I love cashing checks as much as the next person, but

Wouldn't it be simpler to just tax everyone less, instead of using tax money to send monthly checks to people who have children? Canada's child tax benefits are another way to take money from people who earn it and give money to people the government thinks deserve it.

I still haven't heard a good reason for governments to be in the meddling business. But, hey, Canada, knock yourself out.

hubby got hired!

And is now a working bass player. We've been looking forward to this. So, check out some of his old stuff.

Grossly inappropriate for a kid's t-shirt, #2

I first started carrying my camera around because of a thrift store discovery--a T-shirt that would fit a preteen girl, that spelled out "I'm waiting for my conjugal visit" in sparkly letters.

Today, at Ross, I found the young boys' equivalent shirt. But at least I had my camera, this time.

Insufferable, insecure Starbucks people

I'll admit it, I am one. Hubby is more of a Dunkin' Donuts kind of guy--he wants coffee, hot, black, bitter, fast, and in a large container that won't mess up his truck (like his women?). I, however, want to listen to mellow jazzy music while I wait for a fancy, iced mocha thing. Or maybe herbal iced tea. Just gimme some atmosphere, ok?

My super-elastic expanding office

We moved Son #4 into his own room last week. It had been the sun room, used for miscellaneous storage. Yesterday I moved the last big thing out of his room--my filing cabinet. It is now right behind my desk, meaning I file things the second they're ready--not weeks later, when I walk into the storage room. This is an awesome development.

It also required that I move my desk, which meant that I needed to move the couch...if you give a moose a muffin, he's going to want some jam to go with it.

So now I have a larger, more comfortable, organized office, and a smaller, more cramped official living room. I am bucking for a total removal of the living room furniture, since we never really use that for guests, anyway...some day.

Just a temp

Today I took Hubby for yet another doctor visit. While we were gone, there was a powerful rainstorm. The Sons came home, followed by a dog. Now we have an unidentified dog in the house for the foreseeable future. We've posted online, taped fliers around the neighborhood, canvassed door-to-door, and taken her to the vet to scan for microchipping. At this point, there's nothing else I can think to do.

So, Otis, New Dog and I just went on a walk--two dogs on the same leash. Fun.

Not that I will admit it to the children. "Conoco", as Son #3 calls her, is Just A Temp.

update: After just about 24 hours, "Whoopie" went home with her family. All's well that ends well.

Summertime, and where's the damned remote?

The public schools got out 2 days earlier than I expected, so swim team started early, too. So our school year is over and a bit ragged at the end, there.

Let me just say once and for all (and with no small amount of shame and frustration with myself for feeling this incompetent):
--Dad went into the hospital mid-March, for 7 weeks.
--By the time he was home, I was full into May Madness at work.
--The day (the actual, very DAY) I said "I'm almost done with all this work, so I'll be able to catch up around the house and finish the school year on a strong note," Hubby broke his leg in 3 places, requiring surgery, umpteen trips to the doctor, and more bedrest than he can let himself take. He is scheduled to have the pins removed from his ankle during the week Son #2 and I are out of town, and is really not supposed to put any weight at all on that foot until then. He is exhausted and in pain and there's only so much I can do in my role as support person to help out, there.

In the face of this, there's an Adam Sandler movie coming out, about a guy who gets a universal remote that actually controls the UNIVERSE. I want one. I would like to put the world on "pause" until the house is clean, rewind back to make sure Hubby doesn't break his leg, and fast forward through most of these swim meets.

No respect, no respect at all

One of my humor pieces got picked up, so naturally I sent the link around. Mom was mildly disturbed that I wrote about her again (although, to be honest, it is only a fleeting mention and fairly flattering) and Sis wants to know "when you're going to write about me."

I gave her "when I do, you'll be the first to know."

Meth use isn't an epidemic, after all

...according to this study

So, does that mean that they'll stop harassing middle-aged moms who just want to buy enough cold medicine to be able to go to bed and recover for a few days? Probably not. We'll still be justifying our families' illnesses to some schmuck in a pharmacist's booth, because Someone, Somewhere, Might use cold medicine to make an illegal drug.

My editors can't spell, Unintentional Pun edition

It happened again. This time, my editor wrote the following article title:

"Illusions of the Eye: Staring Reggie Rice".

The thing is, I don't usually read through my articles when they're published. I just flip open to the page to make sure they're there, to see if the pictures came out, etc. So if there are editor errors in the body of the article, I might not even notice.

But this is driving me nuts.

I am the lowly freelancer. As editor, it is their (better-paying) job to find MY errors and correct them. Not to create new errors of their own.

Ugh. Grrrr. Grunt. Argh.

Just add it to the stack of clips I can't use, I know.

Whadda MAN

Hubby and I saw the X-rays of his ankle today. The screws are holding his leg together, basically. I am in awe.

Gee, Christine, you haven't blogged in a while...

Hubby went to upstate New York to fill in for a drummer friend. On arrival, he hurt his leg. He stayed up there, camped for 3 days, played drums, kicked butt, drove back down here, and thought, "Hmmmm...perhaps my foot should not be blue."

We spent an afternoon in the emergency room, where they diagnosed a broken tibia. Hubby complained about pain higher in the leg, and was brushed off.

The next day, the on-call doctor said the same. And again ignored all mention of pain elsewhere in the leg.

The third day, our insurance changed, so we had to visit yet ANOTHER doctor. Who said, "This is not just a broken tibia. You need more X-rays."

Hubby's leg is broken in three places.

Three.

Tomorrow he gets pins in his ankle. The Mom-in-law is coming down to watch the Sons while we are gone. Which means that today, I clean. A lot.

My geek is away, so I took a test.

Why do I pick at old, psychic sores?

Sometimes I find myself googling people I haven't seen in years. People who, if they showed up on my doorstep, I would not be happy to see. Why do I do this?

Why do I have this compulsion to check up on people who have been so hurtful in the past? Why am I concerned with people who did their level best to make my life less than it is today?

I know I don't want to deal with them, don't want to talk to them, don't want to follow their path for me. But for some reason I feel the need to reach out for them a little bit, just to make sure they are around, and OK, in their way.

Sometimes I don't make any sense, even to myself.

