Daisies Don't Have Thorns

A Royal Mess

2012-02-03T22:31:00.008-06:00

For the past 3 years, my sister and I have participated in Race for the Cure. We have been fortunate in the fact that breast cancer has yet to make an appearance in our immediate family, but that does not mean it has not affected our circle of friends. The same is true for many folks, I think. With over a quarter of a million new cases expected to be diagnosed this year, according to the American Cancer Society, most of us know someone who has been touched by the disease. But even if you had never known anyone who has faced a battle with breast cancer, I think it would be impossible not to be affected by The Race.

There is a particular energy at these events: tens of thousands of people, all shapes, sizes, and colors flow through the streets like a river of humanity. Some wear custom t-shirts honoring those they've lost, others wear pink camo symbolizing the fight in the midst of which they currently find themselves. Every year a local crew of firefighters runs in full gear, complete with pink fire helmets. Every year hundreds of pink tutus and pink feather boas trot alongside them.

One year, a young man proposed to his girlfriend who had just been found to be cancer free after almost two years of treatment. Another year, a woman collapsed five feet away from us...before The Race could even begin. Together, those moments represent what The Race is supposed to be about: the struggle and the victory.

But never, at any moment, at any of The Races, have I ever heard a political conversation.

The Race is not a place for politics.

The Race is a place for hope.

This week, the Susan G. Komen Foundation lost sight of that fact went it's board decided to cut grants to Planned Parenthood that had, for the past 5 years, provided breast screenings for hundreds of thousands of women, most in underserved populations in underserved parts of the country. The moved shocked millions of the group's supporters, especially given founder Nancy Brinker's rather vehement support for PP just a few years ago (pointed out rather nicely here by Milowent).

Today, Brinker apologized for the move, and the foundation has invited Planned Parenthood to reapply for the grant money. While I am happy at what appears to be a return to rationality, I can't help but wonder what this politically driven stumble will ultimately cost the foundation and those individuals it is supposedly trying to help. How many potential donors will shy away from the group either in fear or protest of the political pressures to which they bent this week? How many potential survivors will now be lost?

I'm not sure that I will donate to Komen again, but I am sure that if I don't I will give what I would have to other sources, whether it be the American Cancer Society or directly to Planned Parenthood, as many others upset by the Komen Foundation's actions this week have already done. Withing 48 hours, the $600,000 that PP received annually from Komen was more than made up for by donations made to PP directly. Maybe this outpouring of support was one of the factors that helped Brinker "refocus". At the very least, it demonstrated that in a society where politics is too often king, hope is still a very powerful queen.

WWLD? (What Would Lydia Do?)

2012-02-02T21:16:00.007-06:00

Things overheard the past month while listening to the WM play Skyrim on the Xbox I got him for Christmas:

WM: Where's my Ice Spear?

WM: Look at my new horse Shadowmere! He's the fastest of all the horses!

WM: Get out of the way, Lydia! (This one at least once a game.)

WM: Fine, don't die. I need to try out my destruction spells anyway.

Lydia: O.k., got it. (Heard every ten minutes or so.)

WM: He's gonna kill my horse! Shadowmere, fight back!

WM: That armor makes Lydia look busty.

WM: Where are my maces?

WM: Where'd Lydia go? ( Uttered at least twice a night.)

WM: Yeah, you're in the f#*%in' drink, Bitch.

WM: Come on Shadowmere. Guards are mean nasty people, aren't they?

Lydia: I am swoooorrrrrn to carry your burden. (Then he grins at me.)

Yeah. He's a grown up.

I may have been away for a while...

2012-02-01T23:09:00.003-06:00

...but I'm pretty sure that "jamaican anal parasite" is not a keyword phrase that should be in any way connected to my blog. According to Blogger's statistics, it's in the top 5 as far as keyword searches that could potentially lead people here.

Um...huh?

The internet is a strange, strange place.

The Sky is Falling

2012-02-01T22:19:00.003-06:00

Or it may just be a UFO, or a "meteor", if you believe "officials".

Apparently hundreds of people started calling the local news stations to report sighting a UFO tonight. At least that's what the very blond news anchor has repeated at least 10 times in the past 20 minutes. Forget that we've already determined that it was a meteor...which hit pretty much nothing...and did pretty much no damage...and so really didn't make much news after all. It's still probably the only time Blondie is going to get to use the UFO teaser line, so she is milking it for all it's worth.

This is why I don't normally watch the news. Besides the fact that we are in an election year, and I'm not really keen on any of the candidates that will inevitably take up half the newscast, I also happen to live in Texas, which means the rest of the newscast will consist of high school sports highlights, Dallas Cowboy stories, and the weather. (Have I ever mentioned how obsessed we Texans are with weather? It's a sickness really. Entire evenings devoted to monitoring thunderstorms on Doppler radars and people sending in pictures of clouds and hail pellets.)

Now, if the meteor had headed straight for Cowboys Stadium and taken out Jerry Jones' absurdly overpriced jumbo tron? That would have been newsworthy. That would have been an act of God worthy of Blondie's fine journalistic talent.

As it is, the meteor story was beyond anticlimactic. Especially since the network didn't even have any footage of it's own to show, so they were asking viewers to send in more pictures, since the one they had to use tonight was this one:

Apparently the orange traffic light is really a UFO...or a meteor...or the taillight of someone up on a hill.
Your guess is as good as mine.

WTF, channel 5? That's the best you guys can do?

And people moan about the loss of our local news outlets?

Not to be selfish or anything...

2012-02-01T22:08:00.004-06:00

...but some Mormon chic in L.A. stole my blog name. Really?? That's just rude. Especially since I had been blogging for a good 3 months before she even started hers. And my blog title is also the address of my blog, which I'm sure is more than a little confusing for her friends.

I get that I can't copyright titles and all, but geez, people. I thought blogs were all about being creative & such. I thought bloggers would have a little more courtesy than that. I guess I was wrong. Kind of disappointing.

Think I may have to ask her about it...like where she came up with it. Since I know the story behind mine, and it's not: "I saw another blog with the title and I stole it."

Rude Awakenings

2011-10-26T19:32:00.010-05:00

My allergic malaria continues to run its course, and this week I am in the annoyingly sporadic coughing fit phase. You know what I'm talking about: that phase where you think the cough is gone, so you start cutting back on the cough syrup, only to discover that the cough was merely playing opossum, lying in wait. And then, in the middle of the night (say 2:00 a.m.) you are jolted from your peaceful slumber by a seal-like barking cough coming from your very own mouth.

Just when you thought you were on the mend...
you wake up to discover your sinus infection has transformed you into a wild sea mammal.

You are so startled, in fact, that your arms go flailing about as you bolt upright gasping between coughs. And you accidentally knock over the large tumbler of water that your Winged Monkey was nice enough to put on the bedside table for you. And said tumbler happens to land on its side. On top of your alarm clock. Whose speaker quickly fills with ice water. Which shorts out the clock. Which causes enough commotion to wake up the aforementioned Winged Monkey.

You know that phase?

Needless to say, I will apparently be taking my cough medicine again tonight...and investing in bedside sippy cups.

And the best part of the story? The morning after:

Winged Monkey: So, what exactly happened last night?

Daisy: I was coughing and I knocked over the water glass and it spilled onto the alarm clock. The whole clock is dead.

Winged Monkey: Oh, sorry about that. And I'm sorry for the names I called you when you woke me up.

Daisy: You didn't call me any names.

Winged Monkey: Oh, good, so those stayed in my head then.

So sympathetic. Really.

Surprise! (Not so much.)

2011-10-25T19:23:00.005-05:00

This weekend I attended a surprise wedding. Meaning of course that all of the guests were simply invited to a bar-b-q and shootenanny--like a hootenanny, but with guns, because a) we live in Texas and b) the groom's family has built a gun range on their ranch property because we c) live in Texas. And after everyone had fired a sufficient number of ridiculously large weapons, and all had had their fill of burgers and brauts, our hosts decided to tie the knot before dessert.

It was a beautiful evening, and they are a wonderful couple, so I hate to be the one to spoil their fun, but none of us were really surprised. This might have something to do with the fact that the invitation made mysterious reference to a "special surprise" at 7:00 no fewer than 3 times, and there are only so many possibilities for a couple in their thirties who just recently had a baby together.

Tip: If you really want to surprise people... don't give them any hints.

This got me thinking about surprise weddings in general, and how they would be much more fun if members of the actual wedding party were surprised. Like the bride or the groom. Or both. Now that might be worth seeing: "Hey guys, glad you could make it tonight. By the way...SURPRISE! You're getting married tonight!" Not a shotgun wedding as much as a jello-shot wedding.

And what about a new take on wedding crashers? What if instead of crashing other people's weddings, a couple decided to get married at someone else's party? A birthday party would probably be ideal for something like that because there would already be cake. And presents.

These are the places my brain goes when cough syrup comes into play...

Fortunately, I just downloaded a cheesy historical romance to my new Kindle (b-day gift from the WM...It holds 3500 books!), so I should have plenty of distraction for my malarial sinusitis-impaired brain. Although, there's bound to be a wedding at some point in any cheesy historical romance worth its salt, so I may be back to this same line of thought in a few hours.

This is what my life has become...

2011-10-20T19:23:00.004-05:00

(Skipping the myriad of excuses for why I haven't blogged in almost 3 months...)

Tonight I find myself sitting on my couch, in my sweats, trying desperately to breathe through my nose, coughing my head off, watching the new Charlie's Angels for the first time. Make that the last time.

Seriously? Do they have to ruin everything? Leave the Angels alone, for cryin' out loud. Do we have no creative people in Hollywood anymore? What, you couldn't think of a fresh take on vampires? No more 90210/Gossip Girl/One Tree Hill/ Dawson's Creek type ideas? How about another CSI/Law & Order spin-off?

Help a sick girl out, people. Come up with some good tv to distract me from the misery of what my doc says is yet another upper respiratory infection, but what I am almost certain is some form of urban malaria. All of these overly-tanned, overly-sculpted, overly-quaffed people superimposed on overly-synthesized music only makes me want to drug myself into a cough syrup coma. (And I seriously think I may have already taken too much because I looked up at the screen and one of the Angels had a dreadlock wig on as a disguise. Freaked. Me. Out.)

Thank God for cable channels. At least there I can escape to Jamaica with Anthony Bourdain or chase gators with the Swamp People. Forget the Angels in a speed boat; I'll take Troy on the Bayou any day of the week. Maybe the "tree shakers" and "tree breakers" will manage to clear my sinuses.

God I love the History Channel!

But Dolly is waiting!

2011-07-30T00:31:00.014-05:00

You would think in a household of two IT professionals you would have very little downtime when a computer starts acting up.

You would think, but you would be wrong.

Because when you work with technology all day long, the last thing you want to do is to have to work on it when you get home. Home is supposed to be where you play with new gadgets and enjoy the wonderful randomness of the internet without worrying about being interrupted by your boss.

So, after a couple of months of living with a slow machine, the Winged Monkey and I tried to fix my aging laptop, Pavarotti. We scanned, we defragged, we root-kitted...and we finally gave up. In a hail Mary attempt to extend poor Pavarotti's life, we finally decided for a complete makeover.

We ditched Windows.

Pavarotti is now a Linux machine, Ubuntu to be specific, and I have to say that the transition has been a bit bumpy. Especially where Dolly Parton is concerned.

You see, last week, a couple of the Mimes and myself went to see opening night of Dolly Parton's Better Day Tour. Why, you ask, did we go to a Dolly Parton concert? Because it's Dolly. And growing up with a mother from east Texas, Willie Nelson and Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton and Barbara Mandrel made up a significant portion of the soundtrack of my childhood.

You can only imagine how excited I was at the thought of sharing the post-concert euphoria with the world in general (or at least the 6 people who still check this thing). You can also only imagine my frustration when I got home and my machine was being backed up and not available. Or the next two days when it was being rebuilt. Or the next 3 days when I was looking or the Linux equivalent of Paint so I could edit some images to put in the post. Or the 2 days after that when the Winged Monkey was trying to get iTunes to run so I could sync my phone and my iPod.

While the iPod issue is still unresolved (my most recent lame excuse for not running in the mornings), I did finally manage to find the program necessary to bring you this image, courtesy of Mime 4's facebook, which perfectly sums up our entire Dolly Parton Better Day Tour experience:

I have decided that Dolly, in all of her rhinestoned-dulcimer glory, is indeed a heavenly being.

*Inhuman physical characteristics? Big boobs. Check. Gravity-defying hair. Check.

*Abnormal aging process? Dolly is aging backwards. She looks ten years younger than she did twenty years ago. It's uncanny.

*Ability to morph appearance? Um, Dolly has a brand new face. And yet she's still Dolly. That's not human.

*Supernatural powers? Dolly's rendition of Sparrow left the audience frozen with their mouths gaping open. That woman's voice is a bit like Piper's power to freeze on Charmed. Time. Stands. Still.

*Unusual results when photographed? Giant, blinding halo in every image we took of Dolly. Just like every photo of a fairy/ghost/angel I ever saw when Unsolved Mysteries was in its heyday.

*Power to unite diverse peoples? Dolly flirted with all the boys from ages 5 to 85 (regardless of sexual orientation), made the rednecks feel at home with her Tennessee Mountain Home stories, befriended all the ladies with Sparrow and her jokes about her hair, reached out out to the stoners with her rendition of Stairway to Heaven (I kid you not), brought in the Christian right with a couple of gospel numbers, and befriended the African-American contingency by laughing at her lack of dancing skills while plugging the new film she co-stars in with her mammographic identical twin cousin Queen Latifah. ALL IN 2 HOURS!

Conclusion: Dolly Parton is, in reality, a heavenly being come to earth to either offer us hope for the future or to herald the end of days. Or possibly to warn us of an impending zombie apocalypse.

Whatever the case, I am happy that I was there to hear her message last week, and that I have a Dolly Parton mudflap concert t-shirt to prove it.

If the end is near, I'm going out in style, and, if the Winged Monkey can ever get my iTunes working so I can sync my iPod, to a soundtrack that includes Jolene and My Tennessee Mountain Home.

Roller Derby Karaoke

2011-07-18T08:15:00.013-05:00

Last weekend the Winged Monkey scored free tickets to Assassination City Roller Derby.

Yep. You read that right: Roller. Derby.

Only my boyfriend would be friends with someone who referees amateur female flat-track roller derby. So, this is how I found myself spending last Saturday night in Fair Park Coliseum (a venue reserved for livestock shows the majority of the year) watching a myriad of overly-tattooed women skating in circles around a duct-tape-delineated track. Watching with five men in their 40's.

Now I could spend the rest of the week sharing the inappropriate comments that will spout from the beer-laden minds of men watching women on roller skates, but none of those are really all that original or surprising to any woman who has had any contact with any male over the age of 12.

What was surprising was the following:

After watching my companions spend the first hour of the evening drooling over the fishnet-clad members of the Bombshell Brigade manning the souvenir booth and the concession stand, we moved inside the arena and found some seats just in time to watch the introductions of the first two teams. Introductions set to music, of course. I can't remember what the first team skated in to, and I'm sure that may be a disappointment to those looking for details. But how could I be expected to remember anything after the second team skated in to Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart...and one of the guys I'm with...reaches in his wallet...and proudly pulls out...a crib sheet style printout of the lyrics?

Yep. Smart, good looking single guy. Mid-40's. Good job. Bonnie Tyler lyrics in his wallet.

There followed a good 10 seconds of silence among the group. Because what is the proper response when a man shows you his Bonnie Tyler?

Because, according to D, some days you really need a little Bonnie Tyler.

(Buy the album on Amazon, from whom I borrowed the cover shot.)

Apparently the proper response is an all-purpose "What the f%*#, Dude?" followed by uncontrollable laughter.

It seems that about 4 years ago, our friend D had been at a happy hour, and Bonnie Tyler's classic Total Eclipse of the Heart had been playing, and no one knew all of the lyrics. D, boy scout to the extreme, went home that night and printed them out and put them in his wallet so as to be prepared...in case he ever needed them again. Because there is nothing worse than being caught without your Bonnie Tyler.

Of course, being Daisy and all, and having watched way too many episodes of Law and Order Criminal Intent, I had to point out that it was a good thing we all knew about the lyrics now. Because what if something happened to him one night in the roller derby parking lot? And the police had to explain to his mother: "We found these Bonnie Tyler lyrics in his wallet, ma'am." The unknown meaning might have haunted his family and friends for the rest of their lives.

I've Got Nothin'

2011-07-14T09:57:00.005-05:00

O.K., maybe I don't have nothing. I did, after all, drive through a hail storm in Colorado on the way to a cat-themed winery, spend a Saturday night watching women's flat track roller derby in a livestock arena, waste a day of my vacation riding courthouse escalators for jury duty, and I am currently dog sitting a Labrador who snores. All within the last 2 weeks!

So I should be writing about me and my occasionally entertaining existence. And I will, if for no other reason than to get the Winged Monkey off my case for not writing. But not right this minute.

Right now? Right now I want to share a link to this little tidbit on chickens and towels from The Bloggess because it made me laugh out loud.

And it made me want to go buy rusty metal poultry art.

I'm on vacation..sort of.

2011-06-04T10:35:00.004-05:00

My summer vacation officially began on Friday the 27th, but I somehow managed to find myself back on campus every day last week...until yesterday. Yesterday, I finally had my inaugural summer vacation nap: After mowing the front and back yards, and taking the requisite post-yard work shower, I promptly sat my ass on the couch and too a 3 hour siesta.

It was glorious. And the best part? No calls from work to wake me up. Huzzah!

Now begins the gear up to start in on the summer to-do list:

Yardwork.

Must be done before 10:00 a.m. because I live in Texas and it is already pushing 100 degrees around here. And can I just say that yardwork is one of the aspects of homeownership that should really receive more attention before one buys a home. Perhaps there should be a tryout period during which you are responsible for someone else's yard before you are allowed to have your own. Because you really have no idea how much work it is going to be until you up the your armpits in leaf raking and flower bed weeding and hedge trimming. And don't get me started on the sprinkler system. Just when you think you've got it all fixed and all programmed, you discover you have a leak somewhere under your front yard. That's gonna be a mess.

Housework.

I live with a Winged Monkey. Neither of us is what you might call a neat freak, but the two of us combined equals endless dirty dishes. And laundry. And floors. And bathrooms. Needless to say, I've begun the Great Summer Cleanup of 2011, so you can now sit on all the furniture in the living room, and you can see the top of the coffee table and the bottom of the kitchen sink (well, one side, anyway). I've set Monday as the start date of the Junk Room Clean Out Phase, which I hope to have completed by Friday. Cross your fingers, people. It's a jungle in there.

Work work.

Next week I also get to start the migration to the school's new website...by myself. Lots of copying and pasting and page management and template building and crap. Guaranteed to make me grumpy.

Travel.

T minus 2 weeks and counting to Road Trip 2011. WM and I are headed to Colorado for 2 weeks. This will be the first trip the two of us have taken together that didn't involve family holidays or funerals. This will also be the longest trip we've taken together. Looking forward to cooler temps, mountain views, and plenty of snuggle time. My favorite part: the whole second week is unscripted, meaning we have no idea where we are going. I love the fact that he can be fly-by-the-set-of-your-winged-monkey-pants kinda traveler. :-)

Not exactly 3 months of lying on a beach being fed grapes by Gerard Butler and fanned by Brad Pitt, but it'll do. That is, until I win that lottery...

