Alabaster Mom

Rock Lobster

2012-02-19T16:03:00.000-06:00

I received an iTunes gift card for my birthday so of course I was compelled to spend it within 24 hours. I spent some time on iTunes, digging around in the Alternative section, checking out the songs that were recommended just for me, and so forth. And then it hit me: I did not have the song "Rock Lobster" on my iPod. Truly, I was horrified. First off, if my friend Kevin were still alive he would probably run me over with his car (preferably his old-school Geo Tracker) for this sort of infraction. He was a big B-52s fan. Second, just how did I miss this? It seems like Rock Lobster should be a building block of any decent music collection. I did have "Private Idaho" in case I get partial credit for that.

So, I bought Rock Lobster. Or rather, my sister bought it for me. Then, as I was making lunch yesterday, I popped my iPod into the radio in the kitchen. I told my daughter she had to come in and dance to the song with me. She was playing games and whatnot online, but her curiosity got the better of her and she agreed to come into the kitchen when I called her. I told her to keep dancing and then when Fred Schneider sang, "Down, down down!" I let her know that she needed to sink to the floor and then stay there until the music started up again.

I cranked up the song and we danced feverishly in the kitchen, our feet pounding rapidly against the linoleum tile. After several minutes of dancing, my daughter asked, "Mom, can I stop? I'm really tired!" I told her that the B-52s would never allow it. In fact, it's illegal. I ~~encouraged~~ required her to dance on. When we got to the "down down down" part, we spun ourselves down to the floor and laid on our backs. The dogs promptly ran over and stepped on our heads. Then the beat picked up again so we sprang up and kept dancing. She asked again if she could stop and I told her I just couldn't permit it. Yes, the song is seven minutes long but sheesh, a six-year-old should have more stamina than that! Kids these days, I tell you.

When the song ended, she sucked down some lemonade and then got back online to watch The Fresh Beat Band. As if that inane "Bananas" song they sing qualifies as real music! Who knows, maybe someday she'll come to her senses and force her kid to dance to Rock Lobster. Pass the tanning product!

She's at a friend's house for a play date right now but when she gets home, she'll be delighted to learn that I downloaded another song that requires much dancing:

That's not what they called it back in the day

2012-02-17T20:54:00.002-06:00

I attended a "Math & Muffins" event at my daughter's school this morning. Parents were invited to join their child(ren) for some math exercises and then to munch some mini muffins afterward. So, I took part of the morning off work and trucked over to the school to pretend I care about math (in the interest of being a good mom and all). There is, after all, a reason why I chose English as my major in college. However, I do want my daughter to care about math, so I've tried not to let my apathy slip out when she's around. When it comes to homework assistance, we have a clear division of labor: P handles math and I deal with the written word. Although I suspect it won't be long before the kid's math lessons are over my head, at this point I'm still able to handle the basic arithmetic lessons she is tackling in the first grade. Therefore, I felt qualified to attend this particular event.

The parents gathered in the cafeteriauditoriumnasium and the principal stopped by to say a few words and to thank us for coming. We were then dismissed to head to the classrooms. My daughter was excited to see me. She pulled up a chair next to her desk so I could sit with her. Mrs. S gave us instructions for playing the first game. We had three decks of flashcards, with each card containing an equation. For example: 7 + ___ = 11. (See, I told you I can handle it!) The idea was to solve the equation and then set the card down on a corresponding square (4) and creating a quilt of sorts.

Then the teacher said this: "Some of the kids may be able to do it in their head but others may want to use finger flashing."

Wait a second . . . finger flashing? You mean, what we used to call counting on your fingers? At first I thought I misheard her but then she repeated it several times: finger flashing. And here I thought finger flashing was something entirely different. I use it not so much for math but for signaling my displeasure at other drivers on the road. I looked around the room to see if any of the other parents found it amusing, but apparently I was the only one. Clearly, something is wrong with me. I blame my parents. I think they taught me to derive humor from inappropriate situations.

It's worth noting that because of her genius-level intellect, my kid didn't have to flash anybody the finger to do her math. We played the game and then received instructions on the next game. For this game, we had to roll a die and then use a chart to draw a snowman. So, if you rolled a 1 you had to draw the hat, a 2 was the head and so forth. The kid and I rolled the die and drew our snowmen. And then we were done.

Eventually Mrs. S realized that there was too much time left over. We weren't supposed to eat the muffins until precisely 10:10 a.m. and it was only 10:00. She decided we could add accessories to our snowmen.

"What accessories would your snowman have?" she asked the class. The first thing that popped into my mind: a lit cigar. Again, I don't know what is wrong with me. I had to fight the almighty compulsion to put a stogie in my snowman's mouth.

I looked over at my daughter's snowman. She had drawn a purse, which was draped delicately over the snowman's stick arm. Then she added a flowing scarf. Her accessories made a lot more sense than what I had in mind. She handed me a purple marker and instructed me to give my snowman a purse also. I complied.

Before I knew it, it was time for the mini muffins and room temperature apple juice. I had a chocolate chip one. And then I had to go back to work and do grown-up stuff. I hope I didn't embarrass my daughter too much. I had scared her this morning by suggesting that if I came to school and my butt started to itch . . . I might, just might, have to scratch it. In front of her friends. "Mo-o-om!"

At least I know that finger flashing is not a problem and can be done freely in public or in private. Please make a note of it.

Birthday

2012-02-15T20:01:00.002-06:00

First off, I really need to show you this photo of my four-month-old nephew. My middle sister posted it on my Facebook page yesterday.

That photo is the cutest thing you've ever seen, right? A and I are flying out to DC to meet this little guy at the end of March. I am really concerned that that new baby smell will have worn off completely by then. Seeing the photo made my day. Well, lots of things made my day yesterday, which was also my birthday. It's always amusing to me when people ask, "Your birthday is really on Valentine's Day?" I'm not sure who would lie about the date of their birth (or why). Or maybe my mom, who was a teenager when I was born, somehow falsified my birth certificate because I was REALLY born on [dun dun dun!] February 13th. But anyway, yes, my birthday is really on Valentine's Day. It's legit. And I was legit, too - those crazy kids were married and whatnot. In case you wondered.

I got a lot of nice messages on my Facebook wall yesterday, so I felt all poopular for a second there. One friend thanked me for my rescue work, another thanked me for my tres amusante Facebook status updates, a couple of friends pointed out that I am old, and so forth. I asked my daughter for one and only one thing for my birthday. I asked her if she would get up when her alarm went off and then get dressed voluntarily and on time. I did not get my wish. Her alarm went off at 6:10 a.m. and by 6:20 she was in a naked heap on the floor, crying loudly and bemoaning all the ways in which we've wronged her. So much for that.

The problem with being a grown-up is that you have to work on your birthday. So, I went to work as usual. We had a baking contest at work yesterday in honor of Valentine's Day and I did not win. Perhaps my co-workers misunderstood the unwritten rule about voting for the birthday girl. I came in second. The co-worker who won is a super-nice guy, which made it really hard to mock his victory. And believe me, I tried.

After work, the three of us went to Noodles. Yes, we got a little crazy in honor of my birthday, going out to dinner on a Tuesday like that. I'm lucky I made it to work on time this morning after that kind of overindulgence. Anyway, I had coupons for a free meal at either Red Robin or Noodles, so we went to Noodles. I do love their Penne Rosa with tofu, and I thought it might be slightly better (health-wise) than dinner at Red Robin. I'm not sure why this was important to me at the time, in as much as we went home and ate cake (chocolate with white icing - my favorite). My daughter made up some new version of the birthday song where my age was repeated over and over. You can imagine how much I appreciated that. "Happy birthday to you cha-cha-cha! You're 42 cha-cha-cha!"

I rounded out the evening by watching some stuff I had on the DVR - "House" and "Dance Moms." I don't know what to say about Dance Moms. It's like a car accident where I can't look away. It makes me really glad my daughter has demonstrated zero talent in dance and that it's unlikely I'll ever have to spend time in a studio like the moms on the show. They are barking mad, every single one. And yet, somehow entertaining.

In closing, I just want to welcome my wee baby sister back to the land of the internets and over-sharing. She has not had computer access for the past couple of years. However, now she and my brother-in-law are running a convenience store* and have internet access there. Feel free to check out her blog.

*It is not called Kwik-E-Mart, which disappoints me greatly.
No, she does not think it's funny if you call there and ask for Apu. Believe me, I know.
No, they do not have a Squishee machine - which, I think you'll agree, is bullshit.

Now? How 'bout now?

2012-02-12T16:38:00.002-06:00

We had a wonderful, relaxing weekend out of town. We stayed at a resort about 75 minutes away. It's quiet and surprisingly inexpensive (since it's the off-season and all). Our daughter did her best to do away with the "quiet" part, though. Her dad and I heard this about a trillion times this weekend:

"Can we go to the play area? Can we do go the pool?" She alternated the two questions and then repeated them every minute of every day, except when she was asleep. For the record, we took her swimming twice (and stayed in there until the three of us were prune-y and waterlogged and our lungs stung from the chlorine). We also took her to the kids' play area multiple times. On Saturday, I took a book along and sat nearby while the kid played with some strangers for a good portion of the afternoon. P also accompanied her to the play area on several occasions, taking his Kindle along and playing poker while A bounced around in the ball pit. On Saturday afternoon we told her we'd take her to the pool after dinner. P and I sat on the couch for a moment after we'd finished eating. The kid went to her bedroom. We laid down a bet. It was 5:42 p.m. I bet that she'd come out and ask to go to the pool within five minutes. My other half guessed that she would ask at 6:00 p.m. We had to call off the bet, though, because she didn't ask at all. She simply changed into her bikini and stood there with her floating noodle tucked under her arm. You know, just in case someone might want to . . . take her to the pool. And so, submitting to the inevitable, we dutifully donned our swimsuits and padded down the carpeted hallway behind Miss Triumphant.

I dragged my family shopping on Saturday and allowed them to buy me a couple of things for my birthday. What can I say - I'm a giver!

At some point over the weekend, I came to the sad realization that I had managed to catch the cold that had dragged down my daughter a few days before. My throat started to feel like I had swallowed a razor blade. So, I did what any reasonable person would do, which was to drink my sore throat into submission. I was classy about it, though - I picked up some fancy wine at a nearby winery and poured it in a nice glass and everything.

Other good uses of our time over the weekend:

Playing "Fruit Ninja" on the Kindle. It is easy to become addicted to this game. At one point my daughter was calling me from another room and I actually yelled back, "Can you not see that I have a fruit frenzy here?!" If you've played Fruit Ninja, you know how crucial the fruit frenzy is to your score.
Playing Bananagrams. It was fun until the shortest member of our little family insisted that "weddingsub" is a word and stomped off when informed that it, in fact, is not.
Stopping at a candy store and spending $30 on candy. I bought and promptly ate two dark chocolate-covered Oreos (and also spent an hour in the resort's exercise room to alleviate the guilt). I also picked up a handful of my favorite suckers - the Charms green sweet and sour ones.
Painting my toenails blueish-green. I remember painting my fingernails blue one time when I was a teenager and heard this from my mother: "Oh geez, Claudia Marie. It looks like you have heart disease." So, I heard that echoing in my head all weekend.

All in all, it was a good weekend. The kid climbed into our bed sometime after midnight on Friday night. She said she'd had a bad dream. I couldn't convince her to go back to her room so after about an hour of her relentless spinning and kicking and coughing, I abandoned ship and slept in her room. When I woke up at around 7, P was also up. "I couldn't take it anymore," he said. Honestly, we have no idea how someone so tiny (the kid is nearly 7 and is still under 45 pounds) can take over a king-sized bed so efficiently and mercilessly.

She won . . .

She won again

And again

I have heart disease

I've had better weeks

2012-02-10T12:03:00.001-06:00

Sorry I haven't posted in a few days. I do hate to disappoint my reader ("hi, Mom!") My kid has been sick all week. Some kind of plague hit the first grade and they've been dropping like flies (almost literally - one of A's BFFs fainted the other day). Her temperature has been up and down all week. I decided to go to yoga on Tuesday night and leave her in the mostly capable hands of her father for a couple hours. When I got home she was sleeping on the couch but I felt like I should wake her up and take her temperature (it had spiked to 103.2 earlier in the day). She scared me a little because I could not seem to rouse her. I kept saying, "Sweetie, I just need you to put this under your tongue." Finally, she opened her eyes halfway, grabbed my forearm tightly, started to cry and said, "Mom, I need . . . FRIENDS!" She was just completely incoherent and sweaty and weird. She still has a cold but seems to be on the mend now. Getting medicine down her gullet has been an ordeal, too. I suggested to her that if the grape flavored acetaminophen was THAT bad, she could just hold her nose and swallow the medicine very fast. She looked at me like I'd proposed she drink her own urine. "Hold my nose? Mom! I have to BREATHE, you know!"

My other focus right now is launching a new website for the rescue. Bringing over the content from the old site involves a lot of copying and pasting and downloading and uploading. It's exactly as fun as it sounds. A new volunteer offered to help move 700+ photos and I was so giddy about it that I'm pretty sure I spontaneously proposed to her. The new site is going to kick ass when it's done, though. I can't wait to launch it.

Other not-so-great news: my four-month-old nephew has not pooped in over a week (I just left my sister a voicemail to check on the poop status - I'm obsessed with the boy's output now). Also, Gideon broke out of his crate this morning and ate my entire bag of crackers from Trader Joe's. It's worth noting that I have to drive at least two hours to get to a Trader Joe's. I'm taking the cost of the crackers out of his allowance.

The only good thing to happen this week is that I bought this:

What the hell is that, you ask? It's a "fire bowl." (Duh!) Essentially it's a bowl full of Himalayan salt rocks. You shove a wee light bulb into each one and they all glow. Right now I have it sitting on the hearth in front of the fireplace. I've been a little worried about the dogs licking the rocks, but so far, so good. The rocks emit healthy negative ions. I have no idea what negative ions are or why they are beneficial to me, but I felt I needed this bowl of rocks. They are sold at my yoga studio and since I had a gift certificate burning a hole in my yoga pants, I had to buy one.

We're headed out of town for a couple of days. My birthday is on Tuesday but I'm forcing my family to celebrate it for several days in a row. I probably shouldn't post on my blog that I'm going out of town. You'll probably come over, break in, and lick my Himalayan rocks. Because you've been so worried that your ions are out of whack.

Hey, Hector

2012-02-06T18:10:00.003-06:00

In my last blog post I mentioned that I worked at a pet expo last weekend. I love pet expos. There are tons of rescues, vendors, and other animal-related stuff all in one location, giving me the opportunity to buy dog-related products that I don't really need. One benefit of being an exhibitor at these events is that we can scope out the booths before the expo opens, which is exactly what I did on Saturday. And that's when I had the opportunity to meet a handsome fellow named Hector.

Hector is one of the pit bulls rescued from Michael Vick's property a few years ago. Hector was adopted through Bad Rap. Many of the "Vicktory" dogs were evaluated, rehabilitated, and then placed through that organization. Some of the pit bulls, although people-friendly and well-behaved in general, were so conditioned to fight that they could could not be placed in adoptive homes. However, they are living out their lives at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Utah. Not a bad deal considering some of the alternatives.

Hector is a certified therapy dog and came to the expo to tell his story. He serves as a reminder that his life is worth more than his original fate, that he and his brethren have value. He challenges myths about the breed. His stellar temperament and obedient behavior serve to make my own dogs look like colossal, ill-behaved slackers.

When it comes to Michael Vick, a lot of people - particularly many sports enthusiasts - seem to share the sentiment that "the man did his time - leave him be." They don't understand why the crazy dog people can't let it go. Well, here's why. We can't "let it go" because Michael Vick never truly admitted that he did very bad things. In press interviews he made vague comments along the lines of "I allowed this to happen, I allowed that to happen." Now, I am all for redemption and rehabilitation, but you can't be redeemed or rehabilitated if you remove yourself from the equation. Like Dr. Phil says, "You can't change what you don't acknowledge." There is ample evidence that Michael Vick knew about everything that went on at Bad Newz Kennel and that he actively participated in the horrifying abuse himself. Dogs that did not perform well in the fighting ring were summarily killed in all sorts of brutal ways. Vick may have agreed to say, "Yeah, I did it" in some sort of legal sense as part of the original plea agreement, but I don't think he ever came clean in a real way that the public could see and BELIEVE.

Maybe people who are rich and famous live in such an insular or sheltered world that they forget what normal is. Look at Michael Jackson. The dude was beyond talented but totally wackadoo. If there is no one in their immediate circle to say, "You know, I'm not so sure you should . . . " then they are free to make bad decisions out the wazoo. So, you take a gifted athlete with no moral conscience and give him a bunch of money and voila! It somehow seems to him like a good idea to start a dog fighting operation. They are, after all, just dogs. They won't mind if you electrocute them for not doing their job well enough. But, as it turns out, someone did mind. The law, for starters. And, of course, animal lovers everywhere. I wonder what Vick thinks now about the dogs that were removed from his property and went on to become therapy dogs, live in loving homes with families and, most of all, prove that they have value in the world. Nothing, probably. I imagine that he doesn't think about them at all.

So it was with great joy and excitement that I made the acquaintance of handsome Hector on Saturday. I said hello to his owner (who is not too hard on the eyes either) and knelt down next to the placid brown-eyed dog. "I'm so happy to meet you, Hector! I'm a fan on your Facebook page." Yes, I said that to a dog - don't look at me like I've gone 'round the bend. Hector just stood there sweetly while I gave him some pat-pats and then agreed to let me take his photo. I tell you, the dog is a professional.

Over 10,000 visitors came to the expo on Saturday so I'm guessing that by the time Hector got home, his head was probably flattened from all the petting. But, I'm sure it was worth it. Now there are thousands of additional people who know his story and know that sometimes good things do come out of very bad things. Good boy, Hector. Good boy.

Taking one for the team

2012-02-05T21:04:00.000-06:00

I took my daughter to Chuck E. Cheese's this afternoon. I was feeling a little guilty because I was gone for part of the weekend (sans child) and wanted to make it up to her. I worked (well, volunteered) at a pet expo on Saturday and spent the night at my friend Kathy's house on Friday. As a matter of fact, I had to leave my niece's birthday party early on Friday, so P got his fill of single parenting this weekend. I figured I'd take one for the team and head over to Chuck E. Cheese's on Sunday afternoon after church. We never eat the pizza there - we just play games, exchange our tickets for worthless crap, and then head back home. Chuck E. Cheese's is located almost within spitting distance of our house. I'm sure you realize that this is a very bad thing. I actually had my daughter convinced that the joint was "under construction" and "very definitely closed" until she was around four years old. "But, Mama, there are CARS there!" Kids are just too damned observant sometimes.

When we got to Chuck E's this afternoon, we had to park in Outer Mongolia. That's never a good sign. Then we had to wait in line for a while just to get in. There were two women behind me who were apparently there for a birthday party. They muttered to each other about the crowd. "This is a fucking zoo," one said to the other. Like maybe she didn't notice that there were scores of children within earshot. I mean, she was right, but still.

When we finally got in, we played games for about 45 minutes and then our tokens ran out. We fed our tickets into the ticket muncher and then headed to the redemption counter. We had 442, which the chick behind the counter generously rounded up to 450. Either that, or she just didn't want to do any tricky math. Anyway, I spent $20.00 in tokens and since my child would ultimately leave the join with $.69 worth of sheer crap, I think Chuck E still came out on top. A jabbed a finger at the glass case. "I want nose putty," she stated emphatically. I peered into the case to see what she was talking about. I read the label of the desired prize.

"It's noise putty, Goober." If something called "nose putty" exists, I don't want to know anything about it. You've probably seen this fine "noise putty" product, though. It's essentially a plastic canister full of goop. She couldn't wait to get it home and show her dad. She ripped off the lid, shoved her tiny fist into the canister, and was rewarded with a loud fart noise. P laughed. I mean, legitimately laughed, not like the ha-ha you give your kids when they make up knock-knock jokes that aren't jokes at all. I attribute this to the fact that he is a boy. Even when boys grow up, bodily functions are still funny.

In case you wondered, the 450 tickets also earned her some Laffy Taffy and Fun Dip (which, in my mind, should still be called Lik-M-Aid). She also conned me into buying her a bomb pop, because apparently the sugar content in the candy was not high enough.

So, that was my weekend. We ended it with a Skype session with my mom. The kid asked her, "How much cats do you have, Meemaw?" My mom mumbled some sort of response. She gets very cagey when you ask her how many felines call her address home. I suspect we are talking double digits here.

I have to say, though, that even though we don't have the hover crafts and other awesome shit foretold to us in Jetsons cartoons, we do have the ability for a little girl to talk to her faraway Meemaw. And that's pretty amazing, too.

You'll be happy to know that . . .

2012-02-01T19:11:00.000-06:00

The tooth came out. Now I can go back to worrying about other pressing matters, such as: is there something weird about Drake's hairline or is it just me?

I packed lunch for the kid yesterday. Her Hello Kitty thermos contained three vegetarian "chicken" nuggets (and some ranch dip on the side because God forbid a child should eat naked food). She told me that she bit into a nugget and the tooth popped right out. A teacher in the cafeteria swiftly gave her a "tooth necklace" - basically a plastic tooth-shaped receptacle (with the newly liberated tooth inside, of course) that she could wear on a string around her neck for the rest of the day. I suspect that the school must have to dole out those necklaces to the first graders on an almost hourly basis. My daughter's classmates all look like jack-o-lanterns.

I asked her if it hurt and if there had been blood.

"It didn't hurt. There was just a little bit of blood," she told me. "The blood was on my nugget."

"Oh, okay. And did you eat the bloody nugget?" She nodded. It's kind of funny because I am constantly riding her about wasting food and this is one time when I would not have given her the starving-kids-in-Africa speech had she opted to throw the bloody nugget away.

Last night she put the tiny tooth in the little pocket of her tooth fairy pillow and drifted off to sleep. The tooth fairy left her three bucks. This morning I asked her if she had three dollars I could borrow and she told me no. The kid has wisely decided to save the money for Disney World in a few months.

I asked her if she has any other loose teeth. She quickly shook her head no. I have my doubts, though. I have my doubts.

p.s. I can hardly wait until someone Googles the term "bloody nugget" and finds my blog.

She still won't pull that *&%$ing tooth

2012-01-30T19:37:00.000-06:00

Apparently I have nothing else in my life to occupy my thoughts.

If only for a day

2012-01-29T18:20:00.003-06:00

Yesterday I made my annual trek out of town for the rescue's board/volunteer meeting. I bid on a two-star room on Priceline and was upgraded to a Hilton. Yay me! I have now decided to forgive Priceline for putting us up at Chez de la Sucks Ass back in July.

I dropped the kid off at a birthday party at noon. The party was held at a local jumpity-jump joint. I think there were over a thousand birthday parties going on simultaneously. Just walking in to deposit my daughter with the correct party group and winding through the crowd to get back out was enough to make my face twitch. I'm so glad she's old enough to be dropped off at these shindigs and that I don't have to hang around. She gets invited to a lot of parties and my mental health is fragile enough already.

I then hit the road, tofurkey sandwich in hand and a new "road tunes" playlist at the ready. Two and a half hours later, I was at my hotel. I checked in and was given a room on the 11th floor. As soon as I walked into my room, I immediately morphed into my mother and thought, "Heat rises. I'm on the 11th floor. I'll never get this room cold enough for me to be able to sleep well." At home, I have the thermostat programmed to drop to 65 overnight. In a big hotel, it's a little harder to control the temperature - I'm convinced the thermostat on the wall is just for show. I turned it down and hoped for the best. Had I actually been my mother and not just a diluted version of her, I would have pried open the wall unit in an attempt to override the whole system. She has also been known to summon hapless hotel maintenance workers, attempt to pry open windows, and engage in other nefarious tactics to bring the temperature down to her comfort level. I've seen her do it, ya'll. I like it a little cooler, but my mama's not happy in a hotel room until she can see her breath.

I hung out for an hour or so and then headed to the meeting. We had our board meeting first. I was re-elected to the treasurer position for the hundredth year in a row . . . it involves a lot of paperwork and bookkeeping, so believe it or not, I don't seem to get any challengers. We then had our general volunteer meeting. It probably doesn't sound like fun, but we eat, drink, play games, and then plow through some boring policy-related stuff. And then have another round of drinks. A few new volunteers came, which was great because we need some new blood. As much as I'm not big on change personally (I've been wearing the same shade of lipstick for at least a dozen years), I know that the organization will not grow and improve without some new folks. So, I was excited to see some new faces and hear some new ideas.

When the meeting was over, I headed back to my hotel room. The thermostat indicated it was 67 degrees in the room, but I knew better, sister. I spent the rest of the evening flipping through channels and eating candy conversation hearts. You know I love my family, but it was nice to have an evening to myself. I was asleep by 11, though. Party on, Wayne.

Although most hotels these days offer a free continental breakfast, my friends at the Hilton do not. No worries, though, because I brought some fruit and a granola bar from home. I did look at the room service menu just for my own amusement, though. Four-dollar orange juice? Is there gold dust in it or something? I got my act together and went down to the gym for a work-out. I have no witnesses, but I swear to you I did it - 50 minutes on the elliptical while I watched "Sunday Morning." Then I changed into my swimsuit and enjoyed a brief swim. I felt a little guilty to be swimming without my daughter, so I vowed not to mention it when I got home.

Finally, I checked out and headed home, stopping at Trader Joe's along the way. I enjoyed my 26 hours of freedom and am now back home . . . making the kid's lunch for tomorrow, picking up marker lids off the floor . . . you know, the usual level of glamour that defines my life.

One random closing thought: How come, no matter where you go (and no matter how nice a hotel you stay in), most people fail to grasp this basic concept: LET EVERYONE OFF THE ELEVATOR BEFORE YOU GET ON? I mean, even if your mother didn't specifically give you this bit of advice, doesn't common sense just sort of kick in anyway? I don't get it. I witnessed several episodes of "I must get on the elevator ASAP because if the doors somehow close before I get on, God knows this rig is never coming back and I'll be stranded on the 11th floor for the rest of my natural life." Some people's children, I tell you.

I have to stop reading/watching the news

2012-01-25T19:55:00.003-06:00

When I was a kid, I remember hearing the ticking clock of "60 Minutes" emanating from our console television every Sunday evening and always thought, "Ugh!" I could not understand how anyone could watch something so boring. Watching the news seemed like the very worst thing that could happen to a person. Of course, now that I have a few more decades behind me, my tolerance for news programming has increased considerably. I record "Sunday Morning" on the DVR every week and watch it after church. On weekdays, I scan the headlines on MSN and CNN while I munch my lunch. I have a long-standing crush on Robin Meade and usually listen to her newscast in the morning (even though I'm still mad about Headline News being shortened to HLN - I really did have time for those extra letters, CNN!).

There weren't any big news stories this week, so I had plenty of time to be pissed off about small ones.

1. Michigan's ass backwards adoption laws. Adoption laws vary greatly from state to state and some states are certainly worse than others. I would not want to be an adoptive parent in Michigan, that's for sure. It just seems sort of tragic that both halves of a same-sex couple don't have the same rights when it pertains to their children. Michigan will only allow one parent to be the official adopter, not both. If, God forbid, that parent dies, the other person has zero rights. No ability to make decisions about the child they've raised. Antiquated adoption laws don't benefit anyone. Plus, I can't think of any valid reason why any state would make it difficult for same-sex couples to adopt. I think it's been sufficiently proven that being raised by gay parents does not have any sort of adverse effect on children. Surely you've seen the video of this guy?

2. The overturn of a "downed livestock" law in California. Apparently, there was a law on the books requiring immediate euthanasia of sick/injured animals that cannot walk upon arrival at slaughter. I tell you, I have mostly lost hope that I'll ever live in a world where anyone gives a shit about animals and how they are treated. I mean, how many undercover videos showing livestock torture do we need? The part of the article that irked me the most was this statement: “The vast majority of nonambulatory pigs are merely overheated, stressed, fatigued, or stubborn and, if allowed to rest, will stand and walk unassisted,” it said.

Well, damn those surly pigs anyway. If they would just march serenely to their death like they are supposed to, we wouldn't have this problem. Stubborn pigs! Why, that jovial pig in Charlotte's Web had a always little skip in his step when he jogged around the farm. The other pigs should make note of that.

3. Heidi Klum and Seal have broken up? Say it ain't so! I'm not a celebrity-watcher, per se (my knowledge about Heidi Klum is mostly restricted to her work on Project Runway, which I love) but I thought they seemed like a good couple. Damn.

