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.

Pieces & Bits (Now With More Crude References!)

Sounds nastier that way, doesn't it? Like twig & berries or something. Sorry.

Important pet-feeding warning: If you are chewing a mouthful of cashews (or probably anything else of similar texture), don't inhale as you scoop up dry dog food. Creates a little sensory confusion. Try it.

So I see that Estelle Getty died. Supposedly she was only 84. You know that's a lie. She was 84 twenty years ago when she was on that lame geriatric sitcom. In fact, I thought she was already long dead. Bless her heart. I always hated The Golden Girls. If anyone wants to torture me, lock me in a room with a TV that only shows Golden Girls reruns, black and white war movies, or anything starring Tom Cruise.

A few weeks ago, while I was neglecting her (as I am wont to do), Katy strolled into my office with a fresh batch of perfectly-cooked microwave popcorn. I said, "How did you do that? I always burn it." She said (with air-quotes), "Mom, you should try the button that says 'popcorn' next time." I honestly had never thought of that. I just considered the breakfast or beverage or frozen dinner kind of buttons as merely decorative. I have always applied the old Thermos question to those: "How do it know?"

Laundry tip: Try to prevent cigars or DVDs from going through your washer and dryer. I'm just saying. This is why I usually let all the dirty clothes pile up until the cleaning people come. They are professionals who pay more attention.

So Jamie Lee Curtis is now doing ads for some kind of yogurt for your bowels. Remember when she was hot? Halloween? Trading Places? John McEnroe is doing commercials for All Bran. Remember when he was such a temper-tantrum-throwing badass? (For a tennis player, anyway.) When I see George Clooney touting Viagra, just take me out back and shoot me. And if Heather Locklear starts advertising Polident or Depends, please slash my throat, push my wheelchair into traffic, and put me out of my misery.

Sorry, can't quit this:

British word I love: Wanker. I guess the American equivalents might be tool or douche, as in "My college roommate was such a tool," or "She's going out with him? That douche?"

Old-timey old-person words: newfangled, contraption, (those two words often travel together), braggadocious, fiddlesticks (I'm going to try to revive that one. Who's with me?), gol-durn, dag-nabbit, dad-burnit, dad-blasted, dad-gummit (These words are mostly found in old westerns from back before the Indians taught the cowboys how to curse). When I was little, I heard my dad say "dammit" so I started repeating it. Well, he then switched to "dad-gummit." So I proceeded to repeat, "dammit gummit."

That reminds me of a couple of simply adorable things Luke did when he was a toddler. He had watched the John Wayne movie The Cowboys with Mike. There's a great line in there where one of the boys calls John Wayne a son of a bitch. We didn’t think Luke caught that (seeing as how he was like three) but later when he was mad at me, he goes, "Mama, you son of a bitch!"

{Side story: Years ago, this teenage friend of my brother said his mom was yelling at him and called him a son of a bitch. He looked her up and down and responded, "You got that right!" Ouch. I wonder how long he was grounded.}

Back to Luke. First, you need to know that Luke was such a little cowboy from the time he could crawl. Even when he was running around in just a diaper, he would always accessorize it with his hat and boots. My mother-in-law was watching him one day when he was about four years old. He was looking for his boots and matter-of-factly said to her in all his naiveté, "Gabba, where are my f@ckin' boots?" Somehow, he had learned that that's how you describe something you're looking for.

Speaking of the toddler cowboy, there's a scene in the first Toy Story movie where one angry character says to the other, "You want a piece of me?" Well, Luke didn't hear it quite right. I was scolding him (probably for spilling my drink) and he looked at me, all serious and mad and said, "You want a piece of meat?"

How will I ever discipline my kids when all I can do is laugh at them? Perhaps that's punishment enough--feeling ridiculed by a ranting, unstable authority figure. Hey, I grew up that way, and I can still function fairly properly in most social settings.

More words that feel good on my tongue: acrimonious, besmirch, sinister, chow-chow, pygmy, gerrymander, jerry-rig, filibuster, wherewithal, jinx, tibia, fibula, femur, shard (but not chard, don't care for unusual supposedly edible greens), perplex, heathen, miscreant, phallic, calypso, foible.

