You Call This Health Care?

I am sick. I don't know if it's the strep making a comeback or something else. I know strep can make your throat sore. Can it also make your sinuses leak, your teeth sore, and your joints ache? What about the chills, the weepiness, and the part where I can't breathe deeply? Because that's the scary part - I can't breathe. I don't feel like I'm getting enough air and my ribs hurt. There is a stabby feeling at the bottom of my right shoulder blade. I am allergic to actifed, codeine, and naproxen and am leery of taking any of their medicinal cousins. It's not safe for me to experiment with medicine (even the over the counter stuff) to try treating my own symptoms. In short, I feel crummy and need to see the doctor AGAIN! I can't stand it, but I have to go A-FREAKING-GAIN!

Here's a little back story:
I may have mentioned that I am NOT good at going to the doctor. I'm good at going to the chiropractor. My chiro rocks! She takes my migraines away, away, away! (Insert rejoicing here - if you are a migraine person, you KNOW what I'm talking about!) I'm great at going to the pediatrician. If I have to get sick once every couple of years, then I always hope that I'll get the same thing the kids get so our fabulous pediatrician can peer at my throat and give me amoxicillin (or whatever) too. And that worked last month. I got an actual illness (so the chiro was out) but lucky me, I got what the kids had. One trip to the pediatrician was all it took (well - actually three. I took Chaos and then the next day I took Mayhem and then two days later I took Havoc and the pediatrician took one look at the two of us and whipped out that Rx pad!) That should have been it. Strep should count as my once-every-couple/three years illness. I should have been home free for the next 24 months at a minimum.

Much to my dismay the VERY NEXT WEEK I had to go to the doctor. My doctor. I couldn't breathe, my ribs hurt, and my chiro wanted me to have it checked out. As luck would have it, my doctor - the one I like even if going to her makes me panicky - is on maternity leave. They gave me an appointment with another guy in the practice whom we'll call Mr. Big Jerk. (<--You can see that appointment went well, can't you?) I told him about the breathing and (since if I'm going to go to the stupid doctor's office then I'm going to mention everything) I told him about this place on my skin (on the very same ribs that were sore) and also about my hurt toe. He looked at me with the strangest (almost astonished) look and said we couldn't cover all of that in one visit. Um-kay. But in my head I'm thinking, "Why the hell not?" He made me come back for the skin thing. He reluctantly dealt with the other two issues in one appointment. Hmm - and by "dealt with" I am really saying he told me to take ibuprofen for the ribs and said he couldn't do anything for my toe. Helpful guy.

I was a mess when I came back for the skin thing. (I hate the word biopsy. It's so much easier for me to think of them scraping off my skin with a scalpel and sending it to a lab than it is to think the word "biopsy". This is one small example of how completely illogical I am about medical experiences.) I was seriously anxious that morning - mostly just about being there - and not quite so much about the procedure itself. Then they weighed me. Now I ask you - is it that important to weigh me twice in one week? One time I can understand. I haven't been there in a long time; they may have to prescribe meds; yeah, yeah yeah. But twice in one week is just pointless and mean. Adding insult to injury - it was the week after Thanksgiving.

They put me in a COLD, little room and the nurse handed me a robe with the instructions that I could leave my jeans and my bra on but I needed to make sure the robe opened in the front so the doctor could get to the place on my ribs. Okay. I put the robe on. It was too small. You know how some hospital robes overlap? Well this one was designed to meet in a line down the center - only on me it didn't. Not even close. There was a good four or five inch gap. It seems like such a whiny thing to mention but wow! I'm standing there fighting the anxiety that's been building since I had to make the appointment, freezing, shaking from both the cold and the adrenaline, feeling crappy about those five Thanksgiving pounds, and now feeling ridiculous and exposed in a gown that might, just might fit a size 4 gal but certainly won't come close to wrapping around my size 14 hips or to covering my 36DD boobs. Arrgh. I covered my chest with my arms and paced the room. And paced. And paced. It's a small room. It's a quiet room. Or at least it was a quiet room until a nurse and Mr. Big Jerk stood outside of my room and chatted about some personal drama or other. Don't they know I can hear them? Guess not because then the nurse went away and a new voice asked Mr. Big Jerk what procedures he did while she was away. He said, "None. I turfed them all to you." "Really. I didn't see that. Like what?" Then he proceeded to describe in this incredibly snarky voice how this one woman had come in and wanted him to look at her toe AND check out her breathing AND have this place removed. What are the odds that two people matching that description had come in that week? And he got the order of importance wrong anyway. Creep. I was worried about my breathing the most, not my toe.

Anyway, now I felt like I was going to throw up. And I was even more nervous, which I hadn't thought possible. I don't know the woman who's going to do this procedure. Sweet Hubby liked her when he saw her a few weeks ago, but he's not easily spooked by medical stuff. I thought that she'd be in any minute but ten minutes after I heard them talk about me I was still there pacing to keep myself from tossing my cookies.

Twice I took off that stupid robe and put my sweater on to leave. The thing that stopped me was that I hadn't paid my co-pay yet. At this office you pay when you leave. (At the pediatrician's you pay first.) When your appointment is done, the doctor hands you your chart and a coded instruction sheet and you walk down the hall and get funneled through to the two nurses on duty whose sole function is to take your payment and schedule follow-ups based on doctor's codes. There is no other way out; there's no way to slip past them; and I was such a mess that I knew I'd burst into tears and make a dramatic fool of myself if I tried to explain why I was shoving a twenty at them and wanting to go home but didn't have a chart or a code sheet. In other situations you can say you're sick and people will let you go - but that doesn't work so well at the doctor's office!

I tried to make myself stop pacing. I read the informative charts on the wall. If I ever need to diagnose the difference between a one-time sinus infection and a chronically infected sinus cavity by looking at the cross section of someone's skull - hey, I could do it! It was the least gross poster available. I don't want to see pictures of coronary artery diseased hearts. I don't want to see photos of smokers' lungs. And I CERTAINLY don't want to see pictures of eyes. Have I mentioned that, in addition to all my other neuroses about medical stuff, I have an eyeball thing? My kids tell me that they are the only ones they know who are not allowed to talk about eyeballs at the dinner table. There are movies (e.g. Minority Report) that I have wanted to see but have not because someone I know and love told me there is an eyeball thing in it. (Attention people who love me, where the heck were you when I was in college and somehow accidentally managed to see that Salvador Dali film not once but TWICE?!! No link is provided because I PROMISE you that you do NOT want to see this film.) Back to the doctor's visit - everywhere I looked in this room there were pictures of eyeballs. And weird ones. Real eyeballs are awful enough but look at this:
What is this?? An eyeball with glasses? Sitting on a folding chair? With its optical nerve curled up like a hat? And is that a mouth? A mouth? On an eyeball?? WHO thought this was a good idea? I do NOT want to meet that person. Ever.

I was in the twilight zone. Or hell.

I found myself staring at the only non-medical thing on the walls. It was a calendar. It had a lovely picture of the lake. I stared at it for a while before reading the text printed on the different days. Here is a sampling of the important information I gleaned from that calendar:
Nov 13 - white-tailed deer rut in full swing
Nov 15 - groundhog begin to hibernate
Nov 21 - blackbirds begin roosting in large flocks
Nov 22 - brook and brown trout begin spawning
Nov 30 - bear season opens
Dec 17 - Chanukah begins this evening
Dec 19 - river otter begin breeding

Do not ask me why there was a state wild life calendar in the patient treatment room. By the time the nurse practitioner came in I was beyond freaked out by the whole morning. She took one look at me and asked if I was ok. I said, "No. I'm panicked. Can we just get this over with so I can go home? Please." She was very nice. She explained what she was going to do but in my head I was going "La la la, I can't hear you!" She was trying to chat with me but I couldn't speak. I just turned my head away and tried to hide the tears that were streaming out of the corner of my eyes. It was a relief when she finally gave me a shot and started cutting on me. It gave me something normal to focus on. Yay pain! THAT'S how messed up I had become in the course of this office visit. It was a little disturbing when she kept emptying out little cups of my blood into the biohazard tub. There was less scraping and more digging than I had expected out of this whole business. She said she'd been extra careful but thought "everything looked good." Ok. Great. Please, for the love of God, let me go home.

She said, "Come back next week and I'll take out those stitches." Come back? Stitches? I burst into great, big, sobbing tears, totally startling the nurse. She tried to explain to me that we were done, that it was ok. How can it be ok if I have to come back? I will gladly rip the little fuckers out myself at home if you will please, please, please tell me I don't have to come back to this eyeball infested, wildlife sex tutorial hell hole of a doctor's office!!! I didn't say that. I couldn't say anything. I snatched my chart and code sheet, ran down the funnel, forked over my twenty, nodded yes to the first appointment time the gal offered (with NO INTENTION of keeping it) and scooted out to my car to go home and cry some more. I cried about how horrible and strange the whole process was. I cried in relief that it was over. I cried because I had stitches I hadn't expected. I wish I could blame all those tears on my cycle, but no. My period didn't start until today. Today. The day I had scheduled the follow-up, follow-up appointment. The one I had every intention of skipping. The universe had other ideas.

