Lindapalooza

What Were They Thinking?

2011-04-17T21:29:00.009-05:00

If you're looking for an engrossing nonfiction book, you can't beat 'Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition' by Daniel Okrent. I've been curious about how the 18th Amendment came into being. Changing the Constitution is a huge undertaking and Prohibition was more than 50 years in the making yet unwound itself in fourteen years when the 18th Amendment was repealed.

My biggest surprise is how my home state of Ohio was the mothership for the 'dry' movement. The first organized protest against alcohol took place in southern Ohio. The Anti-Saloon League was the major lobby organization with its headquarters in Westerville, Ohio, a Columbus suburb. If this ASL was so influential in early 20th century politics, then why had I never heard of it? Three things came about because of the prohibition movement:

1) Women's suffrage

2) The income tax

3) Anti-German sentiment surrounding World War I

Interested? So is Ken Burns who is doing his own PBS documentary on the topic this fall.

2 Stupid 2 Own A House II

2011-04-10T22:09:00.006-05:00

Once again we visit our favorite, clueless homeowners, Linda and Hubby. This week the duo has a list of home problems they do not know how to fix:

The toilet keeps running (and running, and running)

The roadside mailbox was plowed down during a blizzard and is now held together with bunge cords

The still mysterious bathtub does not have a water source they can find (see here for the story)

What will our heros do? Can they ever rise to the simple maintenance challenges of home ownership? Hell, no! The good news is that they haven't learned a damn thing. In fact they are calling The Justice League for the super hero that will save them from disrepair: The Amazing Handyman! And they will pay handsomely for his services.

Hail the handyman! Home morons rejoice.

Home Alone

2011-03-27T22:36:00.012-05:00

I was going to use the Macaulay Culkin picture that everyone associates with this flick. But I think John Hughes was really recreating this famous painting by Edvard Munch. So why was I striking this particular pose? Hubby is back home after three weeks on the road. And that requires an adjustment on my part.

Gone are the days of the after-work nap which was just before the popcorn and cereal dinner. Dishes were left in the kitchen sink, sometimes for days. The cat box didn't get cleaned regularly (but regularly enough that the cat didn't move out). The mail piled up. In other words, I lived like a guy. It was glorious and now it is over.

The art you see above is my reaction as the garage door went up and my less-than-stellar lifestyle ended. I'm not home alone anymore. Now we play by the rules of marriage where everyone picks up after themselves and no one behaves like a savage. Ugh. I don't want to be a slob every day, but I really do enjoy being the ugly homeowner every now and then.

Now it's over. Now I have to behave again.

March Sadness

2011-03-19T22:53:00.003-05:00

Pitt lost and blew up my Southeast bracket. I didn't see the brilliance of Vandy and Louisville losing in the first (well, officially second) round. It was odd to see Rick Patino as a TV pundit so early in the tournament. In fact I couldn't fathom why he was spouting basketballisms on my TV. Oh, right. Morehead State. Sorry 'bout that.

Every year we do brackets in my department at work. I submit two entries: me and the cat. The cat is currently beating me (and a number of my colleagues).

There is no science to how we choose our teams. This year I did mine before a meeting and kept interrupting to ask for opinions. "Duke or Texas?" "Xavier or Marquette? It's like a battle of the Jesuit Catholic colleges." Fortunately they ignored me, which is nothing new if you've been to our meetings.

The cat decided that the NCAA selection committee was omniscient. He picked by seed and the results have been decent. In prior years he picked by mascot, focusing on bird and cat mascots. That didn't go so well but thinking about the birds had him salivating. He didn't pick Richmond either, mostly because their mascot is a spider. (Not as delicious as a bird.)

Last year the person in our department who knew the least about basketball won it all. Another year someone chose the winning bracket using strictly school colors. "Let's see. You can't have two blue and whites playing for the final. Let's put a red and white in there." This confirms that basketball knowledge has nothing to do with bracketology. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And that's what makes it fun. Until my Southeast bracket blows up and that makes me grumpy.

Trip to the Vet

2011-03-19T18:44:00.003-05:00

Cat in carrier, the one with the jail-like bars over the door, on the way to vet.

MJ the Cat: meowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeow

Translation: I'm being repressed! This is an outrage! I will poop in your shoes as soon as we get home! How dare you confine me in such a way! I have PETA on speed dial!

Once at the vet MJ goes silent.

What he says: nothing.

Translation: Hey, I'm kinda liking this little cottage. The wire door is adorable. Just gonna cozy up back in the corner here. You can't see me if I can't see you, right? No need for me to get out. Forget what I was saying before.

It takes two humans to extract one cat out of the now comfortable abode.

Lesson learned: None. It happens all over again, verbatum, on a subsequent trip to the vet three days later.

Don't get me started on what it took to adminster his medicine. Scarring (mine) was the result.

Le Walk, Le Trip, Le Splat

2011-02-27T21:58:00.003-06:00

I’m told that the French find Americans annoying. Not all Americans, I reckon. Just those other Americans: the white tennis shoe-wearing, loud talking, McDonalds-loving Yanks who give the rest of us a bad name.

I politely greet French people with a “Bonjour” and thank them with a “Merci.” I understand their currency (the Euro); I don’t expect them all to know English. Most of all, I don’t want to bring bad attention to myself as an American. If I act like an idiot, I might bring (more) disgrace on my country. This is my thought pattern when I travel abroad: Be respectful. Don’t act like it’s the first time you’ve crossed the Atlantic. And, for God’s sake, don’t give the French another reason to laugh at us.

With that in mind, let me share a moment from my vacation to Nice, France last month.

Scene: My sister, Donna, and I are crossing an intersection on the way back to our hotel.

The action: We are walking past the midpoint of the intersection where there is a minor (very minor) elevation in the pavement.

The result: I fall with a loud splat into the geometric center of the intersection. (Did I mention that the pavement is in pristine condition?) To my left is a handful of French motorists that are either (1) surprised they are getting a comedy show or (2) feeling pretty righteous about all that’s wrong with America. After taking a few seconds to comprehend what I had just done, my sister helps me up and we make our way to the other side of the street.

Did they really know I was American? Maybe not. But the spectacle I made obviously pegged me as someone who was not French. No self-respecting French person would go splat like that.

Splat [noun]. The act of falling on hands and knees in a comedic fashion. See Three Stooges, Jerry Lewis.

The good news was that I didn’t break any bones. But, once back at the hotel, I saw that my knees were badly scraped and bruised. This resulted in a trip to the pharmacy where I asked for ‘le Bactine.’

More than six weeks later the scrapes have not fully healed, nor has my pride. I still wonder how I managed to trip (and fall) over what was no more than a couple extra molecules of pavement. I can only chalk it up to the thrill of being in the South of France. I'm just pleased I could entertain the French on that beautiful January day.

The Vortex of Unconsciousness

2011-02-27T17:26:00.002-06:00

See our couch. This is the nicest, priciest piece of furniture we own. We bought it a little more than a year ago to provide a sense of class (and leather) to our living room. The leather is supple and much nicer than we deserve. The only problem was that we didn’t envision the couch with us (and the cat) camped out on it. Night after night. When you think of the aesthetics of furniture, you don’t often picture how you look littered in that image. Look at the blankets and pillows. This is a lived-in couch. Which is part of the problem.

The beautiful sofa of our dreams is also a vehicle that transports us to the land of dreams night after night. By that I mean we can’t stay awake on the thing.

Take Friday night. By 9:00 pm Hubby, me and the cat are lined up in a display of stupor. Much like the victims of Pompeii, we’re almost frozen in time. Hubby is upright, head leaning back with the remote in his right hand. I am wrapped in two blankets and leaning toward him for warmth. MJ the cat is the only one who appeared ready to spend a good, long time camped out on the leather magic carpet, all curled up and cozy like felines do.

Around midnight I stir because my neck hurts. Hubby opens his eyes and gasps that three hours have slipped by. “How did that happen?” he asks. We are astonished that we were so thoroughly knocked out; our slumber so deep that we thought we were tucked in our own bed. Yes, this is an indication that we have no control over our impulse to fall asleep, as if we’ve been drugged (or have a carbon monoxide problem in our house).

Except the exact same thing happened the previous night.

“We have a problem,” I sighed. “We’re in a rut.”

It’s true. After an early evening of dinner and work chat, there isn’t much reason to maintain any sense of alertness. If you can’t fall asleep with your spouse, what’s the purpose, right? Nothing on TV captures our fancy these days. The sky still darkens early. And the power of the couch yet again drains us of all remaining energy. The cat joins in because he long ago got over the fact that one needs to be productive in the evenings.

Daylight savings time begins in a couple weeks. Will we be less likely to slip into the ether? Until the weather warms up I doubt it. So the Rip Van Winkle family carries on. And let me say that I have a better appreciation of that story than I did as a child. The man was a genius. He understood that there are certain periods in life (winter) when it’s best to sleep away time.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

2011-02-20T14:04:00.003-06:00

My IQ has plummeted. Consider the following over the past few days:

Got a speeding ticket (in a speed trap!) because I was thinking and driving at the same time
The next day, took Hubby to dinner and cluelessly drove past exit
At restaurant, got up to use bathroom and walked, with gusto, into the men's room!

"I think I had a mini-stroke," I told Hubby, returning from my restroom adventures.

"I think we should get the check and remove you from public view," Hubby replied. He has not stopped teasing me about the men's room incident. I'm amazed he isn't more concerned about his wife becoming a turnip before his very eyes.

Why am I having these episodes?

A piece of advice. Do not type 'memory loss' into WebMD. Alzheimer's and dementia come up right away followed by 'brain.' WebMD is an amazing tool but can cause a stress-related aneursym if you enter vague symptoms. Instead I used what little brain power I had left to sort through more realistic reasons why my brain was resembling a bag of rocks. (See this link for details about my ongoing problems with antihistimes.)

It's entirely possible that I took one too many Allegra pills. Plus I had allergy shots about the same time. Maybe the combination of a slight antihistimine overdose and the infusion of death-causing allergens was just too much for the noggin. Anyway, I slept it off, skipped the morning Allegra and started to move from amoeba-ness back to human thought patterns.

But Hubby's men's room jokes continue. I see an Allegra-laced cocktail in his future.

Flawless!

2010-10-13T20:19:00.004-05:00

The last miner has emerged from the Chilean underground cave where 33 men lived for 69 days. Can you imagine? As this story unfolded over the past couple of months I was struck with one thought. Joy. The men showed joy and grace throughout their ordeal. They were joyful when they were found alive. Joyful when they learned of the plans to rescue them. Joyful as grainy TV images showed us how they were managing and surviving despite such dire circumstances. At one point I wondered if they were having the best party in the world since they looked so full of life. As each man came out of the earth, I was amazed at how good they appeared.

The world came together to help Chile by providing technology, expertise and even Oakley sunglasses. But it was the Chileans that had to execute; and, boy, did they. I kind of wish Chile had been in charge of the Deepwater Horizon drill kill operation. They made it look so easy; as if they rescue miners 2000 feet down all the time.

I couldn't help but wonder how this would have played out had it happened in the U.S. The media/corporate/political circus would have been unbearable. Finger-pointing and Congressional inquiries would almost obliterate the rescue mission. The miners in Chile didn't want to look like victims. They seemed proud of their profession and their country. It never occurred to me to feel sorry for them since they were embracing life one moment at a time. Would we (Americans) have acted with such class and courage?

It's been such a tough couple years for most of us on planet Earth. I thank the country of Chile for giving us all something to be grateful for.

The Other, Other Man I Love

2010-10-03T17:35:00.002-05:00

Perhaps the polar opposite of Don Draper is Alton Brown, host of 'Good Eats' on the Food Network. He's not dashing in the same way Don is, but he can do something more important. He can cook.

I became a 'Good Eats' fan because Alton talks about food in a way I understand best -- by explaining the science behind the food. Only a geek can get excited to learn about the Maillard reaction (how food browns during cooking), what the flash point of olive oil is or how a souffle rises. Emeril can get all BAM! on me but Alton wants me to care about the details that make the food tasty.

I recommend his first cookbook, Good Eats: The Early Years, for the recipes and, more importantly, the entertainment value. This is a man whose tongue is firmly planted in cheek at all times. In the age of celebrity chefs and their egos, it's refreshing to have Alton and his nerdish approach to cooking. He also keeps my left brain very happy (see here).

