A Small Donation to the Nonprofit of Your Choice

What a long, strange trip it's been with NaBloPoMo. Honestly, I am so sick of my blog after posting every single solitary day for a month, I probably will not look at it again. Ever. Well maybe not ever. I'm sure I'll be back sooner than you'd like.

Anywho, to end November with a tiny spark, not a bang, I am giving the meager sum of $25 to the nonprofit of your choice---IF you leave a comment and IF the random number generator selects your comment.  It's so freaking easy it's not even funny.  Leave a comment with the name of the nonprofit you choose, along with their website. If you want, tell me why it means something to you.

Thanks, readers. It's been fun.

One Totally EASY Thing You Can Do to Reduce Waste

Today I felt like I did a lot around the house but accomplished little, except making a mess. Husband is less than pleased with the way I strung the lights on our back porch.  I'm sure the dog poop in the backyard won't mind the drooping pattern.  (Hardly a dog poop joke, J. Bern, but still I'm keeping your fascination in mind.) 

Husband put up new blinds, I broke a few ornaments and together, we found that more than enough outdoor lights just don't work anymore. So I'm obsessed with where all of the old and/or broken stuff goes. I'm feeling more and more guilty whenever I throw something away, because I can picture it (multiplied by the same disposables from every American) laying in a miserable landfill somewhere.

I received a short rainbow of light from Sarasota Audubon Society today when they posted a great blog on how to eliminate your phone book mailings. (If you're reading a blog and you don't use the Internet to find phone numbers, it could be time for a serious change for you.)  Here's what I swiped from their blog:

With the internet & electronic phone books, you may want to “opt out” of receiving a phone book on your front porch. In the USA alone the 540 million directories represent: 19 million trees for paper; 1.6 billion pounds of paper waste; 7.2 million barrels of oil (not including delivery); 268,000 cubic yards of landfill; 3.2 billion kilowatt hours of electricity consumption.

It’s not always easy to opt out and you may have to verify your request annually with each directory provider since these companies collect advertising dollars for every book they give away. Here are a few resources:

• Verizon (800) 888-8448 (press 2)
• Yellowbook (800) 929-3556 (press 3)
• The Real Yellow Pages (866) 326-7200 (press 0) (or just click here)

It only takes a few minutes and feels pretty good. Plus, no more huge and skanky phone books taking up space on your shelves.

Holiday Shopping: The Fright, The Flight & The Glory

Don't get me wrong--I love, absolutely LOVE, buying gifts for people. But something about holiday shopping fills me with fear. It's the fear that I'm not picking out something spontaneously exceptional but something that will just work for the obligation.

I hate that and then find myself standing in line wondering, "What in the name of Sweet Pete am I doing here with this mediocre selection?"  I totally want to run.


But every now and then, a great find at the right price with the right inspiration appears before me like a revelation. Don't laugh, but honestly the best thing I've discovered this season is a stocking stuffer sort of prize for my three year old nephew. Yes, it's the Grow a Frog. How can you go wrong with this?  Hell, I want one. 

If only they would make a Grow a Conscience for the not so evolved people we must deal with on a daily basis. Maybe next year...

Pipe Dreams

If you were lucky enough to know your grandfather, how do you remember him? Is there a single image that forms that frame of eternity for every recall?  I love to picture Robert Wallace Howard in his recliner, argyle socks showing above his loafers with a pipe in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. After a few puffs, he'd hum or sigh boldly with satisfaction and get ready for a line of questions or a few words of wisdom.

Before I left today, I selected the most unusual pipes from his notorious collection. We now have them displayed on a wooden shelf that also hosts a drawing of an old tobacco barn--the very definition of old eastern North Carolina.

Here are a few of my faves:

You have to love an old man who can sit back with his pipe and reflect on a lifetime of adventures with the satisfaction of knowing he did everything he wanted to do.  Yes?

