School of Rock

{and Pop}

I have several different music-related topics that have been rattling around in my mind for the past few months. I don't know where to start, so I'll just do a sort of Joycean stream-of-consciousness dictation here. (My apologies to the late James Joyce for having the gall to suggest that I could ever emulate his abstruse style.)

I love that movie, School of Rock. I think I love every Jack Black movie. The first time I truly appreciated him was when I bonded with his character (music-tastewise) in High Fidelity. I think Saving Silverman came out not long after that, which, by the way, included a cameo appearance by none other than Neil Diamond—who was the guest mentor on American Idol tonight. My opinion on that deserves an entirely separate post. (Or not.) Suffice it to say, my boy Jason will soon be on his way back to Texas. Bless his precious little dreadlocked heart.

Now, let me get this part out of the way. My philosophy-professor little brother has recently been dealing with some serious stress. He told me he responded to it by cranking up some Pantera to help him scream out some of the rage. He said he was reminded of me because I knew the band at its inception, when they played in a garage and progressed to gigs at keg parties in high school. I never followed them much over the years (and honestly, had I not known them then, I probably would never have known that they existed at all). Apparently, in the world of heavy metal, they were kind of a big deal. The lead guitarist, Darrell Abbott, became a famous guitar wizard/genius. He was originally known as "Diamond" Darrell, but later became "Dimebag," and then simply "Dime" to his friends and fans. (Whatever.) I just remember him as a scrawny, laid-back, nice boy (for a budding headbanger). He met a tragic and untimely death three or four years ago. If you can't die of a drug overdose or in an aircraft crash, then I guess getting shot to smithereens on stage is quite a rockstar way to go.

Anyway...if you haven't noticed, I've added some more of my favorite songs, just in case you want to enjoy some background music while you read my drivel. Brian Wilson is one of my favorite Barenaked Ladies songs. And don't get the wrong idea. I am not, nor have I ever been, a Beach Boys fan. I just love the song's message. Maybe I identify with the whole depressed-tortured-artist thing too much. The kids prefer BNL's If I Had a Million Dollars because Luke loves the part that says, "But not a real green dress, that's cruel," and Katy loves the part that says, "Haven't you always wanted a monKEY?" Fun song. (Not the kind I normally gravitate to.) Round Here is probably my favorite song. It's at least in my top five. I also wanted to add the Counting Crows version of Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi, but it's a WMA file that I can't convert to an MP3. (Don't get me started on how jacked-up all my music files are.) I think Big Yellow Taxi is a classic that everyone should know. And I had to add my favorite Tori Amos song. The CD that song comes from is called Little Earthquakes, but Mike calls it Little Earaches. I included American Girl because it's probably my favorite Tom Petty song and also because I think it's an anthem. I think Don Henley's Boys of Summer and Bryan Adams' Summer of '69 should also be deemed anthems, but I'm no expert. These are just the lame opinions of someone who fancies herself an outdated pop music critic. Of course the real anthems are Free Bird and American Pie (The Day the Music Died). Stairway, of course, is in an anthem class by itself. I'm sure I'm missing several good ones, so please add any suggestions for me to either accept or deride. Good Riddance is here because I think it's pure pop poetry. I like poems that rhyme. (Especially limericks.) The song also reminds me of the Seinfeld finale. They played it at the end of that last, stupid, forgettable episode. I added a Shawn Colvin song because I think she is brilliant. I may have made a mistake in song choice, though. She's a songwriter. But instead of posting one of the many incredible songs she has written, I chose to post her cover of a heartbreaking Bob Dylan song. This way I can include a nod to Bob Dylan without actually having to subject anyone to his voice. Trust me, her version is way better. The other new one is Limp Bizkit's version of The Who's Behind Blue Eyes. I like it, but the more I think about it, the more I think there are better songs to replace it with. My playlist won't be complete until I add Sarah McLachlan, R.E.M., and Nanci Griffith. There are at least a hundred more songs and/or artists I want to mention, so I'll try to toss in a reference here and there as I continue to gunk up cyberspace with my occasional (or all-too-frequent) unsolicited anecdotes and ill-informed opinions.

