Engineering My Own Disappointment

You probably wonder what I do all day. My answer would be, "Not a whole hell of a lot." Once I get the kids off to school, there's the poodles to pet.  And there's three of them, so usually by the time I finish petting the last one I have to start all over or someone gets their feelings hurt.  I usually go straight from that to eyebrow plucking.  Let me tell you; with eyebrows like mine, who needs bonsai?  When I'm finished with that, I spend a fair amount of time writing.  I'll tell you a little about my work in progress; my magnum opus.  It's a teen musical based upon the life of Typhoid Mary.  The idea is so awesome, it pretty much writes itself.  Obviously.

She's contagious! She sings! She dances! She's a triple threat!

My routine was interrupted the other day when the husband asked me to meet him downtown at his office.  He wanted me to meet his co-workers and then have lunch.  I've never actually met anyone from his work (4 years! a personal record!) but he talks about them all the time and I've created corresponding images for them in my mind.  That's just how I organize my life; I label everyone.  It's easier for me. But, honestly, it just creates a cycle of disappointment of my own making.  Most people can't live up to the image I create for them.

So the first time Winston mentioned this guy at work named Paul Winfield, I sat up and said, "No way! No way Paul Winfield aka Captain Terrell in the Wrath of Khan works in your office! That's awesome!"  The husband assured me I had mental problems, and that Paul Winfield was a short white guy with red hair.  But it was too late.  I had already imprinted.  All I could see was this:

I've memorized the entire movie. I could recite it to you.

Then there's this woman he works with, Shelly Anderson.  He once mentioned in passing that she was a single mom.  Now, whenever he says things like, "Shelly's car got stolen this weekend,"  all I see is this:

Erin Brokovich, engineer

 Another couple of guys have these great Russian sounding names, so I have always imagined that they look like those dudes from one of my favorite commercials ever:

From the Halls of Medicine! Breathe Deep, My Pasty Friend!

Unfortunately for Ed Chupazak, all I heard was El Chupacabre, Mexican blood sucking creature of the night.  Must be awkward around the water cooler...

"My fantasy football team is kicking ass!"

 Lastly there's Winston's boss, Pete Houston.  Initially, I pictured J.R. Ewing from the 80's evening soap Dallas.  Until Winston explained that he did not wear a Stetson or look anything like the guy from I Dream of Jeannie.  Apparently he's a tall, bald black guy.  Who obviously looks like this:

Mac, obsessively shaving in Predator

Which is badass. So's this:

Winston, could you step into my office? I'd like to talk about your TPS report.

And that's why I could never understand how he could bitch about work with all these awesome people walking around. When he complains about being in meetings all day, I can't imagine it being even remotely boring.  I picture Captain Terrell threatening to shoot himself to get the worms out of his ear, Erin Brokovich in a trampy outfit sticking it to the man, El Chupacabre lurking in the corner, two Russian dudes slapping my husband on the back and yelling, "Breathe deep, my pasty friend!"  All the while, Mac sits there dry shaving and sweating.  I could happily endure hours of that!

Me:  I have no idea what to wear!  OMG I am freaking out!  Paul Winfield! Mac! Erin Brockovich! I'm already outclassed!  I can't! I can't meet these people! It's too awesome!

Winston:  It's a bunch of engineers!  Pete does not look like Mac from Predator and it's not THAT Paul Winfield!  It's just a boring bunch of contractors!  You'll be the most exciting person there!

Me: I'm wearing my mink scarf! It's the classiest thing I own!

Sophisticated conversation piece

You can imagine my disappointment when I arrived at his office and he proceeded to introduce me to a bunch of gray-faced, monotone engineers, who all looked like it was either their first day back after a heart attack or were 1-2 days away from having one.  Each one of them looked up from their monitors, blinking like cave dwellers and began clustering around me like I was a some sort of rare, sparkly unicorn.  I don't think they see the outside very often.  It was horribly disappointing.  Not one movie star or creature of the night among them.  I tried to make charming conversation, to let them know that I forgave them for not living up to my expectations.  It didn't work.

Me: So great to finally meet you! Winston speaks highly of you!

Engineer:  Yes.  We worked on bla bla bla bla engineering bla bla project bla bla greenfield bla bla bla structural bla bla work stuff that bores you to tears bla bla bla.  I'm going to talk work at you till your brain bleeds. Bla.

Me: How about that?  Where should we get lunch?

Engineer: I eat at my desk.

Me: That's awesome! We gotta go!

And that's when I realized that my husband is the bravest man ever to work all day in that soul sucking office.  He goes there every day and exists in a vast nebula of stress and advanced boring and he does it all for me and the kids.  He is the sparkly unicorn.  Not me.  And when I look at him all I see is this:

and when we are together he makes me feel like this:

and I just wanted to say:

                           Happy Anniversary Sweetheart! I love you so very much!

~dana

That's Not a Hobo, Damn It!

There's lots of hobo talk in my house.  My kids have been obsessed for years with hobos, hobo culture, hobo art, hobo eating supplies, hobo bath's, etc.  You probably are too.

