Paper Napkin

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."

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.)

Like a neurotic squirrel, these are my nuts.

I had an anxiety episode while mowing the lawn yesterday. You know that feeling you have when you trip over something? The moment before the relief you feel when you've caught yourself, and you realize your not going to fall. That instant of startled fear, and twinge of anger that your being is out control; one tick of the clock when your brain is flailing madly to recover. It's a lot like that, only it lasts several minutes. If memory serves, these interludes of panic accompany my S.A.D. I always think September is too early for these symptoms, that it doesn't really start to get dark until November, but, ready or not here it comes. I'm determined to really do everything I can this year to shut the door on the crazy. Because, being depressed? Is kind of a bummer.

After yesterday's refresher course in what winter is like, I'm more determined than ever to exercise. In thinking about it more, I realize it's not just that I hate to exercise, I'm also afraid to exercise. When Aaron and I used to live near the mountains and go hiking, I'd reach a certain point on the trail where I would start to panic. I don't know if it was because my heart rate was up or because I felt like I wasn't going to make it, or if I just felt vulnerable being in the wilderness, I suspect a combination of all three. I'd get weepy and have to sit down, feeling bad for being such a baby, because at the time I thought I just didn't like exercising. But now I realize I was scared. When I'm riding my bike, or walking around the neighborhood, my level of panic is nowhere near that great, but it is present-- a kind of humming in the background. Nevertheless, exercise is the order of the day. Even if I only exercise until Spring, then maybe I can take a vacation.

And as far as not liking exercise is concerned, I realized yesterday that I don't like sitting in front of my light box, or taking my meds, or reading the Bible (sacrilege!), or drinking passionflower tea either. But I do them because they're medicinal. I need to view them this way to lend them weight, to make them important so I don't blow them off. Because if I'm not doing everything I can to be well, what I'm really saying is, I want to be sick.

I think Pink Floyd had a point.

We're practicing getting ready for school. Every morning I've gotten the kids up a little earlier, re-instituted a school-time rule: no TV in the morning, lay out your clothes the night before, homework for an hour in the afternoon. And with every stupid increment I feel my babies being pulled into the school maelstrom. They seem to be adjusting pretty well.

Today we went to new student orientation, and even though the teachers weren't required to be there, both the girls' teachers were. I was very happy; they seemed much friendlier than they're predecessors, and I breathed a little sigh of relief. In fact, Haley's teacher, Ms. Sunny was someone I had met previously, when she came into work, and I reeeeally liked her. When I asked a neighbor girl, who's a couple of grades ahead of Emily, which 4th grade teacher would be good for a quiet kid like Emily, she said Mrs. Kind, and lo and behold, that's who she got.

I was very good at pretending I had social skills. I introduced myself to a woman who led one of the small group tours around the school. I smiled, I asked questions, I got someone's phone number. By the time I left, I was spent. One thing I'm going to do in order to connect with the girls' teachers is have them fill out a very brief questionnaire (I know it sounds weird, work with me) asking if they have any pets or hobbies, and what their favorite flower, A.M. drink, and P.M. snack is. That way, the kids will know a little something about them, and I'll have a better idea what to get them for an occasional mini-treat.

My neighbor doesn't know it, but he saved my life today by inviting us to a BBQ on Sunday night, so I won't morosely wonder around the house, going through boxes of baby clothes. Gotta shut down now, big thunderstorm coming.

The upscale cousin of pigs' feet

While grocery shopping tonight I bought chicken wings instead of chicken thighs. I was momentarily diverted by the bright orange "REDUCED FOR QUICK SALE" sticker. Sale? Did someone say that something within a 100 yards of me is discounted? I am a bloodhound sniffing the air, barking and baying at the day old bread I've treed.

In any case, I didn't notice they were wings. The chicken wing is the most worthless "food" ever. I mean, you did want to eat meat, right? Your purpose wasn't to show off your 14 carat gold tooth pick, was it? Why would you eat a wing? The minute you sink your teeth into it you hit bone. Unless you're particularly fond of that teeth grating sensation. Or maybe people like stripping those tiny shreds of meat from the bones. Digging in all those nooks and crannies puts them in touch with their evolutionary predecessors, makes them feel like predators.

Of course the other drawback is having to use an entire forest of napkins to get your hands clean. Really, the whole undertaking is just a culinary disaster. And yet, there are entire restaurants devoted to serving nothing but chicken wings. Do they also discard the best part of the vegetables for their salad bar? A row of bowls filled with tomato stems, carrot tops, peach pits, and lettuce and broccoli cores? Do they make their patrons sit on those nylon weave aluminum folding chairs? Do they set the tables with sporks?  Seriously, if you want some chicken, eat a thigh, or a breast; even a leg is passable. For Pete's sake  even the heart and gizzard are at least meaty. Otherwise, just opt for a sandwich. But not a meatball sandwich (that's another post, entirely).

In which I make myself feel better, and bore you to tears.

Hello middle of the night!

I had a nightmare that the kids were abducted. Gah. Horrible. I know it's because yesterday I was looking at this excellent Squidoo lens on child safety. You can get a free child safety kit via that link.

Child abduction is something that is widely publicized, and should be. Unfortunately, when something gets prolonged exposure in the media (insert Britney joke here) perspective is often lost. (The Culture Of Fear and False Alarm are excellent reads on the subject, by the way).

What is not widely publicized is the statistics on child abduction. Most abductions are perpetrated by a relative or someone known by the family. Since I trust my instincts about people, those aren't the kind I worry about. What I worry about is abduction by a stranger. Just the word stranger alone has a whole train full of baggage chugging along behind, doesn't it?

