fruitbaskets

Welcome to March, and other thoughts.

2005-03-01T20:15:00.000-06:00

Today, all day, I have been thinking of my neglected blog. Some recent changes have occurred, and in response, I have spent less time near the computer. With a little voice in my head chanting, "Long time, no post," I decided to sit down and tell some stories.

--The first thing on my mind is that I decided to play "Iron Chef" tonight at dinner, using garlic as my theme ingredient, and I made garlic mashed potatoes, fresh green beans with onion and garlic, and sauteed spinach and garlic. I could have added garlic bread but I kind of ran out of time on my clock. It was goooooooo-ooood.

--My daughter's principal just started this year at the local school. She is pretty young, really, a great sport and friendly. She holds a PhD, so she has got plenty of brains, and all. The funny thing is that she ends all of her sentences, those that I have seen so far, in exclamation points. It was kind of cute at first, and then a bit disconcerting after a while. "Is she still that excited?" I am pleased that she has fit in so well that the punctuation thing is the key issue for me. I am grateful.

--I read a post by getupgrrl that was really terrific. Well, she is always very insightful, a critical thinker, and very consistent in her support of choice, but this particular post got me where I live. I like reading her blog because she posts with a running theme about respecting other people's right to choose how they live their lives. Because her path is focused on building her family, those are the examples she uses to illustrate her theme, but again and again, I find myself reading that message. It is very helpful to me to see myself with her mirror.
Anyways, I like her.

--When I was a kid, I remember thinking that it was possible that my dad was Spock. It would explain a lot about him, like his unemotional nature (must be a Vulcan) and his long spells between visits (always on TV). I am not sure that I believed it, but maybe thought it was plausible until I learned that the show was in re-runs, and of course that Vulcans are fictional. Most likely. I have compiled other evidence over the years in case I am ever in a position to know such things, supporting the claim that my father may be Spock:
* Black hair and similar facial structure as Leonard Nimoy.
* Cringes during hugs.
* Has seen me 4 times in the last 27 years. Has never met Honey or the kid. The kid calls him "Bill" because "Grandad" seems too personal.
* When calling me and Honey answers, he will say "This is (Dad's first and last name) is Sparky home?" Honey will respond with "Oh, hey Bill, she isn't home right now. Would you like me to have her call you back?" and this is too much interaction, and he will respond with "Uhhhh... no. No. No. I will call back another time." A similar thing will happen when my sister or I talk to him. At some point he will decide he has completed the task of talking to us and sometimes in the middle of a sentence, he will break in with a clipped "Okay. Goodbye." If we want to end the call, we need only to mention visiting him or to name any emotions and we will be rewarded with "Ohhhkay. Goodbye."
* He refers to a piece of paper when asking questions about my life. I can hear it in the background. "How is uhh... Emma doing in school?"
* One time I went to visit him at his bachelor pad and he had, I believe, 6 different programmable calculators on the coffee table.
* Signs my birthday card and my Christmas card with his first and last name.

Ramblings and Other Stuff

2005-02-18T07:12:00.000-06:00

Today I have had so many things going through my head that I decided to stop to write them down. In keeping with my blog tradition, I am choosing to write as openly as possible.

In this blog, and when I am asked directly, I identify myself as a Buddhist. However I think it can be misleading for me to do that. We are interested in putting things into boxes, categorizing, organizing, those things that cannot be organized. I am often in a frame of mind that allows absolute inconsistency, with the love of separating on one side and at the same time acknowledging that these imaginary boundaries are on some level, meaningless.

A few years ago, I began learning more about Buddhist thought. I had some basic understanding of the history, from college classes, but was not familiar with day to day activities of regular old Buddhists. I knew cognitively that there were/are many different types of Buddhists, but I think at that point in my life, I had little enough understanding to still be placing them as a group on a large, spiritual pedestal. Very cushy, and unfair.

I had very little idea of the level of Buddhist activity going on in Oklahoma, which was so much more than I had imagined. Not a great deal, mind you, but more than I had thought, and after talking to many people, attending a few specific services and reading, I began to see that there were some Buddhists saying things that I liked to hear. I wanted to know more. To do more.

