shame on Tennessee

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:

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.

morning omen

You know how when you use the last of the gallon of milk for your bowl of cereal?

And then you pour your second bowl of cereal and the Fruit Loops get a little soggy from the leftover milk?

And then you reach into the fridge and realize there is not another gallon of milk in there?

That's when you know you should just get back in bed and stay there.

I had this same thought

but it took Steve Martin to come up with the song.

e-bayte my ass

You know when you have been watching an ebatty item for several days and you wait until the last few seconds to bid, I believe this is called sniping, and then you see that you are currently the winner with barely 3 seconds left?

Your heart is all pounding and you feel all triumphant because the item you won at $54 is actually worth $179? And you have $20 left in the bid kitty? You know that feeling?

But then you refresh the page and see that no, at the very last millisecond, some sneaky, snarky, sniper came in and stole won with $1 more than your top bid? You know that feeling?

So then you content yourself on some primordial level of pettiness with the malicious satisfaction that at least the thief sniper had to fork over an extra twenty bucks at the last second? What is that feeling called?

Schnipenfreude?

who's kissing governor ahnold contest

I found what is apparently Governor Ahnold's secret revenue generating strategy in my spam box:

I like such themes and everything connected to this matter.

Can't you just hear Ah-nold and his ach-cent?

And ever-ting connected to dis mah-ter. And dis ting and de udder and ever-ting like dat.

I wish he were turning his Terminator charms onto the true spamminators.

Making him the Sperminator. Har.

No doubt, spam-boy. You will be back.

If that wasn't enough Ah-nold for you, here's more. Click it if you need a laugh. And please don't confuse me with an Ah-nold movie buff, but I adored him in True Lies. The hotel strip scene had me in stitches not to mention in awe of that amazing bod. His co-star's, not his.

Oh, and the contest? Correctly guess who is under the pink wig and I'll put your name in a drawing* to win a free pair of bead earrings ... made by yours truly.

*Must be 18 years or older and have pierced ears to participate. Must be willing to overlook minor flaws in CoffeeYogurt's finding-bending artistry.

buckets of rain

Woke up to an overcast sky. Forecast calling for 50% chance of afternoon thunderstorms. 11am -- sunny. 12 noon -- steady sunny. Checked the radar. No rain in the immediate area. Barton Springs Here We Come.

Forty-five minutes and nine dollar bills later. Comes the downpour. Buckets of rain. Buckets of tears. Nearly 6pm now. Still coming down. Rain guage says three plus inches.

Rain is much needed. Garden needs it. Lawn needs it. Creeks need it.

But.

It could have waited two measley measly hours.

First rain at Barton Springs. For me. Tried to enjoy it. New experience and all.

But. The beach bag. Not water proof. Cell phone. Not water proof. Kids complaining. Not waterproof.

Rain drenched schlep back to the car.

Blown up rafts. Unused. Submarine sandwiches. Uneaten. Sour cream and onion chips. That's right. Uneaten.

Load of laundry.

Off to the gym.

First time in a month of Tuesdays. So not a total waste of a day. Just sticky. And extra hot. Elipticizing in sunscreened skin. Not my favorite. Tennis shoes soaked in parking lot puddles. Not my favorite.

Forgot my water bottle. What with so much rain and all. Drank cooler water out of styrofoam cup. Makes my teeth ache. That styrofoam. But listened to new tunes in my ear buds. Rolling Stones. Some Girls. Start Me Up. Perk in my step.

And now home. Blog tending. Smelling dinner. Cooked by bestest husband.

Not like swimming in Barton Springs. But not bad either.

doc spelled backwards is cod not god

We really like our family doc. He's willing to offer homeopathic suggestions, for one. He's down to earth and friendly, for two., i.e., his ego is not the size of the heavenly firmaments.

So we've been going to our family doc for ten years now. A couple years ago he moved into a brand new building, a condomininum setup, so he now owns his office. Or the bank does. Within his office suite he has established a lab testing unit.

