Category: etc.

Because I’m a lazy, lazy girl and a bad hen, I’m doing a rerun. And furthering my bad henny-ness, it’s not even my own rerun, but Jeff Goldstein’s from Protein Wisdom. I’m just extremely taken with his conversations with inanimate objects from back in June 2004. Now, I suppose they’re R rated. So if you’re gonna get all squinchy, don’t say I didn’t warn you. But I’m willing to guarantee you the giggles — so much so that if you don’t get a severe case of aforementioned giggles, I will make you some, oh, maple oatmeal scones (neither dry and crumbly nor hockey pucky), or …. or coconut butter cream cupcakes or …. Jello . (You must monitor your giggles on the honor system, peeps.)

Okay. Valentine’s Day shake-up. I’m a rooster-less hen. In a hen house twist of cosmic proportions, my rooster has suddenly flown the coop for the next week and a half. Guess a “chick” flick by myself at the mall is my punishment for those unhelpful V-Day boot camp posts.

(I’ll just be over here … clucking … by myself …)

Greg over at What Attitude Problem? has part 2 of his post on Fatherhood. You really must go check it out and hear the perspective of a man formerly in the homosexual lifestyle. A man who truly and deeply understands the importance of redemptive Fathering. His thoughtful insights need to be heard, to be weighed by the Church at large. Go …. Read ….

Okay. Part 2. As I said to all you roosters, it is a dratted manufactured holiday. We clucky little hens know that. But let me also say that I don’t think it’s manufactured just for our exclusive, prima donna, henny benefit. If you’re a hen who lounges around the hen house on Valentine’s Day waiting for the rooster to rock your world while you do nothing, you are a bad hen! Bad. Hen. (Well, those are a couple words I never thought I’d write together.)

Anyway, look. Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective. There’s obligatory romance and optional romance. Obligatory includes the birthdays, the anniversaries, perhaps the Christmas season, and, yes, V-Day. Optional includes, well, all other days. And, yes, optional romance is more romantic. But what’s wrong with looking at the obligatory days as an opportunity for roosters and hens to enhance the love level, to turn up the heat in the hen house?

Perhaps men fear our expectations: “Ahhhh! She wants a big, chubby diamond. She wants a screamingly expensive gift. She wants the la-di-da dinner with all those confusing, prissy forks!” No, no, and no! (Diamonds don’t make me all dewy. Expensive gifts scare me a bit. And prissy forks make me cry.) Not every woman expects — or even wants — the extravagant gesture. Many of us are happiest, most charmed, most swept off our feet by gestures that take some time, some thought, some creativity. And yes, ideally, we should be engaged in “the loooove” all year ’round, but when life interferes or we’ve gotten a little lazy, these days are a good chance to play a little lovey-dovey catch up. Do that little extra credit. Get that glow that lingers after a lovely — and even little — gesture.

All right. Shaddup, already, and give the !@$?! ideas, Trace. Here we go:

1. Write that list I referred to in part 1 — the reasons why you love her. Although, don’t do it if you can only think of three. Do put in some of her physical attributes that are your, uh, favorites. (But — perhaps — don’t make that the whole list.) And, hens, you can do this, too.

2. Buy a box of those kid Valentines. Write a little something on each one. Be romantic. Be racy. Whatever. Tape ’em to the walls. Put some in the mailbox. Hide them in your sock drawer. Fill his briefcase. You get the idea. S-p-r-e-a-d the love.

3. Send him/her a card each day for the week of Valentine’s. Better yet, make a card. MB has a gift with drawing. He can draw the funniest cartoons, so I have a few cards like that. Love ’em.

4. So if you have artistic gifts, use them. Draw, paint, write, etc., something that expresses “the love.” Maybe on the bathroom mirror.

5. Valentine’s Day is on Monday, so to help your beloved be more relaxed for the week ahead make Sunday night “Spa Night.” Break out the scented oils, massage lotions, fluffy towels, cucumber slices, etc. Use your computer — or hand make — a brochure creatively describing the services offered by your “spa.” (Choose whatever MPAA rating you’d like. )

6. Roosters — rent her favorite romantic movie, pop the popcorn, get out the cozy blanket for two. If the movie’s “Gone with the Wind, ” tell her she has to kiss you every time one character says another character’s name — say, oh, “Rhett,” for instance. She sees her favorite romance, but you get a little bit, too.

7. Make him his favorite meal. Or make her her favorite meal. Oh, and set it up picnic style on the floor …. or the bed. Candles, candles. (But as Smokey the Bear says, above all, “Be firesafe.”)

