Packrat papers: Backsliding bigtime

Hopeless. I am hopeless.

There I was, minding my own business, strolling into the library to return the latest load o' books and WHAM. I'm face to face with the Bag Day finale of the Friends of the Library book sale. The counter lady locked eyes with me and smiled a beguiling smile. She slowly slid me a lovely, big, clean paper bag. She purred: "Fill it up for just a dollar. Anything you can fit in there, the whole bagful is a dollar. You can have as many bags as you want."

I felt my pupils dilate and my brain disengage, and I watched my quivering hands reach for the bag. A small line of drool dribbled from the corner of my mouth. That's the last thing I remember before coming to at home with my arms aching from the weight.

So. Now I have more books. I don't even remember what I bought. Want to watch over my shoulder as I unload the loot? OK, then, here we go ...

The one on the top is Mundome, by A.G. Mojtabai. "A story of schizophrenia, at once haunting and horrifying ... a stunning short novel." Well, that looks good.

The Turtle Warrior, by Mary Relindes Ellis. I've heard that's a good one, too.

Late Bloomer, Melissa Pritchard. OK, this looks whacky enough to be a fun beach read.

Spotted in France, Gregory Edmont. This thing is about a guy traveling around France on a Vespa with a dog. What was I thinking?

Whad'ya Know, by Michael Feldman. I like the show. Could be amusing.

Everyone Is Entitled to My Opinion, David Brinkley. Promising. He's one of my faves.

God's Banker, Rupert Cornwell. This is a nonfiction account of a particularly colorful banking scandal that involved the Vatican's finances, mentioned in The DaVinci Code. I'll need to be in nerd mode to read this one, but it could happen.

The Pigeon Project, Irving Wallace. I like Irving Wallace. "What would happen if every human being presently on earth could live to the age of 150 -- or more?" Good question.

In the Words of Great Business Leaders, Julie M. Fenster. Good addition to my reference shelf. You never know when you'll need a good business quote.

Protect and Defend, Richard North Patterson. Amy Tan says it's "an important novel on passion and politics." What's not to love about passion and politics?

Points of Light, Linda Gray Sexton. Oops. Chick lit? We'll see.

Making Picture Books, A Method of Learning Graphic Sequence, Stephen F. Gordon. Because I harbor a secret desire to write children's picture books. And I wish I could draw. This was a dumb one.

The bag is now, mercifully, empty. Wish I could say the same for the floor space around my bookshelves.

Hmmm.

Have you seen the TV ads for a new version of Jim Cramer's cable show, Mad Money? They haul him out of a padded cell in a straight jacket and promise he'll be appearing soon on NBC to help you pick stocks.

The guy is smart and popular, and may be OK as a stock picker, but is this really the image of a guy you want to trust with your money?

I'm just sayin'.

Game over

I suppose everyone's heard by now that the game Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas has been re-rated for Adults Only and has been pulled from some major distributors' shelves. It strikes me as ironic that murder, mayhem, gangs and drugs are OK in a game, but S-E-X knocks it into "Adult" territory. At any rate, good riddance.

An excellent argument can be made that if adults consider playing Grand Theft Auto to be a worthwhile use of their time, well, so be it. To each his own. (However, I do wish these adults came with prominent warning stickers, so the rest of us could steer clear.)

The problem is, we have to depend on these same people to keep the game away from children. From conversations I hear among my kids' friends, children as young as seven are playing this thing, often alongside their parents.

It is too much to expect restraint from any branch of the entertainment industry; after all, they make wads of money selling sex, shock and violence. But maybe they'd think of something better if we adults would just quit buying it.

Would you like to play a game?

I found this on the Web today and I'm already addicted: Chaos Theory. You just choose a contact spot, start things in motion and wait to see what happens. Kind of like bowling, but without the yucky shoes. (To begin, just move the cursor over the Asian writing until you hit a hot spot and click. It probably says something like "Start.")

