New Mac City

It's a bird!  It's a plane!  It's Not Don!

I mistakenly said Not Don doesn't regularly follow this blog.  Turns out, he heard my moaning and whining about my computer loud and clear.  I walked into the living room tonight to find a beautiful little Mac where my Dell had been just a few moments earlier.  Not Don is Superman.  He swoops right in to save the day!  He won't, however, change into Clark Kent to man my personal help desk.  Being a Mac means I am technologically on my own.  (The delete key is really the backspace key.  What's a command key?  I'm lost.)  Not Don is still and will always be Superman, so who needs Clark Kent anyway?

I'd also like to report that I shopped with my Mom today.  She bought herself a swimsuit and built a springtime bunny at Build-A-Bear.  These things kept her happy while I dragged the mall for Easter clothes.  My girls will be clothed and shod with seasonal flair - no black.  Do not worry, friends.  I will be wearing a linen skirt, pink sandals and a new t-shirt.  (My fashion rule is if the t-shirt is new, it's appropriate for any occasion.  Ask Sharon Stone.)

A successful shopping trip and a new computer?  The conspicuous consumption is delicious tonight.  I hope the inevitable hangover is delayed and mild.

Fashion wears me out.

(Would titling this post "The Fashion of the Christ" be blasphemous and funny, or just plain blasphemous?)

Easter is a hard holiday for fashion.  I feel compelled to have my children (and myself) "appropriately" turned out, but we aren't church-goers.  Is there a need to get dressed-up for pagan egg hunting and bunny cake?

It's the seasonal transition that gets me.  It's the first day for white shoes (white shoes!  anyone?) and pastels are huge at Easter.  Miss M informed me today that her black maryjanes are not acceptable for Easter.  I must now buy her sandals. My Mother informed me today that jeans and clogs are not acceptable when it's 80 degrees and sunny. I must now wear jeans and clogs on Easter.  And all summer.

Is narcolepsy contagious?

I sat down in a chair today and fell asleep in 3 seconds.  I don't do this type of thing, ever.  I don't like naps and I don't doze off.  For some reason, I'm completely exhausted.  Let me think why this might be.  I went to Gentle Yoga yesterday.  Today, I had lunch with friends at an Indian restaurant.  Wow!  I deserve a break.

No "leotard" from Not Don.

WANTED

I love this man, J. Barkley Rosser.  He was my favorite professor in college.  He was eccentric and incredibly smart and gave lectures full of sly asides and profanity and tidbits from culture, religion and history.  He paced and gestured wildly and ran his hands through his hair.  He was tough, but after one semester with him, I was hooked on economics and tried to sign up for whatever he was teaching the next three years.  Many years later, I'm reduced to stalking him on the internet.  I found him on his blog.  He rags on VA Attorney General here and takes on HCR here.  What's not to love, right?

I sent him a friend request on facebook.  He never accepted my friend request.  But for some strange facebook reason, I get his posts in my newsfeed.  His new friendships show up in my newsfeed, too.  He accepted two people today.  Facebook is taunting me with the fact that the most influential, beloved person in my higher education either doesn't remember me or doesn't like me or just doesn't care that I'm waiting.  Waiting!  WAAHHH!

I keep reading his blog because I'm a stalker.  I keep checking his facebook profile because I'm pathetic.  If I were smart enough to understand any of his books, I would read them, too.  Barkley, you're a heartbreaker!

What'd you say, Babe?

My husband doesn't read my blog.  Why should he?  It's not like I don't yap at him for hours on end about the same shit I write about.

If he comes to me within 24 hours of this post and proves he has read this by using the secret word - let's go with "leotard" - he will be richly rewarded.  The word is LEOTARD, Dude.  Good luck.

You're on notice, New York Times.

I haven't read a book I really love in awhile.  I'm searching.

I read this glowing NYT review of "The Three Weissmanns of Westport."  Based on the review, I bought two copies in hardback:  one for myself and one for Not Karen (yes, she's Not Karen, she's not Not Susan) for her birthday.  Turns out the review is better written than the book.  I'm bitterly disappointed with it so far and may not finish it.  Doubly pissed that I gave it as a gift.  Even more pissed that I bought it on-line and didn't thoroughly examine the cover art:  I judge books by their covers, and this one sucks.

