The Crazy. It Burns.

So you know how I'm nuts, right? And I have crippling anxiety sometimes?

Well, I've had a pretty good handle on it lately, but every once in a while, something will come up and the crazy will start swirling and shoot up into my brain from wherever it hides when I've got a grip on it [I think in my spleen.  That sounds about right.] and I have to spend HOURS dealing with the madness.

Case in point:

You are familiar with my love of cheese, correct?  And the fact that I've developed a relationship with my cheese lady at the local market? And that at any given point in time, there are not less than a dozen different types of cheeses in my fridge?

Well, generally, usually, normally, I'm a cheese whore [not to be confused with a cheesy whore, although that could bring all the boys to the yard, I'm thinking], and I love to eat all kinds of cheese.

Except when the crazy looms.  And then takes over a portion of my brain normally dedicated to things like deciding if I really do like that Fergie song Glamorous [yes, of course I do, I am a sucker for songs where chicks spell out words. G. L. A. M. O. R. O-U-S. What's not to love? Also, cf Gwen Stefani's magnum opus, This shit is bananas - b.a.n.a.n.a.s. It sure is! Add the genius of Ludacris throwing down with If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home and you have a song for the ages. {YouTube link}] and makes it STEW in its own fine barrel of lunacy and the crazy just takes over.

Like it did this past weekend and tonight.

I was at the market, talking to my cheese lady and picked up some apple pie cheddar. Yum, right? What is wrong with any of those words? NOTHING.

So I bought it, but almost as soon as I put it in my cart and paid for it, I got the crazy - What if I'm allergic to it? What if it poisons me? What if I die when I eat it? - and so instead of enjoying something so delicious [CHEDDAR AND APPLE AND CINNAMON? WTF, BRAIN? W. T. F.?], I've spent the past 2 hours quietly losing my shit [because the husband has a friend over] and taking inventory of my system [Are my eyes itchy? Am I having trouble breathing? Why does my tongue hurt? Can I swallow? Has my left eyelid always drooped like that? And if it has, WHY?] and wondering if I'm going to die.

I hate being crazy.  It fucking exhausts me.  And trying to get over the crazy, by rationally telling myself that it's o.k. to eat the cheese and I won't die and then eating the cheese instead of just throwing it away? Is even more exhausting.

Now with more eyebrows

I know getting older means I can't just dash out the door looking fabulous anymore.  I mean, I could, and I would still look awesome [because I am awesome] but I'm also a fan of make up sometimes [and nail polish all the time - I am a feminist and I CHOOSE to wear Aphrodite's Pink Nightie on my nails, motherfuckers] and I have found, lately, that I have to do something I never thought I would have to do.

I have to apply eyebrows.

Let me clarify:

I have excellent eyebrows.  They are nicely shaped and nicely colored and cover my whole eye area.  I am one of the very, very, very lucky few who has never had to pluck any part of my eyebrow.  They don't meet in the middle.  They don't grow down into my lid.  They're nice.

Except for the sparsifying.

I don't get it.  I mean, I'm growing random eyebrow-ish hairs on my chin.  Are they confused and don't know the way to my eyebrows?  And how am I losing eyebrow hairs? Do I need Rogaine?

I've found a lovely eyebrow powder that I apply and I love that my eyebrows look fuller and more like they did back before the random eyebrow hairs decided to go in for early retirement, but . . .

I just can't believe I have to think to myself, "I need to go put on my eyebrows."

Is there anything you do routinely now in terms of making yourself fabulous that you can't believe?  I'm kind of thinking of wearing a powdered wig.  Or an eye patch.

GUEST POST: Us Weekly Says It's a Good Deal so It Must be a Good Deal!

As I've noted, Tuesdays are the day when my wonderful blogging friends use this space to let loose.  There are no rules, not even that one rule about not talking about Fight Club.

Do you know Tonya? Perhaps you recall her biting genius from AdHoc Mom? Or maybe you've fought with her over who gets Eminem as their husband? [That would be a timeshare situation between the two of us.]  Or perhaps you've gotten excellent advice on your work situation from her at The Mouthy Housewives? Or perhaps you know her now from her genius blog Going to Mensa where she talks about family vacations and going back to school and the simple steps to being rich.  Wherever you've seen her, you know that she is fucking BADASS.  Truly.  She makes the internet a saucier place.


You also need to follow her on Twitter. Today!

