Newscoma

I have been playing with ringtones.

I’ve never really had one because I had a craporrific cell phone for years and now I have a new groovy one I’ve been playing with. Freezertroll and I have entertained ourselves while being cooped up in the conference room at the corporate offices by downloading free ones while we’ve been waiting on phone calls for very non-fun stuff that has to be done.

Yes, FT and I have learned how to communicate without speaking we have spent so much time together recently. Been working on something, you know how it is. And we have taken a moment here and a moment there to act like we are 12 year olds.

Now, Homer, the sister, has a really weird name in the non-virtual world (weirder than Homer if you can believe that) which is very unusual. I’ve never heard another girl with her name.

And I got her a cell phone ringtone that delights me to no end.

And it’s her name.

Yeah, it’s this.

And every time she calls me, that’s what I hear. Tickles me to no end.

She is only tolerant because we demand it of her.

Sorry, it just makes me laugh.

I love Eddie Izzard.

And he does a routine from Dress to Kill about when he was a young lad and how he went through the thing about liking girls (he’s an executive transvestite, if memory serves me) and puberty.  The funny thing in that stand-up routine was the splashy-splashy bit. Hysterical.

So, this morning my sister Homer and her hubby, Squeegee Monkey were in the living room of chez coma when I noticed that my bro-in-law was grumbling. As usual, my sis had to translate as he was grousing about splashy-splashy.

“She did the splashy-splashy,” I heard him say to no one in particular. “Damn boys taller than me playing splashy-splashy with my little girl.”

“What are you talking about?” I said staring at my first cup of coffee and wondering why Mabel had scratched my eyelids this morning to get up with her, a mere fact I wasn’t happy about.

“Damn splashy-splashy,” he growled.

Homer, who has been with her beloved for almost 20 years smiled a bit and explained that the 11-year-old niece was at a pool party last night. She’s in 6th grade. Apparently there were some of those pesky 8th grade boys at the party and there was quite a bit of the splashy-splashy. She’s growing up and she’s really cute.

And the boys are noticing.

But, here in lies the problem, Squeegee Monkey is not ready for the splashy-splashy, swimmy-swimmy. Obviously his daughter is though.

I couldn’t help but laugh, but he gave me the stink-eye and I decided to drop it. To make it up to him for realizing that I realized he was freaking out, I bought him a six-pack of Guinness this afternoon.

So, niece #1 is playing the splashy-splashy, but that wasn’t as much of a problem with Squeegee. The problem was the 8th grade boys who were playing splashy-splashy.

God help them.

These are the times I’m really glad I’m not a parent.

(Yeah, it make me laugh. I’m still giggling. The splashy-splashy was a lot of fun if I remember …)

The nieces went to Memphis yesterday to buy school clothes and go to the drive-in (yes, they are going to the drive-in in Memphis. I feel extremely old.)

They came back with the CD to Hairspray which is their new favorite obsession. I saw Hairspray at the Orpheum a few years back and it was a whole lot of fun although I haven’t seen the movie.

The wanted to hear the disk so I threw it in the Mac and, they were delighted.

And we danced. And then we danced some more.

And then I threw up from dancing so fast with an 8-year-old and an 11-year-old. But it was great.

And then we danced yet again.

And then I made them listen to Weapon of Choice and watch it on You Tube where they screamed at Christopher Walken “WILBUR!”

And then we danced some more.

And, my friends, it was of the good.

So, I guess I’m taking them to Hairspray, again, this weekend.

And I have no doubt that Zac Efron, who was also in High School Musical, had a bit to do with this frenzy, but, alas, it is a musical and they were having fun.

And this was one of those moments I will remember for a very long while.

Yeah, I’m smiling.

I haven’t seen Homer, my sister, very much this summer and when I do she is hot, tired and looks like she could bitchslap a camel. She’s become a softball mom.

Traveling team baseball. You gotta love it. The oldest niece is a pretty decent softball player (this is of the good. As she acts like my silly ass all the time this was unexpected. I am about the most non-athletic person of all time. I can swim, mind you. It’s the only think I do gracefully. The kid has some mad skillz.)

I digress. The kid is playing softball and she’s pretty decent. Homer, and her husband Squeegee Monkey, have gone all out, getting her lessons and have gone to roughly 50 games over the course of the last two months. Yesterday, they played five games and on Friday, The “Traveling Ladybirds” played two. And the heat index was about 100.  And I’m not exaggerating. 50 games!!

