Sorry About the Impromptu Sabbatical

Like how I employed two more words for our list there? Guess which ones they are.

To make up for my extended absence, I am offering the following two posts to fill the aching void that I carelessly created in your fragile souls. Far be it from me to continue to allow the threat of irreparable harm to your flailing spirits. It's a Saturday night. Luke is at Boy Scout camp for the weekend; Katy is at a sleepover; and Mike is out of the continent. I should be out with girlfriends tonight watching the Sex and the City movie, and maybe later getting free drinks at a bar when we make up a story that we're having a combination divorce/bachelorette party without ever telling who the lucky/unlucky girls are. I honestly have never tried this idea, but I have no doubt that it would serve its intended purpose quite well. But what am I doing on this Saturday night? Reveling in my solitude. Doing what I want to do most. Enjoying a glass of wine and writing without interruption. Do I need to get a life? Nope. This is my life. So sit back and relax because you are in for a treat the likes of which you probably have not seen since Nightmare on Elm Street.

First, here are some more words for you to chew on or spit out:

eschew, colloquy, excoriate (those are recent suggestions from my friend Chris --much more acceptable than his usual prissy offerings),

scofflaw, dilettante, peccadillo, quandary, wombat, wallaby, pandemonium, nebulous, paltry, pablum, hyoid, clavicle, patella, scapula, spatula, bellicose, obsequious,--

obsequious reminds me of a very special song from Steve Martin's Let's Get Small. He calls it Grandmother's Song. I've mentioned it here before. It is just so heartfelt and poignant, especially in these stressful times. I could just offer you a link to these lyrics and let you know that you can actually download this song from iTunes, but in my effort to both improve your life as well as contribute to the betterment of the universe as a whole, I am reprinting most of the lyrics right here:

Be courteous, kind and forgiving, Be gentle and peaceful each day, Be warm and human and grateful, And have a good thing to say.

Be thoughtful and trustful and childlike, Be witty and happy and wise, Be honest and love all your neighbors, Be obsequious, purple, and clairvoyant.

Be pompous, obese, and eat cactus, Be dull, and boring, and omnipresent, Criticize things you don't know about, Be oblong and have your knees removed.

Be tasteless, rude, and offensive, Live in a swamp and be three dimensional, Put a live chicken in your underwear, Get all excited and go to a yawning festival.

I know, it's silly. And it did seem a lot funnier back when I was doing more drugs than I do now. My favorite line of course is "Criticize things you don't know about." I certainly never do that, but I know a lot of people who do.

Here are a few of my favorite Spanish words which are pretty much an integral part of San Antonio parlance: cojones, loco, mijo, mija, and corazon. There are a bunch more, but most of them can be found on any good Mexican restaurant menu. (That reminds me, I think I'll have a margarita.) In this town where every other radio station is either Spanish or Tejano, I cannot escape earshot of the word corazon. Trust me, in this town you are destined to hear that word somewhere. Either at a restaurant, a car repair shop, a convenience store, when the hotel cleaning people come around, or most likely, at a construction site. I am doubly cursed because when I'm in the car and not out in public where I am subjected to other people's preferences, I can change the station from the steering wheel, so I'm constantly looking for the next good song. Even though the radio is set to go only to my favorite stations, somehow corazon still hits me, one way or another, at least once a day. They sure like to sing about their hearts. I guess we gringos do too.

Stay tuned for my next post about how I almost killed our dog. I can laugh about it now.

School of Rock, Cont'd

The training is paying off. Katy was able to name that band on her own with no prompting yesterday when a song I don't think she had ever heard before came on the radio. It was either Immigrant Song or Dazed and Confused. Can't remember which. From her third-row perch in my Yukon, she yelled, "Mama, that sounds like Led Zeppelin!" Mike would've been so proud. A couple of weeks ago, the kids were singing along with You Shook Me All Night Long. Luke said, "This is AC/DC." Katy responded with, "Yeah. They also sing Highway to Hell." (Is this child abuse? Is someone going to report me?) Mike will also be proud to know that Katy is starting to pick up the differences between the original Van Halen and the later "Van Hagar." Now, of course, Van Halen is part of this vast rock band conspiracy to make everyone my age feel like time travel is not impossible. Who ever dreamed that David Lee Roth would be back? The end is near, folks.

