His hand looks like it was mauled by a lion

I SURVIVED THE TWO-WEEK CHALLENGE
And it wasn't pretty, folks. You were there... you saw the carnage. I won't be challenging myself to do that again anytime soon. I sort of thought I might hit my stride and produce some good stuff. Nope. After day 5 things got ugly.

This would be easier if I were Husband. He does interesting things, like slice his hand in five places washing out a can for recycling, or light a cutting board on fire. And that was just today!

Snippets

CAN ANYONE PLEASE TELL ME
Where the cute clothes for fall are? Because all I'm seeing are 1. 80s throwback clothes that look sloppy and unflattering, and 2. same-old, same-old turtleneck sweaters and cashmere cardigans... good classics, but nothing that says, "Wow, is that new?"

STRANGELY SATISFYING
Was reading Men's Health sex advice for men. (An issue recently appeared in our house). After all the years of randomly flipping through Cosmo, it was nice to read something that made men feel that being good in bed was something that required intense study rather than just instinct and practice.

DOMESTIC GODDESS
In general, I try to do at least one productive thing each weeknight. Not that I'm Little Miss Do-Gooder, just that 15 minutes of cleaning does much to justify two episodes of CSI.

Tonight I was an overachiever, trimming viney bastards from lilacs, filing 7 months of bill stubs, scheduling the chimney sweep -- all the while reading 1.5 Glamours!

USEFUL BITS
Not Martha has all that useful domestic stuff you mean to make note of but always forget.
Guilty pleasures shopping blogs: Mighty Goods and Outblush.
Random tips from all people in all sorts of jobs: Tricks of the Trade

Wisdom from Walnut Grove

In order to feel like a real daily blogger, I took Friday and Saturday off. You know, like they do. Who blogs on the weekend?

As Husband and I are finally in the seventh season, I think it's time for:

LESSONS LEARNED FROM LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE (the TV show)
1. "Cash on the barrel." Although this is Pa's mantra, he breaks it all the time. And nothing spells crop-destroying storm/drought/windstorm like seed on credit.
2. Prairies look an awful lot like the California hills. Unless there's a mountain range I haven't heard of in southeast Minnesota.
3. There are many scenarios in farm life, approximately one per episode, that require Pa to appear shirtless.
4. Despite the open child-filled loft above their bed, Ma and Pa appear to have a smokin' sex life.
5. "God provides." (Ma's mantra). Provides a lot of fires, smallpox outbreaks, dead babies, drownings, and creepy men who are new to town, that is.
6. Mr. Edward's alcoholism is part of his charm.
7. The show doubles as a drinking game if one has a half-pint whenever Pa calls Laura by her treasured nickname.
8. I know he's old and wizened and all, but there's something a bit sexy about Doc Baker and his ability to cure anything from his black bag. Surely the men have thought similar about Miss Beadle or Miss Wilder, and their warm-hearted care and concern for every student?

The real challenge

The real challenge in blogging everyday is not thinking of something to write about.

And it's not the actual writing.

It's putting it out there for people to read.

Because what is more egotistical, more self-centered, than writing about yourself and posting it on the internet, presuming that other people will read it and possibility enjoy it? Do I really think that I'm that interesting? Do I really think anyone cares?

I would have been easier writing some anonymous column where no one really knew me. Where I didn't care what individual people thought.

And I know that the key to having a well-read blog is divulging intimate details. Your real name, the city you live in, what you do for a living. Your dating/sex life. Your deep dark fears. Even your bathroom habits. And I'm not willing to do that.

The hardest part of the two-week challenge (not over yet!) has been getting over myself.

Socks older than you are

TACOHEAD RELICS
I have a different statute of limitations on clothing than most people. Sure, I get new clothes every season... but if I like something, it sticks around. I'm not really proud of this... I realize that my co-workers are tired of seeing the same black bag every day for five years. But I already replaced my winter purse for them, so they'd better deal.

Other members of the Hall of Fame:
-Favorite black sweater that I wear all the time - 7 years old (and kickin'!)
-Husband - 9 years old (Seems young in comparison)
-Pajamas that I wore last night - 9 years old (Bought to take to college)
-Winter black wool pants - 10 years old
-Purple paddle hairbrush - 14 years old
-Umbro shorts that I wear several times a week - 15 years old (long live blue check!)

