The Ninth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

Special Celebrity-Scandal-Free Edition!!!

First, I should retract my 2002 remark about the late Michael Jackson's nose and my 2007 insult about his whiteness, but I can't. Now, to those fortunate enough to get a hard copy of this irreplaceable and highly anticipated staple of the season, it may arrive in one of my old letterhead envelopes. Just doing my part for the environment. If you're reading this on your computer and prefer to have it on paper to read aloud as your anxious family gathers around the tree, just right click and hit print. Again this year my few blog fans must tolerate a re-release of some of the better drivel here. This way, not only do I get more mileage out of admittedly great material, but I also avoid putting extra effort into this daunting annual chore.

Our 2009 wasn't as newsworthy as the Beer Summit or as violent as a health care reform town hall, but it wasn't as ho-hum as Chastity Bono's sex change or as insignificant as Jay Leno's so-called farewell, either. The low point was a short family bout of (what I diagnosed as) E. coli. We hope the high point will be keeping swine flu away from our unvaccinated kids. Thanks to a 10-day flu-scare holiday in May (San Antonio rescheduled Cinco de Mayo), Luke and Katy now suffer from hand-sanitizer-induced OCD. They no longer mind the nightly choice between a bleach bath or a Silkwood shower, and they have grown accustomed to my misting them with Lysol as they get off the bus.

Luke, after trying basketball and soccer again with marginal success or enjoyment, started 7th grade and began running cross-country for the track team. It's the first sport our little Forrest Gump has really excelled at since he's built for it and loves being outside. I like it because it's not a contact sport. Unless he runs into a tree. His closet smells like a sporting goods store, his gym bag smells like sweaty mildew, and he now smells like Axe men's body wash. He's still racking up merit badges in Boy Scouts and has camped so much that he can pitch a four-man tent in record time at night in freezing rain blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back. He turned 13 and still coasts through life never letting anything get him down, except when we don't let him order the triple enchilada platter at our favorite Mexican restaurant. He's perfected the art of uttering non sequiturs, and we often have to remind him that we're not in his busy head. Then he makes more sense than the rest of us combined. He's learned that illegible handwriting works to his advantage because, apparently, teachers give him the benefit of the doubt. He'll be starting his second round of braces soon, so it'll be another disappointing Christmas morning at our house this year. And we're proud to report that Luke has finally mastered using a telephone, setting his alarm clock, and peeing in the shower.

Luke's quotes of the year: During his baptism when our pastor asked if he understood what he was doing, "Could you repeat the question?" He got a Bible and was thrilled to discover verses about excrement disposal (Deut. 23:12-13), "This is great advice for Boy Scouts. Scouts are supposed to be reverent." Then he told a friend that it's probably in most Bibles. One windy day, I saw Luke grabbing his crotch (as many males do). I asked, "Afraid it's gonna blow away?" He answered, "No, I got a good hold of it." As Katy choked on a sip of water, "Watch out--that water's got a bit of a kick to it." To an RV salesman, "How tall is this, you know, for clearance purposes at Sonic?" After throwing up at school, "I guess that was a waste of lunch money." And one of my favorites, "I just saw a mutant dragonfly that looked like two in one."

Katy started 4th grade, and thanks to last year's introduction to deodorant, she smells like Teen Spirit. Next year, don't be shocked to hear that both kids had the courtesy to hit puberty at the same time. The first part of the year, she played basketball and soccer, and then decided those involved too much running. So the fall was filled with gymnastics and drama. (A drama class, I mean.) It proved to be both the best outlet and the worst encouragement ever for her still annoyingly (yet always endearing) effervescent personality. She got braces and crossed over from Brownie to Girl Scout on the same day, and in the summer, spent a couple of weeks at different Girl Scout camps. She then made it abundantly clear that she won't go back to camp until they get air conditioning and nicer counselors. Mike and Luke were somewhat envious when her troop went on an overnight field trip to Houston for a NASA tour. I told them I'll take them next year if they'll sell cookies for me. Because Katy fancies herself bilingual, she's taken to addressing me as Madre. She was excited to discover a birthmark on her leg until I wiped it off. I had to explain to her that people don't buy handicapped license plates to use as a show of support. One dreadful afternoon, we endured a traumatic stuffed-animal-purge of her closet after agreeing that the Webkinz could stay, but all the rest were at risk. Finally, we're pleased to announce that our 10-year-old daughter can display a complete repertoire of bar tricks including her newly-discovered hereditary ability to tie a cherry stem with her tongue.

Her quotes of the year: "Luke's body language hurt my feelings!" "If I grew up in the olden days and had slaves, I'd be nice to them. I'd make them do all my chores, but I'd be nice to them." Advice to me for a job interview: "Don’t tell any jokes; don’t embarrass yourself; and don’t say anything unless they ask you a question." After she found a penny, I said, "So? I found a dime." She replied, "There's nothing lucky about dimes." I heard a song on the radio and told the kids I used to have the 45 of it. Both, in unison, asked, "What's a 45?" When Katy opened an envelope of disposable camera pictures, I told her to be careful with the negatives. Sure enough, she asked, "What are negatives?" To the cop after I was stopped for speeding, "I told her she was going too fast." And my favorite, "I wish I could hug you as much as I love you but I'm just not that strong."

Buzz, our erstwhile semi-perfect dog, had the best day of his life last month when he took advantage of our absence to steal a package of raw pork chops from the kitchen counter and proceed to eat them in our unmade bed. (On my new 1000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, no less.) Then it became the worst day of his life. And just when we thought he could be a legitimate contender for next year's Nobel Peace Prize.

For me, 2009 will be known as The Year I Started Living Someone Else's Life. In January, not long after I had decided to give up law practice, run away to Paris, and be a writer, I was recruited by a statewide law firm to start up their veterans' law department. With some trepidation, I started the job in June. I'm still adjusting to letting others do my clerical work, but I love going to an office every day--except the wearing heels and supportive undergarments part. I took another giant step away from the old me when I devoted my ample spare time to working out with a perky little trainer three times a week. In April I turned 40-ish and Mike and I celebrated at a Bruce Springsteen concert with an arena full of other white geezers. Katy was kind enough to convince me that I'm officially too old to wear short shorts or mini-skirts anymore, so I handed down to her all of my age-inappropriate clothing. I was also forbidden from roller skating or turning flips on the trampoline. My chiropractor said, "Just because you can do it doesn’t mean you should." I took an amazing flight in a tanker to watch Mike refuel his jet. (There's a video on my Facebook wall if you want to see how cool he is.) I went with some girlfriends to Austin to see my favorite band and to Houston to see U2. And I took my usual twice-yearly try-to-act-smart-and-serious business trips to conferences--this time Chicago in May and Charlotte in November. The year also presented me with a unique opportunity to start my new hobby of documenting celebrity deaths to see if they really do come in threes. (They do.) In case you're interested, they're listed in a July entry on my blog. Look for the year-end supplement soon. And after almost four years of living in the country, I finally hit my first deer. Luckily, the accident didn't cause much body damage. To the vehicle anyway.

Mike had a fairly uneventful year seeing as how he only had one overseas deployment and only one rock-star treatment weekend. Aside from his two-week beerfest vacation (with a little air-to-air dogfighting) in the Czech Republic, he and three buddies went to Green Bay for a fly-by at the Vikings game (followed by a limo ride, box seats, and probably a lot of autograph signing). There's a link to the YouTube video of the fly-by on my wall, in case you're still not sure about how cool he is. His other TDYs included trips to Tucson and New Orleans, as well as a month in Laredo one weekend. In November, he was named Commander of the Lone Star Gunfighters 182nd Fighter Squadron. (Again, kind of a big deal.) He'll turn 46 later this month, and has warned me that I'll be eternally sorry if I try to trade him in on two 23-year-olds.

