Come on, get happy!

First off, I can see. Leaves on trees. A BLOCK AWAY!

Second, The Dave had his Christmas present surprise ruined, sort of. He asked our son Simian Boy to give him a hint.

"It makes a sound," said Simian Boy.

Wow. Accurate, subtle, good hint! Except he went on.

"A sound, like a guitar."

Bwahaaahaaahaa!

The Dave already knew, basically. He just didn't know what KIND of guitar. And it's an Ibanez JS1000, not the JS1200 as I indicated earlier. The Dave thinks the only difference between the two, is that the 1200 has that exclusive lipstick-red color, whereas the 1000 is a lovely pearl black, which he much prefers.

Now that The Dave has the peripherals he wanted for the guitar, he's allowed Stick Girl to use the "real microphone." He has ideas about a family band. She would sing, and maybe do the keyboards, once she learns them. Simian Boy would be on percussion, of course. I don't know what I'd do, besides the backup singer (further back up, the better). Obviously, we need a bass player. Maybe we can get my Former Indentured Servant to do that; he used to play cello.

But first we have to transport the children into the future for 18 months while they learn how to play their instruments.

We'll let you know how that works out.

Ibanez JS1200 Joe Satriani Signature Guitar

I had fun buying Dave's present.

A few years ago, I promised him a white American-made stratocaster. It never happened; we got really poor right after that.

Hopefully, this will make up for that.

Plus, the sales guy was really thrilled to sell the thing to me. The store was full of people, but I got the feeling that my purchase was probably the single high-ticket item of the day.

The same year that I promised Dave the strat, we had Christmas Eve at... Well, it would take too long to 'splain who these people were. Suffice to say that the evening included a sing-along. We sang Christmas songs, plus traditional Irish songs, to the guitar accompaniment of the local district attorney.

The music was much better after the intermission. Rick, the D.A., put his guitar down during the intermission and Dave picked it up, just to mess around on it, but he had to tune it first.

He SERIOUSLY had to tune it first.

So, though I have very fond memories of Dave playing actual songs on his, or someone else's, guitar, most often I like watching him tune them.

The master at his craft. THAT kicks ass.

I can't wait until he opens his present!

From 28 May 2004: They're real and they're magnificent

I just got Lasik. Ouch. People who say it doesn't hurt? They lied. I'm okay now, plus I can see leaves on trees for the first time in...well, this is the first time I can see leaves on Texas trees. (I never wore my glasses outside.)

So Lasik is really cool and I'd recommend it.

Getting the procedure reminded me of this post from 2004:


It's Friday afternoon before a long weekend, almost 3pm, and I just cracked my first beer. I'm running a little behind.

Gosh, I just won a lifetime supply of saline solution and I don't wear contacts. I never have, and on principle, I never will.

It's an issue of vanity. It used to be people were considered vain for wearing contacts instead of glasses. That's changed now that it's pretty cheap to get and wear contacts, though not cheaper than glasses. I do wear glasses and have for almost 20 years, but I've only recently needed glasses on a daily basis. I should be wearing them now but that would entail finding them. Getting out of my comfy chair an all. I'll combine the effort with my next foray into the kitchen for beer.

When I first got glasses, the eye doctor actually measured my irises and concluded that they're two millimeters larger than average. Wahoo.

Anyway, contacts. Remember in the 80s when colored contacts came out? They were all the rage. Some people proudly proclaimed that they had gotten them, but a lot more people simply wore them in an attempt to make others think that it was their real eye color. Yeah, like my friend John really had teal irises the same color as his girlfriend's prom dress.

Therein lies the point of vanity. At the time people would constantly ask me, "Do you wear contacts?" meaning, do you wear colored contacts? And tons more wouldn't ask but would simply assume that I did. But I didn't. And I don't. My irises really are this color and size. I was born this way.

Most people didn't believe it at the time. I guess I would equate it to someone accusing a guy of stuffing his underwear. One can deny it, claim it's all natural, but in general you must know the accused a lot better before you find out the truth.

Or just go swimming with them. One of the two.

Flush

Some day, I'll write something.

Some day, it will matter.

Today is not that day.

Meanwhile, here's an oldie:

Words I like:

insidious: A lovely word which can refer to behavior, diseases, politics, food.

therefore:Most effective in making a point.

hence: Ditto.

malt: It's all about the beer.

utilitarian: An effective philosophical movement which espouses the value of making decisions based on the greatest good it would do for the greatest number of people. As opposed to, making decisions for the greatest number of people, and telling them that something would be "good for them" *cough neoconservatives cough*.

Words I hate:

Moist: Try wet, sweaty, lick, humid...but "moist" is just icky.

lave: I've been reading too much bad fiction lately. If you have to resort to "lave" you're not creative enough, even for bad fiction.

conservative: Fuck y'all, already.

re-prioritize/irregardless/grow/downsize: The first word can always be more accurately substituted with "prioritize." The second is a sports-commentator invented word which can always be better stated as "regardless." The third is a business buzzword which is silly and insecure and should be substituted with "build" because dammit, growth doesn't involve human meddling, but building is nothing but. Geez. And downsize: you ain't fooling nobody. You fired the fuckers, you pay the semantic price.

blossom: I just hate this word when it refers to anything but flowers. I particularly hate it when it refers to pubescent girls, or women doing anything new, ambitious, or just different.

Words I wish people would use more often:

cock/cunt: Everybody's got one or the other; deal with it.

no: I've got to learn this one.

fucked/screwed/bamboozled: Calls to mind The Blues Brothers. Ya know, when Elwood picks Jake up at the prison, and Jake calls Elwood on lying to him on keeping the band together when he hasn't.

pollution: Call it global warming if you want, or blame it on cow flatulence, but pollution is pollution, dammit.

antidisestablishmentarianism: Just because I think people should learn how to spell it. And do it.

