Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Its Like A Congressional Philibuster in Here

My inner dialogue has been particularly loud lately. So loud, in fact, that I caught myself discussing the merits of Serif vs Block Letter Stencils in the Martha Stewart aisle at Micheals. I quickly shut myself up but then my inner self just had to comment that the serif letters were really much prettier and well, I had to agree.

And that's when the Craft Mom with the three toddlers hustled her brood out of the Martha Stewart aisle and directly towards the glitter aisle. An amateur move if you ask me.

Of course this got me thinking about inner dialogue. Wikipedia seems to support inner dialogue offering the act as a way of working towards better thinking. (This is later in the article, after they mention 'demon possession'.) A second site – SuccessConsciousness – feels that inner dialogue should be controlled as too many negative conversations can have negative results. To which I say, "What a jerk." Pretentious idiot.

But then I was distracted by the laughter in my head as I read ProcessCoaching which says that you can experience inner dialogue with your embryo state, snort, transpersonal beings, snort, and essences. WaHaa! This just gave me a headache. But then I felt a little sorry that I was mocking something that someone else might believe and I had a brief moment of inner remorse which was quickly followed by more laughter.

Inner and Outer.

Frankly, I like having an inner dialogue. My inner conversations allow me to comment – filter free- on the various ridiculous, futile and irritating situations my outer self must deal with daily. Rarely is my inner dialogue quiet. In fact right now it is shouting at my husband for dissing my new pillow.* And I am okay with that. Except when it gets so loud that it can not be contained. Like this morning in the Martha Stewart Aisle...and the other day at work. Which is really the catalyst for this particular blog. They have figured that out. Stop it...

But I digress...

The other day at work, I was talking with a co-worker about the breakfast meeting we were about to attend. I began walking down the hallway as we finished our conversation, she remained at the desk, speculating on the breakfast foods we might find at the meeting.

I was hoping for donuts.

I was hoping for donuts so strongly that my inner dialogue shouted "I haven't had a donut in forever..." just as the Doctor was exiting Module C. My co-worker was around the corner in Module B. He looked at me, simultaneously concerned and afraid.

"Who are you talking too?" he asked, secretly terrified of the asked.

I stopped walking, looked back and forth with only my eyes, knowing that no one was with me in the hallway and drawing on years of watching Lucille Ball and Gilda Radner I said, "She was right behind me! I swear! My friend was right behind me!" My inner dialogue was uncharacteristically silent.

He nodded with understanding and hurriedly returned through the automatic doors as they slammed shut.

I do not want to know what his inner dialogue was discussing.
Okay, yes I do.

*My husband and I have been having a twenty year battle over pillows...more on that later.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Flamingos in the Snow

Where the hell are Flamingos actually from?

Because, if you grow up here on the Coast of Illinois, you tend to believe that Flamingos live (in order of importance):

  1. In the freaky World's Fair Bird Cage at the Zoo
  2. In the Backyards of South City
  3. In Florida

I ponder this question as we enter into hour number 16 of a continuous, less than gentle snow. It is March 24. We have had 12 inches of snow. It is never going to stop and the flamingo on our deck is pissed. 

This is not what I signed up for when I agreed to be shipped here from Oriental Trading Company.

Really pissed.

Now would be a good time to ask why I have a plastic flamingo in my yard. They are so cliche...tacky...

Actually, I have two.

Which is better than FIFTY. Because that is the number of plastic yard flamingos a Friend/Doctor woke up to once upon a time when I worked in South City and he foolishly gave us FIFTY plastic flamingos to decorate a co-workers yard for HER birthday. 

Because, as they say, black and white captures the moment perfectly.

It is also better than TWELVE plastic flamingos which is the number I woke up to when we moved to our first house...which is still the house we live in...twenty six years later...but who's counting...

And this may have been the point when the neighbors began to question our addition to the neighborhood.

