Belatedly Best Wishing

Dang! Am I a pitiful excuse for a blogger, or who? I can't believe my last post was a month ago. Where did that 1/12th of the year go?
I should probably tell you that I've been in a coma since Thanksgiving and therefore lacked the motor skills required to type while I teetered perilously close to landing in the big blogspot in the sky.

But that would be a rather HUGE lie.

Truth is, I have spent the last 30 days meditating furiously to the mantra
~'I will not stress this year'~.

Furious meditation is kind of an oxymoron, huh?
Whatev. So although I did not stress, I didn't do some other things either.
Like blog.

Stressless December wasn't a total success but it was close.
I ended up taking an emergency vacation day last Tuesday to finish up my shopping and get some baking done.
Lefse, anyone?

But even as we were finally getting around to decorating sugar cookies on Christmas Eve afternoon, I was calm.... although you might not know it from the erratic icing on my gingerbread men, some of which were NOT intended to be that anatomically correct.

For extra bonus points I should mention that my in-laws had already been in residence for FOUR days at that point.
~'I will not stress this year'~
~'I will not stress this year'~

True, the dog didn't get a Christmas bath.
And only the really bad areas of my carpet got shampooed.
Oh, and a shovel was never once put to the driveway after the last storm.
And no one died.
Did you even know that if you drive over the snow enough times it will come to resemble a cleared, albeit slightly lumpy driveway.
That's assuming you have all wheel drive and/or some serious tread on your tires.
And a good run at it.
Watch out for the big, black car turds, though.

This is kind of off topic but do you know what's fun about living on a hill?
Watching people with bald tires try to make it up the hill in a snowstorm.
And fail.
And instead of giving up and backing down the hill they just keep spinning and spinning until smoke starts rising or they slide sideways into the gutter where they have to sit until the tow truck comes.
It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling to know that they have been temporarily taken out of the traffic mayhem game.

Sorry, I digress.

Anyway, I wanted you all to know that I am alive and suffering from nothing but bad time economy.
I do have high hopes for the new year, though.
Yep, blogging and exercising will be my top priorities.
Hahahahaha.

Of course there is always time to take pictures of Santa's little helper.
Merry Holidays, everyone!!!


Okay, so I know receiving is not the spirit of the season but I gotta know: What was your best present???

Let the (holiday) games begin

Wishing you all a calm Thanksgiving!


(Except my Canadian friends, you just have a happy Thursday.)

Stay safe everybody.


And don't forget to send me your leftover pie.

Peace, hugs & Tums,
Jane

Makeup Days

The other Saturday morning Omega caught me applying the usual bit of makeup to my mug. She usually doesn’t poke her head out into the weekend until well into the pm’s so possibly this was something she hadn’t witnessed before.

She asked where I was going. I told her I had no plans, which caused her to give me the squinty-eye/doubtful look.
“Then, WHY, are you putting on makeup?”

“Because,” I explained “putting on makeup, as well as deodorant, is my gift to civilization.”

She seemed to take this as one more sign that her 50-ish mother is on the expressway to crazy-old-ladyhood. Okay, I don’t deny that course, but I don’t think that the use of makeup is one of the milestones. Is it?

I’ve never been a heavy user but I find that the older I get, the more I prefer a bit of mascara magic (applied with a wand, duh) on my lashes… just so everyone can tell that I have lashes. And yes, I do this even if I intend to spend the whole day working in my yard because I don’t want to become known in the ‘hood as that dotty old lady with no eyes!

Plus I was a product of the ‘Keep America Beautiful’ generation.

I have friends who wouldn’t consider getting out of the car to pump gas without their full face on – everything from foundation to lip liner to eyelid primer. And I have others who consider chap stick to be adequate.

I’m somewhere in between. Where are you? And, because I’m nosy, are you using more or less these days than you used to?

Just trying to get a feel for the competition, you know.
In case I want to enter the Ms. Sunset Manor pageant someday.

So smokin!

Hey Smokers! Do you all know what today is?

Uh-huh. Time once again for the Great American Smokeout. Yeah, I know you don’t want to hear about it because it only reminds you how much you really don’t want to be a smoker. And how annoying it is to have your nasty little habit held up to the light by all those self-righteous nonsmokers. And especially how, darnitall, you will not be told when to quit. If you DO choose to quit, it will be on your own schedule. If ever. Am I right?

Wait, wait! Don’t hit that back button!!! Really, I am NOT here to preach.

Seriously. I was one of you. For a long time. And I tried to quit manymanymany times so I know how nearly impossible it is. But, since I have only slightly more self control than a golden retriever puppy, I’m thinking if I can do it, so too can you! You just need the proper motivation, am I right?

Okay, you probably need more than that but since I’m often asked how I quit – did I mention that it’s been nearly 10 years? – and I have no idea how I did it, I’m going to make up some stuff.

Just kidding. Partly. While I don’t specifically remember, if I ever did know, HOW I quit, I do remember some of the WHY I quit.

First of all there's the money. Sorry, but my profession requires me to put that at the head of the list. And, this is the coolest part anyway, because if you quit smoking right now you will be one of the few people in this struggling economy to actually INCREASE your income. If you inhale anywhere near a pack a day, that amounts to nearly two thousand dollars a year of after-tax money. I know, you could buy some pretty sweet stuff with that.

Plus, there are the smoking fees that you hide from yourself: the higher car, health and life insurance premiums, the cost of everything you damage by playing with fire, all that gum and tic tacs you have to buy to hide your smoker breath, and what about all those extra trips you have to make to the Kwickymart?

Then there’s your health to consider. That should actually be first but I think you know it’s bad for you. I will say that one thing that inspired me was focusing on the benefits of quitting. I found a list that tells you what happens 20 minutes after you quit and 12 hours and 2 weeks and on and on. It's nice to know what you're gaining for all your misery.

And time. OMG, have you ever stopped to think about how much time it takes to smoke? I mean, it’s not just the few minutes of actual smoking. There’s the time spent looking for your pack, and finding a light and then getting yourself to a place where you are actually allowed to smoke. Here in You-tah, that’s basically a 2 acre plot of land out by the Nevada border. I think it’s also part of a missile range so be careful with those matches. Butanyway, you then have to get yourself back and try to remember where you were and what you were doing before you were hit with the insatiable urge indulge your addiction.

You know how else quitting has saved me time? When I quit, I had to give up talking on the phone because it was just too hard if I couldn’t smoke and I’ve never really gone back to it. I’m sure my mother thinks I have the weakest bladder in the world because I would usually end phone conversations after about two minutes with a ‘gotta go pee bye’. Not very original, I know, but polite people don't challenge you on it.

By far the biggest reward for becoming a nonsmoker is freedom. You can't believe how liberating it is to no longer have to think about the how and where and when of your next nicotine fix. I did miss it for a long time. I still dream that I start smoking again and I can't tell you how disappointed I get in my dream-self.

Quitting is also a free pass to be absolutely ornery for a while. Don't even try to hold back because you will be all the more likely to go running back to your crutch, Mr. Ciggy.

So that's my sermon for today. Okay, turns out I AM here to preach. But becoming a nonsmoker is a change that is SO worth it in SO many ways that I don't feel bad for tricking you. I promise you will never regret it.

Okay, gotta run so you'll have to run spellcheck and grammer nazi your ownself.

Men are from Jupiter (which rhymes with stupider)

At a bus stop not far from my office, there is a sloped area covered with size large river rock - a demonstration of The Organization's dedication to water conservation. Or it's disdain for steep water bills. Or both.

