take that, texter!

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?

can you find the roadrunner?

Not that kind.

This kind.

The real deal.

Geococcyx Californianus.

I've lived in Texas for over 25 years and have only seen a handful of roadrunners. The first one I saw was in Big Bend National Park. Sam and I were vacationing, no kids at the time (what? is that possible? a vacation by ourselves? surely I dreamt that up). We were walking up one of the many trails and between us walked a huge roadrunner. Friendly guy, he came within a few feet of us and let us admire his long tail and brown spotted plumage.

Fast forward to the past few months. We've been spotting one in our yard, again and again. The next door neighbors have, too. We've all been wondering what's up.

Wonder no more. Sam was sitting in the throne room one evening recently, looking out his window to the magic kingdom that is our backyard. The window he insisted on designing our master bath around. It was one of the few features of our house that he was adamant about. He wanted that passenger side view.

He saw our roadrunner scuttling up a stand of Live Oaks trees. When he left his observation post, he went outside to see where the roadrunner was headed. He spotted a nest.

In all these years, I assumed roadrunners were ground nesters. Turns out they nest in cactus, low bushes and short trees.

Here's another factoid I was very happy to read:

The roadrunner eats anything it finds, such as scorpions, lizards, rodents, and other birds. It is one of the few birds fast enough to prey on rattlesnakes. It attacks a rattlesnake by grabbing the snake by the tail, and snapping the body so that it beats the snake's head against the ground or a stone until the snake is dead.

Having just had dinner with friends who told me their dog was bit by a rattlesnake, I hope the roadrunner sticks around and rears up many little ones.

See if you can find the roadrunner in her nest:

No?

Try again:

I tried to get closer. If you don't believe me I've got a fire ant bite on my middle toe to prove it. By the time I swatted the fire ant off my foot, I looked up and the roadrunner had taken off.

We've since learned they lay as many as 12 eggs but typically only 3-4 live to make it to the ground. They will be parented for two weeks and then they will be on their own.

We can't wait to meet the baby roadrunners and introduce them to our other exotic backyard bird family,

Mr. and Mrs. Flamingo.

Update: Approximately three weeks later Mr. and Mrs. Roadrunner appear to be the proud parents of baby roadrunner chicks. We don't know how many but we see proud momma and papa running back and forth from the nest carrying darling little gifts of lizards and other foodstuff. We are waiting to see the chicks hopping around on the ground and hoping to get pictures.

note to attorneys in child custody cases

1. Give the psychologist you wish to testify on behalf of your client more than two hours notice especially when she has no idea you're going to call her to the stand. Doubly so when (a) she has no idea she is going to be called as a witness and (b) the courtroom is located in the next county. We do have other clients to consider. We do have several years worth of notes to review. And we might need to fill our gas tanks.

2. Give the correct address of the courtroom. There is a difference between Chestnut and Chester Streets.

3. Introduce yourself when you come out to find the witness. Looking at two waiting therapists, neither of whom have ever laid eyes on you, and asking, Who wants to go first? doesn't cut it. I mean, dude, you want us on your side.

4. Ask one question at a time. Four questions wrapped into one is a sure way to annoy the witness and the judge. It's also a way to get an answer you weren't looking for. We are talking about the future of little kids here, not whether some corporation has to pay a two-bit fine.

5. Don't ask questions that don't have double negatives in them. Meaning, ask questions worded in the positive. It's a whole lot clearer. We witnesses really don't enjoy saying, I'm sorry, that question is too convoluted for me to answer several times in a row.

6. Show the slightest bit of appreciation for the psychologist who, at a moment's notice, rescheduled her afternoon appointments, drove 40 miles, skipped lunch, and, unlike yourself, isn't getting paid.

7. It would be a whole lot more fun for everybody involved if you acted a little more like the attorneys on Boston Legal. Go for edgy and a lot less repetition. One, we'd know what to expect. Two, the judge might actually pay attention. And three, novice expert witnesses like myself might actually look forward to testifying instead of dreading it with every ounce of our being.

Note to the rural county court stenographer? You keep rockin' those rhinestone flip flops.

high college tution: does it pay?

We've got three teens in the house. We are staring down the barrell of a financial shotgun called college tuition.

A few weeks ago we were stunned to learn from a friend whose high school senior got accepted into UC Berkley for the fall that the annual cost of tuition, room, board, books, etc. would be $50K. No financial aid packages available. California would prefer to take a check in full from it's out of state students.

