Mona's Barbaric Yawp

SNL Loves Yer Mom

2009-05-11T06:39:00.001-04:00

OMG.

Video Recaps | Full Episodes | Webisodes

2009-05-06T07:34:00.001-04:00

Sorry my posts here have been non-existent...am Tweeting. Will update soon.

I Want My Homme

2009-04-02T07:28:00.002-04:00

Yesterday’s shitty morning had me grabbing for relief…which I found in Josh Homme, and Queens of the Stone Age. Played their stuff relentlessly yesterday, fell asleep with lyrics stuck in and spinning my brain like a Spirograph, and woke up this morning with their taste on my tongue. Since some bastard somewhere isn’t letting me embed the video I really wanted to show you, I’m opting with the next best thing…QotSA live with Polly Jean in the Desert Sessions set. This song get me moist every time (and it doesn’t hurt that the lead singer reminds me more than a little of a ginger version of my own sexy Sergei…I took the leap and added Josh to the Fantasy Boyfriend List, in a permanent position).

Sexysexysexy.

Who else thinks Mike Doughty should just go full bore and shave his head?

2009-03-11T08:19:00.003-04:00

Found this. Love it. Love Mike.

Sasquatch and S3x

2009-03-11T07:31:00.005-04:00

Boy-child finished up 6th grade Reproductive Health lessons. Last night during tuck-in, I asked him (in a seemingly non-caring, non-pressuring way, ever-striving to be the open-minded, cool parent), what they learned.

"Well, we talked about peer pressure, and how everyone grows at their own pace. And how everyone goes through awkward stages. And we role-played, like this one guy had to stand in class and give a report, but he had, uh, a wet spot on his front, and how he handled it, stuff like that. Oh, and we saw pictures."

"Pictures?"

"Yeah. Of p3nises and stuff, and girl parts. They were just drawings, though."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. The girls parts though? They were hairy! It was like Sasquatch! Oh my god! I can't believe anyone could have that much hair down there!"

Fortunately for me it was dark, and Boy-child couldn't see my shitty grin. Or read my thoughts, which went something like, "Oh just you wait, boy, just wait...you have NO idea."

"Sasquatch", Tenacious D (the F-word is in there somewhere, so beware):

Sweet Sexy Stevie Wonder

2009-03-09T11:25:00.002-04:00

I was weaned on Motown and 70s funk. I still love the stuff. Sexy stuff. This morning on the Muzak at work, Stevie Wonder popped up, and I didn’t even have to reach for the words…”I’d like to see both of us/fall deeply in love/I’d like to see you in the raw/under the stars above.”

Two things hit me, allatonce:

1) Daaaamn, Stevie! That’s some sexy shit right there!
2) Daaaamn, Stevie! I’ll bet you’d like to see ANYTHING! (Is that rude? Probably rude. But he’s blind since birth, people…how wonderful would it be to have your first image be that of a beautiful naked lady under the stars?)

I could go on and on and on about this man, his connection to my home state, his influence, his sexyness. But instead I’ll leave you with these:

Boogie On Reggae Woman, a pretty terrif mashup of 70s female empowerment + t&a (I totally want to be Raquel Welsh):

Superstition (in the words of one commenter, “this song always makes me want to make love to the nearest person to me”...yeah, it gets me moist.)

Sh*t-Stick

2009-02-12T06:53:00.002-05:00

Oh good lord, Maynard, where the hell have I been? I hope I didn’t alarm you too much by my last frantic post, but it was a hellova time.

Sergei was sick with pneumonia and pleurisy the entire month of January, and spent the majority of those days in hospital. Which was scary. Really scary. There were days when I didn’t think he’d ever come home. Days when I questioned the authority of the doctors and their ability to make timely decisions. Times when I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep the tears away from the kids, who were equally scared to see their darling dad hooked up to machines and IVs, weak and pale and unable to get a good breath. Thank the gods that we had a kick-ass family doctor who brought in a team (TEAM) of infectious disease doctors, and involved half the pulmonary staff, and who was at the hospital every day checking on Sergei and ordering tests that the other doctors didn’t think “necessary”. He made all the difference. I think I need to send him a nice fruit basket. Gradually things got better for Sergei, after they made him a Human Pincushion with IVs and treatments, tests that never did show the specific bacteria that caused the disease, and a myriad of antibiotics and tubes in his lungs and procedures that made all my hospital stays for childbirth and girly surgery seem like High Tea with the Queen. Sergei is still getting over it, but is clearly nearly back to his randy old self.

Since then, several other friends and acquaintances of mine have come down with pneumonia…brutal and debilitating. Next year, I swear, my entire family is getting the pneumonia shot. I don’t ever. EVER. Want to do to that again.

What else?

Girl-child’s birthday was the end of January, and last weekend we had her Birthday Party sleepover with some of her friends. The cloud of potential-estrogen hung heavy in the air. Sergei and Boy-child sequestered themselves upstairs with Playstation2 and food. I realized that my girl and her friends are definitely Alpha Girls. Yeah, her teenage years will be fun.

What else?

I fell in love with “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” all over again.

I loathed, then admired, then added to my Fantasy Boyfriend List, Finn cum German Stefan from Top Chef Season 5. How arrogant. How cocky. How talented. That man can peel my eel any time. He nearly got voted off last night, but lived to make it to the Final Four. Verdammte ScheiBe, Stefan!

I realized how wonderful having medical insurance is.

And how lucky I am to have family and friends checking on us, even though I related the same “How’s Sergei” status several dozen times a day.

I realized that I missed this bloggy place, even though my posts have been dwindling in general these last few months, I’ve missed having a place for me.

And that I love Bacon, and would marry it, especially if it gave me a donut as an engagement ring.

Stefan's Got the Mad Eel Skillz:

The Mysterious Disappearance of Mona Buonanotte

2009-01-09T11:48:00.001-05:00

Hey all…I trust you had an awesome and fun Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Solstice/New Years. Let me just clue you as to where I’ve been:

1) Death in the family
2) Another death in the family
3) Workload at the office that would choke a team of sturdy, well-bred horses
4) Christmas…buying and wrapping and scheming for our family, my siblings and parents, 3 sets of inlaws, and several dozen teachers, instructors, and sports helpers
5) Stomach flu – GirlChild and me, right before Christmas, out of commission 4 days
6) I totally missed blogging BoyChild’s birthday in early December…Bad Momma
7) Snow day…screwed up last day of school parties
8) Company lunch/White Elephant
9) 5 Christmas celebrations. FIVE. Yeah, tha’s right.
10) Sister-in-law birthday
11) Attempting to bake something festive
12) Back to school, work, wah-wah-ing all the way
13) Sergei in and out and in hospital. Something about lungs, heart, infection, nodule, blood tests, CT scan, specialists, Vicodin. He’s back in, we’re still waiting, would appreciate good juju sent our way, but don’t freak out.

Tell me something good that's happened to you and I will live vicariously through you.

Poetry Friday Part Deux: A Few of My Favourite Things

2008-12-12T11:05:00.003-05:00

Someone did a mash-up of Bruce Campbell and the movie "300"...I don't think I could get any juicier. 'Scuse me while I go rub one out.

Shop Smart. Shop S-Mart. Aaoow...aaoow...aaoow....

Knee-Jerk Poetry Friday: The Movies

2008-12-12T08:02:00.001-05:00

Quick...name a favorite Christmas movie moment.

Lately I feel like Poor Flick...stuck, stuck, STUCK!

Knee-Jerk Poetry Friday: The Best Christmas Evah

2008-12-05T06:33:00.003-05:00

Quick Poetry Friday today...'cause I want your honest opinion with no hemming and hawing.

What was your best Christmas present...ever?

Now I don't mean those wonderful lofty things like "I finally achieved peace with my father", or "my child who was born before Christmas after 3 days of labor" (yeah, that would be me), or "I decided to give up smoking/sniffing glue/drinking grain alcohol" things.

I mean GIFTS. Real hard items, bought or made, something that you can feel or touch or eat or rub yer nekked self up against.

Me?

Second grade. My family was pretty poor. But that year, through some stroke of good fortune and an upturn in the auto industry, my dad's workplace gave all the employees Christmas Bonuses. Fairly substantial ones, I was later to learn. My brother and I stumbled downstairs Christmas morning to find new bikes for each of us...two wheelers...they were more beautiful than any car I'd seen before or since. I spent many many springs, summers, and falls on that thing, scraping my knees and exploring the lonely roads near our house, feeling the sweet Taste of Freedom for the first time.

That Christmas my brother and I also received our first real wristwatches, which made us feel very grownup indeed. And there were more than the usual half dozen gifts under the tree for each of us, which was like winning the kid lottery.

I felt like a Princess Millionaire.

Got Some 'Splainin'

2008-11-30T22:52:00.002-05:00

I'm about to break one of the cardinal rules of blogging. So cover your delicate lil' eyes right now. I'm about to explain my whereabouts.

Lessee if I can catch y'all up on my comings and goings these last few weeks since I dropped off the blogging map. Hmmm...first off, work has been kicking my sweet dimpled ass more than usual, in a manner most typical and yet most aggravating. Y'know when you see someone do something stupid, something so full of ego, something so one-hunnered-percent going to not work out well? Did you ever see "Jackass"? Well, yeah, that's what our managers have been doing these last few weeks. And guess who gets to clean up their stinking piles of putrid marketing detritis? Oh yeah, good ol' Mona. If it wasn't for the fact that I love the place otherwise, I woulda shoulda coulda yelled my fool hed clean offt.

What else? I've been on every field trip both kids' schools have undertaken, accidentally headed up a fundraising effort, and am in the process of writing one school's student directory. While Sergei whiles away his "spare" time heading up Important City Committees and Directing Important Community Events, I am counting tubs of cookie dough and wondering if "Kim Sung Yung" is the same person as "Yung Kim Sang". (They're not.)

Also...we had a sudden grave illness in the extended family which turned into a sudden death. A thankful death, as she was suffering near the end, but still...very sad.

I headed up the company Thanksgiving shindig a week before T-giving. I hosted Thanksgiving for Sergei's family. I played hostess at Boy-child's school's Tgiving Feast (bringing in the only food donations of stuffing and cranberry sauce, and boy am I glad I lost sleep over that).

And now I'm stressing over Boy-child's birthday, which is this Friday, which I don't have presents for yet, and which we're trying to set up an impromptu party for this Saturday at Interesting Game Place. I'm playing email tag with the Head Guy.

I did manage to eat only two slices of pumpkin pie over the 5-day Thanksgiving weekend, so I got that going for me. Which is nice. My jeans still fit. But now it's snowing like something out of a Weather Channel Exclusive with Jim Cantore, which does nothing but impede my progress and generally piss me off.

I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving. I hope to be more verbal in the future. Tell me...did anyone do NaNoWriMo? Pfffffttt....

Poetry Friday: The Word is FIGHT

2008-11-14T07:32:00.002-05:00

I used to fight with my brother in the dirtiest way possible…fisticuffs. We’d scratch, bite, and hit each other until our parents separated us with a belt swat on our behinds. Thankfully, as we grew up, we lost our will to fight. We joke now about the fights we had, the welts and bruises that we left, and the amazement that our parents didn’t ship us off to military school. Of course, given that my immediate and extended families live in some bizarro-world epicenter of Spankings and Yelling, it’s kind of a wonder we turned out as normal as we did.

Normal. Heh.

The Poetry Friday Word for Today is FIGHT. Feel free to throw a sucker-punch at your blog post today and reveal the nasty bruise left by a life experience of yours…or someone else. Entertain us with song, story, a sweet chocolate cake, or a lovely lilting poem that sends us sniffling for the Kleenex.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

I Fought The Law. He Won. For Now.

Living near Local University, I’m used to seeing cops everywhere. Low speed limits, reveling sports fans, the occasional protest or house party, all send the coppers out in their Easy To Spot Vehicles and Bikes. There’s a calming effect for us residents when we see our Men In Blue pulling over a speeder that nearly just ran us down, or checking out the loud music coming from across the street, or coming to our rescue when we find a lost child.

Sometimes, though, even when we feel law-abiding, we’re hit with the realization that we’re just like everyone else. Scofflaws. Outlaws. Rebels.

Several weeks ago I was driving through downtown during busy traffic time. I encountered the Usual Idiots of Traffic Flow, those bastards who decide at the last second that they reeeeally need to turn right…when they’re in the far left lane…cutting you off. There are those who drive too fast. There are those who don’t understand pedestrians have the right of way. There are those who have a drivers license only through some fluke of the Secretary of State’s office, and really should be using Local Bus Service. And then there’s me. A. Good. Driver. So I thought.

I had just earned a bonus at work, and had the check beside me on the front seat, itching to be deposited and used for Christmas presents for the kids. Practical, right? I’m driving the speed limit…25 mph…watching cars weave and bob in front of and behind me, gasping when an SUV pulls from the left lane to my middle lane, directly behind me, so close I can’t see the front of his vehicle…only his shitty grin. I kept normal speed, watching the lights, and was relieved when Mr. TooClose popped over to the right lane, then made a turn. The light ahead had just turned yellow, and there was no way with traffic flow that I could stop in time. As I passed underneath the light, I could see it turn red.

Then I saw the spinning lights.

A motorcycle cop magically appeared behind me, motioning me to pull over. Which I did. Stunned. According to Michigan Law regarding yellow lights, “If you cannot stop safely, do not speed up but drive cautiously through the intersection.” Which was what I did. And what I lamely stated to the cop when he walked up to my car. (He was total Hollywood…high leather boots, mirrored sunglasses, chiseled cheekbones. I wanted to ask him which acting studio he worked for, but thought that was presumptuous.)

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”, he said, knowing I knew.

“Uh, the light? It was yellow when I passed under it.” I stammered.

“License and registration.”

In my decades of driving, I have only had one ticket. I generally drive like a grandma. So I was hoping beyond hope that the cop would see my stellar record and let me off with a warning. Instead, he came back with a pad of forms, a pen, and a line upon which to sign. There was no excuse he wanted to hear. Stupidly I blurted out, as he handed me my copy, “I just got a bonus today. Guess I know where that’s going.” He fingered his helmet, went back to his ride, and was off.

I had to sit there for a minute, processing what just happened. I drove the 6 blocks to the bank, deposited the check, pulled over in a parking lot, and bawled my eyes out. The ticket was for more money than I received in my paltry bonus. All that work…gone…for legally passing through a yellow light.

I had 10 days to pay it or fight it. Being an analyst, and feeling “right”, I decided to fight it. I went into the restaurant at the corner of the intersection where the cop pulled me over, sat in the front booth with a perfect view, and timed the lights and traffic. Over half the cars that passed the crosswalk on yellow passed through the light on red. The light itself is not in the middle of the intersection, but at the crosswalk past the intersection, and it takes 4 to 5 seconds for a car to haul ass at 25 mph through the space. The yellow light presented to traffic is 3.5 seconds long. See the math? Not enough time, not unless you’re speeding. I timed other intersections in the blocks before that light…they had the yellow light for 4.5 to 5.5 seconds. More time. Not fair.

I wrote up a 3-page explanation with detail of the light patterns, the number of cars that passed through on yellow/red, the amount of yellow light time at other intersections, which had the same speed limit and traffic flow. On the ticket I could Admit fault, Admit with Explanation, or Deny. I took the middle. I presented the papers to the local district court, sure that my brilliant observations would get me a lower fine.

