Modern Motherhood

Shut Yer Piehole.

2011-11-21T15:48:00.000-05:00

I think I have an inner Roller Derby Girl, because for the past three days I have fantasized about punching/elbowing various people straight in the kisser. We just got home from the grocery store, which was, as you might imagine it would be, insane during the days leading up to Thanksgiving. My grocery store has been too uppity to stock regular tabloids in the checkout lines in years past, but today there was a National Enquirer for me to peruse while we waited. Both Eug and the cart were in front of me, and I was standing a comfortable but not ridiculous way back from my better half. We couldn't move the cart forward, because the cashier needed us to wait while he found the code for some items the store had special-ordered for us. The conveyor belt moves forward, because we don't have that many items...but we're stuck for the moment. The old broad behind me seizes upon the six inches of free space on the conveyor belt and pushes me to begin loading her items onto the belt. Oh, wait - she did say "Excuse me"...in a snotty tone of voice. Instantly, I was thinking, "You can go FUCK YOURSELF if you think I'm moving, bitch!" I refused to budge and she continued to push me. When we could finally move, I pushed past her to replace the tabloid on the rack with an equally snotty "Excuse me". Is the ten fucking seconds she saved really worth being so goddamned rude? The problem is likely our grocery store of choice - a dear friend had recently taken his brother in there, upon which said brother remarked, "It smells like old people in here." Indeed. Although I happen to think it's their shitty richer-than-thou attitude that likely stinks.

We have decided to create some major upheaval in the house in order to turn the workroom into a permanent, animal and kid-free photography studio for your truly. Eug sold me on the idea last night when I was at a particularly low point, emotionally. I'm still not sure where everything is going to wind up, but I am a tentative believer in his plan.

What I'm hoping is that I can work my way up to bringing in an average of $200/month, to start with. The sad part is that it won't even begin to go toward bills, because in order to really work my trade of choice, I need some significant equipment upgrades. In the meantime, I can work with what I've got, but if I ever hope to have clients who are not close, personal buddies, I'm going to need a camera body full-frame sensor and a lens with a maximum aperture of 1.2. For those of you who do not peruse camera porn in your spare time, that's going to run about $4500, and that doesn't include a few other things I'm going to need - including some basic remodeling of the room itself.

The Christmas stuff is down from the attic and awaits my attention, and once again I am fantasizing about replacing my Christmas tree lights. I want some fancy LEDs in soft pastels with white wire to go on my Christmas tree, but I don't know that I'm spendy enough to spring for them, as I would need something like 12 strands. Plus, I would be foregoing my all-pink lighting scheme for the first time, and I'm rather sentimental about those fire-y pink lights on my silver tree. I'm not even going to *try* to decorate the outdoors, because I have too much on my plate as it is. The interior, however, will make Liberace proud! If you want me to buy new Christmas stuff, just cover it in glitter - I'm that easy. But first I have to do some major cleaning in the living room, including denuding the couch and washing all of the cushion covers. Four cats and a puppy will do that to you.

The upcoming weeks will be IN. SANE, what with two Thanksgivings, two kids' birthdays, one trip to the Kalahari, a December birthdays family celebration and all of the attendant chaos that comes with Christmas itself. My priorities could likely use some adjustment, given that the overriding desire du jour is to find a Santa hat for Farley to wear. If I ever win the lottery, I've got two words for you: personal assistant. That would rock.

I hope your Thanksgiving is filled with gratitude and pie, and not necessarily in that order. Also, please pray that I don't actually punch anyone in the kisser, wouldya? Thank you evah so.

Super Yum.

2011-11-15T00:13:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong that when we speak of disciplining animals and/or children, Eug and I like to imitate Grady from "The Shining"? It's really fun to roll those Rs!

OK, I admit it: I probably love Kubrick's "The Shining" more than I should. I've seen it at least twenty-five times, and two of those viewings with the commentary on, glued to the screen. I've only watched a couple of films all the way through with feature commentary on, and only this film more than once. I just bought the DVD with commentary last month, so I'm sure I'll be watching it additional times, to boot. Creepy? Maybe. But I'm OK with that.

I would really like to corrrrect Farley for sneaking into the cat litter boxes, but instead I think we will install a lockable kitty door on the workroom. That way, when we have cat-allergic folks around, I can still keep the felines locked in when necessary. The rest of the time, they can come and go as they please and Farley will be O-U-T. The trick will be buying a kitty door big enough for Fat Andy but small enough that Farley won't attempt to muscle his way through, thereby requiring emergency surgical removal from the door.

Tracy sweet-talked me into watching this season of "Top Chef", even though I swore that I would boycott it due solely to Padma wearing that Super Dork denim dress in the promos. Tracy turned the tide by first telling me about the narcissist that got hisself kicked off by Tom before he even got to fire up a burner, added another log to the fire by revealing that the vegan chef who hadn't cooked with bacon in over a decade got booted unceremoniously, and sealed the deal by telling me all about the adorable, big black man who turned his life around by making cooking his passion. Check and mate - Tracy wins. I'm all caught up, now, and it's set to season record. (sigh) I still hate Padma and her stupid jean dress, though. Harumph.

Speaking of food, we had a super-duper Friendsgiving this past Sunday with our super-duper co-family! It was the best damned turkey I ever had - hand to God. Eug passed out briefly after dinner, and try though I did, I was unable to sneak my camera out quietly enough to snap a picture. I fear, though, that my hour-long tryptophan-induced coma on Nicole's couch was photographed and will be turning up on Flickr before you can say "Gobble, gobble!" There are far too many pictures of me in some degree of insensibility out there for my liking, people. A couple snaps of our incredible feast:

Do you see the perfectly browned marshmallows atop the sweet potatoes? That's what I'm talkin' about, baby!

Those pesky kids are already getting down to business!

Xanthe knows a good thing - or things - when she sees them!

Is that fine china, you ask? Why, yes - yes it is!

I'm hungry all over again, just looking at this!

Two sweet peas in a pod, they are.

You can bet our newly-minted holiday (courtesy of Nicole's genius) is already an unbreakable tradition in our minds. And for those of you who've yet to partake of The Bird, here's a tip: drop some roughly chopped mirepoix (onions, carrots and celery for you non-foodies out there) into the bottom of the roasting pan underneath the rack upon which your turkey sits. You'll scoop them out before you make your gravy in the roasting pan, but don't throw them away. Put them in a bowl and, when you get a chance, taste them. I'm pretty sure that is on the menu every day in the Hereafter, folks. I hope your holiday preparations are going swimmingly!

Fabulous Fall

2011-10-04T21:29:00.000-04:00

Sorry I've been a stranger, but staying in the saddle on the bucking bronco that is a new school year has proven...challenging. The good news is that I am making some progress in the sleep arena, with only one recent spectacular screw-up: I had two Smirnoff Ice drinks after I took prescription cold medicine at 1 am on Friday and I didn't wake up until Sunday. I shit you not. The funniest part of this to me is that Eug swears I demanded he buy chip dip on Saturday afternoon, and so he did. I had no true desire for chip dip, for the record. He also claims I told him that I tried to cut open a subcutaneous cyst with a steak knife, which is a scurrilous accusation I vehemently deny. (Shut up.) Thank God my terrific husband has a sense of humor.

Today I had my second catechism class of the year. I have twice as many students in 6th grade catechism this year, and they all seem unabashedly awesome. However, there is one child who correctly used the word "obstreperous" in conversation today, and I have no shame in admitting that she can do no wrong in my eyes, now.

I should be packing right now because I am whisking the kids away to the water wonderland that is known as Kalahari tomorrow afternoon with some friends, but something about the BEAUTIFUL weather has me meandering through the day at a snail's pace. I even squeaked in two, count 'em, two bike rides already. Tomorrow I will be putzing around in my AFM (Anonymous Fat Mom) bathing suit from Land's End with a piña colada the size of my head in one paw. Life is good.

I've been following the blog of a fairly local woman who writes a very popular personal blog more often these days, as the author is going through a hideous divorce. I hadn't ever been a fan of hers, and she is a bit of an...oversharer. But the raw pain in her writing of late has kept her in my prayers very often. Like everyone, I have an opinion about the root(s) of her problems based on the small percentage I've read of what she's written - which is, of course, far from the whole story. And while it's a very safe bet that she and I are polar opposites on just about every issue of import, I still find myself wanting to drop by her house with my enormous pedicure kit to give her a foot rub and make her toes sparkly, or something. Not out of some misplaced pity, but just from a basic human compassion/connection standpoint. I wish I could tell her that the city of Royal Oak, Michigan and its surrounding areas (Ferndale, Pleasant Ridge, Huntington Woods, Birmingham) is an enclave for assholes of the worst kind. While it's true that there are both nice people and jerks everywhere you go, some areas are simply more pedestrian than others...and thereby offer far less pressure to be cool and far more opportunities to be happy and included. Before you tell me that any self-respecting adult should be immune to such pressure, I'll have to ask you if you have firsthand knowledge of the areas in question. If not, step back, Jack. I'm also of the opinion that therapy in the absence of a practicing faith in God is a losing game at best, but it's better than nothing, I suppose. Anyway, the whole thing makes me want to hug her fiercely and then make her laugh, because no one should feel that sad.

On to happier things: Eug has been tearing up the scoreboard on Xbox 360's "Dance Central" in preparation for the release of "Dance Central 2" later this month. He was logged in on my profile and told me pointedly that I was now rated a MUCH better dancer than I am, actually. More scurrilous accusations! The cheek! Everyone knows my moves are legendary. Hmmph.

Our new puppy, Farley, is still so cute it's ridonkulous - although his ability to poop four or more times on any given short walk does cut into his charm. I really wanted him to have a Halloween costume, but we agreed that even the largest 'hot dog' costume available at Meijer would probably be too snug. Eug sagely reminded me that we need to save our pennies so we can buy him this poofy black parka with a fur-trimmed hood we saw at a specialty pet store, instead. I will earnestly try to ensure my next post includes pictures of his fabulousness. As the ringleader of the Disgruntled Cat Society, Flip is still actively plotting Farley's demise more than one month in. He's singlehandedly proving the "black cats are evil" theory oh-so-right, and he's got Andy, Murray and Jasper all head-up, too. The feline agitation here is definitely viral.

That's about all of note Chez Nous, friends. I hope your October is shaping up to be cider and doughnut-filled, and that the winds of fall blow all your leaves into one, neat pile.

Yeah, You Hit The Ground Runnin'...

2011-09-05T23:44:00.000-04:00

Bonus points to any of you who immediately identified the title of this post as a Van Halen lyric - you are CLEARLY my kind of peeps.

Tomorrow school begins and brings with it what may be my only year with free time: a glorious 3 hours of it from 1-4pm. Next year, Henry will start homeschooling for the duration of middle school, and Xanthe will be home, too, the year after that. While all of the kids will go off to parochial school for high school, Henry will be leaving just as Lula comes home for the middle school years. So I intend to cherish these few hours each day this year.

Unfortunately, I'm not in much of a celebratory mood, because I'm pretty sure I'm developing pneumonia. Hopefully I'll get a doctor's appointment tomorrow, though.

We have lots of big news here - we got a puppy. Blame Tracy, of course. (Love you, Twacy.) She called me Friday morning in a fit of puppy fever after seeing the TV news and their weekly adoption feature. I dutifully went to the shelter's website to look at the desired creature and fell in love with an entirely different face. The rest of the day was spent in a barrage of urgent phone calls, weighing the pros and cons and accusing one another of being the responsible party for the whole puppy mess. To make a long story much shorter, we both adopted that same day. She has a new little girl (Beagle and Pug mix seems likely to me) named Ivy, who is merely 2 months old and has an adorably morose expression. We have a Basset Hound mix of some sort, who we named Farley. Farley is 4 months old and came up from Chattanooga, TN with his siblings from a high-volume shelter with no room to keep them. He might have some Beagle in him, too. But he's also mostly black and I think he may have more than a little Coonhound in him, which would go a long way toward explaining not just his coloring, but his ENORMOUS paws, as well.

I do have a few pictures, but they're lousy because the lighting was so poor. Nevertheless, here you go:

Clearly, he's settling in just fiiiiiiiine. I hope your week is a happy one, friends.

Flappy.

2011-08-10T18:03:00.000-04:00

It's been a slow week, mostly because I threw my back our yesterday. I'm not exactly Speedy Gonzales to begin with, but with a back spasm my movements can only be seen with fast-motion video. Thankfully, my awesome family physician saw me this afternoon and gave me samples of the meds he would've prescribed to save me the prescription costs. The kids were delighted because - for once - they got to watch me get a shot rather than the other way around.

Of course, the shot had to be administered to the biggest muscle in the body. Yep, the gluteus maximus. The nurse had me drop trou and bend the knee on my left side before poking me. Then, in a moment of inspiration on her part, she decided to teach the kids a little something about how the muscles in our body work in concert. She explained how she needed the muscle under the injection site to be as relaxed as possible - hence, my bent knee. She told me to straighten my knee and prodded my rump roast, telling the kids "See how much tougher the muscle is when mom's knee is straight? OK, mom, now bend the knee again." I comply, at which point she pokes me again and tells the kids "Now look at the muscle when I poke it...flaaaappppy!" I'm sure you can imagine how many times I heard one of my kids sing-song "Flaaaappppy!", followed by hysterical giggling on the way home.

In other news, I opted to exchange my new pink cruiser for a fancier model, and the super-terrific bike shop was happy to accommodate me...but given that I was spending more than twice the original amount, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Of course my new bike is still pink, but it comes decked out with 99% of the accessories I wanted to add to the first bike, plus some that I couldn't get without purchasing this specific bicycle. I'm picking it up tonight and hoping the anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants kick in enough for me to ride it tomorrow. The important thing is that it still has a coaster brake, rather than those newfangled hand brakes I like less.

A loved one of mine had the first of her knees replaced today. While she is as saucy and gorgeous and sprightly as a twenty year old, she is, in fact, eighty-six years of age. Therefore, if any of you have prayers for said loved one, I would appreciate it. I'm trying to think of something special I could do for her, aside from flowers and home cookin'.

I think I have back-to-school errands complete, save the most-dreaded chore of all: shoe shopping with three kids. Not only will I have to suppress a horrified gasp over the cost when I sign my name to the receipt, I have to brace myself for the onslaught of complaints from the spawn over being forced to shop with me, and - in their minds, worst of all - TRY STUFF ON. Such a task comes with no fewer than 100 exaggerated, pointed sighs from the oppositional offspring. Once I get that done, I can start worrying over Halloween costumes.

Eug and I were laughing about his naïveté with regard to the availability of various things. He recalled the time he had a gift idea for Henry (whose birthday is in early December) and was innocent enough to believe that the much-desired item would still be in stock post-Thanksgiving. There was much laughter to be had at his expense that year, let me tell you. So while it may seem insane to be thinking about Halloween costumes in August, I assure you it's not.

That's all for now, friends. If you see any posts of gibberish from me in the upcoming days, you'll know that the muscle relaxants have genuinely kicked in.

That Special Someone

2011-08-07T21:09:00.000-04:00

After an embarrassingly long hiatus, we got ourselves to Mass this morning in good spirits. At times like these, I'm just hoping no one innocently says to us, "Hey! We've missed you guys - did you go away on vacation?" Thankfully, no one noticed...except, of course, GOD.

I'm quite familiar with God's sense of humor at work in my life, and this morning He had the perfect little something to tweak me for missing Church so much this summer. Something tiny - so small that most people wouldn't notice. Something to make me work at keeping my mind on the readings and the homily.

It was something about the elderly lady seated directly in front of me.

Her short, short hair was snow-white, her tanned neck was bare, and in the exact center of the back of her neck was a huge blackhead that was so aged and overripe, it had a bit of a white halo around it.

I'll give you a moment to shake off the heebie-jeebies.

I spent the entire hour dragging my mind back to the message of the Mass like a dog walker dragging their canine away from an interesting biological specimen on someone else's lawn. I contemplated the social and moral issues surrounding the state of knowing something unsavory about someone else's appearance that they, themselves, do not know. I debated tapping her on the shoulder after Mass and pretending that I thought it was a mole she should mention to her dermatologist. I also mentally weighed how loudly she might scream if I quickly grabbed her neck and popped the damned thing myself.

God was really having fun with me, because this sweet woman was too decrepit to kneel during the prescribed times...but I still had to kneel. This meant that my face was no more than 10 inches from her blemish, and those of you who know me well can attest that it is truly a miracle of grace that I did not dermatologically assault this woman in God's own house.

Now, here's what really bothers me about this poor woman's state: that blackhead could have been older than some or all of my children, it was so entrenched. IS THERE NO ONE IN HER LIFE THAT CAN INFORM HER OF HER PROBLEM?

Let's be honest: the old folks? Their eyes ain't what they used to be, along with all of the rest of their senses. I scan my parents' visible flesh like a monkey searching for nits whenever I see them, because they're old and they almost always have something on them that somebody needs to tell them about or fix for them, for heaven's sake! (My brother will gleefully inform my parents when they need to do something about their "nose bangs". That is true love, people.)

And shouldn't we all have someone who will drag us behind closed doors if we have a prominent whisker or mosaic of ear blackheads of which we are unaware? I don't even want to ponder how righteously pissed I would be if I were to discover something awful and noticeable on my person and then realize that my loved ones hadn't screwed up the nerve to tell me. (This is one excellent reason to reproduce - your kids will tell you without hesitation and from earliest days when your breath smells bad, or if you have a cliffhanger.)

You should know who your special someone is, folks. Take a moment to reaffirm with them that you need them to be on the lookout for you, and that you will lovingly reciprocate the favor.

In other news, I bought myself a very reasonably-priced old school cruiser bike today! (Pink, natch.) It is bare bones: no gears and to brake you have to spin your pedals backwards. It's fucking awesome. I can even pimp it out with optional accessories, which, of course, I plan to do. On my wish list are swoopy chrome fenders, gel hand-grips that are clear with sparkles inside, a giant saddle seat in ivory leather with pink hearts on it and a matching handlebar bell, a chrome rear view mirror, a white rear rack to match my whitewall tires and very possibly a white wicker basket for the front. I may even add streamers if Eug makes fun of me! I am also contemplating 'hog' handlebars to replace the giant half-circle handlebars that grace my bike, now. Laugh if you must, but I am happier than a pig in shit after no fewer than three glorious bike rides today. (Four, if you count the spin I took in the parking lot of the bike shop, wherein I giggled maniacally while the employees of the Coney Island next door were taking their smoke breaks out back.) We also took a long swim in the pool before dinner and I think I have reached my bliss limit for one day.

I hope your weekend has been as lovely as mine, and I hope your Special Someone is always there to protect you from possible embarrassment. Take care, friends!

Back To Black

2011-07-30T20:53:00.001-04:00

I have felt oddly melancholy in the last few days, and while I am sure there are a number of contributing factors, the one that comes to mind first is the death of Amy Winehouse.

I know, I know. I barely knew of the singer, but I knew of her history of hideous addiction. It was clear to anyone with eyes to see that it probably wasn't going to end well for the young woman. I owned a couple of her songs, and found myself adding more to my digital repertoire in the last few days. And until Henry said "Mama, you must really like this singer, huh?", I didn't realize that I'd been listening to nothing but Ms. Winehouse for days.

The reasons for my blue mood are myriad: the month of my birthday brings memories of people I loved who died in July, including one very young woman who took her own life the day I was in the hospital giving birth to Xanthe. Her body was found one week later- - on my birthday - eight years ago. Amy Winehouse's passing means nothing to me because she was a celebrity, but it strikes me at my heart because she was such a gifted child of God. A short, soaring flight can feel as painful as it is beautiful. It makes me question the human condition and the nature of pain, and how each of us should consider how to alleviate another person's pain in this lifetime. We need help to find the path most of all when we least understand the cause of another person's pain.

A family member passes along magazines that they've read and no longer need; a gift I relish very much since I don't normally buy periodicals. One such hand-me-down included an article written by a woman who was inspired to put love into practice by simply asking the question "How can I love you better?" to everyone with whom she was close. As you might imagine, the answers she received sometimes came as quite a surprise to her. It's been on my mind ever since.

How many times do we give people what we think they need and fail to obtain the closeness and positive results we desire? Aren't there times when we should endeavor to give them what they want, too? Do we even take the time to find out what those things are?

I hope your weekend is a blessed one, that you take the time to ask even one person "How can I love you better?", and that you are prepared to hear their answer with an open heart and mind. Take care, friends.

Lordy, Lordy.

2011-07-18T23:10:00.000-04:00

I turned forty.

Yesterday, in fact. We had a quiet weekend at home in and out of the pool. It was fabulous!

Today, my wonderful niece made me a from-scratch birthday cake of my own onto which she'd piped the words "40 In Age, 20 In Spirit" - how awesome is that? It was delicious, too.

I'd have to say that all of my wishes came true this summer - I got my swimming pool, my pink toaster and my 'Bumpy Cake' chair - what more could I want? Oh, and my sister and I will be attending the 2011 Women's Conference in September. This is quite a banner year for yours truly, friends.

The night of my birthday even brought me ALL of my favorite TV shows, with the sole exception of "Mad Men". Can you believe we won't see a new season until something like March of 2012? Ugh. But "True Blood" was delicious and "Breaking Bad" kicked ass all over the joint. Me gustan.

Tonight I was able to share my favorite YouTube video with my sister, who'd never seen it. Let's hope it's new to you, too - because it's just that good:

I hope your summer is going as well as mine, friends!

Where All My Ugly People At?

2011-07-14T02:00:00.000-04:00

Nicole and I went down to the salon tonight to get her hair colored. She got some major highlights and is quite the blondie, now! Combined with the fact that she just got her eyebrows shaped by a super-pro, I hate her just a teensy bit. Stupid gorgeous friends with their stupid movie-star eyebrows and stupid perfect hair. Harumph. Don't even get me started on the difference eight years makes on cleavage, gravity-wise. I need some ugly friends, stat.

You might think I am exaggerating for comic effect, but even the young dude working at McDonald's leaned waaaaay the fuck down to get a gander at her in the passenger seat, so I assure you I am not embellishing her current state of hotness. In comparison, I feel decidedly creased and decrepit. I imagine that freight barges feel much the same way when a schooner sails past. I had great fun hollering in the background of her phone call home, though. I may have informed her husband in rather crude terms that he might want to...ahem...get his engines running, given what was going to walk through his front door in a short time. Rendering some of your best friends speechless with hysterical laughter? Awesome!

I have to wonder if it would come as any surprise to men just how gleefully, descriptively, creatively vulgar women can be when in trusted female company. I mean, I know men surely realize that women share far more information with each other than men do with their male friends. And certainly some of the verbally liberated banter comes with age, because after you've lived a certain number of years and experienced a certain number of seminal moments, people tend to do away with any semblance of bashfulness. I, personally, have achieved a crescendo of indecency that I could nary have imagined as my twenty year-old self.

Take anal-bleaching, for example. I'll give you a moment to collect yourself before proceeding.

Yes, anal-bleaching. Ever heard of it? I hadn't either, until a few weeks ago. Evidently, some people are taking concerns about a youthful appearance to a whole 'nother level! The process is designed to lighten the skin around the bunghole (that is the proper medical term, isn't it?) and return the rectum's gate to infant-like freshness. Apparently, it is quite the rage in salons...and I'm not talking about salons in Los Angeles, either. This is mid-Michigan, for crying out loud!

I told Nicole we may have to do it, for the simple reason to be able to laugh about it before, during and afterward. Truthfully, we laughed so much about it that we might have used up our quota already - but like Nicole so aptly observed, "it's like a perverse 'Bucket List' thing to do". I may or may not have suggested that we could hold each other's cheeks while the treatment is administered - I will neither confirm nor deny any allegations.

Apropos of nothing, WHY WON'T MCDONALD'S PUT A WHOLE PIECE OF CHEESE ON THEIR FILET O' FISH SANDWICH? Yes, I'm angry - hence, the caps-lock shouting. After Wendy's snatched away their uber-delicious fish sandwich and the Twisted Frosty from the menu after Easter, I was forced to return to McDonald's for my fast-food fish sandwich needs, and what a bitter disappointment it's been. I'm thinking of running for President of the United States on this platform alone: Force McDonald's to use a full slice of cheese on the Filet O' Fish, and make them pay a fine whenever a customer's slice is more than 20% off-center. I'm thinking I'd win.

I hope your weekend is a creatively obscene one, friends. Try and stay cool, wherever you are!

Happy Birthday, Sunshine!

2011-07-10T21:07:00.000-04:00

Eight years ago today, God graced us with our second child and first daughter, Xanthe. Her name means "golden", and it suits her so very well. She is sunshine and sweetness personified the vast majority of the time. A wonderful friend who creates world-famous digital scrapbook graphics made a gift of a special layout with her newborn picture, and it was even chosen for publication in an uber-popular magazine dedicated to that hobby. Wanna see?

Wasn't she a pretty baby? She's just as lovely today - inside and out. She has been called my mini-me, but I'd have to say that's mostly from an appearance standpoint. That's because Xanthe is far sweeter than I've ever been. She is a sharer, quick to compliment, comfort and forgive. She is thoughtful and wildly creative and nurturing. She laughs easily and often. In short, she is a blessing in the truest sense of the word.

Every year, we tend to do two birthday parties: one for Henry and Lula in December, because their birthdays are a scant five days apart. Due to generally inclement weather, Henry and Lula get to have their party at some manner of fun indoor venue. But because Xanthe's birthday is in the summer, we always host her party in the backyard. She's asked for indoor venue parties before, but when we explain that they're expensive and her birthday is the only one that allows for an outdoor party due to the time of year, she graciously accedes. (And we do allow all of the kids to invite their own friends to both the summer and winter parties, in an effort to be fair.)

Because she's such a great sport about it, I try to make her party something special...and for Xanthe, that special something is CAKE. (Okay, maybe she is like me in more than just appearance.) I poked around online until I found this. I have to tell you, I studied to make this cake like I was taking a final exam. That's the thing about layer cakes - it's not like you can cut into it beforehand to make sure it looks and tastes good. You just have to say your prayers and hope for the best. I wanted it to be a surprise, so all of the baking and assembly was done over the course of several very late nights. Wanna see the results? Here's the cake before it was cut:

And here are a couple of shots during the big reveal. I love the gaping mouth on Xanthe, here:

Birthday girl gets the first slice, of course.

There were smiles all around! Here's a close-up of a slice, minus the bottom purple layer, which had already been swiftly consumed.

Last but not least, I made a chocolate layer cake with gooey chocolate Neoclassic Buttercream Icing:

And, lo and behold, there was just one slice of chocolate cake left after the shindig! Yes, I admit it...I had cake for dinner that night, but in my defense, I only got a taste of cake during the party. Besides, the eggs in cake count as a protein source, right?

I have to say a special thank-you to Kaitlin of Whisk Kid for the amazing rainbow cake idea and the detailed and wonderful instructions on how to make it successfully. I followed her advice faithfully and was rewarded, and the rest of her blog is beyond lovely and delicious, as well. (Is it any surprise she's a Michigan State University student? I think not! Go, Spartans!) Kaitlin, you made my sweet girl's birthday even sweeter. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

"I Would Climb Him Like A Tree."

2011-06-28T23:20:00.001-04:00

Yes, it's true. As some of you may correctly deduce from the title of this post, Nicole and I went to see "Bridesmaids" at the theater on Sunday. It was a riot. I understand the lead actress, Kristen Wiig, specifically wrote a graphic-in-facial-expressions-only love scene with Jon Hamm (Mad Men) just because...well, he's Jon Hamm! I concur, Ms. Wiig. I concur. Thankfully for Mr. Hamm, I don't live anywhere near him, because I couldn't promise that I wouldn't tackle him to the sidewalk and dry-hump him into the human equivalent of Jell-O on a hot summer day. Bit of trivia I just learned: Melissa McCarthy, who plays the fabulous Megan, is married in real life to Ben Falcone, who plays Air Marshall Jon. Delightful if your taste in humor runs to the raunchy, like mine.

I'm on a roll this year! First, the pool. Now, my longed-for pink Dualit graces my counter. And...ahem...I may have started putting out feelers for a Great Dane puppy. Eug got home safe and sound, but during our last Skype call from Australia, I held up Theo's AKC registration close to the web cam and the poor man nearly had a heart attack until he realized that it was an old document. Heh heh heh. Eug soberly informed me that we can't pay retail for Great Dane-sized medical care, and thus I would have to return to my chosen field of work. I may inquire at a clinic very close to my home that impressed me, or perhaps I will see if my beloved longtime clinic needs my assistance again. But I'm going to need a Dane-carrot to move in that direction, fo' sho'.

We have a shiny new Wii in the house tonight because we destroyed our old one (don't ask), and I can hear the melodic strains of Eug playing Zelda in the living room. Funny how losing all your game saves can make you want to dig in to a previously-conquered game. Personally, I can't wait to re-start De Blob and Elebits. Yes, my madcap existence is surely something to envy.

Nicole and I boogied on down to our favorite hair salon today, where she watched me get my awful roots fixed and made plans for some snazzy hair of her own in a few days. We laughed ourselves into minor headaches the whole drive down about all manner of ribaldry, and she told me the funniest story about the "Spree" carnival that our fair city recently held. Apparently, there was a dunk tank occupied by a hideous-looking clown (read: nightmare-inducing) who taunted all passersby with copious insults in an attempt to get them to pony up the dough for a chance to dunk his sarcastic ass. Although *I* certainly wouldn't want to have meandered past the tank that day, I nearly died laughing when she told me how the clown hollered "Hey, KOOL-AAAAIIIIID!" after a rotund man in a red shirt. He followed that up by sing-songing after Nicole's own children "Mommy's little booger-picker!" and, in a nifty bit of coincidence, unknowingly but correctly identified the name of Nicole's better half when he taunted "Diaper Dan! Lookit choo! All grown up and pushin' a stroller!" Freakin' hysterical. It reminded me of the following episode of The George Lopez Show, although I think Nicole's experience might've been funnier:

I hope your week is a happy one, friends! And may you steer clear of any dunk tanks in your immediate vicinity!

Lovely. Just Lovely.

2011-06-21T17:06:00.000-04:00

Gratitude

2011-06-19T14:55:00.006-04:00

I just read about a local robbery and the three suspects in custody. Apparently, they robbed a pharmacy in a red Oldsmobile Alero. While I am not advocating breaking the law in any way, I do think that if they'd chosen a getaway car of which more than, say, fifty had been manufactured, they might've stood a chance of getting away with it. I can't even think of a vehicle that would stick out more than a red Alero, except maybe a pink Pontiac Aztek or a teal DeLorean with an underbody glow. Drugs really do make you stupid. (Note: I would drive a pink Pontiac Aztek In. A. Heartbeat. ETA: Or a teal DeLorean with an underbody glow, for that matter.)