Best hobo ever

 The first time they heard the word was probably out of my father.  My dad goes through periods where, for reasons we've never been able to pin down, he refuses to shave, cut his hair or bathe like a normal person.  This will go on for up to a year.  Then, one day, he suddenly appears shiny and freshly groomed. But meanwhile, he takes what he calls "hobo baths."  He basically dunks his head in the sink.  Any sink. Kitchen, bathroom, utility room.  My children were fascinated by this and kept demanding to "take a hobo bath like Pappy." I'd like to take a moment to thank my father for those special moments.

I love you, Dad.

 When my son was 7, he went to play at his friend Joey's house.  Later, when he came home, he asked me to explain something Joey's mom had screamed at the two boys while they were beating the crap out of each other.  Apparently, she took one look at them punching and kicking each other and yelled,"Cut it out! You look like two hobos fighting over a can of beans!"  This immediately captured my son's imagination.  That's how I found my self explaining to him about hobos, beans, campfires and hobo fights.  My daughter, who idolizes her big brother and has a keen eye for trends, was soon on board with her brother's plan to eat like a hobo. 

My dad, ever helpful, told them they could get "hobo knives" at Walmart.  Which they did.

Mr. Pickles is uninterested in hobo utensils

They insisted on eating with them, yelling things like, " We're hobos! Eatin' beans!"  (They weren't, in fact, eating beans.  Because they hate beans.  They substituted cereal or spaghetti or chicken or ice cream.)  While out playing with friends, my son found an empty soup can, brought it home and demanded that all of his meals be served out of it.  I threw it away; he's still mad at me about that one.  I have to be very careful never to mention cans to him or it degenerates into a fight.

Me: "Henry, honey, pass mommy that can of pineapple and I'll give you some with your lunch."

Henry: "Oh, so it's OK for THIS can to be in the house.  My hobo can was awesome and I cleaned it and everything and you still threw it away!  And I was RECYCLING, Mom!"

Me: "Oh my God, you are not eating out of a can you found in the woods! Ever! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Henry: "You let Anne do what ever she wants!  All I wanted was to eat out of my hobo can! You never let me do anything!"

Eighteen months ago, we moved from the sterile, homogenized splendor of the deep suburbs, to an inner ring suburb of Cleveland.   And there's hobo's everywhere.  My friend Mary, who lives down the street from me, has a hobo that rearranges her trash every week in the middle of the night.  She keeps trying to find the perfect configuration so he doesn't feel the need to correct her trash pile.  No luck yet. 

There's usually some hobos at the park, walking around yelling at no one in particular or spreading the contents of their shopping carts out on a picnic table and either screaming at it or talking sweetly to it.  My kids, upon seeing this, stood staring with their mouths agape whispering, "Whoa! Cool!"  I took them aside and explained in no uncertain terms that they were not to stare at the hobos.  "Don't you ever look a hobo or a carny worker in the eyes! Just let the hobo play with his trash and you two go play on the slide!"

A couple of weeks later, we were walking through the park to go throw rocks at the lake, when my son grabbed my arm and said frantically, "Mommy! Don't look! That hobo is talking to her trash!"
I looked around, "What hobo?"  He whispered, "There! On the picnic table! She's talking to her trash! Don't stare, Mommy! Don't look her in the eye!"  I turned and looked at the picnic table.

"That's not a hobo, damn it!!!"

Sitting at the picnic table, probably on her lunch hour, was a well dressed, middle aged woman with a grande Starbucks in front of her, talking on her Bluetooth.

"Are you sure, Mommy?  Cause she is totally talking to her trash."

My son's interest culminated this year in his choosing to dress up for Halloween as a hobo with a shotgun.  He was inspired by the straight to DVD movie, starring Rutger Hauer, as a vengeful hobo cleaning up the streets.

I've never been so proud

Which brings me to this gem I found on Pinterest.

for the hobo in your life

 This lovely hobo kit, which they are billing as a "homeless gift bag" is being extolled as the "it" item to have if a hobo throws himself at your car and shoves a cardboard sign in your face.  The idea is that, instead of pointedly looking the other way (that would be me), or giving them money to buy booze, you instead ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW and give them this lovely Ziplock baggie.  It's been filled with personal grooming supplies and applesauce.  There is no way these women have ever been at a stop light and had an angry, screaming hobo block their car and wave a sign reading, usually, "Need $$$ God Bless!"  They must be a group of desperate housewives who saw a hobo once, and think that the homeless problem would go away if only the hobos had access to deodorant, toothpaste and fruit.  And there is no way they live in Cleveland.  Our hobo's would most likely pee on your car, scream at the gift bag and then throw it at your windshield. 

~dana

Always Choose Adventure.

This whole weekend started with my daughter asking her daddy, "Daddy can I buy Barry Manilow tickets? He's at Radio City Music Hall!", and him forking over a credit card. Airline tickets were purchased, many plans were made and fabulous outfits purchased. Excitement was building, it was my daughter Sarah's first trip to New York and first time on an airplane.

Two days before takeoff, Ticketmaster called. If you have tickets to an event you do not want Tickemaster to call. Barry Manilow had been rescheduled. To a Monday. In April. For many reasons this does not work for us. Much sadness. The show tickets were fully refunded, but airlines are not so inclined. Now we have choices. Eat the $300 in plane tickets or head off into the big city for unknown adventures. We chose adventures!