It was during this time that I came down with a case of bronchitis, or something like it. I was taking some medicine that I had a reaction to, during Christmastime, working overtime in retail with Honey in our gift shop. And I stopped sleeping. I think I had very little sleep for four nights, catching small cat naps, and then being awake for hours through the night. The first night was all right, and the second, but by the third night I was having sort of vision quest but without Matthew Modine.

I know there are many groups that use the lack of sleep or food, or use different plants to fuel their spiritual experiences. It did not occur to me at the time that this was what happened to me. I only thought I was a bit looney from not sleeping, and this idea was reinforced when I would mention the experience to other people. But one day, I mentioned it to my therapist in an offhand guess-how-crazy-the-holidays-were-for-me kind of way. She was different in her response, though, suggesting that I just allow it be whatever it was, not trying to make light of it, or to make it too important.

Since that time, I have had this underlying urge to go back to that place, to feel that sense of connection and to experience that degree of understanding. Admitting that feeling may be my first step in realizing that the feelings I experienced and the ideas I understood are still inside me, I just have to learn the skill of seeing them.

-------------------

Today, Sloth wrote an interesting post about her thoughts on Religion. It made me really think about some things, one of which involved going back to the above posting to give it another chance. I had actually written this post back on 2/7, but did not publish it, because I felt it was kind of weak and demonstrated exactly what I said at the beginning: it is difficult to put into words that which is beyond words.

About five years ago, I probably would have expressed very similar ideas to those written by Sloth today. One day, driving to work, I was listening to NPR on Science Friday. There was an astronomer being interviewed about the theory that the universe is expanding. At the time, I had one of those "Aha!" moments, thinking "What is it expanding into??" After that, talking to a physicist friend named Karen, who offered an explanation, I decided that I liked not knowing. Up until that time, there had not been much in the world that I felt I could classify as Things I Cannot Understand, and to be fair, I had an explanation waiting from my friend Karen. But it somehow clicked for me that this is how religion has worked for people in the past. There have always been Big Questions that have wanted answering, and these would regularly fall into the realm of religion. With science, I have felt there was little need for help from religion. It (religion) has always been a subject of interest, more like history. Up until that time, I really hadn't needed anything other than science.

When my mom died, my daughter was almost 2, some might say she was too young to ask questions, but she wasn't. It seemed cruel to tell her what I really thought, and so I used the crutch of "heaven" to explain why she couldn't see Grammy anymore. There seemed to be a vague connection for her- it was spring, there were road-kill squirrels everywhere, and she seemed to get it that Grammy was with the squirrels. She liked that idea, and I guess I did too.
It is probably far more confusing, but now that she is older and can ask far more complex questions, I give several answers, telling her that sometimes there are many different ways of talking about the Big Answers, but the important part of that is finding what works for you.

The End.

I don't think she has read my blog before, but thanks to Sloth for the inspiration and the fearless writing.
Oh. And speaking of fearless, I love the ESC.

Easy Listening is Not Easy on Me

2005-02-12T10:26:00.000-06:00

This is a short selection of the easy listening music I listened to while doing some work for my mother-in-law:

* I Just Called to Say I Love You

* You Light Up My Life

* (I've Been to Paradise But I've) Never Been to Me

Forgive me if this alienates anyone, that is not my intent, but boy does it make me chuckle when I am trying to concentrate and these 3 muzak biggies slide over my ears. In a row.

Honey, Part 2

2005-02-11T09:44:00.000-06:00

One night in late October ('96) I met a friend at a small, smoky bar to have a couple of beers and to listen to a local musician. This friend was my ex-boyfriend, and although we had been in the 'just friends' category for a couple of years, many people were used to seeing us together. We saw two other friends, one of which was Honey, and we all shared a table while we listened to the music and chatted. That evening, the four of us talked about travel and music and movies. We laughed. I was feeling a tipsy enough to show them my tattoo; I still can't believe I showed it in that bar. Towards the end of the evening, Honey leaned across my ex to ask me for my phone number. He called right away to invite me to a party- a pumpkin carving- at his house.

