hobo bag by scary_mary

My obsession with purses, handbag, tote bags, or whatever else you want to call the device in which you like to carry around your stuff is ridiculous. And this is known to retailers. As such, all day long I have been receiving coupons and advertisements by email and a lot of them include a photo of the hobo bag.

Click the ad, and there is always at least one description for hobo bag. Ack.

I get hung up on stupid things like names, and descriptions. When Billy Crystal said, “Sheldon? No, no. You did not have great sex with Sheldon.
…No, you didn’t. A Sheldon can do your income taxes. If you need a root canal, Sheldon’s your man, but humpin’ and pumpin’ is not Sheldon’s strong suit. It’s the name. ‘Do it to me, Sheldon.’ ‘You’re an animal, Sheldon.’ ‘Ride me, big Sheldon.’ It doesn’t work.”

I completely understood.

Meg Ryan & Billy Crystal by r9M

I declined to date an absolutely gorgeous and intelligent man once, because of his unfortunate name. Can you imagine, “Do me baby, Duncan?”

Not, gonna happen. That poor guy. I hope he changed his name. Or moved to England. And met some nice non-ridiculous women. As in, not like me and my friends. (In our defense, we were all 21. But you can see that I have not improved in this area.)

This is the same with hobo bag. I cannot carry it around knowing it is named after a vagrant. That and whenever I tell myself I am ridiculous and toss my keys, wallet and phone in one at a store to test my ridiculousness, they all fall to the bottom and disappear. It’s a black hole with a really bad name.

But I keep opening every email to look at the bags. Not all of them are hobo name or hobo shape – which seems to be somewhat subjective. And it has occurred to me that giraffe print is really in for handbags. And I own giraffe print fabric, and a bunch of handbag patterns (not hobo). Yeah me.

Except, of course, that I do not have any need whatsoever for another handbag. I would like a red one. And giraffe is fun. But I do not need one. I spent an hour Thanksgiving day looking for a small makeup clutch, that turned out not to be in the bin full of handbags at all. A clear sign that I should be giving them away, not making more.

Smiling with Loose Teeth

When DD got a loose tooth, I mentioned it to DH, in the form of, hmmm, wonder if there are extra teeth in there. He said, “What, like a shark?!”

No, not like a shark. I didn’t bust one eating some other creature and then grow more. Just a random genetic phenomenon, like curly hair.

The dentist summoned me over to look at DD’s loose tooth. Which I have seen. He says we can expect it and the one next to it – which is also being pushed out – to come in crowded, but straighten up over time. How much they will straighten depends on how much her jaw grows. I told him I had extra teeth as a child. Did he see any extras in there?

He gave me that fascinated look that medical people give me when they realize they have discovered someone genetically bizarre, but not dangerous. And in this case even better, not his problem. He said no, and showed me her ex-ray. See, no extra teeth in there. He shamelessly leaned toward me and stared at my teeth.

Nothing to see there. I told him that the extra teeth were no trouble. It was a surprise when the thought-to-be permanent teeth fell out. Then these additional teeth appeared. And underneath were totally normal adult teeth.

We looked at DD’s ex-ray again. I said I was pleased not to pass on the weird gene. He said, ah yes, good job. But for good measure he looked at my teeth again in an obvious manner and back again at DD’s, both of us smiling. Me because I was entertained by his fascination with my dental weirdness. Her because everybody else was smiling. And the hygienist had just given her a princess toothbrush.

Beyond the obvious practicality, asking the dentist about the extra teeth is a good party trick. Like using the grandma voice. It brings humor into a space that wasn’t funny a moment ago. And in this case, the pediatric dentist, if he’s bored, will get to wonder in Gregory House style if something else is secretly wrong with me, if it is a genetic or chemical phenomenon, or from what scarce ethnic group I might hail which is not obvious.

And no, I didn’t just imagine that from watching House. I’ve actually worked in hospitals. And some of the doctors are really that curious. Usually the ones who don’t mind leaning over your five year old to stare at your teeth in a completely unashamed manner.

