that's a pretty good call, i'm often distracted by spelling, actually

me: is that spelled wrong?

[The word was exercise.]

(I totally whispered that, like that one game show.)

dave: my spell check only checks my spelling, not yours
me: so type it like i did and see
dave: you're insane, by the way, that you are typing words to me to check the spelling
dave: excercise is underlined in red, but exercise isn't. under edit, there is a spelling option
me: not on mine
dave: i'm sure it's there
me: well, i just looked, it's not
me: although
dave: although...
me: i think its wrong to use spell check in messenger
dave: oh bullshit
me: i think it gives a false impression
me: really
me: like with you, i had you in my good speller category
dave: i suppose. i only did it because for some reason i thought you were expecting everything to be spelled right
me: you thought, this whole time, that i cared if you could spell well?
dave: not that you cared, just that you expected that
dave: and i wanted to leave spelling out of the conversation, if i didn't want tangents to come out of nowhere about it
me: that's a pretty good call, i'm often distracted by spelling, actually
dave: see, so just another instance of my supreme powers of observation
me: well, of course david

me: i think i was happier when i thought you did the spelling thing to impress me rather than to keep me focused
dave: well, then i did it for both reasons
me: that's slightly less than believable, but pretty nice

(I totally spell checked this.)

mama will use her own money at 7-11

The Little People have staged a coup and taken over the running of my house. I know I should care. But honestly? Nuh-uh. It's fine with me. They've established a system and I think it'll probably work better than anything I've been able to do. Though, honestly, some of their demands are just unreasonable. I mean, come on, grocery shopping every week? Jesus. Who does that?

Here are the new house rules, see if you can pick up a pattern:

• Mama has to go groshry shopping once a week.
• Mama can't use her cumputer from 5 p.m. until bedtime. (Kids bedtime).
• There has to be food in the house. Food we like to eat.
• Kids can watch TV. Even Hannah Montana. But not all the time. And Mama won't cancel the cable. Or say she will.
• Mama will use her own money at 7-11.
• Family meetings once a week.

President: Mama
Vice President: The Kindergartener, is president when the president is incapacitated. [Um...incapacitated?]
Secretary: The Girl, writes down everything.
Treasurer: The Adolescent Boy, counts the money, but doesn't get to have the money. Has to keep track of what Mama owes us. From 7-11.

Actually, it takes a lot of the pressure off. Democracy should be easier on me than an autocracy.

Except the weekly grocery shopping. Jesus. Who can do that? Do you think that I could convince them that we need to elect an ombudsman for the grocery shopping? No one actually knows what the hell an ombudsman does anyway.

in hopes of him sucking the poison out

I spent the long weekend at Joshua Tree. I divorced Paolo and married this guy. Because, are you kidding me? He's saving the world one desert plant at a time. Saving the world, people!

And Oh. Mah. Gah. How cute is he in his green pants?

*sigh*

His lips may have said "this is Beaver Tail Cactus" but his eyes said "where have you been all my life, you saucy redhead".

If he hadn't had that blue snake bite kit hanging off his backpack, I might've pretended to have been bitten in hopes of him sucking the poison out.

I didn't actually catch his name, so I just call him Joshua. And you? Can just call me Mrs. Joshua.

ponytail karma still intact even though i'm fibber mcliarson

Here are your photos people, please be aware that I used up three sets of batteries to get these three good shots.

Total number of photos taken: 4,583
Total good shots: 3

Bitchin'.





















I totally want to Botox my neck.


















Luckily, my good ponytail karma is still intact even though I'm Fibber McLiarson.

i blindly enter whatever hair salon is nearest and start lying my ass off

Every so often I go into a fugue state where it concerns my hair. All other functioning remains the same, but I am, for all intents, mentally impaired with regard to hair decisions during this fugue period. Typically, it lasts about ten days and begins with a heat wave and a couple of bad hair days combined with a pair of scissors in my bathroom drawer and ends with me wandering out of a salon clutching at my wet hair, blinking back tears and throwing lame hexes and curses back at the stylist.

So on Monday, Day 10 of the Hair Fugue, after nine days of doing to my hair what Jerry Seinfeld did to his chest hair, I blindly entered whatever hair salon was nearest and started lying my ass off. I will never, ever just cop to having stupidly tried to trim my hair myself.

(I don't know why.) (Yes, I know I have good hair.) (Can we just move on to the part where I lie my ass off?) (Because that's the funny part.)