I ran the gauntlet of this weekend with some measure of grace, although now that it is over, I am utterly exhausted. My hands, in particular, are aching considerably. I made a tutu for a birthday gift this weekend, and within one scant minute of stitching the waistband together, my hands went completely numb. Not a good sign. I'll bet there must be some type of rehab glove that you can keep in the freezer - I should search for that in order to take down some of the swelling.

This week I had many opportunities to sit ringside at the show of Typical Female Behavior. Lest you think I exclude myself from any of the quirks and missteps I am about to describe, allow me to say that I have seen and continue to see myself in all of them - although thankfully not to the degree I once was. It was a disheartening show, to say the least.

The women in question ranged in age from pre-teen to later middle age, and come from all walks of life. I saw them engage in gleefully malicious gossip, relentless complaining, endless repetition of things that had already been said and heard by their audience, and a mule-like unwillingness to give an inch - even when they reluctantly agreed that to do so would almost certainly improve their situation immeasurably. I watched as women refused to speak the truth lovingly - either they spoke the truth with no compassion for the intended recipient, or they parroted falsehoods and misrepresentations of what the other wanted to hear, as opposed to what they needed to hear. It made me indescribably sad. It also made me appreciate men - good men - in a way I'd never approached before.

It reminded me of an e-mail Nicole forwarded to me way back in 2005 - one that I have saved all these years and return to quite often. Here it is:

I am thankful :

For the wife who says "It's hot dogs tonight" because she is home with me and not out with someone else.
For the husband who is on the sofa being a couch potato, because he is home with me and not out at the bars.
For the teenager who is complaining about doing dishes, because it means he is at home and not on the streets.
For the taxes I pay because it means I am employed.
For the mess to clean after a party because it means I have been surrounded by friends.
For the clothes that fit a little too snug because it means I have enough to eat.
For my shadow that watches me work because it means that I am out in the sunshine.
For a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing, because it means I have a home.
For all the complaining I hear about the government because it means we have freedom of speech.
For the parking spot I find at the far end of the parking lot because it means I am capable of walking and I have been blessed with transportation.
For my huge heating bill because it means I am warm.
For the lady behind me in church who sings off-key because it means I can hear.
For the pile of laundry and ironing because it means I have clothes to wear.
For the weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day because it means I have been capable of working hard.
For the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours because it means I am alive.
And finally, for too much e-mail because it means I have friends who are thinking of me.

I hope this week brings all of you many moments of thankfulness and peace, friends.

Think Pink

2011-06-14T21:16:00.000-04:00

This evening is lovely. It's not even dusk, yet - although the sun is definintely setting. The peaceful sounds of the outdoors are wafting in on a cool breeze from the open window next to my desk. Aaahhh.

I took the kids to our favorite *genuine* slider joint for dinner (Let's hear it for hand-cut onions!), followed by a brief foray into both the dollar store and the card shop right next door. I'm still not sure how this happened, but while I managed to put my foot down in the dollar store and issue a stern moratorium on stuffed animals...somehow when we wandered next door to the swanky card shop, I found myself shelling out for a Beanie Baby for all three kidlets. I think I succeeded in the dollar store because those uber-cheap stuffed toys gross me out with their God-only-knows-what stuffing. However, I failed in the card shop because those stuffed toys are SO FRIGGIN' CUTE. Ya win some, ya lose some.

I'm hosting Bunco this Thursday, so tonight I'm going to make my last-minute 'To Do' lists. I need to poke around online for a good, spiked punch to serve as well as a tasty appetizer. The next day, I'll pick up the kidlets from my sister's house and take my niece and her friend to pick out which shade of Manic Panic they want me to dye a portion of their hair. In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you that the girls are only approaching their thirteenth birthday! I insisted on speaking directly with the mama of my niece's friend to ensure that she understood exactly what the product was and what may or may not happen when we apply it. The girls have healthy, untouched hair, so I doubt the product will leave much of a deposit on their hair, but you never know. Now I just need to resist the urge to smear this all over my head. If it goes well for the girls, maybe I will pick up a jar and have my hairstylist paint my grown-out bangs with it. Hell, it's summer, right? Might as well enjoy it!

Speaking of pink, I have yet another tutu to make. The last one we gave as a gift for a little one's birthday was a huge hit, and my dear friend quietly requested one for her own little sweetheart. We're going to enjoy a party on a private lake this weekend in celebration of this dear little one's fifth birthday, and I can't wait! Although if I am going to make tutus en masse, I should really invest in a cutting mat and rotary cutter.

I'm a scant few moments away from seeing if I won my birthday present via eBay auction...my long-desired four-slice pink Dualit toaster! I'll tuck it away and pretend to be surprised, should I be lucky enough to win it. (ETA: I won! Got that sucker for half the retail price!) The cats are going apeshit right now and cracking me up - Andy and Murray have this ridiculous trilling sound they make when they are being wild. And Murray's foot fetish is growing like the proverbial weed: the cat stalks me until I go to bed, whereupon he hops onto my feet and stomps all over my legs and bites my big toe through the covers. Even the pets Chez Nous are weirdos!

Well, I'd better get it moving, now. I hope the week is going well for all of you and that the weather is just as lovely wherever you are.

Land Of Plenty

2011-06-09T23:38:00.000-04:00

Except sleep, that is. I haven't been getting much sleep, and I can literally feel the tired ache in my bones. It's really not for any good reason - when left to my own devices, I am an unrepentant night owl. I've been averaging about 3.5 hours a night for the last five days or so, and it's caught up with me.

Which is not to say that I haven't accomplished anything during my late night prowling hours. For example, I snuck out into the still-hot air at 2:30am last night and went swimming in the blackness. The winds had picked up mightily and the huge oaks along the back property line were practically dancing from the force. I watched lightning flash in the far distance as I backstroked my way down the pool, and the water was every bit as super-heated as the air temperature. Such a change from the cold air of tonight!

I enjoyed the company of two wonderful friends today, Nicole and Tracey. Nicole and I love to try to muscle each other out of one another's kitchen, in an attempt to make the other person sit down and relax. I had to pick up the barbeque tongs and goose her to make her stop washing my dishes, but I guess she probably just enjoyed it. (One of the many, many reasons to love her.) We had happy conversation all day long and noshed on all kinds of tasty food, right up until we all had to part ways to catch the arrival of the school bus in the late afternoon. It was fantastic.

I've also been busy planning Xanthe's birthday party in July. For me, the planning of an event always starts with a seed of sorts, and in this case I knew it had to be the cake. To that end, I will be making this bit of fabulousness. My favorite part is that our guests will have no idea what lurks beneath all that gorgeous Swiss meringue buttercream until the cake is cut. I also intend to keep it a secret from Xanthe herself! I'm guessing I will have to make two cakes, due to the fact that we always like to include family and the other kids' friends. I'm tempted to buy another giant cooler so I can keep everything completely hidden while I construct all the layers. Beyond the cake, though, the party will be a straightforward backyard cookout and pool party.

Eug leaves for China and Australia on Monday, and I'm already wistful about him being gone for the rest of the month. Thankfully, I have a full dance card of friends to keep us occupied. I will be leaning heavily on my co-family (Team Sneacyk!) for their amazing companionship, I'm sure. Also, my beloved friend Maria is traveling up from Texas and is making special plans to spend time with us, and I think I might be able to lure Auntie Tracy and the kids to come down and stay with us for a few DAYS! I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch, but I will say that I am giddy at my prospects.

I hope the weekend brings you plentiful relaxation and contentment, friends.

I Do!

2011-06-06T05:12:00.000-04:00

I should be asleep, because our electrician is coming first thing in the morning. Hell, I should be asleep...just because. But the idea of having a 'real' wedding when we finally get around to having our marriage blessed in the Catholic Church has been rattling around in my cranium for some time, now. After our 16th anniversary on Friday, I got the bug to begin planning and budgeting an honest-to-goodness blowout for our 20th anniversary. That certainly gives me enough time to sock away some extra sponduli, doesn't it?

Of course I started where every woman starts when planning a wedding: the dress. I don't envision myself in something a young woman would wear for her first wedding, nor do I like the idea of dragging a train with me everywhere. I bumbled around a bit online and - ta da!

Oh, be still my beating heart! Retro lace with a full skirt and a swanky pink bow that isn't anything like a sash on a little girl's dress! I have no idea who created this lovely, but I am hot on its trail. In my mind's eye, I'm already at Haberman's poring over imported lace.

When Eug and I were first married, we did things very, very simply. His tie cost more than my wedding dress (a simple linen dress I got for under $60) and I happily frosted my own wedding cake (that my mom baked) while I sat in curlers at my mother-in-law's kitchen table. I didn't choose the flowers for my bouquet until the morning of the ceremony, and when I got to the flower shop and saw that the pink-tipped ivory roses I loved were being purchased by another customer, she graciously abandoned her purchase so I could have them, instead. We didn't have a photographer, and we were married on the deck of my in-laws' beautiful home. Then we went to our favorite restaurant for dinner (Too Chez, sadly closed since) and back to my in-laws' for cake. If you include Eug and myself, there was a grand total of 18 people at our wedding.

I don't regret it one little bit, because I was too young and short-tempered to plan a 'real' wedding, and I knew it. I also knew that if I wandered into a bridal boutique and fell in love with the $5,000 dress, I'd damned well buy it. Thankfully, I had just enough sense to avoid that bear trap altogether. Instead, I poured all my money into my engagement ring...and let me tell you, I have NEVER regretted that decision for one nanosecond.

This time, however, I want a true shindig. I want a gorgeous little ceremony, and I want my handsome son to walk me down the aisle. I want my little girls to be my bridesmaids, with proper, lovely bouquets for all of us. I want all of the people I love - kids and grandparents and friends and not-oft-seen relatives, too. I would especially love it if I could have both my current and former priests there. I want to rent a vintage pink Thunderbird that will take us to the reception hall.

Then I want us to hightail it over to a simple hall, so we can have an open bar, endless hors d'ouerves and a jy-norr-muss dessert table. I want a mini-cake for Eug and I to cut, and I want it to be ridiculous. I want to dance and drink and hug everyone I can get my hands on, too. I want great music all night long, and I want both a videographer and a team of photographers there to capture every freakin' minute.

Afterwards, I want to fly somewhere for a second honeymoon. With the kids? Without? I don't know.

OK, must sleep, now. Ambien dreams of swingy dresses await...

World. Hell. Handbasket.

2011-06-03T10:00:00.000-04:00

Good heavens, what a clusterfuck the Italians have made of the Meredith Kercher murder case. I don't think I've seen such utter incompetence in an investigation since the murder of JonBenét Ramsey, but at least in that case a judge didn't railroad the Ramseys into prison, refusing all the while to have an independent lab review and retest anything used as DNA evidence during the trial. The Italian police look like quite the lot of moustache-twirling muttonheads right now, and I pray that both Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito are released in the immediate future. Judge Paolo Micheli and Prosecutor Giuliano Mignini should be taken to the nearest public square and flogged thoroughly once a week for the rest of their lives, too. There is simply no excuse for any police department in a developed nation not to have complete video recordings of each and every interrogation they conduct. Almost as disgusting are the British tabloids - I thought American tabloids were terrible, but ours look like a child's 'Dick and Jane' book compared with theirs! Very sad stuff.

Speaking of people who genuinely need a public flogging, Patti LaBelle and her team of thugs deserve that, plus JAIL TIME. Read the afore-linked story and be sure to watch the video. That's the blood of Richard King on the ground just inches from where LaBelle stands posing with a Houston police officer! Given the fact that the young Mr. King isn't a 'nobody', either, I hope he cleans the floor with Fat Patti and her thugs, legally speaking.

I guess I'm in a pissy mood. Am I the only one driving around with less than 1/8 of a tank of gas? I was going to fill up yesterday, but gas prices were higher than I have ever seen them. Yes, it was a lifetime record high for the price of a gallon of gas at the corner store. I simply could not bring myself to buy even one gallon of gas at that price.

Unemployment rates are higher than ever in the United States, and certainly here in Michigan things haven't looked good for a long, long time. So why am I still amazed to hear other people who display no understanding that buying American products made by American-owned companies is in the long-term best interest of every American, including themselves? Is your shitty little Hyundai going to be worth it when you can't find a job to save your skin five years from now, darling? And I am *hardly* pro-union...but I am pro-common sense. If I ever hear any poor son-of-a-bitch who drives a foreign car complaining about the economic state of affairs here in Michigan, I will happily rip him or her a brand new asshole.

In happier news, the steady approach of glorious summer continues its march. We have a big party to attend tomorrow, which is always delightful. I am also champing at the bit for the release of the Coen brothers' remake of True Grit, but not before I finish the book. (Working on it, now.) I also have the hardcover releases of both Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham in the next six weeks, and nothing thrills me more than a new tome from Ann Coulter. I had to laugh at a friend's remark the other day. I'm on the mailing list for Daedelus Books (a purveyor of deeply discounted books and discs), and their catalogs are always full of hideously liberal crap. When I wondered aloud why there were never any items for the conservative inside, said friend replied, "That's because conservative books actually SELL. Because conservatives actually read books." I'll admit I laughed for a long time over that one.

Today marks sixteen wonderful years of marriage to my better half, for the record. Any ideas on where we should all go for dinner? I'm thinking Buca. Suggestions are welcome!

I hope your weekend is a happy and healthy one, friends.

June Bug

2011-05-31T23:32:00.000-04:00

I'm having a late dinner - a bologna sandwich (on white bread with mustard, natch), a banana and a big glass of skim milk. I know, I know - I won't be asked to guest judge on "Top Chef" any time soon. So sue me. At the end of the day, I'm a simple creature.

The reason I'm having a late dinner is due to the fact that I was swimming until after 9:30 tonight. I've long suspected that swimming regularly would be my super-duper anti-depressant, and it turns out that I was right. The water temperature had jumped enormously today, so it was truly like bathwater. I am so, so relaxed.

Being able to tap into this state of relaxation so readily is such a gift, because life continues to roll on with its laundry list of bullshit. Today Henry came home to tell me that his sister had been harangued on the school bus ride home by another child. I took care of the problem, and it's certainly not the end of the world. In fact, because of little things like this, our family grows closer - Henry feels good about his role in protecting his sister, and Xanthe feels loved and cherished by both of us. But dealing with it did give me a brief but stabbing pain over my left eye - one that disappeared the moment I got into the water.

This week is bound to be a slow but happy one, full of mundane chores like washing windows and spreading dirt. I'm hoping June brings many, many visits from our loved ones - we had our co-family over yesterday and it made me feel so at peace and grateful for everything we have. We introduced the kids to the joys of grilled hot dogs with cheese in them and baked brownies and basked in the sunshine and each others' company. It was beyond wonderful.

Aah, June. It's so great to see you, my friend.

I Can't Say Anything Nice.

2011-05-29T00:07:00.000-04:00

Not tonight, at any rate. So I'm playing with my farting keychain in the hopes that my humor improves. After pressing the buttons for "Ripper", "Juicy" and "Nervous", I'm already experiencing a significant improvement in my disposition.

I'm making mental preparations for the onslaught of summer. I like to get the kidlets a small something at the end of the school year, and so far I've only managed to check Lula off my list with a t-shirt in which Snoopy hugs the wearer with arms that encircle front and back, as well as this utterly darling book, Hooray for Amanda and Her Alligator! by Mo Willems. I can't recall the last time a children's book charmed me so - it's one I'll keep even after my own children have outgrown it, in fact. Of course, Xanthe got a matching Snoopy t-shirt...because who wouldn't want a hug from Snoopy? I'm going to rely on my better half for a good idea for Henry, though. He's at that funny age where toys just don't 'do' it any longer.

Speaking of which, I'm afraid the t-shirts will just re-ignite my desire to collect all things Charles Schultz, including several biographies and various compendiums of the Peanuts strips over the years. As if I don't have enough books! In addition to being a book tramp, I am hopelessly addicted to silly little computer games through Big Fish Games, especially given the fact that I can get 12% cash back by going through ebates. Again, people - if you shop online and you're not using ebates, you are a damned fool. Although I did forget to log on through them last night when I bought myself a snazzy new swimsuit from every mom's favorite source, Lands End. Curse my enfeebled, senile brain!

I am pondering the wisdom of staying up late to watch the first gruesome movie that crosses my path. I finished "The Snowman" and enjoyed it tremendously. It reminded me a lot of Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith. I also highly recommend How To Live On 24 Hours A Day by Arnold Bennett, which is a FREE download for all you Kindle owners out there. Delightful stuff.

OK, that's all for now. I guess I was able to muster up something pleasant, after all. May your holiday weekend be a happy one, and one that includes prayers and thanksgiving for all the soldiers who've made our great nation what it is.

Water and Snow

2011-05-26T00:41:00.000-04:00

Last night we went swimming for the first time, and it was better than...ahem...many things I could mention. Yes, it's true - it was better than a giant bowl of my mother-in-law's trifle. Suffice it to say that it felt indescribably good.

Was it cold? Yup. Fifty-five degrees, actually. It didn't stop any of us from getting into the pool all the way, though. I swam and dove and stretched and floated for almost half an hour. I sculled the length of the pool with just my arms several times and felt all of my upper body muscles happily groan when I went to bed. Eug is almost vibrating in anticipation of the weekend, when the outrageous thunderstorms that plagued us today will have passed through.

With as many things that are coming to pass during the next few weeks, you might reasonably assume that I would be trying hard to eliminate unnecessary tasks. Sadly, you would be wrong. I am determined to do all *sorts* of cleaning, inside and out. I'm also planning to begin a massive garage sale set-up, given the adds-up-quickly laundry list of expenditures that accompanies a big homestead change...like $173 for rocks to go around the base of the pool. And $175 for a cat tree, because suddenly you realize that you need something, ANYTHING that might remove even one freakin' cat from underneath your feet.

Thankfully, there is a veritable shitload of stuff that should bring in some extra sponduli. I expect that my 'hillbilly' pool of last year will bring a cool $100 all by itself, given that it's in pristine condition and the same pool goes for over $400 now. (I'm throwing in a bunch of new filters, too.) The kids' clothing piles to sell are massive and like-new, because - let's face it - I'm a "More Is Better" kind of gal. Some people with growing kids are going to be insanely happy when they show up that first day: it happens every year. The first year I began to sell off the kidlets' wardrobes, I had a lovely pregnant woman emit small shrieks of delight for the better part of two hours as she amassed her shopping pile from my stash. Honestly, I feared she might go into labor right there if her excitement continued to rise. I brought her a comfy chair and a cold bottle of water and a footstool. It was really charming, and she didn't even mind when I asked to rub her belly. At that point, I think she would've agreed to let me be in the delivery room if I told her she couldn't have my stuff, otherwise.

I told Eug that we also need to make an IKEA run for another bookcase. His response? "If you get it, you're just going to pack it full." But isn't that the point?

OK, so most normal people don't take it to my extremes. But he knew loooooonnnnng before he married me what a book whore I am, and he went ahead with it, anyway. I pretended to 'hide' my latest acquisition under some extra lifejackets we bought at Costco tonight: it's The Snowman by Jo Nesbo. He smiled bemusedly and shook his head.

That's all for now, friends. I still have to crank out a handmade tutu as a birthday present for a party Lula will attend tomorrow. Unless The Snowman gets me, first.

Bad Touch, Good Touch

2011-05-23T22:22:00.000-04:00

My timing was good today. Those of you who know me well know that I rarely use or look at my cell phone. In fact, I'm feeling good if it's halfway charged. In an attempt to ensure that my phone was halfway charged, I dug it out of my snazzy Tokidoki Mondrian tote just in time to discover...a text message. A text that put a smile on my face despite the downpour:

"Want to get a pedicure while the kids are in school?"

Hells, yeah! My lovely friend followed me from preschool to my pedicure place of choice - a term that should be applied loosely, since it's been more than a year since I have hired out the maintenance of my feet. We chose shades and parked ourselves in the massage chairs, whereupon my lovely friend could not stop laughing over the simple fact that the massage chairs seemed to be...molesting us. Ever so slightly.

See, I knew the chairs had this hip squeeze-thing, which is a kind of hydraulic air bag-like pressure system. It poots out air at regular intervals in loud sighs, which is also highly amusing to juvenile sensibilities such as mine. But either the chairs had been re-calibrated since my last visit or my memory is worse than I thought, because there was definitely some sort of rump roast roller action going on below! Hey, now!

Also, do I have to pay extra for this?

A little more than an hour later, we emerged with snazzy toes and a serious case of the giggles. Speaking of molestation, I was mildly embarrassed to learn that the actor Alexander Skarsgard is five full years younger than me. The reason this is a problem is that now I feel even more like a perverted old hen watching "True Blood". Normally, I like to be the only blonde in a relationship (real or imagined) but for every rule there is an exception...and what an exception he is! Woof!

Ahem. Sorry about that, honey. :)

Jasper is almost completely acclimated to our chaotic household and his feline bretheren, but Murray has decided to totally fuck with me this week by stealing ribbon from my craft workspace and dragging it all over the house. He also broke the video camera by knocking it off a high shelf with his gymnastics this week. Could he be having baby of the family displacement issues? Snork!

I have to put physical therapy on hiatus until fall, in favor of pool workouts. To this end, I went to town on instructional swimming materials this week. There's nothing like watching DVDs of incredible swim instructors to make you realize what a crappy swimmer you really are. My swimmer's self-image has gone from semi-graceful fish to poster girl for "How To Detect Drowning" in mere minutes.

I hope your Monday was tolerable, friends. Now, let's see how many requests I get for the name of that nail salon...

Suddenly I Have The Urge To Pop Some Popcorn...

2011-05-22T19:10:00.001-04:00

This image thoroughly delighted me, for obvious reasons:

I look forward to learning more about Mr. Cain in the upcoming weeks, although I would fall over dead with delight to hear names like Allen West and Duncan Hunter rise to the surface, too. I'm also delighted to see Stephen Colbert get his ass handed to him on a platter. All this, plus an enormous swimming pool this week? At this rate, I'm going to need facial reconstructive surgery from all this grinning!

ETA: I forgot to add my favorite smackdown of the month! The Rebuke In Dubuque! Enjoy!

Zombie Me

2011-05-20T01:42:00.001-04:00

I've been startlingly efficient these past few days. And, no, I don't have a 'guest blogger'. It's really me, and yes, I've been efficient. I'll give you a moment to shake off your disbelief.

Better? OK, then.

The digging for the swimming pool has commenced, and in a fit of enthusiasm, I just placed a massive order for swim-related instructional materials of all manner. (I am definitely Amazon's bitch.) I'm about to sign both Eug and I up for the big, honkin' CPR course from the Red Cross, too - just need to make sure that I choose the right one before I plunk down the sponduli. I have completed every errand on my giant list, caught up on every last laundry item, applied for and acquired permits, calculated water volume and done cost comparisons to fill the pool, completed physical therapy sessions and a follow-up with my orthopedic surgeon, gotten my hair colored (it's gorgeous), spent quality time with many loved ones, taken over the volunteer shift of a new friend for whom the shift would've prevented her from being there when her mama - who hasn't been able to make the trip from her homeland in Syria for a long time - gets off the plane, rid our rescued kitty cat of parasites and acclimated him to the friendly feline crew we have here.

In short, I feel good. Even when my knee does not. That's kind of awesome.

Apropos of nothing, I am thoroughly tickled by the following item, which was posted to Failbook recently:

I have been laughing on and off over this for DAYS, now. I sincerely hope one of my kids does something exactly like this when I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Tomorrow brings little Lula's preschool 'graduation', which apparently leaves nary a dry eye in the house each and every year. I plan to go armed with waterproof makeup and plentiful tissue, because sentimental ol' me will start sniffling before the damned show even gets going, I'm sure. After that, I have a very important date with a large glass of Bailey's on ice.

I hope the weekend finds all of you well and happy!

Armed And Dangerous

2011-05-16T13:28:00.000-04:00

I have to bitch for a moment (disguised as a question). Why, exactly, do car salesmen want to know what you'd like to pay per month for your car? HOW ABOUT YOU JUST FUCKING TELL ME WHAT YOUR BEST PRICE ON THE CAR IS AND I'LL DO THE MATH? I don't feel like sharing that information, quite frankly. It's not as if I wandered in one day and asked some vague question about 'getting a car within my budget'. Nay, nay! I called and asked what the employee price is for a very specific make and model of vehicle, and wondered what they had on the lot at the moment with the least expensive options. I didn't ask you anything about leasing versus buying, I just wanted to know what the vehicle price was. Why are you still asking me what I'd like my monthly payment to be, you asshole? Do you think I don't know that you'd like to steer me to the maximum amount? Fuckin' A.

OK, whew. I feel slightly better, now. We were in a sporting goods store yesterday, picking up various and sundry for the new pool. Eug wanted some high quality goggles, and once I saw them, I wanted some, too. He also picked up a cap with a giant sunflap on the back in an attempt to stave off skin cancer consuming parts of his ears and/or neck in old age. I can't decide if he looks more like a hillbilly or a terrorist wearing it, but regardless I am substantially relieved because that poor man has gotten too many riding-mower-sunburns for my liking, already. We also picked up fancy life jackets for the kids and I have to confess that I swooned a bit at the price for half a nanosecond before I slapped some sense into myself. Therefore, I humbly withdraw my bid for Mom of the Week.

We also browsed the air rifles and BB guns with something approaching salaciousness. Henry was vibrating at a high frequency even as we approached that section, and after some consideration, we're going to investigate 'starter guns' for the lad. Hee hee hee! Starter guns! I have been thinking about taking classes at the local range for a long time (I would like a large handgun for myself), so maybe I'll see if they teach kids to use age-appropriate rifles.

It'll be interesting to see what my pops (retired cop) has to say about this endeavor. He's gotten a bit mushy in his old age, even though I can show you pictures of my brother operating heavy-duty farm equipment when he's still small enough that he's got to slide off the seat to press the necessary pedals. I couldn't even begin to guess how young I was when I was allowed to handle BB guns and the like. This reminds me of a joke one of the warm-up comedians told at the John Pinette show (I think it was Gary George) - he complained that he'd asked his neighbor's son if he wanted to earn some money by mowing his lawn. The response was "My parents say I'm too young to operate a lawn mower." The comedian's response? "Kid, you're twelve. If you were in Libya, you'd be a general in the army by now." Amen, brother.

This may horrify some of you, but nothing would make me happier than to have my son obliterate the rabbit population on our property, and Eug flat out told him there's a twenty in it for him for every chipmunk he toasts. Chipmunks have caused significant property damage in the last year, and I am so very, very tired of stepping in rabbit shit and twisting my ankles in rabbit holes. (Before you say anything about it, Great Dane poop is no problem whatsoever. Great Dane piles practically wave and say "Howdy!" on approach, as opposed to those tiny little poop balls. I'm not a fan of happy surprises, much less ones rooted in excrement.) So, be horrified if you must, but I gots my reasons. And if it makes him a better marksman, so much the better.

The new cat has a new name, by the way - he's Jasper. We joked about spelling it Jaspurr just to be obnoxious. We also considered Manuel and Pedro, just because I speak fluent Spanish and those names cracked me up when applied to a cat. He's in the shop right now for a full-body tune-up, but he'll be home for good on Tuesday. I now have more cat that I ever dreamed possible, even when I was an eight year old girl, for crying out loud. Needless to say, I heard my vacuum sigh out loud when it realized Jasper was staying.

That's all for now, friends. I am going to be busting my ass to get house-related work done before my better half leaves for most of June (destination China, followed by Australia). I am also going to be busting his ass, just a wee bit, too. (Love you, honey.) I expect this place will be lookin' mighty fine, real soon.

I hope your week finds you warmer than the unseasonably cool weather here!

I Love...

2011-05-12T09:15:00.000-04:00

I had a song stuck in my head this week - except that I could barely remember it. I didn't have even two concrete words of the lyrics on which to search, but I poked around on Google in an attempt to identify this bit of childhood happiness. Turns out the song is "I Love" by Tom T. Hall - you can listen to a snippet here. If you've never heard the song, at least Google it for the lyrics, as they are nothing short of charming. The kids and I have been enjoying it all week, along with a few more of Mr. Hall's classics.

Know what else I love? Everything about this. Doug Powers is such a fantastic writer, and the fact that he's a Michigander, too, is extra sweet. I always love his posts on Michelle Malkin's site, but that one really had me chortling. When I'd followed all the hyperlinks and watched the video, my chortling had morphed into seizure-like laughter. I think I could actually smell that hippie through my screen. Gurk. Bravo to the young people who showed up and spoke up to exercise their First Amendment rights - it gives me hope for future generations.

The posts may be sporadic for a bit, because I'm on my own this week and I've got permits to pay for, electricians to hire, swimming pool specs to firm up and all that. I know, I know: Poor Michelle! OK, I'm kidding.

I hope your week and the upcoming weekend are a wonderful one for all of you!

Juvenile.

2011-05-02T00:33:00.002-04:00

Soooooo.

I survived the kids' First Holy Communion, even though I waited until the very last minute to start their felt banners that were to decorate the end of every pew and serve as a 'pew holder' to let people know which families were sitting where. My OCD kicked in fully and I slaved over them from 4pm until 5am the next morning. My niece made sure to inform me that mine were "the best ones there...BY FAR", at which point I had to respond "That's because your aunt is crazy, sweetie. But thank you." To my credit, at least I sketched the full design of each banner the night before last. Do I get any 'plan ahead' credit for that? No? Ah, well.

The bulk of the time I worked was spent stitching the words "I am a child of God. I am never alone." by hand on a section of both of the kidlets' banners. BUT! My kids were genuinely awed by what I had made for them and when they are finished displaying them in the church, I'm guessing they will want to hang them up in their rooms. Mom points for me!

Is it just my imagination or is it likely a fact that when one is least equipped to responsibly indulge oneself, an onslaught of temptations is guaranteed to follow? My beloved Tokidoki has a suuuuper sweet bag that I'm dying to get my paws on. (I'm not even going to mention which one, because I am superstitious about stuff like that, and I want it so much that my molars hurt just thinking about it. Can you tell I haven't had much sleep this week?) I have also fallen hopelessly in love with a shiny bauble of a necklace made by Patricia Locke. I wish I could find a picture of it online, or even one *sort* of like it, but I can't and that's weird. A lot of her other stuff falls anywhere on the "meh" to the "yeah-that's-lovely" scale, but this one piece has me frothing at the mouth. But it's $144, and that's not chump change. (Note to better half: The kind saleslady at Von Maur wrote down both the style and the UPC. It's on a sticky note in front of my computer. Because maybe you want to shop for milestone birthdays early?)

