" Through the door - I've actually watched him PRESS HIS FACE AGAINST THE CRACK IN THE DOOR AND MEOW, done for maximum pitfulness. Until I wake up. Again, I manage to be the ONLY one who hears this, even though we are both asleep in the same bed. It is still To Early, so I run and open the door, grab him, check his feet for dirt and sometimes wash them in the sink and dry them on S's towel. Retreat to bed, where I'm kneaded, snuggled, laid and breathed on until the three of us are again asleep in a furry, blankety lump.

Rinse and repeat once more before I get up for tea, cereal and returning emails. All of which means that my sleep schedule is like this: 12:30-4:30, 5-6:30, 7-9. So it SOUNDS like I sleep a lot, but really what I mostly do is get in and out of bed and take a few catnaps per night.

He's not spoiled. Really.

The Fam

I've learned through many years of writing, no, trying to write, that when The Urge hits you, its best not to ignore it.

So a Note to (and about) my family. Not the most technologically adroit bunch, but they are definitely the People I Would Choose to be in a Landlocked State With (See: This Summer) and The Only People I Would Ever Fund a Party For (Check) and The People I Who Would Know what the term "Family Hell-Bus" means (Check, and who would find that phrase actually funny) Plus, we've had some pretty good times in the past - just ask my mom about Erin, Amy and I and the following: "Aaaa-Chooooo! I'mb sorry, I can'dt helpb it" repeated 15 times. Or what W.M.I.M. means.

However... SOME of them (this means you, Miracle-Ear/Lentil Bladder/Woman who Cannot, at any cost, Sit Down) will not suffer the torturous, International Inquisition that is The Internet. Consequently, I write a lot of letters. And am therefore in a great position to say how much Work goes into writing a letter - far, far less than sitting here for ten minutes and plunking in whatever my tea-addled brain spits out. I mean, there's the envelope to be designed, the paper to be custom-sized, the cool pen that actually works to be found...not to mention the stamp. Wait... what's this, you say? Postcards? Pre-sized whaaaa???? Apparently I failed to mention we're Norwegians, and anything that is not Made of Wood must be viewed with deep and abiding mistrust and suspicion.

Another nice thing about this way, I can allow a great portion of the thousands of words I have in my head to come out in picture form. So I wonder, does all of this logic make a wee mite, yea, a flea speck of difference to those who know I simply cannot stand to be out of contact with them for to long of a time? I know not. The only thing to do is to watch and wait. And hope that soon a wooden computer with seven or fewer large buttons, voice controled type-pad and a built-in headrest for Napping (Dad, Uncle Steve) a cleaning attachment (Mom and Auntie) and a Nail File (Amy and Erin) comes out. And quick! I'm sure Mac is working on it as I type.

And D and L begat Maya, and yea verily she was Quite Stubborn.

THE FAMILY HELL BUS - Part Deux of this entry

So - much of the last entry likely makes no sense to anyone but my family... so allow me to relate the tale of the Family Hell Bus.

The family Hell-Bus, (F.H.B. for short). Growing up, Erin, Amy and I were totally unaware that other people did not load up the van with luggage, rip out the middle seats, add toys, books and enough health foodstuffs to (almost) feed us for two days or so, and Drive to the Domain of the Grandparents - Oregon. We thought this was what everyone did for fun.

The actual drive managed to be bearable, starting with the waking at 3 am and driving through the dense summer morning darkness, waking up to see the sunrise and stamp around, messy-haired, in the cold of the morning. By seven or eight in the morning, we'd have discarded our dusty-maroon colored sleeping bags and would than spend the next few hours trying not to move or touch each other.Tepid morning air turned to milky heat. After that, there were hours of steam and boredom, the road straight, a book-on-tape murmering in the background of our attention. Generally, we were in Dunsmuir or Paradise (tiny hamlets outside of Mt. Shasta) eating a late breakfast by eleven. We'd pile out of the car around three or so, stiff legged and tired from sleeping to much.

But I digress - what I'd meant to tell you about was the actual vehicle, and how it came to be the F.H.B. You see, there is an unexplained phenomenon that only happens in Toyota vans. I call it the "Barrier of Silence" factor. When children are in the back area speak in a normal volume - their parents canNOT hear a word they are saying. I've tried it -repeat yourself as loud as you like, those 3-6 feet are a sound barrier. Unless, of course you say something that you don't WANT them to hear. In that case, the Barrier of Silence lifts and the parental units hear you loud and clear.

