Category Archive

So a few minutes ago I had to get up and leave class in search of something with which to blow my nose, and I decided I’d sneak in a quick potty break while I was stealing toilet paper from the student bathroom. I dashed into the stall, hurriedly shut and latched the door, unbuttoned my jeans, and assumed the “Public Bathroom Toilet Seat Avoidance Squat.” I was in a hurry, as I mentioned before, so I executed all of the above quickly and without care, so the latch I thought I latched did not actually latch, and when I bent forward with vigor, because for me, speed equals force, the door was moving toward my head and my head was moving toward the door, and they collided with, well, force. Great force. A force that sent the rest of me backward onto the unprotected toilet, and that left me positively reeling. There may have been little cartoon stars floating haphazardly over my head. It happened very quickly, so my first reaction was surprise, and then almost instantly I became hysterical. I could not stop laughing, oh, the hysterical laughing, with the tears streaming down my face (only a few of them from the throbbing pain emanating from my forehead) and the laughter, which practically debilitated me in my already weakened state and made it impossible for me to escape the germ-infested nasty college co-ed toilet. And that–the picture I imagined of myself as I might look from above, with one hand rubbing my head and the other gripping the toilet paper dispenser in a mad effort to hoist my bare ass from the toilet–somehow made me laugh even harder. People, it was a good 10 minutes before I could pull myself together enough to stumble back into my class. I am not even sure I actually peed. I was that crazy woman laughing and crying alone in a public bathroom. It was not one of my better moments, and I was terribly grateful no one else was in the room, and yet, I could hardly wait to get back to my seat so I could publish it on the internet.

I had this free hour, see, this delicious free hour to write something witty. Perhaps a bit about one of the topics from my Virtual Sticky Note (yes, E., there IS a connection between Mia and the tampons), or even more on the theft and vandalism that occurred at my desk last weekend (Yes! There’s more!). I could have even written about how earlier today I went out to meet the mail carrier, and then a little while later I realized that my pants were unbuttoned and my belt was flapping in the breeze, because about three hours ago I set out to change pants and then got distracted. But instead I spent my free writing hour searching my own blog for something about the water being colder in the bathroom than in the kitchen. See, what happened was, my new BFF, Catherine? She commented. HERE, on THIS blog. I know!  And she mentioned that she, too, wondered about the cold water in the bathroom, and I’m all, “Hey, I wonder that! Wait. She said ‘too.” She must mean in addition to me, since this is my blog she’s commenting on.” And then I was all, “Huh. I wonder where I said that.” And thus began an hour-long search for that reference. It’s in my little blurb under the ME tab, if you are dying to know, and I had to actually install a search widget in the sidebar and then search my own blog to find it because google-blog-searching did not do the trick.

And what did I gain from this hour spent obsessively searching my own blog for something I actually wrote myself? The knowledge that I have given you even more evidence of instability for the judge when I lose my shit and plow down a student with a full book cart.

I am blaming the famous people. They have me all a flutter. You know, Catherine, my new published author BFF, and also Reba. Yes, that Reba. You don’t even need to know her last name, that’s how famous she is. I’m spending the evening with her. Well, her and several thousand other people. From now on you can just call me Fancy.

True confession: I am obsessed with Kleenex. Specifically, having them in every room of my house, and having their boxes match said rooms. You might say I’m a tissue snob. It’s not a brand thing–I can buy Puffs, or even a store brand if necessary. It’s all about the matching. Kleenex boxes are admittedly the most stylish, followed closely by Target’s trendy solid colors and occasional hip designs. Puffs brand ranks last on my list solely on the basis of appearance, although they do present a decent box from time to time. Laugh if you want, I don’t care. I firmly believe that if you’re going to have an object sitting around your house, however functional it is, it should blend with its surroundings. And as an allergy sufferer, I’m going to have a lot of tissue boxes sitting around my house. I spend as much time in the paper aisle at the grocery store choosing box decor as I spend in the produce section poking at tomatoes and squeezing oranges. I often move whole sections of boxes to access the good-looking ones in the back. I have, on more than one occasion, knocked a box or two over the top shelf and into the next aisle over. Are you still laughing? I told you, it’s an obsession. It doesn’t have to be sane.

The source of my quantitative tissue obsession is clear in my mind: when I was growing up we didn’t have any. Runny nose? Here’s some toilet paper. No toilet paper? Here’s a paper towel. When I started making my own money I started buying tissue. Lots of it. I never wanted to run out. And when I got my own place and took control of my own aesthetics, I got more selective. Kleenex made it easy. Their designs run the gamut, from Matronly Floral to Geometric Chic. You can get a nice pastoral scene, or you can color coordinate with solids. There are cute boxes, and there are simple boxes. Recently they introduced a box that appears to have been created for my shower curtain. When something so extraordinary occurs I stock up. I mean, stock up. There is a shelf in my hall closet designated exclusively for tissue storage. It is usually full to overflowing. Until this week.

I started getting sick the Thursday after Christmas. It began as a bad case of the sniffles; on Friday it became an annoying case of I-am-thinking-of-sticking-a-tissue-up-my-nose; and by Saturday, as I have already discussed in a previous post, it morphed into The Bronchitis That Nearly Ate My Lungs. By that time I had passed the snot torch to my daughter, and until yesterday when my cough began to subside and my nose started running again, she carried that torch high and proud all by herself. My point, and I do have one, is that we’ve been using a lot of Kleenex.

So much, in fact, that my room allotment is in jeopardy. I always make sure high traffic nose-blowing rooms such as the bathrooms and bedrooms are more fully stocked. The living room and kitchen areas see less action and thus need fewer boxes in the supply area. But when you are a) blowing your own nose several times an hour, and b) wiping a 1-year-old’s nose every 5 minutes or so, that delicate balance begins to crumble. It all began when I ran out of the cheerful, colorful under-the-sea boxes I buy for Mia’s bathroom and bedroom. I had to pull from my own bathroom/bedroom stock. Within two days my happy circle boxes were down to one. Then the neutrals started going. On Thursday when Gayle, who usually pokes fun at my obsession, picked up a new prescription for me at the drugstore, she bought a few boxes and apologized for their appearance. Matronly Floral. At least the tissues themselves were not pink or blue.

And so today, for the first time in a week, we are venturing out into the world, a venture whose sole purpose is the acquisition of tissue. Unless, of course, someone at Kleenex reads this and wants to make me a paid advertiser. I have plenty of experience, and I’ve even got a miniature trainee. We’ll be waiting for your call.

The following is my contribution for last Thursday.

