What you heard was sour grapes

"Save me from a villainous imagination, deliver me from my friends.
If I said something to make you mad, I will take it back."
-Barenaked Ladies

March 21, 2007
What you heard was sour grapes

You all know that I do not HATE Angelina Jolie. I don't know the woman, so I can't hate her. I honestly believe that one cannot harbor hatred for another until they meet them and really get to know them. I honestly believe that. I have strongly disliked people in the past, only to get the opportunity to be proven incorrect in my feelings toward them.

By the way, never in my journaling history hs a "quote of the moment" been more apt. Thank you Ed Robertson and BNL for giving me today's quote. It is perfect.

My entry from the other day was filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing. It was sour grapes. It was jealousy. It was typical of how I write when frustrated, angry, faced with ridiculousness and absurdity. It was me, shadow boxing. As hard as I could. At the one person that I really see as someone who gets what she wants all the time... when so many get nothing and have to settle.

That said, I will let you know that I got a lot more feedback about that one journal entry than I have gotten in the nearly 6 years I've been maintaining this journal. People who were all gung-ho and fired up to go kick ass for Anya. And people who really came down hard on me for how I expressed myself.

How DARE you! How DARE you question her motives and how she conducts her life! She has been trying to adopt this child for MONTHS (cough, compared to the years and years and years other spend trying. Thank you for proving my point). She is a wonderful, giving, stupendous person and you have no right to call her out in the manner you did.

Well, yes. She is a wonderful, giving, stupendous person. I honest to God give her all the credit in the world for spending her money in ways that benefit others instead of buying solid gold bidets to wash her privates after she pisses. Bidets for all her 50 houses, one in each state.

I would much rather anyone with that kind of money adopt/purchase/buy off a government/whatever a child than buy any more BLING.

The conspicuous consumption and exploitation of goods and services that Robin Leach themselves into the mindset of the common man thanks to the behavior of people with Big Money sickens me. Celebrities gushing gold and flaunting their so called "style" on shows like MTV Cribs and just about everything broadcast at 7:30pm EST (except Simpsons reruns on Fox), or on the E! Network isn't a reality for 99.9 percent of the planet. And I don't buy into it.

So I'm proud of her for taking her money and putting it where her heart, is instead of buying ceramic tile inlay for her bathroom made from the dust of Pompeii and ground by hand by 10 year old blind virgins, at a cost of $10,000 a tile.

I'm sure someone would buy it if it were made.

Additionally, I give her and Brad credit for going to buy a home in New Orleans. Which, by the way, wasn't 100% wiped off the planet, like the media makes it out to be. They played it up that Angelina and Brad were buying a house where no houses EXIST! Where only tents and shacks and tar paper lean-tos are standing! What are they THINKING! Are they having a Britney Moment? Have they lost their dang fool minds!?

There is some decent real estate there, cheap for the taking. They did something that was both economically interesting and socially responsible. By buying a house in the Big Easy, she points out to others that it is okay to trust in the region, to take the chance to live somewhere that has suffered. To hopefully help build it back up. Yes. Kudos to her.

I really think that is awesome. I am not sure I'd buy a house there, because I think it could easily happen again. But she is trusting that it will not. And communicating to others that it is okay to believe in the bayou.

But.

It is my right to call anyone out here. This is, after all, my journal. And how I feel about something, whether or not you agree with me, will oft be expressed as I void my rheum. Somewhat humorously at times, somewhat viciously, somewhat pathetically.

Don't ever tell me it isn't my right to express my feelings. Especially through the anonymity of a fake email address sent to my hotmail, which I cannot even respond to to say "Oh no you didn't!"

You know who you are. You are a victim of the cult of personality. And I called out one of its Sainted Few... and you didn't like it.

Sorry if you were offended. But it is how I felt at the moment. A little strong, maybe, but that's a reality over here. One that I've kept in reserve for a while. Because impassioned speech calls the nutjobs out of the woodwork.

---

When someone you love is suffering... if you have a soul, you will speak with passion.

When someone you love finds themselves stranded and feeling incredibly hopeless, you may have a visceral response that calls you to shout out loud, yell and fingerpoint at what you perceive as something unfair or unjust. Even if you're not 100% correct.