In the Washington Times this morning

Senate declares "up", "down".

I guess "My mother was a saint!" hasn't kicked in yet

Yesterday, after spending the morning fighting for an article I wrote, and shoving the boys through school, the Sons and I took a skipjack tour of the river, and then they accompanied me for an Advertiser interview. We dashed home long enough for me to make dinner, and then they had a long tae kwon do class, during which, admittedly, I talked with a couple of friends. We got home at 9:15.

Stumbling through the kitchen just before bed, I said to Son #1, "Man, I could use a day off."

His response?

"You? Why?"

All work and no play makes Mom a dull girl.

Flicks for Married Chicks: Poseidon

We, as a group, tend to rank on our husbands. We complain. We notice the little frustrating things about living with a man, instead of the good parts. Fortunately for us, there exists the disaster movie. There's nothing like an evening of watching men save women and children from certain death.

Yesterday, after homeschool review, Lisa and I went to see Poseidon, which turns out to be a leader in the Men Are Awesome, I'm So Glad I Have One category.

*Men, through their athleticism and just generally big old manly physical build, can do stuff we can't. Sing it, girls! "I am shooooorrt. I am not muscular, I am Womaaaaaan!"

*Men will step up to save us because they feel they should. Perhaps this is the same instinct that makes every mother in a crowd jump to attention when they hear some kid cry out for "Mom". Their instinct is to protect us, and thank God for it.

*Men can cut through the emotional bullshit of a tense situation and do what needs to be done. Wonder why your guy doesn't talk about his feeeelings all day? Because his brain is wired to ignore that stuff and save your butt. Enjoy it.

*Men know stuff we don't. I know, there are exceptions, but in my case, at least, I am constantly reminded that while I was learning to hem, get tarnish off brass, French braid, embroider, and write haiku, Hubby was gapping spark plugs, splicing rope, driving a tow truck, shooting guns and other such manly pursuits. Where men look at schematics and instantly understand where everything leads and what it's all for, I stare incomprehending, and mutter "this goes left, to that big block thingy." Ugh.

There's more, I know. Men are great. I am so glad I have one.

When the mice are away, the cats play, too

The Sons spent last night at a friend's house, so Hubby and I went to see 9 Day Bender, the band that should and will have Hubby as bass player. Hubby will be going to New York with them this weekend, on the drums.

We had a great time, and I got to dance, which is something I sorely miss. I think, though, that I need to get myself some clubbing clothes, if we're going to be leaving the house on a regular basis. Or, at least I should be willing to sort through my closet and put on something that is designed for more than comfort.

Hubby's conviction that everyone wants a piece of me, and his complete inability to understand women of almost any stripe, is a neverending source of amusement and surprise. He is, I am reminded, a man, and therefore just can't help being clueless about the ways women interact.

The eternal conundrum of the freelancin' mom

If the boys are awake, I am on duty. I feel like I should be making sure they do their school work, and keeping the house clean, and feeding them.

If they are awake, they are talking, or watching TV, or playing Contendo, or practicing a musical instrument, or stomping around, or otherwise making noise. Not all at once, but generally someone is doing one of those things, most of the time.

At the end of the day, then, I have been inundated with noisy, demanding people. By 9 pm I am lucky if I have two brain cells left to rub together.

The house quiets down, the boys are tucked in, and I am, in theory, free to write.

In practice, however, it usually means I am free to collapse into my bed, or, even worse, buzz around disjointedly, not accomplishing anything.

Today I submitted an Advertiser piece and a short write up for the Tester. I also received another Morning Edition rejection email. They are as regular as the waxing and waning of the moon. But man, I still have so much work to do and it's only 8:30 and my brain is shot.

Ugh.

Changing and shower room, Black Belt Academy

Because if you do, we will totally kick your ass, Korean style.

Mother's Day

Mother's Day was our traditional mellow anti-holiday. We slept in. We called the grandmothers to wish them well. We went to Outback for dinner on the gift cards we've been holding since Christmas. We watched the youtube "mother's day" video, and Signs.

Hubby tells me that I am interpreting last night's events all wrong. "You got hit on right away. And it's not like there were a lot of guys in the bar. And the hook hand guy was really nice!"

I think I have found the ultimate fitness incentive program, nu?

It's one thing, to "know" you look like hell.

It's a totally different LEVEL of a thing, to see that the rest of the world pretty much agrees with you.

Hubby and I don't get out much. He is kind of a homebody, and we are on the broke side, and there's the whole responsible parenting thing. But I do remember, years ago when I was a single girl and kinda cute, spending my weekends dancing and flirting and generally feeling like hot stuff.

Soooo, the tide is turning. The Sons are of an age that they are well and truly able to fend for themselves for as long as we'd like to be gone. Hubby has discovered that the best way to get back into a band is to hang around where musicians go, and get his awesome, bass-playin', drum-beatin', guitar-mastering self planted deep in the minds of every single musician in the tri-county area. And a young guy Hubby once gave a couple of bass lessons to, when he was but a 6th grader with a dream, is performing with his band at a bar not far from home. So tonight, at last, I get to leave the house for more than dinner and a crappy movie.

Movies being, in my mind, a pretty lousy way to pass the time, unless you are making out in the back row of the theater.

We hit the little local bar. It is a nice place, despite the fact that just a few weeks ago a guy was shot and killed in a fight in the back parking lot. Damien, the Hubby's bass playing protege, is awesome, and his band plays some great ska. We are having a blast.

Damien gets off stage and Hubby offers to buy him a beer. We hang out, chat, drink, smoke and generally relax. While Hubby and Damien are loading the band's equipment into a waiting car, I sit at the bar and listen to the second act. The barmaid, who has been sending free Jagermeister shots our way, smiles at me and asks if the bass player is my son.

My freakin' SON.

Holy crap on a cracker, I need to get out of that bar.

Sooo, we head to a second place. Nice little local dive. The band, Niki Barr, is awesome, playing mostly original stuff with the occasional cover of something we recognize.

Two men flirted with me. Respectable, right? Plenty to make a woman feel like she's still got a little bit of what her momma gave her, right?

not tonight, ok?

The first guy was a fairly attractive, light-skinned Hispanic with an accent and a helluva lot of jailhouse tattoos. And then there was the second guy.

