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."

Dear Ms. Steinem.

I wish I had your email address, so I could send you a personal note and thank you for your column in Thursday's LA Times.

In it, you said just exactly the things I've been struggling to put into words to my friend who is so disappointed that Senator Clinton won't be on the ballot this year, and to those women I know who believe that any woman in office--as long as she is a woman--would be good enough.

If I had your mailing address, I might send a small arrangement of flowers--or at least, a lovely little card imprinted with tasteful blossoms--on which I would write how sorry I was to see that so many people still have not learned to respectfully disagree, and how I wish now that I had signed in and commented in defense of your article.

If I had your phone number, I would call and invite you to lunch, and if you had the time to join me, I would pick up the check as a small measure of my esteem. It might very well be the only time in my life in which I sat quietly and happily listened--for just as long as you would like to talk to me.

Reading the readers' comments section to Thursday's LA Times opinion piece about Sarah Palin by Gloria Steinem very nearly broke my heart, and has done great damage to the hope I've been guardedly cultivating for our future.

Squid in love.

How serendipitous. We were just watching squid on the Disgusting Underwater Creatures Channel the other evening, and then today I found this.

via Why, that's delightful.

¡Feliz día de maíz perro.

My friend Cyndi is another year older today.

She's not a haiku fan--which is probably a good thing, since I seem to have lost the haiku magic.

She's pretty keen on elephants, though. So I went out and shopped for this, just for her.

Acupuntura de Elefante (Elephant Acupuncture) from juliano reina on Vimeo.

Sick of the lying and cheating: Heartbreak on Facebook.

via Passive Aggressive Notes

Did you see it?

History. Right before our very eyes.

photo, Getty Images.

The Winglet, and why---even if they figure out the best use for it---I probably won't be getting one.

Toyota has developed a "personal transport robot," and is currently testing it to determine the best market. It's light enough to carry, has special sensors allowing it to be guided by simply shifting body weight, and features a narrow design--just wide enough to stand upon while still allowing users to share the same sidewalk as the unwingletted population.

Toyota is right this very minute testing the Winglet in airports, resorts, and shopping malls in an effort to pinpoint the best practical application.

Fine.

I predict potential problems for the marketers of this device. Sure, it comes in a jaunty red color and it's shaped sort of like the futuristic razor I use every day, but it's not exactly sexy, is it?

Just ask any woman on the planet. She'll tell you--there's just nothing as becoming to the female physique as standing with your knees pressed tightly together.

And that pinwheel action I'd be doing with my arms? Stunning.

See it in action here.

Talk about getting the cart in front of the cow.

It's hard to learn a new gig--finding your way around, learning the names and chocolate preferences of the most powerful secretaries, remembering that your office is now on the third floor instead of the second, and just generally doing your damnedest not to screw it all up.

I've missed the opportunity to make fun of a lot of good stuff over the last week or so. And usually, I don't really want any after everybody else has taken a bite of it. But I don't think I can resist going back and asking why it would be that the world's scientists are just now noticing that all the cows are pointing in the same direction, as observed on Google Earth.

BBC: Cattle Shown to Align North-South

More Billy Collins. I can't help myself.

It's true. I'm not teaching anything as high-falutin' as literature, but that doesn't mean I don't have a real appreciation for a master of the form. And who knows, any of the fledging writers in one of my five writing classes may someday be the laureate of something.

One can only hope.

Love what you do, and all the world will know.

I simply cannot, no matter how hard I try, picture living in a world in which one has enough time to master something like this. Or get such joy in having done so, for that matter. Write this down: It's important to have goals.

Dedication? They haz it.

I love the smell of freshmen in the morning.

Each of the students sitting in my 8 am class yesterday morning were having their first-ever day at college. Most of them were nervous. A couple were petrified. One was in the wrong place.

I, on the other hand, was exactly where I wanted to be.

Here's a little higher-education video to hold you over until Monday. Happy weekend!

From Prangstgrup.

Nothing washes the taste of bad haiku out of your mouth like a little bit of poet laureate.

I'm losing my mind, trying to get everything ready for classes to start on Thursday. I do promise you a new, original content post--first thing after that drinking and crying jag I'm saving up for.

