A Room of One's Own

Martha gets me

I have undertaken a large project to go through years of magazines and clippings and figure out why I'm keeping them and then figure out what to do with them. It has occurred to me that I have been a reader of Martha Stewart's for about 10 years. Really. I love her long time. And I have realized why. She gets me.

As I went through a gazillion of her magazines, lots of them holiday editions, one thing became apparent. She is a huge list maker. Oh does that bitch love a good checklist. I am not sure at this point who has shaped the chronic list maker side of me more - my mother or Martha.

I think it was the Christmas 2005 issue that clearly showed me how amazing the lists were and how I am one with Martha. This woman had an entire checklist, for four weeks leading up to Christmas, that detail just what you should be doing each week. My God! I can only aspire to such organized list making anal retentiveness! She is my damn hero! And, on top of that, each week had its own list that took up approximately 1/4 of the page so you could clip it out and keep it handy at all times. You can bet your sweet ass I would have that thing laminated so I could not only cross things off the list with a dry erase pen, but I could wipe it clean and reuse it the following year! Holy shit. It makes me just giddy with the excitement of it all.

The list was lovely. The first week had such great suggestions as getting your cards and your postage ready for sending. Whoda thunk it? I have, on numerous occasions, gotten a whole variety of items ready to mail, way ahead of schedule and completely fallen down on the job when the postage comes in to play. I once had a bag, a bag mind you, of 52 unmailed Christmas cards. No longer! I have a checklist.

Wait. Wait. It gets better. Her lists allow you to cross reference! The list reminds you to make your shopping list for Christmas dinner! Genius.  I love when my lists have lists. See, this is how I roll. I start planning Christmas in early November. As a matter of fact, I went with my mom this evening to go get the first of my Christmas decorating items. It's for garland.

I understand that this is an illness. I do. I am sure there is some kind of medication out there that would rid me of my complusive need to lists and spreadsheets and flowcharts. I care not. Look at where it got Martha. I mean, besides jail. I don't think she put that on a checklist. Reorganize sewing thread. Check. Trim back rose bushes. Check. Find creative use for cardamom seeds that doesn't include cooking. Check. Go to jail for insider trading. Check. So, really, I think I'm just fine as I am. 

Alert!! Code Blue!! Code Blue!!

It's been hard enough trying to get anything done today. My assistant just threw the whole office into a frenzy and we're not going to be able to recover. The day is just useless now.

She came back and asked if we could get an ATM. When I ask why she tells me that this guy came in and had to pay for something but didn't have his checkbook on him so he had to run to the bank. Apparently, the man was so hot she did not want to let him out of her sight. I immediately jumped in her shit for not sharing the hot! We are an office of all women. There should be some kind of alert in place and she must remember that I alert her to upcoming meetings I have with the hot account rep from the security company. Sister needs to give back some love.

Now that the rest of us are aprised of the situation, we're ready. So, Hottie McHotterson comes back and all of a sudden we are just a flurry of activity. One lady has to go drop off checks, another has to use the bathroom, another has to go mail something. I, in an act of sheer genius, decide to go put something in interoffice so I shove a near empty label sheet into an envelope and go up to put it in the out basket. This is the executive version of the "bend and snap."

I approach the desk and Mr. McHotterson is leaning on the reception desk doing a fine impersonation of John Wayne. Yes, indeed. All assessments were correct. Ho-ly shit. The man is smokin' hot. My assistant, who knews me all too well, is trying so hard not to laugh her ass off as I am the only one brave enough to actually approach the desk on the all female tour of shamelessness. Mr. McHotterson and I exchange a little chit chat and I head back to the kitchen to brag about how cool I am. I am the girl office equivalent of having just ran up and slapped the door to the Radley House! I ROCK! Note: I did not trip as I walked back there. I may have flipped my hair, though.

