Finally.  A new, peaceful theme.

I wasn’t truly loving the orange in my last digs, but something odd has happened as a result of that recent having to live with it for as long as I did and survive.  When I’m out and about, all things orange catch my eye.  And I have been doing a bit of shopping since our vacation is looming…

…in twelve days.

So why am I messing around with my blog theme, you ask?

I’ve been wondering that myself all afternoon.  Actually for quite a few days now.

I have this tendency to procrastinate when I least should.  Like there’s actually a good time to procrastinate?  Obviously, it’s some misguided passive aggressive behavior my subconscious has manufactured to lull me out of my humdrum existence.

Sounds good, right?

But back to the shopping and the orange.  I’d notice a sporty Carmen Ghia in a parking lot, patterns on furniture featuring a light rust.  Or cute cotton tees of a rich cantaloupe. And bright orange patent leather sandals.  I knew I had a fetish for red shoes, but orange?   Mmmmm….cute little summer sandals with little clicky heels.  Straps.  A smart bow.

Like I said, orange.  Did I actually buy them?  Sadly, no.  And that’s too bad, because they looked like a seriously good time waiting to happen.  I would not expect to have a good time walking about in Italy wearing them.  It’s so not worth the pain and scars.  Okay, so maybe sometimes it is, but not this time.  Does it count, however, that I now own an orange Mario Batalli lasagna pan?  And two — not one, but two orange tee-shirts?

When I was little, each time that I received a brand new box of Crayola crayons, first I’d inhale their waxy fragrance, then notice that two of those crayons fit right in in my “ugly color” category.  Purple.  And orange.

Who knew that I’d end up thinking about orange? Actually liking it.  And purple?  Hell will freeze over before I even think about liking purple.

So which came first?  My orange blog theme, or the fashion industry cajoling me to think about all things ORANGE?  If I learned anything from Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, it would be that.

Who cares.  What does matter is that I also noticed I wasn’t keeping up with my writing here, and when that happens, I sort of begin to wilt a bit.  Sure, I’m spending more and more time in foodland, and…well

How could I get away with writing something as stoopid as this in foodland?

Nobody likes orange.

Do they?

I guess with the upgrade that didn’t quite go as I wanted it to, I’ll be working on redoing the entire thing again. January is a good time for that…I’ve been avoiding it for quite a while.

And if I don’t tackle these things, then my learning stops, and what’s the point of that? I’m wired to keep pushing to understand things that intrigue me. And this whole business intrigues me. I know I can sit down and write, but the way this looks is an extension of me as well. So I guess I better get busy and figure out how I really want it to look.

I’ve changed over the last year. And as fond as I am of that woman in the header, she isn’t quite me anymore. That’s not a bad thing. I’m not quite ready to give her up, though, so I’ll figure out that, too.

I deplore “shopping” for themes, and with the WordPress upgrade, there seem to be so many kinks about what works with what. Sheesh.

So, I’m off to watch the Chargers play the Colts in the playoffs! GO BOLTS!

Hang in there with this thing. Okay? I promise I’m not going anywhere…

What does it say about me when I can admit that I spent most of my morning at work putting labels and stickers on file folders in preparation for this next year of business and L.O.V.E.D. it?

CONTROL. The woman craves CONTROL. (insert wicked and crazed laughter here and clasp your hands near your chin, making sure to rub them as if applying lotion) It’s an office supply problem. You know. Paper, and pencils, envelopes and white out? I’ve always had an issue with office supplies, and I’ve learned there’s no cure.

But wait! There’s more.

I worked a whole extra 90 minutos loving it. I could see a real live finished product that had dimension. And I could carefully pick up all the brightly colored folders, and click them on the desktop to make sure they were PERFECTLY lined up. So. Cool.

About half way through my time, someone brought up New Year’s Resolutions, and I was surprised that I hadn’t even thought of making one. Of course, now, it’s still on my mind. But not so much that it has kept my drawers in a knot or anything. Now that would be quite the conundrum. Call this practiced avoidance.

Why do you need a resolution when you have a list. I made one last night before going to bed so I could hit the ground running when I got home from my J.O.B. Guess what was first on the list? Okay, so you’ll never guess, and although I’m a complete pro at Twenty Questions, I’ll cut to the chase…

…my friends at Best Buy. Or better said if you’ve watched the show on Monday nights, Chuck, which is beyond surprisingly good for television and no, I’ve never watched Boston Legal, or 30 Rock, or…Okay, you get it. Buy More. That’s what the store is called on Chuck. Best Buy is Buy More. Whatever.

