If you knew me at all...

...you'd know that I hate local news. I mean HATE IT. Local Fox news, in particular, is particularly heinous. I would never watch it if it weren't for Kevin, who watches only to catch the weather. Last night it was on as I was bustling around, preparing for bed, and I kept making sharp little "Ach!" "Ugh!" and "Argh!" sounds to drown out the stupidity of the lead "news" stories, mostly involving child abuse/rape/fondling and really awesome wrecks.

But I didn't bustle enough to drown out one of the leading stories, LEADING, mind you, about a ficticious group of citizens who are trying to ban strip clubs in their little patch of heaven. I say ficticious only because I don't really believe that a major city's news organization would take the time and money to talk to a group of about 4 citizens about a really worn-out issue. Not when there are legitimate third party candidates to interview! I'm SURE those "citizens" are actually horny news hacks, dressed as citizens, making up this whole thing so they can weasel a camera inside any strip club, anywhere. In their reporting of this moral outrage, they brought uncommon sensitivity and brevity to the boob tube by bouncing out no less than THREE strippers in about 45 seconds, including one fine lass who shook her gigantis, keyhole-blouse bursting bazongas at a concerned populace. Won't someone think of the children?

In other news, I went to a garage sale during lunch today. They promised quilts and bolts of fabric. I ended up with a weird double rake, a 'weed scratcher' tool thing, a hand spade, and a hand fork. Four bucks. On my way back to the office, I drove down the dreaded Parkway and was confronted with about a million cars (where did all these assholes come from!?) and, so, took a back road and ended up just kind of milling around the city on unfamiliar streets. The freeway was sort of in the corner of my eye--I wasn't hopelessly lost--but I did find myself in the bowels of the Industrial Parks Beside the Freeway. Who works in these building cubes with no names? Where do these people live? Does it bother them to come to work everyday in a place where they can't go outside and take a walk? Where the only view is up towards the freeway? Do they ever fish in those big ponds, or at least eat their sandwiches on its halfheartedly manicured banks?

It was about then that I realized, "I'm talking about myself!" And I was so depressed that I went to Once Upon a Child in Suburbanton and bought just the perfect sun hat for Marky. Problems over!

The Guy's Rules

This morning I received this email from my very male friend Matt. He sent this to many others as well. Without even thinking, I got caught up in a rebuttal. First, the email:

The Guys' Rules

Finally , the guys' side of the story. (I must admit, it's pretty good.) We always hear "the rules"
from the female side. Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules! Please note.. these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!

1. Men are NOT mind readers.

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

1. Crying is blackmail.

1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

1. Come to us with a problem only if y ou want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a Problem. See a doctor.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.

1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us to act like soap opera guys.

1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one

1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

1. Whenever possible, say whatever you have to say during commercials.

1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not A color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, expect an answer you don't want to hear.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really.

1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as SEX, CARS, the shotgun formation, or NASCAR.

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!

1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight; but did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

Now, the response:

1. Toilet seat--agreed. It's not difficult to work. The next comedian/comedienne who mentions the Battle of the Toilet Seat is officially in season. Go hunters!
1. Sunday sports--agreed. Women, if you don't like sports, find something else to do. Surely you had a life before you met Mr. Wonderful. Exception: Guys, if you have children, you really should do something with them sometimes.
1. A headache that lasts for 17 months--agreed. But if your big seduction move involves pulling down your pants and showing us your fancy "helicopter", you probably deserve it. If you're still single and you do this on a regular basis, you should be cut off completely. Every once in a while, try a massage.
1. Christopher Columbus thought he was in Asia, putting him about 12,000 miles away from where he actually was. Don't be a stereotype. Your penis cannot find true north. Sometimes you just have to ask.
1. Personally, I'm not a shoe gal, but if your gal is and you feel the need to judge, you might want to count your hats first. We all have our little collections.
1. Peach, pumpkin, mauve--agreed. For most men, a hunting shack with a plasma TV is all the "home" they'll ever need. Who needs drywall or toilet paper holders or light fixtures or sheets? Women, go nuts.
1. Sleeping on the couch--agreed. If you're miffed at the person you share the bed with, YOU should leave. You shouldn't assume that you have the right to order someone out of it. Personally, I love it when my husband sleeps on the couch (he often falls asleep watching the weather--of course). He snores. AND he doesn't take the time to actually get under the blanket AND the sheet, which screws everything all up.

