Piglet On The Move

Hey! It's a three-fer today! Three posts in one day! Yes, I was awake a lot last night! To be explained below!

When I sign my posts as Piglet, I am thinking more of A. A. Milne's version - a rather timid, smallish animal, with a slight stutter when anxious - not the barnyard version with the curly tail.

Remind me to go on a rant later about how farmers cut their piglets' tails off to cut down on chewed and infected tails caused by cruel overcrowding. Well, I guess that's pretty much the whole rant...

Anyhoo, we are moving this week, and it's a good move, into a wonderful new house. But still, I am reminded not of A. A. Milne's fuzzy Pooh-friend, but of a barnyard piglet squealing for all she's worth because Mr. Farmer needs to move her from Pen A to Pen B. It might be for her own good, but she's gonna squeal her little guts out anyway, cause it frightens and upsets her.

I'm a barnyard piglet this week.

Just a Thought

I loved Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

I love, love, love Johnny Depp's (and of course Tim Burton's and Danny Elfman's) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The only suggestion I might have had: consider Bob Newhart in the role(s) of the Oompa-Loompa(s). Just a thought.

A New Experience I Could Have Done Without

I’ve always been headache-prone. Stress, a stuffy nose, an empty stomach, songs sung out of key, you name it and it gives me a headache. But I’ve always felt lucky that I did not have to endure migraines like my mom used to have.

I know I’ve been lucky because when I was growing up, the word Migraine was the Word of Doom. Dad, normally happy to have kids around and tolerant when they acted like the beastly animals that they are, would turn into the most fiercely protective Guardian of the Quiet when Mom’s Migraine struck, and the house would become deathly still. If, for some (now I’m sure totally not) good reason, you had to creep into Mom’s room to ask her a question, her low, raspy whispering Migraine Voice reply would make you feel like the worst kid ever for interrupting her, and vow never to do it again. This is hindsight, of course. You know in reality that guilty feeling lasted all the way until you turned around to tell your sister, “Told you so!” in your shriekiest voice.

I’ve been lucky up until last night. Yesterday, my stomach was inexplicably nauseated. My lunch tasted….tasteless. The sun came out momentarily and blinded me. I skipped dinner. Then I woke up at 2:00 a.m. with an ice cream headache that would not go away. You know the kind that makes you make that screamy ice cream headache noise? I was making that noise, hoping that it might work like some magic incantation that would make the pain go away. Didn’t work. Ibuprofen didn’t touch it. Twice. I finally dug deep into my drawer and found one old Codeine pill that I had squirreled away from the time I hurt my back – thank God. Otherwise, I would have hurled myself, well, I don’t know. Probably, I would have just hurled.

I finally drift off to Codeine land, and this is where it gets weird. Drew gets up and gets ready for work. He comes in to say good bye, and I open my mouth to speak and my mom’s Migraine Voice comes out. Well, it’s come full circle, hasn’t it? It’s my turn. The only thing I can still consider myself lucky about is that I no longer have thoughtless children such as myself at home, trying (kind of) to be quiet.

The Calm Before the Storm, and a Shy Person's Day

We still have a week and a half before we move and I've pretty much packed everything that isn't currently being cooked, written on or worn. Too much time, not enough possessions, I guess. I knew I should have bought more shoes.

I'm afraid I would have to turn in my badge as an American female if anyone knew that (not counting running shoes) I have purchased four pairs of shoes in the last three years. One pair of Dansko professionals (Danish clogs for us former-Birkenstock-wearers-turned-yuppies) per year, and one pair of Dansko sandals. What does that say about me? You could say that it says that I wish I was about an inch and a half taller but don't like to wear heels. You would be right. Or you could say that it means that comfort means more to me now than fashion. You would be right again. I suppose if comfort meant wearing the same vinyl wedgie moccasins that grace the eastside "assisted living estates," I might not feel so above the fashion fray, but luckily for me, it's not that bad. Enough about footwear. (I can hear you snoring.)

Drew has been at work for the last two days. Most non-shy people would never believe what it is like in a shy person's house for two days when she has nothing to do but pack. It's very quiet. The phone doesn't ring because no one owes her a phone call. And I certainly do not call anyone under my own power.

