Escalating Acts of Randomness*

If random (and moderately disturbing) texting ever becomes an Olympic event, rest assured, you don't have a shot at the gold. Bronze, maybe. Silver, if you're lucky. But the gold surely belongs to Daughter-Only and I.


Here's a recent text conversation between Daughter-Only and I in its shockingly pointless and odd entirety. It began normally enough--with D-O asking if I was getting a break from work (presumably so I could give her a ride home)--and then swerved completely out of control almost immediately. Daughter-Only got the last word because I was forced by the cruelties of timing to actually pay attention to my job while I was at work.


D-O: Break?


MM: In Bolivar [a town about 15 miles from home].


D-O: Why?


MM: Meeting.


D-O: Until when?


MM: 9--I'm not getting a break. Working til 10:30.


D-O: I know you work until 10:30 you silly little poopsicle.


MM: Sweet.


D-O: Yep. Diaper rash.


MM: Ostrich ass feathers.


D-O: Blue chicken wing pillow fights.


MM: Are just the wings or the entire chickens blue? Is it a naturally occurring blue or a sign of injury, disease or other bodily distress?


D-O: The wings are. And they were born that way, after of course, the Great Explosion of Nayithe, in which a number of cats vomited on William's coat.


MM: Ah, but the question remains who put the bomp in the bomp-de-bomp-de-bomp? PS--Whoever it was failed to put the bomp in the T9.


D-O: Well the little ditty of Vienna thinks you're so vain time after time.


MM: Uh--of COURSE I'm vain--this song is about me. And then some.


D-O: Nope. Wrong again. It's about the Pilgrims swimming in tidal pools of iguana saliva.


MM: Sweet salmonella--you win. But worry not--the hounds of heinieville will rise to howl again--and maybe even hump your leg.


D-O: Wicked wheat waffles!! How could the dolphin orphanages host such a curtain of packing peanuts? It's slutterly ridiculous.


MM: Depends entirely upon what is packed among those peanuts. Was it Schrodinger's cat? Cuz if you apply the Dupendorfer principle the answer is bad venison.


D-O: No, no. Schrodinger's brother was in those peanuts!! Incoming news: an obese walrus from Tenessee just had a severe heart attack on the walls of a Turkish ballet studio. Bring immediate help! (And two lollipops.)


MM: What flavor? Lollipops I mean. Everyone knows walruses are root beer flavored. Except the really old ones--they taste like avacados.

D-O: Not nearly as bad as the douche canoe flavor of an Indian Vortex Lion. Oh, what's that? You don't know what a douche canoe tastes like? That's insane. Who hasn't tasted a makeshift boat filled entirely, and only with vaginal cleansers?! You are sooo deprived.


MM: True story.


D-O: Not as true as the skies are blue.

MM: It is too truer than the skies are blue. But not quite as true as the blue chicken wings were blue.

D-O: Goat killing should be provided by the 97th amendment.

MM: I thought that was the plan. Unfortunately both goats and their potential killlers will succumb to a rogue hiccup virus long before that amendment's passed.


D-O: Terrible how one tiny sheep-wannabe can be mentally damaged to the point of no-return by a single rusty-orange fingernail.


MM: That's a whole other bale of fish fur.


D-O: Shedding bananas, SmudgyFace! What a brilliant observation. It's as delicate as looking into a tin foil mirror with only seconds left on the clock of doom.

*Randomness beat out randmosity here largely because the suffix "-osity" was ruined for me by the episode of Growing Pains where Carol got the job writing for the school paper and in her eagerness to show off her superior intelligence fills her assignments with unnecessarily long and complicated words. The paper's advisor calls her in and tells her, "This story stinks." She says, "I don't understand." And he says something like let me put it in words you will understand: "It's replete with stinkyosity."

C'mon, October, Seriously?

Dear October,


My blog buddy Erika over at Dry, Ink had a few stern words for you last week about your behavior in Louisiana--specifically about your failure to show your face and put an end to temperatures in the nineties. I'm not sure what you're doing with yourself in Louisiana this week, but I'm not at all amused by what you've done around here.


Your job in our little corner of the world is to gently usher the leaves off the trees as you gradually lower the temperatures, preferably with strikingly blue skies to highlight the gorgeous colors of the leaves. Instead, we've had rain and cold and clouds and this morning, we had this:




I mean WTF and a half, October! Two inches of wet, heavy snow?! Widespread power outages due to the leaf/snow combination breaking limbs and taking out power lines across the region?!


I wasn't really sure what to do with you, October. Should you be grounded? Or fired? Have your paycheck docked? Fifty lashes with a downed power line? Then it hit me, I'm going to do something even worse...

I'm telling Erika on you.

Biopsy Performed By That Dude From The Frat House Down The Street

Son-Three was home from college a weekend or so ago and showed me a small growth on his neck--something he believed was a skin tag but that I was pretty sure was a mole in the larval stages. In any case, it didn't meet the criteria for anything to be overly concerned about--just something to keep an eye on.

He texted me the other day: "Can I rip off a skin tag?"

I texted back: "A. No. B. It might be a mole. C. No."

The return message? "Let's say I already did and I'm sure it's not a mole."

Let's say I'm glad I was 100 miles away when that determination was made.

My Newest Superpower: Interior Design

Looking around our cramped bedroom that's painted a horrid shade of blue just this side of teal*, Hubby says, "This room needs painted badly."

I look around at the bulging and cracking wallpaper covered with a quarter-inch thick layer of pukey blue paint and at the window and door frames plastered over with the same thickly applied paint, and observe, "Uh, it's already painted badly."

*Teal is a four-letter word.

How It Got Here I Haven't A Clue*

A month into his first year of college, Son-Three reports that one of his new college friends marked two milestones in one day. In the morning, this friend, JD, got his first tattoo--praying hands--at a local shop called The Pink Armadillo. That evening, he decided to drink alcohol for the first time--and ended up drinking until he was quite wasted.

So wasted in fact, he approached Son-Three and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Dude, look at this, look at this. Someone drew hands on me! Who would do that? I'm totally going to get to the bottom of this."

Son-Three says, "JD, remember? You got that from The Pink Armadillo."

JD mulls this over for a second then says with amazement, "Dude--did you know pink armadillos could draw?!"

*From "Margaritaville," a song in which Jimmy Buffet commemorates a few of his own milestones such as looking for his lost shaker of salt, blowing out his flip-flop by stepping on a pop-top and, of course, the brand-new tattoo: "It's a real beauty, a Mexican cutie/How it got here I haven't a clue."

Let Her Out Once In A While To Get Some Air

Bumped into a former Shop Groupie at the grocery store two days in a row. She's an old friend of Cranky Boss Lady who dresses almost exclusively in various patterns of camouflage though she neither hunts nor was ever in the military. On seeing me the second day, she said, "You sure cruise these, uh, food places a lot."

"Yeah, that's how I keep my girlish figure," I said, while waving my hand to highlight my decidedly ungirlish shape.

Camo Lady raised an eyebrow. "Where do you keep her?"

Laughing, I said, "In a locker at home--it's the only place she's really safe."

"Yeah, I've had mine tucked away so long I'm not sure I remember where I left her."

"I used to take her out on special occasions--I guess it has been a while."

Happy To Do My Part

First day of school. Daughter-Only and I head out the door early--determined to get off on the right foot. Apparently, we're not the only ones. Traffic around the school is backed up through all the surrounding intersections--cars stopped at weird angles, people sitting through two or three lights halfway through the intersection, and so on.

Suddenly, I see our chronic lateness last year in a whole new light. I had thought I was disorganized and a failure as a parent for being unable to motivate my children to get out the door on time most days.

I see now I was merely playing an important role in reducing the morning traffic congestion around the school.

You're welcome.

I'll Take Potent Potables For $500, Alex

My current state of mind, revealed in text messages:

Little Sister: We have a bunch of lemons. Do you want them for lemonade?

MM: Sure--are these literal lemons or metaphorical lemons?

LS: I will just give you the literal ones and spare you my metaphorical ones. :)

MM: That sounds good. Despite what you may have heard, the metaphorical ones are often too sour to make a potable lemonade.

