Skippy Update!

I talked to my friend and sister in skate, SoLow, who does a lot of work with a great group: The O'Malley Alley Cat Organization who helps control feral colonies with spay and neuter programs and helps re-home abandoned cats. After tonight's practice, she came over to pay Skippy a little visit.

I now know that Skippy is the very sought-after breed of Rag Doll Siamese and was, due to his great health, lack of fleas, and undehydrated state likely abandoned or just left outside in the rain by one Jerky McButtface nearby. But Jerky McButtface's short-sightedness is Skippy's gain because SoLow is coming to pick him up tomorrow to get checked out at the vet and then back to SoLow's ranch, where she believes Skippy will spend very little time before he is snatched up by a loving family.


God save the Skippy!

Introducing Skippy

This is Skippy and he's been living under our house since at least last night when we heard him yowling. We thought he might be the kitten of one of the feral cats that controls our pests under there (thanks gals!), but he acts like he is down with humans and came to Matt when he called him this morning--no mama or other kittens to be found. So we wonder if 1) One Jerky McButtface abandoned him. 2) He wandered off from the rest of his litter and got lost.

In any case, it started pouring rain and he was just so cute and yowly that I didn't want to leave him out there, so he is presently napping in a towel in a box on top of Molly's crate. Molly, as you can imagine, has a great deal of interest in this kitten--so much so that we think we probably can't adopt him.

But what does one do with a yowly kitten like Skippy?

.

And P.S. Don't even try to act like he's not totally adorable. Even a hardened old one-dog bizard like me has a soft spot for this cutie.

Back in the Saddle (Stapler) Again

Today I got it into my head that I was going to, after over a decade of longing, commit to buying a saddle stapler. The thing is, they're kind of pricey and since officially I am just purchasing one for a lark, I felt a little comparison shopping--by which I mean eBay-- was the smart and only way to go. A new Swingline 615 can run you anywhere from $100 to $150, if you can find it! The best part about eBay is that you WILL find it, and if a great miracle occurs, for less than retail. So after placing my bid, I was pacing back and forth thinking "I hope I win! I hope I win!" And therein is the mystery of the bizarre eBay universe. I hope I win this thing so I can pay more than anyone else wanted to? Hmm.

Although that's not exactly true. An evil sniper snatched my swingline dreams from my cold, dead keyboard at the last minute with only $1 over my maximum bid. That kind of foolishness makes you wish you had really found it in your heart to allow up to $40 of your non-existent budget to go towards your saddle stapling fund. I could easily have paid $36 for what I said I'd only pay $35 for--but then, I didn't tell eBay that. (Why didn't you know, eBay?) And where does the madness end really? Would $40 even have been enough? Instead of getting mad at myself, I prefer to direct my anger to the jerk who outbid me by $1. $1! It's like those people who bid $1 total on The Price is Right after all the others have carefully calculated and announced a reasonable amount for the new dishwasher. I hate those $1 bidders. They are underhanded. Then there are the people who bid $2, after someone else has bid $1; I kind of think it serves the $1 bidder right for being such a snake, but I'm sure there is a special place in hell for $2 bidders too.

But back to eBay, or more particularly, my swingline saddle staple dreams. In my desperation, I found another one of these little beauties ending on May 27. (Back off.) Hopefully I can secure it! Here it is. Ta-da.



Unfortunately, I also found this.



The saddle stapler's sassier, more modern cousin--the long reach stapler. And only $24.99 at select Office Max stores. I felt depressed. I was longing for a dinosaur. No wonder it was hard to find at retail outlets. The thing is, I don't really like this new one, even if it probably stores better and fits in more sleekly with the theme of taste. Nothing compares to the cold, heavy, hard-boiled school marm of a stapler that once dazzled me as an 8th grade literary magazine staffer. So that's where my heart is, impractical as it may seem. The sleek non-dinosaur is not part of living the dream in its purest form.