Generally, my dad would drive, because having my mother and her flawless driving record behind the wheel was entirely to much of a strain on his delicate nerves. He'd drive for hours, asking for coffee, gum, neckrubs, red-eyed and increasingly tired/irritiable till my mom forced him to let her drive. No matter what state of advanced sleep deprivation he was in, he'd be wide awake the minute she buckled her seat belt.

Twitchy as a turkey before Thanksgiving, he'd advise, watch her speed, be on the lookout for stray cows, meteors, signs from above that she was a crazy Woman Driver and that he should not ever sleep. After an hour or two of this insanity my mom would (probably) roll her eyes and say, ever so sweetly, "Honey, you're not sleeping - do you want to drive?" Once my father drove 22 out of 24 hours, stopping only for gas, coffee and pee breaks.

Strange that I hate being in the car, isn't it? Maybe someday S and I will have our own version of the family hell bus - Us, Fynn and some other cat, meaowwwwing in the background while Echo & the Bunnymen play.

Of course, we won't hear them.

MLH

Bowled Over

Call me old - or just old-fashioned...

But WHAT IS GOING ON WITH ALL THE CEREAL? Why must we recieve a CD-Rom with our Rice Krispies, a mini diarama with our berry/flake stuff, and an offer for some kind of Golden Ticket in our choc... wait a minute, nevermind about that one. I mean, I KNOW cereal has been the medium for a medly of interesting, if cheap small items that are mostly good for stepping on, getting stuck in the couch cracks and 2.4 seconds of mild entertainment, best enjoyed when one is still sporting bed-head and half-opened eyes as fashion/lifestyle choices.

Maybe its because of all the stupid cereeal we have now - Miniature chocolate rolls, cinnamon flavored mini-cakes - for Breakfast? Why don't they just market them as dessert? Now, I admit, once in a while I get a serious Cocoa Crispy Jones - but how, how do they stay in business? Who buys this crap? Who? Who? Tell me, please! Whoooooo?

Everyone knows that I love anything sweet - Lemonheads, Fireballs, (good) chocolate - so why the hate? I can tell you why in three words:Flu + Pneumonia + Lucky Charms = Haaaaaaaaate. Trust me, this is as much as you want (or need) to know.

At Vons, there is an entire aisle devoted to stuff that I once once convinced S. was made of pencil shavings. For an entire week. Fruits and vegetables share a side aisle with the chilled drinks. And THAT'S what's wrong with America today, kids.

That and the fact that I have no idea what my original point was (and I did have one)

So - news update for those of you who are still reading and haven't gone off to eat a bowl of grape nuts or something... Lisa (S's sister) is due about the 28th of this (September). The baby (girl) will be named Marie Claire. I suggested Elle, Harper, O(prah?) McCall, and Vogue, since she was going with magazine names. (heee! ...almost kidding) Her OB is some kind of OB-to-the stars and counts among her former clients Annette Benning. Her suggestions (as per my chats with Lisa) have been:

1) Having C-section so that the happy couple can "visit Disneyland" (and now a moment of silence so that we can all shudder, shower and scrub our minds out) again in the near future. Sorry. that is just plain... wrong. Not the C-section part- that is all a matter of personal choice and medical need. I'm talking about referring to, ummm.. marital relations as "visiting Disneyland". I will never be able to go to Disneyland again without a faint tinge of ickyy!
2) Using a "formula supplement" for the first few weeks - ummm... correct me if I'm wrong but... isn't it true that you're more likely to LOSE your milk if you formula feed? Why? Why would she say that...unless... she knew that is what her client(s) wanted to hear? Again: Personal CHOICE rules!

This is why I'm so SICK of THE QUESTION... You know what I'm talking about. THE ONLY QUESTION ANYONE WHO HASN'T SEEN ME IN OVER THREE DAYS ASKS. Shall we all say it together now, ready? 1, 2, 3, "When are you gonna have a baaaaaybeeee? Wheeeeennnn? Whyyy nooooot?" (Followed by "Oh, you'll change your mind")

Sure - just what I need to do... become a (fat, stretch-marked, haggy and utterly blissful dont'tellanyoneIknow) stress-ball over yet another thing, than have some over-educated, under-compassionate doctor tell me I should supplement with formula. Which, in my advance state of sleep deprivation (brought on by a combo of screaming sprog, baby moniter triple checking and S asking me to rub HIS back because he's tired of holding said sprog.) I do. Than oh boysie! Spending 1.5 years - no wait, make that 18.5 years (at least!) explaining/validating my choices and decisions too.. the same bunch of people who have been more or less harassing me every day for years already. And who would undoubtedly start asking me about 4 days post-partum when was I going to have anooother one to give the first one a sibling?

