Having reached the point where beating a dead animal does, in deed, make me feel better

A little while ago, I wrote a post about someone making the grave error of displaying thoughtless, unfounded cruelty to my family. To re-cap: Someone said mean, untrue things to me about Scott. I calmly left the scene, went home, waited a couple of days, and wrote them a point-by-point lesson of how they made a mistake, and exactly what to put where if they thought they had a leg to stand on at that point. Profound apologies, or apologies of any kind were not forthcoming, but I decided to be the Bigger Person and make the first move towards a relationship that is over a decade old.

My mistake. Remember second grade when people either were your friend (picked you for games, didn't laugh at your funny clothes) or weren't (closed the huddle when you walked by, laughed at you, asked pointed questions about what clothes you were wearing and sneered at your reply)? I'm starting to think those really were the good old days, despite the funny smell of construction paper and paste and the conspicuous lack of martinis - actually, imagine a bunch of buzzed second grade--- see, that is why we don't have children. Point being, things were simple - second graders don't have to think back over a decade of a relationship to see if they are worth salvaging over a few broken crayons, nor do they need to project much farther into the future than recess.

There I go again, imagining second-graders careening around on Yoohootinis, losing my train of thought. Friends, friendships - and the prickly fact that some relationships have lifespans. I'd prefer to not only keep the (few) great friends that I'm already lucky enough to have, and hopefully develop meaningful new relationships in future.

Sadly, this last week or so has really impressed on me the fact that this person simply doesn't care or doesn't value our history enough to change their behavior towards me. How so? Invariably the following happens if we're out together:

-Complaining about Scott - well, attempting to complain about Scott.
-Multiple snide comments about the fact that I have cats, how they cause them to 'die' every time they walk into our house, have I 'gotten rid of' them yet, etc. Yes, allergies are real and serious...guess what? Scott vacuums our hardwood floors religiously, sometimes twice a day, and we run an air filter. Guess what else? It really, really irks me when people make remarks about animals, any animal, but especially a pet, as though they are disposable objects.* I've expressed all of this clearly, and none of it seems to have made an impression. In the last twenty-seven years, there have been only two months where I have been without at least one pet, be it cat(s), dog(s), mice, fish, rabbits, ducks, chickens, turtles or frogs. In short, love me, love my menagerie.
*Actual remark made to young, impressionable person: "Oh, don't get me all excited...they didn't get rid of their cats", followed by a heavy sigh that implies that would be an ideal scenario for them.
-Never, ever, ever picking up a tab, shorting us time and again.
-Expecting us to go over and above for them and their family, yet being unwilling to even meet us in the middle.
-Crying poor to me or our friends after we've gone out somewhere (because we can't go to my house, it being contaminated with The Cat) the week after we accompanied them to spend hours selecting and purchasing non-essential, high-priced home decor items/clothes/etc.
-Fostering the Me First and the Gimme-Gimmes in your kids and trying to pass it off as their 'natural style' - I'd like to think I have some clue of my own natural style, but I have to live within our means. This doesn't mean I don't have good taste and lots of ideas for our entire household. However, these things are not essential. Wants verses needs. I want to completely revamp my yard, I need to wait and save money, despite how much I hate the view when I look out my window.

In short, I've tired of always being The Givers. I've no more time, patience, money or energy to waste on the whole situation, to say nothing of Scott, who is thoroughly fed up. The last straws weren't big things, just a(nother) weekend where we politely carted them over hill and dale, tried to ignore the little things in hopes that someday they'd change. Followed by this past weekend where I: Waited hours while they deliberated on overpriced stuff, bit my tongue in the face of unbelieveable selfishness and in the hopes of avoiding some truly unpleasant scenes, aaaaaannnd I've just put myself into a coma with The Boring.

I came home with that nice, acidy burning feeling of 'why did I put myself out there again? I'm so dissapointed that no one listens to a word I say, ever!', and declared to no one in particular
"That is IT. I am officially OVER _______ (name withheld for no particular reason, they aren't especially internet-savvy) and their lame behavior - we are NOT hanging out with them one-on-one ever again", walked outside and started looking for my dead horse. Now comes the hard part: I have to avoid them, without seeming like I'm avoiding them, a task that will be almost as awkward as this entire post.

and the Mama Bear said...

"Don't screw with my family, you nosy little trespassing baggage, you!" What does this tale of ursine homeownership have to do with anything, you ask me? Put it this way: When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, Yamamoto was reported to have said that they'd wakened a sleeping giant. When someone makes me mad, it is a bad, bad idea. You know, without getting to Soprano-esque about things - its just that I'm less tolerant than your average bear. To wit:

When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument. - Virginia Woolf

I am rather agree with this point - what's the point of debate just for the pleasure of batting opposing viewpoints around in a game of idealogical badminton? I don't mind disagreeing with someone, but you must be passionate about your feelings on any given matter. In proper company, I don't mind having a debate with someone - and I did mention that I have a temper, right? Happily, these days, it takes a lot to get me deeply and righteously pissed off. If you were interested in doing that, one surefire way to do so: Make baseless personal attacks on my friends or family.

I recently had occasion to be really and truly angry at someone - but I surprised myself and continued attempting to have a discussion with them. For various and sundry reasons, they were not in a mood to discuss, but continued to attack Scotts' character. (Mistakenly). I asked them to give an/some examples of when he'd supposedly wronged them, and they declined, saying that it 'didn't matter', and that 'he's just out to undermine me'. None of this could be further from the truth, but I still didn't get mad. I pointed out that it was irrational of them to put me in a position between a friend and a family member, and that if they couldn't give me specifics, it was time to back down because they were accusing him of some pretty mean things. They refused and said that I 'wouldn't believe them."

