experimental

that
love was
a hot summer
happiness lifting
smells of Coppertone
gleaming silver moonlight
reflecting in the rise and fall
rippling on a drought stained river
shushing shrill staccato symphonies
of fat crickets and rusty old john boats
easing and thumping against each other
like the two of us, forever and for never
at times, when I hear that sound of metal
grieving against hot metal I can see your
sunburned shoulders, red as the clay banks
freckled with flat stones and just as broad
my chin resting on the smooth of your arm
swan neck, goose flesh, breathy humming
and the fireflies whispering pale promises
erasing the stars and the history of worlds
beyond that cool stream and blue eyes
fixed to me with a poison ivy vine
and the quick ease of July sweat
having everything to gain
and everything to lose
what perfect love
what perfect love

"I don't like you."

“I don’t like you.”

It surprised me … how lightly and easily
it tripped from precious little angel lips.

“I don’t like you.”

It surprised me … how much it stung
my soul and made me question myself.

“I don’t like you.”

It surprised me … how powerful and
definitive and final the words sound.

“I don’t like you.”

It surprised me … how innocence is lost
So quickly, dressed in just four syllables.

“I don’t like you.”


But, I know he likes me. I know that he was acting out in response to his brother. I know that he was attempting to articulate his frustration and displeasure regarding the injustice he had just suffered. I know all of that. It still made me a little sad.

The truth is, kids just grow up too fast. Even inside of the years I’ve been a mother, I see each younger child advancing at a rate faster than the sibling that preceded him. I can only imagine how much faster it is if compared by generation.

The differences are obvious in curriculum and competition and physical development. I was not expected to read books in Kindergarten (which only lasted 3 hours/day). I could, but it wasn’t expected. I wasn’t worried about state competitions in 3rd grade or about representing my school or my county. I didn’t have B cup hooters in middle school, or high school for that matter.

The one constant, I suppose, is our ability as human beings to take our disappointment and dissatisfaction, wad it into a nice, tight ball, and throw it … hard. Sometimes it hits the right target, sometimes an innocent bystander takes the blow. Words don’t need new computer systems or nuclear technology, their ultimate power has existed forever.

“I don’t like you.”

“But, I love you.”

Life as Waltz

In my waltz
You are bass
You keep time
While I race
Tripping through
Life in notes
One, two, three
One, two, three

I never
Fall from grace
You hold me
In my place
Dancing like
Anna’s ghost
One, two, three
One, two, three

Without your
Steady face
Time sliding
Into space
I need you
Ever close
One, two, three
One, two, three

***

I have this recurring nightmare
where the atmosphere burns away in a line like a piece of paper.

The fire bleeds into the clouds and they fill up like blisters.
Toxic puss and acid rain down on my black hair.

The heat wraps around my neck like noose,
My lungs retract, my heart screams

Silver fireworks explode
in the blackness,
my eyelids

closed.

**

End waltz.

Crush

Heavy raindrops destroy tiny petals
Giver of life, taker of loveliness
Delicate by design, lacking mettle
Powerful victims of their prettiness
And there are no drowning cries of duress
Painless, graceful, a natural event
Pinned down, earthy ground seeks no forgiveness
Its brown blood stained splatter, heaven sent
Proud rose, rare lily, distant hyacinth
Your borrowed beauty betrayed by ego
Facing the tempest, to your detriment
Splendor betrayed by that which makes you grow
A garden full of blossoms rarely suits
One who knows that beauty is in the roots

In The Dreaming

I found you in my dreams last night.

I’m not sure if it was you
or the late spring lightning that woke me,
but I knowingly slipped out of bed and down the hall
in that old Stanford t-shirt I should have thrown out decades ago.
You were standing by the big piano in the dining room,
the sound of a low octave ‘G’ caught
by settling dust trapped in iridescent moonbeams.
Each note you struck filled the room for a few seconds
and then washed out like an old photograph.

The hours shifted and radiant light surrounded you,
not unlike the Madonna of Old Masters.
How beautiful you looked, how peaceful,
practically enraptured by the simplicity of each hammer
striking its wire,
each note a pitch-perfect elegy
to your fears and worries.

There was clarity in those keys that are so rarely played,
something odd yet familiar,
something that commanded a new ear
and an old heart that understands the purity
and infinite nature of every precious note.

I came to sit on the bench beside where you stood,
and a shiver ran through me
as my warm legs pressed down on cold glassy wood.
We glanced at each other, saying nothing.
I slid over to make room for you.
And we played.

We played thousands of beautiful, perfect notes together,
each one pinned with a little piece of human frailty
and released into the night.

In the living,
perhaps all of this takes place in a trendy chain restaurant
as we nibble on nachos and make small talk
or perhaps it exists in a pale green and lavender waiting room
with shushed encouragement and awkward handholding.

But in the dreaming …
in the dreaming we sit very still at the big piano in the dining room
and there is harmony
and liberation
and forever.

Healing

I long for a magnificent box full of silvery magic that I could use to heal you. Inside, there would be hundreds of potions in tiny crystal bottles, etched by lightning bolts and filled by angels. There would be restorative salves of rosebud and lemongrass and soothing elixirs drawn from the sparkling white edge of a rainforest waterfall.

I could comfort you with whispered chants and incantations, my hands hovering like hummingbirds above your head, twisting and pulling the mildewed threads of regret and doubt; unraveling your defenses and granting your soul a freeness it has not yet known.

I could cover your heart with tiny, purple violets and the perfume of lilacs, infusing your bluish blood with returning love, it’s perennial patience filling your cells, waltzing with the nucleus of your body and soul.

I could wash your hands with a lamb’s kindness, replacing the dull, thin skin spotted brown with soft pink electricity; placing your fingers and palms together, pressing out oily ills, leaving you clean and dry and welcomed on the other side, spirit engaged, colorless diamond perfection.

I could press cool turquoise stones against the smooth ivory skin of your eyelids soaking up your fever and odium, returned to an earthly rock coffin, leaving your sight clear, vision reborn; see the roaring sea and a single raindrop in their shared innocence and divine power.

I could line your back with the leaves of a mighty oak, its woody strength and rough bark forcing you upright, towering against pillows of cottony white clouds, towards a family and a kingdom whose ancestry commands respect; its inheritance, the iron chain of confident belonging and the riches of age.

Alas, I have no silvery magic, no glorious spells, no enchanted garden. All I have to offer is my love.

Storms

What if a tornado took me to Oz

and left Dorothy brewing at Aunt Em.

Wet meets dry, spinning clouds, throwing thunder,

and I’m off the ground, light as a feather.

Would you even notice my departure?

No seatbelts to buckle. Just departure.

Where is that yellow brick road of such fame?

I’ll follow it, oh I’ll follow that road.

I’ll follow it until my tendons snap,

until the scarecrow saves me from myself.

Beware me friend, I’ll spin your straw to gold

and leave you a heap of rags in the road.

What a gift it would be to spin sadness,

Spin it like a tornado or a spool

to self-destruct or hide in a drawer.

But, what if there is no Oz at journey’s end?

Will I ride that wind like a blue wave

and wash up on the shores of contentment

or, will it eat me like hungry lions

feeding on worthlessness and gristle bone?

** photo from http://www.wendyswizardofoz.com/wiz_bw07.jpg

Is My Backyard Haunted?

Spring

petals softly move
welcoming blossom in pink
beauty there to touch

April Fool's & Twins ~

(several years ago)

We sat down on the couch. I started to cry. Cry might not really convey what I was doing … maybe the right word is “sob”. No … not really … I started to “wail” … yes, that’s it, I started to wail. I buried my face in my husband’s shirt and said those two little words that were sure to make his testicles shrink to the size of peas, “I’m pregnant”. I followed that up with a lot of, “this is the worst thing ever” and “I don’t want to be pregnant” and “goddamn, this is the worst thing ever”.

Trust me, whenever you say, “this is the worst thing ever”, it’s not.

After much consoling, I regained what was left of my dignity and we did what everyone else does, called the doctor.

Dr. Steve was a friend of ours. His daughter and our daughter had been in preschool together for two years and had continued on through third grade together. You might think it’s strange to have a close friend as your gynecologist, and it is … really strange … but once he swabs your vagina the first time and squeezes your boobs, it’s really all downhill from there. It’s as close to “swinging” as I’ve ever gotten.

I made the appointment with Dr. Steve’s office. He had delivered my first two sons and had compassionately helped me through the loss of another. His nurse, Jennifer, was a peach and when I spoke to her, I could tell she was authentically excited for us.

