Happy Halloween!

DracuLo

It's Time

to introduce Georgia's new boyfriend, Blaise, someone I hope to blog-abuse here in the near future. They met this summer in the restaurant where they both worked. He's a senior at Tech; she's a freshman at Berry. The road between is smokin'.

Full of the Holiday Spirit

Lola's New Trick

...which reminds me, GO DAWGS!!!!

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

Before your next trip to Vegas, be sure to read about this interesting, insidious marketing strategy. Smart, though.

Friday Nostalgia

The Rifleman, 1958-1963

When I was a kid, I watched this in re-runs all the time. The good old days, when TV wasn't so violent.

The Good Ol' Days: Obscene Phone Calls

Several day ago, a friend of mine told me about a grad student who was doing a study on personal bloggers for his thesis. She asked if I'd agree to talk to the guy on the phone. The deal was, he'd interview me, which would take about an hour, and in return I'd get a $50 gift card to Amazon. Everyone knows I could talk about blogging until the Great Door opens in the sky. And for me, being interviewed is like finding a twenty in my pocket, losing a pound, and Lo spending the night with my mother all rolled into one. I'd have done it for free.

My friend said she'd pass along my email address, and he'd contact me to set up a time. The next day, it occurred to me to wonder how this guy had found my friend and whether she felt for sure he was legit. So I emailed her, "How do you know this guy's not some kind of phone perv?" to which she responded that he had put a notice on Craig's List, asking for volunteers, and that she'd already received and used her gift card. Then she added, "You're going to end up dying from making up a million scenarios just like this one in your head."

I felt better, knowing that she'd answered an ad as opposed to him having found her or sought her out. If he'd called her, randomly, claiming to have come across her blog or to have been referred by someone else, I'd have been mighty skeptical. In fact, I'd have speculated that he'd contacted her for the express purpose of getting to me. I realize that would make about as much sense as asking your best friend's brother out because he used to go out with the sister of the guy you're really interested in, but still...I think you'll come to understand.

See, I don't have to "make up a million scenarios." I've already lived them, back in the days before caller ID, back when phones were anchored to the wall and if you were lucky, you had a cord that reached from the avocado kitchen to the corner of the orange velvelour sofa in the den.

Case in point #1: I was about 12, and it was the first week of summer break. It was probably noon, but I was still in my pajamas, because why get dressed to watch The Price is Right, nose through your parents' closet, and rake the shag carpet? The phone rang, and when I answered it, the guy on the other end said he was doing a survey and that if I answered his questions, I'd get a free subscription to the magazine of my choice. Then he asked if I thought any of my friends would be interested in participating and getting free magazines, which prompted me--imagining a sea of Seventeen, Tiger Beat, and Mad magazine--to offer up the names and numbers of every girl I knew. I even looked up the numbers of my third-tier friends in the phone book for him. Then the survey began:

PP: How old are you?

TR: I turned 12 in March.

PP: Do you play any sports?

TR: Softball. I'm a pitcher.

PP: What are you wearing right now?

TR: A yellow nylon shortie gown with little orange and green flowers on it.

PP: Are you wearing panties?

TR: Huh?

PP: Would you say your nipples are the size of a dime, a quarter, or a half dollar?

Exactly. I had to call everyone on the list I'd given him. Then I called my mother at work, who called the phone company, who called me and made me relive the trauma--meaning the hot shame of my own stupidity.

Another memorable phone incident happened when I was in my late twenties, already the mother of two, and much more worldly. The call came from a close friend of my then-husband, a guy named Mike, who looked like your average post-fratboy. You know, sort of Ted Bundy-ish. Mike had been hanging out with my husband for several months, had become a regular fixture at our house. When he called one afternoon, I assumed he was looking for my husband, but when I told him J wasn't home, he said he'd actually called to talk to me.

He hoped I'd keep the call confidential. See, he was upset, because it was the first anniversary of his fiance's death (fiance?), and he didn't know who else to talk to. He thought I'd be able to understand, since he knew I'd lost my sister recently.

