Colette Copeland's Blog

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences--Follow-up to Part 2

2012-01-30T19:20:00.000-08:00

This is a follow-up to my June post about almost succumbing to the big D due to the respective G and P periods in my marriage. We've just entered a new phase--THE BIG J! Unlike G & P, I'm not tempted to get the big D. However it does reconfirm that as much as we celebrate our irreconcilable differences, our brains have about as much in common as a refrigerator and a drunkard. Both hold beer--but one much more efficiently than the other.

Keep in my mind that the narcissistic-ahole-midlifecrisis-smallwee-wee car has only been in our household for a mere 7 months. I have proudly limited my passenger excursions to a handful. The car has already been in the shop at least 5 times for various malfunctions. Most recently for blowing WHITE smoke, which I'm told is worse that BLACK smoke.

I know it KILLED my husband to admit to me that he made a MISTAKE in buying that moneypit-of-a-car. It needed $3K of repairs, so Hubby decided to trade it in. I suggested something reasonable like a Toyota Camry. Nice, not showy. Good maintenance. Holds its value.

He texted me while visiting CARMAX. What do you think about a Cadillac? Well, I think it's a redneck wanna-be-rich car. ABSOLUTELY NOT!

What about a Jaguar? Are you OUTOFYOURFREAKINMIND? Jaguars are the most pretentious, ostentatious cars out there. They scream RICH, SENIOR CITIZEN WITH LOW SELF WORTH WHO NEEDS A HOOD ORNAMENT TO MAKE THEM FEEL SPECIAL. Plus the maintenance is really high. No one can fix them and it always costs a minimum of $1K for each visit.

They fixed their maintenance problems 4 years ago. Besides it's TOO LATE. I already bought it. Good news--cheaper than the Caddie and no hood ornament.

I admit that I'm not nearly as embarrassed to ride in it as the Boxer. It's much more comfortable, has heated seats and a back seat for the boy. (Dog is NOT allowed inside the car).

Also it came with all of these free perks. I'm convinced they were designed to pacify all the angry wives after their husbands came home with new cars. My "goody" package includes either a free CHEMICAL PEEL a.k.a. burn off your face or a free MICRODERMABRASION a.k.a. sand off your face. (THIS JUST VALIDATED THE SENIOR CITIZEN DEMOGRAPHIC. NO ONE UNDER 50 WOULD DO THAT TO THEIR FACE) I am also entitled to free dinners, wine, airport valet service and a resort vacation at various establishments in the area. It's like when rich people get the free goody bags at fundraisers for all the stuff that they can already afford like trips to Europe and a Damien Hirst print; thus don't need freebies. I plan to use every single one! Should I go for the burn or sanding?

30 Days to a Better Husband

2012-01-03T09:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I read articles that make me want to bash someone's head in. In fact, my daughter and her boyfriend gifted me with the perfect head-bashing rock for Christmas. It is inscribed with the following words "Gone To Yoga".

I suppose this post could be categorized with my series entitled Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences, since it is TECHNICALLY about marriage and specifically MY marriage.

This wasn't a recent article. A friend emailed it to me over the summer and I just now brought myself to read it. It was reposted online from a Redbook article entitled 30 Days to a Better Husband. Before all my male readers out there start groaning and ranting about another male bashing article, it was written by a MAN.

Just so you know, I resisted reading it, because I don't need a better husband. It took me 20 years to get used to the one I have and I'm keeping him for the time being. He doesn't beat me. He isn't a porn addict. He doesn't bring home scary STDs. He likes his teenage children--imagine that. AND MOST IMPORTANTLY--he puts up with my shenanigans. (which is no small feat). In case you think my standards are too low, just look at the statistics. My hubby is in the minority.

Before I go off on why the article annoyed me--I should say that I think the author might be an alien or really a woman in disguise. OR he is making so much dinero writing self-help articles that 1 million women read (as evidenced by the 1+ million fb "likes") subjecting himself to tortuous acts, just for writing material.

The guy decided he was going to "grow-up", since that was his wife's major accusation. How did he grow-up? He bought her flowers every day for a month. That sounds a bit suspicious to me. Like he was trying to make-up for some heinous act. How could the wife appreciate the flowers, when she had to be wondering who he boinked and/or knocked up?

The guy also decided to get into shape, returning to his teenage wrestling work-outs. This does not sound grown-up to me. It sounds like someone who is reliving their glory days and is asking for a major HERNIA or torn hamstring. Maybe he shoulda added some Redbull in with those workouts, to really rev up the heart-attack-in-the-making.

The other annoying part was that his wife rewarded his antics with lots of sex. In fact, I'm sure men everywhere will think they can get GREAT sex for the price of a few daisies.

In fairness to the author, he does have a sense of humor. "And, by the way, organic sex doesn't feel that different from conventional or processed sex." And my favorite part--"First of all, you're too scruffy to wear clothes like that, and more importantly, if you go out in those pants, the neighbors will be able to tell that you're circumcised." Upon closer inspection, I discovered that she was terrifyingly correct. I immediately changed into a pair of baggy Levis. It felt good to be back in the '90s.

I am happy to report that MY husband got rid of his leather pants YEARS ago. Ok, maybe not years, but last summer before we moved. We gifted them to my cousin who looked like a gay cowboy wearing them.

Googled Better Husbands and this image came up with an article called Macho Men Die Early

I am also happy to report that after writing this, I no longer feel like bashing anyone's head in. And I'm enjoying my flowerless house.

Only in Texas

2011-12-29T08:29:00.000-08:00

This is a follow-up to previous posts on Things You Gotta Love About Texas and It Would ONLY Happen in Texas. Texas has its own brand of strange signage. Most recently there was a billboard which said
MAY THE PORK BE WITH YOU. 'nuff said about that. I don't plan on frequenting that pork establishment.

I often see gun stores advertising that they buy used firearms. Does this mean that they buy them after they've been used to kill someone/something? I mean why else would they be used exactly? Excuse me sir, I'd like to buy the gun that killed the 7 people in Walmart last week.

this came up when i googled missing elderly alert

none of the dallas signs have posted rewards. maybe more
elderly would return if they got $$

My fav sign is the elderly amber alert. On all the highways, large LED screens notify drivers of missing old folks. Honey--grandma's gone missing, called the police! MISSING ELDERLY--1975 GREEN OLDSMOBILE PLATE #2OLD2DRIVE. Apparently this is a major epidemic, since I see different signs everyday. I would expect to see this in Florida, but not Dallas. I mean it's not a major hotbed of senior dating activity.

Mussel Nurturing

2011-11-23T14:28:00.001-08:00

This is what came up when I googled imaged mussel nurturer.

My son has been asking me for months to cook mussels for him. I always give the canned mom spiel--maybe next time. I was finally guilted into it. I rarely eat mussels and have never cooked them before, but figured HOW HARD COULD IT BE? After finding a recipe which involved white wine, garlic and butter, I figured I was set. The directions were a bit confusing...DE-BEARD THE MUSSELS. I didn't realize mussels had beards or that I was supposed to perform surgery to remove them.
I decided I would ask the mussel guru at Whole
Foods. Within five minutes, the guy had me in a panic. Whatever you do, don't DROWN or SUFFOCATE the mussels. WHAT????? I recall that mussels can taste gritty, so it's important to WASH them. However the mussel guru told me that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should I submerge my mussels in a tub of water or they will drown. I need to gently rinse them with running water, ensuring that they do not swallow/ingest too much. Next he tells me that they like to be cold and need to be NESTLED in the ice. Again--he warned, do NOT let them sit in melted ice water or they will drown. Apparently I have to frequently drain the melted ice and re-nestle them in new ice. Also I have to ensure that they have enough air--no closed bags for them. NO MATTER THAT MY ENTIRE CAR AND REFRIGERATOR SMELL LIKE EAU DE MUSSEL. At least they are still breathing.

Next on the list is caressing them gently before putting them in a vat of boiling wine. Drunken caressed mussels apparently taste the best. AND what happens if I fail and my mussels die? THEY EMIT A TOXIC BACTERIA THAT POISONS ALL OF US.

GEEZ LOUISE--this is more effort than caring for a small child. In fact the mussel guru said it best. It's like caring for pet, except that you kill it and eat it.

JUST SO YOU KNOW, I'M NOT NURTURING THE DEADLY TERRORIST ZEBRA MUSSEL. NO HARBORING OF TERRORISTS IN MY HOUSEHOLD.

Being Married to a 47 Year-Old Teenager

2011-10-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

R U MARRIED TO A MIDDLE-AGED TEENAGER? TAKE THE QUIZ

Warning Signs:
1. Do you come home to a various assortment of empty snack packages, which resemble a site-specific art installation surrounding the TV?

2. Is the TV constantly blaring either a sports event or a so-called comedy--one that appeals to those who think fart jokes are funny?

3. Is your DVR filled with thousands of episodes of 2.5 Men and Family Guy?

4. When you open the refrigerator, is beer the main food staple?

5. Does your partner exhibit an inability to move off the couch, especially if domestic chores are involved?

IF YOU ANSWERED YES TO 1 OR MORE OF THE QUESTIONS, YOU ARE MOST DEFINITELY MARRIED TO A MIDDLE-AGED TEENAGER. SEEK HELP IMMEDIATELY.

I've spent the last few months lamenting my dire situation. I mean I have one teenaged son already. Who wants to live with more than 1?

One night I came home to both young and old teenagers lying on the couch laughing uproariously. Sink full of dirty dishes. Snack wrappers and empty cans, bottles and glasses strewn across the small square that pretends to be a coffee table. Whining hungry dog.

Honey--why are ou letting the boy watch TV on a school night? It's your rule about no-tv during the week. Well, I came home and he was already watching TV, so I joined him.

Honey--do you really think 2.5 Men is an appropriate show for a 13 yr-old? But it's so funny. I want to watch it too. Honey--it's Charlie Sheen playing himself--a womanizing a...hole. What is so creative and funny about that? But it's very well written.

Did anyone eat dinner? In unison--YEAH, WE ATE CHIPS.
Homework? Dishes? Dog?

At this point, they've both tuned me out--just mom nagging...AGAIN.

Sometimes they want to know why I'm so angry. Well, maybe I wouldn't turn into an EVILWITCHSHREWWOMAN if I didn't have to be the master disciplinarian all the time.

In an effort to BREATHE more and avoid the toxic cancer-causing emotions from metasticizing into stage 5, I've decided to look at the ADVANTAGES of being married to a 47yearoldteenager.

1. I will never go thirsty again. Beer is always free-flowing in my household.

2. I will never lack for a TV watching partner.

3. I will always be up-to-date on the latest sexist comedies.

4. My son will grow up knowing all the right moves.

5. I can have sex with a teenager and not go to JAIL.

It Could ONLY Happen in Texas

2011-09-29T14:02:00.000-07:00

This is a follow-up post to Things You Gotta Love About Texas. I've been here for six weeks and I've encountered some strange things. I mean TwilightZoneStrange.
Twilight Zone theme

A friend recently asked me if I was writing all of this done. Of course I am!

1. Most Interesting Student Excuse EVER
A student arrives two hours late to class. Professor, I'm sorry I'm late. When I opened my front door, there was a big black snake on my front stoop. I had to wait until it slithered away. Me--that must have been some SLOW snake. What about the back door?

I have to tell you that this excuse would never fly in Philly. In Philly a student would say--I got mugged and the mugger stole my homework. Or I was late because a huge rat held me hostage.

Girl faints as a huge black snake suckles her breast

When I google imaged big black snakes, this bizarre story came up on a Zimbabwe news site.

Clearly weird things happen in Zimbabwe as well as Texas

2. 2nd Most Interesting Student Excuse--Disaster Averted
A girl walks into class barefoot. Professor, I'm sorry I can't attend class today. I forgot my shoes and the secretary won't allow me to stay in class. Me--I just so happen to have an extra pair in my car. Let me go get them.

I concede to forgetting lots of things--keys, phone, money, where I live...but I'm pretty sure I would never forget to wear shoes on the way to work. Not to mention it is ILLEGAL to drive barefoot. There's also the skeevefactor. Who knows what you could step on.

Devotion in Motion: Grocery Store Feet

A person with “grocery store feet” has feet that look like he spent the day walking barefoot A person with “grocery store feet” has feet that look like he spent the day walking barefoot

This image was found on a "Country Preacher Dad" blog whose name is John Cash. No kidding. He defines grocery store feet as a person who looks like they spent the day walking barefoot in Winn Dixie. No kidding. People really did this????

3. Cowboy Chef

I have heard of gourmet chefs, vegetarian chefs, Rachel Ray, Chef Emeril, but have never heard of a cowboy chef. I actually got to meet one in person! He lives on my cousin's ranch in Aledo, Texas. He is the real deal--I haven't seen him without his cowboy hat, boots or belt-buckle yet. My cousin said that he has cooked for the White House. The only problem with cowboy chef cuisine is that it's rather meat dominant. Not so good for a vegetarian. My cousin was very insistent that I put aside my silly vegetarian tendencies and eat a burger forgoodnesssake. So I did--my first one in over 30+ years. It was good--tasted very smoky, which I'm told is an important component to cowboy chef cuisine.

4. Cowboy Church

This one ties into #3 and #5. I didn't realize that there were enough cowboys to warrant a cowboy church. Who knew?? I asked mr. cowboy chef what the difference between a regular church and cowboy church. He said that you don't have to take your hat off (which he vehemently disagrees with). I guess I have to go to cowboy church if I want to see him hatless. Also you can ride your horse to church. It was unclear to me whether one sings cowboy campfire songs praising Jesus or one sings regular hymns played on a harmonica.

5. Church Worship at the Southfork Ranch, filmset of the old TV show DALLAS

This is weird on SOOO many levels. First we got lost and were late. I mean we didn't expect to drive to a ranch for church. When we pulled in the parking lot, the attendent asked my husband to roll down the window. Are you lost sir?? Are you taking a tour of the ranch? No, we are going to church. Oh--you looked like a tourist on vacation with the palm trees on your shirt. That and the fact that we were the only caucasian people there. 2000 people with maybe 5 other caucasians besides us. Oh and a white female minister, who preached EXACTLY like a charismatic southern black preacher. Services were held in JR EWING'S ballroom. The service was 3 hours long. We tried to sneak out towards the end and they LOCKED the doors and wouldn't let us leave until it was over. I"m soo not kidding. I'm not sure people understood the irony of worshipping on the film set where the prime character was a white Texas rancher.

Things You Gotta Love about Texas

2011-08-20T07:07:00.000-07:00

I was initially reticent about my move. Besides a brief stint in Florida (which is full of New Yorkers), I have lived in the northeast for most of my life. I was reluctant to give up my fabulous full-time teaching position WITH MEDICAL BENEFITS at an IVY LEAGUE institution to become a gypsy adjunct making less money than I did at age 16 working as an appetizer waitress at Chi Chi's Mexican Restaurant. (NOT EVEN A REAL WAITRESS---A HOSTESS WITH THE MOSTESS WHO SERVED GUAC DIP AND NACHOS)

In an effort to stay positive about my cross-country/cross-cultural move, (it's not just the time zone that's different), I decided to make a list about all the GREAT things about the Lone Star state. (at least the Dallas area--I would HATE to make rash generalizations about the entire state)

1. Creative Fashion Attire

Where else can I wear gold-python boots, belt buckles and faux-zebra cowboy hats for occasions other than Halloween?

2. Highways
Dallas has more highways, parkways, interstates and turnpikes of any place I've been. In case I happen to FORGET I'm in Texas, there are big red stars on every concrete pillar. ADDED BONUS--Everyone drives superfast and there are many daily accidents. When feeling homesick, I can pretend that my fellow road warriors are former NYC cab drivers.

The highway near me has red stars. I found this image on google on site about public art. I'm open-minded, but this surely doesn't count as PUBLIC ART

3. Mega-churches
A mega-church is defined as a church having 2000 or more members. There are 195 of these churches in Texas. I think most of them are in my neighborhood. I went to one last weekend where the pastor said that there were 760,000 people living within a 10 mile radius of the church. His goal is to get them all in his church. Needless to say, building plans are underway to sit 2000 people/service. Right now there 1000 seats---he's only reaching a measly 3000 people/weekend. He also videotapes his message and broadcasts it to satellite locations. This way people can go to church and never have see the pastor face to face.

4. Lawn Maintenance
There are huge benefits to lawn care in this great state. For one, it is so FREAKIN hot, that all the grass is scorched. With 60+ days of 100+ degrees, I don't have to worry about keeping up with the Jones in the landscaping maintenance department. You can't mow dead grass. The drought is another added bennie. No water--it's illegal to water your grass more than 1x/week. The last benefit is living on a zero lot line. (.1 acre actually). Not much grass fits on .1 acre. I get a lovely view of the neighbor's fence. The only disadvantage is that the backyard feels like a dog kennel run--even the dog doesn't want to go out there. Incarcerated prisoners have bigger recreational areas.

5. Cookie Cutter Communities
I was initially concerned about having to become a stepford wife. However I haven't actually met any of my neighbors, so maybe stepford wives are passe. The great thing about a cookie-cutter neighborhood is that every house looks the same. No one needs to worry about individualism. I don't have to worry about overly friendly neighbors, since no one ever goes outside. TOO FREAKIN HOT--The temp reaches 95 by 7am and stays in the 100's past 9pm.
This is the view from my alley, which accesses the garages. I don't actually ever SEE my front yard, unless I'm getting the mail.

Muffins

2011-07-31T09:44:00.000-07:00

HABA Biofino Soft, Pretend, Play Muffin

Overheard Conversation:

2 women were talking about the benefits of low-rise jeans. One woman expressed concern that her "muffin-top" would show. The other woman explained that muffin-tops were kind-of an IN thing and that muffin-tops, tramp stamps and whale tales were all the rage. The first woman's partner was sitting nearby, clearly clueless to the conversation, yet feeling the need to voice his opinion. "I want to see your MUFFIN!" Woman responds--"You've seen enough of my muffin recently BUSTER!"

At which point, the second woman's adolescent son (also rather clueless) jumps in--WHO'S MUFFIN? WHAT KIND OF MUFFIN?

