Today is my birthday.  I celebrated appropriately by going on the lam with my favorite sidekick, buying multiple pairs of shoes and returning home to eat the most decadent chocolate cake ever.  I am sated.  And not the least concerned that I am one year older.  Nor am I now concerned that I am ten seconds older than I was just then.  Nope, don’t care a’tall.  I’ll tell you why.  My life is only getting more and more interesting.  For instance…

FROM INFANT TO PIRATE IN ONE MONTH: THE MEDICAL MIRACLE

The calendar year so far has been challenging healthwise, not to say traumatic, just annoying.  But at least I like my doctor and his staff, I have health insurance and am 100% certain that I am the only person any of you know (virtually or in reality) who has received the diagnoses of the following two afflictions within the same month, afflictions which are demographically and nomenclaturally (is that a word?) comical.  Are you ready?  You will think me a liar and a fraud, but perhaps a more interesting party guest (at least after the anti-biotics are finished):  Thrush and scurvy.  Yes, I have gone from infant to pirate, traveled from crib to high seas, pacifier to cutlass, all within four to six weeks time.  I’m thinking next up for me will probably be St. Vitus Dance, carbuncles or cat scratch fever.  And of course I always mistake whooping cough for a good old time, until I have it. (Note to pirates, mothers of babies with thrush, and sufferers or caregivers of others with unfortunately named diseases:  I am really not intending to make light of any affliction or hardship caused by ill health, only the names we attach to these afflictions.  Please take this in the spirit I offer. Signed, Dr. Smart Ass)

                                                                                                                                                                           
This is apparently today’s reference image for scurvy, according to the
world wide inter-web-net.  I don’t actually feel this menacing or
criminally inclined right now, although I wouldn’t put it past me, if
you know what I mean.

This is not at all what thrush looked or felt like.  If this is what thrush looked or felt like, people would be lining up to catch it.  I chose this image to represent my bout with thrush because if you do your own damned search for images you will be disgusted and thank me for not posting anything other than this nice woman resting peacefully with HER MOUTH SHUT.  

BOWLING IS THE NEW BLACK or 2008 PUNK ROCK BOWLING TOURNAMENT, W00T!

Mid-January saw the 10th annual Punk Rock Bowling Tournament in Las Vegas, brought to you (us) by BYO Records.  Let me just say that any reason to bowl, sleep, socialize, “hydrate” and then start the whole process over and over again ad infinitum (well, okay, somewhat finitum – a four day weekend for most) is just a great way to start the year.  Bowling is underrated.  Punk rock is nostalgic.  Las Vegas is iconic.  Sam’s Town Casino is glorious in its simple, non-Strip, awkwardly American way. Lots of photos in my pictures page (I’ll try to get around to adding captions.)

 
Looks more like “welcome heave metal pirate club jugglers.”

These are the Lane Asses, who just happened to finish 16th out of 168 teams.  

ROAD TRIP GOES SOUTH or HOW MUCH IS THAT GAS TANK IN THE WINDOW?

While performing designated driver duties (my favorite seat in any car) for Tiki King and the Idol Pleasures, I learned the hard way that a major backflow regulator manufacturing plant is located in San Luis Obispo County.  This happened rather abruptly as I drove my vehicle over a piece of pipe that was rolling across Highway 101.  This was very exciting, sounded like a brick in a clothes dryer, elicited shouts of “Holy shit!” and invocations of deities my fellow bandmates hadn’t been on speaking terms with in quite some time.  Of course this was also the only other option to swerving, taking out three other cars on the next lane, and probably rolling the van and trailer we were pulling.  We all survived, but my gas tank and transmisison cover did not.  We also inadvertantly donated one full tank of gas to the ecosystem of San Luis Obispo, via cement, drainage ditch, gully, ground water, etc.  For this we are eternally sorry.  Oh, and for all the oil, too.  We are grateful for AAA and for rental vans.  The Ford Econoline E350 is the finest touring vehicle ever, and a hell of a nice drive.  (There’s more pictures, look around!)

This is a beautiful rainbow of shame, guilt and near death.  Isn’t it pretty?  This was the only sixty minute window of non-precipitation all weekend, I do believe. The rest of the drive was more akin to driving through a wave.  Really.  It sucked.

These are vodka tonics made with almost enough Grey Goose vodka.  These are immensely helpful when self-medicating after a near-death, and very expensive backflow vs. gas tank incident.

MADAME LUKE BECOMES TEENAGER or WHY IS MYSPACE SO BOOMBASTIC?

