Words fail me, Yet I Plod On

Wool Gabardine Suit Seeks Place To Hang Other Than Closet

2006-02-20T14:03:00.000-08:00

I'm in a rut.

I wake up. I read the want ads. I check e-mail. I check the on line want ads. I write cover letters. I e-mail resumes and cover letters out or snail mail them. I visit employment agencies.

Never let it be said that looking for a job isn't a full time job in and of itself. In fact, I've taken a modicum of pride in the fact that I'm far more disciplined than I thought I was. I do these things without fail, no matter how I feel, every week day and some weekends.

And don't get me wrong, there are benefits to working at home:

No one stares at me like I'm a lunatic when I have long drawn out practice interviews with the dogs

My computer reminds me what time it is, motivating me forward

My cats really don't care that I'm working feverishly on resumes in my pajamas

The coffee, made by me, is way better than what I can get at an office

Not to mention, my co-workers here at home, all being either feline or canine, don't complain much, rarely interrupt meetings and provide hours of entertainment in the doggie wrestling department.

But I am missing the office interaction and the beautiful wool gabardine suit my mother got me for Christmas is totally wasted hanging in my closet, its only been out on two interviews. I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but I miss wearing grown up clothes.

Attention Deficit Disorder and Sparkling Dinner Conversation

2006-02-15T17:45:00.000-08:00

The Author would like to thank Stacy of Pizza House for 1. Causing me
to have this ridiculous memory (you probably just saved me several
thousand dollars in therapy) 2. Putting up with my antics every week.
You can ease her suffering by visiting the Pizza House, 1349 S.
Glenstone, and consuming the best pizza EVER. Seriously. I pinky
swear it is.

When it comes to my conversation skills, they can be characterized as highly scattered. There isn’t a tangent I won’t follow and I’m always tickled purple when I find someone else who is similarly inclined.

Perched precariously in my booth at Pizza House this evening, the conversation with Stacy (the poor soul stuck serving me sometimes twice weekly) started over the merits, or lack thereof, of iceberg lettuce and then meandered recklessly onto the topic of French Dressing.

Or rather, the French dressing we were served as children in Springfield Public Schools. As products of the Springfield School System, Stacy and I share that sort of institutional knowledge of our hometown that’s kind of like having the Jell-O jingle stuck in your head: utterly useless, but delightfully entertaining.

Stacy was waxing philosophical about the lovely paper cup said dressing was housed in for serving when a memory bubble burst for me. I have a near phobic reaction to French Dressing, and Stacy just reminded me why.

As wee one, I avoided all sauces, dressings and condiments except ketchup on principal. But poor French dressing, I had a serious loathing for it simply for its close resemblance (in my six year old brain)to Thousand Island Dressing, because, um, ew.

And for the life of me, I don’t know why I didn’t like French Dressing. Given my love of Chili Sauce, which is just ketchup with sweet and spicy goodness added in,I should be eating copious amounts of French Dressing.

Here’s the recipe:

INGREDIENTS:
* 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
* 1 1/2 cups olive oil
* 4 garlic cloves, halved
* 2 teaspoons salt
* 1/2 teaspoon pepper
* 1 teaspoon dry mustard
* dash ground cayenne
* 1/3 cup chili sauce
* 1 teaspoon paprika
* 2 or 3 teaspoons horseradish, if desired
PREPARATION:
Mix all ingredients in a large jar. Cover and shake until well blended. Store in refrigerator. Makes 2 cups of French dressing.

And really, the only true similarity is that Thousand Island has ketchup in it. Thousand Island’s biggest crime, in the twisted world I live in, is that it has sweet pickle relish in it and, again, ew. And the two dressings aren’t even really the same color, but still connected in my twisted little world.

So one day, in the first grade, I begged, wheedled and promised to clean my room “Like THREE times a week,” if Mom would just PUHLEEEASE let me buy lunch.

Yes, I avoided all condiments but, of course, ketchup. Because, seriously, what kid DOESN’T eat ketchup. Unfortunately for me, one of the lunch ladies got one of those lovely paper cups of French Dressing confused with a cup of ketchup and it wound up on my tray.

There was crying. There was rending of clothing. There was stomping of wee little feet. And that was from probably a micron of French dressing on one of my French fries.

So I went home, and wheedled, begged and pleaded, Mom don’t EVER let me buy lunch again. "I’ll clean my room four times a week for the love of Julia Child if you’d PUHLEEEASE go back to packing my lunch. I’ll even stop complaining that my thermos is stained from the iced tea you keep putting in it."

Semi-Romantic Schlub

2006-02-14T08:46:00.000-08:00

It's okay. I won't be offended. You can call me a schlub. You'd be right. I've never been the most sentimental person. As such, Valentine's Day has never been that big of a deal to me.

In fact, in college I generally celebrated the day by dressing in black and ordering Chinese food...but then, I did that on any given day in college.

Further, cosmic forces generally conspire against me every Valentine's Day to keep me from doing anything even remotely romantic. The first year the hub and I were married, I had entertained all sorts of thoughts about what we were going to do for the holiday. But, as it turned out, our condo sold on Valentines Day and we had to spend the entire evening shopping for a house so we wouldn't wind up homeless (because real estate is insane like that in Northern VA).

Suffice to say, the meal I'd planned for that night got ruined. All I'd managed to do was get a lame card.

Going back into ancient history, one of my serious relationships ended on Valentine's Day. I wound up at a girlfriend's house drinking wine and eating Chinese food. And if my foggy memory serves, it was not as horrible as I thought, but certainly not your typical Valentine's Day.

To be honest, I struggle with this holiday. No, I'm not one of those people who is down on Valentine's Day because it's a "greeting card" holiday. Frankly, that's about the only part of Valentine's Day I usually DO get right, I manage to get a card.