On Saturday, I started sneezing. "It's just allergies," I thought. Sunday my throat hurt and I felt terrible all over. "Post nasal drip," I explained to myself. "Use the neti pot." I did. It didn't help a whole lot. Yesterday I felt like someone had beaten me up in my sleep - except I hadn't been able to sleep. "It's just PMS?" I hoped unconvincingly even to myself. The kicker was that I couldn't breathe. It is scary to have a stuffy nose and to have to breathe out of your mouth only. It is even scarier when you breathe through your mouth and you're still not getting enough air. (For the record, motrin helps sore ribs but does NOTHING to make it easier to breathe. Mr. Big Jerk is a a quack as well as a creep.) I started moving slowly and sitting up very straight. I took two long, hot showers because it was the only time I felt better. My good friend, Nurse Nice, kindly offered to take my stitches out (she thinks it's fun!) but also pushed me to go to the doctor. Sweet Hubby and VBGF agreed. Fine! I even called yesterday morning to see if I could get an appointment a day earlier. The only one who had any openings was Mr. Big Jerk. Imagine. I said thanks but I'll keep the other appointment. I told the receptionist that I'd made the appointment to have stitches removed and I still needed that done, but now in addition to that, I was sick and wanted to have the doctor look at me and possibly do a throat culture. I asked if the appointment time I'd scheduled would be long enough for that or if I should reschedule for a longer office visit. She said, "Oh. That's a good question. Let me check how long they have you booked for and if we need to change it." Tappity, tap. "No problem. They have you scheduled for a good ten minutes. That should be plenty of time to cover everything. I'll go ahead and confirm your appointment." Ten minutes? A good ten minutes? Maybe I'm naive about the business aspect of managed health care, but do they schedule appointments for less than ten minutes??

I started this post before I went this morning but now I'm home. It went ok. Sweet Hubby went with me. (To support me? To make sure I actually went? To protect me? All three?) There was very little wait time; the stitches are gone; she gave me antibiotics for the sinus infection/strep/whatever the heck it is AND she gave me an albuterol inhaler to help me breathe. She was pleasant and kind and yet, professional. It couldn't have been better. Except for one thing. She said she wants me to come back in two weeks. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggghhhhh!

Peace.

Weird North American Birthday Traditions

The night before Havoc's birthday we took everyone out to our favorite Mexican restaurant. It's about two miles from our house, the food is fresh, and the wait staff is friendly and on the ball. And? They know us. "Ola Amigos," they say when we come in. (It's like Cheers, only with enchiladas!) The kids get extra cherries in their Shirley Temples, we get extra cheese on ... everything - and birthdays are great fun. The birthday boy got to wear the charro hat and have a sopapilla with crazy amounts of chocolate and honey and cherries and whip cream on it. The staff all came over and sang Happy Birthday in Spanish and called Havoc "Ponchito" or something similar which they said meant "little dude" in Spanish (although I found nothing online that was close or made sense when I got home and tried to look it up) and our favorite waiter (Jesus) smeared whip cream all over Havoc's face. This made Haovc laugh and snort whip cream up his nose - which I think was his favorite part of the whole evening. And that's saying something because we'd just been to karate where he had gotten birthday spankings. (The whole concept of birthday spankings - especially the "one to grow on" part - has always seemed completely bizarre and sadistic to me. The karate studio's version of birthday spankings involves all the kids in class lining up to whack the birthday kid with a fun noodle . I have to say that were I the birthday kid, I would have faked a tummy ache to get out of karate class that night - and probably for a week on either side just to make sure I wasn't in class anywhere near my birthday. I would have planned the whole thing out a year in advance - that's how much I would have hated the whole idea of birthday spankings at the karate studio. But you know what? When I mentioned that maybe we were too busy for karate the night before Havoc's birthday he wailed, "But Mom - it's my birthday! I HAVE to go! I HAVE to! Oh please! We don't have to have a big birthday dinner. I'll eat a sandwich. Or I don't have to eat anything. Please say I can go to karate." Sheesh. Kids these days. Begging for spankings and snorting whip cream - is this normal? Should I worry? Should I make an extra deposit into the future therapy fund?)

And did I mention that Havoc's birthday celebration lasted an entire week? You'd think he was an emperor or something - but no, he's just a kid from a "broken" family. I promise you - that while the term is often used to describe some poor waif's plight - Havoc would argue that it's not always such a bad thing. Due to the fact that Havoc has not only divorced parents but also lots of grandparents, assorted fabulous uncles, etc in the area - the boy has had five separate dessert nights dedicated to him, a new present to open six out of the last seven days, a "game" day at home where everyone played whatever games Havoc wanted, and (finally) an official party which involved friends and more family, an IMAX movie excursion (arranged by one of those aforementioned fabulous uncles), sleeping bags, and video games. I could see how all that attention and especially all those presents and sugar could spoil a kid - but Havoc is so...innocent? gracious? sweet natured? He was excited by all of it; he had hugs for everyone; he said shy but sincere thank you's; and he was ready to invite anyone and everyone to share in his good fortune. "Do you want to play one of my new games?" he'd ask. "Do you want some of my candy/cake/sopapilla?" he'd ask. He was relentlessly inclusive and generous. Oh my heavens he was so much fun to be around!

The night before his birthday, I scooped him up into my lap to tell him how proud of him I was and to give him a big squeeze. His arms and legs dangled everywhere. He's really, truly not a baby any more. With totally normal dismay for a Mama who realizes she has no more babies left, I said, "Havoc, when did you get so grown up?!" He replied, "Tomorrow."
I love that guy!
Peace.

St. Ann The Perceptive!

Thank you St. Ann for making the connection! Who knew???

Peace.

Does The Pope Poop In The Woods?

I have so much to say and so little time to say it. This week has seen the anniversary of my blog (yay blog!); Havoc's birthday (yay Havoc!); and a crazy doctor visit (bleck!). I'll try to remember to write all about it. For now I'm just going to ask your opinion of this picture:
Did you know the new pope was scary looking???? He looks like one creepy dude in this picture. Do you think maybe the photographer doesn't like the pope? Or worse, do you think this is the best picture they could get?!! This picture startled me when I first saw it and there is something about it that still bothers me even after I've looked at it a bit. But I don't know what it is. It could be just the long night (frightening winds, kids sleeping in the hallway, me not sleeping) and the cold, gray morning. But wow. Perspective, anyone?

*This photo is by Carsten Koall/Getty Images and came from the NPR website this morning.
Peace - and the promise of a more substantial post next time.

This And That

Thing One:
It was a GREAT day in football land on Sunday! How about my Titans?!! Coming back from a three TD shut out to win by making three TD's and a field goal in the last nine minutes!! And my Redskins won and my Colts won. AND we got to see it all on a brand new, bee-yu-tee-full, huge HDTV! AND we learned very important information about ourselves! To wit, VBGF, Lilymane, and Sweet Hubby should not discuss their idea of a dream television over lunch margaritas and Circuit City commercials. (Don't you love margarita logic? Ours went like this: we (meaning 'Sweet Hubby') would like (meaning 'is dying for') a PS3; they're impossible to get right now; our current tv isn't compatible anyway; we've been sorta, kinda saving up; remember daddy gave us that money last year; and Circuit City has 1080p, V8, LCD, EFG, surround woofer, beryllium crystal tv's on super duper, oh-my-gosh-we'd-be-fools-to-pass-up-this-once-in-a-lifetime sale. And VOILA! We have a new tv!)

Thing Two:
I don't blog much when the weather is gorgeous. (And I think that upper 60's and sunny in post-Thanksgiving November is bordering on the miraculous side of gorgeous.) We have been playing in, I mean raking, the leaves.

Thing Doesn't Have A Number Because I'm Trying Not To Freak Out About It:
I hate the word "biopsy". I hate doctors who say things like, "It's tiny. Nothing to worry about. It's fine. Really. We just want to biopsy it to be sure." I think the word biopsy should not be allowed to be said without saying the word "valium" first. Just my opinion.

Thing Last But Not Least:
(Okay - actually - it is, in fact, the very least.) I think fart jokes must have been illegal to put in movies when I was a kid. Either that or I conveniently blocked them out. I liked it better that way. My poor children. I think every movie they have ever seen in their whole little lives has had fart jokes. I don't know when the laws changed or why or even how to query google about it all. But I know that I must be approaching geezerhood because I'm longing for the good ole days in children's cinema. Sigh.

Peace Out.

Thanks

I won't talk about my ex. Or about how many different variations of plague one family can catch. Or about the squajillions of ants I have killed now that the boys are away. Or about my intense, yet ridiculous struggles with perfectionism (and abject failure) in the NaNo arena.

Today it's all about the thanks. Today I give thanks for
-Divorce (hip, hip, hooray!)
-Doctors (and insurance and antibiotics and rest and chicken soup - Yay!)
-True Loves (you know who you are!)
-Bug (who is going to get to be with us over Christmas - Rejoice!)
-Chaos (even though he thinks the word "phlegm" is pronounced so that it rhymes with "Belgium".)
-Mayhem (who got his hair cut in a cool, soccer boy kind of way and then parted it down the middle, slicked it back in curliecues and talked like Forrest Gump for the rest of the day)
-the Ninja Princessa (from whom we learn many, many things - all of them having to do with Jeremy Sumpter)
-Havoc (who wants to open his own restaurant so he can eat peanut butter and onion sandwiches if he wants to)
-Wasabi (who is most often called "Sir Leafy Butt" these days because who knew that many leaves could get tangled in that much fur that quickly?)
-Fantastic Friends (of which I have many and they all rock the house but today I give thanks most especially for C is for Coffee - who scared the crap out of me with her high blood pressure/heart murmur thing but who is going to be FINE! and also for my wonder twin St. Ann and her soon-to-be expanding (by only one, right?) crew!)
-the Blogoshpere (without which I wouldn't have "met" some of my newest fantastic friends and because of which I feel daily pulled out of myself and connected with a world I wouldn't know otherwise)

Peace and Happiest of Thanksgivings.

This One Has A Little Star

The sun is out.
The leaves are gold.

I have a book
I like to hold.

My bag is packed.
My plan is bold.

My bag is packed.
My plan is bold.

I have a book
I like to hold.

The sun is out.
The leaves are gold.

And now my* story is all told.

(Peace.)

*Well, mine a la Theodor. Hey, guess who's going away for the weekend?

A Case Of The Drearies (With Jumping Spiders Thrown In For Extra Fun)

The past five days the weather has been as dismal as everyone in my household has felt: gray, rain, cold, and yucky. I usually don't get sick with the germies the kids bring home but this time I was down for the count. About the only positive energy I've been able to muster has been to be grateful that it's warm and dry inside our house. I've been bundled up in bed fighting off fever and aches, glad for the blankets and for not having to be outside. Apparently I'm not the only one who decided warm and dry was better than cold and wet.