So I'll stick with the Swingline 615, thank you--even if it means I have to get into bed with the eBay weirdos. I have been a veeeeery occasional eBayer since 2001, but all my feedback is A+++, so it looks like I'm just as much a contender as the millions of others overpaying for mostly useless schlock. But don't expect me to get an Alf alarm clock next. I do have standards.

24 Hours of Dangerous

I wish that I were eloquent enough to tell you all the wonderment of my friend and sister in the skate Ruby, aka Smack Bauer #24, who has recently learned that she has a type of cancer called sarcoma--but I don't know if there are enough words or if I can find them.

Instead, I'll direct you to her own blog Knee-Bunion Adventures, where she is chronicling her bad news and countering it with huge doses of humor, kick-its-ass attitude, and amazing grace. Bonus for bored F-R readers: she updates a lot more often than I do (and looks way better in hats)!

And finally, if you're interested in a quick run-down of how totally rad this woman (who is too humble to tell you herself) truly is, check out Chrissy's, aka Madame Furie, blog about the one who makes Jack Bauer look like kind of a slacker. (Wow.)

Can I get a round of applause for Smack Bauer?

City Mouse and Country Mouse: Both Just Rats?

Quite a few years ago, when I went through my "let's subscribe to every magazine!" phase, I used to get New York magazine. Though I enjoyed it very much, I eventually realized that it wasn't exactly a necessary expenditure and took it out of my budget. Yesterday though, my mom took me shopping for my upcoming trip to Philadelphia (whee!) and she bought me four (4) magazines. It felt like such a crazy indulgence. Anyhow, one of the magazines was my old favorite New York.

Though I tried very hard to exercise self-control and save the magazines for the plane, I had a tire situation today where I found myself in the rubber-scented waiting room of Discount Tire for quite a large chunk of time. And my alternative to my magazine stash was listening to this annoying woman talk on her cell phone and then sigh heavily to the tire guy and say "I hate my tires. They are so noisy, I can't hear whoever I'm talking to on my phone when I'm driving." So you see I had to read it or punch her.

And as I sat there, voraciously reading, I commented to MRT that reading New York sitting in a tire company waiting room (which incidentally is currently a mobile trailer while they build the new building) in Lufkin is a little like reading about outer space. You see that there are people concerned with reversible, artistic renovations--for they are artists-- in the $11.5 million Tribeca loft they're renting. It's right there in print, but you live daily in a J.C. Penney world, where $200K is quite a hefty home loan and you can't imagine what that other place, where Rent is a quaint period piece instead of what you see so many busting their behinds 40 hours a week to pay, is really like.

This is not to say that the working poor don't live in New York City, or that I've never been there to see it live. I don't mean to suggest that at all. The landscape is just so terribly different. When I first began reading New York, I was a young Houstonian and it made sense to me to care about art in a very immediate way, even if I couldn't afford it. I still care about art, of course (and still can't afford it! hey!), but I find other influences pressing in upon my life--like deer hunting season and the gestation period of tomato plants. I do not see one as more important than the other, just so very, very far apart--like, for example, the Earth and the Sun.

Of course, if you ask my Nacogdoches friends, they will tell you I don't really live here--just visit a lot on week days. If you ask my elsewhere friends, they will tell you that the Piney Woods have swallowed me whole and I barely peep my head out to drink gourmet microbrews and discuss--ho ho! Princeton man!--the importance of art. Well, it's actually somewhere in between since I am perpetually trying to have it all--the avant garde cinema and the abundant fresh blackberries, the new friends and the old friends. I cannot, in the forseeable future, imagine purchasing a Greenwich Village condo or even fathom pondering millions of dollars real estate, but my life is a lot fuller than the plentiful pages of the current issue of New York*.

*This issue has an awesome interview with Miranda July!

Holy Jeez, Part 2

When last we left our heroine, she was in the clutches of the highly Jesu-fied at a business park church...

Honestly, I wasn't sure how I wanted to break these posts up because as I mentioned before, the whole experience was so overwhelming that I had not fully processed what had happened and how the different events were relevant to themes of my life such as my former blog tags of "Excessive Crankiness" or even "WHEE!" So basically this post will be what is left as I re-live my night among the evangelicals.