It’s good to be almost forty. I embrace my strangeness. Or uniqueness. Whatever.

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Then I bought the salt pig. DH had mentioned that whenever I am out and about, maybe I can pick him up a salt pig. I stumbled upon one at Le Creuset, on clearance. Victory was mine. Or so I thought.

Salt Pig

I brought the salt pig home and proudly handed it to DH. It is beautiful, French blue, hand crafted. He said, “What’s that?”

You’re kidding right? I told him it’s the salt pig he asked for and he said, “The what?”

I said, “You know, you put salt in it. You’ve been talking about getting one for weeks.”

He examined it, like he was seeing a strange insect and asked, “A what? A peg?”

“A pig! A salt pig!”

DH eyed it again and said, “Are you sure this is for salt? I don’t think my hand can fit in there. I was going to get the one like Alton Brown.”

Alton Brown’s salt pig, that is shaped like a bowl? Oh, the blasphemy! I tell him, “It’s from Le Creuset. The Jacques and Julia collection. You know, your hero Jacques Pepin uses one. I can’t believe you haven’t seen one. Usually they are white.”

DH eyed me skeptically. He said, “You’re sure Jacques has one of these? Not a bowl with a lid?”

No self respecting Frenchman is going to have a bowl with a lid for his salt pig. Why would you do that? You would need both hands. The salt would get condensation and stick together.

The furniture and Muzzy and Provencal fabric and Napoleon have not turned him to the dark side – the Frog side. In spite of the fact that he has learned a good bit of cooking French and only pretends not to know what we’re saying. Alton Brown?

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“The Wire” All Prologue (2003) – Memorable quotes

Sergei ‘Serge’ Malatov: Family cannot be helped.
Proposition Joe Stewart: Who you tellin’? I got motherfuckin’ nephews and in-laws fucking all my shit up all the time and it ain’t like I can pop a cap in their ass and not hear about it Thanksgivin’ time. For real, I’m livin’ life with some burdensome niggers.

My pc is screwing up.  I hate purchasing certain things, most especially cars and computers.  This contributes to the fact that I typically have the most antiquated system in the household.  Though at present, DD’s is not only older, but doesn’t work.

The one I have now previously belonged to SS, but did not perform certain gaming functions.  So DH got him a new one – last year I think – and I inherited this one.  I have actually never purchased a computer.  Dozens of pdas, phones and other gadgets, and even approved the hardware to be appropriate for some corporate computers at one time, but not once my own pc.  At least not that I can remember.

HP Compaq mini 110-2 by louisvolant

I so hate the drama that is shopping for this netbook or laptop thing I need:

• How much ram is appropriate?
• How much disk space do I need?

Blah, blah, blah.

Of course I ask DH and he says the ones I like are too small with not enough memory.  This is okay.  But of course, DH plays games and is a man.  I mention that he’s a man, because he does not mind lugging a six pound object around with him.  I mind.  I am already minding a 34 pound child.  34 plus 6 is 40.  40 pounds is a lot.

Also, one does not require 4GB of disk space to write html, run a content management system (WordPress), Firefox, or Open Office.

Though… I won’t be able to upgrade it later.  I want the pdas to perform like computers/the computers to be the size of pdas.  That’s what I want.  I want to be small, really small.  I want it to fit in my purse, get wi-fi at the library, and still publish to my blog.

Ugh.

I feel the opposite about cars.  I want it to transport me reliably, and to be able to fit a tree in the back.

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Also, I am out of bath oil.

How to Make Lavender Oil – a simple lavender oil recipe

How to Make Lavender Oil at Home – a basic lavender oil recipe
# This can be prepared by filling a jar with lavender stems with leaves and flowers that have been lightly crushed.

# The high quality almond or olive oil should be poured on top thereafter and this mixture should be allowed to steep for about a month.

# The jar should be gently shaken daily to ensure that the lavender and oil mix well.

# After about a month, the mixture needs to be strained through a strainer and the oil needs to be transferred to a clean covered jar.

