Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Being selfless is for the birds

Is it wrong to plan a trip out of town - alone - for Mother's Day? How about when you're a mother? I am seriously thinking of doing this next year. A little overnight stay somewhere. I'll pack a bottle of wine and a good book to read. Maybe I'll get crazy and book a massage for myself.

Mother's Day is tough for me every year. I don't know why I get so upset, but I have a minor breakdown every May when this particular holiday rolls around. Maybe it's the price I pay for being an adoptive mom, feeling like I never quite measure up on the momscale. My poor husband seems to know he's going to botch it and probably wishes I would go away for the weekend. This year, our daughter went camping Saturday night. She returned home Sunday afternoon. I am 99.9% sure that she'd had no inkling it was Mother's Day until she heard someone mention it. Later, while I was walking one of the dogs, she signed a card that her dad thrust in front of her and left it for me on the kitchen counter. She spent the rest of the day in her bedroom. I spent the rest of the day washing the smells-like-campfire clothes she brought back from her camping trip. I have to confess that I miss the goofy Mother's Day art projects that she made for me when she was little. I wouldn't mind having a paper plate with some rigatoni glued on it in the shape of the letters M O M.

My husband did get me some gifts. They came from the Pick-n-Save across the street: wine, flowers, and an iTunes gift card. Also, he bought me a Kermit. While I was at a meeting a couple of weeks ago, a stuffed Kermit (the kind with bendy arms and legs) fell off of a shelf in the office/guest room. The dogs chewed it up. On his watch. So, he ordered a replacement for that on eBay.

The gifts were nice. I have no complaints. What I really wanted, though, was for the day to feel different from all the other days. My days, it seems, are an endless cycle of work-cleaning-cooking-laundry. Wash, rinse, repeat. But mothers are supposed to be selfless, right? I'm not supposed to wish for something different.

A lighting fixture in our bedroom is not working properly. It's an electrical issue and God knows we can't hire an electrician. I decided to buy a floor lamp for my side of the bed so that I can, you know, see. I picked it up at Home Depot on my way home from church on Sunday. I dragged the box into the bedroom and proceeded to put the lamp together. You can probably picture what it looks like - a light fixture atop a heavy metal pole.  Pretty standard stuff. As I was looking down at the instruction sheet, the dogs ran through the room and somehow stepped on the cord, causing the pole to crash into my skull.  It hurt like I don't know what.  My husband heard me yelp and came to pull the dogs out of the room so that I could continue. It seemed like a good time for a husband-type person to say, "Hey, I'll finish putting it together. Besides, it's Mother's Day - you should be relaxing!" Honestly, that's all I really wanted . . . just to hear things like, "What can I do to help you?" or "What would you like to do today?" I wanted some sort of acknowledgement of the fact that the people in my home have clean clothes in their closets and two clean toilets in which to poop.

My expectations, I know, are too high. I know the issue lies with me and not with them. I also know that I need to say off Facebook on Mother's Day. I see all of these other moms being treated to breakfast in bed and having all of their favorite things delivered to them - from Starbucks to jewelry. And then I think, "I didn't get any special treatment - it must be a side effect of me being a terrible mother." And so on it goes. I end up feeling depressed and annoyed.  I really need to do something different next year. Maybe I will.

Monday, May 8, 2017

What do you mean, you don't want to hear about my feet?

When my plantar fasciitis was at its worst about two years ago, I did a lot of googling in attempt to figure out how I should proceed. I watched countless videos, perused medical websites, and joined a Facebook group started by fellow sufferers. I visited my podiatrist again and again. I was desperate for help.

So, just in case some other middle-aged chick is googling the same stuff I googled and happens upon my blog, I thought I should provide a bit of information about what worked for me. I am now pain-free.

First off, let me say that plantar fasciitis is no joke. Unless you live in the 17th century and are a member of some royal family who gets carried around and doesn't have to walk . . . you probably have to walk. PF makes every step a nightmare. When my pain first started, I thought maybe I had just overdone it at the gym.  I was hitting the elliptical a lot at that point. You know how it goes.  You get into your mid-40s and when something starts to hurt, the initial thought is, "Oh, I guess this will just always hurt now." You don't know what is fixable and what isn't.

I spoke with a yoga teacher at my gym and described my pain to her.  The pain was primarily in the arch of my foot, close to the heel. She confirmed that it was probably plantar fasciitis. This theory was later confirmed by my podiatrist. In addition, my body reacted to the strained fascia by laying down some extra bone on my heel, AKA "bone spurs." It looks super sexy on an x-ray, let me tell you.

So began an odyssey lasting over a year. As PF sufferers will tell you, the worst time of day is first thing in the morning. At night, we all naturally sleep with our feet somewhat extended (like a ballerina). This shortens the fascia alongside the bottom of the foot. This is why that first step is so brutal - the connective tissue on the sole is pulled taut as soon as the foot hits the floor, and that's very owie. For most people, the pain subsides somewhat after walking around for a bit.

I proceeded to try a bunch of stuff that I read about on the interwebs.

Here are the things that ultimately did not work:

1. Rolling my feet on a frozen water bottle. I did this for months. All I got was cold feet.
2. Wearing a special boot at night . The idea of the boot is that it holds the foot in a flexed position, thereby denying the fascia a chance to bunch up. My right foot was always worse so I just bought one boot (it wasn't cheap) and tried that foot. I slept with the boot on for a few nights. Mostly what I accomplished was to kick myself in the left leg with my right leg and wake up thinking, "WTF?!" every few minutes.
3. Getting cortisone injections. I did this twice, on my right foot both times. It did help to numb the pain for a day or two, but the injection itself hurts like a sumbitch and, in my opinion, isn't worth it.
4. Wearing crocs. My podiatrist recommended that I get some Crocs slides and wear them around he house. I did that for months. It didn't help. Crocs don't offer proper arch support and don't hold the leg and foot in proper alignment. And my God were they ugly.
5. Inserts in my existing shoes. My podiatrist recommended some standard orthotics inserts.  They did help somewhat, but not fully.
6. Arch support bands.  You can find these at most drug stores. They did feel kinda good (it's basically a band that wraps around your foot and provides some cushion to the sole), but I don't have any evidence suggesting that they fixed anything.
7. Standing on a step and letting my heels hang over the edge, thereby stretching my feet.

I should add that I did not invest in custom-made orthotics. I know a lot of people do go that route with some success.  Some people also have surgery to correct PF, but the idea of operating on my feet seemed unappealing at best.