And I don't know what's wrong with me. I plan out birthdays, Christmas and Anniversaries just fine. But, for whatever reason, this is always a day that some how doesn't come onto my radar screen...until it's almost too late.

I sat bolt up in bed this morning at 6:45 a.m. Our lives have both been rather chaotic of late, so we'd gotten stuff for one another and already exchanged it last night. Today is a horrifically busy day for both of us and I doubt I'll see the hub until dinner.

But I know the hub. He always keeps something in reserve for the actual day and I always either find a nice restaurant for us to go to or cook something. So front of mind when I sat up in bed in a cold sweat this morning was the fact I'd never gotten around to getting a card, much less made plans for dinner.

Well, hell.

I dashed out of bed. Threw food at the cats and dogs and went flying out of the house to buy a card. On the way home from Summer Fresh, it occurred to me that I probably should have bought something for dinner while at the store given a reservation at this point is out of the picture.

The News-Leader came to the rescue with a recipe for Filet Mignon and Harter House provided the Filet as well as some ENORMOUS baking potatoes and a lovely bottle of wine. But, true to form, I forgot one item I need for the recipe, so I guess I'll be making a third trip to the grocery store today. Sigh.

Happy Valentine's Day Y'all!

Dead Eye Dick

2006-02-13T08:07:00.000-08:00

The Vice President shot a man on Saturday. Interestingly enough, we didn't hear squat about it until Sunday. Ron, over at Chatter, makes a number of good points about what's really troubling about my pervious statement.

Questions: Were police called? Did Cheney talk to police? Did the veep have needed license/permit to hunt? And, of course: Why did it take nearly a day for the information to be released by the administration? Forget partisan politics; any time the country's No. 2 shoots a man, it's news.

In fact, it was one of the ranch's owners who decided to alert the media, instead of Cheney's staff. From the Washington Post:

It was Katharine Armstrong's decision to alert the news media. Cheney's office made no public announcement, deciding to defer to Armstrong because the incident had taken place on her property. Armstrong called the Corpus Christi Caller-Times, and when a reporter from the paper called the White House, the vice president's office confirmed the account.

In fact, the Post reports that Cheney's office referred reporters to Ms. Armstrong for an "eyewitness" account of the story and then stopped taking phone calls yesterday afternoon.

The vicitm, Harry Whittington, a "prominent" lawyer in Austin, TX, is in stable condition and said to be in good spirits. The Post quotes Cheney adviser Mary Matalin as saying:

"The vice president was concerned," said Mary Matalin, a Cheney adviser who spoke with him yesterday morning. "He felt badly, obviously. On the other hand, he was not careless or incautious or violate any of the [rules]. He didn't do anything he wasn't supposed to do."

If he didn't do anything he wasn't supposed to do, why hush it up from the media? If he's so above board, why is his office letting someone else do the talking for them? Once again, a Bush administration official is acting as if he is above the law. Sadly, it's hard to find that surprising.

Sunday Flotsam and Jetsam

2006-02-12T12:49:00.000-08:00

Sunday has long been one of my favorite days. I'm not overtly religious, although I'd like to think I'm spiritual in my own way. No, Sunday for me is about sleeping in, a big breakfast, reading the paper over strong coffee and then transitioning over to a book. Oh, and work in some sort of slow cooker thing I throw together for the evening meal.

Put simply, Sunday is a day I take it kind of slow. After the usual stuff this morning, we ran out and got a nice big roast to toss in the crock pot. I found a recipe for a "hickory smoked" roast, so I made some of my barbeque sauce to go with it and the hub made some potato salad. Mmmm. Potato salad.

We then wandered off in search of lunch while we let supper cook. We wound up at the Churchill Cafe over on Republic Road. What a pleasant surprise! The food was good. The iced tea rocked and I already love their coffee. It's a neat place too, with couches and little nooks for folks to hang out and drink their coffee and surf the web. Totally the kind of place a bookish geek like me gets geeked about.

Then it was off to the library. You have to understand that where I'm from in Virginia the libraries sucked big time. Unfortunately, the state just didn't put the kind of money into the libraries that they do here in Greene County. Good grief, the Borders I went to in Virginia wasn't as nice as the library I go to here on South Campbell.

And I couldn't think of a more perfect day to be curled up on the couch, in front of the fire, reading a book smelling my roast working away in the kitchen. Gads, I feel a good mood coming on!

Boehner: We will be punished

2006-02-06T14:43:00.000-08:00

House Majority Leader John Boehner, (R) Ohio, stirred the pot a bit when he went on the talk circuit Sunday. From the Washington Post:

In his Sunday morning debut as majority leader on the talk-show circuit, Boehner also voiced some concern that troubles in Iraq could hurt Republicans at the polls in November, and he said he would not necessarily surrender his new post if DeLay were cleared of charges against him in a Texas money-laundering case.

On the War in Iraq:

"I think we will" be punished in November's midterm elections if the situation in Iraq does not improve by Election Day. But he also said that if "the amount of violence continues to go down, I think we'll be able to see some reductions in troops next year."

And on his views on how to handle scandals like the one that put him in his new position:

"In the past, when these scandals have erupted, what's happened is Congress has overreacted, and two days later nobody knew what happened," he said on "Fox News Sunday." He said he would favor more disclosure of dealings with lobbyists but would not seek complete bans on travel or "earmark" provisions. "Bringing more transparency to this relationship, I think, is the best way to control it. But taking actions to ban this and ban that, when there's no appearance of a problem, there's no foundation of a problem, I think, in fact, does not serve the institution well."

Dems were quick to point out that Boehner's views pointed to the fact that Repubs just don't care about ethics.

Perhaps they should start. By Boehner's admission, the polls will suffer if the situation in Iraq continues to worsen, he's tacitly admitting his party is in trouble. And boy are they.

