The Diet of the Lambs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

You don't care that they're laughing...

So, in mid-September, you may remember I wrote about the idiocy involved in fouling up my knee cap. Which, by the way, is still not 100%, but apparently I was misled by the whole 40 is the new 30 crap, so I should never expect to be 100% again.
I have decided to begin "exercising" again. Yes, I DO know how scare quotes work, but in this case, they are clearly needed. Exercising up to this point has meant going for a walk. It's a brisk walk, and 45 minutes long, but still. It's walking.

People have been doing it for tens of thousands of years. It's not a sport: no crowds fans behind ropes cheering (verrry slooooooooooowly) for their favorite walker. Jersey sales for the walker league are next to nil. Nobody wants the #8 trading card of the 2000 walking season champ. So what I'm saying is, I have resumed doing what every person in Manhattan does every day for a living.

YAY ME!

The thing is, it takes up too much of my day. Stop laughing. For real. I have important stuff to do: pick up my house, put away laundry, iron, errands, blog, drink.
That 45 minutes is a big chunk. So, I've decided what I need to do is cover the same distance, only faster. You know what they call that? Running.
Homey don't play dat.

The many, varied reasons why I do not run:
1. It hurts
2. I look like Phoebe from friends (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_0Ta_DIWuU&NR=1 ) copyright? What copyright? Thanks, NBC.
3. It hurts
4. I might fall and hurt myself
5. It makes my nose run
6. My unusual running style (see #2) means that my armpit rubs up against my sports bra and causes chafing.

BUT, I do have a treadmill, which we have had since Ethan was born. It has been used sporadically, (but during those intermittent exercise jags, I do use it regularly) which is surprising because of its readiness to use as a dry cleaning rack.

So, on my treadmill, the Phoebe style doesn't matter because there's no one to see. I can run with a soft cloth tucked into my sports bra to protect my delicate underarms, I keep a box of tissue in the cupholder, and while falling is not out of the question, the odds are reduced.

Unfortunately, I STILL cannot run. The kneecap does not abide. But I can walk a heckuvalot faster on the treadmill. So, two days ago, amidst the pouring rain, I decide to hop on that sucker. No more uneven sidewalks, rogue dogs and sprinklers for me! I'm exercising in comfort, if one can call it that.

But, it's been a while since I had my last exercise jag. The treadmill is in the playroom, so I have to unearth it. Much like a paleontological project, I can see how long it's been since my exercise regimen went extinct by the layers of crap that are on top of the treadmill:

Pool noodles (August)
S's 4K graduation certificate (May)
E's Santa hat from last year's school play (December, '09)
...it's been a while.

I put on my ipod, and press "start" and that baby hums to life. But as the belt loops around at a neck-snapping 2 miles per hour, dust flies up. Like primordial layer of actual measurable thickness kind of dust. I'm walking exceptionally slowly and sneezing. Are those FOOTPRINTS in the dust?!?

THIS is not what I had in mind.

I pause, get the dust rag out, wipe it all down and start again. I finally get the hang of it. Armpit insulators are working well, tissues staunching the snot. Everything's going just right.

In the end, I finish my 3 miles in under 40 minutes. I snap a pic of the display screen and email to CC. I know my personality, and I know that after that fiasco, I need a cheerleader.

CC promptly calls and says, all flattery and encouragement, "I can't be seeing this right! You are smokin' fast!"

I don't care that she's just being nice. I don't care that there are 100 year old tortoises who could move faster. I don't care that CC herself probably ran 8 miles in that time, in the rain, uphill both ways, that very morning. I don't care because she is my cheerleader and I need that.

Every Phoebe needs her Rachel.

This post rated G for Gross

A couple of weeks ago, we had to take S back to the gastroenterologist for his bi-annual check up. And the whole thing is a clustercuss.

For one thing, the pediatrics specialty offices affiliated with the university are located in an old hospital. So, upon walking in, everything seems kind of normal, if labyrinthine, but soon everything gets kinda weird.

The reception desk is the old nurses' station. It's a giant counter. The waiting room is two old hospital rooms combined. And the actual patient rooms are hospital rooms. So, they are relatively huge compared to normal clinic rooms. They all have bathrooms. Plus, they're under-furnished. Big, old, tiled hospital rooms with one little exam table, a series of cubbies with GI information, and a hard wooden chair to wait in. The whole effect is something like Cuckoo's Nest meets The Shining.

Which really starts to mean something when I tell you we wait at this doctor's office forever. Every time. This time it was an hour and 45 minutes. And then we really start to feel like we're Jack Nicholson.

So, the doctor is asking me all these questions about S's eating habits, pooping habits, growth, etc. etc. We go through the same questions every time. Every time, I remind the doctor that with the exception of my mother, my family are tall. I would be tall if not for spinal surgery. M's brother is crazy tall. S's brother is crazy tall. Tall is something we do. Except for S. So, his 12th percentile is really more significant than at first blush, since the rest of us are in the 75 or above.

So, we go over all of this again, and he gives S a cursory physical examination. He palpates some poop. Reminds me to go back to giving S Miralax daily. Urgh.

After a couple of days on the Miralax, I feel bad for poor S. He's gone from Jack Johnson, all Sittin' Waitin' Wishin' to Paul McCartney, a Man on the Run, as it were. And we're supposed to be checking the evidence and keeping mental notes of how it all, um, comes out.

