Late Night Computer Paranoia (or: The One Where the Title is Longer Than the Actual Post)

Does anyone else worry - for just a second - when they take a Fug or Fab quiz at Go Fug Yourself - that they've chosen the wrong answer? Just me? Ok.

It's in the Bag

My mom loves bags.

I mean this on so many levels.

Like most women, or at least many women, or at least most of the women I know, she loves purses. My mom loves teeny tiny purses in neutral colors on long straps that she can securely wear around her neck and tucked under her opposite arm. I think my girls were calling that "Memaw Style' as soon as they could talk (ie: when you put on your Brownie sash, you wear it Memaw Style). She likes her handbags like she likes her home - a place for everything and everything in its place. Use all the space you have and use it efficiently. My friend Karen also loves purses, but she likes hers in rich colors and big enough to contain the kitchen sink, 'cause you never know when you or someone else is going to need something. How grand, to reach into the depths of that mammoth bag, root around a little, and come up with 'just the thing'. My mom would've sucked on 'Let's Make a Deal'. Karen would've rocked. Me? Aw, you know me. I'm a big ole show off. Most of the bags I carry are bags I've made. I don't have a 'type', like Karen and my mom do, but I am a big ole whore for a compliment. My most recent bags have been: an oversized rather shapeless hobo with no compartments - fulled rather than felted - knit in a gorgeous green/purple variegated wool and an interesting pattern. I could never find anything in that bag. Next up: a very small black clutch - this one was crocheted with a stiff shiny nylon and made cool by its impromptu old T-shirt lining. It was way too small. Now I'm sporting a really pretty purple mid-sized bag - strongly felted - with 2 outer pockets. So far so good.

I hadn't really planned to talk that much about purse bags. Indulge me - let me call them pocket books just once. Thanks. That bugs my kids a lot, so, of course, I say it a lot. "Let's go!" "As soon as I grab my pocketbook!"

I had really intended to talk about my mothers tendency to use as many plastic bags as possible. Plastic grocery bags, ziploc baggies, larger department store plastic bags - she LOVES 'em, and is never without a couple. When shopping for the girls, she will ask for seperate bags for what she buys each of them - even though it's all coming home to the same place. "Bag those seperately, could you?"

Once I stopped at her house on the way home from a long trip. She packed me a lunch to eat in the car on the way home. She handed me a nice insulated canvas lunch bag and told me to return it next time I saw her. I thanked her and got on my way. A few hours later, when I decided a little lunch might be just the thing, I opened the lunch bag. I knew there was a sandwich in there - I'd watched her make it - but I couldn't see it just yet. I pulled, out of the insulated lunch bag, a large ziploc bag. Inside that was a can of Diet Coke and one of those little cold packs. And some smaller bags. I pulled out the largest of them - a medium sized ziploc - which contained 2 paper towels and a smaller ziploc which contained my sandwich. But wait - there was more in my large ziploc bag - there were some celery and carrot sticks in, you guessed it, a snack sized baggie. There was also a Tastycake (man, I love visiting out east! Can't get Tastycakes here...) which was wrapped in napkins and secured in its own ziploc. "So it wouldn't get squooshed" I was told, when I asked later why a packaged lunch cake needed it's own baggie. So my simple lunch used 5 disposable plastic bags. I suppose I could be glad she packed the whole thing in the insulated lunch bag instead of in a grocery bag.

Do I have to tell you how much this woman loves gift bags? I've seen her buy gifts in pre-packaged little gift bags, then put them in an additional gift bag, then put several of THOSE gift bags in a larger gift bag, THEN pack folded larger gift bags in THAT "in case anyone needs one".

I've made an issue of it on more than one occasion, trying to explain the whole bad for the environment thing, and she says, "of course you're right" then goes right on doing it.

A couple years ago I bought her some reusable canvas shopping bags, and she thought they were great. She loved the concept so much she bought them for everyone she knows. She uses them to carry things in. Things which have - you've guessed it - already been packed into plastic bags. It's just a bag to carry your bags in. I've given up. Old dog, new tricks, all that. She has at least become a little more aware, though. She told me recently about asking for an extra bag somewhere and then confiding to the salesgirl that "My daughter would have a fit if she knew I was asking for that." So there's that. I'm on her shoulder, like Stacy and Clinton are on mine. She just chooses to ignore me, like I choose to ignore them.

But here's where it gets disturbing - where you start pondering apples and trees and how far the secondary falls from the primary...