(This is the bit where I got mad) "Ok, well I've got an early morning and a lot of emails to reply to, we've got to go," I chirped acidly. Scott, along with everyone else in the room, hadn't heard any loud or angry voices, was looking at me, bewildered. You, the person who never wants to go home? You....want....to go home? Whaaa? I could almost see the thought bubbles forming around his head.
"Hmmm....ok, just'a sec, babe, I'm playin-"
"No. NOW. We have to go NOW." (eyebrows raised)
"OhhKAAAAY." (weird look)

I waited all the way till we got in the car to start yelling - an improvement for me, sadly. I got a half-assed, passive-aggressive 'apology' email last night, the icing on the cake. I didn't fire off an angry note in return, though- my response was carefully calculated to explain how unnacceptable the actions were, how bad the words they used about Scott made me feel, and (of course) exactly how, where, and finally, precisely which areas they could stick various body parts into if they still felt I should tolerate such behavior. Of course, I wrote bits saying, 'hey, I don't hold your behavior the other night against you forever....you're still a friend in my book" and the sign-off was firm, but friendly.

I got an email back today that said, "Wow, that was a really difficult email to read. You were right. I got it." Mission accomplished. So I have a question for you, after all this: What do you do when someone tears into your loved ones (without grounds) - do you a) keep quiet and hold a grudge against them b) lash out in high-pitched shrieks that only the neighbors' dog can hear? c) say nothing, but unleash a torrent of hateful remarks about them behind their back d) punch them and walk away e) never speak to them again or e) talk them to death or f) resolve it like a normal person.

Please vote, really - I'd love to know if I'm the only one who likes their rage served ice-cold, full of razor-sharp barbs of truth and the Jello of common sense, topped with a Cool-Whip-y serving of proposed reconcilliation.

Frontin' - An Open Letter

Open Letter to the Construction Workers that apparently now reside on my street,

Hi guys....I'm glad you've moved on from being directly in front of my house and are now just in the process of piling up giant heaps of gravel and dirt and whatever material you can locate. At least, any materials that require the use of giant, growling machinery that will most make my house appear to be coated in a fine brownish gray powder. I really appreciate your attempts at being subtle when you stomp through my yard in your size 12's.

You may not appreciate the fact that Daylight Savings was invented partially for your benefit. However, it has come to my attention that that you've lately been severely abusing the early dawns that we've been enjoying (and by "we", I mean you, me and the cats because we all have the joy of greeting the new day together, thanks to your incredibly noisy machinery). Since I work mostly out of my home, the noises you make most of the day disturb me to the point of being just barely functional for my clients. I classify it as noise pollution of the worst kind - unrelenting, unapologetic and at all the wrong times of day.

In my line of work, we are often penned in by these pesky things called "Noise ordinances". These city-enforced rules that make it so that I have to make my valued clients have to shut their weddings and parties down at ten or eleven. If I were to have my husband DJ a house party in your neighborhood and it went on till two in the morning, you would most certainly call the police. After all, according to page 6 of Appendix H of your own noise study, "noise consists of any sound that may produce physiological or psychological damage and/or interfere with communication*, work**, rest***, recreation and sleep."
*See: My missing eight out of ten calls, despite my ringer being set to "LOUD"
**See: Inability to finish an email in under twenty minutes
***See: Bags and dark circles under my eyes that make me appear to be 50 years old.
****See: I can't possibly think about entertainking because no one can find a bloody place to park on our street, due to the piles of rubble and tractors that live here now.
I don't even want to talk about sleep.

This morning was the last straw: At ten minutes till six there was a sound like a runaway train and a bone-crunching clash of gears. I hope you don't mind when we show up at your front door tonight, and every night for the next three months and put on a great mix of music that will probably delight your children and horrify your wives. Trust me,the sight of your 12 year old daughter dancing with the neighbors' kid to the new Ludacris song. If we could just keep things down to a dull roar until the (ungodly) hour of seven, I won't have to file another complaint with all of your bosses.

Women and Children first

Well, don't I feel (a bit) silly? This week, three of my favorite sites (Chookooloonks - run by the great and talented photographer/mom/lady Karen, The Naked Ovary - A very funny mom, Karen and Kristin from Debaucherous & Dishevelled) shut up shop and are now moving on to other projects. Oddly, I feel both sad and some twinges of slight embarassment about feeling sad over not being able to click on their links and 'check in' with them anymore. Naturally, I don't know these three ladies and their families (the adorable Alex, much-loved Maya Papaya and nifty Nolan were/are some of the cuter kids I've seen...ever) personally, but by sharing such a large part of their lives with the General Public, you (I?) felt a friendliness towards them. In the short time I've been reading and shorter time since I've been writing, a number of fun sites have closed, gone 'password protected' or just stopped posting.

It has come to my attention that most of these sites were, to use the vernacular, mommyblogs. Many of those that I've seen close up shop or go password protect did so after intimating that weirdo/stalker types tried to contact them/did strange things with their kids' pictures, or were just Mean and Hurtful. Note to any of those people: Get a frickin' LIFE, already. I've also noticed that for every cool, funny, fun site run by a parent, there are about....ten that make me feel like a box of Lucky Charms has thrown up in my mouth, what with their pastely tickers and preshous chilllldreennn. Throw in posts that are entirely comprised of sappy anecdotal evidence that little Susie/Johnny is the next Einstein because of their latest pooey nappy and the bright orange streaks in it. Obviously I don't a) return to their blog b) comment, either positively or negatively and I keep my opinions about their sites to myself - again - who cares what I think?

The question I have is: What is UP with people a) stealing content and trying to pass it off as their own b) harassing, stalking or tampering with a stranger(s child)? Don't they have better things to do? If these people had an ounce of creativity, they could at least attempt some sort of funny, snarky commentary on things that need to be picked on. You know, like Dubyas' public speaking skills, or the insane consumerism of America, or how desperately most of the actresses now need to eat a sandwich and lay off the crackpipes when choosing their outfits (and partners). Or my incredible run-on sentences and painfull grasp on grammar. Why must they spend time hounding someone who in all likelihood, started their site to keep in touch with friends and family or as a personal writing/journaling project? Oh look! I've found yet another reason not to have kids: Insane people posting mean notes about our family on their MySpace page.

What say you, readers? What say you?

How to Dismantle an Atomic Incubator

First of all, would you please go over to Miss Doxie's place and write her a little condolence note. She lost her doggie, Tasha, to a sudden illness and is having a rough time. Thanks. While you're there, you might also want to buy something from her store - she's got the most adorable paper products and fun dachshund-related toys. Seriously, humour me and take a look.