LS: Definitely! and bitter too.

Our Little Girl Is A Woman Now, Or Have You Ever Really, Really Wanted To Laugh Even Though You Knew Laughing Was The Utterly "Wrong" Thing To Do?

So Ex Sister-in-Law and I and her two daughters, Third Niece and Fourth Niece*, along with Daughter-Only, were school shopping over the weekend. This shopping involved driving in Rochester, which compared with my teeny tiny town is the Big City. At one point, I lost patience with the guy in front of me and said just above a whisper, "All right, fuckwipe, make a decision or get the hell out of the way."

ES-I-L chuckled and said, "Wow, I've never heard you cuss behind the wheel before."

I explained that now that my job involves driving so much I really have a lot less patience for other people on the road. Daughter-Only piped up somewhat in my defense, "Well at least you're not as bad as So-and-So [a family friend known to be a little, shall we say, testy, especially behind the wheel]. She screams at everyone."

"Well, that's because So-And-So is a B-I-T-C-H," I pointed out, oh-so-cleverly spelling the word even though my nieces are 9 and 12 and well beyond the age when I can get away with that.

Without missing a beat, Third Niece chimes in, "Are you just F-U-C-K-I-N figuring that out?"

*Formerly Youngest Niece and Next-To-Youngest Niece, whose Blog Names have been changed by the arrival of Fifth Niece, brand new daughter of Baby Brother and Sister-in-Law-To-Be. Similarly, Only-Nephew has become First Nephew with the arrival of Second Nephew (formerly Fetus-On-The-Fridge).

Don't Even Mention The Table Saw

So we've moved again about which I'm not at all happy. I've been acting like a complete ass instead of acting grateful to have a roof over my head. In my defense, it's not that easy to muster gratitude for a roof when it's not only got moss growing on it but grass and a few stalks of goldenrod sprouting up there as well. Looking on the bright side in this case probably means being grateful that the goldenrod didn't have fertile enough ground to actually bloom.

In addition to the flora sprouting from the roof, the house was full of the previous tenant's belongings. Not just a few things left behind in a last minute move, but rooms full of furniture, clothing, bedding, eyeglasses, half-finished bottles of water, and so much more--all tidily arranged and remarkably clean considering the house had been left empty for nearly a year.*

This meant essentially moving two households of stuff over the course of six days. Our new landlord told us we were welcome to keep any of the left-behind stuff that we wanted and have a yard sale with the rest. Hubby was delighted to find a variety of new (still in the package) and like-new power tools on the cluttered back porch. On one of our many trips between houses, he said to me, "There was a belt sander that I don't think has ever been used."

From the backseat, Daughter-Only piped up, "Why would you want to sand your belt?"

*Long and complicated story, but we've been assured she's not dead and also not coming back for any of her stuff.

Embracing Change

Big changes are afoot here at Masked Mom Headquarters. (For starters, we've apparently begun using the word "afoot" with a relatively straight face.) Long-time readers and long-suffering real world friends and family members all know that change is not my favorite thing, but the thing about change is that it comes whether you like it or not.

The flower shop where I've been working (or engaged in occasional work-like activity broken up by long periods of reading, writing, gossiping, and yelling at the boss) for ten years closed permanently as of May 30. I was fortunate enough to find a new job before the shop closed--so there was no gap in employment but instead an overlap during which I worked 50-70 hours a week at both places all while still ferrying around four children and trying to occasionally remember I have a husband.

The new place is a halfway house where I have already been promoted to the position of "transportation coordinator" which is a fancy way of saying I'm in charge of getting seventeen assorted recovering addicts to their various appointments (and back again) in a timely fashion. Plus filing monthly reports on mileage, gas and other expenses and keeping up maintenance for the house's four vehicles.

It's more money than I was making before--and way more challenging and entertaining. So I'm learning at this late date that maybe embracing change is the best plan--especially when it's inevitable.
And I would embrace it--I really would--but I'm too tired to lift my arms.

Apparently Not Everyone Is Equally Hooked On Phonics

There was a period of time when the kids were younger when Hubby and I got in the habit of calling each other "diphthong" as a teasing insult. I don't even vaguely remember how it got started, but I know that at one point, Hubby called Youngest Sister that and she quickly came back with "Umlaut!" To which he responded, "Schwa!"

You not only had to be there for that one, you also had to be a little bit of a geek.

Flash forward to this afternoon. Phone call from Son-One, "Mom, what's a diphthong? I just called Girlfriend-One a diphthong and she didn't know what it means and I just realized I don't really know how to explain it."

Ah, Son-One perhaps you should worry a little less about the defintion of diphthong and a little more about what other quirky time-bombs are left behind from your childhood...

Shakespearean Dandruff

Despite being present and very, very alert during her birth, I have occasionally wondered if Daughter-Only was perhaps switched at birth or dropped here from an alien ship because she is so very different in so many ways from her dear old mom. She's very social for one thing, supremely confident--occasionally annoyingly so, she will say anything to anyone (or so it seems). She has, for instance, proposed to several total strangers with a relatively straight face. She has walked down Main Street in town asking random people if they've ever been to Chuck E. Cheese or if they know the Mexican Hat Dance. She's just an all-around out-there kind of kid--unlike her mother, who while decidedly weird, has always kind of hidden her weird little light under a bushel.

Anyway, last night, she says to me, "Mom! How come T-9* has 'Shakespearean' but it doesn't have 'dandruff?'"

Try--just try--to imagine a texting world in which it would be necessary to use either the word Shakespearean or the word dandruff. And then, take that one step further into a universe in which the same person might need to text both words in the same one-hour period.

She's mine. She's definitely mine.

*T-9 is the texting "dictionary" in some cell phones.

Lessons Learned #346

In no particular order, some things Masked Mom has learned in recent weeks:

1. While I was born right-handed, I did go through a phase as a kid where I tried to retrain myself so I could work equally well (or at least acceptably) with my left hand. This was wildly unsuccessful and motivated almost entirely by the fact that I loved the word "ambidextrous." Recently I noticed that without even being aware of it, I had been texting left-handed. Not only can I text left-handed, I can text signficantly faster and more accurately with my left-hand than with my right: I'm ambiTEXTrous!

2. My 14-year-old daughter has a firm grasp of supply and demand and may be some kind of budding economic whiz kid. When she found out that tickets to the high school's production of Little Shop of Horrors cost $6, she said, "I thought, 'That's ridiculous for a high school play.' But then I realized that Hot Senior Boy is wearing tight leather pants in the play--now that's worth $6!"

3. There's nothing quite like waking up with a migraine to make you appreciate waking up the next day without one.

"Where's My Bailout?"

"Where's my bailout?" said Cranky Boss Lady to the (long-suffering and insanely underpaid) Masked Mom for the millionth time.

For the millionth time, I say, with exaggerated (and not entirely heartfelt) patience, "The theory* is that the bailouts given to the banks and other financial institutions will benefit the economy as a whole in the end--so we're all being bailed out, sort of."

Cranky Boss Lady says, with a whine for crap's sake, "It's not fair."

I lose it. "How old are you? Didn't you just turn 58?! Can you really be walking around expecting the world to be fair?!"

Seriously--you know what's not fair? Being trapped in a truly dead-end job with a FIFTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD boss who is still wounded by the unfairness of life and being trapped in that job at a time when the economy is so crappy that I feel lucky every day to have even that job.


*Note that I am not defending the theory. Neither am I pretending to fully understand the forces at work in high finance or in the federal government.

And the Winner Is--

Rough coupla days around these parts. When it comes to the most disturbing thing I've heard in the last four days, it's a toss-up. The candidates:

My mechanic saying, "It is the fuel pump. Once you figure in all the parts and labor it's going to be just a hair over $400."

The girl at the car rental agency saying, "We're going to go ahead and upgrade you to the Malibu because the Cobalt has a funky smell in it and we can't figure out where it's coming from."

Refrigerator Art

Last night, Son-Three yells from the kitchen: "Just what I want to see when I'm trying to decide what to have for a snack: a fetus!"

