One more day

RIP, thirties. Turns out I am not forever your girl. One more day and I'll finally be free of you. You ushered in many gifts, but all in all I found you to be a predominately transitional decade.

Older age and its impending lessening of relevance has freed me from the burden of racing with the rats, and of pleasing the common man. I wish I'd let go of other people's notions of perfection in my twenties. I regret my focus on the moment rather than on what I might accomplish if I stood still long enough to let my inner voice flood into my consciousness and propel me.

Tomorrow I shall awaken and trumpet in forty. I am ready to aim for higher goals and to entertain more foolish impulses. The lines on my face won't seem as deep, my thinner skin not as tragic.

A pleasant appearance is not always good for one's character.

That said, it's high time for my self-saboteur to stop uglying me up as punishment for wasting my youth and as defense against my tendency to make bad decisions.

I am strong enough to live among you without a cushion of fat to protect me.

I can be pretty and not hurt those that I love.

My voice carries a weight of its own.

My vision is not flawed.

Tonight I will cast my parasitic notions toward the fire and incinerate them into obscurity, then stoke their cinders until they blaze forth into faith and possibility.

Good Morning,Toilet!

My husband Dennis left me a sweet note this morning on his way to work.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, sunshine and flowers and toilets and mittens, these are a few of my favorite things!

Gratuitous shots of Joe and Lily:

The other night at bedtime, like most kids, Joe wanted me to read him a book about tooth decay . There I was acting it out and really getting into it, "Meet your guests! Weeee're called Bac Tee Reee ah! YOUR mouth is our Cah Feh Teeeer e ah!" when...

Joe: Mommy!!!!! *points to bloated lavender blue-haired pucker-faced fat Elvis if-he-were-a-warlock bacteria*

Me:

Me: Where's Mommy??

Joe: ...

  

Me:  Are you sure you didn't mean here? *I point to a jovial, more comely-faced bacteria*

Joe: ...

I swear off red lipstick and vow to get a chin tuck.

The next day I emerge from my closet ready to paint the supermarket red. Joe smiles and points and says, "Beach!"

Apparently my ensemble brings to mind a giant beach ball, a two-dollar beach towel, or a giant beach ball resting upon a two-dollar beach towel.

I vow to stop clothes shopping at Wal-Mart.

It's just that sometimes when I'm there to pick up a mop or some other perfectly socially-justifiable Wal-Mart prospective purchase, I pass a really cute shirt and think to myself, "Seven bucks? That's madness! Who wouldn't buy this for that price? Nobody will know." I look around to see if anyone's glowering, then shove the offending item under a 250 pound bag of Pedigree hoity-toity small dog niblets and skulk away.

I'm so glad I ended up in this family, with these children. I spend my days laughing. Even situations sparked from irritation, frustration, and massive food cravings are likely to be chuckled at for their ridiculousness before the last flame sputters to a puff.

Last night my husband and I were debating the exact date of purchase of a now-absent small plastic container of dark chocolate-covered almonds. He swore up and down it was three days ago, Friday. I insisted that it had been at least week and a half, certainly enough time for each and every last one of them to have been eaten, that I would know because I did all the shopping. He let it be known that I was wrong, very wrong, and that I purchased them on Friday. When I admitted I thought maybe he didn't like them so it seemed right and natural to dispose of them by manner of consumption, his eyes widened and he said without speaking, "Chocolate? Almonds?"

Without giving an inch, he snatched something from behind the tub of I Can't Believe it's Not Butter Light, and proceeded to huff and puff his way down the hallway on crutches in the most theatrical and self-righteous manner possible. Tink, tink, growl, tink, tink.

After he disappeared around the corner, I opened the fridge to procure a bottle of water. He had left the last mini Snickers bar for me.

Link to post at Textual Medium

Hidee ho!

No, I'm not calling you a "ho".

What do you mean if anyone's the "ho" it's me? I'm not the one galavanting around in flashy turquoise Nike short shorts kicking leaves into the faces of passing bikers just to get them to turn and notice my ass!

Oops, I said "ass". Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Christian friends. Sorry, common decency. Ugh.

I can't help myself. I also almost took the Lord's name in vain over at my other blog. I know it's wrong and I know why it's wrong. These things sometimes bubble to the surface and make themselves known. They're pesky, impish, nasty little profanities that lull me into mini-naps, type themselves, then giggle their way back into my fingertips.

Anyway, I wrote a post at Textual Medium (click click click) that explains the location of my brain and my writing and social networking schedule going forward. I thought I'd point it out to my readers here not because I think you live and die according to my posting schedule and Facebook status updates, but out of respect for your attentions. I don't want you to think I'm not writing or that I've tired of your company.

Quite the opposite is true! In fact, I find your company so stimulating that I'm inspired to try new things.

