Funny Yet Accurate

Sorry for the scant blogging

2006-07-31T18:32:00.000-07:00

I seem to have hit an empass. Apparently, I am not capable of doing two things at once.

Now, I can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time, but I can't work and blog at the same time. This does not bode well for my future presidental campaign, although I do suspect that Howard Dean's blog was kept by staff people. And W probably doesn't know what a blog is:

"Blog. I don't see no blog. Where's the swamp round here? We're in I-rack. It's a dee-sert. Right, Condi??"

Ok, so, I guess I can become president. But, I can't become anything else that requires doing two things at the same time (or even sort of, kind of, near one another in the same day.) Maybe this will not be the case, and I will just be a blogging machine. But I am afraid that is unlikely.

I will say that I am very happy in my new career. Working with quirky kids is a lot more charming than working with quirky adults with drug problems. And, I will have them when they are all "Just Say No!" on your ass. Nancy will be very proud of my classroom. Except for the left wing, peace activism campaign I plan to wage. Maybe she is anti-raisin, because we will definately be anti-raisin in my classroom.

Abandonment Issues, Yours, Mine and Ours

2006-07-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

So this is what it is like to have a job! I never knew! It means that you work, a lot, and don't have time to do wonderful things like blog or eat.

Actually, not to worry, I am eating just fine, but the combination of going to Summer School everyday and then coming home and preparing lessons to teach and doing the reading for class and then meeting new people and, oh, I forgot, unpacking, really seems to be taking away all of my free time. Which is a shame, because there has been so much to blog about.

First, I have learned a very valuable lesson: make sure you state explicitly what you mean when you say it. Case in point: the apartment needs not just a dishwasher but a working dishwasher. I appreciate that the machine looks so nice and new and high-tech, but as much as I can enjoy beauty for beauty's sake, I do like a little function in my applicances. Our dear, trusty portable dishwasher was adopted (for a nominal fee) by a nice art student in Baltimore. I feel like the match was a good one and that Portable will be very happy in his new home. I did emphasis that he has a bit of a reflux problem so it was important to be very selective with what you feed him, and I think his new father definately got the importance of that.

I am having a little seller's remorse and am understanding more everyday how it is possible for a pretty normal, previously unmedicated soul to become a horder. Bringing a portable dishwasher with me to an apartment where there is a dishwasher already neatly installed would have seemed a little crazy, no? But in retrospect, it would have been genius. I want the apartment to give us back the 25 hours we have so far spent washing dishes. Do you think they are going to? We are negotiating on Monday. And since I am still technically a lawyer, I think that my hourly billable rate is about $150. I will give them a break and let them know that if they fix the dishwasher (oh, need I mention that the part is on backorder? -- I guess I need to start a club for people who have beautiful, expensive dishwashers that have gone on strike) and pay us $1,000,000 for our loss of time, consortium and neck pain, we will feel satisfied.

Actually, as I type this I realize that the real victims in all of this are my poor readers, who have not had an update in weeks! I'll be sure to mention that in my filings with the court.

Please Excuse My Rudeness

2006-06-26T04:37:00.000-07:00

Having received a comment from a Gen-U-Ine blogging celeb I feel I should take this opprotunity to comment on my love of comments.

I feel like a bum most of the time. This applies to almost all of my life, frankly, but especially to handling comments. Getting a comment on a blog entry is basically the best present ever! One, it does not clutter my house. Two, it suggests that someone actually reads this. And three, (and most importantly) reads it and thinks it is worth taking the time to write to me. Having read countless blogs that I have never commented on (it's called lurking people! It basically makes you a stalker-lite) I know what a big deal that is.

Frankly I have no excuse to not leave comments nor to not respond promptly and personally to comments. Although right now my life is sort of busy because we are moving and I am trying my darnest to be charming and personable whilst meeting lots of new people whom I want to like me and and be my very bestest friends, in general my life has been my own from 4-10 everyday, plus all day on weekends.

I'm totally lame. That is the problem. So, given that today seems to be my equivilent Christmas day and I was unable to get to sleep until 4 this morning (having gone to bed at midnight) and then awoke promptly two hours later, I have plenty of time to take care of my serious misgivings.

First, thank you to my loyal readers, of whom I just take complete advantage. Take Kathy, whose blog makes me want to actually have skills. She finds the time to knit and blog and raise two boys and move to another state and comment on my blog. I, on the other hand, rarely comment on her's. Does that mean that I have a more interesting blog. Frankly, as the most biased person on the subject, NO! See, Kathy is good at things, where I am just...well...I like to think that I am special.

There is also J, who often sends her three or four readers this way. You should go and see what a real writer can do with a blog.

Then we have Sue, who I am hoping is very happy right now, as she has something to read this morning with her coffee. She actually has a blog as well, which in my lameness I do not have a link to because she gave it to me and I promptly lost it. If she would be so kind as to email me or leave a comment, I would take care of that misgiving. (Note...even when I am trying to make up for my transgrettions I am just a taker at heart.)

Ten people, including J, commented on my second ever blog post. I said hello to one! And it was Nai. And if you read his mightier than thou comment, you would know that he certainly did not deserve the first thank you. Although, internet, you should know, he did find us an apartment. I am reserving judgment until I see it Friday. So far, on the outside, pretty good work Nai. No views of sex shops. The others who shared in my distain of raisins in the oatmeal cookies were MistyD, Lori, Shannon (who has been a very loyal and valued reader, even though I am a very lame fellow blogger. I didn't even ask you all for positive thoughts for the return of her cat. Although the cat came back without an internet candle lighting ceramony, I still could have at least mentioned it. So, I do so now, three weeks after the fact.), Jill. Bonny (whose blog link has been broken since the blog began, another completely inexcusable situation.) Larissa, Pineapple Queen, Tish, Anne, J, and a very nice Annoymous person who gave me a receipe that I will never make, but all of the effort is estonishing to me! In fact, if Annoymous were to come over for dinner, I would make it.

Staci commented sevearl times and I did thank her in person but there is something different about being thanked on the world wide web. Sarahs as well.

Kmi was at one point gifted an entire post dedicated to her, but blogger took it away. Kmi forgave me, but I have never forgiven myself.

Stacey (in NZ) is also a very loyal and dedicated reader, who is always trying to pump me up. And it works Lady! Keep up the good work.

Karen tells me she reads my blog everyday and some other blog which is all about Paris Hilton. Karen's brain, I am afraid, is rotting out of her skull, piece by piece. When Karen was a little girl, she once was trying to negotiate getting dessert, even though she had not finished her vegetables. She told her mother, "My green bean stomach is full, but my ice cream stomach is still empty." Karen, dear, Your vapid brain has got to be really full up from our blog reading, but I suspect that your intellectual brain is waiting for nurishment, big time. This is a big world wide web lady. We do not want to rush you to the hospital for bleeding on the brain. Everything in moderation. Karen rarely comments, because she thinks that the other commenters are too nice. And she will look like a bitch. Karen, don't worry, you are in the company of friends here.

Sarah also is a reliable commenter, when she is not flying off to Cobo-San-You-Will-Get-Burned-And-Die-Here-Margaret-But-It-Will-Be-Worth-It, Mexico. Apparently, there are other things to do in Mexico than read my blog. Who would have thought???

CM, Lynn, and others gamely played my "fill in the blank" game. Which I very much appreciated. CM was my first first unknown to me in any form commenter. I wrote her an email after she commented (and after I figured out how to get in touch with her, which took way to long for someone who is under 30 years old) that went something like this:

Hey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How did you find my blog?!?!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!!?!!? You are awesome!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Will you marry me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Because she is a nice person, she didn't press charges.

T.E.A. also has dropped in a few times. She must just shake her head and say "Poor Margaret." I secretly suspect that I am one of her charity cases. :-)

And there has been Amanda, Beanie Baby (who has a wonderfully cute baby, who is no longer a baby but a real live talking and walking girl, who is also adorable. Her mother is a fine writer too.), Mamakat, K, Mr. Angry, Margie.

There was this one random post from some illiterate person. I was going to blog about it, but thought it was even beneth this blog.

Most recently Franseca (whom I do not know) posted and that made my day. Also, Amy, whom this post is actually motivated for, because I never thanked her for the nice lies she told me. :-)

I hope this is everyone. And if I didn't thank you, please feel free to hate me. I would hate you did you did the same to me. Or else drop me a comment and I will fawn over you too.

(Oh, and links to come. I started this at one computer and now am finishing it at another. It's too complicated and boring to explain...)

Honey, what's your name again? Margo?

2006-06-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

As Karen and Nai know, because they have met my mother, she is a very interesting woman. Now sometimes when people only know of my mother through my stories (and, I assume, my brother's stories) they have the impression that they wouldn't like my mother. But, my mother is in fact very popular. She raisees millions of dollars by being charming. Unfortunately, her mothering skills are a little, well, un-maternal.

My mother, as I think I have mentioned before, has four great hatreds in her life: (this list is in no particular order)

1. Catholics
2. Vegetarians
3. Musicians
4. Teachers

Raymond is 2-4. When I met Raymond, I was none of the above, but have since become number 2 and now, as of Tuesday, I will be in training to be number 4. I am seriously considering converting just to get a clean sweep. My mother would have a real dilemna on her hands if she had vegetarian Catholic grandchildren. It is really, really tempting. Other than that belief in God thing, I am so there!

My brother, G, is none of those, but his girl friend is number 2, and he likes music, so he is a little bit of number 3.

Unlike normal people, my mother loves the lawyers. Why? Because my father, whom she worships, is one. Does she know what lawyers do? Not really. But, in her mind they generally make a lot of money and they are "smart" (again, my mother doesn't know enough lawyers, clearly) so she is all for them.

Teachers, on the other hand are dumb. Especially elementary school teachers. She is concerned that I will be so much smarter than my collegues that we will not be able to relate. My mother, if it is not clear, thinks in extremes. She knows that teachers are dumb because she was in a sorority with a lot of elementary education teachers. And she thought her "sisters" who were that major were dumb and all they did all day long was make bulletin boards. Which in 1965 may have been true, at least the bulletin board part, but what I like is that my mother is so "smart" that her sample size of 6 rich girls who double majored in MRS is sufficiently large enough, in her opinion, to extrapolate that all elemetary school teachers are dumb. My mother did not major in statistics, although with that logic she could work as a statistician for either major American polical party.

I didn't tell her for over a year that I was planning this career change, because, when your husband is 3 of the 4 things your mother hates most in the world (notice that Nazis, KKK members, or oatmeal-raisin cookies are not on the list) you tread lightly. When I did tell her she acted all shocked like "Little ol' me...would be upset or disappointed that you were going into teaching...why would you ever think that darlin'????" Of course the next day she was trying to talk me out of it, giving me all sorts of career advice. My mother is a career counselor too, it seems. She thinks I am leaving the law because I think that lawyers have to work too many hours. Although I have told her that I am leaving the law because I don't like being a lawyer and becausee I want to be a teacher, she can't seem to understand it. So, in case you didn't know, my mother informs me that there are some lawyers who work part-time. My mother knows twenty of them and she is happy to put me in touch with them.

Because my program starts at the end of June but apartments tend to lease at the beginning of each month, I am up here without Saint Raymond (see below) for a week. Conveniently, Nai lives in the same New England town where I will be in school, so I am staying with him. In exchange, he verbally abuses me. I see it as a pretty good deal on my part. My mother, who does not call much, left a rather cryptic sounding message on Nai's answering machine. Assuming someone had died, I called back My father answered, and assured me that no one was dead, my mother had just called to check-in with me. But, she was eating, and would I call back?

When I did call back, my mother wanted to know how my trip was (fine) and if I had seen our new apartment (only from the outside) and why I hadn't gotten to see the inside (because someone else lives there right now) and why they couldn't arrange for me to have a look-see (because I was going to do that Friday) and why not just today (because the agent probably has acutal work to do and not huge amounts of time to run around showing me apartments at my whim.) Oh. (So, Mom, how's the weather?)

She then asked me about my program, which is sort of our thing -- we talk about the same things over and over and over. It never seems to get old for her. I had told her all about the program before, but, I discovered from this conversation that she didn't quite grasp it. Here's how it went down --

Mom: So, Maaaac (which is the nickname she calls me...the "a" is very, very drawn out. Feel free to draw out all of her "a's", it will be a far more authentic experience that way), where will you teach?

Me: At the lab school.

Mom: So, it's a private preschool at the University?

Me: Mom, do you think I am going to school to become a preschool teacher?

Mom: Well, (hesitating...the witnesses realizes that she might be walking into a trap) yes? Aren't you?

Me: No, Mooooom (in my most exasporated teen voice) El-e-men-ta-ry school. We have talked about this.

Mom: But, I thought....oh Mac. I'm sorry. Don't hold this against me. I didn't know. Elementary school. (In the background you can hear my father saying..."C, I told you...")

Me: El-e-men-ta-ry Mom. Get it?

So the conversation then centered around my mother finding ways to excuse her "memory lapse." Least you think that my mother is going senile, next she inquired about Nai (whom she has met about 4 times), asking:

So, how's Nai's residency program in pediatrics going?

Oh, well. At least she cares about something.

I'm not wearing any underwear

2006-06-25T19:12:00.000-07:00

There are lots of reasons I am becoming an elementary school teacher, but one reason is because I had such a mean 4th grade teacher. There are so many jobs that mean people can do, but teacher, especially the young, is no one of those jobs. Why people who are mean do that, I don't know.

So, I am all about being a super-nice teacher (just being nice is not enough.) I have already started planning the monthly birthday celebrations (also known as cupcake-fests) as well as the field trips to Chucky Cheese. Which is educational because skee-ball a life skill that everyone should master. Although, if we use my fourth grade teacher as the comparison, it really shouldn't be that hard to be nicer than she is.

I was in the fourth grade in 1985. For Christmas that year I got an AWESOME sweat shirt-leggings combo. The sweat shirt had some AWESOME geometric pattern on the front. Probably looked like a teenager from NYC had driven to Atlanta the night before with a few cans of neon-colored spray paint and marked the shirt with with his gang symbols. It was AWESOME, if I haven't already mentioned that part. To compliment the top, I also received HOT PINK ribbed leggings. Which were Double AWESOME. Basically I was ROCKIN the fourth grade on the day after Christmas break.

After having not been beaten down everyday for the past two weeks by my teacher, I was blindsided when I saw her. She said to me

Margaret, it looks like you are wearing long underwear.

I replied, saying

I'm not wearing any underwear.

And, then, she did the meanest thing a person could have done at that moment. She said

Class! (just to make sure that she got everyone's attention. If she had been smarter, she would have waited for the kids who were in the bathroom to come back, so she woukd have had a full house)

Margaret just told me she is not wearing any underwear.

Obviously, in fourth grader-like fashion they all rushed to my defense. Telling the teacher to go to hell and that she needed to stop being so mean to me. (At least this is what happens in my fantasy movie version where I take revenge and use her full name -- because the truth is a defense to any slander or libel suit....so they tell me...)

Well, fast forward about 20 years and, in fact, I was not wearing any underwear on the day that I fell and sprained my ankle (which almost cost me a million dollars, until my senses returned.) This is in spite of the fact that my mother just recently purchased some very nice underwear for me. But, I am out of practice of actually putting it on. Oh, I also forgot to mention. one other detail..I was wearing a skirt.

So, I told Raymond a few days ago that I was going to go and buy even more underwear and asked if that was that ok, financewise. Before recovering his shock that I actually wanted to go to the mall and pay someone money for something I don't consider "essential," he said that it would be fine. That I should splurge away. He did want to know from where I had gotten this new interest in underwear. I told him that on the day I sprained my ankle and was laying on the sidewalk next to a well traveled street in a major metropolitian city in America I realized that I wasn't wearing any underwear.

Raymond's response

"I know. I could see. We all could see."

Poor Raymond, he is the husband of the woman who got hit by the bus and wasn't even wearing dirty underwear. Light a candle for him, would you? He really is a living saint.

L aw Diploma For Sale, Cheap!

2006-06-19T05:48:00.000-07:00

On Friday I offically retired [read: changed careers] as a lawyer. Practicing law for 50 years [read: 2 1/2] has been a really wonderful experience [read: it was someone else's dream for me.] I retire [read: quit] as a contient and fulfilled 75 year old man [read: a eager to start a new path in my life 28 year old woman.]

Other than the man part, I do think this is how my mother and father imagined my retirement dinner speech would begin. First, they must have very little faith in my speech writing abilities if they thought that I would pen such crap in honor of 50 damn years as a lawyer. Second, even if that is the exact speech my future self would have made, it is not to be. Beginning next week I will be a student again. Had you told me on the day of my law school graduation three years ago that I was going to willingly go back to school, I would not have believed it. But, the alternatives are not very appetizing:

1. Be a lawyer
2. Work at McDonalds

I am sure that there may be other alternatives between those two, but I don't really see any. Actually, I could probably do without another degree what I am going back to school to learn how to do, but I really think that when your job is to teach people how to read and write and the basic fundimentals of math, you owe it to them to not be shooting from the hip.

Yes, I am going to be an elementary school teacher. And I am going to do all my learning up in a birkenstock-wearin', tofu-eatin', gay-pride-parade-marchin', bra-burnin' hippy college town. (I'm sure that there is much hemp-derivative-smokin' going on too, but if it didn't happen when we were 18, it's not likely to happen for us now. We will just have to satify ourselves with our neighbors' incense-burnin', pot-maskin' coolness. Maybe it will rub off on us -- although it's going to have to get through Nancy Reagan first.)

Now many people have tried to make comparisons between being a public defender and being an elementary school teacher. I prefer to not make such comparisons. I see it as my job to try to instill some basic fundimentals (such as literacy) so that my students are not wearing orange jump suits on the side of the road. And as part of that vision, I also imagine that my life as a teaching student will be utterly unlike my life as a law student. In place of casebooks, Black's Law, the socratic method, and competition, there will be Green Eggs and Ham, Webster's, wholistic learning and we will braid flowers in each other's hair while listening to our professors share insightful thoughts with us.

I will be happy if this dream lasts even for three full days. But, truthfully, I am most excited right now about school suppy shopping. I have been writing in crayon and marker for years, and now I feel like I can do so without a dozen puzzled faces trying to figure me out at Starbucks. I am also planning to only wear jumpers. It is going to be a very happy year.

With Friends Like These...

2006-06-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

We are having a party on Sunday, which if you know us you know it is going to be a rockin' time. Raymond and I are party animals. In college, I was known as Margaret the Pacemaker, because where ever I went, the beat came with me. Raymond was known as Raymond the Drunk, because where ever he went, he was drunk.

If you put the Pacemaker and the Drunk together in the same room, turn on a little music and start pouring the Spirit Water, well, needless to say, it is going to be one happening time.

(Note: other than the fact that we are having a party on Sunday, nothing else I typed above was true, although if you want to start calling me the Pacemaker, I wouldn't object.)

Now, when geeks have parties, there are certain prerequisite. The first is that geeks must thoroughly clean their apartments. Secondly, they must go and buy beverages because geeks tend to drink things like water and tea, and are therefore woefully understocked for any festivities. And thirdly, this is a biggy, they send out an E-vite.

If you don't know what an E-vite is, then you either aren't a geek or you are so lacking in friends that you haven't been to a party in 35 years. Even Raymond and I have been invited to parties with E-vite. For those who don't know, E-vite is a "cool" (with "cool" defined as "geeky') way to invite people to a party with an email invitation. It is also free, and since I took a $2 toll road for the sake of my marriage the other day, I have to find ways to start cutting back.

E-vite also placates the stalker in us all, because you can secretly see who has "viewed" the E-vite. Which brings me to my point (eventually I get there). If you are going to view the E-vite and not respond, that's cool. We have all been there. But, if you then speak to the person on the phone who is hosting said party and that person asks you if you saw the E-vite (which that person knows you did because E-vite is magic that way) then you should know that person is only going to mock you behind your back if you (a) act like you didn't see the E-vite, (b) suggest that person re-send the evite to another address, because the two that that person already sent the E-vite to were insufficient (even though we both know you got the E-vite on Sunday), (c) are unable to keep up the ruse that you haven't seen the E-vite and then finally (d) refuse to commit to coming, and instead say "Well, Sunday is a better day for us than Saturday."

Oh, I forgot to mention the fourth prerequisite: Geeks are required to invite at least one lame couple to their parties who will act like the party is all about them and then come (although make it clear that it was very, very difficult for them to re-arrange their already super-tight schedule) and then, once they get there they will then ignore the rest of the crowd and make out like 18 year olds in a dorm room, even though they graduated from college 7 years ago. Clearly, it's part of the geek-code.

Learning about Myself

2006-06-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

Today, dear reader(s), I sprained my ankle. It is possible that it is broken, but that would require a trip to the ER, an xray, and a million dollars in gold coins (actually $50, but seriously, right now $50 feels like a million to me.) I first thought, I should go to the ER but then I discovered it would cost a million dollars, so I changed my mind. I decided that ice, an ACE bandage, and some wine was all I really needed (actually, I had a Shirley Temple, but at 28 a person can't be confessing about drinking a Shirley Temple, even when she is in a vulnerable state.)

Then, I spoke to Nai, who moonlights as a doctor. I called him to get a second opinion, even though my opinion was definately the most important. I figured I would call a doctor and he would be able to help me make the decision. Well, kids, in 2006 when you call your doctor you might as well save the nickle (or 50 cents or what ever it costs to call people on non-existant payphones). They just use the computer to find the information. (You know, Nai, I know how to use Google too.)

This fancy version of Google has a man's voice that talks to the doctor. Which just confirms what I suspected all along --- doctors became doctors because they couldn't hack it as English majors. Well, Computer-doctor diagnoised me as having a sprained ankle (thank god I didn't having to pay Nai for that brain damaging diagnoises.) Although Nai did recommend that I go to the ER. Apparently, Nai has a golden coin tree on his balcony that grows millions of golden coins, but I did not think I needed to go to the ER for a sprained ankle. Nai said that if I couldn't walk on it, I had to go (or, more likely, that talking Computer-doctor said it first and Nai just repeated it.) I was getting ready to go, when I decided to stand up and apparently all of the icing and elevating and Raymond-TLC (Tender-Loving-Can't-you-see-that-I-am-trying-to-do-it
-right-Margaret) had worked its magic, so I was able to stand on it.

I called Nai and told him that although I was certain he must be getting some sort of cut from all this ER talk, I did not think I needed to go. Nai said he didn't care, it's my ankle. (Where do you think they teach these doctors such lousey bedside manners?) So, here I am, at home on a Saturday, on the coach, at the computer, waiting for Raymond to do all the chores. Not so different from most Saturdays actually, except that this time I have more of a licence to whine. We will see how far I can take it until Raymond cracks.

