Rambling

I have a stupid cold. My Army husband isn't home so the point of having one is absolutely POINTLESS. A cold, that is. I will tell you one thing: Cats just don't give a damn when you are sick. Nope. It's all about them. Scoop my litter. Change my box. Feed me. I had to order soup from a Chinese restaurant. I went on facebook and whined. Begged for attention, basically. Got some attention, but it wasn't as satisfying as having somebody to fetch your snot rags for you. Having a cold by yourself is just SO worthless. Outside of your immediate family, nobody gives a crap. I am almost out of food (Diet Pepsi and Baked Cheesy Poufs), so I need to haul my sorry ass over to the grocery store where I will get nada in sympathy. Just a cross look from the cashier that says "Get your germs away from me." Sure these are the same cashiers that sniffle and snort their way through the holidays expecting me to go "Oh, you poor thing. Having to work with a cold!" When what I am really thinking is: "Get your germs away from me!" Yeah, payback is a bitch. I'm thinking of giving this cold to the mailman, though. That guy's attitude has really been pissing me off. Do you think sneezing on a package would work? Or is there some federal law against that?

Tiger Tail

Despite the carefully constructed image of an all-around nice-guy, turns-out Tiger Woods likes his women "a little on the trashy side". Oh well. In his press-conference today, which was as dull as Tiger's former image,he asked to do his soul-searching in private. Tiger is taking the tried and true, re-hab, holistic-inner analysis route to repair things so MAYBE the public will forgive him and his wife won't take his sorry-ass to the cleaners. But wouldn't it be a lot more fun if Tiger would just embrace his inner-sleazeball and go with it? I kept picturing him getting a little trailer, right next former President Bill Clinton's Airstream, somewhere in an undisclosed mobile home park in Arkansas. What could be better for Tiger's image than tossing back a couple Buds with Bill on his astro-turf covered deck? When they both got bored, Bill and Tiger could just head down to "The Waffle House" and hit on waitresses. Look, Tiger is never going to live this one down, so I think it would just be for the best if he goes for it.

Visible Panty Line -- Friend or Menace?

While watching an "E!" special on the top "fashion don'ts" I was astonished to see that the number one "fashion don't" was VPL or "Visible Panty Line".  Personally, I don't mind seeing a little VPL.  I find it comforting to know that someone has enough sense to put their underpants on.  I think Brittany Spears was one of the first to shoot us the beav while getting out of the car.  Too much information, if you ask me.  Pretty soon, celebs across the world were forgetting to put on their underpants.  This is why so many of them have had to hire stylists.  They needed someone who says:  "Did you put on your panties?"  A whole industry has sprung-up around celebs not being able to dress themselves.  Celebs are not like us -- if they shoot the beav while getting out of the car they should at least have someone they can blame for the faux pas.  They are CELEBRITIES after all -- they have more pressing matters on their minds than underpants.  That is why they have "people".

Sadly, now that VPL is the biggest "fashion don't" ever, the line-free look has trickled-down into street-level wear.  The results have been tragic.  In the quest to remain VPL free I spyed a young, but large woman, wearing a pair of pants with the word "Juicy" predominantly displayed on the back of her ass while I was at the OBGYN.  The pants not only proudly displayed every wrinkle of cellulite this woman had, but her thong was on display for all too see.  The thong, instead of giving her the usual VPL had divided her ample behind into four separate entities, which for all the world looked like hot cross buns.  To make matters worse, she was at least eight months pregnant.  It was then I said a brief prayer thanking the good Lord that my mother never wore a pair of pants that said "Juicy" across the behind.

Now the male equivalent of the thong-on-display (TOD) is the pants-on-the-ground look which has already been so eloquently discussed by that guy on "American Idol".  I once saw a young boy, trying to look gangsta' by wearing his swim trunks swung low, expose his entire "bizness" when the trunks became water-logged and slid of his behind.

I have to disagree with my beloved "E!".  I find seeing a little VPL comforting, but then again I am prone to to wax nostalgic.

(And, I am not talkin' Brazilian...)

Color for Spring 2010!!!

