We Need to Retire this Whole "Jealousy" Theory

Among afterschool programs, very special episodes of sitcoms, and the comments sections of popular mommy blogs, a theory is advanced that makes me wince so hard my husband thinks that I'm having a labor flashback:

"They are just being mean to you because they are jealous."

NO. No. Many times no. People can just be mean, plain and simple. I know you don't need evidence, but here's a little slice of my adolescence...

There was this kid, Joey, on my bus in middle school and high school. He was mentally challenged, and he didn't take any crap from anyone. So he'd volley insults with the kids that sat at the back of the bus. This would stoke their desire to pick on him even more, and it would continue until the bus driver or one of us intervened on his behalf. Those kids weren't picking on him because they were jealous of him. They were picking on him because they were bullies.

Here's the real deal: it is human nature to want to be valued. In the absence of feeling valued, people will substitute feeling better than someone else. And some jerks decide that by highlighting someone else's flaws, it will be clear to their audience that they are better than their victims. See? Jerks.

Also? Sometimes people don't agree with your beliefs, your humor, the way you conduct yourself, the way you raise your child. And they are uncouth enough to voice it, or type it, sometimes with swearing. That's the unfortunate side of living in a society instead of going all Howard Hughes and spinning a cocoon around ourseles. The thing is, people are allowed to have differences of opinion, and while it would be nice if they expressed their exuberant disagreement in nicer ways, well, sometimes that doesn't happen.

Maybe knowing the motivations of someone else's ire is the spoonful of sugar that makes the insults, the negative opinions, easier to swallow. But calling it jealousy does us all a disservice, don't you think? Because when we do that, we (a) weave this fantasy that everyone would be nice if they didn't have unfulfilled desires, and (b) imply that bullying is not a result of another person's flawed personality so much as it is the fringe benefit of our own qualities. In other words, we must be better than them for them to pick on us out of jealousy.

So, yeah, anyway, before you get the wrong idea: I haven't been the target hateful comments or anything like that. I've just seen this "they're jealous of you" rationale popping up in loads of places, like Wack-a-Mole. And since I have a kid that will be joining the Pre-K fray, I know that we are teetering on the brink of bullies and nastiness. I'm just trying to get my philosophy in order before it creeps up on us. Expect the best, plan for the worst, right?

But, if you hear me telling the Boy that other kids are picking on him because they are jealous of him, you have my full permission to give me a swirly.

The Boy's Education Is Shaping Up Nicely

A recent conversation with the Boy:

Me: Who's your favorite superhero, Boy?

The Boy: Batman!

Me: And who is Batman's best friend?

The Boy: Robin.

Me: And who is Batman's archenemy? Who's the villain?

The Boy: [quizzical expression]

Me: Do you know what a villain is? [I expect him to say, "a bad guy," if anything.]

The Boy: The villain is a goon, and his name is [dramatic pause] the Joker!

Super Ninja melted into a puddle of giggles. The pride that he has in his son's proper use of the word "goon" cannot be overstated.

Henna 'n' WHAT?!?

I went to CVS today to pick up a prescription for Super Ninja, and whilst I waited for the pharmacist to do her thang, I perused the hair care aisle. Since dandelion fluff springs forth from my skull, I like to keep up with the latest frizz taming ointments. And that is where I saw this Frankenproduct:

I would love to know who said to herself, "Know what I think would be awesome for my tresses? Placenta. Yep, I'm going to get me some placenta and rub it in really well."

Crikey.

I Am a Relationship Expert (well, Google thinks I am)

An inordinate number of readers come to this site via Google searches using a combination of the words/phrases "man," "woman," "questions," and "don't ask." Based on my stat counter, many of them leave after zero seconds, so they figure out pretty quickly that I have no idea what I'm talking about and they must go to other fun links, like, "Asian man/black woman dating question? - Yahoo! Answers."

Sidenote: WHY would you go to Yahoo! Answers for some advice on that topic?

I'm suffering from blockage (AGAIN), so you get to hear all about my blog stats. Because you will love that information, and absorb it, and dissect it over your own dinner table later today, won't you? WON'T YOU?!?

Meh. It's a beautiful day. Methinks I will go stomping around the 'hood and see if any misadventures lay themselves at my feet.

I Owe My Life to Robert Culp

Who's Robert Culp, you ask? Philistine! Among many other fine roles, he played Bill Maxwell on 'The Greatest American Hero,' one of the greatest live-action superhero television TV series of all time.

Last weekend, I was hanging out at my parents' house, and I infiltrated my father's Bat Cave. His den is in the basement, and the perimeter is completely covered with books. Top to bottom, left to right, covered in books. Even the windows have been bricked over with books. Pulp noir, science fiction, psychology, history -- really, every genre is represented. And, as I am wont to do, I plucked a tome off of the shelf and thumbed through it. My discerning choice? A Big Little Book. David Copperfield, I believe it was.

My father saw me flipping through it and told Super Ninja and me a little story I'd never heard before... One night in the mid-seventies, Dad was kicking back watching the Tonight Show. Robert Culp was a guest, and if my IMDB detective work is worth anything, he was likely there to plug his latest project, "Inside Out." But the real meat of the conversation centered on Mr. Culp's latest collecting obsession -- Big Little books.

My Dad's ears pricked up, for he too was a collector of Big Little books. So what did my entrepreneurial/needing-cash Pop do? He wrote a letter to Mr. Culp, care of the Tonight Show, to say that he had a load of Big Little books, and would Mr. Culp care to purchase any of them? Mr. Culp wrote back that indeed, he was interested. Dad sent his list of 70 books to Mr. Culp, who ended up buying fifty of them for $500.

"And that $500 paid for," Dad said, "you!"

Howzabout that? My genesis was paid for by books. I should've known, what with all of the reading and the writing. And the being big and little at the same time.

I Finally Found a Perfectly Sized Desk and Chair!

Only problem was, it was in an elementary school. That's right, I was lurking in an elementary school today. Lock up your kids!

Why was I hunched over a mini-desk? I was filling out paperwork 'cause the Boy is ripe for schoolin', and as responsible parents, we are investigating the options. Today's adventure was in the local public school. It doesn't have such great ratings on unreliable "recommendation" sites like GreatSchools.net, but it's percentage of students proficient on standardized tests is decent. Of course, that system is crazy flawed as well...

Sigh.

The school has a new principal, so I figured I'd reserve judgment until I see a Pre-K class there. But yikes, do they require a lot of paperwork. Pre-K programs in public school 'round these parts are a rarity, and they need ironclad proof that you live within the school's boundaries. I think they were thisclose to asking me if they could follow me home. We'll find out in a couple of weeks whether we made the short list -- earnings are taken into consideration when deciding who gets to go to Pre-K at the school. So, Super Ninja and I may actually make too much money to be able to send our kid to public school. WHAT?

There's a Catholic school option that's on the table, but I think I told you that I had a visceral (not good) reaction to God being infused in every aspect of education. Me, I like compartmentalization. That's not the only reservation I have about Ye Olde Catholic school. The classrooms were former nun cells (no, really, that's what they call dorm rooms in religious living quarters!). The school knocked down walls in between the cells, so they have these oddly shaped, long, skinny classrooms that don't seem all that conducive to learning. Oh, and there was the one classroom were four-year-olds were doing an arts and crafts project (semi-unattended), and there were scissors the size of hedge clippers on the table. If the Yakuza crashed through the windows, the kids would be prepared, I guess.

I'm scheduling an appointment at another joint, but it's a daycare center/Pre-K facility. And those places confuse me, 'cause the whole point of sending the Boy to Pre-K is so that he can associate with other four-year-olds while he's ciphering and graphing.

Gah. I would SO much rather be watching a stupid movie than trying to figure out the first formal stepping stone in my precious tot's educational career.

Laurel Ink

I'm all tatted up. A tiny Incredible Hulk decorates my left bicep. Look how hip I am!

Okay, okay, he's a temporary tattoo. The Boy got it in some birthday party favor cornucopia a few weeks ago, and I thought it would be somewhat hilarious to paste it on my own mudflap of an arm. I didn't slap it on the Boy because there was an excellent chance that he would freak out about it, and I have NO idea what "temporary" means in this instance. It would be more appealing to burn off my eyelashes than watch the Boy scratch at the tat until it came off.

