On 'Girls' and Glass

Do you watch HBO's 'Girls'? I do. And I enjoy. Though, I"m not sure why Lena Dunham gets all the backlash that she does...  Actually, I think I have an idea.  She's a twenty-six-year-old auteur (auteuse?).  She's the captain of her own (media) ship:  writer, director, national headliner. Covers of 'Entertainment Weekly,' even (YES, that is the bar by which I  measure success.) And she's a woman. Or a girl, anyway.

Yes, I think her sex plays a role in the backlash. Not exclusively. But, I don't exactly recall people insisting that Kevin Smith was just a lucky bastard when 'Clerks' came out.  He was about the same age as Lena Dunham was when 'Tiny Furniture' came out.

I don't think that's exclusively it.  That'd be too easy.  Some people also argue that since she's the kid of successful artist-types, she had a leg up.  Yeah, well, so does Rumer Willis (I'm not saying she won't be A-list some day, but she isn't right now).  The point is, having successful parents does not guarantee success for the child.  It sure as hell doesn't hurt, but something about 'Girls' struck a chord with a bunch of people.  Lena Dunham deserves kudos and recognition for that, no matter how she got there.

Weird. I don't know why I felt the need to become a Lena Dunham champion for twenty minutes of my life. I like the show, but I don't love it. I wouldn't miss it if it was gone.

I've been watching it because I have a small fascination with people-in-progress; people who are not self-actualized, but are on their way. People who are somewhat of a mess.  It might be schadenfreude.  I dunno.  But, I also watch the show because at least two of the characters remind me of people with whom I went to college, and that makes me giggle.

Okay, so there's your context for my experience with this show.

During the season 2 finale, the main character, Hannah, is having a bit of a breakdown. At one point, she says the following:

You know when you’re young and you drop a glass, and your dad says, like, “Get out of the way!” so you can be safe while he cleans it up? Well, now, no one really cares if I clean it up myself. No one really cares if I get cut with glass. If I break something, no one says, “Let me take care of that,” you know?

So, here's the thing with that quote. That quote? It is supposed to reveal a kind of a character chrysalis, where she's realizing that she's involuntarily shed a protective parental layer. Now she's all exposed to the elements, and she's having a hard time with that.

But, all it revealed to me is how much of a kid she still is.  I mean, there's some truth to what she says. A (good) parent, yes, does not want you to get hurt, does not want you to shred the bottom of your feet with broken glass.  But also?  As a parent?  I want to save myself the trouble of having to clean up broken glass AND deal with a screaming, bloodied child.  It's not just about safety and care and protection.  It's also about staying sane and not wanting to have to deal with another crisis that a young'un brings upon herself.

This is evidence to me that the character, Hannah, still has a ways to go in achieving adulthood.  What we do as parents?  It's not all about love.  Mostly it is.  But sometimes, it's about saving ourselves more work.

Business as Usual

For the past two years, I've been monitoring my Dad's finances.  My mother was the brains of the financials at their domicile, even with brain cancer.

Yes, you read that right.  My father is so skeeved out by bills that he let a woman with thirteen mini-masses on her brain handle the checkbook.  She was quite happy to do it, and it allowed her some sense of control at a time when she had anything but.

Anyway, about a year ago, I noticed some weird debits/checks written against his account.  So, I've gradually just straight-up taken over my Dad's finances.  Not to the extent where he gets allowances or anything like that.  He still has a checkbook, ATM card, and all that jazz.  I mean, the man worked for sixty-five years. He can spend his money how he likes.  (Well, except for those sweepstakes things that he didn't realize were scammy situations, which is what precipitated my more aggressive role in all of this.)

On Friday, I deposited some checks for him.  He and my mother had a bunch of investments (which he still currently has, obvi), and bitty checks roll in on a continual basis. My mother's name is still on some of them, though, which is something I suspect will be left to me to deal with because my Dad's just not motivated to close loops like that.  I don't blame him.

The teller called out, "May I help the next person in line?"

I stepped forward and announced, "I have a deposit to make for my father."

I like to state this kind of thing up front because my father has one of those names that could be a man's or a woman's name, and people (frequently) make assumptions that I am he, and it weirds me out.  Anyway, I slid the stack of checks and deposit slip toward the teller.

"Thank you," the teller picked up the stack and quickly flipped through them. "Oh," she pulled two from the stack, "[My mother's name] will need to sign these since she's also listed on the check."

"She's passed away," I said quietly, without further information. I have found that some people require further information.  Like, "She's passed away so there is no way she will be able to sign a $2.75 check from AT&T."

"Oh," the teller said, her gaze lingering on me for just a shade longer than normal for this transaction. I knew she was putting it together...  If I am depositing checks for my father, and if the woman co-listed on the check was his spouse, ipso facto, it's probably my mother who has passed away.

Behold deductive reasoning!

"Karen," she said, quietly, discreetly. "I need to ask you a question." Karen, a bespectacled, trim woman with Breck hair despite being well into her fifties, stood up and conferred.  I heard her say, "It's what I would do..."

The teller cashed the checks, handed me the receipt, and I was on my way. I was grateful that we didn't get all personal up in there, with the "I'm sorry for your losses" and such. I mean, I don't get mad when people say that, but it triggers an emotional response in me when someone expresses sympathy. And it's perfectly OK to show my soft underbelly to friends and family, but the bank teller at noon on Friday? Not really on my list of confidantes.

This marks, I think, the first time that I have shared the news of my mother's passing without getting weepy. Caught me by surprise, it did.

From the Short Chronicles

I've told you that I'm 5'1', right?  I wear gigantic (but TASTEFUL) heels most of the time so that I can look people in the eye instead of up their noses.  Because, yuck.

Anyway, I was reminded of my shortness in a fresh way this morning. See, I'm accustomed to having to get ankle/short/petite pants hemmed.  I'm accustomed to the top shelf of my kitchen cabinets being completely empty because really? They might as well not even exist.  I am accustomed to beefy 10-year-olds being able to inspect the top of my head.

But today?

Today I pulled out a pair of new knee-high trouser socks (because I ROCK THEM LIKE A SUPERSTAR).  Except, these?  They were thigh-high.

Sigh.

Just a Tiny Bit of Blarney

"Excuse me," said the handsome bar patron who was quickly invading my personal space. "I'm Scott."

My new friend Scott leaned over the sternum-high wall that divided Shenanigans' bar from the dining room. I broke off my (very animated, somewhat drunken) conversation with my best friend, U2ey*.

"Hi." I raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with U2ey.

"And I'm Linda," said the very put-together, blond woman. Her bosom was ample enough to rest on the dividing wall, but not in a smothery fashion. And I'm not a pervert. It's just something you notice when said bosom is exactly at your eye-level.

