A riddle: What's grosser than nuts and gum? Nuts and gum.

In the course of raising boys, gross things occasionally happen.  I have scraped dog poo from shoes, wiped vomit off pretty much everything, wiped bums, and found revolting skeletal "treasures" of frogs and such in the closets.

These are rites of passage, and undoubtedly have disgusted moms and dads everywhere.

Recently, grossness has manifested itself in a consistent form:  discarded gum.  Chewed gum has turned up in my bed, smooshed into clothing, stuck onto the couch, wadded in hair, stuck to the dog--everywhere.

Well, almost everywhere.

Last night, I found gum where no human should ever find ANYTHING unexpected.

S comes to me last night with, "There's something wrong with my penis."

Indeed, young man, there is:  it is fully caked with gooey, thick gum.  There is gum in every fold of his little nut sac.  There is gum adhering his penis to his leg.  There is gum adhering his nuts to his pants.  There is gum adhering his penis to his nuts.  There is gum all up in his junk.

Gum.  Chewed gum.  ALL OVER HIS JUNK.

Casually: "how did this happen?"
S:  "I had gum in my mouth.  Then it dropped in the hot bath.  But I didn't get it out.  I must have sat on it."
Nonchalantly:  "But of course."

How does one remove gum?  Ice cubes are an oft-described option.  Unsurprisingly, that was an unpopular suggestion.  So, I went the route of baby oil and a rough wash cloth.  Maybe making gum removal painful might be a deterrent to future gum/nut activity

S lays down in the bathroom, nude.  Gummed junk all splayed out.  Laughing softly, yet maniacally.  "Heh hehehehehheheheheheheheh."
I go to work.  Nobody wants to see her child's junk up close, covered in goo and the occasional pajama fuzz that's stuck to it all.

"I bet this doesn't happen every day," offers S.

Indeed.

"You are the royal nut scrubber," ordains S.

Indeed.

Peel.  Scrub.  Pull.  Scrub.  Oil.  Repeat.

S decides this moment--this surreal, bizarre moment, this singularity in space and time is the appropriate opportunity to pass gas.

Three inches from my face, tops.

That's it.  I leave whatever residue is on those bad boys as a sticky testament and (hopefully) nut pinchy reminder of this incident.

Now I need a bath.  For my eyeballs. And my memory.

Knowledge is a double-edged sword (in the back)

WHAT?!?  Cinnamon?  She still writes that?  It still exists?

Yeah.  Well.  Sometimes things just get boring.  Or busy.  Or busy-boring.  Sometimes I wonder how a college degree turned into vacuuming Cheez-Its out of my car.  Or debating the pros and cons of various Skylander characters.  Or shampooing the itchy dog.  But it does, sometimes, and those are the days I just get through.  There've been a lot of those lately.  Happily, also, there have been a bunch of non-boring busy days.  Days of (fine, I'll admit it) extended lunches with my amazing and very funny friends.  The occasional social daydrinking.  Those days really diminish my productivity.

Last week, though, I had a dubious proud parenting moment that requires sharing.

In P.E., S's class got little paper race cars on a peg track.  Each child was supposed to answer True/False to questions/statements about healthful living.  If he/she got a question correct, he could move the little car along the pegs.  First one to win, won.  (Did they get a prize?  I dunno.  We didn't get that far.)

The questions were pretty obvious, even for second graders:  I eat fruits and veggies every day.  I ride my bike and play outside.  I get lots of sleep.

(By the way, my kids DO NOT do any of that on a regular basis.)

Then, an oddly phrased statement:  "I take marijuana."  Take?  Like on a regular basis?  Like vitamins?

"Not healthy." proclaims S.  "Unless you have cancer.  Then you're already sick, and maybe marijuana will make you feel better.  But, it's still smoking and smoking's gross."

Yes, says the teacher.  It's an illegal drug.

"Not everywhere!" Interrupts S.  Some states allow you to have it like alcohol or cigarettes.

(I love my well informed son.)

Teacher is unhappy with qualifiers on the absolute catastrophe that is pot use.  On to the next statement.

That was really cool, says I to my son.  I'm glad you were listening during the elections about marijuana laws.  I'm glad you asked me what it was.  I'm glad I gave you an honest answer.  What did your friends say about marijuana?

Oh, I was the only one who knew what it was.  I told the teacher my mom knew all about it.

Awesome.  I showered this morning in case the social worker shows up early.

Another Muppet Monday

First things first. My name is Julie and I'm a cookie-holic.  I have to confess that last night my addiction hurt some people.  Not only did I overindulge in high calorie cookies, but I stole from my children's lunches this week.  Because of my binge, they will have to have graham crackers for dessert.  Every day starts anew.  1 Day Cookiesober.

Ok, now on to something funny.  Sometimes when I get to spend some time with a friend for a nice, long visit, I identify another little detail about her that makes me happy.  Which is kind of a great thing to say about my friends, in that seeing them, or reading about their Facebook lives, or finding pictures of them, they always make me happy.  Something about them just strikes my funny bone.
Most recently, I hung out with my friend, SB.  She has this fantastic, cartoonish double take she does.  I don't know if she knows she does it, or if it's just a habit.  Sometimes she does it ironically when you say something obvious.  I love it.  It's completely comical.
It's...Muppety.
Last week our family movie was The Muppets Take Manhattan.  Which is a great movie, and one of the earliest I remember seeing in a theater.
It is still fantastic.  I love Muppets.  I love the completely dysfunctional relationship between Kermit and Piggie.  I love Rolf's moderate depression and Fozzie's mania, and Animal's anger issues.  I love that there's a Gonzo, which is an alien?  A monster? A Gonzo?  I love drug addled Dr. Teeth and his band.  I love curmodgenly Statler and Waldorf.
Awesomeness.  All of it.  And thanks to the most recent The Muppets, there is Muppetiness in the world once again.  I love listening to E still squeal (yes at ten years old) because he is so tickled, but so uncomfortable with the chaos created by the Muppets.
The world needs more Muppets--more crazy, zany red ones.  More emotional and sensitive blue ones.  More mellow ones.  More ones that love animals.  More frogs and dogs and chickens and things.  More ones that make us laugh and want to go find a Grover to hug.
I am feeling kind of warm and fuzzy this morning towards the Muppets I have in my life.  S is certainly a Muppet.  He is all wild hair and button nosey and freckle faced.  A human Muppet.  He does jointless Kermit arm routines all the time--the exasperated MAHAHAHAHHAHA that Kermit makes when both insanely happy and insanely frustrated.
I have a mean Piggie streak.  Of hitting people over the head with the obvious, and having a tendency to wear satin lavender gloves.
In any event, I thought I would share some Muppet Takes Manhattan memories with y'all on this not-particularly Muppety Monday:
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Nature and Nurture

Sometimes, intuition preempts news.  Your common sense, your prior experience, your instinct tells you that something is true even before some study or organization or poll confirms it.  Sometimes, you just know.

This morning, when M told me about a Johns Hopkins study that confirms a definitive correlation between mothers' mental health and children's short stature, I said within a heartbeat, "of course."

Here's the study

Of course, because S is short.  Of course, because I've always been depressed.  Of course, because, when in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to blame some one for something, that person will be Mom.  Thanks, Freud.

Of course.  Is there anything that isn't Mom's fault?

I have a laundry list of things that are my mom's fault, starting with a compulsive need to make laundry lists,  all the way to my gnarled, double jointed Gollum fingers.  Everything is my mother's fault: my unhealthy eating habits, my weight gain patterns, my weird skin, my horrible joints, my tendency to pile crap up in corners, my obsession with tidy manicures, my temper.  All of these things, my mother is responsible for.  Either genetically or environmentally, my mom completely messed me up.

On the flip side, she would probably argue that every good quality I can think of I attribute to my father, whether he deserves it or not:  my sense of humor, my keen insight into human behaviour, my uncanny ability to spontaneously sleep.

In fact, there is a longstanding family joke that my sister is a clone of my dad.  She is so adamant of her own perfection, that clearly she inherited nothing from her mother.  Phew--mom dodged a bullet there.  If there were anything wrong with my sister (in her own eyes), it would most certainly be my mother's fault.

Here at our house, of course, the pattern repeats.  My kids' temper, their messiness, their premature acne, are by the kids' accounts, all my fault.  They are a product of my personality glitches.  We can now add S's shortness to the list.

Recently, in a conversation when I suggested that perhaps some of these shortcomings might be contributed by their father, E replied immediately and (to his credit) completely straight faced:  "No.  Dad is the Immortal God of Perfection."

Holy crap.  That's some serious stuff.  I mean let's examine that:  "Immortal--"  bad news, daddy-O.  You're not going to be able to age or croak.  Good luck living up to that expectation.  "God--" notice he is 'the' Immortal God.  Not an Immortal God.  Even more pressure.  Sheesh.  God, since we live in the same house, we should talk about some of the stuff you need to get done.  Can you work on global hunger, war, and, also, my Gollum fingers while he's at it. Also, I may need to rethink my atheism.  "Perfection--"  Well, that's not much room for error, is there?

So, wow.  Kudos to me for marrying a deity.

I hope the kids don't figure out down the road that traits like baldness are hereditary or imperfections.  That could set up an irreconcilable paradox.

