Vampire Heaven

I gave blood today for the first time since my senior year of high school. This time was different, in that I wasn't trying to get out of a French quiz.

Anyway, my health questionnaire was just as hilariously vanilla as it was in 1993.  Have you lived in Europe for 5 years?  Nope.  Have you visited any of these [mostly developing] countries?  Nyet.  Have you shared needles?  Knitting needles?  Oh, those needles.  Again, no.

The only question that gave me pause was, "Have you been around people who have received a smallpox vaccine?"  No. Wait. Did my kids get the smallpox vaccine?  If they did, the last batch of vaccinations would've been Little Guy's in January... But if they got it, wouldn't we all have been vaccinated?  And they wouldn't ask me this if it's a vaccine that everyone gets. So... No. 

Behold the power of my deductive reasoning!

Upon concluding my questionnaire, determining that my iron count is good (13.5, yo!), and that my vitals were fine, they took me over to a gurney.  After I laid down, they poked around for a good vein (apparently I have a Y-shaped vein on my left inner elbow), and jabbed me.  Not to brag, but they told me I had good flow.  So, I've got that going for me.

It took all of eight minutes for me to fire hose the pint bag.  'Cause I'm awesome. It was at minute seven, though, that I started feeling faint.  I didn't actually faint.  That'd be weak sauce, and I am made of sterner stuff.  Stuff like Jell-O.

Instead, as everything faded to black, I announced calmly, "I'm starting to feel a little faint."  The attendants very helpfully plastered cold, sopping paper towels on my forehead and neck, handed me the most delicious five ounces of cranberry juice that I've ever drunk, and told me to tent my knees.  The fadeout reversed itself, and I thought, "Ooh, so that must have been what a vampire's victim feels. Huh."

CAN YOU DENY HOW COOL I AM?

I felt better after a minute or so, which, I am guessing, is largely due to the fact that they stopped taking my blood.  I moved over to the 'canteen,' a.k.a a table laden with snacky-type foods.  After I munched some pretzels, I felt far from woozy, an wobbled back to my office for a staff meeting.

We don't have blood drives at work every day. This one was put together in the name of the wife of one of my co-workers; she was recently diagnosed with a particularly vicious kind of cancer.  Much as I empathize with their situation, my contribution was in honor of my mother. While she was undergoing chemo, she had to have a few transfusions. Her body wasn't oxygenating blood properly, which made breathing a problem. The transfusions didn't save her or anything, but they made her more comfortable. How can I not offer that, or other lifesaving juice, to other people? 

It's something I'd been thinking about doing for awhile, and when the opportunity to do so opened up twenty feet away from my desk, well, it was time.

Remembering Grandmom

I didn't really have any firm Mother's Day plans today. I didn't want to visit my mother's "filing cabinet," as she called it, at the mausoleum.  I mean, when I think of her spirit, it's not at Woodlawn Cemetary. If anything, it's at the beach, or at my parents' house, or anywhere there is a pile of steamed crabs and beer.

As for my mother-in-law, the chocoloate-covered strawberries had alread been sent and received, and a lovely chat was had. 

So, for today, we really had no obligations beyond being lazy.  But, I don't really know how to be lazy, so I thought we could use the open schedule to return the car that we'd borrowed from my father for my parents-in-law to use during their recently concluded visit.

On the way home from said journey, my daughter piped up from the back seat, "Mom? I'm sorry that your mother died."

"Me too, sweetie. Thank you for saying so."

"On the night that Grandmom died," my older son chimed in, "I remember it because that was the night that I learned about 'Angry Birds.'"

I laughed so hard at that.  The idea that he was enthralled with this newfangled iPad game his cousins introduced to him while I was grieving over my mother's dying...  Well, it's just really funny.  And reassuring that whle I was a numb-bot for a couple of months, they mostly just noticed things like 'Angry Birds.'

I Should Write a Parenting Guide

The Boy and the Girl were upstairs getting dressed, brushing their teeth, trying to stuff each other's heads in the toilet (you know, normal stuff) while a finished my morning coffee.  All of the sudden, the Girl yells, "MOM! The Boy said I was FAT!"

Egads.  We will have none of that in this house because (a) the Girl is not in any way fat, (b) at five years old, she shouldn't waste any brain space on fat, or thin, or any of that nonsense, and (c) I suspect that they'll get enough teasing in school, and I don't want them to have to hear it at home as well.

Also:  if he considers her fat, then he must think I look like Jabba the Hutt or something.

"Boy!" I bellowed. "Get down here, NOW!"

He peeped his head around the corner of the stair railing, fidgeting with his tube socks.

"Come here, please."

He sidled up next to me until our faces were pretty close.  I asked very quietly (as I did not want the Girl to overhear a Very Serious Discussion about her body weight), "Did you call your sister fat?"

"Well, she asked me if..."

"Honey," I interrupted, "let me tell you something.  If a girl ever, ever, ever, ever, ever asks you if she looks fat, the only right way to answer that is, 'No, you look beautiful.'"

"But what if..."

"Nope."

"She asked if her shirt..."

"Nope."

He looked at me for a second, then shrugged and ran off to slip into his socks and shoes.

Did I give him permission to lie? Nah, not really. 'Cause here's the thing:  a woman wants an honest answer to that question about one out of a thousand times.  The other nine hundred ninety-nine times, she wants affirmation that she's pretty. So, what I really did was prevent a few clashes in the future when a girlfriend asks him how her butt looks in her new jeans.

You're welcome, future girlfriend.

My Parents-in-Law Just Left

And the DVR is chock full of television programs that were unwatchable while my mother-in-law shared our square footage. Ask any of her children -- if there's even a single inappropriate minute in the show, that will be the moment she enters the room.

My husband is still working through some post-traumatic stress over these occasions from his childhood.  

Anway, we are beginning to work our way through our recordings. This is the conversation selecting this evening's entertainment:

Super Ninja: So, what'll it be? Parks & Rec? Sherlock Holmes?

Me: Nah, not Sherlock Holmes. Let's go with Parks & Rec.

Super Ninja: Okay. But, just so you know, it's not the nerdy Sherlock Holmes.

Me: Honey, it's Sherlock Holmes. It's always nerdy.

The Worst Chore Ever (for Me)

Is cleaning out my children's closets. Why?  Because several of my distinct, outrageously strong personality traits are working at cross-purposes:

1.  ORGANIZATION!  Everything MUST be organized!  But what do you do when clothing manufacturers deviate from the standard X-Y months or ZT sizing.  WHAT DO YOU DO?

2.  KINDNESS!  Everything that doesn't fit my children must be handed down to the next generation of babies and toddlers so that their parents freely benefit from our stash!

3.  FRUGALITY!  Everything that is handed off to someone (see #2) who has a boy child younger between my youngest (2) and oldest (7) boys will need to return the clothes so that I can use them again for my youngest.  So I mark the tags with identification, slightly worrying that the loanee will think I'm not gracious.

4.  SENTIMENTALITY!  I don't have an eidetic memory, but I have a pretty good one, and visions of my kids as tiny newborns snuggled up in that fuzzy jacket or onesie are overpowering.  Also, I have a hard time getting rid of things. I blame being the sixth of seven children and not having a lot of my own stuff before the age of fourteen, when I was a babysitting machine and could buy my own NEW barrettes, goddammit, and not have to use the ancient ones with the gold paint that's half flaked off.

5.  IRONY!  I have come to believe that irony is the guiding principle of my life, and that if I get rid of all of the baby stuff, I will suddenly, inexplicably find myself pregnant.  IT HAS HAPPENED TO WOMEN NAMED MARY BEFORE. 

THIS is the cocktail that bubbles in my brain while I am stacking 2T polo shirts and deciding if a onesie is stain free enough to keep.  But, I must be the one to complete this chore because if I outsourced it to my husband, he'd just chuck everything and call it a day.

So, let's all just stay out of the guest room where the maelstrom of clothes is lurking, okay?

Patrick and Gina Neely We Are Not

Background: The Boy has religious education class on Tuesday nights.  Oh yes, he's being catechized six ways to Sunday. HA! Anyway, his class is from 5:30 p.m. - 6:45 p.m., so Super Ninja drops him off after ramming a Happy Meal down his throat.  I stay late at work, and pick the Boy up on my way home.  We get home around 7:00 p.m., and I cook dinner for the adults in the house.

Me: We need his and hers kitchens (This is after we bumped into each other three times as I am trying to cook and he is putting away dishes.)  Mine would have an Aga and Ginsu knives.  Yours would have a toaster and hot plate to boil water for hot dogs.

Super Ninja: That sounds about right.