When I tell you that my father lives in a house with no coffee pot and no internet access, you might be tempted to believe, especially considering his West Virginia zip code, that he and my stepmother reside in a mountainside shanty made of recycled tractor tires and old 8-track tapes. Not so. They just don’t drink coffee, and my brother took the computer when he moved into an apartment across town; so, given the fact that my dad, who is a skilled metal machinist, probably doesn’t know how to turn on a computer, and my stepmother has email at work, the internet is just not a necessity. So it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that on Black Friday, I joined nearly every single resident of southern West Virginia on the bustling streets of Beckley and headed to Starbucks. 

I pulled into the parking lot of the shopping center after a particularly roadrageous 3 mile trip that took almost 30 minutes, and as I was getting out of my car a sign caught my eye. Before I go on I should describe the setup of the shopping center, because even though you are going to laugh at me anyway, you should at least do so armed with information and maybe a little sympathy. Imagine, if you will, a glorified strip mall in the shape of a giant block letter C, with an enormous parking area in the middle. Starbucks is situated at the bottom of the C. The sign that caught my eye is at the top of the C, waaaaaaay across the giant parking lot. Far, far away.

So I’m looking at this sign. And looking and looking, trying very hard to figure out if it says what I think it says. It was one of those lighted signs, and it was red, and the lettering was in cursive, so the letters sort of blurred together. But I swear to you on all that is holy, I would have bet my two cups of coffee that the business across the way from Starbucks was called “Disinfectantly Yours.”

It wasn’t, of course. I believe it was actually “Delightfully Yours,” but that is not important. What’s important is the fact that I have either developed Adult Onset Dyslexia, or I really need to get my eyes checked, because I misread signs like that all the time. And even more important than that, why isn’tthere a store called “Disinfectantly Yours”? Because I would be a regular shopper there. And so, I’m betting, would all of you.

It is hot. Record-setting hot. Ninety-three, for those of you who like specifics, or who suspect I might be exaggerating. It is the kind of hot that makes me impatient and irritable. I often find that I’ve been squinting, borderline scowling, for long periods of time, and that my jaws are sore from subconscious clinching. If this heat and drought continue I will no doubt become a prematurely grumpy old woman and sit on my porch in nothing but a bra and a pair of men’s trousers and shoot at things in my yard with a BB gun.

Oh October, where art thou?

1. Tonight as I talked my daughter through her bedtime routine, I said aloud, in all seriousness, “Let’s go brush your tooth*.”

2.  I spent several minutes searching for what I kept mentally referring to as a “Smoothie**.” Hint: I needed to write something on a CD.

3. I forgot how to say “car wash.” As in, I was driving in a semi-unfamiliar area, and I pointed to a business on the corner and said, “Oh, I know where I am. I recognize that…that…you know, that place with the hoses and vacuums.”

I am only allowed to say this as a native of the country, but I am one big freakin’ West Virginia joke.

*Yes, that’s right, a tooth. Bottom left. My dad noticed it the day of my grandma’s funeral. I, who had been expecting it for so long with so few results, hadn’t even noticed its arrival.

**Give up? I was looking for a SHARPIE. That’s the opposite of Smoothie, right? Because it made perfect sense to me.

1. A question (for my Harry Potter friends): if you could have any magical power from the Harry Potter series, what would it be? What magical object would you like to possess? Me, I want to Apparate, and I really dig Hermione’s magic purse from book 7.

2. A request: Amanda! When I go to your blog I’m told it no longer exists! Where did you go?

3. A healty dose of paranoia: Have you ever discovered that bloggers who used to link to your site suddenly stopped linking to your site? Or is that, you know, just me? Was it something I said? Did I inadvertenly offend someone? Is it because I bottle-feed my baby? Am I in SEVENTH GRADE?

4. A picture: Mia and I spent yesterday afternoon visiting my friend MJ at her lake house. It was the lake I grew up on and spent countless hours swimming in, and yet…yesterday, floating around in brown water, the likes of which could be concealing all manner of scaly, slimy, slithery things, caused me to freak out a little. But I got over it, because my kid, she likes the water. So much, in fact, that she FELL ASLEEP while we were floating around, too-big life jacked be damned. Here we are a little while after the nap. Check out her hair exploding from under the cap. Do you think Art Garfunkel was my donor?

I am almost afraid to announce that I actually had an entire planning period all to myself today. I got to make seating charts! I got to grade papers! I got to make copies! Oh, will the joy never cease? The good news is that I shouldn’t have to cover any more classes this week after Friday’s incident involving our new (to me, as she came while I was on leave) assistant principal and our blubbering secretary, She Who Cries Over Everything. You see, when SWCOE asked me to cover my 2nd class of the week on Thursday, I’m afraid I wasn’t nice about it. I’m afraid I might have had a…strong…reaction. So on Friday morning when my classroom phone rang before class and I saw it was New Assistant (that’s right, kids–caller ID in the classroom!), I knew what she was going to say before I said “hello.” I was right.

It seems SWCOE needed someone to cover a class, and since I am one of three people with 1st period planning, I was up yet again. I should note here that our county has a sophisticated automated substitute calling system that, in theory, is wonderful and easy to use. In reality, however, it is very ineffective because it’s very easy to hang up on an automated voice, and not at all rude. But hanging up on a real person is frowned upon, so when no subs pick up the jobs it falls to SWCOE to secure class coverage from teachers on the day of the absence, and what are we supposed to say to her? I’m telling you, she cries. Often. And a lot. When asked recently why she didn’t spend her time calling SUBS instead of teachers, she replied, just before she burst into tears, “It’s not my responsibility to find a sub. The teacher is supposed to do that.” Indeed. So that’s why she spends every morning asking teachers to be subs. Rocket science, I tell you!

Anyway, after my response the day before, SWCOE apparently didn’t want to do the asking, so I suppose she told on me, because I received a cheery call from New Assistant explaining that my services were needed, and that they wouldn’t call on me the following week, and that they would give me trade time in exchange for covering the classes, to be used on the upcoming April 3 teacher workday. Here’s a newsflash for you idiots: what with all the planning time I’m losing thanks to my unexpected new job as an unpaid sub, and since the last 11 years of my professional life are mildewing into oblivion in the School Formerly Known as _____, I HAVE TO COME TO WORK ON THE WORKDAY ANYWAY!

But that’s not what I meant to talk about here. I meant to talk about how I haven’t been posting much lately because my left shoulder feels like a nest of tiny black ants has built its kingdom inside the muscle at the base of my neck and are traveling with some frequency down to the tips of my fingers to search for food. Seriously, I think there is something bad wrong with my shoulder, people. I would love to blame work, but it was acting up some before last week. Work just made it worse. What made it in the first place, I’m sorry to say, was Mia. I hold, feed, carry, and otherwise support her with my left arm and shoulder, and before some brilliant person suggests I switch sides, really, don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Yes, and I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work. I’m right-handed, so if I’m holding her in my right arm and balancing the bottle with my chin, my left hand simply isn’t dexterous enough to simultaneously flip channels, pop the Natty Light caps,* keep my Camels lit AND work my Fantasy Nascar pool on the internet.

