How can this be sibling rivalry when he's a cat and I'm not?

I have no luck with my parents' pets.  They don't like me.

The feeling is mutual.

When my mother was alive, she and my dad had a brindle cairn terrier whose fur was a weird shade of purply brown.  He was so tiny as a puppy that he fit into my brother Pat's shirt pocket.  Full grown, he was the size of your average cat.  His real name was Spartacus, but we called him Sparky and my folks adored him.  My mother fed him hot meals.  He slept in their bed.  They fought over who it was the dog loved best.

I hated the little shit.  Where was all that adoration when I lived at home?  They took more pictures of that dog than my baby brothers.  He traveled with them.  Dad took him in the car whenever there was banking to do or fast food runs to make.  Sparky rode shot-gun.  If you happened to be invited along, Sparky still rode shot-gun.

He was the favorite.  He knew it.  He rubbed our noses in it.  My folks had five kids they didn't particularly care about and one majorly spoiled dog.  Whenever Mom fed him, he'd look over his shoulder at me and sneer.  He was having beef tips.  I was having peanut butter and jelly.

I used to feed him gummy bears just to watch him try to open his jaws.  Until Dad caught me doing it.  After which I fed him marshmallows.  He would drool and foam at the mouth when he ate them.  I tried to convince my folks he had hydrophobia but they were on to me.  "Poor Sparky", they would coo, "did that bad person give you (fill in the blank) to eat again?"  He would look at me malevolently and nod. Snitch.

Twice he pooped in my shoes.  Once I was wearing them at the time.

But he's dead now, so I got that going for me.

Except my Dad now has a cat.  Snoopy.  Snoopy weighs 480 lbs.  He looks like Puss in Shrek Four, only Puss is orange and Snoopy is black and white.

Dad is killing him with kindness.  He lets Snoopy drink out of his milk glass.  He hand feeds Snoopy all sorts of people food, along with the cat food he gets too much of, and bribes affection out of him with high-calorie cat treats.  Snoopy looks like a tick about to pop.  He's so fat that no one can lift him.  Also, he hisses, bites, scratches and generally demonstrates his assholery if you even try to pet him.  I don't even have to do that to get hissed at.  I just need to exist in his presence.

I am currently visiting with my dad, where I usually sleep on a rollaway bed.  Dad  is in the hospital, so I decided to sleep in his bed for tonight.  Snoopy would have none of it.  He picked a spot on the bed and defended it against my interloping ways as if I were the antichrist. 

So I beat the crap out of him with a (very) soft pillow and claimed the bed.  Then I felt so guilty I couldn't sleep.  Snoopy is curled up with his favorite toy, looking pathetic.  I am on my way to the rollaway now.  

Mom (and Dad) always loved him best.

Thomas Jefferson was right... we need a revolution every 50 years

   I am so completely disgusted with our "Congress" that I am ready to fire them all and replace them with people whose names have been drawn from a hat.  I mean, think about it.  What harm could it do?  Even the mentally disabled could do a better job of husbanding our resources than the bozos in Washington now.

   If they allow our nation to be globally humiliated by a default, they better not show their faces to their constituents ever again.  You remember the concept of constituents, I assume... the people the bozos are supposed to represent and protect.  Congress doesn't seem to have much of a memory of the concept.

   I want to know how this present Congress can be said to be representative.  Where are the businessmen, the educators, the doctors and scientists?  Where are women, who make up 51% of the population but only 17% of Congress (17 /100 Senators, 74 /434 representatives)?  Where are the social workers, the sales clerks, the manufacturers?  In a population of 124 million workers, only 6% are lawyers, but 45% of Congressmen are lawyers.  Where are the young people?  The median age of the US population is 32.9 years.  For Congress, the median is 53 years.  Where are the African Americans, Hispanics, Asian Pacific and other groups that make up respectively 12%, 9%  and 3% of the population (24% in total), while Congress is 87% white males?

