PhilOsophy: Genius Ideas

Back after a sold-out run on the Vegas strip, it's PhilOsophy from Phil! Once again, I hand the mic over to Phil Porter, guest blogger and stand-up comedian extraordinaire / husband / father / great-in-the-sack.

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The other day, we watched a show on CMT called "Mobile Home Disaster." While this sounds like a headline from a Kansas newspaper during tornado season, it's actually a program along the lines of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition". Except it's about people who live in crappy trailers. Because it's hosted by comedian John Caparulo, Sarah suggested that I should come up with a show that I could host and become a star on one of the many cable outlets that are watched by up to 50 people at a time. So here are some possibilities:



"Extreme Makeover: Screw Up Your House Edition" - Hilarity ensues when I come to your perfectly fine house and try to do a simple project, which goes horribly wrong some time after the first commercial break. If your toilet doesn't overflow, I'm not doing my job!


"Crock-Pot Cookin'" - Watch as I cut up ingredients, throw them in the Crock-Pot, and wait for the magic to happen! This show will last three to four hours on High or six to eight hours on Low.


"Ninja Worrier" - See me gnaw at my fingernails and furrow my brow with worry as Amos attempts to tackle the obstacle course presented by our living room and the even more dangerous challenges to be found in my basement "office." Will the sun ever shine on you, Ninja Worrier? (Subtitled)


"Style My Subaru" - Based on the hits "Pimp My Ride" and "Trick My Truck", this series will show me doing things with our car. I love on "Pimp My Ride" when they put a bowling alley or national park in somebody's car! For the first episode, I'll haul out the pile of papers and empty water bottles that have accumulated during our last few road trips. Wow!



With any luck, one of these shows will be coming to a basic cable channel near you soon. In the meantime, if you want to see me on TV, I'm currently on a few episodes of "Cool Tools" on the DIY Network. Look for me demonstrating a wind-up flashlight on the Power Play episode or on Innovators talking about the Gator Grip socket.

Good times!

Days of our lives

How has your holiday been? Ours has been laid back and such. I haven't felt all that peachy, so we've taken to keeping our persons relaxed and groovy for a few days.

I missed out on a fantastic party last night, I am guessing. My fabulous new bloggie friends had a party, and I was not well. Boo. Neighbors down the block had a little festivus brewing as well. We stopped in for a few minutes, but then the fellows started up a game of drunken Stump. My ill feelings and want of keeping my limbs were the deciding factors in our departure.

Stump is apparently a game of lumberjack skill and daring. Each person puts a nail partially into a stump. You toss a hammer up into the air, catch it, and then whack at an opponent's nail in one thwack. The person with the tallest nail (and presumably all of their digits or cranial parts) is the winner. Egad.

Today we met up with a comedian baby stroller posse. Our friends Eddie Gosling and Megan Mooney were in town for Megan's headlining debut at Comedy Works. We laughed and marveled at their little boy running around the playground. Wasn't it just yesterday that we were all bowling and childless? Crazy. Our buddy Josh Blue's wife Yuko brought their 10 week old munchkin as well. I guess Amos has joined a legion of kids who are now the funniest children in Denver - or at least, must live up to that reputation. Poor Amos.

Tomorrow, we will take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the annual Comedy Works picnic. It is always entertaining and full of mirth. I traditionally force random comedians to tell me a story, and whoever tells the best one gets an imaginary prize. Perhaps this year I will give them bratwurst. Tomorrow is also the debut of Amos at the picnic, since I was about the size of a whale at 37 weeks or so pregnant this time last year. Should I dress him in a frilly petticoat and tiara?

Hope your weekend has been a blast.

Randomology

Today feels like one of those days. I slept late because the bedroom was so cool and the bed called my name. Yum. Give me not food. Give me bed.

I am feeling random, so I give you a mixology of things asunder. Here are the items and units floating around in my noggin.

• Either we need new clothes, or I need to step in as Phil's tailor. Almost every one of his comfy pants or shorts has a hole in the crotch. I'm trying to not guess why these crotch holes exist and how they have become so exacerbated.
  
  

• I've found people on Myspace and Facebook. Every once in awhile, I feel friendly enough to say, "Hey, I know you. Don't you want to remember that?" So, if you are one of the folks I found, I say the above with gusto. I've also been playing fairly childish games and brain ticklers on Facebook lately. Tickle my neurons, por favor.
  
  

• I'm pretty sure John McCain's wife is reptilian. Just sayin'.
  
  

• I've been working on Amos' 11 month letter. Let us dismiss the fact that he turned 11 months two days ago. Let's just try to ignore that I did not complete lettered months 9 or 10. Let us remind ourselves that hard times were afoot during those months. I think Amos will forgive me.
  
