Me & Sam Walton

For reasons too boring to delve into, I found myself in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on Tuesday night with nothing to do but walk off a gigantic meal procured at Smokey Bones.

My com padres suggested walking over to the strip mall adjacent to our Marriott. I was down with that, because if I went to bed without a minimal amount of exercise, my heart my have exploded from the amount of barbecue I'd eaten.

You might question the choice of a stroll to a strip mall. Trust, there were no other options. This hotel was on a road named Power Line Drive. You know how roads are typically named after historical personages, geographical destinations, or are designed to be evocative of local vistas? Well, Power Line Drive was indeed evocative of a local vista...of the power lines. So, off we went to the strip mall.

Turns out, though, the strip mall next door wasn't a strip mall. Nope. It was just a GIGANTIC Wal-Mart. I've seen how Wal-Mart kills whatever Mom & Pop industry is indigenous to an area, so I don't shop there. But my co-workers do, and marched toward it because they needed to pick up a few things. Aaargh. These were my choices:

(1) Accompany them, but don't buy anything;
(2) Turn around, feigning sudden fatigue, the need to make a phone call from a land line, or illness (which, come to think of it, would've been believable considering how much I'd just horked chez Smokey Bones); OR
(3) Share my politics, and take off back to the hotel.

I'm a passivist pacifist, so I opted to go but not buy anything. Going was a good thing, because my reasons for avoiding Wal-Mart are not limited to the political sphere. Now, my reasons include the atmosphere. Which, for the record, was kind of depressing. Nobody wanted to be there. The greeter kind of grunted at us. And the shoppers comprised grumpy parents, wailing kids, and portly teens who resented that their summertime entertainment was loitering at Wal-Mart...

So, in the future, I don't have to worry about whether or not I'm really missing out on something great at Wal-Mart. Not like I was really worried, I guess, but any shadowy doubt that lingered is gone.

Good Day, Sunshine

(I don't live in this glorious place, but it seemed a nicer illustration than the sparkling Inner Loop of 695)

Is it reassuring or extra creepy that this is the sunshiniest, mildest day of all time AND it's Friday the 13th?

Wait, did I just blog about the weather? THE WEATHER?!? Seeking redemption...seeking redemption...

One New Year's many years ago, I visited my sister when she and her family were living in Deutschland. It's a German tradition, apparently, to set off fireworks in the neighborhood at midnight (since they have red clay roofs, they don't really need to sweat the possibility of New Year's Flambé). Whilst the fireworks lit up the sky and we sipped champagne, my sister's neighbor, Felix, chatted about when he'd lived in the States (the Republic of Texas, thankyouverymuch). He said he loved America, with one exception: our predilection for talking about the weather.

His tirade went a little something like this...

"You have nothing to talk about except the weather? That is so boring! I have more interesting things to talk about! I am studying [insert some applied mathematic juju that I couldn't retain]! We should talk about that! Schnell!"

Okay, he didn't say that last 'Schnell'. In my imagination, Germans want to punctuate everything they say with it, so I added it to Felix's rant. Oh, and to clarify: he wasn't yelling at me. He was yelling at remembered conversations with bouffanted Mary Kay saleswomen.

Phew. Suddenly, this post turned into a recollection of an exciting travel experience, and NOT a post about the weather. See, Felix? I do have better things to talk about. I was worried for a second there.

Satellite Killed the (Terrestrial) Radio Star

Family Truckster is equipped with Sirius satellite radio. I haven't decided weather or not to pick up the subscription yet. Eh, I'll probably wait and see whether the gubment allows XM and Sirius to merge, and then I'll get a cheaper monthly subscription since we already have XM in Hubby's car (Oh, LtW, at last you're becoming a crafty consumer!). Anyway, I'd forgotten the joys of having more than five or six programming choices. The option to flip over to satellite couldn't come at a better time since all of the DC-based shows seem to be on vacation this week. Either that, or they aren't funny.

Any way you shake it, though, I clearly need a host of choices. This morning I listened to the Animaniacs' The Presidents, then Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and finally, the October 2006 roast of Gary Dell'Abate on the Howard Stern Show. Does that indicate that yours truly has multiple personalities? or ADD? or esoteric tastes? I'm going to go ahead and vote for that last one.

A Brave New World

Actually, come to think of it, "brave" isn't quite the way I'd describe this new world in which the Hubby and I find ourselves. Considering all of the safety features that come standard, our new car isn't really the picture of courage. Yup, that's right, we are now the proud owners of our first Family Truckster. Voilà:




That's a 2007 Ford Freestyle Limited. It's kind of a FrankenCar -- one-third SUV, one-third minivan, one-third station wagon. We needed something bigger than the Ford Focus and the Chevy Cavalier we'd been driving because the Boy is getting bigger, and if he isn't pounding the back of the driver's seat with his size 7's, then his knees are up around his ears. Not really a safe way to ride in a car, to say nothing of the style. Plus, we've got many road trips this summer, and the amount of stuff we haul around for the Boy and the Girl is astounding.

We chose this model because we're on a budget, want to seat more than five people, and we don't want to leave an Ozymandias-ish carbon footprint. LtW, you might ask, if those were your criteria, why not just go with a fuel-efficient minivan? I'll be honest with you. I could spout statistics at you about why the Freestyle is better than a minivan, even though it may only be slightly better in the categories that matter to me.

Here's what it boils down to: I couldn't do it. Not yet. I could not make my 31-year-old self cross the line into the world of minivans. When we were driving to the dealer, I pointed out a Dodge Caravan to Hubby, and told him that it got the best rating for minivans in the government's Fuel Economy Guide. The blue swerving wonder had one of those giant soccer magnets on the back of it. Hubby's response was, "Ugh. Is the soccer ball mandatory?"

So he wasn't game to become a citizen of the Republic of Minivans either. I won't say that I won't become naturalized someday, but I'm not ready yet. Vive le Freestyle!

Like a Bull in a Nursery

Well, it finally happened. The Boy broke his first lamp yesterday. I knew it was right around the corner, because he's been really into this crazy show called "LazyTown." It's a mix of "Spitting Image" and the Olympic men's gymnastics competition. The Boy was channeling Sportacus (the tumbling maniac who stars in the show), and executed a perfect somersault into a plastic set of drawers in the Girl's nursery. A little white lamp lived atop those drawers, and alas, it did not survive the wrecking ball known as the Boy.

As soon as it happened, memories of that unfortunate stick ball-in-the-living-room incident surfaced. That little game 'twixt me and Little Bro cost my parents a pristine mirrored knick-knack shelf. We weren't that much older than the Boy when that happened, so I knew that Bustin' Up the Joint Era was coming soon. Guess I just hoped the Boy would take out more of Hubby's stuff than general household stuff.

Time to surf the web for cheap, unbreakable lamps!

Only 173 Shopping Days Until Christmas!

Over the weekend, I went to a bridal shower tea for a college friend. Most showers (bridal, baby, and otherwise) are a yawn fest. There are only so many times you can ooh or coo over china and onesies. But, at this shower, the bride received something that I covet. Her mother gifted her with this:

(image courtesy of the Yellowstone online gift shop)

How perfect is that? I love that it's completely ahistorical. Well, of course it is, as our Lord and Savior, if you truck with Christianity, was not, in fact, a black bear. But black bears are not indigenous to the Middle East, which makes the whole thing even more fanciful. And that little grouping up there? That's just the starter set. There are two more. The second set features a shepherd, Bear-Caspar, and some of the animals that chilled out in the stable:

And then, set three: Bear-Melchior, Bear-Balthasar, the Little Drummer Bear and a Bear-Cow.

I'm not sure if this is blasphemous or awesome, but I'm leaning toward awesome.

I Am a Moron

The combination locks on the inner stairwell doors of my office building were changed two weeks ago. Our building manager put messages reminding us of this on hot pink Post-It notes above each doorknob and keypad. Every day I muscle my way up the stairs, see the note, and say to myself, "Duh. We all know the combination has changed. When are they going to remove those notes?" And then I promptly enter in the old combination.

Prince William Has a Voice Twin!