  We should fire them all immediately. Failing that, we should repeal their right to set their own wages.  Force them to use the same health care system the rest of the country must endure.  Slash their pensions- put that money back into Social Security and take Social Security out the general funds.  AND DO NOT PAY THEM FOR THIS TERM!  The lazy do-nothings owe us ALL their back wages.  And while I do not agree with Dick the butcher (Henry VI Part 2 Act 4, scene 4 71-78) that we should "First, kill all the lawyers, I DO agree with the following quotations.

"The people are the rightful masters of both Congress and the courts, not to overthrow the Constitution but to overthrow the men who pervert the Constitution".   Abraham Lincoln



"The only difference between death and taxes is that death doesn't get worse

every time Congress meets".  

"This country has come to feel the same when Congress is in session as

 when the baby gets hold of a hammer".

Will Rogers

"Congress: Bingo with billions".  

Red Skelton



"We have the right as individuals to give away as much of our own money as we please in charity; but as members of Congress we have no right to appropriate a dollar of the public money".   

 David Crockett

"You can lead a man to Congress, but you can't make him think".  

Milton Berle

"Being elected to Congress is regarded as being sent on a looting raid for one's friends".       

  George Will

"Talk is cheap - except when Congress does it".   Cullen Hightower

"Members of Congress must live according to the same laws as everyone else". 

 Bobby Jindal

"Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress.

But I repeat myself".  

"There is no distinctly American criminal class - except Congress".  

 Mark Twain

And now, representing thinking women everywhere...

I say throw the buggers out. 

Kate Lapczynski

Back to school... in JULY??!!

I did not get to spend any time to speak of with my granddaughters this summer.  I feel frustrated and cheated about that.  And all the "Camp NeeNee" things we had planned to do are not going to happen because, for my grandgirls, summer is over. 

My summer ends on August 30th, when my general biology class meets for the first time.  My girls will have been in school a month by then.

I can't imagine trying to learn in 100 degree heat, or when the bright sun from outside distracts me from my books.  My childhood summers were too long- out from mid-June until the day after Labor Day in September- but my girls' summers are too short.  

The weather was against me this summer.  Though my pool was opened on May 23rd, our first swim did not come until early July.  I remember summers past when my girls and I cavorted in the pool like the dolphins we are.  This year, only Emily and Delaney have been in the pool with me.  Twice.

Granted, I have been spending a lot of time in Michigan, caring for and visiting with my Daddy, who is 87 and failing.  Granted, the pool company opened my pool and then did NOTHING to it until my return home in late June, at which I fired them and hired someone who has turned out to be a miracle worker.  (Her name is Rhonda Loop, with is pool backward).  Granted, I have been puny on and off this summer.  Granted, my girls have spent most of their time with their other grandmothers.  (Apparently the equal time clause has lapsed)'

But if the summer wasn't so !$^#%*%#  short, none of that would matter.  Sigh.

So, here I am, all geared up for fun in the sun, chock full of ideas for things to do with my girls, chomping at the bit for some QFT (quality family time) and it is all for naught. 

Sending kids back to school in July.  Whose bull-shit idea was that?

My world...and other stuff

   After the tornados, and rains, and snows of this Tennessee winter, the weather has finally turned lightly to spring.  So what do I do?  I head north, where it is still winter and where there is still snow on the ground to visit me Dadums over my spring break. Wish I could convince Daddy to move South.  (Excuse me a moment while I get over this fit of hysterical laughter at the thought of convincing my dad to do anything.        Okay, I'm fine now.)
   I really don't like going to Michigan.  There is no easy way to get there and I must leave my cozy little home, my family, my friends, my church, my sisters in the Order of the Daughters of the King, my beloved GFWC Tullahoma Woman's Club and all the wonderful women who are a part of it, my cats, my grandkids, my bed, and, this semester, my job.  It means a lot to my dad though, so I go.  And it's only for a week this time. (Next visit will have to be longer- and hopefully, I won't go alone).
   I hope when I am 86 that three things are true:  that my mind is still sharp (unlike Dave's mama), that my body allows me to be relatively mobile with relatively little pain (unlike my Dad) and that my kids are as good to me as I am to Mama and Dad.  I am taking odds on each of those, if you are interested.
   I will post again from the pleasant peninsula, as soon as my fingers thaw out.  

IT"S 2011??!! When the hell did THAT happen? Let the RANT begin!

