Jane pauses for this public service announcement

Pleomorphic adenoma. (Say that three times fast - I dare ya.)

So that's what I had and one of the reasons Jane took a sabbatical.  It's actually a tumor of the parotid (salivary) gland...and/or possibly a new totally unexplored galaxy in the new Star Trek movie.  If you Google it, you find that there's not a whole lot of helpful information out there on either the tumor or the galaxy.

I guess that this is my attempt at a public service announcement for those of you out there searching for more information.  Not that it will be scientific or helpful or anything. 

But the more you know..

My little journey started last fall.  I'd been sick for a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving and at some point during this period, I felt a lump on my jawbone, directly in front of my right ear.

I had a cold.  People with colds sometimes have swollen lymph nodes.  No biggie.

But the cold went away and the lump did not.  In early December, I went in to my primary care doc for an unrelated issue and asked about it.  She immediately sent me out for blood work and an ultrasound.  Ok...

I show up for the ultrasound, and 30 seconds in, the tech starts making bug-eye faces at the monitor and firing questions at me.  "How long have you had this?"  "Has it grown?" "Do you have cats?" "Does IT HURT?"

Well, it didn't hurt UNTIL YOU ROLLED THAT WAND THING OVER IT LIKE YOU WERE TRYING TO MOW MY FACE.

Cats?

More scary faces.  "You must wait here!  The radiologist needs to see this NOW!"

So much for bed-side manner.  My heart is now beating through my chest.  WTF?!

The radiologist calmly comes in and takes a look and asks me the same questions and then sends me for a CT scan and a mammogram.  When I finish up this trifecta of paranoia, the radiologist pulls me aside and hands me her card.

"I'm going to refer you to an ENT.  And, hey, when you find out what this is, give me a call.  I've never seen anything quite like it."

Alrightythen.

Thus begins a marathon of tests and waiting.  I was referred to an ENT, who ordered another battery of tests...another CT scan, a fine needle aspiration (like a biopsy for sissys), and an MRI.

There were second opinions and lots and lots of waiting.

Waiting sucks.  I don't like it.  I like to have a plan.  I can deal with anything if I have a plan.

My ENT decided that, although she believed everything was benign and groovy, it was a tumor which needed to come out.  Evidently, these things can keep growing until it looks like you have two heads (if Google images is to be believed).  Regardless, they can get large and angry and cancerous and mean.

I've got enough shit to deal with without having to deal with a grumpy tumor so I said OK.  Yay surgery!

I had a plan!  I can deal with it if I have a plan.

So then I started to do the research, like any paranoid, control-freak, internet junkie.  Like real research - not like the earlier self-diagnosis searches I had conducted on WebMD to validate that I did indeed have brain cancer and 6 months to live.  I never said that I didn't have dramatic tendencies.

I found out a few things, but not much.  I found out that it's not very common and recovery takes about 2 weeks and you should not UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES EAT ANYTHING CITRUS-Y OR HARD OR SWEET OR FOOD-LIKE after surgery.  Oh, and you get lots of cool painkillers.

I found out that Lebron James had the same surgery.  I dislike him marginally less now, I guess.

I found out that sometimes they take the damn thing out and it's cancerous after all.  And I found out that there are some WICKED pictures of actual surgeries on the internet that will only make you vomit a little.

As those of you who have had surgery before know, once you and your doctor decide on surgery, you actually have to schedule the surgery...and then wait for the surgery.  And wait.  And wait.

I actually only had to wait about 3 weeks.  I pulled the "your tumor is actually looking kinda pre-grumpy so we're going to fast track you" scheduling card.  Awesome.

Right before surgery, my parents flew out from Ohio to take care of me and the Princess.  The Princess, being 13, was semi-oblivious to the whole ordeal.  As soon as I confirmed with her that I wasn't going to die or anything, she returned to her shell of "I'm 13, bitches...don't talk to me unless I address you first...and...oh, can you give me a ride?" 

And the Boy...bless his big awesome Boy-heart...flew all the way in from Spring Training in Florida for exactly 24 hours to hold my hand.  24 hours is evidently the maximum amount of time that one can leave Spring Training before one is called back to address end-of-the-world-triggering baseball-related mega emergencies...or to throw baseballs.

The Boy kissed me on the forehead.  My mom and dad squeezed my hands for luck.  I went back into the surgery room and placed my not-so-well covered bare ass on a table about the width of my leg, laid back VERY carefully and reluctantly let them strap me in.  My doctor glanced up from her notes long enough to make sure that I wasn't going to bolt at the last minute and then, apparently satisfied that I was adequately imprisoned, went back to her note-taking.  The last thing I remember is my anethesiologist telling me...and I quote..."I've got some goooooood stuff for you...."  And he was so right.

Just shy of 5 hours later, they wheeled me into recovery and thus began the long road of strange and fun sensations.  The right side of my face was dotted with large bruises from the nerve zapper/sensor things that had apparently been, like, nailed to my head so that the doctor could make sure each nerve was still working.  The parotid gland is located in a fun place on the face where many of the facial nerves meet, chat and mingle.  Unfortunately, operating in this area can be a little dicey because these nerves are like little personality nightmares.  Some of them are ok with a little movement or a shove to the side.  Some are ok with some light petting.  Some are a bit tougher - look at them sideways and they go all "oh hell NO" and then shut down for 8 months.

My doc told me post-op that the tumor had grown around several of the facial nerves and essentially shredded them.  She said it was like operating around dental floss and that she tried not to look at them sideways or cop an attitude, but they were a surly bunch.  And the tumor had grown all the way down to my jawbone.  Just tumor on jawbone - which would actually make a way cool band name.

I stayed overnight in the hospital and the Boy stayed with me all night.  When I asked him why he wanted to stay, he said "because you would do the same for me."  I nodded and pretended to know what he was talking about.

And everything was benign.

So despite my surgeon being a super suck-up to all of my facial nerves, a few of them decided to go on strike.  I discovered upon waking up that I couldn't move my right eyebrow or the left side of my lower lip.  I was ok with the eyebrow thing, because it left this totally smooth ageless area on my forehead....like having Botox on half your face.  I just told people it was actually the look I was going for - the poor man's facelift.

The lip was a bit more traumatic because I actually had to pull one side of my lip down to take bites of anything wider than .00005 inches.  Not that I could actually eat anything for awhile.  That whole bit of advice about not eating food-like substances after surgery was right on.  And HOLY HELL were they right about not eating or drinking anything sweet or sour or marginally tasty.  Anything with salt, or sugar, or alcohol or citrus would make my face feel like it was going to burn up and combust.  I think my only nourishment for a week was graham crackers - which I sucked on because chewing was out of the question.

I was down for the count - tired, sore, and just generally out of it - for almost three weeks.  And then one weekend, I felt ok.  It was like a giant exhaustion cloud had moved on.  Just like that and Jane got her groove back.

Three months post op...

I still don't have a lot of sensation in my ear lobe or down the curve of my cheek - although heavy earrings are no longer an irritant (cuz, um, I can't feel 'em).  Sometimes the whole area feels like a switchboard that's lighting up - but I've been told that's good and the nerves do weird things when they stop being anti-social and rejoin the group.  My smile is almost back to normal - although the lopsided thing was kinda cute (the Boy gets paid to tell me these things).  My eyebrow has some movement back - a lot more than where I started - and someday I'll have to freeze them on purpose. 

My scar is actually kinda badass and I almost wish it was more visible because then when people asked about it, I could be all "yah...knife fight".

Three days post-op vs. three months post-op.  Gnarly, right?!  I think they peeled half my face off!

My doc says that it could take up to a year to regain all movement and sensation.  And, you know, I'm kinda cool with that....because the alternative could have been so much worse.

So massive thanks and eternal gratitude to my family and the Boy and my completely awesome doctor, who will evidently be my BDF (Best Doc Forever...duh) for awhile because these stupid things like to come back.

And if you've made it this far, you are likely dealing with the same thing.  Because nobody who isn't desperate for information would have read all this.

