The Lipstick Chronicles

Who Moved My Buddha?

By Harley

 The clock is ticking.

 I’m not talking about the election. I’m talking about me and my endless tale of “I’m moving.” The packing started last winter, but I’m in the new house now and by my calculations, I have until Friday before time runs out. As Elaine said, “Harley, unopened boxes turn into furniture after one month. They become coffee tables, end tables, storage chests and other parts of the household. Beware.” She’s right. I feel it coming, the moment when I lay down the paintbrush and forget window treatments and return to regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

On one hand, I do want my life back, I want to exercise and get a pedicure and read a novel and sit down for five minutes without A. snoring; or B. jumping up to unpack just one more (okay, two more; okay, seven more) boxes. I want to carry lipstick and poetry in my purse rather than color samples, levels and those little metal thingies you stick in adjustable bookshelves, which always disappear and have to be replaced with tiny wadded-up pieces of paper.

 On the other hand, it’s been fun, painting walls blood red, living on cheap chocolate and strong caffeine. But the portal is closing and before it does I’m throwing myself into one last unpacking frenzy. Because I must find my Buddha.

 The Big Buddha. The wooden one. I hear you say, “But Harley, didn’t you mark your boxes?” Well, yes, I did. Back in March, in the early stages. But as Moving Day approached, I became unhinged. I was tenting for termites, selling one house, buying another, and preparing for divorce mediation, which happened four days after moving day and one day before jury duty.

 That was when the Angels of Mercy showed up. Cousin Beth from Boulder, Nancie the Gun Tart, and Nelly. Nelly is my Order-into-Chaos Associate (what my mother called the cleaning lady). This trio packed my house with a vengeance, and each had her own system of identification. So now I’m down to the last 89 boxes, many unmarked, others marked with heiroglyphics and/or Zen koans like “Ladre titchu” or “Merlin dude.” In one of those boxes lies Big Buddha. Where? Nesting with my son’s missing pajamas and the dog treats? The Faberge egg?

 For that matter, where’s Saint Joseph? On moving day I went digging for him in the backyard, as per the instructions sent by Backblogger Tom (“Give him a place of honor in the new home, and make a small donation to charity.”) But no Joe. Nancie the Gun Tart took over, unearthing half an acre, worms, one Cartier soupspoon and a Hot Wheels car before throwing in the trowel. Could St. Joe have transmuted himself into a spoon?

 It gets worse: also gone missing is my kitchen Shiva, the Hindu god that my friend Bertila brought me back from India last spring. I found the detachable penis, but where’s the rest of him?

 Fearing some spiritual conspiracy, I asked Nelly, who’s from El Salvador and is attuned to these things, if the new house felt okay to her. Nelly said yes, “ees beautiful, but so many mirrors in bedroom ees no good feng shui.” Great. Bad bedroom chi, and a boycott from three of the world’s great religions. And a race against time.

 But good news: yesterday I found a mezuzah in a box marked “office supplies” so my niece Leah came over and nailed it to the front door and said the Hebrew prayer over it, so . . . yippee! 88 boxes to go.

 Happy Monday.

Harley

 

Dee Dresses 1000 Homosexuals

by guest blogger Dee Deringer Piquette (aka backblogger Xena)

My name is Dee and I am a costume designer.

I am currently making costumes for an original play commissioned by the Adrienne Arshi Center for the Performing Arts in Miami, Florida, called "1000 Homosexuals."  It's described as a new comedy that recounts the story of Anita Bryant's 1977 crusade against gay rights in Miami-Dade County, written by Michael Yawney, produced and choreographed by Octavio Campos of Camposition, and directed by Sheldon Deckelbaum. It may be hard to describe those days of homophobia and the orange juice queen as a comedy, but it portrays Anita Bryant just the way she would want: as a "musical Joan of Arc battling a powerful and perverse gay mafia," to quote the publicity material. The play is a challenge--I have to dress the Guys and Anita through a zillion costume changes, plus create an ensemble of Dancing Penis Marionettes. In contrasting colors. Visible from the back row. But more about that later.

You may wonder how somebody becomes a costume designer. It's a gift you are born with, a combination of nature and nurture and art. My mother and grandmother sewed. My grandmother made all of her clothes and then my mother's costumes and clothes and then she and my mother made all of mine. I grew up dressed like a doll. I had sun suits and play clothes (think Sound of Music) and all that, but always looked adorable for kindergarten and church. We had mother/daughter dresses and even mother/daughter/father/son square dance outfits. So naturally, I started sewing when I was 6 or 7 and I started costuming with my Betsy McCall doll. A sweet-faced, normally proportioned girl with bangs and flip hair style and no boobs. She needed outfits! She needed to marry the little Dutch boy doll my grandmother brought back from Holland. The poor little Dutch girl, in her lace hat and wooden shoes, had to settle for sister of the groom and no new dress. Betsy was very fashionable. My mother and grandmother saved me scraps from our outfits so I could make her something to go with us, so we had mother/daughter/doll ensembles.

