The Average Blogger

New This Week:

1: The Young Prince auditioned for a play and got a role. When he came out of rehearsal last night, he was incensed. "I'm a pawn!" he said in outraged tones. "I don't have a part. I'm an understudy." I suspected this was wrong, since understudies usually have some other thing to do in the chorus. He is not an understudy, he is a sidekick. With no lines, so he was still put out, but apparently he does get to be funny, so that was a balm. Since the role is not in the script, I'll be interested to see how this shakes out.

2: I suspect we got gouged on home repairs this week. Check out this racket: Our septic tank pump died. The plumbers told us that we had a pump running on 110 current, and that was entirely too small for the house we have; it should be a 220 pump. (Never mind that we have lived here 8 years with nary a problem.) They refused to put in a new 110.  The electrician who was tasked with replacing the 110 line with a 220 out to the tank told us that our junction box was recalled years ago and he would not put the new line in unless he replaced the entire box. So $5,000 later, we are flat broke, but we can now shower in certainty that sewage won't back into our basement and we can sleep in relative ease knowing that the house won't burn down. Unless we leave the oven on.

3: Work is weird. NYAB is working nights at home, I'm splitting shifts between home and the office, and I am all discombobulated. I have this nagging feeling that any day now I'm going to get an irate email from someone IN ALL CAPS THAT I HAVE MISSED A MEETING AND AM SO TOTALLY FIRED.

4: My house is a mess. That will get fixed this weekend.  Rah. Rewrite on the novel is going fairly well; I'm more than half done. Rah rah. My parents are jumping over assorted hurdles to come visit us and maybe bring us a dog. Rah rah rah, sis boom bah.

5: That's enough, don't you think? All in all, things are pretty good.  Kid's in a play! Plumbing won't explode for at least six more months! Electrician can go to Cabo! Things are humming along! Huzzah!

My friend baldowl shared a barf story on his blog.  It is sad that I have more than one I could share, and sadder that I am not sure I have the nerve to do it. Maybe when I'm done with my other creative writing.

Itchy, Scratchy

Saturday: Do a bunch of yard work. Overhaul a large portion of my flowerbed, feeling very industrious and pleased as I pull out weeds and install rock-lined mulch paths to prevent such a huge need for future weeding.  (Speaking of rocks, my grandfather has cleared up the Virginia vegetable garden rock mystery: "Rocks grow deep in the earth, and when they are big enough, the devil pushes them up to the top for us to deal with." I don't doubt it for a second.)

Sunday: Wake up with itchy arms and one eye swollen shut. Sigh. Groan. Apply ice packs and cortisone. Realize I'm a little late this year. Develop plans to further reduce growing space for evil weeds by installing a tiny patio in one corner of the flower bed. Talk to grandfather, who assures me it will be a huge amount of hassle and work. Sigh. Groan. Apply ice packs and cortisone, and go to bed. 

Monday: Get up at 4 a.m. for work. Wince at the ghastly reflection I see in the mirror, but suck it up, apply more cortisone and go to work anyway.  Leave work at 1:30 p.m., pick up kid from camp, go home and doze from exhaustion of itching while he watches Harry Potter Part 5. Wake up enough to feed him and apply more cortisone.

Tuesday: Get up at 4 a.m. for work. Horrified by spread of crud. Stop at drug store on way in to office and drop a ridiculous sum of money on assorted snake oil. Delighted to find that something appears to be helping, as itching decreases. Rashy face is still disgusting, however.

As a PSA, here is my experience:

Long sleeves and pants probably help. This has not been my experience, however, because in the process of getting undressed and/or throwing those clothes in the washer, I still get the crap on me, which means I sat outdoors in the blazing sun in winter clothes for naught.

All that business about showering as soon as you can after getting it on you may be sage advice. My problem is, I barely know a tree from a shrub and certainly can't pick out good weeds from bad ones, so knowing exactly when to go hose off is problematic.

I don't know if Ivy Off works. I bought some once, then we had 2 years of rain and by the time I was in a position to use it, the stuff had expired and I never bought any more.

Once you are afflicted, if at all possible, I strongly advise jumping into a 50-gallon vat of calamine lotion, getting very drunk, and remaining asleep for a week. Perhaps even an induced coma, if means allow.

Not possible? Yeah, not for me either. 

Cortisone lotion works for me, but it doesn't last very long, and all those warnings telling you not to use it more than 3 times a day have served to freak me out. I also don't like that stuff on my face.

Ice packs? Don't do jack.

