Mondays are disjointed. You know that.

I have this new job, and I have some other writing things, and I am currently learning coding manymanymany people learned 12.75 years ago, so I'm a little thin on the blogging thing. I look to news, because we can discuss current events! And the current events! Suck!
I'm not even linking to them. Stupid horrible things.

Some days, I read the news and just shake my head - and sniff the sweet air. Other days, I read the news and shake my head - and then slam it down forcefully against the top of my desk, embedding pens into my forehead.

Those are not wrinkle creases. Those are scars.

You know?

Except - they are just wrinkles.

I don't want to hide my head in the sand. I don't want Nuzak. And yet - I don't want to know how awful people can be. I would, actually, rather have people act well, so that there was no lousy news to read.

I'm no journalist. I write entertainment columns, because whether Alec Baldwin does or does not look good in an ascot (I'm gonna go with a cautious "no") is about as investigative as I want to get. And gently suggesting so is about as publically critical of anyone I want to be. The piece I wrote on Dr. Phil made some folk crazeee, and they missed my conclusion, which was that Dr. Phil doesn't, to me, seem to be in better command of his life choices than those of us without a talk show (there must be a few of us not yet conscripted into service).

If I had a talk show (and I do not want one with any fiber of my being. I would have to worry about nose hairs in close ups and sweating on camera and not interrupting people, when I have intermittent interruption issues), I would have a segment where I played with a passel of hyper fluffy duckings, and maybe a spot for the people in my town who bring their bongos down to drum along with the sunset every night, and with them the group of bangled,tatted hula hoopers and then everyone would get warm cookies and an ice cold dirty martini. After the duckings, we'd bring out the golden retriever puppies to play fetch and frolic, and at least two extremely good utterly dirty jokes would be told without apology, and everyone would have to bring their favorite book to swap.

Wait, that's not a talk show. That's heaven.

When my dog, Rosie, died, my daughter, who was three-and-a-half, wrote a letter to her in Dog Heaven. We sealed the envelope without reading it, and it's in a drawer, where it's been for ten years. I wonder what it says.

I should mail it.

Meatloaf, with ham

I won't lie. I was, at first, icked out by how even old rockers have become part of the Soccer Mom Schill Set. But making money is a needful thing. And so I thought about it.

Is this:







Really so very far away from this?




Really. The commercial is just missing some pleather boots and a transvestite alien or two. Taadaa! New demographics are made every day.

We're, some of us, not that far from him

I have seen him numerous times over the past week. He's maybe six feet tall. Middle-aged. Clean, lanky, slightly tanned. Dressed for work in khakis and a crisp button-down shirt, with a good belt. Business casual. The only thing odd is that he walks up and down the street near my home with a handmade cross - two rough sticks lashed together with leather or twine, less than 12 inches tall, held out before him as if banishing demons. He walks deliberately, slowly, and always turns to look at me as I drive past, as if he feels my gaze.

I pointed him out to my son the other day, when we were driving to baseball practice and stopped at a red light on his route. Whatever his route was.

"I see him a lot," I said. "I don't know if he's afraid or thinks he's helping, or if he's fighting something we can't see." I thought maybe he was in some personal version of "Buffy." I didn't want Charlie to make fun of the man. He looked, with his grim mouth and his careful steps, like he was working so hard.

Charlie was silent a while and we watched the man together. The man turned his head slightly as he walked past and our eyes met.

"He has," Charlie said, thoughtfully, "Really good hair."

I watched the man cross the street, his cross leading the way. Other drivers were looking, too. Faces baffled behind glass.

"He does."

Just another worm

Today was my first real day in the office. It's an open plan, so, seriously, sit up straight and no nose picking, Web surfing (ahem) or slipping off of the shoes.

I was all ChipperNervous. When I sneezed, I reached into my spiffy new bag to pull out one of dorky mini I'm-a-Mom packs of tissues. I didn't look away from my computer screen, so what my hand brought up into the white-hot-blinding-shrieking glare of the room was a bright yellow folded napkin of the feminine protection persuasion.

Which I didn't realize until I had waved it gaily about and brought it cheerily, in full audience mode, to my nose.


Hi, everyone! I'm the new gal. You can remember me easily enough: I prefer Lightdays with wings!


You know who would not have found that funny?

Message
Critical people like this by poision people like author Barbara whatsherface who gets credit here for what??? Tearing people down, and making people skeptical of one who has attempted to do good, but has bungled some things along the way? She should count herself lucky that her own life's mistakes and inadequacies are not headlines.

But that's why I blog!