Fabric speaks to me.  I hung out at Burdines when I was a kid, like kids today cruise the mall, but it wasn't looking at the ready-made stuff. My mother and I would spend delicious Saturdays at Burdines looking at patterns and fabric and then having lunch at the Hibiscus Tea Room upstairs. We would buy three yards to make whatever we thought would be perfect for the design and then take it home. Sometimes it would sit on the fabric shelf and wait. One day we'd see it and say, "perfect for that pants suit" and down it would come and become a reality. My mother modeled for Burdines when she was younger, and I was on the Teen Board and did my share of modeling, too.

My father sold shoes at Burdines, and Christmas gifts at our house were shoe boxes with a pattern and fabric in it. Clothes were always an imaginative mix of style and color and occasion at my house. Birthday party invitations involved a trip to the fabric shelf and a look in the pattern box for the perfect dress. Making something out of nothing is amazing, even more so when you realize that nobody in the world had a dress that you made for yourself. I was always walking the red carpet.

So couple of weeks ago I was in Boston, driving through the Ted Williams Tunnel after renting a car at Logan, and my cell phone rang. A male voice said, "Hi, I'm Sheldon Deckelbaum and I'm directing 1000 Homosexuals and I want to talk to you about costuming it."  (I'm thinking: costuming 1000 gay men? I've done elephants. I've done an entire high school senior class in the Orange Bowl for a German soap commercial. I can do this, too.) "Sheldon, I'm in the Ted Williams Tunnel in Boston looking for the 93 South exit. Can you call me back in say 10 minutes?"

He did call me back. And after spending 2 days at Logan trying to get on one cancelled flight after another (it was August and hurricane season) I finally returned to Miami and met with the production design team. They were impressed that I coudl be creative on a budget: my most recent budget miracle was creating a suit of armor for a community theater production, and I ended up cutting Styrofoam packaging trays into armor pieces and hammering them with a meat hammer for texture and spraying it with Rustoleum.  From beyond the footlights it looked like pewter.  They hired me.

Now before you start wondering if I can make the jump from Sir Rodney of Recycle suit of armor to costuming 1000 people, gay or not, I have to tell you that the 1000 part of the title refers to something else. You will have to see the play when we open on November 20th to learn what it is.

So it's on to the next step, which is to read the script and then let the research being. The play is set in 1977. I was 25 years old back then and into the whole "Saturday Night Fever" Bee Gee's music and dress thing. Most of my male friends were gay. Even the straight men wore very wide everything--wide collars, wide lapels, wide pants, wide ties. And there was no color off limits. Raspberry, pink and fuchsia were all over the place. Light blue polyester leisure suits and full sleeved print shiny shirts were very fashionable. I'd label them "Victims of Fashion," but they were too busy strutting their proud peacock selves to notice us women folk tee-heeing in the powder room.  So yes, I remember the 70's.

There are six men in the cast who play about 15 parts each with super fast costume changes in this production. Talk about a challenge. The Village People crusing' bar types, drag queens and makeup artist fairies are definitely going to be fun but not everybody is a caricature. Time to re-visit the photos, movies and pattern books from then. I'm going to be using a lot of black vinyl leather and I'm going to need a bigger sewing room.

The Anita Bryant character, however, is something else. She was very conservative and very conscious of her image. She was the image of wholesomeness. Former beauty queen, recording artist, wife and mother. Baptist Sunday school teacher and lest we forget the Florida Citrus Commission's spokesmodel on top of it all. Who of us boomers out there cannot sing "Come to the Florida sunshine tree" or remember their slogan, "A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine?" I am recreating some of her album cover dresses. Very un-revealing white or teal fitted strapless numbers to the mid knee with a full sheer trapeze cape over it. They always had strategically placed trim around the bodice. Suggestive but not sexy. She didn't even show toe cleavage.

Costuming on a budget requires being on a first-name basis with Goodwill and flea markets. I am the queen of the thrift stores. If I can't find it there then I'll make it but I can usually find it. I need wide collared men's clothes. Sure, I could go into a store that carries vintage clothing and drop $1000, but it would not be what I personally had thought of in my mind. I am sure they do not have pastel fairy costumes with attached tool belts, for example. And the days of "Let's put on a show--my mom can make the costumes" are over, honey!

There are some construction issues in this play also. I had to create a bunch of marionettes in the form of--well--"Dancing Penises." They have to . . . move . . . realistically, so certain parts need more . . . heft . . . and I filled those parts with rice. My favorite is the one I made out of leftover Dorothy dress blue gingham check fabric from The Wixard of Oz. Very appropriate. Another one is red with silver foil Disco hearts, and one is tie dye crushed velvet panne. The actors strap them on and then use a wooden dowel rod control with strings to maneuver them. I am still laughing. Then there is what I refer to as the QUAD choir robe for a mock Baptist choir--a choir robe that fits four boys at once, with eight arm holes. 