It's scary.  It sucks.  You wonder why this is happening to you.

But then you realize it could have been so much worse.  In the grand scheme of things, this is manageable.  I got lucky.  Some folks have to deal with radiation or permanent nerve damage...or worse.

Long story short - if you're looking for information, go to www.patientsforum.com.  It's the only place where I found useful (i.e. patient-centric) information on all types of parotid gland tumors.  There are pictures and first-hand accounts and post-op checklists.  There's also a very active forum, where every question I could possibly come up with was asked and answered by fellow patients, based on their own experiences.

Shoot me an email if you have more specific questions.  I'm not a doctor, but I can at least relay my own experience.  mylifeasjane@gmail.com

The more you know.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Google says my target audience is porn-loving volcanologists...Hooray!

So it seems that a lot can happen in two years.

I took a sabbatical from all things fun and internet-y and -- geez -- I missed some good stuff.  For example...

• Donald Trump (in general)
• Anthony Weiner's junk
• Arnold's love child
• Occupy Everything
• Lindsey Lohan's arrest(s)(s)(s)
• #Winning
• Mitt Romney
• Hulk Hogan's sex tape
• Octomom porn (unrelated to Hulk Hogan - pity)

I seriously didn't log on to Blogger or look at "Jane" for over a year.  When I did decide to go back, it went something like...

Ok, I remember the name of the site, but where do I log in?
Shit, what was my password again?
Wasn't there an email associated with this?
Wait while Google resends password.
Wait some more....
Still waiting...
Google sucks.
I'm IN!
WTF?!  Everything is all moved around.  Fucking Blogger. 
People still visit this shit?  Shut up!  Ummm.....why?
So Facebook doesn't think my 15 "likes" is enough to keep up my inactive, unvisited page for 2 years?!  Fucking Facebook.
Ooooo...audience statistics! Say huh?? (Or in Wayne's World - Asphinctersayswhat???) 

It turns out that there an enormous entertainment/learning gap out there for porn-loving volcanologists.  And I know this because Google says so.  AND I AM HERE TO FULFILL THEIR NEEDS.  Because that's how I roll.

For reasons unknown to Jane and/or mankind, far and away the most popular post over the last several years on My Life As Jane (from a sheer visits standpoint) has been the volcanologist post.  Go figure.  You just can't plan for these things.

I think that once the excitement of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano eruption in Iceland wore off, the volcanologists had nothing else to do but to scan the internet for any mention of their
Eyjafjallajokull glory days - or just validation of the existence of their chosen career path in general.  And porn. 

So imagine their delight and surprise when they found reference to all of the above on one site.  Score!

Until, of course, they realized that there really wasn't any ACTUAL porn. 

Alternate theory...

There also seems to be a large percentage of visitors from the Ukraine.  "Eyjafjallajokull" and "volcanologist" could maybe be mistaken for Ukrainian-sounding search terms.  "Porn" is universal.  So maybe I'm just drawing horny Ukrainians who can't spell.

Either/or...whichever.

I am dedicated to providing entertainment for both volcanologists and horny Ukrainians.  But I think I need to broaden my reach to maybe include seismologists too.  They seem like a larger, harder-working, more socialized group as a whole.  Not that they're cooler than volcanologists....but, well, they're cooler than volcanologists.  And they have better job security.

So...volcanologists - I am here for you.  Truly.  I will post weekly pictures of exploding volcanoes with subtle porn innuendo just for you.  But can you bring along a seismologist friend?  I need to expand my demographics.

A repost in honor of Cinco de Mayo - "Why yes, my 10-year old WOULD like a beer can necklace...thank you!"

In honor of Cinco de Mayo - and the fact that I don't have anything fresh to put out there because I'm trying to prepare for my thesis defense ("trying" being the operative word here) - I'm re-purposing a post from a couple of years ago.

And because beer bottle necklaces are always relevant and fun...
_____________________________________________________

So yesterday was Cinco de Mayo.  The Princess had been doing Mexican-type things at school all day to celebrate (like learning how to carry identification papers and stuff like that), so when I went to pick her up, I thought it might be nice to take her out for dinner at the local Mexican restaurant/chain.

It was only 5:30.  "It's early", I thought..."we'll get in and get out before the party crowd shows up."

And I could get myself the "margarita as big as your head" that this place was known for.  Bonus.

There were still parking spots and we were seated right away and it was mostly families.  The revelers weren't there yet.  I'm a genius.

We order and we're just sitting and chatting about school when all of a sudden the Princess spouts off with an "OMG"  (no, not "Oh My God"...literally "O-M-G"), at which point I start looking around for our waiter because I think maybe she's just commenting on the size of the margarita I've just ordered.

She takes off across the restaurant and disappears for a few moments.  When she comes back, she's grinning from ear-to-ear and wearing some shiny gold beads.

"Look what they're giving away, Mommy!"

"Oh, cool.  Let me see."

She hands me the beads and I realize that I have failed to notice the blinking LED Corona beer bottle dangling from said beads.

"Wow.  That's entirely inappropriate."

"What is Mommy?"

"The beer bottle hanging from your neck, sweetie."

"But I like it!"

Before I can utter another word, she has darted back across the restaurant and disappeared again.  Thankfully, my ginormous margarita shows up and I nervously begin shoving chips down my throat.

It's during this pause that I start to look around.  And I notice now that there are indeed many families there in this Mexican restaurant enjoying Cinco de Mayo.  And I notice that their children are ALL wearing gold beads with blinky Corona bottles around their necks.  Teenagers, toddlers, tweens, babies...all of them.

Trippy.

I'm not quite sure this is what the Corona company had in mind when they sent their giveaways to the Mexican restaurants to distribute on Cinco de Mayo.  Or maybe they did.  Start 'em early!

At this point, the Princess reappears with a gift for me and I become the proud owner of a Dos Equis laser key chain, which when pointed in just the right light at just the right angle, shows a "XX" logo...kinda like the Bat Signal.  For my own sanity, I'm assuming that the "XX" stands for Dos Equis and not X-rated.

She's so excited about how cool this keychain thing is that she goes back and grabs one for herself.  I guess because she has super-secret invisible keys that need chaining.

I'm not really taking breaths between margarita sips now.  Chips are forgotten.  Straw in mouth, I'm internally debating my obligation to be a good parent and take this beer-labeled crap away or just let it go.  Or keep if for myself.

I compromise and tell her she can keep the beads as long as she doesn't wear them.  I'm starting to dig the keychain.  The "XX" is a lot funnier after half a ginormous margarita.

The restaurant host stops by our table.  "How is everything?"

"It's good, fine...everything is peachy."

And then he grins stupidly and hands us an "XX" branded maraca and something called a castania drum - also Dos Equis branded.

The Princess is ecstatic and immediately starts up with her own double-fisted percussion section.

Every kid in the place looks at her enviously and the stampede to the host begins.

I am now the proud owner of one string of gold beads with a blinky Corona, two laser "XX" keychains, one "XX" maraca (which the dog HATES) and a Dos Equis drum thingy (also not popular with the dog).

Yes, I know...the irony of "This is not a Toy" sticker has not gone unnoticed

I should know better than to try to do something wholesome on Cinco de Mayo.  It's like trying to take your kid to Vegas without running into hookers (I have a story about that too...don't judge).

So I told y'all I was going out for a pack of cigarettes...

...and, hey, I didn't come back.  I feel a little bad about that since, actually, I don't smoke.  I live in California and if you even try to smoke here, Gov. Jerry Brown will find you, body slam you and pin you down until you promise to never EVER even THINK about smoking within the boundaries of the state.  Pot smoking, however, seems to be a-ok.

But I digress.  Why did I take off for almost two years?

So many reasons actually.  Sometimes the things you have to do take precedence over the things that you want to do.  And then other things that you want to do pop up and you have to take advantage.

Long story short...Jane got tabled.  (That sounds sexual...I swear it's not.)

But I was really really really busy.  Pinky swear.  To wit...

