Just a Happy Little Post

Whew! That was a heavy last post. Thank you all for your lovely and insightful comments. I half expected something a little harsher - and that's what traumatic conditioning does to you - so it was quite uplifting to have you all at my back. Have I told you recently, just how wonderful I think all of my readers are? Your feedback sustains, delights, and amazes me on a regular basis. I love ya'll!

And with that segue way, so very reminiscent of what my husband sounds like after a few drinks, here we are at the drinking portion of the program:

I think it was well past this point last year when Bea and I started our Saturday afternoon cocktails series, and no doubt, you've wondered if we've climbed aboard the wagon, what with the dearth of liquor pictures. Fear not gentle readers, (does anyone else here love Miss Manners as much as I do?) the Captain has turned off the no drinking, no smoking (what do you do? Adam Ant - Gack) sign and you may now move about the cabin, drink in hand.

We've been on a red wine kick lately, because Honey hears it's good for the ole ticker. Bea has always been a red fan, so I've been letting her lead us in selecting varietals (Oooh! Tea and scones! Very grand wording for such a cheap bouteille!). Usually a glass of wine is enough to give me a splitting headache, but the Pinot Noirs have been a delightful exception, so glug, glug, glug, ya'll!I think my drinking companions might not be enjoying the photo-op; note the knife being held like it's a middle finger. This is a direct result of Honey hanging out with the men in my family, for whom no picture is complete without an obscene finger gesture, or at the least, an unzipped fly. In a rare fit of practicality, Bea has actually dug a coat out of the closet and put it on. This is big people - do you have any idea how hard it was to get her to wear shoes, much less put a coat on? The girl's a damn hippie! And on an unrelated note, I was out walking the other day and spotted this little feral cat. I love the eyeliner on him/her (I think it's a her - the head is pretty small for a feral male), and with that coat, this could almost be one of those African wildcats that the domestic breed is supposed to be descended from. She's watching the boys intently, which is how I was able to take this shot at all. I guess a herd of boy elephants can be a good thing, but you didn't really hear that from me, okay? Ahh, an idyllic moment! This is one of those moments you really want to take a picture of, just so you can wave it in their faces later, when they're fighting like savage dogs, and say, "See? You do too like each other!" Kids...woof. Is it five o'clock yet?

I've been woefully slack in my reading this week (of blogs; I did finish an Ursula LeGuin novella and series of short stories, and started reading Dr. Dolittle to the boys - all three boys. That husband of mine...!) but I am determined to get caught back up with all of you.

But first, I have to go to art class with the fourth graders and finish my face mug! It's a little embarassing how excited I am to do that, especially since I've been peddling books to kids for three days at the school book fair - you'ld think I'd be sick of all those kids, but nope!

Road Trip

We got up at the "butt crack of dawn", as Bea likes to say, to head down to Newport again. Bella, Bea's Siamese cat with the chronic lymphoma thing going on in her mouth, was showing signs of irritation again, and Bea was afraid it might mean the cancer was back with a vengeance. I went along for moral support, and took one of the furry herd, Pooh Bear, for his check up and shots.

We loaded the cats into Bea's back seat in the dark and headed out. I should say, my husband loaded my cat carrier, because not only do I NOT function in the pre-dawn hours, I've also been fighting a horrid chest cold this past week that's left me unusually weak and easily winded.

I had thought taking Pooh Bear would be a good call; he's generally a quiet cat - a total squirrel job, replete with nuts, but quiet - and he wouldn't upset poor Bella with a bunch of constant yowling. It's an almost 3 hour drive and the whole screaming cat thing gets old long before we've even crossed over I-95. (If you're wondering why we're going that far to see a vet, read this)

You might be asking right now, (and btw I'm really glad, reader, you've stopped using that strange poetic form of address where you started everything with "O". That was weird) "So, Tapdancing Woman, how did that work out?"

It's funny you should ask: the thing is, that damn cat, the one who was supposed to be the QUIET one? He meowed and meowed and meowed almost the entire way there. By the time we were going through New Bern, and almost there, I turned around in my seat to see what WAS this cat's deal, maybe even rattle his cage, just to make ME feel better.

