Monthly Archives: November 2009

Psychic Blogging

Psychic Blogging

Yes, NaBloPoMo, that’s what I did for the past four days. I was psychically blogging. I’m sure you all heard my snarky witticisms and astounding insights on life, children and feminism. Thanks for all of the psychic comments back, I love you all.

Ahem. Its Monday! That means its the weekend recap edition of MeliaLore.com! WOOHOO! In case you all hadn’t heard, last week was Thanksgiving, that holiday where I spend three days cooking for exactly 15 minutes of eating. This year’s menu challenge was NOT keeping all of the non-turkey dishes completely meatless, but was cooking without any onions – a feat that was accomplished beautifully, and completely in honor of my guests.

As a vegetarian pescetarian, I was extremely nervous about the turkey. In a feat of complete hypocrisy, I did my annual bird cooking, moment of angst, followed by several cups of “Mama’s Thanksgiving Wine.” I’m sure that my family’s tradition that I’ve probably made up, but whatever of drinking while cooking was not rooted in their hatred of the meat/poultry industry. Really, its probably rooted in that same thing that pushes everyone else to drink at 10am – family. Lucky for me, my family is far away, which gives me the other Thanksgiving tradition of inviting my friends over for the big meal, and then we just have fun without drama. JEEBUS, MARY AND JOSEPH!

My friend at Moves in Curves was gracious enough to come and stay the whole weekend with her twins. She helped cook, clean, and sat with me on the couch as we computed, watched movies and let the kids run through the house… usually clothed.  We even managed to sneak in a little Black Friday shopping, although unintentional, as we searched for open thrift stores and/or used forks. Have you seen these? They’re awesome, and I desperately NEED love them, and we were going to make some… but the ONE thrift store that was open was all out of forks. I blame the aliens. No forks for us. LeSigh.

I did manage to break a wine glass filled with mimosa OOOOPAH!. You can tell that you live online when there is broken glass all around your feet and you yell, “quick, grab the camera!” before you actually start to clean it up.

For the foot fetish people

Read the rest of this entry

Hi, I’m on Acid.

Hi, I’m on Acid.

Today, I managed to get the Twitches out to a “play date,” which to me, is code for “maybe there will be something snarky to blog about and/or an open bar and/or sushi and/or a chance to recruit women to my cult.” I love days of endless possibilities.

The play date was at Betty Bop’s house. You may remember BB from such blogs as “Filty Martinis” where we encountered the IRA Server or the Equality March. Since this is the third blog in which she is mentioned, I’mma say that she’s a keeper. Plus, her walls are two shades of orange (pumpkin and, well, pumpkin), which absolutely delights me.

BB lives south of Stepford, in Southern Stepford. Southern Stepford, about six years ago, used to be trees, with maybe some dirt thrown in, and possibly a raccoon or deer. Now, its like… oh… Stepford, on steroids. I live in Townhouse Stepford, BB lives in “Did a housekeeper come with this house” Stepford.  I pulled out my GPS,  Dr. Nightmare (who now speaks with a female Australian accent, so I call her “Max”), mapped the address and heard a very faint, almost French-sounding dialogue. Dr. Nightmare Max was speaking Afrikaans. Somehow, evil gremlins possessed my GPS, and changed its language… to something that kind of rang a bell (hooray for five years of French!), but not exactly anything I could pick out, which may be important when trying to get somewhere without having to think of its bloggable possibilities. What if I had been driving? I would have ended up in… Africa? I shudder to think of the parking lots I would have turned into, as I searched for a caramel brulee latte piece of sanity, coping with the strange language.

For the record, its a lot easier to change the language when not driving.

It gets better, though. Max, the Twitches and I all head out to BB’s house. We’re trucking along, listening to “my fay-brit” KidzBop songs over and over and I see, on Max, that the turn is just ahead… and then, suddenly, its not. Somehow, by driving 10 feet further south, I was no longer on a road, but in this strange white landscape, flying upon my broom. My conveniently-placed turn was nowhere to be seen. It was gone. I was driving on an imaginary road, becoming totally aware that I was now experiencing a full out acid flashback. In truth, I was probably still at home, writing this blog, because Max is never wrong. I was not where I was. This is why KidzBop is bad news.

My hallucinated road, and the GPS proof that it doesn't exist.