Can't win... ever!

Updated to add: She was born, and was extremely delicate and petite and heartbreakingly cute and well-behaved. Note: People, I KNOW an ugly baby when I see one. This is a beautiful baby, and I would be lying through my teeth if I said that I didn't want to take her home with me both to hold/love/kiss/snuggle/smell/care for/ her forever and b) save her from her mother, who is a Bad Person and also IMHO, a seriously crap mother and c) I wish every day that i could have a daughter. Of any kind. Even one like the baby I was. Note: According to my mum, she was up every hour on the hour with me. Till I was like two.
Here we are:


M

Shoe-Phoria

So... also... this one other thing. You guys know how I am one of the Cheapest People on the Planet with regards to myself, nothing but The BEST for all of you, dahhhhlings!

Well, it also just so happens that yesterday I had what can only be described as a shopping orgy. Or, at least, a shopping frenzy. It wasn't one of those pre-planned, wear a cute outfit/nice updo/full-makeup Shopping Expeditions- it just happened. You know, the way that sometimes you start putting on makeup for the day and think, "hey, how about a little eyeshadow and liner for a more pulled-together look for once" and all the sudden you've got the magnifying glass, tweezers, eyelash curlers, eyebrow pencil, 33 shades of eyeshadow (none of which go with your original idea/outfit/look, fresh Q-tips, 3 kinds of concealer, liquid/whipped/powder foundations all over the kitchen table .... and someone's revving the engine while you mutter "just a SECOND! I'm ALMOST ready! I just don't wanna go anywhere looking like CRAP ... for ONCE!!"? You know?

Maybe its just me, than. I had thrown on some jeans and flips, touseled my wet hair and rubbed some products on my face in no particular order. I'd planned to walk down to Borders to get S. the new Echo & the Bunnymen CD (Siberia, in case anyone cares or would like to get it... I've only heard two songs so far) Because I am a Nice and Caring Wife, and my butt needs the Excercise very, very much. And it was a nice September day, anyway.

So I drifted down State street, deposited a check, but I was waylaid right at the corner of State and Carrillo. Bang! My old friends at Shooz, once my lunchtime indulgence, beckoned to me with a sirens' call. Well, really, what would you do if you had a) not shopped for shoes in about seventeen months b) were a recovering shoe addict? c) saw that if you bought one pair of shoes, it would be $25, but if you bought TWO, it would be $40? Really, it was like my civic duty to go and rescue those shoes from....anyone else.

There are now two new pairs of shoes in the Pantheon: a pair of black espadrilles with sparkly black flowers on the toes and a so cute stacked fiber-y heel. A lace that goes through a little loop behind the closed (round) toe and laces to another loop behind my heel and criss-crosses around the ankle and ties in the back. The other pair look a wee bit like a black cowboy boot with a square toe, but they are kind of cloggy-style and (dare I say the Bad Word?) comfortable.

But I made it to Borders and escaped with only getting an adorable teeny-tiny striped 2006 calendar for me. Yeah! I heart teeny calendars!

I wasn't safe yet, though...I still had to venture into Paseo Nuevo territory for a new sleeping shirt for Scott. I cannot tell why this was needed, but suffice it to say that it was imperative that I get a black stretch cotton V-neck T shirt, size L, from Bananna Republic. The thing about Bananna for men here in SB is that it is dangerously close to Victoria's Secret AND Nordy's.

The good news is: I had two gift certificates for VS/Nordy's - yeah! But the rather sucky thing is that all of the cute brassieres and bustiers and totally frivolous items in the fun lacey/flirty/non-industrial shapes... do NOT come in my current (actually, stable ever since I took the Pill/shot/crazy-making drugs which I will never, EVER take again) size. Mmmmrrph! Rasssafrrrashhaummgrabblehooks! I did manage to snag two very cute, comfy, low-rider and on sale pairs of undies, which whilst I'm sure they would never be mother-approved for looks, were, did I mention on SALE.