After being married for almost 7 years, I have a few rules, too:
1. Guys, don't walk into a room, fart, and then leave. Or walk in and immediately fart (you could have done that in the room you just left!). And never fart in the kitchen. Barns and workshops are great places to fart. And especially don't fart and then "make a move". It's futile.
1. If you pee in the yard, that's OK. But pick a spot where the neighbors can't see you. I mean, really.
1. I agree with many of the "communication" rules below. To sum it up gals, men are not stupid. But if you talk to them as if you're talking to Forrest Gump--short, succinct, direct--it'll go much better.

And an observation:
1. I have never yet met a woman who found these things amusing: 1. The Three Stooges 2. Dogs humping people's legs 3. Lighting their farts after the age of 12. Pretty much every man I've met HAS found these things amusing. Other than that, men and women are more alike than different. Find one a lot like you and marry that person. Or stay single. If you do otherwise, you've lost the right to complain.

Now, I know that I'm kinda wallowing in stereotypes here. It's kinda fun sometimes.

TESTIFY!!!

I have about 10 solid color, V-neck T-shirts in my work "wardrobe". Each weekday morning, I chose from among maybe 4 pairs of pants. Then I pick a T-shirt. I finish off this spit-shined look with either brown or black clogs, or with red strappy Chacos. Done! Gleam!

Here's the problem. Most--like almost ALL--of my T-shirts have stains. There's the leftover droplets of spattered Skyline on my red shirt. On my lime green one, there is a little trail of tiny ink blotches. My white shirts? Fahget about it! They're either hopelessly stained or an odd, mottled off-white color due to the fact that we throw our dirty clothes into the washer willy-nilly and press "start" when it's full. We're reckless people.

This morning, because my mood was cotton, I had to go to the basement closet and hope for the best. I found a light blue T-shirt that was 1. clean, 2. no stains! (?) and 3. didn't smell all musty. Where have you been all this time?

I get to work, sit down, log into my computer. While waiting for the computer to boot up, I open a container of raspberries. A millisecond later, I have a rather large raspberry stain on my precious shirt, in the tummy area.

I race to the office kitchen, grab a napkin, wet it, and proceed to blur the stain to a slightly larger area. Thinking that I will send out an email to the field snarkily asking for, of all things, a Tide To Go stain remover pen, I come across a coworker's desk and show this incredibly efficient person what happened. Just like the commercial, she had a Tide To Go pen in her purse. This woman would clean up on "Let's Make a Deal". No pun intended.

And, guess what? The thing actually works! After two applications (it might have taken just one, but I made the mistake of wetting my shirt--a no-no), the stain is gone.

Is that infuckingcredible or what?

Biomimicry and You

There is an interesting article/photo essay in today's Slate (www.slate.com) about biomimicry in engineering. In a nutshell, engineers are increasingly turning to nature to solve design and other engineering problems. Nature's designs aren't an answer to every pesky engineering issue, but engineers are having some success with, say, increasing gas mileage by designing cars that resemble a highly-aerodynamic fish. The Mercedes Boxfish looks pretty goofy, and they probably won't turn the concept car into a product line, but elements of the design might turn up in future vehicles.

This stuff is interesting to me. One thing that has never ceased to fascinate me is the patterns found in nature. The way that a tree resembles a lung and completes the same task; the way that leaf veins resemble animal veins . . . and complete the same task . . . and how both resemble a river's drainage system. . . . On and on. Aristotle said, "If one way be better than another, that you may be sure is Nature's way." I pretty much wholeheartedly agree (maybe 94.8%).