• I took the Princess to Europe for 2 weeks.  Italy and Germany.  There's at least one or 15 blogs in there somewhere.

• I got back together with the Boy....which actually happened about 0.5 seconds after I stopped writing Jane.  Completely unrelated.  I think.  (Actually, it was the Boy who told me that I should start writing Jane again.  However, I suspect that it had more to do with the fact that the day after I turned in my masters thesis, I was all "I'm booooooooooooooored" in my best whiny Fran Drescher voice.)

• They found a tumor in my neck and I had to have surgery.  It was benign and everything, but I think it might be worth some future commentary and/or a public service announcement.

• I discovered that going back to school is WAY UNFUN!  But it's also almost over.  I just have to defend my thesis next month.  And I will do everything necessary to defend the damn thing - even if it involves boxing gloves or lightsabers or those way cool flaming swords I just saw on Game of Thrones.  May the force be with me.

• I worked.  I drank.  I survived another year(s) of teenage angst.  I went to a bunch of baseball games.  I only have FIVE more baseball stadiums to visit to before I have them all.  

But I missed writing for writing's sake.  Does that make sense?  I mean, I've been doing a LOT of writing for school.  More than I have in a very very long time.  But it's all writing that's grammatically correct and cited and researched and, ugh, defensible.  In other words, completely painful.  It's also a really a hard habit to break, and if I knew how to add footnotes in Blogger, I'd be citing the shit out of this just cuz I could.

So read it, or don't, but I promise not to go out for cigarettes for awhile.  I'm afraid of Jerry Brown.

The Resurrection of The Jane or something like that...

Helllooooooooo.....is there anybody out there (said in best creepy Pink Floyd voice)....

I just finished my Masters degree, the Princess is kind of self-sufficient, and I've run out of things that I absolutely HAVE to do.

I HAVE TIME!

But to do what?

Work.  Meh...ok.  And what else?

Leisure time is for sissies!  Must...fill...every...hour....of...the...day...with...senseless...activities....

If Jane came back, would anybody read her?  Has she broken your trust?  Did she prove unworthy?  Or is she dead to you?


((Crickets?))

What do Wal-Mart, poop and Joan Crawford have in common?

It's an age old question, really....the answer whispered upon the winds of time and scrawled in cryptic markings on cave walls and Egyptian pyramids.

Actually, its just three things that made me laugh recently.  Sorry to disappoint you.  There are no universal truths to be discovered here today.

But the whole laughing thing is significant to me because there hasn't been a whole helluva lot to laugh about lately it seems.

I mean this whole blog is just shit that is funny to me.  It may or may not be funny to you too, but I try not to worry too much about that.  However, it's hard to write about things that make you laugh when nothing's funny.

Sad, right?

I hate sad.  Life has just been WAY too serious lately.

Anyway, I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  And this is partially attributable to an unsuspecting friend and, shockingly, the Ex-husband...two people who unintentionally made me laugh when I really really needed to laugh.

I'll start with the unsuspecting friend.  During the bin Laden drama that unfolded last week, he decided that it was the perfect time to watch "Mommy Dearest" and post quotes from the movie on Facebook.  I think probably because the Osama bin Laden thing was WAY too serious to deal with.  And because, really, bin Laden couldn't hold a candle to Joan Crawford.  Bin Laden did his nefarious deeds from thousands of miles away in the comfort of his own cave.  Joan Crawford attacked her children with hangers in her rose garden and got dirt on her dress in the process.  Joan wins.

So my friend's post sparks a conversation...like, for instance, was Joan really at fault in the whole wire hanger thing?  Could she have been driven to it?  Anybody who has kids knows that it is more likely than not that Joan had told her children at least 500 times that they shouldn't have wire hangers in the closet.  And did they listen to her?  Of course not.  So she goes off the deep end.  But what if it hadn't been the wire hangers that put her over the edge?  What if had been, say, dirty tube socks left in the middle of the floor.  Would Joan be as infamous today if she had beat her kids over the head with dirty tube socks?  Would her daughter have been able to sell her book?

This was funny.  Or maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, it made me laugh.

The second oasis of laughter came at about the same time courtesy of the Ex-husband.  He drove down for the weekend to see the Princess's last softball game.  Since her birthday was coming up, we decided to get her a new TV and thought that we could go pick it out together in a rare instance of parental solidarity.  I voted to go to Best Buy.  He insisted on Wal-Mart.

I hate Wal-Mart.

I hate the way it smells.  I hate the way the customers smell.  I hate the way it's sticky.  I hate the way the customers are sticky.  I hate the blue vests.  I hate the long lines.  I hate the sad grey-ness of the place.  I hate their business practices.

But nooooooooo....he had to go to Wal-Mart.  "They have the best prices," he says.  "We'll be able to save some money," he says.

Now, let me remind you that I live on the San Francisco peninsula and the nearest Wal-Mart is, like, a gazillion miles away in Mountain View.  OK, at least 20 miles.  San Francisco hates Wal-Mart too.  Because we're all inherently snobs.

But we own it...our snobbiness.  And we're ok with it.  We look down our noses at Wal-Mart.  At least until Black Friday when they have ginormous plasma screen TVs for $19.99.

Anyway, for the sake of parental solidarity, I caved and we drove to Wal-Mart.

The whole way, I reminded him of how much I HATED Wal-Mart.  He knows I hate Wal-Mart.  He would laugh and say things like "I remember when you were a girl from Ohio who drank beer and shopped at Wal-Mart.  What happened to you?"

Fucker.

(And for the record, I love beer, but it makes me burp and nobody loves burpy girls.)

So we go to lunch and I have a glass of wine to steel my resolve.  And then we go to fucking Wal-Mart.

Of course, by the time we get there, I have to pee because I was drinking wine (as all good Northern Californians should) so I tell him that I have to stop in the restroom but to go ahead and start looking at TVs and I'll catch up.

And he looks at me and says, "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Of course, " I say.  "How bad could it be?!  It's a Mountain View Wal-Mart for chrissake...the middle of fuckin' Silicon Valley!"

Famous last words.

I walked in to the women's restroom to this scene...

Large child of probably 2-3 years of age.  In the middle of the bathroom between the stalls and the sinks.  Pants around ankles.  Crying.  Bare ass hanging out.  Giant turd hanging from ass...like a large brown tail.  I didn't know kids could produce turds that big.  Seriously.

So I stifled a shriek, turned around and hightailed it out of the restroom.

I was on the verge of complete laughter-hysteria by the time I made it to the electronics section.  I grabbed the Ex's arm and tried to quietly explain what I had just witnessed.  He looked at me sadly and said, "Wal-Mart karma...serves ya right".

And I laughed until tears streamed down my face.

We bought a TV.  And it promptly broke 3 days after we set it up.  So now I have to take the piece-of-shit TV back to the only Wal-Mart on the peninsula 30 gazillion miles away.  Or 20...depending on my frame of mind.

But it may just be worth it because it made me laugh.

So thank you Joan and Wal-Mart for some much needed lightness in my life.

Sometimes you just never can tell where those bright moments are going to come from.  You just have to be thankful that they keep coming.

Update:  In case any of you were silently hating on me for finding hilarity in the lonely bathroom turd girl...please know that an adult-type figure was yelling reassuring utterances from a nearby stall.  Or at least I think she was...it was a language I didn't understand.  Frankly, she could have been telling her to shut the hell up and I would not have known the difference.

This is Jane...frozen in a stress-induced state of inactivity

I sat down on my couch tonight and couldn't move.  Do you know that point that you get to when you have so many things going on at one time that you can't think, can't move, can't function?

I'm so there.

So here I am wasting a few minutes blogging...something that has absolutely nothing to do with ANYTHING that I need to get done.  Go figure.

I decided that maybe if I started to put it into words, it wouldn't seem so overwhelming and I'd feel better.

OK...here goes...

I'm moving a week from Sunday.

