vent-a-thong

Aaryn Belfer can rant like no other. And today's post was no exception with her 12 things she's really friggin sick and tired of. To include liars (yeah you, Rudy and Dana) and overly vain, surgically addicted fame-seekers (Heidi).

Me? I'd like to add my humble #13. Or make that #12, as I don't have a grudge against those cute, cuddly Pandas.

So here we go. Here's what I'm really friggin sick and tired of: so-called independent and swing voters who decide elections.

Because I have to ask: Who are you people, really?

That one year you can vote for the Bushie gang and the next election year Obama and now this year Scott "I posed naked for Cosmo" Brown?

I mean really, Massachusetts? You lose The Lion and you replace him with Beefcake Boy because he drives a fancy four door GMC Canyon pick up truck? I know this kind of down-home-boy fakery works in Texas elections, but you too?

And why is it that posing nude tends to work against women running for Miss America but works for men running for the U.S. Senate? WTF is that about?

I really do believe wonder if some people register as Independent so they can be the darling of the politico media. As in, I don't get enough attention in my real life so I'll call myself an Independent so exit pollsters will put a microphone and camera in front of my face so I can toyingly make them guess who I voted for.

This is not a game, people.

Did you not see what 8 years of Republicanisms did to America? To the stock market? To the banking industry? To people's homes? Jobs? Lives?

I guess you Massachusians are about as hard headed as your state is hard to spell.

You say you want to send a message to Democrats that you don't like how they're running things. Really?

Lesson 1. Brown's seat certainly means more Congressional stagnation, not less.

Lesson 2. Years of Republican regulation-ease led to financial near-collapse. Or have you forgotten already? I haven't. My husband lost a great deal of income. Our finances still have not recovered. And I am working longer hours to keep us afloat. I am not able to be the available mom that I was before Bush-face and Dick Vader took my country hostage.

Lesson 3. Recent economic indicators, thanks to Dem-lead initiatives, suggest we just might be out of the most troubled waters. I'd say the Dems are doing a pretty damned good job.

Lesson 4. A good thirty years we've endured a steady stream of steep health insurance premium increases and other assaults on our health care. Experts predict more of the same if we don't do something drastically different. But Republican leadership can only come up with tax-cuts and more tax-cuts and filibusters and no-votes and tort reform as supposed solutions.

Lesson 5. I got news for you tort-touters. I live in a state that passed tort-reform. My premiums have not come down at all. They continue to rise several hundred dollars every year. Some years, like this one, more than $1000. You can read more about how tort-reform "did not translate into lower health insurance premiums for consumers" here.

I can only hope Scott Brown makes good on his campaign promises cough! choke! snort! That he votes in the U.S. Senate like he voted in the Mass. State Senate. A moderate who worked with the Dems.

But it's hard to imagine the current Republican party letting Brown get away with anything short of the right wing red meat spewed out by the likes of Limpballs and Annthrax Coulter.

So we shall see, Mass-a-chew-on-this. We shall see.

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?

avoiding bed

Because when I wake up? I'll be a half-century old.

Next stop, Old City.

So, yeah. These are my last few minutes of 40-something.

I remember that I liked saying I was 30-something.

It was a cool, hip television show.

I took pride in 40-something.

Visions of a woman in her sexual peak.

But 50-something. Where is the comfort in that?

So tomorrow? I will gladly accept gratuitous gifts of

TLC.

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.

once in a very belewe moon

Folklore tells us that people of long ago named each moon, depending on the time of year it shown. The harvest moon, say, and the summer moon.

A moon which appeared too early, an extra moon in the seasonal cycle, was called a blue moon.

When it came before the Lent Moon, preachers dubbed it the belewe moon, or, the betrayer moon.

Mary at Beauty Amongst the Weeds and Kathleen at Hill Country Mysteries both blogged about our New Year's Eve moon. A cold and blustery night here in Texas, Sam and I, along with a group of friends, toasted the New Year beside an outdoor fire pit. We looked up to the sky, champagne in hand. After the sparkles of the roman candles dissipated, the clouds moved away to reveal the big blue moon directly over our heads.

