Magical pajamas

"They looked witchy and I thought of you," says Jim as I unwrap my new Christmas pajamas Tuesday morning.

"Magical. I prefer magical. But I know what you meant."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Traffic on Jackson
I am reading: Neil Steinberg - Sun-Times
And I am: Witchy

Feeling Robert Frosty

"Plane delayed to 1:40"

That was Jim, texting at 10:30 yesterday morning.

He'd taken The Nephew to Midway for his annual/obligatory Christmas in Minnesota with the woman who carried him around for nine months and then dropped him like a brilliant little blue-eyed potato to be raised by his grandmother, great grandmother, and anyone else willing to try. Anyway.

"Taking Grom for walkies," I reply, knowing that there's no way the Indomitable Dog could stand waiting 'til the afternoon for his Sunday constitutional by the river.

I check the temperature outside. 23 degrees. The wind is fierce and we've had a few snow squalls through the morning, but I know it's always better by the river.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm right. It's perfect. Cold. Quiet. Snowy. Blowy. And not a soul in sight.

We park in the park and Grom is off - sniff, pee, sniff, pee, smile, sniff, pee, sniff.

I'm feeling all Robert Frosty and wondering at the small miracle of the snow-covered path when I realize it's snowing. Hard.

It's a blizzard. By the river.

And that's the reason no one else is on the trail.

My face starts to sting. I brush away the flakes from my eyes and look down to see my jeans caked with white.

Suddenly, Gromit does something he's never done in the seven year history of Walkies: He jumps up, puts his paws on my chest and grabs the leash right out of my hand.

Then he turns around and starts walking back to the car as if to say "Screw this, we're going home."









Wishing you a warm and dry Christmas. And a four-legged friend who reminds you when it's time to come in from the cold.










~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Joni Mitchell - River
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: The brain less traveled

Bright blessings to you this holiday

You walk
out of the office
it’s a little colder
than you thought

You think
about the things
that didn’t get done
today
and the things
that have to get done
tomorrow

And then

You look up at the stars

And you remember

It’s not about meetings,
faxes or quotas
e-mail, voice mail
or proposals

It’s about your family,
good friends

And finding a moment of peace
under a starlit sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Weepies - All That I Want
I am reading: Steinberg - Sun-Times
And I am: Peaceful

Merry Christmas, Spike

So I’m prepping for some present wrapping last night and flipping through the channels – skating past all the science and sports and sex stuff in search of something Christmasy, when I see this:

Hmmm. Amateurs: Handjobs 19

I get the amateur thing. There’s something about amateurs. You’d like to think they’re working extra hard in hopes of going pro – like with minor league baseball.

But ‘Handjobs 19’?

Intriguing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First thought: Wonder what episodes 1- 18 are like.

Is it a classic miniseries like Roots or Rich Man, Poor Man? I wonder if there’s a boxed set.

Must check Amazon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next: Given the, ahem, mechanics of this maneuver, wouldn’t two or three shows (including a pilot) pretty much do it?

It’s not as if it's tricky, people.

Perhaps it’s all about the location that makes each episode better than the next. Each week a different spot. And all the anticipation is about where they'll be next.

Week 20: The Laundromat.

“Be sure to tune in next week for Bridget Brentwood in ‘Loads O’ Glory’.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe it’s a reality show like Survivor, only it’s handjobs.

Each episode, one lovely amateur gets eliminated.

It’s a beat the cock – oops – clock kinda thing.

Although they’re also judged on enthusiasm, technique, and costumes. Like Dancing with the Stars with more Kleenex and less Marie Osmond.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FYI: Bridget Brentwood is my porn name. Have you heard of this?

Take the name of your first pet and combine it with the street you grew up on and voila, you’re a porn star.

Jim’s porn name is Candy Darling. If his software career ever heads south, he’s got what appears to be a brilliant future in transvestite sex flicks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question: How many before you get to go pro in the field of handjobs?

50 sounds about right to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: You might’ve noticed I’m at a relatively low point in my career right now. It’s no biggie, I’m working on it, really.

But today I feel worlds better knowing there’s somebody out there whose life's work is amateur handjob movies.

