Ending 2009 'n Stuff

Another year is ending. The fireworks will be over, the ball will drop. Time to put away the sweets, leftovers, white elephants, party hats, stretch pants (holiday wear) and get back to a more healthy and balanced way of living. I've been promising myself that since New Year's eve, 1993.

It seems I have been doing New Year's all wrong. After a bit of research, I found a few tidbits about tradition and warding off evil spirits or attracting luck. I've been told that what we do on New Year's day guarantees our fate for the rest of the year. When I reviewed the traditional, must-do list, it's a wonder I'm still alive.

It seems if you fail to kiss your significant other at the stroke of twelve, this insures a year of coldness. Ah, yes, I've experienced that. But when you're stinking drunk, how do you recognize your significant other? You may think you kissed your one and only, but did you? This creates what is known as auld langxiety. That is the horrible feeling you wake up with when you can't remember what you did on New Year's eve.

I guess you're supposed to stock the cupboards too. This guarantees prosperity, but I don't see how having shelves full of Top Ramen and Jiffy Pop has much to do with the rest of the year.
All bills should be paid off by New Year's day. The year should not begin with the household in debt. Which year? I've been in debt since I was seven.

Letting the old year out. At midnight, open all the doors in the house to let the old year escape without obstruction. Really? Since I have never done this, I must have decades rotting in corners, in the furniture cushions, and under the bed. It must be 1982 that has been smelling up the laundry room.

This year, I'm going to do something I have never done before. I'm going to make a time capsule and bury it in the back yard. This will help me and anyone else who forgets, to remember what all the fuss was about. The first thing that will go in will be a letter to myself.

V. (a name I call myself)...

It's now, (barring any nuclear holocaust, personal disaster, death, or discovery made by some goofball with a metal detector) January 1, 2035. You are most likely holding this letter in your fat, sausage-like fingers, realizing that you never did lose the weight you so earnestly promised to lose. Damn your eyes.

I've enclosed the following items:

A pencil rendition of, Francine, Sylvia Brown's spirit guide.

A receipt that proves gasoline sold in Blythe, CA on 12/23/09 was $4.93 a gallon.

A photo of Bernie Madoff as he was sentenced to 150 years in prison.

A photo of me running a red light (expensive photo shoot)

An unused portion of, Happy Camper, an attitude food and herbal supplement I found online that claimed to brighten your spirits.

Droppings from Barack Obama's campaign trail.

Eight years of toenail clippings from Aunt Lolly's jar.

Video of my flexible sigmoidoscopy.

An unused gift card from Victoria's Secret.

A copy of each of Stephen Hawking's books, A Brief History of Time and The Universe in a Nutshell.

A wedge of fruitcake, just to confirm that time has no effect on its form, function or taste.

A hot-pink, low-rise thong from Victoria's Secret. Yes, it's clean.

A take out menu from Wok's Cookin'.

A Viagra tablet in a test tube.

The $300. cell phone that mysteriously slipped into my ice chest on the way back from Phoenix.

A sealed, white chocolate, mocha frappuccino blended decaf coffee from Starbucks, with whipped cream topping.

My December, 2009 Visa statement. Sigh.

A recording of my first yodeling lesson.

The first season of Family Guy on DVD.

I will close and hermetically seal the capsule with Preparation H. This event surely will override any New Year mistakes I've made in the past. I hope.

Of course, I'll be sure to serve black-eyed peas just in case.

Post Holiday Depression

All the trash bins are overflowing with wrapping paper and boxes, Christmas trees are drooping and all the chocolate eating has mysteriously prevented me from fitting into anything other than my holiday stretchy pants. Nothing has changed from previous years.

As in classical mechanics, p=mv, or the product of the mass (me) and velocity of an object (me), i.e. meeting year-end goals at work, shopping, cooking, wrapping, driving, mailing cards and gifts, and don’t forget to call everyone who will be offended if you don’t.

The natural side effect of all of this momentum is what I refer to as post holiday depression. Strangely, it feels as if time has stopped. Newton’s Law can’t touch the emotion that one experiences by flipping from momentum to inertia. Inertia meaning, that an object (me) will always continue moving at its current speed and in its current direction until some force causes its speed or direction to change (the party’s over).

But, enough of that, this blog isn’t about physics and it’s not really about depression. I just needed to get that off my chest.