In the meantime, in honor of Billy Collins, his soon-to-be-released new collection, and my other favorite poet, I offer this:

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
Billy Collins

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

Image, The Emily Dickinson Museum's 2008 season poster, designed by illustrator Penelope Dullaghan and available here.

She might also have danced in a field with a mondo scarf. Nothing would surprise me.

My friend Paulette had a birthday this weekend.

She received wondrous and imaginative gifts, drank copious beverages of the alcoholic variety, and partied like 1999.

She had everything a girl in the blush of youth could desire on her big day--except a haiku.

Because I hadn't written it yet.

Birthday haikus
are too hard to write; next year
you're getting a sonnet.

I'm still waiting for the Haiku police to come and get me. They must be close, now.

image, Mrs. Florence Fleming Noyes in a scarf dance, Library of Congress.

Still reading.

Alice Hoffman. American master of magical realism, some would say.

I wouldn't argue with that.

Indeed, I've been enjoying one of her books so much that I forgot to go to bed last night. I was happily on my way to reading in the new day.

Until page 157.

That was when I realized something that had escaped my notice for 156 pages.

I've already read this book.

Better than the bookmobile.

You might be wondering what I'm doing with all my free time, besides making a spectacle of myself in the supermarket and working my way through college composition textbooks.

Why, I've been reading fiction.

And I've been getting it from paperbackswap, a free on-line book exchange.

This is the easiest way I've ever come across to get your hands on a book. (Not counting my very lucky friend who owns a Kindle, and I can't be trusted with one of those.)

Sign up and enter the ISBNs of 10 books with which you could bear to part. (Well, okay--that part might not have been so easy.) You don't have to look up titles, or authors, or the mailing weight; that's all done automatically when you enter the ISBN.

When someone requests a book that you have, you will receive an email from paperbackswap. Follow the links in the email, click on the button to print out the wrapper (with postage, if you choose), wrap up the book and put it in the mailbox to its happy new owner. You pay the postage on the books going out; someone else pays postage on books coming your way.

You receive 2 credits for signing up, and a credit each time you send out a book. Use your credits to order books for yourself.

image, Candlemas Day by Marianne Stokes, 1901.

Even Stephen King thinks there's something scary about it.

It's a strange and exciting thing to find yourself suddenly in charge of your own activities, smack dab in the middle of the workday.

Yesterday, having decided that some part of that strange feeling might have been attributable to hunger, and because I had no real food in the house, I decided to visit the grocery store. I found that it's a very different place when one isn't competing for the very last rotisserie chicken with all the other people who've just gotten off work.

I spent a great deal less than I usually do--because I am now a modestly-paid state employee, but also because I had the time to make more thoughtful decisions. I even had time for a pleasant conversation with an older, one-legged lady at the corn bin, who told me in a confidential tone that--should I find a tiny worm in one of the ears I was at that moment choosing--it would make very good fish bait.

I filed that little nugget of information away. You know--just in case.

A little while later and several aisles away, as I was comparing the qualities of bow-tie pasta to rotini, and struggling in vain to make a choice based on anything between the two, I felt a tickle along my collarbone--not a wholly unpleasant sensation, when it can be attributed to a tall, muscular man named Guy. But, my well-educated, quick-to-find-the-alarm-button inner voice noted, when there's nobody else in the immediate vicinity, it can really only mean that SOMETHING IS ON YOU! Something has shimmied up out of that straight-from-the-field corn and onto your arm and is now CRAWLING ON YOUR NAKED NECK! RED ALERT! RED ALERT!

I can only say that I hope no one saw me.

Image, Akash Kataruka.

Fancy footwork.

Not too long ago, Muffin Uptown and I were watching some very talented people tripping the light fantastic on television.

"I wish I knew how to tap dance," she said.

"You could learn," I said. "You should take lessons."

"Yeah. Maybe. Probably not, though."

And that's all there was to that; nobody said anything funny. But I got the distinct impression that MU thinks that ship has sailed--that it's just too late for her to learn to dance.

22-year-olds are like that, sometimes. She'll probably change her mind. We all know boatloads of 44-year-olds who've decided to change ships in mid-stream. Sometimes, they just hike up their skirts and wade for the banks.

Which is an apt description for what I've decided to do.