We have been invaded. There were ants all over the bathtub. Little, tiny ants. All over the tub. Now, because of my son's historical attachment to ants, I have to watch my step here. There were thousands of them so it's not a matter of catch and release. I snuck in the Comet and a bottle of 409, locked the door, and wiped down everything. Tub, floor, potty, counter, faucets, grout. I hate cleaning when I'm sick but I hate bathing in a tub full of ants worse. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself for having to deal with tiny little bugs. I so deserved a nice, long bath. And I would have enjoyed it too. Except that the minute I got in the (now very clean) tub a spider jumped in the tub with me. Arrrrrhhhhhhhh! And THEN as I was sloshing around getting out and trying not to let it touch me another one jumped up on the ledge of the tub (and missed) and then dissappeared somewhere behind the potty.

I am so not okay at this point in the story. It's bad enough when spiders scuttle, but jumping spiders give me the heebeejeebees. And jumping spiders (PLURAL -->spiderS) when I'm naked and defenseless? Oh no no. I was clutching the towel and looking for my clogs. "I will smush them, yes I will," I said to myself. I wrapped up, put my glasses on and went into revenge mode. One problem. Turns out they were not spiders. They were crickets. Aww man! I can't kill crickets. This is why. Dammit. I rescued the sopping wet one (I think he was still alive) and I chased the one from behind the potty into a cup. (I still hate it when they hop - even if they're not spiders. It startles me.) I flung them out into the back yard. Did I mention it's cold and dreary here? And bug infested. I'm trying not to be grumpy but I think I'm going to get back in bed with my amocxicillin and 409 and Raid.
Peace.

The Plague Report

Strep. Throat.
Tummy. Aches.
Head. Hurts.
Teeth. Extracted. (Guess that's not so much related to plague but since the only one who hasn't had the plague had to have THREE teeth pulled on a day when everyone else was sick in bed - she gets to be listed here too. So give it up for Princessa, the toothless wonder. Yaaaaaay!)
Oh! And Itchy. Skin. (Kibbles-only plan? Not working.)

We are the House of Fun. We'd invite you over, but we've run out of chicken soup. There are, however, plenty of potato-rabbit kibbles.
Peace.

At Least Butter Is Yummy

Note to self: Don't leave the lid off the butter dish and the butter dish on the counter.
Turns out Wasabi likes butter. A lot. Enough to eat a whole stick of it. Who knew he could even reach up on the counter?
I'm not sure what to do with my dog right now. He's supposed to be on a kibbles only diet for his itchy skin. These are not just any kibbles - they are insanely expensive, hypoallergenic, potato and rabbit kibbles. (I know. Ick.) We'd been a little bit wishy-washy about starting him on this strict regimen. (And by 'we', I totally mean me.) We've never fed him from the table or even fed him much 'people' food at all. But he loves his rawhide and his marrow bones. It is very hard to refrain from giving him treats. He loves treats. I love to give him treats. We blew it once or twice with the treats. Then I discovered a whole 20 pound bag of the old food that I'd forgotten I'd bought for him. Well, I do want what is best for my dog, but I'm not about to let a $30 bag of dog food go to waste! (Especially as the vet warned us that it was no quick fix to change food. She said it could take 10 more weeks of itching to begin to see a change with the new food!)

So finally after using up the old stuff, yesterday was the first day of our new and improved, "nothing is going to stand in our way this time" approach to the allergy-buster, kibbles only diet. What did my dog do? He left the kibbles in his bowl. Apparently, he ate lunch in the courtyard (where I haven't raked) instead. I didn't notice this while he was doing it, but that is the only explanation I can come up with for the fact that my dog barfed leaves all over the carpet in the middle of the night. Then? He gnawed on the rubber end of one of my dumbbells. So nutritious. And today? He ate an entire stick of butter. I don't think he's so down with the kibbles only plan. I think Wasabi has embarked on his own plan: an "Anything Except Kibbles" plan. What am I supposed to do with my leaf barfing, dumbbell chewing, butter dish licking dog? I ask you.
Peace.

No Mo NaNo?

Y'all may be sick of NaNoWriMo. I know I am. I'm interested in my writing process but not my novel. I'm suddenly feeling an urge to clean my house. I seriously considered signing up for this. (<--How cool is that? Thanks St. Ann!) I've been tempted to Christmas shop. And decorate. Which should convince you to search behind my house for the pod because I hate Christmas decorations - even at Christmas. So. What to do? I was pretty sure I was going to give up on NaNo. Let the real writers continue on without me. And then this email (or part of it anyway) from the head dude at NaNo:

But this email is not for those doing exceptionally well. It's for the rest of us---authors with underdeveloped word counts, overdeveloped novel-guilt complexes, and sensational procrastinating abilities. Because we are the ones who are going to begin having serious misgivings about this whole escapade in the next seven days.

Why?

Because it turns out we are too busy to do this.

Or because a crisis has brought some novel-eating turmoil into our lives.

Or because our stories are really, really bad, and we're wondering why we're sacrificing so much of our time to produce a consistently crappy book.

It all adds up to the fabled Week Two Wall---a low-point of energy, enthusiasm, and joie de novel that strikes most NaNoWriMo participants between days 7 and 14. This is when our inner editors, who largely turned a blind eye to our novel flailings in Week One, return to see how things are going. And their assessments are never kind.

The plot is draggy. The characters are boring. The dialogue is pointless, and the prose has all the panache of something dashed off by a distracted kindergartner.

If you're feeling any of these things---or find yourself starting to feel them this week---know that nothing is wrong. In fact, you're likely on track for a great NaNoWriMo. Just lower your head, pick up your pace, and write straight into the maw of your misgivings. If you are thinking about quitting, DO NOT DO IT IN WEEK TWO.

If you have to quit, do it in Week Three.

I'm serious.

Gah. Now I CAN'T quit! It's just a wall. If I stick in there I'll get something amazing out of this process! Like...um, well the Municipal Liason promised me a temporary tattoo. I don't know. I'll have to see when I get past this wall. So. Even though I thought seriously about killing my main character yesterday, I will give her a one week reprieve. She sure better do something interesting this week. If not, then it won't matter how on target Mr. Head of NaNo's letter is next week, she'll get the axe.
Peace.

Post Election Blues

Goodbye Rumsfeld! About damn time! (I think Gates is a great replacement. I like his reputation for consensus building and reservist spook that I was lo' those many years ago, I'm totally comfortable with his CIA background. He worked his way up from total peon to director - he knows how to listen.)

And? We have the House and maybe (oh, don't jinx it Lilymane!) even the Senate.

I am sad the ban on gay marriage passed here. (What the HELL are people afraid of here - oh right! HELL! They're afraid of hell - because you know, people loving each other is what gets other people sent to hell. The right wingers are brain damaged. That's my only explanation.) I'm also sad that Harold Ford Jr lost. I'm a blue, blue girl in a red, red state. But I'm so glad to see the beginnings of change. Here's to a bluer future!
Peace.

NaNo Implosion

My main character? I don't like her. She won't do a thing I want her too. I am like seven thousand words behind schedule because she's a pain in the potatoes. I keep thinking, "It doesn't matter. Just write." It doesn't have to be a GOOD story - just one that takes circa 50,000 words to tell. But I don't want to tell her story anymore. This is fascinating to me. I've been thinking about her story every day for months and I've been waiting to see what's going to happen and a measley 2,000 words in - her story is boring. Yawn. Sigh. Go clean the toilet bowl instead.

Worse? Sweet Hubby thoughtfully (without realizing that I'm not allowing myself to read fiction this month while I'm supposed to be writing it) brought home Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman. It is torture to see it sitting there beside my bed, unread.

I'm not sure you'll hear from me for a day or two (yeah, yeah, yeah - she's said that before) while I trick my boring saint into doing remotely interesting.
Peace Out.

I Voted! (You'll Just Have To Imagine The Flag)

You know how usually after you cast your ballot they give out stickers that say "I Voted!" and have a flag on them? Well - I Voted! And? My lame-o precinct gave out no stickers. I guess our fancy ballot machines cut into the sticker budget this election. You should see these machines! Beee-yoo-tifull! Easy peasy to operate. Very clear. Anyone who messes up their ballot on these puppies is beyond hope. Still, I'm stickerless. Sad Lilymane. One of the reasons that I like to vote first thing is because I'm a big nerd and I love to wear my sticker all day. I like to think of the possibility that, at least once, my personal "I Voted!" sticker inspired or reminded or guilted somebody into the voting booth who wouldn't have gone otherwise. But not today. I have no sticker. And also? I have no car. Mine's in the shop. I'll be spending the rest of this cold, rainy, stickerless election day inside with my herd of children. (<--Children who, by the way, stayed up waaay too late last night and yet still managed to leap out of bed, wide awake earlier today than on school days, and who all four managed to ask in unison, "Can I have the first turn on computer?")

I pondered my lack of both sticker and viewing public of voting age and realized that what I needed was a sticker for my blog! Best I can tell - there are about six of you lovely internetters reading my blog. If you are cranky, sleep-deprived kids who found my blog while looking for a video game to play on the computer, then there's not much I can do. However, since I think it more likely you are adults AND since I know at least three of you and can make a guess as to the way you will vote - I'm going to wear my virtual blog sticker. "I VOTED!" (<--Imagine the flag! Be reminded! Feel the inspiration! Or the guilt! Go vote!)
Happy Election Day!
Peace.

That Novel You're Working On?

I don't actually know who these guys are but it made me laugh anyway. Why is the dog drinking a martini? Why does the baby have that accent? I have lots of questions about tv. So very, very much of it makes absolutely no sense to me.

VBGF called the other night because she was deeply disturbed by a reality show (in Australia??). The show has gay folks doing insane things like riding bicycles on the edge of skyscrapers or walking on ladders suspended between moving trucks in order to cure them of their homosexual tendencies. WTF?? We are both hoping (somehow, somewhere) there is a mix-up in what the show is about. If it is what it appears to be - it's crushing to think that someone WROTE something like that, pitched it to someone else who said, "Yep. That's the ticket, " and then convinced folks to fund it and worst of all, found folks to be in it.

