You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'Musings' category.
Sometimes I have to wonder about these folks who get the personalized license plates. On the freeway this morning I noticed a SUV with the license plate EMBLMR, and I thought, “Emblemer. What exactly is an emblemer? Someone who makes emblems? Does this person have his or her own embleming service?” And then I realized that it probably wasn’t “emblemer” at all but EMBALMER! Embalmer, well, I know what an embalmer is. And then I thought, “Why does this person want to advertise the fact of being an embalmer, and why would he advertise it on his SUV? I assume he is a professional embalmer. I don’t think he’d be advertising his amateur embalming, as I’m pretty sure amateur embalming is frowned upon in the legal world. I don’t have proof of this, of course. He could be an amateur embalmer, but let’s say he’s a professional embalmer. Why should the rest of us care? Are we really supposed to be driving down the freeway wondering who we’re going to have embalm Aunt Sally when out of nowhere this SUV-driving embalmer cruises into our lane and all our problems are solved? Where is his 800 number? Or is this supposed to be some kind of threat–’Tailgate me and I’ll embalm you!’ But isn’t that illegal, too? Oh, look, there’s my exit.”
It seems that a lot of people who have vanity plates put their professions on them. There are many dentists with vanity plates in this area. Registered nurses, too. I don’t have any specific data to back this up, but I suspect people with professional degrees are more susceptible to the temptation to put those degrees on their license plates. That’s because it’s hard for your fellow drivers to read the fine print on your diploma if you post it in your rear windshield. When I was a young teen I saw a psychologist whose license plate read INTJ PHD, which alluded to both her advanced degree and her Myers-Briggs personality type. Perhaps it was her way of asserting herself in the world. (The “I” is for introvert, you know.) Anyway, with all due respect to my former psychologist, who was a wonderful human being for whom I retain much affection, I think it’s a little obnoxious to put your PHD on your license plate. If my husband is ever of a mind to get a vanity plate, I will have to put the kibosh on any design that contains the letters PHD (at least in that order). Unless he wanted one that said ELMRPHD because that might be kind of funny. But that’s not really his style. And plus, it’s probably taken.
It must be very disappointing to come up with what you think is a brilliant and unique combination of letters for your vanity plate only to find out that some other jerk had your idea first. That’s why I feel sorry for people with vanity plates containing misspelled words when there was obviously space enough to spell the words correctly. Because you just know they had their hearts set on saying whatever they were saying only to have their dreams crushed by the DMV official who informed them they needed to be a bit more original next time. It’s especially sad when the license plate says something like 2KOOL4U. Because what are they, twelve? And if so, do their parents know they’re spending their money on vanity license plates?
My mother went back to work when I was in high school, and she told us that her new boss had just written a book, which he was very excited to have published. When it finally came out, she brought home a copy of it. Her boss was a scientist, so I’d expected it to be a science book, but actually it was a book about vanity license plates. I believe it was called VN8TPL8. It didn’t sell very well. My mom’s boss blamed the booksellers, who tended to stock it in the Automotive section, when it really should have been in Humor/Novelty. (Or better yet, by the cash register, as an impulse item. You have to admit he had a point. Would you buy such a book on anything but an impulse?) Anyway, I read it. As far as books about license plates go, it was pretty good.
My mom’s boss was a very talented scientist, but he did not have a Ph.D. He had a Master’s degree. Which was not why he was reduced to writing books about vanity plates. That was just a special interest of his. No, what I was going to say was that I’ve not noticed many people with Master’s degrees putting their educational credentials on their license plates. This is probably because they would be too easily misunderstood. People might assume you had multiple sclerosis, or alternatively, if you’d studied the humanities, that you had children. Of course, if you had a Master’s degree and multiple sclerosis, you could put MS SQRD on your license plate and there would be no confusion. Theoretically.
In Oregon there are many vanity plates referencing the Ducks. I bet the first person to grab GO DUCKS as a license plate feels pretty pleased with himself. By the same token, the poor sap who’s stuck with GO DUKS probably feels like a chump every time he gets in his car. He certainly looks like one. No offense to him.
My mom’s boss dedicated a whole chapter in his book on people who try to get naughty license plates, but the DMV has censors to prevent state-sanctioned obscenity on the roadways. Quote from a lady who was in charge of weeding out the pervy plates: “You’d be surprised at what people try to get away with.” No, dear lady, I bet you’d be surprised at what people do get away with. Which makes me wonder how often in Oregon do OSU fans have their license plates rejected out of hand?
Full disclosure: When I was a senior in high school, my parents bought a used Datsun 260Z, and they got a vanity plate for it. Because if you’re going to get a nifty sports car, you should get a nifty license plate to go with it, eh? They considered several options, including one that said NOIZMYN. I thought that was too esoteric. Eventually they decided to go with a play on words involving our last name and the letter Z. It was only moderately clever. People who didn’t know what our last name was thought that it was trying to say “sleazy” (or rather, “zleazy”), but that wasn’t it at all. Eventually my parents gave this car to me. I loved that little car. I named it Fred. If I’d been in charge of buying it a vanity license plate, that’s what I would have put on it, FRED. No one would have misunderstood that.
As newlyweds, my older sister and her husband got a vanity plate for their pickup that said LDS CPL. I didn’t really understand why they would want to do that. I don’t believe in advertising your religion or your political affiliation on your car. Because we all make mistakes sometimes, and do you really want to be responsible for giving your whole group a reputation for bad driving? Let’s face it, no one remembers the license plate of the courteous and competent driver. But I can easily envision our poor (bike-riding) missionaries showing up on someone’s doorstep and that person saying, “One of your people cut me off this morning, so you can go to hell!” Because we all know what keeps most people from becoming Mormons is that handful of crackpots driving too slow in the fast lane and forgetting to shut off their turn signal whilst spreading the glorious gospel through their license plates. Oh, wait.
The thing is, I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything on my car drawing attention to me. I certainly don’t want anything on my car distracting other drivers from the important business of safely transporting themselves from point A to point B. Which is why I think it’s foolish and in some cases dangerous to own a vanity license plate that says something totally indecipherable on it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in traffice looking at something like SFJDKEO or WERCIRU and wondering what the heck I’m supposed to make of that. I know it’s probably not for me to understand at all, which is why it’s called a vanity plate and not an amuse-the-world-at-large plate. I just don’t like being confused. I’m a word person. I must make order out of alphabetic chaos. I just know that one of these days I’m going to miss my exit. Stupid vanity license plates.
I just found my mom’s boss’s book on Amazon.com–nine used and new from $.95. I’ll have to ask my dad if he knows where our copy went, but I’m sure he doesn’t. I hope they didn’t throw it out–it was autographed!
You are now at liberty to contribute to the discussion with personal anecdotes, rumor and innuendo. Proceed.
When it’s December in Oregon and it’s raining, you sometimes think that the sun will never rise again.
That reminds me–I was reading in the newspaper that the FDA is calling for more detailed warning on antidepressants. This is old news, but as I understand it, anti-depressants can lead to increased suicidal thoughts during the first few weeks of use, among people aged 18-24.
This is just my armchair scientist talking, but it seems to me that if you’re really depressed and you start taking antidepressants and you don’t start feeling better, you will probably start feeling even worse and maybe want to kill yourself now, even if you didn’t particularly want to before. I mean, seeking treatment is a hopeful act; not responding to treatment is depressing–tends to pop hope’s balloon, in my experience, but maybe that’s just me. I’m not one to discount the side effects of powerful psychotropic meds, but I’m just curious how you’d study this supposed phenomenon. Who’d be your control group? And how many of these suicidal 18-24-year-olds were living in Oregon in December at the time?
Speaking of the newspaper and the useless tidbits I learn from reading it, I saw a blurb on this website that offers to deliver post-rapture postcards to your non-Christian friends and neighbors who will be “left behind.” The standard postcards cost $4.99 each; a fancier version goes for $9.99, or you can opt for the super-deluxe option, which costs $799.99. This is just my Mormonish side coming out, but I think this operation might be a scam. I think I’m just going to leave a note on my fridge: “Gone to chase after the Rapture folks–back in a few–??”
I also read that the average cost of a wedding in the U.S. is about $27,000. The article went on to note that the average U.S. income is something like $47,000, so this might explain why more people are choosing to co-habit than marry these days (according to the latest Census, or something). It was a humorous article, not meant to be taken seriously, but it got me thinking. Specifically, it got me thinking, “Wow–do people really spend $27,000 to get married?” Again, this is my Mormonish side talking, but you have to understand that I got married for free (not counting the fee for the marriage license, whatever that was). I can easily understand others spending more, but $27,000–that’s like a down payment on a house. But, you know, I’m cheap.