In June, we went on a road trip to spend a week on a houseboat with Mike's family. With a beyond-max-legal-capacity SUV pulling a ski boat, we only had to fill up the gas tank every three or four miles. As the result of a tragic packing error, five kids were stuck with one DVD to watch—Sands of Iwo Jima. They all now know it by heart. The only real mishap occurred when Mike almost put Luke's eye out in a freak stone-skipping accident. I bravely thwarted a snake's attempt to swim onto the boat, then I never got into the water again. Our drive home after a fun and relaxing vacation on what we dubbed Redneck Island was only interrupted when a trailer tire blowout necessitated a somewhat unpleasant two-hour layover in an Arkansas combo beer/bait/ammo/ jewelry and book store. The remainder of our summer included a spur-of-the-moment RV purchase and the installation of a flat screen TV it doesn't deserve. We took the RV to the coast for a family weekend and to a state park for Thanksgiving, and soon decided it was the ideal second home. At least for tax purposes. For our anniversary, we celebrated with a trip to Austin again to watch UT beat OU (again). I got Mike a shirt and he got me a .357 Magnum.

Helpful tips I learned this year: check kids' pockets before doing post-Halloween laundry; water plants more often than quarterly; and don’t cook on a gas stove while wearing a Snuggie. Next year, Mike will spend all of his spare time training me to follow his system and remember which crisper drawer is for fruit and which is for vegetables. Luke will stay busy in the treehouse shooting varmints with his new pellet gun while Katy plays Octomom to her collection of American Girl dolls. I'll have a full schedule all year as I plan to write more and Facebook less, continue to shun Twitter, anticipate Crocs going out of style, understand the attraction of competitive cooking shows, keep Taylor Swift songs out of my head, and teach Mike to change the A/C filters. And I resolve to expend more energy keeping it all together than I do pretending to have it all together.

Several of our relatives and friends had to say some very sad goodbyes this year. While no words can make your holidays feel the same, I hope mine at least could make you smile. And may all of us always remember to stay grateful.

Peace,
Jill, Mike, Luke, & Katy

Happy Birthday, Chris!

I can't believe I have been neglecting this blog for almost two months. Thank God you had a birthday so I could drop in and add a few words. And I do mean few. I have given up on offering "tributes" to friends and fans because I can hardly even call or email them, much less dwell on the positive impact they have had on my otherwise miserable life. If anyone wants to read about Chris, look in the archives for this date last year. I'm sure I could supplement it with more, but then everyone else would start hounding me for their own accolades. And frankly, I'm too busy trying to build up my own self-esteem. Be sure to look for a tribute to myself in April. Chris, I hope you have a year that's way better than you probably deserve. I love you, man.

Forgive me Heather, for I have Sinned.

When tardiness is inexcusable, there's no point in mentioning excuses; valid as they may be. This is unfortunate, because I have some really good ones. Not excuses so much as actual reasons. Really, really good reasons, but that's neither here nor there.

Not since I accidentally made the kids' cinnamon toast with cayenne pepper have I felt so guilty. As one of my favorite Tori Amos songs says, "I've got enough guilt to start my own religion." It has finally started keeping me up at night. Even though I tell people that I lost my conscience in law school, every once in awhile, it comes back to remind me that I'm not all bad.

See, almost a year ago, I made the mistake of offering up special birthday blog posts to honor the handful of my oldest and dearest friends who made the dangerous lifestyle choice to maintain contact with me. The first post was actually on time. The second one was eight days late. The third one was 12 days late. Well, this is the fourth and (thank God I don't have any more long-suffering friends) last. It comes 21 grueling days late. (And yes, I have had to keep changing that number for every day that passes without my finishing this tribute. And even as I type, it's almost midnight.) Now, I know that these past 21 days have been difficult, nay, harrowing for everyone involved. I can only hope that this offering will be so stellar that it will only be seen as well worth the wait--like a fine wine, or perhaps a clean rest stop on a long road trip.

One reason it has taken me so long to complete this is that I couldn't stop adding to my list of things I remember and things I love about Heather. Then there are all the things I learned from her. All of them good.

I met Heather in our 10th grade French class. She was the new girl from California. She wore bright blue mascara and a permanent gold chain around her waist. Immediately, I didn't just want to be her friend. I wanted to be her. We loved our French teacher, but I'm not sure the teacher knew that, seeing as how we were so disrespectful in class. I'm not quite sure why, but it had something to do with the way the sound of the language mixed with the two of us making eye contact. One day we laughed ourselves into tears in the middle of class at the simple question, "Quelle heure est-il?" We can still laugh at that and not really know why. It has no possible alternative dirty meaning that I can think of (believe me, I've tried), and nothing in it rhymes with the name of any part of human genitalia (even when you use colloquialisms or obscenities). I guess we just found that asking what time it is in French was one of the most hilarious things we had ever heard in the first 16 years of our lives.

In high school, Heather and I were known for a little book of pictures we put together. Some might have thought we were somewhat morbid, others may have said we were crying out for attention, but the rest probably described us as serial killers in the making. (God knows that kind of behavior would warrant some kind of official investigation these days.) See, it all started like this: I got my driver's license before Heather did, so I would pick her up on the way to school. One morning, on what was normally a virtually empty residential street, I found myself at the end of a long line of cars. There were no flashing lights up ahead; there were no cars pulled over to the side of the road; nor was there any construction or detour sign. As I approached, I noticed that drivers were steering around something to get by. I then discovered that the reason they were moving so slowly was not just to get by, but also to gawk in awe at a vision that would certainly haunt them the rest of the day, if not the rest of their lives. Like it has mine and probably Heather's. It was a hellaciously gigantic, cracked-open, on-its-back, dead armadillo.

Priceless. When I got to Heather's house I couldn't wait to tell her about it. We knew what we had to do. And that was, of course, to preserve it on film for eternity (or at least for the lifetime of a Polaroid picture.) I can't remember whether I just (ever-so-serendipitously) happened to have the camera in the back seat of my Volvo, or if we picked one up from Heather's house. After having read the previous sentence, I do hope it was Heather's camera, because there's just something not right about a 16-year-old girl with a Polaroid in the back seat of her car. (Maybe I wanted to be prepared in case of a UFO sighting. It could happen.) So anyway, that first picture led to a series of masterfully-photographed, multi-species roadkill in various stages of decomposition. I could spend another few paragraphs on the book that made us popular for all the wrong reasons, but I really need to move on.

Now, here are just a few of the favorite things I remember from our time in high school:

Her stepmonster who kept a carton of Marlboro Reds in the refrigerator; her Mickey Mouse phone we used to dial *69 on; smoking Swisher Sweets on our way to the gym in her red convertible VW beetle;
drinking lemonade and Southern Comfort
on our way to school while we sang Tom Petty songs at the tops of our lungs; and making a chocolate mousse for French class that turned out more like brownie batter because we overspiked it.

A few years ago when we got together, she pulled out a box of cards she has kept. She showed me a birthday card I gave her when she turned 16. I wrote something like, "We have at least ten more years of partying left in us!!!" When you're 16, ten years seems like a lot. Little did I know that we actually had more than 20 years of it left in us--depending upon your definition of "partying" of course.


This posting would not be complete without my mentioning that I have always harassed her about being a bit of a cat person. As some of you may know, I'm not fond of felines. I'm really not much of a canine person either, come to think of it. I thought about buying these items as birthday gifts for her, but frankly, even on clearance, they were too expensive.
Plus, she would have received them so late that she really wouldn't have appreciated them anyway. However, I'd like to show them here just to say that, it's really the thought that counts. Heather, if you would like to order these items, let me know and I can send you a link to the reputable catalogs I found them in.