Since I became the Illustrated Woman, though, the weather in the Mid-Atlantic has been delightful. Which means that one could (and should) wear sleeveless shirts under cardigans or some such. Here's the pickle: my office gets magma-hot sometimes (the HVAC system can't keep up with the weather). And in those moments I would like to shed my sweater. BUT I CAN'T BECAUSE THEN EVERYONE WILL KNOW MY INCREDIBLE HULK SHAME.

Ugh. I just want the thing gone, but several showers and steel wool sponge baths later, it's still there. I always knew that I wasn't that tattoo sort. Not because I favor a Pottery Barn-ish style of living, but because there isn't much that has been such a constant in my life that I can see permanently decorating myself with it. I mean, sheesh, if I went with what I loved at 14, I'd probably have a big fat Depeche Mode logo on my ankle. At 24, something John Cusack-y, like the outline of Lloyd Dobbler holding up the boom box in 'Say Anything.'

Cringing. I would be cringing if I had to stare at those images on my vessel.

Buy My Junk!

So, I'm hawking stuff on eBay. The amount of time this can take up is outrageous, because I have to do Very Important Things like weigh a MEGA Meatwad "action" figure so that I can accurately calculate its shipping cost and not be accused of being a robber baron by the anonymous denizens of eBay land. Friggin' ratings system.

Selling this stuff is Part the Second of my spring cleaning, about which I posted a particularly scintillating entry. I got the idea from cable TV shows with a mission to teach you how not to be a complete and utter slob/packrat. They make participating clutterbugs create three piles: keep, trash, sell. Into each of these categories ALL of your junk must fall. Over the years, there's a random assortment of stuff we either (a) have but don't use, (b) received as gifts but never used, and (c) were part of the wages of the toy company for which we worked. I'm using the Royal We for Part C.

The thing is, the stuff the sells the best is the stuff that I earned while working for the toy company. But when theres's some interest in "my" stuff -- clothes that I never wore, or shoes that I only wore once or twice -- I find it strangely validating. Weird, eh?

Spectacle!

Back in the day, when I was bleeding Hoya blue, I took a playwrighting class taught by the legendary Donn B. Murphy*.

Anyhoo, he taught me many things about writing, and three of them really resonated:

1) Anything -- a play, a novel, a short story, a screenplay, a comic book -- should be able to be summarized in one sentence. That's not to say that plots can't be complicated, but if you can't express the gist of it in one sentence, then the plot is probably too complicated (or the way you are thinking about it is too complicated).

2) An audience automatically feels warmly toward a character who gives a gift. Well, okay, if the gift is a head in a box or something like that, the character might not get a lotta love. But you get the idea.

3) SPECTACLE. Donn B. seem to be all kinds of tired of talkity-talk-talk with no spectacle in the theater. He said that you don't need a July 4th's worth of fireworks or anything like that, but you do need a moment that's bigger than the normal humdrum of life. His emphasis of this point could have been a result of his having taught college students for decades, whom I have to imagine wrote incessantly about "unique" experiences, like being dumped or being away from home for the first time. Ugh. These wunderkinds probably set all of their plays in waiting rooms or dorms, too.

But anyway, that last one is all kinds of true, and BOY HOWDY did Teller (of Penn & Teller fame) deliver on the spectacle in the Folger's (now closed) run of "MacBeth**." Floating knives, streaks of blood manifesting on Lady MacBeth, people disappearing and reappearing in (seemingly) plain view, blood gushing from neck wounds, well, YOWZA. Call me a rube for not appreciating the lyrical stylings of Shakespeare by itself, but all of these sleights-of-hand and redirections really amped up the performance. The actors were stellar, and not overshadowed by the trickery. So now, I want to see a bunch of other plays in the Shakespeare catalog get Tellerfied...The Tempest, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Hamlet...all are ripe for the glamours, I think.

*If you do not know Donn B., trust, he is legendary. In his late seventies, he would careen around the streets of Georgetown on a Hog. His partner is always -- and only -- referred to as "The Colonel." Another is that he threatened to castrate Super Ninja if Super Ninja did not return the gong (that's right -- gong) that he was borrowing for his theater troupe's production of Camino Real.

**Since I didn't refer to it as the Scottish play, I need spin around in a counter-clockwise circle or something, right?

Four of You Will Understand this Post

Best misspelling to date:

Vongham

Rise of the Dead

I'm an incredible snoop. Blame my childhood, wherein I had zero personal space. Seriously. I shared a bed until I was nine. Which, when you think about it, was probably worse for my older sister.

But anyway...

In this age of interwebs, my snoopishness has really only gotten worse. I really shouldn't have the opportunity to investigate what's happening with friends or acquaintances. If they wanted me to know, they would've told me, right? I suppose I could just not snoop, but if shelved a favorite pasttime, then I probably wouldn't have found the greatest exchange of comments on IMDB ever.

I'm not going to tell you who my acquaintance is, but some of my tens of readers will know the person. Besides, I think we can all enjoy the comments on Rise of the Dead just the same.

Emerging from the Wreckage

Wow, that sounds dramatic, doesn't it? Super Ninja and I moved into our manse* four years ago. That was pre-Boy and Girl, whose accouterments made the storage areas in my basement look like the Death Star's trash compactor. For all of you who are not familiar with the Star Wars oeuvre, let's just say it was a wee cluttered. Actually, it looked like a maniac had been in charge of organization and storage chez moi. And, this is true.

For the past four years (i.e., while I was pregnant, post partum, nursing, repeat) Super Ninja has been in charge of finding places to store stuff. The only problem with this? He likes things to be done, and likes them to be done NOW. And little things like being able to retrieve things that have been chucked willy nilly into a closet? PAH! Those concerns get in the way of immediate completion of a task. It matters not that hurling a baby walker atop a teetering stack of Christmas decorations is a recipe for a concussion.

But I am not in one of my childbearing cycles, and I'm feelin' pretty energetic. And dismayed, chagrined, and all out annoyed by the junked up "style" of parts of my home. Couple those things with the fact that Tetris is my all-time fave video game, and I was just itching to commence a royal de-clutter.

I can't say that the two days I dedicated to this endeavor have been quite enough. Nay, the are not nearly enough. But I'm almost there. I've got two shopping bags and a box going to the Salvation Army, another box going to Friends of Libraries, a huge bag o'goodies going to my infant nephew, and two 60-gallon trash cans filled to the brim. Oh, and did I mention the eBay piles? That last bit will probably just confirm that my junk is only special to me, but you never know.

So, anyway, just wanted to let you know why my posting's been a bit sparse lately. If you are good boys and girls, p'raps I will soon bore you with tales of home renovation! Ooh! Aah!

*By "manse," I mean a 3-bedroom, 2.5 bath townhome. With 1700 livable square feet. Boo-yah!

Dear Kathi,

I might take your critique of my spelling error more seriously if you didn't spell your name that way.

Love,

Me

Do You Watch the Wire? Huh? Huh? Do Ya?

Many, many, many people ask me if I watch "The Wire." Seriously. Everyone who knows or suspects that I'm indigenous to Charm City asks if I watch. And I keep telling them that I don't. They groan, physically pained by the fact that a native, with whom they could have Very Important Conversations about the fictional and not-so-fictional aspects of the city, has just chat-blocked them with viewer ignorance.

Well, that's going to change because Super-Ninja's brother and sister-in-law sent us the series on DVD. I know that I will enjoy it, be fascinated and maddened by it. It's a little strange for me, though, because my standard response to "Do you watch 'The Wire?'" was: I've lived and worked here for decades, and I know the reality. I see it on the nightly news, in the daily newspaper. Not to mention that I watched this, this, this, and this*. So, I haven't really felt the burning desire to see another shadowy B'more on the small screen. But I'll give it a shot, because I love me a compelling story, and this show more than any other I've heard about promises a heaping huge delivery of Compelling Story.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, in a rare synesthetic moment, today, I happened upon this article in the Baltimore Sun. All ye watchers of 'The Wire,' read and discuss.

*Okay, not really of the same ilk. But it's about murders in Baltimore, yeah?

I Love Coffee, But...

I don't love it on my pants. And I really don't love it on my pants when I have two meetings today, one of which I am running.

And, I don't know how this happened, but the coffee/pants combo is emitting an aroma akin to one of those awful coffee-flavored hard candies. I would probably dig eau de café if it smelled like a gingerbread latte. But this? Yick.

The Joy of Synonyms

Last night was my night to put the Boy to bed. Super Ninja and I take turns because we would bleed from the ears if one of us were charged with putting the Boy to bed every night. At bedtime, the Boy has an attention span of a puppy. Getting him to focus on ONE book and succumbing to his sleepiness...well it can be a challenge.