Technically it's not a fetus, but an ultrasound picture held on the refrigerator by a magnet. And it's not a picture of just any fetus, but a fetus with my youngest sister's nose or a fetus who looks just like my brother-in-law, depending on which side of the family you ask. It is, in short, a baby whose expected arrival in late summer is eagerly awaited not only by Youngest Sister and her husband but by the many people who love them.

Even Son-Three, who is sometimes relentlessly, dangerously adolescent, is excited. Son-Three happens, by sheer coincidence, to share a real-life name with Youngest Sister's Husband*. This afternoon, he says to me, "Mom, if it's a boy do you think they'll name it after me?"

*Lou B. of the Masked Mom Comment Hall of Fame**

**There is no Masked Mom Comment Hall of Fame, but if there were you can bet your butt he'd be in it.

Where's Homeland Security When You Need Them?

Taylor Swift's song "Love Story" is insidious. And not in a good way.

It not only gets in your head, it stays there. It is bouncy, repetitive and sickly sweet. I spent a recent night waking up repeatedly to the sound of those lyrics and that boppy tune chasing themselves around in my brain. It made falling back asleep difficult. I would finally drift off only to be woken up again a short time later. And again and again.

All this despite the fact that I haven't actually heard more than the opening few seconds of the song in days. When I hear it begin on the radio (I can name that tune in two synthesized notes), I change the channel not only quickly but vehemently. A song that relentless has got to have some connection to al Qaeda, right?

Decisions, Decisions...

Years ago, I read a riddle on the last page of Reader's Digest. It went something like, "There were seven frogs on a log. Five of them decided to jump off. How many frogs were left on the log?"

Two, right?

Son-Three, who was seven or eight at the time, piped up, "Seven!" without even a second's hesitation, which was of course the right answer because, as the punchline helpfully pointed out, "Deciding and doing are two different things."

I've been thinking a lot about those frogs lately. The fact that Son-Three got it--at seven or eight and so quickly!--while I failed to get it at all at thirty-something was probably an indication of more than just my slow-wittedness. The fact is deciding and I have a decidedly dysfunctional relationship.

On the one hand, I will spend absurd amounts of time agonizing over seemingly trivial decisions--seriously, I've spent more than an hour picking out a birthday card on more than one occasion. Hubby has practically had to physically drag me out of the pen aisle at Wal-Mart when the choices--blue, black, ballpoint, gel, clicker or cap--have overwhelmed me. On the other hand, I will often make much more serious decisions--say getting married or naming one of my children after a high-end sports car--with much less agony and forethought.

Further complicating matters, the degree of agony involved in making a decision is no indicator whatsoever of the likelihood that I will actually follow-through with said decision. In other words, as fraught as my relationship with deciding may be, my relationship with doing is much more so. Deciding and I should maybe someday be in couples counseling. Doing and me? Well, it's straight to the Jerry Springer Show for us.

For instance, I have decided a number of times (a very high number) to go back to school. I have decided to look up information. I have decided on courses of study. I have decided to fill out the applications and financial aid forms. Of all the times I have made these decisions--sometimes it seems I've made them on a daily basis--I have made it three-quarters of the way through the applicaton process exactly one time before being distracted by the facts of my life and by the very convincing whining of my little chickenshit brain.

This is one frog who's very tired of sitting on the log. Tired of deciding over and over again to jump off. This frog has gotten tough with herself, putting her foot down--this time I'm serious!--and she's tired of that too.

This time, she's not deciding a single damn thing. She's doing.

The Wednesday UnWhine: "Guess What!? Tomorrow Is The Day Before Friday!"...

...that's how I was greeted this morning by Baby Brother's Girlfriend's Four-Year-Old Daughter, her voice full of excitement--the kind of excitement you might expect if she'd won the lottery and the oversized check was being delivered by Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny.

Hard to maintain a whiny attitude in the face of all that enthusiasm.

The Wednesday Whine (Introducing An (Alliterative) Weekly* Collection Of Things That Have Annoyed Me Most In The Past Week)

For this, the premiere episode of The Wednesday Whine, I'll begin with the thing that annoyed me the absolute most this past week and then continue in no particular order:

A. Due to prior commitments to beings I brought into the world who think this fact somehow entitles them to huge chunks of my time and energy and commitments to other people I did not bring into the world but who nonetheless seemingly ceaselessly clamor for my (limited) time and energy, I was unable to begin The Wednesday Whine on an actual Wednesday but had to wait instead for Friday night after a stressful volleyball game and, therefore, am too exhausted to self-edit thereby producing this amazingly long, essentially senseless, if not actually run-on, sentence.

B. Church sign I saw last Saturday night: "NEVER BE AFRAID TO TRUST AN UNKNOWN FUTURE TO A KNOWN COD." Yes, it said "COD," just like that. I drove by, did a double-take and actually backed up to double check. Heck of a "typo," but that wasn't really what annoyed me. What annoyed me was they left it up like that all week. Who knows? Maybe it was a recruitment strategy: lure people into calling to report the "mistake" and then invite them to Sunday service.

C. When I mentioned the church sign to Cranky Boss Lady she said, "A known cod? Would that be Van De Kamp's or Gorton's?" That annoyed me, because it was fast and funny and Cranky Boss Lady's not supposed to be either of those things.

D. In other more typical Cranky Boss Lady news: After making the harrowing drive in to work during a winter storm, she said, "I couldn't help noticing that everyone off the side of the road was driving an SUV" in a tone suggesting there was some kind of karmic justice being wreaked out there on the road--arrogant, overconfident, four-wheel drive driving drivers, blah, blah blah getting what they deserve by winding up stuck in a snow drift. Great theory. Would've meant a heck of a lot more were Cranky Boss Lady not the proud owner & driver of a four-wheel drive vehicle who only last month found herself off the side of a snow-covered road, stuck in a ditch, needing towed out by a tractor. As she rambled on about irresponsible SUV drivers, not for one second did her own overconfident navigation of her own SUV cross her judgmental little mind. Errrrrgggg.

*No promises.

Happy, Happy Inauguration Day To You

On every birthday up to a certain age, someone invariably would ask me, "You're 4 (or 7 or 10) do you feel any different?"

And, of course, I didn't feel any different than I'd felt the night before when I was still 3 or 6 or 9 because the essence of being 4 or 7 or 10 can't be compressed into a single day or a single moment.

I was thinking about that today, as our 44th president was inaugurated: We have a new president, do I feel any different?

Well...the truth is that a new president will affect the day-to-day facts of our lives very little in the immediate future.

But...the other truth is that I do feel different and I think that feeling is called hope and I think and believe that the man who was sworn in today along with the team he has assembled around himself, can live up to that hope.

PS--Obama's speech was moving and perfectly delivered and I think that's great because I think a good 65% or so of the presidency is about public relations (at home and abroad), but still the best words I heard all day were on the AP radio feed: "A helicopter carried former President Bush away from Washington toward Andrews Air Force base..."

Two Observations For The New Year

--Flannel sheets are the double-edged sword of linens. Good: they are amazingly warm and fuzzy and comfortable. Bad: they are amazingly warm and fuzzy and comfortable so you never want to get out of bed, which severely compromises your ability to function in your normal life. But it's okay because flannel sheets are way better than functioning normally.


--I have grown increasingly perturbed in recent weeks by the fact that windshield wash comes in gallon jugs while the reservoir in my car apparently holds three quarts. I started thinking about it and I've never driven (or filled) a vehicle that did hold the whole gallon. At this point I have six quarts of windshield wash in my garage in six separate containers because I always forget about the leftovers. Shouldn't someone in the wash industry get with someone in the auto industry and hammer out a plan to address this disparity? Maybe we could use a couple million out of the bail-out money to finance that little project, it would make about as much sense as some of the other stuff that's come out of it.

That Holiday Spirit

I was in Kmart early in December and saw what appeared to be a grandmother with her granddaughter. The granddaughter's (apparent)dad had gone in the opposite direction and the granddaughter, who looked to be about three, was squirming in the cart, and saying, to the grandmother, "I don't want you. I don't love you." in a whiny three-year-old voice.

The grandmother said, "Well, good, because the less people who like me this time of year means the less presents I have to buy."

Warms the heart, doesn't it?

