Making a list and checking it twice...

Today I'm going to finish up on CSL's interview questions...

So, how many of the things on your "checklist of good ideas" from the end of last year have you kept?

Ooh… what a good reminder! I haven’t checked in on that list in quite a while. As I look it over, though, I realize I haven’t been doing as poorly with my intentions for this year as I’d thought.

I have been spending more time with family and friends. Sean and I have been inviting people to dinner here and there, and we’ve been meeting friends out on the weekends pretty consistently. I haven’t seen my cousin’s band lately, though. Maybe I’ll give him a call.

I’ve also been sending real emails to my friends over the past few months. I haven’t been calling my relatives on Saturday mornings, though. Something else to do now…

I’ve been taking my lunchtime walks, and I’ve been walking around the lake on the weekends, so I can check off exercising. I don’t have time to be any more serious than that.

Hmm… I haven’t been keeping the brain sharp like I intended. No Spanish, no crossword puzzles, no reading lately. Darn. No belly dancing either. I need more hours in my days.

I haven’t started putting my photos into albums. But I have been cooking quite a bit. So that one gets a “check”.

Yeesh. I haven’t been creative every week. Did I really think that every week was feasible? More like every once in a while. I like to mess around with an altered book here and there.

It feels less serious than “I’m going to make a painting” or something like that. Plus, it kind of supplies its own ideas sometimes, depending on the words on the page.

I liked the words on this dog page...

I should really get back to drawing though…

I haven’t been typing the war letters in either. I have so much more to catalog, too. In addition to the letters, there are newspapers from 1945 declaring the end of the war, and lots of crazy postcards...

But I have been taking pictures every day and aggressively pursuing photography. Checkmark that one. Hopefully I can make it a full-time gig and quit the 9 to 5 like I planned.

Thanks for making me look over my list! I’d better get going on some more of these…

Do friends and family members read your blog, and if they do – does that shape what you choose to write about?

No, no one reads my blog. I wanted to start out with it just being my own, personal, secret place to log my thoughts and memories. I didn’t want the thought of an audience to influence what I write. I will probably let my husband in on it, though. There’s always more that we can learn about each other, so it might be a excellent catalyst for future discussions.

I asked someone else this too, and am ceaselessly curious about it as a phenomenon of the blog world: What is it that draws you to another person's blog and keeps you visiting?

Well I think there are several things that draw me in, as well as a few that keep me away. I generally stay away from the big debates, like politics, religion, abortion rights, gun laws. I’m usually on here while I’m at work, and I’m not seeking a break from the daily drudgery only to end up in a “heated exchange of ideas” (read: argument). I also usually stay away from some of the pop culture posts. I have no interest in what Britney Spears is doing this week.

I think the blogs I frequent represent people I could see being my friends “on the outside”, people that I can relate to in some way. They may have nothing at all in common with each other – one might make me laugh, while another makes me think, and another makes me say “I would have done the same thing” or “I’ve thought about that too.” My friends in the real world aren’t carbon-copies of each other, and they aren’t in the blog world either.

Sometimes it’s just one sentence or post that interests me initially, and that prompts my return for a few more posts or to read back through some earlier ones to get a “feel” for the blogger and what they’re about. I enjoy getting to know the people on here, and I enjoy honest exchanges of thoughts, ideas, and personal stories.

Thanks so much for the fantastic questions CSL! If anyone would like me to interview them, let me know in the comments :)

Next, on the the interview questions from The Dragon :)

A Moblem Of Prime

Sometimes I have a bit of a speaking dyslexia. I think it happens when my brain is working faster than my mouth can keep up with. What I end up doing is exchanging the first letters of two words.

Some recent examples:

“Know what I had for lunch today? A Chilly Freesesteak!”

“My daughter’s room is pretty big, about 600 fare squeet.”

“Leave me alone for a while. I need to nake a tap.”

These are all total accidents. I couldn’t do it on purpose if I tried. Well, I mean I guess I could, but I’d have to sit there and really think about which letters to switch.

