Exercise Your Chompers, Really Chew Chew Chew!

(My Google fu has the flu (ha!), so I sadly have no linkage to the title of this post. It is a reference to one of those Saturday morning educational mini-cartoons about a Fonze-ish dude, named Chompers, who advocated eating loads of crunchy, good-for-you foods. If you find lyrics or pictures relating to this classic bit of '80's nostalgia, drop me a line.)

This past weekend was ALL about the teeth chez moi. How so, you ask? Well, my remaining two wisdom teeth were given the heave ho. My dental surgeon put me under, which was freakin' AWESOME. I forgot how cool it is to drift into oblivion. I'm not advocating nodding out or any of that illegal silliness. It's just fun once in a while to give yourself over to something like that. Some folks aren't put under for the procedure. Apparently, though, my roots were as swirly as a gift bow, so they thought they'd save me the horror of experiencing a portly fella digging elbows deep into my mandible. I applaud their thought process.

Coincidentally, the Girl sprouted her first incisor the very day of my extraction. It's the lower left one, and she really works it with her tongue. You can tell she's weirded out by the sensation. But, the confusion lurks on her visage for all of three seconds before she's moved onto something else, like extirpating the pots and pans from their cubby under the microwave.

Last, but most certainly, most assuredly not least, is that we have FINALLY broken the Boy of his pacifier addiction. Our ploy was to use the birth of my most recent nephew (the tenth grandchild in my clan overall) to meet our own ends. We told the Boy that babies need pacifiers, and his new cousin was a have not in this particular arena, and since the Boy is in fact a Big Boy these days, p'raps it was time to pass the pacifier on to his new cousin. So, when these two little men met for the first time on Sunday last, and hence, t'was time for the handoff. And the Boy did it, without so much as a blink.

Wha-huh?

I expected tears, and fists, and rending of garments. This pacifier is the one thing, the one lovey, that my Boy has cleaved unto since his days in the cradle. It started to affect the way his teeth are positioned, so divesting him of it was long overdue. But still, I expected much more drama. I was pretty sure he didn't grasp the enormity of the situation.

And, like all good Mommies, I was right on the money.

Later that night he asked for the pacifier. And upon being informed that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of his addiction, well, that's when he unleashed a monsoon of tears. Know what, though? Fifteen minutes later, he was okay with it. There were more grumpies tonight, of course, but only about ten minutes worth. I figure in a week, we'll have kicked the pacifier addiction.

I'm Such a Tease

Did you like the way I ended my last post with the "more on that to come" tease? No? Didn't notice it? Oh well.

Well, here are the other immensely practical things I learned:

1) When a two-digit highway ends in an even number, it runs east-west. When it ends in an odd number, it runs north-south.

2) If a three-digit highway starts with an even number, that means that it will reconnect with the highway represented by the last two digits. That makes no sense, I know. Let's use a concrete example: the DC Beltway. It's 495, which means that it connects with I-95. Same thing with 695 in Baltimore, and 495 in Philly. Cool, eh?

3) Conversely, if a three-digit highway starts with an odd number, it means it ain't never joining forces with the highway represented by the last two digits. Think 195 (toward BWI airport) or 395 headin' into Virginia. These offshoots are called spurs.

4) If the exit number atop the exit sign on a highway is positioned to the right, then the exit will be on the right. If it's on the left, the the exit will be on the left. I haven't figured out what it means when they are in the middle.

There's nothing mind-expanding in this here post, Gentle Reader, but I likes to pass the helpful tidbits along.

The Most Practical Thing You Will Learn Today

Not only that, but you'll never forget what I'm about to tell you. This is a bold claim, but bear with me. Look at this:

So what, right? It's a picture of a gas gauge. Well, ya see that little picture of a gas pump? And you see that little arrow on the right hand side? That means the car's gas tank is on the right hand side. Isn't that phenomenally useful? When travelling and renting cars, or borrowing cars, or driving a new car, you no longer need to run the risk of parking on the wrong side of the gas pump or craning your neck to see if the gas tank is on the driver's side or the passenger's side. Just look for the little arrow.

And that's merely one thing that I learned on my recent business trip to Tennessee. More on that to come...

A Baker's Dozen

I have found that the average length of time that someone will wait to ask you if you are going to have more children is about six seconds after one has exited your womb. My philosophy? I'll take it as it comes. Very Catholic of me, eh? What I mean by that is that my notions and preferences about a goodly number of things have changed in the past five, ten, fifteen years. Do I listen to Depeche Mode daily? Nah. Do I tweeze my prodigious eyebrows? Yes sir!

The upshot is that I'm not going to make any permanent, long-term decisions about stuff like this. I mean, I didn't choose painkiller options until I was actually going through labor because I knew enough to know that I wouldn't be able to forecast my needs until I was actually suffering through the experience.

That was a marathon of a run-on sentence. Sorry. I've only had a half a cup of coffee today.

So, the next time someone asks me how many children I'm going to have, I will say that I am going for an infinite number of children. Because now, the technology is here. BEHOLD: Zeno, the artificial boy. Now, he's Texan, and you know how I feel about Texas. But I think I can work with the raw material.

Equally Impressive and Horrifying

The Boy needed some extra cuddling during daycare drop-off this morning, so I obliged and sat on the couch with him strewn across my midsection. Rarely do I get this kind of extended embrace from him, and I guzzled the deliciousness of it. Until he said this:

"Mommy, I have a piece of ear."

"What?" said I, unable to fathom what he meant.

The Boy pulled back from our hug and handed me a nugget of earwax. It was about the size of broken #2 pencil point. Not huge in general terms, but certainly huge in terms of things a three-year-old extracts from his ear. And a veritable juggernaut in the realm of things I really, really don't want to handle sans protective gloves.

As soon as he'd passed off the earwax, he laid himself back down upon me, pinning me to the couch and rendering me unable to divest myself of this chunk of bodily by-product. What's a mother to do? Well, I opted to stay put until his breakfast was served and he happily skipped away from me toward the waiting plate of chopped plum and cereal bar. At that point I discreetly disposed of the gunk, shivered, washed my hands, and zoomed off into the morning mist to begin my commute.

Teaching Netiquette

One of my nephews, whom I'll call Spikey, just got his first e-mail account. This kid is fabulously intelligent and sarcastic, so of course I think of him as a younger male version of myself. You know, before I learned to control my cutting remarks.

Anyway, I've got a soft spot for him and want to guide him on a few things to make life easier for him (well, if he's receptive to it). Like, "If you answer EVERYTHING sarcastically, it will likely hurt your chances at friendship." And, "It's physically impossible for Grandmom to understand sarcasm, so you'll want to keep it to a minimum around her." And also, "You've only got to endure four more years of gym class every day."

All of this means it's really tough for me to resist the compulsion to explain that forwards do not e-communication make. I take that back. They constitute e-communication if you are my parents or one of my new-agey college friends. This morning he sent me a link to a YouTube video featuring a Daft Punk song and hand dancing. It'd take up a lot of real estate to explain it, and I'm not going to post it here, because I don't want to do that to you.

I wrote back to him and did not include any pictures, links to other videos, or jokes. Just a note. Maybe he'll catch on. But I doubt it. Watch, he'll send me that video of a monkey smelling his finger and falling off a tree...

Written from an Airplane on September 11, 2007

It’s 11:15 p.m. EST on September 11, 2007, and I have spent this sixth anniversary of the terrorist attacks criss-crossing the country in airplanes. Who says I don’t have a sense of adventure?

