You Can't Dance and Stay Uptight

My writer friend Kristen asked me today, "What do you do for exercise?"

I'd emailed her sharing that I'd been feeling a bit on the depressed side as of lately. Actually, to say I have felt down would be misleading as I've felt downright miserable with everything in general. I lamented that maybe exercise would pull me out of my funk.

If someone asked me, "What's wrong?" about the only honest answer I could give them was, "Everything."

I don't need someone else to kick me when I'm down. I do a grand job of kicking myself. Following my no smoking campaign, and no diet soda, I couldn't see things getting much worse.

I suppose I could have remained in a proverbial heap on the floor, hoping some kind and gentle soul would come along, pick me up, dust me off, and set me on my own two feet. But quite frankly, I don't know of one individual who is equipped to deal with me when I'm in a mood, much less coax me back to reality. Some do try, but until I decide I'm done hosting my pity party, it's futile. (I do appreciate those who care, but one must do battle with her own demons.)

Monday, when I got the kids off to school, I put on some music. I didn't have too many opportunities this summer to crank some tunes and enjoy. It's unfortunate because I'm highly motivated and moved by music. It's like therapy to me. No, it's not like therapy. It is therapy to me.

Dion seranaded me from the living room as I did dishes:

"Oh, I'm the type of guy who likes to roam around. I'm never in one place. I roam from town to town..."

As he did, something funny happened. I felt like dancing. By the time Jerry Lee Lewis was suggesting I "shake it, baby shake it," I was wholeheartedly. Before I knew it, I dragged out my dumbbells and my aerobic step. One hour passed. I was left winded, sweaty, and exhilirated.

I explained to Kristen that I have my own work-out program. I dance, incorporating moves I've learned from all those videos in a previous post. I've got doing dishes and folding laundry while dancing down to a science. The dog and cats, after being kicked and stepped on inadvertently, have learned to keep their distance.

I really challenge anyone to listen to any of the following songs and not want to dance (a sampling of today's selection):

Keep Your Hands to Yourself - Georgia Satellites
Wild Thing - Tone Loc
Get Down on It - Kool & the Gang
Crazy Bitch - Buck Cherry
Hey Ya - Outkast
Walkin' on the Sun - Smash Mouth
Love Her Madly - The Doors
Brandy - Looking Glass
Dancing in the Moonlight - King Harvest

I know some people find it very bizarre that I'll dance around the house when I'm alone. I certainly wouldn't do it with an audience, and I guess that I'm lucky I have the time alone to indulge.

Today, as I listened to "Crazy Bitch," I took down my hair and flipped it around as I danced. You know, like a rocker chick might do in a heavy metal video. It was likely the most insane thing I've ever done in the privacy of my own home, but strangely liberating. (As the evening progresses, perhaps a little hard on the ole neck, too.)

"You can't dance and stay uptight," is a line from "Dancing in the Moonlight." It's so very true. While I might benefit from hitting the gym or following a more ridgid routine, nothing makes me feel better than doing the twist or a little cha-cha'ing to get the blood flowing.

History of a Fat Girl

This is Joannie Greggains. She had a show called "Morning Stretch" back in the 80s. If you'll notice, this is a work-out LP, and I happened to own a copy of it. Though the information I can find says that it was released in '83, I think it was the summer after sixth grade when I acquired it. I know I wasn't very old.


My friend's mom had a copy, as well. We'd put on the record, being careful not to jump too closely to the stereo and make the needle jump, while we listened to her instructions and tried to follow along in the booklet to see what move we should be doing next.


One particular memory is of "picking daisies." A move done while standing, with one's legs spread-eagle. Then with great momentum, you move your arms from above your head to some point between your legs and well behind them. I adequately jammed the ever-lovin' heck out of my middle finger doing this.


I suppose one might question why a 12ish year old would own a copy of "Aerobic Shape Up." The answer is quite simple - I was the fat kid. Okay, so I wasn't obese, but I was chubby. I knew this, and at the age of 12, I felt great pressure to try to "slim down."


But before old Joanie came along, and by old, I thought she looked damn near ancient in the early 80s, there was this guy.

Say hi to Richard. He had a show on television back in the day. During summer vacation, I watched it religiously. It ran from 1980-1984. Richard loved me, and he wanted me to drop those pounds. He got so emotional over fat women, that he'd sit around and cry with them. If I recall correctly, he devoted a whole ten minutes of his show to exercising. Of course, it never occured to me that I probably needed more than ten minutes a day. The weight never came off no matter how often I tuned in.

I struggled with my weight throughout my high school days, though I was never bigger than a size 13. But there's a lot more to that story than warrants being told, so I won't digress. We'll just say once I got out on my own, I had control over what food I put into my body, and being allowed to exercise. (Yes, I had a step-mom who banned exercising in the house.)

I had various work-out cassette tapes at this point. I started riding my bike. I even started making my own work-out routines based one what I'd absorbed from other sources.

This is the first VHS work-out I ever owned. "Shape up, it's fun and easy. Shape up, you'll like what you see. Shape up! And here's Mary Hart...."

Then I graduated to Jazzercise with Judy Shepherd.

Bless Denise Austin's heart for motivating me after I gave birth to our oldest son. I'd record her 30 minute work-outs, and do three of them a day. Annoying, yes, but it worked.

Along came "Buns of Steel" with Tamilee Webb after I birthed child number two. I managed to work off the 50 plus pounds of baby weight between this workout and my exercise bike.

This guy romanced me briefly when I got caught up in the TaeBo craze. Effective work-outs, I must say, but when my VCR bit the dust, I never replaced it. No more Billy and feeling that burn.

I did actually replace some of "The Firm" workouts with DVDs. They say you can see a difference in just ten workouts, and I'd agree with that, however sadistic the routines are.

I've sweated to every oldie that Richard Simmons has put out. I find them the most helpful when I'm getting back into the work-out groove. I figure if those people on the screen can dance and sweat, so can I. Some might not care much for Richard, but his workouts are fun. I love the music. I love to dance.

Doing the math, I've struggled with weight issues for a good 26 years. I suspect I always will. At least technology has granted me the luxury of putting in a DVD. That's a far cry from those days of being afraid I'd scratch my record while doing jumping jacks.

Back to School

So, I got these children back to school on Monday, and as usual, it remains a bittersweet experience for me. Sure, they drive me this side of insane on a good day. I haven't had much time alone this summer. It's always an adjustment to go several hours without speaking to another human being. Not that I'm complaining because honestly, I do love solitude. Besides, my husband seems to be calling me every ten minutes or so.

But, this year is a bit different. Seems like just the other day I was ushering my oldest boy out the door to get on the bus as a kindergarten. Yesterday morning, I stood on the porch, wished him a good day, told him to be careful, and that I loved him. Instead of wearing a backpack bigger than him and climbing those steps on the bus, he hopped into his truck to start his senior year of high school.

The youngest boy climbed in the truck beside his older brother to venture off as a freshman in high school. My baby is a freshman. I don't know how it's possible. Aren't people who have kids old enough to be freshmen and seniors in high school like our parents age or something? Goodness.

"I'm proud of you boys," I told them as they left this morning.

"Oh, gawd, get in the truck. Hurry up. She's going to start bawling and telling child birth stories if we don't get out of here," the oldest said.

In all actuality, I'm proud of myself that I choked back the tears and realized kids grow up as they are all prone to do. And that growing up is at breakneck speeds. Open your eyes and they are wee little babies. Close them, open them again, and they grown into young men who will be making decisions on what to do with the rest of their lives.

Of course, it was a fleeting, emotional moment that lasted about long enough for me to move the coffee table out of the range of the ceiling fan before I danced on it.

Gazing at the Lizard King

I've found myself in the evenings not tired enough to sleep, and not bored enough to watch TV. While there are stacks of books here and there, there's nothing I feel like reading. This usually propels me to sit down at the computer and do some surfing.

