Edgy Mama

The question my headline asks is in regards to exterior holiday light displays.

Every year, the neighbors to our left build a panorama across their yard that includes multi-colored lights, flashing candy canes, and a large plastic nativity scene. The lights brighten our bedroom considerably, much to the delight of my children. In fact, upon noticing the lights tonight, my daughter complained that we never put any on our house or yard for Christmas.

“Daddy’s an environmental scientist,” I replied. “He’s working to save the earth for your future and the future of your children.”

She pouted and gave me her “you’re crazy and I don’t know what you’re spouting off about now” look.

Earlier in the day, our son arrived home from nursery school and asked when we were going to put the reindeer on the roof. We’ve never put reindeer on the roof, which is quite high and inaccessible, but never mind that, he thinks we need to have reindeer on the roof. He then came up with an ingenious plan involving a rope and a ladder.

In actuality, the lights, wasteful though they may be from a decomposed dinosaur point of view, don’t bother me so much. They are fun to look at. They’re celebratory and spirited. But the nativity recreations freak me out. Yes, I know Christmas is about Jesus, but I don’t want to see fake people, lit from within, hanging out in poorly fabricated stables, mooning over an under-dressed baby doll.

I don’t remember many light displays growing up in Atlanta, but there are lots here in Western North Carolina. Our local newspaper actually profiles and prints photographs of some of the more, uhhhh, resplendent holiday home decorations around the area.

So do you put on a show for your neighbors? Or do you resent the extra wattage shining into your home at night? Uplifting or over-the-top?

you are going to get lost in the woods on a hiking
trip. you will be exploring, but you won’t find
your way out of the woods and will starve to
death. but before that you will have a great
life.

How will you die? (beautiful pics!)
brought to you by Quizilla

My beloved Houdini mangled one of his front paws a couple of weeks ago. He limped bloodily into the house after some inexplicable misadventure. I briefly examined his paw before putting him in the cat carrier and calling the vet. He returned the next day with two stitches, a broken toe, and lots of medication.

The next night, as I was trying to get two pills down his throat, I asked E-spouse for help: “Just stick your finger in between his teeth and pry his mouth open.” E looked at me as if I were nuts. “You want me to stick my finger in the cat’s mouth?” he asked. “Oh come on,” I said. “He won’t bite.” I paused. “Well, he won’t bite me.” I quickly learned to pill Houdini by myself.

Because of Houdini’s injury, I had to keep him in the house for a couple of days. Typically, I leave the cat door open, and my adorable guys take care of their business outside (like real men, Ash. Oh wait. They’re cats. They squat). Anyway, I locked the cat door so it would swing one direction only. That way the uninjured cat, Rocky, could get in if he was outside. This was a horrendous mistake.

E-spouse was on one of his frequent business trips when I was awakened late at night by a crash from downstairs. My first thought was that we were being robbed. Then I heard more noise, weird noises. But not exactly human noises.

Grabbing my bathrobe and the nearest available weapon, one of the boy’s plastic swords, I flipped on the lights over the stairs and gave a warning shout. Quiet. I descended into the darkness, flipped on the front hall light, and caught sight of glowing eyes in the living room.

Not one of my cats, but a wild cat, a feral cat, who has been messing with my cats for a long time, was perched on the back of my chair. A lamp was on the floor. I hissed at him. He ran for the catdoor. But he couldn’t get out because I’d locked it. Then he disappeared.

I grabbed the broom from the top of the basement stairs and started sweeping it and the sword under the furniture, cussing colorfully while half-expecting to get slashed in the face by filthy claws.

I couldn’t find the cat anywhere. Finally, I unlocked the cat door, hoping Houdini wouldn’t notice, and returned to my bed. After I tightly closed the kids’ bedroom doors.

The wild cat had come into our house before this night. He’d broken a lamp before. He’d broken a vase. He’d scared the bejesus out of my little boy by curling up on his bed with his stuffed animals then hissing when the poor child went to pick up one of them.

I imagine he’d been coming and going for a long time. He had a plan. He came in at night, when we were asleep, including my cats, had a snack, and left. I’d messed with his plan by locking the catdoor.

