A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

Or should that be "A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words"? I happened to glance in the mirror this morning - something I generally avoid until about 11 AM - and got a nice glimpse of TweedleDum & TweedleDee. And there was no turning back. These babies have to preserved for all time. And then I tried to actually get a picture of the damn things. After three angles and 10 pictures - and, let's face it, my sense of modesty kicked in - I decided not to tempt you with a shot of the outside of my thigh. I'm going to just save TweedleDum for the grandkids to marvel over in 20 years or so (Did you hear that Dearly Beloved Stepson? TWENTY YEARS.)

TweedleDum

So there you go. No need to rent your horror movie tonight, just picture my (incredibly toned) bruise chasing you around the house. The damn thing is growing by leaps and bounds and may need to be fed on a regular basis.

The cats are going to either get me killed or The Professor arrested

Sunday, in the early evening, all was quiet. The kitchen was (mostly) cleaned up from a big Family Lunch and I had spent a lovely hour communing with my laptop at the dining room table. The Professor went out for his evening stroll around the neighborhood (I think he’s part of a secret neighborhood surveillance, but then he thinks I secretly work for the FBI, so maybe we should both tone down the conspiracy voices in our respective heads?), and I decided it was the perfect time for a glass of wine. Granted, there aren’t many times that aren’t the perfect time for a glass of wine, and those are mostly restricted to the hours immediately after you wake up in the morning*, which is why God made Mimosas. *If you wake up after noon, you can skip those mimosa drinking hours, because it’s lunch time, and wine is perfectly acceptable at lunch. I should really write a rule book or something. I also decided it was the perfect time to sit outside, which necessitated moving the laptop. Which is when my cat made his move. It was the only move he made that hour, and I guess he decided to make it worth his while. I removed the power cord from the back of the laptop, stood up with my Precious Darling (the laptop, not the cat) in my hands and turned around to head towards the back door, only to discover that in the 5 seconds I had not been moving, my dear cat had chosen to move from his perch to sprawl on the floor behind my feet. Unfortunately, I only noticed after my foot was coming down on top of him, and then I tried to move my foot, but it was too late, and I ended up falling – with the laptop still in my arms, mind you – towards one of the chairs. I did not manage to stop my fall, but I did manage to slam my arm into the back of the chair, and somehow twisted enough that my thigh smacked into the side, all while clinging on to my laptop for dear life with my other hand. We had just bought the Stepson a new laptop the day before. A new one for me is NOT in the budget. This dance was short and it was not graceful, but it probably would have made a hell of a YouTube video. Aside: MS Word recognizes “YouTube” as a word. The laptop made it through our Dance of Life just fine. I, however, am sporting a bruise 2 inches long by 1.5 inches wide on my arm (yes, I measured just for you so that you could have an accurate description). There’s a similar one on my thigh, but it’s covered by clothing. And they’re getting prettier by the day. I didn’t know some of these shades of blue existed, and I can hardly wait to discover the new yellows that will surely appear. I actually thought about documenting them in pictures, day by day, but that would be like a job or something, and I can barely remember that I have a blog as it is. Maybe I’ll just name them. TweedleDum and TweedleDee sound like good candidates. Another Aside: Please note that TweedleDum and TweedleDee are NOT recognized by Word, even though they’ve been around for more than 100 years longer. Anyway, this is not – by a long shot – the first time I’ve come to work with bruises. I am one of the clumsiest people I know, and I bruise very easily. If you stare at me hard enough, my blood vessels burst. And apparently Some People are starting to notice. Today, when I gave my “I’m-the-clumsiest-person-in-the-world-and-bruise-easily” excuse to someone who asked, I got a new response. A pause, a deep look and “Are you sure?”. So now I have to somehow become more graceful, because I do not want people thinking vile things of The Professor, who would no more harm me than he would voluntarily eat a vegetable that is not deep fried. Am I too old for finishing school? I hope so, because I have a feeling that they would try to take away my rum.

It's the little things

Charter, we've had our issues. Since I canceled the TV service, they've gotten fewer, although sometimes your internet speeds Need HELP. But it's the little things. Like, when I go to login to my account. And it says "Welcome New Account". 1) I am not a new account. Been with you for 10+ years now. 2) The sentence hurts my heart. Do you mean "Welcome to your new account"? Do you think my name is "New Account?" Really, we know each other better than that by now.