I hope you're having a good weekend, and that you and yours are well. I hope you'll spend a little time this afternoon stoking your passions, whether they be cooking, painting, singing, people-watching, writing, finding new ways to entertain and educate your children, running, biking, reading, networking, mocking or knocking boots in a Donald Trump wig. Peace out.

I should probably post something

Image by .chourmo. via Flickr

Here's a cool little tree.

Kreativ Blogger Award

Thanks to Holly Jahangiri of It's All a Matter of Perspective for my Kreativ Blogger award. Hug. (I agree, what is UP with that spelling? Agh!) Here's her reasoning:

"'Home is where the fart is.' Well, gee. Who isn’t made happier by a good fart? Heather approaches the art of happymaking with a quirky, enthusiastic, slightly twisted zeal I admire, even as it leaves me exhausted just thinking about it. The way she looks at life – sometimes upside down, sometimes sideways, sometimes just a stolen glance from her peripheral vision, and sometimes through the bottom of a beer bottle – never ceases to leave me smiling, scratching my head, twisting up one corner of my mouth, and pondering things from a different perspective. She’s got a lovely family, too. Her husband, apparently, has the patience of a saint. He must like “kreativ” women."

Seven Things About Me That People Might Find Interesting
(So hard to come up with these because I'm an open book and y'all already know all my secrets.)

• During the day, I spend 20% of my non-computer time playing with and cuddling my kids, 30% on picking things up and putting them away, and 30% on searching for missing dinosaur feet and Dodger hats.
  
• My favorite drink is a Cadillac Margarita made with fine tequila like Patron or Herradura, and real lime. Ahh...
  
• I almost never wear shoes and my feet reflect that.
  
• I have two dogs, a Dachshund named Greta and a Chow/Shepherd mix named Jack
  
• The Twilight series rekindled my love of reading, (after I had my kids it was either read or sleep), and spurned a new interest in fiction writing.
  
• Piano music takes me away to faraway places and fills me with sensations of deja vu.
  
• Our son Joe's middle name, Hunter, was inspired by Hunter S. Thompson.
  

Next Wave of Recipients

Nobody because all of my blogging friends except for Holly have made it clear to me that they do not respond to memes. If you'd like to be included, pop me a note & I'll happily revise this.

The “Rules”

1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.

Skidmarks and Stupidity

I woke up late today and stumbled my way to the kitchen on a coffee beeline that looked and felt like a yellow brick road, to discover my husband Dennis fully dressed for work and passed out on the couch. I thought it best to gently rouse him and let him know that he was supposed to be at work. As it turned out, he'd aggravated his sprained ankle buzzing around the house yesterday preparing for his return to work and had no plans to get up from the couch any time soon. It was sad and cute at the same time.

Not much later in the day the post-vacation, injured husband clutter got to me and I decided to make short work of it.

First stop on the tidy train: stinky laundry.

Dennis as Lily our one year old: Are those "browns"?

Me: Those are whites. Some of our whites have brown on them.

Dennis to Lily: Mom has little to no bowel control. If she had bowel control she wouldn't use it anyway. What would be the fun in that?

He says this as I tenderly fold his underwear and turn his socks inside themselves to form conveniently paired bundles.

Later yet, after an extended grocery shopping sojourn consisting of peach sniffing, cucumber thumping, and beer procuring, (the ancient checker actually eyed me suspiciously and asked my birth date causing me to choke on my 40 year old tongue wrinkle),  I returned home to the news that Dennis' doctor had called in his prescription not five minutes prior.

On the way to the pharmacy I turned on the radio, (yes, the radio... we old bats like old things), and was met with what sounded like static. I flicked the lever on my steering wheel to move it to the next station. The static grew louder. I flicked more vehemently. Flick flick FLICK flickflickflick. Suddenly I'm being blasted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon".

Who knew that that "Bark at the Moon" sounds like "Bazzrrxxxskkkzzxzz" in the lower volume ranges?

I would have happily Barked at the Moon in the first place so I did just that. I kept on barking even after my minivan ground to a halt at a stoplight. I envisioned a giant hair bow in the shape of a bat and checked myself out in the mirror. It wasn't there of course, but I was pleased with the look of it and continued to headbang my way into the hospital parking lot.

After a stop here and a doctor note grab there, I once again found myself approaching the pharmacy. It was packed and offered only two available seats; one next to a kindly senior citizen and another holding an empty water bottle and a worn copy of Coachella Valley Your Health Monthly. I smiled at the elderly gentleman and said, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"

This man had not one but two lazy eyes, and his face was clearly pointed in my direction, but he afforded me neither acknowledgment of my existence nor any response whatsoever. Upon realizing I couldn't be sure of his ability to hear, or of his sanity, I took a step back and plopped myself right on top of the water bottle.

