lazy writer

Claiming my blog

2008-05-23T18:56:00.000-05:00

I kind of miss the Nazi's?

2008-05-22T15:10:00.006-05:00

Keep your hair on, I don't mean it that way. Warning, warning, warning! If you haven't seen the new Indiana Jones movie, don't read any more. Spoilers ahead. You've been warned.

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You have chosen.....wisely. So today I escaped work (haha!!!) and went to see the 10am showing of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. That's right, 10am. There were about 50 other people there! Can you believe it? It felt so naughty. Yet so right. :)

I was 15 or 16 when the last Indiana Jones movie came out. WHY has it been so long? Man, I love me some Indiana Jones. Not in the way my mom does; she's got it bad for Harrison Ford, but as he's older than my dad (which seriously boggles my mind), I think it would be kind of creepy if I had the hots for him. Though I do have to say, he's aged well and Calista Flockhart is a lucky, lucky woman.
The reason I love Indiana Jones is because I love adventure. Not the Die Hard let's blow everything up adventure, but the swashbuckling, using history to solve riddles, swinging on a vine (or a whip) kind of adventure. Indiana Jones is the perfect action ADVENTURE hero. Blowing crap up and shooting people to add gratuitous violence is not adventure. Being chased through a tomb by half naked natives with spears or blow darts is adventure.

When I first learned there was going to be a new movie (and it wasn't just a rumor like the ones we've gotten the last 19 years) I was over the moon. Of course I knew Indy would be older and that is would likely be different from the original movies, but it never occured to me that there would be different villains. Yes, I know the villians in Temple of Doom weren't Nazi's (though the Chinese gangsters were pretty cool), and IMO it was the weekest of the 3 because of it. I have to give big props to Cate Blanchette on her Boris and Natasha Russian accent, but it just wasn't the same. Who knew the Ruskie's wouldn't be as interesting as the Nazi's? I actually foud myself missing the Nazi's. They were bad guys with style and a purpose. The Russians....not so much. It was just too...blah. Yeah, that's the word. Blah. Sure there were explosions and escapes and icky creatures and threats, but they just lacked the charisma the Nazi's had. Sad, isn't it?

A person who did NOT lack charisma was Harrison Ford. He brought Indy back with style. His smirk was there, as were the whip, the khaki shirt (sweat stained of course), the man bag and of coursethe Fedora. Also some kick ass moves. Damn. I lurve me some Harrison Ford. I mean Indiana Jones. Yeah, Indiana Jones. That's it. It was so awesome to see him back in the Fedora.

Karen Allen was back too! Yea! Marion! I love her! Not in that way. Shia LaBoef was pretty good with his James Dean-esque hat, motorcycle and 'tude. Indy, Marion and Mutt! Awesome! If you don't know where that storyline is heading, you do not need to see this movie. You need to rent Goonies and get a Baby Ruth because you're not ready for Indy.

All in all, I really loved this movie, because it was Indi-freaking-ana Jones, but found myself longing for the Nazi's and all their style and badass bad guyness. Ruskies? What did they do? Stare at us and make some big threats that they couldn't follow through on. I mean really, what kind of villain is that?

Dum, da, dum, dum. Da da dum. Dum, da, dum, dum, dum, da, dum, dum, dum.......

I feel the earth move

2008-04-18T21:19:00.004-05:00

At about 4:38 am I bolted straight up in my bed. My dogs started barking and everything was shaking. My first thought was that the bad weather we were supposed to get later on Friday had moved in earlier than expected and there was a tornado near. I jumped up and nearly toppled over because the floor was shaking. Huh? Did I suddenly wake up on a boat on rought seas? I got to the window, looked out and all was clear. No rain, no wind, no tornado. What the hell was going on? I staggered towards the bedroom door to get to my son, and the minute I set foot in the living room, the shaking stopped. I checked on my son, who was still sound asleep and then looked back outside. Still calm, still clear, still no tornado. Weird. I went back to bed wondering if maybe I had dreamed it all. Had I been having a bad dream? Did some weird dream carry over to my waking moments? I was so confused. Did I somehow get drunk and not know it? No, I didn't even have a glass of wine with dinner. The only thing I had indulged in was half a sleeve of Thin Mint cookies while I watched The Office. Mmmmm, Thin Mints. I love Thin Mints. So chocolatey-minty delicious. Mmmmmm....Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, I had eaten cookies. Were they spiked? You can't trust those Girl Scouts. They only have those cookies once a year. What do they put in them to make people start salivating at the mere mention of Thin Mints or Tag Alongs? Are they drugging us? Had I eaten too many, od'd and had some weird hallucenations? Effing Girl Scouts. I laid in my bed staring at the clock and trying to figure out what had happened and how I would take my revenge on those sneaky GS bitches. I remember seeing 5:56am and then I must have fallen asleep because my alarm woke me up at 6:30. I was soooooo tired and still a bit disoriented. I followed my usual morning routine where I open the shades, turn on the living room light and then the news. Imagine my surprise when I hear them talking about a rare mid-west earthquake that struck at 4:37 am 115 miles from where I live. WHAT? I literally stood stock still. I had been in an earthquake! Holy crap! There was mild damage all over the area, including cracked walls, foundations, broken windows, pictures and a few chunks of concrete that had fallen from an overpass. Weird.
I got my son up and took him to school, where the talk on the radio and around the school parking lot was all about the quake. My meeting for the day had been cancelled due to inclement weather to the north of us (I was supposed to count trees-funity, fun, fun, fun!) so I came home and watched a bit more of the news, then decided to lay back down for a while since I had had little sleep. I stretched out on the sofa, one dog curled up against me, the other sleeping on the floor right next to us. I closed my eyes and felt a soft shaking. I looked down at the dog on the floor to admonish him for scratching and shaking the sofa (this happens quite a lot actually) but realized he was sound asleep. The shaking continued and the water bottle on the coffee table suddenly toppled over. Aftershock! Both dogs woke up and were suddenly on top of me. The shaking went on and I could hear things rattling in the cabinets and 2 pictures come crashing down in my bedroom. My mind told me to cover my head (there is a sizable black and white photo of Paris hanging above the sofa and as much as I love Paris, I did not want to be knocked unconscious by it) or get to a door jam, but I had 2 *slightly* overweight dogs literally on my chest and by the time I got them off, the shaking was calming down and then came to a stop. I flipped on the TV and the news anchors were talking about it. Who knew earthquakes could cause such a shake up on the news? See what I did there? That's right, I'm funny. Get used to it.
The rest of the day I waited for more aftershocks and was not disappointed. There were 3 more that I could feel and each time I had to fight to keep from being smothered by about 40 pounds of chicken shit dogs. Oddly, each of these tremors happened while I tried to catch up on some sleep. It was a conspiracy! Someone was out to keep me from getting the rest I so desperately needed. Damn it earth, what did I do to you? I don't litter! I don't smoke! I recycle! Let me sleep!
Another negative side effect is that all damn day I've been singing that song: I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down....Stupid earthquake.

Happy birthday to me!

2008-03-26T21:35:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year! Oh, wait, it's March isn't it? Crap, bit late on that. Sorry. It's been a busy couple of months. Okay, not really, I've just been lazy. Did you read the name of my blog? Well, then you shouldn't be surprised. Actually, quite a lot has happened. My job got all kinds of crazy; well, crazier than before, my beloved Elsa von Nordland had some serious problems and I had to trade her in for a newer model (ain't that always the way?), a distant cousin I've christened Ulrika von Nordland, ds got sick (I so don't do vomit), one of my dogs got really sick (she's better now though, thanks for asking), and I developed a penchant for stapling fabric to the tops of my windows and apotocary jars thanks to The Nesting Place. Seriously, it's become something of an addiction. I'm sick with it and find myself scouring fabric stores in my spare time or looking for the perfect jar. So, that pretty much catches you up since my holiday in the cardiac ward. What's new with you?

Tonight I sit here, on the eve of my 35th b-day (funy note: I actually typed 25th. Do you think there's such a thing as a Freudian typo?) watching a Tivo episode of The Celebrity Apprentice (don't judge me), typing on my blog and eating and organic apple. I'm a wild woman! Hold me back. I might get some caramel dipping sauce for the apple! Woooooooooooo.
I've gotten a bunch of b-day cars (including one from the car dealership where Ulrika came from) and some pre-emptive emails asking hos I feel about turning 35. My answer: meh. I mean, really, I make 35 look good. You've seen me, I'm a hottie. I'm also incredibly humble, but that's really my only fault. It's my cross, but I bear it. So, tomorrow, if you happen to have a glass of wine in your hand (and really, why wouldn't you? I know I will.) hoist it up and drink to my big 35. Happy birthday to me!

Christmas on the Cardio Ward

2007-12-27T09:53:00.001-06:00

Ho ho ho and happy belated holidays my faithful readers. I hope you all had a Currier and Ives day. Sadly, I did not. Oh, no, I did not. Why you ask? Well, sit back and let me tell you. Christmas Eve started out quite well with a trip to the mall, just for fun. No presents needed to be bought, but hey, why not go watch other people scramble? After an hour of two wanering around the mall, we headed home and hung out for a while, before having a lovely dinner of steamed crabs, baked potatoes and salad. After dinner it was time for the wee one to go to bed (visions of a bug vacuum he desperately wanted from Santa dancing in his head), and then we watched the greatest Christmas movie of all time, Holiday Inn, while drinking hot chocolate. Doesn't that sound lovely and stress free? Well, it was. Santa came by, ate a few cookies, drank his milk, left some presents and filled the stockings (with a bit of help) and it was off to bed. Ah, nice relaxing Christmas. Wrong! Around 10 to midnight I woke up in agony. Ag-ony. My chest felt like it was in a vise grip. I assumed it was heartburn (though I never suffer from it, and had eaten nothing that would cause it), so I took some Pepcid and waited for it to go away. It did not. I argued against going to the hospital, as I knew I would miss Christmas morning, so I dealt with it in semi-silence (there was a bit of moaning and groaning I have to admit). I couldn't lay down because it got worse, so I sat up on the sofa until I finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. We opened presents around 8 am, which was everything I thought it would be, and Santa, that crafty old elf, did indeed bring the much coveted bug vacuum eliciting squeels of delight and striking terror in the heart of bugs everywhere. After presents, I decided I could deal with the pain no longer and carted myself off to the ER, where I was immediately wisked to the back ahead of several people who loked like they had been there quite a while. Suck on that broken-arm-while-trying-to-do-stupid-tricks-on my-new-skateboard-kid. I was given an EKG (good), hooked up to a million machines, poked proded, stabbed with many needles and made to drink horrible, horrible concoctions that no one should ever have to taste. I was exhibiting all the symptoms of a heart attack. What? I'm 34, I eat well, work out regularly and have none of the risks, but there I was, attached to monitor, in dreadful pain and apparently having a heart attack. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la.-la-la. Around noon they decided to do an MRI and inject dye into my IV. Guess what? Turns out I'm allergic to the CT dye and almost instantly broke out into hives. Fun! This lead to a shot of Benadryl that knocked me out and was the first time in hours I felt no pain. God bless the makes of Benadryl. I awoke from my drug induced stupor to be given nitro glycerin pills and blood thinning shots in the stomach. Ouch! This was not the Christmas I'd planed, let me tell you. It was then decided that while my heart seemed to be fine, they wanted to keep me. In the hostpital. In the cardio ward. I was so not happy, but what was I going to do? They wheeled me up to the third floor where I was easily the youngest person on the ward by a good 30-40 years. In fact, my roommate had 58 years on me. That right, I spent Christmas with a 92 year old, who, just in case you were curious, was incredibly flatulent. God Bless us everyone! They took me out for a while to do some more tests and I was being wheeled down the hall, I could feel the eyes of the other patients whose rooms we passes boring into me. I imagined they were wondering if my heart was bad, and how they might get hold of it to replace their failing tickers. I hugged my blankets protectively over my chest and trid to look sicker than I already was. Once back to the relative safety of my room, I kept my eye on the door and the nurse buzzer in my hand, just in case they decided to hobble to my room zombie like to check out my heart. I got almost no sleep, as the nurses kept coming in every hour to check my stats (my bp was crazy low-68/40) and every 2 hours to take blood. Plus, I had to keep my eyes out for the other patients. They can be surprisingly crafty at getting those heart monitors wheeled down the hall and I was taking no chances. They might have stashed a butter knife from the oh so delicious (and sodium free) Christmas dinner and attempt to crack my chest open with it. Trust no one!
So, after a night of no sleep, more medications than I probablytaken in the past year and enough needle sticks to make me look like a junkie, it was concluded that I had something called chostochondritues. What, not up on your obscure chest ailments? Let me put it in lay terms for you: it's an inflamation of the sternum and cartilidge that connects to the ribs. It mimicks the syptoms of heart attacks and can only be diagnosed after ruling out everything else. Also, it hurts like a beeyotch. I was given some (more) anti-inflamatories, some happy pain meds (now we're talking) and discharged. We had Christmas dinner a day late, but still, I was with my family and friends and with the exception of not being able to drink any alchohol (something about not mixing alchohol and pills, but hey, celebs do it all the time, and look how well it works for them) it was lovely. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday! Bring on New Year!

