Really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree. Oh, Mama wait--ain't you got no tree without the plastic bag action?

I always thought of myself as a conscientious consumer. I recycle. I reuse.

And I was feeling pretty good about my plastic bag practices: I've found that they're good for cat box duties, and I've used them for years when I color my hair. (There's nothing in this world more attractive than a woman with a plastic bag wrapped 'round her head and clipped in place with a clothes pin.) I sometimes tote my lunch to work in a plastic bag, and after I've finished, hand them over to one of my writers, who then uses them when she walks her dogs.

Yup, I was pretty much feeling like a part of the global village. Until I read some of the stats. Thanks a lot, Al.

Plastic bags are cheaper to manufacture and way easier to tote than the old brown paper bag. So much so, in fact, that they're everywhere. People who make it their business to tally such things have estimated that the world uses roughly 1 million plastic bags per minute. A great many people use these bags once and then toss them into the landfills, where they photodegrade--break down into smaller toxic bits--and are then absorbed into our food chain. And then there are the millions that end up in the litter stream outside the landfills (National Geographic News), where they are tantalizingly appetizing to certain animals and virtually all the world's trees. So, even if you're reusing your bags, they still stand a very real chance of ending up someplace they don't belong.

The solution? Reuse, recycle, and rethink. I'm going to have to cut back on my bag habit. So, I'll be buying one of those adorable reusable bags to bring things home and tote things back.

I'm not sure yet what I'm going to wrap my head in, but I'll come up with something.

Use those plastic bags to knit a reusable bag
Save a tree or two. Get yourself a bag snagger.
Shop for reuseable bags and read statistics to make you want one.

photo, reusablebags.com

In which you get to see the reason for all the hoopla.

The Tattoo Tee Podcast




Here it is--several hours before the official release. I just couldn't wait to scoop myself.

If you really dig Kerry Politzer's song (and why wouldn't you?) you can get her new album over at Amazon. Buy the book, too, while you're there.

I'm going to stop talking now so you can watch it two or three times.

Watch the larger file (better quality) on YouTube.

Slippage.

There's no shortage of things I can think of to worry about. I can obsess over whether or not I remembered to pay the bills this pay period (a worthy worry, as it turns out) or whether I have--as I realized upon awakening today--scheduled myself to be in two places at one time. I worry about the bald spot that I know is developing on the back of my head due to the viciousness of my car's headrest and whether I will be the first to notice or will instead receive an anonymous email one day at the office. Some days, I fret over whether or not my pores really are as large and cavernous as they appear to me to be in the mirror.

Whatever else may be missing, I have a rich and fulfilling fretting life.

But this past Saturday, I found a grocery receipt in my purse for a bill of items that I don't remember buying. Most were things I haven't bought in years (High C Fruit Drink, baby wash and no-more-tears shampoo). I can't stop trying to figure out how this receipt happened to be in my pocketbook. Have I slipped so much that I am now buying items that I don't remember needing (and can find no evidence of in my house), or worse--do I have some sort of psychological larcenous obsession that is causing me to steal other people's grocery receipts? More alarming still--who rooted through their pocketbook this past Saturday and found the receipt for the sofa I purchased for a photo shoot (and am now needing in order to process my reimbursement)?

There's probably an entire tribe of us out there--confused, not-so-middle-aged women wandering the streets of the city, ardently searching for our grocery receipts, misplaced hairs, and concealer sticks. Please, if you spot one, send her home.

We are probably looking for her.

photo, Jan Willem Stad

Thanks for waiting.

My best laid plan done gone awry.

Please check back later for today's post.







photo, Nick Cowie

You call this workin?

Last Sunday, I and a small crew filmed a new podcast for Tattoo Tees, a collection of iron-on designs we put together to make any t-shirt your new favorite. In an attempt to break from the ordinary, we decided to make this one a music video.

And wouldn't you knock me in the head right now if you could have my job?

We're in post-production and you'll be able to see the finished product on the website by Monday; it'll hit You Tube and iTunes right after that. I thought you might enjoy a peek at some behind-the-scenes shots.

It's hard to go wrong when you've got such talented and good looking actors touting your wares. This is Talley Gale and Dustin Curry (above left). You might want to make a note that you saw them here first, before they were all rich and famous. (And have you ever seen so many dimples in one shot?)

Working on the technical stuff: Lloyd Litsey (left) checks the previous shot. Clint Hansen (right) zooms in on Talley's good side.

Tattoo Tees
Item Number 4516
10.95
ISBN 1601407661
48 pages

Yup, you can buy it now.

The Malus domestica is here! (are here?)

Or the Honeycrisp, as you may know it. Or maybe you don't. I hadn't heard of it myself until last year. But now that I have, don't even threaten me with any of those ordinary, run-of-the-mill apples. This apple is crispier, sweeter, and more beautiful than even the apples you remember from your childhood.

And you can only get it from September to February! If I had known that after first discovering these apples it last winter, I might have hoarded a few bushels. Instead, they disappeared from the shelves without warning. I had eaten my last one without knowing it. I hate it when that happens. Poor little vitamin-deficient Muffin Uptown has been practically pining away for want of just one more, singularly perfect apple.