Makes me feel like a professional.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sha-Na-Na – Born to Hand Jive
I am reading: Marketing Plan 2008
And I am: Goin’ pro

Merry Deathmas

“Speaking of death,” I say to Mom this morning. “Jim knows, but I’m telling you too: I want to be cremated with no viewing.”

“Ditto,” she says.

“Great. When we’re dead we’ll finally agree on something.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s been a few funeral-filled months here for family and close friends.

So the typically benign morbid underbelly to the season seems a little more – I don’t know – painful and poignant this year.

What is it about Christmas that makes us think of death?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The week leading up to Christmas is right about the time I start listening to Mr. Hankey’s Christmas Classics.

This excellent CD is an irreverent respite from all the Silent Nights and Joy to the Worlds and O Holy Mary Jesus Hoo-Ha Blahs.

My all-time favorite is Merry F*cking Christmas, sung by Mr. Garrison.

You’re in a mad scramble for last minute gifts, sweating your ass off in a store and swearing at the sonofabitch who snatched the last Scooby Doo Chia Pet from the shelf.

Get in your car. Take a deep breath. And sing Merry F*cking Christmas at the top of your lungs.

Trust me. It helps.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then there’s this pretty, melancholy tune from the South Park CD that’s been playing over and over in my head:

Dead, dead, dead
Someday you’ll be dead
Dead, dead, dead
Someday we’ll all be dead

The minute we’re born we start dying
We die a little more every day
Young or old, rich or poor
There’s nothing we can do to stop it
So look long at that Christmas tree
It may be the last one that you see
Decorate your house in green and red
‘Cause someday you’ll be dead

Dead, dead, dead
Someday you’ll be dead
Dead, dead, dead
Someday we’ll all be dead
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The holidays are high pressure. It’s forced festivity and gift giving.

Add to it the crazy concept that this Could Be the Last One for anyone of us and shit, it’s no small wonder the suicide rate is so high this time of year.

I don't know, to me the whole Christmas/death thing is kinda comforty. I appreciate everyone a little more. And it makes all the blessings shine just a little bit brighter.

Of course if this is my last Christmas, I also can look forward finally agreeing with Mom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mr. Hankey’s Christmas Classics
I am reading: Niagaran Pebbles
And I am: Living

Festive holiday greetings from the W____’s

Warning: If you’re guilty of sending out those trendy and tiresome holiday letters, then you probably shouldn’t read HedyBlog today.

Just once. Just once I’d like a letter from some far-off fuckwit that isn’t overflowing with frothy bits of family fluff.

Here’s a little tip for you few who get the itch to share Nothing But Good News with the rest of us: Nobody cares if you bought a new house or remodeled your old house. Nobody cares that you went on five (five!) vacations this year. And trust me, nobody cares that your big-brained brat of a son/daughter/Schnauzer won [insert award of your choice].

They're bad enough any time, but these “LOOKEE how HAPPY we ARE” letters seem particularly egregious this unbelievably sad year when so many families have lost their homes in the sub-prime suckfest and so many soldiers have lost their lives in Iraq.