When the "service" concluded, there was no formal dismissal. Basically, the "ministers" said something about a prayer tunnel and the Jesus band fired up with this very creepy repetitive series of guitar riffs that sounded kind of like what thunder might sound like if you had done a lot of acid (I imagine). It reminded me of being in a haunted house you couldn't get out of with maybe someone very wicked hot on your trail. People were really grooving on this, but from my standpoint, it sucked the joy right out of the room--not that there was much from my end to begin with. And the auditorium with no windows began getting smaller as the "graduates" went through this line of people that had converged on them, laying hands on their shoulders and heads, possibly chanting in tongues (the creepy music was too loud to tell for sure), though ostensibly praying for their futures. Eyes began to roll, bodies were mashed by a tangled mess of hands and arms and the people all around me began crying and violently shaking their outstretched arms. Now whether they were crying because they desperately wanted to get out of there or because the holy ghost was stirring in them, or they simply had a bad arm cramp, I don't know, but it freaked me OUT! And my iMom (MRT's mom), too. After about 20 minutes of watching in bewilderment as others convulsed, we excused ourselves to the many-degrees-cooler corridor where punch and cake were being handed out by volunteers as perky as you please. Eventually, others streamed out beside us, but as far as I can tell, this thundery evangelical mosh pit would have continued forever otherwise.

iMom and I, citing the once-fatal purple kool-aid, thought better of ingesting the refreshments of this weird cult, but MRT's dad and aunt did so without any apparent harm. So good job, them. I had hoped the cake would be the end, but unfortunately we were all soon in an elevator going upstairs in the office park to *another* crowded reception that was apparently laid out for maximum concentration of body heat. Citing our panic at being mashed in any crowds, let alone fundamentalist ones, iMom and I high-tailed it to open area for deep breaths and her confiding in me that she would never again use the word awesome after hearing it so abused that night. As a frequent user of awesome in a very un-fundy way, I was very depressed by this news and yet, I understood completely.

Soon after though, we were all on our merry way to a most excellent family dinner at Carrabba's where we thankfully outnumbered the fundies and only had to participate in minimal "and Lord God, father Jesus, thank you father Jesus for this day, Lord God" prayer, as all good sports would. So yay for living through that and being able to tell y'all. I love being in MRT's family--thank you father Jesus*!

*Is "father Jesus" even technically correct in the Christian scheme of things? I think not.

FYI: LOL, IMO

In my opinion (IMO), LOL can only really be used in two ways. It either says:

1) This is ironic; wouldn't you agree?
2) "I'm funny...to me!"

It is when used shamelessly in this second way that I must register my disapproval. Mostly because the people who use it find that they are funny because, I don't know, they just listened to a dirty joke. Now wouldn't it be the best if I followed that line with "LOL"? I didn't think so either.

Holy Jeez, Part 1

If you missed me this weekend, it's because I was busy having a religious experience--and I mean that quite literally. This weekend, MRT and I attended his sister's "graduation" (note: quotation marks will be used liberally in this post) from the School of Ministry of Stealing Money in the Name of Jesus, Inc.--or as MRT simply says "Crazy School." Actually, it has another name, but I prefer not to disclose it to protect the mercilessly brainwashed.

The whole experience was so sensational, such a sensorial explosion, and so far-fetched, I hardly know where to begin. Let me say that given another chance to attend this sort of um, celebration, I wouldn't dream of putting myself through that physical pain again. As a writer, however, it was not to be missed. The mileage I am going to get from two--or was it three--hours of presence among the convulsed and convulsing evangelicals could get me through my first novel at least.

It was the kind of bizarre religious gathering that you see on tv with people passing out from experiencing rapture (or their newly empty pockets) and fainting and speaking in tongues. Normally, upon seeing this, I would watch about 30 seconds out of sheer curiosity, roll my eyes and say "Man, those peops are nuts," and then change the channel. This was exactly like that, except I COULDN'T CHANGE THE CHANNEL! In fact, there was a woman next to me who tried to convince me to ask Pastor Steve for forgiveness (in front of everyone) and used the refrain of "Praise God" to answer every sentence from every "minister" that approached the stage. That was just my row.

