F-R-I-E-N-D special

I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately.  I have more people to call friends now than I ever have before.  Even the smattering of friends I used to see and do things with regularly are still friends now, thanks to Facebook.  I still get to see their lives, their kids, their pets, and visit with them.  Even if it's only in short paragraph form.
And here in Mobile, thanks in part to my kids and M's work, I have a gaggle of friends.  And such variety, and I love that.  I've never been popular or had a crowd, but I certainly have a gaggle now!  We do all sorts of fun stuff, too--we walk, we lunch, we work out (only if CiCi REAALLY wants to test me), we volunteer at the school, we have sleepovers, drinks, manicures, spa days (only when I get CiCi to STOP working out), and I really am lucky.
I've got friends from here (unlikely, but true), friends from up north, friends from elsewhere in Alabama.  M's work friends are more serious, and I try to be more formal with them (they may or may not be responsible for tenure, and since I never know who may be and who may not be, I try to behave.)  Funny friends, friends who only laugh politely, girly friends, and no-nonsense friends.  If I were EVER to feel like calling some one, I have a long list where I could start.
I like the way some friends kind of fall away for a while, but can pick up again like I saw them yesterday.   Yesterday, I walked with MK for an hour and though I haven't visited with her in nearly a year, and as it turns out, her calm and measured personality (and very brisk walking tempo!) really brought some sense to my world. 
Thankfully, I don't really have to pretend to be nice to people anymore.  My kids have their own friends, so I don't need to befriend women for their kids.  My peops like/tolerate me as I am.  Crazy as hell, but loyal and honest.  Not the worst combination.
I think about my kids and how sometimes, they'll tell me about their friend Blahblah.  Who's Blahblah I ask them.  My friend from camp on the cruise we took two years ago.  Friend?  A four day friend?  But that kids use the word so freely, "Will you be my friend?" is kind of fantastic.  Their fickleness, despite the pettiness, is kind of amazing, too:  "He's not my friend anymore because he thinks Mario is for babies."  And how they compartmentalize everyone, "my friend from preschool doesn't know my friend from art."  And how anyone can be a friend, "is it ok if we play with the kid of that guy who's at the neighbor's fixing a fence?"
Boys don't have friends for connections, popular or not, if the kid is nice and likes whatever my kids like at the moment, he's golden.  S had a friend over on the weekend, and it was sweet.  "Do you like this Lego ship I built?"  "Yah, I like the windshield,"  "Yah, I thought you'd like that."  It was so straightforward and fun, and what friends should be. Is it because the stakes are lower?  What are the stakes of grown up friendships?  Why do they matter more to some people than others?  Why are some friendships like great jeans, all broken in and comfy, from the get go?  Why do some never evolve past the itchy and stiff stage?
I miss some friends from far away and long ago, WB comes to mind immediately.  Long after our spouses went to bed, we'd stay up and drink and talk about anything, (mainly our spouses).  He's really my best man friend.  I miss some friends nearby and recently.  It's like repellent force fields invisibly sprung up around us, and we can no longer connect.  I'm confident the situation is temporary, but nonetheless, it's sad.  Facebook has helped me (strangely) get to know people I should have been better friends with when we lived near one another, (Arkansas, I'm lookin' at you).  I missed her, and thus some of the potential of our kindred spirits. 
Rambling. Rambling.  It's early, in the day, but late in the essay, and I still have no thesis statement.  Perhaps:  Y'all know who you are.  I love seeing those of you I do nearly every day.  I miss those of you I don't, and before the total insanity of the holidays starts (November 1, traditionally), we all need to take a day to reconnect, ok?

Southern Comfort

It's pretty freakin' clear that the weather gods are: A) New Yorkers B) Have a strong sense of humor C) And an excellent sense of timing.

Rather than HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE, which had some alliteration going for it, as well as a catchy, if modified theme song "Come on, Irene," the Gulf South is staring down "Slow Moving Tropical Depression 13." Which is about as catchy as an ABC sit com title. Also, appropriate for this region--slow, depressed, and unlucky.

Apparently, despite the bland name, SMTD13 has already shut down drilling operations in the Gulf. That's important if you drive a car, as this means gas prices will probably go up. See? We're influential too, down here. This also means that if you plan to swim anywhere near the coast in the next 10 days, the water's gonna be foul. Don't do that. This also means that cable is probably going to be all screwed up for college football kickoff weekend. It also probably means there's no toilet paper or canned goods on the shelf at the grocery.

Accuweather.com, in an effort to maintain readership after the post-Irene falloff, is touting SMTD13 as the next BILLION DOLLAR NATURAL DISASTER. I'm interested, in how, exactly, a storm can cause a billion dollars worth of damage down here. Is someone in New Orleans hiding a billion dollars under a rock? Nice timing, by the way, as the Army Corps of Engineers gave New Orleans' levee system a failing grade. Wouldn't it cost less to improve the system than to watch New Orleans sink every five years? Glenn Beck probably thinks this is God's message not to build below sea level.

I guess, actually, New Yorkers and my fellow Mobilians are going to get the last laugh on me. I don't have one of those giant trucks or vee-hicles as people down here call them. My economical little station wagon might not be able to ford the streetrivers of our poorly-infrastructured town.  I mean there are probably backwater towns in India that have way more advanced drainage than our modest hamlet.  So, I will be trapped between the worlds of the true southerner and the die hard northerner. Serves me right for mocking the center of the Western World. I'll have to go out and beg some redneck to get me a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to keep my kin from starving. He'll be making an armed grocery run for some Bud Light in his Ford 850 with 27" of ground clearance while I bail out the backyard.

New Yorkers will be sittin' back with cigars in big, oxblood leather club chairs holding snifters of brandy, "who's laughin' at the rain now, woman?"

I have it coming. The worst part, of course, is not the billion dollars in flooding. Or the sinking of New Orleans (charming city, that, but it would be freaking awesome as Atlantis.) Or really any of the natural disaster part. The worst part is going to be that I have to spend a three day weekend inside with the kids. Screw the toilet paper and loaf of bread. I'm going to buy some booze.

The other white meat

Sunday evening, I made carpaccio for M and me for dinner. I know, making carpaccio is a little like dry cleaning...you don't really DO anything, you just display it real nice. Nonetheless, M and I had a lovely supper of it with arugula, cherry tomato salad with fresh Parmesan shavings.

We were watching the end of the first (and only comprehensible) Pirates of the Caribbean movie with the kids. They were eating macaroni and cheese out of the box. They weren't eating it out of the box, but it was the variety that comes in a box. Ew. Fluorescent orange cheese is wrong wrong wrong. I've been trying to convert the kids to the frozen variety, made with real milk, real cheese and of a natural hue, but no go.

Anyway, the kids were sitting at the fireplace, their designated eating zone outside of the kitchen, and M and I were hunched over our plates. In case you're wondering about my parenting skills, and let's be honest, you should be, we only eat in front of the TV on Fridays and Sundays. Friday night is movie night, and it's a fun treat to eat in the family room (kids on the hearth only) and we eat a fun dinner followed by popcorn during the movie. However, M and I are un-fun parents, and there is a bedtime, even on Fridays. So, if the movie goes long, or we get a late start, the movie has to be continued on Sunday. Not Saturdays, because that's when M and I try to go out. So, to bring you back up to date, it's Sunday, because the first Pirates movie is like 10 hours long when broadcast on ABC Family with commercials, even if we fast forward through them.

Cat is sitting outside the door. He's chewing on something. A closer look reveals a baby squirrel. Oh, fantastic. Squirrel carpaccio. Ugh. My appetite sank down to Davy Jones' Locker. I go outside to find that Cat, has in fact, gone all Jeffrey Dahmer on Sunday: 2 snakes, a blue jay, and aforementioned squirrel.