Mamma's gotta eat!

2007-12-05T13:20:00.001-06:00

When "that time of the month" rolls around I eat. And eat. And eat. I'm crazy with the eating. Stand still too long and I might eat you. I'm normally a very conservative and health conscious eater, but for about 4 days every month that all goes out the window. Screw you healthy eating! I'm a woman on a mission! Cookies? Yes. Candy? Please. Cake? 2 slices. Chips? Leave the bag. After the 3-4 day eating binge, I lay on the sofa, partially hydroginized oils seeping from my pores, and realize I have to stop and get back to the gym. God I hate that last day. The upset stomach, the extra weigh, not being able to look at food without wanting to vomit. Fun!

This is all bad enough, but about 2-3 times a year it gets realy bad. I mean like crazy bad. To the point where I get obsessed with 1 or 2 specific foods and must have them. Things I normally wouldn't eat in any large quantity or things I wouldn't eat at all. The last time this happened was shortly before Shrek the third came out we were ramping up by watching the DVD's of Shrek 1 and 2. In Shrek 1, in case you've been living under a rock and don't know, Donkey invites himself to stay with Shrek and utters the line "And in the morning, I'm making waffles!" That line sparked my hormones and I became obsessed with waffles and pancakes. I like both, but really only eat them about 3-4 times a year as a rule. I like pancakes, but they sit in my stomach like a lump of lead afterwards rendering me completely useless until they've digested. That's a great excuse to get out of things, BTW. "Sorry, I can't help you move. I ate a short stack this morning and have to let them digest before I do anything. I'll just be on your sofa watching TV in the mean time." Try it. People are so astonished that you can really get away with it.

Anyway, waffles and pancakes were on my mind all the time and on my plate at least twice a day for 4 days. It was truly horrible. I still can't look at Mrs. Butterworth. After my carb and sugar filled binge I don't think I ate another pancake or waffle for about 4 months. All that syrup can mess with your head. It's strong stuff, man, strong stuff.

This month, when my good old friend "Aunt Flo" rolled around (that is a totally stupid name, BTW) I got the crazies again. Well, I kind of always have the crazies, but you know what I mean. What was the object of my obsession this time you wonder? I'm embarassed to admit it, but for you I will bear the humiliation: Easy cheese. Oh, you read it right, cheese in a can. I've sunk low. Real low. Cheese in a can is something that has never, not even once been in my shopping cart, but I was in the store and walked passed it on the cracker aisle and suddenly I had to have it. I swear I was like a Southerner staring down collard greens. The pull of the aerosol cheese was too strong to resist. I covertly looked around to see if anyone was watching and grabbed a can (Cheddar) and tossed it in the cart and threw a box of Ritz on top of it. I raced to the self check out (no cashier will be looking down on me while I buy my ooey goodness in a can), paid and dashed home hugging my bag to my chest like it contained treasure. At home, I opened a pack of Ritz (truly the greatest cracker ever) and squirted out my cheese in a nice little star pattern. I was so excited it was almost comical. Cheese in a star shape! How freaking awesome is that? I placed the cracker in my mouth and sweet heaven was it awful. I mean awful. Not even the Ritz could cover the horror that was assaulting my poor taste buds. It was like eating a musty gym sock. Yum! You'd think I'd stop there, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you? Of course you would, because who in their right mind would eat squishy cheese that tastes like a gym sock? Oh, let's not forget, I was NOT in my right mind. My mind had been taken over by the crazies. I had to have more. Can you believe it? Me neither, but there you have it. I sat down and at an entire sleever of Ritz, all covered in that repulsive oddly orange squishy cheese. Yes. I. Did. Even as I was doing it, I knew it was wrong, wrong, wrong, yet I could not stop. Mercifully, I was drawn into this bubbling vat of hormones, for only 2 days when I finally broke free of its malovolent grip and came back to reality. I hung my head in shame and threw away the evidence of my 2 day spiral into the depths of darkness and self destruction. I still have trouble wrapping my head around that fact that I actually ate almost an entire can-o-cheese. I have no idea what demon posses me every few months, but when it does, there is no denying the beast. Sadly, all I can do is wait around and pray that next time it doesn't come in the form of an urge for dirt or shredded tires or pickled eggs.

Sucidal Christmas

2007-11-27T20:49:00.000-06:00

Ah, the holidays. Somehow they crept up on me and once again I'm suddenly wondering why there are lights up and Santas at every corner. Didn't we just have 4th of July like last week? How is it almost Christmas already? I am entirely done with my Christmas shopping, so I guess it's not THAT big of a surprise, but still it seems far too early. Maybe because stores start shoving Christmas down our throats in early October and we're all really numb to it by the time the actual holiday rolls around that when it's actually the real holiday time, we just don't care anymore. In every town there is always one radio station that plays 24 hour Christmas songs starting around November first. I boycott this station with a fervor generally reserved for the STL Cardinals or the White Sox. There are only so many Christmas songs (even if every Tom, Dick and Mariah do a version) and really, how long can you listen to them over and over and over before you get a little nuts? As we are now less than a month away from Christmas I decided I could lift the boycott and hear a few holly jolly songs. I punched the stations pre-programmed button and out came the warbling notes of Judy Garland, followed by Bing Crosby and that upbeat Melekeleki Maka. I love you Bing! Anyway, I'm cruising along, feeling merry and bright, smiling at bundled up passers-by and enjoying the twinkling lights when one of those sad sack holiday songs came on. Boy, nothing will bring you down like a sad Christmas song. We're not talking Elvis' "Blue Christrmas" here, because at least that has a fairly peppy tune, but have you ever heard "Christmas Shoes?" If not, it's about a boy who wants to buy his dying mother a pair of shoes for Christmas but doesn't have the money. Yeah, yeah, it's a sweet sentiment: poor boy, dying mom, Christmas miracle, blah, blah, blah, but come on! It makes me want to slit my wrists. Why do people write sad Christmas songs? Is there any wonder that the suicide rate goes up around the holidays? I don't know that that's true, but I heard it or read it somewhere and it sounds about right, so I'm saying it. Prove me wrong children, prove me wrong.
After the sad song, my Christmas spirit plummeted and I thought about looking for another kind of spirit. I do not condone drinking and driving though, so I had to nix it and hope that something upbeat would come on to bring back that Christmas-y feeling, but no, no. Christmas Shoes was followed by Toby Keith's "I'm right here" which again, wrist slitting urges. Good grief (Charlie Brown), what's up with all that? Holiday songs should be about snow and family and Santa and Jesus and stuff, not sad little kids and their dying moms or kids in a homeless shelter hoping Santa will find them. Yes, I do realize this stuff is reality for many people, but holiday songs are supposed to bring you up and make you feel the spirit of the season, not drag you down into the depths of sorrow and dispair. The next time a sad song comes on, I'm going to turn it off and start singing something silly like "I want a hippopatamous" or "Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey" and keep myself happy and bright. Boo on sad sack Christmas songs!

Oh, I want a hippopatamous for Christmas! Only a hippopatamous will do! I don't like crocodiles or rinososauruseses, I only like hippopatamouseses. And hippopatamouses like me too!

The only sad holiday song that gets a pass for me is Same Auld Lang Syne by Dan Fogleberg. I know it's supposed to be a sad song about regrets and what might have been and what not, but it always makes me smile and think about the boys in my past and what would happen if I ran into one of them at the grocery store.

8 pounds!

2007-11-12T20:11:00.000-06:00

I've worked hard to keep myself in shape (and no, not round though I agree that is indeed a shape, just not one I'd like to be). I've spent countless hours in the gym and deprived myself of thousands of delicious calories. It sucks. Sucks with a capital Su. I'm actually thinner and in much better shape than I was in the picture that's just to the right here (she has chubby arms). In the past 2 1/2 months I've fallen off the workout wagon. I got sick a couple of times and just couldn't get back into the whole gym dedication thing again. Also, my aunt sent me about a pound of the most deliciously evil fudge you could ever imagine. She manages to take the recipe that's on the back of every jar of marshmallow fluff and turn it into something that would make the angels weep if they tasted it. I don't know how she does it, but I'm sure there must be some black magic or soul selling involved. Evil. Eeeeevvvvviiiiilllllll.

So, thanks to the evil fudge followed quickly by Halloween and all that left over candy and a lack of hitting the gym, I have somehow managed to gain 8 pounds. 8 pounds! Holy crap! Not being a large woman, 8 pounds is a lot on my frame. Most people can't tell, but believe me, my jeans were letting me know the other morning when I tried to stuff my extra 8 pounds into them. My thighs (where my weight likes to hang out cause that's the place to be apparently) looked like fat little sausages encased in Michael Kors denim and there was enough muffin top to start a bakery. How could I let this happen? How?????? And why does it happen? I mean, once you've worked your ass off (literally) getting in shape, you should stay that way. Period. There should be no silly upkeep. Any fat that you take in should just know that you've been working out and will get burned off anyway and just flush out of your system without spending time attached to your thighs, no matter how tempting they might look and how much fun the fat heard your thighs were.

This morning I schlepped myself to the gym and spent more than an hour on the elliptical and the treadmill trying to make the 8 pounds magically disappear (sadly that did not happen-imagine that) and cursing that ooey-gooey delicious fudge. Damn that woman, anyway. Sadly, I'll be at the gym again tomorrow and probably every week day that I can fit it in, bitching and moaning about how unfair it is that foods that taste so good are sooooo very, very bad for you and how sitting on the sofa most of the day does not lead to toned thighs. Unfair! Unfair I say!

Dorothy: Serial Killer

2007-11-10T20:17:00.001-06:00

Greetings semi-loyal readers! I've been a bit under the weather for a few days (effing strep), but now I'm back with 50% more snark (Please note this statement has not been evaluated and lazy writer, LLC makes no guarantees on actual amount of snark.)

So, last night I had one of my more enlightening parental experiences. We didn't do anything spectacular, just sat home and watched a movie, but it was some of the most fun I've had in a long while.
We normally watch Wheel of Fortune during dinner. Shut up, you watch TV while you eat too. At least Wheel of Fortune can be passed off as a learning experience (or so I tell myself) and we do talk about the sounds each letter makes and he tried to read the words. He's 5, this is super educational people!
For some reason we ended up eating a late dinner and Wheel was over before we were finished, so I pulled up the guide and saw that The Wizard of Oz was coming on. I flipped the channel thinking it would get us through dinner and then I'd turn it. Wrong! He was fascinated! Fas-in-nat-ed! He had seen the Munchkinland set on the Great Movie Ride at Disney World, but never the movie itself. First he wanted to know why it was all in one color (silly me, he'd never seen a b&w movie before), then he wanted to know why that mean lady tried to take that girls dog away. He was incensed! He commented that if anyone ever tried to take his dogs away he'd call the Army and they'd be in serious trouble!
I cleared the dinner table and he moved over to the sofa, where he settled in to watch this crazy movie that went from one color to techni-color. He made several interesting observations that make mom proud (I actually started writing stuff down after a while, so I could share it with you lovely folks).
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On the munchkins:

C: Mom, I think there's something wrong with those munckins.
Me: You do?
C: Yeah, they're weird. Something is really wrong there.

On Dorothy's house landing on the Wicked Witch of the East:

C: Did that girl kill that witch?
Me: Yes.
C: Is she going to get in trouble?
Me: No.
C: Well, if I killed somebody, I'd get in trouble.
Me: Yes, you probably would.
C: I think she needs to go to the bad chair.

On Glenda the Good Witch:

C: Why is she in that bubble?
Me: That's how she travels.
C: Is she sick?
Me: No. Why?
C: Sick people have to go in bubbles.
Me: How do you know?
C: I saw it on TV. At Gigi's house.
Me: Oookaaay then. Well, Glenda travels in a bubble.
C: If she's a witch she should be on a broomstick then, not in a bubble. It could pop and she could get hurt.

On the Scarecrow singing about needing a brain:

C: He's smarter than he looks.
Me: You think?
C: Yeah, he's good at rhyming.
Me: You're right. He is good at rhyming.
C: Yeah, we do that at school, but we're not that good. He must be pretty smart.