I looked into his carrier and saw not one, but two pairs of yellow-green eyes looking back at me. I rubbed my tired eyes and counted again. Yep, four eyes for one cat, because obviously there wasn't just one cat in that carrier, there were two. Simon had stowed away, rather accidentally, and my husband, who apparently isn't at his best at 6:30 AM either, didn't seem to think a 30 pound cat was anything unusual.

It certainly served to break the mood of doom we had been driving under (we were worried about Bella, remember?)and the day just kept looking up. Bella did need the boost of a new antibiotic, but overall she was looking good, for a cat with a terminal disease. Pooh got his shots, Simon got his ears cleaned as incentive to never get in a carrier again, and we had an awesome lunch of local steamed shrimp, clam strips, hushpuppies, and sweet potato fries at a place called The Crab Shack. And on the way home we knew who to blame for the ever-present feline song of "Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow,..."!

Addendum: I completely forgot to tell you what happened when we got home that evening! I of the perpetually full bladder, had to winkle as soon as we pulled into the driveway, so I hobbled-ran past the hubman, and told him to get the cat out of the car, puhleeze! He took one look in the cage, asked Bea if the other cat was going to her house, and when she said no, he sighed heavily, thinking I had brought home another stray. The dork. Bea had to tell him to look again, whereupon he figured it out and great hilarity ensued. I mean really - who the hell can't tell the difference between carrying one cat and two? It's not like they're tiny kittens - these are some meat-packing males, ya'll!

Blog? What Blog?

I have just fallen off the face of the earth, and it feels pretty damn good. I might even have to make a habit of it, because blogging wasn't looking nearly as good as the Real Life thang - sorry kids.

We had a lovely Mother's Day weekend here. We got up early on Saturday and went to the Farmer's Market to buy flowers and vegetable plants for our garden. We ran a little late because I had to have that first cup of coffee before we hit the road, so I was expecting a little traffic at the market. Oh my Aunt Edna's ass - the place was packed like a mall at Christmas time. I don't know who the hell told the Cary-ites about the Farmer's Market, but those kill-joy urbanites were out in full force. We snaked our way through the sardine-like insanity, and lucked into a little Parking Karma (as Bea and I call it) - a spot right up at the front. We headed into the melee to make our selections.

There were so many beautiful flowers and plants to choose from! Both the Bohemian and I wanted some of these sunflowers, but I wasn't sure where to put them in my mostly shady yard, so we had to "take a picture, so it'll last longer!" The Bohemian was very excited at the prospect of shopping for flowers for Mother's Day. He had his flowers already picked out, but he was a good sport about looking for other options and posing for me. The Professor was not in the mood for photo-ops, as you can tell from his palm-first pose. I think he needs a haircut, but evidently the third grade girls like it - you should have seen the little circle of them around him at carpalooza on Friday - OY! I'm dreading the teen years, chile!
We got home and set to work, digging and planting all our new plants. On Sunday, I did absolutely nothing, and it was divine. The boys made me lovely cards and the dear husband man took care of all the school preparations and waited on me like I was the queen. I tell you - it was simply divine. On Monday, my darling man took the day off and we spent the whole day together, sans children. It was such a breath of fresh air, to get a break from the perpetual kid-thing. I love my boys, but they tend to suck the air out of the room, without realizing it. It was nice to be able to just be together, the man and I, with nowhere to go, and no one to tend to.

I am just the luckiest girl in the world!

Wow, Over-react Much?

Hello reader. As you might have surmised, yesterday went straight into the shitter, on many different levels. Thank you to everyone was so kind and supportive; it meant a lot to me. Also, I need to send out a humble, shame-faced apology to Ray who just happened to leave a bad joke at the wrong time. I think its called Spousal Timing, but I've never experienced it with anyone but my husband before. I am sorry Ray, can we still be friends, even if I'm a nutcase broad sometimes?