The Other Man I Love

2010-10-03T17:02:00.002-05:00

Hubby is number one in my book. But if I had to name a runner up or second place finisher, I could do a lot worse than this man - Don Draper of Mad Men. He's a cad, a drunk, a womanizer and hot, hot, hot. A girlfriend and I were recently discussing his appeal. "He's just bad on all levels, which is what makes him so appealing," she explained.

Ah, the bad boy syndrome.

For centuries women have lusted, longed for and pursued the very men they knew would break their hearts. Over and over again.

Don is the bad boy poster child. He swapped identities with a dead soldier in Korea. He cheated on his wife until she threw him out (not for the cheating but the identity switcheroo). He drinks to excess and is not much of a father to his three children.

But look at him.

Books and articles have been written about why women fall for this kind of guy. Spare me the details. Hubby is the anti-Don and that is the way it should be. On Sunday evenings I get my Don Draper TV fix and move on.

Now gaze at the picture for a few minutes and tell me you don't understand the appeal. I dare you.

Left Brain, Meet the Right Brain

2010-10-03T11:42:00.004-05:00

I am cursed with an overactive left brain. Much like an overactive thyroid or bladder in others, the left brain often gets in the way and makes my life hell. While a hyper left brain doesn't lead to heart palpitations or frequent trips to the bathroom, it does lead to linear thinking and causes me to analyze the snot out of anything fun.

In recent years I've declared war on the left hemisphere of my brain. I don't want to annihilate it; I want it to take its rightful place with my other body parts. It shouldn't yell the loudest or be the most dominant organ. Rather it should act more like Belgium and act dignified but not bossy, nestled within my other brain parts.

The left hemisphere is the analytical part of our brain. This is where we do our analyzing and figure out logic. Accountants, engineers and the guys on the The Big Bang Theory have strongly developed left brains. And so do I. Left brainers enjoy Excel spreadsheets, financial calculators and alphabetically sorting their canned goods. This is the region of linear thought. If A + B = C and always will be, so help me God, then the left brain is happy, warm and a bit uppity.

The right brain is the region of creativity and intuition. Have you ever had an idea that just comes out of nowhere? That's your right hemisphere flexing its muscle. If you rely at all on intuition or gut feelings, you can thank the right brain. Artists, writers and other creative types have healthy right brains. Even Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking, the kings of modern science, were creative enough to discover relativity and the string theory.

I have been struggling with the my logical, linear, loud left brain for years. As a writer I have to fight the impulse to analyze and then re-analyze my writing. A common example:

Think of a topic to write about
Convince myself I am not qualified to write about this topic
Spend several hours critiquing my approach to the topic and my total lack of writing skill
Repeat until I can't put pen to paper

Yes, the left brain is a bully if left unchecked. The fact that I am seriously taking up writing in my forties has everything to do with the detection and careful dismantling of the left brain. It took all these years to realize that my right brain has its rightful place in my head and deserves to be heard. Yes, the left brain gave me the skill set that pays the bills, but my right brain gives me the joy of being creative and expressive.

It's no wonder my head doesn't just hang left under all the weight of the left side gray matter. But with some TLC and exercise, the right side will begin to balance out the left. And I'll continue to explore the creativity that's been inside my head all along. So help me God.

Best Fries on the Planet

2010-09-10T23:12:00.003-05:00

At the end of a recent trip to S. Calif I made a quick stop here on the way to airport. What I wasn't able to capture was a pic of me genuflecting in front of the restaurant. This is how fast food should be. Simple. A short menu (burgers, fries, soft drinks & shakes). An impeccably clean restaurant where you could perform brain surgery if you're in a pinch. And the best freakin' fries on Planet Earth made from real potatoes that are peeled, cut and fried on-site.

A generous portion of fries was all I needed before I drove on to the airport. I am sending mental signals/prayers to the In-N-Out gods to start opening chains further east. But for now I'll have to save up for my trips out west, like the next one in a few weeks.

I watched the patrons consume their burger and fries and was almost compelled to shake them by the shoulders and shout "Do you know how lucky you are to have these in your backyard!? Do you thank fate every day for your good fortune!?" But I thought better of it. I don't want to be known as the Midwest Fry Weirdo, but by posting this I'm sure I'm closer to that title.

2 Stupid 2 Own A House

2010-08-15T17:18:00.004-05:00

Recently I was overcome with a need to give myself a pedicure. This desire crops up once or twice a year. Normally I let the professionals do their thing while I read some fluffy magazine about celebrities and how they're just like you and me. (Cynicism implied.) But this time I was going to do it myself down to the foot soak.

Our master bath has a jetted tub that sits in the corner all white and shiny. In the two years we've lived in this house the tub has not been used once. It just sits there as a decorative piece. I decided to fire the beast up least enough to soak my tootsies. So I turned the faucet...and I turned...and turned. Not a drop of water rushed out. Surprised and frustrated, I called Hubby into the bathroom. He removed the panel that covers the motor and plumbing. Astonished that there was even a panel, I peered into the tub's guts. Yep, there's the motor. Sure, I see how the plumbing runs to the faucet. We looked for a valve that may have been turned off by the previous owners. And we looked and looked. No valve.

Certainly I am smarter than a porcelain tub. I ran downstairs to see how the plumbing runs into the tub. Since our lower level is finished, there was not much to look at (unless I wanted to remove dry wall). Back upstairs Hubby kept turning the faucet hoping beyond hope that something would happen.

We are two dolts too ashamed to call a plumber who will charge us $5000 an hour to come out, make one minor adjustment and laugh his way into a financially secure retirement.

There should be an exam to pass before you can officially buy a house. I'm sure we would have taken the cram class and bought the Cliffs Notes.

Alive & Kicking - NOT!

2010-07-18T11:37:00.004-05:00

Today is our wedding anniversary. For eighteen years we've been living together, loving each other, annoying each other and doing all those crazy things married people do (like falling asleep on the couch, eating together in total silence, telling each other how to drive, etc). At some point today we'll look back on wedding day and think 'What an odd day!'

First there was the style and fashion of 1992. I had poodle hair because the big hair craze of the late 1980s hadn't quite wrapped up. On our wedding day I was sporting a righteous perm for 'just a little of extra body.' Meanwhile Hubby had his porn mustache all trimmed up. Yet I thank God that we married after the era of powder blue tuxes. (1970s, I'm looking at you!)

Second, what you won't find from our wedding day is an official album or staged wedding pictures. Sure, we hired a photographer -- the same one my sister used a few years earlier. But, oddly, he didn't show up. By the end of the wedding ceremony it dawned on my family that the photog was a no show. Fortunately every member of my family had their own camera and started taking pictures like a crazed pack of paparazzi, otherwise we wouldn't have any recorded memories of the day.

"There's no reason for this unless he's dead," my mother hissed.

Good thing that's exactly what happened. While on our honeymoon my sister tracked down the home of said photographer to find that he had passed away not too long before our blessed event.

I don't know if it's good luck or bad luck for a photog to die before your wedding. But we've got almost two decades under our belt to show for it.

Yurts So Good

2010-07-14T16:35:00.004-05:00

A hobby of mine is to search the Internet for writing conferences in beautiful locales. What better way to create a reason to go somewhere? Recently I was looking at conferences in Washington state and found a writers festival on Orcas Island in the Puget Sound. The scenery is breathtaking and one needs to take a ferry to get to the island. Awesome!

After I scanned the agenda I took a look at accommodations on the island. There are B&Bs, cute little inns and yurts. Yurts! Now I never thought to put myself up in a yurt to save some cash on these trips. If you're not familiar with the yurt concept, I direct you here. Think of it as camping in the round without electricity or water. You can fit a double bed in there but not much else.

I camped a lot as a kid but have stayed away from it in adulthood. And I can't imagine I would willingly rent something like a yurt, especially while attending a writing conference. Where would I plug in the laptop? How would I write my evening assignments -- quill and parchment? How many people do I need shove aside to get in my morning shower and chow? It all sounds like too much effort. Instead I imagine myself at some quaint B&B waiting for the proprietor to pull the freshly made scones out of the oven.

However, the yurt is much, much cheaper.

Eventually I cast aside this conference (sadly) and chose a class in Los Angeles where I have friends who can offer me free housing and electricity. Obviously I am no Henry David Thoreau.

Trend Setter

2010-07-14T08:43:00.003-05:00

Count me as the last human being on planet Earth to begin, yes, begin, reading the Harry Potter series. The first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, was released in the U.S. in 1998. Know how long ago 1998 was? Here are some of the notable events (and tell me if you don't feel old just because you remember them):

The Monica Lewinski media circus and Bill Clinton's denial that leads to his impeachment
Europe agrees to establish the Euro
France wins the World Cup (France?!)
A gallon of gas cost $1.15
The hey day of the boy bands (N*Sync, Backstreet Boys, etc)
Magic Johnson tries his hand hosting his own late night talk show
The Mark McGwire/Sammy Sosa steroid home run derby
The Cosby Show is still on TV

Is it any wonder I feel a bit late to the party?

My 11 year old niece is egging me on to read the series. She, of course, has read them all at least once, but she'll take my hand and lead me from the world of the Muggles to Hogwarts and beyond. I'm almost done with the first book and I can see (only 12 years after everyone else) the appeal.

After I'm done I may watch the movie There's Something About Mary which also came out in 1998. I never saw it. So what the hell was I doing in 1998 anyway?

One of These Things Is Not Like the Others

2010-07-05T17:16:00.004-05:00

Recently a co-worker was mystified that grass produced pollen. "It doesn't bloom," he insisted. Tell that to the poster child for seasonal allergies...namely, me!

I created this sign and put it outside his cubicle while he was at lunch. It promptly came down but I think the point was made.

Now pass the good drugs and flip on the A/C.

World Cup? What's That?

2010-06-23T21:15:00.002-05:00

Why do Americans not care about soccer? Sure, we're making a good effort during the World Cup, watching the U.S. games and ignoring the others. Billions of people love soccer. Me? I watched a good chunk of that match with England and couldn't get too enthused. First I didn't understand the rules. (But then explain American football to anyone from another country. Don't you feel silly talking about downs and yards?) Second I have no idea when the match will end. (Americans love to see a countdown clock...in hundredths of a second, please.)

But then I look at baseball. Talk about dull. How much action takes place in a typical game? About three minutes? Hell, the announcers need to be master storytellers to fill the time between pitches. Generations of us have used baseball as our summer background music while we make dinner, clean the house or doze off at night.

Soccer fans, though, are completely engaged for the entire match. How do they do it? Do they have better attention spans than us? Plus they are often plowed so that's a real talent.

Ah, the inferior American once again.

2010 Reading List (so far)

2010-06-20T19:34:00.005-05:00

A friend recently asked me why I haven't posted any books for awhile. My 2009 New Years resolution was to blog about every book I finished. In all, I completed 29 and probably started another dozen that I didn't like enough to finish (or I wasn't in the right mindset). I took a year off from New Years resolutions since the 2009 goal was so tasking. I might be an every-other-year-resolutionist.

So, as my laziness shows, I need to list what I'm reading these days. In my journal I do track the books I complete. There are some genres or authors I want to come back to, and I have a horrible memory when I'm standing in the bookstore deciding on a new book. It's as if my mind is erased as I pass through the doors. Thirty seconds before I had 3 or 4 books in mind; now I can't think of one. (This also happens to me when I log into iTunes.) So I'm usually covered in Post-It notes, credit card in hand, concentrating intently on the book(s) I'm there to score.

In no particular order, here are my 2010 books:

Loving Frank: A Novel, by Nancy Horan. Horan's book is considered fiction but uses known facts to tell the story of Mamah Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright. Up here in Wisconsin, Frank is a big deal, so I was surprised by what a cad he was. Mamah becomes Wright's first mistress before he becomes the iconic architecht. Horan takes liberties with their story since not much is known about Mamah. What is known is that she left her family in Chicago to travel the world with Frank and ended up in Spring Green, WI. The ending surprised me, making me gasp out loud. If you don't know your FLW history you may be surprised as well.

Skinny Dip, by Carl Hiaasen is wonderful romp through the corruption of South Florida. I asked a friend for a juicy but light book for my flight to London in January. This fit the bill. Hiaasen, who also writes children's fiction, has written a number of books that are set in South FL. They are all over- the-top and hilarious. This book begins with a husband throwing his wife off a cruise boat. Surprisingly she does not die and the book tells the tale of her revenge and his motivation to try to kill her. Lots of laughs though the premise sounds gruesome.

