I must be old

I have a big problem with text messaging. It's not the act itself. It's the fact that, in the past tense, people refer to it as, " I text-ed her when I knew we weren't staying at Clayton's Lounge and we were moving onto The George and Dragon." Text-ed just ain't right. It's similar to saying Breast-es-es. Everytime I hear "text-ed," whether it's right or not, I think of "breast-es-es." Why can't we as a culture adopt the following: "I textd her that we were moving the party to Muldoon's." Just a little more emphasis on the "d." Still kinda sounds the same, but doesn't add the extra syllable in there. It's just a emphatic "d" or "t" without the breast. Es-es.

Lighten up

Just one quick story for you that falls out of the timeline I've thus followed. I'm currently in England for a month-long work assignment. Yes, it is almost like vacation. I have my own apartment (sorry, flat) here with 2 bedrooms and I don't have to SHARE WITH ANYONE. Can you tell I needed to get away?

Before I left, I made sure all the bills were paid, but left a few checks for services that would need to be rendered while on my European jaunt, money for Lottery tickets, and a few blank checks just in case of emergency. All in Ed and Elayne's capable little hands.

I get a call in England from Elayne last night:
"Do you remember how I told you Big Lots had Stiffel lamps on sale?"

No. "Yeah."

"And you know how badly you need lamps..."

I really don't. When I moved into my house, I bought the quick and easy 3-lamp trio from Bed Bath and Beyond for like, $79. They have light bulbs in them that work. I don't necessarily think the need for lamps is quite that dire. "Um, yeah, I guess."

"Well, I bought you these gorgeous Stiffel table lamps for the living room. The base is like a Grecian urn, except it matches the coffee table and side table legs perfectly!"

Grecian urn?!!! For my flippin' Mediterranean Villa??? "Oh really? You did?"

"Yes! And I put them on my debit card - they were $50 each - and then I took one of your blank checks and made it out to me for $100 and deposited it to my account right away! Wasn't that smart? It'll be much easier for you to return it (if you don't like it of course) since it was on my debit card."

It is in this same manner that I have acquired several useless and unasked for possessions (a black leather strapless bra!! from my mother!!). You've never met anyone more devout than Elayne, Our Lady who prays daily at the altar of Ross, TJ Maxx, and Marshalls, although she does play a bit by her own rules of devotion. She will preview clothes at the stores, and if she likes it but isn't quite ready to make the purchase, she will hide it by shoving it between other clothes and smashing them together so no one sees the 88th olive green t-shirt that she so covets.

Elayne's shopping habits were so constant and predictable that if she didn't show up at Ross-Dress-for-Less on a Tuesday (senior citizen discount day), the store manager would call and ask if she were feeling okay. I think they even would have sent a car for her if she were incapable of driving. She knows which stores are A, B and C stores - and refers to them as, "My Marshall's," or, "Your TJ Maxx is not as good as MY TJ Maxx."

Elayne's also not a tryer-onner. She buys, buys, buys, and then tries the clothes on later when she gets home. Bah! Dressing rooms are for people who have way too much time on their hands and don't care about getting the deal! Besides, you can always take it back. The only thing she'll try on are shoes, which she can do right there in the aisle without wasting much time. One of the useful tips I've learned from her about shopping at the discount places, is that when you go to try the shoes on, make sure you're already at the little mirror before you put them on your feet. Otherwise, you've got your two shoes lassooed together and you're forced to do what Elayne has coined "The Marshall's Shuffle" over to the mirror, introducing potential injury to yourself, others or, god forbid, the shoes.

So, she puts the new found treasures in the trunk of the car...and...they sit there. For months at a time. I call the trunk "the bull-pen." The clothes are not quite ready yet to be up at bat, but soon. It's kind of like an incubator for shoes. When Elayne decides that she's ready to wear one of the items, she goes to her trunk, rummages around for a few minutes, and picks one player from the line-up to be the home run halter of the day. Lest you think she forgets what's in the trunk, I've done tests and quizzes. She knows exactly what's in there. She could run away at any moment and have everything she needs: shoes, bathing suits, sweaters, tops, shorts, etc. Maybe I should throw in a couple of extras to round it out for her?

One year, my Dad and I thought we'd be funny to take one of her pairs of pants that she had hanging in the closet for at least a year with the tags still on it, wrap them up and give them to her for Christmas. She opened the gift, took the pants out, immediately exclaimed, "Oh I love these! Wait a minute, I think I have a pair like these?" Even though she had several hundred other pairs of khaki colored pants, she knew the difference. We had to 'fess up.

