DIY-ography

I have been thinking lately about porn. About what makes something pornographic. Is it content? Is it the consumer's response?
Though the roots of pornography are Greek (porn being related to the purchase of a female slave), I am convinced that this concept extends beyond the sex market. To facilitate this argument, I assume that pornography creates a visual concept of the ideal, arouses the viewer, and creates an impulse to attempt recreation of this ideal. By this definition, pornography, the sensual hawking of pleasure extends beyond sex into other visceral and fundamental desires. I am intrigued at how the idea of pornography is reassigned, as was pointed out to me (strangely enough)in a Facebook posting (true. Many people are posting about last night's raging kegger and my nerdy friends and I are posting about this stuff). In the October, 2005 episode of Harper's Magazine, Frederick Kaufman's article, "Debbie Does Salad" explores The Food Network and the parallels between sexual pornography taped in the studio next door, and the food porn taped at TFN studios. In that article, the author watches footage of a food preparation show with a pornographic film editor. Indeed, this turns out to be a fruitful exercise. An interesting comparison--the pornographer had explicit descriptors for the ample chicken breasts being prepped on the counter. Additionally, the article identifies pornography archetypes: the innocent girl next door, the seductress, the unsuspecting man ravished by the horny pizza orderer. The author offers us TFN parallels: Sara Moulton, homey and sweet, Giadi DiLarentiis voluptuous and sensual. He discusses the camera techniques and lighting of flesh (edible and human), the massaging of textures and luscious sampling and tasting of finished products. All of this suggests that part of what defines pornography is the psychic satisfying of primitive urges--those urges that drive us to shelter, sexual satisfaction, food.
While I found this article compelling, I had been considering yet another variant of pornography: homeimprovementporn. I am thinking of the glossy magazines near the cashiers at Lowe's. The magazines, glossy and thick and overpriced, fill the displays near the cashiers. They are the last thing you see as you leave the store with your meager package of light bulbs and perhaps soil or a mop. They are there to remind you of the inadequacy of your own home, the drabness and ordinary waiting for you there. Here, in these magazines is paradise. Homes bordering lakes and cliffs, sculptural examples of perfect form and architecture. Pools that gleam and ripple in perfectly photographed and edited images. Walkways, wet and lit professionally to conceal any flaw beckoning you to follow them through manicured gardens into hospitable front doors.
Inside these magazines, simplistic photos illustrate the process by which you could theoretically obtain similar results. A perfectly manicured hand with skin as soft as a baby's gingerly, easily grasps a nail. Of course, the target of the nail is perfectly smooth, level, primed, and new grade wood. There is no discomfort of leaning under aged cabinets, or struggling to grip the flashlight as you hammer. There are no dirty, broken fingernails and hands chapped from all the demolition work in Step 1. Step 2, a brief paragraph under a sharp image would take the average home owner 3 or 4 hours to undertake, with results crooked and rough, amateurish at best. A brief scan of the page reveals 35 steps--months' worth of weekends slavishly laboring on the house.
Just as the photo subjects in skin magazines wake from their beds with perfect hair and lipstick, drink martinis gingerly and elegantly, disrobe without stumbling or bending awkwardly, these photos show us home improvement at its idealized best. It offers us a false sense of ease, a false sense of what we may achieve, a false sense of the ease of accomplishment. We, the amateur homeowner, are unable to achieve such professional quality. We have skin blemishes, and reveal cellulite as we undress; we wake up with halitosis and bed head.
As the advertisements in skin mags offer us enhancements, tools, and props that promise us the idealized results in the photos, the ads in the home improvement mags offer tools to simplify. Tools to achieve professional results. Stores to purchase these materials. And, like in some very sketchy skin mags, the phone numbers of professionals who will actually come into your house and deliver the results you desire.
These, the Ty Penningtons, the Mike Rowes, the HGTV, TLC, Discovery Channel gurus, have a cult following. These are the men, capable and strong, who could swoop into our homes and easily complete all the home improvement tasks we long for our husbands to do. Those tasks that pile up on the honey-do list, that our husband cannot do, don't want to pay some one to do, or simply don't think need to be done--these are the jobs that our cable TV hosts will expertly succeed at--better, faster, more beautifully--where our inept husbands bungle and curse and fail. They will encounter no unforeseen obstacle in laying the patio, but each step will proceed in TV speed, smoothly, in a single half hour viewing. The stars' leather tool belts, clean and pristine dangle easily around their trim waists and falsely lure us into the idea that the projects are easy, affordable, brisk endeavors. The home owner's problems are solved, the adored rescuers are worshipped and waved off the screen to save the next damsel in distress.
Certainly, I do not speak for every married stay at home mom. But, I suspect that this fantasy, this ideal man who fixes, beautifies, improves our homes, might be the ultimate married woman's fantasy. We, of the tired uteri, the exhausting children, the waning sexuality, dream not of Fabio. We don't long to be swept off our feet for nights of sleepless lovemaking. We don't yearn for well-endowed studs delivering pizza (and so much more) at all hours of the night. We have surrendered these fantasies with the frivolity of youth. We fantasize about utilitarian kitchens, fashionable window treatments, au courant architectural touches. We have yielded (and understand our spouses have yielded) to jobs, and needy children, and laundry, and traffic, and car payments. We have abandoned semi-famous underwear models and TV stars as our heroes. We understand the tremendous pressures on our spouses to be the "New Dads," involved and active in child rearing, as well as stepping up to traditional breadwinning roles. We accept the demanding expectations of our peers to have brilliant children who can read, write, and play Mozart by the age of 5. In order to have these things, this ideal husband, this perfect child, the organic dinner on the table, we have lost. And what we have lost, we now try to recapture through cable: not through traditional porn, but through the "budget," the "contest-winner," the "heartwarming story" renovations that we all covet.
The new pornography for women is not Levi Johnson's teen near nudity in Playgirl. We are beyond this. We want more. We want Bob Vila to install solid Oak floors, hand carved moulding, custom sinks. We want Norm Abrams, canvas apron and all, to fashion us gorgeous, hand-tooled furniture. We want Ty Pennington to rebuild our homes.
I want wood. I want tools. I want caulk. I want hardware. It makes me hot.