I think a lot of people never step up to causes or issues because of the "It doesn't directly impact me so why should I give a crap" attitude so many Americans possess.

And because this is close to me, I'm a little extra over the top about how I feel.

I also am exceedingly proud of those of you who have left comments or sent email expressing empathy or anger over what Keri is going through. I'm proud of Bree for finding Brad Pitt's "people" and calling their number to make sure it is in service. I am proud of Amy for suggesting Oprah, Dr. Phil and Montel... all of whom I've written emails to and have begged for them to pay attention to this story.

Even if you have no way to help, expressing your empathetic feelings is a way of praying. It is a way of getting the collective spirit together and growing it stronger. And it is a lot more powerful than "Meh, whattayagonnado."

So thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

---

The other day, I had lunch with Keri. It was a really good time, and we had a lot of good laughs. I can't wait to see her again.

I know that when she receives the energy from others, she feels a lot more hopeful. She told me that she has had visions of Anya here. She has seen her in Marblehead, seen her with her sister at the ocean, seen what it is going to be like.

And seeing is believing, even when the seeing is generated by hopefulness. She is optimistic that this is all going to work out. But right now... it feels incredibly overwhelming and distressing.

Keri told me that she didn't used to like Angelina. Then she met her. And they talked forever about international adoption and life and kids and everything... her perception changed and she has so much respect for her.

That made me feel a little better too... that she had discussed these things with the woman that I kind of saw as the embodiment of everything wrong with international adoption, and this woman knows what other people go through. And she knows she is lucky, and what she does, she does at great cost.

That humbled me a bit and whetted down my anger.

Now we just have to get ahold of Oprah and get Keri and her girls on the TV and get this all resolved. I will keep you guys posted, of course.

Thanks for continuing to care.

Of mice and wolves

Today was a day of large critters, little critters, and the concepts of care and rescue.

This morning I got up around 9 and started loading the dishwasher. I had been eyeballing the wads of dog hair that have grown under the cabinets and was thinking of getting the vacuum cleaner out and doing a thorough under-cupboard cleaning.

Turning around to put water into the dog dish, a little grey mouse came walking out from between the kennels.

I held perfectly still and he sniffed around looking for crumbs. He found a couple in the cracks of the floorboard and then realized I was there. I called Doug, I wanted him to see it. More, I wanted him to catch it.

The mouse was no bigger than a quarter. He was tiny as can be, and scurried under the cabinets to the safety of giant clumps of dog hair and those evil milk-bottle plastic lids that Geoff keeps losing. Now I know where they end up.

We got on our bellies and tried to find it again, he was nowhere to be seen. Doug went back upstairs and after about 20 minutes Mr. Mousie emerged again. I covered him with a bowl, and we set up the terrarium for it.

Doug and I were talking about taking him out to the woods, as we were giving him guinea pig food and Timothy Hay for comfort.

He ate happily, and was perfectly cozy. And I knew a big deep part of me wasn't going to be able to release him. I would have to leave that to Doug.

Timing wise, it was a good choice. Geoff and I had a date with cub scouts to go to Wolf Hollow for some wolf peeping. Doug could take the little guy out and set him free. Great.

Wolf Hollow was nice, albeit way too preachy on the topics of hunting and our federal government. I grew a little weary of how much time our host guide was spending bashing the government. Just tell the kids about the pack, socialization, and all that jazz. Quit bashin' the man. Jeesh. It was interesting to learn about the wolves who came to be there and the pack as it is growing. The boys were fascinated and Geoff really began to make connections as to why Cub Scouts is modeled after a wolf pack, with "Akela" the alpha who may be in charge but also is responsible for the wellbeing and growth of the young in the pack. And they young are there to learn from the alpha and help the entire pack to grow and survive.

Overall, it was a decent trip and a beautiful day to be outside looking at wolves and howling.

---

We got home around 3 and there was the mouse still his little terrarium. Doug and I just looked at each other and said nothing. I gave him a cap full of water, not having a good container to hang in the terrarium. I began thinking of what kind of cage we were going to get for him. Geoff named him Cheesey.

