'tis the season to consume some valium

fa-la la la la, la la-laaaah!

gentle readers, please excuse my absence for the last four months. and i apologize if anyone was left to worry that mam and i met our untimely demise at the hands of our white-trash neighbors after playing "dude, who hit my car" one too many times. and quite sadly no, white-trash neighbors did not sell their house (damn you, bursting housing bubble!) and until the day the bank forecloses on their property, white trash momma continues to share our driveway.

but that's not really why i have been so negligent in posting here... i think i alerted folks to the other housing nightmare i would soon be embarking on -- helping my mother sell her house.

in the midst of talking my mother out of her own self-induced anxiety attacks, i also managed to pull together 3 sample chapters and full book proposal for the idea i pitched to a literary agent i met last year. it only took 12 months and whole lotta chutzpah to hit the send button on that one.

but really, the most pressing reason why i have neglected this space is my mother. between talking her out of buying a double-wide trailer in a 55-and-up ghetto fabulous development to avoiding her phone calls -- not once or twice a day, but upwards or three and four times(!), to dealing with her meltdowns when i don't help her take out the trash right now, well, she's one step away from having a fatal accident with her pillow if you catch my drift. as much as i probably needed to write about those events (and i may still in a few months when it's less painful and i can see the comic value in the experience), sadly, i must say i tipped back a few slugs of crown royal on the nights most worthy of such instead.

this latest asault, though is what causes most people that i've told to physically wince -- WINCE -- as in actual facial distortion at my impending doom.

my mother is coming to stay with us. for 6 weeks until she can move into her new place on january 4th, 2008.

SIX WEEKS, FORTY TWO DAYS and way-too-many hours to count. during the already touchy christmas season because for me, even the "regular" family get-togetherness the holidays bring is no day at the beach with all the leftover sand in the va-jay-jay irritation.

fa-la-fcucking-la. seriously, what gods have i pissed off to endure this? (true, there are probably so many...) and i know this sounds horrible, but what irritates me the most is the loss of freedom, and quite possibly, my adulthood that my new house guest will rob me of. "what time are you coming home tonight?" "are you still sleeping?" "what time will you be home from work?" i'll be a teenager all over again, only this time, i'm married with a mortage.

oh goddess, that's not the worst of it. save me from all of the talking!

mam and i have two loves -- sleeping in and silence. there are evenings where we don't speak to each other becuase i'll be writing in one room and he'll be watching tv in another. less talk-y, more do-y of other stuff. my fear is that my house guest will latch herself onto my earlob like a leech and force evil words into my head about such exciting topics as what she and her coworkers ate for lunch, who won dancing with the stars?, and the likes and dislikes are of the newest QVC host or hostess. if my head doesn't explode first, what's left of my brain my just leak out of the ear she's not presently attached to. shudder

say what you want about how evil i sound, but when she called me at work (cornered, if you want my honest opinion) and dropped her bomb, "i can stay with you, right? you're not going to leave me homeless, are you?" well, what do you say to that?

if my life was an episode of ally mcbeal, i'm sure what would follow would be a dream sequence of me screaming into the phone, "yes! by all means, bring your crazy-ass, stalker self directly into my home so then maybe, i won't think i'm crazy when i see a white car parked outside in my driveway that shouldn't be there just because i chose not to pick up your 7th phone call of the day to remind me of the dialogue in call number 6!"

instead, when trapped like a rat in a cage, i accepted my fate. there was no escape. if i said no, what are the alteratives for her? a hotel for 6 weeks? my brother's tiny condo? and goddess forbid, what if i did say no? it would have been less painful to brand myself with the scarlet BD (for bad daughter, natch) than to suffer what was sure to be the most egregious assault against a mother to date. all the breederly types in mothers-against-drunk driving and mothers-against-lead-based toys would surely pop my picture on billboard with such witty slogans as:

"what breaks a mother's heart? a bad daughter who refuses to shelter her homeless mother", or "pure evil" splashed against a particularly hideous picture of myself.

so in accepting my fate, i slowly said into the receiver. "yes, mom. you can stay here until your new house is ready." and ever since, i have been stockpiling wine like vineyards all over the world had simultaneously blew up, taking the world's supply of wine with it.

the moral of this post is if i'm not too drunk to hide with my laptop in a closet, i'll try to post more frequently. bear with me. momma is coming home.

dare i even say it, pray for me?

it takes two

most folks in healthy relationships share some common traits; if they did not, most folks would never hook up in the first place. but it's in the differences where most folks find the interesting parts.

take mam and i for example: he is cool and level-headed in stressful situations. i, on the other hand, have some genetic code triggered that results in piggish, extreme and often violent behavior.

like this afternoon, when i have sat home and plotted my revenge. seems we had the pleasure of being visited by the hit-and-run fairy last night in our own driveway. when we questioned our neighbors this morning about it, considering they share the friggin driveway with us, they may have heard something. or maybe even remember hitting our car since they were the only other flippin' vehicles in it last night.

the old poor thing with a million scratches already and a permanent stale odor of impending death did not deserve an asshat backing into it and tearing its poor mirror from the car. nor did it deserve the long metal on metal scratch that tore through the length of its passenger door. while mam's old car was being ravaged in the dark, we sat watching television and when we heard the crunch and tires squeal, we honestly thought nothing of it.

despite giving it a valiant effort, our neighbors decided they weren't going to pursue this whole marriage thing after all. i mean, he only sent her to the hospital once in recent months, and her alcoholic binges have been somewhat under control lately. but anyway, since they put their house on the market, they've been throwing out junk at all hours of the night with loud thunks and crashes as they decide their flea market finds aren't worth paying to move.

"are you calling me a liar?" the white trash momma screamed at mam from her front porch. "all i want to do is get the bottom of why my car's mirror has been sheared off and there's a huge scratch down the side of my car when you have some surprisingly similar scratches on the back of your truck," mam replied, quite calmly.

i had been tied to a piece of furniture while this was happening to prevent me from going outside and going all ghetto, and thus breaking down these peace accords. in my head rolled images of taking a louisville slugger to her windshield a la the american idol country chick who inspired my fantasies at the moment. since they are trying to sell their house because neither one can afford it alone, i plotted ways to drive them into bankruptcy. i could stand in my front lawn in nasty short shorts and bra top, my white flabby flesh reflecting the sun's rays so brightly that folks wandering into the see the property would be blinded instantly upon entering the driveway.

the driveway! yes, this afternoon i began thinking of how to best sever their access to the driveway at all. if those redneck-tonka truck driving idiots can't figure out how to park in a driveway, then i'd line the driveway with alligators who'd chew at their asses if they tried to even enter it. besides, all i need is for the *official* survey results to tell me what we already know -- the length of the driveway is on my property. only the paved section by their garage is theirs. and no, i do not need to grant them access to it via my portion of it. (that's why i need the alligators.)

"hon, all i want is for them to accept financial responsibility for their actions," mam explained to me in the car. "all i want," i tell him, "is blood if they choose not to. i mean, c'mon, we're going to be out the deductible regardless. i am just willing to recoup my losses with bloodshed, that's all i'm saying."

"at least call the cops on 'em," i continue. "hit-and-runs carry more weight in the justice system." and if they did hit our aging car, that's exactly what had happened.

when mam came back from trying to rationally talk with them, i could tell by his face things hadn't gone well. "fcuk them," he said. "fcuk those white trash rednecks. i'm calling the cops now. and the insurance company. let them sick their lawyers on them. i'm done."

"there, there, honey," i cooed as he untied me, "just remember a firebomb works much quicker."

costco goodness and other random thoughts

at least this year i am ahead of the game and may actually have purchased my husband's birthday present BEFORE his birthday actually gets here. go me!

before you think i'm some wicked wife, to my defense, i was hospitalized last year for the week before his birthday and by the time they released me, i really wasn't in the mood to go shopping.

this year will be different although i am determined to buy mam's birthday present at costco again. instead of ordering online a really cool hammock like last year that got to see more of the united states than i could ever dream on its delivery to casa mc-clotsky before it managed to get lost in transit, i plan to purchase his gift in the store.

just as soon as the item comes back in stock.

see i could tell you what the item is, but then i'd have to kill you. after i finally tracked down a live, honest-to-goodness costco employee that wasn't either carding at the door like a bouncer or stuck behind a huge line as a cashier (try it, i bet you go as crazy as i did trying to find one) and drug him back to the display, he merely shrugged his shoulders and told me i was outta luck.

"sorry, lady. we don't have anymore in stock of those. i could sell you the display but if you want a box, you'll have to wait until tomorrow." as i contemplate the number of scratches on the display and whether it would bug the shit out of me over time because i didn't want to wait until morning, he added, "or i can just write you a raincheck."

nope. a raincheck just will not cut it this year. last year's blood clot gave me a reprieve on punctuality, i have no such excuse this year. (nor do i want one, fcuk you very much.)

