Halloween: Now With More Chocolate!

Halloween is a big deal for my husband. Actually, most holidays are big deals for my husband, but Halloween is one of the biggest ever since our son came along. Larry starts planning for Halloween months in advance, looking at costumes for Zane. Although Zane's first Halloween was spent in the NICU, in the years following he's been Yoda, a pirate, and a knight in shining armor. We have kept the costumes after the holiday; Zane likes to play dress up, like any kid.

This year, my husband asked Zane what he wanted to be.

"Robin," my son replied immediately. "And you be Batman."

"You want me to be Batman?" Larry had not anticipated this response. He had planned for Zane to be a Star Wars character, so he could play Darth Vader. Larry had his heart set on being Darth Vader! But yes, indeed, Zane wanted to be Robin, and he wanted his father to join him as Batman.

This was an even bigger deal for Larry; a father-son Halloween event! Larry googled Batman and Robin costumes almost immediately. Not just any Robin costume would do; Zane wanted to be the Robin from the television show Young Justice. And the Batman could not look shabby; it had to be the RIGHT Batman. With the correct ears. When the costumes arrived, Zane's outfit, minus the plastic mask, was declared a success. Larry's outfit required that another set of Batman ears be located, and the cape was pronounced a bust because you could see through it. Many trips to Halloween stores all over town later, the outfit was complete. The Father-Son Halloween event will be a blockbuster hit! Male bonding will occur!! Candy will be shared!!

My job tonight? Staying at home and handing out the candy to trick or treaters.

No costume. No frills. No fanfare.

I'm scary enough without all that!

The Trouble With Air Shows

Every single day, there are planes whizzing by our house for one reason or another. Occasionally we will see military helicopters, and that sends Zane over the moon. My son loves him some airplanes. As we live about four miles from an Air Force Base, this is a good thing. I myself am ambivalent about flying machines. They are all right in theory, I think. I have zero interest in ever actually flying a plane, however, so I don't really pay attention to what sort of aircraft is buzzing my house.

"Shiny!" I may say to my son.

My husband and I decided that it would be fun to take Zane to the Air Show this weekend. We may have been drinking at the time, at that stage of inebriation where dumb ideas appear very smart indeed. I can't say for sure. But after the morning soccer game, we packed up the car and drove onto the base.

And drove.

And drove.

After we had driven what seemed like ten miles, we were directed toward a large grassy area and told to park. We then walked about a half mile to the first gate. Here we were subject to search by MPs with guns, so we had to wait in line.

"I need to go potty," Zane said.

"You are kidding, right?" my husband said. Luckily, there were some of those porta-potties nearby; we got back in line. Zane was bemused by the wand when they searched him, and found it all very amusing. Larry and I herded him past the gate...where we had to wait for a shuttle. When we finally got to the actual area where the show was happening, it was a relief.



There were tons of planes parked for people to look at, crawl into, take a picture with, etc. I was curious about one plane; it had a sign in front of it printed in red letters so you would know they were serious: "DO NOT TOUCH THIS PLANE OR WE WILL SHOOT YOU." I might be paraphrasing. Planes were also flying around us, so we walked around.

And walked.

And walked.

After about the first three quarters of a mile, Zane did not walk. He demanded to be carried. He threw a fit if we refused. I wanted to just keep walking, and leave the screaming tantrum behind. Larry pointed out that the MPs would make us take Zane back--they had guns. So we picked him up and walked. Then we turned around and walked back the way we came. All told, we walked close to six miles, by my estimations.

Even though I had worn my walking shoes, my feet were killing me. I was limping. I had thoughts of knocking an MP on a Segway down and stealing his ride. The thought of how ridiculous I would look, and the resulting headline, changed my mind. Larry and I were exhausted by the time we straggled back to our car. I hobbled into our house just as the Blue Angels flew over. I don't even know if I will be able to walk tomorrow.

And Zane? He fell asleep while being carted around, and he woke up just as we got to the car. He was ready to go back.

The Competition Has Left Me Behind

I don't think of myself as competitive. Most because I can't really work up enough energy to get worked up about being competitive. Even if there is something that I am good at, I'm just sort of 'meh' about competing against other people.

I know that there are people out there who are major competitors. If you've done something, they have to do it better, faster, and prettier than you. I've started walking? They are jogging. I am jogging? They're running marathons, so neener-neener-neener. Bastards.

My general dislike of competition began in the sixth grade. There was a competition to see who could read the most books in a grading period. There was this girl, Lynnette, who made it her personal mission to read the most books, and the teacher wouldn't count ANY of the hundreds of comic books I had read for the contest. Not even The Cross and the Switchblade, which was about Tom Landry and God or something! However, that same teacher counted The Hobbit as TWO for Lynnette, which won her the stupid contest. I am pretty sure that if I ran into Lynnette today, I'd punch right in the face. But I'm not bitter.

After that, I lost the will to live. Just kidding. I did lose the will to compete. Even when I won the school spelling bee at the end of that year, I had no interest in competing, and was as surprised as anyone that I won. Every contest that I have won has left me questioning the wisdom of the judges.

So when I started blogging, I decided to try this just for fun:



People who visit your blog click on the button, and your popularity is judged worthy based on the number of people who vote for you. I was hoping to hit the top 100. I think that I'm number 4,000,042. That is downright depressing! I've decided that this is too much like high school, where I have to be nice to all the right people so they will let me sit near them. What do all of you think? Do you care about these 'vote for me!' events? What brings you back to a blog, or gets your attention?

Red Writing Hood: Victory

Prompt: Write a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction in which athleticism features prominently. I am definitely of the potato-shaped persuasion, but I am amazed every single day by kids who struggle to do activities that others take for granted. They are the true athletes; their battles are fought every single day, with no off season. This is fiction.

*clack*

*clack*

*clack*

Her feet fly over the ground of her mind, barely touching.

*clack*

The wind parts like a sea of tall grass as her strong legs propel her forward.

*clack*

Running is freedom, she has heard her mother say. So she runs.

*clack*

Her joy is boundless, her smile the sun, as she moves fleet-footed down the track.

*clack*

*clack*

Her arms are hurting where the steel of the crutches surround them.

*clack*

Her lungs feel ready to burst with her efforts to pull in enough oxygen.

*clack*

She sees the finish line. The crowd is there, waiting, cheering her on.

*clack*

In her mind, she runs past the finish line, her arms raised in victory.

Then she feels her legs collapse in their exhaustion. The crutches cannot help her stay upright. She falls. No matter; the crowd envelopes her in their elation.

Ten steps today. Tomorrow, the world.

Mamakat's: Scare

Mamakat's Prompt:Something that scared the hell out of you when you were a child.


When we lived in Germany, we lived on the "base" in a long, three-story apartment building that was probably built in the late 1940s, after WWII. Like most buildings in Germany, this one had a basement. The basement was one long, narrow hallway that granted access to storerooms as well as the laundry room and the main boiler room for the building. The laundry room was where everyone in the building did their laundry; the light was always on in that room. To get to that room, however, you had to go down the basement hallway.

The light switch for that endless basement hallway was on a timer. Once the timer ran out, the lights went out again, leaving you in utter blackness. A darkness that seemed to breathe and sigh with anticipation as it surrounded you. That darkness seemed to slither around your feet. As you stood there in the dark, too stiff with fear to run, you could almost feel the caress of a hand on your shoulder, or a touch smoothing your hair from your forehead.