  

• More tornadoes touched down today in Weld County, site of yesterday's mayhem. Please keep those who live in the path of tornadoes in your heart.
  
  

• Nothing feels better than moving a leg or buttock over on the bed only to feel a cool spot on the sheets. Then, even better is to snuggle under the comforter. Ahh...
  
  

• My new babysitter is the front door. Amos goes there to stand up against the glass and stare out at the world. He grunts or says, "Huh! Huh!" at random things outside. I've discovered that buying toys is a waste of time. Every child needs a glass door they cannot open. I'm calling Fisher-Price to patent the Impenetrable Front Door of Doom toy.
  
  

• Speaking of, Amos is training to be a safe cracker. He has been attempting to open our old cabinets. If he can't succeed, he beats on the cabinet door like a frustrated monkey. It is not unlike Phil when a home project is not cooperating.
  
  

• I love kalamata olives. There is no finer olive.
  
  

• Lately, when people on bikes pass us on the bike/walk trail while we are pushing the stroller, they yell, "ON YOUR LEFT!" before they pass us. I've taken to yelling back, "ON YOUR RIGHT!" as if I will overcome them with my foot and stroller power. It passes the time.
  
  

• Speaking of, Phil has taken to passing wind or making the vapors while we walk. He quietly mutters, "On your left." We chuckle mightily. We use that phrase as part of our regular walk regime. It passes the time. It passes the vapors. It puts the lotion in the basket.
  
  

• *waits for various people to admonish me for mocking bike people, when I used to shake fists at pedestrians as I rode my bike. Point taken, but I don't care.*

I bid you good weekend. Have a great holiday!

Tornado mayhem

Very distracted today. Tornadoes have popped up all over the northern Front Range of Colorado. At least 8 tornadoes have touched down, some as big as a mile wide. The town of Windsor has been devastated.

I've been watching the news footage. The aerial views of devastated homes and damaged day care facilities brought tears to my eyes. Great. That's what I needed today.

Three people are dead so far, hundreds are reported to be in emergency rooms.


For updates on the action, tune in to 9 News or Channel 7.


It's really easy to forget that Denver is on the western edge of Tornado Alley. I was reminded of this fact when we were in Lamar. That Saturday while we waited around the town to avoid our bedbug-infested motel room, storms were raging around us and looked ominous. Just east of Lamar is the town of Holly, which was hit hard and practically flattened by a tornado.

I've been in scary tornado situations before. I was a kid then, so it seemed kind of fun and exciting. In fact, I remember that my family was trying to get me to turn the TV off so that we could flee to the town of Jefferson to hide in the basement of the courthouse building. Why wouldn't I budge from the TV? Because the "Gilligan's Island Reunion" special was on. How can I NOT watch that all-important special?!

Instead, now I understand the urgency of a parent trying to shove a kid into the safest spot possible. After watching the footage of a mother who picked up her kid after the tornado, I was a blubbery mess. The little girl had scrapes and bruises from how quickly they had to evacuate the daycare. They moved the kids to a bank across the street and locked them in the vault. That's pretty exciting for a kid.

Absolutely terrifying for a parent.

Now we're listening to interviews with people who have lost their homes, their pets, and their farms. Windsor is a fairly densely populated area. The Front Range encompasses the area from about Colorado Springs to Fort Collins, or the towns immediately east of the Rocky Mountains. The towns in the northern Front Range are shaken to the boots today.

Gotta watch more footage. Ugh. Keep Colorado in you thoughts today, folks. Dorothy and Toto need house insurance.

Bandages

Sorry for the lack of words lately. I've noticed a pattern emerging in me. It is not a fluke.

It's grief.

Last month, it hit me hard on the 21st. There was a gradual build up of sadness and dread, and it culminated in absolute grief, anger, and disappointment on the 21st. The 21st is not the day my dad died. No. It was the day I arrived at the hospital thinking that all was well, and that he was getting better. Instead, a few hours later, I was telling my father that he was dying.

So, while the 22nd is certainly a sad day for me, the 21st hits me harder. I was elected to be the one to tell my father that his lungs were giving out, his kidneys were failing, and that his body couldn't withstand the needed treatments to keep those organs functioning. I was elected to be the person to ask him if he wanted to live by machines or have us turn them off.

I want you to just think about that for a moment.

Imagine telling someone you love - your brother, your husband, your son, your father - that although he wants to live and the doctors have given it all that they've got, there is no other option but to have machines breathe and circulate/clean your blood for you, or death. On top of that, imagine saying that although the treatments are available, there is less than a 10% chance that his body could even manage such harsh treatments (dialysis and the ventilator). Imagine the look in that person's eyes when they understand what you are saying. Imagine taking on that burden for everyone else and wishing to God that you could be the one in that bed instead, knowing that your own body would be able to take the treatments and live on for your family.

