Life is A Construction Zone

Verbal Vomit

2007-10-14T12:51:00.000-04:00

So Tom was transferred to the Cleveland Clinic from Youngstown October 11. The irony truly broke my heart as they closed the doors to the transport van. I'd sat in the emergency room for six hours holding his hand waiting to find out why he was throwing up blood. We still don't have any answers (negative for ulcers), but at least my fear that he was going into liver failure (blood in the vomit with no other symptoms is often an indicator of ruptured varices in the GI tract due to cirrhosis, which is one step up from where he is now, with bridging fibrosis, which is stage 2/3 in the five stages of liver disease, in his case brought on by hepatitis C) is unfounded.

Oh, yeah, back to the irony. Cadence turned 3 that day, and it had been three years and a day since I'd been admitted to give birth. I actually checked him into emergency and then went upstairs to the OB desk, not even aware at that point that I was already almost 4cm dilated and well on my way to poppin' one out. Tom passed a kidney stone at some point during our stay in the hospital. I actually left with Cady two days before he was able to come home.

This has been the ongoing story of our lives, even before Cady arrived. And it turns out that the whole poor poor pitiful me act that my husband has been putting on is just that -- an act. At least, in my eyes. The last 2 times he's been in the hospital they've done tox screens. The first time it was because he did appear visibly high on something. Silly me, I thought it had been the weed we smoke. Turns out it's all kinds of other yummy illicit substances -- roxycet, oxycontin, and cocaine, to name but a few. And it's dawning on me now that yes, my husband has a lot of health problems that are beyond his control. But he also has the ability to alleviate some of his symptoms. And he's not doing it. He's just making it worse.

So I'm left with the haunting questions that linger. They bounce around my soul and leave me with a literal ache in my chest. I'm a woman who's already been down the marital trail twice before this latest matrimony. And frankly, I look back at the cheating and beating (on the other side, not mine) & I wonder if those weren't just dress rehearsal for the real gut wrenching.

Because this all just fucking sucks so fucking hard. I didn't know what shit was, really. This is shit. And I have all the power, all the resources to just walk away, but I feel trapped anyway. Trapped and angry and sad.

Have you ever gotten tired of crying? And it's not even good crying. I rarely feel better afterwards. Maybe it's because I do it almost 100% in private. I can't cry in front of my kid. I just can't. I remember seeing my Mom cry, quite a bit as a child, and it really rocked me. I can't do it.

That often leads to self-loathing, because I think, who the hell am I to cry? So self-indulgent. Crying -- and therapy. It's for pussies, right?!

Seriously. Christ! I am sick to death of myself. I mean, really, in the grand scheme of things my life really isn't shit. I have a fantastic and loving and supportive family. My Mother (whom my sister and I still refer to as Mommy, yes, I am a tard) is a saint. My grandfather has been known to secretly pad my bank account at the end of the month with just a little extra so that we don't get our electricity or water shut off. I have people at church who pray for us continually. I am healthy, my child is healthy, and my husband isn't dying -- though one might wonder if he's not trying to slowly but surely kill himself (the nasty bitch in me wants to add to the end of that sentence *fucking coward*). That's the anger and disappointment talking. No, I did not sign up for this, but goddammit if I'm going to get another divorce. I feel like a pit bull, hanging on. Anger is often the end result. It's poisonous, too, and makes me wonder if all of it is worth it.

Oh, but it is....I have this beautiful child, and I watch her every day and think, how could so much beauty spring from so much ugly dysfunction? How do two people who are so eternally and irrevocably broken make something so mind-blowingly amazing?

And of course I realize that we all started out like that. Every one of us, until our parents and life reached in and twisted us around. Rag dolls, all of us. If we're lucky, we're the Velveteen rabbit in the end. Right now, though, I feel like one of those headless dolls that populate the corners of my living room.

See? Like I said, I'm sick to death of myself. Boo hoo hoo. I'm the hysterical nun in Airplane, where is the line of people down the aisle waiting to smack me up?!

Interesting. I actually feel better. But that's to be expected; I always feel better after I puke. And suddently I'm struck with an image of ze frank spitting out scrabble pieces. Ah ha ha. And that's funny.

Acidic Ramblings

2007-07-04T11:36:00.000-04:00

Thirty-seven Fourth of Julys.

As a sprout, in my knee high to a grasshopper days, the holiday was just another fun day in a long string of fun days in the epic months of summer. Golden days. Days when I ached with longing as I was tucked into bed, windows open (a decade before central air ever entered my life), the sound of waning birds and the far off laughter of the children with clearly more permissive and less wet blanket parents filling my ears, the last hint of daylight still visible at the bottom edge of the black out curtains.

Years later, it was fireworks and cruising boys, elephant ears and kisses under the bleachers.

After college, it meant I worked all day, when other people had the day off (I was an assistant manager in retail & low, lone woman on the rickety ladder of an AM radio station).

The underpinings never escape me; I get that it's an arbitrary date set by some dead people to commemorate our break with the Mother Land. The signing of the Declaration of Independence is like a grade school secular obsession equaled in scale, myth and magic to The Last Supper in Christian Sunday School classes. As a WASP, I was steeped in this shit. America the Beautiful.

Do I sound bitter?

I'm not. I'm in love with America as surely as I am my husband. Our imperfect union is just as peopled with skeletons, boogeymen, and ghosts. When you're stripped bare as a spouse, the Baby Jane leaks out of the corners, sometimes. Or there's a glimpse of the Vegas Elvis, peeking through the facade.

When the country seems to be falling apart, the government incongruously in tension with what the people are apparently saying...it's the same stomach-grinding stand off. But this is my home, my country, and Good Goddamn, I'm not giving up on it, because to do so, I'd be giving up on the people. People I don't know, will never see. But they're my people.

And then I think, aren't all people my people? It seems like globalization is the only way we're ever going to free ourselves of what is happening right now, all this fracturization and self-segregation going on. Our self-aggrandizing president waving from his bully pulpit, that smarmy little smirk on his Curious George face.

But we can't oversimplify, either. There has to be some way to rid ourselves of the melting pot, and think more in terms of a Salad Shaker (remember those things? The only thing I ever ate from McDonalds for years). Vive le difference, right? Can't we all just get along?! *dramatic sob*

Hillary can eat me, but her ghost-writer did have something going on with the whole it takes a village thing.

So I'm left wondering why in the name of Thor's Hammer are states like Minnesota passing laws that make it a misdemeanor to sell American flags that are not made in America with American textiles, and yet an organization like Child Workers in Asia even exists?!

"Dammit, Jim, let's make sure we get our flags from the US of A, but who gives a rat's ass where my Nikes came from. Oooh, a Starbucks!"

What My Grandma Always Told Me

2007-06-22T19:31:00.000-04:00

My paternal grandmother, who passed away nine years ago as a result of a sudden stroke, was a health nut. She and my grandfather, I believe, lived a longer and healthier lifestyle because of their diet and exercise regime. Grandma loved Prevention magazine, and was always following up with us, copying articles and sending them in greeting cards. One particular article she mailed to me while I was in college stuck in my mind and has definitely affected the way I consume beverages.

Apparently, as early as the late 80s, there had been discovered a link between phosphoric acid and poor calcium absorption. This was of particular interest to my grandmother, because her daughter, my Aunt, was a big Diet Coke drinker. Granny was always on Auntie to stop consuming the stuff, at least, in such large quantities. Here is a nice article from Harvard on the subject.

And now, almost two decades later, I'm walking through the grocery store and see a little blurb on the side of a Diet Coke twelve-pack about how Diet Coke is a good source of hydration. They've even got an entire website dedicated to their products and how wonderfully hydrating all of them are. Yet I'm still scratching my head about the Diet Coke, because isn't caffeine a diuretic?

So I decided to do a little research on that. According to the nutrition advisor at physsportmed.com:

Caffeine also has a diuretic effect—that is, it enhances urine formation, often causing a need to urinate within an hour after consumption. Yet two studies with subjects who took caffeine before they exercised (1,2) showed no detrimental effects on hydration during exercise. Thus it appears that caffeine does not increase urine production during exercise. The extra adrenaline your body secretes during exercise may block caffeine's effect on the kidneys (3). However, responses to caffeine vary, so you should base your preexercise consumption on how caffeine affects your body.

After exercise, caffeine is a poor choice for fluid replacement. The safest bet is to tank up on noncaffeineated beverages just after activity, and then later, if you so desire, enjoy your favorite caffeinated beverage in moderation.

So, if Diet Coke might be okay while you're working out, but is overall a shitty choice for overall hydration afterwards, is it really fair or accurate for the Coca-Cola Company to be pushing the hydration thing on all of their beverages? I think not.

And it would piss my Grandma right off, may she rest in peace, that they're trying to make it appear as a healthful choice, in general. Assholes.

What good is a police report & Satanic Brain Crack

2007-06-19T01:19:00.001-04:00

That's what I'm asking myself.

My car got run over almost a month ago, and I finally decided to return the call made by the other driver's insurance company, the illustrious State Farm. Seems the tune Mr. Ford Truck was singing to me, and to the cop (as in, The Accident Was My Fault) is not the tune he's singing to his adjustor. Apparently, I am now the one to blame. He claims he had a green arrow to turn left when he did, meaning that I had a red light. Which is interesting, because, though I won't know this for certain until I camp out in the Denny's parking lot for a few minutes tomorrow, the left turn lane is also the STRAIGHT lane at that intersection. Rational minds would assume that a lane that moves both forward and left during a green light would be just that -- GREEN -- with no arrow. The right lane is right turn only. Rational minds would also assume that once the police file the report with their findings -- in this case, a big old "Failure to Yield" (but without a citation, go figure) -- there would be no arguing with it.

Thankfully, my awesome insurance provider has deemed me worthy enough to reimburse my $500 deductible, and are going to go after State Farm through their own channels. It would have really sucked it I'd had to go up against them with a lawyer.

You can betchyoass I will be recording the light changes at that blasted intersection and forwarding the video to my insurance company to use during their arbitration. I might even post the results here, if I can figure out how. I am getting really tired of watching all my friends post videos and thinking, "man, I should try that" -- GET THEE BEHIND ME, BRAIN CRACK!

It's Five O'Clock Somewhere

2007-06-19T01:00:00.000-04:00

I don't really like that song, but it's been kicking around in my head for a good 10 hours or so, ever since I willfully chose to drink two large cans of Guinness Stout at 3pm this afternoon, and then took a long nap nestled next to my child in a sweaty bed because our air conditioner is (again) on the fritz. My house looks like a family of traveling gypsies came through it. Only the traveling gyspies are my family, consisting of just me, my husband, and my two year old child. And we are as stationary as...well, a rock, right now.

Oh yeah, and my dogs are shitheads. They decided to unlock their cage during the night (okay, so it was me that just didn't latch it, but it's my story, it's my blog, I'm stickin' to it) and eat a poopy diaper that I had forgotten to put in the Diaper Genie that afternoon. Whoopsie.

So the house is a borderline health hazard, and I'm drinking in the middle of the afternoon and basically passing out with my kid. Can Child Protective Services be far behind? I mean, at high noon today, I was bawling my eyes out at the outer edge of the parking lot of the grocery chain down the street from my house. And I mean, bawling. Great, heaving, hitching sobs of pity me. My nose was running. I wiped my face with Taco Bell napkins (which suck for that, by the way -- Mc Donald's napkins are way better, but I don't eat McDonald's much anymore), and then hung out my door and splashed myself with lukewarm bottled water that I'd left in the car overnight. And drove home. Played with my daughter until naptime, sucked back the beer, and took a little neeper.

I woke up feeling pretty damn good. And I keep reminding myself that tomorrow is a new day; that Scarlett O'Hara might've been on to something.

Have I mentioned I'm premenstrual?!

Sag thou pantaloons elsewhere, young stallion

2007-06-14T17:22:00.001-04:00

According to this story, there will soon be a new law on the books mandating a $500 fine and up to six months in jail if you wear droopy drawers in public.

Now, I am just as annoyed with the trend as many others are, but come on. I mean, yes, I knew I was getting old several years ago when I watched a boy cross the street in front of me pulling down, hiking up, pulling down, adjusting the level of saggage to the appropriate position much the same way a woman might pull and tug on a skirt she's not so comfortable wearing. I thought simultaneously, "He looks like a dork..." and "Oh my Gosh, get a belt!" -- each thought riddled with disdain and amusement.

And now, it just gives me something with which to find a much needed quiet, private chuckle.

I certainly hope this law doesn't permeate the rest of the country, because, and perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but still, it smacks of profiling. You know what I'm talking about.

Furthermore, if there will be a law about this, then there needs to be a tandem law, that prohibits young ladies wearing short skirts and thongs at the same time. I would rather look at some idiot's ass crack than see bare sixteen year old butt cheeks walking by on a windy day. And the same could be said for thongs and hiphugger jeans. I saw waaaaaay more than I wanted to the other day, while I was at Chuck E. Cheese with my two year old, for cryin' out loud. A large part of me, of course, wanted to say to the young mother, "Work it girl" because she had three kids with her. 'Nough said.

Ultimately, this makes me laugh out loud madly, because no matter what the decade -- or the century -- there is always going to be something those crazy youngsters will be doing that will induce the ire of the next generation enough to make a friggin' law about it. Or doesn't anyone remember when skirts had to cover the ankle and it was considered unseemly for a man to wear his hat indoors?!

Where is Chaucer when you need him....

Cracked Rye

2007-06-11T17:32:00.000-04:00

Why is Sean Patrick Flanery not wildly famous?

He is so incredibly talented, and woefully underused (looking at that word as I type it, I think to myself, "unda-roosed." That sounds like something small kids playing at being gangsta in their skivvies would say.) that he could be Nathan Fillion's brother from another mother. Now, in actuality, Flanery has been in way more stuff than Fillion, but there is a 6 year age diff between them (and day-um, I can't even believe Flanery's 41!). Thing is, neither one has been in anything that has rocketed into banality. Yet. Is that what makes them so good? They're like college rock in the 80s and 90s; once The Cure hit the radio with Friday, I'm in Love, it was all over.