I did manage to find the missing cat. Scrawny Joe McAllister turned up yesterday evening, after several frantic searches. He was thin, hungry and had a nasty open absess on the base of his tail. Luckily I am skilled in absesses, but unluckily, the husband let him out this morning, so now Scrawny Joe is AWOL again. Have I mentioned I'm not real happy with the husband-person? Yeah, not so much.

There is other flotsam in my life right now as well, jamming up my normally intact sense of humor, so its probably best if I just slink away for awhile and focus on canvases.

"I am a dribbling asshole." Kenneth Brannagh, "Peter's Friends"

Sunday Denial

So yeah, it was Sunday again. Just like every week, only this upcoming week is Spring Break for the kids. This is good news, in that I don't have to get up early or supervise the homework, or (thank any and all deities involved) have to line up in the retarded insanity that is Car Poop. The down side is the ever enlarging mini manic monkeys are home all week. Half of the living room is already under siege and littered with Imaginext, Legos, and Playmobil flotsam as far as the eye can see. I gave them a cleaning ultimatum a half an hour ago, and it still is going pretty slowly, the carnage removal. This is pretty much what my week is going to look like, but at least I can stay up late and sleep in - they are good boys when it comes to that, though its due to many early morning awakenings, where the monster formerly known as Mom came out swinging and roaring. Now that they're bigger, I have to remember to wear underwear when I rampage, because Angry Mother Bush is far more scarring at 8 or 10 than it was at 3 or 4.

Are you reeling from that last sentence? Ms. Q just spit her coffee, I feel sure. So you're telling me that none of you ever walked around in the buff when your kids were little? Did you don your little pilgrim hat too? Yeah, thats what I thought.

Where the hell was I? Spring Break, that's right.

So this past Sunday, knowing the fate of my week ahead, Bea and I went out for a day of Sunday Denial. The hub-man was only too happy to finance the trip, because it got us out of the house, so he could watch the NCAA playoffs and drink beer without any interruptions. We went to see "The Other Boleyn Girl" and then went out for sushi afterwards, both things that he would rather chew his leg off than do.

I knew the film was going to be WAY off in its historical accuracy, just based on the trash novel by the same name, but I wanted to see Natalie Portman play Anne Boleyn, and I just can't resist a film about Tudor England, even if they are going to fuck it up. And boy, howdy, did they screw it up!

I will be giving my review of this film later this week, along with the far more sordid, and juicy true story of Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII, that for reasons unknown to me, they chose to ignore completely when they made this film.

But for now, I must leave you, dear blogosphere, and go in search of lunch-like comestibles to appease the restless and unruly native pygmies that have overrun my domicile.

Rattling a Few Bones~A Personal History~Part IV

*WARNING* If you are SQUEAMISH or EASILY OFFENDED, it might be in your best interest to STOP NOW and go read something a little less gorey. Don't say I didn't warn you...

The rest of the story can be found here:
Part I
Part II
Part III

It was near the end of September when I finally saw an OB/GYN. I had been pregnant since late July; violently so at first, but by September, my symptoms of nausea, fatigue, and tenderness had dissipated, leaving me feeling frantically awry and a little depressed.

When the doctor did an ultrasound he could find no heartbeat. He tried again and again, before gently breaking the news that there was no baby. It had begun and ended, after about a month of gestating, leaving only a yolk sac as proof there had been anything at all. I think we both cried when we got the news. It was no surprise to me, but I had hoped I was wrong about what I knew in my heart. But my poor husband; he had been so excited, and called everyone we knew to announce the good news, even before a month had passed. Now he would have to tell them all that it wasn't going to happen.

I couldn't bring myself talk to anyone about it - it was too close and the weight of everyone's disappointment was a palpable burden on my shoulders. I know they were all just trying to be sympathetic, but when I'm in a dark place, like I was then, there are very few people allowed in.

I decided not to undergo a D&C right away, preferring to give my body the chance to take care of things its own way. (Note to past self - this wasn't a good call.) About two weeks went by, and nothing happened, other than me getting progressively more depressed and more afraid that things weren't going to resolve themselves. At the end of that two weeks, I decided I was going to drink a margarita, come what may. It wasn't like it was going to harm any fetus, was it, and somehow I thought a little thinning of the blood might be a good thing.