Maybes

2011-05-01T22:07:00.002-05:00

I got an email yesterday from NaBloPoMo announcing that the theme for May is "Maybe".

Pun intended? I suspect so.

But, at least it prompted me to take a look at my defunct blog, which had apparently imploded while I was away barely dealing with realities that still feel too enormous to condense into words. As it is, I have sat here, staring at a blinking cursor trying to decide how best to write that two months ago I lost a friend. How do you type that without it sounding cheap or hollow? Which would actually be appropriate in some way, as that's how much of my life feels at the moment.

My friend died and my life is just the same.

Work is work, and family is family, and rain is rain. And I am me.

I don't understand how that is possible. How someone who had been a part of your entire life can be gone and the alarm clock stills goes off every morning as if nothing at all has changed. Because everything has changed. Just the tiniest bit by the whole-of-reality's standards, but enough that sometimes I can feel the difference, and it is sad and overwhelming and reassuring, all at the same time.

And maybe that will fade, the feeling of different-ness that catches me off guard whenever he crosses my mind. And maybe it won't.

That's the thing about maybes: they can be fickle; they can be cruel.

Especially when you're not sure which maybe you'd prefer.

Six inches...and then some

2011-02-09T06:41:00.003-06:00

This was the scene last week 2 days into The Great Freeze of '11.

Notice the 6 inches of snow on the table top.

Now, while this looks like pretty much every 8-year-old's dream snow day, what you can't see is the inch thick layer of ice underneath the snow from the two previous day's thundersleet storms. Not that any of that was a problem for Daisy. My head cold and I just stayed inside in one of my many pairs of flannel pajamas; Twiggy stayed parked in the driveway, under his blanket of snow; and all was right with the world.

Everything except the lack of hot water in what my mother has taken to referring to as The Little House on the Prairie. You see, dear reader, apparently 4 degree temperatures can freeze pipes that are not properly insulated, as were the two pipes going to and from my hot water heater. The brand new hot water heater I had installed less than 2 months ago. (Notice the snow "gopher mound" that streaks across the backyard in the picture above? That would be where they replaced the entire gas line in my backyard. A reminder of the all-too-recent 12 day stint with no heat or hot water henceforth known as The Urban Camping Experience of 2010.)

4 days of hair dryers and heat guns and space heaters later, and we finally had functioning pipes. And now? Now a much smarter Daisy is running the dishwasher and dripping the faucets as the temperature drops yet again. Yesterday? 54 degrees. This morning? 16. And still dropping.

Schizophrenic Texas weather.

Fortunately, it is also sleeting again, so I am embarking on the 5th snow day in a little over a week. This time I'll be smart enough to run the hot water from time to time so it doesn't freeze up. This time I do not have a cold. This time I have leftover pizza in my fridge, a decent internet connection, and a trashy romance to read.

I could get used to this.

Some things you never outgrow

2011-02-01T09:51:00.004-06:00

You never outgrow the excitement of a snow day.

Granted, as a grown up, I have the nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that we'll have to make it up in a month or two. But for the moment, the childlike squeal of delight at the prospect of spending a ridiculously cold Tuesday morning in my pajamas, watching Robert Redford and Paul Newman in The Sting instead of trudging off to work, is drowning out the more rational side of my nature. I mean, really, how could you listen to negative thoughts when you have this image in front of you:

One of the less unfortunate things I definitely inherited from my mother is a healthy appreciation for Robert Redford and Paul Newman.

And whatever happened to men wearing hats?

Warms me up just lookin' at him. You can keep your hyperbolated (hyperbolized?) weather watches and traffic reports, the trademark of all Texas television networks who will spend the rest of this wintry day toggling between road cams and cub reporters standing on the side of a treacherous overpass in the middle of a thundersleet* storm; I plan on watching Paul Newman's icy baby blues playing poker on a train.

*Never heard of thundersleet? Me neither...until this morning.

Happy Thanksgiving. Be grateful you didn't blow up.

2010-12-05T11:47:00.002-06:00

The past week, I keep hearing news about taxes. Apparently the deficit has gotten so bad members of Congress are talking about tightening the belt, so to speak, and they seem to think that eliminating tax cuts is the way to go. So, I guess it's a good thing I'm taking advantage of some of this years' tax credits while they still exist.

To that end, I just had a tankless hot water heater installed yesterday. Of course, I don't have any hot water yet, but I'm excited nonetheless.

Why am I excited about a non-functioning hot water heater, you may ask? Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that in preparation for its installation I had to have my old gas meter upgraded, and during that process was informed that I had a gas leak somewhere.

This, of course, was the day before Thanksgiving, so getting it fixed was put on hold until after the holiday weekend. Meanwhile, the gas company cut me off, so I've had no heat and no hot water for the last week and a half while I've argued with home warranty representatives.

It's like camping...involuntarily...and without the pretty scenery.

I am, however, grateful that the leak was caught before my house blew up...with me in it. Funny how once the gas was shut off the weird smell in the master bathroom suddenly vanished. Guess I now know what gas mixed with soap scum smells like. Good to know.

And the house? Well, knock on wood, but I've replaced just about all the major parts, so I'm hoping that 2011 will be a little bit cheaper on the home front. My credit card company, however, would be quite content if the home repair spree continued at its current pace. I have a feeling I'm paying for some nice Christmas gifts for a few executives' wives.

Dear Madams:

Keep your diamonds; I'll take a hot shower for Christmas, please.

Sincerely,
Daisy

Falling Back

2010-11-07T11:06:00.004-06:00

It's 11:00 a.m. And it should be 12:00 p.m. I think. Or is this the real 11:00 a.m. and the other 11:00 a.m. was just an impostor for the past several months? You would think with an extra hour of sleep I would be able to figure this stuff out, but I didn't really get an extra hour of sleep. Because my body thought it was time to get up. So instead? I got an extra hour of chores.

So far today I have finished two loads of laundry, washed a load of dishes, run two miles, made scramble eggs for breakfast, and mowed both the front and back yards. And it's not even noon yet...on Sunday.

Normally I would be pretty pumped that I had gotten so much done already, but I know what's coming. By 8:00 p.m., my body will mistake for 9:00 p.m., I will be half comatose on the couch. And by what is now 9:00 pm. I will be completely unconscious. Asleep by 9? Pathetic.

Of course, that means I'll wake up early tomorrow, and there may be some good that can come of that. I have, in the past 3 weeks, been attempting to re-establish some habits I'd managed to drift away from over the past several months.

First of all, I've been running. 2 miles a day, 3 days a week, 3 weeks in a row. Today was the start of week 4, so I'm feeling pretty proud about that. I figure 4 more weeks and I'll be back up to 2.5 miles, 4 days a week. Where I was a year ago. And maybe all my corduroy pants will fit again.

And, I've been reading...every day. I forget sometimes how much I need that, but when I get back in the habit I sleep better, and my dreams are flippin' fantastic, and I just feel more...me.

And then there are the Mimes: my group of girlfriends that I used to hang out with all the time. All of us have gotten a little insulated over the past several months, what with jobs and pets and spouses and houses. So, we established a monthly meal on the first Tuesday of every month. This week was our first outing, and it was fabulous. One margarita, several bowls of chips and salsa and a couple of hours of wonderful conversation with three women who know me.

So I'm feeling a little more grounded these days. And now that the Winged Monkey got the internet connection fixed, I have a feeling I'll be back in the blogoshpere more regularly again.

Which is good, since I'm gonna need something to do when my body wakes me up at what is now 5:00 a.m.

Voices

2010-09-17T06:37:00.004-05:00

I ran this morning for the first time in about 6 weeks -- the end of my last botched attempt to re-establish a morning routine that does not involve hitting the snooze button 7 times before actually considering getting out of my bed.

When I started running regularly a little over two years ago, it didn't take me long to realize early morning was the best time for me: the Texas heat hasn't had time to reach it's full boil before 7:00 a.m., so even in the summer months it's pretty bearable if you can get out the door before the sun comes up. And there is something soothing about sidewalks in the dark, faintly glowing in the halo of the street lamps.

And it's quiet. Living in the middle of the city doesn't afford much of this underrated commodity, so you appreciate when you can find an hour or so free from the noise of traffic and planes and light rails and buses. My new neighborhood has a creek that runs through the middle of it, and at 6:00 a.m., you can actually hear the water rushing under the sidewalk as you run across the overpass. There's something inherently good about the sound of a burbling stream, no matter how small and urbanized it has become.

So this morning was a good run, even with the kinks my body needed to work out after so many weeks of a sedentary lifestyle. It was relaxing, even meditative. Until the end.

As I stepped through my back door into my quiet kitchen, shrugging away the disappointment of the slow time the handsome-voiced Nike+ man had just whispered in my ear, I was greeted by a falsely enthusiastic "Congratulations!" from none other than Mr. Lance Armstrong.

Dear Nike+ programmers,

I know that Lance is a cycling phenom, but his voice conjures images of his scrawny-assed, pointy-headed, yellow-jerseyed body which just do not appeal to me as I am trying to catch my breath after I've trudged through my inaugural 2 miles this morning. Further, Lance was congratulating me on my "longest run yet," which is funny since I ran the exact same route I ran for over a month this summer. Perhaps the streets are longer before sunrise, but more likely that means my sensor either needs recalibration or needs to be replaced, since your engineers designed it in such a way that I have to spend $20 to replace it every year instead of $3 to replace the battery, thus placing undo strain on our environment as well as my meager income.

These are not the calming thoughts I wanted to take with me into my morning shower, Nike Peeps. Couldn't you just have Lance send me an email or something to encourage me when I really need it, after my beloved endorphins have worn off? I'm just sayin'.

Sincerely,
Nike + user: daisiesforyou

P.S. Is Tiger Woods still in the "Encouragement Line-up" as well? Because while it was always kind of funny to me that he was the voice for my "fastest time yet," because golfers are known for their speed and all, I think it would be even more amusing now that we all know he couldn't even outrun his golf club-wielding wife, who chased down his Escalade...on foot.

Again, just a thought.

World Wide Waste?

2010-08-03T20:02:00.005-05:00

Once again, the folks at TED have tickled my brain. Two days before I present a session on instructional technology at our administrator's yearly "retreat," Ethan Zuckerman adds an interesting new angle to a point I've been trying to make for some time: Even though most of our students have internet access, that doesn't mean they know what to do with it.

Zuckerman explains that while the world may have a global infrastructure, that doesn't necessarily mean we have a global mindset. Precisely why today's student needs teachers who challenge them to do more online than just update their "status."

(Try not to let his Benjamin Franklin-esque appearance distract you too much. Ben was pretty brilliant, after all.)

106? Well...almost

2010-08-02T21:34:00.004-05:00

We didn't quite make it up to 106* today as predicted here in Big D. We only hit 103.

Even the bugs were on fire. See?

Sunburned dragonfly in my backyard. Picture by me. :)

And now? At 9:38 PM? It's a mere 93*. That's pretty much a cold front.

So, it should be no surprise to anyone that Daisy didn't quite make it out in her stifling garage to put together the second set of patio furniture like she had planned. There's always tomorrow.

But there are some bonuses to so much sun. Plenty of power for my new solar powered patio umbrellas to soak up. So tonight, after raking up the leftover trimmings from Winged Monkey's Sunday-afternoon-chainsaw-hedge-trimming escapade, Daisy sat herself down, cranked her umbrella up, flipped the light switch on, and...viola!

Inaugural lighting of the solar powered umbrella.
Photo by WM, showing off with his iPhone 4.

Twinkly evening lights! Powered by solar powered rechargeable batteries! Environmentally responsible AND super cute? Double bonus points!!

Some Assembly Required

2010-08-01T21:52:00.007-05:00

Summers in Texas have a couple of requirements:

1) You must, at some point, grill some cut of beef.
2) You must, at some point, catch fireflies.
3) You must have a comfortable place to sit outside from which to watch said fireflies while said beef is cooking.

Now, since purchasing the new house, the Winged Monkey and I have seen plenty of fireflies outside along the treeline that runs down one side of the backyard. And a couple of weeks ago, we grilled some pretty spectacular beef kabobs (Daisy highly recommends Central Market's butcher case) with WM's friend D, who was nice enough to donate his gas grill to our new backyard since his apartment building no longer allows them on the balconies.

But we had yet to have a suitable perch from which to supervise these summertime activities...until today.

While WM was trimming (and at times chainsawing) the ginormous bushes and untamed trees behind the house, Daisy was assembling the plethora of patio furniture she has acquired over the past two weeks from the summer clearance sales all over town. And I do mean all over town.

No one has ever accused Daisy of being particularly decisive. Actually, that's not quite right. Daisy is extremely decisive, but it takes a while for her to actually make a final decision. That's one of the reasons Daisy would suck on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Regis would "Is that your final answer?" me, and I would be all, "Um, actually, no. I take it back. I've decided to go with D instead of C."

And Daisy would do that on pretty much every question.

The good news is, once Daisy has settled on the final answer, she sticks with it. That's how she ended up driving the same car for 11 years, until the transmission was, quite literally, falling out the bottom of it.

Knowing this about herself, it was no surprise to Daisy that she had to return all the patio furniture she originally purchased, before she had even taken it out of the box. In fact, that's the main reason she didn't rush home to assemble it as soon as the credit card receipt was signed. Instead, she let the boxes sit in the garage for a week while she made up her mind, or in the case of the first set, decided to take them back.

But the second set was a keeper, so a week after purchase, Daisy spent a couple of hours this evening assembling a table, four dining chairs, a fire pit, and two Adirondack chairs.

The result of this evening's labors.

One set down...one to go. Yep. You heard me. WM and I want to do some outdoor entertaining as soon as the evening temperatures drop below 98*, so we got 2 table and chair sets (they were half price, after all). So, this evening we relaxed outside, and ate our Thai delivery leftovers from last night, and bounced a bit in our new bouncy wrought iron chairs while we watched the branches he had cut burn in the fire pit I had bought. It was a great way to spend an evening together.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow morning Daisy'll spend another couple of hours assembling the second set and staging the rest of the patio. And why in the morning, you may be asking? Because the solar cell on the top of the umbrellas need 8 hours of direct sunlight to make the LED lights under the umbrellas light up.

How cool is that?!?!

You know there will be pictures tomorrow night.

Finally, someone gets it!

2010-07-11T21:19:00.003-05:00

It's a running joke that my love of bread is really just because it's such a perfect vehicle for butter. I refuse to use SmartBalance because it's basically water, and I only buy Parkay for use in one specific cinnamon roll recipe that requires it. (Mmmmmm...cinnamon.)

In my fridge, butter is king, and I put it on just about everything because, much like it's fatty cousin bacon, butter makes everything better.

And now? Now, there are people testifying on butter's behalf.

I don't know about their science, but I agree with the slogan!

Patterns

2010-07-02T10:00:00.004-05:00

Feb. 6, 2010: Put bid in on house.

April 15, 2010: FINALLY close on house.

May 14, 2010: Purchase refrigerator from Sears.

May 31, 2010: Purchase washer and dryer from Lowe's.

June 5th, 2010: FINALLY move in to new house.

June 6, 2010: Scheduled date for fridge delivery.

June 13, 2010: Day Sears actually FINALLY delivers my fridge.

June 14, 2010: Last day of lease with Crazy Landlady (and last day of access to Crazy Landlady's laundry room).

June 25, 2010: Scheduled date for washer/dryer delivery.

July 12, 2010: NEW Scheduled date for washer/dryer delivery.

Now, I'm not sure which of the gods above I have angered or what delivery wagon I cut off in a previous life, but I get the distinct feeling I am being punished. I mean, have any of you ever lived out of an ice chest for a week? In Texas? In the summer? When ice is a nutritional requirement in order to avoid heat stroke?!

Granted, I am fully aware there are people out there living out of cardboard boxes, and there are starving children all over the world. But this is America. And I am gainfully employed. With stellar credit. So, call me crazy, but I kind of assume that when I purchase a household appliance, I should be able to actually have it in my home for my own shallow and materialistic pleasure.

And for the record, Sears sucks.

Period.

Daisy will NEVER shop there again, as she has never experienced such poor customer service in all her shopping years.

At least Lowe's has been kind enough to keep me posted on the status of my back ordered items, calling me on a fairly regular basis to tell me that it will be yet another week before they arrive, instead of waiting until an hour into the scheduled delivery window to call to tell me they don't even have the item in stock, so there's no possible way that it is on the truck they called twice to remind you to meet at your house between 2 and 4 on the day of your Papa's 90th birthday party. (See what I mean about Sears sucking?)

So, yesterday, a depressed Daisy went to a furniture store to peruse possible solutions for her new living room and bedroom. Now, I didn't buy anything...yet. But I'm thinking that if I plan to have it in my home by, say, Christmas, I better order it in the next week to make sure there is plenty of time for delivery.

In the meantime, I will be gathering my dirty laundry together to take with me to my parents' for the Fourth. Who would have thought that 12 years after graduation, I would be in much the same place in my life I was in college: in debt, with crappy furniture, relying on Mom's Washateria to keep me in clean undies.

Wha'did a house fall on her or something?

2010-05-01T22:16:00.003-05:00

As a matter of fact, one did!

As of April 15th, Daisy officially became a HO (Home Owner).

My parents are so proud.

And me? Well, I'm exhausted. And overwhelmed. And, according to the Winged Monkey, a little obsessed with contractor bids and refrigerator sales. Because the house I bought was built in 1954. Which makes it, well, old. And in need of a little TLC. And a lot of updates. Which means a lot of updates here.

So, now that the shock has worn off, expect much ado around here about electrical panels and furnace relocations and front door replacement.

Just not this evening. Because I'm tired and my laptop battery is low.

So tomorrow: Hardwood Floor Reveal and The Demolition Men.

Lacka-daisy-cal

2010-04-03T07:44:00.007-05:00

The last few weeks, it's been difficult for Daisy to get very excited about much of anything. I attribute this to two factors:

1) Malaria.

For nearly three weeks now I've been fighting what I have now dubbed Allergic Bronchial Malaria. Rather than being transmitted by the traditional mosquito bite, this pestilence is a result of Spring doing it's springy thing. Predominate symptoms include an alternating stuffy head and faucet-like nose, and an annoying hacking seal-like barking cough that peaks at 2:00 a.m. or while the patient is trying to carry on professional phone conversations.

Three weeks, one trip to the doctor, one follow-up phone call, two rounds of antibiotics, half a gallon of prescription cough syrup, and a truck load of Claritin D later...I finally feel like I may not cough my lung out of socket. Yes, I know your lungs aren't actually in sockets, but I think the image conveys the peril of the recent coughing fits. And, while my lungs may have stayed in place, the muscles in my back and neck did not. All of the coughing has done a number on me that only several sessions with a licensed massage therapist will correct. (Feel free to email credit card information to the link in the sidebar if you'd like to donate to that cause.)

Cough Syrup: The fifth major food group for those suffering from
Allergic Bronchial Malaria.

2) Buying a house is a bitch.