Our pool will be installed some time this month. Ergo, unnecessary spending is not merely wrong, it's downright nefarious. So I'm going to try to rein in the crazy. I dreamt the other night of swimming after dark in mid-August in an utterly black pool, deprived of enough sensory input to focus only on the feel and sound of the water. I get a big wave of goosebumps just thinking about it. I have wanted a pool desperately since I was old enough to splash in the tub, and there were more than a few days that the only thing that kept me going at my previous high-paying-but-very-stressful job were the pictures of swimming pools that I stuck up in a corner. I could look at them for two minutes and feel my blood pressure drop ten points, I swear. So, fulfillment of a lifelong dream? Pretty fucking intoxicating, even if I do have to spend hours learning about chemistry and filtration systems and algae growth.

Physical therapy is tomorrow. Last Monday's session was so bad that, for the first time, I canceled my Wednesday appointment because I was so miserable on Tuesday. If misery means progress, I'll deal with it, but my surgeon better ante up some comfort meds, then. No matter what, though, there's going to be a lot of snooze time pour moi this week.

Last thing: Oftentimes, my son gets both pensive and inquisitive when he's tucked in and awaiting my affectionate 'goodnight'. Both of the kids had received a rosary from us as a gift today. While I wasn't surprised to answer copious questions about something that looks an awful lot like jewelry from my daughter, I had figured my son - who is both too cool for many things at the ripe old age of 9.5 and inordinately ticked whenever he's forced to wear dress clothes for any length of time - would show little to no interest. Not so.

What followed between us was a long, long conversation so tender, heartfelt and organic that I would sooner have died than to say, "Hey - it is now WAY past your bedtime. We can talk about this tomorrow." The reasons parenthood is difficult are obvious to anyone with two neurons to rub together. The reasons parenthood is sublime are far too ethereal and individual to ever properly describe. I am so grateful.

I hope the month of May brings all of you abundant warmth and joy.

Shitty Day

2011-04-30T16:33:00.000-04:00

I'm under big stress right now (so no 'real' posts for a while) but I wanted to make a note of a small but wonderful marital exchange that happened today. The only background information you really need is that tobacco and I parted ways back in January after a torrid, torrid love affair of many years.

Me: All I want to do right now is be somewhere alone with you, smoking cigarettes.

Eug: (Laughs) That would be awesome.

Later...

Eug: Babe, I have to stop and get gas. Did you...want me to get anything else while I'm there?

Me: (Big sigh) No, no. If I did, I'd just be right back where I started before the week was out.

Eug: OK, I'm going to take off with the kids, now.

Insert a short pause here, after which I run after Eug.

Me: Honey?

Eug: Yeah?

Me: I just want you to know that when I'm an old lady, all bets on the aforementioned subject are TOTALLY OFF.

Eug: Right back atcha, hon.

Sharing a vice? Is twice as nice.

Just Popping In...

2011-04-26T10:58:00.000-04:00

I ran a gauntlet of approximately 1,000 things today and have already dropped $243 on a cat I met less than 48 hours ago. We've named him Chauncey (Eug vetoed Schnoodles, much to my dismay). We still hope to find him a home elsewhere, because three cats? That's a lot of cat. It's also highly inconvenient when the cat in question possesses a large quantity of the one remaining cat fur color (white) that you don't already have in abundance, thereby ensuring that you will never wear anything fuzz-free.

Today's blog challenge is about a favorite vacation. Easy: water parks. Anything that combines rides *and* water is tops on my list.

Apropos of nothing? I can't get The Avant-Garde's one hit wonder "Naturally Stoned" (featuring a young Chuck Woolery on vocals!) out of my head.

Happy Easter!

2011-04-24T10:49:00.001-04:00

Sorry about missing yesterday's Blog Challenge, but I've got a good reason. Days 21 and 22 are, respectively, a picture of yourself and your favorite city. I think y'all have seen enough of my mug in recent posts and my favorite city is the one in which I live. So, let's get to my story...

Yesterday we celebrated Easter with my family at my parents' house in the country. We had a great time and stayed until well past 9pm. We walked out into the open garage to get into our waiting car on the driveway, and I saw something run out from the corner of my eye. '"What the heck was that?" I said. Eug, whose senses and brain operate far more quickly and functionally than mine ever will, replied "That...was a cat."

I went out slowly, calling the universal "kittykittykitty...here, kittykittykitty". The cat came close, followed by immediate retreat, followed by coming close again. This went on for the better part of five minutes, all the while my mother was fretting and saying, "Michelle! We do NOT want a cat skulking around here! Stop encouraging it!" Thankfully, I never listen to my mother. (Just kidding, mama.)

Finally, I was able to pick up the little cat and ascertain that he was, in fact, a he. Young, too - by my guess, anyway. I'm thinking 6-8 months old. I loved on him for a while and held him close, and his purr motor was up and running immediately. From what little I could see under the point lights in the darkness, his ears and eyes looked pretty good, too.

Eug, God bless him, is waiting patiently in the car with a bemused smile on his face. If the little guy squirmed, I'd set him down gently at my feet. But he never walked away. He had no collar, and while I will still have him scanned for a microchip, I kind of doubt he has one because I massaged his bony shoulders pretty well in search of a telltale nodule. Eventually, the cat hopped into the car to say hello to everyone else. He rode the whole way home never budging from my lap, with his face firmly buried in the crook of my arm.

We set him up in the garage until we can have him tested for things like FIP or FIV, which could be dangerous for our three inside cats. He ate like he'd never seen a meal before, plowing through one whole can of cat food plus a large bowl of dry kibble. As Eug and I observed, he's got a bit of a derp look to him - his little eyes are too close together and his inner eyelids are pretty prominent, and we always crack up just looking at his sweet face. He also has the fur of a bunny/chinchilla love child and a seriously lovey personality. Eug says he can't wait to "kick the cat tires" (meaning, make sure he checks out at the clinic) and get him out of the garage.

I'm going to give him the works - vaccines, bloodwork, neutering, everything...and then we're going to try to find him a great new home. Our beloved Andy was a came-out-of-the-woods kitten, and if someone hadn't scooped him up and brought him back to our clinic, we wouldn't have him. So I figured I owed a karmic debt to the world and that this little guy had come to collect. If you know anyone in the SE Michigan area who is looking for a kitten-cat with a one-in-a-million personality, drop me a line. I'll snap a picture of him later, but I have to go get ready for Mass.

In the meantime, name suggestions? He's going to need one for his file at the clinic.

Sobriquets

2011-04-22T13:23:00.001-04:00

Day 20 of the Blog Challenge is all about nicknames.

We are gleeful users of nicknames in this house, and it's not uncommon for any family member (with or without fur) to have eight or more nicknames in regular rotation.

Mine include (but are not limited to):

my maiden surname (which I'd prefer not to share for privacy reasons)
Yoshi
Missy
Missila
Trouble
the ubiquitous "Hon"
Nini (pronounced nee-nee - given to me by my eldest nephew when he was a baby and now the name of choice for all my nieces and nephews)

There are others, some of which have gone the way of the dinosaur, and others that I simply don't wish to share. Oddly enough, I have never been known as "Shelly". My sister loathed that nickname and refused to allow anyone to refer to me by it, from even before I was born. I don't have anything against it, myself - but I couldn't see myself as a "Shelly", either.

I'll do my best to keep up with the last 10 days of the Blog Challenge over Easter - I hope everyone has a joyful and safe holiday weekend!

The Occasional Void

2011-04-21T15:57:00.001-04:00

Day Nineteen of the Blog Challenge is to write about something you miss.

The wonderful dogs and cats who have graced my life immediately come to mind, of course. The love I feel for my animals is sweet and largely uncomplicated, so it is no surprise to me that they top my list of Things For Which I Pine On Occasion. We like to play conversational games with our friends, wherein everyone takes a turn answering a question. When asked to name the person you missed most, Eug said "Can I say Rolf (our second Dane)? Because I really miss him more than anyone." We all agreed that his answer was A-OK.

As far as things I miss go, I do miss pop in glass bottles. Why, I don't know. Yeeessssss, I know I can buy pop in glass bottles, and it's even made with cane sugar. BUT. They are not the same size bottles of my youth - I think the ones I remember were 16 ounces (?) and today's glass bottles are smaller and therefore insufficiently nostalgic.

I miss enormous American cars with giant footwells, where we sat as children during long road trips and played games. My Dad had a 1954 Oldsmobile that was da bomb. Two-tone in its orginal medium and light jade greens and lovingly kept for decades after my father first drove it home off the lot. Before he sold it, I climbed inside one last time and was staggered at the sheer size of the interior - the ceiling of that car was practically MILES away from my head! I'm willing to bet a six year old could turn a cartwheel in that back seat.

Sideline: My 60+ year old magnolia tree is practically humming with pent-up energy, ready to bloom. Everything is still in bud, but you can almost hear a sizzling crackle as they get ready to pop open. I really hope the upcoming days are warm and mild so the blooms don't rust!

I've Had A Few.

2011-04-20T16:21:00.000-04:00

Regrets, that is...which is the subject of Day Eighteen's Blog Challenge.

Of course, most of us would agree that we really shouldn't regret anything if we are happy with the grown-ups we've become, for those mistakes are what helped to shape us. But in the interest of the exercise, I'll leave that aside.

I regret not maintaining and nurturing a relationship with God as a young adult.

I regret not valuing myself enough as a young adult. I sought approval and popularity in lousy places.

I regret not taking excellent care of myself all these years. Until recently, aging and the price it exacts were merely shallow concepts.

I regret any and every moment in my life where I have intentionally or unintentionally made another person feel less than.

I regret declining any opportunity to go out dancing in my youth. Once you reach a certain age, the only place you dance is at someone else's wedding.

That's the bulk of it. Like anyone else, I have a list the length of Tayshaun Prince's arms of things that I would do differently, if given the chance. I can conjure a thousand moments where I wish I'd chosen a different path, responded a different way, seen things from a different perspective. But if changing any of those awful moments meant that I wouldn't be right here in this place, married to my best friend with the incredible family we have? No thanks - I can live with my missteps.

On The Horizon

2011-04-19T19:29:00.000-04:00

Day Seventeen of the Blog Challenge asks me to tell you about something to which I am looking forward. (Better awkwardly phrased than grammatically incorrect, I always say!)

Given a recent foray into matters of religion and faith, and what with this being Holy Week in the Church, I guess I'd have to say that I'm most looking forward to Jesus coming back and kicking some ass.

Just kidding.

But it is only just recently that I realized that we were married by a minister who could be described as Christian in only the loosest possible sense of the word - one that requires the use of air quotes when uttered aloud, in fact.

It's our own fault, of course. We were young and lazy and we just wanted to get married, so we hired the same person who married another family member. (And my husband would like me to note that "There was no internet back then! We couldn't easily research these things!") It's a shoddy defense, but it's the best we've got.

Looking closely at the statements of faith associated with the brand of faith that married us, it's a slack-jawed wonder that the Church recognizes our 'marriage'. Oh, yeah - I'm using the air quotes on myself, because it's that embarrassing. (I'd rather not identify the organization that conducted our wedding ceremony, because I'm sure they are lovely people. It's just that Satanists have a better-defined set of beliefs.)

So, like, all of a sudden, I am ardently looking forward to having our marriage blessed in the Church. I've talked about it before, but that's all I've done. Now that I know what I know, I feel as if I've been slimed, and I'd like a firehose of holy water to GET IT OFF.

Hey, speaking of holy water - check out the juxtaposition in Nicole's kitchen the other day:

Apparently, her better half convinced her to crack open *one* of her collectible Dennis Rodman dolls for the boys. I was so delighted to learn she had MORE THAN ONE that I completely forgot to ask how many she did, in fact, own. Wisely, she chose to keep Wedding Dress Rodman intact, because if any Rodman doll is going to go for big coin on eBay one day, it'll be that one. Anyway, apparently the doll she chose came with interchangeable heads...sweet! His green 'fro even feels fuzzy to the touch. If I ever need a sample of Nicole's DNA, I know exactly where to look! (Kidding. I'm kidding.)

Entitlement

2011-04-18T12:40:00.001-04:00

Excellent piece in the WSJ here. I especially love the last three paragraphs.

I'm very interested to watch the developments in Detroit as they face simple mathematical realities. I'll also be watching carefully to see how Mr. Robert Bobb is portrayed as he begins to clean up the mess...and also how many news outlets will neglect to mention that he was appointed by the previous, Democratic governor. I'll be especially fascinated to hear the outrage of a DPS teacher we know at a gathering this weekend. It'll be all I can do not to cluck until he asks me what the hell is wrong with me, at which point I would soberly inform him that his chickens have finally come home to roost.

Anyone who isn't demanding that the government make enormous, unprecedented cuts in spending needs a loving slap (or two) upside the head. People who are here illegally need to be sent directly to Sheriff Arpaio. We need far, far fewer government employees and programs. We desperately need a business-friendly environment. And we need a massive cultural shift that promotes work and self-sufficiency aggressively.

In short, we need a good, old-fashioned return to honor and shame.

There's No Place Like It.

2011-04-18T11:48:00.000-04:00

Day Sixteen asks me to tell you about my dream house. I'll have to tread carefully, here, because I have devoted so much thought to this very subject that my musings could turn nearly pornographic in their lusty detail.

My dream house would be situated on at least ten acres, the perimeter of which would be surrounded by a very high, electrified fence and gate, plus countless near-infrared security cameras. (What? I'm a cop's daughter. We like privacy. And weapons.) Just inside the fence, I'd have evergreens lining the perimeter, followed by a belt of mixed trees that thinned out and eventually disappeared in the center.

I'd build my house in the shade-free center with enormous amounts of glass. (We once looked at a house for sale that had a glass hallway connecting two parts of the house. I loved that!) I've never understood why really fancy houses have way more bathrooms than bedrooms, so other than a main floor powder room and possibly one in the basement, I'd have all individual bathroom/bedroom suites. Hey - IT'S A DREAM HOUSE. I don't have to be realistic, do I?

I would love to have a master suite that opened to a back porch with a giant stone fireplace outside, but I'd also have to have my bed situated really close to a gas fireplace inside, too. I'd want to be able to snooze or read right next to a cozy fire. I'd need a library, for sure. I would also want an indoor pool, sauna (say SOW-na, with a short o sound, please) and hot tub.

I'd have an enormous kitchen with endless counter space that overlooked a super-plush family room. I am *not* a fan of really high ceilings, though. I'd have skylights wherever I could, and a heated garage that had a loft space for making art of all kinds.

I would have luminous, tiny Bisazza tiles in every bathroom in the most glorious, vibrant colors. I would pay careful attention to window placement/treatments in order to be able to control the amount of light I had in any given space at any given moment.

I don't think my house would be particularly stylish, but it would be insanely comfortable. I tend not to buy furniture in which I couldn't imagine falling asleep. I would have a basement with lots of empty space and a commercial tiled floor where I could roller-skate if I wanted. I'd also put a retro-fabulous bar down there. I would have a board game collection that defied description.

In my dream house, I'd roam the property with three Great Danes on the loose and my camera ever-ready. I'd invite friends to come and stay for long periods of time, so long as they'd help me cook. I'd have the whole house wired for sound and intercoms, so I could subject anyone in my home to "It's Raining Men" at top volume whenever I wanted.

Come on. Admit it. You know you wanna come over.

Read A Book!

2011-04-17T14:32:00.000-04:00

On our way home from Mass, I sprung for a drive-thru lunch for the kidlets because they were so stellar, even though the reading of the passion takes a very long time. When the grandparent-aged people on all 3 sides of you stop to compliment your "amazing, perfectly behaved children", I think a Mexi-melt and some chicken nuggets are only fair, you know?

At the Taco Bell drive-thru window, the lovely young lady remarked "Wow, you're the second or third person today to have those weird leaves!" I turn my head toward the passenger seat, where our little pile of palms rest. I replied "Oh, well - it's Palm Sunday."

(crickets chirping)

(still chirping)

Of course I didn't assume non-Christians would realize it's Palm Sunday, but I kind of thought most people would recognize the words "Palm Sunday". The lovely young lady was still looking at me expectantly so I explained, "It's the Sunday before Easter. The palms are a reference to the palms the crowds waved when Jesus entered Jerusalem."

To her credit, the young lady said "Oh! I guess you learn something new every day, huh?" (I had to suppress the urge to reply "Well, I certainly hope you're learning something new every day!" Yup - just 24 hours post-Reconciliation, and I am already racking up an impressive list of sins for my next Confession.)

Anyway, all of this reminded me yet again of my favorite episode of "The Tick", wherein the hulking, dumb villain (The Human Ton) wears a puppet on his hand (Handy, natch) that is whip-smart. Handy says "Even now, he sulks like Achilles in his tent!" The confused silence around him is deafening, so he gets increasingly shout-y as he says "Achilles? It's Homer? It's The Iliad? READ A BOOK!" You can enjoy the moment of cartoon goodness here.

Hope the weekend was awesome, friends. I'm off to bake some cookies, sew a stuffed animal and learn to make a braided palm cross. It's all so domestic that even I may have to puke on my shoes.

Scripture!

2011-04-17T11:02:00.001-04:00

Day 15 of the Blog Challenge asks me to provide a Bible verse.

I adore countless Bible verses, so again...it's hard to pick just one. I'm going to avoid the 'dessert' verses about being "more than a conqueror" and whatnot. Instead, I give you:

“And to the angel of the church in Laodicea write: The words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the origin of God's creation: I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth. For you say, "I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing." You do not realize that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. Therefore I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire so that you may be rich; and white robes to clothe you and to keep the shame of your nakedness from being seen; and salve to anoint your eyes so that you may see. I reprove and discipline those whom I love. Be earnest, therefore, and repent. Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me. To the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne. Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches. (Revelation 3:14-22)”

The emphasis is mine, and the reason I love this passage is that it stands as a distinct reminder that we sometimes need to shift into reverse and even more frequently we need to kick it into drive. Rarely, if ever, should we be coasting along in neutral.

OK, gotta go, because it's time to get ready for Mass. (I enlisted the help of the kids by promising to make chocolate chip cookies this afternoon so long as we all made it to Church this morning. No Mass, no cookies...because I need all the help I can get, folks.) I had the sacrament of Reconciliation for the first time in nine years yesterday, and there is NO WAY I'm missing Mass today!

Picture Perfect

2011-04-16T14:21:00.000-04:00

Day 14 - A picture you love. Yeah, right. Like I can choose one.

I like this first one of Xanthe, because it happened when I initially got my camera and didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground (as my father would say) about how to get a decent picture. So it was a lucky accident.

This is another favorite Xanthe picture, because she was so relaxed and happy to be sitting for me that day.

She's always been very comfortable in front of my lens, but in the last year, the kids seem incapable of a natural smile. It's like someone flipped the "Let's Pretend To Be A Goofy Dumbass!" switch to a permanently ON position. (sigh)

Henry has almost always had a touch of mischief in him when it comes to pictures:

He's been this way as long as I can remember:

And he, too, used to be able to smile *normally* for a portrait:

But Lula was practically BORN making goofball faces for the camera. It is a very rare moment when I get a shot I can send to grandparents, like this:

She's usually clowning, like this:

She also devotes significant energy to her acting career:

My other favorite pictures include our "Hall of Shame" pictures. These are photos wherein Eug and/or myself look so horrendous that we can't do anything but bust out laughing. And, no, even baked goods could not persuade me to share those.

xo xo

Gooooooaaaaalllll!

2011-04-16T10:00:00.000-04:00

(Sorry about the title - even though I'm a sports hater, I couldn't resist a soccer announcer yell for this subject.)

There's something ominous about assigning the topic of "goals" for Day Thirteen. Maybe I'm just paranoid (or more so than usual), but attaching my goals to the number thirteen feels unlucky, somehow.

Nevertheless.

My primary goal at the moment is to strengthen my knees considerably and maintain that muscle tone. When I accomplish this, if I still haven't been able to restore full range of motion to my left knee, I'm going to do some serious research about surgical solutions. One can only zombie walk for so long, you know. So that's Numero Uno.

I have smaller goals that are closely related to one another, and they are in the gravitational pull of one, central goal: Go to bed by 11 pm every night, get eight hours of sleep, and wake no later than 7:30 am. Every single day, for the rest of my life. That's a tough one for me. The way most people feel around 9am, after they've had their coffee? That's the way I feel come 10pm. So that's an awfully big goal, considering.

My other goals are small and task-oriented. Finish this. Fix that. Etc.

My knees and how to do everything I possibly can to heal them, make them stronger, ease their burden and eliminate my pain: this is the center of my world. The older I get, the more I am startled by how much I've taken for granted. My parents were right - it is hell to get old!

I hope your weekend is fantastic, friends.

I Do Declare!

2011-04-14T13:35:00.000-04:00

Day Twelve, and it's time to get serious and discuss "what you believe".

There's the answer that is first and foremost, the one I recite from memory at every Mass and even during the week, in my own thoughts:

We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in being with the Father. Through Him all things were made. For us men and for our salvation He came down from heaven; by the power of the Holy Spirit He was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; He suffered, died, and was buried. On the third day He rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and His kingdom will have no end.

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son He is worshipped and glorified. He has spoken through the prophets.

We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.

So there's that, of course.

I also believe that we bond with one another by sharing our foibles and weakness and not blathering on about our strengths. I believe charity belongs to the private sector and has no role in government. I believe in honoring promises, both expressed and implied. I believe that intentionally ending another human life at any point is always murder. I believe our purpose on earth is to edify one another, which is not necessarily about making each other feel good. I believe in rising to the occasion for duty and loyalty to one's countrymen. I believe that happiness and gratitude are one in the same.

Yeah. There you have it.

P. S. My knees experienced a unique form of torture yesterday - the Biomechanical Ankle Platform System. It makes anything and everything you can do with a BOSU seem like napping in a hammock on a warm, breezy day by comparison.

The Idiot Box

2011-04-13T15:08:00.001-04:00

Day Eleven! They want me to tell you about my favorite television shows. (Don't ask me exactly who the mysterious "they" are, though. I merely follow their Blog Challenge instructions.)

Being the slothful creature that I am, I love television in all its incarnations and possibles uses. I'm not too proud to tell you that my taste in TV tends to run toward the tawdry and juvenile, either. I am a Bravo reality show junkie, and even worse...a VH1 reality show junkie. My soul stands naked before you, and I realize it ain't pretty.

But who cares? I like a lot of crappy TV. Love me or leave me.

Oh, there are a few shows on my list that I doubt most people would be embarrassed about. Exactly how many qualify for the upper tier called "quality" is a matter of debate. Let me break it down for y'all:

I Won't Miss These, Period.
True Blood
Dexter
Mad Men
Survivor
The Walking Dead
The Killing
Big Brother
The Biggest Loser
Hoarders
Heavy
Hung
I Love Money
Fatal Attractions

I've Been Known To Watch A Lot Of These:
Top Chef
The Real Housewives Of (Insert City Here)
Anything with 'Real' and 'Chance' of VH1 reality infamy
Forensic Files
City Confidential (although at this point, I don't think there's even one episode that I haven't seen at least twice)
Dateline NBC re-runs (on Investigation Discovery network)
Family Guy
America's Funniest Home Videos
It Only Hurts When I Laugh

Lastly, I am still a bitter old woman over the demise of the Fox Reality Network. Now how will I ever see re-runs of Paradise Hotel, Paradise Hotel 2, Forever Eden, Temptation Island, Solitary, My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance, and Boot Camp? (Boot Camp was the best Fox reality show, ever. As much as I adore Survivor, Mark Burnett is an asshole for suing them and causing the death of this uber-fun show.)

I'm sure there are some forgotten items that should've made my list, but senility is my reality, and this will have to do. Happy Hump Day, y'all!

Temo

2011-04-12T09:07:00.000-04:00

"Temo" means "I fear" in Spanish (and plays a role in the incredible film I just saw), and that's today's blog challenge: What do you fear?

I tend to dismiss the objects of my worry as quickly as possible, as worry is the worst type of time-waster. Many things might be cause for temporary (rational or not) worry, but distinguishing those from that which one fears is proving difficult for me. Fear, to me, implies something that one is largely unable to shake. So, what do I fear?

I'm not sure that I know. In looking for the answer, I begin to think of things that lie outside my control, like accidents involving my loved ones. But then I swiftly realize that mostly everything lies outside my control, and for any given situation, I've probably already played out an "If-Then" scenario because I am obsessive like that. "If-Then" scenarios make me feel prepared and, therefore, unafraid.

I can say that for as much as I love the feeling of being in or near water, my happiness ends abruptly when I can't see the bottom of wherever I'm swimming. I do fear deep water, and have no desire to hop on a schooner - or any other vessel - and go for a ride. I like my water chlorinated and relatively shallow, thankyouverymuch.

I could also say that I fear dying before my children are grown and on the wing. I don't know what would be worse - dying from a terminal illness and having to prepare your children to lose you, or dying suddenly and not having prepared notes of love as touchstones for them. But I would fear it because I would feel I had shortchanged them, and not because I fear dying.

Obviously, I fear anything bad happening to my children. I do know that I would exact horrible revenge on anyone who hurt them, and whenever I have a battle plan, I tend to fear that 'thing' less. The level of creativity and viciousness I would put into collecting my pound of flesh for such a trespass would probably alarm even those who know and love me best. I would take a little something from the film I mentioned at the top of this post, as well as this one. I would take my time.

So, yes, a few fears. But given the right (wrong?) circumstances, I would be something to fear, too.

I Have Too Much Free Time

2011-04-11T18:06:00.001-04:00

Nicole and I were just talking about our shared tendency to get mentally 'snagged' on something and pore over it for a while, unable to stop. Today's thorny branch for me is Chris Cunningham.

Pay careful attention to the details of the wiki entry before you click any of the links I am about to provide, and for God's sake, don't have children roaming about.

This is the piece I remembered best - the music video for Aphex Twin's Come To Daddy.

Short film Rubber Johnny.

Euro Playstation commercial here.

Another Aphex Twin video: Windowlicker (An interesting tidbit: "It is worth noting that the men are "window shopping" for prostitutes during the video's opening; the French term for "window shopping" is faire du lèche-vitrine, which literally translates to "licking the windows".)

The first part of a documentary-like show about Cunningham and his work. The subsequent parts are easy to find in the sidebar.

To channel the wonderful Eddie Izzard...Jeezy Creezy! I do believe that when God was handing out visual aesthetics, he gave Mr. Cunningham a bonafide prototype, never to be repeated. Fascinating stuff!

My Besties

2011-04-11T08:48:00.000-04:00

Day Nine: A picture of your friends. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy. My partners in crime and sisters by choice are Nicole and Tracy (L to R, below). Why they tolerate me is a genuine mystery to me.

Let me tell you a thing or two about Tracy, whom I have known and loved for...good Lord, has it been twenty years? We met one night at a bar through mutual friends, and we were wearing the exact same freakin' dress. (I went home, changed and came right back. It seemed too weird to sit right next to her, chatting in identical outfits - like Bobbsey twins in the Bizarro World.) I have called her "my strawberry friend", for she is fresh and sweet and naturally good. She also has a lovely posterior:

She is my "Eye Of Sauron" who epitomizes my high school English Literature teacher's mantra to "know something about everything and everything about something". (God rest your soul, Sister Agnes Patrice!) Tracy is smart as a whip, patient as Job and as comforting as homemade chicken noodle soup. She has the most wonderfully expressive, beautiful face and she can bullshit any child for the amusement purposes of surrounding adults better than the dad in the old "Calvin and Hobbes" strips. Check her out, working over Henry in the picture below:

In short, she is totally fucking awesome, even when she is a complete pain in my ass. (And I really, really hope she feels the same way about me, because I know I am a complete pain in her ass.)

Now, for Nicole: My Li'l Sis. I have, in utter earnestness, referred to her as my gift from God for getting my ass back in Church. That's because we met while the four of us (husbands included) were going through RCIA. (That's the process by which an adult non-Catholic becomes a full-fledged Catholic, FYI.) We were more like really friendly acquaintances until the wonderful day she showed up on my doorstep to take me up on my offer of advice and support if being a new, nursing mom was giving her trouble. There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not SO. DAMNED. GRATEFUL. that she did that.

The only downside to loving Nicole is that she, like Tracy, is really fucking lovely...and it's a bit like being a stained, raggedy towel next to the luxury spa bath sheet. See how purty?

Nicole is warm, witty, keenly observant, honest and good in the truest sense of the word. She would never, never pee on your leg and tell you it's raining. Nicole has a smile that brightens entire zip codes and makes you want to do anything to get her to smile, again. Another thing Nicole has in common with Tracy is her ability to pull a face, which I adore. People who speak volumes with an arched eyebrow or a tilt of the chin are tops on my list. This is a moment when I was skating on thin ice:

For the record, Nicole also has a lovely posterior, but she lives mere moments away from me and therefore the likelihood that she would kick my ass for posting a picture of her patoot on the 'net is far higher than it is with Tracy.

These two women are so fine, amazing and fantastic that my Friend Cup runneth over. There really isn't room for anyone else in my life on any truly close level, because I can't help but fill up any spare moments I do have with more of these two. They're that tasty.

Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

Good Stuff

2011-04-11T00:31:00.001-04:00

Holy cow - had to jump in here with a brief movie recommendation...and I'm not even done watching the film! It is "The Secret In Their Eyes" ("El Secreto De Sus Ojos"), which happens to be streamable for all my fellow Netflix junkies out there. Granted, I love foreign films and hearing Spanish spoken aloud. I also don't mind subtitles one whit. But even if you like none of those things, THIS IS AN AWESOME MOVIE.

That's all I have. Gotta get back and finish the movie!

ETA: The movie just kept getting better - deft poetry on all the biggest themes in life. Gorgeous beyond description.

Homebody

2011-04-10T17:22:00.000-04:00

Day Eight of the blog challenge instructs me to tell you about a place to which I have traveled.

I hate travel.

I've lived in Spain and Miami. I've vacationed in Arizona, Florida, California, Vermont, Washington D. C. and, yes, glorious Ohio. I've passed through countless other locales. Of course, I've traveled through the nearest provinces of Canada, as well. But for the most part, I like to stay right here in Michigan. We have pretty much everything here in Michigan, and very little of it is pretentious. I find this incredibly appealing.

(Apropos of nothing? Eug is playing Danzig's "Mother" on Guitar Hero right now and it is making me so very, very happy.)

We had plans to travel to Niagara Falls later this year, but we've decided to shelve them. Other, more fantastic things have arisen due to a recent strange and fabulous alignment of our stars. (Hint: We're going to splash around right here at home.)