The next morning I woke up, feeling distinctly like crap. I noticed I was beginning to bleed, so I called the OB/GYN's office to let them know and find out what to do next. The nurse seemed to think I should just sit tight, and wait until a more convincing flow of blood began. A couple hours later, suitably hemmoraging, I called back, and they pencilled me in for an appointment that morning. Since my hub-man was at work in a galaxy far, far away, the ETA of which is roughly a 45 minutes' drive, Bea came home from work and took me to the doctor's office. After checking me the doctor decided it was time for the D&C procedure, but it would have to be scheduled for later in the day, so I went back home to call the hub-man and rest until then. Bea stayed with me, against her better instincts (she faints at the sight of blood - I shit you not. It really brought her candy-striper career to an abrupt end, but I digress...) in case I needed help before the man got home.

I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. I could tell I was bleeding heavily, so I went into the bathroom for the changing of the guard, so to speak. As I sat down on the toilet, something large fell out and went "Splash!" I looked and there was the yolk sac I'd seen on the ultrasound, floating gently down to rest against the bottom, swaying lightly in the toilet tide. "Bea!" I shrieked, a little rattled at this turn of events, this unexpected visitor. I knew I couldn't leave what had once been the beginning of my child in the toilet, to be flushed away. I also knew that the doctor might find it important to see what had fallen out. "Can you bring me a little plastic dish with a lid?" I inquired of Bea, who was cautiously approaching the bathroom. I told her what had happened and why I needed the dish. She turned right around and went into the kitchen, where she found me a grated cheese container and brought it to me, averting her eyes as she came near me.

Using a metal hanger as a rather grisly scoop, I caught the sac and put it in the cheese dish. It was about this time I realized I couldn't stop bleeding long enough to get a clean pad under the flow. I yelled down the hall again, to Bea; "Can you bring me a bag to put this dish in, so I'm not toting human remains around in full sight?" I was so preoccupied with trying to staunch the frighteningly continual flow of blood, I didn't see Bea until she was right there, looking away as hard as she could, with an absolutely HUGE paper bag in her hand. It just struck me, there in the middle of all that trauma, as hilarious. Bea had brought an immense bag to put a tiny little plastic dish in. No way anyone would know what we had in THAT bag! I started laughing at that ludicrous paper bag and couldn't stop. When she asked me what the hell I was laughing at, I told her and we both laughed, albeit, Bea was still a little shaky and studiously not looking at me.

After staunching what flow I could, I crawled back into bed and called the doctor's office again. I told them what had happened, expecting a cancellation of the afternoon's procedure, and maybe another trip to their office for a check up. Oh no, once you schedule a procedure at the hospital, you are bound to it! May be they were right and it was necessary. Maybe they were just covering their asses. Maybe, if I had known what a craptastically inefficient piece of shit hospital it was I could have refused to go. But the ole hindsight just wasn't there, so when the hub-man got home, off we went, giant paper bag in tow.

The people at the hospital were nice enough, but they didn't listen and they didn't really care about my well being. They knocked me out cold with anesthesia, after I pointedly said no, I don't want to be unconscious. When I woke up, disoriented and upset, I wasn't allowed to have my husband near me, as the one other patient in the recovery room had six visitors. Does this strike anyone else as complete bullshit and really poor care? Let me just say that I will never use that hospital again, for anything, after the crap care I received there. Oh, and they billed me wrong too, so the misery of having been there stayed with us for three months afterwards, while we tried to get the billing straightened out. Did I mention I hate that MF hospital?

We went home to heal and pick up the pieces of our life. I was incredibly depressed afterwards, even up through Christmas. I painted and internalized and brooded, which maybe isn't that healthy sounding, but its how I cope. In early January I realized I was pregnant again, and the rollercoaster ride was starting all over.

Rattling a Few Bones~A Personal History~Part III

*WARNING* This is a tangential piece, but it IS headed somewhere, so bear with me...

The rest of this story can be found here, and then here.