I did learn something about myself today though -- I clearly have Adult-onset-ADD. I have suspected it for some time. But, as I was lying on the sidewalk waiting for Raymond to bring around the car, coming in and out of consciousness, I was thinking "I hope Raymond makes sure to bring some work with him. No point in sitting at the ER for 4 hours when you have grading to do." Of course, Raymond didn't remember to do this (do I have to think of everything!?!?!). So, once I was in the car, I sent him back to the apartment, and while I waited, I learned that we would have to pay a million dollars to the ER, at which point I decided my ankle didn't hurt that much. So, when he came back to the car, I told him that we didn't need to go to the ER, and we went back into the house. Raymond told me that he can just see us now, in the car, when I am in labor. He thinks this will be the scene:

Me: (Screaming)

Raymond: It's ok honey. We will be there soon!

Me: (Screaming...then suddenly distracted...) Raymond...what are you doing taking the Mass Pike?? It's a toll-road!!! Did you forget that? It will now cost us a million dollars to have this baby!"

Oh, and the look in his eye when he said this. I can tell he just can't wait for that day to come.

Two communists went to Hawaii and all they sent me from there was a cynical "Aloha" postcard.

2006-06-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

My brother and his girl friend just spent 10 days in beautiful Hawaii. Or, what people tell me is beautiful...I have never been. The trouble is, that when you are left of Castro (or at least in and around his neighborhood) it is hard to enjoy vacation, because all around you is evidence of oppression, greed and injustice. However, when not on vacation, they live on Manhatten Island, the same island that settlers stole from the aboriginal people for a handful of beads, so they are getting by somehow.

I am sure they had a nice time. In fact, their post card says so:

'Dear Margaret and Raymond,

Hawaii sure is beautiful. We highly recommend it as a vacation spot."

Seems like an ordinary enough exchange on a post card. Rather unpersonalized and generic. As if they had just checked the box that says 'Having Fun.' and 'Wish you were here.' Well, folks, if you think that, you have not met my brother. The postcard continues:

I mean, out of all of the imperial, terrible conquests by the USA, this has definately got to be in the Top Ten.

Then he signs off:

Talk to you soon.

Love, G & L

I feel loved.

Oh My!

2006-05-31T17:11:00.000-07:00

Nai went and looked at an apartment for us a few days ago. Actually two apartments, which were part of the same complex.

After that trip, I can say without question that Nai will go just about anywhere for us. I had to take a shower after seeing pictures he emailed, because I could feel the pet hair in between my toes and the grit in the carpet, and the one-ply toliet paper hanging on the roller which was attached to the sink counter that was just painted ply-wood exposing the pipes underneath (and that was in the nicer of the two units.)

When I scheduled the appointment, the manager, Mary-Beth, said to me, "Now, it is an older apartment. So, if you like "new" then this isn't for you."

"Oh, no. We are fine with older." I didn't know that "older" means "decrepit," but it must mean that in realtor-speak. Because this place was that. (Nai sent me pictures, not because I doubted his candid description of the apartment, but I suspect because he wanted full credit for the waisted and gross hour he spend with Mary-Beth. Point very much taken, my friend.)

However, it did have one very nice feature -- the apartments both had views of the Adult Toystore across the street. The store is called "Oh My!" which is probably what Nai said when he entered the apartments. I do like that my Adult Toy needs would be easily met living in this location. That wasn't on the 20 page list of essential apartment needs, but it will be now!

Would You Mind?

2006-05-30T18:58:00.000-07:00

Raymond isn't exactly my whipping boy, but, on the very rare (nightly) occassion that I need something that is not within my wingspand (or is behind me, and thus would require actually turning around on the sofa to get it) I will (very, very) nicely ask "Raaaaayyymmooonnn (in my world, the "d" is definately silent), will you please get me:

1. Some water (I add sound effects to emphasize how parched my throat has become)
2. Socks (I will sometimes rub my feet, emphasizing the frost bite)
3. The remote (in case I have been purusing other media in my nightly quest for knowledge)
4. Whatever (the hell else I want, need, want him to get me. Insert problem here.)

Raymond is nice about it. To a point. He will point out to me that it would be more polite if I were to say "Raymond, would you please get me..." which I try to do, but it is an extra letter and all (Raymond points out, yes, if I were writing it, it would take more effort, but since I am saying it, it is the same number of syllables. He says tomato, I say tomater...)

But, generally he does help me out. ("Help out" is defined as placate me before I start whining) Now, sometimes helping out is really above and beyond. Today for example is day 5 of my sickness. When I am sick I crave sugary foods. Mainly donuts. I feel confident that donuts are not on the list of foods that doctors recommend to ward off a cold, but I just needed them. So when Raymond came home from work, I asked in my nicest voice:

"Raymond, honey (terms of endearment go a long way) would you please consider going out and getting us some donuts. I just think I neeeeeeed them."

Raymond, because he is so sweet (and because he loves donuts) said "Okay. How many do you want?" Well the answer to that question is not exactly a number. What I said was "I want you to build a donut factory so we could have donuts all the time and you could be the donut man who makes the donuts and I could be the taste-tester. But, I think you should get half a dozen."

"Are you sure you only want half a dozen?"

"What exactly is confusing about donut factory? But please only get six (just to make sure he knew what half a dozen means. He is from Virginia and all, and not that D.C. suburb Virginia. He's from the part of Virginia where it isn't unusual for the bride and groom to share a set of grandparents.)

And, six is what he returned with. He had two, which he was lucky to get because there wasn't much coming between me and the donuts.

To reward him, this evening when I was in the shower and realized I didn't have a towel, I did not make him wakeup and get out of bed to bring me a towel. I got it myself thank you very much. And, the fact that I gave a little show to the neighbors -- that was a bonus.

The Fastest Way to Raymond's Heart? A Thermos

2006-05-29T10:48:00.000-07:00

So, Raymond and I generally do not exchange gifts. We started out, like all couples, exchanging trinkets of endearment, but soon into the relationship it be came clear that it was not really going to do anything to enhance the relationship, and it may have become its down fall.

I should have known only two months into the relationship that this would be the case. In a state of new-relationship haze, I planned a birthday outing, complete with a picnic and romantic walk through an arboretum. Hair blowing in the wind, summer dress barely covering my ample bosom, I pulled out of my basket an apple and offered it to him, "No thanks." he said? Umm...Raymond...you're a vegetarian....you've got to like apples. Well, he likes apples well enough in the fall, but by mid-May I was offering him an apple that had been sitting in a warehouse for 8 months waiting to be eaten by some sucker who doesn't know about seasonal fruit. At this precise moment, I realized...Raymond is somewhat particular.

Now, this seemed unfair to me, because really, there couldn't be two particular people in the relationship. I had already taken that role as my gender's birthright. What was Raymond, a man, doing with opinions and feelings? That he expresses? Without apology? So, like any reasonably educated and independent woman, I clung to hope for another three years that Raymond would change and we would suddenly become April apple eaters -- and he would like it!

Well, change did happen, but, it came from me. Raymond was happy all along not having to spin the wheel of fortune, having to find just the right gift that I would have known I wanted if I had ever known it existed. Since giving up the hope of this happening, we are much happier and it has been "Happy Birthday, here's your cake!" ever since. It works well for us.

But, it does make me a little skitish about buying things for Raymond when he isn't at the store with me. On Saturday, I braved my cold (I'm doing somewhat better today, thanks for asking) and went to the grocery store and Target. Raymond asked me if I would look to see if they had any Thermoses that he could take to work.

If you don't know Raymond personally, you may be unaware of his love affair with loose tea. The obsession is so strong that we own a hot water heater that boils water and then cools it to three separate temperatures for optimal tea-steeping. This "useful" machine is made in Japan and cost us more than Raymond's entire wardrobe. Therefore, he has not purchased another of these "useful" appliances for work. But, that doesn't mean he shouldn't be able to drink his tea steeped at 175 degrees fahrenheit, as God intended.

So, he wanted a thermos so he could make the tea in the morning and then drink it all day. As much as I wanted to get him a Strawberry Shortcake or A-Team thermos, I suspected, like the apple, those choices would not be very well received. I found the thermoses and then stared at the selection for a good ten minutes, trying to channel Raymond so I would know exactly which thermos he would choose. I picked up the various contenders and opened them up and imitated the behavior of pouring tea. Even without water, it was clear that not all thermoses are created equal (All of the contenders performed identically when undergoing the "leaving the thermos on the roof of the car and driving away" test -- so I had to consider that as a neutral criteria).

After much prayer and soul searching, I settled on "The Rock" which looks vaguely like the drive-thru bank canisters, and according to the manufacturers keeps the tea warm for 24 hours. Driving home, I was nervous about Raymond's reaction.

I shouldn't have been. No one has ever been more pleased with thermos. For the past 2 days he has drunk his tea from the thermos, even though our little tea pot is perfectly capable of doing the job. If I let him sleep with it, he probably would. Every so often he turns to me, grinning ear to ear and says "I love my thermos."

I hope Raymond and The Rock have a wonderful life together. Thankfully, tea is always in season.

Hold on to Your Ears

2006-05-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

One thing that sinks when I am sick with a cold is that my singing voice goes to pot.

This morning's rendition of "I believe I can fly" ended almost before it began. I was unable to hit the high note in "fly" and so I stopped. Some would say that I never really can reach the high notes in that or any other song, but I ignore those people. I have mentioned here before that I am a great shower singer. I am available for any shower gigs you may need.

And, I don't actually need to know that lyrics of the song to make it my own. Actually, without being burdened by the "original" words, the song is transformed by me into a deeper, more personal experience.

Take for example "Hey Jude." Everyone has heard the song sung as the Beatles sang it. But, only a select few have heard my version, which is an ode to Raymond. And, I feel like that needs to change. I have considered recording it myself, but I think Paris Hilton may actually be able to pull it off the way I intend it. And, that would save me from having to deal with the trappings of celebrity.

Reason 16,438 My Parents Do Not Know of This Blog

2006-05-27T16:37:00.000-07:00

It's hard to put into words how big a moment this is going to be. In approximately 15 minutes Raymond and I are going to....are you sitting down? Seriously, sit down. You need to be prepared for this one....

We are going to Pick Our Wedding Pictures!

We were married March 13, 2004. It is now May 27, 2006. A mere two years, two months and 14 or so days later, we are taking care of this.

"Why," might you ask "has it taken two years, two months and 14 or so days to pick the pictures?" And, if you are asking that question, well, basically we have nothing in common and you might not want to read this blog anymore.

For those kindered spirits who are like "Two years, two months and 14 or so days is nothing! My kid is 14 and I still haven't sent out her birth announcement." please stop by our home any time you wish. There is always a place at the table for you. This is especially true if you paid in advance for those birth announcements, shoe repairs, dry cleaning, coupon book, or tv (because it was such a great bargain with the $150 mail in rebate...)

In case you people who take care of business in a timely fashion are still reading, the reason those $150 rebates exist for you is because suckers like me buy the product and then fail to mail the envelope, because obviously you need to photocopy the receipt first and, well, some people never get around to doing that very important step.

I'm sure Raymond and I will be very happy to see these pictures which my parents paid thousands of dollars for and which have been sitting in our living room in their archival paper for the last two years, two months and 14 or so days. I'll be sure to let you know how the pciture choosing goes, (in a timely fashion.)

Wanted: Nai to snap to it!

2006-05-23T06:33:00.000-07:00

We are currently apartment shopping. Actually, because we are moving out of state, we are managing the apartment shopping while Nai does all the footwork. Generally, I am in favor of being the peon, because then only one person (the "boss man") will generally be mad at me. Whereas, when you are the manager, all of your managees are likely to revolt (or at least that is how I imagine it, given my general lack of respect towards those in middle management.)

But, managing Nai is oddly satisfying! I mean, I pretend to be all concerned about his schedule and free time, but secretly I look forward to telling him "Call her" or "Go there." (In an effort to maintain an efficient working relationship, the "you" is understood.) Of course, delegating the responsibility to Nai of finding us shelter does have its potential obstacles. For example, in his quest for us to be next door neighbors, he may choose to neglect to mention that the bathroom and the kitchen are a shared space. Or he might overlook the woman on the first floor who is expecting triplets.

We are just going to throw caution to the wind and trust that Nai would rather not hear me bitch and moan for the next year about the apartment he chose for us. Which, given my great skills in the bitching and moaning department, he probably has already carefully considered it.

M & R -- Please Phone Home

2006-05-22T05:06:00.000-07:00

My lack of blog posts is pretty shameful, and I don't have much to blame it on. The truth is, brace yourselves, that I am not funny 100% of the time. I know you are shocked by such an admission. But, I as much as I would like to blame others, I really only have my own self to blame.

I thought about blaming it on a zillion things, Raymond being the closest and most likely choice. And, actually, I think I did blame him awhile back. It is true that Raymond takes the laptop most mornings and leaves me with the keyBOARD froM HEll. (I am not yelling, although the keyboard apparently has a lot of anger and is fast and loose with the caps lock.) But, there are other times in the day that I can blog.

I also thought about blaming it on my time, but who are we kidding. I have plenty of time. In fact, I could probably blog 7 hours a day from work, but even I have some shame (sorry, I forgot to tell you to brace yourselves for that one, are you ok?)

I also could blog while the rest of America talks to who knows who on their cell phones. Raymond and I do not own cell phones. We did at one point, but we have been cp free for the last three or four years. About once every two months I miss it, because it would be nice to call someone to tell them I was running late or lost, but generally, I am relieved. My cell phone never accidentally goes off during a trial or in church or while I am driving and I Cant. Resist. I. Must. Answer. The. Phone. Even. Though. I. Am. Barrelling. Down. The. Road. At. 70. Miles. Per. Hour. It. Might. Be. Ed. McMann. Or. The. Noble. Committee. And. If. I. Don't. Answer. Then. They. Will. Give. My. Million. Dollars. Away. To. Someone. Else.

Yesterday, I met my brother for lunch. He lives out of state and was nearby for a conference. So, I drove down and was running about 15 minutes late. Well, he called Raymond looking for me. And, in that brief conversation told Raymond "You and Margaret need to get a cell phone." I appreciate his concern, because obviously it is worth $100 a month to be able to call G and let him know I will be 15 minutes late. I can't think of a better use of the $100, can you?

When I got there, G also informed me that we need a cell phone, in case Raymond failed to relay this very important message to me when I got home. "They have cheap plans. It won't be that expensive." I appeciate that he has shopped around for me (probably while he waited that long 15 minutes for me he text messaged someone who has a cell phone who then called, on that cell phone at of the cell phone companies). "We're fine G. It's just no worth it to us." "Margaret, cell phones are not a luxury item. It's a necessity. Maybe in 1983 it would have been ok, when no one else had a cell phone, but not now." It is true that pay phones are basically a thing of the past, but since every person and his mother has a cell phone, I just have to go up to a stranger and say "Hey, I'm lost. Do you think I could use your cell phone for a few minutes?" It works very nicely.

So, I felt like I had a right to launch into my diatribe against cell phones, which is basically "Who are all these people talking to?" When I am at the gym, I see people on the phone, while lifting weights or on the treadmill. I have also seen joggers on their cell phones. And, it doesn't appear that anyone can walk anywhere these days without talking to someone on the phone. Do these people want to talk to so many people on the phone. Or it is just sort of like a compulsion. "I paid for this sucker and I am going to use it." I just know that last week Raymond and I received a woping 6 phone calls, 5 of which were from his mother. And the last thing either of us need is a way for family to get in touch with us faster.

Hemp, It's What's for Dinner.

2006-05-15T11:06:00.000-07:00

One thing I love is a good hemp enthusiast. Nothing can beat those people down, because they always have hemp to keep them going. Recently I “learned” (with “learning” defined as being told information that cannot be corroborated) that if only the government allowed the growing of hemp we would not have a gas crisis because it is the perfect source for ethanol.

Now, in case you have not been “learned” of the miracle that is hemp, let me tell you all about it. Better yet, why don’t I let those who “know” all about the plant tell you in their own words:

“Is there a single plant that could possibly save the world?” Umm….I have never heard of such a thing? It’s going to save the world. Tell me more…

“The entire plant can be utilized for over 25,000 applications. To begin, the seed is nature's perfect food. It is also a complete source of protein and can be served as a meal in itself” You know, I could really go for a hemp sandwich right now. I really feel hungry for some reason, around all this hemp. A hemp sandwich and some Cheetos. That’s what I want. Oh, and a nap.

“The oil from the seeds have the highest percentage of essential fatty acids and the lowest percentage of saturated fats.” Hemp can also make me skinny? Really? I am so there. Why does our government keep this from us. No wonder we have so much obesity! It’s because we can’t cook in hemp oil. Is there no justice in this world?

“Second, byproducts from the plant are an excellent source building material…trees take 20 years to mature while this plant only takes 4 months.” That’s really lucky, because we can use the other 19 years and 8 months to relax and enjoy the weed, as god intended.

“It is 7 times more recyclable than wood.” How something can be 7 times more recyclable than another thing I’m not sure, but I am really being sold on this.

“Medically, a derivative of this plant has recently been proven to relieve nausea in AIDS and cancer therapy. It has been used with success in treating glaucoma, asthma, epilepsy, mood disorders, and arthritis. It increases appetite, promotes sleep and relaxation, and relieves stress and migraines.” What is this derivative about which you speak? Where can I get some of this derivative? If I am walking down the street with this derivative in my pocket, and the police stop me and ask if they can search me, should I tell them it’s ok? Because, dude, it’s just a derivative of the most amazing and fantasterrific plant on the planet, dude.

“If just 6 percent of all our arable land were seeded with this plant, it could supply us with all our fuel, gas and oil needs.” Because, seriously, who would want to do anything but sit around and smoke its derivative. I personally have no need to drive anywhere after a little derivative.

As you can see, hemp supporters can be very persuasive. So, write your congressperson and let them know about this plant. I just think they haven’t heard enough about it have made a final decision on the issue. A subscription to High Times may also be a nice stocking stuffer.

50 questions, pared down to 13 for your sanity

2006-05-14T19:48:00.000-07:00

1. How tall are you barefoot? 5’ 6” (I am trying not to be pathetic and say 5’ 6.5” although this is technically, 100% accurate people.)

2. Have you ever smoked before? Never, and nothing. Basically if you have met me or want to say you have met me, you have met the lamest lady in America. I did go to college and people there, whom I knew, smoked up, but it never occurred to anyone to actually offer me anything. I have never gotten a chance to Just Say No. I really feel I let Nancy Reagan down.

3. Do you own a gun? No. Frankly, me owning a gun would be a great comedy of errors if not for the fact that it would end with someone dead. I do, sort of, know how to shoot a gun because in my youth-hood I summered in Anniston, Alabama. This wasn’t really by choice, although calling it “Camp” did make me initially excited about going. No one told me that I would have to get along with others in their youth-hood for an entire month. Luckily they locked up the guns except during riflry time.

4. If you had a mental disorder, what would it be? What do you mean by “if”?

5. How many letters are in your crush's name? Well, Raymond is traditionally spelled with 7 letters, but Sweaty-sweat has 11. I’m not sure which is the correct answer. Oh, I hate trick questions.

6. What's your favorite Christmas song? It’s more ecumenical, but I like the Cat and Dog duet of Greensleaves and Hava Nagila. Those guys can really sing.

7. Do you have A.D.D.? Well, Dr. Ray has diagnosed me with it, but I have to say that his medical license from Guam is highly suspect. And, I really don’t have the patience or focus though to sit though a formal evaluation.

8. Name the last 3 things you have bought today: I bought three onions, which would count as one item in the 12 items of less line, but count as three for this enormously important and simulating questionnaire.

9. Can you spell? Obviously these questions were designed to really probe my deepest secrets. I really don’t think this question needs an answer. Basically my entire blog speaks the truth.

10. Current hate? Today, I was working out and the guy next to me was having a baby. Although I never actually saw a baby come out of his bottom (or whatever other orifice a baby would use when inside a man) I can say without any doubt the man must have been in labor. There is no other explanation for why he was making the sounds he was making. I would have boiled some water but, you know, I was working out.

11. Would you be a pirate? Actually, I am a pirate. Actually a junior pirate because my “Ayrrrrr Mate-ty” hasn’t be perfected. But, as soon as I get that line down, Raymond says I can join his boat, which is currently docked near by.

12. What songs do you sing in the shower? I tend to send original compositions, which typically revolve around Raymond. That doesn’t mean they positively revolve around Raymond, but positive or negative, he is the general muse for my lyrics. It is all a ruse to get him to come and talk to me while I shower, but don’t tell him that.

13. Best bed sheets you had as a child? Kermit the Frog playing the banjo. When Raymond told me that he had the same sheets, I knew we were soul mates.

(Thanks to Holly for these insightful questions!)

I Have a Dream

2006-05-12T12:32:00.000-07:00

We have lived in our apartment for three years. It has it's perks. It's pretty spacious and light. It is in a nice neighborhood and conveniently located on the bus line (did I mention here that I take the bus to work?) But, it's got some problems.

For one thing, it costs about 1 billion dollars a month to heat. Some rocket scientist came up with the idea of putting the wall heaters right underneath the windows. Well, windows are generally located on exterior walls, also known as the closest walls to the outside. Basically it makes them the least effecient heaters in America. Our apartment is never warm from November until March, even though we spend a fortune to heat the place.

But, now that it is May, the space heaters are really a non-issue. More important is the fact that our toliet only flushes every 8th or 12th or 31st flush -- depending on it's mood. Why this is, we don't know, the the same people management company that has a "no more than three mice per apartment rule" also has a "we aren't sure what the problem is, but we will send someone incompetent out to "fix" it. Oh, and when we say "fix" what we mean is someone who will come and jiggle the handle a bit" policy.

I have a dream that our next apartment will have no mice. I have a dream that our next apartment will be warm in the winter. I have a dream that one day the dryers in the laundry room will dry more than two articles of clothing for less than $3. And, most importantly, I have a dream that my next toilet will flush everytime.

I know I have lofty goals, but on occassion a girl has to shoot for the stars.

Raymond: Super-Sub!

2006-05-09T10:13:00.000-07:00

Another exception to my “I can’t remember your birthday, unless you tell me it is your birthday” rule is if we are living together. Generally then I have it under control. Like today, I remembered all by myself at 4 am that it was Raymond’s birthday. And, I was even very nice and sweet to him, even though the sun had yet to wake up, because, after all, I figure I can be nice at least once a year.

I even sang him Happy Birthday at 4 this morning. I am really looking for a medal out of this marriage-thing.

To celebrate, Raymond is getting fingerprinted. I generally require the men I have “relations with” to get fingerprinted much earlier on. The process generally goes like this: Meet in a drunken-stupor; Use a sharpie to write his number on my hand; Wait a few days for him to call; Sober-up; Begin to call him obsessively from payphones (so that he doesn’t know it is me. “The Rules” think that women calling men makes women appear cheap. I certainly wouldn’t want that impression.); Drive to his home and monitor what times he leaves in the morning, comes home at night, and whether or not he shops at Whole Foods (good nutrition is very important to me); “Coincidentally” bump into him at a coffee shop and sit down to “chat;” Drive to the Fingerprinting Service together (I also love romance in a relationship).

But, I found guys to be a little shy about handing over their fingerprints to quickly, so I thought with Raymond I would wait until 5 years into our relationship and then, using my womanly ways, coerce him into action. It turns out I didn’t even have to be the one to do it – the school system requires it of all substitute teachers and Raymond is about to become a sub!