I stopped back at Find A Death, only to realize they had a forum. After wading through posts about Lucille Ball, Marilyn Monroe, and John Belushi, I happened up Jim Morrison.

I'd always loved The Doors' music, but I'd never been compelled to read up on Morrison. Following one link to another, I was left with several thoughts. The first being it was absolutely amazing the writing he did in his short 27 years. I'd never realized he was so young when he died of an apparent drug overdose.

I also had no idea he was married in a "handfasting" ceremony. His story, however sad, was interesting. Then I started clicking on images because despite the fact he's been dead many, many years, he's quite pleasant to look at. I always felt as though I'd been born in the wrong decade, and the 60s would have been so much better than the 80s.

I came across these photos of him:





They proved to be quite "revealing." Giggling as I did it, I had to forward them along to FlipFlopMomma with a note confessing I saw the pics one night, and went back to find them again. I knew even if I couldn't quite formulate the words, she'd know just what I was driving at.

And, I was pretty sure that she would notice what I was noticing because she once did a blog post about "crotch gazing." She learned in those "growing up, congrats you've got your period" talks in elementary school that it was never nice to stare at a boy's crotch. You didn't want to make them feel bad that they were having changes going on with their bodies, as well.

Her response went like this, "His lady was a lucky woman. I can't stop looking at the crotch. I've got to go back and look some more."

I never got the lesson that she did about what you should or shouldn't look at. And, I've got to say, my eyes don't necessarily gravitate to that general area unless it's something so obvious such as these Morrison pics.

I've had several conversations with friends over the male parts and finer workings thereof. (So yes, if a woman says she never talks or thinks about such things, she's lying.) We've tried to figure out how it's something they can be so aware of, and then again, be so oblivious to.

One time, one of my friends carted her boyfriend off to the drug store. He was wearing those pajama bottom type of pants and going commando. She looked over just in time to see his pride and joy poking out, flapping in the wind. When she questioned him how he didn't know it, he said he had no clue. We really did assume that he would have noted a temperature change at the very least.

I've had to point out to my husband a time or two that he had a hole in his shorts and I could see the boys. When questioned, he totally denied that he knew anything about the hole and "how the hell was he supposed to know?" I was, of course, accused of checking out the merchandise and having a dirty mind always thinking about sex, but how couldn't I notice?

I can't draw any great conclusions about these photos of Jim Morrison, and whether he knew at the time he was going to get the desired reaction out of a couple chicks 37 years after his death. The one thing I do know is that Flip Flop Momma and I both have a sneaking suspicion why he called himself "The Lizard King."

Chantix and In Other News....

I mentioned in previous post that I'm taking Chantix.


A few other things I'm noticing is that it makes things taste bad, which I don't suppose is a bad thing. I've not really been hungry, and even something like a piece of cinammon gum just doesn't taste right. Now, I don't know if this is because my tastebuds are healing, but I don't recall going through the same thing in the past when I decided to quit smoking. I've been a little nauseous, too, which is a possible side effect.


The bizarre dreams, though, boy. I'll tell you, I've never dreamed the way I have this past week. It would be great if I didn't wake up feeling like I'd spent the entire night having deep, meaningful conversations instead of sleeping.


A few have been on the scary side. Take last night, for example.


Witchiepoo from H.R. Pufnstuf was driving a UPS truck and ran over my dog.
Yes, that Witchiepoo. She scared the holy hell out of me as a child. In fact, my mom had to place a ban on the show because she got tired of digging me out of the toybox or the hall closet when I got scared.



Witchiepoo got in my head and for whatever reason, my subconscious decided she needed to drive a UPS truck and take out my dog. Disturbing, really.



In other news, I've tried to run away from home twice unsuccessfully. The first day, I'd had my fill and thought I'd go for a drive. My mistake was once sneaking out of the house, I decided to get the mail at the post office first.



About that time, my youngest son saw me, and hopped into the car. We ended up going to get milk.



Again today, I tried to slip out to go to the grocery...alone. And again, I was caught and the youngest child again insisted he go. I really, really wanted to hear myself think, even if I had to do some grocery shopping to accomplish this. I didn't want a sidekick. I wanted to be alone. I don't mind saying this annoyed me, and it was probably apparent in the parking lot of the grocery store.



I was out in this bigger expanse of the parking lot when I notice this Taurus was heading directly my way at quite a clip. I was where I needed to be, but ole grandma must not have been paying attention or her eyesight was failing her horribly.



I stopped, and in that moment I felt like I was channeling Kathy Bates' character in "Fried Green Tomatoes," in some sense. I really didn't think she'd hit me, but then I started doubting myself because this old broad didn't seem to notice.



And when she did realize she was dangerously close to hitting my car, she swerved and smiled. Yes, she smiled.



"Oh, a smile is going to make that all better. Almost hit me and smile. Just smile. Opps, almost had a wreck, but I'll smile to show how sorry I am. A big smile makes everything all better," I rambled to myself.



"Just pay no direct attention to where you're driving or what you're doing, but be sure to smile big," I continued.



My son then said, "Uh, mom, you're weird. I'm not going with you the next time."



"Promise?" I asked.

Totally Awesome and Famous

This is "La's Totally Awesome Famous Multi-Surface Degreaser & Spot Remover, Lavender." If that's not a mouthful. I call it "that purple stuff." (Pardon the picture quality. It would have been too simple to find a photo of it online.)

Anyone but me notice how someone got font happy in the design of this label? The rainbow and flowers are a nice touch. Anyone notice that they are pansies and not lavender? Hmm.

I bought it at "Dollar General," where I'm prone to shop for cleaning products. It can be an interesting store to peruse. I don't know exactly how they recruit their workers, and I'm not trying to be flippant or rude when I say I think they come from Bi-County Services that caters to those who are lacking a little special something in the ole upstairs.

One guy who works there wears two pairs of prescription glasses. Yes, two pairs. I told my friend's daughter about it when we were discussing how scary the place can be.

"No, he really does," I told her.

"Nu uh, no way," she told me. A few days later, I got a text from her saying I was right. She'd asked her mom to take her to check it out.

This guy also appears like he could use a good scrub down with some degreaser. He's nice enough, but I automatically hold my breath at the check-out, trying not to breathe through my nose if I must inhale. I'm not taking any chances. You know, sometimes you can almost see the funky stench vapors like Pig Pen from "Peanuts" had emitting from his character.

When you're well-versed in prices, "Dollar General" can be a great place to shop. But one must be careful. Sometimes, bargains are not bargains. Take laundry detergent, for example. Not really the best buy you can get.

Anyway, this "La's Totally Awesome Famous Multi-Surface Degreaser & Spot Remover, Lavender" was marked "new" and "on sale" for $1. I do love the scent of lavender, and with two boy children and a husband, something is always needing a good degreasing around here. I bought it.

Now, I don't normally read the instructions on anything. I sort of figure if I don't have this "point, spray, scrub, rinse" thing down to a science by now, there's little hope for me. I know it's generally a good idea to use most products in a well-ventilated area. It's never a grand idea to spray yourself in the eye, mouth, or any other places that could cause unpleasant tingling sensations. That's really all you need to know besides it's not advised to drink the product.

It did a nice job of removing soap scum and hard water stains without an exorbinant amount of scrubbing. Not too much of a lavender scent, however, which was slightly disappointing. I guess you can't have it all for a $1.

Seeing as how the entire bottle was quite interesting, I did glance at the back of the bottle, mainly looking for typos. Of course, this was after I'd used half of on the shower walls.

"PRECAUTIONARY STATEMENT: HAZARDOUS TO HUMANS AND DOMESTIC ANIMALS."

Whew, what a relief to know that it won't harm your pet alligator or llama.