Super Ninja often accuses me of actually winding the Boy up though, and in this, he is probably correct. Case in point? I did NOT help the Boy toward Dreamland when I guffawed at his interpretation of a word that was new to him.

We were reading "George Upside Down." At one point, George is sent to a tutor. The Boy pointed at the tutor and said, "He toots, because he's a tooter!"*

Tears. There were tears streaming out of my eyes. I know it's not that funny, but we are rapidly advancing toward the scatological conversations that were oft had at my own childhood dinner table. And oh, the hilarity that will ensue...

*'Toot' is how we refer to the inevitable act of passing gas. I just didn't want to be the parent of the kid who, in a crowded shopping mall, yells something like, "Mom! I just RIPPED ONE!"

What Do You Think of People...

who use anglicized spellings of words (publicise, colour, recognise), but are American? It's an affectation, no?

The Fruits of Construction

There are six dead bugs in the lighting panels in my office. I'm not really sure what kind of bugs they are, or how they came to their final resting place. But I suspect that the high-rise that is being erected next door to my building has something to do with it. I will keep you posted on the carnage as these earth dweller scramble for a new home, and choose poorly.

Did I mention that I'm desperately avoiding e-mail today? You say you guessed that already? Hmph. A woman doesn't like to be too easy to read.

Going Green?

Yesterday, I saw a woman flicking ashes out of her car window as she smoked. And she was driving a Prius. Just seemed contradictory, that's all.

A Phrase Explained

"He wants to have his cake and eat it, too."

That phrase NEVER made sense to me. We all know what it's supposed to be about -- having everything your way even though all of the things you want are contradictory -- but at face value, well, why can't you have cake and eat it? Who has cake, and leaves it sitting in front of him untouched?

But then, Super Ninja and I watched "Micki + Maude" recently, and one of the supporting characters used this expression to describe the main character's spiral into bigamy. Appropriate choice of idiom, yes? An irritated Rob Salinger, the main character, explained to his friend that he'd used the phrase incorrectly. The original saying is this:

"He wants to eat his cake and have it, too."

ONE little transposition of a clause, and suddenly the phrase paints a clear picture of a personality type instead of confusing me. I can only assume that the bastardized version of this expression annoyed Jonathan Reynolds beyond all measure, and he had to dedicated three minutes of a feature film to setting the public straight.

A Gripe with 'Juno'

It's not, "Thundercats are go!" It's "Thunder, thunder, thunder, Thundercats HO!" or "Thunderbirds are go!"

Jeez, waste hours Googling nostalgic shows sometime. Or, you know, write an Academy Award winning screenplay. Your choice.

P.S.: If I'm wrong about this, blame Super Ninja.

Maybe Observational Humor Is Not My Forte

Every once in awhile I check out airfare specials between BWI and cities where Super Ninja's family members live. Never really noticed it before, but check out the fee disclaimers:



Listen, I think the airlines can just call this "a federal excise tax per flight." I'm pretty sure that any successful flight will involve both a takeoff and a landing, and I have no desire to experience one that doesn't. So I'm really okay with lumping all three under one umbrella term.

I Have a Theory about Weight Revelation

Howard Stern will often ask his female guests how much they weigh. Actually, he asks many of his guests, male and female, how much they weigh. And then he will weigh them. Dude is preoccupied with weight.

Anyway, the women usually crack me up. If they answer him, it's because they want to demonstrate how not a big deal it is to them, right? But then they almost always shave a pound or two off of whatever they initially said. When a woman says, "Oh, I don't know. One-fifteen, One-twelve," we all KNOW that she weighs 112 pounds, and even though she wants to appear nonchalant, she really, really doesn't want anyone thinking she weighs a cataclysmic 115 pounds. Because then she'd be a cow, right?

Man, He Probably Thinks I'm a Subtle Racist

We're having Verizon FiOS installed today, because I am young and hip and want all of my communications to be delivered at the speed of light. Actually, it's just cheaper to bundle my services through FiOS. But anyway, a stranger has open access to my home, so I've been alternately playing the radio and DVDs to conjure up a little background noise.

Well, Mr. Verizon came upstairs a few minutes ago to mess around with the TV. I'd been watching an episode of "Slings and Arrows" on my laptop while I plowed through my lunch. Mr. Verizon was futzing around in back of the entertainment center, and my laptop starting screaming things like "penetration" and "ejaculate." This is not high-brow porn -- it's a show about a theater and the character was using a metaphor to dissect another character's psyche. Yeah, so I decided this was not the most appropriate white noise for a fiber optic installation tech, and shut it down. But then the awkward silence resumed, which inspired me to hop up and turn on 94.7, the Globe.

I've blogged about this radio station before. It's the one that will only play critically respected music -- U2, Bruce Springsteen, Talking Heads, Jimi Hendrix, etc. I figured I'd be safe, right? I mean, this kind of music might not inspire impromptu dancing, but whatevs. I just wanted something pleasing to the ear. Yeah, except as soon as I turned it on, the mid-day DJ starts yapping about how they are celebrating Black History Month, and that they are exclusively playing black artists today.

Oh, GOD. Mr. Verizon probably thinks that I chose a radio station that plays music by black artists so that I could demonstrate how down I am. Aargh.

Call Me Dagny Taggart

Because nothing says Powerful Business Woman like an aggressive waxing job that leaves part of your face a molty blotched mess.

Oscars 2008

This year saw a very special Academy Awards ceremony. Not because of the end of the writer's strike, or that I saw more nominated films than I've seen in the past four years, or that Vanessa Paradis didn't wear an a Bob Mackie-ish dress. Nah, this year was special because we let the Boy watch the first half hour of the program with us. Below is a transcript of his commentary:

Opening Sequence:
Boy: Hey! Spider-man! Hey! The Hulk!

Opening monologue:
Boy: That guy is funny. Where’s Spider-man? I want that Spider-man show.

Best Costume:
Jennifer Garner takes the stage.
Boy: I like her dress. But I don’t like her necklace.

80 Years of Oscar Montage:
Boy: I think that girl was dressed up as Snow White! [In reference to an old clip where Snow White is excited to meet Rob Lowe.]

Best Animated Feature:
Boy: I like that girl’s [Anne Hathaway’s] beautiful red dress.
MCV: Oh, Boy! We’re going to get to see some cartoons.
Boy: About Spider-man!

…a few minutes later…

Boy: I want to see that cartoon again about the girl with the black hair [Persepolis]. (Ed. Note: I knew he had sophisticated tastes.)

During Amy Adams’ performance of “Happy Working”:

Boy: Her hair is beautiful.

***this is where the Boy went to bed***

This Could Be the Start of a Beautiful Friendship

The Boy and the Girl really seem to enjoy each other's company. I mean, I guess they could be faking it for our benefit. But I figure that kind of deceit is at least four years in the future, so their giggles must be the real deal. I couldn't be more relieved...

About a month before the Girl was born, I had a total meltdown over how the Boy would handle his world's imminent upheaval. In my mega-progesteroney state, I fretted that Super Ninja and I had decided on having this second babe, and that the Boy, who is a rather important part of our family, had NO vote in a matter that would drastically affect his life. And then I took a step back and rationalized that I hadn't asked for my younger brother, and I'm desperately glad that my parents went for a seventh kid. Besides, the Girl was a fait accompli.

Well, the Boy has been about as sweet as any child could be with a younger sibling. There have been many hugs, kisses, tickles, and offers of toys. You may think that I'm making this up, but it's all true. Feel free to sip some Mommy haterade, 'cause I know I'd be annoyed with someone like me if my kids were twisted up in a fistfighty knot every day. Who knows? Those days may yet come.

But today? The Girl would snatch a toy from the Boy's table of trains, and giggle as she ran away with it. And what did the Boy do? Giggle, chase her and try to snag Cranky back from her. Once he retrieved the toy, he handed her another toy that she could run away with, so that he could chase her, his Superman pajama cape flapping in the wind.

The Stars at Night...

We are slowly recuperating from the weekend. I was in San Antonio for a business trip, and so the parents-in-law were in town helping Super Ninja cope with the kids. Not that he couldn't have handled it on his own, but the prospect of three days with two children, one of whom likes to eat books and the other of whom likes to channel Batman...well, let's say it's a little daunting.