If you’re happy and doing well, God bless ya. But think before boasting on your blessings lest we think you’re a bullshitter or braggart. Or both.
~~~~~~~~~~
Greetings friends, family members, ex-co-workers and your respective children and/or pets, most whom we really don’t know or care too much about:

As I write this festive Christmas missive, it is so good to be sitting on the couch and not, as they say, on the pot. Since last Sunday, I’ve been stricken with a particularly grievous flu/virus thing. Ever stalwart Jim has been extremely supportive during this trying time – keeping me in a steady supply of shit-paper and Alka Seltzer for the duration.

While we’re on pot-related issues: I wouldn’t want to jinx us since 2007 isn’t quite over, but I am pleased to report that we’ve made it through yet another year with neither of us shitting our pants. That’s nary a shart in 2007, which makes three years running. Keep us in your prayers for 2008.

More health news: My back only went out once this year after an ill-fated mattress flipping incident. Unfortunately both of us continue to fight other old-people problems like bad knees, failing eyesight, and disconcerting hair growth in unexpected places.

Speaking of Jim, we’re still married. He’s finally faced the reality that he is stuck with an irresponsible, spendthrift of a wife. Which is great, because now we only fight about what a reckless speed freak driver he is. Thankfully this only happens when we’re going anywhere in the car together.

“It’s a miracle how I make it to work every day without you to guide me, dear wife,” says Jim.

On the topic of reckless driving, I only crashed the lawn mower three times the whole summer – once into a tree and twice into the fence – another record. The bad news: I blew out the latch on the back gate by trying to slam through it with the tractor. Silly me, I thought it was unlocked. Thankfully, Jim was able to fix it right up with a bit of bungee so it doesn’t bang closed in the wind anymore. It’s a veritable aural and visual treat for our neighbors, as you can imagine.

Here’s some good news for all you pet lovers: Gromit is alive and well in spite of our best efforts at killing him with little bits of pizza crust, crackers and the occasional scrambled egg sammich. We’ve tried to stop giving him people food but it’s really the only way to keep him from drooling all over our pants, the couch and sometimes our shoulders if we’re dining (ah, the romance!) in front of the television.

Did I mention Gromit is a genius? During their visit last summer, Mom and Da discovered our indomitable dog knows how to spell Frisbee. He is currently enrolled in the gifted program at the local canine Montessori and spends his down time licking his ass and penning his memoirs.

Speaking of visitors, we were blessed with lots of them last summer. If you are invited back for summer '08, then we thoroughly and sincerely enjoyed having you here. If not, well, I hear Milwaukee can be charming in the summer time.

On the employment front, Jim is still working for ______, a software firm that has been trying to kill his favorite product for two years now. With any amount of luck, they’ll succeed at it in 2008 and he will move on to IBM or Oracle or some other IT behemoth to retire anonymously happy.

Of course I was unceremoniously fired in September. After much thought and more sobbing, I have taken complete responsibility for what happened. Lesson: Be a leader. Don’t worry about stepping on anyone’s toes. Don’t give people what they say they want, give them what you know they need. Oh, and try not to work for a bunch of spineless, lying fuckwads if you can help it.

On the home front, we had the septic tank emptied. Two more bushes died in the front yard. The fence isn't too badly dented. The deck needs to be refinished but now it’s covered in six inches of snow so Gromit the Genius Dog is peeing and pooping all over it. We are so proud.

Best wishes for a 2008 filled with Only Good Things.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The idiot Bears getting spanked again
I am reading: Rather Than Working
And I am: Grateful

The perfect gift

"We got you that frying pan on your list," I say to Mom this morning.

"Really? The ten inch?"

"Yep."

"Oh, good. I've never had a ten inch. Frying pan. FRYING PAN!"
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Going to the doctor finally

Flu

I've had a bad, bad stomach ache since Sunday. Plus a fever. Chills. And everything aches.

"I know it's bad when you're not eating anything," says Jim.

I know it's bad when I'm not writing anything.

Take care and I hope to return soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Flu
I am reading: Flu
And I am: Flu

The hierarchy of idiots

“Boys. I shoveled the sidewalk and driveway and they’re covered again.”

That was my friend Jeff on IM late yesterday afternoon. His son had a play date – and the two boisterous boys undid all of his hard work clearing snow.

“Girls. You gotta love ‘em.” I replied.

“Until they’re fourteen. Then it’s all drama.”

“Right. A million dollars and I’d never be 14 again. No way,” I said.

Jeff disagrees: He’d go back if only to do things differently.

“Well, in that case sure I’d go,” I say. “And try to be less of an idiot.”

“I’d try to be more of an idiot. Relax more. Not worry about being embarrassed so much.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Apparently there are two types of people. All of us recovering idiots. And folks like Jeff who somehow managed to navigate the prime idiot years successfully.

Although I’m okay being in the recovering category.

I would much rather regret a Major Screw Up (or in my case, myriad Major Screw Ups) than be left wishing I had taken more chances.

Plus, the thing about being an idiot early on is, you never get the itch to let it all out later on. You get it outta your system.

So I suppose there's actually a hierarchy of idiots: The recovering idiots, the still-in-denial idiots, the late bloomer idiots, and the idiot wanna-bes.

Although anyone who regrets not being an idiot qualifies as an honorary idiot on some level, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Brandi Carlile – The Story
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Taking it one day at a time

A non-negotiable clarification

“So you think that EVERYTHING should be negotiable in a marriage?” asks Mom this morning.

“Yes.”

“You’re nuts.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perhaps a clarification is in order.

I’m not talking about fuck-nut husbands with teensy wieners beating up their wives. Or shrew-bitch wives who mentally (and often physically) beat up on their husbands for having teensy wieners or whatever.

I’m talking about healthy marriages between two relatively self-aware people with good communication and just the right amount of honesty.

Here’s the problem: Way too many women and more than a few men think the negotiating ENDS once you get married.

“He’s locked in now, I’m in charge.”
“She’s mine now, I can do what I want.”

That woman from the Monday morning train was one of them. And I suspect the Dilf’s wife is another (if she really is using sex as a bargaining tool, we’ll never know for sure.)

What do you call it when one person holds all the power? When one person spews non-negotiable mandates?

Certainly not a marriage. Dictatorship is more like it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can only write what I know.

I know healthy marriages that have made it through some seriously Godawful cock-ups (mine included). And I know hellish, miserable marriages that should’ve ended years ago.

I’ll say it again: For the people who want to STAY in a relatively healthy marriage, everything is negotiable.