"how many are you expecting in?" i ask, trying to gage if i need to make the return trip on saturday or if it can wait until sunday while i mentally rearrange my schedule in my head.

when he says "24", i begin to relax. i have plenty of time until he continues, "but you're the 20th person to ask me that today." damn.

knowing that they open the store at ten, i'm afraid i'll be camping out tomorrow morning, like it's tickets for some sort of super-fantastic-rock-legend-straight-out-of-hell-one-night-only concert. normally, i'm too lazy to be that cheap but it's a whole lotta smackers i'd save by getting at the warehouse of holiness, costco.

seriously, i'll be at the store at 9:30 to stake my claim on one of the 24 "things" due in stock tonight. if you catch the news tomorrow night and see a story about a suburban-assault-vehicle running through a crowd in a parking lot, you can safely bet i was gonna be number 25 in line.

and a random thought for a day...

what marketing genius decided to come out with strawberry-flavored blunts?

i couldn't believe my eyes at wawa while i waited for helga (my nickname for the old, gruff lady who works behind the counter) to take her good old time ringing up the people in from of me.

the pink carton stared out at me while all i could think about was how did this affect the marijuana most people use the friggin' blunts for in the first place? is the strawberry-flavor in the cigar wrapper or in the tobacco?

are the gangs hip to the new pink packaging? it doesn't exactly scream tough urban thug if some g-boy were to pull out a pink box before rolling a fattie joint.

is this the new gay version of blunts? something to entice the gangstas on the down-lo? a new replacement for the ol' friend of dorothy to signal that someone was homosexual?

as i got back into my car and drove away, i shook my head and thought what's next -- blueberry?

queen of stupid

as we tossed the unmarked glass bottle into the women's bathroom trashcan, we stupidly believed we got rid of the last piece of evidence. especially considering we drank the rest of it.

lisa and i were freshmen. high school freshman. which makes us the just about the smartest people in the lunchroom. i mean, did anyone else see upperclassman finding ways to drink in the cafeteria at lunch?

obviously, we had stumbled upon an idea no one else had thought of before.

lisa lived down the street from me, moving in during the summer between eight grade and freshman year. i was so excited! my street held very few other kids my age, and of the few there were, usually had a penis. so the thought of sharing my teenage years with another girl living closeby - someone to try hairstyles with, experiment with makeup, and talk about the boys on the block, had danced in my head.

the day we first met, lisa tossed her long brown hair and asked me if i smoked cigarettes, very casually, as if every 13-year-old girl smoked. with my wannabe bad ass tendencies, i knew we would be fast friends.

(before anyone wonders what happened to the goddess girls during these formative years in my life, we knew each other separately but had not yet fully discovered our goddess-like tendencies.)

as summer turned to fall, lisa and i braved the halls of freshman year together. although having very different rosters, we shared a lunch period, the walk to and from school and even our similarities at home. lisa and her mother her lived alone, about ten houses down from our red-bricked rowhome. no dad, no siblings. just like how my mother and i, save for the sibling part. i would have gladly traded in my brother for a pack of chewing gum at the time.

i don't remember whose idea it was but one day we decided what a good idea it would be to bring a bottle of vodka with us to school. but the big ideas did not stop then! nope, we decided we need to drink it, too. what could be more perfect than those little single, serving-sized orange juice containers for making screwdrivers?

besides, getting a little tipsy at lunch could only ease the rest of the school day. for lisa, this meant getting through whatever remedial class she was placed in. for me, it meant trying to ease the pains of honors english with mrs. o'kane.

a whole week had gone by, and with a slightly sleepy stupor, i enjoyed mrs. o'kane's class for the first time that year -- "great expectations" and ms. haberstram or whatever the decrepit old lady's name was in the book made sense to me. the exact details of the book escape me (still) but for the first time, i relaxed in her class.

but as teenagers are wont to do, i'm pretty sure we could not keep our genius quiet. "i'm buzzed," i'm sure i whispered to the kids around me. and i'm pretty sure lisa blabbed about our discovery that the little orange juice containers could double as old fashioned high ball glass.

so on the morning we saw the deans beginning to circle our lunchtable like a pack of hungry sharks, we shouldn't have been surprised. with the rest of the gals at our lunch table panicking -- even those who did not drink with us -- lisa and i calmly disposed of the evidence. in the days before csi, we were left with having to devise our own methods of subterfuge, the best we could come up with was do down the clear bottle's contents and dispose of the unmarked bottle.

by the time the deans swallowed our lunch table for punishment, there was nothing left behind. except for a few drunk teenage girls.

their interrogation techniques involved separating us, to keep us from sharing one brain in talking ourselves out of our punishment. but i broke like a cheap crayon, smearing contraband mascara all over my face, before finally tossing my cookies into the dean's trashcan when i saw my mom walk in the door.

grounded for life. or what nearly felt like it. detention for most the remainder of freshman year. saturday detention which is nothing like breakfast club movie. there were no hot guys, only juvenile deliquents and future drop-outs and teenage parents. there was no talking because the friggin' moderator would not leave, like the asshat principal in the john waters' flick which would allow us to discover our shared wounds which our teenager years stabbed us with and learn more about the walls, self-erected or otherwise, we built around each other.

nope, it was merely hours wasted staring at the mural of the high school mascot, counting the number of cinderblocks in each wall.

but i was a good student, so my punishment finally subsided and i was able to get on with my academic career, despite the black mark on my permanent record. i can be so smart sometimes, but don't be fooled. it's all just a cover, i am the queen of stupid.

all in the family

dear goddess, i can't believe this is happening again.

my mother wants to sell her house and move to a smaller place. and my brother and i aren't ready to move again. we don't live with her but we have barely recovered from last time.

nearly ten years ago, when we finally moved out of the norf philly ghetto to the beee-u-tiful suburbs of philadelphia, it was complicated.

my brother and i took care of everything. we packed, we arranged for buyers to do walkthrough, we worked with home inspectors. we protected the home inspectors when my mother refused to let one contractor leave when he gave her an unacceptable list of repairs. he wasn't bludgeoned to death or anything. the exchange went something like this:

her: "you ARE OUT OF YOUR FCUKIN' MIND if you think i'm fixing all that crap. get the fcuk out of my house.

[pause for thoughts to register with electrician. as electrician turns to go up basement steps, whirl around like tasmanian devil, split flying as you prepare to scream]

where the fcuk do you think you're going?"

him: "i'm leaving ma'am. i am not going to take your ab--"

her: "i thought i told you to get the fcuk out of here? get OUT!"
him: "i can't go out the front door?"
her: "no."
him: "but my car is out front..."
her: "i don't care. get out."
him: "but how am i supposed to ---"
her: "OUT. get out. i don't care. go out the basement door and walk around. i told you to get the fcuk out of my house. MY house." [contractor dodges the dragon's tale as he hightails it out the basement door.]

seriously, my brother and i listened to the exchange, ears pressed against the basement door for two reasons -- as witnesses, we could be made to testify or worse, be held as accomplices. maybe this was the time our mother snapped. we never before heard the f- bomb dropped from her lips in such a short time span. except for the time someone stole our downspout to sell for drugs but that's another story.

about the only thing we didn't do was write checks for the repairs. trust me, if either of us made enough money to cover any of the costs, we probably would have done it.

this time, she's downsizing. alone. once again, she's witnessing another a neighborhood decaying around her and this time, she vows not to stay put.

which leads us to her decision to want to move. honestly, she's wanted to move for the last 2 years, but when you've lived in a house for almost a decade without doing much in way of repairs, of course you're going to have to binge on the do-it-yourself workshops.

but she's not a diy-er. she's a stomp-her-hooves-until-one-of-her-children-does-it-for-her. (shhuoohcdifh doesn't sound as snappy as diy.)

if anyone ever wanted to know where i get my bitchiness from, seriously, one look in her seemingly mild-mannered demeanor would prove instantly where the chlorine in my gene pool came from. because, with one withering glance, she can put you in your place. silently and quickly, you WILL know you fcuked up.

whether or not you actually did something.

but now that she's got the itch to move, we need to drop everything and help her. before i cast me and my brother into the worst light, we would help her in a heartbeat if some of her requests weren't so incessant.

and like the friggin' energizer bunny, if you don't pick up the phone, she just keeps calling and calling and calling... seriously, if this were any person BUT mother, i would:

1) obtain a restraining order, and 2) confront the person and possibly invoke a fight to test the limits of said restraining order.

and now it's too late. the realtor posted the sign on her lawn on sunday.

by sunday night, my brother and i were over her house cleaning out the last of the basement flotsam.

local inspectors, you're on your own this time. may goddess have mercy on your soul.

goldfinch

Goldfinch - Awakening to the natural spirits, summer solstice and season

a few posts and many weeks ago, i wrote about the strange little highlighter bird who came knocking at my kitchen window.
well, he's still here. and now he's brought a bunch of friends with him.

after about three weeks of him knocking on the window, i had resolved that on my next trip to petsmart, i would pick up a cage and bring him inside. with that much determination, the poor little bird needed some reward for his efforts. but after doing a little research on what to feed him, i realized he was not an indoor bird when i recognized his mugshot online. my little friend was a goldfinch and probably not used to having his wings clipped by living in a 24" cage.

so my next trip to petsmart involved wandering into unfamiliar territory - the bird aisle to look for seed and a feeder. the trip was supposed to only involve dropping the monkeys off for their late spring / early summer bath with the saintly groomers at petsmart.

how do i know they are candidates for sainthood? first, they bathe chloe, the only golden retriever on the planet to abhor water.

second, they manage to get her back into the bathing area without choking her. i watch through the large plate glass window as they gently pull ms. gandhi who has now gone utterly limp, legs splayed out like a giant dust mop towards the same swinging doors that sadie happily tromped through only a few minutes before.

without a doubt, chloe made a friend with another groomer along the way into the back and manages to not only ensnare the second groomer's legs with her leash, she also attempts to hop up on that groomer's table to get away. all of which shocked the shit out of the poor little bichon already on the table, who since he was already tethered to the table could only assume that naturally since he had nowhere else to go, that he claimed dominion over that 2 foot by 2 foot space. the poor guy had half of a haircut before an 75 lb golden retriever tried to make him a pancake by jumping on him. the fact that she landed on another dog did not faze chloe in the least bit.

meanwhile i stood there with my hand over my mouth watching this comedy of errors take place. like a mama watching her child go off to school for the first time -- i laughed at little, i wanted to cry a little, too. all as i sensed her fear and mental pain she would endure of her upcoming bath, until finally mam leans over and tells me, "c'mon, she'll be fine, let's go get the birdseed and get out of here.