"Color" is the buzzword for Spring Fashion 2010. Fashionistas couldn't get it together to pick just one color, so they are going with the whole spectrum. Apparently the recession has created a black and white world, much like the Kansas in "The Wizard of Oz". Spring promises to usher us into wonderful color, like Dorothy Gale stepping out of her depression era, crash-landed home into the technicolor world of Oz.

I am so sick of winter at this point I could just about kill for a shot of fuchsia. I am looking out the window at a pile of snow and my inner Scarlett O'Hara is crying out in disbelief: "Snow? In Atlanta?". The reversible brown coat I bought that seemed so perfect in the Fall makes me feel tired and depressed. I want to skip down the Yellow Brick Road with our friendly fashionistas, tour the wonderful green Emerald City and take a nap in a field of poppies. O.K., maybe the nap in the poppy field isn't such a good idea, and my trip to Oz was financed by some rather shaky financial maneuvers, but I am tried of Kansas! I want color, I want to skip down the road of financial frivolity and revel in the joy of color and credit cards!

Maybe I am missing something here, because Dorothy winds up pretty much where she started, in black and white, having learned her lesson. Oz, turns out, wasn't so fabulous. But, when push comes to shove, never underestimate the power of some seriously bitchin' shoes.

Donner, Party of Two

Once upon a time, I lived in Montana. It snowed there -- a lot. Unfortunately, the residents of the state had decided not to plow the snow off the roads. Federally owned roads got plowed, but state, county and local roads were plowed on a strictly hit or miss basis, and it was mostly miss. That's right: In an area of the country that got an average of over 50 inches of snowfall a year THEY DIDN'T PLOW THE ROADS. When they told me about the "no plow" thing, I thought they were kidding the girl from Florida -- but they were absolutely serious. The reason they gave was that the state had no funding. So imagine my surprise when I awoke one morning to quite an unusual racket, looked out the kitchen window and saw a freaking Zamboni scooting across the local park. The park had been magically transformed into an ice skating rink overnight. They couldn't plow the roads, but they had a freaking Zamboni.

I am convinced that the residents were in complete denial about the whole snow issue. Where as Southerners get whipped into a frenzy over a itty-bitty bit of snow, these people refused to acknowledge the harshness of the local winter. On a day when it was 27 degrees BELOW zero, the local children were outside waiting for the school bus. On Halloween it was three below zero, and we still got trick-or-treaters. The poor things would come to the door, lips blue, shivering, holding their little bags open, muttering the words "trick-or-treat" through chattering teeth. (You won't see any body in the South braving sub-zero temperatures for a handful of miniature Snickers bars -- and yet they think people in the South are stupid. Go figure.)

Bozeman Pass was a memorable experience in the dead of winter. One night when we were crossing the pass, the snow on the was packed down, as slick as could be, and you couldn't see a thing. There was no way to stop when my husband spotted the deer carcass laying in the roadway. The carcass slid under the SUV. I will never forget the sound of it scrapping the undercarriage. That poor, dead deer was frozen solid. Before I could even let out a horrified "Ewwww!!!" my husband turned to me and said: "Now I'm going to have to get the car washed."

Snowin' Down South

I have lived in the South off and on for the better part of thirty-some odd years. Certainly long enough to appreciate a well-formed, colorful metaphor -- such as "slap-yo'-mama good". This phrase is usually applied to food and means that something is so tasty you will go home and "slap-yo'-mama" for not being able to cook this well. I also know that if a Southern someone accuses someone else of being "very Northern" it is NOT a complement. It means that person has been pushy-rude and there ain't nothin' worse than being pushy-rude in the South. Surely, you could not be one of them, a Southerner, 'cause your mama would have raised you better. If you are ever called "very Northern" in the South, consider yourself bitch-slapped back to the Mason-Dixon line. However, I have never quite gotten used to the Southern response to snow.



Now, you may be saying to yourself: They don't get a lot of snow in the South, do they? No --but when the weatherman announces snow is on the way, you would think that aliens were about to descend from the sky. You see Southerners view snow as much like Sherman -- a wholly Yankee phenomena that just doesn't belong here. There are three phases of snow in the South: 1. The weatherman looks calm, still has his jacket on, but has suspiciously donned a woolly sweater vest. This means: Snow just might be on its way. 2. The weatherman has removed his jacket, is wearing a long sleeved shirt, tie and a woolly sweater vest. This means: Yes'sir-ee-bob and boy-howdy snow is on the way. Time to drive to the store for milk and bread. 3. The weatherman has rolled-his sleeves, is still wearing his woolly sweater vest, but has loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. This means: Blizzard conditions are in effect. There is at least a quarter inch of snow expected.