NaBloPoMo Recovery

One of the things that happens when you post every day for a month is that when it's over, you feel kind of funny not posting for the first few days.

Then you get over it.

Best Laid Plans and All That Crap

So I made it.

Just barely and with more than a few questionable posts, but still, I made it.

I had a post planned about what I've learned from yet another month of daily posting but a heaping helping of driving two boys back to college with side orders of freezing rain and holiday traffic have dashed those fantastic plans.

Maybe next time.

Saving The Best For Last...

...and tonight's only next-to-last.

Our Whole Friendship In a Nutshell

It's been a busy couple of days. Today, especially, morphed from a much-needed vacation day at work to seven-and-a-half hours of funeral work and deliveries followed by a frantic two hours of errands for the various people in my life. In the midst of all this fun, a friend--Ms. Unattainable--texted me--she was having a minor moment and needed an ear, could I squeeze in dinner with her? When I said yes, she asked if I was sure because she knew how busy I was (she, unlike me, was actually off on her day off, and we had been in touch off and on throughout the day).

My answer: "It's fine--a break from my own insanity for a little of yours will be refreshing."

Giving Thanks...

Too stuffed to post...much.

Just Askin'

You know how you always hear women of a certain age--say 40 and up--talking about finally being "comfortable my own skin?" Now, I'm no expert, having only recently entered the four-ohs, but doesn't it seem possible that we're more comfortable in our skin because that skin is all stretched out and baggy like a worn-out sweatshirt and a broken-in pair of jeans?

...And Humble Too

In the car with Daughter-Only on the way to retrieve Son-One for Thanksgiving Break when she says, in what can only be described as an awe-filled voice:

"I was just sitting here thinking how awesome I am."

Oooohkay.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: The Wordy Shipmates

[In honor of NaBloPoMo (read: because I was such an idiot as to commit to posting daily), Masked Mom's Media Monday makes its triumphant (albeit likely very temporary) return.]

I was reading Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates at work last week when Cranky Boss Lady glanced over and said, "What's that about?"

I answered, "The Puritans."

She cringed. "Isn't it boring?" I thought at first it was kind of a silly question because, well Cranky Boss Lady was asking it, and since if I found it boring I likely wouldn't have been halfway through the book and so absorbed in it that I was having a hard time putting it down to actually do my job. But the truth is I'd never found the Puritans all that fascinating and the main reason I'd picked up the book was Sarah Vowell's name on the cover. Frankly, I'd follow Vowell to just about any topic she'd want to cover.

And even in this subject, the (allegedly) boring Puritans, Vowell did not disappoint:

"By March, good old Miantonomi sends Boston a tribute of 'forty fathom of wampum and a Pequot's hand,' severed body parts being the seventeenth-century equivalent of a gift basket of mini-muffins."

"Mason is triumphant. After all, this is the will of a righteous God. He praises the Lord for 'burning them up in the fire of his wrath, and dunging the ground with their flesh: It is the Lord's doings, and it is marvelous in our eyes!' That might be the creepiest exclamation point in American literature. No, wait--it's this one: 'Thus did the Lord judge among the heathen, filling the place with their dead bodies!'"

In between smart-ass commentary about the Puritans, Vowell fits in lots of information and even some smart-ass commentary about herself:

"I wish I didn't undertand why Hutchinson risks damning herself to exile and excommunication just for the thrill of shooting off her mouth and making other people listen up. But this here book is evidence that I have this confrontational, chatty bent myself."

And in her usual way, she painlessly sneaks in lessons about how we came to think America is the greatest nation on earth and how, while it might be true, it can be a horribly dangerous notion when taken to extremes.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Enlightening.


*Or at least pretend a little harder to be doing my job--though, frankly, a lot of my job lately actually seems to consist entirely of pretending--pretending to be fascinated by the tales of CBL's newest relationship; pretending not to be panicked by the latest round of economic news and what it means for a luxury industry like ours; pretending to have any respect for CBL's opinions on business, politics, religion or any other topic at all; pretending not to want to duct tape CBL's ever-yammering mouth shut...

Hmmmm...

Got this in a fortune cookie the other day and it's been bugging me ever since:

"Ignorance on fire is better than knowledge on ice."

My first thought was "huh?"

My second: "Not only is that not true, it could be dangerous."

My third: "Someone from the Bush administration has been writing fortune cookies."

A Tale Of Two Colleges

Son-One started it by choosing a college in Buffalo, a place known for its nasty winter weather and the dreaded lake effect snow*. Son-Two upped the ante by choosing a college with dorms about one mile from Lake Erie, an area even more prone to lake effect snow.

Last semester as I set out to pick up Son-One for what was laughingly referred to as Spring Break (in March, in Buffalo), there were lake effect snow advisories and white knuckle driving most of the way up and back. The end result being a trip that normally takes four hours taking six instead.

Last night as I set out to pick up Son-Two for Thanksgiving break, there were lake effect snow warnings and white knuckle driving most of the way up and back. The end result being a trip that normally takes four-and-a-half hours taking six instead.

You can only imagine how much I'm looking forward to picking up Son-One Tuesday night.

*For those uninitiated in lake effect greatness, lake effect snow is not caused by a storm but by cold air moving over the warm lakes where it picks up moisture, magically changes it to snow and dumps it by the footful on the regions near the Great Lakes. It is much less predictable than normal weather patterns and ever-so-much more fun.

Fake Post

Maybe the title should be "Another Fake Post." Anyway, my excuse this time is I am on my way to pick up Son-Two at college for Thanksgiving Break and I am not entirely certain I will make it back before midnight. Therefore, rather than the wise, witty and wonderful post you would've gotten if I WERE able to make it back by midnight, you're getting this--a(nother) fake post.

Taking One For The Team

Daughter-Only has not only given permission, but practically demanded that I run this portion of journal entry from February 1997, when she was two-and-three-quarters (or so) years old.

Monday, February 3, 1997

...Last night [Daughter-Only*] matter-of-factly informed me that she doesn't have a weenie. She said, "My weenie wasn't cut off, it was ruined." She said this while I was on the phone with J, who was gigantically amused. [Daughter-Only] refuses to discuss the vagina/vulva at all. She's pretty sure she has two butts.

*She did insist that if I was going to run it, I had to put "Daughter-Only" in brackets to indicate that I had replaced her actual name with "Daughter-Only" lest anyone think I was idiot enough to refer to her in my journal by my blog name for her.

You'll Be Happy To Know...

...it's not really a lack of ideas--I've got several, I mean maybe not enough to make it through the end of the month, but several, fairly decent ideas--it's the lack of energy to execute them properly. It's a lack of the quality time necessary to do these ideas justice.

There now, don't you feel better?

Browns vs. Bills

Last night, Son-Three attended his first NFL football game on a night when the temperature in Buffalo hovered in the low 20s. Among the first things he told me about this momentous occasion:

"Mom, I was talking to some Canadian guys in line for the bathroom and we just couldn't believe the steam coming out of the port-a-potties."

Whatever his future might hold, it's relatively certain that it won't include a career in sportscasting.

Up That Creek...

So tonight, completely lacking inspiration for a blog post, I turn to the little hardbound journals I keep filled with quotes I've pilfered from a gazillion sources--books and magazines mostly, but pop songs and cartoons on occasion*, in hopes of stirring up something. Two pages into my search I found this:

"You have to lay yourself on the altar to the muse. Because once she stops coming around you're really up a creek without a paddle." --Emmylou Harris (From "What I've Learned" column in Esquire, June 2004)

I can't help wondering what the muse of blogging would look like...would I even recognize her if she showed up?

*Like this from Franklin's mom on the adorable cartoon Franklin: "I know you tried your best last time, but maybe your best has gotten better since then."

Public Service Announcement Brought To You From The Backseat of Masked Mom's Car

Sitting in the car at the grocery store with three girls in the backseat--two eleven-year-olds and an eight-year-old. There is general noise and ruckus going on back there and in the midst of it comes this important health alert (courtesy of one of the eleven-year-olds):

"So-and-so tried to give me a titty twister. You should never do that--you could totally dismantle a woman's boobie doing that*."