so with forty dollars worth of birdseed under my arms, we head back to casa mc-clotsky to install the new feeder under the tree outside my kitchen window where finchy appears. (what you don't name your goldfinches who visit?)

mam managed to install the feeder with relative ease and which minimal advice offered from me as to location, location, location for which branch it should be hung on. while i was warming to the idea of having an outside bird as a pet, i grew cold at the idea of having bird poop on my car parked nearby.

so finchy and i made a deal -- i promised to supply food, he promised to not poop on my car. all of which worked swimmingly, he kept his promise and i kept mine.

except i failed to make similiar deals with the rest of the birds who hit the roadside diner outside my window.

we went through two large bags of seeds before the bombs started. first they started small and relatively unnoticeable. then they began drop them in clusters around my sparse garden, everywhere but my car. and as the pack of finches, robins, and woodpeckers began to show in droves, they also acted more and more like frat boys -- complete with all their cleaning habits as well.

but you think after all the hassles i put myself through that finchy would be happy. not only have a i provided food for him, i feel like a pimp with all of the female finchies who have stopped by the feeder. i'm not sure but finchy may have even gotten lucky if the little nest nestled high in the tree actually has baby finches in it.

so why would finchy continue to knock on the friggin' window?

it's not just the kitchen window anymore. he knocks on the window of whatever room i happen to be in. at first, i believed it was a coincidence that he knocked on the kitchen window when i was in there. when he began knocking on the windows in the family room, i thought he merely needed a break from the rest of the crazy females hanging out at the feeder.

but when the little sucker began knocking on my bedroom window as i was putting away laundry the other day, i figured enough is enough. it's bad enough i am now talking to the birdies like the crazy neighbor, "don't get too close to my car" and "keep it down out there".

figuring there must be some reason why the cosmos is stalking me with a 3 ounce bird, i checked "the google" for an answer for what symbolism lies behind finches flying into your windows like something out of a hitchcock film.

the result? goldfinches symbol an awakening to the natural spirits, summer solstice and season. the freakiest connect? the little brown finches who've been pooping all over my garden symbolism multiplicity. after the chills stopped running down my spine, i thought to myself am i doubly lucky if this bird who is reminding me to post to my blog also poops on me on my way out the door?

in anyway, i tell you what, if i find a yellow highlighter outside the bathroom window, i will know my life has really gone to the birds.

red sangria

the long-ass email sent to goddess girl liz last night:


i got your vm, was double-booked tonight. had a work dinner (at tinto, v. good. would go back again) which i bugged out on to go to jen lancaster's book signing/reading at b&n on rittenhouse sq.

she was v. good, i was a bit tipsy (but there's a point here) since i bugged out on food portion of the dinner but had plenty of drinks before then. (it was the never empty glass type of place.) gave her my business card with the url to my blog. i'll need to check to see if she went on or not. but i did make her laugh, when i told her my bag peed on her book. the friggin' coat check must've put my bag on the bottom, so my h20 bottle sprung a leak and soaked my bag - iPod, blackberry, cell phone, a check i wanted to deposit from verizon -- and my copy of "bright lights, big ass" that i wanted her to sign. arrgggh. but she told me i was funny as i told her about the wet spot my bag left on the chair back where i was sitting.

i really need to work on my proposal cause there is not one freaking reason why i can't do what she's doing now. except of course the fact that i am scared to actually do it!

anyway, after a long rambly message, you called to ask what to bring. bring red sangria. i drank so much of it at tinto and now i'm craving it. never knew sangria to be addictive but what else is new?!?

the other good part of my night - i am no longer a capogiro virgin! so hungry after my buzz wore off i treated myself to gelato. and you're so right -- it is like an orgasm in my mouth!

call me doolittle

okay, one would think after my last post containing photos of my devil dogs looking all pretty in pink that the animal kingdom would stay clear of me these days. after all, their eyes said yes, as their lips said "you'd give me cookies if you loved me" as i snapped their pictures that evening in my kitchen. i can be one mean muthafcuker.

do they believe me? nope.

seems like my home is the friggin' promised land for all creatures great and small. neighborhood dogs find their way to my door when they escape the clutches of their guardians grasp, knocking, breathlessly, "hey lady, is this chloe and sadie's house? i hear you have good cookies. lemme in, will ya?"

in the wintertime, we have tiny mice and the snakes that love to hunt them move into my basement.

now, it seems a little bird with a highlighter yellow body is convinced he should reside at our house as well. how do i know this? because the little fcuker keeps hurling his little day-glo body at my kitchen window. the first time i heard the clicking, i didn't think much of it. i was doing laundry after all, a time when all machinery on high begins to clink and wheeze and whirrrl throughout the house -- what's one more chink-chink really?

this time though, he's going to get hurt. seriously, having watched the movie the omen last week late at night (two thoughts on this: 1) never watch a scary movie of that magnitude late at night by yourself, and 2) why is it always rottweilers who are portrayed as the hounds of hell? when the devil seed need to be protected, who popped up -- rotties, looking all mean and vicious, too! do they ever show one in his or her true element -- curled up in ball, soundly asleep with one of their squeaky toys and her golden retriever sister? maybe passing a little gas for good measure? noooo...)... where was i?

anyway, the little bird hurling himself at the window reminded me of the scene where the monkeys and gorillas freak the fcuk out when damien goes to the zoo. i mean, these monkeys weren't having none of him in their house, that's for damn sure.

so after watching this bird hurl himself at the glass repeatedly, i began to look around the room. is there any sign of the pending apocalypse happening in my kitchen?

i wasn't cooking, so we could scratch that one of the list. as if my first ever successfully cooked meal could inspire the four horsemen to dinner, that would be my friggin' luck.

oh, wait? i am not pregnant, am i? because aside from sucking big hairy donkey balls, that surely would be the sign of the second coming. the alien creature would be checked for 6-6-6 on every part of its body before slain at the very unholy altar of martha stewart living in supreme and utter sacrifice for all of man- and womankind. puppy-kind, too.

good thing i lost that tampon last week to remind me, no, i will not bear the spawn of satan. or mam, for that matter.

nope, this little bird just wanted inside. just call me doolittle, and be sure leave your doo-doo outside the door, please.

because i can

normally, i scoff at people who dress their dogs in little outfits. these same folks are usually the ones carrying their little dogs around with them in $1100 specialty purses. (do you think those little dogs leave little "presents" for mommy in those purses? just a thought...)

anyway, when i was cleaning out my closet a few weeks ago, i came across an old navy sweater that met its fate with the washing machine and died a horrible shrinking death. (this shrinking death is nothing like the horrible shrinking death my "fat clothes" have undergone recently -- that is merely one of the unsolved mysteries of the universe. or a big fat clue my big fat ass needs to go back on a diet in a big fat way. but i digress.)

so what better way to say goodbye to a old friend but to drape it around the shoulders of my two favorite girls in the universe -- buffy and muffy. otherwise, known as the devil dogs, chloe and sadie.





all they need is pearls to make jen lancaster proud.

schlitzed

schlitzed (shlitzd)
verb. past tense. slang, as in "to be a drunk". to drink a cheap beer for the sole intention of getting blitzed beyond reason.


my grandmother was schlitzed again. this time, when she awoke, she was laying outside in the middle of her lawn, sore and bruised, surrounded by neighbors and ambulance workers who tried to take her to the hospital after she fell. blacked out, really. she says she lost her balance carrying grass clippings out to the trash. the neighbors have stopped calling us when these things happen any more.

if it wasn't so fcuking sad it may just be comical. think about it - a 79-year-old female alcoholic. most drunks don't last that long -- their livers give out long before they reach that age. or a heart attacks stops them cold in their tracks. nope, like a fine wine, my grandmother's fermented with age.

you may think this is sudden or strange her neighbors no longer take an interest in alerting us to her misdeeds. her old neighbors would certainly call to tell us if anything was wrong -- like the time last year when she fell in her living room. as she teetered around her living room in her $5 walmart sneakers (because she won't let us buy her anything better), she lost her footing and fell.... butt first into her glass-topped coffee table. she didn't cut or injure herself in the fall. nope, she just got stuck. so she does what anyone would do, she yells her bloody head off until someone hears her. we arrive just as the ambulance is taking her away to the hospital to be checked out, just enough time to clean up shards of broken glass from the table and the window where the neighbors broke in trying to get to her. to make her stop screaming.

living alone, she's taken to bouts of self-medicating her loneliness from time to time since my grandfather died.

in 1985.

that was when she gave up her "booze" as she called it in favor of beer. schlitz. or whatever cheap beer the local warehouse has on sale.

when my brother was in college, in between classes or before work he would run her to the grocery store for a food order or run other errands for her. as a mature looking 19-year-old, he rarely got carded in bars, but somehow taking your 70-year-old grandmother into the beer distributor for three cases of the cheapest beer possible raised some suspicions. as he'd load the cases into the trunk of his car, the shop clerk would chat up my grandmother, hoping she'd slip and let on that my brother really intended throw a keg party. nope, she just said that it was for her. and it was, a week's supply.

we stopped taking her on her beer runs. so she arranged for weekly delivery instead.

it doesn't shock me this time. her face is beaten and cruised, her shoulders sore. her neighbors have stopped calling each time she falls down and these days, my grandmother lets a day or two slide in between her falls and when she gets around to telling us what happened.

but she stopped drinking alcohol she told the doctor when at her appointment he flat out asked her if she was drinking before her blackout. "i only drink beer to make me poop" she tells him of the sage wisdom a doctor supposedly told her in 1962 and that no one person or shred of medical evidence has since been able to convince her otherwise.

so my stubborn old grandmother can drink with the best bike messengers, swilling cheap beer until she blacks out or gets into a barfight. doesn't everyone's?

lost in a blood red sky

as a teenager, my friends and i laughed in amazement at the stories our friend melissa would tell us about her aunt. the one in particular that shocked us was the one in which her aunt landed herself in the hospital after having sex without removing her tampon.