I can make anything.

And as I told you, the changes are FAST! This adds another complication to your design. It cannot be a three piece suit with a tie. It needs to be 1-2-3 back out on stage or in the case of Anita--a 1-2-3 costume change on stage. She never leaves. I told you costume designing was a challenge. It is a collective creative juice (pun intended) mix between what the author, the producer, the director and the costumer envision the character to project to the audience visually. It's like watching YouTube without the sound on. The costumes have to go with the direction the play is going in, or the audience gets confused. Unless you're costuming "Oh, Calcutta" it is an important part of the theater process. I have solved the quick-change problem by sewing all the pieces together and Velcro-ing it up the front. A shirt and jacket and tie take 30 seconds to put on. They put their arms through the sleeves, tuck in the shirt tail and close the front. Tah-dah!

So that is my current project. I know Halloween is coming up and some of you are ready and some of you are still wondering what you'll dress up as if at all. I'm making a moose head with styrofoam meat tray antlers to go with the boss's Palin costume. Betsy is going as a Bride. What are you wearing? If you're hard up for ideas, give me a call. I'm Dee, and I design costumes.

Let’s Get Mammary for a Moment

By Guest Blogger Maryann Mercer

We are so fortunate to have such a great community here at TLC. One of the big benefits is that we have access to terrific guest blogs. Today, our own Maryann Mercer provided a wonderful one on a subject that may be educational - but at the very least it's entertaining, and we can't wait to hear your comments.

As a lot of you know, I work in retail. In a big box bookstore to be exact. Because the store is a public place, all sorts of interesting, intriguing, and sometimes questionable events happen there. I’m not talking about author signings, Harry Potter or Stephenie Meyer parties, or even the holiday sales. I’m talking about open air breast-feeding and other parently duties.

I was restocking magazines one day (lots of new car mags, especially imports, which are so crucial to the farmers in this area who have no hay for their cows due to flooding) when one of our regular customers came up to me with an issue. This customer is, female, a little younger than I am (who isn’t?) but still grew up during the 60’s and ‘70’s when free love and all that other stuff was floating around, so I was surprised when her issue turned out to be a parent changing his baby on one of the overstuffed chairs in the alcove. Number 2 and well as Number 1. He then proceeded to the café where he pitched the soiled and no doubt smelly disposable in the nearest waste container before heading back to the alcove. I assume his wife was with him since he wasn’t carrying said baby. She also mentioned to me that several times she’s seen women breast-feeding their children in the café, some discreetly, others more like as she put it “Whipped the boob out and let the kid go for it”.

Her point was that perhaps we as retailers needed to mention these issues to the customers in question because their actions might be offensive to others, not to mention unsanitary. As she said, “Would you want to sit in a chair where a baby’s butt had been wiped?”

It isn’t as though the store doesn’t have changing stations and chairs in both bathrooms so that the parents can take care of their children’s needs, so here’s my question. When you’re out browsing, eating, or otherwise doing all the leisure things most of us do, are either of these “issues” really an issue for you? Are there times or situations where neither action should take place? Do we just ignore it and hope someone else mentions it to them? Actually that’s more than one question and I know times have changed, but, well, that’s the thing… would you want your kids to see someone else’s boobs, or the remains of the noon feeding, while they’re eating a Happy Meal? Would you want to buy a sheet set that was used as a changing table?

Of course, there are some who would tell you it’s all perfectly natural; that Europeans have been doing it for centuries (well so have we, just indoors and at home) and formula is no substitute, even for a few hours. (Breast pumps anyone?) But isn’t it also natural to consider the feelings (and the sanitation) of those around you as well? How DO you tell a possibly stressed out parent that overstuffed chairs and poop filled diapers are not suitable mates? Or that it might be more private to breastfeed in the ladies’? Or do you tell them at all?

Scary Movies

By Kathy Sweeney

It's that time of year.  Halloween is next week. Haunted Houses are cropping up everywhere.  Our local amusement park even has something called "Fright Nights" where they turn some of the rides into haunted houses, have scary clowns jump out at random, and fill the place with fog machines.

Obviously, people enjoy scary stuff.

Me?  Not so much.  I won't bore you with the reasons.  Suffice it to say that it has to do with Control Issues (who me?!) and some bad experiences in the past.

Few things scare me in real life.  Lots of things make me uncomfortable - rats, for example.  Couldn't even watch Ratatouille - which was a cute movie, but let's be real, kids - there were RATS in the KITCHEN, okay?  That is gross.  I don't care if they were the cleanest rats in the history of rats.  They could have been an army of Monk-like rats (the TV Monk, not the brown robes and tonsure monks) and it would still be the creep of creepiness.