So, yeah, it made me feel loads better that Super Ninja had diaper-changing, running-around-the-playground, preparing-meals backup while I was deep in the heart of Texas. But I'll be spending the next three or four days getting my house back to normal. Here's the short list:

1. Cutlery. I have no idea why, but the cutlery drawer is a giant jumble. And the serving spoons have been put away in drawers where I don't typically keep them. No biggie, just a pain when I'm trying to cook.
2. Putting away clothes. Every stitch of dirty clothing was laundered, ironed, folded or hung. But now, it's gotta go in closets and bureaus before milky handprints end up all over them. I know, I know, wah, wah, wah.
3. Mugs. Many of them are in the glasses cabinet, and others are sitting on countertops. There is a cabinet dedicated to mugs, so I'm not sure why they ended up elsewhere. Like with the Tupperware.
4. Repainting kitchen cabinets. (This sounds like a bigger deal than it is.) Some of our kitchen cabinets had little nicks in them. The original wood is dark, dark, dark, 1970's club basement brown. We've painted them an off-white color (I should say that my mother-in-law actually painted them since I was heavily pregnant when we moved into this house, and I wasn't allowed to pick up a brush or I would've birthed Blinky). Yeah, so anyway, my MIL touched up a few cabinets and a drawer face. Yeah, except she used leftover paint that doesn't really match the rest of the cabinets.
5. Getting the kids back to normal. The Boy didn't sit at a table for a meal for the whole extended weekend. And he was allowed to nap on the couch while watching cartoons. The Girl was allowed to take mini-morning naps and mini-afternoon naps instead of one long lunchtime nap.

Very minor stuff that every parent goes through when the grandparents visit, I s'pose. Better roll up my sleeves...

I'm Feeling Very Enfranchised

I was feeling a little whimmy this morning, so I detoured from my morning commute to cast my vote in Maryland's primary. JUST KIDDING! About the whimminess, I mean. I really voted.

Well, I voted after I got through the line that snaked all the way around the lobby of the senior citizen's center that serves as my neighborhood's polling place. I was grateful for the spindle of paperbacks they had on hand. I read about twenty pages of Catherine Coulter's Impulse while I waited. Can't say it was thematically related to the democratic process, unlike the book I entertained myself with during the 2004 presidential election. And I tried not to be too put off by the fact that the back cover was a little greasy. I've heard of greasy paper bags, but a greasy paperback was a first for me.

Anyway, I got to use one of those cool electronic hoochajiggies. Loved it. I trust a digital X* more than I trust a bubbled circle. Maybe that's vestigial test-taking paranoia? Those optically scanned ballots are too reminiscent of standardized test answer sheets for my taste. And don't get me started on punch cards and chads. Yikes. I blame the chads for the past eight years.

So yeah, I was in and out, easy-peasy. The commute was not so easy-peasy, as there was a blustery brief snowstorm on part of the Baltimore beltway. Flurries + Maryland = Panic + Traffic Jams.

I ended up taking a different route into work, and drove past my old high school, which is serving as a polling place today. And I realized just how very, very Republican Baltimore County seems to be. Why? Whereas my polling place was festooned with Obama and Clinton placards, my old high school's lawn was spiked with McCain and Ron Paul signs. Weird. I don't know how I got to be such a flaming liberal coming from conservative soil like that.

*Yes, yes, I've read all the articles about infants who successfully hacked into the system in 5 seconds. Still, I hate the bubbles and the punchcards.

In Memoriam?

I don't think the word "intercourse" should be mentioned in a Church, and definitely not during a memorial service.

The priest conducting the memorial service Super Ninja and I attended on Saturday described life as a gift from God during his homily, and that's where he dropped the "i" word. After that, he referred to it as the "creative process." I know some writers and artists, and I'm pretty sure when they are discussing their creative processes, they are NOT referring to intercourse.

Yikes. What if I'm wrong about that?

The priest then clarified that it is natural to grieve when someone dies. Thanks for that. I thought I was wacky for feeling a little put out that my aunt and uncle had both passed away from various ailments within the past six months.

"You won't be able to pick up the phone and call them," he said while staring at my cousin, the only child of the folks who passed away. "The next time you're in Baltimore and want to see them, you won't be able to. When you want to hug them, you won't be able to."

Gee, thanks again, Priest. I don't think my cousin knew what death is all about, but now that you've spelled it out for him, I think he can really accept it.

Yeesh.

Yeah, so anyway, then Priest #2 took the podium and shared one of his own personal experiences with death. When his mother passed away, some years after his father, one of the priest's brothers exclaimed, "My God, we're orphans now!" Then, the priest informed my cousin that he too is an orphan. Yeah, I'm pretty sure my cousin had considered that fact.

So, the whole service was, "You are alone! You're parents are dead, dead, dead! Orphan! Oh, but it's okay because you'll see them again someday. When YOU die."

Who's feeling uplifted?

All that aside, I really enjoyed seeing my Mom's side of the family at the service. We don't get together that often, so it was nice to talk to them them. I think I actually look more like my mother's side of the family than my Dad's, so it's weird when I see my eye shape looking back at me. Divorce is also a little more prevalent on my Mom's side, so I saw a few ex-family members (out-laws?) who came to pay their respects.

I don't know. I think I need to ruminate on this more. It was just kind of...odd.

Really, eBay?

After 32 years of garbing myself, I have finally learned what fits me. (Okay, I've really only been doing it for the past 20 years because before then, everything was a hand-me-down and/or purchased for me). Me? I'm a petite. Not in every area, mind you, but definitely in the dimensions that relate to length. I am a stubby wonder.

So, the easiest place for me to shop is online. I don't have to go through masses and masses of beautiful things to end up in the dark corner of a department store, depressed that all the stuff looks like it's appropriate for tweens or grandmas. I like eBay, because I'm a cheapskate. But I think its definition of "petite" is a little broad. Observe what came up first in the search return:

Yeah. SO not what I need for the office.

Blocked

Yep. Blocked. Like a potato in an exhaust pipe. I'm the car, the exhaust pipe is this blog, and I have no idea what the potato is.

This is a terrible analogy.

Anyway, the point is, there's not much going on right now. Very run-of-the-mill stuff. The most exciting topic of late has been deciding how to spend our tax refund. DO YOU SEE WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT? TAX REFUNDS are the MOST EXCITING THING IN MY LIFE.

I think I need to do something daring. But someone else will need to come up with an idea for me, because when I brainstorm for daring ideas, I come up with wowzers like, "Take a continuing education class!," or "Go to a museum!" Clearly I need help.

For My Brother/Sister-in-Law's Book of Sorrows

I thought that doing our taxes for 2007 might be depressing, but not for this reason:



That was one of the questions in the community section of TurboTax. I mean, cripes. Shouldn't the government just give you a pass on taxes and do them for you if you have a baby that dies? Cripes twice.

Sorry about this post. I think it's kind of like The Ring. It was going to haunt me until I passed it on to someone else.

What? What?

A mother shouldn't be jealous of her one-year-old. But when the audiologist and the ear/nose/throat doctor (ENT) were prodding her ears, I really, really wanted to trade places with her. See, I've noticed that Super Ninja hears the kids cry first at night, and I've been asking him to repeat himself often. If you know Super Ninja, you know that he's like Will Ferrell's Jacob Silj character. So the idea that I was telling that guy to repeat himself pushed me into a hearing exam.

First things first: each time I've proactively signed up for a medical appointment, I get weird looks from the medical staff. Each receptionist asks me, "What is the purpose of your visit today?" And I respond that I'm there just to get checked out. At the dermatologist, I thought it was time for someone whose gotten like a hundred sunburns in her lifetime to be examined. I didn't say anything about the melanoma imaginings I had, mind you. But she gave me the look nonetheless. You know, the one where you just know that the receptionist has passed judgment and has deemed you a hypochondriac. The ENT's receptionist did the same.

I guess most people respond by saying another doctor referred them. Or that they have football-sized, flaky red skin that's oozing pus. Or that their ears are falling off. I dunno.

When I was nineteen, I worked in a doctor's office and I filed the billion bits of paperwork that are links in the chain of a person's medical history. The bulk of these people came in because something was wrong. But none of them came there when they were healthy, which seemed silly to me. Sure, doctors know what's normal with most people. But how are they supposed to know what's normal for me unless they see me when everything's A-OK? It's all about data integrity, people.

So, yeah, back to the ENT. I've had a cold, off and on, for the past four months. One of the joys of having kids in the house who also go to daycare. I'm sure that my gummed up ears are a result of these common colds, but it's worth a check, right? When the heavily pregnant audiologist led me to me to the back room for a test, I was kind of giddy.