I'm sure there were some other news stories that got me worked up but I failed to commit them to memory. I've been busy getting ready for the annual meeting for the rescue, coming up this weekend. The meeting is being held a couple hours away from my house, so I'm going to stay in a hotel room alllllll by myself. The week has been mostly uneventful, save for my daughter's playground incident yesterday. At recess, she was running on some ice and apparently the black top flew up and attacked her face. I guess the poor kid landed face down on a patch of ice. Of course, she told me it was my fault because her snow boots are slightly too big. Because, you know, everything is my fault one way or the other. Anyway, it looks like she's going to pull through. I attended a parent-teacher conference last night and received glowing reviews of my daughter's performance. She's at an advanced reading level, is an excellent speller, and rocks at math, too. I'll take partial credit for her reading skills (since we read together quite a bit) and give the rest of the credit to her birthmom. The kid and I played Bananagrams on Sunday night. I was proud of her for using her tiles to create the word "MEATLOAF" (particularly since the longest word I'd come up with at that point was "SPIT") but was feeling somewhat less proud that she also laid down the word "ASS." When I asked her about it, she said, "I'm going to turn it into GLASSES as soon as I get a G and an L." Sure you are, kid. Sure you are.

Fearful

2012-01-22T15:49:00.002-06:00

Although my daughter has excellent social skills (as evidenced by her innate need to talk to strangers and share intimate details of our lives with them), her physical skills are not as well developed. She was a late walker (14 1/2 months) and is still hesitant about trying new things if it means pushing herself physically in any way. She will not:

Ride a bike (with or without training wheels)
Ride a scooter
Roller skate

She owns all three items, of course. Ah, that was money well spent. Basically, if wheels are involved, she wants no part of it. It does not bother her that many of her friends can ride a two-wheeler with no training wheels. And ride a scooter. And roller skate. She simply does not want to try anything that might possibly result in a scrape or a scratch. I've told her that every kid falls off her bike at some point. I divulged that I fell off my bike when I was a kid, but I decided not to tell her that I broke my arm while roller skating when I was five.

The kid lost her first tooth last summer. There was a bit of blood and she was mildly traumatized but seemed to get over it in time. The tooth next to that tooth is so loose that it's hanging by a thread. She refuses to pull it. I have become obsessed with this tooth and her failure to pull it out. I've even thought of sneaking into her room while she is sleeping, looping some dental floss around that bad boy, and yanking it out myself. She is afraid of the blood and the twinge of discomfort she'll feel as the tooth leaves the spot it has held for over six years.

Her dentist said that when a tooth is loose, it's a good idea to pull it because the adult tooth is trying to come in and you don't want to impede its progress. My daughter does not give a rat's ass about any of this. Honestly, I don't know how she can stand leaving it in there. It must feel awfully strange every time she bites into something. I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, if I had a tooth that was even vaguely loose, I pulled it out immediately. I mean, there's money in them thar choppers.

I have no idea why she is so fearful about anything and everything related to her body. I can't help but think we either caused the fear or unwittingly reinforced it at some point. So, what's a mom to do? Do I push her to ride a bike, roller skate, pull her tooth (in hopes that once she does it, she'll realize that the act did not immediately result in her death) or just let her do it in her own time? And if I go with Plan B (the leave her be plan), will her college roommate notice the training wheels on A's bike?

Well, she sure showed me

2012-01-20T17:13:00.000-06:00

We've been having a few minor behavioral issues with Short Stuff lately. She still gets in yellow at school a lot. We've gotten so used to it that we don't really make a fuss unless she gets in red. When I picked her up from Kindercare yesterday, a staff member told me that they are having problems with my daughter getting on the bus in a timely manner after school. Kindercare transports her to and from school. This did not come as a surprise to me at all. Kindercare was closed on January 2nd and I had the day off, so I took her to school and picked her up that day. When I arrived to pick her up, I parked my car in the lot and walked to the blacktop (where the kids go after the bell rings). As luck would have it, it was extremely cold and windy that day. I stood out there with the other parents, doing a little jig to keep my blood flowing. I watched wave after wave of children emerge from the double-doors and board busses or meet parents. I saw A's friends come out, drag their backpacks across the blacktop, and then climb into waiting minivans. Soon, I was the only parent left. Had I goofed up somehow? Maybe she got confused and got on a bus or something? Just as I was about to become full-on alarmed, my daughter pushed the door open and shuffled over to me. "Hi Mom!" By this time I'd lost feeling in my extremities and my eyeballs had cracked into pieces.

So, I have no doubt that she is keeping the Kindercare bus driver waiting every day. And I can understand why they would be unhappy about it. I tried to have a talk with the kid about it last night. "Can you just try to get your act together a little faster when school ends?" I asked her. She nodded but included a slight eye roll.

Later, when she was in the bath tub (and had been in there for close to an hour), I asked her repeatedly to put her bath toys away because it was time to get out. I returned to the bathroom at least three times to see that Ariel and Sleeping Beauty were still floating face down in the water as various cups and plastic toys bobbed around them.

"Couldn't you, just this once, do what you are asked to do?" I was a wee bit frustrated.

She looked up at me. "If you don't be nice to me, I am going to run away."

I was intrigued. "Where will you go?"

"Chicago."

"Oh, okay. And what will you do in Chicago?"

"Get a hotel room. I'll be gone for two days," she responded.

"And then what will you do?" I asked.

"Eat breakfast and then lunch and then dinner." She stuck her chin out defiantly.

So, basically my little rebel has informed me that she's going to run away, for two days, get a hotel room and . . . order room service? Boy, she's sure gonna show us, eh? We'll be sorry we were so mean to her! And here I was worried about crystal meth and other dark underworld type stuff.

I asked her how she was going to afford Chicago, as it is very expensive. She told me that she would take the money from her piggy bank, but I advised her that I didn't think it would cover all that room service. They add on so many fees and all, you know.

"What if I had a thousand dollars?" she asked.

"For two days in Chicago? That should just about cover it."

Lordy, Lordy

2012-01-19T05:51:00.002-06:00

So, you know that 20-year-old jarhead I picked up at a club in D.C. way back when? He's turning 40 today. I really need to look into exchanging him for a younger Marine.

The kid and I gave him his gifts early - a Kindle Fire and a pair of jeans. He's been playing Angry Birds on the Kindle for the past two days, which was actually part of my plan as it frees up the TV for me to watch the stuff I had piling up on the DVR. We went to Red Robin for dinner last night so that he could claim his free birthday burger. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, he made the same announcement he has made about every restaurant (or any public establishment of any kind for that matter) for the past two decades: "It's packed." I'm throwing a little party for him Saturday night (at an equally packed restaurant on the other side of town).

The kid made him a card that says, "It's your britday, Dad!" Then she wrote "40" all over it and included a sticker of a snowman saying "Good job!" Good job on getting old, I guess? She also exclaimed, "Hey Mom, you're turning 42 and Daddy is turning 40? Daddy is two years younger than you????" Yes, kid, I've done the math. Thank you for that, though.

Happy birthday to my handsome, smart, comic-book-reading, one-star-movie-watching, grey-haired husband. You are a wonderful father and husband and we love you very much! You've been complaining for twenty years now that I never fill the ice cube trays (why should I when you are SO good at it, babe?) so maybe I'll throw you a bone and fill them today in honor of your birth. But just this once.

Sermon on Legacy

2012-01-18T06:03:00.003-06:00

I was invited to speak at my church on Sunday. I spent several weeks (off and on) working on my message and figured I'd foist it off on my unsuspecting blog readers, too.

I also read a couple poems not included in the text below:

Eyes Fastened with Pins by Charles Simic
Men at Forty by Donald Justice

"What Legacy Will I Leave?

For as much as I’ve tried to pretend I am still in the first half of my life, I’ve slowly come to realize that I probably crossed over that invisible line some time ago. Based on my health history, I don’t expect to be an incredibly long-lived person. It’s important that I live long enough to finish raising my daughter, however, because I have seen how her father dresses her when I am not around. Plus, I am convinced that I am the only person in our home capable of unraveling the complexities of our school district's late start/early dismissal schedule. Without me, I’m fairly certain that A would never end up at school on the right days at the right times.

At 42 (in just a few short weeks), I don’t feel that old, but my daughter seems to think I am ancient. She refers to my childhood as “the olden days.” She recently asked me what toys I played with “in the olden days” and I told her we didn’t have time for toys because we were too busy churning our own butter and settling the frontier. Now I know why my mother was so vexed when my middle sister innocently asked her many years ago, “Mom, did they have pens and pencils when you were a kid?”

Still, there are signs that I am indeed aging. Despite my devotion to the practice of yoga and staying at least vaguely fit, I notice that I am a little slower to get up off the floor (and perhaps slightly less inclined to get down there in the first place). Parts of me creak when I wake up. I say things like “those kids” to refer to anyone under the age of thirty. I generally wear sensible shoes. I recently noticed with chagrin that a pair of my favorite jeans is outfitted with a patented comfort waistband. My eyes aren’t working quite right anymore – it seems I am simultaneously nearsighted and farsighted, resulting in the tragic need for bifocals. I get “ma’am’ed” a lot. And so on it goes.

I think often of the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I’m sure many of you are familiar with it. Literary scholars have offered many interpretations of the poem, but the theme of aging and mortality seems unmistakable. It’s a long poem so I’ll just read a portion of it.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Of course, not a soul among us knows when his or her last day will come. But when it does, will we find ourselves distressed over our inaction, over missed opportunities, over the woulda coulda shoulda of our lives? My yoga instructor urges me to “be in the moment,” but it is so very difficult to do. We are all convinced that there is simultaneously so much time and so very little time. We believe there are an infinite number of days in which we will have the opportunity to right all wrongs but yet not enough time to say, “I love you and appreciate you” to the people in our lives.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair,

As I described my declining physical state a few minutes ago, I am sure those of you who are a few years my senior were thinking, “Just you wait, sister!” I know (or at least hope) I have many years ahead of me and can expect to become creakier, wiser, etc . . . and perhaps even to appreciate the process in some way. I’m not ready to “rage rage against the dying of the light” quite yet. I am not planning my funeral, although I do have an irrational fear of bad music being played at that particular event. To prevent this from happening, I have been working on a funeral playlist on my iPod. I have not created a bucket list yet, though I’ve been giving it some thought. I’d like to try kayaking, for starters. I'd love to travel to Europe. My focus today is not so much on death but on the concept of one’s legacy. What will I leave behind and how will I be remembered? What, as Unitarian Universalists, will we each leave behind?

I like to read our seven principles from time to time so that I can be reminded of the beliefs that bind us together and to ask myself, “Am I merely committing these to memory or am I actually living them?”

There are seven principles which Unitarian Universalist congregations affirm and promote:

• The inherent worth and dignity of every person;
• Justice, equity and compassion in human relations;
• Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations;
• A free and responsible search for truth and meaning;
• The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large;
• The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all;
• Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.

This exercise requires me to take an unflinching look at my own character. I don’t think of myself as being a particularly nice person so I don’t expect to be remembered that way when I’m gone. I’m cynical. I gossip. I’m terrible at small talk, often forgetting to ask someone “and how are you?” after they’ve asked me the same question. I mutter to myself when driving, calling other drivers names that their mothers would not appreciate. I like to think that the people in my life, including my friends here at the fellowship, do know that I care about them, of course. I may not be the friendliest or most outgoing person you know, but I’m reliable. If I tell you I’ll be somewhere or that I’ll do something, I most assuredly will be there. If I don’t show up, however, you should contact my husband and make sure he knows about my funeral playlist.

I fare better with some of the principles than others. I deeply believe in the inherent worth and dignity of every person. I learned this from my parents. They taught me that a busboy is a cashier is a police officer is a congressman. They taught me that no one is more important than anybody else. I am also glad that I was raised to be open-minded (dare I say, liberal?). I am glad to be able to tell my daughter that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, she can ever tell me about herself that will make me love her any less – and that includes her sexual orientation, of course. Being a UU keeps social justice issues in the forefront of my mind and reminds me that change takes work and activism. Being a UU also helps me to remember that we are all on our own personal spiritual journey and we support each other in that.

Imagine someone who knows you describing you to someone else. What descriptors would they use? “Oh, you know so-and-so, right? Tall, wears glasses?” That sort of thing. Typically, one uses some sort of physical characteristic as a marker. I’ve never heard anyone describe me to someone else, but I’m fairly certain words like “black hair” and “fair skin” are used. I’m hoping they don’t call me chubby but I guess I’ll never know.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we described each other in other ways, honoring the best parts of each other, our hearts and minds?

(I had some ad-libbing here, so you'll just have to wonder what on earth I might have said.)

As for how I’ll be remembered . . . I’d like to hope that I’ll be remembered as someone who cared about animals. The non-profit organization I helped found and build will be part of my legacy. I’d like to be remembered for my stellar taste in music and my love of words and language. That I loved my family fiercely. My daughter is also part of my legacy. It’s a little too soon for me to pat myself on the back and congratulate myself on raising her well, as she is only six. Or, as she prefers, six-and-a-half. I hope I’ll be remembered for caring about things that were important to me and standing behind my convictions. I hope I’ll be remembered as a caring (if impatient) sister, wife, daughter, aunt, cousin, mom, Godmother, and friend.

Recently the chimpanzee that played Cheetah in the Tarzan movies passed away. He was approximately 80 years old. I read an article about his death on cnn.com. The article briefly listed Cheetah’s cinematic contributions and noted that he spent the last 50 years of his life at a sanctuary. The very last sentence of the article was this: "When he didn't like somebody or something that was going on, he would pick up some poop and throw it at them."

Can you imagine if you were remembered for your worst habits or the most unpleasant thing you ever did? If that were the case, the last sentence of the article about me would read something like, “She honked at people who didn’t move when the light turned green, she sometimes did not brush her teeth before bed, and she stole a pair of jeans from Kmart when she was 13.” I’d better recommit myself to living the seven principles and build up some good karma to make up for those jeans. At the same time, though, I suspect that many of us are too hard on ourselves.

I spend so much time and energy worrying about my weight and other aspects of my physical self that sometimes I need a little wake-up call, a reminder that other people aren’t losing any sleep over my substantial mid-section and perhaps I shouldn’t either. I’m not planning to be buried when I die but if I did, it’s not as if my headstone would read, “Claudia was a good egg but holy cow did she like brownies just a little too much, eh?” I have been going to Weight Watchers for over six years now. I lose, I gain, I keep going. One recent Saturday morning, a fellow attendee leaned over and said to me, “Claudia, you have the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. I wish I had eyelashes like that.” It occurred to me then that she probably doesn’t notice my weight or think about it at all. Maybe there is more to me than that number on the scale after all.

So, perhaps there is time. For all of us. “Time to wonder ‘do I dare?’ and ‘do I dare?’” Time to say what we mean and mean what we say. To live in harmony with the principles that mean so much to us. As for me, I shall continue my journey towards a more patient and less cynical me. However, if you are ever in front of me at a red light and it turns green, you should really consider driving forward right away.

Here's a novel idea: honor your bleeping commitments

2012-01-14T20:02:00.004-06:00

A charm on my Giddy's collar. And check out the bad-ass skull design!

I probably shouldn't generalize, but for many rescue volunteers, our least favorite task is working with owner-surrenders. Well, cleaning up one dog's vomit before another dog can eat it is pretty high on the list, too. About half the dogs that pass through our Boxer rescue come from shelters. The other half are surrendered directly by their owners. Now, you could make the point, "Hey, at least they didn't dump the dog in a field somewhere or shoot her in the head." That much is true. It is also true that many surrendering owners would love nothing more than to keep their dog. The last few years have been particularly hard on a lot of people. As a result, we've dealt with quite a few foreclosure situations, divorces, job losses, etc. Sometimes, the choices are few. When you have nowhere to live, re-homing your dog becomes an unfortunate reality. For other surrenders, though, it comes down to one word: inconvenience.

At the time of our organization's inception over twelve years ago, we set down the policy that all volunteers are expected to be polite to surrendering owners regardless of the reason for the surrender. We are not paid for our work, but we aim to conduct ourselves in a professional manner. My personal tactic is to say as little as possible so as to avoid saying something I might regret - particularly in cases where the reason for surrender seems more than a little flimsy. It has sometimes been hard to bite my tongue over the years. Owners often say some pretty goofy shit in order to convince themselves that they are, in fact, doing the dog a favor. I remember one woman leaning over the dog she was dropping off at my house, delivering a light pat on the Boxer's head, and saying, "Okay, go have fun with the other dogs!" Over the years we've had dogs surrendered for reasons such as: new baby in the home, no time, moving, dog runs away, dog forgot to train himself, "we're suddenly allergic to him," and so forth.

For the other type of surrender, the type where the owner had no choice, we react differently. I've cried right along with red-eyed dog lovers as they've signed the surrender form, doled out genuinely sympathetic hugs (I'm having a flashback to a woman who brought me her brother's dog after her brother was killed), and offered my business card along with the promise that I'd let them know how their dog was faring in the weeks ahead.

In many cases, after one of our volunteers brings a new dog into rescue, some venting takes place behind the scenes. We call each other and grumble over various irritations such as the owner claiming the dog was "totally up to date on everything" but where a quick review of the dog's records (if the owner actually brought them) reveals that the dog has not seen the inside of a vet clinic since the Civil War. We complain about how the dog is wearing a rusty choke chain and how his ears are full of mites. We wonder aloud how it could be that the owner was surrendering the dog for financial reasons but still managed to pull up in a massive SUV, chatting away on an iPhone all the while.

And then, we get over it. We take the dog to the vet. We slip a brand-new collar around his neck. We kiss his smooshy Boxer face and say, "I'm gonna find you a great home! Who's a good boy? You're a good boy." The focus shifts, and we move on. Until now . . . I'm having trouble moving on from a recent surrender.

A family adopted two dogs from us, one in 2004 and one in 2007. Once a dog is in his new home for a year or so, the odds of the pooch being returned to rescue are typically very low. So, we could hardly believe our eyes when the adopters submitted pre-surrender forms for both dogs. The reason they needed to return them? The dogs are getting old and have been running up some vet bills. The forms came in before Christmas, so we thought maybe they would change their minds over the holidays. Nope. I mean, how do you look down at your elderly dog and say, "Okay, just a few more days and then you're outta here, okay? But, hey, thanks for being our loyal companion for over seven years. We're sorry it didn't work out."

The two Boxers, a male and a female, were surrendered last week. My friend (and fellow volunteer) Kathy brought them into the vet clinic where she works so that we can bring them up to date on medical care. Also, we are short on fosters homes so we have no choice but to board them until spots open up. The clinic staff is very attentive to the dogs and they get a lot of attention, but obviously it's not ideal. These grey-faced dogs are now in kennels, wondering how the hell they became homeless.

The surrender (well, return) of these dogs makes me sick. I cannot stop thinking about it. The female is pretty spry but the male may have cancer and essentially has one paw in the grave. How could they not see him through until the end? I just don't understand. And I'm not the only one - this situation has been rehashed multiple times via email and over the phone between various volunteers. We are all just . . . incredulous.

I think part of the reason we can't get over it is because we don't get the satisfaction of giving the former owners a piece of our collective mind. We have a good reputation in the rescue world and with the public at large and we don't want to tarnish it. Our mission is to take in dogs that need help and, if at all possible, find new homes for them. It would serve no purpose to read someone the riot act because they made a decision that seems wrong to us. We pin our hopes on the intangible magic of karma. Still, it is hard. What we really want to say is, "Listen, I'm not sure how you justify this in your head, but dumping your elderly dogs because they're inconveniencing you is just wrong. I don't care if they are ruining your carpets or taking up too much of your time and money. You made a commitment. Why don't you try honoring it, you douche canoe?" Okay, I guess I wouldn't add that part at the end. At first I wrote "fuckety-fuck" but deleted that.

As I type this, there are three Boxers snoozing on the guest bed behind me. Two are mine, one is not. They don't ask much of me. Hell, I don't really even do all that much for them. I don't buy them gifts on their birthdays or for Christmas. I don't confuse them with my human child. They get bathed three times a year, tops. They may not have the latest in doggie couture, but they receive regular veterinary care, good food, a warm place to live and . . . the comfort of knowing that I will never drop them off with a stranger and wish them the best of luck. It's a simple bargain, this promise we make to our companion animals. And not so very hard to keep.

Snake oil salesman?

2012-01-12T17:53:00.002-06:00

When it comes to health and wellness, I'm in favor of an integrative approach. I take my dogs to a veterinarian who practices holistic/homeopathic medicine in addition to using traditional methods as needed. I like my vet because she doesn't just say, "Here are some pills" when one of my dogs has a physical problem. She looks at alternative approaches as well. For example, many behavioral issues can be lessened through the use of herbal tinctures (fear of thunderstorms is one example).

My daughter's right ear, as you know, is causing me much consternation. I just keep thinking that there's gotta be a better way - one that does not involve surgery. Now, my friend Cassi pointed out that there are some maladies that cannot be solved without surgery. This is true. When my gall bladder was full of stones a few years ago, I was in absolute agony and wanted that mofo out. When I sliced my finger open a few years ago, I didn't try to treat it through better nutrition. I had it sewn up, like any sensible person would. When it comes to my daughter's recurring ear problems, though, I just don't feel like traditional medicine has done enough for her.

I told my husband, "I'm taking her to a chiropractor."

The look he gave me in return made me wonder if I'd inadvertently said this instead: "I'm taking her over to the zoo to let the monkeys have a look at her."

I mean, I get it. A lot of people distrust chiropractors. They think the science behind it is flimsy at best. However, I don't see how taking her to a chiropractor can worsen the situation. My daughter is due back at her pediatrician's office in three months. If the right ear still has fluid behind the ear drum and she is still having trouble hearing those low-decibel beeps, I will schedule the surgery. I think it's worth trying to avoid it, though.

I took her to the chiropractor on Tuesday. I was referred to this particular doctor by a friend (who, by the way, no longer has to take allergy medications as a result of this type of treatment). Once we were in an exam room with the doctor, I was impressed with how much time she took to chat with me and to make sure she fully understood my daughter's health history. The first thing she recommended is that we try putting garlic oil or diluted tea tree oil in A's right ear. As we were talking, my daughter acted as though she'd never been out in public before, running laps around the exam table and then flinging herself over the top of the table in various positions. The doctor asked me a few questions about the kid's diet. My daughter decided to chime in at that point. "My favorite dinner . . . " she started (and of course I was thinking that I couldn't wait to hear what it is because she seems to be able to live for days off a spoonful of black beans and virtually nothing else) " . . . is bread and butter!"

I laughed nervously. I swear to you I have never given my child bread and butter as a meal. We do sometimes have biscuits or rolls with dinner, but bread and butter alone? Oy. I was relieved when the chiropractor ended the questioning and examined A. She explained to my daughter that she was going to touch her and maybe make some adjustments. She explained to me that my daughter is not out of alignment - it's more a matter of stimulating the central nervous system. I watched with interest as she bent my daughter's limbs around and palpated her neck. Dr. M made two quick adjustments to her neck and one to her back. The kid giggled through the whole thing. She was nervous at first because she is fearful about new things (a topic for another day) but by the end, she was all smiles.

We're going to go back for a few more sessions and then see how it goes. I guess you could say I am cautiously optimistic. When we left the chiropractor's office, we headed to a vitamin store to pick up some oil for the ear. A lady approached me as we were wandering around. She wore a crystal pendant around her neck and struck me as the "fit grandma" type. I told her about my daughter's ear-related issues. She looked down at Short Stuff. "Do you drink milk and eat ice cream?" Ah, I knew where she was going with this. Dairy. I explained that we switched to almond milk a few months ago but that we do still have some dairy products in our diet (the kid even asks for a hunk of cheddar cheese as a snack). The health store lady suggested backing off the dairy for a while to see if that helps. The consumption of dairy is often implicated in cases where ear infections recur. I have to admit that she did seem knowledgeable and was pretty darned emphatic about her advice. I've been trying to reduce the amount of dairy in our diet anyway, so this is just another step in that direction.

When we got home, P asked the kid about her visit to the doctor, and shot me a few disapproving looks as he was listening to her. My response, in a nutshell, is "hey, why don't you tackle this issue then?" I mean, I am the one doing research, I am the one hauling her all over town in search of answers, I am the one losing sleep over it. I am either an awesome mom or a borderline new age-y lunatic.

Speaking of being an awesome mom . . . the other night I was tucking my daughter into bed. Instead of kissing her on the lips like normal, I grabbed her face and gave her a high society left cheek-right cheek-left cheek kiss - three in quick succession. "Oui oui! That's how the French do it!" I said. She laughed. It was just a little bit of fun between the two us except that now . . . she has been asking people to French kiss her. So yeah, I'm awesome alright.

An unexpected compliment

2012-01-06T17:40:00.002-06:00

I usually eat lunch at my desk (in cubicleville), but I decided to get out of the office for a bit today. Yeah, I get a little crazy on Fridays - you know it, girrrrrrrl. So, I hopped in my mom-mobile and drove to Walmart. (Don't hate! It's close and I needed some stuff, okay?) I grabbed a cart and picked up some fruit, ibuprofen, waffle mix, and a York Peppermnt Patty. Like I said, very urgent necessities.

There is a Subway inside the store, so I checked out at the register and pushed my cart into the restaurant. I grabbed a bag of chips and ordered the veggie patty on wheat. My favorite part is when I say "a little bit of light mayo, please" and the sandwich maker inevitably unleashes a torrent of mayonnaise unlike the world has ever seen. If anyone knows of another way to say "a little bit of light mayo" that might be more effective, please let me know. When my order was ready, I took my tray and pushed my cart to an empty table. All of the tables have four chairs, so I didn't feel like an ass for taking up a four-seater for myself. I proceeded to eat my sandwich while pursuing a guilty pleasure: reading People Magazine.

Just as I was absorbing some very crucial information about the state of Princess Kate's uterus, an older lady from a nearby table walked up to my table and leaned towards me. She had been sitting with a friend, who was also an older lady (yes, I know I'm old, but they were older). I thought, "I wonder what she needs? Maybe she wants one of my chairs. Or maybe she wants to know where I got my Peppermint Patty."

"I just have to tell you," she started. "You are so pretty. We just wanted to tell you. Your porcelain skin and your black hair . . . you look like Snow White. And your eyes are beautiful with the way you do your make-up. We just thought it was so pretty the way it all comes together." She fanned her fingers across her own face in a sort of circular motion.

I was floored. Flabbergasted. At a loss for words. "Oh, thank you so much," I finally replied. "That is so nice of you to say." I felt like I might start crying or something.

She smiled at me and walked back to her table. I took a sip of my drink and kept reading my trashy magazine, but I felt sort of distracted after that. For starters, I have a cold. I had blown my nose at least 700 times before lunch. (My friend Sara told me that if I took a zinc supplement, I would not get a cold. I have been taking zinc. You can kiss my ass, Sara!) Anyway, with my crimson nose I am pretty sure I am fully qualified to guide Santa's sleigh at this point. And of course there is my weight, which has really been getting me down lately. Most of the time, I am pretty much horrified by my own appearance. However, I try to be really careful what I say around my daughter because she is beautiful and I don't ever want her to have negative thoughts about herself. Of course, she generally thinks pretty highly of herself anyway. The other day I got home from the gym and was getting ready to take a shower. The laundry chute is right outside the bathroom door, so I stripped down in the hallway and shoved my sweaty clothes into the chute. Just then, my daughter walked by. I jokingly said, "Don't look at my butt!" She has the cutest butt in the free world and I often tell her that. I'd post a photo of it, but I'm pretty sure people get brought up on charges for that sort of thing.

She looked up at me, very solemnly and with no hint of a smile, and replied, "I did not look at your butt, Mom. Well, I did but . . . I did not laugh." She said it kind of like she had done me some great kindness, not laughing at my butt. I suppose she probably had.

So anyway, I'd like to thank the nice lady at Walmart for the compliment. She did indeed make my day. I'm still feeling a little verklempt . . .

The tube saga goes on (and on)

2012-01-05T18:17:00.004-06:00

My daughter failed her hearing test at school. Again. I received a letter from the health department in early December advising me that a nurse had tested her in October and again in November. She failed both times (well, that sort of makes it sound like she didn't study or something - obviously it's not her fault). The problem is, and always has been, with her right ear. The left is fine. As you may recall, this has been an ongoing issue - recurring ear infections and then surgery last February to have tubes inserted. We also opted to have her adenoids removed at that time, leaving the tonsils in place. We did everything we could to maximize the amount of time the tubes stayed lodged in her eardrums. We spent a small fortune on ear plugs and she's worn them for every bath, every shower, every swim (except one, when she lost the neoprene headband that held the earplugs in place - then we replaced that, too). I was hoping the tubes would remain firmly in position for at least a year. No such luck.

