I Know I Live in a Cookie-Cutter Kind of Neighborhood, but Really?

After the bus swallowed up the Boy and carted the neighborhood kids off to school, the Girl and I turned to go in the house to grab our stuff and climb in the car to head off to Pre-K.  That's when I noticed a rolled up piece of paper stuck in our door handle.

"Flyer," I thought to myself, and snatched it up as we entered the house. But lo, there was handwriting on it, which is kind of unusual.  It actually looked like the lawn care notes we used to get after a weed-killer spraying.  It was a double-pain in the ass to get that service canceled back in the Fall, so I thought, "Oh no...  I hope we didn't chuck some 'call us to cancel or we will spray your lawn with weed killer for the rest of your life!' junk mail."

That is not what happened, you'll be happy to know.

Nope. The service report I held in my hands was for a house around the corner from us.  Same street number, wildly differently named street.

"What the hell?" I said.

"You said 'What the hell'" the Girl said.

"I sure did," I answered.

Now, I've gotten this neighbor's mail before, but not pest control services.  I mean, what'd the guy do, just stop when he saw the street number and decide we must be the place?  Although, I was happy to see, the report indicated that we have no evidence of pest activity.  Which is good, I guess.  Validates the fact that we, you know, didn't actually order any pest control services.

I could only imagine the irritation of my neighbor, though, if she called this company and was all, "We're infested!  Where you at?" [Disclaimer: I have no idea if my neighbor speaks this way, but in my head she does.]  So, I did the neighborly thing and called the pest service company and informed them that I think they hosed down my house instead of the one that contracted their services.  To which they responded, "Oh boy."

Then, I left a message at my neighbor's house to let them know what happened. 

Watch.  I'll get a bill from the company for services rendered, and the neighbor will give me the cold shoulder because they are embarrassed that I know they have bugs.

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.]