How Sexy is YOUR name?

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

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

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

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

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

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.)

Radiator HELL & Cheap Chemical Peels

For those of you who have been reading my blog regularly, you know about my love/mostly HATE relationship with my pimpmobile a.k.a. mode of transportation. (see March 11 post on Cars & Life Lessons--Humility & Non-Attachment) You might also know that demons regularly possess most inanimate objects in my life. (see March 12 post on evil all around us)

I left the bucolic paradise of Southold, NY (on the Long Island sound)  at the unseemly hour of noon. It was a perfect day--sunny, slight breeze, beach and waves beckoning me to spend the day lounging. However, I promised my husband that I'd be home by 5pm. So I missed out on the PERFECT day in order to miss the gridlock traffic on the LIE, Southern Parkway, Belt Parkway & NJ Turnpike. 

On the Belt Parkway during a scenic tour of backed-up traffic, I noticed a light on the dashboard. CHECK THE GAGE. What gage? Don't they mean gauge? It seems to me that the car manufacturer could be a bit MORE specific when giving directives. I did figure out that they were referring to the TEMPERATURE gauge which seemed to be pointing in the red zone. Even I know that the red zone is BAD. However when I was cruising at 70mph, the arrow was in the SAFE zone. What does it mean to have it waffle back and worth between danger and safety? What should I do? 

Flashback to the time when the Land Rover engine caught fire and burned. I didn't get a friendly reminder sign that told me my car was about to combust. I did not want to get stuck on the Jersey turnpike with a smoking car. I pull into the next rest area. (I don't know why they call them rest areas. They are anything BUT restful. You have to wait in line for an hour for gas and starbucks. But I digress....)

I go into the mart, tell the guy that my engine overheated and inquire about coolant. He tells me not to open the hood that the steam will burn my face. You must wait, he says. For how long? 15 minutes, 30 minutes? Until the car is cool. I am not very good at waiting. However I do not relish the prospect of burning off all the skin on my face, even though it would be a cheap way to get a chemical peel. 

I decide it is the perfect opportunity to read my owner's manual. Section 5-11 Engine Overheating. CAUTION !! Steam from an overheated engine can burn you badly even if you just open the hood. Get away from the car until the engine is cool. NOTICE: If your engine catches fire due to driving with no coolant, your vehicle can be severely damaged. The costly repairs would NOT be covered by your warranty. 

With 175,000 miles I doubt my expired warranty covers anything. I realize that this entire section is full of caution and danger warnings. I am now so freaked out by the thought of burning off my face, getting my hair caught in the electric fans or having a surge of coolant explode that I'm scared to even open the hood. I call my husband instead. As usual, whenever it is important, he does not answer. I text--emergency! call me! Still no response.

I open the hood. Nothing happens. I locate the coolant tank which does not look ANYTHING like the diagram in the owner's manual. The section on how to add coolant to the coolant surge tank features a picture of a WOMAN who gets blasted by a spray of boiling ethylene glycol, because she impatiently twisted the surge cap when it was hot. In the picture, her skin is still in tact, but she appears to be blinded. Now, why wouldn't they picture a man? Why is it the woman who is always portrayed as the dumb bunny? 

I carefully twist the cap, steam escapes and I panic. A few moments later, I remove the cap, but there's more steam. The book doesn't say whether I have to wait until all of the liquid is cool before pouring in NEW coolant. However there is a caution section on how you will get burned if you spill even a DROP of coolant on engine parts. Have you ever tried to pour a full gallon of coolant without spilling? It's not that easy. I spill some and curse. It is an unsightly radioactive green color. 

Back on the road. So far, so good. Temp gauge back to normal and I turn on the air. I can SEE the air conditioning and smell a funny burnt smell. Air is clear, you aren't supposed to be able to SEE it. I immediately think that the spilled chemical is wafting into the air vents, poisoning me. So I turn off the air, open the windows and breathe diesel fumes the rest of the trip. 

I make it to my exit when the gauge plummets into the red zone AGAIN!!! The coolant must have leaked out. I have not only poisoned myself, but the environment. That stretch of NJ turnpike will now be a bio hazardous wasteland, thanks to my careless error. I make it home without the engine catching fire. I feel exhausted, but slightly proud that I avoided major catastrophe. 

Hours later, the phone rings (ok only 2 hours, but still....) It is my husband, probably wondering about the emergency. I could have been dead by now. I ignore his call. Make him sweat a bit. Then I feel bad. What if he's really worried??? What if I cause him needless worry and he has a heart attack or gets into an accident? I call him back 10 minutes later. He tells me that in the future, I need to qualify what KIND of emergency in my text. Apparently I did not have what he considers a TRUE emergency.