Did Someone Say Fabu?

Warning - cussing, cussing, and more cussing in this post. And then I cuss. A lot. If that offends you, shoo! Come back tomorrow when I'll be more my sweet temperate self. If that doesn't offend you, read on!

Ok, I've tried to be modest, but it's true. I'm fucking fabulous. At least my blog is. How do I know? Same way I know everything I know. Someone told me. In this case, two someones, specifically MzBehavin at Positively Neurotic Me and Mimi at Living in France. They are both pretty fucking fabulous, too, if you ask me.


Man, that was a lot of gratuitous fucking cussing for one of my posts! I usually try to keep the cussing minimal, for maximum impact. (On the blog, at least. I can hear the people I know in real life snickering, because in real life maximum impact is apparently something I go for a lot. A whole fucking lot.)

Anyhoodle, if I haven't already offended your virgin ears - or - er - eyes too much, the requirements of this fu - oh, forget it - it's not even fun anymore. The requirements of this award are that I share 5 current obsessions and pass it along to five other blogs with a similar level of fabulosity. I'll share my obsessions - I've got nothing to hide - but I never like singling out anyone to pass an award on to. If you're still here after all the cussing, you're fucking fabulous. If you've left me comment love, you're fucking fabulous. If you've clicked my 'follow' button, you're fucking fabulous. Take it - it's yours. Now on to the obsessions:

1. I am obsessed with the upcoming Alice in Wonderland movie. I have devoured every little morsel that has been leaked with gusto. If you've read my profile, you know that a Tim Burton/Johnny Depp/ Helena Bonham Carter project has never ever failed me. This one looks astounding. I have a very important date in March. An important date in 3-fucking D! March is so faaaaaaar!!!!!

2. I am obsessed with aging. I think about it all the time. That is sometimes as negative as it sounds and sometimes it's downright positive, but it is never far from my mind. My fucking mind, to those of you who are fabulous.

3. I am obsessed with bags. No, not beautiful, expensive purses. I can walk by Kate Spade without a glance. Coach? You have no more power over me. Ok, I did spare a quick peak at the Henri Bendel bags in a display window recently, but it was just a quick peak. I didn't, you know, touch them or smell them or anything. I'm talking about bags. Reusable shopping bags. I've spoken about this before. I don't know why I love the darn things so much, but I do. I buy them all the time. And now that festival season is upon us, a lot of folks are giving them away for free. For FREE, ya'll!!! I have big ones and small ones and some that fold up in my purse. I have some for grocery shopping and some for clothing/other shopping. I have big insulated bags for cold/frozen food. Just call me the fucking bag lady.

4. I am obsessed with yarn! Anyone who knows me knows that I'm gonna embarrass them if they go into a yarn store with me. I don't treat yarn with the restraint I offer to fine purses. I touch EVERYthing. I smell quite a lot. I smell quite a lot of YARN, is what I'm saying. I PERSONALLY smell like a subtle blend of jasmine and sandalwood with gentle rose undertones. I don't even know what the fuck that means. It just sounded like it might be a nice way to smell. Ahem. But yarn - oh, I can't get enough of it. I would write an ode to it, if I were the sort of person who could write odes. Since I can't I'll just touch it and smell it and knit, knit, knit.

5. Lastly, I am obsessed with seventies and eighties nostalgia tours. Friday begins the week of a thousand bands. It's really just seven, but seven bands in seven days - well, technically eight days - is nothing to scoff at. But it doesn't sound as cool as the week of a thousand bands. We're kicking it off next Friday with the Prodigals. Saturday, Alice Cooper! Suck it, Mom! (That was for you, E. I hope you're reading. That's my nod to Suck it Sunday!). Wednesday, Joan Jett and the B-52's and Friday, Pat Benetar, Blondie and The Donnas. That is a whole lot of late seventies early eighties goodness. I am so fucking psyched! Watch this space.

This concludes my fucking fabulous post. I hope you have a fabulous fucking day. Tomorrow I return to my regular blog voice. Hopefully. No wonder people overuse the 'f' word so much. It is way easier than actually searching for a less base word to express one's true meaning...

Big Wheel Keeps on Turnin'

I love a good festival.

From the time I was wee, I felt their draw. If there were amusement rides and games of chance and food on a stick, I was in.

