The Pursuit of Happiness

"You smile a lot."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, it makes it hard to tell what you're really feeling."

Sometimes the way my fourteen year old son is able to just say things - astute things - blows me away.

"That's an interesting observation.  You know, I'm reading a book about women and happiness and the author goes into how Americans, especially American women, are programmed to be cheerful."

"I didn't say you were cheerful.  You just smile alot.  Like at that intersection.  You smiled at that guy and he smiled back."

"Did that bother you?"

"No.  I just realized you do that a lot. Doesn't matter if it's a man or woman driving the other car.  You just smile."

"So when I smile, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm happy."

"'zactly."

He's right.   My smile has no connection to what's going on inside.  I haven't shared this with you guys, but I'm back on the appetite suppressant, aka The Mean Pill.  When I'm taking it, it works.  I lose weight (8lbs gone!).  But I also become a bit of a powder keg with a short fuse.  My mean mouth, otherwise held back on oh so many occasions, is given free reign and instead of just letting things slide, I become hell-bent on pointing out all the petty grievances I have with my family. 

I become yelly. Chloe, who coined the phrase The Mean Pill, also had another way to describe my behavior when I'm taking this drug.  Raging around.  Lovely, right? There she goes, raging around like an angry elephant.  A pack of hyenas.  A wild-haired woman brandishing a jug of bleach and a toilet brush.

Then I hear myself and I stop.  Take a breath.  I come through with quick apologies. Remind myself that next time - filter, filter, filter!

After I've been on the meds for a bit, it smooths out, but in the transition, I become the pill.  I guess you could say that, even if you can't tell when I'm happy, you certainly won't have any trouble knowing when I'm angry.  I broadcast it loudly and colorfully.  My mother would die of shame if she could hear me.  Heck, I die a little of shame right before I apologize to the most recent victim of my verbal assaults. 

I suppose the best thing you can say about this is that at least I don't fake smile while I'm shredding my loved ones.  The remedy for now is for me to stay locked in the basement or to keep the duct tape over my mouth when everyone is around.  Because no matter how many times I do tell them what sends me over the edge, they still do and don't do the things that turn push that rage button.

"So what do you think, Nate?  Should I stop smiling when I'm not happy?"

"Nah.  I don't think it's a bad thing."

"But the book suggests that maybe it is.  It keeps us from being more aware of our emotions."

"Mom?  We're Americans.  We don't have emotions."

"That's what the book says!"

"Okay, now be quiet.  We've reached our talking limit.  Here listen to this."

So what about you?  Do you wear your emotions on your sleeve?  Cram it all down until it's an unrecognizable nugget?  Okay, who besides me are the phony smilers?  And are there any other rageaholics or is it just me?

Work Travel in Leopard Panties

Now that title is what you call an "attention grabber," don't ya think?

Yes, I'm cheating. I've put a few reruns together from the old blogs (politits and unglued). Long time readers will remember some of these goofy stories. New readers may be surprised to know that I really do float through this life with the grace of a hippo in a tutu....

Here's one from April 2007. It's inspired by this post by La Belette Rouge. Thanks, LBR, for the inspiration!

P.S. The process of going through my old work is part of trying to pull together something to submit to possible agents, so shut up with that ha ha, you can't stop blogging pointing and laughing stuff. I mean it. Don't make me hold you down and dangle drool over your face........


I was digging through old employment information last night and came across some papers that reminded of my job with AARP. I worked for them for five years in the Midwest Regional Office and later, when they decentralized, in the Illinois State Office.

One of my projects was to help volunteers build local coalitions so that they could do community development in several targeted areas of Illinois. It required a lot of travel around the state. During a trip to Springfield, the key volunteer in charge of community development went along with me. I'll call him Mr. Lipschultz. Mr. Lipschultz and I got along really well and enjoyed working together. Before retirement, which was anything but the put your feet up and hang around style of retirement, he was the regional administrator for a federal agency in Minnesota. He was incredibly interesting and knowledgeable about so many things. He actively volunteered for one or two other organizations and served on the Boards of a couple more. He swam everyday. This guy was impressive.

When we started working together, my boss pulled me into her office to wish me well on the new project and to warn me that this was not a man with which to trifle. He was very well respected and had the ear of influential people in Chicago. She would appreciate it if I hid my off-beat light under a bushel a bit, if I got her meaning.

