Paper Napkin

Tomorrow something longer, tonight I'm tired.

Good Evening. Here is a picture of Groucho Marx without his grease-paint eyebrows and mustache.

In case you were wondering what he looked like. Today I wondered what he looked like, so there you have it. It's a soulful picture, I think.

Day 2

OK! I'm all ready to write. Yep. Yessiree, the words are just going to come pouring out of my brain.

Wow. My fingernails are getting really long. I hate it when they hit the keys like this. Better trim them. I can never find the clippers when I need them....

OK! Nails clipped. Aaaalll ready. Except, I need a soda. In my Domo cup. Aw man, the kids drank all the soda. Again? Rats. Wait! I think I remember seeing a can of 7up on my dresser. Sure it's a few days old, but desperate times... Crap. No fizz left. Well, I have some Perrier in the fridge...

Mixing Perrier water with flat diet 7up that's been sitting on your dresser for 3 days isn't a great combo. Even if it is in your Domo cup. I mean, it'll do in a pinch, but its not the drink they're going to be serving at trendy night clubs. 

Alrighty. 

Today I ventured over to Amazon.com to pick up a few things. I bought my beloved a couple of birthday presents, and I bought the girls some jeans, and then I bought some cans of apple juice to pack in the kids' lunches.

Amazon is pretty much the exact replica of an old fashioned general store. Remember on Little House on the Prairie*, how Laura and the family would all pile in the wagon, hitch up Mr Jingles,** and head to the Olsen's mercantile? Mr Olsen would pat their head and give them free penny candy? And then on the ride home, they'd talk about what a bitch Mrs. Olsen was, and how they felt so sorry for Mr. Olsen, the doormat.

Yep, shopping at Amazon is exactly like that, except there's no camaraderie, because you're alone. And there are no handshakes, or head pats, or free penny candy, but there is Super Saver shipping! And of course, you don't have to deal with Mrs. Olsen looking down her pointy beak at you because Nellie is wearing a pink satin dress, and you're wearing a dingy gingham dress. Or in my case, yoga pants. Dingy gigham yoga pants. You can order those on Amazon too.

*the TV show, not the book
**not the horse's real name.

Live at the Sands! One Month Only!

I'm resurrecting my blog for NaBloPoMo

So I guess that means I'm like one of those has-been celebrities, touting the miracle of face cream, or gym equipment, or my personally designed porcelain doll collection on HSN.

Or maybe I'm like one of those washed-up Vegas performers, wearing a tux with too-wide lapels smudged with cigarette ash, who smells vaguely of Aqua Net and desperation. You walk down the strip, and pass a sandwich board announcing their "limited engagement" which means they needed a gig to pay their ex's alimony. You mumble to yourself, "I thought he was dead."

I'm like the Andy Williams of NaBloPoMo.

But there's a sort of freedom in that. I can simply enjoy what I'm doing without worrying about how it will be interpreted, or how valuable it will be, or what the end result will bring. So shrug your shoulders and shuffle on down the strip, or come on in-- tickets are cheap. Drink too many Mai Tais and heckle me, or wait outside for my autograph. Either way I get to sing my old favorites, and revel in the smattering of applause.

So Long, and thanks for all the fishes.

I'm conducting an experiment in quitting. I want to see what it's like to not have a blog.

5 years ago I started this here blog. I was crazy as a loon at the time. I lived in Texas, where I did not fit in at all. My husband was in graduate school, and was gone so much I actually had to pretend he was on military deployment so that when I saw him I could be pleasantly surprised instead of resentful. I had 3 children under 6, and I yelled a lot. I was depressed. I knew no one, and it was a lot of fun reading blogs, writing posts, commenting on other blogs. It was a lot of fun feeling like a part of a community. It was a very bright spot in my life.

But my life is very different (read: much better) now, the blogging community has changed a lot (read: not for the better, in my opinion), and I'm not much a part of it any more. I don't have the free time I used to to spend on the internet, so I don't participate as much as I did.

Frankly, I didn't make the transition from blogging buddy to friend very well. I sent and received some presents, I had some phone conversations, but not much more. Even when I had the chance to interact face to face, I often didn't. It just felt too weird. I guess I need friendships to generate more organically or something. Maybe I'm just an odd duck.

Lately in the blogosphere some tragic things have happened. There have been deaths, divorces, job losses, and the recurrence of mental and physical illness, and I really haven't been able to offer much support other than a donation, or some kind words. Some beautiful things have happened too. Marriages and births, new pets and new jobs, and I really haven't been able to offer more than heartfelt congratulations.

I am a primate. Primates like to verbalize, and hug, and point. We like to give eye contact, and pick nits from our friends' fur. The best aspect of friendship is just hanging out. So much of myself and yourself is missing when we interact via social media, it doesn't satisfy the primal me.

But it's also been amazing to meet so many great people, and at least get a peek in the window of your lives. I never would have known Liz or Sam or Dana existed if it weren't for blogging, and my life is richer because of them and others. No matter how limited blogging is, and no matter how much I hate the word blog, it's wonderful. As you can see, I'm conflicted, which is nothing new, which is why this is only an experiment in quitting*. We'll see how it goes.

If I do blog again, I'll probably start fresh somewhere else, so email me at papernapkin@gmail.com if you want my new address.

One is silver and the other is gold

The dictionary defines a friend as a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

How does someone qualify as your friend?
Do you have to know them for a certain length of time before you award them the title?
Do you have to meet them in person?
Can you be friends with someone you never socialize with outside of a certain setting-- like your hairdresser or coworker?
What commonalities do you have to have with someone in order to be friends? Hobbies, philosophy, temperament, humor, politics, desires, dreams, outlook?
Do you have friends you've know all your life?
How many friends do you have?
Do you choose some people as your friends because they model what you want to be like?

I'm curious about the nature of your friendships. Tell me about their alchemy and composition.

The Last Mispronunciation

The other day Will and I were driving in the car. We drove by this gorgeous new hospital-- seriously the architecture makes me want to admit myself. As we drove by I heard him say "hospital."

"What, honey?"

"Nothing, I was just reading that sign."

"What did it say?"

"Hospital."

"What?"

"Hospital," he repeated.

Until that moment Will had always pronounced the word "hostiball." I never corrected my kids mispronunciations. I always thought they were adorable and I knew sooner or later they'd correct themselves.

When Emily was little she used to say caterpuddle instead of caterpillar, and a dog's tail was a puddle too. I guess because a dog's tail looks a little like a giant caterpillar.

Foods were always a gold mine of mispronunciations. Granola bars were gorilla bars, yogurt was yogrit, grilled cheese was girl cheese.

There were many more; I wish I'd recorded them better.

Hostiball was the last one.

The very last word my children consistently mispronounced had now righted itself.

I'm so thankful for every one of those mispronunciations. Each one gave me a lift, like sitting in the yard, and looking up to find a butterfly on your knee.

They stood like landmarks; points of reference showing how beautifully my children had managed to navigate the rocky terrain of language and human interaction, and how far they still had to go.

I marked the moment in silence. The wide field adjacent to the hospital slipped past my window; I made my way through the intersection, past homes, and a brick strip mall, and kept going.

Questions

I sometimes worry about Haley. She's the middle kid, which I think is a tough placement. She sometimes pretends she's more unflappable than she really is. She... how shall I put this? She believes rules are elastic, like a trampoline, and should be blithely bounced upon. So she gets corrected more. Or at least I feel that way.

We try to take our kids out for one-on-one time, and this week I took Haley out to get a smoothie. We sat and talked. Sometimes I ask questions that are open ended to get a feel for how the kids are feeling. Things like: What's one thing you would change about our family? Or what's your favorite thing about our family? Other stuff too, but the family ones are the only thing coming to mind right now.

So I said (bracing myself for her response), "I want to ask you a couple of questions. Who do you think gets in trouble, or gets corrected most in our family?"
"Will. Because you always have to talk to him about his rude tone of voice."
(Whew, one down, I thought.)
"Hmm, that's interesting. And, you know, your dad and I try to make things as fair as we can among the three of you, but if you had to pick somebody, who do you think gets treated the best."
"Duh! Me!" She exclaimed. "You know, 'cause I get a lot of special stuff."

Boy did I breathe a sigh of relief, that that's her perception. I think I'll ask Will and Emily the same question, and hopefully they'll think somebody else gets the reprimands while they get the good stuff.

____________________

Most evenings when we sit down to dinner we have a "conversation question". This is due to the fact that Aaron and I are rotten conversation starters. We can sustain a conversation, but we're bad at introducing a topic. Most of the time we don't feel like talking about the newest puffle at Club Penguin, or which Jonas Brothers song is the best (answer: none), so we conjure this little artifice to get the conversation moving. Sometimes the question is something I think of during the day, or we have a couple of question books we keep on the dining table to help us out.

I've written here and on Twitter about the differences between Emily and Haley. (Those links are worth clicking.) And the responses to tonight's question were pretty characteristic.

Me: Tonight's question is, "If, like the newspaper or milk, you could have anything of your choice delivered to your doorstep every morning, what would it be?"
Haley: A million dollars.
Me: Wait a minute. You'd want a million dollars delivered to your door everyday?
Haley: Yep.
Me: What would you possibly need that much money for?
Haley: Dude, it's money.
Me: ...
Aaron: How about you Emily, what would you want delivered everyday to your door?
Emily: A salad.
Me: A salad? You can have anything you want.
Emily: Well, not just any salad, a really yummy fresh salad. You can never have too much salad.
Me: ...

These kids slay me.

By the way, what would you have delivered everyday? (I said, "something inspiring wrapped up in a beautiful package.")

Sixes and Sevens, now with more elipses

I fancy myself a person of superlative decision-making skills.

Go ahead, give me a dilemma. Ask me to choose something, anything.

Except maybe which stocks to invest in. Judging from my most recent 401K statement, I should have just opened a Take All The Neighborhood Children To Disney On Ice fund instead. I would've ended up with about the same amount of money, and been in slightly less pain-- though not much. Besides, choosing stocks is more about predicting the future than making good decisions, and I never claimed to have that gift. So I can be broke and still have good analytical skills... or something... where was I going with this?

Oh yes, right, decisions.

When I make a decision, I take a look at the big picture, I weigh the pros and cons, and consider the people involved. I take a passing glance at my feelings, but try not to let them influence unduly, unless the decision is one of personal preference (ie: chocolate or vanilla? Vanilla-- pfft, give me a hard one). I try to listen to my gut, because when I ignore it I almost always end up in a big pot of trouble. This is the path I walk, which leads me to Resolutionville.

The times I have the most difficulty making decisions is when I can't move beyond Wishing Things Were Different. This is the large tree that sometimes falls across the path on the way to Resolutionville. If I can't Accept The Way Things Are, and be clear and honest about assessing my situation, then the path is blocked.

And that's where I found myself at 3:30 this morning. Mulling over why I'm X when I'd like to be Z, like those other people. You know, those people over there, with the greener grass? I could've been Z, but I would've had to do A, B, and C, which I was uncomfortable with. But now I'm wondering if I should've done, or maybe should still do A, B, and C. But what would doing A, B, and C cost me? Would I like Z if I got there? Is X so bad?

Etc, etc, on it went like that. And then I thought, "I don't really know all the ins and outs of what I should have done or not done, or what I should do now. But I do know this is not a good feeling. What is this feeling I'm feeling? Ambivalence. Ambivalence is not a good feeling... It's not a bad feeling either." And then I giggled, because I entertain me.

And then I thought, Elton John should have written a song called "I Guess That's Why They Call It Ambivalence" which would go like this...

I Guess That's Why They Call It Ambivalence

Deciding which way,
Is taking me forever.
Between you and me
I can honestly say
I wish that I were more clever.

