Where's Darwin When You Need Him?

Do I really have to explain this with a post?
And the word for today, children, is misanthrope

I Think I'm In Love-- Someone Created a Gorey Quiz

You will be sucked dry by a leech. I'd stay away

from swimming holes, and stick to good old

cement. Even if it does hurt like hell when

your toe scrapes the bottom.


What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
brought to you by Quizilla

Express Route

Here's some handy-dandy trivia for you. When going down stairs, try to use all of the steps.
Yesterday, in my stupid quest to be environmentally conscious and compost, I, laden with pan holding a vile melange of coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, and some very odd liquid, took two steps down the stairs and then went asterisk over teakettle down the stairs. (Looks about in search of sympathy, and finding none AS USUAL, continues.)
Wiping the onion skin off my brow, I demonstrated my usual strength of character: I screamed. For about a full minute. Loudly. So loudly that not only did my dogs bark, but the critters next door joined in.
I finally got up, mopped myself off, shoveled up as much of the rotting vegetation as possible, brought it to the compost bin, came in, scrubbed the floor, took two ibuprofen, showered, and went to school.
I don't think I made a lot of sense (my poor students), as my head (which, it seems, had cushioned my fall) was REALLY hurting.
This morning, I decided to pay a visit to my sweet but highly-overworked doctor (ok, I actually called first), who confirmed that I had booboo-ed myself pretty well. The good news is she was more concerned with my breathing than the possibility of a life-threatening blood clot caused by cranial hematoma.
't'ain't easy being a klutz.

Reasons Why I Can't Claim to Be Adopted

Sometimes, I'm more than a bit afraid of my gene pool. At these times, I wonder if perhaps there were a switch at the hospital, and somewhere there's a nice, stable, perhaps wealthy family just waiting for a DNA test to prove that I'm the rightful heir.
Then I pull out the family albums.
Anna Luisa Palmieri Serpi, my great-grandmother. Actually, she was pretty sane, and quite a lady. Of course, I look at her, and see my nose and my (lack of) chin. I vaguely remember rambling incoherently to David Hyde Pierce about my profile during the Spamalot photo.
Mom (name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) with my uncle. Same face. Similar mannerisms (ok, those could be learned). I have been told that we have the same errr posterior. That actually makes me a bit queasy. It's bad enough to know that someone has been checking out my *** but for that person to also be noticing my mother's? (gets out the Lysol).
Finally, there's my dad. I can't even claim to be the milkman's progeny. Same grin, same walk, same laugh.
Oh well. Guess I'm stuck with the family nut tree.

I Saw A Beaver!

No, that's not a euphemism.
Took a Sunday walk on the riverfront trail. I can't believe the flooding-- the iron trestle bridge was half submerged. During the summer months I'd stand on that same bridge and listen as 20 feet below bullfrogs 'twanged' in the marsh.
As Hilde walked me (as she is wont to do), I noticed what I thought was a fast-moving tree limb gliding through the flood waters. I edged close to the edge of the trail and the beginnings of the muck, wondering if the form were truly wood or something more purposeful, even sentient. Then, the 'branch' dove, leaving only swirling eddys as a calling card.
I've lived by a river for over thirty years, yet had never seen this sight.
A bit of a belated New Year's gift.

Do Not Taunt Happy Fun Ball

Big. Purple. Bouncy. Pilates.
I first noticed it in my (directly behind me) neighbor's back yard.
Maybe it was a leftover from an unfulfilled New Year's resolution, pummeled away in disgust after weight loss failure. Still, my back neighbors have young'uns, so anything was possible.
Winter being what winter is and balls being what balls are (that sounds so bad out of context), big purple was on the move.
For about a week, it was caught against the fence in my back/left/diagonal neighbor's yard.
Trapped forever it seemed, doomed to deflate in the winter cold 'til it became a flaccid remnant of its former glory.
I would gaze upon it, safe in the relative warmth of the sunroom; it reminded me of the grapes that grew upon the edge of my garden.
Then, the orb began to travel again.
Wandering from the vine?
Next week, it was in my (left side) neighbor's yard. It narrowly escaped certain demise when her tree fell. Perhaps it bounced over to watch as my (next house to the left's) neighbor disposed of so many limbs efficiently with his chainsaw.
Maybe it was too gory for that purple blister to bear. It disappeared.
I thought it might have been composted or appropriated as a toy by one of our "cute" little black bears. Perhaps it left of its own accord. Maybe it was kicked away.
Or so I thought.
After our violent windstorm, it showed up again, this time nestled among the pines in my (side right) yard.
I hope it feels safe here.