The night of the party, I arrived at his place to find many of his neighbors in the driveway, gathered around a table carving pumpkins. They were very welcoming, lots of smiling my way, and Honey came around to my side of the table to help me and keep me company. At one point, at opposite ends of the table again, all the neighbors in between, Honey asked me if I could come to dinner at his house the following evening. I remember everyone waiting for my answer, thinking "How could I say no?" I didn't.

We got married the following year in September, with our mothers stage whispering to each other about how they didn't think we needed a honeymoon, since we had been living together already. But that was okay, because we were so happy and are even happier now, with our little family.

And that is the story of how I found Honey. The end. Thankyouverymuch.

The First Time I Met Honey

2005-02-04T08:27:00.000-06:00

A long time ago... in fact, when I was working with Brownie and Blondie at the bar, my first night on the floor waiting tables, I met Honey. Blondie was taking me around, introducing me to regulars, making funny jokes about what it is like to be a waitress and trying to advise me on who tips well. She led me to a large table of young men, and with a warning look, she introduced me. "Y'all be real nice to sparky, she is new here!" There I was, in my finery- a polyester uniform shirt that smelled of grease and something else. ugh. Short dark hair, nervous, flustered, nineteen, chewing gum to keep from babbling. Someone told me later (not my nice husband) that I looked like a little German boy. Table full of young men, mostly drinking beer. They loved Blondie and her big hair. They loved that she flirted with them. The table went silent, when one of the many leaned over and asked in a clear voice "Do you keep your gum in, or spit it out, when you are giving head?" pin drops . crickets. "I keep it in, what do you do?" (explosion of laughter, much denial of any head-giving on the young man's part)

And so began my one year at the bar. Honey was in that group, drinking club soda. He was still in high school at the time, just a year younger than me, and always drank club soda. It made me curious that he wasn't trying to sneak beer. He had round glasses that made him look smart and quiet. He would come in with his friends to listen to a band, would request American Pie, and then be a vocally disappointed that the band always messed up the words. Honey was so proud one day that he and his friend had made a banner, to be unrolled for the band, listing the correct words for the song. He seemed very solemn then, and I was too. Too serious. Needed to laugh more. He is happy now to tell anyone that I was the worst waitress ever, which is so true. I was experiencing angst. I was nineteen, a bit of a late bloomer for all that doom.

I don't remember when Honey first asked me for a date. I do remember that he invited me over for dinner at his home, and I was wondering if his mom would be there. I called to ask what I should bring, and he advised me on a particular kind of devil's food cookie, even describing the box. I think we watched Casablanca, or attempted it. He gave me a tour of the house, including his room which was covered in posters of Marilyn Monroe, comic strips, quotes, and little army men in a battle glued to the ceiling. There was a list of things to do if he ever got bored, and I don't even remember what was on the list now, but I do remember wishing that I could ever be that interesting.

Things didn't work out then, we were both maybe too much alike at the time. We both went on our way, hearing about each other through mutual friends. Honey got married, I dated a few guys that as my mother told me "didn't adore [me] enough." I worked, went to England for a year, got my degree, and when I finished I worked for a bookstore while I tried to figure out what to do next. Honey came in one day, recently divorced, just back from Ireland. He came in another time with his baby niece, and I thought it was so sweet that carried her while she slept.

.........................................

The next part of this story will be in another post, since I did not realize that my post entitled "The first time I met Honey" would cover a time span of 10 speedy years.

Are You Writing This Down?

2005-02-04T08:17:00.000-06:00

While playing with the kid:

"Let's play that you are bad and I release these baby cabbages that tickle you," showing me a handful of marbles.

I turned around with what must have been a strange look on my face, from trying not to giggle, when she looked up at me, studied my face for a moment, then:

"Actually... Let's make them baby cookies-- just like we don't spank, we won't make them be cabbages. Actually, make them hoober catchers. Are you wondering what a hoober catcher is? I made it up. Are you writing this down?"

The Post in which I am Living with Lesbians, but do not Figure it Out Until Years Later.