   My New Year's resolution was to post to my blog at least once a week.... and it is now February 10.  So much for that.  My One-Month-Into-The -New-Year resolution is to post to my blog at least once a week...


   So, let me start with a rant.   Or two.


 Part one:  Bull-shit advertising. 
   I think everyone in the country should boycott and chastise Groupon until they pull those hideously offensive anti-environmental ads off the air.  The whales are facing extinction- let's party!  The Amazon is being deforested- let's get a bikini wax!  Shame on everyone involved.  Who thought this was funny?


   Now, mini Darth Vader turning on the car with the Force (and a little help from Dad)- THAT'S funny!


Part two.   Higher Education in Tennessee.
    Dedicated, educated instructors and professors in Tennessee have gone without raises, cost of living increases, or any sort of monetary improvement in their salaries for FIVE YEARS, and have been told they can expect none any time soon.  Administrators, of course, have not had to suffer the same economic fate because, as you know, schools NEED administrators but can get along just fine without teachers.


   And NOW there is talk about abolishing tenure.  Most of the population would probably agree with that action because they have been deliberately and historically misled about what tenure really is.  It is NOT a guarantee of employment.  It IS a guarantee that teachers cannot be fired on a whim without due process. 


This from Wikipedia:  "Academic tenure is primarily intended to guarantee the right to academic freedom: it protects teachers and researchers when they dissent from prevailing opinion, openly disagree with authorities of any sort, or spend time on unfashionable topics. Thus academic tenure is similar to the lifetime tenure that protects some judges from external pressure. Without job security, the scholarly community as a whole might favor "safe" lines of inquiry. The intent of tenure is to allow original ideas to be more likely to arise, by giving scholars the intellectual autonomy to investigate the problems and solutions about which they are most passionate, and to report their honest conclusions. In economies where higher education is provided by the private sector, tenure also has the effect of helping to ensure the integrity of the grading system. Without tenure, professors could be pressured by administrators to issue higher grades for attracting and keeping a greater number of students."




Higher education is theoretically based on the concept of SHARED GOVERNANCE, which means that administrators and faculty are equal shareholders in the mission of the school, and have shared rights and responsibilities regarding curriculum and the distribution of resources.


 The reality is that cynical lip service is given to shared governance by administrators.  Faculty are involved in decision making to this extent - faculty are required to serve on committees (Financial Aid, Student Affairs, Academic Affairs, Budget, etc.),  required to attend discipline meetings, department meetings, Faculty Fora and Faculty Orientations, without any additional remuneration for the hours they spend in these activities.   The presence of faculty on committees is touted as evidence of shared governance- but if one voice can consistently drown out all others, what, exactly, is being shared except time and space?


   So, think about this.  You, in your job.  You haven't had a raise in five years.  Gas prices, food prices, utility costs have all gone up.  The value of the dollar has gone down.  You are not living at the same level you were living five years ago, you have lost ground.  You are not appreciated and you know it.  When you ask for a raise, you hear "You're lucky to have a job".  How long would it take you to start looking for a better job? 


So why don't educators go do something else?


They think that what they are doing is important.  Too bad Tennessee doesn't.

Walt Disney and Pixar made me the woman I am today... so stop blaming me

I have grown up and grown old with feminine role models that somehow lack a certain reality.  No, I don't mean Donna Reed or the Brady Bunch mom.  No, no, my role models are literally fantastic. And/or Incredible.  I see bits of them in me, so I am sure I have been influenced by them.  Mainly, they helped establish my unshakable belief in magic, in imagination, and whimsy, and have inspired me to try to be both more powerful, more self-possessed, and brave.  Here they are.  Thank you, Uncle Walt, and all my friends at Disney.  And thanks to my new friends at Pixar.  Now if I could only identify with REAL women.



Elastigirl/Helen Parr.  I admire her flexibility.


  

Maleficent.  Oh, to be a powerful bitch!  She only wants one thing in life... her own way.
(And she's a bird lover, too.  Love the hat).

The Queen of Hearts.  It's good to be the queen.  She's not  particularly attractive, but so few tyrants are.
She certainly gets HEARD!   I especially like her relationship with her hubby.  What a broad!