I have also always given Heather a hard time about carrying the tiniest purse ever. Apparently, they call them "wristlets." (I actually know this, but I'm feigning ignorance so as to give the impression that I'm too cool to understand something so gay.) In fact, I like to refer to her "wristlet" as a "fanny pack." She doesn't see the humor in that at all. I'm really a little bit jealous of the fact that she can get by with only a wristlet. She's a minimalist. She needs no make-up. She carries maybe a driver's license, a credit card, a key, or a little cash. She has no need for the things I have to carry in my purse, like lipstick, a mirror, Altoids, and at least four bottles of prescription drugs.

She is beautiful inside and out. Especially on the outside, which really makes me sick. She never had any kids to tear up her body or wear out her mind or suck the very spirit out of her soul. She's a vegetarian. One of those healthy things I envy, but could never emulate. She makes the best guacamole I have ever tasted. And she taught me how to accept compliments. Before I learned from her how to be gracious, I would reject compliments because I felt that they were usually insincere and always undeserved. To this day, when someone offers a compliment, I simply say, "thank you," believe that it is sincere and deserved, and think of Heather. She is an amazing conversationalist, too. When you talk to her, you know she is listening, and not busy thinking about what she is going to say next. She will not only ask questions, but then she will ask follow-up questions. And she makes you think. Sometimes I feel like I'm being interviewed, and I like that. She's also great at stumping you with "would you rather..." type questions that other people could never dream up.


She makes amazing pieces of pottery. She gave these to me as birthday presents. And I received them right on time. Her thoughtfulness makes me feel even more unworthy and selfish and careless. And what really upsets me is that I bet she'll even forgive me, just like Jesus would.

Heather, I promise I'll never go so long without showing you how much I love and appreciate you. Unless of course you have already written me off.

Chi-Wa-Wa's, Doxens, Dollar Store Steaks, and so much more

These little gems have been taking up valuable real estate in my head, so to ease overcrowding in the lobby for all the new garbage clamoring for a seat beyond the velvet ropes, I offer up the following in hopes that it will not only relieve some pressure for me, but also satisfy your ravenous hunger for more of my priceless crap (if only for a precious moment).

Here they are in the order that they fell out of my mind or out of my file folder full of scribbled scraps:

First, just for the record, to carry on with the celebrity-death-trio thing I started last month, let me say that my money is on Patrick Swayze to be one of the next three.

Now on to more pressing matters.

Katy choked on a sip of water, and as she coughed, Luke said, "Watch out, Katy, that water's got a bit of a kick to it."

Katy was leisurely washing her hands in a public restroom when we were in a hurry to leave. I said, "Come on, it's not like you're going to perform surgery." She looked at me with the backs of her hands raised toward me like a surgeon and said, in all seriousness, "You never know."

Tonight Mike and I overheard Katy and a friend talking about how much they miss their bus driver and that they hope he'll be driving their bus again this year. We thought "Oh how sweet…" Then we heard Katy say, "Yeah, he was nice except for all that foul language…" So I asked what she was talking about, but she didn't want to say the words. I said, "It can't be any worse than what y'all have heard your dad and his friends say." She said, "Right, but hello? he's a bus driver." So she told us that one day he had yelled at them to get their "S-H-I-T" out of the aisle after he pulled the bus over to get up and check on a kid who he thought had been hurt. Good for him, I say.

During some light chatter after a serious conversation with a potential client and another attorney I work with, I noticed in the client's file that he had played clarinet in the Army band. I told him that I was a really bad clarinet player in junior high. Then my associate said, "I was a tromboner." I had to turn my head as he said, "Er… trombonist?"

In San Antonio (and I'm sure a lot of other big cities full of under-educated and irresponsible people) too many animals are having unprotected sex. This leads to signs like this: "4-Sell: Brown Chi-Wa-Wa's" and "Free Doxen puppy's." I swear I saw these signs in two different parts of town within the past few months. I would have taken pictures of them, but that's just the sort of obscenity I can't abide. I'll have porn on my phone before I'll carry around misspelled and mispunctuated words.

Not long ago, I noticed a sign in the window of an Academy store that warned of a recall on a certain brand of athletic cup. I wondered what was defective about them and what happened to the unfortunate athlete who discovered it. Luke asked me what I was chuckling about, and when I told him…well, he didn't think it was all that funny.

A sign in the window of a local Dollar General store proudly announced a special sale on steaks. I'm sorry. Call me a snob, but I would think twice before buying "sale" steak at a dollar store. Now if it were for sale at regular price, I might consider it, but "On Special"? No way.

When Margaritaville came on the radio, I mindlessly told the kids, "I had the 45 of this." Both, in unison, asked, "What's a 45?"

When Katy opened an envelope of disposable camera pictures, I told her to be careful with the negatives. I knew before the words had left my mouth that I would hear her ask, "What are negatives?"

Ethics question: Is it wrong to secretly borrow from a kid's allowance money to cover a tooth fairy visit?

This is how sweet my daughter is: "If I grew up in the olden days and I had slaves, I would be nice to them. Sure, I'd make them do all my chores, but I'd be nice to them."

This is what a dork I am: I heard music as Mike and I were leaving a restaurant. I said, "Oh, they're playing my favorite song." Then I noticed that the song was getting louder and coming from my purse. Mike goes, "It's your phone, you idiot!"

Actual voicemail I got from a veteran: "Miss Jill, I really need your help with my VA claim…Long story short, ma'am, they just kinda shitted on me real good. Now you have a blessed day."

That last one is one of my favorites.

This is all I can toss at you for now. Working full time at a real job along with working out with a trainer three days a week has not only made me feel like I'm living someone else's life, but it has also sucked out a lot of my blogging time. Sure, I still find time for facebook, but only because I don't have to think when I go there. As you can see from this latest oeuvre, I put a lot of thought into it.

News Flash--Correction to Last Post

Under Excuse Number Four, item (6) of the post below, I listed three famous people who died within a short time of one another. When I chose football player Steve McNair to round out my last list, it was only because he was the closest thing to a recently dead "famous" person. At that time I suggested that if a more famous person died within the next few weeks, McNair would have to be replaced. Well, as luck would have it, the list will look much better now with Walter Cronkite's name on it instead.

"The Most Trusted Man in America" has died within 19 days of Karl Malden and The OxiClean Guy. For Mr. OxiClean, this is quite an honor. On the other hand, were Walter or Karl to hear that the third member of their death cluster is a guy named Billy Mays who was a modern day snake oil salesman, they may feel a little slighted. Sorry Walter and Karl, I can't just go back and re-order my whole list now. Too much thought and effort and math went into it.

I'm not sure why I cried when I watched the news this morning and saw clips of Cronkite's broadcasts. I think it was his announcement of President Kennedy's death that really hit me. (I wonder who the other two in Kennedy's death trio were. I bet no one ever thought about that. And if they did, they had some serious issues.)

Sorry this is late, Ginger, but I have some great excuses.

First, some background. Back in November of last year, I made the mistake of posting a sort of happy birthday "eulogy" about my friend Chris. Well, it didn't take long for my three best girlfriends to make it clear that they expect equal time. So in March, I wrote one for my friend Kate. It was eight days late, mainly because it took me the first three days to remember the best highlights and lowlights from a friendship that is almost 30 years old, and the last five days to cut out all the stuff that might put our law licenses in jeopardy.