There was a school district in the northwestern part of Mississippi that needed training on the proper use of an online analytical database that my company has developed. I’m one of a precious few people willing and able to lead these trainings, so off I went. But I’m still lactating (sorry, for the squeamish among you), and would prefer not to be away from home for an overnighter. Consequently, I booked myself on this wacky round trip. I left my home at 4:00 a.m. to catch an outbound 6:00 a.m. flight. Nearly eighteen hours later, I’m still traveling. It’ll be about two and a half more hours ‘til I’m snuggled up in my bed at home. Christ, will that feel delicious.

Travel is invigorating. Well, right about now the vigor is starting to wear off, but that’s what my Starbucks venti Yukon Gold is for. Anyway, seeing new things, driving on new roads, trying on different lifestyles in the shape of rental cars and local eateries – it all gives my system a charge.

Here's a sampling:

I saw a cotton field today for the first time. Before my stint on Route 61 North, I’d only seen them in Gone With the Wind (and the only-slightly-less-well-known Places in the Heart). Anyway, antebellum romances are probably not the best representation of a textile crop that sustained and rent* a nation all at the same time.

I saw Dallas, Texas from the heavens, and it was a beautiful thing. Normally, all things Texan are somewhat off-putting. A shrinking violet like me is wary of bombast, and Texas is paradigmatic of bombast, right? But from up above, it was silent. And FLAT. The only thing that limited what I could see was my own gimpy pair of old lady eyes. In my native Maryland, the trees and hills and skyscrapers and dense population obscure anything that’s more than a few blocks away.

I experienced a Jackson, Mississippi traffic jam. It’s what we in the ‘burbs of DC call a yellow light.

There was more, but that's all I've got right now. MCV is sleepy, and while my synapses are firing off insights about the irony of my spending September 11th in four different states and airports, my fingers won’t cooperate anymore. Meh. Humankind’s loss.

*'rent' as in 'torn asunder,' not 'rent' as in 'a five-story walk-up in Brooklyn.'

Britney at the 2007 MTV VMAs

So, I just watched Britney Spears on the VMAs. Her new tune, "Gimme More," is your standard dance club fare. I just felt this weird wave of empathy for her. She was trussed up in a rhinestone studded bikini, stiletto boots, and kept thumbing her fake hair outta her line of sight. Which, come to think of it, might also have been obscured by her Fremen blue contacts.

Anyway, she looked nervous and unsure of her steps, like those heels she was tottering around on were going to splinter underneath of her. I know it's trite to say she looks like she needs a hug, but well, that's the mother in me. Sometime tomorrow she's going to say something that will make me groan and realize that she feels no sense of ownership or accountability for any bad decisions that she's made. But 'til then, I'll just keep it at empathy.

This Is My Worst Performance on Any Test EVER, and that Includes Pre-Calculus

You'll have to click here for the full results, but lemme list the Star Wars characters with whom I apparently most closely identify:

Openness: Astro Mech Droid (47%)
Conscientious: Grand Moff Tarkin (58%)
Extraversion: Wampa (18%)
Agreeableness: Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker (57%)
Neuroticism: Princess Leia (7%)

The higher the score, the more you exhibit the trait. For example, I only scored 7% on neuroticism, meaning that I'm not very neurotic. That's where the favorable analysis ends.

To wit: I'm apparently Wampa-shy. You know...I just hang out in my cave until a tasty meal comes along, and then I slash at it and hang it upside down in my lair. And then I end up with my entrails serving as an organic heating blanket. Something seems wrong there...

The classification I'm most displeased with is Grand Moff Tarkin. Not because I thought I was all kinds of Type A when it came to organization, but because Grand Moff Tarkin was just the worst-selling Star Wars action figure on the shelves. Super Ninja and I would peruse the toy aisles for gifts for our nephews, and there were ALWAYS at least five GMT's for every one Darth Vader or Luke Skywalker. This tells me if there were an action figure version of Yours Truly, it'd just be hanging out on the peg, surround by clones of itself.

Sounds like a good time, eh?

I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means

So, you can't really see it very well, but that's an American flag flame magnetic decal on the fender. That's a picture of a car that wove around me on the inner loop of 695. There was another decal just like it on the other side, and two on the trunk. Further patriotic imagery was to be found on the back windshield in the form of a stars & stripes see-through decal. The irony? The flags were splattered all over a Volvo.

Dog Days of Summer

When Oldest Bro moved back home, he brought a yellow Labrador with him. That fella was named Toby, and he was big, and lovable, and a little dumb. Anyway, he gave up the ghost this past spring after making it to the ripe old age of fourteen, which is like Methuselah age for a Lab. And even though this was my Oldest Bro's dog, my Mom kinda fell in love with having a dog in the house. Which is how my parents came to be the proud parents of a chocolate Labrador for about three days.

The reason for the short span of ownership? She's a sweetie, but too much for my parents to handle. She zipped over the fence and ran away about five times over the course of those three days. So, they ended up giving her back to the breeder. I feel kinda bad for my Mom, because her brother recently passed away, and I think that she was looking for a little four-legged comfort.

Honestly, I'd love for them to get a smaller dog, because I want my kids to be exposed to pets so that they aren't afraid of them. But man, I don't want to walk them. A dog, I mean. I love walking my kids. Walking with them. They aren't on leashes. Well, the boy was almost leashed once upon a time, but he doesn't attempt to run into the street anymore. Bully for me, eh?

The funny side of all of this? The dog's name was the same as Super Ninja's sister, which was REALLY going to confuse the kids. Not only that, but I'm sure that little fact would've given Super Ninja a migraine. My name, Super Ninja's sister, and of course "Mommy" all start with "M," and Super Ninja already can't call us by the right moniker. A double dose of his sister's name would break the camel's back, or brain, as it were, and he would never call any of us by the right name again.

Another Chapter in "What to Expect When You're in Your Thirties"

"You will find yourself identifying more with the ant than with the grasshopper."

Some folks spent their Labor Day weekend carousing on the beach, some picnicked, some caught their last poolside rays. Me? I extirpated outsized clothing from the Boy's and the Girl's closet, yanked items that Super Ninja and I no longer wear, rearranged our linen closet, and generally went on an organizational frenzy. And I LOVED it.

Oooh, RainBOWS!

Fashion dilemma: a co-worker who dresses like the grown-up version of Rainbow Brite just complimented my accessories. Do I pat myself on the back for my excellent taste in jewelry? Or do I consider the source and never, ever wear it again? In case you're wondering, it's fairly innocuous stuff -- just a beaded necklace and a gold bracelet. It's a little flashier than my usual fare. But it's not anything that I expected to catch the eye of a woman who looks like she's wearing a belly dancer's get-up to the office.

Another Chapter in "What to Expect When You Are in Your Thirties"

At some point, technology will begin to escape you. You will no longer surf the tip of the wave of gadgetry. You will wipe out, and wipe out horribly.

I am the SLOWEST texter in the world. Little Bro texted me this morning, asking if I could provide him with mi madre's cell phone number. I had to pull my car over, park, and it took me five full minutes to text:

Yep: 410 XXX XXXX

I think it takes me forever because I refuse to use Avril Lavigne-ish abbreviations. And I use punctuation. And capital letters. My only defense for being so old school is that I find it difficult to read texting shorthand, so outta respect for the person receiving the text, I try to make it clear.

Ah well. Something had to give, right?

'Cos You Were All Yellow

Over the weekend, I played a color quiz game with the Boy. I do this often to reinforce the names of colors that he has at his command. Once he's comfy with the basics, I'll introduce fun color names like vermilion and crimson and chartreuse. These are the ones to which I always gravitated during my oil painting days, and I want to share my palette love with him.