Damn the Electric Fence.

You scored as Chalcedon compliant. You are Chalcedon compliant. Congratulations, you're not a heretic. You believe that Jesus is truly God and truly man and like us in every respect, apart from sin. Officially approved in 451. Chalcedon compliant 100% Pelagianism 83% Monophysitism 83% Nestorianism 50% Apollanarian 33% Monarchianism 33% Modalism 33% Adoptionist 17% Arianism 0% Docetism 0% Gnosticism 0% Albigensianism 0% Socinianism 0% Donatism 0% Are you a heretic? created with QuizFarm.com

But What if I Can't Use My Thumbs?

Monsters and Critics is (are?) looking for reviewers and columnists.

Pros:

• Excuse to go into NYC regularly
• Chance to write something sans MLA doc.
• Byline
• Could recycle my ca. 1985 John Taylor fedora into a "Press" hat (sticks pencil behind ear)
• Doubt I'd have to gloss anything into modern English (unless it's a Schwarzenegger flick)
• Millions will swoon adoringly upon hearing of my job description

Cons:

• It's "voluntary" (= no $$$)
• But (Best Hey Mon! voice) I only work fourteen jobs!
• I look like a mafia transvestite in a fedora.

So What Do You Think? -->

At Least No One Bothers Me for an Autograph During Dinner

Yup. That pretty much captures it.

Alas, Poor Merkinvision

I seem to remember that the Tracy Ullman Show and, I thought, The Simpsons were filmed in "Merkinvision," which I thought was a bit amusing (though rather risque for prime time).
Then I found out that the Head Writer's name is David Merkin.
Oh well. There goes what had been an amusing mental image.

This is one of the times that I feel sorry for men. Unless they're going to take on stage names, they're pretty much stuck. Of course, with the 25% more that men earn on average, I won't feel too sorry for too long.

13 Days, 22 hours, 50 minutes, and Counting (or something like that).

School starts soon.




(no, this is in no way a reflection of or a commentary on where I teach or my opinion of my students)

Get Down with INTP (Yeah You Know Me)

Went to tickle.com and took some of the many laptop psychiatry tests available.
According to my Love Personality Report (say that like Barry White now), I'm an ITNP.
My Celebrity Matchmaker tells me to go for Russell Crowe, but my Celebrity Soul Mate is Owen Wilson, which is fine, because my Movie Star Double is Drew Barrymore. I'm sure that when she took the Who's Your Type test, she came up with "Goofball" as well.

Still, I'm a bit confused, because I doubt that Drew's IQ Test deemed her a "Visionary Philosopher" (VP) like I am, albeit a VP who scored middle-high on "Are You Loony?" As a Visionary Philosopher, I am quite comfortable that Tickle has determined that I was a dog in my Past Life-- you know me: reflective, pensive Scoobygirl.

So I'm off to make some Classic Contemporary cuisine, which according to the Betty Crocker-sponsored test, is My Thing.

Celebrity Aversion Therapy

Lindsay Lohan's asthma attack made Forbes magazine. The apocalypse is nigh.

Last night (actually, this morning) I could not sleep. I tossed, turned and played cards on my PDA until 4 a.m. I tried 'watching' tv (it usually affects me like a vacuum does a colicky baby) and I was inundated by the most insidious of scriptwriter-unemployment-makers: Celebrity Reality (is that an oxymoron?) television. Somewhere between Paris Hilton's Naughty Bits and When Celebrities Go Bad there was Celebrity Fit Club. Now I understand the meaning and implications of the phrase "like watching a train wreck." I do not care about Jeff Conaway's urinary habits (which was more of a running joke than the doggie doo debacle in Clue) and I actually wonder if the producers were trying to make the series's gay quota by having two-- count 'em, two!-- "out" (no, not a double-edged pun) characters/ personae/ celebrities (which is it, I don't know), Bruce Villanche and Chastity Bono.

At least Circus of the Stars offered talented acrobatics!