Both women are laughing hysterically, while the boy and man remain clueless

50/50

2011-07-26T05:34:00.000-07:00

11. RODEO--Allen, Texas

I was super-excited about getting a two-for-one. Going to a rodeo AND a country and western concert. The Tom Thumb Texas Stampede was in town and Joe Nichols, famous singer of Tequila Makes Your Clothes Fall Off was on the bill. If you haven't seen his youtube video, check it out. I thought for sure it was made in irony, but a native Texan told me that country and western singers don't DO irony in their music. The video is sooo bad, that it is kind of funny in an eye-rolling way. ANYWAY back to the rodeo--we saw bull riding, saddle-bronc riding and barrel racing. The younger bull riders all wore helmets, while the older guys preferred to have their brains smashed in. NONE of the bull riders walked normally. The women barrel riders kept knocking over all the barrels. The women didn't compete in bull riding or bronc riding--either because they are too smart to subject themselves to goring, stomping and brain bashing or because there's still gender discrimination amongst cowboys. It smelled like horse poop, but all in all was a rather entertaining evening. My son's favorite event was when they strapped small kids to sheep and let the sheep run. Who knew sheep could run that fast? The kids stayed on an average of a second or two then fell off. ALL KIDS WERE BAWLING THEIR EYES OUT, WHILE THE PARENTS AND AUDIENCE WAS LAUGHING AND CHEERING. There is something very messed up about that. (check out the video if you doubt me) We left before Joe Nichols, so I missed out on my 2/1 deal, but am pretty proud that I did ELEVEN NEW things this year!!!

50/50
This is inspired by a friend and former colleague who turned 50 this year. She and her twin sister vowed to do 50 new things together before they turned 51. That's almost 1 a week--no small feat. She did some incredible stuff like travel to Bali and go to circus school. Since I turned 45 this year, I decided to fashion my own bucket list of sorts--50 NEW THINGS BEFORE I'M 50. 10 things/year or 1/month. That seems feasible.

I immediately began second-guessing and self-censoring my list. For example, does going to a new place count as a new thing? Or does the new thing have to bring about some sort of change? Do I have to do the new thing by myself or with someone? Does the new thing have to involve risk, fear or resistance? Such as skydiving--which bytheway seems to be the thing that all 50yearoldmen do for their midlife crisis birthdays. Do I want to be lumped in that category? I read a new book every week, but that doesn't seem like it should make the list.

Helpful/notsohelpful suggestions for my list:
Perform at amateur night at Kitten's Strip Tease Joint (that did not make the cut for obvious reasons)
Skydiving (it was at the top of the list, but all you 50yearoldmen kind of ruined it for me. kind of like getting a tattoo before it became popular. now it just seems passe)

50/50 LIST

1. LYCHEE MARTINI--JUNE, SOUTHOLD, LONG ISLAND (unsure whether a drink should count, but it was unusual, prepared in love by a friend) Since a new drink seems kind of superficial-- a-lame-new-thing, I thought I'd also include WATERMELON SANGRIA--JULY NEWBERRY PORT, MASSACHUSETTS (a 2 for 1 kind of deal)

2. QI GONG CLASS--JUNE, SPRINGFIELD, PA This was momentous for a few reasons. For one, I can't imagine my 20-30 year old TYPE A, RESULT-DRIVEN PERSONALITY being able to just BE and let go in a moving meditation. In addition, I would have been skeptical that all that breathing stuff actually worked. IT DOES.

3. SWIMMING IN A POND--JULY, CENTER POND, NELSON, NH So this may not sound like much, but swimming in a pond is much different that swimming in a creek, lake, river or ocean. Ponds conjure up ideas of stagnant water, algae and snapping turtles. BACTERIA. I swam to end and back--about an hour's worth. I didn't freak when the pond lily threads wrapped around my legs dragging me down.

4. FLYING A KITE AT THE TOP OF A MOUNTAIN--JULY, MT. MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE First I had to CLIMB the mountain, but since I had climbed it in an icestorm last fall, that was a NEW thing persay. So watching the kite soar hundreds of feet in the air and awe/joy/glee of others as they watched the kite. Childhood memories of kites not flying, getting stuck in trees. The freedom of looking out with a bird's-eye-view.

5. PLUM ISLAND BEACH AND WILDLIFE PRESERVE BITTEN BY GREENHEADS--JULY, MASS
Again a beach is not a new thing, but this place was special. pristine, deserted and while I've been bitten by lots of insects, the vicious greenheads were definitely a new experience and not one I care to repeat.

6. RUBY FALLS & ROCK CITY--AUGUST, CHATTANOOGA, TN
When I was a kid, my mom drove my sister and I EVERY summer from Pittsburgh, PA to Dallas. We always passed by signs for Ruby Falls and Rock City. Mommm!! Can we Pleeeaase stop and see ruby falls and rock city??? She always said that we didn't have time. Fast forward 30 something years and I'm driving from Philly to Dallas. And I stop!!! It was SOOO worth it.

7. GRACELAND--AUGUST, MEMPHIS, TN
It was sooo worth the $30 admission. I thought it might be a tourist trap and while there were more gift shops that were MANDATORY to visit, the house and grounds were fabulous.

Only 1 Elvis impersonator on our tour. He had a British accent. Elvis week started the day we went. If I had more time, I would have stayed for all the Elvis impersonator events. My favorite room was the peacock music room. No, we didn't get to see the Elvis' bathroom where he died on the crapper.

Some of the elvis memorials on the grounds.

Lisa Marie's airplane had a blue suede queen-sized bed!

8. BAKASANA YOGA POSE--September, YMCA, PLANO, TX

This stick drawing was found on a fabulously funny yoga blog called
Shanti Town

This was another tricky pose (I mean POST--freudian slip). It's an arm balance that is really all about the core. I've been teaching yoga for almost ten years. Practicing it since I was in college. Practicing faithfully for the past 15 years. So can I REALLY count a yoga pose as a new thing. WELLYESICAN! I've been trying to do this pose for 5 years. I've been teaching it for at least that long and faking the demo every time we do it in class. FINALLY I DID IT? Not in an ashram or fancydancy yoga studio, but in the Y! That must have some profound spiritual significance. I'm just not sure what that is yet.

9. Belly Dancing Lesson--September, Frisco, TX

I told the teacher who has been performing for 26 years, that the only time I had ever belly-danced was after I had a few at a Middle-Eastern restaurant and was coerced. My first lesson went well. I did fine with the shoulder, ribcage, belly and hip isolations. Then when I had to walk and do them at the same time--not so good. But it is an awesome core workout and I loved it!

10. Potter's Church, Parker, Texas
So you may be thinking--THAT'S NOT A NEW THING! I know Colette and she goes to church every week. That's kind of like putting down every new book she reads. Well, this really was a one-of-a-kind experience. A first on many levels. It started when Ian, Cole and I drove into the parking lot. A parking attendant asked us if we were lost. "Did you want to take a tour of the ranch?" Uh--no, we are here for church. "Oh--I thought you were tourists, because your shirt has palm trees on it." We happened to be on South Fork Ranch--home to J.R. Ewing and the infamous Dallas TV show. How ironic that one of the region's largest African-American congregations worships in J.R.'s ballroom? I didn't realize that we were going to an all- black church. When I looked it up online, the pastor was white and female. I've always wanted to attend a charismatic African-American church service. I was not prepared to the length of it--3 hours!! And they lock the doors at the end and don't let you sneak out early! Technically this could count as 3 new things--church at JR's ranch, African-American service and sitting through 3 hours of church.

EXPERIMENTAL CONTROL PLOT

2011-06-24T11:26:00.000-07:00

I love to hike. My husband hates to hike. Thus I end up hiking alone A LOT. This usually does not pose a major problem, since I primarily hike in the woods by my house and the biggest risk factor is a tick. (Although my neighbor swears she saw a bear) When I'm at our Deep Creek Lake house, there are many hiking options. When pressed for time or hiking solo, I typically stick to the state park trail 5 minutes from my house. In/Out in 60-70 minutes and park rangers seem plentiful should any disaster strike, such as snake bite, bear attack or twisted ankle.

After hiking said trail 5 DAYS IN A ROW, I am sick of looking at the same rocks and trees. I decide to venture out somewhere new. Honey, do you want to go for a hike with me? That sounds like too much work. I'd rather fix the dock. What does it mean if the map says that the trails are unblazed? It means that you will get lost. People tell me all the time that it is UNSAFE to hike by myself in the WOODS. They are right; it is unsafe. (Clearly this is not an incentive for him to accompany me)

REASONS WHY I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO HIKE ALONE
Reason 1: Axe murdering rapists could be lurking, ready to attack.
Clearly someone's watched Deliverance one too many times. Most of the trails are very remote and I rarely encounter another person. An ax-murdering rapist could grow old waiting for a woman to hike by. He would have better luck lurking at the honi honi bar where scantily clad girls down copious amounts of alcohol.

Reason 2: Bears could be lurking, ready to attack
Black bears do populate the forests, but they are the small, friendly, black kind that are more scared of you than you are of them. I keep hoping to see one, but haven't had much luck. Only 1 sighting in 8 years. My husband however sees them frequently outside our house eating the neighbors' garbage. Last night, he woke up at 3am, because he SMELLED a bear. This from the man who can't even smell his own gas.

Reason 3: I could break my leg. No one would find me and I'd have to cut off my leg and eat it to survive.
I concede that this COULD happen. Not sure how I'd cut off my leg, since I don't carry a knife. Most forests do not have cell phone coverage, so I might be stranded for a while. I decide that this is a risk I will take.

I choose a trail called SNAGGY MOUNTAIN. It is a 9 mile moderate hike.

Directions: go past Roman Nose Blvd, Cheeks Lane, The Saw Shop and Drunken Brethern Church. In the dip of the road before Herrington Manor, pull over and park. It starts to rain 2
minutes into the hike. It's remote and I do not see any other hikers or ax-murdering rapists. I don't even see footprints or pawprints to indicate recent visitation by hungry black bears.

I pass through a meadow and see a sign in the middle of the woods that says DO NOT DISTURB. I assume this is a park ranger's idea of a joke. Do not disturb the nature. ha ha. Like anyone in their right mind would wander off the trail into the tick-filled grass to touch a tree. Of course now that I've seen the sign, I'm a bit curious and I venture into the tick grass to get a closer look.

That's when I see the OTHER SIGN. Experimental Control Plot. I think I've watched too many seasons of Lost, because I immediately think of the episode where the Lost crew discovers the hatch in the middle of the forest. What is the plot? Is it a grave plot that I'm not supposed to disturb? How can it be both experimental and controlled? Who is controlling it? Perhaps the government is plotting secret experiments in the Garrett Forest, as part of their anti-terrorism campaign and they've enlisted all the axe-murdering rapists to assist them? In case the plot is booby trapped with a bomb, I keep a respectful distance of 5 feet. My cell phone does not have a zoom, which prevents me from getting proper documentation of this covert plot.

I hike back out with no unexpected encounters with animal, plant or alien life.
To be continued....
radioactive orange mushrooms a few hundred yards from the experimental control plot.

stormy meadow near the experimental control plot

The Marriage Whisperer--Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences--Part 4

2011-06-14T13:39:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed that there are a slew of professional "Whisperers"--those gurus who supposedly can train your hellion children or marley-dog? Recently I came across a guy who is called THE MARRIAGE WHISPERER. Here are a few of his PROFOUND findings.

#1--The divorce rate has been 50% for the past 60 years, because people think conflict means you are with the wrong person. In reality, conflict is growth waiting to happen.

#2--You can't work on an issue unless it is triggered. If your spouse triggers an unresolved issue that causes conflict, you are with the right person.

#3--Real love vs. Romantic love
The feeling of romantic love is one of joy, pleasure, relaxation, excitement and euphoria. Couples eventually will lose that feeling and encounter conflict; if they can work through that, they can get to a point of real love. Real love feels like romantic love, but romantic love is fragile and driven by expectations, whereas real love is durable and lasts through frustrations.

In case you are wondering, it took this guy 28 years and two marriages to come up with this wisdom. With my newly enlightened view of marriage, I can now tell you with positive conviction, that I am married to the right man.

How can I be so confident? In my household, there is an over-abundance of growth just waiting to happen. I just didn't know it was disguised as conflict. My husband is a professional triggerer. If you've been reading the blog, you know my triggers and he triggers them daily. For example, our disagreements about whether our 13 yr-old son should be allowed to keep his phone after caught "SEXTING" isn't about different parenting priorities, but potential GROWTH. I'm a bit unclear if this growth is supposed to look like a blooming flower garden or blue mold on an unidentifiable food item left in the fridge or a stage 4 cancerous tumor?

The point about real vs fake love has me a bit worried. I mean really--who wants to give up pleasure, joy, relaxation, euphoria in the name of GROWTH? Especially if it's the poisonous kind. Give me blissed-out, euphoria over a tumor any day of the week.

Since I'm currently jobless, I decided that I have all the qualifications to be a marriage whisperer. I encounter growth opportunities daily and can talk at length about triggers--both literal and metaphorical. However, instead of blablablaing about real vs fake love, I would whisper very quietly DON'T DO IT. I think people would pay me a lot of money for that sage advice. Think how much they would save by avoiding costly therapy sessions to resolve their growth opportunities.

when i googled imaged growth--this is what came up. definitely not the blooming flower kind.

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences Part 3

2011-06-05T05:29:00.001-07:00

During times of duress, those irreconcilable differences tend to magnify, ESPECIALLY during election years. I think the Bush years were the worst. I call this the B period in our marriage a.k.a. whatwasithinkingmarryingarepublican? It seemed to last FOREVER!

During one campaign, things got especially heated in our household. I remember watching a debate on t.v. sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my husband. He made the LAST STRAW comment. "Honey, you are soo smart, how can you be so dumb about this?" That was it. Not only could I not be in the same room as him, but we needed BOUNDARIES. New rules. No watching anything remotely political together. No talking about politics. And most importantly, I divided up the house into zones--mine and his. I drew the line down the middle (think Harold and the Purple Crayon). Under no circumstance, could he cross over into my area. It wasn't quite as bad as Israel and Palestine, but close. It was more like Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas in War of the Roses.

Moving is another stressful time where our irreconcilable differences come out. Most recently we were purging to prepare for our upcoming move. I should point out that purge is not in my husband's vocabulary. I think he's a hoarder and he thinks I'm a hoarder. Maybe this is the THIRD thing we have in common!! His hoarding involves holey clothing and dead sports equipment. Mine involves collecting organic dead things.

My husband has been known to pick things out of the garbage. (Usually after I've sneakily thrown something of his away --like the holey t-shirt with yellowed sweat pit stains that he wore to his first keg party--complete with vomit splatter patterns.) I don't pick from the garbage, but I have picked up various treasures from the side of the road or while woods walking. For example, I found an INTACT DEER SKELETON last weekend at the Cranesville Swamp. (see my profile blog pic--me holding the deer vertebrae) I showed immense restraint by only bringing home the skull and vertebra. It was only a little bit smelly and buggy.

Part of our irreconcilable differences stems from the fact that I am an ARTIST and he is not. Not only does he NOT LIKE art, but he thinks artists are weird. This will be the topic for another blog post. However I needed to set up the context for this next part to make sense. I make art. I exhibit said art in museums and galleries worldwide. Despite my mild acclaim, he still does not value my art or my art-making supplies.

Setting: garage
"Honey, why do you need two sets of golf clubs when you only play 1x/year? You should throw away the rusted set." "That was a set made especially for me. It was a really good deal." "You have ten pairs of snow skis. Do you really need all of them? I don't think there are any ski slopes in Texas. Why are you saving all of those dead deflated soccer balls?"

"Sweetness, there is no way that we are taking this mummified fox with us. Or the 100 gallon box of syringes or the bag of locust shells." " Where did you find the fox and locusts? I've been looking EVERYWHERE for them. I thought you threw them away. I NEED those for my art work."

In case you are wondering if I'm a IV drug user, the syringes are used for casting. I spent 6 months casting vienna sausages out of rubber. Given that I'm a compromise kind of gal, I conceded to throw away the syringes. I also threw away my snow/leaf machine, which was part of my master's thesis. NO WAY WAS I GOING TO BUDGE ON THE FOX OR THE LOCUSTS.

This led to another argument about my dead dog Chase, who is buried in our backyard. I enlisted my 18 year-old daughter to help me dig her up. I wanted to bring some of her with me to Texas. "Dad--did you hear that Mom asked me to dig up Chase, so that she could bring her skull to Texas?" "THAT IS JUST WRONG! YOU CAN'T DESECRATE THE DOG'S GRAVE! IF YOU DIG IT UP, ANIMALS WILL COME AND SCAVAGE THE BODY! WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBORS THINK?" "Honey, don't you think it would be worse if the new owners found the dog's bones while landscaping? She's been dead for three years. She will be all bones by now. Also people take cremated loved ones with them all the time. Why shouldn't I have part of her to memorialize?" "ABSOLUTELY NOT. YOU ARE OUT OF CONTROL." "Sally Mann dug up her dead greyhound's remains and photographed them. She made a lot of money on those photographs." "THAT IS SICK."

I'm currently planning an elaborate momento mori for my new Plano, Texas mantlepiece. It will include my greyhound's skull gold-leafed and bejeweled, surrounded by thousands of beaded locusts swarming around resined rose petals. Woodburned into the mantle will be this inscription: To my beloved husband, in celebration of our twenty years of irreconcilable differences.

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences--Part 2

2011-06-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

Shocking as it may sound, I haven't ALWAYS celebrated our irreconcilable differences (I.D. for short). In fact, there have been a few times where I almost jumped on the bandwagon with the 1,135,000 other Americans who annually get the big D due to I.D. However, I'm not known for my conformity and I resisted the temptation.

What may you ask would tempt me to stray from my non-conformist behavior? I will call it the big G period a.k.a. pre-middle life crisis period. For those who do not know the story, my husband went out and bought a GLOCK 9MM and hid it under the bed. You may be wondering how I discovered his new toy. I grew suspicious after he was uncharacteristically nice to me one night. "Oh you are so sexy and beautiful. I love you so much." WHAT HAVE YOU DONE????

The gun was supposedly purchased to "PROTECT" the family from ax-murdering, child-molesting intruders. Up to now, he always kept a baseball bat by the bed. Suffering from the ALMOST-40-TOXIC-SHOCK-SYNDROME, he no longer felt confident in his brain-bashing abilities. Nevermind that we could have just activated the built-in security system.

I told him that he and his Glock could go live HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER somewhere else. The big G almost caused the big D.