Anyway, I called like a gracious and tolerant consumer who has been screwed and dragged over the coals by the capitalist machine that will be the bane of our existence before we know it ahem…has been so patient with an obvious communication problem.

I was less than thrilled when Josh answered the phone after I dealt with the cheerful machine and sitting on hold for 10 minutes. It wasn’t that Josh wasn’t thrilling. He’s been well trained. “Let me verify that the television we’re talking about is at (***) 555-DORK.” I told him that was correct and that there were most likely red flags and unhappy faces stamped around my phone number along with a few Jolly Rogers and a Fickle Finger of Fate for good measure. After a professional pause, he stated that they did not deal with red flags and unhappy faces (bwahahahahahaha!) and then he read me the notes the supervisor wrote on 12-14 after I spoke with her about what could be done.

Poor Josh read, “General Electronics (authorized posers) is having difficulty ordering parts.” I could only gasp delicately and ask him to tell me if that meant the parts to fix our T.V. still had not been ordered before I collected myself to breathe scorching flames through the receiver. He politely responded that,” because I’m not a supervisor, ma’am (wince), I may not be able to access all the information regarding what has transpired.”

So yes I spoke to yet another supervisor whose name I was provided without a request and isn’t that stellar customer service? But after she said hello, she asked to put me on hold so she could review the service notes. Uhhh…what service?

And when she couldn’t tell me whether parts had or hadn’t been ordered, I told her I would take the T.V. to the closest Buy More Sucker Store and stay there until they gave me a new T.V.

And guess what?

She said in her well-trained and pleasant customer type service voice, ” I can submit an authorization for you, if you’d like.”

Huh? “An authorization for what?” I asked.

“An authorization for a replacement T.V. which will take three to five business days.”

Go figure. So I told her I’d prefer the quickest way to ensure the T.V. was totally functional and wasn’t this a lot of horse shit from me.  She said she’d pursue both avenues and ain’t that special. I was smiling, however. And I did NOT raise my voice ONE time. But my eyebrows were very angry.

So next Wednesday, I’ll bring this up again. You will be soooooo over it, but it will be so special to find out whether I’ve been granted a brand spanking new T.V. or parts. And you know what they say about parts.

Parts is parts…OR…the sum of the parts is greater than the whole.

What’s that song that says something about being happy if you know it and clapping your hands?

Yah. Like that.

Now, on to the next thing on my list.

As Toto and Dorothy continue along the long and winding road on their NaBloPoMo journey, Dorothy has gotten snippy, and Toto has begun to look longingly at her ankles, imagining what they might taste like, and just how loudly she’d scream if he chomped firmly on one…

November 20, 2007

Dear Mr. Gynecologist Doctor Person:

I just received your reminder in the mail about my annual check-up. Damn. I thought you’d have forgotten about me since I only saw you a few times. What a pleasant surprise that you remembered me! Although I must commend you for the stereotypical tasteful predictable pink fuchsia gerbera on the cover and pleasant sans serif font, it doesn’t diminish the fact that I absolutely HATE and am completely TERRIFIED of rarely look forward to taking care of this particular business.

I know. It’s necessary. And I did promised myself that after last winter, I’d take better care of myself.

But you made some adjustments last December, remember? Removed everything? There’s not a single girlie organ left. Not. One. Nada. If you knocked on my abdomen, it would most likely sound like a watermelon. Perfectly hollow.

Okay, so there are still a few other types of guts left in there. But still.

So, uh, I’m wondering just how you go about this favorite check up of mine. You know, the one I successfully avoided for more than five years which is why you had to relieve me of my equipment? Yes, that checkup.

How exactly does one have a PAP smear when one has no cervix? No uterus? Zippo ovaries? Hmmm…? I mean, think about it. You take your car to the garage for a tune up, you lift the hood, and whoops! There’s no trannie. No carburator. Hell, the engine is even missing. So what do you do? Shine things up a bit? Steam wash it? Make sure everything’s squeakin’ clean?

I can see having to go if a tune up is in order, but what exactly will you tune?