Then, I read this review of "Ill Fares the Land" and the review alone really has me thinking.  But now I feel so burned by the "Weissmanns" review, I fear that again the review will be better than the actual book.  Damn your quality writing, New York Times!

It was a funny conversation at the time.

HER: That guy's a dick.
ME: Well, he has problems.
HER: Sure he has problems: he's a dick with problems.

Hell

I'm typing on the iPhone again since I'm so 2010. My laptop just crapped out. It's almost midnight, the computer is hosed and I'm watching a local newscast. Local news. I want a Mac and I want this botoxed, spray-tanned, Grecian-formulated anchorman expunged from my consciousness.

Long post that's strangely in mostly present tense but might be shifty.

My day with Miss M:

First, she yells for me this morning and I'm busy and kind of ignoring her and then I realize she's yelling, "Mommy, I can't walk!"  I run to find her hunched over on the stair landing and she says her legs are "wobbly" - our word for paralyzed.  She experiences paralysis in her left arm after seizures for a minute or two, but having it in her legs is different.  I carry her down and she sits with me for a few minutes until she feels better, then we proceed with our morning:  off to the donut shop.

As I'm driving her to school, I lament that we'll have no time for dinner since we pick C up from school at 5:00, deliver M to occupational therapy at 5:45, then N to dance at 7:00.  I'm horrified that we'll have to eat dinner in the car.  "Oh yeah, just like breakfast," she points out, donut in hand.  Yeah, thanks, Dude.  Am I really feeding my children twice today while driving?  (At least I'm not breastfeeding while driving.)

After school, she's playing Wii and I tell her I need to walk down to meet N's bus, and I'll be right back.  I walk down and wait for the bus and greet N, who it turns out has two older kids as escorts and didn't need me at all.  Then I turn around to see that Miss M has joined me at the bus stop, having crossed two streets alone and traveled the very sketchy street (the one we live on!) that I don't want her older sister to walk alone.  She's feeling pretty good.

Tonight when I run N to her dance class, I tell Miss M she can watch an episode of Glee.  When I return home 15 minutes later she asks, "How did that cheerleader get pregnant?"  If you watch Glee, you'll understand why I think she's asking about premature ejaculation in a hot tub and the consequences thereof.  I quickly realize she just needs the basics.  I ask her first if she knows what sex is and she gives me the definition of monogamy, "It's like when you're in love but just only with that one person.  Alone."  OK, nice start.  I reel it all off:  penis, vagina, naked, touching, fun, feels good, love, sperm, egg etc. - I have to cover it quickly to retrieve N from dance on time.

At bedtime, I read to her a chapter in which one character is identified by the name Polack.  Because he's Polish, yo.  That teachable moment comes and goes with no comment from me.  Time for lights out.

Shaven, spun

You know how, when you don't shave your legs ALL WINTER, and then...oh nevermind, we'll skip that.

Not Don got on a plane this morning.  I immediately shaved my legs and I'm not even having an affair, unless you count my virtual affairs with Barack Obama and Jamie Oliver.  I'm going to a spin class.  It's insane.  I must post now because I don't believe I'll physically be able to type for 48 hours.

You know how I feel about Barack but Jamie Oliver, celebrity chef, is fairly new to me.  I don't watch cooking shows and I don't buy many cookbooks, but I love me a good iPhone app.  I added his 20 Minute Meals app this week and N. and I used it to shop and cook together last night.  His cute face and accent don't hinder the cooking process at all.  We were all excited about leeks and thyme and creme fraiche.  It's fun and easy to use.  Another win for the iPhone.

Here is my iPhone app wish list:  Car Keys App, Eyeglasses App, Credit Card App, Drivers License App, Car Insurance App.  I won't even wish for the Razor App - I'd only use it for special occasions anyway.

Just blog it, don't DO it.

In various blog posts, I have set out to:
Dance. 
Redecorate my bedroom.
Not discuss my cats.
Raise bees.

