I have no interest in the spiders on the wall.

I want to count until I drop.

I am refined and high class. Wassuuuuup?

See. I told you the Year of Action would not translate into more frequent blog updates.

I have a plethora of shenanigans piling up which I plan to lay out there for all to see. Bear with me and perhaps double up on your Adderall. It’s about to get crazy tangential up in this mofo. We’ll be off the grid completely when I finish my backlog of blog-worthy bits.

You heard about the woman falling into a Picasso painting recently, yes?  I caught wind of the incident courtesy of Mary Lynn who confessed a chance encounter between her foot and a Henry Moore statue.

United we stand, divided we fall over precious museum pieces.

I, too, have museum mishaps in my past.  While I have never broken anything nor inflicted a 6-inch Picasso rip, I’m sure museum guards have scrutinized my face in the Handbook of Hazardous Museum-Goers.

In chronological order, let’s begin with my second trip to the Biltmore™ Estate, this time with toddler Gav in tow.  The Biltmore™, a 250-room mansion nestled in the western North Carolina hills, is bee-you-tee-full.  I love it.  I’m fascinated by antiques, imagining the life they’ve seen.  (antiques have eyes, you know)  And this place is chock full of antiques.  Antiques cordoned off from the public by chunky red velvety ropes.  Chunky red velvety ropes that are juuuust tall enough for a toddling toddler to toddle under unrestricted.

Ooh, looky, looky!  Napoleon’s chess set.  I think I’ll make the next move.  Knight to c6.

That was clearly Gav’s thought process as he time warped himself from my grasp, under the chunky red velvety rope, and straight to the fine chess set once owned by Monsieur Bonaparte.  Gav touched the chess set.  I thought I was going to have a heart attack.  I can’t recall if he actually moved any of the pieces around.*  I do remember hearing the small table on which the chess set sat (chess set sat, chess set sat, chess set sat) SKATHUD! across the fine hardwood floors.  I also remember getting the hell out of dodge.

The only other time I let Gav’s feet touch the ground he pulled the same stunt in an upstairs bedroom, hurling himself under another red velvety rope and toward a tiny yet very fluffy fine bed.  (beds were so short back then)  That was the end of our tour inside the mansion.  We had 125,000 acres of yard to enjoy.  The Biltmore™ – it’s not for kids.  And, Gav is an amazing chess player.  Truly.

My next museum faux pas involved a

Lava Väz.

Lava vase for those of you not prone to art museum theatrics.  I know this may come as a shock, but I am not very serious in art museums.  I linger a bit too long at any painting/drawing/carving with a penis on display.  I rush past the abstract canvases with a single smear of black or a series of circles and squares, thinking to myself, “I could do that.”  And I have a tendency to do voices to combat the silent air.

My French French teacher friend and I were touring the local art museum before her final return to French France.  We came upon a, why yes, a Lava Vase.  I don’t remember the details of who crafted the Lava Vase (i do a lot of not remembering, eh?) only that I had an uncontrollable urge to combine my inner Zsa Zsa Gabor voice with my deep cavernous Michael Clarke Duncan voice and walk around repeatedly uttering,

Lava Väääääz…Lava Vääääääz…Lava Väääääz…

It was late and nearing closing time.  We were the last museum-goers, so I pumped up the volume, pumped up the volume, pumped up the volume,

LAVA VÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄZ!

As I belted out this final battle cry, I rounded a corner to run smack dab into another woman on the VÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄZ! refrain.  I might as well have been bellowing WASSUUUUUUP??? into her face.  I received the most glaring “You are an asshole” look ever.  Woops.  My French French teacher friend and I shuffled away giggling not like schoolteachers.

Again, back at the local art museum some years later, this time to catch a glimpse of the touring Da Vinci exhibit.  Only now I have baby Gab in a very bulky stroller.  Unsurprisingly, the Da Vinci line was crazy long and Gab was a baby not fond of stillness.  So, we ditched the Da Vinci idea and meandered about some new additions since my last visit.  Wonderful ancient Indian artifacts from years and years and years ago when dirt and rocks first came to be.  Very. old. exquisite. pieces.