So, interwebs, if you want to get on a kitchen remodel for us, I'd be down with that.  I'm pretty sure Super Ninja's 'kitchen' could be relocated to the deck.  Food for thought. Again: HA!

Night Walk

The weather's been beautiful 'round here of late, and it's awakened my need to be out there, mixing it up with nature, basking in the glow of a moonrise.  You know, Outward Bound shit. Except for only 20 minutes, and in my neighborhood, and with several ounces of bug spray.

Anyway.

Tonight I invited the Girl to take a night walk with me. She happily accepted, and slipped on her pink kitten rain boots. We walked up the hill , hand in hand, and she scooped up every dandelion that had gone to seed along the way.  She calls them "wishing flowers," because that's what you do with them. You blow the seeds off of the stem, and make a wish.

Her repeated wish?

That her good friend -- one of my best friend's daughters -- would marry the Boy. She realized a long time ago that if the Boy married this particular little girl, then they would be sisters. Once that little factoid manifested, she was cool with their nuptials.

As we summited the hill, the streetlamps came on, and I announced that it was time to go back down the hill to our house.  The girl turned to me, cheeks flushed, blond pigtails floating in the breeze, and asked, "Can I run home?"

"Yup," I answered. 

And off she ran, hair bouncing and streaming behind her like a contrail from a rocket.  She veered around a curve, disappearing from my sight.  I got a little nervous, but this is what raising kids is, right?  You try and game the scenario a little, so that they aren't in frightening situations.  But you let them go, knowing that you taught them to look before they cross the street.

When I laid eyes on her again, she was feigning sleep in our front yard, curled up against the decorative mini-boulder that hides a pipe. She does this when she wants to be carried up to bed, so I obliged. After slipping her in her pajamas, I tucked her in, kissed her on the cheek, and said good night.

And then she demanded snacks, two stories, four cuddles, and a lullaby.  And I thought the walk would tucker her out.

It's Not Always About Cancer

I was chatting in the hallway yesterday with a co-worker.  Another co-worker, we'll call her Sunshine, arrived to start a meeting with the first guy.  Anyway, she took a look at the necklace I was wearing and said, "I love your necklace.  Is it in honor of your mother-in-law?  Oh, I mean your mother?"
Puzzlement! I couldn't imagine how my necklace would have inspired her to ask that. 

"No," I answered, "it actually represents my oldest son and me.  We were both born in July; these are our birthstones."

"I see.  It does resemble the ribbon, though." (Sunshine does not like to be incorrect.)

"I guess maybe it does," I answered.

And then she and my other co-worker made their excuses and commenced their meeting.  Sunshine didn't say anything particularly wrong (although, it should be noted that she sidestepped saying the word 'cancer' which contributed to my 'Wha?'). 

Anyway, this necklace of mine...  It doesn't really look like a cancer ribbon.  If anything, it looks like two cherries. It's an elongated loop of gold, almost like a cursive capital 'I,' studded with diamonds.  A ruby punctuates each strand of the loop. 

You'd have to look pretty hard to see a cancer ribbon.  And this has made me wonder: is this the lens through which people see me now? As someone who's mother died of cancer? I don't know if I'm okay with that. It's undeniably a part of my identity. We are all made up of our triumphs and tragedies.  But it's not all of who I am.

A Love Letter from My Daughter

"Mom, I think that you hate me."

What did I do to deserve such a lovely note? (Though, I should say I applaud her pre-K penmanship and grammar skills.)

This morning, the Boy and the Girl performed their usual morning antics while we waited for the big yellow bus to come scoop the Boy up for school.  By 'antics,' I mean that they both zip around on vehicles of their choosing.  He rides a Spider-man scooter, while she rides a Disney Princess bike equipped with (heavily abused) training wheels. 

They both like to go fast.

They both like to ride the same route.

It was only a matter of time before these preferences resulted in injury.  The Girl sped up the (slight) hill while the Boy raced down.  They clipped each other's handlebars, and he tumbled off the scooter. 

I was hauling plastic garbage bags of yard waste around to the curb (cue: "I Am Every Woman,"), so I saw this all from a few yards away.  I gave him a second to decide if he was hurt. The tears were kind of a tip-off that he decided yes, he was hurt.  Closer inspection revealed scraped palms, a wounded knee,  and a bruised ego.  For the latter, I asked the Girl to apologize.

Now, I didn't want her to apologize because she did anything wrong, but because I am trying to instill a sense of empathy.  When one of my kids hurts another -- accidentally or purposefully -- I want them to be sorry that it happened, and sorry for the hurt the other one feels.  The Little Guy is excused from this since his verbal skills would just confuse the others. Unless he's asking for pizza, goldfish crackers, 'Wiggles,' or 'Scooby Doo,' then he's clear as a bell.

The reason I'm insistent on these apologies is that I've run into (not literally) people who think that apologies are warranted only if they intended to do harm.  Accidents are the universe's fault, so why apologize for those?  If you mow over an old lady to get to the checkout lane that just opened up at the grocery store, well, there's no need to apologize, because you didn't mean to break her hip.

Those people are jerks.

Since I am the boss of my house (well, co-boss), I get to mandate that apologies are offered when injury results from intent OR accidental commission.  And the Girl, well, she has started declaring that she thinks we hate her if we make her do something that goes against her grain.

My response?

"No, honey, I love you, and I want you to grow up and have friends and people who like you and love you.  And if you're unkind to people, you won't have that."

Please don't think I say this beatifically while a short blond banshee wails that we hate her because we didn't give her the 47 pieces of chocolate that she wanted.  No, my calm explanations are at the low points of a dramatic sine wive.  At the zenith?  I usually have to excuse myself from the room so that I can go calm myself down.  And then after we all calm down, there are giggle fits and hugs and kisses.

I don't envy my husband ten years from now, when she's in the thick of puberty and I will likely be in the throes of menopause.

There Is a Man Cleaning My Office Windows

And it's like that scene from Mission: Impossible: Ghost Protocol, the one where Tom Cruise (or Ethan Spymaster, take your pick) scales the Burj Khalifa using nothing but a technologically sticky glove AND HIS WITS. Except the window cleaner here is actually using  ropes, pulleys, and this double-suction-cup-attached-to-a-handle thingamabob (we'll call it a DSCATAH, because that trips off the tongue).  Perhaps he is also using his wits, though I don't know that this job requires that. 

The DSCATAH  holds him steady whilst he squeegees away the bird poo.  Anyway, I think Mr. Window Cleaner is working out some issues because he ker-slams the DSCATAH against the window as the he is angry at the window. I'm not sure what the window ever did to him, besides exist.

Jeez, window.  Think of other people sometimes, why don't you?

Pet Peeve #1

I apologize if this is the nine millionth 'pet peeve' post that I've written. I did my due diligence, by which I mean I typed 'pet peeve' into the search engine in the upper left-hand corner of this blog, and it only returned one blog post.

Between you and me, blogosphere, I don't know how that could be. I routinely hold people accountable for the rules in my head. Where is the vitriol that I believed myself to be spewing? Do I hold myself back?

Meh.  Probably.

Anyway, there is something that cropped up in three different facets of my life recently, and as I am a faithful observer of the Rule of Threes, I took it as a sign.

Okay, so, here goes: I can't stand it when someone basically runs into an obstacle and just kind of announces the problem to someone else. Sometimes it's not even stated as though it is a problem. The stater expects the statee to intuit that a problem exists, and offer a solution to it.

Luckily, this doesn't happen very often in my house. Well, it does with my kids, but I'm beating that out of them.  No, this usually happens in different spheres.  And it just makes me feel like the people unloading their problems are making me do all the work. And then I have shell shock flashbacks to 'group' work in high school in college where the other kids would try and Tom Sawyer me into doing everything.

I WILL NOT WHITEWASH YOUR FENCE, GOON!

Not unless there are rewards of Shiraz and Hunan Peking crab rangoon. And since Hunan Peking shuttered about six years ago, you better be packing bottles of the red stuff.

The Morning Routine

The Boy and the Girl are upstairs right now getting ready for school. I can hear them giggling, which I like. Giggling often turns into goofing, though, which then turns into me pulling on my Mantle of Stern and yelling, "What's going on? Is everybody dressed?"

See, the typical, 95%-of-the-time morning routine is this:  I hit the downstairs by 7:15 a.m. and make breakfast. (Often, the kids are already snuggled up on the couch. If not I haul them out of bed, literally). Next, if I haven't done myself a solid and made lunches the night before, I slap those together while they eat their cereal/pancakes/yogurt goo.

On late mornings, I'm sit down with my gourmet breakfast of non-fat Chobani and coffee at 7:45 a.m.  This is when the Goon Squad is supposed to shuffle off to their bedrooms to get dressed, then brush their teeth, and return to the downstairs for shoes, hair brushing, and shoving their schoolwork and lunches into backpacks.  We're out the door by 8:15 a.m. so the Boy can catch the school bus, and then the Girl and I zip off to Pre-K.