R.I.P. Tasha

Conversation between clueless, well-meaning person and me - Could also be titled "Why I Avoid Talking to People Unless it is absolutely Necessary"

CWMP: (tapping child-related magazine) "Child rearing. You know anything about that?"
M: "Nope." (Smile fading, gritting teeth)
CWMP: "Ahhh, c'mon, you must know something about it..."
M: "Oh, yeah, there is the one thing - 'avoid at all costs." (smile thinning, executing half-turn, but unable to totally walk away due to silly notions of respecting your elders, manners)
CWMP: "Nooooo, really? But you'd be such a good mom."
M: "Really? how d'ya figure?" (eyebrow cocked to a defcon 3 danger level)
CWMP: "Well...you know, they do have this biological clock thing, you have heard of it, right?" (tapping wrist to indicate that time is ticking, clearly my ovaries are shriveling into useless little raisinettes as we speak.... after all, I'm all of twenty-seven, better start main-lining Clomid and orange juice and avoiding tuna and soft cheeses.)
M: (thinking stinging remark, biting tongue) "Well, yes, but in our household, we combat that with plain old Common Sense and Reason." Venomous smile, full turn, exit.

Why? I'd like to point out that I do not wear mom jeans, have a "sensible" (perish the thought!) mom haircut/color, drive a mini-van, or have any interest in seeing Happy Feet or watching the Wiggles. My outfit at the time included: Four inch pointy-toed heels (black) low V neck sweater (black) and a cute gray knee-length skirt that Scott refers to as 'sexy librarian'. Also: black nail polish, smokey neutral/gray/black eye shadow and deep red lipstick. Conspicuously missing from this outfit during a rainy afternoon were an umbrella and stockings for warmth. Seriously...someone tell me, what the hell is wrong with people? As I asked Scott over a beer at Santa Barbara Brewing Company, "Do I really look like nothing more than an incubator in training?"

Foiled again!

Ways in Which to Wake Up, Part the Second:

-Cat horking into your hand.
-To find the rash has spread to your face.
-Cat horking on your bedspread.
-Anything with cat hork, really.
-Sans memory.
-With the uncomfortable realization that you will never be a (your dream profession)

Guess which one(s) happened to me today.

Dear Blogger Beta,

Yesterday I noticed that all the cute little icons and tools that I've become accustomed to using whilst writing my entries are...gone. Where, pray tell, did you hide them? Do I have to sign up for some sort of diabolical PAID service to get them back? (If so, see: TypePad) Are they living in a van, down by the river? Or perhaps, are you holding them hostage until I make up my g.d. mind about how I want this blog to look? If the answer lies deep within the muddle you call "helpful hints", please know that I will probably never again be able to add a link, picture, or other emphasis point. This will cause the last three people who read here to cast their eyes heavenward and delete me from their blogrolls.

Also: I do like the fact that I'm able to pick a new template without losing all my little tidbits. Why so few of them, though? Borrrr-ing! Alas the ease with which I'm able to do this is causing me to change the look of Chock Late every 2.5 days, mostly during screenings of the Laker games. Somebody stop me. Or better yet, give those icons back and I PROMISE, I will stay with this 'tiptoe through the tulips' look for at least a month.

Thanks for the laughs,

The Weather Outside is Frightful...

Despite the eternal (commercial) promise of holiday cheer, the opportunities that poeple say colder weather brings to gather round some great communal hearth, I find winter to be the most cold, cruel and depressing time of year. Now wait, before you say, "oh gaahhhhhd what a wanker....she lives in sunny southern California, fortheluvvapete", I spoke with my mom this afternoon. Their part of Colorado is getting a dumping of snow. The cold I speak of is more metaphorical than physical - sure, today my walk was a little nippy, but a sweatshirt and a cute hat were more than enough to deal with the chilly breeze.

After my unsuccessful post office mission, I ducked into Starbucks (damn you, Starbucks and your crack-laced peppermint hot chocolate) for a minute to get out of the chill. Mistake number one, right? Information-starved students and their friends had used up all the available real estate in the chair-rental market, a pair of elderly people were reviewing their Christmas purchases, and I had apparently not been demanding enough when I asked for real crockery, please. Finally they left, and I could stop faux-browsing amongst the coffee paraphanalia and Starbucks bloody Christmas ornaments. I sat down, both relieved and dismayed at being the only non-hipster there - not because I want to fit in, but because everyone else was so very happy to do so. My imagination flashed forward and saw this same bunch queing up to buy the Starbucks "Christmas 2026" CD/MP3/? with their bratty spawn in tow.

Thankfully Scott called me to come meet him at the grocery store before I regressed back to high school days and laced my cocoa with peppermint shnapps (hi Mom! don't worry, it was just for added flavor, I promise....you should try it sometime!). Unfortunately, the market was chock-ablock with bad Christmas music and people who could only do the following:
a) Ignore their children and discuss the merits of different cake batters, while said children repeatedly stated, "I have to go pee really bad, I'm gonna peee my paaAAAnts!"
b) loudly decry the evil margarine empire for labeling their spread, "Buttery" when lo, it is comprised of a mix that is (according to my sister) one molecule different than plastic.
c) Stare creepily at me.

Wherefore art thou, summer?

With apologies to Mrs. Hoff, the English teacher who hated me for no reason

I make absolutely no claim to be any sort of Grammar Police (see: random capitalization, irregular use of punctuation, fragmented sentences, etc). With that safely out of the way, I will say that one of my many bad points is my strong distaste for careless, sloppy speech, especially in a business or formal setting.

For example: "Also, too" and the proliferation of "business catch-phrases" such as "expedite immediately", "synergy", "phenomenal" (when over or mis-used). Bastardized abbreviations such as "lo-carb" (carb.0.hydrate. know it, learn it, love it) "lo-cal", "nite", and so forth make me grit my teeth. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, I don't speak up when I hear the english tounge being butchered, because it is generally regarded as rude to inform someone they are mangling the langauge of Shakespeare, Browning, Melville, Thoreau. I generally appreciate a bit of gentle correction, but that's just me.

