Maxwell the Tattooed Boy and Other Astounding Joys

The Day of the Dead Meat

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 16:47:00 +0000

(BLOGGER'S NOTE: If you're driving, pull over. If you're standing, take a seat. If you have a ginormous mouthful of coffee and chicory, please swallow before reading further. Consider this your grossness spoiler.)

Okay, so. I work full time, six days a week, so I do the house stuff on two afternoons and Sunday by necessity. I usually manage to put the groceries off to Sunday, and I have commissioned these two able-bodied male people I found just hanging out on my couch to help me unload and distribute groceries when I haul them home. Now, right here, I will add that this is truly a story of grocery helper training fail, and I take full responsibility for it. I do not wish to disparage the wonderful help these two give me, as I would totally love it to continue. No fussing about getting a newer or more efficient model, nothing like that. Just so we're clear. Okay, so. Back to the story. They help me, carry huge loads of plastic bags into the kitchen, yada yada.

Two weeks ago, there was the first hint of the training fail. Two hours after returning from the grocery trip, I was making that mental inventory I do in my head concerning groceries purchased, menu thoughts etc., when it occurred to me, wait. I don't remember putting eggs away. I know these were purchased, because three days prior, I'd managed to have eight cartonized eggs plummet from the fridge shelf and explode onto the tile floor, seeping into a lovely puddle both under and in front of the fridge. Talented that way, I am. So I remembered buying them. I didn't panic, took a leisurely stroll out to the car and popped the trunk. Sure enough, the new dozen were sitting prettily in the cardboard box I keep for toting just the very perishables. Untouched by grocery helpers. Hmm. Made a note, had a confab, grocery helpers looked sheepish and went on their merry way.

The next Sunday, it's grocery time again. As usual, big list, lots of bags, lots of good grocery help. Now, when I buy meat, I usually bag them all together, and I usually place them within their bags onto the meat shelf of the fridge, for neatness and consolidation, let alone minimal leakage. All the perishables (so I thought) were accounted for at the time.

Fast forward to yesterday (WEDNESDAY, for those of you with a score card), early. I get into my car to go to work, when OMFG, the SMELL! I looked quickly into the back seat, half expecting to see a body. No body, but no explanation of the horrible stench. I checked under seats, in cup holders, under umbrellas, no, no nothing. Then it occurs to me. I gingerly make my way back to the truck, pop it and what do I find?? Well, it once was a three-pound roll of ground chuck, but that this moment, it more resembled a zombie balloon. The middle section of the roll had puffed up three times its size, and the reek was amazing. Astounding. Need I say breathtaking? I thought just for a moment how fortunate that this item had been encased in the roll, and in its original plastic grocery bag. If that much ground chuck just in a meat tray had rested in the hot trunk for three days, I shudder to think. Hamburger zombies on the prowl.

So, as fast as I have ever moved, I whisked the zombie balloon out of the garage and into the outside garbage can, which fortunately is large and has a very heavy lid, which keeps the garbage nicely isolated. Whew. I then Febrezed the garage, trunk and car interior to fog maximum. Unfortunately, a bit of the zombie whiff is still in evidence. I hate to think I will get used to it. However, new grocery helper training has commenced, with a new position to be filled: The Final Trunk Checker (FTC). This is a highly sought after and lucrative job, as the FTC will assure that there are no more breathtaking instances of zombie balloons in the trunk of my car, now affectionately called the Stinkmobile. And so ends the Day of the Dead Meat. One of uuuussss.... one of uuussss....

Woman Duct Tapes Eleven-Year-Old Boy to Ceiling. Vows to Let Him Loose on 30th Birthday. Maybe.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 04:20:00 +0000

Motherhood is just a fricking carnival. I mean really, I could puke cotton candy at any moment. I AM on the way to the store for some Gorilla Tape. Serious. I'll even rig a spaghettios dumb waiter so he doesn't starve. I'll also hang him close enough so he can peer longingly at the Little Debbies moldering on the top of the fridge. But I do have concrete evidence that my panicked eleven year old bullshit detector is in working order, and I can play good cop bad cop all by myself. How do I know? It all started when I noticed... a strange cell phone on my coffee table Mardi Gras night, about three minutes before the end of Glee. After much heated discussion, I found out this was a cell phone from one of his friends (left innocently here, moons and moons ago...), and a second phone was produced, also stealthily procured from a more privileged friend. (EVERYONE has a cell phone but MEEEEE!) This was a pay-as-you go deal, with no more minutes left but a fresh new code which happened to coincide with our home number. ("I was gonna give it back this week!")
Now, neither of these devices had service, but they did sport some goofy new pictures and both held a good charge, by way of the charger from my old Bluetooth device, which just happened to marry with both of these accidentally by chance and not at all on purpose with malicious forethought. So tomorrow night, we walk the neighborhood with ol' Light Fingers himself, returning electronics. Then, a brief ceremony, then duct tape on the ceiling and spaghettios until further notice. I'll be in the corner, puking cotton candy.

