Veni. Vidi. Vici.

There is a reason I do not write haiku. This reason has less to do with my ability than it has to do with my verbosity. And while it's obvious that my verbosity does know a few boundaries (because I could really write reams but I choose not to, I am a ruthless on-the-spot editor), I nonetheless hate the idea of the restrictiveness of a haiku. I like lots of exposition in a story, and that's probably because I grew up listening to and reading lots of southern storytellers who can paint some pretty vivid pictures with their words.

However, John over at Disappearing John RN tagged me last week to do a meme called Six Word Stories. And because I value the thoughtfulness of a link, and I also don't want him to think I am ignoring his request because he has been nothing but nice to me... I am going to try it, by god.

And I just want to go on record for saying this was HARD.

And so I present: Three six-word stories that have come from the pages of my life here in this little podunk town:

Strong perfume; negative reaction; hurt feelings.

Purse snatched; Grandma chased; embarrassed thief.

Late bedtime; early rising; grumpy child.


There you have it, nine words that have summed up the goings on around here. A coworker offended another coworker with her (probably too-blunt) assessment of the second coworker's perfume. A string of purse-snatchings in which one of the (elderly) victims gave chase and summarily thwarted and embarrassed the snatcher. (Don't mess with Grandma's purse, is all I'm saying.) And a pattern that we have fallen into as of late around the Mox household, whereupon Spawn stays up entirely too late and then gets up in the morning for school with the demeanor of a bear.

It's all fun and games around here, folks.

I'm not in the habit of tagging others for memes, but since I also would like to share the pain, I think I will tag Brooke (who is a honest-to-god real writer who also oddly enough hasn't written anything on her blog in a few days), Mark (because I am jealous of his tropical locale), Mike (and I am expecting something very clever from him, no pressure, though), Jas (because he will rise to the occasion as only he can) , Snagley (who has admitted to a blogging dry spell as of late), and Bridegroom (who needs a good excuse to post, anyway).

Go egg them on. Or, you know, just egg them. Whatever gets the job done.



-- Mox

Perhaps I am a bit too anal.

If you have a kid in Catholic school right now you know that this is National Catholic Schools Week. I don't know about anywhere else, but here at our school that means fun and games, no homework all week, and a relaxation of the dress code.

Call me crazy if you want, but I like the uniforms that the kids have to wear. It's so much easier in the morning to get out the door when you don't have the quandary of what to wear. I don't have to supervise the assemblage of outfits, and there is no need for me to veto clothing selection. Spawn puts on the khakis and the polo shirt and off we go.

However, this week the school is having special dress days. Today is Mix-up Day. Which means that whatever the kids wear, it's not supposed to match.

Yikes.

I helped Spawn pick out an "outfit" last night, and it was painful to me. I am a matchy-matchy type of person, Mrs. Coordinate Your Colors, that's me. I find it difficult to mis-match stuff on purpose, green-and-purple stripes with red plaids and yellow polka dots and what-all. These people who can put on the first thing they grab out of the closet in the morning, well, I just don't understand them. I get the hives. More than once last night I caught myself trying to coordinate Spawn's outfit rather than purposely making it mismatched, and finally I just had to give up and let the kid do it without my help. A six year old can really get into the spirit of such things.

Back in the day I could have gotten into mismatching clothes on purpose, and I could have dreamed up some pretty wild combinations. I used to love it when we had special dress days at school. But over the years I've become so used to "dressing for success" that that part of my brain has atrophied and creative dressing is far beyond my grasp anymore. I suppose what this means is that I have crossed a threshold and am now firmly on the path to old-ladydom.

It was a little harder than I thought it would be to put together a mismatched outfit, because upon close inspection, Spawn doesn't have too much that isn't coordinate-able. I looked long and hard and discovered that most of Spawn's clothes are without patterns, mostly solid colors and mostly colors within the same color family. I also discovered that I have entered into a phase in my life whereby all fabric in my house is solid colored and/or subtly patterned.