My acumen
is nothing to brag about
Oh no it's not
Cause if I were smart
I would shit
or get off the pot

And I guess that's why they call it ambivalence,
Time on my hands is spent weighing equivalence,
Furrowing my brow,
Feeling conflicted,
I make a decision
then contradict it
And I guess that's why they call it ambivalence

(Other silly songs I've written are here and here.)

Being Chicken Little

Sometimes I have generalized anxiety. It's brought on by things like trying to decide if we're moving when our lease is up in May, having eight dollars in the bank 'til Friday, feeling the prelude to old age when I try to open a spaghetti sauce jar, ordering college transcripts so I can renew my teaching license, making doctor appointments.

Fear is like a drop of black ink in a cold bath; it diffuses, billows like clouds, until all the water is gray. I usually try to escape by stuffing my face and re-reading Harry Potter, and I automatically stop exercising. This is akin to escaping a hotel fire by spraying your body with Pam before you leave your room.

I don't want to be like this. I want to be adventurous and smiling. I want to run my life, instead of my life running me, or trying to run away from the unpleasant bits of life. When potentially scary or dreadful scenarios run through my sleek stainless steel computer brain, with its blinking lights and bleep, blop, bloop sounds (yes, my computer brain is very like a 50's sci-fi movie computer) after it analyzes all the data, I want the strip of paper it spits out to read "FIGHT" not "FLIGHT."

It always reads flight.

So I will try again today. (Is there anything more exhausting than trying again?) I have been unsuccessful for the past two days, but today I will try not to let my big feelings determine my actions. I will try to remember that they're just big feelings, and that tomorrow I might feel completely differently. I'll have a hot shower and a strong cup of tea. I'll take myself to the fabulous toy shop downtown. I'll take a walk outside, and prove to myself that I'm OK. On my walk I'll see the sun is still in the sky. I'll see dogs, and any world that has dogs in it is a good world. I'll anthropomorphize the mountains. I'll wave at them, and they will greet me with a friendly grunt. They'll doff their snowy cap at me, which in Mountonian means, "if there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

All's well that ends well

I married a hypochondriac. A lovable, funny hypochondriac, but a hypochondriac none the less.  For the last month he's been dying of colon cancer. He went to his doctor, who ran a bunch of tests, and found nothing wrong. The doctor wouldn't give him a colonoscopy, because it hasn't been 5 years since his last one. So he went to a GI specialist, who scheduled a colonoscopy and an endoscopy.

Now it's not that there's nothing wrong with Aaron. He does have a hiatal hernia, and some issues with his innards. But he most definitely does not have cancer. Nor has he had cancer the other 82 times he's been convinced he had cancer.

So Thursday night we had a prep party. This is where we all stand around in the kitchen while he drinks his disgusting prep liquid, and make poop jokes. Aaron sings a rousing rendition of  "I like to Move It" (see I told you he was funny) and I put the portable DVD player in the bathroom so he can watch Seinfeld during his long stay in the john.

Friday I drove him to the hospital, and picked him up with many happy drugs in his system. I love happy drugs. I wish I had more occasions to take them. Hey, maybe that's why he goes to the doctor so often, so he can have all those procedures where they give you happy drugs. After receiving $1000 in medical bills last month, I need to tell him it would be cheaper to score them on the internet.

Unsurprisingly, he was clean as a whistle in more ways than one. No polyps, diverticulosis, or other UIO (Unidentified Intestinal Objects). After the happy drugs wore off I gave him the happy news.

    "Wow, I thought I was dead."
    "I know."
    "I was sure I had cancer."
    "I know honey. You've been sighing when you lie in bed at night, a lot. I knew you were wondering if your life insurance policy was adequate."
    "Yeah, I was. But, wow, I'm OK."
    "Does this mean we can stop talking about bowel resections and colostomy bags?"
    "For now."
    "Until the next time you get cancer?"
    "Yeah."

I then had to delicately broach the subject of possibly cutting back on his visits to his team of medical experts for a while, because we're going through money like it's water. It sounds a little cold when you ask someone NOT to go to the doctor, but the kids and I need our teeth cleaned, and I really DO have cancer. Nothing to worry about, just some places on my face where I need to have Mohls surgery. My doctor in Ohio told me a year ago I needed to have them done. Yeah, I'm kind of the opposite when it comes to going to the doctor. My epitaph will read "But I'm not sick!" and his will read "Now do you believe me?"

Our Valentine's Present To Each Other

This morning as I stepped onto the evil treadmill, I began thinking about how enthusiasm energizes people, while cynicism drains people.

I try to think deep thoughts on the treadmill to distract myself from the fact that I'm exercising.

My thoughts fluttered around for a few minutes, and landed on the concept of reluctance and resistance.

In this world there are Foot Draggers and there are Jumper Inners: Eeyores and Tiggers, if you will. I am a Foot Dragger.

This means that often I put off doing the simplest things, and am often reluctant to do more than the bare minimum, and generally any act of obligation is prefaced by whiny whiny-ness (thankfully, I usually don't verbalize it).

I think part of the way I got to be a foot dragger is that I'm a mother of 3, and kids? Are demanding. I mean they need a lot of stuff. They need to be fed, clothed, and bathed (occasionally). They need owies kissed, and help with homework, and lunch money, and rides to swimming lessons. They need their special monkey cup, and they don't have a lot of tolerance for the monkey cup being in the dishwasher, because IT'S MY SPECIAL CUP, AND I CAN'T DRINK MILK OUT OF A PLAIN BLUE CUP, WOMAN! So part of my reluctance to do more stuff is that I already do a bunch of stuff, and I'd really just like to sit here on the couch for a while, or PEE IN PEACE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

Some of my resistance is cultural. Everything is so convenient. We can get coffee, or lunch, or our dry cleaning without ever leaving our car. We can cook dinner in five minutes. We have a glut of information on any subject at our fingertips. Sometimes I'm even hesitant to click on a link, because it's just too much of a trial to wait 2.1 seconds for the next page to load. That's just ridiculous. We're taught that life should be effortless, aren't we?  Not only that but it's considered cool by in large to have a "whatever" laissez faire attitude. What's your reaction to an eye-rolling slacker, as opposed to a perky go-getter? If you're me, you look upon the perky go-getter with round suspicion and a smirk. I hate that about me.

But a lot of my reluctance to go the extra mile is just habit. Bad habit. For example, sometimes Will will be downstairs in his pajamas and he'll ask me to go upstairs and get his clothes. It doesn't happen often, but I always say no, because, hey his legs aren't broken, and it's a long way up that flight of stairs and all the way down the hall. I can feel resistance raise it's hackles. But this morning Will asked me to go upstairs and bring him his clothes, and you know what? Not a big deal. Took me about 15 seconds.

I notice this attitude in my kids too. It's like pulling teeth if their brother or sister asks them to do Something Which Is Not Required. I don't want to be a family of foot draggers.

So.

We have a system for allowance in our house. I have a white board in the kitchen with each child's name on it. Each time a child does a chore that Aaron or I ask them to do, with a good attitude, they get a blue mark. At the end of the month, I count up all the blue marks. Everyone gets money, but the one who has the most blue marks gets the largest amount of money.

For the remainder of the month I've added a new twist. This morning I wrote "GO OUT OF YOUR WAY" on the white board. The kids and I read the passage in the Bible where it says that God loves a cheerful giver, and one of the ways we give to people is through acts of service. And by being cheerful givers, we're also making God happy, which is something I really want to do. (See, right now in my head, my inner cynic is berating me for writing such sap on my blog. Shut it, Cynic.)

So, this month, if any of us are asked to do something, we need to go out of our way to do it with a good attitude. And the doer gets a blue mark (well, Aaron and I don't, but the kids do). I also explained that they shouldn't take advantage of other family members. This is "Go out of your way" month, not "Make your sister an indentured servant" month.

We'll see how it works out. I'm really hoping to see some improvement in myself.

She'll have to learn to write with her toes.

Haley got a paper cut on her knuckle yesterday. It was actually a pretty bad one. One that actually required a band aid, rather than all the other owies around here that get band aids, but do not really need band aids. This morning she had to put another band aid on, and came to me with a solemn face. She looked up and said, "Mom, this is my writing hand, and I can't bend my finger now, so I won't be able to hold a pencil to do my work, so I think I should stay home from school today."

There are a lot of ways I indulge my kids. Some might call it "rescuing" or "doing a lousy job of instilling responsibility and discipline." I call it trying to interact with my kids in a way that makes sense to me.

If they forget things at home, I will generally make an extra trip to drop them off. I know most parents say that letting the forgotten item stay at home will teach them real life lessons about responsibility, but I say hey, even in real life people help cover for each other sometimes. Now granted, if they had a habit of forgetting things, I'd draw the line, but since as a general rule their very conscientious students, I don't see the harm.

If they don't know how to spell a word, I don't make them look it up in the dictionary. I don't think me telling them how to spell a word is going to hinder their spelling proficiency.

I let them stay up late, like 10 or 11, on Friday nights. And sometimes Saturday too. I pretty lenient with TV and computer time on the weekends too.

And yes, once in a while I give them a "well day" off from school. I do not however let children stay home from school because they have paper cuts. Hey, I have to draw the line somewhere. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday missy, so get your butt down to breakfast.

Another slice of our life.

I'm not a lean, mean, highly functioning machine these days. I'm feeling pretty blech and procrastinating a lot. But pretty soon here I'll pull my crap together, and be able to string some thoughts into pithy sentences. In the meantime I am having fun with my new video camera. Sometimes watching videos on other people's blogs makes me twitchy. not sure what that's about, but I think part of it is the time factor, so I promise not to make a video that's more than 70 seconds. I thought I'd film what our drive home is like. The film quality isn't the best, because I was holding the camera over my shoulder, and obviously I couldn't watch the lens angle and the road, and I figured you didn't want a film of my van running into a tree, although ultimately that might be more interesting.

70 Seconds of Life

The drive home from Sheryl on Vimeo.

Steering Clear

This morning I drove the kids to school. We have a "neighborhood" school which means that there's no bus service, because everyone lives within a mile of the school. As I turned on to the street the school is on, it was a day like any other. A bright sunny day. All blue skies, and sunny, with the sun shining sunnily, hanging like a giant gold disco ball in the sky. Did I mention it was sunny?

I stopped at the stop sign, waiting to turn left, as a mother and her child crossed the street.

"Hmm," I thought to myself, "They're not supposed to cross the street without a crossing guard."

I gently pressed the gas pedal and eased into the intersection thinking to myself, "I wonder where the crossing guard is today, that's odd, and OH MY GOSH, THAT IS THE CROSSING GUARD RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY BUMPER, AND IT MIGHT BE A GOOD TIME TO STEP ON THE BRAKE NOW BEFORE I KILL HER."

The sun was so bright, and was right in my eyes, and I totally did not see her standing ten feet from me. Her back was to me because she was, you know, helping small children across the street. Thank the Lord I was only going a half a mile an hour, or my morning would've ended quite differently. I rolled down my window, and began to profusely apologize for ALMOST KILLING HER, and explained, that no, I have no deep seated hatred for crossing guards! Some of my best friends are crossing guards! It was the sun! THE SUN, I TELL YOU! She took it rather well, all things considered.

Emily, who is in the throes of preadolescence, and is embarrassed if I hum in the grocery store, was mortified. But probably not as embarrassed as she would be to see me in one of those orange jump suits on visiting day.

Unfortunately, I don't have any cash.

I've had a minor cold for about a week, hardly noticeable really. Then yesterday it decided to launch a coup de tat against my head. It has set up it's primary military base in my left ear, and has been coordinating guerrilla assaults through out the region. I don't know if I'm just getting older or what, but I've been lying in a stupor on the couch  for most of the day.

But then something exciting happened, and because I am now the proud owner of a Flip, I can capture these little moments on video! The sound is a little low, because I'm new at all this.

