Aren't You Jellus of Me?

Dis, Dat and De Udder:

Will now thinks he's Paul Shaffer. He has pushed his Little Tykes piano up in front of the TV and plays along when any sort of music is heard. He will also sing if lyrics are involved. This is in conjunction with his Casio keyboard, which has taken up residence on my dining room table. That thing has pre-recorded songs a-go-go. Like "Beyond the Sea" and "Girl from Ipanema" and "Livin' La Vida Loca." It's like living in a cocktail lounge. I'm about ready to set up a little brandy snifter on the sideboard for tips.

Still have the damn cold. And I am now out of kleenex. So I'm uber-white trash with my roll of TP at my disposal for any nose-blowing needs. Klassy.

Will, while watching the news after The Price is Right, announced that he wants to go to Pakistan. Goody.

Jealous yet? You should be. Such a glamourous life I lead.

Police Siren

They kicked it off last night in Vancouver. The Police that is. Stew and the Boys.

Yeah. That's right. Stewart Copeland is my end-all, be-all Policeman. Go beat on your hi-hat if you don't agree.

And it's about two months until I get to see them in Toronto. Twenty-five years since I had "obstructed view" seats for their gig at the Tallahassee Civic Center. Seats that literally looked down on top of Stew and his drum kit. I think I spontaniously combusted that night.

Anyhoo.

Here are some clips (thanks to a generous fellow fan) from the gig last night. Sigh. Amazing.

Gesundheit!

I feel like crap on a cracker today.

Look like something the cat drug in.

Somehow, between last night and this morning, a cold swept in and took up residence in my immune system. The Germ Sprite came through and rubbed my throat and tonsils with 40 grade sandpaper.

Yuck. O.

Went over to some friends' house for a cookout last night (they were fighting, so it was an interesting and rather tense evening... but the BBQ chicken was most excellent.) Came home, put on my PJs and got a chill that was crazy weird. Went to sleep under the sheet, blanket and comforter. And it was 73 degrees outside at night-night time.

Ugh.

I hate having a summer cold. It's no fun any time of year, but when it's balmy and sunny outside, having the sniffles, a slight annoying fever and a sore throat somehow seems more wrong than usual.

My galpal (she of the spatting host and hostess couple) just called me and announced when I said hello "You sound like hell. Worse than you did earlier today." I guess sounding like hell is better than looking like hell. Thank goodness for not having a video phone.

Problem is that I don't like to take any real serious medication when it's just Will and me at the old homestead. In case he needs something, I figure it's better to be feeling bad than drugged up. What I wouldn't give for an afternoon date with some Benedryl or Tylenol Cold PM.

What? The afternoon is technically PM.

However, I'm just going to have to make do with Hall's Honey Lemon cough drops and some basic boring Tylenol.

Achoo. Achoo. Achoo.

RIP CNR

The antics of Charles and Brett were the highlight of many an afternoon growing up. Witty, pithy, stylish and campy.

Somewhere, he and Paul Lynde are having a snark-off, with Paul in a jaunty neck scarf and Charles sporting an ascot and smoking a cigar.

Eponymous

Moment Interruptus

Will had a seizure tonight. Not a big one, thank goodness. Didn’t last long. Thanks to the nice dosage of valium I give him when shit like this happens.

He’s sleeping soundly. Has been for a few hours. Stretched out and snoring. Peaceful. Deservedly so, after undergoing such internal turmoil. I cannot even imagine what that experience must be like for him. My poor baby.

And the post-trauma has now set in for me. Tears are falling like raindrops. I hate this. You’d think that I’d be used to this scenario by now. But I’m not. I don’t think I ever will be. Part of being a parent, I suppose.

My heart aches for my child. Why can’t anything be easy or smooth for him. Why does everything have to be a struggle. He works so hard to achieve every accomplishment. And I am achingly proud of him. My exhaustion tempered with fury. I wish something anything would come easily for him. I wish I could take away his hindrances and make everything right and well and simple. Natural. Like standard issue kids.

This sucks. I hate it. I am helpless and anxious and frustrated and angry and tired and guilty and spent. And by tomorrow morning, I must put all these things away so when I hear his little voice declaring that we all live in a yellow submarine I can be the mama he needs and deserves.

Without hindrances myself.

That’s something I can control.

Auspicious Indifference

Guess what I’m doing Tuesday night?

Give up?

I’ll tell you.

Some laundry. Maybe clean the kitchen. Microdermabrase the old punim. Watch some TV. Casually. While flipping through a magazine.