But back to the topic. My favorite place to which I have traveled would have to be Madrid. I lived in Denia, a gorgeous little coastal town from which one can hop the ferry to Ibiza. But Madrid reeked of so much lush history and vivid art, it was almost too much for the senses. So Madrid gets the nod.

But since I'll never return, I am much more focused on things within our own fantastic country that I want to see and do. I'd especially like to visit Graceland and meander around Memphis during the annual World Championship Barbeque Cooking Contest. I want to drive through rural New York (soooo beautiful there) and make my way all the way up to Maine, whereupon I will eat lobster rolls as often as possible. I want to take a slow drive to South Dakota and take in the majesty of Mount Rushmore. I'd like to stay at the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite Park for days on end and take endless pictures. I'd like to do the same at the Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood, Oregon. I'd like to spend weeks in all the southern states, just visiting with people. And, yes, I'd like to re-visit the Grand Canyon with the family in tow.

But, for the most part? I'm so incredibly content here that it would likely take a crowbar and quite a bit of leverage to turn me into a traveler, again.

Pop Some Popcorn And Dim The Lights

2011-04-09T10:17:00.001-04:00

Day Seven of the blog challenge asks me to write about my favorite films. As with most people, I'm sure I'll think of something after I post this and slap my forehead for the "D'oh! Why didn't I remember to list Blah-blah-blah?" But I'll do my best.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles. It's possibly the finest movie ever made, in terms of the deft balance of emotions and pure physical comedy. There is not a single frame in this movie that I do not love with all my heart.

Crumb. This documentary of Robert Crumb, alternative cartoonist, made me look at the world through an entirely new lens. Eug and I still reference or quote it often, and we've seen it many times.

The Big Lebowski. Eug and I are rabid Coen brothers fans, and we'd be hard-pressed to choose just one of their films as a favorite. (At least 46% of our marital banter is a direct quote from a Coen brothers film, I'm pretty sure.) But if I/we had to choose one, this would likely be it. This is a 'litmus test' film for me - if you don't like it, chances are we don't have much in common.

Election. Although sursprisingly difficult to watch in moments, this movie is wry genius from start to finish. I adored it, but I'll admit I bristled briefly when loved ones nicknamed me "Flick" after seeing it for themselves. (I'm not saying they weren't right, I'm just saying I bristled.)

Bad(der) Santa: Beyond fantastic, but be sure to get the unrated version. Seeing both John Ritter and Bernie Mac in this movie every year makes me get all choked up from missing them - but the laughs are relentless in this movie, just so long as you can tolerate raunchy. Billy Bob Thornton is *sublime*, but so is the rest of the cast. Surprisingly tender and my favorite 'holiday' movie ever made. Another fertile ground for conversational quotes in my marriage. ("Grandma, are you spry?")

Here are some other movies I love dearly and could happily watch again and again and again, in no particular order:

Babe
Secretary
Fargo
The Meaning Of Life
The Bridge (documentary about suicides on the Golden Gate bridge - ye have been warned)
Dear Zachary (another documentary that is beyond heart-wrenching)
One Minute To Nine, aka Every F---ing Day Of My Life (Saddest thing I've ever seen. Clings to my soul to this day, and forever.)
Jackass 1, 2, 2.5 and 3 (so sue me)
Kingpin
Grindhouse: Death Proof (the female dialogue is tedious, but the rest of the movie kicks so much ass, it's worth it)
The Passion Of The Christ
Badlands
Auntie Mame
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Raising Arizona
A Christmas Story
Unforgiven
The Exorcist
Heavenly Creatures
American Movie
The Devil's Backbone
Pan's Labyrinth
Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed
The Ice Storm
Team America: World Police
Millions
Mulholland Dr.
About Schmidt
Cinema Paradiso
Big Fish
The Pledge
Seven Days (the last lines of the film are goosebump-inducing)
The Lover
Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story (with the original ending that can be seen on the DVD extras)
Rushmore
Sling Blade
The Big Bad Swim
Ravenous
The Apostle
Streetwise (Why this hasn't been released to DVD yet is a shame and a disgrace!)
The Shining (Kubrick)
Capturing The Friedmans
Jaws
3:10 To Yuma
Miller's Crossing (best mob movie ever made)
Das Boot (best war movie ever made - hell, possibly the best movie ever made, period)
Apocalypto
Raise The Red Lantern
The Virgin Suicides
Gladiator (If for no other reason, the opening shot of the actor who stood in for Russell Crowe with those enormous PAWS for hands, stroking the wheat growing in the fields. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Mama likes Man Hands. But seriously, the rest of the movie is awesome, too.)
Valhalla Rising

I'm sure there are dozens more, but that seems like a fair-to-middlin' list, don't you think? Please be warned, though - don't go renting something on my list without knowing what you're getting into. Many of the films I consider priceless treasures are VERY hard to watch, by most people's standards. That doesn't mean I don't recommend them, but I would want you to know what to expect.

Is the weather as wonderful for you as it is for us today? I sure hope so. Happy weekend, friends.

Something That Makes Me Happy

2011-04-08T08:58:00.000-04:00

You guessed it - today's blog homework is to show you something that makes me happy. So I'm going to show you the thing that makes me positively GOOFY with joy, no matter what else might be going on in my life. I give you: Great Danes. Sadly, there are no recent photographs. I just looked at the calendar and had a HOLY FUCKING SHIT moment when I realized that this June it will be four years and not three since Theo died. I miss having a Dane terribly. But just like everything else in life, one should be fully prepared to do right by any new family member, and Danes require a steep, steep investment in every sense of the word. The following pictures (some of them in low-res because digital cameras were so new then!) include all three of the wonderful, beloved Danes that have graced my life during the years from 1996 through 2007. I look forward to the day another sweet Dane becomes a member of our tribe.

FYI - In the second photo, Rolf is wearing a custom orthotic for his neck, his paw is bandaged due to diabetes-related foot problems, and I am more than eight months pregnant. So if we both look weird, we have our reasons! In the last photo, Eug grabbed the camera first thing on a Saturday morning to capture how puppy Rolf always slept: on my face. He also snored ever so softly, directly into my ear. It was adorable, and I cherish every second of lost sleep with him. Now...anybody wanna buy me a Dane puppy for my birthday this year?

Siblings.

2011-04-07T15:07:00.000-04:00

"I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at." - Maya Angelou

OK. Day Five of this challenge is about my siblings. I have three: a sister, a sister, a brother and then me, last in line. There were nearly five of us, a fact I didn't discover until I was in my early twenties. I told my sister that I'd had the most vivid dream about a little brother, and in my dream he was missing. I told her that in my dream, I knew myself to be seventeen and my missing little brother was twelve. There were other details - the dream was seared into my memory. She listened attentively and said, "Wow! That is so weird, given that the baby mom lost would've been five years younger than you...and he was a boy."

To which I replied, "Ex-squeeze me? Did you just tell me I almost had a baby brother I never knew about?"

Such is the life of the baby of the family: nobody tells you shit. Given the fact that my next eldest sibling is nearly seven years older than me, I can assume they just forgot to tell me certain things they'd always known. It just didn't occur to them.

Sibling Numero Uno is my sister, B. She is smart and fierce and independent as all hell. She's got this tiny little build, whereas the rest of us are built more like the peasant stock we are. She was the sort of child who took utterly pristine care of her toys, to the extent that they look brand-new today, I'm quite sure. My sister has loved animals all her life, and has a special affinity for horses. She is incredibly thorough and detail-oriented, and she actually gets shit done (in stark contrast to my OCD-driven desire to do everything perfectly, only to abandon it halfway through).

Sibling Numero Dos is my sister, D. She is deeply compassionate, practical and forgiving. She epitomizes reasonable, which is continually remarkable when you consider the overall crazy of our family. I was lucky enough to share a bedroom with her for many years, and she taught me French words and softly tickled my arms until I fell asleep and tolerated my constant intrusions into her rough-hewn and odd-looking jewelry box shaped like a treasure chest.

Sibling Numero Tres is my brother, W. He is an uber-genius who graduated from an expensive high school at the very top of his class in 3 scant years at the age of fifteen. He was granted a special early driver's license to be able to drive himself to and from college classes. He graduated from college at the age of nineteen, and was snapped up by a very large company for very confidential stuff. He was absent from my life due to the nature of his work until he retired at the age of thirty-one.

I love all of my siblings, but my parents didn't have many of the tools to facilitate and foster great relationships among us as we were growing up. As a result, our ability to stay connected has varied tremendously over the years. The fact that we are all so incredibly different from one another - more so than, say, 'typical' siblings differ from one another, I think - makes it harder for us to connect. We were also raised to prize self-sufficiency, and I'm guessing that we all cherish solitude more than the Average Joe.

I'll be interested to see what, if any, of these familial tendencies show up in my own children, and I am very aware of the need to create an environment wherein my children understand that we never leave a family member 'behind'. If one of us is upset - even if the reasons for which seem thoroughly unreasonable - our family policy is to circle back and bring that person into the fold of a family hug. No excuses, no exceptions.

Unrelated to the topic du jour, can I just vent for a moment? What part of "Don't spend money you don't have!" is so difficult to grasp? Nobody owes anyone else anything. Each one of us is entitled to exactly NOTHING in this lifetime. Nothing. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

Whew. Thank you. I feel a bit better, now. Happy Thursday to y'all!

My Wellspring

2011-04-06T18:43:00.001-04:00

OK, so Day Four of this challenge asks that I tell you something of my parents.

My mom was the youngest born into something approaching abject poverty on the western end of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Her parents were immigrants from Finland who would've laughed long and hard at the idea of a television contest like "Survivor", given how much harder they worked to survive each and every day of their lives. As a little girl, a typical breakfast for my mom before she headed out for kindergarten was a piece of bread and a cup of black coffee - no joke! My mom excelled in school, and graduated second in her class, the top honor having gone to her best friend. My mom followed her elder sister south to Detroit after she graduated from high school - I can only imagine the culture shock - where she met my dad, a young police officer. My mom is loyal, stubborn, kind, forgiving and an all-around pain in the ass whom I love very much. Even if she does whistle. (She's the reason whistling is my number one pet peeve.) It should be noted that my mom makes the very best apple pie in the known history of the universe. Literally.

My dad was the eldest born into what we might now call a Millionaire-Next-Door family. My grandparents were savvy and cautious, and accumulated more than enough money to send their favored only son to college. Problem was, he refused to go. He enrolled instead in the police academy and spent more than 30 years as a 'regular' cop in the city of Detroit. He refused to accept any promotions he was offered, because, as he puts it, "I couldn't tolerate their bullshit politics. I was already doing the work I wanted to do." Still, he regretted his decision to reject his father's plans for college. As a result, he was the kind of father who lived and died by the report cards we brought home and we grew up knowing we'd earn at least one college degree. My dad is fierce, smart, tough as nails, responsible and protective. He is a giant pain in the ass, as well, but he's too quirky and garrulous not to adore...in small doses.

In unrelated news, my knees are in therapy twice a week. Apparently, your patella (kneecap) has a convex groove on its underside that is designed to ride smoothly in the concave groove of your tibia (shinbone). However, my patellas are skewed way off to the outer edges of my legs, much like the eyes of a hammerhead shark. To say they are nowhere near the grooves in my tibia is comic understatement. There is such a thing as "kneecap realignment surgery", but I'm choosing not to think that far ahead, just yet.

Remember what I said on Day One of this blog challenge about the utter lack of effective communication between my brain and my limbs? Now I want you to picture me balancing one-legged with the flat side of a BOSU facing up. It was high comedy, indeed. I thought I was super-tough because I didn't feel any pain during therapy, but I have a feeling that the coming hours are about to prove me woefully mistaken. My knees are already grumbling, and I have to think they're going to be downright rowdy tomorrow morning.

The weekend is coming, friends - let's all just hang in there.

L'Amour

2011-04-05T09:52:00.000-04:00

Day Three of the Blog Challenge instructs me to tell you about my "first love". How cheesy is that?

I dated different people in my youth and cared for many of them. Really, if I liked someone enough to want to spend time with them - platonically or romantically - they occupied some space in my heart. But I'm far more stringent when it comes to defining "love" than I suspect most people would be. Even if you had asked me during my callow youth if I truly loved any of the young men I dated, I'd have said "No".

The only person I've ever loved in the real sense is my husband. (Hand to God.) He has been a part of my life for more of my years than not - it will be twenty-two years this fall - and he is truly the other half of me. Because we've been together for so very, very long, we already have the kind of mind-meld that couples typically don't develop until they're older than we are. We think the same thoughts at the same moments, we cherish the same things and prioritize values the same way.

My husband is everything to me - the only person whose company never tires me, the only person I can trust completely, the only person who genuinely understands me and loves me, anyway. He is the funniest person I know - which is the most attractive quality anyone can have, if you ask me.

Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

Why Modern Motherhood?

2011-04-04T15:28:00.000-04:00

Day Two of the Blog Challenge requires that I explain the meaning of the name I chose for my blog, so here it is:

I started this blog back in 2002, mostly as a way to record the amusing things of everyday life. I'd made a big change in the relatively recent past and decided to have children, so "Motherhood" was undeniably a big part of my life in every sense of the word.

I'm also a rabid fan of Modernism, especially in architecture and home interiors. (Please, please do not confuse Modernism with 'Contemporary'. Thank you evah so.) Hence, the "Modern".

In addition, both my first name and my maiden surname begin with the letter M, and I've always been told they were a snappy combination. Although I had taken my husband's surname five years after we married, I made my maiden name my middle name when I did so, because I was reluctant to let it go. As it stands, my maiden surname will die with our generation, as my only brother will never have children. So a 'double M' title suited me on a personal level, too.

In retrospect, I must've chosen wisely, since many hits to this blog arrive based solely on the words "modern motherhood". I've never wished I'd titled it anything else, and I remain happy with my choice all these years later.

P. S. The movie "Black Swan" is so far from Oscar-worthy, it's laughable. It managed to be boring, incoherent, unbelievable, pretentious and dumb simultaneously. Major disappointment. When I reached the point in the movie where Natalie Portman (who is pushing THIRTY, fer crissakes) is shoving her ballerina teddy bears down the garbage chute in a rebellious rage against her controlling mama, I couldn't suppress the giggles one more minute. In contrast, I also watched "Seul Contre Tous" ("I Stand Alone"), which fares much better as guided tour of one mind's descent into madness. There's nothing pretty about "Seul Contre Tous", and I'd say the film is good but not great. Interesting, for sure. Still, it is leagues better than "Black Swan"...but then, almost anything is.

Challenged.

2011-04-03T20:47:00.001-04:00

Inspired by a wonderful woman whose blog I read regularly, I thought I'd join the 30 Day Blog Challenge. Day One requires me to introduce myself, provide a recent picture and present 15 interesting factoids about myself. All righty then.

I'm Michelle. I'm 39 years old, the youngest of my parents' four children. I've been married for almost 16 years to my wonderful husband, but we've been together since I was 18 years old. He is the best human being I've ever met. We have three freakin' amazing children and three kick-ass cats.

Here is a portion of my crooked face, taken just now:

Yes, yes...I put some lipstick on before I took the picture. I didn't want to scare you off, or anything. In retrospect, a close-up of my giant face probably doesn't help matters, lipstick or no.

Okay, Fifteen Things About Me:

1) I am simultaneously a people magnet and a cranky loner. (Further proof that God has a sense of humor.) People gravitate to me, and I enjoy their company in very small doses. However, I hope to one day construct a lovely little hermitage in an undisclosed location.

2) I dislike long fingernails, especially fake fingernails. It seems to me that they must be germ-laden, regardless of the general hygiene standards of the wearer.

3) I like things in extremes - all or none, if you will. BFF Tracy was with us this weekend and she latched on to Eug's suggestion that I receive a specially-made t-shirt that does not say "I Go To 11", but rather, "I'm STUCK At 11". Hmmph, I say.

4) I love picking at things that appear on skin. Mine or anyone else's. I have a high pain threshold, and I get a little irritated if other people can't endure my 'ministrations'. Heh.

5) I have a bit of a hoarder's mentality, which is no doubt closely tied to #3. It was only in recent years that I learned to cull my library, even slightly. I 'discovered' vintage die-cuts this past Christmas and had acquired a metric ton of them before I even knew what had happened. (Gotta love eBay.)

6) I have a seventh-grade boy's sense of humor. Farts, in particular, remain hysterical to me. Santa generally brings me at least one fart-related gift each year.

7) I swear a LOT. I don't see any problem with this.

8) I am very comfortable with fighting and violence, in that I have no hesitation to employ the necessary fire power when threatened. I enjoy obliterating my opponent when attacked, and I love to fight dirty. I have been told that I'm the most desirable friend to have along for after-dark jogs, because my loved ones know that I would gouge out a rapist's eyes in a New York minute. It has also been insinuated that I might be smiling while doing so.

9) If I had to eat one food for the rest of my life, it would probably be cheese.

10) I love video games. My better half and I have five consoles currently in use in our household, and at least six vintage console systems in storage.

11) In related news, I prefer to be indoors. (Poolside is the only exception to this rule.) People who enjoy 'roughing it' are akin to an alien species, for me.

12) I'm crafty, meaning that I can make just about anything from ribbon or felt. I own no fewer than 1000 rolls of grosgrain ribbon. (See #3 above.)

13) I'm a great cook, but I hate working in the kitchen. I can be persuaded every now and then with copious flattery. A friend once offered to make me a shirt that said "My cookies make all others taste like SHIT."

14) I have almost no hand-to-eye coordination, so anything sports-related is out of the question for me. If it requires precise direction from my brain to my limbs, fuhgeddaboudit.

15) I am, above all, lazy. I am perfectly content to let the world roll on by, most of the time. While "feelings of accomplishment" are indeed pleasant, I also feel they are somewhat overrated.

There you have it. I hope your weekend was a happy one!

In The News

2011-03-31T09:49:00.000-04:00

Poking around the news online last night, I see that the coolest house ever built is for sale again. The dramatic Mayan architecture combined with the home's lurid history makes me positively lustful for it. Of course, it's located in Los Angeles and a season of ANTM was filmed there...but even that wouldn't stop me from snapping it up, if I had the coin. (Come on, Powerball!) I would hire struggling actors with the body of Adonis to fan me with palm fronds as I lounged poolside. Life would be good.

In totally unrelated news, here's an article we can all agree constitutes a "Well, duh!" moment. I'm assuming the University of Buffalo assistant professor who authored the study must be nicknamed "Captain Obvious". Did our tax dollars fund this crap? I'm betting they did.

The dumbest news this week thus far has to go to Oprah, hands down. In the interest of full disclosure, those of you who don't know me well may not know that I detest her. I think my negative feelings for her hit their zenith some years ago - I remember blogging about one particularly awful show she did. (Perhaps I'll resurrect that one from my off-line archives.)

Anyway, apparently since she took over the Discovery Health Network (a channel I quite liked) and made it OWN (the Oprah Winfrey Network, in case you hadn't guessed), ratings have tanked. So I was highly amused to read that Oprah has selected Rosie O'Donnell to be the new captain on her Titanic. Gee, I can hardly wait to tune in, now! Right after I flay my fingers with this dull butter knife, that is.

In personal news, I'm seeing an orthopaedic doctor today. The active pain in my knee has mostly abated, but I'm being very careful with it. Any moves that could be remotely described as sudden or lateral have been completely eliminated from my life, as my knee pain is like a coiled, venomous snake ready to strike. Still, when taken as a whole, things have definitely improved. The test results so far have been mixed, in that there appears to be both a bone cyst and a meniscal tear in my left knee. In a weird way, I can hardly wait to see the specialist today. He's gotten rave reviews, even from my brother-in-law who's had to fly out to Lake Tahoe on numerous occasions to see the best doctors in the world for his knees.

So take a moment to give thanks if your joints, hands and/or feet are treating you right this week - and I hope your weekend is a fun and active one, friends!

Watch It!

2011-03-27T19:16:00.000-04:00

It's no surprise to anyone who knows me well that documentary films are my genre of choice, given my deep and abiding disdain for actresses and actors. This has more to do with the ridiculous amounts of attention lavished on them for their profession than for any lack of respect for their work, for what it's worth. (I feel the same way about professional athletes.) The majority of my groaning Netflix queue is composed of documentary films - a total somewhere around 300 of the 400 films I have on my list. There's something wonderful about many of these films - a glimpse into a life you wouldn't otherwise encounter.

Eug and I had heard the rave reviews for Waiting For "Superman", and so we decided to purchase it on Blu-Ray the day it was released. For $29.99, we received not only a copy of this excellent film, but a $25 donation card for the public school of our choice. Eug and I finally found the time to watch the film yesterday, and we're sitting down to watch it with our children tonight. I can't recommend the purchase of this film highly enough, especially given the DonorsChoose.org card enclosed with the disc. If you're inclined to watch the film, please be aware the the bonus materials on the disc is a veritable treasure trove of must-see information. Pay special attention to the "Deleted Scenes" section, as everything in it was every bit as excellent as the main film, and I'd argue that it contains the most moving story of all. If you're a parent with children in a public school, I will go so far as to say that there is something deeply wrong with you if you don't make time to see this film after hearing about it. However, this is truly a film that affects every human being, regardless of any and all classifications and sub-groups. The education of the people who come after ourselves is the determinant of...well, everything. Miss it at your own peril.

Tomorrow I'll be spending the day being injected with radioactive dye before my knee is photographed in very intimate ways. I had my MRI on Saturday, and it was hideous. God bless those people who endure a full MRI - my head wasn't even in the tube and I wanted it to end no later than 3 minutes, in. You think it's not going to be a big deal - how hard is it to lie very, very still? But after approximately two minutes, I began to hear murmurings from the parts of my body that wanted me to shift, ever so slightly. "No deal", I told them. "Just settle down and we'll be done before you know it." It was shortly thereafter that my lower back began to complain in a voice reminiscent of a thirteen year old girl - the kind of miserable, snotty tone that hits your brain like an icepick. My shoulders kicked in, next - followed by my fingers' desire to twitch without any forewarning on their part. Just when my brain started to think really crazy thoughts, the angelic voice of the technician issued forth from the adjacent room: "This is the last round, hon." I watched those 3 minutes tick down with Manson-lamps, I swear. I look forward to my test results with bated breath.

I hope your week is a good one, friends. I'll be back if anything interesting happens.

Ouch.

2011-03-24T21:05:00.000-04:00

About a month ago, I found out that I have a cyst inside my left knee. I didn't give it much thought, as my knees were merely noisy and not painful. I had requested the x-ray because my knees were SO noisy as to gross out innocent bystanders, and I finally had to wonder if something alarming wasn't happening that I should investigate. Fast forward to this week, and the growing, gnawing pain in my left knee. I finally dug out the radiology report to see if I could make heads or tails of it. Where, exactly was this 'cyst'?

Turns out I probably have either an enchondroma or a unicameral bony cyst, both of which exist within the bone itself. The nifty part is that, from what I can tell, I'm probably facing either knee surgery or a less invasive procedure that involves taking bone marrow from my pelvis and injecting it into the site within my knee. Whee.

The good news is that within 10 minutes of phone calls I have an MRI scheduled for this Saturday morning, and once I know which type of bone scan my physician wants, I'll have that completed just as quickly. Apparently, the hospital is a little freaked out because our insurance is so good that they don't require any pre-authorization to cover the procedure. They're finding it difficult to believe that I don't need something writ in blood and sealed by magic before conducting the tests. This means that I will spend all of Friday checking and double-checking with the radiology department staff that they have everything they need to go ahead on Saturday, when no one will be in the office to answer any questions they might have. All lights must be green as of COB tomorrow.

As for tonight, I'll be medicating with Bailey's fo' sho'. If only I didn't have to get the kidlets off to school tomorrow morning/afternoon, things would be dandy. But I do and I will, plus my parents are coming down for a visit. My dad is relying heavily on Lula's ability to keep mum about going out to breakfast with them, so as not to appear traitorous in the eyes of his elder grandchildren who have the misfortune to be enrolled in all-day schooling. Lula, by contrast, enjoys a preschool schedule of classes not much longer than 2 hours per day. So far, she's no snitch - but I have the feeling that one of these days, she's going to spill the beans on the clandestine weekday visits of Granny and Grandpa either inadvertently or intentionally. It'll be interesting to see it whenever it happens.

I've been jonesing to read some more Betty MacDonald, lately. Her most famous work, The Egg and I, is a bonafide masterpiece of American literature and quite simply, one of the funniest and most charming books I've ever read. I took pains to acquire many of her other, out-of-print titles but have never gotten around to them. But I'm also overcome with the desire to re-read The Egg and I before I do anything else. If I have to be laid up with a book this weekend, I can't think of a finer choice. Maybe I could hustle my way through two of her titles if I put my mind to it. Besides, it seems I'll have a lot of time on my hands in hospital waiting lobbies with very little to do, aside from grimacing occasionally.

In happier news, I got a mass e-mail from my favorite artist this week. I generally send him a brief reply, because his missives are so damned delightful. Wonderful man that he is, he always sends me a personal reply that is nothing of ribald, which never fails to make me swoon like a southern belle with her corset on too tight. (This time I am "goddess" - a nod to Charlie? - and there are references to "pup tents".) Why some men can get away with being a perverted codger and others can't, I don't know. But I won't lie: Mama like. I learned recently that he was Zappa's visual coordinator for quite some time, which explains volumes about his artistic vision. Given that "Dinah Moe Humm" and "Dirty Love" are possibly my favorite songs EVER, it only made me love him more.

I'm off to self-medicate, now. I hope your weekend is happy and pain-free, friends!

Ethereal Tonight.

2011-03-19T22:27:00.000-04:00

I may have to go outside and howl if this big ol' moon keeps stealing my attention. It makes me want to play Screamin' Jay Hawkins at top volume and laugh maniacally whilst loping around the backyard in the hazy darkness.

Perhaps I shouldn't have poured myself an enormous glass of Bailey's? All I need now is an Irish Wolfhound.

No, really. I really need an Irish Wolfhound.

You thought I was kidding?

Pay Up.

2011-03-18T23:34:00.001-04:00

I've been wanting to write about fiscal responsibility for a while, now...but it's hard to navigate the terrain in such a way that one (hopefully) isn't perceived as a judgmental asshole. Have I been fiscally irresponsible in this lifetime? Yes, I have. I'm not perfect in any way, shape or form, and my fiduciary faithfulness is no exception. Have I bought things on seductive "No Interest For X Years!" promotions? Yes, I have. Ask me about most run-of-the-mill monetary stupidity, and I'm sure I've done it at one point or another.

I was blessed with parents who taught me to tremble and kneel before the Almighty Credit Score, offering up only the fattest calves to ensure a personal credit rating that exceeds 800 at all times. Some of it must have stayed with me, because my mistakes up to this point in my life have been relatively minor. I pay invoices on time, and avoid carrying any kind of credit card debt. Have I screwed up and lost a bill in the pile o' paperwork now and then? Yup. Thankfully, a good payment history has meant that I can't recall incurring a late fee that the credit company wouldn't ultimately rescind. I've been fortunate, only because smart behavior was pounded into me with medieval-like weaponry from an early age. It's quite possibly the only thing that has saved me from being an irretrievable fuck-up, because resistance to temptation is NOT my strong suit.

Anyway, I had a moment yesterday. The kids and I had a whole day together, and our plans after lunch with a loved one involved stopping at a brick-and-mortar storefront that sells the one and only thing I have wanted desperately since I was a very young child. (I'm going to decline to name it - suffice it to say that it's nothing that anyone needs, and it constitutes a large expenditure.) I was taking the very first field trip for my ongoing research mission to make my dream come true. I asked questions, dug behind the salesman's practiced veneer, and began to get a realistic idea of the scope of my undertaking.

Meanwhile, my heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings. Holding brochures in my hand, inspecting details up close...well, it was intoxicating. In the quiet corner where potential customers get down to brass tacks, the storefront displayed a promotion in a way that was both tasteful yet prominent: how to purchase the desired thing on significantly 'easier' terms. Near-instant gratification. The thought rolled over my skin like the unwanted touch of a very attractive pervert. Desirable and repellent in equal parts.

I floated out of the store with my three offspring circling me like happy little moons, asking questions and pressing for more information about the stop we'd just made. Instead of answering, I took a survey of what music we should play on the ride home. Then I got pleasantly lost in my own thoughts.

To be perfectly honest, I was scheming. The proximity of the desired object felt so close, I was willing to embrace some fuzzy math to make it mine. I weighed the merits of various approaches, but a good part of my heart had already begun to make The Thing mine, all mine. It wasn't until I came home that I was overcome with outrage and disgust for my bad behavior. The feeling hasn't left me, yet.

And so I began to take an unflinching inventory of my strengths and weaknesses with regard to family resources. I know too many people who lie to themselves about their behavior with money - people who declare bankruptcy after having bought things they knew they couldn't afford, people who regularly open new credit accounts while paying only the minimum on existing accounts, and people who don't have the first idea of how to live within their means. As in, under no circumstances shall you spend more than you have at this very moment. Because I know people who believe that spending money that is expected to come through, but hasn't yet, still constitutes living within their means.

Of course, I began to consider the larger implications of this approach to life. Why so many of us believe we are entitled to various things, or a certain standard of living without first having to work - and work hard - for it. It's revolting, and the vast majority of us should be roundly ashamed. Tracy informed me of some of her woes with regard to finding writers - one of her responsibilities for her employer. The wage that the employer could afford to pay was around $9/hour, with each freelance assignment's hours negotiated up front. Tracy was finding that college graduates couldn't compose simple articles if their lives depended upon it, and assignments were either turned in late or not at all. Yet they always billed for the full amount of hours, regardless of the quality of their work or level of completion.

Now, as I laughingly informed Tracy, I wouldn't pick my nose for $9/hour...but that's because I've worked my way past that point in life. Many hours of my life were spent earning pay at or less than nine dollars per hour, and I busted my ass to achieve a level of expertise in various things so I (hopefully) won't ever need to return to that point. Like my favorite sign in Jimmy John's says, "If you do the things you need to do when you need to do them, then someday, you'll be able to the things you want to do when you want to do them." Wisdom on a sandwich shop wall.

I worry a lot that we, as a nation, are on the precipice of a great disaster - close enough, in fact, that all hell could break loose tomorrow and it wouldn't surprise me. As individuals, we spend more than we earn. We carry too much debt (where previous generations avoided carrying any), and frequently we ask courts to absolve us of our responsibility to pay for things we purchased too freely. This cancerous approach to life has spread to every nook and cranny of the private and public sectors, and it will likely level us before anything else. Our government is infected from stem to stern, like some vast parasite that grows two new sucking tentacles for every one the people lop off.