As with antiques, I can spend all day staring at recovered relics wondering, again, about the life they’ve seen.  Sure, I’ll still linger  too long at the carved male statues of ancient warriors with their genitalia exposed, completely in the interest of science and evolution and all.  You know, I picked up on that shorter bed phenomenon back at the Biltmore™.  And there goes a tangent.

Back on track, Gab was making her protests to my creepy lingering known with her caterwauling.  She was quiet as long as I was in a perpetual state of constant motion.  (physics)  So, I toured the rooms at a constant speed, avoiding areas where other museum-goers were stationed.  Zip, zip, zip.

I was fancying myself quite the racestroller driver until BUMP! Ruh roh, Reorge.  The front left wheel of the stroller caught the corner of a display containing a many, many, many years old pre-Columbian vase.  (not a väz.  no, no, this was much more serious.  full on vase.)  It was one of those many moments we experience in life when time crawls to a near halt and you can hear sand falling through the hourglass grain by grain.  I yelped a silent little “oh shit!” to myself as I stopped completely in my strollertracks, watching the pre-Columbian vase take a giant TEETER! to one side followed by another giant TEETER! to the other side and back and forth, picking up speed,

TEETER!…..TEETER!….TEETER!…TEETER!..TEETER!.TEETER! teeter!teeter!teeter.teeter.teeter.

Until, bless the pre-Columbian gods, the vase came to rest in its initial position.  The most action that vase has seen in a dozen thousand years.  Ugh.  I kept thinking throughout the TEETER!ing, “This is priceless.  Shit, shit, shit.  This is priceless.  Don’t break.  You’re priceless.  Please stop TEETER!ing.  Shit, shit, shit.  This is priceless.”

I left the museum shortly thereafter and have not since returned.  I’m best to do my museum-going alone, no kids, no strollers, and duct tape over my mouth.

LAVA VÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄZ!

* So, here’s a shot of the chess set enclosed in a glass box.  I don’t remember it being protected as so back in ‘97 but then again my brain was drowning in cortisol at that juncture.

What does action mean to you?

Obviously, my new year’s resolution does not involve updating my blog more regularly.  Hello, Almost Middle of January, 2010.  How are you?

So, here’s the deal.  The night of December 31st, 2009, I decided 2010 would be dubbed my Year of Action.  (oh, not that action) (hey, i won a t-shirt recently!)  While I could have gone with the Year of Change, I figure action begets change.  Two-for-one!

See, I’ve slowly let myself unwind to the point of near paralysis.  Ooh, cryptic.  Will she expound?  No, I won’t.  Yet, suffice it to say, I need to take action in many regards.  However, I never knew declaring such a resolution of “Year of Action” would unnerve so many people.  I’ve stepped into a time loop wherein the following conversation repeats itself.

So, dee.  Make any resolutions for the new year?  I doubt it since you’re not into that sort of thing.

Actually, this is my Year of Action.

Whu?

It’s just my Year of Action.  Don’t worry about it.

This is the point where the other party shifts about nervously, pinches their eyebrows together, and cocks their head doglike to one side.

Action?  What kind of action?

It’s just my Year of Action.  Don’t. Worry. About. It.

I love repeating myself.

But what sort of action?  Ohhhh, action like you’re gonna start working out, hitting the gym, exercising?

Again.

It’s just my Year of Action.  Don’t worry about it.

Action?  What kind of action?  What do you mean when you say that?  Year of Action?

For fuck’s sake.

It’s just my Year of Action.  Don’t. Worry. About. It.

Around this point in the exchange is when I take action by turning and walking away.  2010: Year of Action!  Wahooo!

I love this über-inactive photo from New Year’s 2002.  God, I was so tired.

I swear I would have slept in this exact position for another 8 hrs had my friend not literally scooped me up in his arms and carried me off to a bed. (hubba hubba) Oh, we didn't do Anything. Obviously, 2002 was my Year of Inaction.

I have quite a bit of blog catching up to do – birthdays, New Year’s, Christmas, sheesh even the cooking of my first Thanksgiving turkey,…  None of this should be a problem what with my Year of Action.  Yes?  But, what kind of action?  What do I mean when I say action?  Blog writing action?  Hmmm, my quizzical Year of Action.  It baffles the mind.