A couple of notes about that: we have issues with the boys forgetting to flush. So, telling S to wait and not flush is counter intuitive to the goals of a sanitary house. Second, I am not a connoisseur of pooh. It all looks like pooh. And I have no burning desire to inspect it. I leave the pooh inspection to labs on walks and techs in labs.

But, hilariously, we have a chart to measure the pooh. And all I can think of is that stupid pooh character from a really dumb Canadian animated show about Terrence and Phillip, or was it South Park? I dunno. Here's the chart, anyway, in case you need/want to check your pooh:

You need to strive for #4, if you're wondering. And, Bristol, wherever you are now: Thank you for your AMAZING contribution to medicine. Without this chart, all would be lost.

Pooh Inspection has worn thin on me, so I have taken to shouting at S when I hear him race off to the potty:

Are you in the potty?

-yes

Are you going poop?

-yes

Is it regular?

-yes

Did it hurt?

And, my son, bless him, even he has a shred of privacy and doesn't shout everything through the rooms of our house for all to hear, screams back:

STOP ASKING ME POOP JEOPARDY QUESTIONS!!

Ooh. Soorry. The correct answer should be phrased as a question.

Crazy like a fox

I took Clooney to the vet yesterday. He's been licking and chewing at his skin for weeks now, and it's to the point that he's driven to distraction by itching.

I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.

I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.

A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.

In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."

We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.

I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?

Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.

After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.

But then. The Itch.

Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?

OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.

Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.

I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.

AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.

Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.

So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.

OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?

In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.

Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.

If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.

Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?

Rubbed the wrong way

This weekend, CC is in Louisville, KY to support her husband as he participates in a triathlon. Not an Olympic, or "Intermediate" triathlon of 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and 10km run; but an unholy trinity of the Ironman triathlon of 3.8 km swim, 180 km ride, and 42.2 km run. I wish him luck.

I was gonna participate this year, but y'know, I'd die.

However, I DO appreciate the efforts towards fitness and healthy living. And, since I'm suffering through an hour-plus long carpool every afternoon, I've run out of excuses why I can't exercise. I can easily park my car, walk for 40 minutes, and return before the line moves an inch.

But my inertia is of Herculean strength. Being of good sense, I decided not to a) rush into anything and b) set reasonable expectations. I am totally one of those people who, in the event of rain and a missed walk, tosses in the towel, claims all is lost, and eats two dozen cookies. My goal is to walk three days a week, which I consider a very modest exercise goal.

Also, being of good sense, I had to do first things first: buy some clothes in which to take my walks. The Spring Hill Walker's Uniform is standard issue to women in the 36608: visor/cap, formfitting v-neck or tank top, black and white running-type shorts, ipod, shoes. Being both anti Spring Hill Women, and not a walker, I had only the ipod and the shoes. I have a cap from when I was at Northwestern. It'll do. I bought a cute walking skort, v-neck shirt, and made the shopping trip Monday's exercise.

Next, I had to actually walk. I parked my car and, indeed, walked for the designated time by myself through the streets surrounding the boys' school. Despite heat rivaling Satan's sauna, things were progressing satisfactorily.

Except. Except for one mortifying detail. My thighs, having not been exercised regularly in the last 35 years or so, rub together. And, in this devil's steam room of a climate, there is substantial sweat. After a brisk walk, my thighs boasted giant strawberries from chaffing. That was nearly it. As I said, it doesn't take much to discourage me. And certainly matching rashes on such delicate skin and so perilously close to my under-manicured nethers, are no small matter. Wednesday was out.

Thursday, on my way to carpool line, I stopped in at the drug store because I'd heard tell of a new product that reduces chaffing. Embarrassingly, I had seen it on TV. I think it's made by Gold Bond and the ad features heavy-set people happily throwing up their arms, skipping, and moving their limbs jauntily, freed from the discomfort of chaffing. Maybe, though I lack significant creases and folds, the anti-chaffing product could work for me.

Unfortunately, drug store did not carry said product. HOWEVER, they did carry a similar product, made by Massengill (?!?) that might suit my needs. The product isn't with athletic products like Icy Hot, or with skin remedies like Caladryl, or even with lotions. It is conveniently located with the feminine hygiene products. So, there I am, scouting past Astroglide, powders, douches, condoms, lube of all varieties, remedies for ewwwww, and lo, there on the bottom shelf. Silky gel to reduce chaffing in the "delicate bikini area." My bikini area cheered with optimism.

I lubed up my thighs and prepared for my walk. In the heat. Alone. But then, I saw SB and LE, and suddenly my lone trek was a laughing, upbeat trio. The walk was less boring, the company enlivening and I was (shh, it'll ruin my rep) having fun! And my lady bits didn't complain at all.

Friday, however, rain prevented me from achieving the hat trick I was aiming for. But I'm not giving up hope. Monday will come again, and I will oil up my thighs and start anew.

What's your style?

I don't venture into this territory often, but it seems to have come up a lot in conversation lately. When you start reading this, you're gonna be like, what the hell conversations have you been in lately?!? I'm thinking this might be a poll, which I haven't had in a long time, either and that's fun. Finally, I know my parents read this. And worse, M's family reads this. So, ew. Anyway.