Sadly, someone will read that last sentence and exclaim, “OH MY GOD, SHE’S BOTTLE FEEDING THAT POOR BABY!” and to those people I say, “Let’s focus on what’s important here! There are insects inside my shoulder!” I could almost deal with pain. Pain I understand. This is not pain. This is…I don’t know what this is. Tension? Tightness? Gradual destruction of my nerve endings? Please, somebody suggest a remedy–I have tried everything. Ibuprofen. Ben-gay. Alcohol. Crack. Even my beloved yoga doesn’t work–stretching just makes the ants angry, and holding a pose is impossible, what with the CONSTANT CRAWLING FEELING, MY GOD THE CRAWLING.

I almost didn’t mention this here, lest you all think I have completely lost my mind, but then I remembered that between the lot of us we’ve pretty much seen it all, and someone will pipe up and exclaim, “Ohhhhh, yeeeaahhh, the ANTS. Here’s what you do.” Yeah. You. I’m waiting.

Meanwhile, I’ve made an appointment to have a nice long massage. On that April 3rd teacher workday. Because God forbid I actually get any work done AT WORK. I guess I’ll have to call in sick to accomplish that feat. Gee, I hope I can get a sub.

*Megan, I threw that one in JUST for you. And in case the rest of you were wondering, I don’t really do crack, smoke Camels, or play Fantasy Nascar. But the baby bottles? Those are real, and if you want to give me shit for that, may a million ants take up residence in YOUR shoulder. 

Sometime post-fire, pre-birth I heard a report on NPR claiming that pregnant women lose 8% of their brains during pregnancy, but by 6 months post-partum they regain that 8 plus an additional 8, making them even smarter than before. I can only hope.

Last week after snacking on white corn tortilla chips and salsa ranch dip, I put the chips in the chip basket. Later that evening I made a salad, and for a little crispiness on said salad I reached for the tortilla chips. Behind them was the salsa ranch dip. The “refrigerate after opening” salsa ranch dip. In the chip basket.

 Yesterday I took the bike I received LAST Christmas (and, between winter and pregnancy, had ridden exactly twice) to the gas station for an air refill, and when I got home I immediately got on the bike to take a spin around the cul-de-sac. I forgot to put the kickstand up, so I tried doing this while in motion. While wearing Crocs. My left Croc, the one on the kickstand side, flew off and into the spokes of the back tire. Then I ran over it. And did I mention I was moving? In my shock and sudden barefootedness I forgot to turn at the end of the circle, and I almost took out a neighbor’s mailbox. The Croc and my foot are fine, but I’ve put the bike away–at least for the next few months. I think biking requires more brain than I currently possess.

But the piece-de-resistance just happened. Moments ago I was using a screwdriver, which I took from the junk drawer in the kitchen. After I’d completed my task I went to put the screwdriver away, and did so–in the freezer. I actually walked away, and then stopped just before I’d cleared the kitchen because I sensed that I’d done something…not quite right.  Heh.

I’m worried about myself. I’m holding out hope for that 16%.

It’s been boring here lately. Even I am bored with my blogging, or not blogging, whatever you want to call it. It would be easy for me to tell you that I’ve been quiet because I’ve been busy with work (which is true) and graduate school (also true), but I wouldn’t be telling you the whole truth, and the whole truth is something I’ve been struggling with lately.

Four months ago I announced my pregnancy on this blog. That announcement followed a long period of silence and short, silly nothing posts, and not much of significance has followed since. Or perhaps more accurately, not much mention of the pregnancy has followed. I know that some women resent the sudden cease in blogging when a fellow infertile or TTCer finally gets pregnant. I don’t remember the blog where I read it, but I remember reading that just disappearing after you get those two pink lines is inconsiderate, a snub to your comrades who supported you through all the RE appointments, negative HPTs, painful IUIs, hormone tests, HSGs, HCG blood draws, and crack-of-dawn temp checks. On one hand I agree. But I also know that some women, the ones who are still trying, don’t want to hear about every pregnant woman’s expanding waistline, cravings, morning sickness, first fetal movements, baby showers, nursery preparations, doctor visits, and name deliberations. I’ve been racking my brain to figure out the middle ground.

Right after my miscarriage last July, I discovered that some of my favorite people were pregnant. I was immensely happy for them–and immensely sad for me. I would go days without reading their blog, and then I would spend an hour catching up, and at the end of that hour I was still both happy and sad, but life went on, and by the time the Cutest Baby in the DC Area was born, I was newly pregnant and scared shitless and happy beyond belief. I wanted to tell everyone–and no one. I was afraid that putting it out into the Universe might jinx me somehow. I still have this creeping fear, even now at this moment as I type these words with my child’s foot planted firmly in my ribcage. But lately that fear, that something-could-still-go-wrong voice that nags me daily, is not why I haven’t mentioned the pregnancy much.

When I was in high school I got lots of positive attention from my instructors because I was a good writer. Writing has always come easily to me, much like playing sports comes easily to some people and music comes easily to others. My friends always wanted to talk about why I got As on my papers and they got Bs and B-minuses and Cs. I avoided these talks, which made me feel bad, guilty, like being good at writing was wrong of me and I should stop it and be more like everyone else. Never mind that I got Cs in math and later almost failed college calculus AND college biology. Hell, we can’t all be good at everything. But for some reason my being a good writer irritated my peers. I made it a permanent practice never to discuss papers with my classmates–I was afraid of alienation, and making friends was hard enough for me already, so I kept my grades to myself, pretended they didn’t exist.

And now I find myself doing it again, except now I can’t exactly slip the evidence of my success discreetly into my bag and slide out of the classroom. I’m pregnant. Eventually, if I’m lucky, there’s going to be a baby. I’m going to have to talk about the kid because it’s going to take up all of my time, my energy, my attention. I’ve been deliberately talking about other things, or talking about nothing at all, not because I’m so wrapped up in my own good fortune, but because I don’t want my good fortune to pain others.

Let me stop now and say this: no one has made me feel this way. I feel this way all by myself without assistance or influence from others. It’s just who I am. I worry about these things. I internalize everything. Many things are my fault (or so I say). If someone I know and care about is acting strangely, I wonder what I’ve done. If I don’t hear from people, I start wondering if they’re avoiding me. So. I’ve been practicing a form of self-censorship, the act of deliberately omitting subject matter in order to avoid conflict or distress from other parties. (Sad, isn’t it, how work and school creep into everything?)

