Don’t be shocked when that turns into a thing.

After I stared at my colleague and friend a while with a look on my face that must have surely said something resembling UH DERR!, she shook her head. “In the airport, silly.” Oooooohhh. I knew that. (No.) We chatted a bit about him being in Cleveland for the Food Expo at the nearby I-X Center, and whether or not The Chew had been canceled. “Maybe he’s flying back to New York to tape for the show,” I said, not sounding the least bit pretentious to those around me.

So Michael Symon’s in the airport. So I may have every intention of eating at all of his restaurants (two down, three to go!) as part of my Bucket List. So he’s a Cleveland-boy-done-good. We don’t have a lot of those, so we celebrate. Sue me!

Pretty soon, the announcer asked everyone to board. I’m not a fan of flying, but I do a good job of pretending I do. The opposite should probably happen, but if I’m going to fly, I want a large plane. Something about Cessnas and Econojets make me feel like I’m literally flying in a paper plane. As luck would have it, we were in an Econojet. Awesome. I did my level best not to freak out, boarded the plane, eyeballing my seat assignment to ensure I was heading to the right place…

…and sat down next to this man. It was all I could do not to slap my friend — who was in the row ahead of me and TOTALLY oblivious to the celebrity sighting — in the head to make her turn around. The best I could give her was a breeze-by. After a few swats, I sat down to keep from embarrassing myself (and to keep nearby patrons from notifying flight attendants). The next five minutes were spent agonizing over asking Michael Symon for a picture. Should I? (Hells yeah!) Shouldn’t I? He looked so tired, and I wanted to leave him alone since it seemed like all he wanted to do was rest, and he’s so busy and, oh look, there he is playing on his phone probably trying to ignore the crazy black girl oggling him and freaking him out and WOULD YOU JUST TAKE THE MAN’S PHOTO ALREADY FOR THE LOVE!

[Side note: Michael Symon is super fit. Arms like machine guns. I felt very small (and very fat) next to him considering I may have a good one or two inches over him in height. Also? VERY fat. Carry on.]

He was gracious, and kind, and tired but sweet, and talked to me (and my friend when she finally realized he was sitting next to me HA HA NEXT TO ME), and I wanted him to laugh just one time because I think it’s hilarious and a little scary, and I just can’t say enough good things about him. Then we landed in New York and everyone in the terminal pretended he was no one.

CLEVELAND WOULD HAVE NEVER DONE THAT TO YOU, MICHAEL!

Please. Don’t thank me, it’s embarrassing.

Instead of celebrating the day you acknowledge and celebrate someone in your life you should be acknowledging and celebrating the other 364 days of the year, and patting you on the back for taking time out of your busy schedule to set aside the video game controller or remote or whatever your vice, I’m paying homage to something else red-themed. Red heads!

Oh please. PLEASE! Your thanks will only make me uncomfortable. A simple nod of humble appreciation will suffice.

Link: Spotify

01. Holding Back The Years — Simply Red
02. Nick Of Time — Bonnie Raitt
03. From A Distance — Bette Midler
04. Game Over — Daley
05. Stupid Girl — Garbage
06. Hold On, Hold On — Neko Case
07. Lady In Spain — Ingrid Michaelson
08. I’m Not Your Toy — La Roux
09. These Dreams — Heart
10. Misery Business — Paramore
11. Love Is A Battlefield — Pat Benatar
12. Drunk — Ed Sheeran

You should take it. I’ll wait.

Pain in the butt, right? My first year out of college, I had to take a modified version of that test to determine if I was a good fit for a call center with a health insurance firm. By the time the test was over, I felt like I needed a sheepskin degree from Harvard. SOMETHING for my trouble, especially since I didn’t get the job. (Must’ve been the one question where they asked if I liked to drop little kittens in the ocean. I said yes. I still don’t see what’s wrong with that.)

After that interview, I made it my business to master the quiz. I took it over and over, trying my very best not to be a serial killer. At some point, I stopped taking the test for a vendetta and took it for fun. I was consistently labeled an A/B. Great. I can’t even get a one or the other result. I mean, really. Did you see that shot of my stellar list? People. I make stellar, impeccable, awesometastic lists like that All. The. Time. I’m competitive. I could run down the list of my other A-qualities, but they’re mostly there. Sometimes. OK, so I have creative spells. And I’m always running late. Wait, not always. Sometimes. And I have a hard time making a decision.