Since I've had children, I've battled my weight. The summer I worked closely with Mr. Lipschultz was a skinny summer. After I really ballooned up after The Boy was born, my doctor kindly prescribed phentermine and I lost fifty pounds. I was wearing a size eight (not to be believed in many years!). I was feeling pretty good about the way I looked and I noticed the Mr. Lipschultz didn't mind hanging around with a reasonably attractive younger woman. He liked to joke about what people would think when they saw us traveling or dining out together. Shameless flirt that I am, I encouraged him.

The Springfield trip started off well enough. We had our meeting with a working lunch then headed back to Chicago. I was driving. Shortly after we got onto the interstate I started to feel ill. The feeling built up quickly. I told Mr. Lipschultz that I was feeling a little off. He suggested that we get off at the next exit. He told me that I was looking pale. I took the next exit and drove to the nearest gas station.

I was really feeling sick now and pulled into the parking lot as fast as I could. I brought the car to a stop, flung open my car door and vomited out the driver's side. All I could think was "poor Mr. Lipschultz! What must he think?"

When I was finally through unloading my lunch onto the pavement, I sat back up and gripped the wheel. I couldn't look at Mr. Lipschultz.

"Are you okay now?" he asked sweetly.

I paused. "Well, yes. But I just shit my pants, too" I said and looked at him. We both burst out laughing.

After we were done with that bit of hilarity, I had to get inside and get cleaned up. Naturally, I'd selected a lovely pair of light khaki Liz Claiborne trousers and green sweater as my business casual attire that morning. Not knowing how my backside looked, I moved as fast as I could to get inside the station and to the bathroom.

Once inside, I did the best I could to clean myself up and put myself back together. My khaki pants were horribly stained. Once I got my panties clean, I dried them as best I could with paper towels. I had to hide in a stall while I did it. I put the very damp leopard spotted panties back on and peeked outside. No one was there so I took my trousers to the sink and started rinsing them out. The sound of the water must have been very loud because I didn't hear when the door opened.

There I stood wearing nothing but my bright green sweater and leopard panties, furiously scrubbing my khakis in the sink. I looked up and saw two young girls staring open-mouthed at me. I did the only thing I could think of. I smiled at them. They turned and ran out the door.

I finished with the khakis and attempted to dry them under the air dryer. I stood there mashing the big, silver button hoping that no one else would walk in. Afraid to wait too long, I gave up and slipped the wet khaki trousers on over my damp panties. I slunk out the bathroom door and scurried as fast as I could out the door and toward the car.

Mr. Lipschultz was waiting patiently for me. I could tell that he'd cleaned the front seat of the car. Of course it was fabric, not leather. I wanted to sink into the ground. Instead I got back into the car and thanked him for being so wonderful.

Don't you worry about it," he said. "I just want to know that you're okay. I'm sorry I can't drive for you because I don't know how to drive a stick shift. Are you going to be able to drive?"

"Yes. I think I 'm okay now. It must have been something I ate."

"Well, just go nice and slow and we'll take lots of breaks on the way," he said in his darling, commanding way. He was used to being in charge.

Damp, cold, still queasy and I'd just hurled and crapped myself in front of a very impressive man. It was the longest three hour drive of my life.

I Want to Be the Girl with the Most Cake

Long time readers are painfully aware of Parenting by Benign Neglect, my preferred parenting style and one which I have advocated for over the years of blogging.

Come to think of it, I advocated it before I started blogging, I just hadn't dubbed it with its clever title. You know those scaredy cat moms, hovering too closely to their children, constantly reminding them in public places like parks to "stay where I can see you....?" Well, I was the mom rolling her eyes and saying annoying things like "Look, if someone had the poor judgment to kidnap my kids they'd either kill them or return them quickly. I harbor no illusions about how annoying my kids are."

Hovering moms don't cotton much to that kind of talk, I can assure you. Death and kids are not something to joke about around these mommies.

That sounds so condescending, doesn't it? Well, hard cheese. Death is part of life. There's no escaping it and if I can't laugh about that which scares me most, I may as well just wall myself in somewhere with my kids so we can be secure for the rest of our safe, but miserable lives.

I'm reminded of this because last night was the zenith of parental pride and the nadir of parental, um.......dang, I can't even think of a word for it. And it isn't often that I'm rendered speechless. You'll see later what left me so....speechless.

Last night was another proud parent moment. The Dancer's high school had their honors night. Two hours of awards and recognition for the students who really are getting out of it what they put into it. It was really something.

I watched The Dancer being draped with the graduation bling that is now all the rage, and felt such pride. I took blurry pictures and monkeycam video and sent gushing texts to MathMan who was having his own proud parent moments with The Actor on the baseball field. (Unassisted double play for The Actor, oh yeah!)

