AllergyPhiles

For the past few days, the Boy and I have been contending with a change-of-season cold. Two weeks ago, Maryland was a sunny spring wonderland, full of blooming flora and temperatures in the seventies. This past week, it's been mostly chilly and gloomy. Regardless of the daytime temps, though, the temperature plummets about thirty degrees at night, and our poor heating system can't always keep up. Think I'm kidding? Both Hubby and I have recently had dreams about being cold. For me, it was walking around in a snowy city looking for a coat, and for him it was being stationed on the moon. His vision of the moon, though, wasn't any kind of Isaac Asimov fantasy. He was basically in a warehouse plunked in the Sea of Tranquility and the heating system was wonky. Space is cold, yo.

Nice little recipe for minor head colds, right? Then, in my case, let's mix in the fact that my side of the office building hovers at sixty-five degrees (you know, to balance out the other side of the office building that hovers at eighty-five degrees). Truthfully, I'm surprised more people don't have colds right now.

Know what's getting a lot of people down lately, though? Allergies. Yep, all of those azaelas and dandelions and oaks are gettin' their pollen on, which means that there's a thick greenish coat of powder slumbering on our cars in the morning. Yummy. Those with allergies are all red-eyed and sneezy. When I worked at Georgetown, this is about the time of year that you'd see students and some faculty bustling across campus wearing surgical masks.

On that note, Hubby has dreadful allergies, but he's manned up under them nicely. However, he, and a couple of other folks I know, have been insisting that I probably have allergies too. WHY do people who have allergies want those of us who are blessedly unafflicted to join the club?

People hear my scratchy throat, ask me if I feel well, and proceed to contradict me when I tell them it's just a little bug. "Are you sure it isn't allergies?" they ask? Yep, pretty sure. Know why? 'Cause I'm not plagued by the Nyquil roster of ailments from March through October. I've only got 'em for a couple of days at a time. My sore throat's already going away. My sniffles are going away. My headache is going away. Does that happen if you have allergies but you're not popping Claritin or Allegra or whatever else is out there? My guess is no...

Ah well, maybe they are just trying to open me up to the possibility because ye olde allergy diagnosis and subsequent treatment caused a big ol' paradigm shift in their qualities of life. Yikes, though, howzabout you believe me when I tell you it's just a cold?

Dandelion Appreciation Day

Dandelions never really held much appeal for me. Sure, when I was a kid, I'd pop off their punky heads. Who didn't? And a little later in the Spring, when they'd gone to seed, I'd blow its gray parachuted seeds to kingdom come in the pursuit of a wish. But that's about all the use I had for them. I didn't like to pick them because the sticky sap would trickle all over my hands, and then I either had to run to the house to wash or wipe the goo off on my shorts. Yick. So, mostly, I just left the scrubby little weeds alone.

Now, though, I smile every time I see them. I hunt down patches of them, and mentally file away their locale for a rendez-vous at a later date. Why?

One of the Boy's favorite things to do is to punt the fluffy gray seeds clear off of their stems. He has just learned to kick, and these little puff balls are perfect for his practice. He can square off against them and deliver the death knell with all of the expertise he has developed in his 22 months on the planet. The best part is, he's helping ensure his entertainment for the summer by spreading the seeds around.

Now, if we could just keep him from doing this in our neighbors' yards...

Guess I Just Have One of Those Faces

A few days ago, I was in a department store picking up some gifties for Hubby's birthday. I was dressed fairly casually -- khakis, black t-shirt, zippy sweatshirt -- and meandering among the finely stitched articles that make up the menswear department. As I'm walking along, I cross paths with an older gentleman and flash a smile at him. He smiles in return and asks, "Do you work here?" I'm not wearing a nametag, a smock, or any other telltale signs of someone whose paychecks are issued by Hecht's. Politely, I answer "No," and we continue down our respective walkways.

This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I don't mind, but I can't figure it out. At least this guy asked me if I worked in the store before peppering me with merchandise questions. I've been in stores where people just stand next to me and ask (without so much as an "excuse me" or a "please") where the shopping carts are, where the dairy aisle is, how to sign up for a discount membership, etc. If I know the answer, I'll share it. On the occasions when I reply that I don't know, folks take a second glance (probably to get my name and report me to my supervisor) and realize that, whoops, I'm just another customer.

So, what is it? Is it that I make unflinching yet deferential eye contact? Is that I smile in a world of frownies? I could cut out all of the friendliness, I guess, but that just wouldn't be me.

I kinda think it's all of the above, plus one very critical characteristic on the part of the other folks: they don't pay attention to whom they are speaking and make assumptions. The alternative is to take a minute and use their five senses (okay, maybe just two, 'cause I don't think that smell, taste and touch should really be used in the marketplace) to suss out employment status of the other person in the aisle.

Or maybe I really do have just one of those faces?

Score One for the 'Burbs

One of the nice things about working in BaCo (my affectionate term for Baltimore County) is that a bus will stop at a crosswalk in the middle of a busy road to allow pedestrians to scoot across the lanes. And I'm talkin' about intersections with no crossing signal, no light, no nothin' except the diagonally striped safety zone.

In DC, I think a bus will actually aim for pedestrians, daring the fragile meatbags to enter into a ten-stone versus six-ton game of chicken. Guess who begs off first?

Like I said, it's nice for a public service vehicle to follow the rules of the road.

Cleanin' Out My Closet...Sorta

A few weeks ago, one of my friends gifted me with loads of clothes that she didn't want to move to her new place. The collection comprised her "maybe I'll fit into this again someday" wardrobe. As she says, reality checked in: if she does return to this particular size, she's going to want to go on a spree and reward her reduced dimensions. Since I'm the sixth of seven children, I'm no stranger to hand-me-downs, and I eagerly accepted the goodies.

But oh, the jumbled clutter that my bedroom became. The overstuffed shopping bags tipped over and spilled their contents all over the floor. Honestly, I nearly wiped out a couple of times trying to hurdle past the piles to pick out a pair of shoes.

On Monday, I couldn't take it anymore, and decided to clean out my closet. Not Eminem-style, mind you. I literally cleaned out my closet. Flinging the windows open so the lush scent of Spring would inspire me, the closet carnage began. My rules were simple:

1. If I didn't were an item for a full season, it goes in the Good Will box;
2. If the item looks better on the hanger than it does on me, it goes in the Good Will box;
3. If the item looks like it should belong ot my sister and not me, it goes in a shopping bag that will then go to her.

What could be easier, right? For the most part, it was. I mean, I can't imagine why I've held onto that mock turtleneck for so long. Or that cami; I mean, I cannot walk around without a certain degree of support, and camis aren't so good at keeping Victoria's secret. One of my favorite wha-huh? articles was a paisley print button down. Paisley? Paisley hasn't been in style since about 1989. It's not comin' back (dear God, at least I hope it isn't). That stuff all got pitched without any hesitation.

Then it got hard.

There's that henley that I bought for my husband (then boyfriend) for our first Christmas together in 1997 (and then stole back from him). And the Aran sweater that my parents picked up for me when they went on their anniversary trip to the Emerald Isle. And the tattered concert t-shirts that aren't really fit for wearing anymore: Depeche Mode, U2, Nitzer Ebb, Rush (one of these things is not like the other one....).

These items aren't just things. This stuff is autobiographical. It's tangible evidence of who I was at 14, at 17, at 20, at 30. So, they are neatly folded and resting comfortably in a dark, difficult-to-reach corner of my closet. Sure sure, I've heard that the things we own begin to own us. But I'm not sweatin' the three cubic feet that owns me. Well, not yet anyway. We'll see where I'm at when I'm 60. For now, though, I'm just satisfied that I can see my floor again and that wire hangers aren't sticking out from between my clothes at every angle.

Blood Is Thicker than Etiquette

It's a glorious spring day here in the 'burbs of DC. How did I spend the morning? Strolling along the Mall? Sailing the Potomac? Dining al fresco at a waterfront bistro?

Nah. I went to one of those franchise medical services joint to have blood drawn. Nothing serious, just routine bloodwork. Seeing as how high cholesterol is as prevalent in my family as blue eyes, I like to keep up with it.

Anyhoo, the joint opens at 8:00 a.m. Silly me, I thought I was being an early bird by arriving at 8:20. Boy oh boy, was I wrong. When I got there, you would've thought they were handing out $20 bills to the first 100 customers. Seriously, the line stretched out the door. For medical services. On a Saturday morning on Easter weekend.

Come to think of it, that's kind of an ironic link-up.

So, there were about 30 people in front of me on the sign-in sheet. And there were about 20 seats in the waiting room. Know what that means? Yep, time to stand. Not that I minded the standing; I figure it burns more calories than sitting, so I might as well roll with the opportunity. Besides, I had my trusty Entertainment Weekly with me, so the time would pass quickly. Right?