Words I don't like: snatch (especially as a noun), cunnilingus (why does it sound like a taxonomy word, like it's a phylum or species or genus? As in, "Cunnilingus erotica, a species of southern hemisphere fruit"), smidgen (or worse, smidge), sliver (especially when people refer to pie), compote (reminds me of marmalade made from compost), chutney (I don't care for strange fancy food terms like this—especially when they don't sound appetizing.), fellatio (This word has a musical connotation to me. Like it's related to piccolo, adagio, and arpeggio. Can't you see a band director saying, "I need you to play that flute with more fellatio!")

Reminds me of one of my favorite pop culture quotes: "This one time...at band camp..." Comes in handy, especially when a "so to speak" or a "that's what he said" doesn't quite work.

Is this a mondegreen? I have heard people say, "take it for granite" as in, "I just feel like he takes me for granite." Well at least he doesn't take you for Formica.

Best book title ever: Are You There Vodka? It's Me Chelsea. It's Chelsea Handler's latest book. Can't wait to put in on top of my 4-foot tall "books to read" stack. Men might not get this. Every female from my generation has read Judy Blume's Are You There God? It's Me Margaret. It was a book all about some girl starting her period. How she wrote an entire book about it is beyond me. It may be that there's only one paragraph about the period, but that's the only part we all remember. I'll have to read it again. My title might be, Are You There Prozac? or Are You There Ritalin?

I saw a comic strip recently about inventions this guy was working on. One was brilliant: A car that runs on human rage. Wish I had thought of that.

That's it for today. Time to forage in the freezer for the kids' dinner. I hope Katy will cook it for me.

It's Juicy. Why Wait?

Why is it no one calls till I'm on the phone? Is there some sort of telepathic kinesis going on? Does this phenomenon strike anyone else?

Why do well-meaning friends keep forwarding me cheesy animated kitten-angels, urban legends they failed to check on Snopes, and bad PowerPoint movies with misspelled yet heartfelt words? The forwards I can't stand, and seem to get the most of, are the superstitious prayers. Jesus loves you, and if you don't forward this to 23 friends in the next 8 minutes, God will smite you. If you do send it, you will get a miracle. As if some parent of a critically ill child could scour the internet for as many different magic God-powered e-mail forwards to store up as many "blessings" as they could to save their child. Jesus Christ, people. Don't you know it's bad luck to be superstitious?

Katy wanted to bake something and the recipe called for cream of tartar. I will never understand why it's called cream as it is a powdery substance, but anyway, I told her we didn't have any. She looked in the fridge and said, "Well, we have tartar sauce. It's creamy. Can't we use that?"

I told Katy to take a shower. Her response: "Can't I just rub some soap in my armpits?" At least she's not high-maintenance.

I was at Schlitterbahn with a friend and her 13-year old daughter. My friend and I were doing the usual people-watching that you can't help but do at a place where there is so much exposed human flesh on display. Very little of the viewing is pleasant. Most of it is of the morbid-curiosity type. So we see this, let's say, nubile (a word which has taken on a special nuance somewhat contrary to its original, more puritanical meaning) late-teenish young lady (and I use that term loosely). She is offering free (and highly visible) advertising for the Juicy Couture brand with the word Juicy spread daintily across her jiggly butt. My friend says to me, "Who would let their daughter out in public with a bikini that says 'Juicy' on the butt?" My friend's daughter goes, "Well, at least it doesn't say that on the front." Priceless humor right there.

This same friend had been going to a gym called "Why Weight?" At the same time, her daughter was in some abstinence class called "Worth the Wait." Well, my friend was talking to me and understandably got them mixed up. She started telling me about her daughter's sex education class called "Why Wait?" I'm afraid that's the way we learned it when I was in school.

Now back to my favorite hobby. Sorry, folks. I'll just start putting these at the end so you can skip them if you want to. But remember, if you don't read everything on each visit, you will not only have unimaginable tragedy befall you within 17 days, but you will also be unfulfilled, incomplete, and suffer an intractable case of chronic irritable bowel syndrome until you are either impaled by a splintery fencepost or spontaneously combust, whichever comes first.