5 days later, I received a letter. We have decided you are Denying the charge. You have 7 days to pay the ticket as is, or we will set a court date.

Fack. Was I too brilliant? Did they want to examine my fantastic analytic skills in person? I knew that to fight this further, I’d need to videotape the lights. Videotape 51 percent of cars at the intersection going through on red. Make cases and explanations and do the job of the city planners. In days.

I couldn’t do it. I had not the will nor the time to take on this second job.

I paid the damn ticket.

I told Sergei, when I have the time, I’ll do all that stuff…the videotape, the brilliant observations, expert opinions, and present them at a City Council meeting. Hopefully get the light timed better. It won’t take away the fine I’ve paid, or take the points off my driving record, but at least in that fight, I might feel vindicated. Lose the battle, win the war. Totally Punk Rock.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...and pumpkin bread, dammmmmit

2008-11-13T06:35:00.003-05:00

I recently had an opportunity to fight. To prove myself, my innocence. In the end, however, it was just too much for me, and I conceeded defeat. I will blog upon't tomorrow, but it set me thinking...we all have times when we get up off our asses and fight for something, large or small, personal or for The Common Good. And I don't mean mere fisticuffs, either, I mean morally, ethically, monetarily, spiritually. Let's not forget sexually.

The Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is FIGHT. Tell us in your own creative way about when you fought for something, or witnessed someone else raising their fist in the air and yelling "Hell No!" Give us your best short story, limerick, reggae song-styling, photo, R-rated video, boob-tube speech. Extra points if it involves ponies or pancakes. (Who doesn't like ponies and pancakes?)

A few weeks ago I tried out a sweet potato recipe that included pumpkin and coconut milk (hosting the inlaws this year for Thanksgiving), and with the leftover pumpkin and coconut milk I made THE most delicious pumpkin bread I've ever tasted or created. Now that I'm gathering my recipes together, can I find the pumpkin bread recipe? Can I? Hell! No! I've tried googling it a thousand ways, went to all my usual suspect sites (FoodNetwork, Epicurious, AllRecipes, etc.) and still can't find the thing. Does anyone have ideas where I can look now, or have a similar recipe? It had pumpkin puree (canned, natch), coconut milk, and I believe no eggs. It also had no nuts or coconut in it. I've been drooling an entire day thinking of that bread, and I'm a bit obsessed. More than obsessed. I'm stalking that recipe. With a fork.

A Musical Interlude

2008-11-10T07:47:00.002-05:00

I love a good visual.

Weezer, "Troublemaker" (but better link here)

Gnarls Barkley, "Who's Gonna Save My Soul?"

Poetry Friday: Winning...Losing

2008-11-07T07:00:00.003-05:00

I'm tending away from the hard-and-fast sole and lonely WORD for Poetry Friday, instead focusing more on concepts...ideas...situations. Today's Poetry Friday...er...thing...is about Winning and Losing. We've all been on top of the mountain with the loving cup and a thousand naked adorers screaming and throwing little pickles at us. We've also been a loser, an outcast, crawling among the muck and slime of our own self-pity, wishing for the hole to crawl into and cry until we perish.

That's life, kids.

Tell us about Winning and Losing. Write a song, speak a speech, spout your favourite platitude, show us a little happy dance complete with hand movements and creative hip-shakin'.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Quotations Page

Programming today is a race between software engineers striving to build bigger and better idiot-proof programs, and the Universe trying to produce bigger and better idiots. So far, the Universe is winning. (Rick Cook, The Wizardry Compiled)

If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score? (Vince Lombardi)

Nothing can so alienate a voter from the political system as backing a winning candidate. (Mark B. Cohen)

One should always play fairly when one has the winning cards. (Oscar Wilde)

I've done the calculation and your chances of winning the lottery are identical whether you play or not. (Fran Lebowitz)

It's never just a game when you're winning. (George Carlin)

Winning may not be everything, but losing has little to recommend it. (Senator Dianne Feinstein)

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...no surprises

2008-11-06T12:05:00.003-05:00

Given the events of this week, it's fitting that the Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow be about Winning and Losing. Tell us a story of when you won that contest, lost that best friend, won the battle but lost the war. Write a poem, lament in an angst-filled song, paint us a pretty picture of you with a medal around your neck and nothing on but socks.

Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow, and I quickly lose my mind

2008-10-30T07:02:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow is Halloween, so it seems silly not to have the Poetry Friday Word be something about that holiday, right? Or...perhaps...I'm taking the easy route here, mainly because work is kicking my butt and I'm the hostess/planner for Girl-child's school Halloween party, and we're still trying to finish up soccer, and Boy-child's school projects that we stayed up waaaaay too last last night finishing, and I wonder why I've woken with a headache the last 3 mornings, and I can't for the life of me be cute and coy about a Poetry Friday Word this week, given that tonight there's more soccer and I need to buy apples for said party and make breadsticks in the shape of bones and rice krispie treats to help out a fellow mom whose MIL died and won't be at the class party and drop off crockpots for a H'ween party we're attending, and....

(slap)

The Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is Halloween.

On your mark...get set...GO.

Updated: This is flippin' awesome!

Give me a lottery number

2008-10-29T07:41:00.001-04:00

Give me one number each...ONE...and I'll play 'em all. If we win I'm buying you all a latte. A big one.

Someday I Suppose

2008-10-29T07:34:00.002-04:00

1) Someday I'll look in the mirror and not be able to flap my underarm skin or watch the jiggle in my puddin' belly.

2) Someday I'll be able to write checks for the mortgage, child care, utilities, groceries, and loans on the same day...with money left over.

3) Someday I will open my mouth and clever things will fall out, the things that only rattle around in my head, the things that come out now like so many piles of stinking rambling goo.

4) Someday I will have free time to play computer games, read the stacks of books on the bookshelves, and take naps.

5) Someday I'll be able to do all those things, and I'll probably be unhappy about all of them.

6) So...maybe not.

Poetry Friday: The Sense of Sensing

2008-10-24T07:25:00.001-04:00

Today we’re investigating our Sixth Sense: ESP...premonitions...foresight. I have always believed that there’s something bigger out there than we can experience with our five senses…something in the cosmos, something karmic and collective, something that we can tap into from time to time if the wind blows just right and we breathe easy and let go of the things we know.

All sounds sort of hippy-ish, and I’m totally fine with that.

Feel free to open the window of our Sixth Sense in your blog post today, in whatever form gives you a wink and a nudge…story, poem, commercial ditty, video, diary entry, dream, incantation, ghost hunter story….

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Mona’s ESP

1) Hands up…how many of you have “Song-On-The-Radio” ESP? Where you have a song stuck in your head for no reason, you turn on the radio or change the station, and THERE is That Song. I got that.

2) I also have Phone Call and Email ESP. An idea will pop in my head that my husband is about to call me, or I’ll get an email from my sister, or that the school is about to inform me that one of my children has the Creeping Crud…and sure enough…I get the call, the email, the news.

3) I had a Dream That Came True and now I’m afraid every dream will end up in a real-life situation. It wasn’t the dream where you’re naked in public, thank the jeebus. But it was obscure enough that I never in a million years would have dreamed those pieces coming together, let alone see it play out in real life the very next day. I am now fearful of bad dreams. And suspicious of good ones.

4) Maybe this is a Mom-Thing, but I can judge by the atmosphere and relative humidity in the house who is about to get hurt.

5) While driving, I can sense the traffic patterns, which drivers are about to cut me damn off, which ones will turn without signaling, which ones will change lanes in the next block, and which ones will not GO when the light turns green. This is probably not so much ESP as just driving for damn ever and seeing thirty different shades of Driving Stupid.

6) My children, bless them, always sense when I need a hug and dispense them liberally.

7) My premonitions about winning the lottery never come true, dammitalltohell.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow: Chapter 6: That Certain Feeling

2008-10-23T06:43:00.003-04:00

Five senses just doesn't seem like enough, does it? With our big ol' human brains we should be able to have a few more. Of course, we'd need body parts for them...a big antennae on the top of our head to keep track of outer planetary flow, for example, or a TeleTubby-like window in our belly that shows the relative pull of the moon on the earth. Y'know...fun stuff.

The Poetry Friday Word for this Week revolves around our true Sixth Sense...ESP, Premonitions, That Feeling You Get. That weird feeling when you predict actions yet to come, dreams and thoughts that you have no idea how you know...but you just know.

Feel free to sprinkle some magic dusting powder over your blog post tomorrow and tell us about your Sixth Sense...story, poem, recipe, predicted pottery mishap (Gary), dream, apparition, crazy idea for a sitcom about nothing....

Cheaper than Surgery

2008-10-22T08:41:00.006-04:00

I need a new nose.

And a new face.

When I had eyeball surgery 2 years ago, to correct a "leaky eye" that was a result of a tear duct gone horribly bad (the surgery that corrected the problem for all of a month? maybe? that cost me a thousand dollars after insurance paid their measly few cents? yeah, that one.)....

Wait...my detour derailed my train of thought.

Eyeball surgery...yeah...in one of the surgical follow-ups, my opthalmologist said, "Did you know you have a deviated septum?" I said no. And I didn't really know. But I did know something was amiss. Y'know how when you look at your nostrils in the mirror to check for boogers (oh c'mon, like you don't), you should see two straight passages of cave-like darkness? Well, I don't. One is all cavernous, but the other has a mountain range blocking my lane, like driving down to Florida at night, and somewhere in the Carolinas you realize you're thisclose to driving into a reeeeally big hill and exploding your car's gas tank and all your measly college-student savings you were gonna spend on beer at Ft. Lauderdale.

Uh-oh...derailed again.

Beer...driving...mountain...oh yesh, my nose.

I can't breathe most times. When I wear my glasses the pressure on my nostrils becomes such that I become a slack-jawed mouthbreather.

I snore. I drive Sergei totally farggin' nuts.

I can't talk a full sentence without some nasal crap running down the back of my throat and making me sound like Peter Brady when his voice changes...mix that with someone gargling with Maalox, and that's it.

My nose shape doesn't help either...like someone tried to make a triangle with a lump of PlayDoh, made something that looks vaguely like a pear with a Quasimodo hump at the base, and stuck it on my face.

Makes you want to kiss me, huh?

The opthalmo...oh crap, what a long name...The Eye Dr. Guy said he could fix my nose.

I'm not sure I can trust him, given that my eyeball thing didn't turn out so well. Not that it was his fault, I'm sure my eye/nose/sinus area is a General Region of Plagues anyway.

And I'm not sure I want to be out of work for 3 weeks, or even one week, stuffing cotton wadding up my nose-al area.

I don't have the Thousand Dollars that insurance will Not Cover.

But I sure would like to be able to breathe again.

Maybe one of y'all could just stick a Dremel up there and carve out that mountain range, huh?

Three-point-two-miles

2008-10-20T07:18:00.002-04:00

The kids and I did a 5k yesterday morning...Boy-child ran it, Girl-child and I walked it. We girls had our fastest time ever. Boy-child had his fastest time this year. Girl-child also won a gift certificate to a local ice-cream place, which we attacked with gusto in the afternoon.

After the race I could barely walk. This morning I can't even tell I did the thing. I guess that's good?

Last night Sergei thanked me for doing that with the kids, telling me I was setting a good example for them, especially Girl-child.

Here's the thing...my parents never encouraged sports. Never encouraged working out, or athletics of any kind. They grudgingly shuttled me to 9th and 10th grade volleyball workouts, those dark mornings in the bitter cold of January that neither man nor beast should venture out into. And they rarely complained. But I could tell it wasn't high on their list of priorities (what was? working around the house. which explains my tendency to do just that.)

Our kids, OTOH, have been conditioned from early ages to get involved in physical activity...Girl-child has been taking dance lessons since she was 3...Boy-child got his black belt in taekwondo by the time he was 9. They've both played on soccer teams, baseball teams, and this winter Girl-child is venturing into basketball.

We don't push them. And when they get the hate on something (aforementioned taekwondo, as an example), we make them think very carefully about their decision before they stop lessons, and then we support their decision.

My point?

Not sure I have one.

Other than I should school my own damn self and get my ass moving with some regularity. A 5k here and there doesn't qualify as an exercise regiment. One or two 15-minute walks a day doesn't mean I'm in shape. Looking at the dumbbells in the bedroom doesn't equal actually lifting them up and working out my flabby biceps. I need to Move. My. Ass. On a regular basis. I need to totally discard my parents' disregard for physical activity, and learn from my kids' relentless pursuit of moving their body.

I need to cut the crap.

Poetry Friday: The Sense of Taste

2008-10-17T09:33:00.002-04:00

Today's our last day exploring the standard Five Senses (stay tuned...next week we'll do a sixth)...TASTE is the order of the day. Feel free to be all bloggy about what your mouth experiences, what your tongue does for a living, or you may even venture to the alternate variant of taste...what's "acceptable" in society...or not.

I got all listy wid it.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

All Girls Want to Be Debbie Harry, or Ten Things on the Tip of Mona's Tongue

1) I love the taste of fake orange. The flavour used in Children’s Bayer aspirin when I was younger. Growing up in that time, parents weren’t told to keep drugs away from kids, so my ‘rents kept the Children’s Bayer in a kitchen cupboard, next to the peanut butter. When I needed an emotional boost (say, when Josie and the Pussycats wasn’t on), I’d go to the cupboard and shake 2 or 3 of those orange beauties in my hand and chomp them down, savoring the sweet fruity flavour. Nowadays I eat Benefiber tabs that come in that same orange flavour, and it always takes me back to my parent’s kitchen, feeling all shades of pre-teen angsty blue, and the solace in little sweet pills. I do NOT, however, love the taste of fake orange in those bottles of syrupy soda-like-goop that comes with a glucose tolerance test…they make me barf.

2) I also love the taste of hard water. Mmmm…iron…. I also love the taste of peppermint Altoids…mmmm…minty….

3) I love to taste words…roll them around on my tongue and inhale their nuances. I’ve had deep conversations with friends about the subtle flavour-enhanced differences in similar words…words like “snarky”, and “snide”, and “cynical”. I will hear a foreign word or phrase and repeat it over my tongue, delighting in the way my mouth rolls over it (or stumbles), creating an emotion to go along with it to store in my brain file…”Jeux sans frontieres”…."Ich bin ein Berliner"...whateverthehell John Cleese says in this movie....

4) Why do we love coffee so much? It’s bitter. It’s like water filtered through dirt. And yet…nectar of the gods.

5) Smell is so interconnected with taste it can scare the pee out of me. I would never in a jillion years eat a skunk’s ass, and yet when I smell skunk spray…gah…I can’t scrape the taste off my tongue for the lifeofme.

6) Nothing tastes as warm and familiar as your lover’s mouth.

7) Human skin tastes like salt, sweat, and alcohol, and never in a million years could a lab replicate that.

8) Ricotta cheese and mozzarella, mixed together, tastes like barf to me. I ignore that, of course, and eat the damn lasagna anyway.

9) That thing about tastes being concentrated on certain parts of your tongue? Totally false.

10) My tongue has been doing a constant dance inside my mouth while I wrote this, and is now admonishing me for drinking so much coffee this morning that dragon-breath permeates every exhale. Where are my damn Altoids?

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow: Chapter 5: Sweet, sour, salty, bitter...savory?

2008-10-16T06:38:00.004-04:00

Well, we're down to our last of the fifth senses, and the brilliant thing about the sense of Taste is it's all about the tongue...one of my favourite organs. (I'm too tired to verify that the tongue is, indeed, an organ, and not just an outcropping of flexible flesh.)