Um, wrong. Hugely, unequivocally wrong. I was standing and waiting for an hour before the receptionist called me to the front desk to hand in my insurance information. And EW, much as I love it, is kind of a cotton candy magazine, so I'd finished with it at about minute 35. This left me with oodles of time to observe other folks in the waiting room. Know what I figured out? Common courtesy is not exactly alive and well.

At least six people got cell phone calls in that hour. They all tried to answer them, and the receptionist had to bark that no cell phone calls were allowed in the waiting room. Yeesh. Could you imagine that many people having conversations at once? And since I live in a pretty diverse area, these conversations would've been conducted in at least four different languages. One woman actually just went to hang out near the door to the place, like it was not as big a deal for us all to hear her conversation since she was almost outside.

There were no fewer than 10 children there. I think one of these kids was a patient. The rest of them were chillin' with their parents. Now, I totally get that some of these folks might not have childcare on a Saturday morning. But I can't think that lurking in a medical office was exactly fun for them, especially since there weren't any magazines, or kids books, or televisions. Seriously, if your ten-year-old son is entertaining himself by locking the front door of the office, maybe you need to re-think bringing him to places like this.

And finally...I wasn't the only one standing. Not by a long shot. Admittedly, I can't know what the seated folks were there for, and maybe they really needed to hunker down in those chairs. I passed up the opportunity to grab a chair when one opened up, causing my standing compatriots looked like they might need the chair more than I. But no one even offered to give up a seat, and there were more than a few hale and hearty teenagers, men, and women clutching their chairs like they were life preservers.

Maybe people just don't do that kind of stuff anymore...

Family Ties

This has nothing to do with anything, but I have a theory that 90% of Americans have an Aunt Nancy and an Uncle Bill, either by birth or by marriage. I started out with an Uncle Bill, and married a fella who has an Aunt Nancy. My sister did the same. A friend of mine had neither, but when she got married -- WHAM. An Aunt Nancy and an Uncle Bill.

I guess it's not all that shocking, considering that "Nancy" was one of the top 10 girls' names from 1935 to 1955, and "William" has never really left the the top 20 since the time that the Social Security Administration's been collecting this info.

Can you tell it's the Friday before a holiday and that things in the office are S-L-O-W?

Christian Passover?

For awhile now, I've thought that Christians could legitimately celebrate events associated with the Old Testament. I mean, it's the first half of the Bible, right? Christ, through Joseph, is a direct descendent of some of the major playas in Judaism, correct? And Jesus was a Jew, yes? So it seemed logical to me that Christians could participate in Hanukkah, Passover, etc.

Here's the thing, though. Folks need to celebrate these miracles, these deliverences, with a deep and abiding understanding of their meaning. I mean, these are not secularized traditions in the Jewish culture, like Christmas trees are in Christian culture. Sure, I could whip up a Seder (hey, I was always in charge of the matzo ball soup at Jess'), invite some pals over, and imbibe some Manischewitz. But after having attended a coupla Seders in college, I know that there's more to it than that. It'd be like non-Christians grabbing an Advent calendar and gobbling up the goodies without paying attention to the messages.

And making Christ the central focus of predominantly Jewish traditions, as described in the WaPo article, seems wrong. My limited exposure to Passover celebrations left me with the feeling that the gathering is supposed to be a remembrance of shared miseries and the wholesale deliverence from them by God. But to spin it into a metaphor for what Christ endured pulls the focus away from the people who endured centuries of slavery and abuse.

Clearly, I need to ponder this some more. And I swear, I'm not looking to add eight days of gifts or a rich meal to my calendar.

Scrabbled Memories

Why wasn't this happening when I was in middle school twenty years ago? I wouldn't have pestered so many family members to Scrabble with me if I coulda joined a club.

Wait. Was middle school really twenty years ago?

Commenting on Comments

Hello, tens of readers. A humble request: if you comment, please don't do so anonymously. Apparently my rant about the silliness of fans (or former fans, I guess) filing an FTC complaint against Clay Aiken sparked a couple of comments. Hmph. I really need to evaluate my topics if a post about that dude gets more comments than most of my other posts.

Anyway...

I'm annoyed that I can't respond to these people. It's not that I would respond and point out where they might've misinterpreted what I wrote. But it's kind of a pain that I don't have the option. Eh, oh well. In the end, it's hard to take a comment seriously when the author isn't willing to own it.

New Rule #3

No one is allowed to say "She looks good for her age" any more. It is hereby stricken from the English lexicon. Well, it's stricken from mine, anyway.

My white-hot dislike of this phrase peaked while I was watching The Surreal Life 6 over the weekend (go ahead, cast your stones and raise your eyebrows). There's a moment when Florence Henderson steps over the transom of the kooky household, and many of the castmates stare in awe and shock. During their one-on-one snippets with the camera, pretty much every female (or on-the-way-to-becoming-female) castmate said something akin to, "Wow, she looks really good for her age."

What a backhanded compliment! It's like saying, "Wow, she looks good, but if she looked like that at thirty, then she'd be a total troll and we would all heap pity and plastic surgery coupons upon her."

I get the feeling that people tack on the "for her age" so that no one is confused about their ability to evaluate beauty. 'Cause if they just say she looks good, then the whole 'verse will think their physical ideals are outta whack.

Ooh, and this goes for, "She looks good for just having had a baby" too. People who say that need to be poked in the eye.

That is all.

I'll Show You! Well, Maybe Not.

Oh for pity's sake!, as mon père would say. The Claymates are filing a complaint with the FTC against Clay Aiken's label, manager, et. al. for misrepresenting his personality. They feel duped? Criminy. You should buy music because you like the MUSIC, not because you think the singer is a delightful, virginal young man. I mean, I guess that can be a bonus, sure, but it shouldn't be the sole rationale behind picking up a disc.

What's next? Are we going to complain about other people who "duped" us? Let's go tack a frowny face on Rock Hudson's tombstone. And let's not forget Ashlee Simpson; I mean, I totally thought she could sing before the Saturday Night Live debacle. Ooh, maybe Britney Spears isn't a sparklingly straightlaced young woman; jot her name down on the list. You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure that the Hollywood glitterati are as beautiful and handsome as they appear to be on the silver and small screens. You know what? Let's place ALL of the entertainers the world over on the FTC list, just to be safe. That'll teach ENTERTAINERS, people who get PAID to help us SUSPEND DISBELIEF, to lie through omission. Yep, they'll sure change their ways.

Puh-leeze. I just think that the 9 folks who signed the complaint are big dummies because (a) they didn't realize that Clay isn't the asexual dude he was "marketed" to be, (b) it matters to them that he might (horrors!) be a non-celibate gay man, and (c) they compare this brouhaha to Enron. ENRON! The company that caused rolling blackouts in California which resulted in who knows how many deaths! The company that ripped off investors! The company that blew up the pensions of thousands of employees!

Think maybe these folks are being a wee dramatic?

It Was Really Pretty When They Followed the Drinking Gourd

This past weekend, Hubby, my Friend and I went to Ocean City, MD for our annual St. Patty's Day weekend. We don't go because Ocean City is any kind of Irish epicenter for the big green holiday. But we've dubbed it a tradition so that we have a pre-planned getaway weekend. With little 'uns around, you need to draw a line in the sand somewhere (har har) so that you can actually get away.

Anyway, as you cruise to and from the beach via Route 50, you'll notice "Scenic Byway" signs dotting the road. One of them caught my eye this year that I hadn't noticed...it read, "Scenic Byway: The Underground Railroad." Wha-huh? When I hear the words, "Scenic Byway," I think, "Ah, this'll be a pretty drive for a lazy Sunday." When I hear the words, "Underground Railroad," I think, "What a tragic part of our national history that people of color had to risk life and limb under cover of night to escape to the northern states and gain their freedom." These are two notions that don't easily marry. Couldn't the state call it an "Historic Byway," or something like that? I'm just sayin', is all.

You Can Call Me Hon

"Hon" is a ubiquitous endearment in the greater Baltimore Metro area, so I take no offense if a perfect stranger, or perfectly strange acquaintance, dubs me such. Well, OK, I raise an eyebrow if the person doling out the "Hon" is a 16-year-old Denny's waitress. Still, though, it doesn't prickle.

But "Honey" and it's ilk ("Sweetie," "Sugar," "Pumpkin") are a different matter entirely. These nicknames are strictly limited to family and friends. Which means that the next time the guy behind the counter at the bakery calls me Sweetie, I may have to go all Julia Sugarbaker on him.

I refuse to appreciate the coincidence that the Sweetie-man is the cash register jockey at a bakery. Where I buy brownies. So there.