Picture, if you will, the inside of this "church" (which, as an aside, was unable to qualify as a 501(c)(3) non-profit). Instead of a steeple with colored-glass windows, the building resembled an office park with more A/V equipment than, say, your local movie theater. A giant cross was center stage while neon blue lights were projected onto stretched white fabric draped as such : / \ / \ across the back. Large projector screens were on either side of the stage with the "band" and the acrylic pulpit. Being inside felt a bit like being underground--physically (MRT made the interesting point that the inside of the "sanctuary" was a bit like being in a casino. No windows. No clocks. Only zealots everywhere you looked.) and culturally, especially in that we were directly behind the Association of Christian Motorcyclists "Riding for the Son" who kept jumping up and down with their arms outstretched, emphatically proclaiming "Praise Jesus!"


In my highly cynical opinion, it is not necessary, nor possible, to talk so much about taking the right path, if you are busy walking it. I love Matt, also, but I have never felt the need to repeat it loudly, ad nauseum, in front of a gathered crowd, a la "I love you Jesus! I love you Jesus! I love you Jesus! I love you Jesus! I love you Jesus! I love you Jesus!I love you Jesus! I love you Jesus!" This really happened and while you think I am exaggerating, I actually started counting and I got to 12 *after* the initial round of repetition (5? 6?) that made me wonder when this woman might stop. By the way, she was the chosen speaker of the graduates, which leads me to the conclusion that overall, they did not have a whole heck of a lot to say. I must give her props though, as she began her speech by noting that she and her fellow "graduates" had been brainwashed. She said this! I found her candor refreshing and was prepared to hear her out--until she said this was a good thing, as her brain needed to be washed to keep Satan off the scent or something (Satan employs bloodhounds?). It went from bad to worse there until it finally degenerated into the "I love you Jesus!" refrains.

And shortly thereafter, we were forced to sit through like a half hour of tithing, which included a speech about how, even if you weren't a member of the "church" and were just here for a graduate, you had no right to be silent and not repent, accompanied by unrelenting strains of live Kenny G-esque Christian music from a sax "musician."

Maybe it's just me, but I am not compelled to give money when I am 1) being browbeaten for just being a supportive, silently-respectful family member and 2) forced to endure the must unholy music that e'er aurally assaulted me. I am certain that Jesus would not put it on a heavenly mix cd.

To be continued...

Mother's Day Tidings

I don't really think mother's day is that great of a holiday. Actually, I think it has the potential to be a really excellent holiday in which we celebrate mothers and the big and small ways they contribute to our lives and ease our way from our very first day. But I don't think it does that and now seems little more than some half-baked commercial zoo in which dear old mom is forced to wait an hour and a half with her grumpy children for some mediocre meal at such vanilla restaurants as Macaroni Grill. And mom will sigh that, despite waiting in line and having an overly-enthusiastic waiter she wants to slap, that for at least 24 hours, she might not be bombarded with requests for money and laundry from her degenerate offspring. It almost seems oppressive in that way these days. "Tomorrow I'll go back to not appreciating you, Mom, but for today--have some pre-packaged tiramisu and some dyed flowers that smell of ear wax."

Don't get me wrong--my mom totally rocks and I appreciate her and if she wanted ear wax flowers, I'd be first in line to get her some. In fact, I value moms in general. The thing is, mother's day in the United States (it originated world-wide at various times and various ways) didn't start out as an over-commercialized holiday to benefit Brinker Corporation. Oh I know, that's an awfully cynical view (if true*). So I have a little something that I think is really rad about the original mother's day. I dedicate to my super rocking mom and all the women who have guided me along my way. Thank you all for your wonders.