Good Night, Ms. Armelin, Whoever You Are

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 15:07:00 +0000

It's midnight. The house is blissfully, finally asleep. The clanging of a gong brings me out of the depths of a dream. Wait, that's the - no is it?- the phone is ringing. I am on my feet still half snoring, catch the clock with one eye and see a two. Hmmmm. This can't be good. Notice as I make my way into the living room a body on the other side of the bed. Get to the phone. Use that same one eye to see that the ID says Private Caller. "Hello?" A male voice says, "Ms. Ellen?" Whoa. That's me. "Yes?" "This is Sgt. Whateverhesaid of the Lafayette Sheriff's Office." WHAT?! I am now awake. Alert. Bordering on concerned. My brain kicks into high gear. I could win Jeopardy single-handedly right NOW. The voice continues through the new adrenaline. "I'm calling about your son, Dwan." By the end of this sentence, I have traveled to the door of my bedroom, thrown it open and flicked on the light, discovering that it was not 2 AM but only midnight, and the body in the bed was Chuck. He's now awake, too. And why not, I don't have to be the only one on an adrenaline jag.

"My son, Dwan??" During this three-word sentence, I head to the other side of the house to Max's room, throw open that door, and growl like the mom in the GEICO commercial, all the time thinking, OMG, Max has sneaked out of the window, hitched to Lafayette, gotten in trouble and now told the sheriff his name is Dwan, no maybe it's one of his crazy friends??? Oh, I am in such troooouuubbbble. "Max! Maxwell?!" (I really think somebody heard me say these things and then wrote that piggie commercial...) A small voice comes from the bottom bunk. "Mom?"

"Sargeant, I only have one son. His name is Maxwell, and he's in his bed. But how did you know my name was Ellen??" "Ma'am, just a minute. Is your last name Armelin??" "No sir, it's not." "Well, I have to apologize. This was a wrong number. Please excuse the ring." Click.

My now adrenaline-soaked parts process this. Thirty-three seconds ago when this crazy time started, my then still slumbering brain processed "Ms. Armelin" as "Ms. Ellen." Twenty minutes later when I finally managed defib, I went back to bed. Some time later, to sleep. From time to time, I've wondered how Ms. Armelin was, and what the trouble was that Dwan had given all of us. And if that sheriff's officer regularly misdials in the middle of the night.

Saturday Back Seat Karaoke

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 02:15:00 +0000

OMFZG, has it really been since May??
Just stopping in to record this nugget.
In the car, on our way to our usual Saturday Storytime gig. Max in back seat, singing along with Steve Miller. "Big ol' jet and a light on...." I ask him to repeat, he does. I tell him the right lyrics. He says he likes his better. Actually so do I. Sorry, Steve and Band, your song is forever Big Ol' Jet and a Light On in our elite circle. And don't TELL us we're wrong.

Less guilt, more slacking.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Tue, 25 May 2010 21:05:00 +0000

I have truly been wrought with guilt over my scarcity in the blogosphere as of late. Racked with it. Paralyzed. No, really. I forced myself today to visit the home base, to see if maybe I should spruce things up to motivate myself. I then started visiting my fellow bloggers, those who have inspired me and made me laugh, cry, think about things or not think about things, as it were, and maybe leave a comment or two, just so they realize that I am alive. And guess what. For the most part, I am a slacker among slackers. Most of these folks are worse than I am about updating -- with a few notable exceptions, of course -- you blogger-by-the-day-types, you are the bomb and I shall never rise to your standards. That said, the metallic clunking noise you hear is me, shaking off the guilty shackles and sitting up a little less slumped in the computer chair. There. I feel better now, and I'm getting itchy for a Facebook fix, maybe a quick Family Feud defeat or a stop to revive the spoiled sushi tray I've left too long in Cafe World. Um. So. Until I have a really really good post to put together, that's where I'll be. Bwahahahahahaha, slackers!

She Knows I Have Deadly Intentions

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 18:49:00 +0000

See the riotous joyful explosion of springtime beauty and grace? The cascades of lovely fragrant rose blossoms? The amazing accent in the front of my house? This, ladies and gentlemen, is The Rosebush from HELL. The very one I had planned to uproot and fling into the nearest sacrificial fire on the next convenient occasion. Of course, now all my devious schemes and plans are thwarted. Who could do away with a natural vision of loveliness like this? I tell you, by a narrow margin, I can't. Yes, this rosebush knows I have her in my sights. She has invaded all the careful plantings and boundaries I set for the flower bed. She grew through the magnolia tree, for heaven's sake!

