It's Not Me Monday

And back off...where I am, I still have 2 hours until it's technically Tuesday. So, better late than never, yes?

• I absolutely did not drink 1/2 flask of bourbon, some sort of blue alcohol served in a shot glass made of ice, a red-hot martini, 2 vodka and cranberries and a bottle of wine at The Brain Ball on Friday night. That would be a cry for help, a reason for a hand-delivered invitation to the next meeting (and not to Gamblers' Anonymous). And that would be a violation of my most stringent rule...do not mix brown and blue and red and clear and pink. You get...well...to see it all over again.
  
• I did not hug some random woman at The Brain Ball for saying to me "y'know, Army wives are the true heroes." That would be a) awkward and b) a denial of my husband's service to this country. And I am just a humble wife who merely loves her husband and her country...I seek no external gratification - especially for keeping a house running, 2 cars and a motorcycle operational, the bills paid, the pergola from crashing in through the living room windows...oh wait...sorry...
• I absolutely did not take pictures of the egg-disks that the Hampton Inn attempts to pawn off on its unsuspecting guests while they are still in an alcohol/sleep fog. And I certainly did not take those pictures to post later, complete with a theory on how an egg goes from perfectly recognizable to....that.
• On Sunday, I did not hit the side of the garage with Colonel Ketchup's front right quarter panel. That would prove that my driving has not actually improved since the last time I hit the side of a garage, 13 years ago. I use my mirrors and now realize that the speed limit is not merely a friendly suggestion to maximize your fuel economy. So, it would be unexplainable that I could peel (by friction) the rubber from the garage and subsequently transfer it to my beautiful Mustang...further more it is inconceivable that this act would be committed with such ferocity as to leave a dent the size of my hand in the same spot. And I would never try to pull the dent out with a toilet plunger - that only works in the movies and My Name is Earl. Besides, I would only do that with a brand new plunger, I would never get desperate and grab the one that my husband used. Ick.
• When I woke up in the middle of night and got out of bed to get the water I had been trying to replace with espresso and bourbon, I did not eat 2 chocolate cookies just because they were sitting in plain site. That would completely contradict my strict diet plan to get back to an acceptable weight per my Gap jeans. Plus, if I had done that, being so dental-conscious, I would have flossed, brushed and rinsed again before heading back to bed. I drank my water and climbed back into bed, bypassing the bathroom all together. Therefore, I could not have participated in any cookie monster behavior at say, 2:30 this morning.
• I did not skip my workout Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday due to lack of time, lack of hydration, lack of desire and lack of motivation to leave the bed (yes, in that order). That would contradict my strict exercise plan to get back to an acceptable....blah, blah, blah.
  

What Lipitor Can't Fix

I'm in a battle with my laptop....or more accurately, with the amount of memory on my laptop. We've had skirmishes for years...but then cooler heads (or really, just one...that of my husband) would step in to mediate. I would begrudgingly agree to move all of my pictures and most of my music to an external hard drive, even though that presents a colossal inconvenience to me (more often than not I do use my laptop as DJ Mixmaster in hotel showers and as a digital picture frame when being all crafty and inspired). But hey, what's a little sacrifice when the end result is peace and unity? I want to join hands with my laptop and sing Christmas carols...I want to laugh together over truly funny forwarded emails (I have almost trained everyone in my circle to stop sending me crap like "pass this on to your closest 400 friends or your cat will be hit by a semi in exactly 26 minutes")...I want to have, dare I say, a relationship with my laptop that does not involve curse words or showing it who's Number 1 while it flashes me error messages. Why can't we just get along? I would expect more respect from such a mature machine. I could very easily put it down and replace it with a faster, less Microsoft-y version (yes, Apple...your commercials are finally wearing me down. They make me giggle with understanding while the PC commercials just make me feel like a loser for not being able to create a professional-quality photo book in 20 minutes...especially when the girl says "I'm 4 and I'm a PC"). I could have a laptop that springs alive at the touch of a button, just waiting for instruction. But instead, I am patient with your flipping hour-glass, the crawl at which you update...for I know you're old and need more time. And generally, I become nostalgic for all things antique..I crave Tony Bennett and everyday hats on women. I get misty-eyed when I see an avocado-colored fridge or an airstream camper. But seeing an ancient item and relying on it are 2 totally different things. I would not try to make a phone call from a cell phone in a brief case, nor would I expect to get very far in a Pinto. So, at some point, Captain Compaq and I will have to part ways. But if we could just cling to each other in an "I'll never let go, Jack" embrace until some money starts rolling in, I would be grateful. Otherwise, I will have to revert to - gasp - a desktop which will revoke my membership to the Cool Girls' Club and make it generally much more difficult to work from my bed.