Well, technically, only my wedding was free. The reception cost money, but I don’t know exactly how much, since it was my mother-in-law that threw the party for us. It was at her friend’s house, and as I recall, there were some decorations and a cake and some cookies and some crudités, I think. And punch. I can’t imagine it cost $27,000. Oh, and then there’s the cost of film for the pictures my Dad took. No offense to my Dad, who is a pretty good photographer, but I do regret not having formal pictures taken on our wedding day. Not regret as in I’ll be lying on my deathbed crying over it, but you know, it would be nice to have some fancy pictures to show the kids and whoever. Well, whatever. What’s done is done! (Or, what’s undone is…undoable.)
Maybe when Sugar Daddy and I celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary–assuming the Rapture hasn’t taken place–our kids will throw us a big $27,000 party. And we’ll be old and cranky and criticize the younger generation for being so wasteful and extravagant. Okay, we won’t. They just better not be hitting us up for a loan afterward!
I finished Alias Season 5 last night. It distressed me. I need a new distraction. Currently I’m reading The Brothers Karamazov, which is surprisingly engaging for a 900-page Russian novel, but, you know, sometimes you just need something a little lighter. It is December in Oregon. And it’s raining.
The following was stolen from CapnK8. I steal a lot from her. She doesn’t seem to mind. Probably because she’s almost perfect.
The Brutally Honest Personality Test
|
Freak- INFJ |
|
Well, well, well. How did someone like you end up with the least common personality type of them all? In a group of 100 Americans, only 0.5 others would be just like you. You really are one of a kind… In fact, I do believe that that’s one of the definitions for the word “FREAK.” Freak’s not such a bad word to describe you actually. You are deep, complex, secretive and extremely difficult to understand. If that doesn’t scream “Freak!” I don’t know what does. No-one actually knows the REAL you, do they? You probably have deep interests in creative expression as well as issues of spirituality and human development. You’ve probably even been called a “psychic” before, because of your uncanny knack to understand and “read” people without quite knowing how you do it. Don’t fret. You’re not actually psychic. That would make you special and you’ll never accomplish that. You’re also quite possible the most emotional of them all, so don’t take this all too hard. Nevertheless you most definitely have the strangest personality type and that’s not necessarily a good thing. ***************** If you want to learn more about your personality type in a slightly less negative way, check out this. ***************** The other personality types are as follows… Loner - Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving |
The other day Dennis Prager said that if America were suddenly wiped off the map–say, by a McDonald’s-seeking meteor or something–the world would become a much crueler place overnight. I’ve never considered this scenario because to me America is like the big strong invincible Daddy who can beat up all the other Daddies, but I thought about it and wondered if it was true. Actually, what I wondered was what the world would be like if America were suddenly absent, not whether it would be good or bad. Here’s what I came up with:
1. The air would get cleaner.
2. Muslims would live alongside Jews and Christians in peace.
3. The earth would stop groaning under the weight of all these fat people dressed in bad clothes.
4. Humanity’s overall IQ would raise 10-12 points.
5. Mormons would eat less Jell-o.
I got the first four points from listening to expatriate celebrities rattle on about how much better the rest of the world is than us. Number 5 is just speculation on my part.
Actually, I’m just being silly. It’s hard to imagine a world without our sorry rear ends in it. At least it is for me.
What do you think would happen to the world if America were suddenly no more?
Dr. Luan Brizendine’s research shows that the average woman says 20,000 words per day, which is about 13,000 more than the average man. In other words, women talk about three times more than men do. I know, this is a shocking revelation for all of you. I will give you a few minutes to get your bearings before I continue.
(You should read the whole article, though. My favorite part is where it says women “get a buzz out of hearing their own voices.” Heh heh.)
First let me say that I believe that women do, on average, talk more than men. I’m not sure who would dispute this, but apparently some would, as a simple google of the subject turns up tons of results denying what is so obviously true. But never mind. The key word is “average,” of course. I think I am actually below average, for a woman, when it comes to talking. I don’t have many people to talk to on an average day, so on an average day I don’t do so much talking.
Also, I think I talk less than my husband does. He probably doesn’t talk as much as the average woman, but I think he might talk more than the average man. At any rate, he certainly talks more than the average me. It’s not so much that he’s chattier than I am, but he’s more adept with the spoken word. I write much more coherently than I think. If you met me in real life and I tried to talk to you, you would be thinking the whole time about how little sense I was making. You might not even believe that I was me.
I doubt very much that science would show I get a buzz out of hearing my own voice. I really don’t like my voice, which is another reason for me not talking so much. But mostly I don’t like talking because it’s so hard for me to say what I want to say. I can have it all perfectly thought out in my mind, but the minute I open my mouth, my brain thinks, “Augh! Shut up! I can’t think anymore!” And then it stops thinking. The power is on, but the VCR is blinking 12 o’clock. I’m painfully aware of this, which is why it’s difficult for me to start talking because I don’t enjoy the cessation of thinking. But once I am talking, it’s hard for me to stop, because I can tell I’m not saying anything, and somehow my mouth thinks that if it says enough nonsense, it can shame my brain into thinking again. But I think I usually shut up before I hit the 20,000 word mark. Then I think, “I really have to talk less from now on.”
On the non-average day, though, I can be very chatty and make perfect sense, insofar as chit-chat makes sense to begin with. I can talk more easily with my friends, mostly because I trust that they can fill in the blanks. Of course, these are women friends who are eager to fill in the blanks with the sound of their own voices, but I’m grateful for that. I feel so much less pressure to perform.
Men, I find, do not like to talk on the phone. My husband can have lengthy phone conversations with close friends and his brothers, but these are all long distance calls that don’t take place very often. He speaks to his mother about once a week, but she does most of the talking in that case. (I have to listen in on the other line if I want to know what she said, though, because men don’t really register most of what women tell them. So he can be on the phone with his mom for two hours, and I ask what they talked about, he says, “Eh, not much.”) But in general SD does not like to talk on the phone. A girlfriend of mine once asked me if SD was uncomfortable with her because when she talked to him on the phone, he was very curt and abrupt. “Yes.” “No.” “Okay.” “Bye.” I assured her that it was nothing personal. At least I hoped it wasn’t because he talks the same way to me on the phone. In real life he is much chattier.
I don’t really understand what men dislike about the phone. I like the phone because I only have to worry what I sound like, which is bad enough. In real life I have to worry about how I look and where I’m looking and what I do with my hands and is my posture okay–it’s no wonder I can’t think about what I’m saying. I’m still pretty inarticulate on the phone with strangers, though, because if it’s business, they are not being paid to jump in and finish my sentences and listen to the sound of their own voices. Which is a shame, because the calls would go much better that way.
I see that I have written more than 800 words on this. Perhaps I do talk more than my husband.
Speaking of male-female stereotypes, though, an interesting thing about my husband that I learned recently is that he has trouble telling his left from his right. This was surprising to me because I thought men had those superior spatial reasoning skills, and it would seem to me that discerning right from left would be fairly intuitive for those spatial reasoning types and that’s why men are so much better at parallel parking. Apparently one has nothing to do with the other. I still find it odd that SD has to think about which hand is his left. I mean, I never have to think about that. I just know. Neither of us is any good at square dancing, though, which has a lot of dosey-doing to the right and left and whatnot–but I think that has more to do with me being a little slow on the uptake and him thinking that square dancing is for dorks. Fortunately, we have not been forced to square-dance for a couple years now.
I see that I am starting to write the way I talk, so a thousand words later, I will quit. Your essay question for today is “Do you talk more or less than the average person of your gender? Do you talk more or less than your spouse or partner? Explain.”
First, the burning questions
If Johnny Cash shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, why is he in Folsom Prison? Shouldn’t he be in a Nevada prison?
Does anybody drink Tang anymore?
The reason I’m thinking about Tang is that I’ve noticed that my orange-flavored Kool-Aid packets don’t dissolve very well. Yes, I am emptying the contents into the pitcher, not just throwing the package in. Ha. Ha. And yes, I let my kids drink Kool-Aid. So sue me. Anyway, I don’t have this problem with any of the other flavors. Just orange. Why? And was Tang ever this difficult to dissolve?
Hence, my question–does anybody drink Tang? Does anybody still sell Tang?
Has anybody noticed that I’m enjoying the word “Tang” today?
A picture is worth approximately 150 words
I have to take Mister Bubby and the New Girl to get their pictures taken. I don’t think I’ll get them back in time for Christmas cards. Mister Bubby had his school picture taken, but he’s making a funny face in it. I mean, it’s priceless in the I’m-glad-these-school-pictures-are-dirt-cheap sense. I took a similar picture in the third grade. Instead of telling me to say “cheese,” the photographer told me to say “boys,” and I responded in what I consider an age-appropriate manner. Which is to say that I grimaced–and she snapped the picture. It’s one of my parents’ all-time favorites of me, to be sure. Anyway, I don’t know what the photographer said to MB to make him make that face. It might have been “say ‘boys,’” I suppose. But it isn’t a picture I want to hang an 8 x 10 of in my living room. Because I am just that square.