What’s scary is that it might be contagious. Oh yeah, I’m not sure how, but I think my husband is catching it. The other day he asked me if I’ve heard from Duncle Ave.

“Uncle Dave???”

Unfortunately for Duncle Ave, the new name has stuck.

Of course, Sean will still make fun if he catches me in one. The other night I asked him if he wanted to take a hide out to Rome… I mean, a ride out to Home Depot.

“You switchin’ shit up again?”

“Shut uuuuuup!” I whined.

And then more quietly, under my breath: “Fother Mucker.”

Hollywood Hotties Ain’t My Thing

“So what’s your type of guy?”

I don’t know how many times I was asked that question when I was single.

“I don’t have a type.”

“What about movie stars? Who do you have a crush on?”

“I don’t have crushes on movie stars.”

I really don’t. I never did.

Well, maybe in the sixth grade when I saw the movie The Outsiders. I thought Matt Dillon was hot. And I was smitten with C. Thomas Howell.

“Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.”

I loved that movie. All those guys were gorgeous, and they were cool because they were dirty boys that wore leather jackets and ripped jeans. I’m sure I fell asleep many a night dreaming of kissing Matt Dillon.

But as a grown woman, I just don’t get infatuated with famous people. I lived in Brentwood, California for a while. I would see famous people quite often. I even met a few at parties and clubs. But they were just people. I never got all googly-eyed over them.

“C’mon, there has to be someone. Brad Pitt?”

“No, a friend of mine interviewed him once and she said he had really bad body odor.”

“Tom Cruise?”

“Hell no! Arrogance is the ugliest thing to me.”

“Just name someone. There has to be someone you think is hot.”

“Okay then… Jon Stewart.”

“What?”

“If I have to name someone, it’s Jon Stewart.”

“Why???”

“Because he’s intelligent, witty, and funny. Those are qualities that attract me.”

So that has always been my standard answer to that stupid question. Jon Stewart. It usually leads to some discussion, since he is not an obvious choice to most people.

Over the summer, Sean and I are visiting his “new brother” in North Carolina. That’s a whole other story.

Well don’t you know, we get into one of these conversations about who has the hots for whom.

Angelina Jolie always comes up as a clear choice for the men. Brad Pitt and Matthew McConnaughey are mentioned by the women.

“What about you, Tammie? Who do you have a crush on?”

“My husband.”

“No, in Hollywood. Or on TV. Who do you think is hot?”

“I don’t go for Hollywood types.”

“Oh c’mon, there has to be someone.”

My husband knows my dirty secrets (well, not all of them… yet), so he tries to help me out: “She likes Jon Stewart.”

“Jon Stewart? Why?”

“Because he’s intelligent, and witty, and funny. That’s the kind of guys I go for.”

“Yeah, but so is Dr. Ruth!” the new brother calls across the room.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on now. See that’s completely different.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is. Because I like my women HOT.”

That shut him up.

I Want My Exotic Name To Be Magdalena...

...Or Maybe Svetlana. Or Natalia.

Okay, I admit it. I love the sound of Spanish names. Italian names too. Actually, anything other than the very American sounding name I have. Russian names are awesome.

We are at our favorite pizza joint, and my daughter Mandy and her boyfriend have joined us for some slices. My mother-in-law happens to be there that night too, and she comes over to say hello.

As she is recounting the events of her day, another regular stops in, an unusually graceful man named David. His teeth are a crooked mess, but he is the most impeccable dresser, he is always clean-shaven, and his strut is made for the catwalk. He is such an animated character. We love this guy.

So he stops by our booth to say hello as well. Sean introduces David to his mother.

“Well!” David declares. “You have such an exotic look about you! I would have thought your name was Margarita!”

He says this with much flair. He even rolls the r.

“You can call me Margarita if you want to!” Sean’s mom says with a wink.

Mandy leans over to me and whispers, “I want him to name me!”

Impressing the California Girls

I lived in Brentwood California with a boyfriend for a while. His buddy Rich (from the good ol’ drink-until-you- don’t- know- your-name days of college) wanted to move out to Cali from NYC.