Winning satisfies

I had a friend in grad school who was always winning things.  Every other week she would have a shiny new palm pilot, timer, or mp3 player dangling from her belt.  (she was big on clipping electronics to her waistband…i often worried she’d accidentally pants herself)  (she sometimes reads my blog.  hi, silly!)  (i really call her silly. that’s not just a blog moniker.  she calls me bwaa.)  When iPods first hit the scene, she won three (3!) within the first year.  Her luck amazed me.

Silly, how is it you’re always winning goods?

I have a theory.

We were budding young scientists.  It was our job to have theories.

A theory?

Yes, a theory.  I theorize that there exists an inverse relationship between winning things and sex.  If you’re not getting the sex, life compensates you with free stuff.

Ah, that makes sense.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

On a completely unrelated note…  ::cough cough::

I have been registering for giveaways left and right.  Via the internet, stores, radio call-ins,…  I’m in the mood to win stuff.  At the recent car show, there were boxes scattered about with neighboring slips of paper and pencils.  Whenever the kids would get frisky over pawing a particular well shined vehicle, I passed the time scribbling my VIP info and stuffing it into any and every slit shoebox in my vicinity.  A few days later, I received an email informing me that I was the lucky winner of a midnight showing of New Moon.  Hmm, had no idea I registered for a chance to flock to a movie theater in the middle of night with 299 squealing teenage girls.  Fun.  Needless to say, I failed to make that engagement.  But, I won something.  My winning fire had been ignited.

Yesterday, CynthiaK, a fresh burst of blogging sunshine, left a comment on my previous post.

Alright, you crazy flaming (wonderful) freak. Guess what? I’ve got some really fun news for you. But…you’ve got to go here to find out what it is:

http://crumbsintheminivan.blogspot.com/2009/12/whos-300-oh-yeah-thats-me-and-someones.html

Not only was she celebrating her 300th post (on which i failed to congratulate her…congratulations, her!), I won a mix CD!  Her daughter plucked my name out of a tissue box of I don’t know how many other entrants.  Have you been paying attention long enough to know my infinite love of music?  I love it.  And, I love mix CDs.  And, I love people who gift me mix CDs.  Cynthia will forever be on my list of favorite peeps.  She also introduced me to the Flight of the Conchords duo.  We both prefer the large mouthed one, Jemaine.  I’ve begun to ramble.

In her quest to better learn the musical side of dee, Cynthia sent along a few inquiries.

• your top five (roughly) artists of all time
• your three favourite songs from the past year
• if there is any music you absolutely hate
• if you were an instrument, which one would you be?

Because I know you all want to make me happy and send me mix CDs, I’m answering her email in a blog post.  Okay, I’m answering her email in a post because, hey, it’s post worthy.

Hmm, my top five all-time favorite artists.