When I was in school (i.e. “the good ol’ days”), the only requirements to become a substitute teacher were 1) can you yell; 2) can you find the school. Raymond is actually required to Teach! Even worse, he wants too! Can you imagine! Prepare lesson plans and execute them. In fact, he actual feels an obligation to the students.

I gave Raymond a long list of movies that I thought were very educational, but it doesn’t appear that he is listening to me. I feel really sorry for those kids. Here they are, almost at the end of the school year, and Raymond is going to come in and expect them to do work? What an outrage. I suggested that Raymond skip over teaching anything about unions or strikes or unfair labor practices, because you don’t want to equip those kids with any ideas.

The problem is, I don’t think Raymond appreciates the educational value of “Ernest Saves Christmas.” Maybe it’s the religious message. Some parents may think that Raymond is proselytizing to the children. Some people just can’t see past the name to find the greater literary merit of that movie. I wonder if “Ernest Goes to Camp” would be a less charged choice.

Even if Raymond is going to be a lamest substitute teacher ever, it is his birthday. So, Happy Birthday Honeybunny! (Hey Internet! Don’t think I won’t cut you if you laugh at this term of endearment) Even though 28 still doesn’t make you old enough to run for president, in my book you are still smarter than George W.

I love you!

I Have a Stalker

2006-05-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

Ok, that is sort of an intentionally hyperbolic title, but it is sort of true.

As I have mentioned before, I'm all about being google-able. At least professionally. This blog is cryptic enough and my name is common enough that I don't think, at least, that anyone has found it exclusively via google when looking for me. (As I type that I am imagining my mother googling my name and discovering the blog, "Hey, Mom!")

Either way, I'm not super-worried about someone finding the blog, because it would merely confirm most of what they think about me already, and that's ok. But, there are a few people in this world that I don't really want to have contact with, mainly because I don't feel that safe having them know where I live.

A few former clients fall into this category, but not necessary the ones that you would expect. Generally harden criminals could careless about their PD. They often know (or think they know) a lot about the law, but they also know that most judges are not particularly sympathetic to their cases or their mitigation. Plus, public defenders are reported to be paid in magic beans, so it is not even worth thinking about robbing them in the future.

The clients that concerned me to most where the ones I heard from after I represented them or while I represented them, but concerning totally different matters. Also, clients who asked me to go for coffee or out to dinner concerned me. I like professional distance. In college, I appreciated that my school had a strict social norm of calling professors by title. Even when a professor would sign an email "Mary" or "Al" I would always write back "Dear Professor Smith:" (note the colon, very important for suggesting that nothing in the letter should be interpreted to mean that I want to become friends, social acquaintances, or have sex with them.) There have been a few cross-overs, but those are very, very few. My feeling is, I don't want my friend to tell me that my work sucks. I'll take it a lot better if it comes from a more objective and distanced source.

But, my "stalker-lite" isn't a former client, she is a former classmate. And it is all my fault that she is calling me. I registered for the university's alumni network several years ago and now she has used that information to get in touch with me. She has called three times, first leaving a message and then twice more (yesterday) calling but hanging up when she got the voicemail.

Luckily, Raymond and I don't answer our phone like normal people, instead we use our answering machine to screen calls. We also have caller ID. Now, I am all for this Fort Knox system of communication, although I am deeply ashamed of it.

It is a result of our families having vastly different communication expectations of us. If I am too busy to talk, I just tell my parents that, and they hang up. This works especially well if I have work to do. The protestant work-ethic is live and kicking in my family. And, if we are talking on the phone and it gets boring, we just say "Ok, got to go." Now, this used to really hurt my feeling, because it can be extremely cold for your mother to hang up on you because you are boring her. But, ever sense I embraced it, I have come to see how amazingly advantageous a system it is. Especially compared to Raymond's familial obligations, which involve lllllooooooonnnnnngggggggg, bbbbbboooooooorrrrrrrrriiiiinnnnggggggg conversations with his relatives. That is two sets of grandparents, a mother, and father (divorced, of course! Probably because of this system. I mean, my parents are still married; I think there is a causal connection..) Without the complicated phone screening program we have devised, you cannot insure that answering the phone will become a three hour long saga.

This system (including a non-personalized answering machine message) has saved me from actually confirming my presence in my current city (How I just love Pittsburg!) to my stalker. It is very complicated as to why I don't really want her to know that I live here, but needless to say it is not because things would be boring. Instead, I am afraid that things could become terribly interesting to everyone but me. If she were just boring, I would call her back. If I had a rule against borning, I certainly couldn't ever call my own mother.

I probably should give her a second-chance. "But," I tell myself, "we are moving in a few weeks. It might be uncomfortable. She had a very different value system than you did. She might trying to convert you. Your tires might get slashed..."

Something tells me I will not be updating my alumni mentoring network information.

Blogger hates me

2006-05-06T18:03:00.000-07:00

First my post was about how my original post was lame. Now, I find that there is no post. Not to worry, it was merely a promise for a better post tomorrow.

Sweet dreams.

Money, come and get it!

2006-05-05T04:56:00.000-07:00

I really shouldn't be trusted with anything of value. More specificlty, I shouldn't be trusted to not forget or loose things of value. Take for example my wallet:

My small, leather wallet holds most of the important things in my life, other than Raymond (which, thank god for that, because I would hate to be as careless with Raymond as I am with my wallet). My drivers licence, my student ID (sure, I'm not a student per se but that misses the point of getting discounts at the movies), my high school dipolma (didn't your high school give you a miniture dipolma so that you could prove at a moment's notice that you graduated from high school?), old, meaningless receipts, an expired Starbucks card, oh...and there is something else, I can't quite remember what that is, it will come to me...I'm sure...oh that's right:

MONEY. Credit cards and cash. And, if you are me this month, it will hold over $100 in unmarked bills.

On Wednesday I skip to the bus (have I ever mentioned here that I ride the bus to work??? I'm sure that would be a facinating post, that people will comment about endlessly. It sounds like a real winner -- (I get it, you are bored by my "I'm of the people" bullshit)) and jam to my country music/NPR depending on whatever is most boring at the time. Then, I skip into the local Rite-Aid to purchase some envelopes. (God, could this story get any more exciting??) I go to the register to pay (Oh wait! It did just get more exciting, I am in awe of my own literary talent) and my wallet isn't in my purse.

I can't remember the last place I was with the wallet, but I suspect that it may very well be in my office: my unlocked, cleaned every night office. Or, more likely I suspect it was in that office but now is in someone's pocket. Because, seriously, if someone is stupid enough to leave their wallet lying around with $100 in cash, they deserve whatever they get, considering the night cleaning people work for $5.15/hour.

But, it appears that the most honest people in America work in our building, because there it the wallet was -- OPEN -- on my desk. It might as well have had a sign that read "Hey, Ms. Stupid is stupid and wants you to take all of her money and her laminated miniature high school diploma." The blackness of the wallet was nicely offset by the whiteness of the paper it was sitting on to. Almost creating a spot-light effect.

So, basically I am the luckiest person on the planet this week. And the drinks are on me!

Fan-mail

2006-05-02T10:20:00.000-07:00

I know that the ship has run it's course. But, I am in complete denial that there will be no new episodes of Seventh Heaven after next Monday.

For those of you who do not think of the Camdens as your own family, I feel sorry for you. Mom and Dad are such good role models for how marriage should work because if all else fails the mother is always right. And the kids are just such great siblings and people, all accept Mary but she never really recovered from the car accident so we can't really blame her for the divorce can we? Her dreams of playing for the WNBA went up in smoke, much like the WNBA itself.

Matt is a doctor! How awsome is that? Just the other day it seems like he was an orderly at the hospital and now he is prepared to save lives. I wonder if they get paid royalties when they mention them but don't show them, because they would be rolling in the dough in that is the case.

And Lucy! A minister! Who would have ever thought that such a boring and whiney kid would grow up to get married to someone so rich and so hot? And have a baby who never cries. I envy her life. Oh, the suspence is killing me! I wonder if they are having a boy or a girl or if it's twins! (The possibility for ambigous genitalia also looms, but is a distant fouth)

Ruthie, who was just the cutest little curly head munchkin around is now a surly teen. Thank goodness she stopped staightening that hair, because it must have taken hours every morning. I could never figure out how she found a way to wake up with it straight and shiny! I need to get some of that product pronto!

I feel like it is totally unfair that we will never know what the twins(aka Samndavid) will grow to become. There aren't many jobs where they need to people to talk in simultanious sentences, but with Mom and Dad rooting for them, I know they will succeed! Maybe one could become a sign lanugage interpretor for the other.

But, the final star of the family appears to be Simon, who is getting married. Just the other day he was learning how to charge interest to his siblings and hording his wealth, now he is fast and loose with the credit and maybe (although it seems doubtful) soon to be a father. If Rose hadn't slipped him that ruffie when they first met, such a dramatic plot line would never have been possible! Thank goodness for Rose, who has the honor of being the least developed character ever on television -- a major achivement in light of so many bad television shows currently and formally on-air. What is great about it is that they can have her say or do anything and she doesn't have to justify how it makes sense -- it's just Rose!

I haven't quite decided what I will be doing for the final episode. It will probably be me, Tivo, and a box of Klenex. I do anticipate having to call out sick the following day. I'll be grieving an era.

A Cryptic Post

2006-04-30T16:57:00.000-07:00

I have begun to think in blog. I am considering carrying around a little note book so I can write down blogging ideas when they dawn on me. Because by the time I get back to the laptop, I generally have forgotten whatever it was that I thought was blog worthy. (Note: The bar for "blog-worthiness" is incredibly low, it's my short-term memory that is the problem.).

Another problem is that every so often I will think "Oh, that would make a great post" and then a realize that this is not a private forum. And, even stories I might share in mixed company are not necessarily ones that I would want to post on the world wide web. There are some topics that are just not www friendly.

Of course, if I were to tell you what those topics are, then it would defeat the purpose of having limitations. But, it does cramp my style at times. Today, something terriibly funny happened in the laudry room of our apartment, but because posting about it would violate one of my "rules" I can only tell you that you would be laughing your asses off.

One of those limitations is not my own illegal behavior -- so I can disclose that I have been known to steal laundry detergent. I suspect I am not the only one, as my relatively-new Trader Joe's detergent was completely empty this morning. But, one of the benefits of living in a 40+ apartment house is that the laundry room is like your own little free-sample heaven. There are plenty of brands and scents to choose from. My clothes were washed today in Arm & Hammer Purfume and Dye Free detergent. I chose it because it was dusty on top, and figured that it's owner either moved or stopped washing her clothes in 2003. The other advantage was that it was a popular model. In case the purchaser of said detergent suddenly walked into the laundry room as I was pouring the soap into the machine, my cover story went something like this: "Oh! I thought that was mine. My husband normally does the laundry (he's very progressive you know) and I just grabbed the first bottle I saw that looked like ours. When I come back later, I will bring a sharpie down so I don't make that mistake in the future."

Luckily, I was saved from any such embarrasment. And our clothes smell nice and perfume free.

The Things You Learn from PBS

2006-04-29T15:12:00.000-07:00

There is a PBS documentary series currently airing called "The Standard of Perfection." I am not sure if there will be more episodes, but the ones I have seen have been priceless.

Both are about showing animals: cats and cows repectively. The cat show people were predicably nutty as are dog show people. Yet, the two are clearly different personality types. They would have to be, because cats demand a lot more self-esteme than dogs do. Dogs generally are pushovers. They just want a good belly rub and a good meal and they are indebted to you. Cats want what they want when they want it, and if they change their minds five seconds before you give it to them, well, you should have been able to anticipate that too.

What I learned about cat shows it that they are designed to accomidate the cat. If a Cocker Spaniel were to growl and snap at the judge, I suspect that would be the end of the line for him. Not on the cat show circuit. The one that won Best in Show hissed and scratched (and maybe bit) the judge. Cat people reward orneriness. Which does not suprise me in the least.

I learned a lot more in the "Show Cattle" episode. I know nothing about cows, but these dairy farmer in Maine sure the heck do. They also say things like "sure the heck" and "Jiminy Cricket" which just makes me want to run to Maine and hug them.

My favorite cow was "Celebration" who's

had to work for everything she's got but she has been a termendous competator. And to be 11 years old, and to have a mammories system that looks the way her's does today, it's just exceptional.

As the farmer spoke, the camera zoomed in on Celebration's "mammories." It was a bit invasive if you ask me. It was like the heifer version of Hugh Hefner saying "Candy came from nothing, but now at 45 can you believe the rack on her?!?! And those are the real deal. Natural Double Ds! Exceptional."

For me, the best part is that Celebration already has her striper name picked out. All she needs is a bedazzled G-string and she is all set.

Oops! I Almost Did It Again

2006-04-28T06:14:00.000-07:00

Today is a special day because I am going to the Department of Corrections! Oh, don't you envy my life? In case you are unaware, the Department of Corrections is sex segregated. With the exception of women correctional officers, these men go days and days without seeing a woman. Suprisingly, this makes for a rather sexually charged environment.

Every woman public defender I know has been asked out by a client. My favorite place to be asked out is at the jail. Something about the plexi-glass divider and the germ-infested phones makes it very romantic. I sort of admire these men's egos. They genuinely think that I am going to be able to look past the jump suit, slippers, hand cuffs, and bars and find my soulmate. But, I have a firm policy of not mixing business with pleasure, so Raymond will have to do for now.

But, just because I'm not looking for a man, doesn't mean I don't have to be careful about what I wear. Attire is definately professional-dowdy. This is generally a job for Talbots. However, it has been a while since I have been to a jail. I used to go several times a week, but as an appeallate attorney, I haven't needed to go since December. And, in that 4 months, I have lost my mind.

Today, I put on a sleveless white collared top, which has 4 buttons, all of which begin around my navel. I should know that if I look in the mirror and have to ask "Is this appropriate?" it never, ever is. Luckily, Raymond saved me from a very embarrasing first encounter with this client. He said to me "Oh, is that the top you were refering to in your blog?" It wasn't. Clearly, I must own more revealing articles of clothing than I ever realized. I said "Oh, is it too revealing? I'm going to the jail today."

"Oh, God No!"

I changed. My client will be very disappointed, I'm sure.

Warning: Reading this post may cause your brain to fall off

2006-04-26T05:05:00.000-07:00

One reason I went to Atlanta this past weekend was to attend a wedding. Another was to see my folks. The main reason: to go to the dentist. More accurately -- to go to see my dental hygenist Katherine.

Katherine is one of my favorite people on the planet. If all people felt about their hygenists the way I feel about Katherine, dentists would have to be fighting people off with a stick. I have been seeing Katherine for 24 years at the same office. That longevity has made me a tad entitled.

When I called a few weeks ago to make the appointment, a receptionist I don't know answered the phone.

"Hello, dental office"
"Hi! This is Margart Surname"

I paused, waiting for her to recognize that the dental office's version of Gwyneth Paltrow had just called.

Silence.

I tried again.

"Hi. This is Margaret Surname. I am calling to make an appointment to see Katherine."

That was her opprotunity to say "Oh! You're That Margaret! It is a pleasure to finally speak to you."

Instead, I got:
"What day?"

As I was hanging up, I tried one last ditch effort to gain some recognition. I asked to speak directly with Katherine.

"Um...she's in with a patient!?!?!"
"Ok, please just tell her I called." I could hear the pen not hitting the pad of paper.

I confirmed my suspecisions in Atlanta. Katherine never got my message. But she was eagerly awaiting my arrival!

One thing I like about Katherine is she is very non-judgmental. For example, she never lectures me about flossing. It isn't that I am opposed to flossing, it just sort of cramps my style. It isn't part of my M.O. Non-detail-oriented people tend to be bad at flossing. Every tooth? Everyday? Wait! You are saying twice a day?? I'm just not really cut out for that. Brushing is easier because it involves broad strokes and makes your breath smell minty. Big-picture people like minty breath. It distracts from the stains on their shirts which they didn't notice or if they did notice, couldn't be bothered to change clothes.

In the same way I don't floss on a regular basis, I don't have a skin care regimen. Which according to the helpful representative at Lancome is likely to have drasticly terrible consequences. I went to Lancome to get what they call a "make-over." I don't wear makeup very often, and I am pretty inept at applying it. So, when I am going to some sort of major function, I will sometimes go to the mall and sit through the sales pitch for the free application.

Generally, the sales pitch is pretty soft-ball. I tell them how much love their products and they tell me how great their products are. We are all just hugging the products by the time the "make-over" is over. Apparently, Kristy didn't get the memo. Kristy cleaned my face. Which, if we rely solely on the facial gestures was a very tough job for her. And, if we combine the commentary with the raised eyebrows and squinting eyes you might get the impression that children run in fear when they see me and my "extremely dry" skin walk by.

My approach with these sort of situations is to make fun of myself. When she asked what my skin-care routine was, I said:

"[Ha, Ha.]"
"What does that mean?"
"Well, let's just say I shower every day."
"Do you even use soap?"
"Well, [Ha, Ha] the shampoo often gets near my face."

She just blinked at me for a few seconds. I am quessing that she messed the day in training when they prepared her for those like me.

"It really isn't very hard." She tried to recover, appealling to my lazy side.
"Oh, sure. But, it just isn't in my character. I mean, I own those products, but I don't use them. [Ha, Ha]"
"Well, you really need a cleanser, a toner, a dry erase board, a hacksaw, and a mosturizer."
"Oh, I know, but it's never going to happen. [Ha, Ha]"
"I didn't even want to know if you don't use an eye cream."
"Ok, I won't tell you. [Ha, Ha.]"

Kristy didn't laugh once. She was not at all amused by my cavalier attitude. Finally, in deep exasperation she said "That's fine. It's your face."

When I was visiting Katherine a few days later and the issue of flossing came up, I told her the "make-over" story. Katherine has a poster next to her chair that says 'You don't have to brush all of your teeth, just the ones you want to keep." That I buy. But, Katherine's approach is a little more subtle. She once held up a container of floss and said to me in a very slow, exaggerated voice "Margaret, this is den-tal-flo-ss. I don't think the two of you have met." That sort of snarkiness I like!

So, I have started flossing, just to spite Kristy. Who surely saw herself as on a humanitarian mission when she tried to intervene, but really missed the mark.

Luckily, I wasn't hit by a bus

2006-04-25T05:15:00.000-07:00

I went South and a post went missing. Hopefully, it is enjoying it nice holiday because I can't seem to find it anywhere! Luckily that means I can just recycle the idea in a few days when I am pressed for something to write. For any of you that missed the "Dictionary-writer-stalker" post, it was brilliant. The best work I have ever done. Worthy of much praise. The world is a lesser place because it has vanished.

I wonder if it was too "cutting edge" for blogger and I have been censured? I smell a conspiracy theory in the works.

Nai is apparently correct, and I already live South of the Mason-Dixon line. But, I have progressed some, because I used to think it was the Mason-Dixie line. That is growth people. Small, yet noticable growth.

A record was set in Atlanta this weekend. Margaret was in the presence of her parents and zero fights were had. They are building a monument to it, as we speak. I even made it through a dressing room experience with my mother. It was a close one though. I realized about half way through the venture, I was going to have to tell my mother that I wasn't wearing any underwear. So, I just came out and said it:

"Ok, Mom. I need to prepare you for this. I am not wearing underwear."
"What?"
"I'm not wearing underwear?"
"What?"
"Mom. I'm sorry. I just forgot."
"You forgot to wear underwear?"
"No. I forgot that you were going to see me naked, otherwise I would have worn underwear."
"Margaret! That is just nasty!"
"I'm sorry Mom. You can buy me some underwear."

I got seven new pairs out of the deal. For every day of the week. But, they don't have the days of the week on them. I'll have to figure that one out on my own.

At Least I Look Nice In Orange

2006-04-22T02:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

I will be gone until Monday evening visiting the people who gave me life. Hopefully, during that visit I will not become the person who gave them death. I wonder if the Fulton County jail has internet access??

48 hours is a long time to visit, I am sure we can agree. I trust that I will come back with a nice story of patience and compromise and sweetness and light. (You think I tell the truth here?)

Sincerely,
Margaret (who is 28, but reverts back to her charming 12 year old self when she crosses the Mason-Dixon line)

Staples -- The Next New Fashion Trend

2006-04-18T02:26:00.000-07:00

Although I don't dress in the dark, there are times that my co-workers must think I do. Like today. I am wearing a green v-neck sleeveless shirt that is cut deeper than would ever be appropriate for mixed company. This is at work.

Now, when I bought said shirt I do not remember it being cut so deeply. It is possible that it has been stretched out. But, that does not really give me much of an excuss to be wearing it in public. In my defense, I am wearing a jacket. Not in my defense, this jacket doesn't button. And, the offending skin is not on my arms (which are nicely covered, in case you were worried), it is on my chest -- what appears to be a very large chest in this "comehether" top.

When I put on the top this morning I thought that it was a tad inappropriate. For most people, that is where the discussion would have ended. In case you haven't notice, I am a lot dumber than most people. So, I decided to wear a jacket. And fasten the jacket together with a hair clip (I know...god help me) Because I think that I should defend myself again (because no one else is going to do it, that is for sure), the hair clip doesn't really look like a hair clip. But, it acts like a hair clip, which means ten minutes into my bus ride, it gave up the ghost, rendering the jacket fully open and exposing my clevage to the entire city.

Along with my lunch and purse, I was carrying three packages, which I had to mail at the post office. Generally, I wouldn't have felt so vulnerable, but I saw the potential for my outfit to be interpreted as a suggestion to Al, the postal worker, that I was lookin' for a little somethin'. Ever since Al told me that he would ask me on a date if I wasn't already married, I have felt a little awkward at the post office. What I thought had been just harmless flirting had reached a new level, and I wouldn't blame Al for thinking I had "dressed to impress."

So, I walked into the post office with these three packages in one hand, using the other hand to hold my jacket together. I recommend this look if you ever want to just look stupid. It works great!

Once I got to work, I went in search of a safety pin. Apparently, I work in a "safety pin free zone," so I settled for a neddle and thread and literally sewed my jacket together.

Well, five minutes ago the thread broke. So, I am now using a paper clip. The potential for long-term success does not look good. But, trust me, I probably haven't learned any lessons from this. That would certainly be asking to much of myself.

It is time to organize against myself

2006-04-16T15:49:00.000-07:00

I love being a goverment worker. Besides the fact that it is nearly impossible to be fired for incompetence, I like working for a stable initity. It takes a lot for a state or a country to go bankrupt. As a woman who worries about such things more than is even remotely rational, that makes me sleep well at night.

What I could never do is be my own boss. And this weekend drove that home. We currently have 45% of our worldly positions up on ebay or craig's list or on the curb. I'm very good at placing the items on the curb but listing things on ebay and craig's list is a lot of work! I have been working since 10 am Saturday morning. And, I have been a total task-master to myself. I haven't given myself a coffee break or any down time this entire weekend. I have just been pushing and pushing myself. And, frankly, I am pissed.