In the end, though, I'm not sure I could handle the weight of the Immortal God of Perfection (IGOP) expectation.  I would not be good at immortality or perfection or deity-ness.   I'd be set up for inevitable failure.  I can't live with inevitable failure.  At this point, I may be the cause of a million shortcomings in my children, but occasionally, they recognize a positive contribution I've made to their lives.  I'd rather get the occasional surprise with a good quality, than disappoint them when they see my flaws.

Even S, despite his mom-caused shortness,  jumped to my defense after E declared Dad the IGOP:  "Mom is the God of Awesomeness.  She packs our lunches."

The road to holiness starts with small miracles.

Reality Shows

Today, Blogspot's photo insert tool thingy isn't working right.  I can't figure it out, and I'm SURE it's user error.  But, instead of inserting photos, I inserted links to the images I sort of wanted.  It's not as good, but it should work for today.  Or until I get smart enough to figure out how to insert pictures again.  Or until it's fixed.

Last year, we got a hummingbird feeder.  It's actually kind of a cool one, as it attaches with suction cups to the picture window in our kitchen.  It is stable and stationary (it doesn't sway when a bird lands on it or when there is a breeze) and so the birds actually come and sit and stay for a couple of moments at a time.

Hummingbird feeder

I put it out late last season, and only courted the last of the migrating stragglers with it.  This season, I put it out a little too early, and had to bring it in because we were out of town so much over the summer.  The sugar rots, ferments, or sometimes gets bugs in it, and I didn't want to be responsible for a rash of drunken hummingbird accidents.  A little hummingbird cop would be  perched right outside our bar, and would give out FUIs like crazy.  That'd be awful.  Little hummingbird court appearances.  Sorry, your honor, I had no idea.  The sugar was totally spiked.

I've put the feeder back out now, and there are two little birdies who frequent our watering hole.  One is a beautiful ruby-throated dude with an iridescent green back.  I didn't take this photo, sadly, but this is what he looks like:

ruby throated hummingbird

The other one has a black head and is much smaller, and though not as beautiful, s/he is much calmer and sits long enough for me to get a good view of him/her.  S/he may be a female ruby throated, or another variety, or a juvenile. I don't know.  But s/he looks like this:

Black headed hummingbird



So, I've been kind of suckered in to this quasi natural show.  It's natural, of course, as I don't have bionic hummingbirds.  But, it's artificial that they should come and drink my refined sugar water out of a plastic container adhered to my window so that I may observe them.  The whole Schrodinger's hummingbird thing, I guess.

As I am pondering the artifice of this natural mini-spectacle, I have Clooney in my lap.  He is like the epitome of quasi-natural.  His fuzzy, adorable, Ewok looking self is like a horrible genetic experiment.  As though some one took the face of a sloth:

Sloth face

And attached it to the body of a shih-tzu

shih tzu body


This is not a domesticated wolf.  This is about as far as a creature can get from a domesticated wolf and still claim wolf legacy.  This is a Jules Verne sci-fi novel.

Ridiculous fake nature.

Meanwhile, the cat is lying on the kitchen table.  He is the closest fake nature we have to real nature.  He can (without his bell) hunt.  (Which again evokes the ridiculous bison food that Clooney eats.  Can you imagine Clooney bringing down a bison in the wilderness?  HAH!) So, cat can sort of provide for himself.  It's not the fancy salmon food I buy him, but lizards and squirrels have protein.

Cat cleans himself.  Without the embarrassment of those ridiculous hair clips the groomer sends on the dog.  

Cat empties his bowel and bladder without commands.  Is there anything less "survival of the fittest" than me, standing out in the rain, holding an umbrella over Clooney begging him to "potty" in the middle of Isaac?  Supremely ridiculous.

And of course, I am a human most finely attuned to an unnatural life.  I don't like to think about what my chicken dinner was doing last week.  I don't have the time or interest to grow and harvest my own veggies, unless, of course they are garnishes for cocktails--I do grow lemons and mint!  I don't wash my laundry in a river or roam the countryside like a nomad living off the earth.

Our house is definitely one that is remote from nature.  Our yard is manicured, not native.  Our location is slightly more urban than not (although it is still Alabama, so take that for what it's worth).  We don't commune with nature on a regular basis.  And I hate freaking mosquitoes.

Drinking cocktails on the porch is about as much nature as I want on a regular basis.

So it cracks me up when dog, cat and I are watching the hummingbirds.  Dog sleeps in my lap, oblivious to the birds.  Cat lounges on the table, aware of and annoyed by the glass that separates him from this challenging prey; but content enough to watch this reality TV.  I sit and watch all of it from the comfort of my kitchen table:

Nature, but in moderate doses.

My Childhood Insomniac

Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?  Like Patti Hearst?  When kidnapped victims identify with their abductors and then join them?  Maybe it's crap.  Maybe it's a primitive, subconscious survival mechanism--if you can't beat 'em join 'em.  Maybe it's a byproduct of acute trauma.  I don't know.  I'm certainly not taking the time to Google it now.

I was thinking about this Stockholm Syndrome last night, and I was thinking about its mirror--if you're being taken advantage of or manipulated, and you appear to play along and join them, does that have the same effect?  Are the abductors mollified by your surrender?  Does everything play along smoothly until ATF comes banging down your door, and you throw up your hands and say, "I was faking it!!!"  How does that play out?

We put the kids to bed last night at 7:40.  Ten minutes past bedtime, in fact, so that they could (my good, red-blooded American boys) eschew the Michigan-Bama game and the Clemson-Auburn game and watch the last ten minutes of the underrated Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.  (Yes, M was physically twitching to get back to the football.)

We put the boys to bed, but heard S upstairs in his room, periodically digging through bins of Legos.  Those Legos make a distinctive sound when being sorted through.  Sort of like a rain stick.  Eight, eight thirty, eight forty five, nine...

S comes down and begs to be put  back to bed.  M, in surrender flicks off the TV, planning to watch the rest in bed.  Tuck S in for the 10,000th time.  I come up after a half hour on Facebook, and also tuck in S.  The Michigan game got out of hand in a hurry.  We flicked off that TV, too, and considered maybe.....

Knocking on the bedroom door.

At least he knocks, the other one just walks right in.

Yes?

Sobbing like you have never heard before in your life.  There is a near fetal S on the floor, trembling in fear, or at least a damn good recreation of it.

I again return him to bed, and lay down with him to sort out the issues.  He's afraid of ghosts.  (Also, he has a bridge to sell you).  He can barely even say it with a straight face.  His story is ludicrous, and he and I both know it.

"It's just that I need to be close to people.  It makes me feel.....safer...."  he sniffs.

Mmmhmmm.

I bring him into my bedroom, TV back on.  M and I put him in between us and smile knowingly over his head.  This kid is playing us.

M leans over and says, "it's good he's still able to smile despite his fear."

S comes back with the best line ever uttered by a child trying to manipulate his parents:

"It's not a smile of mischief.  It's a smile of LOVE."

He's a pro, alright.

After about 20 minutes, we try to pick him up to return him to his room (it's now near ten thirty).  A tiny voice, barely concealing a smile, comes up from under his too-rigid armpit "just two more minutes?  Please, I'll feel safe in two more minutes."  Eventually, ALL the games are over, Oregon is on and THAT game is completely out of hand, and M and I are still staring at this non-sleeping kid between us.  M rousts S and heads him off to bed.

We turn off the TV and attempt to.....

Crying.  Again?!?!  "What is it?"  And S, ever-committed to his family, EVER loving, EVER good:  "I don't want to disturb you.  Or annoy you.  I just HATE the night.  I hate sleeping.  I just can't do it."

I crawl into bed with S--his "smile of love" looking an awful lot like a "smile of triumph."  I fall asleep there for an hour or so, and return to my own darkened room.  It's cold in there.  M is long asleep.  Dog is asleep.  I'm awake now.  I was had.  Completely taken.  But I knew I was doing it.  I was complicit in my own duping.  Does that make me less a fool?  Should I have laid down the law?

Am I guilty in my own suckering?

In case of emergency, don't break glass, fill it with vodka

At some moments it occurs to me more than others that I am probably not the first person any one should choose to have along during an emergency.

I don't tend to freak out, so don't worry about that.  I'm not wailing, or hyperventilating or crying or panicking in any overtly troubling way.  In fact, now, when I hear that bloodcurdling scream that can only come from a child with copious amounts of blood, I coolly grab the keys to the car, and throw on some shoes.
I don't shut down.
I won't become catatonic on you, either.  I'm not going to become dead weight.  I won't need to be carried out babbling or anything.  I will be the one who ties you a tourniquet that I fashioned from two sticks and a bra strap.  Your emergency is under control.

The problem really starts to surface when the emergency involves me.  Will I be able to put on my life vest and blow calmly into the red tube to inflate?  Yes, of course.  Will I be able to assist the flight attendant with the Exit?  Certainly.  Will I adjust my mask before helping others?  Just like I'm told.
Will I be focused on the task at hand?

Hell no.  I will be thinking how awful I'll look when they find me in the sea, mascara all runny.  I'll be thinking that I wish I'd packed pretty underwear instead of everyday so that when the rescuers sort through my belongings, they'll think I was elegant rather than practical.  Hoping that Spanx will be able to resist G forces, leaving my artificially trim waistline while clinging to my seat cushion.

Today, in by far the worst of the Isaac weather, my kids went back to school amid tornado watches and warnings.  Mind you, we DID get that day in the pool on Monday.  But, today they're back.