But here are the facts. (Yes, instead of having a cup of chamomile, and watching re-runs of The Simpsons, I'm looking up statistics. Bad, bad dream. I also dreamed I was a scorpion salesman. Business wasn't that great.) There are 73,500,000 children in the US. Between 100-300 children are abducted each year by strangers. (Even those statistics are a little fuzzy because all the perpetrators would have to be caught in order to determine whether or not they were known by the family.) So let's say that 220 are abducted each year. That's .000003% of the population of children. 3 millionth. I don't know about you, but that number means bupkus to me. 1 millionth is 10^-6 power, which is the size of a micron. But how big is a micron? As near as I can tell, a micron is about the size of a leaf's nucleus. Which still doesn't mean a whole heck of a lot, since I don't have microscopic vision.

Let's try a different tack. There are 5, 280 feet in a mile. So if each kid was represented by 1 foot, that would be roughly 13,920 miles. That's about the distance traveling east from Los Angeles to Tokyo, and 1-3 feet of that distance would be 100-300 kids. I think. I'm groggy, and it's the middle of the night, so you can check my math. [ETA: No Groggy Sheryl, that would be 100-300 feet, not 1-3]

Okay, yes, it really doesn't make any difference if it's your kid, but still, the chances of it happening? Teeny. That's what I need to remember.

Pppbbbssst

Our year of homeschooling is wrapping up. I have thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. Well, 96% of those minutes, anyway. We've decided to send the girls back to public school next year. It's been a tough decision to make. At some point I will be giddy about being able to drive someplace and listen to NPR in silence, but right now I feel big sadness. I will miss the girls so much next year. I will miss not knowing what they're doing during the day, and not being able to make each other laugh, or give spontaneous snuggles. Will Emily's teacher be able to shift her from "I can't" mode into "I can" mode as well as I do? Will Haley's teacher know that behind all that bravado is a little insecurity? I hope so.

The main reason we decided to send them back to school is that although Aaron and I highly value self discipline and responsibility, they aren't our strong suits. Aaron has ADD, and I have no excuse whatsoever. We do our level best to instill responsibility and self discipline in our kids, but it's hard to give whatcha ain't got. A lot of people think self discipline and responsibility are overrated, but they are two of the qualities I value most, and they can carry you a long, long way. Having them firmly established as a part of your character makes the quality of your life and the lives of those around you better. When you're in crisis, either big or small, from within or without, and you're going down, sometimes they can save your butt. In short, having discipline and responsibility in place, makes the business of life much easier to handle. While I don't expect the school system to be able to instill those qualities in our children, public school will impose structure and routine on us, which are distant cousins of responsibility and discipline. And in public school at least the kids will have a good chance of picking them up somewhere along the way, like lice!

And now it's 7:30, and I meant to start the laundry 2 hours ago (see what I mean?!) so I need to wrap up. Now I feel crappy about my parenting, on top of feeling sad, so I think I'll end with a short list of the good things I'm teaching my kids.

• humor
• flexibility
• good communication skills
• problem-solving ability
• logical thinking
• self understanding
• insight into how humans operate
• kindness
• self expression
• acceptance

Okay, I'm trying to post more.

In a few minutes I take Haley to take her 1st grade diagnostic test. Fortunately in 1st grade they assign you a time slot, so I will not have to chase Will around a hotel lobby for 2 hours.

Afterward we're going to Target so I can buy some tweezers, because one of my children absconded with my tweezers and now my eyebrows are taking over the planet. Back! Back you fiends! Cower as I pluck!

I also need new foundation. I don't know how long I've had my old bottle, but at least a year, so I'm pretty sure it's time to buy a new one; who knows what's growing in there. I approach good grooming like Groundhog Day. Every once in a while I stick my head out of my hole, and take a look around, spend money on moisturizer and make-up, and fall back into bad habits for 6 more weeks months. Last night I was at work and a mom-type woman came in with slightly greasy hair, and a stained T-shirt, and I thought, "Wow, that's me, and it's not a pretty look."

I'm trying to accept that fact that sometimes I function well, doing most of the stuff I'm s'pose to do, and other times I don't. The trick is when I'm on top of things, not to beat myself up about all the stuff I haven't done and all the ways I don't measure up. And not to feel panicky because I'm not on the ball a lot of the time. That's a challenge.

Last night's Extremely Busy Flu-Induced Dream

I'm a volunteer at a hospital in the burn unit. I'm assigned to a patient who doesn't have a shred of skin. He's had a complete dermalectomy. He's a skeleton, with all his organs intact, encased in an air-tight, body-shaped plastic bag, so all the blood and fluids can't leak out*. I know it sounds gross, but in the dream it was perfectly normal. His doctor, wife, and I stand around the frame and marvel at how well he's doing. The following conversation transpires, unironically:

Me: Wow, he looks great!
Doctor: Oh, I know. You should have seen him when he came in. Like a hot dog left on the grill too long. [all laugh]
Wife: When I first saw him, I thought he'd never make it, but now I think we're going to pull through.
Me: Definitely. Except for having no skin, I'd never guess he was a burn victim.
Doctor: Okay Sheryl, your job is to bend his arms and legs to get a full range of motion. We can't have those muscles atrophying. So do the left leg, right leg, left arm, right arm. And then after each cycle through, [he hands me a giant pastry brush] baste him with butter.
Me: Wow, I thought the butter thing was a myth.
Doctor: No, no. Butter is the best substance we've found to aid skin regeneration.

Seriously, what dwells in my subconscious that it comes up with this stuff? Baste him in butter?! Good grief. So I rotated arms and legs, and swiped butter over a skeleton all night. (And did you know that instead of dreams only lasting a few seconds, as formerly believed, sleep studies show that dreams occur in real time, so I mean all night.) And when I'm sick, my brain latches on to one dream each night, so even though I've gotten up, taken more meds, and posted on my blog, when I go back to bed, Mr. Bones will be there waiting for me to continue his therapy. I can't really say I'm looking forward to it.

*Instead of a bed, the patient lies inside a large frame (like a backless picture frame), and the ends of the bag are clamped in the frame. It stands about 3ft. off the ground, in case you're interested in such things. You're welcome.