I have boxes piled everywhere.  I have a large number of boxes stacked around the doors to my balcony.  I can't use my balcony since it's been continuously under construction, so it seemed like a good place to stack boxes.  Today, I was just notified that the construction workers need to enter my apartment next week and I have to clear a two foot area around each door.  Are you kidding me?  I'm moving a WEEK FROM SUNDAY!  I'm seriously thinking about creating a wall around each door - with a two foot cleared area adjacent to the door, of course.

I have a paper due for school on Sunday....which I haven't started because I've been packing.  Come to think of it, I may have packed my school books.  Shit.

My daughter seems to have either a softball game or softball practice every day for the next two weeks.

I have to be out of town for 3 days next week to attend my grandfather's funeral.  Oh yah, did I forget to mention the death in the family?

Which means that I have to have everything packed up by next Wednesday.

And arrange the piano mover and the painter to return the apartment to "original condition" and change over the cable and electricity and all the other stuff that goes with moving.

And be kick-ass at work.

And deal with my mess of a personal life.  Things that should have been resolved long ago are still trying to figure out how to resolve...now...during this perfect storm of shit.

No...this little exercise didn't make me feel any better.

So here I sit.  Frozen into inactivity.  Staring at American Idol.  Not really watching it.  Although I do kind of dig Steven Tyler's sparkly purple jacket.

I acknowledge that this isn't the least bit entertaining for you.  It's actually starting to stress me out a little more that I'm about to post something so fucking lame.  So I'm going to quit here.  Consider it your good deed for the day for listening to me vent for a minute or two.  It's good karma.

There is some consolation that the stress does not seem to be affecting the Princess.  She's sitting next to me on the couch, sipping sparkling cider out of our one unpacked coffee mug and laughing hysterically at Steven Tyler's sparkly purple suit.

It's good to be eleven.

Toilets and Blog Awards (and is there really much difference?)

I've been sick.  Like laying-sprawled-out-on-the-bathroom-floor-with-a-bucket-and-a-crucifix sick.

It hit me like a piano on Wile. E. Coyote Monday afternoon.  One minute I was watching People's Court and cranking out work emails, and the next minute I...was...SICK.  (And - NO - snide commenters, it wasn't People's Court that made me sick.  I will hear no blasphemy against People's Court!)

I spent most of Monday night on the floor of my bathroom with, like, nine comforters, trying to keep warm and yet remain within hurling distance of the toilet.

And, man, I really need to clean behind the toilet.

I managed to crawl into bed sometime Tuesday morning, just in time for the construction workers to start drilling into the wall three feet from my bed.

Now I live in a newish building.  But for some reason the company that owns the building has decided that it was improperly constructed and is now rotting because of water damage and will probably fall in on itself during the next large wind storm so they need to demolish all of our balconies and rebuild them or something like that.

I don't understand it either.  I just know that every morning at 7:58, workers show up on the scaffold outside my bedroom and start pounding things and drilling things and yelling at each other in Spanish.

And I really wish that after four years of high school Spanish, I could understand more than "biblioteca" and "cerveza".  It could be so much more entertaining if I knew what they were yelling.  Or not.  Who knows?

It's hard to be pissed when you're sick, but I was pissed.  So I called the "resident liaison" for the apartment management company.

Me:  I am sick...like, really really sick.  And the workers are pounding on the walls and every time they pound on the walls I need to hurl again.  Can you please ask the workers if they can work on a different part of the building today?  Pleaaaaaaaaase.

Him:  Well, I'd like to be able to do that for you but we are on a very tight construction schedule.

Me:  Sir, I don't really give a shit about your construction schedule.  I only care that I'm sick and I want to be in my bed under exactly 19 blankets.  And I want it to be dark.  And I want it to be quiet.  Very very quiet.

Him:  I guess we could offer you one of our empty apartments in one of the other buildings.  It's furnished and it would be quiet there.

Me:  Um.  No, no.  I don't want to vomit in somebody else's toilet.  I want to vomit in MY toilet.

Him:  Oh.  Well, we're on a very tight construction schedule.

I hung up on him.  I buried my head under all 19 blankets, tried to ignore the chainsaw right outside my bedroom window, and dreamt of removing scaffolding screws.

I'm more or less back among the living, but because I had to pay my respects for many days to the porcelian goddess, I have not been able to properly respond to Suldog's "award".

Yes, Mr. "IHATEAWARDS" Suldog gave me a "Versatile Blogger" award or some shit.  I think he either ran out of things to write about or just really hates me.

Bad Award

Those of you who have been with me for awhile know that I'm not such a big fan of awards either.  I appreciate the sentiment, but, really, what's the point.  It's like proudly displaying your 4th place bowling trophy when there were only 4 teams.  

And I'm not versatile.  Versatile means to be able to do many things competently.  I can't even do one thing competently.

Well, except vomit.  I found out that I do that pretty well.

But because I find Suldog somewhat tolerable, I'll abide by some of his rules.  I think I had to link back to him (check), list some things about myself (see below), and pass the award to some other poor slobs (not gonna happen).

Random facts about Jane:

1.  I eat paste.

2.  When I was sick and delirious, I needed to call in my daughter's absence at school because she was in Portland with her dad and couldn't come home yet because I was too sick to go and get her at the airport and I so called and left a message on the absence line at her old elementary school instead of her current middle school and then acted all indignant when my ex called and asked why her school was calling him and saying that I didn't call.  I did call!  I just called the wrong school.  No fuckin' perfect attendance this year...thank gawd!

3.  A couple of weekends ago, I stretched out on the couch with a bag of take-out Tai food and watched five straight hours of "Pawn Stars".

4.  I know every word to "Paradise by the Dashboard Light".

5.  I think men will be totally attracted to me when they find out #4.

So, that's it.  

But I don't want to completely kill the award.  So I made a new one.  In honor of Sully's newish teeth.  

And I'm giving it back to Suldog.  Cuz I don't want this shit.

Jane punts...and scores a male counterpoint!

So about a week ago, my friend - we'll call him Tommy Traddles - emails me and says something like, "Hey, why no Jane lately?".  And I say, "Because I have school work to do and I can't write Jane until it's done."  And he says, "Screw school work.  Just subscribe to the 10-year grad school plan like I did."  And I say, "You're an idiot.  And if you want to read Jane so bad, why don't you effin' write it."  And he says, "Ok...I will".

And I thought, "Wow, that was easy.  Sucker!"

I also figure that, hey, even Johnny Carson let Joan Rivers fill in once in awhile.

So today Tommy is providing his male counterpoint to my Valentine's Day post.  I should tell you that Tommy and I have known each other since we were kids.  He has pictures of me in bat-winged shirts with rainbows plastered across the front and I have pictures of him sporting Jon Cryer hair.  He is also much more worldly than I, and can tell you all of the best places to go in Europe to drink and/or watch tranny prostitutes.  I keep him around as a friend for these reason specifically.

So, without further ado...here's Joan, er, I mean, Tommy...
____________________________________

After reading Jane's anti-Valentine's Day tirade, I realized that I could probably offer some advice that may help a few of you next year.  For the record, I've never been much of a fan of the holiday, nor have I ever been very good at relationships, although I think I may have stumbled on three key ideas that have helped me out during this tough season.

(1)  The first is the issue with settling.  We seem to be too picky when choosing someone to spend the day with.  Around mid-January, you should really lower your standards.  Issues that are typically show-stoppers, like a curable STD, chronic halitosis, chronic unemployment, or serious psychological issues should be overlooked at the start of the new year.  If the goal is to get some free candy, flowers, and not spend the evening with your cats on February 14th, start looking for next year's special person in new places.  Mr. Right may just be standing on the corner with the "Will Work for Food" sign you pass by every morning on the way to work.  On the 15th, stop returning calls and move.

(2)  The second issue is with communication.  I have always subscribed to the Homer Simpson theory that the problem with relationships is communication - too much communication.  I recently started dating someone who doesn't speak my language.  Adding to the magic is the fact that I don't speak hers'. Before you accuse me of being shallow and only concerned with her looks, let me explain that she does have an ass you can bounce quarters on.