Now it's Ginger's turn, and her special birthday post is 12 days late. But like I said, I have some great excuses. So before we turn to the few Ginger stories that are fit for public consumption, let me digress:

Excuse number one: Ginger will be the first to tell you that my ability to keep in touch with friends is what she might describe as "heinous." (She likes that word, and I can't blame her. The fact that it rhymes with "anus" just makes it all the more, well, heinous.) I have lost count of the times she has accused me of being physically unable to dial a phone. (Not really. I never started counting.) She is also well aware that I am challenged when it comes to picking out the perfect card, scribbling some clever remark about getting old on it, putting it into the correct envelope, finding an address, writing the address on the envelope, affixing a return address label from the free sheet of them that I got from the cystic fibrosis society, finding a stamp with the appropriate amount of postage on it (I almost went online to see how much those "forever" stamps were worth), then transporting all that effort to a mailbox.

Excuse number two: Much to my utter dismay and unmitigated chagrin, Ginger did not acknowledge me whatsoever on any day on or around my birthday back in April. However, she did offer up a lame apology later, which I have yet to fully accept. So you may be asking yourselves if the tardiness of this most unique and special greeting is a sign of some sort of vengeful, passive-aggressive character flaw on my part. The answer, my friends, is: absolutely not. My faithful readers (Ginger included), know full well that my only flaw is abject and baseless narcissism.

Excuse number three: I started a new job that very day and was a little preoccupied. If Ginger would ever deign to join Facebook (which she won't now, just out of spite) she would have seen my updated status, and certainly would have understood that I was far too busy that day to acknowledge anyone but myself. (And my Facebook "friends.")

Excuse number four: I was also quite disturbed and distracted by all the recent celebrity deaths-- especially the two big ones that occurred on Ginger's birthday. After Farrah Fawcett ruined my morning and Michael Jackson put a damper on my afternoon, I started wondering who would be the third, or if Ed McMahon was the first of that trio. Then I thought what if Farrah was actually the third and Michael was starting up a new one? Then I wondered how big a celebrity they need to be to have the dubious honor of being included in this little pop culture superstition game. (For the most part, I am relying on my voice-activated software. If it knows who I'm talking about, then they're in.)

According to my past few minutes of exhaustive research, a lot of so-called celebrities have died so far this year. But I'm only counting the ones I'm familiar with or interested in. I intend no offense to the memory of any B, C, or D-list "stars" nor do I mean to show disrespect toward any 100-year-old silent film actors or any sports figures from the 1940's to the 1960's. So here are my unofficial results:

(1) Ricardo Montalban, Clint Ritchie (Clint Buchanan on One Life to Live), and Phil Carey (Asa Buchanan on One Life to Live)—I include these last two because I was addicted to that soap opera from 1984 to 1991 and again from 1996 to 1999. I can't remember whether Ginger watched it. (Not that that matters.) The other interesting thing I found was that Phil Carey was only 13 years older than the man who played his son. These three died within 23 days of each other. (Is there a time-frame we are shooting for?)

(2) James Whitmore, Paul Harvey, and Ron Silver. Now this is an odd mix. Their deaths cover a 37-day time span, so if we are going for a one-month window, I may need to relegate Whitmore and re-order this list.

(3) Natasha Richardson, porn star Marilyn Chambers, and Bea Arthur. While they are spread out (so to speak) over 38 days, I think I'll carve out an exemption simply because I like to see the name of a porn star next to Bea Arthur's. Sorry you have the misfortune of their company, Natasha. As if dying from a bump on the head wasn't bad enough.

(4) Jack Kemp, Dom DeLuise, and David Carradine. Here we have 34-day coverage. I'm starting to think the 30-day goal is a little too tight. Speaking of too tight, they find Grasshopper mysteriously bound and hanged in a Bangkok hotel room. Trust me folks, there's a Thai hooker out there who knows exactly what happened and how much he paid for it.

(5) Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. Yes, it was those three within three days just as we all figured. If Farrah had started a new set, she and MJ would have been in the Billy Mays group, and I'm sorry, the OxiClean guy's "celebrity" status would only add insult to injury. Or in this case, insult to death.

(6) Billy Mays, Karl Malden, and Steve McNair. How's that for a trio? (Only six days apart.) First, I thought Karl Malden was already dead. When I found out he wasn't, I couldn't believe he was 97. Ninety frickin' seven? No wonder I thought he was dead. As for McNair, I'm not sure he belongs on the list, bless his heart. If a more famous person dies within the next few weeks, they may have to take his place.

(By the way, for the record, my mom thinks Warren Beatty's number will be up soon.)

So those are my excuses. Now, back to the reason for my post.

Ginger and I met in 8th grade. (I just stared at that sentence in horror.) We were 13 or 14. That was 30 years ago. What? Honestly, she probably didn't really know who I was until a year or so later because, unbeknownst to her, she was chipping away at my soul daily as she shamelessly flirted with a boy named Dan Kuykendall. (Almost 20 years ago, I heard that he had been killed in a car accident, but that's neither here nor there. Other than to make me even more sad.) He was my reason for living, and she could not have cared less. I was too shy to even look at him, much less talk, or (God forbid) flirt. The hell of it is, they were just friends. She didn't love him madly like I did, but I didn't know that at the time, and I could not have been more jealous.

So ... one day, just to get all my feelings about her out, I took a purple marker and spewed the most vitriolic diatribe that a 14-year-old could write. I'm not sure which expletives I was able to muster, but you can bet that they were spelled correctly. I never intended for anyone to read that horrible note. (I've always done that. I scribble all kinds of things simply to clear them out of my head.) But this time, my parents found the note. And they grounded me for it. I can't remember how long I was grounded, or what exactly I was grounded from. I just remember that being grounded was not a good thing. The only time I remember actually missing something important because I was grounded was when I couldn't go to see The Who's "farewell" concert back in 1982. Little did I know they'd still be around (pretty much) almost 30 years later. Anyway, there I was in big trouble all because of her.

Once I figured out that she wasn't out to get me, we became friends. I think we connected because she was the rescuer type and I was always the one who needed rescuing. In high school, one of the many times that my smart mouth almost got me beat up, she appeared like Wonder Woman and wrapped her cape around my skinny ass as she pulled me to safety.

One of my favorite vague memories of a Ginger rescue comes from our college days when I was working for an attorney friend of my dad's. My boss took everyone from the office and several of his friends to the Fort Worth stock show and rodeo for an all-day outing. This must've been around 1985 or '86. So I was about 19 or 20. I remember my boss's friend showing off his "mobile" phone. It came in a briefcase that probably weighed a good 10 pounds or so. I think it had a coiled cord and a big honking antenna. He was Mr. Big Shot with that thing, and boy were we impressed. (There I go digressing again.) Anyway, I started drinking that morning and didn't stop until late that afternoon when I threw up in Mr. Big Shot's cowboy hat. They got me back to the office where I promptly passed out on my boss's couch. I awoke to Ginger's Gumby keychain swinging before my eyes. I can't remember whether I told them to call her for me, or whether I had already listed her as my emergency contact. I had a date that night at a Delt mixer with an unfortunate boy named Shawn. (I think that was his name.) Ginger took me to her house, cleaned me up, dressed me, put makeup on me to the point that I looked just like her, and propped me up at the front door just in time for him to pick me up. I think I ended up having a pretty good time that night.

Ginger and I were roommates for a brief time in college. We did have some good times, but let's just say that it wasn't always easy sharing an apartment. I have a vivid memory of her banging on my bedroom door and then slamming me in the face with a package of toilet paper. I can't remember why she did that, but probably because she was a real bitch back then.

I didn't want Ginger to marry her first husband and I made that pretty clear to her at the time. But she let me be her maid of honor anyway. I'm not sure if I ever said I told you so when it didn't work out. If I didn't, well, Ginger, I told you so.

