Three things I'm quitting (spoiler!) None of which is food or drink

I have had it.  Really, this is it.  Done.  Finished.  I am the cartoon character whose eyes are rolling, lips are babbling, and is carted off after the Bunny finally pushes the poor crazy over the edge.  Me.  Gone.  Padded room. 
1.  I've given up on the news.  CNN World section is filled with things like pandemics, calamitous droughts, genocide and rape.  CNN US page is filled with things like abused elephants and whether or not a former CEO (and dude who considers himself a presidential candidate) slept with some woman other than his wife for 13 years.
Perhaps, and I am only guessing here, that if as a country we would nut up and actually look at the REAL news of our world and country, we would be a helluva lot better off.  Sure, the news sucks right now.  When hasn't it sucked?  There has always been famine or Cold War or something.  But we didn't used to be such a bunch of babies that we couldn't handle it.  Nothing is going to improve, people, unless we approach the real stuff.  Not what FOX tells us important (because, honest to God, that's some seriously paranoid batpoop right there), not what CNN tells us important (because, seriously, how does one fill 24 hours of news without putting Anderson Cooper, former hard hitting news not-gay-man, on the Ridiculist?) but what we know in our HEADS are the problems:  too few with too much, too many with too little, and no one heeding demands for change.  We don't need to pray on these problems, we don't need to distract ourselves with overly involved headlines about a doctor who may or may not have killed a crazy musician.  We need to read the FACTS, learn about potential solutions, and then pressure the powers that be to stop blaming each other and fix the problems that led to the FACTS being so effed up.
2.  I've given up on parenting.  Every morning, I wind up running around the house looking for a belt or a sneaker or a sweatshirt.  Every afternoon, I seemingly speak into the wind about putting shoes and belts together by the door with backpacks.  Apparently, I am not a good parent.  Apparently, nobody is listening.  Apparently, I have no purpose.
I am seriously trying to raise little people to be the big people I think all big people should be.  And YET, I cannot get the little people to stop using EXPO markers that soak through paper and ruin my floors/desk/kitchen table.  How is it that I am not having impact on these little people?  Where am I failing?  It's not the kitchen table having green EXPO stains on it that really bothers me.  (I bought a table expecting it to be ruined).  It's that those stinkers (the children, not the pens themselves) DON'T LISTEN!
I'm so frustrated. 
3.  I've given up on order.  Open a closet in my house, prepare to be avalanched.  I keep going through stuff, thinking it's orderly, it's been culled, it's not so cluttery, only to lose something else.  I bought 2 gift cards from Target for teachers the week before Thanksgiving.  I was pretty proud of myself for being on the ball, and not having to run around like a crazy person the last week of school.  I remember feeling pretty smug when I put those cards away and said, "Ha!  Those cards will be safe here and I will remember where they are and then I will be able to slip them into the Christmas card envelopes and Voila! Presents!"
Pretty self satisfied, eh?  If only, for love or money, I could remember where I put them.  What the hell?  I can't find them anywhere.
It's like banging my head against a wall.
The holidays are upon me.  I'm getting that Christmassive anxiety feeling again. 

From CNN: A look into moms' lives

Yeah, what she said. 

http://www.cnn.com/2011/11/29/living/why-we-get-mad-at-our-husbands-p/index.html?iref=obnetwork#

iPad? $500. Dignity? PRICELESS.

EVERYBODY knows by now that I'm Scrooge.  I know that categorization certainly gives me a bah-humbug lens through which I see the world.  I get it.  (My BIL, JP really loves this phrase, so I'm trying to use it more) But here's the thing:  Black Friday is ridiculous.

Why on God's green earth would I need a map of WalMart?  Granted, I've never been in a WalMart, so indeed I probably could use a map, but I am not the map's target audience.  I see people camping out in front of Best Buy.  People actually MARKING the maps so they know which direction to stampede to first.  BEFORE THANKSGIVING.  The outlet malls are offering aptly named Midnight Madness sales.  WHY? 

What could these stores possibly be selling that would require me to forfeit my sleep and dignity?  What plastic, crappy toy/gizmo/electronic/video game could I possibly feel SO compelled to buy that I would be willing to trample/be trampled to death for?  WHAT are these stores selling that promotes such violence?  Crack?  I got my Big Book from Toys R Us.  And there's nothing in there.  Not even when my kids were babies would I  venture into Toys R Us for any of that crap. 

So here are my questions.  If people cannot afford to buy this merchandise at the regular sale price rather than the BLACK FRIDAY sales price, then should they be buying the merchandise at all?

How many gifts are these people buying?  How much money are they spending?  Do they wake up on Christmas morning with presents overflowing from the living room, up the stairs, outside?  Wait.  Is there ACTUAL treasure in WalMart?  Like do they hide wads of money, give people a map, and then let them trample each other to death in search of money?  At least that's useful.  It's no drumming Elmo, don't get me wrong, but it is useful.

Have these people not heard of the Internet?  Nearly every gift I'm buying/requesting for the holidays is online.  In some cases, exclusively available online.  (Hello, Kindle.) 

So here, roughly, is an approximation of the holiday shopping list I have.  Generalized, of course.

Babies don't care about the holidays.  They don't care if they've got a giggling Elmo or a giggling Fozzie Bear.  They're babies.

Tweens like (I'm told) cool clothes, video games and electronics.  The cool clothes are DEFINITELY not at WalMart.  And people were already camping out for some insanely violent video game earlier this month.  Could there be 2 video games worth camping for?  Electronics are all available online.  If you pay $4 more for an iPod online, that seems to be a reasonable exchange for a.  Sleeping in one's own bed b.  Not being trampled  c.  Not having to interact with the People of WalMart.  Also, if you're buying a kid an iPod, isn't that the ONLY gift he's getting this year? 

Teens like electronics.  I'm thinking iTunes gift stores, Facebook credits for Dungeons of Dorkdom, or a new phone would please them.  Again.  No trip to WalMart necessary.

Wives want nothing from WalMart.  I guarantee it.  Most of them are there every week buying groceries, and I PROMISE you, husbands, that they are not walking by the Santa Theme tees thinking, "oooh.  I can't wait for THAT to go on sale."  Wives want stuff that comes from a) liquor stores b) jewelry stores c) spas d) expedia.com.  NOTHING at WalMart says "here, honey, indulge yourself."  I promise.

Husbands want wives not to spend money on Christmas gifts.  I hate to be stereotypical about this.  But maybe they do want that new flat screen, or maybe they do want new electronic gadgets or a new lawn mower, but generally husbands want one thing, and whatever that one thing is, they would rather their wives not abandon the kids for a day of shopping so soon after the Thanksgiving food stupor.  I promise husbands would rather pay the slightly higher price and not babysit for all of Black Friday.

Teachers, casual friends:  Starbucks cards.  (Sure, one mega corp for another) or another cafe's gift card.  This says, "hey.  The holidays are insane.  Let's get together after the holidays, sit in this lovely cafe and visit.  Or, get yourself a nice latte one morning after the kids get off to school.  Or, you do so much in the classroom, why don't you stop off for a fun mocha before work one day?

So, tell me then.  What at WalMart provides a merrier, 'better' holiday?  How is the mother of all mega companies helping people to live better?  Is camping out, getting up at 3 AM, nervously elbowing one another, jockeying for position, potentially being pepper sprayed by the security guard REALLY living better? 

I understand why people need WalMart.  I understand that in a tight economy, deep discounts on food and clothing help a family stretch a budget.  I understand why people buy at WalMart.  I just don't understand why they buy INTO what WalMart is selling.

Egg-Prozac nog, and Klonopin Punch

This has been an extremely social weekend for us.  Although, I have to say, that among our friends, M and I are probably average in the going out bunch.  We have some friends who must have a babysitter who they can materialize out of nothing, because they do awesome stuff--parties, getaways, last minute vacations--and they represent one extreme of the spectrum.  We also have friends who never do anything.  Or if they do have a sitter, they spend their date night as just a couple.  So, we are somewhere in between. 

Honestly, though, if I have a sitter, I don't usually want to spend it as a twosome.  M and I have been together for nearly 15 years now.  I have told him every story about my life.  He, of course, hasn't, but never will.  He knows how I feel about everything.  Even our conversations about contemporary events are fifteen minutes long and consist of my 5 bulleted thoughts on the subject, his 5 bulleted thoughts on the subject, and a concession that we don't agree or do, but that's all.  I also have verbal diarrhea, so every evening when he comes home, I can tell him everything that happened in my day in the brief rundown, I get his brief rundown, we sort of commiserate, each (I suspect) privately think that his/hers was worse, and then, like ALL parents, turn and focus our attention/worries/love on our children. 

So, yeah, I prefer to mix it up a little by being social.  Sometimes a big group, more often a smaller.  I like socializing with another couple best, since I can actually pay attention and be focused and not have the ADD of wondering what everyone else around me is doing.  Friday, we had a couple over.  They have no kids, but otherwise, have very similar interests and thoughts and I don't know either of them very well, so that was a very interesting evening.  Low key.  Casual. 

Last night, we had our monthly dinner with another couple.  Also very interesting.  Smart, funny.  Kids doing the same thing as ours.  Commiserate, compare notes, self validate.  Similar goals--good food, change of scene, back to respective homes and in bed before SNL comes on.  We've known this couple practically since we've moved here, and they have truly grown to be among my favorites.  Like us, they have a sense of humor about raising kids, and the pitfalls, and the insanity.  We meet for the early bird special dinners, share wine, food, check up on one another and plan the next month's visit.  It's a happy ritual.