On the Tin Man:

C: How does he work if he doesn't have a heart?
Me: Um, well, he's kind of like a robot.
C: Why does he need a heart then?
Me: I don't know. So he can be kind, maybe?
C: I think he's already kind, he just doesn't know it yet.

On the Cowardly Lion (and Dorothy slapping him on the nose for growling at Toto):

C: Ooooh! He's not being very nice! I'd smack him on the nose too if he tried to bite my dogs. He's a big meanie.
Me: He's trying to act brave.
C: Picking on little dogs isn't nice.
Me: No, it's not.
C: It's not brave either.
Me: You're wise beyond your years, little man.
C: No I'm not, I'm just a kid.

On the Cowardly Lion song:

C: Why does he want to be king of the forest?
Me: They call lions king of the jungle, but he lives in a forest, so that's what he'd be king of.
C: Well, if I were king, I'd want to be king of a city, not a forest.
Me: Why?
C: So I could do stuff.
Me: Like what?
C: Go see movies and eat all the popcorn I want.
Me: Is that all a king does?
C: (thinks for a moment) I'd go to the museums too, and I'd touch the dinosaurs and mummies.
Me: Because you'd be king?
C: Uh-huh. If I were king, I could do that. But not if I lived in a forest.

On the flying monkeys:

Me: When mommy was a little girl, those monkeys used to scare me.
C: They did?
Me: Yes.
C: Did they scare the bejebers out of you?
Me: I guess they did.
C: Those monkey-birds are scary.
Me: Yes, they are.
C: Are you scared now?
Me: No.
C: Do you need me to hold you?
Me: If you want to. Are you scared?
C: Maybe a little. But they're not scaring the bejeebers out of me.
Me: It's okay to be scared. When I was a little girl I used to sit in Gigi's lap when I got scared of the monkeys.
C: How old is this movie?

On the trio beating up the "Oh-wee-oh. Wee-oh-oh" guards:

C: Did they kill them?

Me: No, I don't think so.

C: How do you know?

Me: I don't really, but I'm pretty sure they didn't.

C: But they could have.

Me: I suppose so.

C: I thought they were the good guys.

Me: They are. They're trying to save Dorothy.

C: If they're the good guys, why do they keep killing people?

Me: No idea. Watch the movie.

On Dorothy killing the Wicked Witch of the West:

C: There she goes again.
Me: What?
C: That girl killed that witch.
Me: She was a bad witch.
C: Is that girl in trouble now?
Me: Nope.
C: No bad chair?
Me: Nope.
C: I don't believe it.

On the Wizard giving out the "awards":

C: See, I knew it! That Scarecrow was smart!
Me: He sure was.
C: And the Tin Man was kind!
Me: Yes. You were right. And the Lion was brave all along.
C: Yeah, but he still picked on that little dog.

On Glenda telling Dorothy she had the power to go home all along:

C: What? She could use her shoes?
Me: I guess so.
C: She should have told her that before.
Me: Well, then we wouldn't have a movie.
C: I guess. (Pause) It was all about the magic red shoes.
Me: You should see if your red high tops are magic.
C: They're not.
Me: How do you know?
C: You bought them at Wal-Mart.
Me: And?
C: Mom, you can't buy magic at Wal-Mart.

On Dorothy waking from her dream:

C: You mean it wasn't real?
Me: No, it was all a dream.
C: That was a long dream.
Me: Yes it was.
C: Hey, that guys looks like the Scarecrow!
Me: He sure does!
C: He's not as smart though.
Me: Why do you say that?
C: He has to work. Don't you remember? We saw him earlier. He was working on the farm.
Me: Oh, yeah.
C: All the Scarecrow had to do was hang around.
Me: And that makes him smarter?
C: Well, he wasn't working.
Me: You're a genius.

There was ever so much more (I have 5 pages of notes), but these are the real highlights. Here's what I learned from watching the movie with him:
The munkins are weird, I'm old, hanging around on a post is better than working, I should really talk to my mom about what she lets him watch at her house, witches should travel on broomsticks not in bubbles, picking on small dogs is not brave, if you're going to be king, be king of a city where you can do stuff, you can't buy magic at Wal-Mart and Dorothy is a serial killer.

I can't drive 55!

2007-10-19T22:01:00.000-05:00

So once again I find myself driving along I-55 from The STL to Chicago. Let me just stop right here and talk about the fact that St. Louis is called The STL or The Lou. Seriously? Is that the best you can come up with St. Louis? The STL? The Lou? And what's with all this "the" business? Lame, I'd like you to meet my friend, St. Louis. St. Louis, Lame. Talk amongst yourselves. I'm just kidding. I actually find that I like St. Louis very much. Except for all those effing Cards fans. Go Cubs! Next year is our year! /tangent.

I've now driven I-55 between STL and Chicago about 7 times in the last few months and it is not an exciting drive. Most interstate drives are pretty boring (you don't here many songs about getting your kicks on the interstate do you?) but this one is especially dull. There's just nothing to see, except all the signs teasing me Route 66 signs. Yeah, yeah, I could drive R66, but as Lightening McQueen discovered, things move rather slowly on the mother road and my time is surprisingly valuable, so it's the interstate for me. Since there's nothing to really look at on I-55, I find myself critiquing (read: bitching about) the way other people drive. Why is driver's ed not mandatory in all states? And not just the one dinky little semester that the states who do require it offer, but like a full freaking year. In Germany, drivers ed is mandatory and is 1-2 years in length (and available only to those over 18). It is also done through private companies and costs a small fortune (seriously, thousands of dollars). Maybe that's why so many Germans use public transport. It's too expensive and too time consuming to get a license. Note to self: if you want to make lots of money, open a driving school in Germany. Everyone else, forget you read that. It was a note to self. Don't go stealing my ideas!

Anyway, I've compiled a list of complaints I have and how they can be remedied:

1. The left lane is for passing! Say it with me: The left lane is for passing. The left lane is for passing. The left lane is for passing. Got that? If you're in the left lane and there is a line of cars behind you that can't get around because you are doing the exact same speed as the car next to you in the right lane, get the fuck over! The left lane is not a driving lane, unless you're going faster than everyone else on the road. The left lane is for passing! Learn it, love it, live it!

2. The speed limit tells you how fast you can go! Imagine that! Now I admit, there are a few people *cough*me*cough* who might like to go a smidge over the posted limit (isn't it really just a suggestion?), but going consitently 20 mph under the speed limit (and in the left lane) should get you pokey ass drivers a ticket. If the limit is 65, do us all a favor and do at least 55 (in the right lane).

3. There's a little piece of magic built into every car that lets all the other cars around you know what you're going to do. What? What? I know, it sounds crazy, but it's totally true. No, it's not some government conspiracy to keep you on the grid, so settle down. It's this magical little lever, conveniently located near the 9:30ish position on the steering wheel, called the turn signals! You didn't know your car came with turn signals? Well, now you are enlightened! The lever goes up with a small flick of the finger to let people know you're going to be moving to the right ad goes down (again with a small flick of the finger) to let people know that you're going to be moving left! Also, there are little lights inside the car that let you know the signal is on, so you can turn it off if you need to. Contain yourself. Don't run out to your car just yet to see this magical little lever. I've got more to say, so file it away for later.

4. If you have to talk on your phone, get an ear piece. If your phone doesn't support bluetooth (anyone know why it's called that?), get a wired headset! They're cheap and you can keep at least one hand on the wheel. Which, believe it or not, is important.

5. Finally (for now anyway), trucks (meaning 18 wheelers, tow truck, dump trucks, any kind of truck really) should not be allowed in the left lane. Never. Not ever. You are not going to get around that other pokey ass truck in less than a mile or two (you're hauling a ton, let's be real here), so stay out of the left fucking lane. It's a passing lane for cars, not the Always Low Prices. Always. long-as-a-football-field-hauling-crap-nobody-really-needs-but-will-be-rushing-out-to-buy anyway, trucks. In Europe, lorries (big trucks) are not allowed in the left lane ever. And also can't drive on Sunday's unless they carry perishables. I think we should institute those laws in America. Writers note: I have great respect for truck drivers, because they do a good job at getting me all the crap I don't need to the store I don't really like. Just stay out of the left lane already!

Okay, I'm done. I'm sure there's more, but I'm tired. It was a long (boring) drive from The STL to Chicago (note no "the") so I'm off to my big comfy king size bed, where I will repeat my mantra over and over: The left lane is for passing. The left lane is for passing. The left lane is for passing...

What's so funny about peace love and harmony?

2007-10-17T21:07:00.000-05:00

If you're not watching "Aliens in America" you are missing out. What? What is this show? you ask. What channel is it on? It's a sitcom about a midwestern family who get a foreign exchange student so their lonely, geeky teenage son will have a built in friend and be popular. This of course is fed to them by the guidance counselor/town's best car salesman (I kid you not), who shows a brochure of a good looking blond boy next to a nerdy kid who is now class president or something, to prove his point. The Tolchock's are expecting a boy from London and instead end up with a Pakistani boy who changed planes in London. They want to send him back immediately (he might blow up their small Wisconsin town! They pose as students. Bill O'Reilly said so!), but this being the world of the sitcom where the laughter cannot ensue without the foreign kid, they decide to keep him. That's right, they're keeping the quirky, dish washing, floor swiffering, sandal wearing, praying to Mecca boy in Wisconsin. Freaking comedy gold people. Gold. This show has it all. Adorable outsider? Check. Insane mom? Check. Racism? Check. Uneducated American teenagers? Misunderstandings about the world in general? Awkwardness? Check, check and check again. Gold, people, G-old (not to be confused with Go'ould, those evil symbiotes on Stargate SG-1). What channel is it on? you ask again with baited breath. Well that would be the CW. Uh-huh, that's right CW. What lazy writer? you ask. What are these letters you are saying? C? and W? Is that a channel? Why, I've never heard of it! Are you speaking in some foreign language to confuse me? No, gentle reader, I am not. The CW is a real channel, difficult though it may be to believe. Check your local listings and either watch or Tivo this show. You will not be sorry. Think of me as you guffaw over the awkwardness and idiocy of America.

How I amuse myself or a look into the mind of someone with too much free time

2007-10-08T17:24:00.000-05:00

My job affords me a lot of free time. Don't tell my boss. I work hard, don't get me wrong, but there is lots of down time, which I have to fill to keep my brain from melting and leaking out my ears. I spend some of my spare time working on my book (but I'm so lazy about it-I know the ending, so I'm in no hurry to get there), reading other people's blogs, reading books (written by non-lazy writers), and watching TV. I watch a lot of TV. A lot. A. Lot. Leave it alone. September and October are of course the best months for TV, because that's when the fall lineup starts and everything is new and exciting and the networks hope no one notices that the stars of the show have gained or lost weight, gotten a tan/haircut/partial lobotomy during the hiatus when the show picks up a week or so after the last episode in May. Whatever. Network shows also have commercials. Lots and lots of commercials. If I can't fast forward because I've Tivo'd it, I have to watch them. Wheeee! I use part of my free time to re-write commercials in my head to make them more amusing. I know what you're thinking: What an amazing talent that is! You must be a genius. Yes, and yes. Thanks for noticing.
One of my favorite series of commercials are the local news commercials. My local NBC affilliate runs these seriously cheesy commercials where all the anchors talk about how wonderful the other anchors are. They go something like this (re: the sports caster)

Main Anchor Man: Here's the thing about [sports caster]: he loves his job. He's always out there. He's at every game, meeting the players, getting the true story. (cut to shot of sports caster at various ball games)

Main Anchor Woman: [Sport's caster] is just a great guy. Everybody loves [sports caster]. He's always laughing. (cut to shot of sports caster laughing)

Weather Chick: I love working with [sports caster]. He's a genuinely nice guy. He's passionate about sports. (cut to shot of sports caster doing what looks like very serious work).

Montage of sports caster doing sports caster-y things and then standing in front of the anchor desk smiling at the camera. End of commercial.