Sometimes I wonder whether this is really a healthy way to live - whether maybe I should seek out more human contact. Maybe. But why should shyness be considered a disorder? If people make me nervous, isn't it better here at home with limited people-contact? Isn't everyone better off, and less medicated? Am I really unhappy here by myself? Not really. I just wonder about it sometimes, and think how most people I know would not be able to handle more than a day of my quiet life...

Now I'm going to blow your mind. I was a cheerleader in high school and considered a huge ham whenever I had an audience. But then again, "off stage," my nickname was "Mouse." Well, actually "Jaundice Iguana Mouse," but that's another story, and I'm not sure I ever knew how it went. I can understand the "Jaundice" part, because it sounds like "Janice," but where did "Iguana" come from? I don't know. I'm not normally green or scaly. Maybe we have similar chins. You would have to ask Marcie Kesey. It was her idea.

What Does It Mean?

What Does It Mean?

For the longest time, I thought John Mayer was singing about "waiting for my fears to dry" in his song Bigger Than My Body when he is actually waiting for his fuse to dry, which makes a little more sense, but is a little less satisfying to me....

What Does It Mean?

Last might I dreamed about falling asleep while my pet owl slept on my chest. I had a pet monkey too, which woke us up by jumping on the owl.

What Does It Mean?

Why does it seem so much more fascinating and urgent to compile a list of one's Top Ten of All Time songs in the evening after a few drinks then it is the next morning? Okay, I threw that one in to give you an easy one...

Don't you hate it when your ludicrous jokes become reality?

Worst case:
I actually said before Hurricane Rita: gosh, wouldn't it be awful if Houston got hit with a hurricane and they had to evacuate the Astrodome? Whooo, that would be bad....

Almost as bad:
Okay, when women started blindly wearing "capri" pants (imagine the finger gesture for quotes - it works better in this case), even though "capri" pants make virtually everyone look fatter and shorter than they already are, just because some "fashion" magazine (again with the finger quotes) told them they were some kind of "must have" (aaaugh, don't get me started! oops, I guess I've started...), I made a joke about how the next thing they'll have women wearing are some of those "gaucho" pants (finger gesture with accompanying gagging gesture) that were roundly criticized the first time around (in the late 70s for you youngsters) as being the most awful, unflattering, intentionally worn garment since the Elizabethan age of pizza pan-sized pleated collars. And what did I see this morning in the newspaper ads for the local department store? Gaucho pants! I would laugh if I weren't crying. First Bush, now gaucho pants. This never would have happened under a Democratic administration.

Sorry about the parentheses, but they were unavoidable.

My Malfunctioning Brain

There are many frightening ways for a brain to malfunction. It could nourish a tumor, or create electrical storms in its our neurons, or allow senility-inducing plaques to develop, or harbor faulty and failing blood vessels, or produce too many or not enough neurotransmitters and make you want to do harm to yourself or Jodie Foster.

But my brain, today, has chosen an even more insidious way to harm me: and endless-loop tape of the theme to the late-70's sit-com Laverne and Shirley. Here - I'll share some: "...our way, yes, our waaaay, making our dreeeeams come true, for me and you!" Gee, hope that doesn't cause your brain to pick up the same endless loop...

I'm Still Here

Here are a few bits and pieces of my mind while we've been busy getting our dream house ready to sell so we can buy our really, really dream house (no snide comments accepted; we have already made them all at ourselves):

On my mind: The other day I saw a woman turned away from the dermatologist's office because she didn't have the proper voucher or something. She certainly didn't have health insurance as we luckier-than-thou types do. It was humiliating for the woman, uncomfortable for the receptionist who could only follow her employers' rules, and embarrassing for those of us in the waiting room who could not escape the woman's tearful and then angry response. Tax me. Tax me, take the burden off those employers who give a @&$ about their employees, put the burden on all of us and together let's fix this horrible system of haves and have-nots. Man, I hope she didn't have melanoma.