But in scheduling our next visit, I realized how soon the holidays are going to be upon us.  The holidays.  School parties, forced socializing, gift shopping, crazed hours, false cheer.  I might have to be a shut-in for a couple of weeks to prepare.  I will not be able to control the terms of whom/where/how I visit.  I will be categorized as the Grinch. (not undeserved, but I am always pointed out as the one lacking holiday enthusiasm.)  I will be introduced to new people whose names I will not remember.  I will stand around, hiding behind a glass of wine, seeking out familiar faces and monopolizing their attention for safety. 

Hohoho. The holidays.  The pharmacists' high season.

Chandel wins; OR How to pull me out of a funk OR Be careful what you wish for

Most.  Embarrassing.  Moment.  Ever. 

Seriously.  More than getting fall-down drunk in front of friends a couple of weeks ago.  More than getting stood up.  More than inappropriate jokes I've told in front of the wrong people.  More than ANYthing I've ever done while under the influence of anything.

I met a woman yesterday who took me at my word.  Who pushed a joke further than I ever have.  Who was fearless in her humor.  Who was balls-out unstoppable.  She wins.  She wins for embarrassing me more than I have EVER embarrassed anyone.  EVER. 

Chandel, Lowe's employee.  She wins.  I completely surrender.  I left Lowe's yesterday, mortified.  Blushing.  Embarrassed to the core.  Chandel, my hat's off.

Here's how she won:

I went to Lowe's to buy some replacement Adirondack chairs for the kids' school's front porch.  Between us, M and I sit in them every afternoon, and the old ones had fallen victim (I suspect) to some unruly jumping.  I entered Lowe's.   Went directly to Chandel's line.  Asked her if I may purchase 4 Adirondack chairs (blue) that were displayed in front of the store. 

Chandel took a piece of paper, excused herself and went to get the SKU number off of the stack of chairs.  She returned.  Conducted the transaction.

I asked if it were possible for some one to separate the 4 purchased chairs from the stack and put them in my car, as all of the chairs were chained together for security.  She nodded, and said, "uh-huh.  Baby, you're lookin' at her.  Lemme ring up these folks behind you, and I'll be right out to help ya."

Here's where things went sour:

"Chandel, you?  I don't want YOU to have to go out there again.  Don't you have some eye candy that can go out there and get 'em for me?"

"Honey, who you want?"

"I'm joking.  I just thought it'd be funny to ask for eye candy."

"No, who you want?  The real eye candy don't work during the week, but I find you some one."

"No, NO.  That's ok.  I was kidding.  I'll see you out there, Chandel."

"How 'bout that guy behind you?"

(I turn, there's a guy in line behind me.  Regular Joe Painter.  NOT eye candy, NOT a Lowe's employee.)

"Um,  he doesn't work here?!"

"Aw, he's got a ring on.  He's married.  No good."

"I'll see you outside."

By now, I'm embarrassed, but not terribly.  Our conversation was loud enough for the guy behind me to hear, but it wasn't inappropriate or anything.  I move my car.  I clear out all the kid crap in the back.  I double check--I AM wearing my wedding rings.

I'm waiting.  Right by the Adirondack chairs. Chandel comes out with this cute guy.  I mean C-U-T-E.  Not a Joe Plumber.  He appeared reasonably fit.  Six two or so.   Probably my age, maybe younger.  Wearing a cap, but looking NOT like an average Alabamian at Lowe's.  He smiled.  Nice smile.  Straight.  All his teeth.  Well groomed, hip blondish beard.  Not wearing football attire affiliated with any SEC school. 

No navy Lowe's vest.

Chandel's eyes are twinkling.  She's walking in front of him, and indicates with her hands that he appears to have a nice derriere.  She's making faces to indicate she thinks he's attractive, and winking and confidentially assuring me that she's picked a good melon.

Guy smiles directly at me.  He introduces himself, but now, I can't even come close to recalling what he said. He's cute.  I'm blushing.  And, suddenly, sweating.  Very adeptly, he gets the chairs off the giant stack, and starts to put them in the car.  Chandel is going crazy behind him with silent gestures.  As Guy is loading the car, Chandel comes over and says she needs to sign my receipt.  Wha?  She hands me a slip of paper with Guy's phone number!  She took it down when he gave it to her as part of his credit card transaction.  WHA?  She jams a notebook and a pen into my hand, demands that I write my number on it. 

I'm really sweating now.  I look up at Guy.  He seems to know what the hell is going on.  Why don't I?

I push the notebook away... NO.  I'm not giving him my number.  I wanted eye candy not a booty call.  Things are very out of control now.  I'm sweating profusely, and I can feel hives coming up on my neck for everyone to see (my body manifests embarrassment and intoxication with hives.  Not helpful for playing it cool.)  Guy closes the hatch on the Jetta wagon, smiling and "there ya go"-ing, and he IS handsome, and everything is swirling, and I'm married.  I mean mortified.

Chandel looks at me, "Chicken," she practically hisses.  What, is there a pimp fee for her at stake here?  WHA?

I thank Guy.  Shake his hand.  Drop the crumbled piece of paper with his phone number on the ground intentionally, as I slide in the drivers' seat.  Nonchalantly.  Guy did nothing wrong, I don't want to be rude.

I practically screech out of the parking lot.  I've got the windows down, the air on, all the way.  I check myself in the rear view, and the hives are HUGE on my neck.  The apples of my cheeks are so red, they are physically hot.  I'm dying.

I backtrack in my mind.  Where did things go from funny to holy shit?  Was it not clear that I was joking?  Married?  Being kind of a sexist jerk for fun?  I have a momentary flash--how far could that have gone?--but it flies out of my brain almost instantly. 

I have to start going to Home Depot.

A real-life "hold" button?

I guess it has to happen.  There's always a "worst" storm in history,  the stock market has its "worst" day.  Yesterday appears to have been mine.  According to M, anyway.
Per my husband, yesterday was the "worst" mood he's ever seen me in.  This, after 15 years together.  After planning a wedding, moving like a jillion times, two pregnancies (and I was NOT nice during those, for those of you who recall), and all kinds of other crap, this is apparently it.  THIS.  Me, right now, is as foul as I can be.  To date, anyway.
What prompted this foul mood, you ask?  Well, I kinda hate to itemize it, as it reads like the sob story of the problems of the 1%, but some will understand.  Perhaps just one of my grievances will resonate, and some of my readers will say, "oh.  Well.  There's THAT.  THAT would push me over the edge, too."
In no particular order,

• After a summer hiatus that started in April and ended last week, Bones has returned to TV.  Suffering from the inevitable "Moonlighting" downfall of the protagonists having sex.  But not JUST sex, no no.  They're having a baby.  That'll kill the sexual tension FOREVER.  Also, the writers seem to have killed off the main character's already existing son, just so he could concentrate on the new fetus.  Do they think I'm not paying attention?  Disappointment.
• My parents and my sister are in Hawaii.  My parents have been there for 3 weeks already.  Am I in Hawaii?  No, sir, I am most definitely not.
• I'm very disappointed that a potentially fun and interesting job opportunity did not pan out, through no fault of my own, but rather on account of the potential employer.
• In order to lose weight, I have decided to keep drinking down to the weekend.  It's making me cranky(ier).
• Politics--local, national, and global--make me ill. 
• The battery on my first generation Kindle no longer holds a charge.
• Sirius Radio seems to have decided to only play Adele and Coldplay.  On all 2,000 channels.
• The last two issues may not be so critical, except that Monday through Wednesday, my afternoons are spent in my car.  Not driving around so much, but actually just sitting.  In. My. Car.  On Mondays, S swims for an hour.  Then E for an hour.  On Tuesdays, S goes to art for an hour and a half.  On Wednesdays, S swims for an hour.  E has piano lessons for an hour.  In full disclosure, usually M takes E for the piano lessons, and that really helps, but this week, it's all me.  Which, as you can imagine, is AWESOME.  Especially when I hear "Someone Like You" for the fourth time.
• I need a haircut and hate the way I look.  I'm not whining about fatness or age or whatever.  I'm not trying to fit into society's stereotype of 'beautiful' or anything...bah.  Who am I kidding?  I wish I could look like a movie star. 
• My kids always bitch about dinner.  No matter what I make.  There's something wrong with it.  Too spicy, has chicken, too chewy, too many vegetables.  Whatever it is.  I'm sick of their ingratitude.  It's hard to cook five nights a week.  And I try hard and spend a lot of money and time doing it, and they're like blech.
• My kids are training to be attorneys.  Not that lawyers, as a whole, are evil or anything.  But I'm just not up for constant debate.  Sometimes the answer is "BECAUSE I'M IN CHARGE."  But no.  Last night, S gets up on the couch right between me and M.  Please move, says I.  WHY?  Because I was sitting next to M and I was comfy and now I'm not.  But I WANT to sit there.  And then, what happens?  I have to  yell.  And S looks at me like I grew another head or something, and sheesh, Mom.  I just wanted to sit there.
• Had a couple of fun nights out over the weekend.  But then some one told me that I made a big impression.  That I was fun, but completely crazy.  And I realized that apparently, people are laughing AT me, rather than WITH me.  And that makes me feel self conscious and sad.  Especially since it's coming from an academic.
• Every time S does something wrong, he screams, "BUT I DIDN'T KNOW!"  For example, putting the dog in the dump truck and sending it down the stairs.  Then wondering why the dog was avoiding him...."But I didn't know it would scare him."  No, really.  Dogs love being hurtled down 14 stairs with no restraint in a rickety toy.  S spills Kool Aid while jump roping on the carpet..."But I didn't KNOW the drink would spill while jump roping."  (See the attorney entry above.)
• E disappears into his room the second he gets home.  God knows what he does up there.  But he's not setting the table or folding laundry, or taking out the dog, or participating in our family in any way.  The result?  I have to yell at him to bring him downstairs for each individual task I'd like him to do.  "E!!!!  COME PRACTICE THE PIANO!"  After 30 minutes, he's gone.  "E!!! COME TAKE OUT THE DOG."  After 5 minutes, he's gone.  "E!  COME HELP YOUR BROTHER SET THE TABLE!"  After that, he's gone.  I've tried making the bedroom off limits, and compelling him to be with us, but that prompts the worst behaviour ever, and I'd rather he be away than fighting with his brother.
• I'm feeling rather hateful towards Mobile, AL.  When you're wretchedly miserable, sometimes it's nice to take comfort in your environs.  In my adolescence, I could always hit the beach.  Actually, the same in Chicago.  No matter where I go here, it seems the mark of close minded people has been left.  It's difficult to separate the town from the politics and the ickier of our fellow citizens.
• I'm not sleeping well.
• Some of my friends have let me down.  I don't mean like flakiness or verbal misstep.  As if I could judge anyone on those criteria.  I mean actually disappointed me.  Like I thought we understood we were necessary to each other's lives.  Like we were a mutual source of sanity.  And apparently, not.
• S was playing with a salt shaker while eating breakfast this morning.  (If it's not yours don't touch it--our household mantra, had momentarily slipped his mind.) And he rolled it right off the table into a million pieces and a mountain of salt.  Do I care that it's broken?  A little.  Do I care that I now have a lonely, mismatched pepper shaker?  Some.  Do I care that I've asked him a million times NOT to play with it?  Yes.  Do I care that he didn't apologize?  Yes.  Do I care that this reflects his lack of respect for my things, a lack of listening and following directions?  Mostly.  What pissed me off the most?  His immediate response, while the poof of salt was still hanging in the air, "I DIDN'T KNOW!"