This is my weekend. You wouldn't want to work for me, that is for sure! I start drifting to other, more pleasurable activities (like sleep) and I am immediately self-critical. "You need to get these items listed" I tell myself. "You can't stop half-way." "Don't try. Do." The stress is killing me.

Luckily tomorrow I get to go to my weekday job, where someone else can be the boss again. There, I will be able to loaf with the best of them.

Sharing the Wealth

2006-04-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

In case you were thinking that I reserve my typos for you all, here is proof that I spread the love pretty widely.

Today, while editting a brief I came across this gem:

... if not in drug treatment, than child is no receiving proper car
andattention. This is not what the statute says.

No, that is not what the statute says, because the publishers of the statute books would like to keep publishing those statute books. They car enough to no that know one would hire then again with all of thise errors.

Me, I got nothin' much too loose. I have established such a low bar, you are probably amazed when an entire sentence is properly written and punctuated.

I'm just going to publish this and see how many errors you all can find. Fun times!

It's Sad To Be A Loser

2006-04-14T05:05:00.000-07:00

As has been commented on here before, I have never broken a bone. According to Raymond that is proof of God.

Raymond thinks that I am not the most coordinated individual on the planet. He apparently has evidence of this, but I generally discount such claims as they do not fit into my self-imagine of light and graceful. Last night, right after Raymond recoiled in fear because my foot came a little to fast and a little too close to his more senitive parts (for the record, I had complete control over my foot and there has never been a serious physical injury in this house), I challenged Raymond to a cordination contest.

The contest was supposed to take place today and be conducted in several parts:

1. Standing on one leg.
2. Balancing a spoon on your nose.
3. Walking a straight line.

We probably would have added more, but I was forced to forfit last night.

Around 3 am, I woke up and walked (very gracefully I might add) to the bathroom. On my way back into bed, I failed to accurately gage my side of the bed, and climbed right onto Raymond's feet. This startled him awake. I reassured him that everything was fine. He was still very confused, until finally I told him "I think I just lost the contest."

With that, he went back to sleep, wearing a very smug grin.

I'm coming back next year though, stronger than ever.

A Starting Over Confession

2006-04-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

Tish asked me if I would expound on my Starting Over thoughts -- specifically the graduation of Lisa. So, I am forced to confess -- I never watch the graduations.

For those readers for whom Starting Over is not a daily activity, the basic structure of the show is: Woman comes to the house. Woman's life is very disfunctional (in Lisa's case, she was 40 years old and still living off her parents). Woman is very sad and unhappy. Woman engages in 4-8 weeks of group therapy with five other women who are also sad, unhappy and living disfunctional lives. Assuming Woman does not leave on her own or is not asked to leave (both have happened) Woman graduates. At the graduation, there is a big celebration and people speak about Woman's growth. Finally Woman is sent back into the world with her "tools." (via a limo, giving it a touch of "The Bachelor" sans Rose Ceramony.)

I like the graduation in theory. I think that celebrations of milestones are important, yadda, yadda, yadda. But, I don't watch Starting Over for the end parts. In fact, because television yerns so strongly for neatly tied-up stories, the graduation ceremonies always seemed contrived to me. Starting Over doesn't really fix anyone. The moral is: I would love to blog about Lisa's graduation, but all I know is that she did in fact graduate (which, for those non-Starting Over people out there -- was a pure miracle.)

I guess I could just make it up. Certainly wouldn't be the first time I did that.

A Real Life Whodunit

2006-04-12T16:49:00.000-07:00

I once read about an artist who was trying to document his entire year on film. Whenever he was awake, he wore a little hat that would record whatever it was that he was doing. Raymond and I both need such a hat. If we had been wearing such a hat we would be able to settle once and for all the dandelion green sandwich controversy.

When Raymond and I first started dating, he often would cook for me at his apartment. I cannot remember if he had one pot or two. I do remember that he didn't have a table or any chairs, so we had to sit on the floor and eat off of a dog-eared cardboard box that thankfully his mother had sent to him several weeks before. What Raymond did before he got the box is still a mystery to me. And, least his mother find this site and think that I had not made this crystal clear: She did NOT send him the box to use as a "table." There were things in that box, and the box was intended as a mere container in which to hold those things that she was sending. She assumed (as would anyone who was not Raymond) that the box would be recycled. Raymond recycled it alright, making it an important addition to his furniture collection of futon, chest and stereo.

One of the foods that Raymond was first to introduce me to was dandelion greens. Before Raymond I didn't know that people ate weeds. In our family, we used to kill them. But, sure enough, fancy stores like Whole Foods sell them as actual food. Raymond would never think to pay good money for these greens, when you can get them from free on the side of the road or from a neighbor's yard. Or, in his case, gleaned from the cracks in the cement drive-away outside of his apartment.

I do not contest that Raymond was the first in our family to decide that we could eat them. The question is -- who created the dandelion green sandwich. Raymond says he did; I say I did. Here is why I think I was the original patented inventor:

1. I like sandwiches; Raymond doesn't.
2. I don't like dandelions but I do like cheese and onions and bread.
3. I would do anything to mask the bitter flavor of the greens.
4. Raymond's "table" was a box.

The dandelion green sandwich consists of two pieces of bread, toasted with cheese, raw red onion and dandelion greens. I definitely think that I contributed at least the cheese to this combination, if not everything other than the dandelion greens. Raymond sees it differently.

Had we been wearing camera hats, we would only need to go to the tape and find out the truth. Think how much more simple life would be...

Happy Birthday J!

2006-04-12T04:41:00.000-07:00

Looks like if someone specifically tells me it is her birthday and then I am at the computer at the right time and I have a minute to blog, then I can actually “remember.” That means that the entire onus is on the birthday girl or boy. Which seems fair right? Obviously they know what day their birthdays are, because they have to fill out forms all the time that ask for that information. I'm glad I have found a way to pass the buck.

J's birthday occasionally (like this year) is during Passover and, boys and girls, you know what that means, don't you? Terrible birthday cake. Which really sucks for J. Christian folks (or those that were raised Christian so regardless of whether they believe in God anymore or not still identify as such) don't have such fates befall them -- or at least not the "give up green beans for lent" types I was raised by.

For us, it's Christmas-time birthdays that really bite. Of course, the long-sufferer that I am, my birthday falls about five days before the celebration of God's only son’s birthday. Sure there is plenty of leavening going on (how else are you going to make all the nice cookies for the reindeer?) but there is a limit to how much additional celebrating and gift-buying a person can do five days before the big show.

But, given my personality (or, more correctly, my personality-disorder) I probably would be able to find a problem which just about any birth day that had befallen me.

Hopefully J will get to have another, non-sponge birthday cake, after the Passing-over is, well, over. In her honor though, we toaster her with matza!

I'm Not Wearing Any Hands

2006-04-11T17:46:00.000-07:00

Tonight Raymond and I went for a walk. At 65 degrees outside my reptilian husband was only able to make it to the end of the block before we had to turn back for more layers. In response to my mocking, he said "You might want to get a jacket too, so you don't have to walk with you hands in your pockets." In response I said

"I'm not wearing any hands."

Just in case you are worried, my hands are fine.

It's just my head, as usual, that you might have to be concerned about.

A Mommy Brag

2006-04-10T04:38:00.000-07:00

I know what people mean when they say that they love their children equally; I feel the same way about my appliances.

None of our appliances are "average." Largely because they were either "previously owned" or they are from a fringe sub-group. But, to us, that makes them all the more endearing. Our largest appliance (note: he is not "overweight," just big-boned) is our dishwasher, Kenmore. Ken has been with us for four and a half years. We don't know what kind of home life he had before coming to us, but he can been as temperamental as he is sweet. He requires special ecofriendly and ecopricey detergent to really work at his optimal. But, he has been very patient with us as we try to learn who he really is. At our current home, he is stationary, because "Dad" (Raymond) extended his tubing, but he used to have to wheel out morning and night. That can really make a little guy tired, but Ken consistently gives us all that he's got. And that will always be enough for us. Although portable dishwashers are often considered by the ignorant to be sub-par, we couldn't disagree more. Ken really brightens our world and our glasses, every day.

Besides Ken we have Zojirushi and Tiger, both from Japan. Zojirushi makes our hot water in the morning and Tiger makes our rice at night. Both are real work horses and, like all other things that come from Asia, put "our people" to shame. Tiger has adapted quite well to life in America. Besides making rice, Tiger can make all sorts of other things. Last night he went all Italian on us and the result was asparagus risotto. He also clearly has some Confederate blood because he makes some mean grits. Zojirushi is still adapting to this country. He has been with us the least amount of time and still only really makes tea. Although, he is willing to make non-Japanese teas, so we really think that all he needs is a little coaxing and he will assimilate just fine.

My brother's seemingly progressive girl friend told us that she didn't understand the point of having so many appliances, especially dishwashers. As much as I like her, I do worry about my brother's dishwasher, G.E. Now that they are moving in together, what sort of step-mom is she going to be to little G.E.? I just hope that she comes to love her as her own. I guess only time will tell.

We Shouldn't Be Alive: Lowes Cinema Edition

2006-04-08T21:13:00.000-07:00

I do not come from really very hardy stock. My people are from Atlanta, where temperatures rarely drop below 32 degrees and an inch of snow will shut down the city for three days. Unfortunately, I am drawn to the more northern regions of this country. But, winter immersion hasn't really made me stronger -- just whinnier.

Last night Raymond and I went to see a movie, along with three thousand other people, who all arrived before us. The only parking spot available was three miles away, over a mountain.

The movie let out at 11:30 pm, meaning Mr. Sunshine had long gone to bed. Any comfort we might have had was gone too. Additionally, we were not dressed for the elements. I was wearing a skirt and no tights, socks, nothing. My cotton sweater and flimsy (yet stylish) raincoat was providing no warmth. Raymond was better prepared in a wool sweater and long pants, but both of us were a lost cause.

As the frost-bite began eating away at our finger, ears and noses we trekked on. Across three long parking lots. We watched our fellow movie goers climb effortlessly into their SUVs, oblivious to our suffering. We would have cried out, but our lungs were working so hard just to breathe, we didn't want to waste the precious air.

I blacked out at some point, and Raymond had to carry me on his back to the car. He tells me that it was touch and go for a minute there. Although you might predict that the locks would had been frozen over, miraculously they were free of ice. We piled into the car, and turned the ignition. It didn't turn over immediately and we began to panic. Could we have come all this way, and our car not start? Is there a God?

Raymond tired again, and it Worked! We had heat and soft seats and three weeks of newspapers to keep us warm. A three week-old half-eaten humus sandwich tasted like a one week old half-eaten humus sandwich. We were saved.

I Can Explain

2006-04-05T18:31:00.000-07:00

So, I'm all committed to this blogging thing. I really am. I promise.

The lack of recent posts may suggest otherwise.

We have a problem in this house -- our desktop blows.

Raymond, bless is heart, is a wonderful man. But, not a wonderful computer builder. And who can blame him. He has no actual experience in building computers. He is a musician not an engineer. He knows about tone and harmony and pitch, not mega-bits and mother-whats and such. But, that didn't stop him. He built us the prettiest computer on the block, that shuts down whenever the spirit strikes it. You could be filing your taxes, preparing a presentation for work due in three hours, writing the Declaration of Independence, the computer will inevitablly turn off without any warning approximately three seconds before you are done and an hour after the last time you saved the document.

Blogs are also lost on that machine. So, I happily work on our laptop, except Raymond also takes it to work, so these days I am limited as to when and where I can blog (don't think I haven't blogged at work, it is just that blogger and the old version of Explorer do not have a very happy relationship.)

Never fear dear reader, a new part arrived this past week. Hopefully by Sunday I will be back to more regular blogging. Of course, it is just as likely that I will be eating these words in a few days. I guess you'll have to tune in to find out!

Annie Get Some Perspective

2006-03-30T19:18:00.000-08:00

Tonight I attended a play. Before you think I have suddenly gotten all cultural on you, it was a high school production of Annie Get Your Gun.

It was wonderful. In my opinion. Admittedly I am biased because the lead is a young friend of mine, who, for creativity sake, I will call "Annie." But, basically it was as good as high school productions can get.

Now Annie is very talented. She starred in last year's production of Grease, as a freshman. She takes voice lessons and acting lessons and is really dedicated to "her craft." She wants to be a professional actor. The good news is also that because of some pretty strong MIT and Harvard educated genes, she has nice little fall back plan to be a scientist.

But, she is still a kid. And Annie Get Your Gun is a harder musical to sing than may. So, guess what, she wasn't perfect. But, she was still great! She got up in front of all these people and sang and danced and acted her way through almost every scene in the play.

I think that Simon Cowell has ruined the high school musical experience for too many people. Annie would miss a note and you would see heads turn toward each other, as if to say "Why is she wasting our time?" It was an audience full of judges who have learned at the feet of the most critical man alive. He has taught us to make quick judgments based on little more than gut. Every new song is a new first impression, which is a double edged sword that allows for an off-day or a single off-note to overshadow weeks of strong performances. It is not as if anyone in the room was a better singer than Annie. But, it seemed like they were all sitting as arm-chair performers, who know how to do it better, but just couldn't be bothered.

That the majority of these people were parents not the surly high schoolers we know, love, and expect to be this way, just reconfirms that American Idol stands for all that is wrong with this country. I for one do not watch American Idol, preferring to not corrupt myself or poor Tivo (who is still un-named, by the way) to the trappings of such negativity.

This position against American Idol may make me unpopular, but sometimes a girl has to stand up for what she believes. That is truly the American way.

Happy Birthday Nai!

2006-03-27T04:25:00.000-08:00

It appears that I have forgotten yet another friend's birthday. This time I remembered in the kitchen as I was chopping onions. Although no reflection on the relationship, I do find that to be ironic.

Just last Monday I said to Raymond, "Hey, let's not forget Nai's birthday." Oh well. Good intentions and all of that. That is what I tell the IRS too.

As you can see from this picture, we celebrated you in style. I love how this photograph so graphicly captures the day this baby became a sugar-addict. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, don't it? I'll have to dig up the pictures of my first days as a Crank Addict and post them. They are equally precious.

Happy, Happy birthday. We are sorry that we are schmucks! You might consider looking for new friends.

Love,
Margaret

We Need To Accept Ourselves For Who We Are

2006-03-23T18:27:00.000-08:00

Tonight Raymond and I were stopped at a light behind a minivan from Ohio. Now those readers who are from Ohio should already know this -- the license plate reads "Birthplace of Aviation." For the rest of us, I provided a visual ------>

Now, I don't know the "truth" of that slogan. Presumably it is accurate. But, seriously, what motivates such a campaign other than sore loser-ship. Clearly, North Carolina beat Ohio's ass in the "Birthplace of Aviation" race. They won. They will forever claim Kitty Hawk and the Wright Brothers. Stop your crying, Ohio. Be proud of something else.

Of course, sadly, neither Raymond or I could think of a better motto for Ohio. (It is a pretty sad endorsement for your state when two college educated people cannot think of a single identifying factoid about it.) To be fair, I have never been in Ohio for more than 12 hours, so, clearly, I would not be the ideal motto-thinker-upper. So, I sought assistance from the trusty internet. The results of my study -- not promising. For example:

50% of The United States Population Lives
Within A 500 Mile Radius of Columbus.

I guess that is too big to fit cleanly on the 11 inches of metal.

34th in State Size.

Small enough, but doesn't really have a very empowered ring to it.

First Full Time Automobile Service Station

Well, it would be thematically appropriate.

So, what I learned tonight is that the reason Ohio went with "Birthplace of Aviation" is because it was better to make something up than admit to being so lame. (This is absolutely no reflection on the people of Ohio, many of whom I know to be neither lame nor spoiled-sports)

Confessions Of A Phone Slut

2006-03-22T04:49:00.000-08:00

I am all about the Feminism. Feminist Mystic -- top five favorite books. Empowered women -- all for it. Burn your bra, take your pill, work 100 hours a week, vote -- I totally down with it.

But, I am totally guilty of exploiting the power dynamic on the telephone. I have been told I have a moderately sexy voice. I don't know if that is true (Raymond tells me a lot of things to boost my self-esteem) but I do know how to sex it up when I am talking to customer service. I always pray that a man will answer the phone. As soon as I hear a baritone or bass on the other end, I know I am in like flint.

I am here to tell you that you can bat your eye lashes and flip your hair orally. And those male-phone reps are just puddy in my hands. They reduce my rates, walk me through shutting down and restarting my computer. I am all Vivian Lee on the other line. "Little ol' me doesn't know how you change that!" "Oh, thaaaannnkkk you" "You have just been wonderful." "My husband isn't here right now, and I don't know how I would have done this without your help."

This does not work on the ladies. I have yet to get a woman who is at all impressed by my southern accent or vocal charm. "Wham, bam, thank you ma'am," is all I get. I mean, they are just as competent (please don't send me letters comparing me to Harvard's former president -- I do think women can be scientist, I mean at least food or baby scientist -- something home ec-y) but they drive a harder bargain.

I am not sure if I should empower my own future daughters this way. It sure is nice to save ten percent on your car insurance, but at what cost?

A Bowl of Rice Please, Hold The Rice

2006-03-18T20:18:00.000-08:00

Today Raymond and I ate at one of those fancy places called a restaurant. We haven't seen the inside of one in sometime, owing to our budgetary restraints (we now have a budget that is). BB (Before Budget) we dined regularly at places with cloth napkins and shiny metallic flatware. Real humans that were neither myself nor Raymond would come and ask us what we wanted. And then other humans (again, neither Raymond nor I) would cook that food. And, Raymond and I didn't have to eat the same dinner. We could (and often would) order two entirely different things. I didn't know how amazing that was until the budget interfered with our pleasure.

Sure, we save so much money is really is sinful to imagine going back to those days, but how often are there eight different cakes to choose from? Which someone else baked and will clean up after later? Rarely, at least at Chez M-R.

So, we lunched at a Japanese restaurant which was very nice and totally outside of the "budget." But, the Bush administrations tells us that a little trillion-dollar National Debt makes a country stronger, so if it's good for America, it must be good for us! And, there we witnesses the most amazing thing: Adkins-stupidity meets Japanese-politeness.

Two youngish women came into the tiny restaurant and parked themselves at the sushi-bar. They were really loud, which was great for me because I didn't have to work at all to ease drop. They were ordering food to go. It started off fine, checking off multiple rolls, but then they had a request:

"Can you make all those rolls without rice?"

No one knew what to say. The first instinct of the sushi chefs was to say "No." But, these women would not accept that answer. The leader of the two said, "It doesn't have to be pretty to taste good. I have plenty of ugly friends." To that, the chefs just throw some nori and some raw fish into a Styrofoam container and charged them $75 for their efforts.

The women left happy. Secure in the fact that no carbohydrates would pass their lips for yet another day. Why anyone on Adkins would chose to come to a sushi spot for lunch -- the world will never know.

Divorce Papers Are Pending

2006-03-15T16:47:00.000-08:00

It turns out, Raymond DID notice.

He just didn't want to hurt my feelings or embarass me. Instead, he thought it would be good for me to walk around town, thinking I was looking so cute in my new hair cut, when all along people were noticing me not for the hairs that were missing, but for the hair that was hanging from my chin.

I guess it may make up for the time that we were lying in bed talking and I told him a story about my friend having a bat land on her while she was sleeping. Then five minutes later I placed a wet wad of toilet paper on his harm to simulate such a bat.

No, on second thought, this is much worse.

Husband Obligations

2006-03-15T16:20:00.000-08:00

I just pulled out a three inch long hair that was growing under my chin!

Raymond and I got to bed together every night. How did he not see this? Three inches means it has been growing there for weeks if not months.

On the upside, it is nice to know that if I ever decided to intentionally grow facial hair my pirate name could be "Red Beard." Beats "Peg Leg."

I'm So Glad You Speak English.

2006-03-15T00:55:00.000-08:00

Today the bus was very full, so I had a seatmate. I was sort of pleased, because this person chose me over the woman in front of me. (I’m really non-competitive if you can’t tell.) He was quiet, respectful of his space and mine, and got off several stops before me. The ideal bus mate.

I think my seatmate phobia dates back to June 2000 when I had the plane ride from hell. I was flying from Hartford to Atlanta, which is a 2:30 hour flight. The ideal flight length is 1:30-2:00 hours. That is from gate to gate, so the actual flight time is limited to 1-1:30 hours. Long enough to do a beverage run, and just long enough to finish your People and US Weekly magazines IF you take care to read all of the stories. Sometimes with People that can be a challenge. My instincts is to flip over the heartwarming tales of cats saving babies from burning buildings and the high school sweethearts who lost touch but then found themselves deserted on an island in the South Pacific together. But, on plane rides I am a committed reader of all trash. This blog, for example, would make excellent in-flight reading. I may have to contact Jet Blue and suggest a corporate merger.

But, when the flight extends beyond that 2-hour window, I am often at a loss for what to do with my time. On this particular trip, I had chosen to bring a book, and not just any book; I was reading some sort of cannon designated crap that was not going to keep me properly occupied. I know better, but every so often I decide to care what others think of my reading choices and I will take an impressively pretentious book with me onto the plane. Everyone else is happily reading their Vogues and Maxims and Readers Digests and I am trying to look engaged reading some 19th century novel. You would think I would learn my lesson, but I’m sure that some day soon Jane Austen and I will be in the airport together again.

Bradley to Hartsfield is a 2:30 hour flight. Except in the summer, when everyday there is a thunderstorm and the Atlanta airport is shut down and flights are delayed for five hours. I was only born and raised in Atlanta. It is inconceivable that I could be expected to actually know this sort of detail. So, the plane was loaded but then we sat there, on the runway for 2 hours.

Besides bringing the wrong kind of literature on the plane, I also have the very strange habit of forcing kindness onto strangers. As soon as I get on a plane I am on the lookout for separated parties. God forbid the airline separated a couple traveling together and they have to spend 2:30 whole hours without each other. I take it as my person obligation to reunite them. If that means having to give up my seat, I will do this instantaneously. But, often I will solicit others in my quest, because sometimes I am not sitting next to the person that is afflicted. I am not a matchmaker; I am a match-remaker. Oh, people just love me on the plane. Especially flight attendants.

On that plane trip I was seated next to a woman, whose friend was three rows back. I knew this because every so often they would say something to one another in Chinese. I was not sure what they were saying, but I now know. The friend was telling my seatmate, “You would not believe the creep I am sitting next to.” But, since I didn’t speak Mandarin, I had no warning; I said to my neighbor “Would you like me to change seats with your friend.” The other lady could not move fast enough. She leapt over the two men sitting next to her and ran up the aisle, before I could change my mind.

I gathered up my impressively boring book and walk back to my new seat. As soon as I sit down, the man in the middle seat says to me

"Oh, you are not as cute as the other one, but at least you speak English."

That’s right. We had never met. But, he took it upon himself to first insult me and then force me to engage in conversation. Had I been properly prepared for this statement, I would have said “I’m sorry sir. But, I think you are mistaken. I don’t speak English” but, instead, I just pulled out my book. He then said, in a whiney, extra-creepy voice “Oh, don’t read. Talk to me.”