After a few minutes, we'd identified the colors of just about everything in the room, so I focused our little game on our own appearances. This game does double-duty in that identifying similarities in our coloring helps strengthen his identification with the family unit. Well, triple duty in that you can unintentionally discover some, ahem, physical flaws.

"What color are my eyes?" I asked.

"Blue," says he.

"That's right! And what color are your eyes?"

"Blue!"

"What color is my hair?"

"Brown!"

"That's exactly right! And what color is your hair?

"Brown too!"

"Right again! And what color are my," I fish around for something else that's easy, "teeth?"

"Yellow!"

Oof. Crushing pause.

"Good job. Let's, uh, let's go read a book now."

Vanity, thy name is MCV. Time to invest in some of these.

Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

Super Ninja packed my lunch for me today, as he does pretty much every day, which is unassailably wonderful of him. So I fully acknowledge that I'm going to seem like the most ungrateful harridan in a moment.

My lunch today was leftover pad thai. My office doesn't stock disposable cutlery, because we are a nonprofit, and extras like sporks eat at the bottom line of all of our do-gooderiness. Knowing this, Super Ninja packed an eating implement in my lunch sack. Problem is, he packed a plastic spoon.

A spoon? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to eat pad thai with a spoon without flicking peanutty sauce and scallions all over yourself? Very, my friends. Very difficult indeed.

This Phrase Was Coined During Lunch with Super Ninja Yesterday

"Sometimes life hands you a lemon. Suck it."

I checked out the gubment internet site on trademarking, and it'd cost me a cool $325 to trademark this phrase for every iteration of how I wanted to use it. That's $325 that I need to use for fun things like diapers and pizza, so looks like I'm not going to enter the licensing fray yet. But trust, if you steal this, I will cut you.

Netiquette Question

I have accepted three people as friends on Facebook. I am ignoring friend requests from five people with whom I am not really friends, though we did go to college together. One is CRX*, who is simply right out, and the others are people to whom I have not spoken since I waltzed through the front gates of Georgetown with my diploma and mortarboard.

So: is this disproportionate number a bad thing? Am I being a jerk?

Editorial: Don't laugh at my teeny circle of friends. For whatever reason, my particular clutch of gal pals leans Luddite, so no Facebooking for them. And, apparently, I'm also a jerk who doesn't accept friend requests from every joker who stumbles upon her profile.

Shhh...Don't Tell Super Ninja* That the Boy Gets It from Me

BEHOLD! I have taken a "Which Superhero are You?" quiz, and my results are (tympany, please):

Aww, yeah. Thwip thwip, baby. Super Ninja, and possibly Super Ninja's brother, will be totally jealous**. I'd bet cash money that Super Ninja will totally take this quiz and turn out to be Black Canary or something.

Anyhoo, here's what the great online gods of superhero classification said about yours truly:

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Man, it's like they know me.

UPDATE: Super Ninja turned out to be Superman. This will surprise no one who knows him. Goober. Here's the description: You are mild-mannered, good, strong and you love to help others.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

*Super Ninja = my husband
**Jealous = not really. He REALLY would've been annoyed if they poll determined that I most closely resembled the Hulk, but I think he'll be okay with Spidey.

We Can Blame the Government for Many Things, But I Don't Think This Is One of Them

Yesterday, if you'd asked me to name the most deluded person in Hollywood, I likely would have offered up some Britney-Nicole-Lindsay-Paris twiglet. But then I read this article, and I realize that the Delusion Crown belongs to none other than Steven Seagal.

Really, Steven? An FBI affadavit caused your career spiral? Not your film choices? Or that action stars (and I use that label grudgingly) score fewer roles as they age because audiences can't and won't suspend that much disbelief? Or the ponytail? I mean, my God, Steven, the ponytail alone could ground any soaring career.

Working from Home: Casual Observation

Perhaps, Bravo, "The Exorcist" isn't the best choice for your 9:00 a.m. programming. Of course, this will be what I watch while I work, but still, I find it odd that this broadcast is competing against Sesame Street.

UPDATE: Ha ha ha ha! The first commercial during the first commericial break is for e-Harmony. Yup, 'cause Regan and Pazuzu were meant for each other.

LtW Poll: Creepy or Not?

Creepy or Not?

I'm introducing a polling feature here at LtW for the three of you who read this regularly. Ready? Here we go:

Is it creepy to give someone sexy lingerie at a bridal shower?

Yes -- it's always creepy. Aunt Garnet doesn't need to see that!
Yes, if a family member gives it to you. Mom shouldn't think of you that way.
Yes, if a friend gives it to you. Is she trying to give you away the groom?
Nope, it's never creepy.

View Results

Create your own myspace poll

Huggy People Think They Are Soooooo Superior

I had lunch with a couple of girlfriends yesterday, and one of them mentioned that her sister-in-law was visiting. Women love, love, LOVE, to dissect the differences between their in-laws' and their blood relatives' modus operandi, and my friend was no exception. Bursting with confidence, she said of her husband and his sister, "They didn't hug each other when they said goodnight. Isn't that weird? In my family, we always hugged each other good night."

I expected the other ladies at the table testify in unison with me, "Uh, no. It's weird to hug people good night EVERY night. Especially adults."

Yeah, that's what I expected. Turns out I'm in the minority here. Ooh, the supercilious stares I got as I shared that I am, in fact, fatigued with the amount of hugging I am expected to do. Listen, I hug my children all the time. And my husband and I lean on each other after all the evening chores have been completed. Sometimes it's the only way we can stay standing after a long workday.

I hug family and friends that I haven't seen for a long time. But I see my immediate family all the freakin' time. Do I have to hug them on each occasion? There's like, twenty-three of us. I'd spend the whole visit embracing people. And my husband's college roomates...they are nice guys, and their wives are lovely women, but do I have to hug all of them hello and goodbye when we go to see a movie and spend all of two minutes chatting? I don't cringe when they're about to lay one on me or anything. I reciprocate. But I don't initiate.

Where do you draw the hug line? How do you discern when and where and whom to hug? Is it everyone? Or just everyone to whom you'd, say, send a Christmas card? Hugs are tender, reserved for those whom you'd like to comfort or boost for a moment. Should you lay one on your college roomate's new brother-in-law in her receiving line? I mean, are handshakes so crazy formal that they've become obsolete?

While lingering on the hug topic, one of my other girlfriends shared that her stepmother once said something like, "We don't hug each other often in my family, but that doesn't mean that we love each other any less." And, God love my friend, there was some snide riding on her voice when she said this. Meanwhile, I'm mentally high-fiving my friend's stepmother, thinking, "Yeah! Exactly! I love my siblings to pieces, but yeesh, there's a lot of us. I don't need to press the flesh to show them that I love them."

Ultimately, I sounded like a total cold fish when I declared that I am not a hug whore. Don't get me wrong. Hugs are nice. They really are. But people who dole them out like smiles just don't get non-huggy types like me. I've even heard an accusation or two about being an unfeeling robot. So after my initial, "Hey, I don't hug a lot," I kept a lid on it.

Man, it was like that time at the office when I hinted that we celebrated too many things in the office with cake. THAT did not go over well either.

I Know that It's a Stereotype that the British Have Bad Teeth, But...

Someone from the United Kingdom stumbled upon LtW by Googling, "How to remove your own wisdom tooth." DON'T DO IT, DUDE!

I have to assume that 'twas someone of the male persuasion who searched this out. I don't know any women who would perform her own oral surgery (they may be out there, those hearty and hale females, but I've not made their acquaintances). Removal of wisdom teeth involves stitches and ugly terminology like "dry sockets," so please, fella, hie yourself to someone who gets paid to do this stuff.