You read it right. I have never had to deal with so many people who just don't have their shit together in my life. And you would think with so much money involved, people would be dotting i's and crossing t's. But no. Instead, I am trying to buy a house from folks represented by Gomer Pyle.

If you are shopping for a house in Texas, avoid this realtor.

You know it's bad when your realtor offers to pay the final inspection as a thank you for your patience. Granted, it's pennies when compared to my final bill (spread out in equal payments over a 30 year period), but still, when your realtor keeps having to apologize for their realtor, and when she actually says to you "This is going to be a chapter in my book if this deal actually goes through," you know it's not just you who is frustrated. With so many stops and starts to the whole process, it's been difficult to get really excited.

But yesterday? Yesterday many things happened.

I was up at 6:15 to start cleaning my entire place because Crazy Landlady was showing it to 2 different potential renters. 5 hours of packing boxes, washing dishes, doing laundry, scrubbing tubs, vacuuming carpets, straightening up closets and mopping floors. My place wasn't all that messy, but I needed it to be immaculate so the potentials might be willing to overlook Crazy Landlady's, well, craziness, and might want to move in before my official lease is up so I can save on a month of double housing costs.

And after my lunch with the Winged Monkey? (Where I downed 5 Black-Eyed Pea rolls, partly because they are yummy and partly because I was stressed and running was out of the question because of the coughing a lung out of socket bit I mentioned above.)

Rolls (a.k.a basket of Prozac)

After lunch the title company sent me the survey for the property. The roofers were scheduled to begin work on the roof (the last requested repair) on Monday morning. I signed the papers for my home owner's insurance. And the bank emailed to tell me that my mortgage application made it through underwriting and that I am "clear to close" in 12 days.

12 days to home ownership. That's enough to make even the droopiest of daisies stand up and take notice. And panic...

* All images found via Google Images. Clicking on them will take you to the sites from which I "borrowed" them.

I dream of HVAC contractors

2010-03-19T08:03:00.001-05:00

A bi-product of my recent quest for mortgage ownership has been a disturbing change in programming on my nightly dream channel. Whereas I used to take vacations or run over annoying co-workers and ex-boyfriends with my car, most nights now have me remodeling bathrooms and kitchens and negotiating with air conditioning repairmen. It's like a bad reality TV show that didn't make the HGTV cut every night in my little noggin'.

Last night was the air conditioner..again. This time it was prompted by my late afternoon chat with Larry, one of the technicians scheduled to do the furnace and duct work repairs on my intended house. I had to speak with Larry to find out exactly what his repairs would entail to make sure everything on the HVAC list of requested repairs is covered. Of course, it wasn't. So, in real life, I sent my realtor an email requesting she inform the Seller's agent of the items that were neglected. In my dream? I met the current owner at the house with the repairmen and argued in the driveway for 15 minutes before throwing a termination letter in her face and driving away. And then waking up in a coughing fit.

Anyone else sense my underlying frustrations with this whole process?

Don't get me wrong: it's a great house in a great neighborhood with loads of potential and just a few issues. A few rather large and somewhat expensive issues. Like the fact it needs a whole new roof. And a new furnace. And that half the ductwork is, well, non-existent and, therefore, must be replaced.

And now? Now I find out that the air conditioner has no coolant, so it may have a leak, or it may be completely shot, and we had no way of knowing since it was too cold to test it when we started this whole process last month, but now that we do I have to tell the seller that it has to be working, and that she has to pay for the repairs.

And she is supposed to sign the contract and its repair amendment today. Hopefully. Otherwise, we are back to the option extension game, which we have already played. 3 times. And that was before we terminated on Monday and refiled the whole contract again on Tuesday.

Can you say frustration?

And what really gets me riled up is the fact that:

A) I'm offering their asking price. (Who does that?)

and

B) Their insurance is paying for the bulk of the repairs, so even though it looks like a lot of money on paper, they aren't really paying for much of any of it.

and

C) Who in their right mind wouldn't have thought to themselves: "Hey, my furnace is 24 years old and rusted solid. I bet that might need to be replaced before someone will buy the place?"

So, I am trying to be patient. I am trying to be flexible. And I am trying not to get too emotionally attached to this place...just in case the people really flake out once and for all.

But I chose this house. And anyone who has every been shopping with me knows I do not make purchasing decisions on a whim. (Ask Favorite Aunt about trying to take 8-year-old Daisy back to school jeans shopping.)

Cross your fingers people. Today is the last day the Seller has to sign the contract (this time). Daisy needs all the good house buying karma you can spare.

You call this a vacation?

2010-03-16T08:06:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure that having to go to work to meet projection installers is really how I intended to spend the first day of my Spring Break. Nor do I think I was looking forward to coughing my head off because the Winged Monkey was thoughtful enough to give me his malaria (or sinus infection) he's been sick with the past 4 days. And I'm pretty certain my vacation plans did not include dealing with an incompetent real estate agent (not my own, thank God) until 8 o'clock at night, only to be disappointed with the outcome.

All in all, I'd say day one of my vacation pretty much sucked all the way around.

And to add insult to injury, I wrote a great post in my sleep last night, when my brain decided it needed a break from bathroom and kitchen remodeling dreams, and I woke up (in a coughing fit) unable to remember the good parts. I'm hoping this is just bad-day-hangover and will dissipate with some breakfast and a few glasses of ice water. Because today?

Today I offer a bid on the house on which I just terminated a contract. More precisely, I offer the exact same bid that I had offered a month ago, and I hope that the seller is gracious enough to accept the same bid they accepted a month ago. And maybe this time, their agent will get all of their ducks in a row and have everyone he needs available to sign the necessary paperwork so we can get this deal done. Because I want to buy their house, and I'm pretty sure they want to sell me their house, and I need a little happy in this vacation to make up for the false start.

Let's take a look under her hood...

2010-03-01T22:19:00.002-06:00

So, this whole house buying thing? Not fun. As in really giving me a migraine and an ulcer not fun. I mean, first you look at house after house and , trust me, many of them are completely unlivable. Crown molding does not improve air quality ruined by the mold infestation, people. And Stainless steel appliances do not hide the fact that your house is next door to Sanford and Son wannabes...complete with rusted out cars on blocks and patio furniture minus its necessary legs.

Then, you find one that you like and the real fun begins.

Make an offer. Offer countered. Counter back. Offer accepted. Hire inspector. Learn house needs new...everything.

O.k., maybe not everything. The foundation is good, but the roof is shot. The windows are good, but the furnace is a health hazard. The walls and floors are great, but the duct work is...non-existent? As in, someone crushed the duct work under the house at some point, and instead of fixing it they just disassembled it all. Um...yeah, not gonna work for me. And the electrical. Well, that's just an impromptu fourth of July fireworks show waiting to happen.

And now I feel guilty because I was the one to bring all these problems to this poor family's attention. And I'm the one asking them to pay to have it all fixed.

And I'm afraid they are going to say no and I'm going to have to start all over.

And I'm not sure which would be worse: spending another 2 months looking for a house in my price range or spending another year or two as a tenant of Crazy Landlady. Hmmmm. That's gonna be a close one.

I'm a HO! (Almost.)

2010-02-21T08:46:00.007-06:00

The past three weeks, the Daisy has been looking to put down some roots. My friend LG mentioned the extension of the First Time Home Buyers tax credit, and after running some numbers--and after listening to my upstairs neighbors screaming at each other while simultaneously clumping across the floor at 3 a.m. one night--I decided that this was the time. So, I'm buying a house.

Shirt from CafePress.com, in case anyone needs housewarming gift ideas.

Fortunately for me, I happen to have several family members in the banking industry, so Brother-in-Law was able to put me in contact with the Fabulous Mortgage Guy, who was then able to put me in contact with the Real Estate Goddess who has, in the past two and a half weeks, worked around my trip to Austin for a conference, Winged Monkey's training schedule, and my persnickety taste, to show me every house in my price range in the areas I'm interested in. We are talking marathon showings on Sundays, and a gazillion emailed data sheets.

And I found one.

It's sturdy and strong ad cozy and warm...and "vanilla". That's the word Real Estate Goddess used and she hit the nail on the head. Apparently the sellers took the advice of every episode of Sell This House, and they made everything as neutral as possible. So, in my dreams the past week, I've been ripping out carpets, refinishing floors, painting walls, and arranging furniture in my soon-to-be home. HGTV ain't got nothing on my little imagination!

The problem? I haven't even been through the inspection process yet. That's this week, and you better believe, that I expect everyone I know to be crossing their fingers that I'm not told that the entire house is riddled with termites, or that the foundation is made up of weathered toothpicks, or that the electrical system is just waiting for the chance to burn my little house to the ground.

The good news? This whole process should provide lots of fodder for my recently neglected little blog, so cross you fingers all goes well this week because the Daisy would like nothing more to be able to officially consider herself a HO. Home Owner, that is, not the skanky kind. ;)

Terms of Endearment

2010-02-07T07:35:00.004-06:00

Early this morning, the Winged Monkey and I are munching on some leftovers after an evening out with his friend D. WM is polishing off my Mi Cocina doggy bag and I'm making another small dent in a rather large pizza I ordered Friday night.

WM leans over and gives me a little kiss, even though I've got a mouthful of extra-cheesy-pie.

WM: (Hugging me) I love you more than pizza.
Daisy: (Giggling) I hope you don't expect me to say the same thing...because you know how much I love pizza. Me saying that would be like you saying you loved me more than beer.
WM: (Pause)I do love you more than beer. (Looks at me and grins.) At least one of us is ready for that kind of commitment. (Turns back to his plate.)

LOL!

Burn, Baby, Burn

2010-01-12T19:35:00.004-06:00

In an effort to get back in the workout habit, my friend JF and I decided we would take advantage of one of the perks of working in a building with 3 gyms and every make and model of treadmill, elliptical, and stationary bike. After school, we changed into exercise gear and went up to the mezzanine-- an open area above one of the practice gyms where said equipment is set up-- for our first afternoon workout. Imagine our surprise when we realized the cheerleading squad was using the mezzanine for their competition practice.

Panting while pedaling is bad enough, but panting while pedaling in front of 20 tall skinny teenage girls...girls with about 2 ounces of fat on their collective bodies...is, well, an ego blow to say the least. It also didn't help that while I was huffing and puffing, they were flip-flopping across the entire mezzanine floor.

Of course, I think I have figured out the where they get all that energy. First, it's their music. I've decided that much of the motion we would attribute to them is really just their super-lightweight bodies falling victim to the loud bass in their music. Everything in the entire gym was vibrating, and without any fat to help anchor them to the floor, it's inevitable they'd just be bouncing around everywhere.

And then there's all that hair. Now, unlike some schools, our squad is not full of the stereotypical blond girls. No, sirree. Don't get me wrong. We have our share of blonds, but we also have at least 50% brunettes. Regardless of hair color, though, they all have long hair. Long hair that they wear up in long ponytails. Ponytails that they whip around when they do their handsprings. Ponytails + handsprings = momentum. Momentum turns one handspring into multiple flip-flops and a full back layout with a full twist.

So all I have to do is grow my hair out about another foot (or save up and get extensions) and buy a suped up sound system and I'll be set. Because those tiny bodies? They are the result of resistance training really. Those girls aren't really moving around that much. They're really just trying to stay still. Imagine all the calories they must burn fighting the forces of physics acting on them.

Poor little things. It's sad really. I bet inside those little long-haired heads of theirs, they really wish they could be more like the rest of us: sturdy, stable, and capable of lying still for hours on end.

Hello, Old Friend

2010-01-09T04:15:00.003-06:00

I must admit that since the weather has been colder, I have pretty much abandoned my morning run. When it's 14 degrees outside, something in my little body overrides all sense of athleticism (which, as anyone who knows me can attest, is rather limited to begin with) and forces me to snuggle deeper under my micro-fleece sheets (yeah, you read that right: micro-fleece sheets!) and hit the snooze button a couple more times. Consequently, my wee body is getting less wee every day, and I haven't seen those early morning hours from any vantage outside my bed in several weeks.

This morning? I woke up at 3:28...on my own...and I have been unable to get back to sleep. So here I am getting re-acquainted with my old friend 4 a.m. He hasn't seemed to change much, to tell you the truth. Except for the fact that he's freakin' 16 degrees!

Now, I recognize that there are parts of my proud country that are hitting -25 or some ridiculousness like that. But I don't live there. My people were apparently made for warmer climates, so we get our extreme weather at, well, the other extreme. I can handle the heat (as long as there is shade and sunscreen). At least with 100+ degree summers you don't have to worry about pipes bursting or frostbite on your walk to work or treacherous driving conditions. You drink lots of water, you siesta in the middle of the afternoon, you run your ceiling fans.

To be frank, I'm actually a little miffed that I'm having to deal with both ends of the thermometer spectrum. I mean, those folks in Iowa may be shoveling snow every other day right now in the sub-zero afternoons, but how many 100+ days are they going to have to sweat out this summer?

Which is why, in a stroke of 4 a.m. brilliance, I have decided that I must now devise a plan to move somewhere with more consistent temperatures...like Hawaii or Bora Bora. That, or I must find a way to earn a living from the comfort of a non-drafty, climate-controlled home in a neighborhood that offers more than 4 varieties of delivery food.

Or, there is always the lottery, which has been my Plan A for quite some time now, and which I would happily spend $5 on if buying the tickets didn't require opening my front door to the 16 degree world outside.

Plan B it is then: stay under woobie, on couch, with mini-heater on and book in hand for entire day. Completely do-able.

A Proud Son

2010-01-07T23:09:00.002-06:00

So I'm watching the end of the National Championship game, and my alma mater just lost.Now maybe I'm a sore loser, but I can't help but notice that when they are interviewing one of the winning players, they are asking him what he'd like to say to his father who was watching the game...from prison.

Now, I know you don't punish the son for the sins of the father, but if my dad was in prison, I think I'd be trying to keep that on the down low. Instead, the commentator concludes the interview with the statement "A proud son...to his proud father."

I'd probably still be laughing, if it weren't for the fact that now I am distracted by the footage of all the almost grown men who are crying as they pass a gaudy crystal Easter egg around the circle, taking turns kissing it.

And men say women are overly emotional?

2010: Try again!

2010-01-06T22:39:00.004-06:00

Last year I boldly declared 2009 a Drama Free year. And shortly thereafter I sent a text message that pretty much shot any chance of that to hell. Because that message started a relationship, or rather, changed a relationship, and most change in this world, especially the kind that is significant, involves at least a little bit of drama.

So DF '09 was doomed pretty much right out of the gate. So much so, in fact, that the catch phrase became a sort of ironic joke between myself and a couple of my friends.

But I like the idea.

After spending Christmas with my family, I was reminded once again of my genetic pre-disposition to drama. Watching my mother and grandmother handle the holidays was a bit unsettling for my sister and I. We started out laughing at how our mother is becoming more like her mother...and then the next logical conclusion hit us and we both kind of cringed. Don't get me wrong. We love our mom. We're just not in a hurry to become her. Since my mother's penchant for drama is one of her trademarks, this is one of the areas I think worthy of another attempt for self-improvement on my part.

With that in mind, and with this week's drama of unending technical problems at work still playing out around me, I will once again throw down the gauntlet to the powers that be: I will attempt to keep 2010 Drama Free!

I know the odds are slim, but a girl's gotta try. Because first it's the drama, and then it's the knit pant suits.

So come on, 2010. Let's see how long it takes you to turn a peaceful Daisy into raving lunatic.

Raindrops on roses...

2010-01-05T21:13:00.003-06:00

I have decided that the bread from Macaroni Grill has to be one of my new favorite things. There is something irresistible about the warm salty rosemary goodness...especially when they bring out an extra loaf for you to take home. :) That is what I call a good waitress!

It's all fun and games until you hit the bottom of the bowl

2010-01-04T22:14:00.009-06:00

The first day back after a vacation is always a pain in the ass and today was no exception. Morning came too soon, the alarm was louder than I remember, and a leisurely breakfast? Well, that was a distant memory. Cold leftover gingerbread cake eaten while walking down the block to work was a far cry from my pancakes and eggs from Sunday brunch.

Of course, nothing wanted to work correctly in my building, so most of my day was spent fielding phone calls from people who couldn't get logged in to one program or another. There were also the requisite "emergencies", which turned out to be tripped power switches on surge strips. And let's not forget the token call vendors during which I explain that when we paid for installation, we actually expected all the wires to be run to connect the equipment to the actual computer.

But the frosting on my cupcake of a day? Well, let's see. If I had to pick one moment? Oh yeah. I've got it. The crowning glory of my Monday:

I dropped my cell phone in a toilet.

Dramatic representation of dangerous, phone grabbing toilet.

(Found through Google imaages, located on a number of blogs,

so I'm not sure who to credit.)

That's right. I dropped my cell phone in a toilet. Not my personal home toilet, mind you, which I happened to clean this past wekend. No, of course not. That would have been bad enough, but I had to do one better. I had to drop my phone in a public toilet.

And then I had to get it out.

Now, I am not freaked out by germs, but seriously? Who wouldn't be grossed out by the idea that this thing you put on your face was once on the bottom of someone else's bowl?

Of course, it was completely drenched, so I figured a little disinfectant spray wasn't going to kill it (or me for that matter, as I sprayed my hands...then washed them...in hot water...with LOTS of soap). And I'm sure the Clorox wipes didn't damage it any further either when I used them on it before setting it in front of my mini space heater in my office to help it dry out.

And now? Now my phone is buried in a bowl of rice for the next day or so to see if that will suck out the rest of the water (and hopefully the germs with it).

And have you people seen how expensive cell phones are? At least, when you aren't scheduled for an upgrade, so you aren't entitled to any of the rebates, or when you really don't want to sign a new 2-year agreement? They are freakin' expensive! We are talking hundreds of dollars. And I'm not even looking at an iPhone because I can't afford the monthly plan rates with AT&T, so that's out of the question anyway; those are actually cheap compared to some of the Blackberries and Droid phones out there.

We are all crossing our fingers that my phone dries out and does not contract any type of communicable contamination that it might give to me...if I am able to use it again.

Mondays suck.

Attempted homicide a la golf cart

2010-01-03T20:35:00.005-06:00

I made the mistake of returning a call from my sister today:

Big Sis: Mom almost killed dad today.

Daisy: What? Again? What did she do this time?

Big Sis: Dad backed the golf cart off the sidewalk and into the culvert in front of my house tonight.

Daisy: Is he o.k.?

Big Sis: Well, he got out and had mom give it gas while he pushed it from behind.

Daisy: What? Did he hurt himself?

Big Sis: Brother-in-law had to go outside and help him, and when they finally got some traction, the thing took off...dragging dad behind it...across my front yard...straight toward my dining room door...

Brother-in-law (yelling from the background): ...and almost into a tree...

Big Sis: ...and almost into a tree.

Daisy: (laughing) Is dad o.k.?

Big Sis: We were yelling at mom to take her foot off the gas, and dad was just lying there in my front yard.

Daisy: And?

Big Sis: And they went home.

Daisy: Is dad o.k.?

Big Sis: I guess. They went home.

Call to Parents' house:

Daisy: Mom, did you try to kill dad tonight?

Mom: He backed off the sidewalk. What are you up to?

Daisy: Just watchin' TV. But I heard you dragged Dad across the yard and almost drove into Big Sis' house.