Hearings began today on the legality of the President's domestic spying program. Alberto Gonzales pinky swears the whole affair was legal. But Senator Arlen Specter said he thinks the President violated a 1978 law requiring a secret court to green light such actions. Bush kind of skipped that step.

Meanwhile, on the front page of the News-Leader today, the NSA secured the cooperation of AT&T, MCI and Sprint to monitor calls. And they did so without any court order:

Technicians work with phone company officials to intercept communications pegged to a particular person or phone number. Telecommunications executives say MCI, AT&T and Sprint grant the access to their systems without warrants or court orders. Instead, they are cooperating on the basis of oral requests from senior government officials.

Boehner may be onto something, because we sure as hell ought to be punishing the Republican party come election time:

For screwing up the economy
For getting us into a war we not cannot get out of
For having the ethics and morals of Satan himself
And for spying on us without so much as a warrant

For shame.

In Which Words Really Do Fail Me

2006-02-03T08:13:00.000-08:00

This story makes feel a number of things including nauseous.

A 15 year old boy married to a 37 year old woman and they're about to have a baby. Except, well he's missing and she says she knows nothing about it. Uh huh.

From CNN:

The wife, Lisa Clark, who is due to give birth February 20, did not play a role in the boy's disappearance last Friday, said her attorney, Daniel Sammons.
The wife was "surprised and concerned," Sammons said. "She has no knowledge of his whereabouts."

But Grandma isn't buying it:

The boy's grandmother, Judy Hayles, believes the wife was involved. "I think she's got him hidden out someplace," she said, adding that the boy told his roommate that someone was picking him up and he left without shoes, a jacket or money.
"That was his goal, to get with her," Hayles said. "They were just obsessed with having him there when the baby is born."

Okay, someone please tell me what in Hades is going on? There have been numerous news reports about female teachers having sex with pre-teen or barely teen boys. I'm not so naive to think that child sex abuse doesn't happen on both sides of the fence. What's really disturbing is some of these women want long-term relationships with these boys.

Mary Kay Letourneau, after serving her sentence, has said she wants to remain with the young man she went to jail for having sex with. What makes these women think they can have a normal relationship with someone who is 24 years their junior?

And back to our Georgia couple, they're MARRIED? I shudder to think what Georgia law allowed THAT to happen.

I'm not trying to be cruel, but fifteen year old boys are, for lack of a better term, icky. They're gangly. They're awkward. Their testicles have just dropped. They have ENOUGH going on without fathering a child or getting themselves embroiled in the drama of some woman who isn't emotionally mature enough to have a normal relationship with a man who is closer to her age.

Springfield Oddities #1

2006-02-02T07:52:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm from here. I should GET it. But in some cases, I just don't. As I'm learning my way around the city, and learning the culture here I occasionally run across a head scratcher. So, I'm going to start blogging them and open up the forum to my readership to see if y'all can help the new girl out.

Today's oddity: Culver's Frozen Yogurt

Why do they insist on putting the flavor of the day above the sandwich of the day? Maybe I'm just dumber than a box of hammers, but for the longest time I thought they were actually trying to sell "Chocolate Cherry Crunch Chicken Salad on Sourdough."

They have enough room on the sign for "Flavor of the Day" and "Sandwich of the Day." But then again, if they did that I'd be denied my daily dose of humor on my trip down Primrose, now wouldn't I?

Street Talk Site is LIVE

2006-02-01T17:26:00.000-08:00

Street Talk, the new cable news show airing on MediaCom also has a brand new web site. Check it out, we taped yesterday, and despite one of the guests getting a little prickly, it was Good TV. You can also see a really unflattering photo of yours truly wearing an ever so attractive headset.

Whee!

Blah, Blah, BLAH

2006-02-01T12:22:00.000-08:00

We're all a twitter this morning after listening to the First Twit give his spiel last night.

The speech was lots of aggrandizing statements that amounted to nothing more than just that. The president is pushing a load of initiatives that will likely never see the light of day. He has no support on the Democratic side of the house and faltering support from his own party.

In this morning's News and Leader, an AP story points out he fudged on the facts just a bit here and there throughout the speech. Specifically, the story points to the fact that experts question his ability to keep his fuel promise of making the U.S. less dependent on foreign oil.

"This is illusory to me. I don't think it means anything," said Frank Verrastro, an energy expert at the Center for Strategic International Studies, a conservative think tank in Washington.

It also sounds highly disingenuous for someone whose family is so deeply tied to oil. What effect would all this new technology have on the Bushs' relationship with Bandar Bush?

Seems to me, that whole part of the speech was a poor attempt to quell growing anger over the high cost of gas. Many Americans are struggling to make ends meet while Exxon/Mobile is reporting record profits. If this country is about being compassionate about one another, as Bush droned on about incessantly last night, why isn't Exxon/Mobile cutting their cost to the consumer in an act of compassion?

Bush also continued to attempt to drum up support for his domestic spying program that he pinky swears is just keeping tabs on international calls. He also swore up and down that what he was doing was legal. But according to that AP article, not exactly:

Bush did not address the counterargument that he failed to heed a separate 1978 law that specifically calls for court approval to conduct the surveillance. Some lawmakers have also questioned why Bush did not brief more than eight members of Congress about the program, which has been in effect since 2001.

Worse still, Bush and his cronies have demanded information from four popular Internet search engines. Full disclosure, the above mentioned article was written by Dear Old Dad, but I pinky swear he's loads smarter than I am:

On Jan. 18, the U.S. Justice Department filed papers in a California federal court seeking to force Google to comply with its subpoena. Specifically, the government lawyers want random samplings of 1 million Internet addresses and of 1 million search requests. No personally identifiable information would be included in the data.

So what's the big deal? Again, I'll let Dad explain it:

It is not the data in this instance. It is the environment in which the federal government has launched this particular initiative. It is the fear that once the practice of seeking private information from private Internet operations is established, the temptation for government officials will be to go back again and again until no personal information on line is safe from invasion.