This is what happens when he manages to get his bell collar off. Death, dismemberment. (Actually, I don't think the snakes can be dismembered, since they have no, um, members.)

What the hell? (In case you're wondering--that's a tail. Apparently, the only inedible part of a squirrel.)

We feed the cat. Actual cat food. From a bag and/or a can. A lot. Good, healthy food and water, and the occasional leftover meat from dinner. We have provided a reasonably psychosis-free environment for the cat. In short, as parents, we have done nothing specific to raise a murderous freak. Yet, he killed representatives from the major animal kingdoms: reptile, bird and mammal. Clooney was looking mighty nervous.

That's the part that's so disturbing--the cat is killing for the hell of it. We have no assurance that he won't turn against us! Despite our affections, hospitality and substantial food budget. We've failed as cat parents! Right now, our kids seem normal-ish. But what if they decide that they're more like their feline pet than their canine pet? What if they're not all sweet and loyal and earnest, but instead grow up to be sadistic indifferent raw-squirrel eaters?

This is not good precedent. That's all I'm saying.

Dear New York, we don't care. Love, EVERYONE ELSE

So here's the thing (my brother-in-law LOVES it when I say that)--the east coast got a little sampling of what it's like to live in the rest of the country this week. And I say this with bitterness, of course, because what am I except bitter?

EVERYBODY LOVES NEW YORK. I got the memo. But the thing is, New Yorkers are kinda obnoxious. I know, I'm speaking from Alabama, the epicenter of moonshine swillin', incest-havin', NASCAR drivin' rednecks. I didn't forget. And New Yorkers do a LOT of stuff well, don't get me wrong: fashion, culture, and weight management leap to mind. BUT they're kind of media whores.

They also like to spend money on things like third basemen, itty-bitty condos, shoes, houses in the Hamptons. But, mostly, they like to be the center of the universe. Galileo would have had his work cut out with New Yorkers. What is this you say, Galileo? 'Tis not a Pomum Magnus-centric solar system, nay universe? Heretic! Death by New Jersey!

So, when the big quake hit this week, everyone on the eastern seaboard ducked and covered like good little 4th graders in a school drill. Except New Yorkers, who were like, meh. That wasn't an earthquake. I barely felt it. Too cool for school. BUT then, the Leno-ite, west coasters were like, oh MY GOD. The media is like totally freakin' out over like the smallest earthquake EVAH. Then, the New York Times ran a blog about how mean spirited the west coasters were. How they diminished the New Yorkers' tragedy of a the earthquake of the millenium. (What?!? It IS the first earthquake of the milennium. Or, rather, the ONLY.) Which left the valley girls sputtering, bbbbut? Like, nobody was hurt, and like your Louis Vuitton is like still ok. And Bloomingdales' only lost like a couple of things off the shelves, and like....WAIT A SECOND! What the hell did we do wrong?

True that, valley girls. Everything in New York is IMPORTANT. It AFFECTS things. Never you mind about Northridge, or Oakland, or that quaint little trading outpost you had up north that burned to the ground 100 years ago. That San? Something? I think it's famous for bread and poor people jeans, and NOT EVERYTHING ELSE, like New York.

THEN, as if God was heaping disaster upon catastrophe, and punishing the Jews and Homosexuals, he sent a tropical storm up the coast. New Yorkers, taken aback, were aghast that a natural disaster normally reserved for the mouth breathers of the Gulf South and the hilbillies of the South East was headed their way. How could THIS happen?

Everyone from the Weather Channel bimbos to the President of the United States was sounding the alarm about HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE. Evacuate Manhattan! Close the subways! Save the Guggenheim! Tell your nannies to hide the children! Preserve Wall Street! Use the New Jersey trash islands to fortify the city! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

They (and by they, I mean the liberal media) want us to know that the center of the world is in danger, because that's the only way they can get the entire western civilization to pay attention to New York all at once (unless they could arrange a Mets-Yankees World Series, and I suspect Fox Sports is working on this as we speak), and New Yorkers love that. They bask in it like the warm sun glancing off a yellow cab. But, of course, New Yorkers are blase and un-ruffle-able, so they have martini parties and catered hurricane shindigs, just to prove that they are too resilient to fear THE STORM OF THE CENTURY.

Now, the next time a Katrina barrels up the Mississippi River and an entire city is nearly wiped off the map, we'll have to hear all the people up in the Big Apple say, "hurricane? Pshaw. We've been through that. It's no big deal. We had a HISTORIC hurricane here in '11 and I weathered it with lobstah and Grey Goose. What's wrong with that New Or-lee-ans? They lack New York fortitude."

So, New-York centric media and the good citizens of Metropolis, I say this: stop blowin' crap outta proportion. You lose your authority. You're like parents who yell at their kids all the time and then when you REALLY need them to listen, they don't care. Do not hit the panic button until it is time to do so. I do not want to see anymore pictures of urban dwellers in the rain without power. There is tragedy, out there, people. Rain ain't it.

Is it hot in here or is it me?

I'm hot. Not in the good, twenty-something-actress-of-the-moment-way, but oven hot. As in temperature.

I've been hot for over a week now, and it's only June.

Hot started in earnest the night before we left for vacation when I went upstairs to put the kids to bed. Since it's summer, we hadn't done the pre-bedtime ritual of bath and tooth brushing (cavities only happen during the school year, and besides, S only has baby teeth.)
Somewhere around the third-to-last step, it hit us. A wall of heat. Literally. Seriously, I do not exaggerate. Downstairs--pleasant 74. Upstairs--Hell.

92. That is not a civilized temperature for outside, much less my bedroom. Gross. I like sliding into cool sheets, not being suffocated by them. UNHOLY.
So, that last night before vacation, I waited until everyone else was tucked into their deathbeds, then I slunk downstairs into the guest bed. Sleep, thy name is coolness.
Departure day, and the upstairs temp had downgraded from Hell, Level 7 to Hell, Level 5. Only 83 upstairs. We trundled out to the car, and left everything in our bedrooms to roast.

On the plane(s) to Phoenix, we froze to death. The pilots up in their triple locked, windshielded cockpit had no idea that all of the passengers had turned into ice blocks. Maybe the flight attendants control the thermostat and think we'll be more complacent if they threaten us with climate agony. Once out of the tin ice box, though, we claimed our bags and stepped out into the early morning 90s of Phoenix.

But it's a dry heat.

Phoenix, presumably named for the mythical bird emerging from the desolation of the Sonora, is really a misnomer. The city should be named for raisins or prunes. One step into the sun, and you can feel yourself begin to evaporate. Imperceptibly, at first, but then, surely, your feet begin to adhere to the slightly softened asphalt while the rest of you is slowly inducted into the atmosphere. Your skin, never dampened by persperation, fails to cool. It's as though your face is doing that thing from Indiana Jones when the Nazis watched the Ark open. Eyeballs, parched, melting from your skull. And it's only June.

My sister, because she and her husband are a) economical and b) environmentally conscious and c) inured to the searing temps of the desert, have their thermostat set to 80 inside. While 80 is no great comfort, it is still TWENTY full degrees cooler in their house than outside it. Holy hell, Batman.

At night, though, even when I snuck out and turned the thermostat down to 78, it was still hot. I've been told that I radiate heat like a biscuit at night anyway, and in a guest bedroom, wearing pjs (can't go nude in some one else's house) in a queen sized bed (I'm used to the spacious, don't have to touch each other Tempurpedic King) with flannel sheets (is my sister sadistic?) we were like little sausages on a grill.