I’d like to talk about the endless hours of computer use that go on around the world. I’m afraid in time, there will be an announcement that long term exposure to electromagnetic fields definitely causes, brain tumors, leukemia, chronic fatigue, headaches, cataracts, heart problems, cancer, stress, nausea, chest pain and forgetfulness. Oh, and before I forget, there is a public service announcement I heard. Saliva causes stomach cancer but only when swallowed in small amounts over a long period of time. Will I ever get to the point?

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has experienced a conflict of interest, especially where computers are concerned. One of the presents my boyfriend (BJ) received this year is the computer game put out by Blizzard, called StarCraft. I know, it was actually released in 1998, but I haven’t been into video games since Ms. Pac-Man and I think I became obsessed with that because it involved eating dots and chasing after bouncing fruit. Nevertheless, my boyfriend loves his StarCraft game and asked me to try playing because if I can get up to speed, we can play online with others. Heh.

He sat with me, offering helpful tips as I completed the first two missions, which took me three hours!
It went something like this:

BJ: Okay, click on your SCV.
Me: What’s that?
BJ: That’s your energy collecting vehicle.
Me: Where?
BJ: Down at the bottom of the screen.
Me: That little thing?
BJ: Yeah, left click on it and then right click on the minerals.
Me: Oh! He responded to me.
BJ: Yeah. Now build another worker.
Me: I wish I could have done that a week ago. How do I do that?
BJ: Go to your menu, then click on build and select a worker.
Me: That’s easy, now what?
BJ: EXPAND, always expand! Don’t be afraid to.
Me: Do I look like I’m afraid of expanding? I pulled at the waist band of my sweat pants.
BJ: Okay, now you want to collect gas for energy.
Me: That isn’t hard after aunt Birdie’s green bean casserole.
BJ: You’re gonna need all your resources to defend yourself while you’re being attacked on your next mission.
Me: I’m gonna be attacked?
BJ: Big time.
Me: You know, before we get into the attacking mission, I need to switch over to FarmVille and harvest my Pattypan Squash.
BJ: Squash!
Me: Yeah, I have to plant rice too. I’m just forty points away from level one of Rice mastery.
BJ: Okay, baby, but look, you’re being attacked by the Zergs.
Me: Oh my God, this is worse than being attacked by the Goldman’s at my office holiday party. Where’s my SUV?
BJ: No, you have to build Marines and bunkers.
Me: I’ll bet my squash is starting to wither.
BJ: Defense, defense! Where are your firebots?
Me: What are those?! I was madly clicking on the enemy, not realizing that it was a useless exercise.
BJ: Those guys throw flames. Build some!
Me: Does it have to be so violent? My marines are being splattered all over the ground.
BJ: What is your SCV doing just sitting there? Mine more minerals. Go, go, go!
Me: They’re demolishing my power depot!
BJ: You need minerals to build more. You should have been doing that all along.
Me: Now you tell me.
I kept clicking on the Zergs knowing it was futile.
BJ: That’s okay baby, you’ll get ‘em next time.
He patted me on the head and went to our hobby room to work on some music.

I just sat there panting, and reliving the stress I had just experienced from my total annihilation. With a shaky hand, I opened my browser and went to Facebook. I clicked on the FarmVille icon and there it was, my peaceful little farm. All the cows, chickens, goats and horses were in their places, right where I left them. All my ducks were in one straight row, and my Pattypan squash was ripe for harvesting. There’s no place like home.

How Christmas Works

So…here we are again. The time of year that happens like clockwork but always manages to take me by surprise. The season spirit drives us to the malls, to the kitchen and festive gatherings. The only place it ever drove me is crazy. Though we are reminded, it is time to renew our faith; we mustn’t forget to renew our Visa and Master cards too. As if my credit cards aren’t still wheezing from last year.

Time to get out the nutcrackers…the cards, the bubble lights, flicker flame lights, LED Christmas lights, angels, nativity scenes, ornaments, cinnamon-scented pine cones, kneeling Santa collections, the holiday-decorated spin shades for the lamps, garlands, fairies and stockings.

By the way, I found out how this silly, hang a stocking on the fireplace mantle idea came about. It turns out that St. Nicholas passing by the homes of maidens too poor to afford a dowry, money that a bride gives to her groom for her wedding. (I always wondered what that big, huge, humongous, honkin’ wad of money I gave my ex was called). Anyway, he would throw gold coins down the chimneys where they would fall into stockings which were hung over the fire to dry. Heh. Yeah, right.

