Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom

I'm OK

2012-02-14T00:20:00.000-07:00

I'm OK.

But I got the first real look at the scope of things last night when I made Lex take a picture.

I won't be posting it here because A) I suspect I could be in trouble with blogger for posting inappropriate images and B) I really do enjoy having people read my blog and don't want y'all to squick and never read me again. So, instead, I've taken a current picture of me (or, at least, one from the Nerd Crawl in September) and drew in exactly where the cut is in relation to my face as well as the 27 stitches it took to pull it back into place.

Yeah.

*takes bow*

I've spent much of last night and today feeling weepy, lost, sad. Much of this, I'm certain, is due to having been in shock. But I'm also having a difficult time comprehending - now that I've seen it - just how fortunate I am that I didn't lose my eye. I close my eyes to sleep and I can imagine it and that's terrifying.

I won't be going back to work until the stitches come out at the end of this week. It's not vanity. Honestly, I gave up the idea of physical beauty long ago - that's not how I'm beautiful. I just don't want to have to answer a lot of questions right now - questions I can't answer and maybe don't want to answer because the answers are embarrassing - and presenting myself with either a ginormous bandage that covers half my face or, worse, all the very distinct black stitches begs people to ask, "Holy shit! What happened to your face?!"

On the bright side, I am being cocooned, protected, and very well cared for by Lex who has cooked every meal for me, lovingly changed my dressings 3 times a day, taken care of the dishes, and made sure I was eating. He took the day off work today to make sure I wasn't alone at any point.

Modchen and #himself have continued to offer up their services to me and made a much needed run to Wal-Greens for supplies on icy streets in the cold last night.

Peej came over to clean our house tonight after having worked all day - making a special point to do it now, while I'm feeling lost, because she knows just how important it is to have a clean house when you're down and out.

Acr0nym has been working to finish up the first episode of the podcast on his own so that I can have that finished and off my plate of worries. He's also promised to come see me on Wednesday. He might even bring Spux. This makes me very very happy.

My boss and assistant managed to convince a floral shop to deliver me a last minute bouquet of lovely daisies and roses - the day before Valentine's Day no less - in sunny yellows and cheerful white.

Finally, I have Noodle here with me now. He fixed me supper and we're lounging in pajamas and in a few minutes I'm going to get held and everything's going to be OK.

I'm OK.

PS As an aside, before this happened on Saturday night, I'd been listening to the 2nd edit of the podcast. At one point, the Divatologist mentions how much she loves her hysterectomy scar - that scars are tattoos with better stories. I talked about what made me beautiful if not physical beauty. The irony is not lost on me.

Apples to Apples

2012-02-12T17:36:00.000-07:00

It happened over the apple cart at King Soopers.

Noodle and I went grocery shopping together - me to do the weekly Grotto shopping and he to get just a few necessities he'd identified while we were there. First stop for me: produce. It's located just inside the front door, after all. While I wandered around examining fruits and vegetables, I sent him over to check out the Chicken Wings By the Pound Bar over in the deli and unique to this particular store.

As I stood surveying the variety of apple types - seeking out the Fujis or the Galas Lex prefers - Noodle materialized beside me. I felt him before I saw him and, when I looked up at him, I saw he was grinning from ear to ear just as he leaned down to kiss me sweetly.

It wasn't one of those horrifying displays where everyone within sight was silently begging the offenders to go get a room. It was a simple acknowledgement of affection...the softest, quickest little kiss exchanged as we hovered near the apples and then, once again, parted ways to seek out our own grocery needs beyond that kiss.

I'd never done that before. I'd never so publicly, comfortably demonstrated a sense of togetherness with another human being in such close proximity to other human beings - especially ones who were just looking to pick up a few items for supper and didn't have time or the patience for a little love.

All of a sudden I felt included in some kind of strange, exclusive club to which I'd never been invited before. A club filled with affectionate couples who grocery shop together.

And it - that physical affection and acknowledgement of affection demonstrated during the most mundane of tasks - upset my proverbial apple cart.

And made me smile.

Clean up in produce.

Written for the GBE 2 prompt "upset". I'm sorry for the lateness. I have a doctor's note. This is the entry I was working on last night just prior to my unfortunate incident.

It Was Either Somali Pirates or Ninjas...I'm Not Sure Which

2012-02-12T15:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was kind of a strange day. One of those days where I was puttering about, getting some things done around the house, running to the grocery store, and spending time with Noodle.

I didn't realize I hadn't eaten anything at all except coffee until about 6 p.m.

So I did what I always do...cut a few slices of cheese and served them to myself with a side of cracked pepper Triscuits and sat down at my computer with a glass of wine to write.

I was not drunk.

I was listening to the final edit of the podcast and then drafting a blog entry while e-mailing back and forth with Noodle who, by then, was working. I was reading a response from him, in fact, wine glass in hand...at least, that's the last thing I remember doing.

The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of breaking glass, opened my eyes, and realized I was slumped over in my chair, the remnants of the shattered glass still in my hand. Blood flowing down my chest. At first, I didn't understand what had happened. I tossed the wine glass into the trash can and went into the bathroom to see if I could figure out the source of blood.

It was my face. It looked kinda bad.

I called and called for Lex. He came in, took one look, and bundled me up to take me to the emergency room. I was lucid - remained lucid the rest of the night. I was able to e-mail Noodle before I left to tell him where I was going and why. I was able to text Acr0nym to tell him I needed him.

The hospital isn't far from here. Lex got me checked in and then went out to park his car and wait for Acr0nym who wasn't far away. Pretty soon, I was resting comfortably in an exam room with Lex, Acr0nym, and Spux - the official 3rd non-husband - who was with Acr0nym when he received my text.

The doctor ordered an EKG and blood work and x-rays to make sure there was no glass in the laceration.

When Mary, the radiologist, wheeled me back into my exam room, there was Noodle too. And I felt very very loved surrounded by these four. Even though they were all Han Solo'ing me when I told them I loved them and each one just said, "I know".

All my tests were normal. No heart problems, blood pressure good, pulse ox good, blood work normal. No explanation about why I might have passed out. They kept asking me if I was pregnant *sigh*. Nope. Not even a possibility. One PA asked me, "With all these amazing men doting on you, there's not even a slight chance of pregnancy?" I laughed. Nope. Not even a little.

They took before pictures - after they rinsed out the laceration. They measured it - 8 1/2 cm. It took 27 stitches to close.

Then they sent me home with my Lex and my Noodle who have both taken very good care of me. Lex is, right now, making me bacon and eggs.

I'm shaken up and I'm scared. I don't have any answers.

What I do have is 27 neatly sewn stitches prominently displayed along the left hand side of my Frankenstein face with assurances that it will, indeed, scar and something going on that's causing me to faint like goats.

I don't know what more to say.

So I'm going to go eat some bacon and eggs and snuggle up to Noodle who is warm and thinks I'm beautiful - even with a scarred face.

Nothing but sippy cups from now on.

Coconut Bra

2012-02-07T20:25:00.000-07:00

Just weeks before my mom, Blind Betsy, was diagnosed with breast cancer in the fall of 2002, a work friend, Tim, went to Hawaii on vacation and brought me back the best vacation present. Of. All. Time.

He brought me a coconut bra.

This had nothing to do with any kind of fixation he had on my breasts (which I assume there was none) and, instead, was namely because, when he asked me what I wanted from Hawaii I said, "You know, I'd really like a coconut bra."

I was tickled pink when he handed it over - but not in a Susan G. Komen Foundation sort of way...then.

Soon after, the call came. Cancer. Breast cancer. Lumpectomy. Radiation. Blessedly, no mastectomy and no chemo. Still...breast cancer. Ouch. Terror.

Even though it was the worst possible time of year for me to take time off from my job, my boss - herself a breast cancer survivor - said, "Go."

And I did. For a week. About 3 weeks into the 10-week course of radiation.

Prior to my stay with my mom, I talked to her on the phone one night and asked her, "How are you doing?"

The one thing I remember her saying was, "You know, I'm doing OK but I feel really really protective of myself...of my breasts. I don't want anyone to touch me and all anyone wants to do is give me a hug. I wish I had a set of armor so no one could touch me."

I had no armor. I couldn't afford any armor. But I did have something that might suffice as armor for a woman I'd give anything to help...

A coconut bra.

So...armed with a sense of humor, a coconut bra, and fear of my mother's mortality, I arrived at her doorstep and presented her with the "authentic" Hawaiian vacation gift. Hell, it's not like it would have fit me anyway.

She laughed.

Long and loud.

It was the best medicine I could have presented her.

In my defense, in her defense, this is the same woman who, when nearly killed when she was side-swiped by a dump truck in 1985, thought it hysterical when a dear friend had flowers delivered to her...flowers arranged in a Tonka Toy dump truck.

We are sick, sick people, y'all.

Anyway!

The gift of a useless coconut bra and an invaluable laugh were enough to make her feel good - if only for a moment. It helped her to laugh when she didn't know what she needed. It helped me to hear her laugh when I didn't know how to help. It was only for a moment but it was something in a sea of nothing good.

I tell you this because...

A dear friend of ours - my mom's and mine - is in the hospital currently. She has been there for more than a week. It's cancer. It's scary.

I talked to my mom about it tonight. She's beside herself in wanting to help and not knowing just how she can. When she said she didn't know what to do, I didn't know what to tell her.

After we hung up, I remembered the coconut bra.

And so I say...

Mommy? Keep an eye out for your opportunity. It may not be a coconut bra. It may not be a laugh. But you won't have to physically see the opportunity to know it when it presents itself. You only have to keep yourself open to however the opportunity manifests itself. Remember. You're open to possibility (isn't that what you said to me just tonight?). She (they) aren't going to know to ask for it but they will be grateful when you trip over it and then offer it - no matter what it is - in all its glory.

The littlest things mean a lot. Remember.

Much love, peace, health and happiness to you all.

But for the grace of...go I.

I Haven't Blogged Since Thursday?!

2012-02-05T20:20:00.000-07:00

The last 3 days have been a complete time suck.

I have no idea where I've been.

OK, yes, I do. I've been buried alive under 2 feet of snow and, somehow, that translates into falling off the internet...mostly.

Thursday night and most of the day Friday, I was occupied by Noodle. I don't know exactly how I came up with that particular identity for him but, for now, he's Noodle. I'm sure you'll get used to it. He arrived late. We cuddled. There was much laughter. There was some hanky sans panky. And he stayed until he had to go to work on Friday afternoon.

There were no shaving casualties.

The rest of my time has been spent working on the podcast and either digging my car out of its cave or worrying about digging my car out of its cave.

After 24 hours of melt time, it was still thigh deep on the passenger side.

The crater my car left when we finally got it excavated. That's Brad with the shovel.

Almost the moment it stopped snowing yesterday - 40 hours after it had begun - I went out, snow brush in hand, to survey the situation. I'd felt confident - gleeful - when I'd chosen my on-street parking spot Thursday afternoon before the first flake flew. I got the spot right on the corner of Walk/Don't Walk so that no one could park behind me and block me completely in *ahem*.

I did not take into account the fact that the City of Denver would do something quite so absurd as plow side streets during the storm. Nor did I take into account that this particular spot is a bit unprotected from the wind and drifting snow.

So, what I was confronted with yesterday afternoon, snow brush in hand, was a snow drift - 3 feet deep - on the passenger side of my car, a 2-foot plowed wall of ice chunks on the driver's side, and 2 feet of heavy, wet snow piled high atop every surface.

I set about to clean off the car itself anyway, laughing maniacally to myself the entire time thinking, "Well...at least the windows will be clear so I can see I'm not going anywhere from the inside."

It took about an hour.

Today then, I set back out to see about getting out of that forsaken space. Except this time, I posted on Facebook what I was doing and specifically called out my neighbor, #himself, to either point and laugh or come help.

Bless him and modchen. They came out, shovel in hand, and helped.

And then? Miracle of miracles! Brad - 2nd oldest friend in my virtual rolodex - cheerfully walked up and announced that he'd seen my post on Facebook and came over to lend his experienced, Wyoming-bred hands to the task.

It took less than an hour and we had Jane's Infinitely Wise, Reliable, Respectable car freed from its snow prison cell.

Thank you, nice neighbors and friends!

So...that's been the excitement of my weekend. And, just in case you're worried that there will be no podcast, I include these two little itty bitty sound bytes for your sampling pleasure. Mostly because I can.

The first is Diva. It is safe for work.

The second is Peej. It is most definitely not safe for work unless you've got headphones.

FYI: The first episode of the podcast is about self-image and self-esteem. Just in case you couldn't tell.

That's it for now! Ciao!

PS Except...Also? I can't make this stuff up. True life conversation between me and Lex just now when I caught him wearing his boxer shorts, old man black socks, and wrapping a bath towel around his waist:

Jane: That's about the cutest thing ever.
Lex: What?
Jane: You in your old man socks, boxers, and towel getting ready to get in the bath.
Lex: All that's missing is the sock suspenders.
Jane: At which point you'd totally let me take a picture of your feet, right?
Lex: No.
Jane: Why not? No one can identify you by your socked feet, you know.
Lex: Right but my feet have soles and everyone knows that photographs steal souls. My feet have souls...uh soles...uh...too. Keep away from the soles of my feet.

PPS I'm afraid to look at how many unread posts are in my feed reader.

Of Snow, Leg Hair, Anxiety, Blue Mondays, and New Domains...in Other Words, Hello, Brain Dump

2012-02-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

It's snowing.

We're expecting to receive 12-24" in the next 36 hours or so. That doesn't seem like much if you're from, say, Cordova, Alaska whose residents scoff at a piddly 1-2 feet but, for Denver, this amount of snow in one snowfall is relatively rare.

My employer has closed our offices for tomorrow. That doesn't excuse me from working - I have the ability to occasionally work from home - but it does mean work will be performed at my leisure and while wearing pajama pants. This makes me happy. I wish I could work while wearing pajama pants all the time. Luckily, I have several pair if the offer ever gets made to telecommute full time.

This also means I don't have to be up at my normal ohmygawdthat'searly time of 5 a.m. To celebrate, I've had a nap and coffee...and I've also invited a certain someone over - someone who works nights - to come cuddle up with me on the couch whereupon I will force him to watch Groundhog Day with me...over and over (well, OK, at least once) until it's well into the early morning hours.

Don't worry. I've already said there can be hanky but no panky. At least, not yet. Especially since my sinuses are still draining generously thanks to the miracle of St. Jude at Qing Ting Acupuncture.

It's surprisingly quiet in my head tonight.

Perhaps it's because the snow is laying a blanket over my anxiety, telling it to hush. Maybe it's because I know I'm about to be excusably house-bound for a couple of days...maybe Acr0nym is right and I do have mild agoraphobia. Whatever the reason, it's peculiar and most welcome.

I would just like to point out that, in the event you find yourself thinking you've had a terrible day, likely it's not included a toddler covered in poop. My blog friend (although I consider her more than that), cdnkaro, recently had the worst possible Monday I can even begin to imagine. I wanted to send her a massage - like...a lot...after reading her post. At least, she got to have a few moments alone with some wine toward the end of it.

I've finally felt well enough to begin reviewing the raw audio files of the first podcast episode. I'm having difficulty figuring out what to cut because, to my subjective ear, all of it sounds brilliant. Y'all, I'm going to apologize in advance but, I think this first episode may be longer than an hour o_O.

Also, because of last night's post and subsequent comment from Word Nerd, I purchased the domain bourbonandshame.com. Can you believe it was actually available?! I couldn't. I snapped it up. Of course, now that means, in addition to developing sharppointyobjects.com for the podcast, figuring out what to do with janeisameanhorriblebitch.com, and updating and moving janesinfinitewisdom.com, I now have another domain to play with...you know, in all my spare time. Still...thanks, Word Nerd. You are absolutely right in your assessment of that title.

Now, if you'll forgive both the rambling and the abrupt departure, I have to go attempt to shave my legs. After several months of no imminent hanky or panky, I'm out of practice.

This should be interesting.

Wait...You Found Me How? January, 2012 Edition

2012-02-01T22:27:00.001-07:00

Oh, yes.

You know you want it. You've been anxiously anticipating it from the edge of your seat. I can see you wriggling with anticipation.

So, I'm going to give it to you. That's right, Little Darlins, pull up a chair and get ready for the January edition of #YouFoundMeHow - the monthly wrap up of the top weirdest keyword searches that brought some of you to this little infinitely wise space.

Ready? OK good. Because I couldn't decide on just 3. I had such great ones this month, I'm giving you 6.

1) Color of sex organ of the frog.

Dude. One answer. Green. Now move on to wikipedia.

2) Ban me if I ever say cookies.

I love cookies. I like talking about them. Please don't ban me or anyone else for mentioning them. Cookies are tasty tasty treats.

3) Can drinking wine help grow beard.

Um...maybe? I hope not but it would explain a lot.

4) Evanston pet sitter bacchus kitty

Huh?

5) I love the smell of bourbon and shame

ME TOO!

6) What is the social moratorium

Um...when you stop being social?

So...what do you guys have? Come on, Bloggers! I know you want to!

Here's the Thing...

2012-01-30T21:26:00.000-07:00

The first date happened. Sooner than we'd planned. Differently than we'd talked about. There was most definitely much more phlegm than I'd intended.

And it was really really really good. Better than I could have hoped for, better than he expected. We like each other. A lot.

I believe him when he tells me he likes me. There is evidence - strong evidence - to support it. He even likes the crazy. We laughed over the crazy when I told him, "You know, as I was coming to meet you, I thought to myself, 'what if I'm not the Jane he was looking for? How awkward will it be when I show up and I'm not THE Jane?"

He laughed, "I only know one Jane. There was no mistake. We have met, you know. We've talked. We're friends. I know who you are."

Who would have thunk?

Here's the thing. He and I, we know a lot of people. We know a lot of the same people. And there are going to be judgments.

"What are you doing with HER?!"

"What are you doing with HIM?!"

Judgments. Ugly, ugly judgments.

About me. I suspect there will be several.

About him. I now know one person will say it - or, at the very least, think it. To you, I say shoosh.

Here's the thing...I don't care.

I have the green light from Lex, from Acr0nym. The two non-husbands concur. Go for it.

Spux, the first skipper, is likely giddy over it.

Above and beyond my own opinion, those are the ONLY opinions that carry any weight with me. If there are opinions that carry any weight with him - beside his own - I don't know but, I'm pretty certain, it wouldn't matter to him.

We like each other. We're kinda insufferably mooshy with each other...already. It's early. And it's right.

So...here's the thing. If you don't like it? Keep it to yourself.

1 Up, Dude. 1 Up.

2012-01-29T01:31:00.002-07:00

I am able to write this post tonight because of The Bloggess. Because she is a fucking WARRIOR, People. Because her sometimes painful honesty regarding her depression, anxiety, and self-harming paved the way for me.

Even though it isn't diagnosed, I don't think anyone who knows me in person or who has been reading awhile will dispute that I've got an anxiety disorder.

Free-floating anxiety specifically.

Acr0nym has stated he believes I've got mild agoraphobia. Not that I'm house-bound or anything but sometimes my anxiety is bad enough that it controls what I will do socially. Sometimes, when the anxiety is particularly bad, I don't want to leave the house...but I will. I make myself.

You may be wondering why, even though I know I'm full to piping hot brimming with anxiety, I continue to go undiagnosed and untreated. After all, this is the 21st century and there are pills for that.

The obvious reason is that I don't want to experience better living through chemistry. That sounds ridiculous given that I've encouraged many friends to explore medicinal options for whatever ails them. I've supported and cheered on family members for their own willingness to try a variety of prescription medications for their mental problems.

But for me?

No. Thanks.

I have some excellent natural coping mechanisms for my anxiety...exercise (if that plantar fasciitis would ever go away), meditation, deep breathing...wine if it comes to that.

I also have Lex who, during the worst of it, talks to me. He strips away the layers when I'm hyperventilating - picks up each dust-bunny encrusted layer, holds it up to me as though it's a dirty sock he's picked up off the floor, and asks, "What's this one? Where did it come from? Does it apply?" He does that until I'm soul bare and we can look at whatever is provoking the attack rationally...together. It's rarely much of anything except my own neuroses. And he's right there with me, looking at the situation, evaluating it, and telling me, gently, "It's OK. You're only a little crazy. It's OK. Breathe. It won't hurt...well, maybe a little, but I'm here."

Anyway!

Yeah, so, you know how I have this imminent first date? It's coming up rapidly. And, while we were making arrangements for said date to be held at a restaurant, I started to feel stupid anxious about something so trivial you sane people - or, at least, those of you without anxiety - couldn't even begin to understand.

I started to feel anxious about where, in proximity to the restaurant, we are going to meet. Keep in mind, this is someone I know - have known for years - in real life, face to face.

See, normal people just say, "Hey! Let's meet at Such and Such 'round 2" and y'all meet without further arrangement and it's excellent fun.

Me?

It goes a little something like this: "Should I go in? Should I wait outside? What if he's already inside? What if he's not and HE waits outside while I'm inside?"

And pretty soon I'm spinning out of control, ready to just pack it in and rush home to my pajama pants and a nonplussed cat.

So...we're making arrangements. And I'm afraid to say much of anything beyond, "Yeah, let's meet at Such and Such 'round 2". Except...I can already feel the anxiety swirling. "What if I'm there early and I don't know if he's already here waiting for me inside?" etc, so forth, ad nauseum.

Finally, I decide to ask if we can be more specific.

And then? A miracle happens. I decide to tell him why I need him to be specific. Because I'm anxious...because I'll worry I'm doing it wrong...because, fine, I'm crazy.

And you know what?

He said, "Just text or call me when you're near and I will be waiting right out front for you."

He didn't even bat an eyelash. Seriously?

Triple word bonus points.

So...I'm going on this date. And he knows I'm crazy. And he's looking forward to it.

He just got an extra Super Mario Brothers mushroom. 1 Up. Wow. I don't think that's ever happened to me before.

Thanks, Joe.

Kickball and Mixed Salty Nuts

2012-01-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

So, if dating is like a big game of kickball, I am consistently playing in the outfield.

Yeah, I'm that girl, standing way way way away from the action, who is constantly pushing up her glasses and chewing on a renegade hangnail. I occasionally have skinned knees.

So, when the ball gets kicked in my direction, I'm likely to flail my arms wildly - once I realize the ball's headed straight for me - and run in a zig zag pattern as though I were attempting to escape an alligator attack. But not because I want to escape a date.

It just, you know, catches me off guard and my initial reaction is to panic. Mostly because I know nothing about boys. I know TONS about relationships. I just don't anything about boys.

Regardless, I got asked out on a date today.

I. Did. Not. See. This. Ball. Coming.

Luckily, it was via e-mail so he couldn't see A) my sinus-infected moon face complemented by two sinus-infection caused black eyes or B) me running in a zig zag pattern, flailing my arms and yelling "Big Arms! Big Arms!"

So, I'm going on a date. But not until I stop looking and feeling like I was on the losing end of a prize fight. And, if there's an alligator attack in the mean time, I'll have practiced.

No, really. I swear. I'm 40. My birthday certificate and my mother say so.

And now, because I can, this picture came across Facebook today and I had to share it.

I subsequently sent it to Lex and asked him if he had anything he and Vinny wanted to tell me. *ahem*

Revenge of the NYE Eve Plague v2.0

2012-01-24T19:58:00.000-07:00

I am sick.

Again.

I woke up this morning to a swollen moon face that can only mean one thing - Sinus Infection.

So, even though I slept 4 hours this afternoon, and even though I haven't written in a couple of days, I'm going to crawl in my bed with a book and some Mucinex and some hot tea with honey and lemon.

I leave you instead with a fuzzy picture of Spux getting his head licked (and licked and licked) by Lebowski.

The Dude Abides

Enjoy. TTYL

Evidence

2012-01-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

Of a podcast waiting to happen...

Clockwise from leftt: Diva, Peej, Jane, Cesqua

I cannot wait to share the ferociousness my friends put out into the podcast world yesterday!

In the Eye of the Beholder

2012-01-21T22:06:00.000-07:00

I am not beautiful in the traditional sense.

I've known this for a very long time. And I'm OK with that...now. But it took me three and a half extraordinarily long decades of self-abuse before I was willing to recognize, acknowledge and own what beauty I did possess.

This afternoon, 3 of the strongest, most intelligent, self-assured and confident women I know came together with me to record episode 1 of the podcast, Sharp Pointy Objects. For 3 hours (don't worry, we'll be editing that down) we talked about self-image, self-esteem, true beauty, bullying.

Toward the end of the recording, after I'd listened to each of their experiences growing up female, I found myself making confessions...things I'd never intended to disclose. Like...how I'd dropped out of high school, in part, so I wouldn't have to take Physical Education during which, I knew, I'd be mercilessly made fun of. Like how, at the age of 13 and after having lost a significant amount of weight when Blind Betsy signed me up for Weight Watchers, I discovered something even better than dieting...bulimia. Like how, after years of yo-yo dieting, I'd gotten to the point where surgical intervention wasn't just an option but became a life-saving necessity.

This is the life I've led...for better or for worse.

A few years ago, Gretchen - ultimately a friend (I forgive you completely) and sometime adversary - told me, "Don't you understand? We don't love you because you are pretty or because of the things you do to make our lives better. We love you because you are you. Because you are gold. 100% gold inside. It shines through especially when you don't know it. I wish you'd just know it. It's so rare what it is you possess inside you! You are so special! So beautiful! You have no idea, do you?"

No. I don't. Likely I don't know even now.

All I know, what I have to feel good about myself now, is that I am kind. I am loving. I am understanding. If you need a gentle ear, I am here. If you want an ego boost, I am here to give you just that. If you want or need advice, I'm the girl to which you should turn. I'm educated in that kind of advice, don't you know. THAT is what makes me gold.

What I don't know is how to be traditionally beautiful. I do not know how I can live up to impossible standards of beauty. I can't be thin. I can't be adorable. I can't be that vapid pretty girl that catches your eye. I can't be perpetually 20 years old... I never got to be 20, or 12, or 5. I can't be someone who counts in your standard of beauty because...

I'm just ME, in my infinite wisdom. A me that has endured more than you can possibly imagine to become who I am today.

Ain't that fucking grand?!

So. The next time you're compelled to share that picture of an obese woman on Facebook and make fun of her, I'm going to ask you now to think of me first. Do you laugh at me behind my back? Do you harbor me ill will when I soothe your aching heart? Do you hate me?

Because when you make fun of someone who is fat, ugly, or, in your opinion, worthless, you're making fun of me. FYI.

Am I worthless?

You be the judge.

On the 18th Day, the Interwebs Rose Up and Congress Woke Up

2012-01-18T20:44:00.001-07:00

I have never understood Twitter.

Wait, no, that's not precisely accurate. I've never understood the allure of Twitter.

I've had a Twitter account for a couple of years now but, if you look at my @janeymcjanerson stats, you'll see I haven't been a particularly prolific user of the medium. In fact, I'll go months without logging in at all. I'll forget who I'm following and why I'm following them and then, once I do log back in, have to figure out who all these people are again.

Why don't I use it?

For one, I'm obsessive.

