Resolved

The Imp of the Broken (bent, twisted) Resolution is after me. After an evening in which I caved to the Two Boyz' request for Mickey D's (oh no, they do NOT have salad at MY Mickey D's, I WAS FORCED into the McRib and the LARGE fries..You ever notice how most big lies are full of parentheses, CAPITAL LETTERS and ellipseseses?) anyway, after that particular evening, on a very icky rainy lunch hour, I was on my way back to work, with my destined grilled chicken and apple salad, which I had to tell at least three people, at least three times each, that I did NOT want dressing with, thank you very much. It got to where if there was one more person to come to the window to gawk at the very strange dressingless salad eater, I was going to charge them a fee.

So there I am, quietly, innocently in my car, looking for my deposit slip to go to the bank. And there, obviously placed by The Imp, was The Missing Bag of Candy Cane Hershey's Kisses. The very same bag, had it been found two or three weeks ago, that would have made its way into someone else's Holiday Joy in the guise of Delicious Holiday chocolate and peppermint cookies. Only a few may have disappeared down my gullet, but most of them would have made it to the cookies and out of my life. But no. They successfully hid all through the Joyous Holiday Season, stolen by The Imp, only to be placed in my path when the most likely direction they may go now is directly into me. The last thing I want, based on resolutions made and goals formulated, and the long look I took at all angles of my body in the mirror over the holidays.

Augh. Go away, evil Candy Cane Kisses! Cease and desist, bad naughty imp! Oh, you know, maybe the imp is one of those Elf on a Shelf fellows gone round the bend and unemployed. Hmph. On a side note, now the deposit slip is missing, and I didn't get to the bank today. Another case of impish folly, it appears. Look, okay, Mr. Imp. I will trade you a perfectly good unopened unmolested bag of Candy Cane Kisses for the deposit slip. I'll even throw in a really good recipe for chocolate and peppermint cookies.  Just leave me and my tenuous-at-best resolutions to our own. SHOO.

Middle Aged Earworm Infestation

Earworm, earworm, measuring the mari... oh hi. Just singing to myself in my head. Oh yeah sure, like you don't. The last couple of days I have been, incessantly. Humming, singing, sometimes all of the above, sometimes with amazing video embellishments. 867-5309. Yup. Thanks to some Facebookian meme. Jenny, I got your number, I need to make you miiiine. 867-53oh niiiiieeyiyiiiiine. I'm in some Solid Gold dancer video, except there is no Deney Terrio. Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez are my backup dancers. Got your number on the wallll. Tommy Tutone is warbling along with my gyrations. What does that sucker look like? In my fantasmagoric Solid Gold Dancer video, he kind of shimmers between Tommy Tune and Billy Idol. Hey, this is my video, I get to have who I want. Incidentally, I am 26, 118 pounds and have the abs of Jillian Michaels, along with my currently swishy long blonde mane. Don't lose that number (wait, isn't that another whole post entirely? Oh yeah, it is my earworm video segment, I can mashup Steely Dan and Tommy Tutone if I want...) 867-5309, 867-5309... you know I even typed that in rhythm. I guess you kinda scared yourself, you turned and run... 867-5309 Don't change your number, Jenny Jenny you're the girl for me.... you don't know me but you make me so happy... Beyonce and J-Lo are starting to look kinda bored. Trust me girls, this is better than that stupid Ray Davies earworm from a while ago. That's one even Tommy Tune wouldn't touch with his ten-foot beanpole everlasting adorable gayness. 867-5309, Billy, Billy don't you lose my number, cuz you're not anywhere I can find you. Oh hell, who invited Phil Collins?

Holiday Plastic Blow Up Musings

Deliver us all from those holiday inflatables. You know the ones, giant snow globe Santa and Reindeer, 10-foot Snowman, complete First Christmas Melange, with optional goat and camel. They are contributing largely to my Seasonal Moody Displacement Disorder. Of course, the consumption of raw sugar cookie dough and too many sausage cheese balls may have something to do with it as well. But those THINGS! Every morning, as I cruise through giant snow globe land (formerly my neighborhood) they are strewn across otherwise pristine and orderly lawns in just a sad, sad crumpled up condition. I can hardly stand seeing Santa, his nose ground into the turf; the snowman, hat and pipe flat against his poor withered face, and the goat and the camel, wrinkly and depressed instead of plump and goaty and camelly. (Yeah, spell check, I made it up, so what? I structure and punctuate correctly, what more could you ask?) I am so grateful that our season of cheer is behind us. I look forward to misty mornings gazing down the rows of brown winter lawns, nary a mushed-up shriveled snow globe to be seen.