Me: Oh noooo, I would never cut my hair myself. This was caused by some horrible stylist from somewhere far away from here. I'm considering a lawsuit.
Stylist: Hmmm.
The Girl: Mama, you didn't get a haircut! You did that yourself.
Me: Heh. I don't know what she's talking about. Kids... [insert innocent shoulder shrug]
Stylist: Hmmm.
Me: So...anyway...can you fix it?
Stylist: Hmmm.

And then I have the temerity to be upset when she has to take two inches off and add layers and textures and razoring to repair the damage I've caused. And the whole time she's cutting, and fixing? I'm kvetching about the "stylist" who did the initial damage. Knowing full well, every damn person in the room knows I did it.

I just can't cop to it. I don't know why.

And then all of his leg bones turned to liquid

The Kindergartener and I did a little Who's on First-ing this morning. I'm pretty defeatable and easily confused in the morning regardless, but add to that a new haircut, and I was just pretty much useless today. His class was off to Sea World for a field trip and the Kindergartener was checking the list of things to bring.

The Kindergartener: I need a brown bag lunch.
Me: It's in your backpack already.
The Kindergartener: No, I checked. I need a brown bag lunch.
Me: It's in your backpack already.
The Kindergartener: Where?
Me: In. Your. Backpack.
The Kindergartener: Nooooo. I need a brown bag lunch!
Me: I know this! I made you one. Look in your lunchbox.
The Kindergartener [after checking inside the lunchbox]: Nooooo. There's no brown bag in here!
Me: What?
The Kindergartner: I need a brown bag! Not. A. Lunchbox.
Me: Oh. No, they just call it that. It doesn't need to be in a brown bag.
The Kindergartener: The list says so! Brown bag! BROWN BAG!

And then all of his leg bones turned to liquid and he fell to the floor in a heap of crying, red-faced, sweaty Kindergartener.

Me: Listen, they just call it a brown bag lunch. Any packed lunch is a brown bag lunch. Even if it's not in a brown bag.
The Kindergartener: I NEED A BROWN BAG! I'M SUPPOSED TO BRING A BROWN BAG!

And then his bones reformed and the heel stomping and scooting around in circles on his back on the kitchen floor commenced.

Me: Um. I need coffee.
The Kindergartener: I NEED A BROWN BAG!

And while, typically, I might be able to do the thing where I act like a grown up, a parent even? I have a new haircut and hadn't had coffee yet. So I stomped off to his room and found his brown t-shirt, pulled the shoelaces out of his Heelys, turned the t-shirt upside-down, tied a shoelace around it under the armpits, stomped back to the kitchen, put his lunch into the shirt and tied it shut with the other shoelace around the waist.

Me: There. Brown bag lunch.

The Kindergartener: ?

i considered, however briefly, putting the fork in the washing machine

There are these moments where I get glimpses of the true me. The real me. The me that is there when no one is looking.

Every now and then I let the Little People have a Ping Pong Picnic Dinner where they get to take their dinners to the garage to eat around the ping pong table. They like it because there are no rules. I like it because I get a quiet house for 20 minutes, which is, as you can imagine, swell. Most of the time, on these Ping Pong Picnic Dinner nights, some kitchen item goes astray in the garage. A fork or a cup or a pan of veggie meatloaf or, um, something, gets forgotten. Left in the garage, for days sometimes. What? Don't judge.

My garage enters my house through the laundry room, and one of the Ping Pong Picnic Dinner forks ended up, somehow, on top of the dryer. And it had, I think, Alfredo sauce on it, but who can be sure? What? Don't judge.

Now, here's the thing. When I saw the fork sitting there, with its dried on Alfredo sauce mocking me, I considered, however briefly, putting the fork in the washing machine with the load of wash I was starting. I really thought this through, too. I thought, however briefly, that a spin through the washing machine, on the super soak cycle, might just budge the dried on Alfredo better than the dishwasher, and after all the fork was already there. I actually took this thought train far enough to get to "I should probably wash this fork on hot/cold rather than warm/cold".

And then I realized that I just considered, however briefly, putting a fork in my washing machine. A fork. In. My. Washing. Machine. To wash it. Because it was there. And dirty. Boo-yah.

I love me. Seriously. I do. Who else considers doing this kind of shit and then is delighted to have entertained the idea? However briefly.

vampire knees

What a nerd this guy was. I sat and stared at him, though he couldn’t see me staring. He sat one row ahead of me on the other side of the aisle, so I was back and to his left just a bit. I watched him and thought to myself, *snicker*. He sat there, wearing, and I’m not even kidding, one of those doctor’s masks. The disposable kind. I felt a little bit badly for my imaginary snickering. Because, really, he may have had a kidney transplant recently, or maybe just had some sort of immune system problems, but I just didn’t think so. I guess I just really thought he was a hypochondriac, so even though I felt just a little bit badly doing it, I still thought, *snicker*.