I am leaving the fast-paced and exciting life of a busy and important publishing professional to stroll down the ivy-laden halls of higher learning. Very soon, instead of dripping crunchy and delicious taco juice onto painstakingly crafted editorial copy, I will instead by crying over hundreds of student-generated essays that were quite possibly stolen from the internets.

That's 125 students, one essay every other week, for 16 weeks. Will somebody who knows how to do math send me an email telling me how long I can expect to last?

image, Jack Delano. Library of Congress, Tap dancing class in the gymnasium at Iowa State College, Ames, Iowa.

I know some of you might be wondering if I will miss the director gig. See this and this.

It's like the universe is aligned in a desire to make me happy.

I am an astoundingly simple girl. Truly, it doesn't take more than a nap, a Diet Coke, and the wonder of the internet to make me glad to be alive.

So you can imagine my delight on Saturday afternoon when, having just awakened from a particularly long and rejuvenating couch snooze, and while sipping a cold and frosty Diet Coke from a fresh bendy-straw, I saw this on the intertubes.

Thank you, internets.

The West coast. As far away as you can get without leaving the continent.

From Muffin's travel diary:



I wish I'd known. I would've fed-exed her a box of Shredded Wheat.

Serendipitous, that's what that is.

I was just sitting here, wishing I had a story to tell that made someone else look silly, and just about thiiisss far from giving into the temptation to make up lies and falsehoods against people who love, respect, and trust me.

Suddenly, out of the blue and into my inbox, I get an email notifying me that the new Obama Paper Dolls are ready!

These, my friend, beat the tired old stuffing out of a boring, everybody-has-one campaign yard sign! And you may have mad spray-painting skills, but you can't make a sign big and ugly enough to be cooler than these. No way.

I'm torn between wanting to get them for everyone I know or buying a set just for me--I sort of want to be the only person in the world who has them.

These collectible paper doll sets feature realistically rendered paper dolls of Senator John McCain and Senator Barack Obama, their wives, plus casual and formal outfits they wore during the campaign. Each paper doll set includes a brief biography, descriptive notes, and a bonus Election Night Scorecard.

Oh alright, already. Buy yours here.

Chris Ware for This American Life.

From the second season of the television show. Very fun, especially if you remember the original story from the radio. Who knew comics were so powerful?



Watch for the cartoon-y Ira Glass. I love him even in block form.

animation by John Kuramoto.

Just an update. Because I really do have some very important stuff to do.

Having experienced everything California has to offer--Disneyland, Venice Beach, Hollywood, Comic Con, and an earthquake--Muffin Uptown has returned home and is, at this very moment, on my couch and working her way through my TiVo library. I've been sitting and watching, waiting for her to do or say something I should blog about.

Nothing yet.

She looks pretty content, right where she is. Even though it's not obvious to the casual observer, I'm sure that while she's watching Project Runway, she's also thinking about finding a job for a couple of semesters to sock some money away toward the ultra expensive grad school she's chosen.

You might wonder what one with a BFA in Fine Art does to make a living--even for a semester or two.

So are we.

Please send your suggestions. She should be finished watching TV by Thursday.

image, cyclesidecar.com

Advice for the Antiquated.

Back when I was around 11- or 12-years' old, I had a book titled, 1001 Tips for Teens. Written by Paul Steiner and published in 1968, it was "a fabulous bonanza of cool, kooky, far-out, and foolproof ideas." I can't remember a single tip from the book, but I do remember feeling especially empowered by the sheer act of having it tucked among my belongings. I have no doubt that having access to this book at such a young age contributed to my later coolness quotient.

So today, in honor of Mr. Steiner and his fabulous bonanza and directly from my personal arsenal, I offer the following *Timely Tips for Tottering old Toots:

If--like me--you sometimes have difficulty seeing things that are far away, as well as things that are right up close, you might be having problems reading your favorite blogs. If middle-aged myopia is your cross to bear, try this trick: Press the control key while rolling the wheel of your mouse toward you. This quickly and instantly increases the size of the text on the monitor.

Since you last pulled away from the pump, have you forgotten on which side of the car your gas tank is located? With a 50/50 chance of being correct, you could just take a wild guess. Or, like Oprah, you could trust your intuition. Instead, why not simply look at the fuel indicator on the dashboard for a seemingly random arrow. Surprise! This arrow is pointed to the side of your car on which your bottomless gas hole lives.