Since Yesterday...And Thank You, Morons at US Airways

I know it's not nice to say mean things, especially on Thanksgiving. But here it is: I'm stranded in Greenville, NC since US Airways cancelled my connecting flight to Charlotte. I can't hold them accountable for fog, but I can hold them accountable for employing morons who can't figure out how to deal with it later. Sometimes, people, you just have to get creative. That does not include solving the problem by shipping me home tomorrow.  AND, it wouldn't be the first time US Air left me stranded on the Thanksgiving holiday. So I'm thinking, "Jesus, Gropius, don't you ever learn?"

Since yesterday, the fam's bitchy and neurotic Springer Spaniel bit me, I spent plenty of time hiding in the back bedroom from visitors I didn't know, and I learned that it's possible to gain 5 pounds in 24 hours. There's a lot of junk food around here: cheese straws, lemon pound cake, and pecans cooked in an entire stick of butter (yes, my idea). 

On a more positive note, we've been digging up some amazing pictures--pictures that make me wonder how any of us were ever that young and good looking. ...Or ever consented to certain hairstyles. Digital cameras have not been good for the kind of albums you like to thumb through on the couch, triggering the recesses of memories that were put on the back burner for a while. It's really special to get connected with honest to God pictures you can hold in your hand. 

I'm sure that's what US Air had in mind when they did me the favor of screwing up again.

Enjoy your holiday! And know I'm thankful for readers, even when you don't leave a comment. :)

Final Arrangements

So I'm in Greenville, North Carolina in the heart of the Bible Belt on a dial up AOL connection blogging for my NaBloPoMo obligations. I'm with the fam after grandfather died. He didn't want a service, but wanted a few friends to stop by for a champagne toast. Since he was 94, ready to go, lived an awesome life, did everything he wanted to do, it's okay to diverge from all seriousness and share a few interesting things with you...

Like the house visitor who was going to name her baby Palin after Sarah. She settled for Kaylin.  (During her visit, she told us about someone "throwin' a hot pot 'o food at me"--right before she pulled her pants down to expose a new tatoo.) Like the thermostat here with the note to the caregivers reading "If you touch this without permission you will lose your job." Like the 2 hours we spent at the funeral home correcting unnecessary commas in the obituary. (Apparently, they were still using a typewriter and re-typing it with each of the five versions.) Like learning there are two price levels for boxes they put your loved one in before being cremated. My mother asked if the second was a "luxury model of the first cardboard box."

It's been a while since I lived in NC, so during my visits here, I'm pretty focused on the trip a Southern accent can take with the English language. Adding a few syllables to every word (fu-ne-ral becomes a-fu-yew-nuh-ru-yall) is par for the course. The word "father" doesn't really exist. People express their condolences to my mother with "I am so sorry to hear about your daddy" (pronouced dee-ya-dee).

To be continued....

Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll

Taking me right to the limit with teenage interpretations!

Gropius: “Please come in here and get your clothes out of the dryer.” “…Today.”
Teenager Translation: Begin dribbling basketball loudly, inside your room, especially since you’ve been asked 10 billion times not to do it.


Gropius: “I know what you’re saying can’t be right. Tell me the truth before I have to call your teacher.”

Teenager Translation: If you can pull this lie off for another 48 hours, you can at least enjoy the weekend before you get busted on Monday.



Gropius: “I would like you to read now like you’re supposed to be doing.”

Teenager Translation: Emerge from room for the first time in, oh let’s see, 5 minutes. Get a drink and a snack AGAIN, then hang around to ask parents questions about the show they’re watching.



Gropius: “We’ve been doing something together all day. I need some space, you need some space. Please find something quiet to do by yourself.”

Teenager Translation: Bother the dog. Begin talking in an exaggerated poochie-mouthed nausea fest, making her wonder if she’s getting a treat, going for a walk or just plain having her hopes worked up for no reason.

A Toast to My Grandfather

Imagine the most insanely electric variations of orange, blue, green and red adorning the walls like they were pulled right out of a Crayola box on fire. Add extra large mirrors with golden scrolled frames, supersized stretched canvas paintings and light fixtures dripping like a Quinceanera.