Gay Boyfriends and Politics

All the shows that I usually listen to in the morning are on vacation or have become phenomenally boring this week, so I've been exploring the stations on SIRIUS (yep, that's right, the man hasn't shut me down...yet). I've totally developed a crush on OutQ in the Morning with Larry Flick. In college, I had a couple of gay boyfriends, but those relationships are pretty dependent on proximity. Since all of my pals migrated to gay-friendlier towns, I haven't had a gay boyfriend for awhile. I didn't realize how much I missed their brand of conversation 'til I listened in on this show.

Case in point: this morning, Larry Flick was analyzing the Visible Vote '08, which aired on Logo last night. Now, this is a pretty big deal as the candidates that are considered to be the really major players -- Hillary Rodham Clinton, Barack Obama, and John Edwards -- all participated. But Larry Flick expressed some concern that various news media outlets and, oh, say, the general public wouldn't take this not-really-a-debate and its participants very seriously for various reasons. Fair point, for a couple of reasons: Melissa Etheridge, not Tim Russert, for example, moderated. Also, no conservative candidates participated.

Another reason Larry cited? Several of the candidates were wearing ill-fitting suits -- some were too big, some were too small, and Larry pointed out that a person loses some of their gravitas if he doesn't allow tailors to work his magic on his political threads. And that, my friends, is the kind of thing you'd expect to hear from a gay boyfriend.

Just for fun, enjoy the Hazzards' "Gay Boyfriend":

My Dental Appointments Resemble a Möbius Strip

M.C. Escher, Möbius Strip II, 1963 Poster

Yeah, that's right. I used umlauts. Given the approximate 1,200 hours I spent in foreign language classes, I'm a bit of a stickler for using accents properly. Ooh, how I cringe when I see someone's used an accent grave instead of accent aigu on words like résumé.

But I digress.

After last night's dental appointment, I am the proud owner of a shiny new crown. Watch, it'll tumble outta my mouth in a week. You'd think this was the last I'd see of the pleather dental chair for a while, right? Yeah, you'd think that. Except I have a wicked decayed wisdom tooth that I have to have yanked. Not very wise of me to still have this thing at the age of 32. Ha ha! Ha. Ha...

Anyway, my dentist doesn't extract wisdom teeth, so he's referred me to a maxillofacial surgeon. Sounds scary, right? I had two wisdom teeth removed about seven years ago, and it wasn't the worst thing I've ever experienced. Why didn't I just have all four wisdom teeth pulled back then? My dental insurance wasn't so awesome, and cash was thin on the ground. But now I'm loaded for bear when it comes to dental insurance, so Mr. Maxillofacial Surgeon can have at it.

Of course, these means that I have three more dental appointments -- one at my regular guy for one of those full head x-ray thingamahoosits, a survey appointment with the surgeon, and then the blessed day when they remove the gnarly cratered thing and its stalagmite twin from my head.

Coffee Strong

(image from http://www.donotgiveup.net/)

I like my coffee strong. Motor oil strong. I know this. But some of the weenies I work with don't like it that way. They make it so weak, I think I lose muscle tone when I drink it. This is so unfair. I love coffee. LOVE IT. It's unhealthy, this love that I have for a beverage. And to smell this delicious aroma, morning after morning, that wafts off of a flavorless liquid, a shadowy pod-person of a real cuppa java, well, it's just torture.

Maybe I should swing by Starbucks on my lunch break.

Have I Told You About the New Neighbors?

They don't live next door to us. They're not even in our little townhouse development, or I'd see less humor in the situation. These folks live on the corner of the intersection of the road that leads to our community. Why write about them, you ask? Because they, Gentle Readers, are the reason that Homeowners Associations exist.

The first tip that they might be less-than-perfect neighbors was the flatbed tow truck. They park it on the shoulder of the road across the street from their home. Now, don't go thinking that I'm a snob. My second eldest brother, we'll call him Mech, is a mechanic, and I've nothing but respect for grease monkeydom as his thorough auto knowledge has helped me out of many a jam.

I'm actually in favor of this tow truck resting in this particular spot because it has stopped cars from illegally whizzing past me on the shoulder of the road while I turn onto my street. However, this isn't the only vehicle nestled 'twixt the white line and the trees lining the road. Four other cars in varying states of disrepair hang out there too. This, too, wouldn't be a big deal, except that this house has a four-car driveway which should be able to contain all of their cars. And there, dear friends, is where the indicators of hillbillyishness begin.

To wit:

1) Half of their carport collapsed, and it took about two months to move the debris. Note that I wrote "move" and not "remove." That's because the miscellaneous shingles, 4" x 4"'s, and bolts have been pushed to the side of the yard.

2) There's a junker of a pick-up truck under the remaining half of the carport. It hasn't been moved for at least a month. And the hood has been up the whole time.

3) A go-kart has recently joined the pick-up truck. This is one vehicle that is actually working, as it buzzed through my parking lot while I was packing the Family Truckster for vacation.

4) A 5' tall metal canister with scary looking stickers all over stands upright in the middle of the parking pad.

5) There's an empty inflatable kiddie pool flopped into the front yard.

6) The lawn is so overgrown that I think guerilla armies are hiding out there.

7) A hick pixie (perhaps teenaged?) has darted across the street, in front of oncoming traffic, to get to the cars parked on the shoulder. Did I mention that she was carrying an infant?

8) I have yet to see one of the men wearing shirts.

If you're a good ol' boy or gal, you might think that I'm hatin' on folks who are working so hard that they don't have time to worry about the homestead. Not so. The bone that I'm picking is with people who are CLEARLY not properly tending to things that need tending -- lawns, deritrus, babies -- in favor of leisurely activities, like drunk go-karting. Plus, now I have to explain to the Boy why we can't have a go-kart in which to zoom around.

Advice to Someone I Don't Talk to Anymore

Okay, I don't know if you read this blog, College-Roomate's-Ex (CRE, for brevity's sake). A couple of people in DC and Virgina show up in my site's stats (shout out to my readers!), but I can't go all SD6 and figure out if it's you. But you might, and if you do, there's something I wanted to bring up. I saw your MySpace page. Don't worry, I didn't cyberstalk you. Your avatar showed up on a mutual friend's MySpace page, and I'll admit it, I was curious. You and I spent much time together, so even though I can't really get past some of the things you said and did (or didn't do), I wanted to see where life is taking you.

A word of advice.

If you are going to go all Zoolander to beef up your online gallery, figure out how to use the timer on your digital camera. Or ask a friend to snap a few pics. Definitely don't stand in front of your bathroom mirror and take your own picture with your arm slightly out of frame so it (almost) doesn't look like you're holding the camera. (How do I know it's the bathroom mirror? The towel rack in back of you, tough guy.) It's the height of narcissistic toolishness.

Wedding Song Playlist

I'll admit that I had aspirations to be a DJ a long time ago. Anyone who's passionate about music has this fantasy that they can control the happiness of a roomful of people by spinning just the right tracks. For me, this took the form of many, many mixtapes in college. Very emo of me, eh?

All of this is to say that I might get a wee judgmental of music played during a wedding reception. The wedding we went to this past weekend was a lovely affair, and I've no critique of the ceremony, the organization, nor the first dance song choice. But there's a song that's been played at the last three weddings I've attended, and it's making me wonder...

Is "I Will Survive" an appropriate song to play at a wedding? A song about righteous singlehood? I know it's got a great beat and you can dance to it, but could we retire this one from events celebrating coupledom?

Her Name Is Rio and She Dances on the...Donation Pile

On my way from my front stoop to the Family Truckster this morning, I stumbled past a pile of garbage bags and sundry other objects in front of my neighbor's yard. Today isn't a trash day, though, so I took a closer look. Taped to one of the Heftys and two of the vacuum cleaners (yep, two) were notes that read, "Purple Heart." Oh, gotcha. Donations.