What’s in a name–a declarative, not an interrogative
You may or may not have figured out that the New Girl is my younger daughter, who is going to turn one on Thursday. I just called her the New Girl because that’s what popped into my head. I’ve been avoiding calling her by name for the last several months because I just can’t come up with anything that seems right. The other kids’ aliases came so naturally. But they had the advantage of being e-nicknamed when they were older. It takes a while to discover a baby’s true personality. Princess Zurg was not very Princess Zurgy as an infant. Mister Bubby has been Bubby-ish pretty much from the get-go, but initially was not as Bubbified as he is today. Elvis was initially called Elvis because he had cool hair and the chicks dug him. He’s since grown to embody everything that the Elvis brand signifies. Specifically, he has gotten fat and started wearing sparkly.jumpsuits. Just kidding. But back to the topic at hand–I didn’t want to saddle the New Girl with a nickname that wasn’t going to fit her in a matter of months, or weeks, or whatever. Her personality is still emerging, but I was hoping I’d have some inspiration for a fitting moniker by now.
I called her Girlfriend for a while because in real life I call her Girlfriend frequently, but it’s just so generic. There are some nicknames we’ve used for all of our babies. When they had gas, we’d call them Gasser Arafat. When they were fussy, we’d call them Fusser Arafat. For some reason the late head of the PLO has been very much in our consciousness while raising children. No doubt they will all be in therapy someday because of it. Sometimes we call our children random names for no reason other than we can’t think of their real ones at the time. My husband used to call everyone “Francine.” The other day I called Elvis “Ted Kulongoski.” Ted Kulongoski is governor of Oregon, and he has neither cool hair nor sparkly jumpsuits. He is, however, a fine bowler, or so he claimed during his 2002 campaign. In fact, I very nearly voted for him just because of that ad. But Elvis doesn’t bowl, so I have no idea whatsoever why I would have called him Ted Kulongoski, except that he was trying to steal my eggs at the time, and maybe in the aftermath of the election I was subconsciously fearful that Ted Kulongoski was planning to do the same, at least metaphorically. More likely, I think, is that I just enjoy saying “Kulongoski.” Try it yourself. It’s fun, isn’t it? Can your governor do that?
The one characteristic of the New Girl that stands out at this point is that she’s very smiley. Sometimes she smiles so big it looks like her face is going to crack if she goes any bigger. I’ve frequently gone into her room at night when she’s been crying, find her hysterically flailing in the crib, and when she sees me she will attempt to grin in the midst of her hysterical crying and flailing. That is a smiley baby. Which makes me want to call her Guy Smiley. Except she’s not a guy, so I’d have to call her Gal Smiley, or something, and I don’t know yet how I feel about that.
Finally, the closing that lacks closure
I dreamed last night that I missed Princess Zurg’s appointment today with the psychiatrist. I was very upset because you have to pay for missed appointments with the psychiatrist, and psychiatrists aren’t cheap. But eventually I figured out that I couldn’t have missed her appointment because I didn’t remember Monday happening at all. That was a relief. Then I dreamed that I missed it again. I had a very rough night. It is still Monday, right?
So last week Sugar Daddy and I went with two other couples to the opera. I had never been to an opera before. This was Gounod’s Faust, and it was very good. The tenor playing Faust (Richard Crawley) was a last-minute substitute for the cat originally slated to play Faust, who had suddenly taken ill the day before. He was very good. Crawley, I mean. (I don’t know about the other guy, but I hope his throat feels better now.) Anyway, the performances were all very lovely, and the stagecraft was also striking. It was, all in all, a very positive experience for one’s first opera. We all felt very swank and tres sophisticate.
It was also a very expensive evening. The tickets themselves were expensive, but on top of that there was a babysitter to pay and naturally, my swank new outfit to buy. I think the opera serves as good an excuse as any for buying a Totally Impractical Ensemble. True, I already had an appropriately impractical ensemble from the last time I went to a fancy-schmancy shindig (that term just begs for contraction–how about “schminfig”?), but that was six years ago, and you know how women are. Especially overfed white women, like yours truly.
I justified my excessive spending by focusing on my swank new shoes (which I swear I needed anyway), which were only $15 at Ross. At the flipping Ross, kids! And they are awesome. They almost fill the emotional void left by the half-pair of black shoes I lost at my tap recital rehearsal in June. Yes, I came back to the practice room to change into my street shoes, and the left shoe was missing. It never did turn up, in the lost & found or anywhere. I was and remain heartbroken over that situation. The right shoe still sits on the floor of my minivan and mocks me with its loneliness. I loved those shoes. I haven’t been able to find new ones like them, but even if I did, it wouldn’t be the same, as part of my love for those shoes stemmed directly from the fact that I got them on the cheap at Mervyn’s, along with a pair of brown shoes which I still have but am indifferent toward. Bargain shoes are more lovable than expensive shoes. Expensive shoes are almost too precious to be worn. Every scuff mark would seem to sing cha-ching! cha-ching! and my Inner Puritan would flinch at the sound. And if I ever lost them, I would consider it just punishment for my extravagance. No tragedy, just bitter irony. Sort of.
Recently I’ve been thinking about my evolving attitude toward money. Specifically my money. Last night SD and I had a late dinner at Mint. When we got the bill, SD remarked about how it hadn’t cost all that much. True, it cost half of what we spent on our last dinner out, and an even smaller fraction of what the night at the opera cost, but it was still twice the amount of my weekly grocery budget just a few years ago. I wonder if I will ever stop being so aware of little factoids like that, if the day will ever come that I don’t stand for five minutes in the middle of the Target aisle mentally calculating whether I’d be better off buying the 65 ounces of dishwasher detergent or the 125 ounces. I hope not. (Unless it means that I’ve gotten better at doing math in my head, of course. That I would welcome.) As much as I would hate to go back to those days when I couldn’t afford to buy cereal that cost more than $2 a box, I would hate even more to forget what constitutes a luxury. If I’m not painfully aware of my luxuries, how do I know when it’s a special occasion? And more importantly, how will I know which are my favorite shoes?
Mister Bubby makes the transition from religious school to secular school
Mister Bubby: Mommy, a boy in my class didn’t have a good day at kindergarten.
Giraffemom: Oh? What happened?
MB: He just didn’t listen very well.
GM: Well, you should be a good example for him, and maybe he’ll do better next time.
MB: Or I could pray for him.
GM: True.
Princess Zurg hearts the third grade
Princess Zurg: Guess what. We’re going to do a play at school in February. Guess what it’s about.GM: I don’t know. What’s it about?
PZ: America. And maybe I’m going to play the Liberty Lady.
GM: Really?
PZ: Yeah. I’m going to be the Liberty Lady, and I’m going to dress up in a fancy costume. I’ll wear a beautiful dress, and bling, and everything!
Several of you commented on yesterday’s post about modest clothing for girls that you didn’t like the trend of putting words on people’s rear ends. I’ve never liked this trend either, as it does little to promote literacy. But it reminds me that a few months ago I saw a woman in the Target parking lot who appeared to be in her late thirties, wearing a pair of pants with the words Juicy Bling on the backside. I’m not sure what “juicy bling” is supposed to be, but I didn’t think it was the most dignified expression to scrawl across one’s buttocks, regardless of the circumstances. Also, though I am not in the habit of assessing others’ glutei maxima, or however the Romans said it, circumstances being what they were, I can tell you that in reference to this woman’s caboose, one might have said that there was not enough junk in her trunk, as it were, to merit such a bold statement as was emblazoned on the bottom in question. Whatever it was supposed to mean. I, gentle readers, do not claim to know.My husband, though, is undoubtedly thrilled that I just used the phrase “junk in her trunk.”
Speaking of Target, though, I am beginning to suspect that this retail establishment has been selling me enchanted merchandise. Over the last several months, our household has purchased several items which subsequently went “missing,” often immediately upon our arrival at home. First, it was the Thomas the Tank Engine Lego set we bought for Elvis at Christmas. Gone. Had to be replaced December 23. Still haven’t found the original. Then it was the bike helmet we bought for Elvis. Hasn’t turned up, after several weeks. And now it is the industrial-size bottle of Cascade dishwasher detergent, which I only buy because it is the one dishwasher detergent on the market that sports an Elvis-proof cap. Is anyone else noticing a pattern here? Darn that Target and its bewitchments!
Happy Thursday to you and yours.
Mister Bubby’s Home Is His Castle
Mister Bubby: Mama, if someone comes to your house and robs it, you can go out and buy a gun and you can kill them.
Giraffemom: Um…yeah. You probably don’t have to kill them.
MB: You could hurt them really badly.
