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Housekeeping

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Not the real sort of housekeeping where I wash dishes or any of that. As the hubster will attest, I detest such frivolity and won’t entertain even the thought it. For example, here is my drawing room:


And my library:


Okay, these are photos of the Collyer Brother’s home, but only because we don’t have a drawing room or a library. Instead we have a landfill and a Goodwill drop-off station, and unlike these photos, my clutter is in color. I’m ignoring the real cleaning for now. The housekeeping to which I refer is the mental, electronic sort. Therefore, today I’m presenting a listy sort of thing.

1. I’ve delivered another phenomenal guest post to Denveater. Seriously, I am so erudite, sophisticated, amazing … where was I? Oh, yes, I am well edited. That’s what I mean. She makes me smart. Big hearts to the glamorous, hilarious, and freakishly intelligent Ruth for whom I’d write anything.

2. While driving around in the minivan listening to the oldies station and not paying attention, the 6 YO girl says, “Mom, if it is a bad case, then he probably should go to the doctor, but I think he’s talking to his girlfriend.”

3. I’ve been crazy stand-on-my-head while running in circles busy. This is the afternoon of my dreams:

Thems are beets from Hawt Mz who identified and lifted one of my many recent foul moods, veggie fried rice fortified by backyard chicken eggs, and a Mexican Coke made with real sugar and not the post-New Coke crap.

4. I’m proud of my for pay job. It’s fun, interesting, and challenging. I actually get to use my college degree. Yup. I got one or two or three. I know, I know. You are shocked, but it’s true. I don’t do anything without my computer guru, Ultimate. Except this, I did this all by myself (with the help of a zillion other people). You can see me in the background trying to convince people how cool my job is. Get out your tissue. Two asides: A) don’t get me in trouble and B) we are in a capital campaign and if you have a check for a million or so, your gift will be fully tax deductible.

And just like that, I’m exhausted and can’t sweep up one more item for you. Those dusty corners aren’t going anywhere. I’m totally going to do a Scarlet O’Hara on them.

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Bocal Sandwich

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Last night I went to a school meeting and made comments that I wasn’t ready to make. I drew blank and felt caught with my pants down. Instead of terror, some folks read passion in my voice. I guess that’s better? In any event, I woke up with “I should have said this instead” thoughts. At the school this morning, a few pals said they appreciated my emotional honesty, which totally grossed me out because, as Anneliese pointed out in a meme, this is the Midwesterner’s nightmare.

Later, I went to pottery and busted out the bottom of a casserole dish that otherwise would have been awesome. I’d worked on the dish for, oh, a month of classes. On the bright side, I still have an intact casserole dish lid. Now, what am I going to do with that?

The day wasn’t a total loss. Anna and I went to the Maderas Bassoon Quartet performance, which was the finale of St. Philip’s In the Hills Lenten Recital Series. Even if it wasn’t a Lenten recital, you could have guessed the host was an Episcopal church based on the music hall’s decor. Check it out.

The deep burgundy velvet draping, the gold gilded alter behind the piano, and hanging from the exposed industrial metal beams? Chandeliers. These are my peeps. No one questioned how enjoying this little concert helped us with our meditations in reflection of the sacrifice of our savior, Jesus Christ. Also, the quartet itself had just the tiniest hint of irreverent attitude. Take, for example, this excerpt from a bassoonist’s biography:

Cassandra Bendickson first became enthralled by the bassoon when a curious group of four bassoonists gave a concert … . She passed the time until her hands could finally fit the Great Bassoon by playing lesser instruments such as piano, viola, and clarinet. Finally, she could grasp the beast…. She is currently enslaved by the mantle of graduate studies in the great quest of Bassoon Mastery.

Can you believe that!?! She didn’t even mention me. All will be forgiven in time and just to show my own good will towards her, I’m providing a little lesson on the difference between a bassoon and an oboe, which is apparently a sticking point.

  1. You can hit a baseball further with a bassoon.
  2. A bassoon is better at a camp site because it burns longer.
  3. A burning oboe is useful when setting bassoons on fire.
  4. Bassoonists form very tight social bonds with other bassoonists because they are far too exclusive to mingle with other instruments.

I kid, of course. And I’m a hack. These must be the only bassoon/oboe jokes out there and I’m sure bassoonists are weary of them. I do realize this is a sensitive topic. I think the main difference is the bassoon is totally twisted. Seriously. See?*


Did I mention my jeans were too tight all day long? Oddly, they only got tighter as the day extended to night. I ended the day so overstuffed with melted cheese that no amount of metabolism in the world can take care of the bloat. If today were a sandwich the bread would have been livestock fodder, but the meat would have been hearty and uplifting.

* These images were totally stolen from here and here.

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Solar Power Rocks!

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For a second, I was at Winfest. Then I realized things weren’t green and squishy. Also, we live in Tucson and not Winslow. You’d think that because both towns are in Arizona no big diff, but you’d be wrong. My thoughts took me to Winslow, Arkansas where Arkansawyers get down to bluegrass and rock and country and stuff. The Hubster adored his Fighting Squirrels (closed in 2005). I’m more lukewarm remembering bootleggers and black eyes, but I can’t deny the environmental beauty of Northwestern Arkansas.