In Arizona, like in Alabama, businesses seem to think a cool interior will lure customers in. But, they OVERcool, so that an hour in a restaurant is decidedly uncomfortable at 65 degrees. Which, in my opinion, freaks out the body's internal calibration and makes the heat worse. Also, nothing makes you feel quite so stupid as carrying a sweatshirt around in 100+ temps, on the off chance that a lunch break is going to plunge you into Arctic cold.

So, like every other Phoenician, we dashed from our car (bun burning leather seats!) to the indoors (icehouse!) to the pool (comfort!) and back again. After a week of that, we hopped BACK onto freezing tin cans, flew back home to the swelter of Mobile in June.

Phoenix vs Mobile, is like the dry sauna and the steam room--you have to pick your pain. A week in Phoenix, my skin was all dry and flaky like the lizards who live there. Back in Mobile, it's like rehydrating a sun-dried tomato. I'm all water-retainy and puffy. But my skin is happy. It's a soggy melt here. Rather than shriveled and sere, we are more gooey and wilty like a candy bar in the sun. Home, where the humidity levels numbers are alarming, we slept for 2 nights in the steam rooms. Even poor Clooney who could sleep through anything, was restless and panting. He eyed us with accusation: "I thought you humans had this climate control thing in hand. What is this crap? What am, some wild animal?" We tossed and turned, and slept poorly.

But, this morning, an angel came to the door wearing coveralls and an Alabama hat. His visage glowed from the warped heat waves radiating from the blacktop. (At his 9 AM arrival, the temp was 89 already!) He strode in with confidence, tinkered, adjusted something I don't know about, and promised that in a few hours, our upstairs would be a civilized 76. All I had to do was write the check.

And in this heat, there's no way that check could have the energy to bounce.

They're BAAAAACK

Like the swallows to Capistrano, our swallows have returned to our chimney. Actually, I found out they're swifts, not swallows. A subtle difference probably only noticed by swallows, swifts, and REALLY observant bird watchers. This is a chimney swift:

And this is a swallow:

(Don't those swallows look a little pissed about being mistaken for swifts?!)
So, I was supposed to call the chimney sweep last year after the swallows left their nest and headed on their migratory route to Peru. But, you know what often slips your mind in the day to day chaos of life?
Calling the chimney sweep.
To be fair, if I were, say Mary Poppins, or a Dickensian waif, or maybe even some kind of post-industrial revolution activist, calling the chimney sweep would have been MUCH higher on the list. But when the birds aren't ACTUALLY in the chimney chirping their heads off, it's easy to forget that they'll return. Last week, the mother bird, who apparently is a very clumsy nest builder, (appropriately, she found OUR house) fell down the chimney three times. Yes. Three times. Three times, my kids and/or husband came to me and said, "there's a bird in the house. Go get it."

By the time I get to the bird, it has 1) fallen down a chimney 2) landed in a foreign place where windows masquerade as exits 3) been stared at by small, noisy people and 4) been sniffed by a dog, which probably in bird instinct seems a lot being inspected for dinner. (Fortunately, Cat has not been in the house for these incidents.) The little bird is shaking and when I pick it up, its little heart is on the brink of exploding. I take it outside (check for Cat) and wait for the little critter to emotionally regroup and fly off.
When drunk mama bird finally gets her nest built, she'll lay eggs and then we'll have squawking babies in the chimney. They are so loud, it's like having a chorus of pissed off squeak toys in your chimney. At dusk and dawn when mama feeds them, they flutter and compete for her food. It strongly resembles the chaos on our side of the chimney with yelling and competition for attention.

Which prompts me to hope WE don't disturb the birdies: can't you just see mama bird rolling her eyes? "JESUS, people. I just got these noisy whelps down for a nap and you're down there in the middle of the day raising all kinds of hell. Help a mama out and shut it!" So, when mama fell down the chimney for the final time, I called the chimney sweep. Who is coming today. I'll probably be disappointed when it's a two-toother from the country instead of Dick Van Dyke, but whatevs. BUT here's the real problem. While "researching" for this blog, I came across this:

Chimney Swifts are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1916. Nests, eggs and birds cannot be removed from chimneys. However, if you see them around your chimney, be sure to close the damper to prevent them from entering your house.Chimney Swifts are fascinating and extremely beneficial birds, even though their sounds are not music to everyone's ears. Two parents and their noisy young will consume more than 12,000 flying insect pests every day. Unfortunately their numbers are in decline due to loss of habitat-first large hollow trees, and now open and large masonry chimneys.

I suspect that the Alabamian two toother is probably pretty soft on the enforcement of the 1916 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, but this leaves me with a bit of a moral dilemma, no?
The moral dilemma has an element of karma thrown in there, too: if I evict drunk mama and her family, will I be attacked by 12,000 more mosquitoes every time I go out to the pool? But, crap. The guy is probably on his way! What to do?! What to do?!? Do I sit and listen to screaming birds for the entire rest of the summer? Do I oust a threatened and beneficial migratory bird species? ACK! I can't take the pressure. I think I should just close the flue and hope for the best. I'm setting up a poll. Vote on the birds' fate. This will have the ancillary benefit of seeing just HOW many readers I've lost since my hiatus.