The Olympics Grinch

You've missed me, haven't you? It's okay, you can admit. My wit, my charm, my sunshiny attitude. I know, your life is a dank pit of misery without me. But, you see, important things have been happening. I have been rapt with the pageantry, the glory, the athletic stupendousness of the Olympics.
Yeah, I know. I can't sell it.
I am about to be the most unpopular person I know: I HATE the Olympics. I'll give you a moment to quit sputtering about pageantry, glory, and athletic stupendousness....you done?
I know. I know. They have trained, sacrificed, suffered, woken up at 3 AM to train before their god-awful jobs as a plate scrapers at Wok Lobster, Spaghetti Lobster, Wiener schnitzel Lobster, and Lobster, Eh? so they could gather here, in Vancouver, British Columbia to compete in the finest display of athletes from all over the globe. (Insert triumphant music here.)
My question is this: why couldn't they have sacrificed, suffered and trained in something that I am interested in? Curling? Meh. Ice Dancing? Really!?!? And Skeleton is not a sport so much as something Johnny Knoxville did in high school in one of his desperate attempts to have somebody notice him. Any sport that requires a phalanx of judges is not a sport; it reminds me of a very dynamic ad pitch for hair gel and cheap make-up to a bunch of corporate stiffs.
I'm not saying what they do is easy. God only knows how they defy gravity, spin like a blender, or race on a sled at 300 mph. I, for one, would be in a full body cast if I even attempted the downhill ski route with my skis wedged out in slow motion. And, yet. These sports are even more fake than the summer games, which at least are rooted in the tradition of competition thousands of years old. But don't get me started on Summer Olympics now. I have two years to stew over that.
Second, and again, unpopular. Al Michaels and Bob Costas make me want to end HiDef forever. Costas should sue whomever did that surgery to his eyes, and divorce his wife, who presumably assured him that the toupee/hair dye makes him look taller/smarter/younger. Michaels needs to see a dentist for some bleach/veneers/plaque removal. Bob Costas has ruined sports (in related news, see my tirade about college football). Everything, everyone (who's an American athlete) in the Olympicsis transformed into a COSTAS MOMENT.