It can be frustrating to wade your way through computer generated voice prompts, especially if you're trying to get a real person on the horn at Alltel. Before you initiate that potentially soul-numbing telephone call, visit the Gethuman website and find out what magic numbers you need to get somebody with a pulse on the line. www.gethuman.com

If your bender-over is out of whack, you know how quickly those uncollected grocery store circulars can pile up in your driveway and front yard. (Personally, I've never understood why it is considered acceptable to litter someone's lawn as long as the trash in question is securely fastened with a rubber band.) Contact the circulation department of your local paper and ask to be placed on their "do not throw" list. They are almost always in cahoots with the store to make your life messy.

*Also considered: Advice for the Ancient, Suggestions for the Superannuated, Insights for the Infirm, Hints for the Hoary, and Notions for the Not-Long-for-This-World.

Under the global influence.

My friend Tawana called late Wednesday night.

"Well, I've made up my mind. I'm going to go European."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Yup. Everybody's doing it."

"I dunno. I can see just pulling the weeds, but I don't know about, well, mowing everything down."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to buy a bike to ride to work."

"Oh. I thought you were going to shave something."

Picture,1920s, originally taken from Flickr, now released in the public domain. Caged from Wikipedia Commons.

Just one more thing that's no fun now that I know better.

Tanya, a beautiful young Gypsy girl, was swaying in a provocative, sensual dance before Nikki’s sprawled form. One of his hands lightly held a small flask of brandy on his powerful chest. The other hand, lying carelessly on the chair arm, would occasionally move listlessly to the nearby table and turn over another card in the game of solitaire he was indifferently and infrequently pursuing while regarding Tanya, who skillfully undulated to the wild, frenzied tempo. Through narrowed tawny eyes, Nikki watched her tantalize him. Her graceful young body, half revealed in a scanty blouse and silken skirt, twirled close, then retreated, displaying a wanton invitation from brilliant dark eyes. The firelight caught the coruscation of golden highlights from the heavy hoops in her ears and from the multitude of sparkling necklaces twined round her slender neck and swaying against her trembling half-naked breasts.

I should be embarrassed to admit how many of these I must have read when I was in High School. In my defense, everyone else was reading them, too--even some of the boys. These books were a pretty hot commodity; they were thick and throbbing with salaciousness and we passed them from hand to hand until the covers were torn away and the pages just barely hanging from the binding. You knew you'd been passed a really good read when someone handed you a copy held together purely by the grace of a wide rubber band.

It occurred to me today that--armed with a graduate degree in English and hard-won appreciation of quality literature--I couldn't find a book that gave me that much enjoyment if my livelihood depended on it.

I'm needing a good read in the very worst way. Send me your recommendations. If you include a review, I'll publish it for all the world to see.

Well, I hope somebody's working on it.

My friend Tawana called last night with another idea for us to make millions upon millions of dollars. I can't tell you about it, though. She was still a little sketchy on the details.

She'll work it out; she always does. Why, we could buy and sell every one of you with all the great ideas she's had for making us rich.

In all the years she's been conjuring these things up, she's never yet called to say,"I'm about to make a billion bucks. I'll invite you to up to see the palace after I get settled."

She makes sure that I'm always part of the plan. And it's great to have a friend who wants to include you in her good fortune--except for the fact that good fortune isn't high on my list of gotta-haves these days.

What I could really use right now is a fast and painless way to get my old ass back.

Even in the flush of youth, I never had a back end that could stop traffic--but I could certainly prop open a door with it. Now, it's mainly only good for causing my pants to hang funny, and for making my feet fall asleep after I sit for too long. Take it from me--when your fundament is all stretched out of shape, nothing fits right--not even the chair. Being able to sit in my favorite chair without my toes turning purple would make me much happier than a big pile of money.

If Tawana could come up with a way for me to get my 1987 caboose back, I would pay her the million dollars.

image, vintage pulchritude.

Hold on a second while I flex my executive function muscles.

I don't know if it filtered down through your news reader last week, but some people are talking about a Scientific American article that seems to be making a case for eschewing decision making altogether.