Most recently we entered into a new phase of our marriage, which I've labeled the P period a.k.a. the acute-mid-life-crisis period. Recently promoted, my husband had to relinquish his company car and purchase a vehicle. He comes home one day and says "I think I'm going to buy this car."

"Honey, why would you want to buy a car that screams NARCISSISTIC A-HOLE, IN A MID-LIFE CRISIS, WITH A SMALL WEEWEE? (I've edited my language for a PG rating)

"Honey, why would you want to buy a car that I can't drive? Why would you buy a car that only fits two people? What about the kids?"

"Honey, remember you company's mission statement is all about servant leadership. What kind of servant leader drives a car like that? Shouldn't you be setting an example for your employees?"

The rebuttal: You make some excellent points that I agree with. BUT it's a good deal and it will be fun.

He tried to convince me that he was actually doing the good samaritan thing by buying the car from a friend who was moving to Africa. "He needs the money and I need a car."

If you are a FB friend, you may have seen the postings guessing what kind of car now sits in my garage. The first guess was a corvette, which everyone agreed (including my husband) was a smaller wee-wee car than his current purchase. (On a side note, his boss drives a corvette. I'm not sure whether this strengthened or weakened my servant leader argument. Draw your own conclusions).

As difficult as it is, I'm resisting the big D once again. When asked if I loved riding in it, I told him that people are looking at me. Not with envy, but with disdain. Look at that women in the Porsche Boxer. She is married to a narcissistic a-hole, in a mid-life crisis with a small wee-wee. Think of how many starving children in Africa they could feed just with the cost of the gas.

What saved me from the big D was the realization that this car may be an essential component for my new art project--a 2 year performance piece as a stepford wife in Plano, Texas. I'm currently in negotiations with Lifetime TV. They think it will blow Housewives of New Jersey right out of the water.

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences Part 1

2011-06-02T04:09:00.000-07:00

Since I haven't posted for 7 months, this is going to be a series of posts. Not that I haven't had PLENTY to post about, but that thing called WORK kept getting in the way.

While visiting Deep Creek Lake, MD last weekend, I went to a church service in a movie theater. (That really should be its own post.) I don't remember exactly what the sermon was about, but one thing that the pastor said really stayed with me. "My wife and I just celebrated 20 years of irreconcilable differences."

My husband and I just had our twenty-year anniversary. Those of you who know us, know that we are polar opposites. On good days, I think our differences COMPLIMENT each other. (I can't bring myself to say "complete each other" without gagging) On the rest of the 364 days a year, I can count the number of things we like to do on 1/2 of a hand, minus the thumb--we both like to eat and drink (although he is a beer drinking carnivore and I'm more of a wine drinking herbivore)

When people ask me what my secret is to a long lasting marriage, I tell them the truth--LOW EXPECTATIONS. If you have low expectations, you won't be disappointed when your 20th anniversary is not celebrated on a beach in Maui, but in a motel room in Plano, Texas after a frustrating day of househunting. (I liked the uber-cool contemporary artist home surrounded by woods and a creek. He liked the clear-cut, cookie-cutter stepford-wife development with NO TREES). BTW Hawaii was supposed to be my 10th anniversary present and I'm still waiting. However I'm waiting with LOW expectations.

I was recently in the doctor's office filling out 500 pages of medical forms in preparation for my 5 minute office visit. One of the questions asked me how I manage my pain. I wrote "I drink wine." What do you do when the pain becomes unbearable? "I drink A LOT of wine." Now I figured the doctor was way too busy to actually READ my medical history, but I figured one of the nurses would get a chuckle. To my surprise, the doctor came in laughing and told me that I sounded like his wife. Not sure this was a compliment.

In addition to LOW EXPECTATIONS, my other marriage secret is wine. Most doctors would agree that it might not be the healthiest pain management technique, but it does the trick 99% of the time.

In thinking about the pastor's comment, maybe as a culture we view marriage from the wrong perspective. Instead of trying to reconcile our differences, or divorcing over our irreconcilable differences, why don't we CELEBRATE them?

The next few posts will share some of the ways, we have been celebrating....

photo by my former student, now professional photographer Joe Molieri www.josephmolieri.com

Near Death in New Hampshire

2010-11-28T05:58:00.000-08:00

(left image-- summit view from 3000 feet, right image--cairn a.k.a. grave marker)

I just returned from a lovely trip to New Hampshire. As most of you know, I love to hike. As some of you know, I'm usually up for an adventure and don't always perform adequate risk assessments until it is too late.

On Wednesday night, I was sipping wine in the kitchen, when a guy named Ed stopped by. He said that every year he hikes to the top of Mt. Monandock

to memorialize his friend's death. I cannot recall if he actually invited me or if I invited myself. However, next thing I know I've signed up to go on a Friday morning sunrise hike. I'm sure in my wine-induced overconfidence, I neglected to listen to important details such as PEOPLE DIE UP THERE EVERY YEAR.

I do recall him saying that we will not be hiking on the State Park side, but on the "locals trail". He also said that he knows every inch of the mountain and can run up to the top in 36 minutes. It is only 2 miles to the summit, so I figured that it's no big deal. If he can do it in 36 minutes, it will take me at least an hour. I tell Ed that I'm in shape--I play squash and practice yoga. He seemed enthusiastic and told me that I would do just fine. I vaguely remember him saying that it is a REAL MOUNTAIN. I must have mentally blocked out the story where he had to carry someone down the mountain. This was someone who didn't properly respect the mountain and had fallen, breaking their leg.

Thanksgiving Day and I'm not feeling as excited about my upcoming hike. I can't imagine what I was thinking when I agreed to wake-up voluntarily at 3:30am, leaving at 4am to hike in the dark. I do not have hiking boots, only sneakers with worn treads.

Ed calls that night to say the weather forecast is foggy and rainy. Most of his other friends have already bailed. I promise him that I'm a trooper and I won't bail. Due to weather conditions, he delays the trip from 4am to 9am.

Friday morning 8am, Ed calls again to say conditions are bad. Sleet has covered all surfaces in ice. This is my opportunity to bail. I get on the phone, prepared to cancel. We discuss my lack of adequate footwear. He says sneakers are not a great idea. He asks if I can borrow boots. I say yes. I open my mouth and instead of canceling, I agree to go.

I slide down the walkway on the way to the car. Ed and I are picking up his friend Adam. On the way, he tells me that the trail will be icy. He says that he can lend me his spikes to grip through the ice. This is when I begin to have doubts. SPIKES FOR THE ICE? He also reiterates that it is a vertical climb (how did I miss this point???) to the summit. We will be climbing 2000 feet to an altitude of 3165 feet. At the top, he says it will be very windy and cold. Winds up to 50mph.

It's too late to cancel. We arrive at the trailhead. Of course there aren't any other cars. We are climbing the Marlboro trail. I find this very funny, since there is no way a smoker could hike this trail. Ed says that the first part isn't too hard. It warms you up for later.

After 15 minutes, I'm breathing really hard, sweating through all four layers. I am thinking that there is NO WAY I'm going to make it. Ed has some sort of superhuman powers, because he jumps from rock to rock and doesn't appear to slip AT ALL!

To their credit, both Adam and Ed tell me where to step and not to step, offering assistance as needed. To MY credit, I do not complain once. I fall and get right back up. I don't want to ruin their friend's memorial.

I do not see any visible trail, just lots of ice-covered roots and rocks. We start out in forest and climb into a barren-looking landscape. Prehistoric, sub-arctic--lots of boulders and no visible signs of life. I see lots of rock piles. Ed calls them cairns, saying that hikers leave them as markers. I'm guessing they mark all the dead bodies. HERE LIES ANOTHER DUMB HIKER WHO DIDN'T RESPECT THE MOUNTAIN.

Half-way point, the view is stunning. Ed gives me the spikes. I perfect the art of holdingonfordearlife. It takes over 2 hours to reach the summit. The temperature drops by 20 degrees. My sweat-drenched clothing is forming icicles. I do not make it all the way to the top. I quit at 3000 feet. Ed and Adam race to the top.

I text my daughter. HARDEST HIKE EVER. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WILL GET DOWN THE MOUNTAIN. I briefly wonder how much it would cost to get heliported off the mountain. Needless to say, it is much harder going down than up. My legs feel like jello and aren't working properly. I keep tripping. Only 1 hr down. I can do this.

I've had to pee for the past 1.5 hours. Didn't want to do it at the summit and have it freeze midstream. Towards the bottom, I see a big boulder to hide behind. My legs are so locked up, that I can't squat down. This simple act takes me at least 15 minutes to perform. Darn those men who can pee standing up.

I make it to the bottom. Ed and Adam graciously tell me that I didn't hold them back and that I did great. The next day I can't walk. Later when I look up this trail on the internet, its difficulty rank is 4 out of 3!!!

Ed asks me to hike again next summer. Sure I say. I'm looking forward to it. :)

Reveille This! 13 billion light years & Blue Cheese Alfredo Sauce

2010-11-19T11:08:00.000-08:00

You've heard the saying Women are from Mars and Men are from Venus. Or is it the other way around? In my household, we are not just from other planets, we exist on other galaxies.

Speaking of which, did you know that last month scientists discovered a new galaxy? It has the sexy name UDFy-38135539, and is located 13 billion light years away. I'm thinking that a long distance relationship might be in order. If my husband can find a job on UDFy-3815539, we will only get on each other's nerves every 13 billion years. I think I read that Coke is opening up a bottling plant there. See last week's Businessweek article "Coke's Last Frontier". I'm sure Coke could use a VP to head up their operations and new development.

Lest you think I'm joking, I will share this morning's irritation. It started with my husband's alarm. He has programmed the military bugle reveille to sound off every morning at 6 am. I have patiently told him that it is the most ANNOYING alarm noise in the entire world. I have pleaded (not so patiently) for him to change the sound. He always responds with the SAME answer. It's SUPPOSED to be annoying. That way, you'll wake up. On this particular morning, he hits snooze 3 times. This happens to be the ONE morning all week that I can sleep in until 7am. After hearing three rounds of reveille over a 30 minute period, I can no longer sleep. In fact, I'm in a vile mood. Reveille is at the top of my chart for most REVILED song.

The next irritation occurs a few minutes later, while I'm cooking breakfast for the kids. My husband decides to criticize my pancake making ability. Actually the pancakes were already made, I was just microwaving them. However according to my husband, my microwave abilities are lacking. He stops the microwave in mid-heat mode, pulls out the plate, and inspects it suspiciously. What is that glistening substance on the pancake? It's the syrup, duh. You are microwaving it too long and it will burn the roof of our son's mouth.

At this point, I'm ready to shove the pancake down his throat, just to shut him up. Instead, I tell him that I've microwaved lots of pancakes and I know what I'm doing. Then I tell him that if he doesn't like it, HE can wake up an hour earlier to make the kids breakfast and lunch. I don't appreciate cooking tips from someone whose culinary prowess includes making alfredo sauce with Marie's blue cheese dressing.

I am further irritated by the fact that in the span of an hour, I've managed to cook breakfast, make lunches, feed the dog, give the cat a pill, fill out two recruit forms for our daughter and finalize my proposal for world peace, while he takes a shower and shaves.

He FINALLY leaves for work and I sit at the computer checking email. 5 minutes later he calls me to ask me what happened to the car. I'm confused. What happened to the car? You've trashed the car. I'm further confused. As far I know, the car seems fine to me. Now for those of you who know us, most of you would agree that I am the one who tends to exaggerate, especially for the benefit of a good story.

Since he is not prone to exaggeration, I'm perplexed. I know that my memory has been in gradual decline lately, but I think I would remember if I trashed the car. The whole LEFT side is TRASHED! He accuses me of ramming the car into the side of the garage. Again, I think I would know if I hit the garage while backing out. I go outside to inspect the car. I see a scratch on the car. So yes, I must have scraped the car against the garage while exiting. It is a scrape. I call him back to tell him that it is a scrape. SCRAPE??? That scrape will cost $800 to fix. I ask him if he thinks that I purposely crashed into the garage, just to dent the car and piss him off. He tells me that I need to be MORE CAREFUL. (irritation #501)

REVEILLE THIS. If I was a vindictive person, I would delete all songs from his IPod, except Reveille and then set it on eternal repeat, so he could listen on his 13 billion light year trip.

Neurological Impairment and Dumpster Diving

2010-09-17T17:44:00.000-07:00

I suffer from Visual Perceptual Spatial Disorder (VPSD for short). In plain English, this means that I grossly under or overestimate the size of things, especially as it relates to those things fitting in other things. (my husband loves this about me.)

Apparently this is a documented disability caused by neurological impairment--probably induced from too many hits on the head as a child.

Today, I experienced two bouts of this impairment, leading to an adventurous, albeit stressful day. I had promised to gift my boss' son with our skateboard ramp. Only used once or twice then discarded, the ramp has been a popular outdoor welfare hotel for many varieties of arachnids and their millions of babies.

I awoke at 7am to drown the arachnids with the power washer. This may seem a bit harsh, but I didn't want the little buggers to take up new residence in my car. Despite the intense jet spray, their screen doors (web filaments) did not break.

Fwd to operation transport. My boss who lives in the city expressed concern about the size of the ramp. I assured her that it was no more than 5 feet and suitable for city skating. (VPSD incident #1) When I actually tried to put the ramp in my car, I realized that it was more like 10 feet. The bolts were rusted and it wasn't coming apart. Not to mention the arachnids who had survived the morning Tsunami, now bolted in every nook and cranny of my car.

After folding down the back seat AND front seat, the ramp fit with 1/4 inch of spare space. I drove to work for a meeting. I told my boss that I would drop the ramp at her house after the meeting. She seemed a bit skeptical, but I was insistent. I brought the stupid thing all that way, risking massive heart failure due to spider bites. I was NOT taking it home again.

Fwd--meeting over. I go to the car and realize NO KEYS. NO KEYS!!!!!!!! I am parked on the streets of Philly. My meter is due to expire in 5 minutes. Patrol trolls lurk at the corner, waiting to dole out tickets equivalent to the cost of a monthly car payment. I have NO money. No money for the meter, no money for the train ride home to recover extra keys, no money for food, no money for a drink which would have calmed me down a bit.

I panic, hyperventilate and panic some more. Like a catatonic psych patient, I trace, retrace and retrace 4 more times, my exact path from car to office, office to car, hoping my keys have fallen out of my pocket. I peer in my car window to see if the keys are locked inside. I climb onto the hood of my car and press my face against the windshield for a better look. NO KEYS.

As usual my husband does not answer the cellphone or text, despite the fact that I say it is a DIRE emergency. I get down on my knees and pray...for real. And here's the thing. I get an immediate answer in the form of a little voice that says CHECK THE DUMPSTER. I had thrown out my lunch bag on the way to the meeting. Herein lies VPSD #2.

People dumpster dive all the time. Ok, maybe not the people you hang out with. But still. It didn't seem like it would be all that difficult. Keep in mind, that I'm on an IVY LEAGUE campus and there are LOTS of people walking on Walnut Street. I'm trying to scale my way up the metal dumpster, and can't seem to get a foot hold. The dumpster is taller than me and I look like an uncoordinated spaz as I slip and fall into the bottom.

Thankfully there was a lot of construction debris--meaning that there were minimal rotting food particles and not too many rats. MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. I find my lunch bag and after digging for a few more moments, I FIND MY KEYS!!! Hoisting myself out of the dumpster proved just as embarrassing as falling in.

I find my boss' house without further ado. As I'm unloading the skateboard ramp, it breaks. I mean an ENTIRE section breaks off. I'm a bit ticked, but I dutifully drag it onto her brick patio. There's an angry pricker tree that attacks me. Scratched, bleeding and smelling of garbage, I finally leave.

Late for my silkscreen printing class, I park in Old City and pay the meter. 2 hours later, I come out to recharge the meter. I see a TICKET. I chase down the elderly troll who has ticketed me. HEY! I still have 7 minutes left on my meter. He smirks saying that he ticketed me for parking in a loading zone. WHEN DID IT BECOME A LOADING ZONE? I HAVE PARKED HERE BEFORE. THERE AREN'T ANY DRIVEWAYS OR EVEN BUSINESSES THAT REQUIRE LOADING. The troll races down the street. I never saw a senior citizen move that fast. Not even in Zumba class.

When I relate my predicament to my silkscreen teacher, she immediately knows the troll, who is famous in the neighborhood for ticketing when there is still time left on the meter. He must work on commission or he's a vindictive jerk. He EVEN called the tow truck on a pregnant woman with a toddler who mistakenly parked on the wrong side of the street. I also find out that the city routinely changes the signs regarding loading zones, specifically to confuse drivers and generate more income for the city.

I have veered a bit off topic. VSPD to elderly trolls to divine intercession. Life lesson? Don't drive into the city, AVOID trolls at all costs, dumpster dive only if you are in plastic clothes and don't kill arachnids--they will regroup their armies and attack with a vengeance. Most importantly--prayer works!!!

Just for the record, the photo isn't me. I sincerely hope my butt didn't look this big as I plummeted to the bottom. I did appreciate her posing (notice the leg lift) and perfectly manicured red nails.

Ms. Philly Hot Mom Contest and Cougars

2010-08-25T06:36:00.000-07:00

This email exchange is blog worthy. I get my sense of humor from my uncle.

Collette

FYI--several weeks ago I entered you into the "Ms. Hot Philly Mom" contest at Allison Dunlap's radio station. I filled out the information and sent in a few pictures from some of the family calendars that you sent us. I thought that you would hear about it on the radio after the winner was declared.

However, I received an email today saying that you were "among the finalists" which I don't think means much---there are probably 7-8 other Moms in the Philadelphia area with which you are competing. I just thought you ought to know so you'll be prepared when then call for the interviews and set aside some time for the "shoots" ---as they call them.

Have a nice day

God is good all the time -- rh

---

Comer with Marilyn

Hey Uncle C,

That's way cool. Is there money involved? If it's a big payoff, I can retire, sit on the couch, watch Simpsons' re-runs and eat bon bons all day.

Did you skip ahead and look at the October pic in the family picture? Hint--I'm dressed like a dominatrix and your youngest is dressed like a unicorn pony boy. I won't tell you what he had on (or didn't) below the waist. Let me tell you, all the gay men thought he was HOT STUFF.