I dance most days, but skipped several during spring break.
I have not done one thing about my room.  I'm even planning to return the lamps I bought.
I've mentioned my cats in two posts.
Still haven't called the bee guild.

Facepolitics

I just defaced/unfriended someone on facebook.  I want people to think I'm nice so I usually just hide "friends" from my feed and keep them around.  I don't see them, they don't bother me.  But I'm over it.  The dude in question crossed the line insulting someone.  Reasoned arguments are fine; jackassery has to be dealt with.  I now have renewed vigor and hope to cut out more people over the next few days. 

I have stayed non-political since the inauguration because I like facebook to be funny (and sometimes informative) and I've tried to keep it light.  I also want to say what's on my mind - that is the question posed in the little box, after all.  I feel like breathing again. 

I think Barack Obama has mad ninja skills and I don't care who knows it.

I'm saving the environment tonight - no time for blogging

I'm recycling.  Recycling = rereading old magazines before ripping out select pretty pictures and trashing, er, recycling the rest.

My house is overrun with magazines.  The internet is great for me for reading news, opinion and short fiction, but I still like magazines for the pretty pictures.  I'm killing trees with my love of great design photography.  It's a sin, no doubt, but recycling is absolution.  Now, what to do with all these ripped-out pictures...sounds like a Hot Topic for tomorrow.

(My computer just hosed again for the third time today...so pissed.)

Dr. Doolittle, I salute you.

I finally figured out what the good is in having pets around.  I talk to my pets, don't you?  For example, when I walked Oliver in the cold rain yesterday morning and he refused to pee, I told him he was being a little dick. I didn't yell at him or kick him or even use an angry voice, I just called him a dick.  I regularly talk about how fat my cat Coco is.  I tell Thunder Cat he's a cry-baby. 

Lest you think I'm (only) abusive, I also shovel the praise and affection on them, except for Thunder who really has no personality.  Oliver is the best boy in the world; Coco is the beautiful girl, and on and on.  I use a honey-baby-sweetie voice on them that I wouldn't dare use with people.  I communicate with them in an unfiltered way and I freely throw labels around.  Smart!  Stupid!  Best!  Worst!

In my human communications, I try to be nice.  I try to think before I speak.  I don't call people names.  Even praise of my children is cautiously dished out.  I don't tell them they are the prettiest or smartest girls in the world (even though they are) because I don't want to label them.  This is why the human-pet relationship is therapeutic.  I can get out of the binding Spanx of politeness and just hang out in the fat pants of whatever-the-fuck-is-on-my-mind.  It's relaxing to call my cat a whore.

83 Candles Down

Today brings us to the conclusion of a big celebratory season for the Not Bradys.  This year's round of birthday parties was centered on restaurants - the theme-ier, the better.

It began in a wine bar for Not Don's 50th birthday celebration the first weekend in February.  (The theme was getting drunk on wine, in case you need lots of spelling-it-out.)  A week later, we ventured to Chuck E. Cheese's with a batch of kids in honor of the 8-year-old's birthday.  The following weekend it was Benihana, plus slumber party, for the 14-year-old.  Tonight, we conclude the restaurant tour with The Magic Time Machine, where our waiter was dressed as Joe Dirt and I paid $20 for balloon animals.  The 11-year-old was all smiles.  She and her pals are all asleep by now. 

It's always a bit of a whirlwind with 4 out of 5 Not Bradys celebrating in a six week span.  For some reason, this Year of the Restaurant has seemed every bit as taxing as hosting parties at home...I remember those days.  In any case, it's more than eight months before our next Not Brady birthday.  I have that long to decide on my own theme restaurant.  Maybe I'll put on some flair and relive my TGIFriday's days.  (Please don't let me do this.  It's really a cry for help.)

Make-up Day

My computer died last night at 11:48 pm.  I was too disheartened at that hour to reboot and get started again on my post.  If only I hadn't been distracted by Erasure earlier in the evening.  Watch this and think about Lady Gaga.  I enjoy her, but the brief-briefs have been done, and done well.  Love the pumps, too.

Is it still Lent?

Getting all meta, so you're excused from reading today.  Feel free to go to this blog instead.