Fine. I can see how this would be a split decision.

So I visit the link to my old friend, figuring I could take the quiz once more to see if anything has changed with me (it hasn’t), when I stumble on a new personality…

Have you heard of Type-D?!

Blew. My. Mind. Not just because the “D” stands for depressed, but because WHERE WAS THIS LIST IN 2000? Also, this is getting a little too diabetic for my liking, all these types. Do I need insulin for this?

Of course, this all would only be relevant if I needed a test to tell me I’m crazy.

Luckily… No. Nope, I still need it.

Last weekend, the Midwest was given a reprieve of our normal January weather with a 60-degree weekend. As a native Midwesterner, I scoff at 60-degree weekends as flukes. Being from Cleveland, I’m waiting for something bad to greet me right around the corner. (Don’t believe me? See our latest in drama among the sports world.) With an impending snow storm set to dump a projected two-feet on us in the next two days, it’s finally starting to feel like business as usual around here. Ah, Cleveland. We’re nothing if not optimistic.

Link: Spotify

01. Cold Sparks — Mutemath
02. Cold — Maxwell
03. Cold War — Janelle Monáe
04. Stone Cold Sober — Paloma Faith
05. Mrs. Cold — Kings of Convenience
06. Cold As Ice — Foreigner
07. Cold Cold Heart — Norah Jones
08. Cold Desert — Kings of Leon
09. Cold Shoulder — Adele
10. Funky Cold Medina – Tone Loc

[UPDATE: I GOT AN A+!... I mean "she" got an A+. Parental yayyy.]

No one likes to do homework during a long stretch of vacation. No one likes this task less than my children. OK, maybe yours don’t either but, for arguments’ sake, let’s just say if there was a way to dislike something so much you could wear it as a sweater, roll around in it, stick it up your nose, then blow it out snot rocket-style — thems would be muh kids.

Not long after Christmas, after everyone had gotten almost everything on their lists, our oldest dropped a bombshell on us. (Not so much “dropped” as got found out by deduction and plain old common sense. By her parents, not her, let me clarify.) She had a butt ton (not a ton, and not a button; a BUTT HYPHEN TON) of homework to do. Homework designed to maybe separate into sections. Maybe tackle a page a day if you were using the good sense God gave you. Spread it out, you see. Instead, this love homework packet was hidden. Forgotten about by way of selective memory.

In my house, we are short on a myriad of things. Add common sense to the list.

Did I mention this packet was found AFTER CHRISTMAS? Oh-ho-HO, we’re not THAT dumb, are we?

After a long exchange of heated words, penalties, and punishments (not to mention the egg on the face of the parents who failed to check the book bags of their known repeat offenders at the START of vacation), we plowed through the mound of papers post haste. In the midst of it all was an extra credit assignment.

Remember extra credit? It was kinda fun? But not really? And it was usually given because you were mere inches away from failing? Yeah.

Mooter couldn’t wait to attack this extra credit, not because the project excited her, but because the idea of how this project would turn out IN HER MIND was way more awesomer than anything ever and shall be. The project? The solar system. Yes, yes, I heard you all cry out in despair. The foam balls, the paint, the wooden skewers and string. You’d think, all these years later, someone would have come up with a better way to do this. Say, I don’t know, holographically. Too soon?

After hours of sticking and gluing and mixing and mess and paint and more mess and, seriously, how did you even get paint there you’re not even trying, we had ourselves a solar system.

So it was a sorta-kinda solar system. We had to wait for it to dry.

Now. Looking at this bouquet of planets, one would either deduce a very talented, very skilled and artistic eleven year old. To that I would say YES! I agree whole-heartedly. A’s all around.

Why’s everyone looking at me?