When one misguided spouse starts laying down mandates and non-negotiables, the other spouse feels trapped and unhappy, like a second class citizen in her own country.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, fuck it, it’s Christmas. So let’s get Biblical for a bit here.

The Old Testament was all about rules – you must follow these Ten Commandments and you’ll get to heaven. Thou shalt not this and thou shalt not that. It was happy days back then, I tell ya.

Then Jesus came along. He had more faith in people. And he understood that people don’t want to be ruled or oppressed. They want to be loved. Jesus understood this better than anyone. He knew there’s really only one commandment you need and all the other commandments will happen automatically: Love one another.

Love one another.

If you love one another unconditionally there’s no need for non-negotiables. All the other rules are unnecessary and you do what you have to, to make and keep things right -- not because you need to be in charge, not out of fear of losing something, and certainly not because of some mythical reward.

Because it’s simply the right thing to do.

Better? Not nuts now? Lemme know, Mom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sara Hickman – Mad World
I am reading: A Guide to NFA Compliance Rule 2-29
And I am: Trying to get it right

The non-negotiable marriage

It’s near the end of my typical up-top train ride into the city yesterday morning, when suddenly, there’s this from below:

“SOME things in MARRIAGE are just NOT negotiable!”

Looking down, I see a way-too-angry-for-the-morning woman glaring back and forth between what, from my vantage point, I could only assume were two of her shocked into silence cohorts across the aisle.

“NOT NEGOTIABLE I told him,” she says in her outdoor voice. “Taking CARE of my SELF is NOT NEGOTIABLE.”

This was followed by another of her patented I-DARE-YOU-TO-DISAGREE-WITH-ME stares towards her understandably quiet comrades.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“She’ll be divorced in less than five years,” I thought, exiting the train.

Because everything in marriage is negotiable. Everything.

If you want it to last, that is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Taking care of herself?

Sadly, it’s a total guess what she meant by that.

How do we wives take care of ourselves? Exercise. Manicures. Massages. Quiet time in a bubbly tub with a good book. The occasional weepy movie/pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Right?

And how could any of these things possibly be a Major Issue in a marriage?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hedy, that woman was right. Some things are not negotiable in a marriage.”

Oh yeah? Like what?

C’mon, bring it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, never mind. Lemme guess.

The Number One All-Time Non-Negotiable in Marriage: Screwing Around.

If your spouse is screwing around on a regular basis, he/she has already left.

So what’s to negotiate?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IM Conversation #1:

H: True or false: Some things in marriage are not negotiable.

David (married): True.

H: Really? Like what?

David: Clean up this blood.

H: Let's subtract the idea that I've married a serial killer or other criminal type. I think once you're married EVERYTHING has to be negotiable if you want to stay that way. You don't stay married by being a demanding bitch from hell.

David: True.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But Hedy! What if my spouse screwed around once and felt really really really bad about it and said it would never happen again?

Totally negotiable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IM Conversation #2:

H: True or false: Some things in marriage are not negotiable.

JimmyC (single): True.

H: Really? Like what?

JimmyC: What if my wife wanted to stick a dildo in my ass?? NEVER!!!

H: Well let’s hope she would know that about you ahead of time and marry you anyway. ☺
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WHOA! So you’re saying Jim gets a free pass if he screws around once?

Not really. Karma will certainly handle the majority of his punishment should he choose to stray.

That said, am I gonna throw away 10 years of marriage because Jim got drunk and fooled around with Pamela Anderson and then was even more foolish enough to tell me about it?

Of course not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IM Conversation #3:

Hedy: True or false: Some things in marriage are not negotiable.

Mr. O. (divorced): True!

Hedy: Really? Like what?

Mr. O.: Violence, spouse abuse.

Hedy: Let's assume you know your spouse as well as you possibly could.

Mr. O.: Shall we also assume that sunbeams shoot out of our asses?

Hedy: I say, in a relatively healthy marriage, all things are negotiable.

Mr. O.: That statement is only true for the person who wants to stay married the most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So there you have it.

If you want to stay married, you gotta negotiate.

And I say the big heavy non-negotiable stuff needs to be worked out in advance of getting married.

For example, when Jim and I got married, we agreed to discuss any Major Purchases ($400 or more) beforehand. We figured it out in advance so there was no need to make it negotiable or non-negotiable. It’s just one of our rules.

This woman’s husband, bless his sorry soul, probably knew she was high maintenance and that ‘caring for herself’ was a big thing for her, whatever the fuck that means.

He’s giving her a hard time about it – it could only be because she’s spending too much time or money on said care. Right?

If he’s giving her a hard time about spending too much time, it’s because he wants her to spend more time with him. This is not a bad thing in a marriage.

If he’s giving her a hard time about spending too much money, well, this is what husbands do. Unless he’s out of work and then she should be willing to sacrifice a bit of her ‘care’ items until things are back on track financially.

So what’s non-negotiable in your relationship?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Weepies – All That I Want
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Negotiable

Craving space

"Can I ask you something?" asks my friend Spike via IM last week. "I don't want to offend you, but if you want to be a writer full time, how come sometimes you don't have anything to write about on the blog?"

"It has nothing to do with being a writer," I say. "If I don't get to spend any time alone, I don't get to think. And if I don't get to think, I've got nothing to write."

It's beyond frustrating - I'm on the train, Mac all warm and ready in my lap and . . .nothing.

Nothing to say. Two days in a row.

Good news: Jim's in Pittsburgh tonight so HedyBlog will return tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Weepies - All That I Want
I am reading: West of Kabul, East of New York
And I am: Craving space

Over a barrel

“If I asked you to help me move a barrel out of my bedroom, what would you say?” asks our friend Steve.

“What took you so long?” says Jim with a smirk.

Of course this elicits a smack from Judy, Steve’s fiancé.

We were talking about the Stacey Peterson case over dinner last night. Even though it’s a Chicago story, I’m sure you’ve heard of it: Stacey is missing and Drew, her fucknut cop of a husband, has been all over the national media.

The latest? Drew’s semi-retarded cousin helped him move a ‘warm to the touch’ barrel out of the couple’s bedroom the day Stacey disappeared. This genius supposedly said the barrel weighed about 120 lbs.
~~~~~~~~~~
“What’s in the barrel, Drew?”