But creepy is not the same as scary.  I can't handle really scary movies - and I don't just mean Jason of the hockey mask and that guy with the knife fingers.  I mean "Silence of the Lambs" and "The Exorcist" too.  Psychological stuff is just as scary as being chased in the dark by a freak-a-zoid with a mad dog/car.

Now there are these torture porn movies - I've never seen one, but the previews alone scare the living daylights out of me.  Some whack-mutant with a clown mask? People stuck in tanning beds and with spikes through their eyeballs?  No thank you.

I don't even know enough about them to give you titles - I'm counting on you guys to tell me.  "Sawface"?  "Hotel Suicide Pact"?  "Scream Your Nuts Off, IV"?  "I'd Love to Stay and Chat, But I Have to Gouge Out Your Eyeballs With a Melon Baller First: The Return of the Kitchen Gadget Killer"?

It would be funny if it weren't terrifying to me.  I get the adrenaline rush thing - I love roller coasters - but messing with my head is different.  I guess I'm chicken.  I don't like people trying to manipulate me, even if it's for my own entertainment.  Hell, I don't even like movies with too much suspense.  I'm one of those people who, when I ask you "How does it end?"  I really mean it.  I mean "Tell me NOW, I don't WANT to be surprised.  I KNOW there is something weird about Samuel L. Jackson.  Just TELL ME!" (emphasis added here and in real life too.)

I also don't like War movies (I know, I could learn a lot, but I don't want to); prison movies (I don't care how wonderful it is - someone is going to get anally raped and I don't want to see that - even in a fuzzy flashback sequence.  Yes, I realize that dying without seeing Shawshank may be one of my greatest regrets.  I'm willing to live with it).  I don't like KidJep movies - or books, for that matter.  Too close to home, that one.

Basically, when I go to the movies, I want to be entertained.  For me, that means laughing.  Maybe some singing and dancing.  Case in point:  when "The Dark Knight" came out, everyone went to see it but Mary Alice and me.  We went to see "Mamma Mia".  It was faaab-u-lous.

Okay, I made it through the whole blog with no politics, so bear with me for a couple of sentences, okay? We are going to see "W" on Saturday.  I realize this violates my no scary movies rule.  Because it doesn't get much scarier than what's been happening in this country.  If only it didn't violate my No Prison movies rule. Just saying.  Just in case, I am going to have a couple of Mango Mojitos before we go.  Maybe during too.

Now your turn, my TLC friends - do you like scary movies?  Maybe you can tell people about some. Clearly, I'm out of my league on this one.

And coming this weekend to TLC:

Saturday, we welcome TLC backblogger Maryann Mercer, who wants to talk Mammaries.

Sunday, check out some dancing penises!

Safe Haven

by Nancy

When our girls were teenagers, we lived just over the hillside from our small town's humane society, and we often found abandoned dogs wandering in our back yard because their owners didn't want to pay the fee required when surrendering a pet to the pound.  (The largest numbers of dogs appeared when the college kids left campus to go home for the summer.)  Some dogs were hit by cars before they made it into the kennel. Others just disappeared.

The state of Nebraska is trying to make it easier on babies.

They have a new law in Nebraska that says anybody who can't cope with their kid can surrender the child at any hospital, and the baby will become a ward of the state.  This is what's called a Safe Haven law, and it was originally intended for young mothers who couldn't handle motherhood. It sounds a little Oliver Twist-y, but you could also call it a Moses law. Advocates claim this kind of law saves a lot of babies from very bad ends-- babies that might come from all socio-economic backgrounds. (Here, I could link you to a couple of news stories about newborns found in college dumpsters, but I won't. We also have a case here in Pennsylvania of a starved child found buried in a beer cooler, which I'm not going to talk about either because we'll all be mopping up our keyboards.)

What Nebraska didn't expect was how many people have been moved to give up children who aren't newborns. This guy, for instance, drove up to a hospital last month and dropped off nine of his ten children, ages 1 to 17. A widower, he was overwhelmed and "fell apart."

Okay, we've all been there--at the end of our ropes and feeling unable to cope another minute. Some of us take a walk to pull ourselves together. Or lock ourselves in the bathroom to scream for five minutes. Sometimes you call your mom or your next door neighbor to give you a break for an hour. Or you take a breather for a week and hope you come back saner. That's what frantic parents do now and then if they have resources, family and friends. It ain't that easy sometimes, however. I have the utmost sympathy for the Nebraska father. I'm sure he did the right thing for the kids. I mean, things could have gotten a lot worse for everyone if he hadn't taken action, no matter how humiliating for himself. He has since, by the way, asked a judge for visitation rights. 

Not long after he gave up his children, a mother from Detroit drove all the way to Omaha to abandon her 13-year-old son at the hospital.

Can you see where this is headed? Any parent who can't handle their teenager is thinking of filling up the gas tank and buying a map to Nebraska. And really, but for the Grace of God, can you blame them?