I don’t like that table with the motorized end portion. Or the stirrups. And I absolutely detest that light whose brightness resembles the ones they use when they work on freeways in the dead of night allowing anyone interested to see all the way to China without their glasses. Bright. Yanno?

But what I’m completely freaked out about is that you’re going to poke at my scars. You’re going to push on my abdomen. They not only still bother me, they creep me out, and I’m already wincing, just thinking about it.

Completely disgusting.

So I hope you don’t mind that I’ll just put this off a bit until I adjust to the idea of having missing equipment checked and hearing you say, “Yup. It’s still gone.” or “Need anything else adjusted?” And I won’t know how to respond since it’s difficult for me to tell when things are wrong with my body. I’m just not good at it. Well, unless it’s my left elbow which is completely screwed up right now. But you aren’t an elbow man, are you?

What I’d really like to say about this check up is, “Let’s not and say we did. ‘Kay?”

Okay, fine. So are there any bars near your office then? I’ll knock a few back before I get there. Well it sounds better for this situation than sipping wine and nibbling on a salad. Don’t expect me to be able to actually stay on that table once I get there, though. Okay?

Mortified,

Me

p.s. And I don’t want to hear ANYTHING about not taking my hormones. Got it?

p.p.s. I know. There’s no whining, either. Whatever.

I’m making progress here, although today, if it wasn’t for NaBloPoMo, I’d probably take the blogging day off. I’m in high gear on this house organizing frenzy, liking it, and noticing some interesting things about what exactly is organized and what isn’t in this house…and why. Like, the answer is Earth shattering, and everyone’s been waiting for it. For world peace. And stuff.

November 15, 2007

Dear Peter Walsh,

The other day, I actually sat down to watch Oprah. That may not seem to be anything special, but I’ve been a sort of lazy good for nothing but blogging domestic engineer for about a year now, and spend no time watching daytime television. I don’t even think about it. You’re wondering what in hell all this has to do with the price of tea in China, right? So anyway, I actually remembered Oprah, clicked on the television, and there was Celine Dion. I’m a closet Celine aficionado — well, not quite an expert, but still. So I grinned, turned up the volume and sang the entire hour. I just love “I Drove All Night,” don’t you? The Roy Orbison version the best, I mean, he’s incredible, but Celine is great, too. Did you see her show in Vegas? It was completely amazing. I know, I know. You’re thinking I’m less than balanced and I can see that wild look in your eye that lets me know you’re planning your escape route. But stay with me here.

So there was a commercial during the show that advertised another show coming later in the week. I think it’s airing today. It was about hoarders. I’ve been wondering about the idea of hoarding, and have been thinking of it while I’ve been going through my house. Sorry it takes me so long to get to what I’m talking about. My mind is full of clutter. Things go in and never come out, all up there waiting to be used. It’s a genetic problem. You just never know when someone may need to know what the botanical name for a Bird of Paradise is at the San Diego Zoo when you’re really there to see lions and tigers and bears. Fortunately, the problem isn’t so horrendous that I never get to my point, though, so that’s some relief. Isn’t it?

But good news! I’m only in the mild to minimal category on the Hoarding Severity Scale. And according to my Clutter Assessment Results, I am a clutter victim, who can blame a “busy life” (um…car pool four times a week and two blogs? No.), “disposable income” (he’s kidding, right? What? You didn’t know money grows on a tree on our patio? Feh.), “and a steady influx of purchases” (well, okay, but they’re mostly food related, so they don’t stay around long…), and “junk mail” (erm, no one’s going to complain if the post office outlaws that crap. Maybe they could get on that?) Like I was saying…

Here’s my progress to date. I have a handle on:

• where all the bills go now (cool folders with LABELS *Woo Hoo!*) Okay so the folders aren’t cool; the labels are. And I will be getting cool folders. Some day after I get organized.
• the office shelves are great, the closet isn’t too bad, and the stacks are down to a low roar. Of course every time I get my desk organized, someone leaves a tank on it. Sheesh.

It’s hard to get good help any more, yanno?

• magazines are now sorted, organized by date, and either recycled or marked and stored (but I’m really lying on this one, because going through the saved issues will take time…and I do have time)



• the cheese drawer in the fridge (I’m still working on the science experiment that is our veggie bin, but at least it’s not mushy any more)
• the RT’s bedroom which is much, much cleaner and organized (almost minty fresh and clean) I said almost, okay?

