Beer, backrubs and bellyaching.

I have been very busy lately. This is not an excuse for not paying more attention to my poor little blog, it is simply a reason. And the reason is a pretty good excuse, I think. Busy doing what, you ask? Well, for starters, I HAD to go on not one, but TWO “girls-only retreats” IN ONE WEEK. Do you have any idea how tiring that much relaxation and rejuvenation really is?

The first was a whirlwindy trip to the Texas-Ohio State bowl game with my friend Teffy for her 40th birthday. This was a teensy bit disturbing, because I generally don’t cheer for either of those teams, AND I was also with Teffy on her 21st birthday, so at some point during the revelry we realized we’d known each other for twenty years, and then we realized that we couldn’t possibly be 25 anymore if we’d known each other for twenty years, because we didn’t know each other when we were five, for chrissakes, so then we had to get even MORE beer than we had before to help it all sink in, and I’m not so sure if that was such a great idea because it made me very tired and I had to take just the little itty-bittiest nap in the third quarter of the Fiesta Bowl. And, I think that THAT IS OKAY, because I ask you, why even go on a girls-only retreat if you cannot take little naps whenever you want in the name of rejuvenation? Besides, according to ESPN highlights, the third quarter was pretty uneventful. And I totally woke up for last call, I mean the fourth quarter, when everything exciting happened, and Texas won, which was who I ended up cheering for since Teffy made me wear all her burnt orange clothes and yell “Texas Texas YeeHaw” a lot, which, truth-be-told, I sort of enjoyed. I’ve been saying about other things ever since, like, “Lasagna Lasagna YeeHaw” and “Bedtime Bedtime YeeHaw.” I really think if that Obama character had developed a cheer like that for the presidential race, he actually might have had a chance to win it.

The second two-day estrogen-fest was a luxe mountain getaway for work. Well, not really for work, but it makes you feel a tiny bit sorrier for me, right? Like, if I said I was staying at an incredibly fabulous resort with several hours of back-to-back spa treatments, unlimited champagne, amazing food and the most comfortable bed on the planet for FUN, you’d probably be all like, “Yeesh, spoiled beyotch,” but when I say, “BUT IT WAS FOR WORK SO IT TOTALLY SUCKED,” then you would be all “Oh, I’m sorry for judging.” But it totally didn’t suck, it was totally awesome. And even though it was AT my work, my work is totally awesome, and even though my boss was there, my boss is, well, the kind of person who invites people for totally awesome weekends and then says, “Oh, bring a friend who I don’t even know and they can have a totally awesome weekend, too.” And then gives you a present. So, I brought my neighbor Spanxy, who not only had a great time, but also lent me her bitchin’ crocodile Danskos to wear to the fancy wine cellar for the awesome dinner, so I hereby love her forever. And her shoes.

When I returned to civilization, I very carefully removed my liver and hung it up to dry for a couple of days. Being liverless, and in love with Spanxy’s shoes, I hiked up my britches for a trip to the mall to purchase my own. If you know me you are aware that shopping for me generally takes a whole lot of pre-mall alcohol prepwork, but I decided to try it sober just to challenge myself. Bad idea, because even though Katie Couric assures me the economy is very very very bad, for some reason every person in a eighty mile radius was also at the mall, and each one of them walking incredibly slowly Right. In. Front. Of. Me. With big bags of recently purchased crap. I purposely went during an NFL playoff game, figuring that would knock down bored mall traffic a bit, but guess what? It doesn’t. It just means that there’s a big TV in the middle of the mall with 482 morose looking husbands watching it. Sidebar: If you were thinking about opening a sports bar with no bar, I wouldn’t do it unless you want very unhappy customers.

More importantly – WHY did these men even GO to the mall? I’m thinking it is a control issue, but I can’t figure out if it is Wayne trying to control what Margie spends, or Margie needing to keep an eye on Wayne so he doesn’t WATCH FOOTBALL AT HOME, because, that, apparently, would be wrong.

It all worked out, I have new shoes and got home before the end of the game. I know you were worried about that part probably. And, although I hate the mall, I am all about comfy shoes.

Shiny. But deadly.

Hello, little blog. I’ve been away a long, long time, now haven’t I? I didn’t forget about you, and the fives of people who read you did not forget about you either, because they’ve all been on my ass about updating you.