Nay. I’m talking about Tucson’s Solar Rock Festival, which in its comparative infancy has its own dedication to environmental beauty.
You see that graphic up there? Check out that percentage. Yup, 100% solar powered rock concert. Having biked to a 100% solar powered rock concert, why on earth would I feel compelled to turn out my lights for an hour when I returned home? Terrifying! People create babies in the dark.

I didn’t take photos at Solar Rock because of the back breaking work involved with volunteering for these high-inspo bosses. I was there for set up, during which I ate a bagel and snagged a repurposed “T”. I returned later to work the kids’ booth, where ankle biters (and Boris) created original works of art on organic cotton grocery bags. The creations by some of the young people rocked my world even without solar powered amplifiers. The art on my children’s faces packed powerful punches as well. The 9-YO boy requested a scorpion lizard and the 6-YO girl’s kitty face was furry cuteness.

Luckily someone else took photos. 1) Presenting the Hubster, 2) Scorpion Lizard King and Queen Kitten Cat, 3) Boris’s blood-red paw against a Turkish rug, 4) Solar panels on wheels.

And there you have it – a completely exhausting day. If my lights were out at 8 p.m., it’s because we earned an early bed time.

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Excessive Misery

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I don’t even want to get into the drama clouding the pastoral existence I’ve so desperately attempted to carve out for my family. Don’t ask and don’t tell, please. I’ll keep mine to myself. You keep yours to yourself and we will pretend everything is fine and dandy like a hard candy Christmas. Leave me alone, I’m doing fine, Just go away, I’ll be okay, Please don’t touch me… (an inside joke shared between my family and millions of SNL viewers).

In the midst of major dramas, there are minor dramas. Each fire is put out in its own turn. We plod determinedly ahead. Considering our real-life, unavoidable drama, I have no desire for avoidable, made-up crises – even if they make me giggle a little.

Now, forget everything I just said because I’m gonna share a wee bit o’ priceless, made-up drama. Due to planning shenanigans (avoidable drama), I unexpectedly attended a field trip with the 9-YO boy’s class today. His unhappiness about water molecules made me giggle a little. Dra-ma!


Clearly, as the photo evidences (noun verb, boo-yah!), I am nothing but a loving supportive mother. I’m hugging him; I have a clear look of concern on my face; he has a kissy mark on his face. Yet he sees me as a mustache-twirling evildoer on whom he wishes doom. Or perhaps he’s thinking, “Kill me now!” Whatever the case, I’ll be ready for your drama in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don’t be surprised if I laugh at your lack of molecular diversity. ‘k?

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Puberty Love

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If you found this blog because of a dirty Google search, get help you perverted bastard. This is not a sick tale. I mean it is, just not in that way.

The sick part is how I take such pleasure in the routine torture of my family with remnants of my somewhat twisted childhood. My brother and I are products of the slight neglect of parents who had a great sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. The Hubster and company tend to think I’m making stuff up about my childhood as my brother and I always believed my father made up every song he sang while grocery shopping.

I have to prove my childhood memories. “I swear Attack of the Killer Tomatoes is a real movie!” My brother and I watched it every chance we got. Again, being the children of parents who tended to leave us be as long as we didn’t burn down the house (not that we didn’t try), we got lots of chances, late at night, when the Boogey Man roamed the streets.

My brother used to cue me to scream like this:

I rocked the crazy scream. It made big brother giggle. I did it silently during confirmation classes (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived). If I were not the old lady soccer mom that I am (I am that I am), I would make a great scream queen.

The hardest sell for those in tow of my thrilling reenactment is that the killer tomatoes are defeated by:

That’s right. As Video Killed the Radio Star, so too Puberty Love killed the killer tomatoes. My family might argue that my rendition of the same killed any interest they had in hearing more of my childhood memories, but that won’t stop me from spending the next few days singing Puberty Love.

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We should all be so well edited.

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No one questioned the published writing of the other 9-YO with whom I worked. Seriously, you can’t just be happy for the boy?

Here are the facts:
1) I showed him spell check.
2) He conducted interviews and used the interviewee’s words in paraphrasing.
3) Your favorite author could be a dictater.
4) Multiple drafts were involved.
5) There is an editor on the other end who is trying to foster good writing in kids and at the same time has a responsibility to the reading public.
6) Yes, the 9-YO boy wrote the article.
7) You can kiss my ass.

The editor has deleted the exciting conclusion of this blog because she’s pretty sure I can’t threaten to kill people.

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These are the days, my friends…

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I should start at the top of the morning. The 9-YO boy debuted his mad skillz as a photojournalist. He’s got reporting in his blood from Gramp-A-Long and a fair amount of language ability from both Gigi and Grammanina. Also, as he reported to KOLD, his mom is always at school and I guess his boredom with that or my insistence that he entertain himself inspired him. The story was written one morning after a Borton Community Garden meeting and during the time I take the girl’s class into the garden. Use the link since my scanned copy, well you can see the problem with it.