I don't know if I need a vacation, a massage, a drug dealer, a prescription (legalized drug dealer), a foray into alcoholism, or what.  Strangely, M is relatively immune from my wrath right now.  So, it's not like I can point the finger at him and say, step up.  None of my gripes (except that he doesn't wipe the countertops, a trivial matter) is with him.  So what do I need?    I need to fix it.  I'm turning into the bitch from The Exorcist.  All honeybadger mean-ness.  Cruella DeVille. 

Idle thoughts on a rainy day

Sometimes I forget how freaking lucky I am.  Some people may say blessed, but you know me, I'm going to ascribe it to a random series of coincidence, chemistry, and out and out luck. 

I am lucky.  While I wasn't born into the hated 1%, I WAS born into the upper portion of the 99%.  My parents were of a different generation.  When the American Dream, as it were, was slightly less than just a dream.  I was healthy growing up.  And what wasn't "perfect health" was repaired, treated, or fixed by incredibly competent physicians. 
I'm smart.  Not Steve Jobs smart, but smart.  I went to good, quality, public schools.  Schools that were clean and safe, and staffed by competent, intelligent teachers.  They led me to an incredibly good university.
I succeeded.  I maybe could have succeeded even more.  But I had a lot of fun as well.  I gained life experience, I saw a little bit of the world.  I fell in love with some one who was smart, hard working, and respectful.  Some one who laughed with me, and with whom I shared common values and ambitions.
I traveled.  All over the western world.  There's so much more to see, but reality and kids eventually caught up with us.  But I saw enough to know that I want to see more.
My kids are healthy.  They aren't perfect, but whatever isn't 'perfect' is treated, repaired, or fixed by the best physicians I can find.  They're lucky, too. They're smart.  They're succeeding. 
Unfortunately, they're inheriting a worse world than I.  I worry about that a lot.  A huge amount of our society is teetering on a brink right now.  Individuals, values, a sense of community are at stake.  I worry that my kids' good luck, coincidence, and chemistry may not be enough for them.  That one foot will slip, and the entire body of their world will fall.  Are they equipped enough to withstand that?  Am I equipped to let that happen to my babies?  Sometimes I think maybe instead of piano lessons, they should be going to survivalist camp.  Will it be possible for them, and the rest of their generation to fix everything?  Not to be just what I experienced, but to be different?  Better?  IS BETTER even possible? 
Or is today just one of those days, where I should turn on TV, open a bottle of wine, and just assume it's going to be ok?

Apply within

May I please have a personal assistant?  I'm not going to go so far as to say I NEED a personal assistant, but pshew, it'd be nice.

I'm not as busy as a lot of moms, true.  I don't have an "outside the home job."  But, I'm crazier than a lot of moms, and lemme tell you, that leaves a lot of slack to be picked up.

Here is my ad:

NEEDED.  PERSONAL ASST.  SALARY SAME AS BOSS!  HRS FLEXIBLE (ANYTIME, 24/7)

• make phone calls to physicians, utilities, contractors that I'm too neurotic to make
• remind me of my schedule.  Do not be fooled by the fact that I have 2 planners and a wall calendar.  I have no idea what the hell is going on.
• force me to exercise.  I WILL play Bejeweled for hours on end, just to say "I didn't have time today."
• plan meal calendars
• set aside "me" time
• organize paperwork
• make to do lists of reasonable length and content.  None of this "re-line all drawers with scented paper" crap that's never gonna happen
• hide the cookies
• prepare correspondence for regular post.  I'll dictate, your handwriting is neater
• schedule nap times, screen calls during naps, maximize my nap efficiency
• remind family members of any upcoming responsibility so they complain to you
• deal with unwanted interactions
• refill my meds

All other errands and responsibilities will be gladly handled by me, your empathetic boss.  I will cook your planned meals, chauffeur to appropriate activities, and do all housework.  I require excellent time management skills.  Forceful, but kind personality required.  Smart asses need not apply.

Trick, no treat

Crap I hate:
1.  Halloween.  It is for children.  Costumes make me feel stupid, and if intelligent life were watching us from their spaceships, they'd think we'd lost it. 
2.  Adults doing crap that is supposed to be for kids, in general.  Dressing up, twee bows, professional cheerleaders for pro sports teams, playing video games, collecting dolls.  (I'm looking at you, Marie Osmond)
3.  Overly creepy costumes for kids.  There is no need for an Xtra small brain-eating, bleeding face, machine gun toting zombie ghost guerrilla.  Stop it.  You're giving them nightmares. 
4.  Trunk or treats. Wha?  If you're gonna do it, do it right.  Piss off the curmudgeonly neighbors (like me) and eat the candy that does not, I promise, have razor blades in it.  Or drugs.
5.  "Sexy Costumes."  Nobody looks good enough to wear them, they are not actually costumes, and they make you look like a whore.  So, just go as a whore.

F-R-I-E-N-D special

I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately.  I have more people to call friends now than I ever have before.  Even the smattering of friends I used to see and do things with regularly are still friends now, thanks to Facebook.  I still get to see their lives, their kids, their pets, and visit with them.  Even if it's only in short paragraph form.
And here in Mobile, thanks in part to my kids and M's work, I have a gaggle of friends.  And such variety, and I love that.  I've never been popular or had a crowd, but I certainly have a gaggle now!  We do all sorts of fun stuff, too--we walk, we lunch, we work out (only if CiCi REAALLY wants to test me), we volunteer at the school, we have sleepovers, drinks, manicures, spa days (only when I get CiCi to STOP working out), and I really am lucky.
I've got friends from here (unlikely, but true), friends from up north, friends from elsewhere in Alabama.  M's work friends are more serious, and I try to be more formal with them (they may or may not be responsible for tenure, and since I never know who may be and who may not be, I try to behave.)  Funny friends, friends who only laugh politely, girly friends, and no-nonsense friends.  If I were EVER to feel like calling some one, I have a long list where I could start.
I like the way some friends kind of fall away for a while, but can pick up again like I saw them yesterday.   Yesterday, I walked with MK for an hour and though I haven't visited with her in nearly a year, and as it turns out, her calm and measured personality (and very brisk walking tempo!) really brought some sense to my world. 
Thankfully, I don't really have to pretend to be nice to people anymore.  My kids have their own friends, so I don't need to befriend women for their kids.  My peops like/tolerate me as I am.  Crazy as hell, but loyal and honest.  Not the worst combination.
I think about my kids and how sometimes, they'll tell me about their friend Blahblah.  Who's Blahblah I ask them.  My friend from camp on the cruise we took two years ago.  Friend?  A four day friend?  But that kids use the word so freely, "Will you be my friend?" is kind of fantastic.  Their fickleness, despite the pettiness, is kind of amazing, too:  "He's not my friend anymore because he thinks Mario is for babies."  And how they compartmentalize everyone, "my friend from preschool doesn't know my friend from art."  And how anyone can be a friend, "is it ok if we play with the kid of that guy who's at the neighbor's fixing a fence?"
Boys don't have friends for connections, popular or not, if the kid is nice and likes whatever my kids like at the moment, he's golden.  S had a friend over on the weekend, and it was sweet.  "Do you like this Lego ship I built?"  "Yah, I like the windshield,"  "Yah, I thought you'd like that."  It was so straightforward and fun, and what friends should be. Is it because the stakes are lower?  What are the stakes of grown up friendships?  Why do they matter more to some people than others?  Why are some friendships like great jeans, all broken in and comfy, from the get go?  Why do some never evolve past the itchy and stiff stage?
I miss some friends from far away and long ago, WB comes to mind immediately.  Long after our spouses went to bed, we'd stay up and drink and talk about anything, (mainly our spouses).  He's really my best man friend.  I miss some friends nearby and recently.  It's like repellent force fields invisibly sprung up around us, and we can no longer connect.  I'm confident the situation is temporary, but nonetheless, it's sad.  Facebook has helped me (strangely) get to know people I should have been better friends with when we lived near one another, (Arkansas, I'm lookin' at you).  I missed her, and thus some of the potential of our kindred spirits. 
Rambling. Rambling.  It's early, in the day, but late in the essay, and I still have no thesis statement.  Perhaps:  Y'all know who you are.  I love seeing those of you I do nearly every day.  I miss those of you I don't, and before the total insanity of the holidays starts (November 1, traditionally), we all need to take a day to reconnect, ok?