He had his laptop perched precariously on knees that looked like they had never actually seen the sun. I began to think of them as Vampire Knees, but the beige plaid shorts that came just to the knee-tops didn‘t help the vampire image really get completely fleshed out. I saw an iPod resting on the beige plaid, in front of the laptop, and decided it was probably playing the soundtracks of cheesy 1950s sci-fi movies that were billed as electronic tonalities rather than music in order to avoid the hassle of the musicians’ union.

An external hard drive dangled off his lap, and hung against his lower leg by the USB cable. It had a Volcom sticker on it whose edges were peeling back a little. I suspected that he idly picked at the edges as he wrote code or some such nonsense. Huh. The Volcom sticker threw me a little, as this guy didn’t strike me as a skater type. So I worked it into my scenario, thusly: he must have a stoner computer hacker friend who maybe shared his sad little nerdy apartment and liked to annoy him by sticking skater stickers on his junk.

As he shifted a bit, to adjust the mask, the laptop teetered precariously on the Vampire Knees. He managed to right it before it toppled, but in doing so, the mask hooked on his digital watch and the ear loop ripped clean off. And I laughed. Out loud. Without intending to. A sort of a “bwah haha!“ He turned and looked at me. And I thought, “fuck, I’m a bitch.” I smiled at him, hoping it didn’t come off as a sneer, and shrugged my shoulder as if to say, “yeah, flying sucks, huh?” He glared a little bit and turned around to examine the mask. I wondered if he’d try to fix it or just go back to whatever code he was writing. I actually had no idea if he was writing code, or really what "writing code" even meant, but it is what fit into my scenario.

I decided that I didn’t need to know if he was going to try to fix his mask, and instead went back to my book and my own iPod, which was not playing electronic tonalities, but rather, the Police. And maybe Vampire Knees would be a good name for a band. Or a bar.

© 2008

let's mate organization-speak with bubble talk

If you can...try to imagine all the typical corporate conference-ese coupled with, say, Pig Latin, for instance. So instead of trying to decipher something like, "synergistic randomized logistical support systems", you get something like "inergisticsay andomizedray ogisticallay upportsay ystemssay". Or let's mate organization-speak with bubble talk. You rebemebemeber bubbubble tabalk, ribight? Caban youbou sabay "lobogibistibicabal"? No? Try this: "fribick". See? I knew you could do it.

Anyway. Abanyby Waybay.

I'm at a conference in Washington DC that is being thrown (makes it seem like a party, right?) for military types. Which I? Am not.

And here's the thing about the military. They don't use actual words. They use lingo and jargon along wtih acronyms (acros), abbreviations (abbr.) and word melds (WoMels) (or MelWos, because they don't always go in the same order as one would actually say the words when, like, speaking).

So this is what my day was like (all TWELVE hours of it):

We will be collaboratively creating LoJaks within the OIF/OEF vet communities without regard to the DOD and VA where concerns PTSD and TBI, with the synergystic assistance of the I.A.V.A. and NMFA (pronounced "enemeffay"). We'll use strategic spherically-focused IDot methods coupled with SubPac support and CIAV (pronounced "seeahv") involvement. Once we've implemented this at CentCom and WestPac and KpemraHidaen within the parabolic, eliptical HimBGSELAWienam we can expect to see her head explode. The end.

Oh, except wait, that isn't The End. Right after I got myself tucked into my bed tonight, and finally quieted the MiliSpeak voices? The fire alarm went off.

Parking lot. Pajamas. Wet hair. Yeah-huh.


New label for this post: Fribick

we're getting married and moving into his airstream at pacific beach.

Dear Mom,

I know when I left Colorado for California, you worried that I'd fall in with the wrong people. I know how you worried that I'd be swept up in the big city scene.

Do you remember when I was 16 and was hanging around with that heavy metal band, and I was getting into all that trouble? Do you remember how you lied about my age, said I was 18 and shipped me off to a gigantic pit mine in the Nevada desert for the entire summer to catalog core samples in a 12,000 square foot rodent-infested warehouse, with no protection from the mice (or the Mormon miners) except a Golden Retriever named Jasper?

Oh, you do remember? Yeah, me too.

