Unmitigated

When You're Out, Go Out All the Way

When I went back to college in 1999, I discovered that the campus I attended published a student directory every year. They were free. Miniature telephone books that featured students names, addresses and phone numbers. We referred to it as the Stalker's Guide to UM-Dearborn.

I'm sure there have been sufficient clues in my blog, my comments on other blogs and on Twitter to make stalking me none-too-difficult. I recently had a post published on MidLifeBloggers.com, and I used my real name on it. At my age, I feel the need to claim credit (or blame) for my stuff, I guess.

Anyway, since I'm 'out' now, I thought I'd do a meme I have found amusing in the past. Go to Google. Type in your first name and the word 'needs' and have fun with the results. Since my first name is Mary, there were lots of results about how Mary needs your prayers. I'm sure Husband would agree with this, but it's not really me. Anyway, here are some of my faves:

Mary needs to back off and let the dancers shine. Because I'm always getting in the way with my damn narrative, and all my "Look at ME!"

Mary needs shadows. To complement the ones under my eyes? To contrast the glory of my aura? I think I need shadows to hide in. When there's not a convenient Men's Room.

Mary needs to piss. This is nearly always true. But better since the surgery. At least I can sneeze without crossing my legs. TMI?

Mary needs to schedule appearances in better venues. I'm thinking it's time to step out of the shadows (tie-in - get it?) and start making appearances that really count, like on the payroll of Fabulously Wealthy Writers, Inc.

Mary needs sleep. At no time will this be more evident than at about 2:00 p.m. every damn day of the school year.

Mary needs numbers. Is this a paean to my blogwhore-itude? Or does this meme know I am a math freak? I get to interview Chris at CSquaredPlus3 for Citizen of the Month's Great Interview Experiment. My first thought on visiting her site was ecstasy over the math reference. I have to go play with my Star Wars action figures now.

Mary needs a bit of independence. This one is a little like taking coals to Newcastle, a place that must be overrun with coal by now. I tend to be so independent that I will search a target store for HOURS rather than ask an employee where the thingamajigs are located. Husband can get very irritated with my independence. I sometimes forget all that 'helpmate' stuff and struggle along without asking for help because, I don't know, I'm just stoopid about those things.

Mary needs help with open bite wound. Because I'm thinking something I write will one day come back to bite me in the ass.

Traveling Back Home

"Hey, turn here! Sorry!" That's me in a sudden moment of inspiration after leaving Taco Bell with Husband. Usually my 'sudden moments' after leaving Taco Bell feature things other than inspiration.

"Turn right in this alley." Husband is accustomed to doing whatever crazy-ass thing I ask. I think it's because he's knows he'll have fodder for making fun of me at a later time.

My mom used to have conversations in her head. And then some of it would come out aloud.

 "Well, I told him about it the other day, and he just doesn't remember, that's all." What?

"Uh, Mom? What are you talking about?"

"You're father. We were talking about your father."

"Um. No. We were watching Seinfeld."

"Oh."

And then she'd explain the thought process. It was all perfectly normal for her. My version of that is a little different. I'll see or hear something that will trigger a thought. Which will lead to another (possibly completely unrelated) thought. Which will lead to another, etc. What comes out audibly is the final thought in the process.

For example:

As we left Taco Bell, I was thinking of the little, apparently deserted, bike shop across the street. When I was a kid, it was a drug store called, unfortunately, the D & C. I'm sure that stood for something other than dilation and curettage, but I don't know what. We used to buy candy there. Especially when I spent the night at Amy's house. Heh. Amy used to have a crush on the teenage kid who worked at Silvio's Pizza, next to the D & C. Silvio's had the best pizza rolls, plus pictures of naked people glued to the walls. Wait a minute, I just read about Silvio's on that letterboxing site..."Hey, turn here! Sorry!" And now we are back to where we started.

Back on August fifth, Blackbird17 wrote a post about Letterboxing Adventure on Say La Vee. Letterboxing is like geocaching without the GPS. Someone hides a watertight container with a notebook and pen, or stamp and inkpad inside, then leaves clues on how to find it. Visitors to the site leave a message for posterity, then return it to be found by the next one to come along.

I think it's more fun to follow a set of treasure map instructions than an electronic device, anyway, so I went to the Letterboxing North America site and found this one located in my hometown. I recognized all the clues right away, and figured the next time I was out, I'd have to check it out. It happens to be behind the same Silvio's Pizza we were driving past.

Husband was only privy to the shout, and so had no clue what the hell I was after. Even he was speechless when we pulled up. The deteriorating telephone poles in town were recently replaced, so the letterbox was gone. Instead, we found this...

Silvio's American Forum. And behind it, is a half acre of this...

Here's a link to Silvio's own pictures. Absolutely amazing. This is two miles from my house, and I never knew it existed. Silvia makes all these things himself. The one you see above is the Leaning Tower of Detroit. It's like having Willy Wonka live in your neighborhood. And all because Silvio's art reminds him of home.

I'm glad we found it on our way home.

