May I Have Your Pic-a-nic Basket?

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!)

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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:

1. -the water level in the cup
2. -the diameter of his head
3. -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?

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

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

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

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

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.