In honor of the boobies...

Saturday, at 8:45 a.m., Leiah, Ben, Lisa & I, all in different shades of pink, met under the awning of Taste of Thai to do the Race for the Cure.

In the pouring rain.

It ended up being an alright time, except that my shoes are still drying out and will likely get that ruinous mildew smell reserved for shoes soaked once in their lives. Lisa is a running champ, and once she started going, she didn't slow down to a walk at all. I jogged probably a total of 1.5 miles and then, overheating from my wet hoodie and with a creeping sour mood from being drenched, shifted into walking mode once we were safely past the crowds of people. I couldn't look like a wuss with an audience. For the home stretch (where the crowd picked up again), I did muster one final jogging push, doing that special kind of bouncy walk/jog that old ladies (and out of shape 30-year-olds) do, and hit the finish line at 41 minutes.Then I walked back to meet up with Leiah and Ben and jogged with them across the finish line 5 minutes later.

If a 5K was made up of multiple finish lines, I could probably talk myself into jogging the entire thing. That finish line thing is a blast.

But the rain, the rain sucks.
(No, I'm not having a stroke, that's just a side effect of exercise apparently, and no, Leiah did not style her hair with pin curls, that's just a side effect of running in the rain with glasses on your head. This is no doubt the sexiest picture we have ever taken together.)

Just say no to life lessons

A few weeks ago, Leiah and Ben stopped by for a visit while Intervention was on. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity for learning and teach Ben to say no to drugs.

I was inspired in this way about 15 years ago during an episode of Oprah that featured toddlers who had been taught to call 911 in an emergency and ended up saving someone's life. In this instance, Betsy was my pupil. I explained to her that if something ever happened that made her afraid and there was no grown up to help her that she should call 911 and even went so far as to point out the numbers on the keypad of the phone and pair it with a nice jingle. Sure she had learned the lesson, I pushed it out of my head and proceeded to strut my big sister stuff.

A couple days later the phone rang.

"This is 911. We got a call from this number. Do you have an emergency?"

After soothing the 911 operator, I asked Betsy if she called 911. Of course, she insisted that she didn't. We had previously convinced her that we had a ghost named Arthur living in our house, something we proved thanks to water on a counter and the sliding effect that suction gives to Tupperware containers, so she suggested, with an eyebrow raised and the cutest fake detective voice allowed, "Maybe Arthur did it."

You'd think with the way that backfired I wouldn't be using television as a platform for life lessons anymore, but fool me twice...

So Ben is running around acting crazy and I, his serious aunt addicted to shows about addiction, interrupt his playtime to teach him not to do drugs.

"Ben, if someone ever asks you to do drugs, you tell them, 'No way. I don't do drugs.' Got it?"

He looks at me like I'm on crack and resumes running circles around the couch. A few laps in, I catch his arm, hold out my open hand and offer him some invisible drugs.

(I did not teach him to punch the dealer. That's just a genetic response we have.)

Feeling pretty awesome that he got the message and added a very relevant-to-his-life reference about the potty in his rejection, I released him and off he ran. Leiah and I refocused our attention to the meth heads on TV, when a few minutes later, Ben stops his marathon, holds out his hand and says, "Hey, Ami. You want some drugs????"

Next I plan to teach him cuss words, starting with the phrase "Dammit Joan."

BONUS VIDEO BECAUSE IT'S FUN TO DO THIS TO KIDS

Shifting gears to hating Kentucky...

A couple things have happened in the last four days that have really made me want to throw my hands up and scream, "This is what I mean!! This is why I hate Kentucky!!"

First, a person that I have never met in my entire life decided to call a client of mine and defame me. To say that I acted criminally and am a liar. To say that I personally caused irreparable harm to his endeavor. To say that I am not fit to do the job I've been hired to do because he refuses to receive correspondence from me.

Like I said, I have never met this person. Nor have our professional paths ever crossed. He is simply acting on a grudge held by others that is approaching its 10-year-mark. It is ludicrous, unprofessional, out of line. And, it's just plain small town high school pettiness.

I wish this town and the people who live here really had problems so I wouldn't be such a powerfully destructive force in my volunteer efforts.

The other thing to really piss me off happened yesterday between 2pm and 8pm... you know, when it's daylight outside. Some fucker came right up on my back porch, while Mack was home studying, and broke our porch trellis to steal his bike.

In L.A., two of our bikes were stolen in the course of three years. In Lexington, we've had two stolen in three months.