Mom: My tennis shoe got stuck on the gas pedal.

Daisy: (laughing) Can I talk to dad?

Dad: Hello?

Daisy: Dad, are you o.k.? I heard mom tried to kill you again tonight.

Dad: That's true. She dragged me miles across your sister's yard and almost drove us into the dining room.

Daisy: (laughing) Are you o.k.?

Dad: Well, I survived, but I'm sure I'll feel it tomorrow.

Does anyone else have these conversations, or is it just me?

Since when did Bjork rank up there with Jesus?

2010-01-02T08:18:00.010-06:00

During my morning perusal of all things CNN, my eye was caught by this headline:

Irish atheists use Bjork, Mark Twain to challenge blasphemy law

Interest peeked, I read the article (which had surprisingly few grammatical errors for CNN.com, believe it or not. New Year's resolution?) which is all about a new blasphemy law passed in Ireland this past summer that went into effect yesterday.

While I understand the intent of the law is probably to try to foster some sort of respect for world religions (and to avoid a Mohammad-misstep a la Denmark a year or two back), I am, once again, dumbfounded as to just how any modern government can ignore pretty much all historical evidence that demonstrates that these types of laws are pretty much a waste of paper. You can't tell people they can't say something. Well, o.k., you can tell them they can't say something, otherwise I'd be hypocritical, but you can't legislate it. Not unless you are Hitler, or Stalin, or some other megalomaniacal guy, and even then you have to have a ridiculously large secret police to help you listen in on everyone's conversations, and have you tried to understand the Irish when they get talking? Especially after a couple of pints? No. Freakin'. Way. Not
happening.

So, I agree with this atheist group's point:

Blasphemy laws are unjust: They silence people in order to protect ideas. In a civilized society, people have a right to to express and to hear ideas about religion even if other people find those ideas to be outrageous.

But I still had to giggle when I read that their tactics included publishing blasphemous quotations that "...include the words of Jesus, Mohammed, Mark Twain, Salman Rushdie and Bjork."

Bjork? Seriously?

I get you want to focus on artists, since art of the law says defendants can site " literary, artistic, political, scientific or academic value in what they said or published," but Bjork? Of all the artists in the history of the world you could have used to make your point? You choose Bjork?

Would you want this woman on the stand defending you?

We're not talking The Jedi Council people. We're talking a real trial.

Note to self: If ever arrested for blasphemy in Ireland, do not call Atheist Ireland to for help. There is not telling who they may hire to mount your defense. I hear Leonard Nimoy may be available between guest spots on Fringe:

I survived Christmas(es) 2009!

2010-01-01T19:24:00.014-06:00

One. One Christmas celebration! Two. Two Christmas celebrations! Three. Three Christmas celebrations! Four. Four Christmas celebrations!

Grand total? I believe I can safely claim SIX official Christmas gatherings at which gifts were exchanged.

Three of these events were required family gatherings, and I must say that I was pleasantly surprised at how well the Winged Monkey handled not one, but two of my family gatherings. Back to back, no less.

Between assembling a Cozy Coupe for Youngest Niece...

(One should be wary of toys whose assembly instructions suggest protective eyewear.)

and fixing a clogged coffee maker for my mom...

(Winged Monkey had to fix The Parents' new coffee maker...3 times.

Not a recommended model.)

I believe the Winged Monkey earned his Monkey Mug...

(WM loves his Evolution of the Flying Monkey mug from CafePress.com.)

as well as my affection.

My favorite gift? Hands down, it would have to be my new Snoopy Snow Cone Machine that Oldest & Dearest Friend gave me yesterday at our belated Christmas lunch. Took us both back to the days of freezing Kool-Aid ice cubes to make icy treats while we sunbathed on her trampoline.

Those were the days.

And so, I start the new year with a blast from my past:

May all of our new years be as joy filled as those 30 seconds. ;)

Happy 2010!

Holiday Malaria and Other Traffic Horrors

2009-12-22T20:51:00.005-06:00

I remember being told, during a Saturday stint in comedy defensive driving, that it was physically impossible to sneeze with your eyes open. I have no idea if this fact is true or not, but I can attest to the fact that it is impossible for Daisy to sneeze her eyes open, even when she is trying to navigate Week-of-Christmas Traffic at the mall.

Have you seen these people drive? The ones who are all cracked out on gingersnap samples and Chick-fil-A lemonade.

O.k., fine, I may have been guilty of partaking, quite liberally, of the lemonade, but I have an excuse: I needed the vitamin C to fight off my most recent case of Holiday Malaria. We are talking a landfill of Kleenex and a truckload of Sudafed. My sinuses feel like an overinflated balloon animal. All puffy and tied up in knots.

It was in this weakened state that I headed out Monday for 6 long hours of Christmas shopping.

Now, I admit to occasionally practicing the fine art of procrastination, but I honestly was down to my last 4 presents when I headed out Monday morning. The whole trip should have taken 2 hours, 3 tops. Then my cell phone began to ring, and I found myself in the very familiar situation of becoming my family's designated shopper.

First there was the request from Mom: could I go to Target to look for the ballerina princess piggy bank for her to give Favorite Youngest Niece. Sure. No problem. I will make a second trip to Target to look for said swine.

Then there was call number one from Big Sis: could I look for slouchy sweater slippers for her stepdaughter...who wears a ladies size 10! Not a common size, but common enough to be sold out in the color she wanted...at two Targets.

Then there was call number two from Big Sis: could I stop in Marshall's to by undershirts for Brother-in-Law. Undershirts are just a hair's breadth away from underwear, but knowing she lives an hour from the closest mall, I figured I'd help a Big Sis out, so off I go to Marshall's, where I have to stand in line behind 4 teenage girls who had decided to by frames for everyone on their Christmas list. And then had decided to change their minds about the frames repeatedly while waiting in the checkout line.

Needless to say, after 6 hours, I was pooped, so I headed home, switched to Actifed, and fell asleep on the couch.

Today? Today I finished buying all but one present, and I even managed to make a grocery store run to buy what I needed to try to make sweet potatoes on Christmas day.

Tomorrow I will sleep late. I will not answer the phone. I will not get out of my pajamas. I will not push a basket, swipe my credit card, or request a gift receipt from anyone.

I am on vacation.

2 Days and Counting

2009-12-16T19:53:00.006-06:00

Two more days and I am officially on vacation! Woohoo! Now the real question is: will I be able to finish my Christmas shopping in the next 2 days so that my vacation can be shopping-free? Answer: Not a chance in hell.

If my siblings would just stop reproducing, my Christmas list might be manageable, but as things stand, I've got a ways to go before Santa Daisy's sleigh is ready for deliveries. There are books to buy (because when you have an aunt who used to be an English teacher, you can pretty much bet she's gonna give you a book for every holiday), and gift cards to stuff them with (because when you are a teenager, books are very rarely on your Christmas list, but gift cards to places like Abercrombie and iTunes are pretty much a must), and gift bags to stuff with tissue paper (because when you are a one-year-old, the tissue paper is just as much fun as the gift it hides).

But, my favorite Christmas purchase so far?

That mischievous grin can only mean that this little guy
is none other than the Christmas ornament incarnation
of my beloved Winged Monkey.

That's right. It's a Winged Monkey Christmas ornament I found on Etsy.com, made by SWStitchery.

And I got the last one.

And it arrived today. All prettily wrapped.

And it's waiting to be opened by the Winged Monkey himself, who (unless he reads this before he comes over tonight) has no idea I bought it for our tree.

I know. I know. Sappy. But adorable nonetheless. No?

The Latest Buzz

2009-12-09T07:12:00.004-06:00

After 30 straight days of blogging, this Daisy was in need of a little break. Not much has been happening lately anyway.

The piping from Upstairs continues, as does the obnoxious pounding they make going up and down their stairs. This weekend, the musical stylings from above included some singing, as well. I swear, if they had 8 more kids they'd be putting together an act like the Van Trapps.

The Winged Monkey, it turns out is as much of a controlled pyromaniac as myself. We've had a fire in the fireplace at least half a dozen times over the past week, and we would have more, but firewood if flippin' expensive. I'm thinking I may have to filch a few logs from the stack at good ol' Mom & Dad's house when next I visit.

We've been able to have the fires because it has finally gotten cold down here in Big D. There was even a bit of snow one morning, as I walked to work, but the ground was still way to warm for anything to stick, so it was more like fluffy rain in the end.

The biggest event of the past week? I went to hear Buzz Aldrin speak last night at SMU.

I kind of have a thing for all things space, so this was a big event for me. I can still remember standing in my pajamas, watching the first shuttle launch (and several after that one) on the 9 inch color TV, complete with requisite rabbit ear antenna, in the back of my parents' bedroom. I was hooked. It didn't help that my dad was a huge Star Trek fan (though, thankfully, not the conventioning type), or that my family has referred to me as a martian (mainly because I don't like ice cream or chocolate) for as long as I can remember.

So, you can see why I'd be interested in going to see a man who'd actually walked on the moon, and who is seriously planning to send people to my supposed home planet.

And Buzz...likes to talk. More than Daisy.

The format was supposed to have been question and answer, but by the time Buzz was done with his "few words" of intro., the audience already knew about his education, his career, his 4 marriages, his multiple addictions, his depression, and his frustration with current space policy in the U.S. That all left time for a whole 3 questions, the first of which was about how his space journeys affected his belief in and perception of God. His answer?

"I'm not sure if the journey there and back really changed me all that much in that respect...If anything, my belief in a Supreme Being was most influenced by the many rehab. programs I've participated in over the years." (Paraphrased a bit, but fairly close to verbatim, if memory serves.)

Lol! I'm not sure that's the answer the young lady was looking for. She didn't seem the type to want to try addiction and rehab to get closer to her God. But what an endorsement for those 12 Step Programs. ;)

Living Below the Pied Piper

2009-11-30T21:21:00.004-06:00

Tomorrow, NaBloPoMo starts a month of kindness. But that's tomorrow.

Today?

Today, I once again turn my eyes upward in search of blog inspiration. And lo, the clouds part, and from above comes the sound of ...a flute?

The identity of the wind instrument in question is still up for debate. My first guess was a flute, but WM thinks it sounds too plasticky. His money is on the recorder.

Whatever it is, it is not pretty.

I heard the first screech when I sat down to dinner on the couch, and initially I thought one of the new dogs next door was howling.

Or dying.

10 solid minutes of piping, and, I swear, she never managed to hit a single note. And then? Then the duet started. Upstairs Parent on piano, Upstairs Daughter on the pipe, playing some unrecognizable tune. And amidst the (thankfully) short cacophony, WM leans over a whispers:

"Why does everyone think all Chinese kids are musical prodigies? Do you know why there are so many Chinese musical prodigies? Because there are 2 billion people in China. They are bound to have a few geniuses."

I almost spit out my bite of chicken sandwich.

WM is always good for caddy. :)

Christmas Time is Here

2009-11-29T21:04:00.005-06:00

This afternoon I hauled out the Christmas tree and started the messy process of getting in the spirit of the season.

Fortunately, I happen to be dating a Winged Monkey who, as it turns out, enjoys putting ornaments on Christmas trees. This fact is rather serendipitous, as I happen to be a Wicked Witch who has this quirky little tradition of getting a Christmas ornament from just about every city I visit every time I travel. After more than 20 countries, and lord knows how many cities along the way, and the return trips in recent years, my tree is pretty full...of memories.

I've got everything from a drunken golfer from Edinburgh to a scooter taxi made out of a beer can from Bangkok. A Murano glass gondolier from Venice and a painted egg shell from Prague. The pandas from the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. and a re-purposed key chain from Stonehenge, where they didn't sell Christmas ornaments at the time I visited.

The collection is eclectic, as are the stories that go with each piece. Like how I found the paper mailman-on-a-bicycle in a stationary store on the square in Copenhagen where I watched the World Cup match between Denmark and Brazil on a jumbo tron while surrounded by 5,000 drunken vikings. Or how I carried the ship-in-a-bottle ornament in my coat pocket all over Brussels while we were looking for the Mannequin Pis, and then for 5 countries after that because I was afraid it would get broken in my 60 lb. backpack. Or how the French really have a poor selection of Christmas ornaments, so my two trips to Paris are commemorated by a Santa on the Eiffel Tower (à la King Kong) and a glass ball painted with Van Gogh's Starry Night, which is neither a portrait of Paris nor is it housed in Paris, so I'm a little stumped as to the logic of it, but it was the only non-Eiffel Tower ornament I could find.

Needless to say, I get a bit nostalgic when I put up my Christmas tree, and anyone around gets the verbal version of a vacation slide show.

But it could be worse. I could be tearing up over a toilet paper tube Santa with a cotton ball beard or a string of tin foil jingle bells. That's when I will have crossed the line from quirky to my mother, who every year cries for hours as she hangs all of our childhood ornaments on her 9 foot, rotating, musical Christmas tree.

Wait'll the Winged Monkey gets a load of that monstrosity. Makes me look like an amateur.

*Thank you to the other bloggers who stole pics from Charlie Brown Christmas to which I could link.

SyFy Channel and other misspellings

2009-11-28T20:11:00.006-06:00

This afternoon, the Winged Monkey and myself stumbled upon what has to be one of the worst movies I've ever seen: Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus. At first, I thought it was some Animal Planet virtual death match show. But no. This was an actual film. Supposedly made for the purpose of entertaining its audience.

And it was entertaining.

To begin with, it starred Deborah (formerly Debbie) Gibson. And she didn't sing. Or act, for that matter, because it was pretty painful to watch the once fresh-faced teen pop sensation try to pull off her role as a renegade marine biologist. (Which makes me giggle just typing that phrase.) Deborah watches helplessly as a glacier breaks apart releasing back into the ocean a prehistoric mega shark and giant octopus who had supposedly been frozen mid-fight ten million years ago.

Please remember that this is fiction, people. Therefore, the idea that the two creatures would have died after having been frozen for ten million years must be cast aside in favor of the theory that they would simply wake up really hungry and really pissed off.

This explains why the octopus immediately takes out an off-shore oil rig and the shark takes down...wait for it...an airplane. That's right. Apparently prehistoric mega sharks were able to jump 20,000 ft. out of the water, folks. No one is safe, I tell you. No one.

Something, of course, has to be done, so in steps the military, led by none other than Lorenzo Lamas. (Insert Falcon Crest flashback of your choice here.)

Even Lorenzo and his trademark ponytail are unable to stop the two monsters, who seem impervious to modern weaponry. The scientists, must therefore come up with a solution, or else, Lorenzo will go nuclear, wiping out ocean life as we know it.

Enter Capt. Sulu.

O.k., fine. It wasn't the actual Capt. Sulu. I have no idea who he really is, but he quite obviously adhered to the Star Trek method, favoring melodrama over, well, talent. After spending a stressful day pouring colored water from one beaker to another, side by side with Ms. Gibson, the two find themselves in love and in bed together where, in the afterglow of their harried copulation, they realize that pheromones are the key to catching the two deadly creatures.

I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't seen this cinematic classic yet, but don't worry. Ms. Gibson and her man will live to make a sequel. Of that, I am relatively certain.

In the meantime, I will try to reclaim the 40 IQ points I lost in those 2 hours. Maybe then I'll be able to figure out why the SciFi Channel is suddenly the SyFy Channel. Perhaps that's why they have to play such mind-numbingly crappy movies. Maybe they're hoping to lull their audience into such a stupor they won't notice that the new network name is dumber than the lineup.

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head

2009-11-27T21:03:00.002-06:00

11:00 p.m. last night, I was sleeping peacefully on my couch, listening subconsciously to an episode of Law & Order, when I heard the dripping. Again.

The next half hour was spent placing bowls and buckets at strategic points in my kitchen to catch the downpour coming from the Upstairs kitchen. Again.

Another half hour was spent moving all of my dishes from the flooded cabinet into the dishwasher. Again.

This morning I got a call from my Crazy Landlady's husband, who said he was sending over a plumber. Again.

And then I spent two hours disinfecting my entire kitchen. Again.

The plumber says the problem with the Upstairs drain is really fixed this time. Again.

And now? Now Upstairs is running their dishwasher and I am holding my breath.

Again.

Men of Few Words

2009-11-26T20:38:00.007-06:00

So, just after Thanksgiving dinner this afternoon, Youngest Nephew made an announcement to the whole family. Since he is only about 8 months old, he broadcast his news via a pre-printed onesie that read:

(On the Front)
May 20th
Save the Date

(On the back)
Future Big Brother

Needless to say, everyone was surprised, and everyone cheered, and the grandmothers cried a little, and there was a lot of hugging. And then? Then my dad turned and looked at my sister-in-law and said:

"Don't you people have a TV?"

Dad may be a man of few words, but the ones he utters are pretty much guaranteed to be priceless.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! May all of your families be as fortunate as mine. :)

One Hit Wonders

2009-11-25T16:19:00.003-06:00

Tonight, my regular Wednesday night crew won third place in our weekly trivia game at a local bar. We've been going to trivia night there fairly regularly for the past 5 or 6 months, but this was the first time we've ever placed. Sad, since we probably only won this week because we tripled our team size by bringing lots of extra friends (who, unfortunately, will probably never be able to come out with us again since they only made it this week because of the holiday).

Even with the reinforcements, the music round still kicked our ass. In fact, I think we did worse on that round tonight than we had done on any other week. And the saddest part? The entire round was 90's music. And all of us were teenagers in the 90s. We should know our 90s music.

In our defense, many of the songs they picked were one hit wonders, so while we were able to name the title, we had a hard time with the artist's name. And so, I leave you with question number 5, for your listening pleasure (and definitely not your viewing pleasure, since the shirt is completely early 90s hideous):

(And a special shout out to Austin City Limits. It doesn't get much better than that.)

Early to Bed...

2009-11-24T23:14:00.004-06:00

In honor of the Thanksgiving holiday, I am off for the next three days. Then I have the weekend. That is 5 entire days without work. I'm not quite sure I know what to do with that much time off.

A good chunk of it (I hope) will be spent sleeping, an activity I plan to partake off in the next 30 minutes or so, to be honest. Lately, however, I've been having a hard time sleeping well--tossing and turning quite a bit. This morning's outburst from Upstairs Mother at 5:30 a.m. didn't help much. I'm not sure what she was screaming about (understandable, since she woke me up out of a dead sleep), but I did make out the words "responsibility" and "that's it" before she came charging down the back stairs to let the dog out for the morning. She screamed at him a couple of times to hurry up and then clomped back up to stomp around some more.

This was a very unpleasant way to wake up. It may even have been worse than the alarm clock, since I had never mistakenly set 5:30 a.m. as an appropriate time for such loud noises and Upstairs Mother apparently doesn't have a snooze function.

I also think I need a new pillow, as mine has lost all ability to support my weary noggin'. I actually looked at pillows today when I made a stop into Macy's. Imagine my shock when the pillow I picked ended up being $60...on sale. It was part of their Hotel Collection, and my overwhelming thought was: Does it come with maid service for that price?

Needless to say, I did not buy the $60 pillow. I figure it will be 6000% ff in a week or so, the way Macy's does things. Until then, I'll just keep wadding up what's left of my current one and make the best of it.