Well, I gave myself a little less than an hour to get this stuff down, so I never even got to the part about my own personal version of School of Rock. Basically, I play "Name That Band" in the car with the kids. I'll have to tell you more about it in the next installment. Some moms home-school their children. The only home-schooling my kids get involves my stern guidance with how to identify and sing the words of Led Zeppelin, Elvis, AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, The Cure (yes, The Cure) or any other artist or band I deem worthy. Some may see this as a frivolous endeavor. I consider it a Creator-endowed duty to instill in my children the utmost level of mid- to late-20th century popular music literacy. Let's just see what they'll use more in the real world. Trigonometry or tunes? My money's on the music.

First Yardwork De-Brief & More Word Nerd

First, I'm posting this to call attention away from the prior one so as to temper any dreary effect you might be left with had that been your only offering for the day.

I mowed the lawn all on my own for the first time yesterday. That Craftsman riding mower has an amazing turning radius. And the horsepower is impressive as well. (By the way, what's horsepower?) I think I scalped the yard. Here's a tip. You can cut the grass better if you engage and lower the blades. I covered half of our small front yard before I realized I wasn't cutting anything. Also, fill up the tank while the mower is still near the gas, so you don't have to lug the gas can across an acre and slosh it all over yourself on the way. I was fortunate to have had my dear friend Ginger in town and at the ready with a camera to provide proof of my newfound talent. Here's the casualty list: one sprinkler head (that I'm aware of), one rock that I turned into gravel, a garden hose (just kidding, Mike), an Otter Pop wrapper, a small frog, my right thumbnail, and my left cornea. Stay tuned for a soul-stirring weed-eating report.

I'm sorry, but this whole words-I-like or words-I-dislike thing has taken on a life of its own. I have kept it in my head for so long, and now it's out on display for public consumption as if anyone cares. But apparently, many of you do care because you have offered up some of your own favorites. So again, please indulge me and, as always, feel welcome to offer any of your own, albeit probably inferior, suggestions.

More words I like: shenanigans (which really belongs with my earliest list from March), amalgam, conglomeration, antithesis, mercurial, ethereal, karma, dharma, stigma, stigmata, quagmire, pallid, buoyant. More from Kundera: hobo (which I should really attribute to John Hodgman because of his absurd and hilarious hobo obsession in his book Areas of My Expertise), didactic, milieu, Kafka, Balzac, Flaubert, Rabelais, Bovary, Bovaristic, apparatus, Quixotic, Sancho, clairvoyant, burlesque.

Words I prefer not to hear or ponder: slut, menstruate, flaccid, nausea, yearn, spurn.

Again, procrastination break over. Back to work before I get slammed with more of the deadlines breathing down my neck. Not to mention the drippy faucet and weed-eating worries eating at my gut.

Feel Free to Skip This One. Nothing Fun Here.

To die is always a person's last verb. Death their last noun. Yesterday marked 2 years since my dad died. The first year is a blur. The second year brings it into focus. It's odd how the more time passes, the more permanent it seems to become. And just when you think you've accepted the absence, you run across some stupid country song on the radio that makes you cry and you can't bring yourself to change the station. You are driving with sensitive kids in the back seat. They ask what's wrong, and you lie. You blink and brace and breathe. No time, no freedom, no place to cry. You swallow it, suck it up, smile and sigh. Someone who doesn't know calls and asks, "How are you?" "Good. What's up?" you say.

As much as I hate to remember and wish I could forget bad anniversaries, I will always dread every April 27. And every time I chance upon a song that touches my ache, I'll always sob, at least on the inside. I made it through yesterday just fine because I was never alone. Today I am. Hence this delayed reaction and downer post. As I type, Van Morrison's Into the Mystic just started playing on the radio. Great. What timing. Thanks a lot, Daddy.

Don't y'all feel sorry for me? If only doubling-up on my antidepressant would help. A good cry is healthy especially when it's overdue. I promise to be back to "myself" next time. For now, back to work.

Idol Worship

I confess. I have Idol fever. Unlike other competition shows, this one serves a purpose. Dancing with the Stars, on the other hand, is absolutely pointless. American Idol also gives me something to talk to my babysitter about. Otherwise, my conversations with her amount to, "How's school?" and, "I put the number for 9-1-1 by the phone."