The second guy?

The second guy had a hook.

As God is my witness, I am going for a run this morning.

My editors can't spell

This week it happened twice. Two different articles, two different publications, and in both cases the editor changed my correct spelling to an incorrect spelling.

What do you do when you editor can't spell? Is there a gracious way to tell her that cuisine cannot please your "pallet" or that a lace curtain is not "shear"?

Once I send in my articles, they are in the editors' hands. I respect that. But by the same token, she is a professional and should recognize her own weaknesses, and ask someone (even if it is not me) if the word I used is really the word that belongs in there.

Now, I am in a position where two different publications this week alone have published something with my name on it, that makes me look like an idiot. Ugh.

Kudos to Taco Bell's advertising guys

...for looking at those little packets in a new way. What a riot!

Fish prints

Today Son #3 and Son #4 are going to be making fish print t-shirts at the Bay ecology class they're taking. Son #4 is game. Son #3, however, thinks it is creepy to kill something, dip it in paint, and press it to your shirt.

"I don't mind killing a fish to eat it, but I don't want to kill something to make art."

I gave him the classic "this is what your teacher has planned, the fish is already dead, you can't make the fish be UNdead by not using it on your t-shirt, it'll be ok," song and dance that we as parents give our kids. But in my heart, I agree with him completely. I wouldn't have planned this, and I feel bad for the fish.

It's funny: since we don't send our kids to school anymore, these moral quandaries have not come up in a long time.

Also funny: just when I think we are becoming bloodless uber-conservatives, something like this happens to remind us of the mile-wide hippie streak in our souls.

Eh, watch us show up this afternoon and they'll be using fake fish...


UPDATE:

It was, indeed, actual dead fish. And knowing she had several conscientious objectors in the group, the teacher provided shells, sea grass, and other cool things to print with. So we are now the proud owners of two horrendously ugly t-shirts that my kids don't particularly like and I am afraid to wash with other clothes, but at least Son #3 did not have to disrespect the life of a former fish. All's well that ends well.

A Kennedy + Alcohol= fun for all

Patrick Kennedy says he has no memory of the accident, this week, in which he crashed into a police barrier and stumbled out of his car, claiming to be late for a vote. He also says he did not drink that night. My question is, how does he know?

bumble bee

While the boys were at tae kwon do, I sat outside using someone's wireless internet connection. Got some work done, and was visited by several bumble bees, who love to lick my delectable ankles.

Moussaui verdict

I admit I have gone from "kneejerk Catholic anti-death-penalty loyalist" to "let 'em fry conservative Mom" over the past 20 years, but in this case my biggest concern is that now we have someone the nutballs can use as an excuse to kidnap/torture/behead decent people in a bid for his release. And since our prison system is built on making criminals live longer than they would out on their own, it could go on for many a decade.

Not that they really need an excuse.

With due thanks to the Mamas and the Papas

I read a headline in the Washington Times today, and it made me want to sing.

All the priests are gay
And the nuns are dikes
We’ll elect a bishop
Californians like
If we read the Bible
Wouldn’t be this way
Episcopalian bishops
Are in the news today

Walked into a church
I passed along the way
You know the preacher looked real buff
In an effeminate way
I’d be lying to you
If I didn’t say
He’d make a great bishop
Since all the priests are gay

the braces are ON

Son #2 got the lower set of his braces on this morning, so we went for our traditional milkshake. He also told me just how wonderful McDonald's fries are...and then insisted that that did NOT count as a hint. Needless to say, we shared some. I am really enjoying these one-on-one times with Son #2. He and I have not had too much time alone, over the years, so it's nice to just sit and relax with him.

Plus, he likes pepper on his fries. So life is good.

"each of the applicants presented impressive skills and experience"

Of course, when you read that in your rejection letter, it's supposed to make you feel good. But knowing, as I do, that of the 9 of us who were called in for an interview, several didn't even submit clips (thus hinting that they have no writing experience at all, can't even gin up a quick paragraph for application purposes, and at the very least are incapable of following instructions) makes me a little less happy. Oh, well, the hospital job was looking a bit too intense for this year, anyway.

What would I do with an office, if I had one?

My office is tucked behind the living room couch.

Yes, just like the maximum security inmates always complain, I can span the space with my outstretched arms. I can hear the TVs (all three of them, sometimes) and have no graceful way to avoid conversation, should anyone want to talk at me.

Sometimes I imagine how nice it would be, to have a room with a door. Quiet. With a closet, maybe, for all the unfinished projects.

But then again, I am pretty centrally located. I Hear All. I See All. Perhaps this open door policy is the key to life as Mom.

We'll have to re-arrange the seating on the three ships

Now that they've discovered just how unsanitary telephones are.

Another fringe benefit of my career

Not only do they track mud, miss the toilet seat, demand monotonous food, and spend your fun money on stuff like enrichment classes and toys, they just suck your soul dry. Mazel Tov.

The illegal immigrant boycott today

Today is International Workers' Day. The immigrants are boycotting SCHOOL today, too, to show how much they contribute. I can hear the update now: "All urban schools will be on an early dismissal schedule, because holding classes exclusively in English will make things go much faster."

back up to Mom & Dad's

Today made my first trip up to Mom & Dad's since he went into the hospital. We brought Fractured Prune donuts and helped move a couple of fallen tree limbs off of the property. That marked 8 trips up to see Dad in the past 7 weeks.

I don't regret them, but by the same token I have not done that much driving (or that much sitting and making small talk with my mother) EVER, I think. By dinnertime today I was testy as all hell, and Hubby was understanding about it..."You haven't caught your breath since the middle of March." God, I love that man.

At the end of it, I think I have learned the keys to a successful parental visit:

*Don't let them come down. If I go to them, I have some control over when the visit ends.

*On a related note, and this is a classic, but still noteworthy: don't tell them of any plans until after the event. If I had mentioned our intention to go to the Celtic Festival before we went, she would have insisted she join us, thereby making the mellow day we had an unreachable fantasy. Or whined about NOT being able to join us, in a million phone calls.

*Don't tell them when I'm coming. If they know, Mom will plan a meal, which we will not start eating until approximately 2.5 hours after I arrive. By then I will be exhausted and starving, and frustrated that I am stuck staying at least for the next hour.