"how could she not know she had one in? how could she just forget?" we wondered aloud. as 16-year-olds goddess girls, we were new to our bodies but we knew enough to never have a guy pull on the string, let alone have sex with one in.

which is where we start this post. it seems my va-jay-jay is now the blackhole (so to speak) for tampons. like george bush's elusive search for WMDs, i too, had a fruitless search looking for a tampon that i swore was there.

the lightbulb finally registered over my head the other evening as i got changed after work. by the time that "whoops, i forgot to take something out" blinked overhead, the tampon had already decided to play hide-and-seek. and it was nowhere to be found.

"i don't understand, what do you mean, you can't find it?" mam asks. "they don't just wander off by themselves. where did it go?"

listening to his questions, i realized his tone changed from this is not a new version of "not tonight, dear i have a headache" to "what the fcuk did she do this time" as i am hunched over the toilet spelunking in search of this elusive tampon string.

"are you sure you put one in this morning?"

wordlessly, i point to the applicator discarded in the trashcan and go back to digging rooting through my va-jay-jay like a homeless person searches for food in a trashcan -- mumbling incoherently as i look. but i am starting to panic as those same words are forming in my throat - where the hell can it go?

flat like a tube of toothpaste
my health education classes in a catholic high school were a joke. as the track coach sweated profusely at the front of the classroom, he would provide such gems of wisdom like "the vagina is flat like a tube of toothpaste" and "the cervix is the size of a typed letter O".

forget any chance of actual sex education or -- goddess forbid -- any mention of birth control except to point out failure rates. then they push their own agenda of the natural family planning, with like a 50% failure rate. it's like trying to sell someone on a car whose brakes work only 50% of the time when the car they want has brakes that work 99%. (in a way that would make any lawyer proud, they also point out the 50% failure rate is user error. as in, if you were a better driver, you wouldn't need effective brakes to avoid a crash, would you?)

we educated ourselves on our bodies, through each other, planned parenthood, and good old fashion research in the days prior to the internets". (seriously, how did we advance civilization prior to having this wonderful series of tubes at our disposal?) and we certainly all learned how to use a tampon.

which is why now, at age 31 and seemingly wiser than my 16-year-old self, this is so disturbing. frankly, i am not sure which is more disturbing -- that i can't remember taking the tampon out or the fact that i lost the tampon without realizing it. either way, i feel like i've got more serious issues than a missing wad of cotton and string.

just call the doctor
after checking the internet to see what ills will befall me with this wad of cotton that must now be lodged somewhere between my uterus and my breastbone, i broke down and called the doctor knowing full well the advice i would receive. (this is after the serious of tubes told me to put my legs onto a wastebasket while squatting over the toilet and pretend to give birth (pretend?), pushing downwards to use your muscles to rouse the tampon from its hiding place, mind you. mam had quite the chuckle when he opened the bathroom door to find me in such a position with a mirror on the floor between my legs.)

dialing the number on my cell phone, i reach the lovely answering service who assures me that if this is an emergency i should go the emergency room at the hospital. the memories of sitting in the waiting room for hours waiting to be seen by a doctor still fresh from my mc-clotsky days, i told her i just wanted to speak with the doctor instead. now that it's 8 pm, and the office closed exactly 30 seconds prior to my call, i wasn't hopeful for a quick call back.

the next morning, after a fitful night worrying that the symptoms of toxic shock syndrome would take hold before the doctor called me back, i preemptively called them. i began my spiel with my best legalese (i've been hanging around lawyers too much these days) "i may or may not have taken it out, to the best of my knowledge..., i cannot recall such an event" .... so much so, the receptionist may have recognized the language as being legalese and decided to bring me in to see the doctor just in case i was a lawyer with a lost tampon (i'm not.)

at the doctor's office, the assistant takes my blood pressure. "rough day at work today?" she asks while looking at her watch to see, now that it's 3:30 pm and i've been sitting in the waiting room for a half-hour now. "you might say, what with scoring your last available appt for months, ducking out of work early a week before a deadline, worried sick that either i have lost my mind or a wad of cotton is hiding behind my cervix, waiting to let loose a nasty wave of toxic shock syndrome which, with my luck sister, will just plain. old. suck."

damn, my inner voice is tough.

thankfully, my sadist otherwise known as my gynocologist, decided the office was too warm, and turned the thermostat down a few degrees before i would need to disrobe. this helped eliminate the steam that shot from my ears, too.

the temperature finally hit his intended 57 degrees just as i scooched my butt to the end of the exam table, feet high in stirrups waiting for the clicks of the medieval torture device they call a speculum. the pink paper sheet kept me toasty warm, too, as the table that was so thoughtfully positioned over the air vent meant to keep the doctor who worked above it cool, never mind freezing the bejeezus out of the naked woman draped in paper who lies in close proximity as well.

click, click, click. "you don't have any children do you?" he asked, making me wonder why he's asking that question. (am i flabby and out-of-shape down there too?) he looked left. he looked right. he looked in every single place, in every single light, as the assistant watches over his should making faces at the sight of my obviously ugly va-jay-jay (why else would she have that scrunch-face look?).

it was nowhere to be found. it wasn't hiding by my cervix, nor did it flip around, do a backflip and land sunny side up somewhere. it just disappeared.

so dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbye to the tampon lost under a blood red sky, who obviously along with it, has taken my mind.

crybaby

stuck on a fairly packed train ride home (who are all these slackers who leave the city at 3:30pm on a friday?), i have just figured out i can post to my blog from my crackberry.

ooh sweet goddess, if i don't go blind from writing on a 1" screen or have my thumbs fall off first, this may turn out to be a very exciting discovery. although it's a pain in the ass in someways (blindness and cramped thumbs aside) because of how technology is made for all the stoopid people who can't remember to capitalize the first word in each sentence.

ahem.

(i choose not to for stylistic reasons and as a direct fcuk you to the man. wherever he may be.)

seriously, the reason i am so happy i can now post things almost immediately is because i can post things immediately. no more simmering on septa, no more artfully crafting prose in my head with a "oh no, she din't" shoulder swivel -- just real emotion right now.

which leads me back to crybaby.

here's a dirty little secret nobody knows... I'm a crier. oh sure, i'm tough as nails but if pushed too far, those lil buggers spring to my eyes as i hold back my fury. (or while I kick your ass, all depends on the situation.)

and i hate it -- every stinking minute of it. it makes me weak, it makes me a girl for crissakes!

some might say it makes me human, too, but let's not dwell on those things, shall we?

but when push comes to shove and i am about to come undone, there's little i can do to stop them. the buggers well up and begin to cloud my vision, and the embarrassment of showing that it, you, or anyone else can crack my thick shell adds to their number.

on the inside, i may scream "oh no" but on the outside, i merely smile and say, "i can do it" while discreetly pulling on my shitkicking boots to jump right in.

because the reality is i think i can do it all and when confronted with maybe -- just maybe, that I can't -- well, that reality can be too much to bear.

because "no" is a word i hate almost as much as "crybaby".

things that go together

some things are just meant to go together. this worldly pearl of wisdom came to me, funny enough, not while eating a reese's peanut butter cup. although i have been known to experience bouts of wisdom while eating chocolate and peanut butter on occasion.

nope, i had just finished flipping through the interoffice envelope sent to me which held a brochure, a contract and various postcards when it hit me. something just go together. and it pissed me off.

my friend jillian and i planned to host a sex toy party (on june 9th at casa michalski) which should be a wild and crazy time. hell, anyone who can go to kinky quizzo and enjoy reading my stories about me and my vibrator is a-okay in my book. but the brochure she forwarded specifically said "no men allowed", "no children allowed".

i gotcha on the "no kids" part unless you plan to serve them as a tasty appetizer.

but surely, this doesn't mean gay men, does it? there goes some of my guest list. because surely, i can't imagine hosting a sex toy party without my favorite gay man fluglicious. this party hostess-with-the-mostest doesn't discriminate and would hope that someone who peddles lube for a living would recognize the HUGE friggin' market potential having gay men join the party could bring...

some other things that go together (besides chocolate and peanut butter):
+ goddess girls (what can i say, we're earned our bitching stripes together)
+ coffee and cigarettes (even though i haven't partaken in years)
+ wine and adelle

some things that do not go so well together:
+ rottweilers and tennis balls (amazingly, such a small ball in a big dog's mouth can cause much destruction in a living room)
+ ann coulter and just about anyone
+ catholic priests and boy scouts (just asking for trouble with this one)

that's it. please go about your business. no other deeper meaning here to find. just a little chocolate deprivation rantings going on...

and remember kids, it's not cool to discrimate against gay men in your sex toy parties.

killing season

the killing season is upon us. while work may be driving me crazy, it's not coworkers that i keep in my sights.

nope, it's time to play in the garden.

now that mam and i have stopped building that ark in our garage to ride out the recent rain (read: super storms that so muddied our yard i wasn't sure if i had dogs or pot-bellied pigs).

and now that the rain is gone, i can see clearly that my garden is gone, too.

all the fcuking money, time and effort i put out last year, hasn't come back. oh, two bleeding hearts did come back this year but they look like someone just stuck two stalks of celery into the mud. (there are no flowers on the celery stalks.) the creeping purple phlox which did survive last winter and are now becoming little mounds of dreadlocks with green highlights woven in.

mam tried to comfort me that mother nature isn't ready make her big showy display yet. it's too early in the season. when i pointed out our neighbors have azaleas in full bloom and ours still are a russian winter, he told me our time to bloom will come soon, too.