Finally, the day arrived and I headed out to my appointment. My daughter wanted to go out for breakfast and that sounded great, so I arranged for the nanny, Heather, to meet us and take the daughter so I could go to the appointment. We had a delicious breakfast, but when we went back to the car, it wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. Already nervous, I shifted into anxious panic.

Heather showed up right on time. She delivered me to Dr. Steve and I called for Hubs to pick me up there. Then we would deal with the car. After three children, having him there with me for the first appointment, when all you do is pee in the cup and find out that yes, your life is about to become more complicated, wasn’t really necessary for me.

I peed and what do you know ~ pregnant. Hooray. I went back and he felt my tummy and laughed hysterically. Dr. Steve’s daughter is an only child. This is good for Dr. Steve because that means his Porche is not only gorgeous, it’s practical.

He measures and giggles and tells me about the new tractor he’s going to buy with my co-pays. I snarl and plot ungodly ways to castrate my husband.

Dr. Steve thinks I may be about 15 weeks along and wants to do an ultrasound since there’s an opening and it’s across the hall. I pinch the paper robe behind my ass and slip across the hall, practically unnoticed by the throng of women sitting a few yards away. Awesome.

Lisa, who’s performed probably 15 ultrasounds on me, is on duty. Good news. I like her. I lay back on the table and she splooges her icy cold gel onto my belly that makes me seize up like I’ve been electrocuted. She rolls it around and around and around. She makes her bizarre sounds, “hmmmmm”, “mmmmmmumumum”, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”, and rolls it around some more.

Then she says, “Damn, you’re having twins!”

I say, “Yhea, whatever.”

She says, “Really!”

I say, “Okay … he’s not getting me today. Forget it.”

She says, “Seriously, Ann, you’re having twins.”

I lay there pretending to inspect my nails, pursing my lips and giving every outward signal I could that Dr. Steve was not going to nail me on April Fool’s Day again. Nope.

“Ann, sit up and look at this.”

I sat up and looked at the black and white screen … hell, she could have told me it was 15 kittens and I could have seen it, just like cloud animals, and the Virgin Mary.

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

She was showing signs of serious frustration, which made me a bit worried. I looked a little closer. I could see ‘em. Right there on the screen, head … butt, head … butt.

“Oh Damn! Oh Damn! Oh Damn!”

I lay back down. I hyperventilated. She helped me up.

“I have an idea”, she says. “Let’s tell Dr. Steve that you’re having triplets. That will be so funny. You’ll get him good today.”

I would have said, “Okay”, but my brain had turned to oatmeal.

I go back across the hall into my little room not caring who saw my ass. I hear Dr. Steve outside the door. He chuckles and moves some paper and mutters, “yhea, right, they’re not getting me today.”

He comes in and says, “So you’re having triplets.”

I said nothing.

He starts throwing papers from my clipboard into the trash. Then he stops. He looks at me. He looks at the two sets of pictures stapled to the front of the file. He sits down on his little stool and looks again. Then he says this, “Holy crap, Ann, you’re having twins.” Then he put his head down on the counter. Okay ~ even if you know the guy, this is not what you want from your health care provider.

He turns to me and asks where Hubs is. I tell him that I think he’s out in the waiting room waiting for me.

“Want me to go get him?” I asked.

“Hell no. I’m going in my office and lock the door.”

Great.

I take my little green and white checkout paper and head towards the front. Hubs is there and comes over to wait with me. I said nothing. I handed my paper to Brandy who looks at it and then gives me that big, wide-eyed, what-the-hell look. I give her a shut-the-hell-up look. She gets busy processing me for my next appointment.

Julie walks behind Brandy’s chair and of course has to look over to see what’s going on. She looks up with a big smile and the loudest voice in the history of medical checkout and says, “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE HAVING TWINS?” I look at Hubs. He looks at me. We look at her. Brandy elbows her in the gut. I nod yes. He turns white as a sheet. Somebody else yells, “TWINS!” Brandy asks Hubs if he needs CPR. He replies that he wants a DNA test. One of my students walks in. Hugs all around.

We walk to the car without saying a word. My nerves are “tore up”, as they say in North Carolina. I get into the car thinking about my job and about the little house we live in and that everything in my life is suddenly and drastically different. I look at Hubs waiting for some words or sign that everything is going to be all right … that this is a good thing … that everything will be fine because we have each other.

He looks at me, smiles strangely and says, “This isn’t an April Fool’s joke is it?”

Nope, no joke ~

In Which I Get Screwed By Country Music

Country music isn’t really my thing. It is, however, my daughter’s thing. She’s a die hard fan, a fact I base loosely on region and slightly on a recessive gene I must have picked up from my mother and passed along unknowingly to her. The good and dominant gene, which we both possess, came from my Dad; that would be the ‘live show’ gene.

When combined, those genetic markers make for a child obsessed with concerts … country music concerts.

Together, we’ve attended many shows, big and small. She’s even had the remarkable experience of meeting a lot of country artists like Miranda Lambert, Rodney Adkins, and Little Big Town. Her room is decorated with autographs and photographs, ticket stubs and t-shirts. She loves it. All of it. And I love to see her excitement ~ that’s the real high for me.

Caveat ~ Before anyone starts to wonder if this child is a spoiled monkey, let me assure that she is practically perfect. She’s a straight-A student, plays competitive soccer about 30 weekends a year, helps her brothers in unimaginable ways, does chores, babysits for her own money … I could go on all day. She’s a great kid and when I can, I do things for her just to make her smile. That’s my privilege as her Momma.

Now, to the heart of the matter.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to Miami (pronounced Mi-am-uh, just like Missour-uh), Oklahoma to the Buffalo Run Casino to see Jason Aldean. I wasn’t really familiar with Mr. Aldean, but Hubs bought the tickets off of someone who couldn’t go. Fourth row, dead-ass center. You can’t argue with that and the girl was thrilled!

We left early and stopped for a great dinner and did a little shopping before arriving at the Casino at 7:00 sharp. God forbid we be late for a whole hours worth of AC/DC and Fleetwood Mac from the soundboard. Hooray! We got to our seats easily, everything was marked well and the Casino staff was very helpful, all over the age of 65, but very helpful.

Now, let me be clear about this. When I say “Casino”, I’m not talking casino-casino, Vegas style castle, or Trump-ed up blackjack palace; I’m talking about an airplane hangar stuffed with electronic poker and Wheel-Of-Fortune slots. I have to give them credit on their little showplace though. We’ve been there many times and the intimate setting is perfect and very safe for a Mom and a kid and an excellent place for photo-ops and autographs. That is, until last night.

First of all, when we arrived at our seats, there were roughly fifty 17-25 year olds standing at the stage. They were shouting at the crew about this and that. Seemed to this old gal that they were rather underdressed in their Daisy-Dukes and tanktops since is was only about 40 degrees last night, but I did let my subscription to “In Style” expire. Their partial nudity was only slightly less ridiculous than their counterparts, their FauxBoys (my daughter called them) - Fake Cowboys wearing straw western hats, a wide range of Hollister pastel golf shirts, and mechanically ripped jeans from American Eagle. They grew in number and drunkenness as the eight o’clock hour neared.

At this point, people that paid the “premium” price ($50) for tickets began to seek out management and complain about the stage-front Sodom and Gomorrah spectacle that was unfolding. I’m talking full-on groping, grabbing, and making out. The Premium Seat ticket holders were quickly told that the “artist” (and I use that word loosely) decides about that and that Aldean likes the people right at the stage. At this point, I’m thinking that Aldean has a pretty good scam going, if this is how he operates, night after night. (Doing the Math … 200 premium seats x the extra $25, equals … ummmm $5,000 …that brilliant little Son-Of-A-Bitch!!!)

The band was prompt, I have to give them that. Well, not the Jason Aldean Band, but another starter band (not quite good enough to earn the moniker, “opener”). Three super-skinny, blonde girls, a heroin-thin Bob Dylan look-alike on lead guitar and a bass player that I’m sure was Eric Zoolander pounced onto the sage and I almost popped an aneurysm from the feedback. Oh. My. God. Deafness would have been a gift. They were called “Chasin’ Dixie” … the daughter suggested they chose that name since they were obviously “chasin’” the Dixie Chicks wielding an electrified mandolin and a very fine fiddle.

They punished us for about 40 minutes before closing their show with Crazy On You, which was the highlight of their performance. It was most unfortunate that the most rabid of their hoochie-mama fans had no idea what the hell they were singing. I have to say though, if the sound hadn’t been so fucking bad, I think it would have been a pretty good interpretation. Then, they left the stage and with all of their stuff. Literally … they carried their own stuff off the stage with them.