All the kids in the building were terrified of the basement, but our parents would send us down there anyway, to check on the clothes in the laundry room. We had no choice but to go; our plea that we were scared always fell on deaf ears. We each developed our own survival skills.

I would turn the timer as far to the right as possible, to extend the time the lights were on. I would then race to the laundry room, my feet breaking the sound barrier in my haste to hit the doorway. Most of the time, I made it.

Sometimes the door to the laundry room would be closed, leaving only a small sliver of light beckoning. Sometimes, the door would not open easily, leaving me struggling with the knob, my breath coming in little screams.

And sometimes, the timer went off early.

Mamakat: 22 Things That I Have Done

Mamakat's Prompt: Last week we wrote about what we have never done…this week write a list of 22 things you HAVE done. Note: This list may not be as coherent as the last one. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and filled with snot. Yes, it is that bad. But the show must go on...

I am forty-six years old. And I have:

1. Camped out in Denmark and froze my butt off, which has since led me to my current practice of packing extra weight on my thighs during winter.

2. Been nearly suffocated behind a fat man in a crowd waiting to see Farah Fawcett.

3. Been a surly page editor for my high school newspaper. J. Jonah Jameson was my role model.

4. Seen one of Alfred Stieglitz's racy pictures of Georgia O'Keefe that is kept in a vault underneath the National Gallery of Art.

5. Almost started a fistfight at Arlington National Cemetery because someone was taking pictures of a funeral.

6. Won a wet t-shirt contest so I had money for the phone bill.

7. Had my name in the paper when I was two. I walked into a hornet's nest. That may have been foreshadowing.

8. Set off the nuclear detector at the White House. But not on purpose.

9. Stuck a hairpin into an electrical socket. In Germany. 220 volts! I may have been magnetic for some time afterwards, but no other lingering effects were noted.

10. Swiped a bottle of peppers from a restaurant to impress a boy with my daring.

11. Been thrown from a galloping horse. I bounced.

12. Pushed someone off the top riser at a choir concert. To be fair, I did not know she had fainted.

13. Sang the Hallelujah Chorus at the Kennedy Center for a holiday radio show. That off-key note? Wasn't me.

14. Almost crashed my grandfather's truck into a cow. My first experience with braking on gravel!
15. Attended the first Beach Boys 4th of July concert at the Washington Monument.

16. Talked to Charles Barkley and did not ask for an autograph. Talked to Dennis Quaid and did(for my mom).

17. Been a Migraine Mentor. I wasn't supposed to help a person have better migraines, though. Nor did I have better migraines than other people. That title is sort of misleading, isn't it?

18. Hid a puppy in my college dorm room for a week.

19. Bought a guy a drink 'anonymously' because it was interesting to see what they did when they got it. Watching them search the crowd for their benefactor was more fun than drinking.

20. Been filmed in a commercial for the United Way.

21. Seen Lord Byron's name carved on a temple column in Greece. Yes, Lord Byron was a notorious graffiti artist. Who knew?

22. Created a blog to record my tiny thoughts.

RemembeRED: Costume

Prompt: reach back to a costume that made an impression. This is late because I am sickly today. For the record, I hate being sickly.

My mother helped me pull her short, bright red, mini over my head and over her bra stuffed with tissues. She zipped it up over the white blouse that she made me put on underneath, because it was October in Germany, and cold. I think the skirt of the mini came to my knees; I was too distracted by my fake chest and the idea that I would someday have breasts that size. Black high heels, impossibly tall to my eyes, were waiting next to the door when we were finished.

Then came one of my mother's short black wigs, held firmly in place with hairpins that my mother seemed to be trying to jab into my skull. Wigs were expensive, and for my mother to allow me to wear one of hers was a very big deal indeed. My mom would have stapled the wig to my head if it had been possible, so it wouldn't accidentally fall off.

Makeup was next. My mother dabbed a coral rouge on my cheeks in an exaggerated circling motion. Next came the frosty sky blue eye shadow from eyelash to eye brows, followed by liquid kohl eyeliner and mascara. My mother smeared my mouth with bright red lipstick, and I was ready to hit the streets in the costume of a 'streetwalker'.

I had NO idea what the heck a 'streetwalker' was at the time. I was just happy that, for a precious few moments, I had my mother all to myself. I proudly walked out into the living room to show off my costume before my brother the Rabbit and I went out into the night.

What a trip, Man!

Texas is a big state. It doesn't seem like it most of the time, because the areas that I travel are relatively close in Texas terms, but this state is huge. And San Antonio is the 7th largest city in the nation. (I KNOW!!! I didn't believe it either!) So a quick trip isn't always quick.

We got into the car this past weekend to drive to Hondo, Texas. A friend of ours was having her son's third birthday party there at a corn maze. 55 miles away, normally not even a blink for us. Zane was all excited about going to see his friend, even after playing in his soccer game. We left the soccer game and headed to Hondo.

But then something random happened.

My husband, who always uses GPS, decided to NOT use GPS. Instead, he relied on me. Exhausted, frazzled, had-a-very-bad-week-and-fighting-off-illness me. The person who was not speaking in complete sentences.

That person.

I knew that Hondo is west of San Antonio, heading out Highway 90. In our fair city, the highways have a way of changing numbers right in the middle of everything. For example, 281 becomes 37 at some point, then goes back to being 281. 35 becomes 410...but wait, now it is 181. I think. Confusing, isn't it? Interstate 10, during your trip through San Antonio, mingles with Highway 90. So...I thought that we were supposed to take I-10 West. And that is what we did.

We are cruising along about an hour, into the Hill Country, hitting the city limits of Kerrville, when I realize that we are on the wrong highway. Yes, it took me THAT long to realize we were not where we should be.

And then I had to tell my husband that I had failed miserably as the navigator on this particular mission. Of course he had to give me a hard time about it, because I'm the one who always knows exactly where we are going. Since my husband had already texted the woman having the party to say that we would be at the party, we were committed to getting there.

My husband plugged in his GPS, and though we ended up adding 47 more miles to our trip, we finally found the corn maze. Everyone else at the party was completely exhausted; they'd been through the maze, had the cake, opened the presents, etc. They were just waiting for us. Zane was cranky, because he had fought falling asleep so he could see his friend. And it was hot and dusty. We wandered around. The place had several very old and huge live oak trees that offered some shade. We found some goats to look at, and a tractor to pose on, and a really cool spider web made of rope. We stayed about an hour, then trudged back to the car. I ended up having to carry Zane.



Did I mention that we had ANOTHER birthday party to attend after that? 55 miles in the opposite direction? We did. Another child's birthday party.

At least this party had a horse.

And beer.

Random stuff

It's Sunday, and I have just had the most exhausting weekend ever. And not in a good way. But whatever.

Why do people get zits on the inside of their nostrils? I can totally understand that a person might have acne on the outside of the nose, but the inside?

My son has watched the entire LOTR trilogy(Lord of the Rings). The other day he asked me if Gandalf pooped. I don't think that Tolkien ever covered that in any of the bajillions of hours he spent developing Middle Earth. Should I write to Christopher Tolkien about this? I winged it; I said 'yes'.

You never hear any good tongue twisters anymore. I really liked those as a kid; I think that it helped me to enunciate my words better. I hate it when people who are talking have a mushy mouth. Especially when they work the drive through window.

Pregnant women get doors opened for them, get their bags carried, etc. Just because they are freakin' preggers. To heck with that! If you want to impress me with your chivalry, men, open the door for me and offer to carry my bags when I have a wriggling, screaming four year old in my arms. THEN I'll say that you're totally awesome.

