Shame on the Tennessee Department of Revenue, Taxpayer and Vehicle Services for denying their citizen, Ms. Whitney Calk's personalized license request because they jumped to the conclusion that she intended something "vulgar."
Leave it to a red state, pork barbecue eating, bible belt bureaucrat to miss the wholesome, health promoting, true intent of a vegetarian enthusiast.
Redeem yourself, Tennessee. Get your collective minds out of the gutter. Reach into the depths of your government issued desk drawers and find the rubber stamp that says
and give Ms. Calk the freedom of expression our American forefathers intended. Just like you did for this upstanding Tennessee citizen:
"...every day our young people... are bombarded at school, in movies, in music, on TV, in the mall, in magazines, they’re bombarded with ‘homosexuality is normal and natural.’ It’s something they have to deal with every day. Fortunately we don’t have to deal with a terrorist attack every day, and that’s what I mean... that it’s more dangerous, and yes I think that it’s also more dangerous because it will tear down the moral fiber of this nation."
Preferably a very colorful sock:
previously worn by one of these proud gentlemen:
You can to listen to Sally Kernaphobic for yourself, here.
I'm none too happy with the state of Texas right about now. And I'm not talking about our current drought or the record setting heat wave. Did somebody say 23 days of 105 or hotter? I only thought it was hot two years ago.
No, what I'm p*ssed off about is man made. Woman made. Ignoramus made.
I ranted before about how Texas' public school kids are getting lousy information when it comes to pregnancy prevention. This time it's more serious.
Here's the conversation between my son and Daring Daughter (DD). We were in the kitchen. I was cooking dinner. The kids were getting a snack. I can't remember how it started but eventually they got to arguing about safe sex.
Older and Wiser Son: Condoms prevent AIDS.
DD: No they don't. Nothing prevents AIDS.
O&WSon: Um, you're wrong. Condoms work. They work really well! Go look it up!
DD: I don't need to look it up. Nothing protects against AIDS except abstinence. That's what they taught us at school!
O&WSon: (Fanning me as I lie on the kitchen floor.) That's right, Mom. That's what they teach in school. You know, abstinence education?
How can this be happening? How can the powers that be, the State Board of Education and their mutant cronies, be allowed to perpetuate, to legislate, to TEACH to our CHILDREN information that is clearly a lie? A lie that kills?
And why are we all just lying down taking it? Do we need to wait for the next wave of HIV epidemic before we put a stop to this dangerous policy?
Don't you love it when you go through the forgot your password prompts and you answer your secret questions correctly and they tell you your new password has been sent to your email address and then, you know what comes next, you have no idea which email address you used.
Gotta love backyard chickens, too. You go through the trouble of cutting up veggie scraps, taking said scraps to the chicken coop in 106 degree temps, and how do they show their aprpeciation? They strut around on top of the veggies, mashing them into the dirt and then take a sh*t right on top. Splat!
I guess that's where the saying,I'm so happy I could sh*t originated.
And then there's the trappings of the digital age. You can't hide anymore. Case in point:
Just after I post a status update, my home phone rings. It's somebody whose voice I'd rather hear on my answering machine than hold a conversation with. So I do what any good socially avoidant personality would do, let the machine pick it up.
But they leave no message. Half a minute later my cell phone rings. I'm all, Day-em, busted 'n sh*t. Because now they know I'm either (a) sitting at my home computer, or (b) posting via my cell phone. But then I think, No. Wait. Don't answer. I'm outside feeding the chickens. I mean, really, who carries their cell phone to feed the chickens?
The upshot is this: In this digital age, it gets to the point where your frenemies think you spend an awful lot of time hanging out at the chicken coop.
m For the final random thought you must go to this NYC street performance art link,Say Something Nice. Take a listen to the woman speaker at 2:26.
Every time I hear a right wing Christian preacher ranting about the evils of the gay lifestyle or some neo-con politician up for re-election warning that the legalization of gay marriage is the antithesis of family values, my blood boils.
Because I have listened to too many heartwrenching stories about the true and actual evils bestowed by Christian parents upon their gay children. These supposed God fearing moms and dads.
Painful recountings by gays of parents who failed them, rejected them, abused them. Childhoods, adolescences, adult years of being criticized, threatened, berated, humiliated and ostracized. Parents who doled out condemnation rather than acceptance for something their child didn't choose, contrary to the uninformed propaganda. Time and again I have comforted middle aged adults whose train wrecked lives can't ever get on track because, in my professional opinion, they were denied essential love and nurturance by the very people entrusted to shelter and raise them.