And than came Nordstrom. Yeah! Here I went past the (massively overpriced) shoes, since I figured that two pairs were quite enough. And straight to my demise. You guessed it. The M.A.C. counter. Where I was swabbed clean, exfoliated, concealed, brushed with the gentle virgin tips of a flat foundation brush, shadowed within an inch of my life in (by my count) no fewer than 9 colors. By a nice girl who somehow managed to convince me that I really owed it to myself to buy not only the concealer, new moisturizing/SPF 15/"dewy-looking" foundation, a killer bronzey eye pencil AND the aforementioned brush. The gift card was...gasping. No, actually, it was dead. It died a quick and honorable death.

The best part about the entire expedtion, aside from the complete and utter luxury of not spending (to much) of my own money while still getting a bunch o' clothes....

Not ONE person asked me "When are you gonna have a baaaby? When? for ... lets see ... like six whole hours.

And that, folks, is a record. An official record, as in hasn't happened in yeeeeearrrrs.

Lightning Strikes

I read somewhere that the quality of one's writing is directly related to the frequency with which the person puts pen to paper (ermm, in this case, fingers to keyboard, I suppose). I guess that is true to a certain extent, but I find writing just to "prime the pump" ends up counterproductive, boring and flat. Plus for me, there is the distinct possibility that it will degenerate into a rant of some flavor or another. I personally need the mental stimuli of other creative people, at least once in a while. Something to break the ice. (Pardon my visual pun)

Which brings me to creative people, in general. Last night S and I got to check out the musical stylings of Dead Can Dance with four other fun, creative, literate and (drumroll, please) CHILD-FREE couples. People who read - and discuss - books. People who have great (creative) taste, interests in a variety of things. People with whom I could have a conversation that did not once in a evening involve me being gracious about bodily fluids or sudden nasty odors. These things in and of themselves were a gift not unlike manna from heaven above - the fact that they were fun to hang out with and (fellow) wine and music and art lovers was so wonderful I almost broke into a spontaneous interprative dance number. The topper on this little wedding cake of serendipity? THEY WERE LOOKING FOR US, TOO! Yessss! We celebrated our mutual non-loser status by hopping in the car.

I fell instantly in love with B's wife, who we nicknamed "Hurricane Girl" (with stages 1-5) within two hours of meeting her (more later).With her Pottery Barn-meets vintage-meets tiki room taste in decorating. Her husband, B was plying us with wine and beer within minutes of us walking in their door. Hurricane Girl, with her glossy, ravens' wing hair, curvy figure and beautiful (read: no wrinkles!) face, appears to be maybe 27 - turns out she's...wait for it... a disgustingly youthful 35, which blew S and I totally away. Before I learned this, I had been thinking,

"Cool, hey, I'm not the baby of the group by 10 or so years for once!" - but it turns out that I just look old and thank goodness I just colored the silver out of my silver fox's hair. We hit Trader Joe's for the obligatory wine, hummus, pita chips, sushi, wine, cheese (crowd-pleasin' Smoked Gouda) Chocolate (the squee-tacular milk chocolate with hazelnut chunks mini-bars) and did I mention wine? I was perusing the pinots and petit syrahs when B came up to me and said,

"So .... basically what you're saying is if anyone's drinking Merlot, you're leaving, right?" Haaaaaa! I heart anyone who can work a good Sideways reference into day-to-day conversation. We hopped on a bus that shuttled us from where we parked to the Hollywood Bowl. laden with yummy goodness and ...wine. There was magic in the air, as well as a fair sprinkling of Goth Girls and guys (I'm told I have a "corset body") aging/new hippy types, punks ren-faire lads and lasses in crushed velvet, and of course the obligatory Hollywood crowd. We feasted merrily at a little picnic area and than commenced Operation Grape Grope (read: hide all the bottles of wine we were bringing in so as not to pay $8.00 for a CUP of swill) If went off without a hitch, thanks to my devious little mind and some skillfull packing. Security at the H-bowl? Awesomely lax.