When you've mastered that one, move on up to Planarity.

What can I say. I'm easily amused.

Something new to worry about

You know how it is when you get a song stuck in your head, how helpless and frustrated you feel? How you'd just about drive a nail into your own brain if it meant you never, ever again had to hear, say, the OompaLoompa song rattling around in there? Well, this just in from the Could Be Worse Department, courtesy of the New York Times: Neuron Network Goes Awry, and Brain Becomes an IPod. 

Wow. Sucks to be them.

Duck joke

Want to know a dirty little secret? I love duck jokes. I know, I know. But I can't help it. Here's my favorite:

 

Three golfers are killed in a car crash and, having mostly behaved themselves in life, they go straight to heaven.

When they arrive, St. Peter greets them at the gate and says, "We only have one rule here in heaven: Don't hit the ducks."

So they enter heaven, and, to their great joy, discover that it is one enormous golf course -- but there are ducks all over the place. It is almost impossible to play without hitting one. Sure enough, though they do their best to avoid it, one of the men eventually hits a duck. Poof! St. Peter, who doesn't miss a thing, appears with the ugliest woman the men have ever seen. St. Peter handcuffs this woman to the unfortunate golfer and says, "Your punishment is to spend eternity chained to this ugly woman."

The very next day, the second man accidentally hits a duck. Poof! St. Peter arrives, and with him is another unbelievably ugly woman. He handcuffs the two together and sentences the man to remain chained to her for all eternity.

The third man is determined not to end up like his buddies, so he is extremely careful. He manages to golf for months without mishap. And one day, Poof! St. Peter appears with an absolutely gorgeous woman. He chains the two together without a word and vanishes. The man stares at this goddess, this vision of perfection with whom he will now spend eternity, and says, "Whatever did I do to deserve you?" The woman says, "I don't know about you, but I hit a duck."

Losing it

I've been watching a lot of TV since I got laid off. I mean, A LOT. Mostly C-SPAN and PBS. And I'm here to tell you: This is not a big plus for one's mental health.

For example, I could have sworn I heard very strange things come out of the mouths of some highly rated Wall Street Journal commentators Sunday. Granted, it's the Journal. But still. I actually hallucinated a whole exchange applauding China's proposed purchase of U.S. oil company Unocal via its state-owned company CNOOC.

Stephen Moore may (or may not?) have said: "One other quick point about this is, a lot of people were against the sale, the same people who have been saying for the last 10 years, oh my God, what's going to happen when China sells American assets? Well, here they're buying American assets, so you know, you can't have it both ways. You can't say it's going to be terrible when they start selling off the assets that they own a lot of American, U.S. securities, and then at the same time say it's a tragedy if they buy American assets. To me, better that they're buying our assets than that they're selling them."

Surely, he did not equate China's buying U.S. Treasury securities -- that is, loaning us money -- with China buying up U.S.-controlled oil reserves. That didn't happen, did it?

And I KNOW he did not say "I don't think oil is the strategic resource that everyone thinks it is. I would be much more concerned if the Chinese were talking about taking over, let's say, a high technology company or an aerospace company. But oil is just guck in the ground ... " Yyyyyeah. And blood is just guck in your veins.

Now, Paul Gigot DID say, "Let's take this out of economics to the geopolitical argument, because some people make the case that if you allow CNOOC to buy, take control over these Southeast Asian oil and gas reserves, you're hastening the day when their sphere of influence in Southeast Asia will only increase. Their ability to influence, not just economics, but security events in Southeast Asia, in Thailand, Indonesia, that sort of thing. Is that anything we should be concerned about, Dan?" I'm positive I heard that.

But Dan Henninger could not possibly have replied, "Well, you do have the little matter of the U.S. Navy floating around out in those waters," as if we would cheerfully go to war with China if they got to throwing their weight around. Couldn't have happened. Right? Right? Right...