So I'm intrigued. Have you met Ms. Dunlap or seen her photo shoots?

I must tell you that I'm worried the competition will be stiff. There's quite a cougar population in Philly. In fact, I believe your youngest went to the cougar convention when it was here in Philly, looking for a sugar mom to pay his med school bills. (but you didn't hear it from me)

Please know that I did everything in my power to corrupt your son while he was here. Unfortunately he was already pretty far gone when he arrived, so I couldn't do much more.

Much Love,

Colette

Is Fidelity Obsolete?

2010-08-22T17:26:00.000-07:00

Last summer I posted on how Women's Health Magazine is really a trashy cosmo in disguise. In this summer's issue, the lead article headline reads Is Fidelity Obsolete? Women's Health investigates the biological drive to spread the love, the rise of the Facebook fling and whether faithfulness has reached its expiration date.

The only part worth reading is a quick look at the pictures. A bereft bride figurine stands forlornly atop a 3 tier wedding cake, as her groom escapes in a helicopter. Very funny!

According to the 'studies', we are biologically programmed to cheat. One particular study concluded that a woman is more likely to cheat when she is ovulating. How did the researchers come to such a conclusion? They found evidence at a STRIP CLUB. The rationale? Men are more attracted to women during ovulation time (the caveman desire to procreate).

Here are the compelling numbers used to prove their point.

$335 amount strippers earned in five hours when they were ovulating.

$260 amount they earned in five hours when they weren't ovulating.

$185 amount they earned in five hours when they were menstruating.

I'm not a researcher, but I do see a few teensy-weensy problems with the study. OF COURSE THE MENSTRUATING WOMEN MADE LESS MONEY. The women are bloated, cranky, suffering from hellacious cramps and not wanting their 'customers' to see their tampon strings hanging out of their g-strings. The LAST thing they want is to have sex.

I'm wondering about the plausibility of testing this biological theory out in strip clubs. I mean really. Don't the guys going to strip clubs hope they will get laid? Isn't that the goal? It seems a bit of a stretch to conclude that because a stripper made more money during certain times of the month, all of us are hardwired to cheat. I believe this is a slippery slope (logical fallacy).

Also the study is lacking in specificity. How old were the strippers? Were they married or unmarried? What geographic location/s were included? What is the demographic (socio-economic class) of the customers as well as the strippers? Did the researchers perform the tests on the same days of the week? If the girl is on the rag and working on a Monday night, she's definitely screwed out of major tip money.

Also just because a man finds a woman more attractive, why is SHE the one predisposed to cheat? Wouldn't he be the culprit?

Women's Health concludes that just because our biology predisposes us to cheat, it doesn't mean we can't choose monogamy. Cheating is NOT inevitable. PHEW! What a revelation. I was worried.

Following this enlightening article is 10 Things You Can Do With A Tomato. I'm not making this up.

Coincidentally or not, dictionary.com's hot word of the week is ADULTERY. Specifically they(the unknown dictionary.com experts) examine the etymology of the words adult and adultery, asking Why is it called adultery when being unfaithful isn't a particularly adult thing to do?

After you shred the magazine, using it to line the kitty litter box, you can respond to the brilliant blog posts on the etymology debate. Here are my favorites:

shareese on August 20, 2010 at 6:25 pm

hi iam shareese i just wanted to saii hi andmore lol gansta

luv(pretty&paid)$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$4

a on August 20, 2010 at 7:03 pm

wats ur point? that adultery is a childish (no so “adult” like)

thing to do? i think being childish is VERY different from

being unfaithful

…and i reeeally dont think the “adult” that means pornographic

has anything to do with it being a prefix in the word adultery

it simply has to do with the fact that pornographic material

is for adult viewers. Were u drunk when u wrote this?

Dillan on August 20, 2010 at 7:18 pm

That’s totally whatev…adultery is adultery…that’s it…

I know--profound.

I'm on the 9th thing you can do with a tomato

as I write this.

The Skinny on Black Jeans

2010-08-14T10:12:00.000-07:00

Why is it impossible to find black jeans that

A. Don't show my butt crack

B. Fit over my calves

In my quest for black jeans, I discover that the current style is called jean 'leggings'. This translates into jeans that are so narrow, only a person with atrophied calves can wear them. For anyone with hips larger than Kate Moss (pre-pregnancy, heroin-chic), this is an incredibly unattractive look.

After leaving NY & Company in disgust, I try EXPRESS. A cute teenaged sales boy wearing a headset immediately accosts me. I tell him I'm looking for boot cut black jeans. He asks me what I want them for. I'm momentarily perplexed, since I think this might be a trick question. Uhhh, I want them to WEAR. He is shocked to learn that I don't like skinny legging jeans. Apparently I'm the first person to admit that they don't LOVE them.

He asks me my size. I hold up the 8 and two of me could fit inside these pants. I take a 6 and a 4. Mid-rise, slight boot. I'm a bit disappointed that the jeans aren't really black, but kind of slate grey. This boy who is my daughter's age, is quite the attentive salesperson. He knocks on my dressing room door inquiring about my jean's fit. He then wants to see me in the jeans. When I open the door, he and another salesboy comment on the jeans. I feel a bit embarrassed that two teenaged boys--one straight, one gay are looking at my butt. I tell them that something must be wrong with the sizing, because I've never been a 4 in my life. NOT EVER. NOT EVEN when I was anorexic. They both exclaim, Aren't you happy that you are a 4?!!!

Given that the jeans are on sale--buy 1, get one 1/2 off, I now have the problem of finding a second pair of jeans that fit. My ever-attentive salesboy tells me how important it is to have a second pair of jeans, for when I go out to a bar. I smirk--oh, I go out to bars sooo often. Get this--the underage boy actually tells me that he will TAKE ME OUT FOR A DRINK.

I'm guessing the commission on jeans must be pretty high. The salesboy must be under his monthly quota in order for him to resort in asking out middle-aged women.

He decides that I MUST try the skinny jeans, since he is convinced that I will look fabulous in them. Just to humor him, I try. As I suspect, I can't even get them over my calves. When he asks how they are working out for me, I tell him that they aren't. Undeterred, he patiently continues to pass more and more jean options under the door to me.

Finally I find a pair that fits over my calves and only shows a minor amount of butt crack, which will compliment the whale tail look. At least the muffin top won't show.

Gone Postal

2010-07-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

One of my son's wrestling coaches works the lunch shift at my local post office. Today I went on a bit of a rant (I know--really hard to believe) about stamps. When I got to the counter, I told him that I wanted "FUN" stamps. He rolled his eyes saying, "Oh, you are one of THOSE".

He patiently asked me why the type of stamp mattered. That's all it took to set me off. To his credit, he refused to engage in my nonsense. "Hey, I just sell the stamps, I don't have an opinion on them".

The LOVE stamps have the most marketing presence. I wonder if there's a LOVE CORPORATION somewhere that gets a percentage for using the name.

I don't know about you, but I don't particularly LIKE love stamps. I certainly don't LOVE them. In fact, I think it's hypocritical to send a LOVE stamp to someone that you might dislike immensely. Let's say you put a love stamp on a letter to your mother-in-law who doesn't like you. She will immediately assume that you are KISSING UP, trying to garner her favor.

At best the LOVE stamp is cliche and not even in a kitschy kind of way. I definitely don't want to send the love stamp to Mastercard, who is raping me monthly at a 21% interest rate.

Absolutely I DON'T want to send a love stamp to PECO (see previous blog post on my broken love affair with the PECO princess). PECO who never seems to credit my account for all of those hours of power outage, whenever there is a storm.

Nor do I want to sent a love stamp to Verizon or Comcast. I'm sure no explanation is needed there.

I'll save the love for things other than stamps. I settled for the garfield and archie comic strip stamps. Do you think the bill collectors will have a sense of humor?

Anesthesia Delirium or Truth Serum

2010-07-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

My 12 year-old son had general anesthesia for the first time this week. He seemed rather excited by the prospect of medically-induced sleep. This does not bode well for his future proclivity towards recreational drug use.

I was a teensy-bit worried, since every time I have any form of narcotics, BAD things happen. Like the time I ate a magic mushroom with my boyfriend. Instead of blissful, psychodelic-colored dreams, I saw giant SPIDERS, SNAKES and MEN in black trenchcoats proffering butcher knives.

Or the many times I've been to the dentist and received 10 shots of NOVOCAINE, enough to numb a small whale for a week, yet I still FEEL the drill.

Or when I had an epidural and it only worked on 1/2 of my body (not the half that I really needed).

Or the multiple times under general anesthesia when the doctors could not wake me up...for HOURS. It's always a bit disconcerting to see panicked hospital personnel, who think they inadvertently put me in a drug-induced COMA.

So you can understand my apprehension that something might go awry in the case of my son. When they wheeled him out of the OR, he looked kind of dead--mouth slightly open, no discernible movement. The nurse assured me that he would wake up in a few moments.

About an hour later, he began to regain consciousness. His first words to me were...
YOUSUCKYOUSUCKYOUSUCKYOUSUCK. I HATE YOU!!! LEAVE ME ALONE.

I start giggling and the nurse looks at me horrified. I'm having DEJA-VU. I remember uttering the SAME EXACT words to my husband during labor, while waiting for my son to be born.

Is it possible that he remembers the words from his inutereo birthing experience? OR is anesthesia like truth serum? Lacking all social filters, he's telling me how he REALLY feels.

Chainstore Heaven or Strip Mall Hell

2010-07-23T10:46:00.000-07:00

Google maps LIE. Sometimes they LIE a lot. The google preferred route to York, PA a.k.a. vacation spot to the stars is along Route 30. If you enjoy driving next to large trucks who travel at 35 mph, blowing black diesel smoke in your windshield, thus obscuring your ability to see the road and who speed up and cross the dividing line when you try to pass them, then you might LIKE this route. Or if you are a STRIP MALL JUNKIE, this route will be utter bliss.

I admit to having some reservations about my 'vacation' in York. My daughter is playing field hockey in the Keystone Games. Who would guess that this would be such a popular event? Two months in advance and ALL the hotels are booked. I find a room at the Wingate-Windham. What will I DO in York, besides sit on a metal bleacher all day watching field hockey? In actuality, my rear-end frenchfried in 103 degree heat sitting on the metal bleachers. Given my distracted state, I forgot the basics--managed to leave my MAKE-UP, bathing suit, sunscreen, comfortable chair and umbrella at home. I actually scared myself when I looked in the mirror. Sweating profusely with no make-up is not an attractive look.

Trip day started out a bit bumpy. My son refused to go to wrestling camp, because his stomach hurt. I told him he should suck it up and to quit being a wuss. I know you are impressed with my patient parenting skills. Ordinarily it wouldn't be a big deal. However, if he didn't go to camp, he wouldn't go home with his friend whose mom agreed to keep him while I was gone. Not a great idea to leave a 12 yr-old BOY home alone for 2 days.

The husband a.k.a. the head of the household thought he would be FINE alone. So I gave in and left. 45 minutes into the drive, my husband texts my daughter saying that the boy projectile-vomited all over his entire room. Now I feel a tinge of guilt for thinking he was playing the sick drama queen. I am REALLY glad he didn't projectile vomit at wrestling camp over the 400 boys who are already ingesting their share of gross matt germs. I am REALLY REALLY glad that he wasn't in the car projectile vomiting on me.

Texts and calls continue. I beseech my neighbor to come to the rescue, since my husband has to work until 9pm. She is definitely SAINT material. In fact, I am sending an official saint nomination to the Pope. Not only does she bring him gingerale and saltines, she actually makes him JELLO. I'm not sure he has ever eaten jello, but he's digging the attention. She gives him tylenol and puts a cold rag on his head. I owe her many bottles of wine for this one.

Back to York, PA--home of ?? Not sure what it's known for, but for being a small town, the traffic is insane. Trucks and more trucks EVERYWHERE.

For those of you who have been anxiously awaiting a trip to York, I thought I'd give you the highlights. If you are lucky enough to stay near route 30, you will be rewarded with miles and miles of strip malls, featuring all of your favorite chain retail stores and restaurants. I thought I'd list everything I saw within a one-mile stretch on route 30 near the 83 exchange. Since I was blessed to be sitting in parking lot style traffic, I was able to jot down everything I witnessed.

Looking for an Inn? York route 30 has Holiday Inn, Comfort Inn, Red Roof Inn, Quality Inn, Budget Inn, Best Western, Wingate by Windham and for those who want to live large--4 Points at Sheraton--Super 8 for the slummers.

Hungry?

Wendy'sMickeyD'sB.K.KFCTacoBellHardee'sArby'sLong JohnSilversSubwayQuiznosPizzaHutChiploteMexicanGrillPaneraBreadBobEvansDunkinDonuts

want a step up?Eatn'ParkDenny'sFriendly'sTGIFRubyTuesdaysChili'sApplebeesOliveGardenFuddruckersOldCountryBuffetCrackerBarrel Hooters(not sure if that is a step-up)

Retail haven--KmartWalmartTargetLowesHomeDepotToysRUsBabiesRUsStaplesOfficeMaxCVSWalgreensRiteaid

Dick'sPetcoPetsmartDollarTreeTiresPlusAutoZoneAdvancedAutoMonroeMuffler&BrakesJiffyLubeQuickLubeGoodyear

PepBoysTurkeyHillSheetzCitgoExxonHessSunocoSupercutsVerizonT-MobileSprintRadioShackACMooreOldNavyCurvesPlanetFitnessLibertyTravelRACMattressWarehouseSleepy'sMattress

DID I MENTION ALL OF THESE WERE IN A ONE MILE STRETCH?

AND you can find all of these gems in strip malls such as Westgate Plaza, York Plaza, East York Plaza, West York Plaza, York Center, Historic York Center, Maple Village 1, Maple Village II, Crossroads Plaza, Eastern Blvd Plaza, Loucks Plaza

True highlights--Fernanda's hatha yoga class at 8 Stones Yoga was blissful. What a gifted teacher. AND since it was my first visit, the class was FREE! Also everyone is nice in York. I was a bit confused, since this is so different from Philly. :)

(the photo is a google hit--title LOVE IS A CHAIN STORE) look at the bliss on her face

Cat Bites As a Torture Device?

2010-07-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

Our 15 year-old cat Dusty recently began exhibiting VERY annoying behavior--much akin to a pestering child who asks WHY?? 5 million times in one day. He has always been vocal. When we first 'rescued' him, he howled all night long. We immediately knew WHY he had been abandoned and were quite sympathetic with the abandoners.

Back to the present. Dusty ramped up his meow volume, multiplying its frequency and intensity until we thought our heads would explode. Perhaps the military should consider hiring Dusty for their musical torture interrogations. I understand why the MEOW mix commercial made it to #9 on the top 10 hits for torturing prisoners.

He also started acting like a rapid crazed animal--knocking over garbage cans to scavenge food. I caught him ripping apart a chicken carcass. He managed to knock open a tupperware that I had left in a cooler and devoured the Greek spanakopita. Who knew cats liked Greek food? Most disconcerting was when we were attempting a rare family dinner and he leaped up in the air, grabbing the food out of my husband's hand, scarfing it down before he landed on the floor.

Despite his advanced age, and physical deterioration--the swayback, ribs poking out, he seemed to have LOTS of energy when it came to asking for or stealing food. My vast veterinary training told me that he was just old and about to die. My husband was in agreement. Thus we suffered his antics for a couple of months before taking him to the vet.

Like most cats, Dusty does not like the vet. He bites the vet at every opportunity. He even showed off his loud howl when the vet gave him a shot in his rump. Good news!! My animal is not rapid and does not need to have a vocalectomy to render him soundless. He has HYPOTHYROID, which is causing his erratic behavior.

Solution? We only have to give him a pill twice a day. For those of you who have given cats pills, you know this is not an easy feat. Google has 2 million sites dedicated to this phenomenon. My favorite is How to Give Your Cat a Pill in 20 Easy Steps The last step suggests calling the SPCA to take the cat and going to pet store to buy a hamster. The vet gives Dusty his first pill and it looks VERY easy. I can do this.

That night Ian and I are practicing civility towards each other. Honey, will you please help me give the cat the pill? He responds--Of course my sweetness. Let me change my clothes. I ask him whether he wants to HOLD the cat or do the pill part. Since I am giving him a choice, I of course think that he will do the chivalrous thing and do the pill part. Since you gave me a choice, I want to hold the cat. This is when civility breaks down. I would rather hold the cat. Why don't you jam the pill down his throat? He responds with a little LESS civility, YOU GAVE ME A CHOICE AND I'MNOTJAMMINGTHEPILLDOWNTHECAT'STHROAT! I don't give up easily. I badger. Why don't you want to jam the pill down the cat's throat? Why is it always MY responsibility to take care of the pets? In a slightly more rational tone, he says that he doesn't want to get bitten.

FINE! I'll do the pill part. As you probably guessed, it did not go smoothly. As I pried Dusty's jaws open and tried to push the pill in, he chomped down on my thumb. Instead of showing concern, my husband insists that he KNEW this would happen and he didn't want to have a catbite on HIS thumb. He then proceeds to tell me about how DANGEROUS cat bites are and how I can DIE from infection.

I went to the ultimate expert to read about cat bite treatments--GOOGLE. thecatsite.com in particular provided excellent insight.

Cats have teeth. Cats have sharp teeth. A cat will bite when it's upset. A cat will bite hard when it's very upset. Cat bites hurt. Cat bites in your finger joints hurt a lot.

The author should win a genius research grant. She did say that she spent 4 days in the hospital from a cat bite, which resulted in having both her hands amputated. (ok--i lied about the last part) Apparently 80% of all bites result in infection.

I watch my thumb for signs of infection. Then I go to the beach to visit a friend. A few days go by and Ian calls to inquire about the status of my catbite. When I look at my hand, there is a blister and large swelling in the bite area. It kind of looks like leprosy. Now, I'm unsure if this means that I'm onmyway towards DEATH or if it is a result from burning my thumb on the stove and/or touching the water that comprises the jellyfish soup a.k.a. the Long Island Sound. I SLATHER antibiotic cream on my hand 10x/day and pray for a miracle.

Thankfully I avoid amputation and Dusty is allowed to remain alive for a while longer, as is my husband. I determine that the military is wasting their time using the Meow Mix commerical as a torture device. Dusty and his friends can be the new secret weapon. Cat bites as a means to break down those prisoners.

