Every bit as glorious as I remember.

I haven't written anything hilarious or moving for you to read today because my creative juices are blocked. And I have no one but myself to blame.

Not long ago, an acquaintance asked if I would be game to attend a mock prom as his date. And although I can't be sure, here's what I think may have happened next.

I heard the word "date," and associated it with "dinner"--the extra special kind that I don't have to cook or pay for, and that's when I said, "Sure. I'm up for that."

What was I thinking?

I've had a chance to eat since then, and so the idea of a free meal has lost some of its appeal. In fact, having had time for some clear-headed reflection, I can see now that this may very well be the stupidest thing I've done all year.

It's my teen nightmare come true--it's time for the big dance, and I don't have anything to wear.

Six months ago, I had several of Muffin Uptown's old prom dresses, a couple of bridesmaid's dresses, and an incredibly trashy rhinestone getup that I once wore to sing with the ATU jazz band. But part of the big move was to divest myself of things I would never, ever need again, and so it all went into the donation bin.

And it must have been pretty good stuff, because it's gone already. In fact, it looks as though all the middle-aged sized teenagers have already done their resale prom shopping; there's just nothing left.

But that's not the only problem. Because my skin heard me say "prom," it immediately began production on a yes-I-know-we-just-had-menopause-but-I'm-not-done-with-you-yet pimple, conveniently and prominently located directly between my eyes. It's going to be huge and unattractive by Saturday, and I know this because it has sent out a press release. This Saturday, I'm virtually guaranteed to be the only inappropriately-dressed, 49-year-old woman at the prom with a big Cyclops pimple on her head.

Who knows if the possibilities for disaster end there? Even if I could manage everything else, the fact remains that I don't know this guy very well. This could be one of those Charlie Brown situations--you know what I'm talking about--where you're counting on him having all the information, but then you show up and find that it's some sort of serious thing that requires actual couture and an updo? I just can't get away from this nagging feeling that it's only Nancy Allen and a bucket of pig's blood away from full-out disaster.

So that's why I can't blog today. I gotta find a way out of this mess, and I need to do it now, while he still has time to find another date.

And before he picks up the corsage.

Image, Square America.

Repeat after me.

"Everything is going to be okay."

When I have particularly anxious students (or formerly, technical writers), I ask them to put their hands over their hearts and say this, or something like this. Sometimes I also tell them to close their eyes, or to take three deep breaths, but the magic words are the same. I can tell that this makes them feel silly and self-conscious, but they do it anyway. Mostly because they trust me, but also because they are the teensiest bit afraid of me.

Lately, I seem to be administering this exercise more and more, and not just for my students.

There are a lot of freaked-out people walking around these days. And I'm not except. Back during Christmas break, when I was wrestling my Christmas tree into submission, I noticed that I was way more anxious than could be accounted for by merely a morass of malfunctioning Christmas lights. That was when I realized that Katie Couric was on the television in the background, doing her damnedest to convince me that the sky was falling.

The news is no better four months later. For a lot of people, the handbasket is nearer its eventual destination now than it was back in December. A slide show on the NYT Web page on Sunday damn near put me into a funk.

So I have to keep reminding myself--at least for me and mine--the challenges thus far have been overcomeable. I'm focusing on that. You'll have to do what you have to do to make your peace with "these uncertain times."

But maybe if you start with, "everything is going to be okay."

Image, New York Public Library Digital Gallery.

Where have you been all my life?

I'm sure Amazon thinks I'm breaking up with them, since they haven't heard anything from me since Christmas. In terms of self control, I think that this may represent a personal best.

But I was there on Saturday, ordering a copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and as long as I was in the neighborhood, I decided to throw caution to the wind and blow a couple of those dollars I'd been saving on Stephen King's Kindle novella, Ur.

The price was far less than I would've spent on a mocha latte, if I weren't also breaking up with Starbucks. And even though I don't own a Kindle, the title downloaded instantly to the Kindle application I have on my iTouch. I didn't have to synch the iPod, or make a wish and blow out the candle, or chant, "Mecca-lecca hi, mecca hiney ho."

One minute it wasn't there, and the next it was.

When I opened up the app and saw the title, a little shiver went straight down my spine. Who thought of this? The person who came up with this idea is the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. This person knows what I need to be truly happy and fulfilled.

Friends who own a Kindle tell me that reading on the iTouch can't possibly compare with the Kindle reading experience; because the Kindle screen is larger and isn't backlit, it feels more like reading off the page and less like reading a computer screen. That's okay.

I couldn't stand for it to be any better than this.

Today's post was written while listening to 1974's Virtuoso by Joe Pass.

How a college degree can go so terribly wrong.

Two things you should know about me:

(1) I drink a lot of Diet Cokes, and
(2) I don't like to pay full price for anything.

In fact, I may very well be the most carbonated cheapskate on the planet.

So, when heading to the settlement for supplies, I like to have a plan. Since I am going to need to restock soon, I took a break from grading papers Saturday to peruse the Kroger circular. I know from experience that big-meal holiday weekends are the best time for getting the most bang from your Diet Coke dollar.

Sure enough, Kroger had Diet Coke on sale in all its incarnations. But I got all waylaid when I stopped to consider, which was the better deal?

First, some calculations:

There are 12 ounces of Diet Coke in one can and 33.8 fluid ounces in a liter. Thus, in a 2 liter bottle there are (33.8 x 2) 67.6 fluid ounces. 67.6 fluid ounces / 12 ounces per can = 5.63 cans of soda in one 2 litter bottle.

Diet Coke 12-packs are on sale at 3/$11.00, which is $3.66 for a 12 pack, less my $1.00 coupon/2. If I use my coupons to buy the canned Diet Cokes, I will pay $1.33 per 6-pk.

The 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke (5.63 cans) are on sale for 4/$5.00, and I have no coupon for those, which means that I will pay 1.25 per 5.63 cans'-worth if I buy the 2-liter size.