Won’t go near the phone. Nope. Not once.

For the first time in a couple of years, I’m not emotionally or otherwise invested in American Idol. No passionate favorite. No frantic, furtive dialing for at least two hours after the show to cast my vote and show my support. For anyone.

And it’s rather refreshing, actually. To be a simple objective observer with a laissez faire attitude towards this seemingly benign television reality competition, after two consecutive years of total subjectivity. When I dialed like it was my job for Bo (oh, those leather pants) and worked the Cingular text message plan until it was inside out in my attempt to help Elliott.

That’s not to say that I don’t have contestants that I rather like -- I dig the class and silk-smooth vocals of Melinda (please oh please let her make a straight-up jazz album...) and the fresh self-confident hep creativity of Blake. But other than Idols Do Something Good For Humanity Night, I didn’t pick up the phone or cell to voice my opinion.

I actually watched with my eyes and my ears this year. Only. And what I witnessed was wild. And most of this craziness took place off the Idol stage.

News flash: this just isn’t a “singing” reality competition, regardless of what the producers try to spin. It’s a sporting event for the whole world. A water cooler conversation aqueduct . A cross-generational obsession. Fodder for speculation and odds making and commentary and gnashing of teeth and joy and sorrow and everything in between. Carried out in cyberspace, parking spaces and every other conceivable space you can think of.

And for what? Winning this contest means you become a household name, at least for the short term (Ruben who? Although it’s really not his fault that the runner-up in his year has eclipsed him famewise, due in no small part to a rabid, fanatical, well-financed fan base.) And then are tied contractually to a production company that has uber-control over the type of album you make. For many years. Sometimes this works -- see Underwood, Carrie. Sometimes this doesn’t -- see Hicks, Taylor. While my horse was Elliott last season, based solely on that attention-grabbing performance of “Moody’s Mood for Love,” I always liked Taylor. Somewhat. His pandering and theatrics grew tiresome as the weeks went on, but I still appreciate the fact that he’s a genuine musician with real talent and earnest passion. His post-Idol album frankly doesn’t showcase that to his best advantage. Same with the case of my beloved Bo. That’s not to say that these guys won’t have success, commercially and artistically, in the future. But I can’t help but think that their association with the AI machine and its incessant desire to make musical pabulum for the masses has stripped away what brought them to my attention in the first place. Originality. Creativity. Musicianship.

Maybe it’s my complete detachment from the process this season that has brought about this cynical, pensive hindsight. Although I was frankly pleased that the one contestant I connected with -- Melinda -- left early. Freeing her from the level of commitment that placing higher would invariably require some tight production handcuffs. And honestly, I would like to see Blake place second for this very reason as well. I’d hate to see what makes him so original whitewashed out by an over-produced, simplistic album.

So here I am -- armchair AI quarterback. For a season anyway. I honestly have no room to complain one way or another with the results this year, as I hold the same tenet to be true here as I do with government elections -- no vote, no right to bitch about the outcome. But that doesn’t stop me from at least editorializing.

Tomorrow night will be interesting. That’s a fact. Here’s hoping for at the very least, an entertaining show.

Beg, Bard, Steal

My mother is the librarian for the reading room in her condominium. Which is good, because it gives her something to do (so she's not all up in my business all the time) and because she has a bit of a larcenous streak. In that she's not above "borrowing" something permanently or making something disappear. Nothing big or significant, mind you. For instance, when a bridge near our old house was being refurbished, she quietly took bricks (many of which were antique) from the deconstruction site. A couple each day on her morning walks. Enough to build a little patio in the back yard. The phrase "don't ask, don't tell" was coined for her.

Anyway, she has made a very lovely copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare "disappear" and somehow magically reappear on my front stoop. Nice. I collect such volumes, being the devoted English major that I am. Have quite a few -- some very old, some not so old but detailed. It's cool. And of course, I had to look up my favorite sonnet -- it's the way I break in my new (or new to me) editions. My version of breaking a bottle over the bow.

CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Story Time Ideology

I'm a firm believer in the separation of church and state. Keep the church out of my politics and politics out of my church. And bless my pastor's conviction, he sticks to this premise firmly.

Ironically, the people with whom I share the same polticial ideology are also people with whom I worship on Sunday mornings and who I sit next to during Wednesday night choir rehearsal. But that's about as close to mixing things as I care to get.