1. Prince.  Easy number one there.  I’ve loved Prince since 1982, dancing around in my bedroom to the 1999 cassette tape.  The boy who forever bullied me until I moved away from my hometown, in a surprising turn of benevolence, gave me the tape.  He probably stole it from his older sister.  Whatever.  I was hooked on Prince from there on out.
2. Billie Holiday.  She saddens me while soothing me while inspiring me.  I don’t recall when I initially started listening to Billie, although I remember scraping together enough money to buy her complete Decca box set when I was an undergrad.  It was the most money I had ever spent on music.  I still baby that box set.
3. Lyle Lovett.  While I would quickly say I don’t like country music, I do adore a few country artists.  And, I love me some Lyle Lovett.  I’ll even admit to having a bit of a crush on Mr. Lovett.  (i love it, mr. lovett)  I have all of his CDs…umm, interesting story behind how they came to be in my possession.  I was teaching Spanish back in hometown hell for a year and quickly became best buds 4evr with the French French teacher.  She briefly dated the history teacher who happened to rent a house behind my rental house.  (very small town…four pastel colored houses on a small lot of land and they all had identical house keys)  We would often hang out together at history teacher’s peach-colored house.  It was there I was introduced to Lyle’s music.  History teacher had acquired all of Lyle Lovett’s CDs and generously lent them to moi.  Ooh, and I loved them, each and every one in my mint green-colored house.  History teacher turned out to be a complete dick and completely dicked over my French French teacher friend.  So, when I up and decided to move at the end of the school year, I carefully packed the many Lyles along my many Princes and we lived happily ever after.
4. Bill Withers.  I was a late Bill Withers bloomer.  Sure, we’ve all heard Lean on Me and it’s catchy enough, but I never bothered to look into the man behind the music.  It wasn’t until my dear friend, Mr. President (the inspiration for my blog title), sent me Withers’ Live at Carnegie Hall that I vowed myself to eternal Withers fandom.  A must-have in anybody’s music collection.  I received that CD around the same time I was flying out to Houston to visit another friend, Brutha Ministah, and see Roger Waters in concert.  (brandish your whips…i’m about to admit major ignorance on my part)  While I, of course, knew Pink Floyd music, I was not familiar with the name Roger Waters.  (let the whipping commence)  (oww owwww)  (not the face!  not the face!)  Mr. President called to see how I was enjoying the Bill Withers’ music.  “I love that Billy Waters!  I really do!“  “What?  Who?“  “Billy Waters.“  “dee, it’s BILL. WITHERS.“  “Are you sure?  I’m pretty sure it’s Billy Waters.”  “dee, Bill Withers.  I’m sure.”  This exchange went on for months before I could straighten out the names in my scrambled head.  Bill Withers.  I love him.
5. Johnny Cash.  See, there I go again with the country music hypocrisy.  I swear I don’t tune in to country music radio stations nor watch CMT.  Oh, but Johnny Cash is special to me for special reasons.  A very special someone once quoted some Johnny Cash lyrics to me in the most raw, honest expression of feelings I’ve ever pored over.  ::cue the violins::  ::give your whips a rest::  Yes, I admit…I like Johnny Cash because of a guy.  I’m sometimes ridiculous like that.

That was actually a bit of a feat narrowing down my all-time favorites to five.  Let me quickly add Jeff Buckley, Otis Redding, David Byrne, Ryan Adams, Bon Iver, Bob Marley, Radiohead, Death Cab for Cutie, Kate Bush, Stevie Wonder, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan,…  I can’t stop!  Brandish those whips again and beat me into silent submission!

My three favorite songs from the past year. Three favorite songs that came out in 2009?  Hmm.  I don’t necessarily follow the latest releases.  Let me shuffle through my blips and see what fun, new 2009 songs I wandered upon.  Here are three I played over and over and over and over…

1. The Mumlers – Tangled Up With You
2. Danger Mouse & Sparklehorse – Stars Eyes (I Can’t Catch It) featuring David Lynch (i listened to this every night for many nights before going to sleep)
3. Florence + The Machine – Dog Days Are Over (thanks to kellygo, this is my head-above-water song) (technically released in december ‘08)

Any music I absolutely hate.  Country, definitely loathe country.    Nah, I already gave Cynthia the heads-up on this one.  Any type of music with metal in the name – heavy metal, death metal, goth metal, speed metal,…  No metal in the microwave!  And, Amy Grant.  Neither metal nor Amy Grant for me, thanks.

If I were a musical instrument, which one would I be? Now this feels like an interview.  I’ve been asked the what part of a bicycle would you be question before.  I don’t remember if I was the seat to give support to the team or the handle bars to steer us in the right direction.  Nowadays, I’d say the cheap plastic woven basket because I hold stuff, lots of stuff.  Rambling off topic again.  Which instrument?  Are you wanting to know if I prefer to be strummed, blown, or banged?  (do you have any idea how late it is and how long i’ve been writing?  i’m tired and punchy and perverted at this hour)  Uhhhhh, hmmm this is a difficult one.  If I were giving a science talk and asked this by someone in the audience, I’d briefly stall and then say, “Excellent question.  Let me confer with my colleagues and get back with you on that one.”  Only most of my current colleagues still crap their pants and babble incomprehensible nonsense all day.  Let’s say trumpet!  I’d be a trumpet.  My brother, son, and I are a family of trumpet players.  So, there.  I’m a trumpet.  Blow me.

(and, with that sentiment, i’ve just guaranteed i’ll never win another internet giveaway again in my cyber life…ahhhh, it was nice while it lasted)

Thank you, Cynthia!!

Soon I’ll grow wings and a long pointy tail. And then I’ll fly around the world giving presents to all good girls and boys.

