Sunday, August 31, 2003

Hair Karma

So much for the good-karma flow of free shampoo and conditioner. Due to the Little Guy's naptime logistics I ended up showering in the wrong bathroom today. Buck naked, sopping wet, and one whole carpeted floor away from my beloved Thermasilk, I was forced to use Midlife Crisis Man Shampoo. It smelled like toothpaste and never did lather, just kind of smeared around. So now my hair is glued to my scalp and MomBrain is guaranteed to never go bald. I look like Greasilla, but I sure am minty fresh!

The Big Guy called from Europe today and flatly denied having any fun. He's suffering from jet lag and strange food, and he desperately misses his loved ones. Yup. That's his story and he's sticking to it. I know what's really going on -- the multicultural parties with trilingual jetsetters, the wine, the three-hour meals with no little fingers stealing his hash browns. My only comfort is he's staying in a European hotel, sleeping in a twin bed and bathing in a tub with no shower. Plus he forgot his Midlife Crisis Man Shampoo.

PTB Update

Potty Training Bootcamp is an unqualified success. The Little Guy woke up dry this morning, managed a trip to the grocery store *and* out to lunch, and played outside all afternoon without an accident. I'm thinking we've got this Big Boy thing down.

posted by Marjorie
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Saturday, August 30, 2003

It's just me and the Little Guy on our own for the long weekend. The Big Guy is out of town. Nanny is on vacation. Our best friends are visiting Grandma. Aunts and Uncles and Cousins are camping. So it's just us, with no company except for an exciting visit this morning from the telephone repairman. So, since we're in forced isolation, I'm thinking of this weekend as Potty Training Bootcamp. LG has been in Big Boy Undies all day, and even managed to pee in the scary strange toilet at our favorite lunch restaurant. We are focused. We are committed. We will succeed! Before preschool starts!!!

Inspired by some writer friends, I submitted an essay yesterday to Skirt Magazine. I wrote it a year ago for the local newspaper. They "edited" it and printed three whole sentences. Editors should not be allowed to play with hacksaws! Anyway, I like this essay and I'd love to see it land somewhere more interesting than my hard drive.

Meanwhile, I've landed some freelance work editing a business Web site. It's extremely boring, but it's only 2 weeks long, it'll pay more than my article writing has paid in the last year, and I can do it in my sleep. Now, where's my hacksaw?

posted by Marjorie
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Friday, August 29, 2003

At the auto repair center with the Little Guy:

LG: Why is our car broken?
Me: The mechanic needs to fix the ignition coil.
LG: What does the ignition coil do?
Me: It helps the car start when I put the key in.
LG: Is there an ignition boy?
Me: (speechless with laughter)
LG: Mommy, is there an ignition boy in the engine?
Me: No, honey, and it's not an ignition girl. It's an ignition coyull.
LG: Oh. What does she do?

posted by Marjorie
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Tuesday, August 26, 2003

A Question for the Ages

What does it mean when you spend two full minutes trying to figure out your TiVo remote when you suddenly realize you're holding your cordless phone?

posted by Marjorie
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Theory vs. Reality

A romantic view of the writer at work: A slim woman glowing from her daily three-mile run, the source of her best ideas. She is fresh from the shower. A candle burns. Her desk is completely bare except for her Sony Visio laptop and a glass bowl of water with a single pink camellia blossom. She sits tall and straight, her posture that of a girl with years of ballet training, her feet flat on the floor, her fingers typing typing typing. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she smiles, just a little corner of a smile, really, as she churns out page after page of polished prose.

The reality: Well, the candle part is right. But take that slim woman and add 20 pounds. Now put on eyeglasses, stretchy pants, fuzzy socks, and a wide gray headband to hold back all the hair. I haven't showered in two days or gone running in four years. My posture resembles a question mark. The polished prose? Hah! My computer is a lumbering 6-year-old desktop as big as a NASA mainframe. And my desk is littered with empty Snapple bottles, teabags, CDs, bank statements, and paper paper paper. Not a camellia blossom in sight. Lord help me if the candle gets out of control and the firefighters have to come -- I think they would refuse to rescue me in my current state. I look like a parody from Saturday Night Live, a bad idea from a Molly Shannon nightmare.

posted by Marjorie
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Conversations with the Little Guy

Me: What do you want for lunch?
LG: Um, something that turns around in my tummy.
Me: How about a corndog?
LG: Okay.

posted by Marjorie
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Monday, August 25, 2003

I love the New York Times Book Review. The reviews are more fun to read than the books. Here's a passage that caught my eye today, in a review for And Now You Can Go by Vendela Vida.