Sitting for long stretches of time with little to entertain me besides my own evil thoughts and urges , I considered how I would map out the day that was coming to a close. How would I draw it?


Yesterday was a long one. First there was a drive to the north Georgia mountains for meetings to plan a meeting. You heard me. Then there was the nauseating Mexican food-fueled drive through the mountains (I was not the one who ended up sick so shut up, CoP and Darling Sis. No one wants to hear how I ruined the 1976 trip to Cape Canaveral because I was carsick and threw up behind some bush behind a Birmingham McDonalds.). Finally, MathMan and I arrived home from work to find that someone had redecorated the kitchen with barbecue sauce, someone's backpack appeared to have exploded leaving a blizzard of papers all over the living room, and someone left something that resembled a White Castle Cheeseburger sat forlornly and moldering in the microwave, probably forgotten during some heated battle over the television remote. A couple of someones needed a good beating.

I remember the days when one was required to get up to change the television channel. In my childhood home, we had our own things to fight over - a certain spot on the sofa - and a system for dealing with potential conflict. "Saving a seat" was our method for marking territory and solving problems before they started. It worked thus: If you were so lucky to have snagged the best seat in the family room (it was the left end cushion on the sofa as you faced the telly), you were required to call it "saved" as you stood, otherwise that prime spot of t.v. viewing real estate became fair game.

The Spawn are less into the Aylesborough Rules of Sibling Conduct Management required to maintain the civilized "saving" procedures that could, I admit, become rather complicated and burdensome at times. No, The Spawn are action-oriented probably due in large part to their expectations of instant gratification. They live in a different world than the one in which we were kids. My siblings and I would have established a blue ribbon panel to investigate a breach of contract or conducted a trial by peer jury. The Spawn resort immediately to brute force, harsh words and, in a real pinch, shouting for the aid of The Mother. This is, typically, a very bad move.

Now I'm not saying my siblings and I were the perfect little poppets of politeness. Please. We were far from it. However, we did develop and live by those saving rules and by the "calling" of Front Seat by the Door when it was just us kids getting into the car with a parent. Front Seat by the Door was another piece of prime real estate. The person sitting there often got to control the radio.

Now would you look at how I've rambled.....

Anyway, after the last round of polite applause, I was glad to collect The Dancer and Garbo and get into The Dancer's car to go home. Garbo rode in the back. The conversation turned to family matters once more.

The girls expressed some disgust at how much of a seventh grade boy The Actor is lately. I was very dismissive of their attitude. He's a guy, so what? Not satisfied with my response, they pressed on. He scratches his balls! He jokes with his friends about masturbation! He's nasty and gross and ick!

"I'm sure he has cooties, too," I added unhelpfully.

Predictably, they turned on me. First The Dancer made sounds in the back of her throat that resembled wordless admonishments. I'm fully aware that although she enjoys the fruits and freedoms of Parenting by Benign Neglect, she would prefer that MathMan and I rule with more of an iron fist when it comes to her siblings. The nerve.

Then Garbo, who has reached the age of curiosity, chimed in. Not one to miss a chance to humiliate a sibling, she turned her razor sharp wit on her sister. "Did mommy tell you what I thought you should put in the goody bags for your birthday party last week?" she asked sweetly.

Now I should pause here to point out that what she is about to say is completely incongruent with still feeling comfortable referring to me as "mommy." But whatever. They're human. Inconsistency is to be expected.

The Dancer's throaty noises got louder and more vigorous. She pretended to be concentrating on the road. Garbo continued, "I thought you should have condoms and birth control pills......"
The Dancer shot her a look in the rear view mirror. "Poo poo," she smiled up at her sister in the backseat, using her favorite term of endearment for Garbo, "where do you get such ideas. That's soooooooo ......... uh.... inappropriate."

And then she looked at me pointedly, cheeks sucked in, eyebrows way up on her forehead. Mouth small and pinched.

Garbo didn't miss a beat. The little rat. "Mommy. She said something else to put in the goody bags, but I can't remember what it was. She said it when we were joking around about it the other day. Mommy, what was it?"

Oh, I see how it was going to be. I was being dragged in for sure. I resisted by mumbling my response.

The Dancer leaned toward me. "What was that? You were joking about goody bags and you said what should be in there?"

"Lubricant."

The Dancer snapped to attention, a scowl on her face. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She took a deep breath and then laughed. "You're sick mom. Edible underwear I can understand, but lubricant?"

I'd like to end it right here, but, well, Garbo wasn't done with me. "I have a question now for you, Mother," came the command from the backseat. Mother? Now I'm mother? The transition from mommy to mother is chilling.