I was going to keep my obsession a secret, but I decided I better go ahead and put it out there now because my favorite contestant, Jason Castro, will probably get booted off next week. And when he does, I don't want anyone to wonder why I suddenly become even more sullen and withdrawn. This also gives me an opportunity to announce that I no longer struggle with any inappropriate feelings about the Jonas Brothers. They are so yesterday. I have moved on. It's all about Jason now. Never did I think I would want to run my fingers through (or get them stuck in) a 20-year-old boy's dreadlocks. He dodged a bullet this week, and he better step it up next week or he's out. Which would be fine with me, because then he'll eventually end up back in Texas doing gigs at dive bars, shopping malls, and county fairs. It'll be easier for me to stalk him that way.

I've been impressed with the talent level this season. The contestants keep me watching even though Idol's producers have come up with the most lame themes and oddest celebrity guests ever. First, I think they really overdid it on the Beatles songs. Once they got their hands on that Lennon/McCartney songbook, the vulgar display of medleys and the seemingly endless parade of one overrated Beatles song after another was almost enough to make me change the channel. The Beatles bonanza was soon followed by Dolly Parton night. What?? Sure, she's an icon, and I think everyone likes her as a person, but come on. Then they give Mariah Carey a platform to plug her new album while forcing these poor kids to sing her songs. Season after season, the judges have advised contestants against attempting songs by certain artists such as Whitney Houston, Celine Dion, and, oh yeah, Mariah Carey. I personally don't care for the warblings of these pop divas; so of course, an American Idol version would necessarily come off as forgettable or "karaoke" at best.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, along comes Andrew Lloyd Webber. The fact that he has been knighted and is a "Sir" carries no weight for me whatsoever. Have I mentioned how much I hate musicals? So far, the only tolerable exceptions for me are Grease and Spamalot. I had to sit through Phantom several years ago. I woke up at the part where I guess a chandelier crashes, or something like that. Pure torture. I would rather spend an eternity eating shards of broken glass than watch another musical. Even Les Miserables would make me want to poke my eyes out. Talk about "Mees-ay-rah-bluh." I love the book, but when people start singing the words all dirgelike and non-rhyming to swelling, melodramatic orchestra music, I want to run screaming to the nearest Adam Sandler film festival. At least he chooses good music. And don't get me started on movies of musicals. At least a live one on a stage provides some chance that someone will slip and fall or forget their lines. I remember when that movie Chicago came out. All my friends were just gushing over it. You may think I have a personality defect. I call this distaste an asset and wear it proudly.

Then we find out Wednesday night, that next week we will be subjected to Neil Diamond, of all people. What??? I'm sorry mom; I know you have always adored him. And I don't have any strong feelings against him but, please, is this the best they can do? The opening medley is sure to be a disastrous train wreck. So why do I keep watching? Because I think these kids are talented and I love their wide-eyed, fresh-faced, living-the-dream energy. And because of Jason.

The only thing I hate as much as musicals is ballroom dancing. Except maybe the really hot sambas or tangos. I'm reluctant to give Dancing with the Stars any valuable space here, but I must get something off my chest. The few times over the years that I've tried to watch it and understand the attraction, I find myself trying to figure out which one is the dancer and which one is the B-, C-, or D-list so-called "star." And now the ironic thing is, the professional dancers are bigger stars than the ones they have to stumble around on the dance floor with. And I have to mention poor Priscilla Presley. She would have aged beautifully had she not interfered. She makes Joan Rivers look good. Bless her heart.

I must get back to work now, or at least go take a shower.

I May Need an Intervention

But not yet. I have so much to share.

I think this dictation software is making my blogging compulsion a little too easy. I don't want to fall victim to this little habit and become a pale, night owl homebody like some overweight, unemployed, grown man who lives in his parents' basement and eats Cheetos while playing Dungeons & Dragons on the Internet all day and trolls for underage virtual 'tang all night. I must say I do enjoy the solitude and the almost unfettered release of worthless thoughts and useless ideas that would otherwise evaporate and never be savored by my legions of clamoring voyeurs. Writing is where my heart is. This is my therapy. Not that I need any, mind you.