Hmmm... I'm seeing a trend here.  Another queen.  Maybe I secretly hunger for power. 
Either that, or I want to look like Gloria Swanson.
Look her up. 







Okay, time for some good faeries.  Meriwether, Fauna and Flora.
My love for faeries dates back to my first meeting these lovely women- powerful, loving, fearless and wise. 

 

Mrs. Potts.  I figure if I am ever transformed by magic, I will probably be a teapot. 
I'm always spouting off and yet I am very breakable.  And I am short and stout. 

 

Edna Mode, AKA E.  I love her aesthetic.  She is a true artist.  she never looks back.  It distracts from the now.
I wish I had her focus.

.

There they are.  My heroes.  Bet that explains a lot, huh?

DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME!

My daughter-in-law Becca sent me a link to a gross and bizarre video on YouTube of a guy having a HUGE boil on his back lanced and drained.

Why, you may ask, did she send this to me?
 
Who the hell knows?

Not one to be outdone, I snooped around YouTube, looking for something even grosser to send back to her, and of course, I found it, so I win the Gross-Out War.  Still, in looking for that perfect make-you-want-to-vomit image, I came to the realization that an awful lot of people seem to be fascinated by the subject matter.  I mean, some of the "zit" videos had almost a million hits!  Strange. 

I realized as well that most of the people who were suffering from the zit/boil/cyst problem were tatooed. Tattoo on the back.... boil on the back... tattoo on the face.... boil of the face.... tattoo on the wrist.... cyst on the wrist... I began to suspect a cause and effect relationship.

Some of the surgeries were performed by doctors or health professionals in a sterile environment.  (Why they allowed video-taping of the procedure is beyond me).  Most were not.  The  thing that  really astonished me was that  most of the lancings were performed at home by moms, wives or girlfriends who were not nurses and used things like safety pins, Xacto knives, razor blades and needles to perform the surgery.  Most didn't wear gloves or any kind of protective eye-wear.  A few wiped the skin down with antiseptic before opening the wound, but none lavaged or packed the abscess when the "surgery" was over.  Dumb.  Dangerous and dumb.  And of course, the abscesses make a big mess when they erupt. Nothing like having to disinfect the entire house to make you feel you've been useful.


As much as I try to understand the delighted adolescent reaction to anything that pops messily, I don't get the whole surgery-as-social-interaction thing.  Yes, I know that many people don't have health insurance and that most of the folks taped trusted the person with the scalpel, but let me just say one word about that.  MERSA!  Hello!   In fact, let me add a couple of other words as well.  STAPH!  BLOOD POISONING! 


My precious cherubs, should something large, painful and pulsating erupt on your face, run, do not walk, to the emergency room.  Sell something if you have to to pay the bill, but don't let Buffy come at you with a kitchen knife and a roll of paper towels to get rid of it for you. 

Thus endeth the lesson.  You may resume your normal activities.

Oh, to be in Michigan, now that summer? fall? is here...

I am in beautiful Plymouth, MI, chillin' at my dad's beautiful apartment, looking out at the beautiful garden and lawn, and if I wasn't sweating like a prizefighter after a championship bout, life would be beautiful.  While it is considerably cooler here than in Tullahoma, it is STILL in the high 80's here- WAY too warm for me, but just about perfect for my 86 year old dad-ums.  There is a nice cross breeze but it's a warm breeze, so the days are a bit sticky for my taste.  Fortunately, the nights are cool.

Daddy with Snoopy, taken about 5 years ago.  Snoopy has no use for me whatsoever.

It's strange to be back in the Detroit area again.  Until May of this year, Dad was living on the west side of the state in a sleepy little town called Stevensville, away from the sounds of planes, trains and automobiles.  Here, he is just 15 minutes from Detroit Metropolitan Airport and moments from Edward Hines Parkway.  Plymouth is a railroad town, so vehicular sounds of all descriptions disturb the peace.  This is the ambience I grew up in, which merely reinforces my opinion that I could not ever return to live in Michigan again.