In fact, right now, even that flat crumpled mess sounds preferable to this couch, so I think it's time to turn in.

Cliff Diving with the Undead

2009-11-23T21:58:00.002-06:00

I just got home from seeing New Moon, and I have to say that, believe it or not, it was just as cheesy as the first one.

Edward still sparkles with too much body glitter, Jacob still can't act, the background music is still melodramatic, and the camera work still makes me dizzy.

Now, I am not anti-Twilight. I read all 4 books, and I enjoyed them, if not for the writing, at least for the story. But the general consensus this evening was that the books don't really lend themselves to film. At least, not a word-for-word adaptation. Because the words themselves were rather trite, and, unfortunately, so was the movie.

What was entertaining, however, was the 50-year-old man who sat in front of me. He had come to the movie with his wife, and his chuckle every time the teenage girls squealed at the shirtless werewolves-in-training was one of the best parts of the evening.

And you've got to appreciate any husband who would sit through a Twilight movie with his wife.

That is a devoted man.

When all hope is lost...in rides Mel Gibson

2009-11-22T21:06:00.004-06:00

Sitting on the couch with Winged Monkey, dueling computers, The Patriot on the TV. A few minutes ago, Mel rode across the screen carrying a tattered American flag. Now? Now he's melting down the last of his sons' toy soldiers to make the bullet with which he will kill his nemesis.

WM and I have enjoyed another lazy Sunday afternoon, and after having watched several episodes of Criminal Minds and Law & Order SVU that Truman had recorded earlier in the week, we decided to take a break from all the serial killers so we could watch with incredulity as the British and Continental armies line up to fire at each other. And we both have the same question.

What genius thought up this tactic? I mean, seriously, people. There is honor and then there is stupidity, and if you ask me, the whole "let's march out into an open field...line up 30 yards apart...and fire at each other?" Well, I don't see much honor in mass suicide.

So, I guess I respect Mel's decision to go all guerrilla and hide out in the swamps and use trickery to win his battles. And how could he lose, what with all the American flags waving in slow motion all around him and his men? After all, what Australian actor worth his salt wouldn't rally his fictional troops at the site of the good ol' Star & Stripes? And he's got to win the war so he can make it home to his new wife...who happens to be his sister-in-law.

The more I watch this drivel, the more I understand the popularity of reality television. With writing this bad in Hollywood still producing a blockbuster, I'm not sure the absence of writing would really be noticed.

Thank goodness for my Kindle. 60 seconds to something smart and funny... completely without the melodramatic soundtrack.

Tappin' Out

2009-11-21T22:48:00.003-06:00

I'm having to blog from the Winged Monkey's iPhone tonight...because we're out watching UFC. Now, I'm not your typical UFC fan, but there are several things about fight night that I find rather entertaining:

First of all, WM's friend D is a wonderful host. He usually has a Cosmo or an Us Weekly mixed in with his Playboys, and he always burns a candle in the bathroom, so his bachelor pad is pretty chick friendly. And one of my favorite pizza places is in walking distance, so dinner is always yummy.

And the fights themselves?

Let's start with the nicknames: The New York Bad Ass...who just got his bad ass kicked. Little Nog, as opposed to his brother, Big Nog. And Christmas. Named after the character in Dumb & Dumber. There's a role model for you. Even the commentators had to say something about that one:

"Christmas" is original. We don't need another "Pitbull" in MMA, after all.

Then there's the announcer who, according to D, models his announcing style after William Shatner. His overdramatic movements keep throwing off the cameramen. He looks a little like a chubby Frankie Avalon, so I keep waiting for him to work in the phrase "Beach Blanket BIN-GO!" in his announcer style. Apparently he is the little brother of a more famous voice; I think the one that coined "Let's get ready to RUM-BLE!" Talk about living in a shadow.

And the outfits.

Tonight's fighters all seem to be sponsored by Venum, which despite the spelling, still makes me giggle when it's written across their crotch. That, coupled with the giant eyes across their ass, makes watching them bouncing around the ring pretty entertaining. And all of them have their own clothing line, or items featured in someone else's clothing line, so they walk through the crowd on their way in in one t-shirt and then they put on a different one when they are getting ready to talk to the host after the fight.

All of the shirts look pretty much alike: kinda of like a cotton version of a Harley Davidson. And they all have one word slogans, like Affliction or Punishment in tattoo style letters across their chest in shiny foil ink. Personally, I think the foil ink is a bit over the top, but I would never say that in front of the fighters. They are after all professional ass kickers.

But they do have hearts. They keep dedicating their fights to people. One guy dedicated his win to his grandmother who died of cancer a couple of weeks ago. That one I thought was touching. Not so much the guy who tried to dedicate the fight he lost. If I were the dedicatee, I think I'd be a bit embarrassed by that one. I imagine a lot of heckling going on on the other side right now.

The best part, though, has to be the fact that I am watching with two martial artists, which is kind of like watching a cooking show in Ramsey's living room. The conversation is 90% martial arts jargon (which, eerily enough, I am actually beginning to understand a bit), and every move is broken down and analyzed. Then the guys are yelling out move suggestions, as if the fighters can hear them through the TV. And finally, my favorite part, the guys will occasionally get up and act out what the fighters should have done. Two grown men. Wrestling in the living room.

Further evidence to support my theory that men stop maturing at 17.

I repeat my assertion from an earlier post: Cuteness makes up for a lot in this world.

Laundry Room Etiquette

2009-11-20T18:32:00.005-06:00

Dear Upstairs Neighbors-

Not all of us are fortunate enough to be able to hire a maid to come out once a week to make a lot of noise vacuuming your 1400 square feet for 2 solid hours (usually when I come home for lunch) and to make a mess behind the fence by trying to pile all of your juice bottles into one recycling bin instead of using one of the other three that are on the ground beside it...empty. I'm not even sure how you are able to afford her services, since, like me, you are renting from Crazy Landlady because you can't afford to buy a house. But I guess I understand the need, since Upstairs mom works 3 days a week at a pre-school, and, therefore, obviously needs someone because her other 2 days a week, home by herself while your daughter is at school, couldn't possibly be enough time for her to vacuum and take out the trash herself.

I do not, however, understand your paying your maid to start the laundry while she is here, but then to leave 2 loads unfinished: 1 in the dryer, waiting to be folded, and the other sitting in the washer, still wet, growing mildew.

But mine is not to question why.

Except.

Your maid has done this every Friday for at least the 18 months I have lived here, so I do question the fact that you all seem to forget about these clothes every week, leaving them in the laundry room for up to 2 days, and preventing the other two tenants on the property from being able to wash, well, ANYTHING.

You three may be able to live without clean towels up there, and your daughter may not need her pink jeans for the next couple of days, but I need clean towels and socks and my favorite Saturday jammies.

Maybe you could ask your maid to leave your laundry basket (which is obviously not being used while all the clothes are in a holding pattern in the washer and dryer) in the laundry room. That way, I could move them out of my way so I can get my laundry done. I promise to put them back into the washer and dryer, and since you won't be going into the laundry room for a couple of days anyway, you really won't even notice.

Just a thought.

I Give Up

2009-11-19T22:05:00.004-06:00

I do not understand men.

Which is funny, since I rather like them. One in particular. And I spend a lot of time with that one. And, more often than not, I quite enjoy all that time spent together.

And then?

And then I realize that I still don't understand them.

And apparently they don't quite get us either.

Which makes one wonder how the hell the race has survived this long if the two key components have such a difficult time communicating.

All I can figure is...it's a good thing we find one another so darn cute.

Cuteness makes up for a lot in this world.

Drinkin' the Kool-Aid

2009-11-18T21:32:00.003-06:00

Half of today was spent in a meeting concerning school improvement, the main question being "How can we make the work we give our students more engaging?"

I'm all about the engaging work, but the last time this group met, one of the members later pointed out to me that lot of the buzz words being thrown around sounded very cult-like. So, today, I had to stop myself from giggling several times when I heard phrases like:

"motivational framework"

or

"It's all about the marketing"

or my personal favorite:

"recruitment and induction"

Reminded me of when my friend LW discovered Meeting Bingo (aka Bullshit Bingo) a few years back. She would show up at faculty meetings with cards printed out with educational terms in each square. I never won, but it sure made those meetings fly by.

Google it people. You won't be sorry.

Random Tuesday Work Stuff

2009-11-17T20:00:00.005-06:00

1) Breakfast in the school cafeteria is one of my favorite parts of my job. For $1 I can get eggs and two slices of bacon. And this is good, old-fashioned, thick sliced, slightly chewy bacon. A couple of years ago, the head of food services tried to replace the eggs with an "egg-like product." It was supposed to be lower in fat and cholesterol. It was also much lower on the yummy scale. breakfast sales went down, and then? Then the principal, who is also a fan of the cafeteria breakfast, complained. Real eggs returned and there has been no discussion of "egg-like product" since.

On Tuesday and Thursday, the bacon is replaced by sausage patties that, while good, are no match for the greasy bacon. For this reason, my usual Tuesday/Thursday breakfasts are usually supplemented with a "morning glory" muffin: carrot/raisin/walnut + about 20 grams of fat.

Today was a muffin day.

2) After picking up breakfast, I usually head upstairs to my office where I inhale my food while reading the overnight emails and the usual morning "HELP!" messages, 90% of which are often the result of something being unplugged. Power cables, people. Check them.

3) The football team is currently making its way through playoffs...again. Part of their winning strategy apparently revolves around all the team members getting mohawks. For this reason, I really have quit noticing odd haircuts on the young men in the building. Until today. Today I found myself walking behind a young man who obviously was not a member of the football team, as he was foregoing the sporty mohawk for what has to be the best example of a mullet found outside Alabama since 1984. We're talking textbook. And the absolute best part? He had on a football jersey style shirt , but instead of a name across his back shoulders, it said "MULLET MILITIA."

Priceless.

4) This afternoon, I had to stay late for Child Abuse/Sexual Harassment compliance training. What did I learn?

*If I suspect a student is being abused, it is my responsibility to report it.

*If a co-worker is harassing me, it is my responsibility to tell him/her to stop.

*Most of my work friends and I are lucky we have found one another, and, apparently, we must be careful who we let hang out with us, as we violate most of the sexual harassment rules that were discussed today. Except the ogling. I don't really think I hang out with any oglers, and I'm pretty sure I've never ogled anyone myself.

Nope. We are ogle free.

Dear Steve Jobs--

2009-11-16T23:07:00.003-06:00

I have yet to join the ranks of iPhone users, not because I don't want one, but because I currently have an amazingly cheap cell phone plan that I share with Good Old Dad on one of the many networks not currently hosting iPhones. In fact, my cell bill is literally half what it would be were I to have an iPhone. And I currently have unlimited...everything.

Switching to AT&T's ridiculously priced iPhone data plans isn't really a viable options for a lowly teacher-type like myself who'd someday like to be able to afford a house of her own. Which is why I've been anxiously following the rumor mills about when Apple's exclusive agreement with AT&T might end. And that rumor mill keeps saying that day may be soon. Like possibly in the next 6-7 months soon.

So, I am waiting...patiently. But tonight? Tonight I learned that they have a Target app. It actually helps you shop by giving you the weekly ad, gift ideas, and even item location within your store.

WM was nice enough to download the free app. for me, but, since he avoids Target like the plague, it's not likely that I will soon be able to test out the item locator in the actual store. Not that I need it, since I pretty much have my Target memorized, and meandering around the store is part of the whole Target shopping experience anyway, but still...I'd like to have the option.

I would have thought that someone who started his company in a garage would understand being on a budget. Think back to those days, Mr. Jobs, as you look to the future of your famed device. Because I want that Target app, Mr. Jobs. I need that Target app. And right now? Your little deal with AT&T is the main thing standing in my way.

Hello, Fall

2009-11-15T20:14:00.003-06:00

One of the most confusing parts of living in Texas is the lack of clear seasons. You have hot, wet, or cold, and any of them can come at any time, though the cold is usually reserved for December through February, and even then, it is broken up with hot.

It's not unusual for New Year's day to be in the 70s, and I can't remember the last time we had snow on Christmas.

That's why this weekend shouldn't have made me blink, but I was still a little surprised when it reached almost 80 degrees today. And I was somewhat amused when I was perusing my weekly Target ad online, looking at artificial Christmas trees and inflatable yard ornaments while my neighbors were playing with their dogs outside...wearing shorts. Surreal.

And now? Now it is raining. Has been off and on for a couple of hours, and according to the forecast, this marks the beginning of a cold front. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is supposed to be 20 degrees cooler.

Of course, due to the inclement weather, I have put off doing laundry. Because who wants to slog through the rain to the laundry room in the backyard? So I'm not sure what I'll be wearing to work tomorrow.

Yet another reason for one of my lifelong goals: To find a job which would allow me to wear my pajamas all day long. Because how can you be in a bad mood in your pajamas? And if it was cool enough? I could break out the flannel. And who isn't productive in blue polka dot flannel pajamas, I ask you? Who?

I do (again)

2009-11-14T22:23:00.005-06:00

This afternoon, the WM was gracious enough to get all gussied up in his jacket and tie and escort me to a wedding.

The bride? Mime 3's mom.

The groom? A nice gentleman she had met on Match.com.

The venue? A Unitarian church just two blocks room my house.

The wedding planner? My oldest friend, Beebs.

Most memorable part of the ceremony? When the minister told them they were husband and wife, and he couple went to kiss, the minister started clapping with his hands above his head, and WM leaned over and whispered "Touchdown!" in my ear.

Best outfit? Mime 3's bridesmaid's dress. Adorable.

Most memorable hair? Tie between Mime 3's younger cousin with her black hair with giant hot pink streak running through it and Bride's best friends fire engine red, waist length naturally curly hair. (I swear there was more hair than woman on that lady.)

Worst outfit? Again, a tie. WM liked the gold, wedding-cake-tiered mini dress (complete with "after market" double D boobs) on one lady; I found the oversized grey rhinestone-studded sweater (think Flashdance) with matching leggings and black patent stilettos to be the most interesting.

Line heard most often? "This is the last time, right?" (Because this was, after all, the Bride's third wedding, and even Mime couldn't disagree when two different guests said that to her in a 10 minute span.)

But even with the overly obvious jokes about "third time's a charm," I had to admit that the Bride? Well, she's a brave soul. In her 50s, two previous marriages and who knows how many other break ups under her belt, and yet...she still believes in love and in making a commitment. That's more than a lot of us who have lived through a lot less are able to do.

Here's to hoping that they find with each other a partnership that lives up to such high expectations. Salut!

Not to whine...

2009-11-13T19:15:00.002-06:00

...but could they please make the Victoria's Secret commercials shorter or something? Or maybe they could just play them less often? I'm not one to have a lot of body image issues, but I also get tired of watching the nearly naked women prancing around in their new push-up bra that adds "up to 2 cup sizes."

Here's a shocker: most super models don't need to add 2 cup sizes. That's one of the reasons they are supermodels. Especially the ones that got the Victoria Secret gig.

And what happen to the Dove "real beauty" ads? It was nice to see normal pretty women for a change, as opposed to the airbrushed types. (Which, btw, can now be achieved at home with the airbrush makeup I saw in the latest Sephora email.)

Because I don't know about the rest of the women out there, but I don't spend a whole lot of time draping myself across satin chairs or high-heeling it in a bra and panties through the ballroom of someone's mansion.

I sleep in cotton pjs...on flannel sheets...in a home minus a ballroom...with cracked linoleum in the kitchen.

Linoleum can be sexy.

Another one bites the dust...

2009-11-12T18:47:00.004-06:00

Poor Joss Whedon. His latest FOX network show, Dollhouse, has apparently been canceled. When will he learn to find a new network?

Granted, I'm biased. I am a complete Buffy the Vampire Slayer freak and I love Firefly, too. And Dollhouse? I thought the first season was great. Even WM enjoyed watching it with me. Not as certain about the second season, but knowing how Whedon plans huge story arcs well in advance, I was willing to trust him. Besides, most of the other shows on TV were beginning to all run together into one big courtroom/emergency room/doctor/lawyer/police officer drama.

Oddly enough, on my quote of the day iGoogle widget, Joss & Co. were one of the featured quotes:


Sometimes people are layered like that. There's something totally different underneath than what's on the surface. But sometimes, there's a third, even deeper level, and that one is the same as the top surface one. Like with pie.: Joss Whedon, Zack Whedon, Maurissa Tancharoen, and Jed Whedon, Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, 2008

See why I like this man? Who doesn't like pie quotes?

At least there's still Glee...for now. (Fingers crossed.)

Ralph Machio ain't got nothin' on Alexander Putin

2009-11-11T22:17:00.002-06:00

Tonight was trivia night again, and our team managed to add two new members to the mix. Our standings, however, remained pretty much...abysmal.

While I knew Doc Severinsen and Doc Hollywood, no one at our table knew Dr. Tim Whatley from Seinfeld. We knew what color the 2 ball is in pool, but none of us had a clue how many stitches were on a regulation baseball.

Moral of the evening?

The bulk of my knowledge is so useless it's not even good for trivia night.

And?

And I'm beginning to get a little testy about the fact that these tables of 19 and 20-year-old college kids are skunking us every week. They apparently know every useless fact out there.

I thought they were all supposed to be on drugs. Or at least so drunk they can barely stand up, much less identify which President was the first to attend a Major League baseball game in Canada.

Maybe there is hope for this world yet. Maybe, just maybe, the fact that these kids know that the average American uses 57 sheets of toilet paper a day will encourage them to recycle to save the toilet-paper-making trees.

Maybe.

I want to be smart, like Jasper Fforde

2009-11-10T20:05:00.002-06:00

Being the bookish Daisy that I am, I get email alerts from most major book chains. Of note this week? Half Price Books mailed out coupons for their big sale this--50% off a single item on Sunday, etc., and they announced they were opening at 7:00am the day after Thanksgiving. I could handle that early in the bookstore much more easily than I can handle that early in a toy store (and don't think I haven't done the latter...more than once. I am a Wonderful Aunt, after all).

Even better, Barnes & Nobe sent out a notice that I can now order the latest from Jasper Fforde. Fforde is one of those writers that makes me love writing, makes me think writing a novel would be fun, and makes me feel completely inadequate as a quasi-intellectual.

I love him for all of these reasons.

If you haven't had the privilege of reading The Eyre Affair, and if you happen to be a lover of British classics, then you really don't know what you are missing. The whole premise is that people and fictional characters can move between the real world and the fictional world, and the British government has an entire division of literary detection to help investigate crimes resulting from the bending of the line between the two. The book is smart. funny, and, above all, original.--a rarity in most new fiction as far as I'm concerned.

The sequels are just as good, and now? Now Fforde has taken up a new idea...a colortocracy. His newest novel, Shades of Grey, looks to be the usual Fforde absurd satire that I so envy and that I, of course, can't resist pre-ordering.

So, yeah, I'm a successful product of marketing. But if it means 400 pages of witty fun? I don't mind so much being a statistic.

Tricycles and Buffalo

2009-11-09T23:06:00.003-06:00

So, D came over for dinner tonight with the Winged Monkey and I. I fixed an great pot roast courtesy of a recipe posted by Uncle Bill. We ate. A lot. And then? Then I fell asleep. Because that's what Daisy does when she has eaten a lo and had a glass of wine.