"I reserve the right to not answer. I may plead the Fifth, but go ahead."

"Did you ever have sex with anyone but Daddy?"

I gasped. "Poo! Poo!" The Dancer shrieked. "That's none of your business!"

"I'm not going to answer that question," I finally managed. For goodness sake, I've really not got this boundaries thing sorted out, I thought at I rubbed my temples with my fingertips......

The Dancer was still aghast. "Garbo, that's wrong. Mom's sex life has nothing to do with you. In fact, we should all just assume that she never has had, does not have and will never have a sex life!" she warned.

But her little sister was relentless. "It does concern us. I mean, we know she's had sex three times, but I was just wondering if she'd had sex before that......"

Ah, and there it was. My out. "Nope. Just those three times with Daddy. That's it. Ever. Now let's drop it. You've crossed a line, my dear."

Garbo sighed. I could tell she wasn't completely satisfied with my answer. "Well then, someone is lying to me," she intoned. "Because I heard on the school bus that you don't get pregnant every time you have sex......"

The Dancer glanced into her rear view mirror again and then looked at me. We were thinking the same thing. Of that, I am certain. It's time to clear up some fourth grade sex-talk fallacies.

Some things cannot be neglected. No matter how benignly...............

Adventures in Real Parenting: Just Another Saturday without a Nap

Of course, I would say I'm taking a break and then the people around me would hand me all sorts of material. They hate me, don't they? It's also amazing what getting more than three hours of sleep will do for a person.

It's Saturday morning. The woman down the next cul de sac is shaming me horribly by being out walking up and down, up and down the street while I sit here on my slow-metabolism butt reading blogs and listening to Saturday Morning Flashback (1983, back when I weighed 101 pounds, wore a girl's size 12 jeans and was working on having wrinkles instead of battling them). I don't know what one calls the thing wrapped around the neighbor's head, but she's pulling off that look beautifully. That's two reasons not to like her.

I'll bet the roof of her mouth doesn't hurt either because she had the sense to not roll out of bed this morning, pop some amphetamines and then proceed to eat three brimming bowls of Cocoa Puffs with a pot of hot tea loaded with sugar. At least the milk was skim. Uh huh.

The birdbath I put out the other day has tipped over, but I'm loathe to go outside and set it upright and refill it. I knew when I placed it the other day, it was unstable. Poor birds. Must they suffer the lack of high quality H20 because I'm afraid to leave the house at the moment because every fifteen seconds a carpenter bee the size of a cargo plane hovers outside my window daring me to step outside......?

Garbo is full of one liners this morning. She seems more rested today, too. She's expecting a little friend over later and so is cramming in as much snacking and alone time now as she can. She has a daily quota of both, apparently.

Me: Before you do anything else, you need to tidy up your room.
Garbo: If by tidy my room, you mean eat this White Castle frozen cheeseburger, then okay.

You know how I wrote about what a nurturing mother I'm not? I suppose one could say that the fact that these children continue to live proves that I nurture them just enough.

MathMan called the exterminators to come back and, naturally, now the ants have disappeared. I guess overhearing that phone call was warning enough for them. However, the standard poodle sized roach I stomped yesterday morning was undaunted.

It's a gorgeous day here so I'm hoping that MathMan and I can make it over to the old place to dig up some plants to bring to the new garden. Not that the new garden is ready, but why let silly details stop us from doing things backward.

So now it's hours and hours later. Alcohol is being/has been consumed. The aforementioned plant digging never happened, but we did manage to have a nice quiet dinner with The Dancer. We spent at least a half an hour grinding her down about the cost of college. Aaaahhhh. I'm relishing this shoe on the other foot thing. It feels mighty fine, oh yes it does. No longer is it a case of "but I need this, can I have, but you said, all my friends, blah, blah, beg, plead, whine...." No indeedy. It was us coming from all different angles, reiterating, repeating, reviewing, making our case, questioning her reasoning, and generally filing down her resolve. I believe we are making headway.

She'll thank us some day when she has money for extravagent things like food and shelter. Until then, she can flip me off behind closed doors all she likes. I consider it a sign of a healthy mother/daughter relationship. It's tradition. I did it to my mom, my kids do it to me......

So the kid count is thus: Garbo's friend has come and gone. A good time was had by all except The Dancer who swore if she heard the current Miley Cyrus single The Climb one more time, she would climb something, dragging the karaoke machine with her so that she could hurl it back to earth from great heights.