On the bright side (if there can be said to be a bright side of something so asinine) if there is a market for that crap, then maybe (just maybe) my cheesy, sci-fi story with giant jellyfish and a short, red-headed saint could find an audience. (Of course that would require me being able to 1) finish it and 2) let anyone else read it - so we'll have to see!)

Peace.

Just A Link, Not A Post

Thanks Ororo for getting the word out about this cartoon! I've written one paragraph - woo hoo! - in the four and half hours I've been awake. That's 66 words, baby! Only 1,601 to go for the day.
Peace.

Pretend This Is Monday's Post

I know I said I wouldn't post for a couple of days to make up for yesterday's insanely long post - but I'm wiley! I didn't say when the not posting for a couple of days would commence now, did I? And so now? I'm posting when what I should be doing is NaNo'ing. Yay procrastination! But I'm getting closer because today I'm posting about NaNo'ing. (Almost there, almost there...)

So Chaos came in to my studio this morning to ask me
a) Can I make pasta for breakfast? (Answer - Sure!) and
b) What are you writing about?

I told him about my NaNo story - with a poisoned woman waking up after a thousand years to find she's been sainted and somehow there are giant jelly-fish-like aliens that appear. (Maybe I should have warned you that my novel has a very, very high literary quotient?) Chaos says, "COOL!! Can I be in it? Please?! Please?! Can I be the Commander of the Jellyfish? I could be the most vicious, bloodthirsty Jellyfish Commander ever!" I explained to him that the Jellyfish are the good guys; all the bad guys turn out to be human. He looked at me for a second, hung his head, said, "Crap" and then shuffled back to the kitchen to make pasta.

There goes one potential audience member - disillusioned before the first page. Ahh. The writer's life. Peace.

This Is The Post That Never Ends, It Goes On And On My Friends...

Yesterday? Sucked.
But here are Some Things That Helped (A Lot):
-My pal Caity's suggestion for comfort food? A deep-fried Mars bar! I have no idea how one would go about frying a chocolate bar - but the thought was yummy in my brain. Thanks Caity!!
-My pal Nurse Nice gave me a shot on my knee at the coffee shop the day before and I could still feel it when I was in court. It totally protected me.
-My pal C is for Coffee sent me a lovely prayer with words in it like "triumphant", "glorious", and "splendid". I heart her. You would too. I promise.
-My pal DebR assured me that she doesn't like my ex either (even though she's never met him.) Aren't friends the bomb diggity?
-My pal VBGF sent me email AND telephonically pulled me out of my late afternoon, bad-mommy meltdown. (Ooooh - foreshadowing. Did you notice the "afternoon" part? Did you remember that court began at 8 am? It's like a cliff hanger and now you have to read all the way down to the part where I talk about Things That Didn't Help.)
-My pal Sweet Hubby kept his arm around my shoulders in just the right way - not too oppressive, not too protective - for the whole year (=one hour and fifteen minutes) we were in court.
-My lawyer, who drives me batshit before hearings to the point that I contemplate selling one of my organs to come up with enough money to pay the retainer for a whole new lawyer, was (once again) exactly, perfectly right for me in the courthouse. She was professional and still warm and pleasant. She was calm and confident and reassuring. The judge recognized her outside the courtroom before the proceedings, chatted with her, and smiled. THAT can't hurt.

Here are some Things That You'd Think Would've Helped (And Didn't):
-Listening to the cases before ours. One case involved the parents' dispute about child support for a child who is a) 21 years old now and b) in jail! Sad. Sad. Sad. In the next case the dad was so nervous (or mentally challenged) that he messed up stating his child's birthday FIVE different times - once stating the wrong decade and the next four times messing up the month. The next case was a contempt of court case against a woman who had not paid her child support (to the tune of $11,000!) I thought she was remarkably well dressed for someone who couldn't pay a penny for her child's upkeep - until I realized that that was her mother sitting beside her and they were the exact same size and wearing the exact same style of clothes. I'd raid my mom's wardrobe too if I could. The rest of that case falls into the same sad, sad, sad category as the first case. The woman (who in spite of her nice clothes had a sour expression about her whole being) tearfully pleaded (she had no lawyer) with the judge to honor her petition to have her child support terminated or at least suspended because she couldn't work. Her father is terminally ill with pancreatic and liver cancer and she takes care of him full-time while her mother tries to salvage the family business. The judge started flipping pages in the very fat folder of this case and the Assistant DA started asking her unpleasant questions about how long her dad had been sick (3 months), how long she'd lived with her parents (since she got out of jail this summer), why she hadn't paid her child support for the three years before her daddy got sick and how had she managed to pay for the drugs she'd been arrested for, etc...(The judge found her in willful contempt and she is getting a couple more days jail time! Yikes and more and more yikes!) I already knew and those cases reconfirmed for me that what I'm going through with my ex isn't (in the grand scheme) as icky as it could be. Why doesn't knowing that make it feel less icky to me? Why?

-Aside from the folks in uniforms, the druggie mom, and the two preppy couples sitting in front of us who were staring daggers at each other - the wardrobe selections made by the rest of the people in the courtroom were inexplicable and in some cases outrageous. I spent the two days before court in a complete dither about what was appropriate to wear to the hearing (ultimately deciding on brown slacks, short black boots, black mock turtle, brown jacket, and simple silver jewelry - if you are at all interested.) I then spent the 25 minute car ride to the court house having mild fits upon noticing (too late to do anything about it) my husband's very blue socks. ("Are you sure they're not gray?" he asks. I had to remind myself he's colorblind to keep myself from snarling. I am sooo pleasant when I'm stressed! Don't you wish you could have come with us?) Apparently I need not have worried about SH's blue socks much less my boring brown and black ensemble because it turns out you can wear anything - including (but not limited to) one or more of the following items: jeans with holes and scary stains, muffin top revealing sweatshirts, red shirts with thousands of sequins, and greasy sweatpants. You'd think this would have had a calming effect on me ("I'm ok, I look plain and clean") and yet...it was really quite frightening to look around the benches and think these people must have looked in a mirror somewhere and said, "Yep. That's the ticket." ***I don't actually remember what my ex was wearing. I am not objective about his looks anymore. Apparently my brain has given up processing appearance data on him in any trustworthy (or normal) way. I think this is genetic because I remember my mother telling me that once when she was really, really angry with my father during their divorce, she looked at him and saw, not a person, but a giant, slimy frog. I'm pretty sure my ex was wearing a blue blazer but I can't be sure because his warts were too distracting.***

-My ex was nervous. Really nervous. I overheard him talking to a security guard who apparently had given him a look when he tried to take some slow, deep breaths before we all went into the court room. I was weirdly glad that she reassured him and told him not to worry. For the record - I still don't like him. I was civil and even pleasant, but distant. He was there by his own choice without anyone representing him and without any friends. (<--I struggle not to use the word "fault" instead of "choice".) But I was glad that a random stranger was nice to him. When they called us up and we had our five minutes - all of which were taken up with my lawyer and the State's lawyer asking for continuances, my ex looked completely confused. He said he had brought the documents with him and got shushed.

(Ha ha ha - I have to interject here and point out that upon re-reading I noticed I had inadvertently(?) typed "smushed" instead of "shushed." How did people learn about their funny (yet not-so-kind) inner selves before they had word processors?)

Anyway, Mr. Tapioca then drops a piece of paper, knocks into the podium while bending over to get it, and almost but not quite, slips and falls on his ass. The look the judge gave him would have thrilled me if it had been for say, any one of the asshole manuvers he's pulled in the last little while, instead of for doing something I SO TOTALLY could have done (and may still in the future do). Grrrr. I don't want my ex humiliating himself; I don't want him there alone and unsupported. I don't want bad things for him ("smushed" vs. "shushed" notwithstanding.)

But THEN just about the time I start feeling compassionate - the man totally and completely pisses me the fuck off.

Here are some Things That Didn't Help (At All):
-My lawyer was herding my husband and me off towards the side door when I heard Mr. Tapioca Head (who was still over by the podium wrapping up some details presumably about the exact documents he must provide before the next court hearing) say, "Oh. Some of this information will change as I'm starting a new job on November 13th." WHAT???

This will make at least the SEVENTH job change since our divorce five years ago. And it will be the third job this year! I care less about the fact that his salary seems to remain exactly the same (although it does beg the question of why all the lateral moves from company to company) than I do about the fact that the insurance changing all the freaking time with three boys (who have asthma and who need couseling for all this parental crap) is extraordinarily difficult to keep up with. **Lucky for you - I have erased the four paragraphs of ranting, historical details, and nightmare insurance wrangles that came pouring out of me. Suffice it to say that had it not been for court yesterday, I have to wonder when I would have found out this important information. When there was a lag in the child support the week of Thanksgiving? When I got yet another bill for services denied due to lack of coverage? (Not that they've been uncovered. He'd sue me for even appearing to suggest that he would do THAT to his children - just that there is no way to keep up with where or by which company they're covered before the deadlinefor filing is up and I have to pay the whole thing out of pocket!) Did I mention that I really, really don't like my ex?

