Busy Academic Day

For those of you who have never looked at my "Scholarly Website" Women Writers, you ought to. It's pretty darn cool. I know a few of you are academic types and might be interested in publishing something on the site.

What I've been busy doing today is finishing the fixeruppers that the site needed for its most recent incarnation in January. Lots of little crap to do-- fixing the messed up javascript for my contact info anti-spam thing. Adding a couple of pages. Creating a call for submissions to the Summer issue. Hiring the frequent commenter and friend to all Aleah as our new "poetry editor." (Which is so great because I've been doing that job, along with all my others, for a while now and I'm looking forward to Aleah's help!!) Now my wrists are sort of sore, I need some lunch, and I need to finish my laundry. No interesting posts for today, I'm afraid. Go read some of my poetry. It's old stuff, not as good as I'd like it to be, but anyway. It'll keep you busy for a little while if you're procrastinating. :)

Intervention

Dear Maternity Fashion Industry:

I'm really worried about you folks. Seriously-- the amount of crack you must be smoking cannot at all be healthy. If you admit you have a problem, then you can begin to heal.

Because you must be smoking something if you think that 98.00 for a plain white cotton blend oxford blouse is at all appropriate. And those cute but sort of average jersey/rayon blend tops for 70.00? That's some kind of fantasy land you're living in. I can, and will, pay a good amount for something really really nice that will last me a long time. The cashmere blend sweater set was very pretty, and I liked the camel color that was better than the hot pink stuff you had all over the store, but it was a little pricey considering that it was only 15% cashmere and mostly silk. You can get almost the exact same kinds of sweaters for 30.00 at discount stores when you're not pregnant. 150.00 for it because there is a little more fabric is really outrageous. Do you not realize that as a pregnant person, I am anticipating a lot of necessary expenditures very soon? Like cribs? And diapers? And that my disposable income is not really earmarked for a silk shawl that granted is lovely but costs $90.00? And that adding a really cute pink ribbon to the sleeve of an otherwise completely ordinary white cotton blend blouse does make it cuter-- but it doesn't justify adding 40.00 to the price of the same basic top I can find at someplace like Target. Really. It doesn't. If that pink ribbon really cost you that much to add on to the shirt, you should get a new supplier.

You're doing much better on making and selling some things that aren't hideously ugly. That's good work. Now try to bring your cost down to something that a person like me, who is not planning on being pregnant forever, would pay. It's more in the range of 10.00-40.00. That's for an individual item-- pants, a top. Anything more than that is insane of you.

And please, cut back on the drugs that make you think that a place that offers clothes in that price range should ever, ever be called an "outlet" or a "discount" store. Because it's just cruel to drag a hormonally imbalanced woman, tired easily and slightly chubby and not in the mood to show off her bulges to everyone, into a shop thinking she'll get a fair price on a pair of pants that doesn't pinch her stomach but is not her husband's sweatpants. Get some therapy, before I have to because I can't find any clothing to wear and so lock myself in the house until my babies are in first grade.

Except for you, Liz Lange at Target. Your clothes are reasonably priced. But please, offer more than two options. And please, Target, move the maternity away from the plus size clothes. It's very confusing-- I can't tell which ones are maternity and which ones are plus... and it makes a difference.

Admit that you have a problem and stop supporting the hallucinogenic drug industry. Clothing is nice, but it shouldn't cost more than the GNP of a small country to have enough things to wear for a few days without having to do laundry.

Yours Truly,
Kim

p.s. I'm also really worried about you women who pay that much money for a tank sweater, even if it does have cashmere on the label. Get some help. Start a savings account for your kids for college. The cashmere blend sweater will last about four months and you'll never want to wear it again.

Creepy McDonald's Man

When I was about eight, my mom worked at a small sort of sleezy bar in downtown Gulfport, MS. The dingy white-fronted bar was on an old strip of road, with one of those cheap walkup hotels above it, and a little tourist shop across the street. Like all cheap bars, it smelled of beer and cigarettes when you walked into the cool darkness. Behind the bar, reflected in the dirty mirror, there were those jars of pickled quail eggs hanging fluorescently in greenish juice, and pink-red pickled pigs feet. My mom used to sometimes have to bring me with her when she worked as a bartender-- probably on weekends during the day. I sometimes would go into the tourist shop and look at stuff-- I remember those long-necked drinking birds that would dip their heads down when the red or blue water in their butts shifted. I also remember a game called "The Hooker"-- this water globe thing where you tried to catch a golden ring on a long red nail tipped finger that was curled suggestively at the bottom of the globe.

A bar like that almost always has a customer or two, even during the day (maybe even especially during the day.) I used to like to play the pinball machine, on which I was very good, or beg my mom for quarters to play the jukebox. My favorite songs were "New Orleans Ladies" and "Help Me Make it Through the Night."

One day, I was playing pinball and I had a pretty bad cough. This youngish guy with brown hair and pasty white skin asked me if I smoked. I looked at him like he was crazy. I'm eight, dude! Really, I just said "NO!" I mean, yeah, I'm eight and in a bar during the day but that doesn't mean I smoke!! I don't know if my mom knew him from him being a regular or what, but somehow, he talked me and her into letting him take me to get McDonald's. Very few eight year old kids can resist McD's, and especially a kid who is poor and rarely gets that kind of stuff. (I don't know, nowadays, it's so cheap, maybe the poor are eating it all the time. But not back then). I think I thought that he was going to drive me to a McDs. I knew, as well as anyone else, that there wasn't a McDonald's close by the bar. We walked for a few blocks, past the BBQ place, across the railroad track. When we went to cross the railroad tracks, he wanted me to hold his hand. I found that creepy. I did not want to hold some strange man's hand, so I refused. He said "Where I come from, we hold little kid's hands when we cross the street." That's when I began to feel uncomfortable with this situation. I mean, here we were, no McDonald's in sight, and this weird pasty white guy who hung out in a bar wanted me to hold his hand. I also knew that whole "where I come from thing" was supposed to guilt me into doing something I didn't want to do, and that he was judging me. I didn't like it. I turned on my secret Kim weapon: the whine.

I started to whine that I wanted to go back, my feet hurt, I was tired. I refused to walk any further. Eventually he gave in and we went back to the bar.

I don't really think he was a pervert, but I suspect that he knew as well as I did that there was no McDonald's around there. I think he knew it was inappropriate for him to be taking me anywhere, and I'm not exactly sure why my mom let me go with him. I suspect he just thought he was doing a good deed-- get the little kid who hangs out in a bar all day out into the fresh air for a while. Like I said earlier, maybe she knew him better, and knew he was harmless. But I don't really remember him being around anymore after that, either. Nothing happened, but I did gain a healthy distrust for people offering things that sounded too good to be true.

I was thinking of this story for a couple of days now and it's turned out a little more boring than I thought it would. I'm sure if my mom, who reads the blog, reads it, she probably won't even remember the incident. But the mom in me thinks of all the things that could have happened. Nowadays, there wouldn't even be a question of letting a little kid go off with some guy like that-- but we lived in a more innocent world back then. And so, the moral of the story is that you have to teach your kids some healthy distrust, have them know that sometimes they are the best judge of a situation. If the guy had wanted to harm me, my whining most likely wouldn't have stopped him. But the fact that my little kid radar kicked in and said "hmmm...creepy guy.... let's go home" was good. Cultivate that radar in your kids. As the entry I wrote a long time ago about sex offender databases shows, there are a lot more wolves in the world than one might be aware, and usually, they are people you know rather than strangers.

Friday Sucks

I know, I know. For you folks who are in the workplace and looking forward to your weekend off, Friday is the best day of the week. But today sort of sucks for me. My handyman guy has my kitchen all disabled so he can start painting-- which will happen Monday, so I have a whole weekend to struggle with a kitchen all plastic wrapped and messy. Everyone has plans to do stuff this weekend, which will be fun to socialize, but there are no margaritas or martinis to look forward to for me. And the guilt of writing the dissertation never goes away. I do give myself a break on the weekend usually, and watch movies and lie on the couch reading, but that is increasingly feeling like a bad idea.

I did work on the dissertation today, but it was uninspired work. Just chipping away, but still. It sucks.

I need some ice cream.

Mama Bear

Have you ever seen a nature program where an angry Mama Bear faced off a much bigger bear, perhaps to protect her cubs? The male bear will look sort of sheepish, and back off slowly while the Mama Bear rages at him, ready to rip him to shreds?

I just had my first real experience of feeling really like that.

On the way home from buying my Chinese Food dinner (mmmm Orange Peel Beef) this idiot in an SUV inspired me to want to literally go all Mama Bear on his (or her) ass.

In Texas we have these roads called "access roads." They're small single lane roads beside the freeway that allow "access" to the stores or whatever on the side, so you don't have to actually exit the freeway right into the places beside the road. There's a shopping center near my house and it has an access point just past the freeway offramp. This asshole in the SUV apparently did not realize that they could keep driving like a normal human being and get to the access a few 100 feet down the road for their shopping needs. So he/she decided to come to a complete Motherfucking stop right IN THE MIDDLE OF THE EXIT RAMP. Then he/she saw me coming, exiting at a high rate of speed (cause that's what an offramp is for-- you slow down ON the ramp, not on the freeway) and wiggled their vehicle just barely over out of my way. I thought maybe they had broken down, and couldn't move the SUV out of the way. I honked the horn and missed them fine, but I was enraged when I saw them angle their vehicle at an extreme angle so they could get into the shopping access just inches past the ramp instead of driving the few feet past the ramp to the other entrance, clearly visible as cars were turning into it. They were stopping, risking a high speed impact which not only would have spilled my Chinese food but undoubtedly have caused major damage to my car, and possibly even myself, as well as their idiot selves, so that they could go shopping. Freakin' morons. I could have perhaps not been so enraged if it had been an actual incident where their vehicle was disabled. Things happen.