But first, this:

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When The Suniverse asked me if I would do a guest post I was all “ HELL to the YES!!!!” but then I had a panic attack because, really, who but The Suniverse herself can rail against something so cogently while being simultaneously hi-lar-i-ous!  So I decided I just needed to find the right thing that just really pissed me off. I found a lot. Apparently, I’m a fairly angry person or there are a lot of stupid people in the world and they all live in my neighborhood. Really, it’s anyone’s guess.

Yesterday, though, I picked up a copy of US Weekly and, at first, thought I had lucked out because it was The Style Guide! And I totally need that since I just found out that the goth look is out and the hippie look is hot and the I-haven’t-showered-since last-Tuesday-and-has-anyone-seen-my-bra look was never actually “in”. Us Weekly even said it would provide me with a Splurge/Save section because of course we can’t all afford to spend $765 on a pair of red pants like Whitney Port (btw, who the hell is Whitney Port?) so there is a cheaper version for the little people like us! Yay! And those are only $50 and you can pair them with a great necklace similar to one that’s $448 but this one is only $145! And then add the blouse that was $230 but has a twin available for $60 and the shoes that were $395 but will cost you only $55 and, finally, the purse that most celebs buy at $1450 but can be gotten at a steal price of $218! So now this awesome outfit only costs $528! Uhhhh, say what now? $528? That’s a savings?

Then, because Us Weekly cares so much about us non-celeb folk, they have a section where they ask celebrities for clothing suggestions. I was pretty positive this would prove very helpful. Because, really, if anyone is going to help me out of my Target sweatshirt/sweatpant slump it’s going to be Demi Lovato! And, hey, how nice, Zooey Descanel suggests I buy some pleated shorts that only cost $402 while Kelly Rowland really likes the new Celine tote for a mere $1600 and, of course, if anyone’s going to convince me that I need a $220 pair of paisley, high waited, bell-bottomed jeans it’s most certainly going to be AnnaLynne McCord!

So now I have to get another credit card. Also, I may not be able to pay my phone bill. Or take my kid to the dentist. (He’s fine. It’s only teeth. Plus can’t they just replace them these days? Or grow new ones or something? Maybe I can model him a few out of clay?) I do know I will look awesome in my teeny tiny sweater that only covers one boob and was $600 and my not too practical $300 skinny jeans with those totally-wear-with-what-exactly bright blue, 8 inch heel boots that cost $328. 

Back to the future

I went to the doctor last week about the wreck that is my back.  My doctor, who I love, took 45 minutes to see me [this is normal] which gave me time to continue reading The Magnificent Ambersons [RIFFRAFF!] and think about the fact that when I go to bed my back feels like the muscles are twisted like snakes.

Fun!

Anyway, my doctor thought it was hilarious that I was like a puppet and when she touched parts of my back I'd twitch and squirm.

Huh, she sounds kind of evil, but I swear, she's not.  Except for the waiting.  And the poking of sensitive back parts.  Maybe I have Stockholm Syndrome.  Eh, whatever.

The upshot is that my back is a mess [thank you, modern science, for being so technical] my right hip is up higher than my left, probably to compensate for having messed something up [and also to increase my evidently inevitable slide into becoming the town bell ringer] and she really like my pants.

Also, I get to go to physical therapy twice a week. 

The first time I went, it was so many kinds of awesome.  My back was in such pain when she had me move that the physical therapist, whom I'll call Gail, because I don't actually remember her name, just attached a bunch of electrodes to my back to stimulate the muscles and reduce the inflammation and pain and then I got to lay down on a giant heating pad for 20 minutes while tiny electric stimulations massaged me.  It was fucking awesome.  I even read an old US Weekly [we're almost like People!] that was there, because I forgot The Magnificent Ambersons, and realized that I have no idea who anyone is.  I also had to really, really, really disinfect and wash my hands after handling a magazine that had been touched by who knew what kind of nose pickers and germ carriers.  Gail warned me that my back might hurt a bit more because of the moving she'd had me do.  I waved her concerns off and had a great couple of days.

I was really looking forward to the second go round.

Which sucked.  I actually had to do exercises and she stretched my legs and back before I got to be simulated and heat pad-ed. 

The next day my back hurt like a motherfucker.

I have to go back, but I'm not looking forward to it.  Not even a little bit.

Well, maybe that last 20 minutes.  I wonder if I can get one of those giant heating pads for my house.