As I type this, there was a large thump from the upstairs hallway, and it sounds like the Boy has shut and locked his door. That usually means the Girl is pestering him while he's slipping into his clothes.

Sigh.

It may turn into one of those Volume-Gets-Things-Done mornings.I don't like to yell. Can you imagine me yelling? I avoid conflict like it's a needy drunken sorority girl with a mean streak.

My kids make me feel like Bixby-Hulk sometimes. "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

It's only 7:55 a.m., so I still have my hopes up that they'll arrive momentarily and just need a little help with the shoe-tying and the pig-tailing.

I Shouldn't Love Inanimate Objects

Ew! Get your mind out of the gutter. This is the objet de mon affection:

Regina Andrew Small Mercury Glass Clove Table Lamp

It was my "yay, I did our taxes and we got a small return!" lamp. Now, it is stupid, STUPID, to love a highly breakable lamp. Especially when I have:

•  a 7-year-old who would like to be CM Punk and regularly practices patented WWE moves in our living room,
• a 5-year-old who embodies the spirit of 'Maniac' better than Jennifer Beals,
• and a 2-year-old, who is, well, a 2-year-old.

In fact, as I gaze lovingly at the sweet curves of my treasured lamp, this guy is parked next to it:

Little People® Wheelies™ DC Super Friends™ Superman™

The Man of Steel vs. a glass lamp? No doubt of the victor there. The real question is, WHY did my toddler need to get all vroom-vroomy near the new lamp? Why not host a Little People drag race near the old metal lamps that I bought from IKEA?

It's like he targets what I actually care about and tortures me. I know it's my own fault for spending more than $10 on a lamp, okay? But I couldn't help myself. The lamp...it beckoned.

Brief Thought for Today: Ballet Class

I would like for the little girls' leotard industry to have a summit with the little girls' underpants industry so that they can agree on the angle of the cut of both of these things. This will soothe my OCD nature. Why? Because at ballet class, I have noticed that slices of EVERY LITTLE GIRL's underpants peep out from underneath the leotards. I mean, what are they supposed to wear? 5T thongs?

(By the way, I shudder to think of what yucko bots will happen upon this post. If I get any suspicious trackbacks, I will SHUT IT DOWN.)

So, I Just Got Back from My Quarterly Workout

And I was outpaced by a blind woman. Now, I know that being blind has nothing to do with how fast your feet can fly.  But still. There is no ego boost in being bested by a disabled person, no matter what the disability is. I had a water bottle in the little cup holder on the digital program display. She had a white cane.

She wins.

In high school, I ran an eight-minute mile. Today, I ran a 16-minute mile.  This is fair, I think, considering I am now twice as old as I was in high school. Also slowing me down is that my bra-size is twice as large. Have I ever shared the system I have in place for preparing to work out so that I don't accidentally knock myself out with an errant breast bounce?

No?

First, I get dressed in my normal business-like undergarments. They do not make pretty in this size. Oh, sure, you might get a tiny afterthought of a satin bow where the cups meet. But there is no lace, no frills.  And CERTAINLY no color. Nope. This here is a Soviet bra.

Then, on top of my normal sling, I strap on a sports bra.  This is no ordinary jersey-and-lycra comfy sports bra. This one has hook-and-eye closures. TEN OF THEM. I think it actually has more fasteners than my wedding gown did.

So, yeah, I have to double-up in an effort to get my breasts to stay put while I bound through my "run." Why the quotations? Because I'm pretty sure that my form, given my time, is the same as that guy who furiously pumps his arms while crossing the street against the signal, but isn't actually moving his feet any faster than normal. 

We've Exceeded Our Nerd Conversation Quotient for this Evening

Conversation #1: While watching 'Up All Night':

Ava's stepmother has entered the scene...

Me: Is that Keiko?

Super Ninja: I think so.

Why this is a nerdy conversation: You would have had to (1) watch Star Trek: the Next Generation often enough to know the supporting characters' spouses by name; (2) have seen her so much via that syndicated series that you recognize her dialogue-less appearance a 18 years later; and (3) you would have had to like ST:TNG a lot to rank ST:TNG over some of the other critically acclaimed stuff that Rosalind Chao has done (The Joy Luck Club, Six Feet Under, the A-Team).

Conversation #2: Post the Post-Dinner Errand Run to the Liquor Store and the Comic Book Store:

Super Ninja: So, I was in the comic book store reading a Next Gen novel...

Me (not asking him to explain why he was reading a next Gen novel): Yeah?

Super Ninja:  And these two teenage girls come into the comic book store.  And they didn't really look like the type of teenage girls that you would expect to see shopping in a comic book store.

Me: They had normal-colored hair and they weren't wearing inappropriately tight clothing?

Super Ninja: Yeah. So, they stood at the door, looked around and they made a beeline for the counter. The guy at the front said, 'Hi, can I help you?' and they were like, 'Um, no, that's okay.' And then one turned to the other and said, 'Was that him?' And the second one said, 'This was a complete waste of time.' And the first one said, 'There are a lot of comic books in here.' And the second one said, 'It smells funny in here.'

Me: Was there a new 'Saga,' 'Buffy,' or 'Angel & Faith' this week?

Super Ninja: Nope.

And, scene...

Why this is a nerdy conversation:  Really?  You REALLY need me to explain the finer points of the nerdliness here?

THEM!

This is our third spring in this house, and this will be our third battle with ants. I don't remember requesting that particular conveyance when we bought the house. Or the curtains. Yet there they are.

Anyway, they are not the scary giant irradiated kind of ants. But they are BOLD. Whilst lounging on the couch earlier today, I thought, "Huh, something on my wrist tickles." I looked down.

Agh! Ant!

One flick sent the scout sailing across my living room and I was back to my novel. But ick, right? Listen, I'm not a bugophobe or anything like that. I pinched cicadas off trees with them best of 'em in 1987 and 2004. This is the first year that they invaded my lazy space, though, and I'm not having it. Tonight, Super Ninja hosed down their normal party surfaces with Raid and more bug traps are on order.

I have a Plan B for the chemicals, though.

My daughter is the official bug cruncher in the house. She tracks the ants and the box elder beetles (a.k.a., stink bugs) that lazily kamikaze our lamps, squishes them, and scoops them up and pitches them in the garbage. There's no squealing, no histrionics, just a very business-like, methodical stalking and dispatching.

Hmm.  Maybe I should be worried about that?

Dreamsome

I had a dream about my mother on Monday night. Listen, you don't need to roll your eyes. I usually start to glaze over when someone starts a story with, "So, I had this crazy dream!"

I GET IT.

But, if I don't write about it, images from it'll keep rolling around my brain like a coin dropped into one of those spiral wishing wells at the mall.

So.

We were sitting at a picnic table; my father was there too. My mother looked just as she did before she got sick, and that's the first time that I've seen her like that in a dream. Honestly, I've only dreamed about her three times since she passed away, and the other two times, she appeared ill, wearing her white baseball cap, and she was kind of... well... droopy. Beaten. Tired.

But this time, she was just as I've seen her a thousand times: enjoying the sun, wearing a striped t-shirt, glasses, and sporting a granny ponytail. We didn't talk. There were no life truths that I told myself via the dreamscape. But it felt good to see her animated and not have it be through a computer screen..

It felt good. Reassuring. If you believe in the heebie-jeebie, which I do, it's a message that she's OK. If you believe in the everyday, which I do, then its a message to myself that I'm getting to be OK.

Either way is good, no?

Top 8, Ahem, Interesting Social Media Behaviors

Why eight? Because I couldn't think of ten. Ten's overrated. Learn to enjoy eight.

Anyway, I'm no expert. It's not like I've written a thesis paper on social media; I just use it. (Digression: If you write a thesis on social media, do you tweet it to your professor? Because you should totally tweet that shit.)

Before we begin, it is important that you know how I perceive the usage of social media. This is a far-from-exhaustive list.

Twitter: You're at a big party in your honor, but you know only some of the people in attendance. The rest are three classes of strangers: (1) those who wandered by the open front door and thought it looked like a good time, (2) they like the cut of your jib, but you have no actual history with them, and (3) porn bots. Anyway, at this party, your brain has glitch that causes you to shout out observations at random intervals. All partygoers hear you; some choose to respond, some don't.

Facebook: It's your wedding reception. You are the best of friends with some of the attendees, related to many others, co-workers to some, and some of them you don't really know, but your parents made you invite them. Many strata of intimacy, but you did actually invite all of them to come, so you probably know them a tiny bit better than some of the yokels who follow you on Twitter.