And let's be clear, that's precisely what the domestic spying program and this Internet data "request" are, invasions of OUR privacy. Without warrants, subpoenas or any sort of other legal protection, our lives are being invaded without our consent or knowledge. I'm sorry, but that smacks of totalitarian regime not the glorious Democracy Bush is always talking about with his eyes all a twinkle.

Washington has long been known for its dearth of hot air and useless rhetoric. Last night was no exception.

Back From the Dead

2006-02-01T11:56:00.000-08:00

This blog has been dormant awhile. But recent problems at TypePad have given me reason to resurrect it. Not only will this site be a little more friendly to my Blogger readers, it will serve as a back up to the main, TypePad blog.

It will also be easier for some folks to comment here. As always, questions or concerns should be e-mailed to me at amcsholtyATgmailDOTcom.

Happy reading.

Gone from Our Lexicon

2004-11-11T08:25:00.000-08:00

My Grandpa Jess was a truck driver and a flyweight boxer. He was a man's man who wore heavy work shoes and carried a big steel lunch pail and a bright red Thermos to work every day. The words Thermos and the lunch pail have always conjured up pictures of my grandfather for me. My grandfather died when I was six.

I carried Grandad's Thermos with me to school in my lunch box up until I was in the second or third grade. It was, not only a reminder of him, but also a great way to take soup to school so I could have a hot lunch. I was a fussy eater and so school hot lunch was never an option for me before the fourth grade when I started growing out of my pickiness. There was a comfort about my lunchbox and Grandad's Thermos. More than the promise of a satisfying meal, I felt like I had a family member with me.

My grandfather is gone and lunch pails have ceased to exist, except on dusty shelves where collectors hoard them and folks sell them for ridiculous sums of money on eBay. Steel lunch pails are sought after collectibles for people with far too much discretionary money rather than symbols of hard working blue collar folks. That image is now replaced with high tech nylon and plastic.

I carry a lunch box to work, but it is no lunch pail. It is one of those blue, nylon covered plastic boxes that I can put a frozen block of some reusable gel into to keep my food cold. If I want a hot lunch, I simply microwave it. Suffice to say, it doesn't hold the same comfort that my steel Muppets lunch box did.

I certainly don't carry a Thermos either. We do have one and take it with us on long drives to Maine. My husband fills it with coffee to keep him awake on the long drive. It is a green, industrial looking thing reminiscent of the rough and tumble bottles of the 50's, 60's and 70's. No, now I have a stainless steel thermal mug that I fill with coffee to comfort me on my commute to work. Yet, it truly isn't the same.

And I admit, the things we have for food transport are much better now and allow us a much better choice of things we can eat for lunch at the job site. I don't think I could live without my Korean instant Ramen bowl that I frequently tote with me to the office. Nor do I think I could live without my lightweight lunch box.

But I miss the sight of a well-worn lunch pail, replete with dents and a little rust. I miss the slosh of a red Thermos swinging in time with Grandpa's steady gait. I miss the comfort of my childhood and the things that remind me of it, all gone from our cultural lexicon.

Vampires

2004-10-26T19:47:00.000-07:00

You know, I support affirmative action. I support all things diverse. But something tells me it is not only unwise, but probably not legal to hire the mentally challenged to draw blood at a medical facility.

Oh, I hear you, "Amy, I'm certain that the unnamed lab you went to today doesn't hire mentally challenged individuals to draw blood." And you may be right, but the unnamed lab I went to sure as fire hires f$cktards.

I'm not afraid of needles, I have a tattoo for crissakes. But the phlebotomist I saw today is making me have a fear of phlebotomists. She got through the taking of the blood okay, but when it came time to put pressure on the place she took blood and put a bandaid on me, she failed miserably.

She slapped the bandaid on and ripped my sleeve back down. As I was walking down the sidewalk toward the Jeep I noticed my arm felt wet. I looked down and saw a little red lake growing on my left arm. I jerked the sleeve back up to find that the bandaid was no where to be found.

I jumped in the Jeep and drove as quickly back to the office as I could. Me being me, I was more concerned about my shirt being stained than I was any loss of blood. Priorities, I got 'em.

I got on the elevator to go back up to my floor, praying that no one would get on with me, because I honestly looked like I'd either been in a knife fight or tried to commit suicide. And because fate is a cruel bitch, sure enough someone got on the elevator with me.

Being the twisted individual I am, I decided not to say anything at first. My elevator mate began to get a little uneasy being on the elevator with a bloodied woman. I could tell he was trying to decide whether to ask if I needed help or to call security. After what likely seemed an eternity to him, I let him off the hook and explained my misadventure at the lab.

He sprinted off the elevator. My cubemate nearly passed out upon seeing me. I went to the bathroom and washed most of the blood out, but spent the rest of the day with a pink stain on my shirt.

Finally, a colleague told me I was a biohazard and that I should go home. I think I know what I'm going to be for Halloween now.

Bank Scumbags

2004-10-25T12:42:00.000-07:00

I'll come straight to the point: I hate Chevy Chase Bank.

There, I've said it. And I feel better. But I'm going to feel even better after I tell you what the scum bags did. I am a simple person. I don't ask for much. All I wanted was for them to change my name from my maiden name to my married name on my check card. Chevy Chase managed to do that on my checks, I figured they'd be able to do it on my check card as well.

That's what I get for thinking.

We were told when we made the change to our checks, nearly four years ago that my married name would automatically appear on my check card when the one with my maiden name expired. So, when that card expired and the new one arrived in the mail with my maiden name on it, imagine my shock. At the time I was about to go on vacation so I let it slide, I didn't want to be without the card for several days while on travel.

