the best spent $20 ever...

I know the hazards of feeding an addiction, but Lord Almighty, I deserve these.

Details will be forthcoming as soon as I can muster the concentration to describe the cataclysm that has been my life. Hurricane Ike's got nothin' on me.

Stay tuned...

buy the book

This time I just really wish you all could have been there. It's damned near indescribable. So surreal words won't do it justice, but I'll take a crack at it. The setting for this unfathomable occurrence was Costco, yesterday. The kids and I were hustling through the warehouse, and its $9,000 patio sets, in search of humbler things like Goldfish crackers and of course, my psych meds du jour. As we sped past the books, I made a note to myself to check back on the way around to look for David Sedaris' new book, which has received much acclaim by Adam and B. In fact they've taken to reading me excerpts sometimes as long as 35 pages. I wasn't sure Costco would sell a Sedaris book, and if they did, I was going to buy a copy when I get my allowance Friday. Oh God, I'm afraid a little background on my allowance is in order. It's a very touchy subject but it works something like this: Todd makes a respectable chunk of change and gives me a comfortable allowance each week. This particular week I had not only lost, for the first time in history, $20, which miraculously did not trigger a heart attack, but I had also been a little free with my spending and as such, didn't have the cash on me to buy the book yesterday.

So we're weaving in and out of the aisles in search of primo samples, but my kids got the shaft with chipotle spread and some succotash or something creepy. We loaded up on the staples, and all the while I kept seeing a woman I recognized, shopping with her mom, but I couldn't place her, which is rare for me. Grabbed flax cereal, there was the woman. Hoisted a 90 pound flat of bottled water onto the cart, she was there to see my grunting and wiping away the sweat. Damn, how do I know her? Finally we're nestled cozily in the pharmacy, my home away from home, my kids know just where to go to wait out the line. I get Maggie, who absolutely delights in my self-deprecating jokes, which is the surest way to keep me standing there until armageddon, but finally we make our way to the register. After schlepping so many boxes onto he conveyor, I felt like an honorary Egyptian, I stood up and realized that behind me were the mother and daughter duo of unknown origin. The daughter ran back for something, and as I rudely surveyed their cart, I noticed, perched atop the heap, was the David Sedaris book! Crap! I must have been fairly obvious in my exasperation, because Mom inquired as to my histrionics. I explained that I had come in looking specifically for that book, but had forgotten to go back. Dear God I had unwittingly unleashed the good samaritan from hell. First she offered to stand with my kids while I ran to fetch the book. "Oh no I couldn't, our things are on the conveyor." (Read: I don't have the coin to buy the book today.) Next she offered to ask the checker to wait, to which I sort of coughed and shook my head, smiling. As it became my turn, the daughter came back, and I continued to search my failing memory with a fine tooth comb in hopes of recognizing her. My concentration was lost however when the Mom said, "Honey, this woman came in to get this book and then forgot it. You have to go back." Again I stated that that was not necessary, and smiled, though I had long been faking it. I'm not exactly a doormat, but I definitely lack the cajones to shout out, "Listen lady, my (ex) husband buys the groceries and I live on an allowance, which I blew through already, and I can't actually afford the book until Friday, thankyouverymuch." Finally, as my purchase was complete, and I was holding four receipts (long story), Todd's debit card, my Costco card, and the cart, this precious do-gooding warrior did the unthinkable. She handed her copy of the book to the cashier, who didn't even look up for my approval, and just scanned it right through. "That's $14.89 ma'am." This is pretty much when time came to a crawl and I started hearing cacophonous music, and everything began to rotate. The truth was, I wasn't putting my fag-o-rama book on Todd's debit card, nor was I canceling the purchase, nor was I in a position to do anything but fake a seizure. I took the only money I possessed, my $20 for gas, and handed it to the man. What's worse, I had to make lovebird eyes at these wretchedly well-intended women, and thank them no less than 15 times for ruining my entire week. And I mean ruined. Thanks to them, I had to cancel an appointment, due to insufficient petrol, and my kids and I folded laundry that day and watched a very haggard, and as Quinn observed, "trans-gendered" Carly Simon on the Ellen show.