Blew my mind. I knew the Ivy schools would run that high. Didn't expect this from a state university, albeit out of state.

Compare $50K a year to our close-by state university about 30 minutes down the road: less than $20K. Begs this question, does a college diploma that costs $120K more pay off? Even more than that if you add in the interest on student loans. And most kids these days do get loans.

But really, does a kid who graduates from a nationally recognized school experience better financial success?

Something of an answer was in our local paper today. A study by economists Dale & Krueger found that,

"Once you control for aptitude, career earnings don't vary based on the college attended: if you are smart enough to get into a brand-name private university, you'll do just fine going to a state college. What will determine your success will be your aptitude and your work ethic, not the name on your diploma."

So kids? I'd much rather have a $20K t-shirt. No, really.

You can read more on financial lessons for high school grads, here.

what may be the last words from coffeeyogurt for, like, ever

Goodbye Cruel World.

Because there are times when the world is too harsh, too unforgiving, too filled with head lice.

Our first battle was five years ago. Two second graders and one fifth grader. Three long haired kids, thousands of strands to be searched.

We managed to rid the oldest two of their affliction within two weeks. The third child? Long, fine, light brown, copper highlighted locks where lice loved to linger? Took months. A good six months, maybe nine. Some of the worst months of child rearing, I do know that. Nights of crying, whining, howling and growling from the child who, it became apparent, could least bear the suffering.

So of course, this time around, it has to be the copper headed child whose group of friends invited us back to Lice Nation.

I discovered the lice midnight Friday. Which meant delivering the most devastating news of all to a middle school girl's ears: no sleepovers and no slumber parties.

And so everyday for the next several weeks her dad and I will sitting on our picnic table, in the bright sunlight, hunched over our child's head, ensconced in coke bottle glasses bought specifically for the purpose, diligently combing.

Because if there's one tip that I recommend? That finally ended our months of failed attempts?

Reading glasses. The strongest power glasses and the cheapest you can find (thank you Dollar Store).

You may look like a middle aged, transgender Buddy Holly while you're at it but you'll be able to see those little mo-fo Phthiraptera basturds and get your life back.

driving miss crazy

A flat tire, a dead battery, a fender bender, and keys locked in the car. All within the past six months of my teen's new driving career.

All taken care of by johnny on the spot his dad.

Though to give my son proper change-tire-credit, he did get the jack properly situated and was successfully lifting the car when his dad arrived to save the day.

All the while his mom stood by playing with her cell phone wringing her hands like the helpless female stereotype she would prefer to dispel. Mind you, it was my car.

Mind you, I've never changed a tire on my own. Thirty plus years of driving. Though I am good at fetching cold drinks and providing light hearted banter.

But back to the flat tire at hand. When it occurred, we were in front of the main entrance to my son's high school. While he worked the jack his favorite teacher was leaving for the day. He was a young attractive guy. He looked to be in his early 30's. He also looked determined to walk by us as quickly as he could.

Great, I thought. Exactly the first impression I was hoping not to make. I shrugged, gave him a sheepish grin and said,"I don't want to get my pants dirty."

The teacher replied with a look that said, Like I give a crap, lady. I'm sure you're a good mom most of the time." And he kept on walking.

And now to bring you a light hearted look at what was really going on in The Situation Room the night of the Bin Laden invasion. Not to be missed.

driving me to drink

I was driving in the car with my son who is learning to drive. Or to be more accurate, I was being held hostage in the passenger seat wishing I'd asked my doctor for some beta-blockers.

My son was weeks away from taking his driver's test.

I was weeks away from marching up the steps to the Governor's mansion to demand he issue an executive order to pray for rain raise the driving age to 18 21.

We're on a busy highway with cars speeding past. Heading north on Mopac just before Enfield exit, for my fellow Austin road travelers. Right there were the lanes narrow and the congestion gets hairy.

So my unlicensed teen driver was behind the wheel, cars whizzing past, violating every single rule I'm trying to impress on my son as important.

He asks me why it's ok for all the other cars on the road to drive so close to the cars in front of them.

My reply: Experienced drivers often break a lot of safety rules, like tailgating too close and changing lanes without using their blinker. Experienced drivers can get away with it. But you're a new driver and as a new dri---

My son's thoughtful rebuttal: I'm not a new driver, MOM!