Dear Hollywood

Dear Hollywood, I don’t know what’s up with you lately. It seems that every other movie I watch – which, granted, is about 1 in 100 that you put out – that have scenes where people either are or have the potential to drown. It doesn’t even matter if they actually do, it’s enough that the potential is there. They’re underwater, sometimes trying not to gasp in water, sometimes not succeeding. DO YOU KNOW THAT I’M SCARED OF DROWNING? Last weekend, we took the Stepson to see Clash of the Titans. It wasn’t just a reshoot of the original movie – it had almost a totally new plot. Which may explain why I wasn’t expecting an underwater scene. DO YOU KNOW THAT I HAD NIGHTMARES AFTER WATCHING CASINO ROYALE? And then, I went to see Quantum of Solace, thinking, they’ve done the underwater thing. I’m safe. I was so not safe, because apparently the flashbacks were a necessary plot point. So. This is me kindly asking you to Knock It Out. There are millions of ways to try to kill people. Please try a few hundred thousand of them before going back underwater. Love, Me

I've either lost it or found it, I don't know which

The gym is not the place I prefer to be on a Saturday morning, but I've learned that if I don't go first thing, it doesn't get done. Because I will turn on HGTV for "just one show" and then 6 hours later I'm cooking dinner and drinking wine. Yes, I do that at 4 PM on a Saturday. DON'T JUDGE ME. Anyway, so the gym is made marginally better because of the TVs in front of the treadmills that can keep my mind busy while I sweat through a 5k. Is it ironic that "Don't Sweat It" is usually the show I sweat to? Because by the time I'm done, I'm pretty much just a big pile of sweat. Lovely visual, I know. The end of my boring little routine involved doing the Arm Machines. I hate them slightly more than I hate the leg machines, although I do kind of feel all "Look at ME" when I notice sore muscles a few hours later. It's proof that I'm doing something. ANYway - I have really rambled off topic, again - this Serious Weight Lifting Guy came in about halfway through my Arm Torture . He's probably a personal trainer or something, because he was charting his weight routine. Every time he did something, he wrote it down. And he kept staring at me. I HATE it when strangers stare. I'm always convinced I've got spinach hanging out of my nose or something. In this case, I figured I was abusing the machines, and he was going to march over and give me a lecture on how to properly change the weights. He did say "Bless you" when I sneezed, so his Mama taught him some manners but I was just sure that meant he'd be nice when he told me I was doing stuff all wrong. Hello, I know I'm doing something wrong: I'm sweating on a Saturday, for the love of baby Jesus. So I finish up and go to leave and he walks by and asks how long I've been a member of the gym. And how often I work out. And what's my name again? And some other little trivia that I've completely forgotten. And me - the whole time I'm thinking "Gotta go to J's to get those border stones. Going to the garden store with the Best Friend. Think I'll grill out burgers tonight. Should pick up some beer." And when I get in my car, it slams into my dreams of Dos Equis: Dude was hitting on me. Trying to flirt, fairly blatantly, while I was a steaming pile of sweat - and all I can think of is what kind of meat and alcohol to consume later. The Professor has officially declared me an "Old Married Lady". And promised me a beer.

Bless My Toes

Last week, a lady walked up to me on base – I was sitting outside on my break, enjoying one of the 6 hours of Spring we’ll get before summer hits – and told me, with no apparent sarcasm, how brave I was for wearing open-toed sandals with no toe polish.

A couple of my friends are probably staging a toe-nail intervention as they read this; to you I say: Don’t worry. Now that I’ve made this public knowledge, The Best Friend will wrangle my mismanaged peds into shape soon, I’m sure.

Anyway, as this Mystery Lady walked away, I could only stare at her. I couldn’t formulate a reply, and honestly, she didn’t seem to want one. She’s like a fairy, only instead of dropping happy pixie dust on everyone she meets, she must drop these random and totally unwanted opinions on complete strangers, maybe even feeling like she’s done a good deed for the day by complimenting my bravery – I’m so courageous, y’all! An unemployed Pedicurist could happen upon my feet at any minute and take revenge on my negligence, but I still dare to brave the world in my flip-flops! Someone give me a Medal of Honor!

I mean honestly, what do you say to that? I just stared at her dumbfounded, wondering why she thought that was necessary.

Then I woke up and remembered that I’m in the Deep South; merely breathing in this part of the country gives total strangers carte blanche to say whatever they hell they want on any and all parts of your public/private lives. It’s a State’s Rights issue that was passed along with Reconstruction, and no one is going to give it up.

Well, this got embarrassingly long and loud, but we’re just going to hit publish without even proof-reading at this point