First novels, especially those by young writers, often tend to be about people who just can't get outside themselves: sometimes it takes pages and pages for a character to move from one fascinating fold of his navel to the next.

Sounds like a few blogs I know. Thank goodness we are above that. (And I use "we" in the royal sense.)

Barking Dogs

My feet hurt. They are like swollen, throbbing water balloons on sticks. (Now there's a simile! Remember. This blog is written by a professional writer. Do not try this at home.)

Anyway, MY FEET HURT. I wore the wrong shoes today, walked a couple miles, then stood for three hours while meeting with the builder at our new house. Ouch.

The house is coming along, and we are scheduled to move (again) in mid-September. I'm excited and dreading it at the same time. All the packing and schlepping and transitioning ... but finally, we will be in our 20-year house, where we can hunker down and grow roots. Today we chose paint colors. The Big Guy and I figured out a long time ago that we cannot compromise on color. He wants white walls and beige furniture. I want red walls hung with antique kimonos and flying fishes. There is no middle ground -- and if we found one, we would both be unhappy. So we negotiated -- he controls the main living areas, and I get all the bedrooms and bathrooms. At least one of us will be happy in every room.

As for the Little Guy, he has chosen purple walls, red bunk beds, and a green carpet. Like Mother Like Son.

posted by Marjorie
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Sunday, August 24, 2003

MomBrain is so sad. So very, very sad. The Parental Units have returned to their arctic home in the northeast, and here, 3000 miles away in the other corner of the country, I miss them already. How is it possible they have not seen the Little Guy for the first three years of his life? The good news is LG is a much better traveler these days, so I have high hopes of making the cross-country trek with him sooner rather than later. But I can't let another three years dribble away before doing that. I can't.

Past Life Regression

I think in a former life I was a hairdresser with a large deposit in the Bank of Karma. Only this can explain the constant flow of free shampoo and conditioner into my home. I almost never have to buy shampoo. My mom just gave me the honkin' bottle she bought while she was here so she wouldn't have to pack it. She also wiped out the hotel's little freebie sample supply. I just received a free sample with my newspaper, and Oprah gave me a few, too. And I get a lot of leftover shampoo from the Big Guy, who keeps trying new things and not liking them.

posted by Marjorie
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Wednesday, August 20, 2003

Here at MomBrain HQ we are all about the bleeding edge, challenging stereotypes, breaking out of the mold. So you can imagine my shock today when I found myself feeling very ... ordinary. I went out to lunch today, at a little coffee shop called Mom's where you can get a plain old tuna melt and ice tea for $7. There I was, sitting at the counter, eating my mayo-laden tuna and potato chips, reading SELF Magazine, wearing a grandma shirt and feeling very Mom-ish. Well you know how it is with counters -- it's all very community and friendly since everyone just sits down in a row next to each other. So of course a whoosh of air and a soft plop in the stool next to me produces a tall Harry Connick Jr. look-alike, who orders a plain cheese omelette (low carbing it, for sure) and pulls out Sidney Blumenthal's "Clinton Wars." He was handsome, and tall, and young, and a thoughtful reader. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to say I wasn't really reading SELF Magazine -- I was analyzing it because I'd like to write for them because they pay $1000 for features and I plan to read that book as soon as my Dad sends it to me, really! And I usually don't eat potato chips and tuna melts, but I felt like a treat today because I worked out hard for an hour this morning, really! And this grandma shirt is headed straight for the Goodwill bag after this last sentimental wearing, really!

It was hopeless.

posted by Marjorie
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Surfacing for Air

I have a day to catch up on stuff while the Parental Units visit my sister. Tomorrow they arrive on the train, where no doubt they will befriend the conductor, the engineer, and all their fellow passengers.

