January 14, 2008

Pleasure Yourself With Podcasts

Do you run into the same problem I do? I want to share the bloggy love with my friends and family, but lots of people are incapable of locating blogs and reading them, or just don’t have the time. (Hell, I know people who still haven’t discovered email, but that’s a whole nother topic).

However, almost everyone has access to an iPod and is familiar with the book on tape concept. When the two unite (by civil union, holy matrimony or just shacking up) the result is a PODCAST: a recorded version of some of my popular posts or me just freewheeling on the microphone. (Bill thinks this is a bad idea.)

So far I’ve recorded three podcasts: the well-loved sex talk, the guffaw-inducing Doorknob game, and the tragic war on acne.

But Lord, do I ever have big plans for this new medium! I’m happy to record my old stories, and that could eat up lots of time. But sometimes I encounter unbelievable tales of injustice or engage in frolicking hijinks and I never have time to write them up properly. It wouldn’t take me any time at all to record them and post them as mini radio spots. After all, I’ve only been working on setting up this whole podcast thing since October.

Also, I am always getting questions from you all in my email, and I’ll intend to answer them, but then a boy will fillet himself with a fish knife or another will start talking like he’s been raised in the ‘hood, and I’ll put it off.

A podcast would be just the place to tackle specific topics, and you could listen to them on your own schedule.

Here’s one proposed topic:

“Is it acceptable for a suburban white boy who’s just been picked up from his elementary school by his minivan-driving mother to answer the query, “How was school today?” with the response, “It was pimpin’, yo.”??”

or

“What are YOUR New Year’s Resolutions, if any, Anne Glamore?”

And, I have emails festering in my inbox wanting to know what books I read when I was expecting (I wonder if they’re still in print?) and whether I have any child-rearing books to recommend. I may be short on tits, but I’m long on opinions, so I have a little sumpin’ sumpin’ to say about all this, as well as my secret formula for butt rash and secret recipe for what to stick in the bottle to get the baby to sleep another 5 seconds. (No, it’s not gin.)

Please, feel free to submit other podcast ideas to my email: anneglamoreATgmailDOTcom. How about if you put “podcast idea” in the subject line to help me stay organized??

The ideas are the easy part– let’s talk about the dynamics of listening to the podcasts so you can test it out for yourself.

1) Some of you are lucky enough to be able to see the gray player on my left sidebar. (Hopefully all of you will fit in this category soon.) Choose a story by clicking on it and press the “play” button. You’ll hear me telling that story over the computer! Zowie!

2) Another option is to go to my podcast blog and click on the thing that says “POD” and the broadcast will start playing on your computer. See how each story has a picture of the Anne Glamore you know and love, like this:

That means it’s me re-telling a previously posted Tale.

But when I go off on something new, more along the lines of a radio show, I’m going to use a picture that shows me in podcasting mode, like

or maybe if something really exciting is happening that causes me to shout and my eyes to glow red.

I’ve submitted these to iTunes and when they’re approved I’ll let you know how to find them. You’ll be able to subscribe to the podcasts and automatically get updates.

So y’all, do me a favor. Let me know if you can see the gray player or not, and whether it works. Let me know what browser you’re using, too. (IE, Firefox, etc). Also, if you’d test the link to the pod blog and see how that goes, I’d be much obliged. Better to get all the bugs out on the front end, right? You can leave comments about the pod blog over there, OR SO IT SAYS.

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A year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: I Talk To Grownups And They Listen

November 13, 2007

A Cheater’s Guide To Spiffing Up Your House

WARNING! This hint for making your house look fresh should NOT be read by interior decorators or perfectionists, as the system I advocate may cause you to retch.

Tools: Can of white latex paint, old newspaper, paint brushes of various sizes, paint stirrer if stirring is important, paper towels, painter’s tape. No ladder! (A small brush for pretending to paint the trim around windows and a sponge brush for quickly running over the baseboards are great).

Don’t worry about second coats, thickness of paint, or even doing an entire door. The theme here is that women will only look at the walls from their eyes down, and men will not look at them at all.

Background:

Our baseboards and trim were sparkling white when we moved into out house in January 1998. Five minutes later Finn had run around the kitchen a thousand times, dizzy with excitement about his new home, falling against the walls in the process. Two days later, after we’d carried the twins in and out of the house in their car seats, clumsily bumping them against the trim, it became apparent that underneath the shiny white surface was dark wood, waiting to be unleashed.

Unleash it we did. Through the years, there’s been wrestling in the kitchen, resulting in the loss of Porter’s two front teeth and lots of paint near the door between the kitchen and the den. There’s been climbing on the walls, resulting in more of the same. And there have been the activities of daily living: lugging in sacks of groceries, carrying laundry to the washer, watching Porter fall off the counter, taking the ant farm with him, and wondering for a split-second whether priority should be given to catching the big-headed ants, mopping up the blood, or heading to the hospital. But you’ve read the stories. You can look at the woodwork for yourself.

This has been cleaned (!)with 409. It just needs to be repainted.