This Rose, she and I have quite a history. Her name is Peggy Martin. I heard her sad tale shortly after the summer of '05, year of the hurricanes. It seems she was the sole survivor of three weeks of salt water flood at a lady gardener's house in Chalmette, post-Katrina. Nurseries were selling plants from cuttings, all to help Katrina rebuilding. I bought one, felt good about doing my part to help other gardeners get back into the green, and picked out a sunny spot in my front flower bed, chose a dainty trellis and awaited Ms. Martin's arrival. She seemed polite enough to begin with, graceful canes reaching toward the trellis... but shortly things got, well, out of hand. She outgrew my trellis, she became a rambling, roving mess through my flower bed, tangled in the Indian Hawthorn, even using the magnolia as refuge and support. I hacked, pruned and cajoled her back to the acceptable bounds, and hoped for the best.

Every spring since then, it has been the same thing. I hack and haul; she invades, rambles and roves. I understand how this stubborn survivor lived through three weeks of putrid salt water, although knowing that does not give me much hope for a victory over the canes. This is the first spring that she has bloomed in such profusion, she must know the jig's almost up. She's going down this year, I promise. If I can find an empty (and I do mean bare!) spot that I think she might like, I might replant her, but not until I prune her down to size yet again. Maybe this crazy wild blooming phase is akin to that thing your hair does, right before you go to cut it -- one last "hey, this might not be bad" before it gets chopped into submission. Okay, Peggy Martin Rose -- bloom your little heart out. I have a pruning saw and a big ol' shovel, and I am not afraid to use them. Later.

Death to Chocolate Bunnies, or Happy Easter to All

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 14:41:00 +0000

Easter Monday has arrived, the Last Day of Spring Break around here. As I wandered out of the bedroom at 8:35 to the tune of my cell phone (my mother, not the anticipated Fire in the Children's Department of the Library) and the Medium Boy actually ANSWERING it, I thought. Hmph. This is the usual form my waking thoughts take, momosyllabic cavewoman grunting, especially if it is 4:39 and I have been roused conscious by my body doing this weird "five hours is enough rest for you and now you must be wide awake and get up for an hour then collapse into bed again" thing it's been doing for a while. What I have found out about that particular phenomenon is that it doesn't necessarily have to continue unabated forever more -- light at end of tunnel, but it symptomatic of this disease I've recently been forced to consider as a part of life from here on, diabetes. Ugh. Light attached to speeding train. No, no, I know, but sometimes it seems that way, as all giant former worst fears realized can. Another waking thought, heavy sigh.

You know, it occurred to me that I've been daring God for a challenge like this for a while. After all, I've been ignoring my weight and my age for a bit and sticking my chin out at working out. Well. So much for that, it appears He has taken up the offered gauntlet and surprise, no more carefree in your face living large for me. I've been sticking my finger religiously several times a day to monitor blood glucose, (took me twenty minutes the first time) trying to get more exercise in the form of dancing about in the mornings to my iPod and walking more, plus I have established a modified white flour and sugar are the devil eating regimen endorsed by my internist. I've managed to lose a bit of weight in the last eight weeks (how could I not, on meat and vegetables...), and the glucose numbers are going down into the not-so-panicky range. Well, all except the fasting numbers, because it seems my liver is the last holdout in the challenge, stubbornly insisting that these new low numbers are TOO low, and waking me up at 4:39 AM while dumping an 18-wheeler of glucose into my system. YAH! Hallo, Liver -- you gotta believe. This new low thing is a good thing. No really. Seriously. Stop with the dawn syndrome already. (Did you think you'd have to endure my inner dialogue to my liver in a blog post? Check that off the bucket list.)

Working on that, I am. But I am properly chastised, and will think yet twice or thrice again before issuing the next Big Dare to the universe. Okay, all whining will cease. Easter has been deemed successful, a lovely day was had by all. The Medium Boy has bitten the ears (and most of the other vital bunny organs...) off his chocolate bunny, the peeps are history and most of the dyed eggs have been pocked and devoured. I am dealing with this whole new health thing, I have whacked the clover in the garden into submission, and meantime have developed a wicked vegetable soup recipe. We go on from here, with the best wishes for a lovely spring. My liver salutes you.

I Hate Cell Phones. Hate. THEM.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 01:42:00 +0000

Okay, so I am old and cratchity. I admit it. I may even be turning into that comfortable shoes, sweater and glasses stereotype of my current profession. But. I hate them. They are the scourge of our civilization, the sign of the end of all we (the above-mentioned minority) hold dear. The society is unraveling at the seams, not because of health care reform, but because of cell phones and the particular brand of rudeness they inspire and encourage. You have no idea how I steam at the sight and sound of a mother who has managed to abandon her two-year-old in front of the blocks and legos, and who now squeezes her mom-sized butt into a child=sized chair at a knee-high table to answer her cell phone and proceeds to have a lengthy conversation with her girlfriend about matters of grave importance like who was where Friday and her gyno did this weird thing. This, mind you, in a library. A public library, where there are signs posted hither and yon prohibiting cell phone usage within the facility. In my mind (only in my mind, so far...) when this particular scenario plays itself out, I rear back like a bull and tackle the offending crouching talker, wrest the dreaded device from her hand and crush it like Clark Kent on Superman juice. I'm wearing a red cape. Only in my mind.