The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, is a beautiful, lyrical book that made me want to book a flight to Barcelona. A bestseller in Ruiz Zafon's Spain, Shadow tells the story of Daniel, son of a book shop owner, who becomes enamored with a rare book by a dead author. Someone is intent on burning every remaining copy and perhaps destroying Daniel in the process. The back drop is the brutality of the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). The book follows Daniel as he grows into adulthood and keeps digging deeper into the past of the author of his favorite book. The terrific translation into English provides wonderful imagery that makes the story float. Though the book is a bit on the long side, the story is fascinating and worth every hour you spend reading it.

I've picked up four books by Elizabeth Berg after reading an article about her in Writers Digest. She is a veteran of women's fiction having published some 22 books. A short story collection, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, was my introduction to Berg. Based on the title alone, I bet most women would want to invite her to their next wine gathering. The Year of Pleasures, her book from 2005, tells the tale of Betta, a newly widowed fifty-something who is desperately trying to live the life she told her husband she would live in his absence. Berg paints such a vivid picture of Betta's new life that I want to look her up and have dinner. Open House, the book that put Berg on the map when it made Oprah's book club, explores another type of loss women face - the divorce they don't want. Perhaps the book I like the most is Berg's take on a writing life, Escaping Into The Open: the Art of Writing True. This honest account of Berg's writing and advice for other writers displays her love of writing. I often tap into her creative exercises to get my right brain in action. (Right brain = creativity; left brain = analysis) My huge left brain often overpowers and beats the snot out of my thoughtful and fun right brain. When I'm struggling with forming one solitary creative thought (those days are more frequent that I'd like to admit), I use Berg's book for inspiration.

Like most American women, it seems, I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett early this spring. The story takes place in 1960s Mississippi and is told by the point of view (POV) of three women: Eugenia "Skeeter" is the central white character who is raised by a black maid; Aibeleen and Minny are black maids who suffer the humiliation of being black in the pre-civil rights south while gaining the satisfaction of raising other people's children. If you're from the north and don't know much about the 20th century south, read this book! Stockett was raised by a black caregiver and provides a touching and insightful story about her childhood world.

My favorite fictional dog, Chet, is back with Thereby Hangs a Tail: A Chet and Bernie Mystery, by Spencer Quinn. I'm a sucker for a book told from a dog's POV. Dogs seem so much happier than humans about life. Their needs include a scratch behind the ear and something yummy to eat. The second of the Chet and Bernie books, Tail is about the kidnapping of a prize dog and its owner. Chet is funny, insightful and somewhat Zen in his approach to his job (assistant to a private investigator). If you love dogs don't let this one pass you by. And don't forget the first book of the series, Dog On It (see my review here).

Speaking of dogs, The Art of Racing In the Rain, by Garth Stein, seemed to be required book club reading, which is how I came upon it. Also told from a dog's POV, Racing is a more sober account about a family dog who witnesses the death of the mother and battle the father has to retain custody of his only child. I cried hard at the end. A friend told me that dog books never end well and she won't read them. I guess she has a point. But Racing helps you take stock of your own life. Plus the dog, Enzo, is far wiser than 95 percent of the people I know.

I met Rae Meadows at the Writers Institute at the Univ of Wisconsin this spring. Her fiction workshop was just what I hoped it would be: insightful and hopeful for aspiring writers. I've read both of her books: Calling Out, about a Mormon-approved escort agency (you read that correctly) and No One Tells Everything about a NYC woman who befriends a murderer. Meadow's protagonists both struggle with insecurity and secrets long buried. I can't wait for her next book. If you're female, you'll might find a bit of yourself in her central characters.

Of course sometimes a girl needs a good dose of chick lit. I've been following Allison Winn Scotch (because she has a great name and tells wonderful stories) via her Ask Allison website for writers and in her three novels. The latest, The One That I Want plays with time and space the way her previous novel, Time of My Life, did so well. As in TOML I wanted to grab the main character, Tilly, by the neck and shake her into reality. But Winn Scotch uses a little magic to help Tilly help herself. My favorite Winn Scotch book is her first one, The Department of Lost and Found (see review here). Between her website, Facebook and Twitter, Winn Scotch shows how generous she is as an author and a cheerleader for other writers.

And that brings us up to date. I have several books waiting in the wings including The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo that I see being read in every airport I've been through this year. And can I have one of those iPads, please? I drool everytime I see one. I almost mauled a woman sitting next to me on a flight from Detroit to Madison. I apologize. I'm really a nice person once you take the gadgets away from me.

,

Brothers in Cynicism

2010-06-18T07:41:00.002-05:00

Last weekend my mother and brother-in-law were talking about a interview they saw on TV with Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. My mom mentioned how touching it was to watch. My brother-in-law raised his eyebrow and said the reason for the interview was to pitch a book (When the Game Was Ours). Yes, it was true that book was the reason behind the media blitz. But as my brother-in-law talked about how celebrities make themselves (and their interesting lives) available for the masses only when they have something to promote, I thought his tone sounded very familiar.

Just like Hubby.

Is it any surprise that Hubby and bro-in-law went to the same journalism school? Is it part of their training to take a cynical view of the world?

I believe the answer is a loud and attention-getting yes.

Hubby raises his eyebrow in the same fashion as I cry when the winner is named on [pick any reality show]. "This was all staged, you know."

Last night we watched the NBA final as L.A. beat Boston. "I bet David Stern told the teams to take it to seven games and make it somewhat close in the end," I replied in my own cynical fashion. All I got in return was bored look.

Can I Post Less Often? Eeesh!

2010-04-19T20:38:00.006-05:00

Sorry for the loooong delay. I've been taking a humor writing class. Love it! There's homework each week which is challenging but a good way to stretch my abilities. That being said, there's not an excuse for not posting. Except maybe I only have so many words in me in a given week. Wouldn't that suck? So much for the writing aspirations. I'm sorry. I can only write 500 words a week.

This is an assignment I recently submitted. Hope you enjoy it.
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I open my eyes and see that once again I am on the floor. Oh, well. The bed would have been better, but I can’t always choose where I sleep. I’m pretty adaptable and can snooze on the couch, a chair (the recliner is my favorite). Heck, I can even stretch out on the lawn in a pinch.

The only light in the room comes through the slit in the curtains, revealing that it is early morning. Excellent! It’s almost time to eat. Wonder what I’ll have today?

I stretch and yawn. Yes, this will be a wonderful morning. So much to do; so much to explore. I hope my friends will meet up with me today. I haven’t seen Sophie in ages. Bernard is a given. He never misses out on a gathering. Sam is a pest but his energy is contagious. I get kicky just being around him. Too bad the others don’t appreciate his drive. Yes, he stole that thing from Twinkie, but Sam didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t help himself. They’re all such good friends. I couldn’t live without them.

Speaking of living, I wonder if that bird out back is still alive. Didn’t look too good last night. What a way to go – a broken wing. Glad I don’t have any wings. The whole flying thing scares me anyway. It doesn’t make any sense. If I run real fast I can’t eventually lift myself off the ground. Sure I can jump real well but not enough to soar through the air. I wonder if birds are some evil spirit and that is how they can fly. Spooky to think about.

I stride into the kitchen for my breakfast. I hate to be left waiting – I get real impatient. As I enter the bright, shiny room I can smell toast, orange juice and the faint aroma of Windex and maybe a splash of stale wine. Through the window I see birds that fared much better than old Broken Wing. They are buzzing all over the backyard. Hey, did they get breakfast already? Before me?

Diana looks over and gives me a big smile. I fell in love with her the moment I met her. You see, I was behind bars at the time. Not a good start for such an intense relationship. But she was able to see past that. Now when she looks into my eyes I feel like she can read my mind. I must have a face that gives me away.

“The usual, Drake?” she asks.

Do I even need to answer that?

She slides the bowl over to me. I don’t know why this routine makes me so happy. I guess I’m easy to please.

“We’re going to the dog park today,” she says. “What do you think about that?’

I bark in appreciation and wag my tail.

Heard at the Girl's Get-Together the Other Night

2010-02-06T12:01:00.004-06:00

Setting: Monthly gathering of friends for wine, food and gossip. One member of the group is telling a story to the others.

Wino #1: "So I...wait. Hold on a minute. I forgot. I'm consulting my brain."

Wino #2: "Tell your brain I said hello."

Other winos laugh in unison.

B-O-R-E-D

2010-02-02T22:29:00.004-06:00

I'm in a post-vacation funk or under the influence of the mid-winter blahs. There is absolutely nothing that captures my fancy these days. Yes, I got back from a European trip last week. So that may have something to do with it. But, facing the dog days of February and March in America's great white north is not something to envy. Let me document some of my recent activities:

falling asleep on the couch after dinner every single night
falling asleep on the couch every single weekend
staring off into space without a thought in my head
checking the clock to see if it's time to go to bed

One would think my IQ is plummeting. Hell, I think my IQ is plummeting. Why don't I take up knitting or crossword puzzles to stimulate my mind? But that would require me to get my lazy ass off the couch and...well I can't concentrate on what happens after that.

So I'll take the advice of Punxsutawney Phil and hibernate for another six weeks which, in the Upper Midwest, will mark the halfway point of winter. At that point I'll roll over, hit the snooze alarm and wake up in May.

Mini Book Review - End of 2009

2010-01-07T08:58:00.005-06:00

Okay, I'm late with this. Shoot me. My 2009 New Year's resolution was to keep track of every book I finished (note I said 'finished'?). I did that but haven't posted the final handful of books until today. Don't I get points for following through on my resolution? I'm pretty damn proud of this milestone...my first ever completed resolution. This goes a lot further than the year I resolved to use dental floss every day.

Here they are:

To Kill A Mockingbird. If I read this in high school I certainly don't remember. It took me about 20 pages to get into the book because I was hung up on some of the Southern-isms most notably the names. Jem? Atticus? Boo? Once I got past that I couldn't put it down. I sorta knew the plot, but reading Harper Lee's prose was a real thrill. If I wrote a book that magnificent, I wouldn't publish another one either. Every adult must read this one.

Going in a completely different direction, Talk to the Snail: Ten Commandments for Understanding the French, by Stephen Clarke, is about a Brit who has a love/hate relationship with the French. (Don't we all?) In this book he good-naturedly shares his 10 tips for dealing with and living with the French. Even though he is a crusty Brit, he truly loves the French despite their, well, French-isms. You'll learn, for example, how to deal with rude waiters and better understand why the French always seem to be going on strike. I also recommend Mr. Clarke's other books: In The Merde for Love and Merde Happens.

Savannah Blues, by Mary Kay Andrews. Every now and then a girl needs her chick-lit. This one also turns into a murder mystery and a lesson in antiquing. Again I had to get past the Southern stuff this Yankee girl just doesn't immediately understand, most notably the names and the importance placed on who you are (family names) and who you know. If you're in the mood for something breezy with a bit more plot than you usually find in chick-lit, I recommend this one.

Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, is another writer's guide to the writing life. Along with On Writing, by Stephen King, (see previous review here) B by B shows the human side of what writers face (and put themselves through). Mr. King comes across as a more confident about his writing while Anne Lamott shows us what an insecure bundle of nerves many writers are. I can relate! I found comfort in both books and refer to them often. If you're not a writer but admire what writers do, both of these books provide a glimpse into their solitary yet creative worlds.

There! I'm done. I finished 29 books this year and wrote about them all. There were many more that I started and didn't/couldn't finish. Sometimes the mood wasn't right or the first few pages didn't strike me. Life is too short to read something you don't enjoy. Now I'll contemplate my 2010 resolutions. Maybe I need to revisit that dental floss thing.

Touching Marital Moment - November version

2009-11-21T21:37:00.002-06:00

Me: Hawaii is only a four hour time difference. Yet we'll fly 2-3 more hours to Hawaii than to London which is a six hour time difference. What's up with that?

Hubby: We're flying west and way south. London is more due east.

Me: (Stunned look. Impressed he figured that out before I did.) Gee, thanks, Magellan.

Hubby: (Rolls eyes)

These Boots Were Made for Buying

2009-11-17T21:10:00.004-06:00

A four year odyssey has finally ended. It was like searching for the freakin' Holy Grail. I finally, after dozens of failed attempts, found a pair of fashion boots. (Not muck-a-lucks. I do have my standards.) It shouldn't be that difficult. I go into stores that have dozens and dozens of boots. Boots that come up over the knee. Ankle boots that look like they've been amputated. Flat heeled. Spike heeled. Boots with more hardware than my toolbox.

Over the past few years I've seen first-hand how prevalent fashionable boots are, not only here in the States, but in Europe. I began to feel like I was the only woman in Western civilization who was not privy to boots, like my God-given right was being withheld. But I possess a special problem that makes finding boots difficult, if not almost impossible: I have large narrow feet and scrawny calves. Think of a clown with freakishly small calf muscles.