Then she sat me down and started the test. Groan. I like tests, too much. I want to do well on tests. When they are medical tests, I stop being rational. I just want to fall in the excellent range, even if it means that I'm not actually going to walk away with any treatment.

The main part of the test took place in a soundproof beige booth the size of, um, a phone booth (what? there aren't really any synonyms for booth). The audiologist plugged my ears with some tubes, bumping into my shoulder with her belly as she did so. She shut the door of the booth, and told me to tell her if I heard a beep. That was it.

I really wanted to hear those beeps that I was supposed to be hearing. I heard most of them, but there were definite pauses when I couldn't hear anything, and I knew, based on the rhythm of the previous beeps, that I should have been hearing them. I strained, and heard phantom beeps, but I didn't want to say I'd heard something if I really hadn't. If I'm going deaf at 32, I want to know it.

Turns out I have really good hearing, and the places where my fourth sense dips below normal is consistent with folks who are in the grip of a headcold. This, I think, just means that Super Ninja has excellent hearing, and I've been feeling deaf by comparison.

And really, it's not so bad that he hears the kids first, since that usually means that he's the one who tends to them.

Nine Year Itch

My wedding and engagement ring have been bothering me lately, so I yanked them off and found this horror show lurking underneath:

Before you tell me I should demand the appraisal papers from my husband to verify the quality of my symbols of fidelity, I've been married for nearly nine years and the rings have never bugged me before. I think my husband secretly thinks that wedding ring tattoos are sexy, and he's foisting something like that on me.

Wow, do I have stubby fingers, or what?

Aetna, You Are Dumb

This isn't a Falling Down moment or anything like that, but it's as irritating as jalapeno juice in the eye. The Boy needs to be seen by a dentist. He doesn't have visible cavities, but I'm beyond sensitive about dental care. My parents didn't have it, so we went to the dentist when our teeth hurt. Having a tooth pulled every time you go to the dentist does not instill a healthy respect for the profession. Anyway, the books all tell me that this is around the age that a kid should head to ye olde dentist for his inaugural check-up.

My preference is for the Boy to be seen by a pediatric dentist. Call me crazy, but I think the Boy is more likely to enjoy the experience if the dentist has treated many, many kids. Yeah, so I went through Aetna's directory of pediatric dentists in my area, and called the one closest to me. As someone who served as an Human Resources liaison for an office, I'm well aware that you need to call a health care provider to double check that they (a) accept the insurance, and (b) are accepting new patients. Dr. Closest-to-Me's receptionist answered. Here's our exchange:

"Hi! I'm calling to make an appointment for my son. Does your office take Aetna DMO?"

"No, I'm sorry, we don't."

"Oh. Really? Dr. Closest-to-Me is listed in Aetna's directory."

"We used to take that insurance, but we don't anymore."

"Okay, thanks."

Now, I'm all about the free and fair exchange of information. So I e-mailed Aetna through their Contact Us form to let them know that this purveyor of pediatric dentistry doesn't take their insurance, and perhaps they should pull him from the directory. I wasn't snippy or anything -- these databases are a pain to maintain, so I figured I'd help where I could.

I got an e-mail back from them stating that since Dr. Closest-to-Me is technically a specialist (pediatric dentistry is special, apparently), so he can't be listed as a Primary Care Dentist (PCD). I was aware that I'd need to get a referral to be seen by that dentist, but my point was that the office no longer takes Aetna DMO, not that they wouldn't allow me to claim them as the Boy's PCD. So, I responded and thanked them for the info, but that the dentist's office pointedly told me that they do not take Aetna DMO at all, and that it has naught to do with the PCD vs. specialist shenanigans. Their response? Dr. Closest-to-Me can't be chosen as a PCD thing.

I'm leaving it at that. I like my head, and if I try to explain the situation again, I will be smacking it against a brick wall.

Forays into Adulthood

I'm working from home today and I got a little peckish. Delighted to have a stove at my disposal, I opted to cook up a hot lunch. During my prep, I had a moment of clarity: I've officially gone to the grown-up side of nutrition. My lunch?:

• Grilled cheese (Doesn't sound healthy, right? But I used whole wheat low-fat bread, fat-free not-really-cheese, and Smart Balance spread. Boo-yah!)
• Baby carrots
• V8 Fusion juice

Despite perceptions about healthier noshes, the sandwich was actually pretty tasty. I'm a little concerned that eating Frankenfoods will ultimately cause my genes to mutate. But if that mutation results in telekinesis, I'll be OK with it.

If you are familiar with my historic eating habits, you know that I would have mainlined cheese if such a thing were possible. But a scary cholesterol count once upon a time tarnished my love for all things dairy. After some effort to cut the fatty fat fat from my daily diet*, I'm hoping my next date with a needle will net better results. You know, something better than "Dear God, we've got to chisel out the artery plaque NOW!"

* I'll admit to cheating for special occasions like family visits or Flag Day.

Perhaps I Should Contribute More to My Retirement Plan

Based on my current balance, this is what I am projected to receive upon my retirement:

Social Security is not factored in here, as I do not expect Social Security to exist in 2040. But if it does, CHA-ching! Don't worry, though. I have a plan*: Mega Millions, here I come.

*Really though, don't worry about it (especially if you're related to me and think I'm going to show up on your doorstep, hat in hand, when I'm in my dotage). I'm significantly upping my contributions as the Boy meanders toward school and away from full-time daycare. The cost of two kids in daycare full-time takes bite out of my income, yo.

Fascinating Only to Me

So, Super Ninja and I wended our way to the Kennedy Center on Saturday last to catch one of the final performances of the 50th Anniversary production of My Fair Lady. And now I have this whole huge post saved in my drafts about the sociological aspects of the play and its source material, George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. It will remain in draft form because I realized it is exceedingly boring.

The upshot of it all was this: Eliza Doolittle, the main character, seeks to change her manner of speech so that she might be perceived as more respectable, which would in turn make it easier for her to open a flower shop. Were this play written today, doncha think that Eliza would instead use her sass and spunk to change the nation's bias toward poor elocution? Written at the dawn of the 19th century, one of the messages of the play is that the world isn't going to do us any favors, so we've got to do the best we can to achieve our personal goals.

And now, at the dawn of the 21st century, many of the messages we receive confirm that the world does in fact owe us something. And if we can't get what we want just as we are (which is perfect, of course), then we've gotta kick the system in the ass to change it to suit our needs.

Obviously, this is as it should be when it comes to the isms (sexism, racism, ageism, genderism, etc.). But it can get carried to extremes, no? Can't we still have a healthy self-esteem and acknowledge that we could probably use some improving on some front?

Who knew that a musical could be so thought provoking?

It's the Little Things

I appreciate the effort and everything, Housekeeping Crew, but I don't know that paper towel origami is all that necessary in the ladies' room:


I might focus my efforts on fixing the lock in the third stall so that we don't have women periodically trapped and bellycrawling their way to freedom.

Screw the Bright Side

WHY do people insist on pointing out the bright side to a situation that sucks IMMEDIATELY upon hearing the news? What is this pathological need to yank someone out of the blues, to even out an emotional valley? Let me wallow for, like, a minute please.

My sister is taking a job in Europe. For three years, maybe more. To put this in perspective, I am very close with my sister. She is eight years older than me, and in many ways has been a junior mother to me. She was my matron of honor, and is godmother to the Girl. She's given me buckets of guidance and advice over the years on topics ranging from family relationships to potty training. So, to say that she's a big part of my life is an understatement. We'll trade videos and e-mails and phone calls of course -- you can see I'm a fan of the written word, and verbal communication ranks almost as highly. But it's just not the same when we can't share physical space frequently. And it's especially not the same when it comes to kids. My kids and her tween boys don't really know how to talk on the phone. It's mostly grunting and awkward pauses.

I know there's a bright side, okay? I'm smart. Not like everybody says...like dumb...I'm smart*. Here are the building blocks of the bright side:

• I can go visit her and her family.
• I will have a great time flouncing around Europe without having to pay for a hotel.
• I will e-mail and call all the time, and may in fact share more than I typically would because I'm trying to make up for the fact that we aren't in the same room.
• I can finally get a webcam.
• This is a wonderful opportunity for her whole family, and there's nothing more valuable than stepping outside of your bubble and checking out how the other half lives.
• Most families don't enjoy the geographical proximity that we have, so I should be grateful for the time that we've had together already. Anything more than the semi-annual visit is gravy.

But PLEASE, just let me be sad about for a little bit. I'm not veering into a depression. I'm not co-dependent with her. I'll just miss her, and I think it's okay to express that even though the emotions are kind of untidy.