I decided to more closely monitor every dime that comes in and out of our house. My goal is to walk in to the establishment of my choice one year from now and write a fat check for 100% of the cost of The Thing. I may not achieve my goal in one year, or even two - who can say what unexpected priorities will arise?

But the decision to forgo instant gratification is the right one, and a learning opportunity for my children, to boot. I have already answered their questions and they are humming with excitement over my proposal to include them in the household economic updates. They want to learn. Thank God. If I can impart even half the common sense my parents instilled in me, they will be better able to avoid pitfalls that are swallowing my peers whole. The sad thing is, too many of my peers don't seem to even feel the teeth of the thing eating them alive.

I hope your week is a thrifty and productive one, friends. (Now how's that for old-fashioned values? Thrifty! Productive! And, NO, those words should not sound quaint to our ears.) Now go put up some preserves, or something.

I Hope I'm Related To Him, Somehow.

2011-03-15T11:37:00.000-04:00

I concur, Very Demotivational. I concur.

Handsome, No?

2011-03-14T20:51:00.000-04:00

Per request, here's Flippy in all his ebony glory. Does he have the shiniest fur or WHAT? He hopped up on my portrait stool while I was busy shooting my niece. I was so happy to get a few frames! Happy Monday to everyone...

Share.

2011-03-12T10:29:00.001-05:00

It broke my heart to catch up on the news this morning and see the devastation of the people in Japan. We made a donation to the Red Cross for the victims of the earthquake and tsunami. I hope you'll consider doing so, as well. Tomorrow our parish will be staying together all day after Masses to coordinate emergency supply kits to be shipped. I also need to contact a loved one who has huge numbers of loved ones in Japan to see if they are OK and if they have any more specific suggestions of what we can do to help in their country's time of need.

My heart has been heavy with all these images of suffering, especially when I reflect on the peace of my own home. We'd done our traditional weekend thing this morning - pancakes from scratch, coffee and juice (pineapple this morning) and turkey bacon. As Eug and I went about cleaning up next to one another in the kitchen, he sighed suddenly and said, "Can you even imagine a 23-foot wall of water moving 100 mph toward your house? Because I'm having trouble grasping it." I didn't say anything, because there really isn't anything of value to add. So I hugged him and felt him slump, just a little. I'm sure his mind was on the people he knows whose families live in that part of the world.

Today I'm headed to the salon with Nicole for my first hair cut since my horrible decision to get bangs last June. I'm going to get a microscopic trim, which is more than enough excitement for me. I will also drink lots of coffee and chat up my stylist while she makes Nicole gorgeous for her night on the town. I've known my stylist since she was a very young girl and loved her fiercely ever since. She is the daughter of a previous co-worker (whom I also love ferociously), and when I was young and she was a mere pup, she would send me notes and letters that her mama would bring into work. I'd always write back on my lunch break with an irrepressible grin, or bring us subs for dinner at her house and help her with her homework. She tells me she has every one of my letters in a special box, and I have every one of hers saved, too.

I don't get to see her as often as I'd like, but when I do and we hug each other, I can practically feel a battery surge in me. I especially need to see her mama soon, who is one of the finest women I have ever had the privilege to know. Being her friend has made me a much better human being, and she knew and loved me through years during which I wasn't particularly lovable by anyone's standards. I was an angry, insecure, unfulfilled person working in a horrid environment for huge amounts of money. She was one of the rare people who could move through that place with her humor, ethics and dignity intact. Watching her, I came to know that I was in a place I had to leave, because I was further solidifying awful, negative and vitriolic traits with each passing day. Losing the opportunity to see her every day was the only thing I regret about walking away from that gravy train.

So, this morning I get to soak up the love. We had a scare this week with one of our beloved furbabies, Flip. He's such an amazing cat, and it still gets my Irish up that he'd been waiting so long to get adopted because he was a 'boring' all-black cat. He is all extremes - my feline counterpart. Flip goes big or goes home. When he loves you, it's practically affectionate assault. When he's mad at you, he goes for the jugular. I totally dig that.

Anyway, he got very sick, very fast. As a kitten, he'd had an upper respiratory infection that had left him with one occasionally drippy eye. (We dubbed it the 'Flip drip'.) Our vets said he'd likely always have it, and they were right. But when the drainage looked gooey on Tuesday and I found large quantities of crud in his ears that wasn't there the night before, I called in for an emergency appointment immediately. He'd lost weight since his last visit, so I asked for extensive bloodwork to make sure we missed nothing. You should've seen him fight when we extracted the blood sample! He made mama so proud! (Even though he gave me a major taste of fang and claw...)

He's responding to the heavy-duty meds, and that makes some of my worry abate. I don't mess around when it comes to my babies and their health. Murray also had some symptoms, so he's being medicated, too. I made the mistake of remembering that Murray's 1st birthday is approaching fast, which made me think of the fact that I first laid eyes on teeny, tiny Murray the same day we euthanized Claude. I cried and Eug sniffled while we reminisced about Claude and what an amazing, one-in-a-million cat he was. Then I looked up and saw my most prized possession: the painting of Rolf done for me by a loved one. I got all choked up AGAIN, missing my dogs. Argh. If I'm like this and I'm not even forty, imagine what an emotional mess I'll be just a decade or two down the road.

All of this makes me realize...I'm going to do a little research and see if I can't find what the best charity for animal disaster relief in Japan might be. If you have any suggestions, feel free to let me know. I hope your weekend is a generous one, friends.

Home Again, Home Again.

2011-03-06T18:13:00.001-05:00

And, yes, my offspring automatically say "Jiggity jig!" when I utter the subject line. I'm a firm believer in teaching the classics.

Vacation was a-fucking-mazing. Expensive? Very. But gloriously worth it. I learned something new, too. I previously subscribed to the school of thought that says that it doesn't really matter if your hotel room is luxurious, so long as it's clean and everyone has a decent place to sleep. That, my friends, IS A LIE.

I know, I know. We tell ourselves things like "How much time do you spend in a hotel room, anyway?" and book an inexpensive room. This is a grievous miscalculation, and I'm going to tell you why. I think we'd all agree that travel of any sort brings a kind of unique stress with it, no? Planning, packing, time in transit and all that. Typically, this is followed by checking to an adequate room and getting on with the sightseeing. It sounds fine in theory, and if you don't know any better, then it probably is fine.

Until, that is, you've stayed somewhere truly lovely. A place to which you return that feels like a little vacation all by itself. Places with multiple private balconies and whirlpool tubs so deep the water comes up to your chin and roaring fireplaces at the touch of a button. Places with nearly as many bathrooms as you have people occupying the suite, for heaven's sake!

That's right. I've been to the promised land, and I'm not coming back. I'm going to be forty this year, and I have promised myself that I will never stay in an 'adequate' hotel room again if I can possibly prevent it. (And the limits of what I'd be willing to do to prevent it are alarmingly flexible, so let's hope it never comes to that.)

Over vacation, Eug and I were playing sporadic rounds of our favorite marital game, informally titled "Pick One". We were especially good at the game over GIGANTIC piña coladas - do you suppose that could be a causal connection? The last one I remember is him forcing me to choose between listening to an entire CD of Smash Mouth or Barenaked Ladies. (Hypothetically speaking, of course.) After groaning audibly and writhing in pain just having to imagine it, I went with the lesser evil: Smash Mouth. Once those turds from Barenaked Ladies get their nasal voices into your head, the residue lasts for days. Gak.

The house is empty right now, so I'm going to grab a movie and hop on the treadmill. We bought "Waiting For Superman" on Blu-Ray, but Eug would be (rightfully) peeved if I watched it without him. Fine, fine...twist my arm. I'll have to watch a hideous horror movie, instead! After that, I'll tuck the kidlets in and invest some time in a little art project of mine. How much time, I don't know...that all depends on how much my workout and one cup of coffee agitate my neurons, friends. If I wind up finishing it, I'll probably suffer from involuntary facial tics caused by sleep deprivation tomorrow. So let's hope I don't finish, shall we?

May your slumber be sweet and plentiful, friends!

Various and Sundry

2011-03-02T16:38:00.002-05:00

Does anyone still wear a watch these days? And if so, why? With all the devices I have on my person at any given moment, I would sooner trim my cuticles with a chef's knife than strap a uni-tasker to my wrist. OK, OK... I understand why someone like my mom still wears a watch. But her cell phone weighs only slightly less than a bag of flour, and she just switched to a cordless phone for the house two years ago. The only thing she carries that tells time is her watch, for crying out loud.

Anyway, the awareness that I'll probably never wear a watch again made me a wee bit sad, because it made me think of my battered Tiffany watch on the shelf. It needs a host of repairs that the good people at Tiffany & Co. were more than happy to do, but I gave up on wearing a watch rather than plunk down the $200 on repairs ten years ago. (Heaven only knows what it would cost, now!)

I have copious packing to do tonight, but I'm not too concerned. I'll pour myself a drink after dinner and review my lists and putter around here, perfectly content. I do loves me some list-making. In fact, I found a mini-genre of books that I didn't know existed yesterday: DIY autobiographies in list form. The books were sufficiently charming in person that I ordered nine different styles so that I might be able to peruse them at my leisure. I want to give one as a gift for someone who has recently lost a loved one, but I need to make sure that there's nothing inappropriate in whichever one I ultimately choose.

I found myself in the local vacuum store today, which is a not-surprisingly erotic place for a woman with OCD. I am strongly leaning toward a Simplicity for my next vacuum, since they are manufactured in the USA and the company is owned and headquartered by Americans in the United States, AND THAT SHIT MATTERS. Plus, they are fantastic pieces of machinery. The owner romanced me with Miele uprights and canisters, and I have to admit I may have swooned, just a little bit. You should've seen the fit and finish lines on the Miele practically disappear once it was turned on: it has a self-sealing system that sucks everything in better than an industrial girdle. Dysons, by comparison, are made of shitty low-grade plastic by peasants in Malaysia and lose about 40% more dust to the air because of their bagless design. Having used both styles (including a Dyson), I can say that a bagless vacuum will never cruise my house, again. Except Roomba. Roomba gets an exception because that's just fun. We loved turning Roomba on right before we left the house, then about ten minutes later one of us would turn to the other and say, "You know, I'm vacuuming right now."

Yeah, I know. I get excited about vacuums. But sleek machinery that functions perfectly is sexy, damn it.

My favorite home in the world is for sale again. (Those of you who know me can e-mail me for the link.) It's a scant $600K for an enormous, one-of-a-kind modern masterpiece on 10 acres. It also has a giant pool, as well as a separate office/house that clocks in at nearly 2000 square feet all by itself. (Cavernous library and photo studio, anyone?) Le sigh, le swoon.

We've been neck-deep in documentaries, once again. I enjoyed the little film that was made based on the bestseller "Freakonomics" quite a bit, despite its tendency toward glibness. More interestingly, we are currently spellbound by "Until The Light Takes Us" - which I do NOT endorse for anyone whose taste in music isn't varied to the point of comical extremes *and* whose tolerance for the repugnant is not in the 98th percentile or above. Eug and I have both points well-covered, so it's been a veritable wellspring of discussion and commentary for both of us.

Ah, well. I'd better get a head start on the evening. I hope the weekend finds you all healthy and happy.

Abundance

2011-02-25T23:47:00.000-05:00

I now fully appreciate the old saying "Living well is the best revenge." And, oh my goodness, we are living well Chez Nous tonight. I am almost embarrassed to tell y'all about it...almost, I said.

We were hugely blessed this week with both unexpected earnings and windfalls (some of which my attorney will happily accept after our meeting next week, no doubt). We had no inkling we'd be receiving either. I feel a bit like Ned Flanders when he calls on God for a favor. Except I am hardly Ned Flanders-esque, nor have I done any asking, recently.

The little ones don't know it yet, but we are whisking them away for a mini-vacation that involves bathing suits at the end of next week, and all I want to do is run around the house emitting a low-volume but high-pitched "Eeeeeeeeee!" sound. We are also taking a couple of loved ones and staying in some seriously swanky digs, to boot. You see, she happened to send us a text that said simply, "I need to get away. Soon." only moments after we received our most excellent news. It seemed right to share the love, no?

The best part is that I'll be able to pack my current photography equipment with virtually no concern over its well-being, since its obsolescence is imminent, anyway. Plus, there's a safe in every bedroom of our accommodations, so chances are my old workhorse will make it home intact. Then, I'll be able to upgrade Henry by passing it down and light his photography fire anew. I dunno if his young arms will be able to hoist the beast with my 24-70mm 2.8/L on it, so I'll probably start him off with a kit zoom lens. Hopefully he'll graduate to something more interesting than that within a year or two. The day my son asks for a prime lens with a giant aperture is the day my heart will burst with pride, I tell you.

Anyway, back to the joy. The bunch of us will be taking a long, long weekend next week. We pow-wowed and miraculously came up with 5 glorious days in which we have no work or volunteer-related commitments that cannot be transplanted to a different day. That's a small miracle, in and of itself. My only priority will be to schedule many visitors to quench the felines' thirst for lovin' while we're away.

Speaking of volunteering, I found myself in the company of 21 pre-schoolers today. During previous volunteering days with the wee ones, I was always struck by how they are already their own little people, but without a trace of self-consciousness. One little boy has remembered me from the moment we first met, and he firmly attached himself to my side for the afternoon. We were all sitting on the floor, listening to the teacher read a story. Lula had jealously plunked herself down in my lap immediately, lest another child take up residence there - which, to be fair, had happened the last two sessions I was on duty. But this little boy and his "dial everything all the way up" personality snuggled up beside me, undaunted. It was darling. Earlier that morning, I had put 'fairy dust' on both mine and Lula's eyelids for our special day. As I cuddled Lula in my lap, I glanced over at that tiny tank of a boy next to me. He was gazing up at me, and when I smiled at him, he just whispered "You're...sparkly" before he broke into a dreamy, faraway smile. Another tasty moment was when I winked at a little girl from across the room, and to my surprise, she was able to wink right back at me! I dare say this child perfected the saucy wink no fewer than 27 years before I managed to do so.

As for me, I can't decide whether to start my next book tonight or indulge in horror movies, instead. I've been reading at a pace that leaves me mildly dizzy, so maybe a good flick is in order. The entire house is fast asleep, which means that I can choose something truly brutal (ergo, foreign). Apropos of nothing? I was unduly charmed by "The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia", a documentary you should add to your Netflix queue if you have a taste for the offbeat, like me. Tomorrow brings pajamas and pancakes and video game showdowns until we decide to be done. Satchmo was right - it's a wonderful world.

Multi-Talented

2011-02-21T21:04:00.000-05:00

I like to joke with loved ones who come to me for advice that they must really be stuck between a rock and a hard place to seek my counsel on any issues of import. But I do my best to give them everything I've got, with the express statement that I hope I've been helpful in some small way. The upside to this is that my loved ones get right down to work when I have a problem. I mentioned a situation I'm currently addressing, and my loved ones have morphed practically overnight into a veritable hive of angry, buzzing bees. Thank you to those of you who've done enormous legwork for me in the past 48 hours, especially Joe.

Anyhoo, one of the more amusing matters in which I was ostensibly useful today was interior décor. It's OK to laugh - I did, too. But apparently my opinion is valued, and that's a mightily edifying thing. My ability to distinguish between shades of taupe with grey or pink undertones was lauded today, as was my discerning direction in dining room furniture. Who knew?

The kidlets and I braved the streets and did a little Bauhaus-driving to spend time with our amazing co-family this afternoon. On the way there, we saw a sedan being pushed out of a small-ish snowbank by two strapping volunteers, one of whom had at least half of his ass fully hanging out of his jeans. His pinkened-by-the-frost cheeks and the majority of his crack were on display for the five long, long minutes we had to wait for clear passage. Our vehicle was practically vibrating with mirth by the time we were able to drive past.

As of today, we made plans to see John Pinette with a large group of friends and family, and I can hardly wait! I am a long-time fan, but never had the opportunity to see a show. God forbid they should be taping that night, because once my laugh gains momentum, there's little that can be done to stop it. (Unless I make a major effort to suppress it and wind up doing a "Muttley", instead.) Consumption of even one cocktail will only make things worse, given how rarely I drink. I have a fiver that says one particular family member plies me with booze for the express purpose of watching me laugh that hard, too. She's evil that way - one of many reasons to love her.

I have some proofing and other work this week, but I'm also hoping to set up my session photography equipment. I've been out of that saddle for too long, now. I've set a couple of personal goals for myself in terms of technical understanding (all lighting-related...it's tricky stuff!), and once I have them mastered, I have the green light for a Canon 5D Mark II and an 85 mm 1.2/L. Well, actually I have the green light for them now, but I'm going to hold out for a tiny bit. I do better when faced with a challenge, you know?

Speaking of a challenge, I am entertaining the idea of growing seedlings with the kidlets. The challenge presents itself in the form of fierce feline interference from Flip, Andy and Murray. I'm thinking of setting up the 'grow station' (a wire rack that allows for the hanging lights and trays of peat pots) and wrapping the whole sucker in plastic wrap, save for the openings at the top and bottom. Would that constitute a fire hazard, I wonder? With all the crazy old, rare wood in this house, we'd probably go up like a tinderbox. It would be fun to grow seedlings - the schmoos would luh-uh-UV creating the seed starting mix in buckets and dabbling each seed into place. Heck, I miss being able to do that, too. But all this kitty cat cuddling comes at a cost - one that we are more than happy to pay. I mean, y'all have seen Andy...he's downright plushious!

May your week be filled with surmountable challenges and the support of innumerable allies, folks.

Stay Off The Moors, Folks.

2011-02-20T16:55:00.001-05:00

The moon has been full just recently. I saw it hanging so luminous and huge in the sky the other night as I drove home. The craggy surface detail was clear and vivid - it was like some astonishing bas-relief from a great museum. Looked like you could reach out and run your fingers across its surface.

Appropriately enough, the newest season of "Survivor" started this week and it is guano-crazy with lunatics already. Sadly for my better half, his favorite competitor was voted out the first week: Francesca. If Ralph hadn't been chosen for this season, Francesca would've been my automatic favorite, too. But I was so firmly in Ralph's camp from the moment that freakin' fantastic hillbilly opened his mouth, there was no going back. He had me at "dumbass". Although once Francesca uttered the words "droopy, fuchsia briefs", I was hopelessly in love with her, too. BIG change from the last season, when I really didn't give a rat's arse about who did or didn't win until the very, very end.

Someone I love made a book suggestion for me the other day and I laughed out loud, just thinking of the short stacks of recently-acquired books that await my attention. I count 29 on my kitchen counter alone. (But I still made a note of the suggestion!) Thankfully, I am making great progress this week and finished a biography about addiction in one sitting just yesterday. Christmas brought an enormous tome on Teddy Roosevelt (my all-time-favorite President), but I think I'm going to knock off a few of the smaller books before I tackle that one. Per a loved one's recommendation, Eug is plowing through "True Grit", after which I'll grab it and catch up. I finished "Cutter and Bone" by Newton Thornburg a few days ago and it's fantastic. Very tight, concise prose. And very masculine. Good stuff. Tonight I think I'll start "The Lynne Truss Treasury".

But first, I have my heart set on some fun. I promised my eldest spawn a couple of books (Santa mistakenly brought the third book in a series as a gift, and we don't have Nos. 1 and 2) so perhaps we'll take care of that oversight. He is happily occupied for the moment with "Galax-Arena", even though I wonder how he'll manage the colloquialisms. The book is labeled for much older children, and I was about to decline permission to select it until I remembered that I badgered my parents to let me read "The Shining" when I was nine. (Don't blame my parents - I was a relentless cuss then and now.) Middle spawn just came home with a brand-new Camelbak and is thoroughly pleased with herself and her portable hydration. (She really enjoys making the straw end 'talk' by squeezing it.) Wee spawn would be happy just to get out and about, me thinks. But my super-secret idea involves sightseeing and chocolate cheesecake ice cream, so I think everyone will be thrilled.

The snow is falling like a picture postcard, and since tomorrow begins the kidlets' winter break, I think we'll have just enough to play in. This means that I'm going to sign off, because the business of checking my hot chocolate supplies is imperative if we're going to do this break up right. Safe travel, friends!

Serenity, Now.

2011-02-18T17:02:00.000-05:00

Please hang on a moment while I massage my temples.

...

Thank you.

It's been that kind of week, in a few ways. The week has moved past as rapidly as the fast winds moving across the state, right now. But the winds are warm, and felt so good to my skin that I went out for a bit in short sleeves. Heaven.

Speaking of other goodness, I got to see the first coats of paint go on Nicole's kitchen walls. The wainscoting and part of the walls are now a deep chestnut brown, and the rest of the kitchen is a shade of vibrant blue that is probably found only in the waters surrounding the Seychelles. It's impossible not to grin when you see it. Together, we located a snazzy rug for the kitchen that will totally tie the room together. Wanna see?

Awesome, no? I always prefer that my surroundings amuse me, and so far I am highly amused. And since I spend a whole lotta time in their abode, it's nice that their selections thus far have pleased me so much. Heh heh heh.

The plans for our very first vacation are coming along nicely. Eug's wish for Niagara Falls will finally come true this summer. I have to admit that even I am excited to see it, after all this research - and I generally don't like to stray more than 15 feet from my yard, so that's sayin' something.

Does it concern anyone else out there how angry everyone is? I used to be the only wackadoo ready to blow a gasket if you looked askance at me, but these days the condition appears to be pandemic. Oddly enough, my natural response to this has been to swing in the opposite direction. Don't get me wrong, I still get unreasonably pissed off over things - it just happens much less often. Generally speaking, I can't remember the last time I felt this peaceful.

Maybe it's the mild weather. I find myself wool-gathering and thinking ahead to garden tomatoes and our cheap-o pool in hot sunshine.

I bought a little t-shirt for my schmoo for the 'wearing o' the green' at the elementary school, come Saint Patrick's Day. On it, Snoopy hugs Woodstock and the green shirt simply says "I Am SO Lucky!" Cue Tracy's favorite phrase, here: What I have is nothing short of an embarrassment of riches.

I hope your weekend is a good one.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot.

2011-02-11T00:23:00.000-05:00

I happened upon a news article today that was both amusing and disturbing in content. Apparently, a public high school teacher for the Central Bucks School District in Pennsylvania named Natalie Munroe did more than a bit of venting about her chosen vocation on her personal blog. A parent found her blog and scoured it for inflammatory material. Said anonymous parent had to go back through more than a year's worth of blog posts to find it, but find it (s)he did. I did a little digging, and easily found all of the cached posts from Ms. Munroe's now-defunct site. (Note: For the internet-inept, be sure to click the word "cached" underneath each listing to actually see the post in question.) You can read the real doozy of a post that got the locals lighting torches and grabbing pitchforks here.

The 'news' article turned out to be intentionally vague on some points and, as a result, somewhat misleading. The young woman did some ranting about what is undoubtedly a very, very difficult job. My heart went out to her. Yes, it was a stupid thing to put on the internet. However, at this point, even most senior citizens have undoubtedly done something really stupid on the internet.

As I browsed her archives, she did come across as perhaps a wee bit immature and obstinate. But since I have almost a decade on her and it could easily be argued that I am still both of those things, I wasn't inclined to point fingers. After all, there's no amount of money on earth that could persuade me to take up employment as a public high school teacher. I was inclined to chalk the whole thing up to a moment of youthful indiscretion and temper on the teacher's part.

But I must admit, the more I read of her archives, the more a picture of an angry, unhappy employee emerged. Is a person's blog a fully accurate picture of the person? Of course not. The authoress seems to be a lovely and lovable person in countless other regards, even in the incomplete snippets that constitute a 'blog'. And I can certainly sympathize with job-related misery, because I once worked for a large corporation under hideous circumstances. It took time for me to realize just how deeply unhappy I was in that environment, but once I did, I left. I was told by many that it was virtually unheard of for anyone to resign, especially since I was both salaried and a 'minority'. The money was too good. But, in my opinion, there is no sufficient compensation for a majority of one's waking hours spent mirthless. So I left.

It seems to me that if ever there were a profession in which one has a moral obligation to either change lanes or exit the freeway entirely when you're running on empty, it's teaching. If this young woman has lost substantive joy in teaching, I hope she finds the grace and the strength to design a new path for herself - both for her own sake and for the students in her classroom. I also hope the pitchfork-wielding locals find some grace and compassion for a still-young adult who has not yet borne the burden of rearing teenagers and, because of this, doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground, yet. Parenthood should humble us all, eventually - and genuine humility always begets forgiveness.

And, really? Teenagers are incredibly fucking annoying. It's just silly to pretend they're not. They have been since the dawn of time, and always will be. It's part of The Grand Design, I'm sure. In short, everybody should just take a step back and breathe for a while. If you are even remotely connected to this incident and you find yourself frothing at the mouth for either side, it's time to remove yourself from the equation, me thinks. For some reason, I really feel for everyone involved in this situation, and I'm praying for grace and wisdom all around.

On a side note, I'm having approximately 800 doctors' appointments in the next ten days. Included among the myriad reasons for said appointments will be an earnest attempt to discover why my knees make very loud sounds...sounds that can only be described as the squishy sound of tuna fish being mixed with a ton of Miracle Whip and the crackling sound of pretzel rods being crunched. This ought to be interesting. On a happier note, we had cupcakes tonight!

Yes, it's true. Cupcakes are all it takes to turn my frown upside-down. And I remain convinced that real buttercream can successfully mediate the thorniest of disputes. Perhaps the Middle East is mired in strife because it's too damned thermogenic for a real buttercream there.

You Sure You Want To Read This?

2011-01-21T22:21:00.003-05:00

Because it's going to get gross, and fast. You can still back away, you know. Wait a week or so before coming around again - I won't take it personally, at all. Last chance...

...

...

...

At this point, I am assuming I'm writing only to myself because no reasonable human being would still be here, right? OK, then. I was able to muster the energy to make it to the doctor yesterday, and that turned out to be a very good thing for two reasons. The first and most important reason is that I found out that I am actually 5' 7.5" tall, rather than the 5' 6" that has always stuck in my mind. Is it strange that I am only now finding this out? I made the nurse double-check, I was so surprised. (And no, I wasn't wearing any shoes.)

The second reason I was glad that I saw the doctor is that I already had pneumonia at work by the time I showed up on his doorstep, only 48 hours into feeling lousy. Apparently, I looked and sounded bad enough that he chose to prescribe an antibiotic that practically shouts "Ka-POW!" when you open the packaging, and all but does a little end-zone touchdown dance before you swallow a capsule. My digestive system is proportionally displeased with this remedy, as one might imagine.

My good-natured physician also prescribed a sparkly new bottle of Hycodan for me, too. Never heard of it? Oh, honey. You have my deepest condolences. More on that later, though.

So, I'm in the doctor's office for a total of 40 minutes. Right before I left my car, I opened my visor mirror and applied some powder to my haggard face. When I got back to my car 40 minutes later, I checked my visor mirror again after doing my best impression of a Canadian goose into a Kleenex - gotta make sure I mopped up adequately, you know? And there before my red and weary eyes are not one, but TWO newly-minted, enormous zits on one side of my nose. I'm talking 'head of cauliflower'-type zits, here. And of course they had to show up on the side of my nose that faced the nurse and the doctor for the majority of my visit, natch. In the last 24 hours, it's like my entire body has erupted in one way or another. (But I really should whisper, because I don't want to make the antibiotics angry. They scare me a wee bit.)

I navigate the awful roads and traffic and pharmacy wait times and Mr. Toad's Wild Bathroom Ride when the initial dose of antibiotics hits my mewling, pathetic stomach to reach the point in the evening where everyone else is asleep. I am sleeping on the couch in an attempt to shield my beloved husband from this current contagion and keep an ear open in the event that one of the kids should fall victim to this flu. Now I can safely take my Hycodan, and...sleep? Noooo, hangonnasekkon. Ah feel waaaaaay too gud to schleep! Whoo, lessee. Mebbee watch a movie. Yup. That would be kewl. Buh whish wun? Mebbee so'um artsy. Yeah, thissis spose to be gud.

Any guesses as to which film got the nod? Michael Haneke's Caché, which is apparently considered by many critics to one of the über-films of the decade. And even though I was literally unable to keep my head from lolling about on my neck, I still managed to read all of the subtitles. I spent an hour tonight reading various dissections of the film - the most coherent of which seems to be Roger Ebert's - and I have come to an amusing conclusion. I do believe that riding the waves of prescription-strength cold medicine significantly aided my ability to absorb Michael Haneke's work. Because every time I read something about how Haneke showed the film to friends for the first time, and they never noticed such-and-such or this-and-that, I was thinking, "Duuuuude. I totally noticed that. Tell me something I di'int see, bitches!" Come to think of it, perhaps the medication hasn't worn off completely, just yet.

After the film, I shut down both the entertainment system and the biological system for a full reboot. When I awoke the next morning, I barked twice. Loudly. I looked down at what my hand had reflexively caught and found myself staring at a ball of phlegm that was approximately 2/3 the size and hardness of a golf ball. Except golf balls aren't gray-green, are they? How the hell was I breathing, I wonder? Y'all are mighty lucky that I was too sleepy to think to grab my camera. 'Twould serve you right for reading this far, you sicko. (Hee!)

Even more punitive for you might be a simple self-portrait. Because if the pneumonia and the resultant side effects are an Independence Day fireworks show, my face is the trashed parking lot after the families have packed up the full cans of beer and the folding chairs and gone home. Detritus and signs of damage are everywhere.

Speaking of signs, I should've seen this wave of illness coming at me for a bunch of reasons. Last Sunday at Mass, we sang "Here I Am, Lord" and I was suddenly all drippy and sniffly. (To be fair, that song always chokes me up, but I am usually able to contain myself by not even trying to sing the chorus. I think of something ridiculous and decidedly un-churchy and then I'm usually OK to sing the next verse.) I had no Kleenex on me, whatsoever...I know, I know - take away my 'Mom Card'. So I wipe my leaky eyes with my bare hands and turn to Henry to whisper, "Is my makeup running down my face?" At this moment, he physically recoils from the sight of his sodden mother hovering over him. Once he regains composure, he hisses "What?" I repeat the question. He ponders for a moment as he looks me over, distastefully. "No, it's there. But you do look...old. Like, all of a sudden." Greeeaaaaat. Thankfully, I was already so embarrassed to be crying with no Kleenex to hide behind, that his comment only made me laugh. But don't think I've forgotten to use my under-eye moisturizer for even one night this week, either.

As I flossed and he brushed, my all-too-honest son inquired of me last night, "Mama. What is UP with all the heavy breathing?" I turned to him, utterly deadpan, and said, "Dude. I have PNEUMONIA. Any other questions?"

Yep. That's the kind of mom *I* am, baby.