So since the financial crisis has befallen Ed & Elayne, there is a whole lot less of her own shopping going on, however, it is apparent to me that old habits die extremely hard. That, and leaving blank checks on the counter with no real specified destination is flirting with the Devil (shops-at-Marshalls).

I will let you know what my Grecian urn table lamps actually look like when I arrive back home.

Fountains of Pain

Ed is self-admittedly no Mr. Fix-it. He actually does quite well at certain things (he is truly gifted at automatic sprinkler fixing), but is not a lover of all things home improvement based. He will do them though, to the point of frustration. Not necessarily his frustration, but Elayne's. I've always just stayed out of the way...unless I hear, "Can I get a Phillips' head?!!!!" Elayne has a point. He will start a project sans materials, and then bellow to her to bring him this, bring him that. "E-laaaaaayne! I need a bucket!" "E-laaaaaayne, I need some rags, do we have any rags?!!!" "E-laaaaaayne, can I get a hand here?!" As if she is hanging around waiting to hand him a scapel or something. Usually she is outside having a smoke, and gets completely annoyed that he didn't have the foresight to prepare for his most recent Bob-the-Builder project.

We are a lazy lot on the weekends. It's been this way since I was a child. Sleeping in was mandatory. Showering wasn't completely optional, but didn't happen until 1 or 2 in the afternoon, on a good day. As a toddler, I was taught only to tell when it was 9 o'clock in the morning (I could wake them up then) but had no idea about the actual concept of time. I only waited until the clock showed 9 - as far as I knew that was the equivalent of the red velvet curtain going up = It's Showtime Folks! Wake your asses up and make me a bagel already. Oh, and I already tried to pour myself a bowl of Rice Krispies but it dropped on the floor and there are ants crawling all over it, so I can't eat that.

Ed participates in the late weekend rollout; so much so, that he winds up doing home improvement projects in the Woobie, or, if it's really hot out, layers of Woobie are shed throughout his wake. Elayne calls his home improvement "services": Nude Plumbing and Electrical. I am more than a little embarrassed to tell you how many times I've stumbled upon Ed crouched behind the toilet with about 3 miles of crack showing. If I had a quarter and could roll it down his Grand Canyon every time I saw Nude Plumbing at work, I'd be rich. Talk about Fruit of the Loom.

So when my parents moved in, Ed thought it was his duty, right and complete obligation to fix things around the house (whether or not they really required fixing). It's not that I don't appreciate it; I truly do. He is very concerned about things like the air filter (must be changed every 3 months due to my allergies), sprinklers (with good reason since before they moved in there was a serious geyser happening in the front yard for hours until the neighbors noticed), and the way the gates and fences hang (not so well hung, if you know what I mean). As I described in an earlier blog, I have a lovely fountain in the front yard that is built of stone and cement and is a fairly simple contraption. Other than having to put anti-algae drops in the water, and hose off the bird shit every week, it's pretty trouble-free.

It does get a little green and mossy after awhile and the water should be taken out by cupfuls and the fountain bowls scrubbed and cleaned. Ed offhandedly mentioned to me one day that the fountain water and stone was turning a bit green and I said, "Oh, go ahead and clean it out if you have time." Not thinking any further instruction was necessary.

Got home that night. "Your fountain's not working." Why not? "Well, to clean it, I took unscrewed the top part of fountain." WHY? "It needed to be cleaned!" WHY did you think you needed to unscrew it to clean it?! "I dunno. I just did. It seemed the best way to clean it. Anyway, I can't get it screwed back on right and the water won't flow through it." No fucking shit. "Again, WHY did think you had to unscrew it!" "Because I thought that's how I had to clean it!" No real answer, but okay, it's done now so what do we do?

This is how Nude Plumbing and Electrical really got its name; the bumbling atrocity of how long it actually takes to do a simple task. The next few days were a flurry of heading to the specialty fountain store, The Home Depot, Lowe's, Ace, and finally ended when some nice customer service rep from some such store told Ed to just get some plumber's putty and that should take care of the sudden leaks that had appeared in the fountain. Lucky for him, it did work and now the birds can continue shitting in splendor in the clean fountain.

I have told my parents on more than one occasion that I hadn't realized I needed a staff of two to take care of an 1800 square foot home. I'm still not sure I do.

Klutz

I forgot one nickname that has forever stuck: Klutz. Ever since I can remember, I have spilled, tripped, fumbled, or fallen on whatever comes my way. As a child, I recall one meal at a very nice Italian restaurant where I managed to knock over three glasses of my own milk in one sitting. I myself was so horrified that my parents didn't even yell. The misery on my face was enough.