We are hitting Manhattan early, Friday 10am. Hotel check in is 3 so we are packing light. For the 2 of us we pack one large purse with pj's and one shirt for Saturday because we are leaving at 7pm. This is going to be a whirlwind 31 hour tour of the big apple! We do not need luggage slowing us down. The flight is uneventful, it's just a sky bus people! At LaGuardia we have decisions to make. A cab to Manhattan will cost us LOTS of money, or we can save some money by using public transportation. We like buying shiny things, so we go with the bus that takes us to the subway. Yes, we are going to try to navigate the subway. Sarah and I DO NOT do buses but our boys use them everyday. My husband takes the bus to work and my son takes it to school.We find it fascinating and- very, very confusing-so this is a huge leap for us. We buy Metro Cards, which, in retrospect was the best decision ever, for many reasons.

We emerge from the subway, into the Garment District. OMG. The first thing we see http://www.beadsworldusa.com/index.html This place is glorious. It shimmers and twinkles in the winter sunshine. We want to buy all the things, or at the very least touch them. We make it out of there for under $40. I call this a miracle! The most fabulous gifts were purchased as well as a rhinestone salamander bracelet that I am currently rocking at my desk. We adventure on to Mood, the fabric store made famous by Project Runway. Sarah and I are not unfamiliar with the textile arts; we make costumes and the occasional wearable piece of art. Mostly we are going to visit Swatch, the dog that lives at Mood. We had been instructed by many people before we left to get a photo, or  not bother returning home. The stacks of fabrics were glorious. It was fashion week, the place was packed with tourists and people actually trying to get something done. The staff was extraordinarily patient and informed us that Swatch was everywhere. So we needed to do a doggie treasure hunt. It wasn't difficult. The first couch we found contained one very cute, very tired doggie! After petting him we purchased a rhinestone bow tie applique, and a Mood canvas bag. This bag was our second best decision of the day. We could put our "luggage" and all of our purchases in it and wander around the city looking awesome! The walk out of the district to Times Square was filled with stores that offered sequined fabrics, fringes and treasures. Dress shops and trunk shows every other step. I want to live here. We take a break in Bryant Park, they have swings and benches with heaters to warm our bones. The day is beautiful, 45 degrees and sunshine. People are playing ping pong, and ice skating in the park, while we watch the pigeons.

Swatch! 

It's only 1 in the afternoon! We have packed all this adventure into 3 hours. Times Square is the next step on our journey.  The subway app is summoned forth on my phone. We got this! We head over to Grand Central Terminal call some friends at work and grab a canoli. Yes, we left the gun.
In Times Square we are approached by a man with tickets to sell. He is hired by the venue to draw tourists into their web! He has Comic Strip tickets for us, instead of the 50 dollar cover charge we can  get in for $30 dollars. I am skeptical. I ask him if we are going to show up and find out it's a scam he swears it isn't. Shows us a badge. Still very sketchy, but his act is really good, he was even very up front about the $20 per person drink minimum. Sarah feels he's legit and she has a pretty excellent people reader so, I fork over 30 dollars and get our pass into the 10:30 show. We figure if it's a scam he earned that $30, and we are impressed with his skills.

Sanrio is the reason we have made our way to Times Square. Sanrio makes Hello Kitty merchandise. She has many cute friends. There are very few of these stores in the U.S. so this is a must for us. This is where cute originated. So many things to touch and play with and of course buy. Tokidoki, a designer, has teamed up with Hello Kitty to create mind numbingly adorable wallets, hand bags and luggage. We fondle them all. Sarah thinks she wants the wallet, it's very expensive. We are very prudent and decide to sleep on it.

This is where we originally were going to go to our hotel check in and get beautiful for dinner and Barry. This is no longer necessary. We are going to take on the East Village. Because we can. We want to visit Obscura. It is an antiques shop that deals in bizarre and disturbing treasures. It is featured in a show called Oddities on the Discovery channel. I have plans to buy a birthday gift for my blog partner. We get off the subway and turn the wrong way. The two of us have not yet oriented ourselves, and we go the wrong way often. Even when we try to follow the addresses up and down it doesn't work. We don't know why. This is solved by Saturday, it's a process! ANYWAY, we finally find the storefront. It's for lease.  So we call Cleveland and ask Norman to find out, WHY? They are moving.  It was not mentioned on their website only in blogs and on Facebook. So sad making! We sit on a bench to plot our next maneuver. The most darling pug with a pink outfit came up to love us! Sooo cute and totally almost made up for Obscura being closed. Our next destination is The Wooster Street Social Club, also known as the home of New York Ink. Sarah LOVES Ami James and our goal is to buy a t-shirt. If we can score a photo with Robear that would be excellent. Cue the Crazy Taxi music because it was one wild ride! The streets in the East Village tend to be brick, the chiropractors friend. The tattoo shop is beautiful and clean. Which is a good thing in a tattoo shop! The woman running the merchandise shop was charming and engaging. We bought a t-shirt with one of Ami's koi, it's fabulous. The nice lady tells us how to get to the subway from there. Canal and Fulton here we come! We love filling up our Metro Cards, it's so cosmopolitan! We get turned around a bit, SHOCKING I know. Here is what we learned in the village, if someone has a dog they know where stuff is and are nothing but generous. Thank you, to all the random people who helped guide us along the way this weekend. You make New York wonderful!