Thank Goodness I'm cool, but not a MILF

2010-06-02T19:01:00.000-07:00

My cousin's daughter Lily age 11, whom I've met only once (and during her Gaga's funeral) completed this very telling facebook quiz about me. She's rather insightful for her young years. I'm cool, but not a MILF. I'm not sure if this is an insult, but I'm thinking it's OK. Do I really want to be a MILF? I'm not materialistic, nor do I need to lose weight. THIS GIRL IS MY NEW BFF. She wants to travel the word with me. What could be better? The only pitfall is that I've been accused of stealing money from my friends. (But only when I really need it!)

Do you think Colette Copeland is cool?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland could be a MILF?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland is materialistic?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland has ever had stitches?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland brushes their teeth regularly?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland needs to lose weight?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Have you ever had a crush on Colette Copeland?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland will do anything to get what they want?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland has ever stolen money from their friends?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland has ever played strip poker?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland watches the TV show "24"?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland is cute?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland speeds when driving?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland would turn you in to the FBI if they asked?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Would you travel the world with Colette Copeland?	Yes
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland is a sore loser?	No
Find out who answered for 50 coins!	Do you think that Colette Copeland lets the "yellow mellow"?	No

Grossest, Most Embarrassing, but not the Bloodiest Squash Story

2010-06-02T09:26:00.000-07:00

Someone whoshallnotbenamed shared this disturbing story this morning prior to my squash lesson.

The squash pro was coaching a middle-aged woman and during a lunge, he heard a squish and plop noise. He saw a red blob on the floor of the squash court. Not known for his diplomacy, he rushes over and screams--EWWW! What is that blob?

He thought it might have been the woman's gums or dentures. It turns out that it was her BLOODY TAMPON!

As expected, the woman was mortified and has not returned for a squash lesson since.

Incredulous, I had a lot of questions. First, I wanted to know HOW exactly this could happen. I mean wasn't she wearing underwear and shorts? Also if she was old enough to lose her dentures, then how could she still have a period?

Then I wanted to know if they called the MOD (manager on duty) to clean up the blood. Every time there is blood on the court, a report has to be filled out and a modified version of the HAZ MAT team has to clean up the blood. (I know because I had a head on court collision, resulting in copious blood splatters)

Not wanting to attract any further unwanted attention, the woman rushed to the ladies' room and cleaned it up herself.

Moral of the story? WEAR UNDERWEAR WHEN YOU PLAY SQUASH! Or more kegels!

google had this image accompanying an article on pads vs. tampons.

Clockwork Orange Choreography and Tattoos

2010-06-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

Last night my friend Rose and I were having a post-theater drink dissecting Vaclav Havel's play Leaving (currently at the Wilma Theater). This was an upscale bar--my friend doesn't do DIVE very well. I noticed that our bartender had very elaborate, unusual tattoos on both arms. I asked him if there was a story behind them. Turns out that he is a dancer/choreographer and apparently bartender. Here is the strangely fabulous story he told.

He was working in Germany for a very difficult director on a theater production of Clockwork Orange. (already it sounds strange). He knew in advance (a premonition?) that the production would be disastrous, but it paid the big bucks, so he signed on board. The director proved to be a nightmare. He would later find out that 2 other choreographers had quit prior to opening night. He cited one particular fight scene that he choreographed, where the director butchered it.

As a side note, he did say that the dead cat scene was done quite well.

The production was housed in a famous old theater (can't remember the name). The ceiling had magnificent patterns. When he returned to the states (he also quit prior to opening night), he had his tattoo artist etch the fleur de lis patterns from the theater ceiling on his arms and back.

A reminder of the one thing beautiful from the production.

A cautionary reminder about money and integrity

IMPURE YOGA

2010-05-10T13:05:00.000-07:00

Whenever I travel, I visit yoga studios. I love trying new classes and teachers. Since I don't live on an Ashram, I am aware of the growing commercialization of yoga and the disconnect between its spiritual roots and the Westernized adoption of the asanas or physical practice of yoga. Some would say bastardization.

A perfect example of this is Les Mills Body Flow class--a combination of pilates, yoga and tai-chi. (This guy's other group fitness offerings include Body Attack, Body Pump and Body Combat--body warfare and yoga? I can self-inflict violence on my body? Sign me right up!) Participants can experience the physical exercises without having to worry themselves about any mind-body connection or developing inner awareness. They don't have to figure out how their emotional stressors manifest into pain and life-threatening disease. They can just ignore them. Don't get me wrong, this type of exercise appeals to many people. But to some who might want a more holistic approach, they will be disappointed.

In case you want to read some other viewpoints, a couple of New York Times articles offer some interesting arguments. When Chocolate and Chakras Collide I would like to point out that I'm not a yoga purist or nazi yoga enforcer. I think chocolate should collide with my chakras on a regular basis. But only if it's dark chocolate.

A Yoga Manifesto I wish I had re-read this before my last trip. The writer points a finger at Pure Yoga, citing their high drop-in prices, inititation fees and monthly fees. Back to my New York narrative. Last week I was staying with a friend on the Upper East Side. I'm not sure why I thought I should STAY on the east side to take my yoga class, but that's what I did. I went to Pure Yoga and paid $25 for a 75 minute yoga class. When I balked at the outrageous price, the receptionist in a most unyoga like voice, said This is the UPPER EAST SIDE. We aren't even the MOST expensive studio.

My writer teacher training has taught me to vigilantly identify logical fallacies in arguments. I'm dumbfounded that the front desk yoga girl thinks this passes for an excuse.

My other complaint was the loud noises outside the studio. I concede that the teacher was good, however I didn't appreciate having to listen to a crying baby outside the yoga studio door. Now I'm pretty good at tuning out distractions. I mean I do have a husband and children. However, I JUST PAID $25 TO LISTEN TO A BABY CRY! I'm trying to de-stress and focus on compassion, grace and mercy--my intentions for the practice. (I know--that's a pretty tall order). I do feel sorry for the mother of that crying baby. I think that mother deserves to have some time to do yoga. BUT SHE CAN'T JUST LET THE BABY CRY WHILE 20 OTHER STRESSED OUT SOULS WHO SPENT THEIR LAST DIME ON A YOGA CLASS ARE TRYING TO PRACTICE.

I find out from the unyogic front desk girl that there is a kids' yoga class next door to mine. Mind you, she doesn't tell me this before I pay my $25. When I asked for a partial refund, she snidely said We don't give refunds. You finished the class. So much for customer satisfaction. PURE YOGA indeed.

(image from yoga for the people studio--nytimes yoga manifesto article linked in blog)

LITERALITY

2010-04-27T16:40:00.000-07:00

Gotta LOVE how literal-minded kids are. Especially boys. They are a bit TOO truthful. Sometimes this works in your favor. Such as when they say--Mom, your butt isn't as big as the other mom's butts. So recently (like tonight) when I was imbibing just a wee bit (attitude adjustment hours are essential for effective parenting) my son commented on my cocktail napkin.

Cole--look!! it's me!!!

Cole responds in a slightly disdainful manner,

MOM, you don't have green hair,

MOM, your earrings aren't that dangly,

MOM, you don't have a lady bug on your head,

MOM, you don't dress that stylishly (ouch!) or as he would say--SNAP!

and MOM, your wine glass isn't that big or filled all the way up to the top.

(clearly he's not a detail-oriented child)

Unhedged or Unhinged

2010-04-19T08:32:00.000-07:00

Neither of these images has anything to do with my blog topic. I think it's really fabulous what google image comes up with when you put in a word. (left--unhedged) (right--unhinged) Also there was no way that I was going to put up the Glenn Beck photo and give that guy any more publicity.

For the past few months Forbes Magazine has regularly appeared in my mail. I dutifully collect and stack them in my husband’s inbox. This past week I mentioned to him that HIS ever-growing stack was spilling onto the floor. He told me that Forbes was MY magazine. Dumbfounded, I looked at the address label and sure enough, my name is on it. I NEVER would subscribe to such a magazine. Perhaps this is some prankster’s a.k.a. a friend’s idea of a joke.

I’m not sure what possessed me to actually read an issue, but this week’s cover story featured Glenn Beck dressed in a conservative pin-striped suit chalked with dollar signs. Beck flaunts the incriminating evidence. Smiling smugly at the camera, chalk in hand, he knows he’s been bad and doesn’t care one bit.

This should have been my first clue to just pitch the magazine. I read further. On page 62, there is an article entitled Downshift. Maybe you get axed or maybe you decide to quit the rat race. What happens when you trade in your high-income lifestyle for something different? Forbes interviewed several ‘downshifters’ to see what life is like after a big change. The opening picture is a guy with a towheaded kid on a tropical beach. This should have been another GLARING clue to just burn the magazine.

I read further. I wonder who comprises the audience for this magazine. I always thought Forbes was in the same vein as Business Week. Forbes must cater to the top .00005% of the population who make more than 7 figures per year. It reminds me of when I read Women’s Health and expected to read about… I don’t know—health and instead saw article after article about sex.

Am I supposed to feel SORRY for the ex-hedger, who at age 38 lost his job and moved into a 3 bedroom home in the Bahamas? Is this supposed to be slumming it? It sounds pretty cushy to me. He enrolled his kids in the village school and started a soccer league. I applaud his altruism, but he hasn’t exactly experienced any REAL hardship. Since the island doesn’t have a hospital, he has contracted with a private airline company to airlift his family out in case of an emergency. (The article references his previous 7 figure salary plus an equal 7 figure bonus). The fact that he now makes a mere 1/10 of his former salary, still puts him at about 10x more than an average college professor (meaning me).

In the next profile titled THE HARD FALL, a recently sacked publishing exec laments having to rake his own lawn and describes his daughter’s hardship on having to forgo a $4000 class trip to Italy. For the first time ever, his two kids will get SUMMER JOBS. Boo hoo for them. I mean really.

What astonishes me is that the writer whoshallnotbenamed quotes these folks WITHOUT a trace of irony.

Downshifting is now a TRENDY hip movement. Where is the news in this? I can’t remember the last time an article agitated me so much. I WANT TO YELL—how about all those people who get sacked and lose their homes and cars? DOWNSHIFT THIS FORBES MAGAZINE.

Mold-Buster

2010-04-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

About a month or so ago, I came home and noticed a spill on the carpet. Of course I had to perform the gross test of determining whether it was PEE or water. (why does this task always fall on the mother?) My pets would not make eye contact, which made me immediately suspicious. Upon determining that it was WATER, I sensed the pets' vast relief (i heard the cats EXHALE), since the this ensured their survival for at least another day.

I wondered which bad kid spilled their water bottle on the floor and didn't clean it up. I decided that I wasn't going to clean it up either. After school, both claimed ignorance. Kid 1--I didn't do it. My brother must have done it. Kid 2--I didn't do it either. Maybe the dog did it. In some parallel universe, I'm convinced there must be a child somewhere who would actually volunteer to clean up a spill even if they didn't cause it.

The next day, the spill was STILL on the carpet and it looked a bit bigger. It must be my imagination. After two more days, the spill virally spread to a circumference of five feet. If you had the bad luck to step in it wearing socks--well, let's just say that the socks were rendered incinerator material.

As luck would have it, my husband returned from Boston just in time to diagnose the viral spill, which now resembled a small swimming pool. He determined that our WATER tank leaked. His solution?? Put a beach towel over the flooded area. This is akin to putting a bandaid on a wound spurting blood (or a 3rd degree burn caused by a sautering iron--ha ha)

I'm rather excited by the prospect of ripping up the carpet and getting a new floor. Call me excessive, but something about the pet-stained, children-stained, moldy 20 year old carpet, just isn't doing it for me anymore. The husband poo poos my excitement by pronouncing the fact that we don't NEED a new carpet. In his delusional world, he thinks this carpet can be SALVAGED.

I have two words for this. (No--it's not those two words. Do you think I would EVER curse at my LOVING spouse?) The two words are BLACK MOLD. Do you know that people DIE from black mold? The children already started to exhibit signs of respiratory distress. Coughing, trouble breathing. My husband is convinced that I somehow enlisted the children to PRETEND they are sick, so that I can have the carpet removed.

In case you are unfamiliar with black mold, here is a list health problems associated with the fungus.

Itchy Throat
Water Eyes
Headaches
Memory Loss
Irritated skin
Excessive Coughing
Excess mucus
Bleeding in the lungs
Mold in the bloodstream
Possible mild strokes
Fatigue

Did you read the part about bleeding lungs, stroke and moldy blood? My neighbor's kid had pneumonia 4x, before they discovered black mold in the walls.

Due to the seriousness of the issue, I have to take matters into my own hands. See picture in the upper left corner. Me as a mold-buster. I think it might be my new calling. I thought the picture on the right looked like a contemporary art mural. Very hip. Deadly, but hip.

And in case you are wondering, the ripandhaulaway is happening next week! WOOHOO!

STOO-PID-ITEE

2010-04-09T19:09:00.000-07:00

I just read a laughoutloud, peeinyourpants funny book by Jill Connor Browne a.k.a. THE Sweet Potato Queen. In fact, on my flight to and from Dallas, I'm convinced that my fellow passengers thought I was suffering from Tourette's Syndrome, given my spontaneous bouts of inflight laughter. Browne's latest book American Thighs is subtitled The Sweet Potato Queen's Guide to Preserving Your Assets. There are many, many quotable remarks, all of which could serve as blog topics for the next year.

This post will focus on men's STOO-PID-ITEE (Browne's phrase) when it comes to medical affairs. Not the kind between nurses and doctors.

"But if I did an actual tally of the STOO-PID people I know in regard to health maintenance, I feel pretty confident that the count would be heavily weighted on the male side. Guys as a rule, won't go to the doctor until something blows up or falls off in their hand. These same men exhibit an almost religious fervor in their determination to change the oil in their cars on a schedule set to an atomic clock. The slightest ding in a door is duly noted and seen to promptly and the tiniest ping in an engine warrants an emergency tow-in to the best mechanic within a 500 mile radius. In some cases, I've noticed that firearms are likewise maintained with loving attention.

But a physical? Just because 'it's that time of year' and nothing is festering, swelling, gushing, oozing, throbbing or hanging by a shred? On a likelihood par with wild monkeys flying out of their hindquarters--which, I supposed might actually warrant a check-up--but only if there was a constant stream of them--a one-time occurrence would immediately upon cessation, be dismissed as inconsequential and never mentioned again except as needed for a beer-driven display of one-upmanship with his buddies--as in 'Oh, yeah? Well, one time I had wild monkeys come flyin' outt my ass!!' (p.46)

Most of you know that my husband is a pretty level-headed guy. However I was so dumbfounded over his recent STOO-PID behavior, that I had to share it. Please harass him about this, when you see him.

A bit of background--my daughter has been treated by a dermatologist for foot warts. Apparently they are very stubborn warts and despite monthly freezing sessions, they refuse to die. My husband thinks that the doctor should BURN them off. Even though burning has been outlawed in dermatological circles, given the massive pain involved and subsequent scar tissue, he feels confident that his untrained medical opinion is vastly superior to the experts. (not to worry--this is not going where you think it's going)

Fast forward a few months. He asks me to make him an appointment to get his warts removed. I explain that it takes at least 3 months to get an appointment as a new patient. Unless you are dying of skin cancer, forget it. Warts do not constitute an emergency. Even though my husband has had these warts for months, maybe years, (they've become part of the family), all of a sudden it is a necessity to have them removed ASAP.

So he takes matters into his own hands. He waits until I am out of town. Then he instructs the teenager to go out and purchase a sautering iron. He can't even buy his own sautering iron. He has to implicate the child.

To his credit, he doesn't scarify and self-mutilate all in one shot. He tests it out on his hand first. HE HEATS THE SAUTERING IRON AND PURPOSELY BURNS HIS HAND. Apparently he felt justified in his medical decision, because he proudly showed me his burned hand upon my return. LOOK I BURNED OFF MY WART!

Of course, once you get a taste for self-mutilation, a mere 3rd degree burn doesn't deter you. Overtaken by boldness, he next burns his foot. I'm thinking this constitutes pathological behavior.

When one is married, one has to bite one's tongue regularly. This is the reason I no longer have any tastebuds. I've bitten and chewed all of them off. So instead of telling the husband that he is STOO-PID, I use the psychological approach and ask him pointed questions. Why did you feel the need to take medical matters in your own hands? How did it FEEL when you felt your flesh burning? Is your inner sadist feeling UNLOVED?

He responds that his layperson medical training has prepared him for this procedure. WHAT MEDICAL TRAINING? He knows how to ice his knees after playing soccer. Because he has removed a few stitches and can give a cat a pill, he is now a qualified medical practitioner.

OHMYGOSH. When he is dying of an infection in the hospital burn unit, I will be tempted to tell him that his STOO-PID actions serve him right. However, most likely, I'll be too busy biting off my tongue to say much of anything.

UNBURNED WART (Ian wanted to ensure that you knew this WASN'T his wart, but a a google image)

Real-Life 6 Feet Under Episode

2010-04-06T16:21:00.000-07:00

I recently attended a funeral in Dallas. The morning of the funeral, my cousins asked me if I wanted to ‘view’ the body. Most of you will be surprised to learn that I was hesitant about seeing a dead body. Not just any dead body, but a dead body that was related to me. Given that most of my work is about death and I collect dead things, you would think that I would RELISH this rare opportunity. However, I was feeling a bit SQUEAMISH. Yet, I wanted to be a team player, so my two cousins, their 4 kids and I piled into the suburban for the short ride to the funeral parlor.

When we arrived, a sober suited man escorted us into a back room. The smell of lilies permeated the room. Which I guess is a good thing, all things considered. It could have smelled like formaldehyde or something worse. Until that moment, lilies were my favorite flower. Sadly however, they will now be associated with funeral parlors and caskets.

The kids immediately ran up to the casket and peered in. They poked and prodded the body. Aunt Colette, why don’t you TOUCH her? I didn’t want the kids to think I was a scaredy cat, so I closed my eyes and tentatively did the one finger touch. It was kind of like petting a rubber shark from the aquarium.

I was busy looking at the masses of flowers, when one child shrieked, EEEWWW! Mama, did you just KISS her? Of course I kissed her. She’s my mother and I had to kiss her goodbye. That’s soooo gross. You just kissed a dead person.