So my husband, Sam, takes an Rx that requires regular lab tests. Over the years, he's been going to one of those large, chain labs. No cost with his insurance card. Lab sends in results to the doc. Doc checks and notifies if there is a problem. All part of the regular check up.

Until recently.

Family doc's office staff instructed Sam to get his blood work done in the on site lab. Requires that Sam set an appointment, return to get blood drawn. Sam gets there, his weight and BP are taken (even though he was just there a few days ago), gets his blood drawn, does not see a physician, but is charged a copay for a "short office visit." In Sam's case, $35 copay. Ouch.

Sam protested to the office staff and the doc came out. Sam told him "I want to go to my usual lab." Doc insisted he get the lab work done on site.

Does this ring of a conflict of interest to anyone besides me? Might this be an ethical violation? We think he's funding his new office. Or has this "short office visit" become prevalent out there in family practice medicine?

once in a very red bonnet

As I wrote here,

a very blue moon

shone down on New Year's Eve.

I believed it was

an omen of

good things to come.

Perhaps more rare than a blue moon, this red Bluebonnet growing on my street, might be one such good thing.

It's such a beautiful time of year, spring.

And when you come upon a field of Bluebonnets, you do believe there's nothing prettier in nature.

Below is Nanci Griffith singing a duet with Darius Rucker (of Hootie and the Blowfish) about a Bluebonnet Spring:

my stolen screenplay

Rachel is thinking about writing a screenplay. In a recent post, she shares some of her screenplay ideas and asks if her readers have ever had a thought of writing one.

I'm one of those aspiring screen writers who fall under the following category: Think-I-Can-Write-One-for-a-Brief-Exhilarating-Moment-After-Seeing-a-Really-Great-Movie.

The type toward whom authentic screen writers feel complete and utter contempt.

My inspiration, as self-aggrandizing as it is, is likely to occur after I watch movies steeped in emotionally-driven dialog. Especially dialog between women.

Discussing men.

And the plight of women.

As their plight relates to the men in their lives.

Walking and Talking was one. And Lovely and Amazing was another (Alert!! Young Jake Gyllenhaal sighting in the trailer). And Friends with Money, a third.

Or, apparently, anything written by Nicole Holofcener. And starring Catherine Keener.

Because I just now googled Nicole Holofcener and discovered that she wrote all three of these movies. I just love how smart I feel with google and imdb in my back pocket.

So yes, periodically, in a temporary state of half-delirium sprinkled with a fine layer of narcissism, I have been known to consider writing a screen play. But that's as far as it has ever gone ever needs to go.

I did talk with a friend once, at some length, about an idea I had: Women gifted with the power of climbing inside the brains of their male lovers. What would we find? Would we be flattered?

Or horrified?

Or horrified by the brand of flattery?

So wouldn't you know, a couple months after this screenplay-idea conversation with my friend, the Mel Gibson / Helen Hunt movie came out, What Women Want. You know, the one where he plays a womanizer and electrocutes himself trying to put on pantyhose and as a result is suddenly able to act read the minds of the women around him.

I am not kidding. About two months after my incredible idea for a screenplay.

And upon seeing the trailer for this movie I thought, Gah! They stole my idea!

Or, the male corollary of my idea.

And my thoughts ran toward, now when I try to publish my screenplay that I haven't even written one line of nor had a single moment's training in the how-to-of, the producers I present my idea to are going to be all, you so stole that idea from Mel Gibson.

So much for my screen writing career.

How about you, reader? Ever had an idea for a screenplay?

when tree hugging goes too far

Budding trees are a sure sign of spring. There's a Redbud growing in the entrance to my neighborhood. I love it's shimmery, spring-has-sprung pinkness.

Trees in general are especially appreciated in my city. With so many Texas regions deprived of trees, we Austinites are glad we have as many as we do. Some of us moved here expressly for the trees. So it's understandable there are so many tree huggers in Austin who want to save the trees.

But all trees? Any trees?

I consider myself a tree hugger, yes. But not an uber-hugger. I have some sanity my limits.

And my limit is reached when people insist on saving nuisance trees. When they judge those of us who cut down nuisance trees. Trash trees, my husband Sam calls them.

