*Giggle*

I know it's too early to count the Damn Yankees out, but it pleases me no end to read an ESPN headline entitled, "Bronx Bummers".

The vaunted Yankees lineup have gone 14 straight innings without scoring a run against Detroit.

Friday night:
The poor little Yanks went 0 for 8 with runners in scoring position.
They were shut out by Kenny Rogers, who just ain't all that.
The "Big Unit" Randy Johnson gave up 5 earned runs.
Damon, A-Rod, Giambi, Abreu, and Bernie Williams all went 0-fer in the game.

I'd only be happier if Jeter had done the same... or if last night's game had shut the door on the Yanks' season.

Instead, I'll cringe my way through this afternoon's game.

Update, for any who didn't hear our victory cheer: The Yankees lost 3-8, and are now done with baseball until next season. YeeFuckin'Haw!

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Time for a Meme*

*Subtitle: 'cause I love music.

That's right, I'm too lazy uninspired tired to write original text, so I swiped a meme from SassyFemme.

Here are the rules: List seven songs you are in to right now. No matter what the genre, whether or not they have words, or even if they're not any good... they must be songs you're really enjoying now. Post these instructions on your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they're listening to.

"Crazy On You", live recording by Heart. The Road Home was a cd I once owned but was a casualty of my previous relationship. Now that I've re-obtained it through Amazon.com, I've been playing the hell out of it. Ann Wilson can belt.

"Fuck was I", Jenny Owen Youngs. Discovered via Occasional Bitch, the song immediately became a new old favorite of mine.

"Orinoco Flow", by Enya. I love this song and play it often as a "pick me up". Yeah, Enya. Shut up.

"Tear in your Hand", by Tori Amos. If you don't know Tori, or Little Earthquakes, you're missing out.

"The Logical Song", by Supertramp. Always a favorite, and particularly meaningful when responsibilities are such a burden.

"What the What is Ladylike", by Storm Large. I didn't have to watch Rock Star: Supernova because Sporks kept me in the loop. Whatever on Fire, indeed!

"Because of You", by Kelly Clarkson. Yes, I'll cop to this one, too. I own, and enjoy, her music. This song in particular. And not just because I'm a sap for a good ballad.

I'm not going to "tag" anyone... if you want to do it, do it. :)

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Wannabe Word Cloud

I'm following in Syd's footsteps, but you can get your own "Word Cloud" here.


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Music to my Mouth

Chipotle, within five blessed minutes of home.

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When In Rome...

We've had a guest doggy in the house the past week... not such a bad thing. Bonnie is a little more active than Dud, so Pixie's been getting her play on. Bonnie also doesn't seem to mind that Pix wants to chew her ears off. Actually, she's pretty sweet in general. She comes when we call her, likes to cuddle, and doesn't get on the furniture. Well, that's what her dad said, anyway. I guess it must be our influence.

Since I cropped my salt shaker out of the picture, let me just add that the bitch is SO in my spot on the couch.

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All Kinds of WRONG

Thanks, I'll stick to cereal.

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Assume the Position!

So, Suzanne and I are completely whipped when it comes to our dogs. That's right: they not only sleep with us in the bed, they also sleep under the covers. This is something of a departure from the "norm" of a few mere years ago, when our old Springers - and the cat - mostly slept at the foot of the bed. Dud, being both incredibly stubborn and incredibly spoiled, often flaunted the foot-of-the-bed rule, and would instead stretch out along my side. After the spoiling expanded to include Pixie at the top of the bed and under-the-covers snoozing for both dogs, our familial unit has developed a comfortable routine for bedtime, also known as "assuming the position".

Suzanne and I spoon in the middle of the bed, typically with her behind me, our knees aligned, and her left arm snaking under my arm so that her hand cups my right breast holds me close. Pixie then curls up in the crook of Suzanne's knees while Dudley snuggles in against my stomach. Sometimes I'll rest my hand on his head, or hold his paw. It's the perfect position. Go ahead, make your own "doggy-style" jokes... "assuming the position" rocks!

And a pic for weese:

Yeah, we let 'em chew treats and play with toys on the bed, too.

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Obvious?

W: I have an opposable thumb.
S: I like that about you.

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Mother, Mother

My mother, for reasons known only to herself, happens to prefer the parental nomenclature "Mother". Maybe she feels it lends a sense of Southern propriety; I don't know. As a child I sometimes called her Momma, but "Mother" was at least as commonly employed. Certainly both of my brothers routinely use "Mother" when addressing her. I never fully realized how odd this sounded until I saw it in print, however. When she signs her emails with "Mother", the cold formality is striking to me:

Thanks for blah, blah, and blah. I'm off to blah and blah. Talk at you later.

Love,

Mother

Feeling a little silly tonight, I responded:

You're most welcome. I hope blah was enjoyable.

Love,

Daughter

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Hell, Meet Handbasket

S: Apparently the Pope pissed the world off by stating that Mohammad is evil.
W: Oh, yeah?
S: Yeah. Something like the Muslims use violence to spread their religion. 'Cause you know, there's no violence in the Bible.
W: We need a new Bible.
S: [does double-take] You... want me to buy you a Bible?
W: No, no... I think it's time a new Bible was written.

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Gotta Get Some!

Otis Spunkmeyer muffin, anyone?



Aunt Flo has other side effects.

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TMI

I don't think I've ever mentioned that I take birth control pills. Don't be getting any crazy ideas now - the sole purpose is to deal with Aunt Flo. That crazy bitch was visiting on a highly irregular basis and being a real pain in the uterus and back ass. She also had a real tendency to make me bitchy a tad irritable. And lethargic. And she fucked with my sleep, something I don't take lightly. I won't even mention what the old biddy did to my lingerie boxers sheets clothes!

So, I whined moaned was such a bitch looked so pitiful that Suzanne sent me to the doctor. The doctor gave me the prescription for The Pill. I took those little bitty pills each night, hoping against hope to be extricated from Aunt Flo's nasty clutches influence.

Time passed. The little pills changed colors. Finally, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Cramping, bitchiness, and sleeplessness were defeated. Hallelujah! Take that, Aunt Flo! Victory! And the villagers rejoiced. Well, Suzanne and I did, anyway. There was also the bonus of getting to quip, "Why is the lesbian the only one on birth control?!" when the epidemic of rash of multiple pregnancies occurred in my office.

With such satisfactory results, I even did a credible job of calling in the refill in a timely fashion each month. Having the ability to look at the calendar and know when Aunt Flo--now a defeated crone mere shadow of her former self--would arrive was so nice. The absence of the other symptoms was priceless: priceless I say, just like in the MasterCard commercials.

Time passed. Life was good.

More time passed. I got shit-faced drank way a little too much, and hurled forgot to take the little bitty pill one night. Any of you biatches know what happened next? That's right. Aunt Flo, full of piss and vinegar pain and suffering righteous indignation, descended two days later. Rather unexpectedly, and completely unwelcome.

Really, is there anything worse than having unwelcome relatives drop in twice in the same fucking month? Sure there is. Knowing it's your own damned fault.

Oh, and the über-bitch? It's too soon to call in the refill for the next script. Might as well put the welcome mat out for Aunt Flo now.









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Quote of Note

Egotist: A person of low taste, more interested in himself than in me.

~ Ambrose Bierce

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Luck, Schmuck

From the New York Daily News:

A Japanese executive charged with stealing $7 million from his company to fuel a gambling habit hit the daily double yesterday when his wife and his mistress appeared in court together to bail him out of jail.

Magistrate Judge Lois Bloom uncovered the love-triangle after she asked a few routine questions of the bond-signers.

"I am the wife," Hiroko Yamaki informed Bloom through an interpreter.

"I met him in a restaurant. ... We live together," explained Megumi Tsuji, who is a hostess in a Japanese restaurant.

The judge appeared momentarily flustered and explained she did not intend to embarrass the women.

"Mr. Yamaki, you are an incredibly lucky man," Bloom said.

Sure as shit wouldn't see my ass dropping $350,000 for his bond.

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Back in the Trenches

Although I once wrote about the various duties I've endured performed in my role as a servant to the adults with disabilities population, the truth is I'm now an administrator and am rarely required to provide "direct" care. When one-third of one's staff is out, however (two new mommies and one back surgery convalescent, thank you very much), it is inevitable that to the supervisor some additional work shall fall.