Wouldn’t that be the first question to ask, if you’re not semi-retarded?
~~~~~~~~~~
Jim’s second answer: “I’ll help move yours if you help move mine.”

That response elicited the requisite smack from me.

But it also got me thinking.

While the divorce rate has dropped to around 38% in the U.S., that's still pretty high.

I’m guessing there are a good number of husbands (the non-murderous fucknut types) who, if their spouse suddenly disappeared, would be sad but also secretly relieved.

“You mean she’s gone? Really? Hot damn, think of the money I’ll save!”
~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe Drew Peterson didn’t do it.

Right.

If you’re a normal person and your spouse has been missing for weeks, you’re distraught and frantic – not only for yourself, but for your two small children who are confused and desperately missing their mom.

If you somehow find the strength to speak with the media, it’s to plead with everyone including God for information about the case.

You’re not sitting calmly next to Matt Lauer telling the world that your wife probably ran off with another man.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Split Enz – I Got You
I am reading: West of Kabul, East of New York by Tamim Ansary
And I am: Staying away from barrels

Waiting

So I’m on the 8:06 train, which left at 8:09 because of ‘police activity’ at the Aurora train station. Not that said police activity had an impact on the train schedule – the conductors held up the train in an attempt to see something exciting.

How do I know this?

Because I watched them watching the train station, waiting for cops to emerge with a suspect or perp or skell or whatever the TV crime shows are calling them these days.
~~~~~~~~
Where ya been, Hed?