I'm talking about the kind of soft wooded trees that rot easily -- Chinaberry (Melia azedarach L.) and Hackberry (Celtis occidentalis). Trees that harm nearby plant life -- Cedar trees ( Juniperus ashei) and Ligustrum (Ligustrum recurvifolium).

Here's an example of what I mean by uber. City employees come onto a residential property ready to trim or cut down trees interfering with power lines. Uber-tree-huggers raise ten kinds of hell. That's a tree! Don't cut down that tree! The city employees run for their lives cave and leave the trees alone.

Come a big windy rain storm? The preserved trees crash down onto the homeowners house and neighboring houses. They crash powerlines. Entire blocks are out of power.

The ubers then raise twenty kinds of hell. Tree trimmers can't get there fast enough. Restore my power!

City workers paid triple overtime to restore power and clean up fallen trees that should have been cut down in the first place. Homeowner claims are filed and insurance premiums go up. Now you and I are paying for treexuberance.

A drive by reveals most of these fallen trees are Chinaberries and Hackberries.

Could have been avoided with some homework. An understanding of the pros and cons of treedom.

Hackberries make excellent habitat for birds and insects, yes. But they are weak and craggy looking and will fall easily in a storm. Keep the Hackberry if it's on a remote part of your property. Cut it down if it is in danger of falling onto houses and power lines.

But here's the most important part: Replace the cut trees with better trees. Or look for saplings of stronger trees. Cut away nuisance trees to make room for strong hardwoods that grow into beautiful shade trees, fun climbing trees, and yes, excellent habitat for birds and insects.

By cutting down Hackberries and overgrowth of Ligustrum in our yard, for example, we have found fledgling Post Oaks that might not have otherwise made it, especially as there are no other Post Oaks in our yard.

Here's another example. Cedar trees grow wild here. Besides causing terrible seasonal allergies, aka, "cedar fever," they also suck up a lot of water. Cedar trees have dense, sticky foliage that catches and holds rainwater, preventing it from ever reaching the ground. Cedars haven't learned to share.

Some experts have estimated 70-80% is hogged by cedars. Hence, less water for the surrounding trees, shrubs, and ground cover. Cedar trees also emit a chemical noxious to many neighboring plants.

The net result is healthy cedar but parched surrounding area.

Bamburger Ranch in the Hill Country of Central Texas is a living example of the power of cutting down Cedar in favor of allowing natural grasses and friendlier varieties of trees to thrive. The result? Natural springs are flowing again after years and years of bone dry.

So be kind to trees but also be smart about trees. Learn what trees are worth saving and which ones are worth cutting in order to make room for a more diverse, lush landscape. And while you're at it, you're helping keep our homeowner's insurance affordable.

six word saturday

When will weekends last forever? Retirement?

Can you sum it up in six words?

cold sung blues

I'm down with a cold. Or at least I'm pretty sure it's a cold, as opposed to an acute case of allergies.

Did I catch it from my husband, who had laryngitis two weeks ago, followed by persistent stuffy nose and cough?

Did I catch it from my neighbor, who had an upper respiratory infection, coughing next to me in my car, reassuring me she was no longer infectious?

Did I catch it from my client, who, just last week, wondered aloud if her symptoms were due to allergies or a cold?

No matter, right? It's got me, whatever it is. Whomever it's from.

I opted to cancel several appointments. Today was a long, full day of too many clients back-to-back. I kept three appointments in the middle of the day. And then, as luck would have it, one of the three kept appointments called to cancel, leaving a voice message, "I've got a cold." Of course, it had to be the middle appointment.

So I ended up seeing two patients. One who was kind enough to come in early. I headed to the office with relief. Two appointments sounded entirely doable. Or so I thought.

Everyone knows my job involves listening. But it also involves talking, in between listening. It was in the middle of one of these, my-turn-to-talk turns, that I found out that my cold is much easier to abide when I keep my mouth shut.

Talking brought on fierce bouts of coughing, sputtering, eye-watering and nose running. Where the intake of breath between coughs brought on even more severe fits of coughing. Undignified and unprofessional slobberring attacks.