Happily, I can report that I've not been required to mow a yard, wipe an ass, or scrub a toilet... yet. No, to date my resumption of hands-on responsibilities has largely been in support of a young woman who works as a teacher's assistant in a private day care. Said support primarily consists of facilitating the creative process for weekly "projects" with the kids, supervising preparation of snacks, and offering occasional feedback regarding efficiency and initiative. School is back in session in Maryland, so 30 or so kids descend on the day care at the end of their scholastic day just waiting to snatch the snacks prepared by my charge and engage in games and group projects. It's not that bad, really, and I don't even have that much experience with the circa kindergarten age group. I have favorites. I have also identified the ones that are going to give their parents hell for the next fifteen years or so. Heck, it's kinda fun.

Two weeks ago, however, the day care was in prime preparation for the school season. They sent the kids home on a Thursday, the last official day of summer camp, with Friday designated as TRANSITION DAY. That's right - one day to clean, reorganize, re-label, and otherwise plan for the school year. They do the same thing at the end of the school year to prep for camp. It seems slightly masochistic from my point of view, but I imagine it's cost effective.

As this particular person with a disability (PwD) has worked at this particular day care for several years, I was quite familiar with the expectation that the PwD get 1:1 support for the entire Day of Transition. So, I sucked it up, put on my favorite jeans and a tank, and went to perform my duties as a day care job coach. Given that I'm a bit compulsive about cleaning, this assignment did not seem particularly onerous. Seven hours later, I realized how naive my earlier impression had been. Do you have any idea how chaotic a day care can be on Transition Day? Toys, paints, puzzles, games, crayons, and beads, beads, and more beads were everywhere. Bright colors assaulted my Type A sensibilities from every direction. It's the fodder of which nightmares are born.

The staff were busy creating, sorting, and organizing (lucky bitches) while the PwD and I tackled various cleaning tasks. Transition Day heralds the welcoming of a new herd of kids, so all previously assigned materials must be relieved of their former designations - a task now firmly identified as my least favorite. I thoroughly destroyed my thumbnails scraping tape out of about 100 "cubbies" and then scrubbing them down with neurotic intensity. If you're inclined to ask if the PwD is supposed to "do" the work while I "coach," the answer is affirmative. Unfortunately, this particular young woman had NO attention to detail and I simply could not resist "refining" her efforts. We were in a day care, for fuck's sake - cleanliness should not be taken lightly! Now, if you're inclined to ask, "Why trash your nails? Why not use a scraper?" I'm afraid the answer is, "They couldn't find the scraper, and I foolishly didn't think to bring a razor blade to the day care." (If you're inclined to ask wtf a lesbian cares about fingernails, well, bite me.)

Of course, the rooms looked amazing the following Monday. At least until the children arrived.

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Competition?

Me: according to this old blog entry, Laila Ali is Queen Latifah's girlfriend.

Suz: (looks at pic) Nice. Laila Ali? Isn't she the boxer?

Me: Yes.

Suz: I love Queen Latifah. Secretly I'm her girlfriend; she just doesn't know it.

I hope Queen never learns of it, as I'm pretty sure she could kick my ass.

Update:

As a result of the questions--and delightful mental images--in the comments, I decided to do a smidge of research. Seems Miss Ali has been rather adamant in her denial of any such liaison with the Queen. Now that's a pity in oh-so-many ways. The "research," however, was very much a visually pleasing task.

Not as pleasing was Queen's own denial:

It's insulting when someone asks, 'Are you gay?' A woman cannot be strong, outspoken, competent at running her own business, handle herself physically, play a very convincing role in a movie, know what she wants—and go for it—without being gay? Come on.

I mean, I agree with her in principle. Truly. I just think she'd make a mighty fine lesbian, and would hope she would acknowledge it proudly if such were the case. Ah, well. Looks like my suburban bliss is safe for now.

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Yeehaw?

My daddy would be so proud. Thanks, Syd.



Pass the Miracle Whip. And hey, where's the greens and fried okra?

What's that? You want your own? Fine, click here.
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01.20.09

Although it heartens me to see anti-Bush sentiment slapped on the back of others' bumpers with increased frequency these days, am I the only one that feels so dismayed when this one comes into view?

I mean, it's clever and it's true... but damn, over two more years??? Really, I'm not going to go into a full-fledged rant. I generally keep my political self out of my blog but if ya'll had to live surrounded by those fucking "W: The President" stickers the way I have, perhaps you'd better understand my frustration.

This one, incidentally, is my favorite - it sums up my feelings quite nicely:

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Changing Perspective

For reasons unknown, I've received a handful of unsolicited opinions regarding my personality in the past two weeks:

One of my favorite friends in blogdom called me "flirty".

One of my closest friends in blogdom called me "chatty".

One of my favorite friends at work described me as having "some" of the traits of the so-called "Type A" personality.

What the hell, people? While I fully admit--and even embrace--that I am no longer the painfully shy freak I once was, chatty and flirty seem a bit much!

Exhibit A: I have spent much of my life as a wallflower, abhorring the thought of being the center of attention and liberally employing alcohol as a mechanism to overcome my extreme awkwardness in social situations. To this day, I often carefully edit my verbalizations so as not to elicit an unwelcome response from my audience. At times I also struggle to fill awkward silences when attempting to engage another in superficial conversation. Does that sound "chatty" to you?

Exhibit B: I have practiced serial monogamy throughout my adult life and consider loyalty to be one of my finest character traits. I have been largely successful at extricating myself from committed relationships prior to engaging in activities with others (in other words, I don't cheat). I would never, ever put myself in a position of destroying the relationship of others. Does that sound "flirty"?

*sigh*
Okay.

Being in a healthy relationship has done wonders for my self-esteem. Truthfully, my shyness has been gradually eroded by repeated exposure to social situations (without the benefit of alcohol) as a function of my job, particularly since assuming the mantle of supervisor. Successful handling of difficult situations at work helped even more. I recognize, too, that my ingrained "I'm shy" self-perception needs tweaking. I no longer present with the quiet, shy, avoidant disposition that my mental refrain attempts to default to when the question of my personality arises. Good God, how can I reconcile not wanting to be the center of attention while in the midst of writing about myself on my blog? Oh, it's not an indefensible position: I can retort that I carefully select what I will reveal of myself here and take full advantage of the opportunity to edit, delete, and edit some more.

Sure, I commented that "I'm so turned on" by a well-written post over at neurotranscendence. I encouraged weese to show off her "cut" triceps. I even egged on that Gunslinger dude to show us just how sexy he is. *sigh* Maybe it's true: my sense of humor could be interpreted as "flirty." Ah, well. Consider the source. I have the incredible fortune to share my life with a truly remarkable woman. Rest assured, ladies (and certainly gentlemen): As amazing as you or your lovers may be, your relationships are safe from me.

While writing this post, I exclaimed to Suzanne that I simply did not "get" what my coworker meant by "some" Type A qualities. I went to dictionary.com to explore the meaning and synonyms of the term. I ask you, is being a perfectionist, or possessing slight OCD tendencies, considered "Type A"? I made a few more exclamations in my own defense. I might be assertive at work, but not aggressive! Suzanne, after attempting to soften the blow delivered by one of my most-frequently visited websites, finally advised, "Dont get all obsessive-compulsive over this."

I guess it's a little too late for that.

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Bumpkin Kin

My last remaining grandparent, known conventionally enough as Grandma, passed away when I was 22. She died less than a year after her husband, Pop. I was six when Big Daddy died and nineteen when we lost Mam-maw. I don't actually have too many clear memories of Big Daddy, although attending his funeral at the ripe old age of six did make quite a lasting impression. Grandma and Pop were far more memorable to me. Daddy's side of the family were the redneck types that loved to watch the Cowboys, hunt deer, and drink. Many's the Thanksgiving I saw Uncle Walter "asleep" on the couch after killing a six-pack. And he still likes to laugh about the Christmas he played "pony" for me for what seemed like hours, and couldn't remember why he had rug-burns on his knees the following morning. Good old Uncle Walter.

