The Clock in the Bathroom

Goes tick-tock, tick-tock. I thought for a while, I heard wish-wash, flip-flop, but I was wrong. I hear it clearly now, tick-tock, tick-tock: Delta Hotel's metronome. He's buying peace and easing me into his stupid decision by confusing me with hope. I'm onto him.

Watch and See

I bet everyone on Pres. Bush's Christmas Card distribution list gets a supreme court nomination gift certificate in their card this year. SHoot, I bet he's handing them out as tricks today.

What Will Happen Can't Be Stopped

I've tapped my best tapdance in my best butt shaping mini-skirt. I've pulled all my fancy rabbits out of all my finest hats. I've spread a banquet table of evidence for the jury to peruse, and I've made my final, breathtaking comments. The judge has retreated to his chambers, court is in recess, and I will wait will bated breath for Delta Hotel to make up his Ant Jemima flipping mind. But I'll wring his neck with his own damn bowstring if his scales don't tip in my favor. And then you'll get the whole story, hot off the press.

SPOOOOOOOOKY

Every now and then, my youngest daughter (who is still young enough to see such things) sees things the rest of us cannot. Often she will point and cry and ask "Mummy WAS DAT??!!". So, a couple of weeks ago, before Delta Hotel's never ending quandary reached the nailbiting crescendo it has, one such episode occured over dinnertime. The air in the dining room changed, became static, chilly, malevolent. Youngest started to cry, her lower lip trembling. "Mummy, I scared." Like a gazelle leaping from a cheetah's hungry jaws, she jumped from her highchair onto my lap. Escaping from some unseen predator. I, not overly fond of terrifying things as you know, wondered, what'd he say in Exorcist?

According to our youngest, whoever was in the room with us was sticking by Delta Hotel. Delta Hotel is the quintessential Marine. He just sat there with his big old blinky eyes, completely unfazed by the fact that Satan was leeching off his brain waves, chewing on some meatloaf and drinking his water while the rest of us squeezed ourselves onto my chair like a bunch of half-witted clowns.

Luckily, Delta Hotel's best friend is well-versed in the paranormal. As a matter of fact, he's licensed. Who you gonna call? I hadn't even hung up the phone with his wife before he was knocking on our front door, like Terminex but for ghosts. He came in, unpacked his case of equipment and before I could even say "Boo!" (sorry.) his meter was finding activity in the very corner youngest had indicated. He checked the house, endured the assault of Darling Dog who is madly in lust with him, (yes, it's gross but true) and left me with a voice-activated tape recorder to set up on the dining room table before going to sleep.

Sometime during the night, the kitchen timer went off. It wasn't saying it's usual bee-bee-bee-beep, however. It was shrieking maddeninly, loud enough to wake up both me and Delta Hotel.
"Go turn it off, Delta Hotel,"I whispered.
"You turn it off."
"I can't I'm too scared."
Snore

But eventually it ceased and I resumed sleep, and fell into the lull of my lacking attention span. I remembered the voice activated tape recorder midway through the before school dance of threats, coercion and Sponge Bob.
"Shit. This thing is taping me." Is, I believe, the last thing on the tape.

I rewound the tape and listened. There was my footsteps retreating to the bedroom, Darling Dog snuffling and jingling (no doubt fantasizing about our friend the Ghost Hunter) then a peculiar "Grawk" noise, followed by some banging and more jingling (a la Darling Dog) and at last the sounds of Delta Hotel getting ready for work. I stopped the tape there. (No need to relive my Mommy Dearest episode) What was lacking was the kitchen timer. That thing could have raised the dead, and may have, yet it wasn't on the tape.

But, my attention span prevailed and I forgot about the tape until last night. Our friend the Ghost Hunter came over to help Delta Hotel install our new wood stove and, as an after thought, I grabbed his tape recorder. I told him about the timer and the one strange noise that I hadn't explained, the "Grawk". He listened and knew right away what it was.
"Delta Hotel. Someone said, 'Delta Hotel'" .
Whew. Creepy. I have to admit, I was relieved the walking dead weren't saying "Didi." But what does it mean???

WHO IS THIS VILE SPECTRE AND WHY DOTH HE TORMENT US SO? DID HE PAINT OUR PUMPKIN?

There is a vigil

Tonight at 6:30 at the town green to honor the fallen troops and their families. More info here.

It's a pity party

And you're all invited.