Something still didn't make sense, though...there were some framed lithographs in that heap. Since I came of age in the 1980's, I recognized the oeuvre of Patrick Nagel straightaway. I don't mean to stereotype, but...really? Patrick Nagel? For veterans? What's a veteran going to do with this:

Or this?

Even if Purple Heart merely sells the items and donates the proceeds to veterans, I still wonder if this 20-year-old fad is really going to bring home the bacon.

[UPDATE: Purple Heart didn't take the Nagel prints! They took everything else and left the Nagel to fester on the sidewalk. Ha! Charity organizations have standards, thank you very much.]

Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy (or: Why Did I Arrive So Late to This Party?)

On Monday, I jaunted over to Starbucks for some curry chicken salad and parked myself at one of their diminutive tables to hork it. I hadn't really planned on eating there, or I would've brought some reading material. But I'm spontaneous and crazy, as well as easily bored. So I rifled through the castoff newspapers by the door, and found a section of the NY Times, which is where I found the summation of Albert Ellis' life's work in the area of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy.

Man alive (or recently deceased, I guess), it was like someone had taken some of my long simmering thoughts and beliefs and turned them into a tasty and presentable meal. I'm not ego maniacal enough to claim that I coulda been a towering figure in the world of therapy or anything like that. But it's nice to see that my take on neuroses and such isn't a fringe perspective.

Small gripe to my alma mater: WHY wasn't Albert Ellis mentioned in Psychology 001 for goodness sakes? We spent most of the semester on William James, and then crammed in every other psych-ologist/iatrist since the dawn of the DSM in the final few weeks. Go ahead and argue that Ellis was a behaviorist and shouldn't be lumped into psychology. The behaviorism designation didn't stop my prof from including B.F. Skinner.

Ahem. Anyway, it was crazy to me that it was only upon his demise that I became aware of Albert Ellis. Here I am, thinking I'm all sorts of edumacated about incredibly influential people, and then I find out about him. Shows to go that Socrates was right about knowing that we know nothing, eh?

Every Little Bit Counts, Right?

Since I'm depressed that I wasn't able to secure a hybrid mini-van, I'm sharing all I can about the ways and means of reducing your carbon footprint. So, in case you haven't heard, Google has a new face available to those of you who care to save a few megawatts of energy: Blackle. There's a whole "About" section you can click on to see exactly how Blackle saves energy.

Enjoy!

Bored Games

Whilst in Deep Creek, MD, there was very little external entertainment to be had, so our fellow vacationers suggested we play some games. Me, I'm all about the board games because I have a huge non-athletic competitive streak. Seriously, when dice or spinners are involved, you'd best keep one eye open when MCV is in the room. (Balls and goal posts, however, render me powerless). By night two of the gaming, though, we'd run through the options we'd brought with us. I thought about raiding the in-laws' rented pad, but they had the same variety of Milton Bradley escapades. With one exception:

Since none of us belong to Clan Flanders, this game would not have been our cuppa tea. But I had to share this with you because of the quotation marks around the world "Trivia." That's a subtle indicator that naught about the Bible is, in fact, trivial. 'Cause we all know how important the cubits and the dress codes and hair braiding are.

Aw, man, I've gone and blasphemed again, haven't I?

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program

I didn't fall off of the face of the Earth. Well, actually, I guess I kind of did. For the past week, the family whiled away our time in picturesque Deep Creek, Maryland. The town is actually McHenry, Maryland, but who's heard of that? (Okay, not a lot of people have heard of Deep Creek either, but it sets the scene a little better). Here's what it looks like:

Pretty, right? We rented a place with three other couples, two of which have three children among them. Shockingly, all of the kids got along pretty well (the Boy was calling the little girls his "sisters" by the end of the week). I expected way more meltdowns over some of Playskool's finest, or some tussles about watching TV. So, I was pleasantly surprised that way.

My only quibble? I'm clearly completely ridiculous when it comes to my clutter threshold. It's as low as a limbo pole. But man, toys, shoes, cups, beer cans, and cigarette packs were EVERYWHERE. It drove me bonkers. That's right. Bonkers.

How bonkers? One of my most satisfying mornings was the one where everyone went to a playground and I spent an hour putting stuff away. Since I was the only one compelled to tidy up, I recognize that I must have a small obsession. Still, though, I think leaving steak knives on end tables might not be the best child-rearing technique.

Me & Sam Walton

For reasons too boring to delve into, I found myself in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on Tuesday night with nothing to do but walk off a gigantic meal procured at Smokey Bones.

My com padres suggested walking over to the strip mall adjacent to our Marriott. I was down with that, because if I went to bed without a minimal amount of exercise, my heart my have exploded from the amount of barbecue I'd eaten.

You might question the choice of a stroll to a strip mall. Trust, there were no other options. This hotel was on a road named Power Line Drive. You know how roads are typically named after historical personages, geographical destinations, or are designed to be evocative of local vistas? Well, Power Line Drive was indeed evocative of a local vista...of the power lines. So, off we went to the strip mall.

Turns out, though, the strip mall next door wasn't a strip mall. Nope. It was just a GIGANTIC Wal-Mart. I've seen how Wal-Mart kills whatever Mom & Pop industry is indigenous to an area, so I don't shop there. But my co-workers do, and marched toward it because they needed to pick up a few things. Aaargh. These were my choices:

(1) Accompany them, but don't buy anything;
(2) Turn around, feigning sudden fatigue, the need to make a phone call from a land line, or illness (which, come to think of it, would've been believable considering how much I'd just horked chez Smokey Bones); OR
(3) Share my politics, and take off back to the hotel.

I'm a passivist pacifist, so I opted to go but not buy anything. Going was a good thing, because my reasons for avoiding Wal-Mart are not limited to the political sphere. Now, my reasons include the atmosphere. Which, for the record, was kind of depressing. Nobody wanted to be there. The greeter kind of grunted at us. And the shoppers comprised grumpy parents, wailing kids, and portly teens who resented that their summertime entertainment was loitering at Wal-Mart...

So, in the future, I don't have to worry about whether or not I'm really missing out on something great at Wal-Mart. Not like I was really worried, I guess, but any shadowy doubt that lingered is gone.

Good Day, Sunshine

(I don't live in this glorious place, but it seemed a nicer illustration than the sparkling Inner Loop of 695)

Is it reassuring or extra creepy that this is the sunshiniest, mildest day of all time AND it's Friday the 13th?

Wait, did I just blog about the weather? THE WEATHER?!? Seeking redemption...seeking redemption...

One New Year's many years ago, I visited my sister when she and her family were living in Deutschland. It's a German tradition, apparently, to set off fireworks in the neighborhood at midnight (since they have red clay roofs, they don't really need to sweat the possibility of New Year's Flambé). Whilst the fireworks lit up the sky and we sipped champagne, my sister's neighbor, Felix, chatted about when he'd lived in the States (the Republic of Texas, thankyouverymuch). He said he loved America, with one exception: our predilection for talking about the weather.

His tirade went a little something like this...

"You have nothing to talk about except the weather? That is so boring! I have more interesting things to talk about! I am studying [insert some applied mathematic juju that I couldn't retain]! We should talk about that! Schnell!"

Okay, he didn't say that last 'Schnell'. In my imagination, Germans want to punctuate everything they say with it, so I added it to Felix's rant. Oh, and to clarify: he wasn't yelling at me. He was yelling at remembered conversations with bouffanted Mary Kay saleswomen.

Phew. Suddenly, this post turned into a recollection of an exciting travel experience, and NOT a post about the weather. See, Felix? I do have better things to talk about. I was worried for a second there.