After dinner, Cheesey wasn't moving too much. I thought maybe he's just a really REALLY deep sleeper. I didn't want to think that yeah, he'd expired.

At about 9pm Doug checked on him too, and I heard him utter "oh no."

"You think he's dead too?" I called from my Tetris marathon on the PS2.

"What, do you think he's dead?"

"Um, yeah. At about 7 when I checked on him he was ..." I went in and stood next to Doug to look, "exactly like he is now."

So it looks like our foray into mouse ownership is over. Poor Cheesey.

---

Part of me is really sad and disappointed, and another part is kind of relieved. I didn't really WANT a mouse as a pet. But sometimes my soft spot is softer than I think, and I know that Geoff was thrilled by the concept of rescuing someone who had lost his family.

Geoff, like most 10 year olds, has that soft spot fully in place. And by our showing care and concern for lost things or those who need help keeps his soft spot. Hopefully he will grow into an adult who has a caring heart. Akela helps the pack, the cub helps the pack to grow... we nurture one another and nurture things that are in need.

The cub scout gives good will.

I like to think that we gave him a good couple of hours of comfort and food. And seeing as this is a 300-ish year old house, I bet it won't be the first mouse we come across here.

God speed ye, Cheesey Mouse.
God speed.

Pound notes, loose change, bad checks, anything

I wish I had a lot more money.

Don't get me wrong. I don't look at us as poor or flat broke. I just wish that our balance of incoming vs. outgoing cash wasn't as close as it is. I wish the incoming dollars outnumbered the outgoing.

It didn't used to be this way. When we lived in the old house, we had a much smaller mortgage and were both earning what we basically earn now. I haven't had a raise in a while... and with Doug quitting half (more like 1/3 now that the hours are showing themselves to be more than he anticipated) his job, it just feels tight.

It always feels tight when Doug starts doing our taxes, and I start thinking about summer camp for the kids.

But we lived in a tiny house where we were tripping over one another, and now we have a great big old cool house and it's a much better place. I suppose that is the exchange right there. Living in a dumpy little piece of crap house or a huge giant colonial and having all the privacy I want.

In the old house, right now Geoff would be behind me doing what he's doing now. He wouldn't be able to do it as loudly. He wouldn't be having nearly as much fun.

He's playing Guitar Hero. Down in the pink room, with the speakers cranked up. It's like he's on another planet, he's so far from here.

I'm paying a premium for peaceful living I guess. The mortgage is twice what it was on the old house. And the peace at least twice as much so it's good.

But because my mortgage is twice what it is, I need to curtail my spending and not do all the things I've grown very used to doing. There are a lot of things that I put on the credit card that I'm slowly paying off. I should be paying faster, which means placing more money in that amount line on my checks or the field for online pay. But I can't quite yet. There isn't quite enough money, and then if someone uses the bank card for gas or groceries, the checks might bounce and that's not good.

I had my eye on that really nice Bridgestone bike that I told you about the other day. After getting a check from Cateringman for the site redesign and looking at all our money, I realized that I still couldn't swing it. I had to tell the guy this week that there was no way I could pay cash for it. The guy was sad, because he turned away three other inquiries... but he understood.

It broke my heart because it was an awesome bike. I felt that it was THE bike for me. Not just some random piece of shit from someone's garage. Way super nice, and totally sweet ride. And he was nice. So not only did I disappoint myself by letting my heart commit to something it shouldn't have, I disappointed him and that makes me more sad than I could have imagined.

Sometimes I put my heart in front of my wallet and let the money trickle through to other sources. Instead of putting my brain in front of the opening to serve as a more efficient filter.

I did the same with the Guster tickets. I shouldn't have bought for both nights, but now that I have them, I'm not giving them up! I just have too many. I bought 6 for both nights, and now it seems that at least 3 of the Friday night tickets will go unused.

(If you're interested in Guster at the Opera House on April 20th, let me know. It'll be me and Jess and Crystal from the discussion boards, and if I don't bring Geoff on Friday night, I'll have 3. If I do bring Geoff, I'll have 2. Drop me a line.)

The other day they announced a Guster show at Hampton Beach, which is 1/2 hour north of me up in NH. I almost called immediately to get tickets. I had to honestly STOP myself, and say "You DO NOT have the money for this. Knock it off!"