I have this weird thing about going back and reading all the tweets people have made since last I logged in and, even if I'm logging in once a day - which is about all I can manage - that's a daunting task. It's much more daunting than reviewing the backlog of Facebook updates. It seems to me some people have a whole lot more time on their hands than I do to tweet. Either that or they are in the position to have a smartphone glued to their hands much of the day.

Of course, it is possible I'm doing it wrong. Maybe I'm not supposed to care what other people tweet unless they mention me specifically and require a response. If I could embrace that philosophy, the whole experience might be different for me. But then, why am I following anyone if I don't care what they have to say? That seems rather silly, in my opinion.

Mostly though, I don't like Twitter because this constant stream of chattering voices mimics what I live with in my anxious head a good portion of the time, adds to the cacophony, until I literally cannot hear myself think. It's like...Facebook on speed and speed stinks.

However, today something happened and I found myself interested, fascinated, turned on by this medium I'd largely ignored.

What was it?

The PIPA (Protect IP Act) / SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) blackout protest happened.

If you live under a rock and still, after today, don't know what those are, CNET has an excellent article giving you the FAQs on how these two pieces of legislation would impact you.

Now, I've been aware of the PIPA/SOPA controversy for some time and, because I have excellent friends, they all knew about it too so there wasn't a whole lot of spreading-the-word I could participate in because my range isn't particularly far-reaching.

When my friend, Foolish Boy, called my attention to the fact that Reddit had signed up to protest by going dark for a day, I was thrilled! Reddit has a much much larger reach than this little carved-out space on the internet I call home. When Boing Boing and the Wikipedia signed on to protest, I knew this was going to be huge. HUGE!

These are sites that get more views per day than the NY Times and all major television news outlet get combined (I'm making that up. I have no idea if that's true. But I like to imagine it's true so we'll assume it is, OK?). These are sites that are important to people. They aren't necessarily conducive to productivity but they sure are fun! And fun is what we like. Fun is what many people are looking for when they surf the net. Fun is what motivates us in our trivial pursuits.

Do you want to know what a lot of people find un-fun? Congress. Government. Politics. News...

Until it kicks them in the shins with steel-toed boots.

Today, the American people got a collective kick to the shins and many people, blissfully ignorant up until now, woke up and said, "OW! What did you do THAT for?!"

Want to know how I know that?

Twitter.

TC pointed me in the direction of a Twitter account user - @herpderpedia - who was systematically combing the Twitterverse and re-tweeting all the "WTF, Wiki?!", "WTF, Congress?!", "WTF, broken interwebz?!" tweets (s)he could find.

There are a lot of them.

And, even though I was a little discouraged many of these tweeters were asking to have it explained to them without seeking out the eleventy-billion articles already written to explain what was happening, even though I was a little disgusted when some were calling it SOAP and SOFA *sheesh*, I was mostly just whole-heartily glad they were asking for the information.

Knowledge is power.

It's just too bad there seems to be no way to take a favorite toy away from enough people to get them to see what rights they've been stripped of by the continuation of the USA Patriot Act (hee hee that link is to the wiki article and the wiki's still blacked out so you won't be able to read about the Patriot Act for now).

Anyway!

As the day has progressed, as more and more angry people signed petitions and took to Facebook and Twitter to express their concern, to urge their Congresspeople to say no to PIPA and to SOPA, more and more legislators retracted their support publicly...including both bills co-sponsors...leaving the cheese - the Cheese, in this case, being Lead SOPA sponsor, Texas Rep. Lamar Smith, to (hopefully ultimately) stand alone.

Stay informed. Know your rights. If you're angry and you know it clap your hands...right in the faces of your representatives. Worst case, kick them where it counts - by withdrawing your vote and support.

And then, if you're still mad, consider donating to the Electronic Frontier Foundation.

http://americancensorship.org

Vacation Station Identification

2012-01-18T00:05:00.000-07:00

I'm having one of those awesome fantasy housewife vacations, yo (why I just said yo, I cannot say).

You know that one where I get to sit around in my pajamas all day, snacking on Dove dark chocolate, and playing on the computer and then the non-husband comes home after working all day, cooks supper and does the dishes? Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I'm fairly certain Acr0nym doesn't realize I'm here...yet...

Mostly because I'm staying extra specially quiet (no small feat) while attempting to pretend I'm not actually here. If Acr0nym notices I'm here, he may tell me to leave.

Besides, there's no tiara in this fantasy and you can't really hate me if I don't have a tiara, right?

Heh. Now he's getting ready to start laundry! Can this get any more awesome?! OK, well it'd probably be particularly awesome if he was doing my laundry but since I don't let anyone handle my underthings, it would be hard for him to do my laundry so I'll just relish the fact that he's doing his own laundry as I sit here...quietly.

[later]

He noticed me. It was likely all the hummus I ate for lunch. You know how that goes:

Beans, beans
The magical fruit.
The more you eat,
The more you toot.

Mental note: Next time you stay at someone's house as a guest, Jane - particularly one who will wait on you - refrain from the offer of the bean dip. It's a trap. A little like a bell around a cat's neck.

Anyway!

How I've thus far spent my Birthday Vacation:

I arrived at Acr0nym's safe and sound Sunday afternoon at which point we shopped for my vacation snax and wine and all manner of thrift store goodies because we could. Before you yell at me, yes, I know I have spelled snax incorrectly. However, you should also understand, sometimes words need to be misspelled for emphasis. Don't argue. Save your breath. I'm not listening. La-la-la-la I can't hear you!

Anyway!

The rest of Sunday and all day Monday was spent catching up with all my blogging friends. I laughed. I grimaced. I guffawed. And sometimes I cried...for the deaths of loved ones, for the death of a beloved cat, for the death of relationships. Emotions were all over the map and I was simply along for whatever ride came next chronologically. It was a trip well-worth taking but, I must confess, I'm glad the roller-coaster cars have come to a complete stop and the safety bars raised because by the time I went to bed (or the couch as it were) last night, I was exhausted.

Of note, this falling into slumber was precluded by Whirley Pop popcorn and two blissfully intense episodes of Game of Thrones. I've read the book, I just hadn't seen all the episodes yet.

Today was spent working in earnest on the new podcast.

Photo and mics provided by Acr0nym. Mosaic skull provided by Jive Turkey

We have a name! And a domain! And a logo in progress! And topics for the first half dozen episodes! We have original theme music and enthusiastic guests and snax! We have snax, by gum! We've tested audio and re-tested audio and tested audio some more (thank you, Jive Turkey, for braving the microphone for said tests) and then tested compression.

We have the first recording with guests scheduled for this coming Saturday. One guest informed me she's already picked out her outfit and "hawt" shoes for said recording. I said, "Honey, you know no one is going to see your shoes, right?"

Her response was the best ever! She said, "You know how you're supposed to put a smile in your voice when you're being recorded? Hawt shoes put a smile in my voice. So does talking about food while naked."

Thankfully, we won't be talking about food for the inaugural episode...uh...I don't think. For the record, naked food talk isn't a bad thing in my book. I just want to keep my audio engineer, Acr0nym, focused on the task at hand and I'm not sure he can stay focused if we're talking about food. Especially if Alton Brown gets mentioned.

Tomorrow is even more work on the podcast. I need to do some work deciding on format and more work on the initial scripting - not for the panel discussion but for the introduction and credits. We've also concluded I ought to do an episode zero to introduce the podcast and what kind of content I intend to include rather than try to do all that in episode one so I need to come up with something for that.

And then! Tomorrow night, we'll be heading down to a local pub where Devo Was Right spins each Wednesday night. This isn't something I can normally do during my work week since a 5 a.m. rise time is not conducive to staying out past 9 p.m. Thus, I'm taking full advantage of my ability to stay up late and go gallivanting about town to see my friends do what it is THEY love for once.

w00t!

Additional events scheduled: my weekly coffee klatch date with Spux, a comedy club adventure, a night out with geekery friends, the podcast recording and subsequent dance club fun (maybe...we'll see if I'm up to it), and a birthday gathering for Devo Was Right.

Somewhere in there, I hope, there will be cake. Just for me. Because mmmmm...cake.

15 Pet Peevery Lane

2012-01-16T15:32:00.000-07:00

Occasionally, when conversation turns toward the possibility of purchasing a house, Lex and I weigh the pros and cons of staying in The Grotto until we are financially positioned to buy something of our very own.

Generally, the pros column far outweighs the cons column. We love our neighborhood in the heart of the City, we love our neighbors, we love living within cabbing distance of just about anywhere we'd want to go for a martini or three. We even love living in an apartment so aptly named The Grotto. How many can say they live in a grotto like rabbits?

However, there is always ALWAYS one issue firmly planted in the Con category.

Parking.

Our living arrangement does not include any off-street parking. There are no garages, no carports, no designated spaces. It is street parking only in a neighborhood full of other apartment houses all fighting for limited parking.

And, let me just say, I can often be found ranting loudly about terrible parking etiquette...usually directed at a driver hogging two spaces because he found it too much trouble to pull up 4 feet, in effect, adding two extra steps from car to front door and, instead, centers his vehicle with the building entrance without regard to the delicate parking balance in the 'hood.

But this isn't about parking etiquette.

About a week ago, I came home from work, found a decent parking space on the block just west of our house, made sure I gave the car in front of me enough room to be extracted without too much grief but pulling up close enough to allow for two more cars behind me. And then I went into my apartment for the night.

The next day, I went out to make a run to the grocery store and discovered someone had keyed my car - both driver's side door panels - deep enough to ~~scratch~~ gouge through to the space-age plastic.

WTF?!

I was pretty hot under my collar. Because really? Wow. Why? Clearly, I'd angered someone to the point that they'd destroy personal property but I hadn't done anything wrong! Not even slightly!

I let it go though. I realized I drive a 10-year-old car and am grateful I do especially when something like this happens. I decided it wasn't a personal affront and that, no matter the reason, this person's aggression wasn't about me.

And then...

Two days later, it snowed and, in the process of brushing the snow off my car, I discovered the passenger side doors - both of them - had been gouged with the same intensity and hate.

All of a sudden, it started to feel VERY personal.

I had apparently done something so heinous to someone that they would deliberately cause a thousand dollars' (at least) worth of damage to my property.

Not only did this hurt my feelings, the very nature of this passive-aggressive attack against me angered me. If there's a problem, confront me - knock on my door, leave me a note explaining your issue, give me a call. Do something productive to call my attention to this perceived slight I've dealt. Don't just act out in a vicious, physically and financially damaging way to get your point across, assuming I've acted out of malice and retaliating accordingly.

Because I'm not malicious. And, for the life of me, I can't figure out what I might have done to provoke someone into such incredibly mean action.

Why can't we all just get along?!

Inconsiderate, mean people. Sheesh.

This entry written in response to the GBE2 prompt Pet Peeves...of which I have several.

Vacation. I'm On It.

2012-01-15T13:20:00.000-07:00

My 40th birthday is Friday, the 20th. Less than a week away.

That's a pretty big deal in my opinion. I'm trying to embrace it, to be proud of it but my little pep talks haven't really worked. So, a few months ago when I began to contemplate the end of my 30's, I thought if I could do something over-the-top fantabulous perhaps I'd get past the knowledge that I'm aging and the fact that I'm not doing it quite as gracefully as I'd like.

Unfortunately, Common Sense - that rat bastard - stepped in and ungraciously reminded me that, since I'm chest-deep in debt reduction, money's tight. I didn't feel like I could take a big trip - although a 40th birthday road trip plan is still in preliminary talks between me and Acr0nym for later in the spring - and certainly not to Europe. I didn't have $5,000 on hand to spend on a blowout party. I didn't have extra cash to purchase something especially nice for myself...like a camera or a new laptop (this one is over 6 years old...keep your fingers crossed it doesn't bleed out on me anytime soon).

What I did have though was a little vacation time coming to me.

So...I'm on vacation. For a week - 9 days.

I'm not going anywhere in particular. There won't be beaches or bikinis or foreign accents. There won't be stamps on my passport or any worries about currency exchange rates. Instead, there will be hours upon hours spent in my most comfy pajamas. There will be naps. There will be a crap ton of boxed wine. I might even have a shot of Bailey's or Kahlua in my coffee each morning. There will be writing, writing, and more writing.

Friday night, I slept for 11 hours straight and only got out of bed when my back decided it'd had enough of my craptacular (and yet, free!) mattress. The rest of the day was spent grocery shopping, doing laundry, and parking myself in front of the television for 5 hours watching the Super-Duper Extra-Special Edition of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. No really. 5 hours. It was a good day.

Now, I'm getting ready to head up to Acr0nym's house in a minute for a few days and nights. He won't be home for most of it. I'm not going up there to spend time with him per se anyway. I'm going up there to rid myself of distractions...like dishes, laundry, our back room requiring some much needed sorting and organizing attention. I'm going up there to avoid the distraction of Vinny's litter box and Lex's inquiries into "what's for supper?".

I'm going up there to write, to rest, to work on the podcast and the blog re-design - yes, I'm re-designing and moving the blog off Blogger and onto a self-hosted site using a different blogging software. I've taken time off my paying job so that I can spend quality time on the other job I love.

I've taken time off my paying job to rest and re-charge.

I've taken time off my paying job to turn 40.

Vacation. I'm on it. For 7 1/2 more days.

Pod Person

2012-01-12T21:49:00.001-07:00

I am one...

Or will be shortly.

Photo Credit

I am starting up a podcast.

Why?

Well...the story goes a little something like this...

Acr0nym: You should totally do a podcast.
Jane: Why?
Acr0nym: Because it would be fun!
Jane: But I don't have anything to talk about on a podcast.
Acr0nym: Sure you do! You blog every day, yeah?
Jane: Yeah but...that's different.
Acr0nym: No, it's not. It'd be great! AND! I have all the equipment to record and edit a podcast.

So I think about it. And then Owen's birthday party happened and I realize I have interesting people in my life who are funny, irreverent, smart, informed...did I mention 100% irreverent about, well, everything?

Yeah.

So, I went back to Acr0nym and agreed to do a podcast.

And then?

Then he went on a shopping spree for equipment.

Jane: I thought you said you had everything we'd need for a podcast?
Acr0nym: Well, I did. But this stuff will make it better, nicer, more professional. [Acr0nym is a gear head but not about cars. No, no. Electronics gear head. He can't stop.]
Jane: Ah. OK. So...what should we talk about in the podcast?
Acr0nym: OH! Well now see, I don't care about any of that. It's prolly gonna suck no matter what you talk about.
Jane:...
Jane:...
Jane: But you were the one who said I should do a podcast!!!
Acr0nym: Oh yeah. I know. And you totally should! Because Dave Winer is your secret boyfriend. [?!] But I don't actually care what you talk about. I just want to play with the podcast technology and needed an excuse to upgrade my equipment.

Ahem.

Yeah.

So, I'm getting a podcast for my birthday. And, no matter what Acr0nym says, it's going to be AWESOME! Because I'm awesome and I have a face for radio and I have a voice for radio (which is a laugh riot if you know me and know what I do for a living) and I also have fabulous, incredible, irreverent friends...a lot of them...who have mercifully agreed to star in podcasts with me, your Infinitely Wise *cough* host.

Stay tuned.

Sun Sun Sun, Here It Comes

2012-01-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

Vinny is most decidedly an indoor cat.

When you live on the corner of Walk and Don't Walk, as we do, where two major bus lines run past every 20 minutes, outdoor cat life becomes, if you're a responsible cat parent, a no-no in the lifestyle department. Sorry, Kid. You're stuck here.

As a consequence, Vinny doesn't get much sun.

OK, fine. Vinny gets no sun - we live in a north-facing basement, ya'll - save those two occasions per year when I'm feeling particularly magnanimous and energetic enough to wriggle his squirmy, squiggly body into his cat harness and leash so that I can take him out for a walk. Yes, I'm one of THOSE cat ladies and let me tell you, Vinny ROCKS the harness and leash...once he's in it and resolves himself to it. Then he's master of the universe and confidently struts his stuff about our neighborhood, dragging me behind.

[Note: Now I'm worried that he is vitamin D deficient. Am I a terrible mother for not getting my fur-child out into the sunlight 20 minutes a day to absorb vitamin D?! Do cats even require vitamin D? Should I buy him supplements? This parenting thing is So. Hard!]

Anyway!

So, a few weeks ago, when I was experiencing symptoms of eye strain, Acr0nym gave me a desk lamp to, hopefully, alleviate the dizzy spells.

Up until then, I'd only had one three-way lamp in my room - a floor lamp located on the other side of the room from my desk and computer.

As soon as I plugged in the new lamp on my desk though, I noticed a certain fur fixture planting himself underneath the desk lamp and staring at me...accusingly...

You've seen this Vinny, Private Eye picture before

So, I did what any good mother would do with a depressed child...

I bought him a SAD lamp. And by SAD lamp I mean I went to Target and spent 15 clams on a table lamp and a 4-pack of 60-watt bulbs.

The result?

Vinny stretching out and basking under the SAD lamp

He's barely left its sunny glow.

Turns out, he doesn't care about the actual sun, he just cares about staying toasty warm.

High Five.

Now...if only I didn't feel so guilty about turning the lamp off when I was ready to sleep, perhaps I COULD sleep. *sigh*

Jane In Her Infinite Jerkdom

2012-01-10T18:40:00.000-07:00

I feel like such a big, fat, juicy jerk face.

Jerky. Jerkmeister. Jerkster. Jerk-a-licious. Her Highness the Jerk Face Supreme (hold the mushrooms).

Why?

Because long after I'd posted last night's blog entry about all my wonderfully talented friends and family - slept soundly and then worked all day today - it dawned on me that, if I'm going to give special shout outs to a number of my lovelies, especially those who are quite possibly literally starving artists, I might not want to forget one in particular.

Jane, you ignorant slut.

So!

In order to (hopefully) redeem myself, I'd like to take a special opportunity to tell you about Zero Hour! - the infamous Patty Leidy.

Patty as drawn by Patty and shamelessly stolen from her blog. Hopefully this isn't the face she was making after reading last night's post.

Patty is a cartoonist, painter, all-around artist, and collector of fabulously retro toys (y'all should see her PEZ collection!). Her work is fun, whimsical, and, of late, liberally peppered with nipples of the female variety (if paintings of women and their nipples offend you, you probably can just stop right here). She is the featured cartoonist at We Be Girls - an online rag for women. She does commissioned pieces and also draws cartoons as a favor to her friends (*sigh*).

Jane as drawn by Patty

She's also unemployed - one of the first victims of this lousy economy three years ago and hindered by a back injury that doesn't allow her to stand on her feet for long periods. She depends on income from her art to see her through month after month while filling out application after application to try and find a job.

So, you see? That's why I'm a Jerk Face Galore.

While Patty would live the dream of Full-Time Artist - and sort of is without choice - right now, until the economy picks up or she miraculously finds a job - art is her only choice.

It's either that or sell off the PEZ collection. And no one wants to read about that (except she totally is selling it off *double sigh*).

To learn more about Patty:

Visit her blog (there are nipples)
Visit We Be Girls
Visit her Tumblr site - Patty Leidy Paints! (and other stuff) - where she lists art for sale (there are nipples)

1,000 True Fans

2012-01-09T22:24:00.000-07:00

Spux is an artist.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before. I'm sure you'll hear me say it again because truly he is one of the most versatile artists I know - dabbling in projects ranging from the annual paper fashion show to unusual cake designs to pencil drawings in a sketchbook. And almost always his projects end up doused liberally with awesome sauce (Sincerely, go check out his website where you can get an excellent sampling of his varied talents).

At the beginning of this month, January, he decided to designate the entire month "Art Every Day Month" and subsequently found himself in a groove of painting miniatures of fanciful animals. Once I saw the first few, I commissioned one of my very own fanciful animal:

That's Spux's cat, Lebowski, providing the body. And yes, I've become THAT crazy cat lady who commissions paintings of her pet. Thanks.

$60 isn't a lot of money to spend on a one-of-a-kind painting - especially when it's a painting I love of a subject I love created by an artist I love. I think I may have ordered a miniature painting of a sloth too. But we'll see if that comes to fruition. At this point, Spux has more special orders than he'll likely be able to handle for some time.

Here's why that's a big deal. When Spux was laid off from his conventional 9-5 job last year, he vowed that somehow he would find a way to make a living making art. He didn't ever want to go back to an office or put all his creative energies into projects he didn't care about for other people he didn't particularly like. Even for friends (ahem), he's hard pressed to take a gig that doesn't interest him on some level.

And he's starting to make that art dream a reality.

How?

By building his base of 1,000 true fans.

From Illuminated Mind, a true fan is defined as:

People that buy everything you create. When you announce the launch of a product, creation, or offer, they are actively waiting for you to release it. They refresh the “coming soon” page. They comment on every post. They tell everyone they can about what you do.

And, as defined by The Technium:

A True Fan is defined as someone who will purchase anything and everything you produce. They will drive 200 miles to see you sing. They will buy the super deluxe re-issued hi-res box set of your stuff even though they have the low-res version. They have a Google Alert set for your name. They bookmark the eBay page where your out-of-print editions show up. They come to your openings. They have you sign their copies. They buy the t-shirt, and the mug, and the hat. They can't wait till you issue your next work. They are true fans.

The theory is that if you have 1,000 true fans who are willing and able to annually spend $100 apiece on your art - whatever form your art takes - that's enough to support a comfortable, sustainable life style. You won't be rich but you won't be in the streets because the curb wouldn't have you.

Of course, this assumes one can reasonably offer enough product to meet that price point for 1,000 people a year.

Regardless, it's an interesting theory.

It's a theory I've been giving a lot of thought to because this theory would suggest it isn't necessary to gain the attention and following of a million people who are so full of adoration for whatever it is we create that they are throwing fists full of cash in our direction. It only takes a 1,000 or, in my case, realistically, around 5,000 or so.

It gave me a big blast of hope actually.

My standard of living isn't particularly high. I figure if I could net - after payroll taxes and health insurance and modest business expenses - $30,000 annually, I'm living pretty high on my particular hog. I don't need or necessarily want anymore than that. I'm pretty content to live financially the way I do now.

And that's also gotten me to think about all the other extraordinary artists I have the pleasure of knowing...

Like Jive-Turkey who is currently making a nice little second income off his mosaic art:

Paulie Lipman, slam poet and friend:

I've written about Paulie before when he touched me so profoundly by his It Gets Better: Fight Song.

My brother, Frank:

And, of course (dare I repeat myself? Why, yes, yes I do!), Jessie and her band Alameda:

And so many other incredibly talented folks I know...Dayna and her art boxes, Bomb Betsy and her fiber arts, Sage Bray and her polymer arts magazine, modchen and her costuming designs (Girl, will you PLEASE send me the links to your stores?!), Acr0nym and his photography, Blind Betsy and her Sonoma Trio (The Momma who first instilled in me the love and appreciation and support of artists of all kinds).

Sonoma Trio (photo credit) - that beautiful woman in the middle is the one I call Mom. Isn't she truly stunning?

Not to mention Lex who writes articles for Steve Jackson Games' Pyramid Magazine but has been working on the next greatest American novel for the last year.

Good lord, do I know a boat load of talented people?! And that's not even the half of it.

None of us are starving artists (except, perhaps, Paulie and Spux so go buy their stuff as they are attempting to truly live the dream and follow their individual passions). But each of us would love to have 1,000 true fans. 1,000 true fans who love us beyond all reason. 1,000 true fans who appreciate us for who we are. 1,000 true fans who want us to succeed...because if we succeed, anything is possible.

And I can't help thinking...could I find 1,000 true fans willing to invest $50 a year in me? Could I find 50,000 fans willing to invest 99¢ in me (the price point of an electronic version of a book)? Even Lex said he'd probably buy the book. Would you?

That's what I need. Just a few. Out of 7 billion people worldwide, that doesn't seem like very many. Does it?

What do you think you need to be successful?

The Cake Is a Lie

2012-01-08T01:07:00.000-07:00

When a friend of mine asked me a few weeks ago to make his birthday cake for him for his birthday celebration this weekend, I didn't hesitate. I do, after all, fancy myself a bit of a baker (not so much a butcher or candlestick maker).

So, when I set out this afternoon, mis en place assembled, to create the finest in black forest cakes, I was fully confident in my abilities.

The layers rose to perfection, the extraction from 9" rounds flawless, the dark chocolate ganache and tart raspberry sauce that would snuggle up with one another to become the delectable center came together with nary a hitch.

And then?

Assembly line failure.

Sincerely.

I think my kitchen was too warm, frankly. While the cake rounds were cooled appropriately, the ganache didn't set quite right and the raspberry sauce didn't thicken just enough. The cream cheese frosting moat I created along the edges of the bottom layer warmed too quickly and couldn't contain the squishy, squashy mess of the filling. So, when I attempted to frost the outer shell, the layers shifted, the filling squelched and belched out of its keep and, in the end, what I had was a gooey, gross, vomitous mess of chocolate, raspberry, and cream cheesy sugar that resembled a bleeding Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Just like this except bleeding gallons of blood from the deaths of a gazillion raspberries (photo credit)

It was not pretty, no.

In fact, it was hilariously warranting a crime scene investigation.

Or, I suppose, it would have been hilarious except for my tears.

By then, it was a quarter of four, too late to run to the grocery for more ingredients - particularly as the snow had begun to dump an hour before and would slow down traffic to a crawl. There was nothing to do but call him and explain the cake had been a lie...or, at the very least, delayed since the cake itself, for all intents and purposes, had been beheaded.

He was very sweet about it all (but shhhhh...don't tell. He has a rep to protect). Especially after I promised him a new cake later in the week.

As I got ready to throw the entire endeavor in the trash though, Lex stopped me, perhaps because he knew, even if it didn't look appetizing, the pieces and parts would be stupendous. Or maybe it's just because he has a sweet tooth and can't stand to see all that refined sugar go directly to the dump for the rats to chew.

Regardless, after eating two generous portions, Lex said, "Why don't you just cut it up into great hunks and take it to Mr. S just like that? It tastes fabulous...once you get past its appearance. Besides, no one would say a word about its appearance if you took it to him in its original state. It's the thought and taste that count and you've got both in spades."

So...

I did.

I cut the rest of the cake up into great hunks of goo, placed them in as many plastic bowls as I had, and wrapped them tightly in cling wrap.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I checked my pride at the door, shrugged, and unceremoniously handed the bowls of hideously malformed cake to the birthday boy with a, "Here's your fucked up cake."

"Hooray!" he said.

And the party commenced.

At the end of the evening, as we were saying goodbye, I assured him the cake was still delicious even if it looked decomposed.

He said, "Duh, Infinitely Wise Jane! You made it. Of course it tastes great."

And I am, once again, reminded that it is not only acceptable but preferred that I am perfectly imperfect.

And now I know he'll love his cake - even if it looks like something my cat coughed up.

Chock Full O' Preservatives

2012-01-05T20:46:00.000-07:00

Have you ever told a lie?

Oh, please. Of course you have! Everyone has. Show me someone who says they cannot tell a lie (George Washington *wink wink* *nudge nudge*) and I'll show you a liar.

What about a white lie? Have you ever told one of those?

I'm guessing most of you tell white lies you're barely conscious of telling. Even the most forthright people I know, the most honest people I know, tell them. Usually though, the lies told are innocuous and understandable.

Most of us tell white lies to preserve the feelings of someone else. Right? Isn't that the point of a white lie? Telling someone something they want to hear to save their feelings in some way?