I'm not dancing.  I haven't danced in several days.  What does this mean in Lenten terms?  Am I damned to hell?  Do I just need to walk around feeling badly about myself?  What, what are the consequences?  I started this project with the statement that Lent is not a self-help program.  Dancing is supposed to be a celebratory interlude in my day.  Now I feel guilty for not celebrating enough.  Hmm.  I thought I'd found a loophole that turns out to not be there.

As for blogging, I'm still trying to get my arms around some of the basics of etiquette.  For instance, if I go back and re-read something, I'm frustrated that I cannot tweak my post.  I often give myself poor marks for clarity, but once it's published, that's it.  It is possible to make changes after the fact, but it's wrong except in special cases.  (A special case happened just yesterday, where I'd had several drinks and tried to post from my phone and had to go back and correct a bunch of spelling mistakes.)  I also don't typically respond to comments, though I read and appreciate them all.  In making post-post edits or comments, it seems like once I've spoken my little bit, I need to step out of the loop.

In conclusion:  Lent = no loopholes, blogging = step out of my own loop.  I have no idea what that conclusion means.  (Oh!  And I should never try to post when I'm looped!  ha ha ha ha ha...look at me, over-playing the loop thing.  Ah, ok, time for bed.)

Erin go Bragh On Ice

Last day skiing. I got on a lift that went beyond bunny slopes to pure green hell. If you've ever skied, you know green = easy. HA! I fell at least 4 times. Luckily for Not Don, his children are all captivated by skiing. While the other four Not Bradys took the Chile Express lift to the top of the mountain, I made my way to the patio bar where I ordered a Black and Tan. It's St Patrick's Day after all. They cannot make one, the waiter tells me, so I order a Fat Tire, a Guinness and a spoon and make my own. The weather is perfect for patio sitting. Now, fast forward to five beers and two shots of espresso later. I'm starting to enjoy skiing. Just realized though that I left my ski boots in the bar.

It's All About The Hat

On our way up to Angelfire, we stopped for lunch at the home of an old friend and her family outside of Santa Fe.  My sweet friend has created a beautiful life for herself and that makes me happy.  I could go on and on in awe and praise of her, but I'll focus on one element of her cool life.  She's a beekeeper. 

She also raises chickens.  In the past, I have approached Not Don about joining the Urban Chicken Movement by adding some laying hens to our backyard.  He shut that idea down hard.  For some reason, he doesn't envision a chicken coop where the pool should be.  But I've never approached him about a bee hive.  Maybe a hive is more appealing than a coop, and honey more desirable than eggs.  We need to talk about it.

What's to talk about?  Raising bees is beyond alien to me.  They sting.  I'm freaked out about Africanized Honey Bees (aka killer bees).  It takes work to care for them and harvest the honey.  They sting.  Do I even like honey?  It all seemed so reasonable and possible talking with my delightful friend over a beer...at her lovely adobe home...in the valley outside of Santa Fe.

I'm calling the Texas Honeybee Guild when I get back to Dallas, just to inquire.  I have never been a member of a guild before, so there is that.  (I hope they have bumper stickers.  Anyone in a guild should have a bumper sticker.)

Word fermation

I pronounce fore and four as for but I pronounce for as fer. I'm noticing a yer slipping in where the your used to be. I'm afraid the next step will be ordering a Curs instead of a Coors. Luckily, I hate Coors so that can never happen. I have a plan to correct the direction my speech is taking. I'll be deleting Skynyrd from my ipod and drinking more Earl Grey. That oughta do it.

Oh, Honey

Arrived in Angelfire, NM to ski. I've been cast into the wilderness! No WiFi so I'm using my iPhone for this. No 3G connection so it's taking forever. Having to compose in HTML to get the keyboard to appear at all. I can barely text on this damn thing. And here's my post! Going to be a painful 3 days. The pain started already. Haven't been on skis yet, but I fell down the stairs and twisted my leg up behind me in some weird way. It hurt more than the Let Me Bounce To My Feet Quickly So No One Notices Me - it was on the Don't Touch Me While I Lay In The Snow And Consider If I'm Broken pain scale. I'm totally fine, by the way. I'm gonna hit publish now having no idea what I've written on my teeny screen or how it will look on the blog or whether it will even work with this weak sauce connection. For accurate understanding of where I'm coming from with this post, go back and insert "fucking" about every fourth word.

