Free Preview Below. Enjoy.

I just took the first batch to the post office. About 100 covered the first half of the alphabet. Such shameless self-promotion, I know. You will be getting your hard copy with pictures soon (if you're lucky enough to make the cut). Once you read it, let me know if you'd like me to unsubscribe you for next year. There's a waiting list. And if you're just some random stranger who has stumbled upon this page after Googling something like "dog puke" then this is all you get.

And I must apologize to those A-M's who received the bad font copies. They are very hard to read, even for me with my new trifocals. I blame Kinko's. If you need a new copy, just ask, and I'll tell you how to print from this screen.

Eighth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

I apologize in advance to my blog's regular readers (both of them) as much of this garbage was previously published there. But it's been modified to conform to the highest standards of propriety I endeavor to adhere to during the holidays. This yearly breath of hot air you've come to live for won't ease any mental instability, emotional malaise, or gastrointestinal difficulties 2008 may have caused, but it should at least serve as a temporary painkiller. Our year wasn't nearly as cool as Michael Phelps' or as crappy as Sarah Palin's, so don't expect much. In a nutshell, Mike went to war, I almost killed our dog, Luke disposed of another carcass, and Katy subjected us to her steady bout of premature PMS.

Luke started 6th grade and maintains a biohazard backpack and scores commensurate with his lackadaisical attitude. His penmanship tells us he may have been Japanese in a past life. He stands up to bullies with his clever wit, and I'm glad to suggest comebacks that may one day get his butt kicked. He's 12 and has already had braces, but still loses baby teeth and expects tooth fairy visits. His milestones include: moving up to the front seat without my blessing; getting his first hunting license; and surviving a weeklong Boy Scout camp without the helmet, bubble wrap, and clean boxers I packed for him to wear. We hope he'll make Eagle Scout and get a scholarship since we can't afford college now. Scouting has prepared him for: 10-mile hikes; shoveling up a pecked-over fox carcass as I dry-heave; and selling popcorn.

His quotes of the year: "Well, I guess we're all floating in the same toilet." "We need to get a real Christmas tree so we can blow it up in the back yard in January." When I tried to pick his nose before a basketball game, "Mom, it's not picture day." Katy said, "With credit cards, buy now, pay later." Luke: "Or buy now, move to Kentucky." And . . . "Katy, now that you're in 3rd grade, don't rush it. These are good times. Before you know it, it'll all be over."

Katy still exhibits energy and temper levels that would outweigh Amy Winehouse's blood-heroin content multiplied exponentially by the number of Brangelina's children. This explains why we introduced her to deodorant. ("I don't need a shower. Can't I just rub soap in my armpits?" At least she's not high-maintenance.) Katy's not only a back seat driver; she has back seat road rage. Gymnastics class doesn't take the edge off, and basketball only fuels her competitive spirit ("We don't keep score, but we won.") I envy her in-your-face enthusiasm, but it doesn't always agree with my inner Goth. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed her 2 weeks of summer Brownie sleep-away camp. She's a wizard with electronics, the coffee maker, belching, and the microwave. ("Mom, try the 'popcorn' button next time.") We replaced a lost retainer with one that glows in the dark. If she loses this one, it'll be easier to find. At night. Her alertness continues to amaze us. As I drove through Starbucks, she said, "$4.76 for a drink??" Then it hit me: She's far too aware of my poor judgment. Her lowest grade so far is a 97, but her spelling skills are somewhat lacking. She tattled, "Luke called me an a-s-s-w-h-o-l-e." She read a sign on a grocery store sample tray and said, "Ewww, 'use tongues to pick up food?'" I had to explain the subtle difference between tongues and tongs. She's 9 and already taller than any underage Chinese gymnast. For her birthday, we consented to ear-piercing after she signed a contract agreeing to a pre-set limit on future unnatural holes to be punched in her body.

Her quotes of the year: "When I was little, I thought phone calls went through wires. Now I know they go through satellites." "Our bus driver is a Washington Rednecks fan." "I love the smell of french fries in the afternoon!" "It's National Night Out. Can we go camping?" And for a spelling-word sentence, "I don't want to go to juvenile." She asked, "Isn't that kid jail?"

As for me, if not for my family, the presidential campaign and election onslaught would've sent me straight to a polygamist compound for relief. I did find some solace in watching the debates. On Saturday Night Live. In spite or because of my giving out too much free legal advice, my veterans' law practice has made me a part-time mom with adult-onset ADD. (I hope to add some hyperactivity so I can get something done.) I spent the year volunteering at various veterans' benefits events and tried (with marginal success) to appear professional at conferences. My income isn't yet enough for me to fly first-class, but I've been known to splurge on extra fees for an aisle seat, lavatory privileges, and an armrest. I finally got a website; now I just need a real office to improve the chances I'll shave my legs and wear a bra more often.

My midlife crisis took an unwelcome turn one morning in April when I woke up 42. I invested in "progressive" (edgy word for "trifocal") lenses with my tattoo money and set up a page on Facebook (too old for MySpace, too young for real life). At least my American Idol obsession still gave me something to talk to our babysitter about. Before he went to Iraq, Mike briefed me on the outdoor man-activities (besides peeing) that I'd need to do. Now I can operate all our gas-powered tools, tell the difference between the propane and septic tanks, and try to keep from killing the garden. I also discovered we have a sprinkler system. In his absence: I tried sleeping in the middle of the bed, but gave up when I couldn't reach the snooze button; I almost killed our dog after he ate 4 huge chocolate bars (the vet said his puke smelled like brownies); and I ran out of gas looking for it 2 cents a gallon cheaper than $3.98. I also found out that Cuban cigars aren't so easily replaced after serious humidor neglect.

The rest of my year's highlights included some girlfriend weekends, a scrapbooking retreat, and an occasional workout when I take the trash uphill to the curb. At Halloween, since this small town's trick-or-treating options left a lot to be desired, I took the costumed kids to the grocery store and let them pick out all the candy they wanted. Next year, maybe we'll skip the costumes, too. Last month, I spent the extra time-change hour learning how to reset our thermostat's clock. At Thanksgiving, I gave thanks for my many blessings, including a life-changing GPS that lets me watch myself make U-turns, and for stretchy low-rise jeans that allow for yet restrain holiday abdominal distension.

Mike spent 2 months in Iraq between April and June. I kept his return a secret from the kids, and they almost didn't recognize him when he came off the flight line. With a lot of exercise time and no drinking, he lost 15 pounds. (He's since caught up on all the Mexican food he missed.) We think the C-5 that brought him home via Germany imported more beer than passengers. The best part of his tour was flying combat with his life-long best friend, Drew. The worst was crouching at the sound of incoming mortar fire and fearing a round would hit a nearby port-a-john. His less glamorous trips included TDYs to Phoenix, Des Moines, Las Vegas, Panama City, and Midland for the Confederate Air Force airshow. For July 4th we went to Lake Charles, Louisiana. He took a jet for his fly-by while I had the pleasure of driving a carload of children.

On a family trip to Lake Murray, Oklahoma, he was stopped for speeding. He told the cop, "I haven't driven much since my tour in Iraq . . . ." The kids were impressed with his ability to escape with just a warning. They're much more familiar with the sexual harassment and police brutality I endure every time I get pulled over. In October, he went on a Wild Hogs Harley trip with his dad and uncle. Aside from losing a saddlebag with his wallet and a wad of cash on the highway somewhere in the southwest Texas desert, he had a great time.

We marked another year of putting up with each other by spending a weekend in Austin and celebrating on 6th street after Texas beat OU. He came to terms with my inability to hear any odd car noises or to park in the garage to his specifications. In return, I abandoned all hope that he'd overcome his complete and total lack of interest in learning which towels go in which bathroom. We're still working on 2002's deal to stay in the same room when we talk. He'll turn 45 soon, and only acts his age when he's snoozing on the couch in front of the History Channel.

In our abundant free time, we home-school the kids in musical literacy with "Name that Band." Mike challenges them with classic rock and country while I quiz them on pop hits of the 80's, 90's, and today. They may not master algebra or history, but they'll be a lot more fun at parties. We've also instituted a rigorous training program using our floor plan to show them where to put dirty dishes or clothes, flush toilets, hang wet towels, turn off lights, and shut doors. We're saving table manners for 2010.

For next year, I resolve to rely on more than my eBay feedback for a self-esteem boost, stop buying vegetables only to store them till they rot, and check my head before looking for my sunglasses. Mike plans to race his dirt bike and play guitar more often, as well as get comfortable wearing reading glasses in public. The kids should resolve to stop nagging me to do laundry, stop taking so long to order at a drive-thru, and learn to cut their own dang nails.

We hope you weren't hit too hard by this year's economic enema. At least we can take comfort knowing that all the AIG executives' children will still get their new ponies for Christmas. But seriously, amidst all the commercialism and stress, keep in mind the most important gift we received this particular holiday season: O.J. is finally going to prison.

We wish you true joy for the holidays and lasting happiness for the new year. And remember that we're not here to gain God's love. We're here to give it.

Love,

Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz the chocoholic dog

Faking a Break

By that I mean -- this is not a real break, as I will still be writing. Just not here.

It is the first week of December and we have already begun receiving Christmas cards. This means:

a. All of the below.

b. Other people have more time on their hands than I do.

c. Other people are more thoughtful and organized than I am.

d. Other people handle the demands of daily life and the calendar better than I do.

e. I am a slacker who better get busy so my annual letter goes out before the 25th.

If you return to this site within the next few weeks hoping for a new tidbit to get you through yet another humdrum day in your otherwise dreary, lackluster lives, I regret to inform you that you will be SOL until I finish my infamously notorious/notoriously infamous yearly holiday missive.

The demands are already rolling in. At least this time I can draw from the blog. I'm sure you few readers would love a rehash, or at least a refresher on the more intriguing adventures of our 2008.