In L.A., we rode our bikes for pleasure most of the time, mainly because Mack's school was too far away and I didn't like getting to work and being all sweaty and gross. But since we've been back and living in downtown Lexington, we've become everyday bikers. We ride to school, we ride downtown for events... we rely on our bikes as our primary mode of transportation. And then some social disease just prances up onto our back porch, breaks it apart, tramples my vegetable plants and then steals Mack's bike.

Add to that the rain, and Kentucky gets an F- for the past few days. If it weren't for the good falafel with my parents, the snuggles from my nephew and the pineupdown crack silliness from Leiah yesterday, this move wouldn't be feeling very worth it right now.

Test Day

Today is my first exam since hitting the books again. My study skills have gone a little into the realm of Crazy Freak, but somehow that seems to be working.

The British are coming! The British are coming!!

These things are moving back to Kentucky. In one month. Thank you, Jesus.

The Endorsement Series (Part 10 in a lot)

I'm cheap. There, I said it.

My whole life I've been a frugal experimenter... always open to trying the generic brand just to see if it really is the same as the name brand. In some cases, such as those involving shampoo, rising crust pizza, scented candles, tampons and toilet paper, the generic brand can't hold a candle to the name brand. But in many cases, such as those involving jalapenos, aspirin, tortilla chips, sparkling water and canned beans, the generic option is just as good as the fancy and more expensive one.

Yesterday, while Mack and I were driving around with the cosmetic mirrors on the sun visors open, we started an open discussion about how our teeth had become seriously yellow. In my case, the bottoms and the pointy one just to the left of my incisors were particularly shocking. I had started to notice mine looking a little stained a couple weeks ago, so last weekend I asked Leiah what she recommends since she works with dentists. She said Crest White Strips, so I told Mack we should get some when we got to Target.

We walked back to the white strips section and whoa. Do you have any idea how many options there are?

There is the Classic version for $20, which you wear twice a day for 14 days. I don't do anything twice a day for 14 days. Then there is the Premium for $25, and you wear those twice a day for 7 days. Then you've got the Pro Effects for $40, which give you lasting results and give you a noticeably whiter smile in 3 days. I like 3 days... I don't like $40. Finally you've got the Advanced Seal option for $45. This one whitens in 14 days, only doing it once a day, and it lets you drink water while you whiten.

My head was spinning in that white strips section. I wanted to get rid of the yellow, but I didn't want to take two weeks to do it and I didn't want to spend more than $20. Hello, my little generic friends.

Target had an off-brand of the Premium version, one step up from the Classic, for $15. We bought two of those kits, one for each of us, and hurried home to try them out.

I put them on, checked the clock, piddled around on the computer, went to feed the stray kitties up the road, came home, took them off, and HOLY WHITENESS!

Just one use and my yellow spots were mostly gone. It was amazing. I'm doing my second treatment now, and then I think I'll be good on the whiteness. Which means I have 12 more whitening sessions left in my box alone. Which is definitely making me smile about being cheap.

Cue the Country Ballad

I hate 9/11. I hate that it happened, but more than that I hate the way it's remembered.

I hate that the media made it a frenzy of fear and defiance and righteousness and an annual ratings party. I hate that a lot of Americans confused patriotism with arrogance, and that despite the love for our fellow man that was in the air in the days following, our country ended up as divided as I've ever seen it in the years since. I hate that 9/11 gave Bush momentum and got us in a war that has so far claimed the lives of more than:

- 4,330+ American soldiers
- 304 soldiers from other countries
- 1,395 civilian employees
- 423 Iraqi academics
- 139 working journalists
- 100,000+ Iraqi civilians

I hate that still, 8 years later, there is a hole in Lower Manhattan that I will see for the third time in my life in a couple months, a hole that isn't helping that amazing city heal. I hate to think about the horror those people who were on those planes felt before they died. I hate that their fear was transferred to the people who jumped out of the World Trade Center to avoid burning to death. I hate that the workers who swept up that mess are living with a lasting lung disease and god only knows what kind of nightmares. I hate that they still don't have free, unconditional access to comprehensive health care.

Talk about a boot in the ass.

Shoe Fetish... turns out it's genetic

My Grandma Scott loves shoes. I love shoes. Leiah loves shoes. There's something about shoes and Scott DNA, and considering Scott DNA also comes with white trash tendencies, social alcoholism, and a carton of Chesterfield Kings, I'm pretty grateful I got the shoe thing.