25 Seconds of Life

Will's first tooth from Sheryl on Vimeo.

Decisions Decisions

 So what's been going on with you? What's been going on with me is trying to figure out where Emily should go to middle school next year. Our neighborhood middle school has about 1100 students in it, and I think Emily would get lost in the shuffle. Another local school has about half that, and comes highly recommended on greatschools.net. And it feeds into a great high school, which of course is the other major consideration, because we don't want her to have to start high school not knowing anyone.

There is a charter school option too. But from everything I've read and heard so far, it's super academic, like basically eat, sleep, go to school, do homework. I personally think that kids need time to goof off, but I'm not exactly the poster child for ambition and success either. Aaron is still mulling the charter school option over.

And then there's homeschool. Or our version which would be online school, or attending a cottage school branch of another charter school. I really really liked homeschooling. I miss it. I like having my kids around. The kids are always asking me why we can't do it, and I never even mention it. And what I tell them is, "I think it's important for you to be around other kids, and have other teachers. I think the routine and structure that public school gives you is valuable." But in my mind, I'm asking why we can't do it too. Other than the socialization issue, which I know is not a problem for most home schoolers, but it is an issue for our [introverted] family, I think I should probably go back to work next year.

Frankly, I think it would be pretty difficult to acclimate to having a full time job teaching school after not working for ten years. My work muscles have atrophied, and I've never tried to juggle work and kids. Well, I did work from home, but that's quite different because you can still hang out in your pajamas. I think about the money we need for college, and the money we could save. Basically we would use my salary for those things. And I think about teaching. I loved teaching, and I miss the classroom. I think about how isolated I've been since Emily was born, and how nice it would be to be around people again. Even if most those people would be 4 feet tall. Then I think about homeschooling and my brain starts ruminating all over again. Ow, my head hurts. Feel free to weigh in if you have an opinion.

Life is like Let's Make A Deal. Of course, as a Christian, I think that there is Divine Purpose to everything, and that it all works out for the best. I also think figuring out what to do is tough, no matter what your belief system. And from my tiny human mind, life looks like Let's Make A Deal. You talk with Monty, you listen to the shouts from the audience, you dress up like Little Bo Peep. (Maybe that's just me.) And then you choose. You choose what's behind door #1 or 2 or 3. You get luggage, or a new toaster oven. You win a new car or a pygmy goat. (BTW, did you know that when Monty Hall, the host of Let's Make A Deal, was a young man, a total stranger made an amazing deal with him? Watch the youtube video at the 4:20 mark.)

Anyway, in real life these decisions impact not just my circumstances, but my personality, my frame of reference and how I view and interact with the world. Staying at home for 10 years has made me a different person than I would've been as a working mom. It's made my kids different people. It will be interesting to see how the decisions we're making this year ripple our pond.

Happy New Year

2008 was a very good year. Yeah, it had it's drawbacks. The kids and I lived 1200 miles away from Aaron for the first half of the year. I had to pack up the house and get it ready to sell by myself. I had some bumps in the road with my mom. The economy is doing it's best kamikaze impersonation. But overall, a really good year. We're all happy, and healthy, and loved. We moved closer to family, to a place with blue skies year round, good schools, and a church we feel at home in. I don't have a ton of friends, but enough that we had a decent turn out for our open house. So overall, we had a very, very blessed 2008. I hope you did too, and if you didn't, I hope 2009 is fantastic!

Here is the adorable yule log cake I made last night for New Years Eve. I know, most people make them on Christmas Eve, but I think it's nice to spread out the festivities and have a special cake for New Year's Eve. The mushrooms are meringues, and the 3 mice (one for each child)  were made from this recipe.

The picture is proof that I am off to a good start in keeping one of my new year resolutions: Take more pictures! With that goal in mind, I asked for a Flip and a Canon Power Shot for Christmas. I think I've mentioned here that I'm not a fan of personal photographs, because I always feel sad when I look at them. But, I'm also not the only person looking at the pictures, and the rest of the family would probably like to have some documentation of their lives. So, I'm making it as easy as possible for myself. At the end of each month, we'll make a mini album of that month's pictures, and at the end of the year we'll have 12 months worth of photos.

My kids are 10, 8, and 6. The last time we had a working video camera, I don't even think Will was born. With the scrapbooking craze that has every moment of every American child's life being documented, I feel so guilty for not taking more pictures of my kids that I've been reluctant to face the whole issue. Which leads right into another of my resolutions for 2009: Don't not do something just because someone else does it better, or you think it's too late, or you somehow feel un-entitled to participate. Sure, it's an awkwardly-worded resolution, but that's somehow fitting.

My last two resolutions are geared toward improving my health. Well, actually, my health is great, so I guess they're geared toward sustaining good health. The first one is that I've made a goal to Walk 6 days a week, first thing in the morning. I've been making myself get on the treadmill every bloomin' morning (if I don't do it in the morning it will not get done). Even though I loathe the first 21 minutes, and intensely dislike the remaining minutes, I am doing it. My secret goal is to walk 1000 miles, but even if I only make 500 miles, hey, great!

The second goal I've made should be much easier: Dripping water eats through stone. Yes it's a little unusual to have a Chinese proverb for a resolution, but it's the simplest way to state it. I'm going to make many small positive changes to my diet. So each day I'll make the best choices I can, without depriving myself. I'll eat my roll without butter, or skip the roll altogether. I'll switch to skim milk, I'll substitute apple sauce for oil when I bake, etc. I've been visiting the maintenance forum over at 3 Fat Chicks, studying how people succeed at, and maintain weight loss, and this is a key principal. Little changes make a big difference, but you have to be consistent, thus: dripping water eats through stone.

I'm going to make one other resolution that's pure fun to keep, but I haven't decided what it is yet. You should always make at least one resolution that's fun to keep.

Are you making any resolutions this year?

What are you doing New Year's Eve?

I know, I'm behind on my gratitude list. I've been so busy I've barely had time to Twitter! We had an absolutely wonderful Christmas. So wonderful in fact, I think we're going to stay home every other year. We went to church on Christmas Eve, and I love singing carols and hearing the Christmas story read from the Bible. Then we came home and had our traditional breakfast for dinner. I made quiche with hash browns instead of crust, yum! Will woke up at 6:00 on Christmas morning, we opened gifts, puttered around with them. I made red and green pancakes for Christmas breakfast, puttered around until about one when we went over to friends' house to spend the afternoon and have Christmas dinner. 

Then I cooked and cleaned my butt off for the next two days to get ready for the open house we had yesterday. It went really well. Although I'm not sure it was the best time of the year to have an open house since so many people were traveling or sick. But we had a really good time. I served

• Asparagus wrapped in Prosciutto (I altered the recipe and used Pepper Boursin cheese, really added some zing.)
• Chick Pea and Roasted Pepper Salad (I used basil instead of mint, and added 1/2 a red onion.)
• Marinated Grilled Shrimp
• Stuffed Mushrooms
• Buffalo Chicken Dip with tortilla chips
• Christmas Balls
• And these adorable penguin olives, around a cheese-cube igloo.

Sangria for the grown ups and punch for the kids. I like to cook new things, so these were all new recipes. None of them were absolutely fabulous, but they were all pretty good.

Other than making yule log cake for New Years Eve, I'm not doing any extra stuff this week, whew!

I want to wish each of you a happy, happy New Year. Thanks you so much for reading my blog. Especially since I took half the year off. :oP I really appreciate all of you, and am down-right fond of so many of you. Thanks for writing your own blogs; I love reading about your lives.

Unexpected Traveling Companion

So the vet wanted $600 to fix Marshmallow's gaping wound, which was definitely caused by Blizzard, who is going back to the pet store as soon as we catch him.

How's that for an opening run-on?

I'd like to think my compassion knows no bounds, but I'm not that self delusional, and $600 for mouse abdominal surgery? You are now leaving Compassionville, we hope you enjoyed your stay!

Fortunately the vet said we could opt for giving him antibiodics twice a day for 10 days. .01 ml of antibiodics, which is like, a fifth of a drop, deposited into a pea-sized mouth. Which means we have to take said mouse on vacation with us, and thank goodness we're driving because I'd hate to have to explain a convalescing mouse to airport security.

Yes, Friday the kids and I are driving to my parents house in AZ, and Aaron will fly in on Weds.. After much cooking, eating, 'round-the-table thankfulness, tryptophan-induced naps, unspoken disappointment about my weight and my sister's single status, family hot tubbing, reading, laughing, card playing, and general relaxation, we will all drive home.

In the meantime I have a boatload of trip prep, and a mouse to catch. Yes, Blizzard, rogue that he is, is not only a biting scallywag, but an escape artist as well, and I will shed no tears returning him to Petsmart, which hopefully will be before we leave on vacation. We've spotted him several times, but the little dude is fast. Maybe (or maybe not) you are surprised at my laissez faire attitude, but getting worked up over the fact that there's a mouse loose in my house (SQUICK) won't help me catch it.

Anyway, Marshmallow is looking pretty good, all things considered, and I'm pretty surprised he's survived. Thanks for your kind wishes. He's a hardy little thing, and I suggested to Emily if he survives she should change his name to Miracle.

It's a good thing I didn't opt for mouse surgery because I took my van in for routine maintenance, you know, before our long car trip. After inspecting the engine, my mechanic (who came highly recommended, so I don't think he was scamming me) called. Apparently I should have replaced my timing belt about 50 thousand miles ago, and my water pump was leaking, and my Ohio mechanic used the wrong kind of spark plugs, and when was the last time I had my transmission fluid changed, etc, etc, and as he recited each problem I sank lower in my chair, until finally I lay on the floor cradling the phone from the fetal position. A thousand freaking dollars and two apoplectic fits later, I hung up, better, stronger, and free of all those unwieldy dollars cluttering up my bank account.

So now, although I'm not nervous about the van breaking down, I am nervous about how we will pay for food and electricity this month. Perhaps I'll cook up a nice batch of used spark plugs with leftover transmission fluid gravy, warmed by candlelight. Mmm, sparkplugs.

Mouse euthanasia wasn't on my to do list.

Emily has mice. She's had mice for several years, ever since we went into the pet store to get a guinea pig, and left with 3 white mice. I am not a fan of mice. Frankly they're something I'd rather keep OUT of the house, in all forms, both wild and domestic. Nevertheless, I am a pushover and we have mice.

Emily is an extremely good mousy mother. She trains them not to bite, she walks around with them on her head, she teaches them little mousy tricks, and feeds them exotic cheeses. The last mouse she had lived to be about 4 years old, which is like the Methuselah of mice. Recently that mouse went to the big Swiss cheese house in the sky, and so we went to get Emily a couple of gerbils. And came home with more mice. Not that there's much difference between the two types of rodents, so whatever, we have mice.

Last night she discovered that one of her mice has a huge raw spot on it's stomach. I don't know how he got it, but we suspect one of the other mice was picking on it. One of her mice, Blizzard, seems to be on the aggressive side, so much so that I put a dab of nail polish on its tail so that we could observe it more closely. Also because we couldn't find a black leather jacket small enough to fit it.

The injured mouse, Marshmallow, seemed fine last night. He was eating and drinking ok, he seemed to be alert, and active, and I didn't relish taking him to the nearest mouse ER, so we isolated him from the other mice, made him as comfortable as possible, and I told Emily I would take him to the vet today.

This morning, Marshmallow is looking a little worse for the wear. I don't think he's going to make it. So now what do I do? The only appointment I could get with the vet is during the time I'm supposed to be volunteering in Haley's class, so I had to cancel an appointment to tutor math to take a mouse to the doctor. Part of me is a curmudgeonly Scrooge, who cannot see her way clear to spend a minimum of thirty dollars to treat a mouse which only cost $1.99. But of course the bigger part of me says, this is a living creature, and it's something my daughter cares about, so suck it up and kiss the 30 bucks goodbye.