Honestly, why are these two guys not in more stuff now? Is it really because someone as bland and one-dimensional and white bread as Tom Cruise captures the female imagination far more aptly?

I like my bread really hearty. Crunchy. Complex.

There is no justice.

Shot in the Dark

2007-06-06T12:43:00.000-04:00

I accidentally stumbled upon Adrian Grenier's (Entourage)"new" (filmed in '99, released to little acclaim in '02 and re-released this year Hollywood-style as a result of his breakout role in the popular aforementioned HBO series) documentary Shot in the Dark this past weekend on the pay cable station. I have been a fan of Grenier ever since the crappy but cute movie Drive Me Crazy. Those eyes, that hair...he'd have kicked the shit out of Sanjaya, let me tell you. But thank God he just plays drums.

Normally I wouldn't watch this type of thing; it's just not in my line of interest. But I had an interesting year; my husband recently found out he has an illegitimate 17-year-old daughter, whose paternity is slightly in question, but I've seen pictures. There is likely no denying who her father is. Anyway, I've been having a hard time dealing with the phone calls and messages and emails; they never stop, it seems like, and I am not sure why, but I'm irritated and annoyed with it all. Even angry, sometimes. Despite the fact that I remember keenly what it was like to be seventeen, my sensitivity level is subzero. I find myself thinking, with shame, that I don't want this girl in my life. I've already opened myself up to the children from my husband's first marriage, and been heartbroken and betrayed by that whole mess (which I won't go into here, it would take too damn long and reopen wounds that still aren't healed, and frankly, I'm enough of a wreck right now, I don't need to go there). Now I'm facing the prospect of a raw teenager back in my life, and I don't like it one fucking bit.

But that was before I saw this film. I don't know why, but watching Grenier's almost casual approach to this topic, the reunion, made it an easier pill for me to swallow. And then once I was hooked, the real guts of the movie invaded my space and it was too late to turn it off.

I pretty much feel like an asshole, now, but at least I won't be an asshole, when the time comes.

If you like slow-moving but genuine documentaries, this one is for you. And interestingly enough, it's gotten me excited about the new season of Entourage, which I have yet to watch.

The Circle Game

2007-06-02T11:24:00.000-04:00

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time

We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came
And go round and round and round in the circle game.

As a first time mother, I had a difficult lesson of letting go. Loosening the grip I have on my 32 month old daughter, Cadence. It seems like only yesterday, she was this baby:

And now, she is this strong-willed, independent creature with opinions and a personality all her own. She insists already on picking out her own clothes, her shoes, she expresses strong like and dislike of books, food, locations, and experiences. She would just as soon go dashing away from me, and since she was an infant, she never cried when I left her with other people, or even when I left the room. She was always perfectly content to be away from me. My sister, who breast-fed her own son until he was almost three, explains her viewpoint on this: a child who is being nursed at regular intervals is guaranteed regular intimacy with their mother, and so they are often more secure and quite happy to be handed off during non-nursing moments, at increasingly larger and longer intervals.

So I've felt lucky that I didn't have a clingy child that was constantly pulling at my apron strings.

Today, my parents are taking my daughter and nephew to the zoo. I know she'll have a fantastic time, and be doted upon and taken care of in a way that she doesn't always get at home, because I simply cannot give her my undivided attention 24 hours a day, seven days a week, at least, not anymore. Life requires my focus to be elsewhere sometimes! But now I'm staring at my apron strings,

(And i'll be perfect in my own way
When you cry i'll be there
I'll sing to you and comb your hair
All your troubles i will share

For apron strings
Can be used for other things
Than what they're meant for
And you'd be happy wrapped in my
Apron strings)

and wondering how the hell I'm going to cope with her being gone for so long, and even more, realizing that she's not just down the street at her grandmother's, she's 60 miles away in Cleveland at the Metro Zoo.

I called my sister as soon as she left, and burst into tears. I should be happy -- ecstatic! This has the potential for a day of debauchery. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. And all I want to do is curl up on the couch with her PJs and watch SpongeBob on Nickolodeon.

I am so pathetic.

Don't Believe The Hype

2007-06-01T22:57:00.001-04:00

I imagine Henry Ford watching lovingly, and with pride, as the first Edsel rolled slowly off the assembly line.

Sometimes, I think I was as starry-eyed, hopeful, and ultimately full of shit the day I got married.

For the third time. The "charm" of thrice has quite worn off, leaving me with the sinking feeling that there is no magic bullet to marital success. It's just the same old bullshit, different man, different day.

One of my favorite songs by Rickie Lee Jones chronicles the ills of a faltering relationship in terms of a vehicular demise:

There was this block-busted blonde,
and he loved her Free parts and labor,
but she broke down and died
She threw all the rods that he gave her

Oh, but this one ain't fuel-injected,
her plug is disconnected,
She gets scared, and she stalls....
but she just needs a man, that's all

It's her last chance, check under the hood
It's her last chance, she ain't idlin' so good
It's her last chance, turn her over -- and go

Pulling out of the Last Chance Texaco...

My father's been in mad, mad love with the Chevy Corvette long before I was ever even a twinkle in his eye. That kind of brand loyalty escapes me. I struggle daily to maintain a balance, and most days, I heave a great big sigh of defeat, lay my head down on the pillow, and just pray that the next day I still have the emotional stamina to roll up my sleeves and get dirty again.

I can't help but think of that Sandra Bullock movie, 28 Days. And I am still trying to lift up that damn horse's hoof, too stubborn to ask for help. All the faith in the world, and yet here I stand, stubborn as a mule.

But I swear to God, if I see another glass of milk curdling over on his side of the bed, I'm going to go stark-raving apeshit. Like, crazy Indian jumping out of the window of the Cuckoo's nest crazy.

Goodnight, Irene.

Self-Destruct Sequence Activated

2007-06-01T14:42:00.000-04:00

Caught the husband smoking today.

IN THE BEDROOM.

If anger were a color, and it consumed the soul, mine would be black.

LIquor Before Beer...

2007-05-31T00:00:00.000-04:00

....you're "in the clear," beer before liquor, never sicker.

Is that right? Something to that effect, I think.

I stutter when I type whilst intoxicated. It's funny. I'll misspell the first or second word of the sentence and I'll keep trying to spell the word, key-key-key-backspace-backspace, over and over again, and then once I get it right I go sailing right around.

I hate spell check. I never use it.

I'm asking myself how that rhyme goes because I used my last shot of vodka for my screwdriver and I still need more to drink and I found a beer. I'm drinking because I got into a car accident tonight. At around 8:58 EST I was pulling out of Wendy's with a Chicken Salad Frescata and a Frosty for Tom (neither of which are on his diet, but he's been bitching for six days, I couldn't stand it anymore). The intersection is no more than 500 feet from the drive, I'm not going fast, and as I approach the intersection I look to my left and right, even though my light's green. I have a kid. Call me granny. And then suddenly, in the middle of the intersection, just below the light (which was still very green!) there is a black truck, one of those big suckers that's raised up a little bit, turning left in front of me. I slam on my brakes, he slows down, and the nose of my cars stops just a little bit beneath the truck's undercarriage. He then proceeds to RUN OVER MY HOOD with his right front wheel, then both his left and right rear wheels. The right rear wheel gets stuck in the corner of the windshield on the passenger side, and starts spinning. At this point, I remember screaming, because glass started to spew out all over the car (the song playing on my mix CD? Lost Without You by Robin Thicke -- my flavor of the month tainted before it's even been two weeks). Incidentally, I later found a tiny piece of funky windshield glass inside my shirt, on top of the little shelf of cleavage created by my Victoria Secret full support demi that they no longer produce.

Assholes.

As soon as I got done screaming, I drive slowly through the rest of the intersection yelling Fucking Asshole about 10 times before I burst into tears. And after that, I started laughing, because there were four people surrouding my car, asking me with these really worried faces, "Are you okay?!" I realized they were all pretty freaked out, and I stopped laughing and told everyone I was okay, so they'd just go away. I found it very unsettling to be the object of such scrutiny and concern, mingled with a little bit of that rubbernecker curiosity about accidents. Was it me, or were they disappointed there weren't any spurters, or bones showing? I remember my ex brother in law telling a story about seeing a guy on a bike spin out and his femur was sticking out. He had a look of both horror and pleasure on his face as he gave the gruesome details.

Then again, I have Slither on my DVR, and I fell asleep every night my husband was in the hospital (27 nights) to that bitch. It was like being rocked to sleep on a hammock in a breezy field of wildflowers, by Mother Earth herself. Who needs Calgon when you've got the mirth-inducing delivery of the universe's least-used resource: the underrated actor? He's got epic comedic timing. Nathan Fillion (I so want my own wikipedia page!) is the next Greg Kinnear.

No. No, no. He's the bionic Greg Kinnear. Stronger, better, faster....

Yadda yadda yadda, I'm okay. The truck dude has up to date State Farm, a clean driving record, and he admitted it was his fault. Suh-weet! I feel very lucky and blessed right now, but I am also getting blotto! I have a xanax I've been saving for months. I hoard pharumaceuticals. I consume them like ice cream; I deny myself for extremely long periods of time, and then I buy Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie. I only need to eat 1/4 of the pint, and I can put it away now, and save it until my next crises. Controlling emotional eating. Yeah, right.

Anyway, tonight, I deserve a downer. My whole body feels tight, all the muscles ache. Even my ribs hurt. And it was only me, slamming on my brakes. There was no real "impact." Crazy. I betcha the people watching at the cross street, which was packed, were just sitting at their red light thinking, "Holy shit!"

Is this what it's like to be a basketcase? My heart just breaks for people who have been in accidents that have not gone well.

Sometimes the world just seems so random it's cruel.

And in other news....have you always wanted to marry Scott Baio? You can tell him why here.

I never got into him. I always liked Potsie, and then when I was into the Tiger Beat posters, I was Matt Dillon and John Schneider all the way, baby. Cheesecake.

I really need more alcohol.

Update

2007-05-18T13:37:00.000-04:00

Here's a shoutout to my online friend PhilABowl, who jokingly asked me the other day, in his forum, after learning of my husbands latest travails within the medical community, "Geez, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?!" That just made me laugh so hard. Thanks, buddy. I needed that.

Anyway, Mr. Cadydidwhat is still confined to his hospital room, but they let him out of isolation after thirteen days on Tuesday evening, once the department of scary infectious bodily fluids signed off on his sputum test.

*pause for a big old YUM!*

So now, we're addressing some other issues that have reared their insidious little heads since he was admitted 27 April.

Ongoing concerns about his liver due to hepatitis C will require a liver biopsy. I still haven't found out what his viral load is. Here's hoping someone will talk to me today about that. The biggest concern, though, is his low immune system as a result of the Hep: he's got almost no immunoglobulin in his bloodstream, and all the antibiotics they have him on for the staph infection continue to compromise his ability to fight infection. I guess there is a blood therapy you can get once a month to bolster the body's ability to combat the nasties; I'm researching that as we speak.

Continued concerns over chronic cough due to emphysema; breathing treatments help, but his lung function is not so great. We won't know more until he feels better once he's completely free of steroids, at which point the pulmonary MD will give him a lung function test. At this point, though, the doc is optimistic that as long as he continues to not smoke, he can live a reasonably long life.

Wednesday, the gastroenterologist on his case informed us he has a condition called gastroparesis, and a fungal infection in his esophagus. Separate issues, but both make it difficult for him to get proper nutrition and to eat with any success (nausea is a side effect of both of these conditions, as well as all the drugs he's taking through IV and orally -- the latest pill count per day was like, 8 - 10 capsules). The gastroparesis is what troubles me. This is a condition in which the stomach does not flex appropriately, and food ends up just sitting in his gut, basically fermenting rather than being digested. Key nutrients remain unabsorbed, obviously, but at least we know why he looks like he's eight months pregnant most of the time.

Currently, he's complaining about his pain, and I'm fussing at him to suck it up for the time being because if they put him back on IV demerol, he'll move backwards in his treatment. See, demerol is addictive after 2 weeks, and the withdrawal symptoms are very uncomfortable, but short-lived. Demerol, though, is a great boon for somebody who has other physical problems that cause pain, but long term it's not doing him any favors, even without the liver disease.

But, you know men. They're big babies when it come to pain, and he would rather get high every three hours than wear a time release patch (which I just can't wrap my head around, really --- if someone told me I could stick something on my arm for 72 hours and get pain relief up to 125 times stronger than morphine, I'd be more than happy with that!). Bottom line is, he's been in and out of the hospital so many times in the last five years, he's not only developed an elephantine tolerance to most commonly used narcotics, he's gotten himself a nice little junkie-type addiction to the euphoria those fast-acting, short-lasting IV opioids provide. But try to talk to a guy who feels like his life is hanging by a thread about the "long term." It's like banging your head against a brick wall.

The biggest challenge when he gets sprung from the hospital (we're shooting for Monday) is keeping him off the cigarettes, improving his diet and encouraging him to start exercising, which I hear tell is good for even sick people! Crazy, isn't it? /sarcasm. My personal cross to bear will be changing my own habits of co-dependent enabling. My heart goes out to Howard K. Stern, because I know first hand how difficult it is to love someone so much that you'll actually help them self-destruct just to keep them happy. I'm seriously considering going back into therapy again, just so I can puke up all this turmoil and emotion onto someone else's lap, thereby somewhat alleviating the fallout on my marriage and my child.

I've also considered taking up heavy drinking, but I'll save that for another post. One of these days I'll treat you to my personal diatribe on western medicine and the pharmaceutical companies, my current focus of much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I think I've just about reached my quota for personal angst. It's time to read the latest issue of People and pretend that my life is carefree and easygoing as I take my toddler for a walk. Sunshine and friendly neighbors, the anathema of midwestern suburbia.

To quote my new favorite video blogger, "Further bulletins, as events warrant."

Adult Situations from Radthanael on Vimeo

Whoops!