Snapshots

While visiting with family I spent a delightful three minutes with my two 13-year-old nieces (three minutes being the maximum time allowed with any adult authority figure). I crashed into the computer room thinking it was empty and hoping to do a quick email check. But in fact the Teens were camped out in the dark, listening to a new CD. They were all smiles in their cute little tank tops and low rider jeans (not that I am jealous). Silly me -- if it hadn't been dark I would have seen the mischief in those smiles."Aunt Margie, do you like our new music?" Of course, I am a cool aunt and one hip, happenin' chicquita. And I want them to like me so the next time my bell-bottoms are too short they will stop me from leaving the house. So I said "Yeah, I do. It's pretty cool." They were silent. It was instantly clear that I am in fact a frumpy aunt, a grotesque grown-up who can't even dress herself for pete's sake. The correct answer, clearly, was "Ouch. My ears are bleeding. Please stop." By the time I realized my mistake my three minutes were up, so I slunk out of the room and found my niece Girly Girl, age 7, who is much more enamored with me.

I found Girly Girl watching Baby Looney Tunes with the Little Guy. The cartoon characters were digging a pit with their little shovels, and Girly Girl was explaining to LG that they thought they were digging to the other side of the world. But that wasn't possible because it would take a couple of weeks. I hunkered down with them and spent a pleasant half hour debating what was on the other side of the world. Candy? Macaroni and cheese? Bicycles? We agreed it was probably a fun place.

It Starts Early

While we were there Girly Girl celebrated her 7th birthday. Her grandparents had given her some adorable clothes. (Do not even get me started on the fashion horrors of my childhood. Again, I am not jealous. Not at all.) I caught her in a quiet moment with her nose buried in the pile. She looked up at me, completely stoned, and dreamily said "the mall ... "

posted by Marjorie
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Thursday, August 14, 2003

The Parental Units are here. I am surreptitiously updating my blog while they sleep off the jet lag in their hotel room. Shhhh.

The Price of Fame

The first thing you need to know about my mother is that she makes friends wherever she goes. It's true. She'll talk to anyone anytime anywhere -- crazy street preachers, panhandlers, fellow passengers, people in line at the grocery store. When I was 16, of course, this was beyond embarrassing. In my 20s it was simply embarrassing. In my 30s it was amazing. And now as I ripen I realize she is a force of nature. She sucks everyone into her wake, where they splash about happily and toast her good health.

So last night I picked up the PU's at the airport. (And I mean "PU" in the nicest of ways.) They do not travel very often, so they didn't realize that I couldn't meet them at the gate. I guess they didn't notice that every other passenger walked off the plane and kept going. They stayed behind, all by themselves, clutching their carry-ons and smiling and waiting patiently. Because that's what our family does. We wait. We don't go looking for people, we don't find a payphone, we don't give up and go home. We wait. (This perhaps explains why my sister and I waited for each other for 3 hours at opposite entrances to a subway station one frigid afternoon in Boston. But I digress.) Meanwhile I was at baggage claim, waiting ... waiting ... waiting ... Finally they appeared, escorted by an airplane pilot who had rescued them. The pilot smiled at me -- the only person left in baggage claim -- and said "You must be Margie." Uh, yeah ... "I hope you haven't been waiting the entire hour we were delayed." Uh, no ... "I figured since you used to work at Acme Software Corporation you probably checked the Internet before you left." Uh, yeah ... "Your Little Guy will be awfully glad to see his grandparents." You've been talking to my mother haven't you? He practically hugged her goodbye.

Today we took the Little Guy to breakfast with us (iHop of course). You must understand that his grandparents haven't seen him since he was 5 weeks old. He is now 3 going on 12. So my mother spent the first half hour trying not to cry because the Little Guy told her to be careful on the escawator because it works automaticawy. The last time she saw him he was sleeping on her shoulder in a little ball. Now he is gorgeous and talkative and sweet and funny. They took to each other like wet on water.

The auspicious start crumbled at lunchtime, though. We went to a small restaurant where the Father Figure ordered a salad. "This is pretty good," he said. "But the salad at the Olive Garden ... boy, I could make a meal out of that." Psycho music shrieked in my head. Should I be paranoid? Was it a secret message? A mere coincidence? I just smiled and said "Yeah, those garlic breadsticks are really something, too." Happy smiles all around.

Tomorrow we're mounting an expedition to visit my sisters, three hours away. The camels and sherpas leave tomorrow morning after breakfast. Updates may be spotty.

posted by Marjorie
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Sunday, August 10, 2003

DINNER OUT: A Tragedy in the Italian Tradition

The Scene: The Olive Garden, a restaurant so thoroughly despised by MomBrain and the Big Guy that only the hypnotizing power of a three-year-old could possibly get us in the door. That and a visit from my parents, who inexplicably love the place. I say "inexplicably" because they are not young enough (single digits) or old enough (triple digits) to need food that is too soft to chew. And now I'm hosed, because my dad reads this blog and is coming to visit soon, which means he'll either refuse to go at all and make me feel guilty or he'll make me eat there every night.