In reality, I have perfected the art of catching the yakker's eye and performing an elaborate pantomime which amounts to: Cell phones? Not allowed in the library. Please take your call into the atrium area. It goes something like this: bull horns left hand to ear, shake of head with finger point and wag, back to bull's horns, then pointing towards lobby. If the offending callee needs more encouragement, a short but emphatic nod of the head. Really. I mean it. Don't make me go Clark Kent on your child-chair-squeezed butt. It usually does the trick, elicits an embarrassed sheepish attitude, and a procession to the atrium. Like oops, those signs? I didn't think they meant ME.

There are other reasons I hate cell phones. I hate it that anyone can find me at any time for any reason. Do I REALLY need to interrupt my work day for a 1:30 PM call from the Medium Boy's math teacher to tell me he's not done two projects assigned that week? Truly. I could have waited forever or at least until I got home for that swell piece of info.

I hate my phone in particular because I can't seem to remember to keep it with me, or if I DO remember, I can't seem to keep it charged, even with two chargers, no less, car and real outlet. I hate them because they enable Medium Boy to have a focus for his Next Thing He Must Have or DIE. ALL his friends have them. He NEEDS a cell phone. This from a kid who can't remember to bring the school calendar home before the tenth of the month, or write his test answers in complete sentences. Yeah, he'll soon realize there is no way. He'll get a GPS chip implant before a cell phone, guaranteed. I also hate cell phones because the Vampire Boy won't talk on them. Oh, right, he won't talk on any phone. He would rather text. And there's another reason to despise them. B cuz there screw'n w Eng, thts Y. Texting . AUGHHHHHHH! I write the same way I speak on the texts, I use multi-syllabic words. Spelled out. There is punctuation. There may be a tiny bit of fragmentation, but dammit, I may rear end that car in front of me, but I will FIND that comma and place it where it goes. Of course, I only text when in a stable and stationary position, just kidding about the rear-ending part. Well, I suppose I've found enough reasons to hate the cell phone. I guess I'll step down from the pole and maybe surf for some new ringtones or write Luke Wilson a fan letter or something. I could fish out my red cape...

The Devil Has Icicles on His Nose.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 13:52:00 +0000

That's all I am going to say. Saints, Super Bowl, Snow in Louisiana in February. Leading indicators of the conversion of brimstone to solid H2O. Dibs on the ice skating concession - what a rink!

Gimme an F!

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 22:40:00 +0000

No, not for my favorite word, you know the one. That one that I perfected use and conjugation (snicker, she said conjugation) of in college, that really really effective in quieting a room one, especially a room filled with people who shouldn't know how well you can use that word. That's not the word. Ir's the OTHER F word. F is for fifty. For me, today, in the flesh.

How the hell are we getting so old, I asked my mother during my birthday phone call. My dad had been first on the phone, singing the song in his inimitable way. Not even close to on key, but heartfelt nonetheless. Mom's going in tomorrow for arthroscopic surgery on a torn meniscus, left knee. She's a little jittery, hoping that all will go as well as possible. She said that fifty is not bad, sixty is worse, and just wait for seventy. Oh joy, Mom. Thanks for the encouraging words. Don't forget to draw sharpie on that left knee, you know the right one!? She will, you know.

I have historically loved birthdays. I've had huge parties, quiet celebrations and everything in between. Surprise parties in the dorm, a kidnapping by my friends culminating in debauchery and drinking in the city. One birthday, I was bitten on the posterior in Bruno's uptown New Orleans by one of my boyfriend's insane friends who explained that he'd just always wanted to do that. Okay, dream fulfilled for you, tetanus shot on my birthday for me. I was so taken aback I didn't even ask if it was female ass-biting in general he desired, or taking a chunk out of mine that did the trick. Thank goddess he didn't break the skin.

I have imposed Birthday Week on my family and friends, demanding seven days of small tribute, and of course reciprocating when it is their turn. The Medium Boy gets ice cream for breakfast during Birthday Week, and there are cards and little sussies hidden all over life. We've gotten too busy in the past couple of years for Birthday Week; celebration has been confined to The Day and a few before or after, depending on work schedules.

This year, my day has been quiet and fun. Max made me a card, the best kind, I've had calls and Facebook messages from family and friends and we're grilling ribeyes for dinner. Another Birthday Dinner follows tomorrow evening, as the Vampire Boy is off work and we'll have a family date night and presents.

So I am trying not to focus on the whole aging thing. I see it, I feel it, I am doing my best to make the best of it, fifteen minutes at a time. So. Fifty. The other F word. Geez. Gives a girl pause. The only way I know to balance this is to keep celebrating birthdays, but to stop with the counting, already. So next year, the debut of the Mystery Birthday Week. Maybe I could hire some cute young guy to bite me on the ass in public. No, really, it's my birthday, I can get a tetanus shot if I want to.