I’ll come clean here, since I’m being very “first person” and all.  Part of the reason I’ve been remiss in posting is because I’ve been sucked into the parallel vortex known as MySpace.  No, I’m not a teenager, thank you for asking.  No, I’m not trying to meet teenagers, again thank you.  You can see for yourself the good/no-good we’ve been up to (now pay attention, this is a new html trick I’ve learned – don’t be scared but I’m going to HIDE MY LINKS or whatever it’s called!!!!  This is so exciting, as if I were a realio trulio geek or something…okay…these are just MySpace links, so click at will…well, now it’s not scary or sexy at all…oh well):

My band that still rocks and is totally fun even though we all live across the country in three different states!

My own personal page and songs with other bands and goofy show tunes…even a performance art number!

oxoxoxox
Kim   

Happy new year.  I have a laundry list of resolutions in my back pocket that is so lengthy and detailed it’s making me sit crooked.  I’m not pulling them out yet because they are still cooking, fermenting, getting to know each other.  If I leave them in my pocket long enough they can work out their own contra-indications, such as #7 “treat body with respect in all ingestibles” and #22 “drink more alcohol”.  By the time the list sees the light of day I believe these and other battling factions may have come to their own resolution resolutions.

That said, I’ll ask what your resolutions are and a brief wager on how long you’ll keep them.  One of mine went out the window today, January 1st.  “Don’t yell I hate you” in my house.  Damn, that’s a hard one.  I was able to keep the “f***ing” modifier out of the equation, so I’ve got that going for me.  How was your day?

New Year’s Revelations
- worldwide sick children are depressing; my sick children just bum me out and get aggravating after 4 days.
- screaming is not a family value; screaming dramatic monologues and rants peppered with clever smart bombs is a good way to fritter away a Tuesday afternoon.
- one’s mood can change dramatically, and almost instantaneously when one discovers that  the handful of wasps congregating on the front porch are actually sneaking into one’s bedroom window to gather under the window treatment (is this really legal public assembly?)
- i am caring less and less about the whole “no hover craft” thing, but am starting to get uppity about not having a personal life coach.  what the hell?  see a need, fill a need.  Are all you people blind?
- sorry for the blind thing.  i just want a life coach. 
- my son saw cheez wiz in a can and said, :”Look mom!  Whipped cream made of cheese!”  and it made me so happy.  He’s seeing the pony!

Maybe I’ll do a Best of 2007 list.  But since that entails remembering 2007, I think it may take a while, some phone calls and explaining.

All of my everything I don’t need at this moment in time,
Kim

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I LIKE, WHAT I REALLY REALLY LIKE…or WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW.

I like hallways.  I like the compartmentalization of them.  The in and the out; the beginning and the end; the start and the finish; the open and the closed.  I like the idea that there is an implied purpose behind each door in the hallway.  There could be a label on the doors and it would not seem odd or out of place.  Everything is neat and orderly and in its rightful place – down the hall.  Newer home styles with all their room (not rooms) freak me the hell out.  “Multi-functional rooms” aren’t my cup of tea.  I suppose I need more direction than that.  Walking into a giant room that has an open kitchen counter, a dining area and a family entertainment pit is about the most confusing and anxiety-inducing surroundings I can imagine.  What am I supposed to do?  Eat?  Cook?  Relax?  Gah!! 

I like having a “dining room,” a “tv room,” a “sitting room,” and a “family room.”  In fact, my dream home would be shaped not unlike a snowflake, with many hallways, and many single-function rooms.  A sewing room, not that out-of-the-question, I’m sure, but don’t call  it a craft room, because if you want to hot-glue anything you’d have to go down the hall to the “assemblage-craft” room.   It would be next to the costume room, the music room, the shoe collection room, the reading room, and the checkbook balancing room.

I also like Wes Anderson movies.  He likes hallways, too, because he likes rooms.  His movies are extended shots of interior dioramas broken up by occasional exterior shots which allow one to exhale.  They are wonderful for the dollhouse fan in me.

I like balancing my checkbook.  I find every penny.  It gives me great joy and closure. 

I like shoes.  I think it’s symbolic.  They take me where I’m going (well, yes, I know my feet do the work, but I rarely go anywhere barefoot, so really the shoes represent the going). 

I like people who will argue with me in a sensible way. 

I like six of my fingernails.

I like that this is in my backyard:

I can hear people scream on the roller coaster all day and night during the summer, and all day and night on the weekends during the rest of the year, and for some reason I like that.  I haven’t looked to deeply into why I get such a bang out of that strange background noise, but I’m hoping it has more to do with childhood memories than pits of hell.          