[EDIT: For those paying any kind of attention, first, why? Second, Earth is there. It's hiding behind Neptune. And, yes, I'm fully aware of the status of Pluto. I don't make the kit, I just Bob Ross it. EDIT OUT]

Link: Spotify

01. “Midnight Train To Georgia” — Gladys Knight & The Pips
02. “Under The Bridge” — Red Hot Chili Peppers
03. “Little Broken Hearts” — Norah Jones
04. “Take Me Away” — John Legend
05. “Workin’ Day And Night” — Michael Jackson
06. “Zoom” — Lionel Ritchie
07. “Runaway Baby” — Bruno Mars
08. “It Keeps You Runnin’” — The Doobie Brothers
09. “Runaway” — Grace Potter & The Nocturnals
10. “Run” — Vampire Weekend

I’m not sure how to classify my status. I think I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: Those who struggle with emotional hiccups and keep a blog/website current? I salute you.

A few days ago, a friend of mine asked me if I’d seen the latest episode of 30 Rock. You follow me enough, you know I am somewhat of a television junky. “No,” I told her, “I’m a season and a half behind.” A few weeks before that, my mother asked if I’d caught up on The Good Wife yet. No. Also a season and a half behind. (I smell a theme in there. Or a book title. A Day Late and a Season and a Half Behind. Tee Em.) I could go through the list of regularly scheduled programming I am behind on, but I’ll spare you. The answer to whether or not I’m current is the same. My boss (and watcher of most of the same programs as me) has a running joke. That if I’m not prepared to discuss recaps of our favorite shows by the end of each weekly team meeting, it will go on my review.

No pressure. (Yikes!)

Relax, she’s joking.

I think.

One day, this same boss asked me why I get behind in shows. Was it work? Was home life crazy? Not that this, too, would go on my review, but more of a general curiosity. It was none of the above. Sure, I’m having to help the kids with homework and wash dishes and, maybe, cook a meal from time-to-time. But the truth is I’ve had to do that less and less with B.Fam on the Injured Reserve list. (You common folk call it “unemployed”. I like to spice it up.) So what’s my deal?

Storms. That’s right. The theme song of my life for 2012.

I live around trees. Really tall, really old trees. Trees that are probably historical landmarks and I can’t do things like, say, cut them down. Might have a Native American knocking on my door with one tear rolling down his cheek. These trees, when met with wind – not a wind STORM, just a hey, how ‘ya doin’ wind – knock out my satellite. If it rains? Snows? Same deal.

I am missing two episodes of The Good Wife from last season because they partially recorded due to “a storm”. Two episodes of 30 Rock from last season. One episode of Community from last season. If one or two episodes of a season are lost to a storm, a bottleneck of an entire season is created. The LIST of bottlenecked seasons of shows on my DVR right now. The SHEER. LIST. First World problems? You have no idea.

Why don’t I just watch the shows I missed on such wonderful entertainment-based sites such as Netflix? Or Hulu? Well, smartypants, when you are too lazy to watch the episodes right after you miss them, this little thing called TIME comes and makes it impossible to watch what you’ve missed because you TOOK TOO LONG. SLACKER. Then you have to find torrents and… I mean. No. Not torrents. Those are ILLEGAL. Right. I don’t… My friend told me about them. My FRIEND uses torrents. That torrent isn’t even mine. OK, you found it in my back pack, but…

Hey, look over there! [runs]

Needless to say, I am behind. I’ll catch up. I have vacation time coming to me. It’s on the official vacation agenda between Never Bathing and Make The Kids Fix Me Popcorn. (You’re right. Popcorn is probably too easy. Croque monsieurs it is.)

Something happened with this site similar to my misadventures in television-watching. I had a storm. A few. The wind would blow, nothing too serious, maybe a few twigs and leaves landed in the driveway. Some rain came. But I lost my signal. Before I knew it, I was behind. I couldn’t get back on track. I channel surfed. Tried to get interested in other shows. Then I got caught up in those other shows, totally forgetting I had a show of my own. (That’s my last television analogy, I swear.)

I’m thankful I stepped away. It was necessary. I only became worried when being away didn’t concern me. When coming back wasn’t on my mind. I thought about closing the doors for good. Using other formats to show the world I was still breathing. Barely, but yeah. That’s what people do nowadays. Instagram has become a safe haven for Those Who Once Blogged. We’ve gone from micro-blogging, to 127 character and hashtag blogging, to JPEG’s. Is anyone looking into morse code blogging? Smoke signal blogging? Moving forward is so 2012.