This weekend, while Leiah and I were in Columbus for our cousin Kevin's wedding, we decided we needed a pair of backup shoes in case our primary shoes didn't accommodate all the secret dancing we planned on doing. Betsy and Magnolia (another cousin) acquiesed to our good logic, and the four of us, with Ben on our heels, headed into a Payless.

The four ladies branched out looking for something that would do our tootsies justice. But Ben found just what he was looking for within seconds of coming into the store.

A pair of camel-colored wedges in a size 7.
You should have seen this kid clunking around the Payless, looking in the mirror and remarking about how good his shoes look. After the newness wore off the wedges, he found some pointy-toed pantent leather heels and tried those on. And then he walked out the door of the Payless all by himself.
With stylish back-ups in hand and Ben cleared of theft charges, we headed to the reception. Leiah decided to abandon her ruffly red heels about half way through and switch to the red patent flats courtesy of Payless. She made this decision while Ben was half naked on a sofa with poop covered balls getting his diaper changed by Gigi. Ben went bezerk for those shoes when he saw them come off his mom's feet, and the only way to get him to stop squirming and get the crap off his boy parts was to promise he could put on the ruffly red shoes when he was finished.

The power of negotiating with a shoe junkie.

He got up, put on his ruffly red heels, and pranced back into the reception, where he proceeded to walk around in circles on the dance floor like he was leading a conga line of 1.

I just like this is all.

I was listening to NPR the other day and they ran a piece by Andrei Codrescu, a Romania-born poet who used to teach at LSU and writes for and edits a cool little brain sizzle called Exquisite Corpse: a Journal of Letters & Life.

The piece, which I googled for about an hour before finally finding it, is called "Notes on the Mustache." I couldn't find him reading it on NPR, even though he now has a regular radio show called Poet on Call, but I did find it written out and still love it. It speaks to the life of the 'stache in a way that's perfectly synched to my experience with father figures.

Enjoy.

"The mustache, once a ubiquitous symbol of manhood, has nearly disappeared in America. It still turns up here and there, but mainly in conjunction with a beard. Nearly all American men are cleanly shaven now. Our enemies, on the other hand, all have mustaches.

"Saddam Hussein's mustache, a direct quotation of Stalin's mustache, now identifies the bad guys. A hairless upper lip denotes sincerity now, while the horizontal parenthesis of the mustache encloses something hidden and menacing, pointing to a lie. Tracing the history of the mustache would be a worthwhile project for a political anthropologist who might want to study its career from Neitzche's depressing, downward pointing mustache, through Hitler's frozen hairy snot, Stalin's lippy scimitar, Dali's upward pointining antennae (through which he communicated with aliens), all the way to Saddam's face brush (which seems to crawl with germ warfare in the current depictions).

"I am not an anthropologist, so I'll keep this personal. I was born with a mustache, a fact that scared the nurses at the hospital and freaked our neighbors when my mother brought me home. My mother had to love me because that was her job, but I often woke up terrified in the middle of the night as she hovered over me with a shaving brush full of white soap. I always screamed and she never got me.

"Luckily, I was born in a world of swarthy mustachioed men and I became anonymous around the age of fifteen. Later, it was the Sixties and young people raised mustaches for protest. The American mustache of the Sixties, in connection with long hair, was a glyph of rebellion. Businessmen and soldiers were clean-shaven because they had to be. Nobody wanted to be mustacheless, but the military-industrial complex required it.

"When the Sixties ended and Nixon's clean-shaven mug became a rubber mask some people wore for fun, the severity and strain represented by the fighting mustache relaxed. In time, mustaches grayed and became a sign of old age rather than youth. Every year since, the number of mustaches eradicated by American men rose steadily until at some point in the mid-Eighties you could count more shaven heads than --- staches.

"My own was eliminated one morning in Venice, Italy, when I looked in the mirror and saw an old man staring back. Venetian mirrors are famous for spooking people, so I just closed my eyes and took the plunge. I had never seen my upper lip, which turned out to have a pretty big angel's finger-depression in it, which explains why my memory isn't what it should be.

"Since then, I have become anonymous again, but I can't suppress two suspicions: one, that my mother shaved me, and two, that if I still had it I might be one of the bad guys."

Miller High Life

Until last weekend I hadn't seen Jen since I met Milo. During the swirl of events leading up to her wedding, I got to see her on an almost weekly basis, but since that's died down and she's shifted from Miller to Kelly and been running marathons and adopting cats like some kind of addict, our visits had become way too infrequent.