I took A to see her pediatrician on Tuesday. He confirmed that both tubes have fallen out. Gah! Furthermore, the right ear is filled with fluid again. He did a test that involved blowing air into the ear to observe the movement of the ear drum. If the ear drum doesn't move the way it is supposed to, the conclusion is that there is fluid behind the ear drum. He also ran a hearing test. She did okay, but missed two beeps on the right ear (at the lowest decibel).

I told the doctor that we are not keen on doing tubes again this soon. It scares the bejeebers out of me to have my child under anesthesia. The whole situation is pretty frustrating, for lots of reasons. It is scary to have to make so many decisions about another person's body, but that is the requirement of parenthood, I suppose. My daughter is actually quite a bit older than most kids who need tubes - the vast majority are toddlers. As kids grow and get older, the Eustachian tube in each ear becomes longer and can do its job better. It also becomes less level than it is in small children, allowing fluid to drain more easily. A's doctor says that, for whatever reason, her right ear is following an "abnormal path."

The doctor wants us to come back in three months to see if the ear is looking any better. I guess we'll have to make a decision at that time. She does not have an infection and isn't in any pain; she just can't hear as well out of her right ear. As parents, we are left to make "lesser of two evils" decisions. Surgery and anesthesia? Or possible hearing loss? We don't really want either one.

So, I started asking around about other options. I find it hard to believe that medical science can only offer ONE solution, which is to anesthetize my daughter and jab a tube through her ear drum. It just doesn't seem right to me. Part of me is concerned that we are going to have to go through this annually until she is an adult (or at least until her right ear gets its act together). A couple of my friends mentioned chiropractic, so I started looking into it. I figure it can't hurt to take her in and see if an alternative treatment might help. We have an appointment on Tuesday. The only catch here is that I will need concrete evidence (such as a successful hearing test) that it is working, because my husband gave me the "what are you, some kind of looney-tune?" look when I mentioned it to him.

I'm open to suggestions for other possible solutions, so feel free to throw them my way! And don't worry - we won't allow her to suffer with hearing loss. We'll get it figured out one way or the other.

Despite this ongoing issue, I am so incredibly grateful to have a healthy child. This sense of gratitude is never far from my mind. Last week I stumbled onto this blog. It's a heart breaker - a child lost at just eight months of age to a brain tumor. A parent should never have to know (or to articulate) that kind of grief. I will hug my kid and her defective ear just a little tighter, I think.

Yes, I'm still talking about that

2012-01-03T18:35:00.000-06:00

When I wrote my post about 2011, I forgot to mention a couple of accomplishments. They probably seem minor, but they are noteworthy in my book. In early 2011, I broke my addiction to caffeine and diet soda. I am sure I still ingest some caffeine in the occasional piece of dark chocolate, but nothing significant. When I first quit, I had a couple of rough weeks but I white-knuckled my way through it. Now I don't even think about soda that much, although I do miss my Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi from time to time. One day a couple months after I quit, I took my daughter to a local pancake house for breakfast. We had to wait a bit for a table and as we sat in the lobby, I watched the hostess guzzling a soda. I stared at her like a woman obsessed. I could almost feel the bubbles in my throat . . . ahhhhh.

Why did I quit? Well, a couple of reasons. One, I read somewhere that in order to remove sugar from regular soda (and make diet soda), about a gazillion chemicals are added in order to approximate the same taste. Two, I don't think drinking diet soda was doing me any favors as far as weight loss goes. I had switched from regular soda to diet soda eons ago and can't say that I lost an ounce as a result.

Another food-related accomplishment is that I gave up dairy milk. At first, I continued to buy very small containers of skim milk in case we needed it. We never did so I stopped buying them. What we now use instead is plain almond milk. Honestly, I don't think we even notice the difference anymore. It tastes fine in recipes, over cereal, etc. If you drink it straight, the taste is slightly different from cow's milk, but not vastly different. I quit buying dairy milk because I am trying to move away from animal products as much as I can. I've also been reducing our egg usage, too (I only buy free-range eggs but have no real assurance that the free-range chickens don't spend 99.9% of their day being packed into cages and treated as inhumanely as their no-range counterparts). Getting rid of cheese in my house would be a tough sell, so I think we'll just start with the milk and eggs for now. Many of the meals I make just for myself (such as breakfast) are vegan.

Why the switch from good ol' cows' milk? Lots of reasons for that, too. One, if you really, really think about it, drinking dairy milk is sort of gross. The milk is meant for calves, not for us. The bovine mamas are kept in a perpetual state of lactation and, in commercial dairy environments, not treated well. Two, I find it alarming to think about all of the hormones and such that are pumped into those cows. I'm not a fanatical health nut, but I try to eat healthy (healthfully?) for the most part and to make sure that my husband and child get some fruits and vegetables into their stomachs (well, my husband won't eat fruit - I'm surprised he hasn't died of scurvy). If we can avoid ingesting extra chemicals and hormones, I have to think that is a good thing.

So, there you have it - two accomplishments for 2011. I don't have any big goals for 2012 (who knows, maybe I'll get that tattoo I've been talking about since Clinton was in office). I asked my daughter to set a resolution to get up and get dressed voluntarily every morning. We'll see. Every day her dad and I are hoarse from yelling, "Please just put your clothes on!" a thousand times every morning. If we ask her to make her bed and brush her teeth . . . well, we are just pushing our luck beyond all reason at that point. Maybe my resolution should be to stop worrying about it and to send her to school in her pj's. That'll learn her.

In other news, my Weight Watchers meeting was removed from the schedule (the particular time slot that I attended for over six years, anyway). They also closed "my" location and moved to another. Plus, they changed the program again. I dunno - I'm like a cat when it comes to change. Perhaps I could've handled one change, but not THREE fer cryin' out loud. I'm also bothered by the amount of money I'm spending there. If I'm not truly dedicating myself to the program (and I think there is ample evidence that I am not), I wonder if I should just take a break from it. I've been at my goal weight twice and let me just admit here and now that it took a lot of deprivation to get there. Part of me just doesn't feel like doing that. The yoga studio has an 8 a.m. class on Saturdays that I've never been able to attend because it is held at the same time as the WW meeting. Going to yoga is actually a little cheaper than Weight Watchers. So, I'm thinking maybe I'll just focus more on my yoga practice for a while and see how it goes. I go to my gym fairly regularly (sometimes hitting the cardio equipment, sometimes taking a class) but maybe I should spend more time there, too.

I'm not sure if this particular blog entry really has a point. I was mad at myself for not mentioning two of my 2011 accomplishments previously, as I was really proud of both. Also, I think I've been a little more introspective than usual lately. I'm the speaker at church on the 15th so I've been working on my sermon (well, message - we don't really call it a sermon, per se) for the past few weeks. My topic is "Leaving a Legacy." I've been thinking a lot about who I am, how I will be remembered after I'm dead, and what I should be doing differently right now. I don't believe people change in fundamental ways, only in incremental ones. So it's not like I'm going to start voting Republican or stop drinking vino all of a sudden. But could I use a little more patience and a little less cynicism? I suppose I could.

I'll leave you with a poem that my daughter and I read recently. Before bedtime, we have a little ritual that involves reading Shel Silverstein poems. We've read Where the Sidewalk Ends, A Light in the Attic, Everything on It, and Falling Up. Now we're getting ready to start over with Where the Sidewalk Ends again (she received that one for Christmas). I'm glad she's old enough (and such an excellent reader) that we can start enjoying some books together. Goodness knows I did my time with Goodnight Moon . . .

The Clock Man - Shel Silverstein

“How much will you pay for an extra day?”
The clock man asked the child.
“Not one penny,” the answer came,
“For my days are as many as smiles.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?”
He asked when the child was grown.
“Maybe a dollar or maybe less,
For I’ve plenty of days on my own.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?”
He asked when the time came to die.
“All of the pearls in all of the seas,
And all of the stars in the sky."

You found me how?

2011-12-31T08:16:00.000-06:00

Every so often, for my own amusement, I log in to my Google Analytics account and review the keywords/phrases that people used to find my humble blog. The results are, um, interesting.

A sampling of recent searches that led people to my blog:

can i superimpose a photo of my dad with the american flag and an eagle? - No, no you may not. I hope that settles it. But if you do, be sure to put a tear in the eagle's eye.

mom pee - EIGHT people used this keyword phrase to find my blog this year. EIGHT. I do not know what to say about that.

"my kid bit another kid" - We definitely went down that road a few times when A was a toddler. I'm not sure which is worse - when your kid is the biter or the bitee.

"plastic poop" - I'm starting to think my blog is a lot less sophisticated than I thought it was.

"you farted" "i did not" - And now I'm sure of it. I'm as low-brow as it gets.

booger back - Oh, for the love of . . .

childern and dogs - You keep them there younguns away from my dog.

don't want to be a girl scout cookie mom - I'm with you, sister. Right there with you.

I also saw every kind of spelling of alabaster that you can imagine (a lot of people are probably looking for the city of Alabaster but wind up at my blog instead). I found entries for alabster, alabastor, aalabaster, and so forth. My blog also came up under various searches for eye dilation and nausea. I guess I'm not the only person who was treated to this fun little optometric adventure.

I hope you'll come back and visit my blog next year. I am planning to find new and different ways to talk about bodily functions in 2012. That's my pledge to you, fair reader. Happy new year!

Au Revoir, 2011

2011-12-30T16:54:00.000-06:00

Here it is, the obligatory year-end review.

Good stuff that happened this year:

We visited DC in July and spent time with my middle sister, her kids, and some of my other relatives.
My baby sister visited in August and brought her kids and husband along. I was thrilled that I got to see both of my sisters this summer.
I won $10,000 for my favorite charity from Michael Moore. Although the money was awesome, an unexpected benefit was that I picked up a few more blog readers. My blog post about patriotism ended up on Michael Moore's Facebook page and Twitter feed. I was gratified to receive so many nice compliments from those who read it. It is hard to get noticed in the blogosphere (particularly with a blog as low-key as mine - maybe I should consider having myself vajazzled and then writing about it intricate detail or something), so it was definitely a boost. At least once a week someone asks me, "When are you going to write a book?" The answer is that I don't know. Part of me is pretty sure that I'll never be published (in as much as I never submit anything for consideration). This blog may be as ambitious as I get.
I saw the Pixies in concert. This was definitely a highlight of my year. They played Doolittle in its entirety. I have had Doolittle memorized for over 20 years so it was a like a dream come true. They also played a bunch of other favorites as encores - Where is My Mind, Holiday Song, etc.
I reconnected with my daughter's birthmom this year. I've sent her some photos and we've exchanged a few emails. She told me that she could not have chosen better parents for A, and that made me happier than I can adequately express in words.
I added two nephews to my nephew collection (which now stands at six). One was born in Virginia and the other in Oklahoma. There are a lot of penises in my extended family. It's kind of funny because my mom always said she was glad she had girls because, and I quote, "I don't know how to clean poop off balls!"

Disappointments:

I didn't get a handle on my weight. I had good days and bad days. At this point I am not sure if I will continue with Weight Watchers or not. I also belong to Sparkpeople, which is free, so I may try to delve into that a bit more. Honestly, I am just tired of thinking about it all the time.
I still can't do the wheel. The wheel is a yoga pose. It looks like this. I had hoped that by the end of the year I would be able to pull myself into a wheel on my own, but I can only do it if the instructor hauls me up by my ribcage. I think it comes down to my unremarkable upper body strength. Oh well, there's always next year.
I now wear bi-focals. Pllllbbbbt on that.

I think my daughter had a more exciting year than I did. She lost her first tooth, got tubes in her ears, was elected to student council, and got her ears pierced. One challenge is that she just failed the hearing test at school, despite having tubes in her ears. I am not sure what to do about this, but I have an appointment scheduled with her pediatrician next week.

P and I thought about going out for New Year's Eve but then we remembered: our property taxes are due (so we're kinda broke), we have no babysitter, and we don't really stay up that late. I know, we're craaaaazy up in here. Happy New Year!

A few of my favorite photos from 2011:

Cousins on vacation

Daddy-Daughter dance in February

Lakeside reverie

My favorite face in the whole wide world

July trip - competing for Granddaddy's attention

Cousins having ice cream. It was about 4,000 degrees in Washington that day.

Mother-Daughter weekend in September

Fairies and snakes, oh my

Sleepover = no sleep, but lots of fun

Vacation "up north"

The post I insist on writing every year, even though it is of interest to no one but me

2011-12-28T20:07:00.001-06:00

I get pretty excited about this time of year. Not because of half-price Christmas candy or because the new year is upon us, so full of possibilities and magic, but because music critics publish their "best of" lists. I love to read the lists, compare the music to what I already have, and download new stuff I missed. I can't say that 2011 was a remarkable year for music, but there were some notable tunes.

My daughter got into some new music, too. The only trouble with her is that kids love repetition (any parent alive will swear to you that there are only seven episodes of The Backyardigans because they have seen every episode a hundred thousand times). So, when my daughter gets stuck on a song . . . the child gets stuck. on. a. song. That's why she forced me to turn on this little ditty every day for six months:

So yeah, I hate that song now. Here are some 2011 albums I liked (in no particular order):

The Decemberists: The King is Dead. Favorite tracks: "Down by the Water," "June Hymn," "This is Why We Fight"
Cut Copy: Zonoscope. "Take Me Over" has been on heavy rotation on my iPod.
Grouplove: Never Trust a Happy Song. I was dismayed to learn that "Tongue Tied" was featured in a commercial but I still dig it.
Beth Ditto: Beth Ditto- EP. I love Gossip and Beth Ditto.
Fountains of Wayne: Sky Full of Holes. On the Amazon version, they included a cover of "The Story in Your Eyes." I love it so and listen to it at least once a week.
Tune-Yards: Whokill
Washed Out: Within and Without. More mellow than my usual fare, but maybe I am getting old? Don't answer that.
Peter Murphy: Ninth. The dude's still got it; I don't care what anyone says.
Muppets: The Green Album. Alkaline Trio singing "Movin' Right Along"? Yes, please.

A few 2011 songs I've been digging (I don't have the full album for any of these so I can't vouch for anything beyond the songs I bought):

Givers: Up Up Up
Say Hi: Devils
The Black Keys: Lonely Boy. I know it's only a matter of time until I'm sick to death of this one, but it still has some traction for me at the moment.
The Civil Wars: Barton Hollow
The Joy Formidable: Whirring
Fanfarlo: Deconstruction
Peter Bjorn and John: Eyes

Thanks for humoring me. As you were, soldier.

Christmas Recap

2011-12-26T14:58:00.008-06:00

It's hard to believe this was my daughter's seventh Christmas, in as much as I could've sworn we were just slathering her tiny heinie with A&D Ointment and shoving far more diapers into the Diaper Genie than it was ever meant to hold. But, she is growing up and doesn't want to be slathered with anything. A lot of people have asked me how she liked the vanity I painted for her. She loved it. In fact, I think this was the first Christmas where she actually realized that I/we put a lot of effort into the things we do for her. She came to me yesterday afternoon and said, "Thank you for the vanity, Mom. And thank you for everything." Maybe all those "giving is more important than receiving" talks actually took hold in some small way.

One of my daughter's favorite Christmas gifts is called "Irritating Ethel." She was a gift from my mother. Ethel burps, farts, laughs, and screams (when you poke her in the eye). She will also record your voice and play it back with a sort of munchkin effect applied to it. And here is the beauty of Irritating Ethel: she has no "off" switch. Thaaaaaaaanks, Meemaw. You do remember that I will have a hand in choosing your nursing home someday, right? As I write this, my daughter is dancing around the living room in her undies (it is 2 p.m. and she has not bothered to get dressed) singing made-up songs about our Christmas tree, which Ethel is recording and playing back to her. It'll be such a shame when Ethel's batteries die. Such a shame indeed.

Other than all the burping and farting coming from Ethel, we had a good Christmas. We went to church on Christmas Eve. We've also made it a little tradition to stop by a house whose owners take Christmas decorating to a whole new, wonderfully tacky level. I'll include a photo below, although it is hard to do justice to it in a photograph. Bedtime on Christmas Eve went remarkably well this year. Earlier in the day, my friend Beth posted the link to the NORAD Santa Tracker website. I pulled up the site. Santa was in Japan! I brought my daughter into the room and we kept an eye on it throughout the day. As Santa drew closer and closer to the U.S., my daughter knew that she had to be asleep before he hit the Midwest. So, she brushed her teeth and hopped right into bed. A Christmas miracle!

I did videotape my daughter's reaction to seeing the vanity and whatnot on Christmas morning. If I ever learn out to edit video, I'll post it. She actually had to open her gifts fairly quickly as we were due at my brother-in-law's house for brunch at 10:30ish. A opened the gifts from Santa, us, Meemaw, and her aunts. I knew she wanted one of those Monster High dolls so my youngest sister bought it for her. ("Hey, I mailed her that ugly doll she wanted.") I sent my sister a text yesterday morning: "It's hideous! She loves it!" The kid also received: art supplies, bath stuff, Barbies, earrings, games, and Polly Pockets. I think Polly Pocket is the root of all evil. I mean, her shoes can fit in my nostril (no, I haven't tried, it but I'm pretty sure). They are almost microscopic so I'm reasonably certain she will be barefoot for the rest of the winter if the vacuum cleaner has anything to say about it.

After going to brunch at my brother-in-law's house, we came home and resumed the battle to liberate plastic toys from their packaging. I also took the quiet afternoon as an opportunity to clean out my daughter's room and make space available for some of the new toys and games. I tossed out some old stuff (such as "Hi-Ho Cherry-o!" - I know for a fact we can't play this one anymore because the dogs ate most of the cherries and shit them out in the back yard last summer) and found spots for new games like Sorry and Bananagrams.

As for me, I received some nice goodies for Christmas. My mom made me a robe (it's almost enough to make me forgive her for sending Ethel to my house . . . almost). She also sent me some jewelry, yoga pants and shirt, bath stuff, etc. P got me some of the items on the list I helpfully gave him, including a Belgian waffle maker. So, we decided to have "breakfast for dinner" and I made waffles.

Since I doubled my weight over the holidays, I headed straight to the gym this morning. It was nice to have an extra day off after Christmas to unwind and . . . yell at our daughter to get dressed. She is making progress. She is now wearing tights and underwear. I just feel like I should apologize to her future husband now. I hope he likes being perpetually late everywhere he goes.

Ta da!

2011-12-24T22:14:00.000-06:00

The secret project is done and, after some cussing and sweating from my other half, has been hauled into the living room.

Before photo
In-progress photo

See the chair? I picked it up at a consignment shop for $6 and then painted it. There's just one wee little problem. It doesn't actually fit under the vanity. Doh! So yeah, I'm hanging up my paintbrush for a while as I don't think I'm cut out for this sort of thing.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Home Stretch

2011-12-22T06:19:00.009-06:00

I took a break from the holiday craziness and went to yoga Tuesday night. I was the only one there. I felt a little bit guilty about having the instructor (who also owns the studio) wasting her evening on a single student, but she didn't seem to mind too much. I was glad she was willing to go for it because I felt like I really needed the class. The holidays are taking their toll. My mental health has been suffering a bit lately and yoga always seems to help. It was a good class. And I don't mean to brag here, but my instructor complimented me on my chaturanga (which sort of sounds like something dirty, doesn't it?).

Speaking of mental health, my middle sister and I were comparing notes on boneheaded, absentminded stuff we've done lately. She bought her boyfriend a UVA beanie for Hanukkah. Just one problem, though - he went to VA Tech, not UVA. She does have a newborn and two other kids to look after, so I suppose she deserves some slack. The reason I called her to begin with was to confess to her that I may or may not have shipped a tin of cookies to her home. I mailed a box of gifts for my niece and nephews. For the life of me, I cannot remember if I put a tin of homemade cookies in that box. Last week I was just shipping stuff and sending out cookies like mad. The problem is that I was not supposed to put cookies in the box headed to my middle sister's house. The reason? Those cookies are full of nuts and my nephew is allergic. "Merry Christmas, sweetie! Here's a box of death for you." Anyway, I called my sister to warn her. If I did send her cookies, she is either going to toss them out or let my niece smuggle them to school or something. This is worse than the time I gave a bottle of Christmas wine as a hostess gift . . . to a recovering alcoholic.

As we get closer to Christmas, my daughter has been making a last minute push to impress Santa with her good behavior. This morning she got out bed when her alarm went off. Trust me when I say this is a major accomplishment. I immediately accused her of being a pod person who replaced my usual daughter. She also tells us she loves us about eighty times a day. Yesterday she picked her shoes up when I asked her to, which basically solidifies my pod person theory. One of my aunts had a personalized Santa letter sent to our home a couple weeks ago. The letter informed my daughter that she is "near the top of the nice list." I've told her repeatedly that I'm pretty sure this was a clerical error, but she remains committed to the idea. She believes that despite the fact that there are literally millions of children in the world, only three or four are ahead of her on the list. She said she wished she knew the names of those kids. I had the distinct impression that she was thinking of bumping them off in order to rise to the top of the list. I'm pretty sure Santa would frown on that, for sure.

Yesterday morning I attended the holiday concert at my daughter's school. She had been practicing for weeks on end, so I think I'd memorized the songs myself by Halloween. Many cultures! (clap) One world! Many countries big and small . . . I was particularly excited to attend this year because I knew she'd been selected to hold the microphone and announce the first song. Before I left for work that morning I told my daughter that I might just stand up at the concert, point at her, and yell "THAT'S MY BABY!" at the top of my lungs. I could tell from the look on her face that she was vaguely concerned that I might just do it. P was threatening to yell, "That's my daughter! She used to poop in the tub!" I'm pretty sure our child is going to petition the courts for legal emancipation any minute now. Anyway, she did a great job with the announcement and the singing, too. One benefit of her being so short: she's always in the front row of the risers and I can see her easily.

If I may be indulged in one last little brag, my little genius brought home her first report card of the year yesterday. It contained the following note from her teacher:

A is a joy to have in class. She has wonderful insightful responses in our class discussions. Her helpful friendliness, as well as her positive attitude, helps make our classroom a happy place to be. Continue to work hard and be a shining Sharpie. I am proud of you. A is reading at Level K which is advanced at this time.

I'd love for Mrs. S to see the "positive attitude" we get every morning when we attempt to get the kid moving. I am very proud of my daughter, though. No doubt she gets her genius from me (and her inability to sing song lyrics correctly from her dad - you should have heard those two butchering Holly Jolly Christmas while they brushed their teeth this morning).

If you squint at this photo, you can see my kid with the microphone. I tried to get a closer seat but the other parents are pretty hardcore and I was afraid of getting a knife in my ribs.

Judean Shepherd #2

2011-12-18T11:43:00.003-06:00

My daughter was in a Christmas play at church today. The kids in the fellowship presented "The Scottish Shepherd's Story." Essentially it takes a different spin on the Christmas story, focusing on shepherds instead of the Wise Men and such. In years past, my kid had various walk-on roles in the annual production, playing angels and other random extras that didn't require any lines. Now that she is older and can read (and so fluently, too!), she landed a talking part. She played Judean Shepherd #2. Apparently there was an actor shortage, as she was also cast in the role of Judean Shepherd #3. She gets really pissy if you forget that she is both.

"Listen, Judean Shepherd #2, it's almost noon and you still haven't made your bed."

"Also #3, Mom! Judean Shepherd #3!"

"Well, the fact remains that you have not made your bed."

She brought home her script on Wednesday and we ran through her lines. I must say she read them with great gusto and much animation. She was disappointed in my portrayal of the other shepherds when I read their lines, though.

Lately it seems like my daughter's schedule is busier than mine. Last week I had to pick her up from a student council meeting on Monday, drive her to church for play practice on Wednesday, and drive her back for another practice on Saturday. I kept thinking, "She's still just six, right?"

Speaking of being six . . . we picked up a friend of hers yesterday and took the girls to a local Christmas celebration. It was held at a historical park where they have reproductions of a blacksmith shop, one-room schoolhouse, etc. The volunteers wear costumes from days of yore (maybe from my own childhood, which my daughter refers to as "the olden days.") For this event, they had popcorn stringing, a shadow play, horse-drawn wagon rides, and so forth. Towards the end of the day, my daughter and her friend were talking to each other while they munched popcorn. Her friend asked, "Truth or dare?"

My daughter, without hesitating for half a second or even taking a breath said, "Dare!" The fact that she automatically chose dare without even thinking about it makes me fear her teenage years terribly. The good news is that the "dare" was "I dare you to kiss your mom." And of course my daughter gave me a kiss because she does not yet think that kissing one's mom is uncool. Also, when truth was chosen on the next round, I was relieved to find that the questions consisted of stuff like, "Did you see the new Muppet movie?" Whew!

My Boy

2011-12-13T19:41:00.002-06:00

Five years ago this month, I adopted my Giddy. His story was a sad one. He was left in a crate on an access road that runs past a humane society. He weighed around 38 pounds (Boxers typically weigh at least 55 pounds) and had some fresh scratches on his face and nicks on his ears. My friend (and fellow rescue volunteer) Kim took a call from the shelter and retrieved this skinny fawn-colored boy. His age was estimated at around two. We'll never know for sure because most of his teeth had been knocked out, which made it difficult to determine how long he'd been around. A veterinarian surmised that the dog had probably been hit by a car at some point. His left foreleg had been broken but not repaired, leaving the radius and ulna bones permanently twisted. Most of his top teeth were broken off at the root, resulting in exposed nerves and lots of pain. It was too late to fix the foreleg, but we sent him in for surgery to remove the broken teeth. Today, he compensates for the broken leg by walking higher on his toes on that side. He only limps when he's been playing and running a lot.

Kim had named him Reed. I met him when I was at her house for some reason or other (I can't remember now why I was there). My Lucy Annabel had died recently and I had started thinking about adopting a new friend. I knew I needed one who was nothing like her, as any sort of resemblance would have been too painful. I started asking Kim lots of questions about Reed. He seemed like a gentle soul and I liked his face. "You seem interested in him," she said. "Why don't you just foster him?" This dog was technically a stray and I had an eighteen-month-old daughter at home. We tend not to place strays in homes with small children, simply because we don't know the history of these found dogs. However, I like to think I have some instincts when it comes to dogs and I knew he would not harm my baby. I decided to take him home.

My husband was not thrilled about having a new dog in the house. Lucy hadn't been gone long and I really think he only had eyes for her. To this day I am not sure he will ever fully accept any other dog. I, however, was immediately smitten with this new boy. Something about his face just sent me (and still does). And, his story made my heart hurt. I couldn't imagine how he must have suffered when his leg broke. I kept picturing him holding it up and hobbling around as the bones healed in their jumbled way. I wish his former owner had surrendered him right away, as we could have had his leg fixed immediately. Based on his body weight, I'm sure finances were a concern. About a year later, I took him to visit with an animal communicator and she seemed to confirm this theory. She also said that Giddy lived with a family where the lady loved him but the man did not.

It didn't take long before I began lobbying my husband to make the new dog a permanent member of our home. I don't think he was ever really a foster dog to me. In those early days I would lie next to him on the floor, run my hands over his protruding ribs, and try to imagine all that he had been through. P put up a minor protest but knew I would never let the dog go. My next step was to give my new boy a new name. I didn't care for Reed (just to show you how oddly my brain operates: the name Reed made me think of Robert Reed. That, in turn, would cause me to think about the Brady Bunch and also how sad it was that Robert Reed had to hide his homosexuality all those years. Then I would start wondering why the Bradys had astroturf instead of real grass. And since they had astroturf, why was Mike always telling Greg to mow the lawn? It just didn't make sense. And so on it went.) I made a list of new names and asked my friends to vote. Ultimately I decided on Gideon, which is frequently shortened to Giddy, Gids, Giddy-up, etc. Gideon was an important figure in the Old Testament, but I have to confess that I wasn't really thinking of the bible when I named him. I simply liked the name.

We finalized the adoption on January 1, 2007. My rescue friends got together and paid the adoption fee in memory of Lucy.

So, that is the tale of how Giddy came to be my boy. Gretchen is my daughter's dog and Giddy is mine. I absolutely adore him. Sometimes, when he is sleeping, I call to him softy and say, "Are you my boy?" and without opening his eyes, he will wag his nub. Yes, I am your boy.