I then had to spend the next five hours next to this man. Who, is very interested in train museums. Apparently there is a train museum near New Haven, CT, which I have to go to. To add to his charm, I was also forced to hear about how awful it was that we were stuck on the plane. Which was news to me, because I was so happy to be sitting on the plane next to this fellow. If only it could have been for longer. We didn’t exchange numbers and emails which I am really sad about.

Maybe one day People Magazine can profile us reuniting. A girl can dream, can’t she?

I Felt Like Al Roker Yesterday!

2006-03-13T13:50:00.000-08:00

Jimmy Fallon has gotten a lot of negative press recently for gaining weight. But, if you look at this picture, it is clear that both Al and Jimmy are not skinny/thin. It is just objectively true. Not a judgment call. But, Hollywood has a standard of thinness and attractiveness that is often unattainable and undesirable.

Al Roker has not gotten similar press. Ever since he lost weight though the surgery 5 years ago, he has been the poster child of thinness. Am I missing something???

In the current crazy world we live in, there are only three types of bodies: thin, fat, and post-surgical. Those who would never been considered thin, suddenly are because it is all considered in relationship to their former body type. It just shows how strange and un-objective beauty really is.

Yesterday, I came to understand what it is like to be in that third category.

There is an upside to not cutting your hair for a year: people sure do notice. You would have thought that I was wearing a white gown to work, considering the comments I got. I have not gotten that many compliments since my wedding day, and those people were getting a free meal out of the bargain.

I knew that I was going to get a long of comments, but I wasn't quite prepared for the reaction. I was asked by several people if I was prepared for the drastic change! It was as if I had gotten prettier. I am the same level of pretty as before, but it seems that the hair masked that prettiness in their eyes. But, now I think, I am considered more pretty than normal because they are considering me in light of the long-haired ragamuffin I was last week.

I think I may brush my teeth today, so I can really wow them!

Why Raymond Is The Greatest Person Ever

2006-03-13T04:18:00.000-08:00

Although winning the lottery would be nice, I do feel like I have used up all my luck and some by having met and married Raymond. (Also, I think it is super lame when lawyers or other high status professionals when the lottery. I couldn't have been more pleased when those 12 factory workers won $100 million or so last week. Not that I could ever earn close to a tenth of that amount of money but it's the principle of the thing. Anyway, back to Raymond....)

The first reason that Raymond is so wonderful is that he is objectively the most adorable person alive. There are probably some puppies that would be able to rival him for the title of "Most Adorable" but very few. He has perfected the art of looking and being cute, a truly deadly combination. He calls me "Sweetie-sweet" which is pretty adorable by itself, but when I come home, even if I was gone for less than an hour, he will say "Sweetie-sweet" is the greatest excited falsetto you have ever heard, emphasis on the "Sweetie." That is the sort of welcome that should be reserved for royalty. (Obviously, I am royalty, but hopefully you get my point)

He also loves to go to bed with me. (Stop thinking so dirty...this is a PG post) Once a few years ago he said that getting to go to bed with me every night was like having a nightly slumber party. Although there are few pillow fights, we do giggle like school girls more evenings than not. And, in the mornings, when I wake up and then wake him up because I am bored, he is very understanding.

In general he will comply with my requests (demands) to mitigate boredom in my life. Almost every night he talks to me while I shower. In theory I think showers are a good thing. I don't enjoy smelling bad, but I sometimes (every night) have a physiological block that makes the prospect of a shower sound just dreadful. Yes, this is a regular shower with hot water and soap and all normal things, but it just always seems like a waste of time. Raymond (whose interests in having me clean cannot be entirely ignored) will come into the little cramped bathroom and entertain me.

Raymond also doesn't take himself very seriously, which I find to be terribly charming. And he always gets me. Since the very first day. In never have to explain myself to him (or my jokes) and he is an easy laugh, which I appreciate very much. There is nothing worse than a tough room.

Raymond has taught me how to compromise, how to cook, how to declutter, and how to be happy sitting a home with a bad movie on a Friday night. You can have all of my worldly possessions, including Tivo (yes, including Tivo), but please, please, please leave Raymond. My lease agreement on him isn't up for a 100 more years.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY RAYMOND!

Love, Margaret

Hair Update: Hold On To Your Seats

2006-03-11T14:33:00.000-08:00

I'm $18 poorer, but the expense was worth it. I am now the proud owner of 6-8 inches less hair. I walked into Great Clips and told the lady that I needed a serious hair cut. Misty didn't bat an eye. She didn't try to talk me out of my "drastic" change. Inside she probably rejoiced that I was not going to ask for "just a trim."

It must be a curse to be a hair dresser. She must walk around town thinking, "That poor girl. She would look so nice if she had bangs." Misty probably has to constantly resist the urge to take out her scissors and just start snipping.

I relate to that compulsion because I am definately a groomer at heart. A friend told me that out of colllege she worked in NYC for a dermatologist popping 5th Avenue ladies' pimples. The story's intent was to show how depressing and unsatisfying first jobs can be. But, instead I thought "Oh my god. I am so jealous of you. You got paid to pop pimples? This is something I could be hired to do? Why is there not a line out the door all the way to Queens waiting for this position?"

Of course, I didn't tell her that. Instead I nodded along, wearing a sad and serious face. And, it took every bit of composure I had to keep my hands behind my back, or else risk that they might reach across the table and pull out a tiny thin white-blond hair sticking out of her chin.

A Penny Saved Is A Split-End Earned

2006-03-09T16:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder if I have gone a little too far with this frugal lifestyle thing.

I think some things I do are really great. For example, we sold our second car. We don't need two cars. I take the bus to work and on the weekends, Raymond lives in his cave, I mean office, trying to find inventive ways to make the lives of high schoolers miserable, so the car is available for me to do all things American like cruise for chicks or drag race.

Occasionally it would be nice to travel to work in solitude, such as yesterday when a young girl was auditioning for American Idol on the bus. I don't have the heart to tell her that even though she was signing loudly enough to be heard in the tri-state area, the sound would no travel all the way to Hollywood. I was so sad for her, that I considered buying her a one-way ticket to California that very second so that she would Just. Stop. Singing. (obviously that is because I wouldn't want her to loose her voice before she got the change to show America her talent.)

But generally it suits me just fine. No one sits next to me (see post about my passive aggressive techniques too learn more) and I get to listen to the radio while dreaming of the day Noah Adams and I will marry (as soon as Raymond dies).

When I get off the bus, I deliberately pass by the cool alternative coffee shop that sells great hot beverages. "We are on a budget!" I chant internally (sometimes externally but only when I am sure no one of import is listening). And, it works. Once I get to my office, I drink my tea (which though the step-sister to coffee is neither ugly nor wicked) and I get by.

But, I think I have taken my hair to the extreme. Back in our fast and loose days, I would get a $55 haircut and $55 coloring about every 6 weeks. When we started to cut back, I made those appointments for every 8 weeks. Finally, I took the plunge and formed a fast and deep relationship with Clairol. But, the color is not my problem -- it's the length.

I haven't gotten my hair cut in a year! I know. There is no excuse. It isn't as if I don't have to go out in public. But, I can't seem to justify the $13 expenditure. Which is why I think I have tipped into my worst nightmare -- I have officially become cheap. I feel somewhat redeemed because I did pick up the check the other day for a friend, and true cheapness never does that. But, it is definitely cheap to have a policy of not cutting your hair because $13 is too much money. I have a job. We eat dinner every night. I owe it to Raymond and my fellow countrymen to get rid of these split-ends.

Ok internet! Tomorrow I will find a way. And I will report back on my efforts.

Shit, the hairdresser is going to want a tip isn't he? I guess we'll have to switch to single-ply.

I Expect You All To Have ESP

2006-03-08T18:38:00.000-08:00

CM said "Along the "Ovid" route, you could name it Vito."

I am a total idiot! Because, the reason for Raymond's suggestion was not because either of us know a damn thing about Ancient Latin poetry, but Ovid is "almost" Tivo backwards.

Could you not read my mind (or Raymond's mind, actually)? Seriously, is that asking too much?

Introducing (as yet unnamed)

2006-03-07T15:10:00.000-08:00

I was "managing my account" today at www.tivo.com and discovered that Tivo's given name was DVR 7505. Not very catchy, is it?

Until this point, Raymond and I had been referring to our bundle of joy as Tivo. Much like Baby in Dirty Dancing. But, just as Jennifer Grey's character took on the more grown up name, Frances, I think it is time Tivo was given a name into which he can grow.

But, naming someone is an awsome responsibility. I am not really sure if I am up to this task. My first instinct was Clarence. Clarence seems like a stong name, not too common these days. Tivo shouldn't be yet another Chris or Matt amongst a crowd of others. When I think of "Clarence", Clarence Darrow is who springs to mind. A brilliant, enthusiastic, dedicated fighter.

But, then my bubble was burst. Because I remembered another legal eagle named Clarence. Clarence Thomas. The potted plant of the American Supreme Court, the yes man to Anthony Scalia is not an acceptable moniker for my little, innocent Tivo.

So, when I got home, (Oh, did I not mention that sometimes Tivo needs to be managed from work? What, you don't call Daycare occassionally to check in on little Suzy or Billy? It's the same thing. And I don't even get a tax write off, which I should but because I represent the indigent, I know all about injustices in the world), I asked Raymond his opinion, because I have learned over the years that to have a good partnership, you have to consult the other when making signigicant decisions. His suggestion was to name Tivo "Ovid." It just seems a little high brow to me. Considering Tivo's disposition, I don't think a Roman poet is exactly his speed. This is a tivo who in his spare time records Inside Edition and the Today show. He hasn't shown a propensity for Masterpiece Theater or Charlie Rose.

So, we are still stuck. This teaches us one good lesson: name your tivo before you take him or her out of the box. You won't regret it, trust me.

I Once Was Lost, And Now I'm Found

2006-03-06T17:41:00.000-08:00

[This was the post that I thought I lost. I have no idea how it resurfaced. But it did: The suspence must be killing you.]

There are several reasons that I couldn't live in New York City. First, there are too many grates and subways. I'm not afraid of hights; I am afraid of depths. Particularly, the depths of city centers. When you live in NYC, you can't avoid walking on grates. You know, those grates lead to holes. In the ground. Which are very, very deep. Or, that is what I imagine.

I once was a TA for summer writing program for middle schoolers. One kid wrote a story about her mother's friend falling into such a hole. I was revited (clearly, I was the perfect audience for this story. Whereas, I am sure many are falling asleep right now as I recount this tale) . And devistated to find that her mother's friend only suffered a broken leg. I promptly encourgaed her to be more vague about the injury -- so I could continue to justify my fear of the grate.

Subways offer the same sort of fear -- falling onto the rails. For those who have only traveled in the sane world of the D.C. subway, it is hard to grasp how real the risk of mortal harm the NYC subway system is. I figure the subway was designed at a time when people didn't live much past 45, so they didn't mind literally living on the edge. A mountain goat would not be safe in segments of this "progressive" transportation system. On a recent trip to visit my brother (who seems unfazed by the death traps he encounters everyday), he had us tranfer into about 65 different trains in one hour long trip. Had this been Nepal, harnesses and safety helmets would have been required. But, no. We were just expected to walk (withouth falling!) along many teeny-tiny ledgest to get to yet another train. When we reached street level, Geoffrey had to wait five minutes while I hugged (as best I could) the secure and stable pavement.

Another reason I could never living in NYC is that there is no country music station. I used to hate country music, until I moved to New England. But, in some of the deepest blue states imaginable, the NPR stations suck. I don't fully understand this relationship, but for people like me, who really aren't "music" people, we need our talk. And, when NPR can't provide, we turn to Country Music. Those singers are the kings and queens of story songs.

It may sound inconsistant to exchange NPR for Country, but, depending on the singer, Country Music can get as left as it comes. Willie Nelson, whose current project (Willie-fule), is a perfect example of his history of progressive causes. Last night's Oscar's underscored that: Dolly and Johnny. We have a copy of Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, which I can't listen to because it makes me too sad. In 1974 Johnny said this about his idea of performing in prisons:

By doing a prison concert, we were letting inmates know that somewhere out there in the free world was somebody who cared for them as human beings. With fewer crimes in our land, on our streets, as our aim, maybe when those men were paroled back to society's mainstream, there'd be less hostility knowing someone had cared.

If only more people thought this way, our would would be far more beautiful.

And, Dolly! Who has given us Dollywood, not really the mecca of progressive thought (considering they fly her bra on the flag poll when she is in residence), but there she was at the Oscars, singing the theme song to Transamerica, which she wrote for the movie. If that is not a symbol of the complexity of the country music scene I don't know what is.

Of course, Nashville also brought us It's Five O'clock Somewhere and Bumper of My SUV, so I am probably full of shit.

Wouldn't be the first time.

A Post that Wouldn't Be

2006-03-06T04:57:00.000-08:00

I just spent an hour and a half writing a post for all of you. (Yes, that is right. 90 minutes. Judge if you want. But I am dedicated to you people). And then....It disappeared!

I have been a reader of blogs of a while now and this post is part of a genre of posts about lost work. I will give you a brief synopsis of what you missed:

It started with my fear of falling into holes. Then moved into my suprising-to-some love of country music. Then a defense of country music as a progressive art form. Then concluded with an acknowledgement that the same industry that has given us Willie, Johnny, and Dolly also gave us Chely Wright. So, I may be full of shit.

Oh, well. I guess I am officially initiated. Hey Blog World: I'm one of you now.

Happy Birthday H! We remembered (eventually)

2006-03-04T17:21:00.000-08:00

One reason I abandoned gift exchanges was that I came to realize what a double standard I had for the rest of the world. I wanted everyone to remember my birthday and fawn all over me, but if I forgot their's I wanted forgiveness. Either I had to learn to forgive and love the bomb or else I needed to be more proactive.

So, first a bought a birthday calendar (Seriously, who wants to give up a vice they have had for 25 years?) It was only a quarter at a garage sale. It has Anne Geddes photographs, which is pretty much the opposite of my style, but, did I mention it was a quarter? I called my friends and wrote down their birthdays. No use. It didn't help at all. After many, many false starts, I finally said enough.

Unfortunately, that hasn't cured me of my bad birthday memory.

I have forgotten a lot of birthdays over the years. Nai for example, was probably four or five months into his new year, before I remembered to call him. It is even possible that I said "So, Nai, I got this birthday calendar. When is your birthday?" And he said "March 23, and you forgot it." (Given Nai's temperament, that is probably most likely)

Our friend S we also have forgotten and have had to rush a belated package full of purchased love to her door so that she would know that it wasn't her, but us, who are lame. What makes it worse is that S remembers all sorts of things, and always calls us on our birthdays and sings happy birthday to us. She does this singing with H.

We forgot H's birthday this year. We even called him On His Birthday, but only to tell him about something totally self-centered. It even included insinuations that he better not do anything fun around the 4th of July, because we might need him to lift heavy boxes. The clues that it was his birthday were all there. It was a Friday. He wasn't at work. He was X-county skiing with his folks and S. He seemed happy and relaxed. Any idiot could have figured out that it was his birthday. Clearly, I am no idiot.

Yesterday, Raymond and I are finishing breakfast. We were laughing about how we have this CD in our possession that H had given us to give back to an other friend, D. A year has gone by and we still have D's CD. I said "Wouldn't it be funny if we wrapped it up and gave it to H for his birthday. When is H's birthday?" 5...4....3...2...1...Oh Shit!

To make it even worse, Raymond and I met 5 years ago on H's birthday. I guess that just underscores how non-date focused we really are. Maybe it redeems us, but really, who are we kidding?

So, Happy Birthday H!!!!! The internet loves you and so do we!!!!

Make sure to live another year, so we can try to do right by you next time.

Dream A Little Dream

2006-03-04T10:55:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, I was resting on the sofa after a marathon cleaning, grocery shopping, domestic goddess morning. Such a day needs to be documented because it is likely to be 2012 before such efficiency and commitment to the worlds of culinary arts and organization collide again. Please make a note on your calendar.

Suddenly from the bedroom I hear very quietly and very seriously "Honey-bunny (don't laugh, that is what Raymond calls me), can you please come here." Exhausted from proving my grandmother wrong (See Grandmother Libba, I can, on occasion, keep a neat house. Oh, and, besides, he married me even knowing that my underwear doesn't make it to the hamper every-single-time), I called back "Honey, what's the matter. Are you ok." "Just come here." He said.

Raymond, who had been taking a nap, was lying under the covers, looking very startled.

"I dreamed I was paralyzed and couldn't breath and it was very scary."
"You can move your legs now, right." I said in my most gum-smakin', who-gives-a-shit way.
"Yes. But I thought I was going to die."
"Your not dead though, are you?"

Raymond was completely unimpressed with my level of sympathy. So, to torture me, he began to give me a detailed explanation of how Sleep Paralysis is caused and why the body feels like it can't move. Ten minutes later I said "I guess you are ok now."

He then tells me that while suffering from Sleep Paralysis, he thought to himself "I just need to get the strength up to get enough air to call out to Margaret so she can call the people to come and save me." Which is very sweet, considering a few nights ago I dreamed that had I killed Raymond (accidentally!).

Note to self: Don't kill Raymond. He might be able to call 911 in case of emergency sleep paralysis.

Unmarked Bills Are Best

2006-03-03T15:56:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up Christmas was pure gluttany. My mother loves this holiday more than her two children. She might deny that but here is the evidence:

Total number of pictures of my brother and self combined: 5
Total number of boxes with Christmas ornaments, bows,
chreshes, santas, elves, snow flakes, wreaths and villages: 4,561

I think those numbers speak for themselves.

My mother believed in Santa until she was in the sixth grade. While every other girl she knew was writing love letters to her sock hop date, my mother was making lists and mailing them faithfully to the North Pole. Her rationale for this is that because Santa was always so generous and her parents (my grandparents) so miserly, it was impossible to believe that the same people who refused who lived in Atlanta without air conditioning until they died would share the same brain as people who would buy her a Little Ricky Doll.

The greatest insult to my mother would be for you to purchase for her some sort of useful present. My father gave my mother a vaccum clearner for Christmas in 1971 and she still hasn't forgiven him 35 years later.

So when Raymond and I bought a vaccum for Christmas for each other, my mother was totally unamused. But, Raymond and I don't exchange presents. We did. But, I have such unrealistic expectations (where I got those from is anyone's guess!) that it never really was a good experience. I wanted to be suprised and wanted to get exactly what I wanted at the very same time. Apparently, that is quite a hard task to muster. So, we gave it up cold turkey.

In Raymond's defense, it is really all me. I am completely impossible to buy for. Although, if he really, truely loved me, I guess he might find a way. No pressure, honey.

The Lesser of Two Injuries

2006-03-01T19:28:00.000-08:00

As I have mentioned here before, I am not the most patient patient. I get pretty whinny and demanding when I am sick or injured. Even if I don't have a fever and, thus, have to go to work because of my own crazy system of rules, I still am not a complete joy to live with (which, of course, I am all the other times of the year.)

This is a shame, because my toes have the most overly sensitive nerve endings in the history of people-kind. Really, they need to write an article about it in JAMA, because mere stubbing results in the greatest amount of agony and pain an person has ever experienced. Clearly, my feet are well evolved to warn me of the dangers of hitting the corner of the bed or a particularly heavy shoe left in the middle of the floor (my shoes live there too, but they are delicate creatures, unlike Raymond's clogs of lead.) But, they are not so evolved as to prevent me from facing weekly bouts.

So far this year -- Toes: Zero; Bed Corner: three thousand four hundred and fifty two.

But, my mother should be pleased to know that I have not yet broken a toe. Although I am vegetarian now, clearly the IV of Cow's Milk from birth to 18 has done the trick. Actually, I have never broken a bone, which vaguely disappoints me.

Apparently there is good reason for why the Milk Industry sticks to bones, because that IV has not protected my poor fingers from repeated paper cuts. Oh how I hate a paper cut. It just lays there, camouflaged as a mere crease on the finger. And then: Oh Shit! I forgot I had a paper cut!!!!!

The worst thing a paper-cutted person had to deal is not the pain, but the lack of sympathy bestowed on the fallen.

I got a paper cut yesterday at the gym, from a 1997 Seventeen Magazine. It totally broke my stride. I had to be very careful turning from the quiz "Are You a Cool Girlfriend?" (I'm not, in case you were wondering) to the article "Finding the Right Hair Cut for You!" And, even though I loudly said "Oh! No! A paper cut!" no one rushed to my aid.

I heard about a survey once where they asked people if they would rather have a broken arm or 100 paper cuts all over their body? (I think this may be an urban legend survey, but bear with me) Raymond's response when I told him of the survey: "That is the stupidest question. Who wants a broken arm?"

Well, I do. Because if I had broken my arm lots of people would have rushed to my assistance. And I could have gotten a cast. (Pink!) And lots of people could sign it. And fawn over me. None of which happens when you are paper-cutted.

I guess I'm the only one who thinks this way. Sometimes being a visionary is really lonely.

Competitive Yoga

2006-03-01T17:51:00.000-08:00

I used to think I was a very competitive person. But, I realize I am only competitive about things I am good at. So, if we are playing touch football, I would be the cheerleader for both teams. The one that helps my opponent up off the ground and takes the orange slices across the field to share with the other team. I'm cool. I don't care who wins. To me, we are one big happy family.

But, if I am good at it, yikes. For example, Rummikub. I had never lost a game of rummikub until January, 1997. And since then, I have only lost twice more. Needless to say, Raymond won't play with me. J has challenged me to a match, because apparently she is the ranking champion in the state of North Carolina. But, I haven't been able to fit it into my busy playing schedule. But, even though J is very smart and capable, I don't think she will be much of a challenge. But, I feel like I can teach her much.

Raymond does yoga-like stretching every morning and evening. When he started yoga five years ago, he borrowed a book to learn proper positioning. This book was from 1972 and had a very touchy-feely introduction about the power of yoga. Midway through, the author said "Yoga is about personal growth and reflection. It is very internal. You will never find an International Yoga Competition."

At the time we laughed, imagining the events: Downward-facing-dog-sledding though the Alaskan wilderness; Most beautiful and artistic sun salutation; Fastest Yoga mat roll.

But, now, I think Raymond really needs to go on the circuit. I have also started lobbying the International Olympic Committee. We need a Gold Metal for America, now that Bodie has let us all down like that. Don't you think? Although I am concerned that Madonna might try and steal Raymond's thunder. Just like Genna Davis must do for all those other archers.

Damn Hollywood. Always ruining it for the rest of us.

A Post for Sue

2006-03-01T02:07:00.000-08:00

My fan base is clammering for some blogging action. I mean really people, do you think these posts grow on trees? I have to spend a lot of time researching and planning and cultivating these posts to get them ready for publication. Plus, I have to go back and put in typos and other details that don't make much sense so that you don't feel bad about yourselves. So you can say, "I'm ok with myself. Margaret has flaws too."