If you have to tattoo the word 'COWBOY' on your arm...you aren't. Why do I need to tell you that? Should I ever rule the world, these sorts of people will be hunted down and branded like cattle.

Why do I see overweight people riding around stores in those motorized chairs? If there's anyone out there who needs to burn some calories, it's them! And weight bearing exercise is good for the bones! Those people make me think of Wall-E.

I already know that I will be one of those elderly people who whacks people with my cane when they are impertinent. Should I start practicing now? I already have a list of people to whack.

I am tired of happy meals, fun meals, etc. Those are too damned cheerful. I want a Surly meal, that comes with a fifth of vodka, a masseuse, and a really big stick. Or two really big sticks. In case I break one.

We are watching the Walking Dead in my house, mostly because it rocks. But I have questions. Such as how does what is essentially a dead person eat? The muscles that govern food intake don't work, nor does digestion occur. How do they smell living things if they are dead? Also, do zombies poop?

Whooping Cough Blues

I got a phone call from the daycare the other day.

One of those calls.

I hate those calls.

"Zane has a cough," the director said.

I agreed with her. He did have a barky cough. Zane has allergies and my genes, which means that sometimes he has a constant drip of snot down the back of his throat. His behavior was otherwise normal. That says 'not sick' to me. Does that say 'not sick' to you?

"It's really bad," she said. "It could be whooping cough." Translation: come and get your kid now, please.

This area has had several outbreaks of pertussis over the years, so I understood her concerns. A barking cough is nothing to take lightly, if there are other symptoms like a high fever. Zane did not have any of the other symptoms. I knew exactly what the doctor was going to say, but the daycare wasn't going to let him stay. Poop.

I reluctantly got an appointment, then drove the 23.7 miles to get Zane, who had just fallen asleep. I had to wake him up, and then we were on our way to the doctor's office, where we sat down in the waiting room.

At least, I sat down.

I did not sit down for long. Zane was his usual so-not-sick self, ricocheting off walls, running into places where he is not supposed to be, dismantling whatever looked breakable. I played goalie with him until they called his name. They brought us back to the exam room, where Zane promptly began to open doors(don't know why they don't have latches on those cabinet doors!) and climb on things like the baby scale.

Every sick kid is this hyper, right?

The doctor finally came in, before Zane had licked all the tongue depressors. My beloved son was 'hiding' underneath the exam table and would not come out. I had to crawl under there, in the dress I wore to work, and pull him out.

The doctor looked into my son's ears.

He looked at his throat. He listened to his breathing.

Then he put his hand on his chin thoughtfully and looked at me.

"He's got a cough," he said.

"Really?" I replied, probably more sarcastically than was warranted.

"It's going around," the doctor never missed a beat. I am not sure, but I think that he is used to sarcastic parents.

Zane got two stickers for his visit; one from the doctor and the other by flirting with the receptionist on our way out. I got to pay for the visit.

Nobody even offered me a sticker. I'm still bummed about that.

Red Writing Hood: Zombie Love

For this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt: Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters. Your text must elicit or express fear.


Tap-tap-tap

Long bloody nails scrape the glass outside.

True love!

I killed her twice.

Until I join her, she won't stay dead.

Things I've Never Done

It's MamaKat time! Today it's "list 22 things you’ve never done".


I am forty-six years old.

And I've never:

1. Walked in Tolkien's footsteps at Oxford.

2. Spent a weekend in a real castle.

3. Hunted ghosts in Europe,(where the history is).

4. Watched the sun rise from a beach on the Mediterranean with my feet buried in the sand.

5. Participated in a celebration of the Solstice at Stonehenge.

6. Been backstage at a Rolling Stones concert to see if they really plug in Keith Richards so he recharges.

7. Sat on the Throne of England and randomly send people to the Tower.

8. Run naked through the White House, chased by the Secret Service.

9. Punched a shark, even if it really deserved it.

10. Gone on a walkabout to find the best glass of beer on the planet.

11. Visited the Vatican Library just to touch all the books.

12. Bought a tattoo after a drunken binge with good tequila.

13. Founded a society for reformed cat ladies.

14. Brokered a peace treaty between two nations who weren't really fighting.

15. Lived out in the middle of nowhere.

16. Built my self-cleaning dream house.

17. Had liposuction/tummy tuck so I can pretend to be a cougar.

18. Went on a vision quest via peyote.

19. Visited Mount Rushmore and cleaned out the stuff that looks like nose candy from a distance.

20. Stood on the top of a Mayan pyramid just because women weren't allowed up there.

21. Won a cursing contest with an actual sailor.

22. Been a guest on The Daily Show.

Six Degrees of Jillsmo

I try to read a lot of blogs. I don't always get to comment, because I read blogs on my phone. I still have not become a Jedi master in the art of texting. There may be a special school for that, but until then, I apologize for not commenting more.

But lately, when I am barreling through the blogosphere, I keep running into this chick:




She's pretty hot, for an animated lady, but then I have always been a sucker for curls. And that smile! You just know that she's thinking about running through mud in bare feet. Which is just the kind of cool that Jillsmo is.

But I find myself a little resentful. That mop of curly hair is freakin' EVERYWHERE. Google the name 'Jillsmo'. See what I mean? That is some serious search engine optimization, and I don't even know what the hell that is. It's like I am in high school, and Jillsmo is Ferris Bueller!

I should mention that I've 'known' Jillsmo for years and years via the interwebs, ever since Beat the Geeks aired. She is one of the nicest people on the planet. She gave me one of the very best presents ever when I was pregnant with my son, a fetal heart monitor. That was just the thing I needed, as a two-steps-from-complete-hysteria pregnant lady. Who would have even known that I desperately needed one? Jillsmo. Even hardcore conservatives find her an absolutely wonderful person. She's insightful, sarcastic, and funny. She's actually not anything like me, and that's probably a good thing.

Except for her hatred of cats, she's the perfect woman.

I envy the popularity she enjoys, but I must acknowledge that I can't compete with her. I actually tried the other day, and it gave me a migraine. I just can't be that funny, it's too much pressure. Jillsmo truly deserves all the comment love in the world, and I am not being a bit sarcastic.

In order to get over my blog-envy, I've decided to start a game. I call this game "Six Degrees of Jillsmo". (Nobody copyright that.) This game is sort of like the "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon", except we are only talking about blogs here. Throw out a random name of a blog, and connect it in six steps to Jillsmo.

It's so simple a game that it's perfect! Anybody want to play?

I would have liked to have had a cool badge of some sort, but this entire post is the result of a drunken binge, and I am just not that computer literate. I'll bet that JILLSMO could make a badge, however.

RemebeRED: Diving into Fall

Prompt: For you, what does autumn evoke?


Pat was a self-assured star receiver with eyes the color of a summer sky. I was a gawky teenager with poor social skills. We were just taking a walk together. His younger brother and a friend were chasing a few steps behind us. The darkness led brisk little bursts of wind to push us down the sidewalk; the air was already crisp with the cold front that was due later that weekend. Many of the houses had large piles of leaves in front, carefully raked and ready to be bagged.

One yard held the Mount Everest of leaves in front. The pile loomed, and it made me anxious. What was in that pile? I didn't want to walk near it, and I started to give it a wide berth. Pat stopped. When I glanced back at him, I could see the glint of his braces as he grinned at me. It was the grin of a person who would always try to go over the obstacle instead of around it. The grin of a person who would laugh at adversity, embracing it as an equal.