When the louder than life Frank Sinatra momentarily stops blaring, you can hear the sound of your feet on bits of hard wood with every other step muted on worn oriental rugs.

In the winter, you wouldn’t believe the basking indoor temperatures.

Plaques from the Rotary, black and white photos of old Southern fundraising events and the WWII days, and statuettes of Buddha and trinkets of unknown origin line nooks on the desk, wet bar and mantles.
The smell? Pipe tobacco. On a good day, cigars.

I know, it sounds like an obnoxious combination. But it’s my grandfather’s house, and if you could see it, you would swear an interior designer had something to do with it.

The markings of a distinguished 94 year old gentleman pervade every swig of Baileys and coffee, every well earned hum and every gaze at the still chess set in the corner. It’s time. A life lived to the fullest, rounding the corners to the home stretch. Rest. At last.

What's Fun About Breast Cancer Awareness? Check Out the Pink Glove Dance

This incredible effort by the Providence St. Vincent Medical Center in Portland, Oregon deserves a Gold Star for time, energy and yes, dancing. They may not have the boldest and most coordinated moves in the universe, but hey, they brought down the house with their pink gloves.



Didn't you especially love the cafeteria and janitorial staff? Good stuff for a good cause. Let's applaud them by sharing it with others and doing what you need to do to protect those tatas.  Supposedly, when the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community.

Reader Poll: This Is What Annoys You

And, drumroll please...here are your annoying Facebook responses--annoying as in this is what irks you.

• Watching folks who litter look on as their garbage hits the ground. I wonder what they're thinking as they watch themselves be lazy and selfish. "I'm so proud I lack compassion and respect."
  
• A message I just got from match.com: "just wanted to say hi! working half a day then off to the beach! if i see a naked girl on the beach i'll just assume it you! ;) lol have a great day!... ...steve"
  
• The little box that pops up and asks you if you mind leaving a secure setting. If you say NO, you can't move forward. You have to say yes. Why ask? And what setting is really secure anyway?
  
• I hate the SEND ERROR REPORT!! Where does it go anyway?
  
• When co-workers think that the newspaper a department subscribes to is fair game for themselves. Especially when someone takes it to the restroom and then has the nerve to return it!
  
• National Geographic channel now being self-referred to as “NatGeo.” That’s stupid. I took me forever to figure out what that meant. Wait…am I stupid?
  
• Being told you will get a raise and a new position if you do a bunch of extra work. You do it for a year and are then told that the conversation never took place. By the way, “Keep up the great work!” Wait…that’s not just annoying—it’s unethical! Time to look for a new job!
  
• When you try to help your child do math, but the schools no longer teach it the way that you learned, to your kid AND you end up confused...grrrrrr!
  
• The same people who tailgate you when they are going 70 mph leave two car lengths when they come to a stop so you can’t make the left turn lane when the light is green.
  
• People who are supposed to know something about what they’re in charge of but seem to know nothing about it and ask you questions as though they never heard of it at all and can't imagine what it's all about. Don't get me started!

And there you have it. Feel free to add yours to the list.

Girls & Beauty: Let's Teach Them the Truth

Maybe you never saw this. Or maybe you did but it's been a few years.



After taking a tour at Girls, Inc. on Wednesday, I see the need to keep educating our girls on the necessity of being strong, smart and bold. It seems as essential as vitamins and minerals. 

It's amazing that a girl can grow up empowered by her inner beauty with all of the messages she continues to see in advertisements, on television, in magazines and from her peers. 

As a step-parent of an energetic teenage boy, I'm ever aware of his perceptions of female beauty, hoping he will one day choose a mate who is attractive to him because of her unique perspective on the world, not her botox or her breasts. 

Let's keep strong as a united front, loving all of our female friends, of all heights, all weights, shapes, hair colors, pimply and flawless skin.  I love what Girls Inc is doing across the country. Let's all be mini-messengers.