I was delighted to find a little gem tucked in with my choir binder and music one recent Wednesday night -- a gift from the husband of my choir neighbor (we've sat together whenever I've been able to sing in the choir for years.)

It was a little book entitled Why Mommy is a Democrat, by Jeremy Zilber. It's available at www.littledemocrats.net. What a riot. I love it -- so much so that I wanted to share some exerpts here. But being the copyright-sensitive gal that I am, I thought better of that plan.

However, I highly recommend checking it out. The illustations alone are worth it -- within the lovely childrens'-book-eqsue drawings are wry comments with a definate Democratic sensibility.

The page themes are also deluxe:
"Democrats make sure everyone is treated fairly, just like Mommy does."
"Democrats make sure we are nice to people who are different, just like Mommy."
"Democrats make sure everyone plays by the rules, just like Mommy does."
"Democrats make sure no one fights, just like Mommy does."

I've been reading it to Will periodically, just because it makes me laugh to do so. He's sort of interested in it -- although he's more about turning the pages than anything. If Bob Barker or Anthony Wiggle was the star of the book, I suspect it would be a different story. However, in this time of government ridiculousness and skewed definitions of morals and values, it's nice to have access to something with a message I believe in that's gentle and kind. Were that true for many of the more grown-up media forms that flood our senses.

Check it out!
Why Mommy is a Democrat, by Jeremy Zilber.
www.littledemocrats.net.

Sharing Tuneage

After being a total iTunes hooer for years, I just now discovered a cool feature that lets one publish iMixes on one's blog.

Ta-da!

Cool, huh?

Smoke Still Gets In Your Eyes

It was in the air again this morning. The smell of smoke. Something burning somewhere. Not nearly as bad as last week, when a glance outside brought a sight akin to nuclear winter.

I finally downloaded the myriad pictures from the digital camera. Which included this one, taken last week on the day that our local weather prognosticators deemed The One with the Worst Air Quality Ever.



That's my neighbor's house in the shot -- the nutty merchant marine dude. His green truck. His ladder. His front yard picnic table. Got me to thinking about his hammock set-up from last summer. Wonder if it's about time to whip that one out again.

Seizing a chance to use my newly-honed Paint skills, I created an artist's rendering of that tableau. Be warned -- it's a masterpiece the likes of which you've probably never seen before. Nor will again (because hopefully, my technique will improve.)



Fantastic, isn't it?

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Whooooosh... there it is

Our toilet is broken.

Not irreparably, for better or for worse. I do believe it is the original fixture that came with the house, making it over 50 years old and impossible to fit with any sort of normal toilet seat. But that’s another story for another time.

The little arm thingy that attached the valve thingy to the handle broke. Plumb off. It didn’t merit a total shut down or call to Al’s 24-Hour Plumbers, thank goodness. And I’ve lived alone long enough to know a thing or two (but no more than that) about how toilets work. Which is a good thing, as I do like to maintain some semblance of self-sufficiency. Take the lid off, manually pull on the handle, let the water drain out, let go of the handle to shut the value. Ta-da.

The important thing about this little plumbing inconvenience is that it’s Will’s fault. Too much zeal imparted while “fwushing the potty” during toilet training. Which is going very sloooooowly. But with some gradual forward progress. Hooray.

This is the first household kid causality we’ve had. Honestly, I’m kinda pleased by it. Standard issue kid stuff like this doesn’t happen all that often around here. I did take the proper measures to explain to him, as best I could, that what he’d done was wrong. But inside, I was smiling and doing a little cheer. Way to go, my little guy.

I related this story to my friend, whose son is one of Will’s classmates. She laughed and told me about how she found her enterprising young man sitting in the shower, unscrewing shampoo bottles (a new skill -- unscrewing) and pouring shampoo down the drain. Not the Suave or Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. But her good salon stuff. And she had the same reaction I did.

These moments seem to be coming a bit faster now, albeit still behind what is considered to be the standard time frame. Just this afternoon, I watched him play catch with himself, throwing his big blue supermarket ball against the side of his bed frame. It wasn’t nice and neat, and the ball went here, there and everywhere. But he was making a real effort. And laughing in the process.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of his last week of pre-school. Next year brings kindergarten and a new school. It’s bittersweet for me, as I’ve grown comfortable with the environment and secure in the care that he’s receiving. His teachers and aides and therapists have taken as good care of me as they have of him. I’m going to miss that. But change is good, and in this case, necessary, as the next grade level up is overcrowded with a teacher that is always on the precipice of being overwhelmed. After being in the same school atmosphere for three years, I think the switch-up will be to everyone’s benefit. Next year means new teachers, new friends, a new route to school and a new school routine -- complete with uniforms. At least trying to decide what to wear won’t be an issue.