-After court, you'd think the day would get better, right? Well, I came home, listened to my voice mail and wrote the following email:

Dear Ms. Concerned Teacher –
Thank you for your message about Chaos' third write-up. He has gone to one write-up work-off day and he will attend as many as he is eligible for. I believe he can go to one of the two sessions offered next week, but not both? Is that correct?
I will say that his father and I were in court this morning (which is why I just now got your message.) I have said very little to Chaos about today’s proceedings, but I have no way of knowing what his father says to him. I try to emphasize that the legal wrangling is just between the adults – and that he is loved and supported by both of his parents even when we, as adults in conflict with each other, have to turn to the court for resolution of our differences. But there is no way of getting around the fact that the process is stressful and Chaos has been sensitive to family stress to a very significant degree since he was a tiny baby – much more noticeably so than any of his siblings. Please, I want you to be sure that I am in NO WAY excusing his disruptive behavior and I’m working with him to find positive, acceptable outlets for stress – but I also think it’s important that you know what else is going on for him. Also, just so you know, today’s proceedings have been continued and we will be back in court on December 14. I hope very much to have Chaos working with a counselor before then. I will do everything I can to stop this pattern and help him start a new one.
Thank you for your call. I really appreciate it.
Sincerely, Lilymane

-After that, you'd think the day would get better, right? Well, then I got another call. This time from Mayhem's teacher. Apparently Mayhem has been more scattered than usual. Apparently his disorganization is reaching alarming proportions. Apparently if he does not change something soon, it will catch up to him. Apparently if it does catch up to him, it will shake him viciously back and forth and possibly snap his spine because that is what Ms. Very Worried Teacher's tone of voice would indicate. Now, I have to say that I did not initially share her conviction of imminent doom for Mayhem. After all, I have heard a lot about my son's disorganization over the years. It is cyclical and we do have to someday find something that works for more than a week and a half - but really? Yesterday afternoon? I was about at the end of my cope-with-more-shit-ability. Then Ms. Very Worried Teacher asked if I had seen the Wednesday folder. Yes. "Well then," she said, "you can see by the many papers with reduced-for-lateness grades how this situation is affecting his averages. And that doesn't even take into account the grades you don't see, because he turned NOTHING in and so I have nothing to return to you. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of this problem." I then had to admit to her that I couldn't find the "reduced-for-lateness grades" she was talking about. I had about four papers from his folder in my hand and ominously - NOT A SINGLE ONE was from Ms. Very Worried Teacher's class - a fact I had not even sort of noticed the day before when apparently all I was good for was dithering about what to wear to court. I thanked her for taking the time to call me. I really appreciated it. I would be sure to talk to Mayhem not only about the fact that he was editing what I was seeing, but also about organizational systems to help him complete and turn in his work on time. And? Just between you and me - Mayhem's imminent doom? MUCH closer after that phone call.

-After that? Well, I made supper on auto-pilot and then pretty much had a meltdown about what a bad mommy I must be. Look how stressed out my kids are when I thought I was doing a pretty good job this week! Think about how if it was this bad on a day I was pretty sure was only going to be a continuance, then how bad is it going to be on December 14th, the week before middle school semester exams and oh, by the way, right before Christmas when everyone in the country (not just in my house) is going to be stressed to the gills?!!

And blah, blah, bad mommy-ness, blah, blah, didn't notice, blah, blah, can't afford, blah, blah, BLAH!

When I say meltdown - that's exactly what it felt like. I felt melted and down. Soggy and low. I cried and cried. I ate all those guilt cookies and swished them down with a final chaser of bad mommy-ness because I was simply waaaay too worn out to go to the Princessa's chorus concert last night.

Worn out? Overwhelmed? Shut down? Whatever the word is - I absolutely could not even think about going out in public, driving in the dark, listening to loud singing and clapping, and I especially dreaded chit chatting with all the other parents. When Sweet Hubby said he thought taking the kids for ice cream afterwards would be nice, I thought, "I'd rather die." Plan A is always to do kid events as an entire family. Last night we had to go with Plan B. Sweet Hubby went to the concert and out for ice cream with the Princessa and Havoc (who appears to be more immune to empathic stress than his brothers and who managed not to do anything resulting in a phone call to mom yesterday.) Chaos, Mayhem, and I stayed home. We each took a bath. We each read quietly. Thankfully VGBF talked me out of my puddle. I got to have some quiet time for myself and with both of my boys separately. (<--That sounds weird - both, separately - but you know what I mean, right??) The others got home from a grand time and I think my whole household had hit the hayfeathers by 8:30. It's hard to remember in the middle of a day that sucks so bad - but days finally do end. (And so do blog posts - I promise!) One last thing - and then I won't even post for a few days to make up for this, the world's most ridiculously long post: Yesterday while I was miserable, shaky, and nervously getting ready for the day, I read the wonderful news that Mir is engaged! She's someone I know of (as opposed to someone I actually know) but I was so tremendously happy for her and I was so grateful for this thing called the blogosphere for having the chance to share in her happy news - that it renewed my faith and wonder in the power of our shared stories. And I wanted to say thanks to you, for sharing in my story.
Peace, peace, peace.

In Which Mr. Tapioca Makes Lilymane Throw Up

Mr. Tapioca Head (my ex) filed a petition, had me served papers*, and is the reason we're due in court this morning at 8 a.m. From what I can tell, he is 'representing' himself. My lawyer and I are going to be there, but really, the District Attorney's office is representing my kids in this. My lawyer spoke to the Assistant DA yesterday and discovered that my ex has not furninshed the information required. Get that? HE filed the petition (six weeks ago) and then failed (refused? forgot?) to send the court the information needed to make a decision!!!! We still have to go to court today but the State is going to ask for a continuance to have my ex appear in court on December 8 for the sole purpose of presenting the documents he was supposed to have presented before today. Then, if I understand the procedure correctly, the State will ask that both his petition and mine be heard on December 14. Gah. And bleck. Another month of dread.

My stomach is churning, my head is throbbing, my hands are shaking and there are hours and hours before court - and likely nothing will actually happen today! On top of that? Guess how much this morning is going to cost me. You guessed it - LOTS. My ex? He is a pain in the potatoes. And? I don't like him. Anyone with extra mojo, feel free to send it my way.
Peace.

*Have you ever been served papers? For me, it was an awful experience. The Sheriff's Deputy walked up to my door and rang the bell. Now, my kids weren't home from school quite yet - and for a second I had a panicked thought that he was there to tell me something horrific had happened to my kids. The dog, of course, was going crazy - barking at the bell, charging the door, probably feeding off of my adrenalin spike. I had to lock him up before I could even find out what was up. The Deputy (who was nice as he could be, considering the circumstances) explained why he was there, handed me the papers, chatted pleasantly with me about the sunny day and the ivy in my courtyard, said "God Bless" and left. Left me standing there shaking. When my kids came home? I was still shaky. I'm ridiculously glad that the Deputy didn't show up while my kids were home. I'm trying to keep as much of this away from them as possible but there are days when it is hard to do. And there are even more days when it takes a whole lot of energy not to say bad things about their dad. I really, really, really think that somewhere along the way I should get a butt load of good behavior stickers for all this restraint. I am so due.
More Peace.

Dogs Are Weird

My dog? Just chewed a hole in the wall. A hole. In the wall. In the middle of the wall. Not like on a corner or anything - just in the middle of the hallway.
I have NO explanation for that - or for why, when I said, "No, no. Bad dog!" he began licking the electrical outlet. He's a weirdo.
Peace.

Fun And Not So Fun

Fun: the Princessa (as Peter Pan), Havoc (as a Gladiator), and Wasabi wearing a glow necklace and bat wings
Not So Fun: cold rain on Halloween

Fun: the idea of NaNoWriMo (a novel - Yay!)
Not So Fun: 1667 words today - and every day this month (you mean it won't write itself?)

Fun: tomorrow afternoon, margarita, my house
Not So Fun: tomorrow morning, court hearing with my ex

Peace.

It's Not About The Bon-Bons

Thanks to my buddy who sent me to this post about the bigger picture on staying home!
Peace.

'Splain me

Chaos is 5'6" and weighs 174 lbs. (<- linebacker)
Mayhem is 5'1" and weighs 78 lbs. (<-beanpole)
According to these charts both of my sons are in the 75th percentile in height compared to boys their age. Chaos, however is in the 90th percentile for weight and Mayhem is in the 5th.
90th. 5th.

I realize they are two years apart in age - but still...
I feed them the same things in roughly the same amounts! (In fact, if I had to say, I'd put Mayhem at being the one who eats more at table most every night.) They have roughly the same activity level. They both do karate, walk the dog together every day, and when they play outside - they usually play together.

They both have great self-images and often josh around with each other. Chaos will call Mayhem skinny and Mayhem will say, "No, that's SLEEK, bucko." Or Mayhem will try to steal Chaos' food saying he needs it more than Chaos and Chaos will snatch it back claiming he has achieved the exact right level of beefiness and needs to maintain. Luckily we have a whole range of body types in our family. (Wouldn't it suck to be the only chubby one in a whole family of willowy creatures? Or to be the only scrawny one in a family of buff types?) Chaos and Mayhem just happen to be our extremes. But I see them side by side a lot - and it makes me wonder.

How does this work? Same food+ same calorie burning activity = wildly different results. I know, I know. The answer is "different metabolisms" which if you think about it is a fancy way of saying - there's something mysterious going on inside my kids that takes the same external factors and produces different results. It means that what works one way for one kid, works a whole different way for another kid. It means that, as a parent, my goals of 'healthy' and 'consistent' are moving targets. There is no fixed position to shoot for. I have to fly by the seat of my pants. All. The. Time. (And? That I have to fix a lot of good food.)

Peace. Happy Halloween. And Merry meet, merry part. Have a good Samhain.

Stress Ball

I am a stress ball, dipped in panic, dredged in worry, and then deep fried in "Oh, Lordy! How am I going to get through this week?!" Y'all were warned.
Peace.

Memory

Yesterday our friend Tiffani was in town and came by to visit. She lived in Knoxville, then moved to Connecticut for a couple of years and has just moved back to K-town. We've seen her a few times at different events, but the kids haven't seen her since she was at our house last four years ago. Four years ago, she had an internship (or was working on a grant or something) and she would drive up and stay with us two days a week for about six weeks. I was pretty sure all of the children except Havoc (who was only 3 last time) would remember her. The Ninja Princessa gave Tiffani a bright hug. Chaos shuffled up and gave her one of his shy, crushing, bear hugs. Havoc (clearly not remembering her) decided to hang back and wave. Mayhem? Snapped his fingers, got an Ah-Ha! look on his face and blurted out, "You left your peanut butter here!" THEN he hugged her. We all laughed. He explained later that he remembered her because he hadn't been allowed to eat her food and he'd had an eye on her peanut butter. It had a "T" on the lid which meant it was off limits to him. Of course that made him want it more. Never mind that we had plenty of peanut butter in the house, he wanted to have some of THAT peanut butter.