2007-05-10T22:31:00.000-04:00

Looks like somebody left the water on.

Before.

After.

The rest of the house is more of the same. Floors, ceilings, walls. It's all gone. We always said we wished we could gut the house and start fresh. Be careful what you wish for, isn't that what they always say?

It was determined, by the way, that during a power outage some time in the middle of January, a pipe froze, and then eventually burst, causing major water leakage, that went unchecked and unnoticed. We only had friends check on the outside of the house, basically just to make sure it was still standing and not broken into or vandalized.

So now, we have a fresh, gutted house to put on the market, but thankfully, the insurance company has been more than kind and cooperative, and gone above and beyond to work with us, considering my husband is in the hospital. I just wish I could spread some of that kindness and cooperation to the people who are still displaced and without a home.

DISPLACE ME

Linus: R.I.P.

2007-05-08T22:41:00.000-04:00

Linus was a Jack Russel terrier. Hit and killed on Route 193, heading south (I think). I saw him die. I tried to comfort his owner, who had just recently lost his wife and the dog was all he had. May God comfort, you, Joe, and speed your lost canine to the heavens, where he may hopefully rest at the feet of your departed wife.

Life sucks, sometimes, it really, really does.

Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt...

2007-05-03T00:51:00.000-04:00

My husband is in the hospital. Pneumonia, complicated by a strep infection - in his lungs, which I had never heard of previously -- and his recently diagnosed emphysema. We are awaiting test results which will tell us if he is genetically predisposed to COPD, which could mean years, even decades, lost. Cross your fingers, pray -- to Allah, Buddha, God, Dionysus (come Friday night if the fates are with me I shall be paying personal homage to said god in my own way, via vodka and OJ), Sisyphus, or your grandmother's cat. Good vibrations, we could use a few.

Goodbye Phil Stacey (son of a preacher man, woot!). You're a good man, Charlie Brown. Love the cueball, baby. Rock out.

I am 37 and one day old today. Did you know that May Day isn't just a pagan fertility thingy, but also a labor movement spawned in like, New Zealand? A bunch of anarchists put their heads together and decided the proletariat was still gettin' had by the man, so they put on a parade every year in honor of what they call the real labor day. As Johnny Carson would say, "wild, wacky stuff." I don't know if I ascribe to that line of thinking, per se, but how can they go wrong with a black flag as their emblem, right?!

Hmm. I remember me, I mean, a 17-year-old me, laying in the dark listening through headphones for the first time to Henry Rollins snarling out the lyrics to Family Man.

do you want the family man or do you want the swingin' man?

family man

you get the family man
family man
FAMILY man
with your glances my way, takin no chance on the new day
family man, with your life all planned;
your little sand castle built, smilin through your guilt, family man
here i come
here i come family man
i come to infect; i come to rape your women;
i come to take your children into the street;
i come for YOU family man, with your christmas lights already up,
you're such a MAN when you're puttin up your christmas lights,
first on the block;
family man
i wanna crucify you to your front door with the nails
from your well stocked garage, family man;
family man;
FAMILY MAN
saint dad! father on fire! i've come to incinerate you
i've come home

That was one of those life defining moments. Similar to the moment, a few years later, when I saw Piss Christ on display at the Cleveland Metropolitan Museum of Art, and on the same evening listened to Alan Ginsberg recite Howl.

Things like that, much like my husband's disease, his struggle, our frustration, our grief, our fear about what is to come.....these things make me see in stark slow motion reality that there is beauty and blessedness in the things that make us squirm, the things that make us uncomfortable, the things that make us want to look away. Away from the ugly inside of us, and in others.

Life is messy. Why waste time trying to clean it up? Wade through it, let it touch you, let yourself bleed. The deepest cuts are healed by faith (that last line is Pat Benetar, not me, FYI).

The universe is a spectacular pulsating thing, full of questions that don't have answers. Today, I want to embrace its eternal ambiguities, and simply be.

If Thou Could'st Empty All Thyself of Self

2007-04-16T19:49:00.000-04:00

Everything's late. My snarky comments about American Idol.

My discovery of this.

Oh yeah. And last Tuesday, we found out our already dilapidated house that has been sitting vacant for almost a year that we've been trying to sell was vandalized and ended up with three feet of water in its basement. The adjusters come tomorrow, along with a Service Master team to try to get out as much water and kill as much mold as they can as quickly as possible. And my husband made a casual comment with his head down when he left this morning that it might be better if they just condemn it. I can't imagine something more sad.

And then I think it's shitty that something like this has to happen to really bring home just a fraction of the emotion people must have felt after Hurrican Katrina. They lost their homes -- the fabric of their lives, literally; family homesteads, even if they might seem substandard for some, are anchors for people -- and I feel like a self-indulgent cunt.

Speaking of cunts, wow, it's too bad that Hayley Scarnato was elimated.

I did not just type that.

Compassionate, yet irrationally mean. I am so small, and full.

If Thou could'st empty all thyself of self

If thou could'st empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,
And say, "This is not dead,"
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou are all replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes He says, "This is enow
Unto itself - 'twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for me."

~Sir Thomas Brown

I Made Other Plans...

2007-04-11T04:03:00.000-04:00

...and then life happened.

I can't even begin to talk about the disaster that has struck. Let's just say, I've had a shitty night, and leave it at that. I had all kinds of pithy, snarky, catty, snappy things to say about American Idol tonight, but I don't have the stomach for it, literally.

All I can say is this: Double Dog Ding Dang Diggity Darn, I don't think Sanjaya is going home this week, either. He's like gum on the shoe of bad reality television. Someone should patent his staying power and pass a little of it along to Don Imus.

As a matter of fact, when he wins the record deal, his first song should be "Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight." I'll buy it, too, just to shoot holes in it with a really big gun.

Here's what the Washington Post online had to say about the bloody fiasco. I disagree with the whole "J-Lo point" but, other than that, they've pretty much nailed it.

And that's all she wrote.

I Like Lemon Yogurt

2007-04-10T22:36:00.000-04:00

Maybe you will, too. Because Lemon Yogurt is sweet and sour at the same time, or -- as someone else once said -- full of bite and smile.

It's time to get stoned and watch American Idol. I hear Nathan Fillion was in the audience. He's so famous he still hasn't friended me on MySpace.

Don't gimme any shit about being on MeatSpace, please. I mean, just don't.

American Idol bullshit will follow. Later.

Detached

2007-04-09T10:39:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking about some heavy shit over the last 48 hours, spending time with family and seeing them from a new persective, somehow. A darker lens, one that's slightly disconnected. Detached (yeah, kinda like a retina). Odd things started floating through my brainpan as I read Steven King's latest offering, Lisey's Story, on the leather couch of my 3am insomnia early this morning.

The book is about a widow, still grieving (of course) and so naturally I thought of my Aunt, who was married to my Mom's brother, who passed away last August from amyloidosis, the really ugly kind (congestive heart failure). She spent Easter with my cousin and his wife. I guess last week she told my mom that at some point before my Uncle died, he had daffodils planted in the garden outside their kitchen window, and last week, they bloomed, and my Aunt would sit and cry every morning, looking at them. The snow killed most of the daffodils this weekend, and it made me wonder how that made her feel; if she was relieved not to have to see them anymore, or if somehow that connection was keeping her love alive, despite the pain, and seeing them perish was just one more ring in the tree of sorrow.

I've never lost anyone I loved, at least, not while I still loved them. My ex-boyfriend died. I am still more than a little disturbed how unaffected I am by his loss. I mean, I feel sorrow for his family, for his kids, for his friends. I watch YouTube and think, man, Joel would have loved this shit, but he died before it really took off. He wanted to be a director. Movies were his thing. I think he might have had done some cool things. No tears, no angst.

Detach.

My own husband (three's a charm) isn't long for this world. He's convinced he has another 10 years before he find out what's on the other side of the veil. His numerous healthy problems along with a bad attitude often make me wonder, at exactly these times of the night, when I'm already awake and full of this blackness, if he might not be a little bit right. I push those thoughts away whenever they creep in. Not ready.

Detach.

Lisey's dead husband suffered unspeakably as a boy, at the hands of his father, full of the bad-gunky that King is so good at creating in his books. This makes me think of my own bad-gunky legacy, courtesy of my own Dad. Angry Dad was part and parcel of my early years. I learned quickly how to walk adeptly on egg shells. Egg shells. Broken. Lisey's husband has a place he escaped to as a boy, and as a man just this side of crazy. I had a place, too, it wasn't nearly as literarily interesting, or magically frighteningly fanciful, but it was an escape, nonetheless. Some of the people in the book go catatonic when they stay there too long. This scares me almost as much as drowning, in a nonsensical, fantastical way, because sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just check out, mentally. Buh-bye.

Detach.

All this leads me to wonder "How broken am I?" Jesus the underdog loves broken people, collects them. I spend hours every week in church, listening, learning, singing, praising, under the assumption that even in my broken state I am saved. Saved from sin and death. But no matter how strong my faith is, or how many bible verses I read and study, there is always doubt; am I belay slave? Or worse, am I back-clipping, and any minute my rope is gonna break? And I will Free Fall.

Detach.

I fell asleep with the book on my chest, and dreamed of boo'ya moon. And when I woke up, I had a blanket on my feet and the light was switched off, and my book was on the table, bookmark in place.

And I decided for today, that's all that's gonna matter.

Oh, come on, honey, you know I love your big ass

2007-04-07T18:36:00.000-04:00

He said, and we all collapsed in a heaping fit of laughter, literally.

I'd been bent over, looking for something in my purse, and Cady came careening around the corner, as is her wont, and she ran dead nuts into me. Of course her big ole head is level with my hind quarters. BAM! My husband completely lost it first, sputtering, "It was like a collision with a bumper car."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks." I say dryly, helping Cady, who is giggling as well, up off the floor.

"Oh, come on, honey, you know I love your big ass." He then proceeds to do a variation of the ze frank who's your daddy move, singing the chorus to Juvenile's Back That Ass Up.

It ain't Shakespeare, but I guess it works. And I'm glad I just got a membership to Curves.

Shiny Happy

2007-04-07T12:37:00.000-04:00

Simple Pleasures.

Gwen Stefani's Sweet Escape (woo hoo, yee hoo) on the stereo while Cady spins in circles, squealing, "I zizzy!"

Rechargeable batteries.

Sophie's Choice = a good cry.

Sun peeking out behind clouds, melting the snow (yes, snow). It is spring, after all, even in the mid-atlantic.

Easter, even though it's a misappropriated pagan holiday, I still believe (on the days my doubt would lead me to look for the marks on hands and feet) they rolled the stone away that day, and found it empty.

And there are times when faith
and common sense do not align
When hard core evidence of you
is hard to find
And I am silenced in the face
of argumentative debate and
It's a long hill, it's a lonely climb
Cuz they want proof, they want proof
of all the mysteries I claim
And only fools would want to chant
a dead man's name
Maybe it's true, yeah, but

I'll be a fool for you
Oh, because you asked me to,
A simpleton who's seemingly naive,
I do believe that you came and
made yourself
A Fool for me.

~Nichole Nordeman

And for this gift, I feel blessed

2007-04-07T02:31:00.000-04:00

The anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death came and went and somehow my internal radar missed it. I remembered today, listening to a message on the SRDD over at ze frank's site. The memories came rushing back.

I was alone on the second floor of the student union that day, pretending to be a DJ on WBWC 88.3. I say pretending, because it was a 100 watt station at that time. I might as well have stood on the roof and hollered at the top of my lungs with a Fisher-Price record player. I always felt stupid giving out the request line, because mostly it was just my friends calling me, and every once in a while, a random prank (most memorable was the day someone whispered into the receiver menacingly: "I'm going to tickle you until you pee your pants."). From sheer boredom, I kept going back and forth between the air studio and the AP newswire in the hallway outside. It was a slow news day. Until that fateful paragraph came across. I actually just cut out of whatever I was playing to read it, numb, disconnected for many minutes afterward. It didn't sink in for days. Perhaps Cobain wasn't as legendary as Lennon, Morrison, Elvis, or Marvin Gaye, but his life and violent death rocked my generation.

I will always cling lovingly to the first time I ever heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit." It wasn't just the fact that he was ripping on the culture I painstakingly countered every day when I layered on the pancake makeup, carefully coiffed my dyed black hair, and donned my gothic garb and saggy, baggy flannel. I responded keenly to the lyrics: I feel stupid, and contagious, here we are now, entertain us...it really was my anthem, for a while.

And certainly, as a parent, I grieve for Frances Bean's loss. How do you go on when one of your anchors shoots himself in the face? What is life like for someone who has lost a relative to suicide, and the lurid details are relived and magnified in the media, alongside the antics of your unbalanced mother?

Beginnings are scary, ending are usually sad. It's the in between that matters. Here's hoping for a good in between for those left behind.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

2007-04-04T23:35:00.000-04:00

So I've made it no secret over the last several weeks that I'm a "fan" of American Idol. And as I watched tonight's inevitable trainwreck come screeching to its irrevocable, heart-breaking conclusion, I vowed that I would make my voice heard over teh interwebs. No matter that my blog is pretty much an audience of one. I sound my barbaric yawp, over the roofs of the world.

The bottom line: Sanjaya stays yet another week (is it thanks to Howard Stern, votefortheworst.com, his legion of Fanjayas, or the unholy trinity combined? Only the computers that tally the votes -- this week is touted to be the biggest turnout yet -- know the real truth)...and Gina is gone. Buh-bye.