I like more things.  Really I do.  I even like some people.  Some of them are even (gasp) children. Sometimes I need to remind myself of the things I like, while avoiding any resemblance to Julie Andrews and “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” (for the record, both things I do not like, in theory or in actuality).  Right now is a time I need to remind myself of things like clacker balls, Los Straightjackets and false eyelashes, because now is when I’m crabby.   I’ve been told this regrettable state of “panties-in-a-knot” is astronomically based.  Then again, others have suggested a swift kick in the ass, to which I might have responded “kiss my ass” had I been in my right mind.  I think it’s all relative, which I like.

What do you like?

Kim

p.s.  Oh, pie and fireworks.  I like pie, and I like fireworks.

OOH THAT BURNS or CHEEKY, AINT YA?

There’s a hate that makes my cheeks red.  A frustrating kind of burning heat that comes from deep inside and makes me glow like Santa Claus, but more rage-y (less Ho Ho Ho, more AAARRRGGGHHH!)

What makes you flush and dizzy with the heat of murderous rage?

Cell phones?

Inconsiderate drivers?

Aging parents that haven’t yet had their come-uppence?

Mothers of one who write parenting books?

Cats?
 
Video game-playing children?

I’M IN CONTROL HERE (AN ALEXANDER HAIG MOMENT, KODAK STYLEY)…

My life is under control.  I am on the right path.  Everything is going my way.  I have accomplished something that few humans in my current circle of peers have ever come close to.  I have backed up every digital photo that I own/have access to onto a disc and have placed it lovingly into a protective sheet in a three-ring binder.  Do you know what this means?  Are you aware of what this portends?  This seeming victorious leap over that pesky chore on the to-do list from hell, “back-up ALL photos since time immemorial” is nothing to celebrate really, because what I have set in motion is the certain imminent obsolescence of not only my method and tools of digital photo back-up, but most likely the definition of the medium in general.  Sorry.  If it would help I could also learn to text message so that nasty form of communication could also be replaced by something else.  Maybe something less annoying, solitary, offensive, and anti-social that perhaps sucks the character and poise out of people at a relatively slower rate.   Maybe there’s a new way to communicate with your best friends across town that involves holding an old woman’s hand, looking deep into her eyes and asking her about her day. 

Kim

I think it’s been well-established that I‘ve been at various times in my life, difficult, petulant, perhaps not the bubbliest bottle of pop on the soda

shelf.  So it may not surprise you if I pose this ungratefully tinged question:

? ? ? ? ? ?

Have
you ever received a gift, and on the outside you are gracious, thankful
and appreciative, perhaps making appearances at using,  wearing or
otherwise incorporating said gift into your life.  However, on the
inside, maybe way deep down, deeper than you even realize, you may be
thinking, “I don’t like this gift.”  Perhaps, “This gift is not what I
asked for.  It’s not my color, size or style, and in fact takes more
effort on my part to tend to, dust, launder or upkeep than I am even
remotely interested in feigning.” 

I admit that I have
received gifts that have actually stirred anger in me.  Prompted
feelings or, “What the hell – don’t you know me?  Am I expected to keep
this?  If I pretend to like this are you going to blow it again next
year because I’m encouraging such awful behavior?” 

Now, let
me point out that I do not feel that way often (maybe once every 28
days or so, and the coincidence of receiving a gift on those special
days are thankfully rare.)  I mostly felt this bad-gift rage in my
late-teens and early twenties, when I was quite focused on chiseling my
identity out of the limestone and tears that this world had provided me, and the affront of unwrapping a holiday-themed fuzzy sweater
during my black-on-black days did not sit well.  Irony wasn’t the new
black – yet. 

Also to consider, the German word for poison is…gift.

Here is where you will start to shake your head and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.  You will not be the first, and you will not be alone.

Treat life as a gift, not as a playback mechanism for fouled plays, or planning sessions for future situations.  Treat life like it is…right now…and there.  Did you like that one bit of life right there?  And now there’s another one, just then when you were wondering why you never became a test pilot.  Oops, you just missed another one while thinking about how much weight you’d actually have to lose before allowing yourself to be seen by your ex-lover.  That one you missed had a pretty bird in it and was very symbolic of change or flight or something, but no matter.  It’s gone.  Pay attention.

Kim

I have a short conversation in my office this afternoon about a colleague that died recently.  “How did it happen? Why did he die?”  We are past the sobbing and wallowing, so these are more direct factual questions and not the dramatic versions heard closer to the event itself.  Really, we ask, how did he die?  And why, exactly?   It’s an odd conversation spreading essentially useless information to curious persons. 