Feel free to tingle your tastebuds tomorrow by spicing your blog post with thoughts, ponderings, creative associations, crude s4xual drawings, on the sense of TASTE.

Did you know that in addition to the general four tastes...Sweet, Sour, Salty, and Bitter...scientists have agreed on a Fifth? They call it Umami, or Savory...it has to do with amino acids, saltiness, meatiness and cheesiness. I'm longing for an omelet right now, and I swear if I could get a panful of eggs-and-ham-and-cheese, I'd go all umami over it's ass.

Those same scientists are also toying with the idea of making Fat another taste. I mean, DUH. My kids beg for a taste of butter, eating it by the fingerful. That shit is da bomb. Who doesn't like fat?

Of course, TASTE has other meanings too. Like this. I saw Ira do a live stage show months ago. I totally love him.

Come and Pet the Kitty

2008-10-13T07:58:00.005-04:00

We got a new cat Friday.

The old cat is not pleased. She is hissing. Stalking. Hiding.

The new cat just wants to play. She milk treads my scalp as I sleep. She makes a scarf of herself across my throat. She is very loving.

Can anyone give any tips on how to make a cranky old cat and a spunky new cat get along?

Poetry Friday: The Sense of Touch

2008-10-10T23:50:00.001-04:00

Today's Poetry Friday theme is all about TOUCH.

Tell us what you like to explore with your fingers...with your tongue...regale us with story and song, poem and prose. Bonus points if it's dirty...'cause I'm just in that sorta mood.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Touching not for Sleeping

Never go to bed
With socks on
I’m too hot
Too sleepy
Dreaming up my life
And waking to find a different one
I reached over the cat
To find you
Hard
Waiting
You chuckled thinking
I thought you thought I thought
You
Were asleep
Rubbing you that
Sound
From your throat
Vibratey
Rich and
Desirous
My leg snaked over
Your thigh
Breasts
Touching your
Holding up your
Back
Turning you over
For the magical surprise
Prize
Inside
The cat moved as
The alarum blared
Grabbing the pile
Of clothes and
What
Not
Stumbling to the
Bathroom brushing
Teeth brushing hair.
Stopped.
Cannot remember
For the
Lifeofme
If I seduced you
Or dreamt it.

The Tubes-"Don't Touch Me There"

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow: Chapter 4: When I think about you....

2008-10-09T06:26:00.002-04:00

Okay, let's get this out of the way...I had a birthday two days ago. (Work and kid stuff kept me too busy to post it.) Yeah, thank you...Sergei and the kids did it up good, took me out to dinner and gave me tons of gifts and lovin' on Monday night, and on Tuesday (the actual day) we had cake after the myriad of soccer-related activities were done and we reconned at home right before bedtime. The boys at work made me breakfast to celebrate, some girlfriends at work gave me a bowl of cakey goodness and a gift certificate to a local Adult store with the promise we HAD to go shopping...got cash from the in-laws (who love me...and why wouldn't they). If it wasn't for the fact that I'm one year closer to Social Security and Death, it would have been like Christmas!

We're on our fourth sense for Poetry Friday, and since I'm the Birthday Girl this week, I choose...TOUCH. Like that's any surprise to any of you. I've gushed here before about my sensitivity to touch, my overactive tactile urges, my ability to feel things deeply and quickly. I must have very sensitive nerve endings, or more of 'em...or I'm just a perv that allows the gentlest touch of office furniture to send me into quivering shivers of pleasure.

Sumpin' like that.

Feel free to rub lotion into your blog post tomorrow and tell us about the Sense of Touch. Tell us a story, write an epic poem to your backside, whisper sweet nothings in our bloggy earholes. I wanna hear you dish, people...let's hear it! Talk to me about TOUCH.

This is, of course, the first video that came to mind...uh...would someone tell this MILF to give her lips back to Renee Zellweger? Oh yeah, this is NSFW, so please be careful...and turn your sound down.

Poetry Friday: The Sense of Smell

2008-10-03T07:13:00.002-04:00

The Poetry Friday Word/Theme for today centers on our sense of SMELL.

I’ve read articles that detail the link between smells and memories. From the HowStuffWorks site: “Because the olfactory bulb is part of the brain's limbic system, an area so closely associated with memory and feeling it's sometimes called the "emotional brain," smell can call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously.”

Boy howdy!

Tell us in your blog post today your observations, realizations, creative aspirations, and hallucinations when it comes to the sense of SMELL. Tell us a story…name the smell that gets you horny…write a poem about the smell of Autumn, or smelling your old boyfriends’ cologne on your new guy.

By the way, you smell really good today.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

13 Smells That Make Mona Swoon (in no particular odor…er…order):

1) Cinnamon rolls baking
2) Sergei, when he sprays on Axe, or Tag, or when he steps out of a shower, or comes back from a run
3) Just-cut grass
4) My kids after a shower, or after a long day of playing outside
5) The mixture of toast, coffee, and cigarette smoke…which explains why I love diner breakfasts.
6) Spicy men’s colognes
7) Wet dog…yes
8) Gasoline from the pump
9) The muddy ground during a rainstorm
10) Fresh-peeled oranges
11) Just-washed sheets hanging on the line on a warm summer day
12) Movie theatre popcorn
13) Christmas (spices, balsam, fruit and turkey)

Reveal

I can smell things other people can't.
I can tell when Sergei's left the stopper out of the tub when I enter the house.
I can smell ozone when no one else can (and I force them to sniff the air with me)
I can smell things burning. From miles away.
I can smell when Blonde Co-Worker makes maple-tinged oatmeal from half a building away.
I know when a skunk is slightly concerned.
I know when a driver two lanes over is smoking.
I can tell when the ham will go bad.
Are you like this?

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow: Chapter 3: Yesterday I ate popcorn and then drank decaf coffee and it smelled like....

2008-10-02T06:47:00.002-04:00

We're soldiering on with our Poetry Friday Exploration of the Senses. The word/theme for this week centers on the sense of SMELL. Why? Why not! In this part of the country the leaves are starting to turn rusty orange and mustard yellow, there's a hint of smoke in the air, and every store smells vaguely of cinnamon. I never think I like Autumn until I'm in it...then it's one of my favourite seasons. I make big pots of chili and chowder, buy pumpkin-scented candles, pull out recipes for Oatmeal Cake and Sweet Potato Pie. My sniffer goes on high alert, relishing the smells that usher in the Fall, and Holidays, and that tingly feeling in my belly that I hope to jeebus never goes away.

Feel free to sprinkle some spice over your blog post tomorrow with musings, imaginings, and True Life Stories about our Sense of Smell. Too bad Blogger doesn't have a Scratch-N-Sniff capability. Or, maybe, knowing my dad and his propensity for Pull-My-Finger, I should be glad it doesn't.

(Oh, and the title of this post? It smelled like a Bob Marley concert.)

21 Days

2008-10-01T07:21:00.002-04:00

It never fails.

I am three weeks away from Free Money From Work.

That is, if I stay healthy. And the kids stay healthy. And I can quell my churning stomach.

My job has many lovely benefits, one of which awards you with a bonus if you go 6 months with no sick days. Before the kids came along, I racked ‘em up left and right. Mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money. But damned if I haven’t had one in the last 12 years. I am now the closest I’ve been since…twenty-one days away. And, of course, while I'm valiantly fighting off a raging cold that came on like a team of wild horses, I am now faced with a belly ache that not only made me crawl in bed clutching the damn thing last night, but woke me up at 4 a.m., unable to be patted down. So now I’m squirting Zicam up my nose for the cold, drinking tea for the belly, and hoping to the Almighty FSM that I can make it through this. ‘Cause I'm not gonna let a little discomfort get in the way of me and Free Money.

To make matters worse, this song was in my head this morning. Ohhhhh…the sickly sweetness of it all…somebody bring me a bucket….

Karma

2008-09-29T07:20:00.002-04:00

Boy-child had a soccer tournament this weekend. His team was scheduled for two games on Saturday and one on Sunday.

The first game on Saturday, they won. Tremendously. They were ecstatic.

The second game on Saturday, they lost. Tremendously. It was painful. They were outcoached by the other team, the Green Meanies, who had these killer-instinct kids led by a drill sergeant who barked out mysterious commands…”Blue Pickle!” “Right Scamp!” Stuff I wasn’t used to hearing on the soccer field. The kids were like graceful "I Robots", doing as programmed, kicking our asses and not bothering to take our names. Afterwards, our boys were crushed, but we tried to console them with ‘Atta-Boys’ and dinner out.

Sunday morning we arrived at the soccer fields to find the Grean Meanies playing for (and winning) a trip to the Finals. We watched them, their beady-eyed coach blustering with arms crossed, their sole girl player setting the opposing team’s boys on edge (you don’t hit a girl, right?), and barking out those commands…”Seven Flapjack!” “Half Donut!” The Green Meanies celebrated their win stoically, walking in single file, their matching soccer bags over the same shoulders, in a straight line, fairly goose-stepping to the coach’s command. Our parents all agreed…that team was well-coached. But we wouldn’t want him as OUR coach.

We waited for our Sunday game. Our opponents? They never showed.

NEVER. SHOWED.

Which means we won by default, but it was still somewhat unsatisfying. Rather than waste precious field time, they decided to play “Kids Against Parents” in a scrimmage. It was a blissful tie.

Afterward, Girl-child and I walked through the parking lot to my car, talking about meeting dad for lunch, about Boy-child going to a friends’ house, and maybe we girls going Halloween costume shopping. Two car spaces from mine I saw a familiar object on the ground…folded black leather, pocket-sized. It was a man’s wallet. I looked around for someone, anyone, who may have just dropped it, but we were alone in that end of the lot. I threw our gear in the car and retrieved the wallet, tentatively opening it. The drivers license in the front had the photo of a man…broad face, beady eyes, shortish blondish hair…it looked like the coach of the Green Meanies, who had left an hour before. The more I looked at the picture, the more I was convinced it was his.

“Let’s turn this in”, I told Girl-child, and we crossed the lot back to the fields, looking for the man. Girl-child was concerned, nearly crying. “I hope we find him,” she said, her empathy for Lost Things bubbling up in her magnificent heart. “If we don’t find him, we can give the wallet to one of the tournament organizers”, I said, knowing that the chances of me finding the guy were pretty low. We walked around a few minutes, finding neither The Man nor a tournament worker. We stood in the damp air, Girl-child clutching my hand, the shouts of huzzahs coming from the games in progress, until we saw the green Soccer Tournament shirt of someone who could help. I turned the wallet over to her, which seemed a shocking gesture to her, as she was simply prepared to usher teams to their fields and keep track of score. She gushed “Thanks”, and Girl-child and I got in the car to meet Sergei for lunch.

I hope the man got his wallet back. I hope he understands that, no matter where you are, you should always do the right thing. I hope he gives those kids on his team a good pat on the back, a genuine smile, and a heart-felt “Atta-Boy”.

Poetry Friday: The Sense of Hearing

2008-09-26T08:57:00.002-04:00

If anything, this week’s Poetry Friday Word/Theme has been challenging. How do you communicate hearing in a visual medium such as a blog post? It’s like comparing sex to “when two people love each other, they come together and make a baby”…all the nuances and romance and sexysexysex is left out. Thus lies the challenge.

Feel free to turn the dial up on your blog post today, in reference to our sense of Hearing. Sing something…tell us a story…laugh and cry out loud…whisper sweet nothings in my ear….

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Sergei Turned Off the Furnace Fan

He turned off the fan
That keeps our house afloat.
We drifted in silence.

And then came
The sounds that were
Always there,
The sounds
We never heard
Over the constant rush
Of forced air.

The Boy in his room, tapping his foot to the sounds of his video game.
The Girl in the kitchen, humming tunelessly, making a sandwich.
The cat purring on the back of the sofa.
Someone next door using a power tool in annoyance.
The sweet sleepy breathing of Him as he napped.
Our kind old house, creaking and settling, a growth spurt at 70.
The crispy finality of book pages being turned with a moistened finger.

The air grew stale, and the fan was turned on.
We're back in our balloon.
And
I miss what I can hear in the silence.

I Love To Hear Ani (she makes me feel powerful and tingly):

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow: Chapter 2: Goes to Eleven

2008-09-25T06:59:00.003-04:00

Barreling ahead in our Poetry Friday Exploration of the Senses, I come to the ears. This morning I stood sleeping in front of the mirror, continuing a dream I just woke from, having a silent, imaginary conversation with a co-worker, wherein I said something like “It’s an aural experience”, and wondering if my friend would understand the word “aural” was NOT the same as the word “oral”, and that it wasn’t something she could do to her boyfriend. Heh. I recently saw an episode of "Family Guy” that showed cartoon ear sex, which I still don’t fully understand the appeal of, and I’m pretty perverted.

Ah well.

The Poetry Friday Word/Theme for tomorrow is all about HEARING. EARS. LISTENING. Did you ever overhear a conversation that you wish you hadn’t? Ever get drunk and let your roommate pierce your ear using a straight pin, a potato, an ice cube, and liberal amounts of whiskey? Ever hear a song and hum it for days before you realized it was the Muzak version of “Do You Think I’m Sexy”? Or maybe that's just me...all me.

Feel free to inject your blog post tomorrow with thoughts, ponderings, and creative musings revolving around our sense of Hearing. Stories, poems, songs, band recommendations, dirty limericks, clean jokes, whatever tugs your lobes.

While I grab some more hot tea to stave off the sore throat that is clawing its way down the back of my throat, I leave you with this handsome ditty:

Quarter moons and tea spoons

2008-09-24T06:49:00.004-04:00

1) I'm shedding. I took a sip of coffee out of the giant piggy mug that Gary made me, and as I drew the cup away a giant hair (my own, thankfully) hung between my lip and the mug. A foot long, or longer. Just like when your mouth is numb during dental work and they shove Mr. Squirty in your mouth and say, "Swish and spit!", and you're left with strings of saliva tethering you to the silver basin, unable to be broken or moved.

2) Talking about spit is vulgar. And yet, I talk.

3) Boy-child is eleven, nearly 12, and is having a crisis. He's suddenly distracted, his school work is not his usual stellar quality, he complains constantly about being stressed, and his voice has a constant cry in it. I sat down with him last night and went over some homework. He was in bad shape. We decided that, in the interest of grades, he would bow out of being Sergei's assistant coach to Girl-child's soccer team and, instead, spend that time at home doing homework, reading, and relaxing. I think my boy is growing up. I can smell puberty around the corner, and I am a-feared.

4) I have started plotting and planning for Christmas already and have made purchases. The other day I invited Sergei's mom and her husband to our house for Thanksgiving. Girl-child and I are looking at themed cups and invitations for her birthday in January. I am clearly not thinking in the here and now.

5) Yesterday morning the kids talked me into stopping at Local Coffee Shop on the way to school, so they could get Hot Caramel Apple Ciders. (Oh, they looked heavenly.) I said, what the hell, and got myself a latte. After drinking it I had such a feeling of, oh, well-being...and strength...and optimism. The crappy coffee at work doesn't stand up against freshly-ground, freshly steamed milky goodness. I thought, Dammit, why don't I do this every day? Then I remembered why...$4 a day for a cup of coffee, that's why. $120 a month, that's why. So here I sit, with my crappy work coffee, with hairs in it.