One kid shouted, She’s cold!! This began a conversation about WHY she was cold. She’s cold, because her body was in the refrigerator. Why was she in the refrigerator? Well she was in the refrigerator, to keep her body preserved. You are talking about her like she was a DESSERT!

This elicited lots of giggles and more questions.

Does she still have her legs? Why can’t we see her legs? Is that her real hair? Why does her skin feel rubbery? She looks like she’s going to pop up and yell at us.

KIDS! Be careful not to mess up her make-up.

Next began a photo opp with my cousins’ I-phones. First we looked at before pictures. The before pictures were horrific. It was difficult to look at them. Think Munch’s Scream. The funeral home had performed a miracle. She looked peaceful, calm and beautiful. Next came pictures of the casket, the body in the casket and then all of us posing by the casket. It seems a bit irreverent, but the kids were very excited about getting their photo next to their Gigi.

The funeral was a graveside memorial with a closed casket. My cousin-in-law who originally hails from South Africa expressed his disappointment in the fact that the casket was never lowered in the ground. He had never attended a graveside service and expected it to be like the movies. The kids gathered flower petals to sprinkle on the casket, during its descent into the earth, but alas did not get the opportunity to throw the petals or themselves onto the casket amidst loud grief-stricken wails.

While we shared a few humorous moments (nothing like humor to temper the sadness), it was an occasion to reconnect with family and celebrate a great woman’s life.

Memorable kid comments—Mama, when my kids are as old as you, and you are as old as Gigi, can I boss them around, like Gigi did to you?

Our laughter encouraged this next comment. Dramatically clutching his throat and making gagging noises, one kid rendered a perfect imitation of his Gigi, Quit poisoning my food, you are killing me.

Quest for Monkey Meat

2010-04-06T16:14:00.000-07:00

My South African cousin-in-law is a hoot—very funny and always making jokes. The two of us decided to take the four kids for a walk in the neighborhood (In Irving, Texas) My idea--walk along the jogging trails. His idea--walk to the African grocery store (which he SWORE was only a few blocks away). He enticed the kids with the promise of monkey meat. Come on, we’ll get to see monkey meat.

As you can imagine, my idea was outvoted by his idea. So we set off on our adventure. A few blocks into it, the kids start asking questions. How far is it to the store? How will we know when we are there? What does monkey meat look like? What does monkey meat TASTE like?

Be on the lookout for hanging monkeys outside the store window. Dead monkeys or live monkeys?

After about 54 blocks, I express some reservations about our quest. (Ok, that may be a wee-bit of an exaggeration, but we were walking for at least 30 minutes) We are in a residential neighborhood and I don’t see any sign of any store, monkey or no monkey. He insists that it is just ahead.

I notice a home with a tree-house fort in the back yard. I see something that resembles a dog hanging from the tree fort. Look at that! There is a dog hanging in that tree house! We all run over to get a closer look. Wait a minute, that’s not a dog, IT’S A MONKEY! I kid you not, there is an honest-to-GOD monkey hanging in the tree house. I creep up closer and notice that the monkey’s face resembles a Mandrill or baboon. I creep closer.

Wwhewww! It is a fake lynched monkey. I have to say that the blood-thirsty kids were very disappointed in this turn of events. They immediately lose interest and return to the sidewalk. I'm still in shock.

I ask you--what kind of sicko hangs a stuffed monkey in a tree house?

A few more blocks up the street, wonders of wonders--there IS an African grocery store. The kids immediately ask the guy behind the counter where the monkey meat is. He does not look amused by their question. This is the great thing about kids. I'm not sure if they believed the monkey meat story or not, but they certainly weren't going to let the opportunity pass to embarrass their elders or catch them in a lie.

I'm still in awe. What do you think the chances are of actually finding a monkey while on a quest for monkey meat? In Irving, Texas of all places.

Cousin-in-law—I love it when my B.S. comes true.

In looking for a picture of a monkey, I came across this url about canned monkey meat.

http://www.gourmandizer.com/ezine/cannedMonkey/

Good Samaritan or Smiling Serial Killer?

2010-03-19T11:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday as I walking home from the train station, a smiling man in a blue truck stopped to ask me if I wanted a ride. I paused for a brief moment, then smiled, thanked him and said I was enjoying the nice weather and the exercise. The thing is--I really wanted a ride. As usual, I had to pee REALLY BAD, my briefcase was REALLY heavy and I was REALLY tired.

From the time I could walk, my mother, grandmother, aunts, and television have taught me to believe that you should NEVER EVER get into a stranger's car or let a stranger into your car. Especially a male stranger. Bad things happen to girls in cars. As my husband continuously reminds me, Men do not want to be friends with women. They are only interested in one thing. The one thing is the 'bad thing' that can happen to girls in cars. Of course I understand the rationale behind this. I certainly would not want my daughter to get into a potential ax-murdering rapist's car.

So even though this man might have been a good samaritan, my suspicions kicked in. Why does he want to give me a ride? His smile looks a little TOO friendly. Maybe he wants to find out where I live, so he can come back later and rob me. What would I do if he locked the doors and refused to take me home unless I performed the 'one thing'?

It's not as if I live in a high crime area. Although philly has distinguished itself as having one of the highest murder rates in the country, I live 15 miles away in the bucolic town of Media (where nothing bad is ever supposed to happen). So my truck-driving good samaritan could have just escaped from the city jail and is cruising the small towns for easy prey. Or he could be a neighbor, who runs an underground porn ring for fetishists, who like reasonably attractive middle aged women.

As I try to concentrate on not PEEING my pants, I wonder if there is a magic age where it is SAFE to accept a ride from a stranger. As Christians, we are all called to pass it forward--show kindness and compassion, while helping those in need. I deprived this man from his daily dose of good will. When I'm 68 and STILL walking home from the train station (because I can't afford to retire), will it be all right to get into a stranger's car?

my guy was about 10 years older than dexter with a really nice white smile and silver-streaked hair.

The Advantages of Having a Gay Boyfriend

2010-03-12T12:57:00.000-08:00

1. Buff, Hot, Studly Arm Candy (who doesn't have ulterior motives when dining with you)

2. Access to Fabulous Beauty Products (Sisleya eye cream at $150 .5 oz--no wonder he doesn't have crow's feet.)

3. Someone who tells you that you are BEAUTIFUL, THIN AND SEXY. (and you believe him, because he doesn't want to get in your pants)

4. Excellent advice on clothing choices and exquisite taste (especially when buying you earrings).

5. Truthfulness--to a point (When asking whether your butt looks fat in those jeans, instead of lying and saying NO, he will find the perfect pair of jeans to showcase your figure)

6. Great hugs (without the worry that it will turn him on)

7. Did I mention the part about not wanting to get in your pants??

Dedicated to Ronnie--my BGBFF

World's Worst Bowler

2010-03-12T05:11:00.000-08:00

My friend Marianne invited me to the Elwyn Bowling Fundraiser. I actually gafawwed in her face protesting, I am the world's worst bowler. Marianne is a good to great bowler and plays on a league every Thursday. Later that day, I start to feel guilty. For once, I have no plans on Friday night. My kids have a reprieve from their various sports and have plans that DON'T include me. Marianne always asks me to go out and I'm always too busy. Also the fundraiser is for a good cause--Elwyn Institute helps special needs children and adults. I recant and she promises me it will be fun. (They have a bar after all).

We arrive and claim our own lane. This is important, since I do not want to be on a 'team'. I have issues stemming from childhood traumas of always being the LAST kid chosen for the team sport. I claim a pink bowling ball to match my sweater. Fashion is important if talent is lacking. Marianne has her own ball, custom-made for her barbie doll figure. I need a beer before proceeding further.

My first round isn't so horrible--74. I'm ecstatic. Maybe I'm not the worst bowler in the history of bowling. Marianne bowls 158 and is disappointed. On either side of us, serious bowlers effortlessly bowl one strike after another. My game quickly goes downhill. Game two--54. Marianne tries to give me pointers. Don't let your arm cross your body. Remember to follow through. Don't rush it. You are RUSHING it. Aim just off the center. I can usually follow her advice for one round and then immediately revert back to my favorite shot--the gutter ball.

You lack consistency and follow-through. This seems somewhat prophetic and applicable to the rest of my life.

There is a D.J., who is playing GOOD danceable music--although I feel a bit silly dancing in my bowling lane, only to throw a gutter ball. After my third game in the 50's, I need another beer. My fatalistic defeatist attitude proves to be my undoing. The first 10 gutter balls are funny. After that, it's not so funny. Just when I think my score can't get any lower, I bowl a 41.

The D.J. doesn't believe that I bowled a 41. In fact, he has to come over and look at the scoreboard. He tells me that he never heard of a score that low. Next thing I know, I'm honored with the WORST BOWLER AWARD. This is quite an achievement. The blow to my ego is somewhat softened when I look at my prize--1 hour full body massage. (thankfully it's not with the D.J.)

Funny moment of the evening--while preparing for her shot, Marianne's ball flies out of her hand, propelled backwards, nearly missing my head and landing with a loud thump.

My love affair with PECO

2010-02-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

Portrait of my house during the power outage.

Like 200,000 other unhappy souls, I lost power during the blizzard of 2010. Unlike most of you, I do not have modern conveniences such as public water or a gas generator. So when my house loses power, there is no electricity to run the well's pump. Thus, no flushing toilets. (lack of heat and hot water seems minor compared to the toilet problem)

When the kids were little and we lost power, I told them that it would be just like camping. Whenever they needed to go...they could dig a hole in the backyard. The fence gave them a modicum of privacy and protected them from the neighborhood wild animals. After such fun adventures, I'm surprised neither of them likes camping.

Back to the present. Over the past three days, I've become quite intimate with PECO. In case you aren't familiar with PECO, it stands for:

P hiladelphia

E rroneous

C ommunication

O peration

One of the best things about calling PECO is that you never have to speak to a live person. When you call in, a warm friendly voice (which I've nicknamed the PECO princess) informs you that PECO is working hard to actively ascertain the cause of your outage. I'm thinking--that is great news! They are working to correct my problem. After the first fifty calls, that voice doesn't seem quite as warm or friendly. In fact, I think she is mocking me. How long can it possibly take to ascertain the cause and get to the fixing part?

The deceptive princess also apologizes for your inconvenience. Inconvenience? My house is a balmy 40 degrees. Icicles dangle from the cats' whiskers. I haven't showered in 2 days.

If you key in your phone number, the princess will let you how many other lucky folks are also out of power. Then if you are REALLY lucky, she will tell you when your power will be restored. Unfortunately this changes by the minute. I know, because I became a bit obsessive and start calling her every five minutes. She thanks me for my patience and understanding. Now I KNOW she's mocking me.

For security purposes, we will only reveal the first 3 digits of your house number. This seems a bit silly. Do criminals really tap into PECO phone lines to get the scoop on who is out of power, so they can rob them?

Based on our crews working overtime, we estimate your power will be restored on February 11th at 11:59pm. I'm simultaneously outraged and impressed. It takes them 2 days to ascertain the problem, but then they can predict the exact minute of power restoration?

We have deployed extra crews and have restored power to 195, 000 people in your area. It would impress me more if they could restore it to the rest of us.

Over the next few days, the PECO princess gets vindictive. Not only does she change her mind about the date/time of my power restoration, she takes to calling me in the middle of the night to tease me. At 4:41 am, she says, We've restored power to many homes in your area. I'm awake and excited. I rush home only to find that she LIED. This happens two nights in a row. You can't hang up on the princess, because she will call you back, again and again.

Lest you think that my children unduly suffered, worry not. At the first sign of snow with potential school closings, they high-tailed it to friends' houses. Friends' houses that do not lose power in storms. Ian was where Ian always is during crises. NOT IN TOWN.

At 2pm today, power is restored and I'm planning my revenge on the PECO princess

Texting Etiquette

2010-02-01T15:24:00.000-08:00

I received the following text yesterday at 5:46pm.

Still @ airport. Weather is bad. Plane got hit by lightning on way to Dallas. Mntc is checking plane out now. Conf call cancelled for tom.

I text back at 6:02pm. Can you call me?

No response….for hours. Now, I don’t know about you, but that text is like having a bomb drop. What does this mean? I’m pretty sure it means that he WASN’T on the plane that got hit by lightning. I’m pretty sure it means that he WASN’T hit by lightning. I’m pretty sure that maintenance wouldn’t let a FRIED plane fly. What I don’t know is if he’s on a plane at all or even coming home at all.

I try not to panic. I’m in upstate New York for my exhibit. The kids have already been staying with friends for 2 days. If the plane doesn’t fly, I have no alternate back-up plans for the children. Nor do I have a way to reach them, since they never answer their cell phones. (They always seem to be texting when I’m with them. When I need to reach them, it always goes to voicemail. Hmmm)

After 2 hours, I have convinced myself that he’s already DEAD. The plane must have crashed. There is no other logical explanation on why he has NOT called or texted. I have a new dilemma. How do I get home from upstate New York? It’s snowing. I have a rental car. Will the grief-stricken widow be in any shape to drive 6 hours through the arctic wilderness wasteland of north middle Pennsylvania?

This brings me back to the subject of my rant. Texting etiquette. There should be a law that prohibits invoking mass hysteria over a simple grammatically incorrect message. One should not be able to say—Hey, I might die ton. and then not follow-up with a courtesy text. R u ded? K im ded.

While I’m ranting on texting and cell phone etiquette, I might as well say that I HATE when people call and don’t leave a message. When I ask ‘said’ people why they don’t leave messages, they respond well, you can see I called on the missed call log and then call me back. If they left a message in the first place, I wouldn’t have to CALL them back.

While at a meeting the other day, my boss says that there is a study(click to read story on CNN), published in he U.K. which scientifically proves emailing causes one’s I.Q. to drop. In fact, the I.Q. loss is equivalent to that of smoking pot, but without the high. This is alarming. I can’t afford to lose anymore I.Q. numbers. I’ve already killed too many brain cells and suffer from C.R.S. I’m sure that texting also contributes to this fatal, incurable disease. In case you don’t know about this disease, it stands for CAN’T REMEMBER S..T.

What was I saying?

The Jury Lounge a.k.a. Purgatory

2010-01-19T16:03:00.000-08:00

In theory, I love the IDEA of civic duty. Serving justice--Life without parole for the child molester or bleeding the insurance company for wrongly denying all those terminal children's bone marrow transplant claims.

In REALITY, I panic whenever I receive a jury summons and do whatever is necessary to get out of it. WHOWILLTAKECAREOFTHECHILDRENWHENI'MSEQUESTERED?WHOWILLTEACHMYCLASSES?WILLISTILLGETPAID?OHMYGOSHINEEDTOINSTALLMYEXHIBITNEXTWEEKINNEWYORK.WILLTHEJUDGELETMEOFFFOR UNDUEHARDSHIP?

After 6 undue hardship excusals, I figure my grace period is over. I wonder what to wear and what to say that will make me an undesirable candidate. If I appear as the paradox that I am—the Christian liberal artist professor—does that make me ideal or undesirable? I briefly debated bringing Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow and my BIBLE—that would really confuse them. Opted for the laptop and two lighter texts--both figuratively and literally.

I decided to wear a shirt screen-printed with barbed wire (courtesy of Alison Pierz Designs--Crown of Thorns attire). An apt metaphor for the day of collective confinement.

Waiting in the line at the security checkpoint, a guy in a business suit tells me that if you get on a federal case, you will be stuck for 6 months or more. That is not what I want to hear right now. He has an official law enforcement badge and is sent in immediately. He gets picked in the first round for the civil trial.

The jury lounge. Lounge conjures up an image of ambient lighting, glistening cocktails and comfy sofas. This *lounge* consists of an overcrowded, airless room of 300+ people all hoping to not be chosen. Padded chairs are crammed so close together that I am touching elbows with the men on either side of me. If I lean back, my head will rest in someone’s lap. The guy on my left with bloodshot eyes ( Elliott, age 27) has been summoned 5x, but has never been chosen. He is hoping for early dismissal so that he can have a few beers, a burger and a nap, courtesy of his employer. The man on my right offers me some Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies. I see an elderly man with a spongebob squarepants baseball cap, texting on his blackberry.

The judge tried to convince us that collectively we have THOUSANDS OF YEARS of wisdom, common sense, integrity and an ethical sense of justice. It's a bit of a stretch.

The jury lounge is actually what Dante referred to as PURGATORY.

It is an in-between place of waiting. IN LIMBO. It seems eternal. Does one proceed into Hell or receive a pardon from the big boss? Unlike purgatory, reprieve is only valid for 1 year and 1 day and then your number is up....again.

A major shout-out to the guy who plead guilty, so I didn't have to progress to the next round.

Purgatory according to Dante:

A Merry Sedaris Christmas

2009-12-06T06:21:00.000-08:00

This summer I went on a David Sedaris binge. I read all of his books including

SantaLand Diaries, where Sedaris recounts his job as a 30 year-old elf in Santa Land at Macy's, New York. The book's cover featured Santa at the men's urinal. I wonder if Santa sued Sedaris for this unflattering image? The original 1997 Holidays on Ice book featured a frosted highball glass. The newest version from 2008, repackages the same stories from the previous decade, as well as a few new stories. The cover shows an elf-like figurine who has fallen through the ice. While one could make a case for irreverence, it doesn't send the same message as the high ball glass. I personally like the urinal image the best.

Since I believe in spreading Christmas cheer, I have purchased this book for some family members who need a good laugh. Not everyone can appreciate Sedaris' dark humor. Dinah, the Christmas Whore sends a strong Christian Good Samaritan message if one can read between the lines. Season's Greetings is the most outrageous satire of Christmas family newsletters that I've ever read. My ribs hurt for days from excessive laughing.

One of my favorite stories is not included in this book. Sedaris describes his struggle with finding the perfect Christmas gift for his partner Hugh (who he lives with in Paris). The perfect gift turns out to be a skeleton! Hugh, who is thrilled with this gift, decides that it should be hung in the bedroom. Sedaris laments about having to see the skeleton every morning upon wakening. I wish someone would give me a skeleton for Christmas.

In the new edition of Holidays on Ice are a few stories that I haven't read like Jesus Shaves and Six to Eight Black Men. Is it really tacky to give the relatives a slightly USED book?

Confessions of a Cruiseaphobe

2009-12-05T13:18:00.000-08:00

This was last year's Christmas letter. Since it was pre-blog, I've had a few requests to resurrect it for the archive. That's what writers and artists do, right? They rehash, recirculate, recycle, regenerate--in an effort to maximize distribution and efficiency.