Translation: I am dull.

But still, Spawn got the job done, where old Mom just couldn't bring herself to do it. So this morning we walked into school, me with my perfectly coordinated business attire, right down to my socks, and Spawn, who was wearing an orange shirt, fuchsia and blue embroidered jeans, a pink belt, one lavender sock, one red sock, two different shoes, a purple lei, and a hot pink straw hat. God, it's great to be Six, because at Six in an outfit like that you can't help but look adorable.

I love the fact that having Spawn in my life means that I have to stretch my brain every once in a while.




-- Mox

Defining pathetic.

How bad is it that I filched five bucks from my six year old because I didn't have any money of my own?

And related to that, how bad is it that my six year old has more cash on hand than I do?




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Chawklit

I like sweets just as much as the next person, but I can also live for quite a long while without them. They are not normally my downfall, because I don't feel like a failure, diet-wise, if I give in to the temptation once in a while.

Here lately my craving has been for chocolate. Now, I am a chocolate snob of the first order, and I much prefer the pricey stuff over the stuff you can buy at any corner get-n-go. But I am also not ashamed to go slumming with the cheap stuff, and when a craving hits I will eat a handful of Hershey kisses and not bat an eye. I'm not too proud.

It occured to me last night that while I did very well watching what I ate and getting good exercise during the holidays, and therefore entered the new year with none of the guilt that a lot of people do (which causes them to make unrealistic resolutions), I had since slacked off and consequently have been feeling like a giant slug. Clearly, something must be done.

And as long as I can do it with a bar of chocolate in my hand, so much the better.

-- Mox

Looks cute with jeans.

Of my many and varied personal flaws, one of the smallest and therefore the one that takes up the most space in my brain is the illusion that a certain item of clothing will look good on me given the right circumstance.

I can't tell you how many tops I've bought with the thought "it'll look cute with jeans." It's the reason I have so many white shirts, for one thing. I like the look of a white shirt with a pair of jeans.

I caught myself doing just that thing yesterday, except it was a cute pair of jeans.

Wonder if I'll look cute in them or it's all my imagination.




-- Mox

A vacation for everyone. Yes, everyone.

My parents are right now on their way to Florida to visit relatives. For two weeks.

That pleasant sensation you are feeling right now, just by casting your eyes on this blog? Well, that's what serenity feels like, my friends.

Now look, before you get the wrong idea, let me say that I love my parents. Very much. Love them with a capital L and also don't want to think about the inevitable day in which I no longer have them around.

But.

My parents are retired. My dad for a little over six years, my mom for just about three. They have forgotten, I think, what it's like to be a (relatively) young person who has to work, to sing for their supper. And the world that I inhabit, well, it's not the world that they knew. In the world they knew, you went to work for The Man, and The Man set you up a pension plan, and you stayed there for 40 years or until you died and The End. You got regularly-scheduled raises, two weeks of paid vacation, and health insurance. Talk about your golden apples.

My parents pretty regularly shake their heads at me and my situation, how I have none of the traditional perks of gainful employment and yet still manage to work for the same people day in and day out. Sure, I've gotten shat upon, but at this point in the game it's more about the money (what little there is) than it's about the golden apples.

And of course since they don't quite "get" what it is that I'm doing, they seem to think that I've got all the time in the world. Well, sure, if you count commuting, I've got lots of down time. So they put a lot of extra pressure on me to do stuff for them and to make extra trips on their behalf, and then they're mystified as to why I get peevish sometimes. It's especially tough when they start planning one of their trips, because I think they forget that just because their life locally is being put on hold, mine is still stroking along at full speed, as always.

It's always like this in the days before they go off on a trip: my dad will get super-involved in a project of some sort and work like a madman to complete it before departure, while my mother will start to wring her hands about all the Stuff she has to get done before they leave, and how she really doesn't want to go, and then before I know it somehow she's focused in on some character flaw of mine and suddenly she's all on my case about something.