GM: Well, you shouldn’t kill somebody if you can possibly avoid it. But if someone breaks into your house and is going to hurt you or your family, you can hurt them to stop them.
MB: You could throw rocks at them.
GM: I guess so.
MB: I know–you could take all the books out of the bookcase, and then push down the bookcase so it crashes on them.
GM: I suppose that would work.
MB: You could put pieces of wood in their eye.
GM: That too.
MB: Then you could call the police.
GM: That’s the best option.
MB: All of those things would work.
GM: Definitely.
Sugar Daddy and Madhousewife on Marketing
Mad: What does it say about people who watch Letterman, that they always have these commercials for Viagra before the show?
SD: I think it says that people who watch Leno aren’t getting any.
This week I went to the dentist for a cleaning. As some of you may recall, my dentist is a member of my church and it took me some time to get used to the idea of someone I know socially knowing all the disgusting details of my mouth. Well, Dr. A wasn’t in town this week, but the hygienist who cleaned my teeth was Sister B. It’s a sign of maturity that it only took my about thirty seconds to get over the idea of a second person I know socially learning all the disgusting details of my mouth. Or maybe it’s (yet another) sign that I’ve lost all sense of dignity.
Anyway, while I was waiting for my appointment, a different hygienist walked into the office carrying a large bouquet of large flowers. I commented on them being so a) beautiful and b) large. She said, “Oh, I know, I was so excited to bring them in today. I’m just so excited about my garden.” Then, turning to everyone else in the waiting room, she added, “And teeth too, of course.” Then she giggled.
See, that’s why I love this dental office: chock full of Mormons and similarly insane persons.
Speaking of dentistry, I’d always thought that being a dental hygienist must be one of the world’s most disgusting jobs. But as Sister B was diligently scraping the tartar off my teeth, I thought that once you got over the Ick Factor, it was probably very satisfying, to take what is filthy and corroded and clean it up all spic and span. Especially if you didn’t have to do it again for six months. In my next life, I think I will be a dental hygienist. Meanwhile, they gave me a new toothbrush and rubber tip–argh, just when I’d kicked the habit!
Princess Zurg on Mother’s Milk
“How do twin babies get fed? You’d have to have four bosoms!”
Only in your father’s dreams, my dear. Only in his dreams.
All these trips to Paris are turning my husband into a Francophile. Every few days he comes home with a couple bottles of sparkling mineral water, a baguette, and some malodorous cheese. I’m thinking of knitting him a beret.
Perhaps the young man I married is having a sort of premature midlife crisis. Last year he was test-driving muscle cars. In October he’s driving to Seattle with a buddy to attend a concert where they will be playing very loud music. He spends all our dough on fantasy metal and expensive dairy products. (”What’s wrong with Wensleydale?”) These last two obsessions have inspired a sort of evangelistic spirit in him that thirty-one years of Mormonism couldn’t instill. Everywhere we go he spreads the good news about guys with guitars who sing about elves and local markets that will sell you cheese made from unpasteurized milk on the cheap.
“Are you sure you don’t want any Camembert? It’ll put hair on your chest.”
When I was ribbing him the other day about the cheese thing, he replied, “You know, it’s so much less expensive and destructive than other bad habits I could have, I think that it’s well worth the money.”
Which is absolutely true. Look, I wouldn’t kid if I didn’t love.
In his book on happiness, Dennis Prager says that we all need to indulge in some moderate vice, lest we become all ascetic and overcome with feelings of deprivation. Or something. I think he may be right. While I don’t smoke cigars or look at pictures of scantily clad women, I rather subscribe to this principle of moderate vice. Every time I feed my kids corn dogs for lunch or fail to recycle something, I think, “This is my moderate vice for the day.” I think Mormons are especially well-suited for moderate vice. I know when I really want to feel like a bad***, I buy a diet Coke with caffeine or eat some coffee-flavored ice cream, and I’m all viced out for a week. QED.
Once my sister and I returned home from a ladies’ auxiliary meeting and told our dad how the women present had all railed against the vulgarity creeping into our society, particularly in the form of The Simpsons.
My father, who rarely exhibits symptoms of righteous indignation or irrepressible civic duty, said, “I certainly hope you stood up in defense of The Simpsons. It’s one of the most moral shows on television. It allows you to live out all your worst tendencies vicariously so you don’t have to do it in real life.”
My step-mother hates The Simpsons. But she also hates Wallace & Gromit, ice cream, and Republicans. I imagine she also hates stinky cheese. I don’t think she’d get this concept of moderate vice.
Do you believe in moderate vice? Which sins are your personal favorites?
So I read in the Oregonian this morning about people who live barefoot. As in, they never wear shoes. Because shoes are for chumps, man! Shoes make you weak! Cats and dogs don't need shoes. Aborigines don't need shoes, for that matter. Going barefoot makes your feet strong and prevents a host of podiatric problems. It makes sense, you know. I mean, in other cultures people do go barefoot, and they seem to do just fine. And if God intended us to wear high heels, wouldn't he have given us pointier feet? It stands to reason.
Personally, I like shoes. I like to wear shoes. Shoes make me feel like I'm ready for business. (I don't accept the Fly Lady's Shiny Sink philosophy, but I do buy into her shoe theory.) I also like that shoes keep my feet warm and prevent me from getting glass embedded in my skin or dog feces between my toes. Every so often I think it will be a good idea to go barefoot, but I almost always regret it. Truth be told, I can hardly stand to walk on my own kitchen floor without shoes, but that's a whole other blog.
The thing that impresses me is that all these cats in the Oregonian story were Portlanders. Going barefoot full-time is pretty impressive, but especially in a place where it rains nine months out of the year. I really just don't imagine I'd enjoy walking on wet sidewalks, especially the ones that had worms on them. Plus, there's the mud. My feet don't like to touch mud. Especially the kind that has dog feces in it. So I don't think I'm cut out for the barefoot lifestyle. Which is a shame, because I have really attractive feet. (Really. Everyone says so.)
The upside to going without shoes is that I would be much less frustrated by shoe-shopping. Because, you know, I wouldn't be doing it. I like shoes (am I not a woman?), but I don't like most of the shoes they make for women with large feet. (I said they were attractive; I never claimed they were petite.) My feet aren't monstrously huge–after four children, I wear a 9 1/2. I don't need a 9 1/2W. But it seems like all the cute shoes stop at around size 7. It's like the footwear industry is telling all us big-footed women that we don't deserve to feel pretty. Either that or it's some misguided empowerment thing, like I'm supposed to embrace my feet's bigness by strapping two Buicks to the ends of my legs. I don't know. I just know that when I see my size 6-footed friends, I have shoe envy. Shoe covetousness, really, because I know my own feet will never experience that degree of glamour. And that's not right.
So Dr. Scholls makes a shoe insert for high heels now–which strikes me as being a little like Pope Benedict approving the use of condoms, but hey, maybe the Apocalypse is coming–and the commercial says, "High heels have always driven men crazy." And I turned to my husband and said, "Is that true, Sugar Daddy? Do high heels drive you crazy?"
"It drives me crazy that women wear them," he said.
Which makes sense because SD is only 5' 6", and what 5' 6" cat wants to stand next to a woman on stilts? Not SD, apparently.
It's funny that I should have ended up marrying SD because I'm 5' 7" and I've always admired tall men. (I actually had tall-man envy for most of my man-admiring life because it seems like the taller men are, the shorter they like their women. Has anyone else noticed this? What gives?) Before I dated SD I wore high heels much of the time. I hated–and I still pretty much hate–the way my feet look in flats, which is…big. And so SD seemed even shorter than he really was, and the idea that I was actually becoming infatuated with a short guy was relatively horrifying. I didn't want to have to stoop to kiss him or anything–unlike most tall men, apparently, I don't get turned on by back strain. Well, of course, SD isn't that much shorter than me, when I'm wearing sensible shoes, and I'm actually glad now that I didn't marry a very tall man because unlike those 4' 11" gals who nab all the basketball players, I don't get turned on by neck strain either.
Yes, it's all worked out for the best, I suppose. Except that I have a serious lack of cute shoes. And my kitchen floor is too disgusting to walk barefoot on. But that's another blog.
Speaking of crap I read in the newspaper, I remember when I was low-person on the totem pole at my old newspaper, and one of my jobs was to format the comics pages. (Yes, I was the one who shrunk them so small you could hardly read them. Blame me, the little person. The little person with big feet and ugly shoes.) Anyway, this meant I got to read the comics about six weeks in advance. One morning I was reading the new batch of "For Better or for Worse," when all of a sudden I exclaimed, "Holy crap, she's going to kill Grandma!" It was then that I realized that I really don't like "For Better or for Worse," but it's like some crazy soap opera I can't stop watching. Why do I keep reading it? Why? Why?