Well, I've fallen in love with tattoo artist named Aristotle (it's supposed to be ironic). Just try to have an open mind. He's enlightened and brilliant and a real artist. And, Mom? I'm 35 and you can't send me away to work in a gold mine to try to tear us apart the way to did with me and the lead singer of Riff Raff (who, yes, turned out to be gay, as I understand it, but that's neither here nor there, and does not justify your interference in what could have been a true, deep and moving love affair, uh, if he'd have EVER even tried to kiss me).

The thing is, Mom? This time, I'm pretty sure he's probably not even gay. I think. So we're getting married and moving into his Airstream at Pacific Beach.

And, Mom? Can you tell Dad for me? Okay, thanks, bye,

Kate

PS. Actually, those are just pretend tattoo sleeves that my friend, Mary Ann, sent me. None of the above is true, but, also? I don't have that money I owe Dad yet. Could you let him know? Okay, thanks, bye.

PPS. Just to be perfectly clear, the parts where my mom lied about my age and sent me off to gold mine? Totally true. Yeah-huh.

turkey meatballs not turkey testicles

And then the "food" was served. At the front of the buffet line, laying flat on the table, next to the Crystal Light packets, was a hand "calligraphed" menu on a sheet of leftover Christmas paper with a border of holly boughs and chickadees clutching red ribbons. Near the menu, holding a dirty slotted spoon, stood a Bunyanesque woman who looked every bit the school lunch lady, from her sensible black shoes, to her black, poly-blend, elastic-waist pants, to her stained white chef's coat. She was the quintessential Marge, everything except the hairnet, which, as it turns out, is an important piece of the uniform.

The menu included "Real Turkey Balls" which I was relieved to find out described turkey meatballs not turkey testicles. And the "Country Cole Slaw"? It was yellow, but not a yellow that could plausibly be linked back to mustard, but instead, based on the smell, seemed to be the ghastly result of some combination of ginger, cumin and lead-based paint. The dessert, or "desert", as the menu announced, was watermelon, served on the flimsiest, almost transparent, paper plates available. Based on the saturation level of the plates, I surmised that the watermelon must have been placed on said paper plates (now paper pulp) sometime in late February.

I cautiously backed away from the "food" and claimed that I was fasting in order to have blood drawn later that day. The Lunch Lady looked suspicious, but was quickly distracted when the brontosauri became excited upon hearing talk of medical procedures and began regaling me with stories of rolling veins, papery skin and draining goiters.

And then I passed out. And my head exploded.

Okay, yes, fine, I made that part up, but it could have happened. I can picture them all leaning over my lifeless body, a circle of gray-haired heads, with the water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles and flickering fluorescent lights framing them, in a circle above my lifeless, headless body:

Brontosaurus 1: Is she dead?
Brontosaurus 2: Of course she's dead, Jim, her dang head exploded.
Brontosaurus 1 [scratching his grisly gray chin stubble, flakes of dried skin fluttering down onto me]: Last time I got my blood drawn, I got that hot little Vivian at Public Health, and we were there fer what musta been an hour, what with how my veins roll around.
Brontosaurus 2: Heh, yeah, Vivian, mmm mmm. She drained one a my goiters once.
Brontosaurus 1: Vivian, heh.

Lunch Lady: I'm not cleaning this mess up, dang liberals with their exploding heads.

And then I gave a presentation and then they. did. not. donate. Boo-yah.

And also? An equation to answer your questions:

I was not drunk+ it was not a dare + I did not lose a bet + there really was an ass pat + I did not slug the old guy + they did not try to sell me something + yes, my head did explode (squared) + turkey balls - a discussion of rolling veins and goiters = 1 Rotary Club meeting.

an encouraging bump on the elbow and a startling pat on the ass

Choose one:

a) Rotary
b) Kiwanis
c) Elks

I crossed the threshold and was immediately assaulted by ugly and tacky and cheap and crooked and unmatched. My black heels went from a pleasing clack on the cracked linoleum of the drab lobby to a soft shwoosh on the stained, mauve, 1980s-pattern kitchen-type carpet. Four lopsided tables, dressed in ill-fitting wrinkled tablecloths and paper place mats, sat haphazardly here and there as if they were dollhouse furniture set up by the Kindergartener.

There were water-spotted silver forks and knives on either side of the paper place mats and clear plastic dessert forks laid out landscape style at the top of the place mats. The grease-spotted pine green tablecloths hung down to graze the floor on the north and south ends of each table but left the chrome edging and scratched wooden tops of the folding tables slightly exposed, with the thin bent legs fully exposed, east and west. The chairs were hard maroon plastic church basement castoffs, except the ones that were scratched aluminum folding chairs with either FHS or EHS stenciled on their backs.