I need to progress with my School of Rock and start training the kids on 90s grunge. Their education will not be complete without a working familiarity with Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, Soundgarden, and Pearl Jam, among many others. I'm thinking that pretty soon, Smells Like Teen Spirit will make my anthem list. Hell, let's go ahead and put it on there. As I've said before, I am the Chuck Norris of this little world. If anyone dares to question my poor judgment or baseless opinions, I can smite them before they see the light of day here. I hasten to add that I mean no disrespect to Mr. Norris by comparing myself to him or by using his name in the same paragraph with any words he may find objectionable. I understand that I am alive today (as we all are) only because Chuck Norris has not yet seen fit to dispatch me.

Some more anthems for the list: the Rolling Stones' Satisfaction, Lou Reed's Walk on the Wild Side, Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild, Eric Clapton's Layla, and how could I forget Manfred Mann's Earth Band's Blinded by the Light? Written by The Boss. This reminds me of another word to add: calliope. I almost suggested adding the word douche, but (1) in that song, the word is actually "deuce" even though it sounds like "douche" and even though I know better now, I still like to sing it with the word "douche" and (2) the word "douche" is already on our list. Speaking of The Boss, we can't have an anthem list without a Springsteen song on it. That song would of course be Born to Run. If you think it should be Born in the USA, you are not only dead wrong, but also an idiot.

I have added UB40's version of Red, Red Wine to my playlist. A song that was written by none other than our friend Neil Diamond. I posted this song for several reasons: I love UB40, I love red wine, and it reminds me of all the Neil Diamond music I was subjected to in my childhood. I'm not complaining, Mom, I'm just saying. I also included this version because it reminds me of the mix tape I played over and over on my Walkman as I milked a Eurail pass back in 1988. I miss the days of mix tapes. I made one called "Party Mix" with a lot of B-52s and Talking Heads on it. I made another one called "Mellow Mix" with a lot of Lionel Richie and Chicago on it. (I know. How gay was I, right?) Another mix tape I wore out was one that probably should have been called "Brooding Pathetic Pre-Goth Post-Teen Tortured Artist Mix." It was pretty much all Joy Division/New Order, Echo and the Bunnymen, and The Smiths. Ah, that Morrissey. We've heard that rock and rap music can inspire its listeners to commit homicide. I wonder how many suicides my onetime soulmate Morrissey presided over between the mid-80s and early 90s. Surely there are some stats on this.

Speaking of the 80s, here's a question for those of you in my demographic. How many times was the fake phone number you gave out 867-5309? How many of you guys actually tried to call that number?

Last summer, I went with a girlfriend to see Def Leppard, Foreigner, and Styx. I did not plan to go, mind you. There was an extra ticket so I took it. I am generally against supporting these has-been bands that really should have left well enough alone. (By the way, I am also generally against attending wedding showers, baby showers, children's birthday parties, and any party where I have to endure a product presentation followed by an order form and its attendant inner-struggle stomach-upset with a buyer's-remorse chaser.) I did enjoy the concert even though I was disconcerted by the inordinate amount of old people in attendance. I think I even saw an oxygen tank and a walker. My friend and I looked at each other and said, "Just shoot me. Shoot me now." We eased our discomfort considerably by investing in some $12 margaritas. And, as I am wont to do, especially in times of crisis, I took advantage of a shopportunity and shelled out $38 each on 3 concert shirts. I couldn't resist a baby doll Def Leppard shirt with their trademark Union Jack and the words Love Bites emblazoned across it. And I certainly could not pass up the cute little scoop neck Foreigner shirt tastefully adorned with the clever words, Dirty White Girl. And of course I had to get a Styx shirt for Mike. It was a commemorative and surely limited edition tribute to the 30th anniversary of The Grand Illusion (the back of the shirt displays "1977 – 2007" -- kind of a subtle way to say, "Yep, I'm old, but look how cool I am in this $38 concert shirt that I can afford now that I have a mortgage and a credit card with tons of air miles and great cash-back rewards"). There's just something wrong when the price of the T-shirt today is double the cost of the concert tickets you paid for back when these bands were actually popular.