I'm thinking there just aren't enough resources for parents right now.  Thirty years ago when I was a teacher, we had a lot of options when a kid acted up in class.  We had professionals to call, places to send the problem case--even training for ourselves. Public schools once had support services for teenagers who needed more than 8 periods of classwork and a hot lunch. But money for such programs has gone the same way of funding for music lessons and chess clubs.  I live in an urban neighborhood that sits between a large public park and a senior high school.  During nice weather, we see dozens of teenagers strolling the streets, killing time until the school day is over. Why aren't they in school? Dozens of reasons. A big one is that most schools are happy to see their most exasperating students take the occasional walk . . . or drop out altogether. Let someone else handle them! We've got enough trouble! To hear many teachers tell it, it's hard enough keeping up with the paperwork generated by No Child Left Behind.

I don't mean to focus on teenagers. The Safe Haven law applies to elderly people, too---old folks whose families can't cope with their Alzheimers or incontinence or general orneriness.

Todd Landry, who runs Nebraska's Department of Health and Human Services division of Children and Family Services, is feeling a little overwhelmed himself. He said, "We need to get back to the intent of the law.  The intent of the law was always the protection of newborns in immediate danger of being harmed."

Me, I'm thinking America needs to become a safe haven again. Our current Washington leaders have urged the private sector to step up to take care of such social problems as uncontrollable teens, elderly people who are too helpless to help themselves and women who have no clue how to care for an infant. I'm sure you can come up with other underserved populations. Your town, your church, your neighborhood may have good examples of helping programs that work. In my neighborhood, a woman has organized a kind of club for elderly, single African American men. They go fishing, take trips to the park, go bowling or simply hang out together for companionship they might not otherwise have. It's been a lifesaver for forgotten, isolated men. And here's a nice lady who's helping to mentor young girls to be good moms.  Gotta admire that kind of initiative.

But most communities need a kickstart from their leaders.

Funny how people like Leona Helmsley, who left $12 million in her will to take care of her dog and a trust fund of somewhere between 3 and 8 billion dollars (that's with a "B," folks) for the "care of dogs."  But how often do we see the same social conscience concerning people?

I'm hoping the coming election will change things from the top down.

Pet Perfection

By Elaine Viets

The cart at the Galleria Mall was loaded with wire cages. Each had a kitten or puppy inside. Some cages had signs that said, "I’m adopted."

All the pets were quiet. Too quiet, as they say in the old movies.

Not a single kitten or puppy was yipping, yapping or meowing. They were moving, though. If I looked close, I could see them breathing.

Too bad they weren’t alive.

They were Perfect Petzzz, a new fad that makes the hair stand up on my neck. You can "adopt" the animal of your choice, from Alaskan Huskies to Yorkies. The pets come with a "certificate of adoption" like a Cabbage Patch doll. Check out   "Lifelike Puppies & Kittens That Actually Breathe!" the ad said. "These adorable pets offer a real pet ownership experience without the hassles and expense. Say goodbye to feedings and vet bills. Say hello to lots of love and cuddles."

Pet perfection does not come cheap. Perfect Petzzz cost from $29 to $50 on the Internet. They come with a pet tag, pet bed, a brush for their synthetic fur, an adoption certificate, a pet carrier and a D alkaline battery.  Check it out: http://www.perfectpetzzz.com.  

There’s nothing like cuddling up to a nice alkaline battery.

Perfect Petzzz are touted as ideal for people in dorms, ‘no-pets’ apartments and other animal-unfriendly living arrangements – as well as folks with allergies.

I like the idea of never cleaning another litter box. I’m sure dog owners would rather not walk their pets on rainy nights. But in exchange for the real hassles, we pet owners do get real love – a love that increases as dinner approaches.

Perfect Petzzz has tried to make the animals as lifelike as possible.

"See, they also snore," the mall saleswoman said. She pressed the fake Rottweiler, and I heard a tiny noise, almost like a purr.

My cat snores, too, but she’s not as dainty as the pretend pup. She’s a registered, pedigreed Chartreux who snores like a wino in a flophouse. Her pedigreed nose is the perfect sound system.

Can you get real love from a fake creature?

I have my doubts, but I’d like to start my own line, the Stepford Petzzz. I’d add these features to enhance the "pet ownership experience."

(1) Food cry.

At mealtimes, real pets can raise havoc demanding dinner. Cats walk on my head, knock things off the bedside table and make noise until they are fed. At least with Stepford Petzzz, you can switch off the howls and go back to sleep.

(2) An embarrassing habit.

"I don’t know what got into him. He doesn’t usually do that." How often have you said that about your cat or dog? Even the best pets go bad when you want them to behave.

When we lived in Washington, we had Don’s boss over for dinner. Our elderly cat, Hodge, was at death’s door (and would go through it in a week). Hodge managed an arthritic leap to the dinner table to steal a chicken wing. Naturally, it was off the boss’s plate.