So this something special begins with an explanation. Mother's Day in the U.S. began with a sort of call to disarm by the famous abolitionist, feminist, and poet Juliet Ward Howe (you may know her from her authorship of such things as The Battle Hymn of the Republic), who issued her Mother's Day Proclamation. It incited women everywhere to work for peace and stop the carnage and fighting so ubiquitous in the American Civil War. That proclamation is below. I hope it inspires you (or your mom) to meditate on these people that have been moving and shaking us to do the right thing throughout human history.

Mother's Day Proclamation by Julia Ward Howe

Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts,
Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!

Say firmly:
"We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the bosom of the devastated Earth a voice goes up with our own.
It says: "Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe out dishonor, nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel.

Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace,
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God.

In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And at the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.

*According to the National Restaurant Association, Mother's Day is now the most popular day of the year to dine out at a restaurant in the United States.

"That's Some Tahmaytah for These Nac Residents!"

It's pouring rain outside and I was having a daydream that Matt's tomatoes will grow so big that we will get our picture in the paper with the caption above. He just fertilized them and fed them generously, so I feel sure we're headed for the state fair at the very least. Well, he is. He does all the work. I watch and cheer him on.

It's been raining lots and lots here lately, which I really like, but it doesn't sit so well with Molly who has been alternately chewing her feet and panting wildly to deal with the situation.

Oddly, we didn't really get much April showers though. And speaking of April showers, there is a sign at this place that's like a joint insurance company and Bible meeting co-op or something (Nacogdoches is an interesting little town) and it says "If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?" Now--you and I know that the answer is: pilgrims. But according to this sign, the answer is "Insurance payments as low as $35 per month."

What would they say in Plymouth?

If I had to hazard a guess, it would probably be "That's some tahmaytah!" Maybe I just like saying it.

Narrative to Fender Bender I Just Witnessed Out My Kitchen Window

Teen Girl Squad [in car, "jamming" to John Mayer]: "OMG, can you believe that gas station candy is now $0.89? OMG!"
"Remember when it was like $0.75? That was so back in the day! Let's totally get out of here and go watch Trading Spaces. I'll just back up without looking. What good is youth otherwise if not for bold stupidity?"
"Right on."

Meanwhile...

HONK! HONK! HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK! [from car behind Teen Girl Squad Pontiac]

BLAM! Teen Pontiac slams into crappity crapster from the front. Bumpers bump.

Crappity Crapster Driver: "Shit bitch! I'm going to wag my fingers all over the place to indicate how tight this pantyhose on my head is and how crazy you are for backing without looking."

Teen Driver: OMG! OMG! "I will now bend over and clasp my hand to my upper chest to indicate my sincere hope that I will NOT have to tell my dad about this. OMG! Is your short friend [ed. note: we call this a child who wasn't wearing a seat belt, but WAS wearing a pantyhose hat] okay? OMGOMGOMG it looks like there is no damage. I will now throw my hand to my brow to indicate how I am SO OUTTIE! and still totally without any lesson learned for backing without looking."

Crappity Crapster Driver: "Crazy beeotch! I am still wagging my finger! I don't care if there wasn't damage. Don't walk away from me!"

And....SCENE.

"Strong Enough for a Man, but pH Balanced for 2005"

You know the old Secret deodorant motto of "Strong enough for a man, but pH balanced for a woman?" Of course you do. You have ears, after all. (Confidential to my earless readers: sorry.) I just realized that probably the reason that Secret's motto is now "Strong enough for a woman" instead was because someone, one day decided that they were going to get sued for the old motto because it sounded like the motto of sexist fatheads--probably not because they decided they weren't actually sexist fatheads anymore. But that is not the point of this blog.

On Sunday, I went to Target to get a few odds and end, as you do, and one such odd was a Dove deodorant stick. Now, I know all the evils of modern deodorants with their aluminum and poison and such. In general, I try to keep poison out of my body, but I really like Dove deodorant and actually switched to it when I kind of got tired of smelling like sweaty gym socks + non-aluminum/non-poison fragrance. When I first started using it--2005 as I have now discovered--there was only one flavor. I'll call it "Original Clean" (because that's what it is). Today there are approximately 11ty flavors and somewhere between then and now, I inadvertently switched flavors to "New Fresh" (or something) because: what's the difference, right? Well back at Target, I somehow ended up with Original Clean again because I certainly had no idea what kind I used regularly a through that little plastic dome they keep on top of the new deodorants, they all pretty much smell the same. Plus, don't Fresh and Clean seem like the same? Or shouldn't they? As long as it wasn't Freesia or suchlike, I was good to go.