Now, have you ever been caught in a lie - even a white lie?

I know I have and it's pretty embarrassing, humiliating, especially when my intentions are the best. Because I know my word is only good when it is honest and lying calls my goodness into question. I don't like that. I AM good...mostly.

As I've gotten older, my tendency to tell white lies has decreased significantly. Perhaps it's because I've honed my delivery, softened it so as not to offend...much. Still...occasionally I do find myself telling a white lie and justifying it to myself by saying, "It's to preserve his/her feelings".

But is that the right thing to do?

One of the reasons I respect Peej is because Peej is THAT friend. The one you can call to come over and watch you while you try on outfits and know, 100%, that she is telling you the truth when an outfit looks great because when it doesn't she says, "Um, no, really, that is not an outfit you should ever ever everever wear even under the cover of darkness in your own home alone while dancing around, clutching a hairbrush microphone, and lip syncing to Madonna". (Yes, I do this. Shuddup. Don't judge. Madonna is awesome.)

Goddess of the universe

I strive to be like her (Peej. Not Madonna.) in my own offered fashion opinions (and that's kinda laughable given my own personal fashion style which, if you must know, is zilch on the 1-10 awesome scale). Frankly, because there is very little worse than being caught in an outfit you shouldn't even wear dead because someone you thought you could trust told you it looked good...while keeping her fingers crossed behind her back and her snickers masked in the confines of a forged coughing fit.

So then, here's another question. Is there anyone you trust implicitly to tell you the truth every single moment of every day and should you trust them? Did you need convincing or was it inherent within your relationship?

The only people I trust to tell me the absolute truth as he sees it are Lex and Acr0nym.

Not even Peej is to be 100% trusted. This is not because she's betrayed my trust but because I know everyone is fallible to the little white lie to preserve a feeling or two. I love Peej. I trust Peej. But I understand and accept that there are probably times when she's told me a white lie or two just to spare my delicate flower feelings. I suspect she feels the same about me. And that's great!

However, I trust Lex completely all the time. This took literally years to happen. I trusted him most of the time about most everything but there was one thing - the biggest thing - I didn't trust him about until we'd lived together for three years. And that was that I didn't believe he wouldn't just turn on me and leave...until he didn't.

I trust Acr0nym all the time. It took awhile to come to that although not as long as it took Lex - and maybe that's because of Lex - but it did happen. Perhaps it's because he told me - in public - something that cut through me like the sharpest of convenience store knives and I didn't die. Whatever the reason, I trust Acr0nym to always tell me the truth - most especially when it hurts.

I guess then, my question is this...who do you trust? Do you assign levels of trust? Do you find yourself completely vulnerable to no one, to just one, to several someones? Within the schema of things, do you find that your ability to white lie increases the less you trust?

The answers feel important to me tonight. Please, by all means, weigh in.

Dollars and Sense

2012-01-04T21:30:00.001-07:00

Just over a year ago, during #reverb10, I decided - OK, fine, was slapped upside the head with the fact - I needed to get out of debt.

I set a plan for myself to do just that.

Subsequently, as part of step 1 - accountability - I started a new blog, Jane In Her Infinite Budget. It was my intention to write blog entries often about my successes, trials, and tribulations with money, debt reduction, and everything else associated with money.

I was gung ho about it too...for about 3 weeks.

Then life happened and keeping up with two blogs seemed like a monumental task when I had LIFE to contend with...so I neglected it.

Until now.

That's the bad news.

The good news is that, even though I neglected the blog, I sincerely did focus on debt-reduction for most of 2011. And I made tremendous (in my mind) progress.

The other day, I received notice that my domain name, www.janesinfinitebudget.com, was set to expire. And then, I was Facebook friended, through an extraordinary turn of events, by Dianne Juhl, the feminine face behind The Feminine Face of Money.

Coincidence? I think not.

So I resolved myself to getting back to that accountable space I'd carved out for myself by regularly posting there in 2012.

Thus, last night and tonight - yes, it took me two nights - I worked on an entry to post to that vulnerable, crazy space where I let my finances all hang out for everyone to judge and, perhaps, with which to identify.

If you're interested, that entry is here.

Don't twiddle me there. My finances and my financial vulnerability are off limits to twiddling. If you want to criticize or be nasty, do it here on this post.

However, if you really want to know about Jane and her Infinite Budget Wisdom - tongue most decidedly in cheek - click through and read. I'm pretty brutal with myself...at the same time I'm proud of myself.

High Maintenance

2012-01-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, New Year's Day, I was rudely awakened - by complete and utter silence - well before I should have had my eyes open.

It may seem strange that I should be awakened by silence but, technically, it wasn't the silence that woke me. It was the winding down of the fan I keep running 24/7 for white noise that brought me swimming up toward consciousness.

It only took me a moment to realize it wasn't just a dying fan motor. We'd lost power.

Which, in my bleary-eyed state, didn't compute given that I could see from my bed the glow of overhead kitchen lights, signifying both power to the kitchen and the awake state of Lex.

I fumbled for eyeglasses, pulled on pajama pants, and stumbled out to the middle of the kitchen.

No comprende.

"Lex?"
"Yeah?"
"Um...could please come help me?

Pointing toward my room, I mumbled, "Um, no power there. Here, there's power. No power in there."

He investigated thoroughly and then nodded, "Right. No power."

I blinked at him blankly.

Luckily, he'd already brewed the coffee and had ingested some so his ability to make deductions and draw conclusions was far beyond mine.

I sat down on the couch in the living room and watched him as he systematically made the rounds, room to room, until he'd confirmed we'd lost power in the entire front half of the house save the bathroom.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee and went back and sat on the couch.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

He said, "Huh. Well, I'll run upstairs and see if Abram's got power."

"Great! Good idea. I'll wait here."

He went through the front door, closed it, and in 10 seconds was back through it in a flash.

"You need to call maintenance. There's a leak and flood in the laundry room. Power's out in there too. It looks bad. I'll go tell Abram."

Blink. Blink. Blink.

No comprende.

I went out to look in the laundry myself. Yep. That seems to be water on the floor. Yep. That's definitely the sound of water spraying from a pipe in the ceiling.

OK! I started to understand the gravity of the situation.

A) There was a burst hot water pipe, B) there was a leak, C) there was no power to the laundry room or the front half of our home, D) it was New Year's Day. *sigh*

So...I called the emergency maintenance number. No answer, of course. Only a stern message warning me not to even think about leaving a message unless this was a true, unavoidable emergency maintenance problem, the resolution of which could not be delayed until business hours. Then I was assured a prompt return call.

Burst hot water pipe, leak, possible related power outage...seemed like a reasonable problem about which to leave a message. Yeah?

So I did.

That was at 9:53.

Lex returned from upstairs. He'd passed along the message about the leak to Abram's obviously half-asleep (and possibly naked) roommate who finally poked one eye and half his nose out the door at Lex's persistent, insistent knocking.

We checked our water pressure. We checked both cold and hot water. Both pressure and temperature were working as they should. The power outage was a relatively minor inconvenience and only for me once Lex got the wireless router moved from an electricity-devoid zone and into a position of power (heh). Our main concern was that leak. And we were pretty worried about it.

By 10:30, there had not been a return call so I called again and left another, longer, more detailed message regarding the problem. I specifically stated, "Please call me to acknowledge receipt of this message asap."

11 a.m., still no return call. Lex went back upstairs to find an awake Abram who was unaware of any problem. He came down, surveyed the chaos, and promptly went to call the property management company's owner on his private number.

Sweet! Handled. I went off to the grocery store.

I returned about an hour or so later. The leak had been stopped. The laundry room was still dark. There appeared to be no one about still working. Problem solved?

Uh...no.

Lex was unaware that anyone had worked on the leak. Still no power. To make matters worse, he informed me, he'd just washed all the dishes in cold water. Seems we'd lost hot water now too.

By then, it was well afternoon, I'd not had a shower, nor had I gotten a chance to do any of the several hours' worth of writing I'd intended for the day. I called Acr0nym. I was instructed to come up to his house - what we're now referring to as The Grotto North.

I packed up a few belongings and my laptop, explained what I was doing to Lex who was cool getting some Naked Lex time before his date later in the night, and went about my merry way - but not before Lex and I stopped back by Abram's to try and get a repair update.

When we told Abram we were still without power and now had no hot water, he got back on the phone. I figured it was all under control and went traipsing out, happy to have gotten a productive start to the day (since I couldn't get on the computer, we picked up the house a bit, got the trash and recycling taken out, swept up the back steps, and done the week's grocery shopping), and glad to have a fabulous second (non)husband I was going to get to spend the rest of the day and night with.

Poor Lex.

I talked with him about 6 p.m. The power had finally been restored but there was still no hot water and he was furiously boiling water in every large pot and kettle we had in order to be able to fill a bath to a somewhat tolerable temperature so he wouldn't smell on this first date.

At least maintenance had been back and seemed to still be trying to figure out why we had no hot water.

I spent the night at Acr0's where we threw an impromptu, scrumptious supper party to greet the New Year in style, laughed late into the night, and then slept soundly.

NY strip steak covered in Acr0's homemade compound bleu cheese and herb butter and then grilled to perfection, broiled asparagus in olive oil and balsamic, french baguette, and homemade sorbet for dessert followed by homemade limoncello.

When I got home this afternoon, Lex was in a Very. Bad. Mood. We had hot water, we had power, the laundry room appeared to be functioning. I thought perhaps he was angry with me for leaving for greener pastures overnight while he had to boil his own bath water, but knew not to jump to conclusions or press for information. I knew, from experience, to wait until he was ready to talk.

It didn't take long.

What it boiled down to is that it took us 2 initial phone calls - which still have yet to be returned - from me, 2 phone calls from Abram, 3 e-mails from Lex to the maintenance e-mail address, and 2 additional phone calls on Lex's part throughout the rest of the evening to get this issue completely resolved.

Then Lex, because he was feeling grateful for the extra effort on a holiday, sent a lovely and gracious e-mail to say thank you for resolving the problems so quickly.

In response? He got a rather snide e-mail from our property management company implying we'd been alarmist by suggesting there was a "MAJOR" leak when it was just a pin hole leak that had been easily fixed and there was "no evidence to suggest a major leak or flooding". There was no mention of the power outage or the loss of hot water. Never mind that it was our onsite manager who made the decision to call the property management company's owner when he understood the scope of the flooding. The whole tone of the e-mail was rather rude and thankless - as though we had cried Wolf...

As though we were terrible people.

When I read the e-mail, I was seething mad.

I raised my right eyebrow and simply stated, "Let me handle this."

I sat right down and wrote the most politely scathing e-mail in my arsenal. Polite because it won't accomplish anything good to threaten or come across angry and I certainly don't do passive-aggressive (at least, consciously). Scathing was appropriate though as we were both inflicted with steam coming out of our ears. It was quite well written, if I do say so myself. I'd post it here but I'm apparently longwinded when I'm being politely scathing and I don't want to get any tl:dr comments - especially since this is longer than it should be.

And then?

Then, I took several deep, cleansing breaths, took a hot shower (thank you for fixing our hot water, Maintenance People), ate a huge salad, drank two cups of Sleepy Time tea, and let it go.

So...that's where I was yesterday. That's why I got even further behind on reading about the comings and goings of my blog community. It's why I was late posting my year-end wrap ups and it's why I have yet to greet the New Year in writing with the joy I've got in my heart.

Joy I continue to have in spite of this pittance of a snag.

I had a great time yesterday and I got a lot accomplished outside of writing! Plus, I got to spend the evening with Acr0nym, Bomb Betsy, Spux, Kelli, and Jive Turkey. Who WOULDN'T want to spend the first day of a new year surrounded by awesome people? Even if it meant you were the unshowered one?

2012, two days in, is still shaping up to be a wonderful year!

Thank You, 2011

2012-01-02T11:10:00.000-07:00

I'm not gonna lie.

2011 was not my best year. Not by a long shot.

Going back and reading last year's annual New Year post yesterday afternoon, in hindsight, I was acutely aware of my mental state as 2010 flowed in 2011. I remembered the quiet desperation I was feeling - hoping for a happy resolution to an angst-ridden situation. I wanted to be positive, hoped that by stating I was feeling positive I would get what I wanted.

Instead, I carried that angst into the new year and allowed it to lead me by the nose throughout the subsequent months.

I'm not going to rehash it - that angst, the sadness, the guilt, the heartache. I look back only to my birthday last year - also not up there in what I'd like to consider top-notch birthday fare - as a good reminder to myself. Low expectations are the best way to manage pre-determined resentments.

I don't want to look back on the awful of 2011. There is nothing to be gained by reliving those moments in which I wallowed in unsatisfying self-pity. I've done enough wallowing there over the last 12 months. I'm feeling surprisingly good and strong, hopeful (no really!), and I have big plans for myself in 2012. So, instead, I'm going to point out the great about 2011!

New Year's Day last year was spent in the company of two excellent friends over cinnamon rolls at Johnson's Corner.

In February, Acr0nym promised me, in the event of his untimely death, he'd leave me his head. Definitely a sign of a true BFF.

In March, a special person at the time brought me sunflowers when I was desperately sick...

And later in March, I got back in touch after a decade with a person who means a lot to me.

Let's just skip over April, shall we?

In May though! Yay May! Because May is when the Divine Dayna came for a visit and we celebrated by eating bacon flights and drinking bottomless mimosas.

Also? Let's take a running leap right over June.

In July, I started to take charge of my health again. Subsequently, I visited the eye doctor for a long overdue check up and discovered they have amazing new technology that will take digital pictures of the inside of an eye. A digital picture that can then be e-mailed to the patient. I became the proud owner of said photographs!

August brought another wonderful visit from the Divine Dayna (TWICE in a year!). It also brought a present from Acr0nym's annual trip to Las Vegas for Defcon. It brought a trip to The Wonder Tower and it also brought a decision between Acr0nym and me to take a life-changing road trip together.

Wonder Tower - Genoa, CO

September was the American Gods and Roadside Attractions road trip - an experience to remember over the course of a lifetime.

September also gave us the Nerd Bar Crawl for Spux's birthday.

October brought fun with Halloween costumes! Especially Spux's Nyan Cat costume...

November was the month of NaBloPoMo and a return to daily blogging as well as an entry that received more hits and more attention than anything I'd written before or since. It brought to me a blogging community and a community of new readers I didn't know existed. It brought me more gratitude and hope for my writing than I thought I had. It brought an entirely new meaning to the last post I wrote for #reverb10 about community.

Additionally, November was also the month of Beaujolais Nouveau Day and the 4th Annual Grotto Thanksgiving...two wonderful evenings of entertaining my lovely friends in my home.

Turns out, December was chock so incredibly full of amazing things! I can't even pick just a few. Glancing back through December's entries it's no wonder I've got this renewed enthusiasm for life! There was perhaps the best gift I've ever given, and a new perspective on family, there was more time with great friends, and brunch. There was the realization I'd paid off $5000 in debt over the course of the year with the added bonus of knowing I would be free from debt in just one more year.

And there was New Year's Eve - such a great night - spent at two different small parties and where I finally FINALLY, for the first time in my life, had enough self-confidence to get up and sing karaoke.

Turns out? Karaoke is stupid fun. Way more fun than I would have ever expected. And, even though I screwed up lyrics and notes A LOT, everyone laughed and cheered along with me.

So, I ended 2011 with the knowledge - revealed to me in more ways than one and on several occasions - that I am perfectly imperfect and that people love me because of my imperfections rather than in spite of them.

Thank you, 2011. For your lessons, yes, and especially for ending so well.

2012 Come Hither

A Lesson Remembered, A Lesson Re-Learned

2012-01-02T00:32:00.001-07:00

It has been an unusual start to the new year. It's been a happy day and I'm glad it was spent in the way it spun itself (more on that tomorrow) but I'm tired and don't have the mental energy to explain it now.

Instead, I'm resurrecting an old post from January of last year...one I'm particularly proud of and just re-discovered a few minutes ago. Truly, the video alone is worth it.

Happy new year, Lovely Readers! Back tomorrow with enthusiasm!

Do It Again. With Feeling. Originally posted January 7, 2011:
I love it when I unlock an internal mystery and snippets snap snugly into place - a whole picture created and ready to be mounted, framed, and hung. Finished.

The particular mystery to which I'm referring tonight begins with the story I started to tell you all last night. The one about me and the piano and the realization I was no one in particular so I quit?

The thing is...the thing that's bugged me for 25 years...I was good. I didn't acknowledge this at the time but one doesn't get accepted to a camp like the one I went to or invited to participate in workshops and retreats like I was unless one is good in some capacity.

The evidence of talent was there. I just didn't see it.

And I couldn't figure out why I didn't think I was any good...until now.

Technically, I had problems. I had stiff wrists and fingers - a problem that's continued to plague me when I took up knitting - which caused hand fatigue which led to mistakes. My teacher gave me exercises to do to try and loosen up but nothing seemed to help. Adding to that, I also have smallish hands and, as the repertoire increased in difficulty, so too did the occurrences of playing octaves - no small feat when that was my maximum finger span. Additionally, I had a terrible "mental game". If I made a mistake - which I nearly always did - I'd be completely thrown, lose my place, freeze. My teacher gave me books to read about improving my mental game - The Inner Game of Tennis and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. At 13, I was certainly able to intellectually grasp the concepts in the books. I simply wasn't mature enough to apply them to myself.

I also lacked confidence.

Because, in my head, what made a pianist great was the ability to play every single note perfectly - performing a literal translation of the language of the notes on the page into beautiful music.

Except...

That's not why I was good. Talent isn't about literal translation or hitting every single note perfectly. Talent is about interpretation, letting the spirit of the thing move through and resonate. I was good because I inherently understood nuance and letting the spirit move through...which is probably why I would get stuck if I made a mistake - I was lost in translation because I was pulled into the interpretation.

But I didn't understand this, really, until today. Because of this video I watched (more than once) a few days ago:

"Do they every let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss?" - Stephen Fry

And then I remember reading this in the wiki about Liberace: Music critics were generally harsh in their assessment of his piano playing. Critic Lewis Funke wrote after the Carnegie Hall concert, Liberace's music "must be served with all the available tricks, as loud as possible, as soft as possible, and as sentimental as possible. It's almost all showmanship topped by whipped cream and cherries." Even worse was his lack of reverence and fealty to the great composers. "Liberace recreates—if that is the word—each composition in his own image. When it is too difficult, he simplifies it. When it is too simple, he complicates it". His sloppy technique included "slackness of rhythms, wrong tempos, distorted phrasing, an excess of prettification and sentimentality, a failure to stick to what the composer has written".

And yet, Liberace was, for a long time, one of the most beloved performers alive. Not because his translation was accurate but because his interpretation resonated with him and with his audience.

And then, finally, I re-read Diva's comment on last night's entry and this: But if you write for you - just for you - your joy in doing so comes across all on its own. That's one of the reasons I'm here, anyway. And remember, I don't like to read personal blogs. *smile*

So there it is. The understanding. The finished picture, framed and hung.

It's not about being perfect. In music or in writing or in photographs or in bowling.

It's about doing it with feeling. For me.

OH! I get it...now.

You Found Me How: 2011 Special Edition

2012-01-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

It's that time again - one of my favorite entries to write every month - the month-end You Found Me How?! whereby I mine my analytics for all those whacky keyword searches that landed some of you kooky kids on a Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom post.

Today, however, since it is a special day, I'm taking the liberty to present to you the Top 10 Best (or Worst) of 2011.

Ready? Here we go!

10) "naps are awesome". Yes, yes they are. Thanks for stopping by and do come again but please call first next time. I'm likely taking a nap.

9) "playing specifically under my piano sucked". I...uh...yes, I suppose it probably did...especially if it was an upright piano. Those suckers are heavy!

8) "findmefreaks". No. Freaks, apparently, find me...in droves. I'm afraid you're on your own.

7) "sneezing hankie women fetish". Honestly? I got nothin'.

6) "pudding in my bra". Mmmm...pudding. But please not in my bra.

5) "does onion help grow facial hair". I don't know but it would sure explain a lot.

4) "andy rooney looks like a turtle". I don't care to speak ill of the dead nor do I ever recall stating I believed Andy Rooney looked like a turtle (although he kinda did). But I do remember talking about his spectacular eyebrows.

3) "barista ball gag". I would advise strongly against gagging your barista.

2) "blowing snot on bare soles". Wait...what? I swear, this is not one of THOSE blogs. Please refer to #8. The freaks truly do find me.

1) "jane box congress". Let's keep congress out of my vagina, shall we?

Let the Ball Begin

2011-12-31T18:48:00.000-07:00

I finish up the last touches to my makeup just as the doorbell rings. It's 9 p.m. Right on time.

I hurry down the hall toward the door, fluffing out my ball gown

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I open the door to find my chauffer...

He's forgotten his hat and tie. But since he's John Cusack, I forgive him this slight.

I lace up my boots...

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Hey! With age comes the wisdom about solid, comfortable foot wear.

Don my mask...

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And prepare to step outside...without a coat.

"It's a bit chilly, Miss. You'll be wanting a coat, I'm sure," the Chauffer insists.

He helps me into my cloak...

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And we're off!

He opens my car door for me...a car that looks like this...

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A Rolls Royce Phantom, if you're wondering.

He whisks me away, navigating easily through traffic, and deposits me at the front door of the most elegant hotel in New York, The Plaza.

The Grand Ballroom is stunning, softly lit and golden candles glowing, the array of flowers tastefully over-the-top.

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I check my cloak at the door and enter, shy at first, there is no one here I recognize!

Of course not! We're masked!

I weave my way through elegant dancers, bowing and curtseying as the string quintet begins a waltz...

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All around the room are trays and trays laden with the finest cheeses from all over the world...

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And then! THEN! I spot the corner...the corner of Fountains offering every delectable sinful thing imaginable...

The ice martini fountain...

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The champagne fountain...

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And, oh! Oh! OH! The chocolate fountain...

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I dance and dance. I nibble at cheeses, I drink a martini and a glass or two of champagne. I laugh and laugh - tossing my head back as I exchange witty repartee with my throngs of doting admirers.

Before I know it, in a blink of an eye...

5...4...3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!

We unmask, look about gaily at the smiling, familiar faces of friends and family. The year has come to an end as 2012 comes shining in - a fresh start, a clean slate, dressed in satin and red combat boots.

Thanks to Gaelyn for this fantasy masquerade fun. If you'd like to participate, check out the details at Geogypsy.

Snips & Snails

2011-12-30T22:07:00.001-07:00

1) Funny things I've said over the course of the last 10 hours in relation to the intestinal distress I woke up with:

This morning at work, my assistant came into my office and the following coversation transpired:
Assistant: What's wrong?
Me: What do you mean?
Assistant: You were just making a funny face.
Me: Oh! No, that was nothing. I was just thinking with my out loud face.

Chat conversation between Acr0nym and myself:me: I have GOT to get new sheets this weekend.me: Also? My tummy is really upset today.

me: Those 2 things have nothing to do w/each other. FYI.

Changing my RSVP from "yes" to "regrets" for a fancy pants supper party tonight:
This is not the time to barf all over Andrew's meat.
Wait...that didn't come out right.

Even ill, my sense of comedic timing is pretty good. Now laugh, dammit.

2) I'm not a Jimmy Buffet fan. When I think of Jimmy Buffet fans, I think of white, rich, snobby folks who wear extra-chunky pieces of turquoise jewelry and Versace capri pants (does Versace even make capri pants??? I don't know. I probably don't care since I don't wear or smoke Capris but, for some reason, I picture filthy rich people in capri pants, drinking silver tequila, and emphatically nodding along to all Buffet's lyrics) and who think they have a need to escape the ho-hum of Regular Joe life by fleeing to the warm waters of Key West. I hate that. Mostly, I suspect, because I'd love to escape to the waters of Key West but, like most people, I'm not rich and can't.

However, Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude, has been floating through my brain for the last 2 days. Not the actual song. No. Because the only song of Buffet's I know is Margaritaville and I don't know any of the words to Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude beyond the chorus. Instead, I've been setting the title of the former to the tune of the latter.

It's kinda making me nuts.

However! Perhaps it was the fact that I'd gotten some long overdue Naked Jane time the night before or maybe it's because the new year approacheth but, all of a sudden it occurred to me that 80% of my sad problem this year had to do with a crappy attitude and I was ready to, finally, stamp my foot down and declare 2012 a year of a whole new perspective.

I will NOT let myself beat myself up by the silly doings of stupid, selfish, immature boy-men. I will not let the emotionally-delayed behaviors of said boy-men screw off the head of my self-esteem and shit down its neck (Full Metal Jacket fans represent!). It just doesn't matter what they think or what they do. I'm awesome. I know it. You know it. They know it. There is no reason to continue to fulfill the prophecy laid out by dumb people when even those same dumb people know I'm better than the hand they dealt me.

In fact, maybe that's why they dealt me the hand they did. Because they knew, in order for me to kick them each to the curb, I would have to be dealt a hand that didn't even include a pair of deuces.

This is me, sounding my barbaric YAWP across the rooftops of the world (Walt Whitman fans represent!).

3) We hadn't seen Vinny's frog penis in several weeks. I personally believed it had been flushed accidentally in the night - given his penchant for dropping it in the toilet. I am happy to report that it has been found, safe and sound, and he is now, happily, tossing it in the air and gnawing on the business end of it.

I am SUCH a terrible mother.

4) It occurred to me the other day, when I referenced "Naked Jane time" - especially after reading comments - that most of you do not know what Naked Jane Time might mean. I wrote about it here. But, if you're too busy or, if you're like me, too lazy to click through and watch the awesomeness that is a scene from Neil Simon's Goodbye Girl, I will tell you that being naked, in this context, isn't about being physically naked with my middle-aged bosom flapping about in the wind. Being naked is about being absolutely, 100% alone in my own energy. Anyone who has ever been in a long term, live-in relationship ought to know that rarely are we given the opportunity to be raw outside our unroasted shells. There is almost always someone about for whom we maintain, at least, a modicum of roastedness - covering our core...spouse, children, co-workers...for the sake of sanity and peace in our beloved relationships. Naked Jane time is when I can freely shed every sinewy thread of shell from my inner nut, where every breath is completely me, in my infinite wisdom...as batshit-crazy as it might be. Right now, I am fearlessly myself, not protecting myself or my peanut-y core from anyone's energy but my own. I am naked, raw, vulnerable...and firmly, lovingly ensconced in cotton pajamas.

5) I need some FAQ help. In August, 2010, modchen made some much needed and desired cosmetic changes to this blog. I asked then for people to submit questions for me to answer on the FAQ page. I didn't get any responses...likely because all 3 of the people reading this blog then already knew me and well. So I made up my own questions to answer. However, Melanie from Is This the Middle reminded me last night that there may be other questions I could be asked that would warrant a comedic/snide/awesome answer. So...I'm pleading for each of you to think of something to ask me about myself that I can answer in my FAQ section. Don't you think every website and blog deserves an FAQ section? Don't you wish every FAQ section was funny? I do. Please! Ask me! Add your question to the comments section of this post and, in the next few days, I'll answer and post to the FAQ page.

6) Oh! Wow! I need to go to bed. My tetchy stomach and my brain are bidding you a fond adieu even though there is much more to say.