But before and after my nap we watch recordings of Derren Brown, a British mentalist. So far I have seen him find a hidden necklace in Venice, predict the word associations of a waitress and a psychiatrist, foresee the bright shoes of the female accountant who guessed the correct number of jelly beans in a jar.

Maybe it's my sleepy state. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's the pot roast hangover that's already begun. Whatever it is, I'm rather impressed. Especially since Mr. Brown is very up front about the fact that he is not psychic, but rather that he is reading all sorts of subconscious clues his audience are giving out or that he is planting suggestions when he speaks to them.

Wonder what it would be like to date him? No more excuses about not being able to read your mind. And you would always get what you wanted for your birthday.

And he has that cute British accent.

Hmmmm...

Weathervanes and other fashion choices

2009-11-08T20:38:00.003-06:00

This evening,the Winged Monkey and I went to see Law Abiding Citizen with WM's friend, D. D knows about my crush on Gerard Butler, so he had no problems with my drooling over Gerard's ass shot or giggling like a school girl over the ab shot that followed. (Oh, those abs.)

Other than the token skin shots, the movie itself was rather unremarkable. A bit gory in parts, a bit slow in others, occasionally surprising, annoyingly aphoristic. The crowd in the theater was far more entertaining.

First there was the transvestite-wanna-be I saw as we were walking into the theater. His bleach blond pixie haircut actually came strutting out of the women's restroom carrying a black patent leather tote bag. The problem was he is still very obviously male, so at first I thought maybe he had just robbed someone.

Then there was a little old man in a baby blue sport coat outside the men's restroom. He'd was a victim of the bowing over process that begins around age 65, and by the looks of him, he'd lost that fight years ago. He looked like he was permanently bowing his head to say grace, the bald spot in the center of his head reflecting the overhead lights straight into the eyes of innocent passersby.

Finally, there was Ugg Girl and her Calf Boot Friend. These two young ladies could not have been more than 16, and yet, they were doing their best to resemble two 28-year-old Canadian street walkers. I especially liked the fur-lined boots paired with the denim Daisy Duke shorts and white t-shirt. Because, lord knows the boots are gonna keep your ass warm.

I don't think I will ever understand that kind of fashion choice. Call me crazy, but I like to pick a season and stick with it throughout the entire ensemble. And aren't Uggs over yet? I though we were done with that already? I wanted to tell her: "You're not skiing. You're not surfing. You're not an Eskimo. What's up with the furry footwear?"

Instead, I laughed as D ogled their derrieres. And I wasn't the least bit offended. Anyone dressed like that is begging to be looked at, almost as certainly as they are asking to catch a cold. ;)

A little happy to start the day

2009-11-07T08:11:00.011-06:00

In my role as Wonderful Aunt I kind of started a Halloween tradition with my nieces and nephews. Every year (with the exception of 3 when we couldn't manage to coordinate it) for the past 15 years, we have decorated pumpkins. I say "decorate" because we don't carve. I refuse to be responsible for one of the munchkins losing a finger, and there's a very good chance that I would cut off one of my own, so early on we decided painting and gluing were the way to go.

We have had cowboy pumpkins, cheerleader pumpkins, vampire pumpkins, clown pumpkins, fisherman pumpkins, construction worker pumpkins...you name it, we have pumpkinized it.

This year?

Tigger.

Youngest Nephew as Pooh with his friend Tigger-pumpkin.

I love being an aunt. :)

World Edict #1

2009-11-06T07:16:00.009-06:00

When I finally become Supreme Daisy of the Universe, my first order of business will be to outlaw alarm clocks.

Now, I know many people out there are shaking their heads and thinking of the current violence in the Middle East, famine in Africa, the plight of homeless children, and the myriad of diseases that for which the world desperately needs cures. But I am telling you, alarm clocks have got to be the first order of business if any good is ever to come out of this world.

You see, all of those other issues? They require thought. And empathy. And creativity. And the general desire to do good. None of these is possible when one is jolted awake mid-dream by the cursed alarm clock contraption.

The human mind and the human body require sleep. Millions of years of evolution have tweaked the circadian rhythm to insure optimum performance. And yet? Modern man has decided to chuck it all in favor of some backlit LED display with a snooze button that most definitely results in the loss of that all important gray matter housed in our little skulls.

And I don't think it makes a difference if you are forcefully pulled from your pleasant slumber by an obnoxious beep, or Steve Inskeep's Morning Edition croon, or the oinking of digital pigs a la Laurali Gilmore. Anything that usurps your body's own control over when it decides it is time to start the day must be deemed evil, and these devices must be annihilated.

Trust me on this. Blow up the alarm clocks, and world peace won't be far behind.

*Image stolen from Happylists.wordpress.com, and I have no idea where they got it from.

You know I love you when...

2009-11-05T21:59:00.003-06:00

1. I let you eat the leftover pizza when it is a variety I actually like.
2. You are allowed possession of Truman's remote control.
3. I happily share my favorite chenille woobie with you.
4. You regularly get to drive Twiggy.
5. There is beer in my fridge.
6. I find your snoring cute.
7. I am willing to watch multiple episodes of Locked Up Abroad.
8. I enjoy kissing you even after you've just eaten herring.
9. I buy granola (for you, of course).
10. I let you wear a pair of my fuzzy booties to keep your big ol' feet warm, and I don't email a picture of you in them to all of your friends.

Reveille and Other Morning Tragedies

2009-11-04T20:40:00.003-06:00

I had planned to wake up early and write a blog about Reveielle. More specifically, I was going to write about how Upstairs Dad has decided it's cute to wake up Upstairs Daughter every morning this week by playing Reveille on their new piano.

I don't find it cute. I find Reveille on the piano at 6:30 a.m. to be...how should I say this? Oh yeah. OBNOXIOUS. Especially when you can't even play it right. It's supposed to be fast. Peppy, even. It's supposed to get you moving. It is not supposed to sound like someone shot the horn out on a car.

Anyway, I shall spare you my Reveille rant because I couldn't hear the song this morning. It was drowned out, quite literally, by the sound of running water. In the kitchen. Where said water was running out of the ceiling and on to my floor. Again. :(

And Crazy Landlady? Well, she has abdicated all responsibility which means I had to talk to Squirrelly-Eyed Landlord Guy about the 5 gallons of water pouring out of the overhead light fixture and the dish cabinets.

This is the third time in 18 months that this has happened, and Landlord is just getting the gist of the issues with the plumbing here. He thinks we should hire someone to come out and take a good look at the pipes in the house. You think? I've had three kitchen floods and 3 calls to roto-router in the past 18 months.

In the meantime, I've mopped the kitchen twice, had a couple of drinks at dinner, and am sporting my favorite red fuzzy booties. Here's to hoping the booties stay dry!

Work in Progress

2009-11-03T21:27:00.005-06:00

This weekend I had the brilliant (read that with a sarcastic tone) idea to look for a new template for the blog.

I did a little Googling and, low and behold, I discovered thousands of free templates . A click click here, a click click there, and tada: the new and improved Daisies Don't Have Thorns.

Of course, I am leaving out the part during which I stayed up until 4:30 Sunday morning working out some of the resulting issues. And the part during which I spent Monday afternoon tweaking the sidebar. And the part during which I spent the better part of 2 days trying to figure out how to get the timestamp to display the way I wanted it. And the tags. And the menu bar across the top. And the little RSS feed button at the top of the page (which wasn't "little" enough originally).

And I'm still not done.

Has me thinking:

When I was in the 1st grade, my teacher called my mother to request a conference about my performance in class. The teacher tried to tell my mother that she was concerned about the amount of time it was taking me to complete my worksheets and handwriting assignments. Turns our I was having issues with mistakes. As in I didn't want anyone to think I made them. So, of course, I couldn't stand erasure marks on my papers. So I didn't erase. Ever. If I made a mistake? I had to start over. Completely. No matter how close to being finished I was.

A bit obsessive? Maybe.

I remember my teacher pulling me aside and telling me that it was o.k. if I had to erase because just about everything we were doing in class was practice, and practice is the time when you are supposed to mess up. It seemed so simple when she put it like that. Made perfect sense.

May we never forget that most of our life is practice, that mistakes are part of the learning process, and that ignoring or, even worse, hiding our mistakes only makes us forget just how far we have come.

"Dude. You've got Jimmy Carter tattooed on your ass."

2009-11-02T22:25:00.007-06:00

My family are not tattoo people. As far as I know, neither my parents nor any of my siblings has ever given in to the call of the inking needle.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against body art. Most of my close friends have sat in the chair and come away marked with everything from a compass rose to Rosie the Riveter.

Still, when the Winged Monkey was looking through this gallery, I had to wonder if tattooing might not need to be outlawed. At the very least, people should have to take a breathalyzer and a drug test before they are allowed to have Jimmy Carter emblazoned on their ass.

Or Judge Judy.

Or...Michael Moore?

There should be laws.

*All pictures from Metromix Chicago.

Old Habits Die Hard

2009-11-01T18:32:00.003-06:00

Time was when I spent the majority of my nights snuggled up with my laundry. Never very romantic, but I was a very single Daisy and being the petite flower that am, I really had very little use for the entire queen size bed. And being disinclined to folding my laundry after I washed it, I saw no reason why the giant pile of clothes shouldn't find repose on the empty side of the bed.

This was also the same period when I was perfectly capable of functioning just fine on 3-4 hours of sleep. Mime 3 and myself would venture out to concerts or movie previews three nights a week, usually making a stop for pancakes or late night Mexican food on the way home. I'd tumble into bed around 2 in the morning, only to be up by 6:00 to be teaching by 7:20, and I never felt I skipped a beat.

Apparently, in the last 10 years, I have gotten old.

This fact was pointed out to me yesterday afternoon during my first visit to the rock climbing gym in a month. The first run up a route, and I screwed up my back reaching for a hold.

I hurt my back.

The quintessential old guy joke was playing out on me, and all I could do was lie down on the mat a pry for the cramping muscle to relax so I could possibly stand back up again.

My back ached most of last night, contributing to my staying up until almost 5:00 a.m. Unlike my post-concert mornings of yore, however, I have had a sleep-deprived headache most of the day, and I'm going to be struggling to stay awake through dinner this evening.

And the laundry? Well, the Winged Monkey takes up a lot of space when he stays over, so the laundry has been relegated to the dresser. not in the dresser, mind you, but rather a giant pile on top of the dresser. Apparently laziness is something one doesn't outgrow, a fact that I find somewhat fortuitous, since otherwise I wouldn't be able to find my socks since I can't really bend over at the moment.

:(

They bought a piano.

2009-10-31T08:43:00.006-05:00

Yep. You read that right. They. Bought. A. Piano. The "they" being my upstairs neighbors. They bought a piano and moved it upstairs yesterday afternoon.

Fortunately, I missed the whole moving-a-piano-up-the-staircase-and-around-the-turn-on-the-landing process. The Winged Monkey? Not so lucky. He was at my place, getting my computer ready for a Windows 7 upgrade (I'm sure there will be more on that in the coming days) when the moving in began. And when it finally ended an hour later. He had been relieved when the initial playing had stopped:

WM (whispering): Whoever is up there stumbled through a couple of songs, but they didn't finish any of them, and the songs really didn't flow into one another very well, so it wasn't like a medley.

And they weren't very good.

And you couldn't drown them out, no matter how high you turned up the tv.

Fortunately, the concert ended after a half hour or so. Only to be followed by the professional carpet cleaners. (Believe you me, my upstairs neighbors are carpet cleaning fools.)

I made it home about 15 minutes before my neighbors returned...with their 10-year-old daughter...who hadn't known about the piano...until she stomped upstairs to find her dad playing (here's one of the best parts) Jingle Bells.

WM (still whispering): Have we had Thanksgiving yet?
Daisy: I have got to move.

What followed was about 20 minutes of random playing, mostly Jingle Bells (well, part of Jingle Bells), a few runs up and down the keys, a half dozen scales. And then? Quiet.

Daisy's head: Maybe it won't be so bad.

Then this morning? 8:30 a.m.? The plunking begins.

I think it's supposed to be the beginning of "Ode to Joy."

I am not smiling.

There will come soft rains...

2009-10-29T19:45:00.004-05:00

...and hard rains...and drizzly rains...and cold rains...and any other type of rain you can imagine. For days. And days. And nights. And days.

I'm all about the rainy Sundays when I can stay on the couch with the Winged Monkey, watching tv and eating Thai take out, but I'm not all about rainy Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesday evenings, etc., etc., etc. The past two weeks? Rain and wind. And more rain. And more wind. And just when you think it's done? And just when you step outside to catch a glimpse of the long-lost sun? More rain.

I keep thinking of the old Ray Bradbury short story "All Summer in a Day" where the sun only comes out for a couple of hours every 7 years.

I can't wait 7 years.

This is why I don't think I could ever live in Washington. Or Oregon. Or anywhere else where it rains 250 days out of the year. My house is damp, my backyard is flooded, my knees are aching, and my allergies have gone ballistic. I need sun. Not necessarily heat, but definitely sun.

How does that chic in Twilight stand it?

Howdy, Folks!

2009-10-15T19:13:00.015-05:00

(Official State Fair of Texas image linked from FrontDoor.com)
During Fair time, my dad likes to call my sister and I and leave
voicemails in the guise of Big Tex.
Explains a lot about my upbringing, no?

Last night marked my last visit to this year's State Fair of Texas, which, for those of you who don't watch Oprah may not know, happens to be the largest state fair in the nation. And this year? It was definitely smaller.

No Budweiser Clydesdale horses.
Fewer giant pigs.
Fewer bunnies.
Fewer vendor booths.
Smaller crowds (except on the day Oprah broadcast live from the main stage).

Obvious signs of economic downturn.

Thankfully, some things remained blissfully the same.

The audience plant still fell in the pond during the Birds of the World Show (sorry for the spoiler).

The fried food selection was still sickeningly large (but the deep fried butter wasn't half bad).

(Have no idea who to credit because the photo was all over Google images.)
Deep Fried Butter--Tasted kind of like a super buttery biscuit.

And the cinnamon rolls? Do you even have to ask? They are still...hands down...my favorite cinnamon treat on the planet. (And those familiar with my love of most things cinnamon know that that is saying quite a lot.)

So, the run down?
4 trips to the fair in an 8 day period. During which I ingested: a giant turkey leg, an order of deep fried pork chips, Golden Chick chicken tenders, 3 slices of pizza, an order of fried pork ribs (with fries), half an order of Jack's Fries, a barbecue sandwich, an order of deep fried butter, 3 glasses of lemonade, 5 bottles of water, a sprite, a frozen Lemon Chill...and 6 cinnamon rolls. Of course, 2 of the cinnamon rolls were taken home for breakfast the day after a visit, but they were purchased with fair coupons, so they count as fair food. (According to fair rules.)

What can I say? There is no moderation in Fair World. You are constantly surrounded by food...and pictures of food...and the smell of food...and people cooking food...and folks giving away samples of food...and fair-goers lining up for food at booths covered in descriptions of food. Food is everywhere, and it is waiting to be eaten and enjoyed by you as you walk down the midway being tempted on one side by the barkers wanting you to pay a dollar to see the world's smallest horse (Tiny Tim) or carnies on the other wanting you to pay two dollars to try to catapult a rubber chicken into a revolving kitchen pot.

Needless to say, I gained about 5 pounds this past week, but that's pretty much par for the Fair course. Besides, I plan on running most of it off during this weekend's Race for the Cure. And Fair pounds are not allowed to count, since they only come once a year. They are like birthday cake or Christmas cookie calories. Besides, you can't count food that is purchased with State Fair coupons! You already burned hundreds of calories standing in line at the damn kiosks to swap your money for the official currency of the State Fair of Texas.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly those coupons seem to disappear out of your pocket. Magic really. One minute you have $100 cash. You stand in line for a bit and suddenly you have no cash, but you have 10 sheets of blue coupons. You stand in line a little longer and before you know it you have no coupons...but you are holding an nearly empty cup of lemonade and are searching for a napkin to mop the remnants of fried butter off your chin. And the whole time you've got this stupid, almost childlike grin on your face.

See what I mean? Magic.

Or perhaps an altered mental state brought on by the onslaught of country music being piped all over the fair grounds.

It's a toss up.

"Excuse me sir, would you mind holding your implants for a moment?"

2009-10-10T09:12:00.006-05:00

Never in my life did I think a pair of D cups would inhibit my work.

A) My boobs are nowhere near that size.
B) I work in public education, so I could never afford a boob job.
C) A new set was not among the birthday presents I received earlier this week.
D) I'm pretty much against implants in non-reconstructive circumstances.
E) I work in computers. In schools. Really, the only computer-big boob correlation I can think of is the pornographic kind, and I'm fairly certain most of those women aren't visiting high schools.

Well, except one mom.
And she wasn't in a porn so much as she's been charged with prostitution.
Charged, but not convicted.
And she says she's running a massage business.
So, yeah, how'd you like to be that mom's kid this week when she showed up on campus to volunteer? (And, yes, "volunteer to do what?" jokes abound.)

Anyway, they weren't her implants that were in my way Thursday. These implants belonged to a man. A plastic surgeon, actually, who was a guest speaker at school and who thought the kids would enjoy feeling some fake boobs. Well, duh!

So, yeah, I actually got to utter the sentence, "Excuse me sir, would you mind holding your implants for a moment while I hook up your computer?"

There are some days that my job is fairly entertaining.

2009-09-18T22:40:00.003-05:00

If I ever find myself on the receiving end of a marriage proposal, it had better not be during the pre-joust knighting ceremonies at Medieval Times.

I don't want to sound snotty or elitist or superior, but Medieval Times? We are talking about a venue that forces you to eat with your hands while wearing an adjustable paper crown, for crying out loud. Not exactly the first scene that comes to mind when I picture someone professing his undying devotion to me.

And yet, tonight I witnessed this very thing. Which brings to mind two questions: 1) Did the girl accept? and 2) What was Daisy doing at Medieval Times?

I ended up at Medieval Times as part of their Educator Appreciation Night, where they invite teachers to come to the dinner show for free, and give you goodies (like a mouse pad and a behind-the-scenes DVD and a pen), and try to convince you to bring your students to one of their "educational shows".

Several members of our English department had receive invitations, and I was lucky enough to be invited as the guest of one of my former departmental colleagues, who I shall refer to as Gatbsy because a) he teaches American literature, and b) he is from Michigan, which is close enough to Minnesota for me, and c) he spends every summer on one of the Great Lakes and comes back to school blond and tan.

Gatsby and myself were joined by two other ladies from the department and the husband of one of them. Several other teachers were supposed to have joined the group but as is often the case with teacher's, they bailed on Friday night plans because the week just wore them out.

So, the five of us, sitting in the black and white knight's section, spent slurping soup out of our bowls and watching melodrama on horseback. Aside from the garlic bread, to which I am always partial, the best part of the evening was listening to one of my female companions screaming "Champions!" at the top of her lungs as she waved her hands excitedly in the air after our knight had defeated one of his less chess-board-ish-ly clad competitors. I bet she wouldn't object to being proposed to at Medieval Times.