Loud and proud

Can hardly take time to write because my friend has a youtube dance party going on over on facebook and I have to step off the dance floor for this ...

I've never been particularly proud of my musical taste.  I grew up listening to whatever happened to be on the radio.  I never got beyond Top 40 stuff, then switched to NPR as an adult and was pretty much music-free for years.  My ipod brought back the hits from my youth - Queen, Prince, Guns-n-Roses, AC/DC, Madonna and (heaven help me) Paula Abdul - but didn't get me to try anything new.  Stunted am I.

One of the few musical "discoveries" I've made as an adult is The White Stripes.  I'm a huge fan of Jack White.  Tonight, I finally watched It Might Get Loud, a film profiling Jimmy Page, The Edge and Jack White as electric guitarists. Totally enjoyable. More noteworthy to me than their musical chops is what sweethearts these gentlemen are.

I transitioned from the electric guitar film to the facebook dance party.  While my dance party DJ busted out a variety of styles, and while I sampled every, single one he posted, this oldie but goody is my favorite of the evening.  Put the needle on the record.

And here we are.  The dance party is winding down and I'm springing forward.

 
(Next week is the CD/DVD release for The White Stripes' Under the Great White Northern Lights.  Proud to say I'll be getting that.)

Spring Break Begins

Spring Break started today.  The older two had school, but Miss M. was off.  She and I took a sweet walk to Matt's Rancho Martinez for lunch.  That kid can gobble some refried beans.  I had the Lite Lunch.  Luckily enough, the Lite Lunch includes chile con queso and ground beef and fried taco shells and guacamole.  Lite indeed.  I ordered a side of sour cream.

The ski trip starts Sunday.  Are we ready?  Well, I bought all three girls green wigs to wear on St. Patrick's Day.  No one has wool socks, but I think we're ready.

Career idea! Who's got a nameless baby?

I'm in the mood to name babies (Xuma).  I don't need to birth or raise any more babies, but I want to name some (Anya). 

As a kid playing the board game Life, my favorite part was giving names to the little pink (Kristy, as in McNichol) or blue (Parker, as in Stevenson) pegs in the backseat.  I bought a baby name book when I was still in high school - and still hated children.  I didn't imagine being a Mom.  I just wanted to pore over the lists and definitions and create perfect first/middle combos (Tiffany Crystal).  I made list after list during each pregnancy.

When I hear what parents are considering naming their children, I can always tell if it will be a boy or girl based on how good the names are.  I've never been wrong.  If you've got Alice Pearl versus Kevin Alan, you're having a girl.  And my own kids have the best names ever!  Really.  (I'm not so comfortable sharing those names with you.  Trust me that they're good names, okay?  Even though I don't trust you.)  I'll tell you this:  my oldest's name means lame warrior maiden.  Lame, top that.

I feel like I've spent a lifetime developing my ear and honing my taste. How can I share this gift? Lots of people out there are giving their kids crappy names (Atlas) and they need a wake-up call. I realize now my mission in life is to become a baby name consultant. I could be part of the solution instead of sitting by silently judging parents after it's too late (Dawson).

I intended this baby name consulting idea as a joke, but after a quick google search, I find out there really are people who are paid to pick names. I would so hate all the stupid parents who'd hire me.

I do have a hole in my resume.  I've never named a boy.  I'm pissed off that my friend's grandson is named Hank (my name!) and that Edward Cullen of Twilight fame has tainted the name Edward for the next 20 years (Hank's middle name).  So, there goes all my hard work on Hank Edward, or should I say Not Harry Elton, since I have a rule about not using the name of any child I know, or of famous teen vampires.  If someone gives me a nameless infant boy, I'll have to start over from scratch. 
 
And, no, I don't want to name your dog.

The title is the hardest part and I'm too tired to think of a good one.

Just danced to Pink and the Beastie Boys.  God help me.  (See, Lent is leading me to prayer.)