I was the youngest of a small herd of cousins on my father’s side of the family. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Roy had two daughters so much older than me that they were more like aunts themselves than cousins. In fact, one of them had a son that was three months my elder. Aunt Joann and Uncle Walter had two adopted daughters that were supposedly biological sisters but were as different as night and day. Aunt Sue and Uncle Wil had one son; I was actually envious of his diabetes as a kid because whenever he came to visit he brought Diet Shastas that only he was allowed to drink. (I was also envious that he lived outside of Dallas, home to the much-celebrated Cowboys). And Daddy had my brothers and me.

We visited my grandparents' home just about once weekly, something I enjoyed even though the old man was hard of hearing and insisted on watching Hee-Haw at an insanely loud volume. Of course we also celebrated holidays there with the extended family. Grandma and Pop had lots of cards with which to play games or build card houses and lots of dominoes for creative efforts as well. Pop was an avid chewer of Juicy Fruit gum; he would hand out the occasional stick to us urchins when the mood struck him. He was also a pipe smoker and I can vividly recall him sitting on the deerskin chair on the screened porch, puffing away. I'm still irrationally fond of the smell of pipe tobacco. Pop mowed the land with a big-ass tractor that was so much fun to play on when not in use. He also maintained one heckuva big garden. I've never tasted macaroni and cheese or fresh green beans as good as Grandma's.

Grandma and Pop owned a lot of land in their itty-bitty town of 512 souls. Originally a cattleman and rice farmer, Pop gradually sold off chunks of his land until just a few acres remained around the homestead. The house was the only abode on a long road outside of what passed for "town," and was dark enough and creaky enough to be downright scary at night. Moss dangled lazily from the trees, creating a somewhat gloomy effect even on the brightest of days. Despite the isolation and aged appearance of the house, getting to spend the night at Grandma and Pop’s was always a treat. We had large family reunions under the tin shelter out in the yard every year right up until Pop died. I have so many memories of that house and yard: playing hide-and-seek and truth-or-dare with my cousins; hunting for Easter eggs; riding a horse for the first time; riding, and flipping, a three-wheeler for the first time; eating figs right off of the tree out front; and the awful image of a gutted deer suspended from a tree branch, its blood staining the ground.

From my earliest memories, Pop took a walk down their shale-and-dirt road every evening, cane in hand and cowboy hat on head. I loved his cane, too. Sometimes he'd crook you around the neck to pull you to him for a hug. He was such a sweet man. My dad is so like him physically. He's a sweetie, too. I once asked my mother how Daddy ended up so different from the rest of the "redneck" bunch on his side of the family. She said, "He was a redneck until I got a-hold of him."

These days I can see in Daddy just the slightest hint of, well, not redneck... hick, I suppose is a better word. And it just makes me love him that much more.

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Five Oddities

Deb over at Life as a Parent "tagged" me to write about "5 weird things/habits" of mine. I consented to participate, but I'm breaking the rules and am not tagging five others. If you want to play, either here or on your own blog, feel free.

1. I often eat foods I don't like (cooked carrots, for example) because I have a weird compulsion not to "waste" food. Or money. And because they're supposed to be good for me.


2. I love all things small. Small equates to "neat" and "cute" in my world.


3. I put salt on many, many foods, including apples, watermelon, pears, canteloupe, salad... oh, hell, the list of what I don't salt is shorter: ice cream, beer (and other alcoholic beverages,) bacon, and some fruits like cherries, nectarines, blueberries, and peaches.


4. I tend to mislead people regarding my age. Unlike most folks, though, I imply that I am older than I actually am.


5. I have a very slight curvature of my spine that results in shoulder/neck pain and greater "wear" on my left foot and footwear.
   

Now you know: I'm a hunchbacked, salt-eating, small-liking, icky-food-eating liar.

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Inculcate

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

"To impress upon the mind of another by frequent instruction or repetition"

Inculcate.

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Seven (Plus) Hours of Routine Repetition

Over the past few weeks, certain west coast bloggers and I have had a little fun referencing (and consequently inculcating) lyrics from well-known songs. It was a fun, if occasionally maddening, exchange... even a Texan smart-ass and a Virginian rugby-lovin', wannabe-renaissance man played along. But really, by the fourth day of the same lyrics repeating in my head like a badly-scratched 45, Donna Fargo deserved to have "Freaking" inserted into her name. Likewise, many of the aforementioned bloggers were elevated to smart-ass status*.

Today, however, is a new day. A day that began with a Budweiser commercial on the alarm clock, in fact. Although I'm still waiting for the "True Women of Brilliance" upgrade, more often than not I enjoy Bud's "Real Men of Genius" advertising line. Mr. Boneless Buffalo Wing Inventor, for example. What's not to like about the guy singing, "Hope I'm not eating rear end" with that holdover-from-the-80's rocker inflection?

This morning's wake-up salute was to Mr. Hot-Dog-Eating-Contest Contestant. I don't typically consider "seven hours of routine angioplasty" to be fodder for humor, so it's JUST NOT RIGHT that "my left arm feels tingly" has been reprising in my head since 6:30 a.m.

My frontal lobe feels tingly. It's almost enough to make me long for DonnaFreakingFargo.


*Statement is not intended to include an Art Journalist. Her smart-assedness was established long prior to events referenced in this-here blog entry.

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The King and O?

I've heard a couple of news stories in the past week regarding Oprah Winfrey and renewed speculation that she and Gayle King are, or were, lesbian lovers. The story didn't really interest me that much, although I admit I can totally see Stedman as a "beard." What did interest me, however, was when a couple of my favorite radio talk show hosts were discussing the subject.

"Wow, someone really needs to dive into that story!", said one. "I hope they don't muff it," responded the sidekick.

Is it wrong that I laughed my ass off?

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ARGH!

The Asshat Coworker Strikes Again!

Well i got us a new coffee maker which is also a Thermol Carafe , i made some Mocha for you coffee drinkers i hope it taste good i am not sure how to do the coffee/cup ratio in this pot yet, give me some time so I put one scoop of Mocha which i ordered from the Gevalia company i guess the next pot should be regualar pot and try to use one scoop of that since this is an 8 cupper our other pot was a 10 cupper and i used a scoop and a half, please let me know if you all like this, if not we will go back to our old coffee pot . This one uses new filters which are by our old ones these are cone shaped again feed back would be greatful. MAY ALL OF YOU COFEE DRINKERS ENJOY.

Attention to detail, anyone? Please?

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Suburban Sporks

Subtitle: 'Cause I wanted to post pics, too!

For those of you who have been following the Journey of the Sporks and have expressed concern regarding their welfare given the rapid transition from Southern California to New York City, I'm happy to report the little gals seem to be settling in to their new suburban home.

Although they seemed a little shy at first, the sporks have rebounded nicely from their whirlwind weekend. Perhaps they were jet-lagged, or simply fatigued... or hungover. (Didja see that one spork trying to git into eb's cleavage?) Regardless, a little rest, hydration, and good old suburban TLC have put the sheen right back into their little titanium faces.

They appeared appreciative of the diversity present in suburban Utensiltown, but quickly gravitated to the stainless steel family of implements.


They've also demonstrated a fondness for the dogs, although I'm not sure how Dud feels about it.


They clearly enjoy watching television. They'll spend hours watching the Food Network. Thankfully, they also enjoy sports. I've made it my special mission to ensure they appreciate teams other than the Yankees. One cannot start too early ingraining Yankees hatred.


Our little sporks are quickly becoming adept at "suburban" multi-tasking, and other amusements:




















After so many hours in front of the television and the computer, I began to fear for their sweet little tines. I decided they'd adjusted well enough to assume some basic suburban responsibilities, lest a certain sporks-enthusiast begins protesting over the girls' lack of productivity.


Yes, the sporks are adjusting well. We're so proud. I may introduce them to power tools next!

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A Piece of the Apple

New York City!

What can I say? I went there somewhat dreading the "big city" experience, as the little hick inside of me is somewhat intimidated by hordes of people and concepts like "mass transit." Particularly in NYC, where stories of subway crime, rude pedestrians, maniacal cab drivers, and general filth are legend. (I won't even mention how much I detest the Yankees.) So, the excitement of seeing EB and Bluebonnet (EB/BB) again, and meeting Weese and wife (WeMaw) for the first time*, was somewhat tempered by my general "big city" apprehension.