Satellite Killed the (Terrestrial) Radio Star

Family Truckster is equipped with Sirius satellite radio. I haven't decided weather or not to pick up the subscription yet. Eh, I'll probably wait and see whether the gubment allows XM and Sirius to merge, and then I'll get a cheaper monthly subscription since we already have XM in Hubby's car (Oh, LtW, at last you're becoming a crafty consumer!). Anyway, I'd forgotten the joys of having more than five or six programming choices. The option to flip over to satellite couldn't come at a better time since all of the DC-based shows seem to be on vacation this week. Either that, or they aren't funny.

Any way you shake it, though, I clearly need a host of choices. This morning I listened to the Animaniacs' The Presidents, then Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and finally, the October 2006 roast of Gary Dell'Abate on the Howard Stern Show. Does that indicate that yours truly has multiple personalities? or ADD? or esoteric tastes? I'm going to go ahead and vote for that last one.

A Brave New World

Actually, come to think of it, "brave" isn't quite the way I'd describe this new world in which the Hubby and I find ourselves. Considering all of the safety features that come standard, our new car isn't really the picture of courage. Yup, that's right, we are now the proud owners of our first Family Truckster. Voilà:




That's a 2007 Ford Freestyle Limited. It's kind of a FrankenCar -- one-third SUV, one-third minivan, one-third station wagon. We needed something bigger than the Ford Focus and the Chevy Cavalier we'd been driving because the Boy is getting bigger, and if he isn't pounding the back of the driver's seat with his size 7's, then his knees are up around his ears. Not really a safe way to ride in a car, to say nothing of the style. Plus, we've got many road trips this summer, and the amount of stuff we haul around for the Boy and the Girl is astounding.

We chose this model because we're on a budget, want to seat more than five people, and we don't want to leave an Ozymandias-ish carbon footprint. LtW, you might ask, if those were your criteria, why not just go with a fuel-efficient minivan? I'll be honest with you. I could spout statistics at you about why the Freestyle is better than a minivan, even though it may only be slightly better in the categories that matter to me.

Here's what it boils down to: I couldn't do it. Not yet. I could not make my 31-year-old self cross the line into the world of minivans. When we were driving to the dealer, I pointed out a Dodge Caravan to Hubby, and told him that it got the best rating for minivans in the government's Fuel Economy Guide. The blue swerving wonder had one of those giant soccer magnets on the back of it. Hubby's response was, "Ugh. Is the soccer ball mandatory?"

So he wasn't game to become a citizen of the Republic of Minivans either. I won't say that I won't become naturalized someday, but I'm not ready yet. Vive le Freestyle!

Like a Bull in a Nursery

Well, it finally happened. The Boy broke his first lamp yesterday. I knew it was right around the corner, because he's been really into this crazy show called "LazyTown." It's a mix of "Spitting Image" and the Olympic men's gymnastics competition. The Boy was channeling Sportacus (the tumbling maniac who stars in the show), and executed a perfect somersault into a plastic set of drawers in the Girl's nursery. A little white lamp lived atop those drawers, and alas, it did not survive the wrecking ball known as the Boy.

As soon as it happened, memories of that unfortunate stick ball-in-the-living-room incident surfaced. That little game 'twixt me and Little Bro cost my parents a pristine mirrored knick-knack shelf. We weren't that much older than the Boy when that happened, so I knew that Bustin' Up the Joint Era was coming soon. Guess I just hoped the Boy would take out more of Hubby's stuff than general household stuff.

Time to surf the web for cheap, unbreakable lamps!

Only 173 Shopping Days Until Christmas!

Over the weekend, I went to a bridal shower tea for a college friend. Most showers (bridal, baby, and otherwise) are a yawn fest. There are only so many times you can ooh or coo over china and onesies. But, at this shower, the bride received something that I covet. Her mother gifted her with this:

(image courtesy of the Yellowstone online gift shop)

How perfect is that? I love that it's completely ahistorical. Well, of course it is, as our Lord and Savior, if you truck with Christianity, was not, in fact, a black bear. But black bears are not indigenous to the Middle East, which makes the whole thing even more fanciful. And that little grouping up there? That's just the starter set. There are two more. The second set features a shepherd, Bear-Caspar, and some of the animals that chilled out in the stable:

And then, set three: Bear-Melchior, Bear-Balthasar, the Little Drummer Bear and a Bear-Cow.

I'm not sure if this is blasphemous or awesome, but I'm leaning toward awesome.

I Am a Moron

The combination locks on the inner stairwell doors of my office building were changed two weeks ago. Our building manager put messages reminding us of this on hot pink Post-It notes above each doorknob and keypad. Every day I muscle my way up the stairs, see the note, and say to myself, "Duh. We all know the combination has changed. When are they going to remove those notes?" And then I promptly enter in the old combination.

Prince William Has a Voice Twin!

I'm a bit of an anglophile, so I cranked NPR up to eleven during its piece on the Concert for Diana (trust, I understand that admitting that makes me sound like a gigantic nerd). Something about Princes William and Harry's speech gave me a wicked case of déjà vu, though. I'm sitting in my car, tapping my steering wheel, thinking I've heard this address before. I'm picturing a castle, a crowd, someone saying "Boo!" Wait! Prince William, starting at about 1:30 in the video below, bears an uncanny vocal resemblance to Chris Sarandon's Prince Humperdinck in "The Princess Bride." Here are the heirs to the British throne:

Now, go rent "The Princess Bride" and fast-forward to Buttercup's funerary fantasy, when Prince Humperdinck tells the murmuring crowd, "My father's final words were, 'Love her, as I loved her and there will be joy. I present to you, your queen; Queen Buttercup." (Sorry about the offline re-direct; that scene doesn't exist on these here Interwebs.)

Eerie, right? What? It's just me? Really? Hmmm.

And by the way (slight non sequitur): why hasn't Broadway created a musical based on "The Princess Bride" yet? If they can retro-fit Monty Python's "Holy Grail" as "Spamalot," then surely the tale of Buttercup and Westley would make a jim dandy of a show on the Great White Way. So, all you musical theatre types, get to work on that. I would, but me and the writing of music, we're like this (MCV holds arms out to sides like the model for one of Da Vinci's more famous pencil sketches).

Artists, Take Up Your Brushes, Your Pens, and Your Chickenwire (or Whatever You Use to Make Art)

I happened across Dana Gioia's commencement address to Stanford University's graduating class of 2007 courtesy of A1GirlRevolution. It's pretty stirring stuff if you are of a creative bent. And it should be pretty stirring stuff even if you aren't.

I've always been drawn to art (ha!). As a kid, I was all about the visual arts -- drawing, painting, photography, etc. The letters, well, they've always been there as well. But I was a pretty shy kid, and with visual arts, the rest of my class saw and complimented me on my wunderkind-ish abilities. With writing, I would have had to foist my scribblings upon them so that they could recognize my genius. And, well, I wasn't that bold. I am now, though (wink).

Where was I? Oh, right. When the opportunity arose in my ninth grade social studies class to write a research paper on a current event, I chose to write about Jesse Helms' zealotry in limiting the NEA's freedom to grant...well, grants. This was in the time of Robert Mapplethorpe and various other artists that Congress deemed too racy to subsidize. To be honest, I don't know that I'd fork over $500,000 for one of Mapplethorpe's photographs, but here's what my fourteen-year-old self and my thirty-one year-old self believe: his right to create it was incontrovertible, and it's up to the NEA, not Congress, to determine who should and shouldn't receive artistic grants.

