Buzzkill.

Last Thursday, I visited my extremely adorable dentist. I had a tooth that was set on self-destruct, and he had a crown with my name on it.

This guy and I go back a long way--he's saved me from disaster innumerable times, and I, in return, put his two children through college. All in all, I would say ours has been a fairly successful relationship. Of course, it doesn't hurt matters much that he's a nice-looking guy--or at least, he used to be. Now he just looks like a fairly well-preserved old poop.

And like any old poop worth his salt, he really loves stirring things up. (Ta-da! All my mixed metaphors for the week right there in one sentence.) On this day, he waited until he numbed my gums, my jaw, and my tongue, stuffed my mouth with cotton, surgical steel instruments and fingers, pegged out the N2O, and then proceeded to talk up Sarah Palin.

He really, really likes her.

Obviously, I couldn't say a thing. What's more, I found that I didn't really want to. Making this discovery--aside from the new crown on my right rear molar--is the best thing that happened to me all week.

Now I know that if things go wrong for us in November, I won't have to join the great diaspora. All I have to do is get my hands on some nitrous oxide. Lots and lots of it.

image, Shorpy Photo Archive.

Going for the gold.

Material World Girl has, on occasion, implied that she believes me to be somewhat competitive--or at least she found me to be so when we both worked for the same company. Of course, competitiveness is not necessarily a bad thing in the corporate world. I really thought I had left that sort of thing behind me, though, when I turned in my fancy building keys and Survival of the Fittest Team Captain T-shirt.

I had a small moment of insight this past week, however, when the department secretary requested that each of the faculty complete textbook adoption sheets in anticipation of the Spring semester. Dutifully, I checked my projected enrollment, carefully copied down the ISBN numbers for the books I wanted my students to pay an arm and a leg for, and marched myself and my newly completed forms into the secretary's office.

You'll just have to take me at my word when I tell you that I had no idea what I was about to say until I actually heard myself say it.

"Am I the first?" I asked.

"The fourth," she said. I was further disappointed that she didn't even bother to glance up at me as she said it.

I was almost out of earshot when I heard her add, "But you're the only one to fill them out completely."

Thereby granting, once again, all the evidence I needed to confirm that I am--indeed--still the best.

I'm emailing evidence to Material World Girl right now.

image, Shorpy Photo Archive.

Give me your tired, your poor, your bare-legged.

One way to tell America is flirting with the idea of hard times?

We start inventing bizarre ways to reuse things most of us aren't even using anymore.

For instance: This past Sunday I found an article detailing all the things one might do to wring the last bit of life out of that old raggedy pair of pantyhose. It's worth noting, I believe, that this is the second article I've seen about this.

Apparently, I live under a rock. I had no idea we had a used pantyhose problem in this country. I can't decide what part of the article disturbed me the most: the idea of a household filled to the rafters with items that used to be pantyhose, or the fact that anybody, anywhere is still wearing them.

I know, I know. Everybody's trying to be green. But for heaven's sake--my grandmother used to do stuff like this. Sure enough, the first item on the list? Tie up plants that need to be staked. If a row of tomato plants tied up with old pantyhose doesn't say "Grandma" to you, then you must have one of those fancy-pants grandmas.

I just can't help thinking that if being green is what everybody's after, maybe we just shouldn't buy the damned things in the first place. Don't they have to process a bunch of petroleum and then melt it down with old tires to make a pair of pantyhose? That can't be good for the earth.

And I have to tell you--since I stopped wearing them, my earth is definitely better.


Next week: My tutorial for how to make a hat for your dog from an old brassiere.

Old Nylons, New Uses


image, Foxtongue's photostream. And no, I have no idea. I would be afraid to speculate.

What you might hear if not for the frogs in the waterfall at lakeside during a thunderstorm CD.

Thursday was a very good day. And because it was, I had occasion to wonder--what does the massage therapist think about while she's rubbing, kneading, and palpating her way through my $60.00 hour?

Hopefully, she's not thinking, "Okay. Focus. You know this. The distal scapula feticulitus controls the, ummm, the masculica-something."

Then again, it's probably not a good thing if she is so thoroughly on auto-pilot that she's putting together her grocery list, or the final aria of that opera she's composing for grad school.

And I really hope--no, I pray--that she's not thinking, "Jeez, doesn't this lady ever walk anywhere? Ever?"

But even that--as bad as it is--is preferable to "Oops! Is that supposed to bend that way?"

I started to ask her at one point, just what sorts of things did go through her mind as she worked. But after a while, I sort of got lost in my own thoughts.

First "Ohhh." Then "Ahhhh." And finally, "Zzzzz."


photo, Joan Crawford Massage, photographer unknown, via Tangerines in a Red Net Bag.

Because if you don't laugh, you'll cry.

At my house tonight, we are having Biden Burgers and Freedom Fries along with our debate. Our guest chef has even promised us a surprise Sarah Palin-inspired dessert. I hope it's some kind of chocolate mousse.

Because we all have productive activities scheduled for tomorrow, we probably won't be playing any drinking games--but we did print off our own Palin Bingo cards.

I'm feeling lucky.