Nothin' But Fumes In The Tank

2011-01-20T13:15:00.001-05:00

Just after I wrote my last post, I was hit with a tidal wave of bonafide influenza. And although a large part of me wished that some angel of mercy would stop by yesterday and end my sorry existence, it was also a bit of a relief. Why? Because it went a long, long way toward explaining my foul mood.

I'm upright today, thank goodness. I also have a doctor's appointment this evening, because I sure as hell don't want to end up with pneumonia. (Tuesday night I got the chills/shakes so bad that I inadvertently threw the bottle of NyQuil across the room not once, but twice!) But at least I want to continue living, as opposed to how I felt yesterday.

A large portion of my mental energy of late has revolved around how to graciously say "no" to invitations and/or requests that come from perfectly lovely people who only want, in one way or another, more of you. An invitation to go camping this summer with two families we barely know has reared its ugly head, and I really, really do not want to go. I own one small tent and two sleeping bags, and I sure as shit don't feel like spending money on even one more sleeping bag, much less all the other stuff I'm sure we'd need. Because our kids are close friends, there's been a lot of cheerleading pep-talk, telling me how much fun it will be, even though I said on many occasions that we are NOT campers. I could say this: "I know you really want us to do this, but I have to be honest and say that I just don't want to go. But I hope you know how much we appreciate the fact that you'd even want to invite us." I just hope it would be received well, you know?

Ah, I'm just tired. Worn out from all the little things people request. It's not their fault that my tank is so out of gas, but I might need to consider a 'people sabbatical' again. Or something.

All Over The Map

2011-01-18T20:32:00.001-05:00

I'm feeling so incredibly uncharitable tonight. Yeah, I know you're not shocked by that.

See, I teach catechism to middle schoolers each week. My class is super-small - only five kids, assuming everybody is in attendance. A couple of the kids are way above average, in terms of the thought they put into their questions and comments. There are also a couple of kids who are generally average in every regard, with sporadic moments of incredibly annoying behavior and amazing insightfulness, in equal amounts.

And then there is one last child. Hyperactive, ill-mannered, disrespectful, self-centered and literally physically incapable of shutting his/her freaking piehole. Ever. When I tell you that newborn infants possess more self-control than she/he has, I am not joking even one little bit.

I won't begin to pretend that I know even a fraction of this child's story, or any possible reasons for the way he/she is. It is entirely possible that she/he is bonafide ADHD, or some other variant. He/she may have emotional or physical obstacles of which I am not aware. I know these things logically, but my emotions are quite a ways behind.

Every time we gather in the church before class, I pray very, very hard for the gift of grace to arrive while I attempt to teach. Boy, do I need it.

Because, at this point, I am having trouble liking this kid even one teensy, tiny little bit. In my more shameful daydreams, I envision saying things to this child like "Would you please shut the fuck UP, already?"

Ugh. I don't like feeling this way, and I especially don't like the fact that I am trying to fight my way out of it and I don't seem to be making any progress. It's about as far from "Christian" as I've been in a while, and considering my laundry list of flaws, that's sayin' something.

But let me get one thing in particular off my chest, please. To parents everywhere: If you have a 'talker', especially one who continues to yammer on or goof around when you've told them to knock it off, please consider incorporating some new and different consequences. Might I suggest "Apply Palm A to Butt B?" Or how about hideous chores the second the 'failure to yield' rears its ugly head? (Close personal contact with cleaning supplies and the inner rim of the toilet bowl is one I recommend.)

Your child is not a future successful attorney or international negotiator...your child is a current and future PAIN IN THE ASS. If you cannot say to your child something along the lines of "Shut your yap right this second, or so help me, God..." and have them clamp their lips shut with an audible 'bang' for fear of what you will, in fact, dish out... then maybe you are all bark and no bite, parentally-speaking. I know the old saw that "children should be seen and not heard" has generally been pooh-poohed by current society, but I'm thinking we might want to bring it back to some extent. Kids today might be significantly smarter if they were expected to listen more and yap less. Perhaps you find your child's conversation fascinating. However, I guarantee you that the rest of us do not. Children should have some clue regarding this fact, me thinks.

Another thing: When did teaching children to respect other people's belongings disappear so completely from the face of the earth? Furniture is my current complaint. Are there any parents left who teach their children NOT to lean back in chairs or put their dirty shoes on the upholstered parts of the kneelers in church (or any other upholstered surface, for that matter)? Anyone? Listen, I don't give a shit what you want to allow in your own home. But you're doing your kids a GIANT disservice if you haven't taught and enforced the basics of bodily control when in contact with others' possessions. Your kids will go out into the world without you - for sleepovers, extracurricular activities, birthday parties for friends - and they won't have any idea how to control themselves, because you've raised a walking, talking id. I have personally witnessed this trajectory for a few people from earliest childhood all the way through to adulthood. Other people DO notice that you've turned out an ill-mannered boor, and your kid WILL suffer socially because of it. Which really sucks for them and makes me sad.

OK, ranty time is over. For the moment.

I finally broke down and bought the cheapest Kindle version Amazon currently makes. I did it only because an author whose work I enjoy sells his Kindle books for the tiniest fraction of the paperback cost of the book. I could have four paperbacks at a certain price, or I could save $11 per book and put that toward a Kindle. As Eug likes to tease me, "It's OK, honey. You've taught me that you've got to spend money to save money!" I'll take the ribbing, because 40-odd bucks toward a Kindle was just enough to tip the scales for me.

Apparently, the reviews on the reliability of the gadget are quite mixed, so I'm hoping I luck out and mine lives a long and happy life. But it does have its advantages - that built-in dictionary is to die for. (Shut up - I'm a major dictionary nerd, and proud of it.) I've committed to using it only when it is significantly advantageous to choose the Kindle version over a 'real' book, and so far that hasn't happened very often. But, for example, a loved one suggested we read the original novel of "True Grit" prior to seeing the Coen brothers' remake when it's released to DVD. Poking around on the 'net, I see that the Kindle version is spot-on, price wise, compared with any other avenue for purchase. Except that I get it on my Kindle instantly. Gratify me, Amazon...gratify me!

Side note: Does anyone (aside from teens spending the money their parents give to them without having to earn) still go to the movies? I'm still sick over the last movie I paid to see in the theater (Coen brothers, again) because two tickets cost the same amount the DVD would've. It's like I can hear a toilet flushing that money right down the drain. I'm a killjoy, I know. I also know that not everybody has a kick-ass Laservue TV and home theater, but still. Besides, my homemade, popped-on-the-stovetop-in-real-butter popcorn crushes any competitors in the snack world.

Tomorrow I am headed with my sister to the salon for her semi-annual 'do restoration. I am spiritually committed to the Year of Bad Hair, so I have no plans for anything other that the smallest trim humanly possible. Maybe I will just have the loved one who is also my stylist simply wave the scissors in the vague vicinity of my head and call it good.

Last thing: Please reserve a prayer for a family we know. Mom lost her battle with a brain tumor this past Christmas morning, leaving behind Dad, a fourth grader and first-grade twins. My prayers of late have been almost exclusively devoted to the hope that the youngest children are able to remember their mama in some tangible way when they have grown to be adults. (Sigh.) God bless us all with some grace. Lots and lots of grace.

Hi, I'm Kettle.

2011-01-06T16:56:00.000-05:00

And you? Are most definitely Pot.

Hey, it's okay - no one gets out of this parenthood game unscathed. We all come out scratched and filthy in the end, which is a beautiful thing, when you consider the potential for learning humility and self-awareness. And, though there are parents who'd like to pretend otherwise, every one of us 'screws up' by somebody's standard. (Who wants to bet there wasn't a gaggle of hens clucking and pointing fingers when Mary and Joseph lost track of Jesus in Jerusalem when he was twelve and started the caravan home to Nazareth without him before realizing he was showing off in the temple? Because I got a fiver that says there was.)

What the heck am I talking about? Allow me to explain. The larger issue of what matters to each parent in the course of raising their children has surfaced in no fewer than a dozen different situations these past few weeks. And, as a related issue, the tendency of parents to think that what matters to them should matter to you, too.

All of this line of thinking was planted during the first of several late-night discussions with my better half regarding the general state of 'da yout' today. He'd made observations about various bad behaviors at large and asked me if I could recall our kids ever doing this or that. In most cases, I could recall it, even if it was only a brief phase. A few were things with which our kids had never had a problem. (I am knocking wood even as I type those words.) But my wonderful husband was in an "Ooooh, you don't even wanna know what I'd do if our kid fill-in-this-blank-with-bad-behavior-of-choice..." kind of mood. It was funny to listen to, and of course I agreed with his suppositions on each and every WWYD? point. But that's why we're married to each other. We're in sync. Nevertheless, I had to gently remind him that different people see things differently - and that, given individual circumstances, both people may turn out to be right.

I worked through this issue, myself, only this week. I think I mentioned how much the selections for Henry's 3rd grade 'holiday' concert bothered me in an earlier post, so I won't re-hash the specifics. So I e-mailed his teacher. I let her know that I was seeking guidance, information and her opinion. She wrote back with a very reasonable response that gave me a lot to think about. The upshot of my boring story? I still don't like the choices for the 3rd grade concert...but I'm okay with not liking it and content to let my kids participate in music class but skip the actual concert in the years to come.

But it took me a while to get there, because I was a trifle up-in-arms. "Why should kids be learning any portion of songs from which they have to scrub certain lyrics?", I sniffed. "What is wrong with some of these parents who are fine with this, anyway?"

Don't get me wrong: I still think the selections for the concert sucked. And, if pressed, I would also admit that I think parents who don't agree with me suck at least a little, too. But those parents could come up with a dozen reasons why I suck as a parent within five minutes of knowing me, too. What I consider "appropriate" may be totally "inappropriate" for you, and vice versa. Your kid may be able to handle things my kid can't. Your parental 'hot buttons' are almost assuredly different than mine. I guess the key is finding a rotation of like-minded parents whose families are a good fit for the time and place and shrugging off the rest. Or perhaps the key is pharmaceuticals. Yes, yes - that's it. Pharmaceuticals are definitely the right answer.

(Tangent: Are people who say "vice-a versa" completely annoying or weirdly charming? I can't decide. But I will tell you that people who say jew-luh-ree are going straight to Hades.)

Speaking of being allowed to have your own damned opinion about something, I got under the wafer-thin skin of an author whose book I recently finished and disliked. OK, I hated it. I'd read a 3-star review of the book on Amazon that laid out the reasons the reviewer did not like the book, and said reviewer was roundly attacked in the comments under his review. So I had a sneaking suspicion that when I left a 1-star review, I was definitely gonna get it.

I didn't even have to wait 24 hours for it! Using the same pathetic anonymous login that was used to belittle another reviewer, I got 100% snark. Given the uber-speedy reply on a low-traffic title, I knew it had to be the author himself or someone very closely connected to him. I had a momentary "You poor bastard, you don't know that you're picking a war of words with a ruthless bitch who knows her dictionary." Crafting my reply was one of the most delicious guilty pleasures I've had in a while - like reading a tabloid while someone rubs your feet kind of good.

Anyway, on another person's review of a different book by the same author, commenters lament the hesitation people feel to leave negative reviews on Amazon for fear of being on the receiving end of people who are unable to grasp the fact that negative reviews for something they loved are, in fact, perfectly legitimate. I don't know about y'all, but positive and negative reviews are extremely valuable to me when considering a purchase.

What's the Upshot Du Jour? Embrace your own opinion! And for God's sake, don't get your panties in a wad when someone else opines the opposite.

ETA: Oops. I chastised Eug for uttering the word "panties" the other night. I actually said "it should be stricken from the English language, it is so awful". So make that last bit "knickers in a twist" instead, please?

The River Flows North

2011-01-02T21:39:00.000-05:00

Today, I told my beloved husband that if the containers for the Christmas decorations didn't appear soon, I was planning to burn the house down. Wise man that he is, they awaited me upon my return from the grocery store this evening.

I guess I'm just ready for the austerity of January. Don't get me wrong - I luurrvs me some Christmas. I love it so much, in fact, that the interior of our house is bedecked in so much glittery blown glass, vintage die-cuts, sequins and multi-colored lights (chasing, natch) that it could easily induce a grand mal seizure. I get delighted enough by all the goofiness that unflattering comparisons to the character Rosie O'Donnell played in "Riding The Bus With My Sister" have been made. But even I can only take so many days with my surroundings decorated in the equivalent of show tunes and jazz hands.

Of course, with the new year brings some annual resolutions. I know many of you are probably old enough to have grown to dislike the concept of making tired self-promises that we break before the week is out. But hope springs eternal for me, and I've been busy making plans for the remaining months before my...gulp!...fortieth birthday. My new year's start was briefly sidelined by a child with food poisoning, but it's all good. "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step", and all that crap.

However, before I get too chipper and dopey-sounding, I should confess that my house is in utter chaos. You could scarcely believe the work I have to do this week to get my life back on the rails, I swear. None of it is terribly interesting, but there is a LOT of it.

News flash: Scratch what I said about food poisoning. Apparently, what we have is gastroenteritis, more commonly known as "the stomach flu". Oy. Lula just uttered the most ominous words any parent can hear: "Mama, my tummy hurts." Sixty seconds later she was tossing her cookies into the household's designated 'puke bowl'. It took Henry a full 48 hours to recover (that is, assuming he has actually recovered at this point...the night is young!), so I expect that this week will be something akin to staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

I'll leave you now with that pleasant imagery and return once I have something other than bodily fluids to discuss. Happy New Year!

Merry, Merry Christmas.

2010-12-26T00:53:00.001-05:00

Was your Christmas a good one? If you found yourself in the company of people who love you even some of the time; if you were able to enjoy yourself at a family gathering your obnoxious cousin/uncle/whoever also attended; if you shared one moment with another person in which you were able to make them feel more at ease...that's a good Christmas.

We had a good Christmas. We helped make the dreams of kitten ownership come true for loved ones, laughed often and much over funny movies and cheap wrapping paper, and indulged in everything that felt comforting and/or abundant. And even though I zonked out YET AGAIN during Christmas morning gift-opening (And I went to bed before 1 am! I swear!), I was able to laugh sincerely when Eug remarked "Our home movies of Christmas morning aren't going to show favorably on you some day, hon."

I think it was the smallest moments this Christmas that really made it for me. When an older family cousin told us that he'd chosen to wear jeans to the Christmas Eve family gathering because Eug and I always do, I was reminded of all the years when I was depressed and frustrated that I didn't have anything dressier in my closet. Just when I'd truly accepted that 'Hey, this is me. Jeans and a tee-shirt. Take me or leave me.', I realized that those years served a purpose outside myself, even if it was only to make someone else more comfortable in the most mundane of ways.

I enjoyed fantastic conversation with another family member who, as it turns out, is just as enamored of Bravo reality TV as I am. (She also vehemently agreed that if Jen on "Top Chef: All Stars" had kept her yap shut, she'd still be in the running, poor thing. That comment Colicchio made about how Jen's diatribe had nothing to do with their decision to boot her was utter buuulllllshit.) I got to play multiple rounds of five or six different board games and laugh through every one. I delighted in Xanthe's 'Lotso Huggin' Bear' probably a wee bit more than even she did. I was lovingly attacked by a dog who practically melts like butter on hot cast iron when she sees me, and I cuddled her for hours on end. And I was so happy for the family member who proudly showed me pictures of their leg lamp from "A Christmas Story" aglow in their front window, even though I have wanted one of those suckers for years. In short, it was beautiful.

I truly hope that each of you gave and received love this Christmas, and that some of it came to you in unlikely ways. May the remaining days of 2010 be ones to remember fondly for all of you.

Enjoy, Folks.

2010-12-22T18:15:00.000-05:00

This is, quite literally, the funniest thing Eug and I have ever experienced. Neither of us has ever laughed this hard in our lives. As he rightly observed, "Why would anyone ever want to hear any other version of this?" Indeed, my man. Indeed.

I LIKE IT, I LOVE IT, I WANT SOME MORE OF IT.

2010-12-15T00:43:00.000-05:00

Quickly, now...we don't have but a few moments before the Ambien kicks in and it's lights-out for Michelle's grey matter. All I need this year is for someone to buy both of these for me. Like, right away.

And no, I won't settle for one. Two boxes so plain they just beg you to open them without knowing what's inside. I'm sure Eug will insist on choosing which box goes in our bedroom.

C'mon, be a dear and snap one up for me? Because if I don't even get one as gift, I'll be forced to buy them both with the sticky coins at the bottom of my purse and heaven only knows what else. Isn't there anyone out there who really should send a spontaneous bit o' honey my way? Something that tells me how much you luuuuurv me? Hmmm? Bueller? Bueller?

Aaaw, COME ON, peeps! Think of all the times I have been there for you, man! And so what if many of those same times were also times that I sat on your lap and farted? And you're exaggerating...they DID NOT smell that bad.

I'll be working on Mighty Michelle's Gift List of Super-Awesomeness this week, but those of you out there who owe me money might...just might...want to send a little applause my way. I'm just sayin'.

Giving 'Emo' A Whole New Meaning

2010-12-14T19:54:00.001-05:00

I know y'all are positively dying for a growing-out-my-bangs update, right? After a particularly harried day of taking the children to school and running errands whilst trying not to die on roads of sheer ice, I got a good look at myself in the mirror. Yikes!

The only way I can describe it is to employ Emo Philips. Whereas my hair used to look a lot like this:

...these days, it looks more like this:

If you just subtract a couple of inches from the front length and add a ponytail on the back of his head in the latter picture, you've pretty much got the idea.

Yep, it's bad.

And unless I wanna go all '80s and do something like this...

...then they just hang there. Too long to curl, too short to clip artfully to the side. I could learn how to do spit curls...

...but I'm pretty sure that's a look that would only garner a pudgy, middle-aged housewife uproars of public hilarity. And I would much rather be schlumpy and forgettable than material for the would-be Nelson Muntzes of the world.

Whoops. Apparently, that ship has sailed.

Critter Halfway House

2010-12-12T15:25:00.000-05:00

Snow is falling like gangbusters here in southern Michigan, and it's supposed to be colder than the proverbial witch's teat this coming week. It's that gorgeous, fluffy snow that coats everything it touches and begs to be rolled into a snowman - even though you're guaranteed to come inside soaking wet after outdoor play. (I have the puddles on my floors right now to prove it!) I am comfortably stationed at my computer, listening to Toby Keith's latest and enjoying the view from the adjacent windows. Bliss.

Last night we had a bonafide G-U-D time with our co-family - a spontaneous dinner with our best crew. We fed the kidlets an amalgam of pot stickers, macaroni and cheese (or "Kraft Dinner", as they call it in Canada), Co-co Wheats, yogurt and plentiful chocolate milk. All of this made me smile, remembering the most recent episode of "Top Chef: All Stars" in which the fancy-pants chefs attempted to please the palates of 150 children with their fare and discovered right quick how hard it is to feed the young'uns. (Clearly, the Toby Keith is affecting my speech right now.)

The grown-ups ordered Thai food and played rounds of Scattergories and Taboo that could only be described as "raucous". I had a wee bit too much Irish cream to drink and found myself unable to read the game directions aloud without slurring, which prompted hilarity all around. Then my co-husband TRICKED HIS WAY BACK INTO MY HOUSE by pretending to bring in the newspaper from my driveway, when his real intent was to drop money in my house for the cost of dinner. The cheek! I tried to chase him back out of the house, but I was in my bare feet...and let's face it, he's in a lot better shape than I am. I did manage to catch him briefly and stuff the money down the back of his shirt, whereupon I hightailed it back to the house screaming all the way, because he was TOTALLY catching up to me. I managed to get the storm door almost shut, but he crumpled the bill into a wad and tossed it with perfect aim through the small opening of the door, over my head and under the kitchen table. And then he was off like a shot. The stinker.

Today I found out that family members have acquired two little feline boys, intended as a Christmas present for their kids! How awesome is that? Even better is the fact that said kittens will be hanging out Chez Nous until the big day. Five cats in my house! Lord have mercy. Christmas is shaping up to be fu-uh-uuhn around here. I've always said that watching kitten hijinks is better than TV, so I anticipate major amusement in my future. Said family member was insanely grateful, but fostering fuzzy little kittens is hardly a sacrifice in my book. Nevertheless, I was encouraged to hang this over their heads for some time to come, which I thought was quite gracious on their part. Thankfully, my kids are used to temporary pet-keeping, and they'll be delighted to have the new company but not heartbroken when they depart.

This week brings Bunco Night for mama, Christmas caroling with friends, children's birthday parties and frenzied last-minute gift coordination and wrapping. Will I survive? So far, so good. I hope all your weekly activities are filled with joyous chaos in these few days before the celebration of the best gift the world ever received. God bless you, friends.

Lowest Common Denominator

2010-12-10T16:31:00.000-05:00

Utterly fantastic column in the WSJ today. Given the fact that I had a very successful discussion with my newly-nine year-old son last night about basic economic principles and concepts, it saddens me that so many grown-ass people (Who Vote! And Are Probably Too Un-Educated To Do So Responsibly!) understand so little about money and economics in the most general sense. Is it fun reading? Hell, no. I've never in my life thought, "You know, I really need to brush up on the meaning of Keynesian economics, because it sounds like a hella good time!" It's more like, "Oh, crap...what does that mean, again? OK, let me research for a while and give the grey matter a workout in the process." (By the by, my brain is really the only portion of my addled being that I am willing to exercise on a regular basis.)

So while my nine year-old is MORE than old enough to enjoy a discussion about business and the economy that he initiated (as well as the difference between "profit" and "prophet"), guess what the top educational priority at his mostly-decent public elementary school was this week? The performance put on by just the third-graders for a 'holiday' concert. (I know you can see me rolling my eyes, here.) OK, fine. HOLIDAY concert. I have no problem with that; I get it. What I do not get, however, is why there was just one song in the repertoire that could be considered a holiday classic: "Frosty The Snowman". Do I expect them to sing "Silent Night" and "O Little Town Of Bethlehem" in public school? No. No, I do not. But would it be so wrong to learn songs like "Up On The Rooftops", "Winter Wonderland" or "Let It Snow"? I could add songs like "Holly Jolly Christmas" or "Here Comes Santa Claus", but God forbid we mention the C-word, or even imply it. People: These are part of our cultural history in this country. Even if your only reason for learning these popular references is to be able to answer a Trivial Pursuit question intelligently, that is sufficient.

Would you like to know what the 3rd graders in our school sang, instead? "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi and "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas, among other pieces of utterly inappropriate crap. I shit you not. My tax dollars paid for my children to learn the lyrics to age-inappropriate songs (and I am hardly a prude on this count), when they had a wonderful opportunity to learn gorgeous, traditional songs that would've amplified their knowledge of their country's culture, instead. Is there anything charming about 3rd graders belting out an anthem to self-centeredness like "It's My Life"? NO. It's the musical equivalent of a Bratz doll.

Apparently, our school's approach is an individual one and not a district one. Nicole informed me that her elementary school (same district) does a Christmas sing-along for all grades and their families. And yes, they actually call it a "Christmas sing-along". I shan't mention the name of the school, lest the ACLU finds themselves with some free time on their hands this week and is looking for an opportunity to further ruin the country. I told Nicole that if ever there was a ringing endorsement for parochial school, this would be it.

Thankfully, I knew this in advance and was able to inform the appropriate people that Henry would not be attending the evening event. I have no desire to complain about the musical selection, because we have precious little time remaining before Henry is out of public school for good. But it did make me realize that I need to print lyric sheets for my own family and get them singing the classics, because that's the only way the job will get done. I took the kids to dinner last night, and as I zipped up their coats in the vestibule of the restaurant, a life-size mechanical Santa sang "Up On The Rooftops"...and I sang along. Xanthe asked me, "Mama, how do you know this song?" I had to stop and think about it before I told her that I'd learned it as a little girl and sung it ever since. She deserves the same opportunity.

I have sixth-graders in my catechism classes, the majority of whom attend public schools nearby that are very highly rated. But the stuff they tell me during our discussions about what goes on inside their schools would age any reasonable adult a good fifteen years just to hear it. I always listen quietly and encourage them to talk about it openly, and so I'm guessing that I hear things they would never tell their parents. It's incredibly depressing.

On a related note, Xanthe sat down last night to make a paper poinsettia. When she incorrectly pronounced it "Poin-set-ah", I corrected her. (Hello? Poin-set-ee-ah.) She got visibly grumpy over the correction, and insisted I was wrong. So I pulled out the big guns: I called her Auntie D. When I informed Auntie D of the situation, she howled in indignation and fury over the phone line. (It's one of her Top 10 language pet peeves, right up there with people who say they "feel badly" about something.) I told Xanthe that Auntie D would sooner cut off her own arm than to NOT side with her, but in this case, Auntie D is backing me up all the way. Xanthe proceeded to say that her teachers say "poin-set-ah", which makes it right. My beloved sister overheard her and nearly had a heart attack. We gently informed her that even teachers can be dead wrong about a lot of things, and that we loved her too much to let her follow the herd into MoronLand. Nicole arrived shortly in the midst of all this and insisted that it was better to "fit in" and say it incorrectly. (Don't worry - I tickled her mercilessly shortly thereafter as punishment.) We were all howling with laughter at this point and my sister hollered "THAT'S IT...I'm going to English Gardens tomorrow. POIN-SET-EE-AHS for everyone!" and wished us a good night before hanging up.

My better half gets home from Brazil tonight, and none too soon, as I am wiped out. I think this is the first night all week that we can stay home and actually relax. Last night we had to return one of Henry's birthday gifts to Wal-Mart. He'd gotten the Nerf Stampede gun that he was dying to have, which comes complete with a shield to protect you from your opponent's foam darts attached to the gun. Except that when we opened the box...no shield! The poor kid had to wait until yesterday to get a replacement, which necessitated all of us tromping into a Wal-Mart and dealing with their (let me use my air quotes, here) 'Customer Service' desk. I had my receipt in hand, and patiently waited my turn in line. I know that this Nerf gun is one of the hot items for this Christmas season, so I didn't want to assume I would be able to complete an exchange. When I handed the employee my receipt, I noted that it was purchased on my husband's credit card, and asked if that meant that the refund could just go directly back on his card without him being physically present. Thankfully, I also mentioned that he was in Brazil at the moment. The employee assured me that it would be refunded to his card, and I said that was fine and dandy.

The employee then attempted to scan the bar code at the bottom of the otherwise readable receipt and was unable to get the scanner to identify the bar code. She informed me that she was therefore unable to process my return. Umm, no. I gently but firmly informed her that it was not MY problem that Wal-Mart uses cheap ink and satin paper for their receipts in what I firmly believe is an intentional move to obfuscate receipts and make it more difficult for customers to conduct legitimate returns. (In fact, I believe a LOT of stores do this, and it pisses me off to no end. If a receipt spends even one afternoon rubbing around in your wallet, it's probably going to be substantially messed up. You can't tell me that's not done on purpose.) With a steely grin affixed to my face, I said "I've got the receipt and I've got the defective product. I've held up my end of the bargain, and now you're going to hold up yours." I asked her to call whatever head honcho she needed to make a proper return happen - on his or my credit card. And lo and behold, even after telling me there was no way she could complete the return without my husband's credit card in hand, after several minutes she came back and processed the return to my card. I whispered to Henry "See? This is why we avoid Wal-Mart." Thankfully, a replacement gun was acquired the same evening, and I unabashedly tore open the box with my car key to make sure the dang blast shield was in the stupid box this time. The bad news is that the stupid thing takes SIX "D" batteries to operate, and will require me to purchase safety goggles for the whole family, so fast do those foam darts fly from that enormous gun. C'est la vie - the kid is thrilled.

So tonight we will lay low and await the return of our familial anchor with joy and anticipation. Heck, I think I'll even let the kids stay up late to make sure they see him.

Awake, But Just Barely.

2010-12-05T16:14:00.000-05:00

You know what I love? People who've achieved personal and professional success and acclaim on a grand scale and still manage to be excellent human beings. Such is the case with my favorite artist in the whole world, Donald Roller Wilson. Or simply "Roller", as he is known to those of us in the know. Ahem.

Roller sends delightful e-mails to his minions occasionally throughout the year, and once in a while I'll respond. And he always sends a reply. How cool is that? As an added bonus, his replies are always hilarious and frequently ribald. It's a simple truth: housewives love a sporadic, naughty e-mail.

Speaking of naughty, amid the chaos of the kids' birthday party at Pump It Up this morning, I decided to smear a thick frosting moustache on my upper lip and chase random children around, threatening to kiss them. When I told Eug that no one was willing to kiss me with my frosting moustache, a handsome male party guest who shall remain nameless hollered "I WILL!" Hee! I'm choosing to believe that it was my considerable charms that prompted the reply, rather than the tasty, tasty frosting on my face, and I will entertain no arguments to the contrary. A girl's gotta have a reason to smile, now and then.

Under the file heading of "Immature and Ill-Advised", I have to admit that I pulled an all-nighter last night. Yes, you heard right. I went to my children's uber-crazy birthday extravaganza after having been awake for twenty-four hours straight. (Which might explain my decision to paint my face with frosting and run amok, now that I think about it.) I passed exhausted about five hours ago and am currently riding the waves of giddy. If I wanna stay awake for "Dexter", I think I'd better chug some coffee right away. The good news is that the Christmas tree is fully bedecked and looking fucking fabulous after my marathon decorating session.

On my mind recently is a touchstone topic for me: short hair on women. Ladies, ladies. It's awful. Especially the tendency of older women to wear a coiffure that I like to call "Artichoke Head", for the simple fact that it looks like an artichoke turned upside down, squatting on their cranium. If you're going to argue by rattling off a list of women who look lovely in their concentration camp 'dos, I'm going to counter with the statement that said women are blessed with such extreme good looks that they still look fantastic in spite of their little locks. Not that Rapunzel tresses are any better, mind you. But when I see a woman with very short hair, I imagine that they are either seriously ill or some terrible chemical-induced tragedy befell their mane, necessitating an extreme chop. I'll even go one step further and say that unless you weigh 100 pounds or less, you'd better be sporting a length somewhere between your chin and your shoulders. Any shorter and you probably look like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man, darling. If you're built like Audrey Hepburn and your cheekbones could cut steel, then go ahead and get your pixie cut...because you are, in fact, built like a pixie. See how that works?

Holy crap, it's going to be Monday tomorrow and I need to be sufficiently functional to drive Eug to the airport for his week-long trip to Brazil. Coffee. Must have coffee now.

Lost Love

2010-11-30T15:24:00.000-05:00

This was forwarded to me today, with just the words "really lovely" attached. Oh, how I agree. This Thursday will mark eight years since Rolf died, and I chose to have my youngest daughter, Lula, born on that day in his honor.