Blog: Newsletter, postcard, whatever, tacked to a bulletin board. It's out there, people can read it, but you don't force it on them. They come to it. Also, since this is a medium that allows you some time to ponder before you press "Publish," you'd better have spell checked it. (I know that blogs aren't really social media unto itself, but people tweet or status update references to their blogs all the time, so here we are.)

Oh, also? I'm leaving out the gaming requests, because everyone already knows they are annoying. I won't be shedding any light there. Okay, here we go, in ascending order of ahem, interestingness (one = mildly annoying, ten = face meltingly uncool):

1) Taking pictures of your meals. Unless you work for Food & Wine magazine, chances are excellent that the photos are (a) out of focus, and (b) make your food look pretty unappetizing.

2) Posting your location. Why? Why do I care if you're at the Melting Pot? Especially if I'm not invited. Just makes me feel like you're bragging. Plus, you're telling everyone that you aren't home. It's an excellent way to lose a plethora of valuables, yes?

3) Posting your running stats. I have no idea why I know so many runners. When did that happen? Is it just among my circle of friends? Or does everyone run and I'm out of the loop because I'm busy changing diapers when everyone else is running? I don't know. But I do know my playwriting classmate's personal 5K best.

4) Not being able to complete a thought in 144 characters or LESS. Twitter posts things in real time, right? So if you can't edit, and you burp out your thoughts in three or four tweets, you reader probably stumbles on the last tweet and is all, "Wha?" It's not like it's breaking rocks to scroll back through a series of tweets, but it's annoying.

5) #Putting #a #hashtag #in #front #of #everything #you #write.

6) Uploading a hundred pictures from a drunken weekend and tagging everyone in it. Look, for good or for ill, employers are checking out employees' Facebook pages. So, if we happen to be a party together and I act a fool, I really don't need you to throw it out there for the world to see.

7) Posting totally inaccurate news stories. The politically ranty among us do this at an alarming rate. See, here's the thing: you're posting via a connected medium. This tells me that you have access to the internet, and could therefore fact check a thing or two. It's called Snopes.com, people. Bill Cosby didn't produce an "I'm tired, welfare is stupid, everyone's lazy" rage. That is the masterwork of former state senator Robert Hall. Know how long it took me to find that out? One minute.

8) Christening your collective of Twitter followers. ESPECIALLY if it is your own name. Patricia Heaton uses 'Tweatons.' Ugh, right? I don't have a problem with fans having a collective name in general, like 'Trekkies.' But I don't think Gene Roddenberry named them, you know? He probably just called them fans. He certainly didn't call then "Roddenberrites."

9) Only using these sites to shill. It's a given that comics, authors, actors, musicians, etc., will take the opportunity to notify their fans of upcoming performances, publications, broadcasts, whatever. Totally cool. But it'd also be nice to hear a thought or two direct from the source, you know? That's part of what makes it "social" media. Otherwise, why wouldn't I just go to a fan site?

10) Announcing major life events to people with whom you are supposed to be close. Seriously? You're telling you sister you're getting married by switching your Facebook relationship status from "In a relationship" to engaged?

[Editor's Note: I COULD think of ten. I added two after surfing Twitter and catching other things that made me roll my eyes.]

Don't Hide Your Light Under a Bushel Basket

I had a Facebook chat recently that made me laugh out loud, so I thought I would share. Because that's not obnoxious or anything, right? Trying to get additional giggles out of conversation leftovers?

Anyway, names have been removed to protect the innocent and all that jazz. Here's the background: one of my friends, we'll call her New England, posted a petition on her Facebook account to ask Republican leaders to denounce Rush Limbaugh. Someone she knows (let's see, clever pseudonym...), we'll call him Dummy, spewed PAGES of vitriol and invective in response. A mutual friend of New England's and mine decided to taunt him. She will henceforth be known as Same Name.

In case you live under a rock (no offense, Coober Pedy!) and don't know why anyone would be posting a petition to protest Rush Limbaugh (besides the obvious, I mean). Here's the fulmeroar*: Sandra Fluke, a student from Georgetown University Law School, testified before Congress on the necessity of including contraception in health care plans.

Rush Limbaugh responded to her thoughtful, intelligent testimony with crude assumptions and insults. In his cloacal ramblings, it's clear that he misunderstands how the mandate is being funded. He thinks it's paid for through taxes. Nope. The mandate requires that private, non-church/temple/mosque/compound employers include contraception in their plans, and if they choose not to, that the insured has the option of obtaining it directly from the health care provider, at the provider's cost, which they would be okay with, 'cause guess what? Birth control pills are less expensive than BABIES.

Taxpayers funding health care plans that provide birth control may be in our futures, what with the introduction of universal health care. Although, I repeat: birth control pills are less expensive than BABIES.

The problem in oh, so, so many ways, is that Rush Limbaugh has way more access to the ears and minds of America than, say, C-SPAN. This means an unfortunately large swath of people believe what Rush said is true. And one of them has access to the Facebook page of my friend.

Here is the conversation that Same Name and I had about New England's page after the fact:

Same name: Dear lord, have you seen this craziness re: [New England]'s post?
I know it's wrong to poke a bear, but sometimes it's just so, so hard not to.

Me: I did -- she sent me an e-mail about it (including [her brother]'s response). That individual clearly needs some kind of medication or hug. Or medicated hug. And he needs to learn that he's misinformed about who's paying for what.

Same Name: Medicated hug is brilliant. I really need to stop before he hunts me down and kills me. I imagine him like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man coming for me.

Me: Yes, and he would also be sucking his thumb. And waving a box of condoms at you. So, is this the kind of non-mommy-group intellectual stimulation you were looking for? Because if so, you know, FAIL. Also, I think medicated hugs should be applied by pandas wearing capes.

Same Name: More brilliance. Where's the petition to get that covered by universal health care?

Me: It would pass in a heartbeat.


...and, scene.


*One of Super Ninja's former co-workers totally ganked up the word falderol, which was so perfect, I now choose to use fulmeroar.

PartEs [sic] that Don't End Up Well

There's a metric ton of infuriating news right now, much of which I have opinions about. Started writing a blog post about it, even. But, then I thought, "Why pepper everyone with thoughts and arguments that are much more eloquently and cogently made by people who are paid to do so?" Plus, I started getting bored about a paragraph in, which is just never a good sign for a blog entry.

So, instead, I bring you my son's first foray into serial cartooning:

The misspelling is on purpose; it adds some hipster flava.

Cartoon #1: Man Wets Himself at Party

Looks like Mr. Party Guy had a little too much punch and couldn't restrain his bladder. And it just happens to be party that has a spotlight, which is trained on him at this inopportune moment. Quelle situation gênante! And the hostess is trying to keep it together, forcing a smile to gloss over the situation. My favorite part? The pretzels that were dropped on the floor.

Cartoon #2: Groom Spills Communion Wine on Bride

Now we find ourselves in a church. We can trust that the reception will not end up well, though, because the groom's gone and spilled the communion wine on the bride. The pillowed rings go flying. And again, while the guests are aghast, the bride is smiling, keeping her cool.

Something tells me this kid is going to make a wad of dough someday.

Swirly

No, not that kind of swirly. I wasn't bullied in school, nor do I have a fetish.

(Side note: BLECH, Urban Dictionary contributors. Also? I'm a convinced that every word on Urban Dictionary has some kind of perverted alternate definition.)

Anyone who is unfamiliar with Harry Potter may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs. I have found that you are proudly, vehemently anti-Harry Potter. I group you with the anti-Seinfeld, anti-Titanic, anti-Gone with the Wind people. This attitude spans generations!


Anyway, there's a scene in one of the Harry Potter books/movies where Hermione breaks down Cho Chang's fragile emotional state to Ron and Harry. See, Cho's crushing on Harry, but it's complicated because a few months earlier, her previous boyfriend, Edward Cullen, was murdered by Voldemort. (IF SHE'D ONLY KNOWN HE WAS IMMORTAL!) Wait, I'm mixing popular YA series. Sorry. We're lucky that Katniss Everdeen and Ender Wiggin didn't make an appearance.

Once Hermione oncludes an exhaustive list, Ron exclaims that no one can possibly feel all of those things concurrently.

Yeah? Well, welcome to my head. I am constantly mentally listing the things I want to do, haven't done, am feeling, wanting, needing...

What will we have for dinner tonight? I hope my Dad's doctor's appointment went OK. I should call him. Need to tidy the house before friends come over tomorrow. Are we coordinating enough activities and play dates for our kids? I miss my mother. I have to send this report out today. I turned off my flat iron, right? I really need to find time to write this weekend, but I don't want to abandon my husband with the kids. Maybe I can stay up late tonight...