6) Think Geek is teh awesome. I picked out stuff for my birthday from the latest catalog. This morning I got an email and now have things to ask for Christmas...this...and this (watch the video)....

Poetry Friday: The Sense of Sight

2008-09-19T08:00:00.002-04:00

Today's Poetry Friday theme is one of vision...sight...the tricks our eyes play and the things we see and believe. Or don't believe.

Feel free to get all 20/20 on your blog post today with the theme of this sense...SIGHT...in whatever form pokes your eyeball with a sharp stick...poem, story, photo, ode to beauty, prescription debacle, sexysexysexy opposite-sex-thang.

Me, I actually wrote something today. I know! It was nice to stretch my fingers and my words for a change. And, of course, I had to include a video. 'Cause I'm all visual and shit.

Have a great weekend!

Fore. Sight.

Aisling was sure it was an accident. An illness, perhaps, or an unseen brain clot that got him. She was absolutely positive she was in her office, head-down, working on the financial reports.

But still, she heard the sound. The thump that mothers and detectives know as a body falling down. And not getting up.

The surgery had been a good thing at first. The cloudiness in her vision disappeared when the doctor took off the gauze, the headaches vanished, and she was able, for the first time in years, to get a good night’s sleep.

Except for that first night. The first night’s sleep scared her. The dream was entirely too vivid. The neighbor downstairs, the man who thumped at his-ceiling-her-floor with a mop handle whenever she turned on the television, the man who scowled at her in the lobby and dropped his cigar ashes outside her door to ruin the carpet, who muttered “cuntbitch” under his breath whenever he passed her in the hall. The neighbor who, in her dreams, she had smothered with his own dingy bed pillow. He was found the next morning, dead. Heart attack, said his daughter when she turned up to identify his body.

Except for that second night. When she woke with a start, standing fully clothed in her bedroom, making stabbing motions with her hands. She was bloodless. She wrapped her grandmother’s knitted afghan around her body and curled up at the foot of her bed. The papers the following day reported nineteen knife wounds in the body of man found round the corner. He was a grocer. He had a record.

Except for the third night. She dreamt of wings falling. Birds screaming. Her screaming. On her way to work that day the doorman told her to be careful if she came back late that night, especially if she crossed St. Anne’s churchyard. Sister Mary Catherine had gone to God. Aisling didn’t care. She wasn’t Catholic.

The thump in the office next to hers woke her from a stare. Her eyes were itchy again, like those first fitful nights at home. She didn’t dare rub them or she’d dislodge the delicate tubes still lodged in her tear ducts, the ones keeping everything from falling apart. She sipped her coffee, now cold, and looked at her hands. They were foreign to her somehow, meatier than she remembered. File…SaveAs…200809 YTD Financial Statement. She stretched her legs under her desk, inhaled deeply, and tried to decide…do I go next door and see if he’s dead? Or simply call 911?

I Can See Clearly:

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...Chapter 1: Feelin' Minnesota

2008-09-18T06:48:00.003-04:00

My eyes are playing tricks on me.

Something has happened to my eyeballs in the last few weeks, changing their shape while I slept... or maybe all the stress is distorting their shape from behind, in my brain pan...whatever it is, I am no longer able to see distance properly with my contacts in. Which pisses me off royally, as wearing glasses bugs my face, makes me look entirely too bookish for my taste, and is a general nuisance. But of course I can see perfectly with spectacles perched on my nose. Bah.

The upside, if there is one, is that while I do force myself to wear contacts (for vanity, and the ability to breathe properly), things in the distance appear dream-like. Wavy, like viewed through a waterfall. Blinkblinkblink, I can see for a moment, and then the waves come in and I'm standing on the shore looking at a watery sheet of blurred colour. If only I could paint it.

We're gonna try something different for Poetry Friday the next few weeks. We'll focus on the Five Senses. And perhaps a Sixth Sense. This week the Poetry Friday Word will be about SIGHT...any word you choose that relates to this will do...EYES, GLASSES, VIEW, whatever gut reaction you just had...you felt it, right?...to thinking about sight...write about it...take a picture, tell us about that operation you had or the crazy things you thought you saw when you dropped acid that one time.

I leave you with a visual. Turning the key in the ignition at Ridiculously Early Hour today this song raged against my ears, and I was amazed at how many words I still remembered and how hot Chris Cornell looks...daaaaaaamn....

Morning is a hellova way to start the day

2008-09-17T07:03:00.005-04:00

Today my eyes recoiled in horror
at the approach of contact lenses,
screaming
NYET!
NUNCA!
In a loud, painful, blinky way.

My brain stem, synapses, gray matter,
behaved as a banana smoothie(bland, cold, inert)
while I stood at the bathroom sink
at 5 a.m.
trying to figure out if I was still in the dream about
Tears for Fears
or if I was awake
hoping to god it was almost Saturday.

My pants couldn't not decide their
relative shape
and assumed a position
halfway between
a crouch
and a growl.
(or a crotch
and a grrrl)

No matter what I do,
the cleavage will not go away.

This morning the coffee cup and I
had a difference of opinion
as to where my mouth was.
There was fisticuffs.

No matter what I do,
the thought of an omelet and toast
will not go away.

Poetry Friday: The Word is LIBRARY

2008-09-12T07:19:00.004-04:00

The Poetry Friday Word for Today is LIBRARY. For some of you that may conjure up memories of book reports, forced studying, the general ennui that comes with being a disaffected youth and wanting nothing more than to run the streets with spiky hair, listening to The Smiths (no, I'm not dissing The Smiths...just the general age) instead of looking up encyclopedia references for the lifecycles of butterflies and moths. For others, LIBRARY may conjure up walks down silent aisles, fingering the spines thin and fat, stroking the pages of “The Sound and the Fury” and “Clockwork Orange” and ee cummings poems, with the desire and effusiveness of a new lover.

I am definitely of the latter persuasion. And am now totally aroused.

Feel free to crack open the pages of your blog post today and see what spills out about LIBRARY, in whatever fashion boots up your online card catalog…poem, story, photo, trip-hop soliloquy, shiny metal sculpture, dubious ode to limericks….

Me, the words didn't come easily...a vague memory of catching someone having sex in the university library...but I make it up with a sexy librarian video.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Library

I followed you
Quite accidentally, of course.
Your face held a quiet court
But I knew
the bailiffs were holding back
A belligerent defendant.

Steps wound round the back.
I stepped behind a lilac
To adjust my backpack
To adjust my eyes
To the darkness of the stacks,
Following you in.

The sound gave you away.
I stepped round a musty corner
And found you
Using your tongue to
Tremble the bookends
Of the librarian’s thighs around your head.

I didn't walk away.
I watched you.
Strange man studying
The history of a woman,
Writing a story
For English class.

Reference
Was what I needed.
History and science
Human sexuality
Secret places to hide
my chapters of lust.

Marian the Librarian

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...Shhhh

2008-09-11T06:55:00.002-04:00

I woke up with a song in my head. The video for it is set in a Library.

This week I began my 6th school year doing volunteer work I ab-so-lute-ly love...helping out in the elementary school library once a week. I totally missed my calling.

I am currently fighting with Local Public Library over Teh Book For Maggie's Brown Book Project.

See where I'm goin' with this?

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is LIBRARY.

Feel free to open the pages of your blog tomorrow and point to a Library experience you've had, or wish you had (does everyone have a fantasy of "doing it" in a library, or is that just me?). Write a story, sing a song, knit a book cover, tell us about your favourite librarian, your banned-book experience....

Okay, so even though it's been 20 years since this video first came out, I still have a HUGE crush on the lead singer. Even this morning I got all gooshy and had to sponge off my chair.

Home. Made.

2008-09-10T11:48:00.003-04:00

Once the weather starts getting nipply, my thoughts turn to Christmas. Okay, don’t start poking your eyes out with your morning grapefruit spoons. I KNOW it’s more than 3 months away. I’m just a planner, that’s all…I plan…I scheme…I scour sales and unexpected bargains. I love Christmas, it’s the only time of the year I actually don’t entirely loathe shopping.

But lately? The last couple years? Not so fulfilling. I want a memorable Christmas, a less-cluttered Christmas. I want a sparkly-sugar-cookie-Christmas. These are the thoughts swirling around my head this morning in gaily colored red-and-green shiny ribbons:

1) I want a Home Made Christmas with the extended families, but not sure if they’ll go for it. Long-time readers will remember that the Sergei-Mona household celebrates 5 Christmases (one with our own family of 4, one with my parents, and one with each of Sergei’s 3 parents/steps families). After a while, it’s like giving your niece $20 for her birthday and having her mother send your child $20 for her birthday…it’s tit for tat…it’s 2-2=0. Y’know what I want? I want someone to knit me a scarf. I want baubles purchased at Big Art Fair. I want homemade wine. I want love in a bottle, a bag, a small wooden box made by hand. OR…I want a gift certificate to a craft store, so I can make homemade baubles and bags and boxes for other people.

2) The kids have everything they want. They don't need a giant-sized teddy bear. They don't need a princess castle. They don't need a pinball machine in their room or a basketball hoop over their closet door. They have “stuff”. Enough “stuff”. I need to communicate with the inlaws and outlaws to Cut It Down. Give the kids small meaningful things. Give them your time. They'd be thrilled with a $10 gift card to the mall. They'd love to help you make cookies. Take them to a movie at the theatre, with popcorn and Milk Duds and a slushy. Tell 'em you love 'em. That's a great gift.

3) Also? I want the kids to appreciate what they have, what they get. My goal is to have little innocent “talks in passing” with them over the next few months, stressing selflessness, stressing community service, de-emphasizing the need for what the neighbor has. It's not that there won't be gifts under tree this year...but they don't need a floor full of meaningless gifts. Small is better. Small is good. Small means more.

4) What to get Sergei? I am at a total loss.

Purge

2008-09-08T07:32:00.001-04:00

I’m a Pack Rat.

There, I said it. I keep stuff. That’s what I do. I’m good at it, too, sorting and boxing and labeling Items Of Note, buying shelving and plastic tubs with aplomb, keeping mementos and records, kids toys and movie ticket stubs and wine glasses I’ll never use.

It’s a problem.

Lately I’ve wanted a cleaner life. A less cluttered life. A life where I can find things, like that book I know I have somewhere, or do crafts with those beads I knew I bought but who knew where I put ‘em. I want to look in a room and see the floor, see the top of a dresser, walk through the basement without tripping over bags of unwanted items and Good Intentions. I wanted to nest.

The problem with wanting is I become obsessed with it.

My obsession started out simply enough…I couldn’t find the microwave popcorn. Labor Day weekend I cleaned out the kitchen cupboards. Threw out couscous that expired when my daughter was still a preschooler. Then the bathroom cupboards. Threw out medicine for a disease I didn’t remember having.

Last Friday night I purged the kitchen of all unnecessary items…the broken bread box…banished the blender to the basement (I’ve used the thing twice?). Moved the microwave, the knives, the toaster. Rearranged and reorganized. Then I started on the living room. Pulled books off the shelves, cleared off the mantel. I was up til 2 a.m.

Saturday I cleaned Boy-child’s room, transitioning him into late-tween years, opening every cabinet, unlocking every plastic bin and poring over every piece of the contents, pulling kid-stickers from the walls, making room for the dartboard which has sat like a bastard on the floor since last Christmas, waiting for space. I was up til 1 a.m.

Sunday I finished cleaning Boy-child’s room. Then started on Girl-child’s. I had to banish her from the room so I could fill trash bags with half-colored coloring books, hundreds of Happy Meal toys, boxes that once contained High School Musical locker equipment. Baby dolls were removed, stuffed animals relocated, the used-and-neglected Barbie Doll head thrown out and the Game of Life moved to within playing distance. I moved Girl-child from toddler to tween.

Last night, tucking Girl-child in, she hugged me tight and said, “Mama, I didn’t get many hugs from you this weekend.” Shit. She was completely right. In my quest for cleanliness, I cut into kid time. “I promise, more hugs this week, m’kay?” Girl-child snuggled down into my arms. “I can smell your perfume”, she said, and drifted off.

I now have nearly a dozen plastic bins…empty of their contents. I can see the kids’ bedroom floors. Their dressers are clean and polished, and the dust bunnies have been banished. I ran a marathon of cleaning.

I still have to tackle our bedroom. And the basement. And the garage. This morning I can barely walk, after stooping, stretching, hauling away 8 construction-type garbage bags of detritus away. I got 4 hours of sleep last night, my legs twitching the entire time, and now I realize I didn’t poop all weekend, so I got THAT goin’ for me. But I also have some peace of mind…some uncluttering of mind…something I desperately needed.

Poetry Friday: The Word is GAS

2008-09-05T06:57:00.001-04:00

Today’s Poetry Friday Word is GAS.

Hehhehheh.

Gas is just funny, innit? We fill up with gas, we pass gas, we think it’s a gas, we turn on the gas…a stinky invisible thing our bodies produce, a liquid that keeps our frantic society franticly moving, a description of how we finished the foot race.

Feel free to release an SBD (silent but deadly) cloud of GAS in your blog post today, in whatever form makes you grin and say “ahhhhh”…story, poem, missive on the weather, country music/R&B crossover song, haiku, Play-Doh statue…. Me? I have a chart…yes, I’m a dork…and something I jotted down on a magazine blow-in card after a 5K.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Michigan’s 6-year History of Gas Prices (yes, I’m weeping):

Revolution

Ignited I
Spit oil I
Sweat gasoline
Pistons push gears
Grind chk chk
Chkchkchk
Pounding tar blades
Spin catch
Spark catch
Air

Shaking BANG
Rhythm BANG
Pump
Pumping
Hard ground BANG
No match for my rubber

Machine flies
because it must
Machine spins
Because it knows
No other speed
But run
But run
But run

Poetry? Friday?

2008-09-04T07:09:00.002-04:00

Hey y'all. I'm not dead. I'm just very busy...vacation, school starting, work piling up. Plus lobbing political fireballs back at a parental unit intent to raise my ire at every turn.

Poetry Friday anyone? For tomorrow?

The Word is GAS. Or Gasoline. Any form...you fart? You fill up yer car? You kick it in gear when you see the finish line up ahead? Yeah, that'll do. Light a match under your blog post tomorrow and fill it with GAS, in whatever form foofs your pilot light...story, poem, song, YouTube video that seriously makes you nearly pee your pants....

Breakfast

2008-08-25T06:59:00.003-04:00

I love breakfast.

I could expound for hours on the relative bliss of breakfast, how I could eat a form of breakfast for every meal (and sometimes do). I love going out for breakfast, and lingering over coffee and the remains of an omelet bigger than my head. I love breakfast at home, fresh cinnamon rolls and hot crispy bacon and sleepy heads of sleepy kids munching lomtiks of toast while they watch Spongebob. I love breakfast in bed...I love breakfast over a campfire...I love breakfast brought to your room and left outside the door by the lovely British woman who makes sure there's milk for your tea and marmalade for your rolls.

Continental breakfasts at hotels? Bring it on.

Late breakfasts on the weekends at Cracker Barrel? Ohbabyohbabyohbaby.

Egg and cheese pie for dinner with greasy sausage links beside? Oh you tease.

Breakfasts at work are a different affair. I have no time to linger, to savor, no time to prepare something delicious and piping hot. This morning, for example, I ate a cheese stick and a tin of sardines in mustard sauce. It filled the gap, but was completely unsatisfying. (And I can hear some of you gagging out there at the thought of eating fish for breakfast. In my defense, it did taste good, and has that good fishy oil. But yes, it is not my first breakfast choice.)