Okay, so the actual point of this story is that on Monday when I put on Original Clean, I had a little Harry Potter moment, like I had put on the time turner or something. I was not in my bathroom in Nacogdoches brushing my teeth. My nose told me that I was actually cruising down I-20 towards Georgia on a bright, hot June day in my mom's car at approx. 95mph crossing the Mississippi River, then walking to the satellite server at UH with Jo for a post-statistics coffee, and then drinking a Bloody Mary at Hula Hut (I was inspired by an episode of Emeril I watched on tv earlier in the day) as the sun went down over Lake Austin, then sitting at Miller Outdoor Theater watching The Tempest with friends and a Spec's picnic as the fireflies flickered, then sitting impatiently with the same friends at West Alabama Icehouse near Bookstop-- waiting for midnight to come so I could get to reading the new Harry Potter (Half-Blood Prince) all the while texting Jo about butterbeer and robe sightings, and then browsing through Bed, Bath, and Beyond looking for the perfect shower caddy for not-my shower. It was an olfactory rush to be sure--the strongest I've ever had-- with all of those moments instantaneous and vivid and exploding in my memory. Had you asked me a week ago what kind of deodorant I wore in the first half to 3/4 of 2005, I certainly could not have told you. But it was so real.

The moral is--even if Dove is poisoning me and filling me with aluminum at this very moment, I'm truly thankful for the flash. Seriously. Maybe it's because everything from Dove is 99 44/100 pure, including memories. They should advertise that. (Maybe.)

Man on the Moon

Okay, sure Michael Jackson has turned himself into something of a circus freak tent show. But what other circus has a dude who can moonwalk/dance like this? It's montage time.

O. M. G.



I am becoming somewhat of a YouTubing fiend, but I was inspired by Meg, who was inspired by me, who was inspired by Kealy. I blame Kealy. :) I must stop it now. The madness must end!

Oh, and btw---wtf is Michael Jackson wearing in the Smooth Criminal section? Is it a cream-colored satin leotard bustier over black pants as part of a gangster suit? Umm, I'm afraid that it is.

See for yourself. (In this picture, he has shed his gangster jacket.)

I've Got a Lot of Internetting, To Do!

Going on vacation and not checking your email is one thing (and quite an enjoyable one thing, I might add), but sitting at home for a week not being able to call anyone/recive calls/check your email/look up stupid web pages is purgatory here in Nacogdoches. And when Monday comes and you can not accept glorious job offers streaming in your face? Well, that's hard friend. Know how I suffer.

Anyway, even though I know you are SO anxious to hear me complain about the phone company yet again (if I still had tags, one would be: why I hate phone companies and it would probably be the most common tag), I will skip it. After having been out of the loop since Thursday-ish, I have a SMILLION emails, blogs, web sites, general puttering to catch up on, not to mention phone calls. Normally, I'm not much of a caller, but I kind of want to do it right now just to express that I can. I am free! I'm no longer in telecommunication shackles! Okay, so blogs coming soon. Just please let me catch up!

Love,
MaryT, online for 1 hour and 8 minutes now. Whee!

" 'Everyone take out your spelling books,' said Mrs. Jewls. 'It's time for arithmetic.' "

Since I just noticed that I had hit the 900 mark with my last post and I remember being near my 800th when last I announced my stats, I thought I must be posting at a faster rate to have achieved 900 so soon. And indeed I have.

In November, after 1595 days of blogging, I averaged one (1) post every two (2) days.
Now, after 1772 days of blogging, I average one (1) post every one point ninety-six (1.96) days.