Three years ago, Brittanie Aimes suffered heartbreak. The love of her young 14 years passed away, leaving her alone with her psychotically
pushy mother and completely emasculated father. Her father, an
attorney and multigajillionaire, worked every day tirelessly. Only
later did Lindsay discover his long hours involved a liberating
affair with his buxom secretary, not just the drive to pay for her Olympic training. Lindsay's mother, desperately trying to recapture her own faded youth, pushed Lindsay to practice harder and harder.

Every morning before home schooling, Lindsay went to
the backyard skating rink to practice and train with the finest coaches from around the world. Gregor Myanomich, the famed couples ice dancer from the 1976 games trained young Lindsay to the point of
exhaustion. Even after the tragic mishap when Lindsay's mother accidentally (she was acquitted) ran her over with the family SUV as Lindsay tried to flee the tyrannical regime of coach Myanomich, Lindsay practiced. With a cast on. And that's not easy on skates. Lindsay LITERALLY ate, slept and breathed ice dancing. Which is not easy on the lungs, as they are better equipped to breathe air.
And then tragedy struck. Lindsay's hamster died. Today. At. This. Moment. Lindsay. Aims. For. Redemption. She. Dances. For. Chuckles. The. Hamster. Today. Lindsay. Will. Dance. Her. Heart. Out. For. The. Love. Of. Her. Rodent. (whisper) Let's watch as her short program is about to begin.

Also, what is up with the outdated medals? Rap Stars have bigger jewelry. We need to update the bling that these kids take home. Gold? That stuff is like $400 an ounce right now. And it was probably mined by children in some country that can only dream of the comfort and coolness of snow. And the officials are GIVING it away up there. What happened to social responsibility? Ethics? We need to be giving these athletes recycled paper goods hand formed into medallions. Or recycled cans. Or rubber tire byproduct. It's so UnCanadian to consume materials unnecessarily. Unless, and I think I've stumbled onto a world conspiracy right here: all those "Mail us your ugly gold shit and we'll send you cash" commercials were run by the Canadian Olympic Committee as an ethical way to collect gold for the medals given to the athletes. Which makes so much sense. The reason they give such crappy dollar value for your gold is because they pay you in CANADIAN DOLLARS!

And here's another thing. I am not a rah rah person. Betcha didn't know that. I appreciate that these athletes participate in these games with some patriotic valor. And, of course, when American athletes get caught doping or cheating or juicing, I feel that is a stain on the country, not just the athlete. But, I just cannot get all patriotic when a fellow country(wo)man wins a medal. Maybe it's the global economy, and the facts like my Japanese car is made in Ohio, that I feel that all the lines are blurred. Chinese athletes train in Canada, Italian athletes train in Switzerland, and the hockey teams are the worst! The All-Star teams divided up, and assigned the ones who once hailed from some country back to that country. These guys all have Mcmansions in Florida where they don't pay income tax on their gigantic professional athlete salaries. WTF? Teams Canada and Russia have a deep seated, and perhaps insecure, national pride staked at every game, and the loser will skulk home in ignominy. Wayne Gretzky presides over these hockey games as a demi-god, a superhero of the puck and stick, Canada's living, breathing national treasure. But he did play for the LA Kings when I was a kid, and was a sports icon there to me. (I didn't really even know about the whole Edmonton thing until later. Sorry, Canada.) These are men I've cheered for in Toronto, in Chicago, in LA, and now they're on the other team? That's insane. No one, not even Costas, can expect me to sort all that out.

And finally, my last issue with the Olympics is selfish. During this bleak period of February, in the dark, cold, bleary days of winter when there is no light in my life save the weak rays of the sun, I always have February TV sweeps. I have those last few new episodes of my favorite programs before we descend into summer "encore presentation" hell. I have been CHEATED, dammit. I want my freaking programming back. I want ice dancing, Costas, and Michaels to go away. I don't want to hear 'sequins' and 'sports' used in the same sentence. Athletes should not wear grease makeup in 'performances.' I don't want curling on primetime. I want my crime procedural, my man candy, my sitcoms. Hell, after weeks of white snow backgrounds, I'll even take Leno back. Really, anything. Please. Let's get Polar Bear Patty to walk around, wave a flag, turn our eyes to whatever city's next, put out the flame and move on with our lives.