We are finally heading to our hotel. The Manhattan Centre Hotel, unless you are looking for  it you don't find it. Its a lovely midtown place right across from Radio City Music Hall. The price was right and we got an upgrade on our room, TWO beds,the luxury! Right next door is a pizza place we each grab a slice, we are so New York, to eat in the room.  It is now 6 o'clock. We are exhausted. Carbs are consumed, and a nap is taken. Sarah wakes up right on cue at 8:30pm, just enough time to get pretty before we hail a cab to The Comic Strip. The Times Square man said to be there an hour early. We take instructions very well, even from potential scam artists. On the advice of the front desk staff we go up to 6th to catch a cab. No subway after dark seems prudent. We are on the corner, flagging away to the taxis that are available. Crickets. No one is stopping, a limo pulls past us and drops off someone a couple of spaces away. Apparently he is watching our unsuccessful attempts at procuring transportation, and asks if we need a ride. I tell him thank you but we can't afford his fancy ride. He says "Pay what you want!" Sarah and I look at each other, this might be a mistake but OK. Yes people, I know many things could have gone wrong, but nothing did, relax. We have a great conversation. He tells us of a place to go shopping if we are left waiting for a World Trade Center tour. He said we had excellent judgement in staying away from the subway, some validation is always nice. He gets us safely to our destination, on streets that are as smooth as glass. Limos > Taxi,some New York math for you.
I give him 20 dollars for the ride, the kindness and the conversation.

This was the view from our seat. No zoom lens! 

We line up at the club, http://www.comicstriplive.com/  I researched, so I knew it existed, and I had discovered who would be entertaining us this evening. Good quality comics, Marina Franklin, Brian Scott McFadden,Chuck Nice and Neil Brennan who we would see on Jimmy Fallon, wearing the same t-shirt, when we got back to our hotel. We were told by Times Square guy that if we wanted to lay low to sit in the back, as those who sit closer can become targets of the comics. We thought this was excellent advice! So when we are finally let into the lounge area we try to do just that. BUT NO, we are instructed to sit at a tiny table for two that practically TOUCHES the stage. This makes us nervous. We order our unlimited virgin drinks, each of us cost $20, I get frozen slushy fabulousness, Sarah sticks with Coke, so boring. I expect to never see our waitress again, but she was very attentive! We purchased an $8 bag of microwave popcorn, yes we did. Yes, it was delicious. I am trying to spend a fifty dollar gift card given to me by my former employer for my 10 years of dedicated service.  I thought that spending it here, on an experience my daughter and I shared with laughter was fitting tribute to the way things used to be at the library. The warm up guy asks us what our story is, I say first mother daughter trip to New York. This draws an aww from the crowd and an instant pass on comic abuse! Except for one comic who pantomimes cumming on our table,we are unscathed this evening!  Everyone was very funny I call it totally worth the money. We get out fast and grab a cab to the hotel. Next door to our hotel is Duane Read, this is New York speak for Walgreens. We buy snacks, water and kerpoppi valentines. We make it into our snug beds just in time for Jimmy Fallon and to see the man who befouled our table mime style. It's 12:30 and we have done much in our 12 1/2 hours in New York. We are tired. Goodnight. Writing about it has been nearly as exhausting as living it!

The Boobs are Fine, It's the Lower Bits...

I love thrift shopping.   It appeals to my cheap nature and my predilection for the bizarre in decorating.  I like to mix the lovely with the "what the hell?"  For example, I found this lovely birdcage for my living room.  Then I found the perfect item to dress up the inside with.

I like to call my style "Arhaus meets Sanford and Son."  It's going to sweep the nation.  Anyway, about a month before Christmas, I was in my favorite resale shop in their home-ware section in the basement.  I was looking for draperies, but instead found this!

A genuine tacky nude!  I took a picture of it and sent it to the husband to brighten his day. I also threatened to buy it. He was immediately on board with that.

"You should get it. It's awesome," he texted back.

"Hmmm... I don't know. Well, my grandma did have a nude painting in the living room.  And we have no nudie art at all."

He responded, "Did she really?"

"Yeah," I said, "It was this grieving woman laying on a grave in a cave with all her business hanging out. I always knew where to find my male cousins."

"Listen," Winston said," You should totally get it.  It sorta looks like you."

"Yeah," I said, "Before the kids. With bigger boobs. And my thighs have never been that fat, damn it. Well, it is 50% off."

So I bought the tacky Dana nude and gave it to Winston for Christmas.  He asked me where I intended to hang it.

"Oh, I thought the dining room.  It will discourage guests from lingering."

"I think the 5ft. tall rice god does that already," he said, "I have to say, considering what a prude you are,  I'm surprised the pubic hair doesn't bother you."

"What? Where?!?"

Sure enough, if I had bothered to actually look closely, I would have noticed not a tasteful, shadowy lady part, but rather a magnificent jungle of womanhood.  Whoever painted the tacky Dana nude took a great deal of time on the lower bits. It's all swirly and lush. 

"I can't hang pubic hair in the dining room!" (pause and reflect on chances of anyone else ever having said those exact words.)

"Living room?" he said.

"NO!"

"Basement?"

"I'm thinking closet. Damn it!"