Really, it's too beautiful a day for me to feel so very sorry for myself. Also, I'm wasting a perfectly good hormone balance which doesn't happen often. I could be in a REALLY good mood today, if only I wasn't so miserable.

I try, I really do, to put things in perspective. At least we aren't under water or fire or communist rule (yet). I still don't have bone marrow cancer. I know that a lot of people have it a lot worse than I do. But you know what? Perspective is gloomy. I have enough problems of my own without being depressed about everyone else's as well. Gloomy. Who thought of that word?

I think I'll just hang out here for a little while until I feel better. Of course, there's always here as well.

Wouldn't be Rich for all the Money in the World

Someone very near and dear to my heart is involved in something so controversial that I can't even risk you guessing at the pseudonym I make up. Suffice it to say that s/he runs in very elite circles. I mean, we're talking second home on the Riviera type of elite. "Thanks for the lovely birthday gift, Senator," type of elite. But the cost is time. There is an epidemic of parental neglect rampant in the hallowed halls of many coveted prep schools.

My middle daughter might be the most sensitive soul on the planet earth. Tonight she told me, sobbing, that she felt lonely. She cried in turn for each friend, each family member, even a neighbors dog who passed away two years ago. She cried for all the time that's passed in which she hasn't played. SHe cried for all the little issues that break the heart of a soulful five year old, and I listened the whole time. WHen she was done, I wiped her eyes and held her in her little bed and told her about all the wonderful things she can be happy about. I didn't wish for more money or a private jet or "connections". I looked into her round, trusting eyes and I thanked God that when she needs me, I am there. I am there. Such a priceless commodity, time, and I wouldn't trade it for all the money in the world.

Wouldn't be Rich for all the Money in the World

Poor Delta Hotel.

He's really caught between a rock and a hard place. Only, the rock is really a great thing and the hard place is really a sucky thing. Only he can't see that. People who are stuck there, wedged between two gargantuan things, rarely can. And all the repetitious coaxing in the world can't get them out of it. Somethimes you gotta just reach down, grab hold, pull on your big girl panties and make a decision. Decisions move mountains. Poor Delta Hotel. He's a Libra. His mountains weigh heavier.

On a Previous Entry

My make believe German from a previous post has been elliciting some response. I grew up in a German-speaking household and can understand it if it's spoken reeeeeaaaaaaaaal slow, can read a bit but speak very little. However, I'll tell you why you need to love the German language. Next time you need to motivate peoples, particulary small peoples, dogs, terrorists or drivers who feel as though they need to drive eighty miles an hour to get in front of you at the red light by Wal-Greens, holler the following: "Das ist der bahtzimmer und ich murkte ein banana und ein glas weis wein bitte!" I'm telling you, you'll get results. German is a results-motivating language. I'm sure you'll find plenty of uses for that statement. Can you imagine the look on Gee Dubya's face when hearing that line? Wait, scratch that, he's waged war for less. You can yell it at the banker, the police officer, the potential thug, whomever you want. Just don't tell them it means you're in the bathroom and you want a banana and a glass of white wine, please. (I didn't say I was FLUENT for chrissakes.)

Beyond These Borders There Be Dragons

Delta Hotel is off for the weekend, and whenever he's gone I turn into this great, bloated seed-crystal carcass attracting all the scary things that you can only see when you look over your shoulder in the mirror. That's why, if you drive by my house tonight or even tommorow, you will find it ablaze in an electric-company orgasm. I'm not afraid of the dark, just the dead little boys with long fingers and black eyes that lurk in it. It doesn't help matters any that Delta Hotel, in a fit of eccentricity, installed massive porn-star mirrored closet doors, gateways to the underworld, right next to the bed. Boy am I glad we have Darling Dog. As long as the ironing board, vacuum and rake don't attack, he'll protect us.

Oh Happy Day

Lost is on.

If I ever meet the writers of this show I'm gonna buy them all an ice cream.

Darling Dog is either is suffering from an acute case of split personality disorder, or he has spent his spare time learning how to channel Cujo. Or maybe he's channeling Sybil. At any rate, I needed to bring in the heavy gunner today, my German mother who could make Sasquatch heel and sit for ten minutes. My mother worked on Darling Dog and his irrational fear of rakes, vacuums and ironing boards , and she also worked on me. After outfitting me in jodphurs, leathers and a riding crop, she showed me how to command obedience from that wicked creature. So, if you meet me on the street and I greet you with something like "Gerflugershteiten maksetehd die", please, understand, I am simply method acting.