Ms. Washingtonienne Goes to Hollywood

Oh, for the love of all that's holy, Jessica Cutler's got a TV deal now too? Why, why, why is our nation celebrating and generously compensating a chick who proudly spilled the beans about her political booty calls? It used to be that we as a nation would fork over some cash to peruse the steamy memoirs of someone who was famous for SOMETHING ELSE AS WELL.

Honestly, are we so strapped for gossip that we'll make TV shows and movies about any celebutard who snags 15 minutes o'fame? If this were, say, ten years ago, I can't help but feel like this story would've been one of those sobering four-page "It happened to me, names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved" features in Cosmo. But alas, no. Now, these kinds of life experiences generate multimedia empires.

Yay for progress!

One tiny bit of consolation...her pseudo-eponymous book has plunged in Amazon.com's rankings to #33,281, whereas Moby Dick (the book to which I originally compared rankings back in June, 2005) is at #3,191. Cold comfort, eh?

Blog Numbers

I'm suffering through some blog blockage, so you get to suffer through some numeric goodness. Aren't you excited?

1: Number of people I've told about my blog

1: Sites that link to mine according to Google (which I think is wrong, since I know of 3)

1.31: Revenue (in dollars) earned since I installed Google AdSense (YESSSSSS! That dream house will soon be MINE!)

3: Times LtW has been featured on DC Blogs

3: Blogs that I check every day (DC Blogs, Harshing My Mellow, Miss Snark)

4: Friends of mine who blog (Matter-Eater Blog, A One Girl Revolution, All the Rage, She Who Must Be Obeyed), not including MySpace folks. Only 1 of them knows that I know that she blogs....kind of sounds like that Friends episode, eh?

10: Months that I've been blogging

17: Links that precede mine when you Google "Louder than Words"

24: % of visitors who stick around for more than 5 seconds

34: % of visitors from other countries

103: Posts (not including this one)

1,253: Value (in dollars) of my blog according to BlogShares

1,436: Visits to my site since I installed a counter

Hmph. Dunno if those numbers are good or bad. It's kind of like when you proudly blurt out your annual income, then realize that you're in the company of tycoons.

I figure if I actually told people about my blog, I'd have more hits. Since I use my real name, I'm not exactly in the blog closet. And I'm not tapping out any particularly salacious tales, so I'm not embarassed by what I'm sharing. Sheesh, if I weren't actually somewhat pleased with what I write, I'd use a pseudonym like "Danger Kitten" or something. I s'pose I opted to post under my real name to give my friends, family and co-workers the opportunity to stumble upon my ouevre.

But viewership is not the reason I started this, really. I'm not a megalomaniac who believes my particular take on the world must be read the world over. Well, not yet anyway.

Mostly, I'm an undisciplined writer who was looking for a way to open the floodgates of creativity while producing a visible result, some means of measuring my efforts. 'Cause lemme tell ya, when you fiddle around with writing novels, you don't have a really clear idea of how much progress you're making. As the metrics above indicate, I get numbers with this blog.

There are a couple of other nice benefits to the blog thing...

I've always wanted to journal to capture me in all my glory for all of posterity, but man alive, my hand cramps easily. Typing gets around the claw hand nicely.

My writing voice has improved, 'cause if other people are reading what I'm writing (even if it's only 10 of 'em), well, I feel the need to refine and proof like never before. Also, I permit myself to use unfiltered vocabulary and slang, rather than tailor my language to the audience. Little Bro once shared that he knows that I'm probably funny, but that my jokes (and lingo) are a little above his head. But when my readers are online, I can assume they are savvy enough to look up whatever they don't understand. And if my references are particularly obscure, I can link to source material that'll clarify my posts. Ever think that Dennis Miller should present his rants in blog form only? But I digress...

Last, but not least, my blogging efforts make me feel like a part of a writer's community, loosely bound as it is in the ether. Maybe I'll hie myself to one of those DC Blogger get-togethers in the near future...

So, yeah, I'll be keeping up with da blog, despite what the paucity of my posting indicates. If you've got any topic requests, lemme know, 'cause that'll help me avoid going down the numbers path again...

Strep Poker

Now that I have the ability to swallow without wincing, let's do a brief re-cap of the whole strep throat experience, shall we? (Gimme a break; since I was incapacitated for most of last week, I've precious few recent experiences to blog about).

My six readers know that the Boy went ten rounds with roseola and an ear infection two weeks ago, and his parents and grandparents spent the better part of those sicky days tending to a very unhappy toddler. As he felt better, though, I started feeling worse. And on Oscar Sunday I woke up in pain. Eh, whaddya gonna do? I self-diagnosed a change-of-season cold, went to work on Monday, and tried to convince myself that I was fine.

I kinda knew something was up when all I wanted to do was nap under my desk and my eyes were leaking like a broken water main.

Tuesday morning, I went to the doctor's around the corner from me. My master plan was to get there about 10 minutes before they opened 'cause it's one of those places that doesn't take appointments. But I was clearly delirious, because I went to the wrong shopping center. By the time I figured that little factoid out and hustled over to the correct shopping center, five other people had signed in before me. Those five people translated into a 45-minute wait to be seen by any medical professionals.

The only available magazine in the waiting room was an issue of Time that I'd already read cover to cover.

When my name was called, I followed the tiny Physician's Assistant to the cube where she took my vitals. My weight was down two pounds due to my inability to swallow anything thicker than broth. Then she led me to curtained exam room where she swabbed my nose and throat. Awesome. That's exactly what I wanted: to be jabbed in tender spots. During this swabbing frenzy, she chit-chatted about how she washes her hands like crazy. Maybe I'm sensitive, but I got the distinct impression she was hinting that the acres of white pus spots in my throat are a result of lax hand washing. Listen, my hands are STILL chapped from the umpteen times a day I scrubbed during the Boy's illness.

Then she shared that she will occasionally sniff water and spit it out to clear her nasal cavity of any bacteria that are thinking about setting up house. At that point, I decided I could stop listening to her advice. If I wanted to snort water, I'd plunk down some coin for a Neti pot.

She left to run the tests and see what they tell her about my ailments. Fifteen minutes later, the flu swab came back negative, and the strep swab came back inconclusive. So, Physician's Assistant-ette swabbed my throat a second time. Joy. Another fifteen minutes, and another negative result. Uh oh, what does that mean?

That means that mustachioed Mr. Dr. Man decided to send a throat culture out, because those tests are more reliable. I am then swabbed a third time. Mr. Dr. Man then says that if the throat culture also comes back negative (by Thursday or Friday), then I should come in to have a mononucleosis test done. Yipes! MONO? I'm THIRTY. And I'm not smooching anyone by Hubby, so mono seems very unlikely. To battle the unconfirmed strep, though, Mr. Dr. Man prescribed me some antibiotics and sent me home.

On the way, I drifted through the supermarket to pick up some sicky sore throat essentials: soup, pudding, throat lozenges, Thera-Flu. Unfortunately, the supermarket is remodeling and the ONE aisle that they hadn't totally restocked yet was the cold medicine aisle. Pickings were slim, and I had to knock a couple of clip boards and carboard boxes out of the way, but I managed to get everything and get home.

Cut to three days later. My throat is almost back to normal (hooray for antibiotics!), but my test results for strep still hadn't come in. During the Friday afternoon commute, I punched the doctor's office number into my cell phone so I could confirm that the test results were positive for strep. I mean, what else could it be? The symptoms fit, and the antibiotics were helping, which wouldn't be the case with a virus. But the nurse on the other line told me that the culture was negative too. Confound it!

So...my weekend kicked off with sitting in the doctor's office AGAIN, thumbing throught the dogeared copy of Time, and having blood drawn for a mono test which...drums please...came back NEGATIVE. A different doctor saw me this time and decided that my throat must have been crammed so full of pus that the strep test was negative because none of the strep bacteria had a chance of getting caught on the cotton swab.

Appetizing, eh? But I'm on my eighth day of antibiotics, and I am hale and hearty once again. 'Til the Boy dances with another childhood ailment, I guess.

Operator, Could You Please Connect This Call

Now that the Boy feels better, I've gotten smacked with strep throat. Poor Hubby. He traded one sick family member for another. Anyway, I've been riding the couch at home for the past two days. When you're home for a stretch of time, you start to notice things, like...

For the love of all that's holy, we get a lot of telemarketer calls! I guess I'm normally in and out of the house when I'm well, so I didn't notice it before. Here's a list of the phone numbers of companies trying to shill their services:

8:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
7:01 PM: XXX.585.6996
6:24 PM: XXX.952.3140
5:01 PM: XXX.688.1146
4:59 PM: XXX.342.4066
4:43 PM: XXX.910.3503
3:32 PM: XXX.204.1128
2:32 PM: XXX.821.0077
2:28 PM: XXX.585.6996
2:13 PM: XXX.324.4066
1:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
12:36 PM: XXX.213.0687
12:29 PM: XXX.458.3014
11:23 AM: XXX.588.4430

Ye gods! That's fourteen calls in nine hours! If I didn't have caller ID, I'd probably pick up the call and waste a couple of minutes each time saying thanks, but no thanks.