This would be wisdom that would prove out long after the fact. About six weeks ago, I finally called to say, "You know, I've been married nearly four years do you think you guys could get my married name on my check card."

"Absolutely," I was told. The uber efficient sales representative took my info and told me I'd have a new check card in five to seven business days. Great. So, five business days went by and lo and behold I received a new check card in the mail...with my maiden name on it.

The hub and I went to the bank, had a cow and were promised a new card with the right name would be issued and overnighted to our branch. We were told we'd receive a phone call on the day it arrived. No phone call. So I went back in and sure enough the card was there. Miracle of miracles it had the right name on it.

I took the card home, activated it and lo and behold it didn't work. It had been activated as solely an ATM card. Back to the bank I went, this time even more peevish than usual. I was apologized to and reissued yet ANOTHER card.

A week and a half passed and no card. We went BACK to the bank and discovered that they'd never reissued the card as they said they would. They then decided to reissue a whole new card with a whole new number and once again overnight the card to me. So the card finally arrived, had the right name on it, when I activated it I could use it as a check card, but had to wait until my new PIN number arrived to be able to use it as an ATM again.

That was two weeks ago. I'm still waiting on the new PIN number. I've given up. The hub and I went out over the weekend and joined a credit union. Imagine, the same services and NO fees. I don't have to pay for my savings or checking accounts. I get lower interest loans...and hopefully, I'll get a check card I can actually use.

Fair Karma Fan

2004-10-24T11:01:00.000-07:00

I was born in Missouri. I should be pulling for the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series, but I'm not.

And it isn't because I have some deep seated interest in the Cardinals losing. I actually like the Cardinals. Were this any other match up, I likely would be pulling for the boys of my home state, but not this year.

It is the BoSox year. If any team deserves to win the Series, it is the Boston Red Sox. Here is a team that came back from an impossible situation against the New York Yankees and managed to salvage themselves.

In fact, I think we're all feeling that the World Series itself is a little anticlimactic after the series between the Yanks and the boys from Beantown.

I guess I'm a sucker for an underdog, but I am Red Sox fan now. I think my fate was surely sealed in that area when a rather nasty man made some nasty remarks to my husband at the grocery store yesterday.

The hub had his BoSox cap on in anticipation of last night's first game and as he was grabbing some fruit in the produce aisle, this jerk comes up and says, "I hope 1918 holds up," and sneered at the hub proud of his remark.

The hub simply smiled and said, "You must be a bitter Yankees fan. I understand. It must be real hard to watch your team fall completely apart after they practically had the series wrapped up."

The man huffed and walked off.

It brought home for both the hub and I that the Yanks, and their fans, have been resting on the curse of the Bambino and that they will always win against their dread rivals the Red Sox because fate and destiny have determined their success.

Ah, but clearly fate is a fickle thing. I'll be the first to say I'd rather be lucky as good any day of the week. But even though good luck is welcome, it isn't as sure a thing as hard work and skill. And most of us have control over that.

We won't know if the curse of the Bambino is gone for good until the end of the Fall Classic. One thing is for sure, that said curse is definitely teetering. The boys from Beantown have it set in their minds they're going to banish that curse if it is the last thing they do.

And if it helps, this fair karma fan will be wearing a BoSox cap until its all over.

I'm not right

2004-10-21T18:35:00.000-07:00

Maybe its the weather. Maybe I just have the blahs. Maybe I'm working myself into a lather over nothing. This has been a miserable week. I don't even want to go into the low lights.

Suffice to say, my self-esteem is in the toilet. I'm taking offense where I shouldn't. I'm feeling paranoid, worthless and afraid. And no matter what the hell I do I can't f'ing shake it.

I am so frustrated. I'm totally freaking out about my health "situation." I know it isn't rational, but FEAR isn't rational either. I want to scream. I want to cry. I can't even do that.

I feel like a complete and total screw up. Who the hell gets herself so fucking worked up she can't even let it out with a good cry or yell.

Me, apparently.

A friend asked me how I was doing the other day and I handily lied that I was doing just fine. In my head, I was screaming I'm coming apart at the seams over something trivial and I'm too much of a puss to admit it.

No, I'm not right indeed. I'm scared and pathetic right now. So I'm screaming and crying to the ether right now as if that makes all of my screwed up feelings right.

But at least it is a release. At least it is off my chest and out of my screwed up brain. At least for the moment.

A golf ball sized problem

2004-10-14T19:27:00.000-07:00

I've always agreed with the sentiment that Golf was a good way to ruin an otherwise lovely walk. Not to mention the fact the sport has a penchant for having participants dress like 70's era pimps. Even as a child, I remember thinking the only good use of a golf ball was being able to dive for the florescent colored ones in the pool.

And at this very moment, something golf ball sized is ruining what would otherwise be a lovely day.

I've spoken of the cyst before. Today I went to the doctor to discuss when it was going to come out. The doc is a very petite, quiet spoken woman who calmly explained to me and the hub that the cyst I had was a relatively small one, "about the size of a golf ball."

I nearly choked. I'm not a large woman and the idea that something made up of left over hair, teeth and God knows what else the size of a golf ball riding around on my ovary made me a little uncomfortable. I got less comfortable when I learned that the cyst is large enough that it has either blocked any view of my ovary from the radiologist's tools or it has killed the ovary off.

You could have knocked me over with a feather when the doctor said, "We generally recommend you have this sort of thing removed."

RECOMMEND?! Lady, I want you to grab a pair of forceps and yank the freakin' thing out right now!!!

Alas, cooler heads prevailed and I'll be having laproscopy to remove the cyst at the end of November.

Anyone want to buy me some 70's era pimp pants? Especially if you can find the ultra-comfy Sansabelt brand, I understand my mid-section is going to be a little uncomfortable for a week or so.