Further, the nice ladies at Blogher who so kindly stick their ads over to the right over there, also were sort of wondering why I’ve been ignoring you. They were all, “Um, I thought you said you posted at least three times a week,” and I was all, “I thought I only had to do that for the NaPlaBlahMoMaNo-whatever thing in November,” and they were all, “yeah, but you didn’t do it in November either,” and I was all, “Hey! Look! A shoe sale! Seriously, look over there!” And then I ran away really fast and hid in some bushes.

So, a lot of bloggers spent the holidays writing about their shopping lists, their relatives coming to town, their revelations from the past year and their hopes for the new one. I could do NONE of that. You see, I am practically paralyzed by the holidays. I dread them. I think of them only with fear and horror.

It’s all the damned glitter.

Glitter, you see, is a highly dangerous and toxic substance. What? You were not aware that you could DIE from glitter overdose? Well, you can, Mr. Head-In-The-Sand. I know this because in first grade, I was told about it by a freckley-faced, pig-tailed little girl named Kim. She was delightful in everyway, and we were having a most fantastic time with a vat of Elmer’s and a few shakers of glitter. It was an extremely educational activity, wherein our teacher had mimeographed off some poorly drawn candy canes and tossed them on a table where we were assigned the challenging task of painting the candy canes with glue, then sprinkling glitter upon them. If I recall, the next step would be cutting them out and trying not to completely screw up the scissors with soggy wet mimeograph paper, but alas – we never got that far.

The teacher, a sturdy substitute with thick glasses and a wig that seemed to be put on completely backwards had left the project table for a few minutes, presumably for a quick nip from a shiny flask of ripple she kept in her 18-hour bra, and Kim and I were left alone. Being ever the efficient task-master, I decided that instead of gently sprinkling the glitter upon the sea of Elmer’s, I could save precious minutes as well as end up with a superiorly-covered product by removing the lid from the glitter shaker and dumping the glitter on the glue. Just as Kim looked up from her project, I put my 6 year old lips to the edge of the table and gave a mighty puff. The excess glitter flew away, and I was left with a perfectly covered candy cane.

And that’s when the screaming started. “MY EYES! MY EYES!” Kim shouted. She had her narrow fingers over her face and went on, “DON’T YOU KNOW GLITTER CAN KILL YOU?”

“Uh. Actually I kind of did NOT know that, Kim.”

“YEAH, WELL IT CAN KILL YOU, GLITTER CAN KILL YOU.”

“M, kay. Um. How?”

“It is VERY sharp! What if it woulda went in my EYE?”

“Okay, seriously. It didn’t even GO in your eye? You’re just worried about it going in your eye?”

“Yes! It’s so sharp! If it even gets in your hair it can cut your head and they can't get it out it just stays in your head and you'll be bleeding in your hair!”

This is where I sort of lost interest. After all, my candy cane was extremely shiny, and the edges were quite perfect, if I do say so myself.

But Kim wasn’t done. She dropped the bomb.

“I know, because my mom is A SUBSTITUTE TEACHER!”

If that ain't a reliable source of potential craft supply injuries, I do not know what is.

From that minute on, I pretty much have just tried to stay inside from Thanksgiving until January 2. I'm so glad the nightmare is over. At least for another year.

If we all put our heads together.

The only thing that makes my ass itch more than regular meetings are “brainstorming meetings." Dude, I hate brainstorming meetings. Mostly because I am pretty sure I could come up with perfectly great ideas ALL BY MYSELF and save a hell of a lot of time sitting around a table gently explaining them to others, watching them ponder them, listening to them say I’m wrong, and then, eventually, after five hours and twenty-three cookies later, presenting my own ideas back to me as if they had just come up with them. This is what's called "teamwork."

I could give a crap about teamwork, frankly. For several years of my corporate life, during big ginormous planning meetings, I would volunteer to be the “Scribe,” which is teamwork speak for “the person with the giant Sharpie and huge pad of paper on an easel." No one else ever wanted to be the Scribe, because you have to stand up. And it’s more obvious that you’re only there for the cookies when you keep leaving the easel to grab another one. But mostly it’s because you have to stand up. Whereas my "teammates" saw the Scribe as someone who had to listen to everyone else and write down their group thoughts, I saw it as The Person Who Gets the Sharpie and Doesn’t Have to Listen At All. It was rather wonderful standing in front of a group of 12 people waxing poetic about customer service intiatives and smacking hotel baked goods while I was writing down my own personal and private thoughts without their permission. And, at the end of the day, it had exactly the same result as actually discussing it with them, we used the ideas I wanted to afterall.