And this is as far as my liberal arts degree will take me. I can't figure out if that final .37 can's worth of diet coke is worth the 8 cents' difference. I need someone with a Ph.D. in economics to get on the horn and tell me whether I should buy the 2-liter bottles or the 12-pk cartons.

And as long as I am soliciting opinions, can someone shed some light on why I should feel compelled to split hairs over 8 cents that I would not even go to the trouble of fishing out the bottom of a handbag before donating it to Goodwill? It is this very compulsion--to shave minute units of measure off an already-negligible difference--that has prompted Muffin Uptown to ban me from ever asking, "what's quickest way to get there?"

Which becomes all the more imponderable if you happen to know that I made my new-car choice based on the color the dealer had in stock at the time.

Serendipitous postscript: Chocolate bunnies are 25% off.

Incredibly cruel postscript: More than one person has since asked me, "Did you not know that price-per-unit info is posted there on the shelf?"

Image, Chicstories.

Doctor my eyes.

I'm told that there's some sort of crisis in the housing market. You'd never believe it if you happened to be sitting as I am now--looking out one of my upstairs' windows, directly into a big-ass picture window situated over what will somebody be my neighbor's bathtub.

They are building a monster house on the lot directly behind my place, and it's as big as a Safeway store.

When I moved here in January, I had the movers place my desk directly in front of the window. The cat can sit on the desk and dream of the birds, and I can take advantage of the view and the morning sun.

As you might expect, it's distracting as hell.

But not distracting in a good sort of way, like it might be if I were looking out the window and daydreaming up the plot of my next big novel (you probably missed my first, small novel). This distraction wears dew rags, flannel shirts, and steel-toed boots. I can't get any writing done, because I'm too busy watching today's episode of Knots Landing: The Construction.

There are burly workers all over my backyard, y'all.

I doubt you would hear me complaining if the construction crew in question looked like the guy in the old Diet Coke ad, or--I don't know--your typical firefighters, say. If they looked more like Bob the Builder--even that might be an improvement.

They certainly aren't eye candy, but they are entertaining. They bicker like old ladies. They loll about on one side of the house while the supervisor is on the other. They make unnecessary trips, carrying practically nothing and then turn around and make the same trip all over again. They do dangerous, careless things that make me stand up and say "Watch it!"

Yesterday, one didn't show up for work, and I found myself wondering what had happened to him.

I watch them and I think about stories of pushed-back completion dates and slightly-less-than-perfect construction standards, and I say to myself, "Well, no wonder." And then I stop to consider the fact that they will--in spite of themselves--eventually finish the job. What am I supposed to do for entertainment, then?

But then I remember that gigantic picture window over the bathtub.

Today's post was written while listening to Jackson Browne's 1977 album Running on Empty.

Image, Square America.

Some people get it. Some never will.

I share an office with three men.

It's pretty much everything you would expect it to be. They're messy and strew their stuff all over the place. They're big, and they take up a lot of space. They seem to think that if they don't answer the telephone, I will do it (I won't). And they ask me a lot of "What do you think?" questions--seeing as I'm the only present representative of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

It's probably not for everyone, but having come from a company that didn't even employ enough men to keep the spiders stomped out, I gotta say--I like it.

In the course of I'd-rather-talk-to-you-about-anything-rather-than-grade-these-papers conversation the other day, I found myself speaking on the subject of the different men I had dated. I wasn't the only one who was sharing, but I was the only one whose remembrances did not include the words "crazy psycho chick." I'm not entirely sure how the subject came up, but I'm fairly certain that I didn't initiate the exchange. I find that I don't have to start a lot of the conversations that happen in that office; I just sit back and ride that day's current topic.

They're men, y'all. They like doing the driving.

I have a couple interesting dating stories. But I was feeling nostalgic that day, and so I told them about a musician I had dated, and the incredibly romantic, put-me-in-his-pocket thing he did on our very first date. I guess I expected that they would be happy to hear--directly from the horse's mouth--what constitutes romance on the planet Venus.

We'd met at the restaurant, and walking me out afterward, he stopped at his car, reached in, and took out his accordion.

"An accordion! You mean--like a SQUEEZE BOX?"

"In his car? He just carries an accordion around with him in his car?"

Like--for accordion emergencies?"

Having been around musicians most of my adult life, I gotta say that it wouldn't surprise me to find one with a tuba in his sock. In my experience, musicians don't like to get too far away from their instruments. And really, if you had a magic something that would make you appear talented, sensitive, and desirable--all at first glance--would you leave home without it?

He took out the accordion, and there--in the all-but-deserted parking lot--began to play "My Funny Valentine."

"So, did it have a polka beat?"

"Oomp-pa-pa, oomp-pa-pa!"

And there, I gave up the ghost. No way was I going to tell these guys about how beautiful the music sounded, bouncing off the buildings and with the sounds of the city all around. They weren't going to understand how movie-perfect the moment was. And it just seemed too complicated to explain to them that even though I knew at the time that the guy was a player (even I didn't believe he had never pulled this particular move before), I still considered it one of my top 5 once-in-a-lifetime experiences. These guys--no matter how educated or worldly-wise--were still men. And as such, they were probably never going to understand that every woman everywhere knows, in her heart of hearts, that she deserves to have "My Funny Valentine" played just for her. Just once. Even--especially--on the accordion.

Some things just get lost in the translation.

Here's a recording of someone else playing "My Funny Valentine" on the accordion. Just in case you aren't able to imagine it for yourself.

Something for Sunday.

Cause nothing says, "the last official day of spring break" like a little Ukrainian polka top 40.

Come on. Take another little piece of my heart.

Earlier this week, my friend Heather carried some stuff to Goodwill and came home with more than she set out with. And that right there is reason enough to stick to the drive-through. I never go inside when I'm dropping off a donation. Also, though, I'm always the teeniest bit afraid that someone will say, "Hey, wait a minute. You can't leave that crap here."