I'm a bit of an anglophile, so I cranked NPR up to eleven during its piece on the Concert for Diana (trust, I understand that admitting that makes me sound like a gigantic nerd). Something about Princes William and Harry's speech gave me a wicked case of déjà vu, though. I'm sitting in my car, tapping my steering wheel, thinking I've heard this address before. I'm picturing a castle, a crowd, someone saying "Boo!" Wait! Prince William, starting at about 1:30 in the video below, bears an uncanny vocal resemblance to Chris Sarandon's Prince Humperdinck in "The Princess Bride." Here are the heirs to the British throne:

Now, go rent "The Princess Bride" and fast-forward to Buttercup's funerary fantasy, when Prince Humperdinck tells the murmuring crowd, "My father's final words were, 'Love her, as I loved her and there will be joy. I present to you, your queen; Queen Buttercup." (Sorry about the offline re-direct; that scene doesn't exist on these here Interwebs.)

Eerie, right? What? It's just me? Really? Hmmm.

And by the way (slight non sequitur): why hasn't Broadway created a musical based on "The Princess Bride" yet? If they can retro-fit Monty Python's "Holy Grail" as "Spamalot," then surely the tale of Buttercup and Westley would make a jim dandy of a show on the Great White Way. So, all you musical theatre types, get to work on that. I would, but me and the writing of music, we're like this (MCV holds arms out to sides like the model for one of Da Vinci's more famous pencil sketches).

Artists, Take Up Your Brushes, Your Pens, and Your Chickenwire (or Whatever You Use to Make Art)

I happened across Dana Gioia's commencement address to Stanford University's graduating class of 2007 courtesy of A1GirlRevolution. It's pretty stirring stuff if you are of a creative bent. And it should be pretty stirring stuff even if you aren't.

I've always been drawn to art (ha!). As a kid, I was all about the visual arts -- drawing, painting, photography, etc. The letters, well, they've always been there as well. But I was a pretty shy kid, and with visual arts, the rest of my class saw and complimented me on my wunderkind-ish abilities. With writing, I would have had to foist my scribblings upon them so that they could recognize my genius. And, well, I wasn't that bold. I am now, though (wink).

Where was I? Oh, right. When the opportunity arose in my ninth grade social studies class to write a research paper on a current event, I chose to write about Jesse Helms' zealotry in limiting the NEA's freedom to grant...well, grants. This was in the time of Robert Mapplethorpe and various other artists that Congress deemed too racy to subsidize. To be honest, I don't know that I'd fork over $500,000 for one of Mapplethorpe's photographs, but here's what my fourteen-year-old self and my thirty-one year-old self believe: his right to create it was incontrovertible, and it's up to the NEA, not Congress, to determine who should and shouldn't receive artistic grants.

And the reason I have this opinion? Because art was exciting, and controversial, and was making people think. At the time, there was a LOT of conversation about first amendment rights to express one's self through art. The debate took center stage on many a news broadcast, and many a news magazine.

And what do we debate today?

Whether or not Paris Hilton was treated fairly when she was tossed in the clink for violating the terms of her DUI probation. Britney Spears' parenting skills. Is Nicole Richie sporting a baby bump or does she have a distended belly since she's malnourished? Lindsay Lohan's substance abuse problems. Is Angelina Jolie a savior of disadvantaged children or does she have some kind of weird hording complex?

So, here's the thing. I don't think I was more engaged with the current events when I was fourteen. At my house, we received US News & World Report and US Weekly, and I read both of them cover to cover. What's weird, though, is that I know much, much more about celebrities now than I do about, say, the United Nations. But I'm reading the same amount of news, and I'm watching more of it courtesy of 24 hour news television. So what gives?

Clearly, celebrity news isn't a recent cultural phenomenon. The society pages were the precursors to the tabloids. The hoi polloi have often lived vicariously through the elite, so it's natural that we'd want all the bulletins about them. But celebrity journalism...well, it's supplanting actual news. It's not relegated to a column, or a page, or a section, or a publication. It's inextricably entwined with all news.

Dana Gioia's point is that artists could possibly generate enough of a buzz to make us stop the madness and talk about current events in a productive way. It's not like art is the answer to the world's ills, but if Guernica could still cause a bit of a scandal in 2003, well, wouldn't something from the 21st century generate some pretty interesting conversation?

Even if we don't use art to highlight tragic conflict and force the movers and shakers in world politics to have a chat about resolving them, we should still be more aware of art and literature. I'll leave you with this: Robert Frost was the US Poet Laureate from 1958-1959. Name one of the thirty-three poets who held the position after him. One. You can check your answers here.

Adam Sandler: Kreskin?

Didn't this happen to Carl Weathers' character in Happy Gilmore?

You Ripped Off That Post? Really?

Every once in awhile, a blogger furiously posts about one of his pieces being plagiarized. That sucks when it happens. Of course, no one loves my stuff enough to rip it off, so I'm just intuiting that it sucks. So, one of the blog collectives that I visit regularly highlighted the plight of someone to whom this had happened. Within her post about the blog pirate, she linked to her original piece so we could all know what it was that was so very valuable.

Eeargh. It was a self-hating thingamajig about the myriad things that stink about being a woman. The things that earn the writer's ire are as follows:

• Being stared at;
• Having to always look pretty/cute;
• Other women;
• High heels, pantyhose/stockings, bras, jeans, bikinis/bathing suits, nail polish, etc.

She concludes with a paragraph about the advantages to being a woman, which include such treasures as, "Getting our way by flashing a smile or showing some cleavage," and "growing a child inside our bodies."

All of it is just so...ugh. Really? This is progress? Do women today really honestly believe that it is a requirement to look pretty? And wear high heels? And what kind of women are you friends, with, anyway? And the advantages listed are more misogynistic than the disadvantages. I'm not sure that I want to get my way by flashing a smile.

The thing that bugs me is that there isn't even a hint of irony in this post, or a glimmer of understanding that the author has some control in these situations. It's not like you're going to be fined if you don't wear makeup. You don't have to hang out with women who are going to talk smack about you. And you really don't have to be weirded out by guys staring. My guess is that if you're flashing some cleavage to get what you want, then perhaps you're inviting a guy's unblinking gaze?

Actually, the thing that REALLY bugs me here is that someone else thought the post was so awesome that she slapped it on her MySpace page without giving credit to the original author. Does no one understand that we do not need to conform to societal expectations of women? I feel like there was a bunch of cybersister high-fiving going on, without anyone questioning the author's contribution to her own disadvantages.

It's moments like these when I feel like a harridan of Dorothy Zbornak proportions.

P.S.: I'm not linking to the post 'cause I'm not really wanting a debate on this. And I'm a coward.

Benedict XVI Must REALLY Not Like the Way Italians Drive

I just saw that the Vatican has issued the Ten Commandments for drivers. This is not the first time that Pope Benedict XVI (or his staff, as the case may be) has had a hand in issuing warnings about road rage. No surprise, really, considering many citizens of his adopted country choose to ride around on what Eddie Izzard called an "f***ing hairdryer."

Hubby will not like knowing that overtaking is a sin. He'll have racked up a score of sins to report the next time he finds himself in the old confessional. Heck, he'll have racked up a score of sins by the time he arrives home from his afternoon commute.

The Return of Opie and Anthony. Sigh.

No slight to Opie and Anthony, but I really dig Ron & Fez and was stoked that they were on the XM's Virus 24/7 during O & A's suspension. With O & A's return, Ron & Fez are relegated to three hours of live broadcast and three hours of replay per day. The remaining eighteen hours -- five live, and thirteen replay -- are all Opie and Anthony. I could listen to Ron & Fez debate top ten lists all day long, and in fact, I did during most of the last month. Maybe Ron & Fez could just get one more replay in there? Or do something like the Fastest Hour when they were on WJFK in DC? Please, XM? Please?

This Is All Wrong

I may not know many things... Wait. Actually, I do know many things. And one of them is that this song...

does not exist. It's from a fan's MySpace page. Can't be a dedicated fan if s/he doesn't know the song is called "Enjoy the Silence." Perhaps it's a clever way around piracy laws? Oh, except the other two songs on the fan's page are correctly titled. Do you feel the waves of anger that my fourteen-year-old self is sending across space and time to this poseur?