Edit: And while waiting for the debate to start? The Obama Channel, of course (Dish Channel 73).

Self control. Not always a good thing.

Every year, I forget how awful my allergies are--that is, until the very tail end of summer. Even then, it usually takes ten to fifteen days of dragging around and feeling really, really bad before I remember, "Oh, yeah. I'm allergic to September."

It can be pretty miserable. Everything itches. Or drips. Or both.

For me, the eyes are the worst. But I've learned that if I touch them--no matter how much I want to--I'm done for. So I developed a work-around.

Whenever I feel the urge to rub, instead, I just scrunch my eyes up really, really tight. And you know what? It really doesn't do a thing in the world to alleviate the pain or the itching. But it does, somehow, help me feel a little less helpless.

Yesterday, after I had smooshed up for about the fourth time in an hour, I realized that I had no real idea how many times during the day I was exercising this maneuver. And that's when I had a terrible revelation.

It is entirely possible that I've conditioned myself into a facial tic.

--And not just your standard, run-of-the-mill, microsecond twitch, but a full-blown, face-distorting, wrinkle-inducing, Tourette's-quality spasm.

So, please. If you see me, and I'm scrunching and smooshing, tell me to stop. An intervention may be my only hope.

photo, Mariss. -dreamscometrue's photostream

Maybe she should check google maps.

I guess this is going to just keep coming up.

I don't want to go to the trouble of looking back to count, but I have a sinking feeling that this is about the third post in a little over a week about how I ain't got no boo. And I'd feel a lot worse about it if this were one of those entries where I was making everything up. But I don't see how the blog-reading world can hold it against me that every single person I run into seems intent on reminding me that I don't have someone on which to get my freak.

Case in point: I ran into an old acquaintance over the weekend--someone I hadn't seen or heard tell of in well over three years--and she immediately asked me if I was seeing anyone.

This happens to me all the time, and it almost always puts me in a snit.

What about all that other fantastic stuff I've got going on? What about the great new job, or my fabulous new-old hair color? Really--a lot has happened in my life in three years' time. Enough of this, and I might get the impression that something is missing from my life--that I'm just going through the motions of living out what is actually an empty and unfulfilled existence.

Before I had time to get all self-righteous on her, though, she told me that she herself was recently single. As we spoke it became apparent to me that she seemed to think I--with my many years' experience doing the belly-crawl through the dating trenches--might have some sort of insight as to where all the men were.

And I do. They are at home, watching TV with their wives.

Set your TiVo.

Except for my friend Karen F. (who's a flautist, and everybody knows you can't trust a flute player's musical taste), all women of a certain age love James Taylor.

And he loves us, too. He told me so himself.

JT has a new album out today, and he's scheduled to be on the Colbert Report tonight.

Check it out. He said that if there was time, he'd sing one just for me.

I was going to cut him some slack, but then I thought better of it.

My baby brother's birthday has rolled around again, and although he's no haiku fan, and I'm fairly sure he eschews the lowly birthday corndog, I don't think he minds having embarrassing pics posted on the interweb. This one gets the prime real estate because it hasn't seen the light of day since it was pasted in the album. See how young and freckled-y he is?

Don't let that adorable Jody Davis look fool you. This is the face of a kid up to no good, and was the expression I often saw through the window of the house he had just locked me out of.

If you look closely, you can see that he is treating my dog in a similarly coldhearted way--dressing it in lumberjack clothing without its consent.

I'm happy to report that he is much nicer now that he's all old and wrinkled. So if you run into him, be sure to wish him a happy birthday.

Other Butch photos here. (He has a fanbase.)

Helpful tips.

Not long ago, a stranger came up to me as I was loitering in the paintbrush aisle of my neighborhood home improvement store. I was shopping for one of those really expensive paintbrushes that cost so much they should last a lifetime. And I'm convinced that they do last a really long time--or that they would--if only I would take care of them the way the manufacturer intended. But because I don't, and because I move and misplace them, I have to go back periodically and buy more lifetime-guaranteed brushes.

And so I was standing there, contemplating whether one three-inch brush would be sufficient, or whether I needed to also buy a smaller brush, when a slightly older man approached me and asked me if I knew anything about painting.

"I've done my fair share," I said.

And then he asked for my experienced opinion as regards the best way to paint a popcorn ceiling. I was, of course, happy to oblige. I'm nothing if not free with my opinion.

And as he was thanking me for my helpfulness, he made a throwaway remark about really needing to get this particular chore taken care of, because his wife was going to stay after him until he did.

"You know," he said, "it seems like I nothing I ever do makes her happy."

And something in his voice on that last syllable of happy stopped me. I had been standing there, nodding--smiling and nodding like one does when someone else is remarking on one of life's tiny little truisms.

"That's all a man wants, really. Just to be able to make his woman happy. None of the rest of it matters. Not really."

And that was how we left it--he, wandering off in search of ceiling paint and me, still standing in the paintbrush aisle, wishing someone had thought to tell me sooner.

I don't know how much more I can take. Well, maybe just a little more.

I don't know how it happened.

Good fortune looked around one day last month and decided--right out of the blue--that I was going to be her new best friend.