Random Thoughts for a Thursday

Yesterday was our Saturday. Neal got to go play Army while I was cook/maid/furniture mover/FRG leader/jewelry designer extraordinaire all weekend. We totally missed out on the average person's Saturday/Sunday rest and relaxation. So, yesterday we laid in bed until noon drinking coffee and watching Dexter (which I love and that scares me a little). And hey, he's a veteran and I'm a veteran's wife/daughter/granddaughter (not all to the same person for those of you who just had that thought)...so it's kind of like my day, too. The list of things to accomplish yesterday included: replacing all of the hinges in the house as we make the transition from 1991 brass to 2009 brushed nickel, laying mulch in the front garden, trying a sample color of Tuscan clay on the kitchen walls, and building a website for Daisy & Elm, LLC that neither crashes nor blocks non-Microsoft visitors. Of that list, the only thing we got accomplished was watching Dexter...yes, oh wise one...that was not on the list. I try not to psychologically flog myself for enjoying these days...for walking past the clean clothes stacked on the floor and leaning over the sink full of dishes with little regard to what actually needs to be done about it. Our house is generally clean, smells more like fresh linen and less like cat litter, and there is usually food in the fridge, so if I lay in bed until noon one day, who's to notice? Except that I don't get the daily things done...like blogging and showering. So, here are some random thoughts that I've stored up for just such an occasion:

1. Something long-awaited arrived in the mail this week. No, it was not the winter White House Black Market catalog, nor was it a check from Publisher's Clearinghouse...this was...my massage therapy license!! Almost exactly 1 year and 8 months after I applied for it. And approximately 5 months after I began my sabbatical from massage therapy. That means, I started and ended (temporarily) a career before the official documentation ever got here. That has to be a new personal best. Now, to re-assure all of the rule-followers who read this, I did have a license number and have had since before I started practicing professionally because, I too, am an avid rule-follower. But I didn't have the pretty piece of paper with Kentucky's seal to back it up. And even though I harassed the holy living hell out of the gentleman at the KY Board of Licensure, he failed to ever follow through with my request. I understand a backlog...but seriously. And state workers wonder how they got the reputation that they now have. It's a mystery...

2. Apparently, when sung, Queen of Hearts sounds AMAZINGLY like Queen of Farts. Yes, I'm 10...but if that didn't at least make you smile a little, then you've lost all childlike quality and that makes Peter Pan sad.

3. Come to find out, after reading an article in the New York Times, I share my birthday with the Ft. Hood shooter. While people will not forever link September 8th with a murderer (as people do with my unfortunate friend whose birthday falls on 9/11), it still bothers me. It's a good thing I don't believe in astrology and numbers and all of that...oh wait...I do get pretty Hooah, Hooah about being a Virgo. Yeah, strike that. I'm bothered.

4. What I learned last weekend about moving a hoarder:

• Wear clothes that you are willing to donate to Goodwill when it's all over
• Use gloves that you don't mind to trash when it's all over
• People will voluntarily live in the most absolute filth without a second thought. This will make you go home and clean your house like Monk just moved in.
• I thought I had a deep-seeded disgust for men who repeatedly call me "sweetie", "hun", and "darlin". As it turns out, if they are willing to move awkward and unwieldy furniture so that I don't have to, I am infinitely tolerant.
• Conversely, I have ever-lessening tolerance for men who cannot lift anything due to a bad back, knees, elbow..whatever..and choose to instead stand in the path, chain-smoke cigarettes and make inappropriate comments about how big my arms are (yes, they're big. Thanks for pointing out my struggle against The Curse of Fitted Sleeves.)
  

5. And to come full-circle on the whole rule-following thing...I supervised a care package assembly this week. The public was invited in to make donations and then help assemble the baggies that go in the boxes. For the sake of organization, the baggie stations are generally divided up into snacks, drink mix, personal care, and then gifts (i.e. CD's, DVD's, books, etc). My job was to direct people on how much of each item should go into the baggies and then make sure they followed directions and the baggies got sealed. What shocks me is how many people do not listen. Although I'm sure it was annoying (and perhaps even cheeky) to the ones who did listen and follow directions, I had to check every bag because there were many who thought they knew best. So, to the general public I must say: This organization has been around awhile and they have done their fair share of care packages. The founder has this down to an art and it is her 60-hour/week job...to make sure that each soldier gets the best box possible. Please don't question her. It only makes you look like an ass. And if you can't listen and follow simple directions, then perhaps they should never have let you out of the padded room.