And since the post I wrote the day after our beloved Rolfie-Roo died is among my favorites from the old archives, here it is again:

Tuesday, December 03, 2002

Goodbye, Rolf-Roo.

December 3, 2002

Rolf died yesterday. We euthanized him at home. I think it was almost noon.

I awoke to snow on the ground for the first time and felt like it was a small gift. Rolf loves the snow, and we wondered if he would live to see it this year. We had spent the weekend plying Rolf with treats and attention, and had been rewarded with his presence in the bedroom for the last three nights. For those of you who do not fully understand Rolf's condition, his trip down the hall to the bedroom is a very big deal. His Wobbler's Syndrome makes it difficult to keep his rear legs steady. He slips and slides. His blindness makes him even more unsteady and unsure of himself. But he came, anyway.

A couple of weeks ago, we had put in a supply of Dentabones - his favorite - one for every night left to him. He would get his 'bone' right before we went to bed. We'd hear him at the end of the hall, enjoying his treat. But once it was gone, he would softly cry because he could hear us down the hall and he wanted to be with us. Most nights the desire to sleep in the same room with us was not as strong as his fear of making the trip. But those last three nights, he came.

On Sunday, we also picked up the three tastiest bones we could find. One was a cornstarch 'velvet' cheese-flavored bone for a whopping ten dollars that turned out to be a bargain at twice the price. He ate that bone with gusto and left orange shards of it everywhere he laid. We spent Sunday in kind of a slow stupor, knowing what was coming but not really believing it and certainly not wanting to talk about it. There were people who tried to reach out to us, but it was really the last thing I wanted. Even someone who loves us dearly cannot begin to imagine how huge a hole losing Rolf has left. I have spent years preparing for his death, but now that it has come to pass, I want to scream angrily at anyone who would look at me and say "He's so much better off." No one can reach us with words, and I am tired of platitudes that ring falsely to me at a time when I feel very much abused by God Himself. I would have given ten years of my life to give Rolf one really good year - just one fucking year. The bottom line is that I don't know that he's better off - I just know that he's gone.

I guess I will drown in this for a while. I know Eug is, too. Yesterday morning he was coming from the shower and something about the look on his face made me stop and hug him - and to my shock, he began to sob uncontrollably. So we cried and hugged and rode it out. Then I took a bath and sobbed some more. We spent the last half-hour before Kim and April and Janet came feeding Rolf an entire loaf of King's Hawaiian Bread. I snapped pictures of it, feeling kind of grotesque for doing so. I had wanted to take pictures of Rolf the last few weeks and I could never bring myself to do it. Then, suddenly I am snapping pictures out of desperation, trying to hold on to something happy. I could never bring myself to photograph Rolf with Henry, because to have a marker of the time that will pass - to know that Henry will grow up so quickly and the picture would serve as the indicator of how many years we have passed without Rolf - it would make me very melancholy, I think. Maybe I should have done it anyway.

April came with Alexander in tow and Kim and Jacob and Janet followed shortly thereafter. We put a catheter in Rolf's front leg and then April went to watch the babies while Eug and I held Rolf's head, kissing him. Kim pumped the two biggest vials of blue barbiturate I have ever seen in my life into Rolf's vein, and he was gone. Just like that. He twitched and spasmed for a few minutes afterward - the last movement I saw was the trembling of his lips - but his heart had long ago stopped beating. Eug and I broke down sobbing again and I honestly felt like something in me was dying right along with him. I had whispered to him in the seconds that preceded unconsciousness that he was a good boy and that he should go get Paavo, now.

And I try to imagine that the angels and saints welcomed him for the wonderful soul he is. I try to imagine the cataracts lifted from his eyes and his body made whole and frisky and puppy-ish, again. But what I see right now in my mind's eye is his body terribly limp and quiet, and his jowls sunk into his open mouth as he lay on his side. In a way I cannot believe we went through with it, and even though I know there was no better path, I know Eug and I both wish in a small way that we had not gone through with it. Because now we are on the other side of it, and this is a cruel place.

We loaded his body onto the stretcher. No one would let me carry him because I am pregnant, and I acquiesced. But there remains a part of me that wishes I had, because I feel like it should be me to carry him as far as I can. Eug and Henry and I drove him to the clinic to be picked up by the crematorium, and Eug and Sheila carried him into the clinic. I followed and knelt to kiss him a few times before I turned away. Eug trailed behind me and I stopped and turned back to him. He was struggling to get it under control and failing, and so I caught him up in my arms and hugged him fiercely again and all I could think to say over and over and over again was "We did the right thing." And for a few seconds we stood in the snow of the parking lot, him sobbing and me clutching him, scared for the power of his grief - while Henry watched perplexed from his car seat.

I get so upset at moments that I am on the verge of puking. These moments come utterly without warning. As we came home yesterday, I opened the door from the garage to the breezeway and saw Rolf's face as clearly as if he were truly there. And why not? He'd been there just a scant three hours before, looking at me (or rather, in my direction - his blindness was almost complete, I feel sure) inquisitively as I gathered up the extension cords from the leaf blower. He peered into the garage and wondered if I was up to something, and of course, I was. And when I saw him there but not there, I stopped and cried a really ugly, noisy cry. The kind that other people are embarrassed to witness.

And so I came home and I began to clean. I justified it by saying that I didn't want Henry to get hold of any of the velvet bone shards, but it was really because I couldn't stand to look at it. I felt so fucking grief-stricken that I wanted to grind my face into the blood he'd left on the rug. Instead, I picked up the fur we'd shaved from his front leg and put it in a baggie. Then I folded up the mountain of rugs we'd bought to keep Rolf from slipping and carried them into the other room to be washed. How incredibly strange it is to have a smooth, bare floor. It accentuates the emptiness of our house, now.

Eug asked me last night if I thought our own lives would go by like that - blink, and it's over. You get to the end and it's all a blur. I don't have an answer.

Gobble, Gobble!

2010-11-27T21:53:00.000-05:00

If planning to expose my children to the mixed-age humor in "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" this weekend is wrong, I don't wanna be right. Yes, I am willing to let my children watch Steve Martin drop the F-bomb innumerable times in the pitch-perfect scene with Edie McClurg as the car rental agent...because "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" is one of the best movies ever made, and watching it at Thanksgiving is a tradition I intend to cement into their youthful minds.

Speaking of cussing, the other week Henry asked me "What's the first swear word you'll let me say and how old do I have to be before I can say it?" I reminded him that I've already heard him toss the word "crap" around all-too-casually, at which he blushed slightly and smiled. (I neglected to mention to him the time he was about 18 months old and sidled up to me while I fixed the belt on the vacuum. He watched for a minute, and then muttered "Dammit". Carefully keeping my face neutral, I turned to ask "What did you say, honey?" He clammed up and refused to answer. I turned back to the vacuum in order to hide my smile, and heard a follow-up "Dammit" in 30 seconds flat. One of my favorite memories of his toddlerhood, that.) I pretended to seriously consider his query for a time. While he waited, he said "Maybe the H-word? How old would I have to be before I can say the H-word?" I replied, "I'm thinking I'm going to let you say 'damn' first. Maybe for your fifteenth birthday present, or something." And he totally believed me and was cool wit dat.

This past week has also delivered incontrovertible evidence that my children now disdain me. (I knew it was in the works, but I didn't know the moment had arrived.) The kids were having a squabble in the adjacent room, and I attempted to talk them off the ledge without going in there. Henry burst into the room where I was working to inform me that Xanthe had been making the universal blah-blah-blah gesture by making her hand into a yapping mouth-puppet while I talked. A few calm words were shared about tattling and maternal respect, and then I finally shut my cakehole.

Our back-to-back turkey feasts are over, and I dare say we achieved the zenith of Thanksgiving repast perfection this year. The turkey was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, there were TWO kinds of stuffing and my mom's world-famous apple pie was available in both Dutch and regular styles. It's okay to be jealous...because you should be! It was that good. Plus, my sister made a sweet potato dish with pecans and some kind of crunchy cereal on top that made me want to scoop up the casserole dish and hide behind a locked door until I licked the damn thing clean. I rolled out of there like Violet Beauregarde, except instead of turning purple, I was tinged a rich brown from all the gravy.

Sadly, I have to turn my focus back to mundane housework this week, because it looks like a bomb went off in here. Approximately twenty-three 18-gallon totes of Christmas decorations are awaiting my attention, but first I have to erect the big silver tinsel tree sans decor so that Murray can go apeshit on it. Given that he's still a kitten and this will be his first Christmas, I'm imagining there will be breakage this year. I hope that a few days with access to an undecorated tree will lessen his desire to wreak havoc by at least ten percent. Foolish of me, I know.

The Christmas acquisition of 2010 is mostly complete, thankfully. Eug bought himself a "studly" new desktop tower computer that exceeds all of his entertainment-related demands, and I could barely convince him to stash it away in the closet instead of hooking it up to our TV right away. The kids will inherit the old desktop tower, thereby making one of their fondest wishes come true: their own computer. Of course, they'll need a monitor and, in keeping with my self-serving nature, they will inherit my current monitor...because mama needs a big screen, baby! I don't know yet just how crazy I'll get when choosing my new monitor, but let's just say that the browsing has been enjoyable. I'm thinking 27" is about as big as I can justify buying. The kids will be getting the PS3 (gratis, thanks to Eug's zillion frequent flier miles), which means that we may be coming very close to earning the "Geekiest Family EVER" award. We should probably start a family-oriented video game review site and at least turn a buck with our obsession, no?

But for all our gadgetry, television has been decidedly disappointing this fall. There's absolutely no one worth rooting for on "Survivor", and "The Biggest Loser" is such an unlikeable bunch that it's only worthwhile for cracking jokes at the contestants' expense. (I won't even tell you what my buddies and me have dubbed whiny Elizabeth - it's that crass!) Also, 'Eraserhead' Mizrahi and crazy-eyed Iman are a poor-ass substitute for Tim-n-Heidi goodness - although Calvin is doing his level best to make "The Fashion Show" a fun ride by being the supa-bitch. Thank the Lawd for NeNe Leakes, of "The Real Housewives of Atlanta". Never have I been so consistently tickled by anyone on TV... and that's sayin' something. Plonk! Love you, NeNe! The good news is that "Dexter" continues to deliver and "The Walking Dead" has garnered enough viewership to be renewed for a full thirteen episodes next year! (Although, honestly? I don't know if my ticker can take another season of the zombie apocalypse.)

Lastly, my mouth was on full display tonight in the video store. We'd staggered out en toto to order a pizza from a new joint, and since it was right down the street from the video store, we thought we'd browse while they made our pizzas. We walked in and were barraged with non-stop bad, so-shrill-it-hurts singing from various teenagers on the screens. I overheard some other patrons grousing about it, and Eug walked up to me with a knowing grin on his face when he was done skimming the rental selections. He said, "Hey hon, how're you doing over here?" - knowing FULL WELL just how I was doing. I said, "Fine, except for the fact that I want someone to take a Roto-Rooter to my eardrums." I heard at least 3 other couples burst into laughter over my remark. Eug insisted that I was going to have to finish the transaction by myself, because he couldn't take another minute of it. He waved off my protests with something about how tricky it is to get all the kids buckled in and he needed the extra time to get it right for the sake of the children.

When it was my turn at the register, I asked the lovely young lady behind the counter "Pardon me, but could you tell me what video you're playing right now? Because I need to make sure that I never, ever rent it by mistake." She got wide-eyed for a second and said "But, but...that's 'Glee'!" I replied, "Duly noted. For the record, it's making several of your customers less than gleeful." (Which was true - I had overheard other specific complaints, so I wasn't just trying to gild my own lily.)

She then - very sweetly - proceeded to try to sell me on "Glee" by informing me that one of the cast was now performing on Broadway. I resisted the urge to reply "Whoop-dee-fucking-doo" and instead told her "If you enjoy this sort of thing, that's lovely. But it's something like being invited to a Liza Minnelli concert...it has, shall we say, a very specific target demographic. I imagine most people would decline such an invitation, because you're either a fan or you AREN'T."

This adorable girl went on to wax poetic about their singing voices, at which point I let her know that there is a vast chasm between singing and over-singing. Right about then is when I saw the lone male employee on the other side of the counter ball his hands into fists, bringing his elbows tight to his sides and crunch inwards on himself in a gesture that could only be interpreted as "YEEEEEESSSSS!" Of course, this gave me a fierce case of the giggles, so I had to ask the young lady to repeat what she'd just asked me once my levity had subsided. With utter earnestness, she said "Do you like Barbra Streisand's singing?" and my snort-y pig laughter came roaring back. Wiping away tears, I said "In case you hadn't guessed, that would be a 'no'." She was genuinely fascinated by me and my opinions (she informed me she was a psychology major, and I toyed with the idea of telling her she could make a worthy doctoral thesis of me alone), and the whole exchange was very friendly and delightful.

In parting, she told me that she'd accidentally chosen the wrong disc - she'd wanted to select the episode of "Glee" devoted to Madonna's repertoire. She was wearing an expression that communicated clearly her hopes that this would've won me over. I closed my eyes to imagine it for a moment and reached out to touch her shoulder tenderly. "Oh, honey...honey, no. That would have been infinitely worse." The video cacophony stopped abruptly as the now-victorious male employee popped the disc out. The last thing I heard as I left was "I told you this was terrible singing!" Thank goodness the young lady was such a good sport about it!

I hope your Thanksgiving was rich with love and calories, friends.

Big Losers

2010-11-13T12:34:00.003-05:00

I'd be willing to bet that most people all across the age, gender and race spectrum watch The Biggest Loser. Are you one of them? It's a compelling show, to be sure. Yet, with each passing season, it seems to me that the intrinsic goodness of the series is evaporating. And if I'm complaining about that, then something is clearly going awry, because I'm not exactly sensitive when I probably should be.

Allow me a moment of explanation, please. I have precious little patience for Hallmark sentiment during a competition-based reality show, and I firmly believe in the "All's fair in love and war" motto when it comes to gameplay. Unless the rules forbid it, go for it. While watching "The Biggest Loser", my finger is usually hovering over the remote's fast forward button for those segments wherein the contestant waxes poetic (usually through tears) about their most recent Bob or Jillian-inspired emotional breakthrough. I'm not proud to say that it no longer has the ability to move me - but, hey, at least I'm honest. My instinctive reaction is to blaze past it and get to 'the good stuff' - that is to say, the action. It's a war, and I want to get back to the battlefield.

However, this past Tuesday, Aaron and Jesse were voted off in a strategic series of moves by Brendan, Frado and Patrick. And even though I knew it was coming, I was still stunned. (Apparently, there are some wee parts of my heart that haven't fully hardened, yet.) The conclusion of that episode is still rattling around in my head even after days have passed, and I spent some time thinking about why that is. Because, let's face it - the state of my progressive senility is so pronounced that it's not unusual for me to be unable to tell you the outcome of a show I finished watching an hour ago. Why, then, is this bit of reality television's business-as-usual clinging to me?

See, I get that it's a game, and money is on the line. I also get that even if a contestant doesn't care about winning the cash prize, a person would probably do anything to stay on that ranch as long as they could, just so they could continue getting healthier, and God help the poor son of a bitch who gets in their way. I can't blame the contestants - even though, in this case, that's exactly what I'd like to do because the contestants in question are...well, unlikeable.

But I can blame the network and the show's producers, and I do. There's a LOT to be bothered by on "The Biggest Loser". I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I'm practically fidgeting on the couch in the beginning weeks of a new season, because I'm pretty sure that one of these days somebody is going to go down for the dirt nap right there in that gym. Yes, yes - I know the contestants are vetted and screened thoroughly and beyond my wildest imagination before they are permitted to join the cast. I also know that they are monitored throughout filming by la crème de la crème of medical professionals.

And showing America that people as off-the-charts overweight as the contestants of recent years can regularly complete hard-core workouts is not without its value. It flies in the face of every couch potato who thinks they either can't or shouldn't exercise strenuously. The show rightfully creates discomfort for those who have a need to change our health, but prefer not to dive into a lifestyle change. Those of us who wade into that ocean very tentatively more often than not wind up returning to our cozy towel on the sand, instead.

But I think the show has moved in a direction that no longer makes it acceptable to conduct it as a straightforward competition for cash. The first few seasons of the show were engrossing because the vast majority of the people on the show looked like the 'everyday' fat people we know (or are). In other words, they were people who could certainly stand to lose a lot of weight, but when they staggered through their first mile-long run and gasped "Oh my God, I'm gonna die!", viewers didn't have to worry that they actually might. Plus, Caroline Rhea was infinitely more personable than Alison 'Robot' Sweeney will ever be...and whatever Caroline was drinkin' during the Season 3 finale? I want me some.

Jesse and particularly Aaron desperately needed to remain on that ranch, but the very fact that they had huge amounts of weight yet to lose made them a threat to their cash-hungry competitors. It was horrifying to watch, even though it's certainly not the first time something similar has happened. What, then, is the solution? To be fair, I'm not sure.

If the producers insist on seeking out participants who are teetering on the ragged edge of life and death at four and five-hundred pounds plus, I'd much rather that they conduct the show as a complete process with no vote-offs, and award prizes to contestants based on popular voting for different categories. They could still have as many crazy mini-games as they wanted, but change the incentive to a reward rather than face the penalty of being evicted.

It's not that I don't understand the urgency of helping people who are, in all likelihood, going to die if they don't get help immediately. I also know that the oh-so-bleak circumstances of these contestants ups the emotional ante for the millions of viewers - a producer's wet dream! But combining these contestants with a cutthroat clash for cash is just plain wrong. The more I watch, the skeevier I feel.

There's also something downright disingenuous about the show, in that viewers never see footage of the extensive physical therapy (icing, taping and bracing the various injuries that occur along the way) that we know occurs behind-the-scenes. There are also the tidbits that have leaked out - like the advice given to the finalists to hit the saunas (Correct pronunciation? Sow-na.) and eat a lot of asparagus because it's a natural diuretic. "The Biggest Loser" fails by the choices of the producers and the construct of the game. They neglect to show any of the massive medical/therapeutical scaffolding that props up contestants and keeps them going, and contestants are almost certainly coached with advice before the finale that is potentially dangerous.

The show began as a near-perfect "One Size Fits All" for television viewers. It was inspirational for some and a true game show for others. It managed to be both a guilty pleasure and a public service announcement...a terrific feat, if you can pull it off. It launched products and water-cooler discussions galore, much to the delight of NBC executives, I'm sure. It allowed the national audience to openly gawp at the fatties in the privacy of their own home and either feel secretly superior that they weren't that bad, or feel camaraderie with the poor slob on the scale in their skivvies. It was whatever the viewer wanted it to be.

What is has become, sadly, is cruel and scary to watch. You can't have your cake and eat it, too, NBC. If you wish to maintain the sharp edge of competition, it's morally dubious to include contestants upwards of 400 pounds, only to send them home after a few weeks. On the other hand, if you wish to reap the ratings bounty of contestants whose precarious condition leaves viewers rooting for them and invested in their progress through to the end, you need to abandon the drama of the eviction.

As it stands now, NBC? I'm sorry to tell you that you are the biggest losers.

I Want It Now.

2010-11-10T17:06:00.000-05:00

So, how many ways do we have to disseminate information these days, do you think? Too many to count, right? So why are the paycheck-earning people in my life having to fly across the world for face-to-face bullshit meetings? WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY, PEOPLE. It's called teleconferencing. Ugh. My least (most?) favorite example of this was when my brother-in-law flew to Paris for a meeting - a meeting, I might add, that was requested and scheduled by the Frenchies. Upon arrival, my BIL was informed that the Frenchies weren't quite ready yet, and that he should fly back home. He flew back, only to be informed 24 hours later that the Frenchies were ready now, and that he was expected to be back in Paris in less than 24 hours. Mon Dieu! I'd have sent those croissant-eating bastards a bill for jet lag, had I been him.

Another source of irritation has been the incomplete catalog of stuff I want to watch. If I ever get to be Supreme Ruler, I'm going to mandate that all companies that own the rights to any television show ever produced make every episode available for purchase on DVD or face incarceration. For example, I'd like to watch TLC's "Rock The Reception" en toto, and not just the shitty little YouTube clips people have made by pointing their iPhone at the television screen. I will give TLC props for posting what is probably the coolest dance ever done on the short-lived show, but that's as far as I'm going. Is there any good reason I shouldn't be able to easily revisit past seasons of "Survivor" or "Big Brother"? I think not!

OK, OK. I admit it. The real reason I'm cranky is that my kids have tomorrow and Friday off school, which coincides neatly with the emergence of a head cold for me. Fortunately, I have a non-stop roster of activities planned for them that should keep the "I'm boooooored" whining to a minimum. Unfortunately, I have a non-stop roster of activities planned for them that should deplete any last leptons of sanity/energy I have remaining.

The good news is, not surprisingly, book-related. I made a special trip to Costco yesterday for a couple of reasons: to buy containers of Tootsie-Rolls for my diabetic father (yeah, I'm an accomplice) and to get the latest "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" book for Henry as a reward for his stellar report card. I found the Tootsie-Rolls coveted by my father, and proceeded to the book section. As I approached, I scanned the kiddie section for the unmistakable purple book cover I sought...and came away with the very last copy! (Yeah, I know - they probably had another pallet of them in the back, but as far as I'm concerned, VICTORY IS MINE!) I will also admit to squealing like Ned Beatty's character in "Deliverance" when I saw a stack of President George W. Bush's new book, "Decision Points". Except, of course, in my case I was squealing with glee. The other literary news of note is that I've wrapped up the last 3 books I was working on and have begun "Let Me In", which faaaaar exceeds any expectations with regard to prose and plot than I'd had to begin with - and I adored the foreign film, so I did have to wonder if the book might be a little less enjoyable for me, by virtue of already knowing the storyline. So far, it is a delight.

I get to keep the book-y goodness rolling, too. Xanthe's report card was similarly awesome (apparently, she has hyper-skills in math?!) and I plan to take her to the bookstore to pick out a little su'un-su'un. What's that? Will I succumb to the desire to indulge myself in a tome or two while I'm there? Such baseless accusations! I don't know what you're talking about...

...OK, fine. I might buy something. But only if the clearance rack has something amazing or if the 2011 wall calendar by Anne Taintor is on the shelf. (Did you know she also makes flasks? That might be just what I need to get through menopause!)

Entertain Me

2010-11-06T22:29:00.000-04:00

Cold and flu season is upon us, and my kids haven't stopped coughing for the past two weeks. This is a problem, mostly because my kids have a hair-trigger gag reflex that kicks in after a mere 30 seconds of mild hacking and sputtering. This wouldn't be a problem if the stupid tweakers of the world hadn't made it impossible for the rest of us to buy over-the-counter medicine THAT ACTUALLY RELIEVES SYMPTOMS.

My better half is currently trying to curry favor with me by detailing all of his magnificent accomplishments today, which include (but are not limited to) returning pop cans and taking the Halloween decorations up to the mini-attic. He knows he's on shaky ground due to his role in skewing our Netflix suggestions to the unthinkably awful by watching what could only be described as Z-movies. Case in point? Monsturd showed up in our choices this evening. Yeah, you'd better be raking those leaves!

In the past two weeks, I've read some highly enjoyable books, including Dark Places and Oxygen. Not perfect, but very entertaining nonetheless. And since I'm a big fan of whatever's on the Costco paperback table, I picked up Let Me In, which prompted Eug to say "So you've seen TWO versions of this movie and now you're going to read the book?" I haughtily informed him that I had only seen the original foreign version of the film, and that he should kindly shut his yap because everyone knows a book that spawns a movie is generally a mighty fine read. Besides, he doesn't need to know that the only reason I haven't seen the American remake is that it's not out on DVD, yet. Hmmph, I say.

This week our home saw the addition of a brand-new baby: Microsoft's Kinect. Squeee! Eug brought our new bundle home with "Dance Central", and we've spent the past few days perfecting our moves. The sad fact is that I'm huffing like an old steam train after 3 or 4 songs - clearly, I need to up the cardio in my life. The best part of the game is the 'freestyle' portion of your performance wherein you are encouraged to bust out your own signature moves. Your dancing prowess is video-recorded and then played back at super-speed before the routine resumes, but I'm always doubled over, laughing too hard at the replay to pick up where the routine left off. I understand that one can share photos and video of one's performance with fellow X-Box users, but there's already too much embarrassing detritus out there on me that will surely prevent my children from ever seeking political office as it is.

The holiday shopping has already begun in earnest, and Eug will be getting a special stocking stuffer to take to work. This was inspired by the fact that one of his co-workers loves nothing more than to sit at Eug's desk when he's not there, picking his nose and handling Eug's pens. I figured Eug might enjoy offering said co-worker a squeeze of sanitizer, when necessary. The kids are getting their annual Ugly Doll and the big gift this year will be their own damned computer so I can give them The Hand whenever they ask to use mine. Tokidoki is making a prominent appearance under the tree this year for Yours Truly, with a vintage "L'Amore" Mamma Mia bag, and not one but TWO Felice hobo bags in "Americana" and "Favola". But I still want my Bumpy Cake chair, dammit.

I also have both Henry and Lula's birthdays coming up fast, although the party portion is basically a done deal, thanks to wonderful Auntie Paula. Because her own son shares a birthday with Henry, she came up with the magnificent idea of splitting the cost of a Pump-It-Up party, the details of which we will go over tomorrow afternoon. Gotta love a party where all the adults have to do is watch bemusedly from the sidelines, there's a concrete start and end time, and you get to leave the mess for someone else to clean up. Will I be able to overcome the desire to make a homemade cake? It remains to be seen, but most of my loved ones are probably betting on "No" right now.

Tomorrow brings not only another episode of my beloved "Dexter", but the second episode of AMC's wonderful new series, The Walking Dead. If you never imagined that "zombies" and "quality television programming" could be included in the same sentence, you ought to do yourself a favor and catch up by watching the first episode now. (Thanks to my BFF, aka "The Eye Of Sauron", for the hat tip.)

Lastly (and speaking of my BFF), a 3.5-hour phone marathon was held last night - the main purpose of which was to dissect the myriad ways in which MONDO WUZ ROBBED on the "Project Runway" finale. Gretchen? Seriously? Her clothes make me feel like I just walked through some anonymous pooter's gas cloud in a grocery store aisle. By contrast, Mondo made the kinds of clothes that make women look and feel lovely. Kors and Garcia need a good, swift kick in the ass, if you ask me. Fabulous editorial commentary on the season can be found here, if you're interested.

That's all for now, folks. Even though I snoozed for 12 straight hours last night, I'm still running a trillion-dollar deficit in the Beauty Sleep Department. Enjoy the weekend!

Less Is More

2010-11-03T10:14:00.000-04:00

Needless to say, my mood this morning after Election Day is quite chipper, indeed. However, it remains to be seen if the elected officials will stand by the reasons they were elected in the first place: to slash (not "trim") federal spending. Period. Rand Paul said it best last night - "Government does not create jobs. Individual entrepreneurs - businessmen and women - create jobs, but not the government." In order for individuals to have the necessary capital to create those jobs, we need to start yanking people off the taxpayers' teat en masse and scale things back like never before.

Soooo...Halloween. Did everyone enjoy themselves? I certainly hope so. To channel Peter Griffin, you know what really grinds my gears? Asshole parents in our neighborhood who have young children out trick-or-treating, but don't have anyone stationed at their own home, handing out candy. WTF? How selfish can you be? Apparently, I'm not the only one in the neighborhood who is equally disgruntled with the multiple households of deadbeat parents, either. (Hey, it always makes me feel a wee bit better when I'm not the only one cranky about something.)

One of my neighbors is gut-bustingly funny, and has demonstrated on a ground-breaking level that I am NOT, as previously believed, incapable of being shocked by obscenity. As you all know, I have no problem whatsoever with talk that even sailors would deem crude. I thought I was Teflon-coated when it comes to indecency, but I was oh-so-wrong. Said neighbor, in discussing their frustration with a neighborly problem that could only be described as hilarious-so-long-as-it's-not-MY-problem, actually uttered the words "...and I was just one cunt hair away from going over there, and..." My mind literally went blank for several seconds after it registered these words. I cannot tell you the remainder of the anecdote, because my brain's hard drive was too busy chugging and spooling to accept additional data. The aforementioned neighbor popped a base hit to follow up the previous home run in the "Shock Michelle World Series" just yesterday. The winning phrase this time was "If your kid has pubes, they're too damned old to be trick-or-treating." Apparently, all one has to do is discuss nether body hair to leave me slack-jawed. (Tracy's response to the homer? "Thanks a lot - I can't un-hear that, you know." Hee hee hee.)

The kids all got haircuts yesterday, which got me thinking about my own follicular state. The ill-advised bangs of early summer have grown to the top of my lip, and my current color is an almost-perfect match for the God-given color of my 3" roots, which certainly helps to grow out this hair and do as little damage as possible in the process. And I'm surprisingly blonde, still. I would've thought my real hair color at this age would be a split mix of gray and old dishwater, but apparently not. When I asked my sister to inspect me closely for gray, she picked me over like a baboon in search of nits and disgustedly declared that every time she thought she saw a stray gray, it was toddler-towhead blonde.

Nevertheless, the desire to dump chemicals on my head is strong. I'm not sure that anyone's natural color beyond a certain age is even remotely attractive, to be honest. Have I been brainwashed by wily advertisers? Perhaps. Thankfully, the debate is currently moot because I am decidedly broke. Thus, highlights are not an option.

Speaking of broke, why do my damned kids have to keep growing? I was SURE that Henry's heavy winter coat was big enough for one more year, and it turns out it's only a size 7-8. Criminy. Apparently, new parkas suitable for a Michigan winter are going to set me back at least $100 apiece, and I'll still have to buy two pairs of snowpants and at least one pair of boots. Crappity-crap-crap-crap. In the interest of hand-me-downs, I'm going to go all Henry Ford on the kids and say that they can have any color they want, as long as it's gender-neutral black. Will they develop depression from being perpetually dressed for a funeral? Only time will tell.

Besides, I have more than enough Xanax to go around. Kidding! I'm kidding.

Gooey Hot Fudge Love For The Childfree

2010-10-25T10:55:00.000-04:00

(Per Tracy's request, I am re-posting this golden oldie from the vault. And on its 6-year anniversary, no less!)

October 25, 2004
I got a little blast from the past a few days ago. I found myself engaged in an old pastime: reading a rather (ahem) spirited exchange between the child-laden and the childfree. Of course, this time I was watching it all go down from an entirely different side of the fence.

I like to think that I have a unique perspective on both parenthood and childfreedom, given that at various times in my life I have been both – and as you should know by now, I don’t do anything half-assed. When I was childfree, I was ardently childfree. Now that I am a parent, I can tell you with a straight face that I am a *damned* good mother, at least so far. (Quit laughing, Heather.)