last weekend, i created a reason to go to lowe's, just in part i think so i could walk the outdoor flower-y section. (note: lowe's does not carry laundry detergent in its aisles.) i gingerly touched each green stem. i pulled back the label to read -- actually read the friggin' label -- to see if it would be a good fit in our patches of super-sunny and super-shady, desert dry, mudpit.

but it's no use. i put it in my earth and watch my garden not grow. i covet my neighbor's green thumb. each weekend he's out plucking out weeds more frequently than some people tweeze their eyebrows. when he's not playing the drums, he's out there digging a hole and planting a new tree or bush.

and i'm jealous.

any five-year-old with a beach bucket and a shovel can dig a hole in the sand and plant daddy's car keys hoping to grow a new car. however, i stand lesser chances of getting a mercedes to grow in my front yard than the kid does.

but still a girl can dream. and in the meantime, i will plot and scheme, dig and dream my way to a less ghetto fabulous landscape. and manage to wipe out an entire colony of plants while i do it.

bright lights, big ass

very psyched to hear jen lancaster read from her new book (see title of this post) coming out in exactly 8 days. very sad to hear she's ditching philly for nyc right after her reading so no time to take her out to vintage for a glass of wine. nyc is the "marsha, marsha, marsha" to philly's middle-sister jan self-esteem. way to pick at that scab, jen.

here's the details straight from jennyslvania:

"June 6 – Reading/signing at the Walnut Street Barnes & Noble in Philadelphia at 7:30 PM. Going straight to NY afterwards, so no drinks and I'm sorry."

still trying to talk alicia and alaina into sporting pink and green outfits or pearls that day. damn! i think i finally found a use for those mint green pearls i regifted at renee's holiday party.

anyone else want to join us (alicia and alaina and i) for wine before the reading? who are we kidding, like we need an excuse to drink?

ode to chocolate

o chocolate, how do i love thee? let me count the ways...


my developing addiction to chocolate is moving towards new heights. only a few days ago, i opened my purse and in my haste to pull out my wallet, i pulled out a giant-sized giardella chocolate bar.

we're not talking "snickers gets you going sized bar". nope, we're talking six servings sized bar of chocolate and almonds.

before someone stages an intervention to save my thighs whose cellulite is acquiring cellulite, the chocolate was a gift, i swear. i was holding it for a friend who brought it back for me from san francisco. i swear, officer, i was only holding it!

a hem. a goddess girl, actually. and it was my chocolate, alright. all mine.

* * *

seeing as chocolate is the one thing that can tame my savage soul at that time of the month, the one where it feels like i am being pelted in all directions by a thousand tiny grains of sand, irritating me to no end, until i feel as if i am ready to explode.

like how i freaked out on a poor unsuspecting boss, when i picked up the phone on friday. "which part of it?" i barked into the phone to answer her question as to whether i had made any progress on my ever-growing to-do list. it wasn't her fault. all she wanted was an update and i unleash an evil spirit of hades on her.

i didn't realize until i started to talking to her how stressed out i really was. i felt like i could cry. my head pounded. my tail twitched and i felt increasingly agitated. my claws lay extended, ready at a moment's notice. her question was the mouse that crossed my path. swat!

it was only once i got off the phone and realized what i had done did i realize my others symptoms. fatigue, exhaustion really. the pimple the size of mount helens erupting on my face. the mood swings that make sybill look even-keeled. yup, i was deep into the throes of the three scariest letters in the alphabet -- p. m. s.

or so mam tells me. and past co-workers who would track my cycle on the calendar in order to ascertain my normal bitchy from my psycho-insane-i-kill-you-bitchy. flug, you remember, you kept the calendar updated.

so which is why my emergency bar of chocolate, heaven sent by one of the goddess girls came to such a sweet end on friday when i tore into it the way a crocodile wraps its prey in its jaws, performing death rolls with my mouth as i swallow it last creamy goodness.

what? get your own damn chocolate bar.

closer i am to fine

i'm trying to tell you something about my life
what a difference seven days makes.

in seven days -- one short week -- i presented to a board of directors with only two hours notice, i received a great response from a literary agent that i contacted, i have been pulled in opposite directions on two major projects at work, and i introduced myself to our ceo after a few hours of drinking with coworkers.

wrap my fear around me like a blanket
i hate public speaking. there is something very naked about standing in front of a room and speaking to them as an expert. i'm not an expert in anything except maybe being bitchy. who the fcuk am i to pretend otherwise? why should these people listen to the words that fall from my lips?

the truth is, i'm not that bad at it. the surge of adrenaline that pumps through your veins seconds before you get up there is as strong as any drug i've ever experienced. actors and actresses know what i am talking about, the moment when the curtain pulls back or the camera pans in your direction and exposes you. for a split second, you consider bolting in the opposite direction. but instead, you puff your chest with one soulfully deep breath before you smile and step forward. i stepped forward in that meeting.

i spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
when i started my graduate degree program, i'm not sure i went in fully aware of where i was heading. on the surface, i looked for an easy masters degree in a program that i could at least justify as being related to my job in order to get my company to pay for it. and oh yeah, the program and school needed to not require gre or gmat scores. (i'm a smart cookie but i quickly crumble when it comes to standardized tests.)

now, two years later and halfway to completion, i know what i want out of this but am not sure i need to finish my degree to get there. if i can get attention from a publisher and agent without having my masters, do i really need it? or have i sucked the marrow from the bone already? my remaining classes are of the fluffy variety.

one of my core beliefs is there is a reason for everything and something to be learned from each experience. what i have yet to learn is how to determine when it's time to move on.

i stop by the bar at three a.m.
okay, it was more like four p.m. but i was definitely seeking solace in a bottle and a friend. in our office we work like dogs sometimes, but we absolutely take every chance we can to run wild from time to time. so with a few shots already in our system and the jukebox rotating between johnny cash and the killers, i look around at the great people i call my coworkers.

"they're good people" i hear someone say to another. and it's true. everyone gets along with each other, our wacked sense of humor feeds each other making what could be difficult days into something memorable for completely different reasons.

there is more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line
which leads me to back to exactly where i started and the reason for starting multiplicity in the first place. with so many dueling and competing energies in me, how do you give priority to one without sacrificing the other?

of course, if the ceo decides to strike up a conversation with me after another whiskey-soaked afternoon, the line to the unemployment office may not be so crooked.

less i seek more source for some definitive
i know any chance of getting my writing established is a long way off despite the positive news i've gotten recently, i know one day i'll be forced to choose.
until that day comes, as i look around at the faces of my friends and coworkers all belting out the words the lyrics of the indigo girls that inspired us in our college days, i know i will be closer to fine.

beware of owner

they know. i know that they know.

i trust my dogs to know instinctively when those times when i need a hug, when i need a nuzzle on my hand from them and a gentle lick to raise my spirits or just give me a neck to cry into. they soothe and relax me.

so when i choose to torture myself by watching animal planet's animal cops, chloe and sadie are right by my side. mam yells at me why do i continue to do this to myself, knowing how it gets me upset. "this is real life", i tell him. reminding him not every dog gets fed premium dog food. shit, some dogs have never gotten enough food, and our monkey dogs whine if i am late coming home and they eat their supper 20 minutes later than normal.

i sit here and cry over the abuse cases -- well-intentioned but mentally ill animal lovers who begin to harm their pets when they hoard and not help them. i cry over the abuse cases that are deliberate through man's directed cruelty. our creativity in dreaming up new ways to harm animals never fails to amaze me. we are truly capable of far worse than what the animal kingdom is capable of doing. from savage cruelty to dogs with open gashes and untreated wounds left to heal over to skin infection with simple solutions -- both are remedied if only someone would care.

and i cry at the noses which sniff the camera hesitantly at the humane society after taken in for treatment, with tails that wag innocently despite the abuse any they may have suffered at the hands of people like us.

then in cry at the happy endings, where these animals who were used as bait to train other dogs to kill and maim are restored in body and spirit and given a chance at a new life with others who promise to love and care for that battered dog. i cry at the dogs who experience sunshine, full bellies and people touching them lovingly for the first time in their lives.

with soft eyes to communicate as their tongue hangs loosely from the side of their mouth panting, they manage to say thank you without saying anything at all.

when my furkids look up from their nap to stem the tears from my face, they remind me that we are their voice. with a gentle lick, they thank us, too.

ironic chef

the recent rash of dog food recalls has me a bit panicked. how can i know what i am feeding my dogs is healthy and won't kill them? how can i distinguish chloe's pickiness with refusing to eat spoiled or rotten food? if my job is to protect the furkids, how can i do my duty if i feed them stuff made of plastic?

all of the doggy newslists i belong to, there have been people advocating a raw diet for dogs. not "raw" as in uncooked, but raw as in all natural origins and ingredients, not something that has been extruded (whatever the hell that means) into formulaic pellet-like shapes.

these are also women who can cook. my doggies are not so lucky to have a momma who can wield a spatula with ease. the great irony is they actually do eat what i cook for them unlike some 2-legged animals who are fearful of what i produce for them.

the puppies, on the other hand, are enthralled any time i am at the stove for them. normally, they get ground beef, cooked eggs, vanilla yogurt, cheese, chicken, pasta, or rice as a topping on their dry dog food. each time i top their bowls with one of these very lovely treats, they look at me adoringly.

as a strict vegetarian, i haven't eaten any meat, chicken or fish in more than 13 years, yet for the furkids, i'll cook ground beef and pull apart precooked chicken to feed them. mam complains that i'll cook for the dogs but not for him.

i'm quick to reply, "do you really want me to cook for you?" if he looked at me like how the dogs do, maybe i would try to cook for him. yeah, no. i still wouldn't do it.