8. Brush her hair. Be gentle. It’s simple. It’s romantic.

9. Music, music, music …. ah, sweet music ….

10. Go to your favorite takeout place. Order aforementioned takeout. Smuggle takeout into the movies in a shopping bag. Don’t know why I love this one, but I do.

11. Slow dance in a restaurant — one that doesn’t have a dance floor. I guarantee people will applaud you.

12. Give yourself $5 each to spend at your favorite convenience store. See what kind of unusual stuff you can buy to have yourself a li’l diverting evening. Maybe some paints, paper, frozen cookie dough, temporary tattoos, nail polish …. trust me, that’s an interesting evening.

13. Go to your beloved’s car at work. Attach some balloons to the side mirror, windshield, etc. Before tying up one of the balloons, enclose a little love note — or a destination where to meet you and when. Leave a card with a co-worker complicit in this plan. Card should contain pin and instructions to pop balloons until note is found. Make complicit co-worker take pictures.

14. Roosters — Pajamagram.com. Order by tomorrow. Guaranteed V-Day delivery. Nice.

15. Revive the art of the love letter. If that’s not you, here are some thoughts to borrow:

“My dear Girl, I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you, the more have I lov’d …. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest ….”

John Keats — but you can write something like that. I do believe you can.

16. Go to your favorite bookstore. Buy each other two books: One you know they’ll like; one you’d like them to read. (A gift and a present, plus reading. Yippee!)

17. Moonlight stroll. Hold hands. (In the rain. With no umbrella.) What, doesn’t everyone do it that way?

18. Have a Betty Crocker evening. Pick out the most decadent sounding dessert from your cookbooks. Shop for the ingredients and make it together from scratch. Don’t worry about gettin’ messy. In fact, the messier the better. You can always clean each other up later. 😉

19. And hens — Well, there’s always this and it usually gets a laugh. It’s something I invented called “The Boomerang Card”: Buy yourself a beautiful blank card. Write a love letter to yourself, rhapsodizing shamelessly about the wonders of yoouuuu. Don’t hold back. Embellish effusively. At the bottom of the card, draw an X and a line. Under the line write: “If you agree, sign your assent on the line above.” MB always laughs at these, keeps them, and gives them to me later.

20. Roosters — We hens are verbal, verrrrry verbal. So try this:

Look — really look — into her eyes, take her hand, and tell her something along this theme: “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You take my breath away and make my knees go weak and I’m so in love with you.” Etc., etc. Improvise freely, but mean it — and keep looking at her.

That oughtta shut ‘er up.

All righty! Just a few, not-so-expensive ideas from me to you.

And now, all you roosters and hens, Carpe That Confounding, Obligatory Diem!

Years ago, my fiance, Snake, and I had a wee row on Valentine’s Day. I had gotten him The Perfect Gift and he’d gotten me bupkis. Na-da. Unless you count that bitter chill in the air between us. He sat there with The Perfect Gift cradled in his lap and explained:

“I didn’t get you anything,” he sniffed, “because I knew you were expecting it.” Hmm …. Jack Frost nipping at my nose …. Now, a strange, convoluted, ah, discussion ensued.

“Well, what did I do or say that made you think I expected it?” I was bewildered.

“Nothing,” said Snake. “I just knew you did. You shouldn’t expect it, you know. And since you expected it, I didn’t do it.” I watched as he fiddled with The Perfect Gift in his lap.

I won’t relay more of what was said, because it basically went roundy-round on those two comments. Ain’t love grand.

Thankfully, I shed Mr. Snake from my life before ever slithering down the aisle to become Mrs. Snake.

So yes, that “day” is comin’. That !#&?! day dedicated to delight, delirium …. and dashed hopes.

Yep.

Birds-Trees-Hearts-and-Flowers Day.

Drunk-Dial-Your-Ex Day.

Lame ‘n’ Crappy Ol’ Valentine’s Day.

Please remain calm!

I know it’s a dratted manufactured holiday, fellas. Maybe we “shouldn’t expect it,” but, well, we’re history’s worst monsters and we do. Try looking at it this way: You have the chance to “outlove” ALL OTHER MEN. You could be the talk of all your wife’s friends, sending those green-eyed hens home to their roosters, clucking, “Why can’t you be more like Walter?!” You could be, if only for one day, The World’s Greatest Lover.

Trust me. Your woman will likely brag about you if you sweep ‘er off her dainty little feet. Why? Because women like to make other women feel bad. “If I’m the Queen, that means you’re not.” Well, maybe that’s a tad harsh. (But have you met any women?)