And the reason I have this opinion? Because art was exciting, and controversial, and was making people think. At the time, there was a LOT of conversation about first amendment rights to express one's self through art. The debate took center stage on many a news broadcast, and many a news magazine.

And what do we debate today?

Whether or not Paris Hilton was treated fairly when she was tossed in the clink for violating the terms of her DUI probation. Britney Spears' parenting skills. Is Nicole Richie sporting a baby bump or does she have a distended belly since she's malnourished? Lindsay Lohan's substance abuse problems. Is Angelina Jolie a savior of disadvantaged children or does she have some kind of weird hording complex?

So, here's the thing. I don't think I was more engaged with the current events when I was fourteen. At my house, we received US News & World Report and US Weekly, and I read both of them cover to cover. What's weird, though, is that I know much, much more about celebrities now than I do about, say, the United Nations. But I'm reading the same amount of news, and I'm watching more of it courtesy of 24 hour news television. So what gives?

Clearly, celebrity news isn't a recent cultural phenomenon. The society pages were the precursors to the tabloids. The hoi polloi have often lived vicariously through the elite, so it's natural that we'd want all the bulletins about them. But celebrity journalism...well, it's supplanting actual news. It's not relegated to a column, or a page, or a section, or a publication. It's inextricably entwined with all news.

Dana Gioia's point is that artists could possibly generate enough of a buzz to make us stop the madness and talk about current events in a productive way. It's not like art is the answer to the world's ills, but if Guernica could still cause a bit of a scandal in 2003, well, wouldn't something from the 21st century generate some pretty interesting conversation?

Even if we don't use art to highlight tragic conflict and force the movers and shakers in world politics to have a chat about resolving them, we should still be more aware of art and literature. I'll leave you with this: Robert Frost was the US Poet Laureate from 1958-1959. Name one of the thirty-three poets who held the position after him. One. You can check your answers here.

Adam Sandler: Kreskin?

Didn't this happen to Carl Weathers' character in Happy Gilmore?

You Ripped Off That Post? Really?

Every once in awhile, a blogger furiously posts about one of his pieces being plagiarized. That sucks when it happens. Of course, no one loves my stuff enough to rip it off, so I'm just intuiting that it sucks. So, one of the blog collectives that I visit regularly highlighted the plight of someone to whom this had happened. Within her post about the blog pirate, she linked to her original piece so we could all know what it was that was so very valuable.

Eeargh. It was a self-hating thingamajig about the myriad things that stink about being a woman. The things that earn the writer's ire are as follows:

• Being stared at;
• Having to always look pretty/cute;
• Other women;
• High heels, pantyhose/stockings, bras, jeans, bikinis/bathing suits, nail polish, etc.

She concludes with a paragraph about the advantages to being a woman, which include such treasures as, "Getting our way by flashing a smile or showing some cleavage," and "growing a child inside our bodies."

All of it is just so...ugh. Really? This is progress? Do women today really honestly believe that it is a requirement to look pretty? And wear high heels? And what kind of women are you friends, with, anyway? And the advantages listed are more misogynistic than the disadvantages. I'm not sure that I want to get my way by flashing a smile.

The thing that bugs me is that there isn't even a hint of irony in this post, or a glimmer of understanding that the author has some control in these situations. It's not like you're going to be fined if you don't wear makeup. You don't have to hang out with women who are going to talk smack about you. And you really don't have to be weirded out by guys staring. My guess is that if you're flashing some cleavage to get what you want, then perhaps you're inviting a guy's unblinking gaze?

Actually, the thing that REALLY bugs me here is that someone else thought the post was so awesome that she slapped it on her MySpace page without giving credit to the original author. Does no one understand that we do not need to conform to societal expectations of women? I feel like there was a bunch of cybersister high-fiving going on, without anyone questioning the author's contribution to her own disadvantages.

It's moments like these when I feel like a harridan of Dorothy Zbornak proportions.

P.S.: I'm not linking to the post 'cause I'm not really wanting a debate on this. And I'm a coward.

Benedict XVI Must REALLY Not Like the Way Italians Drive

I just saw that the Vatican has issued the Ten Commandments for drivers. This is not the first time that Pope Benedict XVI (or his staff, as the case may be) has had a hand in issuing warnings about road rage. No surprise, really, considering many citizens of his adopted country choose to ride around on what Eddie Izzard called an "f***ing hairdryer."

Hubby will not like knowing that overtaking is a sin. He'll have racked up a score of sins to report the next time he finds himself in the old confessional. Heck, he'll have racked up a score of sins by the time he arrives home from his afternoon commute.

The Return of Opie and Anthony. Sigh.

No slight to Opie and Anthony, but I really dig Ron & Fez and was stoked that they were on the XM's Virus 24/7 during O & A's suspension. With O & A's return, Ron & Fez are relegated to three hours of live broadcast and three hours of replay per day. The remaining eighteen hours -- five live, and thirteen replay -- are all Opie and Anthony. I could listen to Ron & Fez debate top ten lists all day long, and in fact, I did during most of the last month. Maybe Ron & Fez could just get one more replay in there? Or do something like the Fastest Hour when they were on WJFK in DC? Please, XM? Please?

This Is All Wrong

I may not know many things... Wait. Actually, I do know many things. And one of them is that this song...

does not exist. It's from a fan's MySpace page. Can't be a dedicated fan if s/he doesn't know the song is called "Enjoy the Silence." Perhaps it's a clever way around piracy laws? Oh, except the other two songs on the fan's page are correctly titled. Do you feel the waves of anger that my fourteen-year-old self is sending across space and time to this poseur?

A Thirty-Something Milestone

Every week, I receive e-bulletins about my children which discuss milestones that each of them may be reaching (if they haven't already). There are all kinds of careful caveats to prevent ubër competitive parents from freaking out that Johnny isn't clapping yet or that Susie isn't participating in creative enough play, but it's been a pretty handy guide for me. More than once, I have wished that there was something like this for me and my thirty-something com padres. What to Expect: the Thirties. Or maybe, The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being in Your Thirties. I would totally buy that in a heartbeat.

This month's chapter -- 31 years, 11 months -- would go a little something like this:

You may start getting e-mails, phone calls, or other forms of correspondence from former high school and college friends and acquaintances. In some instances, they are looking for a Big Chill experience. In others, they are just starting to revisit what they've done with their twenties, and for many people, that means reconnecting with people who meant a great deal or shared intense experiences during that decade. In still others, they are revealing that they have been diagnosed with a serious health condition, and would love it if you could sponsor them in a fundraiser for research for a cure for that health condition.

Yep, I received one of the latter e-mails yesterday. I jumped into an Olympic-sized pool of empathy for the guy. He was always so much fun, very easygoing, and for him to have Multiple Sclerosis is just crazy. I'm glad he contacted me, even if it was via mass e-mail, and even if it was to ask me to pony up some sponsorship coin for a bike ride fundraiser. I'll be happy to do it. I just wish that I'd kept in enough touch to know this before he got to the stage where he was mass-emailing about it.

Perhaps These Directions Are for Aquaman?

For reasons too long and tedious to go into here, I needed to know the distance between two teeny towns in northern Maryland. So, I hied myself on over to Google Maps and entered my start and end points. Imagine my surprise when Google returned a map that showed the starting point in the United Kingdom. Whoops -- I forgot to specify Maryland. That'll learn me. Of course, I had to know how Google recommended getting across the Pond. When I spotted it, I laughed out loud. Scroll down to Step #29 to see the source of my giggles.