I really do love them but they make me crazy.

So the first few days of them being gone is a little weird, but at the same time liberating. Sure, I have to reorder my days a bit, because they help me out by picking Spawn up from school a couple of days a week, but it's also very nice to not have to be nice. I can really hunker down and get some stuff done while they're gone.

To take this a few steps further, my husband also gets a little break because I'm getting my stuff done and that's making me a little easier to deal with. And Spawn, though pining for grandparental company, also gets a perk or two that comes from Mom having some extra time and not so much clutter in her brain.

And when my parents get back they will be tanned and rested and very glad to be home, and all of us will have had a break from one another. What's not to love about that?




-- Mox

Some like it hot.

My husband and I are at war with one another.

The issue we are warring over? Temperature. Specifically, the ideal temperature for comfort in our house.

The thermostat wars started right about the time it got really cold around here, and they likely won't abate until spring. Then there will be a brief resurrection of the battle during the hottest heat of summer.

See, I like the temperature in the house to be just this side of 70. My husband prefers it to be way on the other side of 70. Since he has lost 80+ pounds over two years ago, he's always cold. (Insert joke about the insulating qualities of blubber here.) While I appreciate the fact that he's 75% of the man he used to be, and therefore has likely extended his life expectancy and increased his chances for living a life free of debilitating health issues, the fact of the matter remains that he is smoking me out of the house.

Once upon a time, I was always the cold one. But there was a point at which our body temperatures made the swap, and it happened just about the time I got pregnant and gained 42 pounds (mmmm, cheeseburgers!). The nice thing about being hugely pregnant in the dead of winter is that at least you don't have to deal with the miserable-ness of the heat that moms of summer babies have to endure. Still, I was warmer than usual during those days, and could often be found standing barefooted out on the stoop, fanning my t-shirt, trying to cool off. And once I had Spawn, my personal heat wave continued, mostly likely because I had an 8-pound baby and was left with nearly 35 pounds of extra blubber of my own.

I was recently looking at the photos from those early days of Spawn's life, and they could be accurately titled The Most Excellent Adventures of the Chubby Family. All three of us were porkers. Spawn was the only one it looked good on.

So. I lost the weight. Then later my husband lost the weight. And still, I am the hot one and he is not the hot one he used to be.

Back and forth the thermostat goes, from 68 to 75 and back again. And what we do is change the thermostat and then deny that either of us has touched it, like we have poltergeists tinkering with the mechanics in this house. Oooh, we are so innocent and sneaky.

I maintain, however, that if he would get up off his butt and move around a little bit he wouldn't be cold. Seriously. I'm the one working in a hot kitchen to fix dinner every night. I'm the one cleaning up after the meal. I'm the one getting Spawn into and out of the tub, supervising homework, making lunches for the next day, getting the kid off to bed. I'm the one making fifteen trips a night up and down the basement steps to do laundry. I'm working up a sweat. He's sitting on his butt in front of the TV. With an afghan thrown over his legs. And the man wants to wear shorts in the winter, so of course his legs get cold. The only movement he makes is to raise the clicker once in a while and change the channel. No wonder he's cold -- he's practically catatonic.

And so I change the thermostat because to me the house is so hot I can't breathe. I have ceased to have any sympathy for him and his perception of cold. I'm up moving around, I'm hot, and he's not.

I win.




-- Mox

In this case, "Hot Mama" means "Mama with a fever."

Had the strangest day last Friday.

Whilst recovering from the head cold that laid me low for much of the week, I did my best to just show up and stay upright at work. I work in a public building, so I get to meet and greet people of all types, whether I want to or not.

In comes a young man, probably about 21, cooling his heels while he waits for the other person he's with to finish their business. He's typical of young men in this neck of the woods, meaning redneck and naive, and to that end is wearing a broad-rimmed black cowboy hat, black leather motorcycle jacket, and black cowboy boots, fully trimmed in silver. The boots must have cost a fortune, and since I am all about the shoes I made note of them, especially since he had trimmed them with a boot chain made to resemble a bullet holster, complete with silver bullets. If you could cookie-cutter the vast majority of young men in the countryside around here, he would be the prototype.