Creative Job Hunting

It's no news that jobs are scarce these days. And although some employers are still hiring, for every job out there, it seems that thousands apply. Experienced professionals are forced to go for entry level positions, and even those are difficult to land. Hmm...looks like I picked the right time to have graduated from college 10 years ago. Can't even imagine what new graduates folks feel like.

An interesting job hunting tactic was displayed at an event I attended today.

An unemployed marketing professional had purchased an event sponsorship, and at her display table, she kept a stack of resumes, a professional sign announcing her candidacy for open positions and a night for two at the Ritz Carlton available to the person who made the introduction to her next employer. At each place setting, she had a bag of roasted peanuts in the shells with a note "In a nutshell, I'm looking for a job."  The hand written note also said "To do: Call ___ at (XXX-XXX) to talk about employment." 

Pretty creative, you've got to admit.

[Afterthought: It's been pretty tough lobbying for date nights. Married women REALLY need them. (Yes, PLRH, it's true.) I am totally going to steal this idea for home. I'll just post some resumes about my qualifications as a date and leave a bag of peanuts (though yes, they'll have to be boiled for husband) with a note declaring "In a nutshell, I'm just looking for a freaking date night with you, Husband."    Think that'll work?]

Gropius Meets Sidewalk

It's been nearly a year since the Big Spill.

And this morning, an even greater near-tragedy transpired on a 5:45 a.m. walk with sweet, loving, adorable, once-homeless-and-living-on-the-streets Flanders, who apparently had to suddently stop and pee for the 321st time.  As one could imagine, I tripped over her. Majorly tripped. As in I busted my ass.

It's not like my life flashed in front of me or anything, but during the long and fumbling trip to the sidewalk, I did see things in slow motion like a horrible reinactment from a murder documentary. The impact left both knees severly skinned. I'll spare you the pictures, but it will suffice to say that I almost made someone in the office puke today when I revealed them.

After sitting there for a moment and collecting myself (during which time Flanders accomplished her desired urinary mission), I got up to walk the mile home. A block from the house, I realized my keys were still on the sidewalk...way back there. Fun.  Banging on the door several times eventually yielded a sleepy husband who let me inside and who promptly went back to bed.

Nice start to a new day. But I'm not complaining.

Does ANNOYING music affect your concentration?

This year for the famously annoying task of completing a science project, D-Man is asking the question "Does music affect concentration?"  He's having a series of people--including me and husband of course--see how many words we can find in a word search as we listen for 5 minutes each to classical music, rap and finally no music.

I completed the experiment yesterday and found that music actually helped my concentration, but people, let's examine the choices. The rap was the Beastie Boys and the classical was Debussy--both of which are more than humane choices. I like them.

I totally think the experiment should be changed to "Does annoying music affect your concentration?" We would then be asked to complete word searches while listening to:

• The song that begins with "Heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friii-iiieeeeeend who, heard it from another you've been messing around..." 
• Most of the 11 songs played in a heinous endless loop by ClearChannel stations last year--last month--last week--today--and into infinity.
• Hall & Oats "Private Eyes"  (see below)
• At the risk of offending many, anything by Whitney Houston in the last 10 years, most Journey songs, and most of those (new, not classic) pesky Disney movie songs. I don't know many, but the ones I do know are more than annoying.
• Hotel California. I mean it's a great song, and the Eagles--such talent. But really, it's had its day in court. It's over. I can't take it any more!!!!

Anything else to add to that list of annoying music to add to the experiment?  Young D-Man has a lot of work to do.

Check out this post on Popten: Top Ten Catchiest, Most Annoying Songs (That Burrow Into Your Brains and Make You Want to Die.)

I Wish I Had's are No Good

So way back in another life it seems, I met a beautiful soul named Ken, who was one of my volunteers at a nature center where I worked. (Doesn’t he look like Walter Matthau?)
He and his lovely wife Mary have been like part of our family. In retirement, they were full time RVers, traveling about, spreading goodness like little seeds wherever they landed for a few weeks or months.