So, roosters, In the spirit of that !#&?! day, I’m serving up some ideas to get you to that lofty, long-for position of World’s … Greatest … Lover … Some of these are mine, some aren’t. I’ll do a few in this post — more in another. Here we go:

1. Understand the difference between a present and a gift:

A present is something you give because you want your beloved to have it.

A gift is something you give because you’re sure your beloved wants it.

Roosters — That Dustbuster is a present. That lacy little somethin’-somethin’ might be, too. Think about that.

Hens — Underwear, ties, and socks — unless handmade by you or your precious, wide-eyed 4-year-old — are presents.

“And extreme lustbusters,” MB is chiming in.

“Thanks, babe,” is what I lovingly say to him but what I’m thinking is “Hey — get your own !?@!#! blog!”

2. All right. Let’s get this over with. Flowers — eh. They’re okay, but every other WGL contender is doing it, so big whoop. That doesn’t set you apart as the BEST. Don’t do roses — unless they’re absolutelytutely her favorite. Meaning she’ll drop everything because she’s gone weak in the knees and passionately kiss you for …. hmm … say, at least 30 seconds. Then they’re probably her favorite.

3. Chocolate — if she LOVES it. See reaction above. But get the best you can afford. Not a Whitman’s Sampler that you bought in the drugstore from a slow-moving, loquacious cashier named Agnes on the way home from work …. on Valentine’s Day.

4. Okay. Old standbys out of the way. I’m gonna say something that’s true for me — and for my girlfriends (hey, we talk about this): We’d rather you take some time, be creative, than spend a lot of money. Sometimes the simplest things can make the most impact. A few years ago, My Beloved wrote me a list of reasons why he loved me. It was touching and funny and melted me. I took time, creativity. And I loved it. I remember there were a lot more reasons than I could have thought of — and more than I think I deserve. I still have that list. I still look at that list.

5. Last entry for this post — and necessary precursor to what’s coming in the next:

Roosters and Hens — Lovely presentation is part of the gift. It shows you took just a little extra time. It shows “the love.” If you are not “gifted” at this, please — oh, please — have someone do it for you. If you’re not sure whether you’re gifted at this, you can send me a picture of something you’ve wrapped — 😉 I’ll tell you straight. (Hey, in college I worked retail, wrapping gifts and preparing gift baskets for a very shi-shi-poo-poo store. So I got pretty darn good at — well, at shi-shi-poo-poo wrapping.) At least keep some handy-dandy gift bags on hand, get some excelsior (straw-like stuff from arts stores) or tissue — and nice it up! Come on. I know you can do it. (Or contact me and I’ll do it for you — I really would. Because I love to do that.) Yeah, I know …. I’m weird.

Okay, henhouse dismissed … for now …

Well, yippeeeee!! The Anchoress must be feeling rambunctious today — and I couldn’t be happier! She’s reprising her classic vagina post from December — a deliriously explosive satire of the whole insipid Eve-Ensler-Vagina-Monologues culture. Don’t be sittin’ here listening to me tell you about it. If you missed it the first time, you’ve got a second chance to check it out.

(Ummm … you’re not still here, are you?)

Ken over at I Threw a Brick Through a Window has a thoughtful, timely series on worship — what it is, what it isn’t. The series has four parts so far. Here are links to parts 1, 2 , and 3. Part 4 is up there on the main page still. Ken’s new to the blogosphere. Go check him out, read his series, say howdy.

Last Sunday at church, two women offered to pray for me. We were talking and I mentioned something I’ve been struggling with. One of them stopped and said, “Well, let’s pray for you right now. Would that be all right?” I’m always surprised, I guess, when I see the Church being the Church, when I see people being the hands and heart of Jesus. Maybe I need to stop being so surprised, you might say. But maybe …. maybe it needs to stop being so surprising ….

Have you heard about The Anchoress’ 15-year-old son, Buster? Well, go over there and read his funny, insightful commentary on last night’s SOTU address. Whatever your personal politics may be, you gotta love a kid of such sparkling intelligence. Reading The Anchoress and her son is like a personal Fourth of July celebration — crackling, exhilarating, and slightly dangerous. And who doesn’t love that?

I’m going to admit something. I have a freakish fixation with the show “American Idol.” I hate to mention it, realizing as I do that it calls into question my entire credibility as a human being. Maybe it’s my own experience with screwy, scary theatre auditions that animates this sick fascination. So just in case you’re inexplicably obsessed, too, I thought I’d try to blog a run-down of tonight’s show for you. Don’t know how well I’ll do, watching and blogging. It’ll be a sort of stream-of-consciousness experiment. But here we go, from Cleveland and Orlando:

So …. Jackie Crum is up first. She “loves” Paula. The singing starts. Umm, it’s strange sounding. Helium-ish. But they like her …. kinda. She’s through. She jumps up and down, runs out to the lobby. (Ohh …. ouch …. a piercing scream of joy, which is actually more melodious.)