The kitchen is a total fit of giggles from women who are fanning themselves. Honestly, you would have thought we had all just gotten out of prison. Now we need to get back to work. It's not happening. We all start to crank down and then you just hear someone start giggling. We are worse than 12 year olds. We are totally pathetic. We are that Diet Coke commercial. We are desperate for interuption and entertainment. Thank you, Hottie McHotterson, I'm so sorry if someone screws up your billing and you have to come back in. Honestly.

She always has a second cup at home

I went to the doctor yesterday and she told me that I have lumpy boobs. Not lumpy in a really bad way but lumpy in a fibroid kind of way. This creates an issue as it makes it hard to tell should I find myself lumpy in a bad way. This came about in discussion as she took way longer doing the check than normal and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me in that way.

I would also like to mention how much I had having to engage in small talk while someone is checking my nether regions in a most unpleasant way. I don’t even like small talk while someone is checking my nether regions in a pleasant way. I just hate small talk. I, oddly, found it a lot easier to engage in mindless banter with my old doctor who was an old man who quite resembled Colonel Sanders and sounded just like Ben Stein. This is not my point but I felt like sharing.

She says she wants me to significantly reduce my caffeine intake. Ho-ly shit. I have never considered myself a caffeine junky by any means. But, I love my morning coffee. I mean love it in a completely unhealthy way. Obviously. I don’t think it’s the caffeine as much as it’s just yummy. But, I am interested to see what happens as a result of switching to decaf. The total science geek in me thinks I should chart my own reactions just out of curiosity. It would require me to stay fully caffeinated for a week in order to gather baseline data. I’m certain I would have to chart information in the following areas:

• Hours (perhaps minutes) before biting someone’s head off upon office arrival
• Minutes (let’s be real here) before letting the first curse word fly in the morning
• Hours of sleep required to feel human

I’m open to other areas you folks may want me to chart as I am here for your entertainment. I think I may be able to rent myself to the local middle school as a Science Fair Project. I’m also wondering if switching to decaf is a good enough excuse to regularly come in late for work. “I’m sorry. I would have been here early but I now require 10 hours of sleep in order to function without an afternoon Coke.”

Me, please report to me.

I am sure there are multiple people out there pretending to be me. Oddly, they must be really doing a good job of acting like me as they're not doing anything interesting enough for me to find them. Well, except one.

Earlier in the year, I applied for a new Social Security Card with my maiden name on it. It got lost in the mail. I am certain there is someone out there working under my name and the IRS is going to come for me for tax fraud in 8 years. I'm sure there is some process I should follow to get that fixed as I still have no new card. Whatever it is will most likely not be done. I would rather go to jail for tax fraud than have to wait in line at the Social Security Administration. But, I have no proof someone is out there function under an alias known as me as a result of this.

Today however, I got some proof of identity theft. I'm not sure you can call it that but it sounds so action adventure movie to say that! I had a check sent to me from my insurance company because I had settled a claim and they reimibursed me. This was over a month ago and I still hadn't seen a check. I called yesterday and they said the check was cashed on Sept. 6. Whoa Nelly! I am strangely missing $325 that should be in my account. I double checked as I could be a bonehead and not realized *I* cashed it. That was a busy month. Then I realize I was in Nashville from 9/4 to 9/6. Hmmmm. It definitely did NOT go into my account.

They ordered a copy of the check front and back to see the signature. It will take 5-7 days. I am just wild with anticipation! I am dying to know what happened! It was sent to my old address so I assume someone there cashed it. I so want to know what they did with the money and if the residents of my old house took my money. That would be weird! I'm not sure why. Just roll with me here.

I have had to promise my benefits rep that I will not stalk the owners of my old house. She knows me so well. She said that she is getting as much info as she can because she knows if they don't find out what happened soon I'll either go to the house pretending to be a Jehovah's Witness or, at the very least, send my old neighbors.

I just want to why someone did it and what they did with the money. Buy drugs? Head to the casino? Horse races? New pair of Manolo's? 5-7 days has never seemed like so long... I'll keep you posted, especially of how they take to Jehovah's Witnesses.