Adieu. Adieu.

Ghosts of Past, Present, and Future

2011-12-29T20:11:00.000-07:00

It's been nearly a decade since my entire immediate family came together for Christmas.

This year was no exception.

For the previous three years, I've chosen to spend Christmas Day with the Ducks 'n Puppies, eating Middle Eastern food or green chile frittata and stout cake, drinking martinis for brunch, and watching the Star Wars Holiday Special from 1978, Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas, and Frisky Dingo. Before that, Christmas was celebrated either with just my mom or mostly by myself.

* Note: Lex doesn't celebrate holidays or birthdays unless coerced.

However, this year, a quiet day to myself and martinis before noon weren't options...unless I was willing to spend the day mired in self-inflicted guilt.

For, you see, my brother, his wife, and son moved from Maryland to a mere hour away from me this past September.

Please know, I was 8 when my brother left home, 9 when he left the region and moved across the country. He hasn't lived near me in over 30 years. Beyond that, I haven't had a sibling - I've got 3 - within 8 hours of me by car since...uh...I don't know when (2000 maybe?). Having him and them thisclose is still very new to me. I'm grateful they're here but I am also at a loss as to how to incorporate newly relocated family into the independent, blood relative-absent life I've built for myself since all the rest of them made it clear they weren't coming back and subsequently found new chosen families with whom they surrounded themselves.

I'm working on figuring all that out.

Anyway!

So, Christmas Day, I forwent the traditional Christmas Morning Martini Fest, arose discombobulated at the foresaken hour of 7 a.m, and thanked Santa for the Christmas miracle that is Acr0nym and his willingness to drive me to my brother's house at such an un-gawdly hour.

Why?

So I would be there in time for church.

You heard me.

I went to *gasp* church.

No one forced me to go, you know. I was, in fact, given the oh-so-tempting option to stay behind...in an unfamiliar, empty house alone. But I figured meh, what the heck. I was there to spend face time with my family and I didn't THINK I'd burst into flames or anything and, at worst, I had a new-to-me Kindle - a gift from the BFF - loaded with books (most notably the autobiography of porn star, Ron Jeremy...something to tickle me with apparently) that I could engross myself in during the service.

* Note: No, the irony of reading about a porn star's life while in church was not lost on me.

This was unlike any church I'd ever experienced though.

It was, as I would discover, a Unitarian church. And I was surprised by many elements of the service. First, there didn't seem to be any restraint when it came to laughter from the congregation. In fact, the music directors encouraged laughter through silliness - like when one of them donned an elf hat and did a rendition of Blue Christmas as Elvish Presley. Second, unlike any church sanctuary I'd ever seen, this one was set up to resemble a living room of sorts. The minister sat, one leg tucked underneath her, on a stool surrounded by plants, a coffee table, a centerpiece with candles. Many in the congregation as well as the minister sipped from steaming mugs of hot tea and coffee. It was as though we were all there having a casual coffee klatch...except really only the minister - apparently sometimes called a "tipster" - was speaking.

As the music ended and the sermon (although...I don't think that's what the UU's - Unitarian Universalists - call it) began, I prepared to reach for my Kindle cuz, you know, I'm religion resistant and my escape from boredom was Right There just waiting for me in my purse.

And then...

She started by stating she had decided for herself that this Christmas would be an "intentional Christmas".

Her use of the word "intentional" stopped me in my tracks. I listened.

Moments later she began talking about authenticity and how our energy betrays us when we attempt to mask our true feelings and thoughts...how people simply sense, know when we are disingenuous or covering up some portion of ourselves.

She then talked about connectedness and how we are our best selves when we allow ourselves to connect with one another.

Huh.

Intentional.

Authentic.

Connection.

Haven't I been thinking about, writing about, talking about these things in relation to writing for the last month?

Was this message specifically for me?

Naw. Not likely. It's a good message for everyone.

However, it gave me much fodder for thought over the last few days. And, if it hadn't been for all that extraneous talk about god and Jesus (my brother assures me this was unusual and only because we were there on the anniversary of Jesus's alleged birth), I might be convinced to return. I'm not exactly a hedonist, you know, but, rather, a voluptuary (as described by Julie Jordan Scott, y'all) and an agnostic, so religious references to any deity are a mite uncomfortable for me.

Her message though, for me, was pretty powerful. These were all ideas that had been at the fore of my conscious thoughts and conversations for several weeks. So, I listened intently as I stared, in turns, at her and then out at the sun shining on the snow through the south-facing windows.

Later, as we - my father and mother, my brother, his wife, his son, and me - sat around the supper table, offering aloud our individual thoughts on thanks as we held reluctant hands, my thoughts drifted back to connectedness as the minister described it.

Whether I like it or not, I'm connected here. Whether I hold any animosity to some (particularly one) at this table or not, I am connected. Whether I want to admit it or not, occasionally blood must be thicker than water. Whether I want to acknowledge it or not, sometimes the blood connection to me is desperately needed, my face time sought out of need rather than desire. We're on the same team...aren't we? Shouldn't our voices be raised in collective cheer or, on the other hand, a groan of regret and/or frustration?

After supper, my brother and his little family each opened the presents my mother had brought with her for them - additional gifts from herself and her dear friend, Mary Guthrie. Mary Guthrie (I cannot call her simply "Mary"), in her lovely infinite wisdom, purchased a book for Bodhi - Shel Silverstein's A Giraffe and a Half.

He'd been rather wild most of the day up until the moment he opened the book. But, once the wrapping was ripped off in excited anticipation of what lay beneath, he sat, quietly reading, and no one could distract him...not even a call for dessert.

At that moment I was transported back to Christmas, 1983. I was 11 - nearly twice his age - when I unwrapped both A Light in the Attic and Where the Sidewalk Ends and sat, quietly reading, just as Bodhi was doing, enveloped in the fabulously crafted words of Mr. Silverstein.

My mom, as we bore witness to Bodhi's enthrall, asked me, "Do you still have them?"

"Of course," I replied.

Little known fact, I am a collector of first edition, hard bound children's literature. I have a very small, but lovingly, sweet and meaningful collection. These two books then have traveled with me from Casper to Cheyenne to Denver to Las Vegas and back over the course of almost 30 years.

Mommy's inscription and the last bit of my hot pink, newly-learned, cursive scrawl

It occurred to me then, I could offer my blood a vein of community and connection. At least, theoretically...if my blood weren't so quick to judge the water - that sweet, sweet water - from which I drink.

It occurred to me tonight, after pulling those dusty tomes from my shelves, that I had been handed an opportunity...an opportunity to say goodbye to my past, hello to Bodhi's present, and maybe, just maybe get released from ancient chains to offer a fond welcoming to my future.

I could accomplish all those things by gifting Bodhi those books...without reserve and without any stipulations.

No rules.

I'm waffling.

What do I do?

INVITATION

If you are a dreamer, come in,

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
- Shel Silverstein

Our World-Cyber Masquerade Ball Invitation

2011-12-29T18:29:00.002-07:00

Do you have plans for New Year's Eve?

If so, cancel them (but not really).

If you don't have plans, you do now! At least, virtually anyway.

Remember how, a few weeks ago, I was feeling Veruca Salty and demanding a glorious, over-the-top party full of big hats, ball gowns, and orangutans?

Well...our friend, Gaelyn at Geogypsy ran with the idea and has created an opportunity for us all to throw ourselves a World-Cyber Masquerade Ball for New Year's Eve 2011!

And you, yes YOU, are invited!

Here's your invitation:

Here are your instructions taken straight from Gaelyn herself:

So my idea includes any blogger who would like to attend linking their story of being at the Cyber Masquerade Ball complete with an image of your costume (not necessarily you). You could elaborate on the ballroom, musicians, decorations, food, liquor, champagne fountain, flowers, games and/or topics of conversation. Let your party imagination soar.

Then I’ll set up a link on my blog starting Friday December 30th at noon Mountain time. I hope you’ll use your costume image on the link.

Come join in the fun and spread the word by adding the image below to your blog.

EDITED TO ADD: the link to Geogypsy's blog post about the ball.

I apologize for such late notice. I haven't been on time for literally anything over the course of the last 10 days. Please think about joining us though, will you?

What a grand affair this shall be!

Whatever shall I wear?!

15 Minutes Can Sometimes Feel Like An Eternity

2011-12-28T18:21:00.000-07:00

I just need to do this now or I won't get it done. Like last week's prompt about "Wonder". I wonder a lot of things...mostly of the "What If" variety and I just didn't want to go down that path because it leads to mayhem and chaos in my life.

Along those lines, today is "Good Riddance Day". I don't know anything about it and I can't stop to look it up now because I'm being ~~watched~~ - er, I mean, timed. All I know is that I think I'm supposed to be letting go of all the shitty parts of my memories that hold me back. Uh, I think. Unfortunately, I have a lot of memories that are kinda crap and to forget them all would be like Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. On second thought, that might be kind of cool.

I'd kinda like a cigarette right now.

I need to write a blog post about Geogypsy's New Year's Eve party. Seriously! Why haven't I written about that yet? I want everyone to participate in it and it's going to take everyone time to figure out outfits, accessories, dates, dances, and stuff. Sheesh. I'll do that post next I think. I'm running out of time.

I love naked Jane time. It's naked Jane time for the next 3-ish days. Lex has gone off to visit family and I get the house and the cat all to myself. He hasn't been gone overnight in uh...2 years, I think. Maybe longer. Something like that. I sincerely needed this but how can I tell him to go away when he A) doesn't have anywhere really to go and B) has every right to be here? It's a weird thing, I know, this need to have excessive alone time. Is it excessive to want an overnight to myself? I don't know. All I do know is that I've wanted some home time just for me when I can eat cheese for supper, drink wine until bed, and not have anyone there to ask me questions or interrupt my process. I hope I get some long overdue writing done.

15 minutes can be a painfully long time.

I think I'm going crazy. This morning, in the shower, I heard myself tell myself that I only had "6 more days". 6 more days of what? I have no idea. That particular number means nothing I could ascertain. My brain is constantly spewing out random numbers. I have this weird mental checklist I go through of numbers...3 more days to the weekend, 3 more weeks to the next vacation, 2 days until pay day. That's just days. Then it's dollars. $534 and that one bill is paid off completely. 3 more weeks and I'll have that $534 and that bill will be paid off completely. 13 more months and all the bills will be paid off completely. How much have I managed to pay off since January? $4000? Almost $5000? Something like that. I'll have to check my math later when I'm not naked and in the shower and have access to a calculator and, you know, the actual numbers.

I need to get that post about Christmas done too. It took such a weird turn just as I thought I was wrapping it up. What's OK to say? What should I keep to myself? Why was I so irritated and growly about it? I hate being that snide about stuff that's long past. Bah. Edit? Delete? The first part was certainly interesting...at least to me. How is it that my father can still get that far under my skin? Sincerely, Old Man? I don't care how old you are, it is unacceptable to just sit there with a fcuking sarcastic grin on your face when you are asked time and again to help and then declare that you are helping by sitting on your fat ass, holding your water glass and snacking on cheese. Man oh man. I don't think I'm going to be able to let that go...

Even if it is Good Riddance Day.

This post was written in response to the prompt for GBE2 as described below:
"This week, we’re doing something a little different. Instead of a word or picture prompt, we’ll be free writing. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, it is exactly what it sounds like. You sit down and write whatever comes into your mind for 15 straight minutes. The goal is not to write a story, article, or even anything coherent.

It’s a word purge. A stream of consciousness babble-fest, and it’s a wonderful way to unleash your creativity. Will what you write be crap? Almost certainly. Will the resulting paragraphs (if there are even paragraphs) be dull, repetitive, gripe-o-ramas, list-o-worries, and inventories of what’s been gnawing at you lately? Yep. When you are done, will you look at what you’ve written and decide that it’s simply too revealing to publish? Very likely.

In fact, that’s the hope..."

Hitting It Out of the Park

2011-12-27T20:59:00.000-07:00

I am, usually, a fantastic gift giver.

This is, in all likelihood, because I don't do it very often and rarely when it's expected - that is to say, rarely on birthdays and Christmas.

I may not be the Queen of Gift Giving - not like Owen, King of Great Gifts - but, when inspired, just as I was for the You Give Love a Bad Name book, I totally rock and I know it.

At least...I thought so until an experience this spring gave me pause.

Since then, I've had a couple of wins...Spux's It's a Boy Preparedness Kit (for his female-to-male transition celebration) and Owen's birthday party as mentioned above. Overall then, I have to believe the experience in the spring was a rare fluke that had nothing to do with my abilities and everything to do with the ability of some people to be an ass.

I wasn't expecting to exchange gifts with anyone this year. I'd get the Ducks 'n Puppies a little something something as usual but as for anything big, well, no. It wasn't on my list of things to do. But when Acr0nym told me he was giving me one of his old Kindles for the holiday, I, all of a sudden, felt like I needed and wanted to do something particularly special for him.

But what?

Acr0nym's tough to buy for, you know? He's interested in all sorts of things...pens, photography, books, computer geekery, de-cluttering, cooking, and general geekery of all sorts. The problem isn't that he doesn't have any interests. It's that he buys whatever he's obsessed with at the time leaving no room for anyone to get him something cool he hasn't thought of...because he thinks of EVERYTHING!

Eventually, I'd try to solicit help from his brother, TC, before turning in desperation to Acr0nym himself. Neither of them were any help at all.

And then?

Inspired by Gypsy Gold Studio and Ms. Ernie's passion for bookbinding, I stumbled upon The Perfect Gift.

A bound book containing all of the American Gods and Roadside Attractions Tour road trip entries - a trip Acr0nym and I took together this past September. I wrote all the text. He took nearly all the photographs. It was an extraordinary time...one we're both likely to remember the rest of our lives.

Remember how I mentioned last week that I was working on two HUGE projects and hadn't had time to keep up with my feed reader or post much?

That was one of the projects.

Clearly, I couldn't tell you about it then when he didn't know about it, right?

So, that's where I've been for the last several days. I've been bogged down in the details of formatting, editing, writing a prologue, and getting ready to have my first "novel" self-published. Turns out, all that stuff was the easy part. The hard part would come when I turned the manuscript over to a willing Spux who I'd enlisted to bind the text and create the finished product...even though he'd never attempted bookbinding before.

There were several misfires when it came time to print. First, we printed it one-sided without thinking through the logistics. Uh...no. That wasn't going to work. Then, we tried to print double-sided on Spux's laserjet printer but his printer was, at best, uncooperative. Finally, I took it over to Office Max and had them print it only to return to Spux's house and discover the layout was all wrong. Jane's Infinitely Expected Meltdown in 3...2...1. Lucky for me, Spux's friend, Kelli, my hero, took everything back to Office Max and asked them, nicely, to please redo it.

Which they did. For free. Thank you, Office Max. You have a new, loyal customer.

Finally, the manuscript printed, there was only one thing left to do...bind it.

By then, we were out of time, so I had to leave the manuscript in Spux's incredibly artistic and capable, if inexperienced, hands.

I was a little nervous.

But...you know? There is a reason I enlisted the help of Spux, y'all. Spux, of everyone I know - and this is saying A LOT - is the most insanely (not just insane) artistically talented person I know. There was absolutely no cause for concern with this project in his hands.

Because the final product?

Looked like this...

Photos compliments of Acr0nym, of course *laughing*

Yes, I made Acr0nym photograph his own gift. He's the resident Blog Photographer! That's what I pay *ahem* him for.

153 pages printed on 34 lb, 100% cotton, ivory paper. Text and pictures from the original blog posts left intact (some editing did occur). Again, I added a special prologue. All told, there were nearly 20,000 words and probably 75 photos. That's alotta words and pictures.

I couldn't have been more pleased with the outcome.

And neither could he.

Let's just say, judging by Acr0nym's reaction, Spux and I? We hit it out of the park.

How Dave Winer Totally Tried to Have Me Banned From the Interwebz (KInda)

2011-12-27T19:31:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: Not really, he didn't. He doesn't actually know I exist...yet.

Do you know who Dave Winer is by any chance?

If you're a blogger, you probably ought to as he is known as the "forefather of blogging". His blog, Scripting News, started in 1997. To say he was an early blog-adopter is an understatement.

If you're a blogger, it's probable he had some hand - directly or indirectly - in developing the platform you use to publish.

If you're a blogger, it's probable you have people following you via RSS 2.0. He developed that product. Thanks, in large part, to him, we have feed aggregators and subscribers.

If you listen to or create podcasts, you're able to because he invented the podcasting model.

He's the blogging bomb, y'all. If ever there was one.

OK! So now that you know a little bit about who he is, I'll explain how he tried to have me banned from the interwebz (but not really).

About a month ago, Dave introduced something new he'd been testing - a community river. He asked his readers - his Community - to submit the links to their own RSS feeds so that he could add them to his river. If you go to Dave's River then, you see all the links and posts and feeds his community "tributaries" are flowing into the river.

Uh...I think. I don't actually know or understand exactly what's happening. *laughing*

My ignorance then is precisely the problem and how Dave Winer tried to have me banned from the interwebz (but not really).

See...Acr0nym and I were talking about Dave's River the other day and he thought it'd be a great idea if I submitted my feed link to the river since I am a member of the Scripting News community (albeit a very quiet one). I was ambivalent because, again, I don't really understand what it is and what it's doing.

That's probably why I really ought not be on the interwebz.

Anyway! So, yesterday, I spent a good portion of the day attempting, once again, to catch up on the rather prolific content of my feed reader. I got the number of unread posts down to about 160 when I finally had to give up and go to bed. The last post I read before throwing in the towel was an update on the river by Mr. Winer.

When I woke up this morning, my first conscious thought was, "Oh bloody hell! Dave Winer is trying to banish me from the interwebz! Stop! Don't! Call the police!"

For you see, in my sleep, I'd dreamed I submitted my link to the River but I did it wrong and I ended up flooding Dave's River with every blog post ever published from every blog I have ever read and/or follow. This mistake was punished with a stern phone call from Dave Winer himself telling me he'd called a meeting of the Interwebz Board and they had decided I wasn't allowed to be on the interwebz ever again.

None of this actually happened.

In talking it over with Acr0nym today, he explained - somewhat patiently, I might add - that realistically one man cannot actually ban me from the interwebz.

He thought that, at worst, if I were feeling particularly feisty one day and raised the ire of a group like Anonymous, they might be able to collectively jam my intertube which could keep me from accessing the interwebz for awhile but that's not exactly banishment from the realm (Note: Anonymous? Don't do that, K? I'm a nice girl, even if I am a little silly).

So I felt better.

However, Mr. Winer? Please note, I will not be submitting my feed link to your River...just in case. I don't want the potential responsibility of breaking the interwebz on my shoulders.

EDITED TO ADD: Naked Jen who I love an awful lot and who also knows Mr. Winer assures me he would not, in fact, ever ban me from the internet. She says, "Jennifer wrote: 'I love this. I can assure you that he's a truly generous and lovely man. He'd never ever ban you. He'd want you to give him everything you've got! xo"

I'm Very Glamorous and Exciting

2011-12-22T18:20:00.000-07:00

I am on vacation.

I've been on vacation since Tuesday afternoon 3 p.m.

Here are the highlights of my vacation thus far:

Tuesday - I napped. For 2 glorious hours.

Wednesday 1 p.m. - I went over to Spux's and we drank coffee and then went shopping for "supplies".
Wednesday 4 p.m. - I turned off my phone and banned myself from the internet and wrote for 6 solid hours.
Wednesday 5 p.m. - Snow began to fall.

Today 9:30 a.m. - I tried to brave a foot of snow to go get my hair cut. Subsequently, I posted this on Google+: "Knee deep at my house. Knee deep in snow, that is (and likely a little BS too but that's normal). Just tried, like a fool, to drive somewhere. Got all that glorious snow cleaned off my car, interior toasty warm, and then couldn't get out of my foresaken Cap Hill parking spot since the plow came through and blocked me in. Sweet. Hot cocoa, I'm at your mercy."

Smart cars aren't very smart in the snow...no, it's not mine

Today 1:30 p.m. - Nap. 3 hours.

Today 5:30 p.m. - Played Interrogation with Vinny: Private Eye

Vinny: Private Dick

Today now-ish - I concocted the following semi-grownupish beverage:

2 scoops double mocha instant cappuccino mix
1 scoop french vanilla instant cappuccino mix
1 scoop hot chocolate
1 shot Van Gogh's Double Espresso Vodka
20 oz. Sonata Roast Coda Coffee

Stir and Enjoy.

I'll either be up until 4 a.m. or passed out by 7 p.m.

I'll keep you updated.

Yay vacation!

I Can't Remember His Birthday

2011-12-20T21:15:00.000-07:00

My niece, Sarah Grace, was born December 3, 2003.

She died 10 days later. And my heart broke. For real and for keeps this time.

Two years almost to the day she died, her little brother, Mr. Bodhi, was born amidst much fanfare (and more than a little fear...at least, I was afraid).

He has thrived as she couldn't. He's grown big and strong and smart as a whip! He's engaged and artistic, loving and gracious. He said, the other day, when asked what he was grateful for that day, "I am grateful that I opened my eyes today." He has his own website - one he specifically requested and designed - called Making People Feel Better. He does, you know. Make people feel better.

He's six, y'all. Just turned.

And yet...I can't remember his birthday.

My niece, Coco Pants, she was born October 3. My nephew, JR Bubba Face, was born July 20. Sarah, as I mentioned, December 3.

But Bodhi? Until I'm reminded each and every year, I don't remember he was born December 15. I get confused when December 3 rolls around. Is today the day? No, I think. No, this is Sarah Grace's day. Bodhi is later...but when? I always want to put his birthday on the 13th and then the 23rd all the while knowing it's wrong.

Sarah Grace was the baby of 3's - a magic number.

Sarah Grace - December 3 - December 13, 2003

And she was...magic.

Bodhi. He's magic too. But he's not the baby of 3's.

And I feel like such a terrible auntie when I can't put her death past me to celebrate his life...a life most certainly worth celebrating.

Because Bodhi deserves better...from me especially.

Me with Bodhi Jack...he's been makin' people feel better since 2005

So maybe this year my donation to charity will be to keep his website going. Because he does...make me feel better every day. Even if I can't - for whatever reason - remember what day he was born.

Let Me Introduce You

2011-12-17T22:17:00.001-07:00

Have any of you ever watched the television show, Chuck?

I haven't. I'd never heard of it until a couple of weeks ago.

This should not come as a surprise to any of you. I have no television channels so I don't know nothin' 'bout what's on the boob tube unless someone grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me until my teeth rattle. Then I know there's something I ought to be watching. I kinda wish someone would have given me shaken baby syndrome over this show though because the premise sounds fascinating to me!

Anyway! This isn't about me. Moving on.

Here's a special scene from the show. I'd like for you to pay particular attention to the music in the background:

Got it? Good.

Here is the song without the action...

Y'all see that angel-faced girl in the background?

That's Jessie.

I have a big crush on Jessie.

Jessie, that girl with the face, voice, and spirit of an angel, is a beloved friend of Lex. She sleeps on our couch when she comes through town. I love it when she comes through town. Her energy is just so...so...SO GREAT!

This past July, she and her band, Alameda, came through town on tour, stopping to play the Underground Music Festival here in Denver. So enamored of their music was I, I begged for 2 copies of the Alameda CD - Seasons/Spectres - one for me, one for my favorite indy radio station getting ready to launch (that'd be OpenAir...public radio, y'all. Can you dig it? I knew that you could. Now go like them on Facebook).

That CD has been stuck in my car's CD player (no really, it's actually stuck in there. I can't get it out, even if I wanted to) ever since.

It's so amazing and lovely and...and...and...not since Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits have I found an album that can put me in THAT place. It's a special, calm, soft sort of space. Part of it is the song writing, part of it is the voice of the cello, part of it is Jessie...knowing Jessie and thinking she's covered in awesome sauce talent - because she totally is.

Here is my most favorite song on the album, New Leaf...

Starting at 2:29...is that NOT the face of an absolute angel?! Believe me, it is. I know. I've been near that angel. Even Vinny loves her.

Hooked yet?

If you are so inclined, you can...

Buy the album at CD Baby, or

Request a song to be played from Alameda's album by your favorite indy station. KEXP out of Seattle, for instance (I'm looking at you, Dayna and Periphery and Dr. Jenni o_O). Or from The Current, (shout out to those Minnesotans out there like Michael's Fishbowl and The Time For Change).

Regardless. You don't have to buy the album or like the YouTube video or request any of their songs.

I just wanted all of you to know about Jessie. Because I think Jessie is one of the most beautiful souls I've ever met. And I have an incredibly strange sense of pride when I think that one of their songs made it onto network television even though I had absolutely nothing to do with it whatsoever.

Y'all? Jessie and Stirling and Alameda? That's talent.

How I Read My Feed When I Need to Take Heed (of my time)

2011-12-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

I am abysmally behind on my feed reader.

When I logged into my Reader this morning, I had nearly 200 posts that had accumulated over the last 3 days. People are writing and they are writing with gusto! Which I love (don't stop). It is, however, (more than) a little daunting.

This afternoon then, I've been attempting to tackle my feed. And I've discovered something I do occasionally that helps me get to every post, eventually, without getting lost.

Now, normally, I work my way chronologically from oldest to most recent unread posts of everyone I follow. This way, I get a taste of all the writers in a jumble in the order they've posted. I like doing it this way generally. Sometimes it helps me spot trends across several blogs...and I love to connect dots from random sources. Mostly, I'm decidedly OCD about following along in a linear fashion.

When I get behind though, it's much harder to think about who is posting what that way. I mean, everyone I follow has such a distinct, clear voice! So, when I'm reading on a daily basis, I know Lucy or Melissa or Melanie or Kelly or cdnkaro or Beth or Masked Mom just by what they are saying and how they are saying it. But, when I'm behind, I sometimes get lost and find myself scrolling up and down and up to look at the author of the post time and again because I'll be reading along and think, "Huh. That's not something Bon would say, that sounds more like Nini" and then find out what I thought was written by Bon wasn't Bon or Nini but Periphery or Jenn.

So, I've developed a system that's still relatively linear but not chronological. This satisfies both my OCD and keeps me straight (heh) on who is posting what.

Note: I don't ever just click on a particular blog's feed and mark all as read without reading. I wouldn't be following if I didn't want to read. Even the big kids.

However, the big kids don't notice if I'm not reading right away or, more importantly, commenting. Us Little Folk, we actually notice when we've not gotten comments from each other in awhile.

So!

This is what I do.

First, I check a few people I would recognize on the street...

Acr0nym - who never blogs (why does he have a blog again? Oh yeah! So that I can one day hijack it and talk about feelings) but who, on occasion, has surprised me...once or twice...a year. Then I check the Divatologist and Peej and Zero Hour!...because they are regular posters.

After that, I start at the top of my Reader list with the letter "A". I skip all the big kids whose blogs I rarely, if ever, comment on. Trust me, Ree at Confessions of a Pioneer Woman, does not notice if I don't say anything because she's got 7,000 other comments to wade through (no, I'm probably not kidding). I know she cares how many readers she has - just as most of us do - but my comments don't mean nearly as much to her as they do to Successfully Underachieving.