By the time they finished their show, every person that had been sitting on the front row was gone and the front row chairs were pushed back against the legs of the people on the second row. I had started to get a little nervous. All you could see was people to the front, left, and right and in row after row behind us. The people on the second row started moving out. Before the show even started, people were standing on the front row chairs and the second row chairs became the ‘beer pass’. Boys/men of all sizes skimmed from seat to seat carrying two, three, sometimes four beers at a time, all while balancing on cushy chairs and avoiding the elbows and asses of the chorus line kicking it up just in front of them.

This is when I got really scared … not for me, but for Grandma sitting in front of me. She seemed to be 50ish and had her grandson (maybe 7) and Grandpa who was easily 70 there with her. Grandma was already PISSED and certainly did not like what was taking place right in front of her, so she decided that she would retaliate by pushing the beer boys off the road. No shit! This sweet little lady made an art of pushing those guys off the chair completely unnoticed, forcing them to create an entirely new spectacle before our eyes. It was becoming a wet t-shirt contest for the ages.

Right about that time, one of more obnoxious of the young group turned to the couple behind her and said, “Aren’t you pissed that you paid fifty buck for those (insert air quotes) premium (insert air quotes) seats and I only paid twenty-five and I’m standing in front of you?” She laughed hysterically and turned around and shook her bony ass double-time to some piped in Brooks and Dunn.

Thank God, they announced the band because tempers were about to blow. Jason and his crew took the stage. Everyone in his band looked like Jeff from Top Chef except for the drummer who looked more like Joey Tribbiani from Friends. Aldean, himself, was unimpressive in a plaid shirt, a few buttons short (showing too much of his scrawny chest), baggy jeans, and, lest we forget, the cowboy hat. He looked a little like Mr. T on a budget, wearing entirely too many bulky silver chains and medallions. Then he began to sing. I didn’t think that the sound could get any worse, but I was wrong. I swear to God, you couldn’t make out one word coming out of his mouth. The only semblance of lyric was coming from my sweet child, and the crowd around us who were compensating for the thundering bass and squawk of scratchy feedback.

I’m not sure how an “artist” presents an entire hour of his music looking out into a crowd of people sticking their fingers in their ears, but I have to give it to Aldean, he was a professional in that regard. He never let up; in fact, I think he just started trying to sing louder which led to more squawk and eventually actual ear pain. The bass was so intense that the bottoms of my jeans were vibrating. I sat there watching the legs of my pants shake to the “music” while Aldean entertained hoards of half-dressed bimbos with his “take my picture” antics and backwoods bravado. It was spectacular.

The drunk broad to my right was totally out of control. She was about my age and soaked to the bone, I believe. At one point, she sat on my lap for at least ten seconds before she realized that I wasn’t her chair. She danced with both arms in the air swinging them around like she was spinning an invisible hoola hoop, taking up the space … of an actual hoola hoop. I finally ended up sitting in the chair directly behind my child, looking at her ass or the floor. Good times.

Finally, those musical buffoons left the stage and I grabbed my purse and coat, only to turn around to see them returning. This was a good move, because it produced the single audible piece of music of the night, an acoustic song written for his grandfather and it really was lovely. I have to give it to Aldean, though this was his finest moment of the night, he felt the need to give the audience more of what they had obviously come for.

His “Grand Finale”, again, used loosely, was a worse-than-karaoke version of … God for-freaking-bid, Sweet Child O’ Mine … Good. God. Man. Enough. Already. It was quite possibly the most horrific cover ever and that includes a bad-pot induced Axel Rose impersonation by the lead singer of the notorious, Bananas At Large.

As soon as it was over, I grabbed my daughter by the jacket in a desperate attempt to get the hell out of there, but there was no place to go. It was like being trapped on the Titanic (if the Titanic was run by fake cowboys and Hugh Heffner). Where’s the fucking fire marshal when you need him??? Finally, the redneck reign of terror subsided and we slipped out through the roadie entrance and to the serene safety of the mini-van.

As for Mr. Aldean, he slipped away with an awful lot of money that he didn’t earn. And I’m here to tell you this; it will be a cold day in hell before I give the Buffalo Run Casino another cold, thin dime.

So this is the punk that bent me over … and no, I didn’t get kissed.

And to anyone who says there’s not a God, let me present you with this: When I got home, everyone was asleep. I poured myself a big glass of milk and turned on the television … PBS … Chris Botti and the Boston Pops … I think that speaks for itself.

Barbie's Tragic Fall From Fame

You know what they say …

the bigger they are, the harder they fall …

Barbie, 2004 Christmas Extravaganza

(looks a little stoned, if you ask me)

Barbie, the original Fashionista and controversial American icon was found dead today, on her 50th anniversary of her exceptional life. Barbie had an astounding professional career as an astronaut, doctor, mother, pharmacist, farmer, machinist, turkey-plucker, gardener, lawyer, surgeon, concierge, pianist, dog walker, fashion model, and police officer.

After a night of birthday partying with the likes of Kate Moss and Tara Reid,

(courtesy of Amy Winehouse's Facebook page)

Barbie was found face down in the toybox, unconscious. EMT’s were unable to revive her.

Donatello (of Ninja Turtle fame) is a "person of interest" in the case.

After a short memorial service, Barbie will be buried at West Corner Garage.

The public is invited to attend.

Rahm's Fantasy

Breach of Solitude

What is heard when nothing is said?

Everything?

Nothing?

More than you might think; I know that. Disapproving with fierce, friendless eyes or accepting with a mighty grin full of pluck and pith, I read you. I can feel your pulse popping in my brain, sending secret messages that peel away the layers of your clever disguises and reveal your heart, your secrets.

It’s not a noble endeavor, estrangement. You hide your real self like a child hides candy, not with selfish motives, but because it seems … right … necessary. How many eyes and noses and mouths you must possess.

Those faces are like segments of a sweet citrus fruit, clinging until they are easily broken apart, spraying a delightful fragrance that burns the eyes and nose of anyone present. Once the bitter peel is removed, the juicy, tender flesh that remains dances in the mouth to the tune of ‘Mmmmmmm’ and leaves everyone hungry for more while wiping at a burning retina.

But you refuse to give it in any abundance. Is truth so unsettling that you prefer the sticky adhesive of a polished veneer? Do your knees ache and bleed when you so fervently pray to the gods of your fears, arms outstretched like lightening rods seeking electric pain to erase your sleepless panic … hiding in the quiet dark, praying that time might stand still?

Is what you crave, peace or silence?

... because you cannot get those things from yourself.

Johnny Mac ~ Show Me The Pork, Baby

Dear Johnny Baby,

OMG ~ Do you know how much I’ve missed you? A LOT!!! It’s been totally lonely around here without your cute little face on television … that smirky grin and your precious eye-rolling.

You know I have that old-guy thing, John …

I gotta tell you, yesterday, when you slapped that desk and raised your voice just a little, I have to admit, I got a Chris Matthewsesque thrill up my leg. “Mr. President, this is not change we can believe in!” Just typing it gives me another little shiver.

Oh John, thank goodness you’re back to save us from the nasty, excesses of government pork. I know that you know that pork in its purest form is purely evil … just like eating real bacon is bad for your heart. Seriously, your inspirational stance of never accepting pork projects for your home state of Arizona makes you, literally, one in one hundred. You’re a man of your word … porkless to a fault. That is so sexy.

MORE importantly, I would be remiss not to give you a special thank-you for proving that second-hand pork is NOT bad for you … just like having sex with someone who eats a whole brisket isn’t bad for your (own) heart. I can see how this might confuse a lot of folks and I think it’s just awesome that you’ve really demonstrated that second-hand pork is not only not-bad for you … it’s GOOD for you (for you in particular anyway).

Just in case you don’t remember what I’m talking about (‘cuz you are kind of … well, old) …it works like this … pork goes to organizations that are owned by people who give lots and lots of money to you while you scream at your colleagues that actually hand out the pork … you brilliant, brilliant man ... it's like eating a whole slab of ribs and losing 5 pounds.

Remember this guy:
Greg Maffei (Big Bucks McCain Supporter), CEO of Liberty Media that acquired The Associated Group (http://www.prnewswire.com/cgi-bin/stories.pl?ACCT=105&STORY=/www/story/06-01-1999/0000952334) from the Berkman Family (Even Bigger Bucks McCain supporters).

Liberty Media lists as their capital assets:
Sprint/Nextel Corp
Multiple media outlets including Viacom and Starz (Overture Films)
I don’t even think anyone noticed that those groups were the ones that just got fat on the bailout plan pork from before the election..

Don’t forget Bill France, Jr - (who died in 2007 ~ that’s so weird) was also listed as a hunormous donor on your supporter list. His family continues to own NASCAR who is partners with Sprint/Nextel Corp and has just received multi-millions from the bailout pork that was given out during your presidential bid … that kind of clever is totally sexy, John.