I started working last night on a post about music, but I have so much ground to cover in that area, I may have to issue it in installments. Look for the first one soon.

I got about 30 minutes of sleep last night. Too bad they weren't consecutive. By the time I realized I was not going to get a good night's sleep, it was too late to take an Ambien. I did doze off long enough to have a dream (actually a nightmare) that Matt Lauer met an untimely demise. I only mention this here in case something does happen to him. This way I'll have proof of my budding psychic abilities. I just had one of those restless nights with nothing specific but everything in general on my mind. It may also have had something to do with the fact that I have been trying to sleep in the middle of the bed. You know, that sort of hump where it still feels like a new mattress? Because not enough time is spent there? Sure, it's nice to have the whole bed to myself where I can spread out, but I can't reach my lamp at night, and worse yet, I can't reach the snooze button in the mornings.

Luke pulled another little molar last night, and this time he had the courtesy to remind me to remind the tooth fairy to make a visit. A few weeks ago, she forgot and I had to sneak some cash under the head of his bed when he woke up upset that she had forgotten him. I caught him a few days later looking under the bed for more money. I need to sit him down and explain that he is too old for this tooth fairy stuff. He has already had braces, now wears retainers at night, and will be (God willing) in sixth grade next year. Enough with the fairy visits. Maybe he'll just let me cut out the middleman.

I came home to a clean house yesterday. I try to save up my errands for the times that the cleaning people are here so I can be gone and not feel indulgent or guilty or elitist. That word elitist troubles me. I was going to say that it has been bandied about a lot lately, but the phrase bandied about troubles me as well. Contrary to the soft-core imagery Chris expressed in one of his recent comments, my Latina cleaning lady (while I do love her) is neither young nor hot. But I'll keep you posted on the youth and hotness level of the many potential landscape maintenance boys who tell me they fit the stringent criteria in my Craigslist ad. As I'm sure you'll understand, I'll be quite busy with interviews this weekend, so just leave me a voicemail and I'll get back to you later.

Now I need to get back to the drudgery of writing a brief for the only client that I have absolutely no sympathy for. Right after I take the dog to the groomer and maybe go get a pedicure.

My Daughter is too Young to Share Space with this Story

{But that's just how it turned out. I'll keep hoping the organic milk keeps her hormones from kick-starting anything too soon. Of course, she's been PMSing since age 2.}

Now that Katy is finally asleep at almost 10 p.m., I have given myself an hour to decompress. She is eight years old, but her behavior is like that of a 13-year-old toddler. As soon as she gets off the school bus and storms into the house, I know I won't rest until she is sleeping. She leaves a trail of shoes, food wrappers, hair accessories, crayons, lip gloss, markers, used Kleenex, socks, and crumbs everywhere she goes. She is a chatterbox. Cacophony incarnate. Always full of sound and fury. And a new thing she's trying out, smart-mouth back-talk. This has come to include the new version of "whatever," which is "whatev" or "whatevs." Just when I thought "whatever" was rude, along comes the shortened version of it that basically tells you that you don't even deserve the courtesy of the breath it takes to utter the entire word. And if she isn't talking, tattling, whining, opining, or squealing, she's singing. I do envy her all-out joy and bubbly spirit, but she can wear me out. She has this in-your-face enthusiasm that I could never muster. In Pooh's world, I'm Eeyore, and she's Tigger. I have never been described as perky or energetic. I lean more toward mordant and morose. So I guess you could say that the cheerleader in Katy can get on the very last nerve of my inner Goth.