If you're wondering why I didn't just go and return it, it's because there was a very serious Japanese man returning a really large computer, but each piece was in a Ziploc baggie. If you're wondering why I didn't grow some stones and just refuse once and for all, it's because I was weak. What I'm wondering, as I'm sure are you, is how much I will love this book having already heard 89% of it. The answer to that is, hell yes, once I finish Middlesex. (Long stream of expletives!)

I hope, on those women's next shopping voyage, that some "kind" and/or deranged person loudly and fiercely insists on handing over her 1,000 pack of feminine itch relief products. Sweeter still would be if the clerk had to ask for the price over the intercom...

idk, rofcrying?

I'm just going to say it: Internet lingo and text-ese are beneath me. That is to say, I am too good to speak that way. Aside from the occasional "lol," you will never get a text from me that says, "c u soon" or "plz dnt be l8." I shudder to think of just how low the bar has dropped since cell phones and computers have become so ubiquitous.

This is not to say I am not aware of this vernacular, spreading like a rash. I don't like getting "w/e" any more than the next guy, though "j/k" has brought relief from time to time. Lately though, the language seems to be escalating from abbreviations to full-on phrases, represented by a letter or sound. Adam recently showed me a series of online skits that revolved around Gen-Xers speaking solely in this fucked-up verbage, and while the grouchy grammarian in me slit its throat, I wound up laughing until I peed on their couch, shrieking, and begging for more. Amidst shouts of "first," "false," and the supremely entertaining demonstration of "roflol," my personal favorite, and the cause of the faulty bladder, we kept hearing what sounded like "poned." Being that all three of us are too good for this form of "speech," we had no recourse but to look it up. It's actually "pwnd," a derivative of "owned," which means, quite logically, to get the better of someone. So we began teasing each other with random (until it wasn't random) interjections of "pwnd!"

This charming little trend bled over into a few nights later when B and I had dinner with some friends, one of whom was our beloved Jacob, whom we "pwnd" until he became a trifle less friendly. The next morning I was instant messaging with Jacob, using my correct English in all its luster and glory. Suddenly Jacob typed, "POWNED!" I laughed so hard. Quinn walked over and totally laughed, mostly because he thinks he's the one cool enough to have an inroad into this scintillating world of broken down junk speech. He is at once endeared to my knowledge of such things, and disturbed that I think I can pull it off. Anyway, he fully appreciated that I got owned by Jacob, and walked away laughing.

Cut to this morning, in the very wee hours, when I moved Quinn to his bed after finding him on the living room floor. As I tucked his covers around him, he raised his head all wobbly-like, eyes closed like a newborn mouse, and said, "Mama? Can you please tell Jacob pwnd is spelled p-w-n-d, not p-o-w-n-e-d?" Dear God. "Okay honey, I will tell him." I mean really, does a mother laugh or cry at that? On one hand, this child, whom I struggle everyday to educate, knows about pwnd. On the flip side though, he cares that it is spelled correctly. Part of me thinks he'll benefit from being so versatile, that he'll have the best of both worlds. But truthfully, there is no "best" in that junk heap world, and I want both my children to rise above it. Jacob calls me a "Nazi bitch," which I take a compliment.

When it comes to language, I've been owned by propriety...or is it ownd?

(Adam? Can you hook us up with the link? I couldn't find it anywhere.)

twisted

Let there be no ambiguity here, I hate streamers. Hate them. I hate taping their unsightly tattered edges to various moldings around the house, I hate trying to perfect the aesthetic of beautifully, seemingly effortless twists, and I hate the way they taste, since I am so retarded as to still taste them every time, in hopes that the battery acid flavor has suddenly been replaced by strawberry shortcake.

Thanks to the loving dedication of my own mother, there is a certain birthday ritual that I've carried out for each of my children's combined 17 birthdays. Sometimes we have a party and sometimes we don't, but they always wake up to a house full of balloons, a few wrapped gifts, and goddamned streamers. Not just one or two strands mind you, but sometimes as many as six, all coordinated with the wrapping paper and balloons.