It sucked. There is really no other way of saying it.

So, my father's death, his illness, the funeral, the hundreds of thousands of dollars of expenses... all of that is somehow easier to take than the hour that I spent with my mother and sister hovering over his bed and looking into those eyes.

I'm trying to get over it. It's very hard. I saw a lot in those eyes - the same ones that I have.

I'll be back to some sort of normal soon. Maybe. The upside is that next month on the 21st, Amos will be one year old. At least on that day, I can focus on the happiness of the moment and remember the hours I spent in labor.

Back to the grind, eh? I'm sure I'll cheer up once tomorrow has passed.

Buzz buzz buzz

Hey, kids. I just joined that thingy cre8Buzz. I have no idea why, but it seems nifty. I also have no clue what to do there.

So, I'm finding a few of my peeps on there, but if you'd like to guide me along or add me or, uh, buzz me? Huh? Wuh? Then go ahead.

A cup of tea, love?

As part of my new regime of lose the Fatty McFatterson and get in shape, I'm doing various things to improve this ol' lady. I've incorporated a few cups of green tea into my day. Did you know that green tea (the caffeinated version) can stimulate your metabolism from 22 to 77 percent? Not only is it a fabulous item for heart health, cancer fighting, etc., but it is now a nice accompaniment to diet efforts. Whodathunkit?

I'm a bit of a tea fiend. I'm like that weird cat lady who has a million cats in her house, except with tea. I have two drawers and a cabinet devoted to tea. Boxes of teas, bags of teas. Loose leaf. Course or finely ground. Black tea. Green tea. Red tea. Herb tea. You name it, I probably have it or just ran out of it. I have tea accoutrements ranging from a French press to make-it-yourself tea bags (fill 'em with loose tea) to tea cozies. Yes, I have silly, old lady tea cozies. Don't even get me started on how many tea pots I have.

I do love me some tea. Green tea, however, does not always like me.

Have you ever brewed green tea? It is the most fickle of hot beverages. With black tea, you can brew it for five minutes or longer, and you can still expect a somewhat decent cup of loveliness. Rooibos tea brews for even longer, so you can relax and read the paper while it leaks its red goodness into your cup.

With green tea, however, you have a two minute window. Less than two minutes, and it will probably taste weak. More than two minutes, and the first sip will make you suck your face inside of itself and come out the back of your head. Most of the time, you can't even fool yourself into thinking it is still salvageable with a bit of sugar. Nothing is going to unstick that bitter pucker face. I've had the bitter pucker face at least once each day as I neglect the timing of my green brew. Bleah!

However, in the past few days I have enjoyed a multitude of greenness. I had silver needle white tea, green tea paradise, jasmine tea, and genmai cha. I think I need to try gunpowder green tea, since I love the smokiness of lapsang souchong. Lapsang souchong is probably my favorite tea. I dig that smokiness, man. Here is what one person said about the gunpowder tea:

"Robust and refreshing, with sinister undertones. Great iced! The James Cagney of teas."

Holy cow! Now THAT is something I want to drink. Sinister in a cup? Heck yeah.

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In other news, thank you to all the folks who are writing or pondering about writing 100 words or less to send me to San Francisco. You kids rock it hard. I blush and giggle like a Japanese school girl at all of the love I am receiving. Sure, I know it's just because you want to see my knockers, but the feelings are still the same. So, keep it comin', my people. I ain't in San Francisco yet.

Also, for some miraculous reason, the lovely Schmutzie has once again included one of my blogs in this week's edition of Five Star Friday. Please sit back and enjoy the other gorgeous entries from so many fine writers. I have plenty to read today, that's for sure. That is, if I can read it in one sitting before my bladder explodes from too much tea.

So, I raise a cup of green mirth in your general direction, my friends. Here's to your health. Happy Friday.

*slurp*

Is anyone going to San Francisco?

Blogher, a really great network of bloggers that I happen to admire and belong to, has a contest going on RIGHT NOW to attend the BlogHer '08 conference in San Francisco.

My people, I really want to go. Also, my people? I ain't got the cash.

Here is where I ask you to actively participate in choosing my destiny. Are you ready?

Has there ever been a time when my blog touched you in some way (not necessarily in an "inappropriate manner")? Did I make you cry, make you laugh, create change in your daily life, or inspire you in some way? Do you think that I'm generally a peachy keen and ginchy kind of gal?

Well, if any of those things apply, please send your thoughts to BlogHer. Your letter of 100 words or less could win me a free trip to BlogHer '08! Wouldn't you like to read about my exploits in San Francisco? Wouldn't you?!