Isn't a regular midlife crisis enough without having to deal with the time-warp effect that comes from all these bands from our past going on tour again? I don't even have enough room here to list them all. In addition to the three bands I saw last summer, we have Journey, Heart, Cheap Trick, Bad Company, and even -- get this -- New Kids on the Block? I'm sorry but they are neither new nor are they kids anymore. And I venture to guess that they are no longer on the block, either. Even the Backstreet Boys have already outgrown their youthful tag, and they were popular just within the last decade. I think.

This reminds me. Did anyone happen to catch the Backstreet Boys interacting with Trace Adkins on The Celebrity Apprentice this past season? Here I go confessing yet another of my guilty pleasures. Yes, I watched every stinking episode with relish. I could tell you all about it, but why when you can look at these 3 different clips on YouTube (I gave each clip my own little name):
"wheatgrass" --http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4DyA0BSvyk,
"colon" --http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHma4_rEO-w,
"nail polish" --http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBz5jDSljvs.
I have never been a huge country music fan, but the perspective Trace Adkins provides is absolutely priceless and his deadpan delivery is hysterical. Do yourself a favor and check these out sometime. I won't tell anyone. If you don't at least get a smile out of it, you not only have no sense of humor, but I'd be willing to bet that you are a closet Backstreet Boys fan. Speaking of Celebrity Apprentice, a Kiss song came on the car radio the other day. I think it was Rock & Roll All Night or maybe their only other top-40 hit the name of which escapes me. I told the kids, "This is a band called Kiss. They painted their faces black and white and wore outrageous costumes with gigantic platform boots. They were kind of a big deal in the late 70s." Then my genius daughter helpfully added, "And Gene Simmons was the lead singer. He was on Celebrity Apprentice. He has a really long tongue." She gleaned this information on her own somehow. She never ceases to impress me with her growing cache of cultural literacy.

Anyway, back to what I was talking about before the Backstreet Boys threw me off. Are these has-been bands taunting us? Trying to addle our aging minds with Back to the Future-style McFly flashbacks? I don't think our parents had to deal with this phenomenon in the 70s. It wasn't like Buddy Holly or Richie Valens or the Big Bopper were still around to go on tour. (Sorry, bad joke.) A bloated Elvis would soon meet an embarrassing death, and The Beatles had long since burned out thanks to Yoko. Probably the closest thing to a flashback our parents had to deal with was Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley, and the movie Grease, which I'm sure did a good bit of damage.

Now on to other music-related drivel.

I have finally added some Sarah McLachlan to my theme song list. She is definitely in my top-five desert-island musical artists--one of the many Canadian artists I adore, like Barenaked Ladies. Those Canucks, as mild-mannered as they come across, are some seriously artistic bastards. I had a hard time deciding which song of hers to add because I love everything that comes out of her mouth. I chose Stupid mainly because I think I am pretty stupid sometimes. As smart as my employers or colleagues or clients or friends may think I am, I still think I'm a blithering idiot who can barely wipe herself. This is part of what I often refer to as my enigmatic mystique.

(Speaking of my playlist, you probably won't notice, but just in case you did, because I did and I tend to get anal, I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker is on there twice. That's because one of them won't play and I can't figure out how to delete it. My apologies to the vast majority of my readers who could not care less about this heinous flaw.)

Now that I got all that out of the way, I want to make sure you know that I am not raising a couple of heretics. In addition to training the kids on the finer points of American rock and pop music, we are also filling their impressionable minds with a lot of good Texas music and Christian music, too. I have added Pat Green's Poetry also. It's a song written by one of our favorite Texas singer-songwriters, Walt Wilkins. I have to share some of the lyrics here:

Some things I've done make my conscience burn,
My very spine shudder and squirm
I only hope that I've learned from my sins.
I heard a voice when I was thirteen
Got baptized and washed up clean.
The world has a way if you know what I mean
Of scuffing you up again, and again

I can't explain a blessed thing,
Not a falling star or a feathered wing,
How a man in chains has the strength to sing (I'll Fly Away)

Just one thing is clear to me,
There's always more than what appears to be
When the light's just right I swear I see,
Man, it's poetry

Now somebody made everything,
From the soul inside out to Saturn's rings
How my baby smiles and how Ray Charles sings,
Of course we were created
The clouds make rain, the ocean makes sand,
The earth breathes fire and lava makes land
Now that took a mighty hand,
and a wild imagination

The dreams I dreamed came back tenfold,
The friends I have to the woman I hold
I look down I'm on a street of gold,
After all the mud along the way
Sometimes the big old mystery
just leans right in on me,
Says that I am home and I am free
And I'll take that any day, any day.