Words I was surprised had not made the list before:

cataclysm, catapult, egregious, gregarious, lascivious, perdition, talisman, cortex, corona, bicker, squabble, finagle, frenzy (one of my new favorite bands: A Fine Frenzy), sacrosanct, salvage, platitude, vague, ingratiate, bastard, dastardly, Viagra, Niagara, Lycra, epigram, argot, shaft (mostly just the noun form, but also the 70s TV show), spasm, benevolent, belligerent, harelip (old-person word now politically-incorrect to say), bizarre, bazaar, oxymoron, idiot (one of our favorite road-rage words we don't like our kids to say), nuance, nubile, puerile, clique, metropolis, blurb, opaque, dysfunctional, symbiotic, Ikea, lunatic, maxim (not necessarily the magazine), mythical, obsolete, panacea, Dulcinea, dulcimer, hurdy-gurdy, jibber-jabber (did y'all ever see that weird sheep-boy Skittles commercial? Here's a link to it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKkZ3hkDF4w), mandolin, mandarin, Rorschach, surreal, toupee, meningitis, fury, Bedouin, poignant, pantomime, verbatim, nomad, jive, jargon.

A lot of parents forbid their children from using what they call the "S" word: Stupid. In our house, the "S" word is something more expressive. We have so many other words worse than stupid to contend with, we tend to let that one slip by. We've told the kids it's not so bad to refer to a thing as stupid, but you shouldn't call a person that. Unless it's true.

Words that seem related, but definitely aren't: carouse & carousel, philander & philanthropy, organism & orgasm, flagellate & flatulate, plateau & platitude, latitude & platitude, (plateau & latitude might go together, but that's not how this game is played), antidote & anecdote, oblique & oblong, salacious & saliva. Wait ... I can see how salacious & saliva might go together. Orgasm & organism, too, for that matter.

Word that sounds like a bad breakfast: milquetoast

Words or phrases I prefer not to hear: co-dependent, tiff, in a dither (another old-person phrase), namby-pamby, priggish, vas deferens, rectal, rectum, vulva, dicker, okie-dokie (or okie-doke), gelatinous, enema.

Now, just remember, God loves you more if you gunk up your friends' in-boxes!!! Spread the Good News, you know. But throw in some threats for good measure.

From the Dustpan of my Mind

Today at his press conference, President Bush was talking about the terrorists and he said, "They have no disregard for human life." I wonder if anyone else caught that. Bless his heart.

So everyone is all "up in arms" over the New Yorker cover. Hello? It's called satire. Has anyone heard of it? It's a liberal magazine. They are making a point. Satire, especially the political kind, used to be funny to smart people. Political cartoons have been making statements for at least 200 years in this country. Suddenly, everyone gets this politically-correct bug up their ass and can't see hyperbole and get the message. Now if a conservative rag published that cartoon, they wouldn't mean it as satire. They would just mean it.

Guilty pleasure confession: I love listening to Rush and Hannity. It makes me feel angry and smart and inadequate at the same time. Nice cocktail. I do have to agree with some of their points, and the parodies are usually pretty funny. What I can't stand are the idol-worshipping suck-ups who call in and bow down and tell them how they have changed their lives just like Jesus did.

This morning, I found a lovely torn up and pecked-over fox carcass off our back porch. I had Luke shovel it up and throw it over the fence onto a neighbor's property. When Luke looked at the remains, he said, "He's smiling. Or maybe he's gritting his teeth." I voted for the latter.

After the fox incident, I did something I have never done before. I actually flipped off another driver. It was an 18-wheeler. And I had Luke and his friend in the car with me. Real impressive move on my part, huh? Maybe they weren't paying attention. Luke never does. But his friend has probably already broken the news to his appalled parents. I have never let idiots on the road get to me, but this one intentionally and with great effort made sure I missed my exit. May he rot in hell.

On the recurring road trip to my mom's, somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, TX on highway 281, I always see this run-down, white and red cinderblock motel with a dimly-lit sign that says, "American Owned." As if its hourly visitors care.