A Story About the Boy

A story about the boy I wanted to marry....(second edition)

My friend, Shane, and I, decided to go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. It was probably late 87 because I'm pretty sure I was still staying with my mom before I got my own apt. I recall this because she commented on my attire before I left to go to Shane's house.

Me and my big 80s hair, complete with the dark red mousse I used on my bangs at the time, oh, was it so cool. I was wearing a grey sleeveless dress, a black slouch belt that was alligator skin-like, and a black oversized cardigan sweater, of course with the sleeves scrunched up to my elbows. Such a get-up would not be complete without 3" pointy toed spike pumps.

But the shoes weren't the finishing touch on the outfit. Oh no. That would be the black hose with the seams up the back. The hose were what drew the less than approving attention of my mother. Even Shane's mom did one of those motherly sighs when he told her to come look. "You look like a street walker," she told me, knowing full-well that he and I would take it as a compliment.

I must say we looked good. He was dressed stylishly, as usual, with a blazer, pleated pants, a thin leather tie, and deck shoes. Shane probably was hands down one of the best looking men I've ever personally known.

We got into his little two-seater sports car, the kind of car is escaping me right now. A Datsun 240Z, perhaps. Off to Ft. Wayne we went. Because we were so terribly cool, we listened to Elvis Costello on the way there.

We walked in, and the hostess asked how many. We said 2. It probably looked like a date, which was fine with me, even though it wasn't. He was my best friend at the time, and it was strictly platonic.

"Would the bar be all right with you?" she asked us.

He shot me a look as if to say, "Don't screw this up with your good girl bullshit." He often suggested that I not be such a pussy.

So into the bar we went. "I'll be right back to take your drink orders," the waitress told us after flinging a couple menus in front of us.

"So you want to try it?" he asked me. It was more that he was telling me that we were going to order drinks, and that I could deal with it.

Every fiber of my being was screaming, "Oh hell, we're going to go to jail. We are going to get in trouble. My parents will find out. No good is going to come out of ordering margaritas."

We were, after all, 18 and 19 at the time.

Like a pro, he ordered a huge pitcher of margaritas. And we drank it. While my experience with alcohol at the time was fairly limited, including puking on a dog named Ralph at my graduation party, I never once thought to question the fact that one could get a little bit buzzed from a half a pitcher of margaritas.

We pulled it off without a hitch. No one asked to see our I.D., and I suppose since we were seated in the bar, no one thought twice.

We were probably a mile down the road from leaving the restaurant when he informed me that he was buzzed. My freak out over that was small considering my lips were numb and my face was starting to slide off my head. We made it back to his house in one piece, and I stuck around waiting for my lips to return to normal.

But didn't we do that more than once, was the next question I posed to myself.

Yes, we certainly did. Flashback to an evening in the winter not long after that. I know it was cold because Shane was wearing a trenchcoat. This time, Sandy drove. We went to the same restaurant, he and I sharing the pitcher of margaritas, and Sandy passing on doing anything illegal.

It's the ride home that I recall the most. I was sitting in the front seat, and Shane kept putting his feet on the console in the Dodge Omni, and on me. It was getting annoyed because he was getting dirt on my Salvation Army coat very similiar to his trenchcoat. It was an army green color with a paisley lining. I thought I'd hit paydirt when I found that coat for $5. I smacked him a few times, but it didn't stop him. It only encouraged him.

I then proceeded to try to tie his shoestrings together. My manual dexterity was lacking a wee bit due to the margaritas, and he caught me. I reached back and grabbed the scarf he was wearing...another hot 80s fashion accessory.

I don't know how it happened exactly, but I was pulled into the backseat. The scene in my head plays out much like something from a horror movie where someone is suddenly sucked into some sort of vortex. I was in the front seat, and suddenly, there I was in the back with him.
I had him by the scarf. He had me by the hair. And we proceeded to fight. It wasn't so unusual for he and I to get a little physical in that aspect. We'd fought before, but it was typically in a playful sort of way. (I guess unless alcohol was involved, but there's another story there about me ending up falling into a bathtub.)

We rolled around the backseat, the Omni swerving on the road with our movements, and I imagine it looked a bit like a cartoon fight. A bunch of dust flying with arms and legs protruding from the cloud every so often. At least from Sandy's prospective in the front seat.
It ended fast when I screamed out some obscenity and held my nose.

"You broke my nose," I told him.

Again, his response was something to the effect of to stop being such a baby or a pussy. I pulled my hand away from face, and blood streamed down my face, and all over the coat I was trying to protect from his dirty shoes in the first place.

I was livid. I wiped my hand on his trenchcoat, muttering some more obscenties, while from the front seat Sandy ranted about never taking us anywhere again.

And being prepared, and probably the only time in his life, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out paper towel from the bathroom at Bandido's. I've no clue what prompted him to take a stack, but likely it had something to do with cleaning his car.

The rest of the way home, I pinched my nose in effort to stop the bleeding. Every once in a while, he asked to take a peek at my swollen nose, and tell me whether or not it was still bleeding. The only other exchange consisted of me calling him something that sounded like "athhole" through my wad of paper towel, and him returning the love by calling me a bitch, and us smacking each other.

Boys I Want to Marry - Second Edition

Welcome to another edition of "Boys I Want to Marry."

This is Shane. The one on the right was his senior picture. The one on the left was taken in '87 with his little sister.

Shane came into my life during my junior year of high school. I signed up to take "Pub." Pub was Journalism, or more aptly, the school newspaper. We also had Algebra II together.

Going to a small high school, I knew who he was even though he was a grade ahead of me, but I didn't know too much about him. It wasn't long into the school year that Shane and I became friends. In even less time, I got the warm-tinglies for him.

My gawd, he was cute. I loved the mole by his mouth. And did he ever smell good wearing Grey Flannel. He had a sense of style that I admired. We started shopping together at Salvation Army and Good Will, and he helped me pick out my first trench coat. Hey, it was the 80s, and if scrounging in second-hand stores was good enough for Molly Ringwald in "Pretty in Pink," it was good enough for us. We'd dress to the hilt to go have dinner together, him helping me be sure the seam on my hose was straight and my wide belt positioned just so on my outfit.

Shane was my Ducky.

He introduced me to all sorts of music. Elvis Costello, Billie Holiday, Jim Croce, and The Cure. He gave me books of poetry, and gave me poems to read by Dorothy Parker, Anne Sexton, and Marge Piercy. He wrote his own poetry that he shared with me, too. He was deep, brooding, mysterious. He loved Marilyn Monroe; I loved James Dean.

More importantly, he taught me about showing affection. I didn't come from a touchy-feely, show your love through a hug, sort of family. In fact, the first time Shane hugged me, I froze. He asked if he made me uncomfortable, I fumbled with my words, and he said, "Oh, my little Kelly Girl," and hugged me again. You better believe the first time he kissed me on the cheek when he hugged me that I melted right there in his mom's kitchen.

Shane was a vegetarian. When I decided to give up meat as well, because you know the lengths a girl will go to for the sake of a boy's attention, he introduced me to pizza with only veggies on it. He and I shared many a sandwich made from cheese, pickles, and condiments.

When he graduated high school, he moved away to CA to live with his dad. We kept in touch via letters and phone calls. The letters I still have to this day full of intellect, poetry, and smartass remarks. Because if nothing else, he was indeed one of the most sarcastic, and witty, people I've ever known.

We had our falling outs, here and there. By the time I dropped out of college and moved back home, he was on his way back to the college where I'd left. You see, I thought he and I were going to be at school together, but his plans changed.

I truly loved him with everything I had. It wasn't a "boy-girl" love, but a very psychologically comforting sort of love. He was one of the best friends that I ever had, even though our interaction at times left one wonder what we saw in each other. When we fought, it was bitter, hurtful, and passionate. all at the same time.