I'll have to do a whole 'nother post sometime about Texas music because it is a big part of our world here in this Republic. Texas Monthly recently came out with an issue celebrating Willie Nelson's 70th birthday. That man is a national hero in these parts. When he dies, you know the flags will hang out at half-staff for at least a month.

The kids are also well-versed in good Christian "rock." I turned Katy on to Jennifer Knapp a long time ago. She has been out of the scene for a while now and I wish she would come back. She caught a lot of flak for singing at the House of Blues and at Lilith Fair, which is where I discovered her. Gee, God forbid a Christian artist reach out to those who might actually benefit from her message. Shouldn't she just preach to the choir? Don't get me started on that. I want to keep this a friendly place.

My sister and I went to Sarah McLachlan's Lilith Fair (a real Woman-Power lollapalooza) in Dallas way back in 1999. I was a good 8 months or more pregnant with Katy then. The place was crawling with lesbians. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.--That's a Seinfeld reference for those of you who didn't catch it.) It was quite the flannel-fest, I must say. Anyway, Kelly and I looked like an expectant couple. Now, I don't want to give the impression that I think gay people are more sinful than anyone else and that they just need Jesus to turn them into heteros. That does not happen. I believe that God made homosexuals and that she loves them as much as she loves everyone else. (I use she just to irritate anyone who has the nerve to think God is a male with a penis. Not that I think God is a female with a vagina. God is God. He is not a white man who speaks only English. Wrap your little mind around that.) I just believe that a real "Christian" is not judgmental and shows God's love and mercy and grace to anyone who needs it. Like washing a whore's feet, for instance. I know I could use a good pedicure, how about you? Like hanging out with the lepers or evil tax collectors. Get your hands dirty, folks. Or just stick with your Joel Osteen prosperity gospel and look down your nose on those who need God most while you count your money and praise God for your new Bentley. As y'all say, What Would Jesus Do? I say What Would Willie Do? Speaking of that, I have added that song too. Texas music at its best. Give it a listen. You'll be a better person after you hear it.

Sorry I pulled out my soapbox there. I usually keep it well-hidden. If you don't agree with me, you are free to kiss my sinful white ass.

The kids also love Third Day, Casting Crowns, Audio Adrenaline, David Crowder Band, Jeremy Camp, and a lot of others. In fact, last year, I took Katy to see Audio Adrenaline and Mercy Me, then I took her to see Casting Crowns. She had a blast. I did, too. Casting Crowns brought me to my knees. I saw Third Day twice last year. The second time, we went as a family around Christmas. Jars of Clay opened. I thought Jars of Clay sucked, but Third Day was fantastic.

Can I just mention here how amazed I was that American Idol had the 8 finalists singing Shout to the Lord on the Idol Gives Back show? Then David Cook sang a Switchfoot song when he got to choose his own music? And the uptight holier-than-thous think there's nothing worthwhile on network TV? Too busy criticizing things they don't know about to look for something positive? There is still a lot of good out there. It's all about opening your eyes and opening your mind and opening your heart. And shutting your damn mouth. But that's just one heathen's opinion.

All this to say, I like to think we are giving our kids some balance. At least when it comes to music.

On to the next post to keep my teeming legions of fans on my good side. Do you have any idea what a burden it is to be me?

If Children are the Future, I'm not Doing my Part

But first, more from the logophile (or is it lexophile?): scatological. It sounds like a type of philosophy, like epistemological or phenomenological. It sounds like it could be related to pedagogical or tautological. It also sounds like it could be the thought process involved in keeping cats away. Not only do I like the word; I appreciate or employ scatological references or humor any time an opportunity drops. A few more: labyrinth, cadaver, plexus, nexus, lascivious, puerile, hedonistic, Kundalini. At this point I need to mention that if any words have already been listed in prior posts or comments, their repetition is not redundancy but rather a bolstering of their value.