Fortunately, this-here trip was orchestrated by EB/BB. We had a plan for rendezvousing with them, and then the remainder of the weekend was left in their oh-so-capable hands. The rendezvous was accomplished without a hitch, and we were off to explore the City. Well, we were off to explore Manhattan. Manhattan, FYI to any others housing I'm-afeared-of-the-big-city inner hicks, is nice. Oh, sure, the cab drivers are a bit maniacal. And every once in a while a whiff of something not so pleasant would waft from the sewer grates. The subway is much warmer than DC's modest little mass transit system. But the people were fine, the food was excellent, and the bars were plenty. And the socialization was awesome. The eye-candy was... delicious. It seems skirts or shorts with tank tops are quite common in NYC on a hot summer evening.

So, what can I say? I might not be ready to yell, "I love New York City!", but I can say with confidence, "I heart Manhattan."


*At the time, I didn't know how excited I should've been about meeting BB's niece, Crystal. Drunken New Jersey Lesbian-Wannabes are fun, ya'll.

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It's Time

Recently I heard a news article stating that "time" is the most commonly used noun in the English language. Think about that. What time is it? Do we have enough time? How much time will you need? Time for dinner. That time of the month. Time flies. Time to kill. Time and date. Overtime. Time out of mind. Record time. The time of my life. Out of time. Until next time. Time's wasting. Working against time. Time in a bottle. Time magazine. Arrival/departure time. Why do you do that all of the time? Time immemorial. Time to think. Time to act. Time zone. Greenwich Mean Time. Eastern Standard Time. Daylight Savings Time. Time out!

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.
~Pink Floyd, "Time"

So, what time is it? It's time to go to bed. We must be up early in order to be on time for our plane to NYC. We have plans to spend time with our friends there. I'm hopeful a good time will be had by all. I'm also looking forward to sharing the experience here on Wannabe, but there'll be time enough for that later. In the meantime, enjoy your weekend.

Time does fly - and so shall we.

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It's Not the '80s Anymore

A few of weeks ago, eb published a post regarding the difference between her chronological age and her perception of herself, or how old she "feels." I've turned that thought over in my head a lot recently, analyzing how old I "feel." I think the reason the question lingered for so long was that I kept identifying with my actual age. I don't possess any particular hang-ups over my age, as many of the most important people in my life are a little older. Over the past couple of weekends, though, I realized I do tend to associate with a much younger self when I'm performing physical labor. It always shocks me when my body lets me down, because I expect it to perform the way it did fifteen years ago.

While never an athlete, I've always had confidence in my body. In my teens and twenties, I generally believed myself to be stronger than many women of my average size, with decent balance, dexterity, and endurance. Rarely did a task intimidate me. Even more rarely did I fail. I have a stubborn personality at times and like to be independent, so it's my nature to tackle physical activities with an "I can do it" attitude. In my teens and twenties, I could. And did. Such an attitude kinda comes in handy as a lesbian, as there is no option to defer to the hubby when it comes to hard work (and there's not much point in wishing The Boy were here.)

Now, however, I find that I cannot lift every item in the house without hurting my back. Nor can I rake or shovel for hours on end without looking like a hunchback the following day. Last Sunday, I ran the weedwhacker for well over an hour. Much of that time I was holding it at an inverted angle in order to "trim" our driveways and sidewalk. Today, three days later, the muscles in my arms have finally stopped screaming their righteous protest of such abuse. It's a humbling experience.

Sure, I recognize that I was using muscles in a manner to which they are not accustomed, but the pain still served as a pointed reminder: I do not have the body of a 20-year-old anymore.

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A Simple Question

What's on your keychain?

Mine has the usual collection of house, auto, and office keys, along with the keychain cards for my preferred grocery and pharmacy. The key fob is actually a small patch of leather embossed with the Timberland logo, taken from The Boy's boots back when he wore Tims in high school.

I'm a simple, non-bulky, necessary-or-at-least-sentimental-items-only kinda girl. What about you?

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You Can't Be a Beacon

Before (Boo, hiss):













After (Ooh, aah):













Say it together now: Ooh, aah.

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Today's To-dos

Attempt repair of riding mower
Mow (preferably with riding mower!)
Install new light fixture on back of house*
Laundry**
Publish blog entry
Two of following three:

• Prepare ground for foundation of second shed***
• Assemble foundation of shed
• Assist suddenly husbandless neighbor with unfinished home improvement efforts (military husband has been assimilated for some sort of training at some other location)

Well, that's one down.

*Avoid electrocution
**Must maintain Laundry Queen status
***Ignore snickering

Oh, the Injustice

Suzanne minus Fark.com equals whine.

How dare they perform site maintenance during her prime news-junky viewing hours?

Thankfully, today is a new day.

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There's Always Tomorrow?

Although I enjoy the administrative responsibilities of my job, this is always a taxing time of year. In addition to starting new "consumers" and preparing for an anticipated licensing visit, June 30^th marked the end of our fiscal year. In my world, this means cracking the whip to make sure all of my staff have all of their FY06 paperwork (billing reports, monthly reports, case notes, expense reports, productivity records, etc.) complete, while somehow managing my own documentation responsibilities - most notably writing ten performance evaluations and creating new FY07 electronic "cases" in our piece-of-shit database. Oh yeah, there's also the lingering issue of arranging caseload coverage when two of my staff pop their little buns out of their no-longer-so-little ovens.

Today was my first day back at work following a four-day holiday weekend full of shed-building excitement. Actually, I took leave for Monday in order to gain the four-day weekend; my agency only observes the actual date of Independence Day as a paid holiday. I took the extra day off gladly despite knowing how much work is due by the end of next week. I told myself I'd really start crunching through everything today.

I forgot our Administrative Assistant was planning to come to the office today to do billing, even though she is still technically on maternity leave. She delivered her baby girl on June 11th. Little Kylie put in 7 hours at the office today.


Now really, how was I supposed to get any work done?

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Glog

What is a Glog?   "A Glog^sm is a live game log. It is the expert color commentary, the conversation you are having with your buddies on the couch and the critiques you are making from the cheap seats all rolled into one."   Such is the description on the CBS Sportsline fantasy sports section. Translation: a "live" web broadcast of text-based baseball action, with the addition of pseudo-color commentary (no commas were omitted in the quotation.)

Por ejemple:

CLE 17 - NYY 1 - Bottom 6 - 2 out
Ben Broussard has taken the golden sombrero tonight, as he strikes out for the fourth time tonight. Someone has to make the outs and tonight, that someone has been Broussard.
CLE 17 - NYY 1 - Bottom 6 - 1 out
Victor Martinez has collected his fifth hit of the evening and we are only in the bottom of the sixth inning. The Indians continue to pour it on, taking out some season-long frustrations on the beleaguered Yankees bullpen right now.
CLE 17 - NYY 1 - Bottom 6 - 1 out
Travis Hafner belts his second home run of the evening, both coming to opposite field. That is also the sixth home run of the night for Cleveland batters, as the Indians continue to mash the ball.
CLE 16 - NYY 1 - Bottom 6 - 0 out
We get wholesale changes from the Yankees, as all but A-Rod and Melky Cabrera are getting early showers today in this laugher.
CLE 16 - NYY 1 - Top 6 - 1 out
Ronnie Belliard just makes a ridiculous play at second place. A-Rod sends a ball up the middle for a near single, but Belliard fields it on one-hop and flips behind his back to second for the force. They nearly picked up the improbable double play with A-Rod slowly running to first.
CLE 16 - NYY 1 - End 5
The Indians plate nine runs in the bottom of the fifth inning, as the home team leads by 15. Belliard's comebacker was fielded by Myers to mercifully end the nine-run inning.
CLE 16 - NYY 1 - Bottom 5 - 2 out
The rain starts to fall here, as that is the last thing the Yankees want to see. They just want to get this thing over with. Anyway, Sizemore walks, as Belliard is now the 14th batter of the inning for Cleveland.
CLE 16 - NYY 1 - Bottom 5 - 2 out
It's just one of those days for the Yankees, as Aaron Boone now lines one up the middle for a base hit to plate two more runs. The Indians are now up a whopping 15 runs, as the fireworks have started early here on July 4th for the home team. Sizemore is the 13th batter to come to the plate in this inning.

Oh, did I mention the Yankees got their asses kicked tonight?

What is a Glog? A Glog is fucking awesome in a game like that.