But then again her own mistakes coupled with no outstanding goodness that has touched anyone's life in a positive enough way to be as famous as Dr. Phil is not as newsworthy. She's just a plain schmuck trying to get her noteriety by tearing someone famous down. I don't care if Dr. Phil doesn't have a degree, nor that he made mistakes in judgement in his life. I care more that he consistantly speaks good judegment and good will towards many, many people and as a result helps so many people in the process that his goodness covers his weaknesses.

Shame on you pathetic worm Barbara.

Aww, come on! Let's hug it out!

Multi-hyphenate

For Earth Day, I give you this one-of-a-kind (I'm assuming here, true) Drag-performing/Lip-syncing/Paper artist:







You get the idea after a mere 30 seconds, but by then, you are drawn in. Don't look away!

Or, do. Try to look away. It's harder than you think.

"Peace love and happiness to all"

Almost three thousand comments later . . .


Message #1204/18/08 12:31 AM
This writer needs to get the facts straight before writing rediculous articles. What really bothers me are people who read this article and will believe it. It is a well known fact that the media publishes articles that are most often taken out of context from something they had read or researched. It's call picking out the stuff that sells news, that heightens the interest of readers. Do some more research, tell the full stories and the truth. The media has really pushed the "out of control" button far too many times. No it's not freedom of speach when one misquotes or leaves out important detail in an article. Its lies, deception and in many cases slander. Look at the New York Times. I don't think they've had many accurate stories posted in years. Wake up people, don't always believe what the news tells you. Do your own research and then you decide what you want to believe.

(My mom is gonna be so proud! If you squint and read reallysuperreally fast, the part that stands out is that I've just been mentioned in the same breath as the New York Times!)

Message #219704/18/08 01:56 PM
If Barbara Atkinson thinks Dr. Laura is a dingbat, she has some serious issues. Dr. Laura always puts children first. I wouldn't be surprised if Atkinson is divorced or never married and has children from different realtionships and puts her own love before the quality of life for her children. I pity her.

(You should pity me. Between the premarital sex, the liberal fraternization with known homosexuals and even godhelpme, sleeping without a bra, it's no wonder I have lost my way. I currently let my dirt-faced babies wander the streets in droopy diapers with my cooling crack pipe in their tiny, sticky hands.)

Message #2904/18/08 01:05 AM
I agree fully with Hpy2BME. I don't think Dr. Phil's license was revoked in Texas. He let it expire because he was no longer practicing there. I also know from working with mentally ill people that they do outrageous things and don't want to take responability for them, so they are probably the most likely to file a lawsuit. I do believe Dr. Phil has a large staff. Have you ever tried to manage a large number of people? You can have rules for conduct, but inevitably some idiot will overstep their bounds making the boss take the heat. I also think the claim that he and his wife are on the outs is far fetched. This writer did not support her accusation. She is obviously not a real journalist!

(Mom? Is that you? I told you: the matchbook said I would have what looked just like a real degree when the check clears!)

Message #5004/18/08 01:29 AM
He is a real doctor; he's a PhD (he has a PhD in clinical psychology). He never claimed to be an MD (medical doctor, such as psychiatrist). Get your facts straight.

(What "facts?" I just wrote out whatever my fridge magnets spelled out.)

Message:
Peace love and happiness to all. I still vote for Dr. Phil and sorry that Barbara here the author is so distraught, perhaps Dr. Phil turned her down for an interview so she lashed out... I'm a make a song about Barbaras low self-esteem.

(I won't lie; I was distraught, but now I'm all gooey inside. OMG! I get a theme song! Do you tour? Can we post it on YouTube? Can I play tambourine in the background? I am so Laurie Partridge all over this!)

Message #5304/18/08 01:33 AM
Apparently the writer of this article needs to wake up and be real....and needs to stop making slandering comments about anyone for that matter. I would like to see the writer come on national television, "stick out'" his/her neck and achieve even the slightest positive for humankind.

I'm sure Dr. Phil is laughing this pathetic act of jealousy for the success he has and will have. I wish him and his family all the best.

(If I can't have him, no one can!)

Message #221504/18/08 02:03 PM
Don't you love the morons who bash someone by telling ONE side of the story. All these accusations Barbara Atkinson throws out and all she manages to do is sound like the IGNORANT, MORONIC, SORRY A55 idiot that she is. Aren't there worse problems in the world to focus on than an imperfect man doing the best he can in an imperfect world? Of course the guy's not perfect--and here's this stupid woman bashing someone who's done absolutely NOTHING to her. Dr. Phil has done A LOT of good for a lot of people. Funny how Barbara didn't mention any of that. Hmmmmmm---how would she feel if we had someone check her out and air EVERYTHING on the news? All without getting her side of the story?! She needs to SHUT HER PIEHOLE!!

(Mmmmm. Pie!)

Dr. Phil

Maybe he's a great guy. Maybe he's gonna save the world.

However (this is a link to the article where I say many, many things about Dr. Phil) . . .