I like to think that because I'm left-handed, and the world was created for the rightys, I have a disadvantage. My wonderful best friend, Jennie, says that my brain works faster than my body, and the limbs just can't keep up. She's much nicer than my boyfriend, who looks at me in despair and says, "Why can't you realize, 'If I do X, then Y happens?!' " Well, that's exactly what I do, except I go through the X part so fast, and think I have the sequence of events down, that the Y couldn't possibly happen.

I used to get extremely upset by my own clumsy foibles, but now I just shrug them off. They're going to happen whether I try to fend them off or not (I've tried, believe me). Now I laugh and think of them as tales to tell later. Not that I don't try to "be a lady." It just doesn't stick. Well, it does stick to my shirt.

In fact, my friend Matt has witnessed so many meal malfunctions while dining with me, that he says that The Gap should have a sign posted in the store that does not allow me, personally, to buy white t-shirts.

I soil myself so often that the ha-ha gift for my birthday is to give me either Tide-to-Go or Wine-Away. (OK, I drink a lot of wine in addition to spilling. The two activities are definitely not necessarily related. I am just as talented at dribbling without imbibing). I was once eating yogurt at my desk, blueberry to be precise, wearing, you guessed it, a white shirt. Dropped a blob of yogurt on my right boob. I was then known for a while as RYB = Right Yogurt Boob. So proud.

The good thing about spilling a lot is that you become very efficient at cleaning. I know the best paper towels (love the Viva for their softness, like a towel, very absorbent - and please blot, don't rub), know the best carpet stain removers (Folex, for sure, even pet stains - I didn't make those, just saying), know the best clothing stain remover is Z'out, and I know that Windex, ammonia, and bleach can take care of a multitude of sins. (DON'T use them all together at once, for the Love of Arm & Hammer). I also don't mind when children make a mess or spill. They're NEW at it, of course they don't have it down yet, so have some patience.

I am also very kind when others spill, or have a piece of spinach between their teeth, or have a letter in their mailbox (booger). I will tell a perfect stranger that they need to do a hygiene check before taking one step further. I think it's mean to let them go on about their business without some clinger disclosure. So, when you think of all of those times when you've sauntered out of the Ladies' Room, strutting your weekend finest, ready to shake your groove on the dance floor - and have a 3 foot long train of toilet paper attached to your stiletto - think of the Klutz.

If any of you have read Jen Lancaster's new book "Such a Pretty Fat," you might remember that she mentioned she has an abundance of some very nice wine glasses. Jen, I can take care of that for you in a jif. You'll be at Crate and Barrel within an hour after me setting foot on your threshold and throwing back a Cabernet. When visiting my friend Kristen in San Diego, who had this gorgeous condo in Little Italy, complete with view of the ocean, I managed to break two wine glasses within 12 hours. This was a feat because I only drank out of one of the wine glasses. Kristen had generously let my boyfriend and me spend the weekend there, and at the fancy Kristen Little Italy B&B, she even set out a bottle of wine and two glasses to welcome us there.

I still argue with my boyfriend that the wine glasses were made of extremely thin glass but he is just a poo-poo head and tells me that I'm TOO ROUGH. I was actually cleaning them when I broke them. The first glass broke the same night as drinky-drinky night, so OK, I'll admit that maybe cleaning up wasn't the right task to undertake at 1:00 a.m. But, you know how when you're in a new place and you don't quite know the physical layout and you bump into things? Well, I 'bumped' the wine glass on the edge of the sink when rinsing it out. One slight nudge, and crack, done. So, I left the other glass for cleanup in the morning. Washed the glass without incident. Dried the glass with a dishtowel, being careful to take the towel between my thumb and forefinger and dry around the rim. My, what strong opposable thumbs I have! Crink! The boyfriend heard it from the other room. "You did NOT just break another glass! You didn't you didn't you didn't!!!!" Kind of a girly shriek from him, really. Sheesh.

So, Kristen now has lovely plastic Target wineglasses to replace the ones I broke, because I'll be damned if I'm ever allowed in that house again touching anything hand-blown.

What's in a Name?

Elayne: "What kind of name is Luke?"
Em: "Huh?"
"I said, what kind of name is Luke anyway?"
"Uh, Jedi?"
"They must be Mormon!"

What?! Where does she come up with this?

"It's so biblical."

This is what Elayne does. She learns a factoid of information about someone or something, and builds an entire life history around them, complete with extended family trees. The problem is, she's usually right, so it doesn't pay to call her out on it unless she's waaaaay off base. While observing travelers at the airport, she has successfully determined by looking only at their luggage where they're from, who they're traveling with, where they're going, and if it's business or pleasure.