*Don't eat. If they're cooking, let the food cook. If they're not, let them know you just ate on the road. Let the boys have a cookie if they like, but DON'T get stuck having a meal...this always ends up dragging on forever, and generally includes at least one surreal "Are you ALLOWED to have asparagus?" moment.

*When she asks what Hubby is doing, look her straight in the eye and say "He's at work." Whether or not it is true, it is the only response that she will not complain about for more than a minute or two.

*Bring the kids who want to go, and the kids who have no other plans, but don't force the boys to skip out on a fun thing to sit at their grandparents' place. Son #1 was thrilled to be with his friend for the day, and I know I could have made him miss out on that if I had wanted to, but why? Seeing grandparents should be fun, not something that ruins your weekend.

*Eat out afterwards. Trips to Momville are less driving, less traffic than trips to DC, and there are no crackheads on the road, but there is no getting around that it is still 3.5 hours in the car and a chunk sitting at my parents' place. By the time we get home, I am exhausted. Dinner at CiCi's is not much more than at home, and there's no work involved. Or complaints about the menu.

Swingin' grownup party night!

The boys were all invited to a sleepover last night. Hubby and I went out for Thai food and watched Sopranos. Had to walk the dog after midnight, but otherwise it's been mellow and recharging.

Finally got up the nerve last night to tell Hubby about my mom's comments about her grandmother, and my appearance. He brushed the whole thing aside. "What is she talking about? She's just working out her own insecurities on you. You're a lot better looking than your mother."

It's funny. I really do think that, for the most part, Mom's comments are much less able to immobilize me than they were before Dad's hospitalization. But she still can get in, if she really wants to. I guess I should keep that in mind. She just may up the volume, to make sure I hear her. But hearing her doesn't mean I have to accept it all.

It's not that we're women

it's the job.

am I still a writer...

...if I only write a couple hours a week? If I take frequent breaks to scrub toilets or empty the dishwasher or nag the boys about the condition of their fingernails?

Yesterday I wrote up an advertorial piece and did a phone interview for an article about Big Brothers/Big Sisters. This morning I edited a creative nonfiction piece that has been accepted for publication in an anthology. This afternoon I will meet with the PAO about a weekly column I'll be writing for the base paper. And tomorrow I will write the BB/BS article while the boys are in TKD. I feel like I'm barely writing at all.

Then again, it IS nice to smell cleaning supplies around here. It's a delicate balance.

"The worst part of all this for me..."

Dad should be coming home today. I went up Saturday and he looked great. Almost himself.

So he was finally talking about the whole hospital experience, a conversation I have been looking forward to, though not willing to press him for. I figured he'd talk when he had something to say.

And so he did. He mentioned that he had no recollection, at first, of not only the day of surgery, but several days before and after it. So he woke up after having been returned to ICU and had no idea where he was or how he got there. He assumed he had been in a horrible car accident. That incredible disorientation, combined with the hallucinations caused by the drugs, (and the amazing number of invasive tubes and wires, while strapped to a hospital bed and surrounded by my weeping mother and sister and an ever changing roster of priests,) was his worst moment. Fair 'nuff.

Mom said HER worst moment was when they told her to say goodbye, before the surgery.

My worst moment, as several of you know, was when my mom called to say he'd had a heart attack (when he actually hadn't), a deadly case of pneumonia (before he actually had pneumonia), and, the winner and still champeen, a stroke (which, again, he did not have). If this sounds like the worst part of it for me was the fact that my mom made up bigger, more operatic problems to enhance the whole illness experience, you are right! ding! ding! ding! ding! ding!

A minor, but nagging, additional crappy part was just dealing with my mother's constant criticisms of

*the hospital
*my father
*their friends
*my uncles
*my father's dead relatives
*the entire extended family

and, of course, me. If I have to hear one more time about how UGly my great grandmother was, and how she used to stare into the mirror and CRY about it, and "you're the spitting image of her, Christine", I will scream.

When I saw them last, my mother recounted a dream she had this week about being on the playground, and everyone was teasing her about her grandmother. "Stop teasing me! It's not my fault she's so unattractive!"

I am going to take that as lightly veiled concern that MY appearance is an embarrassment to her. Because, honestly, what else could it possibly be?

And, the third worst part was the weekly confrontation with my absolute inability to drive well in DC. I have taken quite the tour of Anacostia and environs over the past 6 weeks, and am glad to be here blogging about it today.

Commercials work, ok?

I saw a commercial for this today and HAD TO HAVE IT. It is installed in the master bath and Son #3, who shares the bathroom with Hubby, is happy to be in charge. Oh, the joy of a shower I never ever will have to scrub...I can hardly wait.

So, in the spirit of blogger humility, here is Neglected Shower, day one.


Update: After 29 days, this is what I have:

For a guy who says he doesn't want to waste my time...

the owner of L&G Billiards sure was happy to waste a big chunk of it today. We had an appointment for an interview. When I arrived, he refused to speak to me or even acknowledge that, since we had an appointment, it was rude of him to let me show up and then show me the door.

Every few months, I run into one of these guys--business owners convinced that their time is too valuable to call me back to cancel, but my time is so completely worthless that it's ok that I drive around town to see them. At least I am out of the stage where I had to pay a babysitter for the privilege.

Inconsiderate people suck.

Those darn voice recognition things

Had to call Sears today to get an address for sending a payment...ended up with one of those Press or Say One machines. It took forever.

I was press-one-ing while the boys made a ton of noise. Every time I told them to be quiet so I could hear the phone, the machine would hear me and re-route me to another line. I eventually did get the address, but not before I practically had a stroke.

Definitely a total waste of time.

Not the kind of father who goes places or does stuff or looks at you

Today I am going up to the hospital to visit my father for the fourth time in 15 days. He is finally out of ICU but may have pneumonia. It's very frustrating, because it's hard to tell what we as a family could do differently, that would result in him healing and going home quickly.

Son #1 pulled me aside the other day for a conversation:

"So, Pop-pop can't walk around, or do anything much, right?"

"Right."

"He can't talk to you yet?"

"Nope."

"And you drive two hours up there and two hours to get home, right?"