A Thirty-Something Milestone

Every week, I receive e-bulletins about my children which discuss milestones that each of them may be reaching (if they haven't already). There are all kinds of careful caveats to prevent ubër competitive parents from freaking out that Johnny isn't clapping yet or that Susie isn't participating in creative enough play, but it's been a pretty handy guide for me. More than once, I have wished that there was something like this for me and my thirty-something com padres. What to Expect: the Thirties. Or maybe, The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being in Your Thirties. I would totally buy that in a heartbeat.

This month's chapter -- 31 years, 11 months -- would go a little something like this:

You may start getting e-mails, phone calls, or other forms of correspondence from former high school and college friends and acquaintances. In some instances, they are looking for a Big Chill experience. In others, they are just starting to revisit what they've done with their twenties, and for many people, that means reconnecting with people who meant a great deal or shared intense experiences during that decade. In still others, they are revealing that they have been diagnosed with a serious health condition, and would love it if you could sponsor them in a fundraiser for research for a cure for that health condition.

Yep, I received one of the latter e-mails yesterday. I jumped into an Olympic-sized pool of empathy for the guy. He was always so much fun, very easygoing, and for him to have Multiple Sclerosis is just crazy. I'm glad he contacted me, even if it was via mass e-mail, and even if it was to ask me to pony up some sponsorship coin for a bike ride fundraiser. I'll be happy to do it. I just wish that I'd kept in enough touch to know this before he got to the stage where he was mass-emailing about it.

Perhaps These Directions Are for Aquaman?

For reasons too long and tedious to go into here, I needed to know the distance between two teeny towns in northern Maryland. So, I hied myself on over to Google Maps and entered my start and end points. Imagine my surprise when Google returned a map that showed the starting point in the United Kingdom. Whoops -- I forgot to specify Maryland. That'll learn me. Of course, I had to know how Google recommended getting across the Pond. When I spotted it, I laughed out loud. Scroll down to Step #29 to see the source of my giggles.

Swim? Really? Not fly, or sail? And the time estimate -- 29 days to cover 3,462 miles -- requires a swimmer to chug along at about 5 miles per hour. The fastest swim time on record is just a little faster than 5 miles per hour, but that was only in the 50 meter freestyle. A human couldn't possibly sustain that speed crossing the Atlantic, ipso facto, Aquaman is the only fella who could use these directions. So, Arthur Curry, should you want to know how to get from Abingdon, England, to Pylesville, Maryland, I've got the directions saved in my Favorites.

Bustin' Through Writer's Block

Any tips on how to punch through a sincere case of writer's block? I'm more stuffed up than my nephew after rolling around in some dog dander. And the blockage is on all fronts, baby. Chick-litty work-in-progress, blog, e-mail -- my keyboard might as well be a thirty-foot high Cold War masterwork of concrete and rebar. Can't get around it to do the work.

What's up with that? The WIP, well, that one's easy to explain. I'm at the tail end of it -- reworked the final scene and everything -- and all I really need to do is take an hour to read it, then hit the revision process. That's when I can take it like it's a wrinkled sheet and snap it flat to fold it up into a neat little package. Where to find that time to read and edit and rewrite and re-read and edit and rewrite, though? My goal is to have query letters out by my birthday. If I have a deadline, I can usually find inspiration to climb over or tunnel under my own personal Dark Tower of Fruitlessness. Usually.

E-mail's another story. With that one, I put a little too much pressure on myself to scribe something witty, or intellectual, or both. Usually both. Inevitably, I send something out that was written in a state of delirium with many, many errors. Not spelling errors, because I take advantage of spell check, as all writers using modern media should. My errors tend to be of the I-used-the-wrong-word or I-straight-up-forgot-to-include-a-preposition kind of errors. Just the type of goof that makes people smile and think, "Wow, she must have been really delirious when she wrote this." I hope. Oh, Lord, I hope people think that and don't think that I have some kind of learning disability that prevents me from noticing when I skip prepositions.

Writer's block on a blog, though...yikes. LtW is an online journal for me, 'kay? And when I find that I don't have anything to write about, well, I start to think that maybe I'm not engaged enough with the world around me. Shouldn't I be fired up about the news? Well, I am, but other people provide better analysis than I. So go read them, I think. Regardless, my niche is commentary on pop-culture for the under-forty set, but the stuff that's been going on there is pretty boring too. I know, I know, rehab and jail are pretty juicy topics. Yeah, for a Lifetime movie.

And the stuff that's going on for me personally, well...life is sweet. Not a lot of conflict happening at the homestead, and conflict is the root of comedy and drama, yes? I s'pose I could talk about how the Boy is an exhibitionist and streaks around the house after a bath, but that's about as far as the story goes.

Blah. I'll figure it out. We've got a few events this weekend that usually provide some fodder for Ye Olde Blog. A dance recital and Father's Day -- let's see what happens, shall we?

Religion Rule

Know what gets under my skin? If someone asks, "What religion are you?" and the askee responds, "Well, I was raised blah-de-blah."

This happens on the radio all the time. Don't get me wrong -- I fully acknowledge that it's tough to answer an obnoxious question with grace, so the askee is at a disadvantage. I mean, someone only asks this question so that they can get into the mindset, theoretically, of the askee. Well, I've got news for ya: there's not a lot of ipso facto in the world of Catholicism. Many a Catholic deviates from Church doctrine on the finer points of birth control, charity, attendance, etc. Some would call this buffet-style religion (you only put what you want on your plate and leave the rest), which it may very well be, but that's a whole 'nother blog post.

So, we've established that I'm annoyed by the question in the first place. Then, though, my annoyance is exponentially increased when the askee deflects the question by providing only the religious affiliation of his youth. Just say, "I don't really practice anything," or, "I'm not comfortable answering that," or "I'm agnostic," or "I'm an atheist." It's okay to be these things, so don't hide behind former religious affiliations. And if you converted, state your current religious affiliation. Why's that so hard?

I'm Not a Playa Hayta

But seriously, I'm totally disappointed that Britney Spears isn't rocking her short 'do. (I know, I'm about a month late to the table on this one. The office is a little busy.) When she shaved her head back in February, the world was agog, thinking that she'd hit the jaggedy rock bottom of substance abuse or emotional distress, or both. Me? I had much respect for the girl. I thought she was playing the role of a modern-day Lady Godiva: a pop tart laying herself bare, so to speak, so that the masses could gasp a collective gasp and realize how silly we all are.

Would have made and interesting social commentary, eh?

But Mizz Spears has not appeared in public with her nubbly head. Nope. She must own a habedashery these days, because you can't pass a magazine rack without peeping her kaleidoscope of hats, scarves, wigs, and most recently, hair extensions. My opinion and four bucks will buy you a Frappacino, but I'm totally disappointed that she's not rockin' the Mia-Farrow-circa-Rosemary's-Baby style. If she went that direction, the buzz cut would be perceived as a rebellious statement against image, against fashion, against tabloid newspapers. It would have been her opportunity to show that she controls who she is, and that she doesn't have to rely on all the fluff and candy floss of stylists, hair, makeup and the media to paint her a specific way.

Instead, she covers it up. And by doing so, she acknowledges that it was a big ol' "Oops." Not a deliberate choice, but a mistake. She's only twenty-five, though, so maybe that'll change in time.

Sweet Jeebus

A good argument for being Catholic, eh? To see the rest of the months, go here. I'm just thrilled that I know what I'm getting my mother-in-law for her birthday.

So THAT'S Where Bras Come From

I hit traffic driving into D.C. on Saturday night. Natch. The five-mile-an-hour slouch afforded me the opportunity to drink up the highway vista. The litter on 95 South was phenomenal: a bra, one of those push-up jobbies by the look of it, was dangling from a low-lying branch, slowly twisting in the summer breeze drifting by. Wow, did this stoke the fire of my imagination.

How did it get there? Did someone pack her suitcase really, really poorly and fling it on the back of a pick-up truck, and then the bra sprang free when the truck hit a pothole? Or did the owner toss it out of the truck in frustration? Or passion? Or both? Will it manage to hang onto that tree until a be-jumpsuited felon snatches it down? I mean, you see shoes and cups and cans and boxes on the side of the highway every day. But a bra? That was a first.