And all of that is a preface to this: my period of self-censorship is over. I have allowed myself to be silent about something really big and important, something I want to remember always, and I have only myself to blame. This is not going to become a pregnancy blog, but from now on I will blog about my pregnancy. I plan to go back to the beginning. I want to have a record of these months in some form other than the scribbles on my weekly planner. I realize that some of you who have been gone might come back, and some of you who have been around might drift away, and some of you will be firmly where you’ve been all along, right here reading whatever inspired or incredibly dull drivel I post. In the end, though, I’m doing this for me, so that I might remain here; this is, after all, a corner I created for myself, and I need it to be an honest place where I can say whatever I need to say–or not. Many of you have let it be that kind of place all along–for me, and for the countless others on this road–and to you I am eternally grateful. I’m glad to finally be catching up to your bold wisdom, your integrity, your beautiful, funny, graceful, souls (and also yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours). And also Lorem’s. Thanks for the support, chicas.

Dear K.E. Court Cul-de-Sac Neighbors:

If you happened to look out your front windows last night around 10:45 in time to see a pregnant woman wearing nothing but a too-small tie-dyed t-shirt, excessively large underwear, and a pair of black leather Mary Janes hissing obscenities at her dog, please accept my deepest apologies. I had not intended to leave the house, only to let the dog out one last time before bed, but she bolted into the street to sniff God knows what, and then she disappeared from view. I love her, but quite frankly she is too stupid to get out of the way if a car is coming, so I felt the need to retrieve her quickly. It did not occur to me until I was already in the driveway that I was not wearing pants. You see, when I am at home in the evenings I no longer wear pants because they are extremely uncomfortable, and I have not bothered to purchase maternity pajamas (hence the too-small t-shirt). This look has become quite natural for me within the confines of my home, but I’m sure it’s not something you are used to seeing–if, indeed, you saw. And if you did, again, I apologize. I’ll try not to let it happen again.

Yours truly,

Your neighbor in the yellow house

I don’t think I’m mentioned on this blog lately how much I adore Tom Selleck. Seriously, how cute is he? And sweet? And funny? I’m planning to spend the rest of the summer on his ranch in Northern California. I could be a convincing rancher, right? I’ll let you know how it goes.

Actually, I’ll probably just order this.

Can you tell there’s not a lot going on around here this week?

Imagine a sheepish look on my face. Imagine, even, that I’m on my knees, humbly bowed in an act of contrition. Even better, imagine this:

There’s a scene in the movie “Forget Paris” where Debra Winger is trying to free a pigeon that has somehow managed to get itself stuck on one of those adhesive rodent traps. Have you seen it? The movie as a whole is not that great, but it’s worth watching just for this scene. She approaches slowly and tries to pull one of its little pigeon feet out of the glue, but if you’ve ever gotten your fingers stuck in a fly tape you know it’s impossible to get near one of those things without getting stuck in it yourself. Anyway, to make a long story short, the pigeon starts freaking out and flapping its wings, which are still quite free; the trap, now hanging in midair below the pigeon, gets stuck in Debra Winger’s hair. The sequence of scenes that follows is made up of her trying to get out of her apartment and drive to the veterinarian’s office with a mad pigeon stuck to the side of her head.

That’s been me for the past three weeks. More or less.

I hate to use this tired excuse again, but it really is this time of year. Last year I went from April 14 until May 25 without blogging. Of course, there were two people reading my blog then. There are more of you now. You noticed, and I appreciate it. You should know that I’ve actually opened the “new post” page in Blogger about 6 times in the past two weeks; once I even typed a title. But at the end of the day other things took all of my time and energy, and I ended up closing the page and hoping there would be time for blogging another day.

Don’t think I haven’t blogged because I’ve had nothing to talk about. Au contraire. Sadly, I’ve forgotten most of it. Here are a few things that remain in the miasma that is my brain at the end of the school year:

1. I feel pretty guilty about missing the last, what, 4 Photo Fridays, but when I get home I am pretty much a zombie (with a pigeon stuck to my head), and by the time I start feeling like a human again it’s Sunday night.

2. I also feel horribly guilty for not yet sending out my Crazy Mixed Up mix CD. I have a tentative song list, the blank CDs, the mailers, the computer with which to burn the CDs. It’s like a box cake that hasn’t been mixed and baked yet.

3. I have been offered a new job. (I’m whispering because I don’t want to jinx it.) The principal–we’ll call her Principal Divine–wants to hire me. I very much want to work for her. Right now it’s in the hands of central office personnel, who could drop a big fat NO in my lap at any moment. Or they could hit me with a YES. Please, pray or chant or sacrifice or burn something or meditate–whatever it is you do. I really want this position; mostly I really want NOT to be in my CURRENT position. I’m counting on your good vibes.

The good news is, today is the last student day. It’s not even a “real” school day, just a catch up day for anyone who missed an exam or needs to make up unexcused absences. I had four students 1st period; there’s one kid in the room with me now. The halls, of course, are full of gypsies and wanderers looking to make trouble, but there are probably only about 100 kids in the building, so I’m calling it a day. I don’t think I could have made it another moment. The next three days are workdays, but I can handle those. By next Wednesday I’ll be free to cut the pigeon out of my hair, allow my brain to recover, and do fun things like blog and take pictures. Until then, don’t give up on me.

Why aren’t there old cafeteria men?

Edited to clarify: You know, in schools. With hair nets and rubber hospital gloves. Why?

I know. You were just sitting there thinking, “God, I can NOT go on with my day–my life!–without knowing what hd did today. And that’s what I’m all about here, helping people. So, in no particular order, I give you my day. You’re welcome.