"Unless I get lost in DC, yeah, then it's more like two-and-a-half, yeah."

"So you drive four hours, instead of staying here."

"Yes."

"Can he at least see you?"

"Yes, he can see me."

"That's an awful lot of driving, just to look at somebody

"Yeah, but you would do the same, right?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I would do the same."

This is how civilization is transmitted, I guess.

The "Next Blog" button

I have mixed feelings about the "Next Blog" button. I find myself obsessively clicking it, looking for that great new thing, like vegan lunch box. But most of the time it's either spam, some guy with only a single blog entry, or a foreign language. Oh, well.

Oh, yeah, and porn.

Can you say "Stockholm Syndrome"?

Jill Carroll was released. You remember her, the Christian Science Monitor reporter who was videotaped by her captors, who said that they would kill her if all Iraqi female prisoners were not released in 3 days. I am thrilled that she is on her way home. But it cracks me up that she said "they never even threatened to hit me". Because, you know, hitting me is so much more serious than killing me.

Update:

Now that she's out of the area, she has retracted all the statements she made while in captivity. They were all made under duress. So, still thrilled she's home and hoping she's ok.

Don't you know WHO I AM?

Gotta love these congressmen convinced they are not just public servants, but superstars. Cynthia McKinney has so much on her plate, she can't be bothered to wear her ID pin, because, after all, all the police officers should know who she is, right?

That woman is ego in heels.

Good thing I only hear NPR in the car

On NPR yesterday, Bill Richardson explained that "the alternative that all these people don't want to address is deportation".

I've got news for you, Governor. We who are against illegal immigration are happy to address deportation. We agree with it. We support it fully. Legal, law-abiding immigrants who want to become part of American society--and legal, law-abiding people who want to be here as legal residents and send every last penny back to their families abroad, ALSO support deportation for border-jumpers and those who would turn America into some sort of retro-Mexico.

We are a nation of immigrants, it's true. I come from a family of immigrants. None of my ancestors were in the US five generations ago. But when my great-grandparents came here from Europe, they knew that they were gaining something at a cost. They came here and became Americans, and their children were raised as Americans. We can be proud of our European heritage and curious about the lives we might have led had our ancestors stayed in Europe, but we only wave one flag.

Cleaner in 10 minutes

Have been feeling a bit fragmented lately--so much to do, never really accomplishing much.

I always feel like I should be able to hand each boy a dust rag and expect the whole family to work together, steadily, until the house is clean. But that is just not the way my house runs. Try it, and not only do I not get what I want, I also get a major case of furious mom.

So today I took a "10 minute" day. The idea is that I set a timer and clean one room for 10 minutes, then take a minute or two to plan the next 10 minute spot. I ended up spending 120 minutes on hardcore cleaning in 9 different rooms, all broken up between meals and school and checking my email and running errands and doing an interview. Then it was time to make dinner.

The 10 minute system does not yield a clean house. But it does get a dent in the mess, everywhere, while still allowing me to keep half an eye on the kids. Most of the house is in much better shape than it was this morning--something I can't always claim, especially on days when I have an interview. Plus, I am not insane with frustration at the attempt to tackle one big project while the kids destroy the rest of the house. If I could manage this every day, the place would probably sparkle.

Ah, discipline. Yeah, there's that.

Pork: the new health food

Thank God almighty, they are creating pork brimming with omega-3 fats. They wonder if the public will embrace it. I think the bigger question is, will the public STOP embracing the pig farmers, long enough to let them get some work done? Yay! Pork, pork, pork!

Full House

Great Hubby quote for the day: "We have to move, this house is full."

An alternative plan is to buy the house next door and build a pedestrian bridge between the two.

Or, yeah, I could continue with my eternal de-cluttering project. Guess which option I'm going with, for now?

no blogging for now

Dad is in the hospital with lung complications after his emergency quadruple heart bypass. I am tired, worried, and distracted...not really in a bloggy mood.

Tampa Lamp-a!

I love my shells. I love my lamp. And I love the empty space the shells were monopolizing, on my end table. Which leads me to the pefect 5-minute craft: Tampa Lamp-a! I stuffed it all in there, glued a piece of paper to the bottom of the lamp, and am admiring it as I work.

And now, it's time to find a great way to show off The Sponge.

Update: Son #4 is turning into Mini Trump: "I like what you did with the shells. It's a quality lamp, at a reasonable price." Sometimes, talking to him is like talking to a fifty-year-old.

Son #1's alternate plan for mud

After a discussion of golems and other mud people, he suggested this no-fail plan for sand castles:

"First, get a pile of mud. Then, tall it up."

Reminds me very much of the Monty Python sketch, "How To Do It".

You volunteered me?

A few weeks ago, I received a flier recruiting volunteers for the annual Friends of the Library Book Sale. I am a volunteery-kind of person, and I looked over at my two strapping oldest sons and thought: Perfect! They can serve their community in a small way, and support an organization that has given us, as homeschoolers and book junkies, a lot over the years. I told them I was signing us up.

I purposely requested a brief (2 hours) period before the sale...not a lot of work, not a lot of hustle, just a chance to hump books around the room and maybe pick up a few bargains. I am such the understanding Mom. I am making this so easy.

Today, Son #1 is all cranky about it. I have ruined his Saturday. And Son #2 suggests we bring Gameboys.

I can hardly stand the joy.

Update: Son #1 threw himself into the task with gusto. Son #2 spent most of his time with his hands in his pockets. Will I never learn?

Also noteworthy: Of the other volunteers, half were high schoolers looking for Maryland's required volunteer hours. The rest were sent by the states attorney's office. We were the only ones there who did not have a form for the coordinator to sign.

Ya know how seeing an Outback commercial makes you want to eat there?

I have a hard time believing Free Porn Weekend is going to do anything other than make EVERYONE in their church (and anyone who reads their announcement in the newspaper) think about porn. Aaaaand, maybe hunt up a bit, too.

But, hey, here I am linking to it, so these raunchy thoughts are courtesy of, ME.

Lunchtime, and life, as Son #4 sees it

These days, lunch time means I've been dodging in and out of the kitchen to turn off the spiking oven or turn on the oven that has decided it is tired of cooking. These fish sticks look fine to me. Who are these people to demand crunchy fish?