Now on to a peek at my world with the two impressionable minds that suffer with the unfortunate fate of having been entrusted to my careless hands.

A few months ago, Luke was getting ready to play a basketball game. I pulled him aside to give him a few helpful reminders, "keep your head in the game," "watch the ball," etc. I noticed a cut on his lip and asked about it. "Oh, I busted it today." He said. I was tempted to offer him some Chapstick, but I knew he'd refuse it, so I didn't say anything. Then I thought I saw a booger in his nose. After I tipped his head back for inspection, I decided it was clean enough. He was terrified that I might stick my pinkie up there and pick his nose (like I've been doing since he was born) right there in front of his teammates. He said, "C'mon, Mom. It's a basketball game, not picture day."

Last week, in the car, as we raced to wherever we were supposed to be, Katy said, "Mama, I know what sarcasm means." "Oh really? So give me an example," I said. "Like, you're not speeding. That's sarcasm." She has quite a talent for slamming me with her smarts. She can also both kiss up and tattle at the same time. Last Sunday, after the pastor's children's chat, as she was on her way to class, she stepped aside to inform me, "It was rude of those two boys to interrupt him when he was about to say the prayer." What a halo polisher.

After a hectic and harried morning trying to get the kids to dress themselves, eat their breakfast, and brush their teeth and hair within a reasonable time, I gave them yet another lecture as I drove them to the bus stop. I said, "I feel like y'all never listen to me. It's like you don't even hear me." Luke's response: "Katy … did you hear anything just now?" Katy goes, "No … I don't think so. Maybe a little bit of a buzzing sound." Of course, they immediately laughed and told me they were just kidding. What was I supposed to do with that? Yammer at them about how disrespectful they are and thereby discourage their clever creativity? Laugh along and be a fun mom, then break out the can of whoop-ass? I chose a middle ground and explained that sometimes lobbing an insulting joke at an authority figure (no matter how funny it might be), is generally against your best interest. (Advice that might serve me well, too.) Did anything I say register? Probably not, when my voice in their ears sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher.

Back to work now. I'll have another School of Rock installment soon, so stay tuned.

No More Neurotica (With Bonus Random Boring Thoughts)

So I got this e-mail from my mother after she read my last post. She referred to it as "the Woody Allen one." She knew it was out of character for me advertise my neurosis, so she had to check on me and make sure I wasn't rocking myself in a corner or hatching a plan to fake my own death. She said, "Send me an answer, or I will wonder what you are thinking." I told her I didn't appreciate being referred to as Woody Allen. Not so much because he's a borderline incestuous pedophile, but because I don't suffer obnoxious whining neurotics gladly. Anyway, I'm pulling out of the obsessive-compulsive paranoia-nursing. That state doesn't suit me well. I much prefer polishing my narcissism and pitying the fools who have destructively deprived themselves of my priceless and delightful friendship. Losers.

Just a few words: befuddled, miffed, ergo, malinger, ombudsman, omnibus, clandestine, Timbuktu, buttocks, sphincter, Draconian, Machiavellian. Latest Kundera words (yes, I'm still reading a tiny book I started a month ago): catharsis, visceral, grandeur. Some troublesome old-people words: humdinger, skedaddle, tarnation. More words I don't like: poontang, prick, excrement.

Just in case you want to make me dinner sometime or if you want to emulate my gastronomic eccentricities, I love seafood in general, but here are more foods I don't like: calamari, coconut shrimp, and oysters. I have tried calamari several times, cooked different ways, and in different restaurants. It always tastes like fish-flavored rubber bands to me. As for coconut shrimp, I love shrimp, and I like coconut. But when they are put together, it yields something akin to a fish-flavored macaroon. As for oysters, slimy fish-flavored snot. It's a texture thing. Probably why I don't like sashimi, either. Aren't you glad you just wasted the past several seconds of your life reading this paragraph? Sorry.

By-the-way, sometimes I wonder if my readers think I overuse hyphens. If you do think so, that-is-your-problem and you need to get-a-life. I find them handy and decorative. The confetti-of-punctuation. {The improper use here is for effect. Sort of like performance art.} I like self-referential things. I had a rock carved with these words: "Nothing is carved in stone." What clever irony, huh? Maybe I'll post a picture of it here. I need to get a life, don't I? Still shopping for one that fits. Of course, I don't like to pay retail, so whatever I get will be an irregular or second-hand. How appropriate.