As a chubby, wheezy nobody, I wonder what the fascination is. I've tried, I really have. I want to be engrossed in the antics and the tantrums, to savor each second of The Surreal Life, to become devoted to the daily depositions uncovered on Celebrity Justice. Am I, as Everywoman, supposed to feel somehow comforted that famous people get sick and suffer setbacks, eat their way through depression, can be really rotten roommates, and are otherwise possessing of traits that are commonly noted as human? Or should I be outraged because my foray into fake nails that left me with blue lips and a request to become an organ donor didn't even make the local Reminder?

Oh screw it. It's a government plot to turn our attention away from the chimp behind the curtain.

Mater Matters

If I had to define hell, it would be a humorless tedium.
Wait. That's my life now.
I've spent the past few days trying to take care of the usual mundane crap, and in doing so, I've been forced to interact with my so-called "loved ones." Talk about an oxymoron waiting to happen. Now I know why I'm a workaholic.
I've gotten a bit of flak for my humor being "inappropriate." You know, your father dies and you're asked what the arrangements are, and one time you say something like "shake and bake" and you're branded forever. Hey! I was sixteen at the time.
So back to more "inappropriate" kvetching (and I'm not even Jewish) about my mother.

Irrelevant and stereotypical aside-- I was having a drink with a friend of mine from work who is Jewish. I told her that I was Italian (fine, I'm a typical mutt, but close to 1/2 Italian heritage). She told me that "Italians and Jews are like this" (crossed her fingers). I responded, "Yup. Food, mothers, and guilt."

Spending this past week with She Who Gave Me Life, I'm pretty sure that my father died to escape her. Don't get me wrong, I love her, but either give her a mute button or reduce my dosage. As I may have written here earlier, the more time I spend with her, the better I understand the Greek fascination with matricide. I was told (melodramatically, sniff sniff) that I had done "nothing" for her lately. Ohhh really...
The "nothing" that I've done for her in the past two weeks includes hauling all the Christmas stuff out of the cellar, picking out, buying, putting up, and decorating a Christmas tree, cooking Christmas Eve vigilia repast (Feast of Seven Fishes), traipsing to several stores to find window treatments for her bedroom, installing hardware for prementioned window treatments, putting up, taking down, refinessing and redraping $#W$@)(* window treatments, lather, rinse and repeat for kitchen window treatments, giving dogs "hair cuts" (she was convinced they were going blind because of hair in eyes), researching all hypochondriacal developments du jour, baking dog biscuits so that she could give them as a gift to a friend (which I wouldn't have minded but it became a demand, not a request), and putting summer clothes and rugs in attic for the season. This was all in between the usual refrain of "let the dogs out," "let the dogs in," and the ever-popular standby, "where are the dogs?"
Now the woman does a lot of good things, and she works hard, and I have the utmost respect for her and all she has accomplished. I tell her this. The fact remains: she... is... driving... me... crazy. Of course, I gave her the keys and climbed in the car for the ride.
Pseudo-psychiatry: I think I've allowed it because I feel sorry that she was "abandoned" when my father died. I fear that, as her only child, no one else will care for her. I contribute and enable, and I'm used to validating myself by being needed.
This is all well and good as to motivations, but it doesn't do diddly in getting my asterisk in gear.
Do you think I can ask for a divorce?

Happy New Year to me

Lately, I've been suffering from a good dose of self-sympathy, and frankly, I'd like to kick myself in the posterior. I don't know whether it's turning 35, the new year, or (more likely) the general dissatisfaction with what I have (not) done with my life. For all the anger and the sublimated rage, the frustration and the sense of failure, I know that one person bears the ultimate responsibility for this: my mother.
Damn, it would be so easy if I could lay all of my insecurities at her feet, but last time I checked, I did have choices in the matter (no matter how much her-- and others-- have tried to influence those choices, it all comes down to me).
So after three days of tears and ranting inwardly about how trapped I felt, I decided to just leave. Leave town, leave people, leave Andrea. I'm not one for chemical escape, so I took a train to New York and walked around for about five hours (from Times Square to the Village/SoHo and back to Grand Central), watching, listening, and writing. Back to being Prufrock.
Of course, it wasn't an unfettered foray... G, upon learning of my plans, came with. Something about worrying about me becoming a "statistic" of NYC crime.
Forget the saying "you can't go home again." I think I'm attached to a bungee umbilical cord: I can't leave home at all.