And you thought I was blogging LESS.

Once every two days isn't too shabby, but I know some of the posts were. (Boo!) So I'm afraid that if I continue to blog at an even greater rate, the quality of posts will go right down the toilet. It's like that "stat" from the book Sideways Arithmetic from Wayside School about how the cafeteria lunch is really good if no one orders it, but the more people order it, the less delicious it is. Therefore, only the few people who order it on days when it's good ever know that it's not always as bad as pizza day. Capisce?

A Lucrative Offer for Texans

Thanks to Jen for informing me of this financial opportunity.

Yes, the Houston Museum of Natural Science is offering cash for cockroaches--$0.25 each for the first 1000 that come through their door. So if I can just get my act together, I can beat all you fools to the $250 pot with the ones who have taken up residence underneath our dishwasher since spring began. I knew skipping pre-rinse would pay!

Btw, this is 900th post on F-R. WOWMOM.

OMG, Y'all Are Gonna Break Me

Even after I removed all the labels--yes, all--who needs labels? and several photos, I was still ridiculously over my site quota, even though I have the upgraded 10MB storage account. So just to get back online, F-R, nearing its fiery 6th year, is going D-luxe with 20MB storage. I hope you appreciate what I do for you. Pay me in comments. :)

Love,
MaryT

I Believe You're Looking For This--Favorite Passages

I have had 42 site hits today and about 18 of them seemed to be looking for a favorite passage from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Being that it is one of my favorites, I thought I'd share it with the rest of you as well, plus a bonus favorite excerpt from The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, which has a similar theme to the other passage.

From ATGIB:
The last time of anything has the poignancy of death itself. This that I see now, she thought, to see no more this way. Oh, the last time how clearly you see everything; as though a magnifying light had been turned on it. And you grieve because you hadn't held it tighter when you had it every day. What had Gramma Mary Rommely said? "To look at everything always as though you were seeing it for the first or last time: Thus is your time on Earth filled with glory."

From TULOB:
In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.

Fun fact: It is from this passage that author Jonathan Safran Foer got the title for his bestselling novel Everything is Illuminated, also an excellent read.

Starving Daughters in the Flesh

This morning while I was waiting to get a state inspection on my car, I picked up some magazine so worn by women customers (I assume) that unlike the issues of "Road & Track" and other "Car & Dude"-themed magazines, it no longer had a cover. I think it had something to do with style and judged which celebrities looked better in their $650 "skinny" jean capris. Question: are they still skinny jeans if you're not skinny yourself? Regardless of how it may look, can a fat person even wear "skinny" pants? You'll never figure it out by looking at celebrities, as they all look emaciated to me. Hmm.

And speaking of skinny (my point), there was a column in the magazine by the owner/writer and professed perpetually hungry girl for the blog Hungry-Girl.com. I did a double take to make sure that I was reading the title of the blog correctly; when I saw that my eyes had not betrayed me resolved to look it up when I got home to verify it was a complete misnomer not worthy of my outrage. Wrong-o. Yes, Hungry-Girl is exactly what you think it is: a web site dedicated to "helping" the already insecure majority of women by giving them tips on how to "cheat" fat under the guise of sisterhood and attractive style sheet layout. In fact, the disclaimer reads in part "The information I provide merely reflects my own personal experiences and is NOT meant to take the place of medical or nutrition advice from professionals. But it's entertaining, helpful and pretty...so enjoy it!" Giggle, giggle!

Oh. My. God. People! First of all: you cannot cheat fat. Ever heard the credo "eat smarter, exercise more and do it for life"? That is because it is the only tried and true method for healthy weight loss. That said, you're not fat. Actually, some people are very fat (and who knows? with the growing rate of obesity, it's possible that indeed you are overweight)--but you do not get healthy by fooling your body. You can't fool your body. It is much smarter than you and is probably also more stubborn than you. Do you honestly think you can fight unhealthy habits with insecurity? You absolutely can't.