One flaw, for example, is that I don't like to share my bus bench. For those of you that have been driven around in limos all your lives, you may not know that bus seats are bench-like. School buses really are just one longish seat with are capable of holding as many as 6 children in a pinch. The city bus is more sophisticated and has demarkations for two buttoms for each bench. But, they are still pretty small seats. Think airplane without the protective arm rest. Obviously, this doesn't apply to private jet travel, but again, I feel my job is to educate, even the rich.

I generally think of myself as a good person. For example, I always return my grocery cart back to the store. And I will offer to take other people's carts too. I even do this in the rain, and when people are waiting to park in my spot. I also pick up litter and bring my neighbors their packages. I think I am very conscientious.

But, I have a flaw. I do not like sharing a bus bench. I would rather stand than have someone sit next to me. Everything is too tight. I can't figure out how to put my arms so I'm not touching the other person. And, it seems that my seat mate never seems to mind the touching. By the time I get to work I am in a yoga position so intense that Madonna would have to hand over her crown if she saw me.

But, my flaw is not disliking sharing, my flaw is that I use passive aggressive tactics to avoid it. I always sit on the outside seat and I place my purse next to the window. I look straight ahead or directly at my reading material, avoiding all eye contact. I make no "come hither" looks to encourage seat-mating. On the rare occassion it becomes standing room only, I will relent. Begrudingly.

The sad truth is that this behavior is probably a result of too much rejection. When I first started busing it, I had perfect seat behavior. If the bus driver was expected to hand out report cards, I would have gotten a "sits well with others" and an A+ for my positive attitude. But, day after day, no one sat down. I would wait eagerly, my purse in my lap. All the other seats would fill and mine would be empty. I enjoyed the room, but feel socially isolated. Why didn't anyone want to sit next to me? Is my bottom too overflowing? Do I look like I would break the fourth wall and talk to them? I studied the other passangers and couldn't figure it out.

So now I reject them before they can reject me.

And, truth be told, it feels good. I'm afraid this is a dangerous path. Next thing you know, I'll be J-walking.

The Newlywed Game: Home Edition

2006-02-27T04:29:00.000-08:00

In about 2 weeks, Raymond and I will have been married for 2 years. I work with someone who got married around the same time we celebrated out first anniversary. She told me her wedding date and said "What day were you married." And I couldn't remember. I told her that I thought it was March 13 but not sure. And I couldn't remember if we got married in 2004 or 2003.

How I can remember my telephone number from the house I lived in from birth to age 4 and not my own wedding date is a mystery that MIT is currently trying to solve. (For those who are wondering is 261 -- have a little fun, 4724 -- have a little more.)

Now that I type that (admittedly I had to sing the song), obviously the secret is that I need a boring yet catchy rhyme to go with the date. But what the heck rhymes with 13th? But, we have 2004 (have a little more) squared away.

Yesterday, we were in the car and I told Raymond that we were soon no longer going to be Newlyweds. He looked at me like I had lost my mind. A person who can't remember the date of the most beautiful day of her life really is not typically that hung up about milestones like that. But, I told him, "It means we have missed our opprotunity to be on the Newlywed Game." That feeling of sadness, Raymond could understand. (Although the last time the Newlywed Game taped was 1989 -- and that was for the New Newlywed Game -- so really the greatest shame is that Raymond and I didn't get married in Junior High.)

Then I said, "But I don't think we would have done very well. Do you even know what brand deodorant I use." Raymond, ever restrained, did not say "Well, I would probably know if you ever bothered to wear it." He, instead, whipped out the correct answer! I couldn't believe it.

So, not satisfied by that, I said "What toothpaste do I use?" Raymond didn't know. "Aim." I said smuggly. But then I qualified it by saying "But, really, whatever is on sale at the grocery store. And Minty!"

This morning, I was brushing my teeth and looked at the tube -- sure enough I have been brushing with AquaFresh for the past 6 months. I am a Newlywed Game fraud.

Thank you for playing

2006-02-26T08:38:00.000-08:00

I just want to thank everyone (except Nai) who played along with my little game.

I loved all of your answers (except Nai who cheated, and, predictably, is no fun).

Anne gave me the answer I was looking for -- Penis. When I was reading that part of the transcript for the zillionth time, that is what made me laugh, especially the judge's articulation of the size. Thank you Anne for giving me the answer I was thinking of.

J -- I loved the idea of thumb. Hitchhiking is very serious. I hope we soon have a Thumb Czar cracking down on this threat to the American way of life.

Lynn -- Dildo was a wonderful answer!

Kathy -- Brain! Only if it were a jello-molded brain which I have do doubt you could manage.

CM -- Baby hippo is near and dear to my heart. Our hippo neighbors haven't had one yet, but given the noise they make, I really think that their spawn would be larger than 5 inches. Loved the answer though. And I appreciated the charge of smuggling endangered species. Very creative.

I was most impressed that everyone used a 5 letter word. Good job following the rules! Gold Stars all around (except, obviously, for Nai).

It was in fact a knife and the client was convicted of first degree assault.

Nai, you are a spoiled sport! But, I guess it shows that you are paying attention when we talk. So, you get a gold star for that.

A Legal Challenge

2006-02-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

Appellate attorneys do a lot of reading. That is because trial attorneys do a lot of talking and we have to read through the transcripts of those trials in order to establish whether or not the client has any chance in hell of getting a new trial.

All of that reading can be sort of dull, but sometimes a little nugget pops up to brighten my day.

I thought you all might want to play a little game with my current transcript.

Can you tell me what small, little 5 letter word I have left out of the transcript?

****************************************************************
State's Attorney: Okay. Did you see anything he had in his hand?

Victim: Yes Sir.

State's Attorney: Okay. What did you see in his hand? Describe what it looked like.

Victim: It was, it was a [Fill in the blank].

State's Attorney: How big was it?

Victim: Like this.

State's Attorney: Okay

Judge: Indicating, for the record, let me see that again, about five inches.
*********************************************************************
Extra credit if you can tell me what charges were brought against my client!

Tivo Delivers (and I wouldn't have expected otherwise)

2006-02-19T20:43:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago Tivo was challenged to find Suzanne Somers on the Home Shopping Channel.

Some readers might have had their doubts. Well, neighsayers, I just have one thing to say to you:

Suzanne Somers 14th Anniversary!

Yes, she has been with Home Shopping since 1992. And what sort of life would be lead, if we didn't have the FaceMaster.

No, that is not a typo (which, given my track record, it doesn't go without saying). I guess the ThighMaster had run it's course, and now she has moved on to other body parts that need firming.

If you don't watch HSN regularly you are missing out on a lot of fun, but also on some of you favorite stars. It is hard to find Suzanne Somers anywhere but reruns, but you can see her live and authentic on cable shopping, which is definitely where B-rate stars go to die. I bet you a million bucks Star Jones will one day have a QVC line. The fact that she doesn't now is really a failing on the part of her agent.

But, if you haven't seen Suzanne in a while, you may not know that she is the long lost sister of Janice from the Muppet Show. We need to do a side by side comparison, so you fully understand the extent to which Suzanne has become a muppet (but, notice how smooth Janice's skin is, obviously she has a beauty secret she is keeping from us.)

See what I am talking about??

Uncanny, right?

Makes you just want to run and buy thirty of these suckers for all your body parts.

Failure is an Option, People

2006-02-19T10:33:00.000-08:00

It has been said that you can learn a lot from kids if you just listen to them. That may be true on things like peace, friendship, love, compassion and video games, but it appears to not be true about history.

Raymond encountered a prime example of this last night as he was grading a quiz his students had taken on the French Revolution. The last question on the exam was:

After the Reign of Terror, France was divided and engaged in civil war. Describe three ways in which Napoleon was able to unify the country.

This was an answer he received:

Three ways Napoleon did this were first, be able to control riots in Paris; secondly, to be a motivational speaker, and finally to be able to promise a more fair and less violent society.

We weren't quite sure whether Napoleon was or wasn't a motivation speaker. So, we did a little "research" and discovered that clearly the student had confused Napoleon Bonaparte, the French dictator who took power the early 1800s, with Napoleon Hill, the motivational speaker from the 20th century, a pioneer in personal-success literature.

Having never heard of Napoleon Hill, I dug deeper, as any worthy researcher would, and discovered that he has a foundation named for him. At the foundation's website is a test you can take to find out "How Successful Are You?" I could not resist. I long to be affirmed by the internet. Told my a survey that I matter and I am someone. Plus it was free and I could blog about it, two huge motivations in my everyday life.

I started the test: the first question was, "Have you decided on a definite goal in life?" Yes or No.

Well, what do they mean by definite goal? Is taking a shower a definate goal, because I plan to do that before the evening is over. I also have laudry to do, and my goal is to get that done before Wednesday or before the CDC intervenes. The fact that had to think about this made the answer pretty clear to me. The problem was the next four questions require you to have a goal in order to answer them. Feeling like a failure already (and not a success!) I got to this question:

Do you know how the Mastermind Alliance principle makes the United States the richest country in the world?

My fingers stopped dead on the keyboard. What the heck is the Mastermind Alliance?? Am I taking a Scientology test? Does this mean that I am pregnant with Tom Cruise's baby? I didn't know what was going on, but I no longer had control. I had to make this to the end, Jumanji style.

The next question that really tripped me up was:

Are you entirely free from all of these seven basic fears: Fear of POVERTY; Fear of CRITICISM; Fear of ILL HEALTH; Fear of LOSS OF LOVE; Fear of LOSS OF LIBERTY; Fear of OLD AGE; Fear of DEATH?

At this point I began to hyperventilate. Are these people in my head? How could they know that it is not just that I am not entirely free of these fears, but I can barely get out of bed each morning because of them. Looking over my shoulder for the Grim Reaper, then I answered "Hell no I am not entirely free from those seven fears!"

Moving on, I found that the test makers have not just penetrated my mind but they are also watching me at work:

If you were an employer, would you be satisfied with the sort of service you are now rendering as an employee?

Um...I guess. But, there are times....Is my office bugged now????? Who is reading this??? I don't want to loose my job. I like riding the bus for free!!!!

Under the Positive Mental Attitude section they asked me:

Do you know how to detect a negative mental attitude in others?

Finally! A question I could answer yes too! This test was suddenly looking up.

But then,

Are you even-tempered at all times?

Are you kidding me?!?!?! Is this test only for Mr. Rodgers or something??? Fuck them!

I just breezed through answering the rest of the questions, knowing that this test and the whole world were out to get me at this point. My final score was a 40, out of 75, which put me in the Poor range. So, I am not a success, but, apparently "Success is a science and its secrets are available to you...if you want them. "

Screw it. I don't want their stinkin secrets. I'm perfectly content to sit here on my sofa blogging about my failures, eating Cheese-curls and watching TV, which I think is the true American success story, if you ask me.

Sensitivity Training

2006-02-16T18:01:00.000-08:00

Note to the reader: Nothing in this post is true, except for the posters. But, the posters are one hundred percent true and I am hoping someone (Staci!) might be able to get me a photograph of the second one. Apparently even Google has it limits on bad taste. Damn those Chinese Commies.

Dear State Agency Employees:

It has come to my attention that you may have gotten the impression from our state issued posters that we do not like the disabled. This could not be further from the truth. First of all, as the director of the Poster division, I would never allow that, because I am color blind and flat footed. That makes me so disabled that I cannot even join the Army, which means it is just as big a disability as being gay. Actually, it is worse than being gay, because I never know what goes with what! Blue? Green? They are all a mystery to me. So you see, I am not prejudiced, because if I were I would hate myself, and since I love myself, prejudice is not part of my vocabulary.

On the contrary, we, the State Poster Division, love the disabled enough to make posters Just For Them. These people have a hard time in life. A lot of things are not made for them. Take stairs. Stairs are certainly not made for the disabled. Or take schools, jobs, parenthood or political office. My understanding is that is all off limits to them too. But, the State wants to change all of that, by making you aware through fun and informative posters that the disabled people are people too. People who can't vote, but people just the same.

So we have a two prong approach. It was going to be a three prong approach but Ed from marketing was let go because his seizure medication breaks were interfering with the team building we do. And he was always the third prong guy. We miss Ed. It's a shame we had to replace him.

The first prong is the schools, where their are no disabled people so it is vitally important to use posters to promote sensitivity. One such poster is often displayed in our science rooms. What we wanted to do with this poster is allow the youth of America to be one with Carol. We put the text in,

"Carol never wore her safety goggles.

Now she doesn't need them,"

because we think that kids will see this poster and think "Wow! I would hate to be like Carol" which will make them empathize with her plight. And, although I have not taken a survey of the blind, I think that they would agree that using them as the most extreme and dreadful result we could imagine so as to scare kids into wearing goggles, is a good idea. Because, seriously, being blind must the the worst.

The second prong is the work place. I have a dream that one day disabled people will be able to work along side normal people, but until that happens (and who are we kidding, it will take a lot of posters to pull that off) we want people to at least respect the handicapped parking. Speaking of handicapped parking, who hasn't just been a little jealous of the guy in the van? I mean, those people get sweet spots, don't they? But, I digress. We had noticed that occasionally people will park in spots reserved for the handicapped. Now, I know what you are thinking "But, they get so many spaces and they are never using them." I have addressed this though the proper channels. Hopefully we will be able to remedy that soon. But, until then, I want you to know that the law is you can't use them, no matter how flat footed you are. And to remind you of that, we have created a poster which reads:

You don't need it; they do. (emphasis added)

I hope you think it was as good of a slogan as well all did.

Until next year,
Larry, the Propaganda Poster Guy

No Whammy, No Whammy

2006-02-15T17:28:00.000-08:00

Lying is an art. An art I never really mastered, although between the ages of 7 and 14 I was clearly apprenticing for a PhD.

I would lie about pointless and easily authenticated matters. I remember when I was 8 my grandmother asked me if I had brushed my teeth, and I told her yes even though I had probably not willingly brushed my teeth in 10 years. I kept up the lie even when we were walking shoulder to shoulder to the bathroom to check and see if my toothbrush was wet. She even promised me five dollars if I actually had brushed my teeth. I don't need to tell you who was not five dollars richer that day. I guess I was holding out hope that she wouldn't check if I said that she could.

As a public service announcement I want you to all know that police officers, like my grandmother, have heard of reverse psychology. And, they are better at it than you are. It seems illogical that anyone would consent to their car being searched if they had a briefcase full of cocaine in the backseat, but it happens. Obviously there are many (and by that I mean almost all) cases where the police label something a "consent search" it is no more consensual than a four year old eating broccoli (which is among the things I used to lie about). She isn't eating it because she wants to, instead you are standing over her ready to jab her with your fork's prongs if she doesn't submit. Later you may take the witness stand and say "Oh, Susie! She just luuuvs her vegetables. Last night she ate all her broccoli." Only under cross examination would you possibly admit that had she not "consented" to eating the broccoli, she would be nursing a puncture wound.

But, occasionally I have a client who consents not under duress but because he thinks the police won't bother to search the car or house or his jacket. Ok, write this down: Police Officers Love To Search People, Cars and Houses. You got that? It is their favorite part of the job. To them, being given permission to search would be like Rob Roddy (may he rest in peace) telling me to "Come'on Down!" Because when they search sometimes they win a prize by finding your dope or your gun. Which to a police officer is the equivalent of a jet ski or motor home.

Ok, now we have established that they love to search, so do you think if you give them permission to search they are going to turn it down? The answer to that is always, always "No." They are not going to pass over that opportunity. They can never meet their monthly quota (not that they have quotas, god forbit, but let's say for argument sake that they do) of drug arrests -- because their monthly quota is "All the drugs." See? Therefore, just because it is March 1st, the officer isn't going to turn you down.

What I learned from my experience with my grandmother was to wet my toothbrush twice a day in case an offering of cash might come my way again. (Do you really think that I had learned to brush my teeth? If so, you haven't been paying attention to my story. Please start from the beginning and read again. It's ok if you have to sound out the words as you go. No one is watching and this is for your own good.)

Tivo Ownership: A Hard Yet Rewarding Job

2006-02-15T04:07:00.000-08:00

"Owning a tivo is a priviledge, not a right" or so I was taught by the people at Best Buy. They stressed that it takes time and commitment and patience. What they didn't explain to me was how much I would fall in love with Tivo from the minute I layed eyes on him. They also didn't tell me what it was like owning a tivo when you lacked the financial resourced to provide all that you would like to give him.

When we first brought Tivo into our lives, Raymond and I were unprepared for how he would change us. We were accustomed to flipping through life, unconcerned for the needs of a smaller family member. We knew how much we wanted Tivo, how long we had waited to get him, but we worried that he might not like us. Immediately after we got home with him, things seemed doomed. First we realized we may not have all the necessary accoutrements. Things didn't seem to be working. We weren't getting good feed back. Tivo, who seemed so happy in the store, had shut down.

Suddenly, Raymond's natural instincts kicked in. He located some gently used items in a bin in the back of the closet. I never knew until that very moment how much a really loved Raymond. He really stepped up to the plate and provided for Tivo and me. Before we knew it, we were a family. We cannot imagine life without him. We think about him while we are at work. We can't wait to get home to him at the end of a busy day. Tivo brings so much comfort and stability to this chaotic world. With Tivo we can avoid hearing about war and famine. We can content ourselves on a diet of Friends, Tyra, Seventh Heaven and Entertainment Tonight.

Tivo never judges or refuses us. Which is why I felt so badly when we canceled our cable. Tivo deserves to be able to shine and demonstrate all he can be. And I know that by taking away TVland he no longer surprise us with old reruns of Leave It to Beaver. He's favorite E! True Hollywood Stories are outside his grasp. And, as much as Tivo doesn't complain, I know it hurts him inside, because Extra! is just not the same.

Raymond and I want to do better by Tivo, so we have started saving. One day, we hope soon, we will be able to give Tivo all that he needs and desires. Until then, I have written a letter to my Congressperson (whose name I don't know because Tivo saves me from having to deal with the realities of everyday life) and I hope you all join in my petition asking that federal government subsidize Digital Cable with Pell Grants. This will ensure that no Tivo will ever be left behind.

The Olympics = The X Games to the Power of One.

2006-02-13T16:04:00.000-08:00

Raymond and I are really enjoying our tivoed Olympics. Last night's favorite was the snow boarding.

What we really like about the sport is both the craziness of the tricks and the personalities of the athletes. The stunts they do are incredible but so dangerous! I become very motherly while watching, and regularly turn to Raymond saying "Our kids are not going to be allowed to do that." Raymond agrees but I think he is just thinking to himself, "The changes of our spawn being able to balance on a snowboard or skateboard are so small, that I can just agree with her to save the hour long conversation about our parenting plans for our unborn teens." It isn't that I'm uncoordinated, it is just that I walk to the pull of a higher level of gravity.

We also like how authentic the snow boarders are. Every time one of them says "Dude" or "Totally" I just want to reach into that TV screen and hug them to death. These guys surely don't have handlers. They seem like they would be just as happy skating the handrail at the local library and later smokin' up and playing a round of high hacky sack as they are in Torino. They are stoked for both.

Shaun White was interviewed after he qualified for the finals. He had uncharacteristically fallen during the first round, and he had found himself in sudden death. I know nothing about the sport, but apparently he is the Michael Jordan of snow boarding. Clearly that notoriety has not gone to his head. Here is a simple of that interview:

Interviewer: Well, Shaun, you're making it into the finals, but how nerve-racking was it to wait around before your second run?

Shaun: It was...I was so nervous...and...and the worse part was, it was just annoying that I fell on that first run, cause I just wasn't paying attention...[laughing sheepishly] it's on now though, let's do this.

Interviewer: Now, have you ever felt that kind of pressure before.

Shaun: [Laughing] Honestly, I haven't felt that pressure since I was sooo young. And it was definitely one of those things where, man, to come all the way here and not to make finals, I was trippin', but I held in there. I was coming to that last hit and was like "Shaun, you better land." It was like X-games times ten.

Interviewer: Yeah, do or die. But, when was the time that you decided to play it conservative?

Shaun: Umm...It was rather conservative until the end when
I did the 1090.

His teammates were interviewed too and they were equally skater, uttering the following phrases:

"I'm stoked just to be here. "
"I'm having a blast. Man. "
"We've got a strong hittin' team. "
"We're going to be throwin' down. "
"Yeah, I definitely think over all we have the strongest team and
definitely, ya know."

See why I love them?

Peace out.

Now in Pleather to Please Her

2006-02-13T06:12:00.000-08:00

Every so often an email comes along to charm and delight all. A close friend sent me one such email.

Now, was this a typical email forward? No. Apparently, when she saw this website she thought exclusively of me. I was the friend that she thought needed to know about the vegan adults-only store.

I consider myself well versed on vegan issues. For example, if you are a vegan and you come to dinner I would not serve you cheese. Or eggs. Only fish and rice and beans. Because none of those are animals. Actually, in full disclosure and in defense of my friend, I am a vegetarian. And have been at times a quasi-vegan (anyone who has know many vegans knows that half of them are quasi). But, even I, the person who after a year finally came out of the closet to her folks about her "lifestyle" of carrot-juicin' and veggie-bacon-eatin' (the aftershocks still linger) did not know that vegetarians and vegans required their own sex shop. I figured most didn't use sheep-skin condoms, but really, who in their right mind thinks that sheepskin is going to protect you from anything other than a lanolin deficency?

But, for the S&M vegan set, this site is a goldmine. For example, you can get Neoprene Super Cuffs. Throw out those old leather cuffs! These are the way of the future. Additionally, did you know that some dental dams are made from milk-protein based latex? I certainly did not. (See, this site is educational as well.)

When you are done stocking up on all of your veggie assexories, you can take your gear over to the vegetarian porn site, which features only vegetarian and vegan models. Since few models eat more than a pack of cigarettes a day, they probably have a lot of women to choose from.

As tempted as I am to directly link to Veg Porn, the Feds and I feel that is a step you will have to take for yourself.

We Are the Champions

2006-02-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

Since I cannot venture outside, given the blizzard like conditions (I know the snow stopped falling, but it is still quite cold and quite white out there), I had ample opportunity to bond with Tivo. The Olympics provides a lot of Tivoing opportunities, and I am grateful that we now have many nights of skating to look forward to.

Those people can skate! Whereas I would be very unlikely to watch ballet, I am eager to watch the same moves on ice. Although, it might have something to do with my inability to focus for more than 5 minutes at a time. Even the long programs are short enough that I don’t loose interest.

I like the skating and commentary equally, but for different reasons. My sarcastic tone about virtually everything may serve to minimize how much of a softy I am. I’m definitely one of those liberal pussies who doesn’t think we should keep score (even if the kids do it anyway under their breaths) and thinks that participation trophies are a great investment. I like the Olympics because I am impressed that these people are so physically gifted. But, I do wish I could give everyone of them a gold metal. I think that all the events should be exhibition events, without the pressure of the competition itself. It’s ok if you fall – we will still love you anyway.

