Sunday, April 24, 2011

Somewhere over the double rainbow

In an effort to put some space between ourselves and our kids, KH and I decided to haul our 5 total kids down to the beach. We smuggled in our margaritas, sat back and munched on junk food and 'supervised' the kids as they played in the white sand of the Gulf.

As I sat there, crouching under my wind-blown umbrella, I got to thinking about my favorite beaches and how it is, exactly, that I am now spending my beach days in Alabama.

For comparison, I'll use the beach down by my parents' house. It's not Malibu or Santa Monica. It's not Newport or Huntington. It's a small beach, depth wise, but continues on for a nice while and enjoys year-round surfers and sunbathers. I could use my favorite spot in the world, Poipu beach, but alas, I can't even comprehend Alabama and Hawaii at the same time, and if I force myself to, my head will explode.

KH is one of my psycho skinny friends. Despite 3 kids, the woman rocks a bikini. Unlike the women in the family next to us. Each woman was boasting at least 18 inches of combined cleavage/butt crack. They had thick, leathery skin with unappealing wrinkly tattoos. They herded their children around with childish aggression and whined much like their own offspring. At one point, a woman said,"I didn't dig dat hole in da sand fer you to climb in! Git outta der! Dat's my hole."

KH and I burst into laughter.

While these sunbathers were definitely good for the ego, they weren't the most attractive or quiet of neighbors. Then I think of the potential beach neighbors in Southern Cal: Mother/Daughter clones of blond hair, silicone parts, fake tans and nails. Both honed by personal trainers and/or eating disorders into perfect Barbie-esque figures. Guys spending too much time at the gym gazing at their chests, forgetting to work their bird-like legs. All, parading down the beach, adjusting their suits, preening as they seek the eyes of all beachgoers. These people are seriously hard on the self-image. I can handle sitting next to one skinny minnie, but not a beachload of fake ones.

So, there's that tradeoff. I think I prefer the eye candy. At least, I can speculate who's real and who's 93% silicone. It's something to talk about. Jabba the Hutt and Co. weren't really conversation starters so much as a sad, sad joke.

Also, there is the quality of the beach itself. The beach in Southern California is subject to all sorts of liberal, tree-hugging, preservationist, beautifying laws. I realize that Alabama would sooner surrender its Confederate flag collection than legislate environmental protection, but it does have some benefits.

The Cali beaches are pristine stretches of sand, dotted with mounds of sea kelp and mussel shells. Loud, crashing surf foams and races up the beach and retreats in mesmerizing consistency. The beach air smells of salt and drying kelp and marine life.

Things were a little different down at the Gulf. Though the white sand is indeed beautiful, the water on the Mobile bay side of Dauphin Island is sometimes, um, gross. All of the river runoff from a state populated by litterbugs runs into the bay and yields a soupy mix of all kinds of detritus that belongs in a landfill.

The boys ran off to play in a little pool left by the tide. We watched their heads bob and play as they explored as boys often do. But when they came back, they reeked of swamp. S explained that they found a catfish skeleton in the pool. W said the algae on his face was splashed on there and promised he didn't put his face in the water. E had some brownish stain on his pants. T had a cut on his leg. "Where did you get that?"

Shrug. "A bed."

"A bed?!"
"Yah, there was a mattress in that pool."

Oh, hooray. Our kids went swimming with trash. We're a long way from Kauai, Toto.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Where babies come from

E is a voracious reader. Seriously. He earned recognition at school for being only one of two second graders to earn more than 100 Accelerated Reader points. (The average grade level reading book is worth less than 10).

His award was a '100 point club' tee shirt that he has demanded to wear every day. Ew. He has yet to earn any recognition for hygiene.



Since he is always reading, and since he is reading above grade level, and loves it, M and I have pretty much decided he can read what he wants to, provided it is not grossly inappropriate. Harry Potter? Yup. This crazy Cat series, Warriors? I guess. Judy Blume? The 4th Grade Nothing series, but not Are You There, God?





When Barnes & Noble closed in town, they had a massive sale. I bought the kids a jillion books. I bought a thesaurus, even though there's now an Internet, just so they could learn to use it. Besides, E will read it cover to cover like entertainment, and how can THAT not help his vocabulary? I also bought The Children's Encyclopedia of the Human Body.



Last week, E asks me why they call "this" (pointing at his crotch) public hair. I explain that it is pubic, rather than public; and that in fact it is ANYTHING but public.



The next morning, I start to wonder what prompted that random question on a Wednesday. I see the body encyclopedia in his room, and think it must be the source. I scan the index for publ--, rather pub-- hair. Sure enough. There it is.