My day moves on and later that afternoon I am driving home from work and the sun shines from behind my drivers seat, over my shoulders and onto my dashboard as I head eastbound toward home and family.  This  circumstance of sun on dash suddenly lights up all of the dashboard lights normally hidden in darkness until such time as a mechanical warning or crisis is imminent.  The once-every-now-and-then Check Oil light has now been outclassed bya full court press of every idiot light on the panel, all illuminated at once by the stray ray of sunshine.  Oil pressure, Oil service, Temperature, Brakes, ABS, Charging system, Check engine, Air bag, EMISSIONS, Fuel filter water trap, Fuel cutout, Door ajar, Maintenance required, LOW tire.  All at once I am crudely shocked out of my safety zone and into the potentially dangerous  region of  potential dangers.  Things  I had forgotten were even critical parts of my automobile are now ready to leak, stick, jam, dry up, under-inflate, overheat, cutout or stop.  Or in the case of brakes, stop stopping.  My heart races at all of the possibilities I hadn’t considered in my driving, filling-up, cruising around contentment.  So many ways my good old car could just…go kaput.

Then I remember the conversation about our friend dying, and realize this is so similar.  My friend died of a rare genetic narrowing of an artery to the brain.  He had a hemmorage.  Certainly THAT light had never lit up the dash before.  It starts the dialogue that begs the question, What else is on our dash?   What are our idiot lights?  That is why we ask the hard cold questions after a death.  Was she sick?  Is it genetic?  (Could I get it, too?)  Were there any symptoms?  (Did her warning light stay on, ignored, for another thousand miles, because she wasn’t quite sure what it meant, and the “car” was running pretty good despite it?”)

ABS!!?  I didn’t know I have Antilock Brake Systems, and if they fail, then what?  There is so much more to worry about now that this is illuminated.  So much can go wrong.

Narrowing arteries?  I never thought a day in my life about them narrowing or fattening.  If they fail, then what?  There is so much more to worry about now that this is illuminated.  So much can go wrong.

Sleep tight!
Kim

I know what my life is missing.  According to the (too) many hours of quite dramatic television viewing I have succumbed to of late, it seems that my needs are few and readily met.  If I could have a hand-held camera crew, a rockin’ theme song, a few catch phrases to put meaning to my daily tasks, and, of course, a narrator, my day-to-day goings on would go from drab to fab in the time it takes to say, “One woman, one To-Do list, no survivors.”  Here are some ideas I’ve culled (lifted) from various shows:

- Henceforth my trips to the bank will be referred to as the “Dash For the Cash”.
- When I vacuum I will pop the veins in my neck and forehead and yell, “Suck it up!”
- I will begin every activity with the phrase, “Let’s rock ‘n roll, ” except for rock ‘n roll band practice, which I will preface with “Let’s dance, ladies.”
- My office hours will be treated as covert operations, all my co-workers and clients treated as if they were idiots, with particularly ominous music played during all trips to the copy room and kitchen areas.  (I won’t be able to truly swear at work, so I will request that I be bleeped every time I actually say “funding”, in order to nurture my bad-ass-take-no-prisoners-or-messages image.)
- There will be emotional outpourings in my home-away-from-home (the mini-van) and the intimate camera work will capture the true dichotomy of my inner-turmoil, outer…outer-turmoil, the swaying parking permit on the rearview mirror, the kleenex box and baby wipes at easy arms’ reach, NPR in the background, the angst of Garrison Keillor underscoring my inner snark.

Soon my life will be romanticized, glamorized and imitated.  All over the country mini-vans will go about their daily business with a full crew packed in the back, and if you listen carefully at the next stoplight you will hear, “Helen thinks long and hard about pick-up time at Happy Acres pre-school.  She’s got seven minutes to land the short one, hit the bank and head back west, into the setting sun and home to the dog, not yet house trained.  Will Helen’s gamble pay off?” (cue theme music…)

“Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.   Oh yeah, and let’s rock and roll!”

Well, it doesn’t help that one of my seventeen kids (okay, four) was “removed” from summer camp today for continually breaking rules.  I’m sure he will enjoy sitting quietly in an office with me seven hours a day instead of swimming, playing and…breaking rules with reckless abandon.  It also doesn’t help that I am multi-tasking on a uni-tasking salary.  I keep meaning to drink more, to relax, but can’t seem to fit it into my schedule.  What a lousy drunk.  Oh, and I’ve discovered GarageBand, so my spare time is now spent like a nineteen year old single boy locked in his room with a guitar and delusions of grandeur (note to the casual stranger:  my days of actual grandeur are formally behind me, and were quite nice at the time).  Last Thursday I exhaled after twenty three days of short sharp inhales.  Stress management is apparently not my forte.