We do live in the desert so it is a marvelous thing to see that someone had the good judgment to replace much of the skinny little grass strippage with something more drought tolerant. Like rocks, because we have TONS of rocks in You-tah and they aren't all being used to fill our legislators' skulls.

While rocks are low maintenance, they're not particularly interesting. Unless some enterprising soul - I'm guessing an art student, a potter in particular - has left his mark.

If you've ever spent much time waiting at a bus stop.... the SAME bus stop every day, you know that pretty soon you run out of things to look at and you find yourself staring down at drought-proof parking strips while mentally making your evening must-do list.

Until one day you notice a rock that looks like it has a face! Very subtle features, but unmistakably human. Huh, you think, cool rock! But your bus comes before you can get a closer look.

Next day, or maybe a week later - it's hard to affix a time line to bus stop coma - you have the same experience. That seeing-the-face thing. Only this time you have arrived uncharacteristically early, so you have time to check it out and notice, wow, there is another one!
And another and another....

Amid the hundreds of the basic roundish rocks, averaging maybe 6-8 inches across, someone had cleverly tucked handmade faux rocks with facial features into the mix. They appeared ceramic in origin, made of multiple shades of clay with various size and expression. Nothing about them was obvious.

I just don't think I can express how excited I got. True, I tend to find delight in odd places but this was a complete Nobel Prize for Cool, odd thing for me.

And what made it even cooler was the fact that no one else at that bus stop ever seemed to see what I saw. At first I was tempted to share this coolest, cool thing with my oblivious stopmates. But I didn't because first, there's the unwritten no-chatting rule at bus stops, which is very similar to the elevator etiquette that says: Everybody face forward and ignore each other! Secondly, it felt like the kind of thing that would lose magic if it had to be pointed out. Or possibly I was just feeling greedy, point is that I kept mum. Which is unusual for me.

Meanwhile, I'm sure those around me were all making mental Post-its that said 'Do NOT sit next to the crazy Bus Stop Mona Lisa Lady who smiles at rocks!!'

I'm not saying that I was the only one who ever saw those faces. That bus stop is visited by hundreds of people every day while I only know what goes on between about 5:04 and 5:09 Monday through Friday when the worker bees gather to head home from work - thinking about what's for dinner or how they're going to fake their way through another 8th grade Algebra homework assignment.

I badly wanted to get some pictures of this rock project because someone had gone to a LOT of work and wouldn't that make a great desktop background? Sadly I never remembered my camera and didn't think to use my phone camera.

And then one Monday the opportunity was lost forever. I got to the bus stop and found... pieces. Bunches of scattered pottery shards because some a$$hole had taken and smashed as many faces, I assume, as they could find.
Over the next week or so the rest either disappeared or joined the Humpty Dumpty club.

Months later, I am still kind of angry about it and I don't know what prompted me, but the other day I related the whole sad story to my husband. Now I didn't expect he would understand my excitement over fake rocks, but when I wondered what kind of a sleaze bag would do something like that, I did not expect the response that I got.

I said "I just don't get it. I mean, I can sort of understand people stealing them; I would guess that they like them so much, they want one for themselves, but I just can't make sense of someone who would just destroy them. What were they thinking?"

To which Homer shrugged and replied "I can't believe you would expect that they were thinking anything. I'm sure it was boys. Boys smash things."

Yeah, that's what he said. And don't yell at me because this is coming from a guy who once threw rocks to smash out half the windows of his neighbors' large passenger van. His friend did the other half. He was probably only 5 or 6 but he says he still remembers how much fun it was to see who could make the biggest spider in the glass.

Yeah. And suddenly I don't feel so bad that his Y chromosome won't be moving on to the next generation.

They are Pants-tastic!

One of the side effects of my summer of bicycle commuting has been a marked reduction in my assular acreage. Yay!
Except now none of my pants fit. Boo!
Since I haven't had two spare minutes to rub together, let alone the time it takes to tailor pants, I had to break down and go shopping.

Everybody say 'Ahhhh, poor you' in your most sarcastic voice.
Yeah well, when you are 5'11", most of your pants shopping is done via the internet where there are NO DRESSING ROOMS and have you bought pants lately?

It is no longer just a matter of size and stature. Nowadays you have to take into account your degree of curvi- vs. flat-assedness.
Do you want flare, boot cut, straight or my-feet-are-stuck!?
Above the waist, at the waist, slightly below the waist, low waist or free-bikini-wax-with-purchase waist?
And as long as we're talking mid-section, are you equipped to utilize the contoured waist, the secret expansion waist or the no-waist waist? Wtf's that? For women who go straight from hip to boob?

And they are so evasive about who they are designed to fit. They give them cute names like Mercer and Modern and Marisa and Diva cuts. They use obscure terms like generous and tapered and relaxed and slim. Can pants really relax?
Only if you spill a martini on them.

Anyway, by my calculations there are about 15 fidzillion possibilities so what are the odds that you are going to end up with something that fits well when you can't try them on? Probably 15 fidzillion to one. Duh, Jane.

I was so disheartened when I couldn't find a No-ass/Mini-muffin top/Poochie thighs fit that I was tempted to quit shopping and get back to work. Ah, but then I felt my baggy underwear sliding down inside my baggy pants and it's just not a splendid or professional feeling so I bucked up and reverted to my traditional pants shopping method: buy the first ones I find that are on sale and available in my size.
Did I also mention that I (now) have what seems to be the most popular tall size and therefore the one that is least available?

Well, my aggravation did not go unrewarded. Three new pair of pants arrived on Tuesday and can I tell you that already this week I have saved about half a day by not having to wrestle with a safety pin every time I visit the restroom. And today I am wearing a pair of stretch jeans that I have not had to pull up over my crack ONCE! And I'm not even wearing a belt!!! They are awesome and I think I now understand the concept of the other crack. If the feeling I get wearing these pants was only available on a street corner for 20 bucks, I would be rooming with Lindsay down at the Cir*que.
And if the latest magazines are forreals, I'd be prettier.

Have a skippy weekend, everybody!

It's a wonder she doesn't sound like Marge Simpson

A friend’s grandson had his tonsils and adenoids removed a last week and Grandma was very worried about the little guy going under the knife. Of course she was.

Me, being the tonsillectomy veteran that I am, told her ‘Bah! Don’t worry!’ Which she still did but she later reported that everything went ‘just fine - just like you said it would’.

As if I am an expert. I talk a good game because fifteen years is a lot of time to sort of smooth over my memory of Alpha’s surgery. I mean it really did go well but probably could have been better – if she had had a different mother.

Alpha had tonsils the size of Tootsie Pops almost from the time she was born – inherited from her father’s side, as most of the troublesome traits tend to be. By the time she was 5 they were so big that that little thingy that hangs at the back of your throat? Yeah, uvula or whatever. It had creases in the front and (I assume) back from being squished between the Tootsie tonsils. She also had nasty ear infections and snored like her grandmother (dad’s side again). Once she began dabbling in sleep apnea, her pediatrician called time out – as in TIME to take the tonsils OUT!

Aack! Cut up my baby? No, not my gentle little happy giant.

I’ll skip over all my neurotic second guessing and second opinioning and second third drinking and get to the actual surgery, which I did have the good sense to set up at the finest children’s hospital around (Okay, that’s where my health insurance sent me but I really would have picked it myself!) and a tonsillectomy was scheduled for June in hopes of working around ear infection season despite my definitely dragging heels.

I mean, it feels so wrong - handing over a strapping, healthy child to be surgically modified. By a knife! I know, I know, this probably edging into the great circumcision debate but really, you can live without a penis. I’m talking about my daughter’s throat! A necessary conduit for life! Besides, I have no opinion in the foreskin discussion. That is my reward for carefully harvesting only my husband’s X chromosomes.