What did work:

1. Investing in shoes with built-in orthotics.  I know that there are several brands that offer built-in orthotics. I invested in several pairs of Vionic shoes. Fortunately for me, they do offer several styles that are not leather. I learned that there are two main features that PF sufferers need to care about when it comes to shoes: arch support and heel cup. I bought some flip-flips, worky-type shoes that I can wear to the office, and some tennis shoes.  (Asics also makes some styles that are good for PF).
2. Babying my feet. I am almost never barefoot. At this point, it actually feels weird when I am barefoot. When I am at home, I am either wearing my Vionic flip-flops or my Vionic slippers. I had a setback last summer after I walked barefoot on the beach while visiting my dad in Ocean City. It seemed like a good idea at the time . . .
3. Losing some weight. I guess this one is just common sense but if your feet hurt, it's probably better to have slight less weight smashing them into the ground (if possible).  However, I will also say that I have talked to other people at my gym who are struggling with PF and they were not even a little bit overweight. 

After six months or so without pain, I have now been able to ease back into some "normal" (AKA "cuter") shoes. However, I still make sure that the insole is cushioned (the bone spurs are still there, of course) and that I switch into my flip-flops or slippers when I get home.

The other tactic I use is to roll my feet on a golf ball almost every day. I keep a golf ball in my bathroom and roll my feet while I am getting ready for work. I really try to work the ball into any tender spots so that I can keep an eye on the situation in case it starts to get sucky again.

After wearing the Vionic shoes consistently for many months, I started to notice that I did not have any pain. Now, I will say that it can take a few wearings to get used to these shoes. In fact, the company suggests wearing them only for short periods of time in the beginning. The arch is very exaggerated and feels weird at first. In my case it was worth it to work through the initial weirdness of how they feel.

I think my main annoyance with this whole saga is that my podiatrist did not recommend Vionic shoes (or even some similar brand). PF is very common with middle-aged women so I think it was just like, "Oh, here's another one" and then they handed me a pre-printed list of the orthotic inserts.

I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from wearing cheap flip-flops or flats with no arch support. A lifetime of failing to care for my feet left me limping and in severe pain. I'm a lot more careful now. I even give myself foot massages while I'm watching TV (my family doesn't offer to do it, if you can believe that). I yelled at my dog Grover for stepping on my foot when he came bounding in from the back yard this morning. Doesn't that jerk know what I've been through?

Expensive but effective flippity-flops

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

12 (subtitle: just 365 days to go until I have a teenager in my house)

My baby, my goober, my curly girlie . . . is 12 today.  :::sniffle snifle:::

In the photo below, she is wearing a necklace that was given to her by a BOY! (I know, right?!)

In addition to hosting a birthday party for her and her friends (at an indoor trampoline park), her dad and I got her a ukulele, some new earbuds that she can step on, break, and then hide under her bed, some new sandals, and a birthday shirt. (And by "her dad and I," I mean that I bought her some stuff and then told him what I bought). Gifts have been trickling in from other family members, too.

It's been fun (and a little bit heartrending) to watch my baby girl growing into a young woman. In just six short years she'll be headed off to college. Ack! She both exasperates me and fills me with joy - pretty much on the daily. We are a typical mother-daughter pair, I suppose. We laugh at jokes together and then two minutes later I am yelling at her because she left food in her room (and is rolling her eyes in response). All par for the course, I suppose.  The other day she told me she was buying pizza for lunch at school.  I looked at the online lunch account and learned that she bought ice cream.  Two of them, in fact.  And no pizza. Why do kids bother to lie? They are SO bad at it!

Despite all the hijinks and questionable decision-making, I am so proud of my kiddo.  She has the typical amount of middle school angst, but she has such a good heart. She's the best hugger in the hemisphere. I love watching her musical talent develop, too.  She is taking lessons for the guitar and is learning the keyboard and ukulele on her own. She sings in two choirs and grabs a solo any chance she gets.

Happy 12th birthday to my sassy, doesn't-get-up-on-time, homework assignment-losing, shower singing, beautiful baby girl. I love you with everything I am.


Friday, April 28, 2017

New wheels and such

Last Saturday, I attended our city's bicycle auction, sponsored by the local police department. It's amazing how many lost/stolen bikes they end up with in a given year. Hundreds of them! I have been riding my Craigslist bike for nearly a decade, so I decided it was time to see if I could get something a bit newer. I am not a daily rider or anything like that, so I didn't want to spend hundreds of dollars on a bike. Me so cheap.

I arrived at the fairgrounds just after 8 a.m. to register for the auction.  They give you an hour to look at the stuff (they also had surplus equipment and stuff like fishing poles and folding chairs). I made my way up and down rows of bikes. I kept thinking of that scene from Pee Wee's Big Adventure when he topples a whole row of motorcycles.  Whenever I saw a bike I might like, I added its number to a list I was keeping in my phone. Some of the bikes looked like they'd been run over by a semi, but there were some really nice ones, too. I had my eye on a powder blue Schwinn that appeared to be in perfect condition and another one with an aluminum frame that looked really nice, too. I also listed a few decent back-up selections.

When 9:00 rolled around, I climbed up to a spot on the bleachers. I picked a seat next to an adorable couple in hopes that they might chat with me during the long morning auction. They just seemed interesting, I guess.  They were the best dressed at the auction, that's for sure. What is it with gay men always looking cuter than the rest of us?

The first bike I wanted was number 197, so I had to sit there for an eternity first. They start with number 1, as you might imagine. Auctions are pretty entertaining, though. The auctioneer would rattle off some be-de-be-de stuff in his secret auctioneer language. When 197 (one of my back-ups) finally rolled around, I decided to hold off for 223 - the powder-blue Schwinn.  When that one hit the stage, I waited for the bidding to start and flung my auction bid card into the air. I was having a hard time following what was happening, but what I did discern was that some jackass was bidding against me.  I flung my number into the air a couple more times and then gave up when the bidding went over $100.00.  Up until that point, no bike had gone for more than around $20.  Just my luck.

The couple behind me bid high on a super fancy bike and got it.  Deep pockets on those gentlemen, I guess. Apparently they don't have a spoiled tween at home bleeding them dry. 

The aluminum-frame bike came up shortly thereafter.  Again, the bidding quickly escalated beyond what I was comfortable bidding.  The bikes are all "as is" so I was worried about spending a hundred bucks on a bike and then finding that it needs all new everything.

I climbed down from the stands and took another peek at the other bikes that had been on my list.  I decided they weren't worth waiting around for.  I was disappointed, but I left empty-handed.