My hallucinated road, and the GPS proof that it doesn't exist.

I kept driving while taking a very safe photo of my journey. Well, not driving, since there’s no way to drive on a road that doesn’t exist. I suppose its possible I somehow transported into the future of Stepford for a brief moment, and Max was just slacking. Within days seconds I was at a dead end, seemingly where the world becomes pudding, yet Max assured me there were plenty of streets ahead of me, to my left and to my right… streets I could not turn onto because I was on a non-existent road. So, dammit, I turned around because that seemed like a better idea than stopping at the dead end and claiming the territory for my own sovereign nation and went back, figuring I could somehow find Target (and that latte) when suddenly, there was a real road again. So, in effect, as long as I drove north, all was well. Driving south, well, that obviously never happened. Have I mentioned I am about 20 minutes from my house?

Made it to the play date, had fun, left to hit up Target until we had to be home for Enigma. We looked at Princess Christmas trees because while I’m not Christian, religious or prone to fits of holiday bliss, we don’t have a tree and I know the kids like to decorate them so they can later break ornaments and blame the cat. I was totally rooting for the silver holographic tinsel tree, and I had the Twitches 99% convinced of its disco superiority, but they chickened out, so now we have a plain old boring green tree. Sigh.

On the way to the tree department, we strolled through the bra section (note to self: bras would be awesome tree decorations) and I was drawn like a moth to a flame to a black bra with a pink sticker on it. As I got closer, I read the sticker:

New! Concealing petals!

concealing petals

I paused, and thought. Then, honestly, I thought a little bit more. Concealing petals, the sticker place over the  nipple area (if you have porn star boobs) was this saying that… is there really a reason…

Woman 1: “Its cold today!” *slurp latte*
Woman 2: “Yes, I’m feeling a little *teehee* nipply!” *giggle* *slurp latte*
Woman 1: “I wish my pesky nipples wouldn’t be so responsive to this temperature stimuli, its almost as inconvenient as… wow, there’s Amanda! Look at her, not even wearing a coat!”
Woman 2: “You sure couldn’t tell the temperature by her nipples!”

Woman 3 walks up to table where lattes are being slurped.

Woman 3: “Hey, I see you two checking out my nipples, and no, you can’t tell how cold it is by staring at my boobs because I’m wearing CONCEALING PETALS” *big cheesy wink at camera*

Ahem. The only thing funnier than nipple-concealing petals was the woman behind me who high-tailed it to the next aisle as I took photos of bras with my phone. I think she may have left a child behind in her haste to get away from the crazy lady on acid who thinks its hilarious to take photos of lingerie in Target while slurping her real (I think) latte.

Finish Line Insights

Finish Line Insights

Ahh, the grocery store. Land of food, free samples, bird poop-covered shopping baskets, tantrums, potty trips and… the “finish line,” where invariably, I come to some witty conclusion about the world, or just buy some gum. Whatever.

Today’s insight is brought to you by the media-starved person I’ve become as I thumb my nose at celebrity gossip. Without further ado… I present, today’s insight:

Paula Deen (as pictured on some weird cooking magazine)

Looks like a toddler Beauty Pageant contestant.

And, I don’t mean that in a good way.

Please don’t sue me.

The song of the week… remember this one?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N307vxQueDg

Ace of Pentacles

Ace of Pentacles

Those of you who know me, understand my reliance on tarot cards. Well, truth be told, I’ve backed away from them over the past year, and used my own instinct to navigate the sweaty waters of life, but I know its time to get back to them, to re-establish that part of “me” that was taken away during a very traumatic therapeutic time.

Ugh, that sounds all whiny. But, really, its been one really interesting year, but I cannot take the “free falling” feeling anymore. So, I present… Melia’s identity crisis, chapter soixante.

The problem is that I’m just too good at everything I do. You heard me right, I’m just a veritable computer/tie dye/writing/cleaning/parenting genius. Yet, I’m stuck wondering where I’m supposed to be going. Am I destined to be the “kept” woman, living a life of budgets and take-out Thai?

Tempting. Very tempting.

So, the Ace of Pentacles came up for me, by two different people, and its telling me to focus on what I’m good at, that my fortune (and fame!) is within that which I am already doing.

Well, guess what. I’m currently drinking a filty martini. Suck on that.

Yet another blog brought to you by NaBloPoMo. Help.