Nowadays, I work for a family-owned much smaller organization. We don't waste time or paper, and I'm good with that. In honor of those extra good times with extra big paper, the theme for today’s Half-Assed Haiku Thursday shall be: Meetings.

Forbidden words: Post-it, Tony Robbins.

Here’s mine.

Think out of the box!
We will greenlight everything!
Except that. It’s dumb.

Happy Thursday, Internet.

You can still rock in America.

I recently wrote about some non-festering granite in my foot (note to self: name my rock band “Festering Granite”) and readers of this drivel commented that 1) I’m probably going to get gangrene, and, b) Go to the doctor right away, even though that reader still has rocks in their knees from the early 80s.

Well, the current podiatrical update is that the granite is still in there, and it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Also I don’t have gangrene. Unless gangrene begins with minor sinus pain and the desire to stay home from work drinking hot buttered rum, then baby, I got the gangrene BAD. But my best pal “anonymous's” story reminded me, that I too, am walking around with gravel rattling in me, apparently causing me no more harm than the granite in my foot.

When I was 7 years old, I wrecked my sister’s sweet ass purple bike with extra long metallic banana seat and ape hanger handle bars. (Secondary note to self: Banana Seat would be an awesome band name, but it's already taken by some dudes in Oklahoma.) This bike was so cool that if it had windows, they’d be tinted super dark. I rode it periodically WITH PERMISSION ONLY. My sister didn’t ride it anymore because she had short-shorts, knee socks and feathered hair, which required a ten-speed. Believe me, at the time it was relevant. It was much too big for me, but by sitting on the very tippy end of the seat, and using my very tippy toes to pedal, and stretching my arms as faaaaar as they would go, I could manage it. Kinda.

So, one day, I walked the sweet purple machine two doors down from my house to the concrete driveway of the volunteer fire department station, because the only smooth surfaces in town to ride bikes on were the blacktop at the school, the firestation driveway, and the state highway. I spent as much time as possible riding in circles around and around and around a this fabulously flat chunk of concrete. It was smooth sailing, so to speak, in contrast to the rutted mud and oiled dirt the rest of the town provided for my entertainment.

There was often gravel on the driveway – understandably – and it took careful coordination and super steering ability to maneuver the circles at high speed. Or so I imagined. This particular day, I was doing amazingly well, and imagined that all passing grown-ups were probably saying, “My! What a skilled child that is! I bet she’ll be an amazing driver when she’s bigger! I wonder if she’s a child race car driver NOW? Should we get her autograph?” When a jerky kid caused my accident. This jerky kid, who I will give the fake name, hmm, let’s see, how ‘bout we call him “Donny S.” rode his bike really close to mine for a few circles, causing me to wobble since the bike was way too big for me, and I eventually banked my turn a little too hard, slid sideways on the gravel and crashed. Well, “crashed” is really not it, I just sort of hit the ground and kept sliding. For awhile. When I eventually skid to a stop in a pitiful heap of plaid shorts and uneven ponytails, “Donny S.” laughed really hard. He was at least 6 years older than me, so it was an especially rotten thing to do.

Luckily, my head took most of the impact. So I was okay. Mostly. See, the sliding across the gravel and concrete on the side of my head part? Turns out that sort of embeds gravel in your head. Which my mom had to remove with a pair of tweezers while I sat screaming on the kitchen counter. To quote my 7 year old self, “Neato Kapeato.”

At least one piece of gravel remains under my left ear, because both my mother and I very quickly tired of her digging around in my skull with tweezers. Later that week, I confronted “Donny S.” in his front yard, right in front of his grandma, too, and told him how dreadfully injured I was and that he was a very rotten and jerky guy for making a little girl wreck. I am sure he and his grandma felt really badly when I growled through clenched teeth, “AND NOW I HAVE ROCKS IN MY HEAD!”

I’m thinking that I should get a disclaimer on my drivers license weight due to heavy mineral content.

Comin' in under the wire.