I can't say that Gina has the most accomplished pipes of the nine remaining finalists. My personal favorite is Melinda Doolitte. I don't buy her "what, lil' ole me?" act, but I don't vote, either. That said, Gina certainly doesn't lack in spirit, or in gumption as my great grandmother would call it. More than that, she's truly magnetic. I have enjoyed watching her interpret each week's musical missive. I've stayed riveted to her performances, unable to disconnect myself from her energy and her eyes. They soulfully connected with the audience this week, I believe, in a way that only those that were there could have truly experienced.Singing one of my favorite songs of that era (coached by Tony Bennet, who ended up bowing out of the live performance to be replaced by Micheal Buble), and surprise, I learned something new: that Smile was written by the inimitable Charlie Chaplin. As Randy said, it was a very "controlled and understated performance from the rocker girl." After tonight's elimination, it was a tear-jerking, cruel twist to watch her sing it again at the close of the broadcast; thank God my DVR cut it short. And it made it harder for me to not wish ill on the boy wonder (my first initial reaction was -- couldn't you just overdose on curry and lose your voice next week? Puh-leeze?!). Seriously; to watch one more talented performer get the axe, as Sanjaya and his Sybil-like hair live on another week, is enough to make me throw up a little in my mouth. Mmmm. Backwash.

So I'm sad to see another hopeful fall. My personal message to Glocksen: you stayed true to yourself, you even put that tongue stud back in, girl. Keep rockin'. May left-winged angels carry you to a record contract that doesn't include Clive Davis, who reminds me of Ed McMahon, like, 15 years ago.

I'd like to mention this, as well: what the smuck is up with our esteemed judges?! For the past six years, they've been bally-hooing about contestants taking on songs and singers that are "too big" for them. Yet, 17 year old Jordan Knight tolerably belts out On a Clear Day, and not one of those bobble heads can bring up the fact that Barbra Streisand in her heyday recorded the same song (albeit for the soundtrack of the wacky pre-Shirley MacClaine (the unofficial 80s reincarnation queen herself) movie of the same name)?! Hellooo, McFly! Don't even get me started on the rip-off artist Catherine McPhee, who shamelessly passed off Jane Monheit's poignant arrangement of Over the Rainbow as her own (granted, it was likely not Monheit's either, but she did it "first"!), garnering Simon's adulation ("that was the best version of the song I've ever heard"). And prior to that, Mr. Chris "Heavy Rotation" Daughtry sings I Walk the Line, and he's miraculously modernized the song; never mind that Live did it first (I was priveleged enough to hear them perform it live *har har* in concert at Blossom, almost 10 years ago). Chris Daughtry wishes he was as wickedly entitled as Ed Kowalczyk.

As I spew all this worthless vitriol, I realize that I've never really been an American Idol fan, as much as a reluctant witness to the grotesque Something Wicked This Way Comes parade. Pulled in by the carnival of it all, it's now more than ever about peering through the dirty glass at Lobster Boy (useless trivia: I had driven through Gibstonton more than once; no great shakes), with a little bit of the Gong Show & Star Search thrown in, for good measure.

The sick little twit in me can't wait for So You Think You Can Dance to start.

The Sap is Rising

2007-03-28T11:00:00.000-04:00

So it's spring. Really. At least, it seems that way. You never now in the mid-Atlantic. We could get snow tomorrow. When I was 12, and living in northeast Pennsylvania, we were gifted with over a foot of the white stuff on April Fools' Day. That week off from school educated me in the fickle ways of Mother Nature; there is nothing more foolish than counting on fair weather.

So we took advantage of the balmy temps yesterday and spent most of the morning and afternoon out of doors. The grass was squishy, and the sky was cloudy, but it was damn near 75 degrees. How can a body resist? Girls with apple bottoms in shorts were running. The convertibles came out in abundance, along with the stored motorcycles. Biker Mamas and Papas! That's a sight to behold.

Walking around the block in my neighborhood, you could see the fever had caught all of us. People I don't even acknowledge, and vice versa, smiling and waving. The cheesy "Nice weather we're having" actually seemed like decent conversation. It made me yearn for the "old days" of my youth, when neighbors were neighbors. We knew each others' names, we knew each others' ills, and sometimes, we knew each others' vices. We spoke on a daily basis. We had block parties every summer. Back then (T minus 25 years), you could give your neighbor an extra key to your house, for emergencies. Neighbors let your children into their houses after school if you were running late. Now neighbors are just proximal people, and if you're lucky, they don't call the cops on you when your music is too loud.

"Things were different, then," my mother sighed. Why? Is it really the computer age that's changed us? Is it technological isolation, or something deeper?

Today dawned with cooler temperatures, but I'm going to go outside again regardless. I want to make contact with people. Spring has sprung.

Clearification

2007-03-26T00:35:00.000-04:00

This guy is so many kinds of funny, but I'm too tired to explain why he's funny to me, so maybe you'll just check out Demetri's webisodes (that's episodes, but with the p vertically flipped, and a w added, so you know you're on the internet mwa ha ha ha ha) maybe you'll find him just as funny as I did.

http://www.clearification.com/

Bong Hits For Jesus

2007-03-23T18:07:00.000-04:00

The less glamorous title of the case is Morse v. Frederick.

"The amazing thing to me about this case is the outpouring of support of free speech across the country and our own community in Alaska, and particularly the outpouring of support all across the political spectrum from the far right to the far left and everywhere in between," Mertz said. "Free speech is a true core American value that everyone believes in and we're hoping that includes the members of this court."

This makes me laugh. I can't even wrap my head around the stupidity of some people.

And what really cracks me up, is this is a result of a hot-headed teacher who is likely kicking herself in the ass for reacting out of anger to something as innocuous as a youngster putting up a sign intended to piss off some grown-ups. This is what I often refer to as the 2Live Crew effect. Make enough noise about something *full of sound and fury, signifying nothing* and eventually the right media outlet will latch onto it and whoosh! The ball is in play.

I think I want the slogan to be my new bumpersticker, though.

I'm a Pretty Princess

2007-03-22T18:39:00.000-04:00

Say it!

So I'm half asleep in the chair with the TV on for noise trying to read Helen of Troy by Margaret George. I was intrigued by its premise (her life, from her perspective) because I enjoyed Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon for much the same reason. My already flagging attention to the book in my hands is wrenched free by the commercial that's just appeared on the telly.

I am far too excited to tell the story any other way than this.

Disney is giving away a night in THE CASTLE.

As in, Cinderella's castle.

As a little girl, I was never a big Disney damsel fan. I loved Snow White for the music, but I liked the stuff about animals better. Never cared much for the whole Cinderella fantasy. But I loved me that castle. I was lucky enough to have generous grandparents who helped my parents take my sister and I to DisneyWorld in Orlando, Florida, several times during our youth. That castle was always the one place I wanted to get inside of that I never could. Nobody could. Just the idea of getting in there was heady. And now, the theme park is randomly handing out family passes for the royal treatment.

Yes, yes, I am a pretty princess. I am a pretty princess!

A Little Less Broken

2007-03-18T21:27:00.000-04:00

The Show with Ze Frank officially ended yesterday, March 17. He promised a year, and damn, did the man deliver.

What was part of my daily routine during the week, as well as in the wee hours of the morning in the forum, is now a part of video blog history. The mixed emotions I've been feeling the last 48 hours -- even the last 7 days -- are best expressed by a fellow duckie sports racer Consumatron, the audio contained herein:

Pulled Like A Chain Into The Unknown.

And that's really all I really have to say right now.

American Idol

2007-02-22T00:11:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I've never made it a secret that I am an American Idol fan. I even like Simon *dickhead* Cowell, because about 85% of the time, I agree with him. I've been watching Idol since season 3. As a singer, I've always wondered what it would be like to actually be on the show, but I've never been able to audition cuz my ass has always been too old (despite the fact that they've raised the age limit twice in the last seven years). I've watched every minute of the auditions, and I've stayed glued to every episode. Up until tonight, though, I've never cried this eary frigging on. In fact, the only time I ever remember crying before was during one of the final performances of Fantasia Barrino.

So. Two words I have, two words and I will end my blog entry and go to bed.

Lakisha Jones.

(Yes, girl, we are gonna love you.)

Let's Burn Some Books!

2007-02-18T09:58:00.000-05:00

Children's Book Starts Battle With Single Word

Once more, my country reveals its prudishly uptight puritan beginnings. And so it goes; war, pestilence, poverty, and here in the good old U S of A, a bunch of librarians have their panties in a twist over the mention of a mutt's ball sac.

Um, hello. Newsflash. This is what boys talk about. I have an 8 year old nephew. I know.

Oh, and I also have to say that anyone who compares the use of said word to tactics used by Howard Stern has clearly never actually listened to Howard Stern.

Ironically enough, as well, even if the book (despite its Newberry Award-winning status) had slipped through the cracks, thanks to the media fracas brought about by the proposed banning, it will turn into the 2 Live Cru of the children's literary world. Yes, that's right, you fundies. Fan the flames and guess what happens? The fire gets bigger, and there's lots more smoke.

Marian the Librarian would have kept it on the shelves. Assholes.

Wow -- the ground looks far away from up here on my soapbox. I'm gonna jump now, before it's too late and I'm permanently fueled with righteous passion and take off in a burst of self-aggrandizing fumes.

A special shout out to my pal Slappy, who, in his infinite otter wisdom, pointed out my pattern of tribal drum pounding, and how it just happened to coincide with Aunt Flo. I can now approach my blog each month with this knowledge. And, as they say, knowledge is power.

But, it's not gonna stop me from being a bitch. So, stay out of my way, all ye with the dreaded y-chromosome. I am fifty foot tall for the next three days, wearing six inch stilletto heels. Don't let my wailing and gnashing of teeth fool you: I'm fatal.

Steve Burns is My Hero

2007-02-04T17:32:00.000-05:00

So I made it my business to set my DVR to record Friday's special episode of Jack's Big Music Show on Noggin. It's one of my kid's favorite shows, and I happen to enjoy it, too. So sue me. I was even more appreciative of the program when I found out that John Stewart would be making a guest appearance on the Groundhog Day episode.

It was a great show. I watched it several times this weekend, only paying attention to the parts that included John, however, for though I love the show, I've got shit to do during the day, ya know? Yeah, man, I got priorities.

This afternoon, however, I was able to sit down and curl up under a nice fleece blanket, warding off the below zero temperatures by cuddling up with my young'un, and holding at bay that sleepy after lunch feeling by attending to zippy children's shows for a few hours. I watched a little video by a two man band, singing a hard rockin' song filled with surprisingly heavy guitar riffs (there's even a little girl who does an amazing "mosh" move), and I kept staring at the face of the lead singer and guitarist, thinking, I know those eyes. Dammit, I know those eyes. And those dimples. Who the hell is that?!

And it struck me. Holy crap on my Mom's shoes. It's Steve. As in, Steve from Blues Clues. Yeah, that short and annoying, yet disarmingly cute guy (not as annoying as Barney, God help us, but still) from the long running afore-mentioned kids program on Nickelodeon.

My brain denied it. But I couldn't shake those baby browns, that smile. Yeah, his head was shaved, he had some scrubby grungy facial hair (the tough guy look was sorta defeated by the silly groundhog ears he had on, though *wink*) and he looked a little older, but it HAD to be Steve Burns. So I did a little web hopping, and voila.

Steve left Blue to "go to college" but he really ran away to be an indie rocker. He was rumored to be dead of a heroin overdose, midway through Blue's Clues run. Steve even has his own web page. Oh, and no Mom, Steve and Joe are not really brothers in real life.

Steve Burns is my new hero. Well, not really, but he does rock. And, if you click the lick above for Jack's Big Music Show, you'll find his song and video featuring Steve Drozd (of the Flaming Lips! F**k yeah!): Hog the Ground. I dig it; maybe you will, too.

Motherhood

2007-02-03T17:55:00.000-05:00

My poor sad little blog. I've been neglecting you. As per usual.

Today, I'd like to talk about my daughter. At almost 28 months, she is a marvel of human development. Her speech is developing at a rapid rate; every day she acquires new words and phrases with which to communicate. While about 70% of what she says is difficult to understand, she makes her needs and wants very clearly known, and she is even better at conveying her various emotional states (she is her mother's daughter, after all).

I am amused by her status as a "girly-girl." She loves to twirl in a new dress. She danced around her room the other night buck naked but for a pair of velveteen mary janes (with just the slightest little girl heel). If not for dodgy child pornography laws, I'd post a picture here, because it was quite funny. She hates to get her hands dirty. She likes to comb her hair and admire herself in the mirror. It's beyond me where she gets it, because I can actually go days without being the least bit interested in my reflection, except when I'm brushing my teeth or making sure the stains on my shirt aren't too visible.

We have a lot of mother-daughter moments that are truly amazing. My favorite times are the simplest times. She is sitting on my lap, we're either reading one of her many scores of books, or singing, or simply sitting and looking out the window at the suburban activity that she finds so fascinating. I love when we get to giggling. She will make me laugh, making a funny face or a silly noise, and I'll reciprocate, and it will turn into this laugh fest that usually leaves me with tight stomach muscles and sore ribs, and she with the hiccups. Sometimes, she'll look up at me, place one hand on either side of my face, look into my eyes, and say in this way that absolutely melts my heart, "Mommy..." As if she is just so pleased that I am just that, her Mommy. I feel the need to savor those little gems, because I know before long she won't want to sit on my lap anymore. She'll be a big girl.

The most interesting thing about her development has been her affinity for music. I was steeped in music as a kid. My mother has a reel-to-reel tape of me singing along to Julie Andrews' version of "Doe A Deer," from the Sound of Music, at barely 3 years old. Music is so much a part of who I am, and it would seem that my daughter is following in some very worn footsteps. Her infant cooing at just four months old took on all the highs and lows and volume nuances of song. By a year old, she could hum simple melodies like "Twinkle, Twinkle" and now she is a veritable virtuoso. Most notably, her obsession with a soundtrack that I played incessantly whenever I drove anywhere: Wicked, The Musical. I had to hide the CD by mid-summer, because even I have a limit to how many times in succession I can listen to "What is This Feeling?" and "Popular." She walks around the house still, humming and singing snippets of those songs. This morning, she was droning Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" and later on dancing along with Panic at the Disco while I cruised a new forum community that's recently sprung up. The instant we wake up, or load ourselves into a car, she's asking, "Murmur go? Murmur go?" That's what really cracks me up -- her word for music is murmur. I try not to parrot it back, because I've read so many articles that discourage using "baby talk" like that in new language learners. But it's just so damn cute, sometimes I can't help it.