A challenge: An awesome replacement for the word "awesome."
I tend to continue to use the word awesome, but only in an ironic context, such as saying that it was awesome the way Bushy's eyes flicked around the room, looking for someone (Uncle Dick? Carl? Dad?), anyone to jump in and take the blame for the pathetically inept and bureaucratically hamstrung hurricane disaster relief effort before he could get to the part in his prepared "whoops" speech where he had to say a qualified "I take responsibility." That was awesome.
Oops, sorry, I keep going off on political tangents today, and I'm trying to avoid this becoming a political blog. That is so done. Besides, my family will shun me as a black, black, bleeding-heart sheep more than they already do.
Turning around now, marching back to the beginning of the conversation:
Although I try to limit my use of the word "awesome" to certain delicious ironies, Drew continues to use it in its more middle-school usage, as in, "You bought a boat today? That's awesome!" Of course there's nothing wrong with that. If you're in middle school. From a 44-year-old, it tends to match his surf t-shirts, both of which scream "Boy, did I love the 70's!"
In order to try to save him the embarrassment of telling adults who are not fire fighters (who still pretty much live in a constant middle school anyway) that something is sincerely awesome, I am enlisting the help of friends and family out there: what is a fresh, new way to say "awesome," "neat-o," "far out," and/or "sw-eet!"?

I welcome any sincere, and/or ironic, suggestions.

And Finally:
I thought you would like to know that the Vancouver library has three (3) copies of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Past Life Regression. True story.

Sick, Sick, Sick

If you find a puddle of mucous on the sidewalk next to my headless corpse, you will know:

a) that my head has finally exploded from the pressure build-up of sinus goo; and

b) that I am finally free from the pain.

What makes this condition even more of a bummer is that I am having a very difficult time feeling sorry for myself while my nephew is in Bethesda Naval Hospital with two (2) non-functioning kidneys. He was in such bad shape on Friday that he was in intensive care, in an induced coma, on a respirator and fighting for his life.

The good news is that he is now off the respirator and able to withstand his dialysis treatments. My love and prayers go out to him. He's a sweet, talented kid who does not deserve this.

I Admit It

Alright, dammit, maybe it's a little flesh-colored...

Painting, Wounding with Words, and an Ode to Skorts

I am painting again. No, not the exciting, bohemian, creative type of painting, but the arm-killing, elbow-injuring, ladder-teetering, paint-the-house type of painting. I'm not complaining; the house needed it badly. Another Washington winter and the thing could have vied for haunted-house-of-the-neighborhood status. Luckily, Drew is doing most of the heavy lifting and ladder-teetering, leaving me to do some edging, door-painting, and supervising.

The color took us a long time to decide on. Everything we really wanted to use turned muddy and awful-looking up against our house. The culprit was the roof shingles, which are an odd mixture of old-brick reddish and old-wood tannish. I finally came to the conclusion that to fight the roof color was a bad idea, and we would end up with one of those houses that just look icky for some reason that you just can't put your finger on. I went to the paint store, picked out the color of the roof to work from, then found a tan color that would coordinate with it nicely, and chose a nice, dark reddish brown for an accent color.

For some reason, the choice of tan was a hard one for Dean to accept. He wanted anything but tan. Don't ask me why tan affects him like that. We all have our color issues, I suppose. So when he came home from work and saw the new, vast expanse of tan, his anger at our indifference to his tan aversion must have forced him to use his words to wound. And he chose carefully. To me, he said the house looked awfully "fleshy." As if to intimate that I, an artist, could not tell that I had chosen the color of flesh to surround my house with. That's okay. I can accept his angry words.

For Drew, he chose to use the word "pink." The word most feared by he-man fire fighters. Drew took it more to heart than I did until I explained that Dean had just used the word that would cause him the most pain, as he was feeling such pain from the tanness. We must understand and sympathize.

Drew said he will feel much better when he moves out and doesn't have to look at it any more. There is that too. And the fact that we have gotten five compliments from neighbors - some that we didn't even know. Until now, I guess.

And now a word about skorts. Skorts rock. They are so much more worthy of a new fashion fling than the awful, awful capri (especially for those of us with a few inches less leg than others).
And they are so much more useful than that other word hybrid, the spork, which is neither a functioning fork or a spoon that won't, on occasion, give you an unintentional tongue piercing.

Skorts, for someone like me whose legs are slightly less fabulous than they were a few years ago, tend to hang a little longer than your average short, which makes me feel a little safer in them. For instance, while driving or riding in the car, I don't have to look down and see things jiggling that should never, ever be jiggling. However, it is short enough that it leaves the best leg parts out, for either viewing or cooling. And I can sit cross-legged on the floor and brush my dog or work in the garden without the danger of the skirt. I have three skort and I pretty much wear them interchangeably all summer. If I had four, I would have one more.