Actually, I don’t have to decorate at all. A couple of my neighbors have been involved in a decorating competition for some time now. By December 15 th , it’ll look like Christmas threw up right here in my little cul-de-sac.

Stocking stuffers used to be candy, fruit, small toys, those Chinese finger traps, and if you were a complete bad ass, a lump of coal. The other day I read an article that had a list of suggestions for stocking stuffers. They included, a digital picture frame ($199.), comfort slippers ($50.), portable GPS system ($399.), wireless stock market tracker ($85.), motorized grill cleaning brush ($30.), electronic recipe guide ($25.). GEESH! DOESN’T ANYONE LIKE FRUIT ANYMORE???

I even found a website that is selling an adopt a vine for one year. A perfect gift for any wine lover. You get a welcome letter, a booklet about wine, a personalized pen and a vine adoption certificate. The vine is located at a famous British vineyard. Upon registration, you get a map and directions to the vineyard and a certificate that entitles you to a free tour and wine tasting.

I have a better idea. What about an adopt a flat-screen tv for a year? The perfect gift for any television lover. You would receive a copy of the owner's manuel, a personalized remote, a bunch of information about the history of television, and one full day of movies and two special events...booked in advance, of course. Just send a check for $300. payable to me, and I'll see that you receive your gift package before Christmas.

GAG! It’s gone beyond commercial at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised if people will start registering for their Christmas gifts and try to get you to believe it will relieve you of the stress of making a decision. If that’s the case, I’ll tell you where I’m registered right now: Longo Lexus, Tiffany & Company, Countrywide Mortgage, Princess Cruises and Ramsgate Yacht Sales.

Yeah, and lets don't forget to cram our faces with candy, pie, turkey, stuffing and those green beans soaked in mushroom soup. I considered taking a class from a well-known chocolate and patisserie school to make Petit Fours, but then I realized I hadn’t taken the prerequisites…Petit Ones, Twos and Threes. Incidentally, if you’re wondering what to do with that fruitcake that no one wants, they make a great floatation device.

Better yet, I think this year I’m just going to enjoy the gifts of the spirit. A bottle of Jack and a cheese ball.

Reservation For One

“What are you in for?”

It has been a long time since I was asked that question and I hope I never hear it again. Yes, I have done jail time. It’s difficult to imagine by looking at me, but I have a record. A real record…no, not the vinyl kind, read by a needle to amplify music on a phonograph, the criminal kind.

It’s been five years since that awful day. Spring serves to remind me. Understand though, I’m not blaming spring at all; it’s one of the most pleasant seasons. Almost too pleasant.

It was in the spring of 2003, when I visited the California Poppy reserve. I was walking past the visitor’s center when a park ranger smiled, waved and told me the Goldfields were opening up. I was surprised because they were one of the most private families in our cul-de-sac…and how did he know them anyway?

I was amazed at the high density of poppy plants. It was as if God stroked the hillside with a brush dipped in vibrant orange paint. I followed the Coyote droppings along the trail and let my eyes drink in the majesty of the blooming Filaree and Blue Dick. I really must research the history of the latter. It caught me by surprise, as I watched a Monarch butterfly swooping and hovering. I felt an intense urge to pick one of poppies… and so I did, automatically and without thought. One led to another and I must have slipped into some kind of addictive compulsion that had been lying dormant. Before I knew it, I was clutching a bouquet that I don’t even remember picking. Of course, the park ranger didn’t accept this explanation and the next thing I knew; I was being finger printed, booked and looking at a possible jail sentence of two to five years.

How could this be? It wasn’t as if I had received an illegal stock market tip or anything as horrendous as that. I picked some flowers for God’s sake. They were there, they were pretty. Still, I was forced to register as a PPO, protected poppy offender. I’m not allowed to come within a hundred yards of a protected flower…ever.

I shared a jail cell for about twenty minutes with Kiersten, a young woman who was looking at three years for illegally duplicating a DVD of Sing Yourself Silly, by the Muppets. She may have had a hefty fine to pay as well. I will have to register with Cellmates.com to look her up. I’m curious to know what happened to her and I don’t want to wait until the ten-year reunion to find out.