It was one of those grins that could steal a girl's heart when she wasn't looking.

Pat dove right into the middle of that pile of leaves like he was diving into a pool of water. I was amazed at his fearlessness. He surfaced on the other side of the pile, coming up for air in an explosion of leaves. Pat hit the leaves with one hand like they were water and he was splashing me. My fears disappeared into the night with my laughter. It would be a daydream crush, wispy and insubstantial, not meant to survive the passage of time. But just then, it didn't matter.

Product Review/Giveaway: Snapsac

I am going to try something new today, because trying new things is supposed to be good for you. A very nice lady over at Snapsac sent me this re-usable shopping bag, completely out of the blue. The Snapsac logo is "Smart. Stylish. Shopping." I am not your garden variety shopper, and I am really not considered stylish, but I have on occasion been told that I am smart. Therefore, I am willing to give this review and giveaway a shot.

When I got the package home and opened it, I found this:



I am all for re-usable shopping bags, because I hate plastic bags. I buy re-usable all the time, at just about every store. Why do I buy them at every store? Because I forget all about them being in the trunk of my car. If I had a bag or two that I could just fold up and slip into my purse, then I wouldn't have to worry about remembering where they were. The Snapsac was made for forgetful people like me, which is awesome. No more buying bags at the checkout line!

Then I unfolded the bag.



I am a basic black sort of girl, but the colors of this Snapsac are sharp. This is the "super" tote, and it is a good sized bag. This particular size would be good for a trip to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving(which I would never do!). A shopper could fit the makings of the entire dinner in the bag, including the turkey, a roasting pan, aluminum foil, green beans, fried onions, stuffing, and the pumpkin pie. I know this because I actually went to my local grocery store and put all these items in the bag to see if they would fit. I was pretty impressed. I was even more impressed when I was able to pick the bag up without any obvious signs of tearing or shredding from the weight. The Snapsac is actually pretty sturdy; it looks none the worse for wear!

My only real problem with the Snapsac is more a reflection of my poor spatial skills; I have been unable to put the bag back into its original snazzy shape. I was horrible at that origami, too. Maybe the company can offer a bag with dotted lines and other directions written on the bag for people like me. The cost of the Snapsac is negligible; the bags that you buy in the checkout line are at least a buck, and they don't hold together well. This Snapsac that I tried out can hold at least the content of three or four of those bags. Stylish AND economical!

Bottom line: Would I buy it? Yes.

I get to give one of these away to a lucky person. Leave your email in the comments if you think that you would like this bag. I am not going to go to a lot of trouble to draw the name; this is a low-budget operation at this stage. I will write all of the names on a piece of paper and have my son pull one out of a jar. The winner will be selected before Friday, Oct 21st, if not sooner. Good luck!

Colder Than Space

I get cold sometimes.

It usually happens at night. I'll wake up and it will hit me almost like a seizure.

Have you ever been so cold that if you moved at all, you would break out in a shivering so severe that it would post as a seismic event? Have you ever shivered so hard that you couldn't even move to get under the covers? Have you ever felt as though every single muscle in your body contracted all at once, so hard that it makes your head hurt?

I get cold like that. It really feels like my core temperature has dropped; my chest feels encased in ice. If I manage to get a little warm, the shivering just goes nuts, to wear I am surprised that I haven't broken all of my teeth with chattering.

My husband doesn't understand. He wouldn't. He's the guy who wore shorts and a t-shirt to visit a glacier. He's doesn't even own a coat! Is there some kind of rule that says that cold-natured people have to marry warm-natured ones? I admit that when I am locked in my little cell of Antarctic cold, I have called him some names. At that moment, he has what I want, which is warmth. I may be forgiven for thinking mean thoughts about someone who is nice and toasty in those moments, especially since I am so frozen that I can't even move close enough to take advantage of that warmth.

I am no stranger to cold weather. I've lived in the North. I've been camping in Norway, Denmark, and Sweden. I've shoveled snow, and I've tried to push my car through the snow. I know how to dress warmly, with the mittens and the long underwear.

But this is South Texas. Even in a "harsh" winter, it rarely gets below freezing. Even if the temperature falls that low, it's only for a day or two. It may be said that I have lost my winterizing abilities over the years. This presents me with a dilemma.

I don't want to wear a coat or sweater all the time, because most of the time I am not cold at all. If I wear flannel jammies*, and get under the covers, then I am SWELTERING, and that's no good. I've tried having a robe or blanket at the foot of the bed, but often I am too rigid to get it.

How do I prepare for spontaneous moments of freezitude, then?

What I need is some sort of science-fiction pajamas. These jammies need to be comfortable, but they need to be able to monitor body temperature. They need to be able to warm up if I get cold, or chill a little if I get too hot. These jammies could monitor my heart rate and all my other vital signs while I am asleep. Someone out there could monitor this information, and send the information to my doctor.

I'm describing the suit that astronauts wear into space, I just realized.

Dang. Those suits are way out of my price range!

It's just as well. I don't think that I could sleep with that helmet thing on.




*I just like the word 'jammies'. It's a comforting sort of word.

Even Darth Vader Listened to his Mama

This is one of my favorite commercials. Not only is it adorable, it's hilarious. Zane is often seen dressed in only his Lego underpants, wearing his own Darth helmet. He likes to press the button that makes the *whoosh* sound of Darth breathing. He also likes to press the button to hear Darth say:

"You don't know the power of the Dark Side."

I think that the breathing sound is a little creepy(it reminds of of ICU), but there are worse things in the world than listening to James Earl Jones' voice.

Zane REALLY likes that quote about the Dark Side. Right now he walks around muttering it under his breath like a mantra. His teacher has not said a word about it, but I wonder if he mutters about Darth at school. Kids will latch onto quotes or song lyrics because they like how the words flow; I assume that is what Zane is doing here. Still, it's been difficult not to laugh when Zane gets in trouble. He wanders off, muttering, "You don't know the power of the Dark Side," in his best Darth imitation.

But if you laugh at the things that your child says when you are trying to discipline them, it kind of kills the point you are trying to make. It's sort of like a game of Chicken. If you laugh or show any emotion when you are supposed to be stern, they 'win'. It's the equivalent of blinking first.

I am determined not to laugh. Even Darth Vader listened to his mother, and I am certain that she did not laugh at his hijinks, either.

Red Writing Hood: Tattoo

Prompt: If you haven’t figured it out, this week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently.

This goes along with THIS and THIS. I personally do not have a tattoo, although I intended to get one when I turned forty. Part of it has to do with a rampant fear of needles, but the fact is that I can't decide what kind of tattoo I want. It has to be something that will hold up to the saggy skin that I will inevitably have, and it has to be something that I won't get bored with in five years.




Mela slowly opened her eyes and realized that she was in her own home. She was not in her bed, but on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire was burning brightly; it was the shrieking whistle of the kettle that had brought her out of her darkness. She sat up slowly, disoriented. When she could, Mela grabbed the tongs that were propped next to the fire and pulled the kettle off to the side to stop the horrible screaming. A frown creased her brow. She put her hands on the ground to push herself to her feet.

And stared.

There was now a magnificently detailed tattoo of a red and gold dragon coiled on the inside of her left wrist. The veins quickly pulsing underneath the skin of her wrist made the dragon come alive; its tail seemed to undulate as it curled around her arm. In the firelight, the eyes of the dragon appeared to glow, and the smoky breath of the tattoo felt warm. Mela put her fingers on that warmth, incredulous.