I'm now longing for a large bowl of oatmeal swimming in brown sugar and cream. Or a toad-in-the-hole. Or scrambled eggs.

What are your breakfasts like?

Poetry Friday: College

2008-08-22T12:48:00.000-04:00

Today's challenge is to describe a college experience. You don't have to have gone to college to do this. Hell, if you watched "Animal House" you have enough to go on here.

Here's my snippet:

It snowed a lot at Local University. The dorm I lived in faced several other dorms, creating a blustery courtyard in January where ice storms created skating ponds, and snow drifts became quick freezers for vodka.

One morning my roommate and I woke up and pulled up the blinds that revealed the courtyard. Blinding sun bounced off the snow drifts, and as our eyes adjusted to the morning, we realized that some creative types had spent most of the night outside. Sculpting.

They had sculpted a penis. With balls. Out of snow. An entire story high.

We dressed, woke up the girls next door, and ran outside to take pictures of ourselves with our arms wrapped around the erect ice phallis, before the sun melted it, before the RAs saw it and knocked it down.

I can't find the photo, and of course it was before digital photography, so it may be lost forever. But thank the Google, we still have young drunk college students who have way too much time on their hands. (NSFW)

Poetry Friday Word-ish Copout Bad Blogger Thing

2008-08-21T08:08:00.005-04:00

Well, hum. There's a smell in the air here at University Town, and smell and a sheen and a squeaky clean-ness (tinged with stale beer) that means the students are coming back...something we townies both cherish and dread. We love the activity, the fresh faces, the buzz. We hate that the town isn't ours anymore...now we face traffic, long lines at restaurants and theatres, plastic cups on our lawns and dead spots in the grass where drunken frat boys have pissing contests.

With this in mind, the Poetry Friday WORD-ISH for Tomorrow is...for you to describe a college experience...it can be real or imagined, funny or embarassing, short and sweet or detailed and thought-provoking. Explain your work. Use a number 2 pencil only and fill in the ovals completely. No texting during lectures.

You may open your test booklets...now.

Where The Jonas Brothers Meet David Cassidy

2008-08-19T08:47:00.002-04:00

Girl-child is transparent like scotch tape. She’s eight years old, going on raging teenage-hood any second. Her bedroom walls are covered with posters of Disney Channel celebs…High School Musical Cast, Miley Cyrus, Zack and Cody, and other assorted teen cute-miscreants. She falls asleep every night under a poster of Zac Efron, showing his amazing rows of perfectly straight white teeth. Probably capped. Paid for by the network.

Girl-child’s latest celeb-crush is The Jonas Brothers. And why wouldn’t it be? They’re, like, frickin’ everywhere. And since we are terrible parents and let the kids watch Disney Channel ad nauseum, every other commercial break is peppered with a Jonas Bros interstitial or music video or teasing, taunting glimpse from some network-arranged “concert” somewhere.

I am more than happy to give Girl-child the chance to long for older teenage boys.

Because my mother let me do the same thing.

Of course, my walls had photos of David Cassidy on them, and Davy Jones from The Monkees, and god-knows-who-else.

I can see that gleam in Girl-child’s eyes when she picks up a tween magazine with the Jo Bros on the cover, that sort of glazed look wherein she’s trying to decide, Do I want to be Mrs. Nick Jonas, or Mrs. Joe Jonas, or Mrs. Kevin Jonas? I know who she’d pick, of course, ‘cause I’m a girl and her mother, and I know we have similar tastes (for example, we both love her dad and think he’s the cutest). I’ve even posed the question to her…”Which Jonas Brother do you like best?”, and she does the right and sensible thing and plays Sweden (or Switzerland, whichever is the most peace-loving) and says, “I don’t know.” But I know. Oh yes, I know.

The thing is? That damn Disney? The videos? The constant teevee time? I almost hate to admit it…but…those JB songs are growing on me. I know…argh…right? But really...it’s not so bad, enjoying what your young daughter enjoys, seeing the world through her eyes, feeling like you did when you were her age, like life was as wide and expansive as Montana, everything was open to you, and love was this thing that you didn’t understand a bit of but knew it made that flutter in your belly. It didn't and doesn't matter that the pop phenoms were and are manufactured by networks, agents, and marketing execs. Not when you're a tween girl.

I’m thinking of getting Girl-child a Jonas Brothers cd today.

Maybe they’ll have a David Cassidy one for me, too.

Here are those damn cute Jonas Brothers:

And David Cassidy:

Michael Phelps may be my new Fantasy Boyfriend

2008-08-18T13:21:00.003-04:00

8 Gold medals, baby. EIGHT. I think that puts him in the Fantasy Boyfriend Floater position, at least. (Get it? Floater? Swimmer? Urgh.)

NBC has pretty good video, if you can get past the upload-y thing. Click on the 100m butterfly for the Best. Finish. Evah. Or try this and sit through the commercial.

Congrats, Michael. You are teh awesome. Mwah.

Poetry Friday: Weather

2008-08-15T23:47:00.000-04:00

The Poetry Friday Theme for this week is Weather.

Feel free to explore the Weather in your post today, in whatever form pushes that little button on the handle of your umbrella to fling it wide open...story, poem, song, window washing secret, tanning experience.

Me? I gotta defer to the easy side today. You all may have noticed that my Poetry Friday contributions this summer fall under the category of "Sucked". That will change once school starts after Labor Day and I'm back to working on Fridays again. Somehow I can't manage a sit-down in front of the computer on days I sleep in. Go fig-yah.

"Weather With You", Crowded House

Poetry Friday Word-ish for Tomorrow, question for Imelda

2008-08-14T07:59:00.001-04:00

This week’s Poetry Friday Word is a Theme…centered around WEATHER.

No matter how smart we humans think we are, the whole of our lives are controlled by the weather. In Michigan, the world stops in its tracks when we have a blizzard in the winter. Our schedules and desires change when it reaches 72 degrees in June and the sun begins to brown our skin. Rain dampens plans, hail requires trips to the auto body shop and the insurance office, and tornados change our sleeping arrangements. We are simultaneously fascinated and pissed off with bad weather…and sometimes good weather, when it requires a job of us (like that damn lawn that needs mowing).

For Poetry Friday tomorrow, tell us about your experience with weather…good, bad, indifferent. Does it inspire you? Does it make you nostalgic? Does it send you straight for the liquor cabinet? You may expound away in story form, poetry, song stylings, Technicolor video, scratch-n-sniff (good luck with that one), photos, readings from Poor Richards Almanac….

Question: Would you wear someone else's shoes? If you were to, say, buy some used shoes in a thrift shop? Do I dare donate half a dozen slightly worn pairs of shoes, or is the thought of the general public that worn shoes are icky (like used underwear, but not THAT icky)?

The Breakfast Club...Now 40% Off!

2008-08-13T07:33:00.004-04:00

Sergei and I saw a commercial for JC Penney the other night that tried to be The Breakfast Club. And sell jeans at the same time. Similar high school, similar song, similar statue.

Now, I loved The Breakfast Club when it came out. I was older than a high schooler (but if memory serves, Judd Nelson was too). It was the 80s, and John Hughes ruled, and the characters were cute and rebellious and I loved Simple Minds. Shermer High School. Shermer, Illinois. 60062.

I thought it was a cute commercial, and promptly forgot about it. Until the news today made me remember it, and the comments on the story were so polarized, so passionate, I had to mention it today.

Here's the JC Penney commercial:

And here's the 1980's trailer for The Breakfast Club:

The movie? Dated. Cheesy, almost. Do I still love it? Hells yeah. Do I want it to sell jeans and babydoll blouses? Not really. But it's not my choice. John Hughes needs to pay the rent? Sure, sell the rights to the movie and keep that roof over your head. I don't care. What the commercial did do for me was make me realize how old I've become, and how the things that mattered 20 years ago seem simple and silly now. And...how much I really need to see that movie again.

Don't mess with the bull, young man, you'll get the horns.

Poetry Friday: The Word is CUT

2008-08-08T15:14:00.002-04:00

Feel free to hack away at your blog posts today, incorporating the word CUT. Extra bonus points if you write a song about it...just because. Have a good weekend, y'all!

Guess What I Did Today (Haiku)

Your belly peeks out
From once big football jersey
Time to buy school clothes

Damn, she's good:

Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow, in brief (not boxer)

2008-08-07T08:31:00.003-04:00

The Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow is CUT.

Due to my insatiable appetite for Project Runway (running with scissors), nearly every cooking show on Food Network (cuts like a knife), and my lust for good film (cut...print...lunch).

Feel free to carve a niche in your blog post tomorrow using the word CUT in any of its incantations...story, poem, hippie love song, spectacular independent film, recipe for mock turtle soup, teenage shaving recollection.

I'm being watched. So I bid you adieu, hasta manana.

Mona and the Bad Eggs

2008-08-04T08:29:00.002-04:00

I’m not a stupid person.
I have a college degree and a number of years analyzing complex computer systems.
I learned to cook when I was 9.
I have experienced things in life that I shall never divulge to my children or the media.

Why is it then?

Why is it that I can’t peel a goddamn hard-boiled egg?

For years I have eaten hard-boiled eggs at breakfast. Easy, quick, full of protein. I have boiled them for 10 minutes. I have boiled them for 12. I have gotten them to boiling and turned the water off to let them cook “naturally”.

It doesn’t matter.

If I bring two eggs to work, one is always, inevitably, impossible to peel, and I end up eating only one.
If I bring one egg to work, it is always the "impossible to peel" one, and I end up with an ort of pock-marked white and squished yolk, and end up supplementing my “breakfast” with beef jerky from the machine in the break room.

I have peeled them dry.
Or under running water.
I always break the “air sac” first.
I have shocked them with cold water as soon as they’re done cooking.
And let them cool on the counter at their own speed.

What.
The.
Hell.

I have come to the conclusion that it’s not me.
It can’t be.
As I am smart and egg-friendly.
It must be the eggs.
They’re BAD EGGS.
Or do you know something I don’t?

Poetry Friday: Sweat, y'all

2008-08-01T23:35:00.000-04:00

For today's Poetry Friday, feel free to explore that wonderful wetness that runs down your face, streams down your back, and makes a general eau de cologne from your armpits...sweat. ("Perspiration" for the gentler souls out there.) Write a story, concoct a poem, take a photo, share your favourite recipe for natural sweet-smellin' underarms...whatever rocks yer world.

I took Girl-Child shopping for deodorant yesterday. We found a section of teen-inspired deodorant, with scents like "Pop Star", and "Berry Blossom". Yeah...after I totally dissed berry-scented deodorants yesterday...and THAT, kids, is why I'm not in Marketing.

Anyway, I let Girl-Child get "Pop Star" scent, and once we got home she rolled that sucker all up and down her armpits. And then of course forced me to smell them.

Mmm...pop-py.

Tonight, Girl-Child's friend Lovely Eyes is over for a sleepover. The girls just got everything unpacked for the event, and Girl-Child rushed in with Lovely Eyes. "Look! She has Sweet Strawberry deodorant! It's the same company as mine is from! So cool!" And they ran away to compare notes on Hannah Montana, the Sprouse brothers, and fruit snacks.

Their deodorant? Teen Spirit.

Heh.

Those girls....

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, Tuck-In Style

2008-07-31T08:22:00.001-04:00

I’ve been the prime “Tucker-Inner” since the kids were babies. It’s a job I relish, and thoroughly enjoy…the ritual of bedtime, the crisp sheets and snuggling, the quiet darkness wherein I’m met with questions and observations about the world that make my heart burst with selfish pride.

Boy-child, solidly 11, wants to talk about the world. People in his world. Rules and family policy. The other night he asked me, “Not to freak you out or anything, and you don’t have to worry, but at what age should people date?” He’s had Repro Health, so I first made a distinction about “dating” in the elementary school sense (hanging out at the lockers, face-to-face conversation (however stilted and shy), a warm feeling in your stomach) and “dating” in the high school sense (huggingandkissingandlovin’emup). I always have to check myself to make sure I’m not rambling onandonandon, but he never seems to mind.

Girl-child, who’s 8 going on 16, wants to talk about her day, about her friends, and holds my hands and arms and head tightly while I crouch beside her bed, stroking her head, whispering, “Shhh…close your eyes and breath nice and slow.”

Last night at the Tuck-In, Girl-child threw herself back on her bed, arms above her head, and stretched.

“Smell my pits!” she commanded.

“Um…no?” I countered.

“C’mon, Mama!”

Figuring, well, how much sweat can a pre-tween generate, I called her bluff and stuck my nose in her armpit.

“Blech!”, I laughed. “You’re…stinky!”

Girl-child laughed and stuck her nose in the crevice, inhaling deeply. She wrinkled her nose up and stuck out her tongue.

“I should get you some deodorant,” I said.

Girl-child’s countenance changed. Her face went from crumpled-up-stinky-smell to one of pure joy.

“Deodorant? I get to wear Deodorant? Yay! Yay! Deodorant! Deodorant!”

“You want to wear deodorant?” I asked.

“Yes! Yes! Oh yes! Thank you Mama!” I couldn’t have made her any happier if I’d told her Hannah Montana was coming to our house for a sleepover.

We then spent the next few minutes talking about the kinds of deodorant we could buy her, what smells were in the various cans and roll-on tubes (Girl-child wondered if there was berry-smelling deodorant…I said, um, no, people don’t usually like the smell of strawberries shooting out from their sweaty armpits). I promised to buy her some tonight.

Who knew so much happiness could be got from stinky armpits?

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is…anything having to do with SWEAT. You may use the word “PERSPIRE”…or “GLOW”…whatever these dog days of summer do to those little glands of yours. Feel free to use this word in your blog post tomorrow in whatever fashion zips your zipper…story, poem, song, photo, macramé wall hanging, bathing suit horror story….

Now I’m wondering if berry deodorant isn’t such a bad idea after all….

Cramming It In

2008-07-28T07:36:00.003-04:00

1. So flushtered. Big work project due by the end of today. To-Do lists out of control. 10-hour work days. Summer is more than half over and I haven't accomplished one quarter of the things I wanted to. Gar.

2. I also think I lost my sense of humour somewhere, if you find it, let me know.

3. Question...why is it, when I want to rent a movie, it's either already checked out, or the video store's never heard of it and doesn't know when they'll get it? Conspiracy? Bloody 'ell.

4. Congrats Big Daddy on winning Next Food Network Star last night! You totally rocked it!

5. I had a dream last night that I came to work and ate all the Monday Bagels and Donuts. When I really got to work this morning, I was bummed that I'd have to forsake bagels and donuts for lovely hard-boiled eggs. (Hello Mr. Atkins.)

6. I need more sleep. And more coffee.

Poetry Friday: Summer

2008-07-25T18:58:00.000-04:00

Today's Poetry Friday Word isn't a Word. Bah, I'm gettin' tricky on ya, huh? The Poetry Friday, er, Idea for the Week is about Summer. What makes summer...SUMMER...for you? Feel free to expound upon this idea today in your blog post, in whatever form shakes the peaches from your tree...story, poem, photo, lyrical masterpiece, view of your lovely tanned extremities....

Summer to me is food.

It's hot dogs and Mom's potato salad (the best on the Planet, I tells ya) and chocolate chip cookies and lemonade, then the crushing weight of having to wait an hour before I go swimming.