Daddy (standing) with his brother Dick.  Daddy is the last survivor of his nuclear family/

Still, being back in my natal state is a bittersweet experience.  Michigan is gorgeous in the late summer/early fall.  If I had driven here with my daughter (which I now regret not doing), I would take a day tour to Lake Huron to the site of the happiest moments of my childhood.  "Up at the Lake" every summer until 1970, when my grandparents sold their property and our heritage.  Well, it was theirs to sell, but it is ours to remember and mourn.  Even after 40 years, the memories of up at the lake are the sharpest, the clearest, the most pervasive and happiest of my life.  Thanks to memory, I can go back any time I wish.

Daddy during WWII.  He enlisted at the age of 17, so this picture was probably taken in 1941-1942.

Last time I was here, Dave and I found the East Detroit (now East Pointe) homes of both sets of grandparents and the house I grew up in at 24841 Rosalind.  It surprised me how distorted my memories of distances are.  I remembered walking FOREVER to get to school... and, it turns out, the school is only two and a half blocks away from the house.  Well, I was a very short kid with polio stricken legs, so maybe it WAS a long trek.  Still- TWO BLOCKS!!??

My dad  is frailer than the last time I was here, but somehow stronger, too.  He is more mobile than he was, and his balance seems a lot better.  Still, he is showing his age in many subtle ways.  His memory is unreliable and his hearing is failing.  He is toothpick thin and the last fall he took has deprived him of most of the use of his left hand.  He can't live alone, so Dave and I are providing home care for him.  I met his care-giver yesterday and she is very nice and actually likes Dad, which is a plus (and a minor miracle).

Across the hall from Dad is a lovely woman in her late 70s who he dated about 20 years ago, after my mom died.  She keeps herself beautifully, always well coiffed, hands manicured, her trim figure flatteringly dressed to emphasize her assets... I think she has her eye on Dad and so does Dad, and he's not interested.  It's kinda fun watching the two of them interact.  Hey, it ain't over until it's over, which gives me hope.

What is neither functional nor decorative and lives in the middle of my face?

My nose.  I have a very large nose.  If the size of the nose is an indication of intelligence, then I am a super-genius.  I was teased mercilessly about my nose my entire childhood... and beyond, really.  It doesn't help that I have a small head and relatively small features.  My eyes are small, my mouth is small.  Even my shell-like ears are small.

And then, there is my nose.  It starting growing faster than the rest of me when I was about 10 and there has been steady growth ever since.  I was born with a deviated septum, which you can't see, of course, but which makes me a mouth-breather a good part of the time, especially in the winter and summer, the two seasons that love my nose the least.

When my son was a toddler, he accidentally whopped my nose with his hard little head and broke it.  I reset it myself while it was still numb to save the cost of a doctor visit.  Big mistake.  The left half of my nose collasped making the honker asymmetrical.  It has a decided larboard list.

A few years ago while I was minding my own business and sleeping peacefully in my little bed, my cats got the rips and came careening into my bedroom.  They leapt onto the bed and launched themselves at each other off my face, ripping my nose in the process.  I screamed, which woke up my hubby, who was initially peeved at me - he hates when I wake him up by screaming- until he saw the blood.  I now have a scar and a pit on my nose, which wasn't a particularly attractive appendage before the cats mauled it.  Note to self- keep your bedroom door closed.

Over the course of innumerable colds and bouts of hay fever, chronic nose-blowing has burst many of the tiny little blood vessels near the nares so that it looks like I have written on myself with a fine tipped red pen. I have yet to find a concealer that really conceals those fine red lines.  I am an almost total tea-totaler but have the schnoz of a boozer.  How fair is that, I ask you?

Now August  is nearly over, and I am battling my annual summer cold.  I cannot breathe through my nose.  Nothing as massive as air can penetrate the swollen membranes.  And yet, my nose is running.  Constantly.  Makes you wonder, doesn't it?  I am going through a box of Kleenex a day, so my nose is red.  And I have been swimming, so my nose is sunburned.  As I type, I am trying to figure out how to blow my nose without touching it because it is chapped and sore.  I hope I figure it out soon.  When something this size hurts, it's a BIG damn hurt.