Heather lugged home an enormous bag of pieced quilt blocks that someone, somewhere decided weren't worth keeping. Really--who gives away quilt blocks? There's no answering that question about these particular blocks, but thinking about it prompted a lovely and lovingly written blog post about how Heather puts a part of herself into the things she makes, and how those parts will still be here long after she's sewn her last stitch.

And she got that 100% right. I think that most of us who make things know this to be true. Inherent in that, though, is the idea that someone will remember us--or at least--the idea of us.

"Here! Don't be chewing on that! My great-grandmother Heather Jane made that back when my meemaw was still a girl."

It stands to reason that at least a few of the items that outlast us, though, will still be around long after the demise of everyone who ever knew us. When that time comes, Heather hopes someone will find those pieces of her heart on the thrift-store shelf and see them as treasure.

And I am sure that someone will.

A few years ago, I found a handcrafted clay dish at a junk store. The dish was small--something you might drop your rings into while washing up after supper. Or maybe it was meant to be an ashtray; people made such things, not so long ago.

It was a homely little item, obviously made by a child--possibly while attending summer camp or vacation bible school. I turned it over and looked at the bottom. Its maker had written into the clay, "For Mommy. I love you."

Which totally and completely broke my heart into little, teeny, tiny pieces.

Image, Faith Ringgold Sunflower Quilting Bee at Arles, 1996.
Artsy’s Faith Ringgold page.

Dan Seals 1948 – 2009.

What I did for love, what I did for loooove.

My friend Tawana called this morning, catching me right in the middle of something I had hoped to have over and done with under a cloak of secrecy.

I've been busted; the jig is up. She's probably tweeted it by now. I've almost certainly already been outed on the Facebook.

She interrupted me as I was applying safety decals to the patio door out at the deluxe luxury family getaway condo.

At cat's eye level.

My kitteh--whose brain, you know, is only about as large as the average, didn't even graduate from high school walnut--hasn't yet mastered the ability to differentiate between the open glass door and the hey-sister-what's-your-hurry? closed glass door.

Certainly, when faced with a choice between explaining a safety decal positioned a mere 6 inches from floor level or ponying up for a feline MRI, mine seemed to be a fairly logical choice.

I mean really. This is my cat we're talking about here.

Now, I love a nice dog just as much as the next person, but let's face it: dogs are pushovers. Dogs love everyone. Just coming home each night and remembering the animal's name is enough for most dogs. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that a "Hey you," would do just as nicely. But cats? You have to earn a cat's love. You have to go above and beyond. When a cat loves you, you know you're worthy.

And I, for one, plan to get there. If need be, one safety decal at a time.

Image Originally published in MS Magazine, Vol III, #1, July/August 1992 via pet monologues

There is no such thing as late when you're on vacation.

I'm happy to report that I've not spent as much time on the interwebs as I usually do. In addition to all the other vacation-y activities at my disposal, I've been working my way through a serious nap backlog. I hope to have that situation in control and up-do-date by Wednesday.

The little bit of time I did spend online today, I spent playing around with an addictive little game via Friday's MetaFilter.

Balls drop from a fixed point on the screen, players draw lines with the cursor on which the falling balls will bounce. Each time a ball hits a line, a tone sounds. The tone changes, depending upon how fast/far the ball is traveling.

Be warned: you'll lose an hour, once you start--so don't fire it up right at quitting time.

Balldroppings by Chrome Experiment.

The intentional, albeit reluctant tourist, part two.

Last June, my mom bought a cap for my stepdad's pickup truck, gathered up both cats, a months' worth of red wine, lots of previously-neglected reading material, and drove 1022 miles to spend the summer back here in her home state.

Because, you know--this is where it's all happenin'.

She rented a house at Hot Springs Village, a gated retirement community full of golf courses and tennis courts and people who worked hard to be able to take it easy until they fall over. I agreed to spend a week there with her.

I arrived on Sunday. By Wednesday, it looked like we were well on our way to ripping apart the family dynasty.

Desperate to find something we could do together that wouldn't devolve into an all-out brawl, I suggested that we take a look at the local real estate. So we spent a couple afternoons seeing how the other half takes it easy--one large condo after the other--near the lake, on the lake, with attached decks overlooking the lake--some with boats docked literally, right at the back door.

I want to go on the record here to say that I never intended for anybody to buy anything. In fact, when I left, everything had pretty much gone according to plan--my mom got to oogle and disapprove of a bunch of other people's houses, and she and I were both still speaking to each other.

But just about the time I was sorting through the dirty laundry and wondering where in the world I had left my toothbrush, she called to say that she'd found a place she wanted to buy. In fact, she thought it would be an excellent idea for my brother and I to go in on the deal.

And that's how I came to be the accidental co-owner of an actual vacation property. Me. The girl who doesn't like going on vacation.

And now, thanks to having downsized my life, I no longer have a big house to improve, or a lot of boxes to unpack. Thanks to my new job, I can get away during Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Spring break, as well as during the summer months. And now that I own a vacation home, I don't even need extra money to do so. I have absolutely no excuse not to go on vacation. I am forced to acknowledge that if I can't master this thing when I'm the one in charge, then there's something wrong with me.

And so, as I write this, I am sitting squarely in the bosom of the geriatric center of the mid south--a place that contains--pound for pound--more grandmas, grandpas, chihuahuas, and golf carts than you would have thought possible.

Stay tuned.

Image, Life Photo Archive, Loomis Dean, photographer.

Dogs, hoops, tots, and beers.

It's here again--the 17th annual National Corn Dog Day.

"National Corn Dog Day?" you say, "How can that be possible? I've never heard of it."