2005-02-01T09:05:00.000-06:00

Many years ago, maybe when I was 19 or so, I moved in with a new roommate whom I will call Brownie.* So, I was working at a local bar, along with Brownie, and it just so happened that she needed someone to move into her apartment. She kept apologizing, "The room is really small. I am so sorry." But I did not care. It was a terrific apartment. Brownie had a twin bed in the loft bedroom and I had the bedroom downstairs. I was in heaven; my very pretty roommate liked the B-52s and was a bartender. I felt my coolness factor rising just by putting my stuff in the apartment. I was walking away from Country Kitchen Blue and walking into edgy music, exotic food and a new group of friends.

One of these friends was Blondie. She was tall and thin and had the biggest blond curly hair I had ever seen. (Blondie was so thin that when she would put on bobby socks, the cuffs would not touch any part of her legs. She was also a Fundamentalist that did not believe in dinosaurs. Yeah, well...) Lots of rockstar hair. Blondie had been Brownie's roommate previously, and it was kind of confusing about why she had moved out.

sparky: But why doesn't her mom like you? What if she doesn't like me?
Blondie: Her mom is just really protective and she didn't like it that I borrowed Brownie's clothes. Don't worry. I'll still be here all the time. Just don't tell her mom.

And so it went. Blondie was over all the time and it was like a big sleepover. Often, it was really warm in the loft with just that twin bed, and so Brownie and Blondie would have to just wear their bras and panties to sleep in. They would be so cute in the morning, cuddled up on the loveseat, spooned together, watching tv. Well, it was colder downstairs, especially in the mornings. Sometimes, at the bar, guys would come up to me with a certain look in their eyes, asking me "What's it like, living with those two?" "Well, you know! We are always laughing. They are very crazy girls!"

I understood what they were getting at, but since neither of the girls had actually said anything, I always assumed that the guys had active imaginations. "They are just really good friends!" But really, everyone knew but me. It was years later that I learned from one of their good friends why they had moved to Dallas. "They wanted to be more open about it." oh.

After more life experience, of course, I can see it now. But at the time, it just seemed to be all very innocent. I have learned since then that I have this tendency to listen more to people's actual words than to watch their actions. It is a habit that comes from living with an alcoholic (my mother,) and tends to come in handy whenever there are people who want to be inside their own type of denial closet. I like to think that if the girls had felt okay about being verbally open about things, that I would have been cool about it. Who knows, I was 19.

*I changed the names of people to protect anyone that blahdeblahdeblah, you know what I mean.

My Big Adventure.

2005-01-30T20:27:00.000-06:00

I ordered these on Friday in a lovely olive green. Yay. They have already shipped, so should be here sooooon. I can't wait because I never order things online and I rarely buy new shoes and they are never under $15.00 including shipping. Hurray!

Something Old, Something New

2005-01-30T20:18:00.000-06:00

I am trying some new things in the fruitbasketeria, so be patient with me, 'cause I'm a rookie.

thanks.

love,
sparky

Addendum to the Funny Things

2005-01-30T10:21:00.000-06:00

Things are getting better on this end so I wanted to take a moment to tell some more stories about the kid.

flick
One day, my daughter was very angry with me, and although I don't remember the context now, I do remember what followed:
"If you don't do what I say, then I am flicking you off of the friendship boat."
This was some time back, and although she will still sometimes say it to me, I have no idea where it came from. It doesn't work, of course, unless I crack up. Now that she is older, she will make a little motion with her finger and say "Mo- ommmmm. Flick." I guess it is a little warning to me. (Eyebrows raised, Flick.)

boys don't say fabulous
We were talking about the show Lilo and Stitch, when the kid asked if Pleakley is a boy or a girl. After we talked for a moment, she decided, "I think he is a girl." I asked her if there were ways to tell if someone was a boy or girl. She replied, "Yes! From the way they talk. Like 'fabulous.' Boys never say the word fabulous."

old and new
Yesterday, the kid asked Honey to bend over and pick her up. Honey said "Baby, I can't bend over right now, 'cause I'm old." The kid said, "You are not old, you are new."

grilled cheese angel
Yesterday, the kid was asking for a grilled cheese sandwich, her favorite. As I was making it, I heard her singing a little song about how she is the "Grilled Cheese Angel."

linus
We have a giant Japanese Bobtail cat named Linus. He is a big baby, an excessive drooler, and a wiley hunter. The kid asked me yesterday if we could change Linus' name to something prettier. "Like what, kiddo?" "How about Princess?"
(Actually, Linus often inspires other names, such as Leenus, which rhymes with... well anyway.)