THIS is what it's about!

It's perfect. Sunday perfect. I did the Race for the Cure with my family this morning. Mom is a 21 year survivor. She was awesome today. Just awesome. I could not love her anymore than I do. We all went out after and had the most amazing lunch. Ever.

By 3pm, I was on my couch with football and winning my fantasy match. My next task was up. Gumbo. I had found okra at a farmer's market on Saturday and that meant gumbo. I have done nothing but watch football and have a cocktail or two while making chicken and sausage gumbo. Okay, I have waded through about a years worth of magazines ripping out crap.

My house smells amazing. It's been cooking since 3pm when I started the chicken stock from scratch. This is what Sunday is about. This is what fall is about. Not even knowing the Saints are playing the Sunday night game is what irony is all about. They will win. It will be because of my gumbo.

I am so way deep in happy it's stupid. It's not just the gumbo folks. Happy, like the snowbirds, is in full effect in Phoenix. In order to spread the happiness, I am sharing the gumbo recipe. I will spare you all the photo as I still have no digital camera (but I'm hinting largely to family for Christmas). An, you can't SMELL the picture, so what good is THAT. I mean, there is bacon and andouille sausage involved for God's sake!

3 1/2 pounds frying chicken

1 medium onion, cut in chunks

celery tops with leaves

1 teaspoon salt

5 cups of the broth

6 slices bacon

1 pound smoked andouille, sliced

1 medium onion, chopped

2 green bell peppers, chopped

2 celery ribs, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

3 tomatoes, peeled and chopped   

A little over half a pound sliced okra

1 tablespoon fresh chopped thyme

Combine chicken, onion, celery, and salt in a Dutch oven (the cast iron ones are so fun); add water to cover. Bring to a boil; cover, reduce heat, and simmer between 45 minutes to an hour, until chicken is tender.

Remove chicken, reserving 5 cups of the chicken broth; discard onion and celery leaves. Remove chicken from bones; cut into bite sized pieces. Set aside.

Chop up bacon and cook with sausage in the Dutch oven over medium heat until bacon is crisp. Remove bacon and sausage with a slotted spoon and set aside. Add onion, pepper, celery, and garlic to Dutch oven; cook over medium heat until veggies are tender and onions start to get clear. Throw in chicken, bacon, sausage, broth, tomatoes, and remaining ingredients. Bring mixture to a boil; reduce heat, and simmer, uncovered, 1 1/2 hours.

Watch football. Not care about the score because you have no fantasy player in. Watch the Saints win. Be really happy. See? Easy. Just make sure you have four house for gumbo...

Call your mom. I mean it.

Do it right now. Pick up the phone and say, "Mom, I apologize for anything and everything I may have done between the ages of 13 and 19. I am so sorry. Thank you for not shipping my sorry ass to a third world nation."

My best friend, Shari, was what my mother calls a child bride. She got married at 19 and had her daughter about a year later. She is way ahead of me in the game. It freaks me out to think that she will be done with all in home mothering in less than four years. Freaks me ass right out. My daughter, on the other hand, is three. Three is hard. Very hard. There have been days I wished I could have shipped her to a third world country but then she crawls in my lap and the world is good again.

Shari came over last night and brought me beer and asked me if I would pick up her daughter, Kellyanne, and take her to her choir recital tonight. I agree even though bitch can't do it herself because she's going to Hootie with another friend. Bitches. All of them. Yeah, that's right. I love the Hootie. It's totally VH1 of me but I don't care. Bring on the Hootie.

Tonight is the first in a three concert high school choir performance. Saturday is the big deal where all the family will come. Still, the 14 year old chick is a little nervous in that geeky freshman way. I pick her up at 6:30 knowing that if I am there at 6:32 the child will call my cell and ask where I am. Annoys the shit out of me, but I still love her. Concert starts at 7:30. I get her there at 6:54. We're good. My daughter and I get halfway home and Kellyanne calls and tells me she forgot her tights and can I run by her house and grab them and bring them to her. Christ on a damn cracker! I have no key on my person so I have to go back by the school.