So here is my point, in case it isn't obvious by now. The true evil is perpetrated, not by gays who are merely trying to find their truth, but by gay haters, gay deniers, gay bashers. By those masquerading as followers of Jesus, who, by the way, purportedly never preached against homosexuality. Or if he did, it wasn't remembered or viewed so important as to warrant inclusion in the gospels by the big man in the clouds doing the inspirational nudging.
The core violation of family values occurs, instead, in the homes of gay repudiating parents whose fear, ignorance and narcissism prevents them from fulfilling their fundamental Christian duty: to provide a safe upbringing to their children. To love them.
Every year I say I want to go and every year I miss it for one reason or another, usually because I forget all about it when the weekend arrives. This year we had just returned from vacation and I opted to stay home and luxuriate in doing nothing.
It's called a watermelon thump for an important reason. Choosing a good watermelon, a ripe melon that isn't overly ripe, is all in the thump. After reading one of my favorite bloggers, Mrs. Brightsides Friday Fast Ones give advice on watermelon selection, I remembered a funny story.
Sam was told by a guy who used to sell watermelons on the side of the road that it's all in the stripes. Pick a melon with stripes that blend and blur into each other rather than distinct stripes.
One day earlier in the summer I finally remembered this advice. Came home ready to see if the proof was in the melon. Sam picked it up and asked, Did you feel this?! All accusatory like.
Turns out one end was soft and squishy like a nerf ball. Rotten on one end. Over ripe. I was so busy looking at stripes that I didn't feel the damned thing. BFD. Where D = Duh. I could have kicked myself.
With these:
So when I read Mrs. Brightside, I was curious and went to youtube. Watched a slew of experts (produce managers, farmers, Ag extension service dudes). None mentioned stripes. Only one mentioned color but it was general, bright color recommended rather than dull.
They all mentioned the thump, however. Hollow, echo sound to the thump. Dull thud means over ripe. They also said to pick one with a yellow resting spot, not white.
And? The hotter the weather the sweeter the melon. Silver lining given the summer we're having. Last week we beat the previous record of 21 consecutive days of triple digit temperatures with 27 days.
So, as it turns out, now's the perfect time to get out there and thump. There's some sweet watermelon waiting.
Took one of my kids and three of her friends kayaking this afternoon. Playing super mom, my husband Sam called it.
We rented three kayaks and set out for Town Lake, aka newly-named-but-seldom-referred-to-by-the-locals-as Lady Bird Lake.
First we paddled under the Barton Springs Footbridge.
Here's a view pedestrians see when walking along Town Lake Hike 'n Bike Trail:
Then we paddled under the Barton Springs Road Bridge.
Then once we were out on the lake, we headed for our final destiny, the Lamar Street Bridge. It spans the lake, connecting SoLa (South Lamar) on the south side of the Colorado River, with downtown's 5th Street.
Once we made it, my daughter and her friends were in awe of the bridge jumpers, the young people who park their kayaks underneath, climb up onto the trestles and plunge into the water.
Here's a look from under the bridge.
Of course, what did Daring Daughter (DD) and her friends quickly set as their goal? I didn't think they would succeed in climbing up to the trestle landing so I didn't try to stop them. Amused, I stayed out in the middle of the lake watching.
Undeterred, the kids piled one kayak on top of the other on the center landing. With a handup from one of the jumper dudes (super mom hadn't seen this coming) next thing I knew they were up on the trestle.
It took them over a dozen one, two, threes before getting up the nerve to fling themselves out to the water.
Again and again they jumped (from the second wrung, not the third as pictured above), screaming and squealing. Wish I had my camera so I could have captured their huge smiles.
I'm pretty sure it's illegal, this bridge jumping, but some things in life are too much fun to let something as silly as a local law to get in the way. Sometimes a mom just has to look the other way. Or in my case, keep her eyes glued so as not to miss a second of it.
All pictures courtesy of other Austin photographers.
yogravation - the feeling you get when you rearrange your week's schedule to attend a particular yoga class, only to show up, mat in hand, and find it was cancelled.
1. How can I be sure you really are a Young Rascal?
2. What would weed-ius do?
3. My hair obeyed my every command today.
4. Family reunion avoiders anonymous.
5. My favorite summer fruits are cherries and mango.
6. Yumm, that was delicious, thanks... er wait ...what was that?
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to watching instant movies on Nitflex, tomorrow my plans include tennis and Sunday, I want to huddle in the air conditioning with my hubs!
Cleeck on zee link if yee wish to plee Friday Fill-Ins, too.
If Edvard Munch were still alive, a photographer, in Austin, and sitting on my side porch in the 108 degree heat, here would have been his inspiration for The Scream.
It is that hot and it isn't just my candle that is melting around here.