As for the actual proposee, she did accept, and so is now officially a Medieval Bride-to-Be. I assume that she and her future hubby will follow in the footsteps of another happy couple announced that evening an will spend their 5th anniversary at The Castle, as the Medieval groupees like to call it. Of course, I'm sure the whole thing seemed romantic after downing one of the 40 oz. margaritas they were selling outside the dining hall.

Note to self: there is a reason they sell such large drinks at events like Medieval Times.

Channel Flipping at 3 a.m.

2009-09-05T04:06:00.004-05:00

One of the many side effects of school starting is the disruption of my normal sleep schedule. During the summer months, I feel like a cross between a teenager and an elderly woman: staying up until 2 a.m., taking naps in the middle of the afternoon. The start of school means the end of naps, which turns my 2 a.m. bedtime into something closer to 7 p.m.

Of course, I use the term "bedtime" loosely, as I typically fall asleep on my couch for a couple of hours, wake up, and shuffle down the hall to collapse in bed for the rest of the night.

The problem? Falling asleep early tends to make me wake up earlier than usual...like 3 a.m. early, apparently.

I was hoping a little TV would lull me back into oblivion for a couple more hours, but that plan has been nixed. Why? Possibly because 3 a.m. TV is a frightening experience that could lead to nothing but nightmares.

Without a Trace on TNT: because being a single woman awake in a house alone at 3 a.m. isn't sad enough, now I have to be afraid that I could be abducted by the pizza delivery guy, or worse, the Winged Monkey who I may have failed to notice is really a sociopathic drug dealer.

Or an infomercial for Slim in 6 two channels over: because being surrounded by anorexic 17-year-old girls and the tradition of post-30 ballooning bottoms on my mother's side of the family isn't enough to make a girl body conscious; now I have to watch complete strangers, many of which are currently as thin as I am, talk about their weight loss struggles.

Then there's Hardball Weekend on one of the news channels, which sounds like porn but is really politics--not that there's much difference between the two, since it's a bunch of unattractive people yelling and groaning, and it's all for show, and no one ever really does anything, though someone's sex life is frequently the topic of conversation.

One more channel and you hit Suze Orman, who let's face it, is just altogether frightening. The contrast between her overly tan skin and her shockingly white teeth is rather unsettling. And what's with the pointing? She keeps pointing at you the whole time. And the cadence of her speech? I can't quite place it, but it comes close to Jack Nicholson's monologue in A Few Good Men, so I always feel like she's barking "You can't handle your finances!"

And we wonder why Americans, with their average 2.4 TVs per household, suffer from growing rates of depression and anxiety. Duh! Look at the shit we are watching! And that's at 3 a.m. In the middle of the afternoon? Well, you have soap operas (pick one) where no one every really knows who their daddy is, or you have Law & Order SVU where a woman gets raped, murdered, and, more often than not, chopped into little pieces every hour on the hour.

And the children's stations? Lilo & Stitch. Aliens, people. Aliens. And I don't care how cute he is, or how much he looks like a cuddly blue koala bear. Have you seen the teeth on that thing? My advanced education has taught me that most creatures with teeth like that like to eat meat and that little Lilo is a plump little thing with golden brown skin...kinda like a rotisserie chicken. Perfect for an alien snack if you ask me.

It's disturbing, people. Disturbing and dark in a way that only a breakfast of leftover pizza and vanilla wafers, enjoyed while listening to the testimony of actual Bowflex users, can cure.

Cat-Man-Do

2009-08-29T08:21:00.005-05:00

Can't remember if I've ever written about it before, but there is a house in my neighborhood that is the local cat morning hangout. If I run early enough, my path is repeatedly crossed by local felines as they meander over for their morning communal.

I always assumed that the house belonged to a Cat Lady, and I secretly noted its existence as a cautionary tale of what I hope to avoid in my life. In addition to my severe cat allergy, I also refuse to get sucked into that particular stereotype.

Several months ago, I caught my first glimpse of Cat Lady, only to learn that she was actually a he: a barrel chested waddler of a man who was wearing a blue velour-ish sweat suit the first time I caught a glimpse.

This morning? He came out in a baseball cap. And a yellow button-down shirt. And a towel. Yep. Cat Man waddled outside in his towel to get the morning paper and put out breakfast for his four-legged neighborhood friends (one of which was lounging on top of Cat Man's old Cadillac giving himself an early bath).

I has to turn away when Cat Man bent over to pick up the paper, for fear that that towel might break free and I might get my second glance of an elderly gentleman's ass in little more than a week. For those of you who haven't seen it yet, I don't feel like I'm spoiling anything when I tell you that the hospital scene in The Hangover has scarred me for life. No man will ever get to make cellulite jokes in my presence again now that I know just how other-worldly their asses have the potential to become. Close your eyes ladies. Close. Your. Eyes.

Friday Night Lights Out

2009-08-28T20:14:00.002-05:00

Last night I went to dinner with the Mighty Mime Mafia. Over pasta and sangiovese, myself and Mime 4 were comparing our level of first-week-of-school exhaustion. 4 remembered how our first year teaching one of our mentors had warned us that we would finish each day of the first week by crawling into bed at 6:30pm and passing out. 12 years later, it still surprises me how tired I am this first week.

It's a lot like running. I haven't run in two weeks--mainly because the back-to-school rush makes it uber-difficult for me to pull my butt out of bed early enough in the mornings--and I am dreading my planned run tomorrow because I've lost my momentum, so it's almost like the first run all over again. School is like that. The first week is building up momentum to push you through the rest of the year (or at least until Labor Day weekend in another week).

So I guess I shouldn't feel all that old for having fallen asleep last night at the oh-so-late hour of 8:30 p.m. Nor should I feel old for actually being happy to be sitting on my couch on a Friday night, looking forward to falling asleep while reading.

Tomorrow

2009-08-23T17:05:00.003-05:00

The NaBloPoMo topic for this month is tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the first day of school. By 8 a.m. 1900+ students and 200 faculty and staff members will all converge on the building, and right about that time, my phone will start to ring.

This past week has been all about preparing for the first day back, and as evidenced by my lack of posting, it pretty much took over my life. I worked late every day this week, answered emails up until 10:00 p.m. some nights, and I even spent 4 hours yesterday and 2 hours this afternoon up at work, trying to finish preparing computers and projection systems for the first day back.

Tomorrow I will be carried along on a wave of adrenaline and panic. I can pretty much guarantee that there will be multiple rooms where sound won't be working for some odd reason, and at least one teacher will somehow mysteriously rewire her document camera so that she can't see her computer displayed on her monitor. And then there will be the teacher who calls me in a panic, and the problem will turn out to be a power plug pulled out of its socket. Those calls are hard to finish without embarrassing someone: They always want to know what was wrong, and when I tell them, they inevitably turn bright red.

Tomorrow I will run myself ragged, I will probably get 10 minutes for lunch, and I will stumble home late for dinner and will fall asleep on the couch before the take-out arrives.

Tomorrow I will know what to expect the rest of the year. The tone will be set, the whiners will be identified, and the heroes will be revealed.

But it's not tomorrow yet. Today, I have a few more hours of "vacation" during which I plan to park my scrawny butt on my recently vacuumed couch, in my recently cleaned living room, to read my not-so-recently downloaded novel on my beloved Kindle, Kipling.

For the moment, the phone is quiet and life is good.

CSI: The Suburbs

2009-08-15T05:42:00.004-05:00

This morning I am lying peacefully in bed, minding my own business, dreaming my little Daisy dreams when I am jolted awake by some woman yelling outside.

Now, I live in a nice neighborhood. Scratch that. I live in a very nice neighborhood. So, we don't have much screaming outside at 4:00 a.m., especially not since the folks who used to live next door to me got divorced and moved away. We also don't get many 4:00 a.m. visits from four police patrol cars like he ones that were camped out in front of my house for an hour and a half (one of which is still there). Makes a girl curious as to what exactly happened on her street at 4:00 a.m. Which explains why this morning I got to play the role of Gladys on Bewitched, peeking out the window for over an hour, watching the police officers as they shined their Maglites up and down the block finally converging on a suspicious car parked in front of my new neighbors' house. (Suspicious, of course, because 5 police officers were all shining flashlights into all the windows while they made notes.)

Now another car has arrived, and the driver (a man wearing an official looking monogrammed golf shirt) has joined the sole remaining officer in shining his much smaller flashlight into the windows of the aforementioned suspicious vehicle.

After all of the NCIS and Law & Order marathons I've been watching with Winged Monkey lately, I have this overwhelming urge to go outside and start "canvasing the neighborhood" for any "leads" on the "perp". Of course, I would probably be more effective if I actually knew what the hell had happened to prompt so much attention from the local five-o. The bad news is, I don't really know my neighbors all that well, so I'm probably going to have to wait until Monday when I can ask the officer assigned to our campus at work to find out the details for me.

In the meantime, I now understand why Gladys was always spying from her kitchen window. The whole nosy neighbor routine makes a girl hungry. Unfortunately, I ate all the leftovers in the fridge for dinner last night, so there's not much available in the way of breakfast. :(

I wonder if they would stop me for questioning if I left my house to make a run to Taco Cabana?

Sid Caesar Lives

2009-08-13T19:37:00.005-05:00

Last night was trivia night again, and our usual group welcomed redheadedali to the ranks. (You can read her wonderful post recently featured on The Enchanted Inkpot here.) Consequently, we kicked some Name That Tune Round ass, since in addition to being generally brilliant, redheadedali is pretty much a walking music encyclopedia.

Unfortunately, that was pretty much the only round out of 8 in which we fared at all well.

Out of a possible 80 points, we scored a measly 35 1/2. Pathetic. We didn't even manage half of the answers in the Nerd Round. Do you have any idea how demoralizing that is to a table of self-proclaimed uber-nerds?

Even Winged Monkey was shocked at our poor showing, especially when I revealed that I had been unable to remember the name of Crockett's pet alligator in Miami Vice in the Television Round. (WM was apparently a big Miami Vice fan during his teen years and has been making Miami Vice references sporadically ever since the new Psych commercial featuring the Miami Vice theme song started airing.)

The night was not a complete loss, however. I learned that Sid Caesar, Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Yogi Berra are all still alive and well; I learned that Lou Gehrig was the first athlete featured on a Wheaties box (our guess, Bruce Jenner, was second); and I learned that people drive on the left side of the road in Malta. Much knowledge was added to my store of useless facts.

At least I can feel secure in the knowledge that I remembered Rose's hometown of St. Olaf on The Golden Girls. Because really, when it comes right down to it, Rose makes just about everyone smile. While Zsa Zsa? Well, she's hit or miss in the smile department.

Winding Down

2009-08-10T07:30:00.003-05:00

Every day the summer winds down a little faster. Last week I spent three days up at work, teaching classes and ordering new computers. The building was still relatively empty of teachers, but the custodial and maintenance crews were out in full force, painting and cleaning carpets. The football and volleyball players have already taken up residence in the gym and stadiums. And the city road crew is scurrying to finish repairs on the main street that runs alongside the high school before the full faculty returns next Monday.

This morning I automatically woke up at 6:00 and was only able to stall my morning run for 30 minutes before my brain wouldn't allow me anymore time in bed. It's almost as if over the years my body has amended my natural circadian rhythm to self-adjust for fall. This time next week I'll be up an hour earlier, and my nose will be firmly planted against the proverbial grindstone.

Part of me is ready to get back to work. A girl can only watch so many episodes of Law and Order and Burn Notice, after all. But another part of me is in no hurry to once again deal with the mechanical minutia of my job. Sometimes, I miss the actual classroom. Not the papers, or the grade grubbing, or the overly-involved parents who haven't yet realized that little Timmy is now old enough to be charged with a felony and therefore needs to be responsible for turning in his homework. I don't miss any of that nonsense, not for half a second. But I do miss the discussions, and the discovery, and the sense of family and purpose I used to have with my students.

I got an email from a former student last week. I had him in class 6 years ago, and last Tuesday, out of the blue, he sends me an email to say thank you for always being in a good mood in his class and for being a good teacher to him and his friends. I have no idea what event in his life made him think of me and my class, or what was so powerful as to make him take the time to sit down, find my new school, and email me, but his note made me think of all the students I've impacted, for better or worse, and how privileged I have been to play some small role in all those lives.

I can think of only a handful of professions that have that kind of perk. Makes me feel lucky that I found my way into this one.

My Tax Dollars at Work

2009-08-06T23:35:00.014-05:00

Dear Senate-

I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for voting to continue the Cash for Clunkers program. Because of your foresight and generosity, I am finally able to trade in my 11 year old Jeep Cherokee with its combined mileage rating of 16 MPG for an adorable little MINI Cooper that gets a combined 27 MPG. In addition, I will now be making a monthly car payment, something I haven't done in 6 years, and while that will be somewhat annoying, at least I can take comfort in the fact that I'm once again doing my part in our screwed up, debt-driven economy. Besides, if my money can't earn anything in any of our banks, I might as well be using it to finance my cute little chili red Cooper S, complete with sunroof and white bonnet stripes.

I know that your main aim was to throw me and 749,999 other hard-working Americans back into debt to help bail out the failing auto industry, but at least my giving in to the consumerist culture so ingrained in my being will have the pleasant side effect of cleaning up a small percentage of the greenhouse gases said mindset has caused to be spewed into the atmosphere over the past 100 years. According to CNN Money, the "good for the environment" angle used to help sell the bill to begin with actual has some merit, as the average program trade-in results in a 61% increase in fuel economy.

Perhaps you guys aren't quite as full of shit as most of we lay folk think you are.

Sincerely,
Your (soon to be) MINI-driving Daisy

:)

"I like living dangerously...heh."

2009-08-05T22:03:00.006-05:00

Just got back from a sneak preview of the film Paper Hearts, starring Charlyne Yi and Michael Cera, and I can honestly say that it was a completely delightful film about the meaning of love.

I have not smiled that much in a movie in years. It was quirky and creative and left me leaving the theater feeling lighter than when I went in. I like that in a movie.

Not to point out the obvious...

2009-08-03T21:02:00.002-05:00

Every year I read at least 25 books. That's been the benchmark for I don't know how long now, and I've managed to meet my "minimum reading requirement" every year since I set the mark. It keeps me thinking, it keeps me happy, it keeps me sane. If I go more than a week or so without reading my head tends to get a bit muddled and my dreams become downright dreary.

Some people drink, some people smoke, some people shop. I read.

Lately, I've been a bit non-committal with the books though. I've been reading a chapter or two every day, but right now I've got three going at the same time: one for it's message, one for it's style, and one for it's fluffy distraction.

It's no surprise then that I'm a bit behind from the month of July, not having finished a one of the three. So, today I decided I would finish The Book Thief, which is honestly one of the most beautifully written novels I've picked up in the last 5 years. Two pages in I was completely taken with the language, but for that same reason, I've been working my way through it at a snail's pace.

Now I'm down to the last 50 pages, and I have a feeling it is going to take a strong will to finish it. In the midst of the staggering imagery and masterful verbal gymnastics, I have also come to love Liesel, and Hans, and Rosa, and Rudy, and I am not ready for all of them to die. And it's not like it isn't expected, since pieces of the end are scattered throughout the novel, and the thing is set in Nazi Germany during WWII, and the narrator is Death, for cryin' out loud. I mean, I knew what I was getting into, but I'm still not looking forward to the how and why of it all.

I mean, I know everyone dies eventually, but that doesn't mean I want to watch all the people I love go, right?

And that's how I know that this was a good book: the fact that I am dreading the ending.

Last week, at the conference I attended in Boston I was told that 75% of all college graduates will never finish another book for the rest of their life after their graduation. I literally dropped my head into my hands and sat there dumbfounded for a minute. I can't imagine not having read anything in the last 11 years, and as a teacher it saddens me to think of all the stories and ideas those people are missing out on.

So, now I am going to allow myself the delusion that all 75% of those graduates had the great luck to pick up a book like The Book Thief, and it's not that they are too lazy, or too busy, or too illiterate, or too uninterested in books that keeps them from finishing one. I'm going to let myself believe that they simply found themselves so invested in whatever they were reading they simply didn't want it to end.

It's all in how you look at it.

It's Good to Have Goals!

2009-08-02T09:19:00.003-05:00

Got home late Friday night because of weather delays (read that as: sat on the end of a runway for 2 hours waiting to take off from Boston, only to have to sit on the end of a runway in Dallas for 40 minutes waiting for them to clear a gate for our plane once we got here, as if they didn't know we were coming) and was unbelievably happy to sleep in my own bed with my own pillow.

There is nothing like a moldy hotel room, no matter how historic, to make you appreciate your very own (albeit rented) home.

Saturday was mostly a couch/nap/I'm-going-to-use-my-late-arrival-as-an-excuse-to-hide-from-the-rest-of-the-world-because-I'm-just-too-lazy-to-deal-with-them-today-and-I'll-be-forced-to-deal-with-them-soon-enough-since-my-summer-is-almost-over day. The one item on the agenda? To post for NaBloPoMo, since it was the first of the month, so that I would be off to a good start on yet another attempt at 30 straight days of posting.

So, I stopped by their website, picked up a nifty badge and posted it in my sidebar. Then I promptly set my computer down to order dinner...and failed to pick it back up again last night. :(

I am going to blame it on Extreme Pizza, as they were extremely disappointing, as in they never showed up...at all...forcing the WM and myself to order Papa John's and wait another 30 minutes on top of the previous 1 1/2 hours we had already waited. My blood sugar was so low, I actually fell asleep on the couch before the replacement pizzas finally got here.

So thanks, Extreme Pizza, for not only charging my credit card and then closing before you sent out my pie so that I now have to call you back today for a refund, but also for contributing to my missing my goal before I had even had a chance to start.

However, in the style of Benjamin Zander, who I had the pleasure of hearing speak this week, I have decided to "create a new framework" and move myself "beyond the f*$% it" (or btfi, if you will) and view my tardiness as a subconscious attempt to internalize the theme NaBloPoMo has selected for the month of August: Tomorrow.

Yesterday I subconsciously decided to start my NaBloPoMo tomorrow.

How's that for justified procrastination? I should be a politician.

It's Mardi Gras...in July!

2009-07-27T11:18:00.004-05:00

Crazy Landlady made her annual mid-summer appearance this past Saturday, and let's just say she once again left little of her appearance to the imagination.

I'm not sure how much I've shared on the blog about Crazy Landlady (and I'm too lazy right now to scan through my 100+posts to check), so I will give you a brief introduction:

The first day I met Crazy Landlady, she met me at my then soon-to-be humble abode to show me the "charming" (she used that word at least a dozen times in the 20 minutes I was with her) duplex she was renting. Within the first 5 minutes, she had told me the story of the last 40 years of her life: from her grandparents dying and leaving her the money that she used to purchase the house, to the nearly 20 years she lived here while she taught elementary school, to her marrying for the first time at the age of 50 (she must be close to 70 now), her mother's recent death, and the stress of her husband's recurring back problems. As if that wasn't enough, 10 minutes further into our meeting, she had hiked up her dress and flashed me her shiny white polyester granny-panties as she toweled off her stomach and complained about the summer heat.

I am not making this up.

And yet, that apparently was not enough to offset the built-in bookshelves, working fireplace, and 1/2 block walk to work that her property offered me. 2 days later, at our second meeting, I read over and signed a year lease agreement while Crazy Landlady used the bathroom down the hall...with the door wide open...and straight in my line of sight.