On that drive, near the cutoff to go to Austin, there's a restaurant that has been there forever. Its sign boasts "Texas' Best Chicken Fried Steak…Nearly Three Dozen Sold!" I need to take a picture of that one.

Hico, Texas has been predicted to become "The Next Fredericksburg." This means that the antique prices will go up by 300% and the Billy the Kid Museum better get some authentic stuff to display. The town might also consider adding a hotel or two. American-owned, of course. Maybe they could tear down one of their hundred or so churches. My mom told me about this crotchety old gal who is always raising hell there. In fact, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting her. Apparently, someone witnessed her yelling at some construction workers who were building yet another church. She said, "This town don't need another f*ing church!!" As if they could understand anything more than her F word. Hico also boasts a new "Waterpark." It's a postage-stamp sized concrete slab with holes in it that spray water. I haven't seen it yet, but my niece and nephew had a good time there, in spite of all the rules. My mom took a picture of the sign. I'll have to share it here soon. She said it's about the size of a refrigerator, and pretty much bigger than the "park" itself. The sign looks something like this:

SPRAY PARK RULES:

No lifeguard
No unaccompanied children
No alcohol
No tobacco
No firearms
No littering
No loitering
No trespassing
No bottles or cans
No food or gum
No horseplay or rough-housing
No street clothes or cut-offs
No skates or skateboards
No graffiti or vandalism
No loud music
No rap or hip-hop
No running or fast walking
No jumping or skipping
No boisterous behavior
No smiling or laughter

HAVE FUN!!!!

Mom said reading the sign was the most fun part of the outing for her.

With the gas prices such a big deal—especially since I've been burning so much of it lately, I was reminded of a quote from the liner notes in one of Eva Cassidy's CDs. It says something like, "I don't know why everyone is complaining about the price of gas…I just always get five dollars' worth."

I drove through Starbucks on one of my trips recently, as my car goes there sort of on autopilot. After I ordered my grande mocha light frappuccino with a shot and drove toward the window, Katy said, "$4.76 for a drink??" That's when it really hit me. Katy is far too aware of my poor judgment.

So my nephew Ben, who is like 5, I think, is obsessed with his mother's bosoms as my sister likes to call them. I think it's because he was a bottle-fed baby. He said to Kelly, "Mom, your boobs are big." Then he pointed at my mother and said, "Yours are kind of medium." Then of course, Kelly had to push it and ask, "How big are Aunt Jill's?" The little sh!t responded with a sort of brush-off gesture and one word, "Tiny." Thanks, kid. Sure, he was right, but that's beside the point. I'm sure his interest makes his father proud. This is my family. A little boy evaluating the breast sizes of his adult female family members.

Mike's bachelor cousin in Houston is so rich, he has what he calls a "dog nanny."

Katy is not only a back seat driver, she has back seat road rage.

Anthems I need to add: Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me, Queen's We Will Rock You, and Aerosmith's Sweet Emotion.

Latest movies I loved: Superbad and Walk Hard—The Dewey Cox Story. Real high-quality low-brow humor, those.

Now more fodder for the word mill:

fisticuffs, fistula, tardive dyskinesia, delirium tremens, zenith, nadir, apex, vortex, antipathy, centaur, minotaur, amygdala, medulla oblongata (reminds me of Adam Sandler's Waterboy), vitreous, cerebrum, cerebellum, antebellum, umbrage, dirigible, ramshackle, slovenly, interloper, Visigoth, harbinger, augury, auger, odyssey, serendipity, maelstrom, glum, glib (Tom Cruise: "You're glib, Matt. You're glib!"), tantric (Sting's yoga of choice, and one I will never master), erudite, crudite, chagrin, swarthy, smarmy, skeevy (not really a word, but should be), skanky.

A word I don't like, for obvious reasons: chancre. One time my sister said she had a chancre sore on her mouth. I told her, "I think you mean canker sore."