I was watching Wanda Sykes' HBO special, which by the way, I LOVED. She does a shtick where she describes a trip to a day spa. And the cosmetologist gives her a bikini wax. And Wanda describes in great detail the process of the bikini wax, and how the pain was so intense as the woman ripped off the paper, she reflexively smacked her hard.
So, this gets me thinking. I've never had a professional bikini wax. Odd? True. Not to say that I don't think personal grooming is important, just can't imagine a stranger ripping out my pubic hair.
Then, on HBO's Entourage (perhaps HBO is a bad influence), Turtle is attempting to hook up with a woman, sees that her nethers are shorn like a summer sheep and balks. At our house, the completely shorn nethers are known as a butterball, because of their similarity to a raw, plucked turkey. Turtle explains that he's familiar with the landing strip, and the Hitler, but not the butterball. Johnny Drama then informs us that the landing strip is SO 1990s. The butterball is now.
I am of two minds when it comes to crotchscaping: the 1970s porn afro is surely out. But, it's easy maintenance. The butterball requires daily upkeep with razor or frequent upkeep with wax. Ugh. Plus, there's always the possibility that the tacit message of the 1970s porn afro is, "look baby, if I don't have time to take groom myself, trust me, I don't have the effort for whatever you're after." Which sometimes, after packing lunches, running errands, cooking dinner, bathing kids, cleaning up dinner, all with a headcold/allergies/PMS is really the message you really want to be sending anyway, so it's convenient that the message requires no prep time.
Don't get me wrong. Before I had kids, I did the bikini wax thing. Not a professional one, as I mentioned earlier. I enlisted M's help. And in retrospect, I think that maybe the only thing worse than having a stranger rip out your pubic hair is having your husband do it. I would put on the wax, no problem. But, I, not being a masochist, couldn't bring myself to rip off the paper. M would stand behind me, grip the paper in each hand and RRRRRRRRRRIP. This is the ultimate relationship test. If you can allow your husband to inflict physical pain in your nethers and then invite him back for a social visit, then truly, you are meant to be.
But then, there's summer and swimsuit season. NOBODY, but NOBODY wants to see your razor burn, or the alternative. I, myself, take to the swimdress in part for this reason, but others feel compelled to trim for this outfit. Because, no matter the tropical atmosphere, dreadlocks are not appropriate.
In informal surveys of my friends, I have found the full spectrum of bodily coifs. From the hirsute to the follicly challenge, I've got them all. And it's not always who you'd think. Very upright, conservative friends have gone ahead with the full monty, and other single, (and I'm not judging here) loose women have cultivated a more natural landscape.
So, there's a poll here. Go ahead, spill the beans. It's anonymous.

To sleep, perchance to dream

Sleep. Sleep. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Forty winks.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

And no one appreciates it more than me. So, now that my sleep is all disrupted, I am freaking out.

Three nights. The first two nights I was awake with some vague anxiety. Nothing is wrong, I was just agitated and tense. Last night, E was puking and feverish and pathetic. The symptoms (of my sleeplessness, not his puking and cold--come on, stay focused) are becoming obvious: there's this blue vein right under my eye that is starting to show. And then, there's the eyes themselves--heavy lidded, swollen, and drooping dark circles. We are talking serious zombie eyes; walking dead, no living human should have skin that blue, blink you freaky woman, zombie eyes.

Also, I am aware as I have gotten older that there are things I should/cannot do in my sleep. And I am so conscious of those things that it becomes almost impossible to release myself into the UNconsciousness of sleep.

I habitually make a fist around my tucked-in thumb. But then I wake up with aching, swollen, disfigured thumbs. So I jam my hands under my butt when I'm sleeping flat or under the pillow if I'm sleeping on my slide.

I clench my teeth. I had a guard for the teeth clenching that the dentist made for me. Clooney chewed it. I have to wait for my insurance to forget about the last one so I can get a new one. Now, I have to physically relax my jaw, crack it open, and hope that it stays that way all night. The dentist also gave me some muscle relaxants, but they don't really seem to last as long as they should...

I cannot sleep on my right side. I have been sleeping on my right side since I was a kid, and the shoulder is starting to pay the price. Sometimes, if I magically sleep for long periods on my right arm, the nerve is pinched in the morning, and I have to wait a day or so for the tingling to stop. So left side, or flat on the back, or nothing at all.

So, given all these old lady problems, I have some solutions. I try yoga breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel my lungs expand, my belly not. I seek that rhythm that used to be so soothing that I'd fall asleep in yoga class. I try to consciously relax my body starting with my toes and working my way up to my neck. It doesn't always workfor me. Let's just say I'm not going to be adopted into a yogic colony anytime soon. Relaxing doesn't come easy.

I've tried self-hypnosis with some success. Starting at 1,000 and counting backwards, I think of nothing but the numbers. I visualize them in different fonts or have to start over if a stray thought crosses my mind. I usually don't make it past 950. But lately, my mind has been racing, and I can't even get in to the 990s without thinking of other things.

Chemistry usually makes life better, what's going on there? Ambien sounds interesting, but of course, I REALLY can't afford to sleep eat. I eat enough while I'm awake. Advil PM is okay, except I wake up dying of thirst. There's the Flexeril from the dentist, but because he's a dentist, and not my regular physician, I think he's wary of prescribing drugs to patients. So I get 15 for the six months between cleanings. I'm like the only person you know who rushes to the dentist for cleanings...xrays? Sure. Scraping? OK. Sand blast? Fine. Do whatever you want to my mouth for the next hour, just make sure I have that script in hand when I leave. I need my DDS fix.