Also in the "poor me" category, my kids are nightowls like their mama, so I must outlast them every year in order to decorate. This makes me resent streamers even more. Poor Reilly could not fall asleep last night, and was even crying because she just couldn't get sleepy. So I, along with my elf, Quinn, had to creep around, trying not to crinkle packages or rub balloons, knowing Rei was trying so hard not to hear anything.

At last we got everything wrapped, twisted, taped, and brought the balloons in to fill the living room (my favorite part). I'm happy to report that Reilly was really impressed by the presentation, and adored the wrapping paper, the pattern of which I found equal parts super-cute and pimento loaf.
I have only just granted myself (and Sam) permission not to kill ourselves having parties every year, but I think it will take some serious reconditioning to skip the streamers. They're just so gratifying. So glorious. No true party is complete without them. I'd just rather eat them than hang them.

aloha?

This had to have been inspired by my Reilly...

my purse: take 2

Seriously, I wouldn't usually post a repeat, but the disbelief I feel when itemizing the guts of my purse is so overwhelming I just need other mamas to come forth to either A) exonerate me, or B) corroborate that I have a disease... Please someone, say something.

3 new packs of Wet Ones
bottle of Tylenol
bottle of Excedrin
bottle for overnights
bottle of Xanax (you can't say you're surprised)
same old wallet
same new wallet
a book (not sayin' which, but I hate Middlesex!)
phone
sunglasses
4 pens
2 new packs of gum
bag of 5 new lip balms (yes, all the same flavor)
2 lb. bag of cashews
ridiculously dyke-ish carabiner full o'keys
B's simple and elegant keys
a mutilated but usable Morningstar Farms coupon
6 bobby pins
30-odd business cards
spare buttons to unknown garment
Ziploc baggie of Kleenex (hard day)
3 Netflix envelopes
Strunk & White's Elements of Style (so I can correct everyone's speech!)

What is wrong with me? (Please form orderly single-file line to answer that. Everyone will get his/her turn.)

the final straw

All too often I find myself posting about some debacle or other, so I thought tonight I'd see if my Obsessive-Compulsive jubilation is transferable...

We buy these enormous boxes of fat straws from this wretched Costco-wannabe called Cash & Carry. (My bad luck is such that some reader is the owner, in which case please accept my standard-issue apology for being a hostile careless bitch whose top priority is making people laugh.)

They are the same straws used by Dutch Bros. (Starbucks rules!), and I've come to discover that I cannot drink coffee, tea, smoothies, or anything, without one. Ideally, I like a pink straw, but the color assortment also includes green, orange, and yellow, so it's my own little neurotic lottery each morning. I pretend not to pick a pink one on purpose, and as if that's not bad enough, I am always really surprised and delighted to get pink. (Yes B, I know you're calling Scott.) I've gone the past few days with no straws, and let me just say I have lost all ability to drink without one, and have soiled like eight shirts. It's a retardation.

Believe it or not, we haven't even arrived at the weird part. Today when I went to Cash & Carry to buy more, I saw that they have boxes of all pink ones. Wow! I had no idea. I immediately reached for it, but then I saw my old humble assorted box staring longingly at me as well. Talk about Sophie's Choice right? The all-pink box filled me with joy, but I knew I wouldn't enjoy them as much if I was guaranteed pink. (This just gets weirder and weirder.) I ended up buying both, and when Todd asked why I did that (he's been instructed a thousand times to buy the assortment), I stuttered that I prefer pink, but I also like the chance factor. When he asked which kind I would use first, I explained that I would put a fistful of the assorteds into our cup, and then a fistful of pinks, to, um, increase my odds.

what's in a name?

HowManyOfMe.com

There is 1 person with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

it'sy bit'sy nightmare

As I mentioned, last night B and I had dinner with (K), a college professor who teaches writing locally. We revered and dissected writing and grammar (convention) every which way, over margaritas, in hopes of gleaning useful ideas for teaching our kids at home.

This meeting has inspired me to say two things.:

A) Brandy is officially debuting as "B," which I have always called her, and which she has readily accepted as an alternative to/antidote for, her long-detested Brandy. So please join me in bidding adieu to the moniker that has brought her so much loathing, and let us celebrate the uber-cool B. (I hope I haven't cheapened the hype by not knowing how to use umlauts on a computer. I should have called Adam...)