My quest for the perfect boot began more than three years ago in Portugal. Let me tell you, if you want to do some serious shoe/boot shopping, may I suggest Lisbon. There was a plethora of stores that catered to price sensitive, shoe-crazy women. That was the good news. The bad news was that Portuguese women are small in stature...and feet. My big size 9 American feet translated into a size 40 European shoe. Big-footed American women are not who Portuguese shoe companies have in mind. My girlfriend, Susie, had no problem finding great buys and styles for her 7.5 size foot. When I asked store clerks for a size 40 they would look at me sympathetically and shake their head, the universal symbol for 'Sorry, you clown-footed Yankee.'

My overseas search for a fashionable, well-fitting boot continued the next year in Paris where I went to more boot stores than patisseries. The look was skinny jeans in knee high boots with a low heel. It was easier to find mammoth size 40s but the boots swam around my ill-developed calves. I considered calf implants briefly. Okay, for an hour or so. After trying on a couple dozen pair of boots I gave up and turned my attention to croissants and aperitifs.

In Prague the following year I didn't have the heart to waste my precious international time schlepping in and out of shoe stores. Though my lineage is Eastern European, I think the average Czech woman probably has better proportioned calves. So I focused on the liquid chocolate the Czechs call hot chocolate and put my boot quest on hiatus.

This fall I was determined to find something, anything. Maybe I could hire a boot seamstress who could custom fit me. I had a snappy dress that I wanted to wear with tights and boots. So I set off for the local mall and a take no prisoner attitude. Shockingly I found a pair of boots that fit the bill. The irony was not lost on me that I've travelled thousands of miles in search of the perfect boot, and that boot was five miles from my home. You're a funny dude, God.

The trick, I realized, was to have the boots tie in the back. Aha! Custom fit the top of the boot around the calf. Large- and small-calved women are happy. I'd like to send a letter and fruit basket to the designer. I want to live in those boots until the open-toe, strappy shoe season returns in the spring. Instead I hug them every morning like a long-lost puppy. In four or five years I'll go in search of another pair.

Are You Hungry, Man?

2009-11-17T20:50:00.002-06:00

Getting ready for the big Thanksgiving holiday.

Turkey. Check.
Appropriate side dishes. Check.
Pumpkin pie for me. Check.
Cherry pie for Hubby. Check.

Everything is in the freezer, ready for preparation. Fortunately prep work will only include the microwave and oven. This is the easiest, fastest Thanksgiving meal I've ever prepared. No chopping, roasting or agonizing how to make an edible gravy. Better yet, no guests beside me, Hubby and the cat.

To what do I owe my express meal? Swanson and Sara Lee, of course.

You see, dinner will be served thanks to Swanson's Hungry-Man dinners. Yep, one pound of food per person should cover any hunger pangs. Sara Lee is providing the pies. Just throw those puppies in the oven and, presto, dessert for days. All I need is a can of that whip cream to put the finishing touch on my masterpiece.

Before you think I am void of any cooking abilities, Hubby and I are returning from Maui on Thanksgiving afternoon via the red eye. If I can manage to heat up the super size frozen dinners and not burn down the house making pies, I believe we will have a feast. We'll be so jet lagged I didn't think it would matter if we ate that or a shoe box. There will not be full consciousness in this house until at least Saturday.

The Hungry-Man turkey dinner weighs in at 600+ calories and thousands of grams of sodium. I bet if I counted the calories of Thanksgiving meals past, even the homemade variety, it would be less than what we plan to chow down this year. So I consider 2009 the year of the diet Thanksgiving. Yum.

Mini Book Review - Oct Edition

2009-10-25T17:46:00.002-05:00

I've been on a nonfiction kick lately. Tried to read Angels & Demons and couldn't get past the obvious formula that makes it so similar to The DaVinci Code. Tried a few other fiction books and decided that my brain wasn't in the mood right now.

But there was one fiction book I did read that I forgot to report about earlier. Unpredictable by Eileen Cook was fun. It's fluffy chick lit but a good read. The main character, Sophie, is desperate to get her boyfriend back. In fact it appears that Sophie may be a couple sandwiches short of a picnic -- she' so shameless. She meets a university professor who studies psychics and soon Sophie is a fake psychic. I'll leave it at that so as not give away the plot. Sophie does eventually take hold of her rationale mind. If she remained all psycho, I might have given up on the book.

I'm reading more books about writing and writers. Susan Shapiro has written a number of books in both the memoir genre and writing guides. Only As Good As Your Word: Writing Lessons from My Favorite Literary Gurus is a broad perspective about the many writers who've influenced Shapiro. Shapiro has been fortunate to have befriended so many influential writers in her career. Makes me want to move to NYC and start networking. But for those of us outside of Manhattan, this book helps us learn from some of the best.

I also read one of Shapiro's memoirs, Lighting Up: How I Stopped Smoking, Drinking, and Everything Else I Love in Life Except Sex. She has the ability to take a serious subject (addiction) and give it heart and humor. Her lifelong love is cigarettes, and when she decides to break the habit she learns how one addiction is often swapped out for another. Dr. Winters, her not-so-conventional addiction specialist, starts her on the slow process of breaking each addiction. While I've never battled addiction, I could relate to the inner struggle to get one's mental house in order. Plus Shapiro is such an honest writer that I was drawn into her struggle and victories.

On a recent trip to the library I picked up a couple of books I may not have otherwise read. The first is What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami. Murakami is a novelist and a long distance runner. In this book he describes what motivates him to run and write. It's a quick read and provides insight into why people run marathons. I'm not a runner but could appreciate the discipline to both run and write.

A book I finished just last night was The Girls From Ames: A Story of Women and a Forty-Year Friendship by Jeffrey Zaslow. This is about eleven girls who grew up together in Ames, Iowa and maintained that friendship into their mid-40s. Their strong bond says a lot about the friendships women nurture throughout their lives. The Ames girls are ordinary in one respect but extraordinary in how they have been a constant support to each other. Smartly written and deeply touching, The Girls From Ames makes you want to contact your girlfriends and give them a big hug.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream...

2009-09-14T20:55:00.003-05:00

There's a fad I'm not hip with yet. It involves yelling at inappropriate times. The leaders of the current trend include South Carolina representative Joe Wilson, tennis superstar Serena Williams and rap master Kanye West. For the love of John McEnroe, what is going on?

Tourette Syndrome involves tics and may include verbal tics. We usually think of uncontrolled outbursts of profanities. Not true, I've learned during my in depth research. (Ok, I read Wikipedia.) The verbal Tourette's is relatively rare. So that doesn't explain these celebrity rants.

I got to thinking that maybe wealthy people lose their inner filter that screens out inappropriate verbiage and behaviors. Or perhaps this is related to the swine flu epidemic and is an early symptom of the illness. But if that were the case, right now college campuses, where swine flu is running rampant, would be cesspools of profanity (more so than they already are).

If this is the next big thing then I must get on board. Hell, I just bought an iPod Touch and have loaded apps. I'm hip and current. So here's how my yell thing is going to work: At odd times I am going to yell "Nordstroms!" "Bacon!" "Wine club!" Maybe I can get attention and create long, drawn out discussions on news websites or on talking head TV news. I'm sure my coworkers, friends and husband will be delighted. For sure I know Nordies, Oscar Mayer and Napa Valley will be cheering me on.

The Longest Bile

2009-09-12T17:02:00.001-05:00

The gallbladder is a pouch that holds bile manufactured in the liver. It’s located just below the stomach and squirts bile into the small intestine when recently eaten food passes by. One of bile’s functions is to help break down the fat you’ve eaten so it can be further digested in the small intestine. At times people need to have their gallbladders removed because cholesterol stones block the bile duct. One can function just fine without a gallbladder or so it would seem.

The other night my still intact gallbladder sent me a text message. It read: “Stop the madness, you gluttonous pig!”

My gallbladder was working at a breakneck pace. The reason? I was eating Alaskan king crab legs at a record setting pace. With butter. Lots and lots of creamery, sweet, buttery tasting butter.

The next text read: “Yo, bitch! Don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook. How about a salad or some fruit?”

So the gallbladder did what gallbladders do. It seemingly stopped working leaving undigested crab and butter sitting in my ever expanding stomach. When I woke up the next morning I felt like the snake that ate the mouse. I had what can best be called a Food Hangover. The feeling persisted through the next day: queasy, irritable, fat.

Oh, my god! I thought. I have butter toxicity! I bet a blood test would show that I have pure 100%, USDA Grade A butter circulating in my arteries. Obviously, my body quit trying to digest the butter and let it all go straight into the bloodstream. That would explain the hardening of the arteries that leads to my stomach, causing that organ to stop working too.

If a vampire would want my blood I could only hope he wouldn’t have high cholesterol or I’d kill him before he killed me. Or maybe that’s my defense (instead of the garlic necklace).

I uncomfortably got through the rest of the day and have cut waaay back on my fat intake since. Butter is one of my true loves (along with bacon), but we need a cooling off period for awhile. In the meantime, my gallbladder is kicking back in Cabo trying to get past the whole ugly incident.

Mini Book Review - Labor Day

2009-09-07T12:01:00.006-05:00

I cannot believe summer is about to become a distant memory. The college football and all-important preseason NFL stuff should have tipped me off. Maybe the end of summer seemed to zipped by because I had my nose in a book for most of August and this holiday weekend. Lots to share:

Many books have been written about Americans in France. (If you'd like a Brit's take on the French experience I highly recommend the books of Peter Mayle.) The upshot of these books is the different lifestyle and the almost religious devotion to food and drink. I'll Never Be French: Living in a Small Village in Brittany, by Mark Greenside, is a tale of how one man went to France, bought a house on an impulse, and came to love the small village and people who inhabit it. You'll be ready to book your trip and learn more about the little talked-about area of Brittany.

One of the big events of my summer was the movie Julie and Julia. I was there opening weekend with my foodie friend (who graduated from culinary school herself.) The movie is based on two books: Julie and Julia by Julie Powell and My Life In France by Julia Child. I read the Julie Powell book a couple years ago and, around the same time, listened to the audiobook of My Life In France. After seeing Meryl Streep channel Julia Child I just had to revisit her book. And what it treat it was. This was a woman who clearly loved France, their food and her life. If we all embrace life like Julia did, we would be far happier people.

I've never been able to read the horror genre. Too many nights sleeping with the lights on. I don't even see scary or graphic movies since the images sear into my brain for way too long. But I do love Stephen King. I can't read most of his books (due to my queasy brain) but I've been a fan of his other writing (as a columnist in Entertainment Weekly) and the book On Writing. The first third of the book is an autobiography taking us from his not-so-easy childhood to young adulthood where he honed his craft and started selling his addictive novels. The remainder of the book is his advice for writers. I may tattoo King's words of wisdom on my arm so as not to forget anything. A gift to writers and anyone interested in the creative process.

I can't be so enthusiastic about Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies. Recommended by a friend, it only took me a day to slam through the true story of a wife of a university professor who's husband falls out of love with her and in love with a colleague. I read the book reviews after the fact and readers fell into two camps: (1) those who empathize with Isabel and her rotten husband and (2) those who don't quite understand what point she's trying to make. Count me in camp #2. Yes, it is a sad story and she does survive. But I don't understand what insight she gained or how she grew as a person. In fact, I found some of her behavior odd as she tried to save her marriage. Her denial ran deep and her actions made her look quite sad. Read this one for yourself and see what camp you fall into.

Another quick read was My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist's Personal Journey by Jill Bolte Taylor, PhD. The author was a neuroscientist in her late-30s when she suffered a stroke. The left side of her brain (the area that is analytical and linear) was damaged while the right brain flourished. Bolte Taylor does recover after years of work, but she learned how to keep the insightful and joyful right brain a part of her daily life. If you're left-brained (like me) it's a must read. In fact my head now sits more upright on my neck instead of falling to the left every time I make a list or analyze numbers. Yay right brain!

I'm feeling like some fiction next. Stephen King highly recommends the Harry Potter books. Uh oh. I feel the need to get some round spectacles.

Dumb Headlines Are Dumb

2009-08-30T17:20:00.002-05:00

I was online this past week catching up on news (and celebrity gossip since my People subscription is now history). I saw a headline that asked:

What's Next For Ted Kennedy?

This was Thursday. The senator had passed away earlier in the week. The first responses that came into my head were:

"Continued death" and

"More of the same"

Really. Who wrote that headline? A fan of 'Weekend at Bernies'? Perhaps the more correct headline would have been:

What's Next for Ted Kennedy's Body?