1. I spent a considerable amount of time perusing this website. The answers to your questions are “yes, I am;” “maybe, I have to talk to my uncle, Contractor, and see if he is game;” and, “no, it’s not really because of the snake.”
2. I searched for over an hour for current web references to Barbara Mandrell, who was on my mind thanks to Crystal and her “an anomaly before being an anomaly was cool” comment.* This is what I learned: apparently Barbara Mandrell has fallen off the face of the earth. Her last public appearance as a mega-super-singer-dancer Entertainer** was in 1997, and she has sold her famous house, Fontanel, which is the world’s largest log cabin (and I use that word only because that’s what they are called, log cabins, but saying this place is a cabin is like saying Michael Jackson is a bit eccentric). Rumor has it NBC is releasing the DVD collection of “Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters,” which was one of my very favorite shows in the early 80s (it ranked right up there with “Hee Haw,” “The Janie Frickie Show,” “The Carol Burnett Show,” “The Muppet Show,” and “Little House on the Prairie.” How exciting is that? I can see my summer shaping up already: I’ll work my way through seasons 1-4 of “Magnum, P.I.” and then start on the Mandrells. God, life is good.
3. I walked out the door in the very first outfit I put on this morning. This is significant because Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings were Bad Clothes Days. Come to think of it, so were most mornings last week. I’ve been averaging 3 pairs of pants, 4 shirts, and multiple pairs of socks a morning, all of which are in a big tangled pile on my bed by the time I fly out the door cursing. This is my number one PMS symptom, by the way, and not because my clothes don’t fit right. It’s because for the few days before I start a new cycle, everything in my closet becomes unspeakably ugly, and when I put on something from my closet and look in the mirror I see a hag of mythical proportions. The only beautiful clothes in the world are those worn by the Pretty People (read: pretty much everyone else on the planet) and every outfit I don leaves me rocking in the corner with my hands over my eyes moaning, “Must…get…new…clothes. I…can’t…go…on… wearing…these…rags.” Fortunately my number two PMS symptom is exhaustion, so I never have the energy to actually go shopping for new clothes in an effort to become one of the Pretty People. By the time that new cycle has officially begun I have fully recovered and can comfortably walk out the door wearing a pair of camouflage capri pants with a tie-dyed shirt and a toboggan and toe socks and not give a shit. Which is exactly what I did today.***
4. I scheduled an HSG. Well, not exactly. But I called to schedule it and Nurse Peggy, who does all the surgery scheduling, wasn’t in, so she’s going to call me tomorrow, but HOLY SHIT, y’all, do you know what this means? The break is over!****
5. I all but licked the inside of a bag of Garden of Eatin’ blue tortilla chips. Earlier this week I was binge eating sugar, which is why I had to ask my neighbor to hide all of my Girl Scout cookies (O, Thin Mint, how I adore thee!), but now I am like a deer at a salt lick.
6. I updated my blog links, complete with alphabetization and several new additions. If you’re not there and you’re feeling left out, be patient. I was updating at work, and most of my regular blogs are bookmarked at home. Or, if you’re not feeling patient today, taunt me and call me names and throw things at me, and I will have a 3rd grade recess flashback and then add you because I’m afraid of you and don’t want to risk any more confrontation.
7. And now I’m going to watch “Friends”(Tom Selleck is on! Be still, my heart!) and periodically sprinkle Margarita salt in my mouth and hum “Sleepin’ Single in a Double Bed”***** and fantasize about my new house and send positive energy to my uterus and work my way through all your blogs. Man, I hope I don’t collapse under the weight of the purpose and import that are my existence.******

*If you were any kind of music aficionado you would know that Crystal’s comment reminded me of Barbara Mandrell because Barbara Mandrell wrote a famous song called “I Was Country When Country Wasn’t Cool.”

**How could I not capitalize Entertainer? Haven’t you seen her dance? And play two guitars at the same time? While singing? And dancing?

***No, not really, but how hilarious would it be to show up at work dressed that way?

****If you’re just tuning in, I’ve been trying to get knocked up since last May, but I’ve been on a break since November.

*****Really, people, am I the only Barbara Mandrell fan left on the planet?

******I promise on all that is holy that this is not my real life, but I am tired and fuzzy and cursing Eve for that whole womanly pain thing she landed us, and I really need to live the life of a slug today.

I had a lonely night, so the February feeling, which has been slowly receding to my periphery, started creeping back toward my center. I decided to combat the oozing heaviness with a facial. I knew I was going to be okay when I looked in the mirror and laughed right out loud at myself: green clay face accented with the snowy white creme bleach on my upper lip (oh, Italian ancestors, how did I inherit your dark facial hair but not your smooth olive complexion?) beneath my clipped back bangs, which are really too short for the clip and consequently were standing straight up. I laughed and I laughed. It was good laughter, so I know that in spite of the lonely feeling I can’t shake, it’s not all that bad. It’s going to get better.

Behold: my family a la South Park. Seriously, I need help. I don’t think I can collect unemployment if this is the reason I’m not working.

Mom

Megan
Charity

Act I: First of all, I’m not really embarrassed by any of my shoes. My many many many shoes. I love shoes, and have been told, in fact, that I should be embarrassed to have so many. I’m not. That’s how it is with addiction. Only others can admit you have a problem.

But there does exist a pair of shoes in my collection that is embarrassing to other people, not because they are a strange color, or covered with odd markings, but because one of them is held together with hot glue.

My mom bought me these shoes at the L.L. Bean outlet in Freeport, Maine, and as you can see, I wore them, and wore them, and wore them. I wore them until the cork footbed sort of exploded out the back of the shoe. Did I stop wearing them? No, I did not. I fired up the hot glue gun and filled in the now gaping hole, and since hot glue is not really adhesive unless you use it on a surface that can absorb it, this repair only lasts for one good wear. Every time I want to wear these shoes, which is often, I have to get out the glue gun. I have no problem with this at all, but I can see how my companions might scoff at the ubiquitous string of hot glue hanging out of my sandal.

Act II: More embarrassing to me is a recent incident involving a shoe. It happened like this: I was getting ready for work on Thursday morning, and I was running late, as usual. I grabbed my shoes, and because I was in a hurry, I didn’t do “the shoe check.” Normally before I put on a pair of shoes I check them, you know, for spiders. I know I’m not the only person in the world who does this. Charlie Sheen admitted to it on “Ellen,” and I know for a fact my sister Megan does it, too. But on Thursday I forgot. I put on my right shoe. No problem. I put on my left shoe. All hell broke loose. Something was in there, and I just knew it was a spider the size of New Jersey, and it was biting me.

Some backstory. Several months ago I bought a package of pants/skirt hangers–the kind with the little clothespin things attached to the bottom–at the dollar store. Because they came from the dollar store they apparently could only hold half a pair of pants, and if I attempted to hang an entire pair of pants on one of them the clothespin things exploded. All the parts of the clothespin–the two plastic sides and the little metal clip holding them together, flew into the air, ricocheted off the ceiling, and landed in some unknown place in the bottom of my closet.

On Thursday morning the whereabouts of one of the plastic pieces was revealed. It was inside my shoe. As soon as the hard pointy side of it made contact with my heel I saw the spiders devouring my foot; I kicked the shoe off while simultaneously hurling myself backwards onto my bed and damn near fell off the other side in my enthusiasm to escape whatever was in my shoe.

Act III: These are the best shoes ever, hands down. Enough said.

Thanks to Trista and this website, one of two things will probably happen in the very near future. One, I may lose my job because I spent the day making South Park versions of all my colleagues, some of which were not very nice. Not only was I completely void of productivity (cut me some slack, I have a student teacher so I wasn’t neglecting my students or anything), but I was also quite unkind and more than a little tempted to anonymously post my creations around faculty areas with little signs reading, “Can you guess who I am?” And two, it’s a definite possibility that an intervention will soon be necessary. Given the addictive nature of the activity–and if you haven’t tried it you should, I don’t like to be alone in my addiction–I will have exhausted my friends, family and coworkers by midday tomorrow and will require a 12-step program to avoid the inevitable next step: South Park versions of famous people.

On the bright side, however, I’ll have lots of nice pictures to cover the fingernail marks and food stains on the walls of my isolation cell. Like this one:

Seriously…help me.

…this is for Trista.