I know this isn’t the traditional x-mas newsletter. But if you got one of those from me, you would know that I had been abducted by aliens and Ian would have gotten his dream Stepford wife. No, the above picture is not from the cruise, which will be the topic of this slightly irreverent rant. I am smiling, because the dolphins just goosed me and I’m a bit terrified.

Confession #1: Cruises resemble Hell much more than the utopic Shangri-la promised by Royal Caribbean.

Observations or Reasons to Support Confession #1: Seasickness, Seasickness, Seasickness—I assumed since I spend my entire summers on boats, that I would never succumb to sea sickness. My friends all said—the ships are so large, you don’t even feel the sea. Well, I didn’t need to feel it. All I had to do was look at it and it was nausea-city. I felt like the chick in Hitchcock’s Vertigo. (Hint—mass quantities of Dramamine and alcohol are not a good mix)

Observation #2: Spring Break mentality is unattractive in people over 40. Hey—I like to party just as much as anyone else, only not for 16 straight hours. People start drinking various rum-infused concoctions at 10am, continuing for the entire day/night. Inebriation tends to dull one’s sense of hearing, as well as one’s sense of propriety. Thus, no one is aware of their deficiency in social filters.

Observation #3: Cruises are license for gluttony. Now I’m sure this is obvious, but I had never witnessed this type of over-consumption. Imagine hundreds of people piling their plates with fat-laden foods—super size me doesn’t even begin to compare. I might be the only person in history who lost weight on a cruise.

Confession #2: I admit to being a closet spa slut. Immediately upon boarding, I take a spa tour and am recruited to be the spa model. I agreed without ever asking what I had to do. All I cared about was getting the free spa services. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the massage spa model. I was the model for a European torture treatment (probably designed by some masochistic male). I had to lie on a table in the LOBBY of the spa with red algae on my thighs, stomach and hips, covered in clay mud and attached to electronic stem therapy for 1.5 hours, while patrons toured the spa, poking and prodding me. (Apparently, they thought I was a manikin, since no LIVE, SANE person would do something so embarrassing). In case you haven’t had the luxury of electric stem therapy, it feels like thousands of needles pricking you all at once. The benefits of such torture??? Detoxification and slimming—3-8 inches in one treatment. Unfortunately, the technician forgot to measure me before my treatment, so no proof exists of my suffering or ultimate improvement.

Confession #3: I’m allergic to the ocean. All of you who know me, realize that every time I enter the ocean, I am stung by jellyfish, Portuguese manowar, etc… So in Cozumel, I grill the tour guide, who assures me that in October, there are NO jellyfish, sea lice or anything, which could possibly sting me. While snorkeling, I try to ignore the stings that I’m feeling over my entire body. It must be a figment of my overactive imagination. Upon exiting the ocean, the dive guide suggests that I have an extra drink. I’m ecstatic. No signs of stings—until the next morning. My entire body is covered in large, red, oozing blisters—which resemble a bad case of leprosy. Given my vast medical training, I deduce that I’m allergic to particles of coral and sea anemones, which freely float in the water by the reefs. (Hint—large quantities of Dramamine, benedryl, cortozone and alcohol don’t mix)

Confession #4: I feel ever-so guilty about admitting my cruise abhorrence. After all, who can complain about an all-expense paid trip to the Caribbean during the middle of my work semester?

Counter argument or the positive outlook: At least we didn’t spend our own money to experience the cruise phenomena. It was warm. Obama won and the cruise ship showed the election coverage. I have really good stories to share.

Memorable Moments: One of the dinner waiters from Goa, India. “Madam, it is a fish, it is supposed to taste fishy.”

(In the Jacuzzi with 8 other people, all strangers.) 3 very large men from Kentucky talking about incest and sex with their sisters. I am so not making this up. That was my one and only dip in the Jacuzzi.

Sneaking into the Ritz Carlton’s pool in Grand Cayman. (The cruise ship’s supposed 5 star resort excursion was a dive motel with 2 outdoor showers to be shared by 200 people)

The champagne bar on the ship. A glass of Veuve Cliquot can make almost any situation bearable.

This is getting too long. I hope you had a good chuckle at my expense. Laughter is the best stress remedy. Keep it real and keep the focus on t he reason for the season.

Wishing you a blessed holiday season.

Love,

Colette

p.s. Ian and I usually disagree on most things—politics, child raising, movies, art, etc…

we both agreed that this will be our first and last cruise.

Performing the Mommy Woes

2009-12-05T12:24:00.000-08:00

Looking through the pre-blog archives, I discovered this gem. Written as a monologue for my graduate performance art class in 2001, I had to 'perform' it in front of my 20-something, unmarried, childless peers. Only my professor laughed. As I re-read it, I realized that some things haven't changed a bit.

Some people are born with maternal instincts. God skipped me when passing out those genes. When I was younger, people commented on cute babies. I noticed their deformed heads and drool-soaked faces.

When I was in middle school, I babysat everyday after school and all weekend EVERY OTHER WEEKEND for 2 little boy monsters named Alex (6) and Michael (7). Their behavior convinced me to never have children. As soon as the mother left, Michael hid under his bed, refusing to come out. At times I dragged him screaming, kicking and biting from his safe haven. Alex was a WILD THING. One time he snuck out of the house, climbing a tall tree in the front yard. A neighbor called the fire dept.. Sirens blared, as the firefighters employed a 30 foot ladder for his rescue. He also was a bit of a pervert at that young age (Alex, not the firefighters). As often as he could manage, he grabbed my breasts or tried to unbutton my pants.

So now I have kids. I love them and all, but still those maternal feelings have to be worked on continuously, developed like a muscle. I know women have been raising kids for centuries—so why does it seem so difficult to get through a single day?

A typical day begins at 7am with my 2 yr. old human alarm clock screaming, “Mommy out, Mommy out, Mommy out, Mommy out, Mommy out, MOMMY OUT!!!” I go into my 7 yr. olds room whose alarm is blaring; yet she is somehow still sleeping through the racket. “Camille, it’s time to get up. You’re going to be late.” I go into Cole’s room to change his diaper and get him dressed. “I do it. I do it. I do it myself”. “No poop, just pee” Ok Cole you can do it. “Pocket pants, Mommy. Pocket pants. Pocket pants. No, BLUE pocket pants. Me no like that shirt. Pocket shirt. Blue pocket shirt.” Cole, the blue pocket shirt is dirty, here’s a truck shirt. “NOOO!” Car, car, blue car. Ok Cole, here’s your blue car. Cole, let’s put your shoes and socks on, so your feet aren’t cold. “I do it myself, Mommy” Cole, you’re putting the shoes on the wrong feet. Your feet will hurt. “No Mommy.” “I DID IT, I DID IT”

I go back into Camille’s room—“Camille why haven’t you gotten dressed? You have been staring at your dresser for a half an hour and we’re going to be late.” “I can’t find anything to wear”. “Just put on a pair of jeans and T-shirt”.

I go into the kitchen to make breakfast and pack lunches. The dog whines to be let out. The cat meows for food. Even the fish are on my nerves this morning. I briefly contemplate pulling the plug on their oxygen bubbler. Camille comes into the kitchen wearing dressy black patent leather shoes with jeans and a T-shirt. “Camille, you can’t wear those shoes to school.” “Why not?” I have told you that those are for dress up and they will get ruined in gym class. Have you fed the animals yet?” No, I still have to brush my hair. “What have you been doing for the past 45 minutes?” “getting ready.”

I gulp my chocolate protein smoothie, while making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “smoovie, mommy, smoovie”. Okay Cole, if I let you have some smoothie, you have to be careful and not spill. “ok, mommy, no spill”

Shrieks erupt. “Mom, Cole hit me” Cole, don’t hit your sister. Say you’re sorry. “No” Cole, say you’re sorry now. “No” Say you’re sorry or you’ll get a spank. “Sorry sissy. Uh oh, mess mommy mess. (He starts to cry) Oblivious to the crying, Camille says, “Mom, I really want an American girl doll. I saw it in this book I’m reading. I have to have one. They are so cool. (Cole is still crying) Taylor and Dillon have them.” Camille, I can’t discuss this right now. Camille still talking, “Yesterday in school, I was sitting at my desk and Taylor was mean to me.” “She said she didn’t want to play with me at recess”. "I’m sorry about that." “Can I stay up and watch the dinosaur movie tonight?" "If your room is clean and your homework is done, we can talk about it." Whining and Stomping. “But mom, I don’t want to clean my room. I hate cleaning my room. Cole doesn’t have to clean his room." "Cole is only 2 and you are 7." “That’s not fair. Lori’s mom helps her clean her room. You’re mean."

Phone rings. Both kids run to answer it. I got it, no I got it. Camille rips the phone out of her brother’s hand. Cole starts crying, “Daddy, Daddy”. “Hi Daddy, when are you coming home? I want an American girl doll. Cole hit me. He’s being a pain. He messed up my room and now I have to clean it.” (Cole is now screaming at the top of his lungs and bites Camille on the leg). Cole gets the phone and now Camille is crying. “Mom, I can’t walk, my leg is hurt”. "Camille, we only have 10 minutes util we have to leave and you haven’t eaten your breakfast." (Cole is in background still on the phone) “Daddy, monster here. Roar. Monster, monster in phone. Here mommy” (hands me the phone) "Hi Ian, sorry I can’t talk, we have to leave in 5 minutes and we’re not ready yet." I hang up the phone and Cole cries, “Daddy, Daddy”. "Camille, get your shoes and socks on. Cole, get your coat on." “No zipper mommy, no zipper”. Ok Cole, no zipper. Bapac, blankie, bear, monster book, mommy. "Ok, let’s hurry and pack your backpack. Camille, we’re getting in the car now."

We’re all in the car and I’m backing out of the driveway. Cole says, “Poop, mommy, poop.” Camille says, “ mom, I can’t find my sneaks”. "Camille, how many times have I told you, that if you put them away when you take them off, you would know where to find them." “Big poop, mommy, big poop”. “Mom, I’m not allowed to wear my snow boots in class”

I pull back in the driveway to change Cole and let Camille get her shoes. 10 minutes later we are back in the car. “Alligator song mommy, alligator song.” "Cole we’re already heard the alligator song 5 times, let’s listen to something else." “Alligator song, pees mommy” Okay.

We finally make it to school. Camille’s in a bad mood, so am I and it’s only 8:45 in the morning.

Some things haven't changed. I still have to yell at them to get ready in the morning. They still argue and can't find their clothes, shoes, backpacks, sports bags. Thankfully, I'm done with the diapers phase.

I GOT AN "A" FOR MY PERFORMANCE.

Mid-Career or End of Career Christmas Card Retrospective

2009-12-02T06:04:00.000-08:00

2000 printed on silver metallic paper

For fifteen years I HAND-MADE Christmas cards each season. The tradition started when I was in college studying art and photography. I used the opportunity to showcase my ‘quirky’ sensibility and ‘dark’ humor. For you photo geeks out there, the first year, I produced hand-tinted cyanotypes. This involved painting a chemical compound on 100 individual 5x7 pieces of watercolor rag paper (in almost total darkness), waiting for them to dry, projecting/exposing an image onto each paper, developing each paper in a chemical bath, drying them and adding a bit of hand-applied color. This does not include the time it took to write a personalized message, label, stamp and mail them. This also does not factor in the time it took to recover from my subsequent mental breakdown.

In hindsight, I can only attribute my insanity to a multiple-personality disorder; my other self posing as Martha Stewart. For the past three years, I have been on Christmas card sabbatical in an effort to cut down on holiday-induced stress. Besides my medical insurance no longer covers the stays at the sanitarium. This year, instead of spending thousands of hours collaging, printing & painting cards, I scanned previous years’ cards for your enjoyment.

In anticipation of the protests, “Hey, that’s cheating!” I have a few retorts, some of which are not appropriate for posting. Many of you either—A. put your cards on display to show-off how popular you are or B. throw them in the recycle bin or worse GARBAGE as soon as you open them.

My digital card retrospective is eco-friendly. No trees were killed in the making of this blog, Nor did I spend what would equate to arming a small country for the production and distribution of the cards. And if you don't like them--delete.

2006

2005
2004
2003
2001

1999

1998
1997
1996
1993
1992
1991
1989
1988
1987

Zombies & Academics

2009-11-08T15:32:00.000-08:00

I have the privilege of chairing the Mid Atlantic Region of the Society for Photographic Education. I've held this esteemed unpaid position for the past eight years. My major responsibility is overseeing the planning and execution of a yearly conference. This year's theme was The Market. Folks from the reality TV show Art Star presented a dynamite keynote presentation. A 'come as you died' zombie party was scheduled at the Holiday Inn following the keynote address. Excerpts from my introductory remarks are below.

You may be wondering what zombies have to do with the theme of our conference? Or you might ask yourself what academics and zombies have in common?

Myth 1: One has to die to become a zombie

Truth: One only has to work ceaselessly for a year planning a spe conference to achieve zombie status. (evidence A)

Myth 2: Zombies do not share human traits.

Truth: David Chalmers defines a philosophical zombie as a zombie who lacks full consciousness, but has the biology and behavior of a normal human. By midterms, most academics roam classrooms and hallways, not only lacking full consciousness, but resembling characters from Night of the Living Dead.

Myth 3: Zombies do not participate in social activism.

Truth: Zombie walks are staged in some countries and resemble a cross between a surrealist performance and a political protest. Hmmm--sounds suspiciously like a documentary photographer or activist performance artist.

Myth 4: Zombies are contagious

Truth: This myth is true. The zombie virus spreads in the same manner as education. Once it infects the brain, nothing short of death will stop the pandemic.

(microscopic view of zombie virus)

We hope to spread the pandemic of education this weekend. Enjoy and Engage in the dialogue. After the keynote, join us at the Holiday Inn Bar for the ‘come as you died’ zombie party and watch your favorite zombie movie clips.

A side note--Totowa Holiday Inn provided probably the worst service EVER. They wouldn't let us screen the video footage in the bar, despite the fact that we were their only customers. The bar was also under construction and had a big tarp along one side (perfect screen for zombie films). BAN THEM!

Peeing in Public

2009-10-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I PEED in public. It was dark, but still... The bathrooms at Suburban Station were closed and my train was 10 minutes late, so by the time I reached my stop, I had been holding it for over an hour. The 8 minute walk to my car was agonizing. Only a 5 minute car ride and then RELIEF. 9pm--I reached my car, got inside and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Try again. Nothing again. And again.

No worries. I'll go to one of the shops/restaurants/gas stations near the parking lot. The Sunoco, Chinese restaurant, pizza place and pharmacy were all CLOSED, even though their signs said they were supposed to be OPEN until 9:30pm.

I call my husband--once. twice. three times. no answer. HE NEVER ANSWERS WHEN IT IS REALLY IMPORTANT. I start the 30 minute walk home. After 5 minutes, I'm in agony. Men pee outside all the time--against trees, bushes, walls, behind car doors. What is the big deal? I should be able to pee if I need to. I find the nearest yard with bushes. The exterior and interior house lights are on and I briefly debate whether to risk getting caught. The desperate adventurer in me does the yogi squat. Miraculously I manage to avoid peeing on my shoes or pants or brief case.

My children think this is hysterical. My son--mom, I don't want anyone seeing your butt. My daughter--mom, if they do see your butt, I don't want anyone to know that you are my mom. I'm a bit insulted. My butt is fine.

p.s. no the picture is not me. it's a woman in bulgaria. i'm a bit envious, because she's mastered the art of peeing while standing.

Death, Puke & Passive Aggressive Family Dynamics

2009-10-10T08:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes (ok, most of the time) I get sick of having to clean-up after everyone else. Most of you know that I am domestically challenged. Cleaning doesn't relieve stress or give me a high. In fact, I try to avoid it much like I avoid liver--at all costs. However, my family members don't respect this. If they truly loved me, they would not only clean-up after themselves, but me as well. Are you all snickering yet? My house is decorated in what I fondly (and sometimes embarrassingly) call 'Post-Katrina' decor.

If you were a fly or a stink bug residing in my house, here is a sample of typical daily conversation. Mom, the cat puked. Well, why don't you clean it up? Why should I clean it up? Well, you saw it first, and it is your cat. Mom, I'm not cleaning it up. That's disgusting. It will make me puke. Why should I clean it up? Because you are the mom and it's your job.

This is the kind of remark that sends me over the edge. You know-- that murderous, I'm going to punish you for the rest of your life or at least until you can learn to not be a sexist, chauvenist, piglet. However, I'm told that this is improper parenting and may even be considered abusive. I personally believe that allowing your son to grow up to be a sexist piglet is not only abusive, but should be punished by death. I think I'm in the minority, considering how many sexist piglets reside not only in my son's school, but full-grown man pigs in Philadelphia as well as the greater United States.

I digress. The story that best illustrates our dysfunctional, passive-aggressive family dynamic concerns a dead thing and my son's cat. The cat doing what cats do brings home dead things and leaves them by the sliding glass door. A few months ago, I decided to leave the dead thing (a mole) to see how long it would take someone to either throw it away or give it a proper burial. I'm still waiting. The dead thing doesn't seem to bother anyone else, but me. It now blends in with the patio and has lost all of its bodily fluids. I figure if I wait long enough, it will turn into a skeleton and I can make art with it.

Stink Bug Invasion

2009-10-09T18:04:00.000-07:00

My son asked me the other day why God made stink bugs. I SO wanted to reply that God has an inner sadist who likes to torture us. However, one cannot say such things to an 11 year-old, who still lives in a very literal world. I might permanently scar his young mind. So instead I gave the psychotherapist response--I don't know, why do YOU think God made stink bugs? This is a lame-ass response and he immediately sees right through my trick. That's NOT an answer.

Forget about the Year of the Ox (Chinese calendar). It is the year of the stinkbug. Did you know that "The brown marmorated stink bug, an insect not previously seen on our continent, has apparently been accidentally introduced into eastern Pennsylvania?" They are native to China, Japan, Korea & Taiwan. Makes you wonder how they managed to travel to Pennsylvania. Remember the Old Testament plagues of locusts and gnats? Hmmm...mighty suspicious. Supposedly they only appear during warmer periods in fall and spring. However they seem to be an equal opportunity season pest in my household.