Lack of Cinnamon due to Ensuing Apocalypse: Film at 11

Among the things--Angry Birds, Smartphones, porn--that have killed productivity, I think Facebook is the worst for me. For one thing, I feel that people are pretty thoroughly updated on my life if they stop by my wall. There are photos, anecdotes, my usual whines; probably more than they wanted to know about me anyway. This has yielded my blog redundant for some people, I think. Also, after crafting witty and pithy status updates, my creativity is pretty sapped for the day. There's not much amusing fuel left in the old tank. And, Freud would be happy to know that a whole lot of my creativity is sublimated into exercise. Yes, that whopping 33 minutes per day of running sucks the impulse to share my witticisms with the 18 people who follow my blog right outta me. So. There it is. The pathetic list of excuses why there has been no Cinnamon for 5 weeks. Also, there was vacation, illness, the saga of Michael's dentistry, parent visits, kid birthdays, TBall, and assorted other crap to fill every moment of my life. One friend responded brilliantly when I told him that kids suck the life force out of us--"the life force is long gone, their just sucking out the marrow of the bones now." True dat. Incidentally, a little earthquake hit Japan while I was on hiatus. While all kinds of people have made insensitive and cruel remarks about this tragedy, I have been completely rapt with the photos, images and personal stories from the events. I am impressed with the Japanese spirit of resiliance and discipline and patience. I admire their preparedness for tragedy, and their dignity in the face of the Worst Case Scenario. No riots, no looting. No distressing images of the worst of human nature. I have found more images of people clutching beloved pets, holding one another, supporting each other in grief than from any other event I can recall. Which is partly why I find American response to the tragedy doubly offensive. Aside from the people making mass runs for anti-radiation drugs, and horrendously inappropriate comments about nuclear disaster, and scoffing at the need for foreign aid because Japan is such a wealthy country, I find the "This Tragedy Across The Pacific Is All About Me" attitude both typical and disappointing. So, I was not surprised by the CNN headline announcing that survival shelter sales have increased by as much as 1000% in the U.S.. First, I am surprised there are survival shelter sales in the U.S. Second, if Survival Shelter sales were as much as 1 in the last decade, then the sale of one this year probably skews statistics. Third, is the Japanese disaster really mentioned in the Mayan End of Days? Fourth, if the Mayan End of Days is really this accurate, then screw the diet, I'm going out drunk, fat and happy. Just to make sure I cite my sources, the CNN article can be found at CNNMoney.com: http://money.cnn.com/2011/03/22/real_estate/doomsday_bunkers/index.htm First, people are putting up to a $5000 down payment for their own personal survival bunker for the Mayan End of Days. People: End of Days is End o' Days. The condor gods or quetzl-I'd Like to Buy a Vowel Gods aren't going to spare you just because you had the foresight to buy a shelter! Your non-believing, non Mayan, small-pox bringing ancestors sealed your doom a long time ago. Second, if you don't feel like you can pony up the cold, hard cash for your own personal survival bunker, then you can reserve a spot in regional superbunkers. These facilities house just shy of 1000 people and you all live under ground together until the End of Days alarm turns off. These are my FAVORITE people in the story. Have they not seen the brilliant Brendan Fraser work, Blast From the Past? Brendan and his parents seek refuge in their shelter after a bomb scare, spend decades under there, and eventually inadvertently re-release him into the wilds of present day Los Angeles. Hilarity ensues. People are signing up to move underground with as many as 899 strangers?!? It's like the cruise from/to Hell. Trapped until the end of the End of Days with fellow nutjobs all crazy enough to pony up money to live in a shelter? How would peace be enforced? How would some one not lose sanity and start offing his fellow bunkermates? How BADLY do they want to survive the End of Days? I'm just saying, that if I'm going out in a blaze of Quetzl Apocolypse, I want to go out with my friends, those people who decided that they would rather weather the worse with me, than survive in a hole with strangers. Even IF it is a luxurious hole: "The company’s reservations, which require a $5,000 fee, spiked 1,000 percent in the week following the Japan earthquake and nuclear disaster. Vivos’ doomsday bunker under construction in Nebraska is bigger than a Walmart at 137,000 square feet. Built to withstand a 50 megaton nuclear blast, it will accommodate 950 people in apocalyptic luxury for up to a year. It will offer suites on four levels, plus a medical and dental center, kitchens, a fully-stocked wine cellar, pool tables, computer room, pet kennels and a jail. A hardened lookout tower 350 feet high will provide a panoramic view of the ravaged landscape, and tight security will prevent radioactive mutant zombies from getting inside." Phew. I just HATE when the radioactive mutant zombies get in. Finally, I leave you with this one little thought about All of this Apocalpyse. I mean sure, the islands of Japan actually moved 12 FEET after this quake, and the Earth's rotation changed because of the force of the energy released, and sure, there's all this war in the Mid-East, and starvation in Africa and Asia, and moral decay in the U.S., but I'm not ready to prepare for the end just yet. There's still a margin of error. Even if some of us are reluctant to admit it: "The company’s website features a countdown with the days, hours, minutes and seconds to Dec. 21, 2012. But that date may be a false alarm." MAY BE. Just maybe.

Exercise for the body and mind

Yah. I hear ya. Send all complaints in the form of compliments, and I might respond. If you have no complaints, you're not human.

So, it's been a while. Like 3 weeks. I know. I've been sublimating all of my creative energy into working out. It sounds stupid, but it's not. I have to get up and force my body to do one thing each day...type and be funny OR run like there's a mean dude chasin' me. Lately, the latter.

If only blogging burned more calories. I need jlogging...a healthful combination of blogging and jogging. Can you imagine how fiercely slim I would be if I burned calories being bitchy? Holy cow.

So, in the vein of burning calories, CC invited me to a Pilates class at her studio. CC was actually taking the class as well. But the thing is, CC doesn't understand the TREMENDOUS pressure (for some one like me) involved in going out to exercise.

First, there is the outfit. Flattering. (There goes half the closet) Exercise sensible (There goes 49.5% more). Fortunately, my very supportive Valentine bought me workout clothes for the upcoming chocolate fest of a holiday. So, outfit in place.

Hair? Certainly no washing, but it can't look bedraggled. There will be SPRING HILL MOMS THERE! Low pony with headband.

Face? Nice washing and waterproof mascara. I don't want the tears to leave pathetic black smears down my cheeks.

There are people there, man. They might be watching me. I might fart with exertion. I might fall over while standing. I might cry a little. ALL KINDS OF THINGS CAN GO WRONG.

In all, of course, the class was challenging and invigorating and positive, especially since I have been working so hard at home. I could tell a HUGE difference since last summer when I took my first class, and that is after just about a month of work.

Back to CC, though. It's not that she doesn't understand the pressure, it's just that she doesn't relate. So, in order to help my dear friend understand the mental stamina involved in heading to a pilates class in public, I create the following scenario:

Imagine I have invited you to a convention of crossword puzzle afficianados. Now, imagine ALL of them have a New York Times Saturday puzzle in front of them. They all do the puzzle regularly, so they already know words like ORT and RIV and all the other obscure crossword-only words.
Now, they give YOU the puzzle.
And ask you to solve it.
In front of everyone.
In a fat suit.

Which is exactly what going to Pilates class is like. It was good for me. I'm better off for having gone. But for a while, there, I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide, like a nine letter North American Dasypodidae.

Internet, cable, phone...and a quickie?

Thank the good lord, it's over.

No, not winter, not some horrible disease, not my diet nor my diet-related sobriety. No, what is over is trivial, luxurious, and a technological product of this century:

Cable installation is complete.

Why, you may ask, was getting cable installed so difficult?

Apparently, this house was built by blind carpenters with dyslexic electricians and designed by an architect who feared that phone and cable jacks might cost thousands, nay, millions of dollars to install. Therefore, we have no cable jack in the office and no phone jack in the family room.

Thus, the computers (per the ignoramus who did day 1 of installation) had to be on a wireless network. Which meant that they approached the neck breaking speed of the Internet in 1997. Honestly, I tried to post yesterday, but the page took so long to load, I forgot what I was going to say.

So, Installer 1, after being no less than 2 hours later than the 3 hour window he was scheduled for (I'll do the math for ya, that's 5 hours of my waiting) shows up and does a half-assed job. He assured us that local hi-def is a futuristic dream, and that the on-screen guide will never advance more than 30 minutes ahead of the current time. The phone jacks are not activated, and he explained that we have to have our phone in the kitchen attached to world's biggest modem whence the faintest of Internet wireless connections emits.

By the time that wireless signal migrated through the walls of my living room and dining room and office, it was as though the Internet was being delivered via camel across the Sahara. Needless to say, M was IRATE.

IRATE called Comcast and spoke to Carla. While I saw that IRATE was curbing his emotion and being pretty calm by IRATE standards, Carla is probably now in work-sponsored PTSD therapy. "Carla, it's just that you, and by you I mean Comcast, not you personally, LIED TO ME!" "Carla, it's just that DirecTV offered these services while you were still an infant and Comcast still doesn't offer them." "No, Carla watching a game in standard definition is like being trapped in the 1980s. I absolutely will NOT do that."

Carla must have flagged our file with every known warning and alert signal: red flags, sirens, klaxons. Wednesday, a nice enough and seemingly competent guy showed up at the house a mere 2 hours late. He assured me that the Internet should be blazing fast and that the TV guide should advance into the future, and that the Brigadoon of hi-def local channels does exist.

I was very excited until he told me that he was a supervisor and that he couldn't actually complete the necessary adjustments. He scheduled a technician appointment window of 4 to 7 PM. Which is fine, because then that guy would get to deal with IRATE himself. Which is good, because it always seems like women are home during these service calls and not able to convince these guys that either a) we know what we're talking about or b) there will be consequence to doing inferior work.

At 6, in the middle of dinner, 2 MORE technicians show up and proceed to actually fulfill the promise of functioning cable-fed media access. It was glorious. The Internet access, while not blazing fast (because we are sharing the router) is indeed peppy, the phone service seems to function, and the television, while not providing all of the hi-def visual orgy that we had anticipated, is slightly above adequate.