So, Were YOU Naked in Front of a Stranger Today?

'Cause I was. I signed up for a full body skin exam, and today was D Day. Dermatology Day. I didn't go because I'd found an oddly shaped blue mole or anything scary like that.

See, I'm so pale that my skin catches on fire if I'm in the sun for more than five minutes without 900 SPF sunblock. Thus, I've enjoyed many a sunburn. Especially when I was younger. During my childhood, the connection between prolonged exposure to the sun and skin cancer hadn't really been made. Or maybe it had been, and my parents thought it was part of a vast, left-wing agenda, and chose to ignore it as though it was a liberal scare tactic. Who knows?

All I know is that I wasn't aware of it. I was 10. All I was really aware of was Judy Blume's "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." So, did I slather on Coppertone (or the generic knockoff equivalent) before frolicking in the pool, on the beach, or in the backyard? Heck no! The end result of all this was MCV flambé.

Cool as it was to have burned and molted two or three times a summer, I've come to recognize that all of those sunburns might have damaged my skin. And by "damaged", I mean I could have turned it into a layer of cancer.

But guess what, suckas? My skin is awesome. So porcelain perfect am I, the dermatologist said that I didn't need to come back for a screening for two years (one is the norm). See? My latter days of being a mouse potato who lurks indoors has netted some pretty sweet skin benefits*.

*Sorry if that last sentence came off as pornographic.

An Experiment in Gender Roles

Last night, the Boy discovered Superman. He knew about Superman. You can't grow up in the home that Super Ninja and I have made without knowing about Superman. But we are the recent recipients of some hand-me-down toys and videos, one of which is a compilation of three 1940's era* Superman cartoons. I should've known what was coming when Super Ninja was going through the videos and pulled out a stack that he wanted to watch, excitedly muttering something about "Fleischer cartoons!"

Sure enough, after the Girl was tucked away in her crib and I was doing the dishes, I heard some forties-era bombast blaring from the TV. Superman was rescuing the good people of Metropolis from some Japoteurs.* Happy to let the father/son bonding continue, I called a college friend and finished tidying up the house. Moments later, I peeked in on them again, and Super Ninja was flouncing around the living room with a blanket tied around his neck. this was especially funny to me because, in order to complete the Clark Kent/Superman transformation at the Boy's request, he had to whip off his glasses. Super Ninja is as blind as a mole without his specs, so his flouncing was replete with shin barking. But he happily took one for the team. I mean, what self-respecting geek wouldn't do the very same if his son was applauding his Superman role play?

As for the Girl...

This morning, she toddled over to me while I was putting on a tricky bracelet. She pointed to it and grunted, which usually means she wants to hold something, which is usually followed by stuffing it into her mouth. This is a sturdy bracelet, so I held it out to her and asked her if she wanted to hold it. She gave me a look that quite clearly said, "No, that's not what I want. Guess again." And she held her hand out again, but held it still. Lightbulb moment.

"Do you want to wear this?" asked I.

She smiled and applauded, so I wrapped the bracelet round her wrist. She crunched her face up so much that her eyes disappeared in her smile. Then she walked over to her father and her brother to show off her bauble. Then she circled back around to me to return it, which I thought was quite mature of her.

Yeah, so that nature vs. nurture thing? There's definitely a mix of both. We give the Girl cars and tools to play with, and we give the Boy dollies and pretend food. (Not exclusively -- we're not going all the way in the other direction.) But he wants to play superheroes, and she wants to wear pretty jewelry. Go figure.

*Japanese saboteurs. Yes, I recognize the anti-Japanese sentiment. The Boy is too young to understand that these were made at the height of World War II paranoia, but we don't want to inadvertently instill Japanophobia, so we're just calling them saboteurs.

We Have a Love/Hate Relationship, Verizon. Guess Which One I'm Feeling for You Right Now.

You and the rest of the interweb that seduce us into using your services to make our lives easier. "Do all your banking online!" you exclaim. "Park important documents online," you offer. "Manage your television picks from your PC," you tempt. Well, that's all fine and good until your DSL service craps out on me. Not just mine. Oh no. Apparently, something had infected service to many, many individuals in the 301 area code.

Friday morning, I happily settled down to the grind at my dining room table. My job is awesomely flexible about working from home, and I was taking full advantage of that flexibility on Friday. I flipped on my wireless connection and...nada. This happens from time to time, so I toddled downstairs to poke around. Flip this on, flip that off, reverse, a little Triple Lindy prestidigitation, and...still nada. Hmph.

Call Verizon tech support. Answer the questions being asked by the dulcet-toned option menu. Hear a less dulcet-toned, Stephen Hawking-ish voice tell me that there's an outage in my area code. Get transferred to a very apologetic resident of Mumbai, who explains that there is a technical problem in my area, but there is no resolution time. Hmph.

Text Little Bro, who works for a subsidiary of Verizon to see if he has any insider's scoop. He's fresh out of any good scoopage, but replies that he's heard it'll be anywhere from 2 hours to 48 hours 'til I'm back on the grid. Hmph hmph.

I do whatever work I can that does not involve e-mail, digital access to my company's servers, or internet research. That adds up to about three hours. I take advantage of the cyber snow day and run errands. When I come back, still no access. I'm in something Verizon dubs the "Walled Garden." Meaning, I can pull up their page that says I can't access the internet, but I can't go anywhere else. Hmph hmph hmph.

I'm jonesing for the 'net. At this point in the day, I've typically traded about 20 e-mails with colleagues, resolved several issues posted to my office's intranet, accessed files that need revision and resolution, and hogtied a rabid calf. Okay, that last part isn't true, but suffice it to say, I keep busy. And life without internet was leaving me feeling...phlegmatic.

The next day, I call Verizon again, just to see if there are any updates. There's nothing automated on their customer service line, and customer service is closed for the weekend, so I hang up and try Tech Support. Again, nothing automated. Oh, except they tell me that I can usually find troubleshooting info by going to Verizon's website. Which would be helpful, IF I COULD GET TO THEIR WEBSITE. I connect to tech support, and am not as soothed by the dulcet-toned option menu as I was the day before, and I speak to another apologetic resident of Mumbai, who is unable to provide me with an estimated resolution time. Hmph squared.

Sunday is a day of rest, so I let it go. The calling Verizon part, I mean. I still check the old web browser every once in awhile to confirm that I'm not able to pull up a single line of html.

Today, when I arrived at work, I checked Verizon's website. This is all the reference they make:

Posted Date: 1/11/2008 8:35:31 AM CST
Status: Resolved
Some Verizon DSL customers in the Metro Washington, DC area may be experiencing difficulties accessing the Internet at this time.
Engineers are aware of this issue and are working to resolve it as quickly as possible.

When was it resolved? How many people were impacted? This drives me crazy, because DSL and other internet connection services are rapidly becoming as important as telephones. Is it vital to our existence? Well, no, not like electricity. But if phone companies report how many folks are without phone service due to a weather event or some other snafu, shouldn't they also report it about internet connections?

We'll see if I've actually got service when I get home tonight.

This Is What Those British Nannies Mean

You've gotta follow through on your punishments. I one day aspire to be this woman. Not that I aspire to have a 19-year-old who hides booze in his car. But I aspire to have enough confidence in my parenting to do this.

So, what's a girl to do...

...when the political candidates most aligned with her viewpoint are all very, very unlikely to receive their parties nomination? I apparently match well with:

	Dennis Kucinich - 83 match Denis Kucinich, an Ohio congressman, is a far-left liberal democrat. He has the most extreme proposals for nearly every issue including creating a single-payer system of universal health care; an immediate withdrawal of all U.S. forces from Iraq and replacing them with an international security force; and guaranteeing quality education with free pre-kindergarten and college. He even wants to impeach Vice President Dick Cheney. Needless to say, Kucinich is a no-hope contender.
	Bill Richardson - 81 match You're looking for a moderate Democrat like Bill Richardson. Experienced in state, national, and international politics, Richardson has been a Congressman, an ambassador to the United Nations Security Council, and is now the governor of New Mexico. He is pro-choice, strongly favors rights for the LGBT population, advocates for affirmative action in government contracts, and even championed the idea that Congress should revoke the original authority it gave to go to war with Iraq. Richardson also supports the death penalty and gun ownership rights.
	Mike Gravel - 75 match Mike Gravel is your chosen candidate. He is a former senator from Alaska who is deeply left-wing and has spent his time since the Senate, which he left in 1980, in the private sector. His credited for his efforts in ending the draft following the Vietnam War and the release of the Pentagon Papers as well. He has been an outspoken proponent of direct democracy, gay rights, and even making it a felony to keep troops in Iraq. Gravel is bringing new ideas to the table but they are only attracting less than 1% of Democrats.