Now I'm off to finish preparing for tomorrow night's festivities: The Brain Injury Association of Kentucky's Brain Ball. I have created an all-Swarovski crystal necklace and earrings set, which I will sell right off of my body if someone is interested. Check or cash and it can be yours.

I'm a-fixin' to quit this book

In August, I joined a book club. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing - I had gone in to drop off one book and one CD that were appallingly overdue (and for the record, yes...I did pay $2.00 in overdue fines for Martha Stewart Cooking and Brahms' A German Requiem...both of which sat on my desk for over a month and mocked my culinary and cultural knowledge). I was on my way out the door when I saw a flyer for an "Under 40 Book Club." Well, I am under 40 and I've been looking for a little kick in the arse to read something other than chicklit and historical fiction...so, why not? I had visions of intense debate, which would be stoked with wine, brandy and a gentleman in a beret. Yes, the meetings would be held in the library, but surely there was some tucked-away corner of the building specifically designed for round-table discussions featuring hipsters and alcoholics. Right? And I would never have seen this room in the 300 times I've been to this library because I have never been in a book club....until now. I was in the club. I might even smoke a pipe.

The club met at the end of September to discuss book titles. I bailed at the last minute because in the aftermath of Shep's death, the very last thing I wanted to do was sit around and bat about book titles I've never heard of with a bunch of over-anxious twenty-somethings....wine and brandy or no. So, I skipped it. Big mistake. Huge. The first book was The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. The main character, a teenage boy with autism, is charming in his own scrambled way and it was an easy read. So, fine. The meeting, however...NOT FINE. There is no tucked away corner of the Lexington Public Library where men in driving gloves and women with long cigarettes can discuss the importance of literature today next to a roaring fire. There is only the conference room, where just minutes before, a half-dozen sweaty teens were playing Wii after their book club discussion. It was not looking promising. There was no round table...nor was there a decanter or corkscrew to be found. Oy vey. I was so screwed. We were going to discuss this sober?? That never renders a good honest debate. Never. (Especially among people who have only met once...or not at all, as in my case...and must sensor their comments so as not to offend or judge).

The gentleman leading the book club began moving tables and setting up chairs, so the few of us there early (I for the free alcohol, the other 2 women to lay claim to a future husband) helped. As the crowd sauntered in, I found my chair and silently sulked. Five minutes later, a woman who looked to be about 6 months pregnant came in and sat down beside me. A minute after that, a guy in a fedora and the whole t-shirt-under-a-suit-vest-combo sat down on the other side. I was nestled between Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Awesome. It was not long into the "discussion" when Mr. Fedora began reciting passages from the book, almost verbatim...think more "soliloquy," less "general comment."). Double awesome. Toward the end of the hour, the club leader began passing out the November book selection...a book by an Appalachian author. Triple awesome and a home run for Team Anguish.

I think I have shared with you all my feelings on Jesse Stewart...or maybe that was John Muir. At any rate, I have taken great pains to avoid most Kentucky authors because they insist on writing about Appalachia. (Thank you, Barbara Kingsolver, for taking an alternate approach). I think Appalachia is at once breathtakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly sad. And I have worked earnestly to ensure that I do not let anything slip like "I seen that dog," "I done took the test," or "I'm a-fixin' to cook a mess-a-beans." And yet, this is what I'm reading...supposedly for pleasure. Clay's Quilt is set in fictional Crow County, but as I read it, all I can think is Clay or Harlan counties. And when I finish a passage, I do not feel any smarter. I have lived this life...I do not need to read about it to know what it's like. I want to read about living on the New England coast or attending the Sorbonne...not pregnant 19-year old girls and honky-tonks in the holler. I am less than 100 pages from the end, and yet...I'm not sure if I will finish. I have to reward myself for reading a chapter with reading from The Lost Symbol (which, yes, is very stereotypical Dan Brown but also quite gripping). As the pregnant bride, Dreama, decides to "quit" her cheatin', no-good husband, I may just have to quit this book....at least, I'm a-fixin' to, anyways.

No safe place

Yesterday, I went for a walk in the park with 2 new friends. As we walked, a soldier was turning a weapon onto his own brothers and sisters. And it was not in the desolate cliffs of Afghanistan or even the middle of the desert. It was on American soil, on a well-known base. It could have been Camp LeJeune or Ft. Jackson or Ft. Campbell. But it wasn't. Ft. Hood is home to the 1st Calvary Division, the 1st Army Division West, and the 13th Sustainment Command...and many families, as well as soldiers passing through. Ft. Hood's home page is evidence of a community of soldiers and families that pride themselves on hard work, strict discipline, and service to our country. Yesterday, the impossible happened.