While I do try to use as few plastic bags as possible, I LOVE reusable canvas bags. I have no less than 10 in the front seat of my car right now, as well as 2 insulated bags. There are more in the trunk. There are always several at the top of the basement stairs (where the plastic grocery bags used to be kept) and there are usually some in use around the house (containing a project, for example). Sometimes? When I go shopping? I'll forget to take one in with me on purpose - just so I can buy another one! I have them from many different stores in many different styles and sizes. I have favorites. And, if you're on your toes, you're probably thinking, "hey, ya big ole crafty compliment whore, why don't you make your own darn bags?" I HEAR you! And I think I should.

Oh dear.

This can't end well.

Living in the Present

It feels like I should be posting reflections from the year past and resolutions for the year to come. It's what's done, no? So I tried. Truly I did. I thought about the year past - the highs and the lows - but mostly the pleasantly mundane middles. I thought about the things I should resolve to do in the year to come. I couldn't come up with anything that held my interest long enough to bother to write about it.

Last night at a New Year's Eve party, there was some discussion over whether we live in the past, present or future. We all agreed that we spend some time living in all of those places. I know I do. But if I'm going to be honest with myself, I do spend a lot of time living in the past. My past was more interesting. It was more exciting. It makes for a better story. My present, while certainly more pleasant than my past, doesn't make for a good story. Let's pitch the book, shall we?

Ok, it's about this middle-aged unemployed-by-choice chick who is happily married and living in the suburbs. Also she's overweight.

Where's the conflict?

There is no conflict. She goes about her life and is mostly happy and content. Sometimes she gets frustrated, though. Is that a conflict?

Depends - what frustrates her?

Well, her kids don't always listen to her. And the world isn't always nice to people who are overweight.

That? Is not a story anyone would want to read.

No, I guess it's not. So I think about my wild misspent youth. I think about how much better the music and movies were when I was younger. I listen to said music and watch said movies whenever I get the chance. I impose them on my children so they'll "know what good is".

Speaking of children, Tom and I are constantly telling Lea to live in her present. She, like so many of her generation, will be out somewhere - with actual people - but will continue to do most of her socializing via text. We remind her to enjoy the people she's actually with. "Be where you are", we say to her. She rolls her eyes, puts the phone away for a moment, and has it out again the next time our backs are turned. I've stopped coming down on her so much about it, because I recognize that it's not just her. It really is the hallmark of this generation.

But not mine.

So I think, if I'm going to make any resolutions at all, that my resolution will be to live in the present this year. I will go to the gym because I feel better when I work out, not because I am working towards a weight loss goal I'll never achieve. (hold me to that one, will you please? It's so hard not to fall into the "this time it's gonna work - for real - I just have to want it badly enough" mentality) I will live today for today and not long for yesterday or dream of tomorrow. Ok, I'll still totally do both of those things, who am I kidding? But I'm going to resolve to give today precedence.

Year of the Owl?

A few years back - 21, to be exact - my aunt Miriam passed away. She was a widow who had never had children. After the funeral, any of her belongings of value were distributed more or less fairly among her remaining siblings - there were 9 of them altogether. After that, a table was set up full of little tshotshkes and mementos for us nieces and nephews to sort through. We were each encouraged to take something by which to remember our aunt. I took a lovely pink depression glass bowl and her sewing kit, thanks for asking.

After we were all through, several items remained on the table. Most of them were tacky and cheap (and by using the term 'most' I'm being generous and respectful of the dead and stuff...) Even among the tacky and cheap, though, there was one item that stood out. A bright pink ceramic owl.


One of my cousins had a young daughter at the time, and she decided that this owl was the most beautiful thing she'd ever laid her little eyes on. She was two or three years old at the time. There's a reason you don't see many toddlers being consulted on interior design. Anyway, she thought it was beautiful and really wanted to have it. Her father told her no and gave her some silly reason which I do not remember. My sister overheard the exchange and asked the toddler, "Do you like this, sweetie?" "I love it" she replied with hearts and stars in her eyes. "Then it should be yours" my sister said, carefully wrapping it up for her and handing it to her like a prize. Then my sister caught my cousins eye and said (to the toddler, she said) "Something so beautiful should be displayed in your living room where everyone can see it, not tucked away in your bedroom." The toddler solemnly nodded her agreement and my cousin glared at my sister.

Later that year, when our extended family gathered together to exchange gifts on Christmas Eve, my sister recieved a beautifully wrapped package from my cousin. I don't imagine I need to tell you what was inside. He instructed her to display it prominently. The next Christmas she presented the owl to someone else and so it has gone for the last 21 years.