I try not to get out of bed while I'm sleepless. One, I'm scared of going downstairs. Two, the dog follows me and he's noisy and could wake the children--the worst possible scenario. Three, I'm afraid I'll turn on the computer, get sucked into a Bejeweled marathon, and not move until first light.

After his intense round of vomiting followed by dry heaves, E asked me to snuggle him in his bed. He struggled with sleep as I lay there in his semi-dark room for an hour and forty five minutes. Finally, his faint, even, congestion-induced snoring convinced me that he had dozed off again. I snuck back into my own bed. And before I could reach my desperately need REM cycle, S comes in with nightmares.

I woke up this morning, in S's bed completely disoriented and confused, having slept in all 3 beds last night. My back hurts from cradling kids in unnatural positions, my eyes are sunken and dull, and if I take a nap today, everything will be ALL messed up for tonight. SO. Coffee it is. More coffee. Java. Joe. As much as I need. I'll be hitting up my nursing friends for an IV of it. Direct to the gray matter. I'll pitch toothpicks in my eyelids to keep them up, just like a cartoon cat stalking a mouse. I WILL not nap today. And tonight, I will crawl into my crisp bed, and be asleep before the left side of my face hits the pillow, with my hands under it, and my jaw as physically relaxed as I can make it.

*#(@$HFohfhaodhf8yg03e4. Sorry. That was my forehead hitting the keyboard. It's gonna be a long day. TV, anyone?

A brief anatomy lesson

By and large, I have taught my children facts. The true kind. I haven't sugar coated too much, or fibbed or fudged. I mostly explain their world in their vocabulary in the most straightforward way possible. Example: Boys have penises. Girls do not. However, everyone pees and poops.



Here in Mobile, more so than in other places, parents use nonsense and euphemisms to describe their children's worlds. Such that: Boys have wee wees, girls do not. However, everyone tee tees and potties.
I'm a big grammar aficionado, however it is difficult to determine just how letters and nouns became verbs and pronouns came to represent nouns to which they are unrelated. It's all very confusing.

But, since we live here, I have discouraged the kids from shouting penis. So, the word for genitalia in daily usage (and because we have boys, there is ALWAYS a daily usage) has become tenders. While I am no expert, it seems as though the name seems apt, as men's genitalia do seem pretty tender, and also, it's nicer than nuts or whatever.

So, "MOM! He hit me in the tenders!" or "MOM! I fell on my bike and hurt my tenders!" or "MOM! Don't look at my tenders!" (The last invariably as the speaker is standing on his head nude in the kitchen while I'm making dinner.)

Now, to move the story forward, the only thing that preschool boys are obsessed with more than their tenders is junk food. And since their birth, the boys have eaten nothing but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and chicken nuggets. Thank you, by the way, to Ronald MacDonald who coined the vague term nugget for the equally vague ingredients of whatever goes in a chicken 'food product.' Now, all unidentifiable fried chicken bits are universally known as nuggets.

Except at this one restaurant. That called them chicken tenders. It said it right on the menu, "chicken tenders." And I made the mistake of failing to translate "tender" into "nugget" for S.

You see where this is going, right?

"So, do you want the hot dog, the macaroni, or the chicken tenders?"
*Snicker* *Snort* "Tenders. Heh heh."

"Chicken NUGGETS. Do you want the chicken nuggets?"

"Are chicken nuggets REALLY chickens' tenders?"

"No. They're part of the chickens' breast meat."
"BREAST?!? Heheh."
"No, dopey. Breast meat is muscle. Like this part on you." *poke*

"Have you ever seen a chicken's tenders?"
"No. Have YOU ever seen a chicken's NUGGETS? No. They're different words for the same piece of cut up chicken meat. Do you want the chicken nuggets or not?"

"Fine. Chicken nuggets."

"An excellent choice."

I am quiet for a moment, wondering if I should resuscitate this now defunct subject. I decide to just lob one out there for him:

"By the way. Only roosters have tenders."

Forecast

My biorhythms are off. There's a whole lot of evidence that points to my being out of synch. Including the fact that I had to retype rhythms like 15 times because I couldn't spell it correctly.
Everything is off today. My ears are all echo-y. The kids are squirrely and it's pissing me off in a disproportionate fashion. M snuck up on the kids and me at breakfast and BOO!'d us. It actually just pissed me off.
I've gone through the usual suspects. But I've taken my medication. I'm not hungover. I don't think I have a cold. Which leaves only one possibility.
Oh, no.
Dread.
Crap.
PMS.
Perfect Month, Shot.

I think for a while, doctors were prescribing Yaz (or another medication with an X or a Z) for people with severe PMS. But I think they found that caused people's hearts to explode or something. They actually have a term for severe PMS, (though doctors have a term for everything) which is PMDD. Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder.

I love that. PMDD. Because BFH (bitch from hell) just doesn't have the same clinical ring to it, does it?

Well, my PMDD is flaring up. And like other things that flare up--herpes, hemorrhoids, shingles--my self-diagnosed PMDD is making me cranky. I can't even stand myself. Lesser humans might as well start beating themselves with shovels when they see me. Save me the trouble of having to go get my shovel.

I'm very very intolerant. And mean. OOOOOO-WEEEEE. Mean. Like one of those horrible rodent things...badgers or wolverines. Snarly, even.