Before and After. Not bad, huh? Now to get rid of the bunk bed. Okay, where was I?

• the laundry room upper cabinets (so I still have to dig into that stoopid lower cabinet that all those plastic grocery bags are stuffed in but it’s scary in there. Really.)

But I should get credit for some things never, ever being disorganized. They’re always perfect. Except when the MoH empties the dishwasher and just puts the wooden spoons on top of the steel utensils, or the measuring cups in this drawer instead of the one next to it. And the wire whips? You have to put them in a particular way. Because. The rack below it is also organized by color: greens, reds, blues. So probably a little touch of OCD to add to the mild hoarding tendencies and clutter victim state.

You could come and help me out since Martha hasn’t accepted my offer yet. You know, maybe hook me up with a nice set of shelves for this lame coat closet that builders still insist on including around here, which is truly ridiculous considering we never have to wear coats. Ever. Shelves would be great. Could you get right on that, please? I need the space for my kitchen overflow.

And these built in cabinets? What are they for other than hiding things? My cats love to sleep in them, but that’s not the best idea considering everything in the cabinet gets hair all over it and then has to be washed. What would you use them for? Suggestions when you have time, please?

Well, after you’ve helped that lady who has 75 tons of trash in her house. Which is just plain weird.

Thanks for your time today. Maybe we can do lunch and discuss the possibilities. Yes?

Have your people call my people.

Sincerely,

Me.

p.s. Do you know anyone who does windows?

Tally-Ho NaBloMoPo on Day 14. So move it. Can you do it? Make it burn…on three…ready? Let’s go. Whatever. But this one will be short, because I have to do a post on my food blog today, too. I was nearly done with a post two days ago, was loading the last photo, and then…Yes. That stoopid message that says something about being reset so the connection was lost came up after I realized things were getting a bit slow and I suspected the inevitable was about to happen. When’s the last time you actually saw mad? You know. Like, really mad.

November 14, 2007

Dear Ms. Bartlett:

I just thought I’d take a moment today to let you know you kicked my butt the other day. Seriously. I should have known better, and that’s what I get for not taking the time to do a bit of research; i.e., look before you leap. I should have channel-surfed a bit. But you looked so harmless. So sweet. It was that smile.

I’m sure you’re far too busy for someone like me, but I’ve been trying to find ways to make sure I get regular exercise. I don’t always look forward to it, but do a fairly good job of getting in some exercise at least four days a week. But I’ve been struggling with the time change since I have a tendency to go out late in the afternoon or early evening to walk — hopefully right before the MoH gets home. One day it was completely dark by the time I’d finished, and although I sort of enjoy that, occasionally, the brush by the side of the road engages my overactive imagination and my constructive pessimistic proclivities begin to map out my defense on the chance the boogey man is hiding in the bushes and is getting ready to jump out to get me. Little does he know that I’m ready to grab the sides of his face in my palms and dig my thumbs into his eyeball sockets, knee him in the nards, and if necessary, ram his nose up into his sinus cavity with the base of my palm. Of course, a lifetime of repressed rage would most likely also be unleashed and there wouldn’t be much left of him.

Yes. Well, um, so I had waited too long to walk and it was already dark, so I decided to take a look at the free On Demand channels on cable. I thought I’d seen something about Exercise on Demand and thought I’d give it a shot. Mind you, it was some time ago (like years) that I’d see this feature of our monthly service to Time Warner, but that’s beside the point.

You would have been proud. I had appropriate exercise clothes on, and my tennies. Hell, even my weights were close by. I have to be honest though — I was a bit worried about my left arm since it’s been so screwed up with tendonitis. But I wasn’t going to use that as an excuse. I was going to suck it up.

Suck dough balls was more like it.

Sheeeeee-it. You smiled the entire time you were kicking my butt. In fact you kept telling me to smile and each time you did, I wasn’t. What’s up with the whole smiling while your tongue’s flapping around your chin? Have you ever tried to do that? But since I’m a team player, I tried, and I did learn that if I smile with my teeth, at least I can get air into my oxygen deprived lungs.