Anyway..... I was going to share a few observations and anecdotes, but I find myself exhausted now. Here is one true story to hold you until I can get the others together. Week before last, I was in a hotel gift shop in Washington, D.C. I was stocking up on two-dollar bottles of water to keep me from drinking the five-dollar ones tempting me in my room. I also tried to discreetly purchase a small box of tampons. [I realize I just split an infinitive there. Poetic license.] As I stood at the register with a handful of people in line behind me, the clerk, (a pretty girl named something like Gupta), held up the box and said to me, (in an unnecessarily loud voice), "I always jus' use de pads, de Stay-free, d'jou know?" I nodded politely and hoped she would leave it at that. But no. As a small crowd gathered, she shook the tampon box at me and asked, "How do dese work?" I was a bit incredulous. I glanced at the folks within earshot, smiled uncomfortably, and quietly said, "Well, you just take the wrapper off and stick it up there." (I'm sure I was even gesturing as if I had an applicator in my hand.) I heard some chuckles from those who had been pretending to study the souvenir shot glasses nearby. The clerk said, "No, no, no. I mean, how good are dey for de job?" At that point I realized she was asking for a quality rating rather than a how-to lesson. "Oh, you meant, how well do they work? Fine, I guess. This isn't my usual brand, but they get the job done." She apologized and said that maybe her English wasn't so good. I reassured her that it was my mistake. Then we shared a brief moment of female bonding when we both smiled and rolled our eyes as if to say, "Well aren't we just a couple of idiots?" Especially her.

Loner, Party of One

First, some more words for you to chew on. Lapsang souchong, Darjeeling, ottoman, marmoset, parapet, veranda, gazebo, jubilee, juxtapose, Sri Lanka, Constantinople, hubris, pathos, bathos, grotto, mojo, cockamamie, and charlatan. Not that I would ever use the word cockamamie—ever. I just like the way it sounds. I once lost a game of Scrabble after using my last three letters to spell the word bile. I was ahead until Mike turned bile into jubilee. I hate playing Scrabble or chess or poker with anyone who thinks they are smarter than I am. (Because they usually win.) I may be smart, but not when it comes to strategy. My opponents soon discover that my arrogance can only go so far to cover up my complete and total lack of forethought.

Here are a few words from the latest book I'm reading, Milan Kundera's The Curtain: panorama, anathema, kitsch, and vitriolic. I have always loved Kundera, even though I have to read it in an English translation that probably doesn't do it justice. This little book is a collection of essays that I would never recommend to anyone. It's pure literary criticism, and I love it. It's writing about writing. Terribly boring to anyone but me and maybe a handful of socially inept college English department grad students, so I won't tell you any more about it so as not to put you to sleep. Yet.

I thought of another food I haven't tried but probably hate. Rhubarb. I like the word, though. It looks like red celery, and people make pies out of it with strawberries. I'm just not big on desserts made out of vegetables. Sure, I'll eat carrot cake--but it's in spite of the carrots. And I'll eat pumpkin or zucchini bread, but only because it's there.

I'm sure many of you are wondering how I'm coping with my laundry situation. I only have three piles to fold and put away before my cleaning lady (God bless her) comes on Wednesday to do the rest. One good thing about doing laundry is that I sometimes find money in the washer or dryer to keep as payment. It's usually just a dime or a quarter here and there, and they just end up in the change jar. But this time, I hit the jackpot with 5 one-dollar bills plus 4 quarters. Those went straight into my wallet, baby. I don't know whose money it was. Probably one of the kids' hard-earned tooth-fairy cash. But it's mine now.

So Mike should be officially, "safely" in Iraq now. I have been fully briefed on the use and/or maintenance of: the riding lawnmower, the gas-powered weed eater, the leaf blower, the septic tank, the water softener, the sprinkler system, the propane tank, the soaker hoses, the Miracle Gro plant feeder, the weed killer, and the humidor. He checked me out on all of these as I took notes in hopes of remembering what should be done twice a week as opposed to what should be done every two weeks. After I tried out the leaf blower, he kindly took it out of my hand and offered, "A smart person would do it like this…" Apparently, I am supposed to get behind the blower's targets rather than mill about aimlessly in the middle of it all. (His remark reminded me of what my brother told me they say in Minnesota when someone displays lower-than-average intelligence. According to Kenny, these mild-mannered Midwestern pasty yet somewhat redneck Lutherans will say, "Y'know, a lotta guys'd done it this way…") When Mike was training me on how to feed the plants in the garden, he must have picked up on my anxiety about the whole thing. He said, "Don't worry; this will be a lot less stressful on you after I leave." (Ya think?) So now I just have to make sure I keep everything alive and in working order so I don't have to pull some Lucy Ricardo stunt and go out and replace all of our landscaping and the entire garden before he comes home. And God forbid I let those Cuban cigars dry out. I wonder if he'd notice if I were to put the Cuban labels on some Dominican Republic replacements. D'oh! So much for that idea. He may actually read this.