He invited me once to visit him at college. I'd planned to drive down early on a Sat. morning. We spoke on the phone to discuss the details when he said, "I hope you don't mind, but you'll have to sleep with me, but I won't sleep naked like I usually do."

I don't know what it was about his statement that scared me so much. I was 20ish, and had shared a bed with a friend in the past, and knew it didn't necessarily mean that something sexual would transpire. It scared me, however, and I didn't end up going to see him, which I think he held a grudge about for a very long time.

I visited him after I got married and was pregnant. He looked at me and said, "Gawd Kel, you look so married." It wasn't exactly a comment to be flinging around to a hormonal pregnant chick. He told me to call him the next day, and I could come over to spend some time, but I never did.

Anyway, it's been years since I've seen him or even talked to him. At least ten. I talk to his mom on occasion. I used to call him occasionally and leave a message. But when it became apparent that he didn't want to hear from me, I stopped.

There are people who come into your life and they leave a mark that lasts a lifetime. I guess, sometimes, though we get lost in the revolving doors of life. I think of Shane often. I miss him even though it's been 19 years since we were close. I still don't eat red meat. I know I'm in a rut if I start looking really "married." I can't hear Elvis Costello or read any poetry without thinking of this boy I wanted to marry. I carry a part of him in my soul.

Here's a poem he wrote, sitting in my living room when I had my own apartment. "Give me a piece of paper," he told me. This is what he wrote:

A Love Poem

My love for you

is a starving man

Lifting silver spoonfuls

of poison

to bleeding lips

Billie Holiday moans quietly

"Good morning heartache..."

She knows this cold companion

as I do

And that bones

Thin and clean

Never meant to carry

the weight

of a starving man,

Break...

SSK, 10:10 p.m., 5/11/99

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

The Gorilla on my Back

I tend to have an addictive personality. I'm not proud of it, but that's the way it is. I suppose it's better to know and acknowledge than totally deny and overlook.

I'm a smoker. I have been on and off since I was about 20. I stopped when I was pregnant, not starting up again until both kids were older. I've quit on other occasions, sometimes for up to three years.

The first cigarette I ever smoked, I was 18. I sneaked one of my mom's after I graduated high school one day when I was at her house alone. I hid in the basement and lit up. My first thought was, "What's the funny smell and flash of light I saw before my eyes?"

The answer - that was my bangs that I'd just singed. It wasn't such a great experience. I took a few puffs, not even realizing how to inhale. I didn't see the appeal, and being so afraid of getting caught, I extinguished and hid the evidence.

For some reason, it didn't matter to me that I was 18 and I wasn't breaking the law. In fact, in my lifetime, it was legal for someone of any age to purchase a pack of cigarettes. It wasn't but a thing for someone's mom to send them to the store and get her a pack of Virginia Slims.

I tried it, luckily didn't set myself totally ablaze, and I couldn't say I liked anything about smoking. That was until someone introduced me to a Salem Slim Light. I didn't know menthol existed up until that point. I didn't know the difference. I didn't care to find out. But, I was the quintessential "good girl."

As most will tell you, quitting is the easy part. It's not starting again that is the killer.

It only takes me a few days of no smoking to fully appreciate what a nasty habit it is. Within two days, my sense of smell returned to the point the dog nauseated me and had to be bathed. My husband is a smoker, and I don't ever see that changing. The smell of his cigarette doesn't make me want one. The scent of the ashtray permeates my nostrils and gags me.

Physically, once I make it past that three day mark, I'm pretty sure I'm passed that part of the addiction. My body is no longer going through withdrawl from nicotine. It's the mental, and I'll go as far to say, the emotional part of the addiction that gets me.

We're all pretty much creatures of habit. Smoking was a habit.

When I sit at the keyboard to write, I'd have a smoke when I finished what I was working on. If I were doing some housework, and decided to take a break while the floor dried, I'd have a smoke. I'm not totally sure my car would actually run properly while driving alone if I didn't smoke at the same time. When I get done eating, I think hmm, a cigarette would make a fine dessert. A cup of coffee and a menthol cigarette, well, it doesn't get much better than that.

So, as you might have caught the drift, I decided once again that it's time to quit. It's only rational that I'd throw something else on my plate since I'm battling with some weight gain. I also decided to cut diet soda out of my daily routine due to the fact that artifical sweetener can contribute to one's appetite and bloating. Naturally, I'm going to test myself to my limits and add no smoking, too.

I'm not exactly quitting because I fear for my health. I wish I could say that motivates me, but that's only a small part of it. A lot of it is financial with the rising cost of gas, I don't even want to know how much it'll cost to heat the house this winter. I'm trying to cut corners wherever possible, and it seems like smoking is less important than say cable internet.

I have a feeling there's something that definitely separates a smoker from a non-smoker. What makes me want to smoke is the mental part of it. Even if my brain isn't calling for the nicotine fix, my hands and mouth want to welcome a cigarette. To me, it was an enjoyable experience.

I've never been the type of smoker who MUST.HAVE.A.CIGARETTE.NOW. I never excused myself from a non-smoking facility to go smoke outside. Even when I worked, I only smoked in the evening at home. I think it's fair to say that I've definitely had a mental/emotional addiction to smoking.

Non-smokers will never get it. There's a lot more to just lighting a cigarette and smoking it. Since I've stopped, I feel as though I've buried my best friend, as pathetic and illogical that sounds. It gave me something to do with my mouth and hands for all these years. Albeit they don't call them cancer sticks for nothing, cigarettes were at my side for a lot of pivotal moments in my adulthood.

So, I'm taking Chantix that I got back in the fall, but didn't follow through with. Because, honestly, it wasn't the time. The few days I did take it, the Chantix gave me some freaky dreams. Not freaky as in most will say weird, vivid, and lucid. But freaky more in a nightmarish, off-the-charts sort of way.

One night, so far, I dreamed that I was wearing footie pajamas in the back yard of my youth. Ted Danson and most of the cast of "Cheers" were having a cook-out.

Last night, I dreamed that my friend and I were chosen to be on Flavor Flav's new show. At first, I was totally appalled because there was no way I was going to be on a dating show because I was married, and secondly, I had no desire to date Flavor Flav. It turned out that it was a stand-up comedy reality show, and the only thing my friend and I had to do was sit in the audience and watch. I was relieved. So far, no nightmares like the last time, though dreaming of Flavor Flav does come frightening close.

Anyway, I sure do miss it, and I'm trying to be an adult and make a wise choice. Technically with the Chantix, I should continue smoking for a week, but I haven't. It's not that I don't want to, but I'm trying to be bigger and stronger than this monkey the size of a gorilla that I've carried on my back for so long.

Meeting Up with the Future

I had to run to the bank this morning for the youngest child to get his paycheck cashed. Since I was in the downtown area of the boomin' metropolis that is my hometown, I decided to stop into the herb shop.

I walked in, and the woman asked, "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," I sighed. "Since they banned ephedra, I've gained more weight than I'm willing to admit."

She gave me a look of compassion. Her eyes said to me, "Oh, honey, I know."

"Show me what you've got because I'm getting desperate," I told her.

Now, I know nothing beats healthy eating, exercise, and weight training. It's a double-edged sword of great size and portion. And speaking of great size, so is my ass. My once svelte physique has grown soft, lumpy, and downright middle-agish.

Okay, by svelte, I mean my once "built-like-a-chubby-12-year-old-boy" form has transformed into a "built-like-a-chubby-12-year-old-boy-with-Gynecomastia."

I don't suppose I should complain that I've got more boobs than I've had in a very, very long time. The problem is baby's got more back than she's had in a long time, too.

The lady at the herb store showed me a few things, which probably would have added up to about $300.54. Then she brought out a packaged two-week supply of the same ingredients. In years past, I bought the pre-packaged herbs, then containing ephedra, and I had great success with it.