UPDATE: While Googling for an appropriate image for this post, I came across this site, dedicated to trees that bear apparel. Maybe that's what's happening on 95? Eh, probably not.

Sallie Mae Is Almost Off My Back

This weekend, Hubby and I will celebrate the 10th anniversary of having been graduated by Georgetown University (syntax is all for you, Matter-Eater Lad). Truth be told, we're not doing anything fantabulous to commemorate all the pomp and circumstance of our respective Bachelor's degrees. Just a brunch in the District with former classmates with whom we speak regularly, without the aid of university-sponsored alumni events. There will be nary a blue and gray balloon in sight.

Ultimately, I'm left wondering why I'm not taking this opportunity to pause and reflect on what's transpired in the past 10 years: marriage, children, death, debt, new jobs, lay-offs, taxes, education, bombs, houses, and discerning the best fix-it folks in town. I guess it's 'cause I'm not unique in going through these things. What am I going to say about them that hasn't been said? And who's got the time? I've got meatloaf to mix, a conversation to have with a friend who's stressing about some personal issues, and a couple of kids to shove in the tub before bed time. You would be AMAZED at how sweaty an almost-three-year-old gets when he's just kicking a ball around the house. The Boy may, in fact, have a glandular problem. Add having that checked out to the list of things to do in the next millenia.

But I don't feel like I'm living an unexamined life. Not at all. This blog probably helps. And having a spouse who helps me unpack emotional baggage is pretty handy too. Of course, it helps that I am a tower of good sense and emotional health. And ego.

Pfah. I guess I'm feeling like Debi from Grosse Pointe Blank:

"Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."

I Think I Know Why D.C. Ranked Poorly on GMAC's Driving Survey

This CNN article references a national survey of drivers that GMAC recently conducted, the results of which conclude that about 10% of American drivers would fail a written driving exam. Sounds about right. Out of all the states surveyed, our fair District tied with Maryland and New York as the 5th worst average score on the list (click here to see the full list). Annoyingly, Virginia tied with Alabama and Nevada for 15th best average score. I say "annoyingly" because I fear drivers from the Old Dominion State, especially if they are behind the wheel of a minivan. Through much personal growth, I have come to realize that this is a difference in driving style. And by "style," I mean that I come from a state that thinks it's cool not to know driving rules.

Anyway, since I have a long-running fued with Hubby about who has right-of-way at a four-way stop intersection, I was inspired to look up right-of-way rules. For those of you dying to know, in Maryland and Virginia, right of way goes to whomever gets to the intersection first. Usually. Virginia also offers up this confusing caveat, taken directly from their driver's manual:

"When two vehicles approach an intersection not controlled by traffic lights or signs, neither vehicle has the right-of-way. Generally, Virginia law states that when two or more vehicles approach an uncontrolled intersection from different directions at the same time, the driver on the LEFT must yield to the driver on the right."

So no driver has right-of-way, but the driver of the left must yield? Doesn't that mean that the driver to the right has a little thing called right-of-way?

Hmmm, I thought, wonder what DC's right-of-way rule is? Does it agree with Maryland, or Virginia, sandwiched as it is between them?

Intrigued?

Can you stand the suspense?

Yeah, I can't either. Know why? Because the DC Department of Motor Vehicles does not publish a handbook detailing all the rules of the road online. Go ahead. Go to DC.gov. I'll wait.

I'm sure you found the handy DC Driver's Examination Study Guide. It's a series of multiple-choice questions -- the answers are in the back -- which theoretically allows you to refresh your memory on test topics. I don't know if DC publishes a driver's manual at all, or if it simply declines to post one online. But don't most folks choose to get their goverment forms, booklets, and sundry other documents online these days? So I'd think if they had a manual, you'd be able to find it there. Which leads me to believe that maybe the don't actually have one.

That would explain the ranking, doncha think?

(Maryland still has no excuse, you goobers.)

Lemme Serve Ya Up Some Random

1) I had an overwhelming urge for carrot cake a couple of days ago, so I zipped over to the neighborhood bakery. There was something I hadn't noticed about the "Pick Up Your Order Here" sign...it was handwritten...on a needlepoint canvas. Just weird, you know? If you're not going to poke a few stitches into the canvas, why use the canvas? Why not just make a regular old sign?

2) Today was my sister's college graduation. There was a fella sitting in front of us who made me ache for my Grandpop. He wore suspenders and a plaid short sleeve shirt, which was GP's uniform. He also wore a belt, which made me think he was taking no chances with gravity.

3) I think as you get older, you start pluralizing and possessivizing stores and restaurants unnecessarily. It's Nordstrom, not Nordstrom's. It's Barnes & Noble, not Barnes & Noble's. Taco Bell, not Taco Bells.

4) There must be an opiate in baby shampoos and lotions. After bathing my little 'uns, I can't stop breathing in their heavenly scent. I actually used Huggies Shea Butter Baby Wash the other day. Know what? I loved it.

5) I'm thisclose to bribing my almost 3-year-old to use the potty. I'm serious. I'm talking cold hard cash. Or Wiggles paraphernalia. He tells us he's just "too busy" to try sitting on the potty. But he's not too busy to announce the need for a diaper change...

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program*

Lordy day, has life been busy the past couple of weeks. Business travel, professional classes, family parties, baby showers, jury duty (my daycare provider's, not mine, which is almost worse). If I believed in astrology, I'd be looking to see if some obnoxious mythological entity (Pan?) was living in my house of whatever. Or in my actual house. It's possible, given what chez moi looks like right now.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I will resume more regular posting in the near future. Like maybe today. It all depends on whether or not a blog-worthy event surfaces in the maelstrom of my personal life.

[Editor's Note: Isn't that a little bit sad? That in the unfettered publishing medium of a blog I recognize that many of my day-to-day activities are so much dross? Don't go thinking that I'm exhibiting false humility here. A highlight? The Girl most assuredly does not like applesauce. You'd think we were feeding her chana masala or something given the vehemence with which she spat the appley goodness back at yours truly. See what I mean? I love my life, but snippets like that do not a Bloggie warrant.]

I'll check back in with ya soon. 'Til then, ponder this: a goodly number of web surfers wipe out on this page because they are looking for pictures of Jello 1-2-3. Who knew it was so popular?

*Every blog that I read eventually posts something along the lines of, "I know I haven't posted for awhile, but I promise I'll be back!" And those posts are usually six months old, with nothing following them. So, see ya in six months! Just kidding...

Three Appointments Down, Two to Go

Just got back from the dentist, and I look like a refugee from Moonraker. Why? Well, it's a little bit of a long story...

I'm having a crown replaced. I'm beginning to think that my teeth are made of shale. Honestly, you don't normally hear about 31-year-olds getting crowns, and it's even more rare to hear about 31-year-olds getting crowns replaced. This means that this stretch of my jaw is a two-time loser. Three-time loser if you count the intermediate temporary crown that went three rounds with an ill-advised caramel and lost. Riesen, confound your deliciousness!

Anyway, my dentist will install the permanent replacement during my next appointment. Why he couldn't just shove it in today, I don't know. The temporary crown that he used, however, is the inspiration for this post. When I got back to the office, I went to the ladies' room to check out my smile now that I'm not all gappy on one side. And what did I see winking back at me? Why, it was a tooth with a silver patina.

Now, I'm not vain. Okay, I'm not super vain. But I'm a little chuffed that I wasn't forewarned that this temporary would be so completely different from the rest of my teeth. All I can think is that this is how Bond henchman Jaws (see picture above) got his start. He had a crown replaced, and at the temporary stage, he gazed at his visage and thought, "You know, that silver tooth makes me look bad ASSSSSSS! I must get me a mouthful of these!" This is prior to the dawn of Grillz, where having a mouth of metal took a lot of dedication.

Oh well. Early June is just around the corner.

Starbucks Drive-Through Etiquette

There's a drive-through Starbucks at the first intersection on my commute from office to home. It beckons to me every day. The flesh is willing, and so is the spirit, so I have made a deal with myself: I will only take advantage of this convenience iff the light is red AND there are enough cars in the lane in front of me such that I am stopped right next to the Starbucks entrance. The traffic elements only align this way about once every two weeks, and Friday was just such a glorious day.