My husband has inculcated her into the use of "please" and "thank you" and just the other day she had an entire line of grocery shoppers and baggers smiling as we walked past and she said "Thank you" (enk you) to a woman who picked up her toy that she had dropped, and flashing a dimpled smile while waving goodbye like a little parade queen the rest of the way out the door. Enough to make you desperate for insulin, this kid.

Never mind that she has a wicked temper, or a grumpy streak. Even these things can be adorable (in small measures). There are times when I have to turn my head and bury my face in the nearest soft object to keep from laughing at her misbehavior. I mean, I am the Mommy after all. I don't think I'm supposed to snort and snicker at her when she's being a brat. But she is hilarious sometimes. Nothing that I can really describe in detail, there is just something so mirthful in her intensity.

Our biggest battle right now is her quest for independence, lately exemplified by her penchant for saying "no!" whenever the need for her obedience arises. It's hardly "terrible" but it is a great big pain in the ass. I'm reminded of Louis C.K. talking about his four year old daughter in his latest stand up on HBO.

"She's a fucking asshole!"

*audience laughs guiltily*

"Seriously. Anybody who is with a group of people and holds that entire group of people up because they don't want to put their shoes on, is a fucking asshole! Come on guys, let's get going. Sorry, um, we can't, cuz Bob won't put on his shoes."

Yeah, she asserts her autonomy at the worst possible times. I'm learning quickly that if I show any sense of immediacy in completing a task, I'm dooming myself to a slow-as-molasses approach to whatever must be done. It's a great test of my patience. A lesson in our gotta get there quick society, I suppose. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, stop and smell the roses, or in her case, run around the house in circles as many times as possible until Mommy snatches your midget ass up and puts your coat on for you. What sucks about this scenario is, I used to be late for everything, back in my early 20s, to the point where all of my friends and family would give me one time for arrival, usually anywhere from 20 - 40 minutes earlier than the actual time, just to be sure that arrived at the actual time. I finally pulled my head out and realized how thoughtless I was, and became the model citizen of punctuality. And here I am, struggling with the same shit -- but, I guess I at least have someone to blame it on, now. I wonder, though, if people think I'm just using her as a scapegoat and I've lapsed back into my old habits....

I'd say the most challenging part of being a parent is the constant fear I have of something nebulous and horrible happening to the fruit of my loins. My dreams are peopled by bad scary faceless things, all revolving around my child being harmed in some way. I anticipate needing major therapy if I don't get that fear in check, or else my kid will end up like Carrie, covered in pig blood in a gym somewhere killing her peers in a massive psychic rage, then coming home and skewering me like Piper Laurie.

Yeah, that won't happen, but it was an amusingly morbid fantasy to perpetuate there, for a minute. Seriously, though, I don't want to lock her up in a closet, but the way things are going, I just wonder why we continue to procreate at all. Surely the biological need isn't as strong as the rational realization that this planet is getting throughly fucked.

But I digress.

This being a Mom thing, it really is the hardest but most rewarding job you'll ever have. There is nothing like her tiny hand wrapped around my finger, her breath on my neck, the sound of her voice and her feet in every corner of the house. Even when she's driving me completely and utterly bonkers, I'll drop her off at her grandmother's house, and in an hour, I'm missing her like gangbusters.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world, a mother's love is not.
~James Joyce

It's A Random Day

2007-01-16T11:45:00.000-05:00

It's snowing for the first time since a few weeks before Christmas. And I'm pissed because there are once again no batteries in our digital camera, and none to be found anywhere (at least, in any of the dozen or so logical places that one might search for them). My annoyance this morning brings to mind other annoyances that crawl under my skin and yank on the dangling nerves of my anal retentive self. So I figure, why not air them here, and spare the people I love the nuisance.

Things that make me want to bleed, in no particular order.

~The battery thing (already covered)-- oh, and as I type, the message: Please replace your mouse battery! just flashed across my screen. Yay!

~My husband spilling stuff on the counter & not wiping it up. Now, it wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that the things he drips and drops on the counter have a tendency to congeal and then convert to something akin to glue, i.e. A-1 steak sauce (or marinade), Nestle Quik mix (the liquid kind), and ketchup, to name a few.

~People who call for money and don't know how to cut to the chase. Getting information out of the latest batch of telemarketers in the last few days has been literally like pulling teeth. I mean, I've got a squawking husband, a crying child, and barking dogs in the background. Would it kill you to get to the fucking point?! These folks make it easy to just hang up on them. *assholes*

Let's move on from minor annoyance to straight out clusterfuck.

The power is out due to an ice storm in south central Michigan, which means that our house, which is for all intents and purposes, unoccupied, is affected. I only found out about it because the alarm company called us early this morning to tell us that the battery to the alarm is now dead (which essentially creates a panic alarm signal at the alarm center). We're over four hours away, and my husband decided to remember that the last time he made a trip up there (over a month ago), he might have forgotten to turn off the water. And the well pump. And did I mention that it's snowing over most of the northern part of Ohio, covering pretty much the bulk of the route up to Jackson County, Michigan?

I wish I knew how long it took for pipes to freeze. And a house to be ultimately destroyed. We've got nothing but fire insurance on that motherfucker, too, now, since all of our valuables were removed this summer. Nothing like losing $150,000 house due to poor planning and that bitch, Mother Nature.

But hey, at least I still have my health. Right?!

They're All Gonna Laugh At You

2007-01-15T11:03:00.000-05:00

I recently took part in a little musical project put forth from the creative spark that is Ze Frank (who else?). The wonderful vblog wizard wrote a song for his intro to 03 Jan episode of the show, and invited viewers to download the background accompaniment and write their own versions or remix it in whatever way they saw fit.

As a hardcore fan and daily viewer, I've yet to really take part in any of ze's projects. Never tried to make an earth sandwich, never dressed up my vacuum cleaner, never remixed a song for Ray. I've been hanging around the forum, though, for well nigh on six months time, and I was yearning to carve a few notches in my woefully unblemished fifteen minutes of fame stick.

It took me over a week. Armed with a free shareware music editing program called audacity, and a $20 chat mic from Logitech, I made a contribution to the fun winter gallery. Consequently, the wizard patted my head.

Which is getting bigger by the moment. Compliments abounded from fellow sports racers for my effort to get out the brain crack.

Despite the boon of feeling like Sally Field (you like me, you really like me!) I am, in the back of my reptile brain, waiting for the bucket of big blood (they're all gonna laugh at you -- is it Piper Laurie I hear in my head, or Adam Sandler?!). At the very least, I soon expect my third grade nemesis, Timothy Rogan, to pop out from behind a corner and viciously retort, "Psych!"

Which leads me to the inevitable question: am I still so dysfunctionally insecure and lacking in confidence at almost 37 years old that I can't take a compliment?!

I like your outfit.

What, this old thing? I found it at the back of my closet. It's so old.

It's this insidious frame of mind that continues to permeate my subconscious. Positive commentary gets flipped around. I fear reprisal for being less than humble, but really it's just a lack of self-worth that short circuits my ability to accept things with grace.

Speaking of grace, I think part of my attitude stems from the humility I've been taught was essential to being an obedient Christian. But somehow I doubt that God would want me to be mealy-mouthed and outright disrespectful of others. And that's really what it comes down to: when we dodge a compliment, we're essentially throwing it back in the face of our admirers. And that really sucks.

So I have a new New Year's resolution. Take the good will of others with a humble heart, but don't invalidate their praise.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-04T19:03:00.000-05:00

http://www.zefrank.com/ny05/

My Newest GooglyToob Discovery

2006-11-25T11:37:00.000-05:00

For one, this guy is so easy on the eyes, it's disgusting. Every time I look at him, I feel like an adolescent Claire Daines goofy over Jared Leto in My So-Called Life (why did those ABC assholes cancel that show?!) His rant near the end is absolute perfection.

Two, even when he's being serious, there is a part of me that is constantly laughing inside, I think, because he's so serious. It's not that I'm laughing AT him. It's just that his raw sincerity incites my giggles.

Three, he's incredibly smart.

Did I mention how good-looking he is? The eyes, the hair, the mouth....he's like a human chocolate souffle.

Bloating: tryptophane, BND & TomKat

2006-11-23T10:43:00.000-05:00

The American holiday season is upon us. My neighbors are bringing in their plants (we had a bit of a frost overnight) and putting up their Christmas decorations. This embodies one of the problems I have with the Christmas steamroller. Can't I enjoy Thanksgiving before you overachievers string your lights and hang your holly?

And of course, there's the inevitable feelings of depression and dissatisfaction that accompany the next thirty days. Not enough money or time to do what you want to do. I've decided the only way I'm going to survive this year is to take a cue from one of my favorite running gags on MadTV: Lowered Expectations. It's the only way I'll escape into the new year relatively unscathed. Expect nothing; then it can't possibly suck!

Canadian magazine Adbusters has created a holiday that I can finally really put my heart into: International Buy Nothing Day. I've been unofficially celebrating it for years, ever since my post college years of working in retail. Once I hung up my hat as a consumer concierge, I said goodbye to Black Friday. Now, my avoidance of the mall (and the dreaded "mall headache") has turned into a protest. Nifty!

Speaking of headaches and bloating, the entire TomKat thing is so hideous, but their recent wedding at an Italian castle looked gorgeous. Romance in spades. There's enough coverage on People's site to choke a horse.

While we're on the topic of celebrity marriages -- when are these people going to learn that a reality show in which both parties appear is a kiss of death? The short list: Jessica & Nick, Whitney & Bobby, Shannon Moakler & Travis Barker. It's only a matter of time before Danny Bonaduce and his long-suffering co-dependent spouse hit the skids. Maybe Mr. & Mrs. Cruise will actually learn something and stay out of the public eye altogether. It's the only way you can survive longer than your own press.

Dinner is at five. As I dine on the "traditional" Thanksgiving fare, I'll give a passing thought to the customs at hand, along with an article I found this morning: As American As Pumpkin Pie. It's a tidy little diatribe regarding the origins of Thanksgiving from the Plimouth Foundation; dispels commonly held myths regarding the holiday, which could pretty much be summed up as harmless propaganda to indoctrinate the teeming immigrants at the turn of the 20th century, along with impressionable schoolchildren. I like the distinction the author makes between the history of the holiday, and historic fact itself.

I give thanks for my health and the health of my family. I also give thanks for my daughter, who gives me new eyes.

Happy Turkey Day!

Meltdown

2006-11-19T22:24:00.000-05:00

I'm having one of those days....they seem to come closer and closer together, lately. Melancholy mixed with anger, leading to random bitchiness and eventually, emotional collapse. On nights like these, I say a little prayer for myself, and also express deep thanksgiving for the following:

1. Micheal C. Hall in Dexter
2. A fresh Heath Bar
3. Early bedtime facilitated by extended bath play

For quite some time, I could actually hear my daughter in the bedroom, singing. But at least she was singing, and singing in the confines of her own personal space, leaving my much needed boundaries uncrossed for another 12 hours. I always awaken the following morning feeling recovered, and as soon as I hear the sleepy but joyous "Mommy, mommy!" when I open her door, feel her arms squeeze my neck and her cheek grazing mine, it's like a brand new day. Let the sun shine in!

But for now, I sip Bailey's Mint and await the replay of my current cable obsession.

Delta Airlines vs. Breast-feeding Moms

2006-11-16T09:52:00.000-05:00

A woman was apparently asked to deplane a Delta/Freedom flight, when she refused to cover up with a blanket while breastfeeding her child.

I actually heard about the story last night on an 11 o'clock newscast. It was so cool seeing all the mothers in front of the Delta ticket counter. I am absolutely certain they regretted their lapse of reason after the "nurse-in."

I'm at once disgusted and amused by this story. Disgusted, because it's a clear indication of the American penchant for dirtying up something that is natural, and also protected by law (in every state of the Union, as far as I know). I'm amused because I know what it's like to try to breast-feed a toddler with a friggin' blanket on her head. It just doesn't work. My daughter started whipping the blankets off of her by the time she was physically able, right around six months. I rarely breast-fed in public, but when I did, nobody except the people with whom I was sitting (family & friends) had any clue what it was that I was doing. Throwing a blanket over my activity would only have brought further attention to my already discreet behavior.

How can people be so clueless? And when will our culture catch up? We've got Girls Gone Wild creator Joe Francis making enough money and garnering enough attention to choke a sensationalist horse (despite his admission of knowingly using underage girls in his videos) but yet providing the absolute best in nutrition and bonding is viewed as something that should be covered up, as if it's a shameful secret. *cough* bullshit *cough*

America the Beautiful.

New Interface + Google?

2006-11-14T20:10:00.000-05:00

New software, and a google account? I love how it announces it, as if having a google account is a foregone conclusion. I don't have one -- I don't ever remember having one. How out of the loop am I? So I guess I'm going to have to google this crap. Ugh. I much prefer Ask.com.

New York Times Day

2006-11-10T11:13:00.000-05:00

I really like their online version. Makes me almost want to shell out the cash for porch-front delivery. Almost.

The Golden Torso. I am a sucker for a purty face, and this guy is particularly yummy, but what really got my rocks off was the play on words. Am I that much of a geometry nerd?!

According to the people who know about this kind of stuff, China will soon be at the top of worldwide emissions. Cool. We get to be second on the list of "Things That Suck To Be First At."

I found this article about Lebanon's Christian population interesting. But I have to ask -- did the guy's daughter have a say?! I mean, how do you make a personal statement with someone else's soul?!

John McCain has resigned his position at Gallaudet, after faculty and students ousted their incoming president -- who claims she wasn't "deaf enough."

This was the by far the coolest article Thursday; an interview with one of the people involved in the ever-changing, always evolving world of the Oxford English Dictionary: Cyber-Neologoliferation.

Darkly Dreaming of Dexter

2006-10-04T11:10:00.000-04:00

Micheal C. Hall is a genius.