Just because you don't believe in National Corn Dog Day, doesn't mean that National Corn Dog Day doesn't believe in you. Visit the NCD official site for a list of all the festivities in honor of "the happiest day of basketball and meats on sticks that you'll ever have:"

National Corndog Day coincides with the Saturday of the final 32 teams in NCAA basketball tournament (this year it’s March 21st). This Saturday is the only day all year that one can watch a quadruple-header of college basketball games (that’s a good 7-8 hours of college hoops) from start to finish without having to change the channel. NCD officially starts with the tip-off of the first game – 10 am Pacific/1 pm Eastern. To help pass the time, have fun with our friends, and to celebrate being blessed with such a thing as a college basketball tournament, we eat Corndogs! Lots of Corndogs...

Celebrate at one of 394 official NCD parties, or, if like me, you prefer to observe your favorite holiday in your pajamas, you can "Poem the heck out of that Corn Dog Day" for a Jones Soda prize package.

For the more intrepid among you, though, I suggest one of NCD's recipes:

Deviled Dogs

• 5 corn dogs
• 10 tater tots
• 1/4 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
• 2 Tbs Mayonnaise
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Paprika

1. Bake the corn dogs and tater tots according to package directions.
2. When corn dogs are cool enough to handle, remove the sticks, and split in half lengthwise.
3. Remove the hot dog part, leaving the cornbread shell intact.
4. Put the dogs, tots, cheese, mayo, salt and pepper into a food processor and process until smooth.
5. Fill each corn shell with an equal amount of the potato mixture. If you have a pastry bag, use it!
6. Sprinkle paprika over the top.
7. Return to the oven, and bake until top is browned, about 5 minutes.

Please, please, let me hear from you if you make (and manage to eat) this dish.

Nobody is good at everything.

I think today is one of my wedding anniversaries, but I can't be sure. Even when we were still married, I had a hard time remembering if we said "I do" on the 20th or the 21st. He was always the one who made sure the calendar was correctly marked. He was also the one who ensured both cars had valid safety inspection stickers and that the ice cube trays were always properly filled.

I can't even say with any certainty the exact year we married. After the first 5 or 6 times, I was ashamed to admit it anymore, and it was easier to just follow his lead. Now that I no longer have to buy a gift, there's no real reason to obsess about it. Last year, I started to feel kinda bad about it, so I asked him the exact date. I've forgotten it again, already.

To the casual observer, this probably says two things: (1) he was probably a better husband than I was a wife, and (2) I am only marginally capable of managing life outside the halfway house.

Both of which are undeniably true.

My second wedding anniversary is easier to remember, even though that marriage lasted only half as long as the first. I attribute this to the fact that we were married on Mayday--as in "Mayday. Mayday. Iceberg off the starboard bow," or as I often remember it, "dot-dot-dot-dash-dash-dash-dot-dot-dot."

By the time I signed the second set of divorce papers, I told myself that I might as well just go ahead and get married six or seven more times. Then I could say things like "My fourth husband.." or "When I was married to husband number eight..."

But after carefully weighing all the available options, I decided that it was simpler and less expensive to just pretend to be the survivor of half a dozen marriages. If they existed, I'm sure husbands three, four, five, and six would agree.

Today's post was written while listening to Bonnie Raitt's 1972 Album, Give It Up.

Image, Josephine and Philip Giangreco Wedding 6-21-1930.

Skeletons.

Kayla left a comment on yesterday's post, in which she confessed to the world that she had been lugging a bag of clothes in the trunk of her car for over a year now.

Just as I was thinking "Sheesh! Over a year?" I remembered the bags of personal papers that have been in my trunk since I moved on the first of January. I haven't done anything with them, because I'm at a loss as to what that would be. These are documents I've been moving from one house to another since 1979: closing papers on every house I've ever bought or sold, cancelled checks--back when there actually were such things, ancient tax returns, insurance documents. They weigh on me as do Marley's earthly sins, and they are every bit as difficult to shed.

There are several small bags--far too many to feed 5 and 6 sheets at a time into the shredder. There simply is no safe place to dispose of several reams of personal information without the substantial risk of seeing them resurface all over the internets.

So they are trapped, for the time being, in the trunk of my car, waiting for a surprise visit from the important document fairy--that helpful soul who has spirited away my birth certificate, my divorce decrees, last years' tax returns, and the password to my home wireless setup.

Today's post was written while listening to Buddy Guy's 1993 CD, Feels Like Rain.

Managing expectations.

My friend Tawana is in a snit about her dry cleaning bill.

She's upset because the dry cleaners, living as they do in the 20th century and all, insist on charging more to clean her clothes than they do to clean and press men's clothing. I suppose it must be because of the bustle and all that crinoline.

I can surely sympathize, but I can't get worked up enough to fight city hall with her.

Because my clothes never seem to make it to the dry cleaners. I put them into the car with the best of intentions, and I head off to work or to the grocery store. A block and a half from my door, I've forgotten that I have them with me, or where it was I intended to take them. After a while--a few days or a few weeks--I realize that I really need that jacket or sweater now wadded up in the floorboard of the car to complete my smashing ensemble. Suddenly, those clothes don't seem nearly as dirty as they were when I put them into the car. So I carry them back into the house, run them around in the dryer for a moment or two, and pronounce them, "fine, mostly"

Like a lot of us, all they really need is to get out of the house for a while.

Today's post was written while listening to Ray LaMontagne's 2004 CD, Trouble.

Image, Tate Liverpool Museum.

You think you know somebody.

They say that the best way to get a real feel for someone is to visit their home. You may think you know a person, but until you've seen how they live when nobody's looking, you don't.

I dated a man once whose concrete garage floor was as spotless as the floor of my kitchen--maybe even more so. Inside, not a thing was out of place; every book was arranged just so, and he had alphabetized his CDs and DVDs.

It didn't work out for us.

He didn't know that I had only condiments, Diet Coke, and tuna fish in my refrigerator, or that there was a load of clean laundry in my washing machine that would have to be rewashed by the time I remembered that it was there.