Happily, I whirled my steering wheel around, pulled up to the drive-through menu/receiver thingy, and placed my order. There was a line, so I waited for the car in front of me to move. And I waited. And I waited. Normally, it takes all of five minutes to complete the circuit and be on my way, but it was about ten minutes before the line moved, and there were still two cars in front of me. I figured that the credit card machine or some other technical glitch must be causing the hold-up. Annoying, but what can you do?

When I arrived at the window, I held up my exact change in an attempt to speed up the process. The cashier leaned out of the window to collect my cash and said, "Sorry about the wait. Someone ordered a pound of coffee and it takes awhile to grind."

What? Someone ordered a pound of coffee AND requested that it be ground at the DRIVE-THROUGH window? Dude, there are certain things that necessitate parking, actually extirpating yourself from your SUV, and walking into the store. An order that requires about 10 minutes to complete is one of these things. In the grand scheme of things, 10 minutes isn't exactly a lifetime. But it drives me a little bit nuts when my fellow Earthicans don't subscribe to the notion that we should do what we can to avoid inconveniencing others more than we need to.

I TOLD You: Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner

Check out this survey. Apparently, Star Wars tops men's most-watched movies list. Natch.

Whaddya think it is for women? Dirty Dancing. Of course it is. (Most) women love this movie. (Most) women want to marry this movie. (Most) women want to have ten thousand of its babies. Listen to a conversation among a gaggle of the fairer sex; they will quote from this movie like a bunch of conventioneers quoting Star Wars, Star Trek, and the Simpsons. Need some evidence? Well, these items are up for sale. Seriously, screen Dirty Dancing, and women will stop mid-sentence to stare slack-jawed at the screen.

My favorite moment of the film is the expression on Penny's face (in the background) when Baby's father whips a javelin of a needle out of his big black doctor's bag. Right. A woman who's just endured a botched abortion administered by "a guy with a folding table and a dirty knife" is frightened by the prospect of a shot? Class A acting.

Per the article, most of the rest of the movies exclusive to the men's list are pretty violent magnum opera (Alien, Godfather, Diehard, Terminator 2, Bladerunner, etc.). Interestingly, there are a few movies that popped up on both lists...these were Star Wars, The Terminator, Jaws, and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I'm guessing that this is a direct result of women not being able to coerce their boyfriends, husbands, neighbors, brothers, fathers, cousins, landscapers to turn the channel when the credits start rolling on these flicks.

But most of the movies that show up just on the women's list are just way too saccharine for my tastes. In addition to the saga of Johnny and Baby (née Frances), here's what the double-X chromosome collective thumbs-upped: The Sound of Music, It's a Wonderful Life, Pretty Woman, Grease, and (here's your wha-huh? moment) The Matrix.

The exclusively-favored-by-women movies all share a thread of emotional rescue. You can argue with me about The Matrix, but really, wasn't Trinity "rescued" from the grittiness of her renegade life by hooking up with the One?

Oof. Sorry, didn't mean to veer into a cultural studies essay. But...I've had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you. (My second favorite part of Dirty Dancing? When Johnny puts the needle on a 45 rpm piece of vinyl, and a very 1980's sounding duet blares from the speakers. If it were my movie, Dr. Who would bungee jump en scène and explain that Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes time-warped into 1962 to record this song on some futuristic material that provided crystal clarity. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why Hollywood isn't knocking down my door for screenplays.)

Commuter Rule

Know what? If you're going to slap a "Jesus Saves" bumper sticker on your car, or go to all the trouble to get Registered Nurse license plates, then DON'T cut me off on the beltway. The disconnect is too much for my caffeine-addled brain to comprehend.

Graduating? I've Got One More Class for Ya.

Shortly, the Baltimore-Washington Metro Area will be awash in caps and gowns and U-Haul trucks hauling the junk of newly graduated twenty-somethings to locales near and far. In honor of the 10th anniversary of my graduation from a storied institution of higher learning, I present the realities that confronted me during the transition from student to theoretically independent adult:

1) Health insurance is necessary, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. If you're temping or working a gig that provides no health care option, go here and get it independently. When I was 21 (Holy Mother of God, was that really TEN years ago?), I forked out a measly $100 per month. It's worth it. You don't want to debate if you can muscle through strep throat without magical antibiotic elixirs. Oh, and if dental insurance is an option at your place of business...GET IT. Again, if you have a Grand Canyon-sized cavity, you'll want it tended to and you likely won't be able to afford the hundreds of dollars it'll cost out-of-pocket.

2) Try to be financially independent from your parents, because if you accept subsidies from them, you also must accept advice, frowny faces about the quantity of shoes you've purchased, and admonitions about the expense of going out to eat.

3) On the financially independent tip, the rule of thumb of your monthly expenses* is:

• 30% housing (this includes rent/mortgage, utilities, etc.)
• 20% car/transportation
• 15% total food & drink (includes going out)
• 10% savings
• 10% retirement
• 8% personal insurances
• 5% entertainment/donation
• 2% personal care/services

It's easier to do this now than it will be later, so you might as well set up the framework at the start of your budgetary life. Understand that YOUR STYLE OF LIVING WILL NOT BE THE SAME AS YOUR PARENTS', or even the same as it was in college since your parents likely paid for that as well. These next few years will mean roommates, eating cheaply, and possibly selling some of your stuff on eBay to finance nights out. Oh, and pay your bills on time. You don't want to apply for a car loan and get turned down because you owe your gym eighty bucks.

*This is based on gross pay. Gross pay is the dollar amount you start with. Net pay is what you have left over after FICA, social security, taxes, and pre-tax benefits take their collective bite. I think it's called Gross because it is gross how much disappears before you even cash your pay check.

4) And again on the financially independent tip, DO NOT BUY STUFF YOU CANNOT AFFORD. Sounds simple, I know, but this is a humdinger of a lesson to learn. And by "cannot afford," I mean, "cannot pay for with cash." Do not use credit cards as a buffer. A little tiny balance is good to start a credit history, but pay most or all of it off every month. I speak from mad crazy unfortunate experience on this. That $100 dress that I bought for a formal dance in May of my senior year of college likely cost me $1,000 by the time I paid it off. Credit cards aren't inherently evil, but man alive, a person racks up some unfathomable interest charges over time.

5) If you move to a new city where you know zero to three people, make some friends. And try, oh try, to make them outside of the office/graduate school as well. If you have a half a dozen friends or so from different walks of life, then you won't be totally reliant on only a few people to stave off loneliness. I know it's awkward making new friends, but it's a little easier if you meet people in places you already go for fun, like softball leagues, or church, or book clubs, or whatever. You'll already have something in common, right? If you're friendly with people from only one area, like the office, then you're facing all kinds of gossipy incestuousness. And who needs that in the work place when you are trying to build a career?

By the way...IM, e-mail, texting, MySpace, Facebook and blogs don't count as friends. You can't go out to a bar with your blog. So, keep in touch with your old friends, but not to the exclusion of making new ones. Modern messaging devices make it extraordinarily easy to reach out and touch someone, but that can stunt your ability to forge new relationships that will connect you to the here and now of your life.

6) Sometimes it's better to live with someone you don't know very well instead of someone you do. When you know someone really well, it's easy for them to walk all over you and take advantage. So, if you don't think you can have healthy conflict with an old pal (i.e., tell her calmly and matter-of-factly that you really didn't want her boyfriend to move in with you, or that you aren't her maid service, or that he needs to ask if he can borrow your things), then go for the tabula rasa of someone you only sort of know, like a friend of a friend, or a cousin's college roommate.

7) If you choose to move back home with your parents, set a time line for moving out. Can you really become whomever you're going to be if your parents are telling you that you should be home by midnight, or that you're working too hard?

8) Speaking of working too hard...You might have a college degree, but you're still going to have to do grunt work. So, get over yourself. You might have a Bachelor's in Political Science, but you'll be low person on the turnbuckle, and you're going to have to learn the ropes before they'll trust you with anything besides filing.

