The Horrible Truth

So I'm watching the Rahm Emanuel Twitter impersonator on Colbert. And now I know what I've suspected for quite some time: My life is worthless. I have never and will never live up to my potential. I will never be a clever fake Twitter person. And really, then, what's the point of going on?

Thanksgiving II

More Things for Which I Am Thankful:

1. Lipstick. I never used to wear lipstick. Even back in my make-up days, when I actually wore liquid foundation every day (I was young; I was foolish; I had time to waste and hope to squander), I did not wear lipstick. The occasional lip gloss, frequent applications of Chapstick, yes, but none of that old lady stick stuff. So, now I'm an almost-old lady. And I thank the Lord for lipstick. I've never seen this discussed in any scientific study or woman's magazine, but lips fade with age, don't they? I mean, I'm quite sure my lips had color when I was young. Now it's like I'm a color photo but my lips are in black and white. Lipstick makes life more livable. Thank you, unknown lipstick inventor.

2. My VW Beetle. I'm not a car person. My first car was a basic 2-door Toyota Tercel. Manual transmission. Manual door locks. Manual windows. Not even any carpet. It went from 0 to 70 in about 15 minutes. And it was fine. But now I have my Beetle. It's cute. It accessorizes well. I fit in it. It's actually spunky and funky. And it has a cd player so I can get my regular injections of Springsteen without any effort. I might not be a car person but I'm a this-car-person. Thank you Volkswagen.

3. HRT. Chances of cancer and heart disease aside, this is great stuff. Thanks, Big Pharma. . . not that you deserve those obscene profits. Just sayin'.

Thanksgiving

After all the whining, moaning, and bitching in my last post, I figure I'd better focus this one on something more positive. You wouldn't know it, but I genuinely am trying to cultivate an outlook of gratitude. No really, honestly. So here's proof: a list of Five Things For Which I Am Thankful:

1. Wimsey the Normal Kitty. She pees and poos in her litter box, and that's a fine and wondrous thing. (I'm scarred by the Peeing Kitty.) And she doesn't suddenly up and bite the nice neighbor lady, as Rowan the Neurotic Dog did just this afternoon, hence raising the specter of a huge lawsuit leading to the loss of our house and all our worldly possessions. Not that the nice neighbor lady is going to sue, she assures us she is not, but a pattern of erratic biting is emerging and sooner or later he's going to bite the wrong person and we'll end up in a trailer park having to hunt squirrel for supper. But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm being grateful and positive. Like Scarlett, "I'll think about that tomorrah." Meanwhile, I will appreciate my self-sufficient, supremely self-assured, angst-free kitty.

2. The fact that the Peeing Kitty has successfully made the transition from cossetted, clawless, indoor pet to vulnerable outdoor pet. I figured that without claws she'd be dead in a matter of days, but instead she's flourished, a poster cat for living life on the wild side. She is even beginning to look the part. Her long silky hair, designed for daily grooming and arrangement on a pillow, is shaping itself into dreadlocks: Reggae Kitty. Rastafarifeline. Marley-Miaow. (OK, I'll stop now.) I am grateful that she has lived this long because now when, as is inevitable, she is run over by a car or mauled by a stray dog, I'll feel less guilty. Life on the edge suits her. Some of us were just made for a short wild ride.

3. The iPhone. It has made Hugh happy. It's downright scary how happy he is with that thing. But he's happy. And happy Hugh means much less conflict in the household. Thank you, Apple people.

4. My Gap Body tee-shirt bras. Now, I hate bras. I hate the feel of a bra. I hate the damn straps that always drift down my upper arms and I despise that tight elastic around my chest. But several years ago I discovered Victoria's Secret simple cotton triangle bras. So light and comfy, with straps that stayed in place. And then VS stopped making my bra! Just like that! Without even thinking about my needs, absolutely no consideration whatsoever. After months of searching and much money squandered on various torture-inflicting boob-holders, then, I rejoice in the Gap Body no-wire tee-shirt bra. Not as effortlessly comfortable as the VS triangle, but close. . . and unlike the VS bra, this one contains enough fabric to hide the sight of an erect nipple. A good thing, actually, as I often do get excited when I teach--intellectually rather than sexually, mind you, but the nipple looks the same. And undergraduates are easily distracted. Gap, I am grateful--as, I am sure, are my students, who are no doubt nauseated by the thought of an aroused 50-year-old history professor.

5. My Dyson vacuum cleaner. It's difficult to admit, as I would very much like to be the sort of woman whose mood never depends on household appliances. . . but I am not that woman, not yet, so until I get there, thank you, Mr. Dyson. This vacuum cleaner rocks.