And then, suddenly last week--there they were, and I was Navin Johnson on phone book day. I think the National Association of Apple People must be owing me a commission, I've been so strident about insisting that all my friends and coworkers try this fruit. I just can't help it. Next year, and the year after, and every year after that, when you truck home your first sack of the season of beautiful and delicious Honeycrisp, you'll say to yourself, "I'm so glad Jane told me about these apples. Reading her blog has really enriched my life." Or something like that.

When you write to thank me, just address your message to Jane Appleseed.

photo, Arjun Kartha

Not now. Maybe later. Or not.

As many of you know, I've been practicing my procrastination technique. As a result, I've become so adept at the art of putting off for later that which really should be taken taken care of right now, that this month, my local utility company very nearly shut off my power for my trouble. Once you reach the point where you are receiving threats in the mail, you can safely assume that your practice has made perfect; you have attained procrastination nirvana.

As an inarguable expert in the field, I've compiled a list of the five main types of procrastination tactic. You may do whatever you wish with this list, or you may do nothing at all and thus practice your own fledgling procrastination skills. I myself am using the act of compiling this list as a means to avoid doing something else that I would rather not do.

I am calling this list the Jane Hierarchy of Not Now.

1. This other thing is much more urgent and so must be taken care of to the exclusion of damn near everything else. This is a very large and self-perpetuating category and is often the result of days or weeks of perfect procrastination of virtually all the tasks on your to-do list. Items that had previously been assigned low priority (such as my electric bill), are very often suddenly catapulted to this urgent status. The very nature of a good procrastination technique virtually assures that there will always be at least one item ready to accelerate to this status just when least expected. If your technique is really accomplished, items falling into this category may even require a personal or vacation day to resolve.

2. I just can’t deal with this crap now. Very similar to #1, but without the sense of urgency a shut-off notice produces.

3. I work so hard, no one could begrudge me one tiny little four-hour nap. Also known as the entitlement, or poor-me defense. One may also use this tactic to defend a day-long CSI marathon, 2 or more hours watching You Tube videos of singing, talking, or dancing cats and dogs, or surfing the web looking for naked pictures of Ira Glass. For the most part, pretty much any otherwise un-justifiable activity will work here--anything at all to keep your mind off that task you need to do but would really, really rather not.

4. Oh, baby, I’m so tired. Plans made at 5:00 pm become progressively less important as the evening wears on. Thus, by 11:00, virtually everything shifts to this category. In an average week, this tactic very often results in my being late for work, since so many of the tasks I meant to accomplish the evening before were shifted at the last moment until early the next morning. Caution: By week's end, this practice may result in the falling into bed while still in one's clothes phenomenon.

5. I don't want to. This is procrastination in its purest form, without all the bells and whistles, and is also known as the Obstinacy Defense. My brother, when practicing this form of procrastination, announces his intent with, "I'm a grown man..." Alternatively, my friend Tawana prefers, "I'm not eating those eggs." I have been known to steal either phrase when deciding to not decide.

And there you have it. Those are, essentially, the main forms of procrastination available to you. If you find that you're having difficulty deciding on a form, don't fret. Just wait for another, more urgent time to think about it. That almost always works for me.


photo,© Jenny Rollo

Knitting for Noggins.

Not my noggin, obviously. Anyone looking at this picture can plainly see that this activity is definitely not doing my noggin a bit of good.

Just for the record, this is me trying to coax my stitches onto the wrong needle--something my friend Mary tells me I must do to perfect the i-cord. At least that's what she says. Now that I've seen the picture, I think this was a conspiracy hatched up to capture me on film in my natural state--all knotted up and confused. (Do you think I should be concerned that the photographer of this shot is my boss?) The i-cord should have given me some clue, now that I think about it--it sounds like something you have to pull to make your chute open so you don't get CSI'ed all over the pavement.

Although Cheryl over at Material World loves to dis her own knitting, she doesn't have a clue when it comes to cluelessness. I happen to have it on good authority that she actually completed an article of clothing that a human being (albeit a tiny one) can actually wear. I, on the other hand specialize in pushing the yarn around until it looks like something that's ready to rip out again. I don't like to brag, but I have completed hundreds of ripped out projects, each one more ripped out than the one before.

Okay, enough of this foolishness. Get your hook or your needle and help us whip up 30,000 hats for Arkansas Children's Hospital by October by October 14. All the really cool busy and important publishing professionals are doing it.

photo, Susan Sullivan

What I'm missing.

It's not unusual to miss a couple of fun things when my plate gets too full, but I'm sorta chapped about missing this one.

My friends Deborah and David are playing tonight at one of our old haunts. With my other friends. Without me.*

My good friend John sent the picture so I would know that they missed me, too.

Wish it had sound.

*Like you care. But now I have proof that I actually do know real people who are walking around out there in the real world. At least, that's what they email me.

Ooh look--another reason to get all pissy on the drive in to work.

I’ve encountered an unforeseen and nettlesome problem with my new car--or more specifically, the upholstery of my new car.