This year, Tom received the owl. The rules are that the owl must be displayed prominently in your home for the entire year, at which point you must pass it on.

Several cousins have done little photo albums documenting their year with the owl. One wrote a poem - an ode, if you will - a few years ago. Us? We started a blog for it.

Upon arriving back home, we chose a prominent spot in which to display the owl then started planning posts and photo-ops.

I sat down at my computer to set up the new blog and glanced at my page-a-day calendar. I always have a yarn/knitting related calendar because I am just that super-cool. My pattern for the day? 'Birds of a Feather' - a PINK OWL done in novelty yarn intarsia on a black bag. I think I know how the owl will be presented to it's future caretakers next Christmas...


But wait, there's more!

Sitting in my inbox is a notification that I have a new follower on Twitter - a chick who posts (with alarming frequency - I tried to follow her back, as is, I'm told, polite, but it was overwhelming) as an OWL. Sometimes. And sometimes as a chick. Whatever her issues are are not what I'm here to discuss. Though I bet they're interesting.

So - all of these owls and owl references fell into our laps in a pretty condensed period of time. I spent hours researching the symbolism associated with owls (ok - busted - I did a quick google search and this is the first thing I found) and learned this:

Throughout many cultures, the symbolic meaning of owl deals with:

• intelligence
• brilliance
• perspective
• intuition
• quick-wit
• independence
• wisdom
• protection
• mystery
• power

Not bad, eh? So if all this owl business is indeed prophetic rather than simply coincidental, I think I'll take it.

His Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day

I had the nicest conversation with a friend last night.

He is a stubborn man who had, several months back, gotten himself embroiled in a feud with an equally stubborn man. I like both of them, but definitely thought my friend was in the right. Not that it matters what I (or anyone else) thought, because this feud was ON. I mentioned they were both stubborn, right?

Last night my friend told me he ended it.

He walked right up to the other guy and said I want this to be over. I don't want to start the new year angry at you and I sure don't want to start it with you angry at me. The other guy hugged him, thanked him, and accepted the olive branch that had been offered. Accepted it graciously and enthusiastically.

When I asked my (I mentioned he was stubborn, right?) friend what had prompted him to do this, he said something along the lines of having been moved by the holiday spirit. He said this had been such a wonderful holiday and he didn't want it to be marred by a feud.

I was so proud of him. What he did was hard.

This of course led me to ask him about his holiday - what made it so wonderful, that it prompted such a massive change of heart?

His answer, as it is with most things magical and wonderful, was that he couldn't quite explain it. Due to the failing economy, there were less presents under the tree, and the ones that were there weren't as extravagant as they'd been in years past. So it sure wasn't that. He didn't know - it was just - something.

When he left, I thought about that. Since returning from Christmas at my parents', many people have asked if I had a nice holiday (I did, thank you very much for asking) but not one single person has asked, "what did you get?" or "was Santa good to you?" or any variation on that. I haven't asked, either. Hmmmmmm. I think I have always asked/been asked that in Christmases past. What's going on? Could the failing economy actually have us finding pleasure in simpler things? That was one cloud I was pretty sure didn't have a silver lining, but maybe it indeed does.

We have been spending the week between Christmas and New Years sleeping in, napping, eating comfort food, and generally indulging our lazy decadent selves. And it is kind of wonderful.

So - how were your holidays?

Picture This

So my sister says to me (she says): "We've got to wear boob shirts."

We were getting ready to go to the holiday party hosted by the pizza shop where we regularly schlep the pizzas to earn the big bucks. Wendy had missed last years party and I told her it had been a boob-a-palooza - the battle of the boobs - I could go on... she knew exactly what I meant, but in case you don't, the young girls who work there, they like them some low cut clothes. They like those scary low cut clothes that put one in constant danger of slippage. They liked those for work - it was astounding what they liked for a party. She could imagine. And she thought we should get in on it.

So I put on a boob shirt. I was a little uncomfortable and was asking all of my family members - in a manner which was probably quite annoying - is this ok? Are you sure this is ok? This is too much, isn't it? I'm gonna change. No? I'm at least gonna put a camisole under it. No? Ya think? Really? Eventually I added a long thick lariat necklace and that made me feel a little less - vulnerable. (anyone who read that last phrase as Tim Curry's Frankfurter gets bonus points, because that is certainly the tone in which it was written) It's COLD outside so I added a long scarf/shawl to the ensemble and thank goodness I did! When I picked my sister up, she looked lovely. She did not, however, look boobalicious. She was the one who, hours earlier, had asked if my daughter had any body glitter... I felt betrayed. Now I was going to stand out, and not in a flattering way.