Today's plan was to:

1. Wait for the painters who have come to fix the flood (finally)
2. Pick up the house just a bit
3. Run a load of laundry
4. Shower
5. Head over to the Eastern Shore to let the kids play with friends in the fountains there
6. Pick up something easy to make for dinner
7. Make dinner
8. Go to bed

Today's plan has been amended to suit the shift in my mood:

1. Where the hell are the painters? It's 9:20. I went down to the paint store in the Loop at 6:40 this morning to make sure they had paint to use. The least they could do is get here during business hours.
2. The housekeeper was here YESTERDAY, for chrissakes. How could there be crap to pick up already? We weren't even HOME for most of the day. Ingrates. Slobs. They should pick up after themselves.
3. Heaps. Mounds of laundry. I'll run some towels. At least they don't need to be ironed.
4. Ugh. Shower means hair wash. Hair wash means blow dry. Blow dry means actually taking cool air, heating it, and then blowing it back into the house where we pay to have it cooled back down again. When it's a million and half degrees outside. Sounds like a BRILLIANT idea. But, of course, if I don't blow dry, I go outside looking like a homeless person or Courtney Love. And since I already have a face breakout rivaling that of a hormone-riddled teenager, I should probably stay away from the whole grunge ensemble. I'll look like a meth addict.
5. Herd the little ingrates into the car. Pack the little ingrates' clothing. Make sure there's sunblock so the little ingrates don't get skin cancer. Pack food so the little ingrates don't starve. Haul them across the bay while listening to them bicker and squabble in the back seat. Listen to them complain about how cold the water is/how hot the sun is/too many kids to play in the fountain/not enough kids to play with. Drive ingrates home. Listen to them bicker and snipe in the back seat.
6. Pick up something easy for dinner. "I don't like that. I won't eat this. I want to eat bubble gum ice cream with cookies for dinner." Bring food home. Make dinner. Beg and bribe ingrates to eat dinner. Clean up dinner.
7. Drink. Alcoholic beverage consumption does not actually need to be put on the To-Do list of a non-alcoholic. However, as I am beastly unpleasant to be with (even for myself) a cocktail is an imperative. There might even be more than one. Drink is definitely on the To-Do list of some one suffering from self-diagnosed PMDD.
8. Go to bed. With a heating pad, no doubt. By 9. Yell at the kids who won't be asleep before me. Toss and turn with nightmares generated by the foul vapours of my own body chemistry. Hope for the best.
   

Tomorrow's forecast: ominous, dark, unpredictable thunderstorms of illogical ranting and raving. Followed by irritability and crankiness for the next 5 to 7 days. Then, clearing. Partly sunny. But only partly--did you expect miracles?

There are certain things I will not do:

1. Pet, look at, admire, or in any way associate with amphibians.

2. Clean a grease trap.

3. Smell something my kids tell me to.

4. Eat meat from a can.



Other things, I am good with. I changed diapers for 6 consecutive years. No problem. Dog poop? Covered. Nasty mildewy unidentifiable things? Got it. Spiders? Eight legged memories.



One thing above all else, I will not handle. I have had a problem with it since I was a child. It borders on phobia, though phobias are irrational fears. And, in my very unbiased opinion, this is a very rational fear: vomit.

Dog vomit is borderline. After years with Maddie, I realized dog vomit was a fact of life, and could pretty much tolerate it. In fact, toward the end of her life, vomit was so regular, I would hear her preparing to puke, and would just throw my hands under her muzzle to catch it, so as to avoid mess.

Milk-fed baby vomit is acceptable. God knows, S brought up rivers of it. On me, on furniture, on dog, on carpet, on clothes, on just about anything you can imagine. Curdled milk is its own grossness, but it doesn't cross that border into partially digested human food.

When vomit happens, as it occasionally does, I scream for M. No matter what he was doing, or where, he must address the vomit issue immediately. With bleach, or the most powerful cleaner the surface will tolerate. And air freshener. And laundry. And bath for the vomiter. He has to do all of that. Immediately. Thoroughly. A whiff of vomit and I am done for. Bring me the bucket. I do not clean it, wipe it, hold other people's hair for them while they do it, or in any way contact vomit.
In fact, once in high school, a friend combined expired, unrefrigerated Long Island Ice Tea mix, cantaloupe, and clove cigarettes. I think it was the cloves that pushed her over the edge, but in any event, rummy cantaloupe wound up all over the floor. I have not eaten melon since then.