So my boyfriend helps him find a job at his company, and we even find an apartment for rent in our building and hook him up with that too.

Rich descends upon the west coast with two big brown suitcases full of crappy Champion sweatshirts, ripped stone-washed jeans, assorted toiletries, and magical dreams of making it big in the movie business. We take him to Nordstrom’s for a stylish silk shirt and pair of black pants, which was the required California business ensemble at the time. Oh, and a pair of new shoes.

I let him borrow my car for his first day of work. I clean out all the toddler toys and baby bottles and old Cheerios so he looks more professional. I tell him he has to leave my daughter’s car seat in the back though, because it’s a pain in the ass to take out. No problem.

So here he is, riding down Sunset Boulevard with the windows wide open, silk shirt fluttering in the wind, on his way into Hollywood for his first day on the job. The sun is shining, birds are singing, palm trees are beckoning on either side of the road, inviting him to join the masses of the sun-kissed beautiful people. Long-legged girls are walking around wearing enticing sundresses and tantalizing heels. He has found it at last: his own little slice of L.A. heaven.

This is a dream come true.

Rich is stopped at a red light at the corner of Sunset and Beverly. A red convertible something or other (hey, I’m not good with cars) pulls up on his left, and he suddenly notices that two hot chicks are smiling at him and giggling. He puffs out his chest like a western lowland silverback and then, with all due coolness, he gazes over his shoulder at his cooing admirers, lowering his Ray Bans just enough to give the lovely ladies a flirtatious wink.

This makes them squeal with delight as they drive off, their long golden locks billowing out behind them.

He is basking in the rays of pure awesomeness. Could this day get any better?

Moments later, his shiny red balloon of bliss pops, flies around the sunny sky in erratic loops and then quickly descends into the shadowy depths of the nearest storm drain.

Yes, in his school-boy excitement for his first real day in L.A., in the anticipation of what amazing possibilities are in store for him at his impressive new job, he hadn’t noticed that the CD player is blasting Barney tunes for all the world to hear.

“Clean up! Clean up! Everybody, everywhere!
Clean up! Clean up! Everybody do your share!”

Damn.

Turtlenecks

Turtlenecks. Oh, how I hate them!

I’ve never liked them. I feel so claustrophobic in them, like I’m being strangled. I get all hot and sweaty and nauseous. And who the hell wants to look like a turtle?

When I was in nursery school, I had to stay home for a week while I was getting over the measles. Soon afterwards my school was going on a trip, and we were going to take the train to get there. I don’t recall anything about the trip. The only thing I remember was that my mother said I had to wear a turtleneck that day.

I was already dressed for school, but she sent me back to my room to change into one of these torture devices. My dear mother said I couldn’t go on the trip unless I wore it. She had me under the impression that the turtleneck would prevent me from spreading my highly contagious disease to the other children. In retrospect, I wonder if I was really over the measles at all? Maybe she just didn’t want to miss the trip. She was the chaperone, after all.

I finally went to my room, to the bottom draw of the dresser (the one that always stuck and was hard to pull out), and there they were: two pristine (read: never worn) white turtlenecks. One had delicate little yellow flowers on it, and the other had precious little pink hearts. I hated them both. I cried on the train.

I loved the 80’s. We all stretched out the collars of our oversized sweatshirts or cut them right the heck off, a la Flashdance. I stretched all my t-shirts out too. Nothing touched my tender neck. Life was good.

In college I even broke up with a very handsome boy named Benjamin because of my neck phobia. He was a good kisser. Killer blue eyes too. I was in love. We were in my dorm room, lying on my bed, talking and chatting and getting to know each other. We both liked the new song by Janet Jackson - he would say “Miss you much” when we hung up the phone. He was hot.

He said he couldn’t have anything touch under his chin. “Really? Omigod! I can’t have anything touch right here, at the base of my neck. Freaks me out.”