Yesterday when I got home–you remember yesterday, the day I wanted to quit my job and become a mechanic and murder my boss–I had all of 15 minutes to eat, change, and get my grad stuff together for my 5:30 class. As I was dashing around the house grabbing books, opening cans of Beefaroni*, and scooping cat food into Chapin’s bowl, I turned on the dishwasher on the fly. By the time I had my Beefaroni open and in the microwave the dishwasher was making a whining sound and emitting a “hot” smell. I freaked out, opened the door, stuck my head and, and was greeted by a completely dry dishwasher. No water whatsoever, but lots of steam. I used up five of my 15 minutes poking and turning and staring at the interior of the dishwasher, so my Beefaroni, which was not adequately heated in the microwave, went into the thermos lukewarm, and I left the house cursing all appliances everywhere.

When I got home I poked and turned and stared some more and determined that nothing was askew or broken, so I twisted the dial back around to “start” and flipped the switch again.

This is the part where I point out that unless you start your dishwasher at the BEGINNING of the “start” cycle, no water will run into the pipes and the cycle will run dry, which is NOT good for the dishwasher.

Needless to say, there isn’t actually anything wrong with my dishwasher, except, perhaps, for user error. I’ll be crossing “appliance repair” off my resume.

***

In other news, who watched “Commander in Chief” last night? It just gets better and better.

I want Geena Davis to be MY President.

*Yeah, I eat Beefaroni. I would have starved to death as a child had it not been for Chef-Boy-Ardee.

Someone please assure me that I have not just decreased my chances of conceiving a child from the IUI I had this afternoon because I was crawling on my hands and knees in my wet, leaf-covered grass at 11 p.m. trying to coax my INDOOR CAT from underneath my back porch. Please tell me that the sudden increase in my blood pressure, heart rate, and anxiety level due to aforementioned cat’s escape into the great outdoors did not, in fact, slow the sperm, strangle my egg, or cause the lining of my uterus to disintegrate. And please let me know for sure that this er, cautious behavior is the behavior of a sane, balanced future mother and not one of those nuts who follows her child around 27-7 with a first aid kit and a pillow to cushion potential tumbles. Please, I beg you. Ease my mind.

Today I called my clinic to find out when I would need to order my sperm, what number I would need to call with my OPK surge, etc. The woman with the answers is Peggy, and Peggy and I have talked several times before, but today Peggy was on another line so I got her voicemail. I listened carefully to her rather long message and then waited for the beep. There was no beep. There was a long series of instructions involving pressing this number or that depending on what you wanted to do: “If you’d like to leave a message, press 2. If you’d like to speak to the operator, press 0. If you’d like to audition for American Idol, press 88876897.” And so on. By the time all of the options had been recited, I had forgotten which number to press to leave a message. Two sounded vaguely familiar, so I pressed it, but by now too much time had passed and my call was back in the clinic’s phone system. Two had become an extension, and thank you very much, but I did not want to speak with Janet. So I pressed zero. The same operator answered, and I explained briefly that I had pushed the wrong button and that I still needed to speak with Peggy. Again, I got Peggy’s voicemail, and this time I was ready. I pressed two at the appropriate time and a voice said, “Leave your message after the tone [about time!] and then press pound.” I left my message and all my many questions, and as soon as I had finished speaking I pressed END. DAMN! I had forgotten to press pound! So I called the main number again. Thank God another operator answered. I asked for Peggy. I got her voicemail. I left a message. I pressed pound.

Twenty minutes later Peggy called back. She had gotten, not one, but three messages from me. The first contained no words, only static, but it is a safe assumption that it was my static. Peggy is nice and patient and did not even laugh at my technological idiocy and I am very grateful to have a nurse who is nice and patient, so I’m really glad that first message was just static and NOT what was going through my head at the time. She would have understood, though. She’s the one who called in my Clomid prescription!

There’s a Cheryl Wheeler song called “Is it peace or is it Prozac?” I find myself asking a similar question this morning: Is it Clomid, or am I a bitch? When I took Clomid before I started having odd dreams, and then I was pregnant and my dreams turned downright bizarre. I started a new round of Clomid yesterday, and last night I dreamed that I paid two kids–big strapping boys from my 4th period class–to beat up a woman that I work with, a really obnoxious woman who annoys me even on Fridays and holidays and days when I am not taking Clomid. It was a really vivid dream, and I remember feeling extremely satisfied when I saw the results of the ass-kicking in the dream. They really gave me my money’s worth, let me tell you. I slept like a baby and woke up quite happy. I am slightly alarmed by the dream and my resulting happy feeling, because I am a nonviolent pacifist who cringes at the sight of someone causing pain to another living thing. I would never beat someone up, or pay someone to do it for me. Of course, the last time I took Clomid I wanted to blow up the Black and Decker man because he wouldn’t give me a refund.

Yeah…it’s definitely the Clomid.

Item 1: I have been having strange dreams. REALLY strange dreams. You know the kind: when you wake up in that “WTF?” state, and there’s still a little crazy on your face, and you want to tell someone–anyone–what just transpired in the dark abyss of your skull, but you have too much on your to-do list and involuntary committal is just not something you have time for today.

Item 2: My neighbor across the cul-de-sac speaks another language. Well, at least she does when she’s on the phone at 11 p.m. taking her cute dog for a walk within my earshot while I am also taking my cute dog for a walk. I have lived across from this woman for almost four years; we have waved and exchanged hellos on a regular basis. Why, then, have I not noticed until just a few nights ago that she is, as we say here in the South, not from these parts? It is easy to remain oblivious to your neighbors down the street, the ones to the far right and left whose houses you pass each day, and to whom you wave when you drive by them working in their yards, but who do not share a property border or a view of your house. But it’s hard to miss people right across the street, and so I am in wonder that I have never had enough conversation with this woman to realize that English is not her first language. Makes me wonder what else I’ve missed on this quiet little street.

Item 3: I am listening to Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation, and I highly recommend it. But you should definitely listen to it. I’m sure it’s a great print work, but Vowell’s voice is wonderful, her delivery so deadpan, and many of the historical figures who feature in the book are voiced by the likes of Stephen King and Jon Stewart. Great for a long car ride.

Item 4: “Shall We Dance” (the newer Gere/Sarandon version) is an excellent movie. So is “Hitch” with Will Smith.

Item 5: Ice cream sandwiches are SO good. So are tomatoes ripened in the sun, and cucumbers, and raspberries right off the bush, or vine, or whatever. But given the choice–say, I’m on “Survivor” and I can only have one or the other–I think I’d have to go with ice cream sandwiches.

My name is Heather, and I give my animals nicknames.

That’s right, laugh all you want. My animals have nicknames. I’m sure there are others like me; after all, the nicknames evolved from conversations I’ve had with the animals, and I know I’m not the only person in the world who can have a lengthy chat with a dog. It’s the nicknames themselves that are a little…different. See for yourself.