All my life, I have prayed for a nose job.  (Most of my life, I have also prayed for a boob job, and lately, a tummy tuck has entered my petitions to the plastic surgery gods).  I know that cartilage never stops growing, and the nose is mostly cartilage. It doesn't bode well for an attractive old age, does it?

Any plastic surgeons reading this... call me!

Necessity is a mother

Here's the original plan:  we make a few improvements to the house on Mac's Lane so that someone can move into it; you know, new carpet, a little paint, done.  Then we convert the garage into a studio for me (and Dragonfly Arts) and we build a shop for Dave. The room I am currently using as a craft studio reverts to being a guest room.

Here's what happened:  The facelift to the Mac's house turned into a full reno- an undetected leak had eaten away the joists and the subfloor in the kitchen and diningroom, which had to be replaced before the new flooring could be laid; the kitchen had to be gutted and rebuilt from scratch; every wall required repair and paint; the duct work needed to be replaced; the house needed new windows and new doors and a new roof...  need I go on?  So much for new carpet and a little paint making a house a home.  Sigh.  My son and Mike Singleton have made the old house absolutely beautiful.  Of course, it required a big budget.  A really big budget.  A no art studio, no shop budget. 

SO... I have had to rework my small craft room yet again.  It now contains not only my scrapbooking material but my computer and office, and a small fridge.  Strangely enough, this present configuration is the best and most efficient arrangement to date.  Everything is at my fingertips. 

My cutting station is to my left.  My Cricut and its Jukebox are on the Scrapbox table. 

I reorganized my bookcase, and moved the small fridge into a nook on the office wall.

Next to my "office" is the back of the door, which holds my ribbon and my aprons.

On left, the sewing cabinet and my wonderful Janome.  To the right, the cabinet for embossing, all my Xyron equipment and my woodworking material.

I reworked my closet.  It may look over-stuffed but I can see and get to everything quickly and easily.

I moved a shelving unit into the corner to hold my albums and upholstery fabric, among other things.

I used a craft table to hold my stamping pads, my tools, and both my cutting machines.  Under it I have bins and drawers for my punches, fibers, brads and specialty paper. All of this is within arm's reach of my craft chair.

My work table.  NOTHING lives on it now.  I have my drink holder/scrap bag to the right.  Under my table are all the accessories to my Cricut (top drawer) and extra cutters and matts (bottom drawer).  There is still plenty of leg room.

The Scrapbox folds closed, so there is space behind this black panel which was being wasted.  The next picture shows the panel opened.

Looks messy, but no one sees it but me. 
I store folding chairs behind the panel on the other side.

Well, guess I will close this mess and go make something wonderful.  Serendipity- the need to compress everything into one small space made me utilize every square inch.  I didn't get the studio of my dreams... maybe someday... but I got a very workable space.

April showers bring...damp

April is the time of year that the trees leaf out and spread their pollen.  Doesn't sound like much of a big whoop unless you a) have allergies, b) like to breathe or c) value the paint job on your car.  My black PT Cruiser is currently wearing a yellow coat of tree pollen about an eighth of an inch thick.  Very attractive. 

April is the time of year when vegetation literally LEAPS from the ground.  I think it's because of the showers.  I left for San Francisco, where all was cool and damp and gloomy, and less than two weeks later returned to Tennessee Flora on Speed.  There are buds on my peonies.  My monster hosta, feared killed by the yard dudes, has returned from the dead with a vengeance.  Only my sorry azaleas continue wan and mopey.  They need to be transplanted- to San Francisco, where they will fit right in.

April is the month when we open our pool.  Yes, you sad Northern readers, it is true.  We open our pools in April down here in the South.  Of course, we spend most of April and May fishing pollen and seeds out of the pool... but nah-nah anyway.

There is no place on Earth more beautiful than Tennessee in the spring.  Spring may be a short season, caroming into summer all too soon, but while it lasts, it is glorious.

The Olympics,facial hair and other mysteries

So the Olympics are blessedly (and blissfully) over for another two years.  Sports.  I just don't get the interest in them.  Though I must say, I truly enjoyed the ice dancing and the women's figure skating.  Also the short track speed skating.  Apolo Anton Ohno.  Do they come any cuter?