Ditto. Nasty, scuffed. One year I covered all the dark scuff marks with Liquid Paper but that is NOT the method I am advocating here.

Method:

1. Buy some white latex paint and a few paint brushes of assorted sizes. Also grab some painter’s tape to mark off the walls if they are a different color than the trim or your kids will be “helping.”

You could try to match the white of your trim to the white of the paint you’re buying, but that sort of ruins the spirit of this project. It’s much better to do as I did and just have your husband grab a gallon of whatever he sees and bring it home.

2. Stick newspaper on the floor and tape the walls.

3. This is the second most important step– decide ahead of time how you’re going to handle this psychologically with your children. Will they be painting as a punishment? Will they have to observe you painting for five or ten minutes, watching you have all the fun, before you grudgingly let them participate? Will you market painting as a valuable life skill that once perfected, can be performed for money, rain or shine, drought or no drought?

If you have toddlers I don’t recommend this project for you, unless you have some alone time.

4. Start painting. If you’re anal like I am, you might wash the walls first to get the ancient glops of dried applesauce off the molding. Alternatively, save time by skipping this step, paint over it and the food will blend right in.

I chose to sell this as a marketable skill, which inspired Finn to finish the foyer, Drew to participate for thirty minutes, and thrilled Porter, but not enough to keep him away from his pogo stick for more than eight minutes.

5. This is not “real” painting. Start at about eye level and paint lightly down the woodwork, morphing into a semblance of a true paint job at about your waist line or wherever the nicks start.

At the bottom, just paint low enough to get the scuff marks, but don’t worry about getting it all perfectly aligned with the floor. No one looks down there. The less you mess around way down low, the less you’ll spill on the floor and have to clean up.

Wow - it looks like this area just got a professional paint job!

THE BIG REVEAL:

If you look closely, you can see where the bright white and the cream meet up on the woodwork. I’m only showing you. A guest inspecting your molding so intently needs a drink or a job. Send him to carve the turducken. (Click to enlarge)

On this door I painted the bottom, then used the tiny paintbrush to swipe around the knob and lock (grimy there!) and the bottom of the lowest row of panes. Then I sort of blended the paint up into the higher regions of the door and called it a day. It doesn’t look perfect, but that is not what I was going for. (In the photo you see a big white stripe on the left between the hinges, but in real life, with no flash, you don’t notice it much at all.)

If you’re really in a rush, forget the kids, the newspaper and the tape, and just dab white paint on the scuffs. Use dim lights when guests come over if you’re paranoid.

Happy spiffing!

I posted this as part of Works For Me Wednesday at Shannon’s!

Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Cleaning Out My Closet

June 27, 2007

The Simple Squalid Water Pumper

The extreme drought conditions are making things tough on everyone.  The grass is brown and crispy.  Carwashes are closed.  Our city has received 16 inches less than normal rainfall for the year if I’m reading the local weather station correctly.

Don’t take my word for it:

French blue hydrangeas my mother gave me dying of dehydration

Patch of fried grass by mailbox

Under the mandatory watering (or non-watering) guidelines in place now, odd-numbered addresses can handwater lawns and gardens before 10 am and after 10 pm on Tuesdays and Fridays.  I’ve gotten Porter to water in the morning a couple of times, but none of us has been enthused about going outside in the dark to hose down perennials.

We’ve been saving water from baths and showers and taking it outside in buckets, but that has quickly grown tiresome.

Thus, this weekend I encouraged Porter’s resourcefulness (Dear Lord, I truly will die if he becomes a mama’s boy as he has threatened) and we came up with a  fantastic invention to recycle water for the plants I want to save.

THE SIMPLE SQUALID WATER PUMPER

Here are the items you will need for your Simple Squalid Water Pumper:

1. Small submersible pump with garden hose attachment
2. Surge protector or extension cord
3. Garden hose
4. Walkie-talkies
5. Hammer and nails
6. Stakes
7. Foam board, sharpies and stakes
Also, tub of post-shower water:

(obviously my shower due to clarity of water)
INSTRUCTIONS
A. Screw the hose onto the pump and place the pump into the bathtub.


B. If a child is involved, get a surge protector and turn it into the off position.  Plug the pump into the surge protector and the protector plug into the wall.  At this point the pump will not start pumping until the switch on the surge protector is turned on.

C. Snake the hose from the tub

out the door and to the area to be watered.

D. Use the walkie-talkie to tell the pumper to hit the switch.

E. We have water!

F. We had enough to water four of the five hydrangeas I care about.  That was the most water they’d seen in weeks.

The man at the hardware store thinks we can hook the pump to the drain on the washing machine, but that project is for another day.  I’m excited about it though, because we use Tide with Febreze and pumping that water is bound to be a beautifully scented experience.