Never mind, that was the shallow part.

The non-shallow part is that I am making an honest attempt to learn her language which really works out well because I do have to listen intently and nod my head every few minutes while I pretend to understand.  From a relationship perspective, she could have serious mental health issues, an irritating personality, or one of the other countless issues people have that cause relationships to end.  I just don't know about any of them, and it is wonderful.  As far as Valentine's Day is concerned, I would highly recommend attending English as a Second Language classes at the start of the New Year to help find that special someone.

(3)  The third issue is phoning it in.  There is really nothing wrong with half-assing something.  I have never been a big fan of the holiday.  Blah, blah, blah crass commercialization, etc., but in reality I am too lazy to actually but much effort into making any relationship work...however, I did learn at an early age that a minimum effort on the 14th typically results in some sexual reward.

I hope my three suggestions have helped some of you develop a game plan to make next year's Valentine's less painful.

I'll see you at the soup kitchen around January 2012.
_______________________________________

Thanks TT.  I'm inherently lazy and I'm sure all four of my readers would love to hear more of your sage advice.

I'm thinking regular punt.

Dear Valentine's Day, Suck it! Love & Kisses, Jane

Ahhh...Valentine's Day.

The holiday most likely to make you feel like an absolute, complete, total wretch.

Even if you are in a relationship, the expectation of the holiday is enough to drive anyone mad.  No matter what you do, it's never enough, is it?

And speaking as a female, it really is all about us.  Valentine's Day is a holiday where, you - the male - must bring us - the females - many presents.  You must make us feel beautiful and special and appreciated.  And face it, with only one day to work with and crazy expectations, only the power of magic Valentine fairies could make us feel beautiful and special and appreciated.

If you bring us chocolate, we won't eat it because it's fattening and will wish that you had given us flowers.  If you bring us flowers, we'll smile but then toss them in a day or two and wish that you had given us jewelry.  And if you bring us jewelry...well, maybe we actually will feel beautiful and special and appreciated...and you'll probably get laid.

And if you're single on Valentine's Day...oh holy hell.  You're faced with constant reminders on television, in the mall, in magazines, online and even in the grocery store of what a lonely loser you are.

Why has one day been set aside in the calendar year specifically to make everybody miserable?

I made the magnificent mistake the other day of watching the movie "Valentine's Day".  I wanted to stick my head in the oven halfway through.

Good thing I don't know how to turn on the oven.

But I'm coping.  I find that if I put on blinders and turn the cynicism up full blast, it makes it much easier.

Last week, I saw roses in the grocery store and felt sad.  Today, I saw roses in the grocery store and thought "what a crap gift...they'll be dead in a dumpster in two days".

Last week, I saw a happy commercial for some "real" couple who met on eHarmony and knew INSTANTLY that they were each other's sole mate and thought "awwww...that's sweet".  Today, I saw the same commercial and thought "I bet after they made that commercial they started having wicked fights about the fact that he only wants Kool-Aid instead of wine with dinner and won't move in with her because he would 'miss Mom'".

Last week, I saw a website that was featuring a stunning diamond necklace and thought "wow, that would be an amazing Valentine gift".  Today, I surfed by the same site and thought "wow, that would be an amazing Valentine gift".

Hey, everybody has a price.

I'm not completely alone in my cynicism.  The Princess has a crush on a 12-year old "older man", who apparently doesn't know that she is alive.  She saw the same flowers today in the grocery store and said "flowers are stupid".

We bumped fists.  Solidarity!

So on Valentine's Day, I'm going to grit my teeth, ignore the fuss and take the Princess out to dinner.

And maybe, just maybe, hope a little that there is love out there somewhere.

XOXO

Oh, Marriott...say it ain't so...

Marriott International announced today that it plans to "phase out" adult pay-per-view movie options in its hotels worldwide.

And another one bites the dust.

Sigh.

If you haven't been following me for long, you probably are not aware that I believe that hotel room porn is a fundamental right.  Like free speech.  And shooting dolphins with assault rifles.

And NOT because I spend a significant amount of time watching hotel room porn.

I just like to read the titles.  Seriously.

Fine, don't believe me.

I first took up the cause back in March of last year when I accidentally (no, really) discovered that the Ritz-Carlton didn't offer pay-per-view porn options - and then face-planted into a glass door.  NOT related incidents, I assure you.

So I contacted the Ritz Carlton to voice my opinion on the injustice of it all.   I mean, the primary demographic for the Ritz Carlton is repressed rich people (and when I say "people", I really mean "men") who likely consider a night at the Ritz Carlton as an opportunity to escape their lives (and when I say "lives", I really mean "wives") and so they pack some lube and a toothbrush and settle in for an evening of pay-per-view fun and maybe a hooker or two.  Imagine their disappointment when they can only find MSNBC and the Disney Channel.

What a missed marketing opportunity.  Tragic.

The Ritz-Carlton people obviously didn't appreciate the genius of my logic.  Their loss.

But now Marriott is following suit (like the Ritz-Carlton wannabes that they always were).  But I LIKE Marriott.  I have all of my "frequent flier" points with Marriott.

My business travel usually involves a Marriott.

Oh NO!  All of those poor George Clooney/"Up In the Air"-esque business travelers!  What will they do?  There's a reason that half of these guys get into a business that requires ass-loads of travel...so they can get away from their families, order beer and steak topped with bacon and cream sauce, and watch porn in the privacy of their Marriott hotel room.

Now they'll have to...I can hardly say it...

...balance their computers on their laps and watch free porn on the computer!

((SOB))

Marriott says that the reason for the phase-out is due to a "transition to the next generation of in-room entertainment" that definitely does not include porn, and it is definitely not because they were getting lots and lots of pressure from "family values" groups (likely led by the high-strung, sexually repressed wives of the men who travel all of the time and stay at the Marriott to get away from them) and CERTAINLY NOT because Mitt Romney stepped down from the Marriott board after criticism that he didn't pressure Marriott enough on the whole porn thing and is about to announce his presidential aspirations - or at the very least to be Sarah Palin's butt boy...er, I mean, running mate.

Marriott also says that their revenues from adult pay-per-view content have been steadily decreasing... which is why they want to do away with the revenue COMPLETELY!

Makes total sense.

I guarantee that the people who are crying the loudest about the evils of porn are the ones who - when nobody is around - are holed up in their basements with a ball gag, a gallon of Crisco, a vibrator the size of a chainsaw and a subscription to www.1800JACKOFF.com.  

I made that that last bit up.  The domain name still seems to be available if anybody's interested.

FREE THE PORN!!!

At least there's still the Westin.

So who's on your team?

Every year for the last few years, my friend, B, has invited me to go to Tahoe over MLK weekend for skiing, sushi, drinking, and general debauchery.  And every year, I have bowed out because (1) I don't get on things that slide, (2) I don't eat sushi, and (3) it seemed kinda lame to go just for the drinking and debauchery.

But I rethought my position this year, had no other obligations and decided to go.  What the hell.

Magnificent place, Tahoe.  Stunning views.  Snow-covered mountains.  Beautiful sunsets.

And the best people watching EVER!

How did I not know about this?

Saturday night, we went to one of the South Lake Tahoe casinos and B and the rest of the crew introduced me to my new favorite game..."Your team!".

The concept is this...

Step one:  Drink.

Step two:  Observe.  Watch for passers-by who are strange and/or grotesque and/or crazy and/or freaky and/or just plain slutty and awesome.

Step three:  Call out "Your team!" and point to the friend nearest you or the friend who has irritated you last - by, say, winning $50 at video poker.

Step four:  The freak is now assigned to your friend's "team" for all eternity.  The concept is that when you die, you won't be able to spend eternity with your family and friends (unless, of course, one of your friends is a freak and has been assigned to your team).  You must spend eternity with the fabulous specimens that your friends have kicked to your team.

There are bonus points for mullets.

Now, at first glance, this may seem a bit cruel and juvenile.   And I assure you that I considered this for about 5 seconds before I was rolling on the floor laughing because it was SO MUCH DAMN FUN!