Take the test.

I'm frustrated that I feel like I can't have a political discussion about the candidates most likely to be nominated. I'm uninformed, I'll admit. Which is why I'm educating myself. I like to mix it up with people, but I can't stand being ignorant. So it's off I go to Wikipedia to form my opinions. Just kidding! I'll totally use more reputable sources. Like the Drudge Report.

A Little Family History

Yesterday, my little nuclear family attended mass with various members of my extended family because my parents' parish offered petitions and a blessing for their forty-fifth anniversary. That's right -- my parents got hitched in January of 1963, before Kennedy was shot, before hippies, before Woodstock, before microwaves. I think they might've even hired one of those Fred Flinstone cars to take them to the church.

I find their story fascinating. I suppose all of us at one point must find our parents' union fascinating, for it ultimately resulted in us, yeah? But let me try to capture it, just a little.

In June of 1961, Mom was graduated from high school. Fresh out of school and raised in a blue collar area of suburban Baltimore, Mom needed a paycheck. The job search began. Primarily, she looked for jobs close to home, and there was a Help Wanted for an ice cream shop not too far from the row house she shared with her parents, sister, brother, and multiple cousins (several of whom, I believe, had babies).

She walked through the door of the ice cream shop, and found a handsome bespectacled fella with salt-and-pepper hair. That was my Dad. He interviewed her, and in spite of (or perhaps because of?) the chemistry, he hired her. All through the summer they worked together, and my mother apparently really, really wanted to go out with him. There was one sticking point, though. She was not yet eighteen, and Dad was thirty. Being the law-abiding citizen that he is, Dad decided it'd be best to wait 'til Mom was of legal age. I know, I know, it sounds creepy. But this is in 1961, folks, when women were accustomed to getting married straight outta high school. Luckily for both of them, Mom turned eighteen at the end of August, and they could begin their romance in earnest.

Apparently, things got serious pretty quickly. My evidence? Back in those days, in order for a Catholic's marriage to be on the up-and-up, he could only marry another Catholic. Mom was a Lutheran. She knew she wanted to marry Dad early on. She asked him to marry her, in fact (must be where I get it from). So, Mom jumped on the conversion train, which took about six months. This caused some hard feelings between Mom and her parents, and she was a little worried that they wouldn't come to the wedding.

But, come they did. Mom and Dad got hitched eighteen months after they first met, fifteen months after they started dating, a few months after Mom converted. They were slow about one thing, though. Or rather, Dad was. He decided that his jalopy wasn't spiffy enough for the big day. He was elbow deep in suds...AS HIS PARENTS LEFT FOR THE CHURCH. So, Dad was late to his own wedding.

It kind of set a pattern for life -- guess who arrived at the church just before mass began yesterday?

Same Old Same Old

Today was the annual girlie parts exam for yours truly. I don't know why I stupidly, stupidly, stupidly schedule these things for minutes after the holiday season, during which I subsist on olives, cheese, chocolate, cappuccinos, and refined sugar. I suppose it's better than last year, though, which was a flaming double-whammy of post-Christmas and post-partum (the Girl was six weeks old).

Chasing after two children over the past year has helped me shave off about fifteen pounds, though. It was delightful to step on the scale and, FOR ONCE, the physician's assistant didn't have to move the big blocky one on the bottom that goes up in ten-pound increments.

However, this did not stop my diminutive doctor from saying, "You lost a few pounds, but you need to lose more."

Since I've just been boning up on all that healthy/calorie/fat awareness in a fit of New Year's resolution-making, I responded, "Yeah, I know I need to lose another," I'm thinking fifteen or twenty pounds, so I tack on a few pounds to be safe, "twenty or thirty pounds."

"Thirty," she says firmly, and makes a note in my chart.

Gar. Thirty pounds. I mean, it's better than what she told me the last time, to be sure. But still, my daughter weighs nearly thirty pounds. And she's an armful. I grunt a little every time I scoop her up. The idea of losing the equivalent of a child from my body mass is daunting.

Well, time to go for a walk. And give up cheese and olives and refined sugar. Cappuccinos, however, are here to stay.

Sweet.

This is the hospital where the Girl was born. Between this and that whole George Wallace fiasco, Laurel's got quite the reputation.

Baby It's Cold Outside, But Not That Cold

This morning, it was thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. Chilly, yes. But I don't think that the woman waiting at the bus stop needed to dress like a Sherpa, ya know? It's Towson, not the Himalayas.

I'm Trying Not to Define Myself Exclusively as "Mommy"...

...but that's a tall order when you get e-mails with headers like this:

I knew when I elected to join the ranks of motherhood that I would be responsible for the health and welfare of a small person. But the realities of it -- like making sure your kid has the proper cloacal evacuative capabilities -- are fresh every day, courtesy of bulletins from BabyCenter.com, among others.

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program

My apologies for disappearing on you, dear readers. Both of you. The holidays pounced on me and my opportunities for blogging have been few and far between. Add some dodgy connectivity in a Cleveland suburb, and voila! A paucity of posts. Besides, what am I going to tell you? That I thoroughly enjoyed my visit with my in-laws, and further enjoyed the in-laws who visited us in our tiny manse? Oh, and that it's a mortal lock that I'll be stressed out by my blood relatives' get-together this Sunday? Pah. Boring.

Here's what we need to talk about:

The BabyKeeper. WHY DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS WHEN I HAD MY FIRST BORN? Clearly, this is the responsible and caring way to handle your kids when your hands are busy.

Holiday Music

I just realized that all of my favorite holiday tunes are secularized romantic celebrations of the solstice. None of this "Come All Ye Faithful" bidness. I mean, I enjoy those selections when I'm ensconced in a pew and tapping my foot along with the churchie choral music. But my seasonal Top 3 are:

1) Winter Wonderland
2) Baby It's Cold Outside
3) Let It Snow

You might think that these aural preferences are a result of a heightened sense of couplehood around the holidays. That might be. But...my faves might also be due to the fact that Super Ninja and I are both incredible homebodies, and snow mandates that we stay home or we'll end up in a horrific car smash. At least, that's what the local news anchors tell us if there's more than a passing chance of chilled precipitation.

This is all very fascinating to you, isn't it? Well, while we're on fascinating topics, let me tell you what I had for dinner last night (Chick-fil-A). And which types of cookies I baked for my kids' daycare-mates (chocolate chip, and sugar cookies cut out into shapes resembling those in the opening sequence to Edward Scissorhands). And the reams of lists comprising things I need to do before Christmas.

Ugh. I'm boring myself with all of this tedium. It's a good thing we're heading up to Cleveland to hang with Super Ninja's family. I usually get a couple of good stories out of that. We're meeting Super Ninja's best friend's daughter for the first time, so I'm fairly certain the Boy will have yet another arranged marriage proposal. (I have two friends with daughters, whom, I kid you not, have put in a reservation for the Boy. We may start ciphering a stud fee.)

Okay, off to the office holiday party I go! That will be a wasteland as far as stories go. It will be tasteful and tasty, with zero booze, so there won't be anything fun to write about.

'Cause I'm the Mommy, That's Why

Last night was bath night chez nous. We're on an every-other-night routine with the kiddies. On Friday, Super Ninja went out with friends to catch a flick, which meant I was alone with a toddler and a preschooler. Instead of individual tub time, I tossed 'em both in the bath at once, and they had a lovely time. The Boy washed the Girl's hair, she giggled, and there was no crying.

Since they had such a good time in the tub together the last time, we decided to repeat the fun. But, just as we were nearing bath time, a college pal called me. Super Ninja said he was going to go ahead and start the kids' bath, I nodded, and up he went with a child tucked under each arm.

Oh, poor Super Ninja. About five minutes after they went upstairs, I heard the Girl start to wail. This is not unusual, as she loves being nude or dressed, but hates the transition. Then Super Ninja called to me very grumpily, so I hung up with my pal and skittered upstairs. There, I encountered a naked boy sitting on a potty, an upset husband, and a bleeding girl.