The headrest is plucking the hairs out of my head as I roll down the highway. I’ve never even heard of this problem before.

Granted, if I hadn’t been so cheap and had sprung for the fancy leather upholstery, I would be blogging about something else right now. But I also would have been forced to take better care of the car.

Why, I don’t even have leather on my living room furniture.

For the longest time, I was waiting for Muffin Uptown to grow up–just until the age when she was no longer spring boarding from across the room before falling onto the furniture. She’s 21 years old now, but she still launches herself into low orbit before coming down for emergency landing on the couch. I’m probably not going to be comfortable with the idea of leather furniture until she’s leaning on a walker and is physically unable to accomplish lift-off.

Once again I’ve digressed all over the place. The real issue isn’t the leather furniture I don’t have, it’s the hairs I did have until a couple of hours ago and that are now poking up out of the upholstery of my car. By month end, the front seat is going to look like the Jungle Room at Graceland.

There are really only two things that provoke my ire: having my hair plucked and my teeth poked--both, unfortunately--necessary torture if I am to appear well-groomed. I can control my temper as long as these operations are being performed by properly trained and licensed professionals. But having my hairs arbitrarily and unexpectedly yanked out by the root as I speed along highway 10 is making me quite fractious. By the time I arrive at my destination, all I really want to do is hurt somebody the way I've been hurt.

It's a vicious cycle.

photo, Michael Mardahl

A three-legged dog walks into a saloon and says, "I'm lookin' for the man what shot my paw."

I guess my Karma will never recover, but I just can't help myself.

I will now be referring to the three legged dog who lives next door to me as the one-eyed, three legged dog.

Every time I see him, he's missing another part. One more surgery and he will qualify for a handicapped parking sticker.

I have several friends who will be weeping by now--their ego boundaries are so thin that the story of any animal in pain hurts their hearts. But I am happy to report that the one-eyed, three-legged dog does not seem to be in any sort of pain. In fact, when Tawana, Carol, and I ran into him right before his unfortunate de-peepering--even though he looked like that part of CSI from which I must always peek through my fingers--he seemed quite happy and upbeat (notwithstanding his obvious embarrassment at having been caught wearing the dreaded plastic Elizabethan collar).

He's a very nice dog and a pretty good neighbor, as far as the four-legged variety go. But I'm afraid I am going to have to insist that he stay in his own yard, from now on.

At least as long as bits of him keep falling off.

The war on crack.

Once again, my home state has done me proud. Yesterday, a council member of the great city of Pine Bluff withdrew his proposal for a ban against baggy pants when it became obvious he was going to have to wear that stupid idea all by his lonesome.

Apparently, we don't cotton to having to look at other folks' cotton undies down here in the South: Florida, Texas, and Virginia state lawmakers all entertained the idea of a ban against "sagging," but ultimately thought better of it. Dallas and Atlanta are still thinking it over, and--no surprise, several Louisiana towns already have their ordinances on the books (because you know that's got to be that state's most pressing concern right now).

Notwithstanding that such an ordinance has to be constitutionally unsupportable, or that it is obviously another thinly-veiled attempt to legalize racial profiling (see bell hooks' fascinating thoughts on the attire of young urban black men), just who the heck do these council members and legislators think is going to enforce such a law--the trouser police? The pants po-po have been after me for years, and let me tell you, they are fairly easily eluded. If I had to pay a fine every time my breeches were poorly fitted, I wouldn't be able to afford the self-same very expensive, albeit unflattering, designer pants.

If it's just absolutely necessary that we legislate the way we wear our clothing, maybe our lawmakers could be convinced to concentrate on forcing men over 22 years' old wear their shirts in public, even when--especially when jogging on a public thoroughfare?

That's a law I could really get behind.

Since it's October, it must be time for a few words about Christmas.

I find it incredibly ironic that any woman who is so discomfited by Christmas should find herself working at the one place in the world--other than Santa's workshop--where it's Christmas every single day of the live-long year.

I don't have a problem with the idea of a Christmas holiday on general principle, although I do think that me and mine could do with one less societal-endorsed reason to buy more crap.

And I have to say that if Christmas is something you really feel you absolutely must have, my company does it better than anyone. Virtually everyone who works there loves-loves-loves the holidays. But when the Christmas balls come out and the rosy-cheeked, turtle-necked models begin roaming the halls, I start looking for something to hide behind.

This is because when I was growing up, the advent of any major holiday meant that somebody was going to the emergency room. Or jail. Sometimes, my family made deposits in both facilities. Like every other family, we had holiday traditions: start drinking; raise hell; call the law; go in for stitches, when appropriate.

The first two weeks I was married, every time my new husband removed his belt and the buckle rattled, I peed my pants. At my first Thanksgiving dinner with the in-laws, my father-in-law reached for the mashed potatoes and I ducked. It took a lot of years' reconditioning to be able to tolerate the holidays without major pharmaceuticals.

That's pretty much all behind me now. These days, I just suffer a feeling of general unease that begins around Halloween and lasts through the New Year. It's been decades since the police have come to dinner, and the only time I have to go to the emergency room these days is when I topple over in my walker and break one of my brittle old bones.