So, the Dana nude is behind some pants in our closet.  I can't think what to do with it.  I don't want to get rid of it, because it was such a good deal.  After the discount, I think I paid $9.25.  So there she waits, never to see the light of day because of her magnificent crotch and my prudish nature. I have this horrible image in my mind of my great grandchildren finding it and refusing to throw away what they think is slutty art of granny.  Fighting over it, making up outlandish stories about how uninhibited granny was.  Mocking the thighs and making bikini wax jokes about me.   While I sit languishing under an afghan in a chair somewhere, drooling on myself.

I'm open to suggestions.  Leave me a comment and help me decide what to do with the tacky Dana nude.

I Think I Might Be A Bad Person

And, I mean like, heart black as night bad.

My poppet had her tonsils taken out recently. After day 4, my perky Mary Poppins routine was wearing thin. I can only do brisk optimism for so long and then I turn into this nasty chewed piece of string, screaming things like, "Fine! Don't take your medicine! Suffer! I'm taking you back to school!"

After dinner, I suggested to the husband that he enjoy some time with his daughter while I went out.  So first I went to Whole Foods and enjoyed some food porn.  Then I went to the bookstore and browsed. Finally, I went to Kohl's to see if they had started carrying my favorite underwear again that they discontinued 4 years ago. I'm a dreamer.

As I walked past the entrance to the dressing room, I ran into an acquaintance.  Not someone I know well.  I mean, I know her name but I couldn't tell you where she lives. We go through the usual pleasantries of 2 people who really don't care. (Hi! How are you? You look great!)
That was when I went one step too far.  Remember, I hadn't been out of the house for a week.  I was weak.  I said, "Wow! That's quite an armload! Did you find some good deals?"

She looks at me and replies," My father died yesterday and I'm trying to find something to wear to his funeral."  Suddenly, I notice the red eyes, messy hair.  Silence. Somewhere, I swear I hear a clock ticking.  Tumbleweed blowing. I had to say something and what came out was, "Come on, honey, show me what you've got and we'll sort it all out."

This woman tends to dress like she hates herself and I wasn't surprised that the pile in her arms consisted of things no one should pay for, let alone wear.  See?  I told you my soul was black.  I took the pile from her and started sorting it.

"Ok, this sweater is cute but not formal enough for a funeral.  Maybe the wake?  This houndstooth suity thing is too boxy for you. I mean, come on, no one has looked good in a boxy suit since Moonlighting, right?  Now, this dove gray duster is fantastic on you!  All those drapey ruffles are so flattering.  No, no.  Don't wear it with black.  I am going to grab you a violet tank and, here, try on these wide leg trousers.  Wear it with pearls and you'll be so lovely and appropriate.  No. You don't have to wear all black!!!  Your daddy wouldn't want to see his little girl dressed in all black like some Sicilian widow.  He would want you to look elegant and lovely. "

We finally pulled together a pile of clothes and started walking out of the dressing room to the register.  We hugged. Awkward.  And that's when I couldn't resist.  I just couldn't stop myself.

"Listen, while we're here... I think you should get this... and this... oh, and definitely this.  They are really good staples and, oh my gosh, look how they bring out your eyes and hair!  You could just mix them in and just totally perk up your wardrobe!"

Honestly, I am a shit.  I gave a forced makeover to a grief stricken semi stranger in Kohls.  For no reason at all.  This dawned on me as I watched her walk, in a fog, to the register laden with all the things I had thrown at her.  I told Lorie about it later that night and she assured me that when the fog lifted, she would return everything and revert to her Amish uniform of self hatred.   She's probably right. 

 Anyway, it's got me wondering.  I'm Catholic, but I never go to confession.  Ever.  But just this once, I think I might go.  I am dying of curiosity to hear what kind of penance Father would give for this sort of thing.  Actually, I am not so much interested in the penance, but how long the pause would be after I told him this story.  I would time it.  My advice to you?  If you see me near a dressing room and you are feeling fragile?  Run.  There's something profoundly wrong with me. 

~dana

I'm All Evil Eyes and Rainbows These Days

I am feeling very sentimental and kind these days.  It's one of the pleasant side effects of the new drug my doctor has me on for nerve pain. (One of the unpleasant ones is the possibility of "unexplained facial expressions." I wish I was kidding.)  I have this feeling of goodwill to all suddenly. Which is a big switch for me, as I am usually described as "suspicious" or on a good day, merely "anti-social." I am blaming the drugs for becoming overly involved in the planning of my 20 year high school reunion. I hated that place! And yet, here I am trying to track down an affordable 80's cover band.  It's messed up.

It's also got me thinking a lot.  I wonder if I would have ended up using colored macaroni to recreate the Sistine chapel on my living room ceiling if I hadn't made such good friends as I have in my 30's.  I have never been very good at making or keeping friends.  Until I hit 34, I could have counted my friends on one finger.  I guess I have too many sharp angles and I'm sensitive to fault and what goes on in my head is fairly surreal.  Most people back away quickly.

My husband, Saint Winston, has been my friend since I was 14.  I think part of what he loves about me is that if he asks me "What do you want to do tonight?" he's going to get either:

1. Let's watch Season 1 of V and eat nachos. (eighties mini series not 2009 piece of crap)
2. Let's eat chicken fingers and listen to some Bluegrass.