Pouting, mostly. Although I did have the flu on Monday and Tuesday which only made matters worse.

Pouting? Yes, pouting.

That’s the best way to describe it. Although today is better.

You mean, pouting, as in ‘I’m a lazy spoiled brat’ pouting?

Sorta.
~~~~~~~~
Eric Clapton. Eric Clapton is why I’m pouting.

A good friend recommended his autobiography and I read it over the weekend.

It’s not a great book.

Mostly because Eric Clapton is not a writer. He’s a musician.

An average musician who wrote a below average book about his way below average life.

Seriously, his autobiography reads like the longest liner note in the history of modern music.
~~~~~~~~
Here’s the Mad Libs version of Clapton’s book:

Then I met [famous musician] and we did [drug] and got piss-drunk while playing [cool concert venue] to [huge number] adoring yet eternally disappointed fans and then did [another drug] and then I broke up the band again because [egomaniacal bullshit reason].

Oh, and I stalked and stole George Harrison’s wife and then he died. Oh, and I had a son with a woman I barely knew and then he died.

The end.
~~~~~~~~
I threw the book down after losing count on how many accidents he had driving one of his many Ferraris (and endangering who knows how many lives) and all he had to say on it was: “I keep thinking about how I could’ve seriously hurt myself.”

No word or concern for anyone else, just really glad he didn’t hurt himself.
~~~~~~~~
So I’ve obviously never been much of a Clapton fan.

After reading the book, though, I diligently downloaded the best of his stuff from iTunes: Bell Bottom Blues (Derek & The Dominos), Layla (both versions), After Midnight, Cocaine, Lay Down Sally, oh, and his two weepy forgettable hits (You Look Wonderful in Heaven).

Layla and She’s Waiting are songs from my childhood. I remember liking She’s Waiting a bit but being extremely irritated at Detroit's 98.7 WLLZ for playing Layla over and over and over again. There’s only so much screamin’ Layla you can take. Although the unplugged version is seriously better.

Clapton's biggest problem - and it's evident throughout the book - is that he thought way too highly of himself. He wanted to be a blues musician but he always ended up just a pop star.

And pretty much all of his hits are pop songs – not classics.

Okay, maybe…wait...nope. Not one classically good song.
~~~~~~~~
But Hedy!

Eric is Derek! Slowhand! Clapton is God! He’s done some great things. He’s been sober for 20 years. And that Crossroads clinic in Antigua. What about that?

Let’s just say it’s a good start. Eric Clapton is gonna have to live another 200 years to undo all the seriously bad karma he racked up in his early years.

Maybe if he didn’t congratulate himself for doing all that stuff in his book. Maybe if he had apologized for leaving so many hurt, damaged and dead people in his wake.

Maybe if his book didn’t read like so much ego-stroking crap, then Slowhand would deserve a little slack.
~~~~~~~~
So why all the pouting, Hed?

Because if an average pop star can write a below average book about his way below average life, what the fuck am I, the veritable Queen of Average, waiting for?
~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Eric Clapton – She’s Waiting
I am reading: West of Kabul, East of New York by Tamim Ansary
And I am: Ya know, waiting

Thanks

Everything is done. I'm on the couch. Gromit's next to me -- sprawled in the sun streaming through the patio doors. We're both watching Jim at the grill: Charcoal, a dash of lighter fluid, then WOOSH. Fire for the turkey.

It's cold out. Much colder than last year. There'll be a bonfire for when friends and neighbors drop by in the early afternoon before dashing off to family dinners. Later, they'll return for games, movies and further gastrointestinal discomfort brought on by the requisite "Round 2" of turkey, stuffing, etc.

It was a good year; thanks so much for being here.