I mean when you're dead there isn't much of a next thing in store. It's kind of a moot point, right?

Upon further consideration I'm sure the headline writer is a recent college grad making minimum wage to break into online news. The problem is with the editor who let that go out. Unfortunately the headline was changed before I got a screen shot as proof.

So take my word for it. Either that or I was in another allergy-related haze. Which is entirely possible.

May I Have Your Pic-a-nic Basket?

2009-08-24T20:46:00.005-05:00

Enjoying a lovely late summer evening in America's Northwoods. Good friends, good wine, lots of laughs. All of sudden TJ says, "Oh, my God!" I turn around expecting to see a cool loon or a spiffy boat. Instead I see a bear cub running past us about 10 yards away.

We collectively gasp. Of the 5 in the group, 4 start running for the house. TJ has an armful of wine bottles and Reidel stemware. (If she was on the Titanic, she would have taken a whole lifeboat for her and the wine.) I grabbed nothing but my panic and headed for the safety of the indoors. (See here for how I have handled life-threatening in the past.)

As we're all running for our lives (not because bear cubs are scary but mama bears certainly are) Tam wanted to say hello and "pet the bear." A couple of us stopped in disbelief. This ain't Boo Boo looking for Yogi or Mr. Ranger or a puppy. Tam's hubby grabbed her arm and pulled her kicking and screaming into the house. All evening she has been stating her case as to why we were never in danger and the bear wanted to make some new friends.

The adreneline rush will keep me awake for awhile. Guess I'll surf the Hannah Barbera website to pass the time.

Is This Man Deranged?

2009-08-20T21:32:00.004-05:00

I'm appalled at the circus that is Brett Favre. The future hall of fame, retired-unretired-not-sure, gotta-get-surgery-oh-never-mind-what-the-heck-I'll-play quarterback is back. Again. Of course one needs predictability in life: summer fades into fall, Thanksgiving comes before Christmas, the Big 10 will suck in football bowl games. These are all things I know for sure and can rely on.

A new certainty has sprung into our lives the same way mosquitoes know when to reappear each summer. Brett Favre will retire, unretire, contradict himself and lead us on a wild goose chase each spring and summer. For some reason we care (probably to take our minds off of the latest steroid mess in Major League Baseball).

I don't believe that Mr. Favre is a wavering mess of uncertainty. Each post-season he crafts a well-orchestrated agenda for how the next season will play out.

March: Choose the team; ones close to Wisconsin are favored

April: Make comments to the media about coming back but cloak with vague comments about diminished ability

May: Leak info about health issues; have family make hotel reservations for future games

June: Be sure future head coach is found to have had recent contact

July: Promise to make final decision by month end

Early August: Formally announce intention to stay retired

Late August: Unretire (just as training camp is wrapping up)

And that, my friends, is the reason why Number 4 goes through this mockery each year. Dude doesn't want to go to training camp. This is a long drawn-out precision drill to avoid what he doesn't want: living in a dorm room to be yelled at by coaches and sweated on by teammates. BF would have announced his return months ago if he was given a Get Out Of Training Camp Free Monopoly card.

Why does this bug so me much? Many are outraged that he will play for one of the Green Bay Packers mortal enemies. Others are tired of his wishy-washy ways. Hey, retire or don't. Just make up your freakin' mind. I am most bothered by the manipulation...all in a ploy to get out of two-a-days. This isn't about his heart or the ableness of his throwing arm. It's about having it his way with his own set of rules. That is what we call a true male diva, kids.

I will watch the Packer-Vikings games with interest and look closely at how his teammates, you know, the ones who worked their asses off in training camp, interact with him.

So grab a brat and a beer. Let's see how this gig plays out.

Thanks to the snarky guys at Sconnie Nation for entertaining me to no end with their 'Brent' Favre commemorative t-shirt. You guys are brilliant.

The Latest Touching Marital Moment

2009-08-20T07:11:00.003-05:00

Me: Hey, I have a small tear in my rotator cuff just like Brett Favre

Hubby: But you're not going to make $25 million in the next two years

More Fun Than A Barrel Full of, er, Cats

2009-08-18T20:59:00.004-05:00

My latest fun thing to do is visit the website http://icanhascheezburger.com/. This site always makes me laugh. To appreciate the comedy that is I Can Has Cheezburger one must know a few things:

Cats speak an odd, almost Eastern European style of English. They also don't spell very well.
Cats live for cheeseburgers; their favorite food
Black cats are known as 'basement cats' and want to steal your soul
White cats are 'ceiling cats' and have heavenly traits
Each pic is captioned but don't forget to read the secondary caption below in blue
Dogs are called 'goggies' and aren't completely trustworthy

Besides LOLcats, there are also LOLdogs, LOL celebrities and a Fail Blog on this site. But the cats create the most humor. You don't even need to be a cat lover. For every cute pic there are about 10 smarmy ones.

Above is my LOLcat of MJ, our 12 year old kitteh. He likes only two living beings: me and Hubby. He isn't a nasty cat, just shy and suspicious of strangers. Last year we dog sat the perfect dog, God's dog if you will. MJ was not a fan. To this day Hubby can pant like a dog and freak out MJ. We all need a hobby I guess.

The site posts about 5 pics a day which makes it perfect for quick breaks at work. At some point the IT gods will catch on and block that site like they do YouTube and Facebook. In the meantime you can find me in my cubicle LOLing.

Reuniting With An Ex

2009-07-26T13:49:00.001-05:00

I’m feeling a bit uppity today. An old love recently re-entered my life. We had a heady relationship in my early 20s – lots of late nights and early mornings. It was an exciting, frenzied time when I felt focused and more like myself than ever before (and, in some ways, ever since). When we had to break it off in my mid-20s, I was having heart palpitations and had become increasingly miserable. My too-much-of-a-good thing relationship had run its course. It was time for me to walk away and find my way in the adult world. For a long time I didn’t miss my love; I didn’t dwell on what was in my past. Then the spring of 2009 happened and fate brought us together again.

Yes, my old love, caffeine, is back giving me joy and, uh, alertness like I haven’t had in many a day/month/year/decade. So I know you’re asking: how could a common chemical make you into a swooning teenager again? Don’t you remember how badly it all ended?

This spring I was facing a Sophie’s Choice type of dilemma. You’d probably have done the same thing.

My lifelong spring hay fever kicked in with a vengeance. I was housebound, told to stay in air conditioning and limit physical activity. I was constantly sleepy and a wee bit cranky (ok, a lot bitchy). My whole life consisted of the inside of my house, the interior of my car and my basement work cubicle. The outside world was dead to me –doctor’s orders.

The Herculean challenge was finding an anti-histamine I could tolerate. Like Goldilocks, one made me very sleepy, another made me very uptight, and the third made me as stupid as bucket of sand. I missed work, stared off into space and wondered if I my skin would become so pasty that I would be translucent.

I worked with the allergy clinic on options and we kept coming back to one drug that had helped me in the past but just wasn’t keeping me coherent this time. (see here for more about my prior adventures) We decided to ditch the generic and go with the name brand even thought I had to pay more for it. Bingo! I got a bit sleepy but not all moronic like I had with the generic. Suddenly I could take part in the outside world. I abandoned my plans to live as cloistered nun and rejoined society.

But the sleepiness, while not debilitating, was an undercurrent in my life. Then one day at work I filled a cup with ice and poured in a fully-sugared Coca Cola. In about a half hour I swear I could see the face of god and recite Shakespeare. I was witty, jovial and, most surprising, focused. It was the focus that I had been lacking for, what, months? Years? Now I recall how I got through college.

I need to be careful how much time I spend with my old love. Too much and I am blathering my way to edginess and spending late nights looking for life’s answers on my bedroom ceiling – fully awake.

I see where we went wrong all those year ago. We spent too much time together. By finding that right balance I think we will be a wonderful couple once again.

Mini Book Review - July Edition

2009-07-25T16:24:00.003-05:00

I've spent too much time reading People, Entertainment Weekly and other mags about nothing in particular lately. Really, could I care less about the Gosselins and their bizarre marriage? If I hear about Mischa Barton again my eyes will permanently roll into the back of my head. So it's time to toss aside what passes for Pop Culture and get a life. Here is a summary of the last three books I've read.

Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz is about a woman who is an admissions officer at Princeton. If you ever wondered how kids get into those Ivies, here's your chance to step behind the curtain. Portia is the woman burdened with the job of making or breaking young lives. It's a job she takes seriously -- as Hanff Korelitz reminds us over and over again. The book takes us into the brain and thought process of Portia in great detail. About halfway into the book, as the plot starts to come together, I found that I didn't care about Portia's life anymore. I skimmed through the book to find the key plot points and called it a day. If you have aspirations to get your child (or yourself) into an Ivy you will probably enjoy the book. Admission has received good reviews but it just didn't blow up my skirt. Maybe because we spent A LOT of time in Portia's brain, getting bogged down in the excruciating detail of her woes. I wanted to scream, "Get over yourself!" Instead, I got over myself and moved on to...

Dog On It by Spencer Quinn. This is probably the most fun I've had reading a book this year. Bernie is a private investigator who, along with his trusty partner, Chet, solve mysteries. Did I mention Chet is a dog? And the story is told from Chet's perspective? If you're a dog lover or enjoy a good mystery, or both, here's a book that will have you laughing out loud. I'm glad to see that Bernie and Chet will be back with a new book in early 2010. Sign me up!

Just this week I started and finished Time of My Life by Allison Winn Scotch. Beside loving her name I am a fan of her two novels. TOML will be released in paperback next week and is being made into a movie. The story centers around Jillian Westfield's supposedly perfect life: her perfect husband, perfect daughter, perfect home. Except Jill isn't all that content. When she finds out that a former love is getting married she becomes unhinged. Fate allows her to go back seven years and, with the knowledge of her older self, have a chance to do it all over again, correctly this time, she thinks. What I love about Winn Scotch's writing is that she reveals great insight into the female mind but doesn't get preachy. Both of Winn Scotch's books have stuck with me days after I've finished. That's a sign of good authoring!

My People subscription runs dry next week. I'm determined to dig into those books that have been on my list for too long. Don't get me wrong, I'm not running off to the woods to read Thoreau or Tolstoy. I just want to read something I can gnaw on for awhile. I also vow to become re-engaged in current events (that don't involve wandering spouses and a Hollywood backdrop). Let's see how long this lasts.

Chicken Fried Happiness

2009-05-31T15:32:00.004-05:00

Let me start by saying that I am not from the South. Sadly, I didn't grow up eating foods deep fried in lard (or, more healthily, in Crisco). But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good fried meal every now and then. Sure, it's not super healthy. But does St. Peter meet us at the pearly gates with his checklist?
Murder: No
Coveting neighbors, etc: No
Taking the Lord's name in vain: No
Eating a deep fried Twinkie: Yes. Please step into the express elevator to Hell

Since fried foods are not yet a sin I was thrilled to recently see Deep Fried Paradise on the Travel Channel. Delicacies included chicken fried steak (breaded, deep fried steak), deep fried pickles, deep fried hamburgers (you read that correctly), deep fried hot dogs and, my personal favorite, deep fried bacon. Uncooked bacon is dipped in batter and then tossed into a fryer. There is no doubt that this has to be the perfect food. Bacon all by itself is almost divine. Throw it into a deep fryer and it transcends other more earthly foods.

Here's the scene as the parade of fried foods marched by on our TV:
Hubby: Look of disgust; shaking his head that people are so gluttonous
Me: Smile broadening with each new innovation; gasps of delight as I wonder why I never thought of this myself

And, yes, the deep fried Twinkie, which clocked in at 700+ calories, showed up on my television as I clapped my hands like a little girl. In the express elevator to heaven, everyone gets one with some raspberry sauce.

Smell Ya Later

2009-05-26T21:35:00.005-05:00

There's a gross smell coming from the inside of my car. I've opened all the doors, the trunk, the hood and can't find anything but the smell. The smell, by the way, is like something is rotting. I wish it smelled like money or being thin, but instead it's like rotting flesh.

And really, what was I expecting to see when I opened the hood to look at the engine? I wouldn't know what was suppose to be in there anyway. Unless it was a decomposing squirrel or pound of ground beef.

Doesn't this remind you of the Seinfeld episode? Except that car had a BO stench? And Jerry had to finally abandon the car because he couldn't get rid of the odor?

I'm so screwed.

Mini-Book Review (again!)