More like meow

I'm trying to hurry up and post before Husband gets home and we have our one hour together before falling swiftly and convulsively to sleep... lately I have been like a single woman again, and boy, cooking for one is not where it's at. Too easy is it to make a dinner of say, ice cream, or crackers. The production of cooking and even worse, cleaning, is too much for one person on a daily basis.

But tonight, I prevailed! A real dinner, chock full of bok choy, asian eggplant, and zucchini.

I am woman, hear me roar.

But tonight I am also little girl, spoiled yet again by my parents, who met me a nearby mall to pass on a giant box of goodies from Costco -- pita chips, Nut Thins, oatmeal, Bake Naked granola, Dubliner cheese, wheels of Laughing Cow, quiches, Ghiradelli chocolates, Advil, etc. But I resisted their offers of a spin around Macy's, their unused coupons burning a hole in their pockets.

Roar?

Etiquette

A few months ago, in a fit of perversity, I read Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior. I guess, like with all reading, I like to see how other people live.

Apparently, other people carry handkerchiefs.

And have a very specific set of personalized embossed stationary.

I did learn a few things of interest:

- A woman is never Mrs. Firstname Lastname, i.e. Mrs. Laura Bush. She is Mrs. George Bush or Ms. Laura Bush or just Mrs. Bush. According to Miss Manners, some people find the convention sexist, but I like it because it encourages the use of Ms., which I prefer for its neutrality, to Mrs. But to each her own.

- The eternal holiday question resolved: Platters of food are passed to the left.
- The eternal event question resolved: Nametags go on the right.

- The proper way to eat asparagus is with your hands.
- Eating spaghetti by twirling the fork into the spoon is improper. Use only the fork.

There you have it, folks. You're now fully prepared to go to spaghetti and asparagus dinner and not make a fool of yourself. Where would you be without me?

Emergency back-up plan

Solutions to blogger's block:

1. Steal entries from other people. (A common crime in the blogosphere).
2. Post entries from my old diaries, c. 7th grade, perhaps (There is the Collected Works of Tacohead, 3rd grade-senior year in a box at my parent's house).
3. Record all conversations verbatim. (Ex. Tacohead: Good morning! Husband: I was a little sleepy last night. Blogging already? The day has just begun! Tacohead: Tell me about it.)
4. Pretend I am CuteOverload and post photos of my cats.
5. Better yet, make ASCII art of my cat. Oh wait, that's been done.
6. Pretend I am PostSecret and make lots of postcards using all the secrets I can think of that my friends have told me. (Hee-hee.)
7. Record my daily schedule. (8:43 wake. 9:04 rise from bed and shower. 9:20 clean kitchen cupboard. 9:34 pay bills 9:41 make grocery list...)
8. Have fake "guest bloggers" write in.
9. Start stripping so I'll have things to write about. Wait. That's been done, too.
10. Start an advice column, Dear Tacohead, and invite others to "spill the beans" by writing in with their problems.

This entry was brought to you by Hot and Spicy Cheez-its, the snack of wives everywhere waiting for their husbands to wake up and go to a coffeeshop with them to read the paper.

Feeling the burn (or Day 5)

It's day five and things are getting tough. I had created a stash of partially written entries and ideas but now I've culled the "good" ones and have been sitting here for half an hour, reading anything within grabbing distance and not getting anywhere.

Any requests?

------

One of the authors of a blog I read occasionally does this thing she calls an Uberlist -- or a giant to-do list sorted by categories (on the link, scroll to Aug. 23). Inspired by her brilliance and my own love of lists, I expanded and consolidated various jotted lists to start on my own Uberlist. As I'm still working on it, I won't post it all, but I will post the 3 things I can already check off!

Cooking: Learn to bake hearty wheat bread (accomplished today, hurrah!)
Knitting: Knit something this fall (started purple hat last night)
Writing: Challenge self to blog every day for two weeks (in progress)

There's nothing like fall for getting things done.

Well, off to cook some fantastic sounding split pea soup to go with the bread.

Gold standard

When I was in high school one of the guides that led the canoe trips I went on got married. Everyone said what a great couple they were, and that they must have so much fun together that they could hardly fall asleep at night.

Since then that has defined and symbolized everything I've ever wanted in a relationship -- someone whose company I enjoy so much that I can hardly bear to stop spending time with them and fall asleep.