They’ve given up the wandering and now have a home in Minnesota. Good grief, I miss their winter visits to Florida. Here’s a bit of wisdom Ken recently shared with me in an e-mail. Thought I’d pass it on:


“So are you learning to take it a bit easy on the work and volunteering, to carve out a little more time for doing relaxing fun things with self, friends, and family? I hope so. Life goes by so quickly that if you don't create some fun/pleasant personal memories along the way you'll be my age before you know it with a whole bag of "I wish I had"s. I know people like that and they make me glad that I screwed off along the way, even if I didn't achieve my full career potential (boring).”


First Thought: Ken developed devices that made pace makers possible. And he did the first electrocardiogram on a wild whale. Didn’t achieve his full career potential? Oh man. One could only imagine what that would have looked like.

Second thought: Back to the point. “I wish I had’s” are no good. This needs to be my daily mantra. Thanks to Ken and to all those I come across in life who bring me back to the point.

Private Eyes Are Watching You...Watching Your Every Move...

Yesterday I had the pleasure of volunteering with Art Center Sarasota for its Private Eyes tour—a tour of lovely homes in town with fabulous private art collections.

As a result, the 1981 Hall & Oats song “Private Eyes” has been permanently marked in my conscious mind. I know about 10 words to the song, which I’m trying desperately to forget, but continue to mentally repeat them in a hellish rolling record nonetheless. I am ready to be Baker acted.

The volunteering gig was enjoyable. I am left with a great respect for all of those who opened up their homes to the sea of strangers who arrived with (and without) manners, looking at their stuff, commenting good things (and bad) about their most prized possessions, and shedding DNA calling cards on their floors, rugs, walls and windows. In general, people were on very good behavior and I would surely call the event a grand success.

However, it was one of those days I thank heavens for my little 7 room house in Bradentucky, with no worries of being called on for tour duty.

By the way, misery loves company:

Are you SERIOUS, Hammacher Schlemmer?

So we just got their holiday catalogue today. Thought I’d share some strange finds with you, just in case you’re stumped seeking a holiday gift for that special canine.

First, the barking deterrent disguised as a bird house…because most dogs are so smart that if the high frequency-emitting device came in a “regular” container, it totally wouldn’t work. They’d be on to it in seconds. They’ll never figure out the birdhouse.

Second, here is a gift for people who (a) are lazy and (b) have no freaking clue that dogs love to fetch because people who talk like happy babies are at the other end of that stick. (Well, except maybe the legendary yellow lab of my youth, Jerome, who sometimes needed some “alone time” to process all of his deep thoughts.) It’s the Automatic Canine Fetch Machine. Isn’t that sweet? This gift allows you to completely ignore your best friend.

It should come with a t-shirt for your dog too: “I defend this house and all I get is this automatic fetching machine.”

And finally, the Canine Treadmill. For people who are just too freaking lazy to walk their dogs. I can't even bring myself to post the photo here. Might get the blog shut down by PETA.

Redheads Will One Day Rule the World

Here’s a Gropius family car conversation from a couple weekends ago:

• D-Man: “Did you know there are only 2 million redheads in the entire world? They’re disappearing.”
  
• Husband: “I heard that one day redheads will be bred out of the human species.”
  
• Gropius [in head]: “Nice. Trying to get rid of me the old fashioned way: genetically. And P.S., this whole conversation is just a little scary for more than one reason.”
  

So I did a little follow up online and can report through secret Internet sources that there are more like 65 million of us globally, with the largest redhead percentage in the populations of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, respectively. Hm. What a surprise.

And bad news, fam, redheads will not die out unless we simply stop breeding with people who carry that recessive trait. I did find some interesting thought processes going on in blogs and forums re: the “Will redheads die out” question—no doubt one of the most stirring dialogues of our time. Some of them include:

“Ginger kids scare me.” Reply: As they should. We’ll get you. And one day, we’ll take over.

“Does God hate me because I’m a redhead?” Answer: Look, I’d love to answer, but I’ll defer to the Redhead Upstairs.