Wanted - My Soul Mate

OTF* frantically searching for that special someone to complete me.  Must love to cook, clean, drive and listen to me talk incessantly about Tina Fey and 30 Rock.  Sex is optional.  I mean, it's fine, but you're going to have to do all the work. 

Must also enjoy listen to me prattle on about people you don't know about, and do so while you are cleaning and then I'll point out where you missed a spot and you should smile and dig deeper, and, actually, never mind, I need you to be able to just know where you need to add that extra elbow grease and make sure it's all clean and good and could you also add freshly laundered sheets to the equation? That'd be great.  Also, don't look me in the eye. 

I like fresh salads and fruit, but am lazy about prepping, so could you make me a nice salad? But don't cut the cucumbers that way, please.  And make sure none of the strawberries have those soft spots.  Those are disgusting.

Wine drinkers o.k. - actually you should probably be drunk [unless you're driving me somewhere] because otherwise I think you'd lose your mind.  

It is NOT o.k. to contact this poster about stuff I don't care about.




*Overly Tired Female

People Who Are Assholes - Costco Gas Station Edition

Do you belong to Costco?

We do, even though we are only three people - right now, two people.  Mostly because I enjoy cleaning products and an Everest-style supply of toilet paper [although now that I'm working outside the home, our supply of toilet paper is not dwindling as quickly as usual.  Not sure what that means.], but also because I find it necessary to balance the 6 packs of giant chocolate chip muffins with 6 packs of romaine lettuce.

Anyway, as you may know if you are a Costco member, you can get gas for a bit cheaper than other stations.  That's a bonus during these tough economic times.  Also, for some reason, sometimes the Costco gas station near my house smells like cinnamon rolls.  It did today, anyway.  I'm all about good smells.

The problem is the clusterfuck that is people lining up for gas.  I'm not sure how, but good old-fashioned gas guzzling Americans who have obviously queued up for gas before at some point suddenly start milling around in their CARS like they live in old Soviet Bloc countries and have nothing but time to jam up and sit around.

Seriously.  It's insane. 

It seems a simple enough proposition - pick a line for the set of pumps you'd like to spend your hard earned money in and wait until the line moves and you get to stand around smelling cinnamon rolls.

Except.

Except that people can't seem to maneuver to the right pump.  Sometimes because they are terrible drivers.  Other times because someone is STANDING IN THE WAY.  How far do you have to be from your car when you are pumping gas?  How do you not notice 2 tons of steel coming at you?

And the worst part is that if you err in choosing your line? YOU ARE STUCK THERE FOREVER because people suddenly decide to wedge you in and you are STUCK STUCK STUCK waiting for grandpa to realize that the pump has stopped and it's time to get his receipt and OH MY GOD, GOOOOO!!!!

What's wrong with people that doing something for themselves turns them into shuffling zombies? 

Aren't there some states where people will pump gas for you?

I want to go to there.

GUEST POST: More flagrante, less delecto.

As I've noted, Tuesdays are the day when my wonderful blogging friends use this space to let loose.  There are no rules, not even that one rule about not talking about Fight Club.

Do you know Julie? She is spectacular.  Truly.  She writes over at By Any Other Name, and she'll tug at your heart when talking about her children, when she starts talking about her wedding [by way of her adolescent poetry] you start to get the sense that this is a snarktastic woman and then you'll go on to find a woman who has mad writing skills and who doesn't shy away from the big topics, like tattoos and Brazilians and Botox. She is multi-purpose awesome.

Also, follow her on The Twitter, where she makes things all better.

But first, this:

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Like many of you fine people, I appreciate a good dose of irony. In literature. In life. In Alanis Morissette lyrics. (Hey. Let’s not get nit-picky, here.)

Still, there’s a wee bit o’ the ironic I can’t support when it comes to parenting. And that irony is this:

The very act responsible for creating a baby becomes increasingly difficult to enjoy once said baby’s in the works.

First, there’s the GESTATING. I realize some women kick into sexual overdrive whilst with-child. These ladies also bake pies from scratch, pair socks straight from the dryer and care about Monday Night Football. They’re just like me. Except not. Because my pregnancy trifecta was this:

Tired. Hungry. Tired. I wanted a nap. A sandwich. Maybe a 48-ounce porterhouse and another nap. I did not want anyone singing “Having my Baby” while pawing at me. Much.