"We were just wondering," started Scott.

"If you could guess our age," finished Linda.

"Oh, no," I said, shaking my head. "You can't ask us to guess another woman's age! That's dangerous."

"No, it's fine, really," Linda interrupted. "We're really curious."

Now, I was about three pints in at this point. Enough to see the entertainment in this request, but not so deep to get all shouty with my answer without careful consideration.

U2ey said, "I don't know..."

"We'll confer!" I yelled and slipped around the table to U2ey's side of the booth.  I sized them up.  My new pal Linda was the key. Her build and her only-slightly-lined face read mid-to-late thirties, but her very tailored look (a white sweater to a pub? ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY? stain-risk much?) and her perfectly colored and manicured hair?  That said at least forty to me. Scott had to be within spitting distance of that. But, I also want people to have a good time on a Saturday night, SO! I thought the best thing to do would be to aim low.

"You," I squinted while I considered Linda (Squinting = Deep Thought, right? (Or stigmatism. Either/or.)). "You are 37, and you," I squinted at Scott, "are 40?"

"I LOVE YOU!" Linda shouted. Which is always nice to hear.

Scott playfully pounded the divider, looking pretend grumpy.

"Well?" I said. "You have to tell us how close we were!"

"I'm 42," Linda said through a smile as wide as a harp. "And he's 41!"

Can I tell you how grateful I am that I aimed low?  If I'd gone with my gut, I only would have shaved off a year.  But many a lady, unless she is trying to sneak into a move or buy an illegal beer, are thrilled when someone guesses she is five years younger than she is.

"Why are your glasses empty?" Scott asked.

"Our waitress hasn't circled around so we haven't been able to order another round," U2ey explained. 

"Go buy them a round!" Linda giggled. I always liked that Linda.

"Done! What are you drinking?" Scott asked. I always liked that Scott.

"Guinness!" we shout in unison. My goodness, my Guinness.  I sneer at the tray of Budweiser Light another waitress is carrying across the room.

While Scott was off procuring the Guinness, I said to Linda, "Your turn! How old do you think we look."

She coolly, squintily returned the appraisal.  But, she dodged the question.

"You're babies," Linda said with a slight shake of her head. Like she has Seen Some Things, and our blooming youth couldn't comprehend what lay before us.

"Yeah, we're thirty-seven," I said.  Not that I was arguing about being a baby.  I mean, in the grand scheme of things?  Thirty-seven is the new twenty-five. Minus the ability to recover from a hangover within a day.

"No you're not." Linda shook her head. Then she turned to me. "Really? You're thirty-seven?"

"Yup!" I said. I'm actually kind of proud of my age, even if I hate the fact that I use acne cream and wrinkle cream.  Is there a product on the market that combines both?  Because if there is, I'm interested. Hear that, Open Market? Deliver unto me my request!

It's then that Scott delivered our booze to us.

"Thank you!"

U2ey and I wrapped our hands around our glasses and took a deep pull of the velvety, cool beer.

"No problem," the couple answered, then turned their attention to each other. And, based on the way they were making out, it seems like perhaps forty-two is the new sixteen.

U2ey = my best friend. I'll let you guess which band she would sacrifice me for.

Stepping Outside of My Comfort Zone

A couple of weeks ago, my college roommate sent me an e-mail. This is not unusual. But, the contents of the e-mail? Different than the norm. The gist was, "Hey, my husband's best friend is getting married. He and his bride, who are lovely, were going to elope, but every one's convinced them to have a proper wedding. But, they are paying for it themselves. So, they do not have much money to fork out on extras.  Would you take pictures of their wedding?"

Now, I was THE black-and-white 35mm single-lens reflex girl in high school and college. That Pentax? Was perma-fixed to my neck. But then... Digital.  It made my (gasp) film camera obsolete. And then, I had kids. Digital facilitated easy uploads for out-of-state grandparents. Point-and-shoot, memory captured, uploaded to an online picture-sharing software, DONE. No fancy depth-of-field fun or anything like that, but hey, whaddya gonna do?  Convenience trumps artistry.

This all means:  the composition, lighting, aperture, shutter speed muscle that had been fairly 'roided in my formative years?  Flabby. Weak. Spongy. But so was the rest of myself, and I took care of that over the past 10 months, now DIDN'T I?  So, I thought, why not?

I have entered some kind of weird year of saying yes to things that 2012 me would've refused, lickety-split. the 2012 me would've thought, "My participation can only wreck this situation. I should graciously refuse."

2013 me? Who has accomplished the twin goals of getting published* and losing some tonnage? The 2013 me cannot be stopped.

So, I said yes. And then I bought a used digital SLR. And a fancy flash. and I read the manual, did a little forum-stalking on using the digital SLR, and subjected my kids to a Princess Kate Middleton-level of paparazzi photo-stalking. 

Then I went to the wedding.

I was outside of my comfort zone at the start, for sure. I am an introverted people-pleaser. So, forcing complete strangers into semi-candid shots? I had to put on my big-girl pants and MAKE IT HAPPEN. 'Cause if I didn't? This bride would not have the memories of her Big Day that she (didn't even know she) wanted.

Here's the thing, though: the ka-tunk of the SLR? Totally comforting. Welcoming.  A re-introduction to an old friend, like I expect to have some day in a darkened bar whilst consuming an amber-colored beverage. After a few minutes with that solid, mechanical, obedient tool in my hand, I was in control, in my element. I really, really enjoyed it.

Cut to the end of the evening, back in my hotel room.  I looked over the hundreds of shots, and was worried that I hadn't gotten everything that I should.  I tweaked, I sharpened, I brightened, I lamented the things that I missed because of unfamiliarity with my apparatus, unfortunate back-lighting, or inexperience. Things I should've asked them to do, but didn't.

Argh. 

I finished my PhotoShop fu, uploaded the pix to a professional-grade site where the bride and groom could order copies, and sent it out last night. I haven't heard back from the bride yet. I was nervous that she didn't find a usable pic in the bunch.  So, I Facebooked her in a shadowy fashion.  Am I proud of that?  No, but I'm not un-proud of it, either.  And you know what?  

She took one of the pics that I SHOT and posted it to her Facebook page.  Within an hour of me sending it to her.  The comments?  I know they are from her friends, so they are OBVIOUSLY going to be friendly.  But, they say, "Gorgeous photo!" "Beautiful pic!" "Looks like something out of a magazine!" "That is about the best smile I've ever seen!"

The bride is, in fact, gorgeous. And the groom? Quite dashing. And me? I am so honored, and grateful, that I got to capture it. I only hope I did them a good turn and gave them some pictures that will last a lifetime.