This is your brain at school

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: kids are dumb.

This time, though, I mean it academically. My kids are home AGAIN for ANOTHER week of holiday. Because...it's....??? Friday, they got to stay home because of the threat of "wintry weather." I love this descriptor. Being February, wintry weather should be expected, no? It did snow on Friday. A little. It didn't stick, or freeze on the ground, or even really accumulate on anything at all. By all rights, the kids would have already been in their classrooms, snug and warm, by the time the snow arrived. The skies would have cleared by the time carpool started. Excessive risk--parents driving under wet conditions, children requiring jackets for the temperature--really was not a factor at all. Why not leave school open, and make it a parental decision whether to send the child? Why pre-emptively close schools at the mere suggestion of snow? (Hilariously, and to the note of science education in this country, the forecast was as follows: HI of 41, LO of 36 with snow.) This is, by the way, the second weather day that the school has called for this year. The first was the weekend before Thanksgiving Break. Yup, coincidentally, school weather cancellations have lengthened scheduled holidays twice this year.

Which brings me to this week's holiday: Presidents' Day (Monday) Mardi Gras (Tuesday)...the rest of the week--gravy! Why oh why do the kids need an entire week off in the middle of February? Ski week? Let's go trekking off to the Alps, shall we?

I counted the full school days during the 2009-10 school year. Keep in mind that E goes to private school, so I am really getting jobbed on value. I always feel like I shouldbe getting more bang for my buck. Using some research skills I learned in school, I came up with the following numbers illustrating school year lengths around the world:
Nation/School Year in Days

1. Japan 243
2. South Korea 220
3. Israel 216
4. Luxembourg 216
5. Netherlands 200
6. Scotland 200
7. Thailand 200
8. Hong Kong 195
9. England 192
10. Hungary 192
11. Swaziland 191
12. Finland 190
13. New Zealand 190
14. Nigeria 190
15. France 185
16. United States 180
17. Our School 174

(MSN, Speech by President Obama)

Now, using some mad math skills I learned in school, let me synthesize this information for you:

• Our school year is 6 days fewer in school than the national public schools'
• My kid spends 16 fewer days in school than the average kid in Nigeria, a country which: the majority of the population lives off $1.25 per day, has a life expectancy of 47 years, and 68% of the population is literate

How many kids in American schools can find any of these countries on a map? I, for one, had a tough time with Swaziland. Turns out, my beloved penguins from Madagascar might have landed there during Madagascar 2, Escape to Africa. If you need help, I posted a map.

Even better, how many kids can spell Luxembourg? According to this same speech, 33% of 13 year old kids here can't read at grade level.

View Larger Map

In a related note, ETS, those nasty people who administer the SAT (remember that?) have the following report:

• Estimates of high school completion rates tend to be inaccurate, and range from the official 69.9% (2000) to independent estimates of 66.6 to 69% (2000)
• The state with the highest completion rate is Vermont at 88% to the District of Columbia at 48%
• Alabama is at 65.1%, which was lower than 38 other states (including D.C.)

Now, I fully expect my kids to finish high school. But, these statistics are scary. Two thirds of kids in Alabama have something better (?) to do with a measly 2,088 days over the first 18 years of their lives. Sadly, they haven't realized that if they don't spend those 2,088 days in school, the next 23, 725 days of their lives will be spent scraping half eaten shrimp off plates at the Red Lobster. That's what Chris Rock did before he was 'discovered.' Which may be an inspiration to some, but what are the odds that a high school dropout in Alabama is fall off my ass funny?