running on empty

normally, my non-superhero life is very clark kent -- mild mannered, unassuming even. at work or at home when i seem to pull off my superhero routines of staying on top of this project, dodging that deadline, completing this task and jumping through hoops of fire to meet that one, i give the appearance of someone who is "one the ball".

if only appearances were exactly as they seem.

turns out this weekend revealed the bullets my wonder woman-like bracelets couldn't deflect. i paid the idiot tax because quite simply, that's what is required when you pull a bonehead of such magnitude.

i "kinda" knew i didn't have the new sticker for my license plate. it's not like i didn't remember to renew my vehicle registration -- i did, but what i forgot to do is remove the friggin' little sticker from the envelope to put it on my car. and this is where penndot has gone wrong -- big envelope, little card and even smaller sticker that isn't really even in the main part of the envelope, it sort of hovers in its own separate-but-equal slot in the envelope never sharing the larger space afforded to the actual registration card.

hence the reason why i have thrown the fcuking thing out in the trash. for the second time. arrggghhh.

but before you think it's a simple blonde moment -- and i have lots of those -- this goes deeper than simply being too rushed in filing the trash where it belongs. nope, this time i sinned far greater. i forgot to get my car inspected, too.

oy. when my subconscious finally broke through the clutter (that phrase is worth 5-points in buzz word bingo) to alert me, "hey shithead, you forgot sumthin' over here" i think i was ready to acknowledge my mistake.

the trouble was, it broke through at 4 am saturday (or was it sunday?) morning, creating another sleepless night for me. mentally, i trolled my internal calendar to see when in the last four months i would have taken my car into the shop for inspection. the giveaway for me that i hadn't was that i needed an oil change. and i have needed one for the last 6 months. (okay shut up, i take the train everyday and still have barely broken 10k miles on my car.) i am the queen of multitasking, had i gotten my car inspected, i would have surely gotten the oil changed at the same time. i am my own personal if-then statement.

what was even more troubling to me was the fact i couldn't remember when i had forgotten to do it. damn that new car! with my old little putt-putt car, i knew exactly when things were due -- when to change the oil, when to put on new tires, when to get it inspected. like clockwork, reliable and settled. i love my new car, but it's still different -- different buttons, different timetables, things i realize i should know but hadn't really given a damn about until i realized that i did need to give one.

so i do what wonder woman would do when digging out from the mess, i dig out one spoonful and fighting each boneheaded mistake at a time.

even when they are your own.

love thy neighbor

they say you gotta love thy neighbors, but sometimes, what i really want to do is beat them and bury them in my backyard.

if it didn't keep on happening, i would think maybe i'm being overly sensitive. sort of like the old poker adage: if you when look around the table and can't pick out the sucker, then the sucker is probably you.

well, in this case, i can identify the sucker, and it ain't me. but i think i am the asshole-attracting magnet.

right now, as i write this, my neighbor is playing the drums. loudly. even with the windows shut, it's a pounding thump-thump-thump like a broken metronome. if my neighbor played the drums with any skill, it wouldn't be half as bad. when i lived in my condo before we moved here, we had a neighbor across the hall that knew the opening chords to smoke on the water.

but that's all he knew. day and night, it's all we would hear: dduuuhhnnn, dduuhhnnnn, dduuhhhnnnn, dun, dun, dun, ddduuuhhhnnnnn. thankfully though, it was loudest before we ventured into our front door, and once shut, it was barely imperceptible until you opened the front door and waited for someone to scream "play free bird."

but my neighbor is either still learning how to play or he is calling the spirits of hades to rise up against me. it's not like we live that closely to one another. my house is not attached to his and furthermore his house is easily the width of a south philadelphia street from my house. although we do share a driveway, the driveway is wide enough to fit four car widths.

the driveway! that reminds me, two summers ago, he bought his children little crotch rockets motor bikes. (this is not to be confused with pocket rockets. that's just creepy.) because his spermatazoa are now about 10 years old, they can't exactly go far on their suuuu-zoo-keys. instead, all summer long, they would ride these gas guzzling bikes up and down the shared driveway. they could accelerate just enough in either direction to drive me crazy.

then one day, the bikes were gone. i danced a little happy dance. only to stop when it was replaced by a hot tub and a boat.

now, let's set the record straight -- these folks are not the rockefellers. they are industrious trash pickers. resourceful, even. but still trash pickers.

the boat was bought for a song from another neighbor who, if i ever track down exactly who it sold it to him, will be getting a flaming bag of poo left on the doorstep from me because i have a rusty, stinky barge-like thing taking up space in my driveway. (yes, it's mine. all mine.)

the hot tub is the scariest of all. situated against the back of their house, and steeped in darkness away from the stream of lights shone from either of our garages, the hot tub provides them with entertainment at all hours of the night.

i'll let the dogs out for a final pee and hear giggling in the dark. the dogs go wild looking for the source of the laughter. i'm just horrified once my brain wraps itself around where its coming from. one night as i was coming home late, i parked the car when i heard someone else coming, too. ewwwww.

so i guess for now, i should be relieved it's only the sound of drums being played. when the weather warms up in the next few weeks, my neighbors will be finding other ways to drive me crazy.

dismount

okay, i know it's been way tooo long since my last post, beware of spam monkey which was half-assed to begin with. my time has been severely crunched lately. you know it's been too long when people ask you why you haven't updated your site lately, and begin to think something is seriously wrong.

where to begin? where to begin?

hmmm, i have written and rewritten and rewritten a 20-page article for my class this semester. after telling me what a wonderful writer i am and completely fully fluffing my ego, i actually told him in class "where's the but? i know it's in there somewhere" -- he tells me i'm a propagandist. huh?

then he really insulted me. he called me "newt gringrich". newt-fcuking-gringrich. a white-haired, hardcore rightwing politico has-been from the 90s. are you kidding me?

i looked at him, mouth open because i've been called a lot of things in my life -- bitch, cunt, ass, feminazi, pink-o commie -- but a right wing conservative asshole is a new one to add to the list.

seems the "issues" piece i was writing was too one-sided. his solution? start over. from scratch. i hated him. i still don't like this socially immature prof -- but and here's the important part -- i have learned something from him. as much as i am loathe to admit it.

* * * * *

the clock rolled over on another year of my life. i have high hopes for "thirty won-derful". so far at least, there's been no sickness in me or my family like last year's dance into a new decade. now, all but one friend has transitioned to the decade of the big three-oh.

funny, growing up and watching thirtysomething, those people seemed sooo old. i mean they had kids and careers and seemed more together than me and my friends do. instead, we're like an older version of friends or at least how the version would be if the characters all played their real age from the beginning. we're still searching for our path -- some of us are further on the path but none of us are too sure of where its going and if this is where we'll be in 5 years.

now that i think of it, most of us want to be somewhere else in 5 years. the goddess girls want to be nurses, married and some with families of their own. belly wants to be settled somewhere, family optional. others are coming to terms with dreams we had as children may not be realized like lainey. i want to write books and quit the corporate grind, as much as i love the feverish pace, the politics, and the insanity a co-worker adamently calls "that's bullsssshhhit. bullshit."

and as much as some of us are freaking out, others are on cruise control and just enjoying the scenery. i am most jealous of them.

* * * * *

sleep has been scant these last few weeks. when i get stressed, my body reacts two ways: 1) i have trouble sleeping, and 2) chocolate becomes as essential to life as air.

you can joke but when i checked an email that said there could be a possible chocolate shortage, it brought a cold panic over me. i will be that crazy person caught on grainy convenience store footage holding the poor clerk hostage over a twix bar. or worse, i'll be found guilty of assaulting girl scouts over their boxes of thin mints.

regardless, when i'm stressed out, sleep-deprived and craving a chocolate fix, i can be.... oh, how to put this delicately...mmmm. bitchy?

okay, bitchier than normal. or as my brother is now quick to remind me these days, i need to dismount.

as in crawl down off my high horse.

i hope you forgive my tardiness in posting. i was trying to figure of how to jump off without crashing.

beware the spam monkey

my work's email servers have been bombarded with spam lately. at least 20 or so emails slip through each day.

and i couldn't be happier.

spam, you see, is my generation's answer to beatnik poetry. mam tells me i have a future in spoken word poetry for how excitedly i recite the best ones.

behold:

Only two options now / working angle
Thinking, lovable still me now comes / hard part image.
Care, play ice hockey, free demon.

Actor in second announced? Version lot detail outline know, effect!
Macho here atlas anything detailed, spank billyboy.

Penguin, ed the following is quote:
Calming breath and then, cuddly / another cute / go back to cuddly. Comments feedback. linuxorg, banners copyright, inc. Raw fish

feel coming fat able see because
It has either just gotten laid, or stuffed.
Simple single would others being, used?

Means, it has either, just gotten laid, or say sickly, sweet voice baby talk almost oohwhat. But politic wont should looking.

Mommy, larger some more leaning. Part image firmly etched your eyeballs youthen scetch stylizied.

Any macho here atlas, anything detailed.
Associated randy well do but politic. Beatific smile place be when have.

They, say sickly sweet voice babytalk almost oohwhat.
Bet he will jump, scream mommy larger some more.

Rights reserved casino gifts occasions.
Penguins first take deep, calming breath, and then cuddly another.
Part image firmly, etched your eyeballs.
Poker diamond engagement rings herbalife available.