So, stay on the edge of your seats, but don't hold your breath just yet. Chomp at the bit if you must, but don't camp by the mailbox until I give you the go-ahead. And don't expect a lot. As you well know, every past issue leaves me with bigger shoes to fill each year. At some point I will reach my zenith. In fact, I may have already jumped the shark in the direction of my nadir. For all our sakes, and the sake of the betterment of all humankind, let's hope not.

Stay tuned.

Happy Thanksgiving

Top Ten Things I'm Thankful For In No Particular Order

1. Mike's cooking, and the nurture it represents. And when he laughs really hard at my jokes.

2. My son's happy smile, so pure that it makes the rest of the world disappear. And his skinny arms around me.

3. My daughter's belly laugh that hasn't changed since she was a baby. And her energetic spunk.

4. My Mom's busy life and her subtly sophomoric sense of humor. And her quiet strength.

5. My sister's sick, oddball, and superficial yet deep sense of humor. And her friendship.

6. My brother's low-brow yet high-minded twisted sense of humor. And listening to him sing and play guitar.

7. Friends who appreciate or overlook my crude jokes and well-meaning insults. And so many to share laughs with. Till we cry and forget what we were laughing about. And so many shoulders to cry on.

8. Good wine, good margaritas, mediocre wine, mediocre margaritas.

9. Being old enough to have plenty of sweet things to look back on and being young enough to look back.

10. Having this place to heal my heart, mend my mind, gust my guts, and sigh my soul.

What I'm Not Thankful For:

It just doesn't matter.

Happy Birthday to my Blog's Biggest Fan

I'm putting this here for several reasons, but mainly because I couldn't find the perfect card for him, and even if I had, I would not have sent it on time, because I'm not as good a friend as most of mine are.

I gave a brief history about Chris a while back. Check the archives. We met when we went to school together in Paris in 1988. TWENTY YEARS AGO. As I have said before, we became instant friends when we found a common interest in cutting others down or mocking them not only for our entertainment, but also to make ourselves feel superior. Of course, that was 20 years ago. We're way more mature now. (NOT!) He has been like a little brother to me since then.

He is the world traveler friend who always takes the time to send a postcard to our family, no matter where he is. Even from brief business trips. Now, one might think he sends these out of friendliness, but I know him well enough that he's not using them to say "Wish you were here;" he's saying, "Look where I am!" That's just the kind of guy he is. He is also the kind of friend who emails links to picture albums, mostly pictures of his adorable little kids, but also pictures of himself standing in front of or next to million-dollar cars, supposedly famous hockey players, or one of the seven wonders of the world.

I know him to spend outrageous amounts of money on things like ink pens and watches and pottery and cravats and jodhpurs. I have never understood his penchant for such things, and I must admit, I've sometimes questioned his sexuality because of it, especially with his attraction to (and I'll say his/her name here just once for you, Chris) Ann Coulter (whom I maintain is really a dude).

After we returned from Paris, I eventually lost track of all the American friends I made there. But Chris. Even though he was in upstate New York and I was in Texas, he made sure to stay in touch. I think he knew that I might be of value to him someday (namely, improving his overall stature in society). No offense there, Chris, on the "stature" remark. (He's about 5 foot 3, I think.) He has always been great about sending cards and calling and giving me a hard time about not reciprocating.

He puts effort into things that matter to him: his family, his traveling (and wanting to fill up every inch of every page of every passport with stamps even from countries you've never heard of), his (fanatical right wing) political views, and his friendships. A lot of people (myself, to name one) have lots of things that "matter" to them, but they aren't nearly so dedicated.

I knew he was a kind and thoughtful and generous friend all those years, but I never knew how kind and thoughtful and generous until early May of 2006. I think he was living in Pennsylvania at the time, or maybe he was already in Boston, I can't remember. Anyway, there I was in my parents' house at the reception after my dad's funeral service. I looked at all the familiar faces, some I hadn't seen since I was a child. My best girlfriends were there, my in-laws were there. I felt at peace and comforted to be surrounded by so much love. And just as I was feeling all grateful and somehow even joyful at such a sad time, I suddenly thought I had lost my mind. There was Chris. He had figured out where and when, made the trip on short notice, rented a car, and showed up just for that afternoon. I was being pulled in every direction that day. He understood. Told me he just came to give me a hug and before I knew it he was gone. I honestly don't know if I could do something like that for a friend who lived so far away.

So, sorry I didn't get a card in the mail, Chris. I know you'll not be surprised at that. I hope this makes up for it. I'll "try" to call today. Thanks for having the guts and patience to be my friend for so long. (Most drop off after a decade or so.) And thanks for being not only the one who inspires me to maintain a superiority complex with grace, but also for being my political nemesis, and this blog's number one (and perhaps only) fan. Give Erin and the babies hugs and kisses from me.

Happy Birthday.

Happy Veterans' Day

{First, be sure to catch my post from yesterday below this one. I rarely treat my reader(s) to two posts in a row, so I don't want anyone to miss out on something that might certainly make your whole week.}

Today as I was updating my work website (fight4veteransrights.com), I thought that seeing as how one of my passions is helping veterans, I might also acknowledge them here. My hate for war is in direct proportion to the respect I feel for those who fought and fight. My hate for war is in direct proportion to the compassion I feel for its victims. Every time I go to BAMC (the military hospital here) for my own medical care, it is inevitable that I see at least 5 (and usually more) returning Iraq or Afghanistan war veterans. They are easy to spot because their faces are melted, their ears and hair have been burned off, their legs have been amputated. They are young. They usually have a young wife pushing their wheelchair. Sometimes they try to hold a baby with a damaged arm. All I can do is try not to cry. Sure, they are proud warriors. If you were to ask them, 99% would say they would go back and do it again. Do they say that and suck it up because they are proud warriors? Do they cry when they are alone? Don't they punch what used to be a fist at the sky and curse their fate? At least sometimes? Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox.

Wait, not yet... I will say that I'm glad these guys are welcomed home. I'm glad they seem to have the military taking better care of them. They seem to have good transition teams getting them from military health care into the VA health care system. And these guys are supposedly being screened at discharge for PTSD and other mental disorders. If they need treatment, they get it sooner rather than later. (High suicide rates don't look good for the VA.)

In contrast, the Vietnam vets were welcomed home with protests and spit. They self-medicated with drugs and alcohol for 20, 30, 40 years. Daily I see the extensive, ripple-effect damage all that government incompetence and neglect has left a lot of those vets with. Now, instead of mentally damaged veterans, we will see more who are physically damaged. Neither is better or worse. Loss is loss and pain is pain. Most war vets have been there or at least seen it with their own eyes.

After fighting for this government, not a single one of them should ever have to fight against this government to get the compensation they deserve. (I'll explain later why I believe there are very few freeloaders in the VA system.)

Here are the lyrics to a song I found:

A Veteran's Song by Nazareth

The bars are crowded with wasted youth
You just went, you didn't know the truth
You don't know that kid when you look back
You remember the music, Paint it Black

You had a brother in the movement and he burned his card
He's got a job in the white house, ain't life hard
You came back a hero on a stolen horse
You say you don't fit in, you can't stay the course

I may be right, don't care if I'm wrong
It's a veteran's song

The band paraded playing Oh gung ho
Your country needs you, you've got to go
When you came over they said "Soldier go back"
When you came home they put you on the rack

Between agent orange and the jungle and fear
You're just surviving to get out of here
You smoke some more herb and you keep your head down
Could be your number is on the next round.
© 1986 Nazareth

If you can't thank a veteran in person today, do it anytime. And if you don't know what to say or do, pay attention to what our elected officials are doing (or not doing) and support those who fight for the ones who fought for us.

Keep Reading; it Gets Better

So here's my excuse for the blog-lag this time:

Aside from the brutal mental and emotional malaise brought on by election saturation and its attendant gastrointestinal difficulties . . . .

I have been trying to get on top of my workload and that's not easy to do when you have no organizational or time-management skills, no secretary, and no away-from-home office. Plus I have to be a part-time mom, de-clutter in time for the housekeeper's visits, sometimes feed the dog, and keep the pantry and fridge alphabetized.

Then there's all the household paperwork management. Does anyone else go insane about paper? I know I've bitched about this before, but I need to do it again. I get stuff from everywhere daily and let it overwhelm me. Daily. Sure, the junk mail goes right into the trash, and magazines and catalogs are set aside to read at my leisure (which is why that stack is 4 feet high and the clothes advertised in the ones at the bottom are already out of style).

Then there are birthday invitations to respond to (and get a gift for), bills (to pay or dispute), insurance forms (to get the new liability card from then file away somewhere), health care questionnaires (to consider filling out only to trash them later), receipts (some to keep, some to throw away, some to record in a register somewhere, some to look up online so as to figure out which account that money came out of and what the hell it was for even though it is dated yesterday), septic maintenance notices, post office "package to pick up" slips, Amazon packing slips (for things I may need to return but most likely not), kids' school notices to read and calendar, order forms to fill out and write a check for, assignment sheets to review and sign, progress reports, report cards, Boy Scout and Girl Scout forms to fill out and emails I printed out to use as reminders that I never look at again or lose, permission slips, reminder notes to myself (that I always forget to look at), blog ideas on scraps, songs to remember to download scribbled on Starbucks napkins, songs to remember to delete from my iPod scribbled on business cards, oh, and business cards (either mine or someone else's), work ideas on post-its, certified mail receipts from work, letters from the VA, copies of letters to the VA, letters from clients, client-related paperwork, potential-client paperwork, my board-member paperwork, legal research copies or printouts, ads for summer camps, forms for basketball sign-ups, salon or spa brochures, coupons, coupons, coupons, phone message notes, to-do lists, grocery lists, newspapers, newsletters, quasi-newspapers or newsletters . . . these are just the things that dropped out of the side of my head in the past 5 minutes.

Sure, I can pretty much keep the work papers separate from the home papers. But they all just keep pressing in on me. Where to put this or that so I can prioritize and be efficient --- I get emails from this "Get Organized Now" website, but do I even open them? Who has the time??? And don't even ask about how disorganized and overloaded my 3 different email accounts are. At least those are virtual.