Keep on keeping it real, baby … I’ll be here … waiting for my next thrill.

Love,

Me

MO's Political Royalty Descend on Kit Bond's Senate Seat

If you’re looking for political drama, may I suggest the 2010 Missouri Senate Race to replace retiring senior senator, Kit Bond.

The Players:

Sarah Steelman - Missouri State Treasurer (R) - recently lost the republican primary for Governor of Missouri to Kenny Hulshof (R), who went on to run against Jay Nixon (D). Nixon won the election to replace Matt Blunt (R), son of Representative Roy Blunt (R). Her husband is David Steelman, republican leader in the Missouri House and his father is Dorman Steelman, former chairman of the Missouri Republican Party. Steelman was highly endorsed by talking head and blowhard, Glen Beck (pre-FOX) for standing out against her own party. This video is quite good, in spite of the host.

Robin Carnahan – Missouri Secreatary of State (D) – daughter of Mel Carnahan (2 term Governor of Missouri), who ran for Senate against John Ashcroft in 2000. He died in a tragic plane crash with his son just weeks before the election. For the first time in Senate history, Carnahan won the seat after his death. His wife, Jean Carnahan, was appointed to his seat and served until 2002 when she was defeated in a special election by Jim Talent (who was recently replaced by Claire McCaskill). In recent news, Carnahan just went after investment advisors who give ill advice to senior citizens and has returned with reimbursement orders and substantial fines for offenders. http://www.bizjournals.com/stlouis/stories/2009/02/16/daily35.html?ana=from_rss

Roy Blunt – Missouri Congressman (R); Re-elected 6 times since 1996. Roy is the son of Leroy Blunt, former Missouri State Representative and the man (most) sick of being John Boehner’s bitch after losing out to him for the position of House Majority Leader in 2006 after replacing DeLay as interim. Blunt has made unsuccessful runs at both Governor and Lt. Governor in the state of Missouri and now serves as Minority Whip and grumbling mouthpiece for the Republicans, but has (recently) been quite absent from their televised outrage.
You can twitter Roy at https://twitter.com/RoyBlunt (That is irrelevant, but I found it hilarious!!! Who wants to twitter with Roy Blunt??? I don't need to twitter him because I can visit his satellite office anytime I want ~ it's in the mall right up from TJ Maxx ... )

* There was recently a rumor that Matt Blunt had planned to run for Bond's seat, but that unresolved personal property tax issues raised during McCaskill's candidacy, made that impossible.

In recent elections, Missouri has sent Claire McCaskill (D) to the Senate and Jay Nixon (D) to the Governor’s Mansion. During the presidential election, Missouri was the very last state to confirm its votes. Missouri’s 11 electoral votes eventually went to John McCain who received 49.43% of the votes, while Barack Obama received 49.29% of the votes – a very, very tight race by any standards.

Biden & Nixon in Springfield, MO ~ Oct. 2008

Losing Blunt in the House is not big news to Democrats and it won’t make or break their majority, however, the election of Robin Carnahan to Kit Bond’s Senate seat is a definite advantage.

All three candidates are very well connected and well funded. This promises to play out like a political cage match … stay tuned.

Chuck E. Cheese: Caesar's Palace for Kids

Yesterday, we hosted our very first Chuck E. Cheese Birthday Party. It will go down in the birthday history book as a success, everyone had a nice time and was well behaved, but I was left with a bad feeling in my gut …

Immediately, I realized why they call the mascot, Chuck. It’s in honor of the hundreds of tokens my kids “chucked” into their machines. On top of the 20 tokens included in the “Emperor’s” Package of birthday parties, the dozen little risk-takers managed to go through two hundred more. Actual cost of 200 extra tokens - $30.00 **with coupon.

The image of my young son depositing coins like a madman and chewing on a Twizzler was tantamount to watching my Mother, pulling slots and smoking a cigarette on a trip to Atlantic City. They both had the same wild-eyed look … only his payout would be tickets while hers would be a comp’d weekend, airfare included, and a plastic bucket full of shiny, new quarters.

The cherry coke flowed like whiskey sours and the tokens disappeared like dollar bills at a strip club. Tickets were bulging out of pockets and hanging around their necks as they ran from machine to machine, getting another digital-beeping-fix. Skee balls roared and tears were shed as the machine’s ticket-spewing mechanism jammed time after time. Unlike a real pit boss, the arcade attendant was quick to shove the scrunched and torn tickets removed from the machines into the greedy and sticky little hands of his eager clientele.

I started to wonder about the lesson of Chuck E. Cheese … what it’s teaching our babies, but there wasn’t much time … it was time for the “show”. Not Celine or Barry … just more Chuckie. Accompanied by our “hostess”, they sang half a dozen off-key songs. (I wondered if this was included in the package or if it was an add-on???) They kids were spinning and clapping … I was just waiting for one of the girls to rip off her undershirt and throw it at Chuckie with the understanding that he would inhale it deeply and shove it down his pants a la Tom Jones. Thank God, that didn’t happen.

After the gifts were opened and the cake was eaten, it was finally time to get the hell out of there and I was thrilled, until I was handed the bill. I folded it into a tight little square and sent the Hubs to pay at the register awaiting the scream of, “Somebody Call 911”. He managed to avoid a stroke, but I heard him on the phone as he walked back over to our party booth. I believe the exact quote goes something like this, “I just got screwed by Chuck E. Cheese and I didn’t even get kissed.”

We cashed in our chips … er, tickets, and proceeded to pick out tiny, plastic treasures destined to break or be lost before exiting the establishment. As they checked our fluorescent numbered hands, my son asked, “Can we come back tomorrow?”

I guess what they said in The Color of Money applies, “tickets won are twice as sweet as tickets earned” … umm, money … I mean money won.

Mary Martha Landsberger Strikes Again!

I mentioned recently that I was working on a hypothetical cookbook titled “Hypothetical Cookbook”. I’m sure I told you that this project is temporarily stalled and taking up an entire walk-in closet as I pursue other interests like a magpie in jewelry store.

Last night, I had another breakthrough … a new concept that will surely rock the foundation of crafting forever!

Let me warn you, this idea is incredible and so cutting edge that Martha & Mary will have no choice but to offer me ostentatious credits in their glossy magazines and pay me outrageous fees for my consulting services. Far better than that unadulterated hero-worship will be the outcry of gratitude from parents all over America and beyond.

They will chant my name at the kitchen table, card table, and coffee table … “Annie, Annie, Annie”! Vince, the ShamWOW dude will sell my wares on late night television and every mother, father, and child will, indeed, be saying, “WOW!” every time.

So without further ado, please let me introduce my newest creation:

The All-In-One, Total & Complete, Extra Large, NASA approved, Congressional Medal of Awesomeness winner ~ SOCIAL STUDIES PROJECT IN A BOX!!!

As I sat there, painstakingly applying glitter to the scales of justice, after two trips to the Hobby Lobby, it dawned on me that there had to be a better way. ~ Ann, Mother of 5, MO

Original offerings will include:

The Roman Republic: Complete with pre-pasted, glittery, golden scales of justice, a hand-carved, floral foam Pantheon, and a dozen, acid and lignin free, cotton bond scrolls in a plastic pot labeled “The Twelve Tables”

Life in Charles Dickens’ England: Comes with cardboard, pop-up, factory setting, complete with tuna can smokestacks and tragically injured doll holding a sign that says “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”. You will also receive, as a bonus, a copy of “The Great Stink … Corruption and Murder Beneath the Victorian Streets of London”, by Clare Clark.

The American Presidency: This is a double kit for families Republican or Democrat. Contains heavy-duty card stock masks of each president's likeness that tie in the back with 2-inch red, white, and blue grosgrain ribbon. Also included is a full script of either prolific quotes or scandalous gaffes. Oral reports will never be the same. (May also be used as Halloween costume or fun, party game.)

Suggestions for future kits should be made in the comments section below.

You’re Welcome, America.

"We Need To Talk"

My dissatisfaction with you has begun to take on proportions I could have never imagined.

You roll out of bed like the world owes you something for simply … waking. Please, put on your satin robe and realize that it does not. In fact, it’s you that owes the world something, you owe me something, and perhaps it’s time you figured out a productive form of recompense that doesn’t include disappearing into the damask with your face and your mind lost in someone else’s pages. Perhaps you could put a little heart into it … give it the old college try, click your heels together, flap your wings, I-think-I-can, I-think-I-can … or just pretend, I’ll settle for that, for now.