Throughout this hellacious experience, my mind kept wandering back to a conversation I had with a painter many moons ago. You'll wonder, when I tell you about this chat, how exactly the topic came up, but it's not what you think.

We were mutually complaining about the vapid existence of the Springhill Women. Their superficiality, their extreme bitchiness toward lesser beings, their unreasonable expectation of being treated as The Only Customer In The World. It's not like we were spooning or anything.

He said that I would not believe the number of Springhill (and other) women who come onto him and people he knows while they were working in their homes. Like, as in aggressive, cougarish, blatantly sexual advances.

Which stunned me. Not because I don't think that Springhill women are normally drunk by 9 AM, lonely, and simultaneously repressed and horny as hell, but because their targets seem so, well, inadequate.

Why would a woman want to throw herself at a man barely capable of doing his job?!? I mean, I'm lookin' at these cable dudes, and thinking, if I could get them to change the oil in my car, that'd be something, but I'm sure I'd not want them up under my hood, if ya know what I mean. The confused look on their faces when confronted by wires of different colors and the total bafflement of getting a phone to ring and the miles and miles of butt crack makes for a far FAR freakin' jump to the ol' sack.

Plus, the total unreliability. Not to be vulgar, but they never come when they're supposed to! Which is why those Springhillian femmes are so uptight in the first place--they have husbands with the same problem. Plus, the technicians need to do everything by committee. At the onset of confusion, which in my last 2 days' experience has been very rapid, they hop on that push to talk Nextel crap and ask for help. Does THAT inspire bedroom confidence? "Um, Joe? I got a problem here. Ima lookin' at a box and UH, I dunno whichaway to install it."

In short, I am amazed that the painter and his home service industry cohorts are in such high demand for extra-marital affairs. It seems that they embody the worst aspects of the worst husbands: they don't care about what you want, they want to do everything in the easiest way possible for them, they want to finish up quick and head home for beer.

I am amazed, too, that these high-falutin' women really do go for the tattooed, cigarette smokin', beer reekin', butt-crack havin' home service technicians. They must really have it bad at home. No wonder they're stoned and walking down the middle of Old Shell Road in their matching outfits. They're commiserating about what a lousy lay the plumber was.

Puns and Buns: coping with (non) weight loss

Bathroom scales are like 2 AM phone calls: they are either the wrong number or very very bad news. (TM)

Don't even think of stealing this little Ben Franklin-esque nugget! I've trademarked it, see?!? I plan on plastering it on decorative tiles, coffee mugs, key rings, and other tchatchkes, so that while I may never be thin, I can at least make money to console me.

It'll be sold right next to the current popular axiom, "Friends are like bras: close to your heart and very supportive." (I happen to prefer mine.)

So, if you're wondering if my pithy little truth springs from actual experience, the answer is, yes.

I hopped on the scale this morning, feeling less bloaty and a little leaner. Damn scale put all that to a screeching halt. This is very disappointing to me, considering that I have been exercising regularly, and have improved on the calorie intake front.

The first person who jumps on down to the comment section and posts that muscle weighs more than fat will be personally macheted to death. I don't care if muscle is a lead weight. I used to have muscle AND weigh less than this, and I'm pissed about it. I have gone from forlorn to out and out mad.

At the risk of having my children removed from my home by DFS, I will post yesterday's food journal:

Breakfast: snack sized protein bar, coffee w/ skim milk

Lunch: Bratwurst, sauerkraut, diet coke, coffee w/ skim milk

Dinner: 2 bourbon and Coke Zeros, 1/2 bag of lite popcorn

Exercise: 2 mi. jog

(We went out to lunch, Osman's Midtown yum! So we weren't hungry for dinner.) Don't you think that after that day's worth of food, I should be thinner, or at least not so freaking mad?!?

Doesn't my scale understand that throwing me a little bone would go a long way in psychological terms?!? Would it hurt the little effer to just knock a half pound off the total now and then?!? Just once in a while?!?

M, if not the scale, is supportive: he'll tell me the weight has at least left my third chin, or that my upper arms are less swingy. These are the little tidbits I live for--a glimmer of hope among the Oreos and sweet tea vodkas.

You don't care that they're laughing...

So, in mid-September, you may remember I wrote about the idiocy involved in fouling up my knee cap. Which, by the way, is still not 100%, but apparently I was misled by the whole 40 is the new 30 crap, so I should never expect to be 100% again.
I have decided to begin "exercising" again. Yes, I DO know how scare quotes work, but in this case, they are clearly needed. Exercising up to this point has meant going for a walk. It's a brisk walk, and 45 minutes long, but still. It's walking.

People have been doing it for tens of thousands of years. It's not a sport: no crowds fans behind ropes cheering (verrry slooooooooooowly) for their favorite walker. Jersey sales for the walker league are next to nil. Nobody wants the #8 trading card of the 2000 walking season champ. So what I'm saying is, I have resumed doing what every person in Manhattan does every day for a living.

YAY ME!

The thing is, it takes up too much of my day. Stop laughing. For real. I have important stuff to do: pick up my house, put away laundry, iron, errands, blog, drink.
That 45 minutes is a big chunk. So, I've decided what I need to do is cover the same distance, only faster. You know what they call that? Running.
Homey don't play dat.

The many, varied reasons why I do not run:
1. It hurts
2. I look like Phoebe from friends (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_0Ta_DIWuU&NR=1 ) copyright? What copyright? Thanks, NBC.
3. It hurts
4. I might fall and hurt myself
5. It makes my nose run
6. My unusual running style (see #2) means that my armpit rubs up against my sports bra and causes chafing.

BUT, I do have a treadmill, which we have had since Ethan was born. It has been used sporadically, (but during those intermittent exercise jags, I do use it regularly) which is surprising because of its readiness to use as a dry cleaning rack.

So, on my treadmill, the Phoebe style doesn't matter because there's no one to see. I can run with a soft cloth tucked into my sports bra to protect my delicate underarms, I keep a box of tissue in the cupholder, and while falling is not out of the question, the odds are reduced.

Unfortunately, I STILL cannot run. The kneecap does not abide. But I can walk a heckuvalot faster on the treadmill. So, two days ago, amidst the pouring rain, I decide to hop on that sucker. No more uneven sidewalks, rogue dogs and sprinklers for me! I'm exercising in comfort, if one can call it that.

But, it's been a while since I had my last exercise jag. The treadmill is in the playroom, so I have to unearth it. Much like a paleontological project, I can see how long it's been since my exercise regimen went extinct by the layers of crap that are on top of the treadmill:

Pool noodles (August)
S's 4K graduation certificate (May)
E's Santa hat from last year's school play (December, '09)
...it's been a while.

I put on my ipod, and press "start" and that baby hums to life. But as the belt loops around at a neck-snapping 2 miles per hour, dust flies up. Like primordial layer of actual measurable thickness kind of dust. I'm walking exceptionally slowly and sneezing. Are those FOOTPRINTS in the dust?!?

THIS is not what I had in mind.

I pause, get the dust rag out, wipe it all down and start again. I finally get the hang of it. Armpit insulators are working well, tissues staunching the snot. Everything's going just right.

In the end, I finish my 3 miles in under 40 minutes. I snap a pic of the display screen and email to CC. I know my personality, and I know that after that fiasco, I need a cheerleader.

CC promptly calls and says, all flattery and encouragement, "I can't be seeing this right! You are smokin' fast!"

I don't care that she's just being nice. I don't care that there are 100 year old tortoises who could move faster. I don't care that CC herself probably ran 8 miles in that time, in the rain, uphill both ways, that very morning. I don't care because she is my cheerleader and I need that.