That's what I'm thinking.

Handy Tips for Cyclists

Things to avoid saying to your mom over the phone while at a race:

• Where's the nearest hospital from here?
• Hey, remember that tooth I just had fixed?
• Well, my bike's okay.

Things to avoid leaving in the toilet:

• suspicious-looking floating bits of shaving cream
• bandaids
• loogies that stick to the bowl that I have to remove, ahem, manually

If you live with someone who does your laundry even when she told you she wouldn't anymore:

• Take the bags of Goo out of your jersey pockets.
• Clothing with more holes than fabric become rags.
• For God's sake, turn your bike shorts chamois-side IN.

Congrats, Dean, on a third in the kilo and a fourth in the Olympic sprint (2005 U-23 Track Cycling Nationals) from your Number One Athletic Supporter.

News Update from LA

Dean is having fun at National Track Cycling Championships in LA this week. He didn't get into the finals in the Keirin (picture roller derby on bicycles with one gear and no brakes), but he had a good time making trouble for other racers (that's not really the point, but it's a bonus if you're a real Keirin rider).

The big news is a bronze medal in the Under-23 age category for the Kilo, the race that he hates so much he "retires" from it every time he finishes one. It's a kilometer time trial as fast as you can go. It's a too-long sprint, too-short endurance race that's like the dreaded 400 for runners. And besides, since it's a time trial, there's nobody else on the track to push around. Despite all the downsides, he's good at it any way. Unless he's retired again.

Tomorrow is the sprints, another race that he is a natural in, even though he hasn't necessarily trained for it this year.

Stay tuned.

My Dog Loves Me With One Exception

This is Annie after a bath. She hates, hates baths.

Over the last two years, Annie the Smooth Collie has gone from fearing everything and running away at the slimmest sliver of open-door freedom to a happy, tail-wagging, toy-loving goofball.

This is sometimes the process who have to go through when adopting a pet from a rescue group like the Humane Society. Since you can't see a dog's past, and she obviously can't tell you what she's been through, all you can see at first is potential, and all you can use to coaxe it out of her is patience and kindness.

Now Annie loves the whole family. She loves to sniff the boy smells from Drew and Dean (and any male visitor), rub her face and snort along the couch after a good meal, catch her toys unaware and give them a dramatic, if slow-motion shake (wouldn't want to wrench our neck muscles, now would we?), and prance after tennis balls in the back yard. She acts very much like a teenage modelling hopeful, always seeming to be aware of how she looks (with the exception of the occasional public satisfaction a private itch), fixing her hair with a shake, picking up her feet in a hackneyed Lipizzaner-Stallionesque prance when fetching toys, and giving boys a little backwards glance when offering her booty for a booty-scratch.

The only vestiges left of a difficult few early years are the complete absence of any licking behavior (obviously forbidden in a previous life) and some anxiety at mealtime (no happy wiggling or even drawing too near the dinner-preparer).

She also loves her morning walk, although she doesn't jump and wiggle about like normal dogs (also a possible leftover from unhappy days), but waits patiently for me to get ready with a look of desperation on her face, like she is afraid that, after taking her along for the last 800 walks, I am going to decide to leave her home this time. Once safely outside with leash and poop bags, she sniffs the dog messages left by earlier walkers, carefully chooses her own message-leaving spots, and leaves her messages as daintily as possible (even though the more solid messages get deposited in the poop bag every time), and hopes for the one walk in ten where someone will see her and admire her and pet her and let her smell them. Yes!

After her walk, I leave her at the house and take off for a run. I tried running with Annie but quickly realized that she does not understand the concept. Why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sniff? Why sniff when you can lay in this patch of shady grass?

When I get back from the house, sweet Annie is gone and Freak Dog has taken her place. It seems because every 6 weeks or so I come home from running and give the dog a bath before bathing myself, now every time I come home from running is Danger Time. Annie fears baths more than mean cats and will do anything to avoid them.