That might be a bit of an oversimplification on my part; everyone knows that I'm not very good at science. According to my read on the article, though, every decision one makes--whether it's deciding between two flavors of ice cream or determining whether or not to sign the papers on that monster truck--uses up that person's decision-making capabilities for a period of time. The brain gets all tuckered out and has to have a bit of a rest before it can be counted on to make good choices again. Unfortunately, the article doesn't really get into specifics as to how long your picker-outer will be out of order.

Since most of my decisions are of the eeny-meeny-miny-moe variety, I'm guessing that this phenomenon doesn't really apply to me. In fact, it is entirely possible that I am the only one working in my building who still has full possession of her entire range of decision-making capabilities.

Obviously, it's time to have that chat with my boss about my salary.


image, Bobtail Ice Cream.

It's Shark Week. Again.

Saturday Night Live - Season 1 - Land Shark

It's the 20th annual Shark Week over on Discovery Channel. It's all there--shark attacks, shark attack survivors, shark jobs, and shark sex. Obviously, the full range of sharkiness is unknowable.

I'll bet you wish you'd thought to bring a magazine.

You've
been
waiting
patiently,
and
I
thank
you.

Posting
resumes
Monday.

Image, The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

It's like a metaphor, see? Because after a while, it's not about Matt anymore.

Everybody knows, I'm a crusty old cynic. But I'm not dead. There are still some things that inexplicably make me go all mushy inside--like cats who run and cry at the same time (meow-wow-wow-wow-wow), spontaneous standing ovations, the last scene of You've Got Mail, and Veterans' Day parades.

So yeah, I know--we've all seen Matt, wherever the hell he is. But this?

This is lovely.

My favorite moment comes at 2:37.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Making time.

It's the working women's creed. You hear and read it everywhere--the admonition that, no matter how long the list of things you must do for the other people in your life (your boss, your kids, your husband), it's important to remember to take time for yourself.

This must rank as one of the top five things every grown woman has to learn to do. How else to explain the inclusion of this tiny, four-word mandate in every Website, television network, and print publication devoted to women's interests? And Oprah? Girl, you know Oprah is all about finding time for herself.

And I am, too. In fact, making time for myself is one of the ways I ended up with pants I can't fasten.

I've noticed, though, that when the experts are talking, making time for one's self almost always translates into, "do something about the size of that gigantic ass," or "enrich your mushy mind." Read a book, take a class, join the gym or take up Yoga. They never say anything about piling up on the couch with a huge bowl of Orville Redenbacher Buttered Popcorn in front of a Tori and Dean marathon. I've never seen, "sleep all day Saturday," or "drink lunch Mojitos until you're too stupid to go back to work" as any of the suggested ways to carve a little time for yourself out of your busy day.

Why is that, do you suppose?

Do we imagine that we'll be able to lay around in our pajamas all day after the kids are grown and out of the house? Are we waiting for retirement to take up drinking in the afternoon? I've given this a lot of thought, and I've determined that if I'm ever going to give myself over to sloth and overindulgence, I'd best do it before someone else has power of attorney.

And you should too. Go ahead. Have yourself a little 508 calorie mocha latte. Eat a whole pie for lunch. Sleep all weekend in the clothes you wore to work on Friday.

You deserve it. And in a few more years, nobody's going to let you. They're going to want you to go to water aerobics class.

Oh and one more thing.

If you're waiting for the traffic to die down enough for you to get to see the first installment of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog--well, don't.

Wait, that is.

You can download it from iTunes. Best couple dollars you'll spend today.

Especially for Muffin Uptown.

the one that i like best from Jessica Bigarel on Vimeo.

Why have a blog at all--if not to send extra-secret messages to extra-special people who are being missed an extra-awful lot?

Why indeed?

It's all in the planning.

Here's what I've learned from having a high-pressure, do-or-die career in the fast lane: you gotta have a plan. When thinking of my plan, I like to think of it as (you guessed it), Plan A. This is because there must be a way to differentiate the main plan from the auxiliary back-up contingency plan that you will almost certainly also need.

This plan, I most generally designate as Plan B.

On Saturday, however, I had no plan at all. I rolled around on my couch all day under Friday's hair, wearing Friday night's pajamas, watching movies on the intertubes and eating whatever I could find in my kitchen that didn't require the use of a pan, plate, or utensils. By the time I crawled into bed at 3 am on Sunday morning, I realized that unless I meant to show up at work on Monday covered in bedsores, it would be a good idea to hatch myself one of those plans.