Wow, I don't believe it.

I don't believe in astrology. I don't think the movement of celestial bodies can have any more influence over me than a black cat crossing my path. And truly, I don't believe that the precise moment I emerged from my mother, or where I was born could impact my temperament. It's like saying meatloaf will taste like creme brulee if you serve it in a custard dish. But then again I believe God died, (see, Nietzsche was right. Briefly.) and then picked himself up and brushed himself off three days later. For as crazy as that sounds, I may as well believe the next passing comet is a giant tour bus headed for Krypton.  Of course, I believe there's sound reason and solid logic behind my belief, otherwise I wouldn't believe it, but that's another post for another day. Anyway, I was taking a stroll through the internet, and decided I'd have my astrological chart run, just so I could roll my eyes a lot for kicks. According to about.com your rising, sun and moon signs are the big Kahunas. So you have to know the precise minute you were born to get your rising sign, and an accurate chart, which I do. So I input the information, and this is what the output was.

Come Back: A Tardy Book Review

Claire Fontaine and her daughter Mia have written a really good book, Come Back: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Hell and Back. (Claire asked me to review it eons ago, and as usual I've been remiss.) There are shelves full of books in the stores about runaway teens, drug abuse, dysfunctional families, etc., ad nauseum. It's a genre I like because who doesn't like a juicy drama, and it's a genre I'm leery of because I'm a cynic.

The book begins with the discovery that Mia has run away, and has been living a double life for over a year. It chronicles the search for Mia, how incest perpetrated by her father has launched Mia's kamikaze mission, Claire's efforts to save her from herself, the arduous work Mia does to save herself, and the family's process of transforming itself into a better functioning unit (which makes it sound like instructions to an Ikea armoire, sorry, synopsis isn't easy). 

The story line in the first half of the book is riveting. Claire finds Mia, and sends her away to Mia's aunt in Indiana, where she continues to self destruct. Finally Claire and her husband Paul send her to a sort of therapeutic reform school, the Morova Academy, in the Czech Republic, where she goes through an intensive program. While back in the states Claire attends the school's therapy/training for parents. I couldn't put the thing down, and that's not just because of the dramatic content. The book is so well written-- the language, the pacing, and the imagery, are really amazing. And the story is interspersed with Mia's concurrent thoughts, which adds a lot of depth.

The book would be a boon to any parent whose child is struggling with addictions, eating disorders or past abuse, because it details the school's approach to these problems, as well as the changes in thinking and action that Mia and Claire undergo. I found it especially interesting because the last book I read was Reviving Ophelia, which gives a therapist's view on problems girls encounter in adolescence, and many of the same themes recur in this book. But even if your family hasn't run into any of these problems, I recommend the book as a manual for preventative maintenance to any parent preparing for adolescence who wants to make the transition as smooth as possible.

Psst, boys have a penis, pass it on.

Today I had to take Emily to a hotel in a nearby town so she could take the Ohio state reading exam (my kids go to charter school, for those of you just joining us). I was chatting with a couple of very nice women who are also in the program. We talked for a little bit and the subject of how we like the curriculum came up. I said that I liked it pretty well, except that I wished History included more hands on activities, and I thought the music curriculum was a dud. The two women I was speaking with had older kids, and discussed the merits of Algebra, and Literature. Then one of the moms made the remark that she had to do a lot more "censoring" for her teens than she did last year, when she used a different program.

"Censoring?" I inquired. "What kind of censoring?"

"Well, they're reading Romeo and Juliet, and..." she made a disapproving sound.

"Uh, Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet?" I asked, thinking that a bootleg copy of Juliet Does Verona must have somehow gotten into the curriculum.

"Yeah. There's stuff in the footnotes I wouldn't let my kids read, no matter how old they were." I didn't press, not wanting to broach what was obviously and uncomfortable topic. "And they have pictures of Michelangelo's David in there too, completely uncovered. My husband drew a Speedo over him."

"But it's just a body," I countered, "and an amazing sculpture. The talent it took to carve something with such accuracy-- the proportion and detail are incredible."

"Maybe, but I don't want my kids seeing that kind of thing."

"That kind of thing... like, a human body?" I steered away, not wanting to put her on the spot. "But overall, the art curriculum is really good, don't you think..."

I had hoped to meet some other parents, and maybe make a plan for a future outing at a park, or something, but it was clear to me that once she knew me, that mom would never let her kids play with mine. All I could think was-- wow. Just, wow. That is one teeny little construct you've got your mind cooped up in. You might want to take that thing out for some air, walk it around the block, let it stretch its legs a little.

Actually, it freaked me out. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the whole thing hours later...my brain needs a shower.

To Three, Or Not To Three

So Cyndi emailed me the other day three weeks ago to ask my opinion about having a third child. I've taken so long to post the answer she's probably given birth by now. Sorry, Cyndi! Obviously I can't tell anyone whether or not it's a good idea for them to have a child, but I can tell you about my own experience.

Disabled Book Week

This week in the United States, it's banned book week. I have to tell you, this absolutely drives me bananas! What? That books are banned from libraries, you ask? No. That NO books are banned from libraries.

In the United States, if you want a book removed from your local library, you file a formal written complaint, and submit it to a reconsideration committee, which reviews the material, and the selection criteria. Then they make a decision about what to do with the book . If the complainant is not satisfied with the committee's recommendation, they can appeal it and a challenge hearing is held. See? Nice and democratic. That's not banning.

People can still read Catcher In The Rye, or Tropic of Cancer or Pat The Bunny. They can borrow it from a friend, or buy it on Half.com, or get it from another library. No one is going to cut off their hand, or put them in jail if they use other avenues to obtain the book. It is still available to the general public, therefore, not banned. Of course, I guess Challenged Book Week doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but whatever.