Blessings to you and your family on this lovely Thanksgiving day.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Parade sounds from the other room
I am reading: The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet by Eleanor Cameron
And I am: Blessed

An honest life

So I’m on the plane to Vegas last Wednesday reading an article in Wired magazine about prioritizing tasks to become more efficient with the ultimate goal of having nothing on your mind.

It’s all very new-age Zen let’s wax each other’s auras stuff and I’m thisclose to bailing when this little tidbit about Ben Franklin catches me: “[He] first identified his governing values, then he made a concerted effort to live his life, day in, day out, according to these values.”

Before you could say ‘nice bifocals it’s a shame about your teeth’ this thought popped into my head: Lead an honest life.

Lead an honest life.

It felt profound. It felt like being re-connected to the Universe.

And it wasn’t the sudden realization that leading an honest life is what I want to do, but that it’s what I’ve been trying to do as far back as I can remember.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
C’mon, Hedy. When was the last time you lied? Be honest.

Sunday. Checking out at Mandalay Bay. The woman behind the counter is reviewing the room charges.

“Did you have Pringles?”

“Yes.”

“Two cans?”

Yikes.

“No.”

GODDAMMIT. Why the hell did I just lie about that second can of Pringles? She’s a nice lady, doing her job. What the fuck is the matter with me? It certainly wasn’t the $5 price tag – my willingness to pay any price in snack-related crises is legendary. And what sort of Karmic retribution does the Universe dole out for lying about potato chips?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Terrible. Why did I lie about the second can?

Because I’m feeling really really fat lately and admitting it to a stranger was like shouting “YES, I AM A PATHETIC PIG, RENDERED POWERLESS BY PRE-FORMED POTATO PULP CHIPS!” to the entire lobby.

Odd. Somehow it feels better having told you just now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know what you’re thinking.

Jesus, Hedy. If you’re willing to lie about Pringles, what else are you keeping from us?

Shaddap.

Tell me you haven’t lied about something equally silly and benign in the past week. If you say you haven't, you're lying.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Doesn’t it bother her?” asks my good friend Spike via IM a while back.

“What?”

“Your Mom. When you write things like ‘party hard and f*ck harder’?”

Sure it does. She’s a Mom. She worries.

But for this blog, my one guiding principal is to always tell the truth no matter how ugly or silly or demented it is. To not worry about offending anyone, but to write what I think. And hell, what's the point in writing if you're not 100% honest all the time?

I want my people to know me for what I am, not for what they’d like me to be.

Mom understands that more than anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know what you’re thinking, part two.

Jesus, Hedy. TWO CANS OF PRINGLES? WHO EATS TWO CANS OF PRINGLES?

Well, a) they were the small, hotel size half-cans. And b) When you're working a trade show you don't get much opportunity for regular meals. And c) Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s a good question: When do you find yourself in situations where you feel you have to be dishonest?

For me (aside from the occasional snack food slip-up) it’s always always always to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.

And not in the “Does this dress make my ass look like a gas can?” sense, because friends will always tell you the truth when it comes to clothing choices.

I lie when I'm in those uncomfortable, surreal situations where someone else isn't being honest about themselves or whatever and they've asked you to join them in their version of the world.

It sucks.

I did it to that woman behind the counter at the hotel and she knew it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
So why all the honesty talk here?

Because someone I don't know well has put me in a situation where it would be best to lie.

I don’t want to.

I want to tell this person that her request is not only unreasonable, it is quite ridiculous. But I can’t.

And it bothers me.

So you can lie about potato chips to a stranger to protect yourself from embarrassment, but you can’t lie to a family member to protect her feelings? What’s that all about?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to lie to this person because I am frustrated for being put in this situation by someone with limited social skills. Telling the truth in this case would make her feel worse while making me feel better.

But the karmic fallout from making her feel bad will be greater than if I just suck it up and lie.

This leading an honest life shit sure sucks sometimes. I guess it's a good thing I'm not very good at it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The man next to me on the train horking snot
I am reading: Trade show lead spreadsheet
And I am: A liar

Honesty Part I

“Did I meet you yesterday while you were setting up your booth?” asks the man standing next to me at the hotel business center.

“Yes, that was me,” I say.

“WOW! You REALLY clean up nice,” he says. “I mean your hair looks GREAT and everything. I don’t mean to offend you but you just look SO MUCH BETTER today.”