B) If I were a super hero, I would be Picky Grammar Bitch. (I know I know, I wouldn't be very popular.) I see rampant and flagrant misuse of everything from spelling, to diction, to punctuation, everywhere I look, and I just have to vent a little, lest I resort to cutting. Now, I am, by no means, an expert, but I inarguably care more about this than virtually anyone else within a hundred, er, million mile radius. I am not out to embarrass or scold anyone, I just want to spruce things up a bit, in a helpful way.

Okay, so the most pervasive problem I see is the use or non-use of an apostrophe in the words its and it's. Here's your out.: The confusion lies in the fact that its is one word that is not made possessive by an apostrophe. If one were talking about Bob, and his books, one would say Bob's books. But if one were referencing the library, and its books, there would be no apostrophe, even though it's (it is) possessive. The apostrophe is used as a contraction, not for possession. Does that make sense? Am I a bitch? Wait don't answer. They are both rhetorical.

It's rude and ego-centric of me to post this.
But that doesn't minimize its validity.
It's something I will likely regret.
And its relevance only matters to me.

Feel free to hack apart my writing and show me what a hypocrite I am.

It's only fair.

good-bye, ruby tuesday...check

Sometimes even a serial over-scheduler outdoes herself, and today is one of those days. I say is because, well, there are many ways in which to interpret 'is,' as we learned from President Clinton, but I used it because my days is still in progress. My Tuesday looks like this.:

Wake up early and not resent everything

Clean my house, including hanging 4,500 of my wet garments so they don't shrink.

Get kids up and ready without yelling.

Post a blog for Gail.

Answer four urgent emails, despite running late.

Straighten my hair (talk about tedium).

Drop the kids off with my mom, after mediating the fight over the BACK SEAT!?!?!?!

Go to the dentist for a cleaning; force them to reiterate how beautiful my teeth are.

Pick up my gym clothes.

Buy .7 cents worth of son-of-a-bitchin' gas.

Hit Old Navy in search of more of a certain kind of elusive socks for Quinn.

Drop in to B's to rifle around for some grub.

Rendezvous with my FANTABULOUS psychiatrist; confirm that I am still crazy.

Return to B's to wait for (K).

Write this blog.

Have dinner with (K), and hopefully drinks.

Have tea with Megan at Starbucks, DON'T FORGET MORE COFFEE GROUNDS for B's garden.

Drop off B's dad's birthday gift in NE Salem.

Hit the gym with B, work our guts out.

Drive B home.

Call Todd to tell him to let the kids stay up so they remember who I am.

Come home and kiss them until they push me away.

Read chapters 3 and 4 to them.

By then it will be sunrise and we'll have Wednesday's list to contend with.

watch out gail, they're sharp!

In honour of our mutual obsession with Sharpie pens (a rapidly growing trend, I'm afraid), I'm posting a picture of all the Sharpies I can find in my house. Mind you, there are more, in the recesses of my purse, and in my car, various pockets, etc., but I hoped this picture would bring a smile to your face.

Surely it will heighten your sense of delight to know that the fine-tips are kept in a Starbucks mug B got for me a couple years ago. A proud monument indeed.

Enjoy, friend!

my purse-nality

When I was a kid, I once saw an episode of Leave it to Beaver wherein The Beave emptied his pockets, and after amassing quite a heap of this and that, he finally pulled out a tennis racket. I knew this was impossible.

Or was it?

Yesterday as I was skulking about Borders, I began to wonder why my purse weighs fifteen pounds, so I decided to go excavating to find out just how many anvils were in there. Mind you, my purse isn't very big, so I was more than a little surprised to discover the following.:

A copy of The Secret Garden--because all the co-op moms are reading it to their kids

A pair of clean underwear. ???