Funny Things I Get to Hear While Being a Mom.

2005-01-24T08:41:00.000-06:00

"I like that tofu when you laminate it."

"Barney lives in heaven. He's not dead, he just lives there." When I asked her why he lives there, she told me "His parents moved there." (Barney is her imaginary friend who is deaf, and sometimes a baby.)

singing:
"Down on the corner
Out in the street,
huhuhuhu HoHo happy feet"

kid: Billy pushed me while we were playing tag.
sparky: Did he hurt you, or was it an accident?
kid: It didn't hurt, but it wasn't an accident. He meant to push me.
sparky: Ohhhh. Well, in kindergarten, boys sometimes push girls to show that they like them.
kid: Bestfriend says he has a crush on me.
sparky: What does "crush" mean?
kid: L-O-V.

around 3 years old, after dropping something, kid said "Shit!"
sparky: (whispering) Say "shoot" instead.
kid: Riiiiiigggghhhttt. Shoot!

overheard while riding in the car, kid and her bestfriend, about four years old:
bestfriend of kid: Are you going to college?
kid: I don't know. I guess.
bestfriend: Well, there are two kinds of college; Sleepaway college and Barber college. What do you want to be?
kid: A veterinarian.
bestfriend: Okay. At Sleepaway college, you go there and you sleep there. At Barber college, you get to sleep at home with your mom.
kid: Then I want to go to Barber college to be a veterinarian.

later, this was revised:
kid: I think I want to be a police.
sparky: You like the idea of being a police officer?
kid: Yes. I want to be a police, and on my days off I will be a daycare.
sparky: Wow.
kid: But I am still going to Barber College, not that other one!

just recently,
bestfriend of kid: Well you see, we are popular.
kid: But we don't say we are popular.
sparky: Oh. What does that mean, "popular."
bestfriend: ummmm. You know, cool.
sparky: But who is cool? How do you decide that someone is cool?
bestfriend: Well, that guy B. He is not popular.
sparky: How come?
bestfriend: He drools. But when he doesn't drool, he is popular again.

sparky: What are you watching?
kid: "The Three Habeneros"
sparky: Is it "Caballeros?"
kid: No. It is "Habeneros."

on seeing a picture of herself with one finger up,
"Ohhhhh. I have my Number One up!

Today: Discussing Religion, with Many Disclaimers and Too Much Background.

2005-01-20T07:35:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer #1 For as long as I can remember, I have been curious about religion. In this entry, I am going to write as openly as possible about my experiences and there are many people who may not agree with my views. To that I say: no one has to read this but me. Well, me and Honey. And my sister. But that is it. Probably.

Before I was eight years old, my parents did not teach me about religion. They taught me about evolution and plate tectonics and fossils. And math. And how to draw little cats. When my parents separated, my mother brought us to live in Oklahoma. We had extended family here, and this was my mother's home.

I had only encountered religion a few times before this: once when I was about four, my babysitter took me to services for Ash Wednesday and I complained to my mother "They put dirt on me." Once, I went with my friend to Sunday school, where they had good crayons and the room smelled kind of sleepy. It was nice. Then once, the neighborhood perv told me that God speaks through all people, that he speaks for them, and I thought that was the silliest thing I had heard. It sounded like a puppet show, and it did not ring true for me, even when I was so young.