Anyway, we showed up at the hospital at 8am and took Alpha through all the pre-surgical rigmarole, which included cute jammies and slippers and pink pony band-aids over the needle sticks that those tricky pediatric nurses seemed to pull off without even being noticed.

At 10 am sharp she walked bravely down the hall holding hands with the anesthesiologist. Gelp!

To avoid the uncool appearance of nervous, pacing parentness, Homer and I wandered down to grab a pop in the cafeteria and were still arguing about who was going to pay the tab when my cell phone rang - the doctor was looking for us. After only 20 minutes??? Oh no, they had lost her! And I didn’t mean misplaced. I had visions of her little throat bleeding uncontrollably after the evil doctor carelessly plucked out her tonsils - probably using some old rusty nail clipper and ragged tongue depressor.

We rushed back and met the surgeon who recapped the surgery as a smooth and simple tonsil- and adenoidectomy. He hadn’t known how dreadful her adenoids were until he got a peek behind the tonsils. Wow, two ectomies for the price of one co-pay. Christmas in June!

And now Alpha was ours to tend in recovery. As promised the recovery room had a Disney movie playing and offered popsicles and drinks. It was a dim, quiet room and quite peaceful in spite of the six or so other ectomy patients with loving parents hovering near.

Poor Alpha! So brave, but Mommy's here for you.

I leaned in toward Alpha and asked her what she would like. A drink? A popsicle? Her lips moved but I couldn’t hear what she was saying (keep in mind this was back when my hearing was 20/20). So I leaned in closer and asked again. She squeaked out a little something through her freshly butchered throat but, darn it, I just couldn’t make it out. So I asked once more.

And she yelled ‘Please MOVE!’

I was blocking the movie.

And I made her yell.

All the parents turned and shot me those looks that said ‘What a rotten mother! To make your child yell in her condition!’ Or so I imagined. I felt this big so I sat down and shut up and faster than you could say happily ever after, the movie was over and we were on our way home. Not one tear had been shed. In spite of me.

After two hours Alpha had had enough of bed rest and asked to jump on the trampoline. Even I could see that might be a poor choice so I spent the next two days holding her down and demanding that she act sick. I was warned that the third post-surgical day could be the worst. And it was. By then it was like trying to hang on to a dozen stringless balloons in a hurricane. Therefore, on the 4^th day I caved and let her go back to summer camp. She never looked back and I have chosen to file the experience in my head under the ‘delusions of good parenting’ category, thankyouverymuch.

Bossy vs Miss Hyphens

As I wandered into the office this morning, rummaging through my bag:

Me: Crapnuts, I think I have some bad news.

Trusty Assistant (in her signature smug tone): Let me guess. You forgot your office keys.

Me: No, Miss OCD-Virgo-who-has-never-forgotten-or-misplaced-a-single-thing-in-her-entire-life, I did NOT forget my keys….. It’s my wallet.

TA: What about it.

Me: I took it out to file and pay taxes online last night.

TA (with her judgmental eyebrow cocked): File your taxes…. In October.

Me: Shush you, Miss File-in-January-and-miss-all-the-fun-of-an-extension-hanging-over-your-head-for-six-months! UHH! I remember holding it in my hand and thinking ‘I’ve GOT to get this back in my bag.’ GAH! I am so pissed at myself.

TA: Well now, why would you need your wallet?

Me: Lunch? Remember we’re going to Rio?

TA: Yes, but do YOU remember that it’s Bosses Day and I’m buying.

Me: That’s totally not necessary. And would only encourage my witchy ways. Oh! Here it is in the tax binder! Geez, I am SUCH a dork!

TA: Okay. I’ll give you that one.

She is darn lucky it isn’t Administrative Professional’s Day because her smart mouth would cost her some very good Mexican food.

And no, I will NOT admit to her that I forgot my office keys.

Honestly!!

(Quite) a while back I got word from Lorna the Bathtime Blogger, that she had an award for me over at her place. I was tempted to go all lazy-crazy on her about why SHE couldn't bring it to ME, but then I started thinking about the Academy awards and Nobel prizes and how they aren't delivered, so quick as molasses, I zipped over and picked it up.... like 2 and a half weeks later.

Whew! Long sentence, huh? I better slow down on the caffeine.

So, anyway, this is the award. (What the heck is that tied around the elbow? A tourniquet from cutting the arm off?)

And although I am honored that Lorna believes me to be an honest, from-the-heart blogger, I'm also a bit exhausted from cutting and pasting and hauling it way the heck over here. And now, after reading the fine print, I see my work has just begun. The directions say I have to list ten honest things about myself (aack!) and pass the award on to seven more bloggers who write heartfelt prose. Well at least I don't have to go buy a dress and get all fussied up.

Okay... ten honest things. This could take some time.

1. I'm a total hypocrite. My hypocrisy really shines when I drive. I will fully cuss out the lady in the blue minivan for doing exactly what I did yesterday. I know it and I'm not proud of it. I just can't stop it. Even if it is completely apparent that I had a MUCH better reason for doing that thing.

2. I am freakishly attracted to shiny metallic objects. It must be the raccoon in me because I have been known to pick up hubcaps from the roadside. This does NOT apply to wearable sparklies like glitter, metallic clothing, or diamond studded handcuffs.

And here I am a week later working on #3. Told you this wasn't going to be quick.

3. I am a procrastinator. My philosophy is why do today what you might not have to do tomorrow? Seriously, what if I got mowed down by a gravel truck on April 14th? I would have totally wasted all that time I spent doing my tax returns early.

4. I think my bosses have too high opinions of me. Some days I feel like a complete poser.

5. I love having teenagers much more than I ever liked having babies or toddlers. I mean I have loved my daughters every day of their lives but frankly, they scared me until they were almost eye level.

6. I do not believe that I will ever be okay with unpainted toe nails. On myself, I mean. Even if I fall victim to the darkness of dementia, I swear that one tiny cognizant part of me will KNOW and that, my friends, will be my hell - staring down at bare, and probably fungicized, toes.

7. I like to do cross-stitch. Not exactly an action sport but it is just the therapy I need at times when nothing else in my life fits perfectly into a color-coded grid.

8. I have no sense of direction. I'm notorious for going the wrong way every time I exit a store in the mall. Luckily, I did not pass this on to my children who often have to pluck me by the shirt back and spin me a 180. I guess you can figure out why they always insist on driving.

Oh, so close, only two more! Hmm....

9. I CANNOT sing. I couldn't carry a tune even if you put it in my purse and zipped it shut. The good news is I don't sing. Unless I'm alone or wanting to hurt someone.

10. The thing that is currently scaring the $hit out of me is how fast time flies. I am often shocked and panicked by how fast Monday becomes October and tomorrow becomes two years ago. I have too much yet to do and I am not at all ready to stare at my toes!

And now.... one of the things I have to do is pass this little gem on to seven other people. Since most of you probably got this award l-o-n-g ago, hmm.... I think I will do a little research and hand out the awards in my next post.

Meanwhile, have a dang skippy weekend.

Peace, Love, Long weekend.

Like Cartalk, but prettier

Monday morning carpool, waiting at a red light, watching pedestrians:

Jane: "Is it just me or are there are a lot more Asians on campus this year?"

Alpha: "Hmm, I don’t know…. It’s probably like when you buy a car and you start noticing them everywhere."

Jane (exhibiting her total lack of self-control): "So you’re saying that I’m seeing Asians because I own a Toyota?"