But I digress.

Ahem. The Olive Garden. It's a typical 5:00 dinner rush, crowded with the newly-bred and nearly-dead and a smattering of miserable looking 30-somethings. MomBrain and the Big Guy are trying to amuse and contain an overtired and hyper Little Guy, who has decided that big boys do not use booster seats. Mistake Number One -- Putting sugar in the stomach of an extremely hungry toddler.

Waiter: Can I bring you some drinks to start with?
MB to Little Guy: Would you like lemonade or milk to drink?
LG: How about a vaniwa milkshake?
MB: (Foolishly) Okay.

LG does not need to drink the milkshake. No -- he only needs to smell the sugar before the booster seat goes flying and he slithers to the ground beneath the table where Lord knows what kind of grossness he is now rolling in. I immediately shift into containment mode and lower my expectations for actually eating my dinner. Haul the kid back up and into the booster seat, which immediately flies over the table. Give up and compromise on LG just staying in a chair. The waiter blessedly arrives with a distraction -- salad and breadsticks.

Mistake Number Two -- Giving a sharp object to a toddler on a sugar high.

LG: Mommy, would you wike some sawad?
MB: Yes, I would!!!
(LG grabs salad tongs and immediately begins flinging lettuce in the very general vicinity of MomBrain's plate.)
MB: Here, sweetie, let me show you how to use those.
LG: NO!!!!! (More lettuce flinging.)
MB: Stop. Let me show you how big boys use those.
LG: Okay.

The Big Guy picks a greasy lettuce leaf off his linen shirt while MomBrain wonders whether SHOUT will indeed get it OUT. A blessed moment of peace ensues while the hungry Little Guy eats an entire garlic breadstick. Peace is quickly shattered when LG shouts "I'm going to eat you up!" He chomps MomBrain on the nose with a mouthful of partially chewed garlic breadstick. It smells bad. It feels worse. The Big Guy is no help at all, and is no doubt considering the process of mastication when practiced on leavened dough versus human flesh. Again, no help.

The long-suffering waiter arrives and gives a long-suffering look at the lettuce-strewn table, no doubt convinced that the tip will be in inverse proportion to the mess we will leave behind. He deposits pizza in front of both Guys. MomBrain gets the Cappelini Pomodoro, which is Italian for overcooked noodles with canned tomato sauce. The Little Guy picks off all the olives and mushrooms and throws the wonder-bread pizza crust to the ground. MomBrain tries to get the smell of soggy garlic out of her nose. The Big Guy simply looks disconsolate.

As for the waiter, he is beginning to look desperate. Even in a restaurant full of small tazmanian devils, our table is looking scary. He comes back while our plates are still full and asks "Dessert?"

MB and BG (in unison): NO!!!
LG: YES!!!

The berries and ice cream arrive quickly, one big bowl with three small spoons. Spoon #1 immediately joins the landfill beneath the table. MomBrain sighs and remembers her diet. The Guys tuck in, and quickly Spoon #2 joins Spoon #1. The Little Guy begins to quiver but is saved by the Big Guy, who relinquishes his spoon and again looks disconsolate.

The Little Guy's stomach now contains one vanilla milkshake, a few rubbery mushrooms and olives, one garlic breadstick, and ice cream. Now at the height of sugar hysteria he begins to scream and shake. We crown the growing trash heap with a few twenties and get the hell out of Dodge.

The End.

posted by Marjorie
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Saturday, August 09, 2003

MomBrain is so very tired. Caffeine levels are only at Code Yellow. She must get off the carbo-rollercoaster and eat some protein, dammit.

Stroller Daddies

Recent posts from Being Daddy, Rebel Dad, and Laid-Off Dad are questioning the Stroller Daddy effect reported in New York Magazine. Girlfriends, you know what I'm talking about: that little Hmmm you hear inside your head when you see a nice-looking guy alone with a child. Or in NYM's words, "What is it about a yummy guy with a cute kid that gets our panties in a twist?"