In spite of you, everyone gets out of here, morning after morning, on time, feeling loved, adored. You realize that that is what they deserve, but it’s no thanks to you. Too much, you take their love for granted, thinking it will always be there like the deepness of the Grand Canyon or the colors of the sunrise. Trust me when I say that it will not. They are growing and changing as fast as shadows and clouds and soon they’ll too big and too far away to touch, like kites on a strong wind, and that will be a very sad day for you … and for them. Sunrise will fade to sunset and you’ll have only whispers and regrets.

Regret is funny that way, you know, its long-term and short-term realities. I wonder how many regrets you accumulate on any one, given day. Is it possible to regret the mundane … heaps of laundry, the remnants of a good meal, the pillows askew? Do you even notice and if you do, do you even care? Oscar Wilde may have said, “Man is made for something better than disturbing dirt”, but I like to believe he wouldn’t have disapproved of pooling the taffeta just-so from time to time.

Is this ego perhaps, teetering at the pinnacle of something far worse? This is your home and the life you created and nurtured and every day we swim together in the inspired, blue-green waters of the gulf, sunbeams pouring in on us from every direction. We do this together, or we don’t do it at all and I need you.

The time for childish things has passed, you must clean up your toys and tidy your ruffles, make yourself back into yourself without anger or frustration or tears. Just fix it. Fix it now. Find your gratitude and your sensibility. Unfold your arms, positioned for burial, and let them fall freely and fully alive by your sides. Place your hands, so sweetly, over your heart and find yourself in your own rhythm. Remember who you are. Remember who you are.

And so, without further row, this little tête-à-tête must be put to bed. I’m setting this mirror down and I’m walking back out into the sunlight. Don’t follow me or do, but if you choose to, do it with all your heart. Nothing less is acceptable.

OMG!!! The BEST Valentine EVAH!!!

::Sigh ... Dreams do come true::

... I don't think the name is supposed to look like that ... is this a trick??? ... Who cares!!!

A Valentine's Striptease

Ooh la la

10 Signs That You're Watching Too Much Television

You know who Joshua and Tanyalee are
You can sing these words: Price Line Negotiator
You are a fan of Vince The ShamWOW! Dude on Facebook
You know when SharkWeek is
You know the 800 number for QVC by heart
You are dedicated to finding instances of irony between the crawl and the images on CNN
You’ve watched Bromance and/or Momma’s Boys more than once
You know which hotels Jim Cantore stays at when he’s on east coast hurricane duty
You call characters by the names of other characters they’ve played on other shows
You've considered ordering something from the Video Professor

That's My Dad

The night they put you in the ambulance, I pretended not to be scared. I had almost convinced myself that everything was going to be fine, that you were just overheated and dehydrated, but when they veered off the road, halfway there, dust almost consuming you, that became impossible. I sat there, under that railroad trestle on the side of 501 watching them work on you. The lights were on inside and I could see them pounding on your chest, a frenzy of arms and heads trying to perform a miracle in a tin can. I could see Mom trying to look back from the front seat, reaching to touch you. Behind you, there in the car alone, I prayed to God to save you, I offered everything I had to him in exchange for you that night, my Daddy.

I sat there thinking about you and me. When I was born, you were an Air Force man, by choice, not by lottery. You were on duty the night I was born in the Vandenberg base hospital and you always told me that the nurse turned to you and said, “You’ve got yourself a Rose Bowl Queen”. I may not have achieved that royal status, but you did make me a “Sweet Briar Girl”, one of many precious gifts I could never repay. Knowledge … understanding was the thing with you. I thought about you stretched out on the floor, your favorite place, reading The Invisible Man. I thought about your fascination with Mark Twain and Ernest Hemmingway. You probably thought I never noticed what you were reading, but I did. I always did.

When the lights went off inside and they pulled slowly back onto the highway, I felt so cold inside, icy and brittle. I knew that I would shatter into a million pieces if I blinked, if my eyelashes so much as grazed each other, so I refused. I refused to allow one tear to slide past those black iron gates drawn to protect me, to save my heart. We traveled exactly 13.3 miles to the back of the hospital, the emergency entrance, without breaking the speed limit once. No sirens announced our arrival. I was fixed, steady, and prepared to take charge, knowing I was going to have to be the strong one. I let the window down and the spring breeze lifted my hair.

Involuntarily, my hand went to the radio, pushing awkwardly through the presets. Maybe I was looking for a sign from you; music had always been our thing. I fast-forwarded through your soundtrack in my mind: The Atlanta Rhythm Section, B.B. King, Al Green, Earth Wind and Fire. You loved blues and funk but enjoyed everything else as well … hell, I thought James Taylor was black until I was twelve or so. You never minded going my way though … together we had seen Rick Springfield, Bon Jovi, and so many others. I laughed a little thinking of you with tissues stuck in your ears that time you took us to see Quiet Riot. I quickly came back to the present when I saw Mom coming towards the back of the ambulance. We didn’t know that she had cancer that night and we didn’t know that she would die just a little more than a year later, but we knew she was sick, even though both of you refused to admit it.

The doors opened and I pushed my back against the seat, my arms stiff, pushing the steering wheel away like the pain I didn’t want to feel. I looked down, not wanting to see them pull you out of the ambulance, teeth clenched and trying to catch my breath. It was at that very moment that I thought I heard your voice. That voice that could be loving, welcoming, stern, or flat-out pissed off ... a man of emotion. "Don't you people have a home?" ... you'd scream from your bedroom door when we got too rowdy with our friends late at night. Or standing by the old rotary phone with your eyes closed, still half asleep, shouting orders and pointing at the piano. Without thought, my head jerked up and there you were … propped up on the gurney … oxygen mask pulled up telling everyone what to do.

“That’s my Dad”, I thought.

That night was a whirlwind of doctors and surgery, of so many friends that the hospital opened a hospitality room just for us. I wonder sometimes if you could have ever expected all those kids to be there, praying and hugging and loving each other through your terrifying ordeal. You were more than father to Brian & me … you were a father to all of them … to each one who ever needed a kind word or some sound advice. You always gave your heart to anyone who needed it, and now it was just worn out. Do you remember what you said when they wheeled you out of your surgery doped up on morphine and resurrected twice? You looked right at your son-in-law and said, “Happy Birthday, Son.”

“That’s my Dad”, I said.

That was more than a decade ago and you’re still going strong. Since then you’ve become a grandfather 5 times, seen your son return from duty overseas and discover love and his own family, and find us another mother ~ an amazing woman who loves you unconditionally and keeps you in line. You are healthy and happy and busy LIVING in your own cat-like fashion and teaching us how to live, not just to be. Keep in mind that you’ve used up several of your lives, and try to keep your sailor habit in check.

Though you’re a man of few words, the only one I know who can write an entire email on the ‘subject’ line, I know exactly where we stand, exactly who you are, but even now I’m still learning, too. I asked you last week where you were “the day the music died” and this was your reply: “Feb 3, 1959 I spent 8 hours of that day in the 7th grade at Gladys Elementary School with Vesta Walker, my teacher. That is the first woman I ever saw put a pencil under her middle finger and over the others, and squeeze until the pencil broke when she got upset. After my daily school trip, the rest of my day comprised of doing chores, studying school assignments, having dinner and sleeping. I knew very little about the music dying at that time. My Mom would watch American Bandstand and Dick Clark each afternoon so we knew a little about rock and roll. I guess it took a few more years in life to understand who Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were and the influence that had on the music world. So Hello Baby, this is the Daddy Bopper speaking. Have a great day. Love you.” Exactly fifty years later, you have a granddaughter, my daughter, sitting in the exact same grade, as you were that day. Ain’t life something?



Happy Birthday Daddy.
I love you.

Creative Juice and Vodka

I find being a woman absolutely exhausting. Of course, as a female, I’m faced with the obvious, myriad of stereotypical, gender-specific responsibilities such as cleaning, cooking, and raising children, and I’m good enough at all that, but then there’s also the being a woman part.

Let me be clear, I’m not talking about my girl parts … I’m talking about my brain parts ~ the parts that require mental, physical, and emotional upkeep and implementation. This requires far more attention and intention than I am usually willing to commit.

On a scale of one to ten, with one being ~ “capable of spending twelve hours on the couch watching an entire season of America’s Next Top Model”, and ten being ~ “totally capable of a creative-bat-shit-flip-out”, I’m anywhere from one to ten at any given point of any given day. I spend more time running up and down that scale than Rocky at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, though I find, more and more, that I’m happy resting at about a two and just thinking about what I would be doing at about a nine. I’m becoming convinced that my thinking parts are going to be my undoing.