What is it about nature that moves me so? Why is it the pinnacle of beauty to me? To many? Why is it NOT to so many others? Is it innate? Is it learned? Is it a result of really awesome drug-fueled hallucinations and the resulting "imprinting"?

I know I've written about this before but, apparently, the rest of the world is finally catching up with my vision. These are wonderful times.

I've Taken a Chill Pill

All right, yeah, so I was freaking out a bit. I'm still feeling like I'm juggling a dozen plates and I'm thinking I'm going to drop them but, somehow, I'm keeping them up in the air, hanging on, realizing as the plates whiz overhead that I can barely do this. But I can do it.

After a spin on the hamster wheel downstairs, it occurred to me in a stunning moment of mind-body connectedness that we can do this whole thing, but that we have to go step-by-step.

So I went home and made a list, since life is all about making a list and crossing stuff off. And I painted the foul white rectangle of plastic that surrounds the large pane of glass in my front door. The rest of the door was painted a fetching "Italian Leather" months ago. MONTHS ago. A year ago??? But when I painted the composite plastic molding of the rectangle, the paint laughed at me and peeled itself right off. So I thought, "It needs a special primer. Surely it won't take me a YEAR to go to Lowe's and ask the door people for the proper primer that will make paint stick to this foul rectangle of glaring white that gives my otherwise brown and taupe and lovely home's facade a glaring, cheap-looking focal point." And, truth be told, I still haven't been to Lowe's. But I HAVE been to my garage. There I found sandpaper and the can of door paint and even a brush. Within 90 minutes, the foul rectangle had waved goodbye to the trailer park and moved into a new, high-class 'hood with two coats of Italian Leather.

Five minutes later, the dog alerted us to her desire to return indoors by scratching at the door, leaving a foul gash of white in my perfect paint job. But no worries, mate! I DID it. And I'll touch it up after she dies. And that's all.

So, last night, I got our business plan all nicely formatted on Word and even got a few paragraphs banged out. It's there to add to at will. And then I made a list of everything that needed done with the house and circled all of the things that I can do myself, which amounted to a distressing (and empowering!) amount of stuff. So, by the end of the weekend, Kevin MUST hang the new ceiling fan and put new doorknobs on Stevie's doors. I will be painting all the ceilings and procuring paint for the other odd paint jobs.

I also spent a part of last night working out a training plan for the 1/2 marathon I'm going to run on March 17 in Moab, UT (provided I get chosen--it's a lottery system). I've wanted to run it ever since my track and field coachees and I helped staff it oh so many years ago. Eleven miles of the course snakes along the canyon road beside the Colorado River. It's gorgeous. I have 35 weeks to lose dozens of pounds and get my heart and muscles on board. I have 21 weeks until the "official" 14-week training period begins. That's 5 months. It seems doable. If it's not, I'll plan to run/walk it. Surely I can manage that.

The weekly plan consists of 3 walk or run or both days, 2 cross-training days, and 2 rest days. Entirely reasonable, but it will be a jolt at first. The good news is that I'm excited about it and really believe that I can do it.

Work is still meh, but I'll do what I need to do to get by.

Every blog post has an equal and opposite repost.

Tangled Up in Poo

I've been a ball of anxiety lately. Almost completely outta sorts.

I've had anxiety dreams all week. One was kind of amusing, once I woke up. In the dream, I had to travel about 1/4 mile to do some work thing. I chose to take a different, much longer route, which had me thinking that people (hello, boss reference) are going to come down on me for making a bad choice and being late. Also, along the wrong route, I chose to drink TWO bottles of wine. So, not only was I risking a horrific DUI, but I was going to show up late for work, completely sloshed.

And then I had not one, but TWO anxiety dreams about Stevie. I won't go into detail, but they both involved something being really wrong with Stevie that I couldn't fix. And they came back-to-back, doubling the worry and paranoia. And bad dreams about your kids are the worst kind.