I don't know what the big deal is. I use warm water, and the tub floor is nonslip so she has a good foothold, and the shampoo gets massaged into her coat like my hair dresser does to me then charges me for it. If she only knew the cold hose treatment that old Shelby used to endure after a bad case of intestinal upset that left his long Collie fur with too many poopy Klingons (cling-ons for you non-Trekkies) to be allowed inside, she would be grateful for the upgrade. Instead she freaks out.

Usually I can just let her outside and that way she feels safe from the bath monster. This morning, Drew was working on the house, prepping it for the big painting job, and had all the fence gates open, so outside was out. This makes her even more nervous, because she figures that that means its bath-time for sure and goes sprinting down the basement stairs. Whatever. A momentary freak-out once a day is better than the former continually freaked bundle of nerves that she used to be. I'll take that.

I Shall Try Not to Say Shall

The "Shall" had to go. It was way too prissy.

Mean People Suck

Something about competition, and I don't necessarily mean competition for money or power, it could be competition for your name at the top of a list of grown men racing around in a circle on their bikes, but something about competition makes some people mean. It's kind of like giving alcohol to certain people who become mean drunks. Some people are mean competitors.

And one mean competitor can spoil the day for a hundred happy-go-lucky competitors. In fact, it can spoil more then a day, because a mean loser can simmer for days, and then lash out at relatively innocent bystanders.

Does this sound like you? Then knock it off.

Does it sound like someone you know? Then tell them to take up coin collecting.

Today's Band Names:

Rogue Lemming
Tansy Ragwort

Don't Bother Reading This

Having kids is mighty rewarding, I'm sure. Otherwise, who would do it? It's too painful. And not just the first few hours.

Having kids is like doubling the amount of your own skin, only you have no control over how much of it gets scraped off; doubling the number of your bones, without the ability to keep them whole; doubling your own car on the road, without being able to keep the drunks and road ragers off of them, or even know where that other car is.

The worst part is seeing that skin get scraped off, seeing that heart get thumped, seeing those bones break, I can't even imagine the worse things and won't try.

The good parts are great, I just can't recall them right now, because I'm in one of those moods. I think I'm coming down with something. So best not to come too close. And you're excused from reading this downer.

So here's a joke instead, courtesy of the Car Talk guys:

Seems a guy (lets call him Drew) goes to see a new dentist. While he waits, he checks out the obligatory diplomas on the wall and notices that the dentist graduated college about 25 years ago, about the same time he did. And come to think of it, his name did sound familiar; in fact Drew went to high school with a guy with that same name. But once he meets the dentist, he realizes that this guy is way too old to be the same age - he is balding, has a gut, and look at the wrinkles in his face! But hey, just to be sure he asks the dentist where he went to school. The dentist says Vernonia High School. So Drew says, "I think you were in my class." So the dentist says, "Really? What class did you teach?"

Ha-ha! We feel better already!

It's Not Easy Being Me

As I was heading east on SR 500 today to visit my favorite Michael's store (damn you Michael's, and your cheap, easy framing materials, and outrageously expensive art materials!) and PetSmart (damn you, Annie, and your stinky poop that I have to pick up in little baggies!), I was thinking how much extra I must pay to be me.

I'm sure it doesn't hold a candle to the facials, manicures, Nordstrom shopping adventures, and elective surgery required for some persons, but it adds up, I suppose. Well, now, after that last sentence, it seems puny, and actually ruins my whole premise for a post, but I'll just keep going, like a dork, like nothing has happened...

For instance, the closest Michael's store is probably four miles away, right across the river at the Jantzen Beach humongo-mall. It's brand new, and since it is in big-box land, it's probably three times as big as the one I go to. And the bonus is that, since it is across the river, it is in the mythical tax-free land of Oregon, saving me about 8% of everything non-food that I buy.

The Michael's that I am required to go to is about ten miles away (add gas), on this side of the river (add 8% tax) and smallish (add, well, less selection?). But it's right next to the PetSmart that I'm required to go to, so there's that.

Required? Well, for all intents and purposes, yes. This is the shyness tax. Shy people tend to develop routines that feel comfortable to them.

Developing the routines themselves takes enough out of you, believe me. Taking that first adventure out into the unknown that is Vancouver is scary enough. Now that I know that there is a good chance that nothing terrible will happen to me if I go to the Michael's store off SR 500, I will keep going there until something terrible happens to me there. Then the ordeal begins anew. Believe me when I tell you that it is best, blood-pressure-wise, to avoid ordeals.