My reply: (Screeching in the most undignified manner.) Not a new driver? What?  You don't even have your license yet!

Son: (Very calm and mature-like. I'm not sure where he has learned this.) But I'm not a new driver.

Me: And what is your definition of a new driver, then?

Son: Someone who has just learned to drive.

Three questions:

(1) Is anyone shocked that car insurance rates for new drivers are so high?

(2) Is it too late to find religion?

(2) Can someone please tell me we will survive this?

Thank you, Worst Mother, for supplying the perfect illustration.

are you there god? it's me, texas.

You may have seen the story on the national news. A wildfire burnt 100 acres in southwest Austin last Sunday. Five homes were burnt to the ground, twenty homes damaged.

Apparently enough smoke and ash made it's way to our fair Governor's temporary mansion that he felt touched in the head enough compelled to issue an official proclamation.

Governor Good Hair proclaimed the next three days official Days of Prayer for Rain in Texas.

Yes, you read that right.

Days of Prayer for Rain.

Now call me a cynic, but I had to read it for myself, word for word, on the Governor's official website to believe it and take three shots of tequila to keep from pulling every single hair from my pretty little head.

Here's an excerpt:

"WHEREAS, throughout our history, both as a state and as individuals, Texans have been strengthened, assured and lifted up through prayer; it seems right and fitting that the people of Texas should join together in prayer to humbly seek an end to this devastating drought and these dangerous wildfires;

NOW, THEREFORE, I, RICK PERRY, Governor of Texas, under the authority vested in me by the Constitution and Statutes of the State of Texas, do hereby proclaim the three-day period from Friday, April 22, 2011, to Sunday, April 24, 2011, as Days of Prayer for Rain in the State of Texas. I urge Texans of all faiths and traditions to offer prayers on that day for the healing of our land, the rebuilding of our communities and the restoration of our normal way of life."

This auspicious proclamation lead me into deep embarrassment thought:

1. Does a rain dance comply with the proclamation?

2. Did Governor Perry check the doppler radar before issuing his proclamation?

3. Surely it will rain somewhere in the 268,820 square miles of Texas before the weekend is out, right? But that leads me to wonder: Does it have to rain during the next three days to deem the proclaimtion prayers officially answered? Or can it rain, say, a month from now and still count? A year? I mean, God has a lot on his plate right now what with answering the prayers of victims of tsunamis, war crimes and cancer. It would make sense if he were to put off a mere drought. Right?

4. Is it true that there is no term limit applied to the governorship of Texas? Can we maybe pray for the state legislature to work on changing that?

5. How the hell did Texas elect this bass-ackward governor?

inceptionally mediocre

I watched this tonight with my daughter who had already seen it. I kept having to pause the movie to ask her what was going on. Not to mention rewinding again and again in order to hear what the heck was being said. Asian man with French accent, what? French actress imitating an American accent, who?

What I did like about Inception, though, was noticing the layers under the layers that the filmmakers so sneakily snuck into the movie. It's one of the perks of living to be half a century old.

Or did they?

I love it when this happens. Recognizing actors playing opposite each other, knowing they had prior roles that relate somehow. Seems I never forget a face. Who knows, maybe I am one of those super-recognizers I wrote about earlier (oddly enough, I wrote that post almost two years ago to the day).

So here goes. Inception. The layers within the movie about layers of sleep.

- Heathcliff (Tom Hardy) plays alongside a man (DiCaprio's Cobb) who also keeps chasing the woman he loves on the other side.

Bugged me the whole movie. Where have I seen this guy? Why do those lips look so familiar? I had to google his name in order to make the connection.

- The Edith Piaf song, Non Je Ne Regrette Rien. It was bugging me, too. I wanted to figure out why they chose that particular song as the wake-me-up.

And now I'm thinking it was because the song played alongside the woman who plays a woman who certainly does have regrets (Cotillard's Mal) because she can't wake up, afterall.

- Cillian Murphy plays Robert Fisher, which may or may not be a play on Bobby Fisher. How this relates to Inception I have no idea. But again, I recognized Murphy from somewhere but couldn't put my finger on it. Turns out Murphy is a man who once played a man whose alter personality is that of a woman (Peacock). In Inception, Murphy played opposite a man (Hardy) who morphs into a woman (the blonde at the bar).