Running impossibly hot water over the rash? Ohhhh, that feels really, really good.  However, the time I tried it, I also wound up in much worse shape for the long run. The rash got much worse, blistered, lasted forever and looked like I had a flesh-eating disease. I do not recommend this, though it was, indeed, a pleasant itch-killer.

This time around, I have taken an allergy pill and used this stuff called Tecnu Rash Relief. I don't know which one did the trick, but I'm feeling much better. I figure the allergy pill won't hurt anything, even if it doesn't help.  The tecnu is wonderful stuff, but it is very oily, so keep tissues and stuff around and maybe wear sleeves to keep it off counters, desks, laptops, etc.

I don't know how much validity there is to this, but it does seem like a logical move to try to keep your contact with linens to a minimum til you know the oil is gone or til the rash is clearing up. This means changing the sheets, using different towels, etc. It also means a lot of laundry, which is a bummer.

That's what I've got -- anyone else got any good Old Wives remedies out there?  Happy to try them out!

Smart Guys

This afternoon, I had coffee with an ex-Most Favored Colleague and now excellent friend.  I shared part of the chat with Not Your Average Blogger:

This is the best mid-conversation exchange from my afternoon:
Him: I find myself quoting Say Anything a lot lately.
Me: Yeah? I find myself quoting Deadwood.
Him: So, OK, our heads are basically in the same place. 

NYAB wrote back, about 2 minutes later:

Lloyd Dobler. Alright. He's a real cocksucker.

Does It Go Both Ways?

Yesterday I was emailing with a newfound old friend, and there was a small lamentation on both sides about improper maintenance of certain houses and buildings we were both familiar with from our childhood, and how sad it is to see things being let go like that. 

Part of the reason for this is obvious, I think -- it's always sad to see something go uncared for, particularly if it is a something that held great meaning for someone at some point -- like most buildings, certainly most houses, do. (This is why I always make Not Your Average Blogger pull off the road and let me take photos when we see Falling Down Houses. What happened to this place? Why did it fall into ruin? This used to be someone's home! Someone probably grew up here. Someone sank money into it. And yet now all the windows are busted out and the basement is a 12-foot lake. Why?)

But I think part of the sadness is also personal. That something you were intimately familiar with has changed drastically from how it is remembered. That a chunk of who you are doesn't really exist anymore.

Then this morning I was walking around some residential parts of DC -- nicely kept areas, with clean steps and well-appointed postage-stamp yards and spit-shine bright brass fixtures. Very gentrified.

And it led me to wonder if the opposite effect is equally depressing. Say you grew up in a slum, and that slum was later bought up by whatever we are now calling yuppies and those folks flipped these properties and turned into darling little picture postcards worth millions. Does that sort of change have the same resonance? Would you be depressed that all the doors fit the jambs? Would you be disappointed that the concrete was repoured and no longer a hazard waiting to break someone's neck?

Jes' curious.

Some Are Sad. Some Are Glad. Some Are Mad. Some Are Very, Very Bad. Oh, and Some Are Dead.

So, a while back, my kid killed his goldfish. I'm pretty sure it was by accident. They lasted about ... oh, I don't know... just under a year, I think.  And I'm fairly certain that without inhuman intervention, they would have been fine. We threw out the aquarium, and figure we'll get another one in a few years if the kid is still inclined to pets and less inclined to manslaughter. (Fishslaughter?)

Then, this summer, I got a betta for my office.  Yaz lasted a whopping three months.  He died right before we headed off to the convention. Which was sad, and I'm still not entirely sure what did him in. But at least I didn't have to ask anyone to feed him...

At the time, my boss, my husband and I had the following conversations:

"Well, if you get a new one, you have to name him Rice."
"Yes, that would seem to be the case, I suppose."

"Boss says I have to name a new fish Rice.  Where do I find a white fish?"
"But ... Jim Rice is a black man."
"Well, yes, but most people would be confused by a black fish named Rice."
"Screw 'em if they can't take a joke!"

"Husband says I should get a black fish and name it Rice."
"Why?"
"Because a white fish is racist."
"How about you get a red fish?"
"Oh, that could work."

But after those chats, I held off on actually getting a fish -- partly because my new workshift doesn't really give me a chance to swing by the pet store on my way into the office in the morning, and partly because I didn't like cleaning the bowl in our tiny office sinks, and partly (largely) because generally speaking if I go into a pet store I'd much rather come out with a dog than a fish. 

But I had some time and inclination on Monday, so I went out and bought Rice.

And, unfortunately, was not at all surprised to find him dead when I came in this morning. He looked puny from the get-go and only swam around when someone poked his bowl.