Tonight, I sat in a cold hall, tried my best to concentrate, made a few Monty Python references to my husband, and in the end, couldn't take it any more. The last straw was a badly misused word (levity in place of gravity), and I made sure to take a minute to gently bring it up while making a self-deprecating remark about my failed career as an English teacher. The entire exchange took less than a minute, yet gave me pause. Why do we get so embarassed when people try and gently help us out? How many times have you seen someone's tag hanging out of their shirt, but not murmured some little hint to them, because you're afraid of their response? Undoubtedly, they didn't wish to walk around all day with their clothes in dissaray, you wouldn't bellow the fact out to the general public...what is the problem? Worse yet, how many times have I thanked someone for telling me about my unzipped fly, turned around and rolled my eyes because I was furiously embarassed? The shame, she runs deep.

So...what are your pet peeves?

Mine are:
-The Never-Ending Blinker (cough, old people, cough)
-Driving while on cell phone.
-Tag out.
-Undie string (nicknamed "teabag" by a friend of ours) hanging out.
-Black bra, white shirt (WHY? HAVE YOU NOT HEARD OF A NUDE BRA?)
-"Also, too"
-Telling me I look tired. (BECAUSE I AM TIRED, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.)
-Excessive use of all-caps, aka "yelling", lists as posts.

A curse on all their houses

Sleep deprivation. Words cannot express the depth of my ire at the insane amount of construction that has been going on outside my house for the last....forever. The bloody construction workers are supposed to start work at seven a.m. That, my friends, is too. damn. early. for anything except sleep, sleep, and oh yeah, cats running across my face. But they don't start at seven a.m.... no-no-no-no-NO...they start at A QUARTER PAST SIX. So many times I've laid in bed, cursing them, and realizing that by the time I get up, get dressed, put on my contacts and go out there, it will be five to seven. Which will make me (officially) the Mean and Crazy Neighbor Lady who pisses and moans about things that she cannot change.

Doesn't this house look like it's...winking? The pile of pipes in front of it are all about 18 inches in diameter, and really do stretch from end to end of that house. That house, by the way...is what I see if I open my curtains. (Which I no longer do, because I don't like being ogled by nasty, rude, careless construction workers.) I use the adjectives 'nasty, rude and careless' with regard to these people, not to denigrate them, but to describe them in contrast to the majority of construction workers. My father has been up on roofs, on the side of houses, etc. for almost thirty years. I'm sure that in that time he's looked appreciatively at a woman or two...but I'm equally sure that he never made any of them feel uncomfortable, violated or uneasy about entering or leaving their house.

Aside from the creepy construction workers, there is the issue of the noise. The noise (not to mention the dust that is flying through the air twenty-four dollars a day) gives me regular headaches and has done an amazing job at destroying my concentration.

There have been massive cranes and trucks and I don't know what, all going, "Beeeeeep! Beeeeeep! Beeeeep!" and dragging this crap up and down, up and down, the street. These are sewer liner tubes made of sections of concrete about ten by ten feet. The boys in this picture are just a bit shorter than me, and are about half as tall as these things. Guess what time of day they drag these things around?

Here are SOME of the times they've been carting this crap around, with the most insane racket-y noises I've ever heard.

-1 am. Yes, one in the morning. I was up.
-6 am
-8 am
-2 pm
-6 pm
-10 pm - This time I stomped outside and chewed the truck driver out. He turned off his engine with the parting salvo of, "Geez, lady, I don't know why you're so mad!" Ummmm.... can you imagine why I shouldn't be mad?

Huge scoop thingy that is parked across the street from my house, gently touched by the rays of the sun.

I took these pictures so that when I sue for facial plastic surgery to repair the bags under my eyes, I have proof of not sleeping for years on end. Mental damage, to be sure. How much do you think I could get?

The Answers

First can I say this? I love, love, love Trader Joe's black taper candles. They illuminate without drawing any attention to themselves at all. Next, I have devised a set of the Answers that I would like to have printed up on pretty, pretty paper with a cool font and borders...possibly by Joy? They should be small and tear off, about like a raffle ticket. I'd like a roll of them to carry around with me at all times. Here they are, in no particular order:

-Congratulations! You are 10, 57_th person to meddle in my personal life! See bottom for prize details.
-No Womb in Here. (Or: Not Just an Empty Womb)
-Child-Free, not Child-less.
-Maybe you can suggest how exactly we should be doing it for "optimal results".
-Accepting contributions for adoption fees. Visa or MasterCard?
-Because my heart is made of coal.
-Just as soon as you reverse your cranio-rectal inversion.
-Far too depressed over missing the deadline for bearing the 300 millionth American
-As soon as you can explain to me how exactly that is your concern.
-Far to Selfish. (Totally O.k. with that.)
-When I figure it out, you'll be the 47th one to know.
-Fertile with Ideas.
-Haven't got our parenting license in the mail yet.
-My Hips Do Lie.
-Because I broke my egg-baby in seventh grade.

Your snarky additions welcome.

Feeding Frenzy

Last Thursday, I went to the opening party of our new Sephora - I thought it'd be a good time to replenish my supply of undereye spackle and pick up some new treats. I could not have been more wrong. I rarely go to Paseo Nuevo to shop, so this could have been fun, if Christy and I had tossed back a few martinis in preparation for what awaited us.

As we walked in, the right side of my face began to pulse in rhythym to the throbbing 'mnn-tss-mnnn-tss-mnnn-tss-mnnn-tss-mnnn-tss' bass line, more worthy of a late night Saturday club scene than a gathering of mostly middle-aged women looking to brighten, tighten, conceal and enhance their looks. Sadly, the man in charge of 'rockin' the house,' looked about as excited to be DJ'ing there as Prometheus on the mountain - after he found out about the eagle. Of course, I went over to check out his sound system (for Scott - we have to see what his competition does, right?) and tried to engage him in a little professional banter. El hombre was not having any of it, and didn't even have a card with him, so I didn't stay long - I can only take so much inner-ear damage for the team, after all.

There were easily ten or fifteen women to each nervous-looking sales rep, all swooping in to sample this or that beauty product, craning their necks to peep into the cruelly magnifying mirrors (even more cruel under the harsh lights). Everyone had the same look on their face - the one that I find growing more ubiquitous by the day here, sadly.