Talking to myself

I don't know what's wrong with me.  It's not hard to post to notCinnamon:  it's not like I'm not at my computer 13 hours a day.  I'm here, it's my homepage, and yet....the thing is this.  You know before call waiting, the predicament you'd feel about answering the phone?  It could be your best friend with unexpected shopping cash, it could be your ex boyfriend (bad news), it could be Ed McMahon with 2 million dollars (probably not).  Before call waiting, did you answer? 
I seem to have inherited my dad's hatred for the phone.  Which is funny, because if you've ever talked to me on the phone, it's because I REALLY wanted to talk to you.  And we probably talked for a long time, right?  Maybe even past the point where you wanted to talk to me?  Probably.
The rest of the time, I avoid the phone.  I will text.  I will email.  It's not personal.  It's not you, it's me.  Seriously.  A lot of the time, I don't even bother to see who's calling.  It's just that I'm not talking.  Horrible.  Especially now, with Facebook, and cellphones, and smart phones and IM'ing, and ohmygod instant communication...I don't communicate sometimes.  Usually I get in this rut for extended periods of time.  I just won't talk to people.  I'm not in a hole or anything...I'm shopping, I'm cooking, I'm showering and grooming myself.  I'm just not able to make a phone call.  Can't do it. 
Is this weird?  I have no idea.  Do other people do it?  Hard to know.  What branch of crazy, exactly, is this?  Dunno.
But, it's like that with a blog entry.  A blog entry, for me, anyway, is an extended conversation.  I'm telling you what's going on.  It's hard, sometimes, to construct that conversation.  Some one recently told me that they like my blog because it's written like I talk.  (Wait, is that a compliment?!)  But it is, and the style isn't an accident.  I talk as I write.  Is it funny?  Is the timing right?  Is it like banter?  Banter is hard to write in a one-way conversation, but I sometimes imagine it, work on it. 
When it's going well, I love it.  I could blog every hour.  I could tell you a million stories.  Good ones, too. 
But when I don't want to talk.  It's agony.  I look at notCinnamon and see the last entry was nearly a month ago, and I just open a new window.  It's not like stuff isn't going on.  We've ALWAYS got action over here.  But turning our chaos into a story is something that can't be done right now.
It makes me sad.  I know it makes my fans mad.  All three of them.
In an effort to make the gaps less glaringly obvious, I've decided to change the format of my blog somewhat.  I'm going to post things that make me laugh, that I'm doing, that I see, even if those things aren't accompanied by a story, an entry, a conversation.  Most of the time, the format will stay the same, but I'll be more diligent if I go back to posting something (ANYTHING!) every day.  Imagine the format is like Facebook + Pinterest + notCinnamon = More than you cared to know + crap you don't care about + the occasionally hilarious me. 
It's JulieMath.  It's about as close to real math as I can get.
So, as I go to start dinner, I'm going to end this message.  More than anything, this post, unlike others, is a monologue.  I hope you're okay with it.  I'll be back.  I haven't forgotten.  I just can't talk right now.

What's grosser than gross?

In the overall scale of kid grossness, I suppose snot is at the bottom, or lowest gross factor, and botfly would be at the top, or so revolting that it's better just to toss out the kid than to deal with the botfly.  Not that my kids ever have had botfly, but I've got YouTube, and I'd sooner get rid of my kid than hold a steak to his head to lure out maggots.
That being said, ringworm has to fall somewhere in the top half of the grossness scale.  Thankfully, it's not actually a worm, because worm is dangerously close to maggot of botfly.  But, it IS a nasty, flaky inflamed, scaly relative of jock itch, athlete's foot and fingernail fungus.  And by fingernail fungus, I mean those yellow, crumbly nails that you always see at Disney World on people who haven't worn flip flops in a decade, and decide to trot out their beauties just in case Prince Charming wants to slide a glass slipper on  their calloused, rotten toe-nailed, bunion-having piggies.
S has recently contracted ringworm. 

Did it come from the community swimming pool?  The cat?  School?  Digging in fungus-infested dirt and mud?  Who knows?  Who cares?  It's not like I can undo grossness.

We went to the doctor for it yesterday, and apparently, ringworm of the scalp is the hardest to get rid of.  Naturally.  He has to take an antifungal drug for a whole month.  And use stinky anti-dandruff shampoo.  And this formerly-for-horses menthol liniment I researched.  He smells like a throat lozenge.  For horses.

The kicker, of course, is that upon further examination, the not-quite botfly grossness has been transmitted to me.  MOI.  Yes.  I have contracted boy cooties.  Everything we knew in grade school was correct.  Boys do have them.  They are contagious.  And they require yucky medicine to get rid of.  Children are like the bottomless pit of disgusting. 

They don't even need gory Halloween costumes.  They can just be themselves--green boogers, scaly patches of festering skin, scabs, stink, marginally brushed yellow teeth, pirate breath, bruises, black fingernails, pink eye, lice, sweat--these monsters have it all.  Stephen King has yet to invent anything more frightening and repulsive than a little boy.

When the boys get out of the tub, there is a ring around it.  Not of hard water stain, mind you, of DIRT.  There is grit left in the bottom of the tub when all the water is drained.  I keep a spray bottle of bleach just to spritz into the tub every night after bath time.  What the hell?  Where is all that dirt stored?   And they don't even notice!!  It's like they're feral little animals and have no idea of the cloud of stench hovering above them all the time.

Ringworm, people.  My kid has ringworm.  And now, so do I.  Was my kid wandering across the village barefoot to bring water to our hut?  No.  Was he wading through flood waters to rescue his livestock so he wouldn't starve?  No.  Was he laboring in rice paddies to feed his family?  No.  Was he chained to a child labor gang working in dank mines?  NO! 

Me!?!  Of psychotic daily laundry rates.  Of boiling sheets weekly.  Of bleaching toilets daily.  Of intense bodily scrubbing and exfoliation.  Of disinfecting, deodorizing, and decontaminating.  Of bleach consumption that only rivals a dry cleaners'. Me.  Skin fungus.  Just this side of botfly.

I'm seriously considering cutting off my infected finger. 





Just ain't what she used to be

Look, we're all getting older.   I'm not fishing for compliments or even trying to make excuses for being overweight (though, let's be honest, wouldn't it be great to have my 18 year old body back?)  What I'm saying is, at the tender age of 36, I realize things just don't go like they used to.

Not that they used to go so great.  It's not like I was heli-snowboarding down Denali when I was 25.  I wasn't big wave surfing in Bali.  I wasn't rock climbing up El Capitan.  I was, in fact, not capable of a 3 mile run then.  I am now.  And that's something.  I'm not living in a world of nostalgia and lamenting my capable youth.  I'm not regretting never trying to run a marathon or train for an epic event.  I never did those things, and I guess it shouldn't surprise me, therefore, that I'm not doing those things now.

But we all have moments.  Brutal, honest moments where time and reality and cellulite stare back at us from the mirror.  When there is nothing but harsh fluorescent lighting and no make up.  No Spanx, no bronzer, no highlights.  There is just a body of 36 years that has carried 2 babies, suffers from skeletal defect, has picked up a few extra pounds over a few too many cocktails.  It's a body that's struggling to stay at it.  To stay healthy and durable and out of the plastic surgeon's office.  And, man, in that 3 way mirror of reality, things look rough.

This week, I've been helping S learn to ride a Ripstik.  A Ripstik is a skateboard with 2 caster wheels instead of 4 wheels on 2 axles.  It's a relative of the Razor scooter that S can manage like a pro.  S has been wanting to give this new gadget a try.  He's a durable little man--tough, resilient, and determined.  He's been on that Ripstik a hundred times, and on the pavement a hundred and one.  He's grasping it, slowly, painfully.  But he's not giving up, and I admire that tenacity.  I surely would have quit by this point when I was six. 