I took Gideon to obedience classes shortly after adopting him (and later helped him obtain his Canine Good Citizen certificate). However, he is neither obedient nor a particularly good citizen. He jumps up on visitors, barks and drools in his crate, flings himself at the back door if I don't let him in fast enough, and carries on at mealtime by jumping high into the air as I scoop the food. I believe he suspects that if he doesn't complete the jumping routine, this will be the time I finally decide to stop feeding him. He is a complete goofball, albeit a harmless one. A running joke at our house is, "Watch out for Giddy. He might just bite you with his tooth." He has separation anxiety and has been kicked out of boarding (after breaking out of two crates - apparently he dismantled them completely). His farts are so potent they could "knock a buzzard off a shit wagon" (to borrow a colorful phrase from my stad). I have no explanation for my utter devotion to this silly dog.

Happy five-year anniversary to my sweet boy. I don't know how old you are (your expressive eyebrows are suddenly grey), but I hope you are immortal. I need you to stay with me. Good boy, Giddy. Good boy.

Bakestravaganza

2011-12-11T19:51:00.000-06:00

I had a few topics in the early stages of development for this particular blog entry. I thought of writing about Michelle Duggar's miscarriage (I find it a wee bit appalling that people are applauding a death - sure, the lady has more kids than anyone needs, but geez). I thought of writing about my Boxer boy Gideon, who came to our home exactly five years ago (I would still like to write about him soon). And finally, I had a few loosely-formed but completely unrelated ideas about meditation, Weight Watchers, and mortality.

However, based on the pile of unwrapped gifts in my basement, the urgent need to color my roots, and an unwatched episode of Hoarders on my DVR, I decided to go with a weighty (ha!) topic indeed: baked goods. My daughter and I spent the entire day baking. Well, not technically the entire day. After church we went to the hospital to visit an elderly member of our fellowship who just had a minor stroke. Later, A told me, "It was so nice of us to go and visit Miss Lois." I must remember to cover modesty with that child. Also, phone etiquette (I didn't really think about that one until I heard her on the phone with her friend: "I know you called me, Claire. What did you want to say?")

After the hospital visit, we baked five different types of cookies. We then packaged them up to send to various family members along with the other gifts we are shipping to them. During our baking session I learned that it's not wise to hand a sifter full of powdered sugar to a six-year-old and say, "Sift this lightly over the cookies." Does. Not. Compute. Between the volume of powdered sugar and the eight different types of decorations, our relatives may not live to see New Year's Day. Nothing says Christmas like the heartfelt gift of Type 2 diabetes for your loved ones.

They call him . . .

2011-12-07T17:35:00.001-06:00

We took our daughter to see Santa last night. I feel compelled to show you the photo and require you to admire it, because we paid $25.00 for it. Seriously, I don't know how the little elf girl kept a straight face when she told me that a photo (technically, one 5 x 7 and four wallet-size) would run $24.99 plus tax. Pure crazy.

I am sure it is only a matter of time before our daughter announces that she is too old or too cool to sit on Santa's lap, so we didn't mind taking her. You never know when it is the last time. She was so excited about getting dressed up in her fancy red and black ensemble, including shoes that have the tiniest hint of a heel. We drove to the mall in separate cars because I was headed to yoga class after we were done. When we got to the mall, I watched my daughter grab her dad's hand and I walked behind them in the parking lot. Her little heels clicked on the pavement and her curls bounced behind her. At the risk of being a little sappy, that kid takes my breath away sometimes. I may be biased, but she is beautiful.

We waited in line for Santa while the kid danced around, talked to strangers, etc. When it was finally time for our daughter to visit with the man in red, her dad and I waited for her by the exit. I tried to listen to what she was telling Santa but couldn't quite hear. Later, she told me she had asked him for Polly Pockets. Now, why is it that kids always tell Santa they want something that they had not mentioned in any way prior to that very moment? I am pretty sure that Santa had not been planning to buy Polly Pockets but now I guess he'd better consider it, eh? After visiting Santa, we dropped off the gifts we bought for Bianca (through the Salvation Army's Angel Tree program).

The annual trip to visit Santa was just part of our December festivities, of course. A and I are having a baking extravaganza on Sunday (she loves to bake but doesn't like baked goods, a fact that boggles my mind beyond all belief because I would kill a man for a particularly good brownie). We're getting our tree this Saturday. The kid is also participating in a Christmas play at church. All kinds of good stuff going on.

After I picked her up from Kindercare yesterday, I asked my usual questions: "What did you learn today? Did you eat your lunch? Did you get in yellow?"

"Mrs. S read a book about Jesus today," she told me.

"Yeah?" I responded. "What did you learn about Jesus?" (I am happy for my child to learn about Jesus but wondered how it was presented to her. She goes to public school, after all, so I was just sort of curious. I'm hopeful that she is learning about a lot of different traditions - we have a Hanukkah book at home, for example.)

"Well, we learned about when he was a baby. And they named him Jesus. With a J." (I'm certainly glad we're not confusing Jesus with his n'er-do-well brother, Gesus.)

I nodded. "Sure, and did you learn about Mary and Joseph?"

She responded, "Yes, Mary was pregnant." She didn't seem to remember a lot about the book beyond that.

"Jesus grew up to be an important person," I said. "He was a great teacher and wanted people to be kind to each other and to help those who are less fortunate."

My daughter got kind of excited at the mention of Jesus as a teacher. But of course in her head, a teacher has a single definition: someone who stands in a room full of first-graders and covers addition and subtraction. "Mom!" she exclaimed. "When Jesus was a teacher, do you think they called him Mr. J?!"

I started to explain that he wasn't that kind of teacher but decided that it was easier to let it go, at least for now. "No, probably not," I said.

And then, thankfully, we started talking about whether or not she could have a Gogurt when we got home.

So, I had this idea, see . . .

2011-12-04T18:27:00.002-06:00

He who won't go to bed on time

It was November of 2010. My wee baby sister was trying to wrestle her two toddlers into bed. My sister is a redhead, as are her sons. The boys are sixteen months apart and the younger one is particularly feisty - and resistant to this crazy concept known as "bedtime." (By the way, there is a third ginger boy on the way in a matter of days, so things are about to get worse.) Anyway, as I watched this scene play itself out, I jokingly declared, "The redder the head, the earlier to bed!"

My sister thought it was funny and sent me home with an empty wine bottle with the newly-devised slogan scrawled on it in Sharpie. A couple months ago, I had my friend Kate embroider a totebag with the slogan. I added some baby lotions and such to the tote and sent it to my sister so that she can use it as a diaper bag of sorts when the new kid arrives.

At some point I started thinking, "Hey, maybe I could foist this idea off on other people. Complete strangers even!" So, I opened a Cafe Press store. My friend Dave helped me with the artwork (I think I may have loosely implied that I will hook him up with a huge commission once my store takes off). My mom has suggested that she is also due for a payoff in as much as she made my redheaded sister. In reality, I will probably only make enough money to buy an ICEE and popcorn at Target. And everybody knows I don't share food.

However (and here comes the shameless plug), if you know any parents of redheaded children, I would be delighted if you would send them the link: http://www.cafepress.com/theredderthehead

Update on the "labor of love" project

2011-12-04T08:15:00.000-06:00

My daughter's Christmas gift is coming together nicely. Better than expected, really. Again, just don't look at anything too closely (not that taking photos of it in a dimly lit storage room in the basement is doing it any favors either). I have a few tasks to finish before Christmas. I need to do some touch-up painting around the mirror. I also want to buy a jewelry box and a few other things to make it look as girlie as possible (for my pretty, prissy, fabulous kid). I picked up the dresser scarf at an antique shop. I still need to find a stool or chair of some sort.

Before:

After:

I love you, four-day weekend

2011-11-30T17:48:00.002-06:00

I'm sure you are chomping at the bit to hear about my Thanksgiving. Wanna hear it? Here it go. I started the weekend by taking my daughter to see the new Muppet movie on Wednesday afternoon. Yes, I saw it the first day it opened, because I am cool like that. Earlier in the day one of my co-workers said, "Oh, I bet your daughter is really excited to see that movie." I didn't have the heart to tell her that the outing was almost entirely for my benefit. The kid just came along for the M&Ms.

On Thursday morning, I went to yoga. It was a free session (entry was a canned good for a local food pantry) and was extremely crowded, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Two of my friends from church were there (we didn't plan it that way) so that was a bonus. I hoped that making a good decision at the start of the day would prevent bad decisions later in the day.

My baby girl on Thanksgiving

Later that day, we had the big dinner at a friend's house. This particular friend always fries the turkey and for whatever reason, my husband feels that this task cannot proceed without his involvement. So, he headed over there at 11 a.m. to watch football and make some intricate calculations involving oil and minutes and velocity and turkey poundage. I'm so glad I'm a vegetarian. I sent our daughter along with him so that I could have the house to myself and work on the project. I figured she may as well play with the other kids instead of me yelling at her all day. I did get a lot of work done on the vanity. I will post a new photo soon. My painting skills definitely leave a lot to be desired. If you ever visit our house and have occasion to view the vanity, please squint at it from at least ten feet away, do not look in the drawers and for the love of God do not look at the back of the thing. Right now I'm trying to figure out what to do about the drawer pulls (I may get crazy and hand paint them with polka dots or something). I'm also on the hunt for a vanity stool.

Dinner itself was nice. The usual stuff was available for consumption. We were asked to bring two pies, so that is what we did (I bought them - sorry). I am not big on pie so I was not tempted by dessert. Had there been some chocolate on the table, it would have been a whole other story. My middle sister was telling me that someone brought a homemade flan to their Thanksgiving celebration. Oy.

After dinner, I went home and finished my Black Friday game plan. Now, I have to say that I find it truly irritating that Black Friday now starts on Thursday. To me, stores that open at 10 or 12 on Thanksgiving are essentially saying, "Hey, we don't give a fuck about our employees." Seriously, I did my time in retail and I think it's horrible to make someone work on Thanksgiving. Black Friday is for early birds, not night owls. Everyone knows that the early bird gets the worm - not the night owl. YOU ARE REWARDING THE WRONG BIRD, PEOPLE! Anyway, I made plans to get up at 4 and go shopping in hopes of grabbing a few bargains. One thing we really wanted was a 42" television that Best Buy had as a "door buster." P decided to drive over there at midnight to determine what his odds were. He saw the line that wrapped around the outside of the building and promptly drove back home. We did end up buying a TV at Best Buy the next day. It was on sale for Black Friday but isn't as large as the big one that was long gone. Funny side note: when he pulled our old TV off the stand, there were about a dozen CDs underneath it. When A was a toddler she was always shoving CDs in weird places. We knew we were missing some but eventually we just convinced ourselves that we were losing our minds. And now that we don't need CDs anymore, we can use them as coasters or something.

I did manage to get some good stuff on sale on Black Friday. Lots of games and whatnot. I was home by late morning and was exhausted by mid-afternoon. However, my daughter was bored so I ended up taking her to a water park. I had a buy-one-get-one pass. We had a nice time. Since I had gotten up so early, I hadn't bothered to put on much make-up - just a little eyeliner and mascara. When we were at the water park, the kid said, "Mom, you have a little bit of black right here." She pointed to the corner of her eye. I grabbed a towel and wiped my eye. "Better?" I asked. She nodded. Well, an hour later we were in the ladies' room and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had black mascara smeared from my eyebrows to my cheekbones. My daughter saw me peering into the mirror. She looked at me with a slight frown, a look that was probably meant to convey sympathy or empathy but instead came across as, my mother is a half-wit. "Mommy, I just didn't want to tell you." Thanks, kid.

On Saturday morning, I went to Weight Watchers and learned that, despite working out and eating carefully all week, I'd managed to gain half a pound. Honestly, why do I bother? After that, the kid and I headed out of town to take Willa the puppy to her new home. Willa's new digs are about 2 1/2 hours away, so I got a cheap room on Priceline and figured we'd make a weekend of it. On our way to the new home, we stopped to visit our former foster dog, Fritz. Now, Fritz is much more my speed than a puppy is. He's almost 12 now. I was happy to see that he is doing well. His mom, who has come to be a good friend, made us lunch and had some nice little gifts for us. She made a necklace for my daughter - I'd try to describe it but I'd never do it justice. My friend also gave me a set of mala beads. I was touched to learn that the set includes a bead that once belonged to her mother.

A was sad to leave Willa at her new home and hugged her profusely until I was finally able to pull her out the door. I've been fostering for nearly 12 years, so I don't get too emotional anymore. The only time I get weepy is when the dog required a lot of rehabilitation and was in rough shape when the journey began. Young, healthy dogs are pretty easy to let go of. Anyway, Willa's new family is happy to have her and I'm happy that I won't have a puppy swinging by her teeth from the branches of our Christmas tree. Falalalalala.

Our hotel room turned out to be pretty nice. It was one of those Residence Inn joints. The room had a full kitchen and all that jazz. The kid insisted on sleeping on the fold-out couch by herself. I didn't argue with the notion of having a king size bed just for moi. We spent most of the evening watching "Punkin Chunkin" on TV and reading. We drove back home the next day after a stop at Trader Joe's (we don't have one anywhere near our home). After spending three solid days with Miss Chatty, I handed her over to her father as soon as we got home. "Congratulations, Mr. M, it's a girl!"

All in all, it was a good weekend. I'm sure you were expecting something more titillating or newsworthy, seeing as how it took me a solid week to write this blog entry. I'm planning to get an oil change this weekend, so watch for a post on that next.

Namaste

A rant for the season

2011-11-27T15:32:00.005-06:00

|begin rant|

It happens every year. The rumblings spread across Facebook, clever church marquees, and various forms of advertising. "Keep Christ in Christmas!" Everyone seems so worried that outsiders are trying to put the kibosh on their holiday that they issue a pre-emptive strike. They warn that utterings of "happy holidays" will be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.

For all the times I have heard "Keep Christ in Christmas," I have never heard a non-Christian say, "Take Christ out of Christmas!" Not once. Sure, some of the atheist organizations put up the occasional billboard to get people riled up, but even many atheists celebrate Christmas. I've spotted a few "XMAS Trees" signs at tree lots, but I think that's more about laziness (and perhaps the limitations of a spray-painted hunk of plywood) than sacrilege. I think the war on Christmas has been greatly exaggerated.

Keep in mind that only around one-third of the earth's population is Christian. I'm not good at math, but I believe that statistic also indicates that two-thirds of the planet is not Christian. Many non-Christians, particularly in the U.S., are practically forced to acknowledge Christmas whether they want to or not. Can they go grocery shopping on December 25th? Probably not. Even if Christmas is not a holy day for a given individual, they've probably got the day off work and have been doused in Christmas carols and cookies for weeks on end. So, I just don't see how someone can simultaneously say, "CELEBRATE MY HOLIDAY, DAMMIT!" and "DON'T YOU DARE CELEBRATE MY HOLIDAY IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE EXACTLY WHAT I BELIEVE!"

When you check out at Target and an employee offers a cheerful, "Happy Holidays!" this is not tantamount to saying, "Take Christ out of Christmas." A quick glance at a calendar reveals that there are, in fact, multiple holidays occurring this time of year, starting with Thanksgiving and stretching through to New Year's Day. Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and the winter solstice also fall in that time span. And, of course, Christmas. (See, it's a whole bunch; that's why we call this period "the holidays.") The lady at Target can't tell just by looking at me whether I am Christian or Jewish or Muslim. I'm not offended by "Happy Holidays" any more than I'd be offended by "Happy Hanukkah." If you want to blame someone for turning Christmas into a commercial holiday, blame the retailers. But then, we'd also have to blame ourselves for succumbing to it (I was at Black Friday like a jackass, too, so I am not pointing any fingers here).

A wise friend pointed out to me that we're all on the same planet and that we should focus more on inclusion than divisiveness. She happens to be Buddhist (and is not in any way offended when people wish her a Merry Christmas). I'm a Unitarian Universalist, but I happen to be a big fan of Jesus, too (and yes, I celebrate his birth). Christians are supposed to be loving and tolerant, so who cares if others celebrate the holiday as they wish?

|end of rant|

Hallelujah!

2011-11-23T20:33:00.001-06:00

Our foster pup has an adoption pending. A ~~sucker~~ very nice couple came to meet Willa last weekend and decided to adopt her. It's a good thing I had every intention of being honest about Willa's naughty behavior, because my daughter sang like a canary before the visitors even had a chance to sit down in our living room. "Willa pees and poops on the floor, and she stole my underwear," the kid announced loudly.

"Ha ha!" I laughed nervously. "I was, um, just about to tell you about that."

It is true that Willa is a thief. She is the only member of our household who can fit under the bed in the guest room/office. So, that is where she keeps her cache of stolen items. Our house is generally kept pretty neat, but there are two primary opportunities for theft: 1. My daughter can't remember to keep her bedroom door shut and 2. Laundry being folded is fair game. Every other day or so, I pull the guest room bed out from the wall so that I can clear out the stash. I have found the following:

My pajama pants
My husband's t-shirt
Mutilated Barbies (I think at least four have been maimed at this point - the pooch has been pooping Barbie hands and feet for weeks).
My new pen
Dish towels
Receipts
Shoes

I took Willa to the vet yesterday for her final visit before the adoption. She weighed 11 pounds when we got her and now clocks in at 22. She has actually made some strides in her housebreaking. She still pees inside about once a day just to keep us from getting complacent, though.

As much as I complain about the evil little imp, she is very sweet. She sleeps with me at night and is very cuddly and affectionate. She has been pretty good about not chewing computer wires, dining room chairs, and the like. It helps that I have other dogs because she wrestles with Gretchen constantly (which sort of keeps them both out of trouble). Willa is funny and keeps us entertained. At first it seems amusing when she runs through the living room, ears flying behind her and a wild look in her eye, but then we realize, "Hey, did she have my underwear in her mouth?"

Her new home is a couple hours away, so I think the kid and I are going to make a weekend of it and get a hotel room on Priceline. I'm also planning a visit with Fritz, my former foster dog. He lives in the same area where Willa will be residing. Plus, I adore the nice lady who adopted him and she is planning to feed us.

So, the puppy saga will be over soon. The next time I receive a phone call during which I hear the words, "Hey, would you mind fostering a puppy?" I'll be smart enough to respond with the right answer. Or at least to pretend to have a bad connection and hang up toute de suite.

Oh, to be so confident

2011-11-20T19:56:00.000-06:00

She made me take this photo of her flushing a toilet. We were in an antique shop and she was fascinated by the "olden" potty.

My daughter was selected for the student council at school last week. I received a letter from her teacher requesting me to approve A's participation on the council. She told me that she thinks my daughter's personality and good ideas will be of value to the other members. A lot of thoughts went through my head:

First graders are involved in student government? Do they know she still doesn't pour her own juice?
Does she have to take notes? And if so, can they limit the discussions to words that have appeared on her spelling tests this year?
She has to report back to her class what happens in the meeting. I have received 15-minute responses to the question "What did you play at recess today?" so I can only imagine what sort of report her class will receive.

Mostly, though, I'm just darned proud that my daughter was selected. I wonder if this will be the beginning of a long and storied career in politics. She and I attended a tree lighting ceremony downtown last Wednesday. Our city's mayor was there. I turned away for a moment to throw away the cup from our hot chocolate and the next thing I knew, my daughter was chatting with the mayor like they were BFFs from way back. She saw him two days later at a different holiday event and was beside herself, waving and calling out to him. He waved back and said, "Hi there!" Maybe he remembered her and maybe he didn't - I'm not sure. To top things off she spotted him again on Saturday at our local holiday parade and waved to him again. I am fairly certain that she is convinced that the mayor specifically and purposely plans his schedule around where my daughter might be on any given day.

She is confident, that's for sure. I stayed home from work on Friday to work on the secret project. I did get up to help the kid get dressed and to fix her hair. She was headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth when she turned and looked at herself in the full-length mirror in the hallway. "I look so pretty," she said to herself. I hugged her and told her she sure was right. I have never, in 41 years, looked in a mirror and thought, "Hubba hubba!" I have no idea what it's like to have my daughter's confidence, but I'm definitely envious.

This morning at church she was chomping at the bit to make an announcement during our "candles of community" tradition. She wanted me to walk up to the chalice with her but did not want me to say anything. She took the microphone, said her name (everyone knows her but I suggested she say her name in case there were any new people in attendance) and then announced that she had been selected for student council. Her voice rang out clear as a bell. She set the microphone down as the congregation applauded for her. Later, after the service was over, she announced her news to each member individually, just in case they'd somehow failed to hear it with the aid of a microphone and speakers.

I'll be anxious to hear how tomorrow's meeting goes when I pick her up. Apparently the first order of business will be elections. A matter-of-factly told me that it is her intention to be president of her school this year. I suggested that it is more likely a fifth grader will be chosen, and she scowled at me as if she couldn't believe this outrage.

So, who knows. Maybe she will choose a career in politics. Do politicians have to get up early? That might be a problem.

Bianca would never do that

2011-11-16T18:52:00.000-06:00

I've come to the sad realization that playing the Santa card ("Ohhh, you know how Santa feels about dirty teeth - better get to brushing!") is not as effective as it once was. I think my daughter figured out that despite all the threats, she still gets plenty o'presents on Christmas morn. So, although I will continue to advise my daughter that the big guy in red gets furious over uneaten vegetables and jackets left on the floor instead of hanging them up because the hook is RIGHT THERE FOR GOD'S SAKE, I knew I needed a new tactic. Enter: Bianca.

Like many parents, I worry that my child is not learning to think of others. I once read that children are pretty much genetically programmed to think only of themselves until the age of eight or so. However, my daughter does have a good heart and I think she just needs some encouragement to understand concepts like gratitude and giving. So, I took her to the mall yesterday to select an angel ornament from the Salvation Army's Angel Tree. I explained to her that each ornament represents a child from a low-income family and that these kids won't get much for Christmas. I immediately realized that I'd left a loophole - I feared she'd ask why Santa doesn't bring these kids as many gifts as they bring her. However, she didn't ask.

We looked at all of the ornaments until we found one for a girl who is close to my daughter's age. I thought maybe the whole concept would come together a little better if the recipient is the same age/sex. We chose Bianca. She is seven. She wears a size 8-10 clothing, size 2 1/2 shoes, and really needs pajamas (according to the note included on the paper ornament). "We'll shop for Bianca together," I told my daughter. She nodded, but I'm not sure she really gets it. She didn't ask me any questions, which is unusual. We aren't wealthy, of course. Our checking account takes a beating every month (and we don't have any savings to speak of except for 401ks). But, we have a house, jobs, cars, and college educations. We have food to eat. We're okay. We can hook up a little girl we'll never meet with some pjs and shoes.

Now, please don't tell Bianca but I am using her - just a little. I didn't set out with that intention at all, but I am a parent whose toolbox is mostly empty. Time-outs are ineffective at this age, we don't spank, and positive reinforcement is only marginally effective. So, that leaves the induction of guilt. Within mere hours of having chosen Bianca, I found myself saying things like, "I'm pretty sure Bianca puts her pajamas on the first time she is asked" and "I really doubt that Bianca would leave that much food on her plate." Poor Bianca. I have no shame. Seriously.

Anyway, here's hoping that by the time the holidays are over, my daughter will think of Bianca and remember that not everyone has everything they need and want - even basic necessities. And maybe she will remember that giving is more important than receiving. Perhaps she'll even be more grateful for what she has. And, most importantly, I hope she'll remember that Bianca always, always eats her vegetables.

The mysery I cannot solve

2011-11-14T19:25:00.002-06:00

I walked into church yesterday to find that the speaker was . . . my yoga teacher (apparently I don't check the schedule ahead of time or read the newsletter very carefully). I adore her so I was excited to see her at the fellowship and to hear her her speak. Our Unitarian Universalist church does not have a regular pastor. Instead, we invite different speakers each week, each one delivering a topic that serves to help each of us further our own spiritual journey. Although there is certainly something to be said for having a permanent pastor to deliver a cohesive series of sermons, I sure learn a heck of a lot from all the different speakers. I really look forward to going to church, which is more than I can say for the first 36 years of my life. Anyhow, Kathy spoke about Ayurveda, an ancient philosophy of healing. She talked a lot about food and the five elements (air, ether, water, fire, earth), but don't ask me for any details beyond that. It was interesting, though (or at least the parts I could grasp).

As I sat there listening to Kathy talk about the mind-body connection, I kept thinking, "Why can't I make that connection? What is wrong with me?" I go to Yoga, I go to the gym (I can last an hour on the adaptive motion trainer these days), and I try to take care of myself. It always comes down to my eating. Why do I try to pretend that I can somehow trick my body into not acknowledging buttered popcorn and the like? I eat a ton of fruits and vegetables. However, I also eat junk. On Saturday, for example, I went to Weight Watchers and then went to a craft fair at a local high school. There was a bake sale there as well. There, on a cafeteria table at the back of the gymnasium, I spotted them. Chocolate chip cookies. Only a buck for six of them - plus, it was for the debate team so I had to help the kids, right? I started eating the cookies as soon as I got in the car. I mean, it didn't feel self-destructive at the time. I just really like baked goods.

On Saturday night, the three of us went to a hockey game (we have a local USHL team). The kid had never been to a hockey game and I wasn't sure how she'd fare. I almost told her to bring her DS because I figured she'd get bored. However, she was totally into it. She sat in her dad's lap so she could see better. Also, she farted in his lap at least half a dozen times. I just think it's nice that he has something to share with the guys at work when they ask, "What did you do this weekend?" Anyway, back to the game. There were four guys sitting in the row in front of us. I don't know what their relationship was, but we guessed they were all related. All were huge. The kind of huge that spilled over the back of the chairs and caused my 6'3" husband to have one knee in the aisle and the other in a neighboring county. I was in a similar predicament, but of course I am much shorter. I watched the four gents eat nachos and hot dogs with the works. True, their intake is none of my business. But I just kept thinking, "Am I really any different? Do I treat my body any better?" Also, "I'm pretty sure one of these guys is always in the seat next to mine when I fly."

Last week I watched an episode of "I Used to be Fat," an MTV program that follows recent high school graduates as they try to lose weight before going off to college. In this particular episode, the trainer kept telling the trainee, "You have to figure out why you gained weight. There has to be a reason. Otherwise, you'll just gain it back." I have often struggled with this concept. I am not aware of any major psychological wounds that should cause me to overeat. It's true that I have never had a lot of love for my physical self; I have generally felt betrayed by my body. I have a host of medical issues (autoimmune stuff). I miscarried four times. So yeah, it's hard to be in my own fan club. But, I don't like to look for excuses for why I can't lose weight and keep it off. I talked to my OB/GYN when I had my annual physical recently, and he helpfully suggested that I "eat smaller portions." Well, thank you, I never would've thought of that! As an aside, he also told me that with my bone structure, I'll never be model-thin. I always thought "big-boned" was a euphemism for "fat," but there it is.

At the end of the day, I still don't know why I indulge in self-sabotage. However, I'm going to try harder to remember that I do have control over this. I decided to start working on the control issue yesterday. I took A and her friend to a children's museum for the afternoon. I took them to Dairy Queen for ice cream on our way back home. I didn't order anything for myself. For whatever reason, I am incapable of ordering some small low-fat frozen yogurt and finding a way to be happy with that. I'd really rather have a brownie sundae with hot fudge. There are no in-betweens with me, mister.

I'm so tired of failing. I feel like Oprah. I'm fat, then less fat, then fat again. My mom called and diplomatically asked me what size sweater she should buy me for Christmas this year. Poor P is my Stedman, trying to decide whether or not to offer me a Kit-kat from the Halloween candy bag. I get tired of fighting this thing, but if I don't . . . before I know it I'll be at a hockey game, spilling over the back of my chair, telling my neighbor that I sure hope the team scores six goals so that I can get a free taco.

I hate this time of year

2011-11-11T17:46:00.003-06:00

I hate November. Not because it gets dark at noon. Not because I have to come down off the sugar rush brought on by Halloween (we still have Reese's peanut butter cups but don't think about touching them - I will knife you as sure as I'm sitting here). It's not even because of the really bad art that was posted all over Facebook today in honor of Veteran's Day (seriously, though, the people who create those eagle-superimposed-on-an-American Flag images should have to surrender their Photoshop software or face criminal charges). Nor is it the fact that November signals the start of the frenzied holiday season.

I don't like November because it involves so much death. I realize I am very much in the minority here, but stay with me for a moment. I promise my next blog entry will tackle some heady topic, like: why does my daughter walk right past her dad in order to ask me to do something for her? Has he simply convinced her that he is incompetent and that her best bet is to head straight for the parent who has a uterus?