It looks like it’s going to be an interesting summer. I cannot wait. But I have the phone number for Al’s Plumbers on the fridge door. Just in case.

Weather on the Nines

There is so much smoke in the air outside right now, it looks like fog. It almost hurts to breathe outside. And there are bits of ash floating by, as if they were snowflakes.

So, so weird. And eerie. I thought my neighborhood was on fire a couple of days ago.

Here's hoping those fires in northern Florida/southern Georgia get under control soon.

I Can See Clearly Now...

Nothing sharpens sight like envy
~ Thomas Fuller

I finally did it. I went under the knife.

No, not plastic surgery. I'm on the Aging Gracefully, Damnit plan.

The LASIK "knife." Or rather, the LASIK laser. Try saying that fast six times.

The whole thing went down rather quickly. Phone call on a Thursday. Consultation on the following Tuesday. Procedure on that Friday. Good Friday, actually.

BAM! 20/20 Vision. Right out of the box. First time ever in my entire life. Fantastic.

Opening my eyes for the first time afterwards, with all the ointments and drops and goo in them. I read the time on my alarm clock clearly. From all the way across the room. Without squinting. Crazy.

I'm not free of the glasses, though. That pesky thing known as presbyopia has sent me to hunt down those ubiquitous reader glasses so frequently seen perched on the noses of Women of a Certain Age. I love what Wikipedia has to say about it:

Presbyopia (Greek word "presbyteros" (πρεσβύτερος), meaning "elder") is the eye's diminished ability to focus that occurs with aging. The most widely held theory is that it arises from the loss of elasticity of the crystalline lens, although changes in the lens's curvature from continual growth and loss of power of the ciliary muscles (the muscles that bend and straighten the lens) have also been postulated as its cause.

Presbyopia is not a disease as such, but a condition that affects everyone at a certain age.

Blah blah blah. The fact that it comes from the Greek word that means "elder" is enough definition for me. I used to think of it as when your arms finally weren't long enough to let you read clearly. Now I know better.

I rather like having to wear the reader glasses. I've found some really groovy looking pairs, which help the cool factor. And I am wating for an opportunity to do the dramatic Glasses Gesture, when I whip them off my face, wave them about with empassioned emphasis and cast a steely glare. I tried that once pre-LASIK. Didn't really work, since I was blind as a bat without the glasses and the drama of the moment was lost in a squinting, nearsighted haze.

When I tell people that I had this done, the invariable questions follow: "What was it like?" "Did it hurt?" "Are you happy with the results?"

I think that there's still a squeemish factor involved with someone messing with your eyeballs. Ergo all the questions. To the what was it like question, I say that it was really kinda trippy, with lots of lights and fades and funky sounds. And Valium. My little helper. And that for a couple of days afterwards, I looked rather like Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby.

Why did I do this? I did it for a couple of reasons -- to be able to see clearly without the hastle of glasses. And because I was sick and tired of having to see those specs on my face All. The. Time. Vanity, thy name is my own. And yeah, I'm really happy with the results. It was an adjustment at first, seeing everything so sharp and precise. I was alarmed at the dust and such that I noticed around my house. And the first time I looked at myself in the mirror was a bit of a shock, as I immediately noticed all the imperfections that had been gauzed over by my weakened eyes. But as I got used to what I was looking at, I decided that it wasn't all that bad. It's me. Plain and simple. Flaws and goofs and all. The visage of a life lived.

Although now I don't leave the house without at least some tinted moisturizer, a swipe of mascara and some lip gloss. You never know who you might see. Or who might see you. Including yourself.

I loathe narcissism, but I approve of vanity.
~ Diana Vreeland

Once more, with feeling

You're never alone, not here you're not.
Ok... break's over.
~ "Saint Augstine in Hell", Sting

Time to wake up this place from its dormancy. Blow the dust off the top. Clear away the cobwebs.

I'm in the mood to write again. I hate the fact that I've took so much time away from this outlet, but the desire to create wasn't there. And it's not that I didn't have anything to say. I just didn't feel like taking the time to say it.

Now that I'm in a more disciplined frame of mind, what with my training to walk a marathon underway and going well, I think I can focus now on putting words to paper. For real. Might as well use my control issues to their best advantage.

Here goes nothin'.