I'm not worried about them in their cinder block buildings with competent, safety oriented faculty and staff.

I'm worried about my sorry butt.  I will run to the under-stairs closet.  But mind you, I'll really be thinking about how crappy my house is going to look on TV after my closet explodes into the backyard.

How I Moved to Acceptance, AL

Being, as I am, a consumer of pop science in all forms (I like it good and dumbed down), it should be unsurprising to you that I turn to that medium to reconcile, explain and guide my life when things get a little dicey.

School was canceled Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of this week because Hurricane Isaac may or may not be assaulting our shores.  Look, after the disaster of Katrina, I understand the impulse to be "better safe than sorry."  But, I can't help but feel that just as politics (who, Brownie!?) played a role in the handling of that last mega-disaster that nearly wiped a city off our maps, politics rear their ugly heads again.  Rumors are swirling that Alabama Governor Bentley called a state of emergency (for a tropical storm--Isaac is, at press time, still not a hurricane--that is going to strike 2 whole states away) so as to garner himself some attention while skipping the RNC.  Regardless of whether is he was being proactive or paranoid, my inner cynic doesn't think he was really considering my personal safety when he made his announcements. Clearly, school needed to be canceled this far in advance. I mean,  LOOK AT THIS WEATHER (menacing, no?):

Which brings me back to pop science.  We have lived in Mobile nearly 6 years.  And, according to Elsabeth Kubler-Ross' 1969 model of grieving, I have passed through 4 stages of mourning this relocation:

1.  Denial:  I CANNOT live in Alabama.  Alabama is for mouth breathers and rednecks.  Alabama is the "Heart of Dixie," home to racial injustice, Governor Wallace, meth labs, the Civil Rights Movement, cotton, hicks, and good ol' boys.  This is no place for a girl who grew up in Orange County, California (the birthplace of the John Birch Society, John Wayne, the Crystal Cathedral, Disneyland, and assorted other meaningful contributions to society).  This is not where I am going to live.  I am not 'from' here.  I'm like Hemingway and Stein and Fitzgerald--a disillusioned ex-pat momentarily caught in another country, another world.  This is NOT going to be permanent.

2.  Anger:  Towards husband: "HOW COULD YOU BRING US HERE?!?!"  Towards bumper stickers:  "You miss REAGAN?  Funny, he missed himself too, in that second term."  "NOBAMA?  You're so right!  Clearly, you've been living the high life, and you've got a 1980s beater truck, diabetes, and no teeth to show for it."  Towards the SEC, towards the Jesuits (they do run M's college), towards every one who could possibly wear it.  Even if you didn't think you were wearing my rage, you probably did at one point.

3.  Bargaining:  I will work 2 jobs We can run away to another country in the middle of the night, we can forfeit our citizenship and run off to a South American country that is more developed than Alabama. We can ask M to change careers.  He could go to law school, or medical school, or HELL, trade school.  We could get on a raft and go to Cuba.  We could sell our children.  We could flee to Canada.  We could become Mormon Missionaries and go to West Africa.  ANYTHING is better than Alabama.

4.  Depression:  Um, yeah.  Well, I would elaborate on this except it's too obvious.

So, after struggling through these four steps of grief, and hovering over, but unable to move on to the final step (Acceptance), my mourning encounters another obstacle:  the hurricane (or its less menacing sibling, the tropical storm) and all ensuing ridiculousness.

Just when I think I will be able to transition through the final steps of mourning, Alabama does something so annoying that I have this setback.  Back to Step 2.

How infuriating is it that school was canceled yesterday, at least 36 hours ahead of a storm that as it turns out, is not going to directly hit us?  How infuriating is it that the Mobile School Destruct (spelling mine) now can't decide how these missed days are to be made up?  (Some suggestions include Saturdays, adding 15 minutes of class per day, every day, for the next 22 weeks, and the least popular solution, adding 3 days on to the end of the school year).  Because, we all know that at 49th in the Union, Alabama really needs to sabotage its education system further.  All of this because The Powers that Be in my state--the ones that advocate small government and states' rights, and local control over local regions--had a meeting of the state legislature and told my School Destruct when school had to start and stop.  All of this because, we couldn't possibly schedule 181 days of school so that we would have a cushion of one day in case of--you know, HURRICANE.  All of this because a state of emergency allows the state access to federal funds from the very federal government that everyone here abhors.  Funds that our citizens don't feel they should have to pay into with their taxes.  Funds that come from that socialist president of ours and his fascist socialist organizations like FEMA.    

All of this to make me absolutely insanely angry about living here again.

Step 5, Acceptance, is elusive, and by all psychological accounts, not obtained by everyone grappling with loss.  Six years.  And here I am. 

Recovery is nothing if not a series of small steps.  I will reconcile myself to the hysteria caused by this tropical storm.  I will appreciate that yesterday, my kids didn't have to go to school on what was, quite possibly, the most beautiful day of summer. I will consider myself lucky that they are safe and snug in my house when (if) it ever starts to rain today.  Until then, I will continue to sit by the pool, sipping my coffee, and watching the kids play in the sparkling water.  I will remind myself that even though The Fine State of Alabama, its State Representatives, and the Mobile County School Destruct don't seem to value education, I still do; my kids, at least, will not be dumber for these lost days.  I will relish this beautiful breeze as long as it lasts, or until it becomes a ferocious howl.  I will move into Acceptance, dammit.  

We're gonna need a bigger boat

It's like Shark Week.  You know it's coming every August.  It's going to be graphic and stunning, and you know you're going to see some of the same stuff you've seen before.  It's out there, swimming in the water, and you're compelled to watch because you can't turn away, but there's going to be damage, and crying, and shock, and you're still going to watch it.  Every day of that week.  Every August.

(Insert Jaws theme here)

Scary, right?

Yeah, it's back to school time.  You're swimming in the water and all of a sudden, something "pulls" at your leg.  By the time you get to shore, you realize your leg's already gone.

School starting is just like that.  By the time you realize it's official, and it's real, and you're ill-prepared, it's already begun.

All this stuff I thought I'd have time for all summer long is now undone.  All my great master plans of entertainment and activity are futile.  Besides travelling all over the place, and visiting with my family, and seeing crazy wild animals, I had this delusion that my kids would have these magical crafts and projects and activities.  That I'd turn into SuperMom and the kids would be so impressed by my creativity and initiative, that they'd leap into fantastic uber-selves, capable of art and craft and exercise and imaginative play.

They're watching, I think, Suite Life with Zach and Cody.  Possibly the least creative, least imaginative, most derivative thing on television.  I am not wowing them with my SuperMom abilities.

My leg is being chewed by a giant Great White, but that's only his appetizer.

I washed their uniforms, so at least they won't be nude on the first day.  They have shoes, and haircuts, and their summer work packets.  They won't be the neglected ones on the first day.

I, on the other hand, need to get teacher supplies and help out the PTA and sign up for  Welcome Back! and Welcome, Kindergarteners! parties.  I need to get a bunch of library books to have in the car for the hours sitting and waiting at swim practice.  I need to restock the snacks for lunches....hell, I need lunchboxes.

It's all so awful.  The kids are acting out--they're dreading the routine, the monotony, the homework just as I am.  For the last week of summer, I'm hearing things I haven't heard in weeks--I'm bored, there's nothing to do.  I don't wanna do that.  They've got an extended version of the Sunday Night Blues.  They're resisting the inevitable.  They refuse to go back into the water.

I feel for them.  We all would rather not have bathtime and bedtime and wake up time, and lunchtime dictated by bells and alarms.  We all would rather swim than study.  We all would rather not do the same drill every day.  Alas, this is life.  And there are upsides, of course--they'll see friends they literally haven't seen in weeks.  Our family becomes very isolated in the summer, and I'm sure they'll be happy to see their friends and socialize with peers.  I get to see my friends again, too.  We've all been buried in pretend, temporary summer lives, and we reemerge every fall in cooperative efforts to get these kids through school.

It's time to start setting the alarm.  To start enforcing bedtime.  To retrench the half hour of reading every day.  It's time for collared shirts (ugh) instead of swim trunks.  It's time to see what lurks out in the vast black sea.

It's gonna be scary.

The Mysterious Case of Dr. Chocolate and Mrs. Hyde

I think I may have a split personality.  I think the rift between the two identities is growing in such a way that they will be irreconcilable soon.  I need help, I think, to bridge the gap, bring the identities together so that I can survive as a single person.
Allow me to elaborate:
I, being of a singular, largely healthy brain, have recently begun to detect discrepancies in my memory, in my logic, in my actions.  During the day, I find myself very conscious of my decisions.  I eat moderately, I squeeze myself into non-elastic bound pants, I drink water over high calorie sodas.  I have eschewed alcohol for all intents and purposes during the bright, sunlit hours of summer.  I want very much to weigh less and be healthier.  I have taken up modified pilates and yoga to help strengthen my ailing back.  I have the desire, yea, the deep desire to be a strong, slim person.
However, as night falls, something truly terrible happens.  There is a darkness that creeps through my brain and corrupts it.  Completely.
In the evenings, in front of the television or even while reading my escapist fiction, something grumbles from within.  It is....my stomach.
My stomach compels me to do things my daytime self would never do.  My stomach compels me to eat hideously fattening foods.  Many of them.  Freed by the non-confining elastic of my pajamas, my evil nighttime identity consumes everything.  Yearns for chocolate chips or french fries or potato chips.   Must have junk food.  Eats voraciously, disregards all consequence for the poor soul who rises in the daylight surrounded by the crumbs of the previous eve's food orgy.
My evil nighttime self cares not for the agony of the day time creature when she rises and steps on the scale, the scale whose numbers climb in a seemingly endless increase of numbers towards what?  Whale? Rhino?
How will this stop?  How can I dig down to find the willpower to contain that nightmare creature, that shadow self of day?
What do I do?
In the evening, alone or with my hubby, a beer seems so refreshing.  A licorice straw so innocent.  A scoop of ice cream so guiltless.  He snacks without consequence.  He is in control.  I cave in to the dark side.
How does the discipline of the day go so readily by the wayside?  How do the cravings that were easily stamped out in the bright day overtake me in the dark? Why can't I keep my freaking mouth shut and stop putting food in it?
WWWWWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYY!??!?!?!