I actually Googled how to euthanize a mouse, because I think Marshmallow may be close to the end, and I don't want him to spend his last few hours in pain. That did me no good, because the only painless way to kill a mouse is to give it an overdose of the anesthetic Halothane. Hmm, let me check, do I have any Halothane in the medicine cupboard? I usually keep it between the Nyquil and the Pepto Bismol. GEE, I SEEM TO BE OUT OF MOUSE ANESTHESIA. NOPE, NO ETHER EITHER. I doubt I could have done it anyway. Not liking mice is one thing, but holding solvent-soaked cotton balls over his little nose is another.

So I'm off to the vet. I hope she can save him. If you're in tight with St. Francis, put in a good word for Marshmallow.

Oh I'm on to you time. I see you you trying to slip by, so that it's been 10 days since I've posted. You'd like it to be another month before I notice, wouldn't you, you scoundrel.

This morning giant fluffy flakes of snow are flying outside the window. I have filled my children's tummies with pumpkin waffles, and sent them off to school in boots and coats and mittens. The house is clean, and the laundry is mostly done, which means it's clean and sitting in the baskets.

I find myself really thankful these days. The economic news is really scary, but for today, we have a nice warm house. I can take a hot bath whenever I want. Our pantry and fridge are filled with good things. We have extras like internet, satellite TV, and Gameboys, and the occasional tickets to a Nugget's game. There's this place called the public library, where I can go and borrow as many books as I want. Both my parents are still alive. I have a few good friends. I wish I had more, but since having kids, I don't seem to be able to make friends the way I used to. I accept that though. Our family gets along, and enjoys each other's company 90% of the time, which I think is pretty darn good.

So, yeah, I'm doing pretty well. How are you?

V for Vick-tory!

So the lovely Angie of All Adither and Half-Assed Kitchen commented yesterday that her mother in-law sent her and email claiming that rubbing Vicks Vapor Rub on the soles of your feet would quiet a cough. Let me tell you, by yesterday I was so tired of coughing, if someone told me I needed to juggle puppies while eating souvlaki, I would have done it.

So I ran right out and got some Vicks, and treated myself so some extra comfy slipper socks, and went to work. I rubbed the Vicks all over the bottom of my feet and slipped on my new socks. It was about 10:00 and I was coughing pretty badly. In a few minutes, low and behold my cough had subsided.

Now that could be just coincidence, or the placebo effect, who knows. While I was enjoying some cough-free time, I clicked over to Snopes to look up this remedy for soothing a cough to see what they had to say, which is, maybe it works and maybe it doesn't. But! My coughing was practically non-existant, until about 2:00, when I started coughing again, and applied some more Vicks to my feet. Voila! Once again, in a few minutes, my cough was gone.

I still felt a tickle in my throat off and on throughout the day, but I didn't feel that overpowering compulsion to cough-- that feeling that if you don't cough, your body will pop like a party popper, spewing confetti sized pieces of yourself all over the room, AND WHO'S GOING TO CLEAN THAT UP, MISTER?

Of course the real test would come at night, when my cough is the worst. I've been sleeping sitting up, propped up by 8 frillion pillows, in an attempt to curb my cough, so I decided I would throw caution to the wind and try to LIE DOWN (such a luxury!). I applied some more before bed time, and then nestled in my bed. About 15 minutes later the coughing started. Uh oh, I had wanted to report that it was a miracle cure, but no such luck. I piled the pillows back on my bed, and settled in sitting up. And I am please to report that I only woke up coughing once, reapplied, and the rest of my night was quiet.

I also rubbed some on Emily's feet, who has a milder cough, and didn't hear a peep out of her all night.

Hooray for Vicks!

I'd like to autoclave our house.

I promised I wouldn't Twitter about my sickness any more, so I guess you'll be the lucky recipients. We are all sick. Aaron has a cough that will not go away, and now he says his stomach feels funky. Emily and Will have a headache and a sore throat. I have no voice and cannot. stop. coughing. Haley is by far the sickest, throwing up, with a fever and sore throat. She threw up a couple of times, but I think it's because her tonsils are so huge they're making her feel like she has to purge them. You're welcome.

On the upside, all the children were well on Halloween, and lo, much sugarfied loot was procured. Come Wednesday if we all don't feel better, to the doctor we will go.

So the doctor says, "You have a steering wheel in your pants."

Well, not only does my mailman hate me, but my immune system isn't too fond of me either, apparently. First I had a cold. A bulldozer of a cold, and I was very snotty and sneezy and sleepy, and a few other dwarves. That went on for a while, and then this week? On Sunday, to be specific, I thought I was coming down with the flu, but then I realized I was due for my (nearly) annual larynx infection.

Ever since Emily was born, lo ten years ago, around November, I get a larynx infection. I get chills and a fever, my ears and throat hurt, and I go to the doctor. I'm one of those silly people who doesn't go to the doctor unless they're dying. I do not enjoy waiting in a waiting room, followed by waiting in an exam room, followed by trying to answer the question "What's wrong with you?" Wrong? What makes you think there's anything wrong? Isn't that sort of a personal question? Maybe there's something wrong with you, did you ever stop to ponder that, oh medical deity? Maybe I'm JUST FINE.

Anyway, the first couple of times I got this infection, let's call it Larry, the first couple of times Larry came to visit, I would go to the doctor, pull out my violin, and tell them my sob story, about how Larry wasn't treatin' me right, and they would say, "Oh, you probably have strep." They'd give me a quick strep test, which would come back negative, and tell me that they had just stuck a very sore part of my body with a cotton-covered stick for nothing, because these tests aren't very reliable, so we're going to poke you and make you gag one more time! and send it to the lab. In the mean time, here, have some antibiotics (have you heard about these things? Little capsules of fairy dust, I tell you!), and we'll call you tomorrow with your strep results.

Upon ingesting the antibiotics, I would immediately begin to feel better, and then the doctor would call the next day, just as I was putting the pill to my lips, and say "Stop! You do not have strep! Step away from the pill! You don't understand the peril you are thrusting upon humankind by taking antibiotics when you don't need them! Resistant strain! Blah blah blah! Nuclear winter, blah blah, only cockroaches will survive!" And I'm all OK already, simmer down there, doc. And I'd stop taking the magical pills of wonder, and once again fall gravely ill.

I would then decide I needed to go to an ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor, and why did I use the initials if I was just going to spell it for you? Like don't you hate it when Rachel Ray says EVOO, and then tells you it stands for extra virgin olive oil? What's the point of saying EVOO if you're just going to use all those other words anyway? But I digress.) So I would go to an ENT, and he'd say, "You have a raging larynx infection, have you been screaming at your children more than usual?" And I'd say, "No 'bout the same as always." And he'd tell me he was tempted to hospitalize me, and I'd say, I don't need no stinking hospital, just give me the drugs, and he'd say, okay, under these conditions will I let you go home, blah blah. And then he's give me a prescription for (drum roll please!) ANTIBIOTICS!

That's a very long route to go, to get something farmers regularly feed their cows.

But after the second year, I caught on, and realized that Larry might decide to vacation in my throat every year. Thankfully he didn't do this every year, but many years he decided that my throat was the Fiji, the Club Med, the San Cabo for bacteria. Oh sure you have your riffraff-- those white blood cells trying to break up the party, but the sun, the surf, the Mai Ties can't be beat.

Fast forward to Monday. (Sweet baby corn this post is long. You see what happens when I just let my brain run its mouth? Are you still with me? We're in the home stretch.) We just moved here this summer, so I have no GP or ENT or WXYZ, so I pick a GP out of the phone book, who is right down the street, and I tell her I think I have a larynx infection, we go through the whole rigamarole, only she doesn't even bother retesting my rapid strep results, she just says I have a virus, thankyouverymuchthat'llbe$25pleasepayonyourwayout.

And I decide, screw it, I'm not going to hunt down an ENT in my condition (which I probably should've seen in the first place, but I foolishly believed that a GP would, you know, listen to me). So I decide to take some antibiotics my doctor prescribed for me a few months ago, which I really didn't need, and didn't take, and I started taking them, and now I've upgraded from rilly sick, to well enough to moan and whine about being sick, so I feel much better, the end!

And those of you who would like to scold me for bucking the system and using previously prescribed drugs on an undiagnosed condition, please leave me your contact info, Larry would like to send you a complimentary fruit basket.

So, what'd you do today?

Nuh uh. It most certainly has not been a month since I posted. I'm like the friend who never calls, aren't I? Well, let me make you feel better by assuring you that there are many areas where I fall down on the job.

For instance, my mailman hates me. Actually I don't know if it's a man or a woman, but I picture a man. A crabby old man, with 3 months to retirement, stealing money out of birthday cards. His gnarled hands stuffing bills into the boxes, chortling at all the lovely junk mail-- better than calling a pox upon my head. I picture him with stringy hair and jaundiced eyes, hocking a tubercular loogie every time he passes my house.

I am the bane of this man's existence. Because I only check my mail on the Tuesday when Jupiter aligns with Mars, and the moon is waning. Oh sure, I could blame my devil-may-care attitude on the fact that my mailbox is halfway down the block, and it's safely in a locked box, but I wasn't much better when my mail sat at the end of my driveway. On the plus side, getting the mail is kind of thrilling. It's got to be done on the QT, because the mailman and I must never meet face to face.

When I set out to get the mail (as I did this morning) first, I cover my face in camouflage paint and don my sun bonnet, on which I've hot-glued foliage. I'm stealthy as a cat; I peek round the side of the house before I expose myself to the open street. In the blink of an eye, I'm flat on the ground, inching down the street on my belly, pausing to do recon behind the bushes. I bring a jar of coins, and as neighbors walk by I give them a hale and hearty "Top of the morning to ya!" and pretend I'm looking for change. They buy it every time, suckers.

Finally, I've made it down the block, asphalt ground into my knees and elbows, I spring up quickly, the air fairly crackles with electricity as I put the key in, and when the tiny door swings open-- empty-- save for a lone neon orange card lying desolate on the bottom of the box.

Dear Lowly Worm,

Apart from rabid Rotweillers, warm gum on the sidewalk, and letters to Santa, you are the worst part of our job. Each day we stuff a few more letters in your box, wondering how long this charade will go on. How many more pieces of mail can we squeeze in before the box explodes? How many more days before you heave yourself from the butt-shaped dent in your naugahyde recliner, and fulfill your postal responsibilities? We've taken your mail to the neighborhood office where it will be loved and appreciated, and will hold it for you for exactly 7 more minutes, so get your butt down here. This notice will self destruct in 5 seconds.

In the five seconds before my hand is singed and blackened, and the air fills with smell of sulfur, I stare blankly at the card. He's done it, check and mate. I shake my blackened fist at the sky, yelling "Curse you professor Moriarty!" (Sorry, sometimes I think I'm Sherlock Holmes.)

    "Uh, everything alright?" Asks a voice behind me.
I spin like a ninja, landing in Praying Mantis Stance. It's Mrs. Wilford, my neighbor. I nonchalantly shift from Praying Mantis Stance to Walking To Mailbox Stance. I smile and doff my foliage covered hat.
    "Right as rain, Mrs. Wilford, right as rain."
I turn on my heel as run down the street as fast as I can. Careening into my garage, I burst into the house, grab my purse, keys, and an empty grocery sack, and hurtle myself back out to the car.  Tires squeal as I peel out of my driveway, nearly flattening Mrs Wilford and her Lillian Vernon catalouge. I give her the "oops" face, wave sheepishly, and slam my foot on the gas-- no time for chitchat.

4.7 minutes and 3 dead squirrels later, the car catches air as I hit the ramp of the Post Office driveway. I lay on my horn giving postal patrons fair warning as I streak through the parking lot, lurch up onto the sidewalk, and throw it in park. 