2009-05-18T21:05:00.003-05:00

I've zipped through 5 books in the past month or so. Had some vacation time to knock out a couple. Both fiction and nonfiction; both laughs and tears.

Blink and Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
Malcolm Gladwell's books are great fun while they get you thinking. Blink explores intuition -- what you see and think in the first two seconds. If you are a left-brain person (like me) it's essential reading to learn to listen to and, at times, trust your right brain.
Outliers explores the people we call innovators or geniuses. We like to think of them as self-made people who, through their own sheer will, climb the stairway of success. But, as Gladwell points out, a real genius has spent over 10,000 hours honing their unique skill. Bill Gates was a teenager who was fortunate to be in Seattle when the Univ of Washington got its first supercomputer. He spent years honing his programming skills before he became an overnight sensation.

The warm, cuddly and weepy book was Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World by Vicki Myron and Bret Witter. Definitely a chick book. Myron was the librarian who found and then cared for Dewey for the 19 years he lived at the Spencer, Iowa library. If you've ever had a cat you'll be able to relate. It's amazing how people respond to animals and how they break down barriers. The end requires Kleenex but isn't as drawn out as Marley & Me. Note this Touching Marital Moment:

Me: Sniffle, sniff, sniff
Hubby: Did you just finish the book?
Me: Uh, huh. Nodding head vigorously
Hubby: Come here. Gives me a hug and a noogie

A flat out laugh was Fifteen Minutes of Shame by Lisa Daily. The central character, Darby, gets the rugged pulled out from under her when her cheating husband flys the coop. Oh, did I mention that Darby is a nationally syndicated dating and relationship expert? And her husband is her publicist? And she throws up on Matt Lauer?

The Department of Lost and Found by Allison Winn Scotch is a more serious tale about Natalie, an ambitious politico who is diagnosed with breast cancer at age 30. It sounds more sad than it is. Winn Scotch has a gift for finding the humor and lessons in something as dire as cancer. I was impressed with her writing skill as she walked that fine line between (a) depressing topic and (b) telling an uplifting tale. This was a book that stayed with me for days after I was done. Plus I think Winn Scotch has a great name for a writer.

So that brings us up to date. Looking for our old copy of Angels and Demons by Dan Brown only to have Hubby remind me that we sold it last year during our cleaning purge. So I'm on the hunt!

Two Girls Go To A Diner

2009-04-20T21:58:00.007-05:00

Every Saturday morning KC and I work out and then go get breakfast. Every week we go to the same place, order the same food from the same waitress...you get the drift. It's our way to wrap up the week, talk about what's on our minds and do some female bonding.

This week our blissful ritual was interrupted by, how do I say it? Men! Two burly, redneck men who are not regulars at this particular establishment. They walked in the door and stood next to our table staring. Since I am possessive of this time with KC I robustly ignored said rednecks.

"You sure look pretty," one of them said.

I made no eye contact and pretended these plaid-wearing-no-manners-belt-buckles-as-big-as-my-head gentleman would kindly find their booth.

"Your eyes are beautiful," the other proclaimed.

He was looking at KC who blushed and said, "Thanks.".

Thanks?!! Did I have to explain to KC how to blow off these guys? Did I have to let her know that women fought for the right to be respected, hold down jobs and not be ogled in public.

They eventually found their way to the booth. My back was to them but KC's wasn't.

"Your lips are pretty too," the first one said.

"Thanks," KC acknowledges AGAIN.

We continue gabbing because I am so not giving these guys one second of my attention. Hitting on women in a diner is so....so....desperate. Really! What did they think they were accomplishing?.

This brings me to the pic above. This is how I looked after the workout. (I can't speak for KC because she always looks pulled together) Even my cat doesn't find this appealing. Maybe I should have been flattered, but in my mind I looked like Patty with the leg stubble. Besides, I don't find this type of male behavior inspiring. It was really creepy.

Hubby was no help. When I complained to him about this (still a fetching sight in my post workout attire) and he couldn't understand why I didn't take the whole thing as a compliment.

"Oh, they were harmless," he said. "Why do some women get all offended when men say those things?".

I sputtered and then fell silent. I don't know why this bugged me. KC reacted with grace. I got mad.

Just call me Patty (and/or Selma).

Every Grape is Sacred

2009-04-20T21:23:00.004-05:00

This classic Animal House clip reminds me of what I saw at the wine store yesterday.

I was waiting for the clerk to open a case of wine and then let me pay for my purchase. Before that happened, though, two bottles of wine toppled out of the box and on to the floor. Red wine! It was a sad, sad sight.

My friend, TJ, had a moment of silence for the dearly departed wine. (Did I mention she wasn't even at the store?) TJ is the founding member of the Grape Sanctity Club. If there ever was a person who mourns the loss of a drop of grape, it's TJ. Her reaction is the same as Belushi's. Horror, disbelief, extreme sorrow.

She asked if I dropped to the floor and started slurping up the now free merchandise. That didn't cross my mind...what with the broken glass and all. But if I was quick enough the five second rule would've applied.

Dude, Where's My Plane?

2009-04-13T21:24:00.002-05:00

To the guy who sat next to me on the NWA flight this afternoon:

Dude,

I know you probably weren't real stoked to be in the middle seat, but, hey, it was an exit row and you had, like, some extra leg room. So that should have meant something. And I would have appreciated you not hanging your elbow over the arm rest while you were texting before take off. I get a little possessive of my limited space too. I hope you didn't think I was hitting on you when I just let my elbow push against yours, especially during the turbulence. I was hoping you'd get the point and quit hovering in my seat.

More importantly I would have been elated and relieved if you turned off your damn iPod when asked after the plane doors were closed. Hurtling down the runway at 100+ miles per hour while you were zoning to Fall Out Boy was probably no big deal for you; but I wondered if your sophisticated electronic equipment might interfere with the pilot's navigation system -- like they tell us in the preflight announcements. That all may be a load of crap, but why don't you find that out on another flight; not mine.

Did you consume large amounts of Red Bull beforehand? You were moving around so much that I considered sedating you with a tranquilizer dart or my Vulcan death grip. Slamming the seat back into the fully reclined position was classy too. But kudos for waiting until the announcement.

I also have to give you snaps for sticking to your guns and keeping that iPod on until we had landed. At least you are consistent. I'm also sure the cleaning crew can un-recline your seat in between flights (since you didn't have time to bring it to the full, upright position during the descent).

All in all, it was a swell trip. I hope you do well on your finals.

Hugs and Kisses,
The Exit Aisle Bitch Next To You

Why Speedy Gonzales May Have Been On To Something

2009-04-12T19:07:00.002-05:00

Let me take you to the fastest sit down restaurant in town. All you'll need is about 15 minutes. In that time you'll have a drink, chips & salsa, and a meal....with time to spare. I don't get service this fast at Taco Bell.

Last week four of us from work went out to lunch. We didn't have long so we chose Laredo's. Here's the run down of how the meal went:

11:20am - leave the office
11:26 - pull into Laredo's parking lot
11:28 - walk in and ask for a table for four
11:28:15 - amble toward our table
11:28:16 - water and chips being put on table
11:28:18 - butt cheeks not yet in the booth
11:28:21 - being handed menu
11:28:45 - waiter asks for drink order
11:29:15 - finally take off coats and stash purses
11:29:20 - waiter asks for lunch order
11:29:25 - four hands start grabbing for chips and salsa
11:30:00 - begin small talk while crunching on chips
11:31:30 - meals are served

If you're looking for a leisurely dining experience, this ain't the place to go. If you want a sit-down lunch and time to make it back before your screen saver kicks in, this is your restaurant.

About seven minutes later one of our group is done with her meal. 3.8 seconds after her last swallow the bus boy comes buy to grab the plate. And so it continues until it is just me with my rice and beans. The bus boy is intent on swiping my plate away. "NO!" I yelp clutching the last remnants of my precious lunch. I have a leisurely 2.5 minutes left with my plate before it is empty, taken away and the bill arrives.

Before we know it we are stumbling back into the light of day, dazed, satiated but not quite relaxed.

Mini Book Review #3

2009-03-28T17:11:00.004-05:00

In my continuing quest to keep track of all the books I've read this year (#1, #2), here is my third installment. Since I've been lazy posting my reading, I have four books to cover.

Something Blue by Emily Giffin is the sequel to Something Borrowed only told from the viewpoint of the villianess. Clever literary perspective. To be honest, I found the central character, Darcy, to be hard to like. For about the half the book I wasn't sure if I would get through it. Darcy eventually has to live up to her ways and the book takes a warmer turn. If you plan to read the two, start with Something Borrowed.

Spinster Sisters by Stacey Ballis tells the story of two sisters from Chicago who have a successful business. I want to live in the world these sisters live in! They're smart and have a wonderful group of women to work and live with.

I took a break from chick lit and read The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell. Vowell has made a career of taking American history and giving it an ironic and humorous, 21st century twist. Plus I learn a lot from reading Vowell's books. Did you know that the Puritans and Pilgrims were two different groups with different objectives for coming to the New World?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows was given to me by a friend. I was sad when I finished it. These characters were so alive and real. And once again I learned something historical. The novel takes place just after WWII on Guernsey Island in the English Channel which had been occupied by the Germans for five years.

I would also like to give a shout out to the Madison (WI) Public Library for their great online order system. Yes, I waited four months for Sarah Vowell's book, but I can search and find other books to entertain me in the meantime. And they are delivered to whichever library branch is most convenient for me.

More to come....

One Cat's Holy Grail

2009-03-19T21:50:00.008-05:00

Look at this cup. It was acquired by Hubby in 1984 at an establishment called Penrods on Fort Lauderdale Beach. Why would anyone hang on to this for all those years?

I don't know either. Except this is my water cup and it is always with me when I am at home. You never know when a thirst may come on. I don't want to be, say, 25 feet away from a source of water and have to actually get up.

So the Penrods cup and I are an inseparable pair.

Except there is someone that wants to make this pair a threesome. That someone is MJ the Cat. You see MJ lives to drink out of this cup. His whole existence revolves around sticking his schnoz into the cup and lapping up water. Never mind we have numerous bowls for his slurping pleasure. This is the only source of water that matters.

His feline ears can determine the moment water hits the inside of this particular cup. He'll come running over to survey the cup and assess:

-the water level in the cup
-the diameter of his head
-how far into the cup his head will go

"When will you learn?" Hubby clucks. "How many years have you two been battling over that thing? Which one of you is smarter anyway?"

I could part with my Penrods cup. But it would be like cutting off my own arm. We've been through so much together: the Reagan years, MC Hammer, Melrose Place. I've thought about replacing the cup with a water bottle. But where's the sport in that?

MJ and I will continue to maneuver over this precious water vessel; like a couple of weathered generals plotting their next move. Until Hubby grows tired of whole spectacle and throws the cup away.

Which, while logical, would be a sad day.

Do These People Make You Sleepy?

2009-03-10T20:41:00.004-05:00

Are you drowsy? A little tired? Maybe just exhausted after a long day?

For Hubby these people are like Ambien. A few weeks ago we discovered CSI Miami reruns on A&E while desperately looking for something warm to look at on TV. After a long, dreary, snowy winter we will take our sun where ever we can find it. Even TV reruns.

Now here's the thing. In the first five minutes the mystery is set up. Someone dies. Someone looks guilty. The CSI Miami team arrives on the scene. Cue cool intro with The Who music. Cut to commercial.

Next to me is Hubby who has already dozed off. Mouth agape; hot chocolate recently quaffed; remote still in hand. Apparently he saw all the warmth he needed. However I am hooked and will need to spend the next 55 minutes with Team CSI Miami to see how it all evolves.

Night after night the same gig plays out. We tune in CSI Miami. He slips into unconsciousness.

Since one of us is actually watching the show I have some observations:

See David Caruso in the pic above? That's the only time I've ever seen him smile. Plus, what is a pasty white guy like that doing in Miami? That being said, I love his character, Horatio Crane, and his one emotion.
The science stuff is cool but a bit far fetched. I took enough chemistry to know that some of those things can't be done that quickly. But, strangely, I don't care. If I had a lab that cool I would have stayed in science.
The stories get all twisty. You think you know who is guilty and then new evidence shows it might be someone else.
It's not too touchy, feely. If I want warm and fuzzy I'll watch Grey's Anatomy.

Don't tell Hubby what CSI Miami is about. At this point he thinks it's a travelogue about South Florida.

Zzzzzzzzzz.......

My Slice of Pineapple Express

2009-03-07T16:47:00.008-06:00

I spent the past week in a drug-induced haze…by legal means. Don’t ask me what happened in the world or how work went. I have no idea.

