“My muscles are really big. I ate my plate of lasagna really much.”
-jt, 4

The story below (told by Molly Ivins) perfectly sums up why I looked up to this woman. I would love to think that I would say the same thing…though even if I were that witty, I’d never have that wonderful accent.

I will miss you Ms. Richards.

Several years ago there was a big political do at Scholz Beer Garten in Austin and everybody who was anybody in political Texas was there, meetin’ and greetin’ at a furious pace. About halfway through the evening, a little group of us got the tired feet and went to lean our butts against a table by the back wall of the Garten. Like birds in a row were perched Bob Bullock, the state comptroller; me; Charlie Miles, a black man who was then head of Bullock’s personnel department (and the reason Bullock had such a good record on minority hiring); and Ms. Ann Richards.

Bullock, having been in Texas politics for thirty some-odd years, consequently knew every living sorry, no-account person who ever held office. A dreadful old racist judge from East Texas came up to him, “Bob, my boy, how are yew?” The two of them commenced to clap one another on the back and have a big greetin’.

“Judge,” said Bullock. “I want you to meet my friends. This is Molly Ivins with the Texas Observer.”

The judge peered up at me and said, “How yew, little lady?”

“This is Charles Miles, who heads my personnel department.” Charlie stuck out his hand and the judge got an expression on his face as though he had just stepped into a fresh cowpie. It took him a long minute before he reached out, barely touched Charlie’s hand and said, “How you, boy?” Then he turned with great relief to pretty, blue-eyed Ann Richards and said, “And who is this lovely lady?”

Ann beamed and said, “I am Mrs. Miles.”

I have this horrible problem with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I have come to believe that I lack a necessary filter between my brain and my mouth. This is not a new condition. Some of my oldest friends like to sit back and just watch it happen. They can see it coming and they find it very amusing. I wish they would just hold up a big sign that lets me know when I’m getting too close to the edge. The great thing about these friends is that they still love me, even after I’ve made the faux pas.

My husband is the best at loving me no matter what. I guess that’s his job, but there is something pretty darn special about looking up after I let one of my bombs loose and seeing him just shaking his head and smiling. I know that with him everything is still okay.

My direct approach is not always a bad thing. It definitely comes in handy you know with things like work and getting good service when you need it.

Today unfortunately I was wearing boots and they didn’t feel too good in my mouth. I’m hoping the offended party will find it in their heart to forgive me.

Have you ever tried really hard NOT to do something? I don’t mean in the physical–holy cow it’s the sour apple quick steps I’ve got to find a bathroom fast (too bad I have to walk 8 blocks to get there)! I mean something you have control over. It’s tough.

It seems the more I try not to do something, the more I think about it. And the more I think about it, the more I want to do it. A vicious, vicious cycle.

I’m sure alchohol might help. But is the headache really worth it?

Today I’d like to be 24 again. I could manage the headaches then.

• The tests have come back, and it’s definitely herpes.
• Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?
• It’s not you, it’s me…
• Do you think my arms are in proportion to the rest of my body? (I seriously had a date ask me this once!)

and tonight’s winner…

• I have poopy on my hands.

• Men with long fingernails–even if you are a classical guitar player it still wigs me out.
• Men whose feet are too small for their body. This is not for the reason you think it might be…get your mind out of the gutter. It just looks weird. And I find that it usually occurs on men who wear their pants just a little too tight–like everything else grew but their feet.

I don’t mean to pick on guys. I’ve just encountered a couple of these folks in the past few days and I haven’t been able to let it go. I know, it’s my problem.

The thing I find with guys with small feet is that they often wear loafers. And not that there is anything intrinsically wrong with loafers–they just seem to be a favorite. You can really tell everything you need to know about a guy from the shoes he wears.

I can hear all the guys groaning right now. But trust me on this one. Ask any woman you know and she’ll tell you. Your shoes say it all. They tell us if you have style, if you have taste, if you primp, if you’re all sizzle and no steak, if you’re cheap, if you’re lazy, if you’re hard working, if you’re fun, if you’re not. Show me a pair of men’s shoes and I’ll tell you all about the owner. Go ahead, send me a picture with your email address. I’ll let you know.

Sometimes I just feel like I need to write. I’m feeling that way right now. Probably what I’ll do is write a bunch of stuff that I’ll eventually delete because it’s probably not fit for public consumption. But it’s the act of writing that is cleansing. If I could sing, I would belt out an aria. If I could paint, it would be a mural. If I could write, it would be a great novel–but alas it is this here blog with its limited readership.

There is probably a better way to release the excess “energy” that seems to be bubbling inside. Exercise would certainly be more beneficial to my health. But it’s 12:15 a.m. It’s not likely that I’m going to go outside and jog. Funny thought though. Can you imagine if I did? People would a) think I’m crazy b) think I just committed a crime or c) wouldn’t bother with me because there’s no telling about a woman who goes jogging at midnight. So maybe I’m on to something. Midnight jogging. It’s dark, no one can see how out of shape you are or if you walk every other block and no one would bother with you because they’d think you were too scary for being out there in the first place. And if you just wanted to ensure that potential assailants (or neighbors) thought you were crazy you could jog in a colonial dress. I just happen to have one upstairs. Now there is an image.

So you can see why I just write.

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Sorry, it was in my head had to get it out. What else is in there? Queen of Hearts by Juice Newton. I have been downloading new tunes for the past two nights so it’s no wonder there are tunes floating around my head, but I must say that neither of these was on the list. The first (Jingle Bells if you didn’t recognize the beat) just came to me. The second, it has infected my brain and won’t let go. Apparently the words are trapped in some fold of my noggin and must have been touched off by my listening of some of the other doozies from the 80’s that I’ve recently downloaded thanks to my friends Ryan and Danielle.