Does anyone else do this? And, it's not even like I give more weight to the more important stuff. "Are my weekend jeans clean" gets nearly equal attention as "I need to make sure the water bill got paid." Be STILL, unruly mind!

My Husband, the Encyclopedia of Pop Music

Last night, while watching 'Ringer' (stop judging), a commercial featuring Peter Frampton came on. My husband knows nearly nil about pop music, so I wanted to exploit this fact for my own entertainment...

Me (turning to Super Ninja): Can you name one song by Peter Frampton?

Super Ninja (narrowing his eyes, looking off in the distance): Something... like... Frampton comes alive?

Me: That was the name of the album. Can you name a song?

Super Ninja: Um...

Me: In the world of pop culture, that's like not being able to name an 'Indiana Jones' movie.

Super Ninja: Can you name one of his songs?

Me: 'Baby I Love Your Way'

Super Ninja: Okay, fine, but can you name another one of his songs?

Me: Sure, 'Show Me the Way.'

Super Ninja (trying to deflect to another topic): Who was in in 'The Monkees?' Was that Peter Tosh?

Me (horrified): No! Peter Tosh was a reggae star who was shot to death in his own home. You're thinking of Peter Tork.

Super Ninja: Oh, right. Peter Tork.

Me (beating my head against a coffee table until I pass out.)

My First Conversation with the Girl About Boys

"So, do you have any boyfriends in school?"

"Well, I like Sean."

"Oh, really? What do you like about Sean?"

"He has kind of a square head."

Watch out, all you square-headed fellas out there. My 5-year-old is on the prowl for you.

A Brief History of Tooth #9

One Fall evening when I was twenty years old, I was enjoying a late evening dinner at Hamburger Hamlet with some of my college friends. Sucking on a straw, I slurped Coke from a barrel-sized glass. Delicious. At some point, I released the straw from my clenched jaw. I tongued the back of one of my front teeth to knock (what I thought) was a little bit of food loose.

Ouch. Sharp!

It was not food. It was a splinter from the back of my front tooth.

How does that even happen? Sure, I can understand cavities in molars. I mean, there are pits and valleys back yonder, excellent nesting places for sugar and gunk that can weaken bone. But the centrals? They have no location where the necessary cocktail of bacteria and acid can find purchase.

Except in my teeth. Thanks again, Mom & Dad, for passing on teeth made of peanut brittle instead of bone.

Off to the dentist I went, where it was patched up and I received a friendly lecture about decreasing my cola/tea/coffee consumption. Right. Because college students generally don't mainline caffeine.

Cut to four years later. A distinct vertical line appeared, and grew darker. It was then that I learned that the presentability of your front teeth is directly proportional to your desire to show your face in public. Armed with my own dental insurance, courtesy of choosing gainful employment at a place that offered such a boon, I selected a new dentist who cleaned up the work of the previous dentist and replaced the filling. Actually, he pretty much spread the filling goo like butter over the back of my whole front tooth. Success!

Cut to twelve years after that. Again, I'm sitting at dinner, this time among my husband and three children, and I feel a hard crumb on my tongue. Except we were eating spaghetti, which does not at all have hard bits in it. Well, at least the way I prepare it. I don't know what you do in your kitchen.

I had a flashback to Hamburger Hamlet and knew that this would not be a good thing. Sure enough, close inspection revealed I had chipped my tooth. On spaghetti. Two days later I was in the dentist's chair, where the venerable Dr. Hickey was telling me that I would need crown for that tooth.

For those of you keeping track, this is now my third crown. And I have a gap where I will get an implant some day. At this rate I'll be in dentures by fifty.

Last week, I got the temporary crown. I requested to be jacked up with all the novocaine a body can bear, but it was still MIGHTY unpleasant to have someone up to his elbows in my face for an hour with a drill. I'm pretty sure ther's a scene from 'American Psycho' that unfolds that way.

From this experience I learned I may have an intolerance to latex being pressed up against my skin for extended periods of time. My face broke out with a constellation of pimples not seen since my adolescence. And the temporary crown? Well, it's temporary. Industry standard is to pick something that works for now, and not really to bother to have an absolute perfect match in color or sticky-outy-ness. The thing lines up so my bite isn't off, but is a micron or twenty thicker and pushes against the inside of my lip, making me feel like I constantly have peanut butter stuck to the front of my tooth. It's thicker in the back, too, so my speech is ganked up. The tip of my tongue is all, "Get out of the WAY!" when I am trying to use sibilant words, but it is fighting a losing battle with this squatter.

So, to re-cap, I am currently a lisping, pimpled, uno-horse-toothed woman. Fellas, fellas, don't bother lining up. I am married, after all.

All of this is to say I've been avoiding mirrors and pictures. I mean, I've never really been all moony over my reflection. But I'm thinking that this year's family portrait won't happen 'til after the holidays.

Yesterday, I went back to get the "you'll feel like you're suffocating but you really won't, I promise" impressions of my teeth done so that I can get a permanent crown. One that is custom-made for my face. Off-the-rack teeth don't work for me. Pants don't either, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised by this.

Anyway, to take the impression, the dentist had to remove the temporary crown. Between sessions of having softball sized clumps of wax jammed in my face, my tongue went on an exploratory mission to see what was left of my original tooth, my pal since I was six years old. Aw, it was just a little niblet of a thing. I was happy just having touched it, imagining a cheery little thing huddled under the crown. King Baby Tooth.

You can understand, then, my chagrin when Dr. Hickey returned with a disturbing rack of fake teeth, each one individually skewered and standing at attention. He grabbed one and positioned in my face, judging the color comparison. I was reminded of my mother-in-law in Sherwin-Williams, holding up swatches and going back for another one, convinced that they aren't quite right.

Dr. Hickey asked me if I wanted to pick up the hand mirror from among his implements and look at the tooth/color he selected. I wanted to say, "No." But, the aesthete in me decided I should probably take a gander.

Oh. my. God. I looked like a hillbilly vampire. My front tooth was GONE, and was replaced with this dumb little cone of a tooth which will serve as the tang for the crown.

I looked for about six seconds before I told my dentist that the choice was a good one. The temporary crown doesn't come in until mid-December, and I'm sure it will become fodder for a new post.

Why?

Because for the past couple of years I've been kicking around the idea of whitening my teeth. Here's the formula for making that decision:

Natural shade of butter + (coffee + red wine) * a lot = blecko color teeth.

When one of your front teeth is getting replaced, though, the time for making that decision is NOW. You can't really whiten a crown. So, the plan is to order the crown a couple of shades lighter, then whiten the real teeth until they match.

This plan can't go wrong, can it? Oh, wait, of COURSE it can. I'm pretty sure my teeth are going to end up looking like this:

Things that Should Be Insurance Against a Sleepover/Hookup

This morning I dropped my daughter off at Pre-K and witnessed someone learning a life lesson.

Background: the Girl's Pre-K is on a college campus. She's not a wunderkind or anything like that, though I, of course, think she's super. The program is open to anyone, but primarily serves the children of faculty, staff, and students.

Anyway, whle my daughter was happily skipping to school, lunch swinging at her side, I saw Sailor Moon trudging uphill toward a dorm. Now, I am definitely making an assumption here, but I have to imagine that this college student did not think, "You know what would brighten up my classes today? Wearing a Sailor Moon outfit!"

Nope.

My guess is that somebody got some last night. So, here's my public service announcement: ladies, get ur freak on. But, if you are dressed as a Manga character, go HOME after the hookup, under the cover of darkness.

I Don't Know How I Did This

To my thumb. It is a pulsating, injured digit. As a result of wine. Not in a deeply dramatic way. I didn't pitch a snifter at someone and stab myself with a passionate shard. Nope. I somehow managed to place my ape thumb in exactly the worst spot possible on my ballerina-style corkscrew. When I pushed the arms down to extirpate the cork, my thumbskin got all squished in the gears.

Great.

I've told you I make my living pounding a keyboard, right? So, work should be AWESOME tomorrow.

Seen in Church Today

I'm not quibbling about the style choice, 'cause hey, at least the wearer of these heels was in church. But I do quibble with the sagacity of wearing such foot torture devices to a Catholic mass. I mean, it's an aerobic workout. You're up, you're down, you're kneeling, you're walking over to your neighbor to deliver the sign of peace, you're waiting in line for Communion. It can wear on the toes even if you're sporting sneakers.

This Is Probably Not the Angle the Cornucopia Institute Was Going For

We've pretty fully converted over to organic meat and dairy. Fruits and veggies are still dependent on price point, mostly because I'm not that concerned if I'm eating genetically modified corn.