This is some kind of record, for me. Two days. And I don't think the same offer applies with bettas as does for goldfish -- wherein the store clerk told me if I brought the dead fish back, they would replace it with a live one.  Though I never understood that offer anyway, and have no desire to explore it. I really can't say replacing a 99-cent fish for free is worth toting a corpse around with me for any amount of time.

Now, I am now torn.

Do I get out of the fish business and stick with fishwrap, which I know better?

Is it because I have bad luck with bettas? Should I go with goldfish? Though apparently the unaerated and perfectly adequate 1-gallon bowl I got for the betta is torture for goldfish.

Should I stop naming the things after Sox players from the Dark Years? Or maybe just not left fielders? Maybe, given my general attitude toward life in general, I should start naming them after center fielders? Or maybe shortstops?

Blah. Maybe I'll turn the fishbowl into a terrarium.

Bossy Chocolate -- Better Than No Chocolate?

So this colleague of mine is constantly putting these dumb little Dove candies in this candy bucket I have on my desk.  Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the contribution to the cause and chocolate is chocolate is chocolate, and that's all good.  But the Dove wrappers bother me. See, each chocolate is "wrapped with a special PROMISE® note inside." Promise, my ass. There are no promises here.They're like Fortune Cookies, only they don't give fortunes, and they aren't cookies.

(Of course, even fortune cookies usually don't actually offer up fortunes any more, they say things like, "A fearless man often gets kneecapped by the Mob," or whatever.  NYAB's theory is that litigation regarding one's fortune not coming true is somehow involved.)

So, these Dove things.  Yesterday I opened one that said, "Sing along with the Muzak."  And I was all, No, little Dove dictator, I will NOT.  Then later I opened one that said, "Flirting is mandatory."  WTF?  Sez who? Piss off, Dove wrapper. I don't like flirting with people I LIKE, when I'm in a GOOD MOOD, and yesterday I was very hatey and not-liking and bad moody.

And this morning's offering was "Remember your first everything."  Whaaat? I can barely remember my first NAME, let alone my first everything.

I call NYAB in his office.
"Are you alone?"
"Yeah...."
"Do you remember your first blowjob?"
"Huh?"
"Do you?"
"Ummmmmmm... I think I have to say no, I don't."
"Mm hmm. OK. Thanks."

Seriously, I resented it when my feminine products offered me useful advice and I resent my chocolate telling me what to do. Step off, inanimate objects!!!!

Why Bother Posting With Nothing to Say?

Maybe I had less to say than I thought ... no, that's not true. It's just that all my rants have been political or work-related, all off-limits here.  So I'll just check in.

United changed our flight to the convention. Or maybe it changed our flight home. I don't remember our original schedule, so clearly the change isn't bothering me very much. As far as I can tell, it shouldn't bother any other potentially affected parties either. So that's nice. Thanks, United.

I'm listening to someone outside my office say "Blablabla fucking blablabla fucking blablabla fuck." (the blabla parts are actual words, I just don't care about the issue being discussed.)  Niiiice.

I think all my pregnant friends have had their babies.  Now I have to get off my duff and Send Stuff.

The other night the YP asked me why I had bought that movie "Shoe-loose -- the one with the funny hair guy who dances."  Alas, I did not have a very good justification for ownership.

Sis-in-law and her son arrive tomorrow and are staying for the weekend. Anticipate having some kind of fun with them -- that will probably only be chronicled in flickr.  Will alert y'all when to click that link.  :D

Happy weekend, a day early!

Question O' the Day:

When reading along some bit of news story or bloggage or what have you, I often run into phrases like, "Actually..." or "To be honest...." or "In truth..."  So, am I the only one who reacts to this by thinking, "What, you've been lying about EVERYTHING up to now?" Or does it bug you too?

(Note: Yes, to be honest, I do realize that, in truth, I am actually guilty of this very bugaboo. Leave me alone.)

Weekend Vignette:
(Outdoors, in blazing heat, realizing I once again have not thought ahead regarding sunburn protection.)
Me: YP, could you please go get my hat? I think it's on the bathroom counter.
YP: The blue one?
Me: Yes.
YP: Oh, yes, that is where it is. You left it there for your shower. And I wore it while I was pooping.
Me: Um, great. Hey, don't tell me that next time.
YP: But I put it back where I found it!

Loose Ends

1: NYAB needs back surgery. Not sure when. Hopefully it will actually fix not just the past month of agony but an ongoing 10-year problem.

2: Still. It's surgery.  I've made up my mind that I will refuse to freak out -- but might wind up losing my shit a little bit at some point if I sit and think for too long about the actual procedure involved.