After many trips back and forth (turn on the oven, eat my lunch, turn on the oven, play Same Game, turn off the oven, turn on the oven, eat and play, turn on the oven, nag the children, beep, nag, beep, nag, serve, Son #4 summed up my uninspired luncheon thusly:

"Fish sticks and potato wedges. Who are you to resist it?"

Infernal TiVo

Hubby came home for lunch and introduced me to some new features on TiVo. I am hooked on SameGame.

All productivity and life balance shall cease. I hang my head in shame.

Everyone's a critic

Took the boys up to make 60th birthday dinner for my mom. It was a fairly uneventful evening, except for the "Son #3 CAN'T want to be a dentist. That's a terrible job, and they have the highest suicide rate of any profession" rant.

I tried to argue, Son #2 tried to argue, Son #3 reiterated that he really DOES want to be a dentist, but somehow that was just stones in the riverbed under my parents' constant flow of insistence.

Then again, they never really seemed to love their careers. They look down on my uncles for their career choices. They have needled my sister into a half-ish life. They were quite upset with our decisions to work overseas, have a big family and to homeschool. And they pulled out ALL the stops to get me to not marry Hubby, lo those many years ago, and only after about 14 years of marriage were able to admit that maybe I made a good pick.

So, maybe Son #3 should do whatever the hell HE wants, without so much grandparently input.

What a day's worth of dishes looks like

Today we did some school to finish out the week, went to the library to pick up research paper resources, skating and the park, made fried fish for dinner and then I took Sons #2 and 3 to fencing class. Which means I didn't do any dishes before 8:15 tonight. An hour later, I just had to take a photo of what a full day's worth of dishes looks like.

KMart does it again!

I like a store that's honest about its customer service policy. If there is any convenience at KMart, they are as surprised as the customer.

It's time to reassess

Yesterday, Son #4 said, "Every time I see you, you're on the computer." This means one of two things. Either I am on line way too much (a possibility) or, whenever I cook and clean, I become invisible. I am leaning toward the latter.

More Money Than Sense

Thanks to Dave Barry's blog for this one. Apparently, parents today are horrified that their kids might be using too much toilet paper--or is it too little? And that they might not understand the complicated theory of wiping. Thank God for Kimberly Clark, which has found a way to (cash in) help these poor, beleagured parents.

Thursday morning observations

*There is a lot of garbage in the library. If those people can get published, I sure shouldn't feel shy about submitting what I write.

My latest foray into not-for-deadline submissions: a third attempt at NPR Morning Edition.
December: Instead of School--rejected within 24 hours, but also the wrong length (I followed the word count on their web site, which was off by 150 words)
January: I am Woman, Hear Me Keep Score--took a whole week to be rejected, this time. I take that as a sign that they actually read and considered it.
February: A Real Turkey of a Thanksgiving. Submitted that just a couple of nights ago.

For March, I need to polish up Worst Mother of the Year and for April, perhaps Chicken Pot Pie...

I am also working on a couple of short fiction pieces for submission to various anthologies. I keep writing those deadlines on my calendar, so that I will remember to work on those things. A deadline is a good thing, even if it's only in my head.

And I have a huge list of things to think about querying Maryland Life...perhaps next week.

*Chocolate muffins make children happy. Happy children in the morning being a major plus for the rest of my day.

*Real estate in Florida is cheap, and www.realtor.com is internet crack.

*Oh, and "Colorado". Joe and I keep mentioning the trip to each other. We say it about as frequently as the average teen says "like".

The straw that...made me decide to carry my camera everywhere

Lately, every time I've left the house without my camera, I have regretted it. Last week, while shopping at KMart, I realized that I just can't let this stand. There is so much out there, just desperate to be blogged, that I'd be a fool to leave my camera at home.

What sent me over the photographic edge? Obviously, the grimey cradle with the creepy March of Dimes flyer was inspiration enough for the average person. But for me, nothing beats Bratz Babies. Yes, baby dolls, slutted up with chains, thong-style diaper covers, and more makeup than a drunken Mary Kay representative.

So, from this day forth, I am the woman with the camera. You have been warned.

Fire BAAAAAAAD! #2

Ok, so Cheney shot his buddy. It was an ACCIDENT.

I really don't understand where all the fuss is coming from. If Cheney had shot this guy because he found him in bed with Mrs. Cheney, if he shot him in a duel, if he shot him on purpose, ok. But really, for everyone who is not directly involved, this is not a big deal. Move on, people, nothin' ta see here!

Ta-Da! The Sponge Emerges

After more than a week of shared showers, cramped kitchen quarters and a horrendous stench, The Sponge is ready. Now, I just have to figure out where I can display this giant thing. I mean, it's not like I have coffee tables crying out for conversation pieces. And I certainly don't want to stash it in the attic. This thing is interesting.

And all the other sponges really seem to take it seriously.

Teddy bear update

OK, so I have found the one exception to the "no stuffed animals" rule. This Saturday's SNL had a great spoof commercial that suggested that a certain teddy bear was the perfect, thoughtful gift. Mike and I howled. So this morning, when he presented me with this little guy, well, it was great. Any holiday gift that makes you bust a gut laughing is a good one, in my book. The look of bemused despair makes all the difference. And according to Mike, this particular item is a lot harder to come by than you'd think.

Valentine's Week Commercial

What is the deal with these ridiculous Valentine's Week commercials? I realize there are women out there who can't get enough of teddy bears, but, ugh. I would think MOST of us aren't the type. And those who are, can't possibly be the porn stars you see oohing and ahhing on the commercial.

From Pudge to Trudge

I just signed up for the "couch to 5K" training program. Today I started out all ready to go, until, um, I actually went. I managed to stumble/grimace/trudge through a mile, including maybe 40 seconds of jogging. I am so unbelievably out of shape, it amazes even me. But at least I have a goal to aim for...

We're all knit together, I guess

Today I witnessed our next door neighbor signing power of attorney over to his wife. We've known this couple 11 years, and it's been a sad, shocking thing to see him decline in recent years. After watching his wife guide his hand to sign his name, I left, and IMed Hubby. Who, naturally, suggested I go have a drink. No wallowing for him! Even though, really, he is the softy, of the two of us.