I systematically make my way through the alphabet then, clicking on the names of the smallish bloggers I love, reading and leaving comments on (nearly) everything they've posted since I last read them. Frances, for instance, knows I read one post after another of hers today because I left, like, 6 comments in rapid succession on the 9 posts she'd published over the course of the last few days.

Once I've gone through the entire alphabet, only then will I go back through and catch up with the Big Kids.

I've whittled away at my Reader today until I have 123 posts yet. I haven't made it through all of my lovely blogging friends but I'm getting there. Some of you felt the love right away. Some of you (I'm sorry, Melissa! This n that n this falls in the "T"s) are still waiting.

Just know, I will get to you soon. And, when I do, there will likely be a flurry of comments.

Mostly though, I want all of you other bloggers to know I've not stopped reading. I've just...I've been working on a couple of HUGE projects to be revealed soon. One I can't talk about just yet and the other I haven't had time to disclose (as much as I would really like y'alls input...in fact, need your input).

Still...I am reading. You are important to me. I promise.

Note: Blogger (I'm currently on the Blogger platform) has a handy dandy Google Connect button that allows other Blogger bloggers to connect to one another. FYI: just because you are a Blogger blogger doesn't mean I'm following you through the Blogger dashboard. If I'm not showing up in your Google Connect list but still commenting frequently on your posts, I'm likely still following you through my feed reader. If you are concerned that I'm not following you (a good way to know is to check my Blog Roll) and would like to be added to my feed and/or listed in my blog roll, comment or send me a note (contact information is provided on my "Contact" page). I'm always open to new people to read and follow.

No, You Really Can't Take Me Anywhere

2011-12-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

This one is especially for you, Melanie, at Is This the Middle.

Real life telephone conversation this afternoon...

Rob: Firestone Auto Care, this is Rob.

IWJ: Hi, Rob. This is Infinitely Wise Jane. How are you?

Rob: I'm well. How 'bout yourself?

IWJ: I'd be a whole lot better if my car weren't making a peculiar noise.

Rob: What kind of noise is it making?

IWJ: Well...have you ever sat down on an old, creaky bed?

Rob: Yep!

IWJ: That's exactly what it sounds like.

Rob: I know exactly what the problem is!

IWJ: Is it the struts [cringing for the bad news]?

Rob: Oh! Well, I suppose it COULD be but yeah, no, you just need to lubricate your [mumble mumble something].

IWJ: Ah. I see. How much will that cost me?

Rob: Just bring 'er in. I'll fix her right up, no charge.

IWJ: Terrific! You'd do that?

Rob: Of course! As long as you bring 'er to us when you need something else done.

IWJ: I always do. You guys take awfully good care of me. So...what was it that you were going to do for me?

Rob [real slow]: I'm going to lub-ri-cate your sway bar bushings.

IWJ: OK! ... ... ...Hee hee hee hee hee hee HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Rob: ... ... ...ha HA! HAHAHAHA!

Rob: THAT was AWESOME.

IWJ: I'm sorry. I'm a 12-year-old boy inside.

Rob: No, no. No apologies. That...that made my whole day.

IWJ: Good! See you tomorrow!

The Adventures of Mr. MaGloo

2011-12-14T20:29:00.000-07:00

The funny thing about curiosity...I can see how it might kill a cat.

The building in which you'd find The Grotto forming part of the foundation is actually two buildings built in 1909 due east of the State Capitol building. And because it's old, it has its certain...er...charming little quirks. Like, for instance, the wiring in the upstairs apartments, we're pretty sure, is the original wiring...cased in cloth. Like, for instance, none of the doors in our apartment close and latch. Like, for instance, there are 100 years' worth of spiders, bugs, and general creepy-crawlies - descendents of the first creepy-crawlies who moved in and unpacked their silken suitcases when the first human inhabitants did. Actually, no. Likely the bugs were here first (little claim jumpers).

When Lex and I first moved in then, we were startled and more than a little creeped out by one variety of creepy-crawlie in particular - the exceedingly large centipede population. Just so we're clear, centipedes are not cute. They are fast, some of them are huge, and all those twitchy little legs are the stuff of nightmares.

Both of us inexperienced in the ways of bug extermination, rather than bug bomb the whole place, we decided the best plan of attack was to purchase several of those no-kill glue traps for rodents hoping the centipedes would just oblige us and run across the goo and get stuck. I have no idea what our rationale was for this. Clearly, 3 1/2 years later, this does not seem a bit logical.

Regardless, we purchased them and set them out in the bathroom, kitchen, and back main room. They never caught any bugs. Mostly they caught dust bunnies. But they stayed out for several months...

And then? Then we adopted Vinny.

Vinny had been home with us for about two weeks, finally recovered from his nausea and kennel cough, and was spending most of his days exploring his new environment, finding his favorite comfy spaces he deemed nap-worthy, and waiting for us to get home from work each day to play with him endlessly until we all three collapsed.

I got home from work that Monday, his two-week anniversary, and right off I noticed something amiss when I went into my bedroom to change out of my work clothes. One of those glue traps had somehow managed to find its way into my bedroom and land glue side down on the carpet next to my bed. Since I couldn't imagine why Lex had put it there, I turned to the next likely suspect...Vinny.

I called for him. He didn't come out from his hiding space. I wandered the entire house, calling his name, and poking my nose into his favorite haunts...my closet, Lex's clean clothes hamper, the back room. He was nowhere to be found. I came back out into the kitchen, looked around, and then saw him standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. As he began walking toward me, his unrepentant gaze was betrayed by the funny little walk he had adopted since 6 a.m.

It went a little something like this (sound followed by action)...

*squick* *shake shake shake*
*squick* *shake shake shake*
*squick* *shake shake shake*

He *squick squick squick*'d and *shake shake shake*'d his way across the linoleum to where I stood and then stuck his head between my feet.

Hmmmm...

Further investigation revealed that the toes of both his passenger side paws were stuck fast together with glue goo from the trap.

Thank gawd for the interwebs, People. After I did a little research online, I was able to ascertain the traps were non-toxic and even had recommendations for un-stickification in the event a pet or child rumbled with an unsupervised trap. The cure? Vegetable oil.

So, I took the bottle of vegetable oil, some paper towels, and a rather unhappy cat to the bathroom for glue extraction. (Somehow, the bathroom seemed the most logical place to perform minor boo boo rectification - see what a good mom I am?)

Did you know cats are naturally slippery little boogers when they aren't particularly interested in being held or when their sensibilities are being violated? Fact. Did you also know cats, at least this one, finds the scent of vegetable oil particularly appetizing? Fact. Have you ever attempted to hold onto a cat by keeping him trapped in the crook of your elbow while trying in vain to use both hands to manage the cat's paws, the vegetable oil, and paper towels while he simultaneously tries to wriggle free and lick the oil off his feet?

This was not our most shining moment.

As soon as I finished up in the bathroom with him, the remaining traps went in the trash.

In 6 months, we'd managed to trap no centipedes, no spiders, and no bugs.

The only thing those traps were good for was trapping one very curious cat.

Originally written December 8, 2008. Updated and re-written for my contribution to the GBE 2 topic for this week: Curiosity.

WOW! Another One?!

2011-12-13T22:18:00.000-07:00

I received another blogging award. No really! I totally did! I received the Versatile Blogger Award.

I have to tell you...these blogging awards are so new to me - people I don't even know read and LIKE me - I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by it (by all means, don't stop *laughing*).

I have to tell you though...the person who bestowed the Versatile Blogger Award on me - cdnkaro at four under 4 (plus two) - is, quite possibly, Super Woman literally. She speaks 6 languages, runs her own translation business, is pursuing her PhD, teaches at university, and is also raising 4 children under the age of 4 all while maintaining a regularly posted to blog. Are you not personally exhausted just reading about her? And yet, she takes every bit of it in stride like that's, wow, not awe-inspiring. In fact, an "I don't know how you do it!" statement is a pet peeve of hers. As she said about receiving her own Versatile Blogger award, "I'm just a woman doing the best she can with the four blessings that have come my way, trying to balance motherhood and home life with my 'extracurricular' pursuits. I live day to day, just like everyone else does, trying to find that elusive, mythical ideal known as 'balance' and just do the best I can, hoping I don't burn out or let people down along the way."

And this woman? This Super Woman who, admittedly, puts her pants on one leg at a time just like all of us? Takes the time - what little spare time she has - to read ME, y'all. Me. Little old Wyoming-born-and bred me. I feel...wow. I cannot tell you how honored I am that she would read, like, and want to hear more from me.

And yet...she wants to know more and I'm going to give it to her (although I ran out of intrigue a few days ago)!

However, I'm going to play this a bit differently. According to what she posted, the rules of the Versatile Blogger Award are this: "The premise behind the award is that the blogger who receives this award is invited to share seven things about themselves with their readers, and then pass on the award to 15 other bloggers."

I am, instead, going to take a page from Masked Mom and give you 7 favorite things from 7 favorite categories. You ready? OK! Let's go.

1) 7 things I wouldn't want to live without (excluding people):

The interwebz.
Paper and a writing utensil.
Public radio.
Cheese.
Comfy pajamas.
Wine.
Love.

2) 7 literary characters I wish I could know in real life:

Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird
Anne Shirley from the Anne of Green Gables series
Dr. Kay Scarpetta from Patricia Cornwell's novels
Lucy Pevensie from The Chronicles of Narnia
Elizabeth Bennett (and Mr. Darcy) from Pride and Prejudice
Josephine March from Little Women
Larry Underwood from Stephen King's The Stand

3) 7 celebrities I would invite to my Celebrity Supper Party (because a party of 8, including me, is the perfect number):

Ira Glass (host of This American Life)
David Sedaris (author and occasional contributor to This American Life)
Sarah Vowell (author and occasional contributor to This American Life...theme here much?)
Queen Latifah
Megan Mullally (Karen from Will and Grace)
Aisha Tyler (Lana from Archer)
Richard Butler (singer for Psychedelic Furs)

Caveat: This list changes nearly daily.

4) 7 movies I know all the dialogue to:

Aliens
The Breakfast Club
Sixteen Candles
Pride and Prejudice (the BBC version with Colin Firth because ME-OW!)
Terminator 2
Big Trouble in Little China
Grease

5) 7 skills I wish I had acquired:

Drawing
Quilting
Hacking
Decorating
Fingernail painting
Speaking (6...SIX!) foreign languages
Solid boundary setting

6) 7 occupations I would have excelled at:

Mathematician
Counselor
Actress
Doctor
Teacher
Judge
Stand up comedian

7) 7 songs I can hear again and again without tiring of:

Brand New Day from The Wiz

Covenant's Bullet

Run from Gnarls Barkley

Gimme Shelter from The Rolling Stones

A Forest from The Cure

Comfortably Numb from Pink Floyd

You Ain't No Good from The Bamboos

Oh!

Wow!

That was 7 in 7. Or 7 and 7 as the Goth Father might appreciate. By jove, I think I've done it!

And now I'm supposed to bestow this award on 15 others...except...I can't. Mostly because, as cdnkaro mentioned, several of the bloggers I follow have already received this - among others - award. And y'all - most of you - know about each other.

So, I'm mostly going to point you in the direction of my Blog Roll. If you're looking for other people to read and follow, those are the ones you ought to be taking a look see.

Except...I am going to point you to a few. who deserve the Versatile Blogger Award..

Last Minute Mommy - Mandy awarded me the Leibster Award for the second time. I didn't acknowledge her then here, in this blog, but I do adore her and she needs to be recognized for her own writing. Frankly, I started following her well before she started reading me. She's lovely. Thank you, Mandy, for writing and your support of my own writing. I know you're taking a break. But The Grotto inhabitants and the ones you think have fabulous names await your grand return!

Successfully Underachieving - Who thinks she's never picked for these kinds of awards. Well, Lovely, you've been picked now. What will you do about it? She's raw and fresh and trying to find her way through her 20's post-divorce. Give her some love and encouragement, won't you?

The last one I'm going to mention, well, it's not because she's a Versatile Blogger. But I want to call your attention to her because A) if you're interested in food and health and a holistic, natural approach to life and food, she is sincerely your girl and B) because she's my sister and I think she is phenomenal, inspirational, and brilliant. Please take a look at Monica Corrado at Simply Being Well. She knows more about food and holistic health than anyone ought to know. She is particularly focused on what is good, healthy, holistic, and balanced for children under 5...my nephew, himself, is just turning six (SIX!) today! I swear she knows what she is talking about...for infants, toddlers, and adults. Go! Love her! Read her! Me and she and they will thank you.

Silly Things Excite Me

2011-12-12T17:43:00.001-07:00

YOU GUYS! YOUGUYS YOUGUYS YOUGUYS!!!

I have something to show you. And I'm so excited about it. It's completely weird and awesome and I feel somewhat triumphant although I've had nothing to do with it. And now y'all will know just what a freak I am but...

Last night, at Owen's Birthday Bash, Acr0nym captured a picture.

A picture of the back of my head.

And this picture? It makes me so happy! Although, when Acr0nym showed it to me for the first time and I went, "Holy shitsnax!" he thought maybe he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd done something just exactly right.

Witness: The Silver Fox.

And before you ask, yes, that is all natural curl (the bane of my teenage existence) and no, I don't really have a lot of hair...I just have a really big nugget and yes, I need a haircut (next week it's scheduled) and yes, I slouch. My posture is terrible.

Still...YOU GUYS! My Hair! It's going silver!!! In glorious sheets of glistening grey!

I had absolutely no idea there was such a stark contrast between front/side and back. (Clearly my worries and crazy haven't yet hit my backside...of my head anyway.)

It's kinda...if you squint real hard...a little punk rock! No wonder my stylist won't let me apply a drop of color to it. It's...it's...it's REALLY COOL! (How do you like all that emphasis?)

WOOO HOOO! Look at all that GREY!

Shuddup. Stop laughing (Delta Bravo, I'm totally looking at you o_O).

It's the little things, y'all.

I know. I know. You think this is weird. I AM weird. That's the best part.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor...

2011-12-11T23:03:00.001-07:00

Unless, of course, tonight, you are Owen's neighbor.

Awesome Sauce Owen

Tomorrow is Owen's 42nd birthday - his year to explore the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything! To celebrate, Peej put together a little soirée in honor of his special day - complete with her Sicilian grandmother's magic marinara sauce, Owen's own magic garlic bread, my Religious Experience chocolate cake (no really, it is a religious experience), and just shy of a case of wine.

While the usual Ducks and Puppies suspects were mostly missing, there were a number of card-carrying colorful characters to make up for it...Peej and her own Mr. S, the Divatologist and the Maestro, Zero Hour!, Acr0nym, and even a rare - and most appreciated - appearance by Inverted Sky.

As you should well imagine then, the night was full of laughter! The carbs and wine and geekery references flowed copiously and everyone enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

Now, you should know, Owen is the King of Great Gifts. Every year, his brilliance in selecting and/or creating just the right gift for birthdays and Christmas are eerily and fabulously spot on.

Witness my gift from Owen last year:

That's right. A "Big Ass Cuppa Joe" mug complete with illustrations taken from this very blog!

See? How can I even begin to compete with such awesome sauce? Answer? I can't.

Because, last year, I thought I had him when I did my shopping for him at thinkgeek.com. Owen is, after all, full of the finest geekery and in so many different ways. Unfortunately, what happens when you shop at thinkgeek.com for a geek is that you end up buying REALLY COOL STUFF that said geek already owns. *sigh* Birthday/Christmas Jane Fail.

This year though, this year I KNEW I had him. I just knew it! The birthday gift I got for him wasn't even on his radar. There was NO WAY it even could be! It was Just. That. Good.

So, after supper and cake, when we were all sitting about jibber jabbering and the Divatologist brought up Def Leppard and the conversation took a turn (for the worse) toward 80's hair band music, I knew it was time...time for the Big Reveal. I couldn't have asked for a better segue (and not the motorized kind you ride around on if you're Gob from Arrested Development).

Not this kind of segue (courtesy of sondrak.com)

I quietly got up, retrieved his gift bag (I don't wrap) from the counter, handed it to him and said, "Please. You must open this now. There will never again be another perfect time such as this."

And he did. He dug around, finding the giant box of Willy Wonka Bottle Caps candy first (don't discount the Bottle Caps) before discovering what I was anxious for him to find.

The Book.

Specifically, THIS book:

That's right. You heard me.

You see, not only is Owen of a certain 80's coming-of-age age but he is also a book geek and a rekkid geek. This. Book. Was. Perfect.

Filled to brimming it is with the lyrics of every horrendous 80's Love Gone Bad song...AS POETRY! WAAA HAAA HAAA HAAA!!!

He loved it.

Everyone in the room loved it.

When the Divatologist said, "PEABO BRYSON?! Who the hell even knows who Peabo Bryson is?!" and we all (including those of the Special Snowflake generation) sheepishly raised our hands, I knew this was THE hit of all hits.

The best part was when we decided that this was the kind of book best read at 3 a.m....curled into the fetal position, crying, and eating Bottle Caps.

The second best part was when the book got passed around between Owen reading selections as William Shatner, Diva reading as a Shakespearean actor, and the Maestro reading as...well...the Maestro...the Maestro sitting in front of a roaring fireplace donning a smoking jacket and reading glasses, smoking a (bubble) pipe.

Seriously. If ever my cheeks hurt from laughing quite this much, I don't recall it.

Win! \0/

U can't touch this.

So...

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor...unless your neighbor is Owen and you are of a certain age. And then? Be jealous. For Owen is the Owner of the best book of all time.

Down with Santa

2011-12-10T22:09:00.000-07:00

When I realized Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy weren't real, God didn't stand a chance.

The name of the comedian has long since escaped my memory. It was, after all, nearly 25 years ago when I heard that bit in passing. Yet, the gist of it has never left me. One by one, our first childhood heroes fall away as we discover they are something of a lie and we are left to believe in just the one...the one whose never offered proof of his existence to childish satisfaction.

This post isn't about the existence or nonexistence of god. I respect the various religious beliefs of all my friends and I ask for the same respect for me and mine. So I'm gently asking you now to respect my wish and not turn this into a debate about whose god is the true god or whether or not there even is a god. Thank you in advance.

My family has never been particularly religious. My father's family was Mormon. My mother was raised Episcopal and she would return to her church after her marriage to my father fell apart. I tried both churches on for size growing up (and found church generally, like wool, is largely just kinda itchy and irritating) but church wasn't really something we did much of and we certainly didn't have lengthy family discussions about the bible or Jesus or about spirituality. There was a rather large disconnect then between what Christmas was supposed to be and what I thought it was...presents.

Now, one of the interesting vantages (ad- or dis-, I cannot decide) to being the youngest of four children is that, by the time I came along, my parents were pretty well worn out on making the case for make-believe celebrities like Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny. Truthfully, I have no recollection of the Tooth Fairy at all - although, I'm sure Blind Betsy and Dr. T made it happen for me. As for Santa...well...

I have one particularly strong memory - I was 6, going on 7 - and it was the first Christmas spent in our new house in Casper. My bedroom, shared with Dr. Jenni (long before she would become a doctor), was at the end of the hallway and my bed stood so that I had a clear view of the living room and the tree from where I (was supposed to) lay sleeping. All night, I laid there staring down the darkened hall, shaking, visibly trembling in abject terror of the stranger who would appear in our house and have free rein to wander...and kill little girls he found awake.

When he didn't appear that Christmas Eve night in 1978, I knew then that particular boogie man didn't exist...much to my relief. I don't know why 6-year-old Jane believed Santa would kill her - certainly I can't imagine I'd been led to believe he was a psychopath. I'm not certain I ever had any understanding of who Santa was supposed to be...except a strange man who broke into peoples houses, ate their cookies, and left behind stuff one night a year.

But I was glad when I found out he was one less thing I had to worry about. Yes, even then, I worried much as I do now.

After that, Christmas became what it has become for most people - craziness, too much consumption of food, money fool-hardily spent, and a disgusting display of gluttony with little connection between my actions and the spirit of the holiday.

Until 2003 when it all abruptly stopped. Done. For good. No tinsel. No stockings. No presents. Just...presence.

I don't hate Christmas. But, if you go read that post (no really, it explains an awful lot), you'll understand exactly what Christmas and the Christmas spirit mean to me. You'll understand why I don't exchange gifts, why I no longer decorate or buy into the consumer hype that surrounds it, and why, while everyone around me is rushing around, arguing with people they love, pushing themselves to the extreme of unrealistic expectation, and finding themselves so exhausted they can't truly appreciate the season, I'm hanging out with myself and being quiet.

So...why is this coming up now, compelling me to talk about it? The last few days, my feed reader has been full of posts about, what else? Christmas and, specifically, about Santa and the magic of Santa.

The first post I read, from Momma's Time Out, left me feeling so discouraged for this woman whose child, blasted by external forces, can't seem to grasp the spirit of Christmas.

And then there was My Distant Husband who told us of how each of her children lost a piece of their innocence the day they each realized there was no Santa Claus and I was sad for her and for her children. It was this post that reminded me of my opening quote.

But then? Nini came to my rescue and posted this to Custodian of My Garden. She and I don't see eye to eye on religion but this sentence, "'Jesus' is the center of our celebration, and we have learned love and unity because of it; a major plus to a once feuding family that only knew discord." I respect her so much for following her faith and returning to a true meaning of her holiday that is outside the scope of blatant commercialism (you go, Girl!)...and Santa.

Finally, Laine posted to The Laine List about the magic of Santa - encompassing the question I'd been asking myself for days about Santa Claus, the magic of Santa Claus, the lie of Santa Claus, and the meaning of Christmas.

And, I think, I finally have an answer about how I would have approached the concept of Santa Claus had it been up to me.

I don't know that I would have introduced Santa as a character if I'd had children. I think I might have simply taught my child(ren) that the Christmas season is about love, about giving, about celebration of life....our own lives. Santa Claus isn't a flesh and blood person. He is also certainly not a psychopath (OK, 6-year-old, Jane? Relax. It's cool). Santa Claus, conceptually, is happiness, a giving spirit, a reward for loving behavior. Santa encompasses nice smells, warmth, magic, and generosity. But the abstract concept of Santa as an idea and not as a person isn't understandable to a child.

Rather than have them feel as though I'd lied to them then, I'd rather them start to grasp what's truly important about the season without utilizing a (mis)representation of it that I was going to have to explain away later...a representative that actually seems to induce a covetous heart rather than a generous one. Santa doesn't have to exist - physically or conceptually - for kids to feel the magic, to get it, for them to be grateful, for them to be generous.

I'm not a bah-humbug. I do love Christmas. But not for Santa or for the presents.

I love Christmas. For the presence.

Isn't that what the season is really about?

Another Dump...Just When You Thought You Were Safe

2011-12-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

I am perched on the most precarious of ledges.

Today has been a good day but I'm also halfway to crabby pants for a relatively silly reason. I've got a few things to share so this seems to be shaping up into a mental dump of sorts.

1) Today, I did a very grown up thing - a RESPONSIBLE THING - voluntarily. *gasp* I know, right?! This is fairly Earth-shattering but I think you all can take it.

Today, I took my car to the emissions testing center all by myself. I did not panic. And then? I mailed off my check to the Department of Revenue for my license plate renewal...7. Weeks. Early. I KNOW!

This is the part where, if you know anything about me and auto maintenance and repair, you applaud wildly.

*bowing* Thank you. Thank you very much.

2) Contributing largely to the accomplishment stated above is the fact that I've finally FINALLY understood a particularly important concept about budgeting.

Budgets are living, fluid documents. I'm somewhat strict with myself given my goal of becoming debt-free. However, each pay period, I tweak, adjust, divert funds for whatever is coming up in the near future. I roll over extra funds from the prior pay period - something that's becoming more and more frequent - and apply that to outstanding bills or put it toward extras. Extras like getting my emissions test done and paying for my car tags...a month before I'd budgeted for it. I've learned budgets are not black or white. They are guidelines that should be adhered to as much as possible all the while knowing sometimes life happens - in bad ways but in also excellent ways!

3) One of the excellent ways life happened last week in a way that impacted my budget is, not only did I realize I had enough in my budget to pay for my car maintenance early but, I also had a little extra to buy some desperately needed clothes!

I don't clothes shop often. I've never liked it. It does nothing for me except add to my already sky high anxiety. I avoid it as much as possible and have ever since I was 10. Growing up, my mother took us shopping twice a year - once for school clothes and once for summer clothes. After awhile, the summer clothes excursion fell by the wayside and clothes shopping became a once-a-year torture session.

Likewise, as an adult, I clothes shop once a year - twice at most - spending around $400 on basic necessities and calling it good. I don't donate much to Goodwill because most of what I have gets worn once a week or so until its threadbare and full of holes.

I'm dead serious. And yes, I am a girl. Just not much of a girly-girl.

Anyway! I knew part of my malaise recently was due to the fact that my winter wardrobe was meager and, frankly, pitiably hole-y. My bras were shot, panty elastic worn out and saggy, tops and bottoms reduced to two black skirts, two black pair of pants, and a smattering of black and brown tops. I knew I looked frumpy and I felt horrible about it!

But I didn't want to take money designated in the budget to paying down debt.

Then! Then the skies opened up. Acr0nym generously helped me with November dinner party expenses (both the Beaujolais Nouveau Day party and Thanksgiving) and that, in combination with my budgeted expense savings, gave me a few extra dollars - in addition to the extra I had for car tags. When the e-mail from my relied upon clothing store (Lane Bryant - whose clothes always seem to fit my freakishly long waist and my extra-wide hips as well as my short legs) came through announcing a 1-day storewide sale - spend $200 and get $100 off - I was sold. I went to the website and, in 10 minutes, added 3 new tops, 2 pairs of pants, and a new bra to my shopping cart. When I checked out, my total, with shipping and tax was $123. WOO HOO! Painless. The tops (at least) were red, deep purple, and a heathery purple. Look, Mom! I bought colors! Not all black!

*bowing* Thank you. Thank you very much.

4) I wore the red shirt today. I believe it contributed to my ability to belly laugh along with my assistant over the most horrible facial tissue EVER!!! I don't think I've belly-laughed for that long over anything in months. It felt tremendous. Note: It also might have been maniacal laughter given that we were laughing about facial tissue but, you know, at this point, laughter is laughter is laughter. I'll take it.

5) So why was I wearing crabby pants?

Dishes. Specifically dirty ones and the fact that, even though Lex is working sporadically and was napping when I came home from working a long day toward the end of a very long week during which I haven't felt particularly well, the dishes - two days old - were still sitting in the sink waiting to be washed. By hand because we don't have a dishwasher - at least, not one whose name isn't Jane apparently.

So, as I did the dishes, I was steaming a little from out my ears. And then I realized, you know, that's not fair to Lex. He doesn't actually care about a sink full of dishes and I know this about him - have known it for years. I'm the one who cares. And if it's really REALLY bugging me that he hasn't taken on more of the upkeep of the house without asking since he's been, largely, unemployed? The onus is on me.

So I got over it.

6) And that, mostly, is what's on my mind (the other HUGE thing will do for a post all its own). So, to leave you on a lovely up-note, I present you with Address is Approximate, a little video TC posted to Google+ today. A video that tickled me as only stop-motion animation can. If you've got 2 minutes, this is really wonderful stuff! My favorite part is how the other inanimate objects help to create ambiance - like the desk lamps doing their thing when he's going through a tunnel. (I'm not going to explain that. I'm going to make you curious enough to watch! HA! See what I did there?)