And that was the situation on Sunday morning, when I loaded my iPod with Moth podcasts, put on my first pair of shorts for the summer, and somehow managed to find and squeeze my way into a sports bra. I put on my walking shoes, loaded my pockets with cell phone, nasal spray, and house key, and poked my puny pony-tail through the back of my cap. With remarkably little fanfare, Plan A was thus initiated.

I reasoned that if I could walk as far away from my house as half an hour would get me, by the time I turned around and made it back home, I would have traversed roughly three miles. Although I could have gotten a more precise measurement of the distance by driving the route by car first, this would have required an additional level of planning to the planning of my plan.

As I locked the front door, I had it in mind that I would listen to two moth podcasts before turning around. These podcasts usually last between 10 and 15 minutes each, so the combined total for two episodes would be close enough to half an hour for my purposes. I would be so engrossed in the hilarity coming from my earbuds that the mile and a half would seem to fly from beneath my feet, and being completely engrossed in the podcast would keep me from looking at my watch every four minutes or so. Because really--when was the last time you saw a dedicated runner or walker checking his or her watch?

As you can no doubt see, I had planned it all very carefully.

Twelve minutes into my walk, just as the first Moth podcast was ending, I realized that I really, really needed to pee. Unbelievably--even though I am a woman of a certain age whose bladder fills to bursting about twice every hour--I had neglected to take the idiosyncrasies of my middle-aged internal organs into consideration while developing my plan.

Alas, short of squatting behind a tree, I had no choice but to proceed as planned. So, I clenched my teeth (and other things) and continued my trek away from home. Moth podcast two began. Not very long into this podcast, I was becoming aware of developing blisters on each of my feet. By now, two unforeseen complications had arisen that were seriously threatening the successful completion of Plan A.

This might be a good place to tell you that I didn't choose the secluded streets of my immediate neighborhood for my walk--because I had in mind that I wanted a real sidewalk beneath me, I walked a block up from the house to one of the more heavily traveled main roads on my side of town. And so, at 9:40 am on Sunday morning, one-fourth of the town's church-going population was zinging past me at speeds that made me frightened for life and limb--even from my position in the center of the sidewalk. Although it did not feel as though it offered much in the realm of safety, my position on this sidewalk did afford fortunate passers-by with a keen view of me as I limped, shuffled, and scuttled in the opposite direction of my home, my band-aids, and my bathroom. By then, I could no more have told you what I was listening to on my iPod than I could have taken wing and flown my way back home.

Not quite fourteen minutes had elapsed since I had left my front stoop.

Despite all my careful planning, my walk was not turning out the way I had hoped. Less than half an hour from home, and I was on the Bataan Death March. Drawing on all my many years' experience in situational evaluation and subsequent decision-making, I chose to then institute the all-important Plan B: Turn around and get my ass back to the house before one of my feet fell off or I peed in my pants.

I'm happy to report to you now that I do still have both feet.

photo, Old Pictures.com

About The Moth Podcast: "The Moth, a not-for-profit storytelling organization, was founded in New York in 1997 by poet and novelist George Dawes Green, who wanted to recreate in New York the feeling of sultry summer evenings on his native St. Simon's Island, Georgia, where he and a small circle of friends would gather to spin spellbinding tales on his friend Wanda's porch." Listen here.

Just because I can't play, doesn't mean you shouldn't have fun.

I've got some very important, can't-be-mangled-by-anyone-else -but-me stuff going on at the office, so I don't have time to make up lies about the people I know today.

I did enjoy this story that someone else made the time to tell, though. It concerns the fact that Walmart has changed their logo, for the first time in 16 years. Please note: Mr. Constant occasionally curses in print.

Paul Constant's Slog article.

Well, thanks a lot, TCM.

The NPR affiliate in my part of the world carries KCRW's The Treatment. I like it a lot. Elvis Mitchell is so smart; he's forgotten more things about movies and popular culture than I will ever know. This doesn't represent a huge self-disclosure on my part. Mitchell's on NPR, I'm an NPR junkie, and anyone who cares enough to think about it for a second could deduce that I am, therefore, a big-ole Mitchell fan.