I Heart 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 23:32:00 +0000

Okay, this is the new year, a fresh shiny new desk calendar, unbesmirched with coffee rings and random fax numbers jotted down mid-phone call. (this is slated to continue through probably next week, as I am a noted early besmircher.) A new set of digits to realize must squeeze onto your check after you've already made that big fat 0 on the way to a 9. Yes, I love this whole new decade thing. Just. Love. It. Well, uh, maybe not.

I am trying to turn over new leaves, although it does involve raking into the morass of stuff I've let pile up in my psyche. Tine marks everywhere inside my head! For instance, I am now forced to admit to myself that.... I hate yogurt. Don't like, Don't ever want to eat again. Won't clip another coupon, or buy another Key Lime Pie fat free carton just to throw it away three months later after it morphed into Key Lime penicillin cultures. Nope. If I could re-invest the amount of money I have thrown away on I-think-it-would-be-good-if-I-ate-yogurt purchases, the ecomony would turn completely around and I could claim some of that good Nobel Prize action. No. Beginning in 2010, I will not throw any more yogurt away. Because, not only will I not eat it, I will cease buying it and trying to talk myself into guilt-liking it just because it is in the fridge. There, I said it. All of this, of course, does not apply in the least to chocolate frozen yogurt. Completely different deal. Just to be clear.

Another raked area: I will make time for girls' night out, under pain and penalty of death. My friends already think I've expired, and I've been hiding behind the Vampire Boy's weird sleep schedules too damn long. Screw that, I need to get OUT. I am up for margaritas. NOW. I consider this the first step into better eating, and yes, an exercise program I can live with. Limes are full of lovely vitamins and fiber, and I think dancing does burn more calories if fueled by tequila, performed on top of a table. Those rickety ones at the local margarita emporium are better than exercise balls for balance, even.

Still deeper in the pile: I will no longer hide from my doctor. Oh, I do the gyno, I even do the dentist (my six month was today! No cavities, minimal scraping and my teeeeef feels so schmmmmooooze.) But the real doc, the one I really like for his laid back attitude, the one who has begged me to keep up my blood work and check IN with him, once in a while, please. That guy. So into the pincushion place I go first thing tomorrow morning. The jury's still out as to whether I step on the scale, though.

At this rate, I may get the oil changed in the car, or send that box I haven't mailed to my friend Karyl after it has been living a full life in the corner of my kitchen for the last several months. If your birthday was in October, you may get a locally canceled birthday card with no return address. It will be funny but conspicuously unsigned. You know who you are. Hmmm, this raking shit is getting way outta hand. It's even driven me back from the relative obscurity and safety of the Facebook to... BLOGGING! which was actually in the pile as well. Perhaps this might even turn out to be good for me. I may actually really heart 2010 after all. Or not. Just sayin'.

A Sticky Note Promise

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 22:12:00 +0000

What's Wrong With This Picture?

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 09:02:00 +0000

Welcome to The House of As Many Televisions as People. The place where I am hardly qualified to use the remote. (Now, the watching of The Television requires TWO remotes, one for device and one for programming.) You will notice something amiss with the picture right off the bat. Just in case my semi-professional phone camera photography leaves something to be desired, I shall illuminate the image (a regular ion tube am I...) That large non-working thing in the back is a 52-inch LCD TV. One that refuses to turn on, without a signed act of Congress. The thing in the front is the semi-large screen that continues to do its duty, although I notice it is filled with longing for relative quietude in our bedroom, once its home.

The large non-working thing has been a cherished member of the clan for four years and change. It joined us Christmas of '04 and has followed our every move since. It recently went through a stint of uninterrupted on-ness, which was precipitated by the reluctance discovered one morning to promptly get into the ON position when remote was pointed and pressed. And pressed. And pressed some more, new batteries installed, and pressed yet eleventy-hundred times further.

After it sluggishly achieved on-ness, a decree by the Television Master determined that the Large TV Shall Not Be Turned Off, Only Muted. So thus we lived for three months or so, the large screen pressed into service, a flicker alive in our living room 24-7. Until, alas, The Fateful Day. The day the Television Master himself, absorbed in his remote duties, accidentally Turned It Off. Panic ensued, and the brother of the television master was summoned, Uncle Ray the Professional Fixer of All Televisions (whom I suggested contacting those three months ago when the trouble started - just sayin') Anyway, Uncle Ray did some remote remote studies through the telephone having to do with how many beeps and burps and blinks the thing emitted over the course of buttons mashed, and determined that he could fix the problem -- the problem which any other Television Professional would charge you $600 -- for mere pennies. So we wait with bated breath for Thanksgiving and Uncle Ray to come to town. In the meantime, maybe just to remind the large screen of its eventual obsolescence, (They Are Expendable, after all...) this is the scene in our living room. The Medium Boy misses the giant ambiance and the XBox, almost as much as the Television Master himself. I've gotten used to the two remotes, although I do still surf INTO commercials. Old habits (and careers) are hard to break.