I’ve since joined a twelve-step program for my flower picking addiction. I have a sponsor and attend meetings regularly. She makes me stay away from the floral section of the supermarket and return arrangements sent to me by admirers. I still get a giddy feeling when I pass the Goldfield’s garden but I found if I begin to skip and whistle zippity doo dah, it takes my mind off my PU’s (picking urges).

Thank God, there are places that we deviants can go to recover from hopeless states of mind and body. In fact, I think California is one of many states that protect these brilliant orange, cup-shaped wild flowers. Just watching these nearly indestructible perennials with their electrifying and vibrant colored petals fluttering in the soft spring breeze causes me to quiver. My pulse has quickened, so it might be a good time to give my sponser a call.

I'm back, she didn't appreciate my idea of growing my own poppies in the rich soil of my deserted garden in the back yard. She reminded me that I am a poppyholic and that even thinking of growing flowers of any kind is a slippery slope and could trigger a craving that no human power could rescue me from. She's right.

Unless you grow your own, and consider yourself lucky if you have control over your urges, please enjoy California poppies where they are most well-suited....gracing the beautiful California countryside.

MARTH-ANGST-GIVING

I'm wondering why we never give appreciation to the individual who made Thanksgiving possible. Most of us think only of eating enough to feed a small village and then fall asleep in our cushy leather recliner. I think the true story of Thanksgiving will make you ponder gratitude.

He was a Patuxet Indian, and his name was Squanto. His story is remarkable. When he was a young man, he went to England on a trading ship. He was made part of an Indian Exhibit on a London stage, he worked as a servant, was tricked into going on board a slave ship to Spain where he was sold.

Luckily, he fell into the hands of a group of friars at a Catholic monastery. They freed him and turned him into a Christian. By the time he located a ship captain that would agree to take him home, twelve years had passed. When he returned home, there was no trace of his family or friends. They had all been struck with a great sickness. Every one of them had died. He was the last of his tribe, but at least he could speak english. Heh.

Squanto was the one who showed the Pilgrims how to build warm houses. Then, taught them when and where to plant. He showed them how use fish for fertilizer to grow corn faster. He even taught the women how to cook the corn. He acted as an interpreter, guide, and gave advice on bargaining with the natives. Without him, the pilgrims would never have survived the season.

After further investigation, I found there was one particular pilgrim woman who rankled Squanto to the edge of insanity. It turns out she was the great great great great grandmother of Martha Stewart. Her name was Martha Wart, the daughter of Stu and Penelope Wart. It seems she delighted in following after Squanto to improve on his demonstrations of planting and cooking.

Martha Wart was the first woman to use lobster claws to hold the corners of the tablecloths down when feasting outside. She served Brunswick stew richly seasoned with her very own garden herbs and often substituted squirrel or oppossum for deer. Squanto was used to one-pot meals but Martha rarely stuck to one pot. Often, she served Racoon wraps with her soups and stews and used sun-dried ceramic plates which she had fashioned from the loamy soil from her courtyard.

It wasn't unusual to see her gathering sweet gum tree spurs to make place cards for the harvest festivals. She showed Squanto how to make decorative turkeys from autumn leaves and roasted nuts over an open fire using a wire basket she molded from abandoned horse shoes. She constructed a still made from a boiler chamber and pipes she smuggled aboard ship.

Soon she had a wonderful mix of homemade vodka that served as the core of many 'happy hours', which she named them. Blackberry crushes and Lemon Shadies wer the favorite drinks of the ladies while the men preferred her brew strait from the jug. They showed Squanto how to do shots.

It has always been believed that Squanto died of pneumonia however there were some questions when the mortician found a lovely organza draw string bag sewn to the inside of his deer skin jacket, filled with dried buds, barks, roots, seeds and berries. Martha explained that it was for luck, however it was suspected that some of the ingredients, when mixed together formed a lethal bacteria.

The Pilgrims mourned Squanto's passing and held a wake lasting more than a week. Of course, Martha was head of the entertainment committee. Soon after, the women began asking Martha for tips for gardening, decorating and cooking. The rest is history.

Momtrepreneurs

It is a little known fact that women have been inventing useful things for years. Unfortunately, it seems that unless you are a mom, or better yet, a single mom, you will most likely remain unknown.

For instance, Mary Anderson was granted her first patent for a window cleaning device in November of 1903. Her invention could clean snow, rain, or sleet from a windshield by using a handle inside the car. Her goal was to improve driver vision during stormy weather - Mary Anderson invented the windshield wiper. What would the Internet say? ‘Mom wipes away windshield wetness one stroke at a time.’