I think we were married for about four years before we really got going on the having children thing. Four glorious years. Bea (Bee-yah) had graduated from college and moved in with us. Then we got evicted from our rental for having too many cats and a roommate, and ended up buying a house of our own. (Don't even GET me started on that landlady and her crazy shit! I will tell you that she got hers later on, when it came time for her to replace all her heating and cooling systems in her rental houses. The company she went through was the company Bea worked for and let's just say she didn't get a lick of special treatment, or special pricing, and she knew who was on the other end of the phone. Its rare and beautiful thing when you get to see karma in action, up close and personal.) With Bea living with us, we all had extra money to spend. We went to kiln openings regularly, and amassed the foundations of our pottery collections during this time. Ah! I could wax quite nostalgic for those easy times. 1996 was a very prolific creative period for me. Long days into night to paint, both canvas and walls. Following my personal muse, and the budgetary flexibility that allowed us to buy beautiful old things to fill our new house.

In the spring of 1996 we began to try for a baby in earnest. I really liked the trying part - I could always blame my randy demands for extra boot knocking on our mutual effort for a child. (I know - I read all the time about other wives who don't want to have sex, but their husbands do, and I am so sorry, but I ain't one of them - I need my weekly (more if I can get it!) dose of progesterone to keep me on an even keel!) By mid-summer I was nauseous and tender and well, you know what that means. That's right - the end of the love fest, dammit! But on the other side of that coin - Mission Accomplished!

My first OB/GYN appointment was in early September. There was a hurricane by the name of Fran churning its way up the east coast, and it was expected to turn and make that once-in-every-fifty-years trek inland towards Raleigh. The last hurricane to do so was Hazel, back in 1954, and disastrous as it had been, it had been a long time since and no one was really prepared for anything of that caliber. I was anxious about the hurricane, but relieved that I would at least get to see the doctor and get things rolling medically, before the storm hit and possibly made it hard to get around.

Imagine my shocked surprise at my appointment when my OB/GYN of over 17 years told me that my insurance wouldn't cover having a baby with them, and I would have to find another doctor, thank you, have a nice day, fuck off, etc. Wow. I came out of there reeling, freaking out over where the hell I was going to find another doctor my insurance would take, and how long was it going to take to get an appointment. Meanwhile, we had about 6 hours to batten down, get all our kitties in a row before the storm hit. Yeah, no pressure. I went home, combed the yellow pages and the insurance directory until I found a doctor, and set up an appointment for two weeks later.

Fran's eye passed squarely over Raleigh, and a healthy portion of the entire state was declared in a state of emergency afterwards. Were we prepared? Hell no! We made ice, and froze some milk cartons of water. I made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and some kind of pasta dish that could be eaten cold, but that was the extent of our preparations. Bea was working that night at the tin box that was her heating and cooling company's office. About the time the gale force winds were beginning to pummel the area, they finally closed up shop and let her begin the 25 mile commute home. There are a multitude of things I could say about that company, but let it suffice to say they were damn lucky no one was injured by their stupidity, and they weren't the only business guilty of that kind of myopia. It was typical of the kind of apathy the entire area showed during the pre-storm preparations.

Bea got home, and we hunkered down. At first we sat in the dining room, looking out the picture window at the storm. Then Bea said, "You know, if this was a movie, we would say those people are too dumb to live, sitting in front of that big glass window during a hurricane." We laughed, but we moved into the living room, and sat rigidly, listening to the howling of the wind around the house, and the sound of every branch in every tree near us falling on the roof and our cars outside. We marvelled that the hubby-man was able to sleep through so much noise and implied destruction, though shortly afterwards, he did awake and came out to the living room as well. By this time, around 11:00, the wind had (if you can even imagine it) become an intruder at the door, pounding on all sides of the house, looking for admittance. It was stomach-clenchingly terrifying, to sit passively, while imminent disaster prowled outside, huffing and puffing like the biggest baddest wolf of all. As we huddled in the living room, trying to bolster each other's spirits with jokes, we heard a very odd, very ominous sound. There was a metallic scraping, and a kind of groaning, combined with a swooshing of many branches. The rafters groaned and we wondered if we would have a ceiling there much longer. Then it stopped.
The power having long since given out, we took our pitiful, cheap-o flashlight into the dining room. Water was beginning to leak from the ceiling near the front door. Perpetually jiggling the flashlight up and down, to keep the light to shining, we peered out the tiny front door window into a tangled mass of branches and oak leaves dripping with rain. Afraid to go outside into the maelstrom, we re-situated ourselves in the middle bedroom, and waited out the night in a weary jitteriness, waiting for the other big tree to drop, or the creek to flood the house, until the eye passed and the storm began to wane.
When we went outside the next morning, the carnage all up and down the street was unbelievable. Mercifully, we only had one tree come down on our house, and it missed the picture window. Luckily, we still had water. What was harder to endure was the almost 6 days of no electricity in post-hurricane tropical heat. I stood in my yard and wept when the power trucks finally came. Add on top of all this my concerns about my diminishing pregnancy symptoms. My doctor's appointment had been further delayed by the havoc of the hurricane and I was convinced something was wrong with the baby.