Team sports are good, don’t get me wrong. But I must say that the expense is outrageous. At a tourney not to long ago that last three days, the family ended up paying $6 a day just to get into the ballpark. So you have roughly $50 bucks just to get in, money for food and drink and then your are looking at a mighty expensive weekend. Of course, I would have had a weekend pass designed to help out families, but that’s just me. Nobody listens to me anyway, so there you go.
It’s almost over as the oldest heads to sixth grade on Wednesday and the little one slides her way into third. They are headed to Memphis today to buy a new computer and clothes for the upcoming school year, there are fees to go back to school (public school is not free, campers) and Homer said she just needs a day away.

I don’t blame her.

With that said, the school year will bring on new things for the kids to do. They are good students but the extra curricular stuff can weigh them down.

But, as Homer says, she feels its her responsibility to teach the kids how to be part of not only the academic community but to learn the skills to be part of a social community.

And I haven’t had to watch Bratz or Hannah Montana for the past two months, so that makes me smile.

As I’ve been talking of the mid-life crisis which apparently, for me at least, won’t have me buying a snazzy red sports car and becoming sexually ambiguous/predatory (how about that for a cliche and stereotype) as I don’t have the money for the first and the stamina for the second. But I did do something this weekend (had some minor real-life work things to do) that helped and then I threw myself into a long, apathetic stare at the television.

I do that on occasion.

I watched “The Exorcist” on Saturday which still creeps me out over 30 years later, and, I don’t know if enjoyed is the word I would use, but I stared blindly at the television to watch a marathon of Celebrity Fit Club. Squirrel Queen loves reality television more than a dog enjoys cleaning themselves in front of company so there I was, staring at Cledus T. Judd slim down and get hair plugs.

And, quite honestly although I wasn’t familiar with Cledus, he looked pretty darned good.

I also want to add that it took a great deal of balls courage to be as transparent as he was on a reality television show. As for, and I mentioned this last night, Dustin Diamond, blech. There is nothing wrong with being, I don’t know, nice to others. I don’t know, it was like watching a train wreck for the most part and he’s just mean. But isn’t it weird that reality television (and, yes, I do watch Big Brother in a stupor most summers) is on about 24/7 now. The days of three channels are truly over, campers.

Back to “The Exorcist.”

When I was about eight years old, I begged my parents to take me to see “The Exorcist.” As a good little Presbyterian girl, I was always a bit wigged out about THE DEVIL. And I begged. And I pleaded. And I whined. What did The Devil look like? Was this movie really making people barf at the moviehouse? And the parental units denied me time and time again but I kept asking.

And they said No, but I’m a tenacious person and after about a year, they gave in.

Bad mistake.

I slept with my parents for about a month after I saw the movie (I was a kid, give me a break. I also spent the night in my parents room after seeing Psycho. Go ahead, sue me.) But watching it again over the weekend, I could really appreciate it and it hit me that in the early 70’s, movie makers were a bit more open-minded about adding politics and social commentary to movies in a way that didn’t have a big sign that screamed “HEY, THIS MOVIE HAS UNDERLYING SUB PLOTS THAT ARE COMMENTING ON RELIGION, POLITICS AND SEX.”

Now just stop it. Seriously.

I get it. But back then, and as I am a child of the 70’s, some movies really resonated with me. And “The Exorcist” was one of them.

And sometimes that’s what I think is going on with American films now. I miss the “All the President’s Men” “High Plains Drifter” and “Shampoo” mentality of that time frame and I think now that’s why I like foreign films a lot. I don’t need a two-by-four upside my cranium to tell me what is going on with a movie.

But “The Exorcist” was just damned creepy as a kid and did hit those buttons of my Protestant upbringing. And it always has just given me a case of the wiggums. Still sort of does.

I’ve never been a fan of slasher movies (We get it, everyone is going to be killed in a wild and bloody fashion and you will have a heroine in skimpy shorts and a partially torn T-shirt survive and it’s still up in the air is she will make it.)