*Did I tell you?  My place of business solicited some original kids' tales from among the folks who worked for them.  I wrote six, SIX, pre-school-appropriate short stories and the BOUGHT THEM ALL! 

Presenting: an In-Depth Spousal Conversation about Finances

"Hey," I said when I checked in with my husband this morning, "I just want you to know, my exploration of generic alternatives isn't exclusive to the stuff you like."

[Background: My husband loves Eggo waffles.  I think it's silly that they cost a dollar more than generic frozen waffles.  He insists that even if they are 25% more expensive, they are 90% tastier, so they are worth it. That might be true, but I also think he's got a canyon-deep brand loyalty to Eggo, and that the generic waffles are probably pretty close. I would know more about that, though, if I ate as many waffles as he did. So, I've started buying Eggo again.]

"Oh yeah?" he answered. "How so?"

"I'm trying generic dark roast K-cups." I hit my blinker to turn left onto the entrance ramp to the Baltimore beltway.*

"How are they?"

"They're OK," I squinted away some of the sun glare.  "Still not as good as Starbucks French Roast, but I need to do a cost-comparison.  If they are half the cost, then they're worth it."

"I don't agree. I think they are worth all of the money.  In fact, I think you should buy the most expensive coffee."

[Side note: I mainline dark, robust coffee.  My husband is afraid of me if I haven't drunk a cup before we interact.  I think I am perfectly sunshiney and nice.  And not at all yelly.]

"Um, I think the most expensive coffee is actually processed in the colon of a civet. It's like $160 per pound."

"That.  That's what you should get."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure they don't make a K-cup version of that."

*I should not have been talking on the phone. I KNOW, okay?

My Husband Says I Don't Know How to Take a Day Off

This tale is about how I suck at taking a day off.  I can't just take a straight-up, lollygagging, do-nothing day off.  You need proof?  On my most recent day off, I had my annual-ish visit with the dermatologist.

I don't have cystic acne or a volcanic port wine stain or anything about that.  Nah. I'm just pale. I've told you about my translucent skin, yeah?  I am of Irish heritage. Actually, based on the road map of visible veins that run over my body, I think may be of vampiric Irish heritage. Which should totally make me cool with the kids* right?

So, anyway, we all know that milky skin definitely needs to be watched by a medical doctor.  Especially when it encases a dummy who scored about four massive, blistering sunburns per year from the ages of twelve through twenty-four.  I own that those sunburns were my fault.  Kids that age should not have to be told, 'Hey, pasty goon, put on some sunblock.'

At about 4:15 p.m. on my day off, I'm sitting on an exam table, fashionably dressed in a paper gown, awaiting the arrival of the inimitable Dr. C.

Have you ever endured one of these things? These skin exams?  It's not as invasive as an pap smear, but the scrutiny! This, though, seems WORSE than an OB/GYN visit.  Why?  BECAUSE THE DOCTOR IS WEARING A MAGNIFYING GLASS ON HER HEAD.  

Nothing (by which I mean everything) is more awesome than standing in the middle of an exam room, clutching a glorified paper towel to your bosom, while an Asian woman wearing headgear like Ray from 'Ghostbusters,' presses calipers to your backside to measure a mole.

Also, here's a thing I haven't learned yet:  how do you make small-talk with your doctor about your kids when she is carefully examining your side-boob?  Suggestions, interwebs?  I'm all ears.

At the end of the exam, she said that she didn't detect anything, that I should keep SPF'ing it up, and that I should slather my kids in sunblock and SPF t-shirts. Which I do. So, score for me. 

Now, let me drop a little knowledge on you: Dr. C. cautioned me to keep an eye on any moles and ick that might appear on the back of my legs. Because, apparently, that's how melanoma likes to erupt on 30+ ladies --via the backs so of their legs.  Sneaky, sneaky melanoma.

She also asked me if I could check myself out, or, if anyone else could. 'Cause nothing says romance like, "Hey, honey, could you inspect me for cancerous moles?"

For my next day off, I just might do something even more awesome, like clean out the garage.

*By kids, I mean fans of Twilight, who are mostly Mom-teens**, yes?

**Mom-teens are women who have teenage children and love the 'Twilight' series for some weird reason

Flames and Lasers Coming Out of My Face

Typically, long weekend = opportunity for non-routinized, enjoyable shenanigans, yes? Saturday entailed the normal stuff (workouts, groceries, dance class).  And, slightly outside of the norm, Saturday also included a candlelit date night at a local colonial-era inn that I am sure was peopled by ghosts.  Spiritual activity aside, I recommend the cheese plate. And the cream of crab soup.  Oh, sweet Deity, I recommend anything that the Elkridge Furnace Inn has to offer. My husband insists that you try the blackberry chocolate ice cream.

Okay, then, Sunday = SPONTANEITY. I elected to skip church (don't worry, I'll confess it during some Lenten guilt-o-rama) in favor of SCIENCE! Some would consider this ironic. I am one who subscribes to the notion that the mathematical perfection of everything MUST mean it was contrived by a Higher Being.

I could be wrong. But, whatevs. Doesn't really change much about how I conduct myself.

Yeah, so we went to the Maryland Science Center in downtown Baltimore. We are Members, which means for the low, low price of $120 per year, we get to crash their indoor playroom and rock it out in the Davis Planetarium as many times as we want. (Tip: three, six, and eight-year-olds LOVE the Sesame Street One World, One Sky: Big Bird's Adventure.) The best part of the Membership? We EZ-pass it past the plebeians. Woot! Nothing makes you feel like you've arrived more than being able to jump a line.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, to show you that we treat our kids to fun stuff, like, ALL THE TIME.  This way, you'll judge me less when I talk about today.

President's Day. A day to honor the service of the leaders of our nation.  We respect this day. I mean, jeez, my eldest boy shares a name with at least three presidents. My husband's a civil servant. We're big on honoring the gubment 'round these parts.

Anyway, I decided to take my older two children to 'Escape from Planet Earth.'  It's the first kids' movie to come out in ages. Since it was only 32 degrees today, our rampant-kid-energy-burn options were limited. It was either the movies or the mall, and God help me, I could not stomach the mall on a civic holiday that's been turned into a commercial discount smorgasbord.

I like to prep my children re: my expectations of them. The ONLY stipulations for this afternoon's entertainment were that (a) they needed to get themselves dressed in a timely manner, and that (b) they needed to brush their teeth and hair. My darling daughter, well, she has semi-long hair, and had not brushed it thoroughly in a day and a half. I knew this would be a chore for her, but as mentioned, there was ample warning that we'd need to tame the nest.