The next morning I noticed that the floor molding around the front door had been ripped off. Literally. This small cat, in his desperation to escape, had ripped 1/2 inch molding held in with two-inch nails off the wall. He also ripped several sheets of ancient linoleum out from under the doorjamb at the back door. Linoleum that the construction workers hadn’tt bothered to cut out when they redid the floors. Such fear. Such determination.

I’ve decided to leave the catdoor open again at night. Houdini’s foot has healed, though he’ll always have a spot of missing fur. I’ve decided the wild cat can keep his plan. He can snack on our catfood. But if he breaks another lamp, I’m buying a tranq gun.

I’m exhausted. I thought, somehow, that not traveling over the holiday would be relaxing. It was not. But was it fun? O yes.

The lovely Autumn and her yummy hubby spent Thanksgiving day plus in the PNAV (posh North Asheville villa). They were wonderfully laidback guests. CJ is a kid magnet, which makes him particularly valuable in this household. Autumn is a ray of sunshine as well as a babe, a fact that E-spouse greatly appreciated.

We enjoyed spicy food, spicy conversation, and lots of blogger gossip. Autumn, having been in the game for a good bit longer than myself, seems to know everyone in the blogosphere–and all of their deep, dark secrets (anyone sweating out there yet?). But no worries, I’m a cone of silence girlfriend, which really is what this post is about.

Because Saturday night I went out on the town with two of my rocking girlfriends. My girls who, though currently blogless, comment here regularly. It was a night for adventuring. But what happens at girls’ night stays at girls’ night. I invoked the all-encapsulating cone of silence over our evening, so, despite your pleadings, my friends, you will have to use your wonderfully randy brain engines to imagine what happened. I’ll give you a bit of context: me, in my new blue jeans (see below for photo) drinking high-gravity beer; my girls, goddesses both, looking hot and drinking red wine; an atmospheric restaurant, a sophisticated bar, and lots of playful energy.

I’m sure you’ll come up with adventures and conversations that I’ve only dreamed of experiencing. Have fun.

There’s a debate raging through the blogopshere, which has been brought to my attention by the audacious Ashvegas.

It seems that some men are making fun of other men for something so ridiculous and personal that I, for one, can not even begin to understand: whether or not a man occasionally sits to pee.

As the spouse and mother for two humans who get to pee through a flexible tube, I can vouch for the inability of proper aim, particularly in the middle of the night. Heck, some men I know can’t find the bathroom in the middle of the night, much less stand in the dark and aim correctly.

So, if, in the dark, in the disorientation of partial sleep, a guy needs to sit in order to relieve himself, that’s okay. Totally and completely okay.

In fact, given the amount of time I spend wiping and cleaning the damn toilet of urine splatters, I would be thrilled if my men always sat to pee. I mean, what’s the big problem? If you are going to allow other men to try to emasculate you for sitting down occasionally, you’ve got some bigger issues to deal with.

My dear friend, Neil, has started a heartfelt Thanksgiving tradition.

Neil says:

“On Thanskgiving, we should THANK our fellow bloggers.

When I first started blogging, I was like a Pilgrim who just landed on Plymouth Rock. I was isolated and alone. For weeks, I wrote this blog without any direction or confidence in my ability. And then he appeared — like the Native American with his corn — my first commenter!”

Yes, Neil has made it so. Henceforth and forever, it is “Thank Your First Commenter” week.

Other than spam, with whom I’m still carrying on a love/hate affair, my first commenter was the amazing Eddo of Posted Note. This was in March (I started the blog, though I posted infrequently, in January 2005. At that time, Edgy Mama had not yet surfaced. This is embarrassing - but I called my first blog attempt “Fitten’s Fanfaronade.” The first person who knows the the definition of fanfaronade, without looking it up, will win a special prize. No cheating. I WILL KNOW).

Eddo, my man, is still commenting daily. And was he a find? Yes, yes, yes. He designed, for free, the beautiful Edgy Mama template that you all get to feast your eyes upon. He designed, for a bit of cash and a t-shirt, the incredible annefittenglenn.com website that very few people read (Just wait, though. They will come). He is currently designing, for barter, a funky and fun site for Flasheville.