So, why the switcheroo? It's not like organic is any more nutritious, and god DAMN is it expensive. Especially if your toddler would drink a gallon of milk a day by himself if you let him. The changeover boils down to one, very simple motivator for me:

I want to stave off my children's puberty 'til they can actually handle it.

Is that too mad scientist of me? I don't know. But I'm looking around at these ten-year-old girls with breasts, and eleven-year-old boys who need to shave, and I'm thinking, God help me. Me, I was a late bloomer. Fourteen or so. But oh my LORD, the blossoming wasn't finished until nineteen or so, which is when my bra size ended up closer to the middle of the alphabet than the beginning.

Just contemplate that for a hot minute.

Can you imagine if that started when I was ten instead of fourteen? When things had, ahem, progressed to the point where I earned occasional ogling from high school boys, I could kind of handle it. But if it had been middle school? Ugh. I could barely handle algebra. Boys staring at my breasts would've pushed me over the edge.

Yeah, so, that's my story with wanting meat and dairy that hasn't been all jacked up with growth hormones. Noble of me, eh?

Mrs. Underwhelm

I don't know what it is about me, but I can't hyperbolize. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I'm still a recovering teenager, and my Doc Martens-era thing of downplaying, well, everything, is still very, very deeply rooted. My coming of age happened at the tail end of the '80's, and it was revolution against bright sparkly spandex and glitter. Okay, revolution is taking it too far. It was more of a passive resistance kind of thing. Punk rock was a revolution. Grunge was kind of laying around in flannel grumbling about things.

Do you see? Do you see how I can't even use the word 'revolution'?

Anyway, this verbal incapacity has manifested itself in a completely benign way. Examples? When I dropped my daughter off at preschool today, my farewell to the teacher was, "Have a good morning!" She told me to have a great day. So, she won, because my good wishes were compartmentalized to the morning. She shot for the whole day.

Last week, I bought milk at the local convenience store on my way home from work. As I was leaving, clutching my change and a sweaty gallon of dairy, I bid the cashier a good day. She, in turn, said, "Have a great evening!"

Grumble.

On Friday night, I went to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of shiraz and tell the clerk, "Have a great night!" And he answered, "Have a fantastic weekend!"

I could just be silly and say things like, "Have the best week of your LIFE!" But that goes against my grain. My time horizon is about four hours, so that's the scope of my good wishes to others. If I see you at eight in the morning, I'm just going to wish you a good morning, because that's as far ahead as I can think.

Random Facebook Status

Have I ever told you about the guy that I accidentally friended on Facebook? No? Well, that's a story for another day. But, anyway, this was his status update today:

"Stop telling God how big your storm is. Instead, tell the storm how big your God is."

My thought? I don't think it's all that productive to talk to storms.

This Weekend

Isn't all about 9-11 for me. A year ago, on this particular weekend, I was in Ocean City, MD, with most of my family. My mother wanted to go one last time, and she wanted everyone to come with her. She paid. I coordinated.

It was her last trip there.

Yes! We're Doing Something Right!

The Girl started preschool this week. Why preschool instead of kindergarten since she's already as self-possessed as a 24-year-old? Because BaCo schools allow you to enroll if you turn five by September 1. If you're born before October 1, then you can be tested and possibly matriculated*. If you are born after October 1, forget about it. The Girl? She was born on November 6, so, off to preschool my daughter goes.

This morning, as I was dropping her off (only moments before, we were making up after a tiff over my too-rapid brushing of her hair), her preschool teacher pulled me aside to say, "She is a beautiful child. You're really doing a good job with her."

Yay! Validation from an (almost) perfect stranger!

*Oh yes, I used "matriculated" in reference to kindergarten.

Vacation's All I Ever Wanted

Just got back from a lovely vacation with my family in Ocean City, Maryland. I KNOW what you New Jersey-ites are thinking: "Blech! Why go to Ocean City, Maryland, when you can enjoy the fruits of Ocean City, New Jersey?"

Because I like the 9-mile long carnival that is Ocean City, Maryland. Also, I know where everything is there. I don't have to worry that we're going to an iffy restaurant, or that a mini-golf joint isn't kid-friendly. I wanted a totally non-thinky vacation, and that is what I got.

Plus, it was nice just to spend time with my kids. I don't think I realize how little time I actually get with them during the week, and to have that much interrupted time to do whatever struck their fancy was pretty wonderful. I had a lot of those moments when I realized that whatever we are doing to raise them seems to be panning out. The Boy and the Girl are both funny, sweet, and can occupy themselves with crayons and trucks when needed. The Little Guy isn't quite verbal, but he makes his thoughts known. His thoughts are usually, "I want to PLAY. You there, you come play with me!" He 'tells' you this by thumping toward you, grabbing a fistful of your shorts, pulling, and shouting "Mweh!"

Some of my favorite quotes from the kids who can talk were:

The Boy: I'm just a little bit evil. (Said at the top of the Ocean City pier's ferris wheel while admiring a demon painted on the side of the Haunted House.)

The Girl: Her name is Dolphiny! (What she christened the pink dolphin she won at the dart game at the pier. The Dolphin is pink and named for the Scooby Doo character, Daphne.)

Okay, so there were probably more than that. And there was more than that to the whole vacation. But then we got back home and life got in the way of me finishing and posting this little record of our time at the beach. So, it's incomplete and doesn't even acknowledge that my parents-in-law came with us, and nobody wounded each other in the whole time that we shared a three bedroom condo. Victories all around!

Adventures in Plumbing

Super Ninja: You know, this is like every stereotypical '50's sitcom, where the husband insists on fixing the sink, and they end up having to call a plumber when the pipes explode.

Me (from under the sink): How is this like that?

Super Ninja: You, the husband, are fixing the sink, while I, the wife, am watching the children.

Me (still under the sink): Oh, NOW I see what the problem is.

Super Ninja: What?

Me: I'm using a toy truck flashlight instead of a real one.

And...scene.

So, What'd We Learn Here? (Daily Gratitude Post-Mortem)

The final post for my series on gratitude was supposed to conclude on my birthday (July 16, for those of you who want to take a minute to go jot that down on a calendar so you can shower me with gifts and well-wishes next year). But I didn't do it, because I wanted to leave you hanging. Nah. Truth is, I didn't want to rush a missive on gratitude on a day that was packed with other activities, thoughts, and wallowings.

Now that I've allowed myself these handful of days to ruminate... Honestly, there's no gut-wrenching analysis on the fruits of exercise.

On a practical level, I wanted to force myself to write--or at least think about writing--every day in a concrete, focused way. It sharpens ye olde observation skills if you're thinking about things as potential blog or fiction fodder. To go through the somewhat academic exercise of evaluating the entertainment level of a story or a thought forces you to recognize that every stray thought that tumbles through your cranium is not gold. It's helping me build up what Hemingway so classically called "a shit detector."

Oh my God. Did I just reference Hemingway? Feel free to punch me in the face if I ever, ever, ever refer to Ernest Hemingway as "Papa."

There were varying degrees of success. My natural voice is one of dissent, snark, and critique, so forcing myself into this construct of gratitude was, at times, challenging. And when you divert your natural flow, I think it surfaces as awkward phrasing. And bad, bad editing. A younger me would have gone back and corrected every error. But the current me shrugs if I happen to miss it in the Preview. Lazy, lazy, current me.

On an emotional level, this past month has been really hard for me, as I knew it would be. So, I wanted to cleave to something more positive rather than spelunk spectacularly into flashbacks to my mother's diagnosis of terminal cancer, unending days in the hospital, and the constant low-level of panic. The days when I was grateful for coffee and other completely inconsequential things? These were days when I missed my mother terribly.

And on a reflective level, I realize the common themes of gratitude splayed out in html are my husband, my children, my family, and my friends. As it should be, no?

Gratitude #62: The Boy, Hooky, and Harry Potter

Today's gratitude is a triple threat, a hat trick, a trifecta!

First, and most importantly, the Boy's birthday is today. He's seven, and he's wonderful. We're well past the point of just trying to keep him well and clean. We're raising him, teaching him right from wrong, imbuing a sense of humor, providing a blue print for life. And the fruits of our labors are paying off. He's a delightful little person, kind, funny, considerate, and loving. Okay, he can also be stubborn and a litttle emotional. But, he's also, you know, SEVEN. So, we've got a little time to help him with that.

Second, Super Ninja and I played hooky together today. Partly to prep for the Boy's birthday, but mostly to just kind of relax together. And you know what we did?

WENT TO SEE HARRY POTTER 7.2! I found it awesome that our theater was peopled not with children, or even teenagers. Nope. All adults, like us, who were clearly cutting work as well.