The Look is a mixture of the strain of living here (low pay/high cost of living/still wanting to look cool because 40 is the New 30, Should I get Botox or inject my butt fat into my face, etc.) and sheer, unadulterated irritation over the fact that four batches of new and pretty 18-year-old college girls arrive here every semester. They generally swoop in with Daddy's credit card and a new car, clad as little as they can get away with, get a fake ID, and have a rather damaging effect on the self-esteem of anyone over the age of twenty-two. Fortunately, many of these girls seem to display I.Q.'s that roughly match their age, idolize Paris Hilton or those kids on The O.C., and are about as intellectually challenging as a bowl of oatmeal.

Thus are the scales (somewhat) balanced for the dating pool - but only somewhat, as there seem to be a large quantity of Chipsters of all ages that are always willing to show a new gal the town. Observing all this makes me really happy to be married, especially to a man who shares so many interests with me. Back to The Look, though - it was definitely in play, along with an interesting array of insecurities and thinly veiled efforts to look like everyone's ears werent' hurting and they weren't just there for the free shwag bag.

I found myself wishing that Mrs. Kennedy was there - she would have skewered the whole scene with her wit, taken some funny pictures, rocked Nars' saucy blush/lip gloss set, and (I imagine) made some pithy, yogi-like remark of serenity mixed with a bit of snark. Of course, had she been there, I would probably either wet myself or said something completely inane and embarrassing, so.....well, moving on, good times.

Any rate, after sniffing this and sampling that, I found myself being accosted, I mean, helped by, a lil' ole' Southern gent. He tapped my arm and twisted his lips into a quick salesman's' smile before launching into full on, Defcon-4, Dixie chick Sales mode. "Haaaaaaaaaaaa, y'all doin' o.k. here? Havin' a good tiame? Goood. Now what can ah help yew faand today?"

"Well, I was looking at this Lip and Eye Spackle, what can you tell me about that? I've got these terrible chronic dark circ-"

"Circles, yes, ah see that... Now he-are's what yew want to do...Yew can take it and just smooth a lil' bit of it heeeere.." (Sponging my undereye in a manner I would never do...i.e. rather hard, pulling on the skin, breathing Eau de Cigarette break + Tic-Tac on me)

"Uhh-huh, sounds ...good.." (waiting for touching gal-to-gal-pal makeup tip, trying not to inhale)

"And it alllso really helps to brighten that skin and haaiiide those fine lines around your eyes...." Now I believe he said something else about the lip spackle portion after this, but I seem to have missed it, because all I could hear were the words, "those fine lines around your eyes," and it seemed to have come through a g.d. megaphone. Instantly, all the patrons in my immediate vicinity were dewy-faced eighteen year old girls, searching for deep magenta eyeshadow and looking askance at the old woman in the pink T shirt. A collective shudder of horror seemed to pass through them. I murmured my thanks, swabbed on a little lip gloss, grabbed my free schwag bag and headed for the door.

Note to fruity (or otherwise) salespeople: Do Not use the phrase, "hide those fine lines around your eyes" as part of your sales pitch. You are causing the The Look to spread. Also, I will not buy things from you, because I refuse to be bullied into spending money on crap I may or may not need when I can find nice people with Good Samples elsewhere. As you were.

Additional Note of The Strange: Tonight we drove by a man having a conversation and subsequently hugging and kissing....wait for it.... a fire hydrant. As in: Dogs pee on it every day. Say no to drugs (or yes to anti-psychotics - one or the other, I can't be sure).

Why Stop Now? I'm on a Roll!

Update on Project Extra-Super-Duper Bad Throat & Flu Thing: It was strep throat - bad enough, like I said, for the doctor to utter an audible, "Ewwwwww", back quickly away while spraying anti-bacterial mist and making the strange signs at me, and toss me two prescriptions:

1. Steroids (aren't they for making things, ie Barry Bonds, larger?) to keep my throat from swelling the rest of the way shut. Yesss!

2. Penicillin. Better than moldy bread scrapings, good for all kinds of nasty stuff. Including strep throat - which... Did you know that according to Dr. Google, "Untreated, the disease can quickly lead to a more severe illness such as acute nephritis (which can damage your kidneys), meningitis, or rheumatic fever, all of which can be fatal." Meaning - I felt like I was going to die, and given a little time, the right (wrong) conditions, and some extra negligence...it could have happened. My tonsils, throat and kidneys are actually trying to kill me. Awesome!

Wait...hello? Oh, I'm sorry, you were falling asleep from my scintillating tales of throat-based woe. Here's the B section of the tale: The doc also gave me some other great news: I've got a little bump, just a little one. No, I'm not pregnant, thanks anyway. This particular little bump is located in my neck, because lucky me! My thyroid is likely acting up... again. You see, a few years back, I suddenly noticed a lot of Bad Symptoms that came up all at once, funny things like, oh, gaining a whole bunch of weight, being freezing cold, having no energy, and other yucky stuff.

There were lots of signs, that when taken individually and with the other factors in my life, weren't a big deal. Circa 2000, I was newly married, working 45-and up hour weeks, trying to occasionally make a good dinner and spend time with my new husband, switching birth control methods over and over in my endless quest to find "The One" that didn't make me feel like my mind and body were being run by evil aliens. Not surprisingly, none of these things contributed anything to make me want to say, go to the gym. I'm now quite clear on a fact: I really, truly, deeply hate the gym. Despite all programs offered, I have yet to find one that I like. Why? because I like to take my excercise outdoors, preferably by myself or with one good friend, and no one sweating on me, breathing down my neck, making me feel like a Snuffleupagus, or hitting on me.

Finally, I got myself to a nurse practicioner who cunningly sent me right over to get a blood panel and correctly pre-diagnosed me as having an underactive thyroid. This simply means a few things: My body wants to be fat, despite the excellent genes I should have inherited from both sides of my family, who are all strong, thinnish and muscular. How lovely! I should be taking medication daily, forever, just to keep from looking like a contestant on America's Biggest Loser. I haven't been taking the meds daily in a long time - At first diagnoses, I took the meds almost daily for about a year or two, and one day I thought, "Ehhhh...I feel good, even though I'm don't recognize/pretty much despise my body...maybe I should just taper off this whole medication thing..", and I did.