Sunday night, E begins crying that his tummy hurts. He's writhing and cramping on his bed. I console and comfort and snuggle until I hear that tell- tale churning in his stomach and throat. I'm half way out of the room by the time the vomit hits the floor. (Thank goodness we no longer have carpet in there.) M, vomit cleaner extraordinaire, swoops into the rescue. He's wiping, throwing away, toweling, spraying, and cleaning as I airdrop cleaning supplies. Finally, 45 minutes of the Oscar show later, M and I are back in bed, and E feels better all tucked into clean sheets. Two hours later, I am awoken by S running in saying his stomach hurts so bad. Warily, I bring in a bucket, tuck him in some blankets, and let him sleep on the floor. I am not even back in bed when I hear a grizzly sound:
the sound of a dog about to vomit. I try desperately to grab Clooney and take him into the bathroom, but with S on the floor, and the bucket, and the disorientation of the middle of the night, I have no chance. He barfs on the rug. M wearily gets out of bed and begins the cleaning ritual.
S, meanwhile is whimpering and suffering, so I carry him to his bed to sleep so that M can try to rest at least some before Monday. I lay down next to S and some indeterminable time later, he rushes out of bed. Fortunately, he is an old vomiting pro. He makes it to the bathroom, and bullseyes it into the toilet. Woohoo! I spend the rest of the night cuddling him, and we are all undisturbed until morning.
Then, yesterday. Yesterday, S managed to put down two un-iced cinnamon rolls. And some apple juice. Everyone, including the dog, was vomit free all day, which is good, because my vomit cleaner upper was at work, and I'd hate for him to have to come home to clean! But, just after 4 PM, just when I thought we were in the clear, I hear the worst sound from upstairs. I was just sitting at my computer, and I heard liquid hit the floor upstairs. Lots of it. Like some one turned on the hose. I bolt up the stairs, and the unmistakable scent of Apple Jacks hits me. Fortunately, S's vomit was only apple-jackey, because I was able to clean it up all by myself. I got it all wiped up and the floor scrubbed and the linens washed. Just in time for M to walk in.
"S puked in our room," I say.
Unbuttoning his cuffs, looking weary from a long Monday, he sighs, "I'll go clean it."
"I did it already." I am bursting with pride.
"Great. Sigh."
It's not like I accomplished a great feat. In fact, it wasn't that hard at all, because there was no stink. But I was still pretty full of myself. Sometimes overcoming a fear is more of a personal celebration. But M didn't look like he was ready to give me an award or anything.

Exorcising...Exercising

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

Butter's Good

Every August, the Discovery Channel airs Shark Week. Invariably, the producers of a show do something absolutely ridiculous, like pulverize an entire herd of sheep and dump the chum into the water to see what happens. Generally, an armada of bullet-headed sharks arrive out of nowhere and turn the camera man's shark cage into a frothing, chaotic feeding frenzy. The narrator describes how the sharks go out of control, occasionally chomping at steel fragments of the shark cage or fiberglass sections of the research vessel, completely disoriented and eating everything in a fantastic orgy of food.
Every November, there is Thanksgiving. Americans, already fattened to the brink of physical boundaries find themselves at tables laden with more food than most countries will ever see. Passing, grabbing, stuffing, gorging on food that barely registers on the taste buds. I am pretty sure that at our table, some one passed the butter, and while it was temporarily in his hands on the way to the naked dinner roll, he just went ahead and ate some of the butter. Plain. Because, hey, it was there, and this is the day we eat, dammit.
But, my parents were here. And that is a first for us. In all the years of my marriage, we have always gone to my parents' house. Although my sister and her husband were at his family's house this year (hehe), my kids were here, my husband was here, my parents were here. It was Thanksgiving Dinner at Our House. Things are always different at my house when my parents are here.
This was an ACTUAL conversation between my kids and my mother last night:
Scene: family room, Hot Wheels strewn all over, nearly comatose adults watching football, kids actively playing and begging for dessert. Adults represent a chorus as in the tradition of the Greek Theater.
S: Can we have dessert? I'm hungry.
Adults: Moan. Don't talk about food.
E: What do we have for dessert?
Grandma: Lemon cake.
S: Ew. I hate lemon cake. (S hates everything right now, and has not even had lemon cake. For the record.)
Adults: Too much food. Don't talk about food. Was that pass interference?
G: There is rainbow sherbet in the fridge.
S: Oooh. Yum.
Grandma rises and serves ice cream to the children. Children go off to kitchen to eat ice cream.
One Adult to the next: I think I might have eaten butter. Like plain. Off the butter dish.
Adult #2 responds: Yeah, I heard about that.
Grandma, from family room: Kids!?!? Please hurry and eat your ice cream so I can clean up your cars.
Kids: But what about the lemon cake?!!?
Grandma: You can have the lemon cake after you help me clean up your mess.
Kids: Oh, man. That's not fair.
Grandma cleans family room.
Kids watch.
Adults: First Down! Off sides! Penalty! Kick! Score!
Kids return to kitchen to eat lemon cake.
Grandma retreats to kitchen to serve it to them.
Adults remain on couch.
Grandfather: You know, the kids have been fairly well behaved this week.
Parents: It's tough for them when grandma is around. What with having to supervise the cleaning in between desserts. The Pilgrims had it easy compared to my kids.
Adult #1: Was that butter or some kind of margarine? I'm just asking, what with my cholesterol.
Adult #2: Nope. Butter.
Adults, as one: Too much food. Stop talking about food.
Curtain.

Good Jewish Mothers Are Always Prepared...

Yesterday, I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to busy to post. In fact, I was so distracted that the chicken soup I started making stayed on the stove with the burner on for 5 hours while I was out with the kids doing music class etc. I had completely forgotten about it. Surprisingly, my soup was not ruined, nor did my house burn down. Woohoo!
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.

Live Long and Prosper?