It's past 11:00 and here I sit staring at this screen.  I know whatever I write at this moment will suck, but I said I'd do it everyday, so suck on that, Dear Reader.
 
I'm listening to Blind Melon (remember them?) and my eyes burn - you thought I was going to say my ears burn, right?  I haven't gone to bed before midnight these past several weeks, which is not my normal mode.  I'm sleeping a lot less.  It feels less catastrophic than I always imagined it would be, except for the burning eyes.  I've always been an early to bed girl because I hate, hate waking up.  Turns out waking up sucks no harder on 5 hours sleep than it did on 8.

I had a great experience at the Nasher today.  The experience was dampened neither by the rain this morning nor by the kids I was chaperoning through a field trip.  (I'm a hard ass on field trips - no running!  you're being too loud!  don't touch that!  (Can you imagine someone called me a curmudgeon yesterday?))  The featured exhibition is of Jaume Plensa's sculptures.  I don't often love art as much as I think I should.  This, I adored.  It was beautiful and inspiring and perfect to see with kids and through kids.  Can I both love Jaume Plensa and be excited that new South Park episodes start next week? 

I can't stop thinking about boba balls.  I tried bubble tea for the first time yesterday.  Drinking giant balls of tapioca through a fat straw doesn't sound appealing?  The tea was tasty enough but the chewy, gooey black pearls were definitely weird. It's one of those things like licorice or egg nog (or beer in high school) where I continue to consume it while thinking do I even like this? the whole time.  I'm willing to give bubble tea another go.  Would a curmudgeon be all adventurous like that?

Shout out to Not Don, who's partying in NOLA this week.  (See, I'm not a curmudgeon!  Party on, Not Don!  Nor am I defensive.  Do not even call me defensive.)

Damn REI

Came home with a rock climbing brochure tucked in my purse.  Exploring the reason for the rock climbing brochure's presence.  Holding it up to the light and turning it over in my hands.  Why do I have this thing?

REI is a scourge that romantizes hard work, exercise, suffering and nature.  I've been down this path before.  I used to own hiking boots.  I owned a kayak.  I've camped and I've done triathlons.  But there's a reason I've been inside my house with my laptop and a latte for years.  I can't remember the reason now.  I have REI amnesia.

I whipped potatoes for dinner, too.

I listened to a woman on Fresh Air with Terry Gross today discussing her years working as a professional dominatrix.  She was hawking a book, but I won't link to it.  Just google "dominatrix" and "whip" and you're sure to find it.

I learned a thing or two.  The best place for dominatrix supplies?  The Home Depot, what with their ropes, chains, clamps and rubber gloves.  Also, she was paid to make her clients cry, but she did not ever have sex with them.  Surprise!  Also, she's a former addict and is shocked that, "people assume there's some correlation between being a heroin addict and a dominatrix."  Yes.

By the time she mentioned being paid based on "a sliding scale" (that's what she said!) and then thanking Terry Gross by saying the interview was "a huge pleasure" (that's what she said!), I was feeling quite childish about the whole topic.  But it got me thinking, if word association counts as thinking.

It reminded me to rent that Juno On Skates movie.

It also inspired a theme for today's dance party.

Fashion this!

Boy, I ripped Charlize Theron a new one! That'll teach her to wear a Cinnaboob dress on the red carpet because if anyone is qualified to critique starlets and their fashions, it's me.

Here's why. I went to the gym today.  I always take a change of clothes so I can shower and dress after my blistering 30 minute walk/run on the treadmill (200 calories burned – take that!). I love to shower at my gym. Seriously. The locker room is clean and they have warm towels. I use their shampoo and lotion and q-tips and hair dryers and leave feeling like I've been to a spa.

When I pulled my clothes out to get dressed after my shower, I realized I had packed jeans and a dress. I thought I had packed a long-sleeved gray shirt, but it was a short-sleeved gray dress. (Let's not talk about why I had a dress folded up rather than on a hanger to begin with, leading to the mix-up. Skip that part.)  I really didn't want to put my sweaty workout shirt back on, so I put the dress on with my jeans and running shoes and went to the grocery store. The dress is low-cut and I don't normally wear it without a camisole but today, whatever, bra showing, off to the store. Did I mention it was like 45 degrees and raining and the dress had short sleeves? OK, now you know. I shopped, tried to avoid eye contact of any kind and shuffled the groceries through the rain in my sassy outfit.