I would.

Maybe you are a longtime commenter and friend of mine. Maybe you generally lurk about this blog but love it to bits. Maybe you'd just like to see me get out of the house. I will love you until the end of time, promote the heck out of your blog, business, or whatever it is that you do, and totally show you my boobs.

100 or less words to see my boobs. That's the best boob-showing deal I've ever offered. If my boobs are not to your taste (although, I must warn you, I have a fabulous rack), I can offer trinkets or bobbles from my San Francisco trip. Think of them as San Francisco treats.


Pretty please?

Totally cosmic Lamar crows and ducks with pride (and moxie, see)

Now, without further ado, I give you pictures of the Lamar Days Parade. Imagine Amos waving a flag and a donut as the parade festivities went by. (He wasn't, but I'll let you devour that precious American moment with some Freedom Fries.)




"Children with Pride". Is that really all it takes to have float in a parade? Pride and a tiny mariachi outfit? As long as they were throwing out candy, I think it satisfied the needs of the Lamar parade watchers.

The biggest duck to ever have been stuffed at the local taxidermy office. Notice the bullet hole near the neck. Apparently, this duck was shot by Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.

First, I heard music. Some sort of bluesy, classic rock situation. Then, I saw this guy: the creepiest, giant crow man I've ever seen playing a guitar. It's a little difficult to see his huge, creepy beak, but believe me, it's there. Rock on, The Crow.

This fire truck amused me. Just look at it. It has the daintiest steering wheel, and the cutest little basket for holding the fire hose. I can just imagine men in giant firemen hats from the 1920s driving through town like bats out of hell and talking like they are in a James Cagney movie.

"Say, there, see! There's a fire up ahead, don't ya know? Steer this vehicle to the moon and back, brother! Whaddaya know, whaddaya know, see?"

Last, but certainly not least... drum roll, please...

THE COSMIC NERDS OF THE 21ST CENTURY!!

I only caught a picture of the nerds holding the Pierre Auger Cosmic Ray Observatory banner. Believe you me, there was a whole army of astrophysicists behind these people.







To the moon and back, cosmo-juggernauts! Whaddaya whaddaya know, see?!

They came from the bed

Luckily, the Porter Three survived their trip to Lamar. This, despite the attempts of motel owners to enlist creatures to suck blood out of our unsuspecting bodies.

What the heck am I talking about?

Bed bugs.

BED BUGS!!!

Yeah, you heard me. BED BUGS. Creepy, nasty, crawling creatures who live to suck the life out of weary travelers at strange and stinky motel rooms. The words of the racist/patriotic American-owned motel owners came back to haunt us when we pulled back the sheets to discover a most horrifying sight that would make even the most hardened "Dateline" investigator with a black light faint to his knees. That was the moment when I told Phil, "We are not staying here. I think that is a very obvious understatement."

Here are the things we discovered in just one hour's time at The Motel de Creepies:

• bed bugs
• possible blood on the mattress
• suspicious yellow stains on the walls, remarkably urine-like in color
  
• air conditioner held onto the wall with duct tape
• large mold colonies on the ice cube tray in the refrigerator
• room smelled like a trucker drank PineSol, then peed it onto the walls
  
• bed bugs lived there long enough to have an entire life cycle then DIE
  
• window barely opened and seemed to have never been opened, preventing us from escaping
  
• pretty sure something died there (other than bed bugs). Dead hooker? Are there hookers in Lamar?
  
• possible peephole above the bed - spying hole to see trucker-on-trucker love?
  
• same wallhanging as American-owned motel, which aptly depicts some sorts of ruins
• part of the roof threatened to pull off at any moment in the crazy winds outside

Needless to say, we got the hell out of Dodge, er, that motel.

For the next few hours, we drank coffee and scratched our skin to the state of bleeding at the local McDonald's. Even though we were not personally infested, just the thought of bed bugs made us want to take a cheese grater to our outsides.

As the winds of Lamar whipped around us and sent paper, plastic, hopes and dreams scattered to the far corners, we marveled at how no matter where we went, we could not escape the astrophysicists in that town. Again, they were EVERYWHERE. The only place they didn't show up was to the Elks Lodge that night for Phil's comedy show. I guess if Phil and Bryan Kellen had added more cosmic ray jokes to their sets, we would have been flooded with nerds.

So, I stated previously that you should never bring kids to a comedy show. I wrote that just hours before I broke my own rule. Let's change that rule to say:


Do not bring kids to a comedy show UNLESS a motel room you are staying in is infested with bed bugs and forces you to either spend the evening chatting up McDonald's employees or attend the Elks Lodge comedy night.