Most military wives know the obscure Murphy's Law that encourages all household hell to break loose every time the husband goes TDY. So far, I only have a leaky kitchen faucet. Actually, it's more of a steady drip--enough to make a difference in our water bill. I can fix that. Eventually. I'm just hoping the next two months won't bring on the scorpions, rodents, dog vomit, sick children, electrical or cable outages, car problems, or major appliance malfunctions. Now that I've listed those, I'll be sure to let you know when each of them happens. The truth is I've never minded being on my own and I've never felt helpless when he's gone. I have a full calendar, a full Netflix queue, and a full wine cabinet. No worries.

I have a lot more stories to tell soon, and now that I'm free to sit in front of the computer all night if I want to, you may be in for more drivel than you can stand. I just need to make sure I don't jump the shark here and lose my audience.

Must Satisfy My Urge to Purge (improved version)

I know, lame title. I've probably used it before.

First, let me apologize for using the words "dumbass" and "smartass" to describe myself in the last post. While both are true, and that just adds to my enigmatic mystique, my use of the word "ass" twice within such close proximity made for an odd-sounding paragraph. As a writer, I should know better than to publish something below my usual artistic standards. So I beg your forgiveness for my not being more poetic there. Speaking of the word "ass," get this. The kids know not to say bad words, so when they want to quote one to me, they will spell it or say "the S word" or whatever. This method is usually used in the context of tattling on someone who said such a word. So the other day, Katy says to me, "Mama, Luke called me an A-S-S-W-H-O-L-E." I was so cracking up at her spelling, I almost forgot to ask Luke about it. He of course denied it, but I wouldn't put it past him as he is beginning to think he is old enough, at 11, to start using such foul language. He must learn these words on the bus, because he certainly has never heard them at home.

After being gone three days, followed by a busy Sunday, I find myself faced with a Mount St. Helen's of laundry. That's not to say that the laundry pile looks like it's about to erupt; it is to say that I am. So, while the washer and dryer run as I let every frantic client's call go to voicemail, I sit here and drain my brain.

For the record, my children have never eaten boogers. As I sat in the floor at the Continental Airlines gate waiting for my flight out Thursday morning, I watched two erstwhile adorable sisters (probably about four and six years old) as they played at my eye-level about three feet away. I had one of those sweet people-watching moments utterly destroyed when the six-year-old girl dug her way to China up her nose, pulled out a juicy booger, examined it briefly, then sucked it off her finger. The girl saw me watch her do it. I made sure the mother wasn't looking before I scrunched my face and quietly told the girl, "That's just nasty." As if a rude comment from a stranger in an airport could possibly change her disgusting behavior. I can only hope. I also see at least one booger-eating incident on each Sunday that I make it to church. Our pastor does this little "children's chat" thing at the beginning, before they run off to their classes. It has almost become a sick mental game I play. I watch the gathering of God's precious little children and make bets with myself on which kid is going to gross me out today. I'm messed up. [By the way, I use this voice-activated software when I'm too lazy to type-- like right now. Sometimes, of course, it doesn't hear me right or doesn't yet understand my Texas accent, so it gets words wrong-- such as "pin" when I say "pen." But this software does know how to spell "booger." That's quality stuff right there.]

All this news lately about China and Tibet got me thinking about the Dalai Lama. My brother heard a first-hand account about what a diva that man is. I can't really remember it all. Maybe I can get him to post it in a comment here. And I read Mr. Lama's book, The Art of Happiness (in hopes of finding some). [If any of you ever chance to meet His Holiness, I just dare you to be an ugly American by extending your hand and saying, "So nice to meet you, Mr. Lama."]. Anyway, even the author who interviewed him to write that book mentioned what a jerk he could be. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all about a free Tibet. Not militant, mind you. And I respect the Buddhist principles of austerity, mindfulness, morality, and that whole Zen idea. I just find it interesting that some human beings elevate and genuflect before another human being. Like the Pope. Sorry, I just don't get it.