Forty-five minutes prior to departure time, I sent them up to get dressed. They both dawdled. We were in danger of missing the movie. The hair? Not so much an issue for the Boy, even though he is currently sporting a Beatles-esque mop-top. He can still run a comb through it lickety-split. But the Girl? The Girl has issues.  So, I brushed her hair. And I brushed it hard. There were knots, and there were also ridiculous amounts of tears and screaming.

You would think that tears streaming form the eyes of my darling daughter, my only girl, my blue-eyed, flaxen-haired blessing, would inspire sympathy in me.

You would be wrong.

In my head, I am screaming, SCREAMING, that this child is the agent of her own problems. She loves long hair, wants long hair, but doesn't want to care for it. YES, she is six. But, come ON. How many times do I have to explain that long hair = needs to be brushed daily = knots when you don't brush daily?

Instead of screaming, though, I brush vigorously, taking care not to hurt more than I have to (but not particularly worrying if there's some discomfort). I mean, we have to get to the movie on time, right? It's not fair to my oldest boy if he misses part of the movie because of his sister's hair issues?

So there are tears, and yelling, and shoving into coats and out of the house, into the car...  Then. on the way to the theater, my girl-child kept crying, wailing, about her grooming.  The word 'unfair' was used about eleventy times between my driveway and the tippy-top of our street.

I slammed on the brakes (no one was around, I checked). I turned, and erupted, "ENOUGH!" I saw space and time shift before me, melting under the flames of my crazed shouty anger.

Silence.

"You keep using the word 'unfair!' Clearly, you think 'unfair' means you don't get what you want, when you want it, and how you want it. That's not what 'unfair' means. You are acting greedy, and unappreciative. Do you know how many movies I got to see when I was your age?"

"None?" she answered.

"That's right!" I shouted. Hrmph. I had clearly shared this information before. "NONE. When I was in first grade, my school took us on a field trip to see 'The Aristocats.' Other than that, my older brothers and sisters would take us to see movies every once in a while. I just want you to be grateful, and not act like a brat."

Silence. Silence and more silence on the five-minute drive to the theater.  We arrived, bought our tickets and snacks, and settled in for a mediocre kids movie.

All was fine by the end of the movie. All was forgiven; both the ridiculous resistance to grooming and the ridiculous overreaction to the resistance.

I don't really have any perspective on this. No wisdom to be found here.  My kid pushed my buttons, and I lost it. But I still did the fun thing, not wanting to punish all of my kids for the ridiculousness of one of them.

Mostly, I guess, I wanted to offer this:  it's typical for a kid to know how to needle you in just the right way to get you to explode. And you will explode.  I don't care if you had to barter your soul and a million dollars to bear or acquire your precious blessing.  They will, mark my words, turn you into a person so foreign to you, so rippling with anger and frustration that  you are temporarily convinced that you are a bad person.

Here's the thing, though:  in those moments, you realize the depth of your love for these children, because if anyone else treated you this way, God damn, you would throat punch them.

I swear, everyone was giggling about fifteen minutes after the tears threatened to breach the levees. Families are all slightly insane, right?

I Ran a 5K This Morning So I Am Probably a Pod Person

If you don't know what a pod person is, hie thee hence: Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I'll wait for you.

By the way, I watched that movie on TV with my Dad when I was a sick eight-year-old.  I must write a post at some point about all of the inappropriate movies my parents let me watch in my formative years. Honestly, I know way more about '80's action movies than any woman should.

Yeah, so, I've been in Orlando, Florida for a work conference.  Good people, good work, none of which I will tell you about.  One of my co-workers does 5Ks and half-marathons* on the regular, and organized one for us here at the resort.  By 'organized,' I mean that she found out they had a 5K route mapped out around the resort, and then set a time for people to run.

On Monday, I walked into the staff breakfast room, and dished some fruit, eggs, and bacon onto my plate.  YES, I still eat bacon.  I just eat two slices instead of twelve.  Anyway, when I got t the end of the buffet line, I saw a poster-sized sign-up sheet for a 5K around the complex.

Hmph.

I've been running like a hamster on the elliptical.  The machine tells me I'm clocking three miles in a half hour .  Three miles is the rough equivalent of a 5K.  Why not try it?

This is where I had tiny identity crisis. Like, a TIA-sized identity crisis, as opposed to a full-blown stroke. I'm not a runner.  I read. I write. I drink copious amounts of coffee.  I take pictures. I fret over implied hurts and insults. I don't spend my Saturday mornings racing adults and posting my running times on Facebook.  I don't get up at pre-dawn hours to feel the wind whipping my hair as I glide across the pavement.

Except...  except...  Maybe I do?  If I'm not a runner, at least maybe I'm a dedicated... Exerciser?  I guess runners always seem to LOVE running.  Me? I don't love it.  At all.  I don't love running, don't love the elliptical, don't like the crunches and planks and push-ups.  (I do like yoga, though.)  

But...  After a workout, I love the satisfied fatigue in my muscles, like they ate a good-sized meal at a fabulous restaurant.  I love the endorphins. I love being strong. And, I gotta be honest, I love the new shape that routine has given me.

I can't imagine going back to sedentary. I feel gross just thinking about it.  I suppose that adds up to evidence that I actually have changed my lifestyle and embraced this whole workout thing.

Which is why, pre-dawn, I met a handful of drowsy co-workers in our hotel lobby, stretched, and hoofed the infinity loop (and trust me, it felt infinite) that wraps around this part of the resort.  Half of our group walked it.  I ran it.  I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound.  My running partner is about a foot taller than me, though, so we kept up a pace that was maybe a bit aggressive for my stumpy stems.  Twenty-seven minutes later, the sun hung red in the horizon, and the whole 5K thing was done.  

I didn't die. I was winded occasionally, but only when I tried to chat while running. (Rookie, right?)

I'm pretty sure that my legs are going to turn to jelly later, though. 

*At what distance does the World of Running switch from metric to English systems of measure?  I mean, there's 5K, 10K, half-marathon (13 miles), and marathon (26 miles).  Should it go 5K, 10K, 21K, and 42K?  I just like consistency, is all.

Overheard and Too Awesome Not to Share

I'm a travellin' gal this week.  For work, not for pleasure.  Though, it is pleasurable to be in warmer climes. EVEN IF it means travelling AWAY from Baltimore and watching the Superbowl with co-workers who are supporting the left coast team.

Side note: I don't know if you heard, BUT BALTIMORE WON!  Yay, team!  And yay for the Boy, who, during the first year of conscientiously supporting a team, just so happened to support a winning team.  Not that it's all about winning.  It's mostly  about sportsmanship. And some winning.

But that's not what this post is about.  NO! This post is about the awesome five minutes of conversation I overheard on the plane today.

So there's me, sitting there, trying to focus on the book I'm reading.  But I can't. This is partially, a teeny-tiny smidgenly bit, due to the fact that digital devices are ruining my ability to remain in one app at a time. It is MOSTLY due to the inane opinions and revelations coming from the woman in back of me.