How's that for a caveat? Amos had a great time watching his Daddy perform. Every time I asked Amos, "Where's Dada?" he would point to the ceiling. I finally figured out that Amos was pointing at the speaker in the ceiling directly above our heads. He could hear his Daddy's voice booming over him, but we were in the back of the big hall and too far away to see Phil clearly. Amos, therefore, is a genius. Take heed, nerds.

We drove as fast as we could to get out of Lamar that night. Alas, I did not wake up Sunday morning in Lamar, as sad as I'm sure you know that made me. Instead, I spent Mother's Day in the comforts of my bug-free home, smelling freshly picked lilacs from my backyard obtained by my dear spouse. Phil was also kind enough to put together a gorgeous photo album of our lives with Amos since he was born. Phil, therefore, is a genius and deserves a good romp in the sack.


Next up: The Lamar Days Parade with pics! I will not disappoint my new cosmic friends from Brazil.

Little Britches pancakes taste good with cosmic PineSol

Saturday: Little Britches pancakes taste good with cosmic PineSol.


As it turns out, Lamar is one happening place this weekend. We are in the midst of Lamar Days, a weekend full of events, a parade, pancake breakfasts, community college graduation, ham and bean dinners, carnival rides, and best of all: the Little Britches Rodeo.

We awoke with a hopeful gleam in our eyes, for today held promise of the Lamar Days Parade! Phil tried to negotiate another night of lodging from the American-owned motel proprietors, as they had screwed up our reservation and given up our second night's room to another rodeo/pancake breakfast/carnival enthusiast. The owners tried to set us up in more expensive rooms, but we aren't supposed to pay for our lodging. That was part of the booking deal for coming to Lamar in the first place. Part of their pitch is that, again, they are American-owned and "the cleanest motel in town, not like those foreigners." Phil and I were both left with a bad taste in our mouths at this awkward display of racism and patriotism.

Phil took a shower and packed up our American-owned belongings while I scooted Amos in the stroller toward the Lamar Days Parade. I took a bunch of pics, but alas, my card reader is not here. You'll just have to play along and wait for visuals in tomorrow's installment. I'll save my assessment of small town America for that blog. Lucky you!

After the parade, we dined at the fabulous Daylight Donuts. As we fed Amos and stuffed our pieholes full of fried dough, I stopped to whisper to Phil, "Look! The nerds are here!"

Luckily, the night before I had read up on an incredible event going on in Lamar, aside from the rodeos and parades. A giant parade of a different kind has invaded Lamar. The astrophysicists are here! A giant nerdfest has descended upon this small town. The Pierre Auger Observatory is being built in southeastern Colorado to study cosmic rays. Scientists from around the world are here to stand up for nerd rights and to build fluorescence telescopes in an array covering 35 by 35 miles. They even marched in the parade. In between floats full of boy scouts and the rodeo queen on horseback, those nerds took to the street with their banner and their cosmic knowledge. It brought a tear to this former scientist's eye.


The thing is, everywhere we went there were nerds. Amongst the donut eaters: nerds. Complaining about their taco salads at Taco John's: nerds. Filling up yellow school buses: nerds. Everywhere! Imagine a town of cowboy hat-wearing farmers suddenly invaded by emaciated geeks with glasses, and you've got your visual. It's sort of like what happened in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but not.

Not to brag, but at Taco John's we were sitting next to a bona fide star of the Little Britches Rodeo. We know so because of his hat, his boots and spurs, and his jacket which proclaimed "National Little Britches." Indeed, his pants were quite small.

So, eventually we discovered that new lodgings had been provided for us at another motel. As we were warned previously, this motel is definitely foreign-owned. We chuckled that at least we wouldn't be forced to listen to racist rhetoric about how filthy "the foreigners" are.

Hmm. Well...

Let's just say that this room has seen better days and that despite their callous regard for folks from foreign shores, the American-owned motel definitely rates as being cleaner. In a scene from a bad sitcom, first I complained that we were told that the TV was broken. "No TV?!" I said to Phil. "You're not the one who must stay indoors tonight. What if the nerds attack?" So, Phil asked for another room. In a stunning move, the motel owner instead decided to give us her personal television.

So kind!, you say. Well... Installation of said television took half an hour, three people, and a great deal of restraint on my part not to laugh out loud at their bumbling. The owner mistook us for being a few of the cosmic nerds, so I guess we were getting the star treatment. Even the handyman said that he had never seen the owner give that much personal service to a room before. The room, however, smells like we are inside a bottle of PineSol. This might be because there is a distinct possibility that there is a dead hooker between the mattresses. But, it's a free room, we're near the Quizno's, and we have someone else's television. Not bad.