I’ll begin with Harry the Beagle, who no longer lives here* but did long enough to earn a few monikers. Harry’s name depended on what mischief he had committed. For instance, if he had escaped from the padlocked, steel-barred, railroad tie-fortified kennel, we called him Harry Houdini. If he simply disappeared, only to reappear unharmed two neighborhoods away, we called him Harry Potter. When he wrapped himself hopelessly around a tree or walked out in front of a car while I was walking him, he was affectionately called Stupid Ass, and I often called him Buddy when we were going through our morning walk-and-treat routine.** But the best Harry nickname–and I’ll let you figure out its origin–was Harry Dogafarte. I know what you’re thinking–genius. Wait, it gets better.

Chapin the Cat was named after a famous country-folk musician, so he’s sometimes referred to as Hairy Chapin-Carpencat (we thought he was a girl; he was almost named Emmylou). I also call him George Chapinopolous from time to time (for no apparent reason), and when he is running at breakneck speed from the front to the back to the front of the house, or when he’s knocking things off the counters to get my attention, he’s called Kitty Kitty Bang-Bang. His everyday pet name is Kitty Boy; when I walk in the door after being gone for a while, I greet him with a “Hey, Kitty Boy,” and he falls down at my feet and rolls around on his back. I know he would prefer to be called Oh Great One, but he settles for what he gets.

Which brings me to Suzanna. She’s been around the longest, and while many of her nicknames are common and predictable (Baby, Sweetpea, and Girlygirl, for example), she does have a few that get weird stares when there’s company in the house: Suzannie; Suzanna Suzannadanna, complete with the Gilda Radner accent and inflection; and perhaps the most bizarre, “Black dog, black dog, where did you come from?” Yeah, about that one. You’d have to be a “Designing Women” fan to understand, but rest assured, it’s a beautiful thing–it has a little tune and everything. On that note, I should tell you that Suzanna has her own original song…but that’s a story for another day.

*I am happy to report that Harry is EXTREMELY happy in his new home. He sleeps on the bed and watches TV from the couch. He did recently escape (who’s really surprised?) but was safely recovered. I hear they may be putting up a fence.

**Harry’s new mom and dad think he looks like a “Buddy” and call him by this name as often as they call him Harry. A good sign? I think so.

…and I’m afraid I’m gonna blow. Well, not anymore. I think the danger has passed and the damage has been done, but I must say, I was worried about myself yesterday. Here’s what happened. About six months ago I was shopping with my family at an outlet mall in Charlotte, which is a 90 minute drive from my house. While there I purchased two giant batteries from the Black and Decker outlet for my POS Dust Buster. I was dubious, but the man behind the counter assured me that these batteries were intended for ALL B&D rechargeable products, so I bought them in hopes that my handy mini-vac would do more than sigh pitifully and pass out every time I tried to use it. Later that evening I set about trying to install one or both of them, but I could see no possible way that these missile-like objects were going to fit anywhere inside my vacuum. In fact, I never even took a single battery out of it’s packaging–after trying in vain to access the very small battery compartment, and after getting all sorts of cuts and scrapes on my hands from trying to force the alleged battery pack from its hard plastic casing, I threw the Dust Buster on the floor of the garage. The battery pack came flying out, and attached to it was a warning: Danger–do not remove this battery! There you go. In retrospect I should have sued the Black and Decker outlet. That was 5 months ago, and I have since purchased a new turbo powered Dust Buster that kicks ass.

Yesterday I had a class in Charlotte, so I knew I’d be passing by the outlet mall for the first time since December. I had planned ahead, making sure to put the Black and Decker bag in my car, and then I proceeded to drive to Charlotte on a quarter of a tank. I pulled into the outlet mall lot on fumes that evening. You see, I paid 25 bucks for the batteries, and I was planning to use the returned cash to fill up my gas tank. But when the cashier opened the bag the receipt was gone. Now this sack of sh–I mean, bag of batteries has been sitting on a shelf in my hall closet since late December, and I know I didn’t ditch the receipt, so God only knows what happened to it (yes, I searched my car and have since searched the hall closet–nada). The Black and Decker policy for returns with no receipts is to assign the customer a store credit. Well, I didn’t want store credit, I wanted fuel. I tried pointing out the wall-o-batteries just like mine right behind the cashier desk (”Look, that’s what I bought. See, they’re 25 dollars.”) but that didn’t work. Enter the store manager, who said, and I quote, “You just need to look around the store and find an exchange.” I didn’t like his tone. I explained that I didn’t want to look around the store. He explained their policy once again. I explained that he could keep his batteries and his store credit, and I slid the batteries across the counter toward him. As I left the store I had an Ally McBeal moment where I imagined what would have happened had those cylindrical little missile-looking batteries actually been missiles. The explosion rang in my head until I got to my car, and then I sat in the driver’s seat and cried.

I’m not normally like this. I’d like to blame the egg-growing hormones I’m taking in an effort to get pregnant on my last remaining vial of “Joey” sperm, but that’s only part of the problem. The water in my teapot runs much deeper, and you know what happens when you put too much water in a teapot. Let’s consider the following:

• Last Saturday my youngest sister graduated from high school. She’s 17. My other sister is 19 and will begin her second year of college in August. They are, each in her own way, the answers to every prayer I ever prayed as a kid. I was an only child for 11 years, and I didn’t want to be, and they were worth the wait. I have loved watching them grow up, loved sharing our similarities and discovering our unique differences. They are beautiful and funny and brilliant. But I have not always felt worthy of the answered prayers. There are so many things I’ve missed, so many hours I let slip by, and now that they’re both on the short end of the road to adulthood I feel the weight of those lost opportunities in a way I never have before. My rational mind reminds me that there’s nothing to be done about the past. My heart hopes the future is full of new possibilities.

• On Wednesday I attended a funeral service for the five-month old granddaughter of one of my dearest friends. The baby, Alice, was recently diagnosed with what we all believed was a reparable heart defect, but last Wednesday her little heart just stopped beating. Both of her parents are from my town so they brought her home to the church where they both grew up to bury her. The sanctuary was so full that people were standing two deep along the outer walls. My friend, with tears streaming down her face, kept reaching up to wipe her weeping husband’s cheeks. I’m not sure what was harder–mourning the loss of an infant or watching my friend suffer. It was a difficult day.

• Sometime late next week I will use up the last of the sperm I purchased back in April. If this attempt doesn’t result in pregnancy I will be back to square one, and with considerably less money than when I started this process. That’s not to say I won’t keep trying, but I was painfully naive to think it would all work out on the first round. Now the clinic is talking drugs and ultrasound to make sure I’m actually producing eggs, a possibility which had never occurred to me. Why is it that the only people who get pregnant quickly are the ones fooling around in the backseats of old cars?