Lucky for me it was cold in the restaurant, so I kept the scarf/shawl on and managed a little coverage. Still one or two folks commented. "Whoa! You're showing boob!" I might have felt better if they'd said it with a tone that was more admiration than observation, but such was not the case.

All of this was really just a set-up, though, to talk about pictures. (I know - Wuh!?! Stick with me, all shall be revealed. Wait - following a story about boobage, perhaps that was misleading. Let's just say - read on, it will all hopefully come together...)

Although I felt vulnerable and a little out of my league, I also felt like the outfit was flattering. I walked out the door feeling like I looked good. Pictures were taken and, as is almost ALWAYS the case when I see myself in pictures, I was appalled. Surely I don't look like that! Who is that yooge old woman wearing my clothing? And why are her features so crooked? Surely that can't be what I look like... then someone will say: Wow! That's a great picture of you! And I want to weep. That? Right there? That is a GOOD depiction of my appearance? Really? Because that's not even close to what I see in the mirror and it's even farther from what I see with my minds eye. Hate the pictures. But I know between pictures, mirrors and minds eye, they are the least likely to lie.

So for a long time I stayed out of them. Avoided them at all costs. Developed a sixth sense which was keenly aware of any camera in my immediate vicinity and an uncanny ability to step out of its scope. If I didn't see it, I wouldn't know. And maybe if I didn't know, it wouldn't be true. Don't even bother trying to point out the inherent flaws in that argument. One doesn't have to be rational when arguing with oneself.

Tom hates being in pictures, too, but his reasoning is different. Tom is really not very photogenic. If you've ever seen the episode of 'Friends' where Monica and Chandler go to have their engagement portraits taken - that's Tom. He's a very handsome dude, but when the cameras come out his smile freezes in a way that is not his smile and his eyes do that deer-in-the-headlights thing. It gives me - hopefully gives both of us - comfort when he hates a picture of himself and I can say with honesty - that's not a good picture, you are way better looking than that.

So we've both sort of resolved to allow more pictures of ourselves to be taken. His motivation, I assume, is to become more comfortable with the camera so that he becomes less conscious of it and will eventually look more natural in photos. My motivation is to be able to view myself more honestly. That is painful right now. Hopefully it will get easier with time.

So for now - no pictures of the boob shirt. Delete, delete, delete. But in a couple months? If I do indeed succeed in recognizing and coming to terms with my new old self? Who knows.

I Went to Sleep With Gum in my Mouth and Now There's Gum in My Hair, and I Could Tell: It Was Going to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

So Lea says to me (she says), "Mom, I think there's gum in my hair."

Her panic begins to escalate as she realizes that this is indeed true.

"How did you get gum in your hair?"

"I don't know. There was no gum in my room. I didn't have any gum. There was no gum anywhere. But I went to bed with clean hair and I woke up with gum in my hair."

"You realize that's impossible and doesn't make any sense... "

"It just got there and now I need you to GET IT OUT!!!!!"

She approaches me with scissors in hand.

The last time I touched her hair with scissors resulted in the micro-bang incident. We shan't speak of it...

So we went to the hairdressers and this is what she came home with:



Talk about making lemonade out of lemons...

Not our first haircut related incident that's had a happy ending. (I told you not to mention the micro-bangs...)

When Olivia was getting ready to start pre-school she had long beautiful hair. She very much enjoyed tossing it around. She also wore dresses every. day. Anyone who knows Liv now knows - well - she still has pretty hair...

Several days short of that first day of preschool, Lea and Liv were playing beauty parlor and with one snip of the safety scissors, Liv had a nice chunk of hair cut to cheek length. I took her to the salon, all three of us may or may not have been crying, and said, "fix it". She left with an adorable bob that made her hair look even thicker. It was beautiful. And she hated it.

She was still at an age when a great deal of her gender identification dealt with hair and dress and she was pretty much convinced that now that her hair was short she would have to be a boy. And she liked being a girl and didn't want to be a boy and now no girls would want to play with her anymore because girls don't like to play with boys.

She cried intermittently until that first day of school.

When she came home that first afternoon, she was beaming. (Insert spiritual leader of your choice here) was smiling on me, because Liv's teacher that year was a very attractive young lady with a super-short pixie cut. Without saying a word, she restored my daughters sense of femininity and the short hair was never mentioned again, not even once.