My most memorable stink bug story took place a few months ago. While reading on my sun porch, covered with a blanket, I noticed a stink bug. And then another. And another. And another. I brushed them off the blanket and continued to read. A few more crawled in my lap. I got up and shook the blanket. HUNDREDS OF LIVE STINK BUGS FLEW OUT OF THE BLANKET. It was like the spider scene from the Indiana Jones movie.

As you probably know, you cannot squash a stink bug. Besides the smell, they send out a distress signal to all their stink bug friends within a 100 mile radius, who immediately come, ready for invasion. 1 squashed stink bug today, 1000 live ones tomorrow.

My friend told me that I should suck them up in my vacuum cleaner. This seemed like a brilliant idea. I wouldn't have to squash them and their friends would be none the wiser. I admit to feeling gleeful while sucking up the little monsters with the vacuum hose. As you probably guessed, this didn't work too well. First of all, they didn't all die. Some heroically clung on like tornado survivors, crawling back out once the 'wind' died down.

The other problem was the stink. The next time I vacuumed my house (ok I don't really vacuum). The next time someone vacuumed the house, the ENTIRE HOUSE smelled of eau de stink bug. FOR DAYS.

My neighbor told me that she actually ate a stink bug. It was in her glass and she didn't see it. The crunch and smell gave it away. EEWWW!

So the stink bugs are back. I try to be a GREEN person. However I decided that enough was enough. They needed to DIE. So we (actually it was my husband) bombed them. My inner sadist smiled when I witnessed the stink bug holocaust. Hundreds of little bodies all doing the dead bug yoga pose. I realize that is very un-Christ like of me. And I don't care.

Art for All & Shameless Self-Promotion

2009-10-09T05:19:00.000-07:00

I participated in a group show in Soho last month called, A Book About Death. A democratic show, the first 500 artists submitted 500 postcards depicting...DEATH. Right up my alley. The exhibit paid homage to Ray Johnson (founder of mail art) & Emily Harvey (whose foundation and gallery hosted the exhibit). I liked the show's concept--sharing art with the public. Each visitor could make their own 'book about death'. Free Art for All. It never hurts to have another NYC gallery line on the resume and I relish any excuse to go to NYC.

The organizer did a fabulous job promoting the exhibit on the blog. By official opening time, there were lines around the block waiting to get into the gallery. Most of my family/friends didn't get in the door. There was a videographer, who was streaming live footage directly to the blog. I was told people were logging in from China, Australia and all over Europe.

Art & Death aficionados madly scooped up the postcards. The fact that the cards were cheap reproductions did not deter the enthusiastic crowd. No art snobs here. Even in Manhattan, people love anything that is FREE. After a couple of hours, the gallery looked ravaged.

The scene would have been comical if it wasn't so darn HOT. People pushed and nudged, vying for the best 'cards'. The truly funny part happened later. I was waiting for a friend, who happened to be dining with the Royal Dutch family that evening. By the time he arrived at the gallery, I was alone with the organizer and one other guy.

After brief introductions, the organizer begins grilling my friend about his job. I happened to mention that he worked on Wall Street, which piqued the organizer's interest. He bluntly asked my friend whether he was a low-level manager, or did he have any real power a.k.a. buying power. Don't you need art for your corporate offices? My friend graciously laughed and responded that he was a senior partner. Drooling, the organizer aggressively proceeded to try to sell him A MILLION DOLLAR artwork. I am so NOT kidding. I was mortified. The man had no SHAME. He even tried to tempt me with a $50,000 commission, if I convinced my friend to buy his million dollar work. The man had balls, I'll give him that. He didn't even try to start with a smaller work, let's say for a couple of grand. He went right for the big pay out.

So much for Free Art for All. When it comes right down to it, it's all about the MONEY.

How Sexy is YOUR name?

2009-09-26T13:16:00.000-07:00

So far, I have avoided taking ANY facebook quizzes (until today). I really don't care 'how well' you know me, nor do I care what Simpsons', Star Wars or Charlie's Angel character I most closely resemble. I don't feel the need to identify with a particular rockstar, artstar, starstar, emotion, color or food. (Especially if it is from the 80's). So why did I feel the need to take the sexy name test?

Perhaps, because it did not require effort. I only typed in my name and got my sexy quotient. Colette Copeland, your name is TOO sexy--340 points. So I already KNEW I had a cool name. I wasn't satisfied. The quiz didn't divulge what constitutes a SEXY name. What is the criteria that the hidden Facebook judges use to determine sexiness? Most importantly, who has TIME to come up with these ridiculous quizzes?

Because I was procrastinating and avoiding editing multitudes of essays, I decided to continue to test facebook. My brother-in-law FB chatted me telling me that he scored a 308. hmmm His name is rather common--Christopher Roger Williams. Then my friend Asif Talukdar FB me, saying that he only scored a 58. How can this be?

I immediately put in my sisters' names. No competition there. Candy Cash--165, Carla Peace--227, and Courtney Courie--259. First of all, I don't think it gets much sexier than Candy Cash. Come on--let's be real here. And second of all, her message was DAMN sexy. I don't know about you, but I think DAMN sexy is WAY better than TOO sexy. You definitely have the curse word going for you. Of course I am HAPPY that my score beats out my sisters' scores.

Next I put in Ian Williams (yawn)--214. Next I put in Ian Copeland--243. This just proves my point. I TRIED to convince Ian to take my name, but to no avail.

Kids--Camille Williams--323. When I ADD her middle name (MY NAME) Camille Copeland Williams, her score shoots to 503, proving that her middle name ROCKS. Cole Williams--248, but Cole Roger Williams--345 and Cole Roger Williams III--375. What does this prove? That sexiness is derived from names with more than 3 words and numerals? Or that the FACEBOOK QUIZZES ARE BOTH RACIST AND CLASSIST?

Just for fun, I put in my full name, which includes my mother's maiden name, my father's name and my stepfather's name--Colette Carpenter Copeland Cash and broke the bank--594 POINTS!! Unfortunately I'm still in the TOO sexy category, which seems somewhat unfair, given that I just increased 250 points. Ian will be happy to note that when his name is added to the already unwieldy name of Colette Carpenter Copeland Cash Williams that I'm now up to 745 points. STILL TOO SEXY.

So what can be concluded from this utter waste of time?

Nothing.

However, you can log-on and take your own sexy name quiz or join the facebook group--

AGAINST ALL THESE QUIZZES ON FACEBOOK

This group is mostly addressed to all those people who hate these stupid quizzes on facebook...join in guys i know there are alot of you who hate them!!

http://apps.facebook.com/sexyname/

Deadly Distractions

2009-09-03T10:45:00.000-07:00

This week I had to take the Fleet Defense Alert online driving course to get certified to drive a 15 person passenger van. First of all, the name itself is scary--FLEET DEFENSE ALERT. It sounds like a homeland security buzzword. The course has 9 modules and was SUPPOSED to take 90 minutes to complete. It has taken me FOUR days.

Day 1 was spent figuring out how to get the modules to open. This required an emergency visit from a computer fairy who magically reconfigured my computer. Apparently cookies paralyze the modules. I'm not a computer genius, but I'm guessing these aren't the chocolate chip kind.

Next I patiently listened to an annoying MALE voice tell me how easy it would be to crash and roll my vehicle killing every one of my passengers. The annoying male voice even gave me some statistics to back up his claim. His voice was so cheerful and upbeat, while delivering his gloom and doom schpeal, that I immediately had thoughts of rolling my vehicle over him, crushing him to death.

I successfully complete the first 4 modules and find that NONE of my scores have been recorded and now I have to start all over again! We are now into DAY 3.

Deadly Distractions--this is the title of the 5th module. Did you know that cell phones are a distraction and cause 33,000 injuries and 2600 deaths annually? Did you know that driving while distracted is as risky as driving intoxicated? I wonder what the statistics are for driving while distracted and intoxicated?

I learned that I should NOT check out the hot guy in the other car or watch for signs leading to garage sales, since both of these are considered DEADLY DISTRACTIONS. I learned that I can no longer shower, shave, get dressed, put on make-up and blow dry my hair while driving. (Ok--so I don't really do this, but statistics show that 8% of deadly distraction accidents are caused by shaving while driving, 8% due to hair styling and 20% due to make-up) I'm wondering what you do with the shaving cream?

Mr. Annoying does not say how many accidents are caused by turning around and YELLING at your children while driving. This I do A LOT.

The embarrassing part of this story is that I FAIL this module. I FAIL because I was too DISTRACTED. Always in proper multi-tasking mode, I was checking email, facebook, texting, filing my nails and editing my syllabus all during my training.

Despite my failure, I take comfort in the fact that only 29% of accidents are caused by distracted drivers. I have the odds on my side.

The following phrase is indelibly imprinted/scarred? upon my brain:

REMEMBER--BE ALERT & BE SAFE

Lily Decimation and Karmic Principles

2009-08-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

Someone told me recently that in the 'OLDEN' days, people used to have kids in order to boost their labor force. Free slave labor for the farm. Somehow we've gotten away from that. Perhaps it's due to the fact that we no longer farm. It has shifted so far in the opposite direction, that now we work FOR our kids. We are slaves to their schedules. Like pre-season sports hell, where we spend 4 hours/day in the car driving them to their 2x/day practices.

Yesterday I decided we were going to have a family bonding event and do lawn work TOGETHER. Responding to moans and groans, I explain how LUCKY they are that they don't have to rise at 4am to milk cows, muck stalls and feed chickens. Instead they get to work in the 500 degree heat pulling weeds.

My 29 yr.old cousin, who is temporarily living with me, volunteered to help. He promises to show me how to work all of the power tools in the shed. He makes quite a fashion statement--shirtless, with knee-high rubber wader boots and a cowboy hat. I'm really wishing I had a camera. My son, not to be outdone, comes outside in Pirates of the Caribbean pajama pants, a button down dress shirt and cowboy hat to match my cousin. Did I mention the 500 degree weather with a gazillion degrees of humidity?

I take the weed wacker. I decide it will be a good anti-stress therapy to WACK away those weeds. My cousin is in charge of the hedge clipper--for those weeds that are 6 feet tall and resemble trees. My son is given the task of weeding a small bed near the mailbox. He has done this before, so I don't think he needs much guidance.

30 minutes later, my arm and hand are numb from weed wacking and I've barely made a dent in the weed forest, which is my yard. My cousin is having difficulty. Apparently it is against his karmic principles to kill ANYTHING. When I question why he isn't hacking off the weeds, I get responses such as--I thought that plant was nice or the coverage gives you more privacy or that one had flowers.

I check on my son. Instead of weeding the front bed, he has DUG A HOLE. Not a small hole, but a large hole in the MIDDLE OF MY FRONT YARD. When I inquire oh so patiently about the hole in the front yard, he explains that he WANTED to dig a hole. Not only is this hole unsightly, but dangerous. Perhaps he has a secret death wish for his sister. The next time she mows the yard, the tractor mower will flip over. I give him directions to fill the hole and continue weeding. I am very specific about what constitutes a weed and what is a REAL LEGIT plant. In my mailbox flower bed, I only have 3 plants--lilys and the rest are weeds.

I go back to WACKING. A while later, I check on my son again and notice LILY DECIMATION. I'm not overly attached to my plants, but this was one of the only plants that I managed not to kill and it was lying shredded in the driveway. How could you kill my lily???

My son is now demoted to the back yard picking up debris. What's debris, Mom? Just pick up all the wacked plants in the back yard. I check in with my cousin later. How's my son doing? Is he picking up the plants? Sort of. He's been talking about how he is going to be a MALE MODEL, so that he never has to do yard work.

This is why parents drink.

Why I'm a Poor Candidate for an I.V. Drug User

2009-08-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

1. My fear of needles is only equalled by my fear of spiders and liver.

Yesterday I went to the dentist's office for a teeny-weeny filling (or so the dentist promised). He brought out the foot long needle of novocaine and promised it would just sting a little. HE LIED. IT HURT. A LOT. 10 minutes later, he checks to see if I'm numb. I try to tell him that I can still feel my lips, so perhaps the novocaine didn't work correctly. He ignores me and drills. IT HURTS. A LOT. After frantically waving my hands in the air, he pauses and looks ANNOYED. Then he gives me another shot. He drills again. IT HURTS. A LOT. He looks MORE ANNOYED as he not so patiently explains that he's BARELY TOUCHING my tooth. Dr. Demon Dentist injects SHOT #3 and resumes drilling. I give up and close my eyes trying to imagine if this is what HELL is like. After the appt. is over, I realize that the entire right side of my face is NUMB. In fact, it is so numb, that I'm drooling like a paralyzed stroke patient. The dentist tells me that it will wear off in 2 hours--"Don't eat or drink, you might chew off your tongue or cheek." Eight hours later, I am still drooling and slurring my words.

2. Drugs affect me a bit differently than most people.

(see example above)

The most horrid example of this was during labor with my first child. I wasn't going to be a martyr. I yelled for drugs the minute I entered the hospital. I am convinced the anesthesiologists are really sadists in disguise, because they always wait until you are writhing in agony before administering the drugs. Everyone had told me that the epidural was FABULOUS. You could drink tea and converse while having a baby. THEY LIED. I finally get the epidural and it doesn't work. Correction, it only works on one side of the body. So while one side is comfortably numb, the other side feels every single contraction and pain. When the drug bill came, it was $1500 for the shot that didn't work. I tried to dispute the charge. I thought it was only fair to pay for half, since it only worked on half. Unfortunately the hospital billing dept. didn't agree and reported my lack of payment to collections.

3. Bad trips

The most compelling reason to avoid drugs is the possibility for a bad trip. When I tried a recreational drug (only once kids and it was in college), it was BAD. REALLY BAD. My boyfriend had convinced me of bliss. Instead I saw spiders and snakes crawling over the entire room. Sinister men in black lurked in the shadows ready to kill me. My teeth chattered and I had the shakes for two days.

Penis Wrappers and other dinnertime conversation

2009-08-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

Something about the mountain air must loosen tongues. Or at least my 11 yr-old son's tongue and his desire to share or as I tend to say OVERSHARE. I suppose I should feel happy that he's comfortable in asking his mother questions about 'DOING IT'.

This conversation was during a dinner of farm fresh veggies--roasted purple potatoes, garlicky green beans, pesto-slathered tomatoes and green salad. Perhaps my son was trying to divert me, so he wouldn't have to eat his veggies.

The first question had to do with PENIS WRAPPERS. He wanted to know what they looked like and how they worked. Since his school teaches abstinence, he missed the thrilling health class demonstration where you practice putting a condom on a banana. In between bouts of choking, I explain the proper terminology and use without resorting to a hands-on practice session.

His 16 yr-old sister volunteers the information that condoms come in multiple colors and flavors. My friend who has kids in their 20's & 30's was shocked and perhaps a bit thrilled to learn this fact. My son's response--EEEWWW! I don't want a girl sucking my.... We digressed a a bit into edible underwear and how my daughter procured such information.

Emboldened by the hysterical laughing, my son's next question had to do with baseball or rather the 'BASES'. He understood that the bases held some meaning outside of baseball, but wasn't sure what they were. He knew that first base was kissing and home was 'SCORING'. (I was momentarily relieved when he thought home base was kissing without clothes)

Again his sister jumped in to clarify his misconceptions, explaining each base and subsequent progression. I then learned such new phrases as 'squeezing the lemon' and 'NAKED LEAPFROG'.

He asked me if I had menopause. Perish the thought. I am much too young. He heard the term from THAT 70's SHOW. Good wholesome TV. He thought that menopause was when a woman had breast cancer. When he found out that it meant no more chance of babies, and 'doing' it without birth control, he was grossed out. EEEWWW! Old people 'doing it'.

By this time, all pretenses of eating were done. We ended the conversation by practicing kissing on our arms. (Which I don't think is particularly helpful, but his sister told him that it was important to practice) I haven't laughed this much in years. Frightening, but funny.

Just in case you think that TV doesn't influence kids--he learned everything from That 70's Show and the Simpsons.

Pissed On

2009-08-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

Rain symbolizes nourishment and renewal. Why is it then that most slang phrases point to the rain as an annoyance? Don't rain on my parade. Save it for a rainy day. I'll take a rain-check. It's raining cats & dogs. This summer has been full of nourishment and renewal, much to all the sunlovers' dismay.

When I was little, someone (I don't want to blame my mom--it could have been another well-meaning adult or my gloom & doom grandmother) told me that rain was actually the TEARS of God. God was crying, because I was bad. Or the world was bad. Or I made the world bad due to my badness. How's that for a guilt trip? I've also heard that rain is God's PEE. I don't know about you, but I'll take tears any day over Omnipotent GOLDEN SHOWERS. (Did you know that in New Zealand, this offense is punishable by up to 10 years in prison?)

All of this preamble is leading up to a story that involves...RAIN. Just when I was despairing over a lack of suitable blog material, God blesses me with another few incidents to write about.

I receive a phone call from a friend who is staying in my Maryland lake house, telling me that my dryer belt is broken. I tell her that she has to suffer dryerless for the week. I tell her to use the back line and front porch to hang clothes & towels. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a problem. But she's there with 12 other people and has to launder 5 bedrooms worth of linens and towels before I arrive. No laundry mat within 30 miles. I feel bad, but what can I do?

I arrive and miraculously everything is clean, DRY and folded. I'm thrilled, because a new dryer is arriving momentarily. I get to see it and touch it for about 10 minutes before the driver tells me that it is an ELECTRIC dryer and I have GAS. I knew this. My husband ordered it, so it is all HIS fault. No big deal--I can use the back line. It's very GREEN and eco-friendly. Not much sunshine back there, but perhaps the cool mountain breezes will dry the clothes.

Now the rain part. Two days in a row, I am trapped in torrential precipitation, attempting to put on the boat cover. After the first day, I have everything ALMOST dry on the line, when downpour #2 occurs. No warning. One minute blue sky, the next minute flash-flooding. Given that I'm such an efficient packer, I realize that I only have 1 pair of shorts and no towels left for the entire week. Everything on the line smells like eau de mildew.

Teeth chattering, I derive solace from the fact that the rain is freezing cold and pee is typically warm, so at least I'm not the beneficiary of heavenly 'Piss Play' a.k.a water sports. (Not to be confused with the other types of water sports I hope to engage in, as soon as the rain ceases.)