---

And I hate this feeling. The feeling of denying myself things that I want.

I've always thought of Lent (which we are in right now, if you're not one familiar with the Christian seasonal calendar) as a period of time for doing something for others. Being kinder and exercising more giving. Instead of practicing acts of asceticism like giving up chocolate.

The doing and being are very Protestant acts during the Lenten season. I was taught in youth group and in college that we lift others first, above us, we commit a greater, stronger act. It was better to be a human doing than a human being.

Denial of our Epicurean side and emotional self-flagellation by giving up chocolate or giving up smoking, swearing, red meat... these things were meaningless compared to doing something for another. An outward and visible sacrifice of time, effort and money have become the norm for a lot of people during this time of the year. Be. Do. Exist. Help. And get closer to God.

Right now though, I'm incredibly aware of self-denial, putting aside my wants, and waiting. I'm not doing these things FOR a Lenten sacrifice... I just have to or they'll foreclose my house.

I'm not sure that fear of foreclosure is the same as an act that brings one closer to enlightenment and God and understanding the sacrifice of Easter... but it serves its unintended purpose in the end, I'm sure.

Most of my money wishes surround this house. There is a huge list of improvements, changes, adaptations and accessories I'd like to get for us. I don't have the time to list them out here, but I should, so I can keep track of when and if these things come to fruition.

---

Wishing that I had more money is a bad thing. Because wishes like that, as we learned when I was pregnant with Geoff, usually result in something going wrong. Like the Monkey's Paw almost. My wishes don't usually work out well. If I wish for more money, that would mean someone's life would have to end and they'd be leaving Doug and me large sums. I'd get what I want, but in the end... dude. Sadness.

So I revise my opening statement. I don't wish for more money (lest it put family members in danger...). What I wish for instead is less of a desire for more money, and a stronger backbone.

Hopefully the universe heard that.

When Black is Burned

When I was 2 years old, (about) Neil Young recorded a very pretty song with Buffalo Springfield called "I Am a Child." I've always enjoyed the song, as well as a lot of Neil from the late 60s and early 70s in his many performance incarnations.

But something really weird happened to me while listening on the way to work yesterday. XM radio was playing Live at Massey Hall in its entirety. It was recorded in 1971, and it is allegedly the greatest performance this man ever gave, hands down. Why they waited this long to release it is beyond me. But that is beside the fact.

"I Am A Child" is one of the songs on the release. For over 30 years, I've been singing the wrong lyrics.

The line "What is the color when black is burned?" never came through to my ears. I don't know why. But yesterday, in the car, at 80mph zooming down I-95 on the way to work it rang through clear as a bell. A bell that rang in 1968 and finally reached my ears today in 2007.

For a second I was surprised. I actually laughed at myself, because I don't know WHAT I was hearing, but it sure as hell wasn't that! I was hearing "What is the color when black is brown?" and I honestly thought he was singing about racial issues. It was the time in American History when songwriters were exploring such things. And I always thought that it was a very sweet, innocent exploration into a child discovering interesting things about skin color... and asking the man (his dad I guess) to teach him more.

Instead, it is a line about what happens to the color black when it is made blacker. How is it possible for black, not the skin, but the shade itself, to become blacker.

And immediately I started laughing because I thought of "Spinal Tap" when they examine the cover of their new Black Album. Nigel Tufnel observes: "It's like, how much more black could this be? and the answer is none. None more black."

The color when black is burned is none more black. I guess.

And that is your deconstruction of pop culture for today. I hope you enjoyed it. And I also hope you recognize that yes, I am a certifiable dumbass.

If you would like to share your favorite musical misheard lyrics in the comments here, feel free. Otherwise, go visit the archive of misheard lyrics, "Kiss this guy" for some more really fun blunders in auditory interpretations. Extra points if you know where the website gets its title from. And of course, I have wonderfully astute readers who know without having to look it up at all.

---

Not much going on today. I think we're going to the pet store in a little while, and then at about 6:30 I'm heading into Cambridge to MIT to watch the ICCA Semifinal at MIT Amy will be there, and she invited us to join. So I'm bringing Jess and a friend to go see the throw down at the International Championship of Collegiate A Cappella. Join us if you're interested.