Feel coming fat, able see, because too stand bean.
Voice, babytalk almost ooh what, bet he.

wardrobe malfunction

what kind of girl am i you ask? obviously, it's what's on everyone's mind these days. but since you asked, i'll tell you.

i am the type of girl who wears black panties under tan pants. unintentionally, of course, not that it matters one bit now.

mornings are hazardous to my health and career. bumbling around the house, trying to feed the dogs with one eye open, not getting locked outside if the door closes behind me when i bring them in. getting dressed in the morning should not pose such hazardous results.

but it does.

getting dressed in the morning is like playing a slot machine in my closet -- pull back the arm to see if i win big. clean clothes, in sizes that fit, without any wardrobe malfunctions or oddly-paired combinations. we have a winner.

this morning, i pulled back the arm and waited:
ding, bar.
ding, bar again.
ding, lemon. so sorry, thanks for playing.

i didn't realize my losing bet (or is it that i am a loser?) until i got to work. yes, i am that girl the others talk about. and by this time, i can't insert another quarter hoping for a better outcome. the wrinkled black pants look pretty good right about now. i just need to face it -- i'm screwed. and i look slutty, ta boot.

my buddy alicia, the only one who i can call in such a situation, recommended a drastic course of action. "you gotta go commando. you have no other choice."

but i do another option. i can walk proudly and ignore the stares that follow me as i walk away. or run. quickly. to the victoria's secret on walnut street as soon as it opens.

like this, like that

like this, like that, like this, an' huh...

for the last two days, i have walked around obsessed with snoop dogg lyrics tattooed on my brain. not that it's a bad thing necessarily, but the urge to whip out the next line in some of snoop's better songs is just too great.

la de da da da...
muthafcukin' snoop dee-oh-double gee.

these words will get me fired if uttered from my lips while talking with a client, or talking to any another person in my office for that matter, regardless, of how loudly the bass may be thumping in my head. i work in a professional, uber conservative setting -- dropping lines about bitches and hos will not win me any props wit' ma niggas in the office.

which is partially why it's been so much fun.

c'mon think about the irony for a second -- thirty-year-old white, suburban professional woman rapping about tappin' dat ass, hos up and jeans down -- while driving around in her big honkin' suburban-assault-vehicle (sav for those in the know) while carrying a coach, head and shoulders bopping like a gansta.

think about this.

i'm sure snoop dee-oh-double gee was not expecting see-a-are-l-double e-n when he crooned some of these songs. these songs take me back to growing up in the 'hood, with a heart and soul bursting with a brash, a fcuk you attitude that doesn't give a shit about what you think, only about breaking out of where i was and breaking down others perceptions. like that, like this.

just chill.
'til the next episode.

what a girl wants

what a girl wants, what this girl needs... is a wife.

the next few paragraphs will not be an expose on the benefits of lesbian marriage or the death of feminism (although i reserve the right to riff on those topics at a later date). stop reading now if you choose but, be sure, this will not center on those topics.

i need a wife to take care of me. now, in all fairness, i would kick the first guy who said those words to me squarely in the nuts without so much as blinking.

then, i would kick him again just to be sure he understood the first time.

if i had a wife, the dishes from sunday would have been washed on sunday instead of the tower of food-encrusted plates waiting for me to wash tonight at 10 o'clock. if i had a wife, my wife would have paid the bills already so after my long day at work, after dinner i can relax. if i had a wife, dinner would be waiting for me to get ho--, oh wait. mam does make dinner for me. and lately, with my fcuked up schedule, dinner is waiting on the stove for me.

i hear the whining you're doing right, now. "wahhh," you have a demanding job. "wahhh," you generally like what you do and earn a good living. "wait, aren't you a wife?"

bite me.

before those words even cross your lips, let me remind you what happens to people who piss me off. i believe it's not sexist at all for me to want a wife. my gender-neutral wife would clean my house weekly and vacuum daily. my wife would go grocery shopping, pick up the dry cleaning, run errands, put away laundry, wash the windows -- all things i have all intentions of doing but just can't seem to find the time.

christina, when she agrees to marry burke, negotiates the terms of her acceptance of his marriage proposal -- "i don't do the ring thing. we're both surgeons and we'll have a lot of money, we can hire a wife" couldn't be a truer statement for me. (aside from the medical school degree, but i am getting my master's degree in something else, does that count for something??)

after meeting up with an old friend travelling on a completely divergent path than mine, i was jealous for a minute or two of how simple her life seems in comparison. knowing myself though, there is no way on this planet i could step into her shoes and be happy.

yes, a wife -- definitely what this girl wants.

blister in the sun

how do you know you're getting old?

when one of your teenage anthems appears in a wendy's commercial for a new artery clogging sandwich. i'm sitting here typing away, trying to ignore madtv which for some reason tonight is really funny when i hear the first few notes --

drumbeat, drumbeat. din-din-din-din din-din-din-din, din-din-din-din-din-din.

i start humming, my head bopping from side to side like a rag doll with each beat: "lemme go wa-aaahhhlld, like a blister in the sun, lemme go wa-aaahld, hey big hands, i know you're the one....."

except the words never came. the violent femmes -- the band you do not fcuk with, you do not fcuk with this band* -- became an instrumental freakin' commercial. oy! i feel old. what's next, they might be giants or rem pitching products for pepsi?

*you get bonus points in my book if you know what this reference is to...

snakes ....

... in my muthafcukin' basement!

as if the last few days has not been enough of a whirlwind, topsy-turvy week, we find this new addition moved into my house -- a garter snake curled into a ball lay at the bottom of my basement steps.

when mam came back up from the basement the other night, he seemed a bit, well, freaked. hands in his pockets, he just kept looking up at the ceiling, until i had to ask him what the hell he was up to. he just looked at me with a weird look in his eye. i asked him if he found the skeleton from the mouse that snapped a trap -- yes, i gave in and resorted to a kill-trap after every mouse in our zip code became aware that we were the only house that offered room and board without fear of being smooshed or snapped -- and managed to escape without a trace.

"we have a snake in the basement."

after peeling myself down from the ceiling, i responded rationally. "well, get him out. now. if you're not sure how, get a hockey stick and a box. and a drink. an alcoholic beverage is an absolute necessity. one before and after, please. just get him out of here. and let me know when you're coming upstairs so i can be in a locked room."

he was clearly shaken, but i was not going down there to play samuel l. jackson. no way. in our untraditional marriage, there are very few occassions where we ascribe to traditional gender roles. killing bugs and ridding our house of vermin are it. he cooks, i clean. he does laundry, i put it away. we both take out the garbage. nope, he muthafcukin' OWNS the extermination business.

i realize it's cold outside and all creatures great and small are trying desperately to find a place to get warm. listen here, li'l creatures -- my home is not it. i already have two big dogs who leave enough dog hair, eat enough food and give enough love for all of you. once i throw picking up after mam into the list, you'll understand i don't have room for any more animals. please find another place to go. i realize the woods at the back of my property are your summer homes. although my friends may call my house the "lodge" or "chalet", it really isn't. and we're certainly not looking for any new creatures to add to our zoo.

if you do decide to try to come in, then be prepared for my own samuel l. jackson to escort your ass back outside.

brick house

on monday, i wrote about the brick i managed to ingest without knowing it. well, a coworker took a sledgehammer to it around lunchtime.

after spending the better part of my morning with increasingly worse pain where the brick seemed to lodge, i couldn't stand it any longer. i called debbie to see if she had any drugs -- immodium, aspirin, cyanide -- to remove the pain. the woman who self-diagnoses her own illnesses and manages to get herself prescriptions for just about anything, had nothing to help me. instead she gave me a tea bag of green tea. "it'll soothe your stomach," she tells me. between my sweating and wooziness, i almost to believed her.

back on my floor i head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of this green tea. maybe i could have tested her theory of green tea if the co-worker next to me hadn't decided to make her lunch at that moment. her choice of foodage? a big green healthy salad topped with rancid-smelling chunks of chicken which poured out from a never-ending ziplock baggy.

the smell of that chicken carcass hit me first in the nose. i tried to wave it away, turning my face this way and that trying to avoid breathing it in. too late. the boiled flesh, cubed to fit into the carnivore's mouth, hit me square in the brick where my stomach once sat. wham!

i haphazardly left my tea on the counter next to the hot water station. my only thought was, the brick has been hit and the pieces are going somewhere, anywhere and everywhere. now.

in a panic, i dove into the ladies room, which thankfully is only about 5 feet from where i stood. the first nauseous wave of bricks hit my throat, when i hear a voice behind me. "are you okay?" i pop my head out from the stall -- cause really, do you think i am okay with that large of a sound emitting from me? i can only imagine the look of panic that spread across my face with the knowledge of what comes next.

"are you going to be sick?" no, i just decided to test out being a bulimic for a while, since all attempts at anorexia have failed to date. before i could answer her, another wave of bricks decided they needed to escape my body.

wave after wave of bricks burst forth in away that can only be described as my screentest for the next installment of the exorcism. as the crowd outside the ladies room grew, because really, just in case it was an exorcism going on in the bathroom, they wanted to stay clear of any malevolent beings - myself included.

now, what do you think most people would think when a 30-year old woman begins to heave violently? right, not the rotovirus. not food poisoning. yeah, you guessed it. in between heaves i can hear the whispers starting on the other side of the door, is she pregnant? whisper, whisper, pregnant? whisper, whisper.

for the love of goddess, no! if i was, it could only be satan's child with a touch of food poisoning that could cause that much fevering, heavering and screaming. after i left pretty much most of what i had consumed for the last week in the septic system at work, i decided to go home.

in the options of being held captive on a train with others to infect or a solitary ride home, i opted to contain my germs and share them with only one person -- an immigrant cabbie who had the bad luck to pick my pale, weak self up and drive her home to the 'burbs.