Sarah Keller — She has a karaoke biz. (Uh-oh.) Singing “I Could Have Danced All Night” from “My Fair Lady.” This is Hollywood, sweetie, not Broadway. When, oh when are people gonna learn the difference? Simon says, “It’s the way you look that’s putting us off.” (She’s quite overweight.) He says she has a good voice, but it’s that kind of business. She takes it amazingly well.

Next up … Big, big guy named Scott Savol . He thoroughly sucks up to everybody. He’s a rather muttery bloke with no discernible personality. Singing “Superstar” — a song I LOVE. Truly Shocking. This weird guy can actually SING. He mutters when he talks, but SINGS when he sings. Sweet Moses! It’s freaky. That voice coming out of that person. Judges say it’s a YES. Good for you, muttery weird guy!

Oh, Lord. Are you kidding me? A mime. How I loves the mimes. She’s holding up a sign. And now …. she’s miming Aerosmith. Because nothing says “Aerosmith” like white face and total silence. Way to go, hon. You’ve offended the iconic artistry of both Steven Tyler and Marcel Marceau. (And I’m actually bugged about the Steven Tyler one.) Simon says, “One of the best I’ve heard today.” Bye-bye, Mimey.

Okay. Here’s Farm Boy Pat doing, “Smile,” a lovely, lovely classic. He’s wearing faded overalls, which create a real aura of elegance and sophistimication. Um, he’s too boy bandy for me, but Randy says, “Dude, you can BLOW.” The 12-year-old girls will like him. And probably his overalls. He’s in.

Giant twin sisters. LaShunda is first. Don’t know this song. Don’t LIKE this song. No, thank you, they say. LeAndra, the sis, is next. “Summertime”. (Oh, don’t do it. You’d better be able to sing it, baby.) And …. no, she’s murdering it. And, Lordy, how it’s killing me — the croaking is contagious! An absolute classic, DE-STROYED. Vesuvius was kinder in its destruction.

Breanna Davis. Blue hair. Black and white striped vest, red and black striped shirt. Rainbow skirt. Black tights. Getting the picture? Singing “The Phantom of the Opera,” Very, very, very hard to sing. Very, very, very wrong for Hollywood. Wow. I think this is the highest key I’ve ever heard it sung in. And that’s saying something. She CAN sing. Go to Broadway, honey. Or get some further classical training. That’s your voice. Seriously. But, well, shut my mouth …. they say she’s through to Hollywood. Hmmm ….

Here comes a blond version of Clay Aiken, Jr. — Anthony. Singing “Angel” by Jon Secada. Wow. Another geek with a golden voice. He apparently had a tracheotomy and the docs said he’d never talk again. Nice story. They love him. He’s in.

(On to Orlando)

Marissa Ganz. Pretty blonde in verrry short skirt. Singing “White Boys” from the musical “Hair.” Really hard song — and her version? Well, let’s just say she doesn’t make it sound easy. Truly “hair”raising. Oh, and just when you think she’s done, she starts up. Again. Judges say “Wow.” (But not in that good, wowie-zowie way.) They say, “You want to do musicals?” “Yes,” she says. Simon says, “Based on that, I’d do plays.” Touche.

Here’s a young gal screaming “The Greatest Love of all” The greatest love of all is not happening to me. Ahhh …. She’s done. And done.

Some guy singing that song by The Darkness “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” I think it’s funny. Gets the operatic parts pretty spot on. Entertaining, but no.

Vonzell Solomon, pretty black girl, singing Aretha, “Chain of Fools.” Oh, you go, girl. Think I already know how this’ll turn out. Yep. I’m just predictin’ here: She’s in. (And …. judges say yes and yes and yes.) Well, I be darned — I’z riiight.

Here’s Desmond Meese. He’s “a’dancin’.” “I can’t help it,” he says. Singing James Brown, “I Feel Good.” Hmmm. Not crazy ’bout him. Working it too hard. Trying to be James Brown — not a good idea. Randy says no. Simon says, “Sounds like you work at Magic Mountain to me.” Paula is (sniff) “devastated.” She’s (sniff sniff) “fighting for him.” (I say no no no no.) “Have you ever seen me this upset?” says Paula. Simon says, “Yes.” Randy changes his mind. Dancin’ Desmond is in (for now). Paula gets (sniff) teary. Puh-leaze.

And… (whew) That’s All Folks ….