The Black Dog Story

Because I told Punk Rock Dad I'd explain why I was so sorry to hear that his dog was named Black Dog:

For those of you who aren't in-the-Led-Zeppelin-know, "Black Dog" is the name of an amazing song from the album known as Zep Four, or the Runes Album, or ZOSO, or the album that has Stairway to Heaven, or whatever the hell you want to call it because they couldn't be bothered to give the album an actual title. Get this: the time signatures for the drums and guitar on Black Dog are these weird-ass syncopated things. I defy you to keep time with the drums the first time you hear it. The story, I think, is that they wanted to write a 'garage band' song that no actual 'garage band' could ever play.

At the end of this post, you'll understand why this conversation, which just took place through a closed bathroom door (me on the outside), was necessary:

MAW: Oh Honey?

Husband: Yes, Sweetie Pie?

MAW: Which Zeppelin album was "Black Dog" on?

Husband: It's the one commonly known as Led Zeppelin Four...or ZOSO.

MAW: ZOSO. Right. That's the one I forgot. Thanks!

Husband: Okay.

I walked away for a moment. Then went back to the door, because I felt some explanation was necessary.

MAW: (Pause) Ask me when you come out.

Husband: What?

MAW: I was about to give you a complicated story through the door, but you should just ask when you come out.

Husband: That's a great idea.

MAW: I thought so.

Notice how Husband is totally not phased by this behavior. He's come to expect such things of me after twenty-three years of marriage.

A long time ago, maybe twenty years ago, Husband and I were driving somewhere in one of the many cars we've mistreated during our married life. On the radio, came the familiar strains of a Led Zeppelin/ Jimmy Page guitar riff.

I need to interrupt this story to tell this one: In high school, where Husband and I met, my best friends were all guys. I hung out with guys, talked like the guys, listened to guy-ish music, and just generally eschewed the company of females. One very guy-intense band that we loved to listen to was Led Zeppelin. Husband made me a Zep mix-tape. With MY choices on it. I didn't need to rely on some OTHER guy to pick my rockin' tunes. I prided myself on being able to identify obscure Zep songs. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

So, the song comes on the radio, and feeling very smug, I turned to husband, and dripping with self confidence said, "Black Dog." Only it wasn't. It was "Livin' Lovin' Maid." End of story? Of course not. For MANY years thereafter, Husband would bring up this story. At parties. In crowds. With co-workers. Anywhere anyone would listen, really. Until I'd had quite enough, thank you, and made him stop.  After all, I don't tell everyone about the bolt cutters, right? Did I tell you that story yet? No? Someday.

So I had to ask Husband about the album of origin this morning, because A) I'm too lazy to walk downstairs and check, and B) It would be another twenty years worth of sh*t-eating if I posted about this and then got the album wrong.

Reading Punk Rock Dad's post about his rambunctious lifestyle where he mentions that Black Dog sometimes like to get in on the rowdiness? Great story. Great song. Cool dog name. Bad memory.

The Fundamental Difference Between My Kids

18-year-old-Girl says, "Mom, can I ask you a question?"

16-year-old-Boy says, "I have a question."

18-year-old-Girl's question might be followed up by:

Can you help me with my math homework?

Do we have the stuff we need to make Key Lime Pie?

Were you and daddy married already when you first had sex?

Can we go get my belly-button pierced?

How long can a person go without pooping?

How old were you when you and daddy got engaged?

How can I ever afford to live on my own and pay all those bills?

Will you go with me to get the oil changed in my car?

16-year-old-Boy's statement will be followed by:

Can I spend the night at Joey's?

Can I have some money to (fill in the blank)?

Can Joey spend the night?

Can I have some money to (fill in the blank)?

Can I spend the night at Tony's?

Can I have some money to (fill in the blank)?

Can Tony spend the night?

Can I have some money to (fill in the blank)?

Can Joey and Tony spend the night?

and on, and on...

Ya see what'm sayin'?

The New Phone Book is Here! The New Phone Book is Here!

"You can't buy this kind of publicity!" -Steve Martin in The Jerk

Does anyone else find it alarming that I use a quote from a film called The Jerk to describe something happening in my life? No? Just me, then.

Saturday, 6:50 p.m. Relaxing on the sofa, thinking about Sunday's post. Husband emerges from his basement man-cave and says, "Do we have tickets for the Tiger game tonight?"

One beat. Two beats. What's the date...let's see the 16th. Holy Crap! We do! Game time, 7:05. Husband: I think we're gonna be late.

So we left in a tearing hurry and made it downtown in time for the third inning. Not bad considering nearly every major freeway into downtown is closed for construction. It helps that no one actually lives here anymore.

Tigers 5, Orioles 3. Their relief pitching sucked more than ours.

But the really good news? I submitted a post to MidLifeBloggers.com and when I came home from the game, it was up! Yay, me! Please, please, please go leave me a comment there so they'll invite me back someday. As an incentive, you can learn my real name at the site! Good gravy, what's next? A real picture?

ed. I also learn from Jenny, the Bloggess that a piece I submitted is featured on Good Mom/Bad Mom's BlogShare Sunday, today. Life is almost complete.