Hi, I am absolutely buried under work. Buried, I say! See that pile of papers that's moving, over there in the corner? I'm under it. Plus working nights! Carting kids to soccer! Not eating dinner as a family! Which sucks! Sometime soon I hope to transform all this chaos into a smoothly running organism. (Stop laughing.)

So! Cooper Munroe emailed me the other day to alert me to maternal profiling that's happening across the country. I was going to write a post about it, but now I'm going to cheat and just reprint her email here (see: work, buried).

Hi Sheryl,   Help! You have so many readers, I wanted to share this with you...Thank you!   At BlogHer I saw the documentary film, The Motherhood Manifesto, and through the film I learned that in Pennsylvania, where I live, it is legal to ask someone in a job interview if they are married or have children. Yep, dark ages. As you can guess, this hurts mostly moms and single moms. PA is one of 28 states that is in this predicament, and we, and the other states, aren't covered by the federal regs either.   Here is a list of states where discrimination is covered, and not covered, in employment laws.      Since BlogHer, I have been working with Joan Blades and others at MomsRising.org, as well as women in Pennsylvania to help get legislation passed (it has been stalled in the state house and senate -- for 6 years!) that would make this practice illegal.   I wrote an article about it that ran yesterday in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, please read it if you get a chance, it explains the problem:   Anyway, if Pennsylvania can do this, it means so much to moms everywhere, and could create momentum for many critical issues involving moms and families, and on this type of discrimination. PA could start a chain reaction, and we need to drum up some noise. Momrising has create a web page for this, and we have been blogging over there too. [Here are links] to PA legislators phone/email info and a petition. You don't have to be from PA to send a message that this is important.   Anything you can do to get the word out would be awesome. So many times I talk about this people say, "I had no idea!" and that seems to be the biggest problem, the lawmakers think since no one is talking, nobody cares. We can change that pretty darn quick I would imagine.   Thank you! Cooper Munroe

So you know what to do. Click on those links, and let the legislature of PA know what you think. And if you're in one of the other 28 states who are profiling, drop your own senator an email as well.

When Lettuce Makes You Cry

You're in the produce department at your local grocery store, and you walk by the Romaine. Its frilly leaves loosely arranged on the stalk, like a crinoline skirt.  Milky white stems graduate to a green so green it's a little shocking. Your eyes fill with tears, and you're not sure why. Maybe it's because lettuce doesn't have to struggle to grow; it reaches the pinnacle of lettuceness without even trying. Or because these plants, which once stood row upon row in the sun, now lie in a pile under fluorescent lights. But two things you do know: you're forgetting to take your Wellbutrin, and you need to stay out of the meat department.

cognitive dissonance

Dear Self Who Wishes We Were June Cleaver:

I know that you want me to get up early every morning, and have everyone up and dressed and fed, and start school by 7:30. And I agree, we really should. And I know you want me to get dressed and look somewhat presentable before school starts. And as you know, when the alarm went off at 5:30 this morning we got up. But then when Will came in at 6:15, and asked me to lie down with him, and the bed was so warm, and he was so snuggly, and I slipped right into an interesting dream...I can't remember what it was, but it was very engrossing. Anyway, I'm sorry we're about to start school at 9:30, in our Snoopy night shirt, with mascara smeared under our eyes.

Regretfully,
Self Who Sometimes Wipes Her Boogers On Her Jeans

In Which The Stream Of COnciousness Just Overflowed It's Banks.

Despite interviewing while wearing a stained shirt, I got hired at the craft store. I worked 2 nights this week. The cash register was easy to learn, and they trained me to do returns, and tax exempt purchases, etc. I'm training to be a front end supervisor, which is basically a glorified cashier. I am a little nervous that after having no structure in my day sooooo many years, now I'll be homeschooling (yes, it's a verb, shut it) full time during the day, and working at night and part of the weekend. But going slowly insane is just taking too long, so I'm revving up the trip to Crazyville. Sorry I haven't posted this week, but it may not be the last time you're stuck looking at the same post for a while, since I do this purely for fun, I don't want it to feel like an obligation. Maybe I'll just post snippets here and there, instead of waiting until I have time to post Paragraphs.

Okay I wasn't going to tell you this, because I didn't want to bore you to death, but then I thought, so what if they're bored to death? I don't think I can be legally responsible for homicidal ennui, and even if I could, how are you going to call the cops if you're dead? Answer me that, Smarty. When they discover your body, they'll never suspect you died of boredom! Boredom leaves no evidence! YOU'LL NEVER PIN THIS ON ME SUCKERS! Hahaahaaahaaaa!

Oh sorry.  Where was I? Oh right, in addition to being really busy, I've discovered another secret to limiting time on the internet. Making a list. See, I've been wandering the streets of the internet, kicking empty soda cans, looking for change in the gutter, aimless, vagrant, drinking Wild Turkey out of a paper bag. So I never quite knew when I needed to take my leave. But then I made a list! Of things I want to accomplish on the internet, like reading blogs and playing alchemy.  And when I've completed the items on my list, I'm through! It's time to sign off until the next day. It works like a charm. Doesn't that give you a secret thrill?  Just me then, huh?

In other news, Lord it's hot here. If you took a mower and a machete to the rain forest, and killed all the wild animals, and put up a bunch of tract homes, and imported some deer, it would be just like Ohio right now. Yessiree, muy caliente.

Sometimes when I'm roasting vegetables, I pretend I'm a masseuse. I pour the olive oil over the green beans, sprinkle generously with salt, add a touch of basil, and as I'm mixing I think, "There, let me work out those knots. Do you like this olive oil? How about a little salt to exfoliate your skin; you're looking a little dry. There now, that's better. This basil will stimulate your circulation. Alright, you're all through, time for your sauna!

Put Me On The Bench

Apparently another outbreak of Hirshman fever is spreading through the blogosphere. Julia linked to an op-ed piece Linda Hirshman wrote for the Washington Post, complaining about how widely popular hated she is, how she barely has time to do anything but Google herself, and shucks, she never meant to start a revolution. Poor thing may be forced to return to the lecture circuit.