My Dear Friend eLeN

left this comment, so profound and also a challenge. Let's all find the gift in this day.

"My father taught me many things in this life, but one of the most n.b. is to find the gift each day and savour it. Some days it will be that great blue heron that flies over head for a split second or hearing your youngest child from the back seat say "Mommy when will my frunkle go away?" The trick is to catch the moment and hold on to it for as long as you can. The more you can do this the less time between the gifts. " ~ElEn

Dog Did a Bad, Bad Thing

The only good things about yesterday were that it ended and I didn't have bone marrow cancer. One redeeming quality about life is that no matter how many times you get sent to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200, the sun always rises on a new day. And from time to time, you'll find a Get Out of Jail free card in your pocket.

Coyote Junction

Ever have so much to say that you can't possible get it all out at once?

Yesterday was so jam-packed with excitement that I don't even know where to begin. Before I'd even blinked the sleep from my eyes, I received an email from my Soul-Sister beseeching me to concoct a dissertation on my stance on marijuana legalization, which, due to my lack of coffee, monthly hormonal imbalance and it's side effect - a generalized irritation with Delta Hotel - evolved into a torential rant against tyrrany, taxes, moral authority, the current administration and the Parliament. Poor frightened Soul Sister has not answered my email yet.

Then, while attempting to drop the Bird off at CCD and creep back out before anyone noticed me and thought about asking why I have not attended Mass in the last year, I had a complete religious epiphany only to return home and discover that a renegade gang of coyotes had besieged my neighborhood, eating pets and picking on old people. Then, I realized that my dishwasher is not broken after all, just unable to digest the non-dishwasher soap I was feeding it. After that we found EmEl (who had knee surgery last week) hopping around like Tripod, the three legged dog, cooking pork and chicken on the grill and cutting up pecan pies, caught in a great frenzy of cooking and Gospel music. We came home, fell victim to an evil manipulative plot, then went over the Metalica's house for dinner which is always a great way to wind down a day, even when Delta Hotel locks their children in a dark room and makes them cry.

FYI

In case you're wondering why it's stopped raining, it's because I am retaining so much water that I have literally sucked all the moisture out of the atmosphere. People with sump pumps, you're welcome. No gifts are neccessary, but if you insist I am partial to dark chocolate and books. Now, if someone would kindly get me a salt lick I will be on my way.

Hardly a Minute to Spare

Because Murphy, after having read my previous blog entry, has flexed his mischevious muscles upon my unsuspecting dishwasher. That's right, folks, I'ma havin' ta scrub them there dishes by hand. I'm not sure why that makes me speak like a West Virginian (not that that's a bad thing) but it does. And Sears is all booked up for weeks and weeks and weeks, swimming in broken dishwasher repair slips, and they don't even care that my poor hands are going to crack and bleed from all the work I have to do now. As a matter of fact, they relish the thought of it. They won't even write my work order until one of my knuckles splits open. Have they no compassion? Are they not human? Just what order of monster answers the phone's over there?

Also, I am not in the proper mindset for writing since I am in the middle of a hormonal nuclear winter. I should be fine in a few days.

Now Don't Get Me Wrong,

I couldn't love my washing machine or dishwasher more if I'd given birth to them. Last night while I was cleaning up, I thought about all my sisters who came before me, forced to name the days of the week according to the chores. (Monday's wash day, Tuesdays iron day etc...) These days, like strange domestic time-travellers, we can span an entire week's worth of chores in an afternoon. This is the age of streamlined convenience. There is a method or a gadget to reduce the time it takes to do just about everything. Our society rockets down the black-top, multi-tasking all the way because the quicker we get things done, the more time we have to do more things.

Have you ever been part of a swimming pool whirlpool? The longer you walk the easier it gets as centifugal force pulls you along, forcing you to participate even if you'd rather stop and play a game of Marco Polo. Water splashing up the lip of the pool, hands scraping on the concrete, eyes bulging with frenzied vortex creation.

Swimming pool whirlpool as a metaphor for life... Faster and faster round and round we go, never slowing down to ENJOY the life we are working so hard to create, never kicking up and floating on momentum, just continuing around faster still. Until something spins off under the water... heart attack, anxiety attack, vague feelings of unease, obesity, road rage...all baggage for the journey.