One word: Boring. I know these are supposed to make you feel like you know your local news people and that it's good that you invite them into your living room every evening, but they are so dull it boarders on ridiculous. I like to rewrite them in my head. The sports caster commercial goes a little something like this:

Main Anchor Man: Here's the thing about [sports caster]: he's a jerk. He gets tickets to every game. Every effing game. Good seats too. And do you think he ever asks me if I'd like to go? No. No he doesn't. I'm the effing anchor! What do I have to do to get tickets? Who do I have to slep with to meet the players? Anchor, people! I'm the anchor! (cut to shot of sports caster at various games)

Main Anchor Woman: [Sports caster] is an ass. A complete ass. Nobody likes that guy. He's always playing some kind of practical joke. Let me tell you, urinating in the coffee is not funny. Stop laughing [Sports Caster]! It's not effing funny! Somebody's going to get sick. (cut to shot of sports caster laughing)

Weather Chick: I hate working with [sports caster]. He's an asshole. Oh, he's passionate all right. Passionate about groping the new girl in the break room and then acting like he can't remember her name. I mean, I'm not just a pretty face you know. I studied journalism at my local community college. I am a serious journalist. One day I'm hoping to be on E! and am just here for the market exposure, but that does not give him the right to grab my ass as every opportunity. And he's always asking me to go to those stupid sports games with him. Like I even care about sports. He should ask the anchor man. He's always dropping hints about how he wants to go to the games but can't ever get tickets. I think he might play for the other team if you know what I mean. God, the men here are so worthless. (cut to shot of sports caster doing what looks like very serious work).

Montage of sports caster doing sports caster-y things and then standing in front of the anchor desk smiling at the camera. End of commercial.

Now, I ask, which of these would you find more entertaining? The local affiliate also has commercials for the 2 main anchors, the morning anchors and the weather girl and I find them all hilarious now that I have my own versions. Try this at home. It will give you something to think about while you're waiting for Chuck to come back on.

Adventures in acquisitions: goats and cats and hearts. Oh my!

2007-10-03T09:06:00.000-05:00

I have an unusual job. I’m an acquisitions agent, which sounds kind of cool and glamorous, but really isn’t. I’d like to say I acquire jewels or antiques or even companies, but I don’t. What I acquire is land. Fifty foot strips of land to be specific, across people’s property for an oil pipeline that is coming down from Canada in a year or so. We pay them really well, so don’t think I’m out gun slinging. Cue dangerous music: And that’s all you need to know. Doesn’t that sound cool and glamorous? No? Well, okay, it’s not. My job does bring me in contact with a lot of, um, interesting people though. Let me preface all of this by saying that I am an urban sort of girl. I like cities. I like condos, townhouses, public transportation and being able to walk places. The oil pipeline is obviously not going through any major cities (though I live near one), so I mostly drive out to the county and meet with landowners to negotiate a purchase price. Some are fine with it, because they like the money (and it frequently is a lot of money) and others are not fine with it. To the point of threatening to have me arrested should they ever see me again on their property. Good luck with that. These landowners are generally country people. Not rednecks, but solid, salt of the earth mid-western farmers who grow the food that you put on your table. Some of them are doing very well, some are making a decent profit and others are just barely eking out a living. I recently had to meet with one of those who is just barely making it, though I did not know it when I set up the appointment. I got their address, did a quick Yahoo! map (I prefer it to Mapquest, which I think is snooty) and hopped in my car. I tried programming the address into Elsa von Nordland’s nav system (the Yahoo! map is my back up), but she just blinked at me and told me I was on my own. She had no such address in her data base. I mapped out the town (she did know where that was, at least) and off we went. An hour and a half later I was on a road that Elsa didn’t even recognize as existing. I couldn’t find the farm so I called the phone number to confirm the address. Mrs. Farmer told me I was indeed on the right road, to keep going about 5 more miles and turn down the gravel road. I knew right then it wasn’t going to be good. Gravel roads never lead to good. Trust me on this. Five miles down the road, I saw an old silo set way back off the road and guided Elsa up the worn gravel. As I got closer to the silo, I saw what I assumed was an abandoned old farm house (you know what they say about assuming). There were broken shutters dangling precariously from old hinges (some had lost their struggle and lay broken in the debris that surrounded the house), the front door was overgrown with weeds and what appeared to be a small tree, and the glass in several of the attic windows was fragmented and covered with wood. Surely this was not where I was to have my meeting. When I was almost at the end of the drive, I realized there were several cars parked behind the house, most of them looking like they could run. There was also a barn that I couldn’t see from the drive and animals. Lots and lots of animals. Ooookaay. I sat in Elsa for a moment, trying to figure out where to go when the back door to the house opened and out came a man dressed in faded jeans and a torn t-shirt. He walked up to my car and I opened the door and held out my hand. We exchanged pleasantries and walked to the house. A brown goat wandered over, along with a pack of dogs, followed by another slightly more aggressive black goat. Mr. Farmer smacked the black goat on the head right between the horns (you read that right) and told him to go away. Surprisingly the goat listened, but I could feel his eyes boring into me as we walked away. When we got closer to the back stoop I realized there were about 30 feral cats milling around. Ack! As I carefully picked my way through what must have been pounds of poop in my 4 inch black patent heels I saw 3 of them eating what looked like a heart. I swallowed audibly (think Shaggy and Scooby gulping) hoped it was a pig heart (we’d past a pig pen) and not human, and fought the urge to call my office once again and remind them where I was (they knew, but still, the sight of the heart spooked me). This is where the danger part of the job comes into play. What’s down that gravel road? Friendly farmer or homicidal maniac who will feed your heart to his cats? Who knows? Let’s drive down and find out shall we?
Anyway, Mr.Farmer opened the door to the scary falling down house and I was faced with a set of 6 steps that sagged in the middle and didn’t look like they could hold my weight. I gingerly put my foot on the step, reminding myself that Mr. Farmer, who weighed considerably more that me, had to have come down these steps, so they would likely hold me, and up I went. Quickly, before he could add his weight to them. I wasn’t going to press my luck. They could be a trap door that led down to some dungeon where I’d have to put lotion on three times a day to keep my skin soft. Creepy. The steps led to a living room at the front of the house and I saw the other side of the front door, which was nailed shut and covered with boards. A dining area was just to the right and held an old Formica table with 5 chairs. The 6th sat at a desk in the corner where Farmer, Jr. sat shirtless at a computer looking at John Deere tractors online. I would not have thought you could get internet out there, but from the multiple pages Farmer, Jr. was flipping through, I guess you can. It’s true, miracles really do happen. A kitchen was to the right of the dining room where Mrs. Farmer stood doing dishes. She greeted me warmly and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I looked past her to the grimy kitchen and declined.
We sat at the old table and talked about the easement, negotiated a few items, they signed, I fended off the pack of indoor dogs eager to sniff my crotch, I wrote a large check (and for once wishing it were more, giving the state of their current standard of living), shook their hands and stood to leave. Normally I stay and chat with my landowners (cause I’m that kind of person), but the smell of the house was overwhelming, and I still had the slight fear in the back of my mind that I would be turned into a winter coat or something. I thanked them for meeting me and headed towards the door. Mrs. Farmer looked at her husband and said words I never in my life imagined I hear: “Walk her to her car to make sure the goat doesn’t attack her.” I blinked for a moment, taking this in, my fear of the goat momentarily overtaking my fear of being turned into a coat. I practically ran down the rickety steps before Mr. Farmer could join me on them and stopped at the door, waiting. He opened it and led me past the cats (still eating on the heart), the pigs, the outside dogs, and towards Elsa who sat waiting for me like a shining like a beacon of cleanliness and hope. We were approximately 50 feet from her when the black goat, who had been standing there watching, made his move. He’d been near the barn but in mere moments came hurtling at us, horns down. I was sure he was going to run right into us (or worse my beautiful Elsa) and took an involuntary step backwards. Mr. Farmer stepped in front of me, took an aggressive stance, put his hand out and waited. I fought the urge to cover my eyes with my hands and squeal, but then I would have missed the utter absurdity of having a goat charge me. The goat ran at Mr. Farmer fast. At least I think it was fast. I have no idea what’s fast for a goat, but when it’s coming at you, it seems like a cheetah. When the goat reached us, Mr. Farmer shifted his hand so that the flat part of him palm came in contact with the top of the goats head (again) and told him to go away (again). The goat stopped, looked at us, shook his head and trotted off in the opposite direction, making some scary sounds. Once I could breath again, I thanked my protector, climbed into Elsa and drove away as quickly as I could, checking my rear view mirror for charging goats and heart eating cats. When I got back into cell range (I was seriously out in the middle of nowhere) I called my office and related my story. Our secretary laughed and said she was waiting for me to call to tell her what had happened. This was not my first adventure. I had come in contact with a man we called Naked Guy, a crazy couple with an all white house, and a tree hugging Marilyn Monroe fanatic, to name a few. Those are stories for another day.

Things I did and learned this weekend

2007-10-01T08:48:00.000-05:00

I had an entire long weekend to myself. I knew I would miss my son terribly, but honestly looked forward to an entire weekend without having to cook for or clean up after anyone but myself and where I would not, even once, have to wipe anyone elses ass. Ah, the simple things. What to do? What to do? Lay around the house watching TV for a start and then, road trip! Friday morning I woke up late. Late! I laid on the sofa for an hour or four watching Tivo'd episodes of my favorite shows (I believe I may have mentioned my great love of TV and my joy over the new fall season), ate breakfast, did some work (pesky job) and then went shopping. What a great way to kick off the weekend.

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear and my packed overnight bag sat waiting by the door. I tossed it into Elsa and off we went to Chicago! One of my friends was getting married, another had just gotten engaged and I had plans to meet up with a few others. Fun!

I got to Chicago, checked into my hotel and headed up to Gurnee to have dinner with a high school friend who I hadn't seen in about 3 years. She's younger than me, but I used to drive her to and from school her freshman year (my senior year) so we got to be pretty good friends. Also, I dated her brother. Thanks to the internet, we've been in touch and getting together was awesome. She's still the same fun person I knew and we talked just like had every morning and every afternoon for months on end so long ago.

The wedding of my other friend was in Evanston. They decided last week (last week!) to get married. They have a friend who is a JP and he was going to marry them. In their living room. At 8pm. Okay. While I was driving to Chicago, she calls me and tells me that wedding has been moved to 9, and asked if I could do her a huge favor by picking up the wedding cake at Jewel, since it was directly across from my hotel. No problem. While at dinner with my Gurnee friend, I got a text message that said the wedding was now at 10. Okey-dokey. The plan, by the way, was that they would get married (in their living room), we'd have cake and champagne and then we'd all head off to a bar. Not my style, but for them, it works. Also, it was her second wedding and his third. They'd both done the big wedding before and decided it didn't work, so they should just do it in a way they were comfortable with, surrounded by friends and family. I applaud their optimism.

I arrived (small 2 tiered wedding cake in hand) at 9:40. The JP was not there yet, so we sat around and talked until he arrived. At 10:12, he was finally there and we all assembled for the wedding. Candles burned in the fireplace, along the mantle and around the table holding the cake. The bride had a small boquet of white roses and wore jeans and a white t-shirt. The groom wore jeans and a black t-shirt. Everyone attending (all 7 of us) were asked to wear something red and were handed white tapers to hold while they said their vows. When the vows were over, we were asked to make a wish for them and blow out the candle. Please note, if you're going to do this at your own wedding, warn people ahead of time so they have time to think of something! Once the last candle had been blown out, they kissed and we had cake and champagne. At 11:30, it was decided to head to a local bar, but I begged off. I had driven a long way that day, had a brunch the next morning with some other friends and then had to drive back home.

The next morning I met 2 of my other friends from high school. One of whom had gotten engaged the previous weekend. Her friends (and mother) have all waited patiently quite a long time for her now fiancee to pop the question, so I am thrilled for her. Plus, her fiance is awesome and they are perfect together. I have to say, while he took his time in proposing, he did it very well, and she now sports a lovely very blingy ring on her left hand. My other friend had just gotten back from Ireland and had tons of lovely stories to tell that made me insanely jealous. It was great catching up with them in person. We keep in touch frequently via email, texts and phone calls, but meeting up is always better. We had a great time, talked and gossiped and after we parted, before I headed home, I made one last stop: IKEA.

I love IKEA. Seriously, love it. I would live in IKEA if they'd let me. There's just something about it that makes me happy. Maybe it's all the cool dsiplays or the fact that they have a gazillion and one thing to put all your stuff in. Man do I love the things you can put your stuff in. I also like how they show you how to pack a family of 4 into an 803 sqft house. To be fair though, while they pack the house with toys and pots and pans and books and chachkis, they leave out the one thing that constantly clutters my house: paper. I swear I feel like I'm drowning in paper. It comes from everywhere. Mail, things stuck on the door, work, my son's backpack. It's everywhere. While I know I don't need it all, I'm petrified to get rid of most of it, because what if I need it? I generally never do, but I might. Anyway, IKEA shows you where you can put all your stuff and I love it. While I don't think it possible to really live the lifestyle IKEA portrays, I'm going to keep throwing my money at them in a vain attempt to do so.

I got home late that night and was practically attacked by my son and dogs who had a lot to tell me. Well, not the dogs, but my son. The most interesting being the evading of the police for shooting off fireworks in the back yard. My son assures me though, he was going to tell the "kaplice" that Daddy did it, not him. Way to cover your six, little man.