Since I already had a bike rack attached to the back of my car, I thought I should take one more shot at getting my hands on a bike.  I ran a couple of errands and then stopped at a used sporting goods store. They had a couple of nice bikes that seemed like a good fit. I ended up choosing a Huffy that's in great condition. Plus, the seat was easy to adjust. A couple years ago, my husband went to the police auction and bought me a mountain bike. However, I've never been able to ride it because he wasn't able to raise the seat. Instead of casting a wider net to figure out a way to adjust the seat (I think it was just rusted in place), he ended up getting annoyed with me about the length of my legs instead. True love, that's what we have.

So, I am the proud owner of new-to-me wheels. My daughter got a new bike for Christmas and she and I are entered in a cycling event this summer. So, that was another reason why I wanted a new bike. So far I've only ridden it around the neighborhood, but I think I made a good decision.

Since Saturday was such a beautiful day, I decided to get Grover saddled up and take him to a recreation trail. We walked for several miles and had a great afternoon together. There were tons of people on the trail because the weather was so nice. Cyclists, walkers, and rollerbladers galore. Grover has decided that rollerbladers, collectively, can go suck an egg. He does not have any love for those shifty characters with wheels on their shoes.

Other than that, there hasn't been much going on lately. Tomorrow is the kid's birthday party. I think we are expected to worship her for the next week, at least (her birthday is on the 3rd). She asked for a Ukulele (which we are getting for her) and, um, a Macbook. You know, just in case we have $1300 sitting around and were hoping to part with it toute de suite. In other news, apparently I am still largely ineffective in my attempt to teach her highness how money works.


Sunday, April 9, 2017

11 and 11/12

I wrote this poem for a poetry service at church so I figured I may as well dump it here, too. It barely qualifies as a poem (more like prose), but what the heck.

11 and 11/12

“What is this?” I ask, plucking a shred of neon paper from the carpet in her bedroom.
She shrugs. She must have limber shoulders from all that shrugging, I think to myself.
“Wash your plate when you’re done with your dinner, please.” I deliver my request in a measured tone.
Later, I find that the plate has been washed but not the fork. I didn’t mention the fork, after all.
I gently inquire about some missing assignments for math and science classes.
In response, the eyes roll back so far that I sometimes wonder just how far they can go.
“I think you need a shower,” I suggest, delicately at first and then less delicately.
She agrees, but requires me to turn on the water and check the temperature for her.
For the next hour, she sings Adele songs into the showerhead and drains the city’s water reserves.

Adolescence, it seems, has replaced my Dora-watching cherub with a determined yet tentative almost-twelve-year-old.
Her face, framed by wild cascades of curls, is both the baby I cradled and the woman I will someday know.
She spends more and more time away from me now, at sleepovers and choir tours and such.
I give her some money and she’s off, never bringing me any change when she comes back.
Her burgeoning independence glistens like a newborn calf, leaving us both unsure of its boundaries.
The days are a blur of boys and classes, clubs and performances, friends that come and go.
Mascara and text messages. Tears shed over slights large and small. Jeans that cannot be worn if I picked them out.

But at night, I still must close her closet doors fully before she can go to sleep
The monster cannot open doors, you see.
I lean down to kiss her good-night and she throws her arms around my neck.
“I love you,Goober” I say.
“I love you more,” she responds.




Sunday, March 26, 2017

A Tale of Two Concerts

I attended two concerts in the past week. This is a rare occurrence because I'm usually too cheap to pay the scandalous "convenience" fees that always seem to come along with concert tickets. On Wednesday night, I went to see the English Beat in concert. The concert venue is over two hours away and I had to be at work the next morning, but I really wanted to go. My friend Karen agreed to go with me and even agreed to drive. This was pretty heroic of her because although she is aware of the band, she was not what you'd call a rabid fan. I appreciated her willingness to drive (and to explore some music that wasn't super familiar to her). The last time she and I went to a concert (Gossip), I drove and got a tickie on the way home.

The concert was great. A local ska band opened for them. They were a lot of fun, too, and I'd definitely enjoy seeing them live again. Shortly after their set was done, Dave Wakeling and company took the stage. The current incarnation of the Beat is basically Dave Wakeling and some other musicians that were not part of the original band. That's okay with me, though. As long as they know the songs and do them justice, I have no complaints.

The concert venue was not a large one. There were a few chairs upstairs but the main level was a standing-room only situation. I'd been there to see Fountains of Wayne a few years ago so I knew what to expect. I didn't mind standing one bit because I was too excited to sit down anyway. I had a couple of vodka cranberries on board so I even *gasp* danced a little. Being just yards away from Dave Wakeling . . . for a minute there, I felt like I was 15 again. I found myself with a huge grin on my face and I am not a naturally smiley person. I listened to the English Beat and General Public relentlessly when I was a teenager. In short, seeing him live was just what I needed in the middle of a very rough, very hard week.

A few days later, I took my daughter to see Daya live. I was only vaguely aware of Daya myself, but the concert was happening in our town and the tickets were reasonable ($25 each). On our way to the concert, I was given some pretty specific instructions about not dancing and not doing anything deemed to be embarrassing in general.

I did as I was told, and dutifully sat in my seat. This was the kid's first "real" concert so I was eager to see her reaction.  The crowd was at least three decades younger than the crowd at Wednesday's concert. There was an opening act - a singer who appeared to be about 14. That's how you know you are getting old - everyone looks 14. Daya took the stage at around 8:30. Her whole band is comprised of young women which, I think, is inspiring for a theater full of teen and pre-teen girls. In fact, her whole message is a good one for young women like my daughter.

For the encore, Daya sang "Sit Still Look Pretty," which is one of her biggest hits to date.

Oh, I don't know what you've been told
But this gal right here's gonna rule the world
Yeah, that is where I'm gonna be, because I wanna be
No, I don't wanna sit still, look pretty


I bought my own empowered kid a $25 tee shirt that she can't wait to wear to school tomorrow. Oh, and I didn't do anything embarrassing.


Friday, March 17, 2017

Life with the Tween

As my reader may have noticed, I'm writing fewer blog entries these days. I think the main reason that I'm less productive and prolific these days is that my daughter is getting older now. I owe it to her to respect her privacy - at least somewhat. Here's hoping she never finds all those old posts about the times she pooped herself back in the potty training days.