American Southern Accent Man: I'm originally from Georgia, but I work in Baltimore pretty often.

Woman: We (referring to her mostly-silent husband sitting in the middle seat) lived in Ellicott City for about thirty years, and raised our kids there. But we go to Florida to warm up and just relax. Do you travel much for work?

ASAM: I do. I was recently in Europe.

Woman:  Oh, were you? We've never been. Where would you recommend that someone go, of all of the places you've been in Europe.

ASAM: Honestly, the most beautiful city is Brussels. In Belgium?

Woman: Really?

ASAM:  Yes,. It's just beautiful. They make some really wonderful things there. Chocolate, beer, and waffles.  You walk around, and the whole city just smells like waffles.

Woman: Are they like the waffles here?

ASAM:  No, not really. They do something special there. I don't know what it is, but they are unbelievable.  And the beer...

Woman:  Oh, well, we're total squares. Probably the squarest people you've ever met. Neither one of us has ever had wine, or beer.  I don't know why. We've just never had it.

ASAM:  ......

Woman: What about Paris? Have you ever been there? Would you recommend it?

ASAM:  I have. Let me tell you, the towns and country outside of Paris are beautiful, and the people are wonderful.  Really friendly, and kind.  But in Paris? They hate Americans. Can't stand us. They are generally pretty rude.

Woman:  I don't know what the point of going is, then. You can see it in movies and read about it in books.

ASAM:  ......

Woman:  Would you take your family there?

ASAM:  Oh, sure. If I could afford it, I would love to take my family there, even though, travelling as an American isn't as safe as it use to be.

Woman:  I know! My daughter-in-law and my granddaughter both want to go to Paris. And I said, to her, "Have you seen 'Taken'? I just don't understand why you'd want to travel around like that.

Me: (snickering, desperately wanting to turn around and point out that 'Taken' is not a documentary, but instead burying my nose in my iPad, which kind of hurts when you press the screen against your face that hard.)

ASAM:  ....

And then, somehow, wondrously, the conversation shifted to a food chain problem in the Everglades. According to ASAM, some one went to 'Africa or the Amazon or some damn country' and brought back a hundred pythons, or anacondas, and released them into the Everglades, and now the snakes are taking over the ecosystem.

Woman: Can they kill an alligator?

ASAM: Oh, sure they can.

And that's when, for my own sanity, I had to stop listening.  I actually plugged my fingers into my ears to block out the noise.

My Google Search History Makes Me Look Like a Nutcase

Yesterday, my left ring finger felt funky. Like, my-finger-is-so-numb-that-it-feels-like-someone-stitched-a-cadaver-finger-onto-my-hand funky. I attributed the numbness to the nasal-passage-freezing cold snap that is currently punching the East Coast. Why? Because, like a dummy, I went gloveless yesterday. Cold begets numbness, yes?  But then I went inside, warmed up, and was perfectly toasty.  But the ring finger, she stayed numb. Also? In the bright light of my kitchen, I could see that she was yellowish, like my baby boys when they were fresh out of the womb. (Sidenote:  mixed blood types = jaundice and a five-day sentence on the bilirubin blanket).

Though I'm no medical expert, I'm well aware that you don't get jaundice in just one finger.  So then I started freaking out that maybe I was having a heart attack.  But, that's a shooting pain/numbness in your whole arm, not just your ring finger. Usually. "Oh God," I thought, "what if a heart attack can kind of creep up on you sometimes? What if, in fact, I am a victim of a very slow, progressive heart attack preceded by a very slow pain/numbness?"

I may also have thought: "Well, if it's not a heart attack and the flesh is necrotic, I'm pretty sure that I could live without my left ring finger. I'd have to re-learn how to type, though."*

Well, once you're wondering if you're having a heart attack or contemplating surgical removal of a digit, there's only one solution. No, not the E.R., Silly Reader. Google! Within about a minute I found out that this numbness thing is commonly caused by a nerve that has been pinched like an adorable three-year-old's cheeks.  An ulnar nerve, which, courtesy of my seventh grade biology class, I know is in my forearm.

Herm. A pinched nerve? Whatever could've caused a pinched... Oh. Wait.

The day before, I exercised a bit more vigorously on the elliptical than normal. And, I tend to clutch the elliptical's handles like gravity doesn't exist and I will be thrown off the planet if I don't hold on for dear life.  As it happens, this can cause your fingertips to go numb.

So, yeah.  The next time I pounce on the elliptical, I won't hold the handles at all because I am a FREE SPIRIT!  But, mostly, I don't want my finger to go all yellow and numb again.

Hooray for aging!

*This and my crazy Tetris-skillz are full-on proof that I am clearheaded in stressful situations.

Any Animal Totem Experts Out There?

As I wrapped a scarf around my daughter, I glimpsed through the window panes next to our front door.  A fellow bus stop kid, aged ten, was very nearly executing a perfect downward-facing dog toward our front lawn.This is not a typical, so I figured she was inspecting something awesome like our neighbor's big black Labrador marked his (our) territory AGAIN.

Anyway, the Girl and I stumbled blearily into the gray morning mist to await the bus. The Boy was annoyed with me because I insisted that he wear more than one sweatshirt in the forty-degree air, so he hung back on the porch. I figured I'd give the grass a once over to see what caught neighbor-girl's attention.

I didn't have to do that.  Before my boot even hit the step down to the walkway, the neighbor-girl cried, "Miss Mary! There's fur all over your lawn!"

I scrunched up my nose.  Fur?  I trod closer... Ick. Yes. Fur. Tufts of it smeared all over our lawn, like someone had gutted a comforter. Thankfully, no blood. Or arcane dark magic symbols.

"Looks like you're right, " I answered.  I mean, what's appropriate here? I didn't want to scream, "Ew, gross!" in front of a bunch of under-10 kids. So, I turned away from the kids and pulled a face.

One of my fellow bus stop mothers said, "It was probably a fox that got a squirrel."

"Well, that's awesome," I answered.  Surprisingly, my daughter had little interest in the fur tumbleweeds. I would have predicted that she would try and collect the fur and look for bones.  At the very least, I thought she would have insisted upon a gory blow-by-blow of the squirrel's demise. Instead, she wandered over to another little girl and they demonstrated their twirling abilities to each other, their puffy coats ballooning ever-so-slightly.

"Oh, Mommy," said the inquisitive neighbor-girl (who clearly has a very acute sense of hearing and a fairly strong stomach), "it probably WAS a fox.  Remember Mrs. [name redacted] said that she saw a fox?"

"Yes," she answered. "Now, go to wait for the bus."