As with all things "Army," this will affect and deeply sadden those intimately connected to the military more than civilians who think of our soldiers only at Christmas when their homesick voices ring out over the airwaves. It always hits us hardest. Whatever you feel for these soldiers and their families, we feel it 100% more. Today, I am struck with equal parts grief and fear. If it can happen in Texas, it can happen in Kentucky. It can happen at Ft. Campbell or Ft. Knox. It could've been us. I am familiar with the Soldier Readiness process. While it is most common to go through the process on your way to war, you must also out-process on your way back home, as well as when your medical updates are due. I cannot imagine the grief and anger of families who must bury their soldiers, not because their vehicle hit an IED, but because another soldier was upset about being deployed. And he lived. It's tragic and unfair. But it's also indicative of the serious attention we should be paying to PTSD. It is a deep and relentless darkness for our men and women in uniform that we should not ignore or dismiss. And yet I wonder if this will be the wake-up call that the Army needs to treat these damaged soldiers with the respect they deserve. If our government is itching to send us all to war, then it must be prepared for the consequences. PTSD is understandable, a massacre of soldiers on US soil is not.

Next weekend, Neal and I will attend the Brain Injury Association of Kentucky's annual Brain Ball ( when Mom received her invitation, I gave her 7 different types of hell about the name of their annual event...until we were driving through Tennessee where we saw a billboard for the opthamologist's annual event, the Eye Ball. Yeah crazy eye people...you win.) BIAK has invited Adjutant General Tonini and a representative from the Wounded Warrior Program to address the attendants. In light of the recent events, I can't help but wonder how he will spin it. How will he excuse the Army's contemptuous approach to soldiers experiencing PTSD? How is he going to make this OK? I'll let you know...

I ask that if you believe in a higher power, you send up a prayer for the victims and their families. If you're Catholic, light a candle. If you don't believe in anything, then just send some positive thoughts down to Texas. And if you believe in democracy, write a letter. This did not have to happen and it sure as hell should never happen again.

And one other thing...

Apparently I was so angry yesterday that I mowed the grass diagonally. I've always been too lazy to do it. I guess all I need was a little misdirected, blinding rage. But the yard looks all gated-community-fantastic!

Yeah, there's an app for that

I love my new iPod Touch. No, I LURVE it. I lurve it in a way that I lurved my very first Walkman...in a sort of carry-it-wherever-I-may-go-and-be-careful-not-to-drop-it-in-the-toilet way. I love that I just slide a fingertip (or sometimes a fingernail) across the gleaming black surface and instantly I can immerse myself in the entertaining rantings of Rachel Maddow or find the best type of fish to eat to avoid over-farming...or do really useful things like track money...and fat. When I went to the doctor yesterday, the nurse proclaimed that according to their scales, I've lost 2 lbs since labor...which would explain the 2 lbs. So, somehow I am still carrying on my 5 foot 7 frame about 20 extra pounds of Nutella, risotto, and Reese's Cup blizzard. But y'know what? There's an app for that. I've been tracking my caloric intake and burn for a little over a month. While I may not have lost any actual weight, I've gained a world of knowledge...like...

1. If you must drink, choose bourbon and diet coke over wine. Yes, you look a lot more trailer trash (unless you drink your wine from a box and then this switch may be your ticket to that country club invitation), but it will save you almost 100 calories.
2. When at Panera, skip the croutons on the creamy tomato soup. Actually, just skip the creamy tomato soup altogether. They don't call it creamy because it must be differentiated from crunchy.
3. Life is too short to eat a 300 calorie breakfast that makes you want to gag every time you take a bite...like oatmeal, for instance...which is basically goulash with a surgeon general endorsement.
4. Soy milk sounds like a great idea. Your Levis say otherwise.
5. When in doubt, don't eat rice. If you are not working a rice paddy, chances are, you will not burn that 300 calories/cup off anytime soon.

In addition to this new-found knowledge, I have also deemed November the Month of Monetary Awareness. Up until this point, when I've needed to pay my credit card, I go to our joint account, transfer the necessary amount, and pay it. That is to say that I take from the joint account without ever giving. If my checking account and I were best friends, I would always be mooching cigarettes and beer and rides to the Pic-Pac. So I decided (read: my husband) that we needed to try to adhere to the budget a little better. And yes, there's an app for that, too. And it's free. So, I'm on day 4 of this month and thus far I've burned far less calories than I've taken in and...after re-decorating the master bathroom...I'm in the red for the "miscellaneous" allowance. It's going to be a long month.