Wanted to say: “Hmm, that’s funny. Because you look just the same as yesterday, you fat, follically-challenged little fart-knocker.”

Said: “Thanks.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course I looked better.

I wasn’t a sorry little sack of smelly sweat from lugging booth shit for a trade show all morning.

And I wasn’t offended by what he said so much – because it was true, remember?

I was offended by the fact that the officious little fart-knocker stood smack-dab in the center of our booth space supervising my set-up without once offering to lift a finger for 40 minutes.

There’s honesty. And then there’s being a complete ass-hat.

More re: honesty tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Modest Mouse – Missed the Boat
I am reading: Wired magazine
And I am: Trying

Vegasland

Vegas.

It's a parallel universe where Celine Dion and Barry Manilow and that puppet dude from America's Got Talent are Superstars.

Everything is a caricature of real life - bigger and brighter and shinier. And that's just the boobs.

It's a city without a soul. A karmic black hole.

I'm no gambler. The handful of times I've been to a casino, I always left feeling like my soul had shrunk just a little.

The only up side to Vegas is that it makes you appreciate the real world a little more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sara Hickman - Mad World
I am reading: AfterMath, Inc. by Gil Reavill
And I am: Grateful to be home

The Bible vs. the mini bar

There’s a Bible in the nightstand next to the big comfy bed.

Like everything else at this hotel, it’s nice and new.

Of course it could be that the Good Book just doesn’t get much use here in the City of Sin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who knew? Here’s an interesting fact from www.gideons.org:

“Annually, The Gideons International is placing and distributing more than 63,000,000 Scriptures worldwide. To God be the glory! This averages one million copies of the Word of God placed every six days, or 120 per minute!”

Whew.

That's a whole lotta Bible there, guys. I'm guessing the real trick is getting people to read it, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's a shocking confession: It's been a while since I've looked at a Bible.

It sure is preachy.

And rather than being inspired or shamed or smote or whathaveyou by Job and Proverbs and Psalms, all I can think is "Goddamn, God needs an editor."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course, who edits Him?

"Um, God?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"I think you've got just one too many begats here in Matthew, whaddaya say we cut a few?"

BA-BLAM.

"Right. Leave in the begats. Gotcha."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s the thing.

If I’m in a hotel in Vegas and feeling LONELINESS or SORROW or WEARINESS or TEMPTATION, I sure as shit ain’t lookin’ in the nightstand for help from Gideon’s minions.

I’m heading straight for the mini bar.

Because there’s nothing that a $12 bag of cashews and an $8 shot of Jack can’t cure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Colbie Caillat - Bubbly
I am reading: The Book of Jack
And I am: Tired but satisfied

Back to elsewhere

“We have a very full flight folks and the plane cannot pull away from the gate until everyone is seated so blah de blah de blah.”

I’m in 23D. An aisle seat.

Aisle seats offer as much control as you can possibly have on commercial flights. I can get up if I need to. And I’m not relying on some fat gambling gramma to get outta my way should the plane decide to drop outta the sky like Dorothy’s domicile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course it’s all self-delusional doo-doo. Who am I kidding?

Should the plane crash, my triumphant and powerful aisle seat will be filled with shit followed by my sad sinful remains and that’ s about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
So the flight is full. A steady stream of travelers trek down the aisle, shuffling to their designated spots.

And I wait. Sans seat belt. For the folks in 23E and F to appear.

As a seasoned denizen of the aisle seat, you learn to not lock in too early. You get settled and strap in too soon and someone invariably arrives with a sheepish smile, pointing at the seat next to you.

The huge dude in white socks and Crocs mercifully plops down in 21C. The gray-haired angry-faced grandma with bad breath takes 22D (I know she has bad breath because she stands in front of her seat scowling at me until the last possible moment before we take off.)

The flight attendant comes through after the “cross check doors for take-off” whatever the hell that means and we’re off.

I’m the only person on the flight sitting in an otherwise empty row. I notice other passengers scowling in my direction now.

I move the backpack over to the space under the center seat ahead.

A luxurious stretch. A smile.

Once again I am heading elsewhere. Life is good.
~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sheryl Crow - Leaving Las Vegas
I am reading: Wired Magazine
And I am: Sleepy