He also loves my back tattoo. Not many people would be on board with all of that.

I met my friend Victoria (don't you dare call her Vickie) when she moved into my old neighborhood. New construction, uppity city, bursting with snobs. Of course, we figured that out about a week after we moved in. The neighbors were already making snarky comments about our grass and the huge pile of shoes that live in our garage.  I hid for the next 5 years. Then Victoria moves in; tall, gorgeous, long-legged red head. I decided to hate her. Instead, she shows up at my door one day, bearing a platter of Fruity Pebbles-based Rice Krispie treats and says, "You seem normal; what the hell's wrong with all these people?"

Then Victoria and I found Audrey. Audrey avoided everyone in our neighborhood, sprinting into her house if you tried to make eye contact. She had also made it onto the "never invited to the block party" list.   Our Audrey is about the size and consistency of dandelion fluff and smokes like a chimney. She can out drink 300 pound men. I get texts from her, randomly, that say things like:

"Dana! Did a brazillian on a big black man today! Happy New Year!"
or
"Thinking of getting a St. Francis tattoo! "
or
"Buying a hot tub with my mother!"


Thanks to Audrey, I am now covered with tattoos and know how to make a kick ass lemon semi-freddo.  And she takes me to gay weddings.  I have no idea how I attracted all these people.  I was just hiding out in my house like I always have. But somehow we all found each other. Which brings me to Lorie.

Lorie, my co-blogger, is screamingly hysterical and the kindest soul on the planet.  We met working at the library.  She taught me how to avoid all the security cameras so we could lay around and gossip. If I am feeling overwhelmed or like my life is spiraling out of control into a pit of depression, she doesn't tell me things are going to be alright. She sends me things like this:

Instant mood changer!  And there is no one else on the planet that I could have this text exchange with while I was hiding in my creepy basement:

Lorie: I need to bedazzle a turtle.

Dana: Box, painted or soft shell?

Lorie: Box

Dana: Is there a theme or occasion? What is the turtle's name? Can I be his godmother?

Lorie: There is a bedazzled turtle in the Rum Diary's trailer.  So not as random as it may appear. We will take him to fancy luncheons, with finger sandwiches.  People will marvel at our eccentricity.  You will be his Auntie.

Dana: Have you begun the adoption process?

Lorie: hmmm. His name shall be Mr. Wilde.The stones will be pink, purple and diamond.  He will live a fabulous life, wandering around my house throwing sparkly rainbows as he walks through sunbeams.

Dana: I find nothing random about this. It's a logical progression.

Lorie: His Auntie Mame!

Dana: We'll have birthday parties!

Lorie:  and wear tiaras!

Dana: He'll be sassy. And opinionated.

Lorie: As his namesake was. Oliver would be nothing but proud! OSCAR! Swype is not my friend.

Dana: Damn autocorrect. They messed with the wrong turtle. Mr. Wilde will need a cape.

Lorie: Watching Don't Be Afraid of the Dark.  It's messing with my head!!! Guillermo Del Toro and his freaking goblins!

Dana: Is there a doll under the bed? Del Toro is a nightmare maker. Pan's Labyrinth freaked me out.

Lorie: No dolls under beds yet. Just homicidal goblins with box cutters. and Katie Holmes.

Dana: lol. sounds like a comedy. Let me know if Katie Holmes shows her boobies.  Winston wants to know. He's ten years old.  Did you ever watch that show Kath and Kim? Awesome.

Lorie: I will be on alert looking for boobies. and report back if affirmative.

Dana: He's giggling.

Lorie: Sarah and I both loved Kath and Kim.  No one else watched it. Just the three of us.

Dana: :( Winston loved the ambiguously gay fiancee.

Lorie: Oh no! Katie Holmes has her serious face on. Still no boobies. Sorry Winston.

Dana: Must be another movie. Or Dawson's Creek?
                                          (end text stream)

Lorie gets my shopping taste too.  She found this for me:

 I asked her what she thought the holes were for.  She said, "That's where her soul used to be."

The traveling sort, she just got back from New York.   No useless souvenirs for her.  She brought me a purple pashmina with the Evil Eye sewed into the corner, just in case.  That's a true friend.  And omg what the hell kind of medicine is this that is causes unexplained facial expressions?  Is my doctor just messing with me?  Am I going to start twitching and screaming random obscenities and laughing like an idiot?  And if I go off of it, do I still have to plan this reunion? 

~dana

And The Winner Is...

Carly!  Carly had her name pulled from a baggie last night by a completely disinterested teenager talking to her boyfriend on the phone.  (We felt this selection method was the only way to ensure absolute fairness.)  Carly, my dear, please watch the mail for your darling ModernMischief tote to arrive.  And to those who told us what their favorite slide show pictures were, we promise to tell you all soon about the murderous MyTwinn dolls, the 20lb. chocolate turkey caper, and a heartwarming story about the sick freak that gave his sister a Christmas card with kitties on it, filled with fake winning lotto tickets and a cheerful F-You. And then gave her children ear swabs and expired soup cans as presents. And can make his own damn vegetarian friendly Christmas Eve dinner next year. :)

~dana 

Abe Lincoln: Creepy Pervert

I know it's a little late, but I just had to share this one.  Yesterday, I am sure you all knew, was former president Abraham Lincoln's birthday.  It was also mine. We probably all get the same images when thinking of this famous president; the tales of studying by firelight, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Gettysburg Address they made you memorize in 4th grade, and his tragic assassination.  Now I've got one more to add to that list.  Creepy pervert.