It's stopping at the local Ice Cream Shack and eating a cone, or parfait, or sundae, simultaneously nursing the cooling goodness and snarfing it down to temper the inevitable ice-cream-down-the-arm effect.

It's fruits and vegetables, seemingly endless, that appear in grocery stores, and on tables at work with a "Free!" sign, which I lovingly and hoggingly scoop up and turn into dinner.

It's the smell of barbeques.

It's the smell of shelled peas.

It's the smell of fairs and festivals, elephant ears and french fries, and the Chicken Dinner sponsored by the local Kiwanis.

I must stop now, as the drool is pooling up on the keyboard....

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...plus food

2008-07-24T07:29:00.003-04:00

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is less a word and more of an idea. What is it that is quintessentially summer for you? Is it a song on the radio that reminds you of the summers of no-school-no-job? Is it your favourite ice cream shack opening its sticky white window, ready to hand you a parfait in a plastic cup? Is it pulling out your sandles...you know the ones...broken in and slighty broken, but the most comfortable shoes you own? Tell us what makes Summer...SUMMER. Express yourself in a story, poem, song, photo, recitation of your favourite summer vacation as a kid, slip us a video of you in that bikini....

Last night I made paella. First time. Always wanted to make it but, boy, the ingredient list is just Vast! Chicken, sausage, shrimp, fish, saffron rice, veggies (you can also add mussels, clams, or lobster). I started prepping and cooking at 4:15, and didn't finish until 6:30. I used nearly every pot, pan, and plate in the kitchen. The end result? Good. But not fantastic. Not oh-my-god-this-is-heaven. Not what I expected. I was a bit disappointed. Still in all, a good effort, but really? I could have made 4 dinners with the meat in that thing. It took too long, and by the time the night was over, I'd washed dishes FOUR TIMES. Gar. That in itself is enough for me NEVER to make the dish again. Next time? Next time I'll just throw leftovers together and call it "paella puta".

I did, however, make Gary's Blueberry Cake last night for the Boss's birthday celebration today. It looks and smells lovely. The Guys will fall all over themselves to bow and scrape at my feet, making themselves worthy of a slice. At least, that's my evil plan.

Summer Songs

2008-07-23T08:20:00.003-04:00

Some songs will always remind me of summer...lying in the grass at my parents house, the radio on beside me, slatered with baby oil to get a tan, the bees buzzing around me, no school, too young for a job...aw crap, now I'm getting all nostalgic.

You have songs like this, dontcha? Summer songs? That you crank up way effin' loud on the radio?

What are yours?

Here's a couple mine, which I've been singing this morning (and yes, I'm old):

The Beach Boys (who knew?)

Bachman Turner Overdrive:

How I Wish That It Would Rain

2008-07-22T07:33:00.003-04:00

I walked out of the front door this morning and noticed a large tree-ish weed had sprouted out of a bush in the front of the house. Mocking me. Then I saw the weeds around Girl-child's marigolds, and the shagginess of the lawn, and remembered the bags of leaves in the back yard that have sat there since last fall (LAST fall...go ahead and say it...I'm a slacker).

I cursed them all.

I then vowed to do yard work when I got home. Against my will.

As I drove the dark streets toward the comfort and coffee of work, a fine mist worked its way over my windshield. Curious, that. Not rain, not quite fog...a mist, something out of a John Carpenter movie, or that dream I had as a kid where I walked in my parents front yard, eating the mist that formed in the dark.

NPR news said it's supposed to rain today. With the possibility of something fun, like hail.

Well, wouldn't that beat the hell out of doing yard work?

I love rainy days in summer. As a kid, it meant I couldn't work in the garden, mow the lawn, or pick up the wormy apples that fell in the orchard. It meant scary movies on television. It meant popcorn...the real stuff...popped with oil in a big pan and topped with melted butter. It meant a nap. It meant everything slowed down, and only the necessities could pull focus. It meant the radio station, the groovy one from Detroit, played sensual, sad Motown classics. It meant we could all take it easy.

I can mow the lawn tomorrow.

Today, it can rain.

Poetry Friday: The Word is OUT

2008-07-18T10:06:00.000-04:00

Today's Poetry Friday Word is OUT. Feel free to use that word in your blog post today, in whatever form sugar-coats your cereal...story, poem, photo, rendition of your favourite tv theme song....

The kids are begging to go Outside, so I have a short list today:

1) One year ago today, I had a certain body part taken Out. I do not miss that body part, nor do I miss what was happening to my body at the time. In fact, having that surgery was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Once you hit a certain age, periods are totally overrated.

2) My friend Beth came Out to me Sophomore year of college. We sat on the steps of the dorm while she pulled the words out. It came as no surprise. Later she tried to kiss me. Again...no surprise.

3) Later tonight, Girl-child and I are joining some moms and their daughter for a Girls Night Out. Girl-child insists on singing the Hannah Montana song of the same name. Damn you, Disney Channel...you are the devil.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...and some Pork and Beans

2008-07-17T07:22:00.002-04:00

Right to it...the Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is...OUT. There are a variety of situations and contexts in which this lovely word may be used, and I leave it up to you smart folks to use this word in your blog posts tomorrow, in whatever fashion ties knots in your cherry stems...poem, story, photo, YouTube offering, church offering, treatise on the sweetened cereal industry....

Work has kicked my ass lately. Busy? Fack yeah. Matter of fact, last week while I was on vacation, for two days I had to work...it was from home, which was the only saving grace, but still? When I have alone time with Sergei? Work is the last thing I want to do. And I think it's getting to me...I woke up today from a dream about work feeling just ragged...awful, like I had the flu...sat up, put on my glasses, reached to the side of the bed for my nightshirt, and sat there for a minute trying to get my bearings. I looked at the clock. And looked again. 2 a.m. It was 2 a.m., and I was one-hundred-percent-certain it was time to make the donuts. Got naked again, snuggled under the covers, and got nearly three more hours sleep before it really was time to drag my sorry butt out, go to work, and watch YouTube videos.

Speaking of, I finally, Finally, got around to watching the video for Weezer's "Pork and Beans" (which Sergei has been bugging me do forever). Okay, it's teh awesome. It really is. And wikipedia has a nifty list of links and pages to see the original YouTube videos. I had to watch P&B, like, three times, each time squealing at the new thing I found ("Chaaaarlie..."). Weezer is really harshin' my mallow by not letting me embed the damn thing....

Hasta banana!

The Accidental Van Halen Post

2008-07-16T08:01:00.004-04:00

Fear struck me hard this morning. I woke up with the Fear that Something Bad Would Happen to the Kids On Their Field Trip Today. As I was packing lunches I feared that someone was lurking outside the kitchen window. Driving to work at 5:45 a.m., there were too many people out...were they innocently walking their dogs and coming home from booty calls, or did they have evil on their minds?

That's what I get for eating szechuan stir-fry before bed.

I started pushing buttons on the car radio...mostly crap on at that time of the morning...and I stumbled across just the thing to ease my ridiculous fears....

Van Halen.

And let me just say this now...Van Halen is ONLY GOOD with David Lee Roth. Um...Sammy Hagar? ur...ur...bleeech...I'd look to you to sell salsa and do beer jingles, not front a rock band. How 'bout that other guy from that other band that took over briefly for DLR? If I don't know your name, dude, it means you suck.

David Lee Roth is the king of kings of Van Halen. His voice will forever be inked in my brain as the late-night crooner of my back-seat discoveries. That hair! That chest! That voice! The ability to jump incredibly high...with a penis in the way!

I cranked up "You Really Got Me" and now I feel so much better. Although I have the urge to crank up "Runnin' With the Devil" and gits me some Boones Farm and some herbage and go parkin' on country roads with my boyfriend.

I also love David solo...mmmm-mmm....

And, of course, the original, the fabulous, Louis Prima, doin' it first:

Today is Sergei's Birthday

2008-07-15T12:35:00.002-04:00

My man is a bit older today, and even sexier than when we first met all those many years ago...if that's possible.

Go wish him a Happy Happy.

In honor of his birthday, I gift him with videos of 4 of his Fantasy Girlfriends...I can't remember the fifth.

Happy Birthday, Sexy.

The One That Started It All:

Chicken Catch-a-Story

2008-07-15T09:10:00.005-04:00

I had a dream last night that a bunch of us (who “us” is I couldn’t figure out...and I tried)…a bunch of us were driving through a park, during a writers festival. We stopped and congregated around a wooden picnic table, with the task to write Something Epic.

My dream changed.

Luke Skywalker…who looked like Liam Neeson and Hal Sparks love child…was walking down the hall. The camera followed him, questioning him authoritatively.

Camera: Do you know what happened?
Luke: I do. I destroyed the aircraft.
C: Do you know why?
L: I didn’t follow procedure.
C: That is correct. Which procedure didn’t you follow?
L: (silence)
C: Luke?
L: (Smiles wanly)
C: Come, let’s have some lunch.
(Pulls Luke to a table, bids him sit. C hands L a warm, brown chicken leg.)
C: This will make you feel better.
L: (eats, smiles) I didn’t enter the proper coordinates.
C: You didn’t enter the proper…yes. (smiles) Now…let’s dig in. Ah, how I love chicken!
(Camera pulls back to reveal the speaker…a floppy teddy bear wearing a nightcap and nightshirt…voiced by Jason Alexander. The Bear and Luke smack their lips and laugh, the camera pulls back farther to reveal Jason Alexander, who reaches over to the chicken…minus drumsticks…lying resplendent and juicy on a tray…and shakes a wing so the entire carcass moves and shimmies like an exotic dancer. They giggle. “Chicken Advisory Board” graphic pops to bottom of screen.)
(Fade out)

I wrote a chicken commercial. In my dream, as a writer, I wrote a goddamn chicken commercial. And a feverish, nerdy one at that.

I feel so...cheap.

And so hungry....

...and the pursuit of happiness

2008-07-02T07:47:00.003-04:00

I'll be out of blogging range til after this glorious weekend, wherein I hope to enjoy some sleeping-in time, some family-time, and more than a bit of sand stuck up my bum-crack.

July 4th always reminds me of this Schoolhouse Rock segment. (I swear I passed high school civics class because of Schoolhouse Rock...I am forever in their debt.) Have a great weekend, everyone!

The Preamble

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

"That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security."

Shortie

2008-06-30T06:56:00.003-04:00

It's a short week here at the Barbaric Yawp. Sergei and I are taking the kids on a Vacation mid-week through the weekend, where we hope to go to the beach, see relatives, eat out, and run a 5k. (Well, Girl-child and I will walk it.) Therefore there is no Poetry Friday this weekend...Happy 4th, y'all!

I had an interesting Saturday. Sergei and I were going to An Event and I had gone shopping for a dress. I don't wear dresses. As a general rule. Work doesn't demand it, I usually end up sitting open-legged like a guy anyway, so why bother? Anywho, got the dress, but needed something underneath it, something like a slip. So Saturday early afternoon I dragged Girl-child with me to Famous Department Store to get a slip.

Apparently I'm old and senile, because they don't make slips anymore. Not like I remember them making slips. Despite the store's size, there were only a handful of proper slips, and none in my size. They did, however, have some lovely camisoles and half slips. Girl-child pleaded, "Can we GO already? This is BORing,", I managed to find a top and bottom in my size, didn't try them on (why should I? My size!) and we paid for them before Girl-child's head exploded.

Later that evening as I dressed for the event, I put on the cami...perfect fit. I twirled the half-slip around to put it on. It had legs.

Legs?

In a half slip?

It wasn't a half slip.

It was a pair of bloomers.

Not kidding.

BLOOMERS.

Sergei laughed at me. With me.

I decided to forgo the bloomers. The dress was actually okay without it.

But now I own a pair of bloomers.

I could take them back, but they're such a fetching article of clothing...and besides, maybe I need to be a flapper or something for Halloween.

Are slips dead? Am I THAT old?

Poetry Friday: The Word is ART

2008-06-27T23:29:00.002-04:00

It's Poetry Friday, and the Word of the Day is ART. Feel free to explore ART in your blog post today, in whatever variation chucks you under the chin and calls you "sweetie"...what is art?...make some art...show some art...dis art...make us understand it.

I've been trying to come up with a Readers Digest Condensed Version of what ART is...and this is the best I can do: Art is what gets us out of our heads.

Art can be lowbrow and crass...a dirty limerick, a bad pun, a stick figure doing strange things to other stick figures.

Art can be highbrow...New Yorker comics, the opera, dance, art films.

Art can be accessible.
Art can be hard to find.
Art can make us think, make us
cry
elate
ponder

Art takes us out of ourselves, out of our lives, and lets us see another life...another view...another perspective. Even if we don't agree with it.

Art is beautiful and disgusting.

Art is life.

NSFW:

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow…ars gratia artis…raowr….

2008-06-26T10:28:00.003-04:00

Rob Helpy-Chalk has posited in a recent post that the highest forms of art are film and pure mathematics, while the lowest forms of art are collage, haiku, and pornography.

What do you think? What is art? What is good art, what is bad?

The Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow is ART. Feel free to explore the concept of art in whatever creative (artful) form moves your hands to action…poem, story, photo, song…or any of the art forms that Rob mentioned. (Someone should write a haiku about collages and porn.)

Make some art…critique some art…celebrate some, denigrate some, roll in some and see what sticks to your fur.

I leave you with what was stuck in head this morning upon awakening...actually it was the last line..."and a baby's arm holding an apple"...damn I love The Tubes. And Magritte.

"Straight home from work, sweet cheeks."

2008-06-25T07:29:00.004-04:00

I like humour with my ads. So when I read this morning that some folks are cheesed off at a mayo commercial...one that was only shown in Britain and not in the US...I had to YouTube it. Some folks don't like it (kissing!). I think it's frikkin' hilarious! Where can I get some of this mayo?

I’m NSFW today…George Carlin RIP

2008-06-23T09:31:00.002-04:00

George Carlin is dead. Which doesn’t even seem possible. More to the point, it pisses me off.

I was just a kid when I first heard of his Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television (shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits). But back then, I never heard the words. My friends didn’t know them either, and the older kids would just smirk and sneer at us, knowing The Big Secret. All we knew was that some guy was Saying Bad Things…on a record album…and parents everywhere were pissed.

I, of course, thought it was great. Especially when I heard what those words were.

Carlin was the first guy I heard of in my young life to challenge society, to take umbrage against our so-called morality and put a mirror up to our daily lives and what we’re really like. He was A Guy In My Corner, a guy who said what he thought…hell, he said what a lot of people thought…and made us see our crazy societal norms with wit and logic and humour. He turned us on, he wasn't scared. Of course there were others before him and others after him. But for me, Carlin was IT. He was a master with language and symbolized the liberal 70s that I grew up in. He was a god. I thought he’d live forever.

George Carlin died yesterday of heart problems.

I’m profoundly sad. And uneasy. Who’s gonna replace him? Am I fuckin’ out of my mind to think anyone can? Was he just The Right Guy At The Right Time, and that crazy, open-minded time is now finished…kaput…?

Wherever he is now, I hope he’s rockin’ it out hard.

Motherfucker.

Poetry Friday: The Word is Deja Vu

2008-06-20T23:32:00.002-04:00

Deja vu. I guess that's two words, technically. It's Poetry Friday, peepholes, and I've put up a big challenge. Deja vu is one of those elusive things...when you have it, you're not sure why, and your brain does this little twisty contortionist thing, trying to pull out of the ether where or where have I been in space and time where this was before, why can I feel this in my bones like Groundhog Day in real life?