Driving through Peachtree City a good three to four days after the first scant snowfall of the year, I spotted a police car, hazard lights blinking, and some sort of utility truck in front of it. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the utility truck was in fact a salt truck salting a spot of road that had a patch of ice on it that was maybe the length and width of my automobile. I could have salted the entire patch by chucking a handful of rock salt out my window in passing. The amount of manpower involved in salting this puny patch of ice, not to mention diverting and closing a lane of traffic, struck me as being a bit of overkill, especially since it was sunny and fifty degrees outside. However, I kept this thought to myself 'cause my mama raised me right.

Lipo-In-A-Box

The only peculiar vestige of clothing from ages past that men seem to be occasionally required to wear is the necktie. An odd encumbrance, if you really start to think about it -- even when done in a tasteful paisley. I suppose you can fix stuff with it. Maybe turn it into a temporary fan belt or something.

Women's clothing, however, is a whole other world of weirdness. What man in his right mind would try to squeeze himself into something called "Lipo-in-a-Box" just to look smoother? The Lipo-In-A-Box onesie -- is a one piece, flesh-colored elastic-thingy that does not have much in the way of instructions with it. They used a plastic torso mannequin to model the one I purchased. When I was watching QVC I thought to myself: "How the heck do you go to the bathroom in that thing? Must have snaps or something." The "or something" was right. It had this little hole in the crotch that I guess you were supposed to use if you had to tinkle. I don't know how you were supposed to go number two. Guess you'd better pack a can of WD40 so you can slide the thing off in a jiffy. Actually the little pee-pee hole would have been kind of naughty if the Lipo-In-A-Box onesie hadn't been the single most unattractive undergarment I had ever seen in my life. After I got the thing on (Damn, does it stretch!) I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do -- did the pantyhose go under or over? I decided over, especially since I already had the thing on.

I know it is no longer fashionable to wear pantyhose, but I hate shoes without socks. My mother used to tell me as a child to never to go barefoot outside or we could get worms. I would watch Opie on "The Andy Griffith Show" skipping around, barefoot and whistling, and wonder how come he never got worms. I don't know what this has to do with socks, but I have never had worms. I don't know about Ron Howard, but maybe somebody from child services should have looked into that little scenario. I think this relates to why nobody in Hollywood wears stockings any more, but I haven't put it all together. I guess their feet don't stink either. Mine do. This is why I wear socks.

That brings me to "the-shoes-that-would-not-stay-on-my-feet." Michael (DH) gave me a mere 24-hour notice on attending a Spring formal for the Army. I decided to work this whole scenario to my advantage by telling Michael I would attend the formal, but it would cost him. Shortly thereafter I chanced upon a pair of shoes that were perfect. They were a cream D'Orsay style shoe made out of snake belly. That's right: Snake belly. How such a beautiful pair of shoes wound-up at a "Rack Room" just off of Ft. Bragg I didn't ask -- they were just beautiful and I needed them. They were even comfortable. One problem, though. They would not stay on my feet. Other than that they were perfect. No problem. I hate dancing, so I could forgo the dance part of the evening, thus keeping the shoes on my feet. My plan was for Michael to drop me off at the door of the hotel and walk as short a distance as possible to the ballroom. Who knew the ballroom was miles away from the hotel entrance? Looking as graceful as a wounded moose, I made my way to the hotel ballroom. Michael kept getting ahead of me and I kept having to tell him to wait-up. I would take two steps, a shoe would come off, two steps, shoe off again. I actually had to turn around a couple of times to retrace my steps to fetch a wayward shoe. I think maybe they would have stayed on if I had put carpet tape on the bottom of my feet. Why hadn't I thought of that earlier? I blame it on the Lipo-In-A-Box that had cut-off all circulation to my brain.

Future Shock is Now

This morning, after a less than restful night of having anxiety dreams about losing my Sony Reader, I remembered I needed to phone in my prescriptions for refills. I phoned the pharmacy, and using the touch pad, I keyed in my refills on the phone. Clutching the telephone in my hand, I then caught myself trying to change the T.V. channels with the telephone. Oops. This is what I get for forgetting to set the timer on the coffeemaker for auto brew.