When was the last time you thought about:

Babe by Styx
Blue Monday by New Order
Evangeline by Matthew Sweet
Goodbye To You by Scandal
Tenderness by General Public

It’s fun to revisit old tunes. I’ve been hit with a rush of memories over some of these songs (not these in particular, but others). I’ll never hear Milli Vanilli without picturing my old roommate dancing in the middle of our favorite college hangout. Won’t hear Rob Base without a nod to an old football game date–who was always a perfect gentleman. True Faith by New Order and I’m immediately suffering the pangs of heartbreak over a certain high school boy.

Certain music, like certain smells, can bring me back to a moment in time within seconds. And the emotions all seem very fresh. I associate music with emotions as it is–even if I don’t have a memory tied to them. I probably should have made my living as a conceptual designer for music videos. Play me a song and I’ll close my eyes and have an image almost immediately. The easiest are the Sunday Night Songs. Those are the songs that recall the mood you’re in on the last Sunday night of summer when you’re laying in the dark with the only visible light being that of the red power indicator on your radio. You can’t sleep because you’ve been staying up late all summer, but you know you need to because you have to get up early in the morning. It’s sort of a lonely feeling as you’re laying there all by yourself with your only company the voice of the late night DJ. Boys of Summer is the most obvious version of the Sunday Night Song, but there are more. You Are The Everything by REM is another. And pretty much anything by Steely Dan.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been provided descriptions of myself by people who I know in varying degrees. I hadn’t solicited any of these remarks–at least directly. And none were unkind. It’s just interesting and thought-provoking to hear what about you strikes someone.

The first was one I’ve heard before–comments on my eyes. I have to say they’re probably my best asset (there aren’t many to choose from). They are blue (fading over time). I have long eyelashes to go with it, so they work. But what also has been interesting is that I also was subjected to a family photo in which my first reaction to my own image was that I don’t know why people comment on my eyes because you can’t really see them. I’ve always felt this way about photos of myself. My eyes I think are only my asset when you see me up close in person. Great, I’m a close up kind of gal. I guess that’s why I never got picked out of the crowd to go up on stage with Bono and have him serenade me. Yeah, that’s the reason.

I have a sort of intensity. Now granted this was used to describe the person I was more than a decade ago, and at that point in my life I thought I was going to change the world. So I can sort of understand it, but the person went on to describe that impression by a quality of mine I don’t think has softened with age. I tend not to suffer fools well. Now granted this is my definition of fool. And I would guess that my definitions have softened. I think, I hope that I have become a bit more understanding over time. It’s just funny, because I never would have thought of myself as intense. I love to be silly, to have fun. I don’t skulk around, wear lots of black eyeliner and only listen to The Cure (have I dated myself?). I love Disney World, dancing to 80’s music and singing at the top of my lungs.

I’m so open–to the point of being intriguing. Okay, this I know about myself. On the outside I seem very open because I’m willing to talk about things and ask questions that many others would not. What most people don’t know–or maybe they do and I’m just kidding myself–is that there is so much inside that I don’t share–at least not with the general public. Certain people see certain sides of me. And I have to admit, there is really only one or two who know the whole thing. And, I’m still amazed they love me.

Friends brought home a new dog today–a cute Labradoodle puppy. Her name is Elsa. This reminded me of Elsie the Cow of Bordon fame. Remember when gallons of milk came in big huge cartons rather than plastic jugs? I associate Bordon milk with that. Which reminds me of Sealtest milk. I think it might have been a Northeastern brand. Same with StateLine potato chips. And Charles Chips–they used to be delivered by a man and came in a big metal tin. Can you imagine a successful business of delivering potato chips to people’s homes? I don’t remember them be THAT good. My neighbors the Clarks used to get them. Mr. Clark was a State Trooper and a nurse. We had two male nurses that lived on our street. When I was little I thought it was odd that there were male nurses. My mom was a nurse and all of her co-workers who were nurses were female. Interestingly, neither of the men who were nurses were working as nurses. I wonder if they became nurses during Viet Nam. I’ll have to ask mom.

Took a drive through my old hometown last week. It was fun to see all of those places. I love both of the towns and could see myself living in either of them again. I just don’t know what I’d do for a living. I love the feel of a New England town. The town green, the one post office, the grocery store where you know the owner. When I was little, Gus DiNova the owner of the only grocery store in town saved my from rolling my mom’s car into traffic. He yelled at me because I had put the car in neutral and was rolling backwards out of the parking lot. I think he yelled because it scared him. But his yelling scared me and I cried all the way home and up into my bedroom. I thought I was in so much trouble. Turns out my mom wasn’t mad at me and now that I’m a mother I realize that she probably felt stupid for leaving my sister and I in the car unattended. But it was the 70’s. I don’t blame her. We lived in the safest little town. I went to a red schoolhouse. No need to think anything could happen.

Okay so I’ve gone from my friend’s new dog to small towns in the 70’s. Didn’t think I’d get that far in two paragraphs–though I’m sure I’m not using completely perfect structure and could probably have used a few more paragraphs.

Trying to add an entry every day again. So sometimes it’s just going to be these random thoughts.

Big day for the boys. They got to use Target gift cards. New buildings for their train set and birthday boy A got a new bike, an iPod shuffle AND a headset for his PS2. Happy, happy boys. As for me? Hair dye, shampoo for color-treated hair and oh yeah, don’t forget the South Beach bars. I think I would have prefered a bike.