It's the little things

I'm short. Really short. 4' 10" aka 1.47 meters. I prefer to think that I'm 147 centimeters, because it sounds taller. On the rare occasion I run into someone my height, I think "Geez they're short." I have no idea how tall anyone else is, I just know they're taller. I really don't mind being short. I wish that I could reach the second shelf of my kitchen cabinets or the top shelf in my closet without a step stool. I wish I could change a light bulb without hauling out a ladder, but I just make Aaron do it. For the most part being short is fine, and I love being able to stretch out in the bathtub.

But tonight was the highlight of my vertically challenged life. Tonight I went to Haley's softball game and set up my new folding chair (2 for 10 bucks on sale, no less!), and sat down, and Will climbed up in my lap. It was heaven. It was heaven because normally I have an incompetent lap. Chairs are just a little too high, so my toes barely graze the ground. This makes it virtually impossible to hold a kid on my knees. I either have to sit far forward in my chair, which is not very comfy, or I have to slouch in my chair like some bored teenager counting the minutes til the bell rings, also not comfy.

But tonight my folding chair was loooooow.  I sat, and rested the entire sole of my shoe on the dirt. My knees were at a 90° angle, and my back was fully supported by some sort of lovely synthetic fabric. And I held my sweet son on my lap, and he rested in the crook of my arm for at least 45 seconds, until he ran off to step on some big dirt clods that were just begging to be crushed. But it was so nice while it lasted.

Sticking thieves with PINs

I was reading this story on CNN about identity theft, and how easy it is to retrieve social security numbers on line. The article proposes cleansing records, like blackening out social security numbers, but bemoans the cost and time of doing that. I've been thinking about the problem of identity theft for quite sometime, and I think I have come up with a simple, relatively inexpensive way to virtually end identity theft. PIN numbers*.

Each citizen would be issued a six digit personal identification number. If someone needs a new social security card, or birth certificate, they would only be able to order one by entering their PIN on line, on a phone pad, or by going down to the county clerk's office and personally entering the code on a keypad. The same applies for opening any kind of credit card account or taking out a loan. You would have to enter your PIN on line, or on a key pad in order to get a loan or a line of credit. Mortgage and credit card companies could still check your credit without the PIN, but no one would be able to open an account or use personal information without first entering their PIN.

As another measure of security, you should be able to access your credit report anytime, free of charge. The 3 major credit bureaus shouldn't be making a killing off your credit scores. You should be able to access them whenever you need to. (Of course you can order an annual report from Equifax, Experian, or TransUnion for free.)

And while I'm dreaming, wouldn't it be nice for the IRS to suspend penalties, law suits and harassment until identity theft investigations are resolved? (Don't get me started on the lack of accountability the IRS has. When I was a teenager, we had a friend of our family who died of a heart attack, after being harassed by the IRS for an erroneous $1,000,000 tax bill.)

Obviously assigning PINs to everyone would cost the government money. You'd have the cost of generating and mailing the numbers, and installing key pads in county clerk offices throughout the country. I don't have all the details worked out, but I'm sure there is some cost effective way to do it. Nor would the system be foolproof. Thieves would be able to lift a PIN here and there, but keeping records of PIN to a minimum would significantly decrease the possibility of theft.

All in all though, my idea seems like it would work. Maybe I'll email my congressperson, or someone with even more influence, like Kos.

(Yes I know it's redundant to add "numbers" after PIN, but it just sounds weird without it.).

Things I would have blogged about if I'd known about blogging then

• 1997- Why was Princess Di cannonized into the sainthood of popular culture upon her death, while mother Theresa, who died 6 days later, got bupkis?
• 1999- All you freaks who are storing up 50 gallon drums of dried beans, and swimming pools of drinking water should chill out. The worst thing that's going to happen to you on Jan. 1, 2000 is that your electric carving knife may not work.
• 2000- The genius of Homestar Runner
• 2002- How having a third child, going cold-turkey off your anti-depressant, having your husband get laid off, and preparing to move half-way across the country to a state you will soon grow to loathe can make you a wee bit psycho.
• 2003- If you isolate the first letter of every 805th word of The Da Vinci Code, it spells "Dan Brown's writing stinks like Limburger cheese."

Since I didn't get a chance to explore these topics then, and everyone flocked to the movies to see The Da Vinci Code this weekend, I thought it might be a good time to take on that last one.

It's crowded in here or: how I learned to stop worrying and love the trash.

I wasn't planning on posting today, but I've been notified I'm Feedster's feed of the day. Now I wish I'd shaved my legs this morning.

IN WHICH THE METAPHOR THING GETS TOTALLY OUT OF HAND

At the behest of Jessica, I bought a copy of The Sugar Addict's Total Recovery Program. I have sworn off sugar numerous times (as you longtime readers know) and have pretty much decided, swearing off sucks. But Jess said this book was different, and it does seem to be. The first step is to eat protein with breakfast. I don't have it in me to lead a revolution against my addiction. I don't have the strength to turn my habits upside down and shake them by the ankles. I don't have the will to climb that tall mental ladder, walk down the diving board of I can do it, and take a swan dive into the pool of never again.  But I can eat protein with my breakfast. That I can do. So we'll see how it goes.

You know when you were in Jr. High, and you liked a guy, and you found out what his schedule was, and before 3rd period you made a mad dash to the girls bathroom, to make sure your hair was perfectly feathered like Farrah's, and to apply one more layer of Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, and a spritz of Love's Baby Soft, and then you stood nonchalantly outside his English class, giggling a little too loudly with your friends, and totally not looking at him as he walked past? And then at lunch, you walked by his table in the cafeteria, and sat right in his line of vision, giggling a little too loudly with your friends, and totally not looking at him as he ate his mystery meat? And after doing that for 2 weeks, you're done, screw him, and THEN when you'd written him off, his cousin told your best friend that he was totally into you? That's pretty much where I am mentally, if recovery from sugar addiction were a cute brown-eyed boy named Charlie O'Leary.