Turns out that the Boy hopped into the tub and, to put it delicately, let one loose in the water. A, ahem, solid one. This is the first time he's ever done this, so it would be an understatement to say that he surprised his father. Super Ninja yanked him out of the tub, and the Boy promptly whizzed on Super Ninja's shirt. What with the emergency clean-up and the horror of having just been used as a urinal, Super Ninja was understandably a little distracted, which is when he heard the "ka-thunk" of the Girl knocking her face against the tub. She bit her lip, hence the bleeding.

She's absolutely okay -- nothing two popsicles couldn't cure -- but Super Ninja was rattled for the rest of the evening. After the kids went to bed and we were enjoying a quiet moment, he turned to me and said, "How come when you give them a bath it's all bubbles and splashing, and when I give them a bath it's sh*t and blood?"

Motherclucker.

I just realized that I'll be celebrating the 15th anniversary of my high school graduation. Fifteen years ago? FIFTEEN YEARS? There are many reasons that this can't be. But mostly it's because I still act like a high schooler about a lot of things.

I tell you what, though. If the reunion planning committee tries to cram us into a military auxiliary hoojiwhatsis hall again, I'm definitely getting drunk beforehand. On wine coolers, in honor of the occasion.

What? Baseball Players Used Steroids?

Click here to go to the report.

There are a ton of Orioles on the list, which is disappointing. But it's disappointing in the way that it's disappointing when I find out my favorite rockers shoot up (or shot up, as the case may be). I might wish they didn't, but I don't know them personally, so I just kind of shrug. Yeah, drugs aren't such a good idea, and no, I don't want my kids admiring anyone engaged in illicit activities (don't worry, I intend to instill the difference between role models and celebrities).

Mostly, though, I'm wondering why the O's haven't won the World Series since 1983 if there's been this much juice on the team.

Scratch that. I'm mostly wondering why people aren't talking more about "Operation Equine" on page 89. That's the best title of any operation, covert or otherwise, that I've ever heard. It conjures all sorts of images. Were they sneaking steroids over the border in horses? Were they big fans of Equus? Was there some kind of Pony Express for steroids? I almost don't want to read the section and spoil all of the fun.

Could My Fellow Hoyas Be Any More Boring?

From my Facebook homepage:

Don't get me wrong. I own CDs by every single one of those artists/groups. But it's all so...safe. I'm not exactly a poster child for musical edginess, but it'd be nice of those that Bleed Hoya Blue didn't exclusively favor BMG darlings.

Is There Some Working-at-a-Country-Club Teen Rite of Passage that I Don't Know About?

Seriously. What's up with that plot device? Is it just a way to get fictitious right side/wrong side of the tracks kids to mix in a public-ish space? Let me present the evidence:

1) Beverly Hills 90210, Summer 1991

Brandon leaves a sweet gig at the Peach Pit to earn some extra summertime dough at the local sun spot for the zip code's hoi polloi. Makes sense. Loves Nat, loves the Pit, loves his job. Why not give that up for a chance to be a cabana boy?



2) Saved by the Bell, Fall 1991

Clearly, the Saved by the Bell writers went into hyperdrive when they saw the preceding summer's Beverly Hills 90210. Bell upped the ante, though, by having Zack, Kelly, AND Slater get jobs at the club. Kelly, if memory serves, was a lifeguard in a ridiculously small one piece. The lifeguard flotation thingamajig she hauled around was bigger than her torso. I'm sure she saved many, many lives that summer.



3) Dawson's Creek, Fall 2000

I've searched in vain for any kind of clips or stills from any of the Season 4 episodes, but, just so's you know, Joey gets a job at the Yacht Club's restaurant and mixes it up with an uppity uppercrust fella. The only (free) clips available were stunning examples of Kevin Williamson's hyperarticulate banter between Joey and Pacey. Oh, the banter, the unbelievable, unbelievable banter.

4) High School Musical 2, Fall, 2007

I haven't seen this little phenomenon yet, but I have nieces who are nuts for it. Anyway, this sounds like Bayside all over again. Main male hottie gets a job, then make sure everyone else gets a job, and a tiny girl is a lifeguard. I mean, I know suspension of disbelief is necessary, especially for musicals, but could we just acknowledge that an ninety pound girl is not going to be able to accomplish these feats?



So, anyway Hollywood, enough with the teenagers-in-country-clubs-theme!

I Think this Makes Me a Full-On, Grown-Up WOMAN

Due to an unfortunate confluence of timing and location, I had to purchase a box o'tampons from a young fella of Middle Eastern persuasion who happened to be jockeying the till at a gas station. I'm sure he was just thrilled.


Lemme 'splain that the point of the story is that I only had a brief "Oh, jeez," moment. In the B.C. (Before Children) era, I might've actually left without purchasing les produits feminins. Or I might've gone on a convenience store shopping spree to camouflage my needs with pencils, gum, a gossip magazine, and one of those horoscope scrolls. But not yesterday! I sucked it up and acknowledged that I'm not always going to find a brick and mortar establishment peopled by earthy wise women. So, I plunked my lonely purchase on the counter, handed over some cash, and walked out. Without a bag, thank you very much.


This may have made you dudes uncomfortable. Oops. But this situation is the woman's equivalent to handing over a box of condoms to an avian, grandmotherly cashier. You know, the kind who wears chains on her glasses and calls you "dear."

Anyway, I'm excited that at 32, I'm officially starting not to care about that stuff.

Oh, the embarrassment I will be to my children.

SNOW!

I'm such a child. I'm thrilling at the sight of delicious little flakes of snow sifting down from a thick gray sky. Old habits die hard. Up until I was 22-years-old, snow meant a break from the norm. A delay, or, best of all, and honest-to-God day off without penalties. Snow days equal spontenaity, which I don't get enough of these days.

I wonder when I'll cross the fulcrum and find myself on the "Dammit, snow is a pain in the arse" side of things. It could happen if I moved to Minnesota, like some people. But chillin' in Maryland, we only get this stuff a couple of times of year. And most of the time, it melts about 2 hours after it lays. So, I'll enjoy it while it's here.

I just wish that I'd worn a coat with sleeves instead of my black Marty McFly thingamajig.

What's More Pessimistic?

Wedding insurance or prenuptial agreements?

One of the Ways in Which I Intend to Parent Differently

Have I told you about my advice column addiction? Dunno why I read them so often. I think I'm looking for some kind of blueprint for wacky life situations. Or I'm insecure about the way I handle emotional issues, and I look for reassurance/reinforcement from these columns. That's to be decided another day, I suppose.

Today I read a column in which a mother wanted to know if she was being too controlling since she required her 14-year-old daughter to supply her with the first and last names of the friends with whom she was hanging out after school. There's more to the tale, but I kind of stopped there...

When I was thirteen years old, I stayed over at my best friend's house for New Year's. Colleen and I met in sixth grade, but we became really good friends in seventh, and so by then, eighth grade, were were thick as thieves. I stayed over at her house often. We went to see movies and sundry other events often. I spoke of her often. You see the common thread here: OFTEN.

So, that first night of 1989, a blizzard struck the suburbs of Baltimore. Very picturesque. Colleen's family dropped me off at my house the next afternoon on their way to eat a Chinese restaurant. I slip-slided up the driveway, and blustered through the back door, my cheeks red from the cold.

"MCV!" my parents and my older sister shouted. Not in anger, but in a, "Oh, there you are" kind of way.

"Yeah?"

"What is Colleen's last name?"

I raised an eyebrow, "Jones*. "

They all erupted into laughter.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"We wanted to call to see if you needed a ride home, and Little Bro said her name was Warglick, so we've been looking for her parents' phone number in the directory! And there aren't any Warglicks in Baltimore! Where on earth did Little Bro get that name? Ha ha ha!"

Ha ha ha! Ha ha... Ha?

WHY would they have let me spend the night at the house of a family whose last name they didn't know? WHY didn't they know the last name of my best friend of two years? AND WHY DIDN'T THEY DEMAND A PHONE NUMBER SO THAT THEY COULD CONTACT THEIR PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS DAUGHTER IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY LIKE A BLIZZARD WITH POTENTIAL POWER OUTAGE CONSEQUENCES?

My parents were, shall we say, somewhat hands-off by the time I ventured into my teen years. I still had an eleven o'clock curfew and good grades were high on the agenda, but if I operated within those parameters, I'm fairly certain I could have been boozing it up with a panoply of shady characters and my parents would've been just fine with that.

I believe firmly that if Super Ninja and I can blend our upbringings together, we'll have a shot at a modicum of normalcy. Either that, or we'll really, really screw up our children. I don't really see much of a middle ground here, though.

*Her last name isn't Jones, but something roughly as common.