Right around call number ten, I decided to re-register on the National Do Not Call Registry. Charities, political hoo-ha, polling agents, and companies from which we've purchased services (ironically named "courtesy calls") will still get through.

But I can hang with (or hang *up* on) that.

Put on Your Mask, My Roseola

Let me just say that I think it's valid if you want to deduct quality points from this post since I'm taking poetic license with a Better than Ezra tune from about a million years ago.

A pox has descended on our house. Its a minor pox, but a pox nonetheless. That's right, the Boy has roseola. It's a lovely little virus whose hallmarks are:

1) Crazy high fever that spikes up to 104 degrees outta nowhere and lasts for 3 to 7 days, reducing pretty much only with the assistance of miracle drugs like baby Tylenol or Motrin;

2) Much anger and irritability in the toddler afflicted with the ailment (can you blame them?);

3) Mild diarrhea;

4) Swollen eyelids;

5) Lethargy/listlessness;

6) To cap it all off, when the fever breaks, he'll most likely develop a splotchy rash on his trunk, arms and legs. The saving grace of this last one is that it is apparently not itchy.

Know what the doctor's say to do? Dope him up with the Tylenol or Motrin as often as needed (while staying within the limits of the dosage directions), give him plenty of fluids, plenty of rest, and lukewarm sponge baths and/or cool compresses.

That's it.

Now, I know viruses need to run their course. But couldn't they just pretend and give me a placebo so that I felt like I was actually doing something for him? Thank goodness his grandparents drove the many, many miles to stay with us during the quarantine. I'm sure we'd be a sight if they hadn't -- Hubby and I are also fighting colds, but neither of us can really take time off of work right now, so I'm sure we make for a fabulously grumpy trio right now. The patience my in-laws have is unrivalled.

Oh, and did I mention that the Boy also has an ear infection?

Let the good times roll...

Sometimes You Kick, Sometimes You Get Kicked

INXS' music has served as the soundtrack of my life. Long before I was able to discern what was cool and what wasn't, they were a part of my collection because I liked the music for what it was. It didn't matter to me that a hottie sang their tunes. It didn't matter that critics and cheerleaders alike lauded their music, that they were a great equalizer of a band, much like the way U2 is today. It didn't matter that they oozed cool. I just liked the music.

"What You Need" was on my first mix tape, carefully crafted when I was 10. "Need You Tonight" was the only song that could get my painfully shy, 12-year-old self out on the floor. "Mediate" taught me who Bob Dylan was. "Never Tear Us Apart" was my first slow dance with a boy at age 13. Kick was the first album I copped from my older sister. "Live Baby Live" was the first concert album given to me at age 16, and was also the tape that I listened to when I drove to my first (brief) stint as an events intern at WBAL TV in Baltimore. In 1993, during the summer between high school and college, I caught the boys from Down Under at the HFStival at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC. When their Greatest Hits CD came out in 1994, I picked it up and played it at college parties 'til I almost wore a hole through it.

Then, in 1997, the year I graduated college, INXS' frontman, Michael Hutchence, died. Since then, I've been spinning the albums with regularity and not a little nostalgia, but I haven't really dwelled on the loss. Chapters of my life were closing all over the place, and his death, and what I thought was the death of INXS, dovetailed with that.

Cut to two weeks ago: I went to an INXS concert at the Tower Theater in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. If you're looking for a local comparison, the venue was akin to the Uptown Theater, except retro-fitted to host live musical acts. Not a stadium, sure, but not just a club show either.

See, my older brother called me up and said that he had two tickets to spare, so he invited me and the Hubby to come along. Problem is, we'd have to outsource the Boy to friends or family for an overnighter if we were going to zip on up to the outskirts of Philly for a concert. And since the Hubby is lukewarm about late eighties/early nineties pop music...well, we decided that I'd go it alone. The last concert I'd caught was the Erasure show at the 9:30 Club in June, so I was itching to see some live music.

As much as I was looking forward to mixing with the general pop fan population, though, I was a little apprehensive. For me, Michael Hutchence was INXS. His mug enjoyed the most screen time in their videos, his hair inspired many a young lad to grow luscious wavy locks, his voice was the telltale sign that the music piping through your car radio was part of the INXS discography. I don't mean to play down the fact that the band, musically, really belongs to Kirk Pengilly, the Farris Brothers (Andrew, Tim, and Jon), and Garry Beers. But all of my teen and tween friends plunked down their babysitting earnings for INXS tapes 'cause of Michael Hutchence.

So why, then, did I nearly cry during the opening salvo of "Suicide Blonde," their first ditty of the evening? Why didn't I cheer at the rebirth of this band that had surreptitiously, inextricably entwined itself with my wonder years?

I can only offer an analogy to explain. For me, it was like seeing a widower whom I love dearly remarried to a very nice woman after a really respectable amount of time had passed since the death of his first wife, whom I also loved dearly. I'd be deliriously happy that he gets to partake of the sweetness of love and partnership once again, but I'd mourn the first wife all over again.

I looked around at the crowd to see if I could glimpse anyone else going through the same Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions. But in a darkened concert hall, you can't exactly read feelings easily, so I let it go and sat back to try to enjoy the concert without overthinking it.

INXS 2.0 is now fronted by Canadian singer J.D. Fortune. For what it's worth, he was adopted into the band via Rock Star: INXS, a reality TV show that aired last summer on CBS and VH1. It doesn't matter how he came to be a part of INXS, though. He's good, and clearly deserves to be there. I didn't watch the TV show, so I didn't know what to expect of him. Older Brother, who was addicted to the show, shared that J.D. has always been a superfan of the group. That's an interesting factoid 'cause alot of times it seems like J.D. channeled Michael Hutchence. I can't tell if J.D. performs like that because he thinks that's what the fans want, or if it's because he idolized Michael Hutchence so much that he can't help but sing and prance like him. Despite that niggling thought, I really enjoyed his performance. Dunno if that's 'cause I want to be aurally fooled or what, but I liked it.

I know I'll listen to their new tunes on the radio. I may even pick up a CD. But will I let this new incarnation into my life again? Eh, probably.

Dental Damn

You know that your dental visit was not a good one when your dentist schedules your next four appointments before you leave. And those four appointments all take place within the next three months.

Looking for Lloyd in All the Wrong Places

This WaPo article sums up the feelings of virtually every chica I know. Cameron Crowe and John Cusack, with one simple little movie, forever altered women's perceptions of attainable love. We got all the gooey feelings of a bodice ripper without the gothic setting. Romance, not lust, for the teen generation. Some (like Chuck Klosterman) would insist that Say Anything actually ruined the romantic expectations of women born between 1968 and 1977. I disagree, 'cause I found my Lloyd. And you know what? It's everything it's cracked up to be.

Valentine's Gift Ideas

It's my experience that there's almost as much value in knowing what not to do as there is in knowing what one ought to do. So...I present to the world (and by world I mean the U.S., Canada, Mexico, the U.K., France, and Australia, where the holiday is celebrated) the top four gifts men should not to buy for their sweeties on Valentine's Day. These gifts have actually been given to friends of mine to celebrate the day...

There are two caveats to this list:

1) If the object of your affection has explicitly requested one of the items below, by all means, fulfill her wishes. But if she didn't...well, she can't be held responsible for her reaction.

2) This un-guide is for significant others only. If you're a parent, or a friend, or a sibling, some of the items below are just ducky.

Here we go...

1) Exercise equipment and/or a gym membership.
This is tantamount ot saying, "You're looking a little plump, so here's a tool that can help you out with that." She may have expressed her generic desire to join a gym, or go leaping like a Gazelle. However, that doesn't mean she wants you to passively agree with her on this topic during the highest of romantic holy days.

2) Domestic appliances/aprons/cookbooks.
She may love to cook, and to try out new new recipes. But anything with the KitchenAid logo stamped on it should not be given on Valentine's Day. "Here honey," says the man proffering an appliance, "let me help you feed me better." Nice.

3) Gift cards.
I know, I know, it seems like it's a good way to go. But it's so impersonal! Gift cards are an awesome thing for Christmas, or birthdays. Know why? 'Cause these are occasions when an individual is probably receiving multiple gifts, from multiple people, and the gift card allows her to pick up that one special something that she'd had her eye on, but didn't receive. And she gets to shop, which is always a bonus. But a Valentine's Day gift is supposed to reflect how you feel about her. And if you go the gift card route, you're saying, "I know you like this store, but it would've taken me a really long time to pick out something you liked, so I'll just let you go ahead and buy yourself somethin' nice instead." Think about it. Gift cards = money (sure, money you can only spend in one place, but money all the same). Would you give your girlfriend/fiancée/wife cold hard cash to show her that you appreciate her love? Probably not...