I meant to get to some of my airport people-watching stories, but they'll just have to wait for next time. I'm too tired after dealing with one sick kid after the other for the past two weeks. Here's one quick airport observation for you. When I see a cute baby, I usually smile at the parents as if to say, "What a cute baby you have there." (Cute, happy babies always make me smile--both because I remember when mine were that little & cuddly and because I am so glad it's not me weighed down with all that baby-paraphernalia. -- Let's add paraphernalia.-- So I think there's a Schadenfreude element there, too.) When I see an ugly baby, I have to look away, because I can't pretend that someone has a cute baby when they don't. Does anyone else do this? I think I show too much on my face. That's why I suck at poker and could never pull off a surprise party.

If Someone Relies on Me for Good Advice, They're Worse off Than I am

I have this friend who asked me if there was word to describe wondering what you did to piss someone off. I told her I wish there were a word for the sick feeling that you must have done something to damage a personal or professional relationship and you have no idea what it was, you are too afraid to ask, and maybe you're just a paranoid idiot. This friend, who doesn't seem to care what other people think, and probably goes too far with ostensibly good-natured insults for the sake of a laugh, is a wimp. She can come across as abrasive and bitchy. Part of that is just her, but I think most of it is her defense mechanism of choice. Contrary to what you might imagine, she has never been a confrontational person. She may want to avoid conflict at any cost, but she always speaks her mind—unless doing so would bring conflict, of course. She doesn't thrive on drama. She's not a boat-rocker or what I like to call a "turd-stirrer." She doesn't usually have the time, energy, or inclination to make mountains out of molehills. She likes to keep everybody happy and laughing. Now, don't get me wrong. She's not a people-pleaser. She's not even a people person. She is even quite comfortable to believe that if someone doesn't "get" her or like her, that's their loss and their problem.

Her concern is with those who at one time did seem to like her (or at least not dislike her) and now for reasons she may never know, seem to have written her off. Being written off per se doesn't bother her quite as much as being written off without explanation. The lack of an explanation means either (1) the (potentially) former friends / colleagues / acquaintances are also nonconfrontational wimps like she is, or (2) they are so unhappy with her for whatever it was that they have decided she should already know what she did and/or she therefore does not deserve an explanation, much less the effort it would take to provide one. Or maybe they do care enough about her feelings to spare her whatever discomfort they think they might be powerful enough to inflict.

Is she more worried about other people's feelings or her own reputation? Is her ego so fragile? (Apparently.) Her fear so irrational? (Who knows?) She doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve. She carries pieces of it in her purse along with crumpled receipts, stray coins, and her identity. She holds parts of it on the tip of her tongue with the words she cannot find. Some of the lost pieces left room for others to grow safely in her rib cage. Sometimes she doesn't show her heart when she should. Fear-frozen. Other times she shows it when she shouldn't. It leaks out of her eyes or spills from her mouth or slips through her fingers. She cares too much and works too hard at pretending that she doesn't.

I told my sensitive friend I knew how she felt. I was once written off by a close girlfriend. (This sort of thing had never happened to me before. I don't lose friends. If anything, I have more than I can keep up with. Is this what happens when the popular cheerleader finds out one of the band geeks doesn't envy her? She thinks, "there goes one of my votes for Homecoming Queen.") One day, you're baring your soul to someone and they're sharing their deepest secrets, the next, your son allegedly breaks her daughter's expensive new toy and you don't offer to replace it. Her frequent contacts abruptly stopped. She never gave me any explanation, and I was too afraid to ask—not wanting to stir up trouble, you know. But at least with her I had a good clue. I saw her brother's obituary in the paper several months later. I wanted to contact her, but I let fear and pride stop me. She herself could have dropped off the face of the earth too by now for all I know.

Seems odd to me how someone could get so close and then just be gone. Sort of like the last few girls on The Bachelor. Those poor chicks fall in love with this dude (or so they feel at the time) then, before you can say, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass!" he leaves them without a rose and they never see the douchebag again. Even good riddance makes a stupid heart ache. (My use of the word douchebag is a reference to the surprisingly bleeped-out name the third-runner-up bachelorette called this latest bachelor, plus I think it's a new addition to my favorite words list.) This reminds me, I think the "most dramatic final rose ceremony ever" is coming on tonight. Can't wait to fast-forward through it to see the last loser cry in the limo. There goes my Schadenfreude.