G. Once you’ve established that your system works, you must make a sign to alert passersby that when you are watering outside approved times you are using recycled water and should not be turned in to the water police. This is the most crucial part of the project.  People in suburbia are pissed off when they cannot water their lawns.  Zoysia fanatics wake in the middle of the night to lovingly douse their sod, while jealous neighbors lurk in bushes trying to catch them.  It’s no laughing matter.  Fines and jail time are possible for those violating the watering rules.

Do people actually risk surcharges, fines, jail and humiliation by watering on unapproved days?

I’m not accusing anyone, but let me show you the difference in some lawns in MY neighborhood:

A. Poor Horticulturists or Avid Water Conservationists?

    
B. Lucky Lawn Owners or Blatant Cheaters?

Cast your votes and share your water-saving tips!

June 19, 2007

Old Bathwater

Looks like I can quit forcing Porter to haul buckets of dirty bathwater outside to pour on my perennials, for the moment at least, because it’s raining. 

Unfortunately, the paper says it’s not going to rain much, and we’re still under Stage Three drought watering restrictions.  We can water by hand every Tuesday and Friday before 10 am and after 10 pm.  I can never seem to get to the hose at those hours, which is why we have two bathtubs full of nasty water, which can be used at any time.

At this point all I’m interested in saving are the French blue hydrangeas and rose campion my mother gave me.  The grass is brown and crispy and I just don’t give a damn.

Will the Pantene Pro-V Shampoo and Conditioner in the water kill my plants, or give them shiny, voluminous foliage?

Shouldn’t Porter, the inventor/mama’s boy, be able to come up with an easier way to get the water from the tub to the plants?

Suggestions are welcome!

May 3, 2007

Marathon Mom’s Airport Adventure

She irritated him the first time they met.  They were both at the airport, sitting next to each other at the shoeshine stall.  She carelessly set down her coffee, which spilled and splattered all over his new cell phone.  She apologized, and he accepted but didn’t mean it.

Later they eyed each other warily across the terminal.  She looked familiar to him, though he knew he’d never seen her before.  He rose from his seat and stretched, then approached her.

“Are you related to Anne Glamore?” he inquired.  “You look a lot like her.”

She wasn’t, but Marathon Mom was on her way to New York to help care for me after my spine surgery.  She had never been to the city, and despite my assurances to the contrary, pictured muggers lurking in every shadowy doorway and rapists waiting to attack her as she took out the garbage.  Nonetheless, she was willing to risk her life to help a friend in need.

He introduced himself as Chris.  He told her that he’d grown up with Bill in Auburn, specialized in insurance, and had been working with us to coordinate our benefits for the out-of-state surgery.

There were surreptitious glances at left hands.  She was going through a divorce, but still had on her wedding band.  He’d been divorced for a while and wore no ring.

When Marathon Mom arrived in New York and told Bill and me about her encounter, we fell over ourselves (not literally– I was confined to bed) rhapsodizing about Chris’s outstanding qualities.  When Bill wasn’t around, I waxed poetic about Chris’s impressive swimmer’s build and outstanding hair.  Marathon Mom was flustered and began furiously scrubbing the floors.

Bill’s mom called later to check on my post-operative progress.  He told her the “what a small world story” of one of my best friends meeting Chris, one of his best friends, at the airport.

While Marathon Mom nursed me back to health, Chris had a disagreeable evening.  He flew to Florida for business and ended up in an impersonal hotel.  An hour later he was sitting dejectedly on the sofa, alone in his boxers, drinking scotch and channel surfing.   Although he attempted to blow-dry it, his cell phone resolutely refused to work.  His young son would already be in bed.  He grimaced, and decided it was worth paying the hotel’s outrageous surcharges to reach out and touch the only person he could think of to call: his mom.

Chris’s mom listened while he moaned about his shitty day and the broken cell phone.  She was usually sympathetic, so he was surprised to hear her say, “It doesn’t sound like that bad a day to me. Didn’t you meet a girl in the airport?”

He stammered his assent, and said, “Mom, she was wearing a wedding ring.  And how did you know?”

“I just got back from a scrapbooking workshop and Bill’s mom was there.  She says that girl won’t be wearing a ring much longer!” his mom trilled.  “I can’t wait to meet her!”

Their first date was not a huge success.  Marathon Mom had come down from her initial dating high and was freaked out about the fact that she was divorced and single.  She was cold and distant.  Chris felt rebuffed.

Months passed.  Marathon Mom went on other dates, some of which were so atrocious that we snicker about them to this very day when she is not around.  Chris was thrust into the background.

True love eluded Marathon Mom.

It’s been said that history is just fables that have been agreed upon.  Every couple has a right to establish the milestones of their romance any way they desire.  Marathon Mom and Chris decreed that their genuine first date took place many months after the pseudo-first date referenced above.  This first date played like a cheesy chick flick.  He took her to dinner and they talked for hours.

Just before she ran her first marathon, he gave her an encouraging card and a gift certificate for a massage.  A couple of weeks later they went to lunch and he brought her favorite cupcakes with homemade buttercream icing.  There were three inside the box, one for her and one for each of her two children.

One thing led to another, and then there was this.

Best wishes to the new family!