"ahh, rich people live in the suburbs," he says. "i ain't rich, buddy." normally a comment like that might have set off some internal childhood ghetto alarms that shriek: if he thinks you're rich, he may try to rob you. you're in a strange car, with a strange man going very far away right now. all fight systems on alert. fortunately, i was too sick and concentrating too hard on keeping last tuesday's lunch down to care. sure, try to rob me. one push in the wrong direction and i'll hit you with a ton of bricks. (all puns intended.)

it was a miserable ride for both of us. i motioned for him to head to an atm not far from my home and one that conveniently shared a parking lot with a local police station. at least the cops could thwart any attempts at robbery i thought. instead of needing the police, i left them with a present on their lawn. yup, more bricks.

miraculously, i made it home okay. the cabbie? he probably regretted my fare, but not my tip. is there a rule about how much to tip a cabbie who will need to clean up your vomit after driving you 30 miles outside of the city? (i didn't think so either.)

i spent the next 48 hours praying for death to come more quickly or for the last load of bricks to leave. my ribs hurt. i felt as if my torso had turned inside out like a pair of old blue jeans to empty the pockets of any loose change before throwing it into the spin cycle. from hell. wash, rinse and repeat.

in those 48 hours, my nursemaids chloe and sadie never left my side. my husband left me a sink full of dirty dishes. we all know who loves me best.

random thoughts on a monday morning

my stomach feels like i swallowed a brick last night. although the running with scissors chardonnay was good, i was a good girl last night and after drinking one only glass, i switched my choice of beverages to diet cokes...

chili at a superbowl party is very all-american. the spousal abuse later on, not so much. seriously, after snoozing the alarm for the third time this morning, i crawled back under the covers only to be assaulted by the rat-a-tat-tat of mam's ass. needless to say, i quickly decided braving the cold morning was better than dying of ass-fixin-ation...

.. which leads me to the cold. 9-friggin'-degrees out there this morning. global warming my ass. in august when its 105 degrees in the philly with 200% humidity, i may believe it. until then, i say burn, baby, burn those fossil fuels. i'll gladly sign up for one less day of winter's bitchslap - you know the one. your cheeks sting, your nose flows freely right down the back of your throat causing the most gawdawful sounds of those snorting, phlegm-induced coughing fits that cause you to feel nauseous, like how i felt this morning.

and we come full circle.

last night

what the fcuk was up with abc's decision to NOT run the latest episode of grey's anatomy again last night? sinking down into a little kid's whine: "it's not fair. they promised!" i whined for at least an hour. i'm thinking an email campaign may help vet some frustration although last night, i seriously contemplated driving to the local station armed with gray paintballs to make my point.

i flipped to channel 6 in my neck of the woods to see some pseudo-celebrity dressed to the nines with uber-bleached hair and teeth talking about the friggin' car show? class lets out too late for me to catch an entire episode on thursdays. now that mam is hooked, i find myself peppering him with questions when i get in -- what's happening? how did she get there? he did what?!? -- that (happily for me anyway) annoys him now as much as his questions annoyed me at the beginning of the season before the show made him an addict, too.

at the end of a long week, i really look forward to settling in the couch and watching grey while i unwind. stupid car shows with airbrushed-tan pseudo-celebs doesn't quite do the trick. damn you, american broadcast company.

out of words

it feels good to write each day. like a mental cleansing of my soul but afterwards, it leaves me feeling drained. out of words by the time i can sit and write a post, i am so tired that my snarkiness just gets sucked right out of me.

i am beginning to think that each time i think my working self will get a little downtime or a chance to catch up and catch my breath, a heavier weight or bigger project opportunity (depending on your point-of-view) gets dropped on me. and me, being the sucker/do-gooder or opportunistic-ladder-climber (again, point-of-view) takes the bait everytime. i am beginning to think i am a corporate whore. dirty girl that i am, sometimes, i even like it.

in the true spirit of multiplicity, i am just not a happy gal if all sides of my life are not in balance. so while i may not be able to share everything that i am working on these days in this format, i'll try to include a snippet here and there. and for those editing types -- you know who you are -- who i really piss off by writing for myself in ALL lowercase and sporadic punctuation, i'll even leave it in a proper writing style.

see, even i can be nice from time to time. a snippet is included below:


When animal control officers walked in with the stray, it was a scene that upset even the most experienced shelter workers. Jennifer Mead, then Director of Animal Welfare Programs at the shelter, remembers her first sight of the dog. “He was completely emaciated. My heart broke.” The stray, with his skin sagging, showed every bone in his long, lean body. His sunken eyes were cloudy and distant. His body fat stores had been depleted from weeks, possibly months of starvation, causing the bones on his face to take on a skeletal look. The shelter workers easily wrapped their hands around the top of his skull outlining where fat and muscle should be, dismissing their initial thoughts that his head was deformed. His coarse coat barely protected his protruding rib bones that seemed to end too abruptly at his narrow waist before meeting up with his jutting hipbones. Between the sagging skin and slow gait as animal control officers led him into the shelter, he gave the appearance of an old man, shuffling along with the animal control officer’s rope leash tied loosely around his thin neck.

* * * * *

let me know if you want to read more.

them's fightin' words

celebrating the end of a stress-filled week with shots of crown royal with co-workers is probably not a good thing. i am fairly proud of myself though. after 3, possibly 4 shots of whiskey and at least as many hard cider drinks, i remained standing with any assistance from the wall or other objects. i managed to not get sick or start a fight. and that my friends is a beautiful thing.

they say everyone's true colors come out when they are inebriated. guards are let-down, internal walls and self-censoring mechanisms are broken, true intentions become self-evident. if this is true, then by my very nature, i won't go down without a fight.

some people get giggly and laugh a little too loud over stupid things. this is not me. i will laugh but more often, i will just spray whatever it is that i happen to be drinking -- red wine, white wine, hard cider -- when caught off-guard with something funny is said in my buzzed presence. last night, it was the announcement that "everyone knows butt babies don't live" in a conversation about sex that caused me to spray lisa down with a mouthful of cider. come to think of it, it was lisa's mention of vibrator-as-homing device at another restaurant that caused me to spit wine, not only over most to the guests seated at our table, but also at the table behind us. i have exceptional aim when i choose to, obviously.

my drinking downfall (besides the spitting) is that i get beer muscles from drinking too much wine. i get argumentative and ballsy. if threatened, my goddess, you better come strong or don't come at all. i have thrown trained punches at a friend's head, knowing i did not intend to hit it but still unnerving him by the swishy feeling of air at the nape of his neck as hit expected a blow to the back of the head.

seriously though, i have been in more fights when sober than drunk and far less in my late twenties than in my early twenties and teen-age years. still though every time, i go to a happy hour or other drinking occassion, i worry that the she-devil in me will awaken, and that she will uncork all of those things i keep hidden inside, exposing my secrets like opening pandora's box.

capitalizing on a good book

imagine how this must sound in a staff meeting: “the lord is my product; there is nothing i shall want.” what is seemingly at odds here is the intersection of religion and commerce as it relates to the large number of and variations of bibles sold in the marketplace each year.

strangely enough, i stumbled across of all things – a bible store – recently when shopping at the outlets nearby. mam and i joked about its close proximity to the nine west store where we were heading.

“close enough,” he said, “that he expected its customers to be the husbands of the shoe-shopping wives next door praying to avoid bankruptcy.” (my brave, dear husband preferred to do battle against the evils of nine west directly – by pouting in the aisle, watching me hunt for and try on new boots.) so when cindy crosby’s article “not your mother’s bible” in the october 30, 2006 edition of publishers weekly came across my radar, well, i knew well enough to acknowledge divine inspiration when it presents itself.

in today’s marketplace, the same mentality that gives rise to many different pairs of brown boots available at nine west exists for bibles sales as well. while a relatively stable market exists for bible sales, selling the “good book” may be more difficult than one would think. as the article points out, in most cases, the very people who are buying bibles already own between three and 10 copies. (note to self: must remember this argument for next shoe-shopping excursion.) how can an industry expect sustainable margins from sales on a product that people already own? while content will be the same in most cases, the key differentials between bible a at home and bible b on the shelf will be two of the four p’s of marketing lingo – packaging and positioning.

but it’s not as simple as changing the color or heel height of its current product to focus consumer attention on the new product. as the ms. crosby notes in the article, there are pratfalls lurking in this market: “wrapping your arms around this market is like hugging an 800-pound gorilla – it’s huge, it’s intimidating, and it can turn on you.” publishers must handle with sensitivity any changes to what some consider “a life manual divinely inspired by god” to avoid alienating its core audience. when changes are made to the bible’s format, you will find changes to be lumped under one of four main categories: 1) readability, 2) portability, 3) usability, and 4) attractiveness.

by focusing on these areas, publishers have brought to market bibles with additional commentary for better understanding of the text, waterproof and pocket-sized versions as well as a host of other colors and cover styles. pink faux leather bible with matching prayer beads, anyone?

but as any good marketer realizes, even with a divine “product” and audience-approved packaging and positioning, price is still a factor. for publishers, this most often means outsourcing production to keep already slim margins from disappearing like meatless fridays after vatican ii. another oddity mentioned as specific to the bible industry in the article is the missionary angle of spreading the good news. one publisher mentioned donating nearly 26 million copies in 2004, a factor that surely impacts the bottom line. (what, you thought those bibles found in hotel nightstands just appeared there magically?)

but despite all of its possible pitfalls, publishers who heed the call to makeover the bible for consumer consumption have realized steady sales. while readership is generally nudging lower each year, the number of people professing to read the bible is growing with latest figures noting about 96% of evangelical christians admit to having read the bible in the last seven days. (what's scarier - the fact most people don't read daily newspapers anymore to keep abreast of current events or the fact that they read a book written 2000 years ago at least once a week?)

with a readership this large, capitalism is happily answering the call of christianity by offering a diverse product lineup designed to fit every shape and color. just like the two new pairs of brown boots i scored that fit over my fat calves. hallelujah!