Conscience cleared.

Now you may be wondering how we had time to gamble when there were so many obvious potential team members in a Tahoe casino.

The good news is that you can collect team members for your friends WHILE you gamble.

The mother-load find of the night, however, went to our friend, R.  She spotted "Tiger Man" first...

When Tiger Man strolled by our little corner of the bar, we shamefully erupted into uncontrollable laughter and a chorus of kitty growling noises.

I wish you could see the detail in the picture - it was really dark.  What you might NOT be able to see is the following:

• the tiger stripped labels on the jacket;
• the matching tiger tuxedo stripe down the side of each pant leg;
• the tiger stripped jacket pockets;
• the red skull cap and tortoise shell glasses;
• the Puma tennis shoes - in keeping with the kitty theme; and
• the Johnny Depp (circa Alice in Wonderland) wanna-be friend sporting the top hat with two feathers (because one feather wouldn't have made any sense) with him at the bar.

Tiger Man is now on B's team - probably because she had just won at video poker.

My buddy, E - he's so funny - he said he was going to go over to Tiger Man and invite him over to meet the cougar.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh wait, I'm the...

Shit.  Nevermind.

After the rest of us left to head back to the hotel, B stayed behind to consume about 15 more drinks and claims to have spotted a mullet - which of course would mean that she had trumped us all for the night.  She got a picture of the gentleman at a Blackjack table - but only from the front.  Frankly I'm not buying it.  If you're going to call mullet and document the business in the front...you also have to document the party in the back.

I'm calling foul.

There were many many MANY other worthy nominees for our respective teams.  Too many really to showcase here.  Suffice it to say, we will all be having a grand freaky spandex-wrapped time in the afterlife.

But in the spirit of true self-reflection, two of the biggest freaks this weekend were actually me and B.

This is B and I in a local hardware store with our faux-fur critter hats.  In other words - totally team worthy.   So now B is on my team and I'm on hers.  And this makes me kinda happy because now I know that I'll be spending the afterlife with B in her roadkill cap (gopher maybe?).

Go team!

The Patriots want Jane...and, no, not the New England Patriots

Sometimes things happen in the universe that really make me start to think that there is a God...things so ironic that they could not POSSIBLY have happened by accident.

Example - I have been added to the Patriot movement's email distribution list.

Not the fun football Patriots, but rather the gun-toting, Obama-hating, Bible-thumping, anti-tax, grammatically-challenged Patriots.  (Note: I'm really not calling people names here.  This is more or less a Patriot self-description made available on a t-shirt.  See below.)

Those Patriots.

((shudder))

I have a junk AOL email account that I use as a catch-all for general email crap...pizza coupons, make-up tips, Vegas deals, fur recommendations from Rachel Zoe.  I hardly ever look at it - I mean does anybody actually use AOL anymore?!  So imagine my surprise when, right after Christmas, I started receiving daily Patriot Update emails in said account.  My reactions went something like this...

Get the fuck outta town!
Hey, this shit is funny!
Ewww...this shit is disturbing.
UNSUSBCRIBE! UNSUBSCRIBE!
Oh wait, there's a blog topic in here somewhere.

Patriot spam.  Really.  Each email was primarily a list of links to very important Patriot-related "news" items followed by a series of ads for very fun Patriot-related items.  Such as...

• The 1599 Geneva Bible - back in print AFTER 400 YEARS!  The Bible that "Obama does NOT want you to read!"  I'm not sure why Obama doesn't want me to read this version of the Bible, but there wasn't an FAQ section to the ad, so I guess this will remain a mystery...unless I buy the Bible.  Awesome marketing idea.
• The 2nd Amendment t-shirt -  "The 2nd Amendment: America's Original Homeland Security, Right to Bear Arms"
• The D.A.D.D.D t-shirt - "Dads Against Daughters Dating Democrats".  Get it?  Like Mothers Against Drunk Driving?  I'm a little disappointed that I didn't come up with this one myself.
• The "I'm a God Fearin', Bible Believin', Gun Packin', America Lovin' CONSERVATIVE" t-shirt.  Conservatives evidently hate g's.  Unless it's capital G in God.  I believe this purchase comes with a free bumper sticker: "I'll keep my guns, freedom, & money...You can keep the 'change!'". 
• And my personal favorite...The 2011 Cruise for Liberty.  Only $599!  "Makes a great Christmas gift for that conservative who needs a break from Obama and the Democrats!"  I guess this is what conservatives do with the money that they kept - along with their guns and freedom.   Maybe they'll be able to shoot dolphins from the ship!

I didn't dig much deeper at the time that I first discovered my newest email resource because of all the other shit that was going on in my life.  But I made mental note, logged it under "possible blog topics" and moved on.

And then yesterday, I turned on the TV to watch football and came face-to-face with the horrifying coverage of the shooting in Tucson of U.S. Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords.

I wish I could say that I was surprised that this happened.  Given the hate spewing from both sides of the political spectrum...given the unbalanced fringe of audiences hanging on every word...how could it not?

It was sad and frustrating and so completely senseless.

I remembered the Patriot email and was curious.  So I decided to have a peek at the site.

It's not for the faint of heart.

The articles are obviously written with a Tea Party slant but are, for better or worse, not completely offensive.  

But the comments - holy shit, the comments!

Here's a taste...Nancy Pelosi in a body bag, Barack Obama in a body bag, solve the country's problems by taking away White House Secret Service funding, Barack Hussein Obama, how all Muslims are generally evil and want to kill us, Obama is not really the president, the goal of healthcare reform is to control the people, Obama is a socialist, Obama is evil, "Barry Odumbo" is a power-hungry Muslim, Allah is a god but has to bow to God the Father, you can't take the "slum" out of Obama, and on and on and on.  A lot of it is incoherent, grammatically indecipherable rambling - a bit similar to what we've been seeing from the YouTube videos allegedly created by the Tucson gunman.

And I'm not sure who this Barry Odumbo is, but he sure sounds like a dick.

But the most chilling - for me, at least - was this comment, "In Arizona we saw a tragedy yesterday.  The assailant was 'pissed off' at his Rep. She backed the healthcare, and abortion. In November, We The People have spoken against this Tyrannical Government and their Socialism Run Regime...yesterdays result is from the after-affects of this healthcare, someone finally 'had enough'....I'm saddened for the little girl who passed, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  But for the Rep., she represented Obama." (sic)

In other words, it's ok.  She had it comin'.

And this is only one comment that I chanced across on one site.  What the hell else is out there??

I'm going to step back here and say that I firmly believe that everybody deserves a voice.  If you have an opinion, you have the right to make it heard.  But...BUT...if somebody is already on the edge of crazy, and is prone to seek out fringe opinions such as the one stated above...that somebody might start to think that crazy is ok and, worse, actionable.

My goal here is not to preach.  God/Allah knows, I hate preachy.  And if you're a card-carrying Patriot or Tea Bagger, don't just fire off on me here because - you know what - I'm bringing awareness to your crazy and maybe somebody will seek out your site as a result of reading this blog and will be so taken by the strength and conviction of your crazy that they decide to become a Patriot/Tea Bagger too. 

Or not. 

And if you're a "main stream" Tea Bagger with legitimate issues and are interested in engaging in a conversation to find a productive solution to what ails us, doesn't it bother you that the crazy in your fringe have taken over the conversation?  That you are now lumped in with them?  

There are valid points to be made on all sides of every issue.  But - for the sake of all - let's take a step back, breathe deep and quiet the crazy.  

Or just put it on a t-shirt.

Observations from a way sucky holiday

I haven't been blogging for a few reasons.  First, the holidays have been brutal and it seems that brutal doesn't translate well into entertaining reading.

Second, I generally don't dive deep into my personal life here.  There are a few people who read this and who know me and my life.  The trouble with telling people that you write a blog is that sometimes you want to write about something but then you don't because you're afraid that somebody is going to read it and take it the wrong way or get their feelings hurt.  Every time that I have tried to write something lately, I've stopped because it feels too personal and I don't want anybody to feel bad.