                         

LET THE BUYER BEWARE

If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.  I've¹ been looking for a camera on eBay. The sliding lens cover on mine has been taped open (good ol' duct tape!) for about a year, and recently the little plug-thingy (that's the technical term) in the USB connector got bent, and then broke off when I tried to fix it (read: unbend it with a pen). I hate to replace a whole camera because of a few minor problems, but in these times of conspicuous consumption, planned obsolescence, and large landfills, it costs more to fix it, than it does to replace it. Fixing things has become an antiquated notion, like darning socks.

I want a simple digital camera that will take a picture when I press the button and not 2 seconds after I press the button. I shopped around on Froogle, and Best Buy first.  I noted the retail price on several digital cameras, and then started hunting for a good deal on eBay. I surfed! I bid! I won! (like Caesar, but without the messy stabbing). It arrived the the mail today! It was everything I thought it would be! Except not digital. Yeah, that's right, I bought a film camera.

Remember film? Those long celluloid strips sold in bright yellow boxes?

You used it to take pictures of your new console stereo?

Sigh. I didn't bother to contact the seller. Instead, I took a screen shot of the eBay listing, cut, and pasted the pictures into my new eBay ad, and when someone buys it (hopefully at a profit), I'll send it to them. Kind of like Flat Stanley. Only not. Oh well, at least I didn't name my kid Moses. Some mistakes are more easily undone than others.

 

 

1 It's really hard for me not to start transitional sentences with "so" or "hey" or "anyway," I've been noticing I do it a lot, and it's starting to drive me nuts. Like The Tell-Tale Heart, I can hear those interjections and conjunctions thumping under the floor.

Mood: Moody

Did you ever go to sleep in a certain mood, and then when you wake up you try to remember what the mood was so you can get into it again? Just me then? Yes, well, it's niggling me. I took a nap this afternoon, and now I can't recall the mood I was in. I believe it was restless dissatisfaction, or possibly guilty. Oh well, good riddance to bad company, maybe I'll try to settle down into industrious.

Speaking of moods, lately, the getting-ready-for-school routine has been an exercise in torture. Emily has an acute case of Princess and the Pea syndrome, and if her clothes don't feel just right, all the electrons in her body acquire a positive charge, her hair stands up,  her head spins around and she throws up pea soup. Now all of you with your fingers poised over the keyboard about to tell me to have her choose her clothes the night before are obviously HEARTLESS OGRES, WITH NO REGARD FOR HUMAN LIFE. Because flowered jeans feel COMPLETELY different on Monday night than they do on Tuesday morning, DUH! How can my child possibly go to school and expect to learn anything if a seam is "burning" her thigh, or her underwear elastic is causing gangrene because it's completely cut off her circulation? Magic underwear! that will feel fine tomorrow! Then it will be her favorite, and why can't she wear it everyday?!

But I just want you to know that after dropping her off at school, because she missed the bus (again), I did not drown my sorrows in a fast-food breakfast. Which is the second day this week I have managed to avoid a 600 calorie breakfast, and wait until my mood passed. Wouldn't it be great if you could pick your mood the way you pick your earrings or tie? I mean I know you can choose your mood to a great extent, but what if everyone had an apothecary chest with dozens of tiny drawers and inside each one were little colored mood-disks we could pop in our mouths and they'd dissolve like rice paper. Did anyone ever eat White Rabbit candy when they were a kid? It had that thin layer of rice paper wrapped around the outside. White rabbit? Mood altering paper? Maybe I should change the banner to tie-dye?

While I was looking for that link I found Kopykake if you're thinking of making your own edible cake topper. They're kosher! Well, Aurthur's on, so I have to go fold laundry.

Good Afternoon, Good Evening, and Good Night.

Holy moly! I hit the shoe jackpot. DSW shoes is discontinuing their children's line, so they are having a half-price sale, starting today! I bought 9 pairs of kids shoes for $100! That's $11 a pair! I couldn't beat that even if I temporarily lost my mind and shopped at W@lmart.

In The Bag

I am a big fan of the purse. Forget diamonds, it's a hobo bag that's a girl's best friend. There have been times I've been so happy to have a new purse, I switched the contents from the old to the new, in the car, before I left the mall parking lot. I like a purse with a wide mouth. I want to be able to see everything at a glance. I don't want to dig blindly for my Carmex or keys because the opening is constrained by an unforgiving zipper. I like a purse with pockets, but not too many pockets. No built in wallet (which I equate with Naugahyde and snap-in key chains). I love the idea of men carrying bags too. So much more potential than just a wallet. There's even a blog about handbags.

You can put anything in a purse, and there's a bit of intrigue, because unless you carry the clear plastic kind, no one can see what's in it. Think of the freedom of that! They can hold anything from a pet rock to a can of tuna, or some novelty store trinket that's a private joke.  I love the thought that purse carriers everywhere can whip out a band-aid, mini sewing kit, or Advil to aid others or themselves. It's a little like being a super hero, isn't it? Come on, work with me here!  They're almost magical! Mysterious leather caves from which you can retrieve magic pills: a bag of m&ms. Remember Mary Poppins, pulling out a hat rack, mirror, lamp and potted plant? Okay, it was a carpet bag, don't be such a stickler. 

I bought a bag at target yesterday. I couldn't resist the outside wallet-shaped pocket, or the straw weave, (maybe it would magically usher in warm weather a little early). As I was driving home I wished I could go to the mall and do a survey of the contents of people's purses.  There I'd stand with a clipboard, and crisply ironed shirt, asking women to reveal what was in their handbags. I'd have a table set up, and a camera at the ready.
    "Excuse me, ma'am? Would you mind dumping your purse on this table so I can see what's in it, and take a picture?"
    "Timmy, step away from the nice lady, I just remembered we have to go to the other end of the mall for...something..."
And I'd be forever labeled a minutiaefile, and shunned by the town.