But what you might not know about me is that I don't like my intellectual programming mixing it up. I don't want the juice from my radio green peas running into and interfering with the taste of my television potatoes. It makes me uncomfortable when NPR fraternizes with CBS. Radio is for listening. I don't need to know that Michael Feldman looks like the guy who lives next door to me and sits in his driveway every afternoon in a folding lawn chair. I enjoyed Garrison Keillor's writing much more when he looked like the picture in my head, instead of--well--Garrison Keillor. And I don't care how much you beg, I'm not looking at pictures of Nina Totenberg or Michelle Norris. Just put those away, you sick bastard.

And just so you know--I'm not the first person who has written of this. Lots of us don't want a good look at the people we depend on to tell us what we think of each day's pressing issues and news-worthy events. Most of the time, this is not a problem. Until everybody else discovered Ira Glass and David Sedaris, you pretty much had to go to NPR to find them.

But Elvis Mitchell represented something more to me. Listening to his voice--marveling at all the knowledge this young man seemed to have right there at his fingertips--for years, Mitchell filled me with hope for the future of humankind. I was no longer overcome with dismay when I considered the rapid aging and decline of our country's cultural scholars. Why worry? When this batch of smart folks done shuffled off this mortal coil, Elvis Mitchell will still be here. He'll help see to the perpetuation of rational thought for the new times.

And then on Sunday, I caught him (and all his gray hair) on his new show on TCM.

Turns out the dude is a year older than I am.

Do-gooder. Or just do better.

I spent a bit of time in self-reflection this past weekend. And by a bit, I mean a precious little--just about the time it takes to find my way home in Saturday afternoon traffic from the grocery store.

"Why is it," I wondered, "that I'm only able to use my compulsive powers for evil--never for good?"

Later, as I was squeezing 24-count cartons of Diet Coke under the bed and behind the couch, I realized that I had never once brought home more fresh vegetables than I had room for. Once opened, I can't walk away from a bag of candy, but I've never walked around the block and then felt compelled to walk two or three more miles. I sometimes sleep so late on Saturday that I awake all worn out and have to take a nap before I can face getting dressed, but I've never worked so hard during the day that my drowsy thoughts on the pillow are, "Wow. Can't wait to do that again."

And those are the more innocuous examples. My immoderation with regard to the sin-tax vices are greater than a normal person would judge as--well, normal.

It's true what they say--anything in excess can be a bad thing. But when the thing in which you are intemperate isn't that great for you in the first place, it becomes a problem. And let's face it, if the things that were good for you felt or tasted as wonderful as the things that would kill you, most of us would live forever.

Well, maybe one more.

It was a dilemma--should I just give up my calorie- and fat-laden Starbucks Mocha cold turkey, or indulge in one more for the road? After all, I hadn't said a proper good-bye to my Barista, Nichole. After seeing me every workday morning for so long, she might really worry that something had happened to me. I could imagine her, truly frantic by 7:30. "Where's my regular Venti Mocha?" she might ask. Really, the last thing I wanted to do was to cause undue alarm.

But Nichole had the day off, it seems, because an adorable young man took my last coffee order. Like all the very best Baristas, he was warm and friendly, making eye contact and making sure I didn't need a scone or muffin to round out my coffee experience.

And me? I was all sweet and flirty--jacking up my dimples and asking him if he was aware that he looked just like John Mayer. After all, I could afford to be expansive. I was getting my coffee that day. My inevitable misery would be postponed for another morning. My motto: Not now? Not a problem.

It wasn't until I was well on my way--half my delicious, rejuvenating, and extremely satisfying (last) coffee gone, gone, gone--that I spared a thought for the poor kid.

When I was 20, if some old poop who was twice my age had said to me, "You know, you look just like Cyndy Lauper" (or someone else from my generation the old creep had no business knowing anything about), I would barely have been able to wait until he was out of earshot to say, "Ewwww." (Actually, back then I would have said, "Gross," but it's the same general idea.)

But if he had said instead, "You look just like Julie London," I would have said to myself, "Aw! That sweet old guy has me mixed up with somebody from back in olden times!"

And then I would have thought, "Who the hell is Julie London?"