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• It Lives

• I had no idea how many photos of me were at my grandmothers house.  No wonder people thought I was her daughter, not granddaughter.
• She had at least as much tomato sauce.
• DH she liked as much as spices.  Yeah, he really rates.
• 24 acrylic frames.  What is the purpose of this?
• Even raging alcoholics, narcissists and the clinically insane look good when they’re young.  If you get burned by one keep their picture (just one).  In 50 years, you can look at it and say oh, yeah, I remember now why I got snookered. 
• All things in my home must perform a service in order for me to respect them.  If you’re an inanimate object, residing here, somebody really likes you.  (It doesn’t have to be me.)
• I think measuring the temperature of my home in Celsius is providing enough service to allow a thing to stay.  You can’t tell 25 degrees C is hot?
• I don’t have to like you to keep your portrait.  But if I don’t like you, and keep you, we’re related, and you’re going the bottom of the box.  And I’m writing a little note on the back of your photo so that when DD finds it after I die she’ll know why you’re there.  Because now it’s me, telling DD all the things I’d better tell her, because eventually, I die.
• My first husband was accurate when he said people grow on you, like fungus.

I know what is wrong with you:  You’ve been watching loud, flamboyant, firefighter sex on tv.

Mommies cook and sew and take care of little children.  Daddies make their own beer.

Yeah, that’s normal.  I snuck out into the hall and told the doctor that she’s been mistaking me for my mother who is deceased; and it’s been going on for weeks.  I think that should probably be on the chart.

I got stuck behind a road block, arriving about an hour later than anticipated.  Grandma was alone in her ER holding cell.  She informed me that our ragtag band of so-called family members went to the lounge.  So I went off to see if they needed me to go out in search of real food before I rescued my double-parked car from certain towing.  The lounge turned out to be a cafeteria. But I got to tell them how the security guard described them:  a big foreign guy, but not the same kind of foreign as the grandma, and a big younger guy with a red beard, and a Southern woman?  They’re over there.

Fabulous.  If I ever need to describe them to the police, I’ll be sure to use that.  I went off to park the car.  When I returned we had a lengthy discussion about how grandma claims to be okay, but insisted to Uncle Hugh that she must light a candle when the power went out – next to the oxygen tank.  He got her a battery powered candle and said he’d take it whenever she was through with it.  She wants to know why she would be through with it.  He looked at me dumbfounded.

I told him that’s called denial.  If six doctors can’t tell you the cancer is terminal, she isn’t going to hear it from Uncle Hugh.

We hung out in the ER for several hours before she kicked the boys out.  Which was just as well for them.  She tossed me out several times and then called me back in.  I contemplated in the hall if I could do something really irrational and blame it on my mother, since that’s who she thought I was at that moment.  I might get away with it. 

Grandmas attorney appeared with two assistants which freaked me out.  She’s had a dnr order for years, so wtf?  One assistant greeted her with a kiss.  The attorney nearly toppled over when I appeared in the hall and said Grandma had dismissed me.  Some people don’t get my humor.  I must make fun during stress or I’ll cry.

After they left Grandma declared that she doesn’t plan to die; but if she does she wants to be certain DH gets her green chair. 

Then it was just me and Grandma and her friend of many years, Mary.  Grandma is okay with Mary helping her but not me, which is really wearing out poor Mary, who finally gave herself a break and decided to go home, entrusting Grandma to me and the medical professionals.

It really agitates Grandma for me to help her.  She yelled at a nurse for asking me to pass a cup because she (Grandma) imagined that the nurse was presuming her incompetent.  No sorry, just happens to need this cup by me!  It’s totally bizarre.  I’m so old I don’t even want to say how old.  I have a child.  But Grandma acts like I’m twelve.  She didn’t want any pain meds in front of me.

Seriously?  You have bone cancer, let ‘em give you the good drugs. 

Right.  This is my punishment for making fun of my father unmercifully for years for getting the name of absolutely everything wrong.  I mocked him.  Now I have become him.

I would say DH has been snickering at me all along.  But that would mean he was listening to me.  Not much chance of that.