But! Then I remembered I have a blog. A place where I can let my freak flag fly!  And you can help it wave free! So! Women, empty your purses. Men, you can empty your pockets or man-bag. I want to see what you carry around too. Don't bother removing those crumpled receipts or crushed crackers. (Of course since I just got a new bag I already cleaned out all the junk.)  Take a photo and email it to me. Label the contents if you like, or not. I'll display all photos on the side bar and replace the "Sam Says" photos, which were funny for about 10 minutes. If you have a blog, I'll link to your blog too.

Come on, I'll show you mine if you show me yours! Oh crap! I took a picture, and tried to upload it, and my USB cord is all jacked up. Well, I guess for now, you'll have to live without knowing what I carry in my purse.

I Don't Want To Be Sick

Okay this post is kinda long, and I don't know about you, but since I started reading blogs my attention span is even shorter (if that's possible). I mean if it's more than 5 paragraphs I may not make it through. So here's the short version.

See Sheryl.

See Sheryl swell.

Swell Sheryl, swell!

See Sheryl realize her good health and uncanny fortune may not last forever.

See Sheryl drop to her knees and thank God that her body is still in good working order (she hopes).

See Sheryl. Sheryl does not want to be sick.

Pooch, Party, Edema, Exemplar

My dog has decided it's not enough to lie at my feet while I'm on the computer. She must! be closer! So now she gets in my chair, and elbows her way (if she had elbows there would be elbowing) behind me.

She cannot possibly be comfortable sitting here with me. I'm sure she's smushed. And then, sometimes? She takes a nap, resting her head on the arm rest, like this:

With her sinuses pointed skyward, she begins to snore. She's very devoted to me, because that has got to be the most uncomfortable sleeping position known to man or beast. I think she's working on how to mesh our DNA, but for now smashing herself against me in the chair  is the next best thing.

____________________

I temporarily lost my mind and invited some of the neighborhood kids over for a make-your-own-sundae party last night. The things I will do so I'm forced to clean my house. Of course I put off the house cleaning until about two hours before they arrived. After I cleaned,  I was smelly, with no time to shower. So I put about 6 pounds of product in my hair, took a quick sponge bath and squirted myself profusely with Shiseido, which smells so good I didn't even mind asphyxiating myself.

We had about 10 kids here, and I didn't think much about entertaining them beyond, "hey here's some ice cream! and a bunch of toppings!" but we got through the evening with a modicum of running, crying, wrestling, and ball throwing in the house. I tried to talk them into a nice game of Twister, but the age range was between 21/2 and 10, so the toddlers ending up rolling around on the plastic mat, giggling, while the older kids tried to pull them off by their ankles.

____________________

Well, crap, I think I have edema. For a few weeks my legs have been really really swollen. And now I'm starting to get "pressure sores" on them (sorry TMI) (and dear God, do not use Google Images to look up pressure sores). The skin is not broken or anything, but there are definitely red spots of various sizes on my shins and calves. My glucose tolerance, cholesterol, and blood pressure are all fine, so I'm not really worried, but I guess I'm gonna have to go to the doctor, huh? Yeah, I'm not exactly my own best advocate when it comes to my health.

____________________

If one morning, like Gregor Samsa, I woke up and I was someone/something else, I would want to be Fred Rogers, James Herriot or Ray Maggliozi. Here's what they had/have in common: simple men, loved their families,  doing work they love, genuine-- without pretense or insecurity, well disciplined, creatures of routine, always joyful, and enjoying life, and all great story tellers. That's the metamorphosis I ache for. Who would you be, and why?

____________________

Oh yeah, here's a picture of my cute kids I took this morning after church.

Sometimes a Cigar Is Just A Cuban In Drag

Well if today was any indication, it won't matter that I can only go to the psych doctor 20 times a year. I've decided to get some therapy, and today was meeting number one with therapist number one (one out of how many remains to be seen).

Today's therapist looked and sounded like Selma, which was fine, until we got to the guided imagery portion of the show.
"Relax. Breathe deeply. That's goood¹. That's reeeaaaallllllll goooooood."

She repeated this several times. Lady, first of all it's "really," not "real." Please do not fold, spindle, or mutilate the adverbs, thank you. Better yet, nix the feeble qualifiers altogether. Second, it's difficult to concentrate on the forest glen, or sun-streaked meadow I'm supposed to be frolicking in when your're making sounds of orgiastic pleasure. The visualization continued (complete with Platonic campfire, and cave) and a "Wise Figure" emerged from the cave (Cate Blanchett, natch.) The Wise Figure gave me an object, to remember "him" by (a Chuck E Cheese token). I was supposed to ask the Wise Figure one question.

Now, I hate this kind of scenario. Why can't I have two questions? Or a whole conversation. I don't want to waste my one big chance at unlocking the secrets of the universe, when all I can think of is "Where can I find a decent rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan?" What if the Wise Figure only speaks Portuguese and all I can ask is "Onde está o banheiro?"

I think we weren't a match because her web site said she was a cognitive behaviorist, when really she was a Gestalt-ist. I've already delved into my childhood, which was informative as far as it went, but ultimately just because you know why you do the things you do, doesn't make you stop doing them. Or could it be I'm a fairly sane woman, who eats too much, and does too little, and feels a lot of guilt about it? Naw, that's too easy.

She asked me to talk about my childhood, which I did.
"Wow! You've been through hell, haven't you?" she said.
"Uh, it had its² rough spots. I wouldn't classify it as hell." I said.
"It was hell. You have no idea." she said with a drill-sargent's intensity.

I could barely keep a straight face. If I have no idea, who does? People who've survived the holocaust, or children who have to leave their villages every night to hide in forests  to avoid being abducted into the army, or people who live on trash heaps, that's hell.