As soon as my eyes open, I start thinking and planning my day. First I plan to jump right into the shower, do my hair, and apply a thick coat of beautification. Then I’ll get the kids up and ready for school … we call this The Nightmare Before Breakfast. Some of them are up before me and some of them require interrogation lights and the scream of a coach’s whistle. I did learn not to rip the blankets off the bed while my oldest son is still asleep in the morning though … that experience sent me promptly to the kitchen to hit my orange juice with a couple shots of Stoli … let’s just say I learned that lesson the hard way.

So, I feed ‘em, dress ‘em, and send ‘em on their way. Then I clean up their mess. Then what? By the way, I still have on my pajamas … I have not showered, fixed my hair, or put on a heavy coat of beauty. Maybe I should do that … but nooooooooooooooo, not me. My inner butterfly takes over and I flutter from this to that, read a few blogs, throw in some laundry, start emptying the dishwasher, ponder my existence beyond the perimeter of my property. Get an idea, talk on the phone, take a walk around the block, put out the dog … I might even think about writing something. I could work on the projects I’ve already started, but they are wrought with issues I don’t care to face before noon.

First of all, there are the problems I’m facing with my hypothetical cookbook (working title: Hypothetical Cookbook). Currently, it consists of five Foodie Tuesday blog posts and an index card recipe for brownies that I picked up at a cookie swap, but have never made. The concept is cutting edge … it’s a pre-made scrapbook/cookbook that makes Martha Stewart look like a check out girl at the Hobby Lobby. There are some problems with the cost though … according to my receipt collection from various trips to the craft store, each cookbook that will take roughly 6 weeks to make will cost about seven hundred dollars each. This cost analysis is extremely troubling to my primary investor/husband. He might come around though, after I finish the first one and he sees for himself how spectacular it is.

Then there’s the problem of completing my historical fiction screenplay, Girlz Nite Out!!!. It’s loosely based on the cultural and political contributions of Margaret Thatcher and Golda Meir. Right now, I’m working on the part where the girls are on the run from a federal agent (Ronald Reagan) after a night of too many margaritas and something of a crime spree. They pick up a sexy hitchhiker along the way, which gets Golda very generous with the flirting. To that the stranger says, “I’m married and I’m a preacher. Do you want to give me a ride or get in my pants?” Then Golda says, “You’re a preacher? Really? Well, slap my ass and call me sunshine! Hit it, Iron Lady!” … then Margaret puts the pedal to the metal and they disappear into a cloud of dust, swallowed up by the Texas plains. I think I know how it’s going to end, but I still have to work out some of the technical details.

If only I could buy an over-the-counter, creative control supplement, perhaps I could produce something worthy of all the time I spend thinking of things I might or might not create.

Damn, I need to cut this short … I absolutely have to go take a shower … after I make these brownies ... and find the screwdriver.

Rotten Eggs and Ham

That Tim, That Tom
That Tim, That Tom
I do not like
that Tim, that Tom

I do not like them
Now or later
I think I heard
They’re tax evaders

I do not like them
Up or down
They make Obama
Look like a clown

I do not like them
Bud, nor root
They’re revving up
Both Karl and Newt

Go home, Tim
Go home, Tom
Before you are
The death of Rahm.

Ohhh ... Rafa

She shimmers in unmatched
sunlight … the obsession of men.
Between oceans, two arise, opponents
with purpose, one to be the victor, the other
misplaced in the rival encounter. The blood, and
sweat, the tears building, their passionate grunts, groans
illustrating their desire to possess her, to be known as hers.
One has had her. The thinker. The unruffled one … flawless under
pressure, he has taken her before … with authority. The other
lives on possibility … on confidence and with time, on the
beauty of his youth. She is cold and coveted. Soulless
and without choice in the matter, another jewel
for his crown, a notch in his belt. They will
fight to the death for her, countries at war,
love surely recorded by the history
books. Voyeurs delight.

Recessed, Depressed, and/or Frozen???

America, Seriously ... Can I Ask You Something???

Are we in a recession, or not?

If we are, why did you spend $64.8 Million on Paul Blart, Mall Cop in just the last two weeks?
Not to mention handing over $120.2 Million to Madonna and $106.8 Million to Celine in the last year? Yes, you heard that correctly ... CELINE ... a hundred and six point eight million dollars!!!

Are we nearing a depression or not?

If we are, why is Tampa, Florida positive that you will drop $400+ Million to attend the SuperBowl this year? Not including travel (God only knows how much that might cost) or tickets (which are worth tens of millions). It's one weekend ... for one day ... one game ...

Is our credit frozen?

It probably is, because VISA is spending an average of $3 Million (of our frozen credit dollars) per thirty seconds of airtime for SuperBowl commercials.

Total SuperBowl advertisements will likely come in at over $250 Million. They better be damn funny ... super-freakin' funny!!!

Don't get me wrong ... I LOVE the SuperBowl ...

I could go on & on & on ... but what difference would it make ~ you get my point ... we are all spending like crazy ... dumping cash into the system ... Mall Cop ... really??? Dumping cash & all we hear is that things are getting worse. I just don't understand.

I have a few questions:

*******************************

Does anybody else see a disconnect?
Are there (actually) two Americas or three or four or twenty?
Are our realities so different that nothing, NOTHING makes sense anymore?
Does anyone know what these terms really mean? I looked 'em up ... they have real definitions.
Do they mean different things to different people? If so, isn't that a problem???
Does it matter what they REALLY mean or is everything relative at this point?
Is our impending or supposed depression supposed to be somehow less than, worse, or just different than the upheaval and hardship of the Great Depression?
Spending is good, right? 'Cause I'm good at that ...
Right now? Spend now ... I can do it ...
Spending will jumpstart the economy? Yes!!!
Seriously though, how much more can we spend?

Somebody??? Anybody???

R - E - S - P - E - C - T !!!

Seriously ... there's NOTHING I can add to that!!!

"When life kicks you, let it kick you forward." ~ Kay Yow

Kay Yow, a true Carolina treasure, dies at 66 after her fourth battle with breast cancer.

Kay Yow will always be one of the most admired and respected coaches on the national and international scenes. She was a leader, role model, mentor, coach, supporter, community friend and entrepreneur. As for women’s basketball history, Yow’s name will most certainly be delivered in the same breath as those words forever more. She was there for the implementation of Title IX and the first NCAA Tournament in 1982. Yow has never relented her pursuit to improve the sport of women’s basketball despite all of her achievements. The game has been good to her, but more importantly, Yow has been instrumental for the game.

Coach Yow was the first recipient of the Espy's "Jimmy V. Award for Perseverence". Her story (as played out in the video) is more than inspirational. Yow appears in this video with her wonderful friend and Tennessee coach, Pat Summit and Ashley Judd.



In her 37 years as a head coach at the college level, she has led her teams to a combined record of 729-337 and is one of only six Division I head women's basketball mentors to achieve 700 career victories. Yow has guided her squads to 20 of the 27 NCAA Tournaments, 11 trips to the Sweet 16, and a trip to the Elite Eight and Final Four in 1998. She has also collected five Atlantic Coast Conference regular season championships, four ACC Tournament titles, amassed 21, 20-win seasons and a staggering 29 winning seasons. Her career victory total is the fourth most among active coaches in NCAA Division I and in 2003-04, won her 650th game to become the first ACC women’s basketball coach to eclipse that special milestone. She also coached the US Women to a Gold Medal in 1988.

A few other statistics:

• Yow has averaged 20 wins a season during her 33 seasons at NC State.
• She has directed the Wolfpack to 19, top-three finishes in the final ACC standings.
• Her teams have been ranked in the top-25 poll a total of 326 weeks, the seventh most nationally and first in the ACC.
• She is one of only six coaches to have won 700 career games in Division I WBB history.
• She has the fourth most wins among active NCAA Division I coaches.
• She has coached more than 900 games at NC State, which is fifth in NCAA DI WBB history.
• She was the first ACC WBB coach to eclipse 600 wins at the same school and was the sixth among all-time NCAA DI coaches.
• Her teams have advanced to 20 of the 27 NCAA Tournaments, which is tied for the 10th most appearances.
• She was the first women's basketball coach in ACC history to reach 650 career wins.
• 1998 Final Four
• 21, 20-win seasons
• Sweet 16, 11 Times
• 1998 Elite Eight

• Five ACC Championships
• Four ACC Tournament Titles
• 21, Top-25 Finishes and seven Top-10 Finishes
• Four Kodak All-Americans, three AP All-Americans

• One of 30 teams with more than 650 wins in Division I
• 23rd all-time winningest team in NCAA history (Second highest in the ACC)
• 28th all-time winningest program by victories (Third highest in the ACC)
• 55 All-ACC honorees and 34 All-ACC Tournament players
• Two ACC Players of the Year
• Two ACC Rookies of the Year

• Four ACC Tournament MVP's
• 15 WNBA Players and Two Coaches
• Nine ACC 50th Anniversary players

• Three Golden Anniversary team members
•85 ACC Honor Roll members
• Second most victories in ACC history
• Second highest winning percentage in ACC history
• Six players rank in the ACC's top-25 all-time records for field goals made and field goal percentage
• Five players rank in the ACC's top-25 all-time records for points, rebounds and blocks
• Three players rank in the ACC's top 25 all-time record for assists and steals
• Jennifer Howard is the ACC's All-time leader in 3-Point Field Goal Percentage
• NC State ranks in the top-10 among programs sending players to the WNBA
• NC State and Coach Yow, in conjunction with the Jimmy V Foundation, started the Jimmy V Women's Classic, the first of its kind to donate money to cancer research in the game of women's basketball
• NC State and Coach Yow have started the "Hoops for Hope" game. A basketball game centered around hope. Hope for early detection, hope for increased survival, hope for a cure for Breast Cancer. The fourth annual game will take place during the 2008-09 season
• In December 2007, the Kay Yow/WBCA Cancer Fund in partnership with The V Foundation was established as a charitable organization committed to finding an answer in the fight against women’s cancers

************

Kay Yow is a true role model, not only for women, but for humanity. She will be terribly missed by all.