Anyway . . .

Here are a few important tidbits I needed to purge:

More irritating old-person words and phrases: whippersnapper (not that any of them actually say that anymore), on the fritz (who is Fritz and why is he the bad guy?), get your goat (what does this mean? What goat? You want my goat? Take it. Didn't even know I had one.), lickety-split (is it just me, or does that just sound incredibly nasty?)

A phrase I hear a lot that makes no sense: "I miss not seeing you!" What? You miss not seeing me? Gee, thanks. I could say that to a lot of people who are up in my face far too often, "Hey, you who won't leave me alone, I really miss your absence." This is similar to when people say "I could care less." You mean you could not care less. Why do I waste my efforts on these technicalities?

From the Mind of Luke:

After I told Luke I would help him get his backpack organized and he laughed at me, Mike, Luke, Katy and I started discussing our similarities. The kids realized that with parents like us, they really have no chance at being even-tempered, focused, manageable, organized individuals. Luke said: "Well, I guess we're all floating in the same toilet."

Cutting Out the Middleman:

So the kids got dressed up for Halloween, but we weren't sure where we were going. We used to go to our old neighborhood where the houses are close together and where they have sidewalks. But this time we thought we'd just go to the neighborhood next door where there are no sidewalks, but the houses are somewhat closer to one another. Well, the kids were met with nothing but unopened doors even at the houses with Halloween decorations. Guess you could say they were giving out tricks instead of treats. "Hey kids, come see our cool scary Halloween decorations . . . Oh, you want candy??? Psych!" So we go to the Baptist church where they are having this little "Fall Festival." At first I was scared (get it, scared?) that the kids' costumes were inappropriate for the Baptists. Katy was a trampy pirate wench and Luke went as her prisoner with a big fake chain and shackles around his neck and wrists. But they weren't frowned on too much, even though they seemed to be surrounded by princesses and football players and angels and cowboys. Whatever, kids. Halloween is for being scary, if you ask me. They didn't seem to have much candy flowing at this festival, but Luke and Katy still had fun with the games and bouncy stuff—until they realized they had no candy. A friend told me that the local grocery store strip center was the place to go to trick-or-treating with the various merchants. So we hop in the car to get some candy there, only to discover we were late. They were wrapping it up at like 7:30. On a Friday night. Are you kidding me? That's a podunk town for you. The kids were none too pleased. So I took them straight into the grocery store and told them to pick out 2 big bags each of any kind of candy they wanted. They were all over that, and everyone went home happy. Next year, maybe we'll skip the costumes, too.

Election Hangover

I'll sign off by saying that I can't wait to see who President Obama puts on his cabinet. Here are my predictions:

Of course his secret gay Muslim husband will come out of the closet and be named Secretary of the Interior because he's a great decorator.

Rosie O'Donnell will be Secretary of Agriculture, for obvious reasons.

Condoleezza Rice will remain Secretary of State, for obvious reasons.

Satan will be assigned the post of Secretary of Energy in hopes that we can harness the flames of hell to solve the energy crisis.

The Ghost of the All-Powerful Saddam Hussein, also known to his nephew Barack as "Uncle Saddy" will be tapped to act as Secretary of Homeland Security. This way, he'll be able to tell the difference between Egyptian or Saudi terrorists and those from Iraq.

The Secretary of Labor will be Sisyphus. (Google it if you must.) By the way, he was a Muslim.

Secretary of Commerce, my sister Kelly -- because she loves to shop. He will include her even though she is neither gay nor Muslim. Sometimes he's fairly tolerant of mainstream hetero Christians.

Health and Human Services -- Dr. Kevorkian, of course. And if he dies (or is already dead) then his spirit will do.

Housing and Urban Development —- maybe one of Barack's old Muslim slumlord buddies he used to shoot heroin with in Chicago back in the day.

The Secretary of Education will be replaced by the Secretary of Misinformation who will make sure all school children get a good dose of the gay leftist liberal Marxist/Socialist agenda. This will of course include required subjects such as Women's Rights, Constitutional Law, Religious Tolerance, and Ebonics.

The Transportation Secretary will be the river Styx ferryboat driver, Charon, who, by the way, is gay.

The Justice Department will be headed by a well-regulated team of sado-masochistic fetishists ready to spank or tickle any malfeasants into submission. Then put them in pink boas on a parade float in San Francisco. That'll teach 'em. A slap on the wrist may be in order as well. And for the really bad guys, they get to spend a weekend at the newly-renovated Trump Club Gitmo locked in a hot tub with Dick Cheney.

Alec Baldwin will act as Secretary of Defense because he can be a real asshole.

The Treasury Secretary will be unnecessary as no one will have any more money. All of it will go to a charity for gay atheist Muslim dope smokers so they can live in a commune and teach that cockamamie theory of evolution. The rest of us will have to rely on the higher power of our choice as we stand in line at vegetarian soup kitchens before going to the government voucher office to reload our Universal Big Brother Health & I.D. card to get authorization and funds to buy a few squares of environmentally-approved single-ply toilet paper to use before we go get treated at the mobile clinic for the ass-reaming we have only begun to endure.

And I get to be Secretary of Veterans Affairs so at least one important part of this messed-up government might finally get fixed.

No Time for a Nervous Breakdown

Ever have one of those days when you have a plan and everything turns to (crap) and gets out of your control? Then the (crap) hits the oscillating fan? The days that you feel pulled in 73 different directions, and you only want to go back to bed until you desperately need to pee? Juggling candles that are burning at both ends? Too much on your plate and no dog under the table willing to eat it? Driving with no steering wheel? In reverse? Well, I feel like I've had one of those months. Maybe I should have consulted an astrologist to help me plan a Thelma and Louise escape.

No single thing has been daunting on its own. It's just the cumulative effect. Overwhelmed, exhausted, spent. You get weaker the more you need to get strong.

All this venting to say, blogging became pretty low on my totem pole of doom. I was forced to put it on the back burner while I slammed my forehead on the front burner.

I can usually go with the flow even though I abhor roller coasters. But not lately. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe it's my meds or lack thereof. Maybe it's my midlife crisis. There must be something to blame it on.

Anyway, enough about my inability to control my reactions to life happening. Enough about my being acted upon. No more Poor Me. My character is building.

Now for some quick snippets I've collected even during my inexcusable and unexpected hiatus:

Katy's Quotes

Katy: "Mom, it's National Night Out. Can we go camping?"

Mike and I were drinking a bottle of wine, as we are wont (and want) to do. Katy says: "Ewwww, Mom! This wine is from 2006! Shouldn't it be rotten by now?" Reminded me of Steve Martin in the Jerk, "No more 1966. Let's splurge! Bring us some fresh wine! The freshest you've got - this year! No more of this old stuff."

Some Good Ones From Luke

Katy: "Mom, you can really work magic with the computer."
Luke: "And sometimes with the microwave."

I didn't know whether the dog was in the house or outside. (He tends to hide.) I knew I had let Buzz out, but honestly couldn't remember whether I let him back in. (Such activity being one of those automatic things that don't always register, kind of like when I put on deodorant or take my medicine.) I asked the kids if Buzz was in the house or not. They thought I asked if they knew whether he was in or out. They said "No." So, I open the back door and call outside for Buzz. Buzz comes running from one of his hideouts in the house. I say to the kids, "Thanks, you made me look like an idiot to the dog." Luke says, "Buzz already knew you were."

This is Me

When I look at wet clothes in the washing machine and see something pink, I hope it started out that way.

I got all excited when I found a $5 bill in the dryer, then I realized it was mine to begin with.

Does putting a fake tree by a window make it look more real?

I got a plastic silver-colored pirate sword for Katy's slutty pirate-wench Halloween costume. The Dollar-Store tag on it describes it as "Chrome Sword." Wow, chrome.

I got an email with a subject line that said, "RE: {SPAM} REPLY URGENTLY." Those Nigerians were kind enough to tell me right off that it was spam. That was nice.

I told my sister, "For some reason, I'm afraid I have breast cancer. Like God is sending me a message to get a mammogram." She responded, "Jill…this may be because it's breast cancer awareness month." Oh….

A Few Of My Favorite Quotes

"Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy things that make you happy."

"There are no stupid questions, just stupid people who ask questions."

One I need to keep in mind and apply much more often: "It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt."

I like to think I made this one up while discussing my communication problems with an unnamed person: "We're not on the same page. In fact, we're not even in the same library."

A Few Words For You

Some old-person words/phrases that irritate me: gussied-up, Jim-Dandy (a contribution from Mike), Hot-Diggity-Dog (from Katy), and Cooter Brown (who, apparently was some famous old drunkard). Another is a word I have mentioned before, but it took on a most bothersome significance during the last debate: John McCain said cockamamie. Sure, what he was referring to (Biden suggesting dividing up Iraq) might have been a whack idea, but come on, cockamie??

Extras

I'll rant later about the obscene amount of money drug companies must spend on advertising, but I just need to mention this one. In the restroom at my doctor's office, the soap dispenser is provided by Cymbalta. (The "Where does depression hurt?" drug.) After I washed my hands, I told the receptionist that I liked that soap because not only were my hands clean, they were less painful and less depressed.

I was looking at a Party City catalog for "Spooktacular" (what a trite seasonal word, along with "Howl-O-Ween") costumes and I ran across this: A pimp costume called "Big Daddy" on sale for $17.49. The model is a white guy. Right next to it is a black guy modeling the full retail priced $49.99 "Super Mac Daddy" costume. Which pimp do you think will get more poon on Halloween night?

Luke has been enduring the humiliating torment of selling Boy Scout popcorn, so we have a garage full of boxes of it. The boxes are printed "FRAGILE" and list care instructions such as, keep from water, heat, etc. That's fine, but one of the notes I found funny. Even though it already says "FRAGILE," the instruction list reminds you: "DO NOT HANDLE PRODUCT IN A ROUGH MANNER." Don't rough up the popcorn, folks. Keep that in mind.