So, that's what I did this weekend. Now, onto the things I learned:

-Watching Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares while eating breakfast is NOT a good idea. Seriously, watching GRKN while eating anything is not a good idea. I did it, nearly lost what I was eating and finally had to turn it off. Just trust me on this and do not try it at home (unless you have a cast iron stomach or want to clean up a really big mess).

-Men are weird. Okay, I didn't learn that just this weekend (I've know for a long time), but it was reinforced for me this weekend at a gas sation in Joliet. Only a man would think it's a good idea to tell a woman (a perfect stranger at that), who is innocently pumping gas that she has a great ass. While the sentiment is appreciated, being told it, very loudly in a public place is not. He's an older guy who drives a black Toyota Corolla. If you live in Joliet, be on the lookout!

-Getting together from time to time with friends who knew you when you were in your formative years is a good idea. Even if it's only every few months or once every couple of years, it will make you feel young again and remind you of a time when life was far less complicated.

-People are going to let you down. No matter how much you may love and care about them, they're going to let you down. Not necessarily because they want to, but because circumstances force them to. This doesn't make you any less disappointed, but there's nothing you can do about it.

-Life treats some people unfairly. Good, decent, hard working people, who deserve better are often dealt a hand they don't deserve, while others are allowed to skate by on luck or accident of birth. The people who are dealt the bad hand work hard to make the best of it, but to see it makes me sad because they deserve better. There's nothing I can do about it and honestly it's none of my business, but to see it breaks my heart.

-Weddings don't have to be big fancy affairs. They can be done in your living room at 10pm and attended by just a few people and still be just as nice as the ones that cost thousands of dollars. Though really, if you ask your guest to say something, give them more than 30 seconds warnign or you might get someone saying something like "I wish you happiness and joy and that I had known you were going to do this."

Field Trip!

2007-09-26T16:44:00.000-05:00

My son went on his very first field trip yesterday. They went to a local orchard to celebrate the begining of autumn, despite the fact that it was in the 90's and positively sweltering. Also, due to a really bad spring frost they were not allowed to pick their own apples. No one seemed to mind though, as they were promised a bag of apples fromthe orchards when they left, and there were plenty of other activities to keep them occupied. BTW, if you've never had a fresh apple, you do not know what you are missing. They are so much better than those waxy things you get at the grocery store. If you live anywhere near and orchard, get yourself there right away and get you some fresh apples. Ditto, the fresh apple cider. Which, if you're dealing with 30 Kindergarteners would probably be much better if it were Irished up. I'm just throwing that out there. Because I'm concerned about my readers.

When the kids first arrived at the orchard, they were taken on a tractor ride through the orchard, where they could see the apples they could not pick. It was hot and there were a lot of bugs, which sent the girls, and several of the boys (my son included) into hysterics. Fun!

After the hot bug filled tractor ride, we got to watch an "Entertaining and Educational" show about apples. Now I have to give Billy Jo Bob Appleseed props here, because he tried to keep the energy up, but how long can you expect a group of 5 year olds to pay attention to a show about apples? Let's face it, you can wrap it up with the word "entertaining" all you like, but if it doesn't involve something exploding or being fired from a canon (I'll get back to this later), they're going to lose interest after about 2 minutes. Billy Joe Bob did make some good points and I'll concede that apples are awesome if you think about it. They are incredibly versatile and if there is anything better than warm dutch apple pie with vanilla ice cream on it, I haven't found it yet, but exciting? No. The kids were far more interested in throwing straw at each other from the bales they sat on, which let to much shushing and sit-downing from some very hot and irritable chaperones.

When Billy Jo Bob Appleseed released us from his happy apple prison we were off to the pig races. Oh, that's right, I said it. Pig races. I don't care who you are, if the words 'pig race' comes up, you want to see it. There were 4 races around a rather large mud track featuring such racers and Brad Pig, Angelina Jolie-Pig, Pigny Spears, Paris Hamton, Mario Hamdretti, Dale Porkheart, Jr, and many other celeb names altered to add pig/pork/ham/etc into them. Apparently they have a lot of time on the farm. The racing pigs are trained with oreo cookies. The pig who makes it around the track and back into the barn first gets the oreo. This is my kind of motivation. See, if my trainer offered me oreo cookies at the end of a session, I'd be much more into it. The third race, which featured potbellied pigs was my personal favorite. I have a dog named Pepper, who my mother swears up and down looks like a potbellied pig. Pepper is half pug and half shih tzu, and pure adorable. She *might* be a smidge overweight (her vet has the gall to call her obese), but I prefer to think of her as festively plump. Now that I've seen a potbellied pig up close (hm, a sentence I never thought to write), I can see the resemblance. Pepper would never run for food though. We bring the food to her, she does not go get it. This is the way it is. We've been trained well.

Pig races over, it was time for the mine shaft slide. This is a weird thing that only children would want to do and only bored farmers or frat boys would think up. It's a 3 foot round pipe buried in a hill. A big hill. More like a mountain really. The get into the pipe at the top (which they enter through a building that has been built to resemble a mine shaft-hence the name) and zoom down through the dark and shoot out the bottom of the hill. Sign me up. I stood at the bottom of the hill/mountain and waited. They came zipping down the slide like they had been greased and screaming like, well, 5 year olds. Once they caught their breaths, the first words out of their mouths were "Let's do it again!" and back up the hill/mountain they ran. This lasted for about 4 trips to the top before they were finally tired of running 5 minutes up the hill for a 10 second ride. We then decided to do my least favorite activity of the day: the petting zoo.

I have a serious aversion to petting zoos. It's not that I don't like animals. I do (I have 2 dogs after all), but farm animals are a different thing all together. For one thing, they stink. My dogs get bathed regularly. I don't think petting zoo animals get more than wet when it rains. Also, they are one step away from being wild animals. While I'm sure they're cared for very well, all I can think of is how many germs must be lurking on their stinky little bodies. And, when you feed them (Ack!), they get slobber all over your hands, and if that's not germ-a-poluza, I don't know what is. The kids of course thought this was awesome, because what kid doesn't love cute, germ ridden farm animals? Not one. The farm animals at this petting zoo included the usual assortment, like cows, pigs (Not the racing pigs, the petting pigs were fat and lazy and thought the pigs who ran for oreos were stupid. These kids will give you food and all you have to do is look at them and grunt. Stupid racing pigs. Think they're so much better than regular pigs. Who's laughing now Brad Pig? Who's laughing now?), chickens, mules, ponies, rabbits (who, let's face it, are only there for the cute factor) and for some inexplicable reason, a mini-camel. Given that we live in the mid-west and NOT the middle east, I'm not sure how the camel plays into the whole farm scenario, but the kids thought he was amazing so what do I know? Once they were done getting germed up good, I grabbed every kid I could get my non-germy hands on and wiped them down with anti-bacterial wipes. Would it be too much to expect a handwashing station?

Once I had used my entire supply of antibacterial wipes, we did thethe corn maze. The corn maze was fun, except for one, teeny, tiny thing: it made me sneeze like crazy. I was nearly blessed to death by a pack of overly polite kindergarteners. Me: achoo! Kids (in unison): Bless you C's mommy! Cute right? Now imagine it 800 times. You're starting to understand that Irish Cider thing aren't you? Yeah, I thought so. Lesson learned: I'm allergic to dry corn. Who knew? After the 3rd trip through the corn maze, it was time for the coolest part of the entire day: the Jack-O-Lobber. Remember what I said earlier about how apples would be exciting if they were shot from a canon? Well, multiply that by about a million and you have the Jack-O-Lobber. A cannon that shoots not apples, but pumpkins! A hydrolic pumpkin canon. Oh yeah! According to Red Hot Jose (the Mexican guy who actually shoots the canon), if they put enough pressure into the cannon, they can lob the pumpkins a little over 3 miles. I'm not sure if I believe this, but I so want to. I also want to see it, but they said the neightboring farm would not be pleased to have pumpkins suddenly appear out of nowhere, smashing to smithereens in their orchard. If I was the neighbor, I'd just clear a spot and make it a pumpkin patch. All those seeds are bound to produce something. Free pumpkins. What's not to like? The kids were crazy for the jack-o-lobber and squealed with delight when it shot off: whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Three pumpkins at once! The chaperones tried to look suitably impressed with the display of science and engineering, but what we were all secretly thinking was "Holy crap! That is awesome! I wonder if my kid's loudest toy would fit in the canon and how much they'd charge me to shoot it out?"

It was then time for some free play on the playground (read: the chaperones were tired and wanted to sit down in the shade ) and lunch. Before lunch, I of course hauled as many sweaty grubby kids as I could to the bathroom and scrubbed them down (several had wandered back over to the petty zoo, so you know I was't going to let them eat luch after touching those creatures). Once the kids had consumed their sugar laden lunches (I was seriously appauled at the food these kids had for lunch and the mystery of childhood obesity was suddenly solved), they picked up their bags of apples, piled on the bus (where these was much apple eating) and went back to school.

My son and I talked about his day over dinner and what he had seen and done. I asked what his favorite part of the day had been and he looked up, big tired eyes slightly out of focus and said firmly and excitedly: "Riding on a school bus!" That's my boy.

Happy Mabon

2007-09-25T22:08:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 23, 2007.

Hello and happy Mabon. That would be the pagan holiday that celebrated the autumnal equinox. While it does not feel like autum here (92 for a high today), I still put out some autum decorations and ate some pomegranate which is a traditional Mabon food. I'll bet you didn't know that, did you? Why a pomegranate, you ask. Well, that would be because Persephone, that lovely young goddess who was kidnapped by Hades and brought down to the underworld to be his queen, ate 6 pomegranate seeds while she was with him, and bound herself to him by doing so. When Zeus forced Hades to release poor, hungry Persephone, Hades told Zeus that she had eaten them, and it was then decided that Persephone would spend 6 months of the year above ground with her mother Demeter, goddess of the earth (hence Spring and Summer) and 6 months below ground with Hades (Autumn and Winter). As the autumnal equinox is the start of her 6 months underground, the pomegranate is a traditional food to eat to celebrate the day. If you've ever eaten a pomegranate, you know this is no easy task. For one, you really do only eat the seeds (pomegranates are chock full of seeds). They are hard to get to though! I did mine out with a grapefruit spoon (in case you were wondering). I started thinking, as I was diging out my seeds, that it's a good thing Hades didn't try to drag me into the underworld and feed me pomegranate seeds. I'd have been like, "Um Hades, I'm sure these 6 seeds will be oh so delicious and really filling, but seriously, where are the Cool Ranch Doritos?" I mean really, if you're dragging someone off to be queen of the underworld, the least you could do is have some decent snack foods. It's all dark and dreary down there and the sattelite reception has to be dreadful. And how long can you spend gazing at the souls of the dead before you start going a bit bonkers? Cool Ranch Doritos can held alleviate some of the boredom. Plus, you could probably chuck them at the new souls coming in, just to freak them out. "Oh my gods! We're going to spend eternity having Doritos thrown at us? I should not have stepped in front of that donkey cart!" AND if you're underground, who's going to notice that you've gained a pound or twenty by eating bag after bag? It's dark down there (or so I hear). Hades probably would have tossed me back after my many demands ("Internet, Hades! I need my internet! You're the god of the freaking underworld and you still have is dial up?") and then there would be no autumn or winter (both of which I am rather fond of), so I suppose we should all be glad that poor Persephone was dragged off, ate her 6 seeds, and her mother, Demeter, decided that while Persephone was underground the earth would become barren and lifeless.
On that note, I wish you all a lovely Mabon and a wonderful auntum season.