Pantaloons of Doom and the Great Lumpkin

2004-10-12T19:38:00.000-07:00

Every October, the hub and I take the kid to the mountains to pick out a pumpkin. Why we have always felt the need to drive hours (and by hours I mean 21 miles outside Berkeley Springs, WVa.) to get our yearly gourd has never been apparent to me, yet it is a tradition we adhere to. This past Saturday, we made our yearly sojourn and we took Pantaloons of Doom with us.

For the first hour of the trip, ‘Loons of Doom insisted on barking at all of the weird things he saw. And by weird things I mean other cars, people in other cars, stop lights, random cattle…you get the picture. Finally, he calmed down, about an hour and a half into the trip, when we stopped for lunch. I later learned that he’d calmed down because the step daughter had been surreptiously feeding him chicken strips and he’d passed into a food coma.

The hub only got lost trying to find the farmer’s market we go to about 15 times. By the time we actually found the place, I felt conversant enough in the layout of Winchester, VA that I could give a tour and brief city history. We got out, I corralled the dog and walked around the periphery where it was acceptable to have my canine companion while the hub and the kid went to pick out the pumpkin and buy all sorts of sickeningly sweet snacks and some apples.

While wandering, ‘Loons of Doom and I went around back of the building so he could take care of some doggy business. It was there we discovered the pumpkin rejects. These are the pumpkins that are too small, too damaged or too deformed for sale. They’re all marked by a big black magic marker stripe that puts one in mind of a certain biblical story. ‘Loons sniffed a few of them and then barked at a pumpkin that was not only enormous in size, but clearly had elephantitis. There were more lumps on this thing than a toad with warts. It looked more like the gourd equivalent of an asteroid than a pumpkin. I was totally pissed I didn’t have my camera with me to capture this ludicrously lumpy pumpkin.

The strange thing is, I had a burning desire to bring it home. But then, our Home Owner's Association would probably fine us for such a monstrosity.

Diverse Palate

2004-10-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

For once, there is a government holiday, I've done nearly all the work around the house I have to do so I'm left to my own devices. Other than not showering and messing around with the dogs, so far I've been a total waste.

So, I decided to prepare dessert for this evening's meal. We're having a roughly Thai entree so I looked up Mango Sticky Rice on the intraweb. Whee.

It was all coming along nicely until I was distracted by Pantaloons of Doom wanting a biscuit. In the nanosecond it took me to give him a biscuit my coconut milk started boiling over. Luckily I caught it quickly enough but then had a gargantuan mess to clean up.

Undaunted, I then went searching for a fried green tomato recipe. You see, in July our tomato vines started dying. The hub cut them back and intended to pitch them, but when they started regrowing he left them in place. We never got another red tomato but now I've got a gross butt load of green ones that will rot in this cold if I do nothing with them.

So, one night this week we'll be having the uber southern meal of macaroni and cheese and fried green tomatoes. Talk about your multicultural menus.

Effort

2004-10-08T17:41:00.000-07:00

I am fully aware that it is just going to be a family night out. A night with me, the kid and the hub. And yet, ten minutes ago I found myself in front of the mirror primping and fussing over my clothes and hoping they looked stylish enough. More importantly, I was hoping I looked stylish enough.

When I was 25, looking sexy was effortless. I was a size eight and despite my short stature, my curvaceousness only accented my appearance. Now, it tends to hinder it.

I am making inroads in that arena. I'm working out four times a week. I'm eating less. I'm drinking a metric ton of water per day.

Perhaps I'm kidding myself that I'll ever be that sex pixie I was at 25. But I want to still feel desirable.

I recently purchased a pair of jeans. Granted they're stretch denim, but my philosophy is once you have stretch marks, the stretch denim isn't far behind. And they tend to hug my curves. But rather than make me feel fat, when I see myself in them I catch a glimpse of that 25 year old pixie who had random men in Target wandering up to say hello.

There she was in the mirror, winking back at me, full of promise and mischief.

At 25, on a Friday night my pixie was in a bar in a short skirt, with over-styled hair holding a beer while at the same time holding court. My girlfriends and I started at a trendy, semi-expensive place to scope guys. By midnight we were at our favorite cheap beer and chili spot watching the freak show.

I met my first great love that way.

Alas, relationships in bars don't generally make much more than a really hot fling. As I grew older, I found it was more important to be with someone who was a friend AND hot in the sack.

Now, I'm with that person and I don't have to worry so much about holding court or being seen in a trendy spot. I'm a little older, a little curvier but the pixie is still there. And tonight, she's showing off her caboose for old times' sake. Look out world.

Random Observations

2004-10-04T08:12:00.000-07:00

You could also title this post: I've not posted for awhile and I've got a bunch of mini-posts in my head but nothing substantial.

1. As I was driving home the other day, just off the exit ramp I take there were about a dozen children's chairs dumped on the side of the road. These were the type of chair one sees in an elementary school. There were numerous colors and they didn't appear damaged in any way. The next day, when I drove past that spot, the only ones left were the yellow ones. The hub described the situation as someone obsessive compulsive drove by and decided the other colors of chair that had been dumped didn't appeal to their aesthetic.

2. I want to be able to enjoy my food with the fervor that my dogs do. In the evening when I feed them their "wet" food, one of my dogs dances in circles until I put the food down. The other dog enjoys the evening repast so much that he not only pushes his dish all over the kitchen while eating, but also gets a fair amount of his dinner on his nose.

3. I've been working out a little over a month now. I almost always feel immensely better after a workout, but I haven't really noticed any change on myself. The hub is now fitting into his size 40s and I guess my clothes are getting loser around the middle. However, this weekend I did notice a big change. I was brushing my hair and looking in the mirror. I had on a rather form fitting t-shirt. When I pulled my arms down to get a better look at my hair I noticed biceps. Dear Lord, I have biceps. Granted they are very miniscule biceps, but they are there dammit.