So I was reading it this morning, and apparently Anthony's wife has left him. Left him with the baby, no less, the b-word. And all I can think is, Anthony's new availability better not lead to Elizabeth dumping Paul, because I will not stand for that. If Elizabeth dumps Paul, I swear–I swear–I will have to…do something. Something that doesn't involve me not reading the strip anymore because obviously that's impossible. I will just have to write a nasty letter to Lynn Johnston and tell her that she's at least got to shave that cheesy mustache off of Anthony because it's bugging me. And that I still remember what she did to Grandma. That'll be…real cathartic.
So my tap class is tonight. Another thing you can't do barefoot is tap dance. In my opinion, this may in fact be what separates us from the animals. A million years ago Thor or whoever crawled out of the primordial ooze, put chunks of metal on his feet and started doing the shim-sham, and the rest is evolutionary history. Or, from a Biblical perspective, if God didn't want us to tap dance, why did He make the shoes so cute? I do not know. I do know that I have a recital this term, so I will have to go practice now. Gentle readers, adieu.
Stolen from so many people, including radmama and (I think) Anothermad–and it took me so long to get around to that it's no longer hip.
15 Years Ago: I was a freshman in college. Holy crap. My roommate was an exhibitionist. She used to walk around our (very small) dorm room naked. Which I thought was kind of strange. One day she was trimming her bangs in the buff, and she came over to me and asked, "Are they straight?" I had no idea what she was asking or how I should respond.
10 Years Ago: I was making an ill-fated start in a sub-par MFA program in
California. I was reading lots of Yates because I was taking a Yates seminar. I’d broken up with my crappy loser musician boyfriend. I was between jobs. I was living at home again.
5 Years Ago: I’d just given birth to Mister Bubby. The little turkey didn’t sleep. Sugar Daddy and I were enjoying a reprieve from graduate school poverty while he completed his first paid internship with the Big Satan. I could totally buy whatever brand of cereal I wanted. I might have been happy, but I was taking nortriptyline for depression, and the laundry list of side effects I was suffering include mostly things I don’t want to discuss and you don’t want to know about. Plus, it wasn’t remotely effective for depression, but I kept taking it so I could feel like I was doing something proactive.
1 Year Ago: I had moved for the last time. I was finally living in a house! SD talked me into dressing up as a pregnant woman for Halloween. The only person I scared was myself.
Yesterday: I managed not to accomplish a single thing on my to-do list. I think I may have folded some laundry. I made lentil soup for dinner. I broke into my bag of Reese’s inside out peanut butter cups. They have one more gram of protein than Reese’s right-side out peanut butter cups. Isn’t that funny?
5 Snacks I Enjoy: I’m not sure anything I eat these days qualifies as a “snack.” Unless you count my Zoloft.
5 Songs I Know All The Words To: “Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin; “You’re So Vain” by Carly Simon; “If I Had a Boat” by Lyle Lovett; “The Star-Spangled Banner” (three verses!); and “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor. I never said I was proud.
5 Things I Would Do With 100 Million Dollars: Before or after taxes? This is very important. Okay, never mind. I would pay off the mortgage, let SD retire so he could teach high school band and front an operatic metal band on the side, hire a housekeeper, move my mother-in-law to
Portland, and create some charitable foundation thingy.
5 Places I Would Run Away To: Two things come to mind: 1) When I want to run away, I don’t think I’m all that picky about where I end up. 2) I have an embarrassing phobia about traveling outside the country, which precludes me running away to any exotic locales. Let’s say that I’m able to conquer this fear via intensive therapy and whatnot. Here are five places that interest me:
Ireland,
Greece,
Egypt (so I can see the pyramids—the Pyramids are in
Egypt, right?),
Israel, and the moon—or, alternatively, some planet out there. So long as it isn’t that crazy Planet of the Apes planet. Wait…Statue of
Liberty…hey, that was our planet! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!
5 Things I Would Never Wear: Thong underwear, flip flops (I hate that little piece that goes between your toes), anything with the word “muffin” written across the butt, anything that bears my midriff, and any type of piercing.
5 Favorite TV Shows: But there aren’t five versions of Law & Order yet!
5 Bad Habits: I’m habitually late for everything. I eat ice cream late at night. I don’t clean my fridge but once a quarter (okay, semi-annually). I let my children drink way too much Kool-Aid. Then there’s Xanga.
5 Biggest Joys: SD, Princess Zurg, Mister Bubby, Elvis, and soon, Baby Four (at least as soon as he/she starts sleeping through the night—in the meantime, peanut butter sandwiches)
5 Favorite Toys: I don’t have any toys. Honestly, I have no toys. My children have toys. They won’t let me play with them.
5 Fictional Characters I Would Date: Jack McCoy from Law & Order (the way he nails the bad guys is so sexy!); Lord Goring from An Ideal Husband (but only as played by Rupert Everett, who in this fictional scenario is not gay); Obi-Wan Kenobi (when he was young and still Ewan McGregor, not so much Alec Guinness, no offense to him); Oliver from As Long As She Needs Me; and ummmm…I dunno. That Eric Weiss on Alias—he seems like a nice guy.
This morning I was having a bowl of Crispix for breakfast. The box had R2D2 on it, which prompted Mister Bubby to ask, "How can R2D2 eat Crispix if he has no mouth?" That I do not know, son. I do know, however, that if I send $6.99 plus two UPC's, I can get a durable plastic bowl that is "an amazing replica of my favorite droid from Star Wars." (Actually, my favorite droid is C3PO, but his body is apparently more conducive to a cookie jar design than a bowl. Please see your local box of Cheezits.)
So I'm thinking this bowl is pretty cool, especially since it has a sound-activated lid, but $6.99 worth of cool? This is the question I'm contemplating when I note the fine print under the photo of R2D2 reaching for some Crispix Mix in the bowl that is an amazing replica of his head (dome?): "*actual bowl may vary." Excuse me, but what does that mean? It's supposed to be an amazing replica of R2D2, so how can it vary??? This made me think that I definitely did not want to spend my $6.99 and 2 UPC's on a bowl that's supposed to look like R2D2, if there's a possibility that I may end up with an amazing replica of some lame R4 unit. Forget it! Plus, that Crispix Mix looks nasty anyway.
But speaking of droids, I've decided to break up the monotony of coping with three fatherless children by driving four hours to visit my sisters in
Marysville, Washington. What I would like to have is a droid that can move freely about the cabin of my minivan and take the wrappers off my children's cereal bars, pick up their toys and crayons that they've dropped on the floor while I'm driving 65 (okay, 75) mph down the freeway, get those flimsy straws to penetrate the stubborn foil encasing their Capri Suns, and stop their limbs from flailing around and smacking into their siblings or the back of the seat of their mother who's only trying to get to Seattle before the traffic really gets bad. Oh wait, now I'm truly venturing into the realm of science fiction.
Seattle without the bad traffic–did I mention that we're also traveling in spaceships and I've just bought a vacation house on the moon? (Fortunately,
Seattle is a very lovely city, at least from the perspective of the freeway. Unlike
Portland, which looks like a freaking hellhole from I-5. I can't believe I just dissed
Portland for
Seattle. Part of my soul is dying now.)
Anyway, that would be worth $6.99 plus 2 UPC's. I might even pay $699.99 and 2 UPC's for that particular technology.
So Father's Day is already over with in
Ireland. Sugar Daddy should be fast asleep by now. He said that he's gotten used to the time difference, and he's also getting the hang of driving on the left side of the road. He's not so used to the fact that they apparently don't use road signs in
Ireland. But he did manage to make it to church this morning. (Must have been God's will, I don't know.) I asked him how it was, and he said the most surprising thing was how many of the church members there were black or Polynesian–considering that
Ireland is not known for its racial diversity. Anyway, other than that the experience taught him that the LDS church is "eerily homogenous." No Guinness in the sacrament cups, I guess.
Okay, that wasn't funny, but speaking of unfunny, I watched Saturday Night Live last night because the TV was turned to NBC and I was too lazy to change the channel so I could watch MadTV, and heckfire if that show isn't so past its prime it's not funny. Yes, literally not funny. But Liam Neeson was hosting, and he's Irish, which I thought was a weird coincidence, Sugar Daddy being in Ireland and all, and Liam Neeson doing his monologue on ethnic stereotypes, and here I am making unfunny jokes about Guinness–it's kind of eerie, isn't it?
No, it's not a photo post. You can relax now.
CrudeOil asked: Were you raised in the Mormon church or were you a convert in later life?
Do you think this is a life I would have chosen? No, I was born this way.
TheLioness asked: If you had a "do over" to fix something in your past, what would it be?
Generally, I don't like to think about "fixing" something from the past because I suspect I would end up in a completely different present than the one I'm currently enjoying. I'm often curious about what course my life would have taken if I'd opted to go back to graduate school instead of entering a teaching program which I dropped out of after three weeks and getting a job at the newspaper and also meeting my future husband–I'm curious, but I'm not interested in trading outcomes, so that's not something I really want to fix.