It's Haiku Thursday. True dat. But, where I live, it's also Snowstorm Thursday. Not usually a big deal in these parts, but I do an 160-mile round trip commute every Thursday to a sweet little spot in the Colorado mountains, charmingly referred to as "the Icebox of the Nation," conveniently located at an elevation of 9500 feet.

So. It kinda snows more there. But I still have to go. I'm THAT important and needed. Anyway, today, I've spent a total of about six hours creeping along with very little radio reception with snowflakes coming at me like stars come at the Millenium Falcon. Guess what I did the whole time? If you guessed "wrote some super bitchin' haiku," you are SADLY mistaken. I did, however, manage a couple of text messages, and perfected my Lenny Kravitz imitation, since I couldn't reach any other CDs. I am so serious about this. If Lenny ever has a concert scheduled in your town, and suddenly comes down with laryngitis...just call me. Excluding that I'm white, not half-Jewish, female and cannot play the guitar, I AM TOTALLY LENNY KRAVITZ. You won't know the difference.

So - I did come up with a few half-assed haikus, which I am still considering. But even more, I am considering changing the name of Haiku Thursday to Half-Assed Haikus. AND, I'm considering trademarking it, so don't you even think about it. It's officially copyrighted right this minute, you big stealers.

Okay, down to business.

Topic: Weather Reports
Forbidden Words: Stormy, Barometric pressure.

Watch out for black ice
the weatherman says to me
Sorta racist, huh?

Toddy time.

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'.

Behold - my Great Grandmother's china, and the "secret ingredient" in pretty much everything I make on Thanksgiving. Not really super secret, since I wear two bottles in gun holsters on my apron all day.

I once attended a Thanksgiving dinner where the guests applauded the turkey and the woman who cooked it. Let me say that again in case you were reading quickly. When this woman set the turkey on the table, before anyone had even tasted it, the people looking at it CLAPPED THEIR HANDS IN DELIGHT. Because they were hungry? Because they could already tell it would be the best meal of their lives? Because it had a little flashing sign over it that said “APPLAUSE”? Nope. Just because she managed to put a big bird in an oven and take it out again. I distinctly remember this particular thanksgiving because 1) the turkey was wretchedly dry, and 2) I was asked to bring rolls.

Yeah, you heard me. As in anyone in-the-know knows, rolls are the suckiest assignment there is for Thanksgiving. Next to ‘sodas.’ By assigning rolls, you’re basically saying, “Listen dear, we know you can’t cook worth a damn, and rather than eating whatever crap you’re going to dump out of a can and sprinkle fried onions on, please, for the love of our safe digestion, bring rolls.” You cannot mess up rolls. It’s the assignment you give your in-laws' youngest son’s girlfriend, or the tottering drunk from work who you’re only inviting to be nice. To assign rolls to anyone capable of operating a microwave is ginormously insulting.

Note – if you have been assigned rolls for more than one year in a row and are now reading this and thinking you’ve been insulted by your friends and family, I’m sure that I’m terribly wrong just in your case only and you probably are the most fabulous roll-bringer ever, and THAT is why they keep having you bring the rolls. They like you a lot and trust you. Really.

The thanksgiving of the applause vs. roll-bringing was the very thanksgiving I swore to never leave the house again on thankgiving day. I also swore that our thanksgivings should be a relative-free zone, friends only! But that is mostly because our relatives want nothing to do with us on thanksgiving since I only assign them to bring rolls.

Our friends, on the other hand, can be trusted to bring good attitudes and sturdy drinking shoes, therefore, they may come without limitation. The week before turkey day, I shop and plan and make at least three spreadsheets with the exact timing required to pull off a meal for 20+…mostly just because I like spreadsheets, but also because I am pretty sure, with me telling everyone what to do nothing will go wrong. So far so good.

Instead of thunderous applause at the very sight of me using the oven without burning myself or poultry, my reward is people happy to return year after year to enjoy the day with us. And for that, I am thankful. If you were here this year, I'm glad. If you weren't, please show up next year, I'll pour you a mimosa and serve you a roll.

As a side note, I met the Big Dude on a thanksgiving day many years ago, another thing I am thankful for, and since, we've spent every single thanksgiving together.
Seventeen thanksgivings
Twelve years of marriage
Four wedding rings (super sorry about that losing/breaking thing I do)
Two sons
And One Dude. Happy thanksgiving to you.