She had a sudden image of running through the forest in the twilight, glowing eyes above her, the sound of leathery wings chasing her, falling, then hot breath on the back of her neck, a male voice whispering "You are mine."

And...chanting? Chanting was only for magic. A low moan of fear escaped her.

If anyone saw the tattoo, she would be burned at the stake.

The Secret to a Happy Marriage, Part 4347

MamaKat's Prompt: A list of ten things you should never ask your spouse.

At some point over the past two years, I stated that the key to a happy marriage is separate bathrooms. I am not going to go find that post, because I am feeling lazy. I still stand by that statement, since I remain happily married.

There are other secrets to a successful marriage. One of those secrets is that honesty does NOT mean that you tell your spouse everything. There are some pieces of personal information that should never be spoken aloud in the interest of marital harmony, and there are some questions that should never be asked.

10. Should I call a plumber/electrician/whatever to take care of this?
I know that my husband is not a fix-it sort of guy, but he still likes to pretend. If I just call someone else I know to come and fix whatever is broken, Larry gets his feelings hurt. Never, never, ever let your spouse know that you think that he can't handle something, even if he can't. Guys like to think that they get to rescue you every now and then, even if it's just a clogged drain.

9. Are you going to wear that?
Before we married, my husband's mother bought all of his clothes. It made her happy, and my husband took the path of least resistance. I have the fashion sense of an iguana, but I could not help commenting that Larry was dressed like his father. That did NOT go over well; my comments were taken as aspersions upon his mother.

8. Why can't you be like____?
I've never personally said this sentence except in my head, because this is an epic fight starter. Nobody likes to be compared to someone else! Would Victoria Beckham compare David Beckham to Ashton Kutcher? Would Brad Pitt compare Angelina Jolie to Jennifer Anniston? Well, no, because it's freakin' Angelina Jolie. She's some sort of goddess with bad tattoos. But I've made my point.

7. How much did you pay for that?
When a woman asks her spouse this question, what she really wants to know is what sort of dent this purchase has made in her shoe budget, or in my case, my book budget. My husband wants expensive gadgets like blu-ray players, and he gets defensive about it and picks at my book buying. In the interest of keeping the peace, I just don't say anything.

6. Seriously, are you going to wear that?
I don't think that my husband is color blind, but he never used to look at his clothes. He would walk out of the house in mismatched items and never even notice. I noticed, however, and probably every woman in the tri-county area noticed. But if I mentioned the fashion faux pas, feelings were hurt. If it's not a terribly egregious mismatch, I just keep my mouth shut.

5. Does this make me look fat?
My husband is fond of saying that one should never ask a question if you do not want the answer. This is a perfect example. In fact, if you have to ask this question, the answer is YES.

4. Do you really need all those Star Wars/Lord of the Rings action figures?
Yes. He really does. Just like I need all of my stuff. A man's home is his castle, but he usually doesn't mind a few pink throw pillows as long as he has his stuff.

3. Have you seen the credit card statement?
Mentioning the credit card statement is a surefire way to get my husband to want to LOOK at the credit card statement. Then we fight over who made the most frivolous purchases. Good times.

2. Can you hurry up?
Women have a TON of things to do. In addition to working all day, they come home, fix dinner, clean up the dishes, do laundry, get the coffee ready, gather up whatever is needed for the next day, etc. This does not make me personally inclined to feel amorous. But refrain from letting your spouse know that you are thinking about whether you remembered to put bleach in with the whites when you are supposed to be getting your frisky on with him.

1. We need to talk.
Let's face it, when a woman says that to a man, it is almost never good. That sentence sets an ominous mood, and is counter productive to good communication! No matter the import of the conversation, leave that sentence out.

Did I miss any?

The Tech Support in this Place Sucks

We have an application that we use in my school district. We use it for all of our paperwork. It keeps everything in one central place, and those of us with access can use it to conduct IEP meetings, write reports, and create IEPs(IEP have to do with special education). I am the system administrator for this application. It's a great application, and I love it because it helps me do what I am supposed to do.

I do not love being tech support.

When we make any changes in our application, my department sends out detailed instructions if any are needed. These are the most beautiful instructions ever, I think. These instructions have pictures with little arrows pointing at important stuff. line by line sequential instructions, highlighted portions, etc. Probably the only entity that I have ever known to have instructions this detailed is the CDC.

Most people who use this application have no problems with it. They download the plug-in that gives them access, log in, and all is right with the world. Others get stuck, and then they call me. Which is a big mistake. I have very few people skills and I HATE talking on the phone.

I love this application, however, and I think that it is an extremely valuable tool. So I take the time to write up detailed instructions, and I take the time to visit campuses when they need help with the detailed instructions. This is all in addition to my "REAL" job, mind you. Most of my calls have to do with people forgetting their passwords, but a great many of the other calls go like this:


Me: "This is Tina"

Random person: "Yeah, I can't log into the program."

Me: "Did you read the instructions?"

Random: "It won't let me log on at all."

Me: "But did you read the instructions?"

Random: "I tried three different passwords, but none of them worked."

Me: "Yes, but did you read the instructions?"

Random: "But it won't let me log on, and I have to do an IEP for an 8am meeting!"

Me: "So have you read the instructions?"

Random: "No, but I really need you to help me because I have this IEP meeting..."

Me: "How long have you known about this IEP meeting?"

Random: "About three weeks, but I really need your help. I can't log in."

Me: *click*

I don't really hang up, but sometimes I would like to! I try my best to help them. I am always polite and respectful. My boss still gets phone calls saying that I was rude. And unhelpful, even! That hurts my feelings!

Tech support people aren't supposed to have feelings! I suck at this job.

Are there things that you do to help others that garner complaints instead of compliments? If so, what do you do?

RemembeRED: Deadline

Prompt: In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”


I stared at the white sheet of paper ensnared in my Smith-Corona typewriter.

It was the night before my research paper was due.

That page was as blank as my mind.

I had a topic: F. Scott Fitzgerald and the parallels of his life to his novels. I had checked out all the books, compiled all the research, completed my index cards with the correct citations. I just had no intention of actually writing the paper. I felt that it was a stupid assignment*.

My senior English teacher had informed me that morning that if I did not turn in this assignment, I would not be walking the stage at graduation. It was a major grade and a zero in a major grade was an automatic failure. While I didn't really care about walking the stage, anything that interfered with my college career would not be acceptable to my parents. I said a bad word under my breath as I left the classroom.

Now, I said that word again as I stared at that blinding whiteness.

Just like that, a research paper became everything.

I barricaded myself in my room with the family typewriter. It was electric, and it had one of those balls with all the letters on it. It was shiny, which was distracting even then. And it 'self' corrected!

Twenty minutes later, I still had the white paper staring at me.

I finally typed something. It was my name, my teacher, and the date.

Still, I felt this was a good start. Then my teenager brain figured out that I just had to complete the assignment. It didn't matter what grade I got, only that I finished. So I finished the assignment without thinking much about it at all.

I got an A. So much for thinking!



*I was, and still am, one of those people who need to understand the necessity of a task before doing it. I need the WHY before anything else. If I don't see a point to it, I don't want to do it. This one 'minor' character flaw gave my teachers raging fits, but the way I saw it, if a teacher couldn't explain the 'why' then it wasn't worth learning. I have stubbornness issues.