So, to summarize:

• Kids are dumb
• Kids can't find countries on a map
• I couldn't find a country on a map
• Google Maps is useful
• The SAT people are interested in keeping kids in high school so that they may make more money by administering more SAT exams, although, I guess if the dropout rate remains high, they can recoup some losses by administering the GED to people in their early 20s who are filled with regret and loathing for their minimum wage McFrappe-making job
• Kids in Alabama seem to be dumber than the kids in more than half the other states
• My kids are home too much
• When my kids are home, I spend a lot of time on Google Maps finding Swaziland
• When my kids finish watching TV, I will let them play Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? so they can learn to spell and find Luxembourg
• My kids are home too much

Exorcising...Exercising

So, my friend Cici tells me that at her gym class, there are some fun women, and I should go and check it out.
At first, I was wondering if this is Cici's very tactful way of getting me to work out, or if it is her way of torturing my hamstrings, or if it is her way of bringing me to show and tell. Regardless, it doesn't really matter to me as I enjoy spending time with her, the class sounded challenging, and who cares if she is bringing me to show and tell? S brought underwear to show and tell...it's all good.
So, this morning, I dig out some workout clothes. Literally. Dig. My yoga capris, all the rage last century, were under about 40 pounds of crap that I wear even slightly more often than work out clothes. Like Halloween costumes. And sexy lingerie.
Then, I realize I haven't shaved my legs since winter began. And when ol' Puxatawney Phil saw his shadow, I was like, "cool. No shaving for six more weeks of winter!" My legs are so hairy, that S was looking at them, looking at his legs, and said, "Look mommy, you have fur, too!" This mammalian trait isn't really a problem during the winter months because I only ever wear jeans, but my slightly shorter, stretched out, old yet seldom worn yoga capris show some calf hair. (haha. Calf hair, like moo.)
We get to the pilates studio, and as I think I have mentioned before it wasn't until this last decade that I learned that pilates does not rhyme with pirates. It's French, you know. Anyway, the exercise equipment for pilates is basically a souped up rowing machine. Only you use your body to row. Feet, arms, hands, whatever contortionist limb the instructor can think of pull you along and back along the main bar. Resistance is provided by a series of springs and is exerted in only one direction. Some of the exercises are yoga-ish and it's relatively easy to control the body while doing them. Some of the exercises rely more heavily on the contraption-nature of this so-called reformer machine and require significant coordination. And some of the exercise are just plain gynecological in nature. At one point, I had my feet in two stirrups, and in completing a horizontal jumping jack-style maneuver pulled myself along and back on the reformer. I had this vision of my legs, trapped in these straps, splitting apart and winding up parallel to my torso in some sort of Barbie doll-amputation mishap.
To be clear, I haven't truly exercised since the Bush Administration. I will walk, but that is all. Ironically, or, probably not at all ironically, but fittingly, I cannot jog anymore because my weight is too much of a burden for my knees. So, here I am, in this near silent studio, the only sound being concentrated inhalation and exhalation, and some idle gossip between two participants, and all I can think of is the horrific sound that will explode when I lose control of the muscles of my inner thighs, and my hips give out, and suddenly my ankles are behind my ears, and I will resemble a disjointed turkey on the carving table.
Inhale (ohgodohgodohgodohgod don't let me tear in half.) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod, don't let me make an ass of myself.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, I probably look like a spastic albino wookiee getting electrocuted right now.) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod am I doing this right? This can't be right.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod. Holy crap look at Cici's shoulders! She is buff. I'm so jealous.) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod. I could be at home drinking Starbucks and watching The Penguins of Madagascar right now. That doesn't hurt my inner thighs at all.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgodohgod, how are my abs supposed to pull up my legs? That's what my legs are for, to pull their own damn selves up!) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod, my hamstrings are going to hurt so much tomorrow, I won't be able to sit to pee.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, why are there mirrors from the floor to the ceiling?) Exhale (ohgodohgodohgod, I am ENORMOUS. And have far more chins than I used to.) Inhale (ohgodohgod, seriously, those Penguins are funny. And they don't judge me.) Exhale (ohgodohgod, people can see me. I only do this move when I'm home. In bed. Alone, for god's sake.) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, seriously, what is with the mirrors?) Inhale (ohgodohgodohgod, I'm breathing in, I should be breathing out.) Exhale (ohgodohgod, I can't even breathe right. I shouldn't be here.) Inhale (ohgodohgod, I can totally believe that a Frenchman invented this. He's probably laughing his dead ass off right now that he convinced people to get on a modified sex swing, stretching their muscles, contorting like circus freaks, and paying money to do it.) Exhale (ohmygodohmygod, I can't believe how uncoordinated I am. If I were redheaded this would be a Lucy sketch.) Inhale (ohmygodohmygod. They're right to laugh at me. This can't be right. I'm doing it wrong. I just know it. Look, the instructor isn't even trying to correct my formless attempts at following her instructions. She thinks I'm an idiot.) Inhale (Ohmygod. She's right.)