And nobody in my family raises hell and puts a block under it for Christmas anymore.

Saturday under the Big Top.

Because I have so many things to do today, and because one of the items on my list is the grading 25 personal response essays, I decided that I first needed to upload three new pod casts.

Procrastination. How you gonna perfect it if you never practice?

It's another birthday post!

But it's a really important one.

I had all sorts of pictures to thrill him with, but I couldn't figure out a way to do that and not bore the hair off people who don't really know either one of us. If I'm going to be running off readers, I want it to be because I said something shocking.

So. Happy Birthday to my baby brother, the guy who pummelled me every day until I moved away from home. I bet you still fight like a girl.

I wish I could see you and torment you every day. Have a birthday corn dog on me.

Photos, clockwise from top: Butch at four, with his mother, Helen Gurley Brown; At three, already trying to start something--you can plainly see that his butt cheek is on my side; Easy Rider Butch; Miami Vice Butch; Butch with his trusty chihuahua caddy (and very possibly the reason for his golf score).

Faster than a speeding ovum.

People who know me (even a little bit), know that I have a tendency to say even those things that would be better left unsaid. But in my own defense, you should know that I almost never let things fall out that are patently unkind.

Lately, though, I've noticed a decrease in my already weakened censoring abilities. I have on occasion been actually thinking the words, "Don't say it," even as the offending tidbit was rolling off my tongue. It doesn't help that most of my unfiltered comments are directed at people who have no first-hand experience with the menopausal phenomenon. The victims of my faux pas are so obviously taken aback that they may as well just say the words, "crazy old lady," and be done with it.

My friend Tawana is having a difficult time of it as well, but she seems to believe that the breakdown of her heretofore fully-functioning filtering device has endowed her with special menopausal powers.

Apparently, she's become indestructible.

This month alone she has *(1) blatantly defied an airline attendant's direct order, (2) behaved obstinately in response to a traffic cop's instructions, (3) ridiculed a stranger (to his face) about the condition of his unmatched socks, and (4) berated the checkout clerk at the grocery store for never-ever saying "thank you" at the conclusion of their transactions. I'll give you a moment to ponder the irony of this last example.

If I had tried any of the above, I would be escorted off the plane, carried away to jail, cursed, and asked to leave without my Diet Cokes.

Because you just can't pull that crap down here--special powers or no. If a flight attendant instructs you to close up your cell phone, you might buy some time with, "No thank you, I don't believe I care to," but you will do it, and be damn glad for the opportunity. Don't let the corn-pone accent fool you--folks around here just don't truck with any of that Northern sassiness.

Tawana's a transplant, so she knows this stuff. But she's allowed herself to forget, and has lost sight of the fact that you have to use the power of the dying ovum for good--never evil. Consequently, every time she comes home, I stay worried to death for her. I just don't think it's truly dawned on her that her special powers won't work here on her home planet of Kryptonite. One of these trips back, her old dried-up-Miss-Haversham eggs are going to get her into real trouble.

It's just a matter of time before someone wraps her up in her own cape and Billy Joe McAllisters her right off the I-40 Bridge. And I'm going to be powerless to do a thing about it.

photo, Laura Kennedy

*I will not be describing the conversation that took place on Wednesday between Tawana and a coworker when the latter made the unfortunate decision to park in Tawana's parking space because I love Tawana and don't want you to think she's an ass.

When knowing too many lesbians is a liability.

During conversation the other day, I made a comment about someone being "a sister."

Among my lesbian friends, "family," means that you belong to the family of gay culture. Thus, a sister is code for lesbian. Why I felt it relevant to point this out in conversation is lost to history, but I believe making the distinction must have been pertinent to the conversation, since I am not in the habit of outing my friends and acquaintances.

However, the aforementioned comment about my friend, the sister, was met with a cold stare from my conversational partner.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But what does your friend being African American have to do with anything?"

Sometimes, I wish the stuff I made up was this good.

photo, Neke Moor

Why practice doesn't necessarily always make perfect.

I recently discovered New York Public Radio's Radio Lab. Last week, while trying to catch up on all the episodes I'd missed, I heard (what was to me) an absolutely amazing fact.

But first (and the reason you need to know this will become apparent), I want to tell you that I earned a solid A in both Biology and Bio Lab. I was able to do so by virtue of the world's most primo set of flash cards--a full 8 1/2 inch stack of the most comprehensive cards ever compiled for Kirkpatrick's Biology course. I spent at least as much time during the semester creating these cards as I did studying them. This stack of cards was so perfect, in fact, that I was able to dine out on the price they fetched for the entirety of the following semester. For all I know, they are still in circulation. As I said, they were guaranteed grade-A flash cards.

The problem with flash cards, though, is that the information comes in, takes a look around, sees that there's nobody else there worth being seen with, and then vamooses. No sign that it's ever even been there--no forgotten pair of sunglasses, no wet ring on the coffee table, no lipstick-stained cigarette butt in the ashtray. Pooft. So, virtually every bit of information I memorized for that class is long gone. You'd never even know I had taken a biology course, much less aced it. Which explains how I was able to be amazed by a fact I had apparently already learned.