I was a little trepidatious viewing the premiere of Dexter on Showtime Sunday night.

As I mentioned a few days ago, I am a big fan of Jeff Lindsay. I usually don't like to see my favorite literary characters on the small or large screen; I like to hold their images in my own mind, without the dilution of someone else's interpretation. But after spending sixty minutes with Hall, and a host of other talented performers, I am more than a little impressed with the result.

First of all, I couldn't take my eyes off of the main character. Hall created a disturbing, disarming, sardonic, and even at times touching portrait of the blood-spatter analyst and serial killer, Dexter.

His arch-nemesis, Sgt. Doakes (Erik King) gave me quite a thrill. He's a hilarious hard charger; just about every verbal exchange and assault make me laugh, especially because Dexter is so completely unperturbed. Side note: I wonder if we'll ever get to see King with his shirt off? The dude is cut.

Also worth mentioning is James Remar in the role of Dexter's adoptive father, Harry. His earnestness in attempting to curb his foster son's clear-cut dysfunction is at once scary and tender (my husband commented, "Now, that's too much of a leap. I don't buy it."):

Son, there are people out there who do terrible things. Terrible people. And the police can't catch them all.

I think my favorite scene has to be the moment Dex greets his girlfriend at her door, following a rough evening out; he explains sheepishly, "There was another --" making the universal sign for murder/beheading: a forefinger traced across the neck. His delicacy in handling Rita is sweetly romantic, and charmingly twisted.

I can't wait to start spending my Sunday nights with a sociopath.

Dextromorphan

2006-10-03T11:08:00.000-04:00

I have lots of things to discuss and report. But I relapsed this past weekend and my doctor thinks I now have a secondary bacterial infection (bronchial and sinus). He prescribed this decongestant/cough supressant/antihistimine which wore off sometime around 5 am this morning. So I took a swig from my husband's script cough syrup which has more dextromorphan and the stuff that is in mucinex. It made me puke mightily until I had nothing but dry heaves. I think I have overdosed. Right now I feel like a cold cow turd with a buzz. My scalp is tingling.

I will publish tomorrow.

and tomorrow....and tomorrow....and tomorrow....

Kaydee Caine: Rest in Peace

2006-09-29T23:15:00.000-04:00

When will I ever learn to stay away from movies that make me cry?

I remember seeing Menace II Society in the bargain theatre a few months after it was released. At 23, my only exposure to black culture consisted of hip hop music (I could frequently be seen shakin' my white ass to Soul II Soul in the privacy of my living room) and a few African-American acquaintances. I was naive, at best, and knew only of the Watts area of Los Angeles from an American History class, where the 1965 riots were mentioned casually, in passing.

Watching Menace for the first time was like getting punched in the gut. I had never heard people talk like that. I had never seen people die like that, or fight like that. LIVE like that. Was it real? I knew enough to understand that movies sensationalize and oversimplify. I think I told someone later that I liked Boyz N The Hood better. On many levels, I still do. But, Boyz didn't make me cry. I didn't connect emotionally with the characters, and it lacked a clear protagonist. In Kaydee, I found an anchor. When he fell, I fell. I was lost. I wanted to reach through the screen and take it all back, reverse time, scoop up that little boy in the red footie pajamas and just hold him til it all went away. That feeling was even stronger for me this time around. It's been 13 years since I saw that movie, and the tears seemed to come even easier. Shit, maybe it's because I'm a mother, now. Maybe I'm premenstrual. But Tyrin Turner will remain immortal for the humanity he brought to Caine.

And of course, we also have the Hughes Brothers to thank, too. I continue to be a fan of their work, especially the 1999 documentary American Pimp.I had to watch it twice, because the first time I was too shocked to pay as much attention as was warranted to really "get" it. Let's not forget From Hell, which was inspired by the comic of the same name, a collaboration from Alan Moore & Eddie Campbell.

And hey, you can't go wrong with a lollipop like Johnny Depp.

I Remember No. 2 Pencils

2006-09-29T18:36:00.000-04:00

Here's a great article from the NY TIMES regarding the lack of a definitive "back-to-school" ritual once we are no longer in school.

Clean Slate

I remember no. 2 pencils. They were always so fresh and new, and the first few days the classroom was filled with the sounds and smells of sharpening. And clean white paper. I always liked college-ruled, because it gave me more room to write on one side. Oh, and there was nothing like creating that one-of-a-kind book cover for your school texts. I always spent hours at the kitchen table with discarded brown paper bags, crayola markers, and a ruler, trying to make my books look "cool."

Kip Hawley Is An Idiot

2006-09-29T17:55:00.000-04:00

How To Make A Freedom Bag

I am still trying to decide if I want to push this envelope in my own life; I'm going to be flying to Florida for Thanksgiving this year. If it weren't for the sake of my 2 year old daughter....damn. I am just too conflicted about it. I'll have to settle for the fantasy of it, for now.

Hot Diggity-Dog! or Mommy's Book Club

2006-09-28T20:50:00.000-04:00

I am not as up on pop culture as I used to be. And since I get my books from the library and I cherry pick cable TV with a DVR, I seemed to have missed two exciting, recent devolopments.

Jeff Lindsey's second Dexter novel: Dearly Devoted Dexter.

And the Showtime original series Dexter, inspired by his work, starring Six Feet Under alum Micheal C. Hall, which premieres this Sunday.

I am almost wetting my pants with anticipation.

I was introduced to Lindsay's Dexter Morgan quite by accident, when my stepfather-in-law donated his usual stack of readers club cast offs last spring. On the top of the stack, sat Darkly Dreaming Dexter. I actually shifted it to the bottom, because I am not much of a serial murder kinda gal. I read Sue Grafton's Q is for Quarry first; another book that introduced me to yet another fantastic character, along with many future hours of enjoyment as I vowed to work my way backwards through the alphabet. After wading through another mystery which paled in comparison to Grafton's work, and the poignant fiction of Ayelet Waldman's My Daughter's Keeper, I came back to Dex.

By the end of the first page, I was hooked. I spent the next two days immersed in the introduction of solid foods to my then 8 month old daughter, and brutal serial murder.

I simply love how my accidental, circumstantially delayed gratification affords me these lovely opportunities (I believe it might be termed Serendipity; coinkidinkally the first book I ever read --at six years old-- until it literally fell apart).

So now, a new book and a new series in which to sink my choppers. It reminds me of the day I finished Gregory Maguire's Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, only to discover that though the book itself was published in the mid-90s, I only had to wait three weeks for the sequel, Son of a Witch, to go on sale. I was only too tickled that very same week to find a used copy of the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked: The Musical, which remained the soundtrack of my life for months. If hard-pressed, I could likely sing 80% of the libretto by heart, without accompaniment.

These are the brightly colored threads weaving a brilliant tapestry within the otherwise gray landscape of a cultural wasteland.

On a far less overly-dramatic Sarah Bernhardt note....

I found a new way to cure a crabby toddler.

Hmm. My Mom used to call me Sarah Burnhardt (which, I have come to understand, was a common practice among mothers of her generation). Somehow, I don't think she knew Ms. Burnhardt, arguably the most famous actress of the 19th century, was also a hooker with a wooden leg.

Soapbox Rantings

2006-09-28T06:15:00.000-04:00

Rain, a restless soul, and a plethora of sirens in the near distance push me from the comfort of my repose. For the second night in a row, I am faced with the dilemma: do I go back to sleep and feel like a groggy piece of crap in an hour and a half when my daughter opens her little life to the world, or do I stay awake and pump myself full of coffee like I did yesterday? The caffeine overdose resulted in a manic amount of posting on zefrank's site. I am not even sure I want to go back there today, I am so sick of seeing myself post. Sometimes, it's almost OCD-ish, pushing the reply button before I even know I'm doing it. Just gotta check to make sure the button still works, one more time, if it doesn't work, the house might burn down.....

Query of the hour:

Why don't I just start making crystal meth?

I'm already being treated like I'm cooking. The new and improved federal law doesn't go into effect until September 30, which mandates a personal monthly minimum of 9.2 grams. Some stupid web article estimates that to be "about three packages." Um, hello? The only packages I can find are .6 grams each (20 pills per pack, 30 mg per pill - or am I doing the math wrong?!). So I should be allowed to buy 15 packages per month, which averages out to one 20 pack every other day. Which is half the amount of Cold & Sinus meds my husband (who suffers from constant sinus problems and refuses to go to the doctor) consumes every thirty days.

I'm supposed to fill out and sign this little piece of paper every time I buy the shit. I admit to looking for the space where I sign over my next child, and peering behind the counter to be sure Rumplestiltskin isn't lurking there. I fail to see the ultimate logic in the endeavor. Unless there is going to be this mass, nation-wide computer program magically instituted on September 30, how is this law going to really work? All I have to do is make a rotation of the 15 to 20 or so pharmacies in my area. I haven't tried buying the stuff from Drugstore.com. Pennsylvania is ten minutes to the southeast. I could trip over the state line any time I wanted to and pop into a RiteAid to get our "fix" when I've tapped out my connections in my hometown. All these thoughts are racing through my mind and it really cheeses me off that my power as a consumer is so off-kilter over a drug that isn't illicit, isn't considered to be a "controlled" substance, nor is it a drug for which a prescription is required before purchase and use. But yet, this is a DEA matter, and I'm left feeling like some kind of drug addict cruising the streets for my next cold med high.

Sidebar: in the same article referenced above, the flaw -- the gaping hole -- in the law is acknowledged, but that doesn't seem to be much of a bother for our government. Surprise! Another poop law jumps out of the cake. Also, this article very clearly posited that the law leaves room for further interpretation, later on down the road. Which is good, later on down the road. But for right now, at is infancy, it makes it a truly bullshit law. Stoking the fire under my bloomers to full supernova efficiency, this article stated that it's still on the shoulders of pharmacists and pharmacy employees to essentially profile customers who wish to purchase pseudoephedrine products; that people who are noticeably shaky, uncommonly thin, and exhibit dental problems are prime suspects for the use and/or propagation of crystal meth. Well, guess what? My husband was in an accident recently and his top plate was cracked. He has a legitimate health problem that caused a dentifrice decline, his rather thin frame, and ironically, since he takes so much pseudoephedrine, he can appear shaky at times. I have encouraged him to quit taking so much, but as his wife I can only lead him to the water. And now, I feel like I'll be damned if someone else forces him to drink.

Oh yeah. And I wanna know where all the back door selling is going on. Sign me up.

Back to my original train of thought. Since this is a federal law, mandated by the government and currently under the umbrella of the DEA, the big question is -- if it can be proved that I have purchased more than my 9.2g monthly allotment, what is my crime? Moreover, what is my punishment? Would Dostoyevsky be able to wrap his head around the idea? Is it possible and reasonable to assume I could be considered a federal criminal of some kind even when I'm not manufacturing crystal meth? How would the law justify any sort of federal retribution against me in this case? Are they going to hang my picture up in the stores, am I going to be America's Most Wanted Housewife? Will I soon be demonized by John Walsh, my neighbors interviewed -- she was a nice lady, kept to herself, I can't believe she bought so much Advil Cold and Sinus, and right next door -- It all requires further net research, which pisses me off even more because I have already waded through so much poorly written and drawn-up law speak, enough to choke a horse, or a small horse -- maybe a pony.

The bitter irony yesterday at my local grocery store....I waited in line at their bloated little pharmacy, and the cashier recognized me from two days previous. She asked me casually, with nervous eyes,

"Is this for someone else in the family? What was your last name again?"

And I immediately felt my anger mount to a bubbling orchestra of expletive-laden responses, just tingling upon my tongue. Instead, I sighed, and said, "No. It's for me. Just like it was for me last time. But I don't see how that has anything to do with me buying this stuff today because the law doesn't go into effect for another two days, and it's not a law for me, it's a law FOR YOU."

"Um, I don't know what you mean by that."

"I mean, the law is about the sale of pseudoephedrine products. It is not about the purchase. Since my purchase is not an issue, you really don't need to know who I'm buying it for."

She shot a look up over the dais, at the pharmacist, who oversees all from above (asshole). He gives me this withered look before telling her quietly, "Just sell them to her." I paid in cash and said as loudly as I could over the several conversations in progress around me, the sound of the grocery business wafting about in the rafters, and the bad muzak from a speaker directly above, "Now I can put that new chemistry set to good use."

Fifteen minutes later, in the self serve check out lane where I scanned the last of my purchases -- a six pack of Guinness Extra Stout -- the check out girl took the driver's license I extended in her direction and just handed it back to me without a second glance. I was too tired, deflated, and defeated to level a scathing public indictment over that, but inside I was still seething. The automaton at the pharmacy counter wrote down my ID number and studied it like she was looking for Waldo, and then I can't even get the slag at the checkout to look at it (after she asked for it) when its procurement might prove I am not indeed of age. So don't remind me I haven't been 21 for a while. It's the principle of the thing, I tell you!

I was half hoping someone would stop me before I left. I really wanted to get into it with the security guard, who has to be at least 60 years old and looks about as imposing as my sister in her favorite Victoria Secret pajamas. If I played my cards right, I could position myself against the wind when he launched his pepper spray, and then laugh at him before I ran away.

I vow to rage against the dying of this light. If for no other reason than to get the stupid drug completely outlawed, because I personally think pseudoephedrine should be a controlled substance. But until it is, I should be able to buy it, with impunity, to my little pea pickin heart's content.

Hodge Podgery

2006-09-22T11:44:00.000-04:00

I haven't written anything lately because I haven't been able to find one, single, interesting thing with which to hit the ground running. So last night, I jotted down a few things, and it turned into a sort of stream of consciousness kinda thing. And then I noticed that I hadn't published an entry for over seven days, and I thought, "Shit, I'm letting my blog die again."

So, for lack of anything better, here are some excerpts from my fractured brainpan.