I'm thinking I should label the veggies 'off limits' in the fridge. Do you think Mayhem might be more willing to try them if I did that? And also, since all of his cognitive functions seem to be cross-wired to food-cravings, maybe I should attach a food value to remembering vital chores. "Remember (for once!) to make your bed? Two graham crackers for you." With any other child I don't think that would be healthy, but I'm at wit's end with Mayhem forgetting things! If the boy can remember a specific jar of peanut butter from four years ago then I'm thinking this is the way to go. Oh, the wacky mommy-ness of it all!
Peace.

Self Discoveries

It's weird the things you find out about yourself. I have just realized that I can't write without my bra on. You would think that I would know something like that already, wouldn't you? But I just discovered it. I guess, since the only time I go bra-less is when I sleep and I don't usually write in my sleep, it makes sense that I just figured it out. I have no idea what connection forms in my brain when the boobs are supported - but apparently it's kin to an on/off switch. I did a little experiment. If I'm in my jammies with my bra on I'm good to write - but no matter what outer clothes I have on (jammies, jeans + tshirt, or workout clothes) if I eliminate the bra, my brain goes back to sleep. Some people need coffee to tell their brain it's time to wake up. Me? I need my bra. C-r-a-z-y.

Aren't you glad you read my blog?

Peace.

Beta

I am NOT a Beta kind of girl. (Sidenote to Blogger folks - I don't know a thing about the Blogger Beta. This is a general rant.) Sweet Hubby is running a Beta operating system and it's driving ME crazy. I don't know how he stands it. Do you know what Beta means? It means broken and buggy! Yet truly geeky folks salivate at the thought of getting to be the first ones to use broken and buggy software. The shit crashes! And eats your work. Or inverts it and puts spaces between every other word for some machine logic reason of it's own. But all is forgiven because it's Beta!

Hmmmm. Hang on. Geeks go into the Beta process accepting that there are going to be flaws. They are patient. They work around the broken bits without trying to fix them. There is no recrimination! It's Beta!! They explore all the nooks and crannies of the Beta software. Then they trade it in for the Beta version of something else. Damn! Things were looking good for a 'that's why geeks make great partners' analogy until that last bit.

Oh no! I just thought of something. What if I AM a Beta kind of girl??
Accepts my flaws as is - check.
Is patient with me and my broken bits - check.
Explores my nooks and crannies :D - (tmi but) check.
Trading me in for some other 'Beta' - no, no, and HELL no.

I hereby declare myself the production model! I pledge to work well with other 'software' but I'm the operating system, baby! Capiche?

Peace.

Uh Oh.

I heart Natalie Dee so very, very much!
As a mommy blogger of sorts, I have to admit that this one made me snarfle my afternoon coke:


















And as a former knit shop co-owner who ended up leaving the shop to her business partner (= mother) due (in part) to a conflict of vision (i.e. her vision = traditional, old ladyesque knit shop did not mesh with my vision = hip, fiber store for artists and knitters alike) I LOVE THIS ONE! It's called "hats for tats"! Bwahahahahaha.

Hello Monday!

You know it's Monday when...

• -Mr. Tapioca Head (the ex) calls to say he can't bring the kids back because his car is dead.
• -Mr. TH then says, "Since you're coming to get the kids anyway, could you help me jump the car battery?" You say you don't have jumper cables, but he says no problem he has some. (So much for that excuse. Good try though.)
• -After racing to throw on something, anything and get out the door in time to help fix the ex's car AND get the kids to school on time - he calls when you're about 100 yards from his apartment to say, "If you haven't left yet, don't bother to come, a neighbor helped me out." Meh.
• -Since you're almost there, you get the kids anyway.
• -You try to come up with a reason not to bash your ex with the jumper cables he's given you as a 'thank you gift' and also "in case [he] should need a jump some other time." (Reason 1 not to smack him = kids are standing there looking at you. Smile. Reason 2 = probably against the law. Reason 3 = probably look bad at the child support/custody review hearing next week.)
• -You take the greebles to school - hearing about their tummy aches the whole way.
• -You check for fevers (=none), ask what they ate for breakfast at dad's(=crap, as usual, but you don't react at all - not even eyebrows or inflected voice or anything b/c that is soo unfair to the kids), and decide (against your mommy instinct which wants to snuggle them up) to send them to school even though they feel terrible (with the sop to your mommy-ness that you will find time this afternoon with each one of them separately to find out if something happened or is bothering them to make their tummies hurt.)
• -You end up making double trips to school - one for drop off and one for pick up - because after only an hour, the tummies hurt too much to stay at school. The only boy left at school is Chaos (14) who apparently had an extra side of surliness for breakfast instead of the poptarts the others had - because he wouldn't say anything in the car. You wonder what's up with that.
• -You tuck sick boys into their beds with hugs and kisses and stall about what to do next because, what should you do???
• -You run around and around and around in your head about the right way to treat tummy aches that might be a result of anything from indigestion to unknown/unknowable drama with their dad to a virus.
• -You try not to be cynical and think that no matter what you do, it won't be the right thing. You try to stay positive and get ready for the day.
• -In short, you now prepare for a very different today than the day you thought you had in front of you.

Yep, it's a Monday all right.

Non-iversaries

I'm not sure what to do with anniversaries that aren't anniversaries anymore. Well, technically, I suppose it still is an anniversary but it's not one I celebrate. Just one I remember. You see, 17 years ago today, I married my first husband. We'd been dating just over 3 months; we were young and very foolish; and we decided to get married. Both of our families were in total turmoil (impending funerals and graduations, siblings in crisis, etc, etc.) It didn't seem like an auspicious time to plan a big family wedding. We (patient twentysomethings that we were) decided to go ahead and get married for us and then do the whole church/family wedding thing for them later. So we did. Seventeen years ago today, we stood up in front of a JOP in a gorgeous garden in Alexandria, VA and said, "I do." Twelve years later we said, "We don't," but that's a whole 'nother blog post. Now October 21st just a weird day for me. I'm not sorry we got married - if for no other reason than for the fact of my amazing sons. I'm definitely not sorry we got divorced - although it was absolute and unmitigated hell to go through.

I love my life. I'm happier now than I could even envision back then. Still and all...today is weird. It's like the scar left after a tattoo is removed by laser. Happy non-iversary to me.

Didn't You Know?

Turns out that setting crazy big goals for yourself entitles you to buy stuff. Who knew?

Not me. But I now believe with all my heart that somehow this new, lavender weight bench is going to help me reach my goals. Ahem. It was on sale (huge sale), it matches my studio walls, and er, well - I wanted it really, really badly.

In truth I almost got a (boring) weight bench in June. I did get the weights. I have used them a few times - but not as much as I thought I would. I LOVE to lift at the gym and I cannot afford either the time or the money for a gym right now. (My gym used to be open 24 hours and I would work out at 4:30 am and be home by 6. They've changed that and in addition to costing significantly more a month, now the gym doesn't open until 5:30, which is waaaay too late for me to get a work out in and be home before my family wakes up.) I thought that if I got weights I would work out at home - but a bed (especially one your husband is still sleeping in) and an office chair do not make good weight bench substitutes. So, obtaining an actual weight bench has been on my list for a while. I thought that by putting it out there to the universe, a free or at least relatively cheap one would happen my way. And I kept coming close. Two or three times I found out about someone giving one away the day or the week after they finally dumped it.

Yesterday I decided to go check out the new sporting goods store that opened last week. (It opened directly across the street from the old sporting goods store and Mayhem's comment was that the old store was sure to be pissed. He told me that we should find another street to drive on. "??" said my raised eyebrow. "Mom, I don't want to be in the middle of them! They both sell HUNTING equipment!") I braved the potential feud. The new store is fantastic. It is clean, open, well lit and well stocked. There were people to help me find the right section, there were people to answer my questions and BONUS, the people who answered my questions actually knew what they were talking about! Also, did I mention that my new weight bench was discounted 70% off retail? <--I realize that means my actual savings was probably only about 15%. However, I only paid about $30 more than I was going to pay for a flat (big, black) bench with no weights. This one is smaller, yet sturdier; it transitions easily between flat, incline, and upright; it came with the weights; and do you see how purple it is?? I LOVE that it's purple.

The Ninja Princessa and Havoc both helped me put the bench together and unpack the weights. We decided (because we're geeky like this) to add up the weight and Havoc's eyes LIT UP when we got to the total - 56lbs. "56 is my favorite number!" he declared. "It is?" I said. "Didn't you know that?" "As a matter of fact, I had no idea. Is this a new thing? And why, exactly, do you like 56 so much?" "Mom, it's been my favorite number since the Ninja Princessa and Mayhem were in the third grade!" (Translation= "Since FOREVER.") "56 is so cool because 7 times 8 is 56 AND 8 times 7 is 56. Lots of people have trouble with that. And now 56 is even better because two 10's plus two 8's plus two 5's plus two 3's plus two 2's is 56! 56 is awesome."

Chaos was unimpressed by either the grand total of 56 lbs or the purple. I don't think he'll be begging to have the weight bench moved to his room. Mayhem cannot be bothered to pay attention to anything inside the house. "Uh. Cool. Can I go ride my bike?" The purple was a bonus for the Princessa and she asked if she could lift weights on it 'sometime' and then wandered off to write in her journal. Havoc? The second we finished assembling it, he wanted to work out. I let him. I showed him one exercise and we talked about proper form. He adjusted the bench just so and then earnestly began hoisting 3 lb weights. "Hey Mom! SIX pounds total!" Look out Arnold Schwarzenegger!