Virgie Ammons invented the handle for the fireplace damper. Her patent was issued in 1974 complete with diagrams that explain how the tool ceases damper chatter caused by air pressure in the room or wind coming from outside. However, if it were today, the Internet would boast…’Mom finds cure for ghostly, rattling and whistling sounds.’

Katherine Blodgett’s research on monomolecular coatings with Nobel Prize winning, Dr. Irving Langmuir (for his work in surface chemistry. Hmmm) led her to a revolutionary discovery. She discovered a way to apply the coatings layer by layer to glass and metal. The thin films, which naturally reduced glare on reflective surfaces, when layered to a certain thickness, would completely cancel out the reflection from the surface underneath. This resulted in the world’s first 100% transparent or invisible glass. Ever heard of her? Me either. But today her credit might read, ‘Single mom discovers a way to reduce pesky glare.’

Silver Screen superstar Hedy Lamarr invented a secret communication system in an effort to help the allies defeat the Germans in World War II. The invention, patented in 1941, manipulated radio frequencies between transmission and reception to develop an unbreakable code so that top-secret messages could not be intercepted. What would the Internet say? ‘Mom uses musical notes to send top-secret messages.’

Stephanie Kwolek’s research with high performance chemical compounds led to the development of a synthetic material called Kevlar which is five times stronger than the same weight of steel. Kevlar, patented by Kwolek in 1966, does not rust nor corrode and is extremely lightweight. Many police officers owe their lives to Stephanie Kwolek, for Kevlar is the material used in bullet proof vests. Other applications of the compound include underwater cables, brake linings, space vehicles, boats, parachutes, skis, marching drumheads and building materials. Well now, this is big stuff. How about… ‘Single mom stumbles upon material stronger than man made of steel.’

It was originally called "mistake out", the invention of Bette Nesmith Graham, a Dallas secretary and a single mother raising a son on her own. Graham used her own kitchen blender to mix up her first batch of liquid paper or white out, a substance used to cover up mistakes made on paper. She happened to be Michael Nesmith’s mom. You remember Michael? He played guitar for the Monkees. Well, you know how the ad would read today…’Single mom discovers way to correct Monkee business.’

You never read ads about single dads doing anything as important as coming up for a formula for whiter teeth or a hauntingly healthy Halloween snacks for toddlers. Why? Hey dads, get busy!

Unique Lounge Act

Recently, in Newark, Ohio, a 28 year-old-man was arrested for drunk driving. We all know that things like this happen every day in every state. The interesting thing about this incident though, was the fact that he was driving a bar stool. He already had a suspended license and was not supposed to be driving a vehicle, so the logical thing to do, of course, is to weld a lawn mower engine onto a favorite piece of furniture. His favorite happened to be a bar stool…and, voila! Now we’re legal because technically the alleged vehicle is really lounge gear. Well, it seemed to be a good idea at the time. It all began after the fifteenth beer and he had some trouble negotiating a U-turn and crashed while going over twenty miles per hour. He was taken to a local hospital to treat minor injuries.

After doing a bit of research, I found that barstool racing has become quite popular in Wisconsin and you can even purchase motorized bar stools online. No kidding, they offer a 4.5 HP engine, powder coated bar stool with cushion seat, slick racing wheels, disk brakes and a factory warranty. You tube has a video of a V-8 bar stool. Man! You’d have to be very cautious about bellying up to the bar in that.

After studying the picture of the bar stool the man was cited on, it is clear that he was in violation of several obvious safety hazards. No seat belt for one. How on earth does he think he could safely execute a u-turn on this homemade contraption? Drunk, no less. There have been times that I wished I had a seat belt on a bar stool that I was using and I wasn’t even in motion. Another risk is riding backless. And what about an air bag?

If this keeps up, I’m sure the DMV will begin to implement bar stool driving tests. I suppose the test would include making a successful u-turn, handling an unexpected wobble, driving through three inches of peanut shells while negotiating tables and chairs.

I took this picture over to my mechanic today and asked him how much he would charge to pimp my ride. You know, hot pink, forged steel, 360-degree swivel seat, 100% faux leather upholstery on a soft cushiony seat and a wooden backrest with a cherry wood finish. He laughed and said it sounded like a sissy bar stool, and then he said he would need a stool sample.