Packrat papers, part 1

Considering that clearing out my clutter will be a project of epic proportions, I expect this will be an ongoing theme around here. I'm happy to say I have made some progress.

I figured out where to start: old shoes. Specifically, high heels. I have a lot of them, left over from the days of the aforementioned size-six business suits. While there may be some shred of hope that the suits could fit again one day, and maybe even come back in style, there is no way I can physically wear these shoes again. Ever. I wrecked my feet doing aerobics in bad athletic shoes, and heels higher than an inch or so are just not an option any more. So out they go -- along with the bad athletic shoes which, yes, are also still here.

Right behind them in the outta-here pile are five of the six identical pairs of comfy-but-worn-out sneakers I use for gardening and all the shoes my kids have outgrown. And some really dorky ones my husband bought himself. (He got loose alone in the mall once.)

I'm really getting into this. I can see carpet in the closets already.

Next up: magazines. I don't think year-old Business Weeks are really gonna do me any good, do you?

Confessions of a packrat

Day three of unemployment, and already the thrill is gone. Yesterday was a big zero -- a negative, actually, if you count the poonchkie pigout -- so today I was determined to be productive. I thought I'd spend the morning doing some serious cleaning, since I haven't done that in oh, say, years. Problem is, I can't figure out where to start.

Here's the thing: I am a world-class packrat. If collecting was an Olympic event, I'd take home the gold -- and I'd store that gold forever. I love my stuff, I really do. Old stuff, new stuff, junk, heirlooms, you name it. I mean, why have a basement, garage and attic at all, if you aren't going to fill them up? Why throw away perfectly good things, just because you don't need them right this moment? Why would God even PUT space under our beds if we weren't meant to use it? The clutter has been an issue for my husband along the way, but never for me. Until now.

Today, suddenly, really looking at it, it's all too much. WAY too much. And the weird thing is, the deeper I poke into closets and corners, the more I feel as if I'm in somebody else's house. The place is packed with relics of my former lives, buried remains of identities lost or forsaken, all covered in dust. This is not like cleaning house, this is like excavating Pompeii -- and all the frozen, mummified bodies are younger versions of me.

Omigod ...  I just realized something: That's why I'm holding on to everything. The detritus and castoffs from my childhood home, class notes from college, the potter's wheel and kiln, the 22-year-old size-six business suits, the kids' baby clothes, all of it ... they represent parts of me, phases of my life that I loved and lost. Throwing it out would be to call it all garbage. To throw away my life.

But that's nuts, isn't it? I am not this stuff, after all. Hanging on to these things didn't make time stop. It all moved on anyway, and will keep right on doing so, and that is as it should be. These things don't belong here anymore. 

I think I can start letting go now. But I still don't know where to start.

Fat, Fat Tuesday

It's Mardis Gras! This is one of the Things I Want to Do Before I Die. I want it all -- the chaos, the costumes, masks, beads, wretched excess... gimme gimme gimme!

I may be missing out on the parades again, but I am gettin' me some of  that wretched excess: Poonchkies. The idea behind the poonchkie was to use up all the fat and sugar in the house before Lent. The result is like a Krispy Kreme on steroids, a Polish pastry from hell, and you can buy them only on Fat Tuesday... Today.

Like, NOW, before they're all gone.

Kickin' down the cobblestones

"I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you
All is groovy!"

Well, I am finally, officially unemployed. It's been two solid months of shock, depression and anguish, but I've put things in order, said the good-byes and handed in the keys. Today is the proverbial first day of the rest of my life, and so far I am loving it. 

This morning I had breakfast with my kid, poured a second cuppa, got comfy on the sofa and listened to C-Span2 Book TV  -- a whole, fascinating program, all the way through (Sam Harris, 'The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason'). Laundry is running, I've handled the Superbowl aftermath, and I'm in here playing with my Journal. Life is so good.