Above it is 'penis.' I think maybe I can give this a look-see. Page 84 has a doctor's office style cutaway of the male reproductive system. Fully labeled. Useful.



I turn the page. There's the same quality drawing for the female reproductive system. Woah. That's a little more than I anticipated. This is turning out to be a page turner. Next page--a woman's menstrual cycle explained. Um. OK. Flip.

Yup. That's where I thought this chapter was going. "Reproduction occurs when a male sperm fertilizes a female ovum. This occurs during intercourse..."

Yah. Yah. I know the rest.

Apparently, now, so does my eight year old. I've been waiting for more questions, but merciful god, there have not been any yet.

I told M this story, and showed him the book. Page 84: he nods and gives me the "what are you so worried about?" look. Page 86: "well, information was never a problem." Page 88: M's eyeballs get a little big. He finishes brushing his teeth.

Slides into bed, thinking about how he never sees anything resembling pg. 90.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Other People's Kids

You know what sucks? Taking care of friends' kids. Not because there are more kids to look after, but because you realize that your friends are doing a damned sight better than you at raising their kids. Yesterday, I picked up two extra kids from school. W is 2 grades older than Ethan, and one is Sam's bromance, T. Their sister, V, is a toddler and stayed with grandma. So, the usual whine and cry of snack is delayed because all kids are chatting happily. There is no bicker and bitch about the day at school. We drive home as I outline the plan for the afternoon: homework, play, dinner, tee ball for S. No complaints. Everyone piles into the house smelling of summer and boystink. S has a meltdown. Probably because he's hungry, but he should always be hungry, so that's really not an explanation. He sits on the stairs cursing my name, parenting techniques and questioning my intelligence. E does his homework as though he's a space cadet, and trying desperately to impress W, his senior and therefore guardian of all coolness. W finishes his homework and cracks a book silently. T watches and asks him questions periodically about Harry Potter. Does W snap and call his brother stupid? Does T physically pester, poke and annoy his brother? No. They have normal, adult verbal exchanges. I look on, mystified. When homework is done, everyone boogies upstairs to play Lego. Like Lego is what the world is missing to create world peace. They are up there, giggling and playing, and actually complimenting each other and admiring one another's workmanship. I can hear mine squabbling. S slips into his uniform without complaint and we all head off to dinner. The OTHER boys both agree on where to eat. Mine bicker. We go with majority rules, and grab burgers and fries. W is very responsible about taking care of some stitches (for a previous injury that I had nothing to do with, thank you!). He swallows medicine, gargles with nasty peroxide and complains NONE. The salty fries, however, irritate his injury, and I offer to stop and get some Advil. This is the response (Brace yourself, as these are words not normally appropriate for a child): "No, that's ok. I'll be fine. I don't want you to go out of your way or spend extra money on me." Just for that, we're stopping. At the tee ball park, the three non-participants play catch with one another nicely in the shadows. No bickering, no drama. They even come over and watch the final inning of S's game without mentioning how boring it is OR how S was the final out of the game. "Good job. Nice game, S." Did E offer S words of praise? Nope. Hell is still toasty. Everyone came home, and W and T went off to bed and shower without a single complaint, even though I know that I sent them to bed earlier and with night time baths which isn't how they do it at home. E and S accused each other of flooding the bathroom, using all the soap and going into one another's rooms without permission. To top it all off, I go up for lights out and W is all snuggled in reading his Bible. "Can I just finish this paragraph?" Of course. I don't need another reason to be struck by lightning in the middle of the night.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

12 Things I've learned after 12 years of marriage

1. Never underestimate the ability of one partner or another to say something insanely stupid. 2. Always assume that if a partner has lied to get out of an obligation, the other partner will blow it within the week, as in "Oh. RIGHT. Friday. We WERE stuck at some work obligation, not sitting home talking about how glad we were not to be out with you guys." 3. If your husband leaves socks by the bed when you are single, he will still leave socks by the bed 12 years later. Cats are easier to train. 4. Asking your husband how his day was and then interrupting him to talk about your day doesn't score any more points with him than not asking about his day at all. 5. At some point in your marriage, you will watch your husband eat a salad and think to yourself, I would rather die than grow old with this person. 6. Children, to be best loved, should be an indistinguishable blend of both parents. One that resembles a partner too much may suffer unfairly for it on occasion. 7. Someone always has to be the bad guy. 8. A sense of humor will not get you through everything. The last laugh is not usually worth it. 9. Couples have been fighting about housework since the first man dropped his spear in a cave. They will be fighting long into the future. Accept your place in this history, know you will fight about it, and be prepared to do it anyway. 10. Couples have been fighting about money since the first woman spent her shells on a new teepee. They will be fighting about it long into the future. Accept that you spent too much on something you didn't REALLY need, and try to do better next time. 11.When people tell their kids that the divorce isn't the kids' fault, they are lying. EVERYTHING is the kids' fault. 12. Don't let your husband know your blog's web address.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