I had to fall in love with blogging again. Visiting other sites helped me do that in a way, but they also made me feel inadequate. It’s sort of how I felt when I first began this weird (at that time) way of journal keeping. There’s so many cooler, better-looking kids than me. How can I ask to play on their team?

I won’t. I’ll just keep playing in my sandbox. Nevermind if I’m the kid who pees in the sandbox from time to time. IT’S MY SANDBOX. Now go ask my mother for a fresh pair of pants. Please.

For those who stay, who are patient with me in my dark cloud moments and storms, I thank you. I’m around. I’m here. I’ll continue to be.

As soon as I find my remote.

*HD

That’s me.

The one in the recliner.

Hi.

I do not apologize for my outbursts. It gets me in touch with my inner old person. Growing up, I watched television with old people. They were passionate bystanders of all things entertainment. Also, inaccurate retellers. Also, again, inept hearers. I can’t tell you how many times I was inconvenienced in my TV-watching by a faulty hearing aid. “Whaaaa? What’d she say? Lucy had a prostitute?!”

No, Granny. Lucy was playing the flute, she said. THE FLUTE, WOMAN.

I offer undue criticism and overtly dramatic narrative not because it is my goal in life to piss you off. Sure, that may be what you’re thinking in that moment. It may even get a little confrontational between you and I. Yet I’m not thinking of anything when my Tourette-induced episodes occur. It’s a reflex. The old people made me do it. Those of my family members either married or birthed into belonging to me (a.k.a. those absent from all proof that I’ve been brainwashed by the elderly) are used to it. In fact, some have inherited my awesome gift.

Mooter is WORSE than me. How much worse, you may not have asked?

A few nights ago, B.Fam and I were catching up on the embarrassingly long list of television we have in our DVR queue when, out of nowhere, Mooter appeared. (I don’t know about you, but when I’m in the midst of watching a show, I tune out the world and all its surroundings. Unless it’s on fire. Or an integral part of a plot point. Details. So when people arrive into a room I’m in while my show is on, and they weren’t there at the start of the show or during a commercial break then, yes, they “appear”. To me. Don’t judge me.)

The only way I know she has come into the room is because she laughs. I have never recorded her laugh, and I really need to get on that (note to self), but it’s a mix of the Goofy Holler (yes, that is the real, technical name) and Goofy’s regular laugh. (She’s gotten to the age where she must be getting teased about it because I catch her trying to modify it. Hee-yucks are now hee-hee-hoos. I dont’ like it.)

The laugh is most often proceeded by a question like, “What’s going on?” or “What’d I miss?” or “Why did that man just blow up that building?” Mind you, we’re more than halfway through the program when we’re hit with the Spanish Inquisition.

People. She came out of the womb like this. I swear.

Since this is something Mooter has done all her life, we’re trying to get her into the habit of a) being quiet when a show is on especially if she walked in more than halfway into it, b) asking her to reserve all questions until the end, c) asking her to leave if she’s confused, d) slowing down on her eventual metamorphosis into Elderlyhood, and e) all of the above.

To make matters worse, Booger is an idiot savant. More than fifteen minutes into programming, she can walk in, turn her back to the TV, play with a Barbie, talk to the dog, walk back out, get a drink of water, and give you a full summation of the show. On one hand, I’m teaching a child to be patient, pay attention, turn up her hearing aid, and be respectful of those watching something she may have missed. On the other hand, I have Raymond Babbit. But it also gives Mooter someone else she can pester with questions who probably won’t mind getting asked.

Mooter: [Laughing, watching a Christmas-themed movie] She said she had a bakery in the phospherous.
Booger: [sighs] No. She said she had to take the WREATH into TOWN FOR US.
Mooter: [blank stare]
Booger: You’re not even paying attention, are you?
Mooter: Wanna play Uno?

I’ve got to ask Lucy about that prostitute.

*HD

Yesterday was my thirty-fifth birthday. I didn’t want to post. I didn’t want to make a list of thirty-five things I’ve learned this year. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to sit at home and watch storm coverage.