4) Nothing.
Listen, even if you both agreed that money is tight, and that you won't get each other anything, you should still give her a card. It doesn't matter if it's crafted out of construction paper and crayons. Tangibility is what counts here, folks.

The truth is, there is no silver bullet for this Valentine's Day gift-giving hoo-ha. (And no, that doesn't mean you should run out and buy a silver bullet.) You just need to know your partner, and the gift needs to show that you were thinking about her when you weren't actually sitting next to her. That you know stuff about her. Does she like theater? Get her tickets to a show. Does she like lazy Sunday mornings? Comfy pajamas and breakfast in bed. Has she been singing a song over and over and over again? Buy the CD. Has her car been acting up? Take it in to have it serviced. Does she despise laundry? Wash it for her. Does she want to go out to dinner? Book the babysitter yourself.

And I'm all about equal opportunity, ladies. Valentine's Day should not be a one-way street. You gotta show him the love, too. Don't visit the Snap-On truck unless he said that's what he wanted. Get the video game he wanted, even if you think it's silly. Go see the movie he wants, even if it's Jerry Bruckheimer explode-o-rama. You could even (and I'm just spitballin' here) watch a sporting event with him, without asking questions.

You don't need to be extravagant...just thoughtful. Think O. Henry, not Donald Trump.

Silver Linings

Since I can be a wee vain with regard to my scripted wit, I like to poke around in previous posts and fawn all over my handiwork. Thing is, though, I've noticed a pattern in the things I choose to write about. Mostly, my entries stink of negativity. I gripe and vent about neighbors, advice, friends...you name it, I've written about it with a decidedly snarkalicious slant.

Why? I don't consider myself a glass-half-empty kind of person. In fact, I consider myself a cup-runneth-over kind of person: great husband, happy son, solid friends, good job, supportive family (both in blood and in marriage). Trumpeting my joy in those facets of my life seems a bit bragadocious, though, so I don't do it. But why go the extreme other way and focus on quotidien irritations? It's cathartic, sure. But that's not the sum total of why I lean that way on this blog...

The answer, I think, lies in the craft of writing. At the heart of every story, comedic or dramatic, is conflict. Without conflict, there's no story. Let's face it: without conflict you've basically got a greeting card. And those are designed to be interesting for about the thirty seconds it takes to read one. Me, I'd like a little more staying power than that.

That doesn't mean that each story, though, needs to be punctuated with a "Wah-wah-wah, doesn't that stink?" sentiment. That's my challenge to myself: to attempt to document things that are interesting, are rife with conflict, but are not simply outlines of my personal annoyances.

Oof. This could be rough.

Who ARE You?

A coupla days ago, a friend and I were lamenting the recent dissolution of Z104. Not that I listened to the pop music mecca all that often, but I like the idea of a little variety in the airwaves. And blech, not variety stations. There's just something wrong about following up Gorillaz with Phil Collins. If I want to hear what the tweens are groovin' on these days, dadgumit, I don't want to have to log onto the internet or subscribe to satellite radio to find it.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, we were lamenting. Because of phenomenally bad reception within the District, my friend pointed out that she only gets about three stations clearly, and only two of them play music during the morning commute. No stranger to the travails of the morning drive in the Metro area, I empathized in a big way. We were feeding off of the commiseration, so I decided to one-up my friend, and complain that of the two stations that actually spin some tunes, one of 'em is Mix 107.3, home of The Jack Diamond Morning Show. I think I may have punctuated that sentence with "Yuck" or a gagging noise of some ilk.

My friend blinks at me, slowly, and says, "I like Jack Diamond. He and his crew seem like they are pretty warm, caring people."

It's like I'd been hit with a stun gun. I guess you could say I was stunned. She likes Jack Diamond? JACK DIAMOND? I'm a big believer in chacun à son goût and everything, but only if I have a glimmer of an insight as to why an entertainer might be to your goût. Jack Diamond uses the goopy, ululating radio voice. Jack Diamond is fakey sweet to the show's guests. He discusses topics that I don't think anyone really cares about ("Do you say hello to your boss out of the office when you've got some out-of-control kids in tow?"). Nothing about the guy's style has ever appealed to me (I'm sure he's really worried about it, too).

But I'm not here to exclaim just how deeply unimpressed I'm colored by Mix 107.3's morning crew. The fact that someone with whom I think I share all kinds of taste actively likes the, um, entertainment he's broadcasting into the ether has knocked me for a loop. How can our interests be so divergent? Yes, yes, variety's the spice of life, but I believe my distaste for the guy is a measurable part of my hipster quotient.

Will more differences of opinion surface, cicada-style, to surprise me decades into a friendship? Will I suddenly find out that another friend thinks that Barbie is a good role model for girls? Or that the Monkees rock harder than the Beatles? Or that Gus van Sant's Psycho improved upon the original?

Don't get me wrong; it's not like I'm going to start divesting myself of relationships based on these trivialities. I'm not that shallow (wink).

The Toy Chest Is Closed

I hadn't outted Palisades Toys specifically as the company that laid me off in December because I didn't want to impact the future sale, merger, rebranding, or sundry other directions the company might have taken. For those kids out there who are bitter that they weren't kept in the loop during the troubles, please know that informing you of every step would've potentially messed up any deals in the works. So everything had to be played close to the vest, and that meant keeping ya'll in the dark. To quote Michael Corleone, "It's not personal, Sonny. It's strictly business."

But now that the owners have sent out this statement and it's all over the Palisades Toys message board, there's no harm in naming names now.

Not that I have anything bad to say, actually. The folks that I worked with there were the best, and I miss the goofiness that was part and parcel of the workday. Honestly, I was only there about four months, so I'm not a part of the core group that will be sorely missed by the rabid (in a good way) fans. Should any of them happen upon this missive of mine, you should know that while Palisades didn't openly communicate everything that was going on to the fan base, the Horns handled the dissolution of their life's work with grace, and honesty, and integrity. Did it stink looking for a new job in January? Yep. But it's nothing compared to having to close the doors on your own company. So if you want to dissect the way everything went down, and play Monday morning quarterback, feel free. I have my doubts that you could have done any better with the hand they were dealt.

As I sit in a cube at my new job site, one that's equally interesting but not nearly as glamourous (I mean, I'm not walkin' around with swords or anything), I have nothing but good thoughts about the Palisades Experience, and I wish those that I met during that time the best.

One Third of My Lovely Lady Lumps

Disclaimer: Dudes will probably not want to read this as this post leans a little yonic. If you are of the male persuasion, I can't guarantee this'll resonate. It may even make you feel a little icky afterward. Consider yourself forewarned.

Yesterday was D-Day: the annual trip to the OB/GYN to make sure everything south of the border is working properly. You'd think that I'd be a wee less apprehensive about the exam after 10 years of annual visits. Not to mention that I was a little, um, exposed to about 15 strangers during the whole childbirth experience. Basically, I've made peace with the fact that it's just one of those things I have to do as a responsible adult woman, like paying bills on time and popping calcium supplements.

My doctor is a tiny woman. A teeny tiny woman. Every time I go to visit her, she tells me that I need to lose weight. One time she said, "You should not try to gain any more weight." Um, I wasn't exactly trying to gain the poundage that I have. It's just that living a sedentary lifestyle has resulted in my hourglass figure transforming into a different kind of glass figure...say, a beer stein.

Like a ninny, I scheduled this appointment three weeks after the holidays. So I know I'm packing an extra pound or five in addition to the extras I've already been lugging around. To compensate, I dressed "light." I actually held my clothes before getting dressed to determine which outfit weighed less. Obviously I was gonna kick off my shoes before climbing onto the scale, but they don't request you to strip. And since the scale's in the hallway leading to the exam rooms, it wouldn't exactly be appropriate.

The breezy outfit didn't help, though. I stepped onto the scale, and the physician's assistant moved the blocky metal weights up the bar. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Oh, yuck. Not a good number. I am hovering at a pregancy weight number. This is not what I am supposed to weigh when all I'm carrying around is me.

After the weigh-in, I stripped off the appropriate articles of clothing, draped myself with a gigantic purple paper towel thingamajig, and climbed on the table. The doctor entered, we exchanged some pleasantries, she performed the exam, and told me to meet her in her office after I've dressed. Gulp. As I zipped, buckled, and buttoned up, I thought I might be off the hook vis-a-vis a weight lecture. Why? Well, part of my exam chit-chat was telling Dr. Tiny that I've begun an exercise regime (which is true), and she applauded me.

I go into her office, and she asked me how tall I am. I gave her the number, tacking on an extra half an inch for good measure. She scratched a couple of numbers onto a pad of paper, looked up at me and said, "Someone your height should weigh X. So you should really lose about 40 or 50 pounds." Good Lord, 50 POUNDS! She might as well have told me to grow another foot.