Three hours or so of waaaAAAAuuughaaa, woooOOOOouuughhoooo" later (and I'm not saying thats a Bad Thing, FYI) it was all over. You can see/hear what I'm talking about here: www.deadcandance.com
Mad props to anyone who can bring back the Sackbut as a viable instrument - surely no one rocks the whole "I look like a Van Eyk painting" look harder than Lisa Gerrard. What I'm saying? Even if goth/trance/weird music is not your thing--- you should check this stuff OUT!

As we arrived back in Santa Barbara, an amazing electrical storm with BIG thunder and bolts, sheets and flickers of lightning started - and went on through the night and into this morning. Coincidence? I think not.

M

Cozy Corner

Rain. Thunder. Lightning. This is not good wedding weather, folks. Hereby, I am making a list of things that it is good weather for. Here goes!

1. Eating "savory" foods such as clam chowder, jambalaya, crawfish ettouffe or other artery-clogging, totally decadent and filled with spices and goodness.

2. Watching movies, preferably trilogies or those of the very long variety. Here's a short list (kind of a sub-list, I suppose)
-Moby Dick. The original (and best) version, with Gregory Peck. "Its a white whale, white I tell you."
-Lonesome Dove. Best if recovering from oral surgery or minor outpatient procedures. Its SIX hours LONG, people.
-Lord of the Rings trilogy. "My preciousssssss!"
-Star Wars. All six of 'em, in any order you like. I dare you - 'cause I haven't done it yet.
-Back to the Future. Just because there are three of them.
-A super-80's medly, such as: Pretty in Pink, Mannequin and, oh, The Burbs. Cheese puffs and Jolt optional, oversized bucket of popcorn mandatory.
-Serious Film/Classic, such as Streetcar Named Desire,
-Anything based on a famous artist: The Agony and the Ecstacy, Girl With a Pearl Earring, Vincent and Theo, Pollack, Frida, etc. (Suggestions Welcome, here folks!) I'm waiting for the DVD of Modigliani to come out.


-DVD of the early years of SNL.

3. Taking a walk with an umbrella and a cute cozy sweater. Splashing is non-optional.

4. Finding a new favorite napping area. Hee!

5. Finishing (or starting) that book you've been meaning to read. Some of mine: Anna Karina (again) War and Peace (I've read the first 100 pages about 10 times since I was 12, but seem not to be able to finish it.)

6. Giving yourself or someone you're close to a really thourough mani-pedicure.

7. Visit a library or art gallery.

8. Do all laundry in the house. (not gonna happen)

9. Organizing a small area that has been neglected. Hmmmm.. and I'm supposed to pick just ONE?

10. Really. Do we need to go here? I think we do. Hot chocolate. Homemade, no powder, cinnamon, whipped cream and marshmellows included.

Are you cozy yet? Purrrrrrrrrrr


M

An Open(ly Hostile) Letter

TO: People Who Want me To do Stuff for them For Free
From: Me
Re: I'm NOT your Fairy Godmother

Its has recently (by which I mean, recently in the last five or ten years, but especially of late) come to my attention that there are some of you out there who think that I am a perpetual fountain of ideas. You are actually correct. Some of these ideas are good (see last entry re: cheap and cute invitations) and some of them, not so much. For example, if you were to track down certain parties who were present at the Hatch home circa 1997 or so, you might find circumstantial evidence that I may have suggested at TWO AM, out of a DEAD SLEEP, that I could construct a cool flower arrangement in the shape of a swan. With irises, tulips and I believe, lilies. So, you really should know that listening to the things that I mutter in the middle of the night is A Bad Idea. However, given the fact that so far as I know, none of you have actually managed to hover round my open window at night, it may be a moot point.

However - you must realize that whilst I am happy to while away a few hours chatting over the possible details of a party or other celebration (cough, wedding, cough).... I actually do need, in fact, expect to get paid or otherwise compensated (ie checks OR cash OR Travelers' Checks) for my services. Unless I say otherwise (read: "I'll help you, Brooke, because we have some mutual friends who are acting a bit retarded at the moment")...Show me the money!

Here's the deal: If I end up hauling loads of candles, fabric, props, alcohol around, designing the look of the whole shebang, suggesting menu items, doing invitations, making favors, doing music, flowers and generally running around like a Hostess with ... well, at least the Person Who Would know where the rest of the Cheese went - I really need more than a slap on the back and a handshake. Your Eternal Gratefulness, the last time I checked, will not be accepted as payment for my mortgage.