When I get home, I ask the girls, "What do you notice?"

Immediate answer: "You're wearing jeans with a dress. And running shoes." They exchange their what is she doing to our family? look.

Not Don walks in. I ask, "What's retarded about me?" (aside from my vocabulary). Immediate answer, "I don't know, but your outfit is cute!" He likes Charlize Theron, too.

DVDorama

After all my yapping about An Education, I will not, alas, make it to a theater.  If I'm going to see anything nominated, I'll have to watch at home.  We at the Not Brady household do not use Netflix.  We still rent DVDs from a terrific, locally owned video store.  Premiere Video is a gem.  They carry every documentary, foreign film, independent film or PBS series you can name.  I rented five movies yesterday in hopes of miraculously getting around to watching a few of them.

Yesterday, I watched a little indy film. Can't remember the name of it and I'll leave it at that. Last night, the girls watched Ponyo.  Today, Not Don and I watched The Hangover.  Not a nominee, granted, but a great comedy nonetheless.

I'm halfway through Inglourious Basterds right now - paused for potty break.  I'm not a Brad Pitt fan normally and this movie does not persuade me otherwise.  Mike Myers' appearance as a British officer is weird and distracting.  I'm putting in the time, though.  Quentin is usually worth it.  (Mariah Carey and Mike Myers are both in films that could win a best picture award.  I'm frightened.)

I'll watch Hurt Locker in the morning while the rest of the family goes to Alice in Wonderland.
 
On a bloggy note:  it's after 1:00 AM, but I still count this as my 3/6/2010 entry since I've not gone to bed yet.  Also, I'm rethinking this whole "Not" naming convention I've established.  I didn't want to use my full name, then thought I'd better not use anyone elses either.  Seems overwrought at this point and I hate overwrought anything.  And really, you all know me!  Who am I kidding?
 
On a Lenten note:  I've been slacking on the dancing.  I dance, but I typically put away dishes or talk on the phone or review homework while doing so.  I'm going to set aside time for at least two songs, in a row, uninterrupted by the world.  I'll start with this tune tomorrow morning and see how well it segues into watching Hurt Locker.  Don't slap me cause I'm not in the mood.

Bridegrooming

I just wrestled my dog.  Oliver hates having his nails clipped and I hate doing it.  I'm so afraid I'll hurt him; then, I end up pinning him down to get it done already.

Today is the 16th anniversary of the Not Stacy-Not Don nuptials.  I'm about to wrestle myself down to clip my own nails, file them even, and get dressed to go to Hibiscus for our anniversary dinner. 

Throughout our marriage, Not Don and I have each adopted certain chores as our own.  One of mine is the nail care of kids and dogs.  In fact, in sixteen years, Not Don has never clipped any nail of any child or pet in this household.  I have never changed furnace filters.  At the rate we're going, I'll never have to.

Deep v Shallow

Something important is taking place in Dallas this Sunday. As part of a global demonstration in support of women in war torn countries, local women and girls will band together for peace. They are using the symbol of the bridge, and inviting women to gather on the bridge on White Rock Lake. Here's some info:

"By taking part in Women for Women International's Join Me on the Bridge campaign you can be part of a growing powerful movement that says "no to war and yes to women's peace and development. Bring posters with messages of peace, love, and hope!!"

Several women I know and admire will be there with their daughters.  It will undoubtedly be a beautiful and powerful event.

This event happens at 5:00 PM. On Sunday. During the heart of the Oscars red carpet coverage. I have a firmly developed family tradition of sitting on my couch for 8 straight hours on Oscar night.  I live for this shit.  It's the most All-American activity I participate in:  celeb watching and critiquing (free speech), sloth and snacks (pursuit of happiness), cut-throat competition (capitalism) and Alec Baldwin (Irish).  I can tell I totally lost you with the All-American rationalization.  You're no fool.  Yes, I have heard of tivo.