3: I hafta say, the man has held up like a trooper. He's worked from home pretty much all but 2 or 3 days of this mess, despite not being able to even sit upright most of the time and trying out a whole pharmacy's worth of different painkillers and so on. And he's almost never complained, and he's only barked once or twice and generally that was because I barked first because I am a bad impatient wife who can't deal with the idea that her sharp-minded and very smart husband is so drug-addled he can't figure out what he wants to drink with dinner without taking several minutes to process. I hope never to go through anything like this, but I hope if I do I'm as tough about it as he has been.

4: On a happier note, the YP took part in the 48-hour film project this weekend. Casa Blogger played a slightly larger role. I have yet to see the final product, but hope to take the kid to see his face on an actual movie theater screen on Wednesday night. Should be fun, if we can swing it.  And if I can find a way to do it, I'll link to the film.

5: The YP's school-to-be held a "family night" tonight.  La.  Public school.  My skin is starting to crawl at the idea of  him having to share air with the spawn of the snitty witches in the la-de-dah housing development behind us, and I'm reasonably depressed at the 2/3 of the "kindergarten team" who were at the event tonight. I'm sure they are lovely, wonderful women, and they looked very kindergarten teachery -- which is to say, they both had a sort of bovine soft roundness to them, and looked like they recently got booted out of librarian school.  Later this week, I might transcribe a form of live-blogging I did about that event to NYAB, who was home on the couch.

6: I'm in a hateful mood. Mostly toward one particular person who probably doesn't deserve as much anger as is brewing in me. Then again, maybe it is deserved, but there's no real way for me to be sure. Regardless, that isn't stopping me from wishing I could force-feed her several pounds of of iron shavings and then lock her in an MRI room with all the magnets set to Full Strength. Yes, frankly, it is that bad.  Hopefully I will have a cathartic dream and will be fine by tomorrow.

7: Even if I'm not, I will have work to distract me.  Am looking forward to going back to some semblance of a normal schedule at work. I feel like my boss is going to start counting NYAB's and my timecards as one paycheck instead of two, for as much as he's seen either one of us.

8: I forget what 8 was for ....

9: I haven't really kept up with the papers in the past week. Does anyone still care about Clin-bama? Really?  On that note -- yours truly will be attending the Dem convention.  Be ready for a slew of horrified "I went to the convention and all I saw was one tiny room" posts at the end of August.

10:  Have a good rest of the week!

All Your Thoughts Are in a Different Head

I've been feeling very boring lately. Not that I'm bored, mind you -- I'm up to my ears in Not Bored.  Just, boring. Stuff happens, and I can't really find a good way to write about it because it's just all the usual mundane work junk and homework junk and housework junk. Like, over the weekend we tried to figure out if the YP could walk to the school where he'll be attending kindergarten.  Since we struck out in the entirely wrong direction and it was late in the day, the jury is still out on whether he can or not.  It was a nice walk, and a nice day, but how do you make interesting the fact that you cut through a bunch of people's back 40 and managed to find your way to your destination and back while only getting a little bit lost?

(Boring. Yes. And yet, here I sit, blathering on about how I have nothing to blather about.) 

Conversely, I'm having a lot of fun taking pictures. **Taking** them. Doing anything with them? Yeah, another story. Right now I have a bunch of photos in my camera I should put on the computer and process, but I haven't gotten around to it. I think I'm in Lazy Mode.

(Gee, really? Ya think? Maybe?)

But next week is a congressional recess, and although things are fast conspiring to not let me take off the time I fully intend to take off, I should have a little more time to kick loose that free spirit creative side.

(What's the opposite of a free spirit? An enslaved spirit? An expensive spirit?  A hidebound spirit?)

Meantime, ponder this story.  Now, I'm not saying anyone deserves to be locked in a holding cell with no food or water or bathroom for 4 days, not at all. The fuzz screwed up bigtime here.  But ... on the other hand ... dude. She's been here illegally for almost 2 decades. It's not out of the realm of the possible that she's been perpetrating some kind of identity theft/fraud to stay here. And then she gets busted for pirated DVDs, and now it's a safe bet she's gonna get a big fat settlement -- of U.S. taxpayer money, for a U.S. government mistake. OK, I won't argue that part, as I said, anyone held in those conditions for 4 days as "an oversight" deserves some recompense. But how about recompense for her wrongdoing as well? How about if officials enforce the law she's been breaking for 20 years and insist she spend that big fat settlement in her native country? Seems like she might as well -- the money would last a lot longer there...

(Oh, AB, you are such a heartless bitcka. Twenty years in this country, she's practically a native. Clearly, since she's already got two lawyers backing her up, she's acclimated to U.S. culture... OK, then, her settlement can be she gets to take a citizenship test and if she passes she can stay. How would that be?)