I then had a thought: "Where were we before we had all these time saving devices, and just where is all this time we are saving?" I believe I have the answer: We are putting together our own furniture. Remember when they would bring you furniture, take away the old stuff, and you lived happily ever after? Now we go to the giant everything store, load-up our carts, haul the stuff home, after using self-checkout, which is promoted as saving time and money. (Not moi, I REFUSE to use it. "Self-checkout" is just another way of spelling "the-end-of-civilization".) Then we mull over the "easy assembly" furniture instructions (in Swedish), if we are lucky. If we are not-so-lucky (me) the instructions include how we can get the instructions online, as the Eco-conscious furniture people are trying to save the trees. We go online, are briefly distracted by the shear volume of spam cluttering up our email, and then remember that our task when booting-up the computer was to find the instructions for assembling the furniture. If all goes well, the website is still in operation and we are able to print them up on our printer. So much for saving the trees. At least the furniture manufactuers have clean hands. If we are not so lucky (me) we get video instructions. Never mind that the computer is upstairs and the furniture is downstairs, and I can't remember my own phone number half the time, let alone that "H" fits into "N" after watching the video twenty times. After running back and forth between the construction project and the computer, we finally get the damn thing together. We are faced with a pile of packing material that we really feel guilty about tossing in with the other trash, but there are not enough hours in the day to recycle all of THAT. Then we are stuck with the old piece of furniture we were replacing. Which, provided it isn't a mattress, we haul to the Salvation Army, or some other charity in hopes that someone else can use our discard. (A cautionary note: I have had my primo junk rejected by the Salvation Army. That's right: The stuff I was content to use for years, the Salvation Army REJECTED.) I don't know what you do with an old mattress. I'm pretty sure the Salvation Army doesn't want it. I guess I'd have to boot-up the computer to figure-out where to take that, after I get done deleting all my junk email.

Abyss of Filth

I come from a long line of people I would refer to as "Scrubby Dutch". They are obsessively neat people known to scrub their sidewalks. I did not inherit this genetic trait. At all. I haven't decided whether or not that is a good thing, but I have always marvelled at the non-messy among us, you know, those people who actually buy white sofas and manage to keep them that way. Tidiness is just not in my nature.

I once worked with this woman whose desk was always in perfect order. Mine always looked like the aftermath of an explosion in a office supply store. Every day before I went home, I had to dig through all the crap, reorganize, and by the end of the day the next day, my desk was once again a junk heap. I tried keep the desk organized. It lasted about a week. I couldn't get a damn thing done and it made me a nervous wreak.

My mother once painted the inside of her cabinets. It had never even occurred to me to do this. Paint the inside of cabinets? Isn't that is what the doors are for?

I have a housekeeper, a lawn guy and a bug guy and they just barely keep the home from teetering off in to the abyss of filth. Yet, I always seem to be cleaning something or other. Somehow, the Rubbermaid tub of books just doesn't get dragged into the basement. The garage never gets cleaned-out.

I love those beginning-of-the-year, get-organized New Year's resolution articles and shows where everything is in its place. Every time I have ever tried to organize stuff there is always something that doesn't quite fit in the handy-dandy organizer that seemed like such a good idea at the store. Some big ass lid, or something, will always trip me up when I have delusions of neatness. Or I have one thing too many. I like to think that somewhere Martha Stewart has a messy closet packed full of crap that won't fit anywhere else.

More Kitten Training 1/3/10

In order for the adult resident cats (Patsy and Eddy) to like the new kittens (Arturo and Lew), the experts advise dropping treats for them near the kittens so they will associate the kittens with the treats and all things good. They suggest doing this discreetly, so the cats do not know where the treats are coming from. Cat experts also suggest giving the resident cats loads of attention, petting and praise whenever they are around the kittens. Patsy and Eddy are not too much into public displays of affection, but I will do my best to assume a soothing tone of voice as I praise their efforts for tolerating the new trespassers, er, kittens.