I'm torn.  I want to both save the world and be frivolous.  I want to enlighten my children as well as bond with them over pop culture.  I want to carry a sign and I want to lay around with a shawl over me.  I want to support women (sisterhood!) and I want to rip them apart for wearing a dress with poofy sleeves (OMG).

I haven't made any official decision yet about what I'll be doing on Sunday, but I think you know where I'll be.

Circle

Not all coffeehouse music sucks.  This is a favorite of mine.  Someone once told me this is my theme song.  I'm working on finding a new theme song.

It's morning at the Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.

What's up with coffee? I mean, everyone's drinking it! Crazy stuff.

But seriously folks, I took a survey about coffee for a marketing firm that is branding and naming a new coffee maker. The questions centered on word associations and emotions having to do with coffee. I was tested on all the old favorites: rich, bold, robust, smooth, black. One of the words to be ranked, on a scale from 1-10, was "sassy." I ranked sassy a one, one being the lowest on the scale. I don't like the word sassy and I don't want sassy coffee. Or do I?

I'm a Starbucks fanatic. Love the product, love my friendly neighborhood baristas and I'm wild about the psychology-of-a-cult-insider behavioral stuff they do to me by requiring me to use their lingo. Triple Grande Non-fat Latte, how I love to speak thy name. But I do have a big complaint about the typical Starbucks experience. I dislike the mood of their stores.

Someone decided a long time ago that the modern coffee experience should be a throw-back to some imagined coffeehouse utopia of wood paneling and slow jazz. Starbucks took that faded image and sanitized it. The stores are studies in blandness, with caramel colored walls and indistinct lighting, faux-wood laminate shelving and focus-group designed murals. The prissy-folk-meets-drippy-jazz music puts me to sleep.

It's time for Starbucks - or a competitor, if there is such a thing - to get sassy. How about a coffeehouse experience that is as energizing as a double espresso? How about some loud colors and louder dance music? Let's see some people bouncing off the fucking walls. I would totally allow myself to be indoctrinated into ordering a Tres Wham Slammin Sassilatte in such a place.

You've been a great audience! I'll be here all week.

Before

Here's my current Room. Wall color is new - blue/green/greyish. Bed will either be refurbished/reupholstered or replaced. I need blinds or shades to darken the room at night, in addition to fatter curtains. Desk probably goes away. A rug is likely. Armoire will be on the wall to the left, not pictured. Assorted doo-dads TBD.

Any websites or resources I should consult?

Desperate measures

I like to walk around the house with my favorite tool: a steel tape measure. I go from room to room and measure the furniture, the distance from sill to floor, the ceiling height, the space between sink and wall, the depth of shelves v. dressers. I just measure stuff and think (and think) about making changes.

I am redecorating the master bedroom. So many things are wrong with that sentence. Redecorating implies that it was ever decorated to begin with. We've lived here eight years and it's always been an afterthought. "Decorating" is a hideous word anyway. Sounds fakety.

The Room has been painted for a month now. Last week I bought lamps. Today I measured every angle of The Room, then drove to Ikea where I walked a lot and ate Swedish meatballs. Tomorrow, I might plug in the lamps. Eight years on and I'm not really getting anywhere.

I've thrown up my hands and asked that Jesus Take The Wheel. Rather, I asked my tasteful friend, Not Thelma, to help. She was sputtering mad when I told her I don't like Euro pillows and nearly walked out on me. She did approve the new lamps, though, so maybe we're getting somewhere. (She doesn't know I went to Ikea. Sshhhh.)

social studies

This evening, I was glued to the American Experience about Dolley Madison. Miss M sat down with me, asking, "who was she?" I explained at some (too much) length, then M said, "So she was the first president."
"No, she was a first lady."
"She was the first lady president."
"No. She was a wife {sigh}. We've never had a woman president."
"I can't remember what to call that semi president."
"Vice President?"
"Yeah. What does he do again?"

Feb - Mar

Welcome to March.

February summary:
Three family birthday parties
Visits from friends and family
Left my job
Gas leak
Sewer line problem
New paint in my bedroom
Basketball season ended and soccer started
The Olympics
Started blogging and dancing
Copywriting gig
Foot of snow

So long, February. We had some good times.