But...

When I saw that they were turning into the shopping center I really really wanted to turn my car around into the shopping center and go find them and kick their asses. They endangered the lives of my two twins and myself because they were idiots who don't freakin' know how to drive. MORONS!!!!!!!!! Logic would not at all say that the developers would plan for said eventuality and perhaps have more than one way to get into the shopping center, ya think?

I mean, normally that would make me a little bit mad. I'm a pretty safe, quick-reflexed driver, though, so really, I didn't come all that close to hitting them, even with the slick rain-coated roads and low nighttime visibility. But that is no thanks to them. They made an extremely dangerous situation happen. The thought of what kind of damage that moron could have done to my babies really made me want to rip their throats out.

Mama Bear. Don't piss her off.

Muggles, Everywhere

Okay, I'm not a Harry Potter rabid fan.* I like the movies; they're entertaining, and the kids are cute. But today's outing made me feel all like I was dealing with a bunch of idiots with no magic in them at all. Phooey!

Today, leaving Borders (a bookstore or a coffeeshop is the only appropriate public place on a day like today--private places include bed, or the couch with a steaming beverage and a home-made scone) after picking up a couple of promising new books I made a mild joke to the two checkers, who had been flirting around pretending to "straighten" the crap piled on tables in front of the counter but who both stood there while ringing me up (cause they really needed both cashiers to ring up my two books). My joke wasn't the best in the world, but it was mildly funny. However, because they didn't get it, it caused them, no doubt, to roll their eyes as though I were the nutty one after I left.

I said: "be careful over there in Sci-Fi-- there are Naps waiting to attack you." After half a second, wide-eyed, as though I were giving a real warning of a real hazard, and me repeating "Naps" and her finally getting it, and sort of lamely smiling (a gotta-humor-the-crazy-old-customer smile) she and her flirting-not-working partner sort of laughed. Of course, since I'm a masochist, I had to make it worse "I caught one while I was over there; they're trouble you know. Those nap attacks."

Like I said, I could almost feel the sarcastic "what a nut" smiles as I was walking away. Hey man. I'm hilariously funny. I'm no Eddie Izzard, but I have made many many people laugh. My students usually LOVE me (and not because I give them As or wear low cut cleavage inducing blouses. It's my sense of humor they love). And while the nap joke wasn't my best ever, it rated more than an eye-roll. Stupid Muggles. Not getting the jokes we superior intellects tell. Phooey. Reeedickulous.

And no, sorry Terry, no good coffeeshop posts today. The Starbuck's down the street from my house is not nearly as interesting as the coffeeshop in Shreveport. I don't know why. It was mostly full of people doing "work-related" stuff; job interviews, discussing a house-closing (much to my distraction and annoyance. I got very little work done). There was one guy huddled in the corner with his laptop, who didn't appear to have even bought anything, who I caught staring at me a couple of times while I was reading my article on Domestic Violence in India (it's for my dissertation chapter). Maybe he thought I was funny-looking. Or maybe it was really HIM who cursed me with the nap that is now weighing down any chance of further dissertation work. Damn evil Slitherins.

*Odd references in the post which only a Harry Potter fan would actually get to the contrary.

Rainy Day

This morning, I slept late because with the rain, the sun did not come poking into my window, shaking my shoulder and saying "rise and shine sleepyhead. The day's wasting". The cat, also lulled into complacency by said rainy gray day, did not whine for her breakfast, and actually stretched, yawned, and lay with half-closed eyes while I performed my morning ablutions. Said rain has me feeling very lazy, very procrastinate-y.

I hate to admit that because, with Andrew in Guam complete with an internet connection and my beloved laptop, he is reading the blog regularly (Hello my sweet Poohbala). He'll say "see, I knew she couldn't be good and work on the dissertation three whole days in a row without me there to hover." To which I'd respond "no, really. I'm going to Starbuck's in a little while to drink tea and get away from the home distractions." Going to the corporate whoreshop where I can get a passably good hot chocolate but not nearly as good a one as I can have at home gives me a good reason (beyond BO--and no, I don't really need a reason past that, but it makes for a good parenthetical) to take a shower and get out of the house away from the evil corrupting influence that is TLC.

Thursday. Rainy. A little on the cold side. Blah. And that stupid song is still stuck in my head.

Not a Loser Baby, So Why Don't You ???

I'm pretty cool man. 72% are more of a loser than me.*




*No, I didn't do the math myself. I'm too cool for math. :)

via Lauren

Sugar....

For all my talk yesterday of brilliant blog entries written at 4 AM, all I got this morning when trying to fall back asleep was repeated choruses of "Pour Some Sugar on Me."

Maybe I should cut back on the ice cream before bed.

Sweet

A good day of editing. I have finally managed to enter all the 30 something pages of changes I made last week to the computer, and now have a "fresh new draft" of chapter 3 to review & edit AGAIN. The secret appears to be in working on the dissertation FIRST before doing almost anything else. No shopping for lunch groceries, no going to lunch with relatives, no business other than writing.

Phew. Now to go grocery shopping since I just ate my last "quick food"-- a pizza. But now I do it victoriously, with a good three hours of work under my (considerably wider than it used to be) belt.

4 AM

In the mornings, tossing and turning and trying to get my poor hips comfortable, I write the most brilliant blog entries. They are insightful, philosophical, poignant. They answer age-old questions of good and evil, love and loss.

I am certain that I will remember them. How could I forget something so earth-shattering?

I fall asleep, confident that here, today, I will have the blog entry that will make you fall to your knees and weep with the joy of sheer insight.

When I wake up, cat meowing in my face for her breakfast, my own tummy grumbling at me to eat my raisin bran Kaishi cereal, the brilliant blog entry is gone and you are left with Fraggles and Pretty in Pink. But there's no way I'm getting out of bed at 4 AM. World Peace will just have to wait for the day I can remember the entry after several hours of dreaming sleep.

Attack of the Catholic Schoolgirls

Last night I went to the mall to return a Christmas present that hadn't worked out (I finally found the stinkin' receipt). While I was there, I moseyed around and did a little shopping, mostly people watching, enjoying my cup of hot cocoa.

I had seen a young girl wearing a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, with a taller young man with hair like Sideshow Bob wrapped around her, early in my mall expedition. As I walked, about five more girls in the cute little plaid skirts and white blouse of Catholic Schoolgirlness walked, shoulder-to-shoulder, oblivious to anyone that didn't register on their radar of coolness (whatever that is nowadays).

They were loud, boisterous. They barreled into a couple of women who were trying to angle their way from one side of the mall-hall to the other so that they could enter a shoe store. These three women were all in a uniform of sorts, too--all of them were dressed in the "hello, I'm a butch lesbian" outfit that some women like to adopt-- mannish dark colored pants, loose fitting, with a chain wallet holder dangling from pocket. Comfortable black or brown shoes. Button down white oxford shirts. Very short spiked & gelled hair and multiple piercings running up the lobes of their ears. A gold chain spilling from the open collar of the oxford shirt, under which you could see a "wife beater" t-shirt. As the Catholic schoolgirls shouldered into the butch group, I saw some scowls on the part of the older women. The Catholic Schoolgirls were not phased, didn't even notice. I wondered if there would be comments made-- there were none. But it made me think of the different versions of femininity that were represented there-- rude schoolgirl chic; radical-affirmation-of-sexual-preference chic; me, all knocked up (and not really going for chic). The older lady with slightly permed white hair, one of those extra large shopping bags, her Hush Puppies making no noise as she walked just about next to me. I really wanted to comment on the girls to someone, make a snide joke. But people tend to think it's weird when you talk to yourself, so I saved my thoughts for a blog and went to gaze longingly in the Godiva chocolates window (no, I did not succumb. I was a good girl!).

Lately, every time I've seen Catholic schoolgirls in a shopping area, they've been behaving in a way that would most likely get their knuckles smacked were there a nun in the local area. I had seen several of them running around a Borders not long ago, giggling and definitely not looking at books, with the same sort of boys in tow who I saw wrapped around the girl at the mall. Boys who would stand under a window and sing up "come out Virginia, don't let me wait".

I don't think I'd seen a Catholic schoolgirl in years-- why are they suddenly following me now? Is this some sort of message from the Virgin de Guadalupe, to whom I actually think I owe my rapid (and apparently abundant) fertility after having stored my baking vanilla in a Virgin holy water bottle. (It's waaaay cool. Clear glass with a plastic "crown" stopper.) Is there perhaps some mission for me to fulfill? Undeserving King to topple with my army of peasants? Cathedral to commission?

Probably not. It's most likely that those CSG are stalking me for some other reason. I do, after all, know all the words to "Only the Good Die Young". And boy, could I tell them some stories about the sort of boy who sings under windowsills. (They won't listen, however.)