I'm no fool. It was obvious that the only way to save what I like to think of as my natural aplomb was to snatch that magazine up faster than the speed of light, cross my legs and pretend I'd been sitting there for half an hour. So I did just that.

I flipped to a page about natural skin masks. Do I have dry skin or combination skin? Only one of my many beauty quandaries. I go with dry skin. Bad choice.

In a recipe that is obviously not meant for consumption I take in the words, "(no need to substitute Splenda in this recipe)". I wrote in "OMG", because I said the words out loud, violently flicked the page with my right hand and squinted at the lazy-eyed gentleman in a manner that shrieked, "Can you bah-lieve this?" Mercifully, I spotted Dennis' name on the put-you-out-of-your-misery board and hopped up behind a waiting couple.

After five and a half minutes of, "He said he was going to send down a note"'s, and "He's an idiot, I never liked him"'s it was my turn at bat. Inexplicably, the girl behind the register motions me over to the right. I comply. Again she motions to the right. Again I comply. She says, "You can come to this window too." I hand her my ticket. She heads back off to the left and types into a computer and eyes me nervously. I continue to smile. She goes on about how I could have come to that window, the one she motioned me to before hopping back to the left, until I say, "The 'Pick-up Prescription' sign is over where I was standing." She glares like I'm an idiot and says, "I'm just letting you know. For next time."

I smiled a broader smile. Her lips twitched. I plucked the bag out of her hand and made my way home.

Is it just me?

Mouths of Babes

Image by Capt. Tim via Flickr

My husband Dennis just asked our two year old son Joseph if he was ready for bed.

He replied, "No. Do you want another beer?"

It almost worked. ;-)

The Internet

Image by seizethedave via Flickr

What's it like to be a normal person on the internet?
To break away from your goings-on and make the occasional comment?

To not like it as much as I do?

I distinctly remember my first computer.
I was well over 30.
And trapped.
And silent and zombiefied and submissive.
I remember pressing that button.
I remember feeling something new. Something BIG.
I didn't know what it was but I was as sure as my next breath that it was going to change my life.
I can still SEE it. A big swirl.
And it did. It changed everything.

It exposed me to the outside world.
People were there. Kind people.
And they had dreams. They were poetic.
It didn't compute.
Until it did.
One poem by one friend not even meant for or inspired by me reminded me of kindness and life and love and everything that didn't exist.
Until it did.

I'm not casual about the internet.

Car Tripping

My family and I boarded the Quest last week and set sail for Placerville, CA. We stopped often to look and touch and taste, but what amused me the most were my husband Dennis' quips as he navigated back down the 101 towards the barren, scorpion-ridden kiln of a desert we call home.

Dennis pontificated about the fact that radio stations in coastal towns always play some sort of "lite" jazz.
Dennis: Nothing threatening: No drums, no guitar riffs, just a homogenized mixture of non-threatening musical instruments.
Heather: Soft music that feels good.
Dennis: Radio stations with call signs like KOST.
Dennis: Or KLITE. *starts laughing*
Heather: What?
Dennis: Say it out loud.
Heather: K lit... OMG!!

Dennis: Do you think Percy Sledge was the brother of Sister Sledge? Just wonderin'.

Dennis: Why is it called "Sit n' Sleep"? Shouldn't it be called "Lay and Sleep"?
Heather: I think maybe the store sells chairs and beds.
Dennis: Oh, I see. I assumed it was just a bed store. Are you sure they sell chairs?

Dennis: ♪ Oye como va, give me taco sauce for my burrito ♪ How come they have taco sauce? They don't have burrito sauce. Can you put taco sauce on a burrito? It's not the same.

Heather: They should have a computer type place and call it "Nerdstroms".
Dennis: I like that.

Heather: Does laying pipe mean pooping or having sex.
Dennis: I thought it meant having sex. Are you going to record that?

Why yes, yes I am.

Dear Blogger Dashboard

Image via Wikipedia

I'm staring at my white box wondering if I'll ever be able to fill it again.

It's been a week. I've been out. I've breathed. I've sniffed. I've hugged. I've sucked salt. And I didn't... well, I didn't think of you once.

Not because I don't need you, Blogger Dashboard. I knew you'd be here waiting. Why? Because you don't have a choice. I control you after all. Ostensibly. In any case, you know I love you deeply.

Get this. I had a productive dream. Yes, it involved the Mac guy from the Mac/IBM ridiculous stupid pointless intellectually insulting battle commercials. And no, I have no idea why. Dreams are just effed up sometimes. BUT I did get some good stuff out of it. For once. Quite unlike those dreams filled with horrible, nasty images that couldn't possibly be written about. By me. I had a dream with promise. After one of the worst nights in recent memory.

WHICH leads me to think that I'm right. It's not possible to be happy and healthy and normal and creative.

In any case, just know that I wasn't thinking about you.

Goodnight.