I guess that is about it. I just looked out the window and saw Geoff riding his bike down the street. I have to raise his seat and his handlebars because he grew so much over the winter. Jeeesh. I hope they both have room for raising, because I don't feel like buying him a new bike.. It would be a good investment, because Lord knows the boy likes to ride as much as possible.

5 a.m., March 16th...

"5 a.m., March 16th. Jesus on the Radio, you took a photograph of me.
In the yellow bucket seat."
-Guster

Based upon their song, "Jesus on the Radio," I decree today as Guster Day. I'm starting a movement, a revolution as it were. A movement whose time has come.

I bestow upon the band the key to the city (not sure which one, but I'll find one). The key is chocolate, covered in gold foil. No! Wait. It makes an excellent Beer Bottle Opener! (for those of you who have read the Guster Road Journal over the years, or own the book, you know what that means).

You didn't have to wake up at 5am and sing the opening lines. You can sing them all day. You can sing another Guster song if you don't like the bluegrassy tones of this one. You just have to feel it in your heart and soul that Guster is for Lovers. Guster is OK. Guster does a body good. Guster makes your life better. Guster makes you smile.

So I wish all of you today, fans and non-fans alike... a very happy Guster Day. Go to iTunes and get a couple of songs. If you'd like a couple of recommendations, I'll give them to you. Give them a try. Play some bongos. Hug a turbine. Grow a beard. Throw some ping pong balls. Ride a segway to work. Get Big Friend tattooed to some part of your body, um... like your Big Toe (cough, it's been done. Just not by me).

Have a spectacular day. It's Gusteriffic.

5 a.m., March 16. Jesus on the radio
You took a photograph of me
on your yellow bucket seat.
Its too high, its too wide,
You're so low you don't know
To get through, to go around

So don't look back
There ain't nothing there to see
Was once like you
Can't say I recognize that face
in that picture that you keep

Its too high, its too wide
You're so low you don't know
To get through, to go around
To get through, to go around

Someone give me Angelina Jolie's Phone Number

"Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier."
-Mother Teresa

How is this even possible? Yesterday's headlines claimed that Angelina Jolie was on her way to Viet Nam to pick up a baby. Today's headlines say she's got the baby and she is on her way home.

Someone explain to me how an international adoption like this goes off without a hitch.

Wait. I can explain it to myself. Money Talks and Bullshit Walks. Angelina bought a baby. Like one buys a pair of shoes. Like one picks out a pound puppy.

She walked into a country, just like she's walked into a couple of others, and she announced:

"Greetings rulers and bureaucrats of this poor pissant nation! My name is Angelina Jolie! You may remember me from such movies as "Gone in 60 seconds" and "Cyborg 2". Well. Maybe not from the second one. Anyway. Long and the short of it is, I am a wealthy American Actor Woman, and did I mention wealthy means I have lots and lots and lots of money. And I know you simply MUST have SOME children SOMEwhere around here who are not wealthy, meaning they have no money... and it is a pain for the state to continue to feed and clothe them. As shabbily as you do. So. I would like one to take home, to make his life better and take them to a place where they can get punk hair cuts and get profiled in Us Magazine for the clothing they have on. Now. Give me a baby please."

And the government of that country said "Yes!" and probably didn't fill out a stitch of paperwork, or get a lawyer in a room. That country said "Red Tape? What is that? We don't know what Red Tape is. There is no such thing!"

Angelina smiles that big, beautiful, famously lip-enshrined smile, flashes her feline eyes, and hands them a big huge bag of money. She promises more money for the millions of kids that she can't adopt. After all. People are already making fun of her for adopting three and birthing one.

She would, you know. She would adopt more. Because she's got the money. And the big heart, of course.

They swoon and thank her. They cry and bow down to her. This Emissary of Capitalistic Kindness. This sultry angel who wants to save at least one baby from EVERY continent! (Good luck with Antarctica, sweetie. I hear their orphan population is limited to seals and penguins).

Yes! Hallelujah! My friends. That's how this international adoption, and her other two, went down.

---

Meanwhile.