Froogle, Fraggle

Is it just me or when you see the new "Froogle" link on the google search engine, do you think of Fraggles?

Pixel Dolls Strike Again

Uh Oh. Surfing blogs, I found this new doll maker program. I made, as usual, myself. Granted, this is myself with a REALLY GOOD hair day. I must have stopped and gotten my hair done by a professional. And my eyes are not that big. And my belly is a bit bigger right now.

But it is an idealized, doll form of moi*. And of course, Tituba.

Stop laughing.

I mean it.


*Lately I've felt the need to throw Miss Piggy-isms into conversation. So sue moi.
Get yer own doll here

You Know It's True....

At the end of the interesting, if different from the typical Arthurian tale King Arthur movie from 2004,* the newly declared King Arthur, who has defeated the first wave of nasty old (if somewhat phlegmatically played) Saxons who would eventually prove unbeatable, the locals, along with a Woadish Merlin, gather round to cheer as Arthur, newly married to Guinevere without that pesky Lancelot around anymore to muddle things up in ye olde love triangle, yells something like:

From this day forward, all Britons shall be united in a common cause!

I couldn't help but yell out: TEA!!

Call me wicked. But from the English I've met, it's sorta true. :)

*And I'm sure Arthurian legend-lovers hated this version. I kind of liked the Guinevere in it, though. Not a bad night of cheap entertainment with some Ben & Jerry's and a warm fire (the movie. Not Guinevere).

Pretty in Pink

This movie is probably one of my favorites. It's not because when I was a teen with short red hair I used to get told I looked like Molly Ringwald (which I never really thought I did; it was just the hair & freckles). It's on, probably TBS or one of those channels that do movies on the weekend. Yes, like many, I was a little horrified when she went off with the rich guy instead of the loyal Duckie. But at the same time, I understand that when you've been friends with someone for so long, you might not be able to see them any other way. Besides, maybe after the flings with the folks they met at the prom, Duckie and Molly's character (what was her name again?) got together in college or something. You never know.

But I remember watching it in high school and thinking how cool her clothes were. I just saw a scene where she was wearing this really cool sweater with the kind of sparlky beading everyone is wearing nowadays-- that "vintage" 1950s sort of sweater. LOVED IT! There's a scene where one of the rich girls tells her how ugly her clothes are, and even back when the vintage thing wasn't the coolest in the world, I thought the rich girl was bland boring vanilla and wrong about Molly's clothes (that's the point, though, right? You're supposed to identify with Molly).

Ah, memories. For a while after high school, I worked at an art framing shop. There was a guy who worked there who looked a lot like Duckie. He had a terrible crush on me. It was sort of funny. Of course, at the time, unluckily for the Duckie look alike, like the character in Pretty in Pink, I was involved instead with the wrong guy. (The Evil Ex). But luckily for me, the wrong guy kept me busy until I met the RIGHT one.* :) I love the scene where Duckie lip sincs to Molly's character in the record store. Annie Potts' character as the wiser older woman so gets it when she realizes how hot Duckie is in that scene. But Molly has to go through her rich-guy chasing phase. Even though rich guy was, like almost all of the others, bland and boring.

But still, Molly's clothes are SOOOOO cool in that movie. I wish I could get my claws on some of them. I'll settle for my sort of close creme sweater which I am now going to wear today, in honor of the fabulous eighties teen flick.

*My luckiest day, ever, was the one where I picked him up in a bar.

Slamming

When I was a pre-teen, we girls had a thing we used to do called "Slam Books." What they were was notebooks (they had to be spiral) where you would write on the top of each page a question. Then, you'd pass the books around to your friends, really to any girl in the class who would want to write in it, and they would answer each question. It would be things like "Who do you like" and "Does he know you like him" and "What's your favorite color?" On the cover, if you were really creative, you would cut cool pictures and phrases out of your sister's magazines and tape them all over the cover(it had to be the shiny tape). The more cool phrases you had, the better. Advertising equals cool. It was sort of like a ransom note gone teen.

Boys were sort of allowed to write in them, if they were the "right boys." But for the most part, it was a secret way to find out more information about your friends and possibly blackmail them in the future about the "boy they like". I recall being brutally (to myself) honest and putting the names of the boys I had crushes on, risking them finding out, I guess cause I half wanted them to know.

There are emails that are quite popular going around that remind me of Slam Books. You know the ones, they have the same kinds of questions and you're supposed to forward the completed email to all of your address book. I have one sitting in my inbox right now, even with my aversion to spam and chain email and all those sorts of things being well known by my friends. I don't really mind one of these Slam E-mails because I usually just answer the questions and send it back to only the person who sent it to me. I just don't like to pass them around to a bunch of people who didn't ask-- if they want to know whether I like chocolate or vanilla better, they should ask me. I'm not just giving this info out for free, you know.

One thing I was remembering this morning at 5:00 when I did my current "wake up with pain in hip and can't go back to sleep" trend was how I used to like to put the phrase that used to be part of a Virginia Slims ad campaign on my Slam covers: "You've Come a Long Way Baby." Virginia Slims quite cleverly used the historic tie between smoking & feminism to imply that smoking their cigarettes was a path to girl-power. You might remember this campaign if you're as ancient as I am. They would have cute women in old-fashioned clothing getting in trouble for smoking, usually with some fat old policeman with handlebar mustaches looking on disapprovingly. Or they'd be loaded down with laundry, or show the uncomfortable corsets women had to wear. Some sort of discomfort that used to be associated with women would be featured in a small, sepia colored inset photo. Then they'd show the liberated modern woman happily holding her "slim"* cigarette with no fear, smiling smugly cause she's "come a long way."

I liked the idea of being an independent, liberated woman, even way back before I had hit puberty. Girls could do anything they wanted to do. So I would include this phrase on my notebooks. People often looked at me, puzzled, and said "Do you smoke?" So quite clearly, the idea of "coming a long way" was, for many, firmly tied to that cigarette. I figured I could divorce its commercial meaning and still keep the liberated woman part of the phrase. Even though back then all I really had to look forward to was going a long way in my future. I had big plans, and they didn't involve smoking.

I have, in fact, come a long way, from a stringy-haired, freckled poor kid who secretly wanted the boy I liked to find out about it and declare his undying love back for me to a woman who has a soul mate who regularly declares his undying love for me, and it's not a secret at all. I have two university degrees of which I am very proud, and will get the third before this year is out darn it. I can bring home the bacon, but if you ask me to fry it up, I'll probably get a little woozy cause the twins-to-be-named-soon don't like bacon. I live in a great little "nest" of a home and have great friends and family.

It's a long way from there to here. And I'll tell you a secret that isn't ever asked in the Slam Books or E-mail Slams. I'm loving every single minute of it.


*Another catch-- the cigarettes imply you'll be skinnier if you smoke them too... see. They're clever, these tobacco folks.

"Running of the Brides"

This is just embarrassing. When I was getting married, I was on the look out for bargains. I bought my wedding dress at a consignment shop for $200 and was very happy with it. (Just this last year, trying on wedding dresses at Goodwill for my Hallowe'en costume I was admonished by a strange woman that I couldn't buy a used wedding dress. Not that it was any of her business. And not that I hadn't already done it and have had a happy marriage for almost 12 years now. Luck shmuck. You make your own luck) And I understand how someone would want to get a good deal on something that can be outrageously expensive: the wedding dress.

Just now on CNN they showed the above footage of an Atlanta store that offers dresses at something like a 75% discount with brides racing, pushing, and literally screaming as they ran into the store through a banner and I'm sure pushed and pulled frantically to find their "dream dress." The anchors playfully joked about how dangerous the place must have been. Yes, it looked like people were having fun, and there were a couple of grooms in there. In fact, late in the video there is a man running with "swishy" hands screaming and making fun of the whole thing with a big grin on his face. BUT the anxiety clear on the faces of many of the brides shows how seriously they took this event, how important this dress thing is to them. For the majority of the women, it was NOT a laughing matter.

Okay, fine. Let's not focus on our marriage, our spouse to be, but on the dress we'll wear. The issue is somewhat humiliating, and has granted me a rant for the day.

This is all part of the Cinderella syndrome. Even Cathy the cartoon strip is going through the same issue right now-- perpetually worried neurotic Cathy is finally getting married, and very day there's a wedding cliche played out in the comic, supposedly for funny effect. We saw Monica on Friends go insane, (and drive her friends that way too) with a huge scrapbook of the "dream wedding" plans she had been making since she was a little girl. Many women seem to think that on their wedding day everything must be PERFECT and they have to live a fairy tale, or else life is just not worth living. It's a major cause of anxiety and debt.

Is it just me, or is this a really sick precedent? A wedding is a really special moment, but middle-class people spend sometimes as much as 50 grand on weddings-- FOR ONE DAY. It can be just as special for a helluva lot less money. Don't even get me started on what rich folks pay. Little girls should not be raised with the idea that the most important day of their entire life will be the wedding day. Yes, it's a big event. But I see it as a lot like "The Prom"-- you get a nice dress, you have some nice food and pictures, and the rest of your life and marriage is what is important. The MARRIAGE-- that is what is the most important thing. NOT the dress, the cake, the flowers. Not even the tiara.*

I don't mean to belittle or insult anyone's dreams by any means--but reasonableness really needs to prevail here. For the price of many folks' single day, one can put a substantial down payment on one's first house! Or put aside money for one's children's education! Or even go on a long vacation! To freakin' Europe for weeks!! Andrew bought me my first car with part of the money we could have spent on a fancy wedding. And we still had enough money in bonds to save to buy our first rental property, which we still have invested and is still making us money.