“Redhead girls are the hottest…after Asian girls” Answer: SECOND hottest? Must be a blonde talking.

BTW, I'll dedicate this post to you, PLRH, one of my fellow redheads. Congrats on your blog award!!!!

The Haircut

When I came home on Tuesday night after getting my hair hacked off a good 10 inches, this was the response I received:

Husband: "Oh. I like it. I like it. Yeah, I like it." (trying to convince himself) and then..."It's like I get to sleep with a different woman tonight!"

D-man: "You look like Willie Wonka."

Needless to say, I felt so reassured after these lovely interactions.

On Veteran's Day, Don't Change the Channel

The day I found out my college graduate brother from our non-military family signed up with the Marines, my perspective started to change. The Iraq war had begun. Things were bad. I knew that for every bit of fear I held about it, my mother held more fear as only a mother could.

The next few years would be difficult, as we all grasped to visualize what he was seeing, hearing, doing. Communication was often extremely scattered, short and uninforming. When the reports came in on radio and television, it was a struggle to stay positive and keep from wondering if he was there when "it" happened--whatever that "it" was.

And you hear it almost every day still. You know the voices on NPR and ABC. And you can predict the arrangement of words in the announcements. "Today in Anbar Province, three more troops were killed in combat."

What happens when you hear that? Do you physically or mentally change the channel? True, it's hard to internalize after years of this. And anyway, what can you do about it? But I ask you not to blur it out. We don't see their faces. But we know they're men and women--many of them very young--with the best of intentions. And they're gone. In a strange place with giant camel spiders, heat that you would not believe and loved ones connected to them with faded pictures in their pockets, they're gone.

Years later, after my brother has served twice in Iraq and is now working elsewhere under the Department of Homeland Security, I realize that I can't blur the armed services and any associated combat into an amorphous mass of "why?" It's no longer easy to pass off as something with which I can't identify or understand.

Despite your politics, the bottom line is that for every veteran that returns, he or she has experienced things you can't imagine. Many of them are positive, like rebuilding schools or sewer systems. But most likely, there are also people he left behind with uncertain dates of return, people who he knew who died in an irretrievable instant, and people he knew who will return with one less limb or with an unseen but severe emotional wound that impacts daily life in perpetuity.

My request is simple: just carve out a few moments in your heart today and everyday to remember those who have come home to us and those who haven't.

The Nonquestioner

The nonquestioner (n). A person who attends a seminar or presentation and stands up to ask a question, only it is not a question. It is a rambling statement that goes on and on and has no apparent end or interest to anyone in the audience but the same annoying, rude person talking.


So yesterday I attended an event at USF about deforestation in the Amazon. At the end of three presentations, it was time for questions. That’s right, QUESTIONS. Of course a nonquestioner had to be part of the line up. Usually, a nonquestioner can fall into one of 3 subcategories:

1. Secretly resents not being asked to be part of the presentation and decides to fulfill that role during the nonquestion.
2. Wants to impress the presenters/audience with some obscure fact that might not even be a fact.
3. Overtly transforms the nonquestion into a heated preaching moment to a choir that is already converted. (As in “And the rainforest is disappearing! And damn it, we need to do something about it!”)

As you might have guessed, this nonquestioner was all three and was annoying as hell. Even better, the moderator tried to boot him on 2 separate occasions by politely asking him to get to the question. She finally succeeded on the third, more forceful try. What was the question? Obviously, there wasn’t one.

Inspiration from the Lower Food Chain

Knowing that even the lowest organisms on the food chain possess beauty, I am inspired to keep searching for it in the people who toy with my ability to keep profanity from morphing into an outer dialogue.

(lichen growing on cypress tree)


(another type of lichen growning on fence post)

Don't Pimp My Ride

We do have a real live tween in the house, far more--challenging--shall we say, than a young white ibis. Sometimes there's a fine line between arguing over something of principle and arguing over something of preference. Wearing non-wrinkled shirts that don't create the appearance you slept under a bridge, brushing your hair for the same reason and avoiding certain non-words like "oma! oma!oma!" before every sentence are just some of those parental preferences. But the scuffs over different tastes in cars is hovering on the edge.