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In the Audience

The first music concert I ever attended was Heart. I *heart* Heart, and it was a great performance. In general, though, I don't do concerts that often. (The exception being our annual pilgramage to Wolf Trap to see the Indigo Girls with our friends.) Sometimes we go with friends, and sometimes it's just Suzanne and me. I hadn't met Suzanne back when I saw Heart, though. Nor when I saw k.d. lang.

In case it isn't obvious, I do have something of a preference for lesbian musicians. My initial introduction to k.d., however, came from my mother. And it was before either k.d. or I had "come out." I believe the first time we ever heard of k.d. was on a Connie Chung interview, which aired when I was still living at home. She played snippets of several of k.d.'s songs, both recorded and live, interspersed with casual interview questions. My mother was blown away by k.d.'s rendition of Roy Orbison's Crying. She also seemed to enjoy a medley k.d. recorded with Kitty Wells, Brenda Lee, and Loretta Lynn. Believe me, I know k.d. is a bit of an odd duck, but one thing is true: the woman has pipes. She really can sing. Even my daddy likes her.

So, fast forward to 1992. I'm now a recently-acknowledged lesbian, in a new relationship. My then-girlfriend and I hear k.d. is coming to Houston and think it would be nice to take my parents to the concert. Both of my parents seem pleased by the idea.

Did I mention k.d. had just come out? The audience was full of lesbians: Old, young, tall, short, butch, femme. The atmosphere would've been phenomenal - if only I weren't with my parents. My parents, good Bible-thumping Republicans dealing with their "baby girl" deciding to leave her husband and pursue a relationship with a woman. k.d. cracked lesbian-oriented jokes throughout the performance. The lesbians sitting right in front of my dad were practically humping each other in their seats. I was mortified. I wanted to scream, "I'm not like that, Daddy!" (Yeah, right, like I'm not into PDAs.)

All these years later, I think sometimes we homos have a tendency to exploit venues where we feel safe and welcome. Since societal norms still prohibit much same-sex hand-holding, kissing, or hugging in public, we jump on any opportunity to do so. In lesbian bars, for example. And certainly at concerts of lesbian artists. I've seen (and initiated) similar PDAs at Indigo Girls, CommonBond, and Melissa Etheridge concerts.

I don't feel it's a bad thing. Just leave your parents at home.

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We Have Been Betrayed

It's raining. Raining. With the full complement of thunder, lightning, and wind.

I wish the storm had held off long enough for us to get the roof of the shed finished.

I really wish we had finished all of the weatherproofing yesterday instead of this morning.

And I so wish there wasn't still a second shed snickering at us from within its nice cardboard box.

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Critters

Very recently a certain smart-ass copy editor referenced this site as the "Wannabe Corral". While it is true that I am a native Texan, I would like to make clear that it's been many, many years since I've set foot in a corral. (The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo counts, I guess, so we'll call it 1992).

Much to my parents' dismay, I moved from Texas to "might-as-well-be-a-Yankee-land" in 1998. My argument that Maryland is still south of the Mason-Dixon Line didn't impress. Nor did referencing Virginia as "The South" and saying Texas is really more "Southwest." Oh, no, that one was definitely not well-received. How dare I lump Texas, Our Texas with such paltry states as Arizona or New Mexico? (No offense, ya'll Southwesterners).

The rest of my immediate family still resides within 20 miles of my childhood home in a rather rural area east of Houston. Please, wipe away that mental image of longhorn cattle and oil derricks. Rural does not equal stereotypical. But it is rural: there isn't really any public transportation, the nearest honest-to-God mall is about 45 minutes away, and it was a big deal when McDonald's came to town. Okay? Small town. It's the kind of town where dogs sometimes trot leashless on the residential streets, and the annual county fair means no school for two days (the FFA kids have to show their pigs and calves, you know.)

In this environment, stray cats can also occasionally appear. Now, my momma likes cats nearly as much as I like dogs. Over the years, she has fed many a cat that appeared on her doorstep. A choice few were invited into the home with the associated privileges of litter box use, smelly canned cat food, and all the lap sitting and petting a cat could want. Others ate once or twice and then disappeared again. Most, however, became regular "outdoor" cats: cats that were not affectionate enough to be a housecat, but visited the doorstep at least twice daily for meals.

Such is life at MommaWhit's in Smalltown, Texas. I imagine it's not a bad life for the cats, as long as they are wise to the ways of neighborhood traffic. There are lots of birds and squirrels for entertainment. And armadillos, of course. I specifically did NOT remove armadillos from that stereotypical mental image, because there are armadillos aplenty in my momma's neck of the woods (despite the fact that Suzanne has yet to see one in a form other than roadkill).

FYI, nothing makes yappy dachshunds bark more than a nest of armadillos under the house. Except, perhaps, raccoons eating the catfood on the doorstep - along with the cats.






I say "perhaps" because my parents no longer have dachshunds.

Obviously, there is no corral.


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Superstars Superseding Sleep

I woke up a few nights ago and was unable to promptly return to sleep. As is the case at least 95% of the time, the television was still on because Suzanne likes to fall asleep watching "Law & Order" or the Food Network. I don't recall which choice she made that night, but at 3am the staple broadcasts of most cable networks are supplanted by "paid programming", otherwise known as infomercials. Typically, I have no problem ignoring "Set it and forget it!" rotisserie hawkers or whatever the newest miracle diet pill might be. On the night in question, however, the infomercial unequivocally commanded my attention. Kenny Rogers (now sporting a mustache and goatee rather than the beard of my youth) was hosting yet another Time Life collection of compact discs: Superstars of Country Music.

What a bargain: "the grandaddy of country-hits collections---150 of your all-time favorite songs from the '60s, '70s, and '80s!"** for a mere $119.96 (plus tax and shipping, of course). That's TEN discs, folks. All digitally remastered, I'm sure. Even Kenny looked impressed.

As a child, I was certainly influenced by my parents' taste in music. Hank Williams, Freddy Fender, the Statler Brothers, Elvis, the Carpenters, Anne Murray, Johnny Cash, Conway Twitty, the freaking Perry Como Singers... I wonder how many other folks my age know all the lyrics to Jim Reeves' "He'll Have to Go" or Johnny Horton's "North to Alaska"? Well, I do. (As an aside, growing up in a house where Ace Cannon and Boots Randolph 8-tracks were also common makes it not such a mystery that my brothers and I chose to play the saxophone, wouldn't you agree? Well, if you had ever heard of Ace or Boots, you would.)

That night, I watched - and thoroughly enjoyed - the entire infomercial. It was truly a walk down memory lane, condensed into a nice half-hour nutshell.

All that was missing was "Music Box Dancer" by Frank Mills.


**Disclaimer: assertions, choice of hyphenation and spelling of certain quoted text is solely at the discretion of Time Life. Wannabe assumes no responsibility as to the veracity of such claims, nor for any grammatical idiosyncrasies

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"Battle of the Beltways"

As a fan of Major League Baseball, I enjoy a good rivalry. The Yankees and Red Sox are a good example: two strong teams, in the same division, with a long history of antipathy and upsets. Such contests are made more entertaining when a "stud" player leaves Team A to go play for Team B. In the case of the Yanks and Sox, the Babe Ruth trade is infamous to those who follow baseball. And just this year Johnny Damon did the same thing, leaving Red Sox fans bitter. Bitter. They boo when Damon bats. They cheer if he happens to strike out. And they bring all sorts of signs to convey their feelings. Yeah, they're bitter. Excellent fodder for nourishing a rivalry.

In recent years, the MLB has attempted to increase interest in the games by introducing (reintroducing?) "interleague" play. For a couple of weeks each season, teams in the National League and the American League play one another (something that typically does not occur until the World Series). For folks like me, it is fun. They create regional rivalries: the Houston Astros play the Texas Rangers. The New York Yankees play the New York Mets. The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim play the Los Angeles Dodgers. Ditto the Chicago Cubs and White Sox. And the Toronto Blue Jays play the Montreal Expos. Well, they did. Back before the Montreal franchise moved to Washington DC.

The former Expos are now the Washington Nationals, located less than an hour from Camden Yards, home of the Baltimore Orioles. And so, those couple of weeks each year when the Os and Nats play one another, the media has dubbed the rivalry the Battle of the Beltways. (See, there's the 695 loop around Baltimore called the Beltway, and the 495 loop around DC also called the Beltway. It's sorta like the "Bay Series" between San Francisco and Oakland, or the "Subway Series" between the Yankees and Mets. Battle of the Beltways. Get it? Good.)