Names. Names conjure up all kinds of images and memories (and opinions). Many friends of mine who have had children refuse to tell any of their closest friends or relatives what baby names they've picked out for fear of someone saying, "Stephanie! You picked Stephanie? I have never known a Stephanie that I've liked! They're all bitches." OK, I only did that one time. And it's still true.

Nicknames have an important place in everyone's life too. Nicknames can be cute, funny, realistic, and sometimes make no sense at all, but they stick. I once had a teacher who said the more nicknames one has, the more they are loved. Here are some of my favorites...I've been called all of them at least once, some more often than I'd like.

Shtoonk
Susie May Furtendirt
Lady Jane
Shana Punum
Mudd
Shit-for-brains (yes really, and this wasn't one-time use)
Cookie
Googie
Yenta
Edith
Beeboople
Nudge

And this is how the man formerly known as Luke became, 'Peaches.'

What are some of your favorite nicknames? Write and let me know how much you're loved.

Peaches

Within the first two weeks of moving into my home, Ed and Elayne made their mark with my neighbors. This is not the first time they've made an impression, mind you. This was expected, although I'm not sure if I thought it might take longer, or if it should have happened sooner.

First, allow me to describe the physical landscape, though landscape is a generous term. I live in Southern California, and if you're not familiar with homes and property there, let me just say that postage stamp doesn't begin to describe it. In fact, picture a postage stamp being sold at Tiffany, and maybe you will understand. My little diamond of property is in a new master planned community, which translates to the fact that I can literally stretch my impressive 5' 2" self horizontally out of my window and easily palm the stucco next door.

The previous owners did a kick-ass job of pimping my crib. Stone fountain in the front (yard?), stone bench, landscaped with rose bushes, geraniums, honeysuckle, stone firepit in the side (yard?), built-in BBQ stone grill, and above ground jacuzzi. Wow. Of course, there isn't enough room to bend over and pick up your toasted marshmallow when it falls off your skewer, but it sure do look nice. In any event, in addition to the above-mentioned niceties, the previous owners also thought it would be a great idea to plant a peach tree and a grapevine (more on the grapevine in later blogs). Peachtrees belong in sweeping southern plantations, Georgia, Delaware, but not in a SoCal tract home (yard?). This I did not realize.

My neighbors let me know just how inappropriate my peachtree was when they welcomed me to the neighborhood with a home-baked pie and a bottle of wine. Hah. Again, let me introduce you to another Southern California custom: ignoring your 3-feet-away neighbors 'til the bitter end (even though you can hear them break wind through the open windows), or until there is an earthquake or some other disaster (and then suddenly they're your bestest friends in the whole wide world [as long as you have enough bottled water to share]).

Anyway, after I had been moved in for a month, I was in the front (yard?) and my unlucky neighbors came out of their house at the same time. I saw them visibly cringe at having to speak to me. We said a polite hello, introduced ourselves, and the next words out of the husband's mouth was:
"Did you know that's a peachtree?" pointing at the tree in the corner by the fence between his yard and mine. "Yes, I know!" I said excitedly, mouth watering with the thought of fat, juicy peaches in Spring. "Well...we talked to the previous owners about this and told them how much of a mess they make. The bees come, the fruit drops on our side of the fence, and it really just doesn't belong here in this yard." WTF?! "Oh. I see, well, I'll make sure that I keep it trimmed back so it doesn't bother you." Asshole. "Oh, that would be great, we really find it a nuisance." I'll show you nuisance. I said, "I can't take care of it right now but I will in the next couple of weeks." Yeah, let me mark my calendar.

So of course, I did nothing. Nor did I mention this stimulating encounter to Ed or Elayne.

Ed and Elayne move in a few weeks later, and I come home from work one night.

Elayne: "Well, we met your neighbors today."
"Oh yeah? Which ones?"
"The ones next door. Luke."
"Oh."


According to the perps, Ed was out in the garage organizing boxes and whatnot, and Elayne was trying to "fix" the drapes. Not hanging just right or some such nonsense. I wasn't even aware I had drapes. As Elayne was foofing about the window treatments, something caught her eye through the side window. She also heard a noise, a plunk. PLUNK. PLUNK. She sees the neighbor, Luke, on a ladder picking peaches off the tree and dropping them in a bucket. Big wide eyes from Elayne ("who is fucking with my daughter's peaches)?!" She runs to the garage, tells Ed what neighborhood drama is ensuing, and he tells her to casually saunter out there and politely introduce herself to find out what's going on.