Now we are plus one in the kid column. The Ninja's friend The Jedi is over for the night. Good lord, they are like a pack of wriggling puppies shot through with testosterone and root beer. Clearly, they have no shame or they know MathMan and me well enough to know that there's little we'd be shocked about. Some might say we seem like the "cool" parents, but that's a real conundrum when someone finally does go beyond the limits and you're left mouth agape or blushing. Cool goes right out the window.

We're sitting here and it all starts pretty innocently. The Ninja asks his friend why he's not allowed to have text, MathMan and I, misunderstand the question and hear "Why can't you have sex? " Our eyes meet and we laugh because we're mature like that.

We stop laughing long enough for MathMan to do a Public Service Announcement along the lines of "No one better have sex at your age, but if they do they must use condoms." See how MathMan is sucking up to the Father of the Year people? He's so naively optimistic that he has a chance.

The Ninja announces that his friend carried a condom around in his wallet for a while. His friend smilingly confirms this and then goes on to tell us that, after a while, he got tired of carrying it and jacked off in it to see what would happen.

At that point, I was nearly on the floor, dying. I was half embarrassed beyond all belief and half ready to pee my pants from laughing. He described a bubble at the end of the condom and the difficulty he had putting it back in the package when he was done. I didn't catch all of the detail (thank goodness) because by this point, I couldn't breathe anymore......

So here I am again, thinking I might need a break (might?), but the minute I say that, someone will be lighting their farts on fire or tapdancing on the driveway wearing nothing but a neon orange feather boa, tube socks and a smile or making an initial streaking run through the neighborhood.

And that's just what I have planned......

Good Thing My Name Isn't Erin

Since I don't really have an ethnicity that I identify with, I'm not one to make a big deal at all out of St. Patrick's Day. True many of those ancestors who came to the U.S. practically destitute came from Ireland and Scotland, but I've never really thought of myself as Irish.

Perhaps it's because the small community where I came from never made a big deal out of ethnicity or maybe because we were Protestants and didn't settle in a parish with a lot of other Irish, but we just didn't note the Gaelic background.

As I got older, I realized that what I thought to be hillbilly influence from the Kentucky hills, actually had its basis in the Old World. Some of the tunes that Grandad played on his fiddle were Gaelic-influenced. And potatoes complimented nearly every meal. Though there were some drinkers in the family, most of them were alcohol-shunning Baptists.

Have I covered all the stereotypes? Oh, wait. Yes, there's a certain pugilistic nature to my people and we have a nasty stubborn streak. Ethnically related? I think it's been more of a survival technique.

So do I have anything to say about St. Patrick's Day? And if not, why am I writing this? Well, to answer that last question, it's because I don't think you want to hear a detailed description of the dream I had last night about locked doors and bathroom stalls (really) or about my planned field trip to get my belly button waxed (not really.) Okay, maybe really. It's just not that appealing to make my belly button into a talking butt that's hairy.

Maybe I haven't recovered to the extent I thought I did from yesterday's ague. Nevertheless, I am honoring the day with the wearing of green earrings and a green ring that Garbo got out of a gumball machine. For her part, Garbo went to school wearing a green monkey tee shirt and that fuzzy neon green pimp hat. MathMan, contrarian that he is, wore green yesterday and gave me a frowny face when I mentioned that he should have saved that look for today.

Hey - don't blame me if you get pinched, MathMan.

I wouldn't mind a green cookie, if you have one. But I digress. There probably won't be any green beer or corned beef or cabbage. I might make potatoes, but that's hardly cause for comment or celebration. It's so very ho hum at our house.

I do have fond memories of a couple of St. Patrick's Days. There was March 17, 1984....oh, um, okay - I better leave that one alone. Then there was March 17, 1993 or 1994 when my coworker Bonnie shouted Erin Go Braless instead of the correct phrase into her phone at AARP. She was talking to one of our aged volunteers and was attempting to show the rest of us administrative staff in the cubicle corral just how hard of hearing the guy was. I laughed so hard that I woke my boss Bruce who was asleep in his chair in the office adjacent to my desk. Unfortunately, Bruce, a very large man, had been tipping back in his chair, snoring softly as he slumbered. My guffaw set him to snorting and trying to right himself in the wobbly chair but it was too late. Both Bruce and his chair toppled over onto the floor, causing a loud crash that brought everyone running.

I'm not sure Bruce ever forgave me for waking him like that. Oh, well. It can't be all green lollies and shamrocks, I guess.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day to those of you who do wear the green, kiss the blarney stone, meet the road where it rises......we've gone way beyond you getting the idea. I know.

Of Trapped Yawns and Sweater Sets

I've got a bit of writer's cramp in my brain. I have three posts started and still - nothing. I can't finish them.