Many of my readers feel like they know me. Just last week on Facebook, I overheard someone tell my friend Tawana that I had no willpower. And she's right, even though the two of us have never met. I think I would have been a little happier if she had observed something about my kind and caring personality, but I can't be all things to all people. I'll bet that if I were standing behind her, running my mouth in the checkout line of the Kroger I no longer go to, she could turn around and call me by name. Surely, one of the reasons for telling so many things that really would be better left unsaid is because I really sort of want her (and you) to feel that way.

But I don't want any of you people at my house. The last time someone I barely knew came over, he called to ask, "You got any beer?" and he didn't leave for almost seven years.

But if there's a way to foster a feeling of camaraderie between us, I'm all for that--especially if it's done in such a way that makes me seem all erudite and stuff. So from now until I don't want to do it anymore, I've decided that I will add a little line at the bottom of each post telling you what music I was listening to as I wrote. Just to keep everything on the up-and-up, I'll only listen to and post music from my personal library--not something I'm listening to on the interweb. You can admire my musical taste, get your own copy and listen along, or maybe just roll your eyes and say, "Good Lord."

Just think how much closer we'll be.

Today's post was written while listening to Bob Dylan's 2006 CD, Modern Times.

Image, Square America.

Well, that's just perfect.

My good friend John has a birthday, today. Like most people who are easily pleased, he's hard to shop for, and he's had a couple birthday haikus, already. He doesn't eat meat, so a corndog is out of the question. What to get, what to get? It should be thoughtful and fraught with meaning. It should show the depth of my feeling for him. It should be beatleriffic.

Happy birthday, John. You're not 64 yet, but someday you will be.

So until then--



--live it up, friend.

From the 1968 animated film, Yellow Submarine, directed by George Dunning, and produced by United Artists and King Features Syndicate.

Easy DIY roman shades? Who are you trying to kid?

I may no longer be crafting for a living, but that doesn't mean I've been able to completely kick the habit. I don't make a lot of stuff these days, but I still like to watch other people getting their craft on.

And it looks to me like Jenny over at Little Green Notebook may have come up with the answer to one of life's (until now) imponderable questions: Why does making your own roman shades have to be so incredibly hard?

Finally, directions for building roman shades that won't tax my limited math and reasoning skills! I may have to come out of DIY retirement to give this one a try.

Click on over and check out Jenny's ingenious idea for using your cheap, raggedy mini blinds to make designer-y style roman shades.



Caged from Craft Magazine's Twitter feed. Image, Little Green Notebook.

For the woman who has everything.

I had an epiphany several years ago, as I was having an early afternoon Sunday breakfast with my friend Tawana. We used to meet for breakfast almost every week, back when we both lived in the same town and the logistics were less complicated.

Breakfast was our meal of choice, since we both worked for the state and neither of us ever had any real money. We would sit there for a couple of hours, talking and drinking coffee until the waitresses changed shift. We talked until the world looked level--we covered our kids, our husbands (back when we still had them and then later when we didn't), our jobs, and our mothers. We talked our problems into submission and sometimes unto death. We talked about the problems of the world, and how Hillary Clinton could probably fix most of them. For a brief period, we talked about the TawanaDeb, an invention that would answer the unmet needs of women everywhere and would ultimately make us both very, very rich.

We never agreed on what that invention should be. We don't often agree, really.

Ordinarily I'm not a big fan of the epiphany. Mainly, because having one for me means realizing how desperately wrong I've been about something. But on that particular day, I realized that I had gotten at least one thing, absolutely, perfectly right. I was slathering gravy atop a couple of eggs fried over medium when I had mine. I stopped in mid slather and looked across the table at her.

"You know," I said, "I've waited my whole life for you."

I'm pretty sure she was in agreement with me on that one.

In honor of my best friend's birthday, the woman we both agree is the best thing that ever happened to me, I've compiled a list of posts that feature her.

Happy Birthday, Sister. You're getting a TawanaDeb.

I would have spent my Sharper Image money on something with batteries.
Beware ill tempered, menopausal women.
Faster than a speeding ovum.
Under the global influence.
Looks like trouble.
Quick Scotty--How many dilithium crystals will you have to burn to beam us out of here?
No rest for the weary.
If you are my mom, please don't read this.
Well, I hope somebody's working on it.
We've just traced the call, and it's coming from inside your guilty conscience.


image, Signs and Wonders photostream.

I've got mine. But you'd better hurry.

Tickets went on sale today for the next live performance of the radio show, This American Life, and it's happening on April 23.

From TAL:

"Ira Glass will host an actual episode of the radio program, performed onstage by some of our favorite contributors. Dan Savage, Starlee Kine, and Mike Birbiglia will tell stories. David Rakoff and Dave Hill will conduct a 'special investigation.' Plus a new cartoon from Chris Ware, additional visuals by Arthur Jones, and a very special appearance by Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The performance will last around two hours. Come on out!"

I missed it last time, because I was under deadline. My friend Tawana was there, though, and she hasn't stopped talking about it. It still hurts my heart that I missed it.

By the way, if you've never seen radio live, you should.

Find a theatre and get your tickets here.

Happy Birthday, Ira.

Fifty years old today.

And that's perfectly okay. I like my men in nice, even numbers.





Image, Transom.

The intentional, albeit reluctant tourist, part one.

I've never had an enjoyable vacation, and it goes all the way back to my childhood.

When I was a kid, my parents would announce a road trip, throw my brother and I into the back seat of the car and drive for 3 days. Every so often, Mom sailed a can of Vienna sausage and a sleeve of crackers over the seat to "hold us over." Since we never seemed to stop before pulling back into our own driveway, it never became clear to us what, exactly we were holding for.

Perhaps because my parents were afraid we would escape, there were no scheduled bathroom breaks. Instead, when one of us could no longer hold his or her water, my dad pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and my mom opened the car door to block the view of passing traffic. The one of us who had yet to demonstrate control over his or her bladder did the deed right there. And woe unto the child who had a more earthy calling, as that meant a trip up into the brush and the briers alongside the road--way up there where the robbers and murderers were hiding--the ones, that is, who hadn't already been run off by the chiggers.