It's a national holiday, y'all.

Enjoy your picnic/fish fry/cook out. Get up from the computer, go out in the stinky heat, and spend some time with people you like.

See you on Monday.

Why I'm cross and inattentive this morning. More so than usual, I mean.

I had a checkup a couple weeks ago. As it turns out, all those orange circus peanuts, potato chips, and peanut M&Ms I've been eating at my desk are not as low fat as I had assumed. That--right there--is why I don't cotton to going to the doctor.

The fact that I've been wearing my slacks unbuttoned should have given me fair warning. There's just nothing quite like stepping up on the scale, however, and watching the nurse slide the balance even further to the right to bring home the significance of all your bad habits.

But none of this hurts as bad as discovering yesterday that Venti Mochas--my whole incentive to get out of the house and on the road to work every morning--contain 508 calories and 27 fat grams. I mean, really! I had no idea that that a little chocolate syrup, whole milk, and whipped cream could wreak such havoc.

I'm heartbroken.

A million little pieces to fact check.

I guess I'm a little out of touch, because I only just heard about the scrutiny being given to David Sedaris' stories. Last year, Alex Heard got a bee in his bonnet and wrote a piece for the New Republic that got some people all worked up about whether or not Sedaris' autobiographical stories are factual enough to be considered proper nonfiction. Now that Sedaris has a new book out, it's all being recycled into the intertubular conversation. (I'm not linking to it. Google it yourself, if you just have to know.)

But that's how it is. Once burned, twice shy. Reporter Stephen Glass was fired for making stuff up under the guise of investigative journalism. Janet Cooke's fake Washington Post story won a Pulitzer. (Oh sure. Make up one 8-year-old heroin addict, and ruin things for everyone else.) And then, of course, James Frey had the temerity to go and lie to Oprah, of all people.

And you know what? I don't care. You can shelve a Sedaris book anywhere in the store you like. Prop him up right next to the Garfield and Family Circus books, for all I care. Just let me know where you decide, so I can find him when I have my book money on me. Speaking as a reader, David Sedaris' books are as factual as I need them to be.

And as a writer--well, I wouldn't satisfy Alex Heard, either. Word up--I lie all the time. Just ask any of the people I've written about.

Oprah can just deal with it.

Not there yet.

I didn't set out to make it so, but all this bellyaching about my age has become a part of my shtick.

Listen. Truth be told, I'm not that old. Despite the gray hair in my eyebrows, I still can't get a discount on my meals or movie admission. I don't own a single pair of SAS shoes, and I can't get anybody interested in the idea of me going home and drawing a check from social security instead of working my ass into the ground everyday.

But really. I would have thought that by now I would be finished with the trials and tribulations of the inglorious pimple. Can somebody, anybody, tell me--how grown up do you have to be? I'm beginning to wonder if anyone ever outlives the occasional outbreak. Will I eventually reach the point when my shopping list includes denture adhesive, adult diapers, and benzoyl peroxide?

It's embarrassing. When I was 13, it didn't bother me a bit to stand in line to buy tampons--not even if the checkout guy was smokin' hot. But try standing in the aisle alongside a couple teenagers, trying to read the back of the Oxy5 tube under florescent lighting through your bifocals. It takes me forever to decide what product to buy. I typically go through three sets of teenagers on an average buy.

The rest of the world must really think that people my age don't get pimples anymore. Because of this, sometimes I just pretend that something else entirely is going on. "This giant thing on the side of my nose? It's a spider bite! Yeah, I know--the doctor says I may need some corrective surgery. She says those tiny brown ones can be the most dangerous. I'm just glad my nose didn't fall off!"

All this work, just because I've got big pores. You can see how it all just makes me feel older than ever. The face wash, the astringent, the medicated makeup. The lies.

God willing, some day I really will be old. I'll stay home all day. I'll sweep my porch every morning. I'll plant plastic flowers in the yard, and I'll cut the toes out of my tennis shoes. I'll crochet granny square purses and hats for my grandchildren, who will not wear them.

When I really am an old lady, I probably won't wear purple, and unless someone pokes me in my ribs with a gun, I won't be wearing a red hat. But when I get an enormous pimple on my face, I will be wearing a Band-Aid, and don't you dare say a thing about it.