Consumed by Kids

I am consumed by my children. Sort of like how Bella gives birth to a half-vampire offspring that eats its way out of her uterus. I'm sure there's a higher-minded literary reference, mythological or whatnot, and I should probably know, having dabbled in that realm with my own writing lately!

But anyway, I'm consumed. Early decision deadlines are creeping up on us, with essays and decisions still hanging out there, in utero, partially formed, if we keep with the metaphor. The collegiate one, living independently, unincubated, cries out for a "care package" to prove my maternal love - everyone else is getting them. FLY, little bird, FLY! Another just has to have a multi-thousand dollar mountain bike - just HAS TO in order to STAY ALIVE - understand? My failure to provide is like pushing the little runt away, all the more for the bigger, stronger, more favored ones, to hear him tell it. The youngest NEEDS to attend a two week $1500 music/theater camp which will show her how to nail auditions, play two instruments, and pave the way to stardom, whereupon, she informs me, she will move to Hollywood and never contact us again. We can follow her on Twitter. The middle kid, as usual, is no problem. He's been independent, adult and supportive since he popped out fifteen years ago. So, I haven't posted for a while.

Anyway, I'm entering a Lucky Agent contest sponsored by the Guide to Literary Agents blog (link in my blogroll below) - with the hope that the literary wonder that is my book Pantheon: Virgin Sacrifice will be discovered. Fingers crossed, so blame any typos on that.

Loggia Envy

Jim has a bad case of loggia envy, and he doesn't even know what a loggia is. But Tom Brady has one. A covered one. And after staring at the photo of Tom's new 22,000+ square foot manse, under construction in Brentwood, he thinks he's figured out that it's a stylish small outbuilding going up slightly to the rear of the house. I don't know if he's right - I don't know what a loggia is either. And I WON'T look it up to find out. Because what I learned in the process of putting a big addition, including a new kitchen and three baths onto my home, is that once you learn about some new gadget, appliance, or luxury, you suddenly can't live without it. And I've been hanging in there without a loggia this far. I know, loggia afficionados, I just don't know what I'm missing. I'm an illogical, il-loggia-cal, ignoramus. I don't know the finer things.

Another thing Tom and Giselle have, that I don't:

HA-HA! About 100 billion things!!!!

But really, I was referring to the "lagoon-shaped" swimming pool at the new Brady-Bundchen spread. What the heck. I'll admit it. I don't know the shape of a lagoon. It never came up in geometry - I don't know the formula for calculating the area, or more accurately, the volume, of a lagoon. Judging from the pics though, it's long and curved, like a banana. A banana-shaped pool is what they really have, Tom and Giselle. But that just doesn't inspire the loggia envy the way a lagoon of your own does. In your own back yard. Or maybe front yard - it was hard to tell from the photos. I think it functions sort of like a moat. It's a big banana - the whole length, and more, of the humongous house. You could definitely swim some laps, get some exercise. Somehow, I just don't see it happening though. On reflection, I'm pretty sure the lagoon is just a moat in disguise. I don't have moat envy. So, I'm good.

Tiger, the new Charlie Brown

Has enough been said about Tiger's Nike ad? Nooooo. There are infinite comments remaining.

Obviously, it was a tremendous, triple-D cup, pecker-sized mistake. (Note to kids: You should have stopped reading by now, and that's an order from Mom.) I think the underlying problem is that it was done for Nike. While Mr. Woods, Sr. is talking, his voice wah-wahing at Tiger like a teacher to Charlie Brown in a April Fool's cartoon, all my head keeps saying, looking at that "swoosh" or whatever they call it in promo-land, is "Just do it." Like the unreformed Tiger was really the prototype for the brand, you know? Like Tiger's just sitting there, taking it, but saying inside, "I don't get it. You told me to just do it." Tiger seems like such a, I don't know, blockhead. All he can do is blink. Then I start wondering what Charlie Brown would be like in bed. And if he ever made it with the little red-haired girl. Or if he just settled down with Peppermint Patty, and lusted in his heart his whole life like Jimmy Carter, another doofus I don't want to imagine in bed. And then I feel like a pervert, and it sort of ticks me off. I mean, who's the pervert here? Not me. Not poor Peanuts Chuck. Or Peanut Jimmy. Upshot is, Tiger as Charlie Brown won't sell me sneakers. You?

Oh well. At least the crowd clapped. Maybe in the way you'd clap for that sad little Christmas tree - you know the one.

Insight into the XY Mind or How to Have Terrific Self-Esteem Despite the Acknowledged "Problem"

Here's an insight into the male mind, and it just sneaked up on me yesterday, and almost got by me without my even noticing. Hopefully, my husband will excuse me for sharing, but ladies, you have to know! Because it's a trick we need to partake in.