I just can't believe this sort of mindset still exists and is thought to be a quirky human interest story where women race screaming and pushing into a store FOR A DRESS. A Thing. A pretty dress is nice, yes, but you could get married in a pair of cutoff shorts and a sparkly tube top (and if you do, please please please invite me to the wedding.) :) The dress has nothing to do with your marriage; it's a fun part of a fun ceremony, but not something worth devoting this much energy to. I was both embarrassed and saddenend by this story, and the attitude about how women have or have not come so far in the last 30 years.

My wedding probably cost a total of about 5,000, and I had a very nice, small, simple wedding with family & friends. I was very happy with it, and lucky to have a sister who was a catering person who got some great deals on the equipment and prepared all the food for me (which was low-key anyway.) I've been to some extravagant wonderful weddings in my time, and they were really neat. But even those were just one day in the life of the couple. The rest of the days are the important part, and I guess my concluding moral is that if you can't afford the dress of your dreams, perhaps your dreams are beyond your means. My friend with the extravagant wedding could afford to spend more-- she didn't have to belittle herself racing screaming into a store for the amusement of the cameras, standing in line for hours, for a dress at 75% off.

I, with lesser means for the wedding, bought a used dress, not a used husband. The "bad" or "good luck" comes from your choice of mate, not your choice of a dress. (Besides, the wedding dress as we know it is a Victorian custom. It's certainly NOT something that is ageless and timeless. A tradition from the same people who renamed a male chicken "rooster" cause they didn't want to say "cock," and who put skirts on table legs so that one wouldn't become aroused by looking at the feet/legs of your dining set. We really should take all the Victorian traditions to heart. Yeah.)

Don't be part of the running of the brides. (Where, if you check your metaphor, you will realize that the comparison being made here is to the running of the bulls, where the bulls=brides, or a raging mindless animal who is about to be killed on a sword in a bullfight is compared to a bride.) Have some dignity. Plan a wedding within your means, and then focus on getting to know your spouse so that you're not part of the 50% of marriages that end. And for the goddess's sake, save me a piece of wedding cake.

*And for a drag queen crow who loves sparklies like me to say this, you gotta know something is serious. :)

Woke Up This Morning....

...feeling a bit cranky & unmotivated. I didn't sleep very well, kept waking up with this fun little bonus prize of pregnancy. I get this sensation in my right hip sort of like the "pins and needles" when your foot falls asleep. The one way to fix it is to lie on my back-- which you're not allowed to do when you're pregnant because of cardiac reasons. So it's "flip to one side, flip to the other. Make the cat meow irritatedly at you for all your wiggling. Fall asleep for ten minutes. Wake up again. Flip. Hip hurts again. Lie in bed thinking of old irrelevant memories." Then, to top it off, too early this morning I was awoken by a dream that sounded like someone was knocking on my sliding glass door in the living room. In the dream, I was in bed, and the cat jumped up on the bed freaked out by the knock. So it seemed real. I knew it wasn't, but it woke me up anyway.

Plus, I didn't take the garbage out and the garbage men are here now and so now I have to wait till Monday. This is the reason one needs a man around the house. (Well, one reason.)

Two more weeks (give or take a few days) till Andrew is home again. He's been gone almost three weeks now. Some days it seems like not much time, some days it seems like a lonnnnng time. Today, I think, is going to be one of the latter.

I'm cranky and out of sorts and kind of tired. It seems wrong and lazy to do the re-rack already today but it may be in the works.

Signs?

We're renting out our newly purchased house and to save myself a lot of hassle, I put the price & size on the outgoing message of the phone number the interested potential renters call. So far, everyone who has called has found that the price is out of their range-- I don't know what they expected of a really nice place in a really nice neighborhood, but people are kind of weird.

But anyway, because of the message, which I did to save me having to talk to and waste my time on a lot of calls with people who weren't interested in the place at a reasonable price, I've been screening any call which does not look familiar. That way, they get the voice message and I don't have to repeat for the -nth time the price & dimensions.

Just a short while ago, I got two calls from the same number, shortly after each other. It was a bit annoying, I thought "Dude, just listen to the message and leave your number if you want more info!" When I checked messages there was one.

It sounds eerily, creepily, almost exactly like that buzzing/clicking noise the aliens in that Shyamalan movie Signs* made on the baby monitor thing.

Seriously. Are we being invaded? If so, I totally do NOT have the house for it. Too much window space on the sliding glass door, hard to board up and hide in a closet. I'm a little creeped out. I may have to go get some ice cream to make myself feel better.

*which, by the way, I kind of liked right up until the very end of the movie where they totally made the "change of faith" Gibson's character had so obvious. I would have liked it much much better if they'd have ended with the scene where the kid gets better & they're all in the yard. The last scene was such a lame-o too obvious dumbed-down "maybe everyone didn't get it" add on. IMHO.

Must....... leave....... house........get......

work.............done.........


Cat & handyman driving me crazy. Stop.
Must leave house immediately before doing bodily harm to one or both. Stop.
Heading to Starbuck's where I will pay too much for cup of decaf tea. Stop.

Hope coffee smell still doesn't make me want to hurl..........

Testing in
9...8....7...6...5...4....3....2....................1

Pile of Kittens

With Andrew gone, I've been nostalgic about the desktop art on my computer. I've been posting old pictures of him, or pictures of the two of us. Cause I miss the silly old hubby.

This morning, looking at some of the pictures, I was choosing this one from our wedding*. I love the way he's looking at me, because even though this is a totally staged re-enactment of the "blessing" part of our short & sweet ceremony, he's totally into it, and looking at me with that completely paying attention to me alone look that I love.

But I noticed, as I was looking at the hands, that it's really hard to tell when you see the tangled hands under the top ones, where his hands begin and mine end. Obviously the ones with the bright white nail tips are mine, but even when you factor that in, there is this tangle of fingers that shows how tightly we were clasped together, one ending where the other begins.

Whenever we are being lazy, weekend rest and the "re-rack,"** we usually call ourselves a "pile of kittens in the sun." Andrew's legs and mine flopped on top of each other, the cat somewhere in the middle of the pile purring and demanding to be petted. Perhaps we are sleeping, or just talking, or reading, or heading into napville. But this weekend laziness is one of my favorite things. We don't even need a queen sized bed because we are so snuggled. And this is very common, for us to be snuggled so. (And I miss it when he's gone and have re-created a poor substitute with pillows and blankets in my little bed-nest). Lately we've talked about how cool it will be to add two more to our pile of kittens one of these days soon.

See, you never know, you're minding your own business and pop into this blog and get blasted with a wave of sweetness so bad you have to go brush your teeth. It happens. Every day can't be a complaint about something. :)

*And I totally love posting this old thing here because you can see the cool elements of my wedding-- the pretty flowers to the lower corner were my "wildflower-esque" bouquet, held by my maid of honor & best friend. The cool hippy veil over my loose spiral curls; my pretty consignment shop purchased wedding dress, my hubby with his day-after-the-bachelor-party flushed cheeks.

**the re-rack is the word for when you get up (out of the bed/rack), do some things (like maybe eat breakfast and watch a little news) and then go back to sleep. It's a joyous time, the re-rack. It's better than merely staying in bed, because you appreciate that moment of head hitting pillow gone cold even more because you had forsaken it for a moment or two.

Of Course We Have Cheese, This is a Cheese Shop....

So, taking the last few of the books I declared not worthy of squeezing into my office shelf space to the little used book store down the street, I found that I have 40 dollars give or take of credit there. Cool! So I popped in to see if they had the kids' books that I planned to buy with the exchange. Not many. Nope. Amelia Bedelia is it really.

So, what the heck, I'll buy some paperbacks for me to read.

I picked out about five paperbacks from the sci-fi genre, and a hardback I've already read but not in hardback.

When I got the the counter, explained to the owner guy that I had credits, and he pulled up my credits, he said "oh, but you have general credits. You can't use those for sci fi."

Which, of course, was the bulk of my purchase (except for crazy old Amelia Bedelia).

I had looked at other sections of the book store's books, too. But nothing really jumped out at me. So now I have 40 bucks worth of credit at a book store where I don't really want to buy any books. It's like having a credit card with a big old limit and not wanting to buy any candy at the 7-11 (remember being a kid and thinking if only you had money you would buy one of everything? Well, the curse is by the time you have the money, you no longer want all that crap. At least not regularly).

Sigh. I'm sure it's some sort of cosmic punishment for all those late library books in my shady library past. Don't tell the library police you know where I am, by the way. I've been on the lam from them for years.

But speaking of libraries, I did take a couple of backpacks full of big hardbacks to the library to donate. That felt really good! This had to have been over 200 bucks worth of books, since a couple of them were the freebies I get from a publisher to review (I didn't review them cause they were like, book three in a series that I haven't read books 1 & 2 of). Since I grew up a library kid, spending millions of hours reading books and loving the library, this felt like a moment to give back a bit. A tiny chunk of the pleasure I have gotten I can now think of someone else getting from my donations. (Cause again, they're all decent books, just not books I wanted to keep).