Mercifully, the little darlings arrive and thus begins the LACTATING. Engorging and latching and pumping, oh my! I am Woman, hear me milk! Also hear me admit that nipple cream, breast pads and nursing bras are not the props of porn. (And please don’t suggest links to dispel this belief. I prefer to avoid baking AND the overlap between suckling and sexy. Sue me.)

Eventually however, the udders shrivel to make room for the actual REARING of your offspring (a brave new world Aldous Huxley conveniently ignored). You face feeding struggles, sleep issues, discipline conflicts, sobbing. And that’s just with your partner. The kid brings his own troubles and also craps himself for years.  There’s little time for justice. And even less occasion for intimacy. (Besides whatever romance you can muster during an episode of - let’s say - Modern Family.)

But then. One day. All your delayed gratification culminates in the Final Parenting Frontier:  

IGNORING the teenager in your house.

This stage presents a unique challenge because the fruit of your loins may stay up later than you; he may roam the grounds turning doorknobs, creaking floorboards, leaving you to worry he’ll burst into your bedroom while you’re  -  let’s say - watching Modern Family.

I have friends who scoff at potential “television disruptions.” If their kid walks in? That’s his problem, mister!

Still. I recall the one and only time I “disrupted” my parents and the vision remains tough to swallow.

I was sixteen and scheduled for the afterschool shift at a local bakery. Because we were overstaffed for the day, my manager relieved me of duty. (Clearly, he wanted to keep his BEST employees fresh for the evening.) Naturally, I grabbed a croissant and fled before he could rethink his choice.

Because this was the Stone Age (pre-cell phones), my parents received no warning to shut their bedroom door. I arrived in time to discover them in flagrante delicto (although in my memory, it was less delicto and more flagrante).

Holy Hugh Hefner! Armed with merely half a croissant, I’d stumbled upon the Grotto at the Playboy Mansion; but in lieu of cave-like ambience, we had Broad Daylight to illuminate the celebration at hand.

So to speak.

I’ll admit that for decades, I sought words more severe than “horrifying” to describe this experience. But with a teenager currently living under my own roof, I’ve since revisited the math. My most recent calculations suggest that poor Mom and Dad were only thirty-eight when I caught them in all their irony. Younger than I am now.

So yeah. I am, therefore, hereby issuing a formal apology. And it goes something like this:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m very sorry. For that day. For this post. For the period of time when I moved home in my twenties. And while it’s true that your ‘Convergence of the Twain’ is seared into my brain like grill marks on a three-pound steak, the encounter was for the greater good as it convinced me I never want my own children (your grandchildren!) to experience a similar trauma.

Your loving (in private) daughter,

Julie

p.s. The truth is Bill and I don’t have enough money saved up to pay for college and therapy. Instead, we’re investing in a strong lock for our bedroom door and keeping our fingers crossed.

So to speak.

MEMEMEMEMEMEME All About MEMEMEMEMEMEMEME

A-Z of Me via L.A.C.E.

ANORAK…Do you have a sad side? All my sides are full of awesome.  But sometimes I'm sad. Mostly just before the rage sets in.

BODY…What physical attribute would you most like to change? The goddamn constant cracking of my bones.  I SOUND LIKE RICE KRISPIES WHEN I STAND UP.

CELEBRITY…Which one would you most like to date and why? Would you believe I still haven't remembered the gay guy I would have sex with that the husband and I discussed? I'm very much enjoying your guesses, though.

DEBUT …Tell us about your first ever blog post. What made you start blogging? First blog post? I can't even remember.  Why did I start? TO SHARE THE BRILLIANCE OF MY BRAIN!

ERROR …What’s been your biggest regret? That I didn't move to New York when I was 21.  Fuck.

FUNNY – who’s making you laugh? TINA FEY ALL DAY EVERY DAY.


GRAND…If we gave you one right now what would you spend it on? A new kitchen table. Ours sucks.

HOLIDAY… What’s your favourite destination?  New York.

IRRITATE… What’s your most annoying habit?  Not listening to people when they talk to me.  I do this A LOT [But not to you.]

JOKER…Whats your favourite joke {the one that makes you laugh everytime you hear it}? I'm not a fan of jokes, but I do laugh every time I see certain shows. [Ahem, 30 Rock. Ahem, Cougar Town.]


KENNEL… Do you have any pets? Two goddamn cats. 

LOVE…Are you single, married, engaged, living with a long term partner? Married. 

MEAL… Whats your ultimate starter, main and dessert? A crisp salad, tenderloin with blue cheese sauce and asparagus and cheesecake. 