These days, I assume that she poops but it is not a regular topic of conversation. Instead, we mostly talk about missing assignments for school.  When questioned about missing assignments, she typically bursts into tears and blames: her teachers, the concept of time, the bus driver, and her locker.  I have to say that I won't be too sad when the school year is over.  The first year of middle school is rough, yo. In many ways, she's done great. She has made lots of friends (though they seem to vary by the day of the week - it'll be interesting to see who she invites to her birthday party next month) and has participated in a lot of activities.  She had show choir in the fall, the musical in the winter, and now the talent show in the spring. I am very proud of her. She was one of the few vocal soloists to get into the talent show when auditions were held a couple weeks ago.

Her grades are pretty good, but she struggles in science, math, and reading. The reading grade, in particular, causes me pain right down to my soul. I started teaching that kid to read before she was walking. Her teachers all assure me that she is very bright and is fully capable of handling the material. It's the homework. She was missing one particular worksheet for reading. She assured me that she did not have it and could not remember to ask for a new one. I finally emptied her entire backpack (which weighs about as much as she does) and found the worksheet at the bottom. It looked like it had been run over by the school bus (which, incidentally, she missed last week because that villainous bus driver refused to let her on, dontcha know). The kid is in an accelerated math class but again, unfinished assignments are causing problems. I need to send her to one of those new age-y schools that doesn't assign homework.

We've also fought an unrelated battle regarding the availability of vegetarian food in the cafeteria.  80 emails later, I think we have that one settled. It's a challenge, because she doesn't want to stick out or be different in any way (which is typical behavior in middle school, I think). So, she doesn't want to say, "I NEED THE VEGGIE BURGER THAT IS LISTED ON THE MENU BUT IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND."  I had to get all mama bear and wage that battle on her behalf.

Middle school romance is another interesting topic. Needless to say, my daughter is not allowed to have a boyfriend and is not allowed to "date." Her dad and I haven't set an exact age for that, but 11 is definitely not the age.  I think mid-30s would be a good time for her to interact with boys. However, that doesn't stop her from having crushes on various lads at school, which is fine.  Back in the fall, there was a boy who was head over heels for my daughter. She seemed to like him, too - at first.  I check her phone regularly and saw the texts he sent her. "Good night, my star" he wrote. There were lots of mushy gushy emojis, too. Eventually, she felt uncomfortable with the intensity of his affection. "He's just not chill about ANYthing," she told me.  She broke it off with him. More recently, she's had her eye on a different boy. This boy does seem to like her. However, his best friend also likes her and was laying it on pretty thick. She told him she didn't like him "that way." He sent back a broken-heart emoji.  My kid is breaking hearts all over the sixth grade, man.

As for me, I'm an anxiety-ridden mess as usual, but maybe I'll write about that some other time.

In the meantime, here is my songbird. This is not the song she is singing in the talent show, but I never get tired of hearing her voice. And no, I don't know why I didn't turn the phone the other way. Me not smart.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Those People

The circus came to town this weekend. There was a peaceful protest scheduled for all performances. I joined the protest Friday evening and Saturday afternoon. I got a lot savvier with my sign this year - I invested in a nice foam core poster board (my sign was too flimsy last year and did not hold up against winter weather).

My daughter decided to join me for the protest on Friday. I gave her a rundown of what the protest would be like so that she knew what to expect. Initially, I was a bit torn about bringing my daughter. When I was a student at George Mason University in the early 90s, I remember seeing a man dragging a large wooden cross around the quad. I think maybe he handed out leaflets - I don't specifically recall. What I do remember is spotting his young children with him once or twice. I recall thinking that maybe young children shouldn't be indoctrinated into anything. So, I've always been careful with my daughter and what I say to her. I take her to church with me, but I tell her that she'll be free to choose her own religion when she grows up. I have raised her on a vegetarian diet, but I've told her she'll be free to choose her diet, too. She's almost 12, though, so I felt like she's old enough to decide how she feels about the circus.  So, we bundled up (it was around 19 degrees) and headed over to the arena. We parked in the same lot as the circus-goers, grabbed our sign, and walked to the intersection we'd need to cross to get to the arena. Surrounded by families headed for the circus, we waited patiently for the light to change. We could see the protestors starting to assemble on the sidewalk across the street.

"Those protestors are so stupid," said the woman in front of me. I looked down and noticed that her daughter was wearing sandals. In 19-degree weather.

"I'll be the judge of who's stupid in this scenario," I thought to myself.

My daughter and I crossed the street and joined the other protestors.  There is a specific area where we are allowed to stand, and we have to be careful that we are not blocking the flow of foot traffic into the arena.  The circus is hosted by the Shriners and they will find any excuse to call the police on the protestors. (Side note: money from ticket sales does not benefit Shriners' Hospitals for children.) We do not shout at the circus attendees. We simply stand there with our signs.

A family streamed by me and I saw that one of the children, a girl of about nine, was wearing a crop top. Her bare stomach was turning pink against the cold wind. "Maybe they should go sit with the sandal family," I thought. Again, to myself.

Families continued to flow through us and around us. I saw fathers enveloped in clouds of cigarette smoke, dropping f-bombs in front of their kids (not aimed at us, just as a part of normal conversation). One woman looked at our group's "pro animal" posters and said flatly, "Well, it's a good thing I don't care about animals." Her male companion laughed loudly.

Since this is the Midwest, the vast majority of the circus-goers were polite. They walked by without speaking.  The adults looked down or away, but many of the kids read our signs. Once the 6:30 p.m. show had started, we packed up and headed home. I couldn't feel my toes anymore at that point. I made a mental note to wear thicker socks the next day.

On Saturday morning, I watched a documentary on Netflix as I was getting my act together. It's called Accidental Courtesy in case you want to check it out.  The program follows the travels of a man named Daryl Davis. Daryl Davis is a black man (and fairly well-known musician) who believes that there is value in meeting with KKK members one by one. If they can sit down together and find some common ground, maybe they can build a friendship. Sure enough, many Klan members have had a change of heart and have actually given their hoods and robes to Mr. Davis. He has around 25 of them so far, in addition to other KKK trinkets like pins.  His work has put him at odds with the Black Lives Matter movement, but I do think there is merit in his overall theory: don't be so quick to condemn your adversaries. Look a little deeper.

I thought about that documentary a lot on Saturday as I took my post in front of the arena for the 1:30 show. While I do think that we (the protestors) are on the right side of history, I knew I needed to be less judgemental of the circus attendees. After all, there was a time when I routinely ate a quarter pounder with cheese without thinking twice about it. Granted, that was almost 30 years ago, but still . . . an awakening of conscience causes one to see everything in a new light.