Eddo and I, through our blogs and e-mails, have shared in each other’s lives for months now. I am sooooo lucky that my first commenter was Eddo. Thank you, Eddo. You, I adore.

If you’d like to thank your first commenter on your blog, put the link in my comments so I can share in spreading the goodwill. Or just write about that person here. And we will all celebrate our blog friends.

Amazing, this community. Autumn is on her way down here to spend Thanksgiving with me and my family. My BlogAsheville buddies have become my drinking crowd of choice. Ash, dear friend, is jumping into Flasheville with me (if you can’t take the heat, get out of Flasheville, baby). Other friends have started blogging because I did. Other bloggers I have e-mailed, talked to, empathized with, laughed with. I have a jar of Cocoa Body Paint in my pantry from the remarkably sexy Lu. I have a children’s book upstairs from the remarkable Robin.

Thank you all. All of you who read. All of you who lurk. All of you who comment. Thank you for widening my world, appreciating my prose, and giving me shit. Don’t stop.

Even though I hooked only a silver medal in the Asheville Blogger Olympics this past weekend, I am the champion mouse catcher of, ummmmmm, North Asheville or, possibly, of all Buncombe County.

My cats, dear brothers whom I have raised from kittenhood, are the best of guys. On a daily basis, they bring me gifts. Because they were abandoned by their birth mother and adopted by me at five-weeks, they have the hunter instinct, but never learned to kill efficiently or to eat their prey.

Therefore, my marmalade boys bring me mice, drop them at my feet, and then the little rodents run off under the refrigerator where they live happily ever after on the Cheerio and cheese crumbs that my kids drop daily.

Once they venture out, from under various large kitchen appliances, I become Mouse Catcher Mom, and, gently, I capture them, then release them back into our yard. So the cats can regift me the next day.

Yesterday, I cornered an adorable little guy under a shelf. Carefully blocking the available openings, I placed a clear plastic grain bin at one end. Clear is important, as you need to see when the mouse has run into your humane trap. Then I used the bamboo back stratcher to push the little guy towards the bin. Of course, he ran right at my face, and over my hand. At which point I let out a cuss word that my four-year-old has revisited twice today, in appropriate situations (he’s so smart). Again, I cornered the little guy and with a flick, swept him into the bin, which E-spouse grabbed and upended, breaking his fragile mouse back in the process. Which was not the point. I was saving the little guy. So my cats could torture him further.

Today, however, my boy alerted me to another mousie running boldly across the dining room. Houdini, my svelte kitty, cornered him. The mouse stopped still, quivering with fear. Gracefully, I dropped a dish cloth on him, scooped him up and deposited him in my front flower bed. How soon, I wonder, will he be back?

I like to ask questions.

On Friday night, in an attempt to learn more about several of my Asheville bloggas, I started throwing out random questions, or as Ash noted, pinning people to the wall like so many butterfly specimens.

One ask was this: if you could snap your fingers and immediately become any living person, who would you be?

The answers included Oprah, Robin Williams, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Depp, the Internet dude who put his photo on top of the Eiffel Tower, and Martha Stewart (you don’t have to do the jail time, you get to become her as she is today).

And who did I chose? She can sing, she can dance. She’s beautiful, sexy, set financially, and hangs with some very cool guys. Here she is:

So who would you be?

P.S. You must choose a person, a living person (we’ll do dead folks another day). I.e., you may not choose to become that black leather bra.

I was honored to host several local (and one Greensboro) bloggas and their families at my humble abode/posh North Asheville villa last night. We had a Thanksgiving feast of magnificent proportions. Given that my entire family has blown us off for Thanksgiving, last night may turn out to be our holiday celebration (Okay, E-spouse, I’ll roast a turkey. After all I have enough leftover cornbread/sausage dressing to feed a busload of hungry Hungarians).

There were many moments to savor throughout the night, in addition to the grub and libations. I was awed, in particular, by blogaphile Jim’s gift to me: a CD entitled “A Little Night Music: an eclectic assortment for the Edgiest of Mamas.” The CD holds 120 songs! We’ve listened to it for much of the past 24, and it is wonderful. I have yet to not like a song on this compilation. Thanks, Jim!