*You know what else you shouldn't do? Use "dismantle" and "boobie" in the same sentence. You could totally unhinge an unstable forty-year-old in the front seat.

UGH

The halfway mark & I got nothin'.

I realize I've also had nothin' a significant number of days leading up to this one.

The difference is, as celebration of the halfway mark, I'm respecting us both enough to just say so up front.

Awww...

As a jaded cynic who has not only been married 21 years but has been in the flower business for nearly 10, I have a pretty low tolerance for sap. So imagine my delight* when the gentleman sending 21 roses to his wife for their 21st anniversary told me his card message: "I want these roses to see how beautiful you are."

He at least had the good sense to say, "There--is that corny enough?"

Didn't have the heart to tell him that as far as I'm concerned there are only two degrees of corny: not and way too.

*I was, however, exceedingly delighted to run his credit card, thank you very much.

Wishing Upon A (Non-Sequel Movie) Star

Upon all that is holy in Hollywood*, I wish the two-movie-at-a-time theater in town could someday soon get two movies at a time that don't have numbers after their titles. (Offerings for the past month: Saw V, Madagascar 2, High School Musical 3, broken up only by Beverly Hills Chihuahua, which while blessedly number-free, is still clearly not worthy of two hours (or so) of my time.) And no, Quantum of Solace (a.k.a. James Bond 1,239,394), opening this weekend, does not count, thanks for asking.

*Not much.

Always Lookin' On The Bright Side*

The other night, Hubby and I were playing cards with Daughter-Only, D-O's friend FR, Youngest Niece and Next-To-Youngest Niece. I went to put in a CD and Youngest Niece piped up, "Is that the CD with 'Delta Dawn' on it?"

She has a "Delta Dawn" fixation--picked up, I think, from an episode of Friends. It's a fixation I can totally understand, "Delta Dawn" being one of the first songs I ever knew all the words* to and a fairly easy song to sing-along to--if you're prone to that kind of thing, which of course, much to the chagrin of my entire family, I am. I have "Delta Dawn" on a mixed CD I've labeled "Time Machine (Country)," which also features early work by Dolly Parton, Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, Donna Fargo, and even Freddy Fender.

So I put in "Delta Dawn" and Youngest Niece and I were belting it out when three-quarters of the way through the song, Daughter-Only gets this stricken look on her face.

"Mom! Is this that CD with all the annoying country singers on it?!"

I offer a slightly evil smile: "Don't be silly honey, all the annoying country singers would never fit on one CD."


*Okay, most of the words. I've never understood exactly what kind of man stood by her side until today. At various times, I've thought it was a man "with a disease" or "with no-good knees" or "with loaded peas" or even "with goats and cheese." It seems so obvious now ("of low degree"), and I feel like a little bit of an idiot, but I maintain that it's still better than Daughter-Only thinking that Jon Bon Jovi was singing about "Bad Venison."

Tell Us How You Really Feel

More self-plagiarism. Whole sections of my spiral notebook journal are dedicated to what I call Petty Rants About Annoying People (I actually thought about using that as a blog name at one point, but it seemed kind of limiting. I mean what if I want to rant substantially about an annoying person?). Here's an example:

March 24, 1993
...My problem with [her] is her saccharine level artificial sweetness. Sure, it's sweet, but it's unnatural, it leaves an aftertaste and quite probably causes cancer in laboratory animals. It was in full force the day she was at the store. She also had her southern accent turned up a notch or two higher than usual and usual is nauseating enough. I know she's probably entitled to a slight twang because she lived in Florida and the Carolinas for fifteen years or so. But she was an adult even then and she's been out of the Twang Zone for a few years now. Anyway, it's just my opinion, but I think the accent is an accessory to her--the same as earrings or well-applied makeup. (Not that her makeup is all that well applied. It's more of a surrogate face.)

A Politician In The Larval Stage?

Driving Youngest Niece, who's eight, to school this morning and she's babbling away in the backseat as usual. Last week she was--like a lot of people--all about the election--she was a big Obama supporter and couldn't be happier that he won. This morning, she's going on about the Katy Perry song "Hot N Cold" and how much she loves the song and how she and her friend Jessica take turns singing the lines but they have to skip the PMS one because it has the "b"-word in it and they can't say that. In the midst of all this rattling on, she says, "You wouldn't believe how I act at school. I mean, you know how I act when I'm at home and with you, right?"

I acknowledge that I do have a little experience with her behavior. Then she says, "Well, I act totally different at school. You wouldn't believe it."

I say, "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Her answer? "Medium--it's a medium thing."

One For The Isn't It Romantic File

I'm at the kitchen counter, crumbling bacon to garnish the potato-bacon soup that's bubbling in the Crock-Pot when Hubby comes up behind me and after nuzzling my neck for a second says, "I'm not sure what smells better you or the soup!"

Is It Possible To Plagiarize Yourself? If So, Is It Wrong To Enjoy It?

Sometimes the quickest route to appreciating where you are is to take a look at where you've been. From the spiral notebook journals I've kept since a few days before my fifteenth birthday this entry was written at a time when Hubby and I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three children four and under, a dog and a cat:

Sunday, February 14, 1993

There was a mitten in the cat food bowl. Things like that happen around here--I don't waste a lot of time struggling against the indominitable forces of chaos. Once I found my diaphragm in the dish drainer. To this day, I do not understand how it got there. But that only serves to prove my point: Chaos is the natural order of things. How much time and energy should we expend fighting it? Don't think I don't recognize that argument for the excuse (for laziness) that it is.

I am feeling overwhelmed by housework. Things aren't messier here than usual, it is just that I am trying harder than ever before and it's still messy. There are just too many of us here--the apartment is so tiny and we have so many THINGS. It is getting to the point where buying a Matchbox car is a major decision--do we really have the room?

Life's Little Mysteries

Life is just full of those moments that make you wonder, "Why are we here? What's it all for?" For instance, here's a true transcript of a conversation I had with Daughter-Only earlier today:

To set the scene--we were in the car, having just dropped off her friend J. D-O had been trying to figure out what might be going on this evening with two other friends, T and L. And I was pressuring her to tell me where it was I needed to take her. For the previous five minutes, at approximately thirty second intervals the exchanges went basically like this:

Me: "Where am I taking you?"
D-O: "Hold on, I don't know, I need to talk to T..."

Finally, I said, quite firmly, "D-O, I just need to know where to take you. I can't continue driving around in circles, I'm supposed to be picking up your father."

Her response?

"The moral of the story is that MD is the best-smelling boy in our grade."

Oh-kay...I'm not sure what story this tidbit might be the moral of, but I'm relatively certain it's not the moral of the story I've been trying to get her to tell for the past five minutes.

Blahg Post

Blah blah blah blah, blah-blah blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, blah-de-blah blah blah blah.

Blah blah blah blah blah*, blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah blah; blah blah blah blah blah!

*Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah.

What? Still No Book Contract?

A friend and I were texting the other day about her ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend*. This girlfriend has a disproportionately large, um, behind--it's so noticeable that I've literally never heard anyone mention her in passing without also mentioning her--uh--backside.

My friend: Do you think my butt is almost as big as hers?

Me: Are you on crack? (Butt crack maybe?)

Considering what a way I have with words, it's really a wonder the literary establishment isn't knocking down my door at this very moment.

*Oh stop--you know you do it too.

Didja Vote--A Recycled Post With A 100% New Introduction

I originally wrote this two years ago and while some things seem different this time around (early reports were saying voter turn-out was high, etc), some things haven't changed much at all. Cranky Boss Lady regaled me yesterday with "20 Things You Don't Know About The Presidential Candidates" gleaned from the Sunday newspaper that included such compelling (and relevant if by relevant you mean not relevant at all) tidbits as both candidates are left-handed and that McCain's favorite book is For Whom The Bell Tolls and that Barack Obama is a Fugees fan. Guess I should just be grateful her gut pointed her in the right (and by right, I mean left) direction this year:

"Didja vote?" is how I was greeted this morning when I walked in the door at work. I hadn't yet, as a matter of fact--and there was something about the tone of Cranky Boss Lady's words that just struck me as wrong. She's one of those people for whom voting is not merely a right or even a responsibility but some kind of contest--she actually asks people, "What number were you?" And when they say, "117" (or "I have no friggin' idea nor do I give a crap 'cuz I didn't know there was gonna be a quiz") she will say in this boastful voice, "Well, I was 64." (Or whatever.)