I've been getting on the Ripstik, too.  Unfortunately, I've also been getting dumped off of it.  I fell off it yesterday, inelegantly.  I slapped down to the driveway in a way I haven't fallen since I navigated icy paths in Chicago almost 20 years ago.  Yesterday, I hit wrist and knee to ground.  I woke this morning feeling like I'd been hit by a semi.  Today, I mustered the stupidity to try again.  I wiped out today, scraping my elbow, and doing something bad to my ankle.  Tomorrow, I am sure I will feel worse than I do right now.  I haven't tried and failed physically so spectacularly since I was learning to ride a ten speed back when kids rode ten speeds.

I wiped out in front of my kids.  I wiped out while telling them to keep at it.  While telling them that the worst that could happen is that they'll fall.  I have a raspberry on my elbow like a kid.  And I feel it in every old-ass joint in my body.  Failure stays with you longer as you age.  I don't spring back up and try again.  I hesitate.  I consider how embarrassing it will be to explain to the ER doc on call that I was trying to ride my son's Ripstik.  I think about how much I don't want to rehab an injury.

After today's wipe out, I spent the rest of the day on terra firma.  I held S's hand.  I balanced his body.  I gave instructions in language and by manipulating his body rather than attempting to demonstrate.  My days of trying Ripstiks, of being on two wheels at all, are over.  I yield to age and prudence.  I leave the recklessness to my kids, to whom it belongs.  I'll consider myself lucky to only have a scrape and an ache.  I'll nurse my muscles with Advil and a glass of wine. 

It's my bruised ego that really smarts.

Southern Comfort

It's pretty freakin' clear that the weather gods are: A) New Yorkers B) Have a strong sense of humor C) And an excellent sense of timing.

Rather than HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE, which had some alliteration going for it, as well as a catchy, if modified theme song "Come on, Irene," the Gulf South is staring down "Slow Moving Tropical Depression 13." Which is about as catchy as an ABC sit com title. Also, appropriate for this region--slow, depressed, and unlucky.

Apparently, despite the bland name, SMTD13 has already shut down drilling operations in the Gulf. That's important if you drive a car, as this means gas prices will probably go up. See? We're influential too, down here. This also means that if you plan to swim anywhere near the coast in the next 10 days, the water's gonna be foul. Don't do that. This also means that cable is probably going to be all screwed up for college football kickoff weekend. It also probably means there's no toilet paper or canned goods on the shelf at the grocery.

Accuweather.com, in an effort to maintain readership after the post-Irene falloff, is touting SMTD13 as the next BILLION DOLLAR NATURAL DISASTER. I'm interested, in how, exactly, a storm can cause a billion dollars worth of damage down here. Is someone in New Orleans hiding a billion dollars under a rock? Nice timing, by the way, as the Army Corps of Engineers gave New Orleans' levee system a failing grade. Wouldn't it cost less to improve the system than to watch New Orleans sink every five years? Glenn Beck probably thinks this is God's message not to build below sea level.

I guess, actually, New Yorkers and my fellow Mobilians are going to get the last laugh on me. I don't have one of those giant trucks or vee-hicles as people down here call them. My economical little station wagon might not be able to ford the streetrivers of our poorly-infrastructured town.  I mean there are probably backwater towns in India that have way more advanced drainage than our modest hamlet.  So, I will be trapped between the worlds of the true southerner and the die hard northerner. Serves me right for mocking the center of the Western World. I'll have to go out and beg some redneck to get me a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to keep my kin from starving. He'll be making an armed grocery run for some Bud Light in his Ford 850 with 27" of ground clearance while I bail out the backyard.

New Yorkers will be sittin' back with cigars in big, oxblood leather club chairs holding snifters of brandy, "who's laughin' at the rain now, woman?"

I have it coming. The worst part, of course, is not the billion dollars in flooding. Or the sinking of New Orleans (charming city, that, but it would be freaking awesome as Atlantis.) Or really any of the natural disaster part. The worst part is going to be that I have to spend a three day weekend inside with the kids. Screw the toilet paper and loaf of bread. I'm going to buy some booze.

The other white meat

Sunday evening, I made carpaccio for M and me for dinner. I know, making carpaccio is a little like dry cleaning...you don't really DO anything, you just display it real nice. Nonetheless, M and I had a lovely supper of it with arugula, cherry tomato salad with fresh Parmesan shavings.

We were watching the end of the first (and only comprehensible) Pirates of the Caribbean movie with the kids. They were eating macaroni and cheese out of the box. They weren't eating it out of the box, but it was the variety that comes in a box. Ew. Fluorescent orange cheese is wrong wrong wrong. I've been trying to convert the kids to the frozen variety, made with real milk, real cheese and of a natural hue, but no go.

Anyway, the kids were sitting at the fireplace, their designated eating zone outside of the kitchen, and M and I were hunched over our plates. In case you're wondering about my parenting skills, and let's be honest, you should be, we only eat in front of the TV on Fridays and Sundays. Friday night is movie night, and it's a fun treat to eat in the family room (kids on the hearth only) and we eat a fun dinner followed by popcorn during the movie. However, M and I are un-fun parents, and there is a bedtime, even on Fridays. So, if the movie goes long, or we get a late start, the movie has to be continued on Sunday. Not Saturdays, because that's when M and I try to go out. So, to bring you back up to date, it's Sunday, because the first Pirates movie is like 10 hours long when broadcast on ABC Family with commercials, even if we fast forward through them.

Cat is sitting outside the door. He's chewing on something. A closer look reveals a baby squirrel. Oh, fantastic. Squirrel carpaccio. Ugh. My appetite sank down to Davy Jones' Locker. I go outside to find that Cat, has in fact, gone all Jeffrey Dahmer on Sunday: 2 snakes, a blue jay, and aforementioned squirrel.

This is what happens when he manages to get his bell collar off. Death, dismemberment. (Actually, I don't think the snakes can be dismembered, since they have no, um, members.)

What the hell? (In case you're wondering--that's a tail. Apparently, the only inedible part of a squirrel.)

We feed the cat. Actual cat food. From a bag and/or a can. A lot. Good, healthy food and water, and the occasional leftover meat from dinner. We have provided a reasonably psychosis-free environment for the cat. In short, as parents, we have done nothing specific to raise a murderous freak. Yet, he killed representatives from the major animal kingdoms: reptile, bird and mammal. Clooney was looking mighty nervous.

That's the part that's so disturbing--the cat is killing for the hell of it. We have no assurance that he won't turn against us! Despite our affections, hospitality and substantial food budget. We've failed as cat parents! Right now, our kids seem normal-ish. But what if they decide that they're more like their feline pet than their canine pet? What if they're not all sweet and loyal and earnest, but instead grow up to be sadistic indifferent raw-squirrel eaters?

This is not good precedent. That's all I'm saying.

Dear New York, we don't care. Love, EVERYONE ELSE

So here's the thing (my brother-in-law LOVES it when I say that)--the east coast got a little sampling of what it's like to live in the rest of the country this week. And I say this with bitterness, of course, because what am I except bitter?

EVERYBODY LOVES NEW YORK. I got the memo. But the thing is, New Yorkers are kinda obnoxious. I know, I'm speaking from Alabama, the epicenter of moonshine swillin', incest-havin', NASCAR drivin' rednecks. I didn't forget. And New Yorkers do a LOT of stuff well, don't get me wrong: fashion, culture, and weight management leap to mind. BUT they're kind of media whores.

They also like to spend money on things like third basemen, itty-bitty condos, shoes, houses in the Hamptons. But, mostly, they like to be the center of the universe. Galileo would have had his work cut out with New Yorkers. What is this you say, Galileo? 'Tis not a Pomum Magnus-centric solar system, nay universe? Heretic! Death by New Jersey!

So, when the big quake hit this week, everyone on the eastern seaboard ducked and covered like good little 4th graders in a school drill. Except New Yorkers, who were like, meh. That wasn't an earthquake. I barely felt it. Too cool for school. BUT then, the Leno-ite, west coasters were like, oh MY GOD. The media is like totally freakin' out over like the smallest earthquake EVAH. Then, the New York Times ran a blog about how mean spirited the west coasters were. How they diminished the New Yorkers' tragedy of a the earthquake of the millenium. (What?!? It IS the first earthquake of the milennium. Or, rather, the ONLY.) Which left the valley girls sputtering, bbbbut? Like, nobody was hurt, and like your Louis Vuitton is like still ok. And Bloomingdales' only lost like a couple of things off the shelves, and like....WAIT A SECOND! What the hell did we do wrong?

True that, valley girls. Everything in New York is IMPORTANT. It AFFECTS things. Never you mind about Northridge, or Oakland, or that quaint little trading outpost you had up north that burned to the ground 100 years ago. That San? Something? I think it's famous for bread and poor people jeans, and NOT EVERYTHING ELSE, like New York.

THEN, as if God was heaping disaster upon catastrophe, and punishing the Jews and Homosexuals, he sent a tropical storm up the coast. New Yorkers, taken aback, were aghast that a natural disaster normally reserved for the mouth breathers of the Gulf South and the hilbillies of the South East was headed their way. How could THIS happen?