Every Phoebe needs her Rachel.

Crazy like a fox

I took Clooney to the vet yesterday. He's been licking and chewing at his skin for weeks now, and it's to the point that he's driven to distraction by itching.

I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.

I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.

A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.

In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."

We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.

I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?

Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.

After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.

But then. The Itch.

Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?

OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.

Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.

I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.

AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.

Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.

So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.

OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?

In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.

Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.

If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.

Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?

An Open Letter

Dear Jerk,

Lemme tell you a few things that are on my mind right now:

1. If you are going to insist on stealing a credit card number, go ahead and don't take mine.

2. Once you have stolen a credit card number, don't be a total douche and spend $700 at FOOTLOCKER in MILAN. Really? In all of Milan, you couldn't find a better place to buy shoes? Milan, buddy. Headquarters of shoes coveted by everyone everywhere and you went to Footlocker. Christ, some half-wit in Jersey could steal a credit card and go to Footlocker. I really expected better fashion sense from an Italian.

3. Also, next time, could you steal my card on a Monday or Tuesday? That would give the company a few business days to send me a new card. Stealing a card on a Thursday afternoon really louses up my whole weekend.

4. Seriously. Footlocker?

5. Really, your timing sucked. I got my iphone last week. And I got the crappy data plan with it. So, I went and got a router so that I could have wi-fi in the house. M was crazy busy last week, so he didn't hook it up until Saturday morning. Which meant that by the time I FINALLY had my router, I had no credit card to buy new apps. Which annoys me beyond reason.

6. I think that as punishment for stealing the credit card number, YOU should have to go to all of our autopay sites and update them with the new credit card information when we get it. Seriously. It's annoying. And I just know that we'll think we've got them all done, and then a PAST DUE notice will come and we'll realize we totally forgot to update something important, like the water bill, and then I'll have soapy hair and be stuck in a dry shower, and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT.

7. Maybe, if you need sneakers or trainersor whatever they call them in Italy, so badly, you could get a job at Footlocker. For real, right? They hire just about anybody. And you clearly have some computer knowledge as you managed to intercept my credit card number. Go ahead and get a job, ok?

8. Finally, and I say this sincerely: if I were to find out who you are, I would send the angry hoard of Capital One vikings out to avenge me. And then you had better hope that the sneakers you STOLE help you run fast, because those guys will show no mercy.

Sincerely,
Julie P.

OOOH. It's NEW. And SHINY

Remember when you were a kid, and you saw something advertised on TV only to find that it was a total piece o' crap when you actually held it in your hands?

The Easy Bake Oven comes to mind in this category. Many many jokes have been made about baking food with a light bulb. The fact that it continues to sell like its own proverbial lukewarm cakes is a testament to the gullibility of children. Lite Brite glows dimly second.

Sometimes, though, something came across your childhood radar that was just as cool as you hoped. Something that touched your childhood in a way that transcends commercialism and advertising. The rare tangible object that really brought happiness. The closest I can get is really the Barbie Dream House. I really Barbie'd it up in my day and didn't really covet much else than that.

Recently, as an adult, I have been lucky enough to ride the roller coaster of material joy. One word: iphone. OOOH. It is just as cool as it looks on TV. I wish we had wifi at home, though. I don't get to make facetime calls without the wifi. And since I bought the smaller data package, I have to figure out how to purchase apps using wifi only. But I'm getting it. And the organizational features are excellent. The potential glimmers like El Dorado.

On the other hand, and on a smaller scale, I have been waiting for the entire summer (which, in terms of TV seasons, is getting longer and longer) to wait for the return of my beloved Bones. I know, I'm an adult. I shouldn't anticipate the fall return of my TV shows. But I DO. And it's not a BIG thing or anything. I just have my little infatuation and crush, and Oh, forget it. Just leave me alone.

I didn't get to watch Bones during its premiere on Thursday night (can I point out that Thursday is overly populated with nearly every good show on TV, while the rest of the week languishes in crap?) But as soon as a solid hour of time with my honey, my DVR, and my snack foods was liberated, I sat front and center on the couch.

Meh. Not even I, with my little fan-adoration could stop from snickering at forced lines or eyerolling at a far fetched plot line. Really?!? After the whole summer, this is what I waited for? How I Met Your Mother came back pretty strong. Modern Family posted a robust effort. Even Community dragged Betty White out for a quick gulp of her own urine. Even though they boarded the Betty White wagon a little late and in forced fashion, they at least TRIED!

Bones? Even with the magic of TV, they couldn't manage to make the group stay apart for a year? How is it that this hyper-educated Scooby Gang controls the goings on of the FBI and the thinly disguised Smithsonian? How can a scientist, though lacking social skills, be wearing a magenta bra and Monday panties in the middle of a third world jungle? What the hell was going on?

How could something I wanted so badly be so flimsy?

The only thing I took away from my Sunday night TV watching was an impulse for a new haircut.

**By the by, if you've missed me, blame my parents. I can't blog and hang with the fam at the same time**

Swagger Wagon: Part Deux

As much as I love the Toyota Sienna ads, I have come to loathe the new Chrysler ad. In this spot run during football, a kid is running away from bullies, takes refuge through the liftgate of the family minivan, and gives his pursuers a big raspberry as his mom pulls away from the driveway. BUT, in the middle, the narrator has to explain the new safety features of the vehicle, which include back up sensors (as mom is backing up, she nearly runs over the bullies, but thank goodness, there's back up sensors to let her know the boys are behind her) and a rear view camera (as mom is backing up, she nearly backs into traffic on her street, but thank goodness, she had a camera to let her see so she could slam on the brakes just in time).

Okay, let's start with the basics. Before she got out of the driveway, mom nearly killed three neighborhood kids, herself, and her own child. Maybe mom shouldn't be in the carpool anymore. Apparently, before dad bought her the new Chrysler, every trip to the orthodontist was about as safe as a WWII sortie into France.

Second, whatever did we do before our cars told us we were about to hit stuff? Oh, yeah. We looked behind us.

Third, why would any advertising executive decide to green light this ad? This ad is selling a multi-passenger mini van with a one-child family. This ad is selling a vehicle based solely on its unnecessary safety features. Using a mom who CLEARLY needs them. I don't think of myself as a menace to traffic and local bullies! I don't need a car that protects me from myself! Why would I need a car with safety features for geriatric blind people?

Chrysler has tapped into the ubiquitous national neurosis of fear. Everything out there is trying to hurt us and our children: cars, inoculations, plastic, Latinos, moms in reverse. Chrysler's not interested in swagger, it's interested in taking us out into the world and back safely home with out being eaten by vampires, killed by UVA/B rays, or maimed by playground equipment. I am afraid of enough crap. Lemme drive my gas-guzzling family vehicle around in style, dammit.

This ad embodies every reason I DON'T want a minivan. It's conservative. It's too big for a regular family. It's stodgy. It's going to bitch at me every time I put it in reverse. Its creators are appealing to my husband who deep down thinks I'm not a good driver. Screw that.

In researching today's segment, (read: googling Chrysler minivan) I found this article that ran this summer in the Chicago Tribune http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2010-06-30/news/ct-edit-minivan-20100630-29_1_minivan-suvs-hood-scoop

Yes, in nutshell, yes! First of all, I like this article, because it verifies what we all know deep down inside: girls like cute cars, boys like manly cars. Sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason. But what I appreciate about this article, is that sometimes (even) Americans will break down and act in a practical fashion. Even if our practicality stems from cupholders big enough to hold McD's french fries so we can stuff our faces on the road. But while we're breaking down and being sensible, we don't want to have every impulse towards coolness stomped on like a juice pouch. And, oh Chrysler, you are stomping my Capri Sun.