So, this past weekend we planned a little girly get-together in Cincinnati at Jen's house, where the kitties make you want to steal and the main ingredient in all the food is love. I've visited Jen everywhere she has ever lived, and every time I look forward to it like it's a vacation. I know I'm going to sleep in a bed cleaner than any bed I've ever slept in, eat delicious foods made from scratch and come to know a relaxation that my chaos coping mechanisms won't allow.

It's a little joke between us that the only thing missing from Jen retreats is the chocolate on the pillow. Well, this weekend, Jen had even paid attention to that little detail.

Let me just tell you how it started. I clunked around Saturday morning in a rush to get some work done and get out of town. I left a mess of a dollhouse in the corner and undone dishes in the sink, threw my toothbrush and some clothes in a shopping bag, and hopped in the car. To go from that frenzy state to a Jen state literally lifts the fog out of your mind.

I walked into Jen's house, which is remarkably comfortable despite its pristine state, and was greeted by the smell of homemade minestrone soup on the stove top. And, since that just wouldn't look pretty enough in a bowl by itself, Jen had baked up a fresh loaf of basil beer bread to go with it. She'd also already been on a 7 mile jog that morning.
To recap, I had sat on a computer, grabbed my toothbrush, and driven to Cincinnati in the same time Jen had run 7 miles, made a homemade soup and baked a loaf of bread.

While the bread was finishing baking, Jen pulled out some veggies and prepped a breakfast casserole for the next morning. I drank a V8.
At that point I asked if she wanted to marry me and Mack and be our wife. Or, if Mack was a deal breaker, would she just marry me and bring Milo to replace Mack?

Lucky for Mike, she's happily married.

Since I've been having kitty fever, a condition which can be directly blamed on Jen, I was super excited to also visit Milo and meet Daisy (of Love). Since kitty sitting Milo, Mack and I have joked that when we do get a cat, we need to send it to Jen to get it the right way. We will ruin it. We ruin anything we're supposed to take care of for more than 12 consecutive hours.
Those two cats. That's all I can say. They lick each other and wrestle each other and vie for the seat in front of the back door and play tug of war with a shoe string. They are Pete-and-Repeat at ridiculous proportions. Daisy would lay on the window sill, which was barely big enough for her tiny body... Milo would lay on the window sill, with half of him resting lopsided on the back of the couch.
The kitty watching was a blast, but we did venture out of the house to go to the Art Museum and see the impossible things people do with wood. Then we went to the Krohn Conservatory and learned about bonsais. Then we went out for Thai food. Finally we retreated back to the Jen Inn and got down to the serious business of relaxing with a glass of wine while watching a funny movie.

Finally, I got some Jen time.

A French Slip of the Tongue

Last weekend I had a dream that Mack was gay with his friend Rob and had decided to leave me for the male persuasion. I was all snotty from sad about it, but he was business as usual... except for the being gay part.

Not even Shahin had sympathy for me. She was like, "Well, people are born that way. You can't change it." And then she hauled another box of my stuff out of the house.

I told Mack about it so he'd know why I was mad at him, and since Rob is like a pet, I told him about it too. It started out like this, "Please promise me you won't be stealing my husband with your gay love." And then we got into all the gritty details about the threesome in the bathtub with this girl named Colleen, who was playing the role of mattress more than seductress, and how judo was the gateway to gay.

Well, things were on the mend and we were all laughing about it by the time Mack and Rob came home from judo tonight. I was taking the recycling out when I saw them walking up the sidewalk with another judo friend, this one a new recruit living in Lexington as a refugee from Congo. He hasn't been here long and knows no English. But French, he knows French.

Rob comes in and while he's washing his hands in the bathroom, we joke about the dream. As our conversation continues in the kitchen, where the Congo man is standing, I say, "Yeah, we know how you like a menage a trois."

So here's this skinny refugee guy who knows nothing about me and Mack and Rob, and Rob walks in like he owns the place, and I just touched the guy on the back and gestured inward to try to get him to come away from the door and take a seat, and now we're talking about menage a trois. It'd be like if I went to Iran and was there for one minute, just inside the door and someone patted me on the back and then two seconds later said "gang bang" amidst an ocean of Farsi.

I have no idea what ran through his mind at that point, but he was gone within 5 minutes. C'est la vie.