She's one of those overenthusiastic voters who not only make speeches about the importance of voting but actively nag people around them to vote. (I was far from the last person greeted with "Didja vote?") I'm all for getting out the vote but there seems to be a fine line between encouraging voters and haranguing them. Of course, Cranky Boss Lady is often on the harangue-side of the line in this and other matters (hence the Cranky nickname), so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

I guess one of the things that gets me about Cranky Boss Lady in particular is that she seems to take such deep (and competitive) pride in voting even though it is her only involvement in politics and in her community. She's not signing petitions or staging demonstrations or even answering the surveys her elected representatives send to her house. Basically she thinks she can vote once or twice a year and wash her hands of it--content in the knowledge that she's done her share.

The other thing that bugs me about CBL is that her education on political matters is built on a foundation of political ads and gut instincts--this guy looks "nicer" or more "honest" than that one; that gal (yes, she actually uses that word and no, she's not 86, only 55, so I have no idea...) has a better commercial, etc. Forgive me, but that gut instinct thing, especially, is dangerous--wasn't there a poll a few years ago saying that more people would want to have a beer with George W. than his opponent and that a stunning (and frightening) number of people actually took that into consideration at the polls?

Which brings me to what will no doubt be a spectacularly unpopular opinion on this fine Election Day--I said earlier that I'm all for getting out the vote, which is only partly true because I think the last thing we need is more voters who are chosing candidates for the sorts of reasons CBL is choosing hers.

When I called home this afternoon to ask Hubby if he wanted to go vote with me, he said, "Well, honestly, I know I should, but I don't feel I know enough about the candidates in most of the races to make a really informed choice so not this time." When I got done teasing him for shirking his civic duty and offering to give him a cheat sheet so he could vote for all the people I was voting for so I could get two votes for the price of one without having to resort to Ann Coulter's tactics, I realized he was actually making a noble and sensible decision.

The fact is that not only do not enough people vote, but way too many people vote as well. This is by no means a partisan statement--just an obvious truth.* As for the people who are eligible and educated and don't vote anyway, I have a theory about them as well (surprise, surprise).

Much is made of "voter apathy" (328,000 hits on Google), but I think we might not all be as apathetic as we're made out to be. I think a lot of people care but are at a loss--look at the candidates, look at the lack of quality debate, look at the ads that seem to talk only about how unqualified the other candidate is rather than talk about how qualified the touted candidate is--I think what we feel is "voter despair."

I know that part of the reason I didn't vote this morning before I went to work was I thought, "What the hell's the point?" (That and I hit the snooze alarm way too many times.) I know that a lot of my friends and family who vote do so with a sort of "I did it, but I'm not sure it really means anything" feeling. Imagine how many more people are thinking it doesn't mean anything and then not showing up. But that's not the same as not caring--that's something else altogether. It's knowing the system is broken and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

Once, a couple of years ago, I saw a debate on CNN between a group of pundits and the chairperson of some state's lottery commission. They were talking about how irresponsible it was of the state to sponsor something that causes so much financial and emotional hardship for so many.

The chairperson spoke up about the importance of differentiating between chronic gambling addicts and your average citizen who just buys a couple of tickets a week--for that sort of person, she said, lottery tickets provided entertainment and a sense of hope. One of the pundits retorted: "Yes, but look at the odds--it's false hope."

The chairperson said, "Well, sometimes false hope is better than no hope at all." That struck me as both callous and profound.So I voted. And I voted because I guess false power is better than no power at all.

*If you made even a cursory attempt to educate yourself on the issues, and you still want to vote Republican, have at it, baby. I personally don't understand it, but that's the way things work in our great land.

Perfect Post For October: What Have You Done For Me, Lately?

In the midst of all the economic madness, Jenn over at Breed 'Em and Weep has written a smart and funny post on the economy that really goes to the heart of a lot of the problems we're having--and have been pretending not to have for a long time--in this country.

So for making me laugh--and making me think--and hopefully making others think, here's my button--


And, Jenn, it's all yours.

See other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.

Why I Love Living In A Small Town

Yes, we have our share of paranoid bigotry. Yes, it can get kind of claustrophobic when it feels like everyone is in your business--even people you barely know. And it does get kind of boring seeing the same faces over and over again. (Seriously...I've lived here so long that even the people I don't know by name I can see from behind and know what they're going to look like when they turn around.) There's a distinct lack of job opportunities and, certainly the medical care options are rather limited, not to mention the shopping options, if you're the kind who likes to shop.

But. There are trade-offs. For example:

Phone rings at the flower shop the other day. I answer and the woman on the other end says, "Hi, this is So-and-So at the Mini Mart. I'm looking for the lady that buys the Diet Dr. Pepper."

"That's me..."

"When you were in here earlier, did you pump your gas? You paid for gas, but did you remember to pump it?"

"Crap. I don't think I did. In fact, I'm pretty sure I didn't."

"Yeah, we didn't think you did either. So we just wanted to let you know your money's here whenever you want to come get your gas."

When you're as dizzy and disorganized as I have become, having other people minding your business makes all the difference in the world.

Because Old Masochists Never Die...

...they just keep coming back for more.

It's National Blog Posting Month again (already! dang!). I've taken the challenge of NaBlo--posting every day for the month of November--two years in a row. The first year, I managed--squeaking by just barely a couple of the days. Last year, I NaBlew it on the last day--with the assistance of a couple of miscommunicating telecommunications company customer service representatives. Never one to turn down the opportunity to torture myself, I'm giving it a try again this year even though I'm still staggering beneath the significant burden of a "hi-speed*" dial-up Internet connection.

Wish me luck.

*By which I mean really-really-slow-28K-on-a-good-day dial-up.

There Oughta Be A Surgeon General's Warning

So there's this site that takes two of my favorite things--blogs and quotations--and smushes them together in a wildly addictive fashion. It's called Blogtations and this week, there's a quote from my blog. But that's not why I'm telling you about Blogtations--I'm not so vain and shallow and approval-seeking as to need to call attention to myself in that fashion (Ha! Like I'd even HAVE a blog if I weren't vain, shallow and approval-seeking).

No, I'm telling you about Blogtations because Blogtations is having a 500th quote party and simply by telling you about Blogtations and showing you my favorite quote from the site, I could win a $50 Amazon gift certificate.

To review: Not vain, shallow and approval-seeking. But greedy, definitely greedy. (Greedy, yes, but generous enough to point out that anyone can play the 500th quote party game. The rules are here.)

So Blogtations. Quotes from blogs. It's pages and pages (almost 500, hence upcoming 500th quote party) of delicious nuggets of brilliance and wisdom and hilarity and I compulsively clicked through the alphabetized categories when I should be doing something more constructive. Picking a favorite is like trying to pick a favorite finger--if you had almost 500 fingers and they all lived on the Internet, independent of you.

After much agonizing deliberation, I settled on this quote:

"The heart makes its own choices, we simply decide whether or not to follow through with them..." from the blog Dragonfly Dreaming (whose post today is about sex addiction so click with caution).

...because it seemed to apply to so many things--including selecting a favorite from almost 500 quotations.

Anyway, whether you play the game or not, you definitely should check out the site. It's a bunch of great stuff from blogs distilled into one compulsively clickable format.

Politics With Fifth Graders

When it comes to politics, I'm pretty much a preach to the choir kind of girl--never unleashing the full fury of my opinions on anyone I'm not reasonably sure agrees with me (or at least is bound, by law or genetics, to tolerate me). It may seem a little chicken-shit, but I've learned the hard way that it preserves important business and personal relationships. Odds are you're not going to change anyone's mind so the frustration level is just not worth it.