Alpha (eyes rolling): "No, like you saw a bunch of them one day and now you are noticing them more." , (Then moving on) "You do know that Indians and Russians are technically Asians, too...."

Jane: "Yeah, but they don’t make a decent car so they’re not as noticeable."

I guess it's pretty clear why she doesn't leave home, huh?

Eight Ball in the Corner Canal

Dear Lazy Homeowner on 20th Street:

If you should happen to notice that your trash can is not in its usual place almost completely blocking the bike lane in front of your house, worry not, it hasn't traveled far.

I won't bore you with a lecture on how the trash collectors only visit your street on Mondays no matter how long you leave your can out, or point out that if you would park it just a little more to the IN or the the OUT it would be navigable or even snarkily remark that it has wheels for a darn good reason.

No, I will just suggest that you change out of your Italian loafers before you attempt to wrangle your curb ornament out of the irrigation canal because when it came down to making a skippy-quick decision whether to become retread on a plumbing truck or knock your trash can into next Tuesday, I chose the selfish route.

Oh, and before you go after it, you might want to make sure your shots are up to date and check for open sores because it looks fairly foul down there.

p.s. - Maybe I could have caught it.
p.p.s. - But I didn't even try.

So much to learn, such little brain

Whew! Now that yesterday is over, I'm anxious to hear how everyone's kids survived the President's socialist indoctrination speech. Did your students come home and pack their bags for China or are they determined to stay and fight the imperialist repression? Or were they totally sheltered from all that hard work/personal responsibility propaganda?

I'm curious because my only K-12 kid was working in the school preschool during the speech and for some reason they have no TV. I KNOW! How unAmerican is THAT? Soennyway she missed it.

When they announced that President Obama would be addressing school children about staying in school, you would have thought that his speech was going to be all about condoms, gay marriage and hard lemonade for all the fuss.

Seriously, when I thought I heard my local news anchor say that some 'Parents are taking issue with Obama’s speech', I convinced myself that he must have actually said that 'Herons are baking tissues on Bahamas beach'.
My hearing malfunction makes it easier to ignore things that might get me worked up. So I did.
Ignore it, I mean.

Even though parents were calling their schools and district bigwigs demanding that their children’s time not be 'wasted' listening to the President of the United States tell them to stay in school because that was probably just a ploy to tinker with their impressionable minds. Some parents were even threatening to keep their children completely out of school yesterday. Some teachers were being required to get permission slips signed by their parents before they were allowed to view the speech. Woo hoo! Let's here it for open-mindedness.

One of the advantages of living in the reddest of red states is that most days I go to bed feeling like the most rational, sensible person in the world. Although You-tah doesn’t hold the copyright on freaky, it must be sold at Co$tco in very large, cheap bundles - with rebates because boy howdy, it runs rampant.

Happily, our high school seemed to be a bit more reasonable. The principal just sent out a voice mail telling parents to email her if they wanted their child to opt out of the broadcast. Which I did not. And still that kid missed it. How am I ever going to get her brainwashed now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm so excited that Alpha is back to school and carpooling with me - even if it is only 3 days a week this semester - because I learn so much from my college girl. This morning... as we sat perfectly still in traffic on the 215:

Alpha (halfway through a large cup of JavaJoe's): Oh, hey, today's the ninth! Mattie says that because it's 9/9/09 and 9+9+9=27 and 2+7=9 something BIG is going to happen today! Maybe this is it!

Jane (too busy shifting gears to drink anything): Huh?

Alpha: The nines thing! Maybe Jesus is up there blocking traffic. People would probably stop to see Jesus, right?

Jane hoped the traffic tie-up would be because someone was handing out free helpings of rationality.

But it was neither. :o(

Weptember

In case you missed the memo, it's National Wear White Week. NWWW is the week leading up to Labor Day when you cram in a final wearing of all the cute WHITE stuff that the Fashion Nazis *coughKAT* prohibit the wearing of after Labor Day.

Okay, I made that up. The National Week part, not the Fashion Nazis. They are fer-reals. The minute the clock strikes Day-after-Labor-Day, they tell us to put away our white shoes and skirts and pants. Probably jackets, too, but it seems like most things worn above the waist are safe. Apparently there are intricacies to 'the rules'.
Why?
Where did this come from?
I have no idea but as is my way, I don't understand it so I'm going to poke fun at it.

Don't mistake me for bitter just because I was ridiculed last year for wearing my white linen pants on September 4th, which had the bad fortune to fall AFTER Labor Day. So even though September 4th is a perfectly legal white-pants day THIS year, last year it was not and I was given a rash of crap that alas, is not a good thing to get when you are wearing white pants because they do not hide either a rash or crap very well.
In my defense, the weather was still sunny and hot but more importantly those pants were freshly IRONED! Seriously, no sane woman packs away white linen pants that have been painstakingly ironed. LINEN, people! I will never get back those 20 minutes nor will I let them go to waste.

I was originally going to lie about next Tuesday being National Wear White After Labor Day-In Your Face Snooty Fashionistas Day!
But that's so awkward. And who am I to tell you what to wear.
I just don't want you to waste your good ironing time.
So that's why I made up the National WWW day.
To save you the same wicked fate.

You are SO welcome.

peace, love, panty lines

Do these things happen to other people?

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Okay, I promised I would share this story and I've been trying to get it done but my mental keyboard keeps jamming and.... oh hell! I just hope this is semi-understandable. Also note the battle I fought with the blogspot spacing demon. Yeah. I lost.


A few weeks back I woke briefly at too-dark o'clock thinking that I heard a weird noise coming from the other end of the house. If you know much about me, you know that since last November everything sounds bit odd to me. And if you know anything at all about me, you know that I am a VERY sound sleeper.

~~I hate to brag but sleeping really IS what I do best.~~

So the idea that a sound had the power to wake me should have set off some major alarms in the self-preservation part of my brain.

~~Like 'Wake up dummy so you live to sleep another night!'~~

You'd think.


But, you'd be wrong.

MY brilliant response was to assume it was Homer kicking up some kind of ruckus during one of his middle-of-the-night feeding frenzies.


Seriously, I consciously chose to NOT reach out and confirm that the spot next to me was, indeed, empty. My reasoning ran along the lines that if I were to encounter a warm body I would either have to worry about what the noise had been, or worry about who it was in bed with me.

~~Granted, that last option could have tilted more toward excitement than worry but either way, I knew it would mean I'd be losing some sleep.~~

So I rolled over on my good ear and got back on the train to Snoozeville.


Then... big derailment as I am jolted awake by bright light and foot poking.


"Jane!"
poke, poke
"Ja-ane!"
poke

~~It's amazing how many things can whiz through your sleep-befuddled brain when you are startled awake. Like OMG, I overslept! that stupid alarm! I told you it was broken, wow it's dark out, did the sun burn out? is it a fire?! OMG, am I wearing good underwear? where are the dog, the cats, the kids? why is he whispering? a burglar! OMG, if some slimy thief touches grandma's silver lutefisk spoon I will personally see that he has the biggest, baddest boyfriend in the entire prison!~~

But it sounds like Homer is saying "Jane! Jane! I've got a good one for you!"

~~Good frickin grief, drunk at 4:30 in the morning? He seriously did NOT wake me up to tell me a joke. WHAT is he saying???? something's in the dining room....????~~

"A what?"


"mruffdll"



"Huh?"


"uritull"

~~FYI - my hearing gets no better when I'm stressed.

Or awakened prematurely.~~

"A.... a pit bull?!?!"

"YES!"

~~I'm still suspicious that he's under the influence of something.~~

"Reee-leee?"