I would, however, be sorely tempted to go back in time and never date that one guy I wish I'd never dated. He was pretty much a loser, by any objective criteria. He was immature, selfish, irresponsible, totally lacking in the clue department. Of course that's just the pot calling the kettle black, because if I was so smart and mature, what was I doing dating him? Because he was in a band, and I thought I could meet some hot guys that way, I don't know. Actually, I did meet some hot guys, but it wouldn't have been good to date them either–musicians, you know, they're all bad news. (Unless they're planning on getting a Ph.D. in chemistry and working for a living–then you marry them.) The worst part was that I didn't dump him. He dumped me. I think he finally realized I wasn't going to have sex with him. And since he was already having sex with someone else, dating me was sort of superfluous. I'll always be grateful to him for saving me from myself. But if I could go back and not have to be saved, that would be nice.
OneOddFrog asked: DO you have a "most embarrassing" [moment] …and would ya be bold enough to tell it!??!?!
The fact that I dated a total loser and had to be dumped by him before I could figure out that he was a total loser has always been extremely embarrassing for me. Especially since people continued to think that he was still my boyfriend for months afterwards. Which only partly explains why no decent man would ask me out during that period.
Anothermadhousewife asked: Do you ever think of a Xangan in real life conversation, and feel like a superdork, when you have the impulse to talk about 'cyber-friends?'
All…the stinking…time. I really can't bring myself to tell the people I know in real life that I have this whole other internet life because they would think that was really creepy. Frankly, so would I if it weren't, you know, my life.
Aeryll asked: What are your five happiest life experiences?
1. I can still recall exactly how elated I was when the guy I had this horrible crush on asked me to go to this school dance. Of course, I can also recall how miserable I was when I realized that he really wanted to go with someone else but her parents wouldn't let her, so, you know, it's a bittersweet memory. But at the time I was really, really happy.
2. My first date with Sugar Daddy. I was just ecstatic to be going out with a decent person who liked me back. What a miracle it was.
3. The day Princess Zurg started doing her business on the toilet instead of her diaper. Again, a miracle.
4. Going into a grocery store and realizing I could buy whatever the heck cereal I wanted because MY HUSBAND HAD A PAYING JOB!!! WOO-HOO!
5. That summer we housesat and had a housekeeper. Man, that was awesome.
If this seems like less than a grandiose list, it's because I'm a very simple girl.
Slowmo_d_o asked: what's your favorite pudding flavor? i'm a pistachio guy.
I love pistachio pudding. It is my favorite. Unfortunately it doesn't come in those convenient, earth-destroying snack cups, so I don't eat it as much as the chocolate, which is also good, but you know, not pistachio. I hate tapioca. I know you didn't ask for that info, but I thought I'd volunteer it anyway.
When my children have diarrhea, all they want to eat is fruit. When they're constipated, all they want to eat is cheese. I have the most spiteful offspring in the history of the human family.
There's something I've often wondered about, and maybe you can help me with it. Why are women so embarrassed to say how much they weigh? It's not that I'm really interested in what other people weigh–in fact, I'm totally uninterested, which I guess is why I don't get what all the secrecy is about. Unless you're trying to meet hot guys on the internet–in which case I can see not wanting to disclose that you're 5'2" and weigh 216 pounds, no matter how good it may look on you in person–I don't see what difference a number makes. I mean, if a person's looking right at you, they can see what size and shape you are. Is it really going to change people's opinions of how you look if you tell them that you're actually 167 pounds and not the 120 you're hoping they think you are? Personally, I'm content with the weight I am now–especially since, you know, I'm pregnant and my backside is supposed to be getting wider anyway. But if I were unhappy with my weight, I don't think I'd be embarrassed about the number. I'd be more embarrassed about my backside (especially if I weren't pregnant). But being unhappy with the size of my butt has never stopped me from going out in public, so why should the number on the scale be so shameful?
No, I'm not angling to get you all to tell me how much you weigh. It wouldn't mean anything to me anyway, unless you were 300 pounds. I have a pretty good idea of what 300 pounds looks like, regardless of height. (If you told me you were 9 feet tall, though, I'd really be impressed!) But short of that, I have difficulty envisioning it. My husband, on the other hand, has this uncanny ability to guess women's weights. No, he doesn't do it to their faces. It's not a parlor trick. ("You look like you're about 155–am I right?" "Go to hell!" "See, Mad, I told you." No, it doesn't happen like that.) So how do I know he can do this? Don't ask, but I know. It's one of his many strange talents. He can also multiply three-digit numbers in his head. He's lots of fun at parties.
Speaking of strange things, I have in recent weeks, for some dumb reason, become addicted to doing the daily Jumble in the newspaper. Yes, I know it's lame, but I'm not smart enough to do the crossword. Anyway, it's very upsetting because some days I just cannot unscramble a word, and I think, "This is shameful. My parents didn't shell out thousands of dollars for my education so I could sit around for hours on end wondering what RAWFE is." Do you know what RAWFE is? Well, it's WAFER, of course. Do you want to know when I figured that out? About two seconds ago, when I typed it. Do you know when I started that puzzle? Saturday. Okay, so I haven't been working continuously on it or anything, but still–what does it say about me that I look at RAWFE and can't see anything but WRAFE, FEWAR, and WEFAR, and it's actually still bothering me on Monday afternoon? What I hate, of course, is when Sugar Daddy–who couldn't freaking care less about the Jumble because he has a Ph.D. and isn't so starved for intellectual stimulation that he does word puzzles designed for people approaching senility–does the Jumble over my shoulder just so he can feel superior to me. Of course, what does that say about him? We were made for each other.
Speaking of being made for each other, today is my parents' wedding anniversary. They don't really celebrate it anymore, being how my mother is dead and my father's married to another woman now, but it's information just as useful as the rest of what's in this post, so I don't have to explain why I mention it. I've always liked the story of my parents' courtship, even though there are few things ickier in life than thinking about your parents being in love, and even though it isn't that remarkable. But I think it's kind of cute. My mother was a divorced mother of a young daughter (my older sister), working at the
Oregon
Graduate
Center (now Oregon Graduate Institute) as a secretary, and my father was a mild-mannered young graduate student working on his master's degree in chemistry. Everyone in the department told my mother to stop flirting with that nice young man because he had a girlfriend back in
Idaho that he was practically engaged to. My mother didn't really have any intention of ensnaring some unsuspecting farm boy-turned-scientist because she'd more or less given up on dating Mormon men. It was the '60's, and most eligible men in the church were not too keen on marrying a woman with life experience. (That's a euphimism, by the way.)
As it happened, my father didn't really have any intention of marrying this girl back in
Idaho, either, so he asked my mother if she wanted to go with him to a party. Thinking it was just a friendly/platonic thing, she said okay. When he came to her apartment to pick her up, he spent some time playing with my sister. My mother said that was when she began to see him in a different light. Two weeks later they were engaged. Five weeks after that they were married, and 366 days later I was born. (Please, hold your applause until the end.) They were married 26 years and had five children (including my big sister, whom my father adopted). To my knowledge, Dad never guessed Mom's weight or did crossword puzzles over her shoulder. And Mom never started a weblog in which she wrote all the annoying crap Dad did. But they were happy, all the same.
POST SCRIPT: I'm going shopping for a book or two tomorrow that I can read on my 5-hour plane ride. Any suggestions? No Anna Karenina. I want a sexy page-turner. Okay, it doesn't have to be sexy. Just something that will take my mind off my nausea and that really uncomfortable seat.
Verbatim quotes, taken out of context
"Mommy's not crazy, only Daddy."–Mister Bubby
"You're a weirdo, Daddy."–Elvis
**********************************************
Today was a good day at church. No snacks were ground into the carpet, no one grabbed fistfuls of sacrament bread, and only one child decided to stuff pretzels in my shoe.
**********************************************
You know that scene in The Ring where that freaky girl is crawling out of the well? That's me crawling out of my menses-induced stupor of last week. I didn't accomplish much in the last three days, but I considered giving myself bonus degree-of-difficulty points to make me feel better. I did not clean out my fridge. I did not collect 1,000,000 points.