By we, I guess I really mean I. I can't speak for the rest of the world although I'd love to think that you all are just as mentally ill as I am. I try to make a meal in under thirty minutes. My family tries to eat it in under five. There's always something to do somewhere to go, and that's how I gained weight. Part of living in the now is doing less in more time. Preparing a meal that is healthy, nutritious and good, looking forward to sitting down together and then savoring it rather than choking it down like a half-starved wolfhound.

Watching listening, touching, smelling, living our lives sensually rather than laser-focused. Taking the time to float and enjoy the momentum of life for a little while.

Grace

Tonight I was planning on writing about Yom Kippur and the issues I have reflected on. But then I received an email that made my fat ass, strange delusional fantasies about torturing the people I hold pit-bullish grudges against, and excessive use of the f-word seem, well, petty.

There's this woman in my writing group, Kay, and her husband has brain cancer. Tonight Kay emailed to tell us that her husband is declining exponetially and she won't be able to come back for a while. Now, Kay is this beacon of goodness. She's got what most of the world longs for, a deep, solid pocket of hope and faith. And when you are with her, that hope is contagious. She sees the possibility in everything. To know that tonight she is out there in this October gloom, suffering, it makes me cry.

Two years ago, almost three, another good friend lost her husband to cancer. A year before that, my soul-sister's toddler daughter died. It's such a cliche to say that life is fragile, precious, not to be taken for granted. It's so smug, so trite to say that. But tonight, I feel like there's only one thing for me to focus, reflect on, absorb and make part of my very essence. Live every moment, squeeze every single second of life because right now, everything is ok. Tommorrow that may not be. But right now, this one, single, okay moment is perfection. That is the state of grace.

God I Love Lost

I really do. I can't wait to find out what's up with that crazy island. I hope they don't pull some stupid X-Files shit where you don't ever find out what the hell is out there. It took me a lot of meditation to get over that let down, and sometimes I still relapse.

Also, there is an uncomfortable trend manifesting in my daily display of large motor skills. Two days ago, I was walking down the hall, happily wearing my purple plaid pajamas that OHM gave me, when the most inconceivable thing happened. Somehow, in blatant disregard of the laws of physics, my right foot became tangled in my left pant leg, I went airborn for half a second, then bellyflopped on the hardwood floor. Delta Hotel watched the whole thing from the comfort of the armchair in the living room. I was up, he saw me, then I was down in a house-quaking tumble of epic proportion. Then today I was bringing Darling Dog outside for his mid morning poo-poo when the combination of new driving moccasins, never ending wrath-of-God drizzle and slimy deck all conspired to whip my feet out from underneath me as if I were starring in an old silent film and had just stepped on an errant banana peel. Except I wasn't silent. I yelled the f-word loud enough for mothers in Tibet to cover the ears of their inncoent offspring. Darling Dog thought this was a gorgeous display of playfulness, worthy of his mounting, which is really just adding insult to injury.

What is the message I am supposed to be getting? Have I inadvertantly summoned the slapstick spirits of the Three Stooges? Do I have an inner ear imbalance? Do I need remedial walking lessons?

I am not so fond of Invasion, and it's on now, so I'm off to soak my sore ass in some Epsom Salts.

Correction and shout out

That was a hot Leuitenant Colonel, Delta Hotel reminded me. Far more embarrassing. And good morning P. Cakes! Holla!

OK, I'm a dork but

I can’t wait for the ball. This year, Delta Hotel got promoted so we get to sit at the grown-up table. Last year, and every ball before (including my own enlisted balls) has been spent at the kid table. That's not so bad when you're a kid and have yet to find a pucker across your youthful abdomen, never mind the rogue shar pei belly that the birthing of children heaps upon you thanklessly.

Last year, I was having a rather uninspiring conversation with this gorgeous young girlfriend of one of Delta Hotel's friends when we discovered that we were wearing the same pair of shoes. "When you're just starting out, it's hard to afford shoes like these," she said. "I'm sure you remember...not that you're old or anything," she gushed. So, I did what any self-respecting, youthfully challenged, utterly chagrined woman would do. I went back to the kid table and drank my old ass eighteen again. Mind you, drunk eighteen is only charming on an eighteen year old. By the time Delta Hotel dragged me, the last woman standing, out of that ball I had heckled the Sergeant Major, contributed to the underage drinking of a Japanese girl on a student visa, gushed the same three lines to the hot leutenant for fifteen minutes straight IN FRONT OF HIS WIFE, and would have flashed the DJ for a free copy of "Lady Killers", except for the fact that my bodice was all but polyurethened to my chest. (Not for lack of trying, I got the movie anyway. AND a cup.) Now that I think about it, I'm surprised Delta Hotel is bringing me back to the ball.