So he's chatting me up, and I'm trying to be polite and yet offputting, because my head is a balloon and everything seems sort of otherworldly to me. After about 15 minutes of conversation, he gets to the money question: "are ya married?"

Sadly, yes, and you, young sir, are probably young enough to be my kid. But you're cute and thanks for the ego stroke. Now run along.

(I've got to give the kid credit though, for looking to swim outside his gene pool.)

Later that evening, I was at the liquor store (of course!) buying beer to go with our pizza, and the young man behind the counter starts in with the flirting.

What the hell...?

I know none of this is due to my drop dead gorgeous looks, though I suppose there is a certain contingent of young men who find red chapped noses and puffy eyes to be attractive. Low standards, to be sure. The only standard sexy thing I've got working right now is the Kathleen Turner-esque husk in my voice, so maybe that's the attention-grabber.

I only wish I felt better, so I could have enjoyed the attention rather than being puzzled and somewhat annoyed by it.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Heavily Medicated Edition

Mmmmmm. I loves me some good drugs.

I reached the point yesterday (and very quickly, I might add) where I knew that the only thing I was going to be able to do is grab a bottle and go to bed. But of course when your name is Mommy you don't get to do that sort of thing right away, not like people whose name is Daddy can.

Yes, my husband has it too. We're a bundle of fun right now.

At any rate, it was going on 9 o'clock before I was able to finally fall into bed, and I slept like the dead for at least four hours. After that I was awake pretty much every hour on the hour.

But let me tell you this: I can breathe. Thanks to some potent decongestant/antihistamine pills and some really really good nasal spray I am able to breathe, and that is probably going to be the highlight of my day. And because Spawn will be spending the night tonight with my parents, an early bedtime for me is not only doable, but done.

Ahhhhh.

We're supposed to get some snow this weekend. At this point I am undecided if I am excited about that or not. The weather forecasters are getting everyone all whipped into a frenzy with their doomsday talk about 2! or! 3! inches! when there is also an equal possibility it will just be some sleet and slush and then done. But I already have my milk, bread, and eggs so I'm ahead of the game no matter what. I also have whiskey, honey, and lemon juice, so if this cough gets worse I'm prepared for that, too.

Not straying too far from the ol' homestead, in any case.




-- Mox

Sympathy needed here.

I feel like hell.

What I thought was my sinuses misbehaving on Tuesday has now morphed into a full-blown head cold. Half of my nose has quit working completely, while the other half has decided that constant draining would be a good idea. Thus my nose is chapped. And I just started with the coughing this morning.

Urg. Just in time for the weekend.

What I really want is my couch and a warm blankie. But what I must do is survive the next six hours before I can go home. I need the money.

So sleepy.....



-- Mox

Tat 2 U

"I think I'm going to get a tattoo this year."

"You? Ha! You're afraid of needles. You'd never survive it."

"Well, I want one by the time I'm 50."

I let that hang in the air between us for just a moment. He's thinking.

"I'm thinking Roy Orbison on my butt."

"You don't even like Roy Orbison."

"All the more reason."




-- Mox

Spawn, Version 6.0

I have decided that Six is a perfect age. Of course Five was perfect, and so was Four, and for that matter, Three, Two, and One. But all for different reasons.

Six, so far, has been all about being Big and taking some Responsibility. Oh, we've got a long way to go in that vein, sure, but to have Spawn make the bed and get dressed in the morning without too much prompting from me -- my friends, that is golden as far as I'm concerned.