Now like I said, I'm all for a good rivalry. I do enjoy when the Os and Nats play each other because I know all of the players. And it's efficient television-viewing, as I'll see both of "my" teams play in the span of about three hours - without channel-hopping. My problem is this. Going into this weekend's Battle, the season record for the two teams was:

Nats: 32-42
Os: 33-41

That's right. Both well below .500. Both within two losses of being at the bottom of their division.

I guess "Meeting of the Mediocre" or "Discord of the Deficient" don't carry the same media appeal.

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Parental Reading

My mother read her first fiction novel (as an adult) when she was 69 years old. Seriously. I threw in the parenthetical "as an adult" because I hope she at least read common fiction as a young girl in the 1940s and '50s. Nancy Drew, or Catcher in the Rye, or even Twilight Lust. Well, something, anyway. Whether she did back then or not, for as far back as I can remember her reading material has been limited to non-fiction. Both as a genealogist and an oh-so-proud native Texan, my momma had plenty of factual, historical reference reading to do. Family histories, cemetery archives, census records, birth, death, and marriage certificates, and compendia of roadside markers were the minutiae of my mother’s genealogical pursuits. As for Texas history, well, the Alamo is simply the tip of the cow patty, ya'll.

In the meantime, I devoured books. Both of my parents encouraged my brothers and me to read, and thankfully Daddy recognized that fiction was not a waste of time. He read everything from J. R. R. Tolkien to Clive Barker to Agatha Christie to Louis L'Amour. He often recommended books to me and we still share preferred authors to this day. And although she did not read the same books I did, my mother always obliged when I asked to go to the library and we'd spend hours there together. Well, not together. I'd be perusing the fiction stacks and she'd be looking at microfiche of newspapers from the 1840s. She also always seemed genuinely pleased when I would share observations, opinions, or even excerpts from whatever I was reading. Maybe she showed more interest in the exploits of Frank and Joe Hardy than the adventures involving elves, dwarves, and dragons, but she did show interest. Her interest just never extended to actually reading any of the fiction herself.

So imagine my surprise when, roughly two years ago, my mother told me she was reading and enjoying The Da Vinci Code. Then she joined a reading group (wtf?) and now compliantly reads the book of the month or whatever it's called. Now 71, my mother must have at least a dozen fiction books under her belt. She acknowledges enjoying them. I wonder if she regrets not exploring fiction for a good 50 years or so. I know I regret that she'll never appreciate a good dragon-slaying like my dad and I do. Still, she's finally reading fiction.

Now it's me looking pleased when she shares observations, opinions, and even excerpts of whatever she's reading.


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Doggie Dilemma

I may be "Polisher of the Nails" in our relationship, but Suzanne is most definitely "Trimmer of the Nails". No silly, not mine. The dogs'. I guess she would more accurately be termed "Trimmer of the Claws." And thank God she is willing to wear that mantle, because I cannot.

I. Cannot. Do. It. Period.

I'm absolutely, positively terrified of cutting the claws too close and causing the poor puppers to bleed to death... or at the very least, yelp in agony and then leave little spots of blood with every step while I find the stupid styptic powder made for just such abuse accidents. Yes, I'm speaking from experience. And the betrayal and reproach in the dog's eyes is that much worse because you know you deserve it.

Dudley, the world's most perfect basset hound, is actually quite patient with having his claws trimmed. Sure, he'll cast a doleful look or two at you... but he's a basset and such looks are part of his charm. Pixie, the world's most manic boxer/greyhound/min pin/terrier/whatever the hell else she might be, will simply not tolerate it. We know almost nothing of her life experience prior to when we adopted her, but somewhere, somehow, our little Pixie developed a serious aversion to being restrained.

From the moment Suzanne first attempted to hold her paw (simply as a gentle, steadying guide in preparation of applying the trimmers), Pixie went apeshit. Me trying to hold her made it worse, not better. So, time goes by and Pixie's claws continue to grow. Because she is such a dainty (read: skinny) thing, her claws could substitute for razorblades. The habitual enthusiasm with which she greets us after work has literally drawn blood. (Well, not just us.)

A vet we once spoke with suggested purchasing all-natural Ultra Calm Biscuits from Doctors Foster & Smith. She assured us it was safe and effective, saying it made dogs look "a little stoned." Hell, I think she even used the word "nonchalant." She swore by it. Woohoo! Pixie being safely, all naturally nonchalant about having her nails trimmed is just what the doctor ordered. And therefore what we ordered.

First we gave her a trial run of one biscuit, although her weight calls for 2 to 4 biscuits. She ate it like any other treat... then seemed depressed as hell for the rest of the night. Not "stoned." Not "nonchalant." Depressed. Sad, lacking in appetite and affect, apathetic. Call me crazy, but I don't consider "apathetic" and "nonchalant" synonyms. We were disappointed to say the least. And borderline horrified that we had destroyed our sweet little girl's personality. She rebounded the next day, of course, back to the barking, bounding brat that scratches the FUCK out of our arms and legs on a regular basis.

Stalemate.

When Suzanne went to her mother's for a week, I thought I would try again. I mean, if Pixie had to be a depressed, apathetic creature for an evening it would be better if Suzanne didn't have to experience it. So I gave her two biscuits this time, mentally apologizing as she chomped her "treats", and waited for the slump. And waited. And waited some more. Yet she didn't slump. If anything, she was a little more hyper than normal - like when you give Ritalin to a kid that doesn't have ADHD. Trimming her nails was out of the question.

So, the claws grow on. We're afraid to take Pixie to our vet to let her do the trimming. I can't imagine our vet (wonderful lesbian that she is) being successful without using extra staff and restraints, with the consequence that Pixie would be even more resistant the next time. I suppose the vet could drug her, but now I'm scared of that option, too. Scared of how Pixie will react to the medication, and scared of the expense of office visits and procedures for something as basic as claw-trimming for the duration of Pixie's life.

So far, the most success we've experienced in dealing with Pixie's Nightmare on Elm Street imitation is deterring her from jumping up when we come through the door. It's not doing much for the minute scratches on our leather sofa, but at least our arms are healing.

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Good artists copy. Great artists steal ~ Picasso & eb

Two years ago, Suzanne and I took on the challenge of remodeling one of the bathrooms in our newly-purchased-and-in-desperate-need-of- such-remodeling home. Everything about the bathroom was hideous, from the circa 1950s vanity to the chipped sky-blue floor tile to the holes in the drywall and ceiling.



















So, we gutted it. We tore out every shred of the tile tub-surround and we ripped out the ceiling (and the nasty-ass blown-in insulation that was resting on the ceiling). In truth, we made quite a mess. Such is the product of bathroom demolition:






Recently I read a blog entry regarding theft of an original drawing. Oh, I'm sorry - it was an Art Journal entry. The blogger - I mean Art Journalist - seemed somewhat miffed by the unlicensed duplication of her work.

Just days later, hi-ever, this same Art Journalist shared her own efforts at bathroom demolition. An interesting coincidence, don't you agree?

In actuality, eb's pictorial demolition journey prompted Suzanne and I to revisit our own photos of bathroom destruction two years ago. Ah, the good old days. Our bathroom is a finished product now, of course. We installed a nice shiny new vapor barrier and perfectly-fitted cement board and drywall. We replaced the window, the vanity, and the fixtures. We installed nifty little niches for our collection of toiletries. We had the tub cleaned and re-surfaced. And we tiled, and tiled, and tiled. And taped. And mudded. And sanded. And painted.

And sometime in the next few months, we're going to motivate to tackle the other bathroom in our house. By then, maybe eb will be done and she can laugh at us.

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Karamel Sutra

Ben and Jerry are asshats. That's right, I said it. For years while eating every grain of salt I could find, I at least didn't partake much of foodstuffs of the "sweet" variety. Nope, no sweet-tooth here. I wasn't one to indulge much in chocolate, or candy, or cookies... or ice cream. I was happy with my bag of chips (and even happier if I also had salsa). Mmm, saltalicious!