Never Assume

...anything. At all. Especially concerning the content of the almost-empty soft drink cans shoved wayyyy in the back under the bunk beds in a 13-year-old boy's bedroom. And no, they do not make Gatorade in that flavor. Thank goddess I hadn't had breakfast Saturday morning, is all I have to say.

The Decline of Civilization, or Cat Furniture.

(unglues herself from metal folding chair, addresses the meeting:) Hi, my name is Elle, and I... have cat furniture. Yes, Cat. Furniture. Not the usually well-thought-of look how cute, the cat is in the old shipping box or laundry basket, or the top of the bookshelf kind of cat furniture, no. As in spent money on this, as in spent time on Amazon looking, rating and comparing, as in spent a rainy afternoon applying an Allen wrench to pieces as illustrated in espanol to make. A cat condo, if you will. Three levels, all covered in beige fake fur, designed to just make the cat leap onto it and climb and play for hours. Oh, and when she tires of the play, she can rest in the cat cubby, with two differently-shaped windows from which she can gaze at the passing action. Not to mention the three sisal-covered posts for scratching. WTF is sisal anyway?! Lest we forget, the elastic-suspended puffy ball of fur for random batting. Yep. Fully equipped we are, for cat sitting, perching, leaping, claw sharpening, call all your kitty friends Petunia, let's raise the roof. Uh huh.

I bought it, I assembled it, I sweat and uttered adult words over it, I set it in a good traffic location, and placed the cat's favorite thing to chase and attempt to eat on the top of it. She walked over. She put a paw on the fake fur. She looked askance at the fur ball swingy thing. She pushed at the sisal post with her nose. She eyed her toy on the top. She turned, made her way to my corduroy sofa, curled up in her regular position and proceeded to ignore the thing. Pointedly, with a vengeance usually reserved for only The Boy. The favorite toy on the top Was Dead To Her. Cat amusement FAIL.

It has been several days now, and it seems she may, just might like the thing. Maybe a tiny bit. Last night, we had a moment with the toy, and she sat in the cat cubby for more than her usual six-point-two-five seconds. She still seems to be less than impressed with the beige fake fur, and the sisal posts are merely sniffed and never a claw to be sharpened therewith. She better get with it, or I have bought myself the cat
version of home exercise equipment. Except I don't see myself draping not-quite-ready-to-be-washed jeans on all that beige fake fur.

The Boy with the Giant Head

HE: When I get my hair cut, it makes my head look giant. ME: Really, Max, it is because you have a Giant. Head."
So he plops one hand on top of his head, the other under his chin and measures by sliding them out in front of him. Except when he does so, that bottom hand moves about six inches further down. If his head was actually this size, we'd be in the circus. I had not enough coffee in me to attempt that explanation. So. ME: I love you anyway, despite your giant head. Besides, your haircut is rad. On your giant head. HE: Moooommmm.
I live for these morning talks.

Porn for Women

Several years ago, a friend, knowing my sense of humor, gifted me with a book entitled “Porn for Women.” A darling compact pink volume, populated by very tame pictures (especially at this moment of swinging you know whats everywhere Magic Mikeness) of good looking men, posing with the vacuum cleaner or a sink full of clean dishes, with captions like, “Oh honey, let’s just go have a night on the town, your hair is so great today,” and “I just thought you’d like to relax and have a glass of wine, so I made dinner.” Because unlike guys, who are so boobs and crotch, we’re more, does this dress make me look fat? (The answer to which is ALWAYS a swift and emphatic NO! Trust me, it will not only affect our enjoyment of whatever event is impending, but yours as well. ESPECIALLY yours.)


So I have this book; it has been in my magazine basket, atop some beading magazines and ancient venerable Southern Livings for a while. The other day, the Boy brought it to me, in dead rat by the tail posture. Mom, he says, WHAT is THIS? Excuse ME, Carrie Nation, it is a joke. Porn?? You have PORN?? Calm down son, did you look inside?? Ewwwwww, no. Ethan saw it the other day and asked about it. (Note to self, call Ethan’s mom and let her know the deal…) Well, simmer down, dude, and look inside. He cracks the cover. Sees the first picture, turns a few pages, gets the joke. I can see the relief on his face. I tell him the secret -- this is what women really do want, you know. Future girlfriends, take note. He might not be a bad catch if some of that Porn for Women sinks in, and you might get a random foot massage or dinner made. His specialty is Chef Boyardee. I can only do what I can do.