~~ Sure thing honey, where's Ashton Kutcher?~~

"YE-US!!!"

~~And it was so cute because he was standing at the foot of the bed - cleverly out of striking distance - sounding like a little kid reporting a boogy man under his bed.~~

But then he starts fleshing out his story with how he thought he heard PepperAnn whining (she doesn't whine, EVER.) so he bravely/foolishly went to see what was wrong with our precious princess when all of a sudden a growling pitbull charged at him from under the dining room table! Yeah. Pit bull. In the dining room. That's what he said. And strangely, I believed him.

AACK!!!

~~ I won't be getting back to sleep, will I?~~

Then I'm all freaking out about the safety of our dog and our slutty cats that tend to stay out all night and our daughters even though the daughters are 1000 miles away....

~~Let me tell you right now that it is IMPERATIVE that Homer and I never become part of any emergency response effort. Ever. We are not resourceful. We are not quick thinkers even when held hostage in our own bedroom without a phone or a weapon more deadly than a nail scissors or even a steak laced with pitbull tranquilizer at our disposal.
Dammit! Who's turn was it to thaw the steak?!?!~~

Homer keeps mumbling that he needs his PANTS! which are in his closet ACROSS THE HALL! which would necessitate OPENING! the bedroom DOOR! and giving that PITBULL direct access to OUR THROATS!

~~Well, hold on a sec honey, let me baste myself in gravy so I go quickly.~~

At some point we did surmise that the marauder was probably one of the pit bulls from across the street and that it must have jumped our fence and come in through the dog door. Or maybe we figured that out much later. It's kind of a blur but we did calm down enough to notice that PepperAnn was safely bedded down in the corner of our room. Homer couldn't resist shooting her a scornful look and belittling her watchdog abilities to which I pointed out that P.A. is a herding dog whose contract merely states that the herd be kept together. There is nothing in there about offering herself up as a midnight snack.
Anyways, isn't it the job of the MAN of the house to sleep with a baseball bat next to his bed lest treachery threaten his family in the wee hours? I think that's how it was in Father Knows Best.

~~One of those plaid robes would have solved his pants problem as well.~~

Butennyway, now I am pissed because it's bad enough we have to worry about those nasty dogs getting OUT and terrorizing the neighborhood, now they've gotten IN, so after Homer reports that the dog has gone downstairs, I grab a phone and call 911.

I know.
You're thinking that might be a tad excessive, but let's just say that our local boys in blue are not overworked and I'm pretty sure they won't have to drop a murder investigation to come running.

~~Okay, between the time I wrote that and today, our fine city did actually have it's first homicide. I feel like a karmic accessory to murder!~~

But I'm talking to the 911 operator and she's asking if the dog is vicious and I'm telling her that IT GROWLED! and it has a reputation for KILLING CATS! And it is IN MY HOUSE! so I did NOT ask about its personal feelings towards us.

I hang up and the pit bull, which must have found his way back to the dog door downstairs, is outside and back over the fence and when the police show up LESS than a minute later (what'd I say?) that dog and it's accomplice, who had been posted on our front lawn, are nowhere to be found.

Seriously, they totally vanished.

The cops nosed around with their flashlights and rang the doorbell at the pitbull residence, but the dogs were gone and so was the owner so they eventually went back to their donuts and I headed back to bed.

Homer was a bit more wound up and after he barricaded the dog door and located ONE of the slutty cats, he suddenly came running into the house yelling that the dog was back.

In the front yard.

Growling at him.

Whatever.

~~It's not in my house and I'm still hoping for some more sleep....~~

But by then the 'hood was coming to life and the dog chased a jogger and a guy walking his weiner dog and it all turned into a crazy circus of law enforcement and animal control people and regular people chasing after these two very fast dogs who actually jumped over EIGHT FOOT FENCES, entered another home through the dog door, jumped on the counter and pooped on the carpet before getting caught.... SIX hours later.

Oh but no worries, their owner finally came home late in the afternoon and swiftly bailed them out of dog jail.

But that's all a whole 'nother story.

~~And no, I did not get back to sleep.~~

Like the Mary Poppins of Bloggerville

Yes, I know I'm supposed to be AWOL.
Indeed I remember that I gave up blogging.
True, I said I had to focus on some other things.

But we all know how short my attention span is.
And how I can't resist putting in my 3.5 cents (inflation, you know).
More importantly, I can't stand to see a smart, capable, professional woman dissolve into a messy puddle of tears, cake and chenin blanc.
I could see she needed me.
I mean someone has to help her before she lets her hair go.

Yes, I am that good of a friend.
So I won't tell you all that she's afraid to drive on the freeways.

Are you confused?
Just because I started in the middle?
Hey, I am not claiming to have found the divine karma of orderliness during my sabbatical so try to keep up, 'kay?

You see, dear blogbuds, it turns out my friend Junie is on the verge of losing her first child to higher education.
Yeah, totally against her wishes, her oldest manchild, Wally, has chosen NOT to change his name to Bare Pierre and give wings to her dream of opening a chain of naughty French bakeries, all the while remaining safely under her wing as well as her roof.
Yes, indeedy, Wally is escaping.
And Junie is crumbling.

Being the total optimist that I'm not, I suspect that just as soon as Junie gives a little more thought to this development, she will mop up her mascara tears and stiffen her neatly waxed upper lip and see this for opportunity it is.
C'mon Junie! Let's make some lemonade!

Trust me. I mean I'm already the proud owner of a college SOPHOMORE!
Okay, she hasn't actually bothered to leave home yet. But just in case she does, I'm keeping a handy list to remind me of all the benefits that go along with taking a cut in children.

1. An extra room is freed up! Go ahead and paint it shocking pink and tell everyone it's your naked yoga room. They will leave you alone in there for days! And so will that pesky church lady once they tell her why you can't come to the phone. Don't forget to install a little mini-fridge. Big enough for a box of you-know-what.
   
2. Only half as much of your stuff will disappear. This might be more applicable to those of us with girl children, but think about how much longer that batch of cookies will last before they all end up.. on... your.... thighs. Okay, bad example.
3. Much better chance of captaining the remote control! Think of it, Junie, just you, a box of Franzia and Mike Rowe.
   
4. And after Ms. Franzia and Mr Rowe get your engine revved, the odds are better that the id-kays won't be around to witness wild rumpus with the Wardster!
5. And then there's the quiet sound of siblings NOT arguing about whose turn it is to clean Mom's pink, naked yoga room.
6. And only half as many thongs to wash. Ew, hopefully, that one doesn't apply to you. Unless your last name is Chippendale. It isn't, is it?
7. Okay, here's one for you - only half as much he-debris in the bathroom sink. You know - that shaving cream/toothpaste scum peppered with little whiskerettes?
8. OMG, the smell! Think of how your house will maybe smell a little better! What IS it about teenage feet that make their shoes and everything in the same zipcode smell like week old roadkill after a good rain? Yes, even girls.
   

Okay, I totally don't know if you wax your lip or suffer from housatosis, but see, Junie? This is something you can work with.
I bet you are feeling better already.
I know you can do this like I know you can find a way to fill all the extra time you'll have.
"Oh, Ward!"

Just remember not to let the door hit Wally on his way out.
I mean, it could hurt him.
And delay his departure.

She waved the blog-crack under my nose

Because I loves the Mud and Lorrie and she caught me in a weak moment...

http://ournameisblog.blogspot.com/2009/06/jane-is-in-da-nest.html

The Last Friday

Friends, Republicans and enemies, lend me your ear…. or is it ears?