That's all for now. Who knew that blogging was all I needed to pull me off the ledge? I'm off for a girls' weekend tomorrow, so that should seal the deal on keeping me sane. At least until the stars line up against me again.

A Quickie

Due to popular demand, and in an effort to cling to all three of my diehard fans, I submit this lame offering.

More Quotes From Katy

Today, after church I asked the kids where they wanted to go for lunch. Katy suggested McDonald's. I said, "No, I don't want any unhealthy fast food." Her response? "Then how about Jack-in-the-Box?" So we went to Chili's.

At lunch, we were watching a football game. She said, "Our bus driver doesn't like it when we wear Dallas Cowboys shirts, because he's a Washington Rednecks fan."

From The Is It Just Me? Department

After lunch, we went to Target. Katy told me she was outgrowing her underwear, so I had her select a couple of packages of panties. When I unwrapped them to put them in the laundry, I was confronted with one pair that said "Absolutely Purrrfect" under an adorable silkscreened photograph of a kitten. Another pair depicts a cartoon monkey eating a lollipop and saying, simply, "Yummy!" Do pedophiles make these panties or do I just have a sick mind?

Great Show

Last night we took the kids to a concert at the Verizon Amphitheater. We went to see Switchfoot and Third Day, without much care to see the opening acts (Jars of Clay--which I don't much like, and some dude named Robert Randolph). Well, they bring out Robert Randolph later in the show and we realize who he is. The most amazing pedal steel guitarist ever. Dave Matthews and Eric Clapton appear on his latest album. In fact, Clapton pretty much discovered him and then took him on tour. Here he is with Rob Thomas on VH-1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kORLhZ7XO-Y&feature=related (Sorry, I still can't figure out how to do hypertext links in here, so you have to cut and paste if you're even interested.) So this is who we get to see with Switchfoot and Third Day. Awesome.

The Agony of Aging

While we're at the concert, I go to one of the many overpriced concession stands. The 55-ish guy at the register is giving me my change. He counts it out: "five, six, seven, eight..." Then he goes, "Schlemiel, shlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated..." I laughed as I had not heard that song since I was like ten years old. The guy nods and goes, "Yeah, you know that song, don't you?" I smiled and sang back, "Give us any chance, we’ll take it. Give us any rule, we’ll break it..." Then we shared a good laugh like old folks do when they get all nostalgic. As I walked away, I jokingly thought, Asshole.

Random Questions

Why do so many people pronounce asterisk as asterick? Does it have anything to do with the reason that certain people mispronounce the word ask as aks?

I know I've brought this one up in the past, but it bears repeating: Do most people mispronounce sherbet as sherbert just because it's easier to say it that way, or do they really not know the difference?

Why is it okay for President Bush knowingly to mispronounce nuclear as nucular? I've noticed that Sarah Palin pronounces it that way, too. Probably because that was the way it was programmed when they made the microchip they implanted in the earpiece of her glasses.

Does anyone else care about these things? Or is it just me? Should this go under the Is It Just Me category?

There is one mispronunciation I heard recently that I love and will appropriate forthwith. Instead of anecdote, it was pronounced anticdote. I think that pronunciation might be more apt when the anecdote involves antics of some sort. I don't care for anecdotes without antics, ergo, I prefer anticdotes and will henceforth pronounce anecdote that way. Any dull anecdotes I hear will not be referred to as anticdotes, but rather, antidotes. As in: "That story was a real buzzkill, the ultimate party-mood antidote."

One More Thing

Since I brought her up, bless her heart, just let me say that if the Democrats came up with a potential VP who came across as such a pageant-contestant/android/cheerleader with a diaper bag full of more homespun, folksy (both verbal and facial) expressions than you can shake a hockey stick at, you can doggone betcha the Republicans would be having a field day. I love watching them coddle her and prop her up, knowing full well deep inside their guts that McCain could have and should have done better. Having said all this, at this point, I still remain undecided, ambivalent, apathetic, and disgusted with our choices, each for different reasons.

My time is up and I need to go watch the rest of the Dallas game with Mike. I hope he has a glass of wine waiting for me. And some nachos would be nice, too. I know, keep dreaming.

Lightening Up

After my last post, I thought I better get back to showing my lighter side, lest anyone think I was planning to fill my pockets with rocks and drown myself in the Guadalupe River.

I was also compelled to throw you a bone here because I will be leaving town on Thursday for one of my act-like-a-lawyer trips. This one is in San Francisco, so I've already looked at the seminar schedule to determine which lectures to skip. Otherwise, I will find myself sitting in a generic hotel ballroom that could just as well be in Cleveland or Waco or anywhere in Oklahoma.

So here are a few of my latest scraps of crap, in no particular order, but I think I saved the best for last:

Just a Word or Two

First, I know that I have put the brakes on the whole "words I like/words I hate" thing, but I just have two words I need to add. After rambling on in a recent e-mail about her lackluster life, my mom sarcastically suggested that I must be "agog" at the level of excitement she has to manage on a daily basis. I was surprised that agog had not already made the list. I intend to make an effort to employ that handy word at every opportunity from now on. It's just so descriptive. Don't you just see the wide-eyed, drop-jawed shocked stare of it? The other word I need to add is "hunker" as in "hunker down." It's a word that blows in with hurricane season. It's kind of an old person word, so I don't much like it. I think the people at the Weather Channel should come up with something a little more festive-sounding, you know, just to make hurricanes and tornadoes seem less threatening.

Shop Talk

The other day, as I was comforting my fragile psyche with some shoe-shopping (which is what I do when I can't afford to go to a spa or an opium den), I overheard the woman next to me answer her cell phone in a very professional-sounding voice. This is of course not unusual. But then I heard her say (as she tried on a nice pair of peep-toe pumps), "Yes sir. In fact I'm at my desk working on it right now. I should be able to e-mail it to you by the end of the day . . ." I glanced over at her and smiled. She gave me a wink, put her finger to her lips, and said, "Shhhh." I had to laugh because I should have been at home working myself. It's nice being your own boss.

If I leave the house during office hours, I forward my work number to my cell phone just in case I need to conduct any business in the Taco Cabana drive-thru line. I've been known to have consultations with potential clients while shopping. And I can sound completely professional, unless or until the person on the other end hears something like, "Attention Ross shoppers . . ." I once even settled a case from the Nordstrom dressing room. How's that for multitasking?

On another of my recent self-nurturing shopping excursions (this time on a quest for the perfect brown skirt), I walked out of the store empty-handed. As I left, a clerk asked me, "Did you find what you needed?" I looked at her quizzically, held out my empty hands, and said, "Well . . . NO, but thanks." As the door shut behind me, I thought, "Duh!"

By the way, I think it's cruel when stores arrange their women's clothing department such that the larger "Women" sizes are right next to the "Petites."

I keep forgetting to share this little gem. When she was pregnant, a friend of mine went shopping at one of those stores like Lane Bryant. A saleslady asked if she needed any help. My friend held up a dress and said, "Yeah . . . do you have this in a 14 Wide?" The woman promptly corrected her with, "The W is for Women."

Katy's Quotes

Katy had to write sentences with her spelling words last week. One of the words was "juvenile." Her sentence: "I don't want to go to juvenile." When I read that, Katy asked what was so funny. I wasn't sure how to answer. Then she asked, "Isn't that kid jail?" Now I have another tool in my arsenal of punishment threats.

The Price of Country Living

Now that so many people followed our lead and moved north of town, the traffic into San Antonio in the mornings and out of San Antonio in the afternoons has become a disastrous joke. For one thing, the stoplights are not synchronized at all. (Typical San Antonio.) And green lights allow two-and-a-half cars to get through, while the red lights stay red for about 45 minutes. And don't get me started on the wimps in front of me when a yellow light hits. I can't tell you how many times I've almost rear-ended someone when they didn't have the balls to floor it so I could get that split second before the light turned completely red.

When we lived in Clovis, New Mexico, we always said that the town was so small, even when you were running late you could still be on time. That was no joke.

A Sign From the Department of Redundancy Department

So the kids and I went to Mike's church softball game last Friday night. As we entered the ballpark, I could not help but notice a large warning sign for all the park's patrons. It said, (I kid you not): "No Animals Permitted Including Cats And Dogs." What prompted this wording? Did someone try to bring a llama or an emu into the park? I took a picture of the sign with my phone, so as soon as can I post it for your entertainment, I will.

'Shrooms

When I see mushrooms in my fridge, I wonder whether I bought them or they grew there. I'm afraid I'm really becoming my mother. She pulled an old jar of those little sliced mushrooms from the back of her fridge, opened it, and saw something she said looked like a liver fluke. Now I'm not sure what that is, but my mom and I came up with a pretty good definition. When she e-mailed me about this highlight of her day, the subject line read only "fluke?" I thought I was going to read about some random, unexpected event. We decided that whatever it was that she saw in that jar was indeed random and unexpected. Hence, fluke.

That's My Boy

I overheard big brother Luke advising little sister Katy, "Now that you're in third grade, don't rush it. These are good times for you. Before you know it, it'll be over." Tell me more, O wise sixth-grader.

This really could be one of my School of Rock stories. Let me start by saying that I iron only on an as-needed basis. I would almost rather pay to take something to the cleaners than to iron it. But because I'm a lazy cheapskate, I just don't iron, and never wear a lot of my clothes for that reason. Mike is the same way about ironing, but he has been known to wear wrinkled clothes. I hate it when he does that, because it makes me look like a bad housewife. (Which I am, but that's beside the point.) So last weekend, Mike got a wild hair (I think it's actually hare, but hair is way funnier) and decided to iron some of his shirts. As Mike set up the ironing board and iron, Luke started singing Black Sabbath's Iron Man: "I AM IRON MAN! Nah-nah, Nah-nah-nah, Nanah, Nanah, Nanah, Nah, Nah-nah-nah, Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind? . . . " Again we see the pure genius in our ever-so-well-rounded sixth-grader. Not only can he sing a song from 1970 as he imitates Ozzy Osbourne's voice, but he can create such an apt and clever (and dare I say, beautiful) reference. Wish I had thought of it. Mike and I were so proud. Ironically, (get it? ironically?) it was probably too much Black Sabbath that robbed my mind of such quick wit.