I had to go to the Dr. to get the girlie bits checked out today. Ugh. Worst. Exams. EVER. But, I survived. I also had ample time to check out all the women who came through the waiting room. There were the super skinny, perfectly coifed Spring Hill Moms. There were some former SHM's turned grannies. There were some women clearly having a harder time of it: raggedy clothes, and damaged teeth. There was a woman in front of me who said she couldn't fill out the registration form--could she not read or write? Had a muscle condition? She was having a rough day, regardless, when they told her she wasn't on the books for today, she began to cry. And I felt fortunate.
And I was trying hard not to touch anything. And reading the brochure on the physician's OTHER partnership--a weight loss clinic. That's gotta be a lucrative market. Then, I was reading Prevention (while trying not to touch it), or some other magazine sitting on the faux Louis XV coffee table, and I was reading about health and humor and longevity and blah blah.
First, I started to wonder if decorator for the doctor's office just Googled "women art" and hung posters of everything that turned up. Then, I wondered if a positive attitude really does affect your health. Then, humor: "laughter heals" the magazine says. A good attitude and sense of humor help you age, cope with disease, and to some extent improve your health. That's great, I think. I'm funny. I should live to be 90!
Then, I realize, that my humor is not positive. It's really a way of living with everything negative and ugly and dumb in the world around me (and in myself, of course). My humor might really be a symptom of a very crappy life outlook. Well, that's not good.
So, I thought about my morning. And how I was a little bit foul with my friend, MT. I made fun of the clerk at the fitness center who was trying to explain her billing policy with bank transfer. First off, there was no way I was going to give this mental giant my bank information. Second, her nose hair was very distracting. Third, she did this REALLY ANNOYING thing that people do: she pointed to a brochure and read it aloud to me. People do this with Powerpoint, displays, presentations, seminars, and informational sessions all the time. I CAN READ. Tell me something that is not on the freaking sheet/screen. She blathered on and on and ON about when I would have to transfer the money for my monthly bill to be paid on time. The sign reads: Transfer on the 25th of each month for bill to be paid by the 5th of the next month's deadline.
Self Explanatory?
NO. Agony ensues. She proceeds to explain thus, "So, let's say on the 25th of August, you needed to pay your monthly dues. So you would have to transfer the money on that day, for it to be paid by..."
Let me guess--the 5th of September? By the time she finished explaining her bank transfer brochure (which was ONE PAGE), MT's three year old looked as bored as I felt. "So," I interrupt. "Do you take credit card?"
Just stop talking.
She asks if we want a tour of the facility (which is one, big, round room.) We promise not to touch and to check it out on our own. At which time, she points to every compass point of the room and tells us what's there. Thanks.
In the end, I decided not to join, not just because of the permanently befuddled front desk nose hair, but because I'd feel guilty paying to use a cardio room when I have a treadmill and the weather's cooling off, and because I'd only go to one class per week.
Long story, short. I was laughing at this woman, which is humor. But being mean, which is NOT a positive outlook. So am I gonna enjoy great health and longevity or not?
Dammit. I'd like to know so I can plan for imminent death. Or make a hair appointment.

Twelve Steps

I have blogged before about my addiction to Bejeweled (sweet, I got 2 scores of 100K plus yesterday!) and today I am considering the lifestyle of a junkie. Because I did something last night that I regret: I ate Chinese food.
First off, I LOVE Chinese food. What a delicious combination of sweet, fried, spicy and YUM. Sadly, though, I usually order it when I am starving, and of course gorge on it. But like an abusive husband or a recovering addict, the second I finish my food, I instantly regret it. I feel so sorry. I apologize to myself for the oncoming swelling, water retention, weight gain, and stomach cramping. I know I will rue the carb fest the next time I step on the scale. But, oh, General Tso, how I adore you. And potstickers, with your cute and self-descriptive little name, and oh lo mein and greasy egg rolls. The delicious corn syrupy goodness.
As I was sitting in my post-gorge haze last night, I was thinking about how clearly INauthentic Chinese food from the take out place in Mobile, Alabama must be. First of all, the most productive nation in the world couldn't possibly eat that on any regular basis. Three billion people would be in a diabetic sugar coma half the time after their breakfast of sesame chicken. After eating Chinese food, I stumble to the nearest comfortable seating and stay there, in a nearly drunken stupor, listening to my poor liver try to process all that glucose and fat. (My liver actually does make a sound when it works that hard) Second, three billion people would weigh 90 trillion pounds. The total lack of anything resembling a protein or vegetable (I mean there were some vegetables that might have been green once, but were now just a delicious saucy brown.) would suggest an entire country of malnourished souls. And while China has food issues, it's not like EVERYONE is starving in the streets.
Not that I am complaining, mind you. I probably wouldn't eat authentic Chinese food with such gusto as I consume its Americanized counterpart. I think of all so called ethnic food--Indian, Mexican, Italian, British and then I think of its hyper-sugary, overly salted, dumbed down American version. Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Long John Silver's (that's the fish n chips British food, in case you were wondering why I included it)...are secret guilty pleasures, (well except for LJS. I really find the idea of fast food fish completely revolting.) And they are all ridiculously bad for me. When I go home to SoCal, I can find authentic Mexican food--tamales, chile rellenos, carnitas, guacamole that is as it should be--dairy free--food that is not overly salted, fatty, generic re-combinations of cheese, beans and salsa. I have always felt that the Taco Bell menu should be used in permutations and combinations math classes. The restaurant receives massive orders of beef (?), cheese, rice and beans and then recombines them in various proportions and ways. Maybe I would have done better in math class with that kind of hands-on explanation. But regardless, the resemblance between The Bell and real Mexican food is purely coincidental.
When I have had the good fortune to be in Italy, I think of the fresh mozzarella and tomato salads, the light, flavorful pasta sauces, the delicious meats not bathing in thick red gravy. All washed down with a remarkably palatable wine that cost next to nothing. And all the skinny Italian women walking blocks and blocks in their stiletto heels, not waddling in a post carb stupor.
So, while I'd like to blame the cultural wasteland of America for my revolting food binge last night, I will accept personal responsibility for it. I pigged out. Gross. Wish I could sit in the freezer until the fat in my blood separated out and hardened and I could skim it all off. (Wow, that turned out more graphic than expected.) I am filled with regret and plan to start over with Step number one: accept that I cannot just eat a small quantity of Chinese food, and therefore should never eat any.
I should stick to the other bastardized food imports, perhaps: pizza for dinner?