I am trying to teach my 2-year-old daughter to be leader of the pack -- of our dogs. We've got two yappy canines: a Pomeranian and a Miniature Poodle. I have been struggling with my daughter because she doesn't put up much of a fight when the dogs jump on her to steal her food (she's a grazer, and doesn't like to sit in the high chair for very long). I keep telling her that she's the boss, and she's bigger, but it doesn't seem to register. As if to further my very point, last night I gave her the dog's treats, so that she could administer them herself, and my "rule" is to have the dogs sit before they get their treats. I'm saying, "sit" over and over again as the dogs bounce around -- because they see that the weak link has possession of their treats -- and what does my daughter do? She sits. I can't help but laugh. And of course the dogs don't sit. They just keep bouncing around. Dorks.

My daughter is sick. She has a cold, and a bit of a cough. Last night she slept better than she has in days, but she is still clinging to her sick personality, which consists of asking for cookies all day long and whining when she doesn't get them. It is getting very annoying, although I do like the fact that she wants to sit on my lap more often.

Convivial is a cool word to say, over and over again.

When I wrote that down, I remembered a scene from the movie Super Troopers, where one of the officers bets another officer that he can't say the word "meow" 10 times during a routine traffic stop. Which reminded me that I want to watch that movie again. Funny stuff.

And then I thought....how is it that I can find a movie like Super Troopers funny, but also laugh my ass off while watching The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? They are two very different types of comedy. I guess, if I'm hard-pressed, I would admit to liking the easy laugh a little more than the laugh that requires me to think.

I was clearing out old programs on my DVR this week. I watched several episodes of "So You Think You Can Dance" and I was struck by the fact that I know I can't dance, but I wish I could dance. Whenever I hear music with a good rhythm, I want to dance, and my body starts to move in that direction, but the results are comically pathetic. It's like I have the soul of a dancer, but the body of three year old (when it comes to dancing). I feel it inside of me, but it doesn't translate physically. It's so frustrating; I'll be forever relegated to my living room, behind closed drapes.

Drapes. Now there's another funny word.

2006-09-12T18:53:00.000-04:00

Death of Anna Nicole's Son Reported "Not Natural"

My first reaction upon hearing this news was very near to heartbreak. I can't imagine giving birth to one child and then quickly losing another. My second reaction, upon hearing that the initial coroner's statement that young Daniel's death was "not natural" was disgust and sorrow. I have no knowledge of Anna Nicole's lifestyle, but I am not alone in my impressions over the last several years that she often appears to be under the influence of something, and it ain't just stupidity. Having lived for many years with a man addicted to hydrocodone, I can't look at her and not think that the woman is "on something." I will not be at all surprised if the cause of her son's death is due to the ingestion of some kind of mind-altering chemical.

The celebrity confession industry of late has included many admissions of pharmaceutical abuse -- mainly opiates/painkillers. The tearful, tortured and sincere filmed disclosures - a la Barbara Walters -- are nearly ubiquitous, and treated as a form of edu-tainment. We congratulate them for coming forward and enriching us with their travails. The general public -- and I'll admit, I am among them, once in a while -- seems to devour all the salacious details, with little regard for their dysfunction and the illegality of their behavior. The rule of thumb seems to be, the more likable and famous a person is, the less likely they are to be viewed as addicts and criminals.

Art, however, does not seem to be imitating life. The common folk who are using and abusing prescription drugs are prosecuted, yet the doctors who prescribe the drugs seem to be, for the most part, free of any responsibility or blame. To coin a phrase once used by my favorite vlogger, allow me "to get anecdotal on your ass." A woman with whom I was once acquainted, was being prescribed the same scripts for percocet, vicodin, valium, and soma, from three different doctors. Every month, she managed to enlist the help of another drug abuser to assist her in paying for the scripts. Her various partners in crime took their cuts (the average street cost for any of them varied, from $4 - $8 per pill), and she was left with the remainder of the pills, sometimes 50 or 60 of each every month.

None of the doctors ever knew about one another.
None of the doctors ever cross-referenced pharmacies.
No one ever knew what was going on.

Until it was too late, and my friend died, the official cause listed on the coroner's report as "acute drug intoxication." No one, including myself, believed she wanted to end her life. But her poor and self-destructive choices nonetheless resulted in her passing. I'm not saying that people shouldn't be held accountable for their actions. But doctors should be held accountable, too. Our "war on drugs" still seems to be focused on the bottom rungs of the ladder, so it's ultimately those with the problems, who need help, that are getting punished. Meanwhile, the D.O.'s who didn't follow protocol continue fucking up with no one to answer to but their own consciences, if they have them at all.

My soapbox is creaky. But this topic in its entirety is still a sore one for me. My heart goes out to Anna Nicole and her family. It's unfortunate in this case that the apple may not have fallen far from the tree.

If A Skinny Model Falls In The Forest...

2006-09-10T11:25:00.000-04:00

...and a slightly less skinny model takes her place, will anyone notice?

Spanish Fashion Show Turns Down Twigs

I wonder myself how much of a difference this could/would make. It'd be fantastic if the fashion industry adjusted their attitudes to include more buxom women in their catwalk shows. There is, however, so much evidence of their preferences for twiggy boygirls all over the magazines runway shows and television and cinema...I personally don't find much to be attracted to, aesthetically, when I see these women, except that the clothing looks nicely draped on their bodies. But that's because their bodies could easily double as mannequins or hangers with heads (I don't know if Kathy Griffin coined that phrase, but she's the only person I've ever heard use it, so we'll give her credit). I mean, everybody knows what it's like to see something in the store and think, "Wow, that's pretty" until they try it on in the dressing room under those horrid lights in front of the unforgiving three-way mirrors.

I don't actually have a problem with skinny models. They don't inspire me, and I don't want to be one. I do take issue with their influence on our culture, seemingly from the bottom up. Not having access to any valid statistics, I can only speak anecdotally; it seems like there are more young women and now even girls who are nearly killing themselves to attain an unrealistic and unhealthy "ideal." As a fat girl, I ask, what the hell is ideal about not eating?

We interrupt this blog for a Friends stream of consciousness moment. Monica: You know the camera adds ten pounds.
Chandler: How many cameras do you have on you?

It's interesting; thick girls round the world had their hopes dashed when it became apparent that the hoopla over Jen Lopez' apple bottom turned out to be a passing fad. There are simply not enough women who look even remotely normal in the entertainment industry. Certainly, I understand it's not about reality, it's about fantasy and escapism. We can't, however, ignore the obvious ripples in our cultural pond as a result. I hear all the time, in some form or another, celebrities complaining about being role models. All the back-pedaling in the world is not going to change the fact that the cart is already ahead of the proverbial horse. A teacher of mine once stated, "It doesn't matter the way things should be. What matters is the way things are."

And as long as it's deemed fashionable and acceptable to look like an emaciated coke-whore (it's not how you feel, it's how you look), I'll be the fat chick in the corner everybody dismisses for eating too much and not working hard enough to fit the mold. I can only hope that my own daughter will view me -- and not some mangy stringy version of the Olson Twins -- as a role model, and that she'll see I struggle with my BMI not because I want to look like Kate Moss, but because I want to participate in life, not watch it from the sidelines in a hoverchair cuz my ass is too big to walk.

In the meantime, I'll be waiting in the forest for my turn on the catwalk. I will most definitely need to pack a lunch.

Please Don't Talk About Murder While I'm Eating or There Will Still Be Cake Tomorrow

2006-09-08T12:42:00.000-04:00

You get all hot and bothered at the strangest times and places
But you don't notice the looks on all the other faces
You're dressed for the summer in the middle of December
What you've all but forgotten, I painfully remember

Now I don't care in the least what you're reading.
Please don't talk about murder while I'm eating.
Let's not talk about murder while I'm eating...
~the inimitable Ben Harper

I have no statement to make. I just love that song.

I made a great pot of coffee this morning. But then, I like to think I make a great pot of coffee every morning. I cut my coffee budget by 80% (because we're kinda broke, since we aren't working right now). I have to make due with Chock Full O' Nuts, when I was accustomed to stuff from the Coffee Fool & Gevalia. Once I returned to grocery store grounds, I returned to my roots, via Cleveland, specifically Ohio City. An old friend of mine still lives there, and when we met in my second year of college (1989) this was one of our hangouts, along with several others. My friend could charm the pants off a priest, and she was able to procure the "recipe" for Heck's fantastic brew: unsweetened cocoa and cinnamon in the filter. It does wonders for crappy store-bought java.

My sister would like to be a licensed personal trainer (sorry, I am too scattered to segue). We started an exercise regimen yesterday. I've been sedentary for far too long. And fat. I remember vaguely what it was like, for a few years anyway, to be a size 10. At 155 pounds, I was always able to fool the "guess your weight" booths at the fair, and shocked my friends by being able to fit into their clothes despite the fact that they were often at least 25 pounds lighter than I. Though I don't harbor any fantasies of being that svelte again, I would like to look at the scale and no longer see a "2" at the left of the numbers I squint to see (when I bother to look at all).

So we took a walk for 10 minutes (today it will be 15, since I plan to arrive on time).Then I rode the recumbent bike for 15 minutes, at an average speed of 80 rpm. After that, I was re-introduced to some basic weight-training moves (once upon a time I strength-trained; that's one of the things that kept me a size 10 for while). I went to bed feeling muscles I hadn't felt in years. And the great thing about exercise when you're so overweight: you burn way more calories than somebody skinny. Take that, Lindsey Lohans of the world.

So we'll be doing this every day. When my sis can't join me, I've committed to her and myself at least 20 minutes of cardio (probably walking). This will work out well, since my Mom is struggling to lose the weight she put on over the last several years due to stress about work and family junk.

My biggest challenge in this will be changing my eating habits. Currently, I don't eat enough, sometimes skipping breakfast and lunch, and then pigging out at dinner time, as well as snacking after midnight. I must reshape the way I consume food, as well as how I look at food. A favorite mantra of my best pal in high school was, "Eat to live, not live to eat." And my approach to sweets (mostly anything chocolate), especially, needs drastic revamping. It's what I like to call the Apocalypse Plan: eat it like the end of the world is coming. Along those same lines, a Weight Watchers leader once said, "You don't have to eat the whole cake. There will still be cake tomorrow."

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow....

Some Things That I Like That Are Gay

2006-09-07T12:41:00.000-04:00

On a site which I frequently visit, another visitor posted a thread in the forum entitled "something I like that's gay." For me, gay has never applied to homosexuals, though I know that's a widely accepted term. For me, depending on the context, gay can denote stupid, silly, useless, annoying, goofy, incongruous....unfortunately they are all on some level "negative" but that's not because I have a problem with gay people. It's just the way I've always used the word.

Besides, I don't want to argue semantics. I want to talk about things that I like that are gay.

RockStar: Supernova. I missed Tuesday's ep, but I caught it on DVR. Incredible performances! My top three would be Toby, Magni, and Storm. I am on my way to the website, because I don't feel like watching last night's ep to find out who will be going to the finale. OK, hold on.....Oh, poop. Storm goes home. I am pissed. I have serious issues with Lukas. Whenever I listen to him sing, I'm struck by the affectation he puts on in his pronunciation, and I almost always have a difficult time understanding the lyrics. Well, I am confident this is not the last we have heard of Storm. I hope to hear that orginial "What the What is Ladylike" on the radio soon, livin' large. PS. Are her boobs real? They looked like perfectly stiff melons under that wife-beater Tuesday night. Defying gravity.

Target (pronounced Tar-zhay, as in French). I cannot stay out of that store. That's really all I have to say.

Pogo.Though I am not as addicted as my husband, I still play waaaay too much Tumblebees. It is really hard to do when you are stoned.

Hello Kitty.Alright. Let me break it down for ya. As a child, I was quite satisfied with my quality of life, and my parents did a lot for my sister and for me. However, we didn't get everything we wanted, and that included all the Helly Kitty gear I loved but could never justify to my Mom. So now that I make my own dough, I fear that I am still purchasing the things I wish I'd had 25 years ago (including a cordless phone & a hairdryer, of all things!). That Kitty is sooo Kool.

I think this stuff some might refer to as "guilty pleasures" but I really don't like that phrase, mostly because I don't feel the least little bit guilty. Maybe a little embarassed (but I can't be too embarassed since I made it public), but not guilty.

If I ever get any visitors here, on my glorified journal, maybe someone can share the stuff they like that's gay.

2006-09-06T20:03:00.000-04:00

I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (With Flowers In My Hair) ~ A musical gem I discovered whilst sifting through the NPR.org site this evening. Sandi Thom went from doing webcasts in her basement to a record deal with RCA. For some reason, the song reminds me of a passage from Milan Kundera's The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.

If it is true that the history of music has come to an end, what is left of music? Silence?

Not in the least. There is more and more of it, many times more than in its most glorious days. It pours out of outdoor speakers, out of miserable sound systems in apartments and restaurants, out of the transistor radios people carry around the streets.

Schonberg is dead, Ellington is dead, but guitar is eternal. Stereotyped harmonies, hackneyed melodies, anda beat that gets stronger as it gets duller -- that is what's left of music, the eternity of music. Everyone can come together on the basis of those simple combinations of notes. They are life itself proclaiming its jubilant "Here I am!" No sense of communion is more resonant, more unanimous, than the simple communion with life...bodies pulsing to a common beat, drunk with the conciousness that they exist. No work of Betthoven's has ever elicited greater collective passion than the constant repetitive throb of the guitar....the sadder people are, the louder the speakers blare....

I am not sure I completely ascribe to the view that the history of music is over, or that its "glorious days" are gone. But, I do admit to getting significantly depressed when I ponder the likes of Paris Hilton getting an album ("I like, cry, it's so good" she was recently quoted). Personally, I think she should just look pretty and keep her mouth completely shut (unfortunately she seems to have difficulty with that on many levels).

Ani Difranco laments on the track "Fuel" from Little Plastic Castles: "People used to make records/as in a record of an even/the event of people playing music in a room/now everything is cross-marketing/it's about sunglasses and shoes/or guns and drugs, you choose."