Everyone from the Weather Channel bimbos to the President of the United States was sounding the alarm about HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE. Evacuate Manhattan! Close the subways! Save the Guggenheim! Tell your nannies to hide the children! Preserve Wall Street! Use the New Jersey trash islands to fortify the city! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

They (and by they, I mean the liberal media) want us to know that the center of the world is in danger, because that's the only way they can get the entire western civilization to pay attention to New York all at once (unless they could arrange a Mets-Yankees World Series, and I suspect Fox Sports is working on this as we speak), and New Yorkers love that. They bask in it like the warm sun glancing off a yellow cab. But, of course, New Yorkers are blase and un-ruffle-able, so they have martini parties and catered hurricane shindigs, just to prove that they are too resilient to fear THE STORM OF THE CENTURY.

Now, the next time a Katrina barrels up the Mississippi River and an entire city is nearly wiped off the map, we'll have to hear all the people up in the Big Apple say, "hurricane? Pshaw. We've been through that. It's no big deal. We had a HISTORIC hurricane here in '11 and I weathered it with lobstah and Grey Goose. What's wrong with that New Or-lee-ans? They lack New York fortitude."

So, New-York centric media and the good citizens of Metropolis, I say this: stop blowin' crap outta proportion. You lose your authority. You're like parents who yell at their kids all the time and then when you REALLY need them to listen, they don't care. Do not hit the panic button until it is time to do so. I do not want to see anymore pictures of urban dwellers in the rain without power. There is tragedy, out there, people. Rain ain't it.

Security warning

I suppose there comes a certain time when a security blanket slowly declines in necessity and disappears. A time when sleep comes easily on a mere pillow. When good dreams are assured without its presence. I suppose there is a time when that happens.

I just haven't reached it yet.

No. I'm kidding. Sort of. I mean, it's true, I DO have a security blanket. Only now it's not for security, so much..exactly.

When I was a kid, I suffered from chronic ear infections. Nothing comforted, eased, and consoled quite like an antibiotic and my blankie. The blankie was a crocheted affair of green and yellow and white. The stitch was open and airy and Blankie was always cool and soothing on my aching ear. Blankie was a fantastic companion, but mind you, only at night. I, unlike Linus, didn't drag poor Blankie everywhere. For even at that tender age, I understood needless travel would shorten its lifespan.

And to good purpose, might I say. Blankie stayed with me even as medical science cured my ear infections. Blankie spent each day tucked safely under my pillow, and each night as a cool cushion atop my pillow for a nightmare-free sleep. Blankie ventured out to grandma's house and on vacation, but only under constant vigilance and care.

Blankie led a very sheltered life. But an important one. Instead of earaches, eventually, Blankie eased parents' punishment and broken heart.

Blankie eventually moved to Evanston with me. Blankie did a lot of propping up my head while I read away many a winter's night. Blankie eventually went international, moving with me to Toronto. Blankie stuck with me when a husband replaced it as preferred cushion, consoler, and confidant.

Of course, after 31 years, Blankie eventually wore out. The light, airy stitches gave way to holes. The green, yellow white varied yarn faded to a mossy blech color. The nail polish crust in the center softened, but never quite disappeared.

In the interest of preserving Blankie (perhaps the Smithsonian will want it someday), I decided it needed to be retired. Not given away or (perish the thought!) thrown away, but retired. I found Blankie a safe bin in my closet, protected from dust bunnies and comfortably far from the Goodwill pile. Blankie took up good company with its old friend, Teddy, who retired when my first puppy thought it was a chew toy.

What does some one do when she finds herself in her early 30s and in the market for a new transitional object? Knit one, of course. I obtained some purple (if I'm makin' my own, I'm choosin' my color) yarn and set to work. But, let's be honest, people. I wasn't knitting the Mona Lisa. I didn't make beautiful, scalloped stitches. I didn't go back and fix mistakes. I was knitting for speed. Blankie was fading fast--I don't think there was another wash left in it--and the replacement needed to be ready to step up. Quickly.

Well, haste is not, probably, the best quality for a knitter. Purple Blankie cannot be trusted. As it turns out, slipped stitches in a knitted blanket can become lethal in your sleep. I woke up a few nights ago to find Purple Blankie's mistakes wrapped around my neck in an attempt to strangle me. I'm not inclined to find its motives, be they vengeance, feelings of inadequacy to Blankie, or anger at being left under the pillow all day. Whatever the reason, Purple Blankie is out to get me, and it must be stopped. Just look at those traitorous tentacles:

Fortunately, my parents took a road trip last fall and brought me all kinds of crap from the attic of their house. Some of the crap was crap, but there are 3 promising Purple Blankie replacements: None of the candidates are as soft as Blankie or even Purple Blankie for that matter. All of the candidates have the drawback of being partly or entirely pink. None of the candidates appeal to me in that basic, essential, I will cradle your head and make your sleep more comfortable way.

There was a reason those inferior blankies were left in the attic all those years. They suck. However, in these busy times, a woman just isn't able to carve out a weekend to knit herself a new blankie. The blankies sold in stores now are over-hyped microfiber, not knitted covers. The microfiber fails to stay cool and cushiony. It gets all hot and matted. Good for covering drooly babies, not good for guaranteeing my comfort on the pillow. Ergo, I find myself choosing between the losers who didn't cut it as my security blanket when I was an infant.

My life has come full circle.

I'm testing out my options. I'll let you know when one of the losers emerge as a 'winner.'

Life's classroom

Sure, I felt a little guilty about sending my older child, E down that steep hill on his bike. I knew that scraped knees and elbows were probably waiting for him at the bottom. On the other hand, this child is my risk-averse, fearful, 9 year-old not confident on his two wheeler. My child who fears failure so much that most of the time he won’t even try. I gave him this push, metaphorical and literal, towards the boundaries of his comfort zone and beyond. I sent him down that hill to show him that failure is the worst that can happen.
As it turns out, always the overachiever, E, failed in fantastic style. In snow skiing, his fall would have been known as the ski chalet-various paraphernalia splayed around him like in a shop. I ran to the scene of blood and sweat and dirt and tears and anger and failure. I consoled, I assured, I praised him for taking the plunge. I convinced him to get back on, and while I couldn’t get him to try that steep hill again, we did finish the ride. Back home.
Summer, the season of bike riding and exploring, of collecting frogs and beetles, of jump rope and swimming races and stickball and secret picnics in secret forts is the true classroom of our childhood. As these glorious (though unreasonably hot) months draw to an end, kids and moms alike bemoan the return to the stifling air conditioned classroom, the drudgery of homework, uniforms, haircuts, and carpool. We’re saddened by the end of that freedom.
While we, as responsible parents, are supposed to allow our children to fail, to experience hardship and persevere, we are also concerned about grades, and notes home from teachers, and the school district‘s permanent record. Summer is the best classroom, because failure is allowed. It’s not graded or ridiculed or lectured over. The kids are at liberty to blow it--epically--and be consoled and reassured and convinced to go on. Summer is learning with our peers and parents rather than unfamiliar teachers and intimidating principals.
As I wrapped my arms around my nearly-as-tall as I am son, snotty nose, filthy hands and bloody knees I swallowed a chuckle--the wipeout was truly spectacular--and smiled. For even as he sobbed and sniffled, he had just experienced the best lesson of the whole year. And all it cost him was the skin of his knee.
　

Oldies but Goodies

After the first few days of school, I've decided that I need a vacation. It's a shocking transition from kids ALL THE TIME to kids NONE OF THE TIME. It's also hard for them to go from daily freedom to a highly structured day at school, but let's be honest: that's their problem.

My problem is that I move from the job of referee, cruise director and short order cook to my autumn job of short order cook, chauffeur, tutor, and launderer. While both jobs have their up and downsides, they are both actual jobs. There really was no vacation time between jobs, either. And I want one.

However, the economy is in the toilet. M doesn't deserve to be saddled with the kids full time as he is going back to school as well. And, I'm not able to go jetting off to Monaco for a week of James Bond-style elegance, high stakes gambling, evening gowns, spa days and sight seeing. So I have a perfect staycation in mind.

Here's what I want: a week at the local retirement home. Yes, you heard me. Nuts? Hear me out:

In the morning, I will be woken at a decent hour. Gently, since no one wants to startle old people lest they wake up and die.

I'll be cooked healthy, low sodium meals. And, if I'm feeling lazy, some one will actually feed me.

Therapeutic massage? Yes, please.

I could have a physical therapist who would come and exercise me while I just sit in a chair.

I could sit outside in the shade and knit, undisturbed.

Nobody would notice if I spilled on myself.

I would not be responsible for anything, ANYTHING at all. I could watch daytime TV. I could eat sugar free bonbons.

I could probably get a sponge bath if I didn't feel like doing it myself. Clean enough. Meh.

I could sit in the corner, petting my dog and talking to him without anyone looking twice.

I could sit in the corner, talking to myself without anyone looking twice.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be sent to any low-rent crappy, pee stinkin' old folks home any more than I want to take a Carnival cruise or stay at the Motel 6. I want an upscale, resort-atmosphere retirement lifestyle. Warm pool, aquarobics, little suite of my own home sweet retirement home. I want meds to bliss me out and chill. I'd like nice, friendly staff who push me around for a walk in my chair. I'd like to sit and do sudoku in peace with all my daily needs met by some one else.

If you need me, I'll be at Leisure World. Sweatin' with the Oldies. Making crafts and eating meatloaf. Without a care in the world. But I'm only staying for a week. Don't EVEN THINK of stickin' me there for good.