She used to collect rhinos (rhinoceroses, rhinoceri?) so I always think of her when I see one. Not that I see them very often. Just like at the zoo or on Animal Planet or something. She used to be called Peaches. I think her dad gave her that nickname. She went by "Gini" in high school. One time a guy (who shall remain nameless because he knows who he is and I'm sure he's sorry now) wrote a sort of note/petition that slammed her mercilessly. I didn't know how to come to her rescue. In fact, I'm sure I stood by and did nothing. I don't think a person ever really gets over having their feelings hurt that badly during those teenage years.

Ginger and I have shared some of the wildest and saddest and scariest and happiest times of our lives. She has been remarried now for several years. I remember driving up from San Antonio in pouring down rain to get to her wedding. I was so happy for her, and I still am.

When I saw her daughter's high school graduation picture, I cried. I held that baby not long ago, and then there she was. Memories flooded my eyes. She looks so much like her mother.

Happy Fathers' Day

Today is another stupid Hallmark card-selling holiday like Valentine's Day, Grandparents' Day, Bosses' Day, Administrative Professionals' Day, and Christmas. These earmarked days do provide a chance for us to reflect a bit and thank those who matter to us, but I resent having a calendar tell me when to express my love or appreciation to anyone. Then again, were it not for the calendar or a brightly-colored display in the card section of Target, I might forget to share any sentiments at all. While I don't much care for the so-called "holidays," I've felt a bit left out on this one since 2006. Like being rejected by a club I didn't really want to join in the first place.

But Fathers' Day now gives me a chance to watch my happy kids pick out, sign, and hand-deliver cards to their dad. (Well worth the cost of a couple of $6.00 cards.) Katy called him this morning from my in-laws' house to tell him she loves him and misses him. Her sweet voice on the phone is priceless. She's nine, but on the phone she still sounds like a four-year-old. I guess it's OK to give in to this calendar-scheduled love-offering just for that.

This morning I overheard Mike talking to his dad and telling him how fortunate he is to have such a supportive, generous, and loving father. (I did get lucky in the in-laws department.) I sat there wishing I had at least picked out a card for us to send.

I think of my dad and miss him every day. I can't tell him I love him like I used to no matter what day it is.

But hey, one less card to buy.

Bits of Quick Wit From my Kids

I may have mentioned this one somewhere before, but it bears repeating:

As the kids and I were walking from the carwash to a nearby restaurant, Katy got all excited when she found a penny. A few steps later, I found a dime. (Lots of change falls out of cars, I guess, and I say finders = keepers.) I sort of taunted her and said, "So what? I found a dime." She did not miss a beat. She replied, "There's nothing lucky about dimes."

And this will become a family classic, I'm afraid:

On a windy day not long ago, Luke was grabbing his package (as all males do--and apparently never outgrow). I pointed and asked, "You afraid it's gonna blow away?" "Nope," he said, "I've got a pretty good hold of it." When I told him he doesn't need to grab it all the time, he said, "Oh, I get it. Kind of like, 'If you love something, set it free.'"

Dang, they crack me up.

My Apologies to my Facebook Readers

Sorry folks, this is the only bone I can throw right now. I again realized that this blog's pulse/ox is rapidly dropping, so I thought I'd publish something here that was meant to go here a long time ago, but I treated my few Facebook "friends" to it instead while neglecting, you, my loyal and more diverse group of friends, fans, and freaks who return to this address or stumble upon it by sheer good fortune.

So here it is. Don't get your hopes up. It is indeed pure drivel. Yet exquisite, nevertheless:

TWENTY THINGS I WONDER ABOUT

1. Why do people say "literally" when they don't mean it? Don't they know what "literally" means? "He was so mad; he literally bit my head off." Oh really?

2. How can certain leg hairs escape my razor so many times that they grow up to an inch long before I notice them?

3. What is it about an elevator that causes people to avoid eye contact or conversation?

4. Who has the job of putting the one square of pork in the top of the pork 'n' beans can?

5. Why are some people so interested and upset to know that one consenting person's body part may be touching another consenting person's body part in private? And how many closeted gay people do they know and like?

6. Why do I wait for the gas pump to thank me before I go?

7. Why am I not someone else? Or am I?

8. Where did God come from? I just can't buy the "He was always there" answer. And as someone asked, why did he let a snake cause such grief?

9. How many Bed Bath & Beyond coupons are in my house and in my car? And why do I never bring one with me when I go there?

10. How many pairs of black shoes is it OK to have before it becomes a problem?

11. When I drive across a bridge, why am I always afraid that a little voice will tell me to drive off?

12. How and why do some moms home-school their children? Good for them, but I just can't even wrap my mind around it.

13. Why do I get constipated every time I go on vacation?

14. Will I ever understand daylight savings time? Do I need to?

15. Why do I buy stationery when I can never seem to write a thank you note?

16. Why does my cleaning lady always rearrange my nightstand and replace the novel I'm reading with my Bible?

17. Why do I sometimes have trouble distinguishing the dancers from the "stars"?

18. Why am I polite to telemarketers?

19. Why can I never find a pen when I need one? And why is my purse full of them when I don't?

20. Why does my snooze button give me nine minutes? Why not a more even number like 10? Why not 30? If I set the alarm for 5:30, I might get up at 5:40, but 5:39, no way. At 5:39, I tell myself, "one more minute" but then two minutes go by and it's 5:41 and I don't think I can stare at the clock until 5:45, so I go for another 9 minutes. Then it's 5:50 and I know I have to get up right then because otherwise, I'll snooze till 5:59 and start the cycle all over again. Should I discuss this with my psychiatrist?

If any of you can give me some answers (even to the rhetorical ones), feel free to share. I may reject your answers as hogwash, but I will still take them under consideration--or at least let you think I did.

Waking up From Lost Time

Some epileptics have what's called "absence seizures" where they just sort of space out for a few seconds. Some people with mental illness suffer from bouts of "lost time." Some alcoholics have blackouts.

I recently discovered that I could very well be an epileptic mentally ill alcoholic. I haven't been diagnosed with any form of epilepsy, but I'm knocking real hard on the door of the other two.

I rarely know what the date is without looking at a calendar. Now, it's not at all uncommon for a perfectly sane person to be off by one day or so. But lately, I have not even been able to pin it down somewhere within a good seven to 10 day timeframe. I'm a little better at knowing what month it is, maybe because the month boxes on my "year-at-a-glance" wall calendar are good bit bigger than the day boxes. While I have trouble with dates, I do a little better with knowing what day it is, only because Tuesday is recycling day, Wednesday is American Idol, Thursday is The Office, and Friday is trash day. But bear in mind that this doesn't mean I will actually drop off the recycling on Tuesday, or have the trash out in time on Friday. I do know that the year is 2009, however.

Anyone who knows me is aware that I'm a slacker who cannot afford to be a slacker. I end up putting more effort into looking like I keep it all together rather than just keeping it all together in the first place. So I must not be a true slacker, seeing as how I actually care about keeping it all together. Real slackers don't give a shit about things like recycling day.

All this to say, I recently realized that a good month of my life has gone by without my attention or appreciation. Not that this hasn't happened several times before. It just seems that now, time is more valuable. It's that perspective you grow into the older you get.