As I head for the entrance, I try to catch my breath, and gather my wits about me. I straighten my hat and try to smooth my clothes. I grab a rumpled Kleenex from my purse, spit on it, and try to scrub the Rambo makeup off my face.

I push open the door and pass the infrared sensor as my eyes adjust to the dark. Instead of a buzzer announcing my presence, Berlioz's March to the Scaffold begins to play. It's so cold, I can see my breath. The room has a thirty foot ceiling; it's dimly lit by frosted wall sconces, the floors and walls are black marble. A counter 6 feet high looms in the center of the room, a black velvet curtain stands behind it. Between the curtain and the counter sits a withered man with a barrister's wig. I can tell his favorite lunch is lemons with a vinegar chaser, and during his break he likes to nip off to the mens room for a high colonic. He says nothing, but glares down at me over his Pince Nez.

I stand before him, face smudged, clothes wrinkled, and shivering like a Dickensian orphan. I hold up my tattered sack, and driver's license.

    "Please sir," I intone in my best Cockney "may I 'ave my mail?"
He snatches my license, and wordlessly sweeps behind the curtain. In a moment he returns with two large bundles held together with thick rubber bands. He leans over the counter, and holding each bundle between his finger and thumb, like rotten fish, drops them in my sack. He leans further craning his neck until he's inches from my face.
    "You make me sick," he hisses.
    "Yes sir. Thank you, sir." I curtsy, and hustle toward the exit.

I push through the exit doors suddenly engulfed in the sun's warmth and light. My dignity slowly returns, as does the feeling in my fingers and toes. I stand in the sun, knowing one day I must once again enter the belly of the frozen beast. But for now, my overdue bills and I have safely emerged.

FIN

Sometimes love refuses.

My kids are... I'm not sure what's the right word. Unassuming? Tentative? Reticent? My kids don't jump in feet first. They sit at the pool's edge; they check the water's temperature; they look around and see how others are experiencing the water.

This temperament has some advantages. It disposes you to understanding people, to seeing all sides of an issue, to thinking things through. They won't make the mistakes that those who are rash and exuberant will make. They'll make different kinds of mistakes. They'll have a hard time telling people what they want and need. They'll be worried they're breaking a rule by asserting themselves.

For better or for worse, via nature or nurture, this is the way they are. It's the way Aaron and I are. We are a family of hobbits, not dwarves, for you Tolkien-ites out there. But I know how the world works. I know the squeaky wheel gets the oil. I know if you worry about what people think of you, you waste a lot of energy. I know it's a dwarf eats hobbit world out there, and you have to learn to assert yourself. And I know I have to nudge them toward that end, as much as I can.

Yesterday I took Will to lunch at Subway before his grueling afternoon of Kindergarten. He picked out the chips he wanted, and we moved down the line choosing our sandwich toppings. The line grew behind us as we traveled past the meats and veggies, and on to the cash register. When we got up to pay, I noticed Will had left his chips behind.

    "Will, you left your chips back there in line, run get them while I pay." The boy looked at me like I was asking him to walk over Niagara falls on a wire.
    "Mommy, will you go get them?"
    "No, I'm paying." I paid for lunch, including the missing chips and we headed toward the table, with Will's whining revving up like an air raid siren.
    "What's the matter?" I asked, knowing perfectly well what was the matter.
    "I want my chiiiiiips!"
    "Your chips are right over there. I paid for them. Go get them."
    "I can't do that! Those people will think I'm cutting in line, or stealing the chips!"
    "We are Lastnames. We do not say can't. You can explain what you're doing if someone asks you, but no one is going to ask you."
    "No mommy, you have to do it for me! Please!" He was tearing up now. I got down to his level, and took off my glasses for emphasis.
    "I want to have a nice lunch, and I don't want to spend a lot of time on this. Getting your chips is something I could do for you, but it's my job to help you do things you can't do. It's your job to do things you can do. Every time you do something scary, you exercise your brave muscle, and then things that used to be scary won't seem scary at all because your brave muscle is stronger." He looked at me uncertainly.
    "There's no such thing as a brave muscle," he humphed. "Is there?"
    "You better believe there is. You can have chips or not have chips. It's up to you, but now let's eat our lunch and talk about something else."

I could see his little wheels turning as we munched on our turkey sandwiches, and talked about going to the library later. In another minute he got up and went behind the line. He stared at the people who stood between him and the chips he had left on the counter. He stood there, summoning his courage, and then went over to the rack of chips and got another pack of the same kind. Even doing that was exercising his brave muscle. He wasn't quite forthright enough to claim his chips, but he still got what he wanted. Hey, whatever works. He marched back to the table with a little spring in his step. I gave him a smile and a thumbs up. We ate our subs in silence for a few minutes.

    "I like how you love me," he said. My heart skipped a few beats. I mean how often do you hear a kid say something like that? And because I'm greedy I said,
    "In what way?" He thought for a moment, his eyes moving back and forth as if they were tracking his thoughts.
     "I dunno," he shrugged. I didn't really expect him to be able to articulate what he meant, nevertheless, it was the most sublime confession of ignorance I've ever heard.

And to top it off when we got to school and saw Emily at lunch recess, she came up and hugged me-- in front of her friends. My fifth grader! Who likes to pretend she was hatched from an egg! It was a very good day indeed.You can read more Love Thursday entries here, and here. And visit the main site here.

Filler diller

I've got a lot of work to do for a class I'm taking, so most likely I won't be posting this week, and I really don't want to leave that last post up all week, it's just too too sad. So, as per my MO, I will throw up some fluff to distract us. I've got to get my kids in the shower, so it'll have to be something quick. Hmm, let's see... Oh I know, the weird stuff I've bought on eBay! Like most things in my life I'm cyclical about eBay. I go through spurts when I'm never on, and spurts when I buy a lot of stuff. I've been a member since May '03, and only bought 61 items, so you can see, I'm not a nut or anything, but sometimes eBay comes in handy. To wit, in the last month I have bought:

• an incubator. We're going to raise quail for Emily's science fair project, starting from the eggs, which are being shipped from Alaska of all places.
• a tin wind-up toy (which I hope will be an infusion of cheer for a friend).
• 2 pairs of ice skates for the girls, because I already spent their college fund on the lessons, I'm not buying the skates new.
• a half-zip hoodie for Will, because it's the only kind of hoodie he'll wear, and they don't make them anymore, that I can find.
• sheets (1000 count, new, sage) because the other day Will a massive bloody nose in our bed,and it looked like someone was murdered in their sleep. No amount of peroxide and cold water would do the job, so we threw the buggers out.
• a crockpot, to replace the one I used as a petri dish

Bought anything interesting lately?

A heartbreaking death of staggering genius

I'm so sad. Why did you do it, David?

The last two minutes of  an interview on Charlie Rose in 1997:

ROSE: Yeah. Do you see yourself chasing a brass ring now?

DFW: I -- this is what's very interesting is I -- there's part of me that wants to get attention and respect. It doesn't really make very much difference to me because I learned in my 20s that it just doesn't change anything and that whatever you get paid attention for is never the stuff that you think is important about yourself anyway. So a lot of my problem right now is I don't really have a brass ring and I'm kind of open to suggestions about what -- what one chases that -- there are real abstract ideas about, you know, what art can be and the redemptive quality of art and, you know, kindness to animals and, you know, all the cliches that we can invoke.

But it's -- I -- the people who most interest me now are the people -- are people who are older and who have sort of been through a mid-life crisis. They tend to get weird because the normal incentives for getting out of bed don't tend to apply anymore. I have not found any satisfactory new ones, but I'm also not getting ready to, you know, jump off a building or anything.

ROSE: Well, that's good news. [full transcript]

Off The Fence

I'm voting for Obama. There are a lot of reasons, both large and small, here are a few of them:

• I think McCain/Palin are too Hawkish.
• When Charles Gibson asked Palin if she had any doubts about joining the ticket, she said no. Whether she has enough experience is another issue, but the fact that she didn't feel the need to step back, to examine or analyze, is a red flag for me.
• I think Obama will be able to repair some of the damage that our reputation has suffered in the world at large.
• I think he will move the country away from dependence on oil, foreign and domestic.
• I think he will offer those who are underemployed the opportunity for higher education, and adequate health care (although I do not like either McCain's or Obama's health care reforms).
• I hope to God he will put the ball in motion to repeal the Military Commissions Act
• I think John McCain has about a 30% chance of dying in office. President Palin? No thank you.

And finally, I'd like to share this video, which did not influence my decision. Because contrary to the belief of Mr. Davis, McCain's campaign manager, I am able to make my decision based on something other than personality. Though it did not influence my decision, it made me damn mad, and a wrote a blog invective with many four letter words, which I thought better of publishing. I'm not saying he's wrong, but I am saying that as a representative of John McCain he should not be exacerbating the problem by spouting drivel like this. The first 30 seconds of this video makes me absolutely irate.

 This kind of thing sends my diastolic through the roof much faster than any stance on any issue. How dare he suggest that I pick a candidate because of, essentially, their personality. Isn't that what they're accusing the Obama campaign of: trying to dazzle with celebrity? The opinion of this unscrupulous worm is the reason that the media never, ever, ever cover the issues, and one of the reasons that news (aka entertainment) is watery gruel being offered to the starving masses. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say this sentiment is like leprosy to democracy: it has a long incubation period, dulls the senses and weakens the muscles until we are numb, severely incapacitated, and we end up electing Paris Hilton. Well, you know, the analogy breaks down there somewhere.

Before Johnny's speech

I can't sleep trying to figure out who to vote for. I'm downloading onto my MP3 all the stuff I can about all 4 candidates from NPR, as that seems to be the only news source I can find anywhere that tells both sides (for the most part). Sorry for the poor construction of that last sentence. It's three in the morning.

I think tonight's speech by John McCain will go a long way in helping me decide who to vote for. I hope. Please? Y'all, it's not easy being undecided. I wish there was a band wagon I could jump on. Frankly, I wish I could go back in time and vote for Al Gore. Geez Al, sorry. Things would be so much better today if you had been in office.

I have fundamental problems with both platforms, and therefore both candidates*. Here are a few. I think the republicans play too much on people's fear, they have a bunker mentality. I think the democrats play too much on people's hope, they have a pie in the sky mentality. The democrats say "keep your laws off my body" the republicans say "keep your laws off my money," and I believe there are grave flaws in both of those ire-inspired views.

Here are a few things I love about both platforms, and therefore both candidates.* Democrats believe in exhausting all options before going to war.  They believe oil is a damaging, outmoded source of energy. They are champions of the poor. They believe in keeping corporations in check. The republicans believe in keeping the armed forces strong. They believe in a free market economy. They are champions of small business. They believe in keeping government in check.

Personality wise, I get the impression, based on what I know, which admittedly is not enough yet, that the McCain/Palin ticket may have a rash streak. I fear they will make decisions which they do not weigh carefully enough. And while the Obama/Biden ticket inspires me, one of my fears is that they are so equitable, they may have trouble pulling the trigger on decisions.

I want to believe John is a maverick, that he will break from his party, but he is a republican, he's not gonna break a whole heck-of-a-lot. I want to believe that Barak will bring about that change he speaks of, but so far in his career, I can't see that he's changed a whole heck-of-a-lot.

On many issues, John is too conservative, and Barak is too liberal. Which, since one is a republican, and the other a democrat, makes them great candidates for their parties. Not so great for me, since I've got a foot in both camps. Maybe I should vote according to the law of the playground, and give the other party a turn for a while.

*Obviously this is the way I see things. I'm sure every one of you will vehemently disagree with something I've written. Hopefully you'll agree with me on something as well.