Parents back to school: grade C+

It's back to school, here in Alabama. I wish I could say we go back to school so early because our education is longer, better, or in some way distinctive from other places--in a positive way--but, alas. In mid-90 temps, the kids go back to school, instead of waiting until after Labor Day when temps and therefore the cost of air conditioning would be lower, but no. We end school in the lovely month of May and go back in the soupy, hot August. I will never understand.

By and large, there's a good vibe around here about going back to school. While the kids aren't doing the 'woohoo' dance around the living room, I do think there's a general consensus that it's time to do something besides lounge around the house, play Wii, watch TV, swim, and eat bonbons. In fact, if school started later in the day, and the boys could just chill in the morning instead of being herded out the door, school would be mighty fine. Nobody, but nobody wants to get up before 6:30.

I hate packing lunches in the morning. I hate pouring juice, opening the bag o' ham and smelling deli meat before coffee. I don't like trying to think of something new and exciting to send. I don't like not being able to default to peanut butter and jelly. Not that I want to actually kill the allergic children at school with my pb&j, it's just that I'm lazy. I don't like signing a jillion papers and sorting through the 20 fliers and handouts. And I'm not even a kid.

But, yesterday the house was quiet. Really, really quiet. I could hear the refrigerator kick on and off and the ice maker deposit the ice into the bucket. I lounged. I ran errands in a timely, efficient fashion without being interrupted, begged to stop, harrassed for lunch and/or snacks, or having to referree.

I got a latte and ran errands in civilized clothes. I browsed at the shoe store, since I was out, and though I found nothing, I didn't have to hear, "BUT YOU PROMISED WE ONLY HAD TO MAKE ONE STOP AND THIS ISN'T IT!" Which was a relief.

I washed laundry and put it away. I picked up Legos without having a new trail laid out behind me. I went for a walk. I listened to music I like in the car. And when there was no music that I liked, I sat in silence. Life is very different without the kids.

Not once did I get begged for a (unhealthy) snack, did I have to break up a fight, did I have to play Lego or Wii, or in any way intervene in the childhoold plague of boredom. It was a big contrast to the whining and bickering of Sunday.

I ran into a friend at the grocery who said I looked "liberated" without my kids. I felt liberated, too. Like I could enter into a conversation without my children turning into clinging interrupters. I felt adult, and decently dressed and ready to be out "in the world," rather than rush-showered, unmade-up and frantic to finish everything before the kids became unruly. Everything was rather zen and relaxed, and kind of the way I expected it to be on the first day of back to school.

And then some woman had to wreck it. She overheard my friend and me talking about the return of school and what a relief it is to have a break, however short, from our kids and to move through the day as adults. But, there was this woman. Late 40s, maybe, clucking her tongue and reminding us how fast everything passes by. How she's taking her third child off to college. And how her heart is breaking. And how just yesterday, her college student was a toddler.

I GET IT. But, nostalgia, people, is for people who have the luxury of looking back. Those of us with elementary-aged kids, are still in the midst of 'the shit.' We have no light at the end of our tunnels, and feel as though we will be running errands, chauffering to activities and participating as PTA parents forever and ever without end. I know, your college student/adult child grew up so fast, you just blinked and it was over. This is the process of parenting. I WILL, surely, feel the same way when I take my baby off to college, but for now, parents of adult children: STOP TELLING ME TO ENJOY THIS.

Did you enjoy this? Running around to lessons, activities, whatever after school birthday/event/thing was going on? Did you enjoy buying whatever obscure school supply the teachers have sent you scavenging for? Did you enjoy kids growing out of shoes, and complaining about the seams in the socks, or whining about dinner, or complaining about bedtime, or "forgetting" to wash their hair in the tub, or flooding the bathroom, or hating their uniforms, or, or or or? No, this is the grind. This is the elbow grease of parenting that will, someday, gods willing, lead to the joy of accomplishment: having a successful child who wants to continue a higher education and, simultaneously, still loves me enough to want me to drop him off at said college.

There are moments--we all have moments--of pure happiness. When a child is so sweet, so likeable, so smart, so kind, that we never want him to change. But those moments are scattered among the realities of life, and the challenge of being a good parent--oh, fine, of being a mediocre parent--is to remember those moments when your child has left Legos in the tub, or underfoot, or has left food crumbs for the cockroaches, or has failed to let the dog out before the dog's bladder gave out, or or or. Mediocre is my realistic goal. It's back to school, and I'm shootin' for average.

Cartoon Overload/Overlord

As usual, summer has lasted about 10 days too long-in some ways, anyway. The kids are fighting, being sassy, complaining about boredom. In the other, much more real way, summer never lasts long enough--starting Monday, I have to go through that stomach turning process of packing lunch every day. Something about seeing deli meat before 6:30 in the morning is really nauseating. We'll be navigating bedtimes and baths and uniforms and uncomfy socks and homework and all the crap that comes along with school. It's bittersweet, for sure.

One thing that I DO know for sure is that S has watched waaaaaaaaaaay too many cartoons this summer. Phineas and Ferb, my personal favorites have been on a summer marathon. I think S has seen every episode--not just of the marathon, but of the entire series. He's also taken to one of those stupid Power Ranger shows, and the old standby, Scooby Doo. S will watch TV for hours at a time if we let him. E, on the other hand, gets bored, reads a book and then comes back to it. S, mesmerized, lays on the couch, shoving dry Apple Jacks into his mouth like a zombie.


Of course, kids also pick up every catchphrase from everything they every watch. So, this summer, we've had our share of "smurf" replacing normal verbs. We've also had the crazy Dufenschmirtz voice and we've named our household devices like that evil doctor: the toaster is now "The toastenator." It's pretty amusing.


But, I think the kicker, the single moment when I knew for SURE that S had too much TV was this morning. He was sitting in this GIANT dump truck that he's had for years. The truck's enormity and his relative smallness combine to make it his favorite mode of transport downstairs. He's like an old person in a scooter thing: he wheels from room to room with a gentle push to the floor. Freak. ANYWAY. From the bed of his dumptruck, he's complaining to me that the housekeeper threw away the cheat codes for the video games. (While I understand these words individually, I have know idea what they mean in this order). He's fibbing and "convincing" me that the paper was safely kept on the table (rather than the floor, where I know it was) or maybe, he concedes on the couch. I suggest that if the paper were kept in the cubby with the games, perhaps it would still be there.


"It hardly seems fair, young man, to blame the housekeeper for throwing out paper from the floor. I think you need to accept this as a lesson in keeping track of your own belongings."


S: (rocking back and forth in his dumptruck, quiet for a moment. Then, in evil genius voice) I'll get you next time. (Exits room, in dumptruck)


Touche.

End of sentence

Gentlemen, you're going to want to look away, this is going to get graphically girlie in a hurry. (Wait, do men read this?!) Girls, this is a post for you and me. I hate my period. Hate it. Granted, I have mine right now, so my normal outrage at this physiological process is escalated by hormone-fueled fury, but nonetheless: I HATE IT.

First, let me just repeat some old news for you. 10,000 years ago, when Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens were roaming around the Earth looking for their next Woolly Mammoth dinner, and cave women had their periods, what did they do about it? About the same thing that we are doing now. We, literally, use a product that has the French name for rag. Using a French name escalates a lot of things, foie gras is way better than liver, menage a trois is classier than threesome, but a rag by any other name is still a rag. Of course, now we poison our rags with bleach and acetone and use all sorts of synthetic materials, but it's still the same old cork and string.

We have very advanced pharmaceutical treatments for all kinds of "ills"--from male pattern baldness to erectile dysfunction, which apparently have the intended goal of enhancing sexual experience. My sexual experience might be enhanced if, through some modern miracle, I didn't have to hate my reproductive system every 27.5 days. I would even be okay with a bald, impotent guy if I didn't have to 'visit with my cousin' every month.

I begrudge every purchase of feminine hygiene products. I especially begrudge the fact that said products are usually in the same aisle as 1. diapers 2. condoms 3. pregnancy tests. Here's why this bothers me--diapers and feminine products? Is it because babies and women have waste that can't be controlled by regular underwear? But the old people underwear is someplace else entirely. Is it because all women have babies? Is it a guilt trip for fertile women who don't have babies? What's that about? I suspect something deeply subversive. 2. Condoms? Who wants to think about condoms when they are stocking up the period pantry? 3. Pregnancy tests? For those women who weren't buying tampons, but were too dumb to buy condoms? Is this the one-stop sex aisle? Then why would I want to trot my BABY through this aisle to buy diapers?! None of this makes sense.

I resent how much hygiene products cost. And that I have to buy the industrial size ones. I swear the ultra-super-mega products were used to soak up the BP spill. And those are still ineffective for my needs. There are all these earth-friendly, body-friendly alternatives. Don't think that this offsets my first complaint about there being no advances in this area of medicine. These are not advances, but rather primitive and (in my opinion) fouler methods to deal with the problem.

So, now I've spent my money on my absorb-an-ocean products, and then I'm subject to the irrational, unavoidable, intense hormonal rage that accompanies the physical bliss of cramping, backaches and some sort of weird, vague nausea. My family can tell you that I'm a werewolf. Synced with the phases of the moon, I monthly transform into a vile, uncontrollable beast. There's snarling and growling, and it's not a pretty sight.