He Did NOT Get This From Me

Where ever we go, my son makes friends. If we are in line at the bank, he's talking to the security guard. If we are at the movies, he's talking to the people behind us. If we go to the police station, he's back behind the desk with the detectives

Just kidding about that last one.

My son has the gift of flirt. We worried that he wouldn't talk, then we worried that he'd lost some of his language when he turned 15 months. I guess we worried for nothing. But where did he get these particular social skills? Certainly it wasn't in his IEP!

We have a favorite Mexican Food restaurant nearby. We go there as often as we can, because Zane likes one of the waitresses there. She has loved him since he was an itty bitty 5lb baby. Every time we go to the Patio Cafe, she fusses over him and brings him his favorite foods. If no one else is in the restaurant, she will take him to the fish tanks and show him the fish. She talks to him and gives him kisses, and as we leave the place, she gets him a lollipop.

I have no idea where my son learned to flirt like this. My husband and I are supra-introverts. We tend to keep our heads down pointed toward our books or computers. We have in no way been good role models for flirting behavior. Not that I haven't used flirting on occasion; I lucked out of many a traffic ticket using my flirting ways. But I sort of stopped that when I got married.

This past weekend we went to the Patio cafe for lunch. There was a new waitress there. Zane had to tell her all about his soccer game. She bent down to him and listened, and in the middle of his story, Zane stopped. He leaned over to her and touched her face lightly.

"You have pretty eyes," Zane said, smiling. And there she was, right in the palm of his little hand. It was that easy. I haven't seem moves like that since the days of Disco.

There are tons of books out there on flirting, and I have read every single one. My son hasn't read any of them. Yet he seems to know exactly what to say and do instinctively. I guess I am suspicious of such things.

My son does not fake in any way. He is not trying to be manipulative. Zane is too young to completely understand such shenanigans. He genuinely is happy to meet people, and he loves to make friends. It's perfectly innocent on his part.

I love him for that. I love that he is not afraid to put himself out there to make friends. I am a little concerned about the day when Zane's friendliness gets rejected. I would want to go ballistic on the person who rejects my son, but it's not up to me. What will my son do?

A Song of Songs

Note: You are not hallucinating. I changed up my blog a bit.

This prompt was from MamaKat again. Because it stuck in my head and wouldn't go away.


I don't have 'A' song. I have lots of songs. There's been music in the background throughout my life, and some of the lyrics have stuck around in my head. I used to sing quite a bit when I was younger, and that also tends to make a person focus on the song lyrics.

I see lyrics as poetry.

When you look up in the sky, you can see the stars and still not see the light.

That's a pretty cool line. Almost profound, even. (I've heard that the members of the Eagles did a lot of drugs, so that might not mean what I think it means, but I am taking the lyric at face value.)

This Ian Moore lyric is downright beautiful:

Paint me a blue sky, may the colors run true, that I may look to the heavens when I search for the truth

He wrote that for his mother. It floats in my head every now and then, and I'll find myself humming or even singing it if there's nobody around.

Lots of song lyrics seem to float around in my head, popping to the surface when I least expect it. They all run together:

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.
And each day I learn just a little bit more, I don't know why but I do know what for
Come on the amazing journey, and learn all you should know
So if you're tired of the same old story, oh, turn some pages
I was looking back on my life and all the things I've done to me
I'm still looking for the answers, I'm still searching for the key
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord
Where the sidewalk ends and the road begins
Hallelujah
When you look through the years and see what you could have been, oh what you might have been, if you had had more time. So when the day comes to settle down, who's to blame if you're not around?

You're not the only one with mixed emotions, you're not the only one adrift on this ocean
You're a shining star, no matter who you are, shining bright to see what you can truly be
When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye
Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done
So when you look at me, you better look hard and look twice, is that me, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?
It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll.
Some people ain't no damn good, you can't trust them you can't love them, no good deed goes unpunished.
Let the heartache ride tonight
This thing called love, I just can't handle it.
I know a little 'bout love, and baby I can guess the rest
I was never much good at goodbye
I get the feeling you're trying to tell me, is there something that I should know?
I've had enough bad love
You ain't worth the salt in my tears
But I won't cry for yesterday, there's an ordinary world somehow I've gotta find, so
Here's a quarter, call someone who cares.

And it's hard living life on this memory-go-round
Can't pretend that growing older never hurts.
A smile relieves a heart that grieves...


Yep--it's weird. Maybe it's my brain taking yet another siesta, but maybe there's another reason. The brain is designed to protect itself. Maybe throwing song lyrics at my conscious brain keeps it from dwelling on the anxiety provoking, OCD stuff. I know that it certainly reduces my stress level to sing or hum.

I just have to remember not to belt out show tunes in the elevator. That's not appropriate behavior for a school district, they tell me. Bah. I totally nailed that high note.

The Bad Spelling Gene

I won the school spelling bee in sixth grade. My brother won athletic trophies all the time; I did not. I've only won two trophies in my lifetime. I still have the trophy somewhere. It was THAT big of a deal. To me, anyway. I inherited my spelling abilities from my mom. I also inherited her OCD tendencies, and the older I get, the more often they pop up.

Last night I went to see my niece act in a play at her school. While I was there I noticed that there was a spelling error on the bulletin board. The word "heroes" was spelled "heros". I was proud of myself--I waited until the play was over before I weirded completely out. I could barely pay attention to the play because of that misspelled word, but as far as I know, I did not disrupt the play. Yay me!

I used to be able to calmly view spelling errors in public and not even bat an eye. Someone at a restaurant writes "Korn" as the vegetable of the day? I'd notice it, then move on. Back then, I did not feel a need to ask to see a manager. I did not run up to the chalkboard sign and erase the offending word or try to correct it. No problem.

These day, those misspelled words are Freddy Kreuger talons on tin to me. I understand what is happening. I know I am freaking out over nothing. I've told myself on several occasions that I was taking spelling just a little too seriously. I've also told myself that bad spelling is not the end of the world.

Except it is.

If I see a word misspelled on a sign or in a blog, it is as if that word has been blown up into huge letters, doused in gasoline, and set on fire. I can't not see it. And since I am a fixer, I have to fix it. Have to.

People don't really like it when I tell them that they misspelled a word. They think that I am rude. But that is too bad, because I am compelled to tell them that they screwed up the spelling. I try very hard not to be patronizing or snarky in anyway, however, I am telling someone that they screwed up. I really have been lucky that someone hasn't punched me right in the face. Nobody likes to know that they screwed up. Least of all, me!

I am trying to be less obnoxious about the spelling. There are times like tonight, however, that I just can't help it. I wanted to fix that sign with "heros" on it. I was like a junkie in need of a fix; circling every misspelled word with an invisible red pen. I finally just told someone. I had to take them to the bulletin board and explain in detail, and they looked at me as if I were nuts. And as I was talking, I decided that I might actually BE nuts.

At least about misspelled words.

Red Writing Hood: A Walk in the Woods

Prompt: Good writing plants the reader’s feet into your story. Good writing is also concise. So when you’re trying to decide where to spend your words – where to use the most imagery and details and senses – I say setting is where its at. Close your eyes, paint the picture in your mind, and then use your words to paint it for me.

This is the visualization that I use sometimes when I need to relax. Which is every five minutes.

The lush emerald of the forest beckons me, and my bare feet are relieved to step on the softness that is my path. The soles of my feet sink blissfully into the moss; looking down, my eyes follow the dark green fuzziness that has crept up the sides of the trees.