What I'm hearing from the Dads is a whole lotta phhhht -- as in, "Phhhht, not in this universe." But MomBrain, representing the female half of the species, is here to say, in her very best Barry White voice, Oh, yeah. Why, just the other day our playgroup was at the kiddie wading pool when a stroller daddy set up camp nearby. Did any of the mommies flirt with him? Of course not! Did we strike up a conversation? Not even. Did we make eye contact? Nope. Did the mommies smile at each other and raise our eyebrows and laugh liltingly and stretch our lovely tanned legs in the sun? You bet your sweet bippies we did. Did the Stroller Daddy notice? Probably not. I am sorry to insult my male readership but you guys are just not attuned to feminine subtlety. It's not about being hit on by a gum-cracking ho with cherry lipstick and some scary Electra issues. It's about the Mona Lisa smile.

The Joy of Motherhood

I am in Potty Training Lockdown Mode, which requires me to stay inside for several days and eat candy with a naked boy. Yesterday I was driving with the Little Guy, when out of the blue he piped up from his carseat.

LG: I'm ready, Mommy.
Me: Ready for what?
LG: Ready to use the toilet.
Me: Oh.

I hastily assembled a Potty Kit, which includes 12 pairs of big boy undies, a cushy tushy toilet seat adapter, lots of candy, several new Tonka Joe books, a couple of kids videos, and lots and lots of juice. And we're off!

posted by Marjorie
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Friday, August 08, 2003

Severe Blog Block ... sorry ... exhausted ... all attempts at humor are humiliating ... anything written today will cause severe wincing tomorrow ... will update when caffeine levels reach Code Red ... but for now ...

sleeeeeeep, my pretty, sleeeeeeeeeeeep ...

posted by Marjorie
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Wednesday, August 06, 2003



It's Mini-Me!!!

I'm having way too much fun with the Mini-Mizer. Create yourself in Legos! MomBrain a la Lego is holding the Universal Translator thingy and wearing a witch hat, because it is after all PMS week. And check out the fishnets, baybee!

And the Winner Is ...

The full text of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for bad writing is now available.

A Short Dorkumentary

Remember those dorky days of high school when you felt so thoroughly stupid that you wanted to be invisible? It's easy to relive those days. One way is to cut your own bangs. My friend Bonnie did this a while ago and came to work looking like Ramona Quimby, Age 8. The difference between me and Bonnie, though, is that Bonnie is so chic and stylin' that everyone assumed it was the latest trend from the European Vogue. I, on the other hand, just looked like I'd been running with scissors.

Another path to instant dorkiness is to meet a long-lost friend while you are wearing jeans that are too short. In fact, I did exactly that today. Ah, some of you might say, the trendiest among us are rolling our pant legs up! Think capris! Beach pants! The sexy turn of a bare ankle! But no, my friends, it was far worse than that. I was wearing too-short bootcut jeans, with black socks and loafers. The bells on my bell-bottoms stopped just below my calves and left my poor black ankles trembling in the sunshine. This is not a good look for me. These jeans are going straight to my sister, who is 3 inches shorter than me and has a teenage daughter to act as a fashion filter.

Correction

The Big Guy, while highly amused by my characterization of him as Mr. Rational Scientist Man, has asked me to inform my International Readership that he does indeed have a Right Brain. And it's true. Like the 17-year cicada, the Big Guy's right brain occasionally emerges after a long dormancy, squinting in the sunshine and buzzing with excitement. Italo Calvino! Fine wines! Paint chips! Ben Webster! Linen shirts! That he irons himself! Sigh. Alright, I'll be fair. We met many moons ago working on a newspaper together. He was all about Elizabethan music and Russian history. I was all about Russian music and Elizabethan history. And we both loved writing and literature. We were two puzzle pieces that fit, and we've been marching in step together ever since. Our paths diverged -- I immersed myself in the creative side of language. And he pursued the physiological processes that accompany the spoken and written word. But we still read the same books and play word games and adore popcorn movies. He does indeed have a Right Brain -- but he also has an extremely large Left Brain that keeps MomBrain endlessly amused.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

The blank spot below is brought to you by PMS.



















posted by Marjorie
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Monday, August 04, 2003

In Memoriam

I have recently purchased a disturbing number of clothes that remind me of my grandmother. A cotton shirt with pink and orange flowers all over it. Another cotton shirt with blue flowers all over it. Two cotton nightgowns covered with pink flowers. Now, lest you think my grandmother was related to Norman Rockwell, let me disillusion you. She physically and terribly abused her two daughters. Tried to have me arrested in 8th grade for not promptly returning something I had borrowed. Burned my sister's arm with a hot poker to punish her for hitting me. Died with five earrings in each ear. Always, always wore a cotton housedress with knee socks, and according to my mother never wore underwear. (We children were not able to verify this despite repeated attempts.) Wore her hair cut like a boy's. Was married three times and entangled a fourth. Once chased a burglar up the street waving a kitchen knife. Like many folks raised during the Depression, she was a hoarder. She was bitter, angry, spiteful, and sometimes downright mean. But I miss her.