So, I held my sign and chatted with my friend who organizes the protests each year. My daughter opted not to join me this time - partly because she had just slept 12 hours straight and hadn't even gotten dressed when it was time for me to leave.

At the Saturday show, not too many people shouted at us, fortunately. One person did yell, "Don't you have pets?!"

Heidi responded, "Yes, I do, but I don't train them with bull hooks."

Another guy said, "You aren't doing anybody any good." I wasn't sure what his main beef was: was he simply annoyed that we weren't using our time wisely, in his opinion?

Another circus-goer confessed, "I'm totally with you guys - I am just doing this for my kids."  I have some hope for that guy!

I invest most of my hope in the kids. The ones who are old enough to read do read the signs as their parents are whisking them past us. Maybe in a few years they will look into how baby elephants are actually trained and will tell their parents, "Nah, I don't want to go." I'm counting on my daughter's generation to end this crap once and for all.

Monday, February 20, 2017

If only the magic carpet took kids to rehearsals


After months of rehearsals, our daughter finally had her chance to perform on stage in Aladdin last week. She played a couple of roles - she was a Harem girl and an attendant to one of the princes. She was also in Genie's chorus, which included a very impressive tap dancing number. There were four performances in total: one for students and three for the public. I volunteered to work concessions at the Friday night performance but still got to see most of the show. P and I attended the Saturday afternoon performance together. We brought the kid a rose to congratulate her on a job well done.

We were in the front row at the Saturday show, and she looked right at us a couple of times - DURING the performance. I made a mental note to remind her about not breaking the fourth wall (which may be the one and only thing I remember from the drama class I took in high school). The show was very enjoyable and perfectly cast. My daughter did want to play Jasmine but as an 11-year-old with little theater experience, that type of role would have been a bit much for her. The girl who played Jasmine was outstanding. It wasn't hard to see how much work the kids, director, stage crews, etc. put into the production. I mean, for a middle school musical, it was really outstanding! You could tell it was a middle school production because about half the cast had braces, including Iago, the parrot.

After the show, we waited for our daughter in the crowded hallway outside the theater. When we found her, she informed us that it's tradition for the cast to go to Culver's while still in stage make-up (but sans costumes). We agreed to take her. We handed her ten bucks and dropped her off. It's a weird feeling, knowing that your kid is old enough to hang out without you. I figured a group of theater kids couldn't get into TOO much trouble and I assumed a few parents would stay, too.

As far as what we'll do with our spare time now that the mister and I don't have to drive the kid back and forth to rehearsals five days a week? Well, fret not. She still has choir on Sundays (with Tuesday rehearsals being added soon) and guitar on Wednesdays. Later this month, she plans to audition for the talent show at school.  I'm assuming there will be a rehearsal or two for that (if she gets in).  Then, in the fall we can start the process all over again: show choir, musical, talent show, and city choir.  I sometimes joke that it's a good thing we only have one kid - a second kid surely would have run away by now, purely out of sheer neglect.

Needless to say, though, I am one proud mama.





Monday, February 6, 2017

Hello, Gecko

It finally happened. My daughter got a reptile.

In exchange for the kid volunteering in a reptile education area at an annual pet expo for the past several years, my friend Cindy told me that when we were ready, she would hook us up with a Crested Gecko. A Crested Gecko is considered to be a good "starter" animal for reptile hobbyists. There is a commercially-available powder that is specifically formulated for them (just mix with water). I'm just not sure that we were ready to share our lives with someone who must eat live mice to survive.

My daughter had rehearsal for the upcoming musical all day on Saturday, so I drove to the expo by myself to pick up our new friend. It's about two hours away. I stayed at my friend Kathy's house the night before so that we could drink wine and act uncivilized. I headed to the expo Saturday morning. (With a bonus trip to Trader Joe's on the way.) This is a HUGE expo - thousands of people attend every year. I pulled into the vendor parking lot because I needed to get the cage that Cindy was giving me. As I was waiting in line to pay for parking, I spotted a red truck in front of me. Then I noticed the Pantera sticker on the back. And a blonde driver. In an incredible stroke of luck, Cindy was directly in front of me. I was able to park next to her and get the cage and stand. She told me I didn't have to pay for the stuff but I slipped her some cash anyway.

Inside the expo, I was able to talk to the breeder from whom Cindy had obtained the gecko. Interestingly, Crested Geckos were almost extinct and it was the pet trade that essentially brought them back. I wanted to get a gecko from Cindy and her peeps because I felt like it would be a better/safer source than a pet store. Of course, I had about a million questions about feeding, how much water to give, etc.

I did some shopping at the expo and then looped back to the reptile education area to pick up the little dude (he/she hasn't been sexed so I guess we're just calling it "he" until someone tells us otherwise). He was in a small plastic travel case.  One good thing about these little guys is that they are not super sensitive with temperature and don't need a heat lamp. It's not like you have to keep them between 74 and 76 degrees or something. However, temperature is still a big concern. He shouldn't be in an environment lower than 60 degrees or higher than 80. If the air hits 80 degrees, he's probably a goner. Needless to say, it's wintertime and well below 60 degrees outside.  So, not knowing what else to do, I took off my coat, wrapped it around the plastic cage, and then hoofed it waaaaaaaaaaay across the snowy parking lot to my car. I'm sure I looked super cool, gingerly carrying my coat out in front of me like that.

On the long drive back home, I kept the heat on to make sure he didn't get chilled. It's kind of funny to think of going to all these lengths for someone who's so tiny that you can't really even feel him when he walks on your arm. I have to say he is very cool, though. His "sticky" feet allow him to climb just about anything. He jumps pretty far distances. The reptile people at the expo told me that even if he falls/jumps from a significant height, he is unlikely to get hurt. The other random tidbit: it's fairly common for a Crested Gecko's tail to fall off. In the wild, this is a defense against predators. However, it happens in captivity, too. Two different people told me that if the tail does come off, it will twitch for a while after that happens. That's good to know because if I hadn't been made aware and the tail fell off later  . . . well, that's the stuff of nightmares, I think.

My daughter had a sleepover on Saturday so she saw her new friend only briefly before she had to leave. She has decided to name him Geo. The display cage my friend gave me is really beautiful. We are lucky to have it.  I set it up in my daughter's room. Later, I ran to Petco to pick up the powered diet. I also grabbed a bag of crickets (just four small ones).  Crested Geckos fare just fine on the gecko diet but I was told that crickets are good for supplementing. Apparently this particular type of gecko is prone to calcium deficiencies so we just have to keep an eye on his intake. It's common to "dust" the crickets with calcium powder.