I'm done with that now.  This is my blog.  If you don't want to see what I have to say - don't read it.

Alrighty then...moving on.

Breakups, in general, are hard.  Breakups during the holidays are worse than awful.  Breaking up and then talking about reconciliation only to get your heart stomped on again during the holidays is practically unbearable.  I don't recommend it.

But out of this unique experience has come a few minor, rather unentertaining observations.  I apologize in advance for the uninspired nature of this post.

Observation No. 1 - Being a quality, attentive parent is nearly impossible when you are trying to survive a broken heart.  It is assumed that to be a good parent, one has to shove all personal emotion aside.  Kids are not stupid and are likely to notice when your eyes are swollen, there are tissue pieces stuck to your nose and you haven't showered in three days.  Kids don't like that.  So you push your emotion aside and try to throw all of your attention to your child.  The result is a half-assed constantly on the verge of a break-down style of parenting.  Or in my case, staring blankly at iCarly while my daughter tries in vain to engage me by filling me in on the finer plot points and calling that quality time.  

She knows I'm a mess right now and I hate that.  It's not fair.

I'm learning that this is a constant single-parent threat.  A single non-parent person falls in love and then breaks up - only that person gets hurt.  A single parent falls in love and then breaks up - the parent and child get hurt.  No matter how careful you are.  No matter how much you protect your kid.  I'm learning that people without kids don't get that.  It's too easy for a non-parent to compartmentalize the parent that they are dating from the child.  The parent understands that it's an intractable package deal.  

Observation No. 2 - The holidays were intended for couples - not single people.  Every kiss may begin with Kay, but Kay can kiss my ass.

Observation No. 3 - Exercise really is the cure for what ails you.  I learned that time on the treadmill with a chick-lit book on the iPad is time spent not being sad.  I just have to learn how to time my workouts better.  I keep walking in to the workout room right after Smelly Guy has left.  Which sucks because then the next person that walks in thinks that I am the one who has generated this fabulous scent combination of sweat and ass.  Eau de Smelly Guy can be detected on the elevator on the way back to my apartment an hour later.  He's a gem.

Observation No. 4 - This whole instant movie Netflix thing on the Wii is AWESOME!  How long has this been available?

All right.  I realize that, like me, this is a big ol' mess so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead.  I have better stuff ahead...better writing, better life, better attitude.  

Better year.

Happy New Year everyone!

Thanksgiving Comes First (even if you want to tell the whole holiday season to suck it)

I'm writing this for my new friend, Suldog, who writes fabulous blog entries that I need a thesaurus to interpret but inspires me to be a better - or at least a more loquacious yet articulate - writer (like that?!).

Sully hates the fact that Christmas is now officially celebrated for a quarter of the year.  And I tend to agree, although for slightly different reasons.

It used to be when I was a kid that I looked forward to Thanksgiving for the pure reliable family traditions.  Every year, me and my mom, dad and brother would walk up the street to my grandparents' house for the yearly Thanksgiving feast.  The men would watch football while the women finished up the meal preparations.  Around 2:00, everybody would sit down to turkey, potatoes, cranberries, rolls and some kind of veggie/fruit jello mold thing.

To this day, Thanksgiving just isn't Thanksgiving without a mystery-fruit jello mold.

After dinner, everybody would lay around like giant slugs, maybe play a game of Scrabble or cards and then reconvene in the living room for pumpkin pie and the inevitable showing of The Ten Commandments or The Sound of Music on TV.

There was a lot of comfort in this familiarity.  Family spending time together before the advent of cell phones and Twitter.

The next day, you would start to see traces of Christmas here and there.  Christmas lights on the neighbors' houses, candles and poinsettias in church, holiday trees in the department stores.  Christmas had officially begun.

The sales circulars didn't show up in the newspaper until Thanksgiving Day.  It was fun to sit around after Thanksgiving dinner with a 10-pound newspaper and piece together an imaginary Christmas list.

But Thanksgiving always came first.

I don't know exactly when it started to happen, but Christmas started to creep.  Some years ago, I noticed that stores started to kick-off the season the day after Halloween.  And then it started before Halloween.  In a year or two, I imagine that we will start to hear Santa Claus is Coming to Town on July 5th.

This year, I admit, I haven't paid much attention to the holiday creep.  But now with Thanksgiving just around the corner, it's hard to ignore.  Something about being newly single again tends to make the holidays seem not so warm and fuzzy, and more like a axe hanging over one's neck.

Perspective changes everything.

To me it's not so much that Christmas is taking over, it's that I don't want to deal with the holidays... period.  How does starting it so much earlier sound like a good idea to anybody...except maybe Best Buy?

The holidays as an adult are tough as it is - parties you don't want to go to, gift-exhanges for people you don't like, forced jolliness, fruit cake.  Add into it the pressure to singly provide a fun and memorable holiday for a 11-year old when money is tight and your entire family lives 2000 miles away, and the holidays are downright frightening.

I'm not in the mood for the neighbors who never took down the Christmas lights from last year but turned them on the day after Halloween with a "look how on top of things we are, fuckers".

I don't want to hear Christmas music on the radio before Thanksgiving...or Halloween...or the first day of school.  It's bad enough to be depressed and flipping through the radio stations and have to deal with occasionally landing on the easy listening radio station that plays "all love songs all the time" - or as the newly single like to refer to as "stick-your-head-in-the-oven love songs".  But throw in deck the halls and chestnuts roasting and Frosty and I'm ready to forego something as elaborate as the oven and head straight to the George Foreman grill to see what kind of damage I can inflict there.  I'm not sure I know how to use the oven anyway.

Let's not move this shit up on the calendar any earlier than we absolutely need to!  Sheesh.

But there are things for which I am grateful and I will remind myself of those things on Thursday when everybody takes a break from a full month of Black Friday and gorges themselves on turkey and jello molds.

I am thankful for my amazing 11-year old daughter who, with one smile, makes me forget everything else.

I am thankful for my friend, B, who has had pity on me and invited the me and the Princess to Thanksgiving dinner because she knows that we are alone and I don't cook and I'm a vegetarian and the Princess should definitely not have to suffer without turkey and would likely be served Oscar Meyer processed turkey if we didn't go to B's.  (Note to B - shall I bring the jello mold?)

I'm thankful that the Princess's Christmas list has gone down from "everything in the Pottery Barn Teen catalog please" to a pair of Uggs and a new cell phone.

I am thankful that I have a job.  And that I have a job that only makes me want to stab myself in the eyeball with a fork about half the time.

I am thankful I have good friends who still love me even when I'm sad and anti-social.

I am thankful that I don't have any cavities.

I am thankful for my friend K, who let me cry on her shoulder even though she was 3000 miles away.  And then I forgot her birthday, making me the worst friend EVER.

I am thankful that I have my health and good shoes.

Even though I will likely only receive a hand-knitted slightly crooked Princess-made scarf for Christmas, I am thankful that I will be receiving a hand-knitted slightly crooked Princess-made scarf for Christmas.

And I am thankful that I know when I am coming dangerously close to insufferable self-pity.

So for me...no candy canes until after the tofu turkey.  No Christmas shopping until after the actual Black Friday (or the next paycheck, more likely).  No holiday music...ever.

I'm going to stop and be thankful.

And then I can be a Grinch.

"Touch my junk" and other reasons to feel better about the world in general

I was fully planning on sulking for a while longer, but then I heard the airport security tale of John Tyner.  And nothing will temporarily pull me out of a funk faster than hearing somebody bitch about TSA security processes.

In case you haven't heard, John Tyner - a software engineer from San Diego – chose to “opt-out” of the new and improved full-body naked airport scanners and was asked to submit to the new and improved full-body pat down by a TSA agent.  Mr. Tyner decided, that, no, he didn't want his crotch grabbed by a complete stranger, told them so and offered to go through the regular metal detector like most of the other passengers.  The conversation soon escalated and Mr. Tyner was told that he not only couldn’t board his flight, but also couldn’t leave the airport AND he was likely now subject to civil charges and a $10,000 fine.  Mr. Tyner left the airport.