It's strange, I guess, that I don't remember my parents eating or using the facilities during these trips. Perhaps they waited until my brother and I were either asleep or had beat each other senseless to park the car and run into the Hi-De-Ho for a quick burger and bathroom break.

No doubt there were interesting things to be seen on these vacations, and I'm sure my parents enjoyed them. Me--I saw someone else getting all the Vienna sausages and far more of my brothers' business than I imagine I needed to.

When I grew up and married my own co-conspirator, I still didn't enjoy vacations. My husband planned the trip, made the reservations, and turned in his vacation request. I laundered, ironed, and packed everyone's clothes. When the vacation proper began, I Sherpa-ed the child, the camera, extra film, sunscreen, Bandaides, aspirin, Peptol Bismol, and bottles, diapers, and wetnaps. By the time I returned to work, I was exhausted.

I've yet to have a vacation that didn't feel like a kidnapping or a forced march. but I predict that is all about to change.

Image, End of the Road 1964, Shorpy photo archive.

You there. Look sharp.

I haven't been able to ascertain whether it's an issue of fashion, comfort, or profit--but lately, clothing manufacturers are shaving the t-shirts just a little too thin for my taste. They're all thin enough to read through, but the white ones are the worst. Sometimes I have to wear two t-shirts layered together, just to ensure that my office mates aren't compairing notes on my freckles.

On Friday, I stepped into the Ladies' Room on the way to class to check my lipstick and realized that my freckles weren't the only things subject to display. Despite all the clothes I was wearing, anyone who cared to look could see my nipples clearly enough to count them.

"So what?" you say, "Everybody has them."

And to this I say, "Indeed."

However, my two nipples are actually quite unique. They are even--it would appear--unique from one another. My nipples on that day were so unique as to be of separate minds. My nipples were intent on taking two separate trips. That is, one gazed slightly South, while the other had Easterly aspirations.

And thus I was forced to completely forgo my daily lipstick check so I could sort and sift things out. I headed to class knowing that nothing I could do--short of a bulky cardigan--could ease the trauma I was about to inflict upon the 22 people who, prior to that day, would have sworn upon a stack of bibles that I didn't even have nipples.

All for the want of a decent white t-shirt.

Image, Square America.

I was. Then I wasn't. Now I am again.

I am micro-blogging on Twitter.

Because I'm not nearly far enough behind with my macro-blogging already.

It's Saturday night. Whaddaya say we get out of the house, for a change.

From www.time-lapse.fr: A time-lapse video of snails getting the lead out:

"Every evening, after my automatic water system stops, all the snails who where hidden behind flowers go out and go on the grass to make parties, eating and drinking!"

Better shake a leg. The weekend is only two days' long.

Via Boing Boing, via Unique Daily.

Yes, I did say that I wanted to feel younger. No, I did not mean 7th grade.

You want to know a key difference between 1975 and 2009?

The field is smaller.

So much smaller that I estimate these days, I know less than half a dozen single men. Yesterday, one of them excused himself from the conversation we were having so that he could cross the room and start a conversation with the other single woman who was there. He did, in fact say, "Oh, I gotta go catch [the name of the other woman who was not me]."

I suppose I'll have some chili-cheese fries and listen to David Gates while I figure out how I feel about that.

Image, Maude and Mozart.

Excuses, excuses.

A woman from 2nd floor just managed to catch the elevator yesterday as the doors were sliding closed. I would have waited, had she yelled. Instead, she poked her hand and arm through the magic doors and caught herself a ride to the next floor. I was happy to have friendly company.

It's a short ride from the first floor to the third and an even shorter one to second floor. No call for small talk, really. But she talked the small anyway. People usually do.

"I really should be taking the stairs, I know--" she began.

In this situation, I usually offer up my own excuse--I'm old, it's been raining and the stairs are slippery, my bra's too tight and I can't breathe properly. Because that's the way this works. If one person rationalizes, everybody has to, so no one is obliged to feel self-reproach. Let one person fail to explain, though, and you've got a tiny room full of unaccounted-for compunction. That kind of guilt can rub off on another person, and I've already got all I can handle. I don't need to be carrying around extra, I'm-too-lazy-to-walk stranger guilt.

Even so, in that split second when I ordinarily would have responded in kind, I just couldn't come up with an excuse that didn't feel like--well, an excuse.

"I'm tired of feeling guilty for not taking the stairs," I said. "I have stairs in my house and I'm up and down them all day and all night long. And right now, I wanna take this elevator."

She looked at me with love and said, "Well I do, too."

Empowerment on the elevator. It was beautiful.

Image, sign at Cornwallis Inn, Kentville, NS, Canada by Bill Davenport.

(Too) close to you.

Have you ever fallen in love? If you're like most of us, when you fall in love, you want to spend every possible moment with the object of your affection.

It's heavenly, that feeling. I like being in love.

Eventually, though, you're going to want to go home--at least for a little while. There are things that need to be taken care of. The cat may be about to run out of food. Perhaps you can't poop any place but in your own bathroom.

Nothing personal. That's just the way it is.

Or suppose a fairly good friend just won cruise tickets and invited you to go along--her treat. You're pretty stoked. She's fun to hang out with, and the two of you get along fine. But if it turns out you're sharing the same cabin and very, very tiny bathroom for 7 days and 6 nights, that friendship might start to wear a little thin. Maybe by the time you're back on dry land, you're feeling as though you've just spent a very long week lost at sea with Tallulah Bankhead and Hume Cronyn, listening to everyone arguing about the Germans when what you most want to hear are the chimes of the Popsicle truck.

My point? Togetherness is a good thing. Until it's not.

Image, Alfred Hitchcock's 1944 film, Lifeboat.

Some things require absolute perfection. Some, not so much.