Or any stronger, braver, or crazier?

I was amazed to hear during the Olympics that his mother abandoned him!  What kind of mother abandons her child?  Well, her loss, really. While I was appalled that some commentators were insensitive enough to ask him about her, I liked his answer. He's 27 years old, he doesn't need a mother, she is not a part of his life, and he doesn't miss her.

GOOD ON YOU, APOLO! You have a great dad, a great talent and a good life. And some really strange facial hair.

Maybe THAT'S why his horrible mother took a powder.  Apolo was BORN with that weird semi-beard and it freaked her out. 

OR... maybe he's a secret member of the Sohma family, and when his mama picked him up, he turned into a rabbit, or a rat or some other extra-zodiacal creature.(yes, to my shame, I read the manga "Fruits Basket".  What can I say?  I like reading things backward), and she wigged out, as so many of the Sohma mamas did.

Which got me to thinking..  how do men take care of facial hair?  Do they just wash it when they wash their faces, or do they shampoo it?  What about conditioner?  Since their faces are covered in hair, does that now make their faces scalp?  Can a guy get dandruff in his beard?  Are they ever tempted to take a curling iron to it? (Cascades of pretty little ringlets- much better than that rat's nest on Brad Pitt's face).

And what about mustaches?  How do they keep from getting food and drink clinging to it all the time?  Do they ever accidentally chew some of it off, and, if so, do they even notice?  Just wondering.  Like you do.

I don't much care for facial hair myself.  It makes me look too butch.

HOW CAN IT BE FEBRUARY ALREADY WHEN I HAVEN'T BLOGGED FOR JANUARY YET??!!

Yes, it's true.  I have once again let an entire month pass without updating my blog.  I'm not sure that anyone really cares one way or another, but my New Year's resolution was to update my blog on a biweekly basis.  And in only 39 days, that resolution is moot.

Travel is settling into a routine now.  I spend two weeks in San Francisco and two weeks at home.  Of course, it's not that straightforward- I spend the last week of one month, and the first week of the next in San Francisco- so technically I was in California January AND February of 2010.  And I am going back in February, to return to Tennessee in March.  Since I am temporally dyslexic to begin with, I never know where the hell I am.  My world... and welcome to it.

Somehow, in all this travel, I seem to have been targetted as a threat to national security.
Every time I go through security at SFO, I am pulled aside and frisked. Nothing starts a journey better than a full body pat-down.  People, this is what I look like.

Puh-leeze! I am only a threat to plastic flamingoes.  I am too old, too fat, and too adorably cute to terrorize anything.  Yet still, without fail, I get spread-eagled and manhandled every time I try to leave the Golden State.  The airways have been protected.  Tennesseans can rest well in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the Kate Lapczynski threat has been neutralized.  Sigh.  Makes me really want to rush home, you know.

That, and the fact that in Tennessee I have Obligations and Responsibilities.  I have O's and R's to my family, to my friends, to my church, to the GFWC Tullahoma Woman's Club, (of which I am President); to the Highland Rim DIstrict of the General Federation of Women's Clubs of Tennessee (of which I am outgoing president); to the Order of the Daughters of the King; and to my cats.  That all these O's and R's are also the great joys of my life helps to diminish the stress, but life is more stressful in Tennessee than in California.

In San Francisco, I don't have stress.  I have housework.  No friends, no family except Dave, no cats.  I cook, I clean, I do laundry, I grocery shop- in short, I do all the things I pay other people to do for me in Tullahoma.  I suggested a housekeeper for the apartment in SF but Dave somehow found the idea preposterous.  Here was his reaction to that suggestion.

Men. Do they really think women LIKE to do housework?  I know somebody has to do it, but why does it have to be ME??  I have always HATED housework. I've been doing it for 42 years now and it still sucks and it ain't likely to go away.  While in San Francisco this last time, I did 30 loads of laundry.  That's right, you heard me, 30 FRIGGING LOADS! How does one man generate that much laundry? 

But I digress.