My birthdays have ritualistically been uneventful and downright crappy at times. It’s like the world knows it’s my birthday and tries to find the best way to suck. Before Facebook, most of the people I call “friends” and “family” would forget. Yesterday, on cue, a storm ripped apart the northeast and eastern coast, school was canceled for my kids, the basement partially flooded, and the power played hopscotch on my house all night.

It’s like the Universe just knows.

Yesterday, I was not a fun person to be around. I holed myself up in a room, closed the door, and watched the clock until it turned to midnight wanting more than anything for yesterday to be over. Does it help that my special place in mental hell has decided to look at all this rain and use it as an invitation to not only come out and play, but bring all its friends with it?

Oh, Depression. You sure know how to throw a party.

Today, everything is back to normal. Well, as normal as it can be in the aftermath of the Storm Of The Century. I’ll very gladly take this pity party of one I’m throwing and shove it down my gullet if it will bring those suffering on the East coast one moment of peace.

To all those working through the wreckage of their own storms, you’re in my thoughts.

*HD

When they were younger, they – like most all children – had no filters. Primary thoughts were king and, unknowingly, encouraged as these little blurts of truth gave their parents cherished moments of comedy and feigned ignorance.

She said your breath smells? Kids! What’re you gonna do? Amirite?!

It didn’t take long before Mooter, the oldest, figured out that what she might be saying was offensive or hurtful way before we stopped her. Mooter, my flower child, does not like hurting people. Or bugs. Or the wind. Anything associated with Mother Earth and all She surveys. She’s nothing like her mother who is more concerned with putting a hurting on a bag of Oreo cookies than hurting a person.

I also like dogs. See, I AM human.

Booger has me worried. She still hasn’t gotten the memo that she offends. In fact, I think she likes it. I love that girl, but she’s such a wise guy. I don’t know if I want to laugh at the things she does sometimes, or shake her silly. She’s everything I wasn’t as a kid wrapped up into everything I am now as an adult. I’m not the biggest advocate of reincarnation, yet that girl is the embodiment of my grandmother. I like to stand really close to her, look her directly in the eyes and say “Marie?” just to see what she’ll say.

A few months back, during the trek through our nation’s capital, B.Fam and I did what we could to make sure we touched as many museums along the National Mall as our tired and aching feet, backs, and middle-aged limbs would allow. This would be a dual exercise for Booger. One of cultural education and etiquette. The more I throw her into the fire of social settings, the more I can see what she does well and where she lacks.

As we walked through the U.S. Botanic Garden, we’d reached a room of various sensory displays for herbs and oils.

Each display invited patrons to smell basil or peppermint or jasmine, all from their sources. We were visiting during what is considered a high-traffic tourist season, so space was a bit tight. You got in where you could, took a quick whiff, then moved on to the next display. Not everyone took the Keep It Moving approach. Those people got stared down by my reincarnated grandmother.

Me: Boog, it’s not nice to stare.
Her: They won’t move and I can’t see stuff.
Me: It’s rude to stare.
Her: But I neffer get a turn.
Patrons: [turn to watch the little girl complaining]
Her: [stops talking to eyeball them, undeterred]
Me: Oh for the love…

Botanic Garden + Embarrassed Mom = 0
Booger = 1

Next was the National Gallery of Art. If you’ve ever been there, you know this place is huge, takes up several buildings, and requires a compass, packed lunch, and hiking boots to get through. I was happy if we could get through one section. We did.

Sculptures.

I don’t know why, maybe it was the heat or the increasingly long days we spent being tourists, but I forgot there was nudity in sculptured art. Even as I snapped these photos, I fully expected my children to be wandering about with sconces and tea and culture, regaling the Modernism and Hellenistic periods. Especially my youngest who, as previously stated, stares at EVERYTHING.

Then, I turned the corner…

Me: Um… What’cha doin’ girls?
Mooter: MOM! ACK!
Me: Whah?!
Mooter: MO-O-O-O-O-O-O-M-M-M-M-M. Why are we HEE-YER?!
Me: [looks around] I… To see stuff? I’m missing something. What’s happening.
Mooter: The stuff! And the THI-I-I-I-I-I-NGS!
Me: The “things”?
Mooter: YESSSSSSS!!!
Me: Things… Sculptures?
Booger: Mom. They’re nakee. Iss inappropriate.

BANG, ZOOM! Straight to the moon!

*HD