Sadly, I can see the future (and feel the nasty layers of flesh spreading thinly all over my body...again - perfect for summer!). I contacted an accupuncture/herbal guy to see if there were any non-pharmacutical options, and of course, there aren't. So, it'll be back to the vampires (blood draws) and pills for me before too long. Like I said, why stop now with the bad health? I'm on a roll. Arrrrgh!
___________________________________________________

• In other news: Had a lovely long walk with Christie last night - weather is still HOT!.
• This weekend starting at five -o-five pm, promises to be INSANELY busy -starting with a meeting with another vendor/knife show/wedding/more knife show.
• I just paid seventy dollars for four plants (two kangaroo paws in bright yellow-y green and two neat chocolate-brown grasses) and four bags of dirt. Dirt!

Irrefutable Evidence

1. The doctor at Urgent Care takes one look at your throat and says, "Ummm...I'm not even going to bother culturing that. Eeeeeew!" (yes, I got an "Eeeewww!" from a Real Doctor - how gross does that mean my throat is?)
2. You may prefer to spit into a small paper cup, as though you had suddenly taken up chewing tabacco, instead of swallowing.
3. Your tonsils appear to be growing towards each other, sort of the reverse of what Alaska and Japan are doing due to global warming.
   
4. Turning your entire body instead of your neck sounds perfectly reasonable.
   
5. You have the notion that all of your joints may or may not be filled with tiny fragments of glass.
6. Fever-induced dreams you've had included activities such as having a dance-off while seated and singing "Taxman" by the Beatles. (When singing in public is only slightly less mortifying than, say, peeing, in public.)
7. After forgoing solids for a couple of days, you a) give the guy at Blenders both a $20.00 and a $1.00 bill for a $6.78 purchase, realize what you're doing and b) almost tip him a $10.00 bill. Almost.
8. Cannot manage to swallow your shake from Blenders, except to down the oral steroids that the doctor prescribed after seeing your disgusting Alaska-meets-Japan tonsils and lymph nodes.
9. Dizziness forces you to sit down on a couch at the office you're subbing in for, and you stay there for an hour. Possibly asleep.
   
10. Yawning is pure, unadulterated torture that brings tears to your eyes.
    
11. Writing pointless lists like this one. My apologies.
    

Dirty Dozen

Have been working, so let's make this one quick, shall we?

Ten Things I'd Like to Say to People, but Won't:

1. Thanks for asking me such a personal question. How often do you ______________ (insert private activity here)
2. Yes, they are real. Now stop staring.
3. Gaucho pants are hideous, even on you.
4. It really hurts my feelings when you act like my opinion doesn't count because of my life choices. Shut up.
5. What I'd really like about now is a stiff drink.
6. But does the carpet match the drapes?
7. No really, I don't have any money to give you. Get a job.
8. Your kid(s) aren't special, they are spoiled brats with an absurd sense of entitlement.
9. Really, I'd be a completely unfit mother... like Britney without the Manny.
10. I AM NOW GOING TO REMOVE YOUR VOICEBOX, because you asked me THE QUESTION ONE LAST TIME.

Special Meme thanks to WordNerd at

Do I Have to Call it a Blog?

Thing Number 11: (Proof that Thing Number 9 is indeed, correct): Fynn just spent about fifteen minutes staring at me and doing his extra-worried, "Wwooowwwww? Brrrrrrrthhhrrrrrr?" chirpy noises. I ignored him for a while, got up and made sure he had food, and scooped him onto my lap to pet him because usually he's just reminding me that he is indeed, He Who Ruleth Casa de Meepers, and demands are not being met at an adequate pace. I finally got up and followed him, expecting to be taken to our front door and given the big eyes look. Instead, he sat down in front of our hallway linen closet, which has three large drawers below it. Edie had managed to climb into one of them and get herself trapped inside. Good thing I have Fynn, the Wondercat to tell me how to take care of my other pets, isn't it?

12. Have I told you I've got tadpoles? Tadpoles that are turning into tiny, adorable frogs? Tiny frogs that appear to be disappearing out of the terrarium by magic? Either Edie has frogling-breath, or those my house is going to be a scene out of the Ten Commandments pretty soon.

Rrrrrrribbbit!

I Heart Craig and his List

Spacious studio, five minutes from downtown and easy walking distance to De La Vina shops and eateries such as The Daily Grind and Cajun Kitchen. Amenities include high ceilings, skylight, huge walk-in closet, large bathroom, unique Murphy bed, full kitchen and lots of storage space. Basic cable, water, power, trash, free access to laundry facilities and off-street parking included. Only a wireless card is needed for access to high-speed Internet - seperate entry and a nice neighborhood make this perfect for a single professional or someone who works from home. No smoking, no drugs please. Well-mannered cat considered. Please call (our information) 10 am - midnight for a showing.

We're renting our studio out right now ... as you may have gathered. This happens from time to time, and is always a bit of a tetchy (yes, I said, tetchy, not touchy) issue for the both of us - after all, we're always hoping to find that perfect person that will stay for a long time, not nag us with a bunch of weird requests, park in the right spot and keep the place reasonably hygenic...oh and also, pay the rent. That bit is crucial, you know? Any rate, through the miracles of Craigslist and a good old-fashioned sign, I've had a good number of people call me (or me, then Scott, then me again, leaving increasingly frantic messages on both our services) in the last couple of days.

See the bolded part of my ad, up yonder? The part where it says "Please call from 10 am to midnight"? By my calculations, that is 14 out of 24 hours in which folks are welcome to call me. Let me ask you something, now... If you were to read that ad, when would you call it, if you were hoping to speak with someone about renting a place? What time would you choose to pick up the phone and call? Please let me know, seriously.

Because I've been getting phone calls since seven flippin' a.m. I realize that is not exactly the crack of dawn, yes, yes I do. But why? why? Why must I three messages from someone who I can't quite make out the name of, before nine in the morning? Why is it when I call the individuals who so desperately wanted to speak with me before, I get an answering machine that says "If uuu reeeave us a 'esssage, wee 'ill callll youuu baaaaaaaaaaa, sa taaa daa baa ba gok daa baaaa!" in a high, childish voice that sounds just a little bit demented. Why? The following is a collection of my most interesting (colorful?) applicants over the years.

• The six-foot-tall gent with blue-painted toenails and told us about his fascinating employment in the adult industry.
  