We are currently in Day Two of "Now that I am Six..." like it's the most important thing to be, more important, even, than being President or curing cancer. And I love the naivete of that. We made a big deal of the birthday yesterday, sending flowers and a balloon, giving gifts, taking Spawn around and making sure to tell everyone who would listen that it was Spawn's Big Day. I think that everyone should feel special on their birthday, and for someone who is Six that is not a hard task.

In a fit of nostalgia, I have been going through all of the old photos from six years in the making, watching Spawn grow and change all over again. Just remembering everything that the kid has had to learn in six years is daunting, and amazing. We all start out the same, helpless, and we all learn to walk and talk and think for ourselves. Isn't that incredible?

I realize that we don't have too many more years of Spawn thinking that Mom and Dad are The Shit, so right now I am soaking it all up and enjoying every minute. Even those minutes that aren't so enjoyable. It all goes so fast.




-- Mox

Somewhere in the middle of the parenting spectrum.

Boy, you learn things about people when you host a little kid's birthday party.

Spawn's party was a hoot and also the very definition of chaos, mostly because there were 17 kids, plus a good many of their parents, at the bowling alley, where there were also two other birthday parties going on at the exact same time, with roughly the same number of children and adults attending. So yeah, like a rock concert except with bowling shoes and no illegal substances. Next year we won't be doing anything quite so ambitious.

But I got a little glimpse of some of the other parenting methods used by my kid's classmates' parents, and it confirmed for me that thank god, I am (as the title suggests) somewhere in the middle when it comes to parenting my child.

Exhibit A was the mom who was obviously uncomfortable with leaving her Little Precious with us, but really had some errands she needed to run, and who actually worried out loud to me "What if he drops a bowling ball on his foot and gets hurt?" To which the little voice in the back of my head replied "Lady, you have got to be kidding." Followed by my other little voice saying, "Aren't you glad you're not that uptight anymore?" But understanding that you just don't know what people's circumstances are (who knows? she may have had many scares in getting her kid raised to the age of five, maybe he was a preemie, maybe he was a miracle conception... maybe she was just a naturally uptight person), I mustered up some compassion and took down her cell number with the agreement that if anything happened I would call her.

Exhibit B was the mom who dropped off her kid without so much as a by-your-leave, without explaining to me or anyone else that her child was also to attend the party happening right next to us. I have developed a natural skepticism toward what a kindergardener says as truth, so when the kid told me that she was staying for the party next to us, too, I was a bit unsure about it. Sure, she seemed to know the birthday kid next door, but without my knowing for sure what was going on I was pretty uncomfortable with allowing her to crash the next party over. Since Exhibit B's mom is also a teacher at Spawn's school, I was pretty surprised that this was even an issue. And if it turns out that we left the kid there (no parent had shown up to pick her up at the end of our party time) unsupervised, then I'm going to feel really bad.

Still, there is nothing quite like a six-year-old's birthday party, at which they pounce upon the wrapped gifts like a pack of rabid dogs, fueled by cake and ice cream. A good time was had by all, and thank god I don't have to face it for another year.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Quack Quack

This will be me over the weekend.

We are expecting a deluge this weekend, with forecast models predicting 2-5 inches of rain. Which I guess would be really bad if it were cold enough to turn it into snow, so who am I to complain, really?

Spawn's party is Saturday afternoon. Of the 24 invites we sent out, 11 have responded yes, two no, and the rest are just whistling in the dark. I'm assuming that means they will be no-shows, but have prepared enough goody bags to accomodate everyone, just in case.

A note on the subject of goody bags. This is a new development to me. We certainly didn't have goody bags at parties when I was a kid (back in the Stone Age), but somehow in thirty-odd years things have taken a turn for the worse, I guess. I hate the idea of goody bags. I know it's hard for little kids see another kid get all the presents but isn't that what a birthday party is? Why do we have to ease their greed by giving them a little cellophane sack of candy and crap? Shouldn't kids be allowed to learn to be a cheerful giver?

Anyway. I suppose I could take a stand and say "no goody bags on my watch" but like everyone else I am going to cave in to popular culture and just do it. It's not worth the fight.