Okay, my Shakespeare sucks, if that even IS Shakespeare, however modified. But I don’t really want to borrow your ears, anyway.

Wait. What am I saying? If they’re in good shape, fairly small and don't protrude a lot, I would LOVE to borrow your ears. Ah, but then you’d probably want them back and I’d be no better off than before.
Okaynevermind.

What I really want to say is that I’m leaving The Nest.

















There.
I said it.
Whew! You have no idea what a load off that is!

If you are all nosy like Me! and would like a reason, please pick one:
A) Don’t have time.
B) No longer enjoying it.
C) Have to be too careful about what I say because someone, who shall remain nameless, has been reading my blog.
D) All of the above.

Not to worry, though. I will still be stalking many of you. And most likely leaving the usual disturbing comments. Mostly, I want to thank all of you for your bloggy love, support and understanding these last couple of years and especially for your ability to make me know that I am not the only crazy bitch in this world.

Sooooo, I guess I should just say
Peace, Love, Blog on………..
And who knows? I may even be back one day.
I mean, if ilovejoebiden.com isn't already taken.

When swine fly

I heard someone on the national news this morning define the word gaffe as when a politician accidently speaks the truth.

In case you don’t pay attention, the latest ‘gaffe’ from DC is Vice-prez Biden’s comment about staying out of enclosed spaces like airplanes to avoid contracting the swine flu.

Of course the airlines are all pitching a fit because he said that and now there is all kinds of backpedaling going on to kiss and make nice with the airlines. Whatev. That's nothing unusual, but is there anyone who does NOT think that flying in a commercial jet is the viral equivalent of French kissing 147 strangers? I've not only seen the 20/20’s (Jane's generic term for all news shows) about airplane air quality, I have experienced it first hand.

I’m generally a pretty healthy specimen. I don’t usually get more than the odd cold, possibly two but maybe none, each year. Unless I fly.

I’m a big hand washer. I don’t touch my eyes or nose and I avoid phlegmy people like I avoid polyester and still it seems that half the time I deplane infested with something.

Maybe I’m just bitter because I believe the virus that ate my hearing was contracted a mile in the sky, but methinks the airlines protesteth too much.

It’s probably already too late for this particular epidemic, but maybe the airline spinsters should throw their resources more toward letting some fresh air into the cabin and less toward corralling the hot air in Washington. Who knows? They might even save something more important than their bottom line - like some lives.

Have a great weekend.

Peace, Love, Jet me to Costa Rica, I'll take the chance!

Saving up her Social Security for pole dancing lessons

Have you met my 80-something MIL?

She not only let her granddaughter 'do' her up in the blond hair extensions, she specially requested the purple accent piece to coordinate with her Hugh Hefner jammies, which she wears so she can slip right away if FIL tries to grab her in bed.

I have a feeling this one will be on her Facebook by noon:

All this happened shortly after we abandoned her at Applebee's.

Yep, she was left standing on the sidewalk while her husband and son snuck out the CarsideToGo door. They assumed she was riding home with Omega and me. But we had stops to make.

Luckily her son picked up on the discrepancy a short while later and Omega zipped back to collect her before the authorities became involved.

She wasn't worried. She said she planned to call someone when it got dark.

Warning: Do not invite this woman to your home if you are struggling with bladder control.

The Regal has Landed

I'm not actually sure what kind of car they drive, but the in-laws have arrived.


At one point in recent history they did have a red Buick Regal, but not only am I pretty unobservant when it comes to cars that I don't have keys for, I have trouble keeping up.
Those two change cars like I change my story.


To my FIL, a flat tire is a sign of vehicular degradation and if it comes on the heels of a carpet stain, it is an immediate ticket to the trade-in lot.

I can tell you that their current car is white, it is something from the Cadillackish league and it is parked in MY spot.



Which leads me to my question of the day; Why do the more expensive cars have numbers and letters instead of words as their model names? Have you noticed that? Almost without exception, the higher end car lines use some combination involving X, R, S, 4, 5, or 0 as their model names.



This was driving me seriously batshit on the drive in this morning.


Why is there no Mercedes Malibu or BMW Beetle?


I, don't usually subscribe to conpiracy theories but I suspect it might be to keep oblivious people like me out of the luxury car market.

If I can't remember the name of it, how am I ever going to buy it?



In my humble opinion, the worst car choice name EV-ER?

The Volkswagen Touareg.

WTH is that anyway? Tell me, if you were going to sink $50k into an SUV would you pick one with that name or one called Porche Cayenne? As I understand it, they are the same vehicle... but Touareg?

Gak.

Sounds like something Texans use to clean their shoes.

'Cain you all toss me that Toh-Rag so ah can wahp the cowpiah offa mah bewts?'*


Have a most excellent weekend. And watch out for cowpies.



Peace, Love, Poor-sha!



*Offended Touareg owners and Texans, be aware that it is Friday, this blogowner is under extreme pressure from work deadlines and In-law visitation and as usual has her basic bitch-0n. Therefore she cannot be held responsible for offensive ramblings at this time. Or any time really.

AND WTH is up with the spacing (or LACK of) on this???

Uh - oh

Do you know what's worse than a dirty spot in the middle of your carpet?

A noticeably CLEAN spot, that's what!

Grrr.

A few days ago, in the middle of the morning frenzy, I spied a fresh, juicy glob of cat puke in the middle of the carpet. By the time I got back to it with the spray carpet cleaner and a rag, however, most of it had disappeared. I shot the dog a 'you are SO disgusting' look and scrubbed out the rest of the goo.
Well, apparently the combination of cat vomit, dog lick and Re$olve carpet cleaner has some crazy whitening properties because now it looks like spring has indeed come to the Jane! house and we are all just waiting for that one last pile of snow to melt.

*cue Jaws music*
Somewhere on the I-15, there is a car full of in-laws - probably with the turn signal on - bearing down on You-tah.....

Ten Top Trivias about Jane!

While I was off wandering dazedly around blogdom in search of I don't know what, I found this! on a blog! that I had never visited before. Who knew there were two accountants out there with exclamation points?!

She's funny so visit her if you need a laugh. But ixnay on mentioning the ivia-tray. Copycat? Me? You all are SO judgemental.

Soanyway, here are Today's Top Ten Trivias - about Jane!:

1- A rhinoceros horn is made from compacted Jane!. And probably their bowels are impacted with Jane!

2- The Jane!-fighting market in the Philippines is huge - several thousand Jane!-fights take place there every day. Big deal. Several thousand Jane!-fights take place inside my head every day. And my head is a much smaller place.

3- Antarctica is the only continent without Jane!. And alas, it will have to remain that way because Jane! prefers warm weather, regular airline schedules and ice only in her drinks.

4- It takes a lobster approximately 7 years to grow to be Jane!. But it only takes Jane! 7 minutes to consume that lobster.... wait.... are you saying that I used to be a lobster? Then that would be, eww, cannibalism!

5- If you break Jane!, you will get seven years of bad luck! If you ARE Jane! it's SEVENTY years.

6- It's bad luck for a flag to touch Jane!. So now I'm dirt, is that what you're saying?

7- Jane! can give birth ten days after being born, and is born pregnant! Although Jane! does live in You-tah, this is very much not true. In her prime, Jane! could not even DELIVER a baby in 10 days.

8- A Jane!ometer is used to measure Jane!! This is another lie. You cannot actually measure the presence of Jane!, only the complete absence of the Anti-Jane!

9- Jane! can only be destroyed by intense heat, and is impermeable even to acid. More bad news! Even the intense heat of hot flashes couldn't bring Jane! down. And acid? I swear I never dropped acid. Even in the 70's. What made you bring THAT up?