Anyway. On that note: time for a nap. :)

Crush # 64

When I was in high school, I had a terrible crush on a guy in my classes. He looked to me a lot like Corey Hart, played center on the football team (he was number 64). I used to listen to my Corey Hart album over and over again and think sadly and wishfully of my crush. I also used to sometimes call his house and hang up when someone answered (ah, what caller ID has lost us). He was sort of a quiet guy, shy. He had a brother who memory tells me was a twin, but who was apparently in a different grade (so either not a twin or they had differing academic talents.) He was in my English class when we were in 11th grade and used to sing the song "You Are So Beautiful" all the time, while looking at me. Now, with the wisdom of ages behind me, I figure he probably liked me too but had no idea how other than his little serenades to go about telling me.

In my capacity as a teacher's aid for another English teacher, I once had the opportunity to go into the files of our 11th grade English teacher. I saw his file, with his pre-writing activities, of what his favorite things were. On the list:

• favorites:
• his guitar
• Mellow Yellow
• girls in short skirts
• Dislikes:
• sand in shoes

My temptation from then on was to drop these little tidbits as things I too loved/hated.
Gee, don't you just love playing the guitar, while walking on the beach barefoot wearing a miniskirt, drinking Mellow Yellow? I would say, while walking past, showing him that I was indeed his dream girl. Alas, I never used my illicitly gained knowledge of his passions. That's the trouble with learning secrets-- is it really ethical to use them to your advantage? My 17 year old self didn't think so.

I wrote him a long poem once on a "candygram". It was about seeing him on the outside, and thinking him wonderful. Of course I didn't sign it-- that's the way crushes go! When I passed the temperature clock every morning during the late fall, the temperature almost every morning was 64 degrees, which I took to mean we were destined to somehow be together.

He dated a girl that I decided to hate-- calling her, because of a slightly horsey set of teeth and an unfortunate incident where I saw her eating an apple-- horse-face. My loyal friends & I used to make horse noises whenever she walked by. Of course, she had no idea I even existed so wouldn't have known we were mocking her.

When I first began to date my high school sweetheart, here known as the EVIL EX, I saw #64 at a party with a girlfriend. It just never seemed that we would connect, even though I still thought he was cute.

Years later, as I worked at a hotel downtown across from the Civic Center where all the big bands would play, there was a Jane's Addiction concert that he and a bunch of his high school friends rented a room and attended. Probably having a wild party in the room. I saw #64 as he checked in to the hotel. I have to admit I was looking pretty hot-- long curly red hair, still a great figure. Still dating, unfortunately, the EVIL EX. But #64, well, the years outside of football hadn't been too kind-- he was a bit on the stocky side even in high school, and that had gone to fat in the two years since graduation. He looked somewhat wistfully at me, said hello. Did not sing anything. I'm guessing he probably had a girlfriend then, too, since if I were him and single, I would have invited me to the party. :)

But today, cleaning out the guest bedroom of books still (packing away the ones that will remained packed till the real job comes) I heard "You Are So Beautiful" and it reminded me of high school crushes that never cross.

Probably, it wouldn't have worked out and poor #64 would instead be referred to as the Evil Ex, instead of the actual Evil Ex. But it's a sweet memory of sighs, and dreams, and silly crushes. And for that, I am glad that it never happened, because is is still a sweet memory of a boy who sang to me.

Nesting, Books, and Backaches

Here's a sentence I never thought I'd write: The trouble with having lots of books is that when you have to MOVE them, say, for a baby's (or two's) new nursery that doesn't need a lot of dusty old grown up books in it, it takes a lot of effort. My office has these long adjustable shelves on the wall, so the fiction books that we want to keep (paperback & hardbacks) are now mostly lining the shelves in here. It looks kind of cool and "library ish". I'm going to add a couple of shelves in here, that are pretty high and hard to reach, for stuff we don't need very often. Relax, I'm going to get someone ELSE to do the hard work on that shelf-installation part, even if I have to pay them.

I don't know what I'm going to do with the non-fiction, academic scholarly stuff. I think I'll put it neatly in boxes in the garage until I get my "official" office at school (the one I won't have to move out of every other semester, which as an adjunct is normal). (Which might be a while, but still). I'm getting rid of a bunch of books, too, since Andrew's gone. He likes to hold on to everything, but I have a big stack of books I can do without for one reason or another. One reason: I didn't much like the book, but read it anyway. Another: since I have a book reviews website, I get sent some books sometimes for free that I wouldn't read even if someone paid me to do it. Some are books other people have given me, or Andrew, thinking we like that sort of book (for the record, Andrew doesn't read military suspense books. Just cause he does it for a living [maybe BEcause he does it for a living] doesn't mean he wants to read about it.) Blech! But they're not inherently bad books, just TOTALLY not my style and a waste of time and space for us. Still, I'm a bit of a book pack rat, so there are soooo many books in here. There are some that I certainly wouldn't part with, and just seeing them there in their spot on the wall, a favorite title read many times, makes me smile. Happy Sigh. Nothing like a room full of books to make a bookworm happy. One day, I want an entire room devoted to books, a real library. With comfy chairs with good lights next to them, and tables to put a cup of hot tea, and maybe some board games & quiet activities, and nice rugs. You know, snobby, like the library in the game "Clue."

But those "never even read them" "didn't like 'em but read 'em anyway" books, and a bunch of CDs I haven't listened to in at least two years, are going away. A used book store, perhaps? Maybe if I can do that, I can get some exchanges and get some cool kid's books to line the nursery bookshelves (of which there will be two) with. I already have a half dozen or so books I've picked up over the years, but it would be cool to get some more of the classics I'll be reading to two little faces in the next couple of years.

But man, is it a big old mess right now. Books all over the floor. Dust flying. My back hurting (last night) so I had to quit. Being unused to having to stop working, I was surprised to get a pregnancy backache so soon. But as I told Veda when she dropped me an email-- I am actually only 16 weeks pregnant, but look about 5 1/2 to 6 months. (And yes, if anyone is wondering, everything on that front is still super. I'll keep you updated.) :)

It's gonna be a wild ride, folks. So that's why this book moving project had to happen now-- while Andrew's gone & the backaches haven't completely immobilized me yet, I've got a weekend to kill (I don't write the dissertation on weekends; it's a rule!) I can get some quality nesting done.

But now, to shower off the book dust and go drop some unsuspecting used book store clerk a load of work to do. Mwah ha ha ha ha! Happy Sunday everyone!

One of the Hardest Things

I just finished eating breakfast, during which I always like to turn on the TV. Today, I found the episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy where they did up the apartment and planned the wedding for a military guy who was about to ship out to Iraq. Ray S. and his brand new wife Maria, and their little girl, were living in a place that was not a home, messy, no furniture, no real connection to the city. The guys went in a much more subdued bunch than they usually are. They were so cool-- there were far fewer of the wacky jokes they usually make about the sexiness of the guy-- (although he is pretty hot, that Ray) in deference to his military standing & the fact that it might not go over very well for him if it was too wild. They had a wonderful wedding for the couple at the end, and it was very emotional and sweet and sad. You could tell that the Fab Five really were touched by this family, and perhaps realized how there are millions of little families like that one who have to do this hard thing of leaving and being left. Even when it's for a short time, it's not easy-- but it's something that has to be done.

I sat on the couch in tears, thinking of all the goodbyes that military people sometimes have to make. I've seen them (and lived them) myself-- and it's always hard, no matter how many times you do it.

The thing people who have never served in the military miss sometimes is that no one who is in the military wants to leave their families, to go over to some foreign country into danger. It isn't what someone signs up for-- war. You sign up for peace, for protection of your family. Those of us left behind don't like it when our loved ones leave, but we love them so much that we understand their need to do this job. And they're good at the job-- who else would do it? My hubby is a peaceful person, a philosopher who, when we were dating, talked about how he had always thought it was a cool idea to backpack around the country with nothing-- very Henry David Thoreau-ish of him, I thought then, but now I know part of it is an independence and wish to be left to his thoughts sometimes. But he is also a strong man-- someone who will stand up for his convictions in the face of opposition that can be pretty fierce sometimes. He embodies the song, where there's a line "love my lady she's long and lean; You mess with her you see a man get mean" by Stevie Ray Vaughan.

What the Queer Eye really drove home, at least for me and I hope other people who see the show, is that no matter what you think of the situation where our troops are sent, no matter how badly it might reflect internationally or how well or not we might think it is going for the US, we have to always remember those families, those people who love someone who are waiting here. The ribbons that say "we support our troops" were partly designed to show that, but how does someone really "support" something if one fundamentally dislikes what they have to do? We live in a society that allows dissent, and that, my friends, is what the people who have to leave to live apart from those they love enough to protect with their lives are there to really protect.

I've been on my own with Andrew gone before-- there are easy parts to it, familiar parts to it, and I don't need my hand held 24/7. It seems this time, with me being pregnant, people are much more sensitive to me being alone, and that's okay. I don't really mind it. But Andrew is essentially more alone than I am, so if you know him, you should send him an e-mail and let him know you miss him. He reads the blog, sometimes too, so feel free to write him a note in the comments if you don't have his email address. I know he'll appreciate being thought of, and well wishes. And if you have the time and/or energy, see if there are other troops with less attention than my sweet baboo gets who need some friendly words. Mine will be home safe in 5 weeks. There are other folks who could use a pal. One service I've found which is not a singles-dating service disguised as a helpful military group is Books For Soldiers. You can send books, movies, CDs or just a letter.