Then the Friday routine hit with the BELL coffee cart (donations welcome), frequent readers help (the 6-YO made a book mark and earned two books to reward her, er, frequent reading), work for pay, then help the newly single mechanic watch himself and his kid on television (Did you hear that girls? I have a single male friend who can fix stuff AND be daddy about school). Around lunch, I came home to find gently used shorts for the boy and these freshly picked goodies.


These oranges are HUGEMONGOUS! That’s one of the largest bowls we have and you can see the oranges dwarf it. I need a new descriptor for my friends because they are beyond “awesome” and “generous” to the degree of “intergalactic” and “magnanimous” or something like that. OH! I needn’t neglect reporting the glorious package from the artiste in Oklahoma with 50 YO heirloom 4 o’clock and lemon basil seeds, pet rocks, a pep talk, a totem for the chicks, and an indication that my pal also loves credit unions.


Oh, but that’s not the end of the day. The librarian sent to the planet to make my life wonderful set up a little RR viewing on the big screen. Robyn, point out to your mother that one of her hand sewn dresses made it onto national television. If you look carefully, I’m person in the crowd 1, person in the crowd 2, person in the crowd 3 ….


Hawt Mz was mas bella tan siempre (I’m trying to learn Spanish again), if a bit touchy at being the center of the universe for all of 3 minutes. HM, I know you love math, so how about this equation? 15-3= 12 more minutes of fame to account for. What’s next?

I hope it never ends.

Incognito on Rachael Ray

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The episode of Rachael Ray featuring the hard work of Hawt Mz. Molly and crew will be aired on March 6th. If you follow the link, there are two pictures of yours truly in a flash format, so I couldn’t easily steal them. Now do you think that’s fair? Neither do I, so I learned how to poach images. BTW, I’m not saying Ultimate taught me how to do that photo stealing trick, but you know, if you need some computer work done he knows his shiznit. If they threaten me, I’ll tear the photos down asap (or as soon as possible, Brett, whichever comes first) so look quickly.


Photo 1. ‘Member my pal who teaches me how to fix my car? ‘Member the guy who taught me how to use power tools? Well, he and I totally built this farm stand. By “he and I” I mean he did the work while preventing me from circular sawing off my oppositional thumb (it’s like the rest of me). I am not clearly in this photo, but my work is. Unclearly, I am in the back ground in the jeans and whiteish shirt next to my pal Lori who didn’t sign a release and loudly cursed while proclaiming her judgeship. She did sign a release later, but she claimed it was bullshit. Judges get to talk like that.


Photo 2. I’m way more clearly in this photo. See me? Behind the kale? I cropped (oh, an unintentional, but awesome garden pun) out the rest of the photo, but you can follow the link to see the whole thing.

If this is going to be the most highly rated Rachael Ray show of all time, you need to tune in on March 6th and watch it. If for some reason, they air me not in obscurity, there is an antidote. Rubbing sand in your eyes will rid you of this vision.

Jesus Can Suck It

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With Ash Wednesday almost over I’ve made no Lenten promises. Just as well. In no way, large or small, have I been the sort of reflective, repentant, renunciationitive* Christian my parents and community of worship has taught me to be during this finite time each year.

I didn’t go to church for ashing (sloth). My diet consisted of potato chips, ice scream sandwiches, chocolate, and soda pop (gluttony). I ruminated over hawt Mz. Molly freezing her ass in Rockefeller Center (envy). I overly enjoyed the visage of my sparkly daughter in her sparkly hippster hat (pride). I stole kisses from an unwilling 9 YO boy (greed). I pinched the hubster’s behiney while he did dishes (c’mon who wouldn’t lust over all those clean dishes!).

AND THEN – I dropped $3.04 and the F bomb at Sonic. Ignoring the fact that the fam is on a spending freeze and I shouldn’t even be enjoying Happy Hour, I wanted an iced tea. We nearly hit 90 degrees today! When it came, I asked if the car hop brought sugar. “You should have asked for that when you ordered.” What? I just tipped the bitchette a buck. She can’t give me some damn sugar with a smile? “I’d like a packet of sugar,” I insisted. Clearly unhappy, the carhop walks away in a manner I’m sure my parents recall from 1985 or so. Not that I would ever have rolled my eyes at a dorky adult who couldn’t order right. The car hop returns later with pink packets. Pink packets! Is she TRYING to give me Alzheimer’s? “No thanks,” I say. Then as I turn to back up I say “I just wanted some fucking sugar” to the slushy grins of my children. Rooster plucking mother trucker! (WRATH ALL OVER THE PLACE.)

You know, I haven’t eaten red meat today. That’s always a good Lenten promise. Okay. Phew! I feel all better now. I love you Jesus!

* Okay, I made that word up because I love alliteration. It just goes to show (internal rhyme) how much I suck at Lent as I ignore all the rules.