Now, I just need to make sure that the locks work. You can't be too careful with the possibility of a clash between astrophysicists and Little Britches. Is there a telescope for studying those kinds of particles?

Steers and basil. Start computin'.

I don't even know where to start. Let me wipe the laughter-filled tears from my eyes...


So, yes. We are in Lamar, Colorado. Home of the Savages and a gas-station-turned-used-car-dealership full of petrified wood. This has shaped up to be one of the most bizarre weekend adventures we've ever taken. Let's recap the last 24 hours.



Friday: Steers and basil. Start computin'.

We arrived last night at our home away from home, the Holiday Hotel, just before Phil's show. As Phil checked us in, I watched two cowboys practicing their roping skills on a metal "steer" in the parking lot. They saw me watching, then the emboldened buckaroos began to put on quite a show. It's not often you get the chance to see bumbling rodeo antics at a motel. A most excellent start to the trip so far.

Amos and I stayed at the motel while Phil and Bryan Kellen put on their best show for the lackluster crowd full of adults and kids. It may surprise you, but having kids at a comedy show is not really the best idea a parent has ever had. It completely throws off the show, and the comedians must clean up their acts even more than they thought they needed to do. And, there's nothing like a toddler wandering up on stage to make the night go better. So, heed this advice: don't ever bring kids to a comedy show.

Meanwhile, I attempted to find the Internet service as advertised on the motel's sign (alongside the phrase "American-owned"). I asked the front desk about the high-speed connection. Response: "Well, you turn yer computer thing on and start computin'. That's how it works."

Yes, indeed.

Dinner last night was at Thai Spicy Basil, the last bastion of hope for an alternative dining experience from fast food. Apparently, we arrived at closing time. The last patrons left, and we remained as a couple with a baby being stared at threateningly by the staff who wanted to leave. I have never eaten that fast in my life. The food was disappointing and not nearly full of spice or basil as promised. I guess I can't expect fine dishes in the middle of nowhere. We finished our meal when the music was turned off by one menacing staff member, as if we had walked into a saloon and the jukebox came to a screeching halt. Thank you for the welcome, Lamar.

We capped off our night just as anyone visiting a small town should. We toured the Super Wal-Mart. Later, as the intense winds of the plains whipped and tore at our bags full of bargains, we said goodnight under the harsh lights of our American-owned motel.


Next up, stay tuned for: Wave your flag. Little Britches pancakes taste good with cosmic PineSol.

Sing a plain(s) song

To the open prairie we go. I'd rather say that we're headed for the hills, but alas, we venture toward the empty vastness of the Colorado plains.

Why? Excellent question.

Phil has a two-nighter in Lamar, Colorado this weekend (he's a stand-up comedian, if you didn't know that already). That means we head straight for Kansas then divert south toward Oklahoma and Texas. There is no other reason to go there unless someone is paying you to do it, or you are getting the hell out of the state. Dollars lure us, so we are battening down the hatches and preparing the horses for a long, boring journey.

If Internet exists in southeastern Colorado, I'll give you a holler. I can't guarantee anything. It might still be 1945 there.

Did I mention that I'll wake up Mother's Day morning - my FIRST Mother's Day EVER - in Lamar, Colorado, home of the Savages? Yeah. I feel your jealousy.

On a side note, this here thingamajig called Imaginary Binky is featured as the first blog in today's installment of Five Star Friday. Woohoo! Five Star Friday bills itself as a collection of the best of what's being thought and said on the Web. Please visit the site and read the other incredible blogs that made the cut.

While I'm tootin' mah horn, this here blog contraption also made the cut for Alltop. Yay! Woo! Ding dang! Alltop is a collection of, as they say, all the top stories. I am in the Moms division, alongside some of the loveliest ladies you ever will cross your mouse wires with on Ye Olde Internet. I found some great blogs on the other topics, too. Be a good kid and visit some of those establishments as well.

Ya hear?

Have a good one, folks. Time to put on my bonnet. I'll meet you at the watering well.

Suri likes the ladybugs

Every once in awhile, good things come out of watching Oprah. Recently, there was Tom Cruise mania on Oprah's show when she visited him in Telluride, Colorado at his gigantic snow palace in the sky. Despite having to watch the awkward exchange between Tom and Katie as she said goodbye, it was worth catching the show.

Why?

A Colorado, woman-owned company received some much-deserved camera time. Tom Cruise showed off some great ladybug shoes that his daughter Suri wears. The shoes were sold at Skimbaco, a company based in Durango, Colorado and owned by the ever-lovely Katja. I met Katja many moons ago on one of the blog-until-you-drop sites, NaBloPoMo and Blog365. I dig her for many reasons. She has a great business, a great blog, and she's Finnish. Okay, maybe the Finnish part won me over first. I am half Finnish because of my mom's side of the family.