I need Mary Reilly.  Mary Reilly to stand in front of the pantry and hold me true to my daytime self.  A lock named Mary Reilly on the cupboards, the fridge, the liquor cabinet.  Those bastions of calories.  Those places where the dark forces grow and tempt me. I don't need a lovestruck assistant, rather the opposite.  I need a stern-faced meanie who will protect me from myself.  I need to stop eating so much.

I will continue this dangerous tango until some one can help me.  This fatal dance may well end with me as a hippo in a tutu if my daytime persona cannot regain some control over the situation.  Please, I beg of you, dear reader, help me, Mrs. Hyde, destroy.....ummmm doughnuts.

Talking to the walls

Single parents, or parents who are mostly single, rock.  It's not like this just dawned on me or anything, it's just that I don't have a lot of variety in my circle of immediate friends, and I don't see single parents doing "it all" every day.  So, I forget to think about just how hard they're working all the time.

With M gone for the week, I have been given just an amuse bouche of what life as a single parent must be.  And my bouche is not amused.

They're just relentless.  Not necessarily, bad, but relentless.  Kids NEVER stop.  Even when you desperately need them to, just for a minute, give it UP.  For one moment today, could you please please please do what is easiest for me without argument, sass, discussion or whining (and that's just from me)?
Could you just make my life easier by doing this one thing now?

It's not all the kids' fault, by any means.  My kids have been pretty good.  They can't help that they're age-appropriately programmed to watch TV and play and not want to do work.  They are doing what we want kids to do--except when we want them to unload the dishwasher, pick up the cereal pieces, take out the dog.

Sometimes, and I was thinking about this last night as S was snoring beside me in my bed.  (He's taken M's absence as some sort of Hamlet-ian opportunity to usurp the bed.)  There's just nobody to talk to.  Holy crap.  Yesterday, I visited with a friend for a couple of hours, and afterwards was kind of blissed out, and I thought, OH YEAH.  It's because I haven't talked to a grown up in FOUR DAYS.  What the hell?   How can anyone go that long without speaking Grownup?

 Discussing Phineas and Ferb as though it is the great literature of our time?  An informative lecture on Ninjago?  A thorough analysis of the most recent Lego creation?   A very detailed examination on how solar panels work?  Why boys think their junk is so fun?

All of this, ALL of this, I have done.  I haven't spoken about anything above, say the 5th grade level, in days.  Not that M and I are having deep discussions about art and science and literature when he's home.  But we ARE talking about grown up life.  About things that are curious and interesting and (relatively) important.  I can't even have a sophisticated argument without him around.  It all deteriorates into "neenerneener!  Are too!  AM not!" and "Because I SAID SO."

Nothing.  No engagement whatsoever.  It's me and these little twerps, sweet as they may be.

So, last night, S is snoring and the dog is snoring, and I'm hot.  I feel bitter, momentarily, about M dressed ever so hip, and cruising through one of the world's great cities, and I feel like picking a fight.

Nobody to fight with.

So, I lay there in the heat.  Mad.  Hot.  Throwing the covers off my body and stewing in my nightshirt about how I'm in Alabama and he's in London and the kids are just kids.

The air conditioner kicked on at some point.

"Yeah.  That's what I thought," I whisper yell at the ductwork.  "I knew it was hot in here.  Where the hell where YOU, A/C? Did you think that I wasn't going to NOTICE it was 76 degrees in here?  Where youjust going to see if you could take a few degrees off?  Really?  I didn't think so."

If you're gonna fight with some one, you better make sure you can win.

Things that go SMACK! in the night

Technically, it's not called babysitting when you're supervising your own kids.  It just feels that way. Only you're not getting paid, and you don't get to leave.  EVER.

For the first time in a long time, I'm home alone for a week with the kids.  M is livin' it up UK style.  He has an unbelievable week lined up for himself in London:  Olympic Track & Field events, soccer events, a beer festival,  Henry V at the Globe Theater, an organized archaelogical walk, and a docent-led private tour of the Tate and National Museums.

I've got swimming pools, heat, Disney Channel, and pb&j.  Not that I'm jealous.  I'm really not.  Truly.

The more money he spends on his adventure, the more I'll be able to spend on mine.  There is a karmic ledger, you know.

ANYWAY.  I haven't been home alone at night for a long time.  I'm spoiled that way.

Two nights ago, I had locked all the doors, shut all the lights, and was happily playing on my computer.  I had the dog asleep in my lap, the kids put to bed, and all was right with the world.

Until.

There was a tiny little sound behind me.  It sounded like a mash up of Vader, static, and some otherworldly sighing out of a horror movie.

It started as a tiny sound, and assumed the dog had snorfled in his sleep.  Maybe it was a whimper or a snore misheard by me.  Maybe it only sounded as if it was coming from behind me.  But no.  I'm pretty sure it was.

My fight or flight adrenaline began to flow.  I turned around quickly, and there was a dark figure crouching behind my chair, just inches from me.  It had a menacing face.  Teeth.

I screamed.  Really screamed.  Lashed out with my hands and ran.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, as I crossed the threshold to the dining room, I thought, "that was a really small murderer/rapist."

I turn around again, and there is S.  He's holding his mouth, because that's where I clocked him.  There's no blood, no swelling.  I'm shaking.  I start babbling.

So sorry.  I didn't know who it was. Shityouscaredme. Ohmygod.  I'm shaking.  So sorry.  I had no idea.  Are you okay?  I'm sorry.

He chuckles.  I mean like an evil villain chuckle.  I hear E, in an overly-alarmed voice (waaaay too late after hearing me scream) "What's going on?!?"

S looks up at me, as I'm peering at his jaw.  "I guess I had that coming."

Yes you did, son.  Yes you did.

Forecast: 52 & Damp

All my vacation stories are out of order, but you'll piece it together.  I'm going to take you back to Yellowstone now:

Yellowstone was amazing--bear and pronghorn (which are NOT deer) and elk and actual deer and wolves--we saw WOLVES and herds of bison.  We hired a private guide for our last day, and he works on the wolf restoration project in Yellowstone, so he had a radio to know exactly where the wolves were, which was fantastic, because one crossed directly in front of us:

which is funny, because you can see the people in the background looking for the wolf in the other direction. This is a crappy photo, but it was through a bug-splattered windshield and holy crap, wildlife is not cooperative. At all.

Except for this bison, who graciously consented to be part of my "Animals Doing Animal Stuff" collection of photos:

This blurry bear was wandering too close for too long along the side of a busy road.  The rangers call this loitering, and they discourage this behavior by using negative reinforcement:  they shoot loiterers in the bum with rubber bullets.  Which, since it's not my bum, is hilarious.  This bear was lumbering around, very slowly munching on stuff, and the ranger took aim, and bzing!  The bear took off running in the other direction.  I have decided rubber bullets may be the answer to my child discipline questions.

Of course, this picture of a ground squirrel type animal is perfect.  S made me take it.  It's cute, but I wish my other pictures were this clear.

 Sadly, these are the only moose we saw:  the men decided that the best way to attract moose for us to see was to put on finger antlers and make moose calls.  Which, if we were to ask a biologist, is probably the WORST way to attract moose for us to see.

The next picture is simultaneously my favorite and least favorite moment from our entire trip to Yellowstone.  One day, in the middle of the week, it was really quite warm, bordering on hot.  The rivers and streams and lakes look so inviting after a 5 mile walk.  I begged M to let us pull over and stomp in the stream some.  "Up to my ankles," I said.  "It's so refreshing," I said.  "I'm so hot," I said.  

So, indeed, we pulled over, we scrabbled down this little embankment and found ourselves all alone in this lovely bend of this beautiful stream.  I rolled up my pants, took off my shoes, and waded into the refreshing coolness.  The water is so very very clear, and the rocks in the creek bed were slick and smooth and beautiful.  Despite my tempting description of the refreshingness, M declined to come in.  E was slow getting off his shoes, but he was game for a little wade in the stream.  S was gung ho, because, of course, S is gung ho about everything.  Mostly.  He's wading around up to his knees when M encourages him to return to shore and take off his pants so they don't get wet.  (Which, as it turns out, was some fantastic advice.)

Lil' S returns to the water squealing with delight at the cool, briskly flowing water.  M was so enjoying S's display of mini-adorableness that he snapped THIS photo (that, by the way, I promised S I would NEVER publish or reproduce, so let's keep this between us) as S uttered the best last words ever spoken by a person enjoying a brisk stream:  "Ooooh!  It feels so good on your thighs!!"