My fellow bus-stop mothers and I share the same tolerance level for energetic chit-chat that revolves around the slaughter of rodents in the wild.  And by 'wild,' I mean a barely-manicured patchy lawn.

Gah.

The bus rumbled down our street, collected the kids, and rumbled back up again. We mothers said our goodbyes to each other, and off we went to our homes and jobs.  I took a minute to call my husband to let him know he had some crime scene clean-up duties that night. I know, I know, I AM EVERY WOMAN and all that jazz. But, I've recently become very comfortable with the idea that while I CAN do everything, it is not REQUIRED that I do everything.  Besides, he and I have an agreement that outside chores default to him, and inside chores default to me. On the surface, it seems like I get stuck with more work.  But I don't think that I will be called upon to rake up animal carcass. Well, not unless my children turn on each other.

I Used a Trader Joe's Shopping Bag as a Purse Today

I just thought you all should know that.

Wait, you want to know why I ventured out in upper-middle-class hobo drag?  'Cause I needed to tote my wallet, phone, iPad (don't judge) with me on an errand.  These things live in my laptop bag during the work week.  But, I didn't want to drag my laptop bag around with me, so I went with grocery chic.

Why was I so unprepared?  Because today was an awesome example of Way Planning Ahead Me vs. Last-Minute Me.  I scheduled my annual dentist appointment a year ago.  I didn't jot this down anywhere.  If I did, it was written on something ephemeral, like condensation on the inside of my car.  So, minus ten points for me.

They called yesterday to confirm. But, I left my cell on silent and didn't get the message 'til this morning, when it was too late to cancel. It's like that recurring nightmare when I haven't gone to a class all semester, and am too late to withdraw.  I HAVE TO TAKE THE EXAM AND I WILL PROBABLY FAIL.


In this case, though, I just haven't been flossing as much as I should.  And I had coffee breath.

Sorry, Dr. H!


I have this weird thing about dental and eye exams.  I know that they are not graded, nor are they pass/fail.  But I still want to pass, and pass with FLYING COLORS.  I want an A, a check plus, a sticker on my forehead.  I want my doctors to be shocked and awed by how well I perform on these exams. Is it any wonder I was the valedictorian of my high school? (Which only matters to me, I'm sure.  Well, me and the salutatorian.  Hi Julie!)

Because of my accursed gene pool, though, 'passing' an eye exam means that I correctly identified the giant 'E' at the top of the eye chart and did not mistake it for a picture of a bunny.  Passing the dental exam means that my teeth didn't crumble like blue cheese when my dentist pokes them with the poky thing.

Today's results?  I have a full-term cavity in one of my upper molars (12-D, to be exact), and a gestating cavity on the other side. Cavities are nothing new to me. If you are a devoted reader of this blog (and who isn't, am I right?), then you know that my teeth are essentially made of shale.  I currently have two crowns, and a giant gap where an implant is supposed to go.  The implant will  happen someday.  That day will likely be two days after my daughter notices the gap and makes fun of me for it.

After the dentist appointment, I took a little drive.  My dentist is in the neighborhood I grew up in.  'Grew up in' is perhaps ambitious.  I lived there 'til I was eleven.  Was I grown up at eleven?  Bookish, but not grown up.  I cruised past the old homestead, via the path I used to walk daily to and from my local Catholic school.  I do this pretty much every time I go to the dentist, and I'm always amazed by how crowded the neighborhood feels.  The houses seemed gigantic and rambling when I was a kid.  And now, it's just a house.

But damn if I don't want to snatch that gorgeous turn-of-the-century stained glass every time I pass by. And stuff it into my giant Trader Joes' bag.

Bleeding Purple

I've been perusing my blog archives like the good narcissist that I am, and I realize that there is just so much of my life that I leave out of these pages. I think it's because I don't want to offend people, or tip my hand too far forward and reveal more about my friends and family than they might like.

Seriously, though, it looks like all I do is hang out with my kids, go to church, and go to work.  And, while all of that is true, there is a healthy social life that I've got going as well. Ish. Ish only because I've got a three-year-old, a six-year-old, and an eight-year-old. there is only so much grown-up* interaction you get when you are shepherding three little ones through life.

But I do get out. And do stuff.  Stuff that *might* even be interesting to others.

Last night I went to bingo.  Okay, fine, you might not think that this is a weak argument for 'doing interesting stuff.' So, there I am, bingo marker in hand, a speck of black flotsam in a sea of purple. Why all the purple?  Because, my friends, the Ravens vs. Broncos game just so happened to have fallen on the same night.  Oops.  The school/church fundraiser folks respected local loyalties, though, and projected  the game on a screen in the corner.

Throughout the night, there were be small gasps and cheers, and it was tough to discern whether it was a big moment in football, or if someone cried, "Bingo!" Or, in Baltimore-ease, "Bing-geaux!"

There was no mistaking what went down in the last minute of the fourth quarter, though.  Did you see that game? DID YOU SEE THAT GAME? Now, I am admittedly slightly better than a fair weather fan. Normally, the game would just be on in the background while I was doing something productive, like dusting.  Watching it with a group of people to whom each catch, each turnover, each touchdown really meant something...

It was totally fun. It was communal. Everybody wanted the same thing, hoped for the same thing. It is so very rare that in today's society we are able to indulge in that unity, that sameness. I savored it. No one in that bingo hall wanted another perspective, or cared about the Broncos' hurt feelings. Nope. We were cheering the team from Baltimore, and that's all that mattered.

I was glad to be in that hall, with those two hundred people, wearing all of that purple. Even if I didn't win any of the twenty games of bingo, and was shushed by a lady with painted-on eyebrows.

Also? I had a lovely time catching up with one of my sisters-in-law, with whom I have not spent a great deal of one-on-one time of late.  She is my guru when it comes to raising an, ahem, 'spirited' girl-child, and I gleaned some much needed perspective of some of the Girl's modus operandi.

Oop. Tangent.  For another day, my friends!

*I use 'grown-up' instead of 'adult' because 'adult' seems to have such porny connotations these days.

A Helluva Way to Start the Week

I went to a funeral mass this morning.  It's a perfectly gothic day here in Baltimore: gray, laced with a chill.  There should be a chill in the air, considering it's January. In fact, it should be more than chilly. It should be downright bitter.

Sidenote: what's up climate change? You're going to force me into the no-you-cannot-wear-shorts-to-school argument with my 8-year-old son in January? I don't normally engage in that battle until March.  Jerk. (Climate change is the jerk. Not my son. He's lovely.)

Anyway, the service was for my cousin's wife's mother.  I didn't know her very well; I'd only met her about a dozen times in my life. I know, I know. You're wondering why I would go to a funeral for someone I didn't know very well.  