A few months ago, though, my I-don't-care-much-for-sweets wall came tumbling down. It started with PMS (I wonder just how many womanly vices can be attributed to the hell that is PMS?) Anyway, I had a craving for ice cream. As it happened, I was in a 7-11 so I had a decent selection of Haagen-Dazs and B&J's from which to choose. As I do not particularly enjoy nuts in my food, several options were quickly scratched (no Chunky Monkey for me!) I do enjoy caramel, though, and thought a pint of "A Core of Soft Caramel Encircled by Chocolate & Caramel Ice Creams & Fudge Chips" sounded pretty good. Oh yes, a core of caramel. Are you familiar with this particular evil spawned by Ben & Jerry's? Apparently they have a whole line of "Core Concoctions." And, like so many other evils, Karamel Sutra is good.

I ate that first pint in one sitting. What's that? That "first" pint? Why yes. First indicating the existence of a second, and a third, and a - oh, hell, I've lost count. It'd probably be easier to count in gallons. And trust me, if good ol' B&J marketed this stuff in gallons, I'd buy it. I'm addicted.

I like to eat the caramel ice cream for a few bites, then switch to the chocolate side with the delightful little fudge chips. I very carefully do not eat the caramel core at first. Much like my first kiss with Suzanne, the anticipation is part of the pleasure. And while I will not say that the caramel core is as sweet as my woman's lips, I must repeat: it is good.

So beware of this temptation, oh ye with the teeth for sweets. And don't be fooled by the cutesy name. Karamel Sutra is the product of an asshat conspiracy of mamoth proportions.

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Sharp Memory

So this past weekend, Suzanne and I hosted her mother. The weekend before that, however, we went to a Nationals game with her boss on Saturday and then to the DC Capital Pride festival on Sunday. The weather was fantastic both days, as was the socialization. Her boss and his wife are extremely nice people, as are the lezzies we hung out with on Sunday. I'm also happy to report that her boss did not catch us girl-watching this time around.

We attended both of these events in lieu of an invitation from another friend to go to the local county festival. This year, Collective Soul, Sister Hazel, Sugar Ray and .38 Special performed. One of our friends is beyond a groupie for Sister Hazel (I don't understand it either, but she's a great friend.) Like I said, we didn't go - but we have in the past.

A couple of years ago, we were there with this same friend to see Sister Hazel and Pat Benetar. Because the aforementioned friend is such a "Hazelnut", we wanted to be at the very front of the stage and therefore watched the act before Sister Hazel. Bree Sharp. Yeah, that was really her name. She appeared to be twenty-something and had great stage presence. Strong voice, decent lyrics, good sense of humor. Really, her incredibly tight abs and the way she slid her hand across her stomach when singing sexy lyrics had nothing to do with why I now possess an autographed Bree Sharp cd. Or why I ordered the subsequent cd when it was released. Or why I'm contemplating buying her third release now.

In reality, I never thought the cd lived up to the live performance - the vocals sound much more nasal on the recorded version. Despite that, I still listen to both cds periodically. Yes, her body was that hot. Pictures just don't do her justice, because they don't capture the way she moves.

Fortunately, she moves just fine in my memory.

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Make Up

The English language often fascinates me. Take homynyms, for example - words that sound alike but have different meanings: brake, break; to, two, too; nose, knows; cast, caste; foul, fowl; bass, base. Sometimes they even sound alike and are spelled alike, but have different meanings: "bass" can be a musical term or a type of fish. And it doesn't help that pronunciation "rules" are so damned inconsistent. Why do "mood" and "food" sound differently than "good" and "wood"? Ditto "touch" and "couch", "work" and "dork", "forth" and "worth", "bear" and "gear". You get the idea. I'm sure you can think of your own examples. Feel free to share.

But I digress. My particular fascination this evening is with multiple definitions of a given word. For example, "cast" could be a noun representing the participants in a production, the plaster around a broken arm, or the mold form for reproducing an image; or a verb meaning "to throw" or to assign a person a role in a production (one could cast a cast). And probably some other definitions I'm too lazy to research. Anyhoo, my offering to you now is a two-word phrase: Make up.

Which of the following best resembles the first thought that came to your mind?

1. I think make up is ridiculously expensive.
2. I wish you would make up your mind.
3. Joe has to take a make up exam due to his absence.
4. I make up the bed every morning (not).
5. I can make up a story.
6. I want to make up with my friend.
7. Ten years make up a decade.

One could argue that numbers 4 and 6 have similar meanings (to restore). Still, isn't it fascinating? Make up your mind already!

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Fantasy Baseball Sucks

Or at least the players on MY fantasy baseball team do.

The evidence? 1-17, 0.059 BA, 2 BB, CS

Those are the statistics accrued by the players on my fantasy baseball team last night. For you not-so-into-statistics-or-sports-in-general, allow me translate:

ONE batter got ONE hit out of the SEVENTEEN appearances my players had at the plate. This equates to the 0.059 batting average. The two walks would be okay, except I'm in a dumbass rotisserie league that doesn't count walks. And the CS means "caught stealing." Stealing bases does count in my dumbass rotisserie league, but getting caught just don't cut the mustard.

One for seventeen? Are you kidding me? I know that in baseball being able to hit three for ten is considered a good average, but one for seventeen???? These guys are supposed to be pros, damnit. Where are the runs, the home runs, the RBIs? Where are my points???

Of course, it would be okay if one of my pitchers was responsible for the suckass hitting stats, but wait, I didn't have any pitchers last night.

I can't wait until fantasy football starts.


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Confession Number 1

I am a Fantasy Sports Dork.

I play Fantasy Baseball. I play Fantasy Football - for cash.

I obsess over roster moves and free agent options. I click from network to network when multiple games are on in hopes of seeing one of my fantasy players earn me a point or two. I yell info to Suzanne from that handy little statline crawling across the bottom of the screen. I rail against God, Mother Nature, and the Republican Party when one of my players gets hurt. I sometimes even secretly root for one of my players when they are opposing one of the teams I support in "real life".

So far this year, I could post Confession Number 1.5 as: I suck at Fantasy Baseball. I'm in two leagues, and just sucking ass in both. Always too slow to pick up the new stud, or too quick to pick up the flavor-of-the-week just in time for his return to mediocrity. I'm currently testing the theory that, in order for the Baltimore Orioles to get a win, I must start the opposing pitcher. Seriously, the formula has worked on multiple occasions.

So why do I torture myself this way?

Maybe the fact that I won $400 in fantasy football two years ago has something to do with it.

At least the fantasy baseball is free.

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I Did it on a Whim

I liked the results for my relationship so much that I'm sharing it with you.

Love by ruby mae
Your name
Your partner
You two are	Meant for eachother
Your meeting was by	Choice
They are your	Soulmate
You are their	One and only
Your love will	Be the epitome of what true love is
Quiz created with MemeGen!

Something in the Water?

So, I work for a small agency providing vocational and case management supports to adults with disabilities. Actually, my “agency” is one department of a larger private non-profit company that includes a school for students with special needs, a day care, and audiology, speech and language, occupational therapy, and tutoring services. My department consists of nineteen staff; the overall agency employs more like 200. Of these 200, the vast majority is women – a fairly typical phenomenon of any “human services” environment. My point, you ask? Take a gander at this photo:

All seven of those women work for my 200-employee agency. It’s just an odd coincidence that three of them work for my 19-employee department. And just my darned good luck that two of them work directly for me. One is due August 10^th, the other August 20^th. Oh sure, we typically begin serving a dozen or so new clients every July… and we’re due for a licensing visit in July… and an accreditation visit in September. Why would I need all of my direct-care staff for that? I could learn to hate the Family Medical Leave Act, were it not for the fact that my private non-profit employees are far-too underpaid to consider taking off the entire twelve weeks for which they are eligible under FMLA.

Oh, and those seven ladies present for that picture? There were two others who weren’t able to attend the shower that day (well, one was there but had not yet disclosed her “condition”.) That’s right: nine pregos at the same time. Makes you wonder what’s in the private non-profit water, doesn’t it? Or maybe if there was some mass failure of birth control. I'm not going to suggest any wartime/power outage/holiday baby boomer event is responsible, as their due dates range from early May to September.

Whatever the reason for the flood of fertility in my place of employment, I feel confident that The Boy will remain an only child. While the odds might be against such a high percentage of concurrently pregnant women, I don’t think anything on the scale of an immaculate conception is indicated.