Who am I kidding? I'm still witty. Just not as quick.

Carrying the Weight of the Word

Sportswriter Red Smith said, "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."

One of my favorite writers, David Foster Wallace found it necessary to hang himself last week. I admired his insight and ability to express his view of the world, but I found his writing somewhat verbose and dense. While I would read his essays and mentally edit some of his paragraph-length sentences, I still savored each word--until the weight of the words (and of the book itself) would tip out of my sleepy hands. In fact, I don't think I ever finished one of his books. He was one of those writers I read not necessarily for the pleasure of reading but for the pleasure of his writing. I think he was often drunk on his own swirling thoughts and swam self-indulgently in his philosophical musings. I can identify with that, but it's really too deep for me. I prefer shallow.

The news called his death "an apparent suicide." Usually hangings are, I guess. Unless he was strangled to death, then someone hoisted his limp, heavy corpse up into a noose. It could happen. I could see it in a dark comedy. Maybe I have. Funny stuff.

Why do so many writers and artists kill themselves? Is it creativity overload that drives them to death? Some sort of tortured genius that the body can't sustain? I think most writers struggle with a sense of apartness. A heightened self-consciousness. Trying to answer Why am I me? Good writers are observers who can choose words well, even effortlessly, and put them in a certain order such that readers respond with emotion, thought, adrenalin, comfort, or connection. Creative people can take in too much. More than the mind can manage. A sensory burden. They carry so many sights and sounds that simmer and stew until they boil over onto scraps of paper, or a computer screen, and into a book if they make the cut.

How can artists who have such skill at relating life let life kill them? It must be the unwritten words, the ones they hold inside. The words that stick in the throat and strangle, the words that cut off blood to the heavy head. Words left hanging.

How do you like my morose side? Not pretty, I know.

Is It Just Me?

Do I just have a dirty mind? Here's what I forgot to mention in my last post of various and sundry miscellany:

Katy went to two different weeks of Brownie/Girl Scout camp over the summer. At the end of the week, when the parents come to pick them up, the girls put on skits and sing songs while we have a little picnic. It's all very sweet. Flag ceremony, recitation of the Girl Scout Oath and Girl Scout Motto (I will never know which is which), the singing of the Girl Scout signature song "Make new friends/but keep the old/one is silver and the other gold…," blah, blah, blah, then a nice tape-recorded playing of Taps as the flag is lowered at the end, etc. It really is fun to see so many little girls all happy and dirty in mismatched clothes, laughing with their friends and performing for their parents. (I'd say it is as American as apple pie, but that concept was tainted –in my dirty mind- by American Pie.) Anyway, at some point in the show, the girls line up to sing and act out a certain song. This is where (for me) it suddenly becomes awkward and inappropriate. The cuteness comes to a screeching halt and I giggle like Wayne and Garth or Beavis and Butthead:

THE BEAVER SONG

Beaver one, beaver all,
Let's all do the beaver crawl (pretend to crawl)

Beaver two, beaver three,
Let's all eat a beaver tree (pretend to climb)

Beaver four, beaver five,
Let's all do the beaver dive (pretend to dive)

Beaver six, beaver seven,
Let's all go to beaver heaven (sway with hands in prayer)

Beaver eight, beaver nine STOP
It's beaver time, go beaver, go beaver (rapper/hip-hop moves)

Beaver ten, beaver ten
Let's all do the beaver again!

I then pictured a burlesque team of the grown-up scout leaders (most of them rather burly women) taking it one step further, and I wanted to poke my eyes out. Am I just immature? Do I have an adult chip missing? Do I need to exorcise this teenage boy who has taken up residence in the basement of my mind? I kind of like him.

Sorry if this offended anyone. Wait…not really.

Clearing and Rearing my Head

WARNING: This is the most random assortment of useless information I have fed you in a long time. So, bon appétit!

I've had one of those weeks where I work a lot but still get nothing done. I'm glad tomorrow is Saturday so I won't feel quite as guilty about getting nothing done. So I'm topping off my do-nothing week with a glass of wine and this damn computer that I've been staring at all week long. I find myself more comfortable here in the office, seeing as how my kids have some friends over and they have all taken over the kitchen, living room, and especially the TV. God forbid they stay in the movie room and play the quiet game. Speaking of God…

Jesus H. Christ

A couple of weeks ago, I saw another story on the news about one of those apparently naturally-occurring phenomena where the image of Jesus or the Virgin Mary appears in a most unlikely place. Here in San Antonio, about once a week we get a local news story about Mary appearing in, e.g., a tortilla, a quesadilla, a grilled cheese sandwich, or some driveway oil stains. This time, the national news showed us the face of Jesus discovered on a moth. First, no one really knows what Jesus looked like. So really, the image on that moth could have been that of the bearded white hippie dude who modeled for all the pictures we are so familiar with. When I saw the face on that moth, I thought it could just as easily be the face of the devil. He has a goatee, right? Just before the moth story, I remember seeing something about someone finding Jesus on a cross-shaped Cheeto. Do these stories really make the news because of the alleged Jesus sightings, or is it more about pointing out the depths of stupidity hidden in so many pockets of future Darwin victims all across this fruited plain?

I think I saw Jesus in my dryer's lint screen one time. I probably could have sold it on eBay, but I was afraid it would get damaged in shipping, and how do you insure something so priceless? So I hand-delivered it to a local Catholic church in exchange for a few dispensations. What if it really was Jesus trying to send me a message? Like maybe I need to engage my good/bad filter, or maybe I need to shed some unnecessary "fuzz" from my life. Or maybe he was just trying to tell me that I should clean that thing out more often. Speaking of eBay…

Sometimes when I'm feeling really down on myself, I'll go look at the feedback people have left me. A while back, I got this one: "This eBay Superstar may be proof that the Second Coming has already happened!!!" Now that right there is some high praise.

Confession:

I didn't learn to tell time until they came out with a digital clocks.

Something I hope will soon to be a new feature here:

Funny lines found in veterans' medical records. For example, one guy sported a "narcissistic moustache" and another "cheerfully admitted to excessive smoking."

And don't miss the new "Katy's Quotes" feature:

She saw a little food sample tray at the grocery store and looked at the sign next to it. "Ewww, Mom, that says, 'use tongues to pick up food.'" I had to explain the difference between tongues and tongs.

"When I was little, I thought phone calls went through the wires, but now I know they go through satellites."

Katy cries when she hears the Blue Bell ice cream commercials that say, "Blue Bell tastes just like the good old days," because, she says, it reminds her of when she was a kid. She doesn't realize she's only 8.

A few School of Rock additions:

Is it okay for the kids to sing along to Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me? How can anyone not sing along to that?

Has anyone noticed the three-word band-name thing lately? Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Plain White T's, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, All-American Rejects, Boys Like Girls, My Morning Jacket. I think Stone Temple Pilots, 3 Doors Down, and Third Eye Blind were ahead of their time.

Proposals for the anthem list: Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me, Mellencamp's Jack and Diane (or did I already add that one?), Bon Jovi's Livin' on a Prayer, Prince's Purple Rain (sorry, I think he's underrated), and Bob Seger's Turn the Page.

I still need anthems from Frampton, The Who, and The Eagles, but I haven't put any thought into what they should be. Help me out folks, this is urgent business.

Things I love about hotels:

That bleach/mildew smell on the towels and wondering if they ever wash that blanket that's between the bedspread and sheets. You know, the blanket everyone sits on when they pull the dirty bedspread back? I usually don't think much about what could be on the remote or the phone or in the coffee maker. If I did, I wouldn't have room in my head to enjoy the fact that I'm in a hotel, which usually means I'm on some sort of vacation or a least a break from reality. I can put up with a lot of nastiness. I'm a flea market shopper for Christ's sake. I stayed in tons of skanky youth hostels in Europe. I don't mind getting dirty. BUT, if I find an unidentifiable pube in my hotel bathroom, you can bet I'll be calling the front desk.

The Darndest Things

My 3-year-old nephew told me and my mom, "I was going to say fucking hell, but I didn't." We kept asking him, "What did you say???" And he kept repeating it, with a straight face, in his sweet soft little toddler voice. I swear, the Q & A went back and forth a good 7 or 8 times. We realized that indeed that was what he was saying. What do you do with that?

That reminded me of a time the son of a friend of mine (I think he was 6 then) got in trouble for saying something like "butthole." His mom put Tabasco on his tongue and made him stand in the corner. His response from that corner, "I guess I can't say shit either."

Leftovers

I think BFE is my generation's common parlance for "far away." The E is for Egypt. Didn't this come from an Eddie Murphy movie? When I tell someone that we had to park way out in BFE, and they don't know what I mean, depending upon whom I'm talking to, I either feel young or old. Usually old. (Or have I just been smoking crack and BFE is my own little expression?)

Last time we were in Hico, Katy got this heinous candy marshmallow burger. Its label touted it as fat-free, cholesterol-free, and low-sodium. It was called Giant All-American Fun Burger. Get this: Calories--343, Carbs--81g, of that, 59g sugar, Ingredients—sugar, glucose syrup, gelatin, artificial flavors, yellow #5, yellow #6, red #4, and blue #1. And the best part of all: Made in China. It just doesn't get any more All-American than that.

I'm done purging for now. I hope this was a nice binge for you.

One Suspicious Mole Away

Let me preface all of this by saying: With few exceptions, and regardless of party affiliation, I hate politicians.

I really don't like to discuss or argue about politics, because inevitably, my opponent knows more than I do about statistics, history, geography, and how the Electoral College works. I didn't even want to post anything about this, but it just keeps nagging at me and I'm hoping to find some others out there who feel the way I do.