I want to apologize to those who posted comments here on my entries about getting laid off. I decided to remove those entries for professional reasons, and I do hope you'll forgive me and come back in to play. I'll certainly be spending more time here and stopping by to read all your wonderful entries.

And with that, I'm off to the gym. Toodles!

Wow!

Oh my goodness... I have comments! TWO of them, and from REAL bloggers!  

It's been ages since I've checked on this journal, and I sincerely apologize to you, Theresa, for not seeing your reply sooner. (Frankly, it never occurred to me to look for any; I didn't think anyone knew this thing existed.) Thanks so much for your supportive post. I have added your link to my blogroll, and I'll be by to return the visit.  

Musenla, I've been lurking around your journals since you started them, and I'm a big admirer of your work. Your kind encouragement means a great deal to me -- enough to get me writing here again, which is more of a feat than you know. It's been a long, dark year for me, and I've been writing only in a private journal with no readers. Maybe it's time to come back out into the light.  

Thank you both for stopping by.

Suburban blues

Where is it written that houses have to float on a green shag carpet of grass? Aside from homeowners' covenants, that is?

I live in an old neighborhood with lots of big, shady oak trees. They're impressive, dignified -- and dark.  Grass won't grow underneath them. On the other hand, violets and moss love it there. Being a path-of-least-resistance sort of gardener, I tend to make peace with whatever actually wants to live in my yard and call it a day. So I have a back-yard "lawn" that blooms blue in the spring. What is the big deal? 

To hear my neighbors talk, you'd think I was harboring terrorists back there instead of  wildflowers. OK, the little rascals do tend to be a bit ... exuberant. But how far can they get, really, considering their borders are manned night and day by poison-wielding, hoe-toting Defenders of the Turf?

I think the world would be a better place all around if it had more shade, more violets and less poison. But apparently, that's just me.

Bastards!

The Yankees are dumping Cracker Jacks. Their COO Lonn Trost--the yutz--says, "Cracker Jack is just a brand name. We're selling a caramel crunch that's the same thing." Can you believe it? The same thing? I guess the Yankees and the Mets are the same freakin' thing too. After all, they're both BASEBALL TEAMS, right?

Jesus T. Christ. I never got over metal bats, and now this. A hit should go "Crack!" not "tink." Peanuts go with CRACKER JACKS. And while we're at it, I don't want to see Spiderman ads on the bases.

This is not pingpong, people. This is not synchronized swimming. This is baseball, and in baseball you do not mess with tradition. Let me hear you say Amen, brothers and sisters. Let me ya say AMEN.

Estrogen's lament

Five days ago I stopped taking hormone replacement therapy. Things are getting ugly.

I was on it for about ten years, and everything was going fine. But my gyno moved out of town, and now it's a trek through traffic to get there. Added to that, she's not in my insurance plan, so seeing her for an annual is several hundred bucks I don't really want to spend. And anyway, all the news about HRT is about how it's going to kill me. So, when the last prescription ran out I just gave it up.

For the first few days, nothing happened. I thought I was home free, that all this menopause nonsense was behind me. Then the hot flashes kicked in, followed closely by night sweats, insomnia, and the urge to smack people who annoy me. (OK, OK that urge was already there. But now I can barely control it.) I'm bursting into tears for no reason, which is really hard to explain to astonished onlookers. I'm taking some nice gentle herbals, but they're no match for the slavering demons that have possessed my body.

Here's the kicker: I have a big business deal next month, and I'm terrified that I'll break out in a flopsweat--or worse, tears--during a tense meeting. That would be the stony end, my friend, I guarantee it. I'm thinking I need to just suck up the expense and risk and get those damn patches back. Being female really bites sometimes.

And yes, I know this entry isn't entertaining you. Tough luck, bubba.

The speed of flight

You gotta check this out: It's the Chrysler 2005 Crossfire Roadster Ltd. convertible. I do believe this is the coolest little car I have ever seen.