************

You can read tributes to Kay Yow here.

Visit the Kay Yow photo gallery here.

Bio information from the NC State.

CROSS COUNTRY ~ Cross It Off Your List

I love Alex Cross, the uber-detective in James Patterson’s novels. I have read nearly all of his books and am always anxious for new ones to come out. Cross Country, a pretty new release was no exception.

Here’s the blurb:
In over a decade of police work, it is the worst murder scene Alex Cross has ever seen. A family has been butchered in their home. And more killings follow. One after the other. Each more gruesome than the last. The only lead is an elusive trail left by a diabolical African warlord know only as The Tiger. It leads Alex Cross into the dark underbelly of Washington DC and beyond, into a true heart of darkness in Africa herself.

Doesn’t that sound awesome? Can you hear Morgan Freeman’s voice? Yhea, me too.

So, I (Rob) drop twenty bucks for the book … hardcover ~ to be donated to the library at a later date.

He goes out of town and I start to read. I read twenty, fifty, eighty, a hundred pages.

I feel like I’m reading news, not a novel. Don’t get me wrong, Cross’s trip to Africa describes horrific and tragic facts about Darfur, Sierra Leone, and Nigeria. The truth of the text is practically debilitating, the suffering and corruption are overwhelming. Patterson’s telling of the plight in these African countries is exemplary, but it’s not very novel-y. It’s not really fun at all … I was wondering if there was a quiz on the last page.

I even found myself disliking Cross throughout the novel because he was so imposing while trying to find his target in Africa. Don’t get me wrong, he gets his ass beat down more than once, but his moral superiority in countries where he was so obviously unwelcome, was a put off for me. The mere suggestion that he could “question” or “take someone in” just seemed rather ridiculous. Especially in light of the fact that he knew the specific government/police he would need help from were corrupt.

Finally, on page three-hundred-and-frickin’-eight, Cross’s family gets kidnapped. Finally. How crappy is that … I was glad that Cross’s mother and two young children were kidnapped by an African assassin and his corrupt CIA associates. The next seventy pages are terrific … old skool Patterson. And a happy ending to boot. Kids and mama safe, bad guys busted, killer - dead ... shot right in the damn eye!!!

I guess it has some redeeming qualities, but it is my least favorite … EVAH!

If you still insist on reading it, check it out for free at the library, or let me know … you can have my copy.

Tonight he brings home Janet Evanovich ~ Plum Spooky. I'll let you know!!!

NaNa!!!

Remember the scene in Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood when all the kids were sick, puking and pooping … and then Vivi went totally bat-shit and lost her mind, then ran flailing from the house and got locked in the loony-bin for something like six months??? Yhea, I remember that … I remember that because it’s happening here right now. Well, not the beatings or the institutionalization (yet), but the puking and pooping.

So far, three out of the five are sick. Terrific. ((update ~ make that five out of five))

Where’s the damn Lysol???

Seriously ... Don't Call Me Again!!!

Me: “Hello.”

Him: “What’s wrong? You sound kind of crazy.

Me: (In my head) Hell yhea, I ‘m kind of crazy … because you’re sacked out at the f’ing Ritz Carlton after a fancy-schmancy dinner and the first of many days of golf and I’m stuck here with the kids eating quickie-mart pizza and watching Smokey and The Bandit. It’s been two, long, single-mother, no-school days, not to mention that they are out of school AGAIN tomorrow for “King Arthur Day” (this particular King Arthur may be more well known to you as Dr. MLK, Jr.).

Me: “Oh no, not crazy, just busy cleaning up.”

Me: (In my head) Nohhhhttttttttttttttt!!! You know that I loaaaathe you, right???

Him: “Been a good day?”

Me: “Yhea, pretty good. I’m tired.”

Me: (In my head) F. No … it hasn’t been a good day. How many damn times can you possibly ask me that…today??? Jesus H. Christ … please don’t call me again today, or I swear to God, I am going to kill you. And I really will kill you. I'm not EVEN joking. Kill you. Dead.

Me: “You have a good day?”

Him: “Yhea.”

(((Enter very noisy, fighting children)))

Me: “Hey, gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

Me: (In my head) I’ll call you later… my big, fat ass I will … I’m not calling you later. Hell will freeze over, before I call you back. Have fun, jackass. I’ll be here raising your children and cleaning your house while you live it up with your corporate pals. L.A.T.E.R!!!

Click.

Me: (In my head) I hope nothing happens to him out there ... I bet this is being recorded by the Feds. What the hell ... prison would be like vacation compared to this!!!

OK ~ this is slightly exaggerated. Clearly I don't have nearly enough time
to do all that thinking and even if I did, it probably wouldn't be THAT bad ...
maybe. But, really, who among us (with kids) hasn't ever felt like that???

**************************************************

When my husband is out of town, our phone conversations are much like this old email forward:
What Women Say and What they Mean

Yes (No)

No (No)

Maybe (N0)

It's your decision. (The correct decision should be obvious by now.)

Do what you want. (You'll pay for this later.)

I'm sorry. (You'll be sorry.)

Sure . . . go ahead. (I don't want you to.)

I'm not upset. (Of course I'm upset, you moron.)

This kitchen is so inconvenient. (I want a new house)

I want new curtains. (and carpeting, furniture, wallpaper . . .)

I heard a noise. (I figured you were almost asleep.)

Do you love me? (I'm going to ask for something expensive.)

I don't want to talk about it. (Go away, I'm still building up evidence against you.)

I need time to think things over. (I don't want to be around when you realize I'm leaving you.)

I'm the one who's to blame. (I should never have got involved with you in the first place.)

I miss you. (I haven't found anyone else yet.)

I'm fine . . . really. (If I die, it'll be your fault.)

There'll never be anyone else like you. (I will never make the same horrific mistake again.)

****************************************************

God knows I really do love that boy, but now, in one of many acts of passive aggressive treachery to be committed in the next forty-eight hours, I must go and mismatch all of his socks.

Whoever said that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" probably lived with me in another life. ;)

PBS ... I Love You

I grew up watching Sesame Street & The Electric Company. I remember Bob Ross painting “happy little trees” and seeing Jerry Jeff Walker on Austin City Limits. Back in those days, when there were only four channels, I remember my very favorite being the one with a degree of static that I would not be able to endure today … PBS.

As a teenager, I remember a local cooking show, my first glimpse at homosexuality, though I did not know it at the time. One of the men was fat and the other one was thin and they had a “kitchen witch” that flew in with a tip from time to time, they both spoke with a deep southern drawl and slapped at each other with dishtowels. There was also the Cajun cook with his “un-yawn” (onion), who achieved quite a bit of fame pre-Food Network. And, lest we forget, the indomitable, Julia Child, whose voice rings clear in my ears to this day and to whom I silently pay tribute each and every time I open a bottle of wine.

As a history teacher, I found PBS.org, to be one of my favorite sources for information and for interactive elements that could be found nowhere else. If you’ve ever felt that the dimensions of PBS were in any way less than that of the Discovery or History Channels, you have obviously not taken advantage of their website. One of my students’ favorites was an interactive page that allowed you to create and detonate various atomic weapons. The students could choose particular places, like the University of North Carolina (because, clearly, they were all Duke fans) or my house. Upon detonation, the map would fill with colors that demonstrated annihilation, fall-out, and so on. PBS made that lesson and its lasting impression possible.