This same tax requires me to plan my gas tank fillings around my husband's and/or my son's schedules. If I am low on gas, I make sure that they need to use my car for something, and oh, would you mind filling it up while you're at it? No, they don't buy that line, but they are sweet enough to oblige my gas-filling-phobia. If I ever find myself with an empty gas tank and no support system, then I head for the river. Because in the mystical, tax-free land of Oregon, it is illegal (but not tax free - they're not idiots) to pump your own gas. Hence, at least some (although not all) of the anxiety is avoided.

Oh, yeah, and I paid a $74-a-month tax this last year by signing up for a gym membership and then deciding that it was just too icky to work out in front of other people. I'm not sure what the difference is between spending an hour on the elliptical machine with a bunch of strangers and spending an hour running by these same strangers' houses, but it's different. Plus, I am not required to stare at the Fox News Channel for an hour this way (I know that doesn't seem shyness related, but come on! Is it fair? I certainly can't ask them to turn the channel, now, can I?).

And don't forget, if it requires a phone call, I would rather pay the difference, whatever it is. So next time you pick up a phone, or a gas nozzle, thank yourself for being so fearless and stout-hearted. Because we're not all that lucky.

The Days of Life-As-We-Know-It Are Numbered

Dean is planning to move out in September at the start of the new fall term.

Yay! Empty Nest! Party in the playroom! Clothing Optional! Line up for the Conga!

But...who will dance for me? Who will walk around the house on oak tree trunks for legs from all the bike racing and a waist measurement that Scarlet O'Hara would die for? (See sample picture of the tree trunks in a Red Cyclocross Riding Hood Get-up, Annie and the scariest thing I could think of to carve last Halloween. For enough cash, I will post the rest of the picture...)

Yet again, who will make the basement smell like dirty socks? Who will always, always, forget his towel in his room and "borrow" one of ours?

But who will hook me up with new sweet tunes from NY, NZ, PDX and LA? Who will climb up the garrett stairs to give me an honest (and always admiring) evaluation of my latest painting?

Then again, who will eat everything in the fridge before I can get home from work to cook it into dinner? Who will leave dishes in his room until they grow new civilizations?

But who will make the cat purr by whirling her, ceiling-fan-like, across the kitchen table? Who will make the dog so excited she forgets that she's the girl (if you get my drift), and, oh yeah, she's spayed?

Who will clutter up the garage with bikes, bike parts, and tools that he "forgot" to put away? And who can we get to pressure-wash and de-con his room so that we can re-colonize it?

But then who will make MST3K-like wisecracks during movie time? Who will give me a crazy smile and know that that will be enough to make me smile, if not guffaw (depending on the state of his hair and/or Goodwill-flavored outfit)?

And who will dance for me?

Random Thoughts Part 4

This is going to have to be short, because I am in the middle of a painting, and my left brain is limping along on partial power, kind of like the Enterprise after a Klingon encounter that ended badly.

You know what bugs me? Since my newspaper refuses to carry my favorite comic strip, I have to read it online, and then I end up reading it in reverse order because I can't remember where I left off last time I had enough time to surf over there, and then all the serial jokes are completely dulled into near-unfunnyness (what is Agnes doing hanging by her swimsuit from the end of a diving board? How did that little scamp get out there? etc.) You try. http://www.comics.com/creators/agnes/index.html (Did you notice that this is a visual issue? Then extra points for you!) I will now try a verbal-issue entry:

You know what else bugs me? I love to read good books. I don't like to read bad books. But do you have any idea what the ratio of bad books to good books is out there? Me either, but I know it's high! So I end up wasting a lot of time reading bad books, hoping that it will turn out to be a good book before I get to the end. What? You say just quit reading it when you realize it is bad? Yes, but what if I just got a bad impression at first? What if the book is good and I'm just a bad reader? Besides, my mom always told me to finish what I start. I am getting better at putting a book down when I realize I am not enjoying myself, but it takes some getting used to. Especially for someone who ends up taking most of the blame for the book-completion failure.

Band names for today:

The Levi Leipheimer Experiment
Partial Power
The Floyd and Agnes Show
Tour de Frank

That's all I got.