Did you know that every man passes on to his male child an exact copy of his Y chromosome? That child then passes on the exact copy to his male child, and so on. So that, over the course of a thousand years, that same Y chromosome gets passed down through the generations, and unless a mutation occurs, all the male descendants possess an exact copy of Big Daddy's original Y chromosome?

This totally and completely blows my mind. I can't even get my hair to do the same thing two days in a row. And as for my progeny--most of the time she's trying to figure out which shopping mall I stole her from.

So way to go, men. Way to pass down your essence through the centuries. Now if I could just have a program please, so I can tell which of you are part of the same bloodline.

I think I may have finally figured out why I keep marrying the same men, over and over again.

photo, Jean Scheijen.

Excuse me. Are you going to keep that?

I'm not really into things. You might not know that to look at me or my home, since I have so many of them, but I'm not attached to them in any real, sentimental way. I'm just incredibly apathetic and don't want to deal with getting rid of them.

The one positive step I've taken in the past 6 months toward freeing myself from the shackles of over-ownership has been to issue a self-imposed moratorium on the purchasing of new stuff--notwithstanding the bloodthirsty feather pillows I purchased last month and their down-alternative replacements I bought on Saturday. And the new car I bought two weeks ago. And the--well, crap. Never mind.

But mostly, I've just been bringing stuff home that has a limited half-life. Paper towels. Hair creme. Diet Cokes. I don't need to haul anything else into the house that will ultimately represent another decision I have to make. When I'm sick of it, or when it doesn't work like it should, or when it's used up, I don't want to have to look at it and wonder, "What do I do with this now?" I know how to deal with an empty dental-floss container. I don't know what to do with the five throw-pillows that no longer go with my swanky decor, the George Foreman grill I never use, 300+ audio cassettes from the eighties, and every bank statement I've ever received.

If I can't pick it up and deal with it while on autopilot, I just truck it out to the garage. This solution works fine for me as long as I don't have to put my car away. If I ever have to hide my ride from an ex-husband or the repo man, I'm going to be out of luck.

So I've decided that what I really need to do is "work a trade."

When I was a child, the men in my family would loll about on the porch while the women prepared the big holiday or Sunday meal. Once or twice a year, the opportunity presented itself for one or more of them to work just such a trade. By the time the food was on the table, my mother might discover that my father had traded her favorite end-table for a coon dog, or that she was now the lucky owner of a new (to her) horse-head-sized, acorn-shaped ashtray in exchange for the ladder she thought important to the repainting of the house but to which my father objected just on general principle. (I was never clear if it was the ladder or the painting assignment to which he objected.)

The result of all this trading was that none of us was ever sure just what we owned outright. My brother and I took to parking our bikes at the neighbor's house, just in case my dad decided they were worth more in trade than in keeping us out of his hair. You may not be in a position to remember this, but a kid in the seventies without a bike had absolutely no street cred whatsoever.

Anyway, I happen to know Tawana owns a painting that Carol absolutely abhors and an almost-empty garage. So I'm getting Carol on the phone right this second, and by the time Tawana reads this post, it will be too late. I'll have a mediocre painting I can hide behind a door, and Tawana can figure out what to do with twenty-seven years of bank statements.

And therein lies the beauty of "working a trade."

photo, Andrew Beierle

Please don't tie up the phone. I'm expecting a call from AARP asking me to function as their spokesperson any moment now.

Well, here's something brand new to worry about.

Did you know you can do something in your sleep and wake up the next morning looking like one of the zombies from Night of the Living Dead?

It's true.

This morning, my right eye is bright red and filled with blood--and yet, I've suffered no trauma. As far as I can tell, I haven't yet had the stroke I keep threatening my writers with. And that aneurysm I've been expecting--the sudden pain in my frontal lobe that causes me to grab at my noggin and fall motionless to the floor--well, so far, that's just a dazzling, future opportunity.

According to the interwebs (my first source of information when yet another something new and frightening has just happened to my body), you can blow the blood vessels in your eye with a minor cough or sneeze. Just like that.

Now I don't just have to concern myself with the possibility of strangling on my own spit as I sleep and peeing the bed, I can stay awake nights wondering if a little bit of cat dander (or one of those marauding, killer, pillow feathers) is going to trigger a sneeze and blow my peepers right out of my head.

It just keeps getting better and better.

Nowhere is safe.

A friend's daughter--a perfectly lovely and attractive person by anyone's measure--was standing in front of one of the campus buildings last weekend, waiting for her professor. This seems to me to be quite an honorable thing for a young person to be doing on a Sunday afternoon, and one would think, karmacally safe.

Suddenly, a car rounds the corner, driving much too fast. As it passes, an unknown female voice shouts, "You fat, stupid cow!" and the car speeds away.

My friend's daughter looks around, completely stunned, and I assume, praying that at least one other person is standing nearby so she can reassure herself that the insult was intended for someone else. It's already splashed up all over her; the most she can hope for at this point is a possible alternative target for the malicious stranger.