She was not able to love people very well. But she loved animals and gardens, and lived for soap operas. Her skin was lovely and soft. She cooked on an oil stove for decades. (My kingdom for oil stove toast!!!) She made fantastic American Chopsuey. Had a funny laugh. Drove a turquoise and white Mercury Comet with push button gears. Once loaned me $500 so I could graduate from college. And always just happened to show up at dinnertime. I think she did the best she could.

Random Notes

I do not own a dog. I do not walk a dog. I do not entertain dogs in any way. So why am I cleaning up major dog poop in my back yard, right under the apple tree where I like to exercise? MomBrain does not appreciate this.

OdiousWoman was on to something with her AssSac™. But I'm afraid she has some competition in the Biniki, also known as the Butt Bra. Oh my.

Mercury must be in retrograde. Either that or the Old Lady Ghost is having some giggles. In the past two weeks, the following items in my house have broken: the car (dead battery), the TV (stuck on "video"), the DVD player (stuck on "Stop"), my scanner (won't turn on), my favorite walkman (won't turn off), and the washing machine (stuck in mid-cycle). I'm ready to torch the place.

posted by Marjorie
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Sunday, August 03, 2003

This weekend's ha-ha, but this time it was a family conversation.

LG: I went swimming and I went kerplunk!
Me: I know! I saw! Your friend Carrie says "perklunk" -- isn't that funny?
(General laughter all around.)
BG: Actually, that's onomatopoeic. It also makes sense phonologically and semantically -- the per could be construed to mean one, and ...
LG: You said poo punk!!!

Evidently the Little Guy has found the Universal Translator thingy I was looking for.

posted by Marjorie
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Friday, August 01, 2003

Signs of Creative Genius

Here is what's on my desk right now (like you care, but hey, I'm grasping at straws here):

    A large plastic cup full of colored pencils -- good for editing, marking genealogy records, and scratching the inside of my ear.

    A small rosewood statue of a chubby Buddha, given to me by my friend Kathie.

    A gold contact lens case with musical notation on the top, which has been converted to a paperclip holder. A Christmas gift from my Dad four years ago -- he still thinks I don't like it but in fact it's one of my favorite things.

    A fuzzy stuffed mouse, again a gift from my friend Kathie to remind me that large tasks are best attacked by nibbling at them in small bites. The mouse itself has been nibbled by the Little Guy, which only reinforces the sentiment.

    A gardenia and tuberose scented candle. I light it to keep my bottom in the chair and my mind focused on writing.

    A rock I picked up from the beach the day I gave the Mama Purse the heave ho.

    A small table lamp with a shade covered in old typewriter letters.

    Pictures of the Guys.

    A piece of Murano glass, given to me by my Dad and his wicked cool wife.

    A calculator and an empty picture frame from the Oprah goody bag.

    A crystal ball (the better to see you with, my dear).

    Review copies of books I consulted for my last magazine article. I'm just waiting for someone to have a baby so I can give 'em away.

    Piles and piles of genealogy papers.

    Eyedrops -- crucial.

    A Seattle Mariners mousepad.


posted by Marjorie
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Beauty Secrets 101

It is not a good hair day. It is not a bad hair day. It is an Albert Einstein Hair Day. That is because the Big Guy did the grocery shopping this week. I put shampoo on the list -- no brand, no type, just plain old shampoo. I'm not picky! But in the shower this morning that dang shampoo wouldn't lather. So I used more, with no lather, and more, but still no lather. Geez, my hair must be really greasy. A quarter of a bottle later, still no lather. Finally I looked closely at the bottle and ... the Big Guy had bought conditioner. WAH! The only shampoo within reach was the Little Guy's baby shampoo, which required many dollops to wash the oil slick that was now my head. So my hair has completely freaked out due to the backwards process of too-much strong conditioner followed by too-much weak shampoo. It is not a pretty sight ... but I do look wicked smaht.

posted by Marjorie
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