• The man and his very-pregnant girlfriend who tried to offer us an extra seven hundred dollars (totally illegal, and we'd never do that by the way)
  
• The music teacher who tried to tell us about how she communes with Gaia via her muuuusic.
• The people (there have been a few) who clearly reeked of cigarette smoke, but told us they weren't smokers.
• The older lady who quizzed us brusquely for twenty minutes on what we do, what our plans are, what hours we keep, sharply informed us that she would not be tolerant of our noise, and then finished off by saying that she thought it was "too small for her cats."
• Nice guy with two Boxers. Ummm.... this is an apartment. With no yard. Where, pray tell, would the Boxers, go?
  
• Man who wanted to convert us over to being vegans and gave us an extensive health history. Gah!

So you see, campers, what fun it is to be the landlord. Call me Mrs. Kravitz, but come on now! Oh, and a special note to "Elaine" - I'm totally not calling you back, based solely on the number of messages you left me previous to nine am. Sorry, dear, but you're just to high-maintenence already. See ya!

An Open Letter, to the Haves

Dear Parents of Children*,

First, a sincere thank you for doing your part (even you, Duggar family) to keep the human species around, share the light, laughter and love that is family life with all of us, and for the many great mommy and daddy blogs you've inspired. Really, there can't be enough of people like Jen from jenex (step-mom, adoptive and now pregnant and blogging the whole thing...crazy-cool!). Plus, someone has to tell the funny poop stories.
*As opposed to those who parent animals, plants or possibly lumps of clay.

Next: The fact that you have kids does not mean you get to "settle" any and all "discussions" we may have by the cunning and over-simplistic phrase, "You don't understand because you don't have children!" This is the kind of arguing tactic I refer to, poetically, as caca de toro.
Frankly, it is along the exact same lines as if I were to say, "Well, you don't understand my feelings because you don't have a third arm. As a tactic, it falls right along the lines of sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming, "la-la-la-la-laaa!". Please Shut Up and develop another line of actual reasoning, asap.

That is all.
_________________________________________________________________
A-hem. Anyone? Anyone? As you may have noticed, I was a wee bit irritated yesterday, because I've recently had a rather heated hour-long conversation with someone who used the "U.R.Barren/of all valid opinions" bit on me. Unfortunately, this was someone who I completely allow(ed) to get way deep in under my skin, and there is no way I can avoid having similar talks with in future. Grrr!!

Unintended

I had a dream... no, not that kind, the sort where you wake up and wonder, "hmmmm... should I call (person in the dream). Normally when someone says this, I'm in the back row, rolling my eyes and snickering - so if you're of that sort, please, fill out the shoe poll from yesterday. Or better, yet, someone please tell me what the hell does a persons' geographical origin have to do with it being IN ANY WAY ACCEPTABLE for them to BACK INTO MY CAR and NOT EVEN APOLOGIZE?

No, no - my dream started with Scott and I hanging out at our friends' house, talking about our upcoming home projects, music and our various pets over drinks and dinner like always. I kept noticing Chiada jumping up and down and going to their guest bedroom, but didn't think anything about it. We started talking about them adding on to part of their house and she commented rather off-handedly, "Yeah, since we really need the room now with the baby and all.."

I stared at her in shock and gasped, "Whaaat are you talking about?"

She replied, "Oh, didn't I tell you? I was pregnant but I didn't know it - we had a little girl a couple of weeks ago - we're still in a bit of shock, actually, sorry for not calling you." She scooped up her little girl, who was sleeping in the middle of a pillow barricade in their guest bedroom, and showed her to me.

"How did you not know?" I asked - and she gave me this whole story (I won't go into details, but suffice it to say: completely plausible) about her surprise baby and how she'd gone to the ER for what she thought were back spasms and presto! A tiny, pink-lipped little peach of a girl. She wasn't quite sure if the baby, whom they hadn't named yet, had been born early, but she was perfect and healthy, so the hospital had let them take her home. They hadn't had any time to process the whole thing, buy baby stuff or clothes, or anything but the bare necessities yet.

Scott and I looked back and forth at them and each other and the little bundle in shock, and I said, 'you guys are going to be great parents, even though you weren't ready- don't worry, I'm going to throw together the Mother of all baby showers for you!'. We went home and I started calling every mom I know (lots of 'em - most of our friends, in fact) for their nice, but out-grown baby stuff. My dreams are usually pretty realistic and detailed, this is, in fact, exactly what I would do in real life - so that bit wasn't surprising.

So why bother to tell this story? I don't know - maybe because within this week, I've had several dreams that have come true, or because every time I get a feeling about something I should or shouldn't do and ignore it, it comes back and bites me in the booty. Who knows?

More about yesterday and its' random events later!

Beam Me Up, Scotty! (A rant to end all rants)

Gaaaaah! If I don't grow an ulcer this week, it will be a bloody miracle. Since I was a child, I've always held radically different ideas, interests and opinions (and not just for the sake of being difficult, I swear) from my family. My aunt and I have always joked that she'd swear I am her child, but for the fact that she watched me come into this world. The fact is that in twenty-mrrmmmrph years of life, I haven't been able to learn how best to deal with my parents. Each time they come out, hope springs eternal that one of the following will happen:

a) S. and I will morph into an early-risin', backpackin', health-food eatin' (g-dropping) folks who enjoy long uphill treks, snowshoes, and bathing in ice water with biodegradable all-purpose soap when possible.
b) They will suddenly begin to appreciate the subtle charms of visiting a museum (instead of tramping around outside, complaining about the fog) having a two-hour dinner with four people or less, or become open to the possibility of taking a family vacation to somewhere that is not. America. Without friends, or pre-conceived notions gleaned from Who-Knows-Where. With plaaaans, people, plans!*
c) the Mothership will beam me (them?) up and explain that we were all just an extensive sociology experiment, and returns us to our origins.
d) They will start hearing something other than, "blaah, blah, blah" when I talk.

*Plans: Deciding to take an action or do an activity more than ten minutes prior to said action. Plans for activities often do not involve depending entirely on the phase of the moon or wether the sun is out.