As a kid, of course, it was the rides and the food. And the ridiculously cheaply made stuffed animals. Not much cuddly about a toy stuffed with sawdust. Yet they were coveted. I saw a nice chunk of a Johnny Cash concert once from the top of a double ferris wheel. I would beg my parents to pull over if we happened to pass a little carnival in a parking lot. Sometimes they did.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

As a teen, festivals provided a great opportunity to see and be seen. Festivals became a lot less expensive when I was less interested in the rides and the food and the games. It didn't cost much to see how many boys I could get to turn their heads to check out my painter's pants and halter tops. (it's true, painter's pants were a very sexy fashion statement) Now the rides were an opportunity to sneak a smootch and the games were an opportunity to let the boys in their concert T-shirts show off their mad athletic skillz.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

I got engaged to my college sweetheart at the fair, for Pete's sake. (That was not Tom and it did not end well and that's perhaps another story for another day. If, you know, there's ever a day when I want to put my head in an oven or something.)

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

As a young adult, festivals, fairs and carnivals were an excuse to get my party on. Paying way too much for a beer I had to stand in line way too long for didn't seem like such a hardship as a young adult. I remember having my uncle drop me off at a festival once (Designate a driver, kids. Don't drink and drive.) and my cousin's husband met me at the car with a - like - 30 ounce beer in each hand. In those days, the rides were generally not pursued. I reckon the reasoning behind that is obvious.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

As parents, we get to start this cycle over again - first pushing baby buggies, then holding toddlers hands - experiencing the sights and sounds and smells through the eyes ears and noses of our little ones. (Oh, come on. SOME of the smells are good!) We put them on the kiddie rides and watch as they get older and want to ride the bigger ones. We buy them food we'd never allow them to eat at home. We allow them to win goldfish. (Oh, why in God's name do we allow them to win goldfish?)

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

We went to our first real festival of the season last night. It would seem that that ferris wheel is still spinning, because my girls were there to see and be seen. It was so familiar that it warmed the cockles of my cold dark heart while simultaneously chilling me to the bone.

I'm drawing the line at halter tops.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

Anatomy of an Earworm

No, no, no - this isn't going to be a squicky post!

It's about those songs or - more accurately, song fragments - that get stuck in your head and won't let go.

Everyone gets them from time to time, some people are more prone to them than others. Some songs are more likely to stick than others. Once they're stuck, there doesn't seem to be a lot you can do to unstick them. Which wouldn't be so bad if it was a song (or song fragment) that you liked. Quite often it is not. Quite often a fragment will stick and you don't even KNOW the rest of the song. I think these frustrate me, personally, the most.

I like to share when I get a particularly persistent earworm. I'll sing it out loud over and over. This brings a lot of joy to everyone around me, because I have quite a lovely voice and that loveliness is much magnified when I sing the same line over and over again in as many different keys as I can find (or come close to). People always say things like, "Oh, for the love of all that's holy, please, please stop." I know that this is because everyone has their own personal threshold for loveliness. I exceed that on occassion, I guess. It's a gift. And a curse.

For weeks - WEEKS I tells ya! - whenever my brain had a quiet moment, I subconsciously filled it with M-E-T-H-O-D-O-F-L-O-V-E. (Oh, you're welcome! No problem at all!) And that is very typical of an earworm for me. A pop song that I maybe didn't love, but was certainly aware of (MMMbop, anyone?) that just sneaks in there and makes itself at home. I've read that commercial jingles provide earworm fodder for a lot of people and - while I imagine that's quite annoying - I think it means the advertisers have done their job very well (Gimme a break, gimme a break, break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar).

For the last three days, though, the earworm that's been accompanying me is one I'm in no hurry to rid myself of. I've been hearing Billy Joel's 'Vienna' , particularly (but not limited to) the line, " you know that when the truth is told that you can get what you want or you can just get old." My usual response to an earworm is annoyance that ranges from mild to crazy-making. My response to this one has been that perhaps it's telling me something. It is such a beautiful song - click the link if you're unfamiliar - with such a beautiful sentiment. I think maybe there's something in there I need to hear right now. Perhaps when I successfully noodle it out I'll conquer the earworm.

I'm not going to rush.

The first line of the song is "slow down, you crazy child".

I hear ya, Billy.

Talk To Ya Later

It's Thursday, so it must be time for a trip down Memory Lane...

Recently we received the records for our teen daughters phone usage during a little vacation to Florida. In two weeks, she spent 3337 minutes talking to her boyfriend and sent 1021 texts to her buddies. I tried to work up righteous anger, but I couldn't.

To do so would've been hypocritical.

To do so would've been a denial of the misspent hours of my own youth.

I, too, spent more time missing my friends than appreciating my surroundings on family vacations - particularly when they extended longer than a week (the proven measure of time that a teen girl can comfortably tolerate separation from her peeps).