Such a weight off

Wow, I feel so good y'all. I'm so glad my mom confronted me about who I am and how I'm living, because it forced me to really evaluate what I really want. And I discovered that I have had an ideal that's not mine. I've been holding myself to a standard that's not mine. I really really thought it was mine. I thought I wanted to be thin, and have all my ducks in a row, because those things have such high value in our culture. They are America's morality. You are bad if you aren't that. Think of all the magazines you run into at the grocery store cash register. They are ALL about either being thin (sometimes disguised as "healthy") or having all your ducks in a row. And whether or not that is my mother's real/true ideal, it is what she pursues with all her energy.

But you know what? It's really not mine. Yes, I would like to exercise regularly, and have a BMI of about 27 to avoid health problems in the future (27 is still considered overweight, but above that is when your health risks really increase).  Yes, I would like to keep on top of the laundry more, and be able to de-clutter the kitchen island. Yes, I would like to find something meaningful to do with some of my time. Yes, I still have some stuff to work on. And that's not anything I need to feel bad about. There's no moral dimension to it. It just is what it is. I've also realized that the hang up I've had about looking good? That's not really me either. I'm not really into clothes, but I like to wear makeup, and do my hair. And it's worth the energy to do it. I don't know what all that was about, maybe rebelling against my perfectly coiffed mother, it doesn't matter, I don't need to know why.

I like food; I enjoy eating. Why should I feel bad about that? My health is fine, my cholesterol, blood pressure, and glucose are all great. I like reading, and playing video games, and hanging out with my kids doing not much of anything. Why should I feel bad about that?  Aaron and I both feel okay about my body, and the dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. And now that I don't feel bad, the stuff I do want to change is going to be so. much. easier. to fix, because guilt only immobilizes me. And now that I don't feel like I need to be something else, it's so much easier to be myself around people.

I'm sure I'll have periods of regression, I can't really assimilate anything without regression, but I can't tell you what a relief it is to realize this. I feel happy, and hopeful, and enthusiastic about my days. I'm enjoying everything so much more without that huge bogey man dogging my heels. Whew.

I can cook dinner in less time.

Haley learned to ride her bike without training wheels this week! Hooray, Haley! I'd post a picture, but currently the camera is riding up some mountain in a backpack. We gave away her too-small bike to Goodwill before we moved, and bought another one at Goodwill this week (with a basket! woo!), and she quickly mastered it sans training wheels. Maybe seven is a little old to lose the training wheels, but really, what's the rush? I think the same could be said for transitioning from crib to bed, and from dating to marriage.

So we've been riding bikes to school. It's only about a mile, and we can walk in about 15 or 20 minutes. 30 if we're stopping to examine every worm and rock.

It takes us 45 minutes to ride to school. 45 minutes. I equate our morning rides with the leisurely flow of drive time traffic in L.A. or, an expedient jaunt to the unemployment office, or filling a bucket with an eye dropper. AAAAAAUGH!

Will, who used to zoom like a rocket on his old bike crawls along; Haley, who doesn't quite have her bike legs yet, weaves and stops, weaves and stops. I circle back, and circle back, like a sheep dog, herding the flock. While Emily sits, her elbows on the handle bars, her chin rests in her hand, dazedly staring down the street waiting for us to catch up. Maybe she should bring a book to pass the time.

My only consolation is that I'm in horrible shape, and if we're ever on a ride where there's a big hill, I'll have plenty of company as I walk my bike.

But they're so excited, and can't wait to hop on their bikes and ride to school. And I am too, at least in theory. I mean what could be more fun than a caravan of bikes, whizzing to school! I'm just waiting for reality to catch up.

Disjointed #1

As you will be able to tell after reading this post, I'm feeling a little disjointed, like all over the map, in fact. And I may feel that way tomorrow, and possibly next Tuesday. I'd like to dump my brain here, but I don't want you to feel as if you've wasted your time. So I'm going to label this series by number, and then if you don't want to read something that makes no sense at all, you can just "mark as read" and go on your merry way. Picasso had his Blue period, this is my What in the Hell is She Talking About period.

__________

It's hard to accept your flaws graciously. When someone says "that's just who I am." invariably they're talking about some positive attribute, something they're proud of, or some negative attribute they don't plan to change. "That's just who I am" is always said with middle finger defiance, or poetic admiration. But if, say, Joe takes a good look at himself and discovers he's a lazy, irresponsible slob, but doesn't feel particularly positive or defiant about that, then where is he? If he says, "that's just the way I am" it's rather depressing.

And though Joe might feel pretty crappy about his state of affairs, if I drop by Joe's house, I'd much rather have his house be messy than have him rushing around picking up beer bottles, and stuffing his dishes in the oven, to make his house presentable.

To tell you the truth, I feel so juvenile for not having all this figured out by now, to be this old and be worried about something so sophomoric? Yuck. And to tell another truth, I'm really, really weary of What's Presentable. All the fixing, and nipping, and tucking we do to make things presentable: botox, artificial flavors and preservatives, rhinoplasty, What Not To Wear, Extreme Makeover, Pimp My Ride, The Bachelor. Lord, we have a lot of shows about turning something into something else.

 It's all just really getting to me. Every time I hear a  candidate's speech, or see a waxed apple in the grocery store, or see a parent reprimand a kid in church for wiggling, or drive by a tanning salon...it all just makes me tired. Why do I need wax on my apple? I'd rather have the dull fruit, maybe with a worm hole, because (as sometimes I'd like to yell in the grocery store) I'D LIKE MY APPLE AS IS, PLEASE

And then I roll my eyes at myself. Like what am I? Some hippy-purist who wants to outlaw tanning booths? I mean what's wrong with wanting to look tanner? This is the way the world is, dude. Yes, I call myself dude. As you can see I spend a lot of time arguing with myself. I think myself and I need to see a mediator.

I can't help it though, I do feel sad about it. Did you see the opening ceremony for the Olympics? Some of the fireworks were computer generated. And the cute little nine year old who sang, was actually lip synching, because the real singer had a chubby face and crooked teeth. I LIKE MY APPLES AS IS, PLEASE.

And I feel ignorant, and unschooled that sometimes I can't tell the difference between improving something by changing it, and covering up because something is deemed unacceptable. If you put a suit on a hobo, it doesn't make him a banker. But, if you turn a cucumber into a dill pickle, mmm pickles... where was I?

I know this point is completely disjointed and a complete waste of your time. And that's another thing. Everything has to have such a beautiful end result, doesn't it?  Back to the presentation again. No one want their sundae without whipped cream. You can't put on a bikini unless you've waxed. Or can you? Can you just say, hey, a little hair doesn't bother me, if it bothers them, they can look elsewhere. Besides, why are they eyeing my crotch to begin with?

The world is making me need a nap.

Bag lady

The kids started school last week, and they all love it. The school is great, and it's only a mile away so we've been walking, which is nice.

Listen dudes, it's been a rough couple of weeks. My brain is doing some weird loop-de-loops, to the point that I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up with an exoskeleton, and a segmented abdomen, ala Gregor Samsa. So while I'm trying to figure out which end is up, I'll be posting fluff. Like this!

Isn't she a beauty? I bought her yesterday, as a bit of retail therapy. I'm very picky about my purses. They must fit comfortably over my shoulder; they must have external pockets. They must be wide, but not too tall; the opening must be big enough so I can see Everything. I like interior pockets, but not too many. I have a lot of stuff, and often a library book, so they have to be big enough to store all my crap. This bag definitely fits the bill. Plus I think with the coloring, I can carry it year round! Hey, while I'm off thinking so much that my brain starts to smoke, why not take a look at my old collection of what bloggers keep in their purses!

Because they're there.

Yesterday Aaron and Emily got up at o'dark-thirty to drive a few hours to Kite Lake, in their continuing quest to conquer 14ers. 

They went up Mt. Democrat, then down Mt. Democrat, up Mt. Cameron, then around Mt. Cameron following the ridge that ascends to Mt. Bross. Then down from Mt. Bross, back to to Kite Lake. [map] I'm tired just typing that.

They we're going to climb Mt. Lincoln too, but the weather was getting dicey, and they had already been  hiking seven hours. Seven. hours. My brain does not compute. They were both exhausted when they got home, but the good kind of exhausted. Or maybe just the pass out in your clothes kind of exhausted.

I know Emily will remember all these trips with her dad when she's old and gray. And so will we. Or um, older and grayer, in any case.

This post may be deleted later

I'm mad at my mom. Now before you cringe, don't print those words on the internet! I'm not saying anything I haven't already said to her, and I didn't say anything harsh. Besides, she knows about my blog, but doesn't read it, and like I say, I'm just repeating what's already been said.

My mom and dad are visiting, they came to escape the heat of Arizona, they've been here for almost a month (they're staying in a corporate apartment). It's been wonderful having them here. My parents are great people. I don't just love them, I like them. And I value their opinions. If I didn't, I could just blow all this off.

But yesterday my mom sat down to have a talk with me. My dad wasn't there. I don't know what he thinks, and I think I'll leave that stone unturned.

She told me a lot of things which were true. I'm depressed, overweight, my children don't eat enough vegetables, I don't get out of the house enough, I don't do enough stuff, etc. I know these things are true, and I've always felt bad about them. Really bad. And I work on them all the time. I work on improving. I could add a lot of stuff to that list, like I neglect their religious education, which is huge to me, but she's not religious, so she doesn't care about that stuff. For the first time in my life I'm glad, because if she would've pointed that out, my heart would be breaking more than it is.

She said some things I'm just not sure about. I'm setting a bad example for my kids, my house is a shambles. (Here's a picture [click to enlarge]. I did no tidying. Yes, it's messy, but a shambles? I don't know. I didn't think it was.) I didn't put pictures of the kids' rooms in there. Emily's room is clean, Haley and Will's are about like the rest of the house.

She said some things I'm pretty sure aren't accurate. I'm "non-functional." My kids are overweight. Really? That my behavior is similar to hers when she was drinking. I just don't see how that could be. I don't want to get into the specifics of what my childhood was like. It wouldn't serve any purpose, except to make my mom look bad. She is not the same person she was. She's worked hard to change, and has been extremely successful. Suffice it to say, the two don't seem to me to resemble each other. At all. It doesn't feel fair.

But I don't know. I doubt myself now. What do you do with a conversation like that? She didn't really offer any solutions, other than to help me clean my house. Am I like an alcoholic? I mean, I do have a food addiction. I've been clear about that on this blog. But that my behavior is similar to hers, when she was drunk all the time? That just doesn't compute in my brain. What am I supposed to do with feedback like that? Other than do what I'm already doing, which is keep trying to change. I don't know. I'm shaken.

My kids start school next week, and I'm really sad. This is nothing unusual, just the annual school blues, but just because it's an annual event, doesn't make it any less painful. Like a mammogram, for my brain. I wish I was one of the many mothers who deeply love their children, yet could not wait to get them out of the house. I hate the idea of being away from my kids all day. Fortunately, I grieve in advance, so when the first day of school arrives, I'll be fine. But today I'm feeling far from fine.

In addition to feeling un-fine, I'm also feeling very confused. I guess our city has school choice, which I didn't know. I thought that you could enroll your kids in one of the charter schools (but not! because there are waiting lists!) or send them to the neighborhood school. I'm still not clear about all the ins and outs, but one thing I am clear about is that our neighborhood school is full. Which means I can either send them to the "overflow school" until there's an opening, and then transfer them later in the year (how much later no one knows, but I'm not thrilled about having them start a new school twice this year), or I can choose another available school, and forfeit my right to bus service, for the rest of elementary school. I'm not sure what happens when the kids reach middle school, if I can opt back into bus service then, or not.