And let me tell you, it is not easy to stuff twelve plastic flamingos into a Chevette on their return trip to the Flamingo Storage Facility. Thank heaven for Hefty Garbage Bags and hatchbacks.

My current flamingos were a birthday gift from my husband, who was pretty regretful yet proud to present me with them. And compared to the Napoleon with Eye Makeup and Marc Antony in Beads in the garden the flamingos were actually...normal...

Except when it snows...continuously for eighteen hours now.

Flamingo questions his very existence.

But, that's life, here on the Coast of Illinois.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Just Spreading some Sunshine...

It is the last full day of winter. Here on the Coast of Illinois we have had rain, sleet, snow, lightning and thunder, more rain, wind and did I mention sleet and rain. All of this has been withing the last 48 hours. Today it is 31degrees...damp and windy...with a chance for snow.*

Which is why I am having my morning coffee in Miami.

I am sorry. Was the SoundMachine being too noise? I'll just talk to Gloria. (Give it a minute...there you go!)    
Enjoy it now fellow Coasters. When July rolls around and we think we have accidently moved to the surface of the sun we will be reminiscing about March with the conviction** of Lindsay Lohan argueing her case to the traffic courts.

*Yes, I know my friends in the Great White North will laugh at my whining and point out that they still can't find the dog they let out because the snow drifts covered him up. I am sorry but seriously, you are so far from the equator that really, what do you expect. I mean, Great and White are in the informal title of your part of the country. Put on your big snow pants and join me in the Great State of Delusion.

**Perhaps 'conviction' was a poor choice of words?

Monday, March 18, 2013

Stupid Two Day Weekends!

This will be short and sweet as I am running late for work on this Monday morning and the fact that the news is reporting on an Ambulance being stolen isn't helping. Really you guys? Have you not seen the signs with CD's on a car seat that says "This is what a thief sees?"
I am pretty sure that when a thief sees an unattended running ambulance what they actually see is a sign that says: Truck Full Of Drugs. Help Yourself!

Anyway - attended my first official ParrottHead function this weekend. (For those unfamiliar with 'parrottheads' - no, it is not weird deformity although it may be considered a disease, mostly by my kids who are regretting hooking me up to satellite radio and Margaritaville. Parrottheads are die hard Jimmy Buffett fans.

Visions of Palm Trees and Boat Drinks, right?

Coast of Illinois. Its St. Patricks Day. Its Snowing.
Try Rain/Sleet/Snow. But, good music, good wine and new friends. Happy Monday!

Monday, March 11, 2013

This Must be what that Beautiful Mind Guy Feels Like

It is 0600. However, cosmically and in my brain it is still 5AM. But thanks to daylight savings time the clock says the universe and I are wrong. Since Sunday morning I have had a running argument with my Cerebral Cortex:

Me: The clock says 6AM.
Cerebral Cortex: The clock is wrong. The Universe says it is 5AM. Look outside. It is pitch black.
Me: Maybe its just cloudy.
Cerebral Cortex: Nope.
Me: But tonight, when I am coming home it will be light out.
Cerebral Cortex: Yes. Because it will actually be 5:30PM even though your incorrect watch says 6:30.
Me: I don't wear a watch.
Cerebral Cortex: I am aware.
Me: Is that attitude? Cause I am too sleepy for attitude coming from my brain at this ridiculous hour.
Cerebral Cortex: What the hell is that crap on your radio? I am going back to bed. Wake me up in an hour.

It is not that I am not a fan of Daylight Savings Time. I will be doing the Aztec Sun Dance tonight when I leave work and it is still light.   I work in an area without windows. It is a treat to see the sun at the end of my shift. and weird jerky movements tend to keep the weirdos away on the train. 

What I am not a fan of is getting up in the dark. Way back in the 70's President Carter did some messing around with the time change and I wrote a scathing entry into my 7th grade journal. In the essay I may have compared our government leaders to a Banana Republic, ramped up my plight to compare with those in the Russian revolution and then ended with some choice quotes from Janice Joplin. My journalism teacher was terrified that the Secret Service would show up. I like to think he was worried about me and the ramifications of my indictment of the political process but I think in truth he was more concerned with the "cigarettes" he kept in his lower desk drawer.