I am not pleased. I call her mom and let Shari know her child is being shipped to aforementioned third world nation. I get to the school, get the key and she tells me the tights are in a Target bag "somewhere in the apartment." Oh fuck that. Then she asks me to hurry. Double fuck THAT. I get to the apartment and there are NO tights. Anywhere. I call her and now I am digging in her dirty laundry trying to find tights and remember which is the worst of all the African countries. No tights. She tells me she can borrow and extra pair of someone else's. Um, this option was not presented before?

Now I have to bring the key back. It is 7:13. She tries to politely tell me to hurry. My answer was not polite. I may have referred to her as "young lady" and our conversation ended with a "Yes, ma'am" and a click. I love scaring kids! It's a hoot and a half! I get the key in her hand at 7:24 and she scurries off.

I immediately called my mom and had the conversation I just said you should have. She was real quiet and then she said, "And look what you get to look forward to." Then she erupted into the most evil, maniacal laugh I have ever heard. She is so enjoying my motherhood. She better watch it though because if she's not careful, instead of the retirement home, it's Africa.

By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes...

Oh, I am devising an evil plan of evil genius. Insert evil laugh here. Oh yes. It is delightful. I cannot speak more to this but I'm brewing a little evility (I love making up words) in my head. Someday all my plans will be unfolded unto you. But not now...

(Okay, so I am honestly just writing this because I can't really implement my evil plan just now because it wouldn't be as funny right at this moment as it may be later. But, it will be funny soon, I'm certain. My brain is just too full to remember my evil plan so this post is serving to take the place of putting an appointment on my calendar marked "Evil doing." back to my evility...)

Mmmmmmm. Evil.....

I would hate eugooglizing.

I know there is the old saying about how since most people fear public speaking over death, that you're better off being IN the coffin than speaking before it. That never made sense to me. See, I'm a loud mouth by nature and have no problem if anyone wants to hear me ramble endlessly as I'll take whatever audience I can get. Like I'm doing right now.

I actually kind of like public speaking. We have a huge joke about it at my office, though. Most times, at work, I am a complete filterless dipshit. I keep this well contained to the four walls of my personal office with it only occasionally spilling out into the hall and maybe it steps foot in the kitchen every now and again. When I get in front of a group of people to do a presentation, or even to thank them for attending an event, everything changes. It frightens a guy that works for me immensely as he says I become a completely different person. He calls her "Eloquent Vanessa Who Does Not Drop the F Bomb or Make Up Her Own Words."

Eloquent Vanessa got a phone call today from a friend of hers that has to go out of town this weekend and will miss a big kick off event for work. An event the biggest new channel in town will broadcast from on Saturday morning. A broadcast during which the friend was supposed to appear. Oh. I see. It becomes clear. The friend would like Eloquent Vanessa to step in. Being slightly excited and just a tad on the attention whorey side, I accept. We chat. I hang up. I panic.

Oh sweet Jesus. I am going to be on the news. Granted, I will probably be on the news for 90 seconds. 90 seconds is MORE than enough time for Dipshit Vanessa to temporarily possess Eloquent Vanessa and say something completely horrific on live TV. I have not told anyone I'm doing this yet as my previous idea of going on TV in a disguise would most likely not go over well. So maybe if know one knows no one will watch. That way, I can just TiVo it and then show it to everyone afterward should a miracle occur and I'm actually charming and eloquent.

"Oh, did I tell you I was on the Morning Show on Saturday? No? Oh. I had a blast. It went ready well. You should have seen it. I have a copy right here! You want I should sign it for you?"

I'm kidding about that last part. My handwriting sucks. I don't sign anything. Not even the checks at work. I use a big black X and tell the accountant I'm illiterate.