Thus far in the week, I've thanked the heavens above many a time for the following:

• When we visited them in January, we flew. Seventeen hours in the car is pretty much intolerable.
• Wine, especially Babcock Petit Syrah; the fact that in California you don't have to go to another store to purchase it.
  
• No kids in the family which means my mother will have to barely conceal her joy over other people's struggles with their kids. Plus she will not get to endlessly dramatize stories of how horrible I was as a baby/toddler/kid/teenager to my children for the next thirty years.
• Wentworth Miller (eyes, lips)from Prison Break .
• The fact that S. allows me to endlessly ogle and critique wee lads like Wentworth Miller without too much censure, in his direct earshot.
  
• Due to item #3, we will never be required to spend seventeen hours in the car with tiny tots or trek through the Denver Airport during major holiday-type times of year.
  
• Phone calls to/from my sister that reassure me that they are indeed, difficult.
• Summer Roundup is only a little over a month away. (Santa Barbara Bowl with : The Strokes, Yellowcard, Panic! At The Disco, Franz Ferdinand, She Wants Revenge, Hard-Fi.)
  
• My husband and his infinite capacity for warm snuggling. Beam me up Scotty, indeed. (Yes, I've just "outed" him for the second time in a week.)

UPDATED TO ADD:

I've totally just been admonished that it would be entirely too much to "do the whole dinner scene..." (huge dramatic pause, as though having a nice dinner... on me, by the way, would be entirely too much to ask.) I don't ask for much, people.. but apparently the thought of having dinner with Scotty and I and no one else... is far to torturous. Again.. Beam me up Scotty!

Cracked Up

I may have spoke just a moment too soon about the wonder of "item #6 bit. As if turns out, that first feeling of tightness after my peel has now been replaced with this feeling that if I open my mouth, my entire face will flake off. With the exception of a single pinky-brown evening in Australia one time, I've never really had a sunburn (thanks, Mom!) but I'm imagining this feeling is pretty much like this.

You may have noticed a sudden drop in my photo postings - I was all set to do another photo-essay when I noticed that I could not find my dear, darling little Ruby (yes, the camera is called Ruby). Anywhere. I've spent the better part of today ripping my closets, garage, other closets, truck, etc to bits. All I have to show for this is an incredible amount of crap all over the place and the beginnings of an anxiety attack. Ruby was brand-flippin'-new, S. bought her for us, for my work, for everything. The memory card was in her, so all the pictures are missing with her. This is not the end of the world, but I am seriously BUMMED!

Arrrrggggghh!!!

Reality? Bites!

So... I was shopping the other day (shut up, it was for work, people, work!) with some clients (see... my clever use of the word "clients" subtly denotes the fact I was in fact, working and not just screwing around downtown!).

True story - part of my job includes selecting various items (ie dresses, invitations, linens, etc) with my clients. So shopping is part of the deal for me - the irony of which does not escape me. Why is it ironic, you ask? Because the only shopping I do for myself is: shoes, underwear and the occasional tank top or dress (provided such are under $40). Darling S. is one of a series of blokes that I've dated that were so much, much more fashion-concious than I'll ever be. At times, it's been a bit embarassing. Put it this way: of the last six or eight pairs of pants that I have, he's bought ... five to seven of them. It's not that I am unable to pick

clothes I like

and I'm not truly likely to end up wearing anything like

Dukay's pants

or the like (no offense to Dukay here but SCROLL DOWN, you'll see)... but if you were married to someone who came home with cute jeans for you on a semi-regular basis - would you rock the boat? Yeeaah! I thought not!

Moving on - let me just say the clients I was shopping with were a baby, his mom and her mother, a nice tri-generational bunch, plus me. We tooled around a bit, before we stopped for chai and cookies at Pierre's (Two words here: Farm . Cake. Share, they are huge!). Since it was a sunny day and all of our limbs were working, we ventured into the wilds of Macy's to see if we could find a formal dress for Nana. I say Nana because she does not look at all like a "Grandma" type. Now let me say: My previous expeditions to Macy's (Scroll down to the bottom of "Dirty Pretty Things") have not been completely successful, but I'm nothing if not an optimist.

I should have known better. The four of us wandered around for a bit, and then I decided to ask where we could find womens' formal dresses - a reasonable query in a department store, I thought. Nana (again: very young looking) was holding little "Short Round", as I call him. "Hi, we're looking for your ladies' formal gowns...where would those be?" I asked the sixteen-year old sales girl.

"Oh! What for?" she chirped.

"We need a mother of the bride dress," I replied, nodding towards Nana, who was dealing with the baby at the moment.

"Congratulations! Wow! You look so young! Well, we don't really have a formal-wear section here, but you could look around and see if you find anything you like..." (she was still addressing me at this point, folks. Me. As though I was the Mother. of. the. flippin'. bride?)

"Ah-ahemmm....No, nononono, its notforme," I said, feeling something halfway between a huge roar of laughter and a primal scream of "Ohh gaaaaahd! Where is the nearest Botox station located?," bubbling up inside my sternum like so much acid reflux. I stood and watched as the slow, gradual realization of the fact that Lil' Miss Macy's had just mistakenly referred to me as the mother of the bloody bride dawned on her face.

"Ohmygosh! I'm sorry! Well, you do look really young to be the mother of the bride..." L.M.M. replied, doing a ditzy backpedal. She kept staring at the three of us, looking as though I'd just given her a trigonometry problem in Latin.

"I'm twenty-six.... I am really young, this is our lovely mother of the bride," I smiled back, hoping that neither tears nor flaming daggers were shooting out of my eyes. She widened her eyes as though I'd given her the answer to the problem, and the real backpedaling started.

"Ooohhhh, I'm. so. sorry! Ohmygod, I'm so, so sorry!" - she squealed, not realizing her profound apologies had now just insulted Nana by default. I could tell she was waiting for me to be REALLY. REALLY. ANGRY. (Nana and her daughter are already starting to giggle.)

"That's ok, now if you could just direct me to the firming eye cream department...," I snarked back with my best sweet smile. The three of us dissolved into the kind of laughter I usually try and save for happy hour or Eddie Izzard.

The question still lurks though... Do I seriously look old enough to be THE MOTHER OF THE BRIDE? Please, click to enlarge both of these pictures and give me your eye-cream suggestions.