But would it surprise you to know that my sympathies in the aforementioned exchanges still reside with the childfree? They are generally maligned and oft-misunderstood folk, and they remain some of the most interesting, erudite, laugh-your-ass-off funny people I have ever had the pleasure to come to know. If you haven’t spent a significant portion of your life believing that you never wanted children, then trust me when I say that you have no idea what these people go through. I remember vividly one day in the first year we lived in this house. We’d just discovered that our home was experiencing its seasonal invasion of carpenter ants, and an extermination service was called tout de suite, because those fuckers were big and I shit you not when I tell you that some of them FLY.

So extermination guy comes to our house and begins the conversation that we always hear when someone first visits our domicile:

Extermination Guy: “Wow! This is a really cool house!”

Me: “Thanks. It’s unusual, but we love it.”

EG: “Well, I can see why. It’s a pretty big house, too. It’ll be great for when you have kids!” (Right about here is where EG actually winks at me.)

Me: “I suppose it would be. But we don’t plan to have kids.”

EG: “You’re not having kids?”

Me: “I hadn’t planned on it.”

EG: “You don’t want kids?”

Me (smiling incredulously at this incredibly personal line of interrogation from a complete stranger): “Not particularly.”

Now picture Extermination Guy physically recoiling from me, because that’s exactly what he did. As though he would turn the corner into the next room and see children’s heads mounted on the fucking wall like hunting trophies from the Bizarro World. He literally cut his visit short and left in a huff, and I was left with my jaw hanging open for the next four hours.

Mind you, this was only one of hundreds of slights I personally have experienced in the handful of years I felt that I did not want to be anyone’s mother. It’s not the same thing if you think you will (or even might) have children someday and you endure the requisite nagging from family over when you are finally going to produce offspring. It’s an entirely different league of response when people know that you don’t want children. So keep in mind that the childfree put up with shit each and every day that would make your hair fall out, en masse.

And let’s be honest – the sun shines on us breeders, whether we want to admit it or not. Grouse all you like about how our society does not accommodate children and how hard it is to be a parent, and I’m still going to tell you that I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for you, because I know the flip side of that coin. Every time someone smiled at me when I was pregnant out to THERE, I remembered the withering looks I received as a childfree person. I still think of that when someone smiles at my children, and people smile at my children every damned time I walk out of the house with them. We get tax breaks subsidized by the childfree. We get government-sanctioned leave from our jobs and our childfree co-workers pick up the slack. If they dare to point any of this out, they are generally met with outright hostility rather than a heartfelt thank you.

And many of us are doing a shitty job of raising our spawn. They run amok in public places, dash in front of little old ladies without any regard for personal space (much less respect for their elders), leave things wherever they like rather than put them back where they found them and toss their litter out the windows of their cute-utes as they cut you off in traffic when they’re finally old enough to drive. Every time I encounter a child of any age displaying genuinely good manners, I am so astonished that I wind up exclaiming over them like a flustered southern belle. A ten year old boy held the door for me a few weeks ago, and I thanked him so profusely and with such a maniacal grin that he probably feared I was going to kiss him. Is it any wonder that childfree people feel both disgusted and angry that we’re turning loose a generation of ill-mannered, menacing idiots while they’re the ones who get hosed down with emotional bile day in and day out?

And I love the way most parents bury their head in the sand with regard to their children. You can’t fool me, parents: I am now one of you, and I’ve heard your secrets. You want so desperately to believe that your children are good that you ignore what’s going on right under your nose. You excuse abominable behavior because you’d rather not play the heavy. I admit that when I first began to employ discipline and consequences for my child, it was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But time went on, and I saw results, and administering some swift justice for bad behavior became downright enjoyable. I find that this is the biggest difference between myself and my mommy friends. For whatever reason, many moms today are loath to kick ass and take names. Or if they do, they turn into such Shouty McYellersons that their kids just learn to tune them out. I don't pretend that I won't face enormous challenges in raising my kids to be civilized human beings, but dammit, when they come, I am going to get to the bottom of them.

Of course, in any group you’ll find people who’ve gone off their meds, and the childfree are no exception. But before you paint that room with a broad brush, consider the wackadoos in your own jurisdiction. Parenthood is rife with headcases and losers, and I’d argue well into next week that we have them in far greater percentages than the childfree. (Matthew 7:4 “Why do you notice the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not perceive the wooden beam in your own eye?”) Straighten up, parents. Teach your kids to crack a book, and while you’re at it, teach them some decent manners. And if you have to leave work early to catch your kid’s soccer game, thank the childfree person at the next desk, why don’t you?

In The Ether

2010-10-22T14:13:00.002-04:00

Yup, that's how I feel. Foggy.

I suppose it's the haze of nostalgia and mixed emotion I am feeling, the day before I will give my two weeks' notice to a place of employment that has been a home-away-from-home for me for the last decade. I have spent many of the best and worst days of my life inside its walls, and shed more tears there than I could begin to estimate. To say that I have, on a regular basis, both experienced and been witness to the full range of human emotion inside the veterinary clinic is a comic understatement.

The funny thing is, for all the...ahem...distinct personalities we've had in the clinic over the years, there's only one for whom I could conjure any negativity, and it would be mild at best. (Perhaps because I haven't had to work with her for YEARS, now. That certainly helps to soften one's stance.) And, yes, I am including myself as one of those...ahem...distinct personalities. So there - phhhbt!

Nevertheless, it really is time to go. Not knowing exactly what comes next contributes to my general numbness, me thinks. This week my mind has been running frequently to the prevailing ineptness and lack of depth in recent generations (my own and myself wholeheartedly included). I got to thinking about the kinds of stories my mom and dad have to tell, and how grateful I am that I've finally reached enough of a ripe old age that Dad will spill the beans on some of his more amusing stories from his 30+ years as a Detroit police officer. Between the two of them, they have experienced a lot of what life itself has to offer. And I don't mean that in any kind of a material or worldly sense. I mean it in the most essential, basic human sense.

You see, I bought a series of conversation cards called Table Topics about a year ago. (I am currently the proud owner of 5 of their lovely little sets, and I look forward to more.) I bought them after a conversation I'd had with my sister about how we could enjoy Thanksgiving and lure our kids away from the after-dinner video games and back to the family table. We've had some amazing, delightful conversations ever since.

But it occurred to me that I don't know that I have any of the depth or richness that my parents' lives practically ooze. What will I tell my children and, God willing, my grandchildren when they're old enough to ask me questions? Will I tell them about my amazing prowess on Plants vs. Zombies? Holy crap! My life is a meaningless, disconnected series of grudgingly-performed routine chores and down time spent in solitary! I looked up and I swear I saw a sneering little raincloud following me whose name was "Hopelessness".

Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to turn on the radio after driving Lula to school. I'd left it on AM 760, and although I love and adore The MahaRushi, I wasn't in a frame of mind for passionate discourse. I reached out immediately to change the station, but thank God my reflexes are slow.

I heard him speaking so gently and mildly for just enough time to stop me in my tracks. In doing so, I got a major balm for my soul. Although I arrived somewhere in the middle, it soon became clear that Rush was speaking with a (very?) young man who had called in because he liked President Obama and wanted to know why Rush didn't. The thoughtfulness and clarity of Rush's explanation was amazing and inspiring - I sat in the driveway with my eyes closed, listening to every last moment. My God, my God - I love our country. How blessed we all are.

I went inside to gather up the loose mess of myself (emotionally speaking) from this past week and make some lunch. As always, I ate while I read the news. Or, more accurately, I open all my major news sites and scour the categories for links to stuff I want or need to read while I schnork down lunch. Then, because I've eaten so quickly, I 'compliment the chef' and settle in to read the 800 tabs I've opened.

It seemed no coincidence to me that I opened Peggy Noonan's well-written column from today's Wall Street Journal. An interesting take on the Tea Party's influence and the possibilities we, as everyday people, have at our feet. Is change possible? I believe it is.

I feel purposeful again, and that is no small thing. And while I will miss my beloved job and I'll have to face the confusion of re-ordering my life, I now believe that I can do great things with this opportunity. It wasn't until this moment of feeling like I could dream big again that I realized how long I'd felt the opposite.

I am more than a conqueror. You are, too.

Comfortably Rudderless

2010-10-16T14:54:00.000-04:00

You know, middle-age ain't so bad. I played Bunco with a bunch of women last Thursday - only one of whom I know at all, and I had the time of my freakin' life. We had Jell-o shots and slushy frozen martinis in sugar-rimmed glasses adorned with gummi body parts (in honor of Halloween, natch) and we smoked Capri cigarettes on the back porch in between rounds and called each other every variant of the word "bitch" and laughed until we all ached. There was money to be won (everybody put in $5) and booby prizes to be had, and I can hardly wait for next month...squeee! And if that makes me an old woman, I am fundamentally OK with that.

In other news, I have fielded multiple requests in the last week from loved ones seeking my sage wisdom (snork!) on choosing and acquiring kittens. This is a compliment of the highest order, and one on which I truly hope I can make good. You see, we have something of a reputation for choosing incredibly awesome cats, but I'm not so sure that it's deserved. Claude and Dodi were acquired in sheer desperation before Eug and I were even married, so hot was our kitten fever at the time. Claude turned out to be a GEM - a cat among cats. Dodi was problematic, and I've shied away from females ever since - something that has been reinforced over my years of working at the vet clinic, too. In fact, in doing a little research for my loved ones, I see that about 85% of the cats (not kittens) available for adoption through rescue organizations in our area are female. This saddens me but does not surprise me. I've found the females to be more prone to persnicketiness and what I like to call "pissed-off pissing", but of course that's just my limited observation. Our subsequent felines have all been males, and they are enviably friendly, affectionate and easy-going.

Anyway, personality is KING when choosing a kitten, and I suppose I might have a good eye for that. So I will be window-shopping for kittens hither and yon in the days to come - what could be better? Even grandchildren would not be nearly as much fun as picking out kittens that you don't actually have to feed and support. (Screw the baby - pass me a kitten or a puppy to hold any day!) We also have been blessed with kids who have really embraced the right approach when it comes to socializing animals. I see way too many kids who go apeshit around their pets and generally scare the bejeezus out of them. This is not the way to a confident, relaxed lap-cat, people.

Nevertheless, the plan is in place for my departure from the vet clinic after more than 10 years, and I am so excited, I can barely stand it. If all goes according to schedule, I have only 3 Saturdays remaining of shit-handling, adoptable kitten temptations and sniffling over other people's dead pets. It was a very good chapter of my life, but it's one that I'm happy to close, too.

And so, onward. To where, I don't know yet.

People: Ya Gotta Hate 'Em.

2010-10-09T15:14:00.001-04:00

Lately, I have been so incredibly testy. I keep thinking that there must be something I can do to improve my mental health, but my dilemma seems unresolvable: I can't decide which would be of greater immediate benefit to my state of mind - psychiatric therapy or a chemical peel and microdermabrasion. OK, OK - I'm joking. But since my thorniness doesn't seem to be going anywhere any time soon, maybe I'd be nicer to be around if I were at least better-looking, n'est-ce pas?

Things that do NOT help matters include, but are not limited to:

* Listening to every asshole fan from U of M blather on about today's game versus MSU in the reception lobby at work today. Hep me, Jezuz. I intensely dislike all sports and, by natural extension, sports fans. Especially when they don apparel in God-awful colors like "maize and blue" and talk trash as if they were the ones about to pummel and be pummeled on the field. I genuinely believe that pornography is a more noble industry than professional sports, and watching some middle-aged yahoo posture about a freakin' game is more than a little ridonkulous to me. (And yes, I know collegiate athletes are not considered "pro"...but we all know that's little more than a label, given the widespread corruption in college sports programs.)

* Watching two perfectly beautiful solid-black kittens go unadopted week after week after week, even after the clinic has generously fully vaccinated and spayed them and will offer them at a two-for-one, already dirt-cheap adoption fee if anyone will give them both a good home...and then see swarms of motherfuckers come in to swoon over the brand-new litter of 5 baby felines we have with prettier coloring (4 buff boys and one grey girl, all with blue eyes). One couple is actually considering taking FOUR of them, and the other one is already spoken for. We've had the all-black kittens since babyhood, too. They've been waiting to be adopted for FOUR FUCKING MONTHS, NOW.

* Being obligated to return to the clinic tonight for an all-night carpet-cleaning session which will inevitably leave my lower back begging audibly for mercy. Do I need to tell you what happens, olfactorily-speaking, to hideous stains in a vet clinic once they become saturated with hot water? Gee, I can hardly wait.

The amusing part of all this is that I happen to be ovulating today. (Don't ask me how I know this. I think the preceding sentence was already TMI, don't you?) Now, who in their right mind would come anywhere near me for mating purposes today? That would be certain death, I assure you. God has quite the sense of humor, apparently.

I, however, do not. I'll let you know when it's safe to come 'round again. Until then, keep your extremities far away from the bars of my cage, friends.

Their Parents Must Be So Proud.

2010-09-30T13:34:00.000-04:00

I sincerely hope Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei get the full five years in state prison for what they did to Tyler Clementi. I wish their punishment could be coupled with a public caning immediately after sentencing, too. What I find particularly disgusting are the comments from the perpetrators' circle of friends and family that suggest their actions were "accidental" or "just a joke". I hope the prosecutors go after both Ravi and Wei like rabid dogs with a bone.

Please excuse me, now. I think I have to cry and/or puke.

Numa Numa Numarvelous!

2010-09-21T19:01:00.000-04:00

If you've never seen Gray Brolsma, aka the Numa Numa guy, you've probably never been on the internet to begin with, right?

Today I ran across this clip of Gary directing the marching band from my alma mater, Michigan State University, in numa-fabulousness! Aaaaawesooome! Normally, sports fans and marching bands are, respectively #1 and #2 on my Uncool List, but this makes even me want to "Woot! Woot! Go Spartans!"

On The Bright Side

2010-09-20T16:51:00.000-04:00

New living room windows have been ordered, and while the cost is beyond onerous, I am delighted nonetheless. Not because three old, inefficient windows will be replaced before winter and my natural gas bills set in, oh no. I am mostly excited because I have been postponing washing all the windows in my house and this constitutes three fewer windows I'll have to scrub. Sloth, thy name is Michelle.

Riddle me this: Why, in a 2700 square foot house, does any one of three cats have to choose the uber-narrow pathway between my refrigerator and kitchen table to nap? A broken leg or an inadvertently punted feline seem inevitable.

I have been watching some gloriously hideous scary movies this week. I popped a rental in the XBox 360 last night and found myself hopping up and running to my Netflix queue after every damned preview; there were so many tasty things to add! Is it wrong that I am anxiously awaiting the release of this bit of squick? By all means, scroll down and watch the video trailers. Heh heh heh.

Lastly, A Modest Proposal: Instead of raising taxes to fund increasingly ridiculous government programs and extensions of unemployment benefits for the copious numbers of people who aren't even trying to look for a job (and yes, I personally know many), how about we equip the IRS to hunt down the hoardes of spongers who - illegally - don't pay any taxes at all? OK, OK - I was watching "Judge Judy". So sue me. But in her uncanny way, she asks the questions that the majority of us wouldn't consider, and I recently saw her eviscerate someone who was clearly earning plenty of sponduli, but was failing to pay both child support AND taxes! For years running! I'm hoping his information went straight to the IRS once taping was finished that day.

And, no, you can't embarrass me for watching "Judge Judy". It is one of the myriad ways in which I am shameless.

They Say The Foundation Of A Great Marriage Is Rooted In Compromise.

2010-09-12T13:12:00.000-04:00

To which I say, "Screw dat."

For some reason, today Eug started flapping his gums about dogs in general and, more specifically, what kind of canine family member we'd have next. He said he really wants an uncropped Doberman, and while I agree that Dobies are awesome dogs and highly, HIGHLY trainable and sweet...the bottom line is, I don't want one. At least not if that's the only dog we have, and I don't foresee us having more than one dog. (Neither does Eug, for that matter.) I also mentioned that since Dobies' tails are docked at birth, you get to spend the entirety of the dog's lifetime getting a clear view of its butthole. Yes, I will stoop to any depth to make my case.

Now, none of this is imminent (which I hesitate to type after the whole Laservue debacle, but honestly, there's no pup on the horizon at LEAST a full year) but the discussion has lodged like a bee in my bonnet. Because I am a Dane person, period. And I'll be damned if I've waited this long to have anything but another Great Dane. Inflexible? Yup. I. Don't. Care.

In a nod to marital harmony, I did say that I would be willing to have two dogs and Eug can pick whatever his sweet, misguided heart desires. But I have to choke back tears of joy and excitement whenever I come anywhere near a Great Dane, and attending the big, benched dog show a couple of years ago nearly gave me a heart attack of happiness. (The embarrassing thing is that I'm not even exaggerating. I truly get that excited.) Mark my words: A Dane will be MINE.

You'd think I would be feeling more charitable after receiving some much-needed grace at Mass this morning, but the Gospel reading was the parable of the prodigal son. That one's never sat quite right with me, even though our auxiliary priest did an awesome job of explaining it in the homily. Kill the fattened calf for return of the son who insulted his father by demanding his inheritance early and then blowing it on prostitutes? And the faithful son hasn't even had a young goat for a party with his buddies? I'm still not sure I'm on board with that one, and I have pondered it on many occasions. A sure sign of my spiritual immaturity, no doubt.

In other Church-y news, I found out that the priest who caused us to make the decision to yank Henry from the local parochial school and find a new parish has DIED. I did not know how to feel about that, let me tell you. He was young, too. My insider informant speculated on how awesome it would be if the archdiocese decided to move our original (and much beloved) priest to said local parish, and I said that if it came to pass, I would have to wonder if God really, really loved me...or was really, really testing me.

Tomorrow is the start of my new life: five days a week with approximately two hours to myself. Can I get a "Woo HOO"? I have some photography session work to finish up tonight, the finale of True Blood and Hung to watch, and a good night's sleep to acquire. I want to hit the ground running on Monday, you see.

May your week be as productive as I hope mine will be!

Go!

2010-09-08T18:08:00.001-04:00

I had my first true taste of freedom today since somewhere in the middle of 2001 (when I became too hugely pregnant to ever truly be considered to be by myself) - a glorious two hours during which I was gorgeously, fabulously alone. I was so giddy when it finally came that I think all I managed to do was pick at my cuticles and giggle like a loon.

In my defense, the day had not begun well. Arising from 3 hours' sleep, I got the big kids ready for their weekday institutionalization and piled them into the old hooptee to get to the bus stop on time. For the last year, my vehicle has been squealing porcine distress at top volume whenever I hit the brakes, but they've been checked and re-checked this year and everything is mechanically sound.

But.

It's embarrassing. Some days it's a mild screech, while other days it seems to actually HOWL. I think I deafened a poor McDonald's drive-thru employee about a month ago as the brake sound reverberated off the walls, which only served to amplify the volume. And when your ride is an eleven year-old minivan in a color which could only properly be called "Senior Citizen Medium Blue", calling attention to the fact that you are driving the world's uncoolest vehicle with very loud noise isn't exactly desirable, you know?

I'd been thinking about taking it back to my trustworthy mechanic (I'm not being sarcastic - he's a gem) to beg that they fix it or shoot the damned thing and put it out of its misery once and for all. But I don't drive much, and once I was out from behind the wheel, I promptly put the issue out of my mind. BECAUSE I HAVE BIGGER FISH TO FRY, PEOPLE! (OK, not really. But I like to pretend.)

Flashback once again to this morning. I squeal through the neighborhood, trying to coast more than actually drive, so as to avoid hitting the brakes and waking the dead. I loop around to my usual curbside spot where I drop off the kids and watch them in my rear view mirror until I see them climb safely aboard the bus. Sometimes (especially in the beginning of the year before the novelty wears off for the parents), I'll see some moms and dads who've walked to the bus stop and congregate for some meaningless pleasantries: an alien species of 'Morning People'. I see one of the waiting dads walk down the sidewalk in the direction of my mom-mobile, but I figure he's headed home. He moves closer, and is out of the field of vision of my rear view mirror. I continue watching my kids in the mirror and think nothing of it.

Except, that is, until I hear a rap on my passenger window and my geriatric bowels nearly give way. Did I mention I am still in my sloppy-ass pajamas? AND BRA-LESS? Thus it is writ: No one shall sidle up to a vehicle containing a stay-at-home mother wearing sunglasses and doing her best to appear invisible in the early morn. Sometimes we are only presentable from the shoulders, up, people. Can we all agree to amend the Constitution and engrave this rule on our national currency?

I have no choice but to roll down the window and find out what he wants. I lean forward slightly, hoping the t-shirt I'm wearing will fall away from the surface of these old, water balloon-filled tube socks that are my bosoms and thereby preserve a tiny shred of modesty. He looks sheepish to have caught me in such a state, which makes me briefly thankful that I wasn't absent-mindedly picking my nose or digging something out of my ear when he approached. (A little inside joke for my close buddies, here..."Merry Christmas: Because Things Could Always Be Worse." I might have to share that story one day, but I haven't as yet, because I believe it defies even my mighty powers of description.)

He says, "Umm, I'm guessing you know this, but there's something very wrong with your brakes." I put on my best Everything's-FINE-Here-Officer! smile and say, "Well, yes and no. They've been checked and re-checked and they're just...loud. Safe and functional. But loud." He laughs nervously and says, "Oh, OK - just turn the radio up, I guess!" He walks away feeling probably nearly as mortified as I am.

So I go home and throw myself a 10-Minute Pity Party, and call my beloved husband to rant about how MY LIFE SUCKS BECAUSE WE CAN'T AFFORD TO FIX A STUPID BROKEN WINDOW ON OUR STUPID, HALF-PAINTED HOUSE AND MY PIECE-OF-SHIT VAN IS LOUD ENOUGH TO CAUSE HEARING LOSS, TO BOOT. I then pull my shit together, say a half-second prayer for being such an insufferable brat, and ask him if there's any way he can take Lula to preschool so I can drop the van off again.

The upshot is that even though my front brakes are new, my mechanic is replacing them FOC and returning them under the still-effective warranty due to 'excessive noise'. He's also replacing the rotors because they appear to spontaneously generate rust at the same rate the rabbits in my yard breed, which will set me back two-fitty. And if that doesn't quiet my stupid car down, I'm going to acquire a 55-gallon drum of Astroglide and hose the undercarriage down liberally. Juuuuuussst watch me.

Get Set...

2010-09-06T15:32:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow, mothers everywhere get the delicious 'amuse bouche' of Back-To-School: the first day, but it's only a half-day. I lovingly told the kids that I would put them on the school bus wearing a jack boot with a reinforced steel toe with a kick that would make Jan Stenerud proud. They were highly amused with the imagery, and spent most of yesterday high-kicking it around the house.

Little Lula won't start preschool full-time until next week, but then I will have a block of time for five glorious days straight all to myself for the first time in nine years. Translation? Do not contact me. This is the precious "Cone of Silence" for which I have been waiting for a seeming eternity, and I refuse to spend it in contact with other human beings. If my phone rings, I may be tempted to answer it with a string of unimaginable profanity. Ye have been warned. (My parents would be highly amused if they realized that the teenager who racked up hundreds of dollars in long-distance before the days of all-inclusive calling plans has now become downright allergic to the phone.)

I have been neck-deep in photo editing - when will I learn not to take 500 frames in a single portrait session? As you might imagine, I have trouble eliminating frames from the editing pool, so I wind up editing them all. Decision making: C'est ne pas ma forte. The high-speed burst capture setting on my camera is a double-edged sword, friends.

My better half is always chock-a-block with erudite and witty observations, but my favorite this week has to be this: I was listening to the "Blessed Memories" disc I mentioned on the blog last time, and one of the tracks Alan Jackson sings on it is "How Great Thou Art". Eug stood near me while I was working on the computer and enjoying the music with a thoughtful look on his face. I thought he might be gearing up for some snark, but instead he opined "You know, I can thoroughly understand why other artists would want to record this song. But on the other hand, once Elvis sang it...I mean, what's the point? It's been DONE, and no one's ever gonna do it better." I concur - who can listen to The King sing that song without sniffling significantly? (And if you can, I don't want to know you.) Especially his live version for which he won a Grammy in 1972. I believe even Jesus got goosebumps when Elvis laid that one down.

Speaking of music, I think I am going to ask Santa for a couple of voice lessons this year. I would like to learn to sing without tightening up in my throat, even though I can't read a note of music. I think I may have even found a professional instructor who lives mere minutes from my house. Whether she can help a sad sack like me keep from embarrassing myself in Mass remains to be seen, however.

The year is shaping up to be a very different one from any I've known in the relatively recent past. After some heartfelt discussion about various things, Eug suggested that we invest much more heavily in our parish and church family over other things in life. What an amazing man I married! He very deftly pulled me from being awash in disappointment and frustration with exactly the right answer. I'm so grateful that, after my initial burst of energy to engage us in our faith, he has the strength the lead me now that I'm out of gas. It's especially remarkable, when you consider the atheist environment in which he was raised - but then, those of us raised in some brand of faith often take it for granted. I am certainly no exception.

I got another wonderful compliment at work this past weekend. I'd been chatting up an older couple waiting in the lobby of the clinic with their two dogs and enjoying loving on their Aussie and Golden. Another client came in and needed help, and I found myself chatting with him for a bit about how best to go about introducing a new pet to existing pets in the family. When he left, the gentlemen who'd been waiting with his wife got my attention and said, "We were just talking about you." I laughed and said "Uh oh - what'd I do?" He smiled and told me that he was just discussing with his wife how I was "made for this job - you love animals and you are fantastic with people." It made me all misty-eyed later on - when I do leave the clinic, I will really miss interacting with people and their pets. Animal lovers can be crazy, but they are almost always heartfelt and generous in spirit, and that's a privilege to be around.

And so begins a rather introspective time for me - planning the eventual departure from my beloved job (perhaps by the new year), scraping together money (as yet undiscovered) to pay our unexpected bills, shepherding my kids through the carnival of activities the fall has to offer, and focusing only on me and mine for the time being. We are all so needy and broken in various ways, that everyone else will have to - in the infamous words of a dear friend of mine - "suck it" while we patch ourselves up and soldier on.

Lastly, two small delights: How awesome is the trailer for the new movie "You Again" in which Betty White tells us she's on "the Twitter"? (It's at the very end of the trailer, FYI.) And for those of you watching "Mad Men", how fierce and tender was this last episode with Don and Peggy? And how freakin' hysterical was the Don Draper character when silly-drunk? (As opposed to brooding-drunk, which he is most of the time.) To say that this last episode more than made up for the fact that "True Blood" wasn't on yesterday is really saying something, I tell you.

May all your children's classroom assignments this year be a fortuitous one, folks.

On Your Mark...

2010-09-03T19:02:00.002-04:00

It is soooooo lovely outside today. The wind is blowing hard, the sun peeks in and out of the clouds, and the temperature is nigh-perfect. I wish I could tell you that I spent the day being quietly productive near an open window, but sadly, this is not the case.

You see, I realized how little time I truly have until school begins, and that I'd been ignoring the supply list for too long. To that end, I took the kidlets on a seemingly-endless round robin of shopping trips today. We started at Target, despite the fact that I anticipated that the BTS stuff would have been thoroughly ravaged by this point...and so it was. I managed to pick up a few things and hold the kids over with a couple of soft pretzels and some Icees. We soldiered on to the office supply store, which was packed with crazed shoppers like it was a Brooklyn bridal sale - only to get all the way through the register line to have the cash registers freeze. We left empty-handed and I took a deep breath and committed myself to entering...Wal-Mart. I get bad goosebumps just thinking about Wal-Mart, and the kids still joke about the time we almost ate at a Subway inside a Wal-Mart. The girls wanted a meatball sub to split and Henry was game to try the seafood salad, but the sweaty guy behind the register opened the lid on the meatballs and said, "Yeah...I don't think I'd order this if I were you. They're not lookin' too hot." Eug wisely turned us on our heels and we beat a hasty retreat. On leaving, Eug said "If the meatballs look bad, I don't even want to know what the seafood salad looks like!" Now, every time we're in a Wal-Mart, the kids mischieviously ask if I want to stop at Subway and giggle maniacally.

Complaints about Wal-Mart aside, I did get everything we needed without taking out the requisite home equity loan that shopping at the office supply store would've required. (The price for a pack of 50 Crayola colored pencils at Office Max was more than DOUBLE what it was at Target - yipes!) We finished up by running to the library, then to the grocery store (yet another madhouse) and finally swung by the gas station before collapsing at home in gratitude.

I still have no idea where we're going to get the money for the new windows, and it's stressing me out. My sister-in-law just called and when she asked how I was doing, I replied "I'm cranky." After she finished laughing, she said "At least you're honest!" We also had a little discussion about peri-menopause, and when I told her I am eagerly awaiting the day when I can begin to dry up and wither away, she laughed until I thought she'd burst something. She gave me a good book recommendation ("The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak) that I immediately placed on a library hold and I told her I would bring my most recent read to her: "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows.

Speaking of recommendations, I saw a film called "Curse of the Golden Flower" recently, and it was (insert sing-songy voice here) aaawwesoooome! Made me want to watch "Raise the Red Lantern" all over again. On a culturally polar-opposite note, I am told that "Superbad" is side-splittingly funny and intend to watch it soon, because I need filler to tide me over while I wait an extra week for the finale of "True Blood". Season Four damned well better feature Eric and Sookie gettin' it on, and quickly, too. My patience wears thin. I think I'm done with Charlaine Harris' books of the series, though. This last one, "Dead in the Family" was even worse than some of the Laurell K. Hamilton books I'm ashamed to admit that I've read. Clearly, I'm better off with cheesy vampire romance of the televised variety. (On a side note, how jealous must LKH be that Alan Ball chose Charlaine Harris' series over her 'Anita Blake' series? The thought makes me smile.)

I still need music recommendations from some of you who shall remain nameless, dears. I'm at a creative dead-end when it comes to adding new tunes...to the extent that I found myself listening to Carole King on my Zune pass, which should let you know just how dire things have become. Oldies hippie music? Deliver me, please. Lastly, I did get my hands on Alan Jackson's "Precious Memories" CD, and to say that it is beautiful is a woeful understatement. You know you've found lovely when you're wiping away tears and wondering how to go about making sure a given song is played at your funeral. (I realize that constitutes a rather morbid recommendation, but it really is ethereal and tender. Ignore my strange melancholy and give it a listen.) So please keep sending the tune suggestions, kids - and thank you to all of you who've already passed along new ideas.

May your Labor Day be a Lazy Day, and take care.