Notes for a blog idea I got while driving

a four-foot ethernet cable, but of course

two wallets--one that I use, and the one I need to move everything into

two pill bottles (I'm crazy, remember?)

an undelivered greeting card, in pristine condition, though it's a moot point

the iPod with the pink arm band

a protein bar with a shopping list stuck to it

Wet Wipes--don't leave home without them

three pens

two kinds of lip balm

two more protein bars

my checkbook

an Always pad factory,

notes from a therapy appointment, stuck to one of the pads

my phone

and the requisite padlock hanging off my purse strap

aerial view:


the whole shebang (note padlock):


Sadly, I put it all right back in.

we're fraternal

We've had lots of fun in the past with celebrity look-alike posts, so I thought I'd offer up mine.

Now, the picture I took with my phone of a National Enquirer cover last month was too distorted to use in the blog, so I was forced to scour the internet for images that will confirm my twindom with Kirstie Alley. Mind you, I only resemble her when she weighs 260+ pounds. When she's thin she is quite beautiful. And I definitely don't fancy myself having her kick-ass hairline. But there is an undeniable similarity when she's heavy.

See for yourself.:


this one captures my ever-present scowl


this could be either of us

blogical

A friend and new blogger recently posted a question to our moms' group about so-called blogging etiquette, how personal to get, etc. And since I have three minutes to kill before rushing to my mom's to watch Lost, I thought I'd give it a vast deal of thought and bore the shit out of all of you with my musings.

First of all, newsflash: discretion is not my strong suit, so most things are going in. I yam what I yam and everything. Obviously I make an effort not to upset the people I care about, though I must confess to using far less caution not to offend the people I don't care about. It goes without saying that private things are private, be they actions or opinions, and I don't reveal these truisms unless I drink .000005 ounces of alcohol, or unless I'm emotional and call Sam, or if it will make someone laugh, or like me better, or be my friend, or get me invited to a party. In short, the real dirt gets dished in person.

But my method isn't as haphazard as it seems. I am fairly calculated about who is reading my blog, and what they see, but I deal in probabilities rather than exactitudes. My mother-in-law, age 79, is probably never going to suddenly stop grooming cats everyday and buy a computer and learn to use it and intuit the name brilliant monster and catch up on years worth of posts, and happen to see that I've maligned the clothes she picks for my kids. Probably.

That said, my high school best friend/current persona non grata is quite likely to have patchworked his way here via B's MySpace blog announcement, and I'm sure he's delighting in what he sees as my fat, ordinary, non-flying-to-Beliz, life. Though sickly, he's jealous of my nervous breakdown because he always wanted to have one, and he'll mask his envy with a slathering of judgement.

OMG, what am I talking about?

Speaking of high school, I am reminded of a time wherein I was really burdened everyday by a friend's chronic bad breath. It was a quality of life thing. I could think of no acceptable way of alerting her to this problem (and frankly, was flabbergasted that she didn't know), so I sat our entire group of friends down and announced that "one of us has bad breath." Appropriately shamed, I promise never to do that in my blog. ("Ahem, ONE of us is always late. Or for that matter, never shows up at all, and doesn't even answer her phone. Or care. Deborah!" Again, she'll never see that.)

Good Christ, am I still writing? Sorry, I got a late energy spurt. (note to self: I hate the word spurt.) The good news is I'm going to throw in the towel on this roving post. The bad news is, I'm going to blog something else.

There Kendra, if I can post this horse shit, you have carte blanche.

whiplash

A word to the wise:

If you don't cook or bake, and rely on the ambition and generosity of others, namely your mother-in-law, to bestow pies upon you, you'd be wise to use caution about one thing.

When you've sliced yourself a piece of the scrumptious pie in your sleepy morning haze, so eager to wash it down with the aforementioned 64-oz. coffee, and you see a tupperware container of hand-whipped cream in the fridge, I URGE you to make sure it's not mashed potatoes before heaping it upon your pie.

I mean, for what it's worth.

hairesy?

Last weekend when B and I were shopping for Pam & Gab's party, we happened into Claire's, that heinous accessory store full of cheap, made in China trinkety crap. Ostensibly, we were there for a hair clip for B, which I concede is totally legit. But somehow, in this sea of gawdy horror, I found myself inexplicably reaching for a headband. Somehow I felt it might accent my outfit, in spite of its distinct contrivance, and the fact that it is about ten years too young for me. Maybe even fifteen. In any event, B liked it, and being that I was all caught up in pre-party grandiosity, I bought it. And wore it. And, as long as we're being honest, I took it off halfway through the party.