Too bad the sources of my friend's angst (there's a close description for her) never read this garbage or even know it exists--maybe that's a good thing, come to think of it. I told my friend that at least the rejection she's getting doesn't include having her heart broken like those poor girls on the show. I reminded my friend that she sucks at staying in touch, too. I told her to stop taking the silence so personally. I told her she's a paranoid idiot and maybe it's just an odd coincidence that this certain handful of random people has been unable to return her calls or e-mails. She knows her phone works. She knows her e-mail works. Every disgruntled veteran in the state of Texas has been able to get through.

She'll be fine. She has plenty of other friends she hasn't alienated yet.

1985

A few weeks ago, I was playing "Name That Band" with the kids, as we often do. I noticed I wasn't changing the station at all--which is unusual. We were listening to one of those stations that plays any random song. In San Antonio, it's Jack. The one out of Austin is Bob. We get both. So as each song played, I took their guesses, then informed them of the name of the artist or band and song title that I think they should be familiar with if they want to have any clue about the history of American pop music. (Maybe they don't want a clue about it and will be in therapy one day because of my well-meaning instruction--screaming in a rubber room "Get these oldies out of my head!!!") Anyway, I'm teaching them to recognize even artists I don't much care for anymore but who still merit acknowledgment, like Elton John, Rod Stewart, Madonna, and Chicago. I also pointed out classic artists I still like such as U2, Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, Springsteen, Steve Miller, The Pretenders, The Go-Go's, The Cars, Santana, Pink Floyd, The Police, and even The Eagles. I also had the courtesy to point out bands Mike likes that I don't much care about, like Aerosmith, Rush, Lynyrd Skynyrd, ZZ-Top, and Van Halen because I think they are part of our culture's music history. (Or lack of culture as the case may be.) After about 12 songs in a row, I realized why I hadn't needed to change the station. It was an All '80's Weekend. I let out an "Uuuggghhh!!" when I realized how old I was to be sitting there thinking, "Wow, they sure are playing a lot of good music." I fought an unnaturally urgent desire to go get a lower back tattoo or pierce my eyebrow as soon as possible. The kids were all like, "Mom, what's the matter?" I knew they wouldn't even begin to understand. I couldn't ask, "Don't y'all ever get nostalgic for Barney or the Teletubbies?"

I've told you all this just to introduce my perfect theme song suggested by none other than my ever-so-clever 8-year-old daughter. After I told the kids, "I just realized I like all these songs because they are only playing music from when I was in high school and college in the 1980s," Katy said, "Hey mom, you need to hear that song that says, 'Springsteen, Madonna, way before Nirvana, her two kids in high school tell her that she's uncool.'" I had a real Oprah-esque light-bulb moment. Upset as I was, the kid was absolutely spot-on right. Here are some of the lyrics from Bowling For Soup's 1985 just to give you an idea:

She's seen all the classics, she knows every line,
Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, even St. Elmo's Fire
She rocked out to Wham, not a big Limp Bizkit fan
Thought she'd get a hand on a member of Duran Duran

Where's the mini-skirt made of snake skin?
And who's the other guy that's singing in Van Halen?
When did reality become TV?
What ever happened to sitcoms, game shows,
on the radio...

Bruce Springsteen, Madonna, way before Nirvana,
there was U2 and Blondie, and music still on MTV,
Her two kids in high school, they tell her that she's uncool
'cause she's still preoccupied with 19, 19, 1985

She hates time, make it stop
When did Motley Crue become classic rock?
And when did Ozzy become an actor?
......

The ironic thing is, I replaced a Limp Bizkit song with this one. Is this a mid-life crisis? Is this a cry for help? Just keep an eye on me and don't let me get any embarrassing tattoos or piercings that would make me not just more uncool but also more pathetic.