NOW…If you could be anywhere right now where would you be and who with? With the girl.  I guess the husband could come, too.

OFF DUTY…What do you do in your spare time? HAHAHAHA. Sleep?

PROUD MOMENTS …What are you most proud of? That I was on Jeopardy!

QUEASY …What turns your stomach? Ear stuff. Blergh.


RELAX…How do you relax? I'm not a fan. I can't even do yoga right.

SONG…Whats your favourite song of all time? No favorite, but I'm feeling Ke$ha lately.

TIME …If you could go back in time and relive it again, when would you choose? I'm not a fan of the past.  I like looking forward.

UNKNOWN…Tell us something about yourself that no one else knows? Is there anything left?

VOCAL…. Who is your favourite artist? Gianlorenzo Bernini.  Oh, singer? Annie Lennox.

WORK….. What is your dream job, and are you doing it now? Being a writer. I'm doing it, but not the exact kind I want.

XRAY…Any broken bones? Nope.

YIKES…What’s been your most embarrassing moment? Most? Who knows. Most recent? Farting in what I thought was an empty theater.

ZOO…. If you were an animal, which one would you be? A GODDAMN UNICORN!

Tag, you're it if you need a blog post!

True Confession - I hate that show about your mother

I know that I'm not on top of the whole popular culture thing [What? Just because I'm reading a book from the 1950s when I go to bed {It's The Sign of the Twisted Candle tonight! Bess and George are mad at Nancy! There's an orphan! And MORE NED NICKERSON!} and I'm also reading a book from the early 1910s while I'm waiting around to see my doctor / working out [Seriously, The Magnificent Ambersons.  Check it.].

Where the hell was I?

Oh, yeah, not really on top of stuff that most people like.  I've never watched American Idol or Survivor or that show with Charlie Sheen but I have tried to watch How I Met Your Mother and seriously? What the hell?  That show is not great.  It is constantly touted as genius and funny and brilliant.  It is not smart.  It is a dumb sitcom.  And while I am a fan of the sitcom [because I cannot tolerate more malaise in my life by watching sad, depressing tv], I am not a fan of the dumb.  Here's why that show sucks:

1.  There's a laugh track.  I cannot abide this.  It's all kinds of fucking wrong.  IT IS THE CACKLING OF THE DAMNED.

2.  The premise is ok, but there's nothing interesting going on.  Yeah, I get it, we're finding out how this guy met his wife, which should be interesting, but is deadly dull.  It's like a meet cute that is actually a meet snore.  Like listening to the story of how your in-laws met.  No one cares.

3.  Everyone seems incredibly bland.  They should liven up the characters by adding some sort of soap opera-y intrigue.  Ice machine! Dead but then alive evil twin! Demonic possession!  These are the most dull white people in the history of NY on tv.  Mary Tyler Moore had more sass.

Have you seen this show? Am I wrong? Why isn't Arrested Development still on?

The laws of attraction

Me, focused on the Twitter, absentmindedly asking the husband: Who's that guy that I like that's gay but I don't care because I'd have sex with him anyway?

The husband: Ralph Fiennes?

Me: He's not gay.

The husband: Matthew Broderick?

Me: I'm not attracted to him, but I think there are rumors that he is gay.

The husband:  Paul Rudd?

Me: Definitely not gay.

The husband:  Jason Lee? He's never dated anyone.

Me: Just stop it. Not gay.

The husband:  Vince Vaughn?

Me: Are you kidding me?  Not gay.

The husband:  Matthew Perry. David Beckham. George Michael. Spike. The guy from Castle.

Me:  Not gay.  Not gay.  Gay, but I'm not attracted to him.  Not gay.  Not gay.  Why do you think anyone I find attractive except for you is gay?

The husband:  It's a mystery, really.

GUEST POST: An Open Letter to Almost Everybody at my Gym

As I've noted, Tuesdays are the day when my wonderful blogging friends use this space to let loose.  There are no rules, not even that one rule about not talking about Fight Club.

Do you know Jo and the Novelist? Why not? She makes everything better.  And makes the world go round.  And is so delightfully English.  And wants to come with me to Target. 

She writes about writing, and about explaining your book to people who are so polite as to ask.  She also discusses that NEED TO SMASH and the evils of TV and also has a whole section on her blog devoted to the Best of the Best Comments [which includes, ahem, me].  She makes me so happy all the live long day.

You also need to follow her on Twitter.  Because she's awesome.