Then there was our cat Sylvie, with an appetite like a stoner. Our friend Barbara Parker came for a visit, and I noticed a black furry tail hanging out of her fashionably large purse. It was Sylvie. She’d crawled into the purse and eaten all of the biscuits Barbara kept for her dog Max.

(3) Automatic shedding mechanism.

Why miss out on the fun because you are allergic to pet hair?

The Stepford Petzzz will leave fluffs of hypo-allergenic hair under the end tables, on the chair seats and, just before the guests arrive, in the middle of the rug.

I’m sure you can suggest other features for a Stepford Petzzz. I think we’re on to something here at TLC – the cuddliest creature since the Pet Rock.

College Bowl

By Sarah Strohmeyer

Tomorrow begins our daughter Anna's "college tour," such that it is. I say that because recently I sat on  a Jet Blue flight next to a lawyer from San Francisco who was flying cross   country to pick up her daughter from a summer session at NYU. From there they were to embark on Phase II of the college circuit (Pennsylvania, Ohio, and the rest of that vast expanse known as the Midwest), Phase I having happened the spring before when the whole family flew from California just to tour the New England schools. Her daughter and my daughter had been born three days apart.

Until that point, Anna and I had looked at a couple of places and flipped through college catalogs. Next to this woman, I felt like a baaaad mother.

"You should tour as many schools as possible. It's fun!" she exclaimed as I mentally added up the cost of doing three college tour phases (the third was to be Southern California.) I ballbarked it at ten grand. "And you might as well. College is so expensive."

Moreover, this child, this future protege of my daughter's, attended a private school in San Francisco where community service was offered on campus and where, starting in junior year, private counselors were available to help the students work on their applications. SAT's? Hmph. That preparation began in seventh grade.

Poor Anna. She's attended a perfectly fine public school here in Vermont, but not one that offers Latin, much less community service or private college coaches. To make matters worse, she's a member of the biggest bulge of students to ever become a freshman class, some freak of fertility and statistics in which the baby boomers were having their last kids and the boomlets were having their first. Not for nothing was What to Expect When You're Expecting an instant bestseller in 1990.

And, let's face it. Anna with her straight A's and very good (though not perfect!) SAT scores that she achieved without one hour of professional help is no match for the uber-race of ace students the private schools are producing. She's a normal kid - into drama, politics, feminism, Bugs Bunny and her friends. She holds a job at a local toy store. She doesn't do drugs. She's just...Anna, a kid who can recite every scene from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and who knows her way around a maple sugar shack. Also, a mountain. That kid loves to ski.

But will she stand out from the crowd?

As a mother, my first instinct is to pop anyone in the nose who dares to naysay her. And, yet, the reality of the situation is there are so many kids applying and so many GREAT kids applying to these great schools that they can't take everyone. Anna is destined for rejection. It sucks.

Forget the Ivy Leagues. Even if Anna could get in, I'm not sure I'd want her in that weirdly competitive environment. Instead, her top choices are Smith (no SATs required, great feminist history, beautiful campus, awesome library and no boys) and Macalester (liberal politics, great international environment, welcoming Midwestern setting, cool urban area and the funniest letters from the admissions department.) We're also looking at Wesleyan, but I dunno. I spent ten minutes on the phone yesterday listening to their receptionist tell me how they were overwhelmed with the most amazing, talented students and that my daughter was going to have a hard time of it.

Actually, I interviewed at Wesleyan back in the day. It was an awful interview in which, after showing several articles I'd written about adolescent life for the school newspaper, my interviewer took me aside and said, "To every thing, there is a season. Turn. Turn." I was so ignorant, I was thinking The Byrds and I told him so. He corrected and said, Book of Ecclesiastes. Then we got in an argument about teenage rebellion that ended with me saying I'd rather slit my throat than spend the next four years of my life in Middletown, Connecticut.

Diplomacy never was my strong suit.

I ended up at Tufts because the admissions director there and I hit on our mutual love and admiration for Steve Martin. One half hour of "Too bad for you!" and miming arrows through our heads led to a letter in my mailbox in February. Though I hadn't applied early admission, they offered it to me, anyway. It was the only college I got into.

I'm glad that Anna has this opportunity to travel to St. Paul and interview at Macalester. It sounds like a great place. But, frankly, this whole college thing is nutty. To be doing what the woman from San Francisco is doing, flying all over the country at tremendous expense, is unreal and kind of wrong for an eighteen-year-old kid trying to determine how to spend the next four years. What will this mother do when her daughter goes to grad school? Or her first real job? Or gets married?

And why do I have the sneaking suspicion that for some of these parents, admission to top colleges for their kids is a referendum on their parenting skills?  After all, these parents are over achievers themselves. They're accustomed, trained, to receive feedback on their performance in the workplace. Unfortunately, parenting, more akin to gambling than science, just doesn't fit that bill. You can be the most dedicated parent and still have kids who are screwed up. Genetics, circumstances, friends and life-altering events make the whole thing a crap shoot. Faith and love are the only sustainers.