Of Christmas Music, iPod and Earworms

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 12:53:00 +0000

Get this. This past weekend, the radio station I am slavishly devoted to went all Christmas music, all the time. I KNOW, right!? A word to the programming crew at KQIS: early November is TOO EARLY for wall to wall jolly. I know it seemed like a good idea at the time, but Christmas music at this point of the season does NOT lift my mood, it makes me nervous about the impending shopping, planning, cooking, eating, and Santa-waiting in store for me. I do hopefully click the button every morning, just to see if this really was a figment of my audio imagination, but alas. Bing is crooning, or someone's mama is kissing Santa Claus. There is something to be said about peaking too soon. I need my regular rock, at least until Turkey Day, and I refuse to dial around. So! I have become happily reacquainted with my iPod. I just set it on shuffle and let 'er rip. I got a lovely mix yesterday of Carly Simon, Barenaked Ladies, Hall and Oates, Head East, Simon and Garfunkel, Chicago, Amy Winehouse and more. Oh, and I do have a few Christmas Selections on there. I shuffled past 'em. The lady singing loudly in the silver Saturn is me. Yay. I may go back to KQIS after Turkey day, when I can joyfully immerse myself into Bing and the lot. Maybe.

Thankfully, nothing really stuck in my head, and actually the whole iPod experience served to dislodge an earworm (you know, those songs that get into your head and ride it for all it's worth) that had been in my head for a few days, thanks to the Medium Boy. He has been singing Pink's latest, Funhouse. This is a sticky little tune about evil clowns and on and on. I don't even want to write any more about it for fear of depositing it like so much chewed gum into my head again. It started me thinking about other earworms that had happened over time. Very lately I had the Taylor Swift earworm disease, in which any song she did got lodged in my brain. The worst was the thing about Romeo. A very very long time ago, that Kinks song "Come Dancing", I think it was, would adhere to my cranium for weeks at a time. That la dada dada, dadedade da hook especially. There have been other songs at other times -- what are the earworms you've known and heard, and heard and HEARD?

Okay, so if you're in fourth grade, life might be hard.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 01:27:00 +0000

It was very nearly the end of the Medium Boy last week. On his birthday, no less. I'd had it with the stubbornness, the bearish attitude, the surly pleas to be left alone. All in a space of twenty minutes, circa 7 AM. UGH. I thought I'd just make it a nice round ten years of his and my life. Give him back, no exchange, no refund. Fourth grade is killing us. Another option I considered was the performance of a craniotomy by electric knife and shoving the times tables in there, for this is the only way seemingly left that they're going to get IN there. Where is Dr. Derek Shepherd when you need him?

On the other foot, Halloween is coming up and despite the fact that I seem to have no use of the front of my face besides the production of green slime, (another post altogether...) I'm looking forward to the Ninja who will inhabit the body of the ten-year-old for the night. We've painted toenails black to celebrate just such an occasion. "It's so GOTH!" squealed tough Ninja Boy. Who promptly got in trouble next day at school trying to surreptitiously show said dark tootsies to his friends. Ah, the intersection of fourth grade angst and fourth-grade-boy senselessness.

We did have a glorious time at the ice hockey rink party; he only fell approximately six times, and there are no major bruises on his body that I've been allowed to peruse. We ate cookie cake with blue and orange icing (WHY do they insist on making icing in colors not found in nature?) for a week, and the boy racked up. He's got enough cash for that new bike he has been jonesing for, which I am lobbying hard in favor of instead of the Nintendo DS, which is our other option. He graciously bought us McD's breakfast Saturday morning, and I was allowed to borrow a buck for Cub Scout money this week. He is awesome sweet, that black-toed ninja Medium Boy. Okay. So I guess he gets to live. For now. I could still hunt down that receipt, you know.

Dear Entrecard, I QUIT

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 02:06:00 +0000

Yes, dear Internets, no more Entrecard for me. Take me off the list. Why, you ask? Well, for one, I would like free reign over the content of my blog. Me. The author, the absent hostess, The One Who Thought of It. I haven't been holding up my end of the bargain, really. I haven't done any dropping since I don't know when. BUT. I will NOT be blackmailed, or bought. I will NOT pay $5 a month "subscription fee" to keep ads I didn't solicit out of my space. It may get dusty from disuse sometimes, and the cobwebs might clutter a bit, but this little blog is still mine, and one of the few things in life I like to think I still have some semblance of control over. For now. This moment. Okay, this one. So see ya, Entrecard. Don't let the screen door hit ya in the ads.