While petting and praising the kittens, kitten Lew persists in chewing and clawing on my pants pocket. Lew has discovered the bribes, er, treats I have discreetly hidden for the elder cats . While exiting the kitten safe room, elder cats Patsy and Eddy are parked outside and stare at me as if I have lost my mind. I try to drop treats discreetly, but I sense that they associate the treats with me. It could be because I am holding a little yellow bag full of them. Eddy sits and stares at the dropped treats and allows Patsy to eat ALL of them, then looks at me for more. I give Eddy more, not wanting her to feel neglected, and Patsy promptly eats them. Shortly thereafter, Patsy throws-up the treats.

Meanwhile, kitten Arturo has discovered the springy door stop and and is making it go boing, boing, boing.

Kitten Training 1/3/10

We adopted two kittens last week: Arturo Fuente and Lew Rothman, age 12 weeks. After reading the kitten books and online veterinary advice on introducing new kittens to the resident adult cats (Patsy and Eddy, age four), I formulated what I thought was the best plan to follow: Put the kittens in the carrier when the adult cats are upstairs. Sit carrier in the middle of the living room. Adult cats will become curious and come downstairs. Let the kittens sit in the carrier and allow the adult cats to sniff them. When adult cats start to ignore the kittens, allow kittens out and roam a bit to spread their scent so adult cats can get used to it, and kittens can explore their new surroundings. Under no circumstances allow kittens to roam unsupervised.

Here is how it went:

Took kittens downstairs in carrier. Patsy and Eddy, who have been staring at the closed door to the kitty safe room for the past four days, wondering what is behind door number one, completely ignore the two kittens and stay upstairs. I wait as the kittens sit in the carrier and start to get restless. REALLY restless. O.K., I thought, if the big cats are upstairs, I might as well let the new kittens get used to their environment. I let Lew and Arturo out of their carrier. After bouncy, bouncy, bouncy-ing around the downstairs, elder-cat Patsy decides to see what is going on downstairs. Patsy is the poster cat for the phrase "curiosity killed the cat". Patsy comes downstairs and crawls into the kittens' carrier, sits inside of it as the kittens sniff HER from the outside. Lew shoots off up the stairs. I follow suit. Elder-cat Eddy stands at the top of the stairs, looks at Lew with disgust, then fear, and runs and hides under the bed, where she has remains all morning. Eddy is the poster cat for the phrase "'fraidy cat". Eddy is a full grown, 12 to 13 pound kitty. The kittens weigh about two pounds each. After chasing down the kittens and returning them to their safe room, I realize I have my exercise plan for the New Year.

Note to self: Cats do not read cat training advice.

Smashed Potatoes

While trolling eBay for a queen size bedspread I do not need the search engine pulled up one of my favorite categories of all time "drag queens". The first time I discovered that the best evening dresses for a six foot tall blonde woman (me) could be found while enlisting the aid of people with names like "Hedda Lettuce" and "Candy Stripes" ironically occurred when I was looking for a dress to wear to a military ball and I wound-up in my first bidding war with a drag queen. I won by a quarter. I was inspired. Why hadn't I thought of this earlier?


Years later, Phyllis (from the fourth grade) phoned to remind me "we" were turning fifty. We needed an adventure to celebrate. We were inspired by a series of books I will call "The smashed Potato Queens Guide to Life". The author/cougar of the actual book by a COMPLETELY different name gets snippy if you use the actual name, because she and her new baby-lawyer husband have trademarked the name and blah, blah, blah, blah, because she has to be so careful because 'cause there are so many nuts out there -- like me -- who may use the name in vain (IE. criticise). Hereto for, I shall refer to the COMPLETELY fictional "Smashed Potato Queens" as the MPQ's. (Please note that I have been known to lie my ass off.) Every year in the fictional town of Jackson, Mississippi the MPQ's participate in a completely fictional (wink, wink) parade. Since it involved sequins, tiaras, MAJORETTE BOOTS (!), and highly inflated breasts, this seemed to be the sort of thing in which Miss Phyllis and I needed to involve ourselves. This parade had our names written all over it. So many things in life turn-out to be better in theory than in reality (Much like my first husband.) In short, the whole thing turned-out to be a drunken hillbilly-fest and Miss Phyllis and I were referred to as "debs" (Short for "debutantes" and highly derogatory in MPQ parlance) by the other MPQ's. Now I ask you: Outside of a beauty pageant, would real debs take shopping advice from drag queens?