I am a firm believer that one should get advice pertaining to one's checking account from one's mother and/or father until one is 21, from one's best friend from ages 18 through 100 in all matters relating to pants making one's butt look big, from one's clergy and/or guru and/or blissed out golden retriever in matters spiritual and from one's fully-licensed therapist in all matters pertaining to psychological good health.

If the person you go to for life and relationship advice appears - ever - on the cover of OK! Magazine, between Paris Hilton and Peter Doherty, your pickle barrel ain't holdin' water.

Updated:
The Dr. Phil article is creating quite a firestorm of comments.


I'm a make a song about Barbaras low self-esteem.


And I'm a totally gonna sing along.

Wholesome projects, or kitten with a whip

While not terrifically crafty in the making-things sense (and not effectively crafty in the scheming sense, either), I am quite enamoured of terrariums. When done right, they are mini landscapes, bonsai-like in their ability to make me wish I were teeny and could inhabit the world they invoke.

I found this (and declare it hereby inspiring); then the children and I placed a wee LEGO dominatrix Catwoman in ours, because we're all about the Straight up, with a Twist.

Healer, Idealist, and Moody

I posted something and it refused to stick around. I dunno. Let's try again.

. . .

Okay. I am a little tapped out, so I took a personality test. And, voila!



I share my label with none other than Mr. Rogers, Audrey Hepburn, Calvin, of "Calvin and Hobbes" and that phallic fingered fellow, E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial.

That's correct. They listed both real and fictional characters with whom I share personality traits.

I am a Healer Idealist, God dammit! I will scream, neck cords taut, at the next person who crosses me.

Unbroken

Hullo! I'm back!

Have you changed your hair? It looks good.

I was MIA due to a drawn-out episode of "Someone I love has cancer!" and then today's road trip involved follow-up tests, wherein it was discovered that, hullo, "Someone I love doesn't have cancer!"

So, you know, not a bad way to end an extremely lousy span of days.

Not everyone is having a terrifically good time, however:

Woman falls out of bed, jams belly button ring up nose.

We need time apart

It's not you, it's me.

Back soon.

Fried

At the gym yesterday, I struggled on the Craig (wide legged stance plus swinging arms) machine and then I staggered to the stepper near the other other sweating guy and finally I settled on the treadmill in front of the huge picture windows and glass doors, facing the back, where the parking lot stretches out, because I am all nosy like that. It was the weekly Farmer's Market and busy, even in the thin, miserable rain. There were people milling about with wholesome hemp bags full of organic produce. I am not full of organic produce, but hoped by osmosis I would become unhealthier. That, plus the whole treadmill thing.

The stand right outside the window was serving up plates of handmade Indian food, served to white, dreadlocks college boys by a Latino family, because Santa Cruz is like that. It was good watching, while the treadmill tried to kill me.

At one point, the fellow serving up huge plates caught my eye. I smiled and he smiled and he waved his water bottle at me, like "Want this water bottle, cheerful, red-faced, fat lady?" And I shook my head and pointed at the huge container of samosas he had just placed beside him and then pointed at my mouth in the most G-rated fashion I could muster. And he smiled and I smiled.

And then a minute later, I looked over and he had a bag of samosas and was trying to open the fire door to hand them to me.

No, no! I mouthed. I couldn't! I was furiously blushing. The woman on the treadmill next to me, who had been watching all of this with widening eyes, started muttering oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.

Yes! Take them! He mouthed back.
Delicious!

No, really! I waved my hands furiously. You shouldn't! I was kidding!

Take them! He mimed.

No! No! Take them away! I was just joking!

Delicious! Take them! he mimed back, with waving and nodding.

I'm fat! I mouthed. I pointed around me, at my middle, still running (slowly, ohgodsoslowly). Faaaaaaaat! No food!

Take them! he waved again. They're vegetable!

Fat! I bleated, but silently. Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!

I watched, transfixed as he scaled the side of the building, holding the drainpipe and the side of his truck. He dropped them in through the transom window, where I caught them in my outstretched hands. Ohmygodohmygod came the noise from the woman next to me - just a high-pitched keen.

I ran home with them, like a thief.

Although I adore Indian food, I didn't want them. I am faaaaaaaaaaaat and I am trying to lose weight. But I took them home, these still-warm, flaky, utterly gorgeous samosas and I ate them. They were, I swear, just as good as you'd expect free, sweet of heart and no strings attached, hard-delivery samosas to be, and I enjoyed them immensely, because I am not such a fool as to insult such a gift.

Compare and contrast

If Tom Waits is a singer and songwriter,

what is

Justin Timberlake?

Hot Mess: The Beauty Queen Menace, wherein I make fun of extremely beautiful women.

Because that's what the Internet is for.