I couldn't wait to register to vote when I turned 18. I have voted in every major election since then. I am a responsible tax-paying citizen. I say the Pledge of Allegiance at every Boy Scout meeting, Girl Scout meeting, military event, and ball game. I tear up when I sing the National Anthem. I went to law school and learned about our Constitution. I took an oath to support it when I was admitted to the bar. I work hard to help our nation's veterans. I would like to feel good about casting a ballot this year, but I don't see that happening. I truly want to abstain from voting in this election, and that is not a small matter to me.

I have a few strong political opinions, but the rest range from ambivalent to weak. Most of them cover a spectrum somewhere between Bohemian, Birkenstock-wearing, granola-eating, tree-hugging vegans and upper-middle-class, churchgoing, gun-toting, politically-incorrect meat-eaters. I've always been a little left of center, and that goes for my political views as well.

I have always considered myself a Democrat. I was born that way, and no, I don't think it was a birth defect. But I must confess: I do not have Obama fever. All other issues aside, I don't think he has the experience to be the President of the United States, not to mention the Commander-in-Chief of our Armed Forces. If my liberal friends want to disown me for making that statement, I ask only that they first show me something on his resume that could sway my opinion. The only thing I can say about Joe Biden is that at least he has some experience and would probably make a decent puppeteer.

I don't think the current president had much qualifying experience and look where that got us. Then again, he's a Republican.

As for McCain, I always thought he was fairly rational and moderate as Republicans go. I feel the same way about Lieberman. I think a lot of right-wingers see moderates as namby-pamby panderers, while the left-wingers see them as sellouts. I guess I see them as namby-pamby sellouts. I think a moderate Republican is akin to a guy who is kind enough to cuddle after taking advantage of you. I don't think anyone doubts that McCain has the experience (whether you like him or not) to hold the office of President. But let's face it, he is 72 years old, and if he lives out a four-year term, my calculator tells me that he would be 76. Sure, 76 is not nearly as old as it used to be. But when you look at who he chose for a running mate, 72 matters. Some 72-year-olds could be knocked off by a good scare. And with McCain's sketchy skin cancer history, I am incredibly uneasy. I have seen with my own eyes how fast melanoma can take a person down.

Then again, mean old men keep living out of spite. I don't think Dick Cheney is much younger than McCain, and look at how many times his so-called heart has tried to fail him. I've heard McCain has a temper problem. I say all former POWs are entitled to be as quick to anger as they want to. They just better let a clear head prevail before they decide (for example) to bomb Libya for something the Saudis do. Or the Indonesians for that matter. So maybe if he gets sick, or if PTSD flashbacks start to creep in--as they tend to do as vets get older--he'll keep living out of pure meanness. Call me a pessimistic alarmist.

Before and during Dan Quayle's Vice-Presidency, his youth, qualifications, and questionable intellect gave rise to the horrifying phrase, "One Heartbeat Away." And at that time, the first President Bush was only about 65-ish I think.

I don't know how (what's her name again? Excuse me while I Google it… Oh yeah) Sarah Palin's statistics would stack up to those of Dan Quayle, but I do know that this woman would be just one good scare away, or as my sister said, one suspicious mole away from the presidency.

And that right there scares the holy living crap out of me.

Remember the outcry when Bush tried to appoint his buddy Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court? Experience? Dallas Bar President? Texas State Bar President? She was crucified.

Experience matters. Age matters. Logic tells me I should vote for McCain and hope he doesn't die. But if he won and lived, I would also spend those four years kicking myself for contributing to a lot of policies I strongly disagree with. If I vote for Obama and he wins, I will spend those four years hoping he doesn't do more harm than good.

I'm disappointed that this country did not come up with some better choices. Then again, maybe we deserve what we get.

Is Valium Approved to Treat Déjà Vu?

When I wrote the date on a letter yesterday, part of me wondered why I felt so uneasy. But my gut knew why immediately. We almost lost our son that day three years ago. He was eight years old and had completed his first week of third grade at a new school. Katy's eight now, and was fortunate enough to get the same teacher Luke had. At Meet the Teacher Night, the teacher reminded us about how Luke became the mystery boy who disappeared after the first week of school. His classmates (who didn't even know him) wanted to visit him in the hospital, but when they found out he was in Houston, they had to settle for making him the biggest package of get well cards I hope I will ever see. Of course, when he finally got back to school, he was known as the cool motorcycle wreck boy with the big long scar.

Before the accident, when I would see an ambulance or an Air Life helicopter, I would do what I have done since I was a child and offer up a little prayer. Now when I see one of those copters, the pit of my stomach burns and I pretend that I'm not dizzy. My lungs take a deep breath for me before I know it. Then I remind myself that he survived. When we experience extreme panic, shock, or helpless fear, a defense mechanism puts us into a surreal out-of-body mode. I think that opens us up to feel an improbable sense of peace during such times. It's the same sort of thing that gets us through deaths and funerals. We hold ourselves up to take care of business and save the breakdown for later. Because Luke eventually healed and came home, I never had any sort of "breakdown" or even thought I had one in me. For one thing, I didn't deserve to indulge in any emotional release that I may or may not have needed. I was simply truly grateful.

The problem with memories and flashbacks of those out-of-body times is that now you're back in your body and no longer cocooned. You are free to look back with a clear head and realize just how terrifying it all was. You are shocked at the truth of it--that your family came within minutes of a heartbreaking and devastating tragedy. I am often haunted by the words of a thoughtless E/R doctor. As soon as I reached Luke's bedside after a long drive to the Houston hospital, the first thing that doctor said to me was, "Your son has sustained some very serious internal injuries, and there is nothing we can do." I can still feel myself spinning backward upon hearing those words, then screaming, "What do you mean there's nothing you can do?" Then he kindly replied, "Oh, I meant surgically, there's nothing we can do surgically right now." Sometimes the whole thing seems like a movie or an episode of E/R (but without the cute doctors). Now I seem to do quite well keeping a lid on my random mild panic attacks (as long as those helicopters stay away). That close-call, near-miss, dodged-a-bullet feeling stays on the inside where it belongs, otherwise I could come up with a thousand reasons (both good and bad) to cry.

While we were stuck at that hospital, we heard the news about hurricane Katrina. Every once in awhile we would catch something on one of the TVs, but we weren't able to absorb anything about the extent of the devastation. I remember a feeling I can't really name. There we were so focused on and concerned and worried about our one child while such a violent and dreadful act of God continued to threaten and drown and destroy thousands. We were too exhausted and distracted to worry about the outside world. Every ounce of energy we spent in a place that became our world for a boy who meant more than the world to us. Sometimes I wish I could have brought that cocoon home.

Maybe my flashbacks are stronger this year because it seems we have another hurricane headed toward New Orleans. I've never cared for déjà vu.

Some Notes from the Road

We left on Thursday the 14th for our last little summer road trip. Not far out of town, after stopping at our favorite fruit stand for some Fredericksburg peaches, we see a cop's flashing lights in the rearview mirror. My first thought was, Great. Mike's getting another ticket for me to help him with. My second thought was, Glad I'm not driving. My third thought was, He's such a good B.S. artist that he usually talks his way out of these things much better than I ever can. So we pull over and realize that we have been stopped by the Blanco County Sheriff. Mike starts in with his ever-so-apologetic and cordial refrain as he makes sure his military I.D. garners maximum exposure while he fumbles for his license in his George Costanza wallet. I think Mike mumbled something like, "I haven't driven much since I got back from my tour in Iraq..."

Right after the sheriff asked, "Do you know how fast you were going?" he proceeded to query us about my "4 VETS" license plates. I straightened my halo and leaned forward from the passenger seat to tell him that I'm an attorney who helps veterans get their benefits from the VA. He then told us that he has nothing against lawyers and that in fact, people complain about them until they need one. He explained that he needed an attorney to help him keep his job as sheriff. Apparently, because he was the only Jew in town (and probably the entire county) he was subjected to some discrimination.

{By the way, why do I feel uneasy referring to a Jewish person as a Jew? It would be fine to refer to him as Jewish, but somehow, the phrase "a Jew" carries some sort of pejorative connotation. Similarly, for some reason, it is inappropriate to refer to a Mexican as a Mexican. Yet it is perfectly fine to use that word in reference to food. Now I understand why we should not refer to Americans of Mexican descent as Mexicans, but when you see a construction truck barreling down a South Texas highway with a bed full of 20 or so Hispanic-looking gentlemen, I believe I am within my rights to say, "Look at how many Mexicans they could fit in that truck!" Call me a racial profiler, but I'm just saying.}

Now back to my story. This sheriff then proceeds to tell us about his 20-year military history in Korea and Vietnam. He tells us about his buddies at the VFW hall and some of the problems they have had with the VA. At this point, I'm realizing that there is no way Mike's going to get a ticket. Always on the lookout for an opportunity to drum up some business, I reach toward the officer and say, "I guess it would be inappropriate for me to offer you some of these business cards?" "Oh no, not at all. I appreciate it," he said as he handed us his card in return.

We then sat and chatted with this man about his life history and how he came to live in Blanco, Texas after growing up in New Jersey. The kids started getting restless and couldn't figure out how or why we were making friends with a policeman who had stopped us for speeding. This is because the kids don't usually witness Mike's finesse in such situations. They are much more familiar with the sexual harassment and police brutality that I endure every time I get pulled over.

As we got closer to Dallas, we stopped at a convenience store for a restroom break. As Mike pumped gas, I took the kids into the single restroom. Now that he's 11, Luke doesn't think he needs to go into a restroom with his mom and sister. While I can understand and appreciate that, I also know that he is prone to wander off. Not that I'm afraid he would get lost in the woods somewhere or be abducted, I just know that he would lose his place in line for the restroom and/or forget he needs to pee and thereby slow us down or set us up for another stop down the road.

So, there I am in this one-toilet restroom with my kids. Fortunately, the walls don't sport too many obscene vocabulary words they want me to define. Unfortunately, one wall proudly displayed a row of condom machines that I daresay would rival anything found in the powder rooms of the best gay bars across our fine country. The kids didn't ask many questions, probably because they were as mesmerized as I was. They had grown accustomed to seeing tampon machines, so I just hoped they considered these items to be yet another mysterious adult hygiene product. (Which I guess they kind of are.)