I know this is difficult, because I'm doing a Party. Parties are Fun. Thus, its fun, and since I am (or at least I LOOK like I am) having fun .... how can I possible think of this as a Real Job? Surely Real Jobs do not include such activities as "artfully draping tulle" or "selecting the exact shade of vellum to go over a certain peice of paper" or "obsessing over lighting". And surely, SURELY, no one drinks a flute of champagne at the end of a Real Job. Certainly not one worthy of actual hard-earned coin. Right?


WRONG, people, WRONG! SO WRONG THAT IF YOU WERE DRIVING DOWN THE ROAD, AND WRONG WERE ONE DIRECTION AND RIGHT WERE THE OTHER... YOU'D HAVE PASSED WRONG AN HOUR AGO....AND YET, YOU ARE STILL STARING AT THE MAP AND MUTTERING, "Hell no am I going to ask for directions, Muriel..that is for IDIOTS!"

Since I'm sure that you know I cannot resist a challenge, I'm suggesting that we call a bit of a truce. People, you will NOT do the following:
-Call me at 8:39 am, because its .... not 8:38 am ...in YOUR TIME ZONE. This does not make me happy, or very likely to be jazzed to call you back...Long-flipping distance.
-Expect me to be excited when you say, "Ya...ummmm... we wanna have a (insert event here) for 250 people...but we don't want to feeeeed them anything except for caake and puuuunnnch. Please, people. You do NOT need a professional party planner. What you need is a professional HEAD-EXAMINER - someone to tell you "Hi, you are officially OFF your ROCKER. 250 hungry, bored people withOUT a drink in their hot little hands are NOT going to be soooo excited to 'hang out and chat' with you! For the love of Jerimiah, cut your list down to 20 and have a great italian dinner!"
-Wait until I've suggested all these crazy-good ideas, and than make me wait a week (or THREE) and than call me back and say, "Yaaaa...ummmm...we think we wanna do ...our own thing. You know why? Because a) you've totally just wasted my time and b) there is a good possibility that your half-baked, reconstituted mish-mash of what was probably a really good idea...is going to pretty much suck.

And I, in return, will not KILL YOU. WITH A SPORK, A KAZOO, A PARAFFIN CANDLE AND A DECORATIVE PEICE OF RAFFIA.

See? Everybody wins! The farmer and the cowboy CAN be friends!

Of Men and Matchsticks

This is a bit from another journal I keep- Dated 11/10/05

You know, they (who are THEY? and why do we listen to them?) say that no one ever writes about the day that nothing happened. I am here to completely protest, rail against, argue the point, play the devils' advocate and ultimately refute that charge.

For starters, we've got two of the most sucessful TV shows ever:
Seinfeld and Friends. Seriously - NOTH-ING EV-VER HAPPENED until sweeps, at which point there would be a Ross/Aniston hookup, makeup, breakup etc, a marriage, a surprise spouse, or Phoebe would...sing. Badly. Seinfeld? Four words, no wait, make that six: 1/2: Soup Nazi 3/4 Man Hands 5/6 Pirate shirt.
So...we see that nothing can happen on TV for like 7 or 9 or a million years, and people will watch.

But... can nothing happen and people read? That, my friends is an old but easily answered question. Ever read any Jane Austen? Twenty zillion pages of "oh, erm.. Mr. Darcy.. there seems to be a letter for you...from a Miss Scarsbouroughside...in the HALLWAY. With a feathered hat." The author of this riveting (and scandolous - feathers..in JUNE?) sentence than resumes arranging matchsticks. Dun-dun duuunnnn! With apologies to Eddie Izzard for blatantly stealing his gut-bustingly funny schtick.

Or - maybe you were never a J.A. fan, and perhaps were more of a Charles Dickens fan? Ever read the OPENING SENTENCE/PARAGRAPH of A Tale of Two Cities? "It was the best of times, and the worst of timeszzzzzzzzzzz..." Basically here is C. Dickens' attempt to vagarize his time setting so as to be better able to manipulate the storyline to accomodate all kinds of fascinating and totally ridiculous coincidences and chance meetings of people who recognize each other soley by the shape of an ear or nose, seen at 50 paces in the pouring rain. At night. But my point is that aside from a few grisly crocheted peices, and some beheadings, NOTHING EVER HAPPENED! Trust me- as the honorary walking "Cliff Notes" to the entire C. High School graduating class of 1997, I know of what I speak.