I confess I didn't pick up on this layer until I looked up Murphy to learn his prior roles. I'm still not sure what movie I recognized him from originally. Cold Mountain maybe. Or the preview for Red Eye? Don't know. That one will remain deep in my subconscious.

As for the man playing a woman theme, I only came up with that one because, you know, I was writing this post.

- And, finally, but no layer of connection that I can come up with, I got to see Lukas Haas so many years after Witness, all growed up.

I spotted him right away. He's an Austinite, originally, or was at some point before he played the Mennonite boy. Turns out, thanks to imdb, Haas and DiCaprio are friends.

So while the actual movie, in my mind, was, in a word, meh, the underlying meanings were a real kick to watch.

Either that or it's late and I dreamed it all up.

What about you, reader? Did you see deeper layers of movies within the movie? Maybe some that I missed?

congratulations aggies!

And they make history again. The Fightin' Lady Ags beat the Fightin' Irish Lasses 76-70. An exciting game, I was on the edge of my sofa the entire time.

The game was played in Indianapolis so it may as well have been a home game for the Indiana based Irish. Even the refs seemed to be favoring Notre Dame, especially early in the second half - five fouls called on the Aggies in the first three minutes, putting three of our women in foul trouble. A couple of the fouls looked suspect but thanks to ESPN's low budget coverage we fans were not given the benefit of instant replay. Despite the questionable calls, the Aggies kept their positive outlook and ultimately won the game.

The crowning event for me, when it came to proving a bias, was this: After the Aggies won the championship game and the stars and streamers were released from the rafters, I started to notice the colors.

I'll let you see for yourself.

Green, gold and blue. Notre Dame colors. On some level it just made the unexpected victory that much sweeter.

Congratulations Aggies, first time Women's NCAA Champions!

lady aggies make history

Way to go, Aggies! They beat number one seed Stanford to win a spot in the national championship game. It's the first time Aggies have made it to the NCAA women's basketball finals.

We've been following the Lady Ags all season and have seen some exciting basketball. Sam and I took our girls and two of their friends (all played on their middle school team) to see the Aggies beat the hell outta t.u. Longhorns in their Austin arena. I loved that the girls got to see stadium seats filled up to watch women's sports.

To quote one commenter on an Aggie sports blog, "This isn't women's basketball, this is BASKETBALL!"

And here are a couple fascinating factoids:

Aggies got the chance to play Stanford after beating number one seed, Baylor, who beat the Aggies three times during conference play. And now? Notre Dame just beat number one seated UConn after losing to them three times. Fourth time is a charm.

Second factoid: Stanford held the record for the fewest turnovers, Aggies for forcing the most turnovers. Aggies ended up forcing Stanford to turnover 22 times. Poetic justice, the game ended on a Stanford turnover.

And hats off to a superb coach, Gary Blair, for keeping it positive. That's him hugging 6'8" Baylor player, Brittney Griner (only women's college player to ever dunk the ball during a game). For the past five years Blair has drawn a plus sign on the back of his hand to "keep it positive." You can see it on his hand in the photo at right. He understands these are college kids and it's just a game.

So it's on to the National Championship on Tuesday night!

Gig 'Em Fightin' Texas Aggies. Beat the Fightin' Irish!

You can see more pictures, here.

WWPD: What would Palin do?

Don Haase was appointed by current Alaska Governor Sean Parnell (R) to sit on their state's Judicial Council, a panel that nominates state judges.

Haase testified Wednesday that he believes it should be illegal for Alaskans to have sex outside of marriage.

Yes, you read that right. Haase wants to see Alaskans prosecuted for the crime of pre-marital sex.

For some reason I find myself wondering... would former Governor Sarah Palin back this guy's political agenda?

You can read more about the appointee, here.

limping along in laptop land

Sorry I haven't been around much. I haven't been visiting my own blog let alone anyone else's. My excuse is a pretty good one. I am, as they say, technologically swamped.

1. I'm finally getting rid of a dinosaur desktop that still runs Windows 2000. The task of combing through old files and forgotten photos has given me headaches and backaches.

2. I moved the kids' defunct desktop out of their playroom. Whew, the dust that accumulates under those things. Dust allergies be damned, I'm looking into recycling or donating both computers if they're not too obsolete for charity.

3. I stepped on my laptop a few months ago. I've been watching it slowly succomb to the fuzzy electronic equivalent of an evil black spider daily growing larger on my screen and blocking my view.

If you've never been privvy to the cracked screen phenomenon, it's really quite fascinating. Eye strain not withstanding.