I Need to Have a Few Words With You (Plus Bonus Weed-Eating Tips)

Baroque (I think my sister already added this one, but it bears repeating), Rococo, tchotchke, chartreuse, magenta, periwinkle, erect, macaroon, vinegaroon, anemone, cochlea, evanescence (and I like the band, too-- one of my favorite songs of theirs is Call Me When You're Sober, which reminds me of a similar country song by a guy named Buck Jones, You Only Call Me When You're Drunk). And more words from Milan Kundera: paltry, paradigm, manifesto, vestibule, chrysalis, megalomaniac, narcissism, grotesque, ephemeral, and noxious. Kundera also mentions the French writer, François-René de Châteaubriand. The word Châteaubriand reminds me of a little story. Years ago, a young, kind of nerdy guy I worked with was telling me and another co-worker about his romantic Valentine's Day dinner with his girlfriend. He said he took her to an expensive steak restaurant. My co-worker asked him, "Did you have the Châteaubriand for two?" "No," he said, "we don't drink wine."

Now, indulge me for a moment. (Or feel free to skip this paragraph as it is boring to anyone but me.) One of my other favorite writers is Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Back in the late 80s to the mid-90s, I think I read every Milan Kundera and every Gabriel Garcia Marquez book available at that time. Yes, it took me several years. {I need to mention as an aside that one of my newer favorite (or should I say favourite) writers, Nick Hornby, mentions Kundera and Garcia Marquez, one right after the other, on two separate occasions; once in High Fidelity and again in How to be Good--which gave me all the more reason to appreciate Hornby.} Anyway, I'm trudging through this little 168-page Kundera book of literary criticism, and I run across this: "[T]hree Latin American writers came to Prague: [including] Gabriel Garcia Marquez… I spent an unforgettable week with them. We became friends. And just after they left I had the opportunity to read the Czech translation proofs of One Hundred Years of Solitude. . . . Garcia Marquez's novel is free imagination itself. One of the greatest works of poetry I know. Every single sentence sparkles with fantasy, every sentence is surprise, is wonder . . ." I never knew that they had met. I felt some sort of literary harmonic convergence at that moment and was reminded of my early passion for literature that began to fade with the birth of my children. Of course, taking care of kids doesn't leave as much time for reading, but that's not what quelled my passion. Instead, a child awakens a new passion incomparable to anything anyone could feel for even the most extraordinary work of literature. Suddenly, Shakespeare and Homer and even Ovid just didn't make my heart pound like before.

Now, if you have not fallen asleep (or if you indeed had the audacity to skip the previous paragraph) I will provide you with some important and useful weed-eating and leaf-blowing tips. Keep in mind that these things did not necessarily happen to me. And if they did, I would not necessarily admit it.

Things you should not weed-eat and why:
(1) big fat honking dandelion or dollar weeds, because they are juicy and will splatter all over your shins,
(2) any size pile of dog poop (especially fresh), because it tends to spray,
(3) any small oak saplings your husband may have wanted you to spare,
(4) the black foam air-conditioner-compressor hose cover, because you might inhale and choke on the particles or get a piece stuck in your eye,
(5) deer pellets (especially the hardened ones), because they can smack you in the kneecaps, and
(6) ant beds or spiders, for obvious reasons.

You may also want to keep your iPod headphone cord at a safe distance if you choose to leave the weed-eater running while you squat down to pick up your sunglasses if they fall off while you try to rub gasoline out of your eyes.

The leaf blower was much more fun. My only caveats on that:
(1) if you have allergies, be sure to take your medicine first,
(2) keep your shorts from getting sucked up into the air intake, otherwise it can give you an inconvenient frontal wedgie, and
(3) if the wind is blowing, it is futile to work against it.

And don't forget bug repellent and sunscreen.

It's after 1:00 a.m. now. I need to get some sleep before Katy wakes me up with her vomiting again. That's another of my many stories I'll try not to bother you with. Oh, by the way, I put a little video of her on YouTube, because I have no life and so much spare time in which to not live it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9_pYXBsT_M

School of Rock II

You'll find my impromptu post for today in a comment under the last post. It's all in response to one of Chris' bothersome yet thought-provoking comments. In fact, I think some of my best material is in the comments. You may be better off waiting for a real post here, but I'm taking a short hiatus (let's add hiatus to the word list, btw). Sounds like a coital hernia to me. "Whoa! I think you just gave me a hiatus!"