Ode to a Long Black Hair or, Why You Should Never Get the Buffet

I am not a picky eater. Generally. (Right now I'm having some "issues" with seafood, but that's a different story). One of my favorite foods is Greek-- Gyros, Moussaka, Tsaziki sauce. (I think I spelled it right...) Today, driving cross town 40 minutes to my doctor's appointment, I went to my good friend's Greek restaurant. They make incredibly good food. They're good friends. I never knew, having never been there at lunch before, that they have a lunch buffet.

My friend looked very busy so I thought I'd be easy and just do as the rest of the line was doing and get the buffet. It looked like pretty good stuff. Gyro meat. Salad. Pitas. Some stuffed tomatoes & I think a stuffed zucchini (didn't try that one). Spiced potato wedges. The lovely Tsaziki sauce.

I got one of the tomatoes. It actually tasted pretty good-- it was the kind of stuffing you get in a Dolma (stuffed grape leaves). I like tomatoes, so was content with it. The food was not as good as normal, but it's hard to keep the quality high on a buffet, with the steam trays and all.

But about 7/8 of the way through my meal, I got a hair in my mouth.

I have long hair, so it's not at all unusual for some of my own hair to a. have a stray piece fall on my own plate and have me notice it b. while still on my head, as I turn my ponytail about, looking at something, wiggle over into my mouth and require me moving it out. At first, that's what I thought the hair was-- my own. Not a biggie. I know where my hair has been.

But on getting a second hair mixed in with a bite, I looked carefully at it. It was long and very black. Well, I know you've noticed in that picture over there that my hair is red (if you haven't look at it now). At it's darkest (under the nape) it's a dark red-brown. There's no black. Red.

Not being picky, I normally wouldn't care at all, but being pregnant, I was actually made a wee bit woozy by said hair. I'm still a little bit creeped out, frankly. Which is why I'm subjecting you to the same gross out, in the hopes that writing about it will be cathartic.

Again, since my friend was so busy, I didn't have time to pull him aside and discretely tell him that there had been a long hair in my food. It happens, I know. Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant, or cooks for themselves regularly, knows how hard it is to prevent every single hair from ever getting into some food. And as long as it's clean hair, it's really not that big of a deal.

But man, oh man, will I sure tell them all about it later. And I fully expect much fawning over my loyalty as a friend to not point out this icky thing in front of all those other suckers paying customers. Perhaps some free desserts and a dozen long-stemmed red (no, yellow) roses in apology. And a foot massage. And maybe some sort of sparkly.

And while I trust them and love their food under normal circumstances enough to get over it and know that it is not a normal, common event, I will never, ever, order the buffet again.

The Little Countdown Clock Race

I've been surfing Blog Explosion, and I got a bunch of new hits on my blog (and a few nice comments! Hello there!). It's a bit on the addictive side, this racking up credits. Each credit, each blog you look at, gets you a visit to your blog from some poor sucker with red-strained eyes, a terrible twinkie habit, and friends and family who haven't seen them in weeks but know they're still alive from the clicking sound their mouse makes as they click on the little numbers after the little clock counts down to zero and you can finally GO!

I don't know if it's my browser, or what, but every few blogs do not load on BE. I'm stuck sitting there, waiting for the countdown on a page that has a 404 error. And let me tell you, it doesn't take 30 seconds for me to read the 404 page.

Then there are the blogs I don't really want to read. I know there are probably people who stop in to my blog and wait anxiously for that 30 seconds to be done so they can move on and rack up their credits. Because that's how I feel about some blogs. I won't say which ones-- that way, if you who write said blogs come to me you'll think I'm actually scrolling about, reading your first few blog entries. Hah ha!

But anyway. It's a very addictive thing, this Blog Explosion and its new kid on the block competitor Blog Click. It gets you more traffic, and if you comment on some of the cool blogs you see, you'll even maybe make new friends. Get on more blogrolls. See your stats climb to twice their normal number, allowing literally tens of people to see your intelligent banter and cute posted graphics and quizzes that reveal the REAL YOU.

I only do it when I'm waiting for other stuff.* Like right now, I have to go to a pointless meeting all the way downtown, through 5:00 traffic. It's pointless because it's a dispute resolution meeting and the other party refuses to play. So I have to show up to show my good faith, so we have that evidence when we sue their asses. And so, because I need to leave in about 20 minutes, I can't actually start anything productive. Or useful.

Heck. Let's go watch the little clock count down some more. It'll get me another visitor to the site who will then sit watching their clock count down and think "this Kim Procrastinates chick is awfully wordy. Where are the quick entries I can read in 30 seconds?

And don't get me started on the MYSTERY CREDITS. I love them. I want more. Please? If somebody signs up using my referral thingy, I think I get more credits. I'm begging here.

Frankly, I blame you Terry. You know why.

*yeah. Sure

Directions

Have you ever noticed how people are generally very bad at giving directions? And, as a corollary to that, most people are really bad at following directions? Waiting impatiently behind a woman at a convenience store where I had stopped to buy Tylenol (headache here-- move it along please) the customer was looking for someplace that the clerk was doing an adequate job of explaining how to get to. I knew where she was going, and about halfway through the directions, the customer basically was wanting to leave. Now, I really did want to buy my Tylenol and get the Hades out of the Quickie Mart, but still, I felt bad that I was pretty sure customer lady was going to get halfway there and be totally lost.

But I didn't offer any help, because I'm generally very bad at giving directions. I am just good at making fun of others who do it better than myself. Hey. It's a skill. Just like any other.

Google Searches

I haven't ever actually done one of these, but my blog-friend Steve does them all the time. I laughed out loud reading over one today so I decided to put a few of my "google found your way here" phrases, and my hopefully clever responses.

My favorite search string: "can someone with a phd work at starbuck's" Well of course they can. In fact, I'm pretty sure UW in Seattle is offering a specialty in it. Does this mean they are tenured baristas? Why, no, only if they publish in the right sort of coffee journals. And if you don't specialize in Starbuck's, you must get your degree in something in the humanities, cause everyone knows they can't get jobs anywhere else.

One I'm always getting: "wonder woman cake pan" Hmm. I think that the blog entry where I wrote about this was where I said I wanted one. Have you tried E-bay?

Another: boyfriend with killer headache and tense neck blogs I can see the guy with a PhD who works at Starbuck's publishing a blog on this. Yes, I can.

And: decorate bedroom copacabana I haven't, but I sure would like to see this decorated room. I'm sure there would be lots of yellow feathers. And I likes me some yellow feathers.

This one: fat kim from texas I'm not fat, I'm pregnant. And I think it's really mean of you to say otherwise. Now you made me feel bad; I'm going to have to go eat some Ben & Jerry's. See what you made me do?

pilates for pets Tituba is a certified Pilates instructor. She's very busy right now, and her client list is all booked up. Maybe sometime next year.

Finally, one to end on: "redneck margarita machine." I believe what you're looking for is this. Just add some lime.

How Much Are You Worth?

Although I'm not at all sure how some of the questions translate to net worth. Like how many times you watch porn & how many times you, um, "pleasure yourself"... Do they correlate the two questions to see if you're telling the truth? I am worth lots. By the way. I'm sure it would have been more if I wasn't currently unemployed. (Well, officially.)

I'm worth $2,054,296.47! How much are you worth? Via a new (to me) blog I just found http://www.stainedglasssoul.org/

Confessions of an English Major

I've always loved English, or what they like to call Reading in the elementary schools. I was always pretty good at it, but it wasn't until 9th grade, with me a new kid in Florida, that I can remember an English teacher who made an impact on my desire to one day be a writer and teacher. Mrs. E was a round woman-- her long flowy skirts and tucked in over her ample bosom tops emphasized her less than 5'3" height. She was always moving, never still in front of the class-- whether this was because she was energetic or to keep us awake, I don't know. Her brown hair was just short of curly, and probably drove her crazy by frizzing every time the weather went bad. She wore round thick eyeglasses from which you could see her intense black lash fringed eyes demanding of you whenever she looked your way. She used to hate the phrase "a lot"-- if it made its appearance in your paper, it would come back circled in several red loops as she queried: "what kind of a lot? A corner lot? A vacant lot?" She was tough on us about grammar-- we did not get away with anything and even my A papers came back with dozens of red ink comments and circled errors. I think of her when I am grading student papers (but not usually in the dreaded red ink) and when students thank me for all the feedback, which many teachers don't bother giving, I am glad again to have met Mrs. E.

When we watched Romeo & Juliet, the 1968 fairly tame Zeffirelli version, which we watched on a film strip rather than a videotape, she stood and blocked the screen with her body during the scene where you can very briefly see Romeo's butt as he leaves Juliet in the early morning. We all laughed because at 14 or so, we had certainly seen worse on regular TV, but Mrs. E was a very conservative Christian, and she was certainly having none of boy butt on our movie screen. It was probably one of the most interesting moments for us. (why English teachers persist in believing that merely because Romeo & Juliet are teens that young kids will "relate" and therefore get into the movie is beyond me.)