To say I was overdressed in my taupe, wide-legged plaid trousers, black school boy blazer and black heels would be to strikingly underplay the reality. Surrounded by men whose average age was brontosaurus, and whose average outfit was of the "nothing compliments brown corduroy like plaid flannel and Wal-Mart" school. I was guided to one of the maroon church castoffs at the front table and told that I would be introduced to the other members later. I risked a tentative sip of the lukewarm, slightly tan-colored tap water in the flimsy plastic cup because my throat was beginning to close up. My eyes kept landing on the centerpieces, silk (plastic-y silk) crayola-colored daisies in chipped plastic pots, surrounded by Starburst jelly beans scattered on the table top. I got up to introduce myself to a few members, but was ushered back my maroon castaway seat and reminded that I'd be introduced later.

The meeting was opened with a) a prayer b) a rousing round of God Bless America and Smile and the World Smiles with You (during which I received one encouraging bump in the elbow and a look that said "Sing! Sing with us, young lady!" and one startling pat on the ass and a look saying, "If you're not going to sing, you better be ready to dance on the table.") c) the Pledge of Allegiance and d) a horribly sexist joke that was also may have included references to communist liberals (depending on whether he really said what I think he said).

And then my head exploded. The End.

it would seem that he wasn't full of shit

Dave left his first ever comment yesterday. He claimed that the verification problem in the post below would likely reduce to 1 or 0. But he also said he was full of shit, implying we shouldn't count on it. It would seem that he wasn't completely full of shit (about that).

He emailed this to me this morning after having no luck explaining it to me, with me saying things like, "but what's the thing with the 7s then?" Also? I guess thinking that it might help me understand, he proceeded to graph both equations. And sadly, the only thing I thought when I saw all of this was that Dave knows how to make the symbol for pi in an email.

From Dave:

The original equation is the following sine function. We want to find the first derivative (We do?): the equation for the slope of the curve at x. (Okay, what slope? How does he know there's a curve?)

Notice that when x=0, the slope of x is just a horizontal line (Do you all see a horizontal line in these graphs? Because, me? I don't see any horizontal lines.) , therefore, whatever the equation for the derivative is, it must evaluate to 0 at x. We'll use this fact to check the equation for the derivative. (Yes, I was just thinking that we could check the equation for the derivative that way.)

After looking at Wikipedia, I gathered that you have to solve the combination of two functions, sine(x), and the equation inside, f = 7x - π/2 (I usually look at Wikipedia to find out things like Kal Penn's astrological sign (Taurus) but okay. (And also? When Taurus (Kal Penn) and Libra (me) come together in a love affair it can be like the unification of two halves of a whole, i.e. he completes me, per Yahoo.)

d/dx sin(f) = d/dx f * cos(f)
and
d/dx f = d/dx 7x - π/2 = 7
and putting the two equations together...
7 * cos(7x - π/2) ...

This passes our sanity check: the value of the derivate is 0 when x=0. (Um. Wha...??)

(And then my head exploded. The End.)

Is it vvspurw4? Or wspurwq? Or motherf***ker?*

I am a human being. Even if your effing word verifiers don't believe me.

I've had it with these mothers. Without fail, it takes me three tries to be verified. Always. Unless it takes four. Or fifteen. In the words of Mary Ann (who, ohbytheway, does not verify my humanity in her comment section and still sort of wants to marry me): F-ers.

Is it
a) vrinmnmta
b) vrimmta
c) vnirmta
d) vrawe;rianrlitnlaouvsdlkjfh


Is it
a) vvspurw4
b) vvspurwq
c) wspurwq
d) motherf***ker



Also? There is no rhythm to these words. Even when I know what the letters are, like this one, which clearly says glfqxeep or qlfqxeep or glfqxeep, my fingers? They do not move in this order.

My fingers do not go from q to x or from l to f very easily, but they do go pretty smoothly from fu to ck. So that's good. Because, that's maybe what I'll be leaving in the comment sections of word-verification-enabled blogs from now on. (If I can get past their word verifications.)



Here's my new verification system, compliments of my friend striker:




And probably only Dave will be able to comment now. (Which is a problem because he has never, ever commented.) (Whatever. That's cool.)


*This post was brought to you by Bad Mom whose word verification almost had me ending my comment with "And then my head exploded. The End." on her post today after my third try at being verified as an actual human being didn't yield results.