I will now reference my latest bible of feminism--Bitch Magazine (who has exceptional customer service, by the way) who excerpted the book Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body in their Super Issue (Spring, 2007). In this passage, author Courtney Martin talks about the dangers modern women--all of us-- face as they literally "hunger for excellence," trying to starve themselves into perfection. Whether women have a diagnosable eating disorder or not, in one way or another, we are all struggling with the dichotomy of harnessing our power as women and buckling under the pressure to be meek and flawless dolls. Martin continues. "We are the daughters of feminists who said 'You can be anything," and we heard 'You have to be everything.'" And, I might add--"You better not be nothing."

Sounds like Hungry Girl is hungry for a lot more than food she feels she can't have or doesn't deserve. Will you eat what she's serving up?

Fisticuffs with the Fetal Urge

Though I do my very best to project, at all times, that killer instinct so eloquently expressed by the song "Eye of the Tiger" on my blog and in person, the fact is that I am not always out there winning karate tournaments or bettering my mind and well-being, simultaneously strengthening my resolve, in a montage of determined attempts to land my back flip. In fact, many of the extended periods of absence from my blog often indicate that somewhere, I am actually writhing in anguish and defeatist self-talk, perhaps in a ball shape. Helpful? Maybe not, but that's how I roll. Ironically, it is often at these low points that I am my most sparklingly hilarious and verbose self and the inboxes of close friends overflow with my stream-of-conscious diatribes you usually read here. Note: You may have noticed that despite being a bit of a self-proclaimed grammar/spelling nazi, I rarely take the time to edit my own typo-lousy blog for anything more than egregious breaches of the English language.

So why do I hide out instead of taking it to the streets? Well, there are a few reasons really. One is the fear that I will become like a teen on myspace revealing the how and when of their loss of virginity immediately after casually noting that they prefer French toast to waffles. I do realize that as a personal blog with the only consistent theme being "My Agenda, by golly!," French Roast is already a complete endeavor of vanity, but give me some credit for sparing you such revolting minutiae with my self-editing. Second, I don't really want you to know, Internet. Though some of my dearest friends--and people I like a lot, but don't actually know--read this blog, the hit counter reveals the heart of the matter: most people find French Roast by googling "funny looking retards" or "Shandi Finnessey naked" (I just increased my daily hits exponentially). And do I really want such oafs and a slough of unworthy ex-boyfriends (seriously, y'all--you're not even trying to cover your tracks. Have you never heard of finesse?) thinking that I am anything less than a Jack Bauer-esque badass at all times? Of course I do not. In fact, oafs, please continue to understand that I never show/feel any weakness.

But for you other kind people, please excuse me from time to time. I have kept this blog public for years and will continue to do so (F-R.com renewed through 5/09, dude!), but I may need to retreat to a paperback journal occasionally where I will lament my unsuccessful flirting attempts during 5th period and how "Tenth grade is the Howard Johnson of high school." Ha ha. Maybe I will work up a little "From the Private Journals of Douglas Howser, M.D." jobby in word for the tribulations I hold in my heart. Having said this, I think our plucky young heroine may have some verbal spite yet to be unleashed today. Let's blog!

To-Doom List

I have been in my house approximately 11 seconds in the last week that I wasn't furiously doing something--entertaining guests,preparing for the bout, trying to find/buy a house, job-related humility tasks, cooking for some event, working on my master's application portfolio, fending off the bizarre eye infection, editing (for pay!) like a fiend, and making this gargantuan to-do list that might as well include "cure Cancer," "bring about world peace," and "construct home appliances from own saliva."

I have enjoyed all of these tasks immensely (except for the ones in which I clearly indicated doom), but I've been busy. In any event, I have severely neglected my correspondence with many of you, and not just via the blogosphere (meh). I'm so sorry--truly. My family and my dearest friends know I am exceptionally overdue for a return phone call and are at this very minute tapping their feet/wagging their fingers--or at least they should be. I'm so sorry. I'm snowed in for just a day or so more. How's Wednesday for y'all? Mom? Great. In the meantime, I need to get back to writing a U.N. resolution banning land mines. :)