Anyway, after researching my options I'm heading back over to the district office at oh-seven-thirty this morning armed with a list of questions and a latte. Also, I totally missed the boat on applying for a teaching position, because school starts much earlier here, which I didn't know, and didn't bother to check, because who starts school before Labor Day? And also, I was in denial, because if I don't know when school starts, then I don't have to face up to the fact that school starts, thereby prolonging the weepy inevitable. So now I've royally screwed both myself and my children. And that's a good, good feeling.

Sunset #1

One of the things I've really enjoyed about moving back to the southwest is the sunsets. I grew up in Albuquerque, where they have the most beautiful sunsets. I've missed them so much. No other part of the US has sunsets like this area of the country. Colorado sunsets aren't as dramatic as Arizona or New Mexico sunsets, but I'll take 'em. I snapped this on the back deck, and every time there's a wowzer, I think I'll post it.

I remember many times growing up, when we were driving home, my mom would pull over to the side of the road to watch the sunset fade. Sunsets have a bell curve. They build and build, their colors growing more intense, they crescendo, and then start to fade. Like the sky is making some brief but grand announcement.

Mountain Boy

Today Will turns six. SIX, how is it possible for my youngest child to be six?  I don't do birthday letters because getting teary and nostalgic is a feeling that vaguely mimics my post-partum depression, and I didn't enjoy the three times I had to crawl my way through that, so I certainly don't want to go there.

I don't even want to smile and wave to over-there from over-here.

Avoiding reminiscence is also the reason I don't take very many pictures of my kids. Also because I can never remember the darn camera, which in a way is a shame, because I have a truly crappy long term memory. Seriously, I can remember almost nothing if it happened more than 3 months ago. Sometimes it concerns me, and I think maybe I should go see a doctor, but then I remember that I really don't like reminiscing anyway, so if I can't remember much about high school graduation, or my wedding day, or when somebody took their first step, it's not like I'd really be accessing those memories very often anyway. It's not a disability, it's brain conservation!

*crickets* What? You're just now realizing I'm a little odd, and you've been reading this blog for how many years?

Aaanyway, I did want to mark this occasion because last week Aaron took a couple of days off of work to take Will hiking. (Click to enlarge.)

 

They went over to climb Pikes Peak, from the bottom,

to the top.

They climbed up about half way, and camped over night, then the next day they climbed the rest of the way to the top, and back down to their camp again. Take a look at the stairs leading to the halfway point. It's about a 2000ft. vertical climb and 3000 steps over 3/4 of a mile.  I get queasy just looking at it.

Apparently Will was making headlines up and down the trail, because 5 year-olds do not climb Pikes Peak. I'm so proud of him! He did SO well, and had a great time, except for once on Saturday, the third day, as they were heading back down the incline. Aaron said he got very quiet and surveyed long path leading downward, and cried because HE WANTED HIS MOMMY. And I was so proud again, because that's exactly what you should do when facing a task like that. I would've cried for my mommy too. But Aaron talked him down, and pretty soon he was taking those steps like they were nothing, and asking when they were going to climb Mt. Elbert.

Off The Grid

We rented Who Killed The Electric Car this weekend, a movie we heartily recommend. Aaron has been riding his bike to work most days. It's about 30 miles round trip, and takes him about 45 minutes each way. Sometimes he drives to the park and ride, and bikes in from there. Aaron knows someone at work who bought a kit, and converted a truck to run on electricity. We've looked into hybrids, and although they're definitely a step in the right direction they still run on gas.

So now we're considering converting our own car, or mini van to electricity. It really wouldn't be more expensive than buying a new car, and you get a significant tax break each year for owning one. In about 2 years, the car would have paid for itself in tax breaks alone, never mind all the money we'll be saving on gas. And then there's air, which we're fond of breathing, and it would be nice to make a tiny little dent in pollution levels.

Most of the vehicles that are converted by their owners are trucks, because you can keep the batteries in the truck bed. Obviously we're not going to be able to squeeze our family of five in the cab of a truck, so we'll have to figure out how to convert a car with more seating. EV-America is the company Aaron's co-worker used to convert his truck, and he says they're very good at offering assistance throughout the process, and helping you figure out how to convert other types of vehicles too. So we'll probably work with them. It would take us about a year's worth of weekends to do it, and, knowing us, about 3 months to get off our butts and get started.

We're concerned, not only about the environment, but about the economic and political ramifications of continuing to use a gas-powered car. I think there's a good possibility the economy is really going to tank, and while we won't be buying hundred-gallon drums of rice and beans, and holing up with semi-automatic rifles, we are looking for ways we can make some big changes. I don't think the fine folks in Washington will pull their heads out until there is a crisis situation, and I'm not so fond of crises. I generally like to avoid them in all forms if possible. Of course, democracy is designed to protect the status-quo, which is great if you have someone trying to crown themselves king, but not so great if you need the great DC behemoth to pick up the pace a little.

Another big change we're seriously considering is making the next house we buy solar powered. The power of the sun! (Say that like a superhero, it's fun!) We have a lease until next summer, and we're using the time to figure out how to make that happen. So who knows, by this time next year, we may be driving an electric mini-van, which we plug into our solar powered house!

I'm starving, but I'm not letting the terrorists win.

We arrived home late from baseball last night. The children trundled upstairs to put on their PJs while I fervently hoped, with all my fingers and toes crossed, that they wouldn't remember they hadn't eaten any dinner. We had no food in the house, and I had no inclination to grocery shop, or cook, or do dishes, or have anything to do with food, other than have it served to me by the dark-haired Owen brother (hey it's not my job to remember name of hired help).

I was amazed that the kids forgot all about dinner, they lay nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of a deli sandwich danced in my head. So I set out to find one. Unfortunately, it was past nine, and nothing was open. As I drove around, complaining that local businesses had some nerve not catering to my every whim, I began to think about which deli meat I'd endorse for president.

Now some deli meats are immediately out of the running, tuna and chicken salads, for example. I don't want a candidate that has to be held together by bread. I want a solid candidate; one that can stand on its own. Nothing too spicy, like Italian meatballs, I don't want anyone brandishing their shoe at the UN assembly yelling "We will marinate you!" Besides, meatballs don't really count as a deli meat; they just have no business being in a sandwich.

Salami, pepperoni, capicolla are all out. These meats don't exist in nature, they're basically fermented, and nothing says vote for the other guy like fermented meat. Besides, they have too many ties to the mafia. I personally like Liverwurst, but Liverwurst doesn't stand a chance in an election, that's just a schmear campaign waiting to happen (wow, sorry, that pun was so bad, it's painful).

Roast Beef and pastrami might be worth vetting. But to my mind, there's only one deli meat that would get my vote for president: sliced turkey. Think about it. Turkey is versatile, it can be paired just about anything: chipolte mustard, feta cheese, even other deli meats, and still hold its own. (Incidentally, my spell check wants to spell "chipolte" "archipelago." Sure, Archipelago, the mustard with the earthy taste.)

Turkey is bland enough not to offend the average American's taste. It's equal to the tasks of throwing out the first baseball, or holding a press conference with visiting dignitaries. Turkey would look great in a white shirt and a power tie. You know turkey has no skeletons in its closet, no past scandals involving coat check girls, or goats.  And turkey's no hawk. From it's long history, rich in tradition dating back to the first Thanksgiving, you know that no deli meat that has to run for it's life every Spring is going to be quick to go to war.

Have I convinced you? Would, say, an Obama/Turkey ticket win your vote? Or are you one of those hard-nosed corned beef supporters? cough *commie* cough

Resistance is futile

Hello, hello! Long time no read. Since last we met I did the solo parenting thing for 5 months, packed up our entire house, reunited with Aaron, moved the whole clan to Colorado, and turned 42.

Our house sold to the very first people who looked at it, which is a bona fide miracle. And they actually offered us what we asked, which is unheard of! Unfortunately by the time all was said and done (less improvements, closing costs, and realtor commission) we lost several thousand dollars, but believe me, it could've been worse. Much worse.

Now we live in, what those of you who enjoy ticks and poison ivy refer to as, The Great Outdoors. I am more of a Great Indoors sort of a person, but Aaron thinks he's died and gone to Disneyland. In fact, the mountain? Owns my husband. He's quickly corrupting Emily and Will, who think climbing mountains is preferable to waving at the mountain from the air conditioned living room.

Recently I've come to the realization, while standing in the shadow of the mountain, as it looms large over our recreational activities, like a Borg collective, that if I want to see my family on the weekends, I must be assimilated.

Since I'm really, really out of shape, as well as being unaccustomed to the high altitude, I've been trying to get acclimated by taking the kids for hikes in the mountains where half the walk is uphill. I let Will and Emily set the pace, and decide when we turn around. I have to admit though, the view is pretty nice.

Just like mother never made

Meatloaf and I have a long and sordid history. I like the idea of meatloaf, although for the life of me I can't fathom why. The very name is really kind of unappetizing. Who in the world would make a loaf from meat? As if meat needed a makeover, a revamped image, maybe we should get it an agent while we're at it. It certainly doesn't need to be more substantial. I don't think economy is really a good argument. It's not as if half a cup of bread crumbs is really going to make it magically multiply.

Apparently a Roman cookbook, complied around the 4th century, contains the first written recipe for meatloaf.

"Esicia omentata: pulpam cincisam teres cum medulla siliginei in vino infusi. Piper, liquamen, si velis, et bacam mirteam extenteratum simul sonteres. Pusilla esicia formabis, intus nucleis et pipere positis. Involuta omento subassabis cum careno."                                            -------------------------------------------------------- "Ground meat patties in pork caul fat (whatever that is): Grind chopped meat with the center of fine white bread that has been soaked in wine. Grind together pepper, garum (whatever that is), and pitted myrtle berries if desired. Form small patties, putting in pine nuts and pepper. Wrap in pork caul fat and cook slowly in reduced wine."

I suggest you memorize that in the original language, and recite it at parties. Funny, I'm never invited to parties, I can't imagine why.

Aaaanyway. I like the idea of meatloaf, although it's not a food my mother used to make. She was generally on a gourmet kick or a health food kick, so we never really ate anything like meatloaf. I'm not sure why meatloaf is comfort food, if your mother never made it, but I do find it comforting, and occasionally I try to make it. It always turns out bland. Then I have a giant hamburger I'm forced to deal with for the rest of the week. I'm a really good cook, but there are some things I've never been able to make, and meatloaf is one of them.

But yesterday, I had a pound of ground turkey that was on it's last leg, so I decided to try and conquer The Meatloaf once again. I scoured the internet, looking at recipe sites, and by Googling "world's best meatlof." There are 680 recipes claiming to be the world's best meatloaf, and with hyperbole like that, you know that it's got to be extremely difficult to make a meatloaf that doesn't taste like sawdustloaf, otherwise why would all these people work so hard to convince you, "hey, mine doesn't taste like crap, I swear!" I printed the best sounding recipes, and studied them like a drowning man studies the horizon for a lifeguard (hey, it's meatloaf, I've got to interject some drama somewhere).

I actually wrote my own recipe, instead of throwing in a dash of this and a handful of that, the way I usually cook. I made it for dinner last night, and it was really good. For meatloaf. Even Emily, who pretty much hates everything I cook, liked it. So I give you, the recipe for The Meatloaf -- no utopian promises necessary, this meatloaf can stand on it's own.

Sheryl's The Meatloaf

Loafiness:
1/2 package meatloaf seasoning, or dry onion soup
2T butter
2 eggs
1 onion, chopped
1/4c ketchup
1/3 c celery, finely chopped
1/2 red bell pepper, finely chopped
2T minced garlic
1/2 c grated parmesan (sp?)
1lb ground turkey
11/2 t Dijon
1lb breakfast sausage
1t dried thyme (probably 3/4t if it's powdered)
1t dried rosemary
1/4c fresh parsley, finely chopped
2/3c half and half
2/3c bread crumbs
1T Worcestershire

Glaziness
1/2c ketchup
1/3c (scant) brown sugar
1T Worcestershire
1T HOT taco sauce

Preheat oven to 350. I never used to think preheating was necessary, but it is.