Then later today, a dear friend presented me with this luxurious, beautiful scarf she'd made for me. It was just the sweetest gesture, and just the thing to shake me from the "we're all going to fall apart and die and struggle in the end" mood.

For the Confident Fat Chick

No brown paper for today's sexy fat chick. Look to the Pennysaver for a head bag that coordinates with your evening wear.

Giant Sponge...a metaphor?

The day we left Tampa, rough surf tossed a giant sea sponge into the yard. It is as big around as a steering wheel, and more than a foot tall. Spectacular, really. We had to lug it home. Now, though, it is a massive, spectacular, stinky mass of rotting sea life.

I guess the down side to any vacation is that what looks like a miracle in Tampa smells like dead fish, back home.

We are officially down from the mountain top

After 17 hours in the car, last night we arrived home with just minutes to spare before the Superbowl kickoff. So, perfect timing. Then again...

the pets were foodless and waterless, and had torn up all the used kleenex and empty dog food packets and strewn them throughout the house. They had also, in what must have been a nutrientless frenzy, knocked over 2 lamps and a coat rack in the living room, and the garbage can in the kitchen.

There was a live bird trapped in the garage, who flew into the house with us, so we spent a half hour chasing a bird before I could run out for dinner.

Crossing the parking lot at Food Lion, two crazy rednecks slalomed around me several times. I was glad to make it back to my car in one piece.

So I was distracted when I ordered dinner, and the KFC people gave us mostly thighs.

While I was avoiding flaming death, Hubby was checking our voicemail...most of which concerned a presentation he has to give this morning, which "I'm sure you know all about". Or at least he would, if he hadn't spent the previous week in Tampa.

The monstrous sea sponge we carted home from Tampa has a monstrous dead smell to go with it, so we can't stand to have it in the house yet.

And this morning, Otis left a massive load on the den carpet, while Son #3 was taking a shower with the shower door open, flooding the bathroom and the basement below. That same son also lost patience with my "we'll go for haircuts this morning" promises, and gave himself a stylin' new pixie mullet.

I am going to take a deep breath, upload our vacation photos to Snapfish, shower with self-absorbed leisureliness, and spend the rest of the day whipping this craphole back into shape.

my muse likes Peter Gabriel

I started working on a short story a while ago, and all while the words flowed I heard a certain Peter Gabriel song in my head. It got to where I would wake up with that music in my brain, and run to the computer to write. It was a great feeling, and one which I have experienced before. Some stories just seem to come with a soundtrack.

Then Peter stopped singing. My story stopped, too. If I sat at the keyboard, nothing happened. I could write other stuff, just not this one story. And here is my deadline, just a month away.

Last night, the song came back. This morning, it's still here. I think I'll actually be able to write. I feel silly, and superstitious, and pretentious, at best. At worst, I feel like my Muse is playing with me, and I better write while she's visiting.

BIG bird

Hubby and I are the only ones awake this morning, since we've been keeping boring hours and letting the boys party all night. It makes for quiet moments in the a.m., and the boys are thrilled.

So while I was puttering in the kitchen, Hubby walked out onto the balcony and saw this bird on the lawn. He took a few pictures, and so did I. I went downstairs and walked, a few paces at a time, closer to the bird. Still not sure what it is, aside from the fact that it must have been 4 feet tall. I got within maybe 20 feet before it became skittish and started to turn away from me. While I was checking my camera, it took off. Amazing something so large can fly.

Also interesting that it has a tag on its ankle. I wonder if that made it MORE relaxed around me and my camera, or LESS?

Damn paparazzi!

My brother in law sent a limo to take us to dinner last night. Not sure if it was to freak out the kids, or just ensure that we made it to his house on time. Hubby enjoyed not driving, and peering out of his window at the hoi polloi. I, of course, would have preferred being in the driving seat, at least while the sun was up. Clearly, people susceptible to motionsickness are not meant for the high life.

The boys enjoyed the ride, basically goofing it up like the rock stars they see on TV. Son #3 posed for this classic shot of the fame-weary celebrity, desperately attempting to protect his precious privacy. He was willing to stand there as long as it took.

Busch Gardens...

...a very nice, very expensive zoo. Darn it, if the boys liked roller coasters, we'd have had a blast. But there really aren't other kinds of rides there. So we strolled the park, checking out the animals and eating horrible food.

And we missed BEER SCHOOL!

We will probably go back this Saturday, to bring Cousin with us for a final Tampa fling. But, um, I can't imagine paying for it again.

We felt the same way about MOSI. The Bodies exhibit was interesting, although Son #3 found it disturbing. But the rest of the place just seemed dated and politically correct. Not to mention all the space dedicated to arcade games.

So, being a man must be a GREAT thing

I'm on vacation, soaking up the sun and sand, and naturally also flipping through Other People's Magazines. Martha Stewart Living's Feb '06 issue includes this little gem: making handmade washcloths using yarn and a child's loom. Are we nuts? Has my entire gender just lost it? Then again, they do look lovely...

Bling bling?

My mother in law gave me a large, pave diamond heart necklace for Christmas. It's lovely, it's clearly worth a ton, but I must admit I was hesitant to wear something so flashy. I have been wearing it, though, and just telling myself that I need to get past my conservative, frumpy self. Until this week, when Son #1 said, "That necklace is great! It looks just like something a basketball player would give his girlfriend!"

So, I am just oozing Urban Bling. Who'd a thunk?

A New Quest for Camelot

Today, the scrap dudes towed our old car away. It was a 1993 Nissan Quest, and though it served me well, it had become an embarrassing piece of crap, toward the end. I am, well, 99% thrilled to see it go. And happy, of course, to have the $50 cash in hand.

Then again, we bought it right after returning from Thailand...three of our kids came home from the hospital in that car...it is the first car I ever really drove, too. I am feeling a wee bit sentimental.

The Car is dead. Long live The Car!

Update! Update! Update!

Looked back over some recent posts and realized The Story Continued....

My fake nails are glorious, but need maintenance. Which they ain't gonna get. So, I am down to 5 fabulous nails and 5 stubby fingers. I refuse to remove the fakes before they leap off of their own accord, though. Good times...