Facebook Ate My Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 23:12:00 +0000

I haven't been around here much lately. I've ignored comments, I've let perfectly good blogging ideas go by the wayside (How's this one for ya -- originally suggested by Karyl who had a moment on Rosh Hashanah -- exciting new headwear for balding Jewish men on their way to temple -- it's a toupee - it's a yarmulke -- it toup-ulke! Impress the nice girls, oy, they'll love it... okay, well, maybe not.) I've been a terrible hostess. While IRL, I have actually had a terrible cold that has caused great hunks of green matter to spew from upper orifices and make me pass out and miss any vestige of social life I will ever have and alienate those kind souls who thought they wanted to have that social life WITH me, that is hardly the excuse for my absence here. After all, everyone knows while in the throes of Nyquil, blogging is fun -- kinda like drunk blogging, and re: spew, this is what Lysol comes in spray bottles for, after all. No, the iffy health is NOT the reason for the scarcity of posts here lately. It is totally the fault of the Devil Facebook.

Yes, I have fallen into the time abyss that is Facebook. Facey Spacey is my life now. I Farkle, I have a farm - uh, TWO farms, two different universes, a fish bowl, a roller coaster cluster, a group of sorority sisters, and I apparently am wanted by the mob. Not to mention the large sucking sound of a minute of time spent trying to rack up points clicking on little groups of clinking clacking jewels. My friends friend me, and make unreasonable demands on my gifting ability. They want farm animals, smiles, pillow fights, hearts, long island iced teas, you name it, I got a friend who wants it from me. So you see, Facebook has eaten my blog. I no longer have the energy to come up with snappy repartee for the general internets, because my special Facey Spacey people need a pint of O-negative, and want to know what Melrose Place character I'm most like. I was the Heather whatser-name one. Although I took the quiz three times with all different answers, and got the Heather person all three times. Was she the only one in Melrose Place? These Facebook quizzes are amaaaazing. Not always in a good way.

I promise to stop this obsession, I promise to drop Entrecards again, and make little comments to my bloggy friends really reallllly soon. I just have to break 100K in Bejeweled Blitz, then all will be right with the world. Until then, can I send you a smiley heart and call it a post?

Bar Tricks and Marketable Skills

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 21:50:00 +0000

Okay, this is sort of a meme that fell from the sky while driving in search of lunch. It is a list of my personal, shall we say, quirks, acclaimed bar tricks and unusual but sometimes very handy ergo marketable skills.

1. Can do that cherry stem in a knot thing. Always popular with the boys.

2. Can take bra off while still wearing shirt. (see above) and OMG now that I am elderly, such a relief. I've done this particular trick driving home, even. Just don't tell the po-po.

3. Can take jeans off without unzipping. This is a product of Xtreem Non-Carb Regime currently undertaking and I guess should be noted as temporary until I get some that fit again. Or eat a few fries, undoubtedly.

4. Can read upside down. Very very handy when in clients' and bosses' offices.

5. Can reliably count by sevens from any point in the scale. I don't know how that happened, except that I had to hand-write radio schedules for a good while in my youthful career. Now I'm Rain Man.

6. Can dredge up some seriously frivolous information about archaic culture (think 70's TV) when faced with competition. Never been beaten in Trivial Pursuit.

Um, okay, that's it for now. A little meme-lette for those who don't see the point of coming up with eleventy-hundred little things to reveal to the Internets...

All Together Now

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 12:13:00 +0000

No endorsement intended, except my usual attraction to odd and wonderfulness. And okay, beer. But not necessarily THAT beer.

Ahh, the Sacred Nine Minutes of Extra Sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 16:49:00 +0000

The question of the day, a lovely Monday, is this: Why do alarm clocks routinely give the snooze-button slapper nine extra minutes of sleep? Why not five or ten? Or some other arbitrary number, 8 and a half? Pi? I have wondered this wonder while lying sleepless in between alarm soundings, losing my sacred nine minutes thinking about them. I've even googled the query. And the answer is: there is no good answer. Um, let me rephrase that. there are a BUNCH of good answers, but no one has stepped up and declared their answer to be the right, the definitive, the correct in all places even Jeopardy answer.

Some of the answers I've read: the nine minutes was determined by some University study to be the threshold of humans falling into a deep sleep. Ten and you'd be wayyyyy back in dreamland, so nine minutes of one-eye-open faux rest for you, no chance of revisiting Brad Pitt in your REM love nest. Speaking of love, another theory had to do with the average length of marital relations (3 to 13 minutes as quoted - is that with or without the running to the bathroom to tinkle and brush the green out of two sets of teeth??) and the idea that the snooze alarm would give you time for a quick good morning getter-going before rising. Yeah right. Good luck with that one. We don't even TALK to each other until we've had our coffee. Yet another thought on the matter had to do with the clock not having to remember (or was it change) but one digit if the alarm rang every nine minutes. I started thinking about this one, techno-semiliterate that I am, but it just made my head hurt.

I do however, have my own theory about the nine minutes. You see, the techies in charge of alarm clocks may actually be a group of old math teachers, retired but bitter, since there was always that smart kid in the middle row who never liked to show her work. I know, I was one of them. My head was a calculator, and sometimes I couldn't even tell them HOW I got the answer, I just knew it was right. So they have developed this nine-minute clock to make sure people like me DON'T go back to sleep once the alarm clock has rung. Instead, I am stuck doing the math in my head -- let's see -- nine times two is eighteen minutes, 6:18 plus eighteen... nine times three, add that...