I went into the little Bulverde post office the other day with Katy. Mind you, this is Mayberry without all the interesting characters. Well, maybe a few Barney Fifes, but that's it. No Gomers that I'm aware of. So I of course exchange pleasantries with the ladies who work there. They have come to know me quite well what with all the certified mail I have to send and then all the eBay packages I ship out. As Katy and I walked back to the car, she said, "I like the people here. They're like townsfolk." Townsfolk. Good old-person word there, Katy.

Other old people words that I am uneasy about: hankering (or hankerin'), and, as noted above on the park rules, horseplay and rough-housing. What is the difference between horseplay and rough-housing? I think horseplay is the milder form. I picture scampering in a meadow and perhaps flapping your arms at your target in a playful yet somewhat threatening manner. Rough-housing, on the other hand, is like when a bully ties your arms behind your back and shakes the crap out of you by boxing your head and giving you a mild concussion.

This should hold you for a while. It's after midnight, and I will become a big loser if I start blogging into the wee hours. Wee hours. Another phrase that gets on my nerves, just so you know.

Strawberry Whoppers

I survived the million-mile-road-trip-alone-with-kids weekend. It really wasn't bad. Even when I brought 3 extra kids home from Lake Charles yesterday. We stayed at L'Auberge du Lac. Beautiful place. It has this lazy river for floating and a swim-up bar. The casino was too high-dollar for the Saturday night we were there. Not like the low-rent off-the-strip Vegas spots I like to frequent.

The only drawback on the drive was sharing music time. Suddenly these kids have opinions. I don't like to pacify them with DVDs on road trips, just because I think it takes away from the whole experience. I want them to play the alphabet game or find out-of-state plates or count blue cars or play slug-bug or fight and pull hair and spit like I did with my siblings back in the 70s when we didn't have seat belts keeping us on our separate sides, or even in a seat for that matter. Gooood times, those days. I really thought the kids would be fine with their MP3s and Nintendos and even something I like to call books. But nooooo, they had music requests. That's what I get for training them. I can only tolerate a certain amount of Miley Cyrus and maybe a little bit more of the Jonas Brothers, but Katy's other "music" includes these horribly cheesy versions of popular songs sung by what sound like those goofy-looking Barney kids. The CDs have names like Kid's Rockin' Dance Party. You really haven't lived until you hear Santana or the Goo Goo Dolls or Matchbox Twenty butchered all to hell by the voices of spoiled pre-teen wannabe-celebrities who botched their Barney auditions. There's only so much bubble gum or cotton candy music I can stand before I go into a diabetic coma. The other thing about kids singing adult songs is that they have no idea what the lyrics mean. Like the Goo Goo Dolls' Slide. Or YMCA. Of course, when I was a kid, I thought the Village People were just a bunch of dudes in costumes. I had no idea that was what they actually wore in real life. Or why. And I loved singing Cher's Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves with never a clue as to what it was about. Much less Half Breed. Or remember The Who's Squeeze Box? I always thought it was about an accordion. I did get the kids some CDs with real musicians singing songs for kids. Those are called For the Kids (one, two, & three). They have a lot of Barenaked Ladies, and some of my other favorites: Matt Nathanson, Jason Mraz, Sarah McLachlan, Dar Williams, Rosie Thomas, John Ondrasik, Guster, Chantal Kreviazuk, and Sixpence None the Richer. Some of those songs are at least tolerable. I said some. But they were much more palatable than the other crap these kids demanded like Who Let the Dogs Out, Mambo #5, and Pump Up The Jam, which is still stuck in my head.

On our way there, the kids amused themselves (and me) with the things they said. Katy was explaining to Luke about credit cards. She said, "You buy something now, then pay for it later." Luke's response: "Or you buy something now, then move to Kentucky."

They had this box of nasty strawberry Whoppers (a new taste sensation, I guess). Well, the Whoppers' candy coating had melted, so the kids were licking them. Then they say, "Mom, we're licking these balls. We call 'em 'Licky-Balls!'" I tried not to laugh as I suggested they find a more appropriate-sounding name.