He's fixated with souped up cars. I'm talking the cheap hooptie mobiles with the iridescent paint jobs and $30, 000 rims. To wind up our 4 hours in the car today, driving to and from Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, this conversation took place. And it's not one that's new.

• Tween: "Oma! Dude, that car is JACKED UP. Look at those RIMS."
• Husband: "When you're spending more on the rims than the car itself, you know it's not a wise choice."
• Tween: "No man, that's called being green. They're taking something really old and reusing it."
• Husband: "No, that's called being stupid."

There, there. It would seem that the tween has a point. Not that I see four expensive rims held together by crap and an engine that's ten days older than water as a Sweet 16 present or anything, but I'm happy to hear the word "green." Something I'm saying is getting through.

Bird Teenagers

Bird teenagers. You've got to love them. They talk back, are disrespectful and think they know everything. I'm not even sure they appreciate everything you do for them.

This immature White Ibis is in the prime of its life and in fine form. Soon all of the brown feathers will turn to white, and he will officially be a man. He looks like a Ricky. Totally a Ricky. And so cooperative Ricky was in allowing me to take a few glamour shots at Robinson Preserve this morning. One day, he will look back on this day and understand what I tried to do for him.

2 Entertainment Recommendations & 3 Unnecessary Objects

With less than 45 minutes to go, I've made it to the daily blog post. And I have only 4 short comments:

1. See Sarasota Ballet's performance of Contact at the Asolo. The first part is a little weird, but it's uphill from there and the dancing is extraordinary. Makes me wish I was a dancer and not such a klutz.
   
2. If you're headed to a business meeting, hey, can you do me a favor? Leave your boobs behind some cotton, polyester, silk or wool. They're called clothes. And they're considered "traditional" for a reason. I was appalled by someone's...overexposure...during a gathering of professionals today. I've never been to a strip joint (or care to), but I have a feeling what it might look like after today's showing.
   
3. Kier, the musician/comedian visiting McCurdy's Comedy Theatre this week, is talented and hilarious. Can't go wrong there. You can still catch him at McCurdy's through Sunday.
   
4. Please, if you have a big head, consider, just consider, sitting in the back of the room. This week my view has been obstructed by large craniums at least 3 times. I know it's not their fault, but it's not mine either. I'm only 5'2". All I'm saying is just think about it.

Project 180

Tonight I'm headed to McCurdy's Comedy Theatre for a few laughs with friends. What brings me there is a new nonprofit called Project 180. Now let me say this. The words "new" and "nonprofit" in the same sentence usually give me a stomach ache.

Introducing my soapbox...

Look, there is a vast world of nonprofits out there doing incredible things. And there is a vast world of nonprofits duplicating missions and disguising egos as good work. So when a "new" one comes around, it's often not a good thing...it's the sign of another organization doing something that another organization is already doing better.

But Project 180 is different. Right from the beginning, I was amazed at founder Barbara Richards, with her amazing energy, drive and commitment to a mission that many people do not care about. She also did her homework. No one else is doing it here. And she's moved me to care about something that's normally not on my Top 5 list--proof that the person who leads an organization can be just as powerful as its mission.

So what is Project 180, you ask? It seeks to re-integrate ex-offenders into community life. Why is it important? Even if you may not have the compassion to care about someone who managed to make a mistake (like we are all capable of at times), this mission is one that will help to keep you and your family safe, change behaviors for the long term and embrace the possibility of forgiveness.

I love it. Looking forward to some inspiring words from Barbara tonight.

Social Media Time Warp

Can I just say that things have seemed a little social media weird lately?

I mean, honestly, Facebook, how many times are you going to pull some backwards change on us just to make sure we’re left trying to figure out something new about you? Cute. It’s like a man who you’ve been dating for a few months, who you’re just getting to like and understand. And bam! Then he goes and pulls some stupid crap just to convince you that you really don’t know him (and that he’s a big piss ant). Isn’t this behavior so…last decade?