I love Thanksgiving. Even though I am a vegetarian, there is always plenty to eat. I just skip the turkey, the dressing, the gravy, and anything else that looks like it might have dead animal flesh in it. Usually, that still leaves a ton of stuff I can eat, including dessert. Since I don't make a turkey myself, of course, I never host Thanksgiving. So, really, it's a stress-free holiday for me. I usually visit my family in Virginia or Oklahoma for Thanksgiving, but this year I didn't have the vacation time or the money, so I'm sticking around. A friend has invited us over for the big meal (the friend is my daughter's Godfather's brother - got all that?) They have a huge family and know how to organize a meal. So, Abel will call us with a very specific item to bring and all we have to do is bring it. The day will involve a lot of eating, socializing, and - in all probability - some wine. I just can't get too crazy because I have to get up early the next morning and risk my life for a $5 Barbie.

My only real complaint about Thanksgiving is the emphasis on the turkey. I'm pretty sure my daughter will be required to make a turkey-related craft over the next week or two. Stores will advertise sales using a gleeful cartoon turkey whose jovial demeanor (look! he's wearing a little pilgrim hat!) basically tells us: "I can't wait to be eaten!" In reality, the life of a turkey is more dismal than one can really imagine. They are pumped full of hormones so that they can grow unnaturally large in an abnormally short period of time. In fact, I've read that some turkeys are so large that many times they cannot even support their own weight on their skinny bird legs. They live in horribly cramped conditions and then they meet their end, appearing in a freezer near you shortly thereafter. I know nobody wants to think about that. As Linda McCartney once said, "if slaughterhouses had glass walls the whole world would be vegetarian." I guess part of my beef is with the sugarcoating. If you're interested in this phenomenon at all, check out a site called Suicide Food, which highlights advertisements that feed into the idea that cows and chickens and pigs are absolutely ecstatic at having the opportunity to be someone's dinner. A prime example is the ever-popular barbecue sign showing a beaming pig holding a cleaver. Ew.

I dunno. I guess I'm a little off-kilter (you know, cuckoo) but when it comes to Thanksgiving, I prefer to focus on family and gratitude and giving. I prefer my holidays to be cruelty-free, I guess.

I'm not done with my rant, though. Today I saw my first (of the season) deer carcass shoved onto the back of a pickup truck. I dread this every year. I have friends who are hunters (I'm pretty sure some of them just go along for the beer) so I don't want to paint all hunters with the same brush. However, I just don't get it. It makes my heart hurt every November, to see deer after deer lashed to trucks, blood crusted here and there, their dignity gone. And don't try telling me that hunter is feeding his hungry poverty-stricken family. That hunter has a tricked-out, extended cab, dualie truck that cost almost as much as my house. And don't try telling me that the hunters are concerned about wildlife management, either. That argument just doesn't hold water. At the end of the day, I just can't separate wild animals from the ones who live in my house. All animals are the same to me. I was incredibly sad to learn, earlier this week, that the western black rhino has officially been declared extinct. Talk about "wildlife management." Wildlife fared a lot better before humankind stepped in to "manage" it. But, I digress.

People will continue to hunt. Millions will continue to eat turkey and won't worry too much about where it came from. I guess I'll just be the lone crazy person who doesn't really understand.

Lunch at the first grade table

2011-11-08T18:12:00.000-06:00

I decided to surprise my daughter and have lunch with her today. Instead of taking her out to dine (I've done that, too), I packed a Tofurkey sandwich and ate lunch in the cafeteria with her. She's been known to get "in the yellow" for her behavior during lunch so I wanted to see for myself what goes down. She told me she's gotten in trouble for talking too loudly during lunch. I couldn't help but wonder, "How loud do you have to be in order to be 'too loud for the lunch room?'" She tried to convince me that the kids are only allowed to whisper, which seemed a little odd to me.

I signed in as a guest and waited outside the office, lunch box in hand. Moments later, the first graders flooded the hallway. A was surprised and excited to see me. For the record: she is still willing to hug and kiss me in public (I'm sure those days are numbered). We stood in line with the rest of her class and then filed into the cafeteria. One of A's best friends came up to me and informed me that she and my daughter have been banned from sitting together in the lunch room. So, we sat next to a different friend. A and I sat down at the table, opened our lunch boxes, and started munching. If I had not been there, I'm about 99% sure she would have eaten her Oreo Cakesters first. However, since I was in attendance, she dutifully chewed on her PB&J. She snuggled up close to me, seeming to be proud and happy that I was there. Meanwhile, a couple of boys at a table across the aisle started whispering to each other and pointing at me. I'm pretty sure that the wee detectives deduced that I was not, in fact, a first grader.

I made a few observations about the crew at my table.

1. I was the only one there with a full set of teeth. Seriously, first graders have it rough. The two girls sitting across the table from me had about a dozen teeth between them.
2. The cafeteria is not quiet and the kids don't have to whisper. So, I'm back to wondering how someone could possibly be "too loud for the lunch room." But, apparently, my kid finds a way.
3. Kids don't eat green beans. They just don't.

During lunch, the students are obligated to raise their hand if they need something. There are two cafeteria monitors who wander around the room opening milk containers and picking up garbage. It didn't take the kids at my table long to realize that they had an official grown-up in their midst. Before I knew it, I was opening ketchup and salad dressing packets left and right (I got mad skillz, yo). One girl seemed to need three packets of barbecue sauce for her sandwich. I didn't question it. The friend on the other side of A kept asking me random questions and at first I wasn't going to say anything but eventually I did point out to her that she was sporting a huge marker stain (shaped roughly like the state of Florida) that started at the corner of her mouth and made it nearly to her right ear. As usual, A put me on the spot and asked, "Can so-and-so come over to my house?" I tried my best to be non-committal. I'm happy to let her have friends over but it's kind of challenging with the dogs (who have trouble accepting that visitors are not there specifically to see them and that not everyone enjoys a Boxer tongue down their throat). Also, my daughter's room gets trashed during every play date and then I'm the one who ends up on on her hands and knees fishing Barbie shoes out from under the bed and whatnot.

Before I knew it, the twenty-minute lunch period had passed and the kids were lining up to go back to their classrooms. The kids need permission to get up and throw their garbage away, but I stood up and threw mine away without permission. Yeah, you heard that right. A was the last to leave. The other kids filed past us. She-of-many-barbecue packets patted me on the back as she walked by. My daughter got in line with her classmates. I zipped up her purple dog-shaped lunch box and gathered my purse and jacket. I started to head for the other door so that I could sign out in the office. I turned and looked at my baby girl, the shortest one in her class, waving madly at me. "Bye, Mama! I love you!"

I'm glad I get to be awesome for at least a little while longer.

I'm all discombobulated

2011-11-06T18:50:00.003-06:00

I'm sick, but still managed to pack a dozen errands and events into the weekend. Resting is for pussies. I'm mostly just ignoring my cold, even though my lungs are leaden and my head is too heavy for my neck. I did give in and buy some Nyquil for tonight. I'm expecting to be unconscious before 9 p.m. Well, unless I decide to stay up and watch "Sister Wives." I think I've watched every episode and am not any closer to understanding polygamy but I try to keep an open mind. Similarly, I was watching "Umpteen Kids & Counting" a few mornings ago and don't fully understand that scenario either. I have to admit that I can't really bring myself to make (negative) comments about the Duggars because they just seem so darned nice. I did laugh out loud when Jim Bob Duggar explained why they are opposed to dancing, though. He said something about dancing creating sensual desires that cannot righteously be fulfilled. Yet, we have some pretty strong evidence that he and Michelle get it on CONSTANTLY. What's the difference? You're either horizontal or vertical, but that's about it, right? I was perplexed for the rest of the day.

I do try to be open-minded and accepting, though. In our area we've had a recent influx of Somali refugees. I was delighted to see diversity on the rise - I really want my daughter to learn about lots of different types of people. The newcomers are largely (maybe all?) Muslim and the women wear the traditional hijab. I see them at the grocery store and find myself wanting to strike up a conversation, to ask how they like it here and if they were warned about our winters ahead of time. The opportunity has not really arisen, though. I saw a Somali woman at the grocery store on Friday. She was wearing a burka and only her eyes were visible. Instead of thinking, "Wow, that must get so hot in the summer," I thought, "Wow, I could hide fifty pounds under there and no one would have any idea."

In other news, I've started Christmas shopping. I'm determined to spread out the expenses a little more effectively this year. I hit two craft fairs and the mall yesterday. At the first craft fair, I bought a couple of Barbie dresses for the kid. I then stopped at a booth that sold candles. I spent a few minutes sniffing the different scents. It was kind of pointless, in as much as my right nostril has not worked in a week and my left one is only pretending to be functional. Anyway, I bought a candle and as I was checking out, I got in a panic because I couldn't find the bag with the doll dresses in it. I spun in a circle and looked all over on the floor. "I know I had a bag," I told the candle man as I wrote my check.

"Um, ma'am?" he said. "It's under your arm."

"Oh, ha ha!" I replied. "I guess I'm just wearing so many layers." And what I meant by "I'm wearing so many layers" was "I'm basically losing my mind."

I did manage to pick up a few gifts this weekend. I had some coupons I was able to use at the mall. I'm also planning to do the Black Friday thing again this year. It appeals to my sense of adventure and my need to be thrifty, I guess. I think Black Friday is one of those things that people either love or hate. Last time I saw my sister-in-law, she solemnly rolled up her sleeve and pointed at her elbow. "See this scar? Black Friday."

P says we should just buy gift card for everyone and call it a day. Well, we really only buy gifts for the kids in our family and I don't think gift cards will work. I'm just picturing me handing a gift card to my one-month-old nephew: "Here. Get yourself somethin' nice." Plus, I like buying gifts. I'm just trying to be sensible about it.

Anyway, that was my weekend. The puppy just pooped on the kitchen floor, so I have to sign off now. I'm pretty sure I picked up a pile the other day that had Ariel's hands in it. Sleeping Beauty also lost a foot. They are planning to compete in the paralympics this year. They prefer to think of themselves not as handicapped but handicapable, you know. The puppy has a visit with a potential adopter next weekend. Willa is cute and all, but I'm pretty determined to get her placed before Christmas. I have an idea of what she might do to a Christmas tree and would prefer she do it to someone else's. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

So much drama, mama

2011-11-02T17:13:00.001-05:00

This is the story of a crime. Whether it's a misdemeanor or a felony depends on your perspective.

I don't claim to be a laid-back mom by any stretch, but I'm not as much of a stickler as you might expect. You want candy at 8 p.m.? Fine (provided you can get it yourself). Teeth don't always get brushed at night. Sometimes the lunch I send to school with my daughter has nothing resembling a fruit or a vegetable in it (well, unless you count PB&J, I guess). Sometimes I go crazy and let her stay up until 9.

Other times, my tolerance level drops a bit. I have been known to ride my daughter for leaving her underwear on the floor instead of putting them down the laundry chute (which is six inches from her bedroom door, by the way). I nag her about leaving drinks all over the house. I say things like, "If I pick this up one more time, it's going in the garbage" and "See? Was that so hard?" Sometimes the little things bug me, sometimes not. It really depends on the day and my mood at the time. There is, however, one rule that is always upheld: do not hurt the animals. From the time she was born, I have been telling my daughter that she may not bother the dogs when they are eating or sleeping (I'd tell her to do the same with the cat but it's a moot point because our cat is a ninja and cannot easily be located). As a toddler she did a few stints in time-out for breaking the rule. In short, she is required to respect our furry family members.

Fast forward to Sunday night. The kid was chasing our foster puppy around. She is pretty much obsessed with Willa. Willa, however, was playing with Gretchen. A wanted the puppy to herself. I turned my head just in time to see my daughter extend her leg and kick Gretchen in the thigh. It was not what you'd call a good wallop - I'm not even sure Gretchen noticed she'd gotten the boot. But still. I sucked in my breath, held it, looked my daughter in the eye, and waited for her to realize there was a problem. I saw the "oh shit" expression cross her face an instant later. "Go. To. Your. Room." I said evenly and deliberately. I wasn't a raving lunatic about it but I made sure my tone of voice left no question about the seriousness of the situation. She stuck out her lower lip and marched down the hall to her room.

What to do now? I decided to give her some time in her room. Before I could decide on a punishment, she started churning out notes and shoving them under the door. Here is a sample:

Seriously? I mean, what can I expect when she is 13? I got a similar note a couple weeks ago but it said "my mom hats me" and let me just say that my response ("I don't hat you - you can wear one or not. Totally up to you!") was not well received. I have a hard time reacting to drama. I don't want her to think that I don't care about her feelings, but I'm also not planning to play into the hands of a six-year-old. I tell her at least half a dozen times a day that I love her, so it's not as if she has reason to doubt my affection for her. I would throw myself in front of a bus for that kid.

Her father, on the other hand, can do no wrong. I offer the following as evidence. Yes, they skip around clutching ice cream cones and roses. If I weren't so busy ruining my daughter's life with my unreasonable rules, I'm sure I'd do the same.

Update on secret project

2011-11-01T06:30:00.000-05:00

I think you'll agree that it ~~looks like a colossal pile of dookie~~ is coming right along! Since this is a Christmas gift, I wonder if I can talk the entire planet into moving the holiday into March this year.

In other news, did I mention how much fun it is to foster a puppy?

Who Invited the English Major?

2011-10-28T06:04:00.004-05:00

As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, I attended a Pure Romance party a couple months ago. It is common at such gatherings for the sales representative to lead the partygoers in a game of some sort. An icebreaker, if you will. At this particular party, the Pure Romance lady issued an invitation to the attendees: "Use the first letter of your middle name and then come up with a list of adjectives to describe your sex life." There weren't a lot of people there, so my turn came up pretty quickly.

My middle name is Marie. The first adjective to jump into my brain was maudlin. No, no, that won't work. Mediocre? No. Musty? Crap! Seeing that I was stymied, the hostess rattled off a list of M words that would make Dr. Ruth blush. "Moan, masturbate," and so on she went. I can't remember the rest but there were quite a few. An alarming number, really.

"But, but . . . " I responded. "Those aren't adjectives." Everyone turned to look at me as if to say, "Who invited her?"

A few days ago, I had a follow-up appointment with my allergy and asthma doctor. I was in his office a couple of times in late September because I was at death's door with an asthma flare-up. I tell you, I don't know when I've been so sick. I coughed and coughed to the point of exhaustion. He wanted me to come back when I was well so that we could discuss an action plan for the future. When I arrived at my doctor's office, the receptionist handed me an asthma quiz. The quiz asked me to rate my symptoms on a scale of 1 to 5. I was unable to get past the first question: "Are there activities you would of done if not for your asthma symptoms?" (I can't remember the exact wording, but that should be pretty close.) The error may as well have had a disco ball attached to it - I could not look away.

When Dr. W called me into the exam room, he asked me if I had taken the quiz. I decided I would share my horror with him. "There's an error in the first question, you know." I laughed and suggested to him that really, heads should roll for this sort of thing. He hopped up from his spinny stool and grabbed the clipboard that still had the asthma quiz attached.

"Where is it? Wait, let me see if I can find it." He scanned the laminated sheet and spotted the error immediately. He seemed rather excited about it. Maybe it gets boring, talking to people about their lungs all day.

"Now you can go home and tell your wife about the obnoxious patient who came in this morning," I said. He laughed. Oddly enough, though, I think he actually got a kick out of the fact that I had the chutzpah to point out the error. Later in the visit, he wanted to run some breathing tests and I hesitated because my insurance is fully depleted for the year (thanks to A's ear tubes). Everything I do at this point is out-of-pocket. I told him it might be better if I wait until January. Dr. W said he would make an adjustment to my bill in exchange for my invaluable assistance with the flawed form.

Ha! And you thought my BA in English was worthless!

In general, I don't claim to have stellar grammar. My blog is full of errors, I'm sure. I tend to forget when to use 'who' and when to use 'that.' (As in, dogs who sleep or dogs that sleep?) I use commas rather haphazardly at times. I think I successfully avoid glaring mistakes like confusing 'loose' and 'lose.' (Try visiting a Weight Watchers message board sometime - you'll loose your mind, I swear.) The ol' your/you're choice continues to confuse Facebook users worldwide. I don't expect my friends and acquaintances to use perfect grammar in emails or in speech. I promise you I'm not like that. However, I do feel the need to stand up for the language from time to time. I love words and language and yes, I believe text speak marks the end of civilization. Yes, I know language changes and grows. Even grammar rules change (ending a sentence with a preposition has been downgraded from felony to misdemeanor status these days). However, it seems to me like some of the basics should remain. If a noun is not possessive, please don't add an apostrophe. I'm begging you! There is a billboard not far from my home that reads: "We Rent Harley's." It's all I can do not to weep when I pass it. The world's going to hell in a hand basket and if this email I received from a client isn't proof of that, I don't know what is:

the secound one is wrong just deleat it Thanks (That was the entire message, I promise you.)

If you are also the type to weep when you spot misplaced apostrophes and such, and you know the difference between its and it's, here are a few websites you might enjoy:

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks
Apostrophe Abuse
A Way with Words

The secret language of families

2011-10-25T18:06:00.003-05:00

I'd imagine that most families have sayings and references that mean nothing to the rest of the world. I know my family had plenty of them when I was growing up. When I was a junior in high school I wore black a lot (you know, a reflection of how horrible my comfortable suburban life was and how tortured I was by it). My stad would always ask me, "Who do you think you are? Johnny Cash?" To this day, whenever I wear black, I can hear his voice asking me if I'm about to belt out "Folsom Prison Blues" or something.

You had to have a sharp wit to grow up in my family. We made fun of each other endlessly and mercilessly, even at one point having a game called "Who Am I?" where one of us would mimic another family member and you had to guess which one it was. If you pretended to sleep on the couch with your mouth open, you were my middle sister. If you pretended to fly into an apoplectic rage over nothing, you were my baby sister (she's got the redhead temper going on and all). Don't worry, I got my fair share of ribbing, too. I grew up in Springfield, Virginia. A lot of my friends lived in a sub-division called Saratoga, which was fairly distant from our house (too far to walk). One time I needed a ride and when my mom asked where I needed to go exactly, I responded, "Saratoga." However, apparently I infused some degree of teenaged exasperation into my voice and it came out more like "Saratooohhhhga." To this day, my mother will still answer the question of "Where does so-and-so live?" with "Saratooohhhhga! God!"

If you lived in my house as a teenager and had anything resembling a boyfriend, and if you dared utter the words "I'm not hungry," (something you might say if, well, you weren't hungry), you would get this in return from my mother: "Oh, let me guess - you're livin' on looooooove." I still have flashbacks to the time I came home the night before Easter with a hickey on my neck. My mother followed me around all day on Easter Sunday asking, "Are you SURE I can't get you some concealer?" Nothing was sacred in our house and nobody got away with anything. Once my middle sister wore the same pair of pants a couple days in a row and we made up a rap about them. (I still know all the words to "Party Pants" - ask me sometime!)

One time our family was in Myrtle Beach, browsing inside the Gay Dolphin $.99 gift cove. It was set apart from the main Gay Dolphin store (I think it was across the street) and, as you can imagine, was full of complete and utter crap. There was no one inside the shop at that moment except our family of five and a lone cashier. My youngest sister, who was around three at the time, apparently couldn't handle looking at spray-painted shells glued together in fanciful arrangements for another second. "CAN'T WE JUST GET OUT OF THIS DIRTY OLD PLACE?" she said loudly. Ever since that fateful day, any time we're leaving a store, a party, or just about anywhere at all, it's perfectly acceptable to say that it's time to part from that "dirty old place." We don't really attempt it with anyone outside our immediate family, though. The joke doesn't translate well.

When my original set of parents were still married, my dad would hold down me or my middle sister and not let us up until we said, "Captain Crook!" My sister and I thought every family did this. Later, she held down a friend of hers and tried to force a "Captain Crook!" out of her. Having never heard of such a thing, the friend knew right then that my sister was a lunatic.

Growing up, we also drew a lot of inspiration from Dr. Suess. We even had a cat named Fud Fuddnuddler, a character in "Oh Say Can You Say."

There are so many things
That you really should know.
And that’s why I’m bothering
Telling you so.

Somehow we got stuck on a particular poem in "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish." We came to associate it with complaints. If you had one complaint about something, fine. But if you tried to tack on a second, you heard in reply:

My shoe is off
My foot is cold
I have a bird
I like to hold
My hat is old
My teeth are gold
And now my story is all told

So now, in honor of my mother, I present to you, a reading of said poem. This one's for you, Poosha Kasha!

Things I don't understand

2011-10-22T10:32:00.001-05:00

Double-lane roundabouts. My neck of the woods has gone ga-ga over roundabouts. They are everywhere. From a practical perspective, I understand the benefits. You're not sitting at a light for 30 seconds, so less idling = less emissions and whatnot. However, the double-lane ones give me an ulcer. I feel like no matter how I try to navigate through it, I will manage to screw it up in some colossal way. Sometimes I miss my exit out of the roundabout and just keep going 'round. "Look, kids! Parliament, Big Ben!"
Ke$ha
Spam. Here is a sample subject line from an email sitting in my spam folder: Enlarge you Penis Naturally Gain Up To 4 Inches In Length And Up To 25% Girth Increase. If I need to enlarge me penis, first I should go about obtaining one. Then I can also purchase the "vigara" that is also offered rampantly to my email account. I wonder what the conversion rate is for these spammers. They must get a sale here and there or they wouldn't keep sending them. I guess eventually some misguided soul will read one and think, "'Enlarge you penis?!' Sign me up!"
The word "Shooties"
Why people give up their dog when they have a baby. Dogs and children are not mutually exclusive! My daughter has been knocked over lots of times. I say it builds character.
Why razor blade refills (for shavers) are so fucking expensive. Are they handmade or something???
Why my dogs can't coordinate going outside (and coming back in) all at once. Instead, they insist on coming in/going out at intervals so that I am forced to open the door a hundred thousand times an hour.
The appeal of these shows: Sex and the City, Real Housewives of Whatever, and The Big Bang Theory.
Why my husband still does not understand where we keep the bowls. We've been together nearly 20 years. The bowls are not hiding, buckaroo. They're in the same cabinet they've been in since Clinton was in office.
Why the people who say, "What do you mean? I have black friends!" always seem to be the most racist ones of all.
The need to put the letter Z in everything. I saw Butterfinger Snackerz at the grocery store (Halloween candy aisle) last night. I refused to buy them just on principle.
Why that nutjob in Ohio was permitted to have lions and tigers and bears living on his property, even though every person interviewed since that story broke seems to have been aware that it was a huge problem. And yet the authorities did nothing. However, it is illegal to own a pit bull in several cities in Ohio and there was also a proposal to ban them statewide. But a lion on a farm is A-OK.
Why my daughter's school invited me to sign up to receive the school's newsletter electronically, but now sends me an email (w/the newsletter attached) that says, "Here is the newsletter your child will be bringing home this afternoon." Awesome, because I was hoping to read it twice and seriously, trees are overrated.

If I'm not a prime candidate to take over Andy Rooney's spot on 60 Minutes, I just don't know who is.

Michael & Me

2011-10-19T16:55:00.001-05:00

I've been part of an interesting turn of events over the past few days. I am elated, humbled, and in some ways mystified by all that has happened. Allow me to start from the beginning . . .

I don't have HBO but regularly listen to "Real Time with Bill Maher" on podcast. Michael Moore was a recent guest. I am a fan of both gents. It occurred to me that I didn't have Michael Moore in my Facebook news feed, so I logged in, found his page, and clicked the "like" button. Not long thereafter, he posted that he was having a little contest on Twitter. His goal was to reach 900,000 Twitter followers and, once that milestone was reached, he would choose a random follower and donate $10,000 to the charity of that person's choice. Now, I have to confess that I am not the most prolific Twitter user. And, generally speaking, my tweets are far from witty and/or insightful. My most recent tweet was an offer to give away my foster puppy to the first taker (way to change the world and raise awareness of important social issues, Claudia!). However, I didn't find it too arduous to log in, find Michael Moore's Twitter page, and click the "follow" button. Voila! Recently Dr. Oz launched a contest in conjunction with Weight Watchers. The winner will receive one million dollars. I glanced briefly at the rules (you must refer a friend, visit a doctor, etc.) and deemed the contest to be "way too much work." So, if I'm not willing to do half a dozen things in order to win a million dollars, it's pretty clear that my motivation has its limits. But, clicking a button? That I could do.

Fast forward to Monday evening. I was out and about, running some errands. I did a home visit as a favor to a friend with St. Bernard rescue and then headed to a hardware store to buy some paint stripper for my secret project. As I milled about looking for gloves (so as not to have my flesh stripped off along with the paint), I felt/heard my phone buzzing in my purse. I looked at the screen and saw several messages sent to me via Twitter. The first one said, "Michael Moore is now following you on Twitter." Seriously? Maybe he wants my puppy. Then I had a direct message from Michael Moore (or maybe someone who works with him - I'll just pretend it was the famed filmmaker and muckraker himself) asking me to call his office. The phone number was provided.

I stared at the phone for several minutes. At first I wondered if the message was somehow related to the Occupy movement - perhaps some sort of campaign to encourage smaller cities to get involved. But then I allowed myself to form the thought . . . what if I won? I bought my stripping supplies and headed to my van, where I promptly called the number I had been given. I talked to a very nice gentleman named Jon who informed me that I had indeed won the contest. The last thing I won was a stamp collecting book in the sixth grade, so I needed a little time to absorb the news. I WON TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR A CHARITY OF MY CHOICE. Then I did what every 41-year-old woman does when she has big news to share. I called my mama. And then I called just about every person who has the misfortune of having a phone number stored in my Blackberry.

The only stipulation for accepting the offer was that I had to agree to allow my name to be released publicly. Done. As far as choosing a charity, well, I didn't have to think too hard. I volunteer for a non-profit, a rescue organization for Boxers. As a matter of fact, I am its treasurer so I know all too well how quickly our bank account gets depleted. Right now we have a dog in rescue with a shattered femur and a broken jaw. She underwent a four-hour surgery on Monday and we are expecting to incur at least $2,000 in expenses for her. We also have a dog in rescue with Diabetes Insipidus. The treatment for his condition is, oddly enough, an eye drop called Desmopressin. Because of the high dose he is on, we spend a couple hundred a month just to cover the cost of his prescription. I could go on and on. The bottom line is that this unexpected gift is very much needed and very much appreciated. The dogs in our care, no matter how we cajole and beg, refuse to seek gainful employment. So, we have to hold fundraisers and such to cover the cost of their care. I think you'll agree that having someone give you $10,000 beats selling candy bars any day.

The formal announcement was made at noon EST on Tuesday. Michael Moore posted it on Twitter and on Facebook. It was an odd feeling, seeing my name posted in a public forum. I'm usually more of a behind-the-scenes sort of person. There were several tweets related to the contest, to me, and to the charity. Then, much to my surprise, he posted a link to my blog. More specifically, he posted a link to an entry I'd written about patriotism. I have to admit I was proud of that particular blog post. I was a little giddy just knowing that Michael Moore had read my writing. Again, I am assuming it was him personally and not someone who works with him because he and I are :::like this:::, you know.

Then came the backlash. I don't think of myself as naive, but I did not have any inkling such a thing would happen. On Twitter and Facebook, people with (apparently) too much time on their hands started posting vitriolic statements about Michael Moore, me, and my charity. I suppose he's used to it. I suspect he even welcomes differing viewpoints because it's better than the alternative, which is rampant apathy. The main beef, after the contest announcement was made, seemed to be related to the fact that I chose a charity that benefits animals. What I couldn't understand was why people were taking him to task over it when I'm the one who got to choose the recipient organization. The comments on Twitter were the worst - perhaps because you can retain some degree of anonymity there. The ones on Facebook were mostly positive.

To respond to a few of the not-so-positive comments:

Animals over people I'm not sure what sort of logic leads someone to make this leap: She cares about animals; therefore, she does not care about people. I don't even know how to respond to that, in all honesty. My guess is that no matter what charity I chose, someone would have a problem with it. But let me say this: when someone comes to us because their home is in foreclosure and they can't keep their dog, I'd submit that we are helping that person and their dog. My fellow volunteers and I are not trying to be heroic. We are not thumping our chests and talking about our sheer awesomeness. We are just volunteering for a cause that means something to us.

They don't even take in that many dogs Our rescue organization takes in around 60-70 dogs a year (nearly 800 to date). We'd take in more except that we can't find enough foster homes to care for the dogs. We spend over $25,000 annually in veterinary expenses. Our focus is on quality, not quantity. We have a veterinary protocol that is completed for each dog. We have a formal temperament test process. We care for the dogs in our homes and feed them out of our own pockets. We are, quite simply, doing the best we can.