How to take 15 years off your life in 10 easy steps

1. Spend every minute of every day telling your child to stop climbing on the furniture and cabinets. Your child will ignore you, but as a parent, you must continue this message ad nauseum. (Life lost: .5 years)
2. Repeat every day for months. (Life lost: .5 years)
3. Since your child is ignoring you, he will then climb onto the highest perch he can find in your house. In some cases, this may be book shelves, curio cabinets, bunk beds, cabinets; perhaps he will swing from the shower curtain rod. Regardless, the height of the child's climb must be no less than twice his own height. Additionally, the landing surface beneath him must not be cushioned in any way. (Life lost: .5 years)
4. Child must complete step 3 while you are momentarily talking with your spouse about your other child who has probably done something heinous that day. The possibilities for the other child's misbehaviour include, but are not limited to: cheating on a test, failing a test after not studying, bullying a classmate, beating up on a classmate, kissing a girl, failing to wear his school uniform, failing to clean his room. (Life lost: 1.2 years)
5. Child's dangerous climb must be attempted during doctors' non-working hours. This includes, but is not limited to: after bedtime when he was supposed to be sleeping anyway, weekends, early morning, evenings, holidays, three day weekends. Alternately, child may attempt climb during flu season, chicken pox epidemic, lethal Chinese goat pox pandemic, or some other time when every patient in the physician's office is a snotty, contagious petri dish of disgusting. (Life lost: 3.2 years)
6. Child will land on his or her most vital organs and either bleed profusely, not bleed at all (even more alarming), lose consciousness, become disoriented and confused, vomit, have entrails violently explode out of his abdomen, or in some other way scare you to death. You, however, must not reveal your panic at seeing your child's interior, but rather remain calm and get him/her to stop crying so that the blood stops squirting out like the Trevi Fountain. (Life lost: 3.2 years)
7. You will escort your child to the nearest emergency room, where the wait will be horrific. Every surface you see will be crawling with bacteria, virus, or something worse. Elderly people in wheelchairs will have drool and snot the color of Shrek running down their faces. They will be sputtering and coughing and hacking while making feeble attempts to raise their veiny, blue, emaciated little T-Rex arms to cover their toothless mouths. Infants and toddlers with wildly inappropriate haircuts and clothing will be screaming and puking or running around, eating old Cheerios off the floor while their siblings scream and puke. (Life lost: 2.2 years)
8. You will wait while CBS's entire prime time programming runs through. Clearly, you will realize why you never watch Katie Couric do the news, and why the local newscasters are small-market failures. Eventually, your name will be shouted, mispronounced, and repeated through the halls of the hospital so that you may fill out reams of paperwork, have your child's vital signs assessed (good thing he wasn't really dying), fork over your exorbitant copay, and return to the waiting area where your seat has been usurped by a morbidly obese mullet wearing a sweatshirt with a dwarf on it that aptly says, "DOPEY." Upon seeing mullet and her daughter flush with what must surely be leprosy, you decide to stand and wait the remaining hour on your feet. Your child, of course, is trying to go to sleep. It is now bedtime, however, you are convinced he has a concussion, and periodically shake/pinch/soak his face in cold water to keep him awake. An hour later, a nurse will again mispronounce your name loudly through the now-even-more-crowded-than-before waiting room, and you will triumphantly proceed through the mass of dying humanity to a waiting bed... (Life lost 1.6 years)
9. ...Where you will wait for another hour. The storybook you have re-read six times will have lost its appeal, and you will find yourself explaining hepatitis for fifteen minutes to your preschooler because he asked about the sharps disposal unit and hell, you have nothing better to do. Now that you are officially inside the fortress of the ER, you realize that while the stinky and fetid were outside in the waiting room, the truly diseased were behind those double doors. Moaning from the bed adjacent to you will tempt you to peek behind the curtain, however, you must resist this at all costs. What you see will not be un-see-able, and you will forever have the vision of an obese diabetic with open leg and foot ulcers, struggling to breathe under an oxygen mask, with matted hair and nasty clothes, and you will be thankful that you are only here because your child has a death wish, and not because you/he/any one you truly love is very ill. (Life lost: 1.0 years)
10. The moment you have been waiting for...the doctor arrives! You accurately (you don't want the doctor to think you were neglectful), but casually (no one wants to be an overly alarmist/worry wart/helicopter parent) explain your situation, fully expecting to be told everything is fine. Instead, you will be told that your child requires a CT Scan, has a concussion, possibly a broken nose, and that his sinus is filled with blood such that it is impossible to see if the bone behind the sinus cavity has fractured, though it might have and thus, be the source of the blood. For the next 15 minutes, you will wait for the tech to roll your child into X-Ray. You will be shocked to realize that brain hemorrhage was not one of the things you had anticipated. After the scan, you will wait another excruciating 15 minutes to learn that, in fact, his brain is alright. Well, technically there is nothing physically wrong with it, but the part of his brain that compelled him to climb/jump/fly is clearly overactive. The doctor is unable to see that lobe of the brain or identify the Kennedy Gene that your child could not have inherited from you. You will be given directions to avoid all pain medication for 24 hours, and best of all, you will be told to wake your child every hour for the entire night to make sure that he is readily responsive. (As if any child is readily responsive in the middle of the night. Even after extensive shaking/jumping on the bed/whisper screaming of his name.) The next morning, when your child looks as though he has gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson, but is otherwise fine, the whole scenario will seem a vivid hallucination. Only the bags under your eyes and your shortened life expectancy will be evidence of the hell your child has put you through. Again. (Life lost: 1.1 years)