But first, read this:

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Firstly, I would like to thank Suniverse for allowing me to post my generally incoherent rants on her blog. Thanks, Suniverse. Secondly, I would like to thank all the assholes at my gym for providing me with the material for this blog post. Thanks, assholes.

So – there are many annoying people that I encounter regularly at my gym, each with their own self-absorbed, hugely irritating (and frankly bizarre) idiosyncrasies. I have taken the time to address each one of them personally.

Dear Naked Woman on the phone in the Ladies Changing room,

I am writing to you with regards to your nakedness and simultaneous use of your Blackberry mobile phone in the changing rooms at the gym. While you must understand, that I do not consider myself to be a prude – I am struggling to deal with your general nakedness on such a frequent basis.

What bothers me is that during your prolonged nakedness, you endeavour to use your Blackberry for an extensive period of time, whilst resting one foot on the changing room bench for the duration of the conversation.

All I ask is that you put some underwear on. And I request this only because so many times, I have been removing my flip-flops (which I always wear in public showering facilities to prevent from getting a verruca or similar) only to find myself face to face with the dark cavern of your lady parts.

Finally, if you could refrain from calling your friend to update them that you swam a whopping two lengths of the swimming pool until after you got your clothes on then I think that would be better for everyone. But predominantly, it would be better for me.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't complain so officially, but you seem to be at the gym swimming your two lengths of the swimming pool whenever I'm in the gym. I've tried going at different times of the day - sometimes I wait until late in the evening. But you are still there. Naked. And on the phone.

Kind regards,

Jo

Dear Man who is Clearly Unable to Swim Front Crawl but Insists on Doing it Anyway,

I am writing to you with regards to your distinct inability to swim in a manner that does not resemble a boxer trying to beat the contents of the swimming pool unconscious.

I'm no Olympic swimmer myself - but I'm pretty sure the front crawl is supposed to be a relatively smooth and speedy way to swim. Yet your interpretation seems to predominantly involve punching the water, kicking a lot and generally failing to get to the other side of the pool in a smooth or efficient manner.

As I said, I'm not some sort of professional swimmer (honestly I can only really do the breast-stroke. And the doggy paddle. But I’m not sure that last one counts) and you may have failed to notice me swim past you while we're in the pool together as you flail around with your angry limbs vigorously hitting out at the water all around you,  with no semblance of coordination - but your endless splashing is distracting and irritating.

Also, it fills me with an overwhelming desire to drown you.

Please invest in your own private pool. Or swimming lessons. One of those.

Kind regards,

Jo

Dear Guy with Excessively Small and Tight Swimming Trunks

I am writing with regards to your very small swimming trunks, which appear to be shrinking every time I see you.

Seriously, did you paint them on?

Please purchase some larger trunks.

Kind regards,

Jo

Dear Man on treadmill who gasps excessively

I am writing to you with regards to your disturbing yelps, gasps, victorious gestures and other weird stuff you do while you're running.

I am still unclear on your reasons for behaving in this largely strange and bizarre manner. Sometimes I panic and think you're yelling at me. Sometimes I worry that you're having a stroke and dying. Most of the time I think you are a mental and worry that at some unsuspecting moment during my work out, you will lunge forth onto my treadmill and attack me.

After some further consideration, I wonder if maybe you are celebrating some sort of achievement. In which case, allow me to point out that it's not a competition, buddy. There is no race to win here - you're on a fucking treadmill. You're a hamster in a wheel.

If you feel that you've done especially well in the gym today, then that's great. Good for you. But please keep it to your GOD DAMN SELF.

If you've achieved your target, that's great. But instead of punching the air like a madman, how's about you congratulate yourself inwardly, silently, and without any physical action?

Alternatively, if you're finding what you're doing too difficult, and that's why you're yelping like a wounded stray dog all the time, then how about LOWERING THE INTENSITY to something you’re more comfortable with and would prevent you from continuously whooping through a shower of your own perspiration.

Kind regards,

Jo

Dear Girl Who Has Clearly Exercised Way Too Much

Eat a sandwich.

Kind regards,

Jo

Book Report Monday

I've been reading old Nancy Drews when I go to bed.  As I've said before, I like the soporific story telling and cadence to the books.  It's easy to read a few pages and fall asleep drooling on the husband's pillow. 