And then she sent me on my way without so much as a leaflet as to how I'm supposed to shed nearly a third of my mass. And I know I'm being coy about my actual weight, but the mathletes among you can figure out what I weigh based on all the algebraic clues I've given you.

Truth be told, I'm all good with losing weight. Post-New Year's, I've cut out a whole lotta dairy, sugar, and refined flour. And I've been movin' and shakin' a lot more. So I'm on my way. Maybe not to me minus 50 pounds, but I'm on my way.

Questions a Man Should Never Ask a Woman

One of my fellow DC bloggers, A Circle Has Too Much Symmetry, recently posted questions a woman should never ask a man. Yep, I've been guilty of many of those. Don't know what the compulsion is to seek verbal reassurance about my bee-yoo-tee, but I've capitulated a time or two. Or twenty.

Anyway...

In the spirit of equality, I thought I'd throw out a coupla questions men should never ask a woman:

1) How much do you weigh?
I don't care if you're filling out medical paperwork or are just trying to outguess the carnie at the State Fair. Unless you want to walk away from that question with a blackened eye, don't ask it.

2) How many boyfriends have you had?
Why? Am I dating them now? No? Just you? Then what does it matter?

3) What color is this?
If you can't tell what color your suit is, you shouldn't have bought a navy one and a black one. Go for crazy different colors or pin notes to the inside collar. Don't rely on me to be your personal spectrometer.

4) Does this match?
Coordinating men's clothes is not difficult. Here's a key:

- Khaki matches everything.
- Jeans match everything.
- Black matches everthing.

Pair something that falls in this category with something that falls in that "confusing" category. Don't go for broke and pair two "confusing" things together. You will be wrong, and I will need to dissociate at the party.

5) You're just like your Mom.
Okay, technically, this is not a question. But I like men, and would like to save them from involuntarily becoming a eunuch, so I thought I'd go ahead and include it. Look, women all KNOW that they will, in some ways, become their mother. Thing is, the tussle between Oedipus and his Papa was a minor misunderstanding compared to the slow burning push and pull that exists between mothers and daughters. The struggle's all based in love, sure, but for a dude to offer unrequested commentary on it will only result in pain. HIS pain.

6) Are these dirty?
Hmmm...let me whip out my chemistry set and test the dishes/clothes/whatever for ickiness. Sheesh. It's a basic human skill to be able to discern whether or not a plate is hosting a bacteria buffet.

7) Does this fit?
This is the male equivalent of "Do I look fat in this?" Per Circle, if you have to ask, you probably won't like the answer. So, no, the jeans that you wore in college that you just found in an old footlocker do NOT fit.

8) How much did that cost?
We know that when you ask this, you are actually saying, "I don't think that was a necessary purchase, and unless it was free, it was a waste." If you don't think I'm capable of making intelligent decisions as a consumer, then take away my ability to pay for stuff, 'cause that's the honest way to deal with this situation. And, for the record, clothes are not a waste. Clothes help boost self-esteem. And a woman with a decent sense of self-esteem is much more pleasant to be around.

9) Why do we need to clean?
I know that you nick-named the orange film that grew in your shower in your bachelor-pad, but I'm not interested in becoming an eyewitness to the potential evolution of a sentient being. Just trust me on this, pull on the rubber gloves, and pick up a johnny brush. It's a brave new world.

10) Why should I go to the doctor/dentist?
'Cause I don't want you to fall apart at 35. Women have it beaten into their heads that they need to have their lady parts checked out at least once a year, and since said lady parts seem to be in decent working order, it seems like it's a good practice for other parts, too. And what's good for the goose is good for the gander, mister. And can you imagine the unholy wrath I will unleash upon you if you develop a condition that was completely preventable? So ask yourself...do you feel lucky? Do ya, punk?

Residential Townhome Parking Lot Etiquette

The people who SHOULD read this post, of course, won't ever see it. But I'll feel better for having written it. Deep breath...

I live in a townhouse community that is, for the most part, quite lovely. Quiet, wooded, yet accessible to all of the modern conveniences of an urban setting. The location of my home couldn't be better for me and the boys.

Some of the neighbors' manners, however, leave a little to be desired. Today's post will focus on parking etiquette.

#1: Don't park more than 2 of your cars in the spaces close to the houses.
We have 2 parking lots -- an upper one, which is close to houses, and a lower one, which is located somewhere in the vicinity of Siberia. There are enough spaces in the upper lot for each house to park 2 or 3 cars regularly. The spaces in my development are unassigned, which I love, 'cause guests don't have to park in Siberia or run the risk of being towed when they visit chez Vaughan. But one of our neighbors mucks the whole thing up by parking no fewer than 5 cars in the upper lot. There are two commercial vehicles (he's a plumber by trade, I think), a minivan, a sporty sedan, and a junker driven by one of the teenage children. The end result is that I often need to carry my tyke from Siberia to my house so that Mr. Plumber's hulking van can rest close to his abode.

#2: Park in a space, not in back of my car!
So, I outlined how we occasionally enjoy a parking crunch. But some jokers have taken to double-parking rather than hoof it from Siberia. Even if someone's in the car with the motor running, I still think it's silly rude to block in other people when there are available spots about 40 feet away (Okay, some hyperbole was involved when I called the lower parking lot 'Siberia.')

#3: For the love of God, stop BEEPING for people.
It's winter. It's chilly. I get it. But when you blast your horn to get the attention of someone inside one of the thirty homes in my neighborhood, well, it's just rude. You might think it's no biggie. But you don't know if people work nights and sleep during the day, or if children or napping, or if there are dogs that are sensitive to noise. I can almost let the teenagers who do this slide and don't know any better. But Mr. Plumber, you're an adult! What are you teaching your children if you just keep beeping for them to come out to the car?

#4: Please teach your children to get out of the way of cars if they are playing catch, or football, or roller hockey in the parking lot.
Um, I don't think that this one needs any explanation.

Phew. I feel better. Silly complaints in the grand scheme of things, but when I'm paying a hefty homeowner's association fee, I feel like I oughta live in a gripe-free zone.

Going Commercial

Well, not so much commercial as "Ad Sense." My six fans will note that I've gone the shameful route of installing ad links to m'blog. Apparently, you can net some serious dollars doing this. Like, almost ten bucks a month. It's a cash cow, I tells ya!

Thing is, if you've been reading about my travails of late, you know that I am UNEMPLOYED, and that I am looking for creative solutions to the cash crunch. Certainly, this won't close the gap (cripes, if it did, why would I be going on another follow-up interview today?), but why not earn a little pool of cash for lattes?

New Rule #2

Mr. Mail Carrier delivered my monthly BMG envelope o'junk. I'm not totally sure why they are the "Bertelsmann Music Group" if you can order miscellanea like t-shirts, shot glasses, and calendars. Offering these items would make sense if these items were exclusively emblazoned with a pantheon of rock gods. Last time I checked, Brooke Burke had zip to do with music.

But I digress.

The offer this month is buy one CD, get three free. Since I'm a sucker for freebies, I popped open the catalog to see whether or not there were four CDs I wanted to add to my collection.

Perusing my options, I was surprised by the number of artists shilling a greatest hits/best of album. Thus New Rule #2 was born: a music artist must have at least five top 10 hits to warrant a greatest hits album, or they should be sued for false advertising. I'm lookin' at you, Ace of Base (they think they made the cut with 5 hits, but they listed "Beautiful Life" TWICE). You too, Animotion. And don't think I didn't see your ouevre purporting to be a greatest hits album, Rick Astley.

Did you notice something, Gentle Reader? The artists I've listed above are all listed under "A." Yep, I didn't have the stomach to work my way through the remaining 25 letters of the alphabet.

Good grief. I clearly need to get a job.

Don't Call Me Lloyd; Call Me Elise Keaton

(image courtesy of TV Show Central)

During my current job search, I've decided not to limit myself to a new incarnation of positions I've already had. In other words, I'd like to flex my brain muscle a bit, to stretch and to grow on the job. And I'm smart enough to know that I'm no career expert. So, when I logged into my Monster.com account yesterday, I decided to plunk down a couple of dollars to purchase the "Right Job Report" from Tickle. I answered about 20 questions about my preferences, my decision-making styles, etc. My expectation was that the report would provide me with a bare bones analysis of the kinds of environments I'd thrive in, and then provide some job titles that would fit neatly within those environments.

Well, the report did do that...sort of. Here are the jobs the report suggested:

1) Architect

2) Psychologist

3) Chemist

4) Airplane Pilot

5) Flight Engineer

6) Veterinarian

Cripes! All of those occupations look fabulous, but I'm looking for a job to commence in the next 2 weeks, people! I don't have oh, I don't know, 4 - 8 years of education to invest in my next career move. This report just left me feeling like I'm a dummy for not having done an evaluation like this when I was sixteen.