Unfortunately, the only other person in sight is a young man, leaning against the building and smoking a cigarette. She looks at him and he looks at her--for what feels like a very long time.

"Man, that's harsh," he finally says.

Another attempt to get by with something less than original content.

Because I've been suffering from the world's worst case of poor time management, and what I most wanted in the whole world last night was to lay down in my bed at a time that would help ensure that the first words out of my mouth this morning weren't "Good Lord, is that the time?"

And what do you care where it came from, as long as it's funny?

Originally published in McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

STORIES THAT WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT DIFFERENTLY IF THE PROTAGONISTS HAD HAD CELL PHONES BY PETER NORVIG

Hi, it's Patsy.
I went out walkin'
After midnight
Out in the moonlight
Just like we used to do.
I'm always walkin'
After midnight
Searchin' for you.
Yeah ... Uh-huh...
OK, I'll meet you there.
Bye.

- - - -

ESTRAGON: You're sure it was this evening?
VLADIMIR: What?
ESTRAGON: That we were to wait.
VLADIMIR: He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think.
ESTRAGON: You think.
VLADIMIR: I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, which are bursting with miscellaneous rubbish.) What'll we do?
(Beeping sound as ESTRAGON dials number.)
VOICE OF RECORDING ON PHONE: You've reached the number for Mr. Godot. Mr. Godot told me to tell you he won't come this evening but surely will tomorrow.
ESTRAGON: Well, shall we go?
VLADIMIR: Yes, let's go.

- - - -

ROMEO:
News from Verona!
How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady?
Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet?
That I ask again,
For nothing can be ill if she be well.

BALTHASAR:
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault
And presently took post to tell it you.
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

ROMEO:
Is it e'en so?
Then I defy you, stars!
But soft! What SMS through yonder RAZR breaks?

SMS ON ROMEO'S PHONE:
i'm ok --
poison fake
rofl
cul8r
:-*

Fightin' words.

In my minimal study of sociology in college, I learned that naming is power, and that one definitely wants to be them what is doing the naming, as opposed to them what's being named.

And, if I may mix my behavioral sciences a bit, that's pretty much the psychology behind the talky-types like me who just can't leave the subject of menopause alone.

I may not be able to control it, but I can sure as hell call it out into the street for a rumble.

photo, Deon Staffelbach

Testing, one, two, three.

No doubt you are all expecting new content, as well you should. It's Monday morning, after all.

And while I do have new and exciting posts in the works, I'm afraid that I spent the bulk of my time this weekend recording and mixing the new podcasts. So much time, in fact, that my home office looks like something Phil Spector just stepped out of on his way to pick up more vodka.

It's littered with empty booze bottles, half-smoked reefers and the crushed butts of unfiltered cigarettes. I just sent a half-dressed groupie out for coffee, and as soon as she returns, I'm going to start another mix. This is the most fun I've had in months.

I've recorded podcasts for selected posts from the archives, and you can find them with their associated posts and below. Eventually, you'll also be able to download them from itunes, but first they have to go through their review process. I'll let you let you know when that's a go.

So for now, this is all you get. If you've got comments, let me have 'em. Obviously, I'm fearless.

photo, David Lok

The extremely righteous music on these podcasts is a remix of Feel My Pain Miss Jane--words, music, production, and performance by David Henderson.

Hear a podcast of # 98, Just wrong. In so many ways (from 9/12/07):

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Hear a podcast of #88, Poke a stick in that puppy and give it to me to go (from 8/ 30/07):

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Hear a podcast of # 5, Six Little Words (from 5/27/07):

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Oh, the technology.

Beginning Monday, September 17, you can download audio podcasts of your favorite posts. Download when you visit mundanejane, or subscribe via itunes. Now you can hear the voice behind the blog.

Don't even pretend you aren't curious.









Photo by Georgios Wollbrecht

100 posts in. It's too late to back out now.

"You know, you really should have a blog."

A lot of people are kicking themselves about now.

If any of them had known, not a one would have been so encouraging. And yet, each and every one of them insisted, at least before the fact, that I really should have a blog.

You just can't please some people.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I've been insufferable--taking notes during everyday conversation ("Hold on a sec. Can you spell that?"), or calling Tawana or Muffin Uptown to ask again what was that that extremely funny thing they said yesterday. An awful lot of the conversations I'm having lately seem to begin with the words, "Listen, you can't blog this..." And my poor mother--I would feel bad for her if she didn't represent some of my best material.

Then there's the lying and the stealing. Wait, I think I meant to call that the creative license necessary to make for a better story and the cultivation of ideas from my blogging friends. Yeah, that sounds better.

The other busy and important publishing professionals stay quite simply scared to death. They never know what I'm subject to say when we're sharing a conference table and am sitting close enough for any one of them to reach over and thump me in my head for my trouble. All the many things I might type into my computer at night to splash all over them out on the world wide webs keeps most of them afraid to boot up their computers in the morning.

All of you, just relax. You just have to assume that if I haven't ruined your reputation, embarrassed you into hiding, or published your bank account or social security numbers over the course of 100 posts, you're probably safe.