4. Every so often you need to take time out and have a really fantastic breakfast. The hub and I went to a little diner in the city we plan to move to on Sunday. It wasn't anything fancy, just good, basic breakfast food. We both went through the rest of the day with a warm, satisfied feeling.

5. Sometimes it is really good to go back and see where your parents started out life. We were driving around looking at houses in the neighbhorhood the hub's father grew up in. We drove by his old house and marveled at the fact that hub's granddad actually built the house. Too bad it wasn't for sale.

6. Swimming is a lot harder exercise than it was when you were 16. I was in the pool less than five minutes and I was already winded. I probably got one of the better workouts I've had in some time but my God I felt like a fat, worthless hefalump after 10 laps.

7. Following up to six there, chlorine burns a lot more than I remember it.

8. Hearing the question, "What is SpongeBob?" come out of your 60 year old mother's mouth is downright hilarious.

9. Ice cream loses its charm when it is melting all over your jeans.

10. Writing feels a lot better when you actually have a point. :-)

Navigationally challenged

2004-09-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

Just about any place you need to go in Northern Virginia, I can get you there. I grew up in this area and I know parts of it so well that I've forgotten street names and merely memorized the pattern of streets I have to follow to get there.

Driving is second nature, something I do automatically. When I have some place new to go, I get a map or detailed directions and read it over numerous times before I go there. I have a reasonable sense of direction but I like to have conceptualized just exactly where I'm going.

That was my fatal mistake this afternoon. Well, that, and the fact that Pierre L'Enfant must've discovered crack long before anyone else did and was clearly using it heavily when he designed the streets of Washington, D.C. I had occasion to visit our nation's capitol today, and before I even crossed the border I was already hopelessly lost.

A work errand had me and a colleague packed in my Jeep and headed for DC. For most people, a short trip from Alexandria, VA into Washington is a 20 minute trip. For me it was a hour and a half ordeal.

As we were leaving Virginia we first missed our merge onto Route 1 because my navigator hadn't read the directions well enough for me. You see, I was incredibly lazy today. I made the foolish assumption that because I had someone riding with me, she'd be able to keep me straight as to where I was going.

Our error landed us in Maryland, primarily because I KEPT missing exits. When we finally got that worked out we had to drive back into Virginia to get turned around the right way to follow our crack directions.

I mention crack again, because not only was Mr. L'Enfant smoking rock, but whoever prepares maps for Yahoo clearly is as well.

When we arrived on 14th Street I was relieved because it was a street I actually recognized. We made our way down 14th street and were feeling pretty good about having righted ourselves. We got to our first turn and realized that the directions were telling us to turn left on a street with no left turn.

Undaunted we made our way up one block where we could turn left and made our way back down to the correct street. We came to the next turn, a right turn, which I was fairly confident that I could make without exception.

That's what I get for thinking. Apparently, there is some super secret rule in DC governing random side streets that you have to have both a membership card AND a secret handshake to get on that allow you to turn right.

I ignored the sign and turned right anyway dimly thinking to myself that if a cop pulled me over I'd be more than happy to tell him that if he gave me a ticket I'd be suing, not only him personally, but the estate of Pierre L'Enfant.

When we came to our next turn we discovered construction. Who knew I'd actually need my Jeep's four-wheel drive in an urban setting. We drove down a painfully narrow street over lots of bumpy road and finally made it to one of DC's favorite torture devices, the traffic circle.

Once again our fabulous directions had us coming out of the traffic circle nearly a block ahead of the address we needed to be at. And of course that meant driving at least a mile down the road before I could find a place to turn around and head back in the correct direction.

After nearly an hour we finally arrived at our destination to conduct 5.7 minutes of business. We got directions from someone there as to the easiest way to get back out of the city from that location.

"Why the Rock Creek Parkway," he said proudly and scribbled down some directions for us. In Korean.

Thankfully, my colleague was fluent in the language. We were sailing triumphantly down the Rock Creek Parkway at a good speed. We saw the sign for Virginia and let up a grand hurrah.

Until we saw the sign that said the Virginia exit was closed. I wound up in Hains Point before I'd figured out how to get back to 395. On the lighter side it only took half hour to get back into Virginia.

I don't think I'm ever leaving the Old Dominion again, at least not as long as I'm the one doing the driving.

Damn you, Pierre L'Enfant.

Quiet unrest

2004-09-27T20:28:00.000-07:00

My abdomen is complaining loudly this evening. I've surrounded myself with my creature comforts to dull the pain. I've got a steaming mug of cocoa, comfy floppy clothes and have bathed my bedroom in candelight and music. I need "me" time so I'm taking it.

Rarely, do I just spend an evening doing whatever strikes my fancy, but tonight I'm entitled. So I sit her contemplative with a keyboard in front of me. I'm certain I don't have a damn thing of import to say.

Despite how I feel physically, mentally I feel less stressed than I have in years. I'm learning to manage and prioritize things and suddenly that mound of worry that followed me around wherever I went is gone. After 33 years, I've finally learned to cope.

I've also finally embraced the notion of disconnecting from my thoughts and clearing my head. I'm quiet content to sit here and let the music wash over me and stare at some random pattern on a screen.

Numb is good.

Cue Twilight Zone Music

2004-09-21T18:12:00.000-07:00

The following post contains content of a sensitive (read gross) nature. You are warned.

In the back of my head, when the radiologist said what it was, I knew I had heard the term and knew some where in the far reaches of my brain I knew what it was. I also should have been clued in by her reticence to tell me, precisely, what it was I have riding around on my ovary but I was cold, half naked except for socks and really needing to pee.

I drove home talking to mother/husband/co-worker/boss and trying to make plans. Every time I said the phrase, they were all mystified too. "What IS that?" "I don't know," I'd say, "But apparently it needs to come out."