And Lilymane? We-e-e-ll. I have to say I was too self-conscious to lift in front of my family, but they're all gone now and just as soon as I finish this post I'm going to turn on some music and see if I remember how to work out!
Peace.

BHAGs

I once heard a Bishop talk about BHAGs - Big, Hairy, Audacious Goals. I didn't much like the Bishop and 'BeeHag' is not the most euphonious word out there but still? BHAG stuck in my brain and is now making itself manifest. Apparently this is BHAG week in Lilymania because not only have I signed up for NaNoWriMo (see the icon-->) but I have also signed up for the the half marathon. Yikes. It's been gray and rainy for five days, I've spent three in bed with a migraine and somehow this motivated me to sign up to write a 50,000 word novel and run 13.1 miles?? NaNo is free and I saved $10 by signing up for the half before the 22nd - but that's not much of an incentive, really. And NaNoWriMo? You don't even get a cool medal for that one! I'm scared about both of these BHAG's. They seem very B, and H, and quite A. But the process! VBGF is going to be here this weekend for our first official training run and I'm scheduled for the all day NaNo Write Out on the 1st. I'm excited sick in my stomach but hooked, completely hooked. Turns out my best friends are BHAG pushers! They are very best kind of friends to have.
Peace.
Psssssssst - St. Ann, you wanna run a half marathon??

Paltry Pickings

Not much to offer today in terms of cohesion - but hey, when has that stopped me?

I read a FASCINATING article about the deterioration of human-elephant relations, the disintegration (destruction) of healthy elephant society, and the parallels between human and elephant communities. It's worth going through the free sign up process just to read this one article.

I'm a total goob when it comes to drug culture - and had to look up adderall when I saw a reference to some stupid starlet taking it to lose weight. This article totally weirded me out. Who knew? If that was going on when I was in school then I totally missed it!! (Not that I'm sorry about that.)

Also - I'm glad the Saints beat the Eagles. I like the Eagles a lot (especially given that they're an NFC team up in the Northeast!) But the Saints? How could you not like what they're doing? They are playing with passion and purpose and they're bringing all the hope and pride to New Orleans that football can. They've been underdogs for a long time. It's so good to see them doing well.
**One more thing (tangentially) related to the Eagles: I have to say that there's a difference between not minding that the Eagles lost and not NOTICING. I must have gotten all the football genes in the family because not only was my Wonder Twin St. Ann not watching the Eagles game last week (which was IN Philly a couple of miles down the road from her) - but she and John the Magnificent actually called me to cackle with guilty glee about the fact that when they went out to eat they purposefully avoided places that had the game on! I'm not even sure they could tell you what T.O. stands for. It's hard to believe we're related sometimes.

Peace.

I So Caved

The boys were with my ex, my daughter was at a friend's house, Sweet Hubby is in Chicago on business and last night, that left me alone (gloriously alone) in the house overnight. This is such a rare occurance that the only time I can remember it happening before is Thanksgiving two years ago. Don't get me wrong. I love my family. I love our wild times when we gather around the table talking and carrying on. I love the games we play, the work we do together, and the quiet Sunday afternoons watching football. (Quiet is relative. I suppose I am not the most stoic football fan around.) As much as I love all we do as a family, I absolutely treasure my alone time. I'm grateful for the time I get when the kids are at school. I use it wisely in between doctor appointments, grocery runs, volunteering at the school or with scouts, etc. But nothing, NOTHING is the same as a whole evening stretching out in front of me. Something about the dark, getting to soak in the tub with a glass of wine and a good book, and going to sleep whenever I want - with no stories to tell, breaths to check for the telltale toothpaste smell, or permission slips to sign - that's just heavenly.

But last night was even better than my night alone two years ago. Last night, my furry buddy Wasabi padded along from room to room with me. He slept at (and on) my feet as I wrote. He stretched out companionably in his cave under the bathroom cabinets while I took a bath. He kept watch out the windows, peeking his head between the curtains when I read in bed. He gnawed quietly on his rawhide and looked up at me adoringly. That's right. I totally caved and gave him a forbidden rawhide. I just paid $100 to the vet bcause of some strange allergy. The vet said it could be an allergy to his food (even though it's the good stuff) or it could be to grass (GRASS? The green stuff that is EVERYWHERE???) It could even be to fleas (which he doesn't 'have' as we are religious about the frontline) - but it's something. Some strange allergic reaction is making my dog chew the hair off of his back legs and tail. We got new food, and ointment, and even have finally had to resort to one round of steroids to break the allergy cycle. And we got told not to let him have anything (ANYTHING) except the new kibbles. Wasabi is on a strict diet - NO exceptions. But I guess his diet (like mine) is just going to have to start on Monday because I absolutely couldn't take it. We'd walked through the kitchen about six times and every time my sweet dog had looked hopefully at his treat drawer. Now, if he'd been obnoxious or tried to make me feel guilty - it wouldn't have worked. But he wasn't expectant, just hopeful. He'd been the perfect buddy all afternoon. He had even barked quietly, like whisper barking, when he saw squirrels outside. He totally deserved to munch away on a sticky, icky rawhide for the rest of the night. And I totally deserved to be adored by my dog. Monday may suck for the both of us - what with no treats for either of us and rawhide-slimed patches on the carpet to clean up - but it was so worth it. So. Worth. It.
(Remind me of that tomorrow?)
Peace.

THE TITANS WON!!

YAY! My winless Titans - who have really played better ball than their record would show - won. And they won by playing good football! Lamont Thompson made some critical stops. Travis Henry did some solid power running and absolutely deserved his career high day. I love football - even from the rock bottom of the league.
Peace.

Smushed Pennies

Apparently folks in the know call them 'elongated coins' and it's big business in some parts but around here - we call them smushed pennies and it's a quiet affair to collect them. For several years, I tried to get my kids interested in them. No takers. I finally had to give in and admit that I am the one who is fascinated by them. (Sidenote: I'm not so great at the business of collecting. St. Ann can detail how long it took me to have more than one mermaid in my mermaid collection - and the four I currently have is a result of our concerted shopping efforts in several major ports and on at least two islands!) Smushed pennies have turned out to be muuuuuch easier for me to collect. I have five. As souvenirs I think they are perfect. They cost very little (51 cents usually), they remind you of where you got them (tiny picture pressed into them right then there), and obtaining them is great fun (you get to select the image and then crank it out yourself!) I especially like the fact that, when they first come out of the machine, the pennies are hot in your hand from being stretched. My delight in smushed pennies far exceeds any rational expectations.

Now I know why. I got a new one this past weekend. It is my very favorite one. It was a present. It's shiny and stretched but has no picture. It is perfectly smooth and curls up on the ends. It won't fit into a cute, plastic, pressed penny collector's book. This one was made the old fashioned way. Last Saturday, at the funeral, the younger generation of cousins did what we used to do as kids in California and Florida. They hiked up to the train bed and stuck all the pennies they could find on the tracks. One of my older cousins said he hoped they didn't see the little ones in the woods, because smushing pennies is probably considered an act of terror now. One train did slow almost to a stop right as it passed the section where the pennies were. Little Brittney's eyes were huge with fright as she came tumbling down the hill and out of the woods to hide behind her mother. The older boys had told her the engineer had probably seen her pink shirt and was calling a report into the authorities. Her step dad had to hold her hand and walk her back up to find her pennies after the train finally moved on.

Havoc and Mayhem let me have one of their smushed pennies - and it made me cry. When Havoc put that penny in my hand (still hot from the train wheels running over it) I realized what my delight with the machine-pressed pennies connects to. I'm from a train family. My grandfather and my uncle (the one who just passed) as well as two of my great-grandfathers and one of my great-great grandfathers all worked for the Santa Fe. The sound of train whistles in the night has always been comforting to me. My engineer great-grandfather had a whistle code to tell my great-grandmother things like he loved her, he had to work late, or he was bringing someone home for supper. My dispatcher grandfather could tap out messages into your hand in Morse code faster than you would believe. My childhood was peppered with weird words like 'hogshead' and stories from my father about the one year he had the back breaking summer job of laying train tracks. I soaked up the family stories and to this day I love train lore - but my only personal participation in the train world lay in the childhood adventure of making train smushed pennies. I remember the daring feeling of running up to the tracks and laying out the pennies just so. I remember waiting and waiting for the train to come by, hiding because some adult (older cousin?) had told us not to do it anymore. We really didn't believe the then-ignored and now-forgotten adult who told us we could make the train jump the tracks with our pennies - but there was a frisson of fear anyway - and hiding from the engineer was all a part of the process. I remember shrieking when the train finally came by. I remember the serious business of calculating how many pennies you had to lay out in order to be assured of getting at least one back. You see, the pennies get shot out and scattered about by the wheels so you don't always find them all. And of the ones you do find, many of them turn out only halfway smushed and don't count. The object is to get one fully pressed. If you're too stingy with your pennies on the front end, you run a big risk of having nothing to show for it all in the end!

Havoc and Mayhem managed to smash one perfectly on their very first try - and they gave it to me. They ended up with several - and even offered me a smushed quarter later. I told them thanks but no thanks - that first penny was exactly right. Absolutely the thing. They smiled at my tears and suffered my kisses before running off to play in the field with the herd of cousins and dogs. This smushed penny in my hand? I think it's my favorite souvenir ever.
Peace.

Car Smarts

I bought my little sister's 14 year old, ragged out, Subaru Legacy wagon from her. She won't need it in France; it isn't worth paying any storage fees for; and hey, I have two sons who are fixing to drive (YIKES!!) so it's perfect. Except for the part where VBGF and I found out the morning we were driving said Subaru from Vermont to Dixie that the air conditioning doesn't work, the keys don't lock or unlock the doors, the back hatch won't open, the rusted out places on the floor boards are strongly reminiscent of the Flintstone mobile, and the odometer doesn't work. Flummoxed. That's a good word for how I felt, standing there in her driveway.