There is a little girl in Siberia. She's not so little anymore. She will be 16 soon. Which is not good.

She's not a baby. She's been In The System for the vast majority of her whole life.

There is a woman in Massachusetts who wants to adopt her, just like Angelina adopted her babies. She already adopted the girl's little sister. Now she wants to adopt this one here, and reunite them. Make them a full, real family. Finally.

There is this wonderful woman, who has no money, but whose heart is caked with gold and jewels and the blessing of kindness and the indomitable spirit of God. There is this woman. Without the big bag of money.

And you know what?

The bureaucratic system in which her daughter flounders and does not flourish recently told her, "Yeah, we have decided there will be no further international adoptions. Ever. Have whatever kind of day you want, just don't have it around here."

And they have slammed the door on her hopeful face. That's it. Sorry. There's a short pier, honey. Go take a long walk.

Now. Unlike Ms. Jolie who walks in on Wednesday without and walks out on Thursday with, there are lawyers and government agents and representatives. There are agencies who would like the big bag of money. There is the endless, eternal No.

This woman, unlike the Angel of All Orphans Angelina, has no sack of cash. If only she had a sack of cash. A big, honkin' sack of cash.

So.

What does one do?

What to do.

---

A big part of me would like to find Ms. Jolie and kick her awfully hard. Really super awful hard. But she'd probably immediately kick my ass. I saw her in Tomb Raider. She was mean.

And another big part of me wants to ask her for help. Call her up and say "okay. I'm sorry I accused you of picking out a baby like one would pick out a pound puppy. I'm just awfully envious. You seem to have a veil of untouchable super-magic about you. And I have this friend. See? Help. Please. Help us. Help her."

That's unlikely to ever happen. I wouldn't have the wherewithal to get ahold of the woman. I tried to google her for an official representative, an agent, something. But there are only fan pages that come up.

This has been eating me alive all day. I sit at a desk and right over the top of my cube there is a news ticker that is running on about 11 screens that I can see without even rotating my head. And all of them had a crawl-full of how great a story it is that Angelina got her baby. Maddox got his buddy.

And Anya can't get anything.

And I have been fuming. Surly. I pounded through my work today without the sense of satisfaction that I was getting something done for getting something done's sake. I was pounding through because I wanted to pound someone.

I hate her. I hate that Angelina Jolie woman... I really don't mean that -- hell, I don't know the woman. I know that she is trying to make the world a better place. She is trying to better entire cultures and countries. She is somehow qualified (just because she has a passion for helping) to be a UN Ambassador. Bags of money and good intentions get a lot of good press. Being good looking and incredibly caring go a long long way. I can't knock her for her efforts.

I just wish that there wasn't this incredibly painful process for people, not just my friend Keri, but anyone aside from Angelina Jolie or Madonna or some other oozingly-wealthy broad, who wants to adopt internationally.

I know people who have waited for years and years, who had to fill out the same applications repeatedly. Who paid thousands of dollars in fees, just to get a child from another country. Or even from this country.

It just breaks my heart and consumes me. It really does.

And I just don't know what to do. So I can only imagine how my friend feels. Her daughter doesn't know that the government will not allow her sister to be adopted. Yet. The truth will devastate her. It is what she holds on to. It is her only wish.

Angelina? can you give us a call?

Big Screen

"I didn't think you could blow my mind, but you did."
-Geoffrey

I have been ragged on about lack of updates. By my sister, who never updates HER journal. Hello, kettle? This is the pot. You're Black.

I've been a little busy, doing work stuff, and the weekend was pretty weather-wise and we went down the Cape to see Gammy in the nursing home. And then the kids had Monday off of school so I stayed home in the morning and worked on Cateringman's website. It's coming along gorgeously... If I could only get Paypal to work.

If you have any paypal experience, do leave a comment or drop me a line... I could use your help this week getting this all figured out. Paypal is being a bitch to me. And I don't like it.

So yeah, there isn't much to say in the update department. The only momentous thing is that we finally got around to doing something that we were going to do when we moved in.

For Christmas 2005, my company gave us all hand-me-down 42 inch plasma screens. Ours had been kept in storage, and we tried to decide where the best place for it would be. Seeing as Doug is home in the afternoon (after quitting 1/2 his job) Geoff's video game playing right behind his head while he is seeking new employment has become a real pain in his neck. So he decided it was time.