Feel free to explore the feeling of Deja Vu in your blog post today, in whatever form whaps you upside the head with eerie joy...story, poem, photo, recipe for grandma's sugar cookies, movie melodrama....

I'm just gonna string some words together, see what happens.

Deja View

I could tell by their sigh.

Like a tape in my head, like a life on a reel, relived over and over again.

It always happened at night. It always happened after a dinner where they were especially quiet. It always happened where there was a spectacular view, like they thought it would cushion the blow somehow, to have something beautiful close by so I wouldn't freak out.

Mike took me to a restaurant on the water. White tablecloths, white plates, red wine winking in long-stemmed glasses. "It's not you, it's me," he said. But I knew it was me. I stared at my plate, and the feeling came like a soft cotton cape being draped over my shoulders.

I've been here before.

Kevin took me on a boat. As the sun set, he said, "We've grown apart." But I knew it was him. I stared at the white plate, my face tingling with icy hotness.

I've been here before.

David made me cheesecake and served it on the balcony overlooking the city. "I've found someone else...you can't be my girlfriend anymore," he said. But I knew it was her. I looked down at the white plate, remembering a run through a tunnel. An escape.

I've been here before.

I will forever.
Never.
Eat on white plates.
Again.

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is Deja Vu

2008-06-19T13:39:00.000-04:00

Feel free to use the word, feeling, or eerie expression of deja vu in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever form raises the hair on the back of your neck...story, limerick, song styling, photo of you at Amityville....

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is Deja Vu

2008-06-19T13:38:00.002-04:00

BUTT

2008-06-18T07:27:00.003-04:00

I've heard that when Tiger Woods gets angry on the golf course, instead of swearing, he'll say "Butt".

In that vein...

BUTT.

I just pulled myself out of an inane forum on Amazon where people were discussing a particular hate-filled vein of politics, posts full of indignance and venom and denial. I let myself read it. Which is a big mistake. 'Cause whenever I read crap from boisterous racists who insist they're race is the only "good" race, I just want to slap them. My heart races, my hands tremble, and I want to give them a good hard nose-in-their-own-poop shove. How. Dare. You. What's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding, anyway? Ya bastards.

BAH.

BUTT.

Berries

2008-06-17T07:28:00.003-04:00

They reconfigured the fields this year. Instead of turning down the first path to park, finding a wagon, and picking the fruit ourselves, they directed us to the main drive. After waiting what seemed like an interminable time for a truck-and-trailer affair to find a parking space, we found a spot of our own. Girl-child and I emerged from the car with cash in hand. We walked where everyone was walking…to the counter, to the thin wood baskets and cardboard flats full of bounty, to the clerks beaming and sweaty and shouting, “Twenty-one dollars! Bargain price today! Twenty-one!”

It’s strawberry season.

Every year I almost forget and then remember by a lucky stroke. This year I was reading an article in a magazine, and someone mentioned picking strawberries. The lights and bells went off in my head and I called My Usual Place to make sure they were open. I made quick stock of what I needed…pectin, jars, lids, sugar. Girl-child and I set out with visions of sweet red globes in our heads.

I always make jam. Something about the smell, the stickiness that pervades the kitchen, the clinking of the small Ball jars, that reminds me of growing up in the country, and the endless pickingpickingpicking we did all summer. And the eating we did all winter.

Eight quarts of strawberries is a lot. Eight quarts of strawberries start to turn bad Quickly. I had to use them up that day or lose them forever.

I picked out the finest-looking dozen for dipping in chocolate.

I cut up a big bowlful for strawberry shortcake that night.

I cut up more for a strawberry-rhubarb pie I’d make the next day…Fathers Day…it was Sergei’s favourite.

I cut up even more for freezing…for future shortcakes and pies.

With the rest, I made jam. Loads of jam, jelling in a beautiful red colour that belies the unnaturalness of factory-made jam.

Boy-child, sorry he’d missed the trip to the strawberry farm, helped me make the jam. He helped stir, he helped scoop the goodness into jars, he helped load the water bath. While we were waiting for them to process, I let him in on the Cook’s Secret…the foam. When the jam cooks, then starts to cool, a foam is created on the top which you can skim away. Like my mom told me when I was a kid, the foam is the reward…spooned greedily on hunks of bread, scarfed in a quiet moment of feet-resting, running over fingers, the first taste of the goodness we made. We sat on the couch with our treats, and dinged them together like wine glasses, and let the soft sugary treat melt on our tongues.

When the water bath had processed the jars, I squared them away on a kitchen towel to cool, and within a minute they’d all popped sealed...ding…ding…ding…metal taps that meant we’d have our summer remembrance when the snow returned, and when our hearts needed a little sunshine.

Poetry Friday: The Word is CHANGE

2008-06-13T21:10:00.000-04:00

The Poetry Friday Word for today is CHANGE. Feel free to use the word in your blog post, in whatever form kicks the sand off your flipflops...story, poem, photo, commercial jingle, recipe for iced coffee.

I had a dream last night, just weird enough to embed itself in my brain all day, difficult to shake off. Y'know the kind? Yeah, like that.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Quick. Change.

I’ve never had a dream like this before. I’ve had thoughts…Joseph Campbell-inspired thoughts…of being the “hero” of a story, how I would swoop down and Save The Day with my brilliant skills of deduction, wit, and a surprising burst of physical prowess I never knew I possessed.

But being a Super Hero? Batman? Wonder Woman? Something with prominent tatas encased in lycra, some Stan Lee wet dream? Never.

Until last night.

The dream started off innocent enough…I was with the family at a Big City Museum…the Guggenheim, perhaps, although it felt more open-air and European…and we were all four going down the marble steps of a labyrinth to the main entrance. Then…the scene changed. I was with my daughter, winding downdowndown flights of steps to a dressing room, to a locker room, to a series of dorm-style bedrooms, with enormous closets and very small beds. I plopped my suitcase down and looked at the other women and girls who were there. They were excited. Nervous. It was a reality show.

A reality show.

Where we became Superheroes.

My daughter disappeared, allegedly to meet up with my husband and son, and I was alone. In this sea of perspiration and giggling and boasting. A loudspeaker, or maybe something I’d read, told me I needed to make a costume. Caught up in a crush of women with the same voice in their heads, I made my way to what looked like a paper towel dispenser in any big-chain restaurant in America, that which spits out heavy brown wrapping to wipe one’s hands on. Only this dispenser doled out blue-green Lycra. Very thin Lycra. I chunked out several yards, and set out to find a sewing machine.

Someone asked me if I’d seen the Renaissance artists in the museum above us. I laughed. Who has time for art when Superhero-ness is on the line?

A woman’s voice, very soothing, came over the loudspeaker, or maybe in my mind, and reminded us all that as Superheroes, we needed to find a place to change. Change our clothes, from Mild-Mannered Soccer Moms to ta-da!...Amazing Woman of Excellence…or whatever we called ourselves, and we had THAT to figure out as well. It was then that I tired of the whole experience. Sew a costume? Find a changing place? A name and persona?

Dude.

I’m already a super woman. I don’t need no stinkin’ reality tv show to tell me that.

All I needed was to find my family.

With that, I picked up my suitcase and started back up a staircase, hoping it would lead me to the museum, to a crush of people, to familiar faces, to the smiles of my beautiful children and handsome husband, where I’d ditch the suitcase and we’d go have lunch. Wander the galleries. And I wouldn’t have to wear Lycra. Or change my name.

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow…in quarters, dimes, etc.

2008-06-12T07:00:00.002-04:00

Come on over here and sit by me.

You’re looking really nice today. And what is that scent you’re wearing? Mmmm…spicy…nice….

I missed you.

I took a couple days off to decompress. Schools done. All our sports are done. I actually had time to do the little stuff I’ve been putting off…like peeing…and getting more than 4 hours of sleep a night.

I know…decadent!

It’s Thursday already (how the hell that happened…beyond me). I had a beautiful word all set in my head for Poetry Friday, and then…as per usual…POOF…the damn thing fizzled away as soon as my attention was caught by a fuzzy ball of fluff that landed in my peripheral.

Know how you get a song stuck in your head? Usually a stupid, insipid song, one which shouldn’t even register on your Cool Meter? And stays there, interrupting your Very Brilliant Thoughts and making you tap out a tattoo on the desk while in The Big Projects Meeting with the bosses? Yeah. That. That sucks. But I know it happens to you. And may happen to you today.

This morning I had an endless loop of the 80s one-hit-wonder, “Let’s Go All the Way”.

I know, right?

Stupid, insipid, blahblah.

But still…it stuck.

So I found the video…and played it several times…and was dumbfounded that not only did I remember all the words, but all the inflections and dance moves. Gar. And then, being the investigative gal I am, I looked up the members of the band…who are now 20 years older…and shuddered at how OLD they’ve become. I mean…what?! Did we all do this? Start out with smooth skin and great hair and a bounce in our step, and end up where we are now…looking like our parents?

Fack.

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is…CHANGE. As in, OMG, how we’ve changed. Or…you may count the coins in your pocket as change. Or the diapers you take on and off as change. Or whatever meaning of the word flips up the collar on your Izod polo shirt. Feel free to use the word CHANGE in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever lovely lilting style you choose…song, poem, photo, recipe, rope trick, hot lick, oil slick.

And now…without further ado…I give you my Obsessive Song of the Day. Run…run quickly….

Friday: School's Out!

2008-06-06T06:49:00.003-04:00

I didn't post a Poetry Friday Word yesterday in all the chaos known as Last Week of School. Y'hear what I'm talkin' about? It's, like, crazy man. Today's the Official Last Day, and the kids are not so much excited about the summer as they are sad about leaving their teachers and a normal routine behind. Me, I'm looking forward to having every Friday off work and maybe some down time.

I'll see y'all next week, but in the meantime....how can I NOT link to these? How can I NOT?

Prong!

2008-06-04T07:23:00.002-04:00

Irrelephant issued a challenge…use the word PRONG in a post.

Well, that’s too juicy to argue with!

I’ve been thinking all morning about clothes.

Not prongs. Not...exactly.

Follow me here.

I’ve become keenly aware of what other women are wearing. Which is a new thing for me. I used to not care what other people wore. I used to be more punk rock. More edgy, more torn-shirt, more men-boxers-as-shorts. More DIY. More…something…unique. Slightly weird, perhaps…winking and showing my tatas in a too-low-top, pronging guys in the butt with my finger, making sly comments to my girlfriends about threesomes.

Now I could be one of those Capris-and-scoop-neck-shirt women modeling in the JCPenneys catalog. Holding a 2-pronged BBQ spork over a grill, pointing at a pile of raw t-bones, smiling like I can’t wait til the kids go to bed and I can curl up with a pile of coupons to clip. Bland and staid and ready to carpool.

What. The. Hell. Happened?

NOW I get what David Byrne was talking about!

I want my edge back, dammit, and I want it NOW. I want to be able to swear when I talk and not feel guilty. I want to buy clothes in the Juniors section. I want to be able to drink again, Really Drink, not to the point of puking, but just to the point of a slight hangover the next day. I want to write something scary and fun, self-publish something just because I can. I want to learn to draw. I want a fast red car that thumps the ground wherever I idle. I don’t get it…Me, wearing conservative clothes, while the only “cool” mom I know wears cute little tattoo-encrusted tops and low-slung jeans that cling to her ass…I’m jealous. Inside I'm all college-radio-and-Juxtapoz, but outside I'm like every other soccer mom. Grrr....

Will someone prong me with a fork? And get my ass moving? Maybe to the Juniors section?

Poetry Friday: the Word is RAIN

2008-05-30T07:28:00.004-04:00

And guess what? It's raining. Big warm globs of the stuff. 's nice.

The Poetry Friday Word for today is RAIN. Feel free to use it in your blog post today, in whatever form drips off your nose and makes your hair look super sexy sexy...story, poem, limerick, barbeque tip, rendition of your favourite Monty Python song, photo of you splashing through puddles wearing just galoshes and a smile....

I'm having video trouble this morning, not finding the things I want. I'm settling with this one from the movie "Purple Rain"...grainy, yes, but no one, and I mean NO ONE can do it better than Morris Day and the Time! Somebody bring me a mirror....

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow, which I stole from Irrelephant

2008-05-29T07:25:00.003-04:00

You know you're a Bad Blogger when you can't even remember your password to sign into the damn thing....

I've been bustin' my proverbial bawls this week getting Well-Known Internet Payment Giant attached to all the work websites, debugging it, retesting it, gloating with a certain pink-tinged sense of pride in my ability to be picky and relentless. And the damn thing...WORKS. What the hell.

I'm now helping plan soccer parties for two different teams (one for this weekend, one for next), scheduling end-of-school-year activities for both kids' classrooms, buying teacher gifts, graduation gifts, Dr. Bronners Peppermint Hemp soap (liquid), and trying to find time during a two-hour free block of time on Friday to get both an oil change AND my hair highlighted.

Or maybe my oil highlighted and my hair changed.

Realizing it was Thursday, I scrambled for the Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow. Came up with nothing. Then I read Irrelephant's latest post and thought, well, THAT'LL work. (I owe you, man. Bill me. Whip me. Make me write bad checks.)

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is: RAIN

I know we've used it before, but it's a good word, a solid word, and I would also add that if you can use the word RAIN and something about being NAKED, you get bonus points and maybe your name on a virtual plaque somewhere.

Feel free to use the word RAIN in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever fancy-pants way you choose...story, poem, photo, recipe, heavy-breathing phone message, movie quotation, drive-in-theatre remembrance....

Hasta ta-marra.

Any legal tender/with a white man in the center

2008-05-22T07:23:00.002-04:00

There will be NO Poetry Friday this week...it's a holiday weekend, peeps, and I try not to add more stress when y'alls trying to leave town, or leave work, or leave it up to Beaver.

But if'n ya want to, go ahead and Freestyle a Poetry Friday. Points for using the word "Beaver".

I'm in a major time crunch with work. And homework...Boy-child and I had a joint project due for his class today...read a book, write a journal, do a project...d'you know how long it's been since I had to sweat over homework??? The stress, omg, I woke up this morning obsessing how I had to change something on the final project, and did I really remember everything I needed to discuss it in class today with logic and foresight and buckets of wit? Argh.

I leave you today with Galactic. 'Cause they sure got my ass moving this morning.

Sheela-Na-Gig and her Dirty Pillows

2008-05-19T08:08:00.003-04:00

I was linky-linking this morning through some Pagan-type pages of Wikipedia, and came across one of my most favourite names…Sheela-Na-Gig. Ah, what a comely lass! Sheela-Na-Gig are ancient stone carvings of women displaying…uh…their yoni. Sometimes pulling it open. Sometimes squatting with their hands on their thighs.

Very sexy.

And folks put them on churches.

Apparently you can find them all over Europe, and there are various and sundry opinions as to their meaning. Me, I prefer a combination of the “pagan goddess” and that of “fertility symbol”. I mean, c’mon! She’s pulling herself open! Giving birth to the world! How can you fight that?!

One thing I miss about being a citizen of a fairly new country (well, new to my ancestors) is that we have no history of this country to reach far back on and celebrate. My ancestors lived in Europe before jumping the pond to the New World, and they had these stone figures all ‘round in Zee Olde Country. But here? In good ol’ ‘Merica? People can’t stand the site of booby-laden Cosmopolitan magazine in the magazine rack of their local grocery store…let alone stone sculptures of women ripping open their idol holes to let the world get a free peek. How repressed we are. How sad. I think I would have been a good Naked Hippie back in the day.