First, there was the great new job--out by noon every day, an office less than 5 miles away from home, spending all day in the land o' liberals.

But this last thing? This last, best thing absolutely takes my breath away.

They put a Starbucks in the lobby of the university library.

This pic is of the new Starbucks at the Sinclair Community College Library. Trust me, it looks just like ours.

Aw, Crap. I missed National Punctuation Day.

Just think of the mileage I could have gotten out of this one.

courtesy, BB-Blog.

Late. Way late.

My readers are, for whatever reason, probably not all that familiar with the work of David Foster Wallace.

And I wasn't either. More's the pity. After reading today (thanks to John Baker's Blog) an unpublished speech by the late writer on the Guardian Webpage, I'm beginning to wish I had been. Here's the link.

Yeah, I know. But I can't read EVERYTHING. Okay, I can. But not today.

Bag lady.

Are you one of those people who knows just exactly what you want?

If so, then you have my sympathy. We should get together and commiserate. Call me, and I'll buy the first Bloody Mary. Assuming, that is, I can find it in my size and color.

I know--you've heard this complaint from me before. To paraphrase Sally Albright, I just want what I want. (But I'd like the pie heated and I don't want the ice cream on top, I want it on the side, and I'd like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it, if not then no ice cream just whipped cream but only if it's real; if it's out of the can then nothing.)

In this particular instance, what I want is a new handbag. Although my current bag seems--to the casual observer--perfectly serviceable, it has, in fact, developed a couple of tears in the lining. No doubt you have spotted me on campus, one arm elbow-deep in my purse as I search for my (ringing) cellphone. The reason why I am only ever observed digging for--yet never answering--my cellphone, is because it has fallen through the rent in the lining, straight through to China.

I'm missing a lot of calls.

Image, Signs and Wonders' photostream.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

On Sunday, Muffin and I were at that restaurant of dubious cleanliness I told you about--having a couple of eggs, both of us anxious to be out of the house and away from a shin-deep pile of chores that wanted doing.

"Look at that couple," I said, nodding my head in the direction of the front counter.

"Aww," Muffin said. "That's adorable."

She's a pushover for old people pairs, especially when they don't act like they hate each other.

"I think," I said (chew, chew, chew), "that when it's all said and done, that's the only thing I'm gonna regret. Not having someone to grow old with."

"Mom. You can still find somebody. "

"Do you really think so? You don't think I've waited too long?"

"Oh, no," Muffin assured me. "You can still meet someone to be old with. It's definitely not too late."

We watched the couple pay their check and leave, she with her purse in the crook of one arm, he with his hand at the small of her back.

"I mean--you may have to, you know, fix up a little."

Image, Square America.

Ninja Cat.

I saved it for today.

The cherry on top.

You can't tell me that somebody in the Barack Obama camp doesn't have a comprehensive understanding of the challenges faced by women "of a certain age."

I'm ordering mine right this very minute.

Get yours here.

On being the best. At whatever.

I'm reading a little book of essays by Sloane Crosley called, I was Told There'd be Cake.

Even though I'd heard about this book when it came out, I was quite certain at the time that I most certainly did not want to read it. I had made that determination without having seen a copy, read an excerpt, or heard anything at all about the author.

Why?

Because she had given it very possibly the best title ever.

After all, I was going to write a book of humorous essays with the world's best, most clever, title. Given time, I could probably even have come up with this very same one--if Miss Crosley-pants hadn't gotten in such an all-fired hurry. Frankly, I don't understand her rush. I've been studying her picture on the back cover, and I'm fairly certain that I own emergency panties older than she.

You might think that being a writer who reads (or a reader who writes) represents the best of both worlds. You would be wrong. It is the sickest of sick relationships.

And I am trapped, right smack-dab in the middle of it. On page 112, actually.

Despite her youthful appearance, Sloan Crosley is an accomplished writer whose work has appeared in Playboy, Salon, the New York Times, and the Village Voice. I am enjoying her book very much. Because of this, I've decided to settle on another, equally perfect title for my future work. You can read about Sloan and buy her lovely book here.

photo, superbomba's flickr photostream.

I hope this doesn't mean that misery is my muse. I hate that bitch.

You might not remember, but just about this time last year, this space was devoted to my crabbing about the number of items on my publication schedule and the way they were all piled up on top of one another.

Bellyaching about the impossibility of getting something done, I found, was a very good way to get around doing something I didn't particularly want to do.

Then I changed jobs. Suddenly, I have all kinds of free time. As a matter of fact, I now have so little to do that I can't get anything done.

I haven't cleaned house or straightened out the closets. I haven't had the oil changed on the car, or crawled into the backseat to dig out the empty Diet Coke cans that are rolling around in the floorboard. I haven't plucked the extra hairs from my browbone, had the callouses shaved from my heels, or washed all the red items in the bottom of the laundry hamper. I haven't blogged.

But I've been smiling. A lot.

Be fearless.

I wrote that on the board 4 times this past week--one for each of my Composition I classes.

Having just finished reading 96 student essays, I'm wishing now that I had chosen something more traditional with which to send them off to their computers.

You know--something like, "Remember to punctuate."