Now, this part is a little weird for a vegan to say, but hey - circle of life and all that. My husband and I watched Geo's reaction as I dumped the four crickets into the cage. People at the expo had told me that it was fun to watch, so we wanted to see just how fun it is. The three smallest crickets disappeared into the mossy stuff at the bottom of the cage. The largest one, however, marched across a branch directly towards Geo. Moments later, little Death Wish Cricket's legs were dangling from Geo's lips (I don't know if he actually has lips - just bear with me here).  I'm assuming that the other three crickets surrendered later on.

Anyway . . . so far, so good. My kid finally has the reptile she's always wanted. And, when she leaves for college in 6 1/2 years . . . I guess I'll be the proud owner of a Crested Gecko.

He's in there somewhere . . .

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Birthday Boy

Of the six dogs (Lucy Annabel, Karl Lee, Gideon, Gretchen, Grover, and Glinda) and three cats (Bobby Shafto, Franklin, and Ella Fitzkitty) that have lived with us, we've only known the date of birth for one or two. So, Grover is the rare case in which we didn't have to assign him a birthday. 

Anyway, it was touch-and-go there for a while, but we decided to let Grover live long enough to see his first birthday, which is today. Happy birthday to Grovie! (AKA Grover from Dover, Jerkface, Grovie-Dohvie-Doo, Get-That-Asshole-off-the-Counter, Grovielicious, Groovy Grovie).

He is currently taking more classes through the local kennel club. I still have hopes of getting him into Agility. He stole a muffin off the counter yesterday morning so, as you can see, the training is going just greaaaaat (and yes, he even ate the wrapper). It's a good thing he's so cute.


Monday, January 30, 2017

Some Recent Goings-On

As my reader may recall, my company was acquired back in October. I've been acquired twice now. I lost vacation hours in the transaction both times but hey, I need to be steadily employed and you can't rock the boat too much when you need to make sure you stay that way. This recent acquisition has turned out to be a positive event in most ways (at least for me). I was nervous about working for such a large company, but it hasn't been as daunting as I feared it would be. And then something extra-good happened two weeks ago: I was promoted and got a raise. I knew that I was under-paid by my former employer but again, my bargaining power has been limited. I am glad that the new company recognized that my 21 years in the IT field does count for something and that I am a competent employee. So yay for competence and being paid a fair wage!

In other news, I got a tattoo last week. I'd been planning it for a while. For obvious reasons, I like to make careful decisions about this sort of thing. When I was at the tattoo shop on Saturday, a young woman walked in and asked if she could get a tattoo that day. Tara, the artist, told the young woman that she was all booked up.  I made my appointment back in November. Plus, I attended a consultation meeting weeks beforehand. I guess I just find it odd that someone would get a tattoo on a whim and expect an artist just to be sitting around waiting for them. As a matter of fact, I think that there has been at least one drop-in every time I've been in her shop.

As far as the design I chose, I gave this a lot of thought. I decided to go with a watercolor elephant with the thought that I may add other watercolor animals later on - like maybe a giraffe, bird, or rhino. I chose the elephant for a couple of reasons. The main one is that I think the elephant is probably the most glaring example of the atrocities we commit against animals. I guess the other reason would be that I think they are simply beautiful. I decided to add Ahimsa, in Sanskrit.  Ahimsa is an important tenet of several religions, including Hinduisum and Buddhism, and it essentially means "compassion and non-violence towards all living creatures." I first learned the term in a religion class I took in college.

I am very happy with the tattoo.  It's a little bigger than what I had envisioned initially, but the size turned out just fine in the end. I had Tara tattoo the elephant on my back (vs. other possible locations) because a) I do have to do the corporate thing and b) it just seemed to be the most logical spot for it (particularly if I want to add other animals later on).

I arrived at the shop on Saturday morning for my appointment. I wasn't too nervous because I've done this before and knew what to expect. Tara had me lie down on the orange table (that also converts into a chair). She chose the ink colors and off we went. I was face-down, of course. The first hour or so wasn't too bad. I listened to music on my phone and did my best to keep my yoga breathing going - I tried counting to four on the inhale and exhale. I also tried to focus on not clenching any muscles. I turned up the music so that I couldn't hear the buzzing of the tattoo machine.

Eventually, I asked if we could take a break so that I could use the bathroom. I looked at the tattoo in the bathroom mirror and saw that we had a long way to go. I quickly washed my hands and submitted to the needle once again, before I had a chance to talk myself out of it. The second hour was rougher than the first, but I was determined to walk out with a completed tattoo. Tara is a talented artist so I also didn't want her to feel rushed. This art will be on my skin for the rest of my life. Noticing that I was getting fidgety, she asked me if I'd like to sit up instead. I figured it was worth a try. She handed me an enormous teddy bear to hug. So, I was hunched over that bear as the buzzing resumed. I checked the weather and played Words with Friends on my phone to distract myself.  I didn't last long with the sitting, though. "I need to lie back down," I said.

As we entered the third hour, I think Tara sensed that I was ready to tap out. She completed the outline of the elephant and told me she would spray some lidocaine on my back. She couldn't apply the local anesthetic prior to that because it would have wiped out the stencil. Now that the tattoo was mostly done, it was safe to lose the stencil. "I'm going to break up your skin," she told me.

"What on earth does that mean?" I asked. It certainly sounded horrifying. She explained that she would use a dry needle to puncture my skin in multiple spots. She would then using a numbing spray on my back. The dry needle bit felt about as good as you'd expect, but when the anesthetic took effect . . . ahhhh.  As she got back to work on my tattoo, the pain was still very real but the edge was taken off. She was able to finish her work without me bitching and moaning. I mean, I think I have a pretty high pain tolerance but three hours is a lot for anyone, I think.

When I finally stood up and viewed the tattoo in its entirety, I loved it right away. Tara is very talented.  Plus, she's an all-around nice person. As I was waiting for the gel bandage to dry, a young woman came in with her mother and her baby. She had an appointment, so her presence was legit. Tara turned around and mouthed the words "Why would they bring a baby?" to me.  Why indeed.

The hour-long drive home was a little rough because, essentially, I had an open wound on my back. I regret nothing, though. Like I said . . . careful decisions.