But I figure the college frenzy is like the housing bust - once the student population dips (as it will when our son, Sam, reaches college age) these universities will be begging for applicants. There won't be an admissions receptionist telling me how great everyone else's kids are. Yale and Harvard won't be accepting one quarter of the perfect 2,400 SAT kids they do now. It'll all settle down.

Look, if I had it my way, Anna would be applying to McGill in Montreal. Four years of a great school on the nickle of the Québécois government - provided you major in French. A free education if you don't mind the fascism. And the bitter cold.

So...what were your college interviewing experiences? I need to know because it's a long trip out to Minnesota and we could use the diversion. In other words....

Help!

Sarah

How My Useless Talent Brought Me True Love
by Lisa Daily

I have a special gift.  I remember lines from movies.  Not just the classics, like,

This is the start of a beautiful friendship
Cinderella story. Outta nowhere. A former greenskeeper, now, about to become the Masters champion.
You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.
Houston, we have a problem
Here's looking at you, kid
I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse
Don't call me Shirley, or one of my personal favorites
K-k-k-Ken is c-c-coming to k-k-kill me

But I can also quote back the obscure, the stupid, and the useless as ones well:

I did not achieve this position in life by having some snot-nosed punk leave my cheese out in the wind.
It's just me and the moron twins.  (We're not twins.)
I must be crazy to be in a looney bin like this.
I just (aaack) ate a bug.
Who here wants to be an advertising executive?  Who here wants to be a fire truck?
I'm a short, fat, slut.
I'm Secretary of State, brought to you by Carl's Jr.
Today I step into the shoes of a great man, a man by the name of Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho.

Here's how my previously useless talent brought me true love:  One night, my girlfriends and I were in a bar/restaurant, and we started playing a movie trivia game with a nearby group of guys.  One guy, Tom, and I were on the same team.  Just the two of us.  Back and forth we went, quote for quote, sometimes answering at the exact same time, so fast, no one from the other teams could get a word in edgewise.

Clearly, I had to marry the guy.  I'd found my perfect match.

And on a lovely summer day in San Diego, I gained a groom, a friend, and one hell of a DVD collection.

(***note: The I'm Secretary of State, brought to you by Carl's Jr. line is also how Sarah Strohmeyer and  I instantly bonded -- we met at a convention and couldn't stop ourselves from spouting lines from IDIOCRACY ...perhaps the greatest movie of our generation....)

How have your unusual talents benefited you?

Lisa

Buried in Books: Organizing your Personal Library

By Taffy Cannon

Author Taffy Cannon has written 14 novels. She’s also a member of the National Association of Professional Organizers. Today, she’ll help solve the mystery of organizing your personal library, which baffles so many TLC readers. Read, sort and be strong.

A personal book collection can reach critical mass with frightening speed.

It may happen at Bouchercon. During a signing when a new fave author’s backlist is spread out in paperback. At the library book sale, after they weed the mysteries.

Maybe even while you’re sleeping, when the cat knocks your bedside table TBR pile onto the other cat and your floor TBR pile.

You know you need help. But where to begin?

Start by thinking about your book collection. Why do you have the books you do?

Are they sentimental favorites? Subjects of interest? Somebody’s complete works? Signed? Old or wonderful in some special way? Gifts? Impulse buys or airport purchases? Book club selections? Sets? Research or reference? Beautiful coffee table books?

Now think about what matters to you at this point in your life, and create a plan.

Consider what could go immediately: elderly encyclopedias, unused sets, college texts, old computer books, subjects no longer relevant, unfinished (or unstarted) projects, unwanted gift books from folks who don’t visit.

How and where do you use your books? Cookbooks belong in the kitchen, fix-it books in the garage, references by your desk. Beyond that, it’s a matter of your own pleasure and convenience. This has nothing to do with the Dewey decimal system. It’s your personal library.

What do you want to keep? (Wrong answer: "Everything.")

Definitely keep books you use all the time, ones with special or sentimental meaning, most signed books, titles that would be difficult to replace or find in a library, beloved classics, favorites you re-read, and comfort reads.

Everything else is negotiable.

Think about your living space and where you want to keep different parts of your collection. This needn’t be where things were before. Put books that give you pleasure where you’ll see them easily and often, between those really nice bookends. Group similar categories. Pick a location for your TBR shelf that is accessible, even if it interrupts something. (Mine is between "O" and "P" in my mystery collection, at eye level when I leave my office.)

Be flexible.

If possible, start with a small, manageable category you can finish pretty easily. Organizing a personal library takes more time than you anticipate. It’s not your sock drawer. These are old friends, many of them. They will try to distract you. Don’t let them.

Remove the non-book treasures from your shelves for the duration.