There is only one option I have. I am going to have to rehearse this. That way, I can know exactly what I have to say but just have to focus on it not sounding rehearsed. Hell, if Nuke LaLoosh could do it, I can too. Wish me luck and if all goes well, I'll stick a DVD in the mail to you on Monday. There might even big a big black X on it.

Plug the damn plug already!

I am paralyzed because I don't speak geek. I just don't and it's beginning to have a serious effect on my life.

Mind you, I speak my own special kind of geek. It's that literary geek where I feel the need to randomly throw out a reference to the Odyssey, laugh to myself because I find it hilarious, and then realize no one is laughing with me. Of course, I think this makes me charming. This is because I find it absolutely charming when other people do it so the same should work for me. Right? Yes ma'am.

I have spoken to my complete lack of technical knowledge of anything, well, technical, several times. It's getting bad. I have no idea what to do about it. Last week, my phone just stopped ringing. It wasn't on silent. I knew this because the damn thing made that "bing bing" noise every time I got an email. I get about 80 emails a day so my office sounds like a Circle K. So my phone was binging away but the only time I knew I was getting a call was if I happened to be holding the damn phone. I sat there for 10 minutes trying to troubleshoot the piece of crap before handing it to my trusty sidekick who was able to fix the problem in 30 seconds. See? Bad.

Do you think I might just have a mental block? Am I not programmed for this? Is there a missing gene? I need some answers here. I can understand very involved theories and ideas. I'm no idiot. I read A Brief History of Time. I read an entire book on mathematics and how they relate to Chaos Theory. No problem. It all made sense. But, I am too afraid to move my TiVo to my bedroom so I can watch football on the big TV and still TiVo Desperate Housewives and all the Bobby Flay goodness I need to. Why, you ask? Because I will fuck up the re-installation. I will do this even after I spend and hour and a half on the phone with the TiVo tech support people begging them to talk to me like I'm a blond 4th grader.

I need help. When I spend over an hour trying to understand how to put a simple little icon on my blog and fail miserably over and over and over again, it's time to either fix the issue or throw in the towel completely and resign to being like those old ladies that never uses the microwave because she can't figure out how to make it work by pressing 3 buttons. That's going to be me. I'd bet a floral housecoat on it.

Hereditary insanity

I had planned to sit on my couch and get a few projects done today and then my family through the wrench. I called my folks and my dad asks what my plans are for dinner and if I could get to their house in 8 minutes I could have a good filet. I head out the door immediately as they live 5-10 minutes away. Dad calls four minutes later asking where I am and he has a martini ready for me. It goes downhill from there.

So, over and after dinner I begin to realize there are weird things in our family that must be hereditary. Thank God no one else in the family has inherited my mother's ability to have too much wine and walk through screen doors. But, we all laugh snort. Bad. Get us together and it's snortapalooza. My sister is the worst offender. It's like a point of shame and pride at the same time. Either way, it's damn funny. And, on top of that, we think we are the funniste people that have ever walked the earth. I'm not sure this is an incorrect statement.

I also found out from my brother-in-law that there is a trend toward going out to dinner, having a number of adult beverages, getting downright frisky in the car on the way home and then immediately passing out upon arrival home. Yep, we like to talk big. I told him the lesson to be learned is to only go to restaurants where you'll be imbibing that are less than 10 minutes from home. We can hang on for ten minutes. Beyond that, we're asleep. It could be 6:30 in the evening. It doesn't matter. At least we're aware of our problem. I think he should consider slipping my sister a No-Doz half way through dinner. It could work.

So here I am. I am supposed to meet friends for coffee at seven. What do I want to do? Nap. I  mean, I could fall asleep right now and be really happy about. And, on a seperately related note, I need to leave the Packer game. I'd like to go on record for saying that I love Brett Favre like a fat kind loves cake. I know this has nothing to do with the aforementioned topic, but it's true.

This is all I got.