So, can good come out of the TomKat fiasco? Apparently so. Can something positive occur after a psychotic couch-jumping fiesta? Aye aye, cap'n crazy. Can suffering through a video where Tom puts his ethics on you warrant any merit?

You bet your boots. Or your ladybug shoes.

Things I don't want to do

Today, I tackle matters of importance. Matters of the legal nature. Tax issues. Money woes. Financial nightmares.

Yuck.

If I'm not around for awhile, light a candle for me and wish me many dollars of luck.

In addition, I have a child that refuses to eat yet again. Those of you with fat and happy babies have no idea how great you have it. Light a candle for me and send fat wishes to Amos.

Until the smoke clears...

You're the one

I watched a movie today, one of those indie flicks where the ending makes you say, "Buh? Why did I watch this?" In the course of watching it, however, the flick brought up an issue that sometimes pops into my head.

When do you know that the person you are with is "the one"?

I've been with Phil for almost 15 years. We have been married for over 10 years. We met when I was 19, which now seems very, very young. At the time? I thought I was 119. He appeared quite suddenly in the midst of of several break-ups I had with two fellows. One, my high school boyfriend. The other, a long-term, off-and-on letter writing campaign that started as a boyfriend in the 4th grade. Neither turned out well. Smashingly awful, in fact. The effect of these break-ups was that I hated all men. I'd been jacked around and screwed with, and I just wasn't going to take it anymore. Suddenly I had standards. Suddenly, I had put my foot down.

Then Phil showed up.

In the movie, a fellow asks his father a question. "Was it an instant thing or a gradual realization that Mom was the one?"

Which is it, really? The father said that they were at a wedding. The wedded couple was, in the father's opinion, a collection of dolts. He casually mentioned to his girlfriend at the time, "They are idiots. If anyone should be married, it should be us." His girlfriend took it as a proposal, and it just grew from there. So, in this movie, I guess the answer is that there isn't an answer.

I asked Phil the same question about me. When was I "the one"?

He said it must have been gradual. I grew upon him like fungus on a shower. Yes, that's Phil version of love talk. The thing is, my answer wouldn't have been much different. There was no lightening in a bottle. No love at first sight. I just knew that when I saw this long-haired freak who started working at my job, that he was kind of cool and different. I began to park on the same side of the building that he did. I began to eat lunch outside where he did, near the smoking, old hacks and dried up military guys who had lost all hope. There we were, two young people courting outside of a nondescript building on the northwest side of San Antonio and just seeing how it would play out.

I even brought my friend Allison by one day to scope him out. We ate lunch on the back of my dad's Isuzu Trooper with the doors open. Phil walked over to his car to supposedly put his Tupperware away after eating his lunch. He said, "Hello, ladies. Are you having lunch out on the veranda?"

Veranda. The man said veranda. He totally, completely had me at veranda.

Was that the instant? Did I have visions of wedding dresses and babies in overalls? No. I just quietly and hopefully felt a spark. A jumpstart to a heart that had darkened considerably.

Not much later, Phil asked me out on a date. It was a day when my glasses had fallen apart at work, and my sister had to come by to deliver my old glasses. The old glasses that made me look like a leathery, old librarian who only shops at the dollar store. And still, Phil looked past that (or because of that), and asked me out that day. He melted my icy innards.

We laughed so hard on that first date. And the next day. And the next. And when he was kicked out of his living quarters, we still managed to chuckle. We drove across the country together, and still belly-laughed our way through the states. We had passionate, crazy, laugh-filled sex everywhere, and it never seemed like there should be an end to it.

So, when was he "the one"? He just was. I don't have an instant moment to point toward if Amos ever asks that question. Was it when we talked about ants? Was it when I said, "Parts is parts," and he laughed so hard? Was it when he said, "I'm not good with compliments, but you are fabulous"?

It was all. Love isn't like fairytales.

It's better.

Instant karma's going to get you

This is one of those days when I have no particular topic, so I'll just spit up some random facts for you.

• I cut my lip on a potato chip yesterday. This is like a big, bizarre, not so subtle slap in the face from somewhere saying, "Hey, fattie. Get that chip outta yer piehole."
  
  

• Other bewildering injuries have laid me low. I succeeded in smashing my knees and toes in a disastrous child safety gate maneuver. I tried to lower Amos on one side of it so that I could sashay off to brush my teeth. Instead, somehow I became one with the gate, sending it crashing down with me falling forward and Amos falling backward with only a bit of him clutched in my paws. He lightly bonked his head, slightly smushed his foot under the gate, and I ended up with scratches, sores, and a bruised ego. I'm not sure how much cursing a child safety gate can endure, but this one is very ashamed of its label as "Safety 1st."
  