Wherein I randomly connect HGTV, 1970s Soap Operas and footwear.

In the old days, they didn’t have home improvement television shows, so if you were interested in interior design or remodeling or were just particularly nosy and wanted to see Other People’s Houses, you had to become an Avon lady. I was a lucky child of an Avon lady, so I got to see OPH all the time, as well as be extremely informed what shape of cologne decanter (Antique car? Pheasant? Steam engine?) each man in my small town was getting for Christmas/Father's Day/Arbor Day etc. I still kind of wonder how thrilled the farmers weren’t on Christmas morning, hoping for some shiny manly thing they saw in the Cabela’s or Wards catalog, but EmmaClaire and little LukeLeroy hand over a thick glass tractor bottle with a plastic lid where the exhaust should be and 6 oz. of Wild Country cologne inside…but I digress.

Some day I’ll tell you all about how wrapped presents sitting around simply Make. Me. Nuts. I don’t care who they’re for, I really just need to know what’s inside. I remember a particularly impossible holiday season where I was stuck at home sick on a sofa while my mother folded laundry with soap operas on in the background. Each show had a tree loaded with presents…that had NOTHING to do with the storyline. No one was even TALKING about the presents. I kept squawking at my mother through inflated tonsils about it, and she didn’t know what was in the boxes, and eventually the episode would end without ANYONE even opening them or anything. I’d force myself to stay awake the next day to see if someone opened them, no dice. Eventually, Christmas passed and instantly both the trees and presents were gone and no one on the shows seemed to give a shit about it or even mention, “Oh Dr. Thad, thank you for the lovely mink stole that you put in the big square box with gigantic bow! It’s perfect!” Finally, my mother broke it to me that very probably, they were empty boxes just wrapped to look like presents, and no one was EVER going to open them. EVER. Gives me hives thinking about it to this day.

Again with the digression. Back to home improvement television. Do you know that you’re supposed to be barefoot when painting walls? I am not sure who I learned this from, some very talented television designer no doubt…One of the ones that can do things with 48 hours and $200 bucks that a normal person needs 9 permits, 8 months and a second mortgage for. The theory is you’ll feel wet paint on your foot and therefore not track it everywhere like you would if you had shoes on. These are the types of tips I file away and rarely use, but dole them out to others as if I made them up. Anyway, I was painting recently AND wearing some of my very favorite and adorable Sundance leather sneakers (the red ones) so I took off my shoes to avoid dripping on their cute suede toes. I then prided myself for remembering the valuable tip about the paint tracking like that was the ingenious reason I’d removed them. I painted an entire room, and then, wanting to be clever AND tidy, I tippy toed all barefoot to the kitchen to clean the roller…completely forgetting that our pal (Hi Bobby!) had been in there all day cutting granite tiles.

Here’s a factoid Ty Pennington has never once mentioned on Trading Spaces or Let’s Build a House in Two Days for People who Probably Won’t Take Care of It Because They Certainly Didn't Take Care of Their Last One: granite tiles + tile saw = MILLIONS OF LITTLE GLASS-LIKE SHARDS. Made of granite.

They’re all about the eye protection on HGTV, but not once has anyone said, “Oh, and hey - make sure you you’ve got shoes on when you’re redoing countertops!” Good news is that these glasslike shards are thin, yet strong! Like nature’s own needles. You can’t even feel them until there’s about a dozen of ‘em all ready in ya! Handily though, they do eventually break off, at least the part sticking out does. The centimeter or so that’s in your foot, well, in ain’t going nowhere.

So I’ve got a zillion or so in there, or at least three, and it’s been a couple of weeks and even though the Big Dude with Little Glasses says they’ll fester out, they’re not festering. I really tend to believe him on this, though, because if you ever met some of his ancestors you’d understand that he knows A LOT about festering. I shouldn’t complain, because my foot really only hurts when I step on it. Or move my toes. Or go down stairs. Or drive. Or bump it with anything. The only relief – ironically - is wearing the cute sneakers. (Thanks, Bob Redford! Guess if I like you more than Ty Pennington?)

I am a little worried that the promised festering might occur whilst wearing cute sneakers, but it’s a chance I’ve got to take.