When you're a child, you're on the floor with no sense of time and no horizon in sight. As a teenager, you're in the car with no sense of anything and no end in sight. In college, you can see the world from a 4th floor dorm room or from the roof of a fraternity house. It's all books and booze, love and lust, then probably just more booze and lust. Too busy living from one high to the other to notice the shrinking world below. Then comes career. Suddenly, you are supposed to act like a grown-up and take an elevator to a high-rise office or supervise young employees below you. Too busy working to hear the clock ticking minutes of your life away or to see the once endless sea of opportunity beginning to dry up. You settle into marriage and before you're ready (because no one ever is) along come the babies with all the crying and diapers and bottles and equipment. Sleepless, cranky, no-longer-just-a-couple parents hop on that roller coaster and stay on it until the last one starts school. With all the carseats and potty training and paraphernalia, you don't have much time to sit back and reflect on creating a new generation, much less on preparing to shift upward one day and take the place of your parents.

Now that my kids are a little older and for the most part, capable of bathing, feeding, and wiping themselves, I recently had the pleasure of stopping (just once for a fleeting moment) to take a breath and think. I see them looking up at me and I remember how my parents always seemed so tall. I see them looking up to me with wide eyes at a big world and I can only hope they'll see me as the smart, successful, and secure woman I sometimes so deftly can pretend to be.

The mirror and my aching bones are beginning to convince me that even though I may not think or act in accordance with some standard (of mysterious origin) as to how someone my age should think or act, I am nevertheless as young as I can possibly be at this very moment. Time flies when you're getting old, and I really don't want to lose any more of it. Not that I really missed anything over the past month or so. That I know of.

The only thing everyone on earth has in common is that we are all still alive. It's just that most are either too young to notice it or too busy to appreciate it. I'm now getting old enough to notice. I just wish I weren't always too busy to appreciate it, what with all my TV shows and household chores to keep up with.

43 on 4/3. Does that mean anything?

I think it means "Grow up and get real!"

I went to wake Katy up this morning and as I hugged her, her first words were: "Happy Birthday, Mama . . . 43." I'm always impressed by the way she is so on top of things. But this time, I could have done without her wise-ass grin.

I once wrote an essay called "37." Apparently that was some sort of milestone for me. Now I'm reminded that I'm still old enough to be a grandmother. Sure glad I'm not.

I'll never forget a conversation I had with some of the squadron wives when we were at Cannon Air Force Base about 10 years ago. Most of those women were about five to seven years younger than I was. One of them was lamenting her upcoming 29th birthday. In all of my sage wisdom, I replied, "Try 34."

I'm understanding now those middle-age crazies I heard about when I was a kid. I wouldn't necessarily refer to this "midlife" feeling as a "crisis," but it is this sort of second adolescence. Again, I feel uncomfortable in my body. Not so much awkward as unwieldy. When I was awkward, I knew I would eventually catch up with myself and get it. Now (in this unwieldy body that is out-of-sync with my brain), when I try to turn flips on a trampoline or roller skate too fast, for example, my body tells me that I've lost it (and not just mentally). My chiropractor says, "Jill, just because you can do it, doesn't mean you should."

Why am I so afraid of aging? A friend (who shall remain nameless lest he get more publicity than he deserves) posted this on my Facebook wall: "I sure hope you enjoy your birthday. You don't have that many left." Pretty funny, unless I end up dead soon. Then who will they suspect, huh?

First, I'll count my blessings about this aging shell my soul is stuck with. I don't have much of a gray hair problem seeing as how I just try to stay bleached blonde. Sure, those wiry grays tend to stand up and make themselves known, but I just weigh them down with some product or other, or pluck them if they don't behave. I don't really have any crows' feet around my eyes yet. At least not that I can see. I don't have saggy boobs, but only because they are too small to sag. So that gives the illusion that they are still somewhat perky. I'm not overweight, and cellulite has yet to replace every square inch of my thighs. So I still have all those things to look forward to.

Now, I may look healthy and in shape, but I can't even fold a basket of laundry without getting winded. My heart rate only rises to a calorie-burning level when I look at my bank account to see how much I pay for my unused gym membership every month. When I do go to the gym, I'm always afraid the buff youngsters parading themselves at the front desk can tell when my last visit was when they scan my membership tag. Then they scoff at me after seeing how old I am and think, "Oh, give it up lady," when really they probably don't give me another thought. Other than maybe, "Hmm, my mom was born in 1966, too."

And just yesterday afternoon as I sat in the sunlight (bad idea), I started noticing—for the first time—spider veins in my ankles and thinning skin on my already bony hands. I swear that these conditions arose right before my trifocal-wearing eyes. But the most troubling thing for me is my neck. If any of you got a copy of our family Christmas picture and still have it, look at my neck. I wish I had had the photographer airbrush some of that tree-trunk look out of it. Age often shows in the neck—especially on women who have had their faces all pinned up and stretched out and Restylaned and Botoxed. I haven't gone to that extreme, and I won't because I think looking naturally old is more attractive than looking freakishly pathetic. Who do they think they're fooling? And why? But my neck has really aged out of proportion to the rest of me. And it's long, so that just doubles the attention it gets. I guess I'll start wearing some smart-looking Talbot's turtlenecks and sassy scarves from Chico's. Remember ladies, sunscreen that neck. I must have neglected mine for years.

Anyway, all this to say: Vanity sucks. Sucks your spirit dry. Michael J. Fox recently said that vanity is the first thing to go. The first thing you gladly and even unknowingly toss out the window when you find yourself in a life or death situation. English writer Anthony Powell (whom I have never heard of before) said, "Self-love seems so often unrequited." How true. And French philosopher Henri Bergson (whom I had also never heard of) said, "The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that's laughable is vanity." I say: Vanity pretends to run deep but it's shallow. It can fill us up, but it's hollow.

I'm just glad to know that when the last drop of my incredible hotness is all gone, I'll still be able to rely on my vastly superior intelligence and unparalleled sense of humor to keep me in the spotlight. What a relief.

Happy Birthday Kate, Eight Days Late

Every January, I'm reminded of how old I'll be that year, because apparently, the first Super Bowl was in 1967—a year after I was born. Then, between February and March, I start noticing April expiration dates on things like my whole-wheat high-fiber English muffins and my light vanilla soy milk. But the most ominous annual sign of my impending AARP eligibility is when my friend Kate's birthday comes around every March 14. It always tells me that mine is (God willing) right around the corner in two weeks.

I've been trying to formulate a little birthday tribute to Kate without making it sound like a eulogy. This hasn't been easy. So as you read this, just keep in mind that she's not dead yet.

My very first memory of Kate is a random one, and it may not even be accurate as far as time and place, but regardless, it's what sticks in my head. I was sitting at my desk and Mrs. Glaze's 7th grade Texas history class. (I can't even remember whether Kate was in that class with me. I tend to think so.) We sat in those old-fashioned desks with the metal-footed box platforms and the particle board/faux woodgrain Formica veneer curved tops. Most were for right-handers, but there were always a few for the lefties. Anyway, I was leaning over to put my books under the desk when I saw her foot. She's tall, so of course her feet are not out of proportion, but it was the sandals (and not necessarily the size of them) that caught my eye. They were these gold strappy things that I had never seen before. I envied those sandals. For some reason, the brand name Bernardo sticks in my head. I don't think I've told her this. Probably because it sounds insane.

I can't remember exactly how we became such good friends, or exactly when it was. I do remember feeling so comfortable at her house, and with her family. I'm the oldest child in my family while she's the youngest in hers. I thought it was so cool that she had two older brothers and an older sister. I think they were a little protective of her and sometimes I somehow felt or wished a little bit of that rubbed off on me.

Spending nights at her house had some advantages and disadvantages. Sometimes I would end up sleeping on the floor because she had a water bed and would always flop in her sleep like a freshly-caught fish. I'd always wake up nauseous and wonder if I could find some Dramamine in their medicine cabinet. But then I would wonder how it might interact with whatever illegal drugs I may have taken earlier that night.