Swedish candy pushers

2007-09-25T22:06:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted Septemeber 22, 2007

I have a lovely Swedish SUV that I call Elsa von Nordland. Elsa has lots of bells and whistles, including a lovely little message center that tells me random things I should know, like "Time for Regular Service." This is a nice feature because I no longer have to look up at the little sticker they place inside the windshield and think "Crap, I was due for an oil change 2000 miles ago." Elsa's service message came on the other day and yesterday I schlepped over to the local Swedish dealership (32 miles away) to get her oil changed. I spoke with one of the check in people and told him I did not have 3 hours to sit there waiting for an oil change (this is a total lie; I had all the time in the world, I just didn't want to sit there watching Judy Judy or Judge Roy Brown or some other show where stupid people sue each other for being stupid on the dealerships 5 foot plasma screen). Sean (that's his name) promised me they'd have me out in an hour and a half. Elsa's oil changes are something serious and involve far more than just oil apparently. I don't know exactly what, but I get a big long list of things they've done to her when I get the keys.
I sat in the waiting area watching not a "legal" show, but a rerun of The Price Is Right (thanks to an elderly lady who commandeered the remote) and the clock. At 12 (an hour and half after I arrived, SEAN) Elsa was not ready. Quelle surprise. I checked on her and was told it would only be a "little" longer. Ha! At 12:30, Elsa was still not ready and my stomach was sending out some serious messages to me and everyone within a 3 feet radius that it was HUNGRY. Grrrrrrr! It was like Audrey 2 was belting out "Feed me, Seymour" from my torso. Now, I should say that this Swedish dealership will give you candy if you want it. I'm not talking about that bowl of stale candy everyone sticks their grubby paws into and germing it up. Oh, no. They give you movie sized packages of real candy: M&M's (plain or peanut), Twizzlers, Skittles, Peppermint Patties, Mars bars or 3 different varieties of gum. And, they'll give you all you want. ALL. YOU. WANT. Also, they keep trying to give it to you, and if you don't take it, you are offending their Swedish sensitivity. Every 10-15 minutes, someone will walk through the waiting area and ask if you'd like some candy. Here's approximately what happened:

Dealership lady: You vould like some candy, ya?
Me: No thank you.
Dealership lady: Of course you vould. Here haf some. All you vant.
Me: Really, no, I don't want any.
Dealership lady: (Eying me warily) Vell, I'll check on you in a vile zen.

Fifteen minutes later:

Dealership lady: (who has head my stomach grumbling all the way from the glassed in office she sits in watching those of us in the waiting room, like some weird goldfish) You are hungry, ya? I still haf candy.
Me: I know. No thank you.
Dealership lady: (Dangling a bag of peanut M&M's in front of me) Eet it delicious!
Me: (Staring longingly at the 240 calorie pack of peanuty chocolatey goodness) Go away! I don't want your evil candy!
Dealership lady: You do!
Me: What is it with you people and your candy?
Dealership lady: Candy makes people happy. It is a fact.
Me: Well, it doesn't make me happy. I don't want it! (This is a total lie. Candy does make me happy)
Dealership lady: You vill! (Backs away laughing maniacally and shaking the bag at me)

Okay, maybe it didn't go down exactly like that (and don't ask why she had a German accent, instead of a Swedish one), but in my mind it totally did.
Anyway, for someone who's maintaining 1500 calories a day (which is HARD), one movie sized packet of candy can completely ruin it and send me into a tailspin of sugar and guilt. And apparently just thinking about it made me imagine some sort of crazy candy pushing fantasy.
At 1pm (1pm, SEAN-2 ½ hours after I arrived, SEAN) I was finally told Elsa Von Nordland was being washed (she loves a good wash) and would be brought around in a few minutes. I went up to the little glassed in desk (why the glass? I want to know) to sign my paperwork. The very nice lady (behind the glass) asked me yet again if I'd like some candy ("You know you vant it.") Oh, how I wanted that candy. I could almost taste it. I could feel the delicious candy coating melting in my mouth (not in my hands) making way for explosion of chocolate and peanut. My hands shook as I signed the payment slip and stared down the candy lady. Her eyes bore into mine. She knew how I wanted that candy. A mechanic came walking up and told me Elsa was sitting out front ready to go and I looked at the candy display one more time behind the glass. It called to me; mocked me; begged me. The candy lady held up a bag of M&M's (she's seen me staring longingly at the 2 foot, cardboard blue M&M who smiled so innocuously) and I shook my head turning away before I gave in. As I reached the front door, my stomach (which had been eyeing my liver), let out another rumble and I heard her mutter "You'll be back. Only 7000 miles and and ve'll see you again. You'll get some candy zen. Oh ya." Damn.

Yarrr! It's talk like a pirate day! Savvy?

2007-09-25T22:03:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 19, 2007

Ahoy there me hearties! It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day! Did you know? I'll bet not. I want to know why we didn't get the day off! I've found a list on the internet of pirate speak for those of you who might need some help. I think it would be far more fun to LIVE like a pirate for the day. Let's commandeer some ships, drink some grog, forgo all personal hygene and hunt for booty (that's treasure to you landlubbers, get your minds out of the gutter). So, let's weigh anchor and have a peek at the list. Try to sprinkle as many of these words or phrases into your conversations today and see if anyone notices. If they do, exclaim "Blow me down!" and buy them some grog.
ARRRGHHHH" - this phrase shows general discontent. or it can also mean that someone is about to get wild- a.k.a. a battle cry.
"Ahoy, me hearties!" - Equivalent of "Hello, my friends!"
"Dogs ahoy!" - Equivalent of "Things to kill, straight ahead."
"Shiver me timbers!" - Like saying "Oh My!" like my legs are shaking
"Skuttle me Skippers" - Making a mistake and being judged for/by it.
"Avast ye varmint" - Stop right there young man because you're in big trouble.
"Weigh anchor!" - Let's go!
"Yarr." - I agree.
"Yarr!" - I see your point, and agree wholeheartedly.
"Yarr-ha-harr!" - You're right!
"Yarr?" - Excuse me, what did you say?
"Yarrgh" - I respectfully acknowledge that you are right and I am wrong
"Yaharr..." - a filler word.
"Blow me down!" - You don't say? How surprising.
"Savvy?" - Is that okay with you? Do you understand?
"Ahoy" - Call to attract attention, something akin to 'Hello, there!'
"Jack" - A flag or a sailor; showing how sailors would refer to their ship's colors as one of the crew. Hence Jack Tar for sailor and the Union Jack flag.
"Salmagundi" - A dish of chopped meat, eggs, anchovies, onions and anything else the cook can throw in; A piratical delicacy
"Weigh anchor! Hoist the mizzen!!!" - Basically adds on to Let's go!
"A merry yarn" - A good story
"Where be the treasure?" - Where is the treasure?
"Land Ahoy" - I see land
"Hoist the Colors!!" - Raise the flags.

Let's talk about me

2007-09-25T22:02:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 17, 2007

Today, I'm going to talk about myself, because I just don't think I do that enough. :) Anyway, My 100 has gotten a response or two, so I decided to list a few more random things about me. BTW, if you read my blog (and I can see that a lot of you do), drop me a line. Say "hi" or "wow, you're nuts" or something. Let me know who you are.

On to random things:

I hate coffee. And I mean hate it. With a passion. I don't even like the smell of it, I hate it so much. Also, coffee breath is heinous. How can you people drink that crap?

I'm afraid of spiders but I won't kill them because they eat other bugs that I'm more afraid of. If there's a spider in my house I scoop it up on a piece of paper and take it outside.

I get ridiculously excited over the fall TV season. I am so excited about Journeyman I can barely contain myself. It stars the fantastic Kevin McKidd who I love. If you don't know who he is, he was Lucious Vorenus in Rome. His facial expressions alone are genius.

Deal or No Deal is one of my favorite shows because I like to bitch about how stupid the people on the show are. Stop being so damn greedy people and take the deal!

I have horrible sinuses. If I say I have a headache, I am not kidding. Take me seriously.

One of my college boyfriends (who I lived with for 8 months) left me for a man. And didn't tell me. I found out from a gay friend of mine. I was pissed. Leaving me for a man was one thing (talk about a blow to the ego), but finding out from someone else was another thing entirely.

I recently found out that another former boyfriend of mine is now gay. Coincidence?

I try to care about politics, because I think I should, but I just can't muster up the interest. I think the elections should be held on TV, a la American Idol. And the politicians should have to have an interesting talent. How cool would that be?

I don't like cats and think people who do are strange. I mean, cats don't like people, they're mean, they pee on stuff for fun and they stare at you all weird, like they're planning on eating you if you should die in the house and there's nothing else for them to snack on.

I like peanuts, but positively hate peanut butter. Even the smell of peanut butter icks me out. Isn't that odd?

My high school sweetheart took me to my first professional baseball game in Sept 1990 and I've been a die hard Cubs fan ever since. Go Cubs!

When I was in the 11th grade the powers that be took away the cushions to the furniture in the student lounge for some unremembered infraction. All that was left were the wood frames. It was damned uncomfortable. A friend of mine and I made a big sign that read "Welcome to Stalag 17" and hung it over the door to the lounge. The administrators went crazy. They asked the perpetrators to come forward, but we never did. I was nervouse for the next 3 months that we would get busted and suspended.

I drink hot tea, but hate it cold. I drink one cup of tea every morning and you do not want to be in my path if I haven't had it. Grrrrr!

There's more, but my sinuses are killing me so I'm off to bed. Where I don't like to be touched while trying to get to sleep. I am not a snuggler!

My 100

2007-09-25T22:01:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted Septemeber 12, 2007.

All the "cool bloggers" are doing the top 100, so I thought I'd post mine:
100. I am a true Aries.
99. I love Matt Lauer
98. I'm incredibly into the whole Today Throws a Wedding, though I never vote
97. Motorcyclists who don't wear helmets piss me off
96. I secretly hate the cool bloggers.
95. When I was in the 9th grade I changed a grade on my report card and my parents never knew (unless they read this blog).
94. I traded my BMW for a Volvo, and now sometimes wish I still had the BMW, even though I like the Volvo better
93. Feet creep me out
92. I couldn't watch the 2nd or 3rd LOTR movies because I spent the entire first movie staring at the hobbit's furry feet and it grossed me out
93. I've had McDonalds in 5 countries outside of the US. I'm not proud of this.
92. I wish I were taller
91. I've never been to Vegas
90. I hate chocolate ice cream
89. I think chiffon is a crime against humanity (unless you're Ginger Rogers and in a 1930's or 40's movie)
88. I've stood on the Prime Meridian
89. I don't eat anything with 4 legs
88. I'm not a fan of poultry either, but I'll eat it on occasion
87. Really skinny people frighten me because I wonder where their organs are
86. I'm obsessed (OBSESSED!) with home makeover and house flipping shows
85. Red is my favorite color
84. My grandfather was born in 1899 and when I was little I thought he was the oldest person in the world
83. I read all of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books in less than 3 weeks (there are 13)
82. I started going grey around the age of 28
81. I got boobs the same time I started going grey and think it might have been some sort of trade off
80. I'm trying to be brief here, but find it incredibly hard. I always want to elaborate.
79. I was totally boy crazy in HS, so it's probably a good thing I went to an all girls school
78. My first car was a 1990 red Chevy Cavalier.
77. I still have the window sticker from my first car (it cost $9K)
76. I've driven on the Autobahn
75. I think speed limits suck
74. I've seen Strictly Ballroom about 20 times
73. Holiday Inn is my favorite movie
72. I think if you don't cry at the end of Going My Way, you're dead inside
71. I adore Bing Crosby
70. I hate when black and white movies are colorized
69. Typing this number made me snicker (because inside I'm still a stupid teenager)
68. I love plants and flowers, but do not have a green thumb
67. I cry every time I see a military homecoming
66. No one ever spells my name correctly
65. Because my parents spelled it weird (thanks guys)
64. I love the Regency period
63. I've seen the 6 hour BBC Pride and Prejudice at least 10 times
62. I long to be a published writer
61. I'm incredibly lazy about my writing
60. I've started, but not finished, 5 novels
59. I constantly have the urge to build a headboard out of plywood, chair padding and fabric, even though I know it will turn out terribly and I'm dangerous with tools
58. I applied to Yale on a dare and got in
57. I never told my parents because I knew we couldn't afford it
56. I regret not going there
55. I majored in theatrical design in college (because that's dead useful)
54. I was 18 when I lost my virginity
53. I kept a journal for 5 years when I was in HS and college
52. I get embarrassed when I read what I wrote
51. I treat my dogs like they are children
50. I can't believe I've still got 50 more to go
49. I hate the beach
48. I'm not a fan of summer
47. I love to watch the Biggest Loser and eat while doing so
46. I've been to Paris 5 times
45. I wear jeans almost every day if I can
44. Live fish scare me
43. I was on my HS literary magazine staff
42. I hate literary magazines because I often think they're pretentious
41. I can't hold my liquor
40. I love British History
39. Using cash feels weird
38. I talk too much
37. Sometimes I try to stop talking, but just can't
36. I cheated on my HS boyfriend and still feel a guilty. And yes, I told him about it.
35. Pompeii is number one on my list of places I want to see
34. I wish I spoke another language
33. I'm too lazy to learn one
32. Fall is my favorite time of year
31. Winter is my second favorite
30. Flying makes me sick
29. Ditto trains, cars and roller coasters, but not boats
28. I love roller coasters
27. I like how Willfurd Brimley practically yells at diabetics on those commercials
26. I watch way too much TV
25. My TV is almost always on because I've never seen anyone murdered in a movie while watching TV, so I figure if my TV is on, I'm safe
24. I read about 2-3 books a week
23. I'd probably be a millionaire if I borrowed books from the library instead of buying them
22. I've read all the Harry Potter books more than once
21. I got my last 4 HP books at midnight parties and read through the night to finish them
20. I got book 5 free because I came in second in a trivia contest. I lost first place to a 10 year old. The question I missed was from the movies, not the books though, so in my mind we tied.
19. I love clothes, but don't feel comfortable in trendy clothes
18. I've seen Les Mis 5 times and I cry every time
17. I wish I were a more creative cook
16. I own more than 40 pairs of shoes and love really high heels
15. I wish I lived in a large city
14. I know a million useless bits of trivia
13. I didn't think this list would be so hard
12. I see a shrink (shocking, I know)
11. Cereal is my favorite food in the world, despite the fact that I dislike milk (except in cereal)