In honor of my birthday, my brother Dan, sent me this picture he took yesterday in Bennington, Vermont.  I think he was also rubbing in the fact that he can pick up and go to Vermont anytime he feels like it. I understand this was created around the turn of the last century, well before our minds all went in the gutter.  But it is so wrong. So very, very wrong. Happy Birthday, Mr. President!

~dana

p.s in all fairness, here is a link that explains what the artist was going for. It's still no excuse.
abe statue of wrongness


UPDATE!  I saw something that might just erase this wrongness from my mind.
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

She Blinded Me With Science (and Escalators)

I'm not what you'd call tech savvy.  When I left college, the internet was nothing but a bunch of random .alt pages, all of it text based. Then I had kids, my mind went to goo and now that the fog is lifting, I find myself standing blinking in the nuclear blaze of 2012 technology.

Pretty much what I know about technology is confined to what ever new Apple product the husband hands me. He hands me a new phone or laptop or pad, patiently goes over the 1/2 dozen or so tasks I tend to do.  I suddenly have a shiny new toy that I use approximately 1/10 of.  Then my brother comes over, hot wires it and teaches me to do things that are in gray to black area of legality.  I have thousands of ringtones and don't even get me started on the movies and TV shows.

Recently, some very sweet and well meaning friends gently suggested to me that there are all these great books about how to grow your blog.  This is their sweet way of pointing out I have no idea what I am doing.  So I sat around  for about a week chewing on my thumb nail pondering on how I was going to get a hold of a tech book on blogging and web design.  Normally, I would just go to my library, but since every person in that building is a friend or co-worker, that is not happening.  Not only would it put a spot light on my stooopid, but I would have to have about 10-20 conversations about what I was checking out just to exit the building.  So the entire enterprise would take the bulk of my day. Scratch that.

Which leaves me with a trip to Barnes and Noble, which always makes me a little nervous.  You might think with my library bookworm background, that the greatest shopping ever for me would be the bookstore.  You would be wrong for so many reasons, namely

1. I avoid non-fiction unless it is about makeup, zen or gardening. Or gardening in full makeup in a zen garden.
2. I am cheap.  Bookstores are 100% more expensive than the library.
3.Barnes and Nobles' non-fiction is on the second floor. I have pronounced emotional and physical reasons why that is problematic.

So, I was fairly crabby by the time I got to the elevator in Barnes and Noble.  Where I found a sign suggesting that I find a sales associate if I needed to use the elevator. Oh my God.  I briefly considered leaving.  Then, I reminded myself that I put on my big girl panties today, and go find a sales associate.  When I told her I needed to use the elevator, she looks at me and says, "You know, we have an escalator."  Because, you know, I appear totally ambulatory.

So, I told her, "Yeah. Well. I can't use the escalator.  I just can't deal with it, like AT ALL."  Which was followed by an awkward silence.  She was staring at me, no doubt trying to make my head explode and thinking, "You uppity bitch. I have all this other shit to do and now I have to go get the elevator key and you're not even in a fucking wheelchair."

It's embarrassing, but I cannot deal with escalators.  I blame my mother. Mom always knew someone who died doing everything, but to this day some of her stories haunt me.  When I was little, she told me, "I knew a little girl who died on the escalator. She was screwing around and she fell and her hair got caught  in the escalator and IT SCALPED HER.  Her mother saw the whole thing!" (She also used this as her reasoning behind cutting my hair like my brother's hair for the first 14 years of my life.) Mom also knew children who had died on the bus, shortly after lying to their mothers and not wearing their hat.

Couple that with a crippling fear of heights and random bouts of vertigo brought on by the stairs in my own home, and you are not getting me on an escalator without drugging me like Mr. T.  I finally made it to the Tech/Entrepreneur section.  It was way scary. I took a picture for you.

I noticed 2 things:

1. I couldn't understand any of them.  They were written in geek latin.
2. They were very expensive. (note to self: write book.)

So, I slunk back to the elevator, rode back down with my new BFF, the angy sales associate.  Then I hurried to the safe, warm place that is the Bargain Books table, and bought this instead!

I really love chickens.  So, it's unlikely you'll see a huge amount of sexy features here. At least not until my brother comes back in to town.  Then, I'll have web cams and blog parties and thousands of ring tones.


~dana

Light Bulb Induced Twitch (L.I.T.)

For several years now,  I have been stockpiling light bulbs.  I prefer the Reveal 75 watt, but if it's a 2-fer deal, I'll grab anything as long as it's a normal light bulb. Some of my friends and I have all been closely following Big Brother's campaign to outlaw incandescent bulbs so we all look like shit indoors.  It's true, people.  No one has ever said, "This fluorescent lighting makes your complexion look amazing!"  And as my friend Nancy says, I only need enough for my lifetime.  