All of this to say, a new laptop for me. I'm in the middle of transferring files from the old laptop as we speak.

But oy, an ADD nightmare. So many files, so little short term memory. Should I save or should I trash, now? This indecision's killing me.

4. For too long we've been coping with a printer that drinks more ink than a barfly slurps cheap whiskey. After fully one year of researching asking my neighbor his opinion on laser printers, I broke down and bought one of those, too.

5. My daughter's cell phone and iPad were stolen out of her backpack at school. Thankfully her dad took care of that crisis though I was subject to the groans of a text-deprived adolescent.

6. My other daughter plus friend were playing Austin's Next Supermodel in our driveway. The camera was, apparently, left on the runway and stepped on. Or it was dropped (not that anyone has fessed up). The retractable lens is now jammed and stuck in permanently erect status (unlike other household playthings). Pliers to no avail, the camera is a goner. The family camera, i.e., the family's only camera. Still trying to figure out consequences for that mishap.

7. My office phone died. Bought a new one, installed it (crawling under my desk and detangling wires between client appointments), cursed it, returned it (ridiculously-over-complicated-programming-syndrome), and now have it's replacement sitting on my desk awaiting it's trial run.

Getting used to a new programmable phone is no small task. I don't know about you but I find it impossible to figure out if a gadget will meet my needs short of trial and error.

Ok, I think that about covers it.

When the file transfers, phone upgrades and wireless network adjustments are complete, I hope to resume blogging.

Until then, may the force of functional devices be with you.

Update: Confession extracted. The friend did it. Tripped and dropped it. Can't imagine why, running in the dark, in a long sundress and cowboy boots.

spring break invasion

It's spring break week in Texas. Port Aransas is a small island off the coast of Corpus Christi. A town of less than population 4000 is expecting anywhere from 60-100,000 students. It's an invasion!

So my husband is in the lobby of our Gulf Coast condo and takes this picture of another type of invasion. Apparently the powers that be in the four corners of the universe want in on some of the college coed action:

What kind of UFOs excitement are you entertaining for your spring break?

rocking my red flats

I'm not much of a pump wearer, but I will gladly rock my red flats.

Thanks to My Piece Of Mind, I am now aware that today is National Women and Girls HIV/AIDS Awareness Day. Every 10 minutes an American is infected with HIV. The threat is still alive.

So we all need to spread the word and Rock the Red Pump. Please check out the website, sign up, promote this day of protection on your blog, Twitter and/or Facebook and encourage those you love to be safe.

my love affair with jeans

I'm pretty sure my very first pair of official blue jeans were hip huggers. The hippie version of today's low rise. I was probably eleven or so when I got them. I remember the feeling as I wore them. Hip. Cool. Seventeen.

At some point in junior high I graduated to my first true love: Levi's. I wore them until I wore them out. They came in blue denim, brown corduroy, and painter pants white. Their versatility kept the love affair alive.

But then along came their first true rival, designer jeans. When the first designer jeans ever were introduced, Jordache, I was a high schooler. The mass marketed designer clothing thing was new, let alone in something as basic as denim. But I was not tempted. I thought they looked ridiculous with their dark blue, even, un-faded look, their tight clingy-thighs and their little pockets embroidered with swirly-bobs. I couldn't take them seriously and besides, my mother couldn't take their price. So I remained faithful to Mr. Strauss.

Long about my junior year in college I succomed to the designer temptation, however, to the siren call of Calvin Klein.

And for awhile, nothing came between me and my Calvin(s). But ultimately I returned to the loose legpants of Levi. Pre-shrunk, button-fly, orange-tag, red-tag, acid wash, light wash, 501's and 504's. I loved them all.

The next greatest blue jean revolution for this woman suffering through the waist-pinching, post-childbirth phase of her life was stretch jeans. And when Levi's came out with their version? I fell in love all over again. For the first time ever I could tolerate tight fitting jeans. I'm not sure anyone observing my evolution from behind was pleased, but I sure was.

Which takes me to now. The latest blue jean phenom appears to have hit the airwaves.

I saw them the other night in one of those tacky television commercials on cable, while, as it happens, I was stuffing my face with a juicy burger and fries. It's only fitting, if you think about it.

But really? If jammie is the future of jeans? I am filing for denim divorce.

Until then, Levi's? You are safe.