There were neon glow-in-the-dark condoms (useful for the more hard-to-find-in-the-dark sizes). There were tropical scented condoms (just throw some sand on the bed, close your eyes, and suddenly you are being boned on an island paradise). There were flavored condoms (I guess for those times when a popsicle, or a banana, or a corn dog just don't do it for you). There were condoms with tips, ticklers, tinglers, tentacles, and teeth. Condoms with ribs and ridges, knobs and nubs, fringe and fur.

But the best by far was a black one covered from head to scro with something that looked like beefy rounded tire treads. These had their own special dispenser and I'm sure they cost extra. NO, I didn't buy any. (I was out of quarters.) They were offered only in sizes marked XL, XXL, and XXXL. These bad boys were called "Rugged 'n' Ready." For some reason, I found that funny. But it got WAY funnier when Katy looked at it and mispronounced rugged as a one-syllable word, rugg'd. "Mom, what does rugg'd mean? 'Rugg'd 'n' Ready?'" I would have peed my pants laughing if I hadn't already been on the toilet.

Flying Solo

Don't get too excited about this post. It's pretty long and boring. Bear with me, or just skip it. I'm cleaning out my folder full of scribbled notes before I move on to a much more important Sunday afternoon project: ripping CDs and organizing my music files. A lot of my thoughts end up in the wastebasket, and for better or worse, never see a reader's glazed eyes. For some reason, I deemed this junk postworthy, so take it or leave it.

While I always carry a pen and notepad with me, I use them much more often when I travel. Most people read, work, or talk on the phone as they wait for their flights. I do those things too, but I also take a lot of notes.

I love my solitude. Maybe it's the writer in me. Maybe it's the mom in me. Maybe it's just me. So I love everything about traveling alone. I love early-morning flights. I watch the sunrise as I drive to the airport. Because I'm not a morning person, I seldom get to enjoy a sunrise. I rarely get to see the highway without much traffic. Aside from girls wearing last night's clothes making that drive of shame, the other drivers may be on their way to the airport as well, or already going to work. The women wear fresh makeup, even mascara still wet after being applied at the last stop light. They smell of perfume or spit-up from the baby they just dropped off at daycare. The men all smell like soap and aftershave and mouthwash. When I worked in an office, I always loved that morning elevator scent. Before everyone started smelling like coffee and lunch and perspiration and anticipation or worry or dread.

I like the quiet echo and the semi-creepy feeling I get in a parking garage. As I approach the airport's entrance, I take a deep breath of bus exhaust. I love the smell of diesel fuel in the morning. I really do. It reminds me of Europe. Especially Paris. I like the life that I see in airports. Everyone trying to get where they need or want to be so they can do what they need or want to do. People go somewhere when they can't be replaced by someone else who is already there.

I don't mind all the procedures involved in getting to the gate. I watch all of us go through the motions. One gray bin after another rolling through. The taking off of belts and shoes. The keys clanking in the scratched white plastic bowls. The latex-gloved TSA agent impressed with how many three-ounce bottles of vodka I was able to squeeze into a one-quart Ziploc bag.

My only real problem when I travel is overpacking and still having nothing to wear. That's why I once found myself sitting in the Newark airport in sweltering heat wearing a hot pink bra under a tight white T-shirt. That's why I once wore heels with shorts because otherwise my colors wouldn’t match. I must say, I looked pretty hot in both outfits, but that's beside the point.

If I had been smarter, I may have become a social anthropologist or an anthropological socialist or whatever those people who study human interaction are called. I don't study it, but I can write about it if I want to. Unless you're in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, or in San Francisco at a gay pride parade, there's no better place than an airport for people-watching.

I absolutely love exchanging banter and laughing with total strangers or overhearing everything from mundane conversation to good-natured bickering to full-up verbal brawls. I smile at them in recognition, because they always know when someone is listening. And I think we all identify with each other. (Except for the occasional weirdo.) I drink in the shared experience-of-life stuff, those moments of time when you connect with fellow human beings you've never met and will never see again. Even if you did see them again, you wouldn't know it because you never even got a chance to register their faces.

The Jamaican-sounding woman at the deli who sold me a sandwich wore a nametag that said "Comfort." One might think that would be a good stripper or hooker name, but to me it sounded like childhood and home. It made me smile.

I was in an airport a few months ago in line at a Chili's takeout counter. I stood behind this little blonde (not that I'm stereotyping, I'm just saying) spinner of a sorority girl as she ordered a Diet Coke. The brunette clerk handed her the cup and apologized that they were out of regular lids and explained that she used a coffee cup lid instead. (It was the kind like Starbucks uses with a little sippy hole.) So the blonde, all confused and irritated, goes, "So, like, how am I supposed to put a straw in there?" I shared an eye-rolling look with the clerk over the girl's shoulder as if to agree, What an idiot. So the clerk got a straw and, with the flair of an infomercial spokesmodel, demonstrated. She looked at the girl with eyes that said, "Watch carefully." She slowly and methodically pulled the paper wrapper off the straw and then rather brutally shoved the end of it into the hole. She then held out her hands like Vanna White after someone buys a vowel and showed her best "Voila!" face. By this time, I realized the women in line behind me had been watching this display and were as pleased with it as I was. After blissfully ignorant Blondie floated away, I told the clerk, "Yeah. I was smarter too before I went blonde."

From my seat at the gate, I just watch and imagine. I don't stare. Unless it's someone really hot, or really heavy on the body décor, or both (which would be rare).

I see:

A brooding teenage girl in her logoed shirt frantically texting her boyfriend, worried he'll cheat on her while she's gone. (He will.) A gay couple discreetly touching hands as they walk side-by-side, wishing people understood them. (But knowing most won't.) A frazzled mom with an overflowing diaper bag, a baby in an umbrella stroller, trailed by two busy, excited children wheeling their Dora the Explorer and SpongeBob suitcases. She wonders why she didn't listen to her parents, why she didn’t get her tubes tied, and when he'll find her. (Too soon.) A businessman with his BlackBerry, looking like he's doing something important, but is really just waiting for a message from his mistress. ("Room 725" is all it says.)

I hear so many different languages and try to identify them. Is that Dutch? Do I hear Greek? Can that be Farsi? What if it is? I try to understand the French I hear and have little luck. They were saying something about history or art or philosophy, I'm sure. The French are big on chatting about cultural crap. I sat with three German guys on a flight one time. I couldn't understand anything they said until I heard "Chewbacca" and "Han Solo" and "Skywalker." I smiled at the one next to me and said, "Finally, I understood what y'all were talking about." The quite masculine (I'm just saying) black (just to give you a realistic picture) male (because if I didn't say "male" you'd assume a masculine female) flight attendant spoke to the German guys and said that he went to Germany one time. He said, "I stayed in that hotel . . . Oh, I can't remember what it's called . . . it was that one that Michael Jackson shook his baby off of. Which hotel was that?" The Germans and I shared a good laugh at the whole Michael Jackson baby-shaking thing.

I could never be a flight attendant. I get too claustrophobic for one thing. But what must really suck for them is all the repeating. I'm sure it's automatic and they don't even have to think about it. "Something to drink? Something to drink? Drink? Excuse the cart, Watch your elbows, Tray tables and seatbacks, Tray tables and seatbacks, Upright and locked position, Upright and locked position, B'bye, B'bye, B'bye." If I weren't already, I would go insane in a job like that. Especially now when people will have to buy their little plastic cup of Coke that is mostly ice, or pay for their little sack of nuts. I might have to make change, and that is just not gonna happen with me. I'd be repeating, "Exact change please, Exact change please."

One time I got a same-day reservation, so I was stuck in a middle seat. I hate middle seats. Especially when the person in the window seat lops over into the space I paid for, and the aisle person won't give up their seat to let the loppage go into the aisle. Not that aisle loppage would be allowed anyway, for safety reasons. I have nothing against overweight people, but when they are so big that a fire department crane had to pull them from the bed they have been living in for the last 12 years just so they can get into a seat on a plane next to me, forgive me for feeling a little imposed upon. This woman somehow, without any lubrication, managed to work herself into that seat, then proceeded to raise the armrest I was using (and had intentionally, in advance, made sure I had first dibs on) to make extra room for her entire left butt cheek. No apology, no "Excuse me for being a fat-ass and taking your armrest without asking." Nothing. If she had been polite, I may have cut her some slack, but I still wouldn't have been happy about it. Hey maybe I don't love everything about traveling.

I find my baggage carousel by recognizing flightmates. Some look different standing up. Most seem relaxed and glad to have arrived. Cell phones on every ear. Strangers helping grab suitcases for those who couldn't reach theirs. So many black bags, most with a different colored identifying tag or ribbon. I see my overstuffed suitcase and feel reunited with my only travel companion. Well, that and my notepad.

I don't particularly like take-offs, but I tolerate them because they mean I'm probably going to have a happy landing somewhere. And see a lot of life in between.

My Four Cents

Let me apologize in advance for the brevity of this post. I know it won't hold you for long, but too much time has passed since my last entry and I started feeling like I was neglecting my legions of loyal readers. Not that I felt guilty about it, mind you. More like sorry for you. So here's a bone:

I have never pretended to be a numbers whiz. Or even a person capable of rudimentary math. As you can see, I'm more of a language arts person. In college, I took basic math. Math for English majors. We learned about sets and about how to write a check. I even tried to master balancing a checkbook. I think that was our final exam. It was an 8:00 class, so I made a D.

I get an upset stomach every time I have to figure out a tip. That's why I always hope someone else will pay. Or, I may say something stupid like, "Let me at least get the tip." (Just the tip.) Then I take an hour and a half writing the numbers on a napkin--doing math in public. I can't do percentages on a calculator. I carry one to help me when I'm shopping and find something that's "half off." I can divide by 2. To figure a tip, I round up, move the decimal to the left, divide that amount in half, and then add that amount to the first one. People say to just double the tax. I guess that would be about right here where tax is about 8-something percent. I can handle tax-doubling (if I round it down of course) as long as I have my trusty calculator. Bad math has caused me to tip as little as $2.50 on a $50 check and as much as $30 on a $15 check. So I guess it evens out.