I look ahead of me. The trees on the edge of the forest where I stand are saplings and young trees reaching for the last bits of sunlight. I begin to walk down the path, and I look with wonder at that which is before me. The young trees give way to tall and sturdy trees that extend high above me. These older trees have joined hands, and their branches have created an unbroken, verdant canopy. I become enveloped in a pool of twilight. Birdsong echoes around me, circling, as if everywhere at once. The path extends into the center of the forest, where there is a small clearing around an enormous and ancient oak tree.

As I step into the clearing, a hush falls. I sit at the foot of the oak tree and feel cradled in the arms of the Mother herself. I close my eyes to listen to the breath of the trees and the heartbeat of the Earth.


...and if I'm not relaxed by this point, I have to break out the emergency chocolate.

Slow Dancing

Prompt: This is a prompt from MamaKat's workshop. It sure brought back some memories!

I had finally talked my parents into letting me go to a junior high school dance. While they were smart enough not to trust me when left to my own devices, they thought very highly of my friend Cathy. I was very excited, even though my idea of a school dance came straight from the television show Happy Days.

Back then, nobody actually danced at a school dance, except for the slow dances. These events were all about looking good for the boys, and dancing made one sweaty. Sweaty girls didn't get boys, I was told. Cathy and I found a space along the wall of the cafeteria and did our part to prevent that wall from collapsing. Some of the other girls we knew showed up and helped. The boys were on the other side of the room, safely out of earshot. We girls took advantage of this; we began to discuss the boys. Several of the girls, including Cathy, were talking about a guy named Bryan.

Once I saw him, I understood the general swoonyness. Bryan was tall for an eighth grader, with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. He was, in the lexicon of the day, "cute". I wasn't the least bit interested in him, however, because my friend Cathy liked him. No poaching on another girl's crush! Even someone with my poor social skills knew that.

It was my duty, therefore, to help my friend 'hook up' with her crush. Cathy was a very soft spoken, shy girl. I suggested that Cathy should ask Bryan to slow dance. He doesn't even know that I exist, Cathy responded. I raised the point that he never would know that she existed unless she got him to notice; what better way than to ask him to dance? No, she said. Come on, I cajoled, it can't be that hard. Just go up and ask him!

Cathy was irritated with me; I was being pushy, albeit for what I felt was a good cause. The other girls around us were starting to listen to our exchange. She had to save face. So Cathy said what she thought would be the end of the matter.

"If it's that easy, then YOU go do it!" I heard a collective gasp as the proverbial gauntlet hit the ground. My face was on fire from all this extra attention, but since what Cathy had said was the teenage equivalent of the Triple Dog Dare, I had to do it.

Yep...ask a cute guy, whom I've never met, to slow dance. I contemplated fainting for a moment...Nope. Dang.

A slow dance began playing, Easy, by the Commodores. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and marched to where the boys stood. They were all staring at me with horrified expressions, and that was a bit disconcerting, but I was on a mission. I marched right up to this Bryan, looked him right in the eye...and asked him to dance. I was so proud that I had asked him, so busy celebrating that milestone that I didn't realize that Bryan had said yes.

Yes?

Panic. What do I do? He said yes! He wasn't supposed to say yes! I completely panicked when Bryan grabbed my hand and pulled me out on the dance floor. He had to show me where to put my hands--my model for learning to dance was the Fonz. But after that we settled into the rhythm of the song, swaying side to side and turning in circles. I put my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes, and pretended to be Cathy. When the song was over, I thanked him and went back to Cathy. She was even more irritated, and made some smart comment. I didn't care; I was proud of myself. I had actually asked a boy to dance...and he said YES.

My Day In Court

It is a well known fact that the entire city of Selma is a speed trap; I even read about it in a book before I even moved back to this state. If anyone nearby ever says that they got a traffic ticket, we all say "Selma?" The answer is almost always in the affirmative. After twenty plus years of casually speeding through Selma, Texas, I got a ticket.

I got a ticket for speeding on the access road because I did not see a sign indicating the correct speed. I could have argued with the nice police officer about that(the nearest sign was over a mile back), but I did not. I have a strict "NO ARGUING" policy when there are guns involved. I was speeding, whether I saw a sign or not, and I try to take responsibility for my actions. In my opinion, listening to my husband lecture me all the way home was punishment enough, but I doubt the police officer would agree.

I was supposed to send a letter in pleading no contest and requesting to take Defensive Driving. Except the ticket stated that you were supposed to send in a check, too. If I were paying the entire fine, the amount would have been around 200 dollars, but if I were going to take Defensive Driving, the amount would have been around 110 dollars. I didn't know if I should send in the full amount, since I was requesting defensive driving, or the reduced amount, as if I had already been approved. The directions on the ticket were vague enough to have me worried. I wasn't sure whether my choice would result in a warrant for my arrest. My mother would have packed up and moved to unknown parts if I were to embarrass her by getting arrested.

I procrastinated, and that procrastination found me at the Municipal Court in Selma. The Municipal Court is a tiny building, compared to what I am used to. The courtroom was jam packed with offenders. I heard someone saying something about questions, and since I had questions, I followed that group of people. It turned out to be the wrong line, but finally the nice policemen with guns got me back into the courtroom, along with three or four hundred other people who were in the same boat as me. It was standing room only.

The judge talked a bit about the different pleas one could take. I didn't really listen much, because my feet hurt. If you are a woman in high heels, and you have to stand on those high heels for longer than fifteen minutes, your feet start to hurt. Once the feet start hurting, then it is all about the pain. I spent a good part of the judge's lecture glaring at the entire first row of men. At least one of those bastards could have offered me his seat! Equality takes a backseat when your feet hurt.

Someone's cell phone kept going off. The bailiff kept saying loudly that people should turn off their phones. He sort of sounded like Samuel L. Jackson, and I kept waiting for him to start throwing down profanity to emphasize his point. It was obvious that that cell phone bothered the bailiff tremendously. What bothered him more was that he could not locate the phone. He walked around several times, trying to pinpoint location, and becoming frantic. And then they found the phone. The evil phone, so vile. The phone that belonged to an attorney. The attorney who had just advised the group to turn off your cell phones.

The court finally got down to business. They started calling names; when they said your name, you yelled out your plea. Whatever your answer was, it went into a specific pile. I yelled "no contest", but then I had to wait until someone came to escort me to the ticket window(sooo...the window is 15ft away from the court, and you provide me an armed escort?) I was tired, by that point. I hadn't eaten lunch. I was getting peckish. And I end up in another line...to pay for my ticket and to get my letter for defensive driving. As soon as they had their clutches on the check, I got out of that place, and back to work.

You've won this round, Selma!

RemembeRED:: Conjure

Prompt: Writing short posts is an excellent way to flex your word choice muscles. Which word is the most clear? Poignant? Direct? This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.



Roiling, whirling, dizzy...I hold very still, taking shallow breaths. The ceiling dips, and turns, then spins. The floor turns in the opposite direction, the deck of a ship pummeled by gigantic waves.

Eyes closed, maybe? Breathe deeply, perhaps?

The bed is a roller coaster, with loops that turn upside down and right side up and seem to fling your stomach into weightlessness before pulling you back to earth.

Cramp in the gut while the bed becomes a barrel rolling fast down a hill and into a river.

A belch escapes, then another. Swallow that viscuous saliva back, jaw clenched. Deep breath through gritted teeth.

I hurl myself out of bed and pray that I make it.

