Idol Worship

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

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 And when he does, I don't want anyone to wonder why I suddenly become even more sullen and withdrawn.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

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

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

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

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

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

I May Need an Intervention

But not yet. I have so much to share.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Daughter is too Young to Share Space with this Story

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

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

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

Loner, Party of One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Must Satisfy My Urge to Purge (improved version)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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