I KNOW what to do when my vehicle is in reverse: look behind me. Do not run over children (no matter how obnoxious). Do not back into oncoming traffic.

I want style. I want to think that those hot (read: young) guys are looking at me, not at the diaper bag I distractedly left on the roof. I've got SWAGGER. My family is cool, and I want a minivan because I've got 2 kids, and we're out DOING stuff, and we've got cool places to go, and that's how we ROLL.

We are not the people that hide from bullies in the trunk of the family car.

All of this being said, of course, I'll probably be in a car wreck this week. It'll be my fault. It'll involve bullies and reverse, and y'all will see me driving my stodgy Chrysler the week after that.

What's your style?

I don't venture into this territory often, but it seems to have come up a lot in conversation lately. When you start reading this, you're gonna be like, what the hell conversations have you been in lately?!? I'm thinking this might be a poll, which I haven't had in a long time, either and that's fun. Finally, I know my parents read this. And worse, M's family reads this. So, ew. Anyway.

I was watching Wanda Sykes' HBO special, which by the way, I LOVED. She does a shtick where she describes a trip to a day spa. And the cosmetologist gives her a bikini wax. And Wanda describes in great detail the process of the bikini wax, and how the pain was so intense as the woman ripped off the paper, she reflexively smacked her hard.
So, this gets me thinking. I've never had a professional bikini wax. Odd? True. Not to say that I don't think personal grooming is important, just can't imagine a stranger ripping out my pubic hair.
Then, on HBO's Entourage (perhaps HBO is a bad influence), Turtle is attempting to hook up with a woman, sees that her nethers are shorn like a summer sheep and balks. At our house, the completely shorn nethers are known as a butterball, because of their similarity to a raw, plucked turkey. Turtle explains that he's familiar with the landing strip, and the Hitler, but not the butterball. Johnny Drama then informs us that the landing strip is SO 1990s. The butterball is now.
I am of two minds when it comes to crotchscaping: the 1970s porn afro is surely out. But, it's easy maintenance. The butterball requires daily upkeep with razor or frequent upkeep with wax. Ugh. Plus, there's always the possibility that the tacit message of the 1970s porn afro is, "look baby, if I don't have time to take groom myself, trust me, I don't have the effort for whatever you're after." Which sometimes, after packing lunches, running errands, cooking dinner, bathing kids, cleaning up dinner, all with a headcold/allergies/PMS is really the message you really want to be sending anyway, so it's convenient that the message requires no prep time.
Don't get me wrong. Before I had kids, I did the bikini wax thing. Not a professional one, as I mentioned earlier. I enlisted M's help. And in retrospect, I think that maybe the only thing worse than having a stranger rip out your pubic hair is having your husband do it. I would put on the wax, no problem. But, I, not being a masochist, couldn't bring myself to rip off the paper. M would stand behind me, grip the paper in each hand and RRRRRRRRRRIP. This is the ultimate relationship test. If you can allow your husband to inflict physical pain in your nethers and then invite him back for a social visit, then truly, you are meant to be.
But then, there's summer and swimsuit season. NOBODY, but NOBODY wants to see your razor burn, or the alternative. I, myself, take to the swimdress in part for this reason, but others feel compelled to trim for this outfit. Because, no matter the tropical atmosphere, dreadlocks are not appropriate.
In informal surveys of my friends, I have found the full spectrum of bodily coifs. From the hirsute to the follicly challenge, I've got them all. And it's not always who you'd think. Very upright, conservative friends have gone ahead with the full monty, and other single, (and I'm not judging here) loose women have cultivated a more natural landscape.
So, there's a poll here. Go ahead, spill the beans. It's anonymous.

Reality Bites

Every now and then, I venture out into the real world, the world beyond Alabama, and I think, "I can do this" I am just as chic and hip and cool as anyone in any other state, right?

I went through this crisis when we went to New York and so I took a last minute shopping spree and bought something that seemed fashionable, even in the Sex in the City world of Manhattan. In the end, I was not completely embarrassed by my less-than cosmopolitan living situation, and actually did okay, appearance-wise, in NYC. There were always people who either cared less, or were less self-conscious, or less able to make a last minute department store binge, and therefore waddled around the island in sneakers, rear-wedgie shorts, and ill-fitting tanktops.
Now, here in Southern California, I am again reminded of my quest not to appear Alabamian. I remember once, when I was about 10, relatives visited us from the South. They wore these sweat suits and sneakers that were already SO OVER here, and I thought that everywhere else was just cosmically uncool. I carry with me this same vow now, and I packed as nicely as I could for our trip out here. But.

M and I went to the mall for a little time alone. I know, the mall, how lame. But.

There are all kinds of stores in the mall here that aren't in the glorious edifice known as the Bel Air mall in Mobile: Banana Republic, Nordstrom, Saks, Macy's, Apple Store, Microsoft store (Microsoft has a store?!), Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn, and the list goes on and on. So, I wanted to go check this out. We wandered through the stores, idly daydreaming about my alter-ego's fantastic wardrobe.

Nordstrom is having a sale. And when Nordstrom has a sale, it's like a SALE. Like manna from heaven. Like alchemy--ordinary cotton into extraordinary gold. The smell of Nordstrom, this ultra fresh, kinda chemical-y, ultra rich smell is unlike any other in the known universe. I LOVE IT.

M and I are casually walking around the department store. I massage fabrics far too expensive for me to buy, and other fabrics closer to my price range, but really unnecessary to my life, and I covet it all. Because every one needs metallic purple patent leather pumps, right?

Back off my metallic purple patent leather pumps.

As I was fondling a pair of Vera Wang ballet flats, I made a tactical error. I tried to scratch an itch on my left ankle with the top of my right. But, in my vast effort to wear cool shoes in California, my GIANT cork heeled, (but oh-so-fashionable) shoes, my left foot wobbled. And I started to fall.

But, of course when you lose balance, it always happens in slow motion. As I fell, I briefly thought that I could grasp the table upon which the Vera Wang ballet flats rested, and as that fell out of reach, I thought for sure I could brace myself into a solid crouch, and then as that failed, I was convinced that a low squat would surely break the momentum, and as low squat clearly failed, I resigned myself to my fate:

COMPLETELY supine, glasses and purse contents strewn across the shoe department. M, discreetly, trying to pull me up. Left butt cheek slightly bruised. Ego mutilated beyond rescue.

We left, deciding to return to our shopping after the witnesses finished shopping.

What's worse, is that we took refuge at PF Chang's. We pigged out, and adding insult to my bruised butt cheek injury, I busted the button on my pants.

*Shrug*

Clearly, it is time for my vacation to end and for me to skulk back to Alabama. It is time to leave the domain of the hip and the chic and return to the domain of the last-to-pick-up-trends and the unfashionable. I clearly don't belong here.

The first rule of Julie Club: Do NOT talk about Julie Club

My daydreams have developed notions of grandeur. While I used to fantasize about myself in a size 4 with breasts enhanced and perky with the silicone of youth, a handsome Samoan bringing me Mai Tais that I sip as the surf washes over me a la From Here to Eternity....I realize that fantasy is
Dead.

Now, I believe that even the paradise of Hawaii needs to be tweaked to suit my changing needs--needs that no longer prescribe my appearance, but more fundamental needs of serenity and contentment. So, here is the enhanced vision of Club Julie, a new kind of paradise. I present it to you, and when it comes to fruition (magic? Teleportation? Technology is moving very quickly), and if I like you, I will invite you to revel in the wonderfulness that it is.