Unless you think your social security number might get a laugh? Wait a minute, I may know how to write that...

Photo by www.anna-OM-line.com

I think I'm ready to be taken back to my room now.

I bet you were worried I'd fallen victim to another nefarious wiener on a stick. I thought I had already posted for the day, but as it turns out, I hadn't even written the thing.

You'd think that, having bought a singularly orange car, I could easily pick said car from among the hundreds of other cars spread all around the Target parking lot. Probably so, were I not looking up and down the rows for the gold car I used to drive.

I won't be sharing with you how long I searched before I remembered.

photo, Emma Baxter

Just wrong. In so many ways.

Okay, I wasn't going to, because it just seemed too easy. But the more I thought about it, the less able I was to walk away. So if you have a problem with a cheap shot every now and then, take it up with the management.

I know you heard about this. A 53-year-old Colorado man has come down with a rare form of lung disease that his doctors think was caused by eating butter-flavored microwave popcorn every day for over a decade. As a matter of fact, this man so loved his popcorn that he sometimes prepared and ate it twice a day. Apparently, he contracted the disease because it was his habit to open the bag and deeply inhale the faux buttery smell wafting out the top (which just so happened to also contain some sort of particulate matter that, as it turns out, really should not be inhaled).

Yeah, yeah, yeah--you already know that I don't need yet another thing that's going to give me cancer just because it tastes great and I don't know nothing about no self control. But you can get that story anywhere. You didn't come here for that.

Here's the thing I can't stop thinking about. Every single day for 10 years this guy's wife is watching him get up from the couch and meander his way into the kitchen to pop up some corn. He probably even says something exactly like that on his way there. "Well. I think I'll just pop me some corn." Although he may say it like it just then occurred to him, he says it exactly the same way, every single day. Because when you're living with someone, eventually you notice that they have a tendency to do the same things, over and over again.

She watches as he takes the package out of the wrapper, punches open the microwave, squints at the bag for a really long time to be sure that he's reading the This Side Up properly, sets it into the oven, and then jabs COOK-3-0-0-START. He's doing it and she's watching him do it at least once, sometimes twice, every single live-long day.

When the popping stops, he opens the bag and puts his nose down into all that third-degree-quality, pseudo-butter-smelling steam that's pouring up out the top. Each. And. Every. Time. And maybe he's scalded the brains right out of his frontal lobe a couple of times, but by the time he's popping again, he's forgotten, and so he just keeps right on poking his naked nose right down into that bag. His wife may have even said on occasion, "You know, that can't be good for you."

What she's not saying, but is almost certainly thinking by about the twenty-second thousandth time she's seen him do this, is that she's going to either by-God kill him dead or die herself if she has to watch this whole process go down even one more time.

Because that's just how it is when you're living with someone.

photo, Leonardo Morales

Hear a podcast of this post:



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The extremely righteous music on this podcast is a remix of Feel My Pain Miss Jane, words, music, production, and performance by David Henderson.

CityWendy, where you been all my life?

I read an awful lot of blogs. I read craft blogs to see what's cool and who's found an easier way to do it (and to see if I can talk them into letting me publish their book); I read design blogs just because they make me happy; I read the shopping blogs because there's just too much stuff to find it all myself, and I read the cleverly-written blogs because they are so cleverly-written.

I keep track of the blogs I'm following with as much dedication as I do most things. Which is to say, if I sleep on the wrong side of my face, I may wake up the next day having forgotten that I had ever seen a particular blog in the first place. And then it's gone forever.

Most of the other busy and important publishing professionals I know also look at a lot of blogs. And everybody wants to be the one who finds the next big thing. I'm no exception. I'm all about hogging a little glory, no matter how petty and insignificant.

But my friend Mary has a sixth sense about these things. As soon as I lose track of a blog, that blogger will do something so incredible that it results in the interweb version of "Stop the presses!" And that's when Mary will send me a link with "Have you seen this?" in the subject line.

When she does this, I just want to wrestle her to the ground and say, "I. found. it. first."

But I don't. They frown on that kind of thing where I work (and Mary would get really bent out of shape).

So. That's my big buildup to encourage you to read ohmythatsawesome if you haven't already. The girls who write it are clever all the time, and fall-in-the-floor-and-flop funny sometimes. And so far, I've been able to remember that they have one of my favorite blogs.

And Mary, I found 'em first.

Oh yes, I see what you mean. I suppose I could have just had the air conditioning fixed.

I was going to elaborate on my new car buying experience, back before I was sidetracked by an unanticipated trip to hell and back.

I have a friend who buys a new car every couple of years; she starts researching in the Spring, and then, right before the new models come out in the Fall, she has her car detailed and heads over to the dealership to negotiate a really smart trade.

I, on the other hand, simply wait until somebody points out that my tires are going bald. Someone will have to call this to my attention though, because unless something is demanding to be fed, petted, or paid, I can't be bothered. And anybody knows that it's way more fun to buy a new car than a new set of tires. Or to have the air conditioning serviced.