Bet you’re wondering how you can get your hands on this stuff. It’s pretty easy. Just go to your doc and tell him/her that you need seasonal allergy meds. Then sit back and watch the pink elephants fly.

It started last weekend when I began my preparations for the onslaught of spring pollen. Prescription nasal spray. Check. Prescription antihistamines. Check. No sense of time or space. Check-a-rooney.

Monday was a little hazy but I chalked it up to the Monday blahs. By Tuesday I was still fuzzy but didn’t care much about anything. That intensified on Wednesday but I thought it was me just being tired of winter. However, on Thursday I knew something was wrong because…uhm…like….I couldn’t…well… string two coherent thoughts together. I also couldn’t complete any task no matter how mundane.

Task required: Print spreadsheet, go to the printer and retrieve.

Task completed: Wander to the drinking fountain. Grab some Cheetos from the vending machine. Look at the shiny insides of the vending machine for awhile. Marvel at how the vending machine can hold all that food and drop it at precisely the right time. Find my way back to my desk. Play with paper clips on desk. Wonder what happened to my bag of Cheetos.

This is why it took two days to complete a project.

“There’s something wrong with me,” I whispered on the phone to TJ. “It’s like I can’t complete a thoug…. Hey, are you guys going out tonite?”

What I felt like was the dude from Pineapple Express whose name I couldn't remember for two days.

Later that night I lay in bed while Hubby snored peacefully at my side.

Maybe I have a brain tumor.

Or early onset dementia.

Or a brain aneurysm like that woman on Grey's Anatomy who died while the baby lived even though her husband told Dr. McDreamy to save his wife if he had to choose between the two and McDreamy wouldn't put his scalpel down and got into a fight with Addison that the Chief had to come to the ER and resolve.

Staring at the dark ceiling I used all my skills of concentration. Perhaps...just maybe...the problem is the pill I started taking at the exact same time these symptoms started.

Hmmm. Could be the issue, I suppose.

So I stopped the seemingly cannabis-infused meds and, just like that, started to regain my super powers of focus and concentration.

And that, kids, is why you just say no to drugs. At least until the doc prescribes something new next week.

The Unexpected Confessioner

2009-02-25T17:04:00.003-06:00

I may have alluded to a trip I took last month. I was lucky enough to go to Prague, Czech Republic with a women’s travel group. Beautiful city. Affordable. Nice people. Great architecture. But me being me means there were some amusing stories, mostly at my expense.

And with that I give you story #1: Linda Accidentally Goes To Confession.

Prague has a plethora of churches that sat idle and neglected during the Communist regime. Since Communism’s fall in 1989 many of the churches are being used as originally intended. Others are for public gatherings such as concerts and festivals. And a few are solely for historic significance.

A few in our tour group wanted to go to Catholic Mass. We heard that a nearby church had outstanding acoustics and a musical Mass. The idea of live entertainment on a Sunday morning was intriguing. So our merry group of worshippers, about dozen women in all, set out to attend the 10:30 am Mass even though the majority of us were going solely for the live band, er, musicial liturgy.

I was raised Catholic and know the drill: the holy water at the entrance, the genuflecting before sliding into the pew, the being quiet. However, the being quiet part became my problem. My big, loud American-bull-in-the-china-shop ass slid to my spot in the pew and casually used my foot to flip up the kneeler. No kneeling of any kind will occur today, kids. I’m a professional Catholic and will work to make the other non-Catholics more comfortable.

Except the kneeler was not hinged to be flipped up. In fact it was never intended to be moved out of the way. My little foot flip trick caused the kneeler, which was as long as the pew, to lurch up and then down with a loud thud.

Did I mention the acoustics in this church?

Feeling a bit obvious, I decided it would be a good time to get up, walk around and check out the historical aspects of the old church before Mass began. Photography wasn’t encouraged so I concentrated and tried to memorize the details and store them in my brain:
*Baroque style
*Lots of religious figures painted on the walls and ceiling
*Huge pipe organ way up in the balcony
*Stations of the cross and other interesting artifacts along the wall

It was the artifacts that caught my attention. Statues, stained glass and gold relics stretched along the wall. It must have been the shiny things that drew me in. My focus was on the bling, not what was right in front of me. As I turned to my left to see more of the pretty, shiny things, I walked right into a door.

A door that led to the confessional.

Where the priest was sitting waiting for customers.

And he spoke only Czech.

Just five minutes in the church and I had two bloopers to my name. And, heck, I’m staring down a priest in a confessional. Bless me, Father. I have created a ruckus in your beautiful church. Please forgive me for being the neck-craning American tourist that I am. And, by the way, when does the music start?

Instead I quietly slunk to back to my pew, hands clasped in my lap, until the Mass began. Father Confessional was also the priest leading the mass. From the back of the church the pipe organ sprang to life along with a choir. The acoustics lived up to the hype. Even though the Mass was conducted and sung in Czech, the beautiful old Baroque church was being used in way the founders intended. And the American tourists appreciated that fact.

The band was pretty good too.

Heard At The Health Club Tonight

2009-02-16T22:15:00.002-06:00

Location: Women's Locker Room

Me: Putting on my shoes

Six Year Old Girl to Her Mother: "Mommy, but how does the baby come out of the stomach?"

Mother: "It's just magic!"

Me: Quickly shuffling toward the exit while not making eye contact.

25 Scary Things About Me

2009-02-08T18:16:00.006-06:00

On Facebook the current rage is to write 25 random things about yourself. Mind you, that's about 15 or 20 items too many. I struggled to make it to 25 because, let's face it, I'm just not that interesting. But I did s-t-r-e-t-c-h it out. One item I included was the scariest moment of my life.

It could have been a near car accident or a fashion disaster. Maybe a really bad haircut; wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. All these things are scary, at least to me. But the one gut-wrenching moment that I remember is January 17, 1994 --- the Northridge earthquake in Los Angeles.

There is a book out called The Survivors Club by Ben Sherwood that looks at which people have survival instincts and who becomes a deer in the headlights. If my survival skills are reflected in how I handled the Northridge earthquake, then I am screwed!

It all began at 4:30am. I was in L.A. on business and staying with a college girlfriend in the Los Feliz area...just over the hill from the Valley. I was asleep on Nic's couch. My plan was to get up about 5am and catch a flight out of Burbank to Phoenix for more appointments.

Then the house jolted up and down and around. I could hear things crashing to the floor as I tried to keep myself from being flipped off the couch. I put my one arm over my head because I was sure the ceiling was going to come down on me. Being L.A., hundreds of car alarms went off blaring the obvious. I had previously lived in L.A. and knew what an earthquake was. But of all the ones I endured, this was the most violent.

It lasted forever! (But later I heard it was less than 30 seconds) I understand the 'time stood still' stuff.

Once it was over, my true nature came into play. Nic yelled for me. Her first concern was that I put something on my feet because there was broken glass and who knows what else. She checked the electricity and found it was out. Then she instructed me to stay put as she found her flashlight and came into my direction.

I, on the other hand, have one overriding thought in my head. One gut instinct that helped guide me into my own crisis and survival mode.

"I have to get the f*&# out of here!" As in get out of L.A. Get out of earthquake row. Go to a place where the earth doesn't move around in a freakish manner.

Nic checked out the damage and was being, well, really calm. Calm! She saw her computer monitor had fallen on the floor; china was broken; books toppled.

I, rushing into my own assessment, was looking for my clothes and shoes because I'm determined that I am getting the hell outta there. I'll sleep on the curb or beach in another town -- somewhere where the walls and ceilings won't fall on me.

Nic comes over to me to see how I am. Am I hurt? Am I alright?

"I'm not hurt," I say. "But," I pause, clutching her arm.

"What is it?"

"I have to lay down. I'm having an anxiety attack!"

And that, folks, is how I handled a crisis situation: attempted to flee the scene and lie down to feel the waves of panic rush over me.

I don't remember much after that. We did go out looking for bottled water but the 7-11 and grocery stores were closed. The sun eventually came up to reveal a beautiful California morning.

And one unifying thought kept pounding through my brain:

"Gotta get out of here. Gotta go. Time to leave."

The car radio had news coverage for those stations still on the air. All I cared about was whether the Burbank airport had reopened. I even considered driving the 8 hours to Phoenix but soon realized that many highways were closed due to damage.

"Gonna leave. Gonna leave soon. Yep, getting my ass out of here."

We went back to Nic's and started to clean up the mess. She was rational and completely pulled together. When the aftershocks occurred she patted my hand supportively.

Being a good Angeleno she had a battery-operated radio. So I kept a quiet vigil on the status of the Burbank airport. LAX was a mess but I kept praying that Burbank would pull it together.

After a few hours I heard the news I was almost ready to sacrifice Nic's cats for: Burbank airport is reopening.

And there was Nic sitting on her bed, soothing her rattled cats. Calm, Zen-like.

"Honey," I started. "I gotta go. Maybe I can get to Phoenix after all. If it doesn't work out I will come back. Will you be okay if leave you alone?" (What a cad I was! Leaving a friend to deal with the aftermath of The Day The Earth Opened Up and Swollowed Us Whole)

She encouraged me to go and told me she was here if I couldn't get out.

So quick like a bunny I packed up. I realized I hadn't showered or even brushed my teeth. But time was of the essence. And the voices in my head wouldn't stop until I there was some distance between me and the floor of the Los Angeles basin. Somehow I made it the airport to find a sea of refugees just like me. Unwashed, dazed and frantically trying to get out town.

I made it onto a Southwest flight bound for Phoenix. Across the aisle from me was a woman whose hand was wrapped in cloth and bleeding. Someone else had a bandage on his face. For the most part we were quiet and beyond eager. And when the wheels finally lifted off the runway we broke into spontaneous applause.

For the first time since 4:30am I exhaled. And realized what a total wuss I was. For years afterward Nic and I would call each other on January 17th and wish each other a Happy Earthquake Day.

And now, 15 year later, I flip through the Survivors Club and wonder how I would handle it if I found myself in a crisis situation again. Ugh! I shudder to think. Once a wuss, always a wuss.

Touching Marital Moment, Take 2

2009-01-28T20:54:00.003-06:00

Tonite at dinner:

Me: Oooh...I haven't told you about that thing that happened at the Prague airport last week.

Hubby: Why don't you save that story until bedtime? It will help me fall asleep.

Me: Sigh. Never mind.

Mini Book Review #2

2009-01-26T20:22:00.002-06:00

On a recent trip (which I'll write about later) I read two books. They are both 'chick lit' and were lots of fun to read while sitting on airplanes.

Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella is about a woman who loses her memory after an accident. In fact she's lost several years of her memory and awakens to a husband she doesn't know and a life she doesn't remember. Think Samantha Who? with a British twist. Kinsella is also the author of the Shopaholic books.

The other book I read was Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin. I expected a breezy chick lit-style book but was pleasantly surprised at how well Giffin describes what it is like to fall in love. Giffin's abiltity to describe emotion and feeling made this book much deeper and relatable that I expected when I read the back cover. In fact I cried reading the last few pages. That's not to say this wasn't funny, witty and a great read.

Still mulling over my next book choice. Looking for ideas.

Sick of Being Sick

2009-01-26T20:11:00.003-06:00

Here I sit with my umpteenth sinus headache. I thought a cold was suppose to get better after a week. This has been getting worse each day.

Enough wining. What is the upside of a cold?

Nyquil! How can this stuff be available w/o a prescription? I sleep like an angel when I do Nyquil shots.
Soup. I feel like I'm 8 years old when I'm home sick and make soup for lunch. Then I can nap while the soaps are on TV.
Afrin. World's best nasal spray. If Afrin could clear my mind as well as my sinuses I would be a Zen master.

Uh, that's about all I can think of right now. I think I'll look up the recipe for a Hot Toddy...hope it has Nyquil in it.

Being Ordinary

2009-01-23T07:34:00.000-06:00

This week we saw a new president sworn in. (Well sorta sworn in. Thanks, Mr. Chief Justice.) I had many thoughts going through my head about the history and significance. But I also had another thought that still hasn’t gone away:

Barack Obama is my age. He went to high school when I did. He even married the same year we did.

There’s something profound and yet sad about seeing your contemporaries rise to power and significance. It makes me wonder: how did I get to be a middle-America-cubicle-dwelling-Dancing-With-The-Stars-watching nobody? I had a good upbringing and education. I had the smarts and potential. And I chose to live an ordinary life.

So instead of bumming myself out with deep thoughts about my inadequacies (which is a little hobby I can pursue in my spare time), I’ve chosen to focus on what the new president and I have in common.