So, as my weekend included celebrities getting all trim and Linda Blair’s head spinning quicker than a Tilt ‘O Whirl, I found myself somewhat at peace with the fact that as I am getting older. I’m also revisiting things that I can ponder now. Man, being a kid in the 70’s was some weird stuff. Richie “Opie” Cunningham, we were not. Sorry, but he was in the 50’s and a made up television character.

The sister, Homer, reminded me that we were also creeped out about the segment of the Trilogy of Terror called Amelia where the doll chases Karen Black around. I concur, that did rock our world.

***shiver***

And don’t even get me started on “Night of the Living Dead” because, I’m sorry, zombies just plum rule and that was a GREAT movie.

So off to another week of non-virtual reality. Hopefully I won’t be creeping around doorways at home and the office.

You know, just to make sure there aren’t in spookies spinning their heads or a big scary doll with big teeth and a knife waiting for me in a darkened bedroom.

You never know.

You may be asking yourself why I’m still sitting on my couch on a Wednesday morning when I have 69 things to do today.

The answer is simple. The niece is sick and Homer is tied up, busier than I am. I’m going to work shortly, headed to a meeting and then I’m coming back here to take care of her.

It’s so hard seeing this ten-year-old coughing and nothing is happening. Her little chest is so tight it’s not funny.  I think she has bronchitis like I had a few weeks ago.  And it looks like it hurts.

I wish I could just wrap her up and haul her around with me all day. And, well you know, insurance sucks. Maybe the doctor will call her in some stuff so they can avoid the office visit charge.

So today I get to be Aunt Tick. Maybe I can make some of the invisible monsters under the bed go away and allow her to get some rest this afternoon. If I didn’t have to get the paper out, I’d seriously say screw it and stay with her all day.

And poor Homer can use the help. I can tell she’s nearly in tears and I wish there was something I could do to make it better.

Sick children will break your heart nearly in two.

So, I believe that Seasonal Affective Disorder exists. I really do. February just wears me out and I find myself being a person I don’t necessarily like. I like myself just fine usually, but when February hits, I feel like a mess. It’s hard to stay focused and I find myself kind of floating around.

I’m usually pretty optimistic. But not so much lately.

Yesterday, Tammy Lynette and I went and had a late lunch at this great restaurant in Martin called The Opera House (go there if ever you come to Martin). It was very positive and for the first time in weeks, I felt a little better about things. And I think the Lifehacker guy has it right. Maybe I have been suffering from Information Fatigue Syndrome. But Tammy Lynette sort of put it into perspective for me. She does that sometimes and it was mucho appreciated. We talked business and I felt pretty good about it all as she was very encouraging with this internet upgrade thing that’s been driving me up a tree.

During February (the bitch of the month that she is) I always get a little down. I have felt recently like the Holly Hunter character in Broadcast News, where I have to schedule myself a little mini-breakdown once every couple of days.

See, things have been stressful but on the other hand and I do believe that I have been what I like to call “situationally depressed”, it’s me as a whole that’s the issue. It’s absolutely me that is the the problem, and what a hard pill to swallow that is. Now, for those of you who know me, I’m a pretty laid-back person. I can go all Type-A in 2.2 seconds, but most of the time I laugh easily and I’m fine.

During the SAD month, the person I become is not someone I’m fond of. And if you aren’t fond of yourself, that who else wants to be around you.

Usually, I’d be chomping at the bit over things like this, but today, not so much.

I even thought about taking a hiatus from blogging for awhile, but Homer and Squirrel Queen said “NO.” I think it’s because they know I’ll talk their ears off with my self-induced pity party.

So, alas, I whined this morning. I’ll be over it soon and I can already start to see the sun shining a bit, but in all honesty, I’ll be really glad when March 1 gets here.

But February. Man, it wears me out and I guess I just needed a bit of a blog venting.

As I have been working day and night (and it became pretty unhealthy because sometimes I’m a moron and get all focused on something where I should just chill the hell out) on getting numbers and figures together for bringing, as Carter said, the newspaper into the 21st century (which is true), I have really fallen back on political blogging. But I had to bring up the news that Britan is saying it’s pulling their troops out by October.

Homer and I talked about it last night and of course, being the armchair pundits we are, had a score of political theories on why this was happening.

“Well, could it be all the talk about going into Iran?” Homer asked. “Here we are talking about non-binding resolutions which aren’t going to mean a bit of difference for anybody and Anna Nicole Smith for God’s sake, and then this seems to be lurking under the surface.”