Mrs. E used to give fun creative assignments-- "write a creative piece where you describe a sunrise without using the words the sun came up". I remember that one as one of the first times ever an English teacher read my piece in front of the class. I sat with my head down, happy/embarrassed tears in the corners of my eyes, face beet red. From that moment on, a kid who rarely got attention in class wanted desperately to make her happy with other assignments. I wrote a piece that described defeating my messy closet as though I were the Knight and the closet were the fearsome dragon. That one got another public reading from Mrs. E. She used to drive home the phrase "Show me! Don't Tell me!" I use it even when I'm talking about expository essays today.

Mrs. E was getting her Master's degree at night school, and as one of her projects one semester, she wanted to interview kids with divorced parents. I was chosen to be interviewed on camera for her project, and I remember wearing my sister's pink dress, which Judy hated me stealing, and which was really a bit too big for me. I must have looked like a waif-- wide brown eyes, very short boyish haircut and hot pink fuschia girly dress. I told Mrs. E how my dad never paid child support. I don't really remember what else the questions were about or how I answered them, but having been in grad school Education classes myself since then, I'm pretty sure that I was probably an example of a kid with potential who was struggling, and I'm sure my waifish big eyes made a big impact. I was just happy to get the attention from my favorite, if hard, teacher.


Mrs. E left the junior high the year after my class moved on to high school. She and her husband took her several children to Africa where they became Christian missionaries. I never really heard anything more about her, but when I read the excellent "showing not telling" book The Poisonwood Bible several years ago, it was partly Mrs. E's face I saw when the mother was described. The tough but loving strength of a woman who believed in her own convictions in the faces of jaded 80s teens.

I wish I could tell her that she is one of the first of many English teachers who are partly responsible for my own path down the road to low pay and stacks of essays to grade. And that I love and respect and sometimes emulate her for it. (I don't, however, have a problem with my students seeing Romeo's butt.)

Family Guy Rocks

Yes. I am wasting time. Thanks to Terry's evil genuis (meant in a good way, dearie) I've been surfing blogexplosion. And I found this delightful little quiz. I tried really hard to be Brian the dog. But no. It figures.

Which Family Guy character are you?

The Mystery Continues

Well, I just got back from the doctor, and while I did get to hear the two babies' hearts beating, she didn't do a sonogram to see the baby's sex. I guess I misunderstood the last visit discussion, and they aren't subject to my whims of wanting to know. Pooh! So we'll have to wait till the next time, I guess! One baby had a slightly faster heart rate, which makes you wonder-- what is that one doing that's different? Jogging in there? Or what? It was like 10 BPM faster than its sibling. Maybe one of them was napping and that's why it was slower. Who the heck knows.

The doctor seemed a bit put off about my switching to the FREE military care. You know, if I stayed with her, it would be cheaper than if I were paying for it all myself, but I'd still have to pay 20% of all costs. And that will get to be a pretty chunk of change. And if I go to the military base, it's totally free. Even 20% of free is still free. So. Even though I like the old Dr. I'm switching from, I don't like her that much. If I could have stayed with her, I would have. But now that I think of it, she's a bit hard to get information out of. She's ready to pop right out of the room and I have to ask questions, and while she's very polite and nice and answers the questions fine, don't you think she ought to say, before planning to grab chart and go, "well, any questions?" or something like that? Maybe it's like when you break up with someone; you start thinking of all the things you didn't like so you feel a little better about the breakup. But still.

Maybe my next visit will be within two weeks. I'm eligible to go to the military stuff on the 1st, and I'm going to make the appointment as soon after that as possible. So maybe then we'll find out what they babies are. To be the typical parent though: I really only care in that it's cool to know. I only care if they're healthy and happy and have all the requisite important parts.

Microsoft Spyware Beta

If you're running a Microsoft OS, they have released a Beta program of their new spyware detector/destroyer program that you can dowload it for free. (Darn it! Somehow the blogger interface thing just deleted my post from here!!!! Now I have to rewrite it!!) Anyway, I thought I wouldn't have any spyware on my computer because I have protector programs running all the time and I don't download a lot of stuff. (Who knows what shenanigans Andrew gets up to-- or wants to know).

But the program actually found 10 spyware programs on my computer. Most of them were elevated to high threats. So I removed them, and they got them out of the registry and everything. Give it a try if you want a freebie from Microsoft. I know a lot of people have "issues" with Microsoft, but hey, for my money, it's a pretty good deal. (In the year 1999, I had students do a paper on the predictions for the end of the world in 2000. When you ran a search on apocalypse and/or the antichrist, you used to find a bunch of webpages that claimed Bill Gates was the antichrist. Pretty funny. I don't know if they're still there.)

Twofer Tuesday

Tuesday (tomorrow) is potentially the big day: we should (maybe) find out what sex the twins are!!! (Their gender will, of course, be shaped by culture as well as their genes, but that's a different post altogether.) I will post as soon as I know (or don't know) something. The lengthy sit in a doctor's office, which they like to call an appointment but which I call waiting-for-their-convenience, takes place at 1:30 CST. Which means it'll be at least 3 till I can post anything, I'm sure.

Anyone want to lay odds? I think, based on my very unreliable intuition, that there's one girl one boy. I've been craving Orange stuff (sherbet in particular) and according to old wives tales, that's one predictor of a girl. So there oughta be at least one girl. And Andrew had a dream about one being a boy. So there you have it--are we psychic? Wait and see!

When my doctor & I talked about it last time, she mentioned that with a girl, it's not the "lack" of a penis that they look for. They don't say "we don't see anything, must be a girl"-- Girls apparently have, at that stage, three little lines (labia majora and I guess the clitoris).* I laughed and told her Freud would be very disappointed to hear that. It's not a lack of the mighty sword that defines a female, it's another presence. I did not, deliberately, say difference.** As if that makes much sense to anyone outside the world of radical feminist theory. But it does. If you want to get the joke, stock up on caffeine and read your Cixous and/or Irigaray.

Then put it all away, laugh, and say "sometimes a flower is just a flower."

*And BOY is this post going to be disappointing to the Porn Googlers who stumble in here within the next few weeks!!!!

**The link sort of defines the concept of difference as according to French Feminists. You'll get it. See. It's a twofer.... a blog post, plus a radical educational moment. Don't say I never gave ya nothin.

Waiting for Bear

Hopefully not at all like the play (Waiting for Godot.) By the way, speaking of random tangents, did you ever see the old (Chevy Chase & someone else) SNL skit where they spoofed WFG with a skit called Waiting for Pardot (as in Don, the announcer)? It was hilarious, but only if you've read Waiting for Godot. You wouldn't get it otherwise, I think. That was the day when SNL was actually SMART. No Goat Boy, or Mango. (Fpppfffhht!)

Anyway, Andrew, in Guam, is supposed to call me today. Right now, Guam time is about 2 AM. They are GMT +10, according to the sources I saw online. Don't ask me to figure out the math myself. Nope. I may do a clock over in the sidebar for a little while with Andrew time on it. We'll see. That way I don't have to try to do actual math in my head. I got an email from him; they made it safely there without incident. Except that the oven wasn't working and his airplane-time snack we prepared for him was eaten cold (lasagna-- that can't have been pleasant.) Poor thing.

It's been a while since Andrew was gone and out of touch like this. The last time he was living apart from me was when he was in training in Shreveport, for 9 mos last year, but I got to fly up and visit him every two weeks. And we could talk on the cell every day (a few times a day sometimes). This time, it's out of contact. I already hate it. A lot.

His cell phone does not work over there. So we're back to the old-fashioned way that is much like our early marriage when he was out of touch on a ship in the middle of the ocean for 6 months and would call at ungodly hours and we'd sleepily (on my part) talk on the phone. Sometimes, on those international calls, you get this weird echo-effect, where you say what you want and hear it echoed back to you before you can hear what they say. I hate it, cause as most people, I hate the sound of my own voice. It sounds little-girl-ish and high pitched. Much more so than in my own head, which sounds a lot more husky and sexy to me. Kind of Katherine Turner-ish. (In my head, I also have the body of someone more sexy than me. Who would that be? hmmm. Maybe Catherine Zeta Jones? She's curvy yet hot...)

Anyway. More things to do, so I should go do them. Anyone know of a good rental property in my local area that I can locate, list as a potential, and not have to actually research within the next week? Made all the more difficult by the fact that Andrew has the laptop, so I actually have to sit here in the office and work. Oh the horror. Maybe I should clean this dump since it's currently such a mess it's not at all pleasant to be in here. :)

Hah!

I finally got the answers I needed about my medical/insurance issues! I thwarted the insurance company's plan to keep me confused by calling an actually HELPFUL person this morning, who clued me in to how the system actually works. It does mean that for my future medical appointments, and for my twins' delivery, I'm going to have to drive an ungodly long way across town to the military hospital. And most likely, I'll be poked at by residents, since the program is a residency teaching program. But the bright side is that I'll be regularly over by one of our best friends' Greek restaurants, so I'll get to eat there when I go to the doctor. Silver linings are good. The other bright side is that since I'm considered "high risk" (what with being so OLLLLD and having twins) the residents won't be the sole care givers. There will be actual experts who are in charge of me.

Oh well. At least I figured it out before it was too late. I think. Now for another call to the Insurance bureaucracy from hell to make sure I'm set up properly.