I won't pretend that after four years of marriage every night is laugh riot (although Tacohead was certainly born of one such night of silliness) Indeed, before bed is not usually our fun jokey time. We're both typically pretty mellow, engrossed in books.

But we've certainly had and do have our times of side-splitting laughter, of uncontrollable giggles that deter us from whatever we're trying to do (I'll let you use your imagination here).

But I value the times of silence, of understanding, where words and jokes aren't necessary, as much as the fun.

And I also value a good night's sleep.

No excuses

It all started with the ponytail.

Whap. Whap. Whap. With every step my mean-spirited ponytail slapped against my head. Why is it that some days your ponytail hangs meekly, and other days it turns evil?

Then, as we started running, I realized I had to pee. Too bad! I'd just have to hold it for an hour of bouncing up and down.

Then I was thirsty. Oops! Too late!

Then the combination of yogurt and chips and salsa that I'd eaten made my stomach ache. (Dairy before jalapeno, muy no bueno).

And damn, when did it get so humid?

Sometimes it seems like everything conspires against your best efforts to exercise. But today I had no excuses, since before we'd left we had a lecture about the psychology of running. The speaker, a gold-medal winning speed walker, was energetic and spirited, with a body type often called "Mediterranean" or "curvy." The thought of her breezing by all her opponents who underestimated her endurance made me smile.

Just two weeks ago, she'd had major surgery - a complete hysterectomy. And tonight she was running.

After that, there was no way I was letting a petulant ponytail get me down. And sure enough, like she promised, by mile 3 all my woes were forgotten.

Achilles heel

Outside of random taunts from boys and stray whispers from snobby girls, I was fortunate to escape significant childhood torment. I was not the girl shunned in sixth grade who eventually transferred to a private school. No one ever tried to give me a "breezer," (i.e., to pull down my pants from behind). Although part of me wants to give myself credit for this, I know it has a lot to do with luck.

Because at age four, I was unlucky.

I spent my afternoons then playing with neighborhood pals Peter and Michelle. Usually Peter and I would cut through the hole in my hedge, passing by the lilac bush area that we called The Yoda Zone, and cross the street to Michie's house (We called her Michie-Mushy when we were feeling mean). I don't remember anything about those afternoons except for their favorite game, the one they played over and over: hide my boot in the freezer.

For some reason, this would make me cry. My boot... in the freezer.

They'd taunt me with it, not giving it back, watching me get frustrated and teary-eyed.

One day I'd had enough. Wearing my one boot, I hobbled home through the slushy snow. I'm not sure what happened, but Michie and Peter and I went on to spend many years playing happily together, and they never played tricks on me again.

...Maybe what happened was us meeting Jordan, the neighborhood kid several years our junior who kicked his own butt when he ran and whose mom called out "Yoo-hoo, Jordie" when it was time to come in.

For him, we invented a new game. Whenever he came to play, we'd yell "Jordan alert! Jordan alert!" as we ran away and hid.

But hey, at least he got to keep his shoes.

Friendship tests (or Day 1)

In appreciation of those bloggers who write daily or near daily and to personally stretch myself, I am embarking on the 2006 StolenBike Blog Challenge! That is, I am challenging myself to write everyday for two weeks. I don't promise to be thrilling, but I do promise to be there. Want to join me? Take the challenge!

So my friend, Kloumr, to be precise, asked me many weeks ago who I considered to be my closest friend, and I was oddly taken back. Not that I don't have friends, but like people who begin speeches by defining basic terms, I got hung up on the definition.

So I came up with the following definitions:
- The person with whom you share your problems
- The person you like to spend your time with, i.e. hang out weekly
- The person you depend on in times of need, the one who will always be there

But then things got complicated. Isn't hanging out with someone a lot as important as confiding in someone? Both are crucial needs. And aren't the three mutually exclusive in a way, i.e. the one you depend on in times of need isn't usually the one you hang out with a lot, because you need an outside perspective. And you sometimes don't talk about all your problems with people you see a lot because they're too close or involved in things.

I suppose, if I gave in to my love of spreadsheets and formulas, I could arrive at an answer by weighing each criteria equally and assigning candidates a score on a scale of one to ten.
But that would defeat the purpose.

Would you be friends with someone who ranked you on a preference indicator?