9) But if you get to a point where you are having nightmares about a job, it might be time to quit and move on. Unless this is the third job you've quit in as many months, don't worry about what it will look like on the work experience time line on your resume. As someone who has hired her fair share of recent grads, if I saw that someone had a year or two at a job, that assured me that s/he wasn't flighty and wouldn't be a waste of my training time. Anyway, some offices are just plain dysfunctional. If you can't answer "YES" to at least two of the following questions, break out your local paper's Help Wanted section: (1) Do I like what I'm doing? (2) Am I learning? (3) Am I happy with what I'm being paid?

10) Don't have a job lined up yet? If you have a degree in something that doesn't logically plug into a job opportunity (shout out to my fellow English majors), then you will need to point out how your vast knowledge of 18th Century Women Writers applies to that marketing job at the museum. Because if you can't figure it out, how are your potential employers supposed to do that?

I won't be able to give any of my own offspring this advice for a good twenty years, and even then it'll likely be dismissed with a roll of the eyes. Oh, and uh, wear sunscreen. Me, I wear sunBLOCK because any exposure to the sun's death rays and my pasty self will explode into flame. But you crazy kids, you can get a way with just the 'screen.

Question: How many dental tools in MCV's mouth at the same time?

Answer: Four. The suctiony thing, the little round mirror, the scrapy hook thing, and something that looked like a power drill with a dayglo orange shield. I'm hopeful that it is a real dental tool and not a surreptitious mind-wiping device. What? All of you know that trivial knowledge is anathema to secret organizations the world over. Of course these secret organizations are going to attempt to disable the greatest threat they've ever known. (Alright, 30 seconds of Googling reveal that it was a curing light. I still like the mind-wiping idea, though.)

Today I enjoyed the second of the five dental visits I scheduled at the end of February. Our mission today was to install the post for the crown that I lost whilst preggers with my daughter. My dentist was reluctant to do any dental work that would necessitate X-rays or novocaine shots, which are apparently 98% of all dental services, or 100% of all dental services I required. So I'm making up for lost time.

For what it's worth, I've never been scared of going to the dentist. When I was a kid, my parents didn't have dental insurance, so we didn't go every six months like you're s'posed to. Nope. We only went when our teeth HURT. So I learned that if your teeth ache, you go to the dentist, and BLAMMO! When you leave, you feel fine. Who doesn't want to sign up for that?

I Thought Toys Were Supposed to Inspire Children!

Last week I went shopping for birthday gifties for children (why are so many kids born in April/May/June)? Anyway, I was cruising up and down the aisles and I saw this:

Doesn't that kid look embarassed? Here's the description of the Pretend and Play Office Space per the manufacturer:

Everything kids need for a pretend day at the office fits inside an official-looking briefcase. The 74-piece set includes a planner, pretend stapler, cell phone with sound, ID badge and many other office essentials - even a stack of write and wipe paychecks and a refillable crayon "pen."

ID Badge? Stapler? PAYCHECKS?!? Listen, I'm all about realistic expectations. Not every child will grow up to be a ballerina or an astronaut or a super hero. But, to quote Gary from John Hughes' Weird Science:

"Why are you messing with the fantasy? We know about the reality. Don't ruin the fantasy, okay?"

This toy is geared toward 3 to 8 year-olds. What 3 year-old needs rewritable paychecks? Sheesh.

Pen Envy

I have a confession: I am a fool for good pens. I love it, love it, love it when ink flows silkily from a well-crafted writing implement. Sometimes, when I have a new pen in my hand, I make up things to write so that I can enjoy my sprawling scrawl on a blank sheet of paper. This could explain my penchant for crafting fiction. It could also explain my carpal tunnel syndrome.

Anyway, I was conducting a meeting the other day and I was distracted by this:

Oh, baby. Uni-ball has slicked up my favorite product in their catalog. And it comes in many pretty colors. I looked down at my own boring stick pen and decided I was going to need to make an office supply run. One Staples trip later, and I am the proud owner of a full-on rainbow of Uni-ball pens. Green, orange, red, pink, purple, blue, black, and blue/black. They are all mine!

Hey, it's the little thrills that keep life interesting, right? RIGHT?

Yep. Livable.

Today I made a lunch run for the border. No, I really did! The closest Taco Bell i s just over the Prince George's/Montgomery County line. My part of Laurel is at the nexus of Howard, Anne Arundel, Prince George's and Montgomery Counties. Anyway, on my way back into Prince George's, I saw a sign with this message:

"Welcome to Prince George's County, a livable community."

That's it? Just livable? No qualifier, like extremely livable? Or exceptionally livable? Heck, I'd even take very. I mean, isn't "livable" the very least a community should be? Way to set the bar high, Prince George's. I mean, we wouldn't want to oversell the county or anything.

No Words

Yesterday was not a good day on a national level, and on a personal level. Everyone knows about the national tragedy -- 33 Virginia Tech students (maybe staff?) were gunned down in a dorm and classroom on campus. That number could rise since there are another 12 people in the hospital with gunshot wounds. The enormity of this is almost unfathomable. Almost. Having worked on a college campus, I can uncomfortably fathom it.

College campuses are a unique network of trust and assumption of best intentions. Because of the concentration of young adults who are just starting to realize their vulnerability and their personal responsibilities, that's the only way it can function. On a more grown-up level, it's kind of like baby-proofing your house. College administrators try to protect campus residents from potential trouble spots as best they can, but you can't have 100% protection from every possibility.

Check the crime blotter in any college newspapers -- you'll see instances of laptops or iPods having been stolen (because the owner left them unattended in a public place), CDs and cash disappearing (because the dorm resident left her door unlocked), and warnings about leaving dorm doors propped open (because a roommate forgot her keys). So it's all too easy to picture one person taking advantage of the collective peaceable mindset of a campus and wreaking havoc. Today, instead of imagining it, all I have to do is turn on CNN.

So, what's the personal tragedy? The mother of a six-year-old girl in my children's daycare passed away yesterday morning. She'd been diagnosed with ovarian cancer last Fall which had spread to her liver. After chemo and surgery, she was in remission until a few weeks ago. When she couldn't keep any food down, she went to the doctor, thinking it was some kind of stomach flu. To be on the safe side, they did some ultrasounds, and found a mass on her liver that caused it to swell, and it was swollen to the extent that it was pushing up against her stomach and intestines. The doctors said there really wasn't anything they could do, and that she had anywhere from two weeks to two months to live. And ten days later, she's passed.

My heart just breaks for her family. And I can't help but think about my family, and how they would weather my untimely demise. I don't dwell on it. I pretty much banish the thought instantly. We've taken care of all of the "what if" paperwork -- living wills, regular wills, durable power of attorney -- but it's not like there's a plan for what to do emotionally. I don't think there can be, outside of knowing that the one left behind should hie him/herself to therapy. And perhaps hire a cleaning service.

Sorry. My defense is to joke when things are intense.

The fact that these two things transpired on the same day...well, I can't help but think that this little girl and her father will always, always, always be hyper conscious of the date of their loss. Whenever April 16 cycles back around in the future, the nation will remind us that it's the anniversary of the deadliest shooting spree in American history. I don't for a hot second believe that this family will ever fully recover from their loss, but healing is going to be harder when a national tragedy trumps your personal one.

I Think I Might Be Due Some Royalties

I can't be totally sure, but I think Classmates.com stole my high school yearbook picture for their online advertising:



I'll let you guess which one I think is me. Sheesh, I need to go home and yank out the Odyssey to see what's up. Oof, I'll have to wade through all of those K.I.T. messages...

The Funniest Comment I've Heard about the Whole Don Imus Thing

Before I share the funniest comment referenced in this here blog entry's title, I wanted to share my humble opinion on Don Imus' firing: it's not a free speech issue. Free speech means that you can say what you want and you can't be arrested for it (well, besides yelling "Fire!" in a crowded theater when there is, in fact, no fire). Free speech does not mean that a radio conglomerate is required to leave a dummy on the air if doing so costs them millions of dollars in advertising revenue. It ain't personal, it's business.