That double-edged sword I mentioned is this - when you need to drop a few pounds, chances are you feel so much like a slug, you really have trouble getting back into it. When I'd take ephedra for a couple weeks, my energy returned. I'd notice inches dropping, and this would motivate me to get out the work-out DVDs and weights.

I didn't rely on ephedra to maintain my weight. But it did help give me the boost of energy I needed. If a couple pounds started sneaking up on me, I'd take it for a few weeks, and I'd get a handle on it...as opposed to getting the lovehandles that I'm soon to be sporting any week now at the rate I'm going.

But as it usually goes, some asshats have to ruin something good for everyone else by abusing it. I somehow suspect that crystal meth was being made out of it as opposed to the actual worry that the dumbasses who were abusing it were dying from it.

So we'll see what happens.

Also, when I was out and about, I stopped by the grocery. I saw my future, and it made me smile a little.

This old woman, and by old, I mean she had to have been 80 at the minimum exited the check out lane and headed for the doors.

"If that bitch was any slower, she would have been going backwards," she proclaimed to the others she was with.

"I could have got behind that register and scanned my shit quicker than that slow ass. I guess they don't hire nothing but damn retards at this store."

What proved the point even further that this will be me in 40 years or so was her long, white ponytail.

I suspect by the time I'm 80, my hair will finally be that long. Because heaven knows, anytime my hair starts to get a decent, shoulder-length, I go do something stupid to it the inevitably fries it to the root.

And there was the white thing. I assume by the time that I'm that old, I will have given up on Miss Clariol.

If the woman hadn't been thinner than a rail, I might have actually thought I time travelled and witnessed my future self as an old broad.

The Homecoming

It's been a rough week around here after the horrid demise of two of the cats. The youngest son still isn't quite sure what to do with his anger. And honestly, I'm still devastated.


I'm a cat lover. Have been since I was an itty bitty thing. My mom has photos of me as a baby with a cat cuddled at my feet while I slept. Guess she didn't buy into that whole "cat stealing a baby's breath" thing.


A quick perusal shows even more photos of me always dragging around a cat, dressing it in doll clothes, and other acts of forcing the poor critters into submission by cramming my feline friends into doll carriages and highchairs.


Since we live in a small, rural sort of town, my home has become a revolving door of cat rescues and arrivals. If a cat shows up on my doorstep hungry, it gets fed. This drives my husband insane. It's come close to being grounds for divorce on several occasions. Yet, it doesn't stop me from taking care of strays.


About a month ago, Mr. Biggs came up missing. It wasn't so unusual not to see him for a few days considering he's a tom cat with tom cat business to see to from time to time. He'd show up for a few days, get himself a bite to eat, recoup, and hit the road again for a few more evenings out with the lady cats.


About a month ago, no more Mr. Biggs. Or Biggie, Biggie Butt, Biggsey Boy, or Nut Boy (which is what my husband called him). I'd more or less written him off as dead. It happens. And I know if you want to keep a cat alive and well, keeping it inside is the best place for it. But I figure if they're free-spirited enough to want to go roam about, I'm not stopping them. And if they were strays to begin with, well, I do my part giving them food and love. If they want to hang about outside, stop in for a while, then I'm okay with that, too. I've got a few "insider" cats, but most go out after they're done eating and napping.


Well, today, I was filling the outside food bowl when I caught a glimpse of a large tiger cat walking towards me. I paused as my brain tried to fill in what was wrong with the picture. It was then that I realized oh holy crap, Mr. Biggs is back!


I honestly didn't think I'd ever see him again. He'd been gone a long time. My son thought I was having some sort of fit at the back door, yelling and oh my gawding.


Biggsey came in, had something to eat, and plopped down on my son's lap where he proceeded to purr and drool incessantly. I guess he was so happy, he couldn't control his spit.


He got down and settled in for a nap.

He doesn't look too enthralled, does he? I think the look says, "Just what in the hell is that?"

That is Little Turtle, apparently the brother of the poor little yellow kitten who was murdered by the Pit Bull. Little Turtle is the new Shrek. My son is coercing the poor kitten into submission, trying to get him trained to sleep on his pillow and love him just like his poor ole cat Shrek did.

This is Gunter, or Gunnar, depending on whether you're feeling German when you call him by name. He's also Gunny, Gunny Butt, and Gunny Sack. Gunny was an orphan. His mother showed up, gave birth to him and five other kittens. She abandoned them, and he was the only survivor. He was taken care of by another mother cat. I also bottle fed the little crossed-eyed freak. God, I love him.

His look back to Biggs seemed to say something like, "Dude, I don't know where this thing came from."

Anyway, I've become one of those people who posts photos of their cats. Heaven help me, I didn't think I'd get this boring, but I'm glad Mr. Biggs is back. It warmed my heart to see him again, and helped to ease just a little bit of the grief.

Boys I Want to Marry

I'd been kicking around the idea of doing a weekly sort of thing here. This came about after I saw a photo of Haywood Nelson. He played Dwayne on the TV show "What's Happening."


It got me to thinking, as I'm prone to do. A lot. Too much.

The one thing I remembered was that he was cute. I had such a crush on him. Dwayne's "hey, hey, hey" could make me melt. I wanted to marry him. That's how I expressed mad, mad affection for any boy who happened to catch my eye when I was a youngin'. I was going to grow up and marry that boy.


This made me think of all the boys I found cute and wanted to marry, and what they inevitably taught me about myself, music, books, poetry, culture, or life in general.


I thought a moment and realized that Dwayne was not the first boy I wanted to marry. The first was Rick Dees. I'd been working on a write up about him earlier today. But as usual I got all sidetracked by trying to meet my column deadline and breaking up fights between these heathen children. Then I was totally distracted, so I started stopping by the blogs I read most often. I stopped by my friend's blog, Street Vein.



Mr. Street Vein and I happened upon each other on the internet. This is my favorite photo of him, and what I love even more is the caption, "Sinners Welcome."

He describes himself as a writer, progressive, thinker, intolerant of others, historian, left-wing, realist, humorist, skeptical, neurotic, pro-choice, anti-war, visionary, blind, dreamer, non-religious, out of style.

How could anyone read that and not want to be his new best friend?


He's even written a novel. And he's a fine writer at that.


One must go read his latest blog entry. Really, you must. Go ahead, then come back and finish reading. I'll wait.


Okay, now tell me how brilliant is that?


About a year ago, I got this wild notion to start stepping out of my comfort zone. I made it a goal to do something I wouldn't normally do at least once a week. I originally said once a day, but quite frankly, I tend to be wound as tight as an antique clock that's spring could inevitably inflict bodily harm when it finally uncoils. Throwing caution to the wind on a daily basis could have had me well on my way to a Xanax prescription.


Street Vein encourages everyone to make a list of rules we follow because they are conventional. Just sit down and start listing those things brought on by tradition. As the list becomes long, pick an easy one, and then break the rule.


He writes:

... Next, tell some jackass in your circle of “friends” that they are negative, unsupportive, and you no longer want to associate with miserable fucks like him/her. Admit to friends and strangers your deepest dreams and fears – screw ‘em if they think you’re weird. You are, but so are they.

... Speaking of uncomfortable positions – hang out with people you have nothing in common with and learn something about them, and yourself. The next time your gut says, “I’d like to try that,” but your mind says “No, you’ll look foolish,” go for it. Did I mention this will change your life?

Once a day, check off one of the stupid “rules” and begin to experience real freedom. You can thank me later.

I ask - how is that for a life changing revelation? Seriously.


So, Mr. Street Vein is hopefully one of many "Boys I Want to Marry" that I'll feature from time to time. No matter how cute Dwayne from "What's Happening" was, surely anyone can see why I made my choice today.


Get started on those lists. Let me know what you come up with when you decide to start breaking those traditions and what happens. I'm going to get started on my list, as well.

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

You Talk Funny

For the past couple days, I've noticed my 17 year old doing some weird pronunciations.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know."