It's down to this:  I always go to the funeral*.  If I skip a celebration like a graduation or a wedding, it's okay, because it's a safe bet that it won't be the last celebration in that person's life.  There'll be baby showers, birthdays, First Communions, retirements, etc., down the road.

But a funeral? That's it. Done. Terminus.It's where I disembark from my normal day-to-day to show I care, that the dearly departed -- and those she left behind -- matter. And even though I didn't know her very well, I am very friendly with my cousins.  I used to babysit their kids. My son interviewed them for a school project. We belong to the same church, and see each other pretty frequently.

So, I went to the funeral.

It was lovely, as those things go. And extremely well-attended. Before I could even get into the chapel, people started squeezing out of the side doors. I thought it was a Play-Doh Fun Factory situation. I was kind of right: the church staff made the decision to move the mass to the main church because we all simply wouldn't fit in the chapel.

My funeral policy is not the only reason I went, though.

Cancer came for this much-loved mother, just as came for mine. The whole morning was very dredgy, emotionally speaking. I saw my cousin's wife, sitting up at the front, in her black dress. In her, I saw myself.  Little wonder I identify with her.  Not only did our mothers pass in the same way, but around the same time of year. My mother was interred two years and ten days ago.

And so, another person has been inducted into this awful sorority. I went to support my cousin's wife. I wanted to convey that this isn't fair, that her mother deserved more time, and that's all there is to it. 

Some honesty: I hate the silver linings, the platitudes, the "help" that people try to give those who have just suffered a loss. She's in a better place... She's not suffering... Yes. Of course.  It is absolutely better that she is not in pain, that she is no longer enduring a long and winding loss of dignity and self.  I'm begging the world at large, though: can't we all just acknowledge that IT SUCKS when your mother dies, and leave it at that?

Here's what was true for me, and I think may be true for others:  the only hope to offer someone who has lost a loved one to an eviscerating illness is that the worst is over. People think that the death is the worst. Emphatically, no. Death is hard, I'll give you that. I miss my mother all the time. I'm still building my new normal, my new vision of what the future will be. It's tough.  

But, I maintain that the time just before the dying is the worst.  The constant anxiety about... Everything.  Medication. White  blood cells. Did the chemo work? Is her breathing too fast? Am I sick? Are my kids sick? I hope I don't get her sick. Is she wobbly? I need to help her take a bath.  She's going back to the ER because she needs a transfusion. Is today the day? Are we okay? Have I left anything unsaid?

Once the waiting is over, you can figure out what your next move is instead of waiting for it to unfold all over you.

*The only funeral I've ever missed was the memorial service for my husband's grandparents, and I still wish I could have gone. It didn't work out, though.  We had two small kids at the time, and our choices were to take them with us and have them (likely) disrupt the service, or have me stay home with them so that my husband could spend time bonding with family and remember his grandparents without distraction.  I chose the latter.

Some Days I Feel Like a Marine

Which, come to think of it, is probably insulting to Marines.  Sorry Marines!  Me and my squishy middle-class life...

Anyway, there are some days when I am wildly productive before 9:00 a.m. (Yes, I KNOW the Marines say they get more done before 6:00 a.m. than most people do all day.  I'm SQUISHY, remember?)

My almost-three-year-old woke up at 4:00 a.m., so I handled his bidness (wet diaper), and climbed back into bed 'til 6:45 a.m. Then, I:

• dressed myself in not-yoga-pants, 
• flat-ironed my hair, 
• made breakfast for the six and eight-year-old,
• made breakfast for myself (and ate it while standing),
• fixed a Nintendo 3DS that was acting up,
• mixed up some turkey meatballs and popped them in the crock pot (I get bonus points for remembering to turn it on),
• shoved the kids' lunches and water bottles into their backpacks;
• brushed their hair (more bonus points: no one cried during this process);
• found an alternative scarf for my daughter since she appears to worn her normal one while rolling around on a dead rodent;
• inflated a Cleveland Browns' football for my son to take to school for recess;
• talked education with one of my neighbors while we waited for the bus to pick up our kids;
• and, investigated the sound of running water coming from the main pipe, which resulted in me messing around with the float in the basement bathroom.

Then, it was off to work, swiping off some lipstick, and sitting down at my desk by nine. Most of my day was spent in non-consecutive meetings. Always a joy!

Suddenly, my current exhaustion makes more sense.  I am hoping not to repeat most of these shenanigans tomorrow.  I mean, who in their right mind is hustling to blow up a football?  Don't they have those at school already? 

I'm such a sucker for those kids. Herm. I may have to re-think this whole marine analogy...

2013

Would you look at that year?  Just look at it.  That's such a science fiction year.

Side note...

My Dad was born during the golden age of sci-fi.  He was eight -- EIGHT -- when Action Comics #1 was published.  So, it's little wonder that he's such a nerd for aliens, superpowers, space travel, and the like. My husband, who has no such excuse for his deep and abiding love of all things sci-fi, is actually kind of jealous that my father witnessed the genesis of this slice of pop culture.

One day, he asked, "Is there anything that hasn't happened that you thought would've happened by now?"

My father thought about it for a full minute, and replied, "Well, I really thought we'd have flying cars by now."

Resuming post...

Anyway, this is the time of year when people examine their lives and use the clean slate of the new year to start fresh. If the New Year's Eve busy-ness of my local Y was any indication, some folks got a jump on their exercise resolution.

Me? I've eschewed resolutions for the past couple of years. You can't nag anyone -- even yourself -- into change. The desire to be different strikes, and you succumb to it. You want to change, and you do. That's the magic formula. And by 'magic,' I mean, 'incredibly mundane.'

When I alter my way of being/doing/thinking, it's always a watershed moment. I mean, I may have been building up to it over time. But then I think, "Yeah, I'm going to be this way now." And I am. Cold turkey.  It even has a very specific feel to it, like some one spun the wheel on an airlock in my brain. Once the lock has thunked into place, the deal is done.

These decisions aren't tethered to January 1.  Why limit yourself like that? That said, I do have something I'd like to do with my 2013: I want to re-commit to writing. I still futz with it (obviously). But I'm angling for an actual publication credit this year. Not something I produced myself. I mean, I like being a Jill-of-all-trades, but a girl wants some outside validation once in awhile.

I'll add more things to my list of goals for this year (How sexy am I?  I HAVE A GOAL LIST!). For right now, though, I'm sticking to this one.

Cheers!

Christmas Eve

I visited my mother's resting place this morning on the way to work. I use the euphemism 'resting place' because her bones lay in mausoleum. Her choice, by the way. She didn't like the idea of cremation, but liked the idea of worms less. She called it a 'filing cabinet.' So, not really a grave in the traditional six-feet-under kind of way.