Cake and ice cream, here we come.




-- Mox

I attract weirdness, apparently.

Right. So I've got this acquaintance -- I can't really say "friend" because to me that's a special designation and so far this guy has done nothing to earn that moniker -- who has resurfaced in my life after disappearing for three+ months. Not that I missed him, but anyway.

Backstory on this is: unhappily married man with two kids, a general all-round decent fella, but with some sort of magnet for bad stuff. As in, heart problems, marital difficulties, job troubles, etc. You know the kind -- sad sacks, if anything wrong happens it's always on their shift. Well, three months ago, he tells me that his wife has decided that she's a lesbian and wants a divorce. And he's acting all devastated about it, which puzzles me because not three months before that he went to see an attorney about divorcing her and here she is giving him an out (she also doesn't want the house, the cars, the kids or the 401k), but whatever. But he's going back to school to change careers completely, and somehow he's going to muddle through as a single dad. Then he drops off the face of the earth. None of our mutual acquaintances know what's happened, and I just chalk it up to this guy's flakiness and wish him the best of luck.

Catching up to recent days: I look up one day and there he is, coming into my office. The world has turned about a dozen times since then and all those plans he had have changed. Oh, he's still getting divorced and all, but that's about all that's the same. He's not going back to school as planned before, he's started a new job, and... wait for it... he's written a book.

Which, hey, would I like to edit it for him?

I get a sick feeling in my soul whenever I get this question asked of me, because what most people really want from editing is not editing but affirmation.

Oh, but it gets better.

It's "an erotic thriller."

Which he wrote during those three months when he was fumbling around in never-land, making sense of the mess that was his life.

Yikes.

The ick factor on this is through the roof as far as I'm concerned.

So I sent him out the door with recommendations for a Garner's and an Elements of Style and hopefully that will be that.



-- Mox

Continuing Peevishness

Message on the answering machine yesterday:

"Hi, this is J's grandmother, I'm RSVPing for the party this weekend."

So, J is coming? Not coming?

I'm betting no.




-- Mox

Pet Peeve O'the Day, II

So Spawn is having a birthday party this weekend.

The rule for party invites at Spawn's school is that you have to invite the whole class if you intend to pass out the invites at school. If you're interested in inviting, oh, just two or three kids, you have to hunt down the addresses of said kids and send the invite via postal service. (I'm not kidding. This rule is in the school handbook.) While I understand that the whole point of that is fairness and minimizing hurt feelings, the idea of inviting 17 children to a six-year-old's party fills me with the quivers.

But I did it, because I am flat out just too lazy to hunt down the addresses, and I know that more than half won't show anyway. I also, at Spawn's behest, invited several other children that we know from church, social venues, and family.

I'm up to 24 invites. For a six-year-old's party. To be held at a bowling alley, because we needed a gender-neutral space that wasn't my home. Because, wow, it's January and we can't get outside. And I have white chairs. And a white couch.

BUT (and this is the peeve part) I have no idea how many to expect because people (parents) don't RSVP like they're asked to do.

Most of my pet peeves have something to do with being raised right, I know, and this is just one more of them. I was raised right. I know that RSVP means to répondez s'il vous plaît, which for the non-French speaking out there means tell me whether or not to expect you. It does not mean call me if you're not coming and if you don't I will otherwise expect you. That would be the designation Regrets Only, which means that I expect you there, dammit, unless you call and tell me otherwise. If I ask for RSVP that means I want to know if you're coming or not. So many people ignore that, a request for a little common courtesy (which is pretty uncommon, come to think of it).

And you can't rely on a bunch of five and six year olds to give you an accurate headcount, because some will say they're coming because they want to come, regardless if they actually can. But five and six year olds don't drive, so if they're coming they have to hitch a ride, and that's up to the parents. So were back to the original complaint. That people don't know what to do with a RSVP.

I think it's pretty stupid to hold your hostess hostage like that.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Because I am in a goofy mood today.