What does it mean when a blue moon shines on the very last night of the year? Is it an omen that foreshadows an ill wind? Or an auspicious promise of a better turn of events?

I took an interest in blue moons after hearing a native Texan, Nanci Griffith, sing this version of "Once in a Very Blue Moon." I was in Texas only a year or two when I first saw her performing it on video. I believe it was on MTV. This was back when MTV was a prized commodity, when party locations were determined based solely on who subscribed to it because it was that new and that cool.

You could call it a driveway moment in my living room. Mezmerized, I bought nearly all of her albums, went to see her live, became a lifelong fan. With this one song, I ventured away from pop and rock music and toward the more soulful folk.

A grammy award winner, Nanci mentions Austin's Congress Avenue in her love song, So Long Ago. A native Texan, she was schooled in Austin at the University of Texas. She taught kindergarten and first grade here in the 1970's. Those lucky little students. I wonder, did she bring her guitar to class and sing? Where are they now? And do they realize their good fortune?

Nanci does a haunting rendition of Bob Dylan's Boots of Spanish Leather, if you like what you've heard so far. Her duet with John Prine, Speed of the Sound of Loneliness, is another one that stops me in my tracks every time I hear it.

In 1986, Nanci put together The Blue Moon Orchestra. They've been recording and performing with her ever since.

So for me? There's no question. A new year welcomed by a blue moon is all good.

it's hard work

First an airplane terrorist couldn't manage to set off a bomb in his shoe. He was dubbed The Shoe Bomber. Now we've got a terrorist who could barely manage to set fire to his crotch. He was dubbed The Undie Bomber. Or, if you're a faithful Deb on the Rocks reader, he's now Captain Underpants.

But seriously. What's next ? The Earlobe Lobber? The Nostril Nabber? The Bra-Cupped Crusader? The Vaginal Villain?

In response to this most recent on-board bombing bungle, airports in Amsterdam and Nigeria have announced that, in future, they will use full body scans to peep on screen passengers. Security workers will be able to play peek-a-boo, I see you ... ALL of you.

In effect, they will be provided the airport perk of porn-on-demand.

While the screenee, one presumes, will feel embarrassed and violated, the professional peeping toms screening techs will feel titillated and transfixed.

And the passengers in the long waiting lines? Impatience will be replaced with a mix of anxiety and

If these full body scans make it to American airports? It will be a whole new world for the employees of the Transportation Security Administration. Absenteeism rates will plummet. Boredom complaints will vanish.

These workers, may, in fact, be demanding longer shifts, shorter breaks, and fewer vacation hours.

This news of heightened erotica potential for airport security workers may be the perfect answer to the ongoing debate about the unionizing of the TSA.

Future arbitration meetings might sound something like this:

You drop the union bid and we give you unlimited, in-person, pre-flight porn. Deal?

We'll consider it. But first, we will need between-scan conjugal visits. Because, in the words of our former president,

plowed under

Not with the cold, white stuff, unfortunately. Wouldn't mind trading in for some of that. No, I'm plowed under with the post-holiday residue.

You know, the ...

crumpled wrapping paper, didn't quite make it into black garbage bag

empty shirt boxes

pile of truffle wrappers, embarrassingly large

dried orange peelings

sweater-too-small-no-receipt-don't-know-what-to-do-with-it

pine needles

fireplace ash

crocheted afghan crumpled on floor, displaced by new, plush snuggle throw

digital watch instructions, printed so small, impossible to read

lost gift card, lost gift receipt, lost mind

It didn't always look like this.

Promise.

Happy Holidays-Almost-Over, bloggy friends!

big win for mayor elect

Houston Mayor-elect Annise Parker

celebrates her runoff election victory

with her partner of 19 years, Kathy Hubbard (in purple)

I love to see a woman beat a man make history. Especially when that woman is a lesbian.

In this case, Annise Parker was the first openly lesbian woman to be elected mayor of an American metropolis: Houston.

Every now and again the citizens of Texas get it right.