The other morning, though, I was lured into a discussion of politics by the unlikeliest of fellow conversationalists: two fifth graders. On Tuesdays, I help a friend cover a child care gap by sitting with two eleven-year-olds (one hers and one her sister's) and two eight-year-olds (one hers, one her sister's) for twenty minutes or so until their bus comes. Somehow during the usual morning stuff, Eleven-Year-Old Boy was talking about some celebrity he didn't like and I said, "Yeah, he's not on my list of favorite people."

Eleven-Year-Old Boy says, "Yeah, there's a lot of people not on my list of favorite people...like the president for example."

Then me: "Yeah, he's definitely not on my list of favorite people..."

We're interrupted by Eleven-Year-Old Girl who says, "You know there's going to be an election soon so we won't have to put up with President Bush much longer." Then, warming to the topic, speaking in that breathless way unique to adolescent (and slightly pre-adolescent) girls. "I guess I don't really care who gets elected except my grandma says if Barack Obama gets elected white people are doomed."

Wow. Just wow. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

While I'm formulating my reponse--looking for something non-committal that will still somehow convey that I don't agree at all without saying something that might offend her family members should it get back to them (which means not using the words "paranoid bigot" which were actually the first thing to pop into my head)--Eleven-Year-Old Boy slings his backpack over his shoulder, looks me dead in the eye and says with a slightly raised eyebrow, "Hillary Clinton has a penis."

I sputter, "Um...uh...good to know." (I mean what the hell?!)

Eleven-Year-Old Girl, suddenly the voice of wisdom, says, "We really didn't need to hear that."

Eleven-Year-Old Boy says, "Well it's true! I heard it on Family Guy. If you pay really close attention you'll hear it on one of the episodes."

So, from the show featuring a talking baby with a subtle yet inexplicable British accent and an IQ higher than everyone in his family combined but who is still somehow not potty trained and whose companion is a talking dog who's almost as smart as the baby yet still hangs out with this whacked-out family, Eleven-Year-Old Boy has gleaned the apparently inarguable information that Hillary Clinton has a penis.

Before we could get into a discussion about whether or not Hillary actually does have a penis, and in what way that might affect her ability to serve as president (would men be doomed? women? Or, because she's a woman with a penis, neither? Or maybe both?), the bus came.

What really scares me is not eleven-year-olds thinking these things, but the adults--in their lives and elsewhere--who are thinking the same way.

(Dis)Comfort Food

Like many bloggers, I have a meter attached to my blog that measures hits, lets me know where people are logging on from, and, most entertainingly, allows me to see what search may have led them to my blog. Unlike many bloggers, the searches around here are pretty pedestrian, with "neglected husband" and "uvula stuck to tonsil" vying for first position and "Carole Radziwill" coming in a solid third. The Top Ten is rounded out by seemingly random things like "Jill Taylor, meteorologist" and "long-lost boyfriend."

The other day, though, I noticed a hit from Burlington, Ontario, where someone had apparently searched for "hamster instant mashed potatoes."

Let me say that again: hamster instant mashed potatoes*.

WTF** doesn't even begin to cover it.

*You may wonder, as I did, what I had ever written that would lead someone looking for "hamster instant mashed potatoes" to my blog. The answer is I mentioned hamsters in one post and then instant mashed potatoes in two entirely separate posts.

**Daughter-Only's catchphrase of the week: "WTF and a half?!" comes a little closer.

Unattainable

I have a close friend who, like many of us, is juggling a demanding job, husband, children (two teenage daughters and a five-year-old son), plus all the push and pull of her extended family. Unlike me at least, she always seems fairly together:
nicely dressed, appropriately accessorized. Even though she's being yanked in a dozen different directions by the demands of her life and she's always hurrying from one thing to another, she projects an air of confidence and professionalism that I'm sure serves her well in all the different roles of her life.

This, however, is not the story of how she "does it all" in heels and the perfect shade of lipstick. This is the story of what happens when the facade cracks. She's always very together--right up until she's not. I've known her for fourteen years and can count those times on one hand. One of the times she "fell apart" involved sucking her engagement ring into one of those industrial vacuums at a car wash. There followed frantic phone calls and several hours of general hysteria before the ring was retrieved. This is the story of a different time.

As part of her job, she frequently travels within the region to give presentations to various groups. Recently, she was asked to drive to a city about an hour and a half from home to give a forty-five minute presentation on a Saturday. After the presentation, she would be done for the day so she brought along her husband and son, thinking they could have lunch together and maybe see a movie--make a day of it. And, as a bonus, she could drive the company car and not have to pay for gas.

She dropped husband and son off at a nearby mall and went to the hotel where she would be giving her presentation. She told them she would meet them back at the same entrance in an hour or so.

The presentation went smoothly and as she was gathering her things she realized she should probably make a stop in the ladies room before she left for the mall. While in the restroom, she somehow managed to drop the car key in the toilet. This is the key to the company car, mind you.

She's sitting there, contemplating her options. She realizes almost immediately that the only option is reaching in for it. After all, it's the key to the company car, she's stranded an hour and a half from home, not to mention her husband and son stuck at the mall waiting for her, and her cell phone is locked inside the company car because she never brings it in during presentations. So even though it's icky*, she takes a deep breath, stands up and...the toilet is an automatic flusher and the key is gone.

I imagine there was a moment of staring in awe and wonder at the toilet before she went to find the contact woman from the hotel who had helped her with the presentation earlier. While they were waiting for maintenance to see if there was any way to get the key back, it suddenly occurred to my friend that her husband and son were still at the mall, probably on their way to the entrance to meet her so she borrows the hotel lady's phone and calls her husband. She says, "The hotel shuttle is going to pick you guys up."

He says, "Why? What's wrong?"

She says, "Nothing. But the car is locked and the key is...um...unattainable."

"Unattainable? What do you mean unattainable?"

"Uh, it's just, um, unattainable. I'll explain later..."

Give her credit--she did explain later--not only to her husband but to everyone at work, where they all laughed hysterically. And then she told me, so I could laugh hysterically and now I've told you. Laughing hysterically is strictly optional, but she really went to a lot of trouble so it might be nice if you could at least titter politely.

*Doesn't "even though it's icky" strike you as the awesomest motto for parenthood EVER?

A PS to Brunette Best Friend from high school--I know, I know, you have a way better locking something in the car story. But it still (24 YEARS later!) makes me wince to talk about that...

Signs of the Apocalypse

Forget, for a moment, the global economic crisis.

Forget wars and famine and disease.

Forget the upcoming elections which feel like a matter of life and death.

Forget, even, that the Republican party has so little regard for the American public that it nominated someone wholly unqualified (and as we get to know her better, it would seem completely unsuited) as its vice presidential candidate.

John Mellencamp and Stephen King are collaborating on a musical together.

If it gets any scarier than that, I don't want to know about it.

Do You Really, Really Want To Haunt Me?

[We now return you to your regularly scheduled program of ghost stories. The last one was more story than ghost. As you will see, the jury's still out on this one:]

Unlike Daughter-Only, Son-Two has always approached conversations about potential ghostly goings-on with a sort of open-minded skepticism. He believes in "hauntings" generally while viewing reports of specific incidents through a cautious--even dubious--lens. Daughter-Only's breathless exaggerations of her experiences instigated much eye-rolling on Son-Two's part. Even Son-One's much more reserved accounting of flashing lights in the dark hallway was greeted with a shake of the head and Son-Two's standard pronouncement: "Bullshit."

Son-Two also rejects any woo-woo explanations--those involving "lost souls" stuck between the Here and the There, for example--in favor of the likelihood that "ghostly" activity is something perfectly logical and natural that just can't yet be explained by science. (In much the same way that we once experienced the effects of germs without being able to isolate and identify them, Son-Two thinks that these unexplainable activities will one day be attributed to something we can't yet measure or define.)

His scientific approach served him well on the night in question. Someone less scientific might have run screaming from the room.

A little after 11 one night toward the end of summer, Hubby and I were reading in bed when Son-Two knocked on the door. He looked around our room and shook his head.

"Okay. This is really weird. I've been hearing this weird noise and I thought maybe your fan was on and the noise was just carrying into my room in some weird way. But the fan's not on."

He went on to explain that he had been lying in bed in the dark for the last ten minutes listening to what sounded like breathing about two feet from his head. It was like breathing, but he could only hear the puff of the exhale--not panting, just a slow rhythmic "huh." For ten minutes. Next to his head.