So what's the brouhaha about? Methinks it's that there's a raging case of double (or triple, or quadruple) standards. We've got folks cherry-picking their outrage at racist, sexist, and other -ist remarks. We've been hearing lots of "What about hip-hop? And the radio stations that play it? They denigrate in their lyrics. So why don't we protest them and get them fired?" Essentially, some white folks are feeling like there's a zero-tolerance policy for their verbal missteps, but there's no parity in punishment when members of other races do the same thing.

To which I say: Nuh-uh. In February, 2005, Todd Lynn and Rick Delgado were fired from Hot 97. According to this article, Delgado was fired for his part in writing, producing, and airing "The Tsunami Song," and Lynn was let go for making "offensive, racially insensitive comments while on the air." This is a more apt comparison to Imus' case than the creation and broadcast of hip-hop.

Now, having gotten that out of the way...

I was in a 7-11 on Friday night as the Hubby and our kiddoes wended our way to New Jersey for a visit with a college pal. There was a fella, mid-forties by the look of him, railing against rap music and the hypocrisy of the self-appointed leaders of the black community for not tackling the harsh language ensconced within insta-hits like Mims' "This Is Why I'm Hot." It was clearly a regurgitation of whatever he'd seen on CNN that day.

Anyway, his argument was running out of steam whilst I waited to pay for my cuppa joe. He trailed off with one last slam at the hip hop community, stating, "I mean, have you even heard some of the things they say on Richard Simmons' Def Jam?"

I pricked my ears. I arched an eyebrow. I thought, "Wait, that sounds wrong. OH. He meant Russell Simmons' Def Jam." And I was very glad that Grumpy left the store, because I started giggling, and I did so all the way to the car. Can you imagine what Richard Simmons' Def Jam would look like? Maybe a little something like this:


Man, I wish that I had PhotoShop so that I could make the picture that's in my mind's eye. Oh well. I think this conveys the point.

Working vs. Stay-at-Home

Oh dear. The Mommy Wars are flaring up again. Articles like this have sparked books like this. Maybe it's my Democratic soul, but every woman needs to come to her own conclusions about how to combine (or not combine) work and children. It's not a decision based solely on finances, emotional fulfillment, obligation, independence, ambition, etc. It's a rich and complicated tapestry of all of these things, and then some. So can we please just say every woman, every parent, needs to make this choice for herself, and that we will respect that choice, whatever it might be? Sheesh.

Ya just gotta do what makes the most sense for your family, and only you know what that is. And these articles and books that prescribe the choice? I think they undergird the insecurities of the authors, and assume that mothers that make a different choice would see their point if they just thought about it a little more. Yeah, that's right, 'cause my decision was capricious.

Jane Says

On my way into work this morning, the local alterna-rock station (which is actually old fogey alterna-rock since they specialize in the Smiths, the Cure, the Pixies, etc.) was playing "Jane Says" by Jane's Addiction, which always makes me sigh a little. Not because I'm in love with the song, though I do like it a whole lot. It's just got a lot of sentimental value.

The first time I heard the song, I was in my high school photography lab. It was my senior year, and that was the year when I started making decisions based on who I wanted to be and not whom I wanted to please. Which is why I was in the photography lab in the first place -- in my original plan, my senior year was packed with academic courses. But then I arrived at senior year and realized that I really wanted to plug art classes into all of my elective spots. So, out went AP Biology and Calculus, and in came Fine Art II and Photography.

Anyway, a group of us were hanging out in the lab after school, dodging and burning some of our prints when "Jane Says" came on the radio. A sophomore, Tina, danced around because she loved the song. One of the other kids, Ben, laughed in a conspiratorial way (he had a tragically huge unrequited crush on her, and knew that she was enamored of the group). Tina had a dyed black bob and a nose ring before they were de riguer for art students. Ben had a slicked back ponytail and specialized in trench coats and combat boots. I was wearing a pastel pink and blue sweater and white jeans*.

We all got along well enough, but I sighed because in that moment I recognized that to be me, I had to accept that I wasn't going to be able to conform to the "art student" look, which likely meant that my art wasn't going to be taken seriously by the other kids in my classes. 'Cause you know, how can you produce interesting stuff if you aren't riddled with anxieties, insecurities, and loneliness? And wear a lot of black?

But guess who got an Honorable Mention in the student photography competition that year in the Towsontown Spring Festival, eh?

*I wouldn't wear that outfit now if you paid me.

What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate

Since 1986, my parents have hosted Sunday supper at their house. That was the year that we moved and left the two eldest boys behind in the house in the city. Since they were 24 and 23 at the time and had packed social calendars, my parents wanted to ensure that we'd see them more than once a year. How do you attract the company of twenty somethings? With food, of course. And thus the weekly tradition was born.

Twenty years later, my parents are slowing down a little, and would like to move from a weekly tradition to an every-other-weekly tradition. The grandchildren are getting older and starting to have their own myriad obligations, so this will make life a little easier for everyone. With two sticky exceptions: birthdays and holidays. My mother wants to accommodate these days, which means that we don't have a neat and clean alternating week schedule. Nope, it's turned into a two weeks on, one week off, one week on, two weeks off madness.

To lock it down for everyone, I wanted to kibbutz with my mother and a calendar and a list of birthdays to hash this thing out. Mom would slap the calendar on her wall, and I'd e-mail the dates to everyone. The linchpin in all of this is the calendar. I really wanted a wall calendar, not just printouts from a computer calendar program or day planner pages. The printouts would get lost (remind me to tell you about the cyclones of disappearance that plagued my childhood), and Mom wouldn't reference the dayplanner. Hence the need for a wall calendar. Since Hubby was going to Target to pick up some miscellaneous household supplies on Friday, I added a wall calendar to his list. Seems simple enough, right?

Well, here's the conversation that we had on his way home from the store:

"Did you buy a calendar?"

"No," Hubby said. "I looked all over the place, but all I could find were girlie calendars."

"What's the problem with that?" I said, rolling my eyes. "My Mom won't care. And it's not like she'll know that you purchased the calendar." Sheesh, I thought, I didn't realize Hubby was this concerned about his masculinity.

"Really?" Hubby sounded doubtful that my Mom would care about the pictures of the calendar. I, on the other hand, know that she's never put intense thought into color coordinating window treatments with, say, the walls. I decided to emphasize this point.

"Yeah, really. Mom won't care if it's got flowers and puppies and kittens and fairies all over it. I just want something where I can write events and circle dates and then tack it up over her desk, so it doesn't matter what it looks like."

"Oooooooohhhhhhh," says Hubby. "I didn't mean that kind of girlie. I meant Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model kind of girlie."

I pause.

"Yeah, I think you're right. She wouldn't care for that kind of calendar."

"I know! I couldn't understand why you thought she'd be okay with that. And I couldn't figure out where she would hang it."

And then we collapsed in a fit of giggles, tears streaming from our eyes. Well, mine anyway. I couldn't see Hubby, but I'm pretty sure he was in the same state.

I'm still on the hunt for that calendar, though. I'm thinking I should be able to get a good deal. Tonight, I'm off to Office Depot.

I'm Holdin' Out for a Hero

Between this and JT, a crooner whose current album is dubbed "FutureSex/LoveSounds," being tapped to host Nickelodeon's Kids' Choice Awards this year, methinks today's teens and tweens are hurting for role models.

When You're Hot, You're Hot

We didn't end up doing our big weekly grocery shopping trip last weekend because Hubby was out of town, and the intricacies of shopping with a little boy and an infant perplex me. How do you get both of them into a cart safely? Do you hustle them across a parking lot? Or park, the car, run to grab a cart, and leave them buckled in the car by themselves for a minute? Does the Boy ride in the big part of the cart, potentially standing and dancing while I meander through the aisles? And then how do you get everything, children included, loaded into and out of the car? All in all, it seemed like a shopping excursion is rife with more safety concerns than I can handle, so we skipped it. I figured we had enough of the staples in the house to tide us over, 'cause I'm always prepared for a nuclear holocaust or some other such disaster.

I figured wrong. Yesterday, we ran out of fat-free half & half and organic sugar. Hmmm...as I look at that sentence, I feel very granola yuppie. Anyhoo, whilst I love the antioxidants in my single cuppa joe, the bitterness can get to me, so I cut it with dairy and sweetness. Go ahead, you purists, judge me. Anyway, I came to the realization at 7:00 a.m. that my regular brew was kind of undrinkable. No problem, I thought, I'll swing through McDonald's to pick up some of their new Premium Roast Coffee since it's on the way to work. And I've gotta say, it isn't bad. But that's not the point of this post.