Like a lot of women, I appreciate the beauty of the world around me, in all its' forms. I especially enjoy the beauty of the male form, for that is a beautiful thing indeed, and there are plenty of lovely, lovely men out there who the mere sight of them does it for me.

Because in many ways I am still a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, here are the posters I would put up on my wall, if my husband would allow that sort of thing:

Tim. Good looking guy, talented, totally in love with his wife. Very sexy.

Hugh. Also good looking and talented, and a nice smile, as well. I sat through Van Helsing twice because of him.

Richard. A prime example of someone whose looks have improved with age. My grandmother was always one for men with white hair, and now that Richard has gone gray I have to say I can see the attraction.

Antonio. Ordinarily I wouldn't go for the smoldering eyes and the thick accent because god, that's just so trite. But have you seen him dance? We rented Take the Lead, and while the movie was pure escapism for me, his tango.... mmmmm.

Emmitt. Speaking of dancing, the man can. I normally don't get all involved in reality TV and celebrity anything, but somehow I got hooked on this season's Dancing With the Stars, and for a big guy he can put the moves down. Before that, I vaguely knew his name and that he played football and held some sort of record (such a sports fan, that's me), but once I saw him dance I was hooked. Seems like a decent guy, and a nice smile.

Denzel. Talented, intense, and such a pretty, pretty face.

Taye. First time I saw him was in How Stella Got Her Groove Back, which is a total chick movie and therefore I waited until my husband was out of town to rent it. But Taye. With the smile and the body and the smile....

And because my mother would likely have a great big ol' stroke at the notion of my poster collection including three men of color, a little old-school beefcake:

Ah, Robert. Bob. You may be old enough to be my father, but your film career and your activism are mighty sexy to me.

Feel free now to giggle at my expense.





-- Mox

Pet Peeve O'the Day

My route home from the gym takes me past a funeral home, and as is the custom right after the holidays, the funeral home is currently busy with the bereaved. (Strange, isn't it, that the dying manage to hold out until after the holidays...)

This morning there were a number of people assembling for what I assumed was to be a funeral, and two young men(maybe early 20's) got out of one car and started toward the building.

People, these young men were wearing jeans. What's more, their shirts were untucked and flapping in the breeze.

Now, I'm pretty cool about most things, but one thing that my Southern-born, properly-raised sensibilities cannot abide is disrespectable dress at a funeral home. You need to dress up, at least a little. It's not much of a stretch to wear a pair of khakis and a tucked-in shirt.

I realize that I live in Podunk, and there are a good many rednecks populating the countryside around here, but if their mamas knew they were going to pay their respects in their Levis I think their mamas would pinch their ears.




-- Mox

I don't mean to be absent.

It's just that 2007 has hit the ground running and by necessity so have I.

It is very strange for me to not be struggling with the all-encompassing winter blues right now, but miracle of miracles, I currently seem to be pretty okay. I think the combination of keeping busy (which is under my control) and a milder than usual winter (which is beyond my control, but really, 50's and 60's in December/January? I'll take it.) has really helped along this front. Since it hasn't been terribly cold in the mornings it's been easier to talk myself into getting out of bed as of late. Which means I'm not grousing nearly as much as usual during that ungodly hour when my alarm goes off. Don't get me wrong, I'm still not the friendly sort first thing in the morning. But at least I'm not in a fog.

Still, I get the sense that the winter is only just beginning, so it's cautious optimism at best.




-- Mox

Hello and welcome.

New year, new digs. Same old me, though.

I didn't make a single new years resolution this year. Nary a one. I know what I want to get accomplished in 2007, and I know what I have to do to make it happen. And no, losing weight isn't on my radar this time. Yep, lots of stuff coming up.

However.

Right now the biggest plans I have include unpacking the boxes and rearranging the furniture until I feel comfortable here.

If you're a regular reader, then thanks for coming along. Welcome to 2007.




-- Mox