She used to collect heart-shaped boxes. To this day, I think of her when I see one and I'm tempted to buy it for her. But I don't, because I think that would be kind of gay.

As far as I know, she has never been able to write in cursive. She prints in capital letters. I've always wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about that.

She was always the honor student, while I felt like her goofy sidekick. Like she could wear one of those "I'm with stupid" T-shirts. When I went to law school before she did, I felt smarter for the first time. But that didn't last long. She followed in my footsteps, but she had smaller shoes to fill. I floated through law school on my daddy's dime, using the gas card he gave me to buy beer and overpriced convenience store groceries. She worked her ass off on school loans that took her years to pay off. I remember a time when she could barely pay her bills and couldn't even afford the stamp it took to mail a check. And this was back in the days when postage for one first-class letter was about 13 cents. (No, we're not really that old.)

When we were in college (or was it high school?) she drove this maroon convertible Fiat Spyder. I always felt so cool riding with her as she zoomed in and out of traffic like a guy would drive. And I was always so impressed that she knew how to drive a standard and step on the clutch and shift gears so smoothly. When I got my parents' 280ZX and had to learn how to drive it, Kate would just laugh at my total lack of coordination.

When I look back, I'm sure we were careful in our own way, but I still believe it's a miracle that we survived college together. We did a lot of stupid and dangerous things, any one of which could have landed us in the hospital, in rehab, in the grave, or even in a Mexican prison. Because we emerged virtually unscathed, I think we both figure the universe had some better plans for us. There are a million vaguely-remembered stories I could tell, but because Kate and I are both lawyers, not only will I plead the fifth for both her and myself, but I will also invoke a sort of mutual attorney-attorney privilege and refrain from sharing some of our very best material.

When I was 20, I had jaw surgery and lost about 10 pounds when I had my jaw wired shut. (I seem to recall that that's when my boyfriend Jimmy tried to break up with me. That's it. Wait till she has her jaw wired shut and can't talk. I remember writing him a nasty note with a red Sharpie on a yellow legal pad as I growled and groaned at him through my clenched pathetic face. He decided not to break up with me, and instead brought me a teddy bear to make up for his cruelty. I ended up dumping him later once I regained my ability to speak.) But I digress. Anyway, after losing that much weight, I was a somewhat emaciated 95 or so pounds. I think Kate was living in a duplex in Fort Worth at this time. We were getting ready to go out to some fraternity party, I think. That was back in the days when we spent hours "getting ready." Now that I'm older and really should spend more time on my appearance, I wish I could get some of those unnecessary hours back. Then again, it took a lot of time and hair products in those days to give me that Flock of Seagulls look I was always shooting for. Kate was trying to help me find something to wear that didn't make me look like the big-shoulder-pad-suited David Byrne in that Talking Heads video ("same as it ever was…"). No matter what I put on, I was swimming in it. I'll never forget seeing her flop down on her black and white couch laughing at me and saying, "This is like trying to dress a Q-tip." I can't remember what I wore that night, but it was probably black. So we went to this party at some fraternity house. We climbed some steep wooden stairs in this old house and probably proceeded to partake in some 200-proof Kool-Aid flavored beverages. For whatever reason (like maybe the restroom was so nasty, I decided it would be cleaner and more ladylike to go pee in the front yard) I attempted to descend the stairs. I got to the bottom in one step. My bony tumble must've made a good bit of noise, as I'm sure the stereo was blaring The Cure or maybe Psychedelic Furs. On cassette, of course. So a handful of the more alert partiers scrambled to the top of the stairs to see what had caused such a clatter. Kate, once she realized I was okay, laughed and said that it sounded like someone had thrown a chair down the steps.

We share an affinity for mocking the less intelligent. Just like with my friend Chris, I love it when I can exercise my superiority complex with someone who understands. She told me about this professor she had who was acting all smart and said something about someone having "an inkling or an inclination." We still laugh about that and use it at every opportunity.

And we always loved listening to Steve Martin. Especially Wild and Crazy Guy. I'm sure we can still repeat all of our favorite lines.

When I was at school in Paris, she and her sister came to visit me. I remember we went to see Versailles together. I'll always love it that we shared some time together there.

For a long time, it looked like Kate wasn't going to have kids. (Not that she was trying to get pregnant, mind you.) In a way, I wanted her to because I had children and I wanted her to know what it felt like. (Not what it felt like to give birth to them, necessarily, but just what it felt like to be responsible for them later.) And just like everyone who gets married wants all their single friends to get married. She never really struck me as the most maternal type anyway. Of course, neither am I. She finally did have two beautiful little boys who are already making her pay for some of her sins.

Kate became a very successful attorney in Dallas. She talks about all these big-money deals and transactions and stuff that are so far over my head that I again feel like the "I'm with stupid" sidekick. She goes to all these fancy parties and often has drinks at some high-class place like the Ritz. She pays retail for designer clothes and doesn't think twice about it. I remember when we used to shop at Ross together. She wears Manolo Blahniks while I have Montego Bay shoes from Payless. She has a nanny. I have a neighbor I dump my kids on every once in a while. But no matter how different our lifestyles have become, when we get together, just like every time any old friends get together, it's like no time has passed. Except for all the immoral and illegal stuff.

Unexcused Absence

I owe my loyal reader(s) an apology. When my plants started dying, when I ran out of clean clothes, when the newspapers started piling up, and when I realized it had been almost a month since I had shaved my legs, I thought there might be a problem.

When my kids took it upon themselves to learn how to cook on the gas stove, when they threatened to start driving themselves to school, and when I noticed that they had grown about three inches since I last laid eyes on them, I knew something was wrong.

But I really didn't get the wake-up call I needed until I paid a visit to my blog only to find it gasping for breath and begging for a sip of water.

You see, I was brutally victimized by a sort of home invasion. The perpetrator? Something we addicts refer to as FB. Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I have been sucked in to this ever-expanding vortex of social masturbation. I posted a handful of semi-flattering pictures, splattered some clever profile information, and picked out a few select pieces of "flair." Not long after I had my little "wall" all set up, in came a small deluge of friend requests. (I had not felt this popular since this one time?...at a fraternity party?….)

I'm proud to say that I have yet to participate in any of the little virtual pokes, tickles, sensual massages, quizzes, games, tests, anal probes, drinks, clubs, food-fights, calendars, plants, root canals, fish, flowers, pillow fights, pap smears, bumper cars, hayrides, or whatever other fun-filled, right-at-your-desk fake activities one might find available for the low, low price of several minutes to several hours out of an otherwise real life.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have been able to get back in touch with several friends from as far back as elementary school. We are at that sort of midlife crisis age where we realize that sometimes nostalgia is all we have to look forward to. I also use it to keep up with current local friends when I can't seem to pick up a phone and call or just send them a simple text or e-mail. Why bother with clicking to other forms of communication when I'm already on Facebook?

I like reading friends' profiles and notes and getting to know them better--but only when they have something interesting to say. I'm sorry, but I could not care less what your favorite color is. (Btw, most people say, "I could care less" but that makes no sense and it is WRONG. Take note. But I digress.) I don't care to hear how perfectly perfect your family is or how much you love your cat. Unless the cat is a clone, then that might pique my interest. Otherwise, I'm sorry but that's just plain downright Boring. When I wrote my "25 things" list after far-too-many friends "tagged" me, I tried to make it interesting. Tell me something I don't know, I say. Tell me something sad or scary or crazy or funny. I'm busy wasting time here, so please, make it worth my while.