  

• I cursed enough to make Phil realize that we will purchase a new safety gate and the old one will be burned and hung on a fence to warn other safety gates.
  
  

• I am reading a book that is very enjoyable and laugh-out-loud hysterical. It is a collection of "Far Side"-ish cartoons from a writer I've admired for some time on Myspace. (Oh, dreaded Myspace!). The book is called This Is My First Time So Please Be Brutal and Other Cartoons by Vincent Truman. I've been diggin' his wacky Myspace blogs for years. Please buy his book, and then point, stare, and laugh at him. My copy is personally signed. I requested it months ago and never received it, so I had to write to Vincent and threaten to bludgeon him or his publisher with a bat. That's the extent of the kind of fan mail that I write. Heheh.
  
  

• I'm tired of cold weather, Denver. Snow in May is not amusing anymore.

Well, I ended it with talk of weather, so that must mean that the creative well has run dry. Until there is something more ridiculous to say, I send you well wishes for a fabulous weekend.

Shave and a haircut, two bits

The lovely Eve of Adamswife's Weblog made the hamster in my head start turning the wheel. She was discussing why women shave their legs. So I pondered, why do we?

I remember the first time I shaved. I was in the 5th grade, and my parents were out of town. I didn't have permission to shave, but I wasn't sure that I needed permission. It was my body, after all. I remember seeing my mother or sister's razor and hoping with all my might that I could soon become hair-free. It seemed to mean that, girl, doo doo doo, you'll be a woman... soon.

So, I shaved. Badly. My legs were nicked and cut and scraped and mangled. I was horrified. How could this possibly be sexy? What I didn't realize at the time was how to finesse the razor in certain directions, or that old razors with rusty parts are not meant for a delicate girl of 11 years. Eventually, I learned how to tame the razor. My legs certainly suffered during the trial period. And, we lived in San Antonio, so of course that meant that I attended school in shorts and had to show off my shower time battle scars. I'm sure the boys loooooved that.

Many years later, I ordered the Epilady thing that yanks hairs out without mercy. I was in high school, and I watched my legs bleed and cry out from the unending buzz buzzz buzzzzzz of the torturous Epilady. My mother came in to watch. I looked up at her in agony and said, "Mom, I think I need to be drunk to do this." Sadly, she did not offer any booze for my misery.

Now that I consider the question of why I scrape a sharp object against my body every time I shower, I realize that there are deep-seated reasons and some that are not so deep in the britches.

I believe, and it pains me to say this as my inner feminist cries out, that I shave to please my man. There. I said it. It's true. I shave so that I do not scare Phil away at night with barbed wire and sticky burrs. Who wants to be intimate when they must mangle their parts with a cattle fence? On top of that, if I didn't shave, I have images of our collective long leg hairs entwining and becoming irreparably entangled.

What a story to tell the grandchildren: let me tell you about the time your Grandpappy and me had to cut our legs apart. It took a pair of scissors, whiskey, and a hacksaw!

Another reason I shave is because I absolutely cannot stand the feeling of hard, pointy leg hairs against jeans. Ugh! You could be telling me the most fascinating story of all mankind, and I'll still be sitting there, cursing at my leg hairs and scratching them through my pants. Alas, it is just as my mother told me after that first incident in the 5th grade: "Well, that's fine that you've done it, but be prepared to do it for the rest of your life now that you've started." Indeed, Mom. Indeed.

It's much like that episode of "Seinfeld" when Jerry debated about shaving his chest. Kramer warned him that you can never go back, and the hair comes in at an alarming depth and quantity. Jerry didn't believe him, so Kramer popped open his shirt to show Jerry the evidence.

THE HORROR! THE AGONY! CRUEL, CRUEL FATES!

Perhaps one day I will join my braver sisters such as Julia Roberts. I will let my armpits go free and curly, scaring off little children and causing the paparazzi to vomit. I will let the hairs of my appendages grow and risk being banished from my own bed. I will put on a brave face whenever Amos' friends ask him, "Which one is your mother? The hairy one on the left or the one with the beard?"

Or not.

Alas, the rest of my body is following the way of my shaven parts. I find stray whiskers on my chin and upper lip. Sometimes, I consider plucking them out once again with that torturous device of yesteryear. But, as I sit here, I can hear its electrified call from its basement lair. Buzz buzzz buzzzzz. Like the telltale heart beneath the floorboards, the Epilady frightens me and pushes me toward the wet bar, where I can soak my facial whiskers in the warmth of a soothing brandy.

Wait. Isn't that how that story ended?