They're BAAAAACK

Like the swallows to Capistrano, our swallows have returned to our chimney. Actually, I found out they're swifts, not swallows. A subtle difference probably only noticed by swallows, swifts, and REALLY observant bird watchers. This is a chimney swift:

And this is a swallow:

(Don't those swallows look a little pissed about being mistaken for swifts?!)
So, I was supposed to call the chimney sweep last year after the swallows left their nest and headed on their migratory route to Peru. But, you know what often slips your mind in the day to day chaos of life?
Calling the chimney sweep.
To be fair, if I were, say Mary Poppins, or a Dickensian waif, or maybe even some kind of post-industrial revolution activist, calling the chimney sweep would have been MUCH higher on the list. But when the birds aren't ACTUALLY in the chimney chirping their heads off, it's easy to forget that they'll return. Last week, the mother bird, who apparently is a very clumsy nest builder, (appropriately, she found OUR house) fell down the chimney three times. Yes. Three times. Three times, my kids and/or husband came to me and said, "there's a bird in the house. Go get it."

By the time I get to the bird, it has 1) fallen down a chimney 2) landed in a foreign place where windows masquerade as exits 3) been stared at by small, noisy people and 4) been sniffed by a dog, which probably in bird instinct seems a lot being inspected for dinner. (Fortunately, Cat has not been in the house for these incidents.) The little bird is shaking and when I pick it up, its little heart is on the brink of exploding. I take it outside (check for Cat) and wait for the little critter to emotionally regroup and fly off.
When drunk mama bird finally gets her nest built, she'll lay eggs and then we'll have squawking babies in the chimney. They are so loud, it's like having a chorus of pissed off squeak toys in your chimney. At dusk and dawn when mama feeds them, they flutter and compete for her food. It strongly resembles the chaos on our side of the chimney with yelling and competition for attention.

Which prompts me to hope WE don't disturb the birdies: can't you just see mama bird rolling her eyes? "JESUS, people. I just got these noisy whelps down for a nap and you're down there in the middle of the day raising all kinds of hell. Help a mama out and shut it!" So, when mama fell down the chimney for the final time, I called the chimney sweep. Who is coming today. I'll probably be disappointed when it's a two-toother from the country instead of Dick Van Dyke, but whatevs. BUT here's the real problem. While "researching" for this blog, I came across this:

Chimney Swifts are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1916. Nests, eggs and birds cannot be removed from chimneys. However, if you see them around your chimney, be sure to close the damper to prevent them from entering your house.Chimney Swifts are fascinating and extremely beneficial birds, even though their sounds are not music to everyone's ears. Two parents and their noisy young will consume more than 12,000 flying insect pests every day. Unfortunately their numbers are in decline due to loss of habitat-first large hollow trees, and now open and large masonry chimneys.

I suspect that the Alabamian two toother is probably pretty soft on the enforcement of the 1916 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, but this leaves me with a bit of a moral dilemma, no?
The moral dilemma has an element of karma thrown in there, too: if I evict drunk mama and her family, will I be attacked by 12,000 more mosquitoes every time I go out to the pool? But, crap. The guy is probably on his way! What to do?! What to do?!? Do I sit and listen to screaming birds for the entire rest of the summer? Do I oust a threatened and beneficial migratory bird species? ACK! I can't take the pressure. I think I should just close the flue and hope for the best. I'm setting up a poll. Vote on the birds' fate. This will have the ancillary benefit of seeing just HOW many readers I've lost since my hiatus.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Lack of Cinnamon due to Ensuing Apocalypse: Film at 11