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Of Capitalization, Punctuation, and Grammar

Sometime back, Suzanne-the-smoochable shared a doggie case note written by one of my staff. Said staff person is one of my best hires; the quality of her writing is indicative of the overall contribution she makes to our program. I am thankful to have her as an employee. In contrast, allow me to share an email received just this afternoon from an employee that thankfully does NOT report to me:

OK Folks I have completed a Job Bank Book that is now on the table with the newspapers , inside of this book are job openings separated into 14 Different Sections each tabbed. Pleaseeeeeeeee if you take book return it back to the table if you need to make copies please do so and return posting back in book. I will continue to keep these jobs also posted on the boards above the Xerox machine and the table where the newspapers are. (Black Book)

Also, I almost done with the Labor Market Book just need to get a few updated items in there it should be done within a week and this too will be on the Table (Maroon Book) The other book that I am working on and it is taking a while to complete it is a book of job applications from area businesses and stores in the area. So please see me for this book since it will be kept in my office .

I know, I know... you could make all kinds of jokes here about how you didn't realize that when I said I worked with people with disabilities, I really meant I work with people with disabilities. All I can say in response is that this staff person did not include a diagnosis on his resume.


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Give that Courtesy Clerk a Tip, Damnit!

Oh sure, working with people with disabilities (PWDs) can be challenging.

Since I first entered the field of Mental Health/Mental Retardation /Rehabilitation/Developmental Disabilities Services in 1989, I've done time with an incredibly diverse scope of disabilities: from people with profound mental retardation trapped in a wheelchair and unable to eat or toilet independently... to people with traumatic brain injuries who could no longer remember what happened five minutes ago but had PERFECT recall of who they were prior to their accident (and were consequently depressed as hell when they weren't busy having a seizure, picking a fight, or trying to get into the pants of everyone in sight)... to those who "heard" God talking to them through the television... to the guy who's been stuck loading groceries into cars at just about every grocery store in the country. Yeah, him. You know the one I'm talking about.

I transferred people from wheelchairs to toilets; I wiped asses and changed diapers; I fed baby food one spoonful at a time. I conducted mock interviews and facilitated working interviews. I found jobs and provided on-the-job training, often performing the task myself. I assessed and evaluated. I trained and taught. I mowed yards with a crew of guys with mental retardation and laughingly pointed out when they left "mow-hawks" in the grass. I monitored medications, implemented physical therapy protocols and behavior modification plans, and balanced budgets. I called 911 when seizures lasted too long. I strongarmed dumbshit employers with the Americans with Disabilities Act and sucked up to other employers in order to get "one more chance" for my clients/customers/consumers/participants /persons-served/individuals. I found affordable housing and completed countless applications for "community supports." I conducted trainings on goal-writing and created templates and spreadsheets to increase staff efficiency. And once, I had my nose broken by an angry young man who had been a triathlete "pre-morbid" (that's technical-talk for "prior to onset"; in other words, before his injury). He got hit by a car while riding his bicycle - one day after his bike helmet (that just might have prevented the 13-day coma and four months in a rehab hospital) had been lost out of the back of a pickup truck. He was also the same guy who called me "Sam." I never knew why. He couldn't remember names for shit, but I was always "Sam." Challenging.

Over the years, I've become accustomed to certain "challenges." I can spew the politically correct, socially acceptable terminology like nobody's business: communication skills; person-directed planning; community integration; facilitation; verbal, gestural, and physical prompts; "fading out"; age-appropriate socialization; "can" language; quality assurance; productivity; individualized services; "people-first" language; networking; collaboration; teamwork; time studies; interpersonal interactions; strategic planning; med-compliance; etiology unknown; human rights; confidentiality; resource coordination; cognitive remediation; MODAPTS; independent living skills; assistive devices; executive functioning; attention-seeking behaviors; psychosomatic illness; best practices; reasonable accommodations; behavioral disregulation; "not otherwise specified"; and individual choice, choice, choice.

I can write an eight-page case note without once referring to myself or my agency in casual first-person language (those charts are legal documents and "I" and "we" just won't do, dontchaknow.) I can also write individualized, person-directed, measurable, achievable goals. I adhere to, and enforce, HIPAA regulations, State regulations, and accreditation standards. I access the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual and the Physician's Desk Reference with relative competence. I recognize, and can correctly spell, the generic names of many medications - particularly anti-convulsants.

And lately, I literally lose sleep wondering what the State of Maryland is going to do next to screw with my agency's funding. A challenge indeed.

Typically when I tell someone what I do the response is, "Oh, that must be so rewarding." And it has always been so for me, though folks don't seem to realize that when working with PWDs, victories are often few and far between. Maybe that's why "simple" accomplishments are so meaningful - they don't come easily for PWDs. Whether it's learning to tie a shoe... or running a commercial floor buffer... or signing a name legibly... or passing the driver's exam at the MVA, all of the PWDs with whom I've worked have truly worked for everything they've accomplished. Little comes easily for them, and one cannot help but recognize just how much the rest of us able-bodied, cognitively superior folks take for granted. And then I realize just how subjective my so-called "challenges" are.

And so yes, when a person with a disability finally meets his goal to differentiate yellow from blue (the first step in the supposed long-term goal of being able to self-medicate) after a full year, it is rewarding. Rewarding to know I played a part in his success, certainly. But even more meaningful is the opportunity to bask in the glow of his victory - to witness the joy and satisfaction he feels in his accomplishment. I suspect parents may relate to what I'm describing, but I'm not sure it's the same. With children, there is the expectation of growth, of success. With PWDs, success cannot always be predicted... or assumed. With some PWDs, even the most basic of "goals" might not ultimately be achievable. And maybe to most able-bodied, cognitively superior folks, being able to "correctly identify the color yellow four of five trials independently for ten consecutive sessions" isn't that significant. But I've learned differently. With PWDs, every accomplishment is significant. And believe me, the gift of sharing in the accomplishments and the accompanying joy is very rewarding indeed.

So, challenge yourself, Mr. or Ms. Able-Bodied, Cognitively Superior Person: the next time one of those "special" people puts your canned goods on top of your bread - recognize that he's in the process of becoming the best bagger he can be. And give that "slow" guy who puts your groceries in your car a tip, or at least a smile.

You don't know just how much of a reward it might be to him.

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Newsflash

Intimacy is good. Way good. Martha-Stewart-"it's-a-good-thing"-good.

Sometimes, more IS better.

And sometimes, there's just no such thing as "too much of a good thing."

And sometimes - just every once in a while - you CAN always get what you want.

Ya'll keep that in mind.

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Introducing: The Boy

Wen: I can't just publish that; I can't just throw "The Boy" in there without any introduction!
Suz: Sure you can. It's been a year since you've posted. It's not like anyone's reading it.

Funny comment, I agree. And basically harmless. Unless, of course, such words are spoken to a neurotic wannabe that has difficulty thinking anything is good enough and consequently has trouble getting started (but apparently no trouble whatsoever typing really long-ass sentences).

However, I digress.
Please allow me to introduce The Boy.

The Boy is Suzanne's son. He would in all probability be my stepson if Suzanne and I were afforded the same rights as heterosexual couples, but... let's not go there. The point is, I've been a part of Suzanne and The Boy's lives since he was barely 13. He's now approaching 21. Nearly eight years. Eight years, 4 of high school, 4 of college. In the very beginning I was able to occasionally assist him with Algebra; we would horse around and arm wrestle. We argued over how he left dishes and clothes all over the house because I'm something of a neat freak (I'm sorry, Boy.) Too quickly, though, he became too strong for the arm wrestling to be anything other than a joke. I called off the horsing around when it began to hurt. And he's so damned smart that it didn't take long at all before his classwork far exceeded any lessons I learned in high school 20 years before.

We've had an unusual relationship, The Boy and I. Part parent/child, part friend. And I could not be more proud of him if he were actually my own. As he has grown over the past several years, The Boy has become the most amazing young man. Intelligent, funny (he has Suzanne's sense of humor with more than a touch of his dad's dry wit thrown in), talented, charming, handsome... and increasingly independent. It was a difficult transition when he went away for college, and I suspect it will be even more challenging once he graduates and really sets out on his own. But I'm looking forward to it, too. I can't wait to see where his path will lead. And I'm grateful to be a part of the experience... part of the family.