"We're going to go to a movie."

I can't exactly explain what was tipping me off that he sounded different. It was the "o" sound. It didn't sound normal in some words.

"Since when are you from Minnesota?" I asked him. Not that there's anything wrong with being from Minnesota, mind you. I remember once meeting someone from the fine state, and there's was something about their accent that caught my attenion.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mom," he said.

"Sweden? Norway? Who have you been hanging out with lately who talks funny?" I inquired. (The italics and bolds are foreshadowing, but I'll stop that now.)

"The same people I've hung out with all summer," he snipped, getting annoyed with his dear, ole mom.

"I don't know, but you're talking funny," I told him and let it go.

The next day, I noticed again his odd pronunciations, mainly of the letter o. I pointed out he did it again, and he pressed that I explain. I said "go" as a normal person from these parts would say it. And then I said it again, how I perceived he was saying "go" but with a Minnesota, some place north of here, Scandanavian twang.

"Uh, Mom, there's no difference in what you've just said. Say them again."

I did, and said ok, whatever, maybe I'm just hearing things, and let him go on his merry way.

It hit me. I'm the one he's been around who talks funny. I've been told that I have a very distinctive voice - to the point that it has given me a complex. I've been told that while someone doesn't recognize my face right away, they recognize the voice as someone they know. At my fifteen year high school reunion, someone I had been friends with through much of middle and high school, didn't recognize me. (It's safe to say that I did my blossoming way after I crossed the stage and accepted my high school diploma.)

"I didn't recognize you, but I knew that I knew the voice," she told me.

I've been asked, "Where are you from because you sure don't sound like a Hoosier."

I don't know how a Hoosier sounds, but I do know that if I fall into the right crowd of individuals, I can land's sake, pert near, reckon, and ain't got with the best of them.

I have, in fact, been told I sound like I'm from Michigan or Minnesota.

My mother-in-law, from upstate NY, told me once that I talk funny. She assured me that the children speak just fine. But me? I talk funny, and she didn't understand how the kids didn't end up speaking the way I do, but she was glad they talked normal.

I've come up with several theories on this phenomenon.

My voice is slightly deeper than would expect coming from me. I was plagued with many, many bouts of swollen tonsils and strep throat as a child. It was to the point that the last time my mom dragged me to the dr. again with tonsilitis, the dr. said the next time, we really needed to consider having the tonsils removed.

This scared the beejeebers out of me. The next sore throat I got, I grinned and beared it because I wasn't about to tell my mom and be taken to the hospital. A girl told me in first grade that she had her tonsils out. She brought the jar to show and tell that held the contents that once resided in her body.

At recess, she told us they put her to sleep. Dogs were "put to sleep," and I wasn't having any part of that.

"But how did they get them out?" I asked. I couldn't figure how anyone could get their hands into one's throat and get them out. It looked to be close quarters to me, so I couldn't even fathom how a dr. went about it. And because I didn't understand the finer dynamics of surgery in general, other than they typically cut someone open, I had to ask.

"They put a needle up my butt, and got them out while I was put to sleep," she said.

That was it. It was all I needed to hear. No one, and I mean no one was going to put me to sleep like a dog and stick anything up my behind, much less a needle. I'd gargle with salt water on the sly. I'd take cough drops and throat lozenges from my grandma's house and self-medicate. I would have done anything to avoid the needle-up-the-rump.

Is it possible this ended up damaging my vocal cords? I think it could be an explanation. It took great lengths to speak in such a way that my mom wouldn't say, "You've got another sore throat again, don't you?"

Also, as far as my pronunciation goes - I've been told on many occasions that I do a great job of enunciating. "Did you go to school for broadcast journalism?" one person inquired. "It sounds like you've been trained to speak clearly."

While I've never been schooled on enunciation, I did grow up with great-grandparents close at hand. Great-grandparents who were hard of hearing. I do remember being expected to speak up, not talk so fast, and to speak clearly. One great-grandma was not only hard of hearing, but also blind. I've remained close to grandparents, one of whom is still living and doesn't care much for wearing her hearing aide.

So I suspect that's a fair explanation of my ability to enunciate. Perhaps that has led to my strange pronunciation of the "o" sound and other vowels. I don't know why it's taken so long to pick up on my son's mimicking my accent. Perhaps, we've spent so much time together this summer, I'm noticing it.

Regardless, I'm the one who talks funny who he's been hanging out with this summer.

Bedlam, Pure Bedlam

A pit bull tore through our yard and killed two cats yesterday. The dog managed, somehow, to get into our garage and infiltrate our stockade fence. You know, the area of your property that you somehow have this false sense of it being a safe environment because you've spent a couple grand on a fence.

My husband was trimming some tree limbs out front. My youngest said to me, "I think I heard Dad scream."

My first thought was great. He'd managed to maim himself by cutting off an appendage. I went out to investigate, just in time to see him opening the gate on the stockade fence. You know, the privacy fence that is 6' tall, wooden, meant to keep our dog inside and things that don't belong out.

"Did you scream?"

"No, but I think there's a dog killing a cat in the yard."

"Which yard? This yard? How did a dog get in there? In here or out there?" I rambled, not sure which direction to run.

I ran inside the fence to see the youngest son's cat Shrek being torn to shreds.

The dude who was chasing the dog showed up about then. I'm screaming, "Oh god, oh god," and just sobbing without any tears. Primal noises fueled by adrenaline. The dude is apologizing as I'm screaming the cat's name peppered with profanity. Pure Bedlam.

It happened so fast I couldn't even tell you which way the dog went, where the dog's owner went, or even what the dog looked like. I only saw the cat. The one he's had for about 8 years that was inside our fence. Every time the cat tried to get away, the dog lunged at it again. I could only scream.

Naturally, I grabbed for the cat, and took a bite to my wrist. Less one tooth because in the fight, the poor old cat had one knocked out. I have three bite marks. I've seen a dog kill a kitten with a nip and a toss up in the air, but never, never had I'd witnessed something like this.

There were other cats that stay outside milling about. I figured I'd better do a headcount to see if any others were killed. I walked into the garage and there lay a dead kitten. It was a stray that had shown up, and being the bleeding heart that I am, I'd been feeding it and loving it. The poor thing didn't stand a chance.

I carried its lifeless little body to where my husband was already digging a hole for Shrek. That's how he deals with dying animals. He starts digging. I sit and bawl my eyes out talking to the animal. He digs a hole deep enough to bury a small child and hide any evidence.

I couldn't contain the tears any longer at this point, and I wept openly.

"It wasn't even our cat," my husband said in regards to the kitten when he saw me sobbing.

No, it hadn't been, but I was devastated by what I'd seen, and to find another critter destroyed made me lose what little self-control I had.

"No, but that dog came right into our yard. Inside our fence. He killed everything in his path. It's our yard. He shouldn't have been in here," I cried.

Shrek didn't die right away because that would have been too easy. There was some discussion of taking him to be put down, but I knew he wouldn't survive a 20 minute car ride.

My son being a 15 year old boy who doesn't cry and doesn't show much emotion, didn't know what to do as we sat vigil in the yard. So he yelled at me. Told me to stay away from his cat. Threatened to find the dog and kill it. Punched the fence.

My husband walked down the street and found who owned the dog. A young girl, 16ish, who was visiting her grandma and had brought the dog along. She came to apologize. My son ran inside because he didn't want her to see him crying.

She tells me she's sorry. The dog kills cats. He's killed her cat, and she knows how rough it was to sit and watch a cat convulse and die. I tried to explain to her that my problem was it was INSIDE our yard. The dog trespassed and treaded where he shouldn't have been. A place where my cats would have been safe otherwise. I understand dogs get loose. I would have been less pissed if it had happened in our back yard. She promised to never bring the dog back to her grandma's again.