Recently, two of my favorites have been American Experience ~ Fatal Flood, a chronicle of blues music growing out of the Mississippi delta and American Masters ~ Annie Leibovitz: Life Through A Lens, not to mention, Bill Nye the Science Guy, the long-lived Masterpiece Theater, and Antiques Roadshow. Last night, in a fit of insomnia and overwhelmed by the sheer number of infomercials that can run at once on cable television, I landed softly on Great Performances, "Cyrano de Bergerac".

PBS is a living thing … always growing, always changing. It’s not just a television line-up for lefties. PBS offers a cutting edge glimpse into many fields of science and delivers a poignant view of current events, politics, and history. The website, as I’ve said before, offers a range of ideas and images that are unsurpassed. You can order dvd’s, download to your ipod, and find local listings there … it truly offers you the world at your fingertips and on your time.

Thank you PBS, old friend, for always being there, for showing me parts of the world that I will never see and for giving me a birds eye view of this country's history. I am forever grateful for all you’ve shared with me.

Oh My God I Have A Buffalo Hump!!!

I swear, twice today, I thought I had been shot with a poison dart or stung by a gigantic African bee. Once on my back and once on the back of my arm … a quick stab of pain … you know, the kind that you instinctively slap, for lack of a better response. Both times left me running to the bathroom, pulling my shirt off on the way.

Since my children don’t have access to poison darts (that I know of), I will assume that this startling sting is coming from these teensy, tiny little bumps … dry skin that refuses to accept moisture even from the richest and most expensive creams and ointments. Damn hormones.

I am unbalanced, anybody can tell you that … but, that’s not my problem. My problem is that my hormones are unbalanced and balancing them requires more money and time than I am genuinely interested in investing. It takes an endocrinologist on another end of the state, a rather bizarre primary care doctor who specializes in such things, a compounding pharmacy, numerous entities that analyze my spit and blood and urine, and another “medical” spa who sells various supplements. It makes me look and feel great, at least it did for a year, but is it really worth it??? I haven’t decided for sure, but if my skin keeps trying to rip a hole in my shirt, I’m probably going back!!!

Oddly enough my adventures in hormone therapy began because a substitute chiropractor told me he thought I had a “buffalo hump.” Yes, a buffalo hump … this is a medical condition … you can look it up if you don’t believe me. So, feeling insulted enough to give that guy the stink eye and stomp out of there, I hurried home to find out what “buffalo hump” was all about … and it scared the crap out of me … do I have Cushing Disease??? I think I have these symptoms. Oh my God!!! Dramatic, I know.

I start calling around. “I think I might have a buffalo hump”, I tell the receptionist.
“A what?”
“Buffalo hump.”
Click.

I think it through a little more … “Hello, I think I could have Cushing Syndrome.”
“Are you a patient of Dr. So-n-so?”
“No.”
“We’re not taking any new patients.”

At this point, I suddenly have a full-blown case of Cushing, even though I don’t even know what the hell it is. I lament … why won’t anyone help me. My hump looks bigger as I stare over my shoulder at my back in the mirror. I call the substitute chiropractor back. Apparently, he’s been made aware that this might happen and he instantly has a name and a number. Relief.
I call the doctor. Yes, I can be there tomorrow. Terrific. This is going well.

Arrive at doctor’s office. There are many things “for sale” … odd. I go back and answer at least 500 questions for a nurse who seems genuinely interested in whether or not my facial hair growth has increased a little, a lot, or not at all over the last year. She ushers me into another room where I await “The Doctor”.

“The Doctor” is a small man … suspiciously creepy looking, but harmless. He sits down with some kind of chart generated by the questioning nurse and goes on to describe my life as if he’s been stalking me … and not from afar. I mean this guy is telling me the times of day that I am pissy and the time of day that I’m hungry and what I would eat at that particular time as if he’s been filming me. He KNOWS me. I cry. He pats my knee. I feel as if he is my savior … he will fix me … all will be well.

To be fixed, I will only need a saliva test that costs about a hundred bucks. Then I will need a urine collection test … another hundred bucks. I’ll also need a blood test ~ insurance will pick that up. OK … good deal. I take the collection kits and head home.

I do the spit test the next day. Easy. Well, not really easy … it’s kind of hard to spit enough to fill up a test tube. Write the check and ship.

It takes two weeks to get the urine test done because I got my stupid period and did it wrong the first time. I finally get that one finished and shipped and get my blood drawn in the meantime. Moving right along.

I ask everyone, “Do you see this buffalo hump?” They all answer, “What?” I finally quit asking, but I’m pretty sure it’s getting worse.

Finally, six weeks later, all my tests results are in and I go for my appointment. Hormonally, I am a trainwreck. I have no testosterone, no progesterone, and the iodine levels of someone from Appalachia who eats tree bark and has never ingested table salt, and a twitchy thyroid. All correctable. All I will need is weekly injections, a few of these tablets, a prescription for that, some cream rubbed here and more exercise. Great … let’s do this thing. We both stand up to leave and then I remember …

“Oh yhea … what about my buffalo hump?”
“What?”
“This”, I say, patting my back.
“You don’t have a buffalo hump. What are you talking about?”

Ode To A Doorknob

She knows the shape by heart. If she could draw, she’d be able to sketch every contour, every shadow made by the changing hour of the clock, with her eyes closed. She’s spent the better part of this particular week, like so many past, imagining the unimaginable ... its unfortunate offering.

So she sits, and gazes at it from time to time, as the darkness locks down. Trying not to look only makes her look more often, something akin to asking a small child to be quiet in church. The need will come later, for now, it’s more like flirting or foreplay.

As the hours disappear, her gaze becomes a full, hard stare, daring not to blink, not to miss a telltale sign. The legitimacy of it all comes from inside of her and needs no validation. She knows what she knows.

Ocassionally, she moves closer ... almost placing her hand there, but retracting it each time as if the skin would burn away should she actually … touch. Maybe she sidles up close by, leaning in, her ear fixed, waiting for something that she hopes she does not hear. More likely, she will just back away, the hair standing up on the nape of her neck.

And so, with knees pulled up, she waits. She waits for the light to unbuckle the shackles and only then does she move, exhausted and stiff. He comes back tonight and the fear will assuage. Then she will sleep.

Resolution, Schmezolution ... Cream Cheese Banana Nut Bread

If you vowed to get skinny, to wear skinny jeans, or any other such thing regarding the new year and skinniness, this isn't for you. This is full of fat ... but, just get over it ... it's so delicious, you'll just forget about that anyway!!!

If you vowed to not throw away fruit, regardless of it's disgusting condition, then this recipe is for you. You want the bananas near black; soft and mushy on the inside ... pretty disgusting if you want to eat a banana, but perfect for this recipe.

On a sheet pan, lightly toast about two cups of chopped pecans.

In the big mixer: Cream 3/4 cup butter and 8 oz. cream cheese (((the cream cheese and butter should be soft ... I take for granted that you know that ... so from henceforth, anytime the directions call for you to "cream" something ... it's soft ... in case I forget to say it)))

Add 1 cup of sugar ... mix for about 2 minutes. Add two eggs ... one at a time.

Turn the mixer off. Mash up 3 good sized bananas in a bowl ... mash them a lot!

Add 3 cups of flour, 1/2 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp baking powder, and 1 tsp of salt to the mixing bowl. Depending on the size of your mixer, you might have to sort of pulse start (so you don't blow flour all over your kitchen making it look like you just had a cocaine party). Get everything just barely blended. Add the mashed bananas, half of the toasted pecans and 1 TBS of good vanilla and mix well ... but not too much.

Pour into well greased cooking pan(s) of your choice. You can make 2 loaves, 24 regular muffins, or 12 jumbo muffins with this recipe. I bake them all at 350 degrees. The regular muffins take about 25 minutes. The big muffins take about 35 minutes. 2 loaf pans takes about 45 - 55 minutes (after about 30 minutes I throw a sheet of aluminum foil over the top of the loaves to keep the pecans from burning or the top from getting too brown. Test with a skewer or toothpick before you turn the oven off.

Be sure to top with remaining toasted pecans before baking.

So if that wasn't enough to make your pants tight, you can try this:

Mix 2 TBS cream cheese & 2 TBS butter with 2 TBS powdered sugar ... frost your big ol' slice of banana bread!!!

Or ~ my FAVORITE!!!

In a small sauce pan, melt 2 TBS butter, 2 TBS brown sugar. Bring to boil. Remove from heat, let cool for about 5 minutes. Add 1 sliced banana ... pour over your big 'ol slice of banana bread. To. Die. For!!!

OK, people ... I know this isn't how you wanted to start the new year ... but you KNOW you want a bite ... whatever will you do???