Sometimes, I'll make sure I'm alone, or make sure no one's looking before I go to my favorites and open Facebook. Like it's porn or something. (Another real time waster.) After I check my inbox and "notifications" and distribute responses appropriately (or in my case, inappropriately), I check status reports for anything the least bit entertaining or interesting. But what do I see? Someone I went to junior high with is going to sleep. The brother of someone I used to work with has a sick kid. An old neighbor's granddaughter's ex-boyfriend is buying groceries. A total stranger who became my friend because we both thought the other was someone else is having dinner.

And what do I do? Stare at the screen like some undead/cyborg hybrid not unlike the way I stare into a refrigerator full of food hoping to find something worth eating. Sure, I could pretend it's just a bad TV show and change the channel, or click on "hear less about this person," but I might miss something redeeming. Or, better yet, I might miss something that I could insult in a "comment." And we know how much I love to hurl (always well-intentioned and good-natured yet tastelessly cruel) insults. It's my superiority complex. That's really my only personality flaw.

Am I going to alienate any of my 152 friends? Honestly, I hope this makes them like me (even) more. I hope this makes them examine their (seemingly hum-drum) lives or (apparently lackluster) days and look for something a little more worth the priceless value of my wasted time than what color socks they are wearing.

Do I think my friends are boring? No, not at all. What about my friends of friends? Well, I'm not sure. What about my acquaintances? Who are you, again? I just don't want to read about any mundane details of their lives. I have spent 20 years or more having no idea at what hour of the day so many of these people had dinner or went to bed. I have lived the majority of my life never wondering, worrying, or giving a flying rat's ass about whether someone I may only vaguely remember is having diarrhea. (If you're that sick, get your damn laptop out of the bathroom.)

Verbal Abuse (New & Improved)

Yesterday morning, Luke told me, "I play this Nintendo game good." I said, "No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns." After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher to him, he looked at me and asked, "Why aren't they called adnouns? Shouldn't adjectives modify jectives?" He totally missed the point.

The majority of my friends, acquaintances, blog reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my husband or even dated him in the first place. And I'm proud to say that both of my children know the difference between "your" and "you're" and the difference between "its" and "it's," which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them.

I don't care what you say, as long as you say it correctly. If someone were to write me a note that says, "go to hell bitch." I would return it to them with red marks showing that the word "go" should be capitalized, the word "hell" needs a comma after it, and the word "bitch" needs a capital "B" (because it refers to Me). I might also suggest that the statement end with an exclamation mark instead of a period.

Now, I don't pretend or profess to be the world's greatest expert on the English language. (Well, sometimes I do pretend to be.) I only got a bachelor's degree in English. It's not as if I did something crazy like get a Ph.D. in grammar:

"Oh, you have a Ph.D.? So you're a 'doctor.' Doctor of what, may I ask?"

"Thanks for asking. I have a Ph.D. in English grammar. I'm a grammar doctor. Can I edit something for you?"

I believe my linguistic superiority, whether it is real or imagined, can be somewhat off-putting to anyone who wants to speak in my presence. I wonder if they bite their tongues lest I mentally edit each word they utter. This, of course, works to my advantage because (1) I don't have to listen to other people talk and (2) I get to talk more. And let's face it; wouldn't most of you rather listen to me?

Because I don't trust my children's teachers, I take advantage of every opportunity to train my kids to respect, revere, and regularly employ basic grammar rules. If any other children (or adults for that matter) are within earshot, all the better for them. One of my biggest challenges over the past few years has been drilling it into the kids' heads that "me" cannot be the subject of a standard sentence. Here are some examples:

Luke: "Me and him were making up jokes about our nuts."
Me: "Me was doing what? . . . Him was doing what?"
Luke: "Making up jokes about our nuts."
Me: "You should say, 'He and I were making up jokes about our nuts.'"

Katy: "Me and Lily and Maddie are so hot for Brance." (Their real names, by the way.)
Me: "Me is so hot for whom?"
Katy: "I don't know whom you're hot for, Mom, but we're hot for Brance."

Likewise, "I" cannot be the object of a sentence:

Katy: "Take a picture of Brooke and I."
Me: "Take a picture of I?"
Katy: "No, she and I."
Me: "Take a picture of she and take a picture of I?"
Katy: "No, of me and Brooke."
Me: "Thank you."

As I have stated before, any so-called errors I may have made (or may make) in any blog posts are actually intentional examples of the poetic license I am entitled to by virtue of my obvious genius in this unpopular and endangered arena.

I know what you're thinking:

(1) How pathetic is she that this is her only talent?
(2) Why must she try to make herself feel important by mocking and looking down on those less grammatically fortunate?
(3) Why does she abuse her children this way?

The answers:

(1) I have other talents that I am not as proud of,
(2) Therefore, I need to boost my self-esteem at the expense of others, and
(3) My kids will make me look good later when I can tell people they have Ph.D.s.

Today is the First Day of the Next Four Years

How did it get to be January 20 already? I was supposed to be more on top of my new life plan by now. Instead here I am either Facebooking or blogging. Not big moneymakers for a work-from-home lawyer. So this will be short. Mainly so I can go watch the inauguration ceremony. I love it that Obama will be sworn in with his hand on the same Bible Lincoln used. I don't care what your political views are, you have to admit it's a nice touch, and would be a good smack in the face for racists and white supremacists, were they capable of understanding.

I have an old Vietnam vet client who used to tell me a lot of the old classic southern racist jokes -- not because he thought I was racist, but simply because he knew I was white, and because he knew I liked to laugh. I did laugh, but mostly at his audacity and at the realization that when I was a kid, that stuff was common and no real harm was meant by it. We didn't know what "hate speech" was. The "N" word was a mere descriptive term that my grandparents used. They never uttered it in a pejorative way. Anyway, don't want to go off on that tangent.

My client told me that he recently discovered that he has some "half-breed" grand-nieces. He said, "And I'll be damned if they ain't the purtiest things you ever did see." So proud of them and so struck by the young girls' beauty.

Then he proceeds to tell me, "You know, I've been thinkin' 'bout it, and all them white presidents ain't never done us a damn bit o' good, so maybe with this one we have a chance."

It's not the skin color itself that makes it different. Never should be in any case. But I think it's the life experience or empathy or symbolism behind it that makes it different. Not that that alone would make a person a good (or bad) president.

I wonder how many of us are not so much glad to see a new president as they are just glad to see the old one go.

High Resolutions

When I was working on my English degree, I preferred world literature over English or American. But I always did like some snippets from English poet Alexander Pope.

Every January, I am reminded of this:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

(I think he's really referring to Heaven there, but for our purposes, let's pretend he's talking about our materialistic Earth.)

Sure, I don't have much breast from which hope could spring, but no matter how negative I seem, I am always hopeful that the next day, week, month, year will be better (or even better as the case may be). Is hope a bad thing? Does it mean you're not satisfied with today? I think it just means you always hope for the best, you hope for blue skies and rainbows and butterflies and a magic invisible leprechaun to hand you a million dollars every time you ask for it. You hope for your family's health and safety and happiness and that they don't kill you in your sleep.

Might I add that Pope also said Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. So maybe I'm a fool to rush in to such hope—especially when I seem to have all I need, and especially when hope has no power over fate or destiny or cellulite. I imagine angels take things as they come and rest as the discontent keep searching for something they think might be better.

My favorite Pope quote (Americanized here) is probably: True wit is nature to advantage dressed; What often was thought, but never so well expressed. This really has no relevance here other than to point out how witty I am.

All this to say, a new year always gives me a feeling of a do-over. A mulligan. A chance to be more successful, patient, grateful, sensitive, and spiritual. Basically, a new chance to be more better. A chance to become someone I'll never be without a lobotomy, but I'll keep hope alive--at least for that leprechaun.

We'll see how it goes.