Today, I did the following:
-Talked to my mom on the phone. Twice. About...nothing in particular.
-Painted my new little step-stool which will go in my so-girly cutesy closet when such gets finished - and will probably flost around the house waiting for its clear-coat until than. It is about 14 inches square with a hand-hold slot in the middle, and cost me all of ten dollars at Target. I moved the top text inside the mirror and wrapped the picture around the edges of the stool. The legs are (3) cobalt blue and (1) bricky red like the chest of drawers in the picture, and one of the cross-bars is the bright mustardy yellow like her cushion. As you'll see above.
-Watched Meet the Fockers - funny but a bit brittle, methinks.
-Made calzones for dinner

Seriously - not the most action-packed day I ever had, but the weather was a bit "Meh" and chilly and I've had a few to many action-packed days of late, so it was a welcome change. S asked me if I was "a blogger" and my mom tentatively referred to this ad "a...blog? is that right?". So cute, so incredibly precious, it was. I explained that I use it more as a lazy persons' writing excercise/free-flow journal/cheap way to communicate with everyone at once. S has the TV on to some football game - the somebodies and the New England no-necks.. apparently a Terrell Owens is being suspended for something, from my quarter attention view, it could be anything from having a neck to not shaking his tight, (like a toiger!) spandex-clad rump around enough after a touchdown to...???

In other news...I will be Officially in the second half of my twenties something like two weeks from tomorrow. You know the worst thing about being born in November? The calendars save their ugliest, almost-cut from the calender-but-had-to fill the page with something besides a blank white spot, pictures for the November page. As if to remind me "Ehh, you're not getting any younger, not making enough money, STILL haven't lost that last twenty pounds. and.... now this."

MH

No More Wire Hangers!!!

(From 11/15 Journal) You have no idea how much I've been anticipating writing the title to this entry. No idea. So let me fill you in quickly on what is going on in the Haus der Mankrap, I mean, our house. Short story: I apparently AM related (at least distantly) to my mother. Out of the blue, I decided that I totally and completely hate our room/no, wait, our HOUSE. Not the actual house, but the fact that it is so crammed with items that I either cannot get to because there are other Things in the way of them. And the fact that there is an entire room devoted to collecting, piling, hoarding and apparently saving for posterity.. mail. And magazines. And knives. And books. And CDs.

NEWSFLASH/INTERUPTION: I've got TLC's "Clean Sweep" on behind me for inspiration and the host dude JUST said: The way the space is shared in the closet is similar to the balance of power in the relationship." Remember this - you'll cry for me later.

Not to mention the fact that as things stood yesterday, my clothes took up about 30 percent of the closet, plus I have a child-sized (read: teeny) 4 drawer set for my underthings and a shoe rack/bookshelf. Now the husband had the following: 70 percent of the closet, plus a bookshelf that goes almost to the ceiling, FILLED with clothes, plus an extravagantly overfilled "tie rack" where things such as belts, pants, shirts, jackets and other non-tie items lived in a large heap in what was the "laundry closet". Plus the fact that there was a ridiculous amount of laundry which was 70 percent not my clothes. Plus a crammed "coat closet", a pile/doorknob full in the office AND... wait for it.. like an entirely other wardrobe of defunct (read: to small, to old, and to funky...yet since they hold special memories, cannot be sold or donated to charity.) crap. I mean, clothes. I mean, my back hurts from lifting and carrying the Leather Jacket collection (circa 1990-2005) most of which was literally DUSTY from not being worn.

Naturally, the only logical thing to do was give up, cede the closet entirely to He Who Collecteth Clothing like Imelda Marcus collected shoes. I hate with the fire of a thousand burning suns our floor-to-ceiling mirrored closet doors, yet at least if I can get a bunch of his stuff actually behind them, I can die happy. And may. Which begs the question, natch, "Where do your clothes live now? Remember my cool, ultra-organized laundry closet that SHOULD HAVE BEEN SELF-SORTING BECAUSE THERE WERE THREE BINS FOR DARK, MEDIUM LIGHT? No? well, it could have been a thing of beauty. And it is the original, 1933 closet. Which means it is approximately the size of a coin purse. That is all the space I am allowing myself for my clothes (notice I did not say shoes or lingerie). I will finally have my own room in the house. Yeah! I've installed a cheery set of white lights (they have neato different settings, so "my" room can blink, pulse, fade or go onoffonoffonoffonoff.