As we approached the resort, Katy only saw a big-box store on the corner. She goes, "That better not be our hotel. It looks like a Costco." I said, "Worse, Katy. It's a Sam's." When she saw the place, she looked at Luke and with her evil laugh said, "OOooohhh Yeahhhh…. You know we're gonna get some roooom service here!!" I made a mental note to unplug the phone when we got to the room. These kids must not get out much because a hotel to them might as well be Disneyland. Especially one like that with all the shopping and food. We could take them on vacation to the Holiday Inn Express downtown and they'd be beside themselves with glee. Poor deprived children.

Mike and two other guys in his squadron did a fly-by for this little July 4th event there. We were out at my friend's pool waiting for them to fly over when we decided to go in for more drinks. Soon as we headed back out, we caught their tails. Katy had been lounging in the house. I said, "You missed the fly-by." Nintendo in hand, she goes, "I've seen 'em before." That was pretty much my sentiment, too. Funny that in our world, seeing some loud, fast F-16s zooming overhead in formation is really no biggie. I bet astronauts' wives don't see the big whoop, either.

The fireworks show over the lake was spectacular. Like nothing I have seen in years. People always ooh and ahh over them (as do I), but I always get all patriotic and emotional. I wonder how many people just see lights in the sky and don't consider what they mean. There you go. That was my softer side.

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Now back to my addiction. Hey, it's an addictionary! (Sorry, that was gay. Not in the homosexual sense, but its second definition which is, of course, lame.)

It just figures that as soon as I try to shake off the wordsmith fixation, Webster's comes out with its list of new words worthy of a dictionary entry. The AP says there are like 100 of them, but I can't find the complete list. Most of the ones I saw are boring anyway. I was surprised that edamame and soju weren't already in there. Love edamame. Not so big on soju. I think soju is something like grappa, which tastes like turpentine to me. Well, tastes like the smell of turpentine. Or maybe formaldehyde. Now there's a good word. Formaldehyde. Can you hear or read that word without picturing a big jar with something dead floating in it? I do like sake though. I mean the Japanese wine there. I had never heard of prosecco, probably because I don't like sparkling wine. When I saw the word, I thought of prosciutto and figured it was some sort of strange Italian raw pork product. Pescatarian is interesting. "Vegetarians" who eat fish. Because fish isn't meat? Because fish can count as fruit or vegetables? Do they include shellfish? What about amphibians? Do they eat frog legs, or is it a walking on land issue? I wouldn't mind being a pescatarian. Chicken and pig and cow meat really do sort of creep me out if I think about it. So I don't. All the grease and gristle, blood and bones and hormones. But I'm an unrepentant Texan carnivore. You just can't beat a good grilled medium rare ribeye. Of course fish have all the mercury and stink and eyeballs and scales. Not to mention they swim in their pee. I'd be a vegetarian if I could tolerate tofu, but who knows what the heck that stuff really is?

My favorite new Webster's word is mondegreen. It describes words mistaken for other words, like in phrases or lyrics. The examples they used are the classic ones; what I have always called Chronic Lyricosis: Like "There's a bathroom on the right" and "'Scuse me, while I kiss this guy." Then there's the word douche in Blinded by the Light which I have previously addressed perhaps ad nauseam here. I assume other frequently misspoken phrases fit the definition. Like: "At your beckon call," or "for all intensive purposes." Maybe I should start a list of mondegreens, or start inventing them.

That's it for now. I need to go get ready to watch the most dramatic (or is it romantic?) rose ceremony ever on the Bachelorette. I'm pulling for Jason. God help me.

Loose Ends

I thought I'd better go ahead and post something before I leave town for the weekend. I'm taking the kids up to my mom's this afternoon. Then tomorrow morning we're going up to Fort Worth for a funeral. After that, we're driving to Houston. The next morning, we go to Lake Charles, Louisiana. I'm glad to know my OnStar works, but I don't intend to run out of gas again on this trip. I'm thinking this time, maybe it'll be a flat tire instead. Mike gets to take his jet directly to Louisiana. Bless his heart.