The commentators on NBC do not feel the same way. They are just so critical! Oh, he fell – must mean he should be taken out back and shot. Oh, wow, they didn’t fall! – did hell freeze over because they really suck and I hope that the judges saw through that perfect routine to what sub-par-Olympians they really are? Oh, that guy got injured while he was saving a kitten from being hit by a truck – I hope he learned his lesson about putting life before skating. Oh, her little toe touched the ice one-fourth of a second before his little toe touched – they are an embarrassment to the skating community.

But, it seems to have rubbed off on the skaters. We watched as Tatiana Totmianina and Maxim Marinin moved into first place. They skated a virtually flawless performance – the commentators were pretty quiet, heeding the adage “If you can’t say anything nasty, don’t say anything at all.” Afterwards, they were sitting in the room to learn their fate, cameras all around, watching their impressions as the scores came in. Tatiana and Maxim were suddenly in first place. But, given Tatiana’s facial expression, you would have thought that they just told her they had killed a puppy. What is there to be unhappy about??

One reason I don’t understand that level of self-critique is that I am constantly bolstered by Raymond. A prime example is that while we where watching this he suggested that we could try out for the next winter games and that given our level of cuteness they may just give us the metal as audience favorite (like CBS did when they gave Rupert the million dollar favorite survivor award, because really, what else could they have done?). We then discussed what out routine would look like:

We would skate to the crowd fav Wind Beneath Our Wings. Although skate is sort of a stretch for what it would be. The commentators would say in their snarky way “I have never seen someone use the wall during their routine like that. I wonder whether the judges will take off points of the use of a prop?” Raymond would have probably made it to the middle of the rink still standing, whereas I would have crawled there in dramatic fashion. As the commentators where asking themselves what sort of single would they have that the routine was completed, we would suddenly spread our arms wide and plant huge grins on our faces, shouting “Taaa-Daaa!” (We are at the Olympics after all and have certain standards to uphold).

The crowd would be on their feet. It is hard to identify with those lean and perfect skaters, but we would have given them something raw and pure and authentic. And is that not what the Olympics is all about? Here’s to 2010! See you in Vancouver.

Oh White Winter Wretchedness, Please Go Away

2006-02-12T07:44:00.000-08:00

The gods are angry with us. I can draw no other conclusion from the snow covered awfulness outside my door. I am not sure what I did to deserve this terrible fate. I ate all my broccoli last night; I offered to help an old lady carry her grocery bags to her car; I gave Raymond the last pieces of pineapple even though they are so, so good and they were my birthright.

But, even with all those good deeds, 8-18 inches has befallen me. That broad range seems sort of like bad reporting, but I cannot get a more tailored estimate. Raymond, who ventured out this morning, does say that it was probably 12 inches. Woe is me.

Actually, the more I think about it, I think Raymond is responsible for this mess we are in. He does not think the snow is terrible and horrible and no good and very bad. Instead, he actually likes snow. I don't know where people like Raymond are made, but I certainly hope our as-yet-unborn Northeastern kids get some of that in their blood. My people do not do well in the snow. It tends to make the Lasershow Spectaculars malfunction.

Raymond wanted me to go for the walk with him, but my Southern sensibilities and disabilities made that impossible. He tried in vain for nearly an hour to get me to go with him. I told him that it was a shame I wasn't in the 6th grade, because that sort of peer pressure would have worked in less than 20 seconds. He said he was glad I wasn't in the 6th grade because he didn't really want to go to jail, but that I still should go for the walk with him. I didn't budge, even when he waged a one-man sit down strike, complete with a sign taped to his back. He threatened a hunger strike, but it is hard to get behind a man who just 30 minutes before had eaten two pancakes and 8 strips of veggie bacon. (As we speak he is eating a grapefruit, so I guess that portion of the strike is over).

My communist leanings were moved, but I held my ground. A woman needs to take a stand once in awhile.

Even Rocky Had a Montage

2006-02-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

Brother TiVo served up a four hour dose of Olympic Glory last night. Being from Atlanta, home of the 1996 (Thanks Karen!) Summer Olympic Games, I am in a position to judge all future Open Ceremonies. And, although it certainly did not live up to the classy production put on by the city famous for its museum to sugar beverages, ode to plantation life, and its Rushmore-like monument to confederate soldiers, it was pretty great! Some of you may have forgotten the Atlanta ceremony because you were forced to have a lobotomy after it was over. I, with the assistance of Reuters, will refresh your memory. At a very poignant moment, the stadium came to complete silence as "30 chrome pick-up trucks [circled] the field in a bizarre echo of the chariot races that launched the Ancient Olympics. A formation of dancers spelled out "HOW Y'ALL DOIN?""

It shouldn't be a big surprise that pickups, cheerleaders wearing daisy dukes, and deliberately misspelled words were the product of Georgian thought. If you have ever been to Stone mountain, you would know that we are easily entertained by flashy lights. We drive there to spend $8, feed mosquitoes, wait an hour eating fried chicken and fried potatoes and fried fried so we can watch a 40 minute laser show.

In a tribute to tradition, the Lasershow has barely changed since I was a child. It is apparently the "World's Largest Lasershow spectacular." Since 1988 I don't think there has been a competing lasershow spectacular, so that is a little like saying that Funny Yet Accurate is the World's Funniest Blog Spectacular (which it is, but you get my point I hope).

Not to be outdone, Torino, pulled out all the tacky stops last night. In fairness, I'm not sure how else you do an opening ceremony. It is basically like a big halftime show, wholesome enough that we don't have to worry about child-corrupting wardrobe malfunctions but gaudy enough to always involve all the propane in a thirty mile radius. If you missed last night's show, you are both officially unamerican and culturally deprived. There were ballroom dancers dressed as cows, roller skaters with flames shooting from their heads, and a small frighten child forced to sing the national anthem. My favorite bits were the ones that used humans as pixels to create an image. First these poor souls came together to form a beating heart, the only organ featured in the show, which disappointed me because I had hoped for a pulsating kidney or oozing gland. Oh well.

But, the piece de resistance was the masturbatory alpine skier. Now, if you don't have Tivo you may have thought, "Am I crazy, or did that skier, made from three hundred people dressed like condoms, just jerk off on international television?" Well, I can only say that it is now a part of our extensive porn collection. First though he smoked up, adding a very nice and realistic touch. Then he skied away from the scene of the crime, a wise decision indeed.

After that family-friendly segment, they raised up the Olympic rings, which supposedly represents a color in the flags of all nations. Raymond turned to me and said "Makes you want to start a country with a Orange and Black flag, then claim discrimination, if they are unwilling to add another ring." My thoughts exactly!

But, my favorite part of the night was the commentary by the NBC guys when the Greek athletes made their walk around the stadium. These people always have some little fact or tidbit about the country to broaden our trivia banks. Since Athens had hosted the 2004 Summer Games, that was the subject of discussion, although, it seems like it could have been a bit more positive:

"In Athens two years ago the Greeks pulled it together at the last minute, surprised a lot of people...the bill came to more than 12 Billion which was more than twice the original estimate...as a result the country's deficit was nearly double the EU limit."

Take out Greeks and put in Margaret and those are the exact words my mother used to describe our wedding. Uncanny isn't it. I didn't know my mother worked for NBC. I'll have to talk to her about the lameness of Howie Mandel.

Doctor Margaret Makes House Calls

2006-02-10T02:24:00.000-08:00

Taking sick leave when you are a State Employee is a complicated proposition. On the one hand, you generally have a lot of it. At my last pay period I was listed as having banked 19.4 sick days. But, on the other hand, people are often suspect of your actual illness, unless you are hospitalized and under complete sedation. This is a good example of one of the many things criminal defendants and Public Defenders have in common. (Obviously, the other is we are both incurable parasites sucking the marrow from America’s heartland.)

I once represented a client charged by his neighbor with assault and malicious destruction of property. My client had a pretty lengthy record, whereas the “victim” was just a law-abiding homemaker. I mean, except for filing false complaints against my client, she was Great!

When I went to the jail (after making a note worthy parallel parking job), my client assured me that he was being falsely accused. This is not an uncommon defense raised in the first interview with a client, although rarely a winnable one, true or not. But, in this man’s case, we were able to acquire medical records to prove it. Sure enough, at the exact time he was allegedly hurling a rock at his neighbor’s car while she was innocently driving past his house, he was in fact laying in shock trauma breathing through a tracheostomy tube. (Note: Whoever beat the crap out of him and then set his house on fire leaving him to die, has never been caught, but the police have successfully arrested a crap load of dope heads since then, so justice has definitely been served.) I guess the neighbor hadn’t noticed the fiery blaze three doors down or the chard remains where his house had stood three days before. She was too busy fleeing from imaginary projectiles.

When I showed the 300 pages of medical records to the prosecutor, his first question was, “How do I know that he didn’t just get out of bed, hail a taxi, go back to his neighborhood, pick up a rock, wait for her to drive by, and then hit her car with a rock, and then return to his hospital bed undetected?” I said, “Oh yeah, I see your point. That is a totally reasonable suggestion. I think the only problem with that proposition is that he was on a morphine drip?” The case was dismissed.

Now, even though I have almost 20 sick days at my disposal, I hope that I am never sick for four straight weeks. Not because of concerns about my health, but as committed as Raymond is (See Failure to Thrive), four weeks caring for a sick version of me would do anyone in. When I was a kid, I wasn’t often sick, but I did often play-sick-on-TV. I once missed eight Fridays in a row in the Fourth Grade. Those days coincided with spelling test. All two of my loyal readers will remember that I was not really the best speller. In my great ten-year-old wisdom, I must have believed that if I didn’t take the test on Friday, I would never have to take it. Shockingly, I received an “F” in spelling that grade cycle. I was outraged! It is one thing to earn your zero, but another to have never been given the option of earning the zero.

Because of all the playing hooky I did in my formative years, I now need external verification that I am actually sick. Thermometers help this system of checks and balances. I keep one in my office and when I feel the slightest bit ill, I whip out my thermometer. It’s a digital model, and though I am all about trusting technology it never read the same temperature twice. I know this because if it reads under 99.0, I take my temperature a second time. (Hey, I’m like a sciency-person and as such I like to live my life with double blind studies to verify my own predictions.) If I do not have a fever, even if my nose is clogged and my eyes are swollen and my femur is dangling at my side, I cannot trust my own instincts.

But, watch out! If I have a fever, then I am SICK! So sick that any simple task requires enormous praise to be garnished on me by my husband! “That is amazing, Margaret! You were able to change the channels all by yourself!” “You are so stoic Margaret! I am in awe of your ability to pour your own tea. Next time, please let me do it for you. I would hate for your good harm to be injured while you are attempting such a death-defying stunt.” Vomiting wins me a Nobel Prize.

My co-worker Linda, also a State Employee, was not at work yesterday. This morning I inquired (like the terribly nosey yet concerned friend that I am) about her health. She told me that she had taken an overdose of White Chocolate Reese’s Cups and needed a day to recover. Having suffered the same fate a few years ago, I was able to put her in touch with the 28 day rehabilitation program where I went to beat my own addiction. They will detox her by only allowing Dark Chocolate for the first 72 hours. I hope she is able to make it through. I left after 14 days and rushed straight to Walgreen’s. They had to carry me out on a stretcher. My fever? 99.5! I didn’t go to work for three straight weeks.

Failure to Thrive

2006-02-08T04:18:00.000-08:00

My husband has a zillion good qualities. He is committed and funny and smart and supportive and inventive and industrious and handsome and adorable. See, the list is almost endless.

Almost.

One quality my husband does not have is strength against the elements. Now, this is a man who did an immersion program not for French but for the cold. He (not we) lived in the woods for 6 months. Up a mountain. In Connecticut. In the winter. During a particularly snowy year. He tried to conquer his fear of cold, and failed, failed, failed.

He loves snow and winter and all things associated with coldness (I on the other hand prefer more balmy temperatures, but this is about him and not me.) But, he has to talk himself into venturing into the cold.

Most specifically, into cold water. Now, we are not talking about actually cold water. This water does not hover at 32 degrees Fahrenheit. It is 75 and 80 degree water he cannot handle. Unfortunately, he has to encounter this sort of water most days.

Raymond swims 4 days a week. He has done this for over five years. In that five year period, he has yet to become acclimated to the water in the pool. If he could swim laps in a hot tub he would. In fact, he has and quite enjoyed himself. My parents have an endless pool in their backyard. My mother must be jonesin' for a heart attack, because she keeps the water around 95 degrees. Although a visit to the inlaws in not high on Raymond's favorite vacation destinations, he loves the pool both for it's convenience and it's warmth.

Most pools are kept between 70 and 80 degrees, for the aforementioned health concerns. I have had occasion to swim with Raymond, which is how I know what happens when he gets to any pool's edge, other than my parents' Hot Tube Heaven. He puts his towel and shoes at the wall, sits on the side of the pool, dangles his feet in and makes valiant attempts at stoicism. He will wait sometimes as long as ten minutes before he is able to finally fling himself a lemur into the pool, where his chance at survival is self-calculated at around 1%.

Remarkably he routinely beats the odds. He hasn't died of hypothermia even once.

I actually think that it is sort of sweet that he could do something that is so hard for him yet never become accustomed to doing it. It bodes well for our relationship. See, I told you he was committed.

Operators Are Standing By

2006-02-08T04:06:00.000-08:00

I knew that Tyra Banks had a talk show, but it wasn’t until I got a clandestine phone call from Staci (who was either afraid that my phone is tapped by the feds or that she might wake her baby, both fears would be reasonable). She whispers into the phone “Pennies. Tyra. Channel 24.” Generally Staci and I have a psychic connection, but in this case I needed more direction. Using compete sentences, she whispered, “You must immediately turn on Tyra. It’s on Channel 24. There is a woman on the show who is afraid of pennies.”

Staci’s call to arms was well taken. I had never seen Tyra. Which is hard for some to believe that there is bad TV out there that I have not seen. Going from model to talk show host is an easy transition. Because, the training for modeling fulfills many of the medical school prerequisites for a psychiatry specialization. This was really illustrated on yesterday’s show, where people came on to overcome their fears. This was really an ad for Fear Factor. If you have seen Fear Factor (and if you haven’t, what sort of American are you?) you know that the stunts involve common fears. Fear of heights, fear of bugs; fear of dying in a fiery car crash.

But, in the spirit of ratings, it is more fun to watch people with unusual (some would say crazy) paralyzing disorders come on the show and “conquer” their fears for money. The first guest was afraid of pennies. The producers had filled a fish tank with pennies and the woman was told that if she put her hand into the tank and dug around she would find a $6000 watch at the bottom. So, she did it. For the watch. I mean the woman has a disorder but is not dumb. But, I’m sure that she watched her hands until they bled as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. The doctor emphasized that it was “Not the cure, it’s the first step.”

But, Tyra Banks, MD, PhD did say, “When you are modeling, you’ve got to model and get past your fears.” This is sage advice. And I really appreciate that Tyra would be giving all of us this wisdom. To be fair to Tyra, here probably is no more perilous job than modeling. There is lots of danger to be found on the beaches of Waikiki. And those runways are a magnet for drive-bys! In fact, you can make a tax-free donation to the Fraternal Order of Models (FOM) to show your support for the fallen. A lot of models have risked their lives for you and your closet; don’t you think it is time you repaid the favor?

E is for "Idiot"

2006-02-07T19:04:00.000-08:00

Just because I can't spell doesn't mean I can't make fun of stupid kids. Raymond once many moons ago was a music teacher. He organized a trip to go listen to torture, I mean a string quartet. He loaded up his friend's van with about six kids and we all drove across Conneticut to be bored, I mean enriched.

If it isn't clear, my favorite part of the trip was dinner. (It was not the music, nor the running out of gas and having to call all the parents to come and get their kids from the side of the road.) Oh, it was dinner and the title quote.

First, you must remember that all these kids are "gifted." Or at least labled as such. And, as all gifted kids do when they are not writing sonets or curing cancer, they were playing the Alphabet Game. This is technically a drinking game. It was best illustrated by Vanessa Huxtable in Season 6 of The Cosby Show. In that version, they were having to name cities. My husband's gifted students were naming insults.

A is for asswipe.
B is for bastard.
C is for cow.
D is for douchbag.
E is for idiot.

If my memory is correct, all of those "off the chart" kids missed this mistake. Raymond, mindful that he was molding the next generation, said "Idiot begins with "I" not "E!" Get it right, idiot."

Now to be fair, this game was played before they went to the concert. After the performance they were all so wired from having to sit still for longer than 45 seconds that they just screamed in unison (they are musicians, you know).

A Tribute to Nonagenarians

2006-02-07T16:46:00.000-08:00

This week is Roman Totenberg's 95th birthday. NPR did a story on him this evening, which illustrates how charming and kind he seems. Raymond feel for him hard a few years ago, when Roman T. (that's his rap name) came as a guest player to Kneisel Hall. Raymond was a student violist there for the summer. Apparently it was his story telling and general dispositional that won Raymond over, even more than his playing. And, if you listen to that link, you will know why.

I only know Roman Totenberg by name because the story played tonight and because his daughter is Nina Totenberg, who is the legal correspondent on NPR. Give me a few days and his name will carry little significance. I may be married to a classical musician, but, truly, I hate classical music.

It's ok in the background. In fact, it is quite pretty sometimes. But, please, please don't make me go and sit and listen to it for a few hours. (even a few minutes without a book to occupy me drives me crazy.) I blame my mother, like any post-modernist would. My mother also hates classical music, but in a more aggressive way than I. She will say to my father through clinched teeth "Can you just cut-that-off!" And, if he doesn't, she will do it for him. When I was in the third grade, the orchestra teacher came to our class and asked us if we wanted to play the violin. I went home and asked to be able to play. My mother said, "No. Who wants to listen to a new violinist play?" That was that. My dreams of being cultured were banished. Instead of practicing my violin every afternoon (and, given my personality, I would have been a model student) I memorized the lines to every episode of the Brady Bunch. God bless Ted Turner.

The irony is not lost on me that my husband is a violist. And it wasn't lost on annonymous friend Nai, who, at our rehearsal dinner, during his mandated (by me) toast, told Raymond's family. Luckily, I think they were all too drunk to remember.

What I am most interested in is Roman T's level of activity at 95. I read about another nonagenarian today in my alumni newsletter. Mr. Merrill Burnside (who I am disappointed and a bit suprised to find does not have a website) graduated in 1936, which makes him likely 90 or 91 years old. According to the publication, he "is still working as a real estate broker in the San Fernando Valley. He enjoys playing doubles tennis and gin runny at the El Caballero Country Club in Tarzana." (Something tells me that Merrill prefers his doubles mixed and his gin straight.) Compare Merrill to a 2005 graduate who wanted his classmates to know that he is serving as president of his frat.

Don't worry readers, the world isn't coming to an end, it just will have more kegers.

A Story with a Very Forced Point

2006-02-06T04:49:00.000-08:00

I am not that sensitive about that many things (a person who spells "many" as "meany" until spell check catches it really needs to develop a tough skin at an early age). Actually, that is a lie. To clarify, I am really sensitive, but just not about many things that I do. Like, you don't think I keep house very well, ok, please send over Jeeves and I would be happy to occupy his time for a little while. Or you think that my clothes are, shall we, as the kids say, unhip, uncool, totally lame, I am happy to take your credit card to the nearest J C Penny's (oh! That may be my problem!). But, please, oh, please, if we are trying to be friends, do not criticize my parallel parking skills.

My old job (old as of only about 2 months) involved occasional necessary parking on a very, very crowded street. Before driving there, it is critical that you say a prayer to the parking spot gods as well as slaughter a few animals for them (bonus points if you did this on your way there, because the gods prefer fresh road kill) Otherwise, you will be parking in Kansas (note: I don't live in Kansas or even Missouri -- hey, yeah, I know that there are two Kansas Cities.) And, if the gods were looking kindly on you that day, you may be lucky enough to be granted a parking space that is closer than 5000 yards from the front door.

But, trust me, the parking space will not be large.

Some people would see this as a downside to the job, but not me. Rarely do I get such an awesome opportunity to demonstrate my amazing skills. With respect to parallel parking, I've got game. Many people have observed this over the years, but none so vocally as the construction worker, who, after I maneuvered my car into a tiniest parking spot known to man (in exactly three turns of the wheel, I humbly note) stopped me on the street to compliment me.

Another reason that people from my former office do not like going to this particular street is that the intended destination is a little unsavory. Even we criminal defense attorneys generally do not like to go to jail. That is right, my lawyering be damned. The most important skill I needed was parking not advocacy. (Please don't tell my clients. You are all so good a keeping secrets I might add)

As a public defender, a fair number of interns enter and exit our lives. When you are an intern, part of your job is to be nice to the people who work at the office (in some circles it is called kissing up. I don't mind those circles). Well, part of being nice to me is not critiquing my aforementioned skills. My last (and, based on this and other interactions hopefully, truly, last) intern, I guess didn't get that memo.

On our first day and first drive to the jail he starts waxing on the importance of living a cultured life. He informs me that poor people are like crows and are attracted to shiny things. So, he is going to always wear gold cufflinks so that his clients will be impressed by him. I swear to god and all the puppies in the world that I did not make that up. Did I run off the road? No. Did I push the ejector button? No. Very calmly I told him that that seemed sort of classiest. Oh, but don't worry, it's ok because he comes from "poor white trash and [he] to was once attracted to bling." (Direct quote. See Crazy Intern, p. 666)

So, I am processing all of this while looking for a parking spot. Although I had forgotten to burn my requisite incense, the gods took pity on me and provided. There, no very far from the front door was my escape hatch from this crazy man, also known as a parking spot. I drive up to it, begin to cut my wheel and Intern says "I really don't think you can make this." Although I wanted to strangle him at that point (I mean, insult the poor, fine; Insult my skills, we will have to take this outside) I resisted.

I am sorry to report that he didn't make it the semester and appeared to turn to the bottle for support.

You want to know what the moral of this story is: Insult my parking skills and you too may become a law school drop out.

A post that has gotten very religious on me

2006-02-04T13:26:00.000-08:00

I know that some people believe in reincarnation. In fact, I am married to one such person. I know that people want to be linked to the past. They find it comforting to imagine that there is an unbroken circle, where death is not the end, but only a bump in the road. It is not the idea of reincarnation that I find troubling, it is the number of times that George Washington has come back to Earth. I don’t understand is why people can only reincarnate from wealth, power, or importance. I’m glad that you think that you were formally a queen, but isn’t it a little more likely that instead of being the queen, you just worked your whole life, slept on a dirt floor, and ate gruel?

I think that sometimes probability goes out the window when people think about past lives. This is true of so many things. People’s personal beliefs make them think all sorts of improbable things. Las Vegas would be a sad desert without the human race and it’s propensity for irrational hope. People would probably stop procreating all together if they thought that they would give birth to Joe or Jane Average.

Obviously, this is true for everyone else, but me. In my case, I never blow things out of proportion or assume that the world is designed with me at the center. I don’t assume it, because (hey, can you keep another secret?)…it’s true. I am the center of the Universe.

Let me give you an example.