He set up the 42 inch plasma.

I thought that we were going to clean up the "brown" room and make it a formal living room, with this TV in it... but Doug had other ideas.

He put it in "Geoff's Office," for those of you who have been to visit you know that is the "pink" room. After he set it all up he realized that the playstation2 had 3 little pluggy things to go in, and the TV had only one welcoming little port. So we had video, but no audio. Which didn't stop Geoff from playing. He whined, but played. Weirdo.

Today Doug made the trip to Best Buy and got the whole 3 speaker surround sound thing and the right adapter, and got it all set up. And it rocks beyond all imagination.

The speakers rock our entire building. You can hear it outside. At one point, I actually fretted that someone would call the police on us. Neighbors were probably thinking that Foo Fighters and KISS were performing in our living room.

It was the Rock.

---

So that is the only real thing to mention that has happened. That and it appears that we have picked a date for Someone's Bridal Shower. Someone who also does not update her blog.

I absolutely will not blog about specific arrangements and specific discussions, as interesting as they are. While it is my blogspace to discuss what I feel, and think, I do not wish to discuss other people's situations without their knowledge or them having the opportunity to counter-point. My sister (the aforementioned Someone) knows about the arrangements, so there is no secret keeping from her. It is just that I know how sometimes something I may write may come off with a tone that is unintended, and I would rather not step on hearts or toes. As one of the wedding participants said to me last night "I do not want to bring Drama to Linda's wedding." Truer words never spoken

There are a couple of things I WILL say though.

1. Long Island is a very big place, and finding a place to have 20-40 people for a shower is not easy. We've opted to not do it at anyone's home due to limited space... I have the room to do it, and I would SO host it, but I'm up here in Massachusetts, which makes travel for the entire wedding party difficult.

2. We have bridesmaids coming from Florida, Las Vegas, and Sweden, which are all the far far away places. Jess and I are coming from Massachusetts, which is easy travel to travel from, and there are two bridesmaids who live on LI. Our maid of honor referred to us as the "International House Of Pancakes Bridal Party" for as far-flung as we all are. And that slayed me. So with all of us all over the globe, we were faced with a small dilemma of how to have a bridal shower if only half the girls can be there? That makes it kind of unfun.

We discovered that the only weekend ALL of us could be in one spot was May 11-13th. So the decision was made to go for that. And I was stoked. All of us able to be there. Sure, the party was early (the wedding is in September), but that was okay. I'd get on the stick about finding a place to do this at. And all would be good.

3. I was all gung-ho about doing it May 12th. And then someone pointed out that it was mother's day weekend. Which meant I was going to probably have a hard time finding a place to host us.

4. That someone was right.

5. Not only is it Mother's Day weekend, it is also Confirmation Weekend for a lot of the 8,000,000 catholics on Long Island. So just about EVERY place I called today is booked solid except for 7pm parties. Nice. Stupid Mother's Day and stupid Catholics Yeah, I said it. You're confirmation is on Sunday during Mass. Don't be hoggin' up all the foodrinkeries on Saturday for the whole damn day! What the hell?! We got some bridal shower fun-ness that we need to be throwing down. Gah. Get out of my way.

6. I did find one place that looks wicked nice and cool that can take us, and now I have to see if Linda and/or the two LI based bridesies or someone can go to the place and check it out for us.

7. I hate being far away.

anyway... We've taken to calling our blushing bride "Linda Bridezilla," by the way. And that is funny because she is so not (really) a Bridezilla. heh. I'm more like Bridesmaidzilla at this point trying to find a place to HAVE the bridal shower. Wheeeeeee! I'm turning psycho! Hardly. I jest.

---

And the weather is finally not Antarctica Cold. Which puts me in a good mood.

Life is good at our house. I hope it is good at yours.

Burn and Rave at End of Day

"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
-Dylan Thomas

You know you've probably made a bad color choice when even your 10 year old son wants to score off of you with a big zing.

I got up Sunday morning and it was as if Geoff had been waiting for me to get out of bed for hours. No sooner had I spoken "good morning Geoff" did he fire back with "what up, deep purple?"