Upon moving to Oklahoma, I began to learn that for a new kid, it could be painful to not have religion. My first several experiences with church focused on learning some information in trade for candy. I loved the candy part, but never felt very comfortable at any of these places. And I didn't understand why evolution was bad, evil even. From this time on, there were many times that I was told I would go to Hell if I did not go to this church or that church. That lots of people would not go to Heaven because they weren't Saved and in the same breath, much glorifying of God and His Mercy and omnipotence. "He's a loving God" but only seemed to love Baptists. Not even His Chosen People were allowed into Heaven. "They are not Christians." And that is where I first heard that somehow, Catholics were not going to Heaven either for the same reason. Later, I was able to argue that Catholics and Protestants were both Christian, but that only seemed to confuse. "Ahh, but we are not Protestant, we are Baptist."

As a fourth grader, new to the town and the school, I was upset so often by those phrases. I was shamed by my teacher in front of the class because I did not know the Lord's Prayer. We had to recite it every morning after the Pledge, and when I went to my mother, so upset, she helped me learn it rather than cause a stir. I cried so often. I was never so fearful until I encountered these folks. I tried many times to believe, to be like them. It has never worked for me and I know that I have tried. The thing is, it took me years to understand that it was the people rather than the religion that had the problem. The implementation of the ideas has had the potential to cause great pain.

In the end, I hope I will be at ease with my memories, letting them be just that: memories. I hope that I will continue to be more open to questions and comments from other people that I meet.

Chinese Food and Many Laughs.

2005-01-15T08:10:00.000-06:00

Friday night, my husband, our daughter and I went out to dinner with another couple and their daughter, for Chinese food. This is a little unusual for us, so we were really looking forward to going out. Sometimes we are too poor, sometimes we are too tired, and often we don't have a babysitter, so this was perfect! Exciting! Outside!

My husband, who's name might as well be Honey, had been getting to know a guy at work all because of Honey's desk. You see, I married the perfect man; he is endlessly thoughtful, warm and affectionate, exceptionally intelligent and is sometimes known to me as "ADD Boy." He has not been diagnosed with ADD, but I am sure that he is secretly the Poster Boy. You may be wondering what this has to do with his desk, and I will tell you. Now, Honey is an excellent decorator, filling up his spaces with toys, gadgets, time fillers, origami paper and many folded examples. I am sure that all the surrounding desks have folded cranes from Honey. Most likely there are pictures of family, possibly with laminated explanations of who is in the picture, perhaps a basket of snacks with a friendly note that says for folks to help themselves. Maybe there is a chess set that is partially in use, waiting for the next chance to continue when the guy in the next cube over gets off the phone. Maybe there is a list of movies he wants to watch or notes to himself about what to do if he is bored. Probably there is a note that is sometimes in use that reads "Gone to play Foosball." Also, there is probably a Buddhist altar, which will contain a few essentials, such as a statue of the Buddha, a small cup for water and a dish for a food offering; there may be incense or a candle, though probably left unlit, so as not to distract others. It is probably this that attracted the co-worker, who has since had many questions about Buddhism; there have been books loaned and coffees drunk in order to fully discuss this topic.

Living in Oklahoma, and being anything other than Protestant, can be a challenge. Oklahoma is a Red state. The Bible Belt. People really will ask you what church you go to while you are in unusual situations, like in the elevator, or while waiting for the police to come after a fender bender. Really. It has taken me a long time to recognize the friendliness in the question; it has always sounded so menacing to me, but maybe because I usually did not have a church to report, and got nervous. Being on the outside of this group and not accepting Jesus as my personal saviour has often led to my witholding information from people about my true thoughts and feelings, for fear of repeating past experiences. But I am trying. I am trying to be my genuine self, and answer questions without fear. With all of this as background, we decided to have dinner with the co-worker with all of the questions. His wife had some questions too, and it was difficult to not joke about that ahead of time.

Honey: So, Mrs. Co-worker just is wondering what it is like to be a Woman and be Buddhist.
sparky: Well cripes, no pressure there.
Honey: Maybe you should not speak and keep your head bowed until I say "You may speak."
sparky: And then I could ask Mrs. Co-Worker to accompany me to the ladies room, where we can speak freely. And I could refer to you as "Sir" or something!
Honey: Yeah!
sparky: Yeah!