Phew. Just needed to get that off my burgeoning Flight Engineer's chest.

On the Front Page of the WashingtonPost.com?

Listen, I'm not saying that my curiosity wasn't piqued. And obviously I clicked on the link. But on the front page of WaPo.com? Where are the standards, people!?! This shouldn't be front page news. Well, maybe it should if you're the National Enquirer, or Perez Hilton. But not the Washington Post.

Ahem. That is all.

Call Me Lloyd

My 14-year-old self should have paid more attention to the ethos of the inimitable Lloyd Dobler:

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

Everyone Who Has a Job after Christmas Take One Step Forward...Not So Fast, MCV

Yep, I got the old pink slip. Not the frothy confection you see above. I just included that 'cause I thought it was funny. Nope, after four months of glorious work at a fun company, I'm now part of the proud 5% of unemployed Americans. Huzzah.

There had been rumblings since the beginning of December. But the official word finally came down on December 16th, and December 23rd was my last day. I wasn't the only one who got the boot. The company I worked for pretty much cut everyone loose. Everyone, that is, except for a skeletal operations crew. There's no ill will toward the owners of the company or anything, but I do wish there'd been some kind of severance so that I had some kind of cushion. Eating into savings and credit card limits makes me feel icky.

I think I'm doing all of the right things, though none of them are particularly pleasant. I filed for unemployment on Christmas Day (ah, the delicious irony of that), but because of some bureaucratic blah blah blah, my benefit will be delayed a little bit. It's a pittance compared to what I earned, but at least it's something.

Since we returned from a wonderful family Christmas visit in the 'burbs of Cleveland, my job has been finding a job. Through networking and other traditional means, I've applied to about six different positions and have already gone on one interview. It wasn't a particularly thrilling one, and it's firmly ensconced in the world of administration. Which brings to mind the whole question of what direction I want my career to take...creative production or administration? I'd prefer the former, but I'm really good at the latter. I don't want to make any decisions in a vacuum, but if it's between paying my utility bills and feeling creatively challenged, I'm going to have to go with whatever keeps the lights on.

The above couple of paragraphs have been a regurgitation of factoids and timelines. It's not like I have a lot of distance since I'm still mired in this whole joblessness thing, but I'm kind of surprised at the emotional impact this whole experience has had on me. I got my lay-off letter (which was not, in fact, pink) the same say that me and Hubby and the Boy flew outta Dodge for the holidays. So, my absorption of this info was placed on pause, in effect.

But after New Year's, and after Hubby wended his way to the office for the first time in 2006, I was left home to scour the 'net for job opportunities. And it's a little bit crushing. There are no immediately appealing jobs posted on Monster.com, Sunspot.net, WashingtonPost.com, CareerBuilder.com, USAjobs.gov, Craigslist.com, or any of the sundry companies' websites I've checked out. I keep telling myself that it's just the beginning of January, and that most companies don't look to hire right now because key decision-makers are still celebrating Hogmanay in some remote corner of the country. I'm trying to leverage my network of gainfully employed people, but that gets weird. I'm sure these folks would be willing to help me, but I don't want them to feel like I'm using them. And I wonder, too, if I wouldn't feel a little slimy for having gained entrance to an interview through a backdoor.

I guess I wanted to find jobs that I want to do, instead of those that I simply could do. I wanted employers, mere minutes after I sent in my resume, to call me and bend over backwards to bring me in for an interview. I have an ego, people. I'll admit it. In all of my jobs, I've been told what a wonderful addition I am, that I can handle any problem that's lobbed my way, that I am, to quote a co-worker, "the best argument for human cloning." Suffice it to say, I am pretty confident in the value I would bring to any conference table.

But I'd have to prove that all over again. It wouldn't be taken as given. Of course, I'm willing to roll up my sleeves and do that. But not for a job that doesn't stoke my passions and interest.

Not only that, but my resume does not look like a neat, logical staircase of experience. I was in marketing, veered off into admin, then jumped back to sales and marketing. These are not job fields that can be married easily in someone's imagination. Anyone who takes a look will see that I can do a little bit of everything, but may need some guidance in translating it to his job opening.

The other thing that's rankling me is the advice of friends and family. I absolutely, completely, 100% understand that it's coming from a vasty deep pocket of love. But that doesn't make it any less, ehrm, frustrating.

More than a few people have asked me, "Didn't your company know they were in trouble?" How am I supposed to answer that? If they did know they were in trouble when they hired me, then they are dishonest. If they didn't know they were in trouble, then they are stupid. And I chose to work for people who are dishonest or stupid, or possibly both. Why on EARTH would I want to participate in that conversation?

One of my sisters has worked for the same place for 20+ years. Yes, she's made hiring decisions for a lot of people. And yes, she's applied for loads of internal jobs. But when you come down to it, she hasn't had to do the kind of job search I'm currently fumbling through. Yet I get questions like, "Have you looked at Monster.com?" That's the 21st century equivalent of asking me if I've looked at the "Help Wanted Section." Of course I have!

And a friend of mine, God love her, has been sending me Admin Assistant jobs. Obviously, I know that my job experience isn't easily classified. And I'm not ungrateful, or looking down upon Admin Assistants. But I need and want something more. It's like sending an unemployed doctor a vacancy announcement for a medical records clerk. It's in the same arena, but it's not the best use of my particular skills. When I gently, kindly indicate that I'm not interested in this job or that company for fairly valid reasons, I get a very distinct, "Beggars can't be choosers" vibe.

Ooh, and the inevitable, "You could just temp for a while." Um, no I couldn't. There's no stability in temping. There's loads of travel in temping. And there's not a lot of pay in temping. The max I've seen is $15 an hour for temps who aren't in highly specialized (i.e, IT, biotech, etc.) areas. That comes to about $600 a week gross. My unemployment benefit will be a little more than half that. And will allow me to continue searching for a job that I want, instead of one that just meets our collective family financial need. Why not strive for both?

I'll admit, I'm being overly sensitive about this one. Like I said, I know it's all coming out of love and my friends and family are just looking out for me, wanting to make sure that I've examined every possibility. But having unasked for advice unloaded on me makes me feel like my job hunting efforts are being perceived as, ahem, lacking.

Sidenote: If I don't have seriously interesting job offer by the end of next week, I'm going to post my resume here. Maybe it'll turn into one of those cyberspace phenomena, like SaveKaryn.com or something?

Blah. Back to looking for a job that's close to home, pays $25+ per hour, doesn't demand night and weekends or loads of travel, and is accomodating to people with small children. Ooh, and also involves left and right brain activity. If you've got one of those in your hiring roster, lemme know.

Starbucksian Communication

Twice this past weekend, I visited Starbucks for post-Christmas-shopping infusions of caffeinated goodness. As I stood in the line snaking its way through the tiny coffeehouse, the background noise of the joint washed over me...A Charlie Brown Christmas playing on the sound system...the furious tock-tock-tock of a laptop keyboard...a child whining for a shortbread cookie. And, of course, the cashier shouting a coffee orders to the barrista, and the barrista repeating the orders back to the cashier.

I placed my order for a ridiculously unhealthy seasonal drink using no fewer than four adjectives, then stood in coffee limbo. The barrista was flipping bottles and pots and cups this way and that, fulfilling the orders, and placing the end results in the customer pick-up area. As the name of each concoction was called out, somehone happily stepped up to the counter, plucked up their coffee, and headed out the door.

Given this high degree of success...shouldn't relationships use this same method of communication? If I say to my husband, "Honey, could you wash the Boy's laundry?" and he says, "Washing the Boy's laundry!" then I KNOW he heard me. Same goes for folks at work. Too often, people absorb information without acknowledging that they heard it. So person #1 assumes she wasn't heard. At best, you're potentially duplicating efforts. At worst, you've got total inaction because one person thinks a chore is being done, and the other person doesn't realize that anything needs to be done.

Hmph. Perhaps too much coffee was consumed before I posted this.

Celebrities We Most Resemble

Yesterday I sneaked a peek at the new Curious George trailer and realized that if someone were going to draw a cartoon monkey version of my son, it'd look like this. Do you know how odd it is to see your child in cartoon monkey form?

Then, for kicks, I went here and found out that the celebrity I most resemble is...Monica Lewinsky? Really? My husband scored Yehuda Levi. Methinks he got the better bargain.

Long Live CostCo

'Cause nothing expresses eternal love and respect like discounted afterlife goods.

Toys = Terrifying Political Statement

(Photo by AP)

Can't say I've ever been a a fan of that sideburnless wonder, Governor Ehrlich. In addition to loads of social policies that stink, he put forth legislation that would allow the installation of slot machines at a race track that's a stone's throw from my house in Laurel. I'm thinking that state-sanctioned gambling wouldn't really do much for the joint. Even though the bill was squashed, I'm sure that'll it'll be reintroduced if he's re-elected.