At first he thought it was his own fan. Maybe the motor had gone and the blade wasn't turning and the noise he could hear was the straining of the blade...or something. So he checked--his fan was unplugged. Got back in bed--more breathing.

It was too steady and rhythmic to be the wind. So then he thought of the fan in the bathroom. But that wasn't on. And, finally, the fan in our room--also not on.

Hubby--possibly the only person more skeptically open-minded in our house than Son-Two--jumped up to investigate. After a few minutes of dead (ha ha) silence in Son-Two's room, Hubby shrugged and offered this (decidedly unscientific) hypothesis: "The only thing I can think of is that there was some kind of animal out on the porch roof. Maybe it smelled Son-Two and was just curious."

If curious possums panting from the porch roof outside Son-Two's window is the best debunking we can do, I'm thinking we might have to roll out the "h-word" after all.

Intermission II: More Politics, This Time Without The Threat of Poop, Pelican or Otherwise*

During a conversation last weekend with Son-Two (who called from college to discuss politics, of all things), he said he thought Palin was going to "get toasted" in Thursday night's debate.

In response, I said, "Yeah, she's Political Barbie."

Hubby sitting nearby deadpanned, "After Thursday's debate, it's going to be more like Political Barbecue."


*The promised absence of poop in no way implies the absence of crap which is an entirely different thing and seemingly unavoidable in politics.

**Before you cry sexism please note that I am not calling her "Barbie" simply because she's a woman. I am calling her a Barbie because she seems to me to have been chosen for her spunky, perky cute-tough persona rather than anything of any substance whatsoever. I don't believe for one second that women should be judged on a higher standard than men, but neither should we get a pass simply because of our gender. With something as vital as the presidency it's especially important to be sure that no one is so dazzled by the gender of a candidate that they forget to ask the questions that really matter--and actually listen to the answers not be impressed by the kind of one-liners^ Palin dished out at the Republican convention. Stumbling down off the soapbox now...

^One-liners not unlike those that a '90's edition of Barbie said when you pulled a string on her back. The most famous one was something like "Math is hard." or something like that and lots of people got mad then because that was enforcing a stereotype that girls aren't good at math. I didn't really think it was enforcing anything other than that Barbie thought math was hard which only makes sense since she's a friggin' doll, for cryin' out loud.

Intermission: Is This What They Mean By Animated Discussion?

Last night Hubby and I watched Nim's Island immediately followed by the DVR recording of Friday night's presidential debate.

Later I woke in the middle of the night from a dream in which the CGI pelican from the movie, Galileo, had circled over the candidates, chattering and cawing at particularly ridiculous remarks.

At least he signaled his displeasure verbally...because the only thing more unpleasant than politics as usual is politics with pelican poop on it.

Do You Really Want To Haunt Me?

Considering my previously professed passion for Sci-Fi Channel's Ghosthunters, it should come as little surprise that when we were househunting last year, one of the criteria we actually discussed was the likelihood of a given house being haunted. Lacking the equipment of the TAPS team and absent a category on the real estate listings web sites*, we had only the age of the house to go on. We figured the older a place was, the more souls that were likely to have passed through it and, therefore, the more likely it was that one or two of them had hung around.

Ghosty geek that I am, the higher our chance of sharing a place with ghosties, the more ready I was to sign a lease. In fact, on Daughter-Only's first tour of this house as we came to the bottom of the stairs with Hubby right behind us and I said, "And the best part is that it was built in 1900 so it stands a pretty good chance of being haunted."

Daughter-Only had just enough time to roll her eyes at her mother's dorkiness when we heard a long and loud noise from the room above us--a room we had just left and which, as far as we could tell, was empty.

The nature of the noise was a matter of much debate among the three of us. Hubby maintained that it sounded like a pinecone rolling down the roof--theoretically dropped by one of the gazillion squirrels we'd seen outside. Daughter-Only and I argued that it sounded more like someone dragging a dresser or some other heavy piece of furniture across a bare wood floor. It was too long, too loud and too close to have been a pinecone bouncing down the roof. Hubby countered that it must've been a branch scraping the side of the house. Daughter-Only and I put this notion to rest by pointing out that though the house is surrounded by large trees, the closest branches were several feet from the house. We generously granted that a strong wind might bring the smallest branches into contact with the house but it was a calm day outside and the noise we'd heard couldn't have been made by the twig-like branches that were closest to the house.

I've learned from Ghosthunters that it's best not to jump to conclusions--and from Jason in particular--to use the "h word" sparingly (almost grudgingly) so I told the boys not that we were haunted but that we might have some "activity."

The first few weeks we lived here seemed to support my theory with reports coming from all the family members (except of course Hubby, that party pooper)--jiggling doorknobs, a computer that repeatedly connected itself to the (dial-up) Internet, weird noises and, most notably, the shower coming on in the middle of Daughter-Only's bath. Since most of these things could be explained by normal, as opposed to paranormal, explanations, the boys and I continued to withhold judgment--and the "h word."

Daughter-Only was a little less reserved in her assessment. Along with Oldest Niece, she had found a trunk full of keepsakes in the attic. They belonged to a man named Bill--our best guess is that Bill's father built this house. Bill was apparently quite a player--there were photos of several women in a wallet and dates on letters from at least two of the women overlap.

In any case, Oldest Niece and Daugther-Only became convinced (half-jokingly) that Bill was responsible for all the mischief around the house. This despite the fact that there was no evidence whatsoever that Bill was even dead. In fact, based on dates they'd found, Bill was probably around 71 and statistically just as likely to be among the living as to be taunting my family with silly pranks barely worth mentioning.

Daughter-Only rejected that possibility and began telling everyone she knew about our ghost, Bill. Once, she even called home from a friend's house and left a message on our answering machine for Bill.

When it came to preserving Bill's reputation as a bona fide spirit, Daughter-Only was not above helping Bill out a little. A common tactic was to conceal one accomplice (friend or cousin) in a closet while telling a wide-eyed story to the others about all the knocking and tapping she'd heard from Bill. Cue knocking and tapping and, more often that not, screaming and giggling.

Though no one had seemed traumatized, I warned Daughter-Only that she was going to end up really scaring someone someday. Maybe she would've actually paid attention if she'd realized the traumatized person would end up being her.

Early in the spring Daughter-Only was deathly ill and had stayed home from school. She was there alone with the dogs and ferrets. She called me at work, speaking barely above a whisper, clearly terrified. "Mom, um, I was feeling better? And, uh, I put the dogs outside so I could kick my soccer ball down the upstairs hall? And my ball bounced all the way down the stairs and into the dining room and I was going down to get it when Son-Two's bedroom door started rattling really, really hard--like someone was trying to get out of it!"

I asked her if she was okay and where she was. She was on the sofa hiding under a blanket. I asked her what she thought it was--did she think it was an actual human being? She did not. She knew it would've been virtually impossible for someone to get to the second-story bedroom without alerting the dogs.

I told her I'd be right there and that she could bring the dogs in for company and protection if it would help. I even said,

"Remember, whatever it is, it can't hurt you."

She said, "I know, but it's still scary."

I hung up and explained to Cranky Boss Lady that I needed to go home--to my haunted home--because Daughter-Only was (apparently justifiably) completely freaked out.

Just then, it hit me that Son-Two had told me that morning that he had slept with his window open the night before. It was incredibly windy that day so obviously--mystery solved.

Needless to say, Daughter-Only was nowhere near as amused by the episode as I was. It probably didn't help things that the main reason she was so terrified was that she had swallowed her own paranormal propaganda whole.

In the case of Son-Two, who had his own experience a few months after this one, there was no propaganda swallowing, whole or otherwise. Stay tuned next time for that story.

*For example: Bedrooms: 5, Baths: 1 1/2, Lot Size: 1.08 acres, Spooks: 2, but they mostly keep to themselves.

Housepainting With Daughter-Only

D-O: Mom, I was gonna say, "I think you have paint in your hair." but then I realized it was just white hairs.

If there were any justice in the world, she'd have fallen off her step-stool laughing that hard.