To be continued.

Rattling a Few Bones~A Personal History~Part II

The beginning of this story can be found here.

So we moved in together. This wasn't something my family was going to pop a gasket over; my sister had already paved that road for me (and thanks, btw!), but that guy with the nice butt? Yeah, his parents were a different story. It was actually a touch and go moment when I found out his parents were not only Baptist, but Elders in a really fundie-type church. I had to know what he thought about that kind of religion and whether it was something he felt strongly about. If you have read any of my posts on being pagan, then you will know that this was a potential deal-breaker for me. He assured me that he was more of the scientific bent and since Evolution is a dirty word in his parent's house, he was ready to go wherever I led him. It was tempting, for a minute, to mess with his head and tell him that "candle wax on the nipples, and witchcraft" were de rigeur for me, but only for a minute. The honeymoon period isn't the best time to fuck with a guy's head - later on, after you're married and know all their dirty little secrets is a more prudent time, unless you're TRYING to get rid of the guy! (Or in the case of Bea's poorly chosen male roommate, a little Violent Femmes does the trick nicely, but that's her story to tell!) So we settled in and commenced to living in sin, which pretty much feels the same as living outside of sin, only you get to have sex more often.

Against the advice of my future father-in-law, we told my future MIL we were moving in together. I wasn't sure how she would take it, but I was damned if we were going to live together secretly - who gets to answer the phone when it rings? She wasn't real happy about it, but what was she going to do? I think she at least respected the fact that we didn't try to lie to her, and that, as we told her, this was a definitive step towards getting married down the road.

We got married almost exactly four years after we started dating, and had a groovy pagan wedding outside with my old roommate and his friend playing the pipes and drum as our music. I hear it was a beautiful wedding. I was so frazzled and tired I don't remember much about it, other than my mother being ten minutes late, and her telling me that because she didn't like my mother-in-law, she was washing her hands of doing anything else. That would be my mom - always a pain in the ass in a crisis.

The candid shot

The staged shot

The groomsmen. Can you guess which are my brothers and which are my BILs?

There are epic sagas about my mother for each of my siblings' weddings, far too lengthy and complicated to relate here. Suffice to say that the wedding cake (made by my mother, each time) played a pivotal part in the melodramas that went down at my brothers' weddings, and my sister's wedding went the smoothest of all of them, because Mom took a codeine by accident (she's always putting prescriptions in aspirin bottles) and passed out. I by-passed the possible wedding cake issues by using a chocolate chip-based frosting on my cake, (it would take a blow torch to move that stuff!) but there was no by-passing possible in dealing with the 5 year old that is my mother.

A telling picture

Cutting the cake (and a damn fine cake it was! None of that anemic white cake - it was 5 tiers of 9 layers each tier, chocolate cake and coffee ganache.)

I considered telling you more of the gorey details, but even after 16 years, it still pisses me off, and I might never finish where I'm going with this story if I start recollecting that particular chapter. You're just going to have to either wait for the book or try to divine the story from the wedding pictures. Or ask Bea - she and Miss Q were there to peel me off the walls.

Garter removal (oo, la la!)

