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.