10- On stone temples in southern India, there are more than 30 million carved images of Jane!. Wow, SOMEONE in India has a little too much time on their hands.

Wasn't that fun? Not to mention informative. You learn SO much about yourself when you blog. Go ahead, give it a try and put your link in my comments. I think by the end of the week we should have enough information for a complete National Geographic special!!

Which brings me to the sad news.... well, sad for me anyway.... in the next few days I will have to put all my spare energies toward getting my house mother-in-law clean, so I won't be lounging in The Nest much. But I'll leave the door open and you all can wander in and leave your links. Think of it as your way to guest post! If I wasn't so lazy and technically challenged, I'd set up the Mr. Linky thing but.... yeah, I already explained why.

Wish me luck!

Oh, and Kat and Gaston Studio? I WILL deal with you two when I get back.

Misselainee-us

Gah! I must have been rattled yesterday. I just reread that last post - because I hate to repeat myself - and found it riddled with errors. Lorrie will be asking for my mug back any day now.

She can try, but I saw a picture of her last week and I'm pretty sure I can take her vertically challenged butt. And then Sexyhusbandohers would be all mine.... hee hee hee.

Anyway, I have nothing of real importance (like I ever do), so I thought I would go with what I like to call Brain Lint - random dustballs pulled from my head - and call it a blog.

First of all, that lady from Britian'sGotTalent, whose name I should know but don't: Yeah, the one with the incredible (I guess?) voice that has become the 'overnight sensation'. Cute story about how she has never had a date but she sings so wonderfully that even Simon was rendered insultless. Does anyone else find the whole thing a bit strange? I mean how did no one ever notice that she could sing before now? Has she only been singing secretly in the shower all these years? She seems pretty self-possessed - not like she's been hiding.

Seriously, if you knew someone who sang that well, wouldn't you be all 'Wow, you could make money doing that!'?

Or, if you're not all focused on money, like I am; 'You should join the church choir'. Just saying....

Or MAYBE she's actually an undercover nun from the Sisters of Major Mercy convent deep in the Scottish moors, who has been sent to BGT in hopes of bagging the prize money and banking it against the next great potato famine. Oh wait, that was Ireland, huh? Well, maybe a plaid shortage then.

Okay, this is me letting that one go.....

Next, texting: Yes, MsAngie, we do text around the house. And we call each other. Sounds crazy but I think it is the slickest thing since pre-mixed peanut butter. My daughters ALWAYS carry their cell phones because they are teenagers - and I try to keep mine in my pocket just so I know where it is. Homer.... well, this really doesn't apply to Homer because his phone is usually lost somewhere with his keys. And his wallet.

But back to us girls. Texting is the new yelling. When I text 'dinner!' I know they will get the message. And when they text back 'what are we having?' they know I will 'not hear' the incoming text chime. Hee hee. They also can't say that they didn't get the 'Clean your room!' message because Mr. Samsung does NOT lie.

Seriously though, not only is it a great work-around for the hearing impaired, but it saves SO much time. And as for Homer, I've been known to put out a BOLO for him on the girls' phones.

Okay, the #1 Mommy t-shirt: Yes, it's about ten or twelve years old. It's also big enough for me and 7 of you. At the same time. But I won't be party to proving that. Point is, it's pretty, um, not attractive, but how do you throw out something like that? I can't bring myself to do it, so I keep it in the laundry room with my 'bad' clothes - the ones I wear to paint and do dirty work. Except I can't bring myself to get it painty or dirty, either. I was thinking I should make it into a pillow or something but is that kind of braggy? I'm totally taking suggestions on this one.

And Angie L: Thank you for correcting my grammer. You are so right; home-invaders would be the proper term, not 'company'. I am seriously considering your spa-under-the-guise-of-marriage-counseling suggestion. Methinks you have great experience in this area, Glasshoppa.

And as long as we are rounding up Angies: Shupe, your unemployed arse may NOT be safe. You might have to be my 'sick friend' that needs visiting.

Lunch is over; so's my post.

That exploding sound will be my head

I spent the whole weekend creating even more chaos here at Chez Jane. Yes, more.

Who'd a thought that possible.



Since Homer had come to a dead stop on the Mancave project, I moved on to something requiring fewer committee decisions - Omega's bedroom. I promised her a paint job over a year ago and she had finally picked out the colors, so I ran with it.



The ceiling was previously painted to look like blue sky and clouds - a very cool look, I thought, when combined with a vaulted ceiling and clerestory windows.

Cool for my kiddies, not so much for my teenagers.

Sigh.



Thinking all the while about how hard I worked on that ceiling, I attempted to obliterate it with stain-blocking primer. And a coat of ceiling paint. And another coat of ceiling paint.

That sky would not die!



While painting the ceiling, I noticed that the light fixture was cracked so I decided to buy a new one.

But maybe a ceiling fan would be nice.

Omega agreed via text so I bought one.

Two ceiling fans, in fact, because I couldn't decide. And really, how can you make up your mind unless you have your husband put both of them together from the 153 pieces in each box and hold all 84 pounds of each of them up to the ceiling. This one, then that one. Hmmm. Definitely that one.

No.....



He should thank me for the upper body workout.



So I painted the ceiling and the white trim and hung the fan and scooted off to pick up the paint.

Pink.

She wanted pink. Two pinks, in fact.

Let me just say that we have dubbed Omega's room The Barbie Bordello. It takes more mental energy than I possess just to BE in that room. Which might be the plan.



But her stuff is in the hall... and the other bedrooms.... and the living room because I still have one more coat of everything to apply.

And the weekend is over.

Can it get any worse?

Of course it can.



Homer gets off the phone with his parents:



"They're leaving home on Wednesday."



"Where are they going?"



"Here."



"Here. Which Wednesday?"



"This coming one."



(In full meltdown) "Whatthehell? We talked about Mother's Day. We talked about Father's Day! We did NOT talk about April 23rd!"



"Oh, well, let me just call them back and tell them not to come."



"What a relief! I was afraid you wouldn't be willing to do that."



But of course he won't.

And he shouldn't.

Because I like them and all....

But FOUR freakin' days NOTICE?



If the earth was ever going to crack open and swallow me up, now would be a good time.

But with my luck, I would survive and company would still come.

Oh, but then I'd have an excuse for the craptastically messy house!

Totally False Advertising

Omega texts me from the laundry room:

Why don't you ever wear this cute t-shirt Alpha and I made for you in daycare?

What t?

The one that says number one mommy?

Ah. Um. Because I don't want all the other mommies to feel bad?

Good answer. You are such a thoughtful person!

That's why I'm the number one mommy.

Circus, circus

Alpha went to the Britney Spe@rs Circus T0ur concert last night and thought it fabulous - every single piece of each everything that came in all 30 Britney semi-trailers.

This morning, Alpha, sporting a B.S. 'You Want a Piece of Me' t-shirt, shared the exciting details which included many things I don't remember. Britney's cage did make the memory cut. Also the fact that there were no animals in her circus. Thank you god.

In spite of my fershit frame of mind lately, which I will complain about another time, that concert recap was truly a sparkling mommy moment for me. Alpha was never much of a Britney fan during her tween years; mostly just since the rather colorful fall from grace - yeah, Alpha likes a good wreck as much as her mother - but when she talked about the show, she couldn't have sounded more excited if Britney had pulled her up on stage and promised to take her shoe shopping. Ah, these are the memories she will still be sharing (if not re-enacting) around the canasta table at the senior center.