I have been waiting, I kid you not, months, if not 3 years, 7 months and 3 days, for my pathetic 96 followers (the number 96, not the actual persons following) to grow to an awe inspiring 100. And guess what? It happened. Today. (Check sidebar to the right to verify).
Ding! Ding! Ding! (Insert 3-second soundbite).
(Which I couldn't find so I inserted this 4-minute music video instead, Gunther's ding ding dong song. I suggest you click the arrow and listen as you read my dedication post.)
Okay so the best part of my 100th follower experience? I didn't even have to go trolling to lure this honorable personage to my blog table.
No, readers, he found me! Because with a name like ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAELI presume he identifies with the male gender. One never knows these days.
Just to be sure, I also looked at his profile picture.
Yes, I would say he is , in fact, a he.
But then, as I was uploadingELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL's picture so my other 99 readers could gender judge for themselves (or gendge for short, because I do believe we need a new verb for this specific purpose, don't you?) I noticed that his profile image was labeled "keanu." So now, unfortunately,ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL's gender certainly is further obscured.
By the way, if ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL had used this image of keanu as his profile picture I would have been even more confused.
But back to this amazing masterstroke of blogenius, which is ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL electing to become my 100th follower, or, 100th sexiest person alive as the case may be. In honor of this hallowed event, I have decided to dedicate one post to this incredibly kind individual. Or more precisely, his blog.
And thank the almighty gord lod, ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL's blog, Appellate Sky, is effing hilarious. A stroke of comic genius. I mean, whoever would have thought one could stay awake through, let alone emit laughter* throughout, a blogpost talking about the termination of the space shuttle program?
But it is true, my other 99 friends. Trust me on this. You will not be sorry to read about ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL's excellent adventure through the intergallactica in his 2002 Chevy Malibu. Nor about the 4000 ton dildo for moms. Who among us can resist that?
I am every bit serious about the laughter factor, that is, in case you think my attempt at acerbic wit undermines my sincerity. I also want to add that he is a southern gentleman who hails from the state of my maternal heritage, Louisiana.
So thank you ELLIOT MACLEOD-MICHAEL for jumping aboard and thank you to my other sexy, smart, kind and amazing 99 loyal followers (and to those 8 who routinely leave comments to prove your loyalty) for helping give my humble coffeeyogurt some semblance of blogospheric relevance.
And now? I am going to spend the rest of my Saturday morning reading more about that 4000 ton dildo.
Whereas I am ever one-pay-scale-away from becoming a device-slut, it could be said that Sam has bought a ticket on the slow boat to digi-land.
As in,
- it was the year 2010 before he replied to his first email
- 2011 before he composed one from scratch
Put a nail gun or a miter saw in his hand and he is home on the range. Digital texting? Not gonna happen.
Until tonight. He is away tending to his mother. He and his sister are at her house. It's looking to be the first step along the path of moving her toward an assisted living situation. Convincing her. Not something any son or daughter looks forward to.
So while I was grocery shopping, I sent him a text for the first time*
A bit anti-climactic, wouldn't you say? Instead of replying, I just smiled. And waited for him to call, i.e., bypass the whole confounded texting nonsense. In his mind, not mine. Me? I lubs me some texting.
*Thanks to Mental P Mama and her Parentexting series, I was able to take a screen shot of her screen shot and pretend that I can take a screen shot of my own.
I am stunned but not surprised. Sad to the point of tears. I loved this young singer's voice. So bluesy and raw. This decade's Janice.
I remember so clearly the first time I heard Amy's music. A driveway moment. Saturday night. Sitting in the living room of friends. Vodka and cranberry in my hand. A vintage orange and pink tumbler.
Who is this? I loved what I heard. The newly acquired Back to Black, Amy's album destined to win six Grammies. I asked to replay the album later in the evening. I was so excited to hear someone new, someone who sounded this good. I never stopped loving her sound.
And then the drugs. Those reapers of so many young and troubled musicians. A tabloid photo showing her arms so thin, her skin so sallow. References to meth addiction. It occurred to me, She could die, too. I anxiously followed her up and down progress.
And now today.
Rest in peace, Miss Winehouse. You sure didn't seem to rest on this earth.
When it comes to cleaning it's always been this way for me - I don't need to clean so much as I need a reason to clean. This weekend I had my reason. My sister and two little nieces are flying down from the north country.
While I was cleaning and vacuming the car (twice a year affair, if that) I found myself smiling despite the one hundred degree temperature and the sweat dripping down my nose. I was thinking about how my sis and I get to laughing hysterically during our visits, mostly because she makes the most ridiculous faces.
Some people call it mugging.