My solution is not listening to traditional radio any more, unless it's left of the dial without commercials. Otherwise, I "tune in" on the 'net. I don't have an ipod, but there are plenty of "webcasts" and since I am an AOL member I have access to AOLMusic which, though not an exhaustive catalogue, it suits my needs quite well, and saves me money (I haven't purchased a CD in years -- just single songs via computer).

No doubt about it, music, and the process of making music, has changed, and not always for the better. I miss my vinyl. It had a warmth to it you just can't reproduce in CD form. The CD industry has improved the manufacture of the medium, as well, so that some of the kinks have been worked out concerning longevity...and since it's only been about 20 years, I'm sure they'll get better. But still, there is no way to compare the first time I heard Joni Mitchell sing inside my bedroom from the needle on my Sears turntable.

Spoiled Milk

2006-09-06T13:07:00.000-04:00

I've been accused of ruining an entire thread on someone else's site. Since I kinda think they might be right, I'm no longer going to post in that thread, or on the topic involved. Not there, anyway. I do have more to say, though I anticipate I'll get it out of my system soon.

For days now, I’ve not been able to put my finger on why ManhattanBrendan’s initial replies to the 9/11 post bothered me so much, since I am hip to the fundamental ideas behind his insistence on recalling the Collateral Damage^TM, and I agree that Perspective^TM is vital.

It came upon me this morning, quite by accident. I found a piece of mail in a box from my old house, which ended up in the storage garage I shared for a time with my current spouse, which is now in our new (to us) garage. A letter from a creditor addressed to my ex. I hope Sears has gotten their pound of flesh (though I doubt it).

The problem, for me, with someone pointing out “It could be -- and is -- much worse” is that

1. It’s overstating the obvious and

2. This immediate call for perspective invalidates a person’s experience, and also in this case, a person’s remembrance of an experience.

It reminds me of said ex, who often following physical abuse would decry, “Well, at least I didn’t break any bones/knock out any teeth/kill you.” Sure, these extremes never happened. Though I was thankful I hadn’t lost the tooth that had broken through the skin of my mouth and made its way through to the other side, forming a strange little bloody tear through which I could stick my tongue, somehow knowing it could have been worse (and is worse for others), didn’t make me feel any better. I had never been punched in the face before, after all.

When I transport myself back to that exact moment, and its immediate aftermath, I remember thinking only of myself. My frame of reference for that sort of thing was very small. The current American frame of reference to this kind of tragedy is small, too. And while I support the desire behind many of your posts, Brendan, I don’t support your methods. Harsh reality and cruel truth are important and necessary (the unexamined life is a life half-lived). I'm no stranger to Doing The Right Thing Even Though It Hurts (I flushed my mouth for many days with full strength salt water because even though it made me cry I knew it would help me heal).

Being a vessel for something larger than yourself sometimes turns you into a great big wet blanket. You are Ricky Ricardo to my Lucy.

I’m also left thinking that you can’t put a shelf-life on your feelings. It’s like you are attempting to pour everyone’s mental & emotional milk down the drain, just because of the expiry stamp, without at least taking a whiff from under the cap, first. Perhaps I’m turning, but I’m not curdled yet.

Happy Day After Labor Day

2006-09-05T10:49:00.000-04:00

Congress is back in session today, after a five-week break. The president is asking law-makers to make temporary tax cuts permanent. He is also moving his mouth to make strange noises about something called "less reliance on imported oil."

Wildfires in the pacific northwest continue to rage. I guess some people who know stuff about fires and fighting them are saying the 2006 acreage destroyed by this year's fires is twice that of the yearly average over the last 10 years. And that this might be a "trend" due to lots of trees that died this year from some bark disease, and also the fact that they've had several seasons that were particularly dry. No rain. Dead trees. Sounds to me like Mother Nature is just doing her job; considering that the majority of trees out there can't even germinate without fire, and their ranks were thinned by malaise, I am not surprised the weather is cooperating.Make no mistake, I will always put (most) human life above other forms of life. But isn't this "problem" indicative of our insistence as settlers to live where we just shouldn't live?

As a people we consistently approach nature in a reactive way. My biggest bugaboo on this score are dams, and, as one poster on sciforums remarked, "the great dam scam." I don't know if it's a singularly American perception, that dams will save us from all that naughty water. I do know that too many people don't get the science behind it. I wrote a paper on dams in college, based on research I did via the Fish & Wildlife end. For the most part, any dam that's not built by Mr. Beaver is a potential threat to human life. Essentially, man-made dams are put in place to give people a warm and cozy feeling when it rains, so they can keep putting photos and family mementos and electronic equipment on the floors of their basements (I'm speaking about folks who aren't at or below sea level, of course). Unfortunately, the inconvenience of soggy feet is forgone for the larger catastrophes, when men in boats come to rescue you off your roof. Damn dams.

Starting Again

2006-09-04T14:22:00.000-04:00

I am attempting to resuscitate my blahg. I don't even think I could adequately provide a synopsis of what's happened in the last 10 months. Maybe I'll try to throw in a few thumbnail sketches later. For now, I'll have to be content with just picking up where I left off.

The following is expanded from my "babble book" (a journal I keep on my bedside table for dreams, stream of consciousness shit, and sleepy ramblings), this morning around 4am.

Brushes With Celebrity

Maria Von Trapp 1980 - My Mom was set to play the lead in The Sound of Music that fall at the Music Box. That summer, we went on vacation to the Von Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont, and I think my Dad wrote ahead and arranged a meeting with Maria herself while we there, to surprise my Mom. We spent about 10 minutes in her little sitting room. She looked like Peter Parker's grandma, only shorter. The coolest part of this whole thing was that later, on opening night, she sent my Mom a telegram wishing her luck on her performance.

Robert Redford 1983 - Again a family vacation scenario, this one Christmas in Salt Lake City, Utah. We were on our way to Florida for the next leg of our journey, waiting at a ticket counter (can't recall why). My Mom, sister and I were sitting on our bags as Dad talked to the ticket agent. A scruffy ski-bum type guy walked past us, smiled and excused himself, asking the woman behind the desk if the flight from NYC had arrived. I remember he was wearing a hat like Indiana Jones, which made him totally cool in my book (I was 13). As soon as he was out of earshot, the clerk said excitedly, "Do you know who that was?" For the next 20 minutes, we followed my Mom following him, prodding her to ask for an autograph. She never did.

Trent Reznor Halloween 1989 - I was at the Agora Ballroom to see, among others, a local band called Lestat. Having yet to fully embrace the local music scene which characterized my later college years (I had only just joined the ranks of campus radio DJs), Nine Inch Nails was not in my frame of reference. I just looked up the realease date, and it was a scant 11 days after Pretty Hate Machine hit stores that I ran into him at the bar. He lit my cigarette. I thanked him. Whoo-wee! A bunch of girls accosted me in the bathroom afterward. I had no clue.

Mikhail Baryshnikov early 90s? - The date and exact location of this encounter is filed in the trash bin of my brain, apparently. All I know is, my Aunt, who was (and still is) business director of a local symphony, pulled strings and got us into some ballet performance in Cleveland. From what I now know of Mischa, I would guess it was an early performance of the White Oak Dance Project. All I knew then was that he was the hot guy from White Nights. I'd never seen ballet like this. My experience up to then was Swan Lake, Nutcracker....this was something entirely different, and Baryshnikov was so amazing to watch. Here's the best part: afterwards, we were on the list for an exclusive meet and greet cocktail reception. I remember when he entered the room, my first reaction was, "Oh my God, he's so short." We shook hands and I actually looked down at him (I'm 5'8" in heels) and melted like buttah. Damn, that man is beautiful.

Mark Wahlberg & Mario Lopez Spring 1992 - I was interning at a radio station in Cleveland Heights [back then it was Jammin' 92, the Party Pig*] in the Promotions Department. I volunteered to be the unofficial "ambassador" for the morning show, which featured a celebrity guest on Fridays. I picked up donuts each week on the way in, made coffee, and showed the "stars" where the potty was. The only two people that made an impression on me were Marky Mark (he took off his shirt at the autograph signing featuring 50 nasty girls whimpering and giggling. I got stuck behind him trying to get out so I could go to class, and he had tons of acne on his back. Gross.), and of course the kid who played Slater on Saved by the Bell. I got my photo taken with him, even though I never watched the show (I was friggin' 22 by that time). *During my stint there, I had to drive the official Party Pig vehicle, an old pink caddy, complete with fuzzy pink interior and plastered all to hell with promo stickers. Humiliation on a grand scale.

People often ask me why I never procured autographs. I've never been one for signatures. I think it's kind of gay. I don't need a piece of paper with an impersonal and hurried note to remind me of meeting someone. I do wish I could have gotten more photos than just the one with Slater, though. I think I threw that picture away when we moved this spring.

My pathetic experiences with glitterati. Poop.

Little House on the Prairie Moment

2005-11-16T03:55:00.000-05:00

Back in the early '80s when my parents still had a say in what my sister and I watched on the boob tube, we actually spent quality family time in front of the television. At that time, Little House on the Prairie was still first-run and a relatively popular choice for all of us. Sissy & I spent most of the hour mooning over Almonzo. But the last ten minutes were spent in ridicule of my Mother.

Mama cried. It was one of those 100% guaranteed moments (rare in any life). She would weep openly, and we would laugh.

Now that I'm a Mama, I think I may have an inkling as to what was inspiring the waterworks.

I had one of those moments last night, staying up past my bedtime to watch this week's premiere on HBO, Spanglish. I think I pretty much blubbered my way through the last half-hour. Now, for those of you who are not into crying for extended periods of time as part of your entertainment experience, let me back up. It's not the kind of bawling one does watching Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice (I actually refuse to watch this movie again; Streep is a genius but there is only so much gut-wrenching and perfect linguistics one can take). The tears I shed were soft, happy, and truthful. Which for me, is exactly what this movie is: soft, happy, and truthful. Every performance was touching and real. It's also worth noting that Adam Sandler kicked ass all over the place -- I knew he had it in him after 50 First Dates, but I wasn't entirely sure he could pull off something this...."straight." I'll spare a review; just rent it! At the very least, you might pick up some Spanish.

And after blowing my nose for five minutes, I called my Mom and apologized for laughing at her 22 years ago. And when I hung up, I somehow knew the cycle would continue. So when my daughter laughs at me during one of my predictably weepy moments, I'll just ask for the tissues, knowingly, anticipating the continuation of the circle somewhere down the road.

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down,
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return, we can only look
Behind from where we've been
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.

"The Circle Game"
from Joni Mitchell's Ladies of the Canyon(1970)

My Favorite Things

2005-11-13T15:04:00.000-05:00

My Daughter, Cadence Mariana, born October 11, 2004.

[sub-category: kissing her cheeks at least 100 times a day, smelling her sweet breath, and listening to her almost constant conversation with herself and her world in that most adorable little babbly baby soprano.]

Laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

Learning something new.

Becoming so immersed in a book I stay up til dawn to finish it.

Singing in the car to Jennifer Knapp.

Trusting God.

The Therapeutic Properties of Bubble Wrap

2005-11-11T21:45:00.000-05:00

This morning, when the sun rose fully over our property (around 8 am), I was struck by how blue the sky was, and how stark the trees looked. After three days of mild but viciously windy weather, they are finally bare. I loved watching them sway. It was like a bittersweet dance; they gave up their leaves so gracefully. The smell of their multi-colored offerings, burning, decaying, is now pungently spiking the air that wafts through my evening window. Perched on a hill, I can now, from the vantage point of our kitchen windows, see the road below clearly.

Now that the end of Fall looms ever-nearer, I find myself in the same place year after year. I have done little, if any, Christmas shopping! Each December 25th, as I pack away my own booty and sigh with relief that I don’t have to do any more last-minute shopping, I make this ridiculous pact with the commerce gods: This year, I’ll shop early and be done by Thanksgiving.

But it's not just the stress of getting my sh*t together (as woefully un-together as it is). I dread negotiating with commercialism and exchanging gifts with relatives who really don't need any more bloody stuff. I know I don't; there are days when I'd rather nestle a few grenades in strategic corners and clear the decks.

Here's a fantasy: my family and I have a serious sit-down, in which we pleasantly agree that anyone over the age of 30 bows out of the exchange. All the money we would normally spend on each other, we'd pool together and donate to The Red Cross, or an equally deserving organization. A Festivus with a purpose ...

Shake it off. Reality is closing in fast, and making me grumpy. Thanksgiving decorations are awfully slim; it’s all given way to Christmas. But in place of a mass for Christ, it's a mass exodus to Wal-Mart. And the commerce god said, let there be a blue light special, and he looked upon it, and knew it was good.

*phbbbblt* I categorically raspberry the commercial behemoth that drives this capitalist soul-less spinning ball ever closer to its doom.

I need some bubble wrap.

Bonfire of the Blogging

2005-11-11T00:18:00.000-05:00

Thor's hammer! I feel salaciously self-absorbed. Oh, the vain reality; who really wants to read what I have to say?

A thirtysomething first time Mommy suffering the lingering effects of post-partum depression well into my daughter's twelfth month (I've never had the impulse to smother her, but I have wanted to smother my husband now and again). I have a sense of humor and self that is at once dark and idiotic. Quirky political views (as I'm sure I'll display in time). Fits of temper and ribaldry, paired with a religious fervor not many people can figure out. In one day I will listen voraciously to NPR and then watch Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle. In between, I might smoke a bowl and read scripture. I embrace my inconsistencies!

In the soundtrack of my life, the over-riding theme would be Switchfoot's "This Is Your Life" (hence the blog title).

this is your life, are you who you wanna be?

I don't think I am, so that's what I'm working on right now. Better Mother, better Wife, better Human Being. Maybe a better writer and thinker along the way.

Or maybe not. The beauty of this whole thing is, I could post pictures of the wart that I just recently discovered on the bottom of my foot. Or I could passionately discuss my love of the tea cozy. Somebody out there would weep and laugh at my exploits.

Here's hoping I can stir a few embers. . .fan a few flames. . .or copiously stoke a wild fire. The Bonfire of the Blogging has begun!