That reminds me—I’m glad I’m married.

And New Year’s. What about it, you say? A St. Petersburg-based group I started following on Twitter yesterday responded with a direct message wishing me a Happy New Year's Eve. Since I had, in fact, locked myself in my office all day to get some things done, I really started thinking, “My God. Have I been in here for two months?” I actually picked up the phone and called someone (also in the office) just to check.

I changed tactics today and decided to work from home. Interesting way to spend New Year's Day.

The Emergency

Life on this planet nearly came to a grinding halt this morning when the cable appeared to be down at 94-year-old-Grandfather's house in North Carolina. In mere seconds, the sinking feeling of an impending disaster was given life by the possibility of missed episodes of Jerry Springer, Maury Povich and Tyra Banks.

Moments after she dialed a panicked phone call to Parents in Florida, the caretaker realized that hitting the "input" button on the remote provided the anecdote.

The near-tragedy was as real and in-your-face as the shows themselves. But in seconds, like magic, that pit of terror was replaced with relief. Aaaah, there is goodness in this world.

The remote is the giver and taker of life...and the herald of all emergencies and emergency operators.

When things seem bad, at least you don't have BIID

While I was working on a painting yesterday, I was listening to a television program about a man who believes his own leg is not really part of him and wants to amputate it. This named disorder is referred to as Body Integrity Identity Disorder. Hm. I’d never heard of it.

The gentleman flew to San Francisco from Australia so a team of scientists (who seemed to be afflicted with some disorder themselves) performed various tests in an effort to make him accept his leg. These extremely scientific tests included flooding his ear with fluid and holding a mirror up to his “accepted” leg so it looked like he had two of those. Apparently, it did briefly make the amputation desire slightly less intense for him—probably resulting from being dizzy as hell and pissed that he had flown thousands of miles for THAT.

Wow. Just when you think things are heavy in your life…

Did you notice that I began this post by making sure to mention that I was conducting another activity while I listened to this little broadcast? It’s true. And I wanted to make sure you knew I didn’t devote my undivided attention to this narrative. Does this come with a disorder name?

Halloween Memories

This kicks off an entire month of blogging every day: NaBloPoMo. It's my first year of participating. (Check out Uncommon Blonde & Pines Lakes Redhead too!) I'm hoping things don't degenerate from here as I'm forced to reflect on the daily minutia. But what better way to start than with a few Halloween memories, including my musings from trick-or-treating days and last night's mannerless kids.

Husband and I stayed in last night to pass out candy and watch scary movies. Once again I arrive at the same realization: I cannot watch horror flicks without lingering visualizations of blood and gore. I just can't do it. (So thank you, The Haunting in Connecticut and Halloween. I will have nightmares for the rest of the year.)

Our young visitors fit the trending generalization we hear of with today's kids wanting something for nothing. They don't even say "trick-or-treat" anymore, for God's sake. That's all you're supposed to do to get a freaking handout. What's that all about?

According to my mother on the other coast, she was told by several kids and (a mom who was collecting for a kid who couldn't muster the strength to get out of the car) that they "didn't like that kind." Shut UP. They didn't. Really.

I remember being extremely satisfied with any Halloween house visit as long as it didn't include a piece of fruit, a mini toothbrush, a quarter or those skanky Mary Janes. Admittedly, I was never a fan of candy corn either. But of course I never DREAMED of turning something down or not saying thank you!

After filtering through D-Man's 2,877 pound pillowcase full of candy last night, it hit me how totally ungrateful our culture is over here. I feel like my elders when I pull out the "starving kids in Africa" lines, but seriously. How disgusting is it that kids complain about not getting the type of CANDY they want from a complete stranger? Do they realize all we have to be grateful for?

I swear the next month of daily posts will be more upbeat, positive and not so rant-like. Thanks for letting me get my Halloween party pooper out.