Gratitude #61: Bastille Day

Fooled you! I'm not actually grateful for Bastille Day. I don't deny the French their right to celebrate the end of tyranny and all that jazz. It just happens also to be the day that my sister and her family move back from England! Woot! There's gotta be some kind of Anglo-Franco joke in there somewhere, but I'm way sleepy, so if you have one, send it my way.

(from Thursday, July 14)

Gratitude #60: Venting

This has been a stressful week at work. Lots to do, all equally important. Plate-spinning type stuff. So, I am glad that I have a ocupole of co-workers with whom I can vent without (a) sounding like I'm a whiny whine-bag, or (b) making them think like htey need to do anything about it.

(from Wednesday, July 13)

Gratitude #59: Going through the Pantry

I fully recognize that I am scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Literally! Since we were away from home last week visiting Super Ninja's family in Ohio, we didn't have a chance to do the full-on grocery store shop that we normally do. Since I'm still crazy busy at work, all I had time to do was snag some staples--milk, bread, cranberry apple juice cocktail.

What? Your basic foodstuffs are different?

Here's the nutty thing, though: we had enough grub stockpiled that we got through the week without needing anything else. That was both awesome and scary at the same time. I'm not one of those, "Better have a store of food for when the revolution comes" kinds of people. I think I just buy stuff, forget I bought it, and then add more. Pretty soon, it's like farfalle is being fruitful and multiplying, and I have a half a dozen boxes of it.

(I am also not a hoarder, by the way.)

So, now I am resolved that I will only buy perishables until I whittle down my collection of frozen and dry goods, excellent sales be damned!

(from Tuesday, July 12)

Pajama Story Time

Last night, I took my oldest two kids to the Pajama Story Time event at our local library. It started at 7:00 p.m., which was the big selling point for me. See, 7:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. is the witching hour chez Vaughan. The kids are punchy, the Little Guy is usually sailing off to bedtime, and the whole span of time is usually filled with bickering and random blows. I thought the change of venue might help a little.

When we got there, I saw that the story time is intended for kids ages 2 through 5. Perfect for the Girl, not so much for the Boy. I just told him to pretend he was five, and was reminded of my father shaving a few years off of my age whenever we went to a buffet restaurant. Kids under thirteen always ate cheaper. No one ever looked askance at me. 'Tis a boon to be short sometimes.

The Girl was enthralled by story time, and I can see she is going to be SUCH a teacher's pet. Shouting out answers, doing exactly what the 'teacher' says, grinning from ear to ear when told she was correct. Oh lawd, she will love school. The Boy drifted away to the coloring sheets and crayons, which was fine by me. He could've read the selection of stories to the kids gathered together, so I could see that hearing them wasn't really interesting to him.

The whole story time took about 30 minutes. Since I'd expected to be out for about an hour, we decided to go into the library's play room, as did a bunch of the other story time kids. It comprises kiddie kitchen and food market furniture and paraphernalia. The Boy was 'running' the food market for a bit, and the toddlers would steal money from the cash register. He jokingly yelled, "I'm going to call the cops on you!" as they gleefully ran away. The Girl wanted to run the shop with the Boy, but he staunchly refused. Eventually, though, he got kind of bored with it and wandered off to play with something else, and the Girl took control of the shop.

The little ones sharing the room with us were, child by child, snapped up by caretakers to go home for beddy-bye. After most of them had gone, another child and mama entered the room to play. They were African-American. The little girl, about three years old, wandered over to the shop. The cash register drawer popped open, and she helped herself to some of the money.

I think you can see where this is going.

The Girl very happily, and very loudly, shouted, "Call the cops! Call the cops! Call the cops!" AND SHE WOULDN'T STOP. Not for my grumpy face/head shake, not for my death whisper, not for my (hopefully) subtle gesturing. But I couldn't make a HUGE deal out of it, because I knew she was thinking, "Hey! African-Americans steal!" I KNOW she was just playacting what the group had done before, but the newcomers certainly didn't know that. And if I tried to explain it to the newcomers, that would also make it a bigger deal.

Aargh.

Gratitude #58: Air Conditioning

Did I do this one already? No? Great! Baltimore is as swampy as... a swamp right now. DO YOU SEE HOW THE HEAT HAS MELTED MY BRAIN? I can't even come up with a good metaphor, a linguistic feat in which I typically traffic all the live-long day.

Anyway, the HVAC gave up the ghost at my office on Monday. Welcome back from your long weekend in Westlake, eh? I have a corner office, because I am feared and respected among my colleagues. Know what that becomes when you have no air conditioning? A terrarium.

(from Monday, July 11)

I Love the Dark, but I HATE Nature

I'm an indoors kind of gal. Always have been. Don't get me wrong. I have enjoyed many an outdoorsy weekend with Second Best Friend and her husband, Hunter. Give me a campfire, some s'mores, and a dark sky speckled with an unfathomable number of stars, and I'm a happy girl.

But, I don't really seek outdoorsy activities. Sure, I'll take the kids on a nature walk. But given the choice between a board game and a hike, I'll take the board game.

And you know what? I don't think the outdoors like ME very much. This summer has provided stacks of evidence.

The first weekend in June, I went to my goddaughter's 10th birthday party. It was a pool party. I LOVE swimming. But there was not as much swimming as there was keeping my small children afloat. One particularly daring 18-month old required that I make a diving catch to keep him from cannonballing into the pool. Said diving catch resulted in me scraping the bejeesus out of my shin. And, once I climbed out of the pool, I apparently walked past a bowl of Ebola, because this tiny, centimeter-square scrape turned into a red, puffy, hot mass of annoyance within a day. It took TWO WEEKS to heal, and I STILL boast a stupid purple scar.

Two weeks later, same house, different daughter, another pool party. Another great time. And another random patch of allergic reaction to something. I'm thinking bug bite. But, seriously, I've never reacted like this to a bug bite before. I had a coffee-mug sized angry patch on my chest. So, maybe people weren't staring at my astounding cleavage for once. Perhaps they were just horrified by the monkey bite decorating my sternum.

Two weeks after that, I'm chilling in a park with my family, awaiting the fireworks spectacular that a suburb of Cleveland will deliver to me and mine. A couple of days later, something unpleasant and...bumpy...decorates my hip. Okay, if we're being COMPLETELY honest here, it decorates the crease where my belly, if it gets ANY BIGGER, will start to fold over. I am not in total FUPA territory yet. But I'm getting close to Scary Weight. So, at first I'm thinking that it's one more depressing sign of my absolute need to commit to the gym more regularly (like, maybe TWICE per week), and is just some kind of friction blister.

To confirm my suspicion, I do the absolute worst thing possible. You might think the worst thing is to ignore it, but no, good soldier! The worst thing is to Google your symptoms. Know what Dr. G. told me? That I had ovarian cancer. Or, second best, I had an STD. My third string diagnosis was that I have shingles.

Stupid Google.

But, all of this Doomsday diagnosis prompted a visit to the urgent care facility, and I am one hundred percent sure that the physician's assistant and doctor who tended me thought that I was some ridiculous housewife crafting terminal illness out of a bug bite.

Which, by the way, is what I was diagnosed with. The doctor assured me that they see this around this time of year, and that the bug bites so deeply that he* pushes bacteria from the surface of my skin into my bloodstream, causing an infection.

NONE of this made me feel any better, by the way. Oh, omnipresent bacteria all over my skin, you say? Delightful!

We are going to totally IGNORE that I felt no bug bite, and that this can't possibly be some eruption of a heretofore undiscovered unpleasantry.

I am now the proud owner of a three-day cycle of Augmentin. So, for those of you with kids, my infected bug bite is about one-third as bad as an average kid's ear infection. I am tough, eh?

*No female would do this to another one of it's kind. Had to be a jerk male.

Gratitude #57: In-Car DVD Players

Cue the controversy! While we don't have one of those fancy-pants cars with the built-in DVD players, we DO own a set that we can strap onto the back of the center row seats for the Boy and the Girl to enjoy on long car rides. I think the novelty of being able to control which movies they watch from the PG collection provided to them is what matters most. The conversations they have while making a selection go something like this:

The Girl: Boy, let's pick something that we BOTH agree on.

The Boy: 'Wall-E'?

The Girl: No. How about 'Storyteller'?

The Boy: No.

The Girl: Ooh! How about 'The Electric Company'?

The Boy: (Thinks for a second.) Okay.

The Girl: (Claps.) Alright! Let's do it!

So, perhaps I am also grateful that our eldest two children appear to get along rather well. Also, I give you free and full permission to get all judgy about the fact that my children watch mostly my generation's kid entertainment. Also: please note that Pixar films are allowed in my home, despite my lukewarm feelings toward them.