Bat Guano is sold on eBay, but not my bat guano. So after my auction ended, gave it away.

And YES, it really was 15 lbs of toe. I walked out of two pairs of shoes today before finding some that would stay on my feet. Hopefully this will work its way up past my ankles, so I can start seeing more impressive benefits of all this weight loss...if I hit the 25 lb mark and the only thing that changes is the contents of my shoe rack, I will not be thrilled. Although, yes, I did notice recently that my feet had expanded, so I guess it's only fair that that fat goes first.

Again, it starts

Spurred on by my mother's Christmas Day comment (are you ALLOWED to have asparagus?) and my New Year's Day guano-weighing expedition to the top of the bathroom scale, I have been making some dietary changes. After 12 days, I am down 12 pounds. Which sounds fabulous, until you realize that I can't see a difference and my clothes are as tight as ever. Was this 12 pounds of toe? Of knuckle? Perhaps a sliver off of my forehead? Ugh.

At least I'm enjoying the food.

Bat Guano, and human clutter

We have a family of Mexican bats who summer in our attic every year. People generally react to this news with fear and revulsion, or, alternatively, joy and hand-flapping excitement at the thought of all that guano. Apparently, bats make a mighty fertilizer.

This winter, while the bats are away, we have decided to seal up their entryway. They can dangle and poop in the trees, instead of the attic. Today I scooped up the bat poop, or at least as much of it as I could get without actually picking it out of the insulation with my lovely, ladylike fingers.

I collected a 3 lb bag of bat poop.

Yes, you guessed it, bat poop is sold on eBay. So in the face of last week's de-cluttering success, I have my guano on auction.

Tell your friends! Woo!

What exactly is that de-cluttering success? I have several flat surfaces that I can actually see. I sent 7 bags to the thrift store, and threw out about 3 bags of broken toys. I sent a bag of easy readers to my young cousin, and have another bag's worth of paperbacks up for swap at www.makeupalley.com. I sold the snowman to my real estate-selling doppleganger, and made more than $50 on eBay on dumb videos and pointless nicknacks.

The house is still a pit. This fact amazes me. I feel like I deserve some sort of Publisher's Clearing House Clutter Removal Award, but instead I am still sidling through piles o'crap to get anywhere.

Feh, whaddya gonna do?

Gifts I might actually want (or, a moment of selfish wallowing)

Not a collector. Not a "thing" person. HATE to shop. Despise knicknacks of almost every sort.
But hey, here's a hint for the gift-buying universe that these are things that I would actually be extremely happy to get:

Gift cards to Walmart, Target, KMart, PayLess, Lands' End, Giant, Food Lion, Wawa, Staples or Sheetz. Honest, I swear, a piece of plastic that gives me free toilet paper and socks for the boys when they need them is a fabu gift.

Writer's Market 2006--or whatever year is most current.

Stuff I need for work and school, like lined paper, post-it notes, #2 pencils, steno notebooks and those big pink erasers.

A roll of postage stamps.

Photo splits--those 2-sided tape things for scrapbooking.

Strongly scented candles.

Cut flowers.

And my all-time favorite, having someone pay for the carpet shampooer dudes to come by.

Tai Shaaaaaan!

We had tickets for the first day of the baby panda's debut. The car wouldn't start at first, but we made it. Not only is that panda the most adorable being on the planet, we made the Washington Post's web site--they interviewed us, and put a hidden microphone on Joe.

We also collected our share of panda freebies. If we had access to a Whole Foods Market, those macaroons would be a dietary staple.

Ooh! Shiny nails!

After nearly 30 years of nail envy, this weekend I splurged on gel nails in honor of Hubby's office Christmas party. A very nice Vietnamese guy named Kenny hooked me up. I am tickled pink, can't stop looking at them, and Hubby even kinda likes them. However.

Ya know how women with those long dragon nails seem to go out of their way to protect them? Using the sides of their hands to fumble things to stay prissy, when a simple no-holds-barred, full-frontal use of the hands would get the job done faster and better? I learned, over the past 72 hours, that they are not being insufferable glamour hogs. No, these nails just make it impossible to use your hands the way God intended. The discomfort of the first 24 hours has passed, and I am learning how to function. But I still can't decide if I'm fabulous, or just crippled.

Snow day!

The public schools were closed today, and Hubby declared a snow day. The winter gear is taking over the living room, hot cocoa is flowing, and I even baked a batch of cookies and sent some next door before my neighbor could gift us this year. Son #3 made this charming snowman, too. All is right with the world.

Some people just make you love 'em

And today I drove about three and a half hours to see one of those people, for less time than I spent on the road. Do I regret it? Not for one second. When you find a Nancy, you're a lucky chick. Every time I see her, I feel like I've just been handed a giant gift.

The words I've waited 11 years to say

We have Thai takeout!

After 11 years in the Happy Boondocks, we finally have a Thai restaurant within a 10 minute drive of the house. We've been there several times in the past couple weeks. At some point, I assume the urge to hug the proprietor or break into song ("kit ngun, ja dai ngun, kit tong, ja dai tong") will fade. But not yet.

My lips are burning and life is complete.

And I made it, mostly.

We are back from Thanksgiving. I kept to a "don't speak unless spoken to" policy, which worked well. When I saw my 16 year old nephew beating the tar out of his 9 year old brother, I didn't intervene. When my sister in law told us how 3 of her siblings are on the wagon together, I murmered platitudes about how good it is they have each other for support. When my brother in law joked that my kids would never learn about drugs & alcohol if we homeschool them through high school, I joked back that SOMEONE in the family would be able to give them the info...and no one seemed to mind.

Then again...

We had been shuttling my nephew around in our car. On the last day there, he noticed a lego figure on the floor and turned to Son #4:

"I'm going to have to ask you to turn out all your pockets."

While sweet, innocent S#4 did, I told the nephew that there were a LOT of ways to deal with people without treating them that way. And that we have legos, just like he does. That those legos might be ours, or might be his, and might even have fallen out of his own pocket.

Then, naturally, I told Son #4 that he never, under any circumstances, has to turn out his pockets to prove he is not a thief.

To give him credit, the nephew did seem to understand my point and take it to heart. But holy crap