Like many women, I am not completely comfortable wearing a swimsuit…or even trying one on. It wasn’t always that way. Some summers I practically lived in one, loving to run through sprinklers and splash in wading pools all day long. Until I was about ten years old. I was still a wee wisp of a thing, but puberty was working its changes…making me feel awkward, uncomfortable and exposed. Though I hovered right around 100 pounds for years afterwards, soaking wet, I often felt like Bloaty the Pizza Hog. For a while I wore only the plainest black swimsuits (if ever I dared remove my camouflage of baggy clothing) hoping that I wouldn’t draw much attention to myself. But I probably did just that, with my glow-in-the-dark alabaster skin. I can remember feeling at ease in my skin for just a few years of my adult life, mostly after regular visits to the dojo. Or during that brief period when I was pregnant with the little man…after I’d popped out and was glowing, but before I became behemothic. I do tune out the media’s stereotyping of beauty and body image as much as possible, including the current crop of female Olympian asses I could never hope to compete with. So finally, after adjusting to my post-motherhood snickerdoodle-loving physique, I’ve nurtured the fuckitwhocares attitude necessary to wear this snazzy parakeet green swimsuit in public. But this breakthrough has coincided with our first frost advisory* of the pre-autumn season. I just can’t win.
* True, this advisory applies to Northern Minnesota, but it’s hardly warm enough here to hit the free outdoor wading pools any time soon. At least it’s good sleeping weather.

The real Barrett Chase’s recent story made me think of a similar incident in my past. In high school I had more friends than enemies, but it was still a time of high drama. Being the young loudmouth that I was (am?) I frequently found myself facing off with my detractors. I could handle the ones who were up front about their grievances or opinions. To those who’d nicknamed me Qadaffi’s daughter (they’d gotten Lebanon, home of my forebears, confused with Libya) I’d either suggest they look at a map, or shake my head and laugh off their ignorance. That I could deal with. It was the sneaky, snaky, smear campaigns and catty attacks that caused me the most trouble. Thus it was that I went home one evening to find my mother glaring daggers at me, which wasn’t particularly odd, but then she asked me to explain myself. I looked at her blankly, racking my brains to determine what infraction of mine she may have become aware of. She interrupted my contemplation to cut to the chase. The local video store had called, requesting the return of an overdue movie. A movie of a salacious nature…that had been checked out by, you guessed it, someone using my name. I don’t know if my mother believed my protestations of innocence, but to resolve the matter she dragged me down to the video store in question. The owner took one look at me and realized we’d all been had (I guess carding wasn’t common practice at that point in time). My suspicions regarding the offender’s true identity were never confirmed, but I’m 99% certain I know who it was. Some time later that same video store owner was in hot water…for allegedly creating peepholes with a view of the tanning bed changing rooms. Perhaps he’d seen more of my impersonator than she bargained for. Mutant pale though I am, this makes me quite glad I’ve never set foot (or ass, or teakettle) in a tanning bed.

A librarian friend forwarded the below excerpt, from an MSN article about NJ Governor McGreevey.

There are hints in McGreevey’s background of his discomfort, his unease in his own skin. At St. Joseph’s High School, he didn’t sit at the cool kids’ table or the jocks’ table but with the bookworms, says one of his teachers, Jerry Rabadeau.

As my friend aptly surmised:

Kinda lets you know where ‘bookworms’ rank in the minds of most Americans.

There are no words. Or far too many. More than a few of them being expletives.

The husband must be trying to recapture the glory days of his wasted youth or something. Recently he’s become fascinated by BMX videos, but they leave me feeling conflicted. I loved this sort of thing when I was a teenager (watching more skate videos than BMX) but now as I watch, I’m simultaenously thinking “wow, that’s really cool” and “oh god, their poor mothers”, especially when the lads ride helmet-less. But I don’t get that gratuitous handlebar wiggling. While I understand it adds a certain degree of difficulty, I think it looks kinda dorky. The female skaters are cooler anyhow.

The photos have come.

Hard to believe, but it’s been one year today since the husband and I were married (and even longer still since this very patient and mellow man took me by surprise, embracing my messy life when the little man was still wee). To celebrate we’ve got a hot date lined up. The in-laws are taking the little man…and we’re partaking of mini-golf at the Science Museum, followed by a movie of the husband’s choosing, then regrouping for dinner with the whole family. Photos to come.

Delia Jane has come to a decision. Just as she was going into her third round of interviews for the Congo gig…she was offered the teaching job in Chicago. She chose Chicago. While I’m relieved that she’ll be staying relatively nearby, it’s all happening so fast. As in she’s leaving tomorrow, and has to have lesson plans ready for Monday. So last night we gave her a hastily organized send-off at Galactic Pizza (just try to keep the Beastie Boys’ Intergalactic from getting stuck in your head while eating there). I’d been hearing good things about the place, and there was the almost embarrassingly favorable City Pages review, but last night was my first time experiencing the magic for myself. And oh my. The vegan cheese actually melts, and tastes good. Our little group ordered two of their gourmet pizzas, The Alamo and The Paul Bunyan. Who knew wild rice on pizza could taste so good?

When the little man was still wee I made the unwise decision to purchase some Richard Scarry videos…based on hazy memories of loving the books when I was kid. So I figured the videos would be all right. The husband still glares at me and shakes his head whenever one is playing (he’d had the good sense to hide them some time ago, but the little man wheedled and whined until I retrieved them. I’m such a sucker). Naturally the boy loves whatever gets on our nerves the most. The videos are dreadful. Really poorly done, jerky animation, with about 5 frames per second, if that. And who the heck dresses lowly worm? Without arms or legs it’s gotta be awfully difficult for him to wriggle his way into pants, shirt, tie, shoe (singular) and hat. And why is Hilda the Hippo on stage singing a song about a circus seal and a zebra in the zoo? In Hilda’s sick world who is it that decides bunnies, owls, cats, mice, and even worms make the cut to live as “people” but that other animals are relegated to second class citizen status? All right, maybe it would be best for me to take a few deep breaths and slowly walk away. Or, better yet, get us out of the house and into the unseasonably cool outdoors. When I did that last night we were treated to the sight of a rainbow over the Mississippi River…which I half-assedly photographed.

Well, I’ve gone and done it. I’ve finally made myself a new portfolio site. Now for the disclaimers. While it might look nice, I hope, in most browsers…I pulled it together from a template I created for another project, nearly two years ago. So behind the scenes the code is a bastard hybridization of best practices and bad habits. But the first part is acknowledging the problem. The second part is harder. Starting over, bottom up, with clean, standards-compliant code. At least I know now what’s wrong, and why. After the overhaul the changes should be transparent to most end users, aside from faster download time. In the mean time, to any who click through it, please let me know if you encounter anything buggy. Or if my wording is, like, way weird. Totally. Thanks a million.
p.s. I know the contact form is currently broken. I’m on it.
p.p.s. While I’m selling myself as a front end web developer (which is what I’ve been up to professionally for the past decade or so) the photos are my favorite part. For long time readers of this site that section might be like a “best of” flashback. Cheers.

When the little man barged into my room this morning I’d been dreaming…that I had given birth to a kitten and named him James. And, along with the husband, the lot of us lived in the house I grew up in. Weird. All I want to do at the moment is crawl back into my warm, cozy bed. But I’m afraid I’d just revert to dreaming about James the fluffy kitten boy. And man, was breastfeeding ever a bitch.