Of Worms, and Fish

I have a secret that I don't often share with people. Around these parts, girls are supposed to be girlie, and girlies just don't do this sort of thing. Nowadays I don't care whether someone thinks less of me, but way back I had to keep my mouth shut about this or never, ever, date.

I like to fish.

There. I said it. Now that it is out there, I feel so much better! I really do enjoy casting out a line to see what take a bite. My brother and I went with my dad a few times growing up, and we always went fishing at my grandparents' house. My grandfather had two or three ponds at the back of the farm, and he stocked them with catfish and perch and some other fish that I can't name.

Almost all of the men in the family would gather up their rods and reels and such and head out to the ponds at some point during family gatherings. Occasionally I would get to go. I didn't usually catch anything, but for me it was about hanging out with my uncles. Those guys were the interesting ones in my family.

Of course, eventually, all of my uncles and aunts had kids(I was the oldest grandchild), and they came along with their parents to family events. There were five young cousins around the same age. They were shy at first, but once I chased them around the farm a few times(playing tag), they warmed right up. One day they decided that they wanted to go fishing. None of the adults wanted to go, so they came to me. It was hot outside, but I put on shorts and pulled my hair back into a pony tail, and off we went. We even took Beau, my grandfather's dog.

I lead the group through the wheat field, and they chose the second pond to try their luck. I put my bait on and threw out the line. I turned around when someone tugged on the back of my shirt; five little faces peered up at me. They all had worms in their hands.

"We don't know how to put the worm on," one of my cousins said.

This left me in a quandry: how do I teach these kids how to put the worm on the hook without jabbing themselves in the finger? I was barely able to do it myself without mishap! I had visions of the hullabaloo that would occur if any one of these kids were injured; most of them involved my mother giving me The Look. Then inspiration struck. I grabbed the nearest worm and hook; in short order all the hooks were baited and the kids were casting their lines.

Except that Beau, who probably was the stupidest dog EVER, thought that we were playing Fetch. He raced after a line as a boy cast it, and leapt into the pond, swimming right out to the bobber. Then he tried to grab the bobber, as if it were a ball. We all yelled at him, but this confused him more. I am sure that the fish were freaking out as well. Beau finally got tired of swimming and climbed out of the pond.

After that, we all settled down to fish. Or at least, I did. Little boys have short attention spans; they ended up talking and chasing each other around while I kept track of their lines. Needless to say, they did not catch anything. I, however, was able to wrangle the fish of the day: a perch about <-------> that big. I was very discouraged. The hook took up the entire body of that poor thing. My uncles showed up about that time, looking for their children.

I was ready to go back to the house too!


This is another prompt from MamaKat's. It brought back some nice memories.

Mr. and Mrs. Batman

Before I say anything else...I love Batman. I've read Batman comics since I was a kid. He is my very favorite-est superhero. I don't want to get any nasty letters from anybody.

But I've had an epiphany.

There has never been a villain like the Joker. He was, and is, one of a kind in the history of comic book criminals. He is an archetype, the Trickster. He is completely insane. The Joker has killed a lot of people over the years, including one of the Robins, in nasty and unpredictable ways. When I opened a comic with the Joker on the cover, I just knew that something bad was going to happen. The Batman was also one of a kind, an archetype, the Hero. Not a perfect hero, like that goody-two shoes Superman, but a hero with flaws. There are tons of old stories involving the Hero and the Trickster that have been handed down through time, but the world hadn't ever seen anything like Batman vs. the Joker.

When people marry and settle in for the long haul, all of their flaws are exposed to their spouse. In the world of villainy, flaws are big red buttons, just waiting to be pressed. The Joker always seems to know which buttons to press to get on Batman's last nerve. How did that insane criminal know which buttons to push?

The Joker and the Batman were married. Hitched. Ball and chain.

Married people tend to be a bit possessive of their spouses. They may not turn into slavering beasts when they see someone trying to flirt with their husband or wife, but they certainly don't like it. Sometimes that jealousy makes people do some pretty crazy things, like setting cars on fire or cutting up an entire wardrobe. The Joker got jealous when Batman went after other criminals.

Married couples sometimes take each other for granted, or get wrapped up in work and forget to make their marriage a priority. A lot of spouses will try to get the relationship back on track by doing something outrageous like picking a fight or cleaning the house naked. Most of the comics I read concerned the Joker doing something to make Batman very angry, just to get some quality time with him. Negative attention is still attention, and there's always the chance that Batman will decide to kiss and make up.

Married women will sometimes learn an extremely boring sport that their husband loves, like golf, and married men will sometimes set up a game to make it easier for their spouse to play. Isn't that adorable? The Joker wanted Batman to kill other people, because couples are supposed to share some activities. The Joker would even set up situations to make it easier for Batman to play along and kill, even though he knew that Batman had a strict "No Kill" policy.

The Joker would destroy/kill/eradicate anyone who tried to harm Batman. He even rescued Batman a couple of times! The Joker said several times that he was the only one allowed to kill Bats(awww--he had a pet name for Batman!). But he never did, despite lots and lots of opportunity. Batman was technically a vigilante, so if he killed the most insane criminal in the history of Gotham City, nobody would have been surprised. In spite of the strict "No Kill" policy, not one person would have blamed Batman for killing him after the Joker killed Robin. But the Batman never did, even when it would have been in the best interest of everyone.

Think about it. Those two just couldn't live without each other.

So It Begins

It's that time of the year when a young boy's thoughts turn to Halloween candy...and soccer. We signed our son up for soccer, and it's go time. Today is the first game.

We went to pick out soccer shoes a few weeks ago. It was a family event! They had LOTs of shoes...and nobody around to help you figure out what shoe. Larry, Zane and I were completely discombobulated. What are turf shoes? How are they different from cleats? Which shoes should we buy? My son was not as stymied as his parents. He knew exactly what he wanted. He marched over and grabbed...a pair of PINK shoes.

Really, son? That's what you pick? I rub the side of my face where that vein starts bulging. The other soccer moms were snickering. We kept throwing black and white shoes in front of him, but he was very firm in his decision...until we found these YELLOW shoes. YELLOW. As in, brighter than the sun YELLOW.



The picture doesn't really do justice to this color. These YELLOW shoes glow in the dark, without a black light.

First soccer practice, we had to leave the house with two chairs, a canopy, an umbrella, a cooler full of water and gatorade, a soccer outfit, shoes and shin guards. For practice. None of the other parents had a canopy set up. None of the other parents had a cooler. They brought chairs, and a couple of bottles of water. My husband is a big believer in being over prepared. My big thing to remember was a camera.

There are six kids on the team, two girls. Right off the bat, you could tell who had the mad soccer "skillz". The older kids were much more confident. Zane started kicking his ball, and he kept kicking it. We finally caught up to him three fields over. He was kicking in a straight line, if that counts.

The practices have been a huge learning curve for everyone, including the coach. Three year old kids don't know what a pass is, and they don't know what it means to "stop" the ball. They don't know their left from their right yet. Adjustments had to be made. Adjustments also have to be made for the short attention spans. There was a lot of playing in the dirt, poking ant piles, and chasing dragonflies. I promised Larry that I would do a better job of paying attention, but that really depends on the dragonflies.

But now the big day is here. The first soccer game of my son's life. My husband is more psyched than I expected, and I guess that I am excited as well. I just want him to have fun and be a kid...but if he happens to kick the ball into the goal by accident, I am going to do a victory dance.