And now for the 10 questions from the actor's studio:

10. What is your favorite word? Baronial
9. What is your least favorite word? Cocoa
8. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Burning candles
7. What turns you off? Bad smells
6. What is your favorite curse word? Damn
5. What noise or sound do you love? My son singing a song he's made up
4. What noise or sound do you hate? Scraping
3. What profession other than your own would you like to pursue? Editing
2. What profession would you not like to do? Nursing
1. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? "That'll do," accompanied by a slight smile, a head nod and perhaps a fruity drink with an umbrella

Putting your pants on the wrong way

2007-09-25T22:00:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 10, 2007

Have you ever put your pants on the wrong way? I'm not talking about backwards here, I'm not 5, so stop your snickering. What I mean is the way you put them on. I always put my right leg in first, followed by my left, but for some unkown reason, one day I put the left leg in first, then the right. It was weird and wrong. I immediately felt the strangeness of standing with my left leg in the pants and my right not. Freaky. If you've ever done it, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The whole day felt strange and I wondered if it was because I had somehow screwed up what is essentially part of a daily ritual. Professional sports players have rituals where they do certain things certain ways before every game, and many people do exactly the same thing in the same order before a big test or presentation, hoping that because they did it before and had good luck, the same thing will happen again. By putting my pants on the wrong way I somehow screwed up my karmic energy and my day was just slightly off kilter. The next day, I made sure I put them on the normal way (right leg, then left), and all was well. If you haven't ever put your pants on the wrong way, try it tomorow. You'll see I'm right.

First Day of School

2007-09-25T21:59:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted August 22, 2007

My baby started kindergarten today. He was so excited, but I drug my feet up the stairs like I was going to meet my executioner. I didn't want him to go to school. He's been going to daycare for the last 2 years, so I was used to him being away from me and vice versa, but daycare and school are two entirely different things. Daycare is for babies and toddlers. School is for kids who are growing up. Last night we checked all his school supplies (again), made sure his uniform was ready (again), and talked about all the cool things he'd be doing (again). When I tucked him in, I knew it was the last time I was tucking in my baby. Today he would be a big boy.
He bounded out of bed early this morning and told me he needed to get dressed and go right away. I convinced him that he really needed to eat and brush his teeth first, but as soon as these were accomplished he was pulling on his clothes, grabbing his 'packpack' and tapping his foot by the front door. If he wore a watch I swear he would have been tapping a finger on the face of it and clearing his throat. When we got to school, he walked in, said hello to his teacher, look curiously at the other kids in his class (many of whom were crying) and started pulling out crayons to color the page she'd placed on his little desk. I took a ton of photos (Of his desk, his cubby, the picture he was coloring, anything I could think of really), until it was eventually time for me to leave. He gave me a hug and kiss and asked if I was going to pick him up after school (I assured him I would) and then he told me he'd see me later. I was dismissed. By a 5 year old. I walked slowly down the hall and steps and somehow managed to get myself into my car with relatively dry eyes. Once the car door was firmly closed I broke down and cried. Cried for myself, not him. I know kids are supposed to go to school, but it wasn't supposed to happen so soon. Today he took the first steps towards leaving and going on with his own life. Oh, I know we have many more years before he actually goes away to college (and there will probably be plenty of days when I can't wait for college), but today marked the begining of a new life for him. A life that would take him a little further from me with every day that passes. I am incredibly proud of him and how well he handled his first day at school, and knew this was inevitable, but part of me longs for that little baby and toddler who was happiest when he was with me and there was nothing to do, but play, sing and cuddle.

And so it ends...

2007-09-25T21:58:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted July 24, 2007

I admit it, I was one of those crazy people at a book store Friday night waiting to get my hands on a copy of the last Harry Potter book. I was number 17 out of more than 500, mostly adults. When the clock struck midnight, a great cheer went up and the clerks began opeing the boxes and passing out books. I was out the door at 12:04am and at home reading by 12:15. Stopping only to catch a few hours of much needed sleep and trivial things like food, I closed the back cover at 2pm the next afternoon. The book was fantastic and felt like reading an action movie, but when it was over, I felt, as many other fans have expressed, sad because it was over. Many of the readers have been with the series for 7-10 years and after having read more than 4000 pages felt these characters were friends and reading the final chapter was something of a loss. Some people I know have termed it PPD-Post Potter Depression and I wonder if perhaps psychologist offices won't soon be flooded with its sufferers.
It seems silly to a lot of people to be so attached to a series of books, but it was nice to see young people reading such huge books and being excited about the next installment. It was fun to go to midnight parties and speculate what would happen and it was nice to see people line up for a book instead of a video game or a phone. If JK Rowling has accomplished one thing, it was to instill a love of reading in many, both children and adults and she should be commended for it. And now, I'm off to mourn not only the characters who died but the end of an era.

Fair's fair

2007-09-25T21:57:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted June 9, 2007

Yesterday my sinuses were causing me all sorts of trouble, so I did what any other red blooded American would do: I vegged on the sofa, moaned and channel surfed. Well really, what else is there to do when you feel like your skull is 2 sizes too large for your skin? While flipping through the 525 channels of absolutely nothing, I had a sneezing fit (so not sexy) and had stopped on the Maury Povich Show. Ah, how the mighty have fallen. The show was about men who wanted their wives to be made over into sexy vixens. Well, damn, I had to watch that! I sat through an entire hour of man after man bitching and moaning about how his wife had let herself go and blah, blah, blah. Now I have to admit, this is a big pet peeve of mine. Why is it that women think after they're married or in a long term relationship that it's okay to stop taking care of themselves? Seriously, brush your damn hair and get out of the sweats! My problem with the show was that every man on there wanted his wife to look like Angelina Jolie, but guess what? None of them looked like Brad Pitt. This is where the show made me mad. Men, even older men expect women to look like the skinny girls in the magazine (even though we all know they're airbrushed and electronically enhanced), but it's perfectly fine for them to get the beer belly, a permanant 8 o'clock shadow (5 o'clock shadow can be sexy, but 8 o'clock-not so much), and think that belching and farting is funny.
The average American woman is currently a size 12-14, which is far larger than the models that grace the cover of Maxim. Men don't want the average woman though, they want the Maxim girl. The average American male, by the way is 5'9 and weighs in at 180 pounds. That's hardly svelt boys.
I have nothing against someone wanting their partner to look good, but fair's fair. If men want women to look like Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba, then they need to hit the gym and come home looking like Brad Pitt or George Cloony.

Prom-2 legit

2007-09-25T21:56:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted May 14, 2007

I imagine that prom season must be the bread and butter of limo companies. All year, it's maybe a wedding or bachelorette party here and there, but come prom seaon: boom! Money, money,money, money! (You're going to be singing that all night, now, aren't you?) They are doing well right now as we seem to be smack in the middle of yet another year of proms. I've seen teenage girls at the nail salons getting their tips and toes done to match their dresses and sheepish looking boys stopping at the tux shop in the mall to pick up whatever is deemed fashionable this year. I've seen them all dressed up pretending to be adult at many restaurants around town and climbing in and out of the afore mentioned limos, trying to look like they know what they're doing. They're all so damn cute. I want to tell them to take lots of pictures and write down as much as they can in their journals or on their blogs, because prom really is an awesome thing.
My own prom (now 16 years ago this month) was held at the Metropolitan Club in the Sears Tower. It was amazing fun. The search for the perfect dress dominated all conversations my friends and I had in the months leading up to prom. Mine was a red strapless number with three tiers of ruffles to the knees (sadly, straight floor length gowns were not at all the thing in 1991). I had dyed to match shoes and handbag, a red and black prom garter with a charm engraved with the date and my and my dates initials, and spent 3 hours getting ready on the day of the big event. My date wore black peg pants (Hammer pants for those of you who remember back that far), a red tie and cummerbund and white tails. He was the epitome of 1991 cool. And I thought the cutest thing I'd ever seen. After a million photos at my house (which I am now grateful for), we drove to my friend's house and took more photos and hopped into a white stretch limo (4 couples total) and headed to downtown Chicago. The theme was Moondance (a song by Van Morrison that the DJ did NOT have). Dinner was served after we'd all had plenty of time to compliment (real or fake) everyone we knew on her dress and date (I went to an all girls school) and then we danced to all the popular songs (and yes,did all the embarassing dances), made out and had what we thought was a very grown up good time. After the prom we took a carriage ride through downtown, made out some more, and then the limo took us all back to my friend's house where we changed clothes, ate pizza and watched movies until dawn (mostly though we made out in seperate corners under blankets). At dawn the Mother's Club set up a sunrise breakfast on the Lake Forest beach and we all headed over for more fun, including romping on the beach, playing at the playground and making out where the chaperones couldn't see us (see a pattern here?). I made it home around noon and collapsed onto my bed fully clothed and slept until 8 or 9 that night when I had to get up and tell my mom everything (except the making out bits, though I'm sure she probably knew). Prom is one of those nights you dont forget. It's the last dance you go to during high school, and a last chance to party with friends you're not likely to see much of after graduation and an important part of American teen culture. Sixteen years after my own prom, I can recall it with vivid clarity, as though it were just yesterday and cherish the memories (big hair, pouffy dress and all). When I see the modern day prom goers I always smile and think back to my own special night and hope they have as much fun as I did.

Smoking of the fitness trail

2007-09-25T21:55:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 25, 2007

I walk almost every morning at a park near my house (weather permitting, then it's to the boring gym). I like the park, because it's pretty and outdoors and there's lots of interesting things (like crazy geese who will run at you if you get to close to....something, I'm not sure what) and of course there are the people. I love to people watch and the park is a great place to do so. I've seen moms with little tiny babies in strollers, older people, overwight people, skinny people, young people jogging (inside I hate them because I can't run too-damn bad knee), and all sorts of other random people out and about walking the trail, feeding the geese and ducks or just enjoying the weather. Yesterday I passed an portly older man walking with a cup of coffee. I found this amusing for some reason and went around him as he was walking at something slightly slower than a stroll. A while later I noticed he was somehow in front of me again (shortcut!) and there was a weird smell. I thought it was just something in the air until I got closer and realized not only was he still drinking his morning coffee, but now puffing away on a smelly cigar. My first thought was ewwww. I hate smoking in any form, but to smoke on a fitness trail? Pure sacrilige. Anyone who got near Fidel instantly started hacking and coughing (seriously-imagine briskly walking or even running into a big cloud of thick cigar smoke-gross!). They all increased their speed to get around him as quickly as possible, most waving thier hands in fron tof them to ward off the offending smell. I wonder what could have possesed him to smoke on a fitness trail? I mean the word 'fitness' is right there in the title! It's not like it's a big secret. Oh, sorry, this is a fitness trail? Silly me! If you're tying to get fit, I applaud you, but please, save your smoking for a more appropriate place.