Sugar Daddy's giving me A.R.'s right and left now. ("A.R." is Big Satan-speak for "assignment"–it stands for "Action Required," e.g. at a pot luck one might ask, "Whose A.R. was it to bring the potato salad?") So my A.R.'s for this week include gathering up all the loose change in the house and put it far, far away from where any child can reach it. Not because they might try to swallow it, but because they might do what they've been doing, which is strew it all over our floors. He wants me to do the same thing with all the yarn. See, my step-mother brought up all these boxes of crap that belongs to me and was being stored in their garage previously, and I'm still going through it. One box was just yarn. I used to be big into crocheting, when I was young, and so this is all the remnant yarn from crocheting projects past. Which means that none of it matches or coordinates and it's all really unfashionable colors. But I got this wild hair because the ladies' auxiliary is making lap afghans for the Meals on Wheels people (the receivers of Meals on Wheels, not the delivery people), and this one lady made five of the suckers just out of leftover yarn in the church closet. So I thought, heck, I can do that–especially if there are any Meals on Wheels receivers who have particular nostalgia for the '80s. So I went down to the local craft store and got some crochet hooks, since I lost all of mine ages ago, and I've been crocheting while the kids throw around my balls of yarn and snip my skeins into ribbons. It's very relaxing. But SD thinks it looks "messy," or whatever, so fine. Inhibit our children's creativity. Let the Meals on Wheels guys get cold. It's no skin off my nose.
I was surprised to discover how addictive crocheting is for me at this stage of life. I could do it for hours. It seems to serve the same purpose for me that video games does for SD. The only difference is that SD is becoming a Jedi Knight and saving the world from evil, and I'm making stuff to keep housebound people's legs warm. Theoretically. I haven't crocheted anything for about a week, whereas he's completed several quests and saved a truckload of folks from Rancors and the like.
I enjoy crocheting, but I've always felt that it's kind of dorky. Knitting has always seemed so much sexier. I don't know why. Maybe because of Madame DeFarge. Not that Madame DeFarge was especially sexy, but you know, revolution and all that–that's pretty sexy. You don't see anyone fighting the power with a crochet hook. Of course not, because we crocheters like to work behind the scenes. Also, we make nicer doilies.
*********************************************
Elvis thinks he's giving up his nap. What a silly boy. I laugh so I won't cry. Once he stops napping, I'm going to have to give myself 1,000,000 points just for getting up in the morning.
So your yorel–or is it our yorel?–has been doing Christmas polling at his site. Right now he is asking for nominations for worst Christmas song ever. A couple weeks ago he asked readers what they thought about Target's decision not to allow the Salvation Army to stand outside their stores with their kettles and bells. Was Target Scrooge? Most of those who expressed an opinion said no. That didn't really surprise me. I, like many people, really like Target, and unless they were hosting Al Qaeda recruiting posts, I would not be inclined to boycott them or call them names. As much as I like the Salvation Army, I understand and appreciate that Target is just trying to avoid letting every Tom, Dick & Harry solicit donations at their storefronts. It's all good, people. My check's in the mail.
What surprised me is how many people said they were actually annoyed by the bell ringers. They didn't like feeling pressured to donate and feeling guilty for not giving when, for whatever reason, they either couldn't or didn't want to. I understand feeling pressured and guilty and how that leads to resentment. That's why I hate it when people show up on my doorstep or call me on the phone to solicit donations for their worthy causes. It's not that I don't care about their worthy causes, but I like to put a little more thought into my donations than is afforded in the ten seconds they give me to make up my mind. One is not always in the mood to make that decision. I understand all that. The thing I like about the SA kettle is that it seems to me such an innocuous way to ask for money. Actually, no one really asks you for anything. You can give or not give and be on your merry way. No pitiful little girl scouts saying, "Excuse me, would you like to buy some cookies?" No one asking if you'd like to save the Tillamook forest or help kids stay off drugs. Just some cat standing by a kettle and ringing a bell–and he doesn't even always make eye contact. What's to be annoyed by? You don't even have to do any hard math to determine your compassion-to-cash flow ratio because the SA will take whatever you give them and wish you a merry Christmas any which way. I've never met a bell ringer who didn't thank me for even the most trifling of donations. Or one who gave me a dirty look when I just smiled and walked on by. Either way, I don't feel guilty unless I think I have something to feel guilty for.
Truth be told, I feel worse driving past those cats with the cardboard signs at the freeway on-ramps.
I'm contemplating getting me one of them nom de plumes. Before I got married I had a fine last name–short, easy to spell and remember, and ethnically ambiguous. It also went well with my first name. Then I married my husband and now I have one of those ubiquitous Mormon surnames. (From the
Wyoming clan, not the
Utah clan, my husband is quick to point out. As if it made a difference.) It's not a bad name. It's just totally unsexy. Like you'd see it in print and think, "Looks like one of those repressed Mormon housewives who fancies herself a career gal." I'm looking for a little more mystery than that.
I've thought about just using my maiden (sorry, what's the PC term? original-family-birth surname) name, but it happens that there is another writer out there, up and coming as it were, who has the same name–my name! Can you believe the nerve? I've thought about using my initials, like J.K. Rowling, or J.R.R. Tolkien, but it looks kind of stupid on me. I think maybe I just need a whole new name.
So I went to Rum & Monkey to get some ideas, and I have it narrowed down to the following:
My Very British Name: Amanda Chamberlain
My Mormon Name: MaddLynAlain Josephinie
My Cool Alias: Madison Expialadocious
My Serial Killer Name: Marianna Crackemwitpipe
What do you think?
****************************************
P.S. So I realized after posting my TV list the other day that O.J.'s was running away in a Ford Bronco, not a Chevy Blazer. Kudos to you, gentle readers, for a) not knowing this and therefore not correcting me, and b) thinking it was totally trivial and not worth your time to correct. I have a superior class of subscribers!
I don't have time or patience to be clever today. Which is interesting because I did have time to surf the internet and learn that I am ADDICTED TO FREE SHIPPING at Amazon.com. I can't go to Target anymore, I can't go to Amazon, I can't go anywhere without spending money on stuff I don't really need. Yesterday I was at the Safeway and I was seriously considering buying some Veggie Booty. That's how bad it is, kids. Stop me before I shop again.
Giraffes Can't Dance Department
Each term my tap-dance instructor teaches the class a new routine. Over the summer we learned a bench routine done to a Joplin-esque rag. We looked very cute. This term she's having us tap to "Bad to the Bone." Just when I think I have no pride left, something comes along to inform me, no, I really did have some left, and there it goes.
I'm the only returning student this quarter. I like the new crop of tappers a lot, though. Especially the old man. Sorry if that's not PC, but he is one. A nice one. He gives our "Bad to the Bone" routine a much-needed shot of testosterone. Or something.
Wake me when this cruel election's over
Of late I tend to concur with Sugar Daddy's sentiment: I don't care who wins anymore; I just don't want to see any more of these stupid ads.
I read a great opinion piece in the Oregonian by
Portland writer Cathy Lamb, wherein she talks about attending a candidates forum at a local church. This is what she learned:
"Every candidate's opponent is a slug with bad teeth who will undoubtedly make rainbows and snowflakes illegal.
"As for themselves, each candidate is a beaming light in a tar-filled, politician-infested black pit. He/she will save you.
"In fact, if any opponent wins, the state will literally flip over, east side pulling the west, mountains and all, right into the Pacific Ocean. We will all be gobbled up by as-yet-undiscovered giant-sized people-swallowing blowfish.
"If the candidate who is present wins, the state will WIN A MAKEOVER! That's right. We will all receive clothing allowances from Nordstrom.
"Not to mention that we will all become thinner and richer. Our hair will glow. Our skin will unwrinkle. We will look hot in lingerie."
So there you have it, folks. If that isn't incentive to vote on Nov. 2, I don't know what is. Just make sure you vote for the right people (obviously, the non-slimy vertebrates who favor decriminalized rainbows), or we will ALL be sorry.
Of interest to my LDS readers
Meridian Magazine has an interesting interview with Mitch Davis (The Other Side of Heaven director) wherein he discusses the future of Mormon cinema. I was particularly intrigued with his ideas for which actor he would choose to play Joseph Smith. He says he would go with Tom Cruise or Matthew McConaughey. When I first read that, I thought, "Tom Cruise as Joseph Smith? Sure, in bizarro world." But the more I thought about it, the more I started to like the idea. (Of course, there's no way Richard Dutcher has the money to hire Tom Cruise for his Joseph Smith movie, but at least we don't have to worry about Val Kilmer anymore. I really like Richard Dutcher–I like Joseph Smith, for that matter, but…that scared me, kids.)
Problem is, of course, Cruise is way too short. Sorry, but I don't know if I could get past that. Of course, I had reservations about him playing Lestat in Interview with the Vampire, but he was actually pretty good in that. Not that I recommend that movie, of course. (Insert shifty-eyed emoticon here.) As for Matthew McConaughey, I just thought…Ew.
Davis' other picks included Daniel Day-Lewis and Hugh Jackman. Both of which I'm having a tough time imagining, but either way, we'd have ourselves one hot-looking prophet!
In Part Two of the interview
Davis weighs in on Napoleon Dynamite. It's not actually terribly interesting, but I thought I'd mention it anyway. I just had a mental image of Jon Heder as Joseph Smith. That was disturbing. Personally, I think it's a shame Richard Moll is too old to reprise the role. (See credit #84.) Hey, at least he'd be tall enough. On the other hand, he'd still make a great Brigham Young. Wouldn't he? Oh, come on!