Disclaimer: One night after I wrote this post, Stephen Colbert did a segment on Levi's (scroll to 1:52), another example of my common experience with synchronicity. Or maybe the staff at Colbert Nation are running out of ideas and have taken to peeking at unposted blog posts.

friday-fill-ins

1. Bring your favorite adult beverage.

2. No cover charge and drinks are included.

3. A good margarita is exactly what I need right now.

4. Well, you see, officer, it all started when she spilled her drink on me.

5. I'd better get out of here soon!

6. But what if nobody answers? Do I get to make another call?

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to kicking back and relaxing, tomorrow my plans include catching up on continuing education and Sunday, I want to take a walk in this warm almost-spring weather!

Want to join in on the Friday Fill-In Fun? Click on the margarita.

The King's Surprise

I just came from seeing The King's Speech. Really wonderful movie. I made sure my tissues were in hand when the opening credits rolled. Besides some great performances by three of my favorite actors, I enjoyed the happiest of surprises.

Warning. Spoiler alert if you are a BBC-P&P fan.

I knew I'd see Mr. Darcy but who knew Eliza Bennett would appear on the scene? Good thing I was tissue-ready but for an entirely different reason than expected.

Did anyone know about this ahead of time? I had no idea. And glad of it. Such a thrill. There was even an appearance by the awful Mr. Collins.

As for Lowell's introducing the two of them? My hair was standing on end.

Yes, I'm a sentimental sap.

telephone bust

This post by Blue Yak got me thinking about one of my most embarrassing on-the-phone moments.

I was maybe a junior in college. I was kinda seeing, kinda dating but mostly just wanting to be friends with this guy who I will call Thomas.

I really liked Thomas. He was a kind, smart, shy, poetic stoner with twinkly brown eyes and some of the most awesome, sexy hair. I think he had gone to my school but maybe dropped out, partly due to his extra curriculars but mostly due to finances.

Thinking back, and this could be a complete fabrication at this point, he was a mix between Jim Morrison and Seth Rogen.

The hair was Seth, only a lot longer. The eyes, definitely Jim.

Thomas also made one of the best omelettes I had ever eaten. To this day, I add a little bit of water to my eggs in his honor. Makes the omelette light and fluffy. He might have been wifty but he made an amazing omelette.

Back to the phone story. Thomas hung around my apartment a lot. It was one of those Saturday mornings where he was acting a little too comfortable, like he might just stay around for life the whole weekend. But I had other plans. I was trying to figure out a way to ditch him kindly get him to go home.

What I came up with was pathetic this:

I had my roommate knock and tell me that so-and-so had called while I was out and asked that I call her back.

This was in prehistoric times, by the way, before answering machines, let alone cell phones. (Really, though? How did we manage to date without answering machines and cell phones? I'll tell you how. We stupid stupid women sat at home by the phone. And it really really sucked.)

So I picked up the phone but pressed on the disconnect button and pretended to have a conversation with so-and-so. Where the gist was, "Oh hey, that's right, so-and-so. I forgot we were going to go there this afternoo----"

At this very moment the phone chose to ring. The phone I was holding in my hand and having a pretend conversation, rang.

Busted.

Thomas was lying on the floor, I remember, watching me the whole time. Because that's what he did, mostly.

I quickly released the button then hung up on the true caller. I tried to play it off. Badly. To Thomas I said,

"Huh? What just happened? That was weird. Wasn't it?!"

With an ever growing confused look on his face he tilted his head as if to say, Huh is right?

"I guess we got disconnected somehow while I was ... uh ... you know ... talking to her."

I don't remember too much after that. I do remember then, and now, being grateful, that he was a stoner. Thinking he might have just thought, "That was weird, dude." Nothing more. Feelings spared. But I doubt even he was that clueless.

Any embarrassing dating phone moments out there?

the black widow spider speaks

There is a large family gathering this weekend in a small Texas town that my husband, children and I will not be attending.

Why, you are supposed to ask?

We won't go because one individual attending is guilty of (though not to be confused with feels guilty for) years of hounding harrassing stalking me in the form of letters.

Lengthy, hand written letters, perfect in penmanship, perfectly straight lines on unlined paper. Sometimes three pages, sometimes seven, sometimes fourteen pages long.

And no, I never wrote him any letters, ever.

This letter writer would be a close member of Sam's family. Blood kin. Sam's best friend for many years.