A scholar posited a male version of the Sheela, which he named Sean-na-Gig. Which is Ithyphallic (which is now my new Favourite Word).

If it wasn’t for local ordinances, and the possibility that families would forbid their children to play with my children, I would love to put both Sheela and Sean on display in my yard…a cunning throwback to garden gnomes, or stone bunnies, and certainly much better than those wooden "women showing their gardening butts" thingies.

After all this, I had to look up the video to my sweet PJ Harvey’s song. I listened to this album of Polly Jeans so many times in the early 90s, I didn’t even have to reach for the lyrics whilst playing it. I love you, Polly Jean. You exhibitionist.

(Careful...the sounds gets LOUD.)

Poetry Friday: The Word is LEAN

2008-05-16T23:59:00.000-04:00

Not much to expound on today, brothers and sisters...but it's Poetry Friday, and the word is LEAN. Feel free to use that word in your blog post today, in whatever form leans its little head on your arm and looks at you with those big brown eyes...story, poem, photo, screenplay, screenshot, screensaver, screendoor....

Today I'm giving you a twist...the same song done in two styles. Bill Wither's version is moving and sweet and makes me a little teary. Club Nouveau's version makes me want to fluff up my 80s hair and go dancing.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Mr. Bill Withers, "Lean On Me":

Club Nouveau, "Lean on Me":

Poetry Friday WORD for Today, plus Free Stuff, and moving Graffiti

2008-05-15T07:36:00.002-04:00

I’ve changed the Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, like, 5 times in my head. It’s just that kind of day. The schizo kind of day.

The left side of my body is in constant pain, thanks to weird sleeping positions (mine, not Sergei's) and a funny thing I’ve caught myself doing at work, this leaning thing, like the Tower of Pisa only with my body (and minus the gift shop at the bottom) The workspace around my computer is on the left side of my screen, and I l-e-a-n over on my left side and rest my body weight on that arm, that shoulder, that elbow. All. Day. Long. I’m convinced this “left side pain” thing isn’t a heart attack, ‘cause I’d be dead by now, and it’s been a constant pain for a couple weeks. I really blame Big Internet Project for the lean. Although the thought of a heart attack at my young age does sort of freak me out.

Based on this and a desire to get this blog post up before I keep changing it to death, the Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is LEAN.

LEAN.

As you smart people know, there’s more than one meaning for this set of letters…M-W says it’s a verb, a noun, an adjective, a transitive verb. Whatev…it’s either something with no fat or something that doesn’t stand upright. Or a movie director.

Feel free to use the word LEAN in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever form rubs soothing scented oil all over you…poem, story, photo, limerick, audio post of your vocal utterances while getting up off the floor from the lotus position….

Now, the Free Stuff.

Today you can get a free iced coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. No joke. Go!

Today you can also get a free chicken breakfast sandwich at McDonalds from 7 a.m. to 10:30 a.m., PLUS you can get a free Southern Style Chicken Sandwich from 10:30 a.m. to 7 p.m. Both require that you buy a medium or large drink. But FREE chicken. Don’t even think about that fact that their cumulative fat and calories will clog your arteries and add extra poundage. Don't think about it. It's free.

From PopCandy blog comes this...if you have seven minutes to spare, watch it. Stunning. I can't even keep my thoughts together long enough to write a fairly even Poetry Friday offering, and then this guy goes and does this? Dang.

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

"You got your chemicals? 'Cause we're entering the bedbug zone here."

2008-05-12T22:36:00.003-04:00

I'm field-trippin'....

Last Friday I went with Boy-child's Fifth Grade class to Greenfield Village, near Detroit (or Day-twa, as we like to French-i-fy it). The Village is an outdoor museum created by Henry Ford, he pulled together historical buildings and a giant carousel and plastic injection mold machines that make replicas of Model Ts, and a riverboat, and huge old trains and frozen custard stands, an old farmhouse with a windmill in the back ala Don Quixote, and about a jillion other buildings and attractions. The kids all had a good time. I got a day off work. I couldn't shake the feeling that the people dressed in frontier garb, making candles and meat pies over open kitchen fires, were probably stoned or slightly tipsy, the better to get through the day. (Damn you, Chuck Palahniuk.)

Tomorrow I go with Girl-child's class to a Big Baseball Game. I think I forgot to tell everyone at work. Except the boss, 'cause he writes my checks.

I now have, like, a field trip every week until early June.

Gah.

On another note, everyone be thinkin' about Irrelephant as he embarks on an exciting adventure.

And Maine is back!

And oh yeah, I saw "Iron Man" over the weekend, totally recommend, and also "Nim's Island", which has the added benefit of Gerard Butler, who is now on my Fantasy Boyfriend list, what with his pecs and Scottish accent and crooked-mouth-way of talking. Yummy.

Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is...DOGGY...go see Gary!

2008-05-08T08:30:00.003-04:00

My favourite potter in the entire world, Gary, has graciously accepted Poetry Friday duty this week, owing to my scattering schedule and my outage tomorrow. Go see his site immediately! Gary is one groovy artistic dude, a man of skill and grace, a man of major talent, and boy, can he make the cutest clay animals!

The Poetry Friday Word for this Week is: DOGGY.

Use that word in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever form spins its way around your wheel...poem, story, photo, limerick, oral interpretation of obscure 12th century writings, 70s misunderstood rock ballad....

I'll catch up with y'all later! Thanks Gary!

The Churchy Boys

2008-05-07T06:31:00.004-04:00

So...so I'm driving to work this morning, it's 5:30 in the fargin' ay-em. The college kids have mostly dispersed for the summer, although a few are still seen doing The Long Walk of Shame home after hooking up with someone-or-other at the bar.

What do I see walking down the sidewalk?

Two Jehovahs Witnesses.

The boys that always walk around with black dress pants, white shirts, and long ties.

"Walking" was not quite the word..."schlepping" is more like it.

It's 5:30 in the morning.

They can't be going to houses, knocking on doors with "Watchtower" tracts in their hands, asking to come in to tell you about a "wondrous hope for the future". Not at that hour.

They must have been partying.

HARD.

All night long.

I hope to Hell they got lucky.

Poetry Friday: The Word is I/EYE/AYE

2008-05-02T23:59:00.000-04:00

I.

Thassit.

Or Eye.

Or Aye.

That's the Poetry Friday Word for the Day. Feel free to use it in your blog post today, in whatever form snaps a wet terry towel at your bare butt...poem, story, photo, recipe for peanut butter fudge....

My head is being crushed by the invisible fingers of Stress, so I must defer to song lyrics. Have a good weekend, y'all!

"I Can't Get Next To You" (The Temptations)

I
Can turn a gray sky blue.
I can make it rain, whenever I wanted to.Oh, I
I can build a castle from a single grain of sand.
I can make a ship sail, uh, on dry land.
But my life is incomplete and I'm so blue. 'Cause I can't get next to you.

I can't get next to you, babe. (Next to you)
I can't get next to you. (I just can't get next you)
I can't get next to you, babe.
I can't get next to you.

I
Can fly like a bird in the sky.
Hey, and I can buy anything that money can buy. Oh, I
I can turn a river into a raging fire.
I can live forever if I so desired.
Unimportant are all the things I can do. 'Cause I can't get next to you.

I can't get next to you, babe. (No matter what I do)
I can't get next to you.Uh-ya

Ooo-OooOoo-Ooo
Chica boom, chica boom
Chica boom, boom, boom

I can turn back the hands of time, you better believe I can.I
I can make the seasons change, just by waving my hand.Oh, I
I can change anything from old to new.
The things I want to do the most, I'm unable to do.
Unhappy am I with all the powers I possess.
'Cause girl you're the key to my happiness.
And I
Can't get next to you.

Girl, you're blowing my mind 'cause I can't get...(Next to you)
Can't you see these tears I'm crying? I can't get... (Next to you)
Girl, it's you that I need. I gotta get...(Next to you)
Can't you see these tears I'm crying? I can't get... (Next to you)
I, I, I, I... I can't get...(Next to you)
I, I, I, I... I can't get...(Next to you)
Girl, you're blowing my mind...

Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow, quickly

2008-05-01T06:44:00.002-04:00

I'm mired in a miasma of work projects, and the Night Operator Guy is trying to find me.

Quickly, and with little fanfare, the Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow is a sound...that's also several words...I...EYE...AYE.

I.
EYE.
AYE.

Cap'n.

Feel free to use any variation of this genius phonetic sound in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever flavor tints yer tongue...story, poem, photo, air guitar solo, haiku, vitamin-enriched-protein-packed-morsel, selection of socks from your drawer....

I hope to post a thing later, if all calms down.

For now...you get this...watch yer speakers....

...and I found myself giggling and squishy in a pile of my own goo....

2008-04-29T11:34:00.001-04:00

I Wanna Get With You (and Your Sister)

2008-04-28T08:39:00.002-04:00

I’m listing today. Like a boat with an unbalanced load.

1) What does it mean if I never feel full? That I have an eating disorder? That my stomach has stretched to the approximate size of a black inner tube you float on at the lake? That there’s something wrong in my brain-pan and I need some groovin’ meds? What? WHAT?!?!?

2) I am feeling full this morning. Number 1 was just a question, people.

3) Saturday night Girl-child wanted a sleep-over with me. We piled sleeping bags on top of each other on her bedroom floor, scavenged blankets and pillows, and went to bed At A Decent Hour. She claims to have slept great, to the point of wanting to ditch her bed and take up permanent sleeping space on the floor. I, on the other hand, slept like back-breaking crap, waking up every 5 minutes to turn over or groan or remover Girl-child’s punch from my face or ribs. I was a cranky bag of brittle bones Sunday morning. And now…Boy-child says he wants a sleepover this coming weekend. Heh. Yeah.

4) Saturday afternoon, Boy-child had an outdoor soccer game on a playing field with no wind breaks. The wind that day gusted up to Sixty-Hella-Seventy miles an hour, pushing us cheering parents off our feet. Blowing up our noses so we couldn’t breathe. Making cell phone conversations laughable. The cumulative effect dried my contacts onto my eyeballs, and they still haven’t recovered. The beautiful flowering trees I wanted to take photos of yesterday were flowerless, having been shaken off like so much snow off a hat. Crap. So much for that.

5) I can’t find a good version of the Beck video in the title. So we’ll go with this one.

Poetry Friday: The Word is ROCKET. And maybe CROTCH.

2008-04-25T07:02:00.001-04:00

Well, that’s the last time I pick a Poetry Friday Word (or set of words) based on something I know nothing about! Irrelephant schooled me on Crotch Rockets, and I found an absolutely terrifying video of crotch rockets that made me nearly pee my pants. Jeebus. Gar.

The Poetry Friday Word for Today is ROCKET. And as a secondary word, CROTCH. Feel free to use either or both of these words in your blog post today, in whatever shiny silver form warms up your naughty bits…story, poem, photo, leather-strap-and-ball-gag ensemble, video of that time you went to Space Camp….

I wrote a dirty limerick, and am attaching the above-mentioned terrifying video. According to Urban Dictionary, a crotch rocket is a real thing, a real type of motorcycle. A dangerous mom-fearing type of bike. Holy Hand Grenade, I hope my kids never think this is cool.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Rocket…The Dirty Limerick…Inspired by Dr. Strangelove

There once was a girl from Woonsocket
Who kept a dildo in her pocket
When bored she would stick it
In her hairy thicket
And ride it like Kong on a rocket.

The Crotch Rocket Video:

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow…I'm not dead yet!

2008-04-24T08:36:00.003-04:00

Oh dear baby jeebus and all the wing-y things that fly around his head…where has the time gone? You know how it is…you have a brilliant, witty blog post in your head, or a crappy stupid one where you talk about poop and sanitary items, and you're no where near a computer…or the cat pukes on the living room rug…or you find out at bedtime that your daughter has pages and pages of math homework due the next morning…and that blog post shows you its butt in the rear view mirror…totally gone.

Today is the day I’ve been dreading all month. Overlapping events involving kids and sports and work, last night I baked my tootsies off for two work events, tonight there’s 2 soccer events, an outing for Girl-child, and I have my last cardio strip-tease class, which always makes me feel like puking when the instructor runs us through her boot camp of crunches and pushups and butt lifts for the first 15 minutes. Yes, I’m apparently out of shape, thanks for asking.

Plus work. Ah yesh, the job I love. Lately, though, work has pushed me very roughly to the desk, bent me over, pulled down my panties, and is spanking me with the hairbrush of Overloaded. Whap! It’s not even in a “Secretary” sort of porn way, either, it’s people hounding me throughout the day…”Do you have Major Internet Payment Method attached to our 10 internet sites yet?” Whap. “When will you get those emails done?” Whap. “This needs to be done ASAP…but so do those other projects I gave you this morning.” Whap frickin’ whap.

Sigh.

Enough complainin’, alright?

This morning on my way to work, I heard a commercial for motorcycles, and the snappy voice-over guy said, “Get your crotch rocket NOW!” Crotch? Rocket? That gave me pause. Firstly, the word “crotch” is dirty to me somehow, dirtier than ordinary names for genitalia, in my mind, I would much rather hear "dick", or "clit", or "bouncing ball sacs". Second…rocket? Does anyone really equate motorcycles with rockets? And if so, is that something you want thisclose to your crotch? I got a visual of some poor schlub in leathers and a helmet, straddling a rocket like Major Kong in “Dr. Strangelove”, riding his Harley rocket to great heights, singeing his pubic hair on the way, shiveling his balls, and falling ass-over-end to earth, where he makes a crater big enough to fit in the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.

The Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is ROCKET.

For extra credit, also use the word CROTCH.

Feel free to sprinkle these words liberally over your hot dish of blog posts tomorrow, in whatever tasty form you choose…story, poem, photo, guitar solo, answering machine message, excuse for what that red mark on your neck REALLY is….

I’m hitching up my crotch and rocketing over to get more coffee. Hasta banana!

Work, spanking me, in Spanish:

Crotch/Rocket:

Poetry Friday? I'm an unholy mess of a girl

2008-04-18T06:58:00.002-04:00

Anyone got any valium? Maalox? Straitjacket?

I feel like hell. There's a few stomach bugs going around, one of which my boss brought back with him from his Spring Break, and now my own belly is flippy-flopping in a most unnatural and disturbing way.
(I'm warning you...this IS the scene you remember and yes, it's disturbing.)

From the second I get to work til the time I beat the snarling dogs off to escape, I'm swamped. I can't tell you about the super-secret work I'm doing (or I'd have to kill you), but I will say that Teh Internets be wantin' to kill me. And my co-workers clearly overestimate my ability to be a Computer Goddess.

Poetry Friday? Not this week for me. Please, feel free to do some little jig of your own on your blog post today, and comment so we can all see. Extra points for silly dances.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

The Spring Peepers Are Here!

2008-04-16T10:35:00.004-04:00

The clock on my dash said 5:50 A.M. I stepped out of my car into the chilly air after scanning the parking lot for vagrants, skunks, and the company bunny rabbit who makes her morning rounds to chew on our greening grass.

I heard them.

It was like a dream.

The spring peepers were out, in all their glory, making a fabulous fussy racket.

I’ve really missed them.

And with the stress of this week and last week and the week before, they’re just the sedagive I need.