Address Is Approximate from The Theory on Vimeo.

And now? As Simply Frances says, much blog love to all of you! Ciao!

Seven

2011-12-07T19:56:00.001-07:00

OK...just in case you haven't figured it out, Word Nerd Speaks is 100% covered in awesome sauce!

I can't figure out how she does it but, in between working, writing, and living her life she still manages to find time to read a gazillion blogs and comment on them...all the time. Not only is she a fantastic writer but she's also out there, in the trenches of the internet, supporting lots of other people who write - one of those people being me. Perhaps she has minions who help her. I don't know. All I know is that I'm always flattered to see a comment from her come through my inbox and humbled to know I appear on her blogroll *blush*.

So, when she indicated that she'd chosen me to participate in the Tell Me About Yourself Award, I was pleased, a little speechless, and wondering how in the world I was going to make myself sound like the intriguing Jane she thinks I am *laughing*. I'm not intriguing! I'm just...JANE in my infinite wisdom.

However, here are my 7 Things About Jane You Wish You'd (Never) Known:

1) I'm ambidextrous. I mention this because, until Sunday, not even Acr0nym knew. I take it for granted and am surprised when people thinks it's some wildly impressive talent. *shrug* I dunno. I just can do everything with either hand. Now, I do write almost exclusively righthanded although I can write with my left hand - just not upside down as Lex recently discovered. Nearly everything else - eating, bowling, applying mascara - I predominantly use my left hand but am equally as good (or, in the case of bowling, as bad) with either hand.

2) I am decidedly pre-maturely grey. My first grey hair was discovered by Carrie Wunder as we were lined up on the playground of Fort Caspar Elementary School in 1982. I was 10. And I will never forgive that cute little redheaded, be-freckled girl for announcing it in her outside voice to everyone else in the class. "YOU HAVE A GREY HAIR!!!!!" Subsequently, I dyed my hair for the first time when I was 15 the afternoon of my first rock concert - Anthrax and KISS. It was eggplant or aubergine. I didn't stop dying my hair - I've had it nearly every color included in the Crayola Deluxe 64-Pack - until I was in my 30's. At which point I decided I just didn't care for the expense of the upkeep. Now I have great streaks of silver and many people, upon our first meeting, exclaim, "OH! I love your hair!" Take THAT, Carrie Wunder!!! I have grey hair!

3) Back in the day, I was an award-winning pianist. Let me qualify this...that's when I was in my mid-teens. I haven't played really since I attended a summer-long elite summer camp for musicians and discovered that, while I was top notch back in Wyoming, I was a no one among child prodigies - and I met an awful lot of child prodigies that summer. Additionally, while I was concert mistress for the city-wide youth orchestra in Casper, WY, among the elite, I was 2nd violin LAST CHAIR. I didn't even make the camp choir. At that point, I called a cease and desist on all attempts at creating music. Ever since, I've questioned my talents and my abilities...including (perhaps especially) writing. Except...now I know I do have talent - it may not be as developed as, say, Livvy's Life, but I haz it. And I don't have to be the greatest writer of all time! No. I have to just keep writing, developing, risking myself and my talents because that's what I was born to do. It is me - represented, edited, published or not. Music was me too. But I gave up on it when I knew I would never be the best. Shame on me.

4) I love to read. I read voraciously every day. But, especially as I've grown older, I mainly read what I've already read. Reading is my comfort food - like cheese. At the end of my day, I rarely want to be challenged by something new. Instead, I want to curl up with a favorite character - preferably one who appears throughout a series - because they are my oldest friends. For instance, Anne of Green Gables is my dearest love. She is my all-time favorite literary character (and for someone who refuses to pick a favorite, that's truly saying something extraordinary). I strive to be like her. She is the reason I long to visit Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia. But there is also Frodo Baggins and Kay Scarpetta and Laura Ingalls Wilder and Lucy Pevensie and Harry Potter and Josephine March and Nancy Drew. They are beloved. And I read them, at least, once every 2 years.

5) I haven't had television channels since 2001. I couldn't afford both high-speed internet and television then so I chose internet and I gave up television. To replace TV, I listened to hours upon hours of National Public Radio, Public Radio International, American Public Media, and the BBC while I surfed the internet and wrote vast tomes to a number of penpals (some in prison) and to my personal journal. I do not, under any stretch of the imagination, regret this decision. While there are a few television shows I am, at least, aware of since then, there are very few who garner my attention and only at the request of friends and benefactors. Frankly, I'm much happier not being a slave to television. Right now, at this moment, other than the clack-clack-clack of the keyboard keys and the whir of my ever-present fan and the ambient noises of Lex's forays into the kitchen, my house is completely silent. This is a good thing.

6) This blog, Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom, is mirrored at another URL - Jane Is a Mean Horrible Bitch. This started out as a joke between me and Lex because, in his opinion at least, there is nothing further from the truth. I am not mean...pretty much ever. He is convinced, even when he knows I'm feeling mean, that I am sincerely nice and, more importantly, gentle. Conceptually, Jane Is a Mean Horrible Bitch was supposed to be a themed website - like LOLcats or Texts From Last Night. It was SUPPOSED to be a website full of pictures of people cowering in every state of bloodied gore and me standing over them laughing. Except...um...I can't actually get people to cower before me. Mostly, people giggle when I scowl. Regardless, modchen, upon hearing the website treatment, bought the domain for me and re-directed it to Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom until I was ready to do something with it. I feel guilty that we've done nothing with it beyond acting as a mirror. Except...at least one person out there thinks I'm A) a mean horrible bitch and B) worth reading because they continue to access my blog through that url. Weird? Uh huh. Paranoia invoking? Uh huh.

7) I ran out of intriguing stuff so I asked Lex, "If you had to pick one thing, one thing that describes me, that maybe not everyone knows, what would it be?"

He said, " You are wise beyond words. You might not think so. Maybe everybody knows so. But, when I think of you, the very first thing I think of when I think of my Jane is that you are wise...beyond measure."

*tears*

I'm supposed to pick 15 other bloggers who I'd choose to tell me, in return, 7 things about themselves. I can't pick 15 people because every single person who is reading this would be my pick. So...if you're so inclined, would you tell me 7 things not everyone knows about you? It would mean an awful lot...

Via blog, e-mail, phone call, Facebook post. Tell me. I want to know YOU. Yes, you. Because you. Sincerely. I want to know you. I promise. I pinky swear. YOU.

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

2011-12-06T19:27:00.000-07:00

You might have noticed I petered out alarmingly fast on #resound11/#reverb11.

And by fast I mean I wrote on the first prompt and then...*cold-weather crickets chirping*.

Frankly, I really didn't want to do it this year. Last year...

Last year, I was coming off the high of finding a community of NaBloPoMo participants. I had found a groove, writing every day, connecting with other people who were writing every day. I enjoyed finding other blogs and letting other readers find me. I loved the connectedness of writing, publishing, reading, and commenting that NaBloPoMo inspired. Reverb10 seemed like an excellent follow up for more of that sense of community then.

But it wasn't. At least, that's not what I experienced. It is my opinion that, unless you had time to tweet all day - which I don't - most people didn't give a rat's ass about you or what you'd written. Along these lines, I didn't have a lot of spare time to sift through every single tweet with the #reverb10 hashtag to find links to blogs to read...so I, personally, didn't read very many.

Additionally though, answering the prompts was particularly difficult for me. Reading back through some of those posts, I remember how resentful - practically downright angry - I was writing about some of them. Sometimes it was because the prompts felt redundant (even Schmutzie commented on the redundancy issue at one point). At other times, well, it was because the prompt elicited a particularly negative emotion or conjured a horrible past experience...experiences I was trying desperately to avoid addressing in the blog.

On day 2 of #resound11, the prompt delivered to my inbox (granted, there are many other prompts out there for the resound11 project not to mention I was also welcome to make up my own) was this:

My Children Will Do it Differently - If you could choose one thing that your children will do or experience in a different way than you have, what would it be and why?

First of all, this is not reflecting on the year just past. Secondly, I don't have any children. And, reading this, all of a sudden, I felt angry, resentful, and disgusted with the project. Why?

I do not regret not having children. Not even a little bit. Remaining child-free was a choice I made early on in my adulthood and I am VERY happy with that decision for many reasons - some of which have yet to be uncovered. However, I resent prompts like this because it's presumptuous and kind of elitist. It assumes every single person participating has children and that is just not TRUE - whether that is by choice or by fate or by genetics.

The truth is that there are millions of adults in this world who are child-free/childless for a reason. That isn't abnormal or wrong or a black mark against our inherent character. It's just...what is and none of us ought to feel compelled to justify our reasons. Not even for a writing challenge prompt.

So I rolled my eyes, flipped off #resound11, and went about my merry blogging way ignoring each daily e-mailed prompt. Instead, I wrote about the grandest of grand parties I want to throw. Because hello! Pretty Princess Party with orangutans and hats and ballroom dancing!

And...I kept reading the blog posts delivered to my feed reader.

This morning, I read a post from Julie Unplugged - Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Find Your Beauty on this Word Tell All - A Continued Ripening from #Reverb11. I found Julie during last year's reverberation so it was no surprise that she was participating this year. I knew she was because I (try) to keep up with my feed every day and had already seen several reverb posts from her.

However, today, I was shaken from the start with this:

As I look in the mirror, I see… and I realize lately I have neglected to look in the mirror. Mostly I scan for stains or tattered edges, split seams. I notice I have left my eye contact with myself someplace else.

What is the secret I am hiding from my view?

Or what is the secret I continue to stuff into the closet behind me?

Ouch.

Nerve struck. Zen arrow hit its mark. Zen stick doled out its little love tap *THWAP*.

I haven't looked in the mirror lately...by design. Secretly, I don't want to because mirrors, well, mirrors reflect the truth - the truths I cannot hide if I actually bother to look long and long. Truths about weight gain, sadness, anxiety, fear, aging, rejection, rejection, rejection, and incompetence.

It truly has been a shit-tastic year and I am ill-equipped for the shit.

Anyway.

Later in the day, I was engaged in conversation with a woman whose ability to self-flagellate makes me look like the fresh-faced kid off the boat, taking his first tentative tip-toes into the leather scene. Describing a personal situation with a chronically, critically ill family member she said:

And I feel like a hypocrite! Telling her she must do this and must do that all the while knowing I won't - flat out refuse - to do those things myself!

I was struck by just how much of her own choices were being rudely mirrored back to her in a painfully obvious way - in a way that might get through to her. Little did she know I was feeling just as much a hypocrite listening to her talk and then responding with my sage advice...advice I was unwilling to admit was advice I ought to be taking for myself.

Because the truth hurts. And, right now, I don't want to be staring down the barrel of truth when it feels as though everything hurts.

And yet...

No lie is quite so damaging as the lies we tell ourselves.

And that's the truth.

Note: Somehow I managed to blog tonight about the GBE 2 prompt for this week: Truth. I didn't intend to but I like that I killed two birds with my one stone.

Veruca Salty

2011-12-05T21:29:00.000-07:00

I want a party.

Pink macaroons and a million balloons and performing baboons...and...give it to me NOW!

Well no, not literally right now (which is probably the only thing that separates me from Veruca Salt at this precise moment). Currently, I'm in my pajamas, wrapped in my tattered, pink bathrobe and huddled in front of the space heater trying to combat the drafts in this forsaken Grotto basement because the temperature outside is 0º. A big fat golden goose egg temperature...a rotten goose egg. Party-perfect picture would not describe me in my current state.

But I do want a party.

I want that huge blowout with custom-designed and engraved invitations, a DJ, an open bar stocked with only top shelf liquor, black tie and ball gowns, and cake! I want a really big cake! That I didn't bake! Made out of dreams and whipped cream.

You know, throughout my lifetime, I've not done one single, solitary thing the "ordinary" way to warrant this kind of party pretty much ever.

My "sweet" 16 found me in the hospital.
I didn't graduate from high school.
Prom was a disaster. Perhaps not on the scale of Carrie White disaster but still a night I'd just like to erase from all future memory lane strolls.
I never married.

Carrie White (photo credit: fanpop)...prom wasn't QUITE this bad...but close.

I'm not saying I haven't had any fun because holy shitsnax, People! I've had LOADS of fun! But I've never had a blowout party that was just for me.

I've been thinking about this for awhile. Maybe because my 40th birthday approaches (rapidly EEK!). In reality though, I've thought about it off and on for years. I once faux-proposed to a friend for the sole purpose of needing a partner-in-crime to do catering and cake tastings. I can't very well interview caterers for my faux-wedding without a faux-fiancé, now can I?

No. I most assuredly cannot.

Unfortunately, he declined. Probably because he'd already been married once and the whole experience was old hat to him. Meh. Whatever, spoil sport.

So, I suppose, faux-wedding reception is out.

However! Yesterday, Kris at Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino, posted about attending a memorial service and said this...

I went to a memorial service today. It was magnificent. Top shelf liquor, a room full of colleagues and friends, a vibrant program printed in reds and greens. I don’t recall the last time I went to something like this, but I think we should do them more often. As is a popular opinion, I think we should hold them when we’re living, perhaps three-quarters of the way through the expected life span, so that the honoree can hear all the beautiful things their loved ones say about them.

And I thought to myself, "Huh. Maybe I should throw a wake for myself?"

Except no. Because wow! Weird. And also? The part about listening to all the beautiful things loved ones might say about me fills me with abject horror. What if no one comes? What if no one has anything nice to say? What if...what if it's just ME there, in my infinite wisdom? Worse! What if lots of people come and I have to listen to and accept, graciously, all the nice things said about me? I'd die of self-conscious embarrassment making it a real wake for the dead rather than the living.

No. Thank. You.

Except...

I still want a party just for me.

I want to dress in a ball gown made out of scrumptious, deep, satiny purple. I want the guests to be required to come in the jewel tone color of their choice - ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green. And! I want all the women to wear hats as if they were going to Ascot a la My Fair Lady.

I want orangutans serving canapés while dressed in top hats and tails. Because really? Who doesn't love an orangutan? Especially one in top hat and tails?

I don't want a date to this party. I want my dance card - I'll happily take ballroom dance lessons - to be filled with any number of male and female and queer admirers! Who will dance with me to Chaka Khan and Rufus...

Or maybe Journey...

And especially ABBA...

Can we actually ballroom dance to these kinds of songs? Hmmm...probably not.

Still...

I want a party.

I don't think I'll ever get one. Still...I want one. And I want it now (but not literally NOW).

I want a party with roomfuls of laughter. 10,000 tons of ice cream. And if I don't get the things I am after, I'm going to scream! I want the works! I want the WHOLE works! Presents and prizes and sweets and surprises of all shapes and sizes. And now? Don't care how I want it now!

Is that too much to ask?

What a DRAG!

2011-12-04T18:28:00.000-07:00

If you've been around awhile, you'll know my oldest nephew - JR Bubba Face (Shoosh you. Aunties without children totally get to play the obnoxious nickname card. And no one gets privileges to call him JR Bubba Face without my express permission, k?) - is a drag queen, Sephora Starr.

Today, he changed his Facebook profile picture to this:

Sephora Starr

Subsequently, several comments followed - mostly from my sister, Dr. J, and my cousin commenting about his uncanny resemblance to me.

Heh.

Like I ever look that beautiful. If I tried to do that kind of makeup? I would (and have *cough*) wind up looking like a hooker. Also? If I ever tried to wear earrings that big, I'd end up getting one of them caught in an escalator and plummeting to my certain death...probably at Nordstrom's.

Still...it's pretty flattering that anyone would think a creature that beautiful looked like me.

Also? It was final proof - much to my chagrin - that I am not, in fact, adopted. *sigh*

Anyway!

So, I told JR Bubba Face that, the next time we see each other, he is going to have to dress me up in drag (Please! Like I know how to be a lovely lady! That would require...shaving!) and then we could go out together and be twinsies. Never mind that he's 6'6" barefoot and all muscle and I'm 5'7" (in the right shoes) and all squishy. TWINSIES, I say! Dammit. Just agree with me.

He agreed.

And then I was reminded of a story, a memory, an experience.

I was 21 and new to the bar/club scene. Most of my friends, at the time, were gay men of my same age - Brad, Chad, Franklyn, (Right, Said) Fred - and so most of my time was spent at the gay bars and dance clubs of Denver back in the day - The Metro, Trax, The Foxhole, Charlie's...

Charlie's.

Charlie's is an institution in Denver. It's a gay country western bar on Colfax Ave and it is FAB-U-LOUS! *snap snap snap*

I love going to Charlie's! Seriously. You have not seen two-steppin' until you've seen two cowboys buckle shining (which means that, instead of facing one another, the two dance partners face the same direction, the hind partner, in essence, getting his buckle shined on the ass of his partner...I guess you'd have to grow up 'round these here parts). You've not seen line dancing until you've seen all lines full of glorious, glistening men...who aren't interested, one bit, in my bits.

Anyway!

So...one night, I'm at Charlie's with Chad. I'm young, naive, still girly (my proclivity for comfy pants not yet evolved) and I really really REALLY have to pee. I finally give in to bodily function and enter the restroom marked "WOMEN".

It. Was. Disgusting.

Seriously. Every stall's toilet seat was defiled with pee and two toilets were beyond defiled with...other stuff. I couldn't make myself...just...no, because no.

I hustled it back out to Chad. I was desperate. And he told me in that well-duh sort of voice, "Use the men's room, Silly!"

Off to the men's room I went (clearly, the Midori sours had caught up with me and I had to pee really really bad).

I was trying to be nonchalant about being a woman in the men's room. However, no one seemed to notice or care. Lucky that because, for the first (and potentially last) time in my life, there was a line for the stalls.

I got in line.

And then? Then I noticed there were no doors on the stalls.

I panicked.

I can't pee out in the open in the mens' room!!! I'm already breaking every social law, like, ever just being in here! Right?

There was a young man - likely around my age - with the loveliest waxed eyebrows just behind me. I turned and commented to him that I was a little distressed by the lack of doors. "How am I supposed to pee without a door?!" I asked him.

And he said...

"Oh! Honey! I'll get your back! We queens have GOT to stick together! Right?"

Uh...

Right.

Wait...what?

It's a Good Day

2011-12-03T10:04:00.000-07:00

It's snowing.

Today is the December birthdays Boozy Brunch and Bar Crawl along Broadway starting at noon. But, at 19º and snow? I'm thinking a much better plan will be to stay right here in my comfy pants and tattered, pink robe drinking hot coffee, hot tea, and hot chocolate toddies.

But that's just me.

I love being housebound due to inclement weather. It rarely happens. Most of the time, when snow flies, it's on a weekday and I find myself slipping and sliding along icy sidewalks and snow-packed streets just like the rest of the 9-5 drones out to make a decent living.

So today, because I don't have to go anywhere and I've got no pressing chores to check off my list, it'll be a lazy, wrapped in blankets, reading and/or watching old movies day. I've just finished putting up chicken and dumplings in the crock pot. It's one of Lex's favorite meals and he hardly ever gets it...mostly because I'm too lazy after work to make the biscuits. Won't he be pleased when he gets out of bed and figures out what's in store later for himself?

It's likely.

Oh! Maybe I'll take a page from Krista and Jess and make it a popcorn ball and Hitchcock double feature day! Mmmm...popcorn and Hitchcock. Doesn't that sound like a perfectly sound way to spend a day? Although, I'm lacking in the light corn syrup department so I'll probably just stick to Owen's kettle corn...except I've got leftover pecans from Thanksgiving and I think I'll toast some of those up to throw in with the goodness.

Don't you wish you were at my house?

Sound Off

2011-12-01T20:08:00.003-07:00

I don't remember the name of the blogger, not to mention how I found her, who turned me on to #reverb10.

I followed her for awhile but, eventually, she fell off the blogosphere and I guess I must have unsubscribed as I can't find her in my subscriptions list anymore. That isn't the point. The point is that, as NaBloPoMo 2010 was wrapping up, I felt on fire for writing and, looking for a new challenge, I signed up for #reverb10 readily without really thinking it through.

I'm not big on prompted writing. Usually I don't lack for things to say - even if it's just random brain dumps where I vomit up all the random thoughts that have been cluttering my mind matter into one neat little package. Of course, that's what most people use Twitter for - a medium for which I've not developed a taste - but, even when it's just miscellaneous crap, I still have a difficult time summing it up in 140 characters or less.

The biggest reason why I don't tend to go for prompted writing though is that I start to feel...claustrophobic, boxed in, defensive. I don't want to feel that way when I write. Even when I know, intellectually, it's good for me to stretch myself.

Regardless, I signed up last year and I successfully completed - occasionally while filled to brimming with resentment - the challenge. All entries are tagged with "#reverb10" if you're interested.

However, even when I was feeling bitter and stretched and suffocated by it, there were a couple of things I ended up fully appreciating about #reverb10. First, it brought to my attention Geekin' Hard, Uncle Typewriter, and Schmutzie. I have faithfully followed these 3 since last year and have not once been disappointed that I took the time to add them to my subscriptions. All but Geekin' Hard have no clue I exist but that wasn't the point. The point is that I found them and have adored them since.

The other thing is that, while I felt resentful for being pulled kicking and screaming from my denial, #reverb10 was the catalyst for causing me to focus in on paying off my longstanding debt - almost $20,000 worth. That is no mere trifle. I've done well. I'll be finished up by the end of next year.

So, as this year's reverb challenge - whatever it might be called - was approaching, I felt ambivalence. There were qualities about it I loved. There were qualities I could most decidedly live without. I had not yet decided if I would accept it when, not if, the invitation to participate arrived.

It never arrived.

On November 29, two days before the challenge was supposed to begin, the original organizer, Gwen Bell, e-mailed the list from last year to let us know she'd moved on from the project and was no longer interested in reverbing. And even though I understand why she let it go, I know there are many people out there who had been looking forward to her 3rd annual challenge and were sorely disappointed (read angry) to be left blowing in the breeze of what was left of 2011.

A number of people - including Geekin' Hard who is actually trying to wrangle all these cats into one place - stepped up to the plate then and decided they'd take matters into their own hands. The result? There are, as near as I can tell, a number of people and groups who have decided to reverb on their own, creating their own prompts and writing about them and then sharing them with the interwebz via Twitter and Tumbler and...I don't know what all other platforms (hell! I don't even remember creating a stumbleupon account).

The consequence is that not everyone is writing about the same prompt - at least, not at the same time.

I'm still ambivalent. I'm still...not wanting to be caged. And yet, I've signed up through Geekin' Hard's website to participate because...I don't even know why.

So here we are tonight. Day 1 of Reverb11 or Resound11 or whatever you'd like to call it...

One Word. Encapsulate the year 2011 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2012 for you? If you did Reverb10 then bonus points for also re-posting your 2011 word from last year along with how you feel about that in retrospect.

In 2010, my word was Adventure. In some respects, I was adventurous. It was, after all, the year that brought me The Wonder Tower and the American Gods and Roadside Attractions Tour. It was the year that would bring me Batman. It was the year that would bring me to Spux's Nerd Crawl.

It would also be the year that would break my heart again and then again. It would be the year that would find me scrabbling just to hold on - clinging by my fingernails - while the people about me fell to serious illness. It would be the year Lex would find himself largely unemployed. It would also be the year, thanks to a later reverb prompt, to lead me to debt reduction.

2011 didn't feel particularly adventurous looking back on it. 2011 was the year of courage in the face of adversity. It was the year during which I would experience the deepest depression I'd suffered since the winter of 1987...a depression I'm still trying to claw my way out of - just in case you didn't know.

And yet...all of the things I've mentioned - while difficult - were adventures. At least, adventures of a certain kind. I guess I wasn't specific enough.

So...in answer to the question...

2011 was the year of adventure. Just not always the kind of adventure I was seeking. That's...I'm just about ready to admit it (but probably not quite yet)...OK, the adventures I had were really adventures - even (especially) when they cut to the bone.

In 2012, my word is...courage.

Courage to write outside my comfort zone.
Courage to hold my head high as I walk down the halls of my office building.
Courage to accept new challenges.
Courage to accept whatever comes my way including, most especially, love, if it finds me.

Why am I all of a sudden tempted to flip 2011 the bird?

PS If any of you are looking for a new writing challenge and want to participate along with me, follow the links I've shared above and don't forget to tweet the links just in case I miss them through my reader. You can find me on Twitter @janeymcjanerson.

EDITED TO ADD: I remembered the blogger! It was Elisa Hebert and she blogged at A Question of Perspective. I still don't remember where or how I found her. But her blog is gone. Deleted...without saying a word *sigh*.

Does Anybody Know What Time It Is?

2011-12-01T18:07:00.001-07:00

It's the first of the month!

And that means it's time to play #YouFoundMeHow?! - the monthly wrap up project proposed and perpetuated by Geekin' Hard - where I get to tell you of the weirdest searched keywords that brought those seeking wisdom to this infinitely wise place.

Note: I think I play this game a bit differently than our friend, Geekin' Hard. I believe he's actually listing his most searched keyword results for the month. I, however, just go through and pick my favorite three - you know, the three that make me go hmmmm.

Note 2: Also awesome in that wow-that-makes-me-say-hmmm-I'm-really-old? This video came out before there was such a thing as the www or keyword searches or blogs. You're welcome.

OK! Here are my favorite 3 from the month:

1) Wool condoms.
Yes, I know why that got them here but I'm just curious...why would anyone be searching for wool condoms? I hope they weren't serious because...itchy.

2) Midol is not strong enough.
No, no it's not. I completely agree. But it was certainly strong enough for Lex.

3) Weenie babies recipe.
Um...wait...what? I know I mentioned ~~weenie babies~~ letting my cat play with a gag gift (little frog/big erection and yes that linked post up there has pictures of it...don't click through if this will offend you) but I don't ever recall talking about cooking one up for supper.

Oddly, I'm still trending on oz/luke perry full frontal nudity, snot/green snot/boy snot, and several different variations of penis.

*shrug* The internetz are weird.

EDITED TO ADD: Please feel free to play along. You can twitter your entry to @janeymcjanerson and @GeekinHard to make sure we see it. Do it! It's fun!

So...Now What?

2011-11-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

This is it.

This is the last post of NaBloPoMo and, while much of my growing audience are fellow bloggers, my other followers - hi, Mom! - aren't...most of them anyway. They're all probably really REALLY glad this is the last one. Namely so I'll stop blogging about blogging and get back to my regularly scheduled program of broadcasting Jane TV^TM.

Confession: NaBloPoMo and the act of blogging every single day is not hard for me (don't hate on me please). Ever since I was bitten by the NaBloPoMo bug in 2009, I've managed to keep the momentum going for over two years. The last I checked, I average 7.2 blog posts per week. Not as prolific as Om Malik but I'm up there.

If you read (or re-read) last night's post, To Daily Blog or Not To Daily Blog...That is the Question, you'll notice much of it is written in the second person. I was talking to YOU, Lovely Readers, specifically to the You-Who-Blog. I already daily blog and that's not likely to change. I was spotty this spring and summer when my life was just...my life was weird and felt as though it was falling apart and I was afraid to say anything much at all for fear of what might come out of my mouth that should not be uttered publicly. Generally speaking though, if you don't hear anything from me in 2-3 days, to quote the walrus from Ren & Stimpy, "Call the POL-EEEEEECE".