Those of you who enjoyed taking my first quiz can look forward to my new quiz, "Which Crappy Mormon Movie Are You?"
Quote of the Day
"How can you be so serious on a film where you are dodging explosions…with Sir Alec Guinness…and an eight-foot
monkey…and the eight-foot monkey is the one flying the spaceship?"–Mark Hamill
That's why Mark Hamill will always be my favorite Star Wars actor.
When my stepmother came up, she brought with her about ten boxes of my stuff that have been gathering dust in her and my dad's garage for about 20 years. They very graciously stored it for me until Sugar Daddy and I bought the house–now it is mine, all mine. Crap.
Mind you, this junk has been whittled down already. Every time I visited them in California, I would go through boxes of stuff and wonder, "What the freak is this still doing here?" and throw most of it away. Every time my stepmother brought up the boxes, I'd say, "It's all junk. Throw it all away. I don't know what it is, I don't miss it, just get rid of it." And she would say, "Oh, no, I can't take that responsibility," and she would drop the subject because she knew she couldn't guilt me into taking it all on the plane with me.
So I've been going through some of these boxes and among my treasures are the following:
• Empty Crayola Caddy
• Casio PT-20 keyboard
• National Geographic Wildlife Cards
• Papier mache mask I made in fourth grade that never fit
• Doll clothes
• “Data Man” – a sort of Game Boy for math nerds in the early 1980s.
• Bonnet my mother made me for Pioneer Day when I was six
• Music box (plays “We’ve Only Just Begun&rdquo 
• Tiny Rubiks Cube that used to fit on a necklace (yes, it was functional—still is, though I don’t remember how to solve it anymore)
• My first novella
• Crocheted novelties
• Report card from the fifth grade (“good progress overall”—yeah, grade school was a real snore)
• Braid composed of my own hair (from a very traumatic haircut at 14)
• Camp Fire Girls badges
• Souvenirs from my father’s business trips
• Journals from my grade school years (What did I have to write about back then? Oh, you’d be surprised, my friend.)
Among the literary offerings:
Watership Down
Cyrano de Bergerac
Sister Carrie
House of the Seven Gables (which I never have read)
Rebecca
Chronicles of Narnia
1984
Aesop's Fables
Of Human Bondage
For the New Intellectual
A Dictionary of Synonyms and Antonyms
Is Elvis Alive?
Well, I know when you started reading your blogs this morning, you were probably thinking, "Man oh man, I hope somebody is going to start keeping a running inventory of all the crap in their garage, because that will be effing fascinating." You know who you are. I hope you're enjoying yourself.
The rest of you are appropriately wondering why I'm sharing this. I should think that would be obvious by now. I have nothing else to talk about. I had to cancel my therapy appointment this week because of a scheduling conflict, and I'm starting to feel like Adrian Monk without his Sharona. Unlike Adrian Monk (back on topic, sweetheart) I find myself in need of visiting organizedhome.com more frequently these days. I was reading an article there about my personal clutter style (I don't think it's up there anymore–sorry, kids), and I determined that I am a hybrid Hoarder/Sentimentalist. The Hoarder part of me keeps a lot of stuff because I think it will come in handy someday. I'm slowly learning to ignore this voice in my head. Harder to ignore is the Sentimentalist, who is the jerk responsible for the boxes in my garage. Obviously the reason I still own this stuff is because at some point it was important enough to me not to throw it away the minute it became irrelevant to my daily life. How much of it is still important to me? Not much. But the fact that I've kept it this long makes the thought of parting with it all the more melancholy, for some reason.
I've thought about giving the Crayola Caddy to my kids, but it really wouldn't hold enough of their art supplies to avoid being a bulky nuisance. Back when I first got this thing (not empty), I thought I had to be the luckiest girl on earth. Used to be, 64 crayons and eight markers were enough to serve any budding artist's needs. Well, times have changed. It is a very nice shade of yellow. Or do they call it "dandelion" now?
I have no recollection of earning merit badges, or whatever they're called, while I was in
Camp
Fire Girls. (This was before they became all "PC" and started letting in boys. I don't know what they call themselves now.) Technically, I never was a Camp Fire Girl. I was a Bluebird, which is to a Camp Fire Girl what Brownie is to Girl Scout, and that was more than enough for me. I didn't enjoy Bluebirds at all. My older sister was heavily into
Camp
Fire Girls, and my dad was a Boy Scout type (understatement of the century), so my parents kind of assumed I should be into it, too. I did it for three years because I thought it was the law, like school. Then my parents told me it was actually my choice, and rather than saying, "Why the freak didn't you tell me that in the first place?!" I decided to quietly withdraw my support for the organization.
I have no idea what the symbols on these badges mean. I think one of them stands for ecology. It looks kind of like a stylized football, but it's green, so it must have something to do with the environment. What I did to earn it, I can't begin to imagine. The only part of my Camp Fire experience I remember is making a decorative pillow and selling candy door to door with my older sister. Who brought me along because she thought people would be more inclined to buy candy from someone who was littler and cuter. No kidding. That was the reason. So she got the credit for all the sales because she was the one who gave a rat's patootie about that stuff, and my mother bought me a stuffed monkey for my trouble. I named him Willie. I don't know where he is, which is too bad, because I wouldn't mind seeing him again.I have a lot of letters from friends I lost contact with no less than ten years ago. I also have letters from everyone in my family that I received while I was living in Portland by myself at the tender age of 18. My younger sister tells me she's sorry I lost my job, but that maybe it was for the best since it didn't sound like I was very happy there anyway. "Not that it matters either way, since they canned ya!" My brother, who was ten at the time and probably writing at my mother's suggestion, tells me that his basketball team is ranked second in the league and goes on to detail a particularly cheesy episode of Doogie Howser, M.D. Most of the letters are from my mother, who never wrote anything of import either. She liked to experiment with the word processing program. "Do you like this font?" Stuff like that.
Perhaps the most interesting thing in this collection is a sheet of paper from some self-esteem-enhancing exercise during my Free to Be You and Me-era grade school experience. At the top is written, "I Like 'Maddy' Because…" and underneath, in various styles of childish script is this:
She is smart.
She is tall.
She is very pretty.
She has pretty long hair.
She is a good friend!
She is funny at times.
She is shy but very nice.
What happened? Well, I cut my hair and everyone else grew, and I didn't cut such an impressive figure anymore. That was a joke, kids. I'm still funny at times.
How much of this will I end up keeping, when all is said and done? Probably all of it because I'm too emotionally lazy to come to terms with my feelings about it. And too romantic to ignore that nagging guilt over parting with any relic of the past, no matter how meaningless it is.
Sugar Daddy said he'd buy me a premium account, but I'm not so sure I want it. When they gave me the free trial back in May, I didn't do much with it. I mean, I'm not really into posting pictures and whatnot (has anyone noticed that I've been using the word whatnot a lot lately?), partly because I'm writing this thing one-armed half the time as it is and I just don't have patience for that crap. Which wouldn't be crap if it weren't for the real reason I'm not into doing pictures and etc. (okay, whatnot)–I am not a decorator. Every time I say this I'm reminded of Al Rantel saying, "Not every decorator is gay, but every gay man is a decorator." That has nothing to do with anything, but I heard him say it several years ago, and it stays with me, whether I want it to or not. That's neither here nor there.
The point is, I am not a decorator, never have been. SD is a decorator. (And using the Al Rantel formula, that does not necessarily mean that he's gay. Even if he does own that *NSync CD.) SD is always trying to interest me in his latest scheme for our living room, but I just can't get into it. I don't care if our paint goes with our oak trim. I don't care if our woods match or not. I don't care if we buy a blue couch or a red couch or a chaise longue or beanbag chairs–well, okay, not beanbag chairs. Not for the living room anyway. But then–eh, never mind. I don't care.
I went through a brief period of caring, when we first made an offer on the house. SD immediately started scheming about decor and "themes" and…whatnot–and I started to feel a tad threatened. Because I'm a woman and a woman is instinctively defensive about her right to enforce her "vision" on the hearth, which is supposedly her domain. How many men complain that the house they live in isn't really theirs? Oh, shut up, you know you do. Anyway, I found myself engaging in this knee-jerk reaction, extremely upset that my husband was violating the turf that was mine only in the most abstract, theoretical way. In reality I had actually relinquished this turf–didn't hand it over, merely tossed it to the wind–before we were even married. So what was I upset over? I guess I had been waiting so long to have a space that was mine, and I realized that I wanted it to, in at least some small way, reflect my personality and my values–vague though they may be (aesthetically speaking).
Once I understood that this was all that was going on, I started to car