Cold December

Bah! Humbug.

I really don't like this season. It's not just the materialistic bent. It's not just the chaos. It's not just that people try and shove all their celebration and good cheer into one month, whereas if they spread it evenly over the other eleven months, our country's karma balance might actually be in the positive.

Why do I hate December so fucking much?

It hasn't been a good month for me, historically speaking. My step-grandpa died in December when I was 11.

Several other extended relatives also died in December.

I lost my first baby in December.

My crazy uncle Jim died in December.

The epiphany came to me--where else?--in the carpool line. When December comes along, I'm waiting for someone to die.

Yeah, statistically, more people die in December than any other month. That leaves behind the rest of us.

Two years ago when my uncle died, it was the end of a difficult year for me. I was already a little unstable. Well, more than usual. I'd gotten to the "tie a knot and hang on" stage, and my hands were getting slippery.

We had arrived at the in-laws for Christmas. My daughter was sick. We needed cold medicine, and someone had to go to town and buy it before the stores closed. I volunteered.

I adore my in-laws, but I had to get the fuck out of there. Usually I anticipate their quirks--being late for everything, deciding to have huge snacks 30 minutes before a huge meal is served, going way overboard with presents--but this time, I wasn't in a mood to put up with it. Wasn't quite ready for it.

Heading to town, I was hurting at my very soul. Somewhere, I got it in my head that if I saw an open bar, I was going to stop and have a couple shots of whiskey. I don't even like whiskey.

But uncle Jim did.

I was going to do it in memory of him. And then I probably would have bawled my eyes out. I doubt I would have made it to the grocery store.

There were no open bars on the way.

At the store, I'd found what I needed and was standing in line with the medicine and a $20 bill. A man noticed that's all I had and let me go ahead of him. The checker rang me up and then disabled the security thing on it. "So the alarm won't go off and people think you're a thief."

"Hey, I've known a lot of thieves and felons. They're not all bad."

She smiled. "I used to date a felon. No, they're not all bad. Well, that guy was, but not because he was a felon."

"No, they're definitely not all bad."

I walked out the door. The alarm didn't go off. I'd taken a few steps away from the door when I realized I was still holding the change from the $20. I turned around and put it in the Salvation Army bucket. It was the only one I'd seen all season.

"Merry Christmas," the man said to me.

"Merry Christmas," I whispered.

I made it to the car before I started to cry. I cried all the way home.

From 12 December 2004: I lost my balls

(Originally Posted/Updated: Sunday, 12/12/2004 5:28:43 PM)

Not that a woman can't live without balls; quite the contrary.

So we're decorating our huge Christmas tree today, which of course involved rooting around the attic for a while, getting really sweaty and dirty, and trying to keep my 3 year old from following me up the ladder (which didn't work; he climbed up anyway). I separated all the boxes of Christmas decorations from the boxes of unused electronic components and connectors, and hauled the festivities down.

I also hauled down the 15' artificial tree. We only have 14' ceilings. Once the tree was assembled (minus the top section) and lighted, we let the kids go crazy putting decorations on up as far as they could reach--about 3.5 feet.

It was then that I noticed that my balls were missing. Two entire boxes of decoration, lost in the void of my suburban utopian storage spaces. Attic or closet--it doesn't matter; they're not there.

They weren't all that great to begin with, but still. Nobody likes to loose their balls.

But that's nothing compared to my sister. Turns out she lost her cones. And they were gold, too! A woman can live without balls, but it's much harder to live without cones.

Pray for her.

Um, no.

I had my laptop with me today in the carpool line, as I am one of the few people who DO read e-books, and I was almost going to post "Live, From The Carpool Line."

Lucky for y'all, nothing happened.

Except, on the way there, I saw a guy driving a golf cart down the street while wearing full snorkeling gear.

But that has its own logic, where I live.

So, then.

Nothing happened today.

For Ed and Zim

Thanks again to Crazy Lisa for the link. See Lisa at Travel Travel for all your travel needs; she wants another free trip to Jamaica.

At least now I know WHY

Now I know why some morning carpool line volunteers just stare at my car and don't help my kids out.

They can't see through the tinted windows.

However, it's still pretty stupid to just stand there. I mean, I wouldn't pull through the line unless I actually HAD children in the car, now, would I? And it's not like they can assume the kids got out further back in the line, because it's pretty hard to see through the window at all sometimes--I checked--so they have no idea whether there are children in there or not.

But being a carpool line and all, it would be safe to assume there ARE.

After all, if a crazy lady pulled through the carpool line every day and DIDN'T have children, she should be arrested.

But you know...I can't be the only one this happens to. After all, owning an UrbanTruckster (or TollwayJammer or in some cases, PenisenlargingCoupe) is required by law in my neighborhood. I can't be the only one with tinted windows. I KNOW I'm not. After all, we can't be allowed to actually SEE each other while driving our ostentatious, conspicuously consumptive conveyances.

One never knows when road rage will strike.

Maybe in the carpool line.

Eat More Chicken!

It is with great relief that I wish to announce that Zoe's birthday party has taken place, and it was a huge success. Also, I'd like to announce that I did NOT have a panic attack, nor did I feel the need for liquid courage or escape in the final hours of the execution of the event.

I'd like to thank the wonderful people at Pump It Up in Frisco for allowing me to be a lazy mother, and allowing me to pay them to run the party. I love being able to throw money at something and have it come off well.

And on that thought, I think I'll have some beer and Cheetoes.