It's like having a sneeze caught. Or a yawn. You know that feeling when you need to yawn and you just can't get the whole yawn to come out? Then you start to obsess about it and that just makes matters worse.

Now if you don't yawn soon, you're going to stop breathing because that jammed up yawn is clogging your respiratory system and you can feel it in the back of your throat and your lungs feel like they are being squeezed and you're dying and will someone please yawn at you because yawns are contagious right?

I'm not quite writhing on the floor, gasping for air, trying to get my lung constricting bra off with one hand while dialing 9-1-1- with the other. But I'm getting close.

The fact that I'm blogging live from the living room at Golden Manor while sharing space with The Actor isn't helping matters at all. He's got the remote and is toggling between Forest Gump and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Now Garbo has joined us - she'd been sleeping off a school drunk draped across the trough I share with MathMan. And there she goes again, picking a wedgie from her ass, looking like she might topple over if she doesn't get some raw spaghetti down her yawning maw immediately.

Oh hell. Back to the yawn.

So maybe I just need to force it. I regret what I am doing to you here and what I am about to do to you. My new favorite word unfortunate would be most apropos because, you see, as I am halfway through this post and there's a nagging in my brain about the dryer alarm that I ignored fifteen minutes ago and I'm afraid to get up and lose my train of thought.

Which might actually be an improvement, don't ya think?

MathMan and I spent the day together. We had a confirmation hearing for our bankruptcy. I'd love to regale with the wickedly funny details, but the truth is, as soon as we got there, our lawyer sent us away again. Everything is under control. We forgot to call yesterday to see if we had to show up and since we'd already taken the day off anyway, well, it was that kind of a thing.

After a long, arduous discussion about appropriate court attire, we headed up to the Federal Court Building in Rome (Georgia, not Italy, duh)

As an aside, perhaps TLC could do a program about what one wears to a bankruptcy hearing. I mean, do you wear your nicest business attire? If so, will the judge look at you and insist that you must have some kind of financial means and thus, should, in fact, pay back all those debts and happily accept ever sky-rocketing interest rates, fees that multiply like octo-bunnies and abusive collections calls until you've divested of all that fabulous clothing?

Because, you know me - I'm the Queen of Fabulous Clothing. If by Fabulous Clothing, you mean momstretch polyesterish pants and a swinging sweater set. All bought second hand, but who's keeping track?

So anyway, we took the windy-curvy route to Rome because driving to a court hearing isn't fun until you've achieved Motion Sickness Mach 4. We turned onto the cleverly named First Street and MathMan announced that he thought the big building with the gigantic American Flag must be the place. MathMan is wicked smart like that.

We locked everything we had except our Official File, our drivers' licenses and Social Security cards in the car's trunk (because if you want to see shiftless and shifty, take a peek at the people hanging around smoking outside a Federal Court building) and made our way through security. The nice octogenarian who wanded me twice was only slightly amused when I finally, with much exasperation, just reached up under my matronly sweater set (with faux pearl buttons, no less) and unhooked the offending metal under wire bra, pulled it through my sleeve and handed it to him.

"Make sure you don't lose this. I'd like it back when I leave," I smiled demurely at him.

Finally, we got upstairs to our appointed room, with almost half an hour to spare. We decided to look for our fifteen year old attorney. Well, heck fire! There he sat, coolly texting away on his iPhone with his telltale white earbuds jammed into his ears. I was glad to see he was still going with the gelled hair look. Nothing says legal authority like Bed Head's Got 2 B Glued.

MathMan tapped him on the shoulder and he smiled a greeting. As they discussed our case for all of thirty seconds, I surveyed the room. It was full of other financial losers just like us. The room was steadily filling up with couples in all manner of dress, including a critical mass of Koret matching separates. I felt an odd sense of relief to be neither over nor under dressed. Perhaps if I'd not ditched my bra downstairs, all eyes wouldn't be on me.

MathMan returned to my side and told me what the attorney had said. We were free to go, Mr. Fifteen had us covered. Well, that was a relief. I took one more look around and stepped toward the door. Something was bothering me, though. Then it came to me. I stopped and turned to face the crowd that had now gone back to their own thoughts and conversations.

"Um, excuse me!" I had to raise my voice a little, "Excuse me! Hi. Um. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know something. You. Um. All you people here seeking bankruptcy protection and debt relief! It's important that you know that you are ruining America with your greed! Our economy is in the shitter because of you and your clutching greedy ways! How dare you use those bank-issued credit cards! How dare you take out those supposedly regulated mortgages that you knew you couldn't afford! For shame! For shame! For shame!!!!!"