But I have to admit, I'm not really engaged in the stories.  To wit: I've been reading "The Secret in the Diary" for the past few nights, and I'm about mid-way through, and I keep wondering, vaguely, when Nancy, Bess and George are going to go to the dairy, and what they might find there.  Do you see what I did there?  I have continually been misreading diary [the journal] as dairy [the cow home].  And this, despite the fact that Nancy had been discussing the diary she found by the burning house on just about every. fucking. page. 

Maybe I'm just entranced by the appearance of Ned Nickerson.  He's kind of suave.


*******

On our way back from dropping the girl at boarding school [god, can I just shut the fuck up about this already?], the husband and I listened to Jimmy Breslin's The Good Rat.  I'd forgotten how much I like Jimmy Breslin's writing style, and his affinity for writing about gangsters.  The Good Rat is a really compelling book, a brief precis of the New York mob and the move from guys who would stand up and do their time without opening their mouths to the guys who would rat out their mothers to stay out of prison and a more in depth look at Burton Kaplan, the rat in question, and the two NY police officer / mob hitmen he turned on.

The husband and I both really liked listening to this, and the readers do an excellent job evoking the story.

My favorite thing about Jimmy Breslin, though, is this [I wish I could find the exact quote]:

Years ago, I remember reading an anecdote about how, when Jimmy Breslin was making a name for himself as a writer, he was asked to star in a malt liquor commercial.  He did so, and found that when he was in the projects, getting information on stories, everyone knew who he was, and he was quite popular.  The commercial stopped playing after a while, and he had to go into the projects for another story.  His editor was concerned, but he blew it off, saying something like, "They know me down there." And then he got there, and they didn't know who the fuck he was, because, of course, he wasn't on tv anymore.  He was just some old white guy asking questions.

*********

So I've been rereading Bossypants and I realized - hahahahaha.  I'm not going to do another review of it, even though I have been rereading it and am looking for a relatively inexpensive audiobook.  And I heart Tina Fey so fucking hard.

*********

I just started reading The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington and I LOVE IT.  Where the fuck have I been, not knowing about this great writer? Snarky, eloquent and deftly portraying life at the turn of the century [the last one, not the one that just happened, which is weird because it makes me feel like I'm 1,000 years old or something].  I really like it so far.

What are you reading?  Anything you want to pass along?

Boff Kill Marry

You know this game, right?

Three names, and you have to pick who you'd boff, kill and marry.  Because I have no interest in bad karma, I'm using fictional characters, so kill with abandon.

Here we go:

Group 1
Jack Donaghy
Tracy Jordan
Kenneth Parcell


Group 2
Mr. Darcy
Mr. Rochester
Heathcliff


Group 3
Ferris Bueller
Jeff Spicoli
Lloyd Dobler


Group 4
Buffy
Willow
Cordelia


Group 5
Pierce Brosnan as James Bond
Sean Connery as James Bond
Daniel Craig as James Bond


What are your picks?  I'll answer in the comments later tonight.

Homeschooling is looking kind of good right now.

We took the girl to boarding school over the weekend. 

I'm still kind of in denial.

I know she's not home [waking up the first morning back caused a physical ache - god, I'm a fucking wimp], but I feel, most of the time, like she's just away for the week at camp [not God Camp, thankfully] or at my parents or with my in-laws.  I've not quite reconciled myself to the fact that she's pretty fucking far away and won't be home for a while [not that I'm counting down the days, but the number 29 is kind of floating off in the ether].

The trip down was fine - she was a bit nervous, and I was focused on making sure I had all supplies ready and figuring out the optimal position for my heating pad [of course I brought it with me - did you know that Black & Decker makes a thingy that you can plug into your car and then you can PLUG IN a plug? AWESOME! HOORAY FOR TECHNOLOGY!].  The husband was focused on driving, which I applaud, what with me hating driving, and on cursing the Garmin my sister loaned us.  God, he really fucking hates that thing.  It's like it killed his dog.

I think we were all pretty tense, but the husband and I, being the grown ups, had to hide it.  We gave the girl pep talks and encouragement, all the while thinking, "Are we really doing this?"

And then we got to the school, and it was wonderful.  The girls cheered as we walked in to get the girl's dorm key and packet of information, which sounds hokey and I'm sure it kind of is, but was really, really sweet and nice, too.

We moved her stuff in, and suddenly there were five or six girls in there, helping make the bed and unpack and put stuff away, chattering about how much they love the girl's shoes and haircut and Oh My God, Do You Love Stephen Colbert? SO DO WE!