Saute onion, celery, parsley, bell pepper, garlic, thyme and rosemary in butter until tender. Set aside to cool.

Combine everything but meat and bread crumbs in a bowl (as opposed to a plate, or your hands) and whisk within an inch of it's life.

In a separate bowl, add meats and breadcrumbs, mix thoroughly with your hands (or a pastry cutter, if you're like me and don't like to get your hands oogie).

Add remaining ingredients, mix thoroughly (please use a pastry cutter, I don't like the idea of your hands being oogie either.) Put mixture in loaf pan (I used 2 loaf pans, because I don't like tall meatloaf).

Mix glaze ingredients, and pour over the top. (If you use 2 loaf pans, double the glaze.)

Bake for 1 hour. Remove from oven, cover w/foil, and let stand 10 minutes.

The couch is calling my name

I'm taking a few brief minutes before I collapse on the couch to post. I should be making phone calls to contractors, doctors, and car mechanics, but I had some basal cancer cells removed from my forehead, and my head? She is hurting. Also I feel really nauseous for some reason. The procedure is a snappy affair-- snip, snip. But then they make you sit in the waiting room for 2 hours to make sure they got it all. I read in the waiting room, but when they got me in the chair afterward, to sew me up, they made me wait in a reclining position for a little too long, and I was sawing logs when the doctor came in. Ha, that was a little embarrassing. I just know I'm going to be one of those old people who is always falling asleep at the most inappropriate times. But hey, if your tired, what's in appropriate about that? Maybe I have narcolepsy. Anyway, I'm off to watch TV instead of being productive, and good grief, my to do list is about 8 miles long. I hope Aaron gets take out for dinner.

How's your day going?

I equate it with being artificial

I have a block against looking good. I even have a block against the phrase "looking good." As if  your appearance is some sort of reflection on your morals. I think that looks shouldn't make a difference in the way you're perceived by people. I think it's vain to want to look good. I know somewhere buried under all that baggage, that it's not vain. I know I feel good when I put some effort into my personal appearance. Somewhere behind this huge mental block, I believe it's nice to look nice, it's a gift to those who'll be looking at you.  Yet my block is so huge, I chafe against those sentiments. I roll my eyes at the part of me that believes that.

I was talking to a friend the other day, telling her about a book I'm reading on being thrifty. The book has lots of tips on how to save money on groceries, which is a goal my friend has. She keeps saying she wants to manage her money better, but as I was telling her about this book, she got a bit of a sour look on her face. 
    "Yeah, I read that book a long time ago, the author is a coupon Nazi." she said dismissively.
When I told her the book was published in '07, she scrunched up her nose.
    "Hmm, well, I'll keep it in mind."
Every time she brings up better money management, and we begin to talk about it, she bucks against the idea. She has a block against it.

That's exactly the way I feel against anything "beauty" related. I had to put the words beauty in quotes just now, because I rail against it. I have another friend who is still in adolescent rebellion against her mom. If her mom goes left, my friend goes right; if her mom says white, she says black. (She knows she's like this and I'm not breaking any confidences on the internet.) I have never EVER seen my mom leave the house, not even to get the mail, or take out the garbage, in anything other than full makeup. She gets her hair and nails done regularly, she does not own a pair of jeans, or sweats, etc. etc., Saint John wardrobe, blah, blah blah.

Yes, my mom may be a little over the top; yes, our patriarchal culture objectifies women; yes, beauty is equated with virtue, and a whole other slew of warped ideas. But aside from all that, do I really need to throw the baby out with the bathwater? Do I need to completely neglect my body, and face? Do I need to perpetuate an eating disorder so that it's that much more difficult to look good?

Really, I need to get over it.

I'm not sure how, and because it is a great-wall-of-China of a block, I can't really see it all, or gain clear perspective. I did do my hair and put on makeup today. And I feel good. And uncomfortable.

Hola, Que Tal?

Hi, wow it's kind of weird to be back, after a month-long, unplanned absence, but it's only weird because I'm imagining your reaction, or lack thereof, and since I don't know who most of you are anyway, why am I projecting a weird vibe between us? Instead I will conjure up the "Omigosh, I haven't seen you in forever!" vibe that you get when you run into an old friend at that little coffee shop, you know the one-- right across from the college bookstore.

Yes, the ads are gone.  Let's suffice it to say, I will miss the money, but blogs are starting to look a little too much like the strip in Las Vegas, which is not a swipe at those of you who run ads on your site-- love that money! -- I was just never 100% comfortable with it. I'm also closing comments for a little while (I think), because... Well, the few times I've been on a silent retreat, and reentered my life, conversation feels foreign, and I find I'm more comfortable reintroducing it little by little-- same goes for being absent from blogging. You understand, right? You can always email me.

Anyway, the reason I'm back, is simply because I was doing some reading, and I wanted to jot down some notes to myself, and then I thought, where can I keep these notes at the ready? And then I said, Hey! I have that blog thingy!

I've been doing some reading on people who live to be really old, prompted by this link, and a healthy dose of insomnia this morning. I poured a glass of Google, swirled it around, held it to the light, stuck my nose in and inhaled, and concluded that longevity is obtained by:

• continuing education-- either formal or informal learning
• social involvement
• enthusiasm and optimism
• not overeating or under sleeping
• physical activity

It's interesting that only about half of the list is about taking care of the body. It's also an eye opener that only one or two of those items are fully integrated in my life. I'm really going to work on plugging into the others. Of course it helps to have a good set of genes, and when your number is up, it's up, but it's interesting to think about extending my life, and how much influence I have.

I'm also dying to know how much the characteristics of consistency and follow through factor into centenarians' lives. On the one hand I imagine them being very self-disciplined. (Geez, I really need to stop idolizing self-discipline so much. I'm sure if I had some I wouldn't think nearly as much of it.) On the other hand I imagine them as dabblers, trying a smidgen of this and that, then trailing off on to something else. And dabbling is something at which I excel. In a lot of ways I think of this as a bad thing, because dabbling inherently lacks a steadfast course, but maybe to start out like gangbusters and fizzle out isn't such a bad thing, at least I'm trying to view it in a more positive light.

In my house we're declaring Saturday a "no screen time" day in our house. I think we need a break from the virtual and the fictional; a 24 hour respite from the untouchable worlds we spend so much of our lives absorbed in. I of course, am starting off brilliantly by cheating. Hey, it's 2 am, who's gonna know? I think it will be tough to do in the beginning, but ultimately beneficial. We're also putting a 2ish hour limit on how much time the kids can spend with their friends. We have a bazillion kids in a half block radius, and I usually have anywhere from zero to eight kids in my house, at any given time. So we're trying to steer Saturday toward more family time. Especially as the kids get older, and are off doing their own thing more, it will be nice to have a day that we spend together. Alternate scenarios flitter through my head in which we're either learning to churn our own butter, wearing high button shoes and bonnets, or sitting in front of a giant clock, green, and slightly sweaty, counting the seconds until midnight Sunday. One thing is for sure, I'll be making a trip to the library. And possibly learning to whittle.

One of those dreaded posts about posting.

Dude, I haven't blogged in so long, Typepad made me log in today. I think I've lost my will to blog. I'm not shutting her down because that feeling may change at anytime, as long time readers know how sporadic am. Then of course I will take my December sabbatical, where my stats plummet right into the tank, and never fully recover. Good thing I stopped checking my stats loooong ago, it's just too easy to get going on that hamster wheel. However I can tell by the number of comments I get now, vs the number of comments I used to get, a lot of my readers are long gone. It's really okay though, because sometimes I'm not in the mood to post, so let the chips fall where they may.

I am thinking of doing NaBloPoMo, as a truncated version of x365, and possibly some childhood memories thrown in for good measure. Doesn't that sound scintillating. I have been blogging over here with Belinda some, but these days if I'm online, I'm either playing with my Webkin, or twittering.

I really wish I could think of something to say. I had a Halloween party last night. I'm sure if I invested some energy I could spin a tale that would be amusing, but my writing energy is on par with a five year old. "I had a party for my kids. It was fun. Kids are cute. It was funny when they wrapped each other up in toilet paper for the Mummy Wrap game." Yeah, like that. Writing no one but your mother wants to read.

My nine-year-old is showing signs of dieting, which scares the holy living crap out of me, so I could write about that. It's really a messed up world when I have NEVER brought a Vogue or Bazaar or Cosmo into this house, I don't get the Victoria Secret catalogue, I never say a bad word about my own body, we don't watch ANY of the plethora of shows about models, makeovers, or plastic surgery, and yet Emily has picked up the message loud and clear that only skinny women who are 20, with long hair, and big boobs are beautiful. Because it's everywhere, unless you're living in a cave in the Andes with only Sherpas for company, you are going to be subjected to the message that your body is bad.

We have talked and talked, about how the body is so much more than an ornament, about what a narrow standard our culture has-- we don't even know anyone like that, so no one we know can even qualify as beautiful, under that standard. I pulled up pictures of the Karen tribes, wasp waists and bustles, foot binding, and even paintings of women during the Renaissance, just to offset. We talked about how people of different periods and cultures have had different standards of beauty. Some of those standards have been bizarre, some have been painful to achieve, and have imposed self hatred among the big footed, small bootied, or short necked. What else can I do? That's not rhetorical, please leave suggestions in the comments. Ultimately this is an arena I have no control over. All I can do is go through it with her, and hope that it remains something that pops up occasionally, but remains a small, if extremely annoying, part of growing up as an American girl.

Truly riveting post

Hullo? Poor neglected blog. Let's see, where does the thread of my life pick up? Already this morning I've spent 45 minutes on the internet. Just checking my email, twittering, and reading one blog. I'm really trying these days, to just do my business and get off the internet potty, so to speak, instead of sitting there, reading the newspaper behind a locked door, hiding from the children, long after having expulgated my colon.

Yes, I realize expulgated isn't a word, but sometimes it's good to expand your vocabulary by inventing words. Please use the word expulgated (or one of its conjugations) in a sentence today. Maybe Websters will pick it up. It's an especially good word, because it sound legit.

Will had a sore throat and a fever this weekend. I'm wondering how it's going to pan out today. The third day is usually the turning point for these things.

Aaron decided to take a local job, so we don't have to move, whew. I would've been happy to move, after I got over the initial teeth grinding, hair pulling, and kvetching. Of course, I'm happy to stay too. Now his company is is trying to keep him on. They've had a sudden revelation they've been underpaying him, just as he's ready to walk out the door. Funny how that happens. I don't know what he'll do, but I know what I'd do.

I really need to find something readable. I've got several books out from the library, and they're all good, I'm just not in the mood for them. So if Will's feeling up to it, we'll go to the library and the store today.

I've been doing pretty well on the exercise front. Walking my required 30 minutes, and hating all 1800 seconds of it. (Ssshhh, I know I said I'd do 45. Baby steps.)

Things I have not done:

• taken my medicine
• used my light box
• drunk any passionflower tea
• exercised
• posted on my blog (embarrassing feat, or otherwise)

Oh well, if I didn't make grand plans with the best of intentions, and then proceed to fall flat on my face, or fizzle out like a wet sparkler, I'd hardly be me, now would I? Tomorrow is another day.

Nothing has been happening. Well, we've been wrangling with Aaron's various job offers, and counter offers, and counter counter offers. And none of these jobs are in the state of Ohio. But nothing other than that.

Oh wait, yes, having my face biopsied for cancer-- it's really no big deal though, so don't worry, just what happens when you live in the desert for 30 years. My dermatologist has the BEST skin-- like cake frosting, I was tempted to lick him, but I didn't want to start out on the wrong foot.

Okay then... see you around.