“I know,” I said. I can’t even grasp the concept of this subject right now because it just scares the hell out of me. “Who knows why George Bush does what he does?”

“You know, if Prince Harry (in a sidenote, my younger niece calls him Prince Larry) is going in there, wouldn’t the military spend more time protecting him than doing anything else. I can’t imagine that being good for anyone,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be a distraction?”

“Good point,” I said. “He would be on the hit list to make a point with the insurgents, I’m guessing. Bachelor prince at war sort of thing. I haven’t really read that much about it from the UK, but I bet there is a lot going on there we don’t know.”

” Yeah,” Homer said thoughtfully. “All of this makes me weird out.”

“Me too,” I added.

And she’s right. Wouldn’t it be a distraction? I know that the last thing that my friends who are serving or have served in Iraq would want is one more thing they would have to worry about.

They are just trying to get their butts back home. Or at least that’s what they are saying to me.

And with Britain pulling out, what does this mean for the United States globally, which is probably a redundant question because we aren’t necessarily beloved right now anyway.

All food for thought.

Update: (Yeah, fixed the typos. Bad damned week.)

Scene from Chez Coma:

“What you doing?” Homer asked me this morning. I was wandering around the house in an old MUMU and chasing after the dogs.

“I don’t know,” I said, eyeballing Duff, who had an unfortunate case of flatulence this morning and was grossing the whole house out. She has always been the smelly dog, even when she was younger.

“What are you doing today?” she said, playing the wordgame Bookworm on her laptop. She is the queen of Bookworm and can score up to a million points in one setting. Me. Not so good and I easily get bored with the game when bright and shiny things come into my line of sight. This is a serious problem I have, but it is best tonot mention it and move on.

“Nothing.” I answered as Duff went diving between my legs. I had no idea what I was going to do if I caught her, but the smell and the nasty funk she was exuding made me feel like a bath would be in order. However, baths do not help Duff. She has an on-going problem with a very distinct body odor that even grosses Mabel out. However, Mabel being the trooper, will lick her eyes on occasion. I have no idea why but it seems to be an occurrence that happens daily.

“I might have some beer and watch football,” replied as I sat down on the sofa. Duff had hit the staircase with lightening speed and was casting me a heavy dose of stink-eye. I could swear if she could cuss, she would have at that very moment. I know when I’m beat.

“Alright.” Homer does not drink except on very rare occasions. She doesn’t care if you drink, because she will laugh at you after you make an ass out of yourself. It’s her loving way. “I watched the Davinci Code last night.”

“Was it good?”

“It was long,” as that would explain everything to me. I know Homer pretty well. If she likes a show, she will tell me every single scene in the entire movie and will inadvertently spoil the ending, meaning I don’t have to go to a lot of movies. It’s actually very time efficient and being that she is, at most times with two young children, at kids movies this methodology at Chez Coma works to both of our advantages.

“Hey, you guys rented the Davinci Code?” Squirrely hollered from up the staircase. She was holding Duff. I decided not to say anything about Duff’s bad belly. Her stench, however, is known worldwide and this was a choice that Squirrely made on her own.

“You want to watch it,” she said and it took me a moment to decipher she was speaking to me. Something bright and shiny had caught my eye and I was in my own little world.

“Hey, are you listening?” she said again, obviously perturbed.

“Seven,” I said. I learned this trick from Homer. If a person isn’t listening, sometimes blurting a number out will keep the wolves at bay. It didn’t work this rainy day.

“You aren’t listening, are you?” Squirrelly sighed. Duff continued to give me stinkeye and I had an overwhelming urge to stick my tongue out at her.

Homer just laughed and abrutly tried to wrestle the remote from the nieces who had entered stage left, who wanted to watch Hannah Montana. The adults all agreed that if we have to watch another episode of Hannah Montana, we would all go seriously postal.

“Nope,” I said with my award-winning grin in response to Squirrely’s question, which I thought might tantalize her with it’s incandescent quality. It has been known to work. Other times, it has failed miserable.

“Asshat,” she said and there was not doubt her comment was directed at me, your kind host, as she wandered back up the stairs holding the smelly dog.

But I have a beer sitting next to me and the tube is showing images of the Jets losing to New England, which was not what I wanted to happen, but, hell, it’s football.