Come out indeed.

I drove the rest of the way home completely freaked out. The radiologist said I had to follow up with my GYN but that she would have to "go in and have a look." She also said these things are rarely cancerous. I was hoping she'd say never, but I was holding on to rarely pretty hard.

B, my co-worker/partner in crime/dear friend spent the better part of twenty minutes peeling me off the ceiling of my Jeep and telling me I just needed to go have it removed and not worry about anything else. All I could focus on was being laid up for weeks.

Then I got home and hopped on the intraweb thingie to look up the new phrase in my life: Dermoid Cyst. That's right kiddies, I potentially have hair and TEETH riding around on my ovaries. TEETH?! To quote Dave Barry, I'm not making this up. I have been told I have a dermoid cyst on my ovary which means I may have hair, teeth, thyroid and God knows what else on my ovary.

I think I need a shower.

The Long Soak

2004-09-20T20:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I miss my apartment in Nashville. It was reasonably sized by apartment standards, with a deck and vaulted ceilings and the rent was cheap. I spent many a tired evening soaking away aches and pains in the tub, surrounded by girly smelling candles.

Today, I live in a huge townhouse with vaulted ceilings, a big deck and an enormous garden tub. But when it comes to the long soak, I prefer our smaller, iron tub. For one thing, it keeps the water hot longer and it doesn't take nearly as long to fill up.

I started this day out at 2 a.m. with a monster migraine. I didn't get back to sleep until 4 a.m. and was highly annoyed when the alarm went off at 5:30. I slammed my fist down on it and resigned that I was sleeping the migraine off and call in. At 7 a.m. I realized there was a major meeting I had to be at.

I hauled myself out of bed and into the shower and managed to limp through my day. By the time I'd gotten home tonight, had dinner, walked the dogs and said hello to my husband it was high time for a long soak.

Alas, the lonely nights in my apartment are gone and I have to work at getting a moment alone for a good soak in the tub. Thank God for Monday Night Football.

Wunderklutz at the Gym

2004-09-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

When I went to the gym the other night, I discovered the piece of equipment that is designed to work your lower back and abdominal muscles. My abs are frighteningly out of shape and I figured my lower back probably could use some work as well. I hopped on and dimly wondered why there was a seatbelt on the device, but ignored it anyway.

I set the resistance for 100 pounds figuring I’d get a good workout at that level. Apparently, 100 pounds of resistance isn’t as much as it might seem. And that seatbelt IS on there for a reason. The first time I pushed back on it I back flipped off the machine onto the floor. Of course, at 7:30 on a Wednesday the gym has a lot of patrons and all of them were looking at me. So I smiled and yelled “Ta da!” then slinked off to a stationery bike.

Safely hidden in the corner from the folks I'd just given a show, I hopped on the bike, set it for ten minutes and figured this was something so easy that even I couldn't screw it up. Yeah. I keep telling myself these things. I wound up inadvertently setting the bike to do one of those things where it gradually increases the resistance to which you are pedaling.

My session ended and the hub came over to see if I was ready to go. So I hopped up, eager to get out of the place I kept embarrassing myself in and promptly fell down. My legs were goo. The hub helped me up but I wound up walking out of the gym looking like Hunter S. Thompson after a bender on his drug of choice, one leg going straight the other meandering aimlessly off to the left some where.

I need to put a tent over my circus.

Woman In Black

2004-09-16T08:12:00.000-07:00

I am fortunate to have a job where I don't have to show up in a suit every day. There are days, like today, when I cas' out. I threw on a pair of jeans, a black top and my shit kickers. For those of you who don't know what "shit kickers" are, they're a pair of very clunky black oxford shoes with a big buckle across the tongue of the shoe. In other words, they are just shy of biker boots. And rest assured, if I have my way, I'll have a pair of those before the winter is out.

As I was walking downstairs to get my coffee for the commute I realized that my outfit basically says, "Bugger off, I'm feeling saucy and recalcitrant today." It was about that time that the hub saw me in my regalia and remarked, "Look, it's the female Johnny Cash."

Burn this ring of fire. Hah!

My Jeep is also black and as I climbed in this morning I decided the only thing that would be more fitting is if I was throwing my leg across some tricked out Japanese motorcycle. Although the very idea of me doing anything on a motorcycle besides being a passenger is sheer folly. I'm simply not that coordinated.

So I get into the Jeep, pop in a CD at random, and Shania Twain starts up with "Man I Feel Like A Woman" at full volume. My neighbors love me. Apparently, the bad ass stars are in alignment for me this morning because the other songs on the particular mix CD I tossed in were Aerosmith, Guns N Roses and other assorted loud shreiking guitar type material.

I'm a little fearful for anyone that comes into contact with me today.

So zip it

2004-09-15T21:01:00.000-07:00

My mother bought me fat pants. Big, nasty, elastic on the sides fat girl pants. I found them on my kitchen table when I came in from work today. I was both grateful and humiliated.

At work today, I had gone to the ladies room and when I went to zip up, something was obstructing the zipper. I unzipped, tried again and again got caught. I then attempted to look at what was obstructing my pants closure and, to my horror, realized that I couldn't see the zipper because my (to use a technical term) breasteses were in my line of site. It occurred to me that I was either going to have to go through the rest of the day with unzipped pants or use brute force to get the bloody zipper up.

Fortunately, brute force prevailed. I walked to my desk and unceremoniously threw away an entire box of HoHo's that some erstwhile co-worker had placed on my desk for our department to share. I sat glumly in my chair and resolved to spend extra time at the gym this evening.

Then I came home to the Gloria Vanderbilts. Gah! So I tried them on and I'm shocked to say, with a long shirt, they don't look half bad on me. Not to mention I had no bresateses problem with these pants given their zipper is in the front. I'll be wearing them until I've spent LOTS of long evenings at the gym.