“Like this?” And my big, handsome, square-jawed boyfriend, he pokes the VERY SPOT, with his great big pointer finger (yes, big hands too). When I regained consciousness, I told him to get the fuck out.

Fast forward a good decade later, when I was riding in the truck with my dad. We’re discussing crappy Christmas gifts, like ugly sweaters and such. I told him I hate those socks that have individual compartments for each toe. They make my feet itchy and clammy. Freak me out. “And turtlenecks,” I say. “Turtlenecks with candy canes on them and stuff like that. A turtleneck is horrid enough without putting stupid stuff all over it.”

“Uck,” he chimes in. “I can’t stand turtlenecks. I can’t have anything touching my neck.”

So apparently this shit’s hereditary. Don’t worry, I’ll never make my daughter wear one, even if she gets the measles.

I Can Sit and Stay

I've never seen UFO, but my older brother has. The funny thing about it is he would be the last person in the world to believe in something like that.

But one warm summer night, he was lying on his back on an old weathered picnic table down at the river, talking with a friend, gazing at the stars. A bright light zipped across the entire sky and stopped on a dime, zipped in a different direction and paused, and then took off in a 3rd direction.

A few moments later, he hesitantly asked his companion, "Um.... did you see what I just saw?"

After a pause... "Um, yeah."

"Cool."

I've always believed that life must exist on other planets. Considering the vastness of the universe, it seems absurd and egotistical to think that we would be the only ones. And it seems so improbable.

I've always liked this quote:
"To consider the Earth the only populated world in infinite space is as absurd as to assert that in an entire field sown with millet only one grain will grow." - Metrodoros

Somewhere out there the conditions exist for life. Probability would state that it exists in many places other than our planet. Primitive life may exist in thousands of places, intelligent life perhaps in hundreds.

I wonder if they’d be more intelligent than we are? Reminds me of that song by Porno for Pyros: We’d Make Great Pets.

I Always Pick the Wrong Line

I made a run out to Kohl’s. They were having a really good sale on something that I really really needed. Okay, so I didn’t really need anything; I just love Kohl’s. And I wasn’t really aware of what was on sale at this particular moment, but Kohl’s always has great sales, and I felt it was important to find out what was going on over there.

So I had my purchases in hand:
- a pajamas set that consisted of a little red tank top and comfy bottoms covered with polka dots (I love polka dots)
- oversized cheap sunglasses (I love cheap sunglasses)
- a funky new necklace (I love funky necklaces)

As I mentioned, these were things I really really needed.

I found the shortest line. There was a little boy in the Kohl’s shopping cart/stroller contraption directly in front of me. He was about 4 years old, and he was facing my direction as his mother emptied her purchases out of the other side.

The child was staring and smirking a little. I smiled.

“I hate you,” he hissed at me. “I really do… I hate you.” His black eyes were narrowed and his lips were a thin tight line that slowly separated into a chilling smile. I thought his little pointer finger was going to start chanting REDRUM. Besides the fact that he appeared, in my non-expert opinion, to be the evil twin of Damien (the child from the Omen movies) he obviously had never learned:
- Respect for Elders
- The Golden Rule
- Don’t Talk to Strangers

I checked out the mom. Yes, that’s right. I blame the mother when a child is a brat. Doubly so when he’s a creepy little psychopath in training. What would possess him to speak to me that way? She looked like your average 30-40 something year old (I’m terrible with age), perhaps a little frumpy and scowling a bit. I couldn’t help but wonder what goes on in that house. How does one create such a mean and belligerent child?

I wanted to say something to her, but what would I say? Your child is speaking disrespectfully to me? Why is your son so creepy? What’s wrong with this kid? No matter how sweetly I utter the words, I just know anything I say will be taken as an insult.

I ignored her spawn lest he retaliate with a malevolent curse upon my family, or perhaps a kick in the knee.

It has been said that we each have the kind of children we deserve. So I called over to the mother, “Hey lady, you must have been a frickin’ nightmare!” I think only said it in my head actually. I don’t think she heard me.

I pretty sure Damien did, though. I broke out in hives.