I've got other cats, of course. But what hurts is to see my son's pain. He's not generally a loving child when it comes to animals. He loved that cat with everything he's had.

I'm sure half the town heard my rant from my front yard about puppy mills and people breeding these dogs to make a buck, and how oftentimes, they end up violent and aggressive animals. I'm not so naive to not know there are dogs that take a special liking to chasing and killing cats. But holy fuck. This happened inside my yard. Too many what ifs. Like what if my old 11 year old dog have been out at the time. What if we hadn't noticed right away and he killed my four kittens that live in the garage? What if the dog turned on one of us when we were trying to rescue the cat?

We wrapped Shrek up in a Spongebob pillowcase that my son used to use, but has since grown too old for - because Shrek had spent his life sleeping on the top of his pillow in bed with him.

I can't formulate the words to convey how pissed off and violated I feel right now. I feel as though I've been raped or robbed.

I know it's not the dog's fault. As I later found out, it had been mistreated before they got the animal. It also didn't just nonchalantly slip away, either. The dog broke either it's leash or collar while it was being walked.

I'm honestly one of the first people to say that others' freedoms shouldn't be taken away. If you want to own an alligator, knock yourself out, but don't turn it loose in the creek or local swimming hole. But I'll also say, in my opinion, that there are some animals that are not meant to be pets. Wild animals aren't meant to be pets. Animals bred, and then inbred, for the purpose of killing aren't meant to be pets, either. But if you must have one, be responsible, and don't be surprised when you can't control the forces of nature.

It's like the greyhound that has spent a lifetime racing and is adopted. Sure, they are gentle, often timid creatures. But a greyhound has to be watched. Who knows what will trigger their desire to run like the wind. A leaf blowing across a sidewalk. A sound from the neighbor's house. Responsible owners know the dangers of letting the dog off a leash in an unconfined area.

Who knows what might trigger the trait for which the animal was bred.

I guess that's what bugs me the most. The lack of responsibility for these dogs. I know as with any animal, a lot depends on the owner. Not all pit bulls are destructive creatures. I've known several Chihuahuas that I wouldn't trust around a small child.

It was an unfortunate event for an otherwise peaceful Sunday morning. No amount of demanding the dog be put down will bring back our old cat. And I do miss him. He kept post in the kitchen while I cooked. When I sat on the couch, he often sat on the arm beside me. He was a fixture in our household, and yes, eventually old age would take him from us. But the way he died, brutally murdered if you will, is what makes me mourn him even more.

The girl's grandma stopped by today to apologize once again. I appreciated it, but I'm heartbroken and it's going to take some time to get over what I witnessed.

Poor ole Shreky. My heart breaks for you.

Don't Talk to the Inmates or Believe Everything You Read

I've been known to play coy. Play stupid, if you will.

It's in my opinion that it takes a truly intelligent girl to play stupid. I don't do it on a regular basis, but the ability to bat my eyes and say, "My, I don't have a clue what you're talking about," does come in handy in certain situations. I'm not sure what those situations are offhand, but I'm just saying that yes, I've been known to play dumb.

Okay, one example.

Suppose someone is telling me something, and leaving me a lot of room to infer what they're really saying. That might be one time that I might say, "I'm really not sure what you're saying. Explain, please."

It's because I want whatever is being said to not be said in so few of words. Instead of coming right out and saying, "Spit it out," I do the gum-popping, hair twirling, la-la-la I'm soooo blonde" naive routine.

I was not pretending to be naive or dumb when I snapped this picture on Saturday, and then promptly locked the doors of the truck.

I'd ridden along to the salvage yard with my husband. He'd gotten out of the truck and nearly had himself an altercation with a toothless broad who declared she was next.

She wasn't next in line, but despite that, my husband let her go ahead and get her aluminum cans weighed. I half-watched, while eyeing any prospective inmates, when the woman in dire need of some dentures got caught trying to weight their bags with some wire.

I kept looking around. Surely if there were inmates working at the scrap yard, wouldn't they be wearing orange or had something indicating they were criminals? Maybe they were on work release from the county jail. Perhaps they were a low risk when it came to escaping. I wasn't taking any chances, however, and I kept the truck locked. My husband left it running with the a/c on. I wasn't going to be a hostage if I could avoid it.

"Why did you lock the doors?" my husband asked, giving me one of those looks that I'm slightly accustomed to getting in the last 18 years of marriage.

"I didn't want anyone hopping in," I told him.

"Ummm, okay," he said.

"I took a picture of that sign over there," I told him. I explained to him I was really surprised our youngest son didn't say anything about it when he'd rode along when we were getting rid of some useless junk.

"Oh, the inmate sign. He didn't even notice it," he said.

We were waiting on our turn when this conversation transpired, and I reached over and hit the automatic lock on the door again.

"Why in the hell do you keep locking the damn doors?"

"Uh, do I need to read you that sign?" I asked him. "Inmates, duh."

He laughed. He laughed hard.

"You know that's just a joke, right? There really aren't inmates working here. Sheesh."

How was I supposed to know it was only a joke? From the looks of some of the guys working the yard, they could've been inmates. Honest mistake showing just how gullible I can be at times.

My husband claims its part of my charm, though he still can't figure out how someone can be so bright (he says I'm always three mental steps ahead of him) and so naive at the same time.

Yes, I honestly did believe the sign was real. So much so that I took a picture of it.

I never have to play gullible, that's for sure.

Thoughts on Writing

Many moons ago, another writer and I decided we were going to write a book together. We were relatively new to concept of writing something longer than a weekly column, which is typically around 650-750 words. Your average book is about 300 pages. 250 words a page. When one does the math, that a hellva lot more writing than a copy in a newspaper.

We decided we were going to pen the next best seller about writing. After all, Stephen King did it. Yeah, we'll pause a moment here to realize that King might have actually had something to say about writing considering he'd been doing since the beginning of time.

For various reasons, the majority of them based on the fact the two of us had no business telling other writers how to do it when we weren't even sure what we were doing, it fell through. As Anne Lammott says, to paraphrase her brillance, few writers actually know what they are doing until they actually do it.

The thing about writers is that we aren't like others. Most creative sorts are much different than other individuals. I suspect we've been dropped on our heads one too many times, but that's just one theory why most writers, or even artists, tend to be the ecletic, if not eccentric.

I can't exactly speak for all writers when I say that I don't understand what it is that compels me to write. But...I think it is a general consensus with most writers. I can back up this theory by making an observation.

In books, even in movies, how many storylines revolve around a writer? Take King's work for example. In Bag of Bones, the protag is a writer. Lisey's Story is about a widowed writer's wife. Not to forget Misery, "1408" (a short story from Everything's Eventual), The Shining, The Regulators, Desperation, you get the idea.

Then there are movies like my favorite, "Something's Gotta Give." I could go on and on, but it doesn't take much brainpower to realize there are a whole lot of writers writing about writers in effort to understand what makes us writers.

I've been asked many times why I write. And every time, my answer is, "That's a good question."

I don't know why. While other kids were content with a box of crayons and a coloring book, I wanted a pencil and a tablet to write on. While other kids were hurrying off the bus to go watch TV or play, I'd run inside hoping I'd gotten a letter from one of many pen pals.

Writing has served as a means to preserve, understand, and express. Beyond that, I don't know what makes me tick or drives me to continue. But I guess I'm in good company because even Stephen King seems to be trying to flesh it out himself by writing about writers.

A Note to My Children

Dear Children,

First off, whoever took my dustpan and small broom, I'd love to have it back. I don't care what you were using it for. I don't care what you did with it. In fact, I don't think I even want to know. I want it back. It would come in dang handy considering someone took it upon themselves to dump sugar all over the kitchen floor at some point this morning.

But, you didn't tell me that either, whoever you are who did that. Oh, no. I found out when I walked barefooted to the kitchen and my feet were reminiscent of cake donuts with a sugary coating. This did not please me. Nothing like sticky feet and a sticky floor to say hello.