And I Wanted School To Start - WHY??

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 14:33:00 +0000

I post this very funny and timely video just to remind myself that I am not the Lone Ranger when it comes to this whole say everything fourteen times in the morning Mom stuff. My morning this morning, for your perusal:

I was up and bathed by 6:35. Played a few rounds of Bedazzled Blitz on Facebook just to steady my nerves, then at 6:45 approached the Medium Boy's room, otherwise known as the Cave of Pre-Pubescent Maledom. I opened the door, and said, sweetly, "Max! Please get up -- time to be up and at 'em, sweetheart!" 6:55, again with the door, again with the "Please get up, honey!" I preheated the oven for his biscuits. 7:05: still no sign of life from the cave. This time, the drill sargeant Mom was in full effect. "GET UP!" I bellowed. "I'm UP! bellowed back the Medium Boy somewhere in the recesses of the cave. "THEN GET OUT HERE AND GET DRESSED!" Groans and shuffling of feet.

I poured coffee. Took a few sips. Found inert body laying on my couch. "Get dressed, honey," I said. "I don't have any socks," said he. I went back into the cave and found some clean and unholey socks. I flipped them his way. "Now, get the rest of your clothes -- and not the pants you wore Friday AND yesterday."

I put the biscuits in the oven. "But, Moooom, those are the only ones that fit me. (Clever girl I am, last week, after he modeled the shorts from last year's uniform collection, swearing up and down that yes, he could wear them, no, they weren't too tight, I went to the local outlet and purchased a pair in the next size up, just in case, for a few pizzas down the road. GUESS which is the only pair that fits him now, a mere seven days later?) "Get the old shorts and wear them today. And get a green shirt, there are no navy ones in the pile. "They squeeze me, and I HATE green!" "Dude, you're going to get squoze today, and green is it. Where are your socks?" Nine minutes later - the biscuits are ready. "Why haven't you gotten dressed yet? WHERE ARE YOUR SOCKS!?" I put the biscuits and coffee on the table. Medium Boy wearing green shirt, squeezy shorts and terrible scowl appears at his place. We scarf in silence.

It is now 7:33, the bus arrives at 7:48. The biscuits disappear, followed by most of the coffee. He then packs his booksack. "Go brush your teeth and comb your hair." "I don't care about my hair." "I do, and you have green teeth. You don't want to live like an ape!" "We evolved from the apes - I learned that in science." "Yes, I know, and I'm glad to hear you're getting something out of school. But the whole idea is that we HAVE evolved, and we don't breathe green on our classmates. WHERE ARE YOUR SOCKS?" A few minutes of bathroom time later, 7:44, he emerges with socks on. He does the shoe wiggling onto the foot dance for way longer than it actually takes, with the cat joining in. Finally, both shoes are applied to correct feet, booksack to shoulder, the Medium Boy out of the door. 7:47:50, ten seconds to spare. Whew. One more day of this, and he WILL be grounded until he's thirty. And I wished and wished for the start of school -- just exactly why, again??

The School Haircut

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 22:33:00 +0000

Exhibit A: The Medium Boy striking a belligerent post before The Haircut.

Exhibit B: Enduring the indignity of it all. That lady sitting behind him was taking it all in and having a good time with the faces and noises coming from the miserable caped one.

Exhibit C: attempting a weak smile on the toy aisle. I think we'll all live.

The Morning Zombie In Its Natural Habitat

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 15:53:00 +0000

We are so not morning people in my house. The Medium Boy does exactly what I was doing at his age... he hides under the covers until the Very Last Second before emerging like a fresh-from-hiberation zombie bear to greet the day. The only light he can successfully tolerate is that coming off the Cartoon Network. Normal speech is impossible until at least after The First Cup of Coffee; we communicate by grunts and hand signals before the caffeine kicks in. Looking at that first photo, I have to laugh, because on the other side of the lens sat the grown-up mirror image of that schlumpling. Fortunately I was the only one with a camera.

Picture two was taken for posterity. This summer will forever be known as the first season the Medium Boy was given sole control of hair. I did not once drag him to the barber shop for a trim, I let him have it Age of Aquarius sweaty long flaxen waxen and spaghetti. I mean, does that NOT resemble a lovely Eva Gabor wig? The thing about it, he has really really pretty hair, BUT. He refuses to let a comb through it, preferring the clump and lump 'do. I actually combed it before I took that picture. Now, I am about to hit him over the head with a blunt object and transport him to the hair salon. they'll just have to cut around the bump. School starts in a WEEK! Pause for motherly handsprings.

Here's the whole video -- even more awesome.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 02:35:00 +0000

Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 02:55:00 +0000

This is so very cool, especially considering how starved we've been for rain this summer. Insanely AWESOME. Thanks, Deb for the email!!