I don't believe in writer's block. I do believe in having other things I'd rather be doing. Some days I believe in being too tired or just too bored to write anything down. But anyone who tells you that he or she isn't writing because they can't? Bah. Writing is easy.

It's the stuff you have to do to the writing next--that's the hard part.

I spend the majority of my days, these days, trying to convince the young folks that it's all in the revision. They just want to sit down at the computer, type it all out, and be on their way--maybe go to a kegger and listen to that loud rock and roll music. That's not their fault; lots of people think it works that way.

Even the worst of these blog posts have been through a lot of revision.

In publishing, revision is king. Everybody has a go at it--usually more than once. But the deadline looms, and eventually, you have to put down the blue pencil and send the writing (and photography and layout) on its way. Somebody has to say, "it's good enough." No one ever says, "It's perfect," because it never is.

But that's exactly where I've been on those days you weren't able to find me. I was trying to get it perfect.

And I'm sorry to have to report to you now that just isn't going to happen.

I'm going to assume that you're okay with that. You've had 434 opportunities to let me know otherwise. Unless I hear from you, I'll just keep doing what I've been doing.

Whether I think it's perfect enough, or not.

Image, Library of Congress Collection of Lithographs by Calvert Litho. Co., Trapeze Artists, 1890.
Reproduction number: LC-USZC4-2091.

I thought it needed a little spiffing up.

I made a few minor changes to the look of the place. Hope you like it.









Image, Cane Hill Lunatic Asylum, via WebUrbanist.

Fancy meeting you here.

I was standing outside my building on campus yesterday, enjoying the wintry sunshine and a couple minutes' solitude before my 10:00 class. Things were quiet. A young woman arrived on a bicycle. Two students shared a cigarette. On the sidewalk, twenty-or-so feet away, stood a young man, just waiting. fa-la-la.

After a few minutes, 9:00 classes were dismissed. People exited one building and tromped right into another. One of the smokers dropped the cigarette into the butt can. The bicycle rack filled up. Impatient students took off over the wet grass, cutting snail trails across the quad.

The guy on the sidewalk, though, was still waiting. Maybe his girlfriend was held up in class, or his study partner was sleeping through the alarm.

After a couple more minutes, the crowd began to thin out again. Only a few stragglers, the guy on the sidewalk, and I remained. A young woman exited my building and made her way down the sidewalk--either to her next class, or to breakfast, or back to the dorm for more sleep. She strode with purpose past the young man who had been waiting on the sidewalk.

"Hey!" he said. "How you doin'?"

"Oh, hi!" she said.

And then she was gone--down the sidewalk, well on her way to one more day closer to Spring Break.

The young man stood and watched her walk away. Then he turned and walked off in the other direction--to his next class, or to breakfast, or back to the dorm for more sleep.

Whatever. He'd done what he came to do.

image, LIFE Picture Collection Photo Archive, Photographer: Cornell Capa, 1951.

On narrowly escaping an entirely self-inflicted office furniture injury. Again.

Yesterday, as I was rising from my desk at home, I spun in the chair and rapped my knee against the desk with such force that the edges of the world went black.

Just so you know, I was not spinning with the velocity of say--the Tilt-a-Whirl--nor was I exerting any more force than I have discovered is absolutely necessary to heave and haul myself up and out of a chair.

As I clung to consciousness, head between my knees in what must have been the closest view I've had of the ground in two years (ooh, look, my good pen!), my first really clear thought was that, if rendered truly incapacitated, I would probably not be discovered until the Lost watch party on Wednesday.

My second was the surprising realization that, despite all that crap they told me in college, all my most vital processes seemed to be located directly behind my patella.

I am a medical miracle.

Image, Witte Museum.

Respect.

I knew, the minute I laid eyes on it, that it was going to turn into a big deal. My feelings were hurt, just looking at it. Aretha Franklin was wearing a special hat for a special day--it was big and sparkly and sporting the world's most ambitious bow.

And she was going to get massacred.

I had a pretty good idea, as I was watching, that a lot of people were getting ready to show their asses. Down South, we call this "showing out." Sure enough, Stewart and Colbert took their shots, and the network late-night guys got a couple jokes out of it. I didn't even check to see what the bloggers wrote; those people have absolutely no self control.

Somebody needs to say it, though: we should be ashamed of ourselves.

I spent some time trying to come up with someone--anyone--who had enough cache to say, "Sister, we need to talk about that hat." I couldn't come up with a single name. Most of the people who carry that same authority are dead, y'all. I think John Lennon could get by with bringing it up--but you know he wouldn't. And Elvis might mention it, but probably only to get the name and address of her milliner. Indeed, unless you are also a legend in your own time, you should probably just keep quiet--even if you are the prince of comedy television, the queen of literary theory, or the king of financial planning.

And we should just agree that The Queen of Soul can wear a jar of bread and butter pickles on her head if that's her pleasure, and that we will endeavor to behave ourselves and show a little respect.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Queen of Soul:

(I damn near get the Holy Ghost at 1:22.)

edit: Smithsonian requests hat.

Rainmaker.

My friend Andy dropped me an email yesterday morning to ask if I was celebrating.

Which is kind of funny, if you happen know that (1) he's pretty stingy with his emails, and (2) I was already thinking about him when his message landed in my inbox.

I'd been remembering a summer afternoon, seven or eight years ago, when he and I hurried away from our desks and out of doors to stand beneath an increasingly darkening sky. We stood on the front steps of the building in which we worked and watched half a dozen large black clouds blow quickly across the valley.

We stood right there as the first raindrops in months spattered all around us, practically sizzling as they landed on the burning concrete. We stood--without umbrella or hat--as the sprinkle turned into a shower and then a downpour. It was the end of a horrible drought; we were ready for rain.

My shoes were ruined.

It was the kind of day--if you're awake enough to take note--you remember. You file it away for the next time the bottoms of your feet are on fire, and the leaves are crumbling on the trees, and you'd damn near hurt somebody for a sip of something cold to drink.