Again, I repeat, I am not making this up.

The past year has afforded many opportunities for family and friends to laugh at my Crazy Landlady stories, but there hadn't been another "exhibition", so to speak, until this weekend.

Saturday morning, 10 a.m., the doorbell rings, followed by Crazy Landlady's knock and shrill voice calling my name. I open the door, in my pajamas (it was a laundry morning), and CL proceeds to walk through my house, uninvited, to my kitchen, where she proceeds to inspect the minuscule damage caused by last week's water leak and then fiddle with the light switches by the back door, trying to figure out which one must stay on to allow the new tenant in the back guesthouse to control her porch light (Crazy Landlady is very security conscious). Then she calls in Handyman, who had been cleaning out the garage.

So, there we are, the three of us --me standing in my pjs, CL talking over her white horn-rimmed glasses, and Handyman looking very uncomfortable but nodding nonetheless -- in my kitchen, with the back door open, and I should have seen it coming when she commented on the heat and reached for a paper towel. But it was early. And I wasn't expecting company. And she's quick for an old broad. And before I know what has happened...she has lifted her hot pink tank top to towel herself off...under her 70ish-year-old, white, sagging, bra-less boobs.

I didn't know whether to throw beads or throw up.

And Handyman? Well, after 25 years of working for her, he must have already seen it all because he didn't even blink; he just turned away and started dusting off the light bulb he was holding.

Meanwhile, I am standing there speechless, fighting the urge to giggle uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation, wishing I had a video camera because people really think I make this stuff up, and thinking to myself: I just got flashed by my 70-year-old Crazy Landlady. If I didn't need therapy before, I'm gonna need it now.

I want to run like Lola...only with better dubbing

2009-07-18T15:59:00.010-05:00

One of the many reasons that I love my Netflix account is the fact that my queue is so long that by the time a movie gets to sent to me, it has been so long since I added it to my list I can't remember why I chose it to begin with. Some people find this annoying, but I kind of like it. Makes the movies more of a surprise when I get them out of the mailbox.

A perfect example is today's laundry movie: Run, Lola, Run.

I've no idea what would possess me to order this little German flick, but it is strangely entertaining, what with it's techno-ish soundtrack, bad English dubbing, and Lola's flaming red hair bouncing around as she repeatedly runs across town replaying different versions of the same scenario (if that makes any sense at all).

And Lola has superpowers of sorts: That chic can run like the wind, and in military boots no less.

She runs so fast, they couldn't even get a clear shot for the poster.

And when she starts running down stairs, she turns all cartoony.

Stairs are Lola's red kryptonite, making her personality slightly more animated.

And she screams. I mean, time practically stops when she opens her mouth and unleashes this obnoxiously grating voice that breaks glass and apparently also has the power to influence roulette wheels.

Notice the casino patrons cowering at the power of her lungs.
(Vulgar speech bubble added by whomever I stole the pic from. Lola doesn't need obscenities. Her screech stands well enough on it's own.)

Oh, and she also can heal dying men in ambulances with the mere touch of her hand. (But I can't find a picture from that scene, so you'll just have to trust me on that one.)

Those Germans are a strange lot.

Tidbits of Trivia

2009-07-16T08:17:00.004-05:00

Last night was weekly trivia night at a local restaurant, and while my team didn't place in the top 3 (I think we were 6th or 7th), I was very proud that I was able to contribute to the team's respectable finish with my random knowledge of 80s television and music. Not only did I correctly identify Tom Hanks as the actor who played Elise's drunken brother on Family Ties (even if my team overruled me, much to their disappointment), but I also remembered that the smash hit Two of Hearts was recorded not by Tiffany or Debbie Gibson, but rather by the exceptionally frizzy-haired Stacey Q. Of course, ever since that question, the song has been on repeat in my head, so I am attempting to exorcise the musical demon by sending it out into the wold for all to hum.

Enjoy!

Desperately Seeking Cinnamon

2009-07-15T06:18:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, in a fit of domesticity, I decided I would make cinnamon rolls. Those in the know realize how rare an event Daisy cooking anything has become in the last few years. While I used to be a pretty mean baker in my early 20s, I have since moved more into the Lorelai Gilmore school of thought on cooking: Why cook when you can dial? Did you know that they actually have cookie delivery places here in Texas? Not the nasty, tasteless, shortbread Cookie Bouquet things; I'm talking oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, snickerdoodley goodness, baked fresh and brought right to your doorstep in 30-45 minutes. (I so miss living downtown sometimes.)

For whatever reason (possibly shear boredom), yesterday morning I decided that I was going to bake, and bake I did. I mixed and kneaded and rolled and greased for at least an hour. And the result?

Cinnamon roll paperweights.

That's right. Fist size clumps of what would have been yummy, delicious, gooey-great, cinnamony rolls...if only they had risen.

Note to self: when in the process of baking for the first time in several years, if the thought even crosses your mind that the yeast may be a tad past its prime, then it is probably safe to call it Sly Stallone (I caught Daylight on TV the other day, and he was looking way old back then. No telling what he looks like now.) and toss it out. Otherwise, you not only lose the hour of your life you spent making the damn dough, but you also lose the second hour it takes to clean up the ginormous mess you made making the damn dough and then throwing it out.

And, of course, all that work makes a girl hungry. So you find yourself standing in your flour covered pajamas, listening to your stomach growling, without a cinnamon roll in sight, having to decide if you want to get dressed and go to the store and settle for Pillsbury cinnamon rolls or if you can possibly fake out your cinnamon-craving brain with a combination of pistachios and chips and salsa, since those are the only snack-type things you happen to have on hand.

Being the lazy vacation bum I am this week, I tried the latter of the two options, and while Julio's tortilla chips are heavenly (like Doritos for grown ups), they are kinda like giving a crack addict a Red Bull and expecting it to do the trick. There is no replacement for cinnamon in Daisy's world, so I have been craving cinnamon for the past 20 hours now.

Good thing Big Sis and Favorite Youngest Niece are coming to town to day for some mall time and the only cinnamon treat Daisy likes almost as much as the aforementioned cinnamon rolls and snickerdoodles would be the cinnamon pretzle sticks from Autnie Anne's. A couple of orders of those and I may be almost satisfied.

It's not easy being green...

2009-07-13T08:18:00.010-05:00

Late last night, I got this image from the Winged Monkey:

The email subject read simply: Sunset and 72 degrees (where I'm staying).

Now, almost a month ago, WM spent a week in Colorado...in the mountains...where I would give anything to live some day. That trip, he was kind enough not to send me pictures of the mountains, and even if he had, it would have been o.k. because I had just gotten back from some globe trotting of my own, including a couple of days in the beautiful Swiss Alps.

Today, though? Today is supposed to hit 103 degrees down here in Texas, and sitting next to any of our man-made lakes (There is only one natural lake in the whole state, in case you didn't know. We dig our own down here.) is really just a tease since 4th of July included a sea-doo ride in what felt like bath water.

Needless to say, I am a wee bit jealous of the W'Monkey and his current retreat up north.

And then the worst came this morning, when he replied to my response: "Is there a hammock? 'Cause if there is I can be there by morning. ;)" (We both have a soft spot for hammocks, but our hammock time at the lake 4th of July was cut short by the fact that mosquitoes apparently have a thing for hammocks as well, and they also have a thing for Daisy who is pretty sure she really did contract the dreaded malaria.) His answer: "I didn't want to be cruel, but yes there is a hammock!!!"

Notice the triple exclamation point rubbing in the fact that he is in paradise while I am sweltering in the 3rd circle of hell. (I do have air conditioning, so it's not completely unbearable.)

Notice, also, that there is no invitation for me to join him appended to his not-so-subtle nana-nana-boo-boo statement. I mean, he could have at least sent me a cute little "Can you be here by dinner time?" or something.

Granted, he is up there for a conference of sorts, and he is a guest in some folks' home, and it's probably not kosher to say "Hey, I invited my girlfriend up, and she'll be here for dinner," and I was only half serious when I said I could be there by morning, but he could have played along so I don't have to focus so much on the fact that I am completely envious of his current locale.

That's o.k. I have a trip to Boston in two weeks, and I'm pretty sure the furnace that is home will continue to heat up, so I can send some nice snapshots of the harbor ad the ocean to the WM while he sweats it out down here. All's fair, after all.

Comings and Goings

2009-07-12T07:05:00.004-05:00

I seem to be spending quite a bit of time in and around airports lately, and I've come to the following conclusion: airports are schizophrenic places.

Emotions are high in those terminals, and "conflicted" doesn't even begin to cover it. You see, there is the excitement of the upcoming vacation or the dread of the next in a series of unending business trips. Either of these is heightened by the stress of the repetitive mental checklist: Did I pack my toothbrush? Did I remember the cell phone charger? Did I put both shoes in the bag, or did I forget to snag the left one out from under the bed?

And then there is the leaving part. Goodbye kisses that are distracted by the nagging feeling that you left your alarm clock on so that your upstairs neighbor, having been driven mad by your airport departure alarm of 5:00 a.m. 4 days straight, will have no choice but to slash the tires of your car as it sits in the driveway, patiently awaiting your return.

Or perhaps it's a return journey, in which case, you are battling the exhaustion mixed with the shear giddiness at the thought of your own bed, your own pillow. A temporary high, of course, because these daydreams are squelched by the announcement that your flight has been delayed for 4 more hours due to sun spots or some such cosmic anomaly.

I'm kind of surprised you really don't hear about more people just wigging out in airports: "Woman found roaming terminal, babbling incoherently, occasionally stopping to chant "3-1-1" in an inhumanely high-pitched voice as she tosses zip-lock baggies at passers-by."

And what about those left behind? Those dropping off loved ones at the gates to the gauntlet that is airport security, then having to find the way out to the wrong airport exit as the missing commences, slowly at first, but inevitable nonetheless. They have nothing to look forward to except traffic on the way home and an empty house at the end of the drive.

Of course, an empty house does mean sole possession of the Tivo remote... ;)

83 degrees and counting

2009-07-11T08:53:00.005-05:00

It was 83 degrees when I woke up this morning...at 7:00 a.m. There is something inherently wrong with 83 degrees and 7:00 a.m. having anything whatsoever to do with one another, especially when you add in the 65% humidity. That makes it feel like it's 87 degrees. Seriously. On the AccuWeather website, it actually gives you the official "Feels Like" temperature, and it said it "Feels Like" 87 degrees. At 7:00 freakin' a.m! Made me "Feel Like" passing out when I stepped outside.

Needless to say, my run this morning was downgraded to a walk, but I did get my lazy butt out of bed, put on my shoes, and head outside for a good 2 miles. Maybe tomorrow I will drag my fanny out at 5:00 a.m. and it will only "Feel Like" 85 degrees.

On the up side: my kitchen is actually stocked with food, including the yummy lemonade I made yesterday and Julio's (amazing) seasoned tortilla chips that my sister-in-law brought me from Austin last weekend. Little Miss Sunshine is on USA this morning, so I have quality entertainment to watch with my breakfast, which will include toast made from Whole Foods' rustic Italian bread which makes the best toast on the planet.

Not a horrible way to start the weekend...once I recover from the earlier heat stroke. Now excuse me while I watch Greg Kinear steal a dead body from a hospital so his family can make his daughter's beauty pageant. Now that is some serious family bonding!

For all you Old 97's fans out there...

2009-07-07T11:16:00.003-05:00

I love Rhett Miller, and now I have more evidence as to why.

I like my musicians smart. :)

Mime 4 and I agree on our favorite part:

I love women, and the idea of women, and I love songs about girls, and I would write a million songs about girls before I would write one song about nuclear disarmament. Although, I believe whole-heartedly in the latter.

Hehehehe.

She's Back!

2009-07-06T18:27:00.006-05:00

So, it's be a while. Had a trip to D.C. for a work conference (aka a bunch of computer nerds getting together to share new toys in a convention center with spotting wifi coverage), spent a little time in my pajamas on the couch, and then spent the 4th at the parents' house.

Winged Monkey met the family for the first time. The whole family. We're talking parents, siblings, nieces & nephews, and even aunt, uncle, & cousin. WM seems to have survived the weekend relatively unscathed (thank God my family believes in beer and margaritas), but I believe I may have noticed a slight tic today that he didn't have before the weekend. He's still hanging out on the couch with me, so he's either in shock or he's made of some pretty stern stuff. Of course, he could also be planning his exit strategy while watching the Bond marathon on USA this afternoon.

I, on the other hand, spent half of the evening trying to get my eyes to work after making the mistake of petting my sister's cat and then promptly using the same hand to take out my contacts...without stopping to wash my hands. Being massively allergic to animals of the feline variety means my hygienic shortcut caused my eyes to turn bright red and swell up to three times their normal size. Then the itching set in. This is the part of the post where I put in a plug for Zyrtec, without which my fourth would have been a lot less colorful...since I would have been blind.

WM and I agreed that the economy can't be in that bad of shape, since we were able to watch private firework shows put on by multiple groups at the lake. I suspect more than a few thousand dollars were blown up in the night sky around the lake that night; three to four hours of pretty much non-stop fireworks can not be cheap. And that was after the air show, during which the pilots re-enacted Tora Tora, dogfights and all.

Gotta get back into the swing of the blogosphere, but first, I plan to spend this evening eating Thai food. Apparently mangoes are in season, so my friendly Thai phone waiter talked me into adding some mango sticky rice to my order this evening. I'll let you know how it turns out...

"It's my happy birthday party."

2009-06-21T06:16:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was the birthday of two important people in my life: the Winged Monkey and Beebs' daughter Taylor. Needless to say, WM is significantly older than Taylor, who just turned 3. With WM being out of town for martial arts training where his friends were taking him out to what h referred to as a mid-shi-shi restaurant and who knows what else, I had the great fortune of attending Miss Taylor's ladybug party. And let me tell you, when Miss Taylor throws a ladybug party, there are going to be ladybugs.

There were ladybug table cloths, ladybug plates & napkins, ladybug cookies, a giant ladybug cake, ladybug tutus, and even real live ladybugs for the ladybug hunt. I'm not kidding about this. Did you know you can buy a bucket of ladybugs for $12? 1500 ladybugs, to be exact, all in what looks like a small, clear butter tub, and which you are instructed to put in the refrigerator until a few hours before releasing in order to slow down their eating. They are, after all, trapped in a small container, and if the food ran out before time, there is a good chance those ladies might turn on one another. What kind of party would that leave you with?

3 1/2 hours with 10 children, all under the age of 4, and their parents was enough to bring me to the conclusion that I am not really all that sorry that I don't have kids yet. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the little munchkins, and I actually quite enjoyed watching them all scramble about looking for the "BUGS!", but, my god, the noise was crazy. And the crying? It seemed like every 5 minutes someone was crying because they wanted a turn playing with Taylor's new pink, battery-operated hair dryer. I want kids some day, but I'm thinking first I need to come up with an alternative to birthday parties because that might just explain some of the crazy moms I've encountered in my time as a teacher. One too many kiddie parties.

I was, of course, the only non-parent/single-type in the bunch, and, therefore had very little to add to the discussions on BMI charts and potty training accidents and pre-natal vitamins. But I did have the satisfaction of getting the best gift reaction out of Taylor. She got so excited over the pig in a tutu pillow I got her she almost forgot about the rest of her unopened presents, choosing instead to hug the pig and lay down on the floor with it.
I may not be a mom, but as an aunt, honorary or otherwise, I rock the kiddie present world!

Volatizing My Esters

2009-06-19T07:41:00.005-05:00

Bossman is what in yuppie circles as known as a Foodie, so he has enjoyed helping me in my quest to develop an appreciation for wine. He recently told me that all the swirling that WM does with his glass of wine does actually have an effect on the sophisticated drink, and that, no, it is not just some pretentious habit designed to make the uninitiated feel inferior. So, I've been working on my swirling technique, but no amount of swirling could make me like the Malbec that I tried last night. Ick, is the term that comes to mind as the battery acid I recently had to clean off would probably have tasted better. Guess the rest of the bottle will have to wait for WM's return...he can drink anything.

Any alcohol typically makes me sleepy, so it was no surprise that I turned in early last night, which accounted for my waking up at midnight, unable to go back to sleep until 2:00am, and only then for about 3 hours. I finally gave up the effort around 6:00 and got up to give my return to running (after a 3 month hiatus) a second chance. Today was a better morning for it, as there was a nice breeze to kind of move the humidity around a bit. Summer in Texas is not exactly a runner's dream.

So now, I'm sitting on the couch, watching reruns of Charmed on TNT and trying to motivate myself to start in on my to-do list for the day, which includes, among other things, buying a birthday present for a 3-year-old, mopping my kitchen, and finishing my Father's Day shopping.

Life is really not all that exciting the past two days, and I can't say that I really mind that much. If my whole year can't be drama free, I guess I'll take the small bubbles of it I can get. No reason to volatize the esters; think I prefer to just sit and breathe.

Welcome home...sorta

2009-06-18T07:23:00.004-05:00

First, we must praise the airline gods for the creation of technology that allows for direct trans-Atlantic flights to Dallas. I'm not sure I could have withstood another 9 hour layover in Chicago like we had on the way to Rome, but the direct flight back from London wasn't to unbearable. There was the jackass in the seat behind me that kept pushing my chair upright while I was asleep, but you can hardly blame someone for trying to get that extra 2 inches of space in the sardine can.

Another bonus came in the form of an unexpected delay in the Winged Monkey's departure on his trip. It had been assumed that we would miss each other by a few hours and that it would be another week before our paths crossed again, but the fates were on my side on this one, and he ended up not having to leave until the evening after my return, so we had almost 24 hours to spend watching Double Indemnity (if you have ever watched a movie with a winged monkey, you know that is not an inordinate expanse of time for one film, as they like to pause and comment every couple of lines) while eating delivery and packing his stuff. We also had just enough time to discover that my car was dead, but not enough time to actually do anything about it before we were supposed to leave for me to drive him to meet up with his ride. Can you say "uh oh"?

Needless to say, I met WM's mom for the first time Tuesday evening, for a total of about 15 minutes, most of which were filled with confusion and frustration on everyone's part as we worked out a plan for the 3 1/2 hour round trip Monkey Drop. Not exactly the first impression I was hoping for. :(

Yesterday was family day, and I spent the bulk of it with Big Sis and Favorite Youngest Niece trying to find pants to fit my incredibly shrinking frame (those Europeans don't believe in breakfast) and trying to get my less than faithful auto in running order again (and, yes, friends, pouring a diet coke over your battery terminals does indeed dissolve any corrosive buildup, allowing for a good connection when you have to jump said battery. Who would have thought something that ridiculous would work, and who wants to drink something that dissolves battery acid?).

So, today, I decided, would be reserved for me and my faithful couch, whom I have missed in every European city on my tour. First, however, I decided I needed to get back on the running horse, so to speak, so I laced up my shoes and headed out at 6:45.

It was 80 degrees. At 6:45 in the morning. Seriously. And it's not even July. This does not bode well for the summer, people.

What also doesn't bode well is the fact that I only made it about a mile and a half, and the bulk of that was walking. It is going to be a long road back, my friends, a very long road.