Now, I'm mean and spending money on products and then the piece de resistance (another thing that sounds better in French): the 5 pound bloat. All my favorite clothes are tight and unflattering. My boobs hurt and are pinched in my bra. Jeans give way to sweats. Tees give way to M's tees. And, the aforementioned mood issues really make me able to cope with the body transformation very well.

In the end, I wind up feeling like the mean, evil brother of the Kool-Aid guy. All stomping around, and fat, and breaking walls and yelling at kids. And, in another 29 days, I get to do it all again. I CAN'T WAIT!

I blame you, Al Gore

I know the entire country is broiling under a post-apocalyptic nuclear sun. We are all hot. I get it. I'm sure in 6 months, half of us who have never seen snow before will be buried under feet of it, and those poor folks whose livelihoods depend on the white stuff will be stuck without.
I am not saying I am the only soul miserable in this heat wave. In fact, I have it better than most, and I know it. I don't have to labor outside. I don't have to fix air conditioners in attics, and I can sit inside and blog in the comfort of 76 degrees. If you're wondering why I don't set the thermostat to the more traditional room temperature of 72, I'll tell you, but it's gross. In this humidity, if I turn the air that far down, the water condenses on all the registers, drips and/or forms mildew. True. Gross.
Alabama, nationally beloved as the butt of every redneck joke ever invented, offers singularly awful weather. I posted this on a friend's Facebook page today, in fact. May through October are designated Hell. During these months, the air conditioning registers drip from the humidity extracted from the air. The outside feels like soup, I sweat profusely, embarrassingly, everywhere I go. I step out of my car, and the lovely diagonal line of my seat belt is outlined in perspiration. These months are occasionally interrupted with a hellacious unleashing of natural fury known as hurricanes. In my tenure in Alabama, we've been blissfully exempt from these tragedies, but New Orleans is only 100 miles down the road. I've seen it, don't need to experience it. We fend off mosquitoes that bring increasingly alarming diseases from equatorial regions. We hole up in our houses, occasionally dipping into the pool, or seeking refuge in the shade of an antique oak tree.
I've found that we usually don't have a spring or autumn in these parts. The trees generally don't turn beautiful shades of crimson and yellow. We don't have that brisk, cool air that heralds football and stews and fires in the fireplace--all the wonders of autumn in the northeastern parts of the nation. We usually go from hot as blazes to one November morning when the cars and roofs of our neighbors are glistening in frost and I haven't bought the boys long uniform pants.
Those chilly days lead to sub-freezing nights when I send M out to swaddle the pool equipment like a baby to avoid freezing. We are issued alerts on TV and radio to bring in all our pets, strays and elderly folks who didn't happen to die during the hellish summer. We crank up the heat, rummage through the backs of our closets to find the 3 sweaters that we still own. I dig through piles of athletic socks to find a pair, hopefully, that isn't white and won't show under black pants. I put headbands over cold ears, even if I am thankful that I can exercise outside without perishing.
These are my Alabama options. Blistering and burning or chattering and freezing. We have no brisk apple-picking season, no tulip-sprouting spring. We sit in the summer heat, watching the kudzu grow, waiting for that brief moment when the evening sun is setting and no longer burning us and before the mosquitoes come out. That moment, I run outside and drink my cocktail until the bugs drive me back in. Come winter, we will be running from car to shop to car to home as though the winter will kiss us with frostbite instantly.
Strangely enough, Alabama seems unprepared for both of these climate extremes. Frost kills all of the citrus crops, the palm trees, damages pools and cracks and freezes poorly insulated pipes. Summer heat and storms tear down above-ground power lines, threatens livestock, and kill the elderly. You'd think that EVEN Alabama could figure out how to cope with one of these extremes. Really. I'd take mastery over even one. Please.

This bed is my bed, that bed is your bed

I stumbled onto another fight on Facebook (remember the last one was about moms having a life?). I learned a lesson and decided not to participate in this one, which was raging on several different status updates.

This one was about family beds.

I want to say one thing up front and loud and clear: IF you sleep in a family bed, I AM NOT JUDGING. (Shocking, right?) There are a lot of things that are none of my business--your checking account balance, your spouse's pet names, how long you think leftovers are edible, your comfort level with mildew in your shower--and sleeping with or without your kid is one of those things.

By posting this, I only ask that you extend the same courtesy.

I have been reading in a flood of momblogs, parenting blogs, and tree-hugging, love thy mother, we are allonelife blogs, that a family bed is the only way to go. That putting my child in a crib alone from the age of 1 minute is a cruel yet easy way to turn him into a black trench-coat wearing sociopath.

These articles paint me as the antichrist of moms: apparently, I sit in the vastness of my king bed's unused space, laughing like an evil genius at my child's piteous crying. Alone, sad, and miserable in his giant crib, his brain and soul are being malformed with every moment. I, on the other hand, should have my parent license revoked for ignoring his desperate need to be near me every second of his life.

I will concede that I value my personal space more than the average human being. I hated pregnancy because I had a giant parasite sitting on my bladder and punching my lung for 3/4 of a year. So, it's true that I may be at an emotional disadvantage with my children. I don't like crowds, I don't like it when strangers feel comfortable enough to touch me, and I really don't like it when my kids feel the need to hang off of me all the time.

After 9 months of of having my body transformed into a Macy's Parade balloon, I was admittedly not eager to bring that little sucker into the bed with me. When the kids transitioned out of cribs, I had the luxury of buying them each queen sized beds. Now, if they are sick or have nightmares or want a little cuddle, I can accommodate those needs and then boogie on back to my own bed when done. I don't have to try to fold up onto a toddler or twin bed to soothe, read stories to, or snuggle. But, be sure that the moment the fever is lowered, the books is closed, or the boy is asleep, I am out of that bed as fast as I can stealthily go.

Kids are hot little furnaces, they kick, they gnash their teeth, they flail their arms, they talk, whimper and whine, and frequently wind up perpendicular to the pillows when they sleep. It's like sleeping with a Wild Thing. On vacations, or other times when I'm forced to co-sleep, I have awoken with feet in my kidneys, inexplicable soreness, feet and hands in my face, and general malaise from a lack of rest. Always after these experiences, I am eager to return to my blissful temperpedic; M can jump on the bed and not even spill my wine. Perfect!

So, no. I have never slept in the same bed as my child unless unreasonable hotel/cruise rates required it. Am I a bad parent? I don't think so. When they were babies and cried in their cribs, I retrieved them, rocked them, soothed them, and stuck them back in their cribs. I wasn't a horrible ogre who ignored heart wrenching wails and let them gut it out alone. I loved them, but I gave them the space I would want.

The boys are now school aged, and have never had anxiety about leaving me or their dad for a day at school. They know that we will always be there for them, and that if they fail in any way, we are here to console them, and cheer them on again. I resent that family-bedders are telling me that, somehow, my children are suffering from that lack of closeness. Why does different have to be worse?

I am SURE there are benefits to the family bed. Those were just not benefits that outweigh the cons for our family. AND THAT'S OKAY. My kids are not suffering, I promise. PLEASE STOP TELLING ME TO DO IT YOUR WAY. I'm not telling you to do it mine.

A two person limit per bed worked for us. It may not work for you. Please don't lecture me, criticize me, or tell me how cruel I am.

This bed is big enough for all of us.

The Diet of the Lambs

The posts seem to only happen monthly these days. Partly, it's summer, and getting two brain cells to cooperate seems impossible. Second, it's summer and getting two kids to cooperate and give me 5 minutes alone seems impossible. Third, it's summer, and--oh, hell--I dunno.

I'm currently depressed over the return of my weight. Apparently, it's summer, and the only things I CAN get to cooperate are gin and tonic, bourbon and Coke, and vodka and lemonade. Fortunately, or unfortunately--as the case may be--those spirits find themselves mixing just fine.

Unfortunately, they're building an inner tube around my waist. Oh, well. I can starve again in the winter. Upon very careful study, I have decided that I need a getaway to one of those fat farms. Like The Biggest Loser, only less yelling.

I want to be pampered while I work out. So, in exchange for a near-death experience on the treadmill, I'd like an hour-long massage. This would be motivating. Fact is, a day alone would be motivating. It's hard to be sober and thin when surrounded by kids and their greasy snacks. Children are like the grit and dirt that irritate an oyster to make a pearl. Only the pearl isn't a precious gemstone, but a giant cocktail at the end of the day. Fine...it's a crappy metaphor.

So, at my fat farm, I'm going to wake up early and eat a nutritionally sound breakfast. Then, I'm going to train for 4 hours. Then, a nutritionally sound lunch and training. Then, a very small dinner, some form of spa reward for my hard work and then sleep. Like a movie star in a detox program: I need coddling.

Of course, the side benefits would be temporary asylum from the kids, proper training and encouragement, and of course, skinny thighs!

Naturally, you're thinking this is WAY to excessive for me. Too much luxury, too much pampering, too much indulgence. So, I propose an alternative: The Buffalo Bill Diet.

Remember Buffalo Bill? He was the villain in the Silence of the Lambs, Clarice. He kidnapped fatties, kept them in a hole, lowered lotion to keep their skin supple, starved them 'til their skin hung lose on their bodies, slayed them, and then made himself a transgendered skin-suit out of their remains.

So, what I'm telling you is this: if a psychotic killer wants to kidnap me & starve me, I'm okay with that as long as I get to moisturize. Rather than die, though, I'd like to escape and live to have some dinner with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.