White Vans

Have I ever mentioned my inherent distrust, no, hatred, of white vans? Especially the kinds without any windows other than the front ones. Even if they look like some sort of delivery truck, I just don't like them. I keep an eye on them when they're on the road behind me, lurking with sinister intent. I'm fairly certain they're evil. If there's a little other color on them (say, blue trim) I don't dislike them quite as much, but the purely white ones-- ah, don't turn your back on them. Even if they're old and getting a bit rusty about the edges-- they're still, at their heart, a white van.

I don't know exactly where my dislike of white vans comes from; it may be an incident that happened when I was about 20-ish. There was an uproar in my Florida area because of an incident involving a kidnapping and a white van. I won't detail it here cause in this semi-paranoid, semi-joking, semi-serious post, I think it sort of makes the experience from back then seem like I'm making fun of it. Which is not my intent-- that was a bad incident, and I am still saddened by it.

Here in Texas, it's hard sometimes to single out a small car. There are probably more SUVs (large ones) and trucks than anywhere else. I'd lay even money on it. But the white vans-- they appear on the horizon, looming and shimmering like an evil mirage. They lurk. They sneak up into your blind spot to startle you. And they blink knowing headlights at each other as they pass. It's not about people who drive white vans-- I'm sure there are perfectly innocent folks who, all unknowingly, drive a white van, unaware of the evil that surrounds them. They may feel a tingle of apprehension, but not realize it is the van.

Last night I saw one as I was driving home. I may be paranoid, here, but I'm fairly certain the cabal of white van evil knows I'm on to them. So I set down this record. Watch the white vans. At the risk of going all Mulder on you, I say be aware. One day, they may just rise up and take over.

(Yes, this post is meant to be sort of funny, sort of silly, but also, serious. I really really DON'T like white vans. They creep me out. This is as good an explanation as any to say why.)

You Have To Laugh

So I just got a letter from the insurance company. It said "we are unable to process your enrollment because of missing information. Please complete the highlighted areas on the enclosed form and send it back within 15 days in the included envelope or we will cancel your enrollment."

There was no form. No envelope. Just the letter that did not help my mood at all.

If it wasn't so typical, it would be funnier.

Did You Ever?: A Grouch Fest

Have so many very complicated things to do, that would take up a lot of time, that you basically really really felt like doing NONE of those things in order to just be contrary? It's a very self defeating (and grumpy) sort of feeling. I have a huge amount of tasks to do right now, in part thanks to Andrew being gone for the next 6 weeks. Here's a short list:

1. write dissertation (Constant, ongoing, but I was planning to write a BUNCH during the next few weeks and try to get the damn thing almost to a done-ish phase).
2. find another rent house before we have to pay huge taxes on the house we sold. (This is Andrew's task, which he thought he had completed, and which requires searching listings and viewing places and lots of research and legwork. I learned last night that I am going to have to do it, and do it in something like two frickin' weeks. Did I mention that I hate hate hate doing things like this?!)
3. research small claims court issues in our area for a complaint regarding said former rent house. Also-- go to dispute resolution appointment this week. Waste of time since other person in dispute has refused to participate, but I have to "go anyway, to show our good intent." Bleah!
4. figure out how the heck to get my medical insurance issues to work. This requires researching poorly written, seemingly deliberately deceptive websites and brochures on what I need to do. Cause I need something like 1,000 bucks worth of tests done this coming week, and my insurance, which I thought would kick in on the 1st, actually did NOT kick in the way I thought it would. Thank you bureaucracy!
5. clean up the rent house we DID buy, and find and background check and lease to new tenants. You can probably imagine how much work this will be. I can.

Steps 2-5 make it difficult for me to complete step 1. In case that wasn't obvious. And step 1 is supposed to be the most important thing for me to do at this moment (aside from being an incubator for the reasons this dissertation must be close to done by June-ish). These steps do NOT include all the things I need to do today, or daily regular stuff like "go to grocery store. Find food. Eat it. Sleep."

You know, those "basic necessities" that used to (when you were young and foolish) seem irrelevant and didn't take any time at all, leaving you with hours to sit and play video games, or read fun books, but now take up hours and hours of time in your day and leave you exhausted and falling into bed at 8 pm?

I'm sorry to disappear for a week and then come back complaining and bitching,* but this is a highly frustrating morning for me. I have no real food in my refrigerator, so need to get dressed & showered (which cannot be skipped. Pregnancy does weird things to body chemistry and if you don't shower, you find people stepping surreptiously away from your pregnant woman smelling radius. It's gross) and go OUT for food NOW before I do all those other damnable tasks I have to do today, which includes going to the bank, and telling the people whose house we thought we were going to buy, which would have made at least part of my life easier, NO, we don't want your place cause it would cost us too much to fix up.

I know that there are people in the world with much greater problems than mine. But these are the ones I'm currently dealing with, and they make me sort of cranky, and my contrary Scorpio nature wants to NOT do any of it and lie on the couch eating the Tiramisu that I bought last night for breakfast and watching all the discs of the two last Lord of the Rings movie instead of doing anything else.

Resist. Get work done. Be a good representative of the human race and future mom. Find something healthy to eat, shower, and get tasks done.

And all this without the benefit of knowing later I can knock back a few martinis. Damnit. Sigh.

*About now you're thinking-- why did I miss her? Where is the fun & silly Kim we know and love? She's around someplace, but she really needs a shower.

Back in town & Stuff

Sorry no posts-- the trip to Shreveport to see Andrew off to his deployment was busy, and we just never made it to the coffee shop. It was cold, wet, and icky, so we spent as much time snuggled in the hotel room as possible. He leaves tomorrow morning; wish for good flight, no naughtiness from "bad guys" in the region (N. Korea, for one) and lots of good diving. :)

I promise to catch up on everyone, post some good blogs (gotta think of them first) and all later. Right now I am really, really tired. Flying, even just a few hours worth, is tiring when you're "flying for one." But pregnancy makes those little regional jet seats into torture. I can't imagine doing it at a later time (although I'm supposed to maybe do it in Feb when Andrew gets back.) We'll see. I wish I could take a nap, but there is lots to do today. :-( I may not do anything at all social tonight, depending on whether that wished-for nap ever happens.

Hope you guys missed me!

Love Equals

I bought some professional artwork for my womenwriters site a bit ago, and the "subscription" for the last picture is expiring today, so I have to go in and find something or else waste the money. I don't need any more art for womenwriters right now so I was browsing various categories, speculating that I might put something on here as a new banner artwork image. When I typed in the keyword "love" I was surprised (?) to see that a full 9 out of the first 10 images under the keyword LOVE were either diamond rings or roses. The one exception was a happy couple hugging on their front lawn.

When did love become merely synonymous with diamonds and not hugs and kisses and human emotion? I am a fan of sparklies as much as the next person*-- my friends call me a magpie sometimes-- but come on! Who was the genius who arranged these keywords? It's sort of depressing.

*And yes, I DO know all the words to Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend and I do love dancing around like Marilyn in her lovely pink dress-- but there is a difference between smiling and thinking they're pretty and wanting one and equating the object quite unembarassedly as love. If Andrew could not have afforded the purty ring I wear, I would have been perfectly happy with a simple gold band. Love is waking up in the morning with someone, sleepy eyes and bad morning breath, and your legs and arms are all tangled up together so that you don't know where one ends and the other begins. And baking cherry scones and building a nest for a family together and massaging feet and saying "I love you" in all sorts of wacky ways. Not spending money on a piece of admittedly pretty carbon.

Thoughts

Sorry I haven't been posting so much; it's been kind of boring round these parts, and I've been still feeling kind of icky, too. But I do generally feel a bit guilty cause I know you regular readers enjoy seeing what shenanigans I'm up to.

I was watching my handyman's kids when he stopped by today to get some details. The kids were playing with umbrellas-- spinning them, holding them under the dripping rain. For some reason it reminded me of when I was about 11 or 12, and I was busted by some neighbor boys walking down the street with a wiggly butt, like the "sexy mouse" types on cartoons. The boys were, for some weird reason, hiding under the neighbor's porch. From that day till much later, they taunted me with a label name that was not at all flattering. No, I will not tell you what it was-- god forbid you all starting to call me that. It's actually something that ought to be flattering, but in the context of four or five annoying pre-teens yelling it as I went by, I can assure you, it was not.

So it got me thinking about how much kids can learn from TV. These kids were spinning those umbrellas a la Mary Poppins or something. Harmless. But I think studies have shown negative things being picked up, too. We don't think about it very much on a day to day basis, but what do kids get from the things that, as an adult, are innocuous. Seeing little girls gyrate sexily like the models on videos can bring it all home how scary TV learning can be, but what other things are easily picked up? Can you think of something you recall picking up as a kid from the TV? Do you already, if you're a parent, or plan to, when you are, limit shows, times for watching, etc? Or do you do the "sit down and talk to your kids" route where you explain things, try to make them realize that TV is NOT reality? We don't watch TV too much here-- mostly DVDs and movies on pay per view--aside from Buffy, which I can't resist, and officially counts as dissertation writing ANYWAY! :) But I don't mean that in the "I'm so superior" way but rather in the "I think there's a lot of crap out there" way.

Anyway-- weigh in if you feel like it. I may have a little bit more time of not being a good poster-- Andrew's leaving for his deployment, and I have to take him there, but then the routine will be back to normal soon. Much writing has to be done, and behaving properly and all... but in the meantime, think over my TV thingy.