(from Sunday July 10)

Gratitude #56: Two Uninterrupted Hours

I don't get that very often. I mean, come ON, I have three children under the age of seven. And a husband who can't remember where a pot is kept if it is out of sight (I'm not picking on him -- he will tell you this himself). So, two uninterrupted hours are few and far between. But I got 'em on Saturday night. Super Ninja and I were shooed away from the in-laws' homestead post-kiddo-bedtime to enjoy a little quality time with each other. I don't know what it says about us that 'quality time' means going to a bookstore and reading in companionable silence for two hours. Guess we're just too wild and crazy for comprehension!

(from Saturday, July 10)

Gratitude #55: Double Feature

Guess who got to see both Horrible Bosses (meh) and Midnight in Paris (woot!) in one night? This guy (waggles thumbs at self)!

Seriously, if I have to explain why this is awesome, I don't know how to talk to you.

Okay, that said, I do have one tip I would like to offer the cinema-going world: if you strut into a movie theater and there are people sitting in the neck-breaking rows situated at the front of the theater, chances are really, really excellent that there are no seats available in the stadium rows. Please don't brush past me hoping that the holy grail of late-comers (i.e., two seats in a row, dead center) is going to manifest.

(from Friday, July 9)

Gratitude #54: Free Rides to the Airport AND Southwest Airlines

Part the First: So, Best Friend very kindly took me out to dinner and drove me to the airport so that I could catch my flight back to Cleveland. Very nice not to have to stress about getting there, nor to have to pay $20 for an eight-minute ride from my house.

Part the Second: Like a complete ninny, I booked the wrong date for my flight. I know, I know, how does such a thing happen? Uh, DID YOU NOT SEE MY PREVIOUS POST? Too much going on lately, so, stupidity rears its knobby little head here and there. But! Southwest was dream; they rebooked my trip on the flight for Thursday as opposed to the Friday one I'd originally reserved. And they didn't charge me the $50 I was expecting to pay. Shweet.

(from Thursday, July 8)

Gratitude #53: A Co-Worker Who Is a Former Starbucks Barista

I don't know that I need to really explain this one. Suffice it to say my co-worker elected to share with me his iced coffee blend, and I would have fallen out of my chair with happiness if I wasn't certain he would have taken it completely the wrong way.

(from Wednesday, July 6)

Gratitude #52: Ignorance

The week before and after the 4th of July is the absolute busiest time of year for me at ye olde office. Our big annual software deployment deadline is July 1. Know what coincides with that? Our daycare provider chooses the 4th of July week to SHUT IT DOWN. Her prerogative, our contractual obligation to allow. So, how do these things happen together without me losing my mind? IN-LAWS!

So, yay for them! But I think I already blogged my gratitude to their participation in a week of childcare, supporting Super Ninja as he (mostly) single parents it. For I, my interweb friends, flew home for Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday of last week to triage any work difficulties. And do you know why I cite my gratitude for ignorance? 'Cause I had to shuffle through one of those circular x-ray booths at the security checkpoint. Didn't realize I had to hold my hands up like a police officer had gotten all shouty with me. All in all, no big, but I have intentionally not researched what can be seen on those machines.

Now, do I like the extra pat-down I receive because of the very necessary pound of steel that is used to reinforce my ridiculous bra? Nope. Frottage has never been my thing. But, at least it's less, uh, extensive since they've already seen I'm not packing anything else in my G-cup.

(from Tuesday, July 5)

A Year

A year brings a truckload of differences. Oh, for Chrissakes.* How trite is that? Who doesn't know that? My six-year-old knows that. In one short year, he goes from 1st to 2nd grade. Big changes!

This past year brought big changes. Mostly suck-o ones. It was a year ago today that I spent the day in the hospital with my mother, learning that she had terminal cancer. Jump back in the archives, should you need to. I'm too tired to link.

I miss her every day. I cry many of those days. Not for my loss, though I feel that keenly. But for the suffering she had to go through, the indignity of it, the sadness that permeated her bones at having to leave all of us so soon.

I thought by pushing myself this week, by working 14-hour days, I could avoid feeling anything. Stupid, is what I am.

*I have a limited array of swear words. I LOVE listening to a accomplished swearer, don't get me wrong. But somehow, I can't let it fly myself. So I satisfy myself with these pseudo-swears, which are mostly of the blasphemous variety.

Gratitude #51: FREEDOM! (please read that in Mel Gibson's William Wallace voice)

I know that one of my gratitude rules was to focus on the small things. Mostly, that's because I don't know that I could articulate the really big things for which I am grateful. I said to a friend recently that trying to frame my love for my husband and what he means to me with something as flimsy as words was akin to squishing a whole pillow into a Dixie cup. It's just not gonna happen. Plus, come on, doesn't some tiny part of you get all snarked out when someone says things like, "I am grateful for the air I breathe."

No? Just me?

Any way, I'm grateful for my freedoms, every single last one of 'em. Freedom of speech, for example. I can post any inane thought to the interwebs, and it's OK! Only my embarassment will stop me. I may quibble with people's misunderstanding of freedom of speech*, but I am still grateful to have it. So, yeah, FREEDOM! Loves ya, America!

*Okay, here's my gripe. There are people out there who misconstrue "freedom to say whatever the hell I want without consequences" as "freedom of speech." Oh no no no, youngling. If you Twitter that I am a jerk, and I come back and say nuh-UH! You are a jerk! Well, I'm not actually taking away your freedom of speech. I'm reacting to it with my own. You had the freedom to say whatever, but so do I. Just 'cause you don't like it doesn't mean that your freedom's at stake.

(from Monday, July 4, 2011)

Gratitude #50: In-Laws Who Aren't Afraid of Babies

Some of us have in-laws (or parents, actually) who ARE afraid of little people. These are the ones who like to coo at babies, but who head for zee hills when a diaper needs to be changed.

Not my in-laws! They woke up with the Little Guy (and the more self-sufficient Boy and Girl) the day after we arrived despite having stayed up just as late as us. For those of you keeping track, that would've been about 1:00 a.m. We'd planned on getting up with our darlings, but the Little Guy is sleeping in a pack-and-play in their spacious master bathroom (not IN the tub or anything -- who do you think we are?), so they heard him first. Result? Super Ninja and I actually got a full eight hours sleep.

(from Sunday, July 3)

Gratitude #49: A Plan ACTUALLY Coming Together

My apologies to Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith. Super Ninja and I drove the kiddoes to Cleveland on Saturday night for a visit with the grandparents (I am back in town, which is a whole 'nother post). Our original plan was to wend our way north and west on Saturday morning, so that we could enjoy most of the day on the west side. Then the Boy got an invitiation to his second best friend's 7th birthday party, and, well, far be it from us to deny the Boy his social occasions. We stuck around 'til after the party (it was helpful that the Girl was also invited), then hit the road at about 6:00 p.m.

WHY haven't we done this before? Traffic was great, and outside of the minor monsoon that hit us about an hour outside of town, it was possibly the best road trip I've ever been on. "Best" meaning smoothest. There was also that 22-hour trek to New Orleans when I was in college...

(from Saturday, July 2)

Gratitude #48: Peer Love

My big deadline was yesterday, and my company's new site launched. We'll see how many bugs/glitches/insert-euphemism-for-a-problem-here roll in from end users in the next couple of days. BUT, this post is all about how my boss and my co-workers congratulated me and said that they thought the project was managed well and the process was smooth. I am compelled to enumerate reasons that their praise is not genuine, but I'm fighting that, and I'll just bask in it. Until the servers blow up.

(from Friday, July 1)

Gratitude #47: Extra Large Dunkin' Donuts Coffee

Deadline today = elevated need for caffeine. Yay for the Dunkin' Donuts within walking distance of my office. I was so happy that I bought bagels and donuts for the rest of the crew. Okay, perhaps I bought a dozen to disguise the fact that I really wanted four for myself. But if you buy only four, it is clear that you are the solo eater of said donuts. The other eight were just camouflage.

(from Thursday, June 30)

Gratitude #46: The Occasional, Self-Prescribed Late Night at Work

I know, I know, you think I've done lost my mind up in here. Who would be grateful for a late night at work? Some of us are just wired that way. Don't judge! Sometimes, a project, or a report, or a technical manual needs my uninterrupted focus. And my job is basically to GET interrupted with questions, clarifications, reviews, and (a little) hand-holding all day, every day. One cannot construct a grammatically correct sentence with all of that going on, let alone craft a simple way to guide people through importing data into an online interface.

The only reason I get to work these odd hours on occasion is because of Super Ninja. So, once again, the gratitude expressed here is actually a tip of the hat to him as well.

I'm sensing a pattern in a lot of these gratitudes, aren't you?

(from Wednesday, June 29)