Do you know the kind of hacking, tickling, choking cough I mean? The only thing that prevents these cough attacks is to (1) drink one cup of hot tea after another, or (2) continously suck on Moutain Herb Reeeeee-Co-Laaaas.

Fortunately, the cough attacks occurred during my second appointment. Meaning, soon after, I was able to pack up and head home. Very relieved that I hadn't pressed my luck.

So now I'm home, alone in my room, comfortably blogging and blowing my nose and puffing,

gleefully allowing the husband to deal with dinner prep and the kids: their homework, after school pick-ups, their squabbles.

All was well and good until Sam was off playing Taxi-Cab Dad. When I heard this urgent shout,

"Mo-Ommmmmmmmmmm!"

I jumped up, heart racing, laptop-sy-turvy,

"What is it?!" I yelled back.

"Oh, nothing. I just wondered where you were."

Argh.

But other than the one panic inducing interruption? I have to say?

I rather like my quiet exile.

Cold or no.

"Leave Mom alone," I hear Sam telling one of the kids.

(Who among us doesn't liken these words to the sound of heavenly choirs of angels singing?)

"Leave Mom alone. She's not feeling good."

Ahhhhhhhh.

Little do they know my well-kept secret.

That right now?

I'm feeling damned good.

attemption sleezy, foreign spammers!

Note to your sleezy, foreign, scamming, spamming self: If you're going to send out mass emails to recipients without benefit of a a formal introduction, let alone a shared language, you might want to study the vocabulary of your recipients a little more carefully, i.e., don't rely so heavily on Google Translator.*

Case in point. This was waiting for me in my personal, private (use only for communicating with friends, family, and teachers so how the hell did you find me?) email box this morning:

Second Attemption: Your Credit Card PreApproval inside

Your Prepaid Credit Card will be shipped soon!

Prepaid Credit Card Approval Enclosed

Poor credit? Instant Approval for Credit Cards!

We have a Credit Card card invitation for you

Enclosed: Cards for people with Bad Credit...

So while I have your rapturous attemption, Sir Spams Alot, I have a few questions:

A. Is this an offer for credit or a last-chance opportunity to save my soul? Because, while in the lives of some the end result may feel similar, for most people money and soul suffer from irreconcilable differences.

B. Prepaid credit? Let me see if I understand. I send a thousand dollars to some unknown destination on the other side of the continent so you can issue me a credit card in the amount of a thousand dollars minus your most generous fee offer?

C. And why would I want to take that risk when I can go to my local grocery store, spin the metal kiosk and prepay in person? Am I not comprensating something here?

*Please don't take this personally, Google. You most definitely rank right up there at the very top of my list of favorite internets friends tools. But for language translation? Needs a little work.

Here's what I mean: I once used you to compose a note for my, then, non-English speaking house cleaner. I wanted her to change the sheets on my son's spare bed. I came home to find her looking at me very strangely. At the end of a confusing exchange, I deciphered her question: Should she cover his bed in notebook, printer, or wrapping paper?

deceived no more

I'm onto you, my little golden bar of soap. You can't fool me: Your sleek size. Your shrinking weight. Your newly slenderized waistline.

Your same price.

You used to be 4.5 oz. You are now 4 oz. And I am not the only one who has noticed.

At the end of each of our relationships, I used to cherish your remains. Take your soap slivers and lovingly place them flat along the inside of the rounded contour of your replacement bar. In the soap divot, if you will. A sliver pit for soap shavings. A token remembrance of all those showers we used to share.

In fact, your carved out cavity seems designed for the express purpose of holding my leftover slivers, doesn't it? Aiding we spurned lovers in our quest to slide you close along our nekkid bodies ever longer, until the inevitable end.

But in doing so, I see that I am covering your logo. Your crafty product designers wouldn't let that happen, would they? And break their cardinal rule of marketing? Thou shalt not cover thy product's trademark?

So no. I will not suffer fools gladly. Your cored out concavity isn't there for my convenience. It isn't there so I can scrimp and save and get an extra two showers out of your incredibly shrinking bar-hood.