She fell in with them so easily and so wonderfully that we came home a day early.  Seriously.  We asked her if she wanted us to stay and she said, "Well, I'm going to be busy, so I don't want to feel bad that I'm doing stuff and you're here waiting around."

I managed not to cry.

So we came home.  We debated hanging out and enjoying a mini-vacation, but we were both so drained that by the time we got home and went to bed, I slept for almost 11 hours and spent the next day just vegging and reading [Undead and Unworthy, perfect brain candy.  Also, yes, it's true, I read some of Bossypants.  Again. I can't help myself.  It's an addiction.  I may need Betty Ford.] and not really doing much of anything. 

We've talked to the girl a couple of times since, and I'm trying really hard not to call her or text her every. single. second. just because I think of something funny to tell her or because I want to ask her a question or - mostly - because I want to see how she is. 

I miss my baby.

GUEST POST: Why I Drank the SPANX Kool-Aid

As I've noted, Tuesdays are the day when my wonderful blogging friends use this space to let loose.  There are no rules, not even that one rule about not talking about Fight Club.

Do you know Alexandra from Good Day Regular People fame? OF COURSE YOU DO.  

What can I say about her that hasn't already been said? She is truly one of the most generous, selfless, kind-hearted people I have ever run across, and if you are wondering what the fuck she is doing palling around with the likes of me? Well, so am I. But I'm doing it quietly so she won't realize just how wrong this is and ditch me.

I'll link to a few posts from her blog, but you can also find her on BlogHer (where she was a goddamn Voice of the YEAR), Tiki Tiki Blog, and Listen to Your Mother, among other places.  Read about how she almost stayed a Miss and how she can translate teenager and you have to check out a guest post from her youngest, Baby E, where you will die from the adorableness.


I cannot stress to you how exceptional this woman is.  I'm sure she's touched your life as she has touched mine.

I'd tell you to follow her on Twitter, but you probably already you already are.


Without further ado, this:

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 It was the mid 1960's, and I sat on the bed watching my mother pull up and tug down and manhandle herself into her Playtex 18 Hour I Can't Believe It's A Girdle!

Before she'd ever go out for an evening, this stiff criss cross heavy canvas tent of inflexible material was summoned into action. I'd witness her go to battle with it; she'd always win, and the entire outfit would find itself stretched over her body. There was compression to the tenth degree; from the three inch wide shoulder straps down to the mid thigh O rings.

My mother loved that thing. Her reflection loved her back. She looked like a million bucks, even after having six kids.

I'd look at that piece of rubber she was encased in and promise myself, "no flippin' way am I ever going to stuff myself like a sausage casing into something like that." Well, I might not have said flippin', but, the F sentiment was there.

I would always look fantastic, slim, trim, tall, skinny, not a hot mess like my mother.

There was to be no girdle in my lifetime.

And I remained true to my girdle promise to my future self, until the menopot came a calling.

As I left my 30's and moved into my 40's, it took little more than a sideways lusty glance at a french eclair and ping! ping! my pants button would go flying.

I had become thick waisted, built like a box, and skillet butted. And it wasn't a gradual over time change, it was an all of a sudden over night bam boom with a waist that measured the same as my hips.

I see you drooling jealously now.

But the girdles I had been witness to as a child? Not going to happen. Too humiliating to admit that outside help was needed to continue on as a stone cold fox. Do the kids still say that?

Then, I saw it. While shopping for a winter coat in women's better fashion: SPANX.

It looked so glorious under the department store light, all translucent on the mannequin. And to the touch, as weightless as French tulle. There were no three inch fat straps, no X shaped tummy panels, and the whole miraculous thing was without a seam.

It couldn't hurt to just buy it? I could just buy it, you know.

As soon as I got home, I shimmied into it.

What did it feel like? Let's just say that if I had the money for plastic surgery, I'd be one of those people sitting across from Oprah on a segment called "Addicted To Plastic Surgery: It Happened To Them."

I wanted SPANX in every color, every style, every variation. Even ones not yet invented.

God I loved my SPANX. It was soft, felt like nothing, and my body? Smooth and roll-less as a Ball Park Plumper.

Seamless.

Rippleless.

Unlumped.

Debulged.

This was not my mama's girdle.

And, of course it wasn't, because even though I may now need a bit of outside air quotes assistance for this fineness that is me, I am not a hot mess underneath it, like my mother was.

Of course I'm not.