The best part is that he recorded everything on his cell phone and now the phrase “touch my junk” can be inserted into polite conversation.  

Awesome!

You can read the first-hand account through this link.

Much like the Jet Blue guy who grabbed a beer and exited his plane via inflatable ramp, Mr. Tyner has received both resounding praise for his actions, and loud derision. 

I, for one, am a fan.

I started writing about my experiences with TSA at the San Jose airport back in September.  Back then – which I can now refer to safely as “the good ol’ days" – my biggest issue was continuously setting off the security metal detector with my underwire bra and having to face a friendly “back of the hand along the boobs” pat-down to ensure that I hadn’t stuffed an uzi or exploding breath mints in my bra.

Then it was the backscatter scanners – or the porno scanners as I've now heard them lovingly referred to.  I submitted (and I really can’t think of a better word here) to the new naked Kodak box in September and then was surprised on the other end, without warning or notice, with another friendly “back of the hand along the boobs” pat-down.  The TSA chick just reached and started working me over – although, truth be told, I DO have nice boobs.

Anyway.

Now, because somebody tried to ship something in a box…on a cargo plane…that was definitely NOT a passenger plane...TSA has been given permission to feel you up with the front of their hands.  They are allowed to reach until their hand "meets resistance", like your crotch or testicles or tampon string.  In other words – and as John Tyner implied – government-condoned sexual assault.  Where else in the world would you allow somebody to do that to you?  

I’m still waiting for somebody to coherently explain to me how cupping my breasts and taking naked pictures of me is going to make flying safer or stop bad guys from shipping bad stuff on planes.  Evidently, the porno scanners likely wouldn’t have even detected the underwear bomber's tighty-whitey bomb because the scanners are not good at detecting plastics, liquids or other low-density materials.  

I am, however, pretty certain that there will be a few TSA agents who like their jobs a whole lot more.

In TSA’s defense, there are some pretty awesome officers out there.  I've encountered several at security checkpoints in Oakland and, yes, even San Jose.   I didn’t want to like them – but they were nice and professional and didn’t show any interest in touching my boobs.  This, of course, is the quickest way to my heart.

In fact, the last few times I’ve been to San Jose, the big porno Kodak boxes have been unused and roped off.  I hope it stays that way.  I hope that the TSA receives so much flack on the issue that they have to let their expensive new toys sit and collect dust.  Maybe they can cover them with wreaths and tinsel for the holidays.  

Big, expensive, dusty Christmas trees.

Now THAT is something to cheer me up.

Jane is going to curl up in the fetal position for awhile but not forever

Sometimes life is fun and easy and sometimes it just sucks.  This is one of those times when it just sucks.

I'm sure that in a few days blogging will be a welcome distraction, but right now I got nothing.   I'm going to take a few and lick my wounds and will be back shortly.  I promise.

Try not to have fun without me.  

When hippies have a baseball team...

Baseball fever has struck San Francisco.  The Giants are in the World Series.

This has come as much of a surprise to most residents of the area who weren't really aware that San Francisco had a baseball team...or that there is a sport called baseball.

But they seem to have - after likely inhaling large quantities of pot - adapted quite well to the idea.

This is a city that prides itself on many things - the intellectuals, the liberals, the pot, the tree huggers, the techies, the arts, the pot, the environmentalists...the liberal intellectual tree-hugging art-loving environmentally-savvy pot-smoking techies...

When you ask your average sports fan to name the greatest sports cities, however, chances are San Francisco is not going to be at the top of the list.

After all, it's hard to swing a bat when you're high.  (Pitching is apparently an entirely different story.)

The city is exited about the Giants.  Everybody wears orange.  Giants flags flutter proudly from the back of the city's fire trucks.  Coit Tower glows with orange lights.

The local newscasters are giddy.  OMG, they have something to talk about besides shootings in Oakland and fog!

Now, I'm not a fan of the local news reporters anyway - we have one or two that would make Ron Burgundy jealous - but hosting the World Series has seemingly pushed them over the edge of reason and good taste.  Case in point...I watched a report the other night about the "cultural differences between Texas and San Francisco".  Right out of the box, the over-excited reporter deducted that the difference was, and I quote, "gays and pot."  Seriously...gays and pot?!  So on the flip side, did his Texas counterpart deduct that the difference was "steers and queers"?

He then went on to - not kidding - interview the homeless people on their thoughts on the Giants.  It went something like...

Reporter to homeless man:  So how about those Giants!  Are you a Giants fan?

Homeless man:  Dude, can you spare some change?

Reporter:  Have you seen lots of Giants fans out here on the street?

Homeless man:  Do you have any food?

Reporter:  Will you be heading down to AT&T Park to enjoy the excitement of the crowds during the World Series?

Homeless man:  Do you have any pot?

I wish I was kidding.

Candace got me thinking about the differences between the Ranger fans and the Giants fans.  Go here for her observations on deer antlers and the "claw".  Let's examine the San Francisco side of the story.

The panda hat.

Adults wearing stuffed bear heads.  This is homage to Pablo Sandoval, the Giants third baseman who is lovingly referred to as the "Kung Fu Panda".

I don't get it.  Pandas are fat and slow and don't do much except eat and shit.  Frankly, I think this is a uniquely west coast passive-aggressive way to make fun of the fat kid on the team...but who am I to judge?

My friend, S, who is my friend despite this look.

San Diego Zoo panda taking a dump...not exactly the symbol of stealth and speed

The beard.

At some point towards the end of the regular season, Giants pitcher, Brian Wilson, started growing a beard in solidarity or something stupid like that and dyed it shoe-polish black.  So Giants fans decided it would be fun and stylish to attach foam beards to their faces....or tape them...or glue them...or whatever seemed sensible after a bowl and a bag of Cheetos.

They carry signs that scream "Fear the Beard!", which, like the strange choice of the claw or the deer antlers in Texas, doesn't really seem to inspire all that much fear.

This really speaks for itself.

And I won't even go into the "Jersey Shore Fist Pump" dance that is featured between innings.  

I think it's fair to say that both cities have lost their fucking minds.  But in a week or so, Texans will remember that they actually shoot deer and San Franciscans will remember that foam beards are not biodegradable, and both will recover from their World Series hangovers and return to their roots.

Except by the time the World Series is over, pot may be legal in California and San Francisco probably won't remember any of it anyway.

Jane has baseball post-traumatic stress disorder

I haven't been around lately.  I admit it.  I've been a bad blogger.

It's all baseball's fault.  Stupid playoffs.

Baseball is an agonizingly long season.  My boyfriend, the Boy, leaves for spring training in February.  If his team sucks, he is done by early October.  Unfortunately, his team is pretty ok.  Which means that - depending on how far they go into the postseason - I don't get the Boy back until late October/early November.

This year they made it to the playoffs.  So my October has been a whirlwind of travel and baseball games.  I think I beat my own record this year with 5 games on two coasts in one span of 6 days.  Combine that with work and single-parenting and now the cold from hell and I think I'm officially brain dead.

My October has had the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.  I have enjoyed the obnoxious but mostly friendly fans of my team and the obnoxious but mostly angry fans of the visiting team (which is - mostly - how it should be).  I have been hugged and high-fived by some strangers and yelled at and flipped off by others.  I have had to explain new interesting words to the Princess.

I have flown across country in the middle of the night to get to the next game.  I have driven endless miles back and forth to the stadium.  I stayed up late and got up early.  Ate erratically, drank occasionally.

I had a blast.

I am officially exhausted.

But the Boy will be home soon.  And we can be exhausted together.

And since I'm tired and creatively brain-dead and have nothing really constructive to say at the moment anyway, I leave you with a picture I took this summer during my trip to LA.  It has absolutely positively nothing to do with baseball.

I give you George, my tranny Lego bodyguard, at the Hollywood monument to his hero.

George - overcome with bliss

Jane...out.