Aside from bussing tables and supervising the games area at Chuck E. Cheese, I never had a job in food service or retail. The reason? First, I was a spoiled brat. But aside from that, I could never make change. Even with the help of a cash register, I would still need to count the money out. Sure, I can identify all the coins and bills; it was just the quick gathering of them that I could never master. I liked those old registers that would spit the coins down a little chute on the side. I guess that was back in the days of wheat pennies and buffalo nickels. And no, I'm not old enough to remember those days. I'm just imagining. The days when everything was in black and white and when people never noticed the smell of cigarette smoke because it was pretty much the same as the air.

While I love shopping at garage sales and flea markets, I dread the whole exchange of cash thing. The vendor will fork over some coins and ask, "Did I count that right?" "Sure," I say. Not wanting to appear less intelligent than the toothless sucker who just sold me a highly sought-after, authentic, vintage, mint-condition Gucci bag for $4.50. (Look for it on eBay soon.)

As much as I dislike making change, I do love finding coins. I even wrote a super cheesy story about it called Lucky Pennies. It's in A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (Page 293). That was 10 years ago. I like to think my writing has improved since then. Or at least become less cheesy. In college and even law school, I used to casually check pay phones and vending machines for change. Like a homeless person. One time, in high school (this one time...in high school...) I was in line at McDonald's with a friend. We were waiting to ask for medium Cokes in large cups so we could add our Jack Daniel's to it when we got back to the car. These were the days before it became "socially inappropriate" for 16-year-olds to drink and drive, and to do so without even a passing thought about using a seat belt. Goood times… (My amazement at our survival must wait for another post.) So anyway, there we are in the line, probably already buzzed, and I spot a nickel on the floor. Well, I of course bend down to pick it up as my friend draws my attention to the puddle of pee the coin is swimming in thanks to an unattended and incontinent toddler. Can't remember whether I went for it anyway.

One time I took our change jar to one of those Coinstar machines at the grocery store. I dumped the jar and enjoyed watching it do its thing. It spit out a voucher for like $94, which I thought was great until I decided to read the sign on the machine that says it withholds like 9%. I didn't know how much 9% would have added up to as I think I would have had to employ some impossible algebraic equation. I was pretty sure that 10% of $100 was $10. But I'm not sure how that related to my exact circumstances. I don't do as well with numbers other than 10. I just felt ripped off and wondered how much I really had in that dang jar. How much would the bank have given me? I'll know better next time.

Now to the reason for the title. When I go to Sonic (which is one of the most unhealthy fast food places ever, so the kids love it) I always act like a generous big spender and tell the carhop kid to keep the change (unless I use my debit card, in which case they are SOL). I never think about how much the change might be, so I have probably tipped up to 99 cents sometimes. Today I pulled a fairly recent Sonic receipt out of my purse. I paid $9.00 in cash on a total bill of $8.96.

A Tale of Two Siblings

My parents were always amazed at how different their three children were. We still question my sister's paternity, but then she is quick to remind us that she has the upper thighs of our maternal grandmother's side of the family. Bless her heart. Besides, I don't think thigh size is necessarily genetic. Big bones, maybe.

Growing up, Kelly and I could not be more different. I was the wild child, and as the oldest, I got away with everything (well, a lot) since my parents had no idea what I was getting into. (It blows my mind to think that when I was 16, my parents were a little younger than I am now. Terrifying, really.) Kelly was the popular one. I became known as Kelly's big sister. As she progressed through high school, she went from homecoming duchess to princess to queen. She is three years younger. I'm sure my teachers would dread getting Jill's little sister in their classes, but then would have been pleasantly surprised. I was more like the Ally Sheedy character (without the dandruff) in The Breakfast Club while Kelly was Molly Ringwald. Kelly and I fought mercilessly for years. Mostly about the phone. We had those mod, donut-shaped, coil-corded phones, just heavy enough to throw and leave a good size hole in the sheetrock, with receivers perfect for a good headlock/forehead pounding or punch in the eye. There was all kinds of hair pulling, biting, spitting, door slamming, and clothes stealing. All taking place as I cowered in a corner. She was mean. All I ever did to her was try to steal her boyfriends. Even when we sold that house a couple of years ago, a splintered hole remained in the door of our shared bathroom. I think I was the one who kicked it in. She was probably taking too long in the shower, and I needed to get in there to check on my hydroponic pot plants. We often laughed at that hole later, along with all the boys' names we had carved into the door's latex-painted trim. Goood times.

We didn't really become friends until we both had husbands and kids. Finally we had similar things to commiserate about. We also discovered the shared blissful joy of junk shopping. I think I have my flea market addiction fairly well under control, but she is wheels-off insane. I pity the grandchildren who will be stuck cleaning out her garage. We often talk about teaming up to write a decorating book that encourages novice home decorators to avoid objects of mass production.

Even though we don't look alike, there is no question that Kelly and I are sisters when you hear us laugh. We have the exact same rhythm to the breaths and the ha-ha-ha's. When we laugh together, we have to laugh again at how we are perfectly synchronized. Or maybe one echoes the other, depending on who was a little bit behind on their latest margarita swallow.

My brother and I seem to be a little more alike, seeing as how he's a philosopher and I fancy myself a connoisseur of logic, law, literature, and apparently alliteration. He studies consciousness; I work on my conscience. He's an intellectual academic; I'm an ineffectual apathetic. He's a member of Mensa; I can spell Mensa.

But this story is really about the vast differences (not vas deferens) between Kelly and Kenny, well beyond the minor variations in their names.

Kenny is hosting a "Self-Awareness Workshop" next week in Hico. Several brilliant and scholarly minds from around the world will converge on this tiny podunk town to discuss the theory of consciousness. Picture Einstein meets Green Acres, Stephen Hawking vs. The Beverly Hillbillies, or Marilyn vos Savant in any Will Ferrell movie. That town will have more brain cells in it than the number of Brangelina's children multiplied exponentially by Amy Winehouse's blood heroin content.

So here's a brief synopsis of what Kenny's workshop will cover (these are quotes lifted directly from his brochure):

Self-Awareness Workshop

[P]henomenology of self-awareness, its computational and neurobiological modeling, the philosophical problems surrounding it, and its role in the formulation of a general theory of consciousness with particular emphasis on formulating ways of empirically testing the self-awareness that all consciousness involves some form of self-awareness.

[T]he computational, functional, and mathematical modeling of self-representing systems; various forms of incompleteness and computational irreducibility and their relation to the phenomenology of cognition, to self-knowledge, and to the opacity of sensory qualities; and virtualization (the computational process whereby the complexity of the "hardware" is systematically hidden from the "user" through the construction of virtual interfaces) as a possible paradigm for understanding the relationship between consciousness, the subject, sensory qualities, and the brain.

After agreeing on the theme, participants will be invited by the chair to propose views about the theme in the form of succinct statements. The statements will be listed and briefly reviewed for their salient logical and probabilistic connections. . . .

Kelly and I agreed that our reaction to that was exactly the same as the Geico caveman's in the commercial where he's on a news show: "Yeah, I have a response. ... Uh, What?" (here's a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zssp5RlxnM&feature=related)

Seeing as how Kelly is more of a shopper and decorator than a writer or speller, much less blogger, I'm the gatekeeper of her humor. I'm reluctant to post her reply here because sometimes she is so much funnier than I could ever be. Damn funny. I mean laugh till-you-cry, pee yourself funny. But this was just too good not to share with my devoted readers. I'm sure it will improve your day, if not your life. And we sincerely hope it will give you pause to reflect on the aesthetics of your dwelling and perhaps prompt you to incorporate some American Feng Shui by replacing all fake plants with real ones, as a start.

Kelly's E-Mailed Response to Kenny (a direct quote, with only some participants' names redacted to protect their reputations):

Cannot help but notice that I was NOT listed as a participant.

I thought I could bring some of my decorating books and present a lecture, complete with a PowerPoint, on how self-awareness is expressed through decorating your environment. Some of the self-representing systems I would touch on, but not limit myself to are as follows:

* Creative use of fabrics & textiles

* Exploring the limits of self-expression with a can of Mod Podge

* Using an array of differing textures to promote sensory awareness through touch & sight

* Function and aesthetics: the ability to forgo function when aesthetics is being compromised

* The computational process of hiding the - what I like to call "necessary evils" of a dwelling – i.e., light switches, door bell speakers, thermostat boxes, trash cans and construction and design flaws. The "hardware," if you will, is hidden from the "user" by creative placement of home decorative items. Leaving us with the question, is one capable of learning this application of virtual interfacing in the realm of interior design, or is it inherently born in the consciousness?

* Various forms of in-completion in the mind and rooms of those who are handicapped in creativity and decorating in all of its manifestations

* How to gain a self-representing system through a collection of material objects that stimulate cognitive and sensory qualities upon entering a dwelling

* Being conscious of the role of accessories in a dwelling and their role in inspiring self awareness - with that said, also being aware of the role that poor choices in home interior design and decorating play in sucking the very life OUT of the dwellers and their visitors

* The philosophic problems created by surrounding oneself with mass-produced, resin material, and big box home store accessories lacking in quality, character, and design

* I would like to close the PowerPoint with a field trip to a local flea market. This would (in theory) allow the participants to apply their newfound knowledge by selecting discarded items and giving them new life in their respective dwellings. Hence, allowing the participants to experience self-awareness through creativity and application of decoration.

I was thinking you could slip me in (so to speak) somewhere between [L]'s and [U]'s lectures. Or maybe my material would be a better fit (so to speak, again) with [N]'s lecture material. My lecture could serve as a trailer - "Persons, Shelves, and the Decorative Brain."

Watch, Kelly will end up on Comedy Central while I remain all pasty and pathetic flagellating myself for yet another poor life choice.