Among the things--Angry Birds, Smartphones, porn--that have killed productivity, I think Facebook is the worst for me. For one thing, I feel that people are pretty thoroughly updated on my life if they stop by my wall. There are photos, anecdotes, my usual whines; probably more than they wanted to know about me anyway. This has yielded my blog redundant for some people, I think. Also, after crafting witty and pithy status updates, my creativity is pretty sapped for the day. There's not much amusing fuel left in the old tank. And, Freud would be happy to know that a whole lot of my creativity is sublimated into exercise. Yes, that whopping 33 minutes per day of running sucks the impulse to share my witticisms with the 18 people who follow my blog right outta me. So. There it is. The pathetic list of excuses why there has been no Cinnamon for 5 weeks. Also, there was vacation, illness, the saga of Michael's dentistry, parent visits, kid birthdays, TBall, and assorted other crap to fill every moment of my life. One friend responded brilliantly when I told him that kids suck the life force out of us--"the life force is long gone, their just sucking out the marrow of the bones now." True dat. Incidentally, a little earthquake hit Japan while I was on hiatus. While all kinds of people have made insensitive and cruel remarks about this tragedy, I have been completely rapt with the photos, images and personal stories from the events. I am impressed with the Japanese spirit of resiliance and discipline and patience. I admire their preparedness for tragedy, and their dignity in the face of the Worst Case Scenario. No riots, no looting. No distressing images of the worst of human nature. I have found more images of people clutching beloved pets, holding one another, supporting each other in grief than from any other event I can recall. Which is partly why I find American response to the tragedy doubly offensive. Aside from the people making mass runs for anti-radiation drugs, and horrendously inappropriate comments about nuclear disaster, and scoffing at the need for foreign aid because Japan is such a wealthy country, I find the "This Tragedy Across The Pacific Is All About Me" attitude both typical and disappointing. So, I was not surprised by the CNN headline announcing that survival shelter sales have increased by as much as 1000% in the U.S.. First, I am surprised there are survival shelter sales in the U.S. Second, if Survival Shelter sales were as much as 1 in the last decade, then the sale of one this year probably skews statistics. Third, is the Japanese disaster really mentioned in the Mayan End of Days? Fourth, if the Mayan End of Days is really this accurate, then screw the diet, I'm going out drunk, fat and happy. Just to make sure I cite my sources, the CNN article can be found at CNNMoney.com: http://money.cnn.com/2011/03/22/real_estate/doomsday_bunkers/index.htm First, people are putting up to a $5000 down payment for their own personal survival bunker for the Mayan End of Days. People: End of Days is End o' Days. The condor gods or quetzl-I'd Like to Buy a Vowel Gods aren't going to spare you just because you had the foresight to buy a shelter! Your non-believing, non Mayan, small-pox bringing ancestors sealed your doom a long time ago. Second, if you don't feel like you can pony up the cold, hard cash for your own personal survival bunker, then you can reserve a spot in regional superbunkers. These facilities house just shy of 1000 people and you all live under ground together until the End of Days alarm turns off. These are my FAVORITE people in the story. Have they not seen the brilliant Brendan Fraser work, Blast From the Past? Brendan and his parents seek refuge in their shelter after a bomb scare, spend decades under there, and eventually inadvertently re-release him into the wilds of present day Los Angeles. Hilarity ensues. People are signing up to move underground with as many as 899 strangers?!? It's like the cruise from/to Hell. Trapped until the end of the End of Days with fellow nutjobs all crazy enough to pony up money to live in a shelter? How would peace be enforced? How would some one not lose sanity and start offing his fellow bunkermates? How BADLY do they want to survive the End of Days? I'm just saying, that if I'm going out in a blaze of Quetzl Apocolypse, I want to go out with my friends, those people who decided that they would rather weather the worse with me, than survive in a hole with strangers. Even IF it is a luxurious hole: "The company’s reservations, which require a $5,000 fee, spiked 1,000 percent in the week following the Japan earthquake and nuclear disaster. Vivos’ doomsday bunker under construction in Nebraska is bigger than a Walmart at 137,000 square feet. Built to withstand a 50 megaton nuclear blast, it will accommodate 950 people in apocalyptic luxury for up to a year. It will offer suites on four levels, plus a medical and dental center, kitchens, a fully-stocked wine cellar, pool tables, computer room, pet kennels and a jail. A hardened lookout tower 350 feet high will provide a panoramic view of the ravaged landscape, and tight security will prevent radioactive mutant zombies from getting inside." Phew. I just HATE when the radioactive mutant zombies get in. Finally, I leave you with this one little thought about All of this Apocalpyse. I mean sure, the islands of Japan actually moved 12 FEET after this quake, and the Earth's rotation changed because of the force of the energy released, and sure, there's all this war in the Mid-East, and starvation in Africa and Asia, and moral decay in the U.S., but I'm not ready to prepare for the end just yet. There's still a margin of error. Even if some of us are reluctant to admit it: "The company’s website features a countdown with the days, hours, minutes and seconds to Dec. 21, 2012. But that date may be a false alarm." MAY BE. Just maybe.