Put a fork in it - I'm done!

After the hitching commenced we settled down in Raleigh and spent a couple of relatively peaceful years before we were seized with that mid-life insanity: the desire for offspring.

To be continued.

Hairclub For Girls

Note to self* never write and publish a post at 3:30 AM without proofreading it first! I left out #2 of the most important people/things category in the meme I posted on Saturday - skipped right on to #3...Zzzzzzzz...that's where my head was at!

Good morning...I'll tone down the peppy, so as to not jar any of you who are still dozing...shhhh....

This past Friday, when I posted the Carkeys Incident, I put up pictures of mysels looking vexed. After looking at those, I realized that not only do I refuse to say "cheese", even for me, but that I have two different colors on hair on my head.

This is not good - it isn't really a look that works for anybody; outside of Halloween, or a nursing home, maybe,...if you really had a lot of attitude.

So here is what I looked like on Friday, in the throes of key-lessness:
Yikes! I am just not ready to be wholly gray - I really don't have the skin tone for it (and speaking of skintone, those red cheeks are strictly dry and flakey red, not animal-tested, chemical red.)

now here is a natural beauty and also the elusive #2 from the Saturday meme of most important people/things. She may be a very silly girl, but I love my Jezebel Maya Jungle Cat!
Okay, back to the Before and After shots. This was taken this morning. I'm still not going to smile - its serious business trying to minimize that chin thing going on! I also did the unheard of, and put on makeup to make the contrast greater between today and last Friday. I put on lipstick, thinking of Flutter and her signature red lips, but I had to dab some of it back off, because it really isn't my signature - the grumpy puss is!

But the color looks good on my hair, and my hubman did the haircut for me - its your basic bob - no layering - and its laying down from all the conditioning right now, but its still a vast improvement from just a few days before. (And yes, I really am that white - I don't tan, just burn, so I gave up trying to be brown)
And that, my dears, is what I did over the weekend.

Well, Okay, there was kind of a debauched Saturday thing going on. Bea and I made Red Drinks (like a Bloody Mary, but lighter) and basked in the sun, eating potato chips and dip. It was fabulous. We didn't get a Damn thing done, but we felt so relaxed and zen-like afterwards, and that's somethng.

Of course, the housework is waiting, looking impatiently over my shoulder as I type. Yeah, Yeah! I'm going, I'm going!

Sigh...I hate housework, and its starting to show!

"1,2,3,4,5...Meme Time"

I was tagged by Autumn at Confessions Of A (Not So) Domestic Diva for this meme:

Name one thing you do everyday:

1. Rescue cats who are perpetually on the wrong side of the door (This is really an all day long kind of thing, and kind of annoying, but it keeps my butt from atrophying, so I let them live.)

Name 2 things you wish you could learn:

1. To play piano (I really want to make a Sam Kinnison joke right now, about Jesus using his hand as a whistle, but I'll refrain.)

2. Oh! To travel through time (this a favorite wish of my oldest child, and it could be a really handy tool in researching genealogy, though I might end up not born, or some other Back to The Future kind of thing.)

Name 3 things that remind you of your childhood:

1. Peanut butter and raspberry jam on rye bread. It never tastes right on any other kind of bread for me. Add a brown paper bag and I'm back in elementary school, standing in a coatroom (yeah, back in the early mesozoaic era they still attached coatroom areas to classrooms - so I'm a dinosaur - What. Ever.)

2. Penny Brite (again was a popular toy in the mesozoaic, back before toys had to have batteries to be fun - I think you know where I'm going with this.)

3. Playing dolls with my sister - wait a minute - we were just doing that last week - some things never change, I guess! (And check out her latest doll, The Queen of Tarts, here) 4 things you love to eat but rarely do

1. Caramel Apples - around here all they ever make are those gnarly red candy ones, so I pass.

2. Steamed clams - I love them but I can only eat aqua-culture, because I'm like the canary in the coal mine, when it comes to water-borne bacteria, and its so not worth it to spend the evening waiting to yack.