The point is, this year will be different. Must not be matronly old drunk cow this year. So, I've been following this diet. It's not the coolest diet out there. But I hadn't planned on telling anyone, just magically becoming young and hot again. But, I made the mistake of forgetting to put the book away. There it was on the kitchen table when CeBe W. came to pick up Jay. Before I could throw my body upon it, grenade style, CeBe W. had already placed a single index finger on the cover. One dark brow raised as my cool points floated out the window like steam from a fresh apple pie.

"What," she said, with cultured disdain, "Is this?"

And so now I admit it. I bare my soul before you all. My name is DiDi, and I am addicted to Denise Austin.

And so, thusly, the humiliation for the '05 ball season begins. Let the good times roll!

Whoops

Musta been too much chocolate cake. That would be ONE SCORE and fifteen years ago. One. Sorry Delta Hotel :)

What a Day!

Happy Thanksgiving Canada!

Happy Columbus Day...um...well...eh...not really I guess.

Happy BIRTHDAY DELTA HOTEL!!!!

Two score and fifteen years ago KayEs brought forth on this continent a new son, and boy am I glad she did.

READ BANNED BOOKS

I just stumbled across the American Library Association webpage, and I discovered that out of the top 100 banned books, 39 are personal favorites. I am not an advocate of banning books or any other moral decision the government wants to make for me. If I wanted to live with my parents for my entire life, I would have.

SO, from now on I am going to make it a point to read banned books and practive every single civil liberty I can. First I must re-read The Constitution. Hmm, come to think of it, I wonder if it's on the ALA list....
.
Top 100 banned books

The Fall is Rolling In

Yesterday's Thoughts:

Nature's tranquilizer: a rainy day. If I could take a peek in Mother Nature's dayplanner, I'd guess she chose today to roll out the scarlet and gold carpet of autumn. Delta Hotel woke up with a yen to pull out the fireplace, so I took the kids shopping at that great, golden, chicken ranch of commodities commonly referred to as "The Mall" (duh-duh-dum). I suffer from a deep seated loathing bordering on phobia of The Mall , but Delta Holtel says that he has sensitive skin. He says he can only use a "certain" kind of soap or he will become dry and itchy. Delta Hotel's magical eight dollar bar of soap can only be found deep in the lubricious heart of The Mall at a store that set me up for a twelve step program when I couldn't stop buying their freaking lotions many years ago. Strangely, Delta Hotel adores The Mall, but as it is his birthday on Monday, I felt that sending him on this errand would be a bit crass.
One of the reasons I avoid The Mall is because I abandon self control at the door and assume this rabid hyde-like alter ego who believes herself to be very rich and very needy of all things she sees.
"Promise me you won't let me buy anything but soap," I begged my eight year old daughter. "Not a thing."
We made it to theSoap Store fine, but then I realized that in the year I had avoided it, the store had grown exponetially and in it's growth someone had labeled every single bottle of lotion with my name. The salesgirl was very happy to show me all the changes and when my poor little daughter reminded me that I mustn't overspend, I shut her up with some American Girl bath products. All anyone has to do to get me to buy something is promise it will make me thin, beautiful or happy, and that devil af a salesgirl new it. Just as the rabid drool around my mouth began to dry and I thought I might make it to the checkout counter with a spoonful of dignity intact, that wretched girl hit me with a sucker punch - the sales.

Come Now....

I came of age during the lifespan of Party of Five, so I'm not entirely convined I can take Jennifer Love Hewitt seriously, but I'm willing to try for The Ghost Whisperer.

During commercials, I want to write about several issues that I find...disturbing.