Coloring inside the lines

2007-09-25T21:54:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 17, 2007

My son's preschool has started sending home homework recently. Yes, preschool. Yes, homework. It's pretty simple stuff (mostly coloring certain letters different colors and writing one capital and one lower case letter) and he loves to do it, so I don't mind, other than, well, he's 4 and it seems awfully young for homework. He's so proud of himself every night after he's finished and has written his "F" and "f" and colored the picture of a fish or whatever that days letter happens to be, that I go along with it and tell him he's a genius (which secretly, I think he might be, but then again, I am his mom, so I could be the tiniest bit biased). He gets his homework back at the end of every day with a "Good Job" and a sticker on it, which is really the big payoff, but one day about 2 weeks ago, I got a small note attached to his homework that read: Mom, he really needs to work on staying inside the lines. At first I thought, yeah, he does, and we worked very hard on coloring inside the lines, despite the fact that this made homework far less fun and much more like, well, homework. I watched him every night, small pink tongue poking out slightly between pursed lips, firece concentration on his face, and a fat crayon clutched ever so tightly in his little hand, and thought, Why? He's only 4, why does he have to color inside the lines? Coloring inside the lines was frustrating for him and heartbreaking for me to watch as I could see the look of disappointment cross his face every time he went over one of those sacred lines. I finally decided I'd had enough; he'd had enough. Damn the lines, damn the teachers, grab those crayons and go wild! He has the rest of his life to worry about staying inside the lines, so why shouldn't I let him be a kid now and color wherever he wants (within reason of course, I am NOT about scrubbing crayon from walls, though he's never even attempted it)? The first day we took his homework in with colors here and there, and bleeding into each other, I attached a note to it for the teacher that read: I know he's colored outside the lines and I'm cool with it. He's very proud of his work. Think of it as impressionism ~Mom

Fergie Rules

2007-09-25T21:52:00.004-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 12, 2007

Some morning DJ was griping and moaning about many modern pop stars today and seems to have some personal beef with Fergie (of the Black Eyed Peas, not the Duchess of York). He went on and on about how she (and other pop stars) are turning teenage girls into a bunch of stupid tramps (their words, not mine). Now hold on a second! Sure, Brittany and Paris are trampy (and dillusional about their own popularity IMHO), and Christina used to be naughty, but now thinks she lives in the 1950's (and that she is black), but Fergie? Come one, she provides a valuable service. She has single handedly taught thousands of vacuous teenagers that there is something called the London Bridge (though they don't know why it wants to go down) and how to spell "delicious" and "glamorous" and her own name (she should look up tasty though, as there is no "e" in it the last time I checked). How may other current musicians can claim such loft educational additions to their music? Sure, the Bay City Rollers taught everyone in the 70's how to spell "Saturday" and Tommy Tutone helped us all to remember Jenny's phone number (867-5309eyiyine), but that was what? 25-30 years ago! Fergie is picking up the slack right now. If a girl wants to be delicious and glamourous (and really, who doesn't?) she should at least know how to spell them. Lay off Fergie morning DJ, she's making spelling cool.

Historical Note: The bridge shown in Fergie's video for "London Bridge" is actually Tower Bridge (though most people think it's London Bridge). The actual London Bridge (or at least the version built in the early 1800's) now resides in Lake Havasue, AZ. New London Bridge (built to replace Old London Bridge which was more than 600 years by 1800) could not support the weight of an early 1900's expansion nor the ever increasing traffic over the Thames River and was sinking at a rate of 1 inch every eight years. In the 1960's the City of London decided to sell New London Bridge and replace it with a more modern structure. When the bridge was dismantled, each piece was numbered and shipped to Lake Havasue where it was reassembled and is now the second biggest tourist attraction behine the Grand Canyon. Now you know.

My personal shame

2007-09-25T21:52:00.003-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 11, 2007

It finally happened today. I don't know what went wrong. I was there, I knew what I wanted, knew what I needed, and yet, the passion had just...gone out of me. I could see it right in front of me, smell the sweet, pungent odor, and feel the warmth beneath my fingers, and yet, nothing. No excitement, no ripple of pleasure, no enthusiasm, no catch in my breath, no sigh of satisfaction. The horror of what was happening hit me with a force that nearly knocked me over. I tried so hard to work up some excitement, but I simply had no desire. I was defeated and bored. I wasn't interested in buying shoes! Tragic isn't it?
I had heard this could happen. Heard stories of friends who had had the same problem but never thought it could happen to me. The thought was positively laughable. I had done it so many times in the past without thinking it was almost second nature. I had practically turned it into a sport. Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a professional shoe shopper. Hell, if it were an Olympic sport, I would take the gold every time (though I'd have to stay out of the pros to keep my eligibility). My friends envy me my endurance and enthusiasm. Today though I couldn't even make a qualifying round. I wanted to cry, but couldn't muster the strength. I was deflated; spent. I had failed. I couldn't find any shoes I was even interested in. The ennui was all encompassing.
So now my shame is laid bare for all the world to see: for the first time in my memory, I couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to buy new shoes. I stood there surrounded by thousands of pairs of beautiful, shiny, jeweled, heeled, glittery shoes, and I might as well have been staring at row after row of Birkenstocks or worse Crocks. It was such a shock to my system that I actually had to sit down on one of those low uncomfortable little benches with the mirrors I've used so many times to admire a pair of 4" heeled strappy sandals hugging my feet, showing off my arches to perfection and making my calves look like they should be showcased in an art exhibit. Shoes can change your whole day, your whole outlook and on a few occasions, even your whole life (trust me, every woman can tell you about the shoes that changed her life), so how could I fail to find something to make my heart skip a beat? Perhaps because I was there for the sole purpose (no pun intended) of buying new gym shoes. I've put a couple of hundred miles on mine and really need new ones, but they're just so boring to buy. Yeah, sure, they try to make them fun and fancy by adding color or even a bit of lamé piping, but this does NOT make them exciting (shoe companies take note: even with colored piping and holographic panels, they are still gym shoes and therefore dull). I left the store with no purchases (a first for me), but vowed to be back another day, debit card in hand and feet ready to be well shod, even if it is only to run around the track. With God as my witness I shall never leave a shoe store empty handed again! (My apologies to Margaret Mitchell).

Just a number-gettin golder is awesome

2007-09-25T21:50:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 9, 2007.

I turned thirty-four at the end of last month. 34! I know! When I was a teenager, the thought of being thirty (let alone thirty-four) was terrifying. Thirty was old. Practically infirm. Who wanted to be thirty? Blech. All the good stuff in your life happened in your late teens and twenties, right? You graduated high school, got to vote for the first time, went away to college, got to drink (legally), graduated college, got your first job, got married (generally), bought a house, had kids and then you turned thirty. What was supposed to happen after thrity? PTA, soccer games, the minutia of daily life in the suburbs, and boredom. Wheee! Sign me up. The closer I got to the dreaded thirty though, the less it looked like the death sentence I'd once supposed it to be and the more it looked like something I wanted to explore. Well, really, what was the alternative? Once I actually hit the big 3-0 it wasn't awful. I actually kind of liked it. Thirty was bad ass! No one ever told me that in my thirties I'd be more comfortable in my own skin than I'd ever been before. No one ever told me that I'd be more confident or self assured or outspoken. My friends all felt the same after their milestone birthday. Why had we thought thirty was old? Thirty wasn't old. Thirty was awesome. It was like we had been let into some secret society where we could say what we wanted, be what we wanted, do what we wanted (and for some of my friends WHO they wanted), and not be worried about what anyone else thought. Hell, yeah! Thirty was not the kiss of death, but rather a pass into a world of possibilities. It's been said in recent years (mostly by Oprah and her over fifty crowd) that fifty is the new thirty, which would make all us thirty-somethings teenagers. Take that size 2 belly baring high schoolers! Guess what? We thirty-somethings can drink, have sex, buy expensive shoes, drive nice cars and we don't have to live with our parents or worry about acne. Haha! It's liberating and fun and seems to get better with each year. Thirty-four? Bring it on. Forty? I'll be seeing you in a few years. Get ready.

The American Dream?

2007-09-25T21:49:00.000-05:00

Transferred from mySpace:

ETA: I no longer own the BMW-I traded it for a Volvo

Did you know that you can now get washers and dryers in 'designer' colors? Seriously, designer color washers and dryers. WHY? We have gone from the land of plenty to the land of too damn much. The dealership where take my car for service has a car "spa." Car. Spa. For $500+ (depending on the model) you can get the top of the line service with q-tip detailing. Let me just say right now in the interest of full disclosure, that I do drive a BMW, so call me a hypocrite when it comes to my bitching here, but I have never, ever paid $500 to have my car detailed.
I look around every day and see expanding waist lines caused by bigger portions, bigger cars that use too much gas (and rarely carry more than 2 or 3 people despite the advent of 3rd row seating), and McMansions that are so big families can be in the same house and not even know it, and wonder what happened? Is that the American dream? Is this really what the founding fathers had in mind when they fled England over 2 centuries ago? A land full the of spoiled, fat and ignorant? How many Americans speak a foreign language? How many can barely speak their native tongue? How many know who the Prime Minister of Canada is? How many can even find Canada on a map?
Americans are beoming nationalists again, which as we discovered in the early 1940's can be very dangerous. For the most part, if it doesn't happen to us directly, we don't seem to care. Even Sept. 11 seems to have faded into a distant memory for most. Something we see on the news every few months and mark with a moment of silence on the anniversary. Dec 7 was a date that would live in infamy, but I bet you the majority of people under the age of 50 have almost no idea what happened that day. We simply have no respect for anything anymore.
The rest of the world is rapidly following our lead in consumerism and eating and values, which is quite possibly the biggest crime against humanity in history.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm not upset about being American and I'm not anti-American. Americans do a lot of good around the world. When disaster strikes another country, we're right there to help, even if no one ever remembers that. My problem is that we are a ridiculously wealthy country, but we have fallen somewhere along the way. I'm not talking about politics here, I'm talking about losing our core sense of self in this over driven over scheduled, over hectic lifestyle we lead thinking we're living the American dream. It's exhausting

I love Paris...exhibitionism

2007-09-25T21:48:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace:

I love Paris in the spring time,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in the winter,
when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer,
when it sizzles....

After a few cocktails last night I came to a conclusion about blogs and why people write them: exhibitionism! Deep down, we're all exhibitionists and blogging is the easiest (and most discreet way) to go about it. Face it, we all want to be seen and heard, and blogging gives us the opportunity to do so without stepping out of our protective little world. I had my own thrilling, real-life exibitionist moment a few years ago in Paris that gave me a unique insight on all this. I didn't realize I was on exhibit in the begining, but when I did, I did nothing to stop it, and found it quite exciting.
Our hotel was a small one on a side street near the Gare du Nord, and so typically Frech it lacked only a mime in a striped shirt and red bandana to make it look like a movie set. The innkeeper completed the feel by wearing a beret, smoking like a chimney and stroking a black cat sitting next to him on the counter. Our room was on the third floor with two sets of French doors (I wonder if they just call them doors?) that opened to what was more a ledge than a balcony, but afforded us fantastic views of the bustling street and cafes below and geranium draped balconies and stovepipe chimneys of the apartment building across from us.
It was an unusually warm September and our hotel, like most in Europe had no air conditioning (air conditioning is the crutch of the American), so we kept our French doors opened to keep the room cool. After a day of sight seeing and trying desperately NOT to be the "dirty American" (living in Europe a few years it's easy to see how Americans get this reputation-nasty little buggers we can be), we went back to the hotel to shower and rest before a typically late Parisian dinner. During our rest, things began to get amorous (as they do in Paris) and it wasn't too long before we were stripped of clothes and frolicing on the bed. At some point, I turned my head towards the French doors and caught the eye of a tall, dark haired man standing on the balcony of the apartment directly opposite our room. My first reaction of course was one of shock, but he tilted his head to the side and smiled slightly and all my reservations fell away. I know I should have been mortified at being "caught" but I wasn't. I liked it. A lot. I actually enjoyed this stranger watching me in the act of sex. It was exhillerating! The sex became even more exciting. I became more aware of my body and what I was doing. I was starring in my own little play and the show was hot. I was a sex goddess! I was an exhibitionist! What an amazing thing. When it was over and we were both still slick with sweat, I looked over and the stranger was still standing there, still smiling, and drinking a glass of deep red wine, which he raised in a salute before turning to go inside.
Of the sex I've had in my life, this one encounter is one of the ones that truly stands out in my mind, and I find just thinking back on it can turn me on. I certainly don't want to be watched every time I have sex, because that would just be exhausting, but having someone read my musings is an easy way to exhibit myself. A safe way because I'm not really there. You're looking into my mind without looking into my eyes. Exhibiting, while hiding. Being on display without being on display. Exhilerating.
I wonder what ever happened to that cheeky Parisian on the balcony. I wonder if he often watches the hotel across from him and catches other tourists in the act.

I love Paris in the spring time....

A blog of my own

2007-09-25T21:47:00.000-05:00

Transferred from myspace:

I've been reading blogs for quite a while now and considered getting my own, but wondered, what would I write about? I now have my own space and I sit and stare at the screen wondering, does anybody care what I think? Does anybody really care what anyone else thinks? I really don't (with very few exceptions), so why should anyone care what I think? Why do people blog, I wonder? Does it make them feel important to know that others are going to read it? Are we all really just looking for validation? Are we looking for our 15 minutes of fame? Are we looking for some small slice of immortality? What do we hope to accomplish by blogging? I'm going to have to think on it. First though, I think I'm going to have a cocktail. Perhaps that will open my mind up and I'll have something interesting to blog about. ;)