The only other news of late is that we are fostering a pit bull for the local shelter. Rudy (AKA Rudy-Tooty-Fresh-n-Frooty) has a visit with an applicant on Saturday. That applicant happens to be a friend of mine. I thought it would be a great match. Alas, it turns out that the little goofball gets a little protective when strangers come into the home (we've learned that he does better if the visitor is already there when he comes out of his crate). I have a couple of volunteers from the shelter coming over to help me work with him. It was disappointing because Rudy is such a great dog! He gets along great with my dogs and has always been fine with me, my daughter, and my husband. He does jump up and can get mouthy, but it wasn't a big deal because my dogs jump up on people, too.  The only version of him we'd seen (at least until Saturday) was just pure silly/goofy/knucklehead.  I know there's a home out there for him, though. I just need to convince him that we don't need to be protected from the visitors who enter our home.

So, that's about it for recent happenings. When I'm not at work, I'm driving my kid to guitar lessons, choir practice, or Aladdin rehearsals. It's all worthwhile, though, because she's super grateful and never leaves a single tap shoe at home so that I have to drive across town to deliver it and am 15 minutes late for work.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

The Molar

Last week, I took my daughter to her orthodontist for a follow-up visit. We're done with all of the orthodontia (palate expander, head gear, braces) for now, but we were obligated to go in for "let's see how things look" visit. My assumption is that the doctor is just waiting patiently to see if my daughter's adult teeth turn out to be as jacked up as her baby teeth, in which case I assume he has a solution to the tune of a bajillion dollars. The visit turned out to be worthwhile, though, because he quickly spotted a problem.  The kid had a new molar coming in from the top. However, the baby tooth had neglected to vacate the premises. That wee little tooth was like, "Nah, I'm good." So, having nowhere to go, the new tooth decided to take up residence next to the old one. The new tooth was jutting right into the palate.  "This will have to be pulled," quoth the orthodontist.

So, I made an appointment with our next dentist for the following week. I'm sure my kid knew that she had a problem brewing in her mouth, but she tends not to tell me about these things. If I even suspect that a tooth is loose, I will nag her relentlessly to pull it out and make room for the new one.

I started dreading the appointment the very second I made it. My child has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to discomfort of any kind. She had a blister on her foot recently, and we had to hear about it for days. She will not swallow vitamins or pills of any kind. She will only take medication that is in liquid form and then only if it is grape flavored. She goes through band-aids like water. Pure drama. She called me from the bus stop one day last week. We've had some icy conditions lately. "Mom, I just wanted to let you know that I fell down three times on the way to the bus stop."  Now, just exactly what was I meant to do about this? Turn back time and somehow keep her upright on her two-block trek to the bus?

I did not know the procedure for pulling her tooth, so I was unable to explain it to her in detail. I talked to a co-worker who said that her dentist uses laughing gas and then uses the needle to inject the anesthetic into the gums. So, I thought the process might be like that. By the time I picked her up from school for the appointment on Thursday, she had whipped herself into quite the frenzy. "Dr. M is not in the business of hurting children," I told her. "I don't exactly know how he will get your tooth out of your head, but I really don't think it will hurt."

Before long, she was seated in the dentist's chair and Dr. M was explaining the procedure to her. She was nervous, I could tell. He loaded a cotton swab with some pink gel and deposited the gel inside my daughter's cheek. He then stuck one gloved finger in there and wiggled it around like crazy to distribute the goop.  Then, we had small talk with Dr. M's assistant while we waited for the gel to take effect. The kid was amazed by the changes that were taking place. "Mom, I can't feel part of my face!"

A few minutes later, the dentist returned to the exam room. He put some plastic glasses over my daughter's eyes. Then, he very casually draped his left hand over her eyes (but not in such a way that would cause her to think, "Why are you covering my eyes?") He then pulled back her cheek as the assistant handed him the needle. He told my daughter that he was going to push on her gums with his finger. "You'll just feel pressure," he said. Very deftly, he made a couple of quick jabs with the needle, and then passed it back to his assistant. We just recently switched to this new dentist and although I already liked the guy a lot, he definitely sealed the deal with this procedure. I mean, the kid never saw the needle and never knew she'd been injected.

Dr. M. left the room again for a few minutes to let the anesthetic fully take effect. When he returned, he grabbed one instrument, jabbed the stubborn molar out of place, and bam, it was over. He high-fived his patient, shook my hand, teased the kid about boys at school, and bid us adieu. I feel like he sort of makes up for all the shitty medical professionals I've encountered in my adult life.

As we were leaving the building, I told my daughter about the needle. I felt like I wanted her to know that extracting the tooth was more involved than just plucking it out. As luck would have it, she spotted Dr. M talking to someone in a side office. "You!" she exclaimed. He laughed.

So there you have it, the saga of the tooth extraction. They sent us home with some extra gauze. However, it was a good thing she didn't need it because the dogs chewed it up as soon as we got home




Saturday, January 7, 2017

Here you go, Rachel

Here's my annual "new music I like" post for 2016.  My friend Rachel is the only one who reads it, so this one's for you, Rach!

The Shelters - Never Look Behind Ya

Courtney Barnett - Three Packs a Day.  Courtney Barnett could read my Facebook feed to me and I would buy it.

Paul Simon - Wristband

Barns Courtney - Glitter and Gold

The Pixies -  Um Chagga Lagga  My loyalty to Black Francis knows no bounds.

Gaelynn Lea: Someday We'll Linger in the Sun Talk about talent! She won NPR's Tiny Desk contest and I've been haunted by her music ever since.

Lucius: Born Again Teen

Lin-Manuel Miranda, Opetaia Foa'i - We Know The Way (From "Moana").  I love the music in this film.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

A Little Lesson

For many years now, members of my church have volunteered a few times a year to provide a meal at a local homeless shelter.  Different churches and organizations take turns cooking and serving a meal at the shelter.  I have never been able to participate because our church's turn always came up on a weekday. I have to work for The Man on weekdays. However, this time around it (a lunch meal) was scheduled for New Year's Eve and since it was a Saturday, I had the day off. I added my name and my daughter's name to the sign-up sheet.

Treat bakers were also needed, so I signed us up for that, too.  I bought a couple boxes of brownie mix and told my daughter to get started.  She did most of the baking on her own, but I set (and watched) the oven timer carefully because I'm pretty sure she'd leave something in there for a hundred years if she was wrapped up in some tweenie show on Netflix at the time.