Don't you hate it when someone says they are going to funeral and just leave it at that? You start wondering, Who was it? What happened? Were you close? This is not unlike the situation when someone mentions that they had "minor surgery." You just know that when they don't elaborate, you probably don't want to hear about it. So the funeral is for my aunt Bonnie. She was my grandmother's sister. She was also my third grade teacher. I think she was in her late 90s. She was one of those who lived a nice long good life, never lost her mind, and never had any major physical problems. For someone who was almost 100. A few years ago, I caught her reading the obituaries. She said that's what old people do to keep up with their friends. She made me promise that if no one comes to her funeral, I have to announce that the low turnout is because all of her friends are dead.

I am looking forward to this little break. Work has been burning me out. Back in February or March, I posted a story about my experience with this pro bono veterans' event I went to and pretty much supervised. Well, because I am a moron and a masochist, and because no good deed goes unpunished, I took on several pro bono cases. Just out of the kindness of my heart, to put some good karma back out there in the world, and in hopes, of course, of signing up the good cases later for a fee. Since I lost my conscience in law school, you can bet that any philanthropic act on my part will someday benefit me one way or another, and I mean financially. One of my new pro bono clients had the nerve, the absolute gall (after I had put in a good four or five hours reviewing his file and writing an important letter for him for free) to ask me for an advance. As if: (1) I would ever do that, (2) I have the spare money to do that, (3) his direct deposit from the VA was coming in next week, or (4) if I am a sucker to give him free legal advice, I must just be a sucker in general. Needless to say, that file is now on my very back burner.

My new favorite song the past few weeks is Kid Rock's All Summer Long. It is this cool mixture of Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London and Lynyrd Skynyrd's Sweet Home Alabama. I like it even though he has some seriously lame lyric problems. Like he got high and drunk and scribbled some words down and recorded it before anyone sat him down and said hey, we can make this better. He rhymes the word things with the word things. But the worst offense is rhyming bottle with tomorrow. Regardless, I think it's a fun song.

I saw this painted on the side of the truck the other day: "Quality at it's best!" I had to sigh and roll my eyes. All I could think was, punctuation at its worst. I guess not everyone can care about apostrophe misuse the way I do.

I have a question. Why does everyone say "sherbert" when it is spelled and pronounced sherbet? There is only one R in it. I don't much care for sherbet anyway, but when people mispronounce it, I really have no use for that stuff at all.

A couple of French words that Americans can never say correctly: armoire and coup de grace. I don't mean that they should be pronounced with a French accent. That would be pompous. (No offense, Chris.) They should just be pronounced the French way, but in American. Armoire is not "Arm-wah" and coup de grace is not "Coo day Grah." The French do say the endings of some of their words. The bottom line with me is if you can't pronounce coup de grace, use some other phrase. I even saw it spelled somewhere like this: cou de gras, which I think kind of means neck of fat. Not really the meaning they were going for.

Ever since I started this silly word business, I get recommendations from friends and I'm always pulling out my little notepad to add words I hear everywhere. One day not long ago at an awards ceremony at Luke's school, this albino kid stood up to receive an award. I immediately pulled out my notepad and scribbled the word albino. Nothing against melanin-challenged people, I just like the word albino. Hey, there's one, melanin. Just like if I saw a little person, I might jot down midget. I wish I could stop this, because some of the good words have started repeating themselves. And I'm not about to keep track or start alphabetizing. I have a hard enough time keeping my spices in alphabetical order. So if any of you have any suggestions of things I might shift my focus to, I will be glad to consider them. In the meantime, here you go:

tryst, brandish, rakish, rancid, putrid, heinous, esperanza, Esperanto, myriad, grandiose, palindrome, rebus, anagram, algorithm, thwart, zilch, squelch, nada, akimbo, charisma, chimera, alchemy, adrenalin, albumin, acumen, geode, obsidian, abyssinian, onyx, minx, manx, calamity, squander.

My friend Kathy recommended crotchety. That word is both descriptive and nasty. It has the word crotch in it, and it usually refers to an old person. And that's just wrong. As in, "The octogenarian pole dancer was crotchety."

Words that irritate me for no particular reason: scrumptious, copasetic, simpatico, kibosh.

That's all for now. My cleaning people are here, so I need to get out of their way. Maybe I'll get the oil changed, have the tires checked, fill up with gas, and of course, get some cash to blow at the casino.