It isn't there for my ease or protection either, so that the soap fits more precisely in my hand, preventing those potentially embarrassing and increasingly dangerous drop-soap-reach maneuvers.

Come back, Heath-soap, come back!

It isn't about me at all, is it?

No, the concave hollow is merely a way for your makers, the manufacturers, to fool me, the loyal customer, into thinking the price remains the same. So that they can continue selling more, but smaller, bars of soap. So that they can keep their jobs. So that their stockholders, your pimps, can continue to maintain their lavish lifestyles.

Make me the cuckhold, will you?

Think a-gain.

So, dear soap, no more recycling for me. No more lingering last moments of lucious lathering. No indeed.

I've hatched a plan. I'm saving your golden slivers in a plastic pouch, otherwise known as a baggie. I'm also saving my empty breath mint dispensers. Because it's only a matter of time before your personal size bar of soap will shrink to the size of a Tic Tac. When that day comes, I shall be ready.

So look for me in the back alley ways. I'll be the woman with the wig and the fake moustache, with the look of spurned longing on her face, frantically waving to get your attention, standing behind her car with the trunk open to reveal thousands of candy sized slivers of soap, encased in plastic dispensers, disguised as orange breath mints.

And on that day? Fear not. I shall no longer be your fool. Your cuckhold. Your spurned latherer.

I shall be free.

But the soap won't be.

$1.09 plus tax, please.

my kids are smarter than your kids

My daughter, BabyB, has determined that she can sleep on top of her bedspread, covered by a small blanket, and avoid making her bed in the morning.

And so, with this post, and with great pride, I hereby nominate BabyB as a candidate for the Nobel Laureate in Domestic Short Cuts.

And since there is a little known category called Family Laureates, The Curie family having won the most Nobel Prizes, with five, I will also nominate my son. He has discovered that, despite having a walk in closet, furnished with the usual array of clothes hangers, shelves and a string of hooks, he can organize his clothes better by laying them in discreet piles on his bedroom floor. Unfolded, even! That his mother nearly slipped a disc tripping over these piles on her way to open the window blinds is but a minor stumbling block of his revolutionary system.

BabyA comes in third place. She has devised a shoe organization scheme which may be too complex to describe in a short blog post. Her extraordinary design involves placing, or sliding, and sometimes kicking, her shoes, but most especially her slippers, under her bed where they wait, mismatched, until their partner shoe, or slipper, is put on the proper foot. How she does this has not been replicated by any other child scientists, or at least, a data base search has not yielded a similar reference. BabyA merely has to use the big toe of her unshod foot and slide it along the edge of her underbed, and, by a combination of tactile and sonar tracking, she locates the correct match. It's a spectacular process to behold!

Reader, does a child of yours have a Nobel-Prize-worthy discovery you'd like to nominate?

words every mother dreads hearing

And why, every parent who survives the raising of teenagers, deserves an all-expense paid trip to a caribbean island.

No, wait, deserves to be deeded the island. Along with a different cabana boy for every day of the week.

So here is what I heard:

I picked up my son from his after school meeting. He gets into the car.

Mom! You did NOT wear that today!

me: (whose training and work experience means having an answer for everything)

silence.

son: Seriously. MOM! Tell me you did NOT wear that shirt! I mean, look at it! All those swirly colors. And what are those? Are those sequins?!

me: What?!? I like this shirt. The sequins aren't that noticeable ... are they?

son: OMG, Mom. Are you for real? Yes! You can see them. Ughghghghgghghghghg!

me: It adds a little sparkle to my day. So what? And they aren't actually sequins. They are little sparkly bits. And besides, I think the little sparkly bits .... are ... pretty.

dude, perfect throw

And you thought Texas Aggies did nothing but eat, sleep and breathe engineering.

(19 second clip)

After the clip finishes, you can click on the right hand side to see the view from under the net.

One last thing, these guys donate proceeds from their website to feeding and educating children in third world countries. Compassion.com.

Dude, perfect.