They only care about purebred dogs For every breed that exists, there are people who adore that breed specifically. I happen to like Boxers (I like other breeds, too, but am particularly fond of the energetic and goofy nature of the Boxer). That is not to say we don't care about mixes. I am fostering a Boxer mix puppy right now. It's just that we know Boxers best and that is our focus. There are rescues out there for every breed, as well as many all-breed rescues. Together, we lessen the burden of overcrowded shelters.

A couple of parting thoughts . . .

To the people who are now following me on Twitter as a result of this contest, please accept my apology in advance. My tweets, infrequent as they are, are generally pretty mundane and are only a stone's throw from being downright insipid.

To those who read my blog entry about patriotism, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of the nice feedback. It was very gratifying to read comments like "this is just how I feel" and "agree wholeheartedly!" I was a little verklempt at the end of the day.

To the naysayers, please allow me to say . . . I won and you didn't. Neener neener neener. Just kidding! (sort of)

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and see if I can piss off some more people who hate dogs.

Our 'spensive surgery case

Terrifying things come in small packages

2011-10-17T20:05:00.001-05:00

On Saturday night, P and I sat down to watch the movie "127 Hours" together. The flick is the story of Aron Ralston, the hiker who amputated his arm in order to free himself from a boulder that had fallen on him. In case you are wondering, no, I did not watch the amputation scene. I turned away and read a magazine until it was over. Watching my husband (a former Marine) freaking out over it was all the proof I needed to know I made the right decision.

Shortly thereafter, I got a call from Kim, my friend and fellow rescue volunteer. I took the phone into the office/spare bedroom to chat with her.

"Whatcha doing?" she asked.

"Not much," I replied. "Watching a movie, having a little wine, that sort of thing."

"Do you want to foster a puppy?" She sent a photo of the ten-week-old pup to my cell phone. Kim had pulled the dog from the stray facility so as to save her life. Everyone knows I do not like puppies (I've been fostering Boxers for over 11 years and puppies wore out their welcome in our home at least 10 years ago), but I had to admit she was kind of cute. Plus, there was the issue of the wine I'd consumed. My judgement was clouded.

"Let me check," I said. I turned and yelled to my husband: "Hey! Can we foster a puppy?"

With zero hesitation he yelled back, "No!"

"What? I didn't hear you exactly," I responded.

"Hell no!" he hollered.

I turned back to the phone. "Sure, we'll take her."

Well, Kim does not mess around because she had that puppy delivered to me within 24 hours (I met her husband about a half-hour from my house - he, too, was anxious to send the pup packing). Kim has had some fairly serious issues with her eyes and does not see well, so I know it is tough for her to have a puppy in her house. They are too small and move too quickly. So, I wanted to help her, but seriously - have I lost my mind? The ride home was pretty much a nightmare. First, the pup crapped in the back of my van. I, not realizing she had also walked straight through the poop, pulled her up into my lap. So now I had poopy pawprints all over my pants. Then, she climbed onto my shoulder like some sort of demented parrot and started chewing my hair. When I pulled her down from there, she got busy gnawing on my hands with her needle teeth. For her encore, she hopped down and peed on the floor of the van. Gah!

Although P and I weren't too thrilled, our kid was over the moon. She named the pup Willa. I have a feeling we will also be calling the little pooch by several other names. My goal is to get her adopted by Christmas. If there's a God . . .

Seven Halloweens

2011-10-16T07:43:00.000-05:00

We took the kid to the first of five Halloween-related events yesterday. It was the trial run for her fairy costume. Every year, she announces the following year's costume on November 1st. She never changes her mind either. Once she's made her announcement, she sticks with it. I pieced together this year's costume from various sources (I was trying to avoid buying a really cheap fairy costume that would never last through multiple wearings). I got the skirt and wand at Children's Place, the Danskin leotard on eBay, the tights and shoes at Target, the wings at a craft fair, and the leggings, purple hairspray, and face glitter at Goodwill (all were new). I can't remember where the crown came from. Sassy attitude was provided by my daughter.

The biggest challenge with Halloween costumes is warmth. Many times, it's downright cold on Halloween. I liked it when she was little and I could wrestle her into a warm fuzzy costume. Now she prefers to sacrifice warmth for glitter.

It occurred to me yesterday that this is her seventh Halloween so I thought it would be fun to dig out photos from all of them. Fun for me, anyway. Just humor me.

2005


2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

Secret Project

2011-10-14T05:31:00.000-05:00

I have no idea if/how I can pull this off, but I'm gonna try. Last week I bought a wooden vanity on Craiglist as a Christmas gift. My daughter has mostly outgrown the plastic kitchen set that lives in her bedroom, so I'd like to replace it with a vanity. The loss of the kitchen will be bittersweet. Bitter, because it means she is growing up; sweet, because we no longer have to pretend to eat plastic broccoli. I had been watching Craiglist ads for a while (while also pricing new vanities) and saw one a few weeks ago that seemed promising. The owner sent me a photo via text. And then I chickened out. It needed a lot of work and I wasn't sure I could smuggle it into the house and then work on it in secret over the next 2 1/2 months. I filed the text message and forgot about it. However, on Thursday the vanity owner sent me a text and asked if I still wanted it. I'm guessing that he must have had other leads that didn't pan out. I know from experience that a lot of the people trying to buy stuff on Craiglist are . . . barking mad. I looked at the photo again, called P to get his input, and then told the guy I'd take it. Aaaaaah! What was I thinking?

After work on Friday I picked up the vanity. The seller was kind enough to load it into my mom-mobile. Later, I waited until the kid was in the bathtub and then P and I hauled it down to the basement. We carried it into a room that is used mostly for storage (the room has a door but not a lock). The kid follows me down to the basement constantly but not to that room specifically (she just feels the need to supervise me while I do laundry and clean out the litter boxes). There's a lot of junk in the storage room: boxes of comics, a dead computer, a filing cabinet full of old bills, a futon that's seen better days, etc. Oh, and my father-in-law's ashes are in there as well. It's not the sort of place anyone would hang out on purpose. So, I'm hoping she won't venture in. If only we had never taught her how door knobs work!

I think I've definitely got my work cut out for me. First I need to strip the existing paint. After that I'll tackle the sanding and painting. The ultimate goal is to turn it into something pink and girlie (maybe even attempt some stenciling?). I'll need to find a stool for it as well. I think it'll be pretty if I can pull it off. The drawers are nice and sturdy so I'm hopeful she'll be able to use the vanity for many years. I may have to get her dad to take her to lots of movies between now and Christmas. Wish me luck. If anyone has any tips with regard to stripping, sanding, or painting, I'm all ears!

Expanding my nephew collection

2011-10-12T05:46:00.002-05:00

I added a fifth nephew to my collection yesterday (I've got two from each sister plus one from my husband's brother). My middle sister gave birth yesterday to a 9 pound 6 ounce boy. She had declared that she wanted him "on the other side of her" by noon but he held out until 1:12 p.m. My sister had been up all night and was ready to be . . . not pregnant. During the early stages of labor I kept in touch with her boyfriend via text message. My sister's childhood nickname is Cheech (I can't say that she's that fond of it). I double-dog-dared her boyfriend to yell "You can do it, Cheech!" during the pushing phase of labor, but he declined to take the dare. What a pussy, right? Prior to the birth, I had been awarded the auspicious title of "head of the phone tree." So, once the baby was born, I quickly fulfilled my duties and called the rest of the family. I am several states away but I got to meet the new guy via Skype last night. He didn't bother to wake up for the call - I hope he realizes that he's going to have to do better than that if he wants a spot on my Christmas gift list.

He's adorable, as I'm sure you'll agree. When I look at his picture I feel my fingers twitching. Must. Pinch. Cheeks.

Rite of Passage

2011-10-08T15:25:00.003-05:00

My baby got her ears pierced this morning. We had discussed it a few times over the past year or so. I didn't have it done when she was a baby because I figured, well, it's her body and she should be the one to decide if she wants holes in her head or not. I'm not planning to leave other decisions to her at this age, mind you. I think we'll mostly limit it to "what do you want to wear to school tomorrow?" and "do you want pancakes or waffles?" In any case, she decided she was ready for earrings so I took her to Claire's this morning (motto: ear piercing is free when you buy our outrageously expensive starter kit!). The main thing we had talked about in advance was that once one ear was pierced, she had to have the other one done. I had heard horror stories about kids freaking out after the first shot from the piercing gun and then refusing to endure another. She assured me that she was ready for the whole shebang. She picked out the Hello Kitty set.

She started out feeling pretty brave but once the store manager started assembling the gun and pulling out all of the supplies (while I was signing a waiver promising not to sue if my kid's ears fell off after we left the premises), her anxiety increased. She clutched a teddy bear that they keep on hand to soothe nervous piercees. I held her hand while the Claire's lady marked A's ears and then lined up the needle. In the blink of an eye, the right ear was pierced. The left ear was done a second later. The kid seemed torn about whether or not to cry. She sat there stunned for a moment, and then decided to proceed with the tears. I hugged her and wiped her tears and attempted to quiet the voice in my head advising me that I am a terrible mother to have allowed this.

Moments later, the tears were gone and I'd somehow agreed to buy her some lip gloss conveniently located at her eye level, right next to the cash register. She couldn't wait to go home and show her dad. "I bet he won't even recognize you!" I told her.

She has informed me that she is practically grown-up now because she has pierced ears, can tie her shoes, and, most importantly, can snap her fingers. "I still can't whistle, though," she said with a frown. So near and yet so far.

Mickey Stresses Me Out

2011-10-07T19:12:00.000-05:00

A year and a half ago, we visited some friends out of state for a weekend. We had a few drinks and then cooked up the idea for all of us to go to Disney World together in the summer of 2012. At that time, it seemed really far away. I guess because it was. Now the trip is seven months out and is looking more and more official. We're starting to panic a wee bit, for lots of reasons. My husband and I first got a little nervous after talking to a friend of mine who happens to be a flight attendant. He sometimes flies the Orlando route and said something about parents who "hemorrhage cash the whole time they're down there" and then fly back home with their souls sucked right out of them. Since then, we've had this troubling visual of currency flowing steadily out of every orifice.

In July our out-of-state friends visited us and we sat down with my laptop and looked at some of the Disney-related options. When I learned how much it costs just to set foot inside a Disney park, I had heart palpitations. The reality check was a good thing, though, because P started selling some of his nerdy crap on eBay and socking away the profits. He's hoping to have quite a bit saved by the time May rolls around (although I have a sneaking suspicion that no amount is actually enough when it comes to Disney). I'm happy he's being so pro-active. Maybe we'll even be able to eat periodically while we're down there! The other bit of good news: my friend Sherri (with whom we will be traveling) is very frugal. You'll find her at Target on December 26th buying Christmas stuff at 75% off. I bow to her greatness. Anyway, I'm confident she'll help me navigate the maze that is Disney (they've been down there several times). Also, they have a timeshare where we can all stay.

I visited the Disney website yesterday to sign us up for a free vacation planning DVD. I put it in my daughter's name because I figure she'll get a kick out of getting it in the mail. She has also been telling everyone in the free world that she is going to Florida for her birthday. The other day I stopped at Bath & Body Works to pick up some lotion and as I was checking out at the back of the store, I could hear her talking to a sales person at the front of the store. I heard the sales person say, "Oh wow, your birthday is on May 3rd? And you're going to Florida?" I put an end to the conversation before the kid had an opportunity to give out her social security number.

I'm still in the early planning stages, but I have to confess that the Disney website overwhelms me. Truly. I feel like I might have a seizure every time I visit the site. There is so much to know and so many decisions to make. Character meal or no? If so, which character? And did you know you have to make the reservations six months in advance, on the dot? Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique or no? Which parks do you want to visit? Epcot? Magic Kingdom? Do you want to buy Park Hopper passes? How about the water parks? Do you have a Disney Rewards Visa? Do you want one? How about a meal plan? Would you like to be raped on the way out of the park or just on the way in? Okay, I'm kidding about that last one but I do feel a little violated just thinking about how much control Disney seems to have over my life.

Despite my grousing, I am actually excited about the trip. I've never been to Disney World (or even Florida for that matter). I'm excited because my daughter is excited. Also, I'm glad she'll be old enough to remember it. We took her to Texas when she was two and all she could remember about that trip (at the end of it) was that she'd had eggs for breakfast one day. So at that time we vowed not to attempt Disney until she was older. And now she is.

Well, I'd better get back to my research. Does anyone know offhand if our friends at:

serve . . .

First parent-teacher conference of the year

2011-10-05T19:33:00.000-05:00

My daughter has 23 school days under her belt for this school year. She has stayed "on green" for exactly 7 of those days. Not even a third of the time, if you're keeping track. She has been on red twice and on yellow the rest of the days. I never dreamed that an elementary school warning system modeled after a traffic light would occupy so much of my time and energy.

Anyway, it was with that grim knowledge that I gamely strode down the locker-lined hallway to my daughter's classroom last night. I was expecting to hear words like "very social" and "talkative." In fact, I told P that I thought it would be fun to take a flask and then do a shot every time I heard one of those words. Well, let's just say it's a good thing I don't actually own a flask, as I would've been plowed before I left the building. Although, looking on the bright side . . . I would have been unlikely to injure myself in as much as I was perched on a chair with a molded plastic seat just a few inches off the ground. The teacher also handed me a handwritten index card containing the following notes about my daughter:

Sweet, affectionate, smart, energetic, social. :-)
Needs to work on too much socializing
*Special spot has helped very much.
Can focus - does a great job completing literacy assignments thoroughly and well.
Can verbalize math concepts nicely (MathTalk).
* Keep reading w/book discussions @ home.

Now, about this special spot. I was aware that my daughter's desk had been moved a couple of times since school started. Apparently the teacher was looking for that magical set of coordinates that would cause my daughter to stop talking. So, guess where A's desk is now? DIRECTLY NEXT TO THE TEACHER'S. It explains a lot, really.

All in all, it was a good meeting and there was nothing unexpected. The script seemed to be roughly the same as what I heard from her 4K and Kindergarten teachers. "Very sweet . . . talks a lot . . . very bright." I'm proud of my little chatterbox.

As I was waiting for her teacher to finish with the family that came in before me, I checked out some artwork that was outside the classroom. Each student has a locker (the lockers have doors but no locks) and on each locker was a picture of Johnny Appleseed and an accompanying story about a recent trip to an orchard. The picture was one of those deals where you start with an outline and can fill in the face however you'd like. I couldn't help but notice that my daughter's version of Johnny Appleseed was a bit different from the others. He was wearing earrings. Also, he had exceedingly full, red lips. And, where most of the other kids had drawn a dot or small circle for each eye, my kid had given him big blue eyes (with distinct pupils) and eyelashes, too. Let's just say that Johnny was very secure in his manhood. The things you learn in school, eh?

Toad in a Hole

2011-10-02T11:45:00.002-05:00

When my middle sister was a kid, our parents bought the Better Homes & Gardens Junior Cookbook for her. I think she made several recipes from the book, but the most memorable one was something called Muffin Surprise (or Surprise Muffins - something along those lines). As I recall, they had a bit of jelly in the middle - hence, the "surprise." Pop called them "concussion rolls" because they were, well, quite dense. If one were hurled at your noggin, we imagined you'd be struck unconscious on the spot. My sister didn't think that was funny at all.

I've ordered the same book (new cover - not sure what else has changed) for my daughter for Christmas. Last week she came home from the school library with a kids' cookbook. It's not the classic Better Homes & Gardens one, but it has some cute recipes. We tried one this morning. Now, historically my daughter is not all that self-sufficient so I was a little apprehensive. She doesn't seem to have an interest in doing much for herself. I mean, why bother when you have two capable servants who will either a) dress you or b) be late for work every day? I was reading the blog of a fellow May 2005 mom (I met her through Babycenter.com years ago) and came to this realization: I've been had. She wrote in a recent blog entry that her six-year-old often makes herself breakfast. I read that sentence about eight times. Makes herself breakfast. Mine doesn't even pour her own juice . . .

I suspect that one reason my daughter doesn't do more for herself is that there is no younger sibling around. So it's not as if she needs to prove that she's more grown-up than this non-existent resident of our home. And because this other young person doesn't exist, I don't have to devote part of my parenting resources to him/her. So, I get that. We probably do more for her than we should. Maybe we need to start pushing her a little.

So, I was happy to encourage Short Stuff to make a recipe from her library book this morning. She chose a culinary delight called "Toad in a Hole," which is essentially a piece of toast with an egg in the middle. She made it and she ate it. Had I made the same thing for her, she would not have eaten it (she is not fond of eggs).

This afternoon we are headed to an orchard to pick apples. Maybe we'll go crazy and try the Apple Crisp recipe.

Some phases are more irritating than others

2011-09-29T19:35:00.000-05:00

When my daughter was around two, she started calling her dad "father." It was just about the cutest thing ever, of course. It all started when she asked me a question and I responded, "Go ask your father." For nearly a year after that, it was "Father, can I have a fruit snack?" and "Wait until I show this to Father!" Eventually, the phase ended. There have been other phases: the orange juice phase, the Dora phase, the "I'm a kitty" phase, and so forth. The newest phase is by far the most trying: the "my mom is a dumb ass" phase.

Lately it seems like my adorable little cherub is hell-bent on proving me wrong about, well, everything. Or at least catching me in a mistake.

"Mom, you forgot to get me something to drink."

(Through lightly clenched teeth) "I didn't forget, I just didn't DO IT YET."

The examples are plentiful.

"Mom, this isn't the way home from the Y."
"You picked that tomato too soon."
"You didn't put enough milk in my cereal."

Well, it's a wonder I manage to get myself dressed and feed myself every morning.

We are planning to go to Disney World in May. Last night she asked me, "Mom, do you even know where Florida is?" Now, I will be the first to admit that I am not great at geography. Some of the squarish states in the middle of the country do throw me off a bit (I'm looking at you, Colorado) but I think I can confidently say I know where Florida is. Plus, I have a GPS and trust the voice implicitly.

I responded: "Well, I thought I'd just drive all around the country until I find it. Don't worry."

She cocked her head. "Really?" I nodded. Two can play at this game, Little Miss Bossy.

What I fear most about this phase is that I suspect it won't end until she's in her thirties. Maybe, just maybe, she'll recognize my competence by then.

On Being Patriotic

2011-09-27T18:02:00.001-05:00

The list of adjectives I assign to myself is pretty long: clumsy, organized, competent, uptight, etc. One that might surprise you: patriotic. I fully understand what it means to be an American and am darned happy about living here. But, I have a beef (that part won't surprise you). I've grown tired of certain segments of the population thinking that they've cornered the market on patriotism or that they can dictate precisely how the rest of us express ourselves when it comes to our shared country and flag.

Sometimes it seems like the Toby-Keith-boot-in-yer-ass brand of patriotism drowns out the rest of us. For the record, I don't believe that patriotism requires a love of NASCAR, a disdain for immigrants, a Republican voting record, or a preference for country music. Nor does it require adherence to a specific religion.

I've seen Facebook posts from some of my friends and acquaintances that call for all of us to return to the "Christian principles on which our country was founded." Did you know that John Adams and John Quincy Adams were Unitarian? It's a little presumptuous to believe that every person walking around New England in 1776 subscribed to precisely the same religious beliefs. I know a lot of nice Christian people but have trouble with the whole American = Christian = Incontrovertibly Good Person scenario. I have a friend who's Buddhist - is she allowed to fly the stars and stripes on her flagpole?

The other common refrain is for immigrants to "learn the language, damnit!" Or at least that's what the bumper stickers tout.

As Jack White (in the White Stripes song "Icky Thump") so aptly sang:

White Americans
What? Nothin' better to do?
Why don't you kick yourself out
You're an immigrant too.

Who's using who?
What should we do?
Well you can't be a pimp
And a prostitute too.

It's hard to say it much better than that. Should recent immigrants learn English? I don't know. Maybe. But if they choose not to, they're really only inconveniencing themselves, don't you think? Honestly, I'm pretty well convinced that there are plenty of red-blooded Americans born right here in the U.S of A. who speak the language so poorly that it's barely recognizable as their native tongue. You should see some of the adoption applications we get through the rescue. Sometimes we have to read them over and over again and take our best guess as to what the applicant was trying to say. (As a side note, if you cannot spell Shih Tzu, you may not own one. That's my proclamation.)

I feel fortunate that I grew up so close to the nation's capital. It was a diverse environment, to say the least. I had friends whose parents hailed from Vietnam, Korea, Japan, China, Mexico, Spain, and India. In my mind, an American citizen is an American citizen (and, in fact, passing the citizenship test requires a greater knowledge of American history than most of us have stored in our brains). I don't get to be "more American" because my family got here a little earlier than some. I found it so disheartening, after 9/11, to learn of the rampant violent acts that occurred against American citizens who just happened to be brown. There were reports of hate crimes against Sikhs, Pakistani-Americans, and others who had no connection whatsoever to Islam, Al Qaeda, etc. For that matter, declaring open season on Americans who practice Islam is another shameful chapter. Sure, there are people across the globe who hate Americans and some of them are downright dangerous, but throwing out the baby with the bathwater seems awfully short-sighted and, well, un-American.

I have an American flag and fly it proudly. I married a Marine who gave four years of service to our country. I stand when I hear the national anthem and raise my right hand to my heart. I don't support the war but I do support the troops. I vote. I appreciate the fact that I can freely criticize my government if I feel like it, work wherever I want, and practice any religion I choose. Just don't tell me you're somehow a better citizen than I am. I'll shove a boot in yer ass.

Brother can you spare a lung?

2011-09-25T19:22:00.004-05:00

Short Stuff helped out at our rescue's fundraiser yesterday. She also ate enough cupcakes to throw a mastodon into sugar shock.

I've been horking up a lung for the better part of a week. It's been frustrating, because I haven't had an asthma flare-up in 18 months. For a second there I almost wondered if it had somehow gone away (maybe all those inversions in yoga or something?) but alas, I'm still afflicted. The kid caught a cold a couple weeks ago. We scarcely knew she had one, to be honest - she sniffled for a day or two and that was it. By the time it got to me and her dad, however, it had evolved into something much, much worse. You'd have thought we were both in the throes of advanced tuberculosis, emphysema, and pneumonia all rolled into one. I pulled my beat-up albuterol inhaler out of my purse and within two days was abusing it so badly that my hands were shaking like an alcoholic enduring the DTs. So, I gave in and called my asthma doctor.

The doctor hooked me up to a machine meant to measure the nitric oxide in my lungs. I had to breathe into an apparatus while trying to follow a cartoon on the screen. On the monitor was a girl in a boat on the water (no kaleidoscope eyes, in case you wondered) and the objective was to blow the sailboat across the water at a steady pace. First I had to inhale, which caused the cartoon sun to rise in the cartoon sky, then I had to exhale to maneuver the boat. It was like a video game except, you know, not even remotely fun. Anyway, I guess a normal reading is something like 20 and I was at 55. What this tells the doctor, in short, is that there's a lot of shit going on in my lungs. He sent me home with a couple different inhalers (plus a prescription for Zyrtec) and I'm supposed to call on Monday if I'm still coughing.

I'm still coughing. I think I've worn out my welcome in a few different places. When I left work on Friday, I said to my cubicle neighbors, "my cough and I are leaving now" and a few of them broke out in applause. Co-workers send me IMs throughout the day with questions like, "Are you SURE I can't give you some cough syrup or something?" If my desk weren't attached to all the others, I'm pretty sure they would've relocated me downstairs to Storage B* by now. I went to yoga on Tuesday and all but left a lung on the mat. Nothing breaks up the zen like a woman trying to expel all of her internal organs - through her mouth. By candlelight, no less! I've also coughed my way through the library, Target, and church. I'm spreading the joy far and wide.

I guess I'll see how I'm doing tomorrow and then decide how to proceed. I've been coughing so hard that I seem to have a few ruptured capillaries in my left eye. This looks as sexy and alluring as you'd imagine. I worked at a fundraiser for the rescue yesterday. It was a long day and my lungs were on fire by the time it was over, but I lived through it. We could really see the effects of the sucky economy this year. Fewer attendees, less revenue. We were down about $1500 from last year, but were still glad to have so many people come out and support us. I think the highlight of my day was meeting a Boxer named Obi who recently lost his lower jaw to cancer. His tongue hangs down to his chest but it doesn't seem to bother him. He won our "best kiss" contest by planting that tongue on his owner (who was very cute, by the way). I guess you could say Obi was a ringer, but it was really a sweet moment. It was also nice to see so many former adopters and long-ago foster dogs that are still going strong. 'Twas a good day.

Well, I'll sign off now, as I feel another round of convulsive hacking coming on. I may have to take some Nyquil later. That stuff is potent, though, eh? You can't cough when you're fully unconscious.

Baked goods named after my brown son (we have a bake sale as part of our fundraiser)

*Random "Office Space" reference - if you missed it, you and I are no longer friends. I'm sorry. And, I believe you have my stapler.

Claudia's List of Awesomeness

2011-09-22T17:14:00.003-05:00

You know how Oprah makes her list of favorite things? It's mostly stuff like $500 cashmere sweaters and Coach bags, but she throws in the occasional CD. You know, for us po' folk. Although my level of influence does not extend very far (I can't even influence my child to brush her teeth before school), here is my list of stuff I like, in no particular order (note that I am purposely omitting people, however):

Bath bombs from Lush. If you can find a Lush store near you, check it out. Also, get me a Sex Bomb while you are there! It is also worth noting that the vast majority of the bath bombs are vegan.
Hoop earrings. I cannot be convinced that hoop earrings are ever out of style (they may not be perfectly IN style at any given moment, but are seldom out).
Keebler Fudge Sticks. I haven't tried the new jumbo ones yet. Maybe I'd better not.
Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade. I only drink these in the summertime, but man, do they go down easy!
Yoga. I have only been doing yoga for about ten months, but I am hooked. Although most of the time I feel like I am hopelessly uncoordinated, I have noticed some changes. My core is now strong enough that I can pull myself into a headstand fairly easily. My flabby arms have gotten a little stronger (lowering myself from a plank over and over has to have some effect). The most important benefit, however, is that it helps me to clear my head.
The Muppets. I have been a big fan all my life. I guess most people are - I mean, what kind of jackass hates the Muppets? I'm pretty excited about the new movie coming out in November.
Tarts from Yankee Candle. I like the fruity/floral ones in the summer and the spicy/warm ones in the winter, but never the ones that are meant to smell like food. That's just gross.
Being a Unitarian Universalist. For years I tried churches on for size, just waiting to find one that spoke to me and my true beliefs. It just wasn't happening. As soon as I walked into the UU fellowship, I felt like, "Here are my people!" I'm also very proud of what my daughter is learning about working for social justice, embracing diversity, and questioning everything.
Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. I seldom buy it, because I will basically eat it all in one sitting, but oh I do love it so.
Wine. You knew that already. Over the past year or two, I've slowly migrated from sweeter wines to less sweet wines (I hesitate to say "dry" because I don't care for the really dry ones either).
Boxers. They're too energetic, they jump up on visitors and french kiss them, they have doomed genetics that often lead to an early death from cancer and/or cardiac issues, but I do love them. I'm proud to be part of a rescue organization that has saved over 700 dogs to date.
Stand-up comedy. I love a good comedian. I adore Brian Regan and Jim Gaffigan. I'm also a huge fan of Bill Maher, although in his case it's more for his political/religious views as anything else.
The iPod. I love my iPod more than I love a few of my blood relatives. Sure, I do the "cloud" thing some, too. I use Spotify and Pandora. But I always come back to my own personal music library and my iPod. XOXOXO
Cola Slurpees. Maybe ICEEs really do taste the same, but I'm convinced they do not.
Honey Crisp Apples. They maketh me so happy.
Gourmet Vegetarian Pizza from Papa Murphy's. I would eat this constantly except that I'm living with a small child for whom anything other than cheese pizza is unacceptable (and, in her mind, inedible).

Note that there are 93 days until Christmas, in case you wanted to start stocking up on bath bombs, tarts, and wine - for me, I mean.

Close Call

2011-09-19T17:45:00.000-05:00

My daughter owns a slew of Barbies and one Ken. She's got at least half a dozen of the standard-issue blond Barbies (ballerina Barbie, some kind of fairy Barbie with wings in her back, etc.) and a bunch of the Disney princess dolls. All of the females are basically interchangeable. It always startles me a little to see Belle wearing Ariel's dress and Snow White wearing Belle's dress and so forth. More often than not, however, everyone is naked. They all hang out in one big obscene jumble inside the plastic bin I bought for storing all of the dolls and their microscopic shoes. Princess Tiana, in particularly, has not bothered to get dressed since last Christmas. Also, I have to wonder how many moms out there are trying to figure out how to (surreptitiously) get rid of the big matted wad of hair that is . . . Rapunzel. I know I am.