So, I can't remember exactly what I said. Maybe I complimented Jim's outfit or something. To which he responded, "I know, I don't look bad for xxx pounds." There you go. Just like that - DEFINE AWAY THE PROBLEM!

Let's give it a whirl.

"I really rock this bikini for 200 pounds or so."

"My face looks pretty young for having all these wrinkles."

"I made a delicious dinner, given that I burnt it like an incinerator."

"My kids are just the best, considering how rude and obnoxious they are."

"I had a great day at work for having been fired. The morning was terrific."

There you go. Everything's great. YOU'RE GREAT! Believe it. You would if you were guy, you know, for having that Y chromosome and all.

Tiger's Return

So, I'm not one to beat a dead horse. Well, maybe I am. I've been called relentless before. But this latest Tiger thing merits a short comment.

Tiger is playing the Masters, a decision announced 140-odd days after not getting pummeled with a nine-iron by his lovely wife. I'm okay with that. The least the guy can do is keep raking in the millions. And lucky for him, people can only castigate him in sotto voce on the fairway. I wonder if they can carry signs. Probably not. Too distracting. I digress.

But I saw absolutely the best interview on Sports Center this morning. Some Masters cohort, wish I'd caught the name or title, actually said, "We're glad our stud, uh, star, is back. We are his family, and we have forgiven him." Too good.

Nomar, Idol and a Contest

I was so touched by Nomar's becoming a Red Sock/x for a day to retire. It's just sad to think his heart was always with this team, even as it went on to win the series without him, and as some fickle fans decided the trade, in light of the championship, was all worth it. We just have no long term gratitude in our natures - no memory for what people contributed their youth to, spilled blood for (and now I'm not thinking baseball), lost their girlish figures for . . . Speaking of which, how about Big Mike on Idol last night! Wow! To make Kara cry! It's just so sentimental when people recognize one another. Good for Big Mike - you know he was singing to his wife, a new first-time Mom. Good for Nomar, to be so humble and admit what he really wanted. Hopefully, we all take pause.

One last thing - I am entering a contest pertaining to my book. I called a radio psychic, who said he didn't want to paint too rosy a picture, but he "felt good" about the couple of contests I was looking into! Yay! Except then he gave some really bad advice to another caller, so how good can he be? Oh well. Keep your fingers crossed for me! And for those who read this and write - I know there are at least a couple of you, read the Guide to Literary Agents blog that I've linked to - it's so informative and entertaining!

Talking God

Without revealing myself as a psycho, I'll just throw it out there. . .

Does God talk to you, too? And if so, more importantly, how? Less important - what does He say? (Less important because, regardless of what He says, I'm quite convinced we'll hear it, interpret it, apply it wrong, so what does it really matter, except to make us even more psycho, and worse, possibly dogmatic, which is just no fun at a cocktail party or a school committee meeting, you know?)

So in the last few days, as soon as I've turned on the car radio, that Coldplay song, Clocks, has been on. Not just that though. The same line of the song - the one in which Chris Martin asks whether he's part of the cure or of the disease. Just coincidence? I think not.

Does God talk through song? Does He inspire through song? And how exactly does He get into the heads of the artists, many of whom don't seem particularly "religious" for lack of a better word. And why that artist? Or is the artist unimportant, and only the audience that matters? And what the heck am I supposed to think about being part of the disease anyway?

As friends, who might eventually find this little ditty, know, I've been writing a book. Actually, I might say the book is written. At present, I am rewriting the book, which is taking three times as long as writing it, and is a whole lot more painful and less fun. Anyway, this "talking god" concept features heavily. It rolls around a lot in my head, I guess. Anyone else?

Do I Even Want to Be Found?

The worldwide web is an enormous place, but the world itself is getting smaller fast. Day 1, first post, will anyone even find me? I, the compulsive seeker of anonymity, throwing myself into the fray, with my not-subconscious-enough-subconscious screaming, reminding me that whenever I've been dragged or bludgeoned myself into the spotlight or up to the mike before, always because there's some universal injustice being perpetrated that I just can't stand (Libra), it's been painful. For me. So don't look while I blog away. Or just take polite peeks that won't embarrass either of us.

So why did I do it? My husband insists my ongoing commentary is wasted on him. Share it with the world, he says, which does not mean he is not interested in what I have to say. He says. But more compelling, I'm entering a contest that requires I link my blog to its. Years of ignoring my husband come to this. And now I'm off the pot. And in the blog-o-sphere.

Are you out here? Wait - don't look me straight in the eye! Indirect glances and polite peeks. The way you look at all sentient curiosities.