There are some things that I think every Midwife/OBGYN/Birth-Assisting-Person should be required to teach parents: Some people in this world are not going to have kids, and – steady now – that is ok. The world will not end, the Anti-Christ has not come to suck the life out of the precious babies’ lungs, and no one is going to take away the baby aisle at the grocery store. Some of us even *like* other peoples’ babies. In a few cases, we like the children those babies turn into, although that’s a slippery slope, because all of a sudden, BOOM, you’ve known this kid for 17 years and you loved the baby, tolerated the child and now have to figure out if you’re going to like the adult. That’s a lot of pressure – I mean, 17 years have been invested at this point, and you’d hate to think you’ve wasted their whole life making this decision. And you’re probably related to them anyway, so just make it easy on yourself and like them already. That last paragraph was completely off my point, which is, I do *not* want to have children and that is not the first half of a mathematical proof that ends with “therefore I hate all the babies”. It’s a simple statement of intention. So, Lady-that-is-convinced-that-I-am-(apparently)-a-“baby-hating-narcissist”**: Thanks for naming me “soul-less” baby haters. I like babies just fine, but I guess the only way to prove it would be to have a baby, and y’all: there is not enough rum in the world. Also, I don’t think I’m a narcissist, but do narcissists every really admit that about themselves? Wouldn’t they be too self-involved to be aware of their narcissism? I think that’s kind of a pre-requisite. I mean, there are there social groups like The United Narcissists of America getting together for Bingo and Bourbon on the third Thursday of the month? I might be able to get into that, come to think about it, but really: I think if you say you’re a narcissist you are either A) lying or B) in rehab. **She was involved in a loud conversation behind me in a (long) line, about the evil people who do not have children. I wish I had a transcript of this woman’s opinions, because they were many and they were LOUD. The loudest was “There’s something wrong with people who don’t want kids. They’re baby-hating narcissists.” And also on the baby front: (Strap yourself in because apparently I’ve needed therapy for this and things could get bumpy): choosing not to procreate does not make my life *less than*, it just makes it different. I cannot tell you the number of times that I've been told something along those lines in the last 10 years. You want to tell me you’re more complete as a person (were you missing an organ or a limb before the conception??),then I will absolutely help you celebrate your NewFound Wholeness and buy you wine and chocolate. I’ll probably bake you cookies, because hell, I bake cookies for everyone. You know why? Because I like celebrations, especially if they involve wine, chocolate and cookies. And if I'm baking you cookies, there's a good chance I'm going to like your baby enough to keep you in cookies for awhile. And this one Lady years ago … oh this one cracks me up, almost five years after the conversation happened. This lady tells me, upon hearing I wasn’t planning on having children – at the end of a long list of reasons why Children Are Important If You Want To Be An Adult, she adds: “You really should just try it once”. Please go back and re-read that, because I cannot even describe the brain-exploding that happened in my skull. Babies are not a new flavor of potato chip, Lady! You don’t “just try them out”, because can you even get a refund at that point? Do you see why I stay home with my wine bottles every night? If my OBGYN were reading this, she’d come out of retirement and sterilize me for FREE.

A Short Rant with an Easter Finish

Google, you have disappointed me. For months now, when I pull up Google Maps and you think you’re showing me where I live…you aren’t. Oh sure, the address is right. But you’re little pointer is pointing halfway down the street and on the other side of a cul-de-sac. And in Satellite View? Your street labels are off in my little corner of the world. Downtown in the big city is perfect. Looking at the maps of my county? Crazy. And don’t judge me for spending time looking at maps of my county in Google Maps Satellite View. It’s cheap entertainment. It’s been years since I’ve done anything “Easter-y” on Easter Sunday. I haven’t bought Easter candy in years, and although I usually do make an effort to cook something Nicer Than Usual, it’s such a “get together with the family” day that The Professor and I kind of just stay home and watch movies. Of course, I’m usually watching Easter Parade, and he’s watching something that involves a lot of blood and dismemberment, so we’re watching movies in separate rooms. But we’re doing it in separate rooms TOGETHER. Anyway, all of this is to say that this year, we have Easter Plans! Some friends who are similarly far from their families invited us over for a big ole Easter Dinner. I’ve got the perfect cute Spring-Time skirt and if I’m feeling plucky I might even pull my old Easter Bonnet out of storage, which will cause me to sing “In my Easter Bonnet…with all the frills upon it…” all day, which will in turn drive The Professor nuts. Meaning that this would be the only year we participate in any kind of Easter Festivities, but it will totally be worth it.

Alabama? Ireland? Where the Hell am I Again?

And we're home. Home to a couple of (surprisingly) unstressed cats, thanks to the Bestest Friend. Home after a week of more fun than should be allowed, interspersed with many pints of beer, lot of food and very little sleep. I took over 500 pictures (that's all???), and getting them off of my memory card seems like almost more than my mind can handle. We got up 20 hours ago, and I'm determined to stay up til at least 11 tonight (2 more hours) to try and yank my body into the correct time zone. I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see if my brain follows my body back into the Central Time Zone.

Another year, another AWSOFTC(SFBIGTNABO)

Go here for 2008. Go here for 2009. So, snow is becoming an annual occurrence round these parts. I can live with that. Especially since it FINALLY happened on a work day, and work got cancelled*. Especially since Monday is already a federal holiday, making this a 4 day weekend. Especially especially since I stocked the wine rack and the beer fridge. Well, the wine rack is already showing some holes because we started on that last night. But that's OK. I have some rum and whiskey left. But enough about my alcohol collection! You want to see snow! Let's see how fierce and mighty this new Alabama Winter Storm of the Century is going to be. *Dear Firefox: "Cancelled" CAN be spelled with two 'l's, not just one as you think. Please update your dictionary, and thank you for making me doubt my spelling abilities, forcing me to look it up in 3 different places to be sure I was correct, even if I been using the British spelling forever and never knew it. Now I'll have to randomly insert 'u's after 'o's, too. Love, Me.