Those, were, in fact his last words before flapping his arms wildly and falling completely into the river.

As you can see from this photo, the water is flowing quite strong up against the young man's Phineas and Ferb underwear.  It swiftly picked the kid up and started dragging him downstream.  The aforementioned shiny, slick and smooth rocks prevented him from getting a foothold.  And after a moment or two, he had drifted to where he could no longer stand anyway. M is scrambling along the embankments to try to get ahead of the drifting platypus-underwear-wearing kid.  E is panicking and dropping things.  I am splashing and stumbling through the water to get to him.

At some point, it became clear to me that if I was going to save my kid before he started floating down the Hayden Valley (where EVERY tourist in Yellowstone would be able to photograph our parenting failure) towards the beautiful falls we had photographed earlier in the day, I was going to have to jump in and swim.

Which is what I did.

He was actually far enough ahead of me that I had to swim for him.  I grabbed him by the collar in dramatic fashion, and dragged him to a log mired on the bank. 

It was quite a moment, one of those moments that as a parent seem to last forever in super slo-mo.  When it is impossible to calculate the number of thoughts going through your brain:

"How will I explain this to my parents?  The cops?  No one will believe that we tried to rescue him.  The people at dinner last night will recall the whisper fight we had about his $11 pasta that was untouched.  Will a   bear eat him?  How long 'til he gets hypothermia?  Does this water have flesh eating bacteria? M is never gonna forgive me.  Will this be on CNN?  Will I be the next Tan Mom neglecting my child?  Will anyone care that I was trying to enrich my child's life through travel and inadvertently let him drown? Will the headline read, 'Where's Perry?' Holy crap!  This water is freakin' cold!  Damn, that kid makes the WORST choices.  What is WRONG with him?"

As we all sat on the embankment catching our collective breath, E came along.  He brought with him our shoes and socks.  M still had S's dry pants.  He was able to redress in a dry sweatshirt from the car, his dry pants, and his dry socks and shoes.

I had dry socks.  Only dry socks.  Soaked sweatshirt, t-shirt, sports bra, pants, underwear.  The whole shebang. I wrung out my clothes as best as I could, and forced M to roll my shirt up in the window so it could air dry en route to Old Faithful.  (He protested, saying that was entirely too country to have clothes flapping outside the car.  For real?  I'm soaked in 52 degree water from neglecting my child in a stream in the middle of nowhere and the shirt outside the car is what's country?)

We went to the Old Faithful lodge for a snack before continuing on.  I literally left a trail of water drops on the floor as I walked around the lodge.  Just another reason to be happy we went home to a hot shower in a hotel room and NOT a campground.  

I clearly can't be trusted with my own kids in the wilderness.

City Mouse, Country Mouse, Rube

So, this was the summer of travel.  We dared to schlep our children across or into or through, get this:  NINE states.
Not including the state of insanity.

We trekked to Yellowstone National Park, the birthplace of outdoorsy.  A place, where we learned, a dude fell off his horse and lived for 57 days off thistles, keeping himself warm with fires made from his single unbroken eyeglass lens.  Another dude, having fallen on the wrong side of some locals, was stripped of clothing, and told that if he could escape, he could live.  The locals didn't think to look for him up under a beaver den, where his wet naked self hid until returning to safety.  The heart of bison country.  Of, literally, Purple Mountain's majesty.
We, as a family, are NOT outdoorsy.  I have seen, on occasion, my husband RUN from mosquitoes.  I have never slept in a tent that was not strung between two chairs in my grandma's family room.  I think community showers breed grossness.  I don't understand how a campsite--jammed motor home to motor home, with tents stuck in between--is relaxing, or beautiful, or at all a getaway.  It feels much more like a pre-game parking lot tailgate for college football.  On the other hand, an extended hike into the wilderness to sleep under the stars sounds lovely, but I don't think I'd be good at sharing a potty with a bear.
But the thing about Yellowstone is that EVERYONE can do it.  We woke up in our fresh hotel room, ate a portable breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt, savored a decent cup of coffee and set out in our rental car each morning.  We left before 6 each day, and saw all kinds of animals starting their day as well.  We took our kids (who did not complain!) on trails up to 5 miles long.  More than one a day, even.  We brought with us lovely bagged lunches we bought at the hotel and ate at picnic tables near streams.  Best of all, we came home in the evenings, showered in our own bathroom, put on clean clothes, returned to the lobby, enjoyed a cocktail or a local microbrew, and ate dinner with real plates, glasses and delicious food.
That's about how outdoorsy we are.  We made it work for us, though.

One thing that NO ONE can pass off is being a tourist in the city.  After a week in Chicago, it was very clear that this place once called home was now our vacation destination.  Our sensible shoes, constant checking of intersection numbers and El routes, our near desperate need for deep dish pizza were clearly those of the rube.

We were almost country mice in the country, but most definitely not city mice in the city.

And then this guy gets on the El:

Can you see him?  That's an Alabama hat and shirt.  It's also a waist-length ponytail.

This guy and his buddies had trouble getting on the train.  They were unable to determine what line they were on (red), where (south) and when (as soon as you get outta the doorway, buddy) it was going,  and where, exactly they were when they got on it (Howard).  They also thought they'd be able to walk into Wrigley in the third inning against the Cardinals.  They also thought they'd make it back to Waukegan by 4:30 that afternoon after watching the game (no way).
Maybe they only know college football?  Maybe they failed to notice it took them 2 hours to get to where they were, and it was only two hours until they were supposed to be back there?

Maybe a lot of things.  I've certainly felt lost and befuddled in places I don't know.  Really.  I have sympathy for that.

BUT, they get on the train, loud and confused and all SOUTHERN about it.  Advertising with their mouths, their poor English, their SEC-based wardrobe--posting their country mouse-ness on their bodies.

How MUCH money, exactly,  does Alabama make on clothing?  There must be entire city-sweatshops in China dedicated to sewing closets full of University of Alabama/Roll Tide gear.  Never have I seen people so eager to broadcast an affinity for a university which they may/may not have attended.  And, for all of you alumni out there, I hope this guy did not attend.

What is the deal?  I get that there are not a ton of retail options down here, but seriously. It's ok to shop for clothing at someplace besides the grocery store.  Houndstooth does NOT go with everything, despite what you have been told.  Not every accessory needs to be Tide-related (ladies, I'm looking at those elephant earrings I see everywhere). Not everyone needs to know you're from here--especially if you're going to act rube-ishly.  Do your state a favor.

At least wear an Ol' Miss shirt.

God help me

I suppose there are many reasons I haven't posted to my blog in, like, forever.  One is that Facebook is really a lot easier.  Another is that in converting to hermit-ism, nothing really happens to me anymore.  A third  is that I'm lazy.  There are probably more reasons why I haven't posted to my blog, but I refer you to reason three.
When I leave my life of hermit-ism, things happen to me.  For example, we take family vacations.  This summer has been the summer of roaming for us.  We spent a week at the Redneck Riviera in Orange Beach, which was great.  Water was beautiful, my sister and her husband came with, and we had friends to visit us, as well.  We went to Yellowstone, which was everything a family road trip is supposed to be, plus an added fee for returning the rental car with a completely trashed back seat. Monday, we leave for Chicago, on a !train! and are going to get to see long lost friends and savor the nostalgia of our college years.  In two weeks, M is heading off to London for the Olympics.  Go Canada!  At the end of September, I get to go to Puerto Rico.  ALL BY MYSELF.  I will hoist a drink at the Bacardi distillery for every one I know.