Let me break this up right here with a supplemental list of words I like. The other day someone used the word "bailiwick." After basking in a fleeting wave of comfort at being in the presence of someone who unknowingly uttered a word on my list, I had to make sure that that word was indeed already posted. It was. So here are a few more: shibboleth, avatar, atavistic, apoplectic, succubus, incubus, juggernaut, jettison, flotsam, jetsam, and moniker. Moniker really belongs on my list of sort of archaic terms I want to revive, but I'm still working on that one.

When I was in the express line at the grocery store last week, the person in front of me was paying for a special, personalized birthday cake they picked up at the bakery. I took one glance at it and rolled my eyes. The lovely white-frosted creation was emblazoned with fancy blue lettering that said, "Suprise!" As in, "Surprise!, we misspelled the sentiment on your cake because we're illiterate, but that's okay because so are you!" I doubt anyone noticed it. Had I ordered a cake and arrived to find a misspelled word on it, I would have sent it back for a correction. Not just for my own peace of mind, but also to take an opportunity to offer a helpful spelling lesson and to prevent such a tragedy from happening again.

I have a good bit of notes to share from my recent airport and hotel experiences. I'll have to post those later, because it's time for Mike to give me his pre-departure man-chore lessons. I found out last night that, hmmm, we apparently have a sprinkler system. I'll be out there with a clipboard taking notes as I am absolutely clueless as to what he does outside besides pee.

This is What a Professional I am

I just listened to a recording of my presentation. First, I hate the sound of my voice. (Not that I don't like hearing myself talk; that's different.) I think it went pretty well, except my partner sounds like he was on speed and I sound like I was on quaaludes. Pretty much the way I talk anyway, I guess. When you do one of these seminar speeches, they always add to the materials a little bio/resume on the presenters. (This is where I am referred to as "Esquire," which I find terribly silly. It reminds me of "Bill S. Preston, Esquire" from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. By that I mean, I see myself more as a dumbass than any sort of real lawyer.) These bios are always super boring and full of "look-how-smart-and-successful-I-am" crap, and I truly didn't think anyone ever read them, so, smartass that I am, I just couldn't resist the opportunity to see if anyone would actually read mine. I tried doing a straight one first, but it amounted to like 2 short paragraphs and made me look like an idiot, so I took the real one and made it way better. And before I left D.C. on Saturday, at least 4 people said, "LOVED your bio!" Dang. I didn't want anyone to actually READ IT. For your entertainment, and in the interest of giving you even more embarrassing information about me, here it is:

Jill Mitchell earned a B.A. in English from the University of Texas at Arlington in 1988 where she ranked seventh in the Liberal Arts College and first in her major. She then spent a year at the University of Paris (La Sorbonne) where she earned a polite notice that she had failed miserably. She received her J.D. from St. Mary's University School of Law in San Antonio, Texas where she was able to write on to the Law Journal staff and go on to publish, with much fanfare, Reformers' Regress: The 1991 Texas Workers' Compensation Act, 22 St. Mary's L.J. 1111 (1991). She participated in internships with Bexar County Legal Aid and with the Judge Advocate General's Office at Lackland Air Force Base. In 1991, she passed the Texas bar exam on her first try, by one point.

She is a member of the Court of Appeals for Veterans Claims Bar Association, the National Organization of Veterans Advocates, the Texas Bar Association, the Pro Bono College of the State Bar of Texas, the San Antonio Bar Association, and a variety of loosely-organized literary and social groups. She has spent 16 years as a longsuffering military wife, and through her children, she maintains minimal involvement with the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts of America. She has acted as a volunteer with the Texas Equal Justice Access Service Project and University of Detroit Mercy School of Law's Project Salute. She was also a member of the Texas Young Lawyers Association until she got too old.

She is licensed to practice in all courts in the state of Texas, before the U.S. District Court for the Northern and Western Districts of Texas, and before the U.S. Court of Appeals for Veterans Claims.