It was the kind of day you remember when, after what feels like the world's longest dry spell, you gather outside the university library and look up at the screen on which your new president takes his oath of office, with nary a cloud in sight.

image, Stacy Braswell.

One last weekend before the freshmen arrive.

Although I do still have lecture notes to finish, textbooks to rereread (and yes, boxes to unpack), this is the last official weekend before marathon grading begins again. If there's a book to be read for pleasure, this would seem to be the time to do it.

Fortunately, I've already unpacked the books--all 22 boxes (which may explain why my friends no longer want to function as my moving crew). Here's the funny thing about books--they don't say much on the shelf, but while handling them--dusting them, arranging them on the shelves, dropping them on your toes--you remember which ones were your favorites, and may even consider reading one or two of them again.

Just in case you're on the lookout for a good book this weekend, here are a couple good ones (old and new-ish in several different genres) I noticed on my bookshelf. (These are not full-fledged reviews--just a little heads-up from me to you):

David Sedaris, When you are Engulfed in Flames

This shouldn't even be on this list, since I only have this one in audio book form. But when it comes to David Sedaris or Seamus Heaney, I'd rather hear, than read them. In his latest, Sedaris moves to Japan for three months to facilitate his giving up smoking. In addition to all the funny you expect, there's also a really lovely story in this collection (Keeping Up), in which he writes about his relationship with Hugh.

Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

I love a good gothic novel. I recommended this modern version to my mom as we were unpacking. She was enjoying it so much that I fear it's on its way back to the desert with her. I'd like to find another one like this while it's still winter outside. It's just that kind of book.

John Connolly, The Book of Lost Things

This twisted up adult fairy tale sat on my shelf for a very long time before I gave it a chance. I think my friend, material world girl, would really enjoy this book. If, like her, you've been reading Gregory Maguire, you probably would too.

Joe Hill, The Heart Shaped Box

This is a pretty scary book, if being scared is what you're into. I had no idea, as I was reading it, that the author is Stephen King's son. I can see Dad's influence, but Hill is spooky enough in his own right.

Max Brooks, World War Z

Sometimes, a girl just needs a good apocalyptic read. This is the book with which I compare all other zombie novels. Which makes sense, since Brooks is the author of the authoritative Zombie Survival Guide. Come to think of it, maybe you should get one of those, too.

I wish someone else had a list like this from which I could choose; it seems a shame to let this last weekend slip away without having at least one day to roll around on the couch with a good book.

Then again, as my adorable dentist pointed out yesterday, it's not like I have a real job.

Sister, what you got in that purse?

Bette Midler had an old bit, years ago, in which she wondered out loud what the Queen might be carrying in her handbag. It's not like Her Royal Majesty has to keep track of her driver's license or money for an emergency Diet Coke.

I never go anywhere without my purse. I wish I could, but I'm just too insecure. Too many things can happen. What if I need to make a phone call or listen to Al Green? What if I need to take an Ibuprofen or staunch a bleeding papercut? What if I need to eat a mint? Or a sandwich? What if I forget how to get to my new apartment and have to enter the new address (which I do not yet have memorized) into my GPS?

Nope. Stuff happens. I, for one, had rather be ready for it.

And while I would no more violate the sanctity of another woman's handbag than I would put my hand into an alligator's mouth, I do like looking through the What's in Your Bag Flickr pool.

And that's just strange.

image, Kari1121's handbag contents.

Like paradise, only not.

After yesterday's post, maybe you were wondering if I had stashed my Muffin Uptown in an overhead cabinet or slid her under the bed with the extra cat hair. If she had wanted to stay, I would have found a way to make it work, even if that meant having her stand in the corner and hold up the television.

Instead, MU is renting a studio space downtown, where she plans to live and make art until grad school next fall. For her, it's a dream come true.

To me, it looks like the men's room at a Texaco station. Only bigger. And colder. I keep trying to find ways to say, "Are you sure?" without making her think I don't trust her judgment. Mostly, what comes out is, "Have you lost your mind?"

But I can see where this would be a dream come true for any artist, especially one (like MU) who makes big, messy, installation art. She can work until she's worn out, wander over to a pile of sticks and straw on the floor, and fall into exhausted slumber. The next morning, after brushing her teeth in the utility sink, she's ready to begin again.

Part of this is my fault. Throughout her childhood, she lived in old houses as we restored them and turned them into homes. She loves cracks in the plaster and uneven floors as much as her mom. She thinks she can make it habitable through shear force of will.

But even if she can't turn it into what you or I would think of as a home, she'll be okay. Other art students have lived and rented in this same space, and have lived to tell the tale. Living there will be something she can look back on when she's old and settled. She'll be fine. Really.

I, on the other hand, will be miserable--because every time I reach for the thermostat, I'm going to feel guilty.

It looks like it's going to be a cold, lonely winter.

To have and have not.

I now live in a teeny, tiny apartment. While it's not New York City small, it's small enough that I cannot buy more food until I eat the food I already have. (And if you have recipes for which the primary ingredients are canned green beans and canned diced tomatoes, please forward them to me.) Also, though, I've been forced to do some serious thinking about the things I own versus the things I need. Even after almost 8 days of mercilessly weeding out and whittling down, I still have items for which I do not have room.

Like my couch.

This, even though the items I moved last Saturday represented less than one-half the items I owned the week before. What started with a few down-in-the-heels shoes and extraneous black slacks turned into a Salvation Army free-for-all. I sifted through every file drawer of old bank statements and every plastic bin of craft supplies. Every drinking glass, every can of cream of chicken soup was evaluated: Did I need it? Would I really use it?

And it feels really good--this shuffling off the material coil. So good, that I may have gone slightly overboard. I seem to be without a spatula. Or--for that matter--a fry pan.

But I guess that's okay, since my couch is going to have to live in the kitchen. I can't remember, anymore, if it has Scotchgard.