Elayne, ever so casual and polite as directed: "Do we have a problem with the peaches?"
Luke, startled, "Uh...uh...well, yes, they make quite a mess. Do you live here?"
"I'm staying with my daughter, who owns this house." Luke knows this. It hasn't been that long.
"Well, this tree has grown extremely fast and has produced a ton of fruit in the last year."
"Yeah, well that's what they're supposed to do"
"The tree is really too big for this yard, and it grows over into our yard where the fruit drops and rots and the bugs come..."
"I'll speak to my daughter about it. It's up to her what she wants to do with the tree. You should feel free to trim whatever is coming over into your yard in the meantime. And take whatever peaches you want."
Exit, stage left Elayne.

A Little About the Perps

I spoke already a little about Ed and Elayne. Reason being, they have recently taken a center stage position in my life.

My parents moved in with me last year. I am in my mid-thirties, doing well in my career, own my own home, no debt, etc. I played by the rules. They've now been here exactly one year, 2 months, and 20 days. Don't judge me; they're counting too. To gloss over too much detail and possible family embarrassment (what we say here, stays behind closed doors was a daily saying when I was a child), there was some financial difficulty along the way, some bad planning, and a giant shit-truck full of bad luck. None of us are cut out for this scenario. For starters, I have a boyfriend. Need I go on? My therapist even said, "say no more," and prescribed me quite a surplus dose of antidepressants and I was done with the first appointment in 10 minutes.

I have now taken to calling my shrink "The 3-minute Apothecary" since I am rarely in there for any longer than that during our follow-up appointments for my new scrip. In fact, I write the check out beforehand. I don't even know why I let my ass hit his leather couch, I'm outta there so fast.

I try to think of my funny little life as a sitcom, because reality as we know, is much, much stranger than fiction.

Allow me to paint just the morning picture: Dad heave-ho's his way downstairs, always with a toothpaste smear in a different location on his face. Sometimes it is in the corner of his mouth (somewhat expected), but sometimes it is clearly at his temple. How does that happen, even if you don't look in the mirror at yourself before you shuffle downstairs? Shouldn't it be remotely co-located by your teeth? It reminds me of Les Nessman on WKRP in Cinncinnati with his perpetually transient bandaid. Both parents are such caffeine addicts that there have been many a morning that I have just made my way down there myself to make a pot of coffee, and WHILE I AM STANDING AT THE COFFEE MAKER WAITING FOR THE FINAL BREW DRIP DRIP, ol' Ed or Elayne buffaloes right in, grabs the pot, and pours THE FIRST CUP OF COFFEE. Sweet justice is when they pull the pot out before it's done brewing. Serves 'em right. They know they're doing it too. The other morning my mother said to me, "Oh. I'm sorry. I thought your already got your coffee." Pouring, pouring all the while. "I don't know why I did that." Finished pouring. Does it stop them? No.

Dad is a piece of work in addition to the toothpaste and coffee-bogarting issues. He has winter-morning outfits and summer-morning outfits. The winter-morning outfit is comprised of either a burgundy velour sweatsuit or a tan velour sweatsuit. Both of which my Mom and I refer to as his "woobie." He wears both velour sweatsuits with such regularity and on so many subsequent days that they literally walk their crunchy selves to the laundry room. Not to mention that he's recently lost so much weight that they're hanging off of him and he's having to 'peg' the sweatsuit legs like we all did to our jeans in the 80s. Fold over, roll up, roll up.

Summertime brings the warm-weather woobie: a terry cloth zip-up pool shirt and some shorts. Not quite as loved as the wintertime woobs, but still a popular choice. At least he looks cool and comfortable. Don't get me wrong; I love my parents. In fact, I don't know that I'm interesting enough myself to write about anything substantial in my life. Ed and Elayne are great material, and so I must oblige the muses.

Intro to the Inglesh Mager

Where did the Inglesh Mager come from? Providence, RI. No really, Inglesh Mager was a creation of my parents. After I bought a brand-new car, Ed & Elayne thought it might be fun to adorn the car with a (surprise!) custom license plate frame. Wanting to pay homage to my alma mater, University of California at Irvine, and to my nitpicky spelling and grammar policing skills, (not to mention my degree), they settled on the following:

...which is way more interesting for people to read in traffic than "Grammy's Angels....Caitlin, Brandon, and Muffy." I delight in reading the lips of a dumb-ass behind me who is trying to figure out what the plate means. Most of them shake their head in frustration, and look as though they're blaming it on some foreigner for coming to America and not learning the language.