When A is playing with her Barbies, I can hear lots of conversations going on, but she clams up when I walk by or even when she can tell I am in the vicinity. When I ask, "What were they talking about?" I get dramatic eye rolls and a "nothing, Mom!" response delivered in a tone of voice meant to convey that it is really none of my beeswax.

My curiosity persists, however. Yesterday I was in the kitchen and could hear the dolls "talking." I tiptoed down the short hallway and stationed myself around the corner so that I could eavesdrop. Hey, she could close her door but she doesn't - fair game, I say. Here is what I heard:

"Hey, get off my boyfriend! Do you even know her name?" Something unintelligible followed.

I felt the blood drain out of my face. Get off my boyfriend? Oh my. My mind was racing. What does she know or think she knows? Maybe the shows on Nickelodeon are racier than I realized. My sweet, innocent baby! I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Finally, I took a deep breath and then willed myself to poke my head around the corner to see the shameless dolls for myself.

There stood Ken, held up by my daughter's hand wrapped around his calves. And there sat Ballerina Barbie . . . right on top of Ken's shoulders, her legs dangling past his armpits. Just like A sits on her dad's shoulders. Ha ha! Right! Get off my boyfriend. I am not sure which doll Ken is dating these days, but apparently she doesn't approve of the other Barbie trying to get a better view of the stage at the Big Time Rush concert or something.

Just then, my daughter saw me peeking. I smiled like I was an Alzheimer's patient just wandering the halls with no purpose. I turned on my heel and took my dirty mind back to the kitchen.

Summer, where art thou?

2011-09-17T20:18:00.001-05:00

I guess the party is over. We shut the storm windows, locked the regular windows, and turned on the heat. Blah. It was downright chilly in the house this morning. The dogs were all snuggled up on the bed in the guest room/office. Well, the boys were all balled up like cats. Gretchen just worked her porn star pose. Like so:

I also caught her humping Gideon in the back yard earlier. Never a dull moment around here. I made the mistake of taking both knuckleheads for a walk the other day (Kaiser, our foster dog, stayed home because he got to go last time). Now, Gideon and Gretchen are not dog-aggressive. They are both fine with other dogs. However, they saw a Beagle standing placidly in his yard and they both lost their shit. Since they couldn't get to the Beagle, they decided that they would just kick each other's asses. Gideon jumped on Gretchen and bit her in the head with his one good tooth. She, in turn, whipped herself into such a frenzy that when she shook her head, white foam (from her own mouth) was flung onto her face. She looked rabid. I was waiting for Atticus Finch to come by and shoot her. Anyway, I just turned up my iPod a bit and kept walking, pulling them behind me. Not mortifying at all, nosirreee.

Anyway, it was kind of a crazy week. I had a lot of rescue paperwork to catch up when I got back from my road trip. We have a lot of adoptions pending, so that is a good thing. I also spent much of the week horking up a lung, as did my better half. The last two illnesses to pass through our home, I failed to contract. I credited the volume of fruit I eat each day (let's hear it for Vitamin C, yo). But this one, I got. We just cough and cough. It is, as you can imagine, quite the turn-on. Speaking of turn-ons, I went to one of those Pure Romance parties last night. For some reason, most of the invitees did not show. It was kind of awkward with just a couple of us, so I had to chug a couple glasses of wine just to get through it. The Pure Romance consultant was also training a new person named Courtney, who looked exceedingly youthful to me. I finally had to ask her if she is even old enough to vote. She claimed to be 30. After the party my friend lit a fire in her fire pit out back and we sat around and tossed a tennis ball for her Lab. It was a nice way to wrap up the work week. In case you are wondering . . . no, I didn't purchase anything smutty. I just bought some bath gel and lotion. They claim to have pheromones in them. After I took a shower this morning, I asked P if he could perceive the pheromones. He took a sniff in my general direction. "What, am I supposed to start humping your leg or something?" So romantic, that guy. I still have an unopened bottle of massage oil from the last party I attended. So that gives you an idea of how many massages are being doled out at our house.

Today's excitement consisted of a trip to the grocery store and then seeing "The Lion King" with Short Stuff. We saw the 2D version. I am so over 3D. Plus, I can't see adding 3D to a movie that was not made to be 3D originally. The movie theater was full of very young children. I think their parents remembered liking the movie as kids and were anxious to share the experience with their wee offspring. I totally expect to see squirmy kids at an animated film, I truly do. What I don't expect is for the toddler in the row behind me to (repeatedly) reach over the back of my seat and PAT MY HEAD. Her parents made no attempt to stop it either. I just tried to scootch down in the seat so that the little cherub couldn't reach me. A didn't seem that enamored with the movie. Kids have such a high thrill threshold these days.

I just realized that I never made dinner and that my child essentially ate popcorn for supper. Mother of the year right here, ya'll.

You can visit her in juvie in a few years

2011-09-14T20:12:00.000-05:00

Rebel without a mute button

I think my kid might be . . . kind of a badass. School started on September 1st. She made it through the first day without incident. On the second day, she found herself "in the yellow." Her school uses a warning system based on a standard traffic light (made out of construction paper). Each kid has a clothespin with his/her name on it. The default is to have one's clothespin clipped to the green light. When a student talks while the teacher is talking or screws around in the hallway, his/her clothespin is moved to the yellow light and a verbal warning is issued. If things deteriorate from there and more infractions pile up, the clothespin moves to red and a written notice is sent home.

My daughter spent a lot of time in the yellow last year. Her Kindergarten teacher adored her but couldn't overlook the fact that this kid o'mine . . . Cannot. Stop. Talking. She simply cannot. There is a progressive school here in town that stresses engagement and alternative learning styles, and I've often wondered if she might fare better there - perhaps her gregarious nature is actually a benefit and not a hindrance. However, I'd have to provide transportation and just don't have a way to do that (pesky day job and all). So for now, we are trying to make her current environment work. After all, there are a lot of features of her current school that I really like. It's fairly diverse and the staff and teachers are great.

It's a struggle to find that balance between "you're awesome just the way you are" and "you have to listen when it's time to listen and not run your mouth during those times." So far it is not going all that well. She was in the yellow on the second day of school and almost every day since. One day, she hit red and had to bring a note home. The note indicated that she had "screamed out" in class (which got her in the yellow) and then was horsing around in the bathroom (which got her a ticket straight to red). I had to sign the written discipline notice and send it back to school.

Her dad and I have tried a few different approaches. We've taken away TV and DS on days when she has gotten in the yellow. We've tried guilt-tripping her by telling her that she is making Mrs. S's job harder than it already is. Now we're back to last year's incentive program since we had moderate success with that. If she stays in the green, she gets a sticker. Eight stickers and she'll receive a reward. If she gets in the red, she loses a sticker. She made it one day in the green and then fell off the wagon the next day. So, I'm pretty sure I won't have to deliver on that reward anytime soon.

I told my sisters that they can visit their niece in Juvie in a few years. My youngest sister wondered what the security regulations will be and if she will need to leave sharp objects in her car. Of course, I'm just joking about Juvie. Or at least I think I am. I emailed A's teacher the other day to ask her about a reading assignment. I also mentioned that we are aware of our daughter's talkativeness and that we are trying to address the issue. She sent me a nice response. She said that A is "sweet as pie and very affectionate." And she's right. The kid does not have a mean bone in her body. She's not getting into trouble for tripping kids on the playground or calling in bomb threats or something. She simply places a LOT of emphasis on her social life.

I am truly frightened about the teenage years. Truly.

I Heart Cleveland

2011-09-12T17:57:00.001-05:00

I'm sure you've been on pins and needles wondering how my road trip went. It was fabulous. I did a lot of driving and made several observations:

Some cities in the Midwest have more country radio stations than they should be allotted.
Some people think nothing of chit-chatting the day away with a toll taker regardless of how many dozens of cars are piling up behind them.
Some people are still very confused about the left lane.
The guy driving a Traverse on the tollway yesterday is a colossal douche. Keep an eye out for him.

I drove about 2/3 of the way to Cleveland on Thursday and then stopped for the night. I'd gotten a room on Priceline. I then got up Friday morning and finished the drive, arriving in Cleveland by late morning. I met my friend Rachel at the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame. We ended up spending most of the day there. It had been a few years since I visited the museum and there were lots of new exhibits. We also paid extra to see a U2 concert experience in 3D. I've always been a fair weather U2 fan (I love the very early stuff like the "Boy" and "October" albums but have been less enthusiastic about some of the releases that followed), but the movie was really good. Check it out if you get a chance. The "women who rock" exhibit was also worth seeing. I was happy to see that Kim Deal was included, because she truly does rock.

After the hall of fame, we checked into our hotel room. Rachel hooked us up with a nice room right downtown. She had some travel points saved up or something. I think it's pretty well established by now that I am not opposed to freeloading. We spent the next hour looking at our combined technology-related devices (two smartphones, two GPS units, a laptop, and an iPad) in an attempt to figure out where to eat dinner. We finally just got in the car (she took the wheel) and drove around downtown to see what we could find. My dear friend has a tendency to believe that stop signs are optional, so I thought I might end up being returned to my husband in a body bag. We finally stopped at a joint called Bar Louie's. It's a chain restaurant and we were sort of trying to avoid that (we wanted to get some local flavor, literally) but we were tired of driving around and besides, it was happy hour and the drinks were cheap. It turned out to be a really good dinner, too. We also found a liquor store and stopped there for supplies. Later, we just hung out in our hotel room and watched TV. I was really tired because I'd only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before and I think I lost consciousness mid-sentence.

Let me just say that the beds at the Doubletree Hotel in Cleveland are awesome. Lots of pillows and the mattresses struck just the right balance between firm and soft. I immediately vowed to live in the hotel forever, or at least stay there until Rachel's credit card was maxed out. Also, I really need room-darkening curtains at home. Also, a room with no dogs in it. At home, it's not the kid who wakes me up. It's the bleeping dogs.

Anyway, we were game for just about anything on Saturday and we found plenty to do. We had an early lunch at a vegan restaurant called The Flaming Ice Cube. It was really good. After that, we went to a little wine and gift shop in an area of Cleveland called Tremont. There was a little dog in the shop. A puggle. I am not a "little dog" person but I was in need of a dog fix and tried my best to befriend her. She was totally over me after the first two seconds and went behind the counter to stand with her two dads. We then walked next door to a candy shop called Lilly's. Rachel had done a bunch of research in advance to find some cool places to go, and I must say she succeeded. Lilly's serves little handmade chocolates, many of which have unusual ingredients (or at least ordinary ingredients in unusual combinations). I tried five different truffles. I mean to tell you that a couple of them changed my life.

One of our goals for the day was to hit the garlic festival, but we had a couple of problems. One was the intermittent rain. Two was that we had been eating all day and weren't hungry. So, we headed to the natural history museum instead. We also checked out a planetarium show while we were there. I picked up the book Stiff in the gift shop. I've been wanting to read it for a while. I also picked up some souvenirs for my daughter, because I know better than to go home empty-handed. Finally, we ended the day by having dinner at the House of Blues. Back at the hotel, we drank wine and watched Bridesmaids. We briefly considering going down to the pool and/or whirlpool. However, there was at least one wedding going on and we didn't want to walk around in our swimsuits or ride in an elevator next to someone in a tux. Also, we noticed a bunch of young women milling around out front, all wearing tight, short dresses and pink pageant sashes. They were all smoking. We hadn't heard of a smokers' pageant in town, but who knows. We decided to stay in our room and not think about it too much.

Before I knew it, it was time to drive back home. Another ten hours in the car and voila - home again. I found out today that my daughter wore a glittery red Christmas sweater to school on Friday, but I'm trying not to think about it too much.

Road Trip

2011-09-07T19:55:00.003-05:00

As I mentioned in my last blog entry, I'm about to embark on another road trip. I'm headed to Cleveland. Why Cleveland, you ask? Well, several reasons. Allow me to start from the beginning.

My friend Rachel and I met on the first day of school in sixth grade. We attended Garfield Elementary School in Springfield, Virginia and were both in Mrs. Crawford's class (the best teacher ever, hands down). As of September 2011, Rachel and I have been friends for thirty years. Holy cow, we are old. Well, she is ten months younger than I am, if you must know. However, she already had boobs when I met her. I'll never forget when she and Sharon advised me, at a sleepover later that year, that I didn't actually need a bra at all and shouldn't bother to wear one.

Rachel and I came to be good friends during sixth grade. She was friendly and smart and gregarious - the type of person you couldn't help but like. We hung out at the mall, had sleepovers, all that jazz. Our friendship was, at times, a bit tumultuous. One time she got mad at me and informed me that she had taken a poll and that, indeed, the whole sixth grade hated me. To this day I'm still not sure if a poll was actually taken, but I'm pretty sure it was less than scientific.

Over the years, we've lost touch at times. However, I've never worried that our friendship has fizzled out or died. It is a constant. She was my Matron of Honor at my wedding. Two of her three sons are my Godsons. I figure we'll always be connected, in some way, for the long haul. The challenge is that we live so far apart and don't get to spend much time together. Even finding time to chat on the phone is difficult at times. She's a Twitter girl and I've never really taken to it (be sure to subscribe to my Twitter feed so that I can dazzle you with my clever semi-annual tweets). I seem to have chosen Facebook as my official time-waster. So, it's high time we spend some quality time together and we're meeting in Cleveland to celebrate our anniversary. We're leaving husbands and children behind.

There's quite a bit to do in Cleveland, it seems. We were elated to learn that there is a garlic festival happening this weekend. Apparently it is quite the shindig. We can't wait! Our goal is not to leave until we have garlic coming out of our pores and our collective breath can be detected by innocent bystanders on both coasts. We are also headed to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. There is a new "women in rock" exhibit that I'm excited to see. The last time I was at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, my daughter had learned to walk exactly one day earlier. So, that's all she wanted to do - practice her new skill. P and I tried to read the various plaques and exhibits as fast as we could while chasing a fourteen-month-old. It was less than ideal.

I'm not sure what other types of trouble we'll get into this weekend, but I'm confident we'll think of something. I hope my family can live without me. If you live in my town and if over the weekend you happen to see a little girl with uncombed hair who is dressed like Punky Brewster on a bad day, just give her father a sympathetic smile and then look away.

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On a side note, P informed me that he has some change that I can use for the tolls. Then he said, "Maybe you should, you know, earn it." Seriously. At work my time bills out to clients at $115 an hour. What, exactly, does he think a handful of quarters will get him? I told my mom and she suggested that I offer just to look at it* for a couple minutes.

*You know what she means.

The things we do for our children, eh?

2011-09-04T21:26:00.005-05:00

I took the kid to an amusement park today (I should get extra credit for the fact that it's three hours away, too). As you may have surmised (possibly because I have stated it, in vivid detail, in countless blog entries), I am not big on rides these days. I can handle a wooden roller coaster (because, to date, they have not figured out a way to work in spiraling inversions or to force you to stand up while riding) and maybe a carousel, but that's about it. I don't think I'm the only one because at one point today A was on a teacup-type ride and as I was waiting near the exit for her, a lady turned to me and said, "I can't even watch. I'll just look over here until it's over." She then proceeded to busy herself by poking around in her purse. This particular ride was pretty much my worse nightmare. Each individual cup (they were more like bowls, I guess) spun, each cup was part of a pod of three cups that also spun, and then of course the whole shebang spun around as well. Three levels of spinningness. My kid sat in a cup with two other gluttons for punishment, and the three of them used the wheel in the middle to spin themselves so fast that most of the time I couldn't even pick out my own child as the cup whirled past me.

My daughter is petite for her age. She is 43 inches tall . . . by the skin of her teeth, I think. She was tall enough to ride a couple of rides by herself this year. However, in most cases, I had to ride with her whether it was required or not. This is because I just don't think I can send her into a line by herself. Not because I think she's going to get abducted or something, but because I have seen what she does while standing in line: picking grass and tossing it around, swinging from/sitting on the guard rails despite a loudspeaker warning all "guests" not to do that under any circumstances, and finally, absentmindedly (and repeatedly) walking into the adult in front of her, such that her face makes direct contact with that stranger's butt. So yeah, I just don't think I can let that act proceed without supervision.

We rode three roller coasters today. The first two were fine. The third one, not so much. The minimum height is 43 inches, so she just barely hits it, but she was super-excited to go on this menacing metal behemoth. We got in line. I read a sign about the ride that made mention of "multiple inversions." Well, a dream come true, no doubt . . . for masochists. As soon as the big harness thing came down over my head, I remembered why I hate this type of ride. No matter how you attempt to prevent it, your skull slams from side to side until your brain oozes out your left nostril. A was delighted, I lived through it. I had a colossal headache almost instantly and later stopped at a Walgreen's on the way home. ("Mom! You're going to take aspirin right here in the parking lot?!") The other thing that caused me great pain at the amusement park: a $9 funnel cake. I can't figure out how that is even legal.

So, you may be wondering why I would go to an amusement park when I really don't care for such things. In short: I did it for my daughter. She'd been talking about it for weeks and had a blast. I think next year I will probably invite one of her friends to come along, though. Then they can ride together. Now that she is getting a little older, that seems more feasible (I'd rather take two second-graders on a trip like that than, say, two four-year-olds). Also, I'm going out of town next weekend . . . by myself (I'm meeting a friend, more on that in my next entry). So, I'll get three days to myself and figured I could "take one for the team" by suffering through a few rides. Her dad got the house to himself for the day.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I picked up a bottle of two-buck-chuck at Trader Joe's on the way home and I think I can kill off this headache for good . . .

"We wanted you more than anything."

2011-08-31T17:55:00.002-05:00

When I got home from yoga class last night (around 8:30 or so), my daughter was in bed, reading. I went in to give her a kiss and tuck her in. As I got closer, I noticed a tear sliding down her cheek. Then I saw what she was reading. It was the storybook I made a few years ago when we had the big adoption talk with her.

"Why are you crying, sweet girl?" I asked. I was almost afraid to ask, because I sensed that it wasn't the usual "Dad wouldn't take me to Dairy Queen" stuff. I inhaled slowly and held my breath for a moment.

"Because I can't see J," she replied. Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. I scooped her up and held her in my arms, rubbing her back with one hand and smoothing her freshly-washed curls with the other. I told her that J, her birthmom, lives far away but that I'm sure she will see her someday.

"If you want, you can write her a letter and I'll mail it to her," I offered. She nodded.

I do have periodic contact, via email, with my daughter's birthmom, and I'm fairly certain she would be okay with receiving a letter. At age six, A mostly only writes about kittens and rainbows so I'm not sure what she plans to say, but I'll be happy to mail it for her!

Before tucking her back into bed, I asked, "Do you have any questions I can answer for you?" I always try to make sure, when this topic comes up, that I don't leave her with any lingering questions or misconceptions (I remember how my brain worked at her age - for the life of me I couldn't understand how I could turn off the radio and then turn it on later and the same song wasn't still playing. How could it go on without me?) She shook her head no, but then asked me if we had given her a bath in the hospital when she was born. I have told her in the past that the nurse showed us how to give her a bath when our new daughter was just hours old. We certainly needed the lesson- we had no idea what we were doing. I'm not sure why she is fixated on this, but maybe it has something to do with the need to know she was connected to us right from the start. I have read that all adoptees must work through feelings of abandonment and that there is really no way around it. However, I'm hoping to lessen that burden for her because really, she has always been with us. We were in the delivery room when she was born. Her birthmom loves her very much and thinks about her every day (I know this because she tells me so). There was never a single moment when A was unwanted by her birthfamily or by us. I'm hoping all of this will click with her, but I would also never want to downplay her feelings, whatever they may be.

She thought for a moment. "Mom, how many diapers did you buy for me?" Easy questions - yes!

"I don't know," I responded. "About a million, it seemed like? We kept them over there, on your changing table." I pointed to where the table used to be. I could almost still see the ten-month-old version of my daughter, gleefully pulling the diapers off the low shelf and flinging them one by one onto the floor.

She laughed. "I was naked when you gave me a bath at the hospital?"

"Yeah, that's usually how these things usually work, Goober," I said. I tucked her back into bed and pulled her comforter up to her chin. I leaned down close and kissed her on her tear-stained cheek, then laid my head against her chest. "We wanted you more than anything," I whispered.

She nodded, smiled, and closed her eyes.

Back to Schooooool

2011-08-28T14:59:00.000-05:00

School starts on Thursday. My baby will be in first grade. I'm excited to see what she will learn this year, how she will change and grow. What I'm not looking forward to: filling out paperwork. I understand the need for the emergency contact forms but some of it feels a little like overkill. Maybe it seems worse than it is because I also have to fill out a lot of paperwork for Kindercare (where A goes for before and after school care). Last week I had to submit FIVE forms in order for Kindercare to drive my kid the mile or two to school each day. I am not exaggerating - I counted them. I can only imagine how daunting all of this must be for parents who have multiple school-age children.

I stupidly waited until after our vacation to buy school supplies. I guess I just don't like to think about summer ending until it's actually over. I did pick up a few items when we were on vacation and happened to be in a Dollar General store, but I figured I'd wait until we got back to obtain the rest. The list I received from the school was pretty lengthy. I went grocery shopping Saturday morning and then headed to another store for the school supplies. Empty shelves. The school supply aisle was all desert winds and tumbleweeds. The on-the-ball parents had already been there and cleaned the joint out. Gah!

When I got home, I posted this on Facebook: Clearly I waited too long to buy school supplies. Who do I have to sleep with to get some bleeping glue sticks!?!?

I got quite a few responses from friends and acquaintances. Some commiserated with my plight and some offered to send me glue sticks. From this I can only conclude: a) most of my friends are more organized than I am and b) a few of them really want to sleep with me.

Two full bags of required supplies (the ugly shoes are in there, too). The kid needs to get a job.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

2011-08-26T18:01:00.000-05:00

I am drowning in dirty laundry and piles of unopened mail, but I thought I'd take a quick moment to update my blog. In short, we had a fabulous vacation at the lake. My wee baby sister and her family drove up from Oklahoma and we met at a Shell station in the small town closest to the cabin. It's impossible to explain to someone how to get to the lake (miles of winding dirt roads), so our best bet was to have them follow us the rest of the way there. They had actually arrived the day before and camped nearby. They also brought a bunch of ATVs to ride. Did I ride one? Yes, I did, albeit briefly. Now you are probably wondering if I've been abducted and replaced with a pod person.

My daughter was so excited to spend time with her cousins (as well as her aunt and uncle, of course). My nephews (ages 2 1/2 and 4) spent a lot of their time smacking each other (I guess this is what happens when kids are sixteen months apart and are, well, boys). At one point we all went swimming in the lake and we had the boys in a small inflatable raft. They immediately launched into a full-blown fist fight. This seemed like a poorly-conceived plan on their part in as much as they were in the middle of a deep lake - where did they think they would go? When they weren't clobbering each other, they enjoyed fishing, riding the ATVs, watching movies, and running around with their cousin. We took all of the kids to a state park for a little hike, and they did great. They even held hands most of the way, which was beyond adorable.

Despite having three young children in the cabin, my vacation was still fairly restful. I read a book in its entirety, which I seldom have time to do. I slept in - well, 7:30 is sleeping in for me. Yesterday morning I stayed in bed for a few extra moments and was rewarded with a visit from a hummingbird just outside the window (I could easily hear the beating of his wings) and the call of a loon out on the lake. That's good stuff.

Two funny memories from the trip:

1. My youngest nephew was wearing a Carhartt shirt that had the words "Tiny but tough" printed on the front. We were out to lunch on Sunday and A remarked on the shirt. However, she read it as "Tiny Butt Touch." Needless to say, we got a lot of comedic mileage out of that for the rest of the week.

2. We had a fire in the firepit every other evening during our stay (we would have had a fire nightly except that we found it too exhausting to keep yelling at the kids to stop running precariously close to the flames). After we were done roasting marshmallows, we would usually burn a few items from our quickly-accumulating garbage, like paper plates and such. On the first night, P went to the cabin to grab a bag of garbage and brought it back to the firepit. One of my nephews spotted the white bag and shouted, "White trash!" Of course, the grown-ups in our group chuckled a bit. Spurred on by that, all three kids proceeded to march around the fire yelling, "WHITE TRASH! WHITE TRASH!" as loudly as possible. It is also worth noting that sound carries over the lake like nobody's business. Occasionally I can hear people talking on the other side and I swear it's as if they are standing right next to me.

Here are a few photos from the trip.

Peace and quiet . . . or something like that

2011-08-18T20:56:00.000-05:00

We're embarking on a little vacation tomorrow. Don't make plans to rob us while we're gone - we do have someone taking care of our house and our ninja cat while we're on vacation. I'm pretty sure she will be armed (our pet sitter, not our cat, although I'm reasonably certain that Ella Fitzkitty would gladly pack some heat if given the chance). We're doing our annual cabin-by-the-lake trip (a very nice friend lets us use his cabin every year). My wee baby sister and her clan will be joining us. I keep thinking, "Ahhh, can't wait to relax" and then I remember that we'll have a two-year-old, a four-year-old, and a six-year-old there. There's a nice little brew pub where we usually eat when we're at the lake, and I just keep picturing the wait staff frantically playing rock-paper-scissors as we approach to see who gets stuck with our table.

My sister found out yesterday that she is having another boy. So, we'll have two more boys in the family by the end of the year (total grandkid tally for my parents: five boys, two girls). My mom had three girls and used to say, "I don't know how to clean poop off balls!" When my youngest sister called me yesterday to tell me that the new baby is a boy, she said, "Well, at least I already know how to clean poop off balls."

I've been packing since Monday. We have to take all of our own linens and towels so there is a lot to pack. P threw five items in a suitcase and announced that he is "good to go" so of course the rest falls to me. The food, the ice, the bug spray, etc. Anyway, if all goes well, in about 24 hours I'll have a glass of merlot in hand as I gaze out at the lake and attempt to tune out the sounds of the wee cousins fighting over a juicebox or some such thing.

See you on the flipside!

I'll leave you with this little earworm. Be prepared before you listen to it - it will stick with you. My friend Leslie sent it to me yesterday. If she lived closer, I would've slashed her tires by now.

Redneck gardener, c'est moi

2011-08-17T17:24:00.002-05:00

Why yes, yes those are pipe cleaners holding up my tomato plant.

Last year, a green-thumbed co-worker gave me a tomato plant. She told me it would yield big tomatoes, the slicing kind. I put the wee plant in a huge terra cotta planter on my deck and watered it dutifully. I spent half the summer feeling like the world's most inept gardener, because the plant was only delivering little tomatoes. I had no earthly idea what I'd done wrong. Finally, I realized that they were Roma tomatoes (thanks, Google Images!) instead of the big ones (simple plant mixup, apparently). I happily chopped them up into sauces and anything else I could think of. This spring, I decided to try the tomato experiment again, this time buying a variety that promised big ones. I had dreams of a huge slice of homegrown tomato on my tofurkey on sourdough.

I bought a tomato plant at a local gardening center and installed it in the terra cotta planter. I jabbed a metal tomato cage into the dirt to support the plant as it grew. Voila! For the next few weeks I babied the plant, watering it regularly, applying tomato-specific plant food, and helpfully poking the tomatoes with my finger as they developed. Finally, a couple weeks ago, I picked a ripe tomato and proudly placed it on the kitchen counter. A few days later, I cut it open. It was green on the inside. Son of a biscuit!

Meanwhile, many of my friends and co-workers were busily harvesting beans, zucchini, squash, and so forth from their abundant gardens. And all I can manage is a single tomato plant. I'd love to have a vegetable garden but a) I don't know what I'm doing and b) I have three big dogs running around my yard. I have one small corner of the back yard, surrounded by garden fencing, where I've planted perennials. Gretchen jumps into the garden about eighty times a day (in order to bark at passing traffic), trampling everything I try to grow. I, in turn, lean out the back door every time and yell, "Gretchen! Get your ass out of my garden! How many times do I have to tell you?!" She cocks her head and stares back, unmoving, as if to say, "Who is this 'Gretchen' of which you speak?"