The parade was a bust, but shopping for the event was spectacular. I miss it still. I got a huge tiara and crowned myself "Miss Diagnosed", with a royal sash and everything. When I scrolled onto "queen" this morning, I thought -- however briefly -- that maybe we should go back. I waxed wistfully over the shopping of yore. Then I was jarred to my senses when my inner deb yelled "Hell, no!" as she recalled a fictional drunken, middle-aged woman who ought to know better swinging from the rafters of a fictional Jackson dive. Looks like I've got a tiara, majorette boots and nowhere to go.

Patron Saint of the Talent-Free

One major indication that the end of the world is on its way is the meteoric rise of the artist known as "Lady Gaga". Lady Gaga, in case you have missed it (and really, how could you?) is the unholy result of giving people too much self-esteem. Perhaps the world needs Lady Gaga, because after hearing Kelly Clarkson lay down a few tracks, who would have the nerve to show-up at "American Idol" auditions EXCEPT talented people? What a snore that would be -- nothing but talented people singing -- just like at the end of the season. Lady Gaga took an astonishing lack of talent, wrested it away from reality television, and brought it back to the world of pop music, thereby giving hope that with enough desperation and attention seeking behavior, even the talent-free can make it big, without having been born to famous parents, or doing porno, or having a modicum of talent. MTV has declared Gaga "Woman of the Year". Things weren't always so easy for Gaga. She appeared desperate for attention on this year's "VMA Awards" show. Poor Gaga was working it for all she was worth. She bravely tarted herself up in one bizarre fashion disaster after the next, culminating in the grand finale: Gaga suspended herself from a rope, stabbed herself, and bled all over her white costume. It was an obvious, unabashed attempt to push the limits of taste and an stir-up some controversy for herself. It was exhausting to behold. It would have worked, too, but it was all for naught. Tragedy struck in one brief moment when a drunken Kanye West opened his fat trap and sucked-up all the controversy for himself. Poor Gaga. All that work for nothing. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but then I remember my friends eight year-old cheerfully singing the words to "Poker Face" and I didn't feel so bad.

Self-Esteem Issues

Some people have too much self-esteem. In the push to "give" children self-esteem in their developmental years, many children may have developed opinions of themselves that may be a little higher than actually warranted. I am not talking about the sort of self-esteem where a woman tells some moron who is hitting her to get lost. I think that is more of a self-respect issue than a self-esteem issue. Nope, I am talking about the sort of misguided self-esteem that democratises people to the point of where they think they are actually equal to one another. A lot of this started when healthy competition was eliminated from the playground and all children got the same prize. Even the kids had to know that was a crock. Children recognize when someone is better at something than they are -- getting the same stupid prize doesn't fool anybody. If children do not learn their strengths and weaknesses in childhood, can they be blamed for freaking out when it is coldly brought to their attention in adulthood? Witness the clueless souls who will soon be displaying their lack of talent for all to see on the "American Idol" auditions. Victims of too much self-esteem. What sort of inflated sense of self-esteem must one possess to not listen back to one's caterwauling on any one of many available, modern recording devices, to realize that one has zero talent? Art may be an objective, beauty-in-the-eye-of -the beholder sort of thing, but do you really want to find out from Simon Cowell on national T.V. that you suck?

Chia Pet Consumer Alert

Once again it is that time of year when Walgreen's shelves fill with the most beloved of worthless gifts: The Chia Pet. This year there is a new variation on the Chia Pet theme, which promises to be even more worthless than the average Chia Pet, the Cat Chia. Featuring Warner Brother's lovable Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird, the Cat Chia will provide kitty with a tasty grass treat. Who came up with the whole cats-like-to-eat-grass-thing? I tried raising cat grass once. It didn't go well. I carefully tended the bowl of grass, waiting for the day when kitty would graze on this delicacy and look to me, her loyal owner, with big-eyed, kitty cat gratitude. I planted the cat grass. I watered the cat grass. The cat grass grew. The cat remained unmoved. The same cat that had tried to chow down on any floral arrangement, poisonous plant, or leaf dragged in on the bottom of my shoe, wanted nothing to do with the cat grass. I tried shoving it under her nose. She didn't sniff it, she didn't paw at it, she didn't even try to poop in the dirt. She ignored it. She walked away. Kitty just didn't care. Cat grass? Are you kidding? What did I think she was after all, a cow? Then I recognized the foolishness of the endeavor: Cat grass is nothing but bowl of weeds. I was shoving a bowl of weeds under her nose and expecting her to eat it. Had I lost my mind? Lesson learned: If you want to make your cat happy, crack open a can of tuna.