But I digress...

Though I desperately want to believe that the man's underhanded, I admit that evidence is hinky that he and his minions actually created a "Death List" of state gubment employees to oust from service. As is my tradition, though, I'm not really interested in the political falderal. Rather, I'd like to grab onto a silly detail to dissect:

Another aide, Joseph Steffen, kept Grim Reaper and Darth Vader figurines on his desk. "People were actually terrified of him," Burgess said.

PEOPLE! When you print that people were terrified of an individual, you've gotta cite more than the toys that are on his desk. Darth Vader is the antagonist in cultish kids movies, and I'm willing to bet my left eye that the Grim Reaper figure is "Death" from Family Guy. These are not toys that should inspire fear. Busts of Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Josef Mengele...these are items that should inspire fear. Darth Vader and Death? Mock Joseph Steffen; don't fear him.

I should know. Optimus Prime, Vanity Smurf, and Master Shake adorn my workspace. I wonder if anyone's tiptoeing around me that I don't know about?

Year in Review

Another blog I peek at daily suggested an easy way to re-cap the year: clip the first sentence from the first post of each month. Let's see what we come up with, shall we?

- 05/05: Since the birth of my child ten months ago, I have come to realize that I would have made an excellent member of the U.S. Army.

- 06/05: So, the boy has six teeth now.

- 07/05: A humble request: if you're on a crowded Metro line (shout out to the red line toward Silver Spring) and you can reach the horizontal hand rail that runs along the top the car, please please please use it instead of hanging onto the vertical poles like a lazy stripper.

-08/05: About eleventy-seven million people have already dissected the silliness of vanity plates, so I'm not going to analyze why people would choose to pay the Man an extra $25 annually to maintain an inscrutable acronym/phrase/word on their cars.

-09/05: Not sure what I think about the device in this article.

-10/05: Looking around, it's a pretty common thing for bloggers to hem and haw about their lack of posting.

-11/05: Last weekend, I was visiting my in-laws in North Carolina.

-12/05: I picked up my new glasses last night.

I've clearly gotta work on kicking my opening lines up a notch.

XXX Baptism

This past weekend was jam-packed with activities (big shocker in December, eh?). The busy-ness was not exclusively tied to Christmas, though. My friend's daughter was baptized yesterday, so now she's officially clean of original sin and all that jazz. It was an appropriate day for the sacrament in the liturgical calendar, too, since the gospel was all about John the Baptist. So, the entire mass was a neat little package of thematic tie-ins. Well...until the homily.

The priest chose this mass, THIS BAPTISM MASS during ADVENT, to explain to the congregation that gadgety Christmas gifts like computers, iPods, Blackberries, and Sidekicks, are potential gateways to pornography. I swear, he must've said the word "pornography" about a dozen times during his six minutes in the pulpit.

Now, I totally understand that as a shepherd to his flock, this priest feels called to warn his parish of possible corruption of its children through seemingly innocent channels. Got it. But during a BAPTISM? Sheesh. It's not like it was a surprise that fresh little babes were going to be doused with chrism and water. It was on the schedule at least six weeks ago, possibly more. Mixing internet porn with the vision of chubby babies clad in white didn't really work for me.

Again, I say sheesh. This almost as, uh, "good" as the homily during a friend's wedding when the priest chose to impart the tale of missionary nuns who had been raped and murdered in China.

Pluralism Inaction

I'd originally written a whole huge diatribe on why this card is silliness personified...er, cardified. But I think the WaPo article does that in a very polite way, ticking off the reasons that the President can't send out foil-stamped Nativity scenes to every single one of his 1.4 million close, personal friends.

So what I'm going to list are the top 10 things I think William A. Donohue ought to worry about:

1) Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan;
2) Russia is selling surface-to-air missiles to Iran;
3) North Korea broke off nuclear non-proliferation talks;
4) The Bush Administration is claim the economy's on the rebound by quoting expansion numbers without revealing how the numbers compare to the pre-Bush Administration economy;
5) AIDS infection rates in Africa continue to soar;
6) Four people have now been diagnosed with Avian Flu;
7) Jessica Simspon appears to have cheated on Nick Lachey (repeatedly);
8) Donald Rumsfeld aparently tinks that sldiers don't have to stop torture, they just need to let someone know it's happening;
9) Over a thousand inmates have been executed since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977;
10) Michael Brown is starting a disaster-preparedness consulting firm (no, really, I'm not making that up).

Call me Little Mary Sunshine. Anyway, I'm not saying all of these problems are as solveable as HolidayGate, but come on. Tack your card up on the wall, and get some perspective.

Never Liked Chicken Soup, Never Will

I keenly know my place in the spectrum of lauded writing. It goes something like this:

1) Big Press/Hardcover
2) Big Press/Trade Paperback
3) Small Press and/or Literary Magazine
4) Self-Publishing
5) School Literary Journal
6) Fan Fiction
7) Blogging

Note that we go from "lots of people saw this and thought it was good and were excited about it before a single word was committed to press" to "this went directly from my brain to my fingers to the stratosphere without another soul's involvement." Chances are if you're publication vehicles are in the latter half of the list, you are probably your biggest fan. Or possibly your Mom.

So what I'm sayin' is, I recognize that my professional writing fu cannot compete with those folks' who are published by the organizations at the top o' the list.

But I've got to say, this has GOT to be one of the worst titles I've ever seen: Chicken Soup for the Mothers of Preschooler's Soul: Stories to Refresh the Soul and Rekindle the Spirit of Moms of Little Ones. There are just too many words happenin' here. I understand this is one of a (prolific) series of books, and that the title's just tryin' to fit a template, but sheesh! Maybe they took one of those magnetic poetry kits, chucked it against a fridge, and used whatever stuck as the title.

We're not supposed to judge books by their covers, but surely titles are fair game?

Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful...Not Really

Since the DC Metro area was powdered with snow last night, loads of school districts are opening late. So my commute was more easy-peasy than usual. Sidebar: I'm still in the honeymoon faze with my 15-minute ride. Sure, some day I'll be jaded and the wonder of being at the office within the span of a Howard Stern commercial break will wear off like a temporary tattoo. 'Til then, I'll celebrate it.

Anyway...

The Boy has seen snow before, but he was shocked by the volume this morning. Hubby took him into the room where we get him dressed, and laid him down to strip off his PJs. Sleepyhead rubbed his eyes, nuzzled his pacifier, and turned to look out the window as is his custom. Then his eyes went wide, he spat out the pacifier, pointed, and yelled, "Whazzzat?"

Sure, he sounded like the infant version of a Budweiser "True" commercial. But I got a kick out of his wonder. Which leads me to something else...

I always knew I wanted to be a mother. Guess it's the nurturer in me. Still, though, some time ago I invested loads of mental energy into breaking down the reasons someone would want to become a parent. I never viewed having children as something I was simply s'posed to do, per Catholic doctrine and Darwin. My broody urge rests in bringing a soul into the world who is the physical manifestation of the love his father and I share, someone whose life and development I could witness firsthand, and someone whom I could teach about our crazy world.

Something as simple as a flurry reminds me of that.

Nuh-Uh!

After dropping off the Boy at daycare this morning, I tailed a car branded with this bumper sticker. When I glanced at the driver's side window so that I could file away the visage of the person making this claim, I saw a tiny smooshed face sticking out of the rear driver's side window.

Admittedly, this furry friend was a cutie. I respect people who love their pets (those who looooove their pets are a different story). But seriously...this bumper sticker is just annoying. And I don't have a school-aged child.

Actually, the whole spectrum of honor student bumper stickers have always grated my nerves. The original puts parents in an awkward position: devalue your car, or trumpet your child's single-quarter academic accomplishment? Following that one came the classy, "My child beat up your honors student." My bet is that the people who festoon their cars with this sticky placard don't actually have kids. At least I hope they don't.

Hmph. Guess I'm just a cranky pants this morning.

Sternum-licious

I'm not going to jump on the does-she-or-doesn't-she-have-an-eating disorder bandwagon. But I can't tell if Ms. Richie is rockin' some cleavage in this pic, or if it's the divot of her sternum.

Fathead

I picked up my new glasses last night. They're not all that different from the specs I've been sporting for the past six years, though I think they are slightly hipper. Same color, same size lenses, stronger prescription, and the shape of the lenses are a wee more rectangular.

Scintillating, I know.

Anyway, the only problem I'm having with them is that the bendy arms are biting into the backs of my ears. Sure, five millimeters is probably the span between a comfortable fit and feeling like my head is being juiced. But since my head goes five millimeters in the wrong direction, I'm left feeling like pumpkinhead.

Maybe next time I'll go for a pince-nez.