When Saturday morning rolled around, it was a struggle to get her out the door as usual.  We had to be there at 11:15 so, you know, not the crack of dawn or anything. Honestly, the real heroes of the day were the volunteers from our church who got there two hours before we did in order to chop/bake/cook.  We were serving some sort of ham casserole, bread, salad, fruit salad, and dessert.  The kid and I took our spots behind the serving windows.  I would dole out the salad and she would  handle the fruit. Our friend Paul stood next to us on dessert duty.  In addition to A's brownies, there were some odds and ends (biscotti, chocolate chip cookies, etc.) from our church bake sale the week before, and some other newly-baked goodies that had been added.

A typical meal at the shelter serves a couple hundred people. It is all very orderly. They opened the serving windows at precisely 11:30. Folks grabbed a tray and then worked their way through the line, starting with the casserole and ending with dessert. Some passed on the salad and made jokes about not being a rabbit. I smiled and made jokes about what their mom would think of them not eating salad. When each person got to the dessert spot, my daughter would pipe up and say, "I made the brownies!"

Unable to resist the allure of the chocolatey goodness made by the jovial sixth grader, almost every person said, "Well, I'll have a brownie then!"

Some folks said very little as they came through the line. Others chatted us up quite a bit. Virtually all were very polite. The thing about homelessness is that there is no single adjective that fits all.  There were families with children. Veterans. Old people. Young people. A few who appeared to have mild developmental impairments.

A couple of people asked me what kind of dressing was on the salad. "Italian," I said.  We did have some standby salad that didn't have dressing on it, so we offered that up as needed.  I certainly wasn't going to knock anyone for being a bit picky. Just because you are homeless doesn't mean you all of a sudden like Italian dressing.  One man approached the dessert tray and pointed at one of the biscotti. I think he said, "One of those" or "What are those?"

Paul said, "It's biscotti. I hear it goes great with coffee."

The man responded, "I know what biscotti is."  There was a tiny bit of indignation in his voice. No one was assuming that a homeless man wouldn't know what biscotti is, but I think he interpreted it that way. Hell, I only heard of it fairly recently myself so I don't think it's necessarily on the list of "things everyone knows."

Once everyone had been served, a shelter employee made a call for seconds.  Lots of people lined up and many of the same faces came through the line. Some who didn't want salad the first time through decided to give it a try on the second pass.

At exactly 12:30, the rolled shades came down and covered the serving windows.  Lunch was over.  Other volunteers came in to clean up the meal and we were free to go.  My daughter and I hopped into our car and headed to Chipotle for lunch. On the way there, she asked me how people become homeless.  I did my best to explain some of the complex socio-economic reasons why some people in our community don't have homes.  For some, it's a lost source of income that sends them into a tailspin. For others, it could be mental illness or medical issues or any number of factors. Homelessness may be short term for some (ideally) but others may be in dire straits for much longer.

I think she understood.  I didn't want to be transparent and say that I wanted her to appreciate what she had.  Our reason for volunteering, first and foremost, was that our church needed volunteers to help with the meal. However, there is also that little bit of "teach my kid gratitude" leaking into the situation. We are not wealthy people but as childhoods go, our kid is having a pretty darned good one if you ask me. She's got her own room and a closet full of clothes. She has a cell phone and various other electronics. She participates in a choir (which will cost us $2000 this year) and is about to start guitar lessons. I mean, she could have it a lot worse.  Next time she is inclined to complain that the wifi signal doesn't always reach her bedroom, maybe she'll think about the children who came through that line on Saturday. She is a good kid with a good heart but still, kids are kids and reminders certainly don't hurt.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Shingle Bells, Shingle Bells

Did I mention that I have shingles? So fun, right?  I woke up on Christmas morning with some sort of irritation on my back. It was on my left side, right about at the bra line. It hurt and itched, but not outrageously so. I had done a few work-outs the previous week and even managed to sweat, so I thought maybe one of my sports bras had pissed off the skin on my back or something.  I handed a tube of cortisone to my daughter and asked her to slather some on my back.  The next day, I had my husband do the same thing. "I guess I have a case of the creeping epizooties," I told him. When I was a kid, this was a term my stepdad used to describe any random or unexplained rash. I am not sure if it's a real thing or not. I'm assuming not. 

Now, I guess it didn't occur to either one of them to mention that my back had actually erupted in blisters. I mean, I couldn't really see it myself because, well, it's on my back and my head faces the other direction for the most part. I figured it out after some contortions in front of the bathroom mirror.  I suspected shingles immediately, but wasn't sure. My youngest sister had it a couple months and had a pretty bad case of it. My mother suffered a bout with shingles years ago and still has lots of scars from it, so I know it can be very serious. I felt terrible for asking my husband and daughter to touch my back. Obviously, I kept my cooties to myself once I started to suspect shingles.

On Friday, I had an appointment scheduled with my dermatologist, but the catch was that I was not scheduled to see the doctor himself. I was just there for bloodwork to make sure that a recent medication change was not, you know, killing me or anything. I asked the nurse if there was any chance the doctor might be available to take a quick peek. Once I mentioned the word "blisters," she went and found him. He took one look: "Yep, shingles." He prescribed me an anti-viral medication and told me to stay away from babies, pregnant ladies, and really old people.

I started the medication a few days ago and things seem to be getting better. My back itches but I know it could have been a lot worse.  I am relieved that my daughter was vaccinated for chicken pox and that my husband contracted chicken pox as a child. Otherwise, they would both be at risk for getting chicken pox.  My brother-in-law came down with chicken pox when my sister had shingles, and he ended up in the hospital. Chicken pox in adults is no joke.

So, shingles was a little Christmas gift to me. Fa-la-la-la-la!

In other news, we had a quiet little New Year's celebration. And by "celebration," I mean we went to bed at 11:30 with an unopened bottle of champagne still in the fridge. I think my kid stayed up past midnight, though. She stayed up late every night during winter break. The other day I asked her how late she'd stayed up the night before and she said, "It's probably better if you don't know, Mom." She's been spending a lot of time with her new keyboard. She taught herself to play the chorus from "Piano Man" just by hearing it on Glee (she's been watching all the old episodes on Netflix). Teachers keep telling me that she has a "good ear." I guess she must - I certainly wouldn't be able to play a tune just from hearing it on TV.

Our new dog is settling in well.  The holiday weekend was a good time to bring our new girl home since it gave her lots of extra time with her. We only had to crate her once over the weekend, just briefly, but it was long enough for us to learn that she, um, frickin' hates the crate.  So, that will be something to work on. She is also opposed to peeing outside but again, something to work on.

Happy New Year!