Do any of you remember when the first stalking laws passed, maybe fifteen years ago? Well I remember like it was yesterday. So guess who was first in line at the police station pouring her heart out opening her letters up to whomever would help?

Now imagine a crusty, old, balding detective bastard, and yes, he earned the title bastard, listening to a young newbie shrink-in-town describe her husband's family member/former best friend's frightening, demonizing, clinically crazy letters.

Guess who humbly and pleadingly asked the detective bastard to sharpen his newly legislatively empowered pencil and unleash his arrest warrant powers?

And guess what the first question the detective bastard asked me?

What does your husband think of all this?

All this? What does my husband think? Is this freaking 1889 where I need his permission to press charges? I am the victim here. But rather than argue with the patronizing detective bastard, I opted to unveil a few choice samples of the letters.

And this is where you'd probably like for me to quote verbatim from my eight-inch stack of hate mail. Except I can't won't put my hands on them right now. I think, but am not sure, they are up in some remote corner my attic.

But here are a few choice phrases that are forever seared into my memory I recall:

! In one of the earliest screeds, he called me the black widow spider. And lest I miss his meaning, he provided a large illustration of a spider on a web complete with red hour glass.

! I was accused of wielding my psychological powers to manipulate his family into doing my evil bidding, in particular to control the individual who controlled his purse strings. He affectionately termed my powers, Susanna's* Secrets.

*Let's say that my given name is Susanna but I have gone by Susie my whole life and have avoided ever going by the name Susanna, because it sounded pretentious and was only used by angry mothers, grandmothers, teachers and nuns. Therefore the weight of Susanna's Secrets was all the more onerous.

! In one letter I was called an east coast yankee carpet bagging* beady-eyed bitch.

*Carpet bagging? What does that mean exactly? In my case, I mean? At the time he wrote that line I was somewhere in the last stages of getting my doctorate. Whose carpet was I bagging, exactly?

! He threatened that if I didn't put an end to Susanna's Secrets I would regret it, be sorry, and pay in terrible pain. To emphasize this point he drew of a large knife dripping in red blood.

! He accused me of murdering my best friend*. My crime was failing to discourage her from moving on with her life and pursuing a new relationship. My method of murder, of course, was her contracting HIV from the new guy. Duh.

*His former girlfriend, who, by the way, was, and is, quite alive and doing much better without his letter-writting ass.

!He threatened to take action to have my license revoked by reporting Susanna's Secrets to my oversight board. He claimed that by consoling and offering support to my friend, his former girlfriend, I was violating the board's rule of ethics. If he was to do this, I would have suffered the aggravation and likely the legal expense of defending myself. This caused me quite a bit of worry, moreso than knives dripping in blood.

!He tampered with a picture of me that was hanging on his mother's wall. A picture of my husband and me sitting close, smiling big, taken several months after our twins were born. It was one of many in a montage-type frame. He had apparently carefully dismantled the frame, removed the picture, cut the eyes out, replaced it, and re-hung the frame.

!He said that I waddled when I walked. Now, here you shall know the true evil that resides within me. The sin of vanity. This waddling business caused me just slightly less anxiety than the licensing board worries.

The short story is this: The police did not issue a warrant. Though one year or so later one was issued after he letter-stalked a friend of the family. He did get arrested. He did go to jail. He was let out on bond by the purse strings: Obviously Susanna's Secrets were not working. He failed to appear in court. Nothing further happened except the rising blood pressure and dismay of one black widow spider.

We haven't seen the author of the manuscripts, as we call them, in almost twenty years. He lives in Sam's hometown, jobless, supported by his mother my mother-in-law the purse strings. He has never met or, to my knowledge, laid eyes on my kids, other than photos.

For the record, Sam was fully supportive of my pressing charges. He sat with me through a previous report in his hometown. Made the call, even. I am grateful for his pledge to stay away from him, made without my asking.

I've gradually moved beyond fear (most of the time) to appreciating the humor of it all. I used to have a rubber spider stick-on stuck to the dash of my car. Some of the letter phrasings have become code words. When I don't give Sam his way? Damned beady-eyed bitch. When the purse strings lean in our favor? Susanna's Secrets are finally working.

And so we won't be going to the reunion this weekend. The scribbler will be there. He'll be driving his mother, my children's grandmother the purse strings.

As for those letters, I'll leave them in their attic grave, no doubt closely guarded by a black widow spider whom, I know, has got my back.