There's never any urgency in San Francisco but, sadly, there is way too much in Tullahoma.  I live my life on a permanent two week deadline, which makes my life at home hectic.  For example, this week, I have to finish the reports that go in to GFWC every year, due on February 15th.  On the 10th, I have my TWC Board meeting.  On the 11th, I have a luncheon date with the woman who will be succeeding me as District President. That evening, I have a meeting of the Daughters of the King.  On the 17th, I have the general meeting of the Tullahoma Woman's Club. The 19th is Becca's birthday. Did I mention that I am also teaching two on-line biology courses this semester?  

I go back to SF on the 20th.  It will be restful and boring. 

The one upside to SF is that while I am doing the dishes, I am looking out at Mission Bay.  This past week there was a small scale Spanish galleon in the bay.  Which doesn't suck.  And I do a lot of walking, since the grocery store, Starbucks, Panera, Borders, Walgreens, Wells Fargo, an IMAX theatre and many other wonderful things are all within three blocks of the apartment.

And, of course, that is where my husband lives now.  It's nice to see him every couple of weeks.  He's a pretty good guy.  He just needs an attitude adjustment re domestic help.

Now... about those stowaways

Frank Sinatrat usually hangs out with my daughter Kelly.  Lion L Messi usually hangs out with Anne-Geri'.  SOMEHOW or other, they ended up hanging out with me and David in England.  Yes, they stowed away in my luggage, the little devils.  I didn't even notice them until I unpacked in Horsham.

Yes. there they are, in among my undies. Messi looks a little... messy, but Frankie maintains his Chairman of the Board cool.  (Figures they'd end up in the underwear drawer.)

Like all of us, the guys were looking forward to a nice bath and a couple of drinks after the long trip.  Fortunately, our hotel room had a bath tub just their size.  I think they called it a bidet.

A little refreshment was called for.

Lion L is a tea-totaler.  Frankie is not.

After a toddy or two, they were off to scope out the hotel (and look for babes.)

They found a goody locker right off the bat.

And they found a "babe" without too much trouble.  They both overwhelmed her with their charms.

Back at the room, they investigated the tea caddy... and ate all the cookies.

But in the end, they settled on a good cuppa Joe.

After a good night's sleep in the most comfortable bed known to man, they were ready to head out and explore.

First, they borrowed some wellies.

In stomping around the 96 acres upon which the South Lodge Hotel sits, they encountered a rabbit hole.  Messi was all for diving right in after the rabbit, but cooler heads prevailed.  "Man, don't you remember what happened to that Alice chick when SHE followed a rabbit down a hole?  Don't be a schnook!," was Frankie's advice.  It took some convincing, but Messi finally listened to reason.

They took some pretty good pictures of the hotel grounds.

They made themselves very popular when they decided to pitch in and help the staff during a rush.

The boys accompanied us to London after three wonderful days in Horsham.  David and I set off to Poole to visit with our friends the Bryants, but Frank and Lion L decided to stay behind.  They claimed they were too pooped, but I think it was because they discovered room service.

When we returned, the guys joined us in a bit of sight-seeing.

Outside the British Museum.

Inside the British Museum.  Those are some of the Elgin Marbles in the background.

At the Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221b Baker Street, London.

At the Victoria and Albert Museum- where Messi was recognized, but Frankie was not!  A little tension there for a few minutes, but all was soon well.

They LOVED the Science and Technology Museum.  They posed with the symbol of the Museum, Dan Dare, who was deliberately created to compete with and offer an alternative to American comic book superheroes- which were (and are) too violent.  Lion L was very impressed with Dan Dare. 

Frankie called him a wuss.

All in all, the guys were good company.  Lion L 'got' England a little more than Frankie did.  In fact, at one point in our journey, Frankie turned to me with a skeptical look on his mug and asked, "You gave up Hawaii for this?"  To which the only answer is... DAMN STRAIGHT.

And now my travel journal comes to a a close.  Dave and I had the most wonderful time in England.  We both love the country, the people, and the style of living.  The Brits are just good folks and England is everything you ever dreamed it would be, no matter WHAT you dreamed it would be.  I could go back tomorrow.  Sigh.  Oh, well,  ta ta for now from Tullahoma.  Happy New Year to all.