I also love to see it when history making members of the GLBT community show that they, too, cherish loving, longterm committments. Parker and her partner have been together 19 years. They have two children.

Why their two children are denied married parents doesn't make any sense to me. Kids of gay parents have it tough enough, don't they?

Take Mason, for instance, a young Austin resident who spoke before a public crowd to say he gets teased at school. You don't come from a "real family," is one taunt he's had to endure. And as research has now shown, there are psychological consequences of denying gay rights.

But in order for Parker to win the Houston election, she had to make some political and very personal concessions. During a campaign debate she stated she would not push for same-sex partner benefits for Houston's city workers. Denying health insurance for her very own wife partner.

“Personally it’s very important,” she was quoted as saying, “but, as mayor of Houston, do I want to engage resources in fighting that battle, or do I want to tackle the budget? Do I want to tackle drainage? Do I want to try to put more police officers on the street? It’s the difference between the personal and what this city needs.”

One step at a time.

novel synchronicity

What are the odds of reading two novels, back to back, with the same unusual and unexpected ending?

In the first, a person fakes his death and moves to a particular southern state that shall remain unnamed.

Synchronicity

by Ruth Schembri

In the second? A person fakes his death and moves to a particular southern state that shall remain unnamed.

And yes, the very same state.

The setting of the first book: New York City and New England. The second? England.

The first book I acquired from a neighbor. She gave it to me saying she couldn't get through it but thought I might like it (I did).

I wonder what this says about our friendship. Here's a book I hated. I think you'll like it.

The second book was sitting neglected, on my bookshelf, for nearly a year because I had regretted buying it. Not my usual fare, I wondered what the heck was I thinking. Book buyer's lament.

So late on this one night, after finishing the first book, I wandered to my bookshelf and reached for this second, unappealing one, thinking "This ought to put me to sleep."

In other words, no connection between the two books. Complete random coincidence that I selected two books with identical endings.

The Goddess of Synchronicitous Endings guided me there, apparently.

And I wonder what this means, too.

Is the universe talking to me? Should I be thinking about faking my death and moving to a particular southern state that shall remain unnamed?

Or if my husband suddenly disappears? I know where to find him.

How about you, reader? Has this ever happened to you? Two books, read back to back, with an eerily familiar theme or ending?

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?

the maroon and the orange face off

Deb of etc, etc, etc has an affinity for a unique combination: Texas and flamingos.

Today, while the pie crust was chilling and the turkey was basting, Sam and I took a short ride to capture one of Austin's most unique traditions: Flamingos on parade.

We spotted a rare flock of maroon flamingos:

And then a flock of orange:

And then when we back up a bit:

we see that it's not just college athletes who have a passion for squaring off on a field of green:

Complete with a referee,

a penguin to insure impartiality:

And Deb? If these pictures are making you yearn for Texas, pack your bags. I'll have the perfect vehicle waiting at the airport:

The Flamingo Express.

Okay, enough of birds and blogging. Time to get back to the real game.

Gig 'em, Aggies!

two hours and counting

Two hours to the test.

Will my fetishistic cultish devotion to Edward be challenged by Jacob, or, rather, this latest cinematic update of Jacob, as my kids so fool heartedly believe?

All three of my kids are incredulous that I am solidly in lust with rooted to Team Edward. Surely, they plead, I can see that hairy dark, claw-footed warm-blooded Jacob should win Bella's heart.

But please, I argue, here is the Jacob of Twilight:

Because, I mean, what the hell? What kind of misplaced vamp-mullet is that?

What was director Catherine Hardwicke thinking, putting that Eddie Munster widow's peak on a teenage werewolf? Pretty clear to me whose team she was on.

That's right.

Edward.

Even if she did dress him like a dud.

So the challenge is in place.

Will this latest example of institutionalized sexism in the Hollywood movie industry director do a better job convincing we cougar vampire moms to switch from Team Edward to Team Jacob?

Six-pack abs Game on!

spontaneous haiku writing

spontaneity

now, aches you'll feel tomorrow

trust me, don't do it

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.