There is a traffic light 100 yards from our apartment. A mere football field separates me from my sofa and TIVO. But, this intersection is the epicenter for where Armageddon will begin. I do not believe that this is a coincidence. I know that the devil him/herself has picked this intersection to torture me. And he is torturing me because I am chosen.

No matter which direction I am going on either intersecting road, the light is designed to thwart my journey. The devil takes the greatest pleasure in preventing me from efficiently coming home. I have been known to wait ten minutes at this light, as the left turn light fails to trigger again and again. I can see my building; I can imagine the great shows TIVO has stored for me; but I just sit and wait.

As I wait, I often think, “ Why has God forsaken me this way?” Yes, that is right; I feel like the crucified Jesus, made to drink vinegar disguised as a wine-soaked handkerchief, wearing a thorn crown, nails through my hands. In fact, on more than one occasion, while waiting at the light I have seen the stigmata begin to develop, which makes for a very messy car I must say.

It is not that I want to be a new Jesus; it is just that I am. How can you deny it? Obviously, I am special. First, I think I am special, and that is enough proof for me. And, secondly, hello, stigmata people! It is hard battling the devil this way, but this is the course that has been chosen for me. I am determined to not let this opportunity go to waste. In March I will be selling passes for people to watch me battle the devil for 40 days and 40 nights. (Watch for updates here. I accept Paypal and all major credit cards).

How High Should I Jump Ms. Sarah?

2006-02-01T16:53:00.000-08:00

A very discerning visitor has asked me to inform my readers about the highly acclaimed (by me) Starting Over. If you haven't seen this program, please stop reading. Immediately. And run to your nearest TV. Then sit there, and wait until it comes on. Now, for some of you that may be years, if it's not carried in your market. If that is the case, you have a few options:

1. Move.

2. Wait patiently, and while doing so contact your Congressperson. He or she will want to know that the greatest show on television is eluding you.

Ok, now for those of you who have seen this program (all others should have already reported to your television screens) you must know what I am talking about.

Sarah seems confused about the concept. That is reasonable, given the highly scientificy nature of the show. Women, "from all walks of life," come to the house to Start Over. They are working on all sorts of problems. And some "get it" faster than others. So, some graduate from the house (onto the rest of their new lives) before others who started around the same time. Right now, there are two women who remain from those that started at the beginning of the season. One, Jill, is likely to graduate. And then there is Lisa.

I agree with Sarah and think that Lisa is never going to leave. This is ironic, because she came to the show because at 40 she has yet to leave the nest (or stop taking Daddy’s money). Now she just has someone new and shiny to provide for her: NBC Universal Television, which probably has even deeper pockets than her Miami party parents.

But, the truth is you can't help but root for these women. They all have had really terrible things happen to them. And, most seem to leave much more confident and prepared than before they came to the house. One notable exception was Nyanza. My friend Tish's observation was that they just couldn't do anything other than graduate her. A clear example of social promotion, in my opinion.

I secretly (you can keep a secret right?) want to go on Starting Over. I don't have anything to start over, per se, but it is the perfect reality TV show for me. I am officially too old to be on the Real World (and I never had cool enough music taste to quality), and I don't have the skill set to be on Survivor, or Fear Factor, or really any other reality program. Plus, on Starting Over you never have to eat bugs or stand on one leg for 72 hours. Instead, you talk about your feelings all day long. I could totally do that. Hell, I have a blog. I'm half way there.

The post that Reveals that Margaret Spends a lot of Vanity Time at Google.

2006-01-31T11:38:00.000-08:00

Via a scientific survey, I have discovered that the phrase "funny yet accurate" is uniformly used to comment on not funny and inaccurate things. Take these examples found in my highly scientificy study:

This revelation of European prehistoric life is funny yet accurate, and filled with hands-on activities.

This quote refers to some educational play being put on by some educational do-gooders in NYC about the ice age, particularly a frozen 5,000 year old man named Otzi (some call him Frozen Fritz apparently). I don't know about you but I cannot imagine that this play is all that accurate. It is hard to be accurate about the daily life of people who left very little writing or documentation because they had to eat it to survive the iceage. (Obviously, this guy ran out of resources.) Also, I am not sure what is so funny about freezing to death. I saw I Shouldn't Be Alive. While watching the show, my feet got frost-bite. My pinky-toe had to be amputated. There is nothing funny about having 9 toes.

And this example:

Phil made a rather funny yet accurate categorization of (young) men's fashion in Japan : gay punk.

The blog that this comes from doesn't deserve a link, not just because it is boring (a status I certainly am in no place to judge) but it is written by an illiterate person who, as far as I could gather, is doing something in Japan. Let us all hope he is not teaching English there. Although, it might give us a competitive edge. Plus, I'm not sure what "gay punk" means to Phil but I assume it is not positive. Two thumbs down for Phil, (if you could see the site and all the thumbs up pictures he has of himself in his "travels", you, too, would laugh at this.)

And, finally, a history lesson:

In this funny yet accurate tale, Amos, the mouse who lived with Benjamin Franklin, gives us the true story of how the famous American got the ideas for his many inventions and discoveries. Just Great!!!

Now, I haven't read Ben and Me, but I would wager my car, my dog, and my husband that Ben and Me at the very least is not funny. I mean, I cannot say that there were no talking mice in 1776. But, funny, they did invent humor until Ghostbusters for gosh sake? I really like the idea that someone was looking for filler text. And that is what he came up with. He was having to write a damn (sorry, "darn" (it looks like it is a Christian Book site)) descriptionn for yet another Darn book that he had not read. He had already said "In this poignent tale" and "In this death-defying tale" and "In this so- boring- you- will- be- wishing- you- were- watching- Regis tale" that he was like "Hey! I haven't- called a book funny yet accurate!!! That's what I'll do!" And he did.

A Very-Special Post

2006-01-31T04:03:00.000-08:00

One of the finest shows on television is in its last nine episodes. Seventh Heaven has been on the air for 10 ground breaking seasons. The WB's own description of the show is too modest:

The series has received numerous awards for chronicling the many complex problems of growing up in the world today. The young adults on 7th Heaven have been exposed to issues ranging from teen suicide and sibling rivalry to violence in schools. Storylines have touched on such topics as the Holocaust, hate crimes, prejudice against Muslims, drug use, vandalism, the right to vote, drinking and driving, teen pregnancy and homelessness.

Oh, yes, the Camdens are the pulse of this generation. Take the Japanese internment camp episode; a "very-special" Seventh Heaven it was. Lucy and Mary learn about this part of American history when a very rich woman (who is Japanese-American) refuses to speak out about some "very-important" community issue. It turns out, shockingly, that she was in an internment camp. But, by the end of the hour this woman has come to understand the error of her ways. Class, silence is not the answer. Lucy and Mary are able to show her, through their youthful optimism that prejudice begets prejudice. Those Camdens are very wise, almost prophet-like.

Last night on Seventh Heaven (which, praise TIVO, I was able to watch this morning) sent me over the edge. Never before has the show touched so close to me. Some might say that showing a painless birth ending with reconciliation and commitment is a tad manipulative, but, as Aaron Spelling would say, "It Works!" Now I am jealous of Simon, Rose, Martin, Sandy, Lucy and Kevin, and not just because of their love and faithfulness. They are ALL going to have babies before me. Perfect, powdered, drugged-for-the-camera babies. How did they all get to be so lucky? Woe is me.

Positive Reinforcement

2006-01-29T15:28:00.000-08:00

Some people are self -starters. Take Bill Gates for example. That man worked doing sciencey-geeky things for years and years with little or no reward. No one made him get up in the morning. No one dangled a pay check in front of him. He just worked towards a goal. I have no similarity to Bill Gates.

I am not a self-starter. I went to college because it was the next logical step and law school too made sense at the time. But, all that I have accomplished has been because someone waved a tasty carrot in front of me. I file my briefs not because I have internal drive, but because I have a due date. The deadline is my best friend. If nothing were ever due, I would probably just lay on my sofa mindlessly staring at the television, hoping that TIVO figured out that I really need it to record E! True Hollywood Story for me.

At work, I sometimes have to make up imaginary deadlines just to keep going. A month is a long time to spend on a single project, so to motivate doing the work before 2am the morning before it is required to be filed, I set these artificial benchmarks. Read two more case, then you can go to the bathroom. Edit three more pages then you can make more tea. (As I type this I realize that maybe it is my incentive program of toilet and Lipton rather than the work itself. What I really want is: read two more case then have a month's vacation or edit three more pages then win the lottery. Do you see my problem???)

Raymond and I also need lots of positive reinforcement at home. If one of us picks up the dirty sock that has been laying in the middle of the floor for three weeks, the other will say "Oh my god! You are amazing! I marvel at your industriousness! You are a god to me." If together we clear the entire 800 square feet of the apartment, we award ourselves the Congressional Metal of Freedom. Sometimes I am surprised that we even get up in the morning, considering our gross need for external support. But, if we do get out of bed tomorrow morning, rest assured we will have thoroughly complimented ourselves.

Crowing before the Rooster (and a TIVO Challenge Update)

2006-01-28T13:45:00.000-08:00

Because of Raymond's work, starting this week we will be getting up at 5 am, every morning. My job has normal hours so I actually could sleep until 7 or 7:30, but because I am a dutiful wife I rise with him. Actually, it is not that I am dutiful, it is that if I were not to awaken with him, I would only see him for approximately 37 seconds a day between the time I came home and he went to bed. Plus, I can go back to bed after he leaves for the day and sleep another hour. And he hates me for that.

Are you all aware of the fact that the sun is not out at 5 am? Nor at 5:30 or really even 6. I wasn't. The world is absurdly dark and inhumane at that hour. Now, besides feeling sort of self-rightous in our early to bed, early to rise new lifestyle, we are hating it. Raymond is doing his teaching training, which is the reason for ungodly wakeup hour. The administrator who decided that high schools should start at 7:15 really must be in hell right now. Cause I feel like hell at 5 am.

It is not limited to Monday through Friday, weekends are suddenly shot too. The conflict is -- do we wake up at 5am Saturday and Sunday to stay on the "schedule" or do we just screw it? Since I am not having to teach at 7:15 in the morning I am firmly in the "screw it camp" but Raymond, often the more reasonable party in our house, believes that the routine may be a good idea. We shall see. The siren that is our bed sings a beautiful song, especially on Sunday mornings.

And An Update!

I'm sure you have all been wondering about how TIVO was handling the Suzanne Sommers Challenge. Well, Suzanne has not be on QVC for the past few days, but her best friend in fashion Joan Rivers has. TIVO successfully recorded 3 (three) hours of Joan last night. Along with her botox, she sells some of the nicest costume jewelry you can find, this side of Jersey. I know a certain 5 month old named Estelle who would look great wearing Joan with her pink animal print onesy. It would make a great passover or easter gift for any baby on your list.

I'm Social

2006-01-26T05:56:00.000-08:00

As a State employee I have many perks. One is high levels of lead. The water in my building is not safe for human consumption. This is a minor inconvenience to me. I was never a drinker. Of anything. I will go all day and forget that water even exists. A few weeks ago I gave up carbonated beverages, which I would drink more of than water, but even then there would be abandoned, half-empty cans scattered about the house. My parents consider this one of my defining characteristics and even from 500 miles away will often ask about it.

Another perk is that I ride the bus for free. I happen to live on a perfect bus route for my job. The bus is my own personal limo service picking up right at my apartment's steps and dropping off right at the front door of my lead-infested-building. Having grown up not riding a bus other than the dreaded school bus, I like metro-transit-living. I like getting on the bus and flashing my ID and then "leaving the driving to them." But, it is still rather novel to me. I have not ever gone a whole year of riding the bus, nor have I ever had to wait in a snowstorm or a downpour. And, it is not a necessity, which I think is really the distinguishing factor between liking it and not. We could afford to buy a second car, and have me park downtown. We wouldn't want to do it, and it would pinch our budget, but we could.

I grew up thinking that poor people took the bus. And where I lived at the time that was certainly true. The bus system in Atlanta is pretty terrible and the metro system is barely better. In fact, MARTA, which is what the subway is called in Atlanta, is so inaccessible that most people drive to the station, and then ride it to work. That is a fine design, don't you think?

I became a socialist sometime in high school. And like many socialist raised in upper-middle class luxury, I had heroicized the working man. If you were a brick layer, janitor, dishwasher, or bus driver, I really admired you not just for the work you did but for doing it. I say this in the past tense, but I still can't imagine doing those jobs. And I am still a socialist. However, I have a different perspective about what many people who do those jobs think of themselves and their work. Many (most) are not socialist. And, they do not think of themselves as part of the oppressed masses. They are no different from my co-workers, most of whom do not spend a huge amount of time dwelling on their fates.

One day, about a dozen years ago, I went to lunch with an old friend and her new boyfriend. Now, this woman is really amazing and I thought that anyone she chose would be equally so. I asked him what he did for a living. He is in a band. I was like, "Great. What do you play?" And then he said, "I'm thinking I would like to drive a bus." I immediately said, "Oh, wow! A bus! That's great! Are you a socialist?" (Because, I didn't know anyone who actually drive a bus, and I assumed that if you did drive a bus and you were dating my friend it would be because you were making a political statement, not because you actually need the money. Who needs money???)

"We'll I'm social if that is what you mean." he said. Completely seriously too. Sometimes things happen in your life where you suddenly "get it." This wasn't such a time. I suddenly started talking in this sophomoric way about what socialism was and about unions, and other stuff I really didn't know anything about. Later, I "got it" but in that hour I was just an embarrassment to myself and everyone who knows me.

Clearly, my social skills need some work.

My friend Nai

2006-01-24T18:17:00.000-08:00

So I have a friend, let's call him Nai. Nai is afraid of being "seachable." Now, besides the aluminum foil hat he wears, I wouldn't consider him more paranoid than anyone else I know. But, he, apparently is afraid of the internet.

I wonder where this fear stems from? (Or, as Nai would prefer I write, I wonder from where this fear stems. Happy Nai?) But, clearly I have this fear too. Not actually of being searchable (actually, I google myself on a fairly regular basis and would be really sad and feel slightly pathetic if I weren't google-able) but of being known as someone who finds community through the internet.

Amongst most people I know, not meeting your mate on the internet is a badge of honor. I actually know a couple who have created an imaginary friend who imaginarily introduced them at an imaginary picnic. The lie got so deep that the minister at their wedding told the story. (I don't think you go to hell if you accidentally lie. Do you?) They were obviously happy enough with the match Yahoo made for them, but too ashamed to acknowledge that to their own families. DH and I met through friends -- how 20th century. But, the name of that friend we are taking to our grave. But he is totally real. I swear!

Besides this blog, I am actively involved in an online community. It is a real community. With favorite friends and people dealing with other people and drama and happiness and terrible sadness sometimes. And lots of humor. And the only "tech" part of the group is that it is all on the internet. I would never have met any of these women (and one man) without this forum. And some of them I have met "in real life" and others I plan to meet one day. And, I'm very glad I have met them. But, it is not something I advertise to people I don't know well. Because it comes with stigma. And I just don't want to deal with that. (Obviously if you are reading this blog you are enough involved in the internet that your judgement is of no consequence to me. :-) )

Which brings us back to Nai. Nai does not want to be a part of the internet. Which to me is both unavoidable and undesirable. But, I will respect his wishes. Although I might blog about him, I vow to use this totally uncrackable code name. For his sake, I hope they never create a dyslexic search engine!

TIVO Challange

2006-01-24T18:12:00.000-08:00

TIVO is up to the challenge posed by Staci. We are committed to finding Suzanne Sommers on QVC. I will report back.

To the Family of Carpenter Rhinos Who Live above Us:

2006-01-23T18:51:00.000-08:00

I'm sure you know that your floor is our ceiling. And, really, it must be hard for rhinos to walk softly. Considering that an average rhino weighs two tons, I am impressed that you are as quiet as you are. But, I just wonder if you could consider not chasing each other around the apartment every evening. I don't know much about the mating rituals of rhinos, so maybe I am completely out of line, but could you possibly just tone it down to once or twice a week? Although I am betting that a baby carpenter rhino would be quite cute.

Also, I think that having a trade is a wonderful gift. Many people flounder in this world because they don't have direction in their lives. Woodworking is a skill that could enable you to build your own home one day, or a birdhouse. And you have certainly gotten a lot of practice hitting nails. I bet you are really good at that by now. But, I'm sure the manufacturer of your hammer does not recommend dropping it on the ground after you are done using it. It probably nullifies the warranty.

But, I bet it's hard to hold the hammer, since you don't have thumbs, being that you are a rhino.

Love,
Your downstairs neighbors

A Curious Customer Asks

2006-01-23T04:35:00.000-08:00

Staci wants to know:

"Does TIVO know what specific segments of QVC to tape? I would share your love for TIVO if it knew to tape all Suzzanne Sommers' segements. Or, more specifically, if TIVO knew to tape segments featuring Ms. Sommers's artificial sweetner line."

I feel that no task it too hard for TIVO. So, I will ask TIVO to try to accomplish this very worthy challenge. I will report back on the results.

There She Was

2006-01-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

I am having an affair with my TIVO. Raymond knows. As long as TIVO and I allow threesomes (we do) then he's ok with it. Now, for those that don't have TIVO, it is sort of hard to explain. Do you ever remember thinking to yourself "Was that an orgasm?" If you do, then you know what it is like to have never experienced TIVO.

Now, some people have said to me, "What is the difference between TIVO and my VCR? I record movies and shows all the time." Comparing TIVO to your VCR is like comparing a Lear Jet to a Big Wheel. Yes, they both record shows, but that is where the comparison ends.

TIVO is the best computer I have ever owned. It doesn't crash in the middle of a final exam. It does decide to turn on when it wants to. It has never needed one single repair and it even thinks to itself "I'm sure Margaret would like to see 'Roseanne: The E True Hollywood Story.' I'll just record it for her." That is what a true friend TIVO is.

No fault to TIVO, we have recently canceled our cable subscription. I feel bad, because TIVO loved those channels and will now have to settle for our tiny twelve. But, at least those include QVC. We still get some of those channels but the reception is so poor that even in my most tv-addicted state I wouldn't want to watch those programs. Before canceling cable, I had requested that TIVO record the Miss America pageant. (you never place demands on a friend)

Imagine my delight when I saw that the 2006 pageant was on the Now Playing List. I go to watch it and it resembles a Seurat masterpiece.

I couldn't figure out what had happened. We get a clear picture of all the major stations. Low and behold, Miss America has been down graded to non-network status. I remembered reading something about this a while ago. I located this article, from here, which tells you all about the reasons for this shift. I will give you the part I like:

The network, which had carried the annual telecast since 1997 with a series of
one-year contracts, notified Miss America Organization officials that they will
not pick up the option this year, the pageant's acting president and CEO, Arthur
McMaster, said Wednesday. "We are now free to pursue other parties who
have expressed interest in our organization, and we are excited at the limitless opportunities that are now available for us to grow our brand," he said.

Well, isn't Arthur just a regular ole' Pollyanna. I wonder what those "limitless opportunities" are? This year is it CMT, I wonder if next year it will be on Hamm Radio.

I like to think this is progress, but considering ABC dropped Miss America but continues the progressive-minded The Bachelor, Paris, I think it may just be a lateral move.

I Would Like to Thank Margaret

2006-01-22T10:05:00.000-08:00

The annual award season is a sad time for me. It brings back years and years of disappointment. Every year I watch, hoping and longing that this time it will be different; but it never is.

I'm obviously talking about not ever once being thanked by a winner.

Now, you might think that considering my lack of connection to the film and music industries, this would not hurt so much. Sure, I don't "know" Reese Witherspoon or Al Pacino, but does that mean that they shouldn't thank me? Does celebrity status cure them of the obligation to learn my name?

I'm a good neighbor. I pick up trash and parallel park my car in tiny spaces that their limos would never be able to fit in. I rent their movies (even the bad ones) and do not burn duplicate copies.

I suspect that once again this year I will be disappointed, but like a sucker I will watch, fingers crossed, nose pressed against the screen. Maybe this will be my lucky year.

Why I hate Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies

2006-01-21T14:50:00.000-08:00

There are some people in this world who reserve the word "hate" for the Nazis and colonics. Not me. I think that words are meant to be used and I, my friend, will proudly hate all sorts of things.

This brings me to Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies.

Here is what is in Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies:

*butter (good)
* sugar (good+)
*oatmeal (neutral)

"Ok," you are thinking, "What is so bad about these cookies? Everything seems in order"

the final ingredient:

*raisins (oh my god, why did you just have to ruin what was looking like such a good recipe)

See, it's the raisins that turn what was once a totally lovely and unhealthy yet delicious creation into an insult.

Raisins are made from grapes which are pretty much the least nutritious fruit after Lemon Drops. Unlike oranges and bananas and strawberries which are sweetened with the complex-sugar fructose, grapes are sweetened with a simple-sugar glucose. All of this is natural, but glucose is like table sugar (also natural, just not as healthy).

In my opinion, when people dutifully buy the raisins for these cookies, they think to themselves, "Wow! Aren't I doing something healthy. There may be a pound of butter and sugar in these cookies but, look at all the raisins!" And, we have yet another victim who has fallen for the "raisins-are-better-for-me- than-chocolate-chips" line.

It is a sad world in which we live.

First Things First

2006-01-20T19:48:00.000-08:00

Well, it is first very important for you to know that this blog could also be called "I can't spell." That is relevant because inevitably you will be reading this blog and think "Can she not spell??" And the answer is, "No." I know that "there" and "their" are different words and I can even define them, but can I catch them at any given time? Probably not.

Secondly, I have eclectic interests. They range from a hatred of (and strange, stalker-like obsession with) Star Jones to a love of the New Yorker. I worship at the feet of TIVO (and hope they win all of their anti-trust lawsuits) but don't have cable. I love talking about parenting, but don't have any kids, just enormously dogmatic opinions.

Thirdly, I love blogs and vow to respect the blog. What I think that means is that I will try to blog often. There is nothing sadder than going to a blog that hasn't been updated since October 3, 2003. Not drowning puppies; not oatmeal-raisin cookies; not your grandmother dying. Nothing. (If you are reading this and you are one of those people, please, please either update or take it down. No one needs to be subjected to that level of unhappiness.)

Fourthly, I believe in comments. I wish you just would not be super rude to me. Just, you know, cause it's lame. But, I'm not against some lively debate. (Note how I believe that I will just be deluged by comments and will have to fight you all off with a stick) And, if I post something controversial then, well, I'm sort of asking for it. But, again, when you post, just think, "hey would I want the world knowing that I said that?"

And, finally, the blog title (suggested by my husband) is an inside joke that is a result of this email forward here (Oh, and how apt that Neil Boortz is hosting that. Oh what a brilliantly stupid man he is.) My husband received this forward about five years ago from his then-boss, who is not the most professional person we have ever met. She sends this out with the statement "I think this is funny yet accurate." We weren't sure (being socialist-leaning ourselves) whether to be offended or amused. As with most things and her we decided amusement was the proper course of action. So, when things are neither funny nor accurate we often turn to one another and utter this line.