My sister is normally somewhat sane, but that particular morning is the morning I realized that she was near catatonic in the face of her upcoming move out of the country. I have described before how she had rented her house to a family with four kids who were at that moment driving across country expecting a clean, empty house to move into. My sister, whose husband has been in France since June and who works full time and has a one year old son, had packed NOTHING. Not one picture frame, not one plate, not one book. Nada. Her house was filled to the brim with all of her crap (despite her reassuring us all that she had everything under control.) I actually flew back the next week with my godmother and we got her out by the skin of our teeth.

We couldn't joke about it then, but she's in town this week for the funeral and to show off her baby before going off to Europe. I thought she might have enough distance by now to laugh about how strung out she'd been in July. I tried tonight to tease her about the odometer. That morning (THAT morning), when I had pointed out to my sister that broken odometers were illegal - she said, "Oh. I'm glad you reminded me! I have a replacement dashboard with an working odometer for you. " She rummaged around in the garage and produced a whole nother dashboard. Her instruction to me? "When the mileage on the one in the Subaru matches this one, just have your mechanic take out the old one and put this one in instead." The mileage on the one in the Subaru said 121,598 that morning (THAT morning) and the one she handed me was at about 144,300. THIS morning? The odometer in the Subaru still says 121,598. Get it? The odometer doesn't work at all. It's not just dead, it's really most sincerely dead.

Did my sister think this was funny? Did she laugh at herself? Um, no. She said (I shit you not) "But when I bought the car, that's what the guy told me to do. Replace it when the mileage matches." "Tidge, did you know the odometer didn't work AT ALL when you bought the car?"
"YES! I'm trying to tell you that it's not hard to fix - and it's not breaking the law as long as you wait until they match. The only reason it's against the law is because they don't want people turning the mileage back and cheating people. This way, if you wait, it'll just be like it was never broken."

I didn't know what to say to my sister who (it turns out) must have packed her brain and left it in storage with her household goods. Sure hope she doesn't need it over there in France.
Peace.

Out There

Look what today is. And here's a new guide for supportive folks. I think that's pretty darn cool. Peace.

More Words

I love the word crepuscular. If I am ever able to work it convincingly into a piece I write, then I'll be over the moon. I'll feel like a real writer. I may be the only one who notices, but I'll gloat about it to myself for ages. I might even give myself a sticker.
Peace.

Things That Died

In September of 2002, I found a piece of paper on the floor of my son Chaos' bedroom. He was ten at the time and the previous year had seen some big changes for us: the divorce, a move to a new small town, new schools, 9/11, and the loss of my beloved grandfather. It's a lot of grief for a small boy. On many, many levels Chaos held up exceptionally well. His counselor said he was doing real and honest work dealing with it all; his new teachers loved him; and he made the best friend he's ever had that year. But grief is still grief and it leaks through in surprising ways.

Here's what the worn, folded piece of notebook paper said:

Things that Died

pets
ant Joe
ant Bob
ant Fang
ant Chatt
ant Jack
ant Jhon
ant Luke
ant Pat
ant Alex
ant flint
ant lilly
ant Alec
ant Nick
ant A.J.
ant Dillon
cat Himingway
Horse Beroll

(And I wish I could show this but I can't get it to work on this screen! Way over to the right at the top it also says - with a few smears - )

People
Great Grandfather

Chaos was mourning in the very best ways he knew how- expressing his grief in writing and carrying it around. The horse was actually my sister's horse from her equestrian days in high school. He died when Chaos was six and while it made Chaos sad, B-roll passed peacefully after being quite the happy, old man of the pasture for some time. Same with the cat. Himalayans typically don't live to ripe old ages and at 13, Hemingway's passing was sad but not tragic.

The ants? You'd think my son had an ant farm in his room or something, but no. These were 'wild ants'. They lived on our rock wall when Chaos was seven. The week after we'd told the boys about the impending divorce, Chaos' teacher took me aside and said she was so sorry to hear about our family's loss. She said she could tell Chaos had been close to his aunt. Er? If you ask Chaos to name his favorite person on the planet, he would - without a nanosecond of hesitation - say "TIDGET!" but my sister was (and still is) very much alive and well. It took us some moments to clear up that Chaos' dead Aunt Lilly was rather more his dead ANT Lilly. My sweet boy couldn't cry and tell his teacher that his world was falling apart because his parents were getting divorced and he had to move - but he could chronicle the terrible, tragic rash of ant death on our rock wall. Chaos' teacher smiled but had tears in her eyes when we finally sorted it out (divorce, move, dead ants and all). I loved her for that. Chaos later told me how much he'd loved her for listening so sympathetically for all of that story hour. Apparently moms and second grade teachers are some of the only people who take ant death seriously.

(Here I should point out that Chaos did not kill any of the ants. He has normal anger issues but he's never been one to stomp insects. To this day he hates having to be the one to 'deal' with bugs in the house. He'll scoop them up and take them outside. Except he won't go near spiders. He blames at least one unrecovered ant's death on spiders. As far as I could tell from the two ant funerals Chaos let me be a part of all those years ago, the ants' demise had more to do with drought than anything else.)

So two years later, that piece of paper had a new addition. "People." This one with with some tear smudges. I tried to give Chaos back his list when I found it. (He knew I wasn't 'snooping'. We have a system to protect important things from the vacuum cleaner.) He told me to keep it - he'd made another one when he couldn't find that one.

I came across this tiny testament to big grief today when I searched an old wallet for my voter's registration card. It is one of those coincidences that makes you sit back - whoosh. My family spent this past weekend mourning the loss of my uncle - whom I last saw four years ago, at my grandfather's funeral, the week this list was written. My Uncle Denny, my mother's big brother, succumbed to cancer a few weeks ago, just days after his 77th birthday. Although he'd lived across the country - in the Arizona desert - he'd wanted to come here at the end. He'd wanted to be where his father had spent his last days. We couldn't work that out - medicare and frail bodies being what they are - but we brought his ashes out and gathered the family from various corners far and wide. Our group was thirty (forty?) some odd people strong this weekend. This particular configuration of cousins and such hadn't managed to all be in one place together for 24 years - and that gathering was a beach house party to honor my maternal grandmother's unexpected passing at the young (for my family) age of sixty. No longer having a beach house in the family, we spent four days at my godmother's retreat center - the gorgeous, crisp, sunny, chilly October weather and the huge harvest moon setting the tone for our music and stories and drinking. (We tend towards red heads and wakes in my Irish descended family.) We celebrated my uncle's life with liturgy and revelry, with laughter and reminisces. We plunked the gold box of Denny's ashes in the center of the table as we feasted and toasted him. My children were amused to hear stories of that beach house gathering in 1982 - when I'd been exactly Chaos' age. My cousins and I were astounded to realize we aren't the rowdy generation anymore. (I think our children AND our parents out did us this round!!) This time, instead of guitars there were iPods for the music - and crunchy leaves on the windy walk down to the river instead of salty waves and sunburns. This time I was in the middle instead of on one generational end of the spectrum. This time things were very different, yet the same: grief and family, hugs and teary eyes, celebration and nostalgia - there is a timeless healing in the whole of it. Thank Heavens.
Peace.

The Breakfast Experiment

Know what Havoc had for breakfast?
He had a bowl of Cheerios with milk. And then he added yogurt. To the bowl. And then he mixed in one packet of fruit snacks. And after that three maraschino cherries one at a time so he could get the maximum cherry juice with each one. He topped it all off with a few M&M's. He said, "Mama, it's a concoction." "It sure is," I said. He ate the whole bowl. I'm glad parent-teacher conferences were LAST week.
Peace.

Word of the Month

This disturbs me:

My son's elementary school has a huge sign out front where the administration posts not only upcoming events but also inspirational items, like the word of the month. This month's "word"? Pursuit of Excellence. The irony? Havoc's second grade class is studying the difference between singular and plural nouns. Grrrrrr.

Peace.

And I Thought Pacman Jones Was Horrid

Albert Haynesworth's actions against Dallas Cowboy Andre Gurode horrified me. Haynesworth is 6'6" and 320 pounds! He viciously stomped on the side of another player's unprotected head! With cleats on! What if his stomp had slashed Gurode's eye? What if Haynesworth's cleat had punctured Gurode's temple?!! On top of that - Haynesworth had the gall to argue with the official about it! While Gurode's face was streaming a bucket of blood onto the playing field, Haynesworth was protesting being given a penalty! Haynesworth didn't get thrown out for being a vicious thug on the field. He got thrown out of the game for slamming his helmet down on the field protesting the penalty against him.

Everything about the incident was disgusting. I don't care how contrite he is. I don't care how much money he's going to lose. I think he should be banned from football. Forever. I think he should lose his career. I'd never heard of him doing anything remotely out of line before this (and therefore last night thought he should get a HUGE suspension but not necessarily be banned for life). But NOW the reports surface about his temper. It turns out that he's been protected from the consequences of his behavior before. He's been given chances to get help and change his ways. He's changed nothing. He's gotten worse. Now he has seriously endangered another player and he has damaged his team. He has undercut the whole league's push to have football players be leaders in charity efforts. He has betrayed his fans and his very own family. If I was horrified to have my children witness such brutality - what about his kids??? There is no place for him in football. (Havoc said, "It's like that guy in the World Cup, only worse, isn't it?")

I wouldn't have cared if it were the game make or break play in the last Superbowl ever to be held on earth and Gurode had been verbally taunting Haynesworth for hours calling Haynesworth's mother and sister every name in the book - there is no excuse, cause or reason for that behavior. And for anyone who doesn't want to follow the link - I want to make it clear that there was no provocation whatsoever for this attack: no verbal excahange, no questionable call with points on the line, nothing! The Cowboys played good ball and the Titans sucked slimy rocks. There is no way to make this make sense.

And I HATE that. One of the many reasons I watch football is to get away from things that don't make sense! Like my ex. And like this, and this, and this!

Where is the antidote? I think I'm going to go for a run and play outside with the kids this afternoon. I hope that helps put things back into perspective for me!
Peace.