Get a bunch of banker’s boxes. Label four and set them aside: Donate, Give to Friends, Sell, Trash. (Yes, it is okay to throw away a book. Some deserve it.)

Take a deep breath and start sorting into more banker’s boxes. Use Post-Its or folded paper labels that correspond to the shelves you’re emptying. Create subcategories that reflect how you view your collection as you go along. Signed firsts, or Female PIs, or Golden Age. It’s also okay to do it the old-fashioned way, alphabetically by author’s name.

Take everything off the shelves you are working on. Everything. Look at each book just long enough to make a sorting choice. Keep moving.

When everything’s in boxes, go through them one at a time, by category. Remove duplicates. Ask yourself:

What condition is it in?

Will I read it again? Will I read it, period?

How hard would it be to find another copy in a library or bookstore?

Did I actually buy this, or was it left by an alien?

While the shelves are empty, adjust their height if necessary.

Now comes the fun part. Put the books back, in an order that pleases you. It needn’t be alphabetical or overly precise. Stack some books sideways for variety. Put books you use often in convenient, eye-level spaces. Leave room for new acquisitions. And wait at least a week to replace the tschotskes.

Once the shelves look great, deal quickly with what remains. Keep books to sell in covered, labeled boxes. Throw out the trash. Give special items to deserving friends. (I once gained 18 shelf inches by sending my Dick Francis books to my veterinarian sister.) Donate your culls to a local library or thrift shop.

Then celebrate by visiting an independent bookstore.

For more information, go to http:www.taffycannon.com

Man Versus Mole

By Joanna Campbell Slan

I first met Joanna Campbell Slan at a mystery conference, where she talked about writing a mystery. So do lots of people – but Joanna actually finished the book and got it published by Midnight Ink. "Paper, Scissors, Death" features amateur sleuth and scrapbooking mom, Kiki Lowenstein. Today, Joanna discusses garden-variety murder in the burbs.

In some places, keeping up with the Jones might mean buying a new car or upgrading the appliances. But in my neighborhood, it means having a picture perfect lawn. We have large lots, and as a result, the local husbands have a keen sense of yard envy.

Every morning, spring through fall, the men folk stroll out the front doors, coffee mugs in hand, and survey their peaceable kingdoms. "Morning," they greet each other. Once assured all is well, they cast subtle barbs in the form of "helpful" criticisms. "John, looks like you’ve got fungus starting," my husband David suggested to our neighbor one sunny summer day.

"Fungus I can handle." John took a long sip of his coffee. He cocked a knowledgeable eye toward our grass. "But you’ve got moles."

After inspecting the damage, David was beside himself. Moles can dig 200 feet of tunnels a day, using their paddle shaped feet to "swim" through the soil. Our critters must have been the Michael Phelps of their species. Olympic swimmers and hearty buggers, too. David tried everything: mothballs, pickle juice, liquid fence, and pellets.

The day an exterminator’s truck pulled up, my husband nearly fell to his knees and wept with joy. Salvation had come in the form of a Ford pickup truck. There was a cost: $50 a mole.

A half an hour later, the exterminator knocked on our front door and waved a mole carcass in front of David. Watching the truck drive away, I mused aloud, "What if that isn’t our mole?"

"Our mole?" David’s face turned bleak.

"See, I’m thinking this would be a great scam. You keep a dead mole’s body on ice. You show it to the sucker, er, homeowner. You collect your $50 and you move on."

David turned on me. "Couldn’t you tell? I mean, you know a lot about animals. Was it our mole or not?"

I shrugged. "How the heck would I know? It’s not like there were any identifying marks." I watched his face crumble. For a moment, I thought my husband was going to cry.

This meant war. David called Critter Control, and they sent out Scott, who by all accounts is our area’s premier mole killer. In one season alone, Scott slaughtered 800 moles. "I even caught one with my hands once,"he told me. (He was sharing his techniques with me as a matter of professional courtesy.)

Very carefully he identified primary tunnels and secondary routes. Scott set traps with scissor-like blades deep in the dirt and marked each spot with a jaunty orange flag, imparting a festive atmosphere to the yard. David learned to watch for the signs that a trap had been sprung. He woke up each morning with a bounce in his step. He called me in the middle of the day to ask me to "walk the traps." I think he kept a score sheet in his desk at work: Moles 0/David 10. Slowly, the tunneling ceased. The raised ridges of dirt sank down and flattened out. Scott, it seems, is a mole’s worst enemy. A force to be reckoned with. He knows all their secrets. Woo-ha-ha! By the time all the leaves were on the ground that fall, mole "activity" had dropped significantly.

The lawn was terrific – smooth and green from one end to the other. David clapped Scott on the back, accepted the bill, oversaw the uprooting of the traps, thanked him for his help, and waved as the Critter Control truck drove away.

Everything was looking pretty good.

Until the skunks moved in.