**Editor's Note: Yesterday, S fell off the banister and landed hard: nothing but face. He did go to the hospital, and the CT was negative. He had a concussion and we were up all night, but thankfully he is ok today except for a massive bruise along the ENTIRE right side of his face.

My Way or the Highness Way

Personal improvement is at the heart of my new year's plan. I know, I know. I've already failed all my actual resolutions. But, the new me is supposed to be more tolerant, more patient, more healthful, more of the good. This goal has been harder to achieve than I originally planned, because as it turns out, I'm quite mean. I'm judgemental, self-righteous, gluttonous, and verbally aggressive. I am a yeller, a bit dramatic, and I want the whole world to fall under my jurisdiction.
Queen Julie. Ruler of the Universe.
Yeah, that's right. I said it. Everyone close to me has always had their nagging suspicious about my plans for world domination. But now it's out there. Deal with it.
I am Queen Julie, Ruler of the Universe. Heed my decrees. There will be no wearing of full make-up to any athletic activity of any kind. You look ridiculous, women. There will no longer be 47 things to sign up for every week at my children's schools. People will stop making irrational decisions that do not affect me in any way, except to annoy me for their irrationality. Guilt, as a tactic of manipulation, is hereby abolished. Idiotic restaurant chains that sell food with 1,200 calories per serving will pay a fat tax. Food called salad, that really isn't shall be renamed: pasta "salad" will be known as oily pasta, potato "salad" will be known as mayonaissed potatoes, cole slaw will be known as fat cabbage. Public officials guilty of corruption shall be reassigned as lunch servers in public high schools. Movie stars and celebrities using their fame to advance political agendas shall be vetted to see if their agendas are permissible under my regime.
And if you think I am cruel and dictatorial, wait 'til you get a load of my sister. As next in line for the throne of Ruler of the Universe, she plans to abolish pets, children, and any non-HGTV cable programming. She plans to use the census information to provide a short & long term goal plan for each family on Earth. She will require BMI scales to be posted outside of buffet restaurants, to prohibit entrance of 25+. SHE will require families to adhere to sensible, rational relations, thereby banishing all holidays (secular and religious) to end squabbling. She makes me look like a benevolent and kind sovereign.
I let you know about my sister, next in line, just in case any one has any funny ideas about regicide.
And remember: closed mindedness will not be tolerated.