Honestly though, I never expected or necessarily wanted to get big or rich off blogging. I don't have a "brand" per se. I never gave it that much thought. Blogging is...blogging is like talking to my friends! It's a casual conversation - yes, typically one-sided - but still a conversation. At least, that's how I see it for myself. I love doing it which is why it is likely to continue for (dare I say) years to come.

Confession: I have more to write than blog posts. Additionally, I actually have the time to write more than blog posts. I just...haven't yet.

Last year, after NaBloPoMo, I was looking for a new writing challenge. I found it in #reverb10. I'd link to #reverb10 but the website has morphed into something else so I'll just explain, as best I can. #Reverb10 was a writing challenge - daily prompts - through the month of December that reflected on the year just passed and an attempt to manifest what the participants wanted for the year to come.

There was a particular prompt - December 28: Achieve. What’s the thing you most want to achieve next year? How do you imagine you’ll feel when you get it? Free? Happy? Complete? Blissful? Write that feeling down. Then, brainstorm 10 things you can do, or 10 new thoughts you can think, in order to experience that feeling today.

My answer is here.

Guess what didn't happen? That's right. I didn't birth those "babies".

I started to. Of course I did. But then life and insecurities, depression and distraction took hold and I, well, I just didn't write like I wanted to write...until now.

This year's NaBloPoMo along with the encouragement and attention I've received gave me back my writing Mojo.

As I thought back to my "girls" who were kicking, screaming, crying, and punching to be let out last year, I realized that one, in particular, deserved more than a short story. She most certainly deserved to manifest in more than a blog post.

And that's Bomb Betsy's story.

I don't call her Bomb Betsy just because she's The Bomb (even though she is). Bomb Betsy is also known as Bomb Betsy because of what she went through, survived and thrived through, more than 5 years ago...a terrorist bombing in Dahab, Egypt.

I have her story to tell. It's a magnificent, terrifying, uplifting, beautiful story. But...

I have several other stories to tell as well. All of them worthy of something bigger than a blog post.

It helps that I ran across this post today on BlogHer about the power of copy editing (that was my take away anyway). It helps that I've been following Love, Your Copyeditor by Ray Gunn for awhile now. It helps to know that, even though my posts aren't edited, there are still many MANY people reading - more than I would have ever suspected - and enjoying how I write.

I CAN write. I DO write. And, what I don't think to correct is correctable by others...if I'm willing to put it out there for others to consider and correct.

So...that's my NaBloPoMo now what. I'm ready. To move beyond.

I think.

To Daily Blog or Not to Daily Blog...That is the Question

2011-11-29T19:30:00.001-07:00

There are thousands of personal bloggers in the Blogosphere breathing a heavy sigh of relief tonight. Why? Because. 1¹ more post to go and NaBloPoMo 2011 is laid to rest.

Some - like alienbody - have already written their posts for tomorrow and have set it to auto-publish...you know, just in case the "zambie" apocalypse happens and they're too busy running for their lives (or eating whipped cream and pie) to login and click "Publish". I love how she's covering all her bases.

The point is she did it.

Many of you did it. Some of you for the very first time. Some of you for the 6th time - like Masked Mom.

And always there is that sigh of relief and a major sense of accomplishment. You've proven to yourself that - even with jobs, spouses, partners, kids, colds, major holidays, travel, lack of inspiration, attention to personal hygiene, sleep, and everything else you had to do this month - you can and did publish something every single day.

Some of you are distressed or feel guilty about the quality of your content - like Word Nerd Speaks. Some of you - like Livvy - felt as though you were failing (but did not) mid-month. Some, like Home Reared Chef, cheered us all on from the sidelines - even after she, herself, had to take a break from blogging for a number of personal reasons.

The point is you did it and well - even if you felt like your content was crap (it wasn't).

So...what now?

Many of you blog because you want to be read. Many of you blog because there is a dream of becoming one of the "Big Kids" of blogging. You know, the ones who blog for fun as well as for profit? Well...every single one of the Big Kids will tell you blogging isn't always fun or easy or fast.

It's hard work.

Today, I read a blog post from Om Malik - one of the Big Kids - about having blogged daily for 10 years. TEN YEARS, People!

He started blogging professionally (and personally...but his stats don't include his personal entries) 10 years ago. He's averaged THREE posts per day since he began...even with a family and a full time job. That's a lotta posting.

In the entry marking his 10th Anniversary of Blogging, he listed 10 lessons learned about blogging.

Here are the first four:

Blogging is communal: In 2008, I wrote that “blogging is not just an act of publishing but also a communal activity. It is more than leaving comments; it is about creating connections.” That is the single biggest lesson learned of these past 10 years. Every connection has lead to a new idea, new thought and a new opportunity.
Being authentic in your thoughts and voice is the only way to survive the test of time.
Being wrong is as important as being right. What’s more important — when wrong, admit that you are wrong and listen to those who are/were right.
Be regular. And show up to blog every day. After all you are as fresh as your last blog post.

Be regular. Because if you only post once a month? You're going to be hella smelly.

Interestingly, he goes on to state in lesson #6: "...blog if you have something to say and respect your reader’s time."

This seemed to me, given Word Nerd Speaks' post, a particular conundrum. How are we supposed to be regular if we don't always have something to say?

The answer is...we don't. But we try to come up with interesting and relevant content - every single day.

Be honest. During the month of November, did you not dream about content, wake up thinking about content, and, on the days you were totally blocked from writing, wrack your brain for content? Did not, each and every one of us who finished NaBloPoMo, come up with content every single day?

It was Livvy who said, "...On these days I wake already writing in my head...By the time I get back to the house I have taught myself (it's taken a year) to ignore the beds, the washing-up, the washing and simply make a coffee on the stove, turn on the computer and... start."

Start.

You've already started. Haven't you?

So...again, I ask you, now what?

What do you want from the NaBloPoMo experience? It's perfectly acceptable to say all you wanted was the knowledge that you'd successfully posted every day. But...what if there is more to it?

If you're looking for more and more readers, if you're looking to "build your brand", if you're looking to write beyond your blog and make enough money to sustain you and your family on, you're going to have to continue what you started.

Otherwise? You're just...smelly.

You've already started. Only you are keeping yourself from success.

Right?

1: OK 2 if you haven't knocked out today's post yet. In which case, why are you reading me? Go! Now! Go! Get ye to your own blog :).

A Tale of Two (Non) Husbands

2011-11-28T18:50:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving Day. 3 p.m.

I'd been running about much of the day, peeling potatoes, washing serving dishes, setting up the buffet table, moving furniture. The sounds of my productivity peppered with:

"Lex? Would you do me a favor?"
"Hey, Lex? Could you give me a hand?"
"Lex? Lex! Help please!"

The doorbell interrupted my progress - Acr0nym arriving early to help with what I politely told him would be "logistics".

He came in, dumped his stuff off, and went back to say hello to Lex. Lex got up from his desk, came out and shook hands with Acr0nym. "Good to see you, Man."

Then he looked at me, looked at Acr0nym and raised his hand in a high-five offering.

As Acr0nym took the high five, Lex said, "Tag, Man. You're it."

And then went back into his room and closed the door.

Everything I Needed to Know About Thanksgiving I Learned From My Mom...and My Friends

2011-11-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, Thanksgiving was a BIG DEAL.

My mother's wedding china and my grandmother's sterling silver would come out of hibernation, the table would be set with Mom's best table linens and napkin rings. There would be flowers and candles. The food, all of it, except the tomato aspic salad (because bleah *shudder*) glorious.

Thanksgiving was a family affair. I don't remember a Thanksgiving orphan mixing among the six of us. It was a special day and a holiday of which I have no memory of it being marred by thrown food or tantrums, no outbursts or meltdowns. This is a very rare thing.

Back then, three days of preparation were required and the delicious scents wafting out from the kitchen were enough to turn all of us into a ravenous, drooling, mass of salivary anticipation. Thanksgiving was the epitome of elegance and abundance. Beautifully executed by the laborious efforts of a woman who wanted every moment to be special...right down to the crystal water goblets and the wine.

Of course, by the end of it, Blind Betsy would collapse into an exhausted heap but not until after the last delicate plate was washed and every last piece of silver placed back in its velvet-lined box until next year.

Thanksgiving would change after I was about 8 or so. One by one, my siblings and, finally, my father would leave for greener pastures and Blind Betsy and I were left to our own turkey day devices. In the last 32 years, I believe my entire family has spent the holiday all together maybe 4 times. She and I tried out several different methods of celebration then - dining out or cooking for 2 or 3.

For many years, I tried to hold on to the lesson Blind Betsy inadvertently taught me - that Thanksgiving was all about family. I pushed for family Thanksgiving holidays each year, attempting to (unsuccessfully) coordinate and corral my siblings into the same place so that perhaps we could recapture the magic of those early days...so that I could feel as though I were a part of a normal family. Just for a little while. After too many attempts ending in my own hurt feelings, I stopped trying. I came to realize that, as much as I loved the whitewashed memory of family Thanksgiving, in reality, we are a family who are much better off loving each other from a far greater distance than, say, across a dining room table.

Eventually, Thanksgiving would become hit or miss. I might celebrate. I might not. I might see a family member or three. I might not. Meh. Whatever. Until...

2008.

Lex and I had just moved into the Grotto. For the first time, for both of us, we had our own home, our own newly adopted fur kid, and our own orphaned-by-choice group of friends.

And I, in my Infinite Wisdom, decided I was going to host my very first Thanksgiving meal for us and a couple of brave, polite, lovable friends. Never mind that I'd never cooked a turkey or planned a meal that large in scale ever.

I went whole hog crazy. By gawd I was going to do what my mother had done and I was going to do it just as well and it was going to be special and elegant and and and THANKSGIVING to beat all THANKSGIVINGS!

HOORAY! Hee hee.

It was a disaster.

Lacking a table, china, sterling silver flatware, and crystal goblets, I made do with what I had...tv trays and Every Day plates. Lacking enough pots and pans to cook everything that needed cooking, I utilized crock pots (for mashed potatoes...mistake). Lacking counter space, I had pies and relish trays and serving platters laid out on the couch and tables in the living room and foyer.

The turkey was dry, the potatoes hard and lumpy, the green beans and walnuts well...the walnuts were burned and the green beans ice cold. *sigh*

Lest we forget, we also had a brand new kitty who, desperately ill with post-surgical nausea and kennel cough, could only find comfort snuggled against my neck while I laid as still as possible on the couch and just let him drool and sneeze and cough all over me. Sick kitties (like children) are not conducive to productivity in the kitchen pretty much ever.

But! The stuffing was delicious and my pies were heavenly. The wine flowed copiously and there was an excess of laughter and good sportsmanship.

So much so that, in 2009, I decided I'd do it all again.

Except for one thing.

After the disaster in culinary creation that was Thanksgiving 2008, I called Blind Betsy lamenting about my failures. And the Infinitely Wise Momma said this, "Lamb¹? You don't have to do it all by yourself! People love to contribute in situations like these. Let them! It's perfectly acceptable not to work yourself to the bone for a mediocre meal when you can give your friends the chance to really shine!"

Who was this woman and what had she done with my mother? Blind Betsy, Thanksgiving whirling dervish, Queen of Fancy Pants Holiday Suppers, was suggesting I make Thanksgiving a...a...a...potluck?!

Turns out, yeah. That's precisely what she was suggesting. Turns out, Blind Betsy, once her own children were grown and gone, had begun spending her holidays with her own "orphaned" friends in Thanksgiving potluck heaven whereby every one of the guests was asked to contribute and shine.

So, for the last three years then, I've thrown open the doors of the Grotto and heartily welcomed holiday potluck love in and each one has been a glowing success. The last two years, we've been packed in like sardines in oil - I've discovered the Grotto can only possibly hold 12 somewhat (un)comfortably. The core guest list doesn't vary...Owen, Devo Was Right, Bomb Betsy, Logan, Sufi Mag-to-the-pie (PIE!), the belfry bats. The other guests seem to rotate each year depending on schedules and travel plans.

This year's feast was, far and away, the most sparkling of all shiny shines my friends could rustle up.

No seriously! I cannot tell you just how fabulous each and every contribution was (that includes the Alton Brown green bean casserole, Ms. C! You did one hell of an amazing job! Pinky swear).

But the food was outshone by the Guest Stars of the evening...friendship, cobbled together family, love, laughter, respect, and admiration.

It was perfect.

Here's the proof (photos most humbly offered by resident blog photographer, Acr0nym):

Bomb Betsy, Sufi Mag-to-the-pie (PIE!), Devo Was Right - my preciousssss

Owen, Ms. C, Sufi, and Devo Was Right playing with my heat-resistant-up-to-475º cock (it's a rooster hot pad)

Logan love bombs Sufi while Devo Was Right tries to focus in on his mashed taters

The shining table...it groans with delicious noms as Owen and modchen can attest

Ms. C and Bomb Betsy molesting Acr0nym's European style butter

Owen and Ms. C imbibing on wine and laughter

modchen and #himself engrossed in conversation

Logan keeping it classy once the Apples to Apples gauntlet was thrown down

Ms. C showing the Pie and fresh whipped cream the reverence it deserves

Bomb Betsy in full on food and friendship coma bliss

These are just a little taste of the photographs Acr0nym took of that perfect night. He took, in all, 152 photographs of the food, friends, and fun. I couldn't post them all here as much as I'd love to.

But you get the point. We had a fantastic time.

This is, in large part, thanks to my mom. Blind Betsy, in her infinite wisdom, taught me that yes, Thanksgiving is about family. Sometimes that family is chosen and sometimes that's the best kind. She also taught me that Thanksgiving isn't necessarily about fine china, crystal, and flowers. It's about love, camaraderie, and fun.

Not a single soul cared that we were eating off paper plates or drinking out of plastic cups. Not one person moaned or groaned that we weren't seated at a table with fancy accoutrement.

Each and every one of my guests were just heart glad that we were together, once again, to partake of the noms and to complement one other...as friends tend to do.

And, once again, I'm struck about how Thanksgiving - with or without blood relatives and fancy plates? IS a BIG DEAL. Because Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for what we have. What I have, as a 40-year-old single woman living in the city, is friends...and lots of them. Friends who love me and each other. Friends who love food. Friends who want to share their culinary talents with each other and with me.

Thank you.

Note: I need to take a moment to give a special thanks and shout out to a few people.

1) Evelyn, thank you for the loan of your boy, Acr0nym, this year. His mere presence, his set up assistance, and his talent as photographer were most appreciated. He had a difficult time asking to spend the holiday away from you and from his family in general. Thank you for your gracious permission to let him come to my house without much comment when his family - so close by - was missing him.

2) TC? Ditto.

3) To my own brother, Franny, and his family. I know you had high expectations for a family holiday this year - your first in this area - but thank you for your (I hope) understanding that, over the last 2 decades, I've established my own traditions and gathered about me my own loved ones who want to spend the holidays with me and I with them.

4) And finally, to Blind Betsy. Mommy? I love you. You've taught me a number of things...how to be gracious, accommodating, loving. You've taught me that, when family doesn't come first - especially when it's outside my own control - that I can make my own family out of extraordinary people...people who don't care about china or how well I can cook and who, instead, just care about me.

Thank you.

1: Yes, my mother calls each of us lamb or lamby. And no, you are not allowed to go there. Not even a little bit. Not even to see what it feels like. Because that kick to your shin region will not feel good.

Grief, Revisited

2011-11-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

I started to write about this year's Thanksgiving tonight. A Thanksgiving that was, once again, so full of love, laughter, phenomenal food, and inappropriate touching! I have the pictures to prove it. But my head and heart are being pulled in a number of directions and, when I went to go search for a previous post to link to, I found a few posts from last year that told me plainly where my fingers were going to travel with or without my consent.

I sat at Acr0nym's dining room table in pajama bottoms and a sweater, icy fingers thawing slowly as I wrapped them around the steaming mug of joe he'd poured and doctored precisely to my liking. Curlicues of cigarette smoke rose lazily around our heads.

"Have you heard from [redacted] lately?" I asked.

"Not recently. But even [redacted] is now poking him about work."

"Really? [Redacted] might join the team? I didn't know that! Does that mean he'd move back here?"

"Dunno."

"I hope so. I always liked [redacted]. Honestly, I had a HUGE crush on him back in the day. But I was shy and I was with Andy then and..."

I burst into hot, silent tears. I turned my face away, staring out the window toward the nothingness of suburban townhouses across the street, saltwater dripping from my chin onto my chest, trying to hide my outburst of angst from Acr0nym's eyes. He'd seen it before but I was embarrassed to catch him off his guard like this...to make him uncomfortable at the start of what was supposed to be a pleasant, relaxing afternoon.

"I'm sorry. I...it would have been his 37th birthday on Tuesday and I've been trying really hard not to think about it or acknowledge it in any way. It...he...that just caught me by surprise."

That was yesterday. Friday. I didn't cry for long and was able to recover from the shock of piercing grief for a few hours - long enough for us to enjoy our afternoon of errand running and decluttering before we would head out on the town for a night out with friends.

However, when I got home last night, I was rooting around in my desk drawer, looking for a long lost office supply, when I stumbled across a letter...from Andy.

Andy didn't write letters. He didn't write much of anything. While he was well-spoken and a voracious reader - someone who put even Devo Was Right and Owen and the Divine Dayna to shame - writing, with dyslexia, was an extraordinary chore for him.

I consider myself lucky to have two letters from him then - one from the very beginning of our nearly decade long dance with one another lost in a box of memories tucked away for safe keeping in storage and, the other, from his last stint in jail, stuck haphazardly, almost deliberately so, in the bottom of my desk drawer.

I unfolded and began to read, once again, the 4 sheets of one-sided, double-spaced lines written with black, felt tip ink in his unpracticed scrawl:

The days aren't bad. I'm working on a street crew so I get to get outside most days. Nights are worse. But it's not all that long before I'm done and can get home. When can you come visit? It was good to talk to you. I always loved talking to you. You know that though. You know I always loved you.

Tears pricked behind my eyes, threatening to spill out from under my control again.

And then? Then I got mad. Madder than maybe I've ever been with him. I wanted to yell and scream at him...maybe even kick his shins for being such a damn dunce!

And also for being dead. I can't seem to forgive him for that.

High on wine, my heart started breaking all over again, that heavy weight of nostalgia and pain and overwhelming love bearing down on me. I couldn't breathe with the weight of it and I needed to tell him how mad I was at him. But there wasn't any way to do that. Not where he could hear me. So, instead, I opened up Google + - Facebook too public for what I had to say - and I posted this:

Actually no, I don't know. You presume too much.

That's right. Last night, I decided to talk to my dead ex-fiance...on a social media site. Sounds crazy, right?

And yet...where would you say it where he or she might possibly hear you? Although it would have probably had more of a chance of getting to him via Facebook. Lots of dead people still use Facebook...or so it would seem.

Anyway, I deleted it early this morning. It was cryptic to everyone else and I, for one, hate cryptic posts. I rudely judge people for making them. Besides, in the pre-dawn hours, I knew it didn't make any difference.

He can't answer me anymore. Even if he wanted to, even if he still has any awareness of me or of his past life here, he can't tell me anything. Fucker.

Sorry, Mom.

The fact is I didn't know he loved me. Not for a very long time - YEARS! I held onto him, held onto my love for him, clinging desperately because I was desperate, at that time, for any kind of love from anyone. When he finally acknowledged that he did love me well...then I clung to the hope that he would somehow change into what I wanted...nay, needed...him to be. Gainfully employed, goal-oriented, happy, not racist.

He couldn't live up to my expectations - my pre-determined resentments. I suspect no one could. I saw his person and super-imposed his potential onto him without his knowledge or consent. When he didn't live up to my idea of his potential, I was disappointed, frustrated, ANGRY!

I'm still angry. I'm still heart-broken. I still love him.

I miss him.

I didn't publicly acknowledge the anniversary of his passing this year. It corresponded, quite conveniently, with the American Gods and Roadside Attractions road trip and seemed, somehow, out of place. I didn't talk about it in the blog or in person to anyone - not even Acr0nym as we drove across the mid-west. But it was always in the back of my mind, simmering like spicy marinara sauce.

Maybe the road trip was less about looking for America and more about looking for a way to escape me...and Him...until the grief had passed unceremoniously in the background.

Maybe I was self-conscious about the fact that I am still grieving for someone who's been gone for more than 2 years. Someone who, for all intents and purposes, I have no right to lay claim to anymore - even before he died.

And yet, I grieve. I grieve as though we'd been married. I grieve whenever his mom would say, "I wish you'd gotten married and had a little baby so I could have a piece of my Andy living and breathing beside me". I grieve whenever I sense there's some date impending that is significant to remember about him...the anniversary of the day we met (October 18th), the day he died (September 7th), the day he asked me to marry him (December 25th), the day he was born (November 22nd).

I grieve and, right now, I'm mad...

At myself.

It wasn't his fault he couldn't be what I wanted and needed him to be. It was my fault for having unrealistic expectations of him. It wasn't his fault that I wasted(?) an entire decade on a relationship that was doomed from the start. It wasn't his fault that I didn't pursue other prospects for potential love.

It was mine.

It was all my fault.

I should have let him go that day long long ago...the day he got on the bus to go back to California and back to his destiny...to die.

But I didn't.

And here I am, crying, for love lost, life lost, potential lost.

While he gets to be here...

I'm here where I wanna be.
7,000 miles from infinity.
No one knows where I am.
It's quiet here with me.
I'm filling in the spaces where the killings used to be.
There's no phone.
And no way home.
Been a long time come late.
Been a long time.
I'm here.
Where I wanna be.
7,000 miles from infinity.
No one knows where I am...
But me.
- Meryn Cadell

And I'm sad...and I'm angry. I hate him. And yet, I love him. Inexplicably. Always? Forever? I don't know.

Inspired by these entries...one after the other...from last year:

When It Falls Into the Sea
All I Can Do
A Strongly Worded Letter...To No One FYI: if you're offended by particularly strong language, you should not click through on this link. I was pretty mad and I swore...a lot.

The Cause of My Alarm

2011-11-25T19:23:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I wrote of a particularly terrifying experience of being overcome with the realization I was about to faint while driving 60+ miles per hour on the freeway and the anxiety attack that followed.

This happened twice in the span of about 12 hours and to say I was shaken by the experience is to put it quite mildly.

I want everyone to know just how much I've appreciated all your comments of concern. I too was very concerned. Just writing it out brought all the feelings of panic back and it took something a little stronger than chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Please know these episodes were not taken lightly.

Hence the trip to the doctor's office - something I'll avoid unless it's absolutely necessary. In this case, I felt it was necessary. Unfortunately (or actually, fortunately) everything was normal. Tip top shape (relatively) as it were.

I've not had a full on episode since Monday morning's commute but each time I've gotten behind the wheel this week it's been with trepidation and has always ended with me breathing a shaky sigh of relief to have reached my destination safely. I'm still suffering from some feelings of imbalance and lightheadedness while I drive but nothing at all compared to what I experienced Sunday night and Monday morning. I'm also convinced some of what I'm feeling is now largely an anxiety-driven response.

I consider this good news. Additionally, the really great news is that I figured out what is causing the lightheaded feelings which are, in turn, causing the flutters of anxiety.

I'm getting car sick.

No! I'm dead serious.

Wednesday morning I awoke after a solid 8 hours sleep - my second good night's sleep in a row - and noticed a dull, aching feeling behind my eyes. Not really pain per se but just...fatigued as though I hadn't slept at all. Mentally and physically I felt pretty good. It was just my eyes.

And I thought to myself, "Self? This has been going on for awhile - weeks. You've been spending an awful lot of time at your computer of late - both at work and at home. You've been putting a kibosh on your weekend socializing to stay home and write...perhaps you've strained your eyes."

Ladies and Gentlemen? Epiphany.

Common side effects of eye strain include (bold indicates symptoms I've been experiencing - some for as long as 2-3 months):

Spasms/twitches around the eyes
Dizziness
Lightheadedness
Car sickness
Nausea
Blurred vision
Double vision
Tired or sore eyes
Dry eyes
Watery eyes
Itchy eyes
Burning eyes (even when closed)
Heaviness of the eyelids/forehead
Fatigue
Reading problems
Lack of concentration

Um...

Yeah.

So! Today I tested my theory by asking Acr0nym to drive me around while we ran errands (OK, he always drives when we're together so I didn't actually ask him). We'd been on the road for less than 5 minutes when I began to feel the effects of the motion and I was 100% convinced. Eye strain.

Luckily, unless there is a hidden underlying condition going on here - and I have considerable doubt that there is based on the clean bill of eye health given to me in late July, eye strain is easily cured and preventable. Here are the steps I'm taking or am prepared to take:

1) Sunglasses have become a permanent accessory. Anything that makes me squint is a strain on my eyes. This includes the very bright Colorado sun.

2) I've installed a halogen desk lamp (thank you, Acr0nym, for wanting to discard this lamp during your de-cluttering project and letting me give it a lovely new home) to improve the lighting in my work area which was admittedly poor.

3) I'm taking frequent breaks from the computer. 5-10 minutes on, 2-3 minutes off.

4) Making sure I stay well-hydrated.

5) Ensuring I get plenty of sleep each night.

6) Applying a cold compress to my eyes regularly.

7) Installing a desk lamp at work to eliminate the need for overhead florescent lighting (thanks again, Acr0nym, for your most welcome cast off).

After only just a couple of days putting a few of these into practice, I successfully navigated my way up to Acr0nym's house with no lightheadedness and only a couple of flutterings of the "what if".

I feel better.

Now, I can focus on getting my anxiety back under control. woot.

I Feel Just Like Sally Field

2011-11-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!

November has certainly been an interesting - if not always pleasant - ride. I can't remember the last time I had such an event-filled, whirlwind month. Is it really Thanksgiving today?

NaBloPoMo has played an integral role in how my November has shaped up and played out. I had no idea when I climbed into the NaBloPoMo cart on November 1 just what a roller coaster it was going to be.

I, of course, signed up for the Official NaBloPoMo roll call on BlogHer because YAY! Prizes. Daily prizes. And a chance to potentially be spotlighted or whatever it's called.

I haven't won any prizes. I haven't been spotlighted. I don't really expect to because, well, I've never won anything...

Until now.

I was in just the right mental space to dig into NaBloPoMo this year. Not as far as my writing was concerned - although I was ripe for that too - but I desperately wanted to find new bloggers to add to my feed reader...namely to keep me engaged and off Facebook *laughing*.

As I started reading new blogs, I, for the first time ever, understood the value of a comment - MY comment - and just how much something little 'ol me might have to say would mean to another blogger. Although, I'm not convinced the content of my comments are the point. I think just knowing someone out there is reading is what's important.

However, commenting did something else. It called other bloggers' attention to me and my writing. And they more than repaid the comment love back to me. This. Is. Cool.

So...about what I won.

Last night, I received a comment on my blog from Masked Mom - someone whose blog I truly love - letting me know she'd given me the Liebster Award.

"Liebster" is a German word meaning dearest and the award is given to up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers.

Here's how it works:

1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.