It's come to Crocs

I am now in physical therapy for my foot. Alert readers will remember that I had foot surgery back in December. A bone spur, basically a problem with the left big toe, no big deal.

Sigh. I suppose I really should have known better. But. Well. I didn't. I thought, you go in, you get the operation, you lie around for a bit, you limp around for a bit, and then all is well. Because that's the point, right? The surgery fixes the problem; it makes all things well.

But foot surgery, it turns out, is like kitchen renovation. It never turns out ok. Every day now I meet someone new who regales me with yet another story of Foot Surgery Gone Bad, a story that always involves many subsequent surgeries to correct the problems caused by the first surgery. And you know what's really frustrating? Everyone seems to know all about all of this. When I tell various enquiring friends and family members that my surgery not only seems to have made the initial problem worse, but to have created new problems, they smile sadly, shake their heads, and say, "Weellll, I was afraid of that. . . "

Fine, fine, just fine. But: new rules, ok? If I am about to do something really self-destructive, you fucking tell me so.

So now I have a locked-solid big toe joint and plantar fasciitis (yes, that's really how it's spelled). Turns out if your toe can't bend, your foot can't roll. Feet must roll. If a foot does not roll, the foot's tendons go on strike. I think it's in their contract or something: no rolling, ok, well then, no stretching. Foot with tendons that don't stretch = foot in pain. And then you know what happens? You start walking funny to reduce the pain, and if you walk funny, you get hip problems, which lead to shoulder problems, which produce neck problems, which infect your brain and you die. Well, not quite, but awfully close because you're limping and you're limited and yes, you've become your grandma. Except she was 85 and you're 50. She was a gentle, gracious lady. And you're a pissed-off , kvetching, middle-aged cripple.

Yesterday I met a fellow foot surgery victim while having my nails shellacked. On my feet I sported these godawful ugly-but-let's-call-them-funky New Balance "flip-flops" (more like the offspring of flip-flops mated with those gargantuan orthopedic shoes that girls named Peggy always had to wear in grade school). Said flip-flop offspring don't bother the scar on the top of my foot. (Oh! right, haven't mentioned The Scar, have I? Turns out my princess-and-the-pea body won't tolerate the dissolving stitches; nope, won't let those vulgar things dissolve in my ultra-fine, oh-so-sensitive interior; so instead each of them is slowly creeping to the surface, accompanied by lots of dramatic inflammation and infection.) Anyhoo, my new foot friend expressed surprise at my footwear (in a kind way; most people just bust out laughing) and said, "I'm amazed you're not wearing Crocs. I don't know what I'd do without my Crocs. That's all I've worn for two years."

Crocs. For two years.

I'm a comfy, funky shoe person. But. Crocs. For two years. Really? It's come to this?

Zits gets it right again

If you're a mom with a kid nearing college age:

http://www.arcamax.com/zits

Lost the Plot

Whenever we can, Keith and I watch "The Daily Show" at 6:00 (Central time). Of course this is the rerun; we're too old and tired to watch the live show the night before. And yes, yes, we do know we can watch the rerun any old time online. But we're old. We like routines.

If all goes well, then, most Tuesdays thru Thursdays at around 5:55 one of us is turning on the tv and turning in to Comedy Central. That means for a number of years now, we catch the last few minutes of "Scrubs." We've never seen anything of "Scrubs" but these last few minutes; we know no characters' names; yet, over time, we've developed some sense of the characters and the plot. So, yesterday, when the nerdy but sweet main guy who's perennially involved with the attractive but all-over-the-place blonde doctor woke up next to a different woman with curly brown hair, Keith objected, "Hey, who's that? Where'd she come from? He's in love with the blonde."

"Dunno," I began, and then it suddenly hit me. Our knowledge of "Scrubs" mirrors our understanding of our teenaged sons. Every now and then we're allowed a quick glimpse into their lives. And on the basis of a five-minute snippet seen here and a dialogue overheard there, we extrapolate entire narratives; we delude ourselves into thinking we understand the plot and we discourse with great confidence on the motivations of the major characters. Actually, of course, we haven't a clue as to the storyline or cast list.

I remember once I was watching an episode of "Little House on the Prairie," and my mom, who never watched television, came and sat down next to me. In one of those excruciating Mom-trying-to-relate moments, she said, "Oh, this is 'The Brady Bunch,' isn't it?"

So here we are, thinking we're watching our sons and their chums Greg, Peter, and Bobby, when actually they're in another century, clearing the land, battling smallpox and blizzards and that annoying spoiled-rotten shopkeeper's daughter.

Early signs of genius

I have a nephew, Teddy. Actually, he's my grand-nephew, and also my godson.

He's two and he's brilliant. And, I think, a budding surrealist:

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Interrupting fish with a gun.

How bizarrely wonderful is that?