For the next tomato I picked, I let it ripen longer and indeed, it was not green when I sliced it. It was delicious. Shortly thereafter, a storm blew through and my tomato plant was leaning precariously to one side. Ever the quick thinker, I grabbed a bunch of my daughter's multi-colored pipe cleaners and lashed the main stalk of the plant to the deck railing. I congratulated myself on my ingenuity. However, another storm blew through and the upper branches of the plant (which was now about five feet tall) became bent. By the time I figured out I had a problem, a main branch had started to die, taking half a dozen tomatoes along with it. I desperately tried to save it. I knew I needed something straight and sturdy to prop it up. I found a neon orange Halloween pencil in my daughter's room and tied that to the bent branch. I think you'll agree that this is what any reasonable person would have done. Alas, it was too late. I cut that branch off and tossed it over the fence into the side yard so that my husband could deal with it.

Even without the dead branch, the top of the plant was still too heavy to remain upright. Had I taken thirty seconds to do a little research, I would have known that it is pretty standard to shore up tomato plants with stakes and such, and that most gardeners are fully prepared for that. There are two types of tomato plants: determinate (will stop growing at some point) and indeterminate. Apparently I have the latter, as I have every reason to believe it will take over my 'hood by the end of summer (a la Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors). Since I didn't have a stake, I rummaged around in the basement for a substitute. A-ha! PVC pipe from an agility weave pole set. I stuck three poles together into one long one and jabbed it into the planter. Again, what any reasonable person would do. I then used some additional colorful pipe cleaners to tie the plant to the agility pole. So far, so good. Tomatoes continue to appear on the branches and I, in turn, poke them and urge them to ripen faster.

Last Saturday, I took A to the farmers' market downtown. I couldn't help but notice that one can buy a huge, healthy, ready-for-slicing tomato for less than a buck. Huh.

Grey Muzzles

2011-08-15T17:12:00.000-05:00

My Lucy Annabel. How I still miss you, Goose!

On Sunday night I decided to cap off the evening with a hot bubble bath. P was working and the kid was in our room watching "Ramona and Beezus." I took this opportunity to finish reading "Dog Town," a book about the pooches who live at Best Friends Animal Society in Kanab, Utah. I had been trying to finish the book for weeks, but every time I sit down to read, it seems like the short person who lives in my house has a VERY URGENT need for me to: pour her some juice, get a knot out of her shoelaces, get her a popsicle from the freezer, and so forth. But finally, I had a few minutes to myself.

The last chapter of the book covers the story of Mr. Bones. Mr. Bones was a mixed breed dog who came to the sanctuary from Puerto Rico. He was extremely dog-aggressive (an attitude that had served him well on the rough streets where he was found) and had to live in a run by himself at Best Friends. As is often the case with dogs that don't like other dogs, Mr. Bones had a hard time finding a forever home. The years ticked by and although Mr. Bones had a lot of friends on the staff and even a band of ladies from New Jersey who came specifically to visit him and volunteer at the sanctuary every year, everyone hoped he would find a home of his own someday. Over the years, he had mellowed considerably and didn't have the energy and/or inclination to threaten other dogs quite so much. Finally, it happened. After a dozen years at the sanctuary, Mr. Bones was adopted by a lady from Maryland. By now he was elderly, his face grey and his bones creaky, but he had his own home at long last. Sadly, he died after just four months in his permanent home, but he had his happy ending nonetheless. Sharon, the nice lady who adopted him, said she did not regret anything and was quoted as saying, "I loved that stinky old dog."

So, here I was, reclining in the tub, surrounded by bubbles, crying my eyes out. I kept looking at the photo of Mr. Bones and his grey muzzle. Just then, the kid came in. This was actually her third visit because, you know, God forbid I should bathe without an audience. "Mommy, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, I was just reading something sad," I said. "I can't stop thinking about it." I told her briefly about Mr. Bones.

"Why can't you stop thinking about it?"

"I don't know how to stop thinking about something. My brain won't let me. Do you know how?"

She smiled, shrugged, and hopped up onto the toilet to pee (because, you know, using the other bathroom would be crazy). "I just stop thinking about it, that's all."

Oh but that it were so easy. For days I had been thinking about an article I read the week before. It would probably be more accurate to say I was haunted by it. The topic was bears in China and bile harvesting. I will not include any details here, but please Google it if you wish. On Facebook people are always posting petitions, supporting this or protesting that. I can't understand the point of it all, really. People commit horrible acts every minute of every day. The very best you can hope for from a petition is to sway public perception in hopes that something that is currently accepted will eventually be frowned upon by polite society (dog fighting is a good example, I think). But as far as I can tell, as long as suffering goes on behind closed doors or in some faraway land, out of sight is out of mind.

I had also been thinking about a Boxer named Cecilia. Cecilia came into our rescue years ago. She was a cute little brindle girl. Luck was seldom on her side, though, because she was adopted and returned a couple times over the years. It was never any fault of her own. She was returned a few months ago because the adopters lost their home and had to move. My friend Kathy was fostering her this time around. I was at her house last month and was amazed to see that Cecilia, who was nine years old by now, had very little grey on her face and was as energetic as a dog a third her age. She bounced around my friend's living room like a nut. That is why I love Boxers - they never lose that joie de vivre. We thought she'd be in rescue for a while, but much to our surprise, Cecilia was adopted rather quickly. She was adopted by an older couple who had a Rottweiler. They weren't too picky - any dog who got along with their Rottie could have a home with them. Cecilia fit the bill. And they adored her.

Sadly, however, her luck ran out again. Almost immediately after adoption, her new owners found that her lymph nodes were swollen. Cecilia had just been to one of our rescue's veterinarians for an exam, and he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. So either he missed the lumps in Cecilia's neck or they formed very quickly. Either way, the diagnosis was devastating: lymphoma. It was fast-moving and fatal. Just two weeks after being adopted, Cecilia was gone. Blinking back tears, I read an email from the adopters describing how they adored her and how they would see her again someday, in another realm. On behalf of the rescue, I sent a flowering plant to them in their girl's memory.

Senior dogs are hard to place. We've had quite a few pass away in rescue while waiting for their forever home. This is not the worst thing, because they do live in foster homes and are dearly loved. But it's always nice when we can find each one a home of his own. I had Fritz for a solid year before he landed a loving home. Fritz (Fritty Cent, Fritzenheimer) is still doing well and is adored by his mom. He will be twelve in January and I sure hope he is immortal. Although most of our applicants are looking for young dogs, there are a special few who happily take in the seniors. They can look beyond the grey muzzle, the cloudy eyes, the stiff gait. They know the time will probably be short and will ultimately end in utter heartbreak, but they never regret the decision. Just when I think I can't take one more email from someone wanting to surrender a dog because they "just don't have time for him," I remind myself about all of the amazing adopters I've met over the years, the ones who are heroes to dogs in need.

A few months ago I received the following email from an adopter whose Boxer had just passed away (they adopted him in 2010 and last him about a year later). I had written to her to express my condolences.

Thank you very much Claudia for your kind thoughts. I know every animal owner dreads this time in a pet's life. We are taking it day by day. Knowing that our Ozzie had lived fully and was loved completely until his last moments helps. (Having other dogs to comfort us helps too, though they are mourning in their own ways. It even took them 2 days to lay on "his" couch! )

What a wonderful experience adopting was for our family! I truly feel though that he adopted us. I'll never forget seeing his picture and saying to Joe - "that's the one" and he was. He brought such a sense of humor and balance to our family. Yes, he was lumpy and bumpy, but I never saw any of that and no one else did after they met him. He was actually an ambassador for diversity and acceptance!

Years ago, I bought a book for my children called Flawed Dogs by Berkeley Breathed. The last page always sticks in my mind -- "So in this world of the simple and odd, the bent and the plain, the unbalanced bod, the imperfect people and differently pawed, some live without love...that's how they're flawed."

I would do it again in a heartbeat! What we gave to Oz was returned ten fold! Thank you for all your hard work with all these beautiful boxers.

As you can probably predict, I did indeed shed a few tears when I read this email. Many times I've wondered why I am sentenced to a lifetime of wearing my heart on my sleeve, why I am hard-wired to feel everything so deeply. Is it a personality flaw? I don't know. In software development there is an old joke: "Oh, that's not a bug. It's a feature!"

As I watch my sweet, goofy Gideon slowly turning grey (his eyebrows are well on their way), and as I think about Mr. Bones, Cecilia, Oz, and Fritz, I know that, at the end of the day, a grey muzzle is worth so very much.

Taking a breather

2011-08-14T09:48:00.001-05:00

I saw that image on Regretsy last week and had to laugh. How could it not occur to someone, before creating gigantic words and permanently affixing them to a wall, to check the spelling first? Although I'm generally a good speller (one of my very few talents in life), there are a few words that tend to elude me. "Hors d'oeuvres" is one of them. On the rare occasion when I need to use it, I look it up. Or, more commonly, I just write . . . "appetizers" instead. Rock on.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. I've been struggling a bit lately with my stress level. My brain cannot rest. I go to yoga regularly and I can quiet my head for a few minutes while I'm there, but the world comes rushing back in as soon as I walk out the door after class. My job's been a bit challenging lately, so there's that. As you may recall, I also devote a lot of my time, on a volunteer basis, to a rescue organization. I do this willingly, of course, but lately I've really felt burn-out closing in on me. The state passed a new law June 1st which requires a higher level of documentation than had been necessary before. The additional paperwork, combined with all of my other tasks with the rescue (website, fostering, adoption packets, expense reimbursements, etc.) just seemed to put me over the edge for some reason. When I get overwhelmed, I start getting crabby with the other volunteers, and that's not fair to them. We have three different email lists for the rescue (foster list, general list, and event list) and for now I've gone to "no mail" on all three. My wee baby sister and her crew are arriving in a few days and we're going to do the cabin by the lake thing for about a week. After that, I'll dig back in with the rescue and, with a little luck, will be somewhat refreshed and less irritable.

In the mean time, I'm spending extra time with the talkative young lass who lives in my home. School starts in a couple weeks and I want to enjoy the time we have left before then. I took one for the team yesterday and sat through "Mr. Popper's Penguins" at the budget theater with her. I used to like Jim Carrey when he was on "In Living Color" a million years ago, but my tolerance for him has been very low since then. (Similarly, my Nicholas Cage tolerance petered out shortly after "Raising Arizona" - which is still one of the best movies of all time.) After the movie, I paid $2 for my kid to stand in a hurricane simulator for 15 seconds - I couldn't take the begging and the pleading eyes. Have you seen these simulators? They seem to be cropping up everywhere. At the time, you think, "Ah, what's two bucks?" but then you realize you've let her do it umpteen times and really, you could stand her next to a fan at home for free.

The Fair

2011-08-11T21:51:00.003-05:00

We went to the state fair last weekend. After the fair (which is held a couple hours away from our home), we stayed overnight with some friends who were kind enough to host us in their home.

We arrived at the fair at around 10 a.m. We headed to a vendor expo building first because it gets really crowded as the day goes on and we wanted to get it out of the way early. The building is packed with companies hawking magical mops and amazing! fantastic! knives and onion choppers. I have actually been tempted by some of the mops (which promise to solve all of my housework challenges) but have no interest in toting one around all day. I bought some soap, some bug spray that was touted as being the end to all mosquitoes everywhere (active ingredient: catnip oil. no lie), and a gift for my unborn nephew. Did I tell you both of my sisters are knocked up? My middle sister is expecting her offspring first, and we already know the baby has a penis. My wee baby sister will find out about her fetus next week. The other thing we bought in the expo building: a $4 pickle. Our kid is gaga for pickles. We first handed her one when she was a baby, because we thought it would be funny to see her make a sour face. She gobbled it up and asked for more. The whole scene was not nearly as funny as we'd hoped it would be.

We then went in search of junk food. Deep-fried oreos, comin' right up! The three of us split an order. I came upon a wine bar at around noon, and since everyone knows that it's perfectly acceptable to have an adult beverage anytime after noon, I ordered a sangria. You see, we were baking in oppressive heat. It was inescapable. Throughout the day I think we spent roughly the equivalent of our mortgage on slushies, water, root beer . . . basically any form of hydration we could find.

After lunch, we headed to the midway so that the short one could hit the rides. We bought her a wristband so that she could ride as many rides as she wanted. She just hit 43 inches and a lot of the rides require a minimum height of 42 inches, so she was psyched. There was one major problem with the midway, which is that there was no shade or buildings anywhere. I finally ended up sitting under a sparse tree that was next to a sideshow. Yes, a sideshow. There was a sign touting the world's smallest horse. You could get in to see the horse for fifty cents. However, once people got up to the gate, they found out that for anyone older than an embryo, the price was actually a dollar. So, people paid the buck, then walked around an open trailer, looking down into an area that I couldn't see (because I hadn't parted with a buck, ya'll) and then descended the stairs with a slight frown. I had to admit, I was curious. It didn't take long for me to figure out what was going on . . . mostly because some bowlegged fellow hopped off the sideshow trailer and announced, "It's a fucking Shetland pony!"

Speaking of horses, we walked through the horse barn and saw some beautiful Clydesdales. Have you ever seen the testicles on one of those animals? Like grapefruit. No lie. Anyway, as we were leaving the horse barn, I spotted a little boy walking towards us, crying. "Hi," I said, "Did you lose your parents?" He nodded. Oh my, what do we do now? I figured if there was one thing I could do for him, it was to be a grown-up and assure him that nothing would happen to him. I asked him his name (Matthew) and asked him where he'd last seen his parents (in the horse barn). Keep in mind, this was a huge fair with thousands and thousands of people. The horse barn was ginormous. I pulled out my park map. The nearest "reconnection center" was pretty far away and it seemed like a bad idea to take this four-year-old boy too far from where he'd last seen his guardians. We stood with him for a while while we decided what to do. Finally, I called the local police, who said they'd send someone over. A few minutes later, a rotund fellow with a beer in his hand sauntered up to us and nodded at Matthew. I realized he was the dad. I told him that we'd just called the police and that I'd go ahead and cancel the call. He nodded again, mumbled thanks, and walked away with his son. I didn't really expect any thanks, but he sort of acted like I'd inconvenienced him in some way by looking after his child. Whatever. If nothing else, I taught my child that if someone needs help, help them.

We spent the rest of the afternoon sweating our arses off. The fair boasts a skyway . . . one of those deals where the tram cars hanging on cables make their way across the fairgrounds. We thought, "Hey, maybe we'll catch a slight breeze up there." It turns out that we forgot one thing: the scientific principle that requires heat to rise. Going up in the skyway basically just brought us closer to the sun and we baked like cornbread. We left the fair shortly thereafter. When we got to my friend's house, I sat in front of their window air conditioning unit the rest of the afternoon and evening. I'd probably still be sitting there if I hadn't needed to be back at work on Monday.

Too old for this, too cool for that

2011-08-07T15:52:00.003-05:00

The school year begins in a few short weeks, so I've begun buying some of the stuff my daughter will need for the coming year. She needs shoes, so I took her to a shoe store after work on Friday. When she was a toddler and was just learning to walk, I bought all of her shoes at Stride Rite because I wanted to make sure she had the proper fit for her first fledgling steps. Now that she is six and beats the shit out of her shoes no matter what brand they are, I've gotten a little more frugal about the whole thing. I couldn't help but notice that $40 shoes get just as scuffed up as the ones from Payless. Hence, we headed there on Friday. I had been waiting for the BOGO sale because the kid needs two pairs of tennis shoes - one that stays at school (for gym class) and one for at home.

Immediately, she spotted these:

And then started speaking in tongues. "Shake it up, ohmomiwanttheseshoespleaseihavetohavethem, something something shake it up something oh please please please." There was a lot of breathless urgency about the whole thing.

Apparently, Shake It Up is a show on the Disney Channel. The fact that I had never heard of it makes me think I need to start monitoring TV time a lot more closely. All I know is that she was desperate for these ~~eyesores~~ shoes.

"Let's talk about this," I said. She nodded solemnly. I pointed into the box.

"They're black. You don't really wear anything black."

"I know."

"Also, they're ugly as homemade sin."

"Mom! No they're not! I really want the Shake It Up shoes." Again with the pleading eyes and the desperation.

"Here's the thing. They have laces and YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TIE."

She shrugged and then vowed to spend the rest of the summer learning to tie her shoes. Also, there is one boy in her class who does know how to tie so she figures she can use him as back-up. There was one final problem. They didn't have these monstrosities in her size. I asked a salesperson if there might be any in back. I started to feel a little hopeful when I saw the "I doubt it" expression on her face as she headed to the stockroom. Moment later, she was back. "We sure do!" she said cheerfully, handing me the box. Crap.

A was over the moon. Just seeing her expression caused me to have one of those "pick your battles" moments. I'm sure my parents let me wear a few things that made them queasy. "Okay, let's pick out a second pair," I said. I pointed at some Disney Princess sneakers. "How about these?"

She frowned. "I'm too old for princesses, Mom." Too . . . old . . . for . . . princesses? 'Scuse me while I extract this tiny dagger from my left ventricle. :::sniffle sniffle:::

Making Amends

2011-08-04T05:28:00.000-05:00

My lovely niece, she is depressed. She can't believe I didn't mention her in this blog entry. In my defense (paper-thin though it is), I did write about A's cousins in that piece but couldn't get the wording quite right and ended up deleting that passage. A certain seventh-grader from Northern Virginia most certainly took notice of this omission.

Therefore, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you about the world's most fabulous niece. You see, I am hopeful that she will become a veterinarian someday and that I will receive free vet care for the rest of my life. I must remain in her good graces.

The awesomeness that is my niece:

She was born in 1998, becoming the first grandchild in the family. At birth, she looked just like her father. However, now she looks just like my sister (except blond). She seems to have received a hefty dose of the "tall, skinny" DNA that missed me entirely. I am pretty sure she will be taller than I am soon, even though I have expressly forbidden it.
L is very bright and is a good student. At the end of the school year, she earned every award that her school and the county had to offer - everything from a certificate for serving as president of her school to an academic achievement letter from President Obama. She feels fairly certain that he didn't sign it personally, though. What my daughter was awarded on her last day of school: a coupon for Subway.
Even though she is almost officially a teen, she is still downright nice. I'm not saying that the door-slamming and sense of perpetual indignation won't show up at some point, but so far, so good.
She makes amazing guacamole. And I don't even like guacamole.
She is a good role model for my daughter. She generally tolerates her little brother.
She lets me call her "Blondie" even though it is the lamest nickname anyone ever came up with. It could be worse. My middle sister's nickname is "Cheech."
L is a vegetarian and cares a lot about animals, so I generally assume that she gets these fine traits from me.

Here are some photos of my niece. I hope this redeems me in some way. I don't want to miss out on those free rabies shots.

Fun Stuff

2011-07-31T19:31:00.001-05:00

The kid and I spent a lot of time together this weekend. I worked at a pet expo until 3:00 on Saturday (her dad brought her by to visit me there as well) and after that, we hit the road. It was just me and her. I had this theory that if I left P home alone long enough, he would use this free time to stain the deck. As it turns out, if you leave him home alone long enough, he hops in the car and takes himself to a movie (Captain America).

First we went out to dinner. She'd had a fever Friday night and although Tylenol had taken care of it by morning, she still seemed a little off on Saturday. And by "off" I mean "compliant." I wasn't sure whether to worry about her or to sing hallelujah in the streets. After dinner, we stopped at a park. A storm had just blown through, so the park was empty. I don't mean to brag here, but I found three (wet, sandy) dollars next to the swing set. I'm currently looking into some investment strategies. I'm worried that I'll start getting letters from down-on-their-luck strangers asking for a piece of my windfall.

From there, we went to a candy store and then to a bluegrass concert (a local but extremely talented band was performing). A was the one and only kid there. I think I was actually the second youngest person in the audience, in all honesty. I scanned the crowd and, as far as I could tell, nary a one was born after the Korean war. It was a lot of fun, though. The older folks got a kick out of the kid. At intermission we went to the ladies' room, where we spotted some fancy hand lotions and such that were placed there by a local high-end boutique. I put on some hand lotion that had a fairly pleasant scent - something like honey and jasmine. A put some on her hands and loudly proclaimed that it "smells JUST LIKE MEDICINE!" The lady behind us said, "Well, I guess I'll pass then."

We left the concert a bit before it ended because we had an hour drive to get back home and I didn't want miss crabby-in-the-morning to be up too late. All in all, it was a good time. Winter lasts so long in these parts, and it seems like I always hear myself promising to "do that when it gets warm." So, I've been trying to make good on my promises. We even rode go-karts on Tuesday night. Before we know it, the snow will fly and such chances will be lost.

I have to share my favorite photo from the weekend. Elle est tres jolie, ne c'est pas?

It's crazy up in hair

2011-07-29T17:42:00.000-05:00

Another self-portrait

As my daughter gets older, I am definitely noticing her need to exert her independence and express her individuality a little more each day. Yesterday she had a playdate at her friend's house. This friend lives three blocks away. I decided to let her ride her bike. I acted like it was no big deal, but in my head, I was mentally calculating all of the things that could happen to her in three blocks. I strapped her helmet onto her noggin, gave her a little push, and then stood in the yard like a lawn ornament until I saw her pull into her friend's driveway. I am planning to do this for all such outings, until she is married.

Try as I might to stop the clock, she persists in growing up. Her wardrobe is one of the most obvious signs. She used to wear whatever I put on her, but now she wants a say in it. So, I've been involving her more in my buying decisions so that we're not stuck with clothing she refuses to wear. A few pairs of shoes have been rejected out of hand, and I'm still not even sure what it was that made them so offensive all of a sudden.

The biggest kid-related battle I face these days is right on top of my daughter's head. The girls at Kindercare like to "do" each other's hair. There are some older kids in A's classroom (they divide the joint up into: children two and under, three-year-olds, four-year-olds, and then "school age") and I think she is influenced by them in some ways. I send her off with her hair in a ponytail or a headband and when I pick her up, the hair implement is inevitably broken and her curls are poufed out about a foot in all directions. I feel like her head can be seen from space. Now, I should add that this seems to happen whether the girls at daycare touch her hair or not. What I don't understand it why it bugs me so much.

My daughter is bi-racial. Before she was born, I did some reading about different types of hair and wondered what I might need to learn. Braiding? Special conditioners? When she was born, she had soft brown hair that started to curl when she was around 18 months old - nothing that seemed to require any sort of special know-how. Until she was around four, her hair was mostly soft ringlets - not too hard to manage. My wee baby sister has curly hair, so I had some idea of what to do and what not to do. I also began quizzing curly-haired friends about what products they use. I think I've easily spent a mortgage payment on hair products for Short Stuff. Over the past couple of years, her hair has changed. It's less curly and more . . . well, frizzy. The hair at the crown of her head has very little curl to it, whereas the hair underneath is still very curly. I use various leave-in conditioners and curl creams and whatnot, with mixed results. Some days her hair looks fine, other days it's pretty much out of control. I've taken her to various stylists, who haven't been as helpful as one might expect.

If she had her way, I think she'd be fine with walking around looking like Medusa. What she really wants is straight hair, just like I would love to have curly hair. When I fix her hair in the mornings and she is in a particularly cantankerous mood, fighting me all the way, I sometimes find myself saying, "Fine, just go out with your hair like that then!" Like "that" = a big mass of tangles and disorder. It occurs to me that I may be leaving her with the impression that there is something wrong with her hair and of course that is not my intent at all. My daughter (all parts of her) is beautiful and if you don't agree, I'll fight you.

In the end, I guess it's really my hang-up, not hers. I'm not the roll-out-of-bed-and-go sort. You won't see me with bedhead or rolling through town in sweatpants. I remember one day my long-time hair stylist had finished blow-drying my hair and, on a whim, combed a zigzag part into my hair. I stared at myself in the mirror. Donna looked back at me and said, "You can't stand it, can you?" She laughed. She was right. I could not.

So, what do I do? Try to coerce my daughter into complying with how I'd like her hair to look (i.e. like she is not homeless) or let her do what she wants and not worry about it? Is there some magical product that would allow her wear her her natural but without all the . . . disorder?

I'm off to fret about some other trivial thing now. Like how no one on Facebook seems to know the difference between your and you're.

Seriously, how does she keep getting my camera???

Little Miss Popular

2011-07-28T06:18:00.001-05:00

Self-Portrait

Before my daughter was born, her birthmom warned me that I would be reduced to the status of a small rodent from the date the baby arrived on the planet until . . . well, forever. And it was true. Everyone I know was smitten with the little cherub - they still are, in fact. I'm pretty sure most of them like her better than they like me, not that I blame them. I mean, I know every mom thinks her child is particularly spectacular, but mine is irrepressibly cute and outgoing and has a giggle that leaves you no choice but to start giggling yourself. You see, that's one benefit of adopting - I can be pretty obnoxious as far as bragging about her and it's not as if I'm paying some sort of compliment to myself at the same time. It's not like I'm pointing at my child and saying, "Did you see what I MADE?! My DNA is extraordinary, is it not?"

My father called me last week to make sure we'd gotten home safely from our visit to the east coast. As part of his refusal to acknowledge technology of any sort, he loves to buy those little disposable cardboard cameras and uses them aplenty. When he called, he had just picked up a batch of photos he'd had developed. "I got some pictures of my baby," he told me. For half a second, I thought he meant me (since I am, you know, his first-born child and all). Then I realized he meant his granddaughter. Ah, of course.

My sisters and my parents sent me birthday gifts in February. They arrived from between a week and four weeks late. The gifts they sent my daughter in May? Right on time.

I'm mostly just amused by the whole thing. Her fan club is vast. Relatives call specifically to speak to my daughter. Many of my friends buy Christmas and birthday gifts for her. A has three living grandparents and all three are hopelessly in love with her. My stad gets such a kick out of her (he was amused to learn of her recent tantrum because I would not allow her to wear tap shoes to church) and loves spending time with her. My mom makes dress after dress for Miss-I-Don't-Wear-Pants. She is counting the days until A is old enough to fly as an unaccompanied minor so that I can ship her granddaughter out for a visit (the two of them can't wait to stay up late and eat ice cream for dinner, I suspect). When we were in VA, my father handed the kid $40.00 and told her it was "grandkids' day." This was in addition to the c-note he just gave her for her birthday. After handing her the cash, he pointed at me and said, "You'll just have to wait until I die." (I'm named in his will.) That could be arranged, I thought to myself.

On Sunday, I took my daughter to visit her Kindergarten teacher. Mrs. L had called a couple of times this summer, wondering when A could come for a visit. I don't remember a teacher ever inviting me to their home, that's for sure. Mrs. L has a pond, sheep, cats, etc. and enjoys having students drop by (she and her husband are empty-nesters). Anyway, the kid was beyond excited by the time we pulled up at her teacher's home. "This is the best kind of day!" she exclaimed as she hopped out of the van and ran into the arms of her teacher. We spent the next hour and a half touring the home and the pond, sipping lemonade and taking photos. We talked a bit about academics. Mrs. L told me that my daughter reads at "at least a second grade level." Needless to say, I was one proud, puffed-up mama. (I didn't make her brain, but I get to take partial credit for all the reading she and I have done together!)

As wonderful as my daughter is, I have to feel a bit sorry for her future boss as well as her future spouse. Why? Two words: weekday mornings. I don't mean to spill all of her secrets (oh, who am I kidding? of course I do!), but Miss Popularity is an absolutely ill-tempered tyrannical pill for about the first two hours after she gets up. You didn't think it was all sunshine and giggles around our house, did you?

With her teacher

With Granddaddy

With Grandpa

#600 - that a lotta bons mots, people

2011-07-23T13:54:00.000-05:00

Here 'tis, my 600th post. That reminds me - I got an email from Once Upon a Child advertising a clearance sale on July 23th. And a client told me she'd get me feedback on a website design by June 31st. I'm the only one who finds this stuff amusing? Ah, okay.

On this auspicious occasion, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my small but ardent pool of readers. As you may have noticed, fame and fortune continue to elude me, so I'll keep plugging away at this writing thing. I sometimes wonder if, someday in the future, my daughter will read my blog and declare it to be blatant child abuse. I've carefully chronicled the last four and half years of her life in intricate detail, and it's true that she did crap her pants a lot in the early entries.

We're getting ready to head to a wedding and so, alas, I must keep this short. As I was typing this entry, I learned of the death of Amy Winehouse. I guess I knew it was coming, just as we all did. A few weeks ago, I watched with sadness a recent video of her on stage in Europe, stumbling around and forgetting the words to her own songs. While it has not yet been confirmed that her death is attributed to drugs/alcohol, I think we'd all be astounded if it was somehow unrelated. It's a crying shame, it really is. When I first heard the Back to Black album a few years ago, I don't know when I'd been so blown away by someone's talent. I guess when someone is determined to self-destruct, they'll always find a way. Ah, such a shame.