She practiced civil trial law in Lubbock, Texas where she handled all phases of litigation in areas including personal injury, product liability, professional malpractice, consumer issues, labor, family, civil rights, and commercial and criminal defense. She also worked in legal publishing, writing for Lawyers Co-op and editing for a legal software company.

Since 2000, aside from occasional wills for friends, her own traffic tickets, and nasty letters to insurance companies, she has limited her practice to veterans' law, and works all alone in a luxurious home office.

In her free time, she enjoys reading one novel per year, nurturing her blog, shopping flea markets, and practicing yoga -- but not simultaneously.

Cut me some slack, I'll be back

I'm leaving for DC tomorrow to do a presentation at a veterans' law conference Friday morning. Everytime I think about it I feel like I'm going to either puke, have diarrhea, or both. I'll have to remember to take an Immodium the night before so I'll be locked up for several days, and then probably take a Pepto and one of my mild tranquilizers that morning. And I'll have to skip coffee and maybe just eat a saltine so if I do throw up, maybe it won't be bad. Unless it's projectile. That could get embarrassing. I know the info, and I'll be speaking to newbies, so I probably won't get heckled too much. And of course I made it hilarious, so I think as long as they laugh at the appropriate times, I'll do fine.

Then almost as soon as I get back, Mike will be leaving for a couple of months. He has to teach me all the man-chores to do while he's gone, like how to use the riding lawnmower, how to add salt to the water softener, how to check the propane level, how to use the weed-eater, how to water the garden and flower beds, and whatever else he does out there. Hmmmmm..... I may just have to hire a yard boy.

Wish me luck. On the presentation, I mean. Well, with the lawn boy, too. I mean finding one to hire for legit work, of course.

Happy Birthday to Me

This morning I woke up 42. (Which means I have entered the 43rd year of my life.) I recently got this sweet sentiment in an email from my mom: "I can't believe you have gotten so old while I am still so young." When I sarcastically thanked her for that, she kindly replied (with a straight face), "You're welcome." I do hope I'll be as young as she is when I become that elderly.

Top Ten Things That Haven't Changed:

10. I still haven't found the perfect purse. (Don't let me get a fanny pack or start pushing an old grocery cart.)

9. I still have fake blonde hair. (My natural color could be gray now for all I know.)

8. I still don't drive a minivan. (Shoot me if I ever do.)

7. I'm still a hypochondriac. (Only now, the conditions I dream up could really happen.)

6. I'm still insecure. (But I've almost perfected the illusion of confidence.)

5. I still have the constant sciatic pain that started when I was 25. (Shouldn't I be used to it by now?)

4. I can still drink as much as I used to. (But instead of puking and going back for more, I just go to sleep.)

3. I still enjoy insulting others in a good-natured yet merciless way, wallowing in self-pity, and shoe shopping. (But I finally figured out that my fear that I've unintentionally hurt (albeit ultra-sensitive) people's feelings leads to feeling sorry for myself which ultimately lands me in a shoe store for comfort. That's the real reason I have so many shoes.)

2. I still wish everyone treated English grammar rules with more respect. (But now I know I can't save the world from such blasphemy.)

1. I still weigh the same as I did at 25. (An old, flabby 125 is still 125, dammit!)

Top Ten Things That Have Changed:

10. My gums. (My dentist says they are "receding." At least it's not my hairline.)

9. My bras. (Even an A-cup needs support.)

8. My forehead. (If only I could have spent less time frowning.)

7. I use more sunscreen. (Even though it's probably too late to matter.)

6. I'm smarter. (At least book-wise).

5. I'm more content. (Like a cow chewing its cud.)

4. I have a little more money. (Not that I spend it more wisely.)

3. I appreciate friends and family more. (Not that I express it enough.)

2. I have a better perspective. (We are grains of sand. We are milliseconds. We are blinks.)

1. I get to hear "Love you, mama" every day. (Who knew dirty diapers would lead to that?)

Now, I think I'll go celebrate by shaving my spider-veined (yet still shapely) legs and washing my (too long for my age) hair. Maybe I'll give myself the day off and go shopping for shoes.