Anyway, it didn't seem right to celebrate this holiday season without being in her company. Some of you may think that I am always in her company, that her essence, her soul, her spirit, is forever tethered to me. But me? While I believe in a spiritual afterlife, I really hope that she's enjoying her eternal glory and not worrying about my mopey ass.

I pulled into Parkwood Cemetery a few minutes before nine. As I rolled past 'Heroes' Garden,' I saw one other person on the grounds. He was walking a dog. Which annoyed me. I mean, dude, who lets his dog whiz on a tombstone?  Maybe he didn't plan to "let" that happen, but I don't see how a dog could pass by that many obelisks without lifting a leg.

Grumble.

I drove down Gethsemane Lane to the mausoleums at the back of the property. Today is cold, like you'd expect in December, but not freezing.  Mom's spot, which will one day be my parents' spot, is in the bottom row. I squatted and brushed away the few leaves that had collected in front, wishing that I'd brought something that I could prop against the granite slab. Some marker of my presence. But, the problem with spontaneity is that it goes hand-in-hand with a lack of preparedness.

Instead, I pulled off my gloves and pressed my palm flat to her name, feeling the chiseled indentations.

"I miss you, Mom," I whispered. That's about all I ever say. What else is there to say?  That's what it boils down to:  I miss her.  Deeply.

After a few minutes, I saw a worm squinching past, unable to invade the building. It made me smile, because Mom's plan was kind of working out with respect to the filing cabinet.

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

I stood, dusted my hands together, and drove off.  At the final turn, the one that would lead me from the cemetery, I caught sight of the man and his dog. He stood in front of a small tombstone, with his head bowed. His dog stood guard next to him, still as a statue, and definitely not whizzing on the graves.

Aftermath

During my mid-morning coffee break on Friday, December 14, 2012, I was perusing a gossip site. Yes. Gossip. It’s my one, completely shallow pastime. While friends of mine read newspapers and academic journals, I try to keep up with Taylor Swift’s latest romance. I am sincerely worried that I am going to forget milestones in my children’s lives because the brain cells that would have been used to store those memories are busy retaining the names of Angelina Jolie’s kids.

Anyway.

I was reading a gossip site and stumbled on a comment that said, “This is completely off-topic, but there’s been a shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut.”

An elementary school? What?

I jumped over to CNN.com. The details at 10:30 a.m. were murky. The shooting was confirmed, as was the school’s state of lock down. There was a rumor that the principal had been killed, and possibly two others.

Immediately, I made wild assumptions nurtured by a healthy diet of true-crime television shows. Basically, I guessed that the principal had an angry husband or boyfriend who took that passion to her workplace, killed her, possibly a co-worker, and then himself. That’s how these things go, right?

I wish that I’d been right.

An hour later, after somewhat regular page refreshes, I saw that the victim count had risen significantly. And that some of the victims were likely children.

That thought hadn’t even entered my mind. I needed to know more, so I just kept searching, searching, searching for information among various news sources. And then, in the early afternoon, on the Hartford Courant’s main page, there it was:

26 Killed, 20 of Them Children

I nearly vomited. I haven't felt that kind physical response to emotion since mid-December, 2010, when it hit me like a freight train that my mother’s death would occur at any hour, any minute. This felt the same. After seeing that so many had died, so many of them children, I closed my office door and sat on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest.

Overly dramatic? I’m not that guy, I swear. I don’t make a meal out of minor inconveniences, railing at the heavens because of a parking ticket.  I feel things deeply, yes, but can usually rationalize my way out of those feelings. Displace them, because they aren’t mine to feel, and it’s indulgent to claim them as if it happened to me.  Why should I feel this devastated, this heartbroken?  I’ve never been to Newtown. I have no connection to it. I didn’t know those teachers, those children.

Except I do know them. I’m in that world now.  Two of my three kids are in elementary school. The Boy is eight and in third grade. The Girl is six and in Kindergarten. I collapsed because I could all too easily picture them, their beautiful, innocent, terrified faces, if they were in the same situation. I know the routine of school, how easy it is for people to get buzzed in (or, as we later found out, shoot his way in), and how little could be done to stop a broken-brained gunman from storming hallways papered with crayon drawings.

There’s a fresh wave of grief every time I read about it. I can’t not read about it, though. To avoid the news in an attempt to avoid the unpleasantness of sorrow is … well, it’s disrespectful. I have to know these things, painful and awful as they might be, because without knowing these things, I will be absent the tools I need to form opinions, make decisions, make plans, and vote when the time comes.

So, I'll expose myself to it, and mourn not only the lives lost, but the innocence as well. 

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch...Unless It's Online?

So, the world turned upside-down for a bazillion hipsters with Instagram's announcement that it is changing its terms of service and that it can sell your pictures without compensating you.

First: 99.9% of you? Relax. Nobody wants to buy a blurry picture of your homemade pork sandwich.

Second: Instagram is not the only photo-sharing game in town. Feel free to seek out others.

Third: Um, you know that you're not required to document your life online, right? So, if you find that all of the free photo-sharing services have unpalatable service agreements, you could -- this might sound crazy -- just not post your photos on the Interwebs. Or (and this one's even more shocking) you could pay for your photo-hosting, and not worry about service agreements that leverage your content.

Here's the thing: Facebook, Google, Pandora, Instagram do not do what they do out of the goodness of their hearts. The are in it to MAKE MONEY. They can do that by either charging for their services OR by giving the service away, but selling advertising space to third-party advertisers who want to get their products in front of a billion Internet eyes.

Most Internet companies go the free route. Some of them offer a subscription version so that you can trim the advertising noise out of the product, but not many do that.  I get that what Instagram's doing is different -- they are selling user content -- but YOU are getting something from THEM.  This is a mutually beneficial arrangement. You don't have to buy servers, develop the application, and pay techies to keep everything humming. 

The arm-waving that goes on with this stuff is fascinating to me. Most of us seem to think that 'online' should be synonymous with 'free.' It's not just about service providers, either. Content providers feel it too. There's a blog that I read that killed its RSS feed, and Holy Moses, the drama among some of the readers when the feed died.

But, killing it made perfect sense to me: readers could get the content from the feed, and never visit the blog. If readers don't visit the blog, the blog owner doesn't get the clicks. If the blog owner doesn't get the clicks, then they earn less revenue.

So, the point is: if you are using a service online, you either have to pay for it outright, or give the service provider permission to make money off of your usage in some way.  If you don't like the way they are making their money, DON'T USE IT.  If Blogger sent me a notice that they were going to take what I've written here in the past seven years and re-sell it without giving me credit, I'd probably shutter the blog. But I wouldn't think that it was some kind of Dark Overlord situation either.  Sheesh.