When I get home at night from the job that I don't enjoy at all (#1 issue), I am overwhelmed by the amount of things that need to get done (#2 and #3). Kevin and I are moving on the plan to open our own business in MO. Just that, alone, is a ton of work. There are buildings to buy and people to conspire with so that we can buy it. There are banks to call and old buddies who are bankers to call to procure free advice. There are equipment lists to make and get prices for. There is a business plan to write, which opens up another large box of things to sort through.

Beyond that, there are the beginning movements in getting a house ready for sale, a house that we're pretty sure we won't get any money out of (stressor #257). And, a house that needs a lot to get in shape for the sale and when in the hell are we going to be able to get to all of it? And then the whole deal about packing up and leaving and all that entails.

Argh.

Beyond that, I'm mad at My Best Friend Who Says He'll Be There in 2 Hours (For Sure, This Time!) and Then Calls 2 Hours Later and Says, "I Got Too Hot Outside. I Won't Be There" not realizing that he is the one who initiated the visit and said about 4 times that he was coming over and that he was bringing my son's gifts and, since he called just 2 hours prior to arrival and assured me he was coming I told the son and then, after friend cancelled, had to tell the son that no, he WASN'T coming and then listen to my son cry and later, at bed time, sadly say "Only one guest arrived today" (One out of three). So I'm pretty miffed about that and, I won't deny, I'm feeling bad about it all. Not only did he cancel so late in the day that most every other plan start time had long since passed, but he cancelled on us AGAIN. What am I, man?

AND I heard news from my brother's terrible divorce that his evil ex-wife wants $50,000 just given to her before she'll move out of a house that she doesn't own or pay for and since my brother doesn't have the money (because he's supporting her, 3 years after the split!) "he can borrow it from his rich (88-year old) grandmother" who has nothing to do with any of this.

Sorry. I'm tied up in knots right now.

Insights Wanted

Does anyone know what kind of crime I could commit that 1. doesn't really hurt anyone and doesn't carry tons of stigma and 2. gets me placed on house arrest (with no jail time . . . and minimum fees). Should I go the marijuana route? Probably too much stigma, huh?, me with young kids and all. Perhaps mild white collar embezzlement stuff. If I lift a few too many textbooks, would that qualify?

When Martha was on house arrest, I thought, "How awesome! She gets her pick of several fabulous estates, she can cook, collect eggs, sew, whatever!". I hear, though I'm not for sure, that frolicking around in the yard is a no-no; that it's HOUSE ONLY.

No matter. I could deal with that. Today starts the Shop Hop, where 12 area quilt shops open their doors to their decked-out, sale-full stores for a few days. You go to each store, they stamp your "passport", and you turn it in for a chance at fabulous prizes. I feel even more justified in spending money during Shop Hop because, well, it's shop hop! It only happens once a year.

But all of my new treasures get me to feeling a bit overworked. As in I'd rather be home than at work. And if I could get on house arrest, I would have no choice but to stay home and quilt. A better sentence I can scarcely imagine.

Are you kind of sad for me now?

Submissions Wanted

As Kevin and I drove through Indiana last week on our way to Missouri, some Indiana driver did something dumb and out of my mouth popped "What a moron. Hoop-stuffin' hick."

This got me thinking. Thinking that the residents of each and every state in the Union needed a nickname. Something general, something that would encapsulate the stereotypes of the state, and of course, something derogative.

So far I've thought of two:

Indiana = Hoop-stuffin' hicks
Missouri = Catfish-eatin' sandbaggers

Just 48 to go! I ran these by Burb and he laughed, so there's promise. However, I need suggestions to really get me rolling. Like a haiku, you have to stick with the complex format--noun-verbin' almost-proper noun. Or you can think of something better. And Utah's has to have the word "naysayers" in it. Like "Caffeine-eschewing naysayers."

I can do better.