Like he thought about it all night and it was eating him alive that he had to wait for me to get out of bed to deliver that burn.

Jeesh.

It isn't as pink or orange as I thought it would be, but it certainly isn't natural. Which, you know, I was going for.

So far the consensus is that it is more light auburn/orange than pink... in the sunlight. Whatever. It's not grey. I'll dye my hair truly deep purple to cover this crap up if I have to, I've decided. Enough with the growing old gracefully crap I've been swallowing.

I drank the Kool-Aid for far too long. Let's do 10 years of fighting, and then at 50 let my hair go gentle into that good night.

---

This is just a quick one to say hi and post the photo (and show off my mad poem skillz, yo. Using Dylan Thomas in a journal entry... that's so incredibly... passé).

Doug has had a job change of sorts. The nursing home he was with was bought by another company. He was going to two homes for a long time. The new company assigned him to a new one, and took away the one he really liked, but he got to keep the one close to home.

He could have quit but decided to take the path of least resistance and go with the flow and the new change.

He said a lot of "red flags" went off for him about the new assignment, even before it started, but he just didn't want to make the effort to drop the ball and run, or to start hunting. He figured it would be an okay change.

A week after being back from vacation he was convinced he'd made the wrong choice. So... he sat down yesterday and let them know that he'd stay on at the one nursing home close to home for 25 hours a week, and was going to drop the new assignment, the one that was making him miserable.

They let him do it.

And now, he will start looking for per diem work. He doesn't need benefits (because I get them) he makes a great salary when he works hourly... so yeah. It's alright.

I just need for him to find something that brings him joy, that doesn't make him miserable (and trust me, from what it sounded like, this new assignment was indeed the suck), and brings in more money. In the meantime, I transfer some funds over from savings to take a bit of the burden off of the checking account and we go forward.

With pink hair.

Punk Rock Girl

"Punk rock girl, You look so wild. Punk rock girl, Let's have a child.
We'll name her Minnie Pearl.
Just you and me, Eat fudge banana swirl
Just you and me, We'll travel round the world
Just you and me, Punk rock girl."
-Dead Milkmen

Those of you who know me well know I eschew high fashion (and medium fashion). I don't put a lot of stock in all of the beautification treatments out there for women to torture themselves with. I loathe fashion, gossip and "women's" advice magazines because I think overall they do more harm than good for self-esteem of young women all around the world. I've rarely ever worn makeup. I feel I look rather whorey when I'm wearing it. A little mascara is my best friend. And a little cover up for the circles under the eyes.

I am what you'd call an all-natural kind of gal.

Those of you who know me well know the hair is getting grey. Really grey. Just in the last year I've noticed an unbelievable change in the hair. It used to be blonde-ish brown. Then it got kind of blah brown. Then blah brown and a little grey. Then a weird, unidentifiable color with skunky streaks.

So tonight I figured it was high time that I break out the color box that I'd bought over a year ago, and brighten up the strands of grey and weird brownish whatever that I'm cruising right now. It's been quite some time since I've done a coloration. And usually I only do it when I'm bored, not when I'm trying to convince anyone I'm younger and hipper than I am, because I am cool enough just being me.

Now, I'm not sure if my hair is orange or pink.

It looks pink in some lights. Orange in others. Just where the hair is grey -- where it isn't grey it is a dark "cinnaberry" reddish brown. Just what I wanted. But all that grey. All the damn grey.... didn't pick up the color as nicely as the dark browns.

It's not that big a deal to me, mostly because it is a wash-out product that will fade over time. I may have to really consider either totally blondening the hair so it blends with the grey, or going much darker with a brown that isn't red. Either way, I think my days of cutting my hair in the bathroom myself and coloring my own hair are over.

I may have to seek professional help. This frightens me, because .... it costs money and I am one cheap woman. And I've always eschewed this lifestyle of "prettying up" at huge expense.

Anyway. Pink or orange, I am now officially a punk rock girl. Get me my shite-kickin' boots. I'm going to throw down to some Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly and stomp some heads in. Oi!

Here's the picture. Laugh at me if you will. I can take it. I've been laughed at before.