And I did appreciate that you kept telling me that I could take a break any time I wanted. I did notice that you smiled when you said this, like it was some kind of a dare. I’ve got you all figured out, marching in place there and not losing count while you’re smiling and telling me to take it easy. And not sweating. Not a single shiny place on your body.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to hang on to a weight when sweat’s dripping down your arms? Huh? And your your spine? Well, suffice it to say it was a veritable river headed down to my drawers. At least the RT didn’t make any comments when he walked by wondering about this latest project his mother had gotten involved in. And he didn’t laugh when I grunted, either, and I was listening.

I know you know that I knew I’d be doomed after the warm up and before the weights because I was already toast. That you knew that I’d know those repetitions would make my muscles feel like they’d been flopped into a frying pan set on sizzle. You totally knew. And you smiled the entire time. But you also knew I’d feel like *thank gawd I’m done* successful and proud after you ran me through the wringer the routine. I know you’d know that I knew I’d know you knew. Yanno?

So all in all, the beginner’s (ohmygawdwhatmustheregularworkoutbelike?) workout was a freakin’ killer great and because it was an interminable, exhausting only 30 minutes, I switched to a cardio salsa dancing workout that finished the job you started immediately afterward. I’ll have to thank her another time since I couldn’t see the writing on the screen with my face on the floor didn’t catch her name.

But hey! It was so incredibly tortuous and I was so sore the next day fun, that I was thoroughly encouraged to go on my walk again, making sure I got it in before the sun went down — in the drizzling rain.

So thanks, Desiree! The next time I need my butt royally kicked an amazing workout, I know how far and fast to run in the opposite direction you da man.

Devotedly,

Me

p.s. Might you be related to Rachael Ray? Just asking. It must be the smile.

Actually, the workout was excellent, and I was surprised that I felt as if I’d gotten more done than twice the time on a vigorous walk. I enjoy getting outside, keeping an eye on my odd neighbors in Paradise breathing, and watching the sunset, but this is something I need to do a couple of times a week. The on demand channels are an included service, and I can exercise whenever I want, which is, well, not a whole lot different that most everything else I do. So…okay. Whatever.

Okay, still going strong with NaBloPoMo. Lovely Sunday morning — coffee, magazines, a tasty hot bowl of steel cut oatmeal with green apples, pecans, brown sugar and cardamom. And the MoH and RT cozied up watching football. *sigh*

November 11, 2007

Dear House Fairies,

Yanno, I need to swing a deal with you guys. I’m totally not getting around to doing my housework and the place looks like, well…crap. There are piles everywhere from redoing the RT’s room, and from preliminary stages of organizing the office. My mom’s photos are also being gone through now and are in stacks of this and that and those. Jeez. I never quite perfected the art of finishing one thing before starting another. I am making some progress as I’ve given away more of the RT’s books from childhood, and two chests full of Legos. But it hasn’t put much of a dent in anything. It’s quite pathetic.

How about if you just find a way to sneak out of where ever you hide in the night to just spruce everything up. ‘Kay? Sort of Martha-ize the place? Because I just can’t seem to do everything I want and need to do in a 24-hour day and I’m perpetually behind.

Does fixing toilets fall under the category of Martha-izing? The luridness of the RT’s toilet isn’t something I can quite capture with mere words. The newly painted walls haven’t really done anything other than make it stand out even more. I’ve been thinking about whether I might be able to feed a power sprayer through the window from the spigot outside in the back. You know, sort of blast the thing into the next century?

And the laundry room is quite the wreck. I think the cats play in their catbox since there’s more sand on the floor than there is in the box and one of them insists upon leaving crap uncovered every single time, like it’s some little present. What is up with that?

Then there’s the RT’s pile by the garage door. It’s a wonder one of us hasn’t tripped over the backpack, the boxes of models, and textbooks. His shoes, and stinky bag of damp towel and swim trunks from PE. Everything is strung across the carpet.

Speaking of carpets, I need to have them cleaned. What? You don’t do carpets? So I guess I’ll have to call. But my roots are seriously beginning to show and if I get the carpets done for Thanksgiving, then our guests will have to try and figure out why I’ve parked a skunk on my head. It could distract them from their meal.

Do you guys do hair?

No?

Whatever.

Oh, but could you speak to the car fairies about getting my tune up taken care of? What? Your guys don’t talk to their guys?

Fine.

Forget the perfunctory missive concluding niceties…

Me.

p.s. And I don’t want to hear anything from anybody about what a completely stoopid letter this was. I have to write about nonsense once in a while, right?