First, no bikinis here. Everyone is clad in mumus. Practical, cool, flattering, and not demanding on the abdominal muscles. Second, since sun is damaging to the skin, Club Julie has a series of curving interconnecting, shaded walkways. These are frangranced with the natural aroma of indigenous flowers and enhanced with the sound of gentle waterfalls or surf. It's like an outdoor spa. Along the paths, you will encounter small clusters of chairs for visiting, and lone hammocks for reading or snoozing. If you do stop to rest, our cabana aides, not scantily clad muscle-bound oafs, but rather healthfully fit, sensitive young men will bring you a light sheet for cover and a pillow. They will offer you a choice of adult beverages, or if you prefer, fresh baked cookies and milk. As you doze, an aide will ever so gently push your hammock so that it feels as though you are resting in a faint silent breeze.
In fact, silence is a fundamental precept of Club Julie. During the day, near silence is observed so that every guest of paradise may have continuous thought without being interrupted. iPods are, of course, a welcome distraction. But the purpose of our muted tones is to permit women the luxury of uninterrupted concentration.
During the daytime hours, staff are available for all kinds of spa services and treatments. However, our staff are well-educated, interesting people, well versed in current affairs. When you register with us, a staff member will research your specific areas of interest, and be able to discuss anything you'd like, retrieve any materials you request for study, and act as facilitators to other guests who may be compatible with you and engage with you in meaningful, adult conversation.

Afternoon rain showers are scheduled at 2:30, our guests' most popular nap time, to allow them to snooze without the guilt of 'not taking advantage' of the ideal weather.

If you do wish to participate in outdoor activities, cushioned running trails, walking trails and bike paths wind through our native forests. The temperature is constant, and the humidity in the native forests is slightly reduced for your fitness comfort. We also have a special SPF filter so that sunblock is unnecessary.

The property is also populated with adorable puppies and kittens. If you choose to play with our fuzzy friends, they are available to you. They are lovingly cared for by our veterinary staff, and genetically engineered never to age. Perfect.

At 5 PM, the quiet mood of Club Julie becomes more social, as guests are invited to gather around the bar, eat delicious food (our menu does not include chicken nuggets, hot dogs, frozen foods of any kind, or food shaped as licensed charcters). The food is fresh and delicious and made to order. Rousing conversation, stimulating discussions and boisterous laughter are encouraged. While there is no closing hour, guests are encouraged to go to bed when they are tired--9 PM?

The rooms have luxurious linens, giant beds to be occupied by single person, washed daily in the natural rainfall, so as to be continually fresh with zero environmental impact--we want your stay to be guilt-free. Each free standing hut is simultaneously luxurious and spare--everything you require, without indulgence or opulence. Hand carved volcanic rock tubs are continually, naturally filled with hot natural spring water. Fresh mumus are delivered daily, and you will not accumulate any laundry to take home with you--if you ever wish to leave. In-room Kindle service assures you endless reading materials, and individual lanais with rocking chairs offer you breathtaking views and solitude.

MOM! How many more minutes? Can you come change the TV channel? MOM! He's in my room! Make him leave. I'm bored! MOM! Clooney took my LEGO! MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM

So, teleportation isn't here yet. I'm working on it. I bet you Club Julie would be the most popular resort in the world. I would live there. I wanna be there now.

Dear Pool Man,

I realize you are probably reading this on your laptop with wireless Internet while sipping margaritas by your pool. Is the glare off the screen harsh? Perhaps you should check the messages on your cell. I think my husband has left several. Hundred. Thousand.

Is the pool water refreshing? It was 97 degrees here yesterday. Very hot. Humid, too, especially for June. I imagine that by July, the heat will be nearly unbearable. Did your kids enjoy the pool? Do they have cool inflatable toys? I saw these hammocks that you can attach to the foam noodles and sit comfortably in the water. I notice some of them even have cupholders! That would be terrific, wouldn't it? Sipping margaritas in the pool!? Wow.

Having a pool REALLY is a luxury in this climate. And, sure, the maintenance is kind of a pain. But, being a pool man, you can probably zip through those chemical tests really quickly. I bet your pool water is sparkling clear. Unless you have a pool man, which would be funny. Although, I suspect you have time to tend to your marine refuge.

Yesterday, a friend invited us to their swim club for the day. The boys spent hours in the water, diving, splashing, playing like little otters. They really enjoyed the refreshing, cool oasis. We had a snack and everything. The pool club is very nice, although packing all the stuff is kind of a pain. What would be easier is to have a big bin with towels and sunblock and goggles and swim toys right by the pool. But, you probably have that at your house. For your kids.

I, too, have a bin right by the pool. I also have an over-sized umbrella and lounge chairs. I bought an outdoor fan with a mister, because the heat is really harsh in the backyard. We don't have any shade back there. But, fortunately, we haven't had to endure the harsh sun on the back pool deck yet this summer.

BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE A MOTHER #&(!*& POOL.

Do you know why we don't have a MOTHER *&(&^% pool yet?

Because YOU haven't finished your MOTHER (&@#(&^ job.

In March, you came by our house and measured the pool liner for a replacement. You've stopped by unpredictably and intermittently since then. We had the pool all full for about 8 hours, but the liner you installed was torn. And all the expensive water ran out of the pool bottom. Now, we have about 8 inches of water in the deep end. Sadly, that is not even enough water to cool poor, hot Clooney. Even if the water weren't all cloudy and disgusting.

If at all possible, could you please leave your poolside chaise lounge, take your adult Ritalin and get your self to my backyard? I would so appreciate having a pool sometime this summer. I mean, having to go outside in the middle of the icy night to make sure the filter was running so that water wouldn't freeze and rupture the whole pipe system was one way to enjoy the pool this past winter. But, right now, I'm feeling that an EVEN BETTER way to enjoy the pool would be to sip margaritas while floating blissfully around. I'm sure that you feel the same way about YOUR pool.

So, in conclusion, dear Pool Man, I am asking that when you get a chance, if you could, maybe, possibly, consider coming over and fixing my pool so that we could fill it up and swim in it, I would TOTALLY appreciate that.

Sincerely,
Julie

During Normal Business Hours

So, in other news, my washing machine broke. OF COURSE my washing machine broke. Because everything is finally put back in the kitchen, and because I have mountains of dirty laundry, including TBall uniforms and PE uniforms that are to be used today. Because I have NOTHING better to do than to wait for my repair man, who has graciously given me an appointment window of 8AM to 5PM tomorrow.,
8 AM to 5PM is not an appointment window, it is a business day. I booked my "window" online, but had I been able to speak to a real-life actual human being, I would have pointed out that the point of scheduling appointments is to narrow down the entire business day into smaller sections of time for which a person could reasonably expect service. No real, live humans are to be found on the Interwebs.
What if everything ran on the cable-guy/repairman schedule?

"Sure, you may come see the doctor. She'll be in from 8 until 4 on Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She has surgery on Thursdays and Fridays, but she already has 36 people lined up on those days. Those patients are living in a tent city in the waiting room."

"No, ma'am. I am not late for school. This class runs for an hour--an hour long appointment window, in which I clearly arrived at minute 57."

"Your due date? Your baby is expected some time between January and November! How exciting for you!"

"I understand your emergency. Yes, please keep giving CPR. Help is on the way. The ambulance will be there soon. I expect them to get there between 6 minutes and 120 minutes."

"Say cheese. Now hold it for the next 17 minutes."

"Thanks for tuning into NBC. Conan or Leno will be coming on within 4 hours of prime time."

"Glad you could join me at Notcinnamon. Next blog will be posted when I have something to say."