Anyway, what made it fun for me is that Alpha is almost 20 years old and I don't have to worry whether to preach Ms Spears as a horrible warning, or a good example (she has made quite a comeback) or simply a cautionary tale because I sure don't know which way to call it. I just listened and thought back to those bawdy John Denver concerts of my youth.

Luckily, Alpha didn't have to pretend there wasn't lots of skin or suggestive dancing like I would have had to. In fact, if my mother hears that Alpha did see Britney Spears in concert, I will have to tell her that it was the revised You-tah version where they dressed head to toe in seagull costumes and sang show tunes because sometimes motherhood should take a break.

Merry Easter!

In case you don't believe me when I say that my office is a hot house, let me show you my poinsettia which actually looks about 342% better than my photography skilz let on.

If you are tempted to say 'Meh, big deal', let me remind you that today is Good Friday, aka April 10th. I have been custodian of that plant for 4 months and by now it should be bare stems in a landfill but it still looks gorgeous.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Suburban Debbie had a post this week about all the things that people do while driving. I'm probably as guilty as anyone of not giving the world beyond my windshield my undivided attention. One of my worst offenses was reading a magazine while driving across North Dakota. If you just went 'Ohmigod, that woman has a death wish!' you have probably never driven a freeway in that state. You can pretty much engage the cruise control, tie down the steering wheel and take a nap for 2 or 3 hundred miles. But never mind that particular piece of my lurid driving past, you have never really been a passenger on the edge until you have ridden to lunch with a paraplegic who takes calls while driving.

"Um, dude? Isn't that your brake hand?"

Then again, it gave me a good excuse to order the biggest, chocolatiest dessert on the menu. I mean who wants to die with a stomach full of 'fast', even if it is Good Friday.

~~~~~~~

Finally, a Friday funny:

Thanks Marial! - Who I am happy to report is high and dry in Fargo. For the most part the dikes held and the sewer system kept up but they are bracing for another round of river rise. How unfair is it that they actually have to hope that is does NOT warm up any time soon?

Peace, Love, 4-day Weekend for Jane!

Number 150

This is my 150th post here on Blogger. I wish Spaces kept track of that sort of thing because I am TOO lazy to go count the ones left lying in a heap over there, but it would be nice to know a grand total. In kind of the same way that you like to know your cholesterol numbers - to make sure that you aren't clogging up the internet in a deadly way.

Anydrivel, to celebrate this momentous event I won't punish you with 150 things about me. You are SO welcome!
I'm not sure there are even 150 things to be said about me. I'm not that multi-faceted.
Instead I have ripped off this little meme from some far off blog that I couldn't find again if you threatened to steal one of my kidneys or corrupt my html.
Sorry, mysterious meme donor!

My ABC's
by Jane

A - Age: Fifty. Still. Maybe forever. I have less than a week to decide. Oh, the pressure.

B - Bed size: Queen. I know it IS very fitting, but I’m not sure what that says about Homer.

C - Chore(s) you hate: Cleaning the cat box. Vacuuming the stairs. Washing windows. And dishes. I’m going to save a few megabytes and just tell you that laundry is the one chore that I don’t mind.

D - Dog’s name: If you don’t already know that, you are in worse shape than I am. Pack your bags for ‘The Home’ immediately.

E - Essential start-your-day item: Caffeine, preferably the diet Dew kind. Lent? It's still Lent?

F - Favorite color: Blue in any way shape or form.

G - Gold or Silver: Both, depends on the outfit. Platinum would be my real preference but you didn’t offer that. You must be even cheaper than I am.

H - Height: 5’10” – at least until osteoporosis ravages my body, which I’m sure is lurking right behind menopause. Middle age is SO unfair.

I - Instruments you play: I used to play the piano, the clarinet and the bassoon but I’m pretty sure I couldn’t prove it now.

J - Job title: Accountant, if the term ‘job’ implies payment. Otherwise, most of what I do could be covered by Maid, Cook and Call girl. No wait, call girls get paid, right? Marriage is unfair, too.

K - Kid(s): Three. Two that I gave birth to and one that I adopted from my mother-in-law. I have tried to send him back numerous times but the old bat is standing firm on her no-return policy.

L - Living arrangements: I have arranged to let them all live. For now.

M- Mom’s name: Ione. How’s that for odd? Bet you never had two of those in your class.

N - Nicknames: My father is the only one who has ever dared to nick my name and to tell you what it was would unleash a weapon SO annoying that Rush Limbaugh would be out of a job. On second thought….

O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Is that my birth or giving birth? I’ve probably logged at least 2 weeks in the hospital but mainly because I was reckless in the time before same-day surgery and I’m not very adept at birthing.

P - Pet Peeve: When people have dirty glasses… you know with the fingerprints and eyebrow dandruff and they expect you to focus on what they’re saying when really you just want to grab those suckers and dunk them in the nearest wet substance. That’s really not the only or even worst of my pet peeves, it’s just the first one that came to mind.

Q - Quote from a movie: I’m lucky if I can remember if I have SEEN a particular movie. There is NO hope that I have retained any of the dialogue.

R- Right- or left-handed: I’m right. I'm always right. Unless you ask my husband.

S - Siblings: Two older brothers. I originally typed bothers by mistake. I think that was what you call a Freudian slip, but it would only be half true.

T - Time you wake up: At 6:05am…. And 6:12am…. And 6:19am…. And then at 6:26, which is when Homer slugs me and tells me to quit hitting the *#$@ doze!

U- Underwear: I’m a hipster girl. They don’t peek over the top of my pants or ride up my backside. MUST be cotton, preferably with a touch of lycra so they stay where I put them. Too much information, huh?

V - Vegetable you dislike: Hands down, loose peas. If you really want to see me retch, pass me the canned variety. On the other hand, I adore them raw right out of their pods.

W - Ways you run late: Many ways but most are clothing related. I am pitiful when it comes to deciding what to wear. A good day is when I don’t have to change more than 5 articles of clothing. I had a bad dream just last night about not having the right thing to wear out clubbing with some friends. We’ll skip over the fact that I don’t club and talk about how it was a particularly tricky thing to dress for because we had to crawl through tunnels and trudge through jungles to get there.

X - X-rays you’ve had: Lame. No one cares about x-rays. I'm sure it was just the only x-word they could think of. How about instead we do X-rated movie you loved? Except that they're pretty much all the same and no one remembers the titles, right? Okay, never mind X.

Y - Yummy food you make: Depends on who you ask. Homer’s a sucker for my meatloaf. The girls like my Italian fare (aka Ragu and frozen ravioli). Personally, I love the Thai stuff. I’m not that fond of cooking but it sure helps you get your way about what’s for dinner.

Z - Zoo favorite: Gotta be the monkeys. Would it not be WAY cool to be able to swing from trees and hurl shit at people all day?

Now that didn't hurt a bit, did it? If you want to do it, feel free to steal it and even change it to fit your own needs.
I may be a thief, but I am a generous theif.
With good underwear.

One step below answering yourself

Jane (to PepperAnn): I swear, PA, you are the SWEETEST thing this side of the Pecos.

PepperAnn: Where the heck IS the Pecos, anyway?

Jane: I have no idea but I imagine the other side of it as a pretty boring, lackluster place since everything seems to happen on THIS side of the Pecos.

PepperAnn: If we were to cross the Pecos, would you say to me “Dang girl, you are sweeter that anything on the OTHER side of the Pecos.”? Of course you realize that from a global perspective, everywhere is ‘this side of the Pecos’.... well, except for the actual Pecos itself.

Jane: Okay, I would probably just say ‘PA, you are the SWEETEST thing…. period’ to avoid getting into another philosophical discussion with a dog.