I'm thinking of turning it into one of the following looks. Keep in mind that this will be mostly behind a closed door, so a little tacky is ok.

1. Chi-chi girly-girl (kitchy and fun) Pink paint, gilded mirrors, a stepping stool done in overstuffed zebra or other funky print fabric and trimmed with a boa, etc etc.
2. Paris-boutique chic - kind of like the above, but with a bit more restraint- black, white, taupe, touches of gold. There could be cute wall treatments like little shoes, hats, etc in light and breezy style painted on the walls. Or even an upholstered wall.
3. The Zen closet - lined with cool reed matting or other natural material, dark wood clothes bar, natural fiber baskets tastefully on the dark-brown painted shelves.
4. The Martha Stewart closet with pale colored walls, shelves papered in a cute toille or other nice paper. Clothes bar in a thick creamy white, with a tiny chandelier. Seriously. Actually, the chandelier may have to make an appearance no matter what. I heart chandiliers.

Wait till I tell you about the Rest of the House.

Now, go rest your eyes. I've got to get back to work.

Striped, Spotted and...

I stumbled onto this "What Country Are You?" little quiz.. I turned out to be.....

Here's the link: http://bluepyramid.org/ia/cquiz.htm

Now.. keep in mind there are only six questions, and each time you take the quiz, the answer will change if you put "yes" where you'd previously put "no".

Here's "my" country:

Wait for it ... now think reeeeally hard about how many times I've said that I love _______ so much, I wish I could move there.

You MAY have got this - or, you may not have...

You're Costa Rica!
You're about as peaceful as anyone on the planet, a real dyed-in-the-wool pacifist. And why not? No one really poses much of a threat to you and everything seems to work out, no matter how much violence and insanity rages all around you. So you relax and appreciate nature and culture while the rest of the world carries on their petty disagreements. If only everyone could follow your example...

They have an "animal" quiz, too - turns out.. You're (I'm) a Tiger!

You've really earned your stripes. People like to sing about your eyes, which some find to be thrilling. You're rather fond of Detroit, as well as half the universities and high schools all across America. When people want to calm you down a bit, they use the word "easy". Overall, you're grrrrreat!

They have a book quiz, but it turns out I'm either "The Grapes of Wrath", "Lolita" or "Roots" or "Les Miserables" Well, 3 out of 4 ain't bad. Note - yes, I have read all of those.

Ha!

All those reasons, plus I think this picture is funny

BRITS REVOKE USA INDEPENDENCE

A Message from John Cleese To the Citizens of the United States of
America.

In light of your failure to elect a competent President of the USA and
thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of
your independence, effective immediately.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical
duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (excepting
Kansas, which she does not fancy).

Your new prime minister, Tony Blair, will appoint a governor for
America without the need for further elections. Congress and the
senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year
to determine whether any of you noticed. To aid in the transition to a
British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with
immediate effect:

You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then
look up aluminium, and check the pronunciation guide. You will be
amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it.

The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and
'neighbour.'

Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the
letters, and the suffix "ize" will be replaced by the suffix "ise."
Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable
levels. (Look up vocabulary).

Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises
such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. There is no such thing as US English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of -ize.

You will relearn your original national anthem, God Save The Queen.

July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns,
lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and
therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent.

Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to
sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then
you're not grown up enough to handle a gun. Therefore, you will no
longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a
vegetable peeler. A permit will be required if you wish to carry a
vegetable peeler in public.

All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and this is for
your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what
we mean. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you
understand the British sense of humour.

The Former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been
calling gasoline) - roughly $6/US gallon. Get used to it.

You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries
are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato
chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in
animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually
beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred
to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will
be referred to as Lager. American brands will be referred to as
Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of
further confusion.

Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good
guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play
English characters. Watching Andie MacDowell attempt English dialogue
in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's
ears removed with a cheese grater.

You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of
proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will,
in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to
American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every
twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of
nancies).

Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host
an event called the World Series for a game which is not played
outside of America. Since only 2.1% of you are aware that there is a
world beyond your borders, your error is understandable.

You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

An Inland Revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's
Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all
moneys owing (backdated to 1776).

Thank you for your co-operation