The highlight of the night for me was hearing the erotic confession of my dear friend, Rio. Rio is a member of my book club and was at the beach with us when Ashvegas was guestblogging and wreaking havoc here on Edgy Mama.

Soooooo, Rio’s big confession: after much beach talk and speculation about the true identity of Ashvegas (I am, as always, pledged to silence), Rio had a dream about our fab blogger friend. In the dream, she and Ash were having a torrid, yes, smoking, affair. AND he looked just like Clive Owen. Mmmmmmm, yes. So, last night, in a moment of bravery, she came face-to-face with the infamous Ash and told him about her dream. No, he doesn’t much resemble Clive, at least in countenance , though he does have that rough and wry sense of humor that we so admire in the sexy Brit. Was Rio disappointed? Was she thrilled? We’ll see what further dreams bring to Rio. Which leads me to my wild blogger dreams of last night…

Nope, not going there.

We neglected to take photos of this blogger meetup, though it was, as always, colorful. Thanks to Syntax, Uptown, Sweet Tea, Screwy, Huw, Vespere, Theseus, Ash, Corky, Walker, Rio, and you other blogger-related souls who were brave enough to attend. For food, drink, and fellowship. Til we meet again.

I seem to have hit a chord with women around the world, all of us searching for that elusive essential, the perfect pair of blue jeans. After writing my boutique fantasy, I received many, many comments and e-mails from women, offering advice, empathy, fellowship, and support.

Today, I took one for the team. No, I did not find Jonathan, nor was I offered sparkling wine, but I met Jordan. And I’ll get $10 off my next purchase–and you know there will be one.

Again, on my friend Nancy’s advice (you’ve been forgiven, Nan, for sending me to Goody’s), I went to the maul (sic) and visited a store called Buckles.

Buckles, unfortunately, is a national chain, but Jose, the manager, assured me that there is no child labor involved in the manufacture of their clothes. The store prides itself on individuality in regards to styles and number of items. They only stock three or four of each shirt–a small, medium, and large–so running into someone in your town, wearing your shirt, who is the same size as you, is an impossibility. Thank god.

But, this, baby, was a good, not perfect, but good, blue jean experience. Upon walking into the store, I was immediately approached by the studly Jordan. I explained to him what I wanted, and he pulled a pair of jeans from the shining stack and said, “Why don’t you try these on for size?” I did, and they fit well, although not perfectly.

Appraising my hips, Jordan handed me another pair. Too big. Another. Uhhhh, too low-rise. I touched my toes for him to indicate the high potential for butt crack exposure. Sweetly, he didn’t gag. At least out loud.

After a couple more try-ons, I found a pair that fit beautifully. And looked good from behind, although I neglected to ask Jordan (who conveniently has a second job as a photographer’s assistant) to take a rear shot of me. I’m sure he was greatly relieved after my earlier calisthenics.

My only caveat with the jeans is the “I’ve been working on the farm, and I occasionally beat myself with chains” look. Jordan assured me that pre-abused jeans are in, and that these are hand-frayed (as are my other jeans–but by a four-year-old). At this point, Darius joined us and made a sweet comment about how great the jeans looked on my aging bod.

“Okay,” I said. “Bring me another pair that fit like this, but are darker.”

Thus, I revealed that I came of age in the 80s, when crisp, dark jeans were the rage.

Unfortunately, while Jordan found me another pair of jeans, I spotted a cool brown wool jacket, with unhemmed edges, a big collar, and lots of buttons. Yummy. Also, a pink and orange t-shirt that hit just at the hip while nestling my upper assets to some advantage. Uh-oh, am I getting paid for this story yet? Because I am spending for it. Just taking it for the team, girls.

The two pair of BKE-brand jeans that I bought were more expensive than Levi’s, but less than most designer brands, averaging about $60 per pair. I was happy to pay $20 extra bucks for a good fit and excellent service.

Isn’t Jordan a cutie? His only misstep was describing why the jeans fit so well (something about 56 different styles in the store, blah, blah). He said: “This brand is cut for wider hips and fuller thighs. You have the fuller thighs, but smaller hips.” Hmmmm. My hips aren’t particularly small, so that was sweet, but, Jordan, no woman likes to hear that she has fuller thighs. Even if it’s true.