Metaphysical Marketing

Sean "Puffy" Combs, or whatever the hell it is he is calling himself these days, has a fragrance called "I Am King". Is this funny or what? Does this guy's ego know no bounds? There seems to be a trend that in calling yourself something, like wearing a t-shirt that says "Rock Star", will make you that. It's "metaphysical marketing". I have news for Mr. Combs, though. There are damn few kings out there and the people that let you do that job have made a high art out of nepotism. Wearing Mr. Combs fragrance will no more make you king, than buying ice skates will make me Sonja Henie (Sonja Henie? Where the hell did that come from?). There is a pop psychology new age philosophy that by saying you are something that will make you that thing and this has been cleverly reinterpreted by Madison Avenue to tell you that if you buy something that will make you that particular something. It won't. I will hand it to him: Mr. Combs is refreshingly upfront about his"I Am King", whereas other marketing ploys are more subtle. Witness the status handbag epidemic that has embraced the globe. Purchasing a $1000 handbag will not turn you in Paris Hilton, or whoever the hell it is we are supposed to want to be these days. (I'd like to be Heidi Klum, except for all those damn kids, but Victoria's Secret doesn't even carry THAT bra in my size. If it indeed turned me into Heidi, I would SO be in line to buy it.) It may make the marketeers rich, it may make Mr. Combs wealthy, but will not make him, or you, king. However, if you like the smell of the stuff, have at it.

Christmas Letters on Acid

I am not a big fan of Christmas. Repeating this fact seems to upset a lot of people. I don't hate Jesus, or anything, I just don't get the giddy gleefulness and spend fest everyone seems to enjoy so much. Furthermore, I am not sure why I am expected to join in the merriment.

There are more than a few things that irritate me about this holiday. Right up there at the top of the list is the annual Christmas Letter. Not the personal note people tuck into a Christmas card to say "hello", but the computer generated snooze fest designed to make every one's family seem better than yours. Life is a big-ass competition and THEY are winning. Everybody knows this stuff is crap, yet every year they tuck it into their Hallmark wishes for a happy holiday. In a subversive move I regret not thinking of myself, I had a friend whose husband made up just awful stuff about his family to put in the annual Christmas Letter. Every year he bragged about his family's fictional decline -- his daughter had taken up working the stripper pole after flunking out of junior college and his son was now out of jail and successfully finishing rehab for the third time. You just know folks just couldn't wait to get their Christmas cards from him, looking forward to laughing their heads off at the fictional foibles of his family's decline. In the mountains of endless, BORING tomes about Josh getting the starring role in the third grade's play about George Washington Carver and Emily making honor role for the umpteenth million time, what a breath of fresh air to hear about some one's family (besides your own) devolving into chaos and ruin. Merry Christmas indeed.

Over the Hill and Through the Woods

I cannot believe I am this old. Frankly, I don't know how the hell it happened. Phyllis-from-the-fourth-grade keeps insisting that I am a writer. In an effort to shut-her-up and stop badgering me, I am starting this blog. Let me say that I think blogs are pretty narcissistic and I have reached this somewhat advanced age without garnering any wisdom to impart upon anybody. I was clueless when I arrived on this planet and I pretty much remain clueless. (By "arrived on this planet" I mean birth. I didn't show up in a spaceship or anything, although that would have been interesting, and I do not preclude the possibility of that happening. If it did, you can be sure I would blog about it.) I am not above narcissism, however, so here it goes. Basically I am typing this stream of consciousness so I can figure-out the controls on this blog. I have no idea what I am going to write about. I thought about stealing the whole "Julie and Julia" scenario and blogging about my adventures in making low-fat soups for a year, but it didn't interest me, so why would it interest anybody else? Narcissism aside (and I am not above it), since everybody and his cousin has a blog, why the hell shouldn't I? So here it goes, I am blogging.