In the summer of 1978 I was almost sixteen. My friends were the most important people in the world and our constantly shifting romances were the most important events.

This was the summer my parents decided to take us on a tour through the northern United States with a few jaunts into southern Canada.

This sounds like a beautiful way to pass the summer, no?

At the time, this sounded a lot like the seventh level of hell.

In 1978, of course, cell phones existed only in science fiction. Long distance calls were expensive. To hear my parents tell it, very, very, very ridiculously expensive. They were never made lightly. They were doled out carefully, like a precious commodity. Most of them were made to relatives at home to check on the house and the extended family. The purpose for these calls was assuredly more report than rapport.

Every time I would pass a wall of pay phones I would slow down and gaze at them longingly. They represented passage from this cowboy hell to the socialization I was missing and craving at home. So close and yet so far.

Then, one day, during a visit to a tourist attraction somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, I saw my opportunity. And I seized it. An available pay phone and not a parental unit in sight. There was no time to think, I needed to act quickly. I picked up the receiver and followed the instructions on the phone.

"I'd like to charge this to my home number, please."

One ring.

Two rings.

Then the voice of my friend, spanning the distance, taking me away from this stupid wilderness and reporting all the small town gossip.

My eyes rolled back in my head. It was otherworldly. I was only aware of the dulcet tones of my friend's voice and the information she was sharing.

"Tammy! Lu! Hunter!"

That was weird, Cyndi almost never used my middle...

"TAMMY! LU! HUNTER!"

Oh shiiiiiiiiit.

The spell was broken.

The middle name had been invoked.

My mother looked like a cartoon character does right before steam starts shooting from its ears.

"I gotta go..."

Sadness about the disconnect mingled with fear of retribution.

I mentioned that we were somewhere in the Rockies. We were somewhere in the CANADIAN Rockies. Making this an international call. And an international incident. If long distance calls were verboten, international calls were - well - if there's a word for how off-limits they were, I don't know it.

As we walked back to the car, the vibe I got from my parents was clear. "We will continue to feed, clothe and house you because you are our responsibility but we do not intend to like being in your presence."

I acquired my first job within a week after getting home. I paid the phone bill with my first check.

An irresponsible and immature act resulted in the first truly responsible and mature decision of my young life.

Sometimes it just works out that way.

Better Living Through Technology

I have been feeling a little blue. Nothing huge - people deal with a lot worse on a daily basis. Sometimes just knowing other people have it worse doesn't make it better. It just adds feeling selfish and insensitive to the list of things to beat oneself up over.

This morning I thought about the reasons I should get out of bed:

1. there is laundry currently sitting in the washer AND the dryer.
2. there are dishes currently sitting in the dishwasher AND the sink.
3. the vacuum hasn't been run in (mumble, mumble, some time, I guess...)

Then I thought about the reasons I should stay in bed this morning:

1. there is laundry currently sitting in the washer AND the dryer.
2. there are dishes currently sitting in the dishwasher AND the sink.
3. the vacuum hasn't been run in (mumble, mumble, some time, I guess...)

But get out of bed I did. I took my meds and sat down at the computer, purely out of habit. I can't eat for an hour after I take my meds, so I use that time to read my e-mail and catch up on all of your yummy blogs since I can't indulge in a yummy breakfast for a while. Before I was even through the e-mail, my mood had lifted considerably. I had not one but two awards waiting for me.

Sandy at It's a Jungle Out There gave me this cute little panda as a reward for leaving consistent comments. Aw, thanks Sandy! You're no slouch yourself!


That probably would've been enough to brighten my mood, but I read a couple more e-mails and found that this was waiting for me at Fran's blog, Very Random. For what, you ask? Why for leaving consistent comments.


Now perhaps you're saying to yourself, "It must not have been much of a funk, if it was lifted by a couple of blog awards." But that's only because you don't understand the nature of the funk to which I had succumbed. I was feeling - like we all do, from time to time - pretty insignificant. I was feeling like nothing I do matters - I don't make a difference. (There's more, but I don't want to talk about it. Suffice it to say that the insignificance thing was playing a pretty strong supporting role in the drama that's been running on my cerebral stage for the past couple days) And along come these two ladies - at the same time - telling me that in some small way, I do.

I needed it, and there it was.

Right there on my laptop.

Comin' through on the wide world of web.

Deb at Suburb Sanity posted about the bloggy support system today, too. It really is quite a powerful and wonderful thing. Deb also talked about turning off the AC and opening the windows, which I did, and I think that has also had quite the impact on my mood. When you let the dishes in the sink all night, a little fresh air and a cross-breeze is never a bad idea... The birdsong it's allowing to come in isn't so bad, either.