As great as all that is, traveling, as everyone knows and discusses extensively everywhere, is just not what it used to be.  Flying, especially, isn't the glorious adventure we all hope it to be.  Fortunately, the 8 hour flight to Salt Lake City followed  by the 6 hour drive to Yellowstone, was relatively painless.  (Unless, apparently, you were the back seat of a Hyundai Sonata with 4 miles on the odometer, in which case the trip was apparently very very painful.)
The trip home started out promising, as well.  We drove the 6 hours from Wyoming to Salt Lake City the day BEFORE our flight, which was smart.  We had an afternoon to check out the Mormons' Temple Square and relish the culinary happiness that is Cheesecake Factory.  We did get stood up by the hotel shuttle after returning the rental car (and getting lectured on its soiled appearance), but we stayed in a supremely crappy airport hotel the night before our flight, which was FINE.  We woke up the next morning, did not get stood up by the shuttle, and made it to the airport well in time for a Starbucks and a nap in the gate area.
The trouble really started in Houston.
First, you know that I'm pretty cynical and occasionally morose.  So the first thing I always do upon arrival in the Gate Area is to survey my fellow passengers.  These fine specimens are the people who have some, however tangential, common interest with me.  We are bound together by our destination.  These are also the people whose families will be mourning with mine in the event of air disaster.  These are the people with whom I could spend my last waking moments.  So, I like to know what I'm up against.
Invariably, (sorry Alabama friends) the Gate Area for Mobile-bound flights looks like Darwin's waiting room.  Far too many men in sleeveless shirts.  Far too many children in camo.  It doesn't help that these flights are in the "regional flights" section of the airport, which is just marginally above a bus depot.  (I'm guessing.  I've never ridden the Dog anywhere.)
This time, there were abut 16 people of assorted ages, but homogeneously white and Wal-Marty in matching tee shirts, 2 guys headed down for the fishing rodeo, and the four of us.
The tee shirts touted the group's involvement in a week-long Guatemalan mission trip.
And us.
Ok.  So we board the flight.  The missionaries are VERY chatty among themselves.  They are so very excited to get back to Grand Bay, Alabama after being in a fowr-in country for a week.  I guess the endless variety of God's vast world is slightly lost upon them.
The Chicago-based flight crew welcomes us onboard, apologizes for a brief delay while we add some more fuel (Alabama sized asses?) because there is "weather" in Mobile that may require us to take alternate routes or circle.  I tap M on the back of his head with my SkyMall catalog.  "We're effed."
But wait.  The missionary woman says, and I swear this is true, "Well, isn't this a blessing?  We'll all get to visit a little."
No.  No no no no no no.  Not a blessing.  A blessing, by definition in EVERY faith on earth, is a good thing. A delay, by definition of every human on earth, is NOT a good thing.
I hit M on the head a second time with my SkyMall.
The group starts rehashing their visit, and what an amazing journey it is and how all their family'll be waitin' on 'em at the airport.  They talk and talk and talk.
I consider praying.
We finally push back from the gate.  As we taxi out to the runway, the plane is making a horrible chachunking noise.  Bad even for an over-taxed, under-maintained regional jet.  Eventually, our Chicago based flight crew announces that there are mechanical difficulties with the plane.  We will be returning to the gate and either waiting for maintenance to fix the problem or swapping planes.
M really gets walloped with the SkyMall this time.
This is the reaction of the woman next to me:  "This is God answering my prayers for a safe flight home.  He's  saved us from an unsafe flight."
Me to M:  "Couldn't he have just maintained the plane well in the first place?"
We wait.  And wait.  And wait.  Nearly 3 hours.
Meanwhile, the shallow end of the gene pool is waiting in the bus-depot section of the airport.  Flights to such metropolitan destinations as Omaha, Oklahoma City, and Little Rock are all delayed because of mechanical difficulties.  Are the airlines EVEN trying anymore? I'm eating an Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookie to console myself.  S is watching Lego Star Wars.
Finally.  We get to reboard the questionably safe aircraft.  Welcome back aboard.  I instantly re-arm myself with the SkyMall.
Then, it happens. The unbearably fantastic, pathetic, unbelievable. The 18 year old young missionary sitting in the row behind me begins to cry.  Audibly cry. He's afraid the plane hasn't been fixed.  He's never sat next to the window before.  He's had an emotional week.
The decrepit woman next to him pats him, actually pats him, and tells him not to worry.  "We all know whose hands this flight is in."
M:  "Yeah, the red headed pilot and my Chicago based flight crew."
He's crying?!?  Best case scenario, he winds home back on his farm in beautiful Grand Bay, Alabama.  Worst case scenario, he gets to be reunited with Jesus!  Either way, this kid's day is ending well.
Me? Worst case scenario, I wind up back in Mobile, Alabama.

Pavlov's Cat

Sometimes we, as parents and pet owners, attempt novel ways to effect behavior change in our children/pets.  Sometimes our methods for both our two- and four-legged charges are the same.  Sometimes not.  In the interest of my status with Social Services and PETA, I'll let you determine which of my examples are human-approved, which are PETA approved, and which are um, simply invented.  Sometimes behavior modification is successful.  Sometimes not.  Sometimes it's both.

Unfortunately, we occasionally employ negative reinforcement.  Yeah, yeah.  I've heard it all before. "Johnny is perfect.  We never yell or spank or shake him at all."  I don't believe you.  I believe occasionally, when you've put Johnny to bed for the 999th time and he keeps toddling downstairs to stall, and you're just trying to have a clandestine bottle of wine  with a PG-13 rated movie, you might be pushed to the point where you use a stern voice, and say, "I am going to take you upstairs, and lean on your door so that you can't come out anymore tonight.  It's BEDTIME!"  Some people have been known to use choke chains or collars to modify behavior.  I find that a strategically timed, unpredicted pop on the bum can be very effective.

Sometimes, we use positive reinforcement.  Some call it bribery. Tomato, tomahto, I say.  "If you PROMISE not to talk about boogers at Easter Dinner, I promise to buy all the on-sale Easter candy tomorrow and you can eat it all at once."  You've said it.  You know you have.

Sometimes, we use goldfish crackers or bits of hot dog, but we ultimately trade treats for desired behavior.  Effective.  On all species.

Sometimes, we inadvertently use the latter thinking we are doing the former:


The Cat story has recently come to a sad, but inevitable end.  Cat's 'Owner' passed away.  I'm truly sad for their family, as she seemed to be a much loved member.

In the wake of this event, Cat has figured out that the food is only being dispensed at our house these days.  He's spending more time inside, and terrorizing Clooney more and more.

Clooney, who just got a haircut, and is feeling pretty good about himself, has certainly been trying to assert his primary ownership of the house.

Cat is tough.  He's been walking around the house with tufts of Clooney fur stuck in his retracted claws.  I feel like I have to intervene.  Clooney  needs to feel safe and Cat needs to know there are consequences to his actions.

I put Cat outside.  Rain or shine, cold or hot, Cat's consequences are the same:  out he goes.  No exceptions. 

Sometimes consistency can backfire.  Last night, I was watching TV while determined to ignore Cat's whine to be let out.  Sometimes, once my butt gets in the couch, inertia takes over, and I become stuck.  Only the threat of cat 'accident' eventually gets me up, unlocks the door, opens the screen and lets Cat out to the great sandbox of the neighborhood. 

But last night, I waited too long.  I ignored Cat one mew too many.  So he took a swipe at the dog.  A BIG ol' swipe at the door.  Instantly, I was up, unlocking doors and pitching out feline. 

"Holy crap.  Instead of teaching Cat not to fight with Clooney, I've taught him to slap Clooney around when he wants to go out."

That's bad.  Then, I thought about how, like an annoying little bell, Cat sat by the door waiting for me to come.  And how, when I do it promptly, he rewards me by pooping outside....

Wait a minute.  Who's training whom here?

Goodbye, Mr. Cinnamon Chips?

It's just that I've been so mad.  It's hard to write about stuff you care passionately about (your family) when the world around you is insane.  I think, perhaps, literally, insane.  The crazy world invites all these diatribes and rants and soon I either become Bill Maher or Keith Olberman, and then I'm insane, and what good has that done?  Nobody wants to hear my thoughts on the world in general.  I am neither qualified nor insightful enough to add anything to the national dialogue on anything.

One of the things I have been trying to do to stem the crazy is to avoid the news.  This is, theoretically, not difficult.  I never watch daytime TV, so there's no Hoda or Kathie Lee trying to sell me oversize glasses of w(h)ine.  M refuses to put any 24 hour news channels on our favorites list, so when I scroll through the options on TV, those stations don't even APPEAR.  And, of course, it's my own fingers who find the URL of Facebook and CNN and all the other outlets online. 

Somehow, being disconnected from the rest of the world made me feel uncomfortable.  Part of this is my own delusions of self-importance.  Somehow, if I read the news, I can affect its outcome.  Sorry to those Beastie Boys fans out there, and sorry it took so long to you guys waiting for Gingrich to withdraw from the elections.  That kind of power is scary.  So, I take the burden of influencing the news seriously.

I won't even mention Pinterest.
Also, my life keeps me distracted.  Should I write about my kids?  Right now, they're kind of uninteresting.  They don't really get into trouble, they perform well on standardized tests, and they went to California over spring break to be treated with nothing but indulgence by their grandparents.  It's hard to make observations about children whose lives are equivalent to that of Wagyu Beef cows.

A lot of what they've been doing lately is readily distilled into Facebook length updates.  A popular diddy:
S's teacher to me one day after school:  I have to tell you what S said today.
Me:  OK
S's Teacher:  Here is the conversation:
     Me:  S, honey, you look tired.
     S:  Yah.  Well, my parents put me to bed at the regular time, but I snuck downstairs, and watched some TV from the kitchen.  I watched the end of Big Bang Theory and then I caught some Chelsea Handler.  She's really funny.  Really inappropriate.  But, really funny.
     Me:  Ok, then.
Me:  Parents of the year, right?  (Bow, in gratitude and acceptance of the award).  He sneaks downstairs a lot and we didn't bust him last night 'til we heard him laughing about Chelsea.

See, I can put that on Facebook in, like, a minute.  I don't have to give y'all a lot of set-up material.  That's so funny, it can stand on its own.

I really don't know what to do anymore.  It only takes me about a half hour a day to post an entry.  Is it worth it?  Do people have the 2 minutes to read my 30 minutes of work?  Will it be easier in the summer?  Would I have more to say?

Also, it seems disingenuous to bitch about my life these days.  While there have ALWAYS been people starving in Africa, and god knows I still managed a pity party despite that, I feel like people close to me have had problems lately.  It seems absurd to complain about healthy children who get into inconsequential mayhem occasionally when I have friends dealing with, you know, problems.

Should I bother to get my blog on anymore?  Should I put it to vote?  Should I strive to post weekly?  Monthly?  Not at all?  If you're out there still (I don't know why you would be, I would have given up on me a long time ago) lemme know.

Harriett Homemaker, is that you!?