So once I've decided to buy a new car, I usually just pull into the first lot I pass on my way home from work. I will stop to grab the maps, emergency tampons, and CDs from the glovebox, but other than that, they take possession of the car in its functioning condition. In other words, I let them deal with the empty Diet Coke bottles and Hostess Cupcake packages rolling around in the back. And on the passenger side floorboard. And in the trunk.

As someone who loves being the center of attention, I know that nothing gets folks' attention like a business transaction in the thousands of dollars. There's no competing with that easy, back-and-forth banter that happens when one person knows the other is about to make them a lot of money. I knew I could pretty much count on getting to a quick first-name basis with a perfectly dressed, perfect stranger, provided I was willing to give him a copy of my driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance. Which, it so happens, I most certainly was.

But oh, but what an unfulfilling major-purchase experience I had. Perhaps my salesperson should give up his career in the car business and go back to college. True, he did make the sale, but you should know that I was pretty much prepared to make a deal with a monkey, provided he had the keys and was authorized to give the go for a test drive. But this guy? He totally ruined the very best part of the whole process.

He Ma'amed all the flirt right out of me.

A trio of birthday haiku for The Boy. Because when is one haiku ever sufficient?

A birthday haiku
will have to do until the
mailman brings your gift.

21 years' old
what an excellent reason
to walk to the bar.

Pure grain alcohol
and a birthday pinata
aren't a good combo.

photo, C. Glass

Sometimes, all you have to do is ask.

You might remember this whiny post from July, in which I bemoaned the fact that I just couldn't seem find the things I thought I really needed, even though I had the money to buy them and the fortitude to search high and low for them all over the interweb. (And thanks, by the way, to those of you who wanted me to hush badly enough to send me your suggestions.)

And then I found this comment from BJ Leiderman on the dirtyfrenchnovel blog (relax; it isn't):

Hi All,

BJ Leiderman, public radio theme composer here. Interesting you mention ringtones, because I have been planning on releasing my first ringtone package for a while now.

If you are interested in new, original ringtones for Marketplace, Morning Edition, Weekend Edition, and Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me!, and you think others will also be interested too, would you please email me through my website: http://www.bjleiderman.com/

Many thanks for listening,

BJ

Coincidence? I don't think so.

photo, Vjeran Lisjak

Oh, the irony.

Oh yes, there's irony, but there's heartbreak, also. Witness:

On Monday, I bought a new car.

On Monday night, I ate something evil.

On Tuesday, I threw up in my new car.

On Wednesday, I prayed for death.

The culprit? A corn dog.

Thanks for waiting.

I'll try to be back tomorrow.








photo, Nick Cowie

How to get asked to leave the National Organization of Women.

There's really only one time when I actually miss having a man in the house. Well, actually there are two, but I'm not doing that here.

I've been needing a new car, but the unexpected death of my air conditioning forced my hand. I had hoped to wait until I'd had a little time to research my choices, but on the way home from work on Thursday, my head burst into flames. I'm not sure anyone will notice my new look, except that without the eyebrows, it's more difficult to communicate just how confused I am about whatever the hell it is they are talking about. And in business, you know, it really is all about communication.

If there had been a man who was convenient to call, I would have phoned one up this weekend to accompany me to the car lot. I fully expect the NOW people to demand their membership card back since I've said that out loud, but it does seem to me that after all these years of giving them my money, they could have at least sponsored some sort of legislation that would enable me to walk into a car dealearship without automatically loosing 15 IQ points.

A girl with burnt hair, no eyebrows, and no ride doesn't really have the 15 points to spare.

photo, Constantin Jurcut

Wanna see your name in print?

The Design Department at Leisure Arts is kicking off a new Christmas book series, and nothing and no one is safe until they settle on a plan of attack. I know I don't come off as a woman who is easily intimidated, but truly, these people scare me to death.

I went to fetch a Diet Coke from the machine on Friday afternoon and by the time I had returned, one of the designers had fashioned a Christmas card holder from my new Coach handbag. It's very cleverly done, and I'm sure will come in quite handy when all those season's greetings come pouring in, but now I don't have anywhere to carry my keys.

Fortunately, they've asked for my help finding people with Christmas ideas. This would be a good time to come to my rescue while also getting your name and idea published. There's no compensation if your idea is chosen, but you will get published credit, and then you'll be famous. Sort of.

Take a minute to consider the questions below and email your responses to one or more of them to me at mundanejane@gmail.com.

1. What are some of your family’s most memorable holiday traditions or activities?

2. What tips do you have to share about preparing for the Christmas holidays that help make them less stressful?

3. What is your favorite “must-have” holiday recipe that you prepare for your family or that you make for neighbors and friends as a gift?

4. What are some quick changes you make inside your home that help create a holiday feel?

5. What unique decorations do you enjoy displaying or making during Christmas?

6. What was the most memorable holiday party or gathering you ever attended?

7. Do you have any organizational tips for putting your Christmas items away?

Be sure and include your full name and the city and state in which you live in your email--just in case your contribution is chosen. Once you hit the send button, you're giving us permission to publish your idea if we like it, so be careful. You know what they say about fame.