I can picture myself behind the wheel, cruisin' down the coast with salt spray in my face, wind in my hair, and bugs in my teeth. One day, one golden day, I am trading in my Dodge minivan for this. Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah.

I learned to drive in a Chrysler--my grandfather's 1951 New Yorker Imperial. God, that car was something. Massive and brick-solid and blue, with real leather and heavy chrome. It had a pearl steering wheel, and a hood ornament with wings that begged to be caressed. Front fenders like big, beefy shoulders that could muscle aside anything in its path. I had to have wooden blocks strapped to the pedals just to reach them. And oh, the voice it had, deep and mysterious and powerful as my grandfather himself. I wonder what ever became of it. I hope it's still out there, somewhere, with someone who loves it.

I believe I can fry

Turns out, there IS a "Scotty" when you need one. By day, he's an accountant named Jeff, and I think I love him. He took one look at the bale of paper I brought him and filed an extension for me. I had to pacify the IRS with a big bundle of protection money, which I may or may not owe them, but it was worth it. Now I get to let Jeff fuss and worry over the whole mess until August.

It used to be so simple: "Here's my W-2. Please don't hurt me." Now there are three family members with lots of jobs between us, one of which (thanks to corporate layoffs) now involves self-employment taxes. There are investments; college loans; stuff that depreciates... it isn't pretty. Next year will be even worse, with a partnership thrown in. Between the IRS horror stories and my own cynical bent, I live in perpetual fear of the simple, innocent error that wipes out a lifetime of hard work and saving. I think that's why I put it off every year.

I ask you. Is this any way to fund a country?

Tax hell

O my god o my god o my god. Tomorrow is April the freakin' 15th. Yet again, I have managed to put off the whole tax thing until the absolute last minute. WHY do I do this, WHY? It's not like it gets any easier, or disappears if I don't look at it or anything. It's not even like I can bat my eyelashes and con the hubby into it, because that would not be a good thing. He is nowhere near cynical enough to take on the IRS. He actually thinks the kind folks there will understand if he makes a mistake, bless his optimistic little heart. He also still thinks people are basically good, the police are our friends, and the government can be trusted to do the right thing. It's a lovely planet he lives on. I hear there are Oompahloompahs on the sunny side.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, it's crunch time. The Ferengis are at the gate, and they've got Klingon backup. Where is Scotty when you realllllly need him?

I'm BAAaack!

Didja miss me?

I didn't think so.

Well, the guys have backed off my bathroom, now that it's a veritable shrine to the froufrou gods. It's like being trapped inside a wedding cake. But it's MY wedding cake, and that's all that matters. I guess.

I love my guys, don't get me wrong. But I have this recurring fantasy where I have a secret apartment somewhere chic, with a great view. It's cozy, in a minimal sort of way, and very, very clean.

I make some excuse about something I know they won't want to come along for, and instead I slip off to my hideaway. It's orderly and quiet when I walk in. I put on some music ... classical if it's daytime, jazz if it's night. I settle into a deep, soft chair or a hot bath and read, completely uninterrupted, until I'm so mellow I could melt. Late at night, I'll make myself some salmon and asparagus, with good French bread and a nice white wine.

I get the bed all to myself. The sheets are soft, heavy white cotton and vaguely fragrant with lavender. I sleep without waking until dawn, when the spell is broken and it's time to go home.

Nobody knows about this place but me. Shhh. Don't tell.

Space invaders

The guys are using my bathroom. Up until now, the French Country thing I've got going on in there has been an effective repellent, but they seem to have developed a resistance to it. This is not good.

It was little things at first; they'd sneak in to use the mirror when the other bathroom was occupied. Fast, furtive little forays I could live with. Then it was the quick pee -- and they did not aim. Now they're parking their keesters and taking showers in there. They're leaving motor oil on the cream-colored towels and leaving the towels on the floor. There are whiskers in the sink. This means war. I hope I don't have to go all the way to froufrou. But I've got lace, and I'm not afraid to use it.