Cut to today. I was preening for an appointment and noticed this headband I thought I retired onto a shelf. Somehow, it spoke to me again, insisting it was just what my outfit needed. I was helpless against its persuasions, and before I knew it, I was wearing it. But I'm skeptical about wearing it to this appointment. I'm afraid this specialist will take one look at my teeny-bopper headband and immediately attribute all my problems to my apparent need to pretend I am fifteen.

So against all my vanity-borne objections, I am posting pictures of it here and letting you guys decide whether or not this look is edgy or desperate.

And, you know, don't let my extreme vulnerability become any kind of factor...

Behold.:

cuckoo for those castaways!

Listen, if you're not offering your theory as to the sixth survivor, or as to why Sayid is apparently working for Ben, then I'll have to catch you later, because my brain is permanently locked on Lost, in all of its painfully implausible splendor. Nevermind that the women seems to get makeovers everyday, and that the men's facial hair only grows to a rugged stubble, and nevermind the fact that each of the 46 survivors managed to locate a vast wardrobe upon crashing. Let's look past the endless supply of food that was miraculously acquired, and the other resources which appear to be multiplying (most notably: axes, shovels, hammers, and nails). I can even forgive them their romances despite not having brushed their teeth in 100 days, because, I am sickeningly, rip-your-hair-out-in-anticipation, speak-of-nothing-else, in love with each of these ridiculous people. Even bug-eyed Ben, whose death I have been yearning for.

It's likely that I never would have bonded with these supremely unrealistic characters had I not had my appendectomy last year, for it was during my convalescence (once again at) Kinch Manor that Adam happened to rent the series on DVD. Thus we became hooked. I tried to resist, on the grounds that I abhor sci-fi, and did dutifully sleep through the first few episodes, but all it took was one close-up of Sayid and I was down for the count. I'm ready to go toe to toe with anyone who suggests that he is not the finest specimen on the island. Right now. But Jack is a very close second. I'm having a hard time awarding third prize because I'm ashamed to like Sawyer, not because he is a homicidal con man, but because his hair is positively unforgivable. And because I am also swooning over Desmond, with his lovely brogue and habit of calling everyone "brotha." Honorable mention must also go to Charlie, who can never be handsome because he is A) 4'11" and B) forever a hobbit, and Hurley, who won't be crowned king because his hair is a triangle. Jesus. I could go on all night about these fictional folks, and already have.

As long as I'm being honest, I have to confess that I also have a crush on Locke, but he is in a league of his own because I can't decide if he's the savior or the freaking anti-Christ, but his eyes are mesmerizing and he's awfully spry for a man his age. One thing though, when they crashed, he wore those awful peg-legged sheeny-type slacks, and in subsequent episodes he has had several pairs of regular trendy cargos. Hmmm...

This brings me to one of my most frustrating puzzles.: Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a backpack, which I find patently ridiculous. It's as if everyone packed for a plane crash.

Also, how did Claire trim her bangs? With one of the myriad axes?

It just seems like they went from hunkering together under pieces of refuse, to enjoying a shangri-la beach-front getaway.

But who cares?!?!? I'm dying to know if Juliet is good or bad, same with Locke, and the most elusive tidbit of all, who is Ben?

After tonight's episode, I'm wondering if Kate's baby is deformed, I couldn't quite tell, and the thought of the rescued six leaving the 40-something others to rot on the island is gnawing at my brain.

Clearly I'm in some trouble with this show. I fake injuries so I have an excuse to watch the reruns, and our regular lessons have been replaced by continuous pop quizzes about various plot lines, character histories, and essay questions speculating on the future.

You could say that my kids will have PhDs in Lost. I'm not proud of this, in case you were wondering, but it can't be helped. I know of no antidote. Perhaps there's a patch to curb the craving...In my mind, it has a big picture of Sayid on it.

so sweet i might get a cavity

I couldn't have asked for a sweeter rebound from the science fair debacle. This is what I saw when I peeked into the kids' room just now as I was vacuuming. As delightful as it is to see my children reading voluntarily, I was over the moon to catch them practically nose-to-nose while doing so.