Or maybe finding a decent therapist...


1 Any of you who play Bejeweled, does it bug you when the James Earl Jones-like voice says "Good. Excellent! Incredible!!!" Look, I had little or nothing to do with the way the jewels randomly fell. Flattery will get you nowhere.
2 Egads, sorry about the apostrophe. Here I am correcting my potential therapist's grammar, and I write it's instead of its. I DON'T DESERVE GOOD MENTAL HEALTH!

For Once, I Welcomed The Alarm

Last night I dreamt that I lost Will. I thought I left him at the movies, or maybe at home. I was calling everyone on my cell phone, zooming around town in a frantic search. Unfortunately I was in Ohio, but for some reason I lived in Albuquerque, which delayed my arrival home. We finally found him, perfectly fine ...under the floor boards. It's always the last place you look.

I can tell it's going to be an exciting year.

Last month I was visiting Dana, and she had a random generator of new year's resolutions posted. When I clicked to get my own new year's resolution I got this one.

In the year 2006 I resolve to: Lovingly care for my chia pet. Get your resolution here

I was panic stricken, because, well, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I don't own a chia pet. I know all your illusions of me being uber-cool are dashed now, but it's true. While I'm in the cyber confessional I may as well tell you I've never owned a set of Ginsu knives, or used Proactiv either. Whew, my soul feels so much lighter.

Anyway, if there's one thing I have a stalwart devotion to, it's carrying out the randomly generated whims of computer programs. So I ordered one online and after many days of nervously awaiting it's arrival, it came in the mail Friday.

Although I had a choice of many Chias to choose from, I chose the chia bunny, because it's a little fun to say Chia bunny. Although now I wish I had ordered the Chia turtle, because the bunny does not look so much like a bunny, as a mutant pig-wolf. (Oops, sorry. I don't want to be unloving and damage Chia bunny's self esteem.)

Apparently you can plant the traditional alfalfa seeds, or get wild, and plant basil or thyme. The directions say that first you have to soak it in water overnight. I'm going to create a photo album to post on my side bar, so you can witness daily documentation of my loving care for Chia bunny.

Guess she didn't want her birth announcement on the cover of The Enquirer.

(Overheard in the gas station)

Cashier: How is Lynn's pregnancy going?
Customer: Fine. She feels good. She's due June 6th, but she doesn't wanna have it then.
Cashier: Why?
Customer: 'Cause then it'd be born on 6-6-6.
Cashier: Oooh, well, I can understand that.
Customer: Yeah, she's hoping for the 5th or the 7th.

You thought parenting your kids was tough; how'd you like to parent the anti-Christ? "Timmy! How many times have I told you not to burn giant pentagrams in the carpet? That's it mister, no more goat's blood for you!"

Politically Abject

Hee. Someone actually emailed to inform me that lurker is a pejorative term. Okay lady, but somehow Legitimate Peripheral Participant Week just doesn't have the same ring to it.

Glad We Got That Cleared Up

Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad claimed today that the holocaust was a myth perpetuated by Europeans in order to create Jewish state. He went on to dispel other historical myths, saying the Lusitania wasn't sunk by torpedo, but by too many "greedy infidels" over-indulging in the breakfast buffet. Ahmadinejad said NASA's 1969 moon landing was also a hoax, feigned by astronauts who "just wanted the free Tang."

America's Next Top Serial Killer

I just saw an ad for "Skating With Celebrities." Skating. With. Celebrities. The commercial (traditionally highlighting the best parts of a show) showed a close-up of a skater's cut, which I assume she got while skating, unless there's an episode where they film contestants falling in the bath tub. 

I thought with "So You Think You Can Dance?" and "America's Next Top Model" they had gone about as far as they could go with the "American Idol" format. Apparently not, because here's a list of shows Fox has lined up for next fall:

• America's Favorite Porn Star
• So You Think Your Dad Can Beat Up My Dad?
• Making Cheese Balls With Talk Show Hosts
• So You Think You Can Stop Global Warming?
• America's Next Ambassador To Ghana
• So You Think You're An Inanimate Object?
• Playing Kick The Can With Washed-Up Child Stars
• America's Favorite High Pitched Squeak
• So You Want To Have A Body Cavity Search At The Airport?
• Jumping On A Trampoline With Retired Newscasters

The Whines, They Are A Changin'

Okay y'all, autumn funk has set in. I'm just warning you that I may not write anything great for the rest of the year, and after you've gone through the five stages of grief, you'll come to acceptance, and you won't mind reading whatever drivel I put up here. You won't mind. You. won't. miiiiind. You're eyes are feeeeling heavyyyyy.

Okay, the topic of the day: whiiiiiining. I would like to be a family whose hallmark is gratitude, but since I don't model that myself, I'll settle for not whining all the live-long day. The whining around here? Like nails on a chalkboard. Will is somewhat excused, since he's only three, and cannot yet fully control his whining muscle, not so the girls. So I thought about it. Hmmmm what magnificent incentive could I lay before them which would motivate them to speak in a range which can be heard by dogs AND humans? And I'm sure I could have come up with something really creative.

But then I thought about it some more, and I realized that what bugs me about whining, other than everything, is that it's a victim mentality. Excuse me while I get all Oprah on you, but it's true. The posture shrinks, the face scrunches up, the voice wheedles. Weak. Whining is weak. So instead of motivating Emily and Haley (and Will) with treats or toys (money! anything! just please stop!) I would motivate them with strength. It feels good to be strong. It feels good to ask for what you want without the hunahunawahwah.

We started this morning when the first tragedy of the day struck, and Emily's baaaaangs were sticking uuuup, and no one in the whole world would help her. It was almost like the time Anna Karenina was hit by that train. So I made her stand up straight, and ask for help in a strong polite voice. It took a little work, what with the world ending, but after a few tries she did it. I asked her if she felt better in her heart and mind, when she stood tall and asked for something, which of course she did. The end.