Some of you are going to think I've jumped on the crazy wagon. 
Maybe you're right.
I've been thinking, reading and  "finding on the Internet" about chemicals in household products.  I've been finding recipes for home made soaps, detergents and cleaners.  While perusing these recipes, I also found a ton of recipes for cheaper versions of products I already use.
Most of my monthly Target trip is (money-wise & physical space wise, anyway) dedicated to cleaners.  Some products I'm crazy brand loyal--Tide, Windex, Finish--and some I'm way less so.  A lot of those products have extra chemicals (especially the Tide, which has softener, fragrance, and brighteners) and some of those chemicals I'm willing to risk because I like the results (specifically Tide and Finish, where I believe the premium brand is worth it for work saved and water conserved.)  Some products are just stupid expensive for what the product I'm getting.
So, I thought I'd brief you with my results of cleaner experimentation.  I'm not going to turn this into one of those condescending cleaner woman blogs that tell you what 14 drawers you should be organizing today.  But, if I try out a recipe, I'll let you know.  If it's worth the extra effort over the cost, if it works as well as the original, if the ingredients are easy to find, you know.  As summer comes up, it's a good time to experiment--plenty of time and waaaay less laundry detergent required!
Friday, I cleaned all the inside windows.  Since there are 24 windows and many of the upstairs windows have to be washed exterior as well (no access without ladder!) it's a big job.  I used a spray bottle of home made Windex, a microfiber rag, and a new squeegee.

For the Windex:  1/8 C ammonia, plain, non sudsing  1.4 C rubbing alcohol 1/4 tsp dish washing detergent (if you use the blue Dawn, your cleaner will be blue like the original).  You will also need a spray bottle and water.  (Most recipe sites say to use distilled.  I didn't have it.)

The verdict:  I don't know if this has fewer ingredients than thfar superior to bargain brands.  Bargain brands don't use inferior ingredients (I don't think) but they do dilute (it seems).  So I find those watery and streaky.  It matched up pretty well to the original, and because I have all of those ingredients (ammonia for soaking the gas range grates, the alcohol in a first aid kit and the dish washing detergent under the sink) it was super easy and cost effective. Could definitely stop buying Windex.

So, there.  A totally unusual and informative (and useful! WHA?!?) notcinnamon post.

Your Body is a Wonderland?

S is a people person, as they say.  He does not like to be alone.  EVER.  I am able to read his subtle personality traits:  he uses the bathroom with the door open, he brings his Legos to play directly at my feet, he insists on taking the dog or (stolen) cat with him to bed. 
S hates being alone.  He begs for his brother to play with him and bemoans the total lack of playmates on our street.  S needs a virtual twin.
E is not a people person.  E slinks off to his room whenever there's a lull in conversation--as in, no one is talking to him.  He reads alone in the playroom, he watches TV alone while the rest of us are doing other things.  E does not like to go bicycling around our block with S or playing in the same room as his parents.  He DEFINITELY closes the door to the bathroom now.  Especially at bath time.  E is not having it.
Of course, nothing brings an 'independent' child like E to his knees faster than a thunderstorm.  At six this morning, an tremendous clap of thunder shook the house, and faster than I could roll over and say, "here come the kids," the kids come storming into the bedroom, diving into the bed.
Thunderstorms really don't bring out the best and the bravest around here.  By the time the kids were all snuggled in to my bed, the dog was whimpering and shivering as well.  He really hasn't been the same since I took him with me once through the car wash, but that's a different tale of woe and crazy. 
Five little faces, some furrier and more awake and frightened than others peeked out over the top of the blanket this morning.  S huddled close, and tried his best to reassure the pup, and E prattled on because he has a nervous diarrhea of the mouth.  As he tries to put on his brave face, he won't stop talking.
After the storm bed-huddle, S moves on to  his usual routine:  he gathers up his uniform from the cubbies, and brings that and his blankie downstairs to dress in the kitchen with me and the dog and sometimes, the (stolen) cat. He pulls off his jammies, and sits down on the floor nude to pull on his undies.  For those of you who visit my house--I mop often, and forbid the use of furniture while nude.  The cat ambles on over to say good morning.
"Hey cat, are you comin' over to look at my privates?"
Cat makes an abrupt U-turn.  Seriously,  like he understood and wanted no part of it.
"It's okay, Cat.  My body is a museum."
S stands and makes the Superman pose.
Sometimes I wonder about these kids.

The Cat's in the Cradle, and it's in MY house

I betcha didn't know that I'm a crazy magnet.  In the global scheme of things, I suppose the cliche 'it takes one to know one' could possibly apply here, but I'd prefer to think of myself as the shipwreck that grows the reef of crazy.

If you've been to my house, seen my facebook page, or possibly even this blog, you might know we have sort of adopted the neighborhood cat, Cat.  Cat is a black and white short haired cat of rather large proportions.  He has a cool white milk moustache and the wickedest white whiskers that alliteration can describe.  All in all, he has a strong bit of the Cat in the Hat about him.

Cat beats up on the dog with regularity.  He often parades around the house with tufts of Clooney fur still sticking out between his retracted claws.  Cat is very human oriented, and enjoys being petted and fed.  He has a great personality, even if he is eccentric.

We had our first interaction with Cat the week before we bought this house.  The realtor's listing said, "Call before appointment, no appointment before 12."  (Rumor had it that the owner of the house had a hard time waking in the morning due to the aftereffects of late night scotch.)  It also said, "Please do not let neighborhood cat into the house."  Which seems like a simple instruction, but Cat seemed to feel entitled to enter.  One visit, M, the realtor, and I chased the cat around the house like a bunch of dopes.

When S saw this house for the first time, 8 weeks before we eventually moved in, the cat was lounging in the driveway as though he owned the place.  S (2 years old at the time) called this "the cat house" rather than "home" for nearly a year.

On nights when the weather service issues frost warnings or cold weather warnings, we always allow the cat in to sleep in the warm house.  He used to sleep in S's bed the most, but he has taken to using ours.  During the day, he naps in the guest bedroom, which, unless my parents are in town, is basically Cat's own.  And, he has slowly becomed accustomed to living here every night.

Eventually, with all this sleeping and eating in the house, I took Cat to the vet.  I spent $200 on feline leukemia shots, rabies, and all the other necessary vaccinations for healthy life as Cat.  I figured if we were going to get ringworm, (which S ultimately did) it wasn't going to be from the cat (which it ultimately wasn't).

So, despite the long history with Cat, Crazy didn't really step in until last Thursday.

Thursday night, the daughter of a neighbor calls the house.  We will call her Sonoma.  Sonoma makes idle chit chat for a while and then proclaims the following:

"My mother, who is blind and suffering from cancer, feels that you have stolen her cat.  She doesn't like that you put a bell and collar on a cat that is not yours."

Me:  "Great.  I'll take off the bell.  Is this the number I call for dead squirrel pickup?  Are you the Wolf?  Do YOU handle dead squirrel storage?"

Sonoma:  "I just wanted you to know that you're in posession of stolen property."

Me:  "It's not like a) I wanted a cat b) I sought out the cat c) I hold the cat against his will or d) have catnapped the cat.  The cat likes it here, because it is warm at night, full of food and people who give it love."

Sonoma:  "My mother is upset that you have stolen her cat."
Me:  "What is it, exactly, that you want me to do? Since I really feel for you and the illness that has put you in this awkward situation, I don't want to be disrespectful or hurtful, but your mother called the police when she claims she saw a strange cat in her house nearly a year ago.  I had to present the animal control people with the rabies tag and ID for Cat so they didn't take him away.  I am not sure she is really rocking the cat-care responsibilities."

Sonoma:  "I'm just telling you that she's upset that you have stolen her cat."

Me:  "You mentioned this.  Other than NOT letting Cat in on freezing nights, feeding him, cleaning up his cat yack, combing out his winter fur, paying for his flea repellent & ringworm preventative, letting him out when he wakes up at 3 AM, and loving on him, what would you like me to do?"

Sonoma:  "Stop treating the cat like your own.  It's not yours."

Me:  "Fine.  I will be happy to keep Cat out of the house if your mother will explain to my seven year old son who has no reason to believe that the cat is not his, that because your mother is ill and senile, she is unable to share the joy of her cat."

Sonoma:  "Would you make my dying mother do that?  How heartless are you?"

Me:  "I'm not heartless at all.  In fact, it is heartbreak that compels me to make this conditon.  I will not be able to take the look on my son's face when I tell him he can't have his cat in his bed anymore.  Therefore, y'all are going to  have to tell him."

Sonoma:  "I will not do that."

Me:  "It seems your phone call was not well planned out.  You have no actual request, no resonable explanation for WHY I didn't know this was your cat for the last six years, or why I should stop caring for a cat that you are clearly NOT caring for."

At this point, M had been waiting for me to restart watching our movie, and was incensed by the utter insanity and unreasonable duration of the conversation.  He picked up an extention and gave her the whatfor.  Which boiled down to this:  "None of the cats your mother claims to own are in any way identified or collared.  They are wandering throughout the neighborhood at all times.  If you want to  be confrontational about this, I can call animal control when I find a non-collared cat on my premises."

Sonoma hung up.

WHAT THE EVERLOVING HELL IS THAT?  I feel bad for aged people suffering from disease, and facing what is certainly a painful, lonely end of life.  I'm not a monster.  But on what grounds did Sonoma have to share her family's misery and slight insanity with me?  I was just minding my business.

I couldn't take the stress of wondering what would happen to Cat. 