The Throne

From the ongoing The Bathroom saga: I went toilet shopping.

I wasn't originally going to replace the toilet in The Bathroom, but after slavishly working to replace every inch of everything in there, it felt somehow sacrilege to put an old crapper back in.

I go to Lowe's, my new Mecca. (Can you get a frequent shopper's discount?) I start looking at toilets.

Holy crap.

Truth be told, even I, who notice crooked grout lines, did not know there were so many freaking toilets to choose from. Low ones, high ones, oval seats, round seats, one piece, two piece (the bikini model), tall tanks, stout tanks, toilets that look like Roman columns, toilets that look like Grecian Urns. There were cream ones, bisque ones, bright white ones, regular white ones, pink ones, ones with seats that looked like seashells, ones that looked like some sort of bizarre recliners. TOO MANY CHOICES.

So, I start to narrow down the selections. First, I look at price. There are $100 toilets. $300 toilets. $700 toilets. $700 for a toilet? Does it shpritz my tush when I'm done? For $700, it had better. Does it scrub itself? For $700, it should. For $700, it should pleasure my lady bits when I sit on it. $700 for a toilet, when at least half the world is still crapping in a hole. (Not one, collective hole, mind you. Gross.)

Next, I look at features. Appropriately, when it comes to ranking features, the basic comparison is a flush rating. One star flush? That's not going to cut the mustard around here. Three star flush? That's going to probably handle a kiddie pooh, but not the I-Just-Ate-A-Chili-Dog-And-Hope-I-Make-It-Home turd. Five star flush? Now we're talking! Per the box, the Champion Toilet can flush a bucket of golf balls. Who the hell tests that? Is that going to be the flush power I need? The toilets in our house in Columbia could handle Hot Wheels, but not cell phones. So, that's probably, what...four star flush? Also, is there any kid in the universe who uses the appropriate amount of toilet paper? I mean, either they are wiping massive diarrhea with ONE single ply square OR they use a half-roll wad to kill a silverfish in the tub. Will a five star flush handle that?

In the end, I did buy the Champion toilet. It's going to be installed Monday. It had better live up to its name, that's all I have to say.

Squirrel Food

Kids are funny. I think they are funniest when they don't mean to be at all. I am not really into Stooge humor. I don't like it when S flops or crashes into things for slapstick effect. His rubber face is slightly funnier, but that's usually when he's not trying. E, of course has a totally different humor. His is verbal and he is experimenting with riddles and puns. Puns are one of the staples of my humor, so I am happy to see him fostering this style. This week, though, S dropped a couple of funnies of his very own.
First he saw an obese woman. He leans over and says "That is a BIG, FAT woman." I said, "Honey, it's not polite to talk about some one's size. It would hurt her feelings." He responds with "Then she's a LITTLE, FAT woman." Ah, yes. The concrete thinker.
This morning, he brings me a squirrel turd. He says it is a teeny tiny acorn that he saw a little squirrel drop.
I NEVER share these kinds of stories, because it seems like they're never real. These are real. Promise.
J

Things that go BOOM! in the night

Rednecks love stuff that blows up. Where does that come from? I have spent time at beaches all over the world. This is the first time I’ve been to a beach where every night, something blew up. Fireworks, mostly. But still. Symptoms of a larger fascination.
Monster trucks, NASCAR, guns, turkey fryers, demolition derbies, rubbish fires (slow burn, but still combustion in some form), ATVs, backfiring 1976 Chevy Impalas, muffler-less motorcycles and man-oh-man, those Army Navy surplus stores.
Tree Huggers in the Northwest abhor explosions. I am sure that Oregonians and Washingtonians have gone their entire lives without hearing the distinctive burst of gunpowder. It would disrupt their Zen. Northeasterners are very wary of combustion in any form and generally contact homeland security.
But Southerners, bless their hearts, they love the big kablewie. The payoff at the end of a short fuse. The bliss of explosion, cheap cans of beer, and the inevitable woo-hoo. And the woo-hoo is a big part of the bliss, let me tell you. The audible confirmation, the seizing of glory and responsibility for the detonation of some small combination of fuel and oxygen.
My current theory, andof course, I am qualified to opine on this subject based on my newly acquired status as blogger, is based on the Redneck’s stunted maturation on some Freudian level. The adolescent love for the fart joke. These grandiose displays of noise and occasional flames are nothing more than overgrown infatuation with the fart. Passing gas, for those of you who are not 5 years old, or a redneck, is HILARIOUS. I mean the sound, the accusatory glances, the wafting odor. Terrific. The apex of bodily function. The primeval proof that we exist. What better metaphor to extend a more existential affirmation of our existence than a manufactured fart? A synthesized, amplified cry to the world about one’s being. Ta-da. I am human. I am here. You can sense me. Woo-hoo.