Take a look at their Premium Roast Coffee cups:

I hope you can see that. It reads, "CAUTION: Handle with Care: I'M HOT."

I have long* believed that our litigiousness is dumbing us down. By this I mean that we try to squeeze cash out of people for not warning us about things that should be obvious, like the fact that fresh coffee is hot. This leads some to believe that if they aren't blatantly warned about something, then it must not be dangerous, and thus they abdicate responsibility for using their own common sense.

Back to McDonald's...we all know that McDonald's lost the hot coffee lawsuit. In a total CYA move, they put warnings on their coffee cups to let the Gentle Coffee Drinkers of the world know that the coffee is not cold, not tepid, but HOT. These warnings have been there since the mid-1990's, so what's my problem?

It's this: why did they anthropomorphizing the cup with "I'm?" Could it be that they saw a loophole in the old, "CAUTION: Coffee is Hot" warning? Like someone could make the argument that they thought they were being warned that coffee is hot in general, but that they didn't think the warning applied to the contents of that particular cup? Sheesh, I hope not.

We're not even going to get into the painful, how are we doin? thing on the side. I have half a mind to call the 800 number printed alongside this question and say, "We'd be doing much better if you remembered the 'g' at the end of doing. Or at least included an ' to show that you know you've contracted the word."

Uh-oh. Maybe I should've gone for the fully caffeinated brew. Clearly decaf has made me cranky.

*Long = ten years.

A Little Slice of Motherhood

Here are excerpts from conversations that took place this morning while I prepared the children and myself for the day (for clarity's sake, these started around 5:30 a.m.). I'll let you guess which of us said what:

"Hi [Boy]. It's still night time. Come on up and lay down on Daddy's spot."


"[Boy], [the Girl] is still asleep. Please don't take her pacifier."


"Mommy? Look! It's Anthony*!"
"Yes, I see. Lay down and please be quiet. It's still night time."
"Mommy? Anthony loves me!"
"He sure does. Now please be quiet. It's still night time."


"[Boy], [the Girl] is still asleep. Please stop touching her."


***At this point, I have arisen, and am in the bathroom brushing my teeth. The Girl is in her co-sleeper, and the Boy is playing with his Wiggles rag dolls whilst snuggled up in my still-warm comforter.***


"Mommy? [The Girl] is awake! Her eyes are open!"
"Gurgle, gurgle, squeal!"
"Really? That's great! She doesn't need her pacifier. Please don't try to put it in her mouth."


***Now, I am squeezing the Girl into a new outfit that her Gram sent her. The Girl is two days shy of being five months old, and she comfortably fits into Carter's six-to-nine months sized clothes. Guess mother's milk is really enough for her right now, eh?***


"Mommy? I am GONE." (The Boy is standing in Hubby's closet. The ring of his pacifer is visible between the sleeves of some of Hubby's office shirts, as is his tummy, and his footie-pajama-clad legs.) "You can't find me!"
"Oh dear. What shall I do?"
"Gurgle, gurgle, squeal, coo!"
"Hmmm....maybe if I count to ten, [the Boy] will appear. [Girl], don't eat your sleeve. Here, gnaw on your pacifier."
"Mommy! I am GONE!"
"Oh, right! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!"
"Here I am!"
"Great! Now, it's your turn to get dressed. Come on over!"


***After hiding in three different spots -- behind the chair, in the shower stall, and under the blankets, I have managed to wrestle the Boy into his dinosaur shirt, army green pants, and his FAST sneakers that, as he says, are just like "Fa and Daddy's!"***


"Okay, buddy, it's time to go brush your teeth and wash your face."
"I need my wiggly friends!"
"They're on the bed, honey. Go ahead and get them." (This gives me a chance to load up his Sesame Street toothbrush with kiddie toothpaste. He returns clutching his dolls, which resemble a pompom of arms and legs.)
"Here, pal. Time to brush your teeth. No, [Boy], don't just eat the toothpaste. Okay, my turn!" Brush, brush, brush. "Open up! Say 'MONSTER.' Okay, great, time to wash your face."
"I need a drink of water!"
"Gurgle, gurgle, grunt, SQUEAL."
"Okay, here's a drink of water." (I glance worriedly at the Girl. History tells me I've got about ten minutes before she completely fills her diaper.)
"Done? Okay, let's wash your face." (Scrub, scrub, scrub.)
"Achoo!"
"Thanks, [Girl]." (I check myself to make sure I don't have any baby ectoplasm decorating my sweater. Phew, I'm clean. To keep it that way, I swipe at her gooey nose with the rag, then stand up to pitch it in the laundry.)
"Okay, [Boy] time to go downstairs!"
"Where are my friends?"
"You left them on the floor, pal. Pick them up and bring them downstairs with you."
"Oh, right."


***My trio hustles down the steps. I buckle the Girl into her carseat, pack up 16 ounces of Mommy's freshest for her meals, help the boy into his jacket, zip him up, and encourage him to put his Wiggles into a vinyl backpack so that they don't get wet in the drizzly mess awaiting us outside.***


"Here we go! We're using Mommy's brown car today. Grab your backpack."
"Allright!"
"Coo, gurgle, gurgle."
"No, [Boy]. Please don't jump in the puddle."
SPLASH!
"Mommy? The puddle is WET!"
"That's right, pal. Come this way." (I open the door for him.) "Climb on up and into your seat." (I pop the Girl into position and attach the seat belts in all the right spots, shut the door, and come around to the other side). "Okay, [Boy], sit down. Please stop playing with the safety harness. Thank you. Now we buckle, buckle, buckle. Okay, hands on knees!" (I shut the door, climb into my seat, and start the car.) "You can take your hands off your knees now. Here we go, we're on the way!"
"Mommy?"
"Yes, [Boy]?"
"I see trees!"
"So do I!"


***Five minutes later, we're at daycare, I've dropped off my friends, one of whom is dancing and one of whom is grumpily indicating she would like some breakfast.***


And that, my friends, is a typical weekday morning.

*Anthony = Anthony Wiggle rag doll.

Oof

The Boy woke up approximately 87 times last night for no particular reason. That's not true, I guess. He's getting over a cold, but yesterday he didn't exhibit any symptoms, so I don't know what gives.

The Girl woke up approximately 87 times. She, too, is getting over a cold. Stuffy baby nose = difficulty nursing, which = smaller meals, which = more frequent meals. Joy.

Did these wakeful episodes coincide? Nope. They alternated. So I'm operating on approximately 87 seconds of sleep. Couple this with my having contracted a variant of the ebola virus two weeks ago, and you'll understand why my posting has taken a nosedive lately.

A propos of nothing, you could own KITT if you have the means.

Another Undeniable Sign I'm Growing Up

I now identify more with the Chez Quis maitre'd from Ferris Bueller's Day Off than I do with the title character of that same film. Why? What brought on this paradigm shift? Well, to be honest, I was never much of a rule-breaker. Want an example? There was one time in high school when I didn't go back to class after a little theater thingy that took place in the middle of the day. My cohorts begged me to stay in the theatre with them, because if I went back for those last precious 15 minutes of U.S. History, then we'd all have to go back to class. I caved to the peer pressure, but I had sweaty palms for the rest of the day.

So Ferris wasn't exactly telling my story up there on the silver screen. The other day, though, I was looking for a friend's MySpace page (for reasons I can't go into here), and I pulled up a whole bunch of teenagers with the same name. Oh, the atrocious spelling errors, punctuation errors, and other crimes against language. And these travesties were just in the names, quotes, and stats that flash up with a MySpacer's picture. I can't imagine the visceral pain that would have been mine had I clicked open any of their pages. And I thought, "I weep for the future," which is easily one of the top 10 quotes for Ferris Bueller's Day Off, spoken by the gentleman at the top of this post.

If this is what I'm like at 32, the neighborhood kids better watch out. All of those basketballs that bounce in my front yard? They are MINE, baby.