· We both listened to REO Speedwagon, Stevie Wonder and Journey in our youth.
· We know what show the phrase “Dy-no-mite!” came from.
· We made some bad fashion choices in the 70s.
· We wondered how it all went wrong for Michael Jackson.
· We still ponder why anyone thought the AMC Pacer was a good automotive choice.

So I take heart that the leader of the free world has the same frame of reference and maybe some of the same childhood experiences as I did.

Or I can put a headset on my cat and pretend he is my Secret Service detail.

Mini Book Review #1 – Garlic and Sapphires

2009-01-05T20:15:00.002-06:00

One of my lame New Years Resolutions is to do a quick write up of books I’ve completed in 2009. I say lame because it’s not going to make me healthier, thinner or richer. But it will give me a chance to keep track of what I read and, hopefully, give you some book ideas.

My first completion of 2009 is Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl. This book was given to me by a friend who is a major foodie. Ruth Reichl was the food critic of the NY Times in the 1990s and went on to be editor at Gourmet magazine. She wrote three books about her life in food; this chronologically being the third. I decided to start with this one because my friend told me Ruth dressed up in disguise to review restaurants…plus there are recipes!

The author does an amazing job describing food so that you can practically see and taste it. She also analyzes the ego that surrounds the NYC restaurant scene. What I liked the most, though, was how she chose her disguises and the personality she was attempting to channel.

Garlic and Sapphires is a quick read and great fun. I admire how foodies and food critics must be ‘adventure’ eaters since brains and organ meats make me queasy. (Adventure eating for me is seared tuna.)

I have Ruth Reichl’s two other books and look forward to digging in.

(BTW, my other lame New Years Resolution is to floss my teeth. Now don’t you feel better about yourself?)

Touching Marital Moment, Take 1

2009-01-04T10:47:00.006-06:00

Location: Our kitchen
Time: This morning over breakfast

Hubby: "Honey, you have something on your chin. "

Me: "It's a zit."

Pause

Me: "I'm going back to bed."

Fab Five Forever!

2009-01-04T09:08:00.002-06:00

Recently while channel surfing I came upon the Fine Living Network. Much to my surprise and delight FLN is rerunning Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. I forgot how happy this show made me.

I HEART Kyan, Ted, Carson, Jai and Thom! This show featuring the Fab Five ran from 2003-2007 and gave straight men “make-betters” to improve their grooming, food, fashion, home and cultural habits. Apparently I have seen just about every episode. Now that FLN is on my TV radar I try to tune in whenever Queer Eye is on. Even after multiple viewings I still enjoy the episodes (which is more than I can say about reruns – and original airings — of Private Practice).

So who is my favorite of the Fab Five? I can’t choose.

Kyan is hot(!) and was so cuddly during that episode with the toupee guy. (Kyan convinced him that the toupee wasn’t worth the bother.)

Ted is my hero of all things food and wine. I probably appreciate his advice more now than when the show originally aired. (I have become the proud owner of stemware and fine cutlery.)

Carson is the funniest of the group and encourages men to try fashion that is out of their comfort zone. (Dude, are you available to help Hubby move beyond black slacks and button downs?)

Jai is like the successful brother who knows all about theater, music and how to conduct yourself in public. I’d like to bring him to work for a day just to see how my department would manage a discussion about Broadway.

And Thom, my guru of interior design, you can makeover my house any day.

Will you kids ever do a reunion? Please?? I can offer up some males so you can do your magic. Just meet me at work in the cafeteria around noon. There’s a plethora of subjects for you to choose from. And if you can’t decide, I’ll bring forward a couple of the most needy who think khakis and golf shirts are da bomb in fashion.

My Shiny New Year

2009-01-01T16:07:00.001-06:00

2009 has arrived and I don’t feel much different than I did in 2008. Except for the staying up to midnight part, it is just Thursday today (with no work, yay!). And therein lies my problem. I’ve become less enamored to the charms of the holiday season….or as I like to call it the Holiday Vortex. HolVor is no doubt a special time of year when usual schedules and rules don’t apply.

For example, take this week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday followed by Saturday which is followed by a Monday and then another Saturday. No wonder I scratch my head each day and search out the newspaper to figure out what day it is. What I should do is pin a note to myself with the day written on it.

I’ve eaten my weight in holiday cookies. Plus I’ve had more meals after 8pm than the typical European. (How do they do that and then function like a normal person the next day? I feel like a more rotund, slightly crabby version of myself after those late meals.)

So, yes, the HolVor does affect me somewhat. But there are other aspects that don’t. I don’t travel to see family this time of year. Hubby and I have jobs that don’t make it easy to hop on a plane and fly hundreds of miles with other merry travelers. Years ago we accepted that what makes the holidays special is to be together, quietly in our home. It’s not what most people opt to do but it makes us happy. So while I’m sitting in my quiet house my friends are caught up in their own HolVors. In a day or two I’m going to issue missing persons reports. Where the heck has everyone been?! People I talk to and see on regular basis have been AWOL; victims of HolVor. I’m getting lonely, dammit!

My last official HolVor act was last night. Hubby and I went to a neighborhood party. We lasted until midnight. (How did we do this in college every weekend?) He fell into a deep sleep that led to an epic snoring binge. The cat and I fled Mr. Snory McLoud for the guest bedroom.

The HolVor will end abruptly on Monday. Then we can get back to our normal, less festive, holiday cookie-less lives. Not as interesting to be sure.

Religious Experience

2008-12-23T22:30:00.000-06:00

I had one of the best meals in recent memory the other night. In fact I can’t remember the last meal I enjoyed more. This put me into an out of body experience where it was just me and the flavor of the meal dancing in the ether. Everything around me faded away as I focused on my senses of smell and taste.

Earlier in the day when I asked the hosts what I should bring, “Something simple,” they replied.

I brought a bag of lettuce.

And a tasteless hot house tomato.

Did I mention how great this meal was?

We had beef sirloin that was pan seared in butter, lightly seasoned and put into the oven just long enough to provide a nice medium-rare doneness. Delicious! That was paired with big-ass prawns that were grilled to perfection. The flavors of the two were indescribable. Wonderfully paired, melt in your mouth, gastro-perfect delight.

Sitting on the table in a bowl, all by itself, having seen fresher days, was my lazy-assed salad wilting by the minute. Of course everyone took some…out of politeness. But it was clear that this so-called side dish was far outclassed by the main event. It was like bringing Cheez Whiz to Martha Stewart’s house. Like hanging a black light poster in a Donald Trump condo. Like wearing Birkenstocks to a Sex and The City movie.

You get the drift.

Next time I’m invited to dinner I think I’ll just bring the salt.

The Upside of Down Dog

2008-12-21T13:20:00.000-06:00

Just got done doing a yoga video that a friend recommended. It was a great workout...challenging to the point that I got all jelly-legged and shaky. It worked on strength and flexiblity and made me centered and peaceful. Great, huh? But I wonder if this DVD is really geared toward yoga enthusiasts or pervs.

Why?

Because the production quality made it look like a soft core porn video.

The 'class' was made up of both women and men all dressed in white. The women wore traditional yoga gear while the men were all bare chested and wearing underwear (or it sure looked like underwear). One guy had boxers, another had those briefs that came down to mid-thigh. The lead instructor has this long curly hair and a calm speaking voice.

My problem was (1) should I just sit back and watch this thing or (2) actually follow along? Since I had a hankering for yoga I chose to follow his voice and not gawk at the TV screen very much. What a killjoy I am! In one section the instructor had his arm wrapped around the waist of one of the female students while he encouraged us all to deepen our stretch.

Uh, right.

After my workout I shared my impressions with Hubby. He admitted to watching morning workout shows with chicks in bikinis. So I guess there is the perfect workout video for us all. And we don't even need to exercise (in the traditional sense).

People Who Need People

2008-12-20T16:25:00.000-06:00

Every Friday I engage in my guilty pleasure. It isn’t sordid or something I hide from others. (At least not consciously.) I peer into the mailbox and there it is! This week’s People magazine. I can enjoy the next 60 minutes or so in my form of escapism. Forget reality TV or video games. My way to unwind after a long week is to gawk at celebrity pictures and read snippets about their lives.

The way-too-smart-for-her-own-good part of my brain says I should feed my mind. Maybe I should aspire for higher-minded fare. Aww screw it! I spend Monday through Friday working for ‘the man’. Friday nights are for my People.

And what people they are. Frolicking on beaches and far-flung foreign lands. Playing with their kids in NYC and LA. It’s not that their lives are more fascinating than mine. (Hello, Delusional, table for one) My attraction to People is pure and simple – I like the pictures and brevity of the articles. It’s a children’s picture book for adults. It’s pretty and shiny and easy to read. No jargon; nothing to memorize and learn; don’t need to create a PowerPoint and report its contents to management.

Granted there isn’t much new I learn in People. What I like is the celebrity news I may have already picked up online during the week. But there’s something about the presentation and layout that make it candy for my eyes. Plus People isn’t mean-spirited like some other celebrity mags. If I’m in a grouchy mood I can pick one of those up at the grocery store with my pint of Ben & Jerrys and bottle of Pinot Grigio.

A friend of mine said she switched to another mag because the feel-good articles about regular people irritated her. I guess when you’ve had a bad week warm and fuzzy can be annoying.

The guilty pleasure magazine of college and my 20s was Cosmopolitan. I recently glanced at the cover and realized how much of a prude I’ve become. I guess that goes to show that guilty pleasures change over time.

So it’s off into People-land where everyone is attractive, rich and happy. That will be followed by my Wii bowling tournament. I broke 100 the other day!

End of Days

2008-12-04T21:15:00.000-06:00

Check this link out. I swear if Nordstroms goes under I will lose my will to live!

Maybe we can start an over-under game on which retailers will actually die off. (One's I'd like to see gone include Toys R Us, Dressbarn and that junky party store.)

My Advice Vice

2008-12-02T17:38:00.000-06:00

See if you can determine the problem….

My friend TJ screwed up her knee and will need surgery. She’s been hobbling around with a knee brace which is no fun. I don’t envy her at all. It's hard to walk. She can’t work out. Plus she needs to carefully determine what she is going to wear each day. (Skinny jeans and knee braces are a fashion DON’T.) This has been going on for weeks while she awaits the opportunity to have surgery.

TJ has been putting on a brave face and taking this all in stride. But she recently cracked and complained about her situation. Good, I thought, she’s going to vent and get all the frustration out of her system.

“I’ve probably gained five pounds since this happened,” she wailed.

“Oh, honey. It’s ok,” I replied in my supportive voice. “If it gets really bad you can always take up bulimia.”

Stop the tape. Rewind.

Did I really suggest that barfing after meals would solve her problems related to her suck-y knee injury? Yes I did. Why?

Because I don’t have a filter in my brain to get rid of the stupid, garbage advice-thoughts I have. I just blurt them out. (And then feel pretty damn good about my unique problem solving skills.)

This has been a long term issue for me. And I have yet to learn my lesson. Fortunately I have good friends who take my advice with a grain of salt.

Some other gems uttered from my pie hole:

To the friend whose teenage son was acting out: “Send him to military school.”

To the friend who was dealing with major anxiety about her kids and marriage: “Get your doc to give you some drugs like Percoset or Vicodin -- something good that people get addicted to. Oooh, valium would work too!”

To the college friend who hadn’t been with a man (in the biblical sense) for a long time: “You know, becoming a nun could be a good thing. It’s quiet and you don’t pay any rent.”

Yep, I’d call my nationally syndicated advice column: Bad Advice to Good Friends. Just give me a problem and I can pair you up with a vice or ridiculous recommendation. You have a solution… and I have entertainment for months to come.

Fortunately, TJ isn't listening to me. No one should.

Killing Trees for Jesus

2008-11-30T13:50:00.000-06:00

Hubby and I brought home our Christmas tree yesterday. After some heavy sighs and evil glances at each other, we hoisted the tree into its stand. Right now it is sucking water and waiting to be decorated. And, much to Hubby's convenience, he is out of town for the next couple of days, leaving the tree decorating to yours truly.

I am considering a 'green' theme this year. In fact it would be so green that nothing would be put on the tree. No lights, no decorations, nothing to detract from its beautiful tree-ness.

Note that I have t-shirts from beer companies surrounding the base? This looks like the Christmas tree that male college roommates bought back to their off-campus apartment. To complete the look I may stack some empty beer cans pyramid-style in front of the tree. You're not going to find this kind of 'style' in Martha Stewart magazine.