3. Ice cream - I don't know why I don't eat it - I love ice cream, but I'm never really in the mood for it, unless its summertime and we're going to Dairy Queen - Butterfinger Blizzards defy all laws of restraint.

4. Leg of lamb - I used to like it a lot, but I can't bring myself to eat it anymore. Ever. (sorry Mom)

Name 5 things/people that make you feel good

1. My husband, when he's not hiding my keys, though he DID confess, once he was cornered.

3. My oldest son, because he loves history as much as I do, and he's still a sweetie, when he isn't being cool. 4. My youngest son, because he's an incredible artist and such a sweetie- he's always giving me little cards that say, "I love you".

5. Being far enough away from civilization that I can hear only the sounds of the mountains, woods, or ocean around me.
These are my Tag-ees; no pressure though - fear not the anguish it will cause me if you must decline- I'll shamble along, somehow:

Bea at Trapped Under Something Heavy

Liv at Madness, Madness, I Say

Maggie at Okay, Fine, Dammit

Jodi at Slow Panic

Me Me Me Me Meme

Flutter has tagged me with my very first meme (what exactly does that stand for? ), for which I am so very honored; at the same time I'm having chain letter PTS. But she says I can do it, and really, once I looked at the rules, it wasn't so very bad.
Here we go!

These are the rules:

*Link to your tagger and post the rules.

*Share seven facts about yourself, some random and some weird.

*Tag seven people at the end of the post and list their names. (Seven??? I don't think I know seven. Can I just do one? Its that chain letter thing again...)

*Let them know they were tagged by leaving a comment on their blogs.

Okay,

1) I am a really bad loser at board games, even when I play kids. In the early days of my relationship with my husband we played monopoly together and I won. I was horrid - I laughed in his face. He's always said since then, that if he had won, we would never have "hooked up". He might be right - isn't that awful?

2) I am the epitome of Scary Cat Lady, and proud of it! We currently have...steady yourself...Eight Cats...I know, its obscene. We go through 20 lbs of top shelf cat food every month (because I am an overly indulgent Scary Cat Lady - and it cuts down on the, ...ahem,...refuse...that I have to clean up, though I'm working on training my two-legged cats to help out there (oh! those are kids????) I don't really want eight cats, but its really, REALLY hard to say no (for me, anyway) to some poor little skeleton off the street. I even have pictures of cats I used to have, framed and sitting on tables around the house.

3) I want to be a fabulous photographer when I grow up, but when it comes to having to learn all the intricate stuff of the really cool digital cameras, I turn into my dad, and want someone else to read it and explain it to me (its so sad, to see genetics in action, sometimes).

4) People always laugh at me, when I tell them how, as a child, during nap time, I would stand up on my bed and do show tunes, instead of sleeping. Even though I didn't know any real show tunes. (See? you're laughing...shut up)

5) I'm the more popular parent these days, and secretly (well, not so secretly now!) I like it that way. when the Hub-man was the Big Cheese (when the kids were toddlers), I was kinda jealous. I know, I'm a bad, petty person, when it comes to being popular with the kids. I AM more fun though...!

6) I'm afraid that I will run out of things to write about on a blog, and give it up after a few months. Then I won't be able to show my face in Blogland anymore (this goes back to that popularity thing again, I think).

7) I love to cook, but I hate to HAVE to cook. If I didn't have to make dinner, it would be more fun to do it (it wouldn't hurt to have children who didn't say, "EEewwww!" every time we tried a new dish, as well, but HeeYahh! That isn't gonna happen! Not on this planet.) I don't like to follow recipes - it takes all the fun out of it. I want to be that guy who comes to your house and creates a gourmet meal out of Gino's pizza rolls and a can of Spam. (although that would take some doing, using that shit as a basis!)

And there you go! Seven random (and I mean RANDOM) facts about me, the tapdancer.

Wow - I never even mentioned that I tapdanced once, on stage, under hypnosis. Talk about your subject-related randomness.

So now, I am passing the meme torch on to....Bea, over at Trapped Under Something Heavy, who informed me today, that she had never heard of a meme - what the hell am I trying to do to her???

I told her Flutter did it (was that wrong?)