As it turned out, they were a super nice couple, both very funny and engaging. Mrs. was sweet, and genuinely seemed like she will be a new friend. We had been building them up in our minds and it was all unnecessary. Their daughter was just a cool and crazy as ours, the highlight being when their daughter showed us her "catatonic girl" routine, which Honey and I thougt was hilarious, but they were immediately mortified and with each attempt on her part being met with a parental hand covering her face. "Pleasestopthatrightnow."

You know, I wish all questions about my beliefs ended on such a wonderful note. Hurray for the Co-Workers!

Fruitbaskets Upset

2005-01-14T08:04:00.000-06:00

Maybe I was in sixth grade or so, when I realized that my mother was pretty nutty. And that may be when everyone realizes that sort of thing. When she talked to people, especially on the phone, and they would ask some appropriate opening question, she would answer "Well, things are Fruitbaskets Upset around here." This was her code which apparently told other people that the house was messy, or there was some kind of stress in her life. And there always was. Sometimes, if my brother or sister happened to be there too, we would look at each other and in unison say "Frooot Baya skits Uhhhp sayet," trying to mimic her lilt, and always overshooting. We always made her sound more Deep South than anything, rather than the fairly reasonable Midwestern, or whatever the fuck Oklahoma is. (I mean really, we aren't Southern, or Southwest or really even Midwest. Sometimes, I tell people that Oklahoma is a Plains state, man. As if that ever helps; thanks sparky.)

Later on, as I got older, I would tell people about that saying, to try to establish if others had heard it, and most likely hoping for a laugh. Conversations usually went something like this:

sparky: My house is just Fruitbaskets Upset.
other person: Your mom really said that? Often?
s: Sure. A lot. I guess we had a messy house.
op: What if your house was clean? Would it just be "Fruitbaskets?"
s: Maybe "Fruitbaskets Upright."
op: What about "Fruitbaskets Intact and Operational?"
s: shut up.

You don't have to read this part, but I have to write it.
This May will be four years since my mom died. She may have known she was dying, and probably did, but she never told us directly. She was a very funny person, very witty. She was a librarian, and so honored books over any other objects. She died from cirrhosis after a lifetime of drinking too much and admitting it too little. You know what? I miss her.

The Impetus

2005-01-13T20:32:00.000-06:00

For a long time now, I have tinkered with the idea of having my own blog, always sighing to myself that I did not (do not do not) have much to say. There are so many wonderful, funny, clever bloggers out there, we don't really need one more, now do we? But the thing is, I keep finding myself interested in particular blogs and then...

they never post again.

Surely, it cannot be my grubby paws, crawling all over their blog.

You see, it starts with the hook. I read a couple of entries. I love them! Then the archives. Hurray! for archives. And then, sensing there is too much love, crazy blognerd love, they back away slowly, nodding and smiling.

To try to keep my own nerdy self occupied, I decided to start my own blog. Maybe I can say all of the things I have wanted to say but haven't because I felt too shy.

Like this: Recently I read one of the most brilliant blogs and I laughed my ass off so hard that I had tears running down my face. This dude is badnewshughes and is my new favorite blog, although, as you can see, he hasn't posted in a few days. ack. I found out about him through getupgrrl, who is also very funny but has a much more serious blog. Another favorite is Sarah B., who has posted some entries that have caused me to choke on my gum, I laughed so hard.
After looking over my very favorites, I realize that I am most devoted to the funny ones. Anyone that can make me laugh is someone that I want to be around, even in blog format. Maybe especially in blogs. My blog* may not end up on anyone's funniest list, but I can guarantee it will crack me up.

*My husband has often called me "Chevy" (like Chase, not the car) and has compared me with Jerry Lewis. I used to think, "Oh, I must be so funny." It took me a while to figure out that these endearments might not be compliments. Watch out for that wall, Grace.

The Beginning, Where Not Much Is Said.

2005-01-13T19:43:00.000-06:00

This may be my own narcissistic adventure, but I don't care. I have been an admirerer of other blogs for a long time, but have not ever sat down to put my money where my mouth is, until today. It may not be much, but it is mine, baby.