Speaking of floors and cleaning up, the next time I tell you not to give the cat a bath, I mean it. Honestly, I don't speak just to hear myself talk. I realize this old cat doesn't have the best personal hygiene, and grooming himself is not up there in the top ten ways to spend his time. But, I was not kidding when I said the last time I bathed the cat, he tried going out the kitchen window - glass, screen and all. When I mentioned I had to bandage a few scratches, I wasn't exaggerating.

I'd also love to know how the process, yeah, the one I told you not to do, took four large bath towels. I know it's not a kitten, but geez Louise, you weren't bathing a tiger in the bathtub. I found two towels in the tub and two on the floor that were sopping wet. I don't think it's worth my while to ask why there were a pair of wet underwear in the tub as well. There are somethings I don't want to know.

There's this thing called "brotherly love." Oh, I do know that most of the time the phrase is used in jest, like right after you two try to beat the holy crap out of each other. Honestly, I believe whole-heartedly that some day you two will grow up and understand you're lucky to have a brother. One of these days, you two might need to count on each other for support. I know, I know, you can't pick your family, but sometimes you have to make the best of what you've been given. I know you think I'm full of crap when I say you should count your blessings, but someday, you might see it for yourself.

Could we please keep the Kung-fu ninja moves to a bare minimum? Must we raise our voices to speak to one another from a different room? Really, there's no need to yell out a window when you're affixed with two feet that could carry you out front to your brother to ask him what he did with the DVD player remote.

As you both might realize, summer vacation is almost over. I've spent many hours with you two this summer, and as you might notice, mamma's running low on tolerance and patience for your shenanigans.

Mamma is weary. She's tired of four loads of laundry daily when you change in and out of your swim trunks, only to put on clean clothes each time. She might burst into a fit of tears the next time you open the fridge and lament, "There's NEVER anything good to eat," even though I've filled every request you've made since the end of May.

Point being, your mother is close to her breaking point. She didn't want to see the movie "Hairspray" the second time, much less the eighteenth time. Same goes for "Super Bad," "Harry Potter," "The Simpson's Movie," and "Knocked Up."

No, I really am not going to take it upon myself to open a can of whoop ass, as I might have promised to do. As one of you little smart-mouthed individuals said oh so eloquently, "Going to eat your spinach, little lady?" But is it the slightest bit possible you could cut your mother a break?

It's nothing personal when I tell you I anticipate the return to school as much as hitting the lottery right now. Dirty clothes, milk curdling in cups, candy wrappers, and various handtools strewn about do not make me smile. We have things like hampers, kitchen sinks, wastebaskets, and toolboxes located at many convienient locations throughout our home. Please use them.

When my temples start to throb, it's not my heart beating with mad, mad love for you boys. It's a warning sign. It says take cover 'cause she's going to blow. A few minutes of peace and quiet, an effort here and there to clean up after yourselves, and no knock-down-drag-out-fights would be muchly appreciated. It's cheaper than mood-altering medications, and it would definitely make me smile.

So how about it? If nothing else, could I please have my dustpan back?

With much love,
Your Mother

I've Got Bugs...and Other Confessions

I've got bugs. Not just any bugs, but horny bugs doing what is depicted in the picture. I've got Japanese beetles mating in my Chinese Elm hedges. At least it sounds like I've got some culture going on in my life. First Pearl Harbor, and now this.

This pisses me off. I discovered them last night when I was trimming the hedges. Because of course, if my hedges barely creep out towards the sidewalk, someone in this town will get bent out of shape because it somehow inhibits their ability to walk down the sidewalk. I'd just as soon prefer that no one walks down the sidewalk. Also, a little branch hanging out here and there slows down the retarded neighbor kids who must be on a mission to scratch the holy hell out of my car with their bicycles.

Hostile much? Why yes, I am today. Thanks for noticing.

I used no less than a half a can of flying insect killer last night on the little bastards. I went in search of some beetle bag to catch them, but wasn't about to drive to Lowe's from the south end of town when I couldn't find them anywhere. So I bought some more killer-in-a-can and saturated about a gazillion of the little suckers this afternoon.

Besides the fact that they are eating the leaves on the hedges down to nothing but a skeletal remain of a leaf, these things freak me the hell out. That green color. It's like something out of a bad B movie about alien invasion or nuclear warfare. Should one bite me, I imagine I'd transform into Beetle Woman, doing whatever it is that beetles do when they fight crime.

Speaking of being pissed, pissy seems to be the tone of the day.

When I went to the grocery in search of a beetle bag, and came out $65 poorer and beetle bagless, the young gay boy who was at the register did this nasally whine. "I've got alcohoool. Could you come over here and ring this up, pleaassse?"

You might have thought I'd asked him for a pint of blood rather than purchasing a twelve-pack of Bud Light with Lime. (Obviously, he wasn't old enough to sell me the booze, so he had to request help from someone over 18.) Well, freakin' excuse me.

And then, yes, then...he finishes bagging up my groceries, and leaves four bags setting there and starts ringing up the next customer. What the hell?

"Oh, don't worry about it," I said very sarcastically. "I'll get those and put them in my cart. Thank you!"

"No proooblem," he said, stereotyping himself without any help from me.

It's hot as a bitch today, and while it beats winter and being 30 below, I don't like sweating when I'm sitting still. I don't mind a little sweat from physical activity, but if only breathing is causing me to glisten, it puts me in a foul mood.

Think I'll go have a cold beer and kill some more beetle bastards.

T minus 28 Days and Counting

By my calculations, the darling children return to school ONE MONTH from today.

This saddens me in a way because it means that summer goes by much too quickly. It means that winter is just around the corner, and don't get me started on the price of LP gas and how I'm probably going to have to go donate an organ or sign up for some beta drug testing program that will make me grow a third nipple to afford to stay warm when the snow flies.

Don't get me wrong. I believe that there's such a thing as too much time that people can spend together. I think we hit that benchmark two weeks after school let out for the summer.

When the children were younger, my husband would load them up to go camping at the nearby State Park for the weekend. Actually, he would hint that he might like to go, and he'd come home to find that I had the truck packed, provisions purchased, and ready to hit the road. This is because I enjoyed those weekends alone during the summer.

He didn't take them last year. Oh, he threatened a time or two to go, but he met great resistance from the youngins' who thought they were way too cool to go camp with their old dad. They haven't gone this year either, and I don't see it happening since the tent got trashed when it was stowed in an area of the garage that is the breeding ground for mold and mildew under a leaky section of the roof. Coincidence? I think not.

I've not had 24 hours alone for well over two years. This is wrong.

Maybe I didn't exactly know what I was getting myself into with this whole motherhood thing. Perhaps I didn't think the whole "stay at home mom" thing through as well as I might have. I'm not saying I wish I didn't have kids. I'm not saying that I regret spending those formative years with my children.

What I am saying, however, is that I've had someone up my butt 24/7 for the past two months. I could get up early for a little alone time, but the oldest child gets up at the buttcrack of dawn. I could stay up late to garner some peace and quiet, except the younger child stays up all hours of the night.

I shouldn't complain, I suppose. But boy howdy, when my husband announced that he was taking a few days off before the 4th of July, I thought okay, I can handle it. I'll somehow manage to survive him in my hair for five days straight.

Except he came home on that Monday evening and announced, "I'm taking tomorrow off too!" I thought I might weep. Six days straight with a holiday thrown in for good measure. Oh be still my beating heart. I was not mentally prepared for it.

So, I'll be counting down those days. Looking forward to my days of quiet where I can hear myself think and not be mentally drained from constant interaction. Sure, I'll enjoy it for a few days, and then I'll be a little lonely, and then I'll get over that, too.

T minus 28 days and counting...

Linus Sings

Amazing. But then again, I'm easily amazed and amused.