(And can I just add that they cleaned up the entire house so I could vacuum, without being asked?)

Broken hearts are swift to mend.

for gail--half a scoop

The scoop:

His name is Corey and he is an online teacher who is, in fact, there everyday.

The caveat:

He wasn't actually there when I went in last night, so I asked a staff member. Figures.

The back story:

For the better part of a year, whenever I go into the Lancaster Starbucks, I see this man sitting at the same table, with the same laptop, the same travel mug, the same Patagonia fleece jacket, and same expression, etc., every single time I'm there. Obviously, there could be many plausible explanations for this, but as the predictability of his presence wore on, I became unduly fixated on discovering his purpose. And, since I was frequently at Starbucks with my friend Gail, constantly pointing this man out, it wasn't long before the mystery was something we shared.

Ever since she moved to Colorado a few months ago, I have been threatening/promising to walk up and ask this man why he is there everyday, a prospect I find equal parts hilarious and totally offensive, and Gail has wholeheartedly encouraged the idea. To the point of prodding even. The problem isn't that I'm all that shy or anything, it's just that as a manic mama, I'm a drive-thru kind of gal, and rarely go inside now that Gail is gone. Cut to last night when B and I went in to have tea and knit. True to Murphy's Law, the guy wasn't there, so at the risk of revealing my true stalker nature, I pressed the counter girl for his story. She gleefully revealed that he is Corey, an online teacher, and does his work there everyday. I resisted the urge to ask if he owns any other jackets.

Granted, this wasn't exactly a sleuthing triumph, but at least Gail and I can stop wondering, and the rest of you can see how wholly indiscriminate I am when it comes to overloading my mind. :)

seeing red

For reasons I cannot explain, I have always had a moderate aversion to the color red. In light of our political climate, I'd like to say it's because I'm quite enlightened and it's my subconscious way of subverting oppression and Republicans, but that may be stretching it.

When my kids were little, and I controlled what they wore, I didn't buy them red, and I've never been attracted to all the classic red things we are supposed to hold dear, like '57 Chevys, Kitchen Aid mixers (mine is white), and apple motifs in the kitchen.

But from time to time, starting a couple years ago, I have been compelled from somewhere deep within to buy the red version of something. Case in point.: In 2005, when treating myself to a very expensive pair of black and brown loafers at Nordstrom (albeit it was back when the juxtaposition of black and brown was still frowned upon), I suddenly became obsessed with the red pair, and bought them instead. They matched nothing I owned, but I didn't care. Most of my clothing is black, so I made it work.

And yes I was in among the mindless droves of GAP-lings lining up last year to shell out $40 for the (red) t-shirts.

Meanwhile, I have pined for this particular red colander at Fred Meyer for about six years. One might see nothing wrong with just satisfying the impulse to buy such in an innocuous object, but we already own two perfectly good colanders, and I think $20.00 is outlandish for something that will totally clash with everything in my black, white, and chrome kitchen, not to mention, not fit anywhere. And yet I have made a ritual of visiting the red colanders for years. To look, to yearn, never to buy. Until last Monday.

Over the course of holiday returns/exchanges, I wound up with a $12.00 gift card to Fred Meyer, for which I had no particular plan, and it rested comfortably in my wallet for weeks. Then last Monday, I had a little time to kill and went to visit the red colanders, and blow me down, they were on sale for 50% off! They've never been on sale in six years, so I felt like this was the universe's way of insisting that I have one, and I whipped out my gift card and beamed as I toted my shiny new, cumbersome, unnecessary red colander to my car. I passed my green colander along to someone else, and hung the new red one in its place, so everyone can see my perfect inability to color coordinate my kitchenware, lol.

Perhaps this intermittent attraction to red is hereditary, because Reilly, who shares my low opinion of the color, fell in love with a pair of red valentine pajamas at Old Navy the other night, and was so adamant about having them, she offered to pay for them herself. They are very cute, but nothing I ever would have suspected her of liking, let alone loving.

So here it is, our odd assortment of red must-haves, a collection unto itself.