It was at that point, my octogenarian bra-keeper and some other fascist thug dragged me from the courtroom.

I guess they didn't take kindly to my use of the word shitter in front of the American flag.

MathMan was soooo mad at me. It took him twenty precious minutes to convince security that I wasn't really dangerous. They let me go with him after he agreed to let the old dude keep my bra. Dammit. That was my favorite black bra, too.

When we finally escaped that ordeal, we discussed the day that yawned before us. We didn't have any solid plans, but MathMan had some dirty ideas. Listen up, People of the Internets, we've been married twenty years. We have three kids underfoot most of the time. We have the house, two jobs and our fair share of stress. What else would we do to release a little of that angst and anxiety?

We ran errands, course! Got the oil changed on MathMan's car, paid the extra three bucks to get it washed, too, deposited a check from my side job, blah, blah, blah. Then we came home and got busy. In front of our computers. Really.

I even made a video, which I'll share with you later.

Yawn............ah, that's better.

The Diet of NY Times Bestsellers. And Other Secrets of Mediocre Fiction

I once harbored illusions of a sophisticated life full of glamor, high culture, trips to fabulous places where I would win the hearts of amazing people with my wit and charm. Or charm and wit. My delusions were non-specific. Actually, I take that back. They were specific enough to provide a clear picture of how I would look (thin, forever young, beautiful), how I would travel (first class), the kind of staff who would serve me (devoted, highly competent, without peer) and just about every other detail of my life (perfect).

Occasionally, it's necessary to take stock and see how my real life is measuring up to the fantasy. It's pretty safe to say that I still have a long way to go toward living that fabulous life. Oh, I'm working on it. The botox, devoted staff, travel, cultural activities and most everything else are still pretty dependent on another delusion - the one where I become a wealthy and famous author of best-selling fiction. (I'll pause here so you can finish laughing. You know that snorting is rather unbecoming, don't you?)

I have, though, taken one aspect of the fantasy by the reins and I'm steering that part of my life in the right direction.

I am losing weight. It is not a pretty process. It is not a perfect process. It is, however, working. I am motivated by a desire to live a long, healthy life, of course. I'm not entirely stupid. But I will be honest with you - I am also driven by the desire to look sleek and gorgeous (and airbrushed) in the dustjacket photo of my first novel that will rocket to Number 1 on the New York Times Bestseller List. (I never said I was attempting to write literature.)

If all goes well, that dustjacket cover photo and the obscene amounts of money I make from that first book and the rights to the movie will carry me through so that I can pound out more fiction while shoveling M&Ms into my mouth and sending nagging texts to The Spawn at their posh boarding schools. In between book tours and the necessary personal trainer appointments to get me back into shape for said tours, that is.

So how am I achieving this miraculous weight loss? Well, of course there is Mr. Phentermine and the good quack doctor who prescribes him, but let's just gloss on over that. The real strategy is a healthy diet and exercise. I'm reminded here of an old Lockhorns joke. There are some days when jumping to conclusions, stretching the truth and running my mouth are the only exercise I get, but still. I'm trying.

And that eating healthy thing? Well, it's, um, a good intention. I guess the truth is I've really cut back my calories. A lot. Like eliminating a big bowl of ice cream, a cheeseburger, fries and a generous slice of pie cutting back. I haven't calculated the calories I'm consuming, but I think it' somewhere between 1,200 and near starvation.

Let me show you a typical lunch.






But it's not all petulant dry salad green munching and string cheese mutilation. No, there is an occasional treat. Something sweet, creamy, chocolaty. Look - fruit is fruit. It is not a dessert. When I want sweet - bring me chocolate or tempt the wrath of.....wait. I think that might be the PMS talking. Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, yes. A treat.

Cheap ass chocolate.

There will be plenty of time for $10,000 per ounce ultra-dark chocolate made from cocoa beans grown on sacred mountain tops by one-eyed harmonica players in Uruguay after the book sells, but for now, I'll take this "truffle." The package says it comes from Italy. It looks like something that came out of an animal's behind. Whatever. It's gone in one bite anyway......

Nifty, huh? I know it looks like a dollop of fresh muck, but it doesn't taste half bad.
Would I lie to you? Look at that face.
It's the face of a connoisseur of cheap ass chocolate, Hostess Ho Hos and Mountain Dew.

All photos are Lisa Golden originals.
Who else would indulge in this sort of jackassery on a weekday?

Friday Flashback: High Five

Warning: this post is link-loaded and you won't want to miss any of them. I promise there's a theme here.