Swim? Really? Not fly, or sail? And the time estimate -- 29 days to cover 3,462 miles -- requires a swimmer to chug along at about 5 miles per hour. The fastest swim time on record is just a little faster than 5 miles per hour, but that was only in the 50 meter freestyle. A human couldn't possibly sustain that speed crossing the Atlantic, ipso facto, Aquaman is the only fella who could use these directions. So, Arthur Curry, should you want to know how to get from Abingdon, England, to Pylesville, Maryland, I've got the directions saved in my Favorites.

Bustin' Through Writer's Block

Any tips on how to punch through a sincere case of writer's block? I'm more stuffed up than my nephew after rolling around in some dog dander. And the blockage is on all fronts, baby. Chick-litty work-in-progress, blog, e-mail -- my keyboard might as well be a thirty-foot high Cold War masterwork of concrete and rebar. Can't get around it to do the work.

What's up with that? The WIP, well, that one's easy to explain. I'm at the tail end of it -- reworked the final scene and everything -- and all I really need to do is take an hour to read it, then hit the revision process. That's when I can take it like it's a wrinkled sheet and snap it flat to fold it up into a neat little package. Where to find that time to read and edit and rewrite and re-read and edit and rewrite, though? My goal is to have query letters out by my birthday. If I have a deadline, I can usually find inspiration to climb over or tunnel under my own personal Dark Tower of Fruitlessness. Usually.

E-mail's another story. With that one, I put a little too much pressure on myself to scribe something witty, or intellectual, or both. Usually both. Inevitably, I send something out that was written in a state of delirium with many, many errors. Not spelling errors, because I take advantage of spell check, as all writers using modern media should. My errors tend to be of the I-used-the-wrong-word or I-straight-up-forgot-to-include-a-preposition kind of errors. Just the type of goof that makes people smile and think, "Wow, she must have been really delirious when she wrote this." I hope. Oh, Lord, I hope people think that and don't think that I have some kind of learning disability that prevents me from noticing when I skip prepositions.

Writer's block on a blog, though...yikes. LtW is an online journal for me, 'kay? And when I find that I don't have anything to write about, well, I start to think that maybe I'm not engaged enough with the world around me. Shouldn't I be fired up about the news? Well, I am, but other people provide better analysis than I. So go read them, I think. Regardless, my niche is commentary on pop-culture for the under-forty set, but the stuff that's been going on there is pretty boring too. I know, I know, rehab and jail are pretty juicy topics. Yeah, for a Lifetime movie.

And the stuff that's going on for me personally, well...life is sweet. Not a lot of conflict happening at the homestead, and conflict is the root of comedy and drama, yes? I s'pose I could talk about how the Boy is an exhibitionist and streaks around the house after a bath, but that's about as far as the story goes.

Blah. I'll figure it out. We've got a few events this weekend that usually provide some fodder for Ye Olde Blog. A dance recital and Father's Day -- let's see what happens, shall we?

Religion Rule

Know what gets under my skin? If someone asks, "What religion are you?" and the askee responds, "Well, I was raised blah-de-blah."

This happens on the radio all the time. Don't get me wrong -- I fully acknowledge that it's tough to answer an obnoxious question with grace, so the askee is at a disadvantage. I mean, someone only asks this question so that they can get into the mindset, theoretically, of the askee. Well, I've got news for ya: there's not a lot of ipso facto in the world of Catholicism. Many a Catholic deviates from Church doctrine on the finer points of birth control, charity, attendance, etc. Some would call this buffet-style religion (you only put what you want on your plate and leave the rest), which it may very well be, but that's a whole 'nother blog post.

So, we've established that I'm annoyed by the question in the first place. Then, though, my annoyance is exponentially increased when the askee deflects the question by providing only the religious affiliation of his youth. Just say, "I don't really practice anything," or, "I'm not comfortable answering that," or "I'm agnostic," or "I'm an atheist." It's okay to be these things, so don't hide behind former religious affiliations. And if you converted, state your current religious affiliation. Why's that so hard?

I'm Not a Playa Hayta

But seriously, I'm totally disappointed that Britney Spears isn't rocking her short 'do. (I know, I'm about a month late to the table on this one. The office is a little busy.) When she shaved her head back in February, the world was agog, thinking that she'd hit the jaggedy rock bottom of substance abuse or emotional distress, or both. Me? I had much respect for the girl. I thought she was playing the role of a modern-day Lady Godiva: a pop tart laying herself bare, so to speak, so that the masses could gasp a collective gasp and realize how silly we all are.

Would have made and interesting social commentary, eh?

But Mizz Spears has not appeared in public with her nubbly head. Nope. She must own a habedashery these days, because you can't pass a magazine rack without peeping her kaleidoscope of hats, scarves, wigs, and most recently, hair extensions. My opinion and four bucks will buy you a Frappacino, but I'm totally disappointed that she's not rockin' the Mia-Farrow-circa-Rosemary's-Baby style. If she went that direction, the buzz cut would be perceived as a rebellious statement against image, against fashion, against tabloid newspapers. It would have been her opportunity to show that she controls who she is, and that she doesn't have to rely on all the fluff and candy floss of stylists, hair, makeup and the media to paint her a specific way.

Instead, she covers it up. And by doing so, she acknowledges that it was a big ol' "Oops." Not a deliberate choice, but a mistake. She's only twenty-five, though, so maybe that'll change in time.

Sweet Jeebus

A good argument for being Catholic, eh? To see the rest of the months, go here. I'm just thrilled that I know what I'm getting my mother-in-law for her birthday.

So THAT'S Where Bras Come From

I hit traffic driving into D.C. on Saturday night. Natch. The five-mile-an-hour slouch afforded me the opportunity to drink up the highway vista. The litter on 95 South was phenomenal: a bra, one of those push-up jobbies by the look of it, was dangling from a low-lying branch, slowly twisting in the summer breeze drifting by. Wow, did this stoke the fire of my imagination.

How did it get there? Did someone pack her suitcase really, really poorly and fling it on the back of a pick-up truck, and then the bra sprang free when the truck hit a pothole? Or did the owner toss it out of the truck in frustration? Or passion? Or both? Will it manage to hang onto that tree until a be-jumpsuited felon snatches it down? I mean, you see shoes and cups and cans and boxes on the side of the highway every day. But a bra? That was a first.

UPDATE: While Googling for an appropriate image for this post, I came across this site, dedicated to trees that bear apparel. Maybe that's what's happening on 95? Eh, probably not.

Sallie Mae Is Almost Off My Back

This weekend, Hubby and I will celebrate the 10th anniversary of having been graduated by Georgetown University (syntax is all for you, Matter-Eater Lad). Truth be told, we're not doing anything fantabulous to commemorate all the pomp and circumstance of our respective Bachelor's degrees. Just a brunch in the District with former classmates with whom we speak regularly, without the aid of university-sponsored alumni events. There will be nary a blue and gray balloon in sight.

Ultimately, I'm left wondering why I'm not taking this opportunity to pause and reflect on what's transpired in the past 10 years: marriage, children, death, debt, new jobs, lay-offs, taxes, education, bombs, houses, and discerning the best fix-it folks in town. I guess it's 'cause I'm not unique in going through these things. What am I going to say about them that hasn't been said? And who's got the time? I've got meatloaf to mix, a conversation to have with a friend who's stressing about some personal issues, and a couple of kids to shove in the tub before bed time. You would be AMAZED at how sweaty an almost-three-year-old gets when he's just kicking a ball around the house. The Boy may, in fact, have a glandular problem. Add having that checked out to the list of things to do in the next millenia.

But I don't feel like I'm living an unexamined life. Not at all. This blog probably helps. And having a spouse who helps me unpack emotional baggage is pretty handy too. Of course, it helps that I am a tower of good sense and emotional health. And ego.

Pfah. I guess I'm feeling like Debi from Grosse Pointe Blank:

"Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."