2. Reveal your Top 5 blogs (with under 200 followers) and let them know by leaving comments on their blogs.

3. Post the Award on your blog.

4. Enjoy the love of some of the most supportive people on the Internet.

This is a big deal to me. It means that someone, particularly a person whose writing I love, thinks I'm pretty neat. And it's always awesome to find out someone else - a total stranger - thinks you're pretty neat.

What's awesome about this is that I'd just been thinking about asking people to share with me the Star small blogs they'd found during NaBloPoMo (and I'd encourage you to do that in comments) so that I could find them too. This award has led me down a rabbit hole of great blogs just by clicking through on the links Masked Mom presented. So the prize is two-fold! I love knowing someone else thinks enough of me and my writing to give me the award, yes, but it's also turning me on to even more people to read!

Yay!

OK. So, without further ado, I present to you, in no particular order, my very own list of newly discovered blogs to whom I give the Liebster Award. I'm just sorry I couldn't bestow it back to Masked Mom. This was WAY tougher than you can possibly imagine.

1) This n that that n this - This is one of the first blogs I found. I'm waiting to find out what her Super Power is any day now.

2) Is This the Middle? - She had me hooked from the very post of hers I read - Virginity Lost (and no, it's not that kind of virginity).

3) Livvy's Life - You guys! Her writing is perfectly elegant in a cashmere blanket sort of way. Never have I been able to picture the scenes as well as I do through her words. Simply beautiful.

4) The Process - Bon Steele. Social anxiety, blue hair, a love of stompy boots. There's not a thing not to love about her.

5) Simply Frances - Frances found me and showed me some blog love when she linked to me as a noteworthy find. What I found on her blog is a woman whose adventures around New York City, observations of her fellow train travelers, her food escapades, and her photo walks make me want to go to New York and hang out with her...RIGHT NOW.

Those are my picks. There are so many more I could have easily included. I may wait a few days and do this again because there are others who assuredly do deserve to be recognized.

(To my picks, you are under no obligation to pass on the Liebster Award. I just wanted you each to know just how neat I think you are!)

Happy Thanksgiving.

It's All in the Wrist

2011-11-23T21:23:00.002-07:00

I make my own pie crusts.

I don't state this to lord it over anyone who buys pre-packaged pie crusts from the grocery or saves themselves several hours altogether and buys pies from the Village Inn or the frozen aisle selection of Marie Callendar's.

It's just...baking pies? It's what I do¹.

Other people craft, sew, knit, rear children, cook gourmet dishes, volunteer, obsess over makeup and fashion. Me? I don't do any of those things. Instead, I bake.

A lot.

There's something about baking - when you've discovered the few easy secrets you need to do it well - that's a zen thing. There is something particularly satisfying about baking up a sweet treat filled to the brim with love and giving it to someone who needs a reminder of what love means. There is a certain satisfaction about knowing I've created something completely from scratch that will fill even the most finicky of sweet eaters with glee.

So...I bake.

I don't post recipes here - with the exception of the triple chocolate boomchunka recipe and that's only because the website upon which I discovered it disappeared and I didn't ever want to lose it again. Baking isn't really what I'm about day to day. I also don't want to feel limited to only posting about baking when 97% of my energy is dedicated to other endeavors.

But, tonight, as I sit waiting for the last pie for tomorrow's feast to finish baking, I thought I'd share with you the world's most fail-proof pie crust recipe known to man.

How do I know it's the world's most fail-proof?

Because I've used it now for the last 5 years and have never once had a failed crust no matter how many times I had to re-roll it out nor how much extra flour got mixed in with said re-rolling. I have no recollection where I found the recipe. It could have been anywhere at this point so, if it's yours, please do let me know and I'll ensure you are credited with such an amazingly simple, easy, delectable recipe!

The Best Pie Crust EVER!
* 1 3/4 cup butter-flavored Crisco (I'm unashamed to admit I use Crisco in my baking)
* 4 cups all-purpose flour
* 3 tablespoons white sugar
* 2 teaspoons salt
* 1 egg
* 1/2 cup water

1) In a large bowl, cut the Crisco into the flour, sugar, and salt with a pastry cutter until crumbly.

2) Mix the egg and water in a small bowl and then gradually cut into the flour mixture until dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl.

3) Refrigerate until ready to use.

Makes 2 or 3 9" pie crusts depending on how thick you like your crusts (I like mine really thick...mostly because I'm relatively lazy).

I typically prepare my dough 24 hours in advance of use. I've discovered it is much MUCH easier to roll out if the dough has had plenty of time to chill. Also, if you're like me and it takes you 2 or 3 tries to get it right? Put the dough back in the refrigerator for a few minutes while you take a moment to compose yourself after the first disastrous run. Have a glass of wine. It'll help (both the wine and the refrigeration) when you tackle it again.

I promise. Rolling out the pie crust is the worst part. I also promise this recipe is worth the effort. No, really. I promise.

Tomorrow will be the 4th Annual Grotto Thanksgiving whereby a dozen (or more...I likely won't have a final head count until supper's on the table...that's how my friends roll) people will descend the stairs and fill my house with a lot of laughter, a lot of wine, and a lot of fun.

I also know that tomorrow, no matter what happens to the rest of the food, there will be fantastic pie and lots of it (pumpkin, pecan without corn syrup, and blueberry) with fresh whipped cream...because that canned or frozen stuff is a "no" in my book too.

1: I nearly went into business making pies for a living. That fell through due to no fault of my pies.

National Day of Listening

2011-11-22T19:47:00.000-07:00

Have you ever heard of StoryCorps?

If you listen to Morning Edition on your local NPR station a lot then your answer is most likely yes.

If not, StoryCorps is an oral history project - one of the largest of its kind - inviting people to visit one of their permanent booths or one of their traveling Silverstream trailers to record stories and interviews with loved ones. Stories that are then preserved on CD for participants as well as archived in the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress.

The point?

"We do this to remind one another of our shared humanity, strengthen and build the connections between people, teach the value of listening, and weave into the fabric of our culture the understanding that every life matters."

Kinda like blogging...except the interviews sometimes get heard on the radio.

I had the distinct pleasure of recording an interview with Blind Betsy when one of the Silverstream trailers passed through Laramie, WY in 2008¹. It was a lot of fun! And I learned things about my mom - particularly as it pertains to her blindness as well as her father and mother - I'd never known.

Perhaps you're thinking something like this sounds boring or unimportant. Consider this...I never knew my grandparents - maternal or paternal. Granted, I met my mother's father one time when I was 12. He was grumpy and in pain most of the time and, as such, wasn't much in the mood to get to know a squirrely pre-teen girl. So I can't really count that encounter as "knowing" him.

Not long before I was born though, a few months before my paternal grandmother, Granny, died, my parents recorded a homemade StoryCorps-type interview with both Granny and her sister, my Great-Aunt Lue, who I would know and love with all my little girl heart. The interviewers were my parents, of course, in addition to my three older siblings.

That recording, even though I hadn't gotten to participate, is a cherished possession of mine. Better than snapshots, I could hear Granny's voice talking about what it was like to grow up on a dairy farm, to teach in a one-room school house, what it was like to raise children during the Great Depression. It made me feel closer to her. I couldn't know her in life but I could get to know her through other means than just 2-D photographs and stories relayed by other people.

In 2008, StoryCorps created a new national "holiday", the National Day of Listening, that falls the Friday after Thanksgiving each year. It is a holiday created to encourage family and friends to talk to one another, to listen to each other, to record homemade interviews and stories of their life experiences via any means they might have - computers, tape recorders, iPads, video.

I think this is pretty freaking cool.

This year, StoryCorps is encouraging folks to thank a favorite teacher. Not only are they encouraging home recordings but they are asking people to interact with the project via Facebook, Twitter, and their own Wall of Listening - to tell the project staff about why a favorite teacher is so special to the contributor.

Why?

"By listening closely to one another, we can help illuminate the true character of this nation reminding us all just how precious each day can be and how great it is to be alive."

Doesn't that sound way more important than shopping?

1: Hmmm...I really ought to duplicate that CD for all my siblings sometime soon.

Fearing Fear Itself

2011-11-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

I didn't get much sleep Saturday night.

The last guest didn't leave the Beaujolais Nouveau Day soiree until nearly 6 a.m. and I was bleary-eyed and dehydrated but upright just after 11 as Acr0nym was expecting me for the Great De-Cluttering of 2011 early Sunday afternoon.

I wasn't feeling awful when I headed north. Fuzzy-headed and hungry but otherwise I was OK.

Acr0nym, consumed by his own fuzzy-headedness, wasn't particularly interested in de-cluttering by the time I got there so we spent a very lazy Sunday afternoon sitting around his dining room table talking, drinking water, eating incredible BBQ chicken that had been slow-cooked in the crock pot over night and served over toasted buns.

It was my idea to brew the coffee. *sigh*

It wasn't late when I began the trek back down south toward The Grotto - maybe around 6. I was tired, I could tell I was particularly tired, but I was buzzing from caffeine and felt as though I were plenty awake enough to navigate the usual lighter Sunday evening traffic on I-25. I was looking forward to getting home.

I'd been on the highway perhaps 5 minutes when a frightening realization hit...the tingling numbness in my extremities, the odd buzzy ringing in my ears.

Holy CRAP! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I haven't fainted in 4+ years, y'all. But last night, driving 60 mph, on an interstate through the city, I was getting ready to.

I couldn't take my eyes off the road in front of me. Any movement of my head caused my head to spin and the world to start wavering in and out in fuzzy blackness around the edges.

Terrified, I began to hyperventilate. A full on panic attack such as I've rarely experienced took over me and it was all I could do to hit the button on my window (luckily, a button with the feature that, if held down for a second or two, will roll all the way down on its own), throw the A/C on full blast and try to concentrate on sucking in deep breaths of oxygen while trying to merge over to the far most right lane and the emergency shoulder without performing my standard over-the-shoulder safety check.

As I panicked, Rational Jane, ever present, started mentally clicking through options. Get off at the next exit which just happened to be the exit for Denhac - a place I've frequented fairly regularly - where I could park, collect myself, and/or call Acr0nym to come rescue me? Try to make it to my exit and then stop? Try to make it all the way home?

I made it to my exit.

Once I got off the highway, I felt a bit better. Shaky, yes, but no longer afraid I was going to faint while driving at a high rate of speed.

I made it home.

Side note: Even in my discombobulated state, I still managed to parallel park in a particularly tight space in front of my house on the first attempt. I rock.

I sat in my car trying to soothe my frazzled nerves. I called Acr0nym. I told him what happened. We decided it was just a Perfect Storm of sleep deprivation, dehydration, caffeine, and heightened social anxiety from the previous night. By the time we ended our conversation just a few minutes later, I was pulled together enough to drag myself into the house.

I put on my pajamas, fixed a cup of hot herbal tea, wrote my blog post for the day, and then curled up in bed early to read. I was exhausted. I felt certain I would sleep and well. I was mistaken.

Sweet sleep eluded me for most of the night. I tossed, I turned, I dozed in and out but, every time I reached the point of no return, my racing thoughts about what had happened would come screaming in and I was wide awake again. Either that or it was the coffee keeping me awake. Hard to tell. I fell soundly asleep somewhere around 3:30.

This morning, when I awoke at 5, I was miserably tired. So very very tired and also anxious. I mean, I'm anxious nearly every Monday morning as the week starts but this morning was heightened by my lack of restful sleep and my fear of the "what if". What if it happened again on my way to work?

I got up, I showered, dressed, drank coffee, tried to relax while perusing my feed reader. I wasn't great but I was OK. I thought I'd be OK.

Behind the wheel, buckled up. The surface street traffic was lighter than usual and I had no difficulty. I began to relax into my morning commute like I normally would. I hit the highway 10 minutes in - as usual - and was pleased to see traffic moving at a brisk clip.

And then it hit again.

I'd been on the highway, again, maybe 5 minutes when I felt the creeping numbness and heard the buzzy ringing. Immediately, it was...

Window down.
Heat off.
A/C turned to full blast icy air.

GULP GULP GULP

BREATHE, GAWD DAMMIT! JUST BREATHE!

I managed to make it to work. I pulled into a parking space, threw the car in "Park", and burst into hot, prickly tears. What the hell is happening to me?

I was afraid.

Beyond afraid.

Petrified.

I went in the building, checked myself in, checked my mail box (no mail), took the elevator instead of climbing the stairs. Deposited my lunch sack and purse at my desk, logged into my computer, retrieved the file cabinet keys from the locked closet.

Breathe, gawd dammit. Just breathe.

My boss was at her desk.

I went in and sat down. Inquired about her weekend as I normally would. The residual creep and buzz were still present.

I stopped her, mid-sentence because I was afraid I'd faint right there, in her office, and she wouldn't know why it was happening (HA! Like I did either) or what to do.

"I'm experiencing something terrifying."

I explained what had happened...last night...this morning. She said, "It's OK. I know how to dial 911." We talked over what it might be. Blood pressure? Low blood sugar? Dehydration? Carbon monoxide poisoning?

I didn't know.

I still don't know.

I went to the doctor's office. Blood pressure - normal/low (as usual) and within normal limits. Pulse - normal/low (as usual...a runner's resting heart rate). Blood drawn.

I went to the Home Depot - at Acr0nym's insistence - to purchase a portable, battery-operated, carbon monoxide detector to place in my car. Reading is normal.

Both trips - doctor and home improvement store - I felt a bit of the lightheadedness creeping creeping threatening to take hold. Traveling on all surface streets.

By then, I knew, I was afraid of fear. I was terrified it would happen again as I was driving and was subsequently tensed up, holding my breath, waiting for the inevitable...

Fearing fear.

When it was time to go home, I was in such a dither, I didn't know if I should try highway or stick to surface streets as it didn't seem to make a difference anymore. I chose highway considering that it would take 3 times as long via surface streets and, since it wasn't making any difference, figured I'd be just as dangerous on side roads as I was on the highway...just, on the highway, it would take less time.

Clearly, because you are reading this, you know I made it home in one piece.

There was a bit of the numb and buzz but it seemed manageable. Perhaps it was because I had to do the interstate first and the last 2/3 of the drive was surface.

I don't know.

What I know is that I have had only had one cup of coffee - at 5:30 a.m. - today, I've not allowed myself to nap, I've had 2 cups of hot herbal tea in addition to a couple of glasses of wine. I ate chicken noodle soup for supper and have been concentrating on just breathing in and out most of the evening. I'm in my pajamas and it's 8:01 p.m. As soon as I hit "Publish Post" on this entry, I'll be crawling into bed with my book and an OTC sleep aid.

I'll try not to think about all the "what if's". I'll try not to think about possible car repair, possible lurking health issues, possible impending agoraphobia.

I'll try to relax.

And I'll try again tomorrow.

I'm afraid...

Of fear itself.

Beaujolais Nouveau Day Came and It Was Good

2011-11-20T20:55:00.002-07:00

As you may recall, a week or so ago, I had the sudden realization and subsequent panic surrounding the fast-approaching Beaujolais Nouveau Day.

For the love of the wine.

After writing that post, I finally decided Beaujolais Nouveau Day and, more importantly, the spirit behind my annual celebration, was something I needed to do even if I didn't feel as though I had the energy to do it. Which I really didn't.

O and the Gothfather capturing the spirit of the night.

It turns out, that post was something of a subconscious plea for assistance in putting together a night of debauchery when I couldn't muster the strength to go it alone. My friends rose to the occasion beautifully and gave me helpful suggestions along with offers to both host and cook if necessary. As O put it, he was willing to "take one for the team".

Maggledy and O...part of my "team".

So, with a keen awareness of just how little I had to give to the planning and execution of the evening, I chose to invite a very small group of people and asked them to help me by taking the burden of preparing most of the food off my plate (heh).

Cheese, gerbera daisies, wine, and chocolate served with a side of friendship. My favorite things.

That, quite possibly, was the best idea EVER!

O brought his spectacular gumbo.
Maggledy brought the richest, cheesiest, most delicious artichoke dip I've ever had.
Ms. C brought delectable delicacies from Buffalo Doughboy Bakery.
Acr0nym brought homemade soft pretzels, homemade European-style butter, and homemade limoncello he'd set back in July.
The Gothfather brought his mad cleanup skills and his shirtsleeves rolled up.

Ms. C unable to decide which sinful delight to partake of first - limoncello, chocolate, or wine.

For my part, I baked a brie en croute with Primo Raspberry Habanero Preserves (I used MouCo ColoRouge cheese instead of brie) and set out a pre-packaged vegetable tray and a plate of dark chocolate from Northern Chocolate Co.

Acr0nym's pretzels. Oh my! Tasty. Especially with the butter.

We each contributed a bottle of the Guest of Honor - Beaujolais Nouveau - from a variety of vintners.

Our gathering was intimate and merry - chattering and laughter ringing throughout The Grotto, capturing the attention of the Belfry Bats who would wander down and welcomed warmly. Modchen lent her costuming creativity to the festivities by dressing as a bacchante.

Our beautiful bucchante

We drank way too much wine and gorged ourselves on the richness and riches of both food and friends.

The last guest - #himself - departed at nearly 6 a.m.

And, even though today I'm exhausted, dehydrated, and feeling every single one of my 40 years, I am also happily satisfied and glad I did it...

With a little (lot) of help from my friends.

Le beaujolais nouveau est arrivé! And it was good.

EDITED TO ADD: A special thanks to Acr0nym for his fabulous photographs. He's now my official blog photographer.

Freeing Fodder Food for Thought

2011-11-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

Just this morning, I was introduced to Neil Strauss - author, journalist, ghost writer. FYI: His blog requires a login. It's free but you do have to sign up to access his content.

I found him because a particular Redhead ~~Writing~~ Ranting linked to one of his blog articles on Twitter.

The post she linked to, Getting in the Dirt, is about writing your memoirs and how vitally important it is to share secrets with your readers. He says, "you must not be afraid to share things that may make you look bad, cause others to judge you, or even harm relationships you have".

Because Lovely Readers will KNOW you're holding out.

When he said, "...the bricks that create each of us are not all made of gold. Some are shit. And we’re all a combination of both." I was struck dumb.

Because it's true.

I was so excited about this statement, I made Peej (who was over cleaning) come into my room so I could read it to her and, Peej being Peej, she had some incredible further insight. She said, "Well...that makes sense. When people want to read about a hero, they read Superman comics. They don't want Superman to be real. They want him to be perfect. If someone wants to read about someone who is like them - human and fallible - they will read Batman. Batman may be a good guy but he's human, he makes mistakes, his drive comes from an inherently human place. Readers connect with Batman because he is one of us." Or something like that anyway.

This got me thinking about why I read the blogs of so many people - everyday Janes and Joes - who aren't dispensing advice, or rattling off recipes, or recommending products but, rather, who are just talking about their lives, their thoughts, their work, their play, their struggles, their joys, their beliefs.

I read because those writers are real. And that's compelling. It makes me feel...less alone.

Melanie over at Is This the Middle posted this morning about how grateful she is for her fellow bloggers. She called us "a proud to be quirky lot". I loved that. It's true. You have to be pretty quirky to actually want to do what we do on a daily basis. And it's our very quirks that make us readable, relatable.

All of a sudden, Neil Strauss's words made sense to me, connected dots for me that hadn't been visible before. No one wants me to be perfect...except me. Everyone else wants me to be exactly as I am, as they are.

Flawed.

I feel as though I've been set free.

Letting My Inner Adult Out

2011-11-18T21:35:00.000-07:00

For those of you just joining us, you ought to know 3 things about Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom:

1) I have never been married.
2) I have no children...at least, I don't think. I'm fairly certain I would know.
3) For the last 10 months, I have, in earnest, been attempting to pay off my mind-bogglingly large debt (nearly $20,000 between student loans and credit cards).

The first two facts largely contribute to the sensation that, most of the time, I don't feel much older than 18...occasionally 12...sometimes 5. In my opinion, I have the best of both worlds. My time, outside of a 9-5 (OK, 7-3) job, is decidedly my own and I squander it however I see fit. It also means that, because I'm the grown up, I can have banana splits or, more importantly, wine for supper and there is no one who can tell me "NO!".

The third fact, well, that one sucks. It's the one fact that continually pulls me out of youthful folly and into sedate adulthood in a snap. It's meant that, for the last 10 months, I have had to budget, plan, save, and think about where every single cent gets spent. Bummer.

Although...now that I think about it, the first two facts contribute to the bummer that is #3. Why? Well, if I had a husband, there'd be someone else to help shoulder the burden of that debt (Ha!). If I had kids (*shudder* sorry, Parents, ew. Just ew. Because ew) I could blame the debt on them. (Ha! Ha!)

As it is, I know I am 100% responsible for the accumulation of said debt and the responsibility of paying it off is all mine. For the record? I've had a kickass time incurring that debt.

Oh! Oh yes. There is one more thing you ought to know about me in relation to this story.

I am thoroughly terrified of auto maintenance and repair. Need proof? Here's just one post (out of many) I wrote about how I DIDN'T curl up into a fetal position and die...in the middle of the Firestone sales floor.

So...this story really begins last weekend...Sunday. I knew I was WAY overdue for an oil change. I knew this because Honda (I drive one of those) is smart and put a little warning light into my dashboard that starts to blink "maintenance required" for a few seconds at 3,000 miles when I start the car. It begins to blink longer at about 5,000 miles. At 7,500 miles - if it's not been reset - the light turns on and won't go off. Sunday morning, as I headed up to Acr0nym's for the continuation of the Great De-cluttering of 2011, that stupid maintenance required light was a steady orange.

Well. Hells Bells.

So...I did what any girl afraid of auto maintenance and repair would do...I pleaded with Acr0nym to check my oil. When he balked, I asked his roommate, Jive Turkey, to do it for me. Acr0nym, being the decent fellow he is, eventually would check my oil.

However, when he lifted up the hood, he was, at first, amazed, and then appalled that my car battery was covered in an extraordinary amount of corrosion. In fact, he stated, "I can't believe this battery is still starting your car. Also? Add oil. And then? Would you please go get your oil changed?"

Yikes.

So I, wrenched from the throes of childhood and into Grown Up-dom kicking and screaming, begrudgingly called my favorite Firestone to make an appointment for an oil change and battery maintenance first thing Monday morning. And then? Then I took a vacation day Thursday (yesterday) to take care of "Grown Up Stuff" including auto maintenance and repair.

I loathe burning a vacation day in order to be an Adult.

So...this is how my day started yesterday (at just past 0 dark:30):

Still dark enough to capture the bright-red neon.

See that white speck in the sky? That's the moon who had yet to retire.

It was WAY too early to be that grown up.

But I got it done.

Then? Then I got my grocery shopping done for the Fourth Annual Grotto Thanksgiving...on a weekday - a full week before the holiday. I've had too many experiences fighting the holiday grocery shopping crowd the weekend before and the weekdays of the same week as the holiday. I figured, since I was being a Grown Up, I might as well spend my day off wisely.

And then? Then I came home and paid off the balance of a long outstanding credit card.

This morning, after reviewing my budget and factoring in the savings on the auto maintenance I'd managed due to the less than anticipated cost + a $15 off coupon, I paid off the balance of the last of my 15-year-old student loans. Instead of spending that extra money on fun stuff.

THAT was the moment it hit me.

I've been out of college for 15 years. 15 years I don't exactly remember flying past me.

Sure, I remember significant good times and particular bad times but, in general, I can't believe 15 years have passed so frighteningly quickly. When I started paying on those loans, I thought it was an excruciatingly long time until they were paid off.

And yet. Yet, here I am, Paid. In. Full. I don't know where the time went.

I can only think, tonight, the time went to learning how to - mostly - become an Adult and what strikes me is that adulthood isn't much different than childhood. The only differences between Jane at 13 and Jane at 40 is that my allowance, at times, goes for things I'd rather not spend money on and that time flies at a far quicker pace.

Additionally, I realize, as I grow older, it is not our inner child who needs let out to have free rein but our inner adult that needs let out occasionally to take care of business.

Whoa.

On the Surface

2011-11-17T18:40:00.000-07:00

I've known Spux for a couple of years - acquaintances mostly up until a few months ago.

I met him for the first time at the Denver Masticators - a group of foodies who, once a month, gather at a different restaurant to sample the wares of some of the best independently owned and operated restaurants around town. It was Peej's pic - Star of India, of course. It was January, 2010. And, at the time, Spux was, at least outwardly, a woman...a married woman.

This is not the story of how Spux decided to transition from female to male. And I will apologize in advance for mixing up my pronouns because, even though I do try, when I think about Spux then, I can't help but think of him as a girl.

I have to admit...I was a little intimidated when we met. Not intimidated as in afraid but intimidated because Spux was one of the "cool kids" (stop laughing, Spux...I really thought that). He definitely has his own style, that's for sure. Tattoos from head (literally) to toe, adorable dimples pierced, talent and creativity fairly oozing from everything he touches. Punk rock and awesome!

On the surface, you wouldn't know that roughly half the music I own is punk - Bad Religion, Social D, Descendents, Adolescents, NoFX, Dead Milkmen, the Queers, et al. If you didn't know my history, you'd never suspect any of the crazy stuff I've done.

I suppose that's what happens when your 20's slip away into 30 and beyond.

Anyway, so while I wanted to be his friend, I couldn't imagine he'd want to have anything to do with me. However, because he and Acr0nym were friends, and because Acr0nym and I fell in together and grew close fairly rapidly, we were exposed to each other more and more often and actually had, you know, conversations and stuff.

This is also not the story of how, after having known each other for a year and half, we became close friends. That story is long, complicated, a little painful, and likely won't see the light of day on the blog. That one you'll have to buy the book to read *laughing*.

All you really need to know is that, about 6 months ago, Spux and I did fall in together and now spend almost every Wednesday having a coffee klatch at his house after I get off work. You know, just a couple of hours each week to touch base, hang out, get silly and wired on afternoon caffeine.

I never know what to expect when I get there. I never know what art project, costume, or scheme he'll have cooking. I never know what delicious food stuffs he's made to send home with me - gumbo, pesto, pickled radish preserves, green tomato and habanero jam.

But, not in a million years would I have expected what I got a few weeks ago when I arrived to find Spux in...let me just show you.

Behold, the kittens shirt.

Spux makin' the joe

Mesmerizing, isn't it?

There is something about this shirt - besides the fact that it's MAGICAL - that just...fits. If you don't know Spux you're probably more mesmerized by the tattooed tough guy sporting all that furry kitten love. If you do know him, you'll understand that this shirt sums up Spux better than any other shirt ever could and are likely just surprised that you didn't think to suspect this shirt existed in his wardrobe.

Because when you start scratching the surface of the person underneath the ink? You're delighted to discover a shy, kind, laid back, hysterically funny, smart guy who really REALLY likes cats.

My point is - you know, aside from just really wanting an excuse to show you that picture of Spux in the magical, mysterious, mesmerizing spectacle that is that shirt - that, even though we continue to judge books by their covers, we don't know anything about the story until we're willing to crack the book open to the first page and then continue to read.

People are awesomely deep. All...onion-y with layers upon layers of interesting and, occasionally, tear-inducing pungency. I love the stories people have to tell - even if I think I might not like the book based on the cover.

Have you ever become friends with someone who, at first glance, you felt A) you wouldn't like or B) they wouldn't like you? Were you surprised to find your differences were fewer than your commonalities? I'd like to know.