I have abandoned all forms of comprehensible human communication and now speak solely through fire emissions.  One may decipher the degree of my ire by the length and intensity of the flames.  ‘Tis the season.

I like to watch

Where was this guy during NaBloPoMo?

I spent the better half of my day watching this hawk perched just outside my window.  Is bird watching a crotchety pastime?  If so, bring on the geezer geyser.  I will drop everything to check out some fine feathered creatures.  An activity which requires complete stillness…I love being still.  Bird watcher extraordinaire at your service.

I wanted to get a better photo of the hawk aside from this one through the smudgy window.  The back door makes a loud KACRACK! every time you open it.  I figured the sound of gunfire might scare Ethan Hawke away.  (yes, i named him)  (obviously, he’s experiencing a career slump hanging out on my barren tree all day)  A low end digital camera shot through double-paned glass is the best I could manage.  If I am to be all the bird watcher I can be, I think I need a fancier fancy pants camera, yes?  But, Mr. Hawke was still a beauty.  He was so chill there on the branch that he groomed himself for well over an hour.  I can attest to his very clean bird pits and chest.

When it was time to fetch Gav from school, I took my camera out the front door which only makes a lower case kacrack!.  I thought I could ease my way around to the back and get a clearer shot, but nope.  Ethan Hawke had flown the coop.  Thus endeth the bird watching for the day.

After scaring away a beautiful bird and then collecting my oldest from school, I made my way through the Starbucks’ drive-thru.  Strawberries & Crème Frappuccino® for me and hot chocolate (surely hot chocolate hasn’t been trademarked) for Gav.  I roll up to the window to pay where an interesting looking person greets me,

“You’ve got the Tuesday blues?”

“I’ve got the everyday blues.”

As I pass along my credit card, I immediately mentally scold myself for not exercising my verbal censor.  I’ve got the everyday blues?  Did he really want to know that?  Or is he a she?  Wait a second.  I have no idea what gender my sugary beverage barista is.  Fortunately, I had just mentally spanked myself, so I did not blurt out,

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

Seriously, this person perplexed me.  Usually, my gender identification skills are spot on.  But, not today.  I know it doesn’t matter either way, male or female.  It’s just that inquiring minds want to know, you know.  I watched this coffee house individual with the same intensity, awe, and curiosity I had payed the hawk earlier.  He handed Gav’s hot chocolate over with strong hands, rings on every finger, as he gingerly leaned to tell me with her Kathleen Turner voice, “We’re all out of the strawberry mix.  They just whispered that in my ear.”  I strained to identify his/her gender, “Chai latte is fine.”  He turns to take another order through his headset, cocking her hip to one side.  I knew she had failed to tell anyone about my chai, but that was fine.  This gave me more time to solve the gender puzzle.

Sugary beverage barista had a gorgeous African head wrap perfectly angled on her head.  She nervously inquires about her break to another employee, “Do I take break now?”  I see the line of cars behind me increasing and everyone glaring at me in my rearview mirror.  Oddly, no one in Starbucks is looking at me or asking why I’m still parked at the window.  Finally, he remembers my chai and briskly turns to the guy operating the machine, “Grande chai latte” in a very stern, deep voice.  Off on break and another definitely male employee hands me my drink.  I drove away completely mystified yet temporarily relieved of my everyday blues.

It’s over.

I do not foresee myself writing anything worth reading today, this last day of NaBloPoMo.  So, I’ll just slap this badge down here.  Mine should read I kinda did it.

Now I am

One more day of NaBloPoMo!  Then, maybe I’ll be in the mood to write.

Hmm, what fun non-writey thing can I pull out of the hat?  How about a minute-ish of my son practicing his trumpet in the front yard?  I know my brother J checks in periodically and will get a kick out of some Gav trumpeter action.  J played trumpet, I played trumpet, and Gav is now on his third year with the brass horn.  Gav’s Egyptian half should be proud to know the earliest metal trumpets were found in the tomb of Tutankhamun.

And, now some music with your history.

Farewell, Baby Mullet

Who’s hungry?

I’m still incredibly lazy in the word stringing department.  So, take a gander at this fabulous PES video I saw on alejna’s site a while back.  Pixie pic-up Stix with butter are Gab’s current favorite food.  I’m quite fond of candy corn gas flames myself.