And we definitely need a culminating name for all Americans. "Ugly Americans" "The Great Satans" . . . those are good, but we need something fresh--something that follows the format.

Dying to do this, but having trouble coming up with the first one? Work on your home state first. Or a state you really dislike. For me, that would be Texas. Those gun-totin' egomaniacs.

I can do better.

slivers

First I read Why Won't You Grow? Then I Stand Corrected. And I was struck by the similarities in the lives of three very different (?) human bloggers. I, too, spent last week at a family homestead, suffering in the mid-90s heat and humidity. Why is MO always so damn hot?! I had to close the window yesterday morning here in swingstate, it was so cold! And I, too, contemplated the whole parenthood thing, even without the instigator. In a nutshell, I love it. But I could've used a bit more time to myself yesterday.

Finally, I, too, find projects that suck up huge tracts of time. I don't garden; I would rather see the weeds eat holes in the siding than suffer through pulling them. But I do have papers. And I do, occasionally, open up the files and weed through the rows of labeles manila folderis.

I also quilt. If you walked into my house right now, you would stand, stunned, before the large pile of various fabrics and whole quilts sitting on top of Kevin's butcher block table. (Don't be scared. Though there are needles.) The butcher block table that we took out of the kitchen months ago, and then brought back into the kitchen for the wine tasting party, and had planned to take out again except that a large pile of various fabrics and whole quilts are squatting there and don't seem to be leaving any time soon. So yesterday I mostly sat around (between jags of holding Marky) and stared at it, desperately wanting to get into something, feeling very entitled to spend ALL of my time quilting (thanks, vacation), but forlornly realizing that I had so many somethings to start and only two hands and a few hours. Bummer! I breezed through about a dozen quilting magazines looking for inspiration for the appliqued border of my parents-in-law's quilt that I may or probably may not have done in time for Christmas. I worked for a bit on a quilt that I'm exchanging for a painting, but my thread kept breaking and it was pissing me off and at least I know to quit when that starts happening. So I quit. And I watched a movie--My Date With Drew--that gets a hearty B+. See tiny print for details.

It was a documentary about a normal guy (VERY normal) who has had a crush on Drew Barrymore since they both were kids and decided to document his 30-day quest to secure a date with her with only a couple of buddies, a camera that had to be returned in 30 days (thus the time frame), and $1,100 in game show winnings (curiously enough, a sum won by getting his teammates to say "Drew Barrymore" in a televised game of "Taboo") to help him. It was a good movie--very light, pretty sweet, with a happy ending.

It was a pretty unproductive day. You might say, "Hey--it's OK! We all must veg once in a while." But you'd be full of shit. Why? Because there's SO MUCH TO DO.

Insight: When Kev and I were in MO, we looked at property. We thought it would be cool to get a cheap, CHEAP place to live and fix it up a bit while we got our business started. Woah, there! What's this about a business? As many of you know, Kevin and I would like to start our own monument company. Kevin wants to do this in MO and it would be an excellent place to do it. Why? 1. His uncle owns a funeral home in Hometown. 2. There is no one within 50 miles making monuments. 3. Kevin really wants to settle in MO. I'm a bit ambivalent. But I'm a tree; I can bend. And Hometown is really cheap. 4. We have land there and plan to build our homestead on it.

Sooooo . . . we looked at really cheap houses and we even looked at a couple of big, steel, industrial-type buildings. There's one we really want. If he knocks the price down, and if investors put forth the cash, it's ours. If we get it, we'll need to make some trips out there to fix it up and get everything ready. It's a big place and we will be able to live there as well after it gets freshly sprinkled with female dust.

If we get it, we need to get out of the house we're in. Bummer! I really like our house. To do that, we need to get this house ready for sale. Thus the MANY THINGS TO DO. And that's just the stuff we HAVE to do. The stuff we WANT to do--quilt and make bowls and go camping with the kids--well, do we have time to do it? My, my. Scurry, scurry, scurry.