Mugging seems to be a family tradition. My mother always made crazy faces, usually conveying surprise or mocking disapproval. Then there's my sister who routinely puts on clown faces. And now my daughter. When she was a toddler, my husband's sister remarked how animated she was. I didn't understand what she meant. She said my daughter was a lot like me and my sister in that way, that we were so expressive. Huh? I still didn't get it. What was so different about us? I was intrigued.
Many years later I do get it. I've been paying attention. Whereas I used to think everybody made faces when they talked, I've come to see that people's expressiveness ranges from rarely using gestures to regularly making faces to tell a story or emphasize a point or punctuate a joke.
My husband, Sam, and his sister are quick witted and funny but hardly ever make faces in the middle of their story. Maybe never because I can't think of an example where they did.
Some of my friends are dry witted and completely deadpan to the point of almost missing the joke. I like both kinds of humor but think I'm partial to the making faces thing.
Like for instance, my favorite comedians have a thing about mugging:
Martin Short
Kristin Wiig
Andy Samberg
I've also come to realize how much I make faces when I talk. Sometimes I'm overly aware of it. It's like looking out from my own face, noticing my expressions from behind my face and seeing their effect on people. And I wonder if I look ridiculous. If they wonder why the heck I find the need to make so many faces, why can't I simply tell a story without the goofy mannerisms.
What about you? Are you one of the expressives or one of the deadpans?
I was reading Jenn's post about a group of bitter divorcees who were handing out advice to their kids on how to avoid a bad marriage: wait until you're at least 30 years old to marry.
I replied that I thought it was ridiculous to pick an arbitrary age and think that is the magic bullet.
I married around the age of 30 and I think I have a pretty good marriage so you might think the bitter divorcee advice holds true. But I dont' think it was just our age that made it so. I think it was the fact that he was available as often as I wanted him to be. He didn't weasel out of dates or show up late or not show up at all. He cared about my well being (in the bedroom, even). He valued me as a friend and as a person with thoughts and opinions that mattered.
Not exactly advice on marriage but a good parallel, I read an article by a therapist who suggested we teach our daughters to only have sex with someone who feels like a best friend, who acts like a best friend. Someone who you can talk to about anything, who you trust will stand by your side, who helps you when you need it, who is reliable, who shows up, who is kind in words and actions. Most of our kids know what a best friend looks like so it's tapping knowledge and feelings they're already familiar with.
What kind of advice would you give someone who wants to know the secret to choosing a healthy mate?
It's been so long since I've posted. I wish I could say the reason for my neglect is that I was vacationing at some gloriously beautiful destination like the one pictured above ... and ... well actually, I will say that.
Because it's true.
San Francisco. Muir Woods. Santa Cruz. Henry Cowell State Park. Monterey. Big Sur. My dream vacation. First trip to California (I know, I know). I loved every minute and have so much gratitude that I got to see it all with my husband and three kids.
That's Big Sur's McWay Falls in the picture. Taken by my own hands with my own trusty camera. No swiping of google images for this cup of yogurt. No sur.
And recovering from this vacation? An acute episode of post vacation blues, people. It has taken quite a lot out of me, this returning to normalcy. So please bear with me while I adjust to life back in Dulltown at my house on Hotashell Boulevard.
The Alamo Drafthouse is a chain of Austin theatres where food and drink is served. A whole menu of food plus adult beverages.
The caller in this audiotape is angry because she was kicked out of the Drafthouse for texting. Because texting might disturb fellow movie goers. The Drafthouse was so tickled with the voice mail they posted it to Youtube:
Really?
I don't know. Texting doesn't bother me.
Talkers bother me. Crying babies bother me. I missed a punch line in Bridesmaids the other day, thanks to a crying baby.
And you know what else, Drafthouse? Food servers bother me. Food servers walking back and forth, taking orders and delivering the food to the group sitting next to me and in front of me bothers me. Servers stooping to avoid blocking my view bothers me. The fact that they mostly do block my view bothers me.
I find myself worrying for the health of the food servers and their lower backs. I want to tell them, Don't work here too long. When you're my age you'll regret it. I actually want to whisper that. The act of resisting the impulse to give motherly advice bothers me.
And then there's the smell of food. I can't resist looking around to determine what I'm smelling. French fries? Fried okra? Potato skins?
All this looking and worrying and sniffing bothers me. So I haven't gone in a few years. And probably won't unless it's the only theatre in town playing the movie I want to see.
And when I do go? I'll be wearing a nose clip.
What do you think? Do you mind someone texting in a theater? Should someone be kicked out for it?
Shame on the Tennessee Department of Revenue, Taxpayer and Vehicle Services for denying their citizen, Ms. Whitney Calk's personalized license request because they jumped to the conclusion that she intended something "vulgar." 