Oh, I felt so sorry for him, Poor Mike. It was hard for a man to admit he was hurting--and he must have been in terrible pain, considering that in the countless times we'd all gone out to dinner, or hung out by the pool, or rented movies, he'd never once mentioned his true love's name, the fact that he'd been engaged, or the event of her death. And it would explain why he was often abrasive--nay, downright rude-- to his new girlfriend, his fear of getting close to a woman again.

Somewhere between my explaining to him that anniversaries were particularly difficult--how the whole season of spring had been especially tough for me--and my answering his questions about what my sister was like, I became aware of a strange slapping sound that got gradually louder until it became annoying. Simultaneously, I caught myself trying to talk over his breathing, which was getting heavier and heavier...Um, yeah.

There are other examples, of course. I've been tracked down at school a couple of times; for example, someone claiming to have read my poems online wanted to talk to me about my work for a college English assignment. It went bad quickly, after he asked me for a picture...

I even set up a student once, when a guy with a British accent called, claiming to be Madonna's personal assistant. He was all business, informing me that the material girl had come across our catalog and especially loved the work of one of our (beautiful) design students. Madonna, you understand, wanted her name and phone number...I FELL for it (He used Madonna's real name). I was excited for the student.

You have to feel sorry for the phone pervs these days. It must be quite the challenge, circumventing the new technology. But I have faith that they are adapting, evolving in this digital/cellular/security age, developing new ways to get to me. I have to be careful.

New Hat, Crap Camera

Left Holding the Bag

So Lo comes downstairs bawling, Biggy is chuckling, and the ceiling above me is practically rumbling, because Jack is laughing so hard in the room directly upstairs. Before I can determine what great comtragedy has occurred, Biggy announces he's going to the Y, and just leaves me to deal with his daughter. (Turns out, she'd jumped out from behind a door earlier and scared him, and he'd simply returned the favor.) I happen to be holding my camera and punch the button for posterity's sake, but Lo doesn't know it's running. My favorite part is her dramatization rationalization for why what her dad did was worse than what she did. (Oh, and he did it TWICE!)

I was serious about the payback. Biggy and Jack, sleep tight.

Where the F*** is Bob?

It was July 23, I believe, the last time we checked in with Bob. I know you've been wondering how much progress he's made in three months, since his family officially moved out of the house on my street and into the brick traditional a couple of miles down the road.

As you can see, the old roof is coming along, as well as the porch. He hired a guy who was around for a couple of weekends, and occasionally Bob himself would show up and drink a cold one on the porch-in-progress. He'd talk to the help, put his hand on his hip, stretch his back, and look at his watch.


As promised, we've been keeping track of the state of the new home, resisting the urge to warn his current neighbors about what's coming. I was waiting for the process to begin again before I started sharing, inviting you back to experience the circle of life that is Bob. We knew it was just a matter of time; Ladies and Gentlemen, this is indeed the beginning:

Chihuahuas Will Do Anything to get Attention

It's true.
Thanks to MM for sending this.

Too Bad I Have No Reason to Use FedEx Kinkos

Maybe it's because I have to help create presentations several times a year, but I LOVE this commercial.

Nanny Cam

When Daisy's left in charge.

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

Televangelism at its finest.

Pretty Busy

Dear Elsa,

Math what?

What is it About Boots?

Today I wore a black dress with black boots, because we have graduation tonight, and I sure as hell didn't feel like being in pantyhose all day.

Since I've gotten to school, I've heard more than one comment about the black boots. It comes out of males as a gutteral, instinctive sort of gasp, which has nothing to do with me and everything to do with my footwear. Honestly, I show way more skin most days, wearing shorts and sandals. Right now, sitting, about six inches of my flesh is exposed; standing, I'm showing about four. The dress itself is modest, below-the-knee, loose, with long sleeves.

Can someone explain?

Friday Nostalgia

Janis Ian, '76

Dear Elsa

While you were eating tacos, I signed on with Santa. Now, bring me my hat back and go find yourself some lederhosen.

Sincerely,
Fay

Some Jack For Sadie and MaMa and Them

And So It Begins

Having been thus challenged, we'll give you one outfit a day, for as long as Jessica and Elsa can keep it up.



Look eye! Always look eye!