I had him microchipped on Friday.  With all my information.  I told the vet the whole story, and was perfectly straightforward with him.
I'm officially a cat owner now, I guess. Ugh.

If you give a mom a jug of milk...

My computer won't let me express the profanities associated with my current post.  Apparently, when I type them together in a space-less string of words, blogspot thinks I'm posting a website.  The frustration of which generates an entire NEW string of vulgar words.

Have you ever made a mess so gargantuan, so varied in the necessary methods of clean up that profane words cannot describe it? 

It's that moment when you look around and realize, "that's it.  We're moving."

Or perhaps you want to call your mom?  And say in your cutest babyish voice, "uh oh.  Fix please."

Sometimes, I make these messes when cleaning out closets.  In my zeal, I throw clothes and shoes and miscellany all over the place, and then turn from the closet and behold my room and think, oh, yeah.  I have to put all that back.

Today, though, I made a mess that was epic.  I will be reeling from this mess for several days to come.  Its odor will linger, its stickiness stay, its sharpness protrude from my life for a week.  It will stain under my fingernails like mustard after a county fair.

Keep in mind that I am on a diet, and during this time, refraining from thinking about food excessively.  I pretend the pantry and the refrigerator aren't really there.  They're imagined to be filled with something hideous and gross.  They are, as the Hawaiians say, Kapu.

So, this morning, I opened the refrigerator to fetch the gallon jug of the skim milk to make a no sugar protein shake.  MMM.  Aren't YOU jealous?

As I put the jug back in its cubby in the door, the OTHER cubby, the one that holds 2 jars of olives, a jar of sundried tomatoes in olive oil, a mini milk jar of carrot & ginger salad dressing, 2 jars of jelly, a bottle of soy sauce, and one ONE plastic bottle of salad dressing--that it to say, every glass container in the refrigerator itself--comes free from the door and crashes to the floor with an explosive sound and splash.

It was so quick, and so profound a mess, that I believe I stared at it, openmouthed, for more than a moment.

How does one clean this up?  There is oil--greasy, jam--sticky, orange puree--stainy, glass--pointy, and its all spreads from a single epicenter to literally, every corner of my kitchen.

I started with the broom and paper towels, smearing sloshing, and trying to bring everything of the chunky and/or sharp variety to the center.  Scooping, pushing, dripping all of that into a trash bag.  I filled a bucket with all purpose cleaner/cancercauser and handwashed the floor, pausing to pull out little slivers of glass and throw them away.

The carrot puree is on the cabinets, has stained the grout.  I then have to scrub those places.  Ow, there's more glass.

In all, nearly an hour.

To clean up a mess.

That started when I wanted.

8 ounces of milk.

To make a shake.

That's disgusting.

Because I can't eat.

Unhealthy oily and sticky foods.

What are Kids DOING These Days?

I just got around to watching the most recent episode of Saturday Night Live.  Which, truthfully, has sucked of late.  The most recent episode featuring Maya Rudolph, Justin Timberlake and Amy Pohler, was really funny, though.  I'm really going to miss Rudolph's Whitney Houston impression, though.

The musical guest, Sleigh Bells, has me a bit baffled however.  And, coming on the heels of some strange performances, including the weird Lana del Rey appearance, I'm beginning to think that the musical performances are actually SNL bits.

Perhaps Stefon, of Weekend Update, is picking the musical guests:

"Tonight's guests, PHRISBIE, is the hottest new Swedish rock duo on the New York scene.  (Snicker, cover face)  They're discorockretrosynth and all the rage at underground midget raves.  They perform only on stages made entirely of chocolate and wear vegan clothing that is biodegradable.  (Snicker, cover face)  Their biggest hit is "I Want to be a Panda Inside Your Brain" is going viral in the Reno club scene."

I suppose the oddness of the band directly correlates with my age.  Sigh.  Who knew that getting old meant I yearned for such ordinary bands as Neon Trees and Fleet Foxes? 

Fame and Fortune

I got my first, I think, random comment on Cinnamon last night. 

Sometimes "Anonymous" leaves notes, but I am pretty sure it's some one I know who either can't or doesn't want to log in to comment.  Which is fine.

But last night, I got a comment regarding my bourbon post.  OOOOh, and it was ugly.  And either came from Ireland, or had a typo:

"I was looking for a remedy for me cold, but I found the diary of an alcoholic."

Oh, SNAP!  You went there.

To be fair, that entry might SOUND like an alcoholic's, but we all know that I can't commit the whole way. The addiction spectrum covers a bunch of issues, I believe, ranging from the obvious drug and alcohol to the famous sex and encompasses food, gambling, and other 'vices' of which a person is compelled to overindulge.

 I simply do not have the personality for addiction.  I know this, because I tried to be anorexic, and that didn't work AT ALL.  Before all my psych friends leave more comments,  I do know that anorexia is not a non-addiction to food.  But my point is that I'm not prone to, shall we euphemize, over-enthusiasm.  If the bourbon were on a high shelf, I wouldn't stretch to reach it.  If I were out, I would not go out in the dark to a scary package store to get some. 

I just want Anonymous to know that I appreciate his/her concern, but am pretty sure I'm okay.  I over serve myself sometimes, but not that often.  Besides, the medication I take for all my other, REAL issues has decided to interact with alcohol after all these years.  After 2 drinks, I grow intolerably sleepy.  Not pass out-sleepy, mind you.  Like holy crap, I hafta sleep right now sleepy.  Like, who slipped me the drugs sleepy.  Like, I'm feelin' good and social, and we should do thizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

So, dear Anonymous, thanks for your heartfelt words.  I do hope you found some comforting online remedies for your cold.  I do hope you know, however, that none of those is as effective as bourbon.

Sleepus Interruptus

I've written about sleep before.  In fact, I think about sleep often.  I try to nap every day at 1:30 for thirty minutes.  Just like they taught me in Kindergarten.  Sleep is precious.  But in different ways for different people.
I think of new moms, and hell, for them 3 hours in a row of sleep is magical.
I have friends who are insomniacs, and that seems hellacious.  For them, it's not so much the going to sleep, it's the staying asleep that is elusive. 
I think of the elderly, and their remarkable ability to fall asleep any time any where, like in the middle of one of my sentenc--zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
When I'm sick, and sleep is threatened, I do everything I can to preserve it--bourbon, Nyquil, Advil, all three--sometimes if I have a head cold, M thinks I'm trying to off myself with all the stuff to just sleep through it.
Sleep with school aged children is more or less normal.  The occasional nightmare or thunderstorm sends pitter-pattering little feet into my side of the bed, but mostly, they sleep fairly normally. (Once I actually can get them in bed.  Apparently, S caught an episode of "Are You There, Chelsea?" along with the end of "Whitney" last night)  So, when my sleep is disturbed, it's a big deal to me. 
So.  At some point this morning, M's alarm goes off.  I have an iHome alarm next to my bed, but I keep the digital screen dark because I don't like the glow.  Last night, my phone wasn't charging in it, either.  But, the alarm goes off, and E comes in for a snooze button's worth of dozing in our bed.
He does this every morning.  And every morning it annoys me.  Not because of his ice cold feet, or his rancid morning breath, or his endless chatter, but because it's my morning, and I feel entitled to wake up at my own pace.  I have personal space issues, and a third person (FIFTH creature, given the cat and dog are already in the bed full time) REALLY cuts into my space.
So, E is in the bed, the snooze  button has been pressed, and M and I moan about the shortness of sleep and the relentlessness of every workday morning.  After nine minutes, the alarm sounds again, and M announces to us that it is time to get up. 
I get out of bed, stretch a little, potty.  The bathroom seems unusually dark.  (I do not turn on the lights in the morning until I reach the kitchen.) Granted, the weather's been grey lately, so I figure it's about to rain again.  But then, I go to the top of the stairs, and consider waking S.  I look outside, and something is just not right. 
I go BACK to my nightstand and press the light on my alarm clock.  1:58 AM.  What the what?  I look at my watch laying next to the clock:  2 AM (I set my watch fast, since I'm always late.  It actually doesn't help my punctuality, but it does set up a wormhole between the clock in the car and my watch.)
E is in his room, staring at the closet, preparing to dress.  M is begging for 3 more minutes.  I check a third watch--just to make sure--and lo, it is only 2 in the morning.  I go back to E's room and tell him to sleep for 4 more hours.  I come back to the snuggly bed and tell M to sleep for 4 more hours.  I snuggle down into the covers and try to rediscover sleep after going through my Pavlovian wake-up moves. 
Everything is screwed.  It takes FOREVER to go back to sleep, and when I did, my dreams were weird, XMen mutant type sagas.  (Laugh it up, once you have 2 boys, your dreams are no longer the workings of your own imagination.  It's been a while, for example, since George Clooney has paraded through my subconscious.  Unless he guest appears on the "Clone Wars," or Lego makes a minifigure of him, I suppose he won't be flitting back into the dream machine anytime soon.)
This morning, I ask S if he tinkered with Dad's alarm clock.  I got a firm denial, but you never know with that kid.
In the end, I got back probably three hours of sleep, but those were not nearly as indulgent as they should have been.
I will be storing this little prank in the crevices of my mind, and when I have a teenage S who wants nothing more than to sleep 'til noon, I may pull out this bad boy on him.  Maybe on a Saturday.
In the meantime, I dream of revenge.