So, thank you, Sandy, Fran and Deb. Sincerely. For saying just what I needed to hear just when I needed to hear it.

And thank you all for giving me funny, insightful, heart-wrenching, heart-warming, informative posts (not usually all at the same time, though sometimes some come close) to read each day. And thanks in advance for the bloggy love you're gonna leave me which will make a rapidly improving mood even better. (It's true. I'm not above pandering like that. Pitiful, really.)

If You Believe, They Put a Man on the Moon

Forty years ago today one small step was taken by man; one giant leap by mankind.

I was just shy of my seventh birthday and I was bored. My family was visiting my favorite aunt for a week or two. That was usually a lot of fun, but on this evening no one wanted to play with me. There was nothing good on TV. All of the adults were glued to the set, watching something boring, and they kept telling me how lucky I was to be witnessing history. I would've rather been witnessing The Brady Bunch, which hadn't aired yet but looked very promising from the promos.

So I watched - not having any idea what I was seeing.

But I saw.

One of the much older cousins - not one of my cousins, but one of theirs from the other side of the family, had recently gotten engaged. She and her honey wanted to go out and look at the moon. I tagged along, because the moon seemed to be what all the fuss was about. Recently engaged couples love gazing at the moon with a six year old in tow, it's a fact. They told me to see if I could see the flag we'd just seen them plant on TV. They told me to look really hard. When they were sure my attention was fully focused on the moon, they kissed. And it was really gross. I turned up my nose and went back into the house.

I reported that all of this was a fake, because I had looked very carefully and I had seen no evidence of any of this business on the real moon. Everyone laughed and thought that was real cute.

I left that room, too.

What a stupid day.

What an amazing day.

Read to Me

When Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (or Philosopher's Stone, depending on your geography) came out - on video - we watched it with the girls. Before that they had shown no interest in the franchise. After that dementors couldn't keep us away. We acquired all of the books that had been released at that time, but since they were above the girls reading level, Tom read them aloud to us chapter by chapter.

Did he do voices and accents?

What do you think?

I sat on the loveseat, knitting. Lea curled up with Tom on the couch, watching the process of reading the words she couldn't quite make out independently yet. Liv either sat at the other end of the couch or laid on her belly on the floor.

We were all utterly enchanted. Under a spell, you might even say, if you were the sort of person prone to saying things like that.

He would finish the chapter and say, "Tomorrow's chapter is titled _____". Then he would raise his eyebrows and close the book with a great flourish amid pleas from the three of us for just one more chapter pleeeeeeeease! If the next chapter was on the shorter side, or if the evening was on the earlier side, sometimes we managed to get him to acquiesce. Usually, though, one chapter was it. We were left longing for the next installment the way I imagine kids in the early days of movies longed for the next installment of their weekly cliff-hangers.

When Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was released in the theater, we went to a matinee on opening weekend.

When Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was released in the book stores, we thought the girls were old enough to stay up for a midnight release. We got to the bookstore around ten. There were elaborate costumes and lots of games and activities. My mom had recently made both of them cloaks that were really lovely. They were having a lot of fun until they weren't. By the time they weren't, however, it was very close to midnight and Tom and I decided we'd made it this far, we weren't going home now. As soon as they started queuing people up Tom got in line and I took the girls to the car, where they promptly fell asleep, clutching their wands.

What a sober, tired little witch!

After that we hit every midnight release of a book or a movie. There was something special about not only being among the first to experience it, but also about sharing that experience with other fans.

By the time Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, the girls were old enough to read on their own. They no longer wanted it parceled out chapter by chapter, so several copies were purchased. I was a little bit sad, because I'd really enjoyed having the stories read to me.

I had a student teacher once who told me I'd intimidated her. She said that in every other placement she'd ever had, when she read a story to the children, the classroom teacher had used that as an opportunity to catch up on their work. I sat down, chin in hands, and listened to the story. She said she felt like I was judging her. When I quickly explained that I just really really enjoyed being read to and that she was an excellent storyteller/reader she relaxed considerably.

I tentatively asked Tom if he would continue reading it aloud. "The girls don't want that anymore" he protested.

"This girl does."

So he did.

Sure do wish I could be there for the midnight opening of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter themed park at Universal Studios Islands of Adventure next year. (Because SURELY there will be a midnight opening!!!) But we'll be there before it's a year old, I imagine.

The girls have grown a lot since 2005.

I guess we'll be needing new cloaks.