Anyway. Daylight Savings Time is here. It is dark out. The cat is peeved because he can't go outside and my Cerebral Cortex is asleep.

Happy Monday!

PS- Dear Cerebral Cortex. The "crap" on the radio is SPA. I was hoping it would be more conducive to writing this morning than the usual news program I turn on. But I see where you are coming from. This synthesized pan flute shit is making me want to change my name to Trellis and dress like Stevie Nicks. Oh, and the cat is sitting in Lotus position and chanting. 

At least he quit meowing at me to go outside.  

Monday, March 4, 2013

Fifty-one Year Old Woman vs the White Sweater Dress

****WARNING - this installment of CoastofIllinois contains references to female undergarments, and not in that sexy, Fredericks of Hollywood way but in more of a clinical, listen to your Mother way.*******

I bought a sweater dress. A white sweater dress. I am not sure why. I would like to think it was an act of optimism and not just a delusional disorder. I was probably high from that new dress smell and I had a handful of 'rewards' points and it was near the register...


I should probably give you a tiny bit of info. I am fifty one. I have a BMI somewhere between Salma Hayek and Melissa McCarthy. The dress is sweater knit and white. I spill things.

Last Saturday, I decided to wear the dress. Here is another little bit of info – anything you have on under a white sweater dress shows through the white sweater dress. Even when the dress is lined and you aren't wearing anything. (But this is not THAT sort of story.)

My plan was to wear the dress with black tights and boots and knowing how clingy sweater knit can be I opted for a staple in all over fifty underwear drawers: the Body Control Garment. This is the slip made of rubber band material and sent to all woman on return of their AARP membership. The dress hugged the slip which hugged me like a serial killer uncle at a family reunion. And the black tights gave the impression of my lower half being stuffed in a trash bag...sort of pre-murder.

Now here is an interesting fact about the Body Control Garment. It is quite serious about controlling the body. It reluctantly allows itself to be pulled up and over your head at which point the shelf bra grabs hold. I am quite sure that as the Lycra tried to suffocate me I heard the slip whisper, 'if I'm coming off, I'm taking these with me.' I halfheartedly called for my husband to come remove me but the thought of him seeing me tangled in a beige sausage casing and the resulting photos were much scarier than dying at the hands of an undergarment. I dug deep inside my self esteem and yanked.

The pop as the shelf bra cleared my boobs set off the car alarm.

With modern day undergarments clearly not working I tried the retro route – a vintage silk slip and thigh high nylons. (Don't even suggest a garter belt here. Again, this is not THAT sort of story and Hanes makes perfectly respectable thigh high stockings which are sold at Target. They are ten times more comfortable than panty hose. And the elastic bands leave an awesome imprint, perfect for startling unsuspecting medical personal who may be called upon to remove your Body Control Garment.) The stockings worked but even though I love my vintage slip, once under the clinging dress, the delicate silk embroidery became weird three dimensional flower tattoos on my chest.

In the end, because I was exhausted and my husband was now in the car checking the availability of his Alternates List (on which Salma Hayek is in the top five). I opted for the Girl Scout issue tan bra and gigantic underpants that stop just above the belly button. No slip. Black stockings.

Here is one more little bit of info: while the black stockings did not show through the dress lining nothing hides the two hand prints on my ass from the makeup still on my fingers when I readjusted the gigantic underpants.

Oh, and when you stand in the hallway trying to simultaneously brush the makeup off your ass and make sure your thigh bulges don't show above the elastic stockings, DO NOT assume the person you are asking, ''can you see ANYTHING through this stupid dress?" is your husband.

The shriek from our son set off the car alarm, again.
That's right, I own you Bea-atch!