First of all, I am a bit horrified thinking about this whole quarantine situation. Delta Hotel and I were driving down the street today after a delicious lunch at Eo Noodle when he triggered one of my spontanious soapbox monologues. He said, "I think the quarantine is a good idea." Or something equally as me-irritating, it doesn't really matter. Delta Hotel likes to make believe that he is hard of hearing when I unleash my inner orater so he patiently stared out the window as I explained my fears. What if Beepee, our across the street neighbor, contracted The Bird Flu and we had her over to dinner so we were exposed to it and then the Federalized National Guard came in like storm troopers and took us all to the quarantine camp. What if Delta Hotel was quarantined with all the other Delta Hotels, I was quarantined with all the other women and the kids were taken away to pediatric quarantine? I know I learned something about similar scenarios in history class. Something smacks of internment and....even worse. Now, after reading all that, do you realize that I have succumbed to the clever diversionary tactic of fear??? (See Just a Harmless Observation Part Deux) Curses!

Another thing that's got me kind of freaked out is the fact that legislators in Indiana are attempting to pass a law that puts limitations on who can and can not become a parent. It's called the Unauthorized Reproduction Bill.

The third item on my list is Florida's new Stand Your Ground Bill. Might not want to take the kids to Disney this year, Floridians are armed. Maybe I should ask them to send me Delta Hotel's birthday present.

And lastly, why do I always attempt to lose weight in the fall? When will I learn that in a previous lifetime I was a bear and that all my cells are genetically programmed to enter hyperphasia before winter hits?

So, The Ghost Whisperer was not exactly what I expected. I thought it would be spooky, but it's melodramatic. I like JLH more than I expected to, and I actually got all choked up on the last scene. Mainly because the girl "going into the light" looks a lot like my oldest daughter.

Rating: Guilty Pleasure.

Just a Harmless Observation Part Deux

Have you ever noticed that whenever certain people in high ranking postitions (with the initials Gee Dubya perhaps) make decisions that seem to have very little to no basis in reality, decisions that might make us question just what monkey is pulling the strings, all of a sudden a great national disaster threatens or befalls us?

For instance: "Don't question my decision for Sandra Day O'Conner's replacement. Look over there! A deadly bird flu!"

On to a more frivoulous note: Black tie season nearly upon us. Every year at this time I try to starve myself down a size. So, I have roughly five weeks until our first event of the year. I'll be trying a combination Dr. Weil/French Woman Don't Get Fat with a sprinkling of Denise Austin. I'll talk more about my moral issues regarding the juxtaposition of the First World diet industry against the Third World starvation pandemic another time.

Just a Harmless Observation

First a smidgen of backstory. Delta Hotel is a 12 year veteran of the USMC. He has weathered 2 wars. He was born, if you can believe it, in the hills of the Carolinas with a six shooter in his mouth, and could hunt, kill, dress and cook a deer, faster than I can get through Stop-N-Shop, before he was nine.

Delta Hotel turns three-fiver on Monday. Without revealing the details of his gift, I will tell you it involves a hunting license. First thing this morning I drove myself down to the town hall, expecting to pay somewhere around fifty dollars plus a thirty dollar processing fee and a fifteen dollar application fee and maybe a small fee for incidentals like the clerk's Snickers bar and second cup of coffee. Well, let me tell you, one cannot just walk in off the street and buy oneself a license to hunt in the Commonwealth of Massachsetts. First, one must circle the town hall sixty-five times before finding a parking space because anyone who works for the town, ever has, or is planning to in the future has a reserved space. Second, they don't sell em there anymore. Now, like everything else, they sell them at WalMart. Last week WalMart had a pipe bomb in it, so it was with great trepidation that I ventured in and steeled myself past all the bushels of cheap products that I don't really need but, being a slave to marketing, am compelled to buy.

Anyway, while I waited in line at the sporting goods counter, I mind mapped ways to get out of the store lest another pipe bomb turn up, in oh let's say housewares.

At last it was my turn. "I'd like one hunting license please," I asked cheerfully.
"For yourself?" asked the clerk.
"No, for my Delta Hotel."
He shook his head, no. Aha. WalMart is only allowed to sell licenses to the person doing the hunting, and only then if the hunter can prove that he or she does not have a criminal record, is a resident of the state, has passed a Massachusetts firearms handling and safety university, a polygraph test, Rorschach test, IQ test, eye exam, complete physical including blood work and prostate screening/mamogram, have a job, pay child support, give to the church and floss. Mind you, this rigourous screening was set up by the same body of government that regularly arms Delta Hotel with a semi-automatic rifle and all the live rounds he can carry. For the record, my dinky little gift is not even on the same planet as a semi-automatic rifle.