Remember back when things were even more angsty at Golden Manor? I was moving out and MathMan was going to stay with the kids and our marriage was crumbling? I know, it seems so long ago now. In fact, it's coming up on a year so I'm using this post for my Friday Flashback. Here's a preview:

The knockdown, drag out verbal fights were rare. Our disagreements were woven with words of biting sarcasm, strained Victorian manners, and really loud, tense silence punctuated by my sighs.

Finally, we're learning to talk to each other. I guess we realize that if we're going to make the divorce work, we're going to have to be more clear with each other. Especially where The Spawn are involved.

When I saw this video via Jill at Brilliant at Breakfast who found it at Crooks and Liars, I laughed because, not only is it wonky funny and loaded with political references, but also because it so beautifully describes how I feel about the political atmosphere right now. It's hard to put into words, this sense of guarded optimism, disgust for the Bush Administration, a desire to push the new Administration to pursue justice and a resolve to take a wait and see approach before I get too impassioned about any of it. Well, I guess I found the words, after all.

Anyway, watch the video and do this - see how many people you recognize. That will tell you just how much of a political geek you are. Me? I bet I got a 98% and the people I missed were pop culture icons and celebrities more than political ones. Yeah, I know. Could I be any more cool? No wonder my friends who are far more hip and wordly than I make those faces when they think I'm not looking.

Oh, and DCap? Your favorite gal is there, too. She looks like she smiling just for you! High Five!

(Picture credits: Found at Facebook. Senior Class Trip to Washington, D.C. March 1984)

Adventures in Real Parenting: Big Cats

Living out at the corner of no where and no place means that even something as mundane as a trip to a supermarket is a bit of an event. It's at least a 25 mile drive and a commitment of one hour. Golden Manor sits right smack dab at the middle of nowhere and noplace.

So when we needed milk and cat food last night, MathMan and I decided to divide and conquer our activities. He took Cupcake aka Resident Evil to her basketball game and I went with The Actor to the local Dollar General to pick up the few groceries we needed. MathMan wasn't going to be near a supermarket and there was no need to drive all the way into town just to pick up a couple of things. (Note to self - always remember to give The Dancer some cash when she goes to dance so she can stop at the store on her way home, if necessary.)

Even though this was just a short trip to the intersection of the main state highway and the long and winding road leading to our country estate, there was an element of Look Ma! They have things from China! The Actor and I wandered the aisles of the Dollar General, checking out the pots and pans, the off-brand foods, and Christmas decorations discounted seventy-five percent.

After a few minutes, we had our milk and cat food so it was time to go. We made our way to the front of the store to pay. The young man who worked there came to the counter and rang us up. While he did so, I wasn't paying much attention. Instead I was futzing around with my purse and talking to The Actor. I swiped my card and barely looked up as the young man handed me my receipt.

The Actor grabbed the bags and we started to walk away.

"Don't forget this one," the tall young man said. I turned to bag carousel and reached for the bag he pointed to. A flash of recognition hit me. I smiled and he smiled back at me . "Hey, how are you?" he asked in his soft baritone.

"Ffffffine," I stammered, smiled again and walked away.

The Actor was holding the door for me. After I walked through it, he caught up to me. "Who was that?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, that's the cute guy from the pizza place. I used to talk to him while I waited to pick up food. You know the hot guy with the mutton chops...." I was still smiling.

The Actor tossed the bags into the back seat and climbed into the car next to me. "I didn't even look at him until he told me not to forget the bag. I'm usually pay more attention to the person ringing me up," I said, chagrined for all kinds of reasons.

"Did you even say hello or thank you?" he chided me. I give The Spawn a lot of crap about speaking to people in public situations.

"I did. I always do, but I just didn't even look at the guy. That's rude. I always try to make eye contact," I added.

We were quiet for a moment as I turned left out of the lot and back onto the highway. The moon hung brightly in the sky, casting a glow over the usually very dark evening landscape. I chuckled to myself.

"What's so funny?"

I shook my head. The Actor asked again, "What?" He has a serious need to be in on the joke. He gets that from his mother.

"I was just thinking I'll have to go to the Dollar General more often, won't I?" I explained.

"Why?"

"Well, I mean, I missed my chance to cougar him that time, didn't I?" I looked at The Actor for confirmation.

An odd mixture of horror and disgust shadowed his face. His eyebrows were way, way up on his forehead. "Mom. Please do not ever say that sentence around me again."

I came to my senses. "Oh, right, yeah, sorry......"

I wonder what we'll need from the Dollar General this weekend.......