Needless to say, the water has been rising all week. Who knew that the manager of a Black and Decker outlet would be the boiling point for me? I am happy to say, however, that the long drive home did improve. After talking with a few pals who cheered me up a bit, I called an old friend with whom I normally only communicate via email. When she found out I was trying to have a baby she insisted that I call her so we could properly catch up, but when I called yesterday she wasn’t at home. Her husband, whom I’ve never met or spoken to at all, was quite possibly the nicest man I’ve ever had a phone conversation with, so genuine and friendly was our brief chat. No doubt he was just practicing the Southern Way, but he spoke to me as if we’d known each other for years. He ended the call with, “You take care now, and we’ll look forward to seeing you soon.” I was almost glad my friend hadn’t been home.

Later I put in a mix CD I’d made for a road trip a few summers ago. Songs I’d forgotten existed came pouring out of my speakers, songs I love and enjoy singing very loudly with the windows down and the sunroof open. (Note to Jen: I must add to my favorite songs list “9 to 5″ by Dolly Parton.) And while I was delivering a particularly energetic rendition of “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing,” an 18-wheeler passed me, and there in the open driver’s side window on the lap of a huge bearded trucker was a tiny miniature pinscher, its little head bobbing happily in the wind. It was one of the cutest things I’ve seen in a long time.

Today is a better day. I’ve been taking a lot of deep breaths. I’ve been meditating on my ovaries, sending them positive messages about making lots of eggs. I’ve been listening to fun music and watching the birds feed in my yard. Today my friend who lost her granddaughter is on her way to the beach, and I can think of no better place to begin the healing process. Next week I think I’ll go find a sister or two to hang out with, and hopefully that last vial of sperm will meet an egg and make a baby. But right now I’m going to go vacuum my kitchen with the Dust Buster that actually works and try not to think too much about how I basically gave Black and Decker 25 bucks yesterday and nearly sent myself over the edge. After all, my missile fantasy just may be worth that much.

I haven’t even made it through one full week since my last insemination, and already I’m wondering just how “early” that First Response Early Result HPT packaging means. I know it would be crazy of me to test now, but there’s no escaping the thoughts of temptation. So I’ve been thinking of ways to preoccupy myself. Here are a few activities that have real potential:

1. Have your husband, partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, mother, sister, father, brother, neighbor, water meter reader, or postman hide your home pregnancy tests (because surely you have more than one lying around) in really obscure places about your house and yard, and then spend the rest of the day looking for them. After all, how long has it been since you’ve participated in an Easter egg hung? It will be good practice for hunting eggs with your future child. When you’ve found them all (because surely you’ve purchased several of each brand and from varying price ranges), engage your husband, partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, mother, sister, father, brother, neighbor, water meter reader, or postman in a nice game of Pick-up Sticks. Again, more practice.

2. Sit in the warm June sun and read a good book until you are no longer thinking about peeing on a stick, or until the sun goes down, whichever comes first. FYI, calendula gel is excellent for sunburn due to overexposure. It can be purchased at your local health food store. Apply it liberally to sunburned areas. This particular diversion should not be used for several days in a row.

3. Practice a seated or reclined yoga meditation. Meditate for hours if necessary, but avoid doing a reclined meditation on a deck or porch that can be viewed by neighbors and passing cars. These people may not understand what you are up to and may be tempted to run over to you and see if you are okay, or, in extreme situations (96 degree heat, for instance), assume that you’ve experienced heat stroke and call 911.

4. Play hours and hours of Internet Scrabble. I’m starting to get an elevated sense of my Scrabble-playing abilities, so if anyone would like to email me a challenge, please feel free to do so.

5. Spend hours adding bells and whistles to your blog. Better yet, spend hours reading other people’s blogs.

6. Clean every inch of your house. Twice. More if necessary. Be sure to engage obscure cleaning tools, like lint rollers and ceiling fan dusters, and take this opportunity to find out exactly what those strange attachements on the vacuum cleaner do.

On that note, I’d best go vacuum my carpet. The telltale vacuum lines have faded, so it must be dirty. Right? Right.

Ever notice how a little extra money in the bank causes a girl to do some weird shit? Yeah.

So I have this pair of jeans that I got from the Eddie Bauer outlet, and they don’t fit. My plan is to exchange them for something colorful and summer-y. As it turns out, the new EB shorts line is quite colorful and summer-y, and we can all have a pair or two for just $35 a pop. (GASP! $35 for one pair of shorts! Let’s get two!) I picked orange and green (I’m sure the colors were named something much prettier, like “daylily” and “magnolia leaf,” because color identification is just another shameless marketing attack on the hopeless metaphoric). It is here that I must point out the dollar amount I was receiving in the jeans exchange: $19.99. Of course, I had already picked out a “colorful and summer-y” on-sale shirt that was a fairly even trade. But what self-respecting shopper can enter her favorite store without browsing? Enter the shorts. They were just the right length–none of that ass-crack thong-revealing shorter-than-my-underwear business. They came with cute little matching Girl Scout style belts in complementary spring colors. They made me think of July and cold beer and eating out at the beach. Most importantly, they slenderized my ass, and that, my friends, is the single-most significant factor when shopping for anything that is to be worn at, below, or even remotely near the waist (”I’m sorry, but that backpack makes my butt look big. Do you have something I can strap to my head?”). I left the store with an $84 sales receipt in my hand. And a cold sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

This is the part where I defend myself, because later I’m going to seem like a real nutcase, and I’m only slightly so. You see, I did a bridal portrait shoot recently, and I had an extra wad of money in my possession. I’m saving it for something special (stay tuned…that’s a story for another blog), and it’s not shorts. But I’ve always been one to reward myself when I had extra cash–a new outfit, a pedicure, an extra-large pizza and a six-pack of Corona Light. Seventy bucks worth of shorts. You get the picture. But even as I put my shopping bag into my car and pulled away from the scene of the crime, I was having second thoughts. See, this thing I’m saving for–it’s HUGE. Life-altering. It’s a far cry from shorts that slenderize my butt. I drove around the shopping center parking lot three times. In my head, using my limited mathematical reasoning, I decided I could buy four or five pairs of Target brand shorts for what I paid at Eddie. Also in my head were the following random bits of information: last summer I wore the same two pairs of shorts, one gray and one khaki, which are perfectly acceptable “summer-y” colors, by the way; it is currently March, average temperature 60, and I do not need shorts at this time; I do not own anything that would remotely match “daylily.”

Within an hour I took the shorts back. I lied to the nice lady behind the counter, told her I found something I liked better elsewhere. Which is true, in a way. I found my brain. It was hiding behind my checkbook.

Note: the aforementioned shirt, which was the original jeans-exchange item, is hanging in my closet, and it is filled with colorful, summer-y flowers. :o)