Anyway, I just wanted to vent my frustration. I don't want to sacrifice the brain power on revisiting the viability of gun laws. I know, in theory there's great intentions behind them. But here's the catch 22: where laws are rigid, lawlessness adapts. Did the nut job who planted the (thankfully non-functioning) pipe bomb take the time to apply for a license?

Am I missing something?

Pop Quiz

May it be delightful in my house;From my head may it be delightful;To my feet may it be delightful;Where I lie may it be delightful;All above me may it be delightful;All around me may it be delightful.--Navajo Chant

Maybe life thinks I have the attention span of a flea. It seems like whenever I declare something, in this instance "I am going to live in the present moment", life throws me a pop quiz, dredging up the past and shaking the cage of my future plans. Ah well. Here is a link to an email I recieved this morning, good timing I must say.

Happy Rosh Hashannah

Disclaimer: I am NOT a theologian. After recently suffering a bout of EEE/West Nile/Malaria Menengitis, I'm not even sure if I am still a functioning member of society. I do not intend to make light of anyone's faith, merely to expand and augment my own as I shake off the burden of conformity. And document that journey for posterity. SO if you are easily offended by the topic of religion, do not read any further. Instead, go here and look at my favorite actor.

Since it's a well known fact that everyone's Jewish on Rosh Hashannah, I decided I'd ask my dear friend ElEn (Who, incidentally, is Jewish on the other 364 days of the year as well) exactly what it is she does on this most holy of days. ElEn did a breathtaking job educating me on the meaning and rituals of Rosh Hashannah. While I consider myself well-armed to face the sundown, bear in mind that I am a Catholic, and, by Vatican Standards, not an examplary one at that. For an honest to God (literally) tutorial on Rosh Hashannah, go here.

Cliff Notes - Rosh Hashanna is the Jewish New Year, the opening ceremony for the Ten Days of Awe during which time God reviews our behavior over the last year, makes notes in our files, then seals the books on Yom Kippur. The Ten Days of Awe are meant to be spent in introspection, scrutinizing our own actions over the past year, righting wrongs, doing charitable things and making plans to improve in the year to come. Basically, tax time for your soul. We Catholics have a theoretically similar period of repentance known as Lent. Coincidence?

Anyway, Rosh Hashannah happens to coincide neatly with my birthday, and I'm all for self-improvement so I think I'll have a go at it. Delta Hotel (phonetics because I am no longer allowed to refer to this person by name, but I'll give you a hint - he shares my bed) thinks that this is one of my more ridiculous ideas, religion is not a lunch buffet. I say, it's my soul, I'll do what I want with it, thank you very much. I'll let you know how it goes.

Did YOU paint my pumpkin??

It's the Great PAINTED Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Sometime late, late last night, somebody crept up to my front door, stole my pumpkin and painted all black with only the stenciled letters, "BOO" remaining. Did YOU paint my pumpkin? If so, I only have one word for you. THANKS, I love it!

Genesis of the Black Scarf Society

Already my second post (sigh) how time flies. Yesterday was my birthday. My dear friend, EmEl, said that for a period of thirty days around our birthdays, we are in a heightened state of awareness. The sun settles in the same coordinates, visitors from the "other side" have an easier time communicating with us, psychic ability is heightened. It's funny how as a kid you think that one day, as an adult, not only will you know what to do next, but you'll have the money, power and wisdom to do it. Then you turn twenty-nine, with four kids a dog and a mortgage who depend on your critical thinking skills,and in your state of heightened psychic awareness, realize that someone could hit the delete key on the last ten years and you wouldn't have much to show for it in the way of knowing what the hell is going on. You can cook a turkey, balance a checkbook and get the yellow armpit stains from your husband's wife beater undershirts, but you rely on a heightened state of psychic ability for a thirty day period to clarify whether or not the grand scheme of things is on track.

My goals, as I've said, are simple. I want to be published before I turn thirty. Non-negotiable. But in light of the fact that life keeps on trucking whether you "get it" or not, I want to wring the last little drop of experience out of every moment of my life, hence the name of this blog. When my daughter hugs me, I want to feel it to my marrow. When the air outside carries chilly wisps of woodsmoke, I want to smell it with every neuron in my olifactory region (or whatever the hell is in there) You get the point, though I could go on and on. This year, I want to LIVE life NOW without limitations

And that's what the tiny pink skull on the black scarf mean to me.

My inaugeral Post. Today is my New Year, my birthday. The last year before I hit the landmark 3 oh. I have two goals for this year, live succulently and publish something.