But the husband is a tricky man and he just loves the idea of a light bulb lasting 27 years.  So, in what I think was a premeditated plot, he offered to put more lighting in my utility room.  It is currently  lit by one 40 watt dangling bulb.  I live in a hundred year old house with one of the world's creepiest basements.  In addition to the utility room, our TV room is down there too and, I have to say, it lent authenticity to this past season of American Horror Story.  All it lacks is a guy in a latex suit.

Anyway, that is how I found myself in front of the Phillips compact fluorescent bulb display in Home Depot.  The husband said he would put up some new fixtures, but it would have to be florescent.  Winston and some dude in an orange apron started giving me the hard sell. 

They last forever!

They are safer for the environment! 

They use almost no energy!  

I calmly and reasonably told them that they look like shit.  And they flicker.  And the flicker makes me twitch.  Like I'm having a seizure.  And furthermore, cigarettes are bad for you but they don't outlaw them! No, they just tax them!  Why the hell don't they just tax my beloved Reveal bulbs and stay the hell out of my private life!?!?!  (I may have threatened to hold my breath until they stopped talking at me but I was very calm.)

To save our marriage, I agreed to take home an assortment of compact fluorescents with different watts and brightness, and give them a try in the recessed lighting in the TV room part of our basement.  Winston assured me that they had come a long way and that these ones were way better than those curly fry shaped flickering ones that make me twitch.


I laid on the couch with a beer while Winston patiently swapped out all the bulbs and I proclaimed my opinions.


50 watt office light:  "Piss. It's like a piss light is raining on the corner. No."


100 watt natural light:  "T.B. In this light, you look like you have T.B. No."


60 watt daylight:  It's "Being John Malkovich" light.  You know, that movie where they made John Cusak and Cameron Diaz look like shit? No."


100 watt Bright:  "Will we be performing back alley abortions in that corner? No."


Shockingly enough, he got all pissed off.  He sat down in his LazyBoy and said, "Fuck it."  But he had already swapped out most of the lights in the room with random shitty bulbs and refuses to take them out because I am unreasonable, apparently.  And now it looks like someone is filming a low budget horror movie/snuff film down there.  And because they are all different watts, they all flicker at different speeds, like a passive aggressive strobe effect.  And I'm twitching.  Have you ever had that nightmare?  Where you're in a dim room, and you try to turn on the light, but all it does is flicker and go out, over and over again?  That's what's going on in my basement.  Oh, and guess what?  These damn bulbs will last FOREVER.


~dana

Contest!

As a "thank you" to all of you who have made this blog so much fun over the last month, we would like to give you a chance to win a very special limited edition ModernMischief tote.

Modeled here by the ever fashion forward poodle, Zyk, you could be the envy of your peers when you arrive in high style at the bus stop/grocery store/soccer game/tattoo parlor/child's birthday party carrying a chic tote with a doll's head on it. All you have to do is sign up to follow us (look to the right of your screen...) and leave us a comment below telling us which picture in our slide show you like best.  Or which picture makes you wonder what we do all day long, either way. (If you are already following us, just leave us a comment.) Lorie and I will randomly select one lucky soul on February 14, 2012 as the tote winner.  And we will probably stick something wonderful/confusing inside it before it ships to you. Thanks to all of you for taking the time to read our blog; it means a lot!

Ohayocon

This past weekend was spent at a Convention in Columbus Ohio. http://ohayocon.org/information.html The entire family looks forward to this magical time of year. My husband loves it because he gets to stay home alone.  I get to be in a hotel room with 5 other people! The entire hotel is booked, and most rooms have 6 people maybe more. There are 4 elevators and 20 stories. The math is not good. The majority of these people fall in the 16-24- year age group. Most everyone is wearing a costume and sweating. We routinely wait in line 20 mins for an elevator. When one finally comes we cram as many people as possible onto it. The smell equation is not good, teenage boy, basement lair smell. Parties in the rooms go until the wee hours of the morning,  They are not quiet. No one cares.

This is the fun in con. Acceptance. These kids are the ones that don't quite fit. Here they have a place to let their freak flag fly. Isolated in small cities and suburbs maybe they have two people who are genuinely interested in Japanese culture, anime , manga or video games. This place is a tower full of them. For three days its an orgy of immersion. Real live Zeldas, Links, and Natsus everywhere. Some subcultures are unrelated, Whovians, and steam punksters abound. All are nerds and trivia experts of their chosen fetish. The video game rooms are dark, murky swamps of male bonding. The atrium is a Colosseum for people watchers. The hallways are the catwalks of cosplay. The dealer room is where we buy totems to recall the experience. I love the entire awkward lot of them. 

It gets bigger every year. As it grows the haters start hatin' . People expect this polished, shiny well oiled convention experience. Those of us who have been going for years know it's anything but. We remember when glomping was ok, and you could be authentic with your L costume. (This means you could go barefoot). We remember the year there were only three elevators! So we are grateful for the four. Everyone needs to step back and remember why we were lured there in the first place. A weekend to go all in and follow your impulses with people a lot like you. Most panels are late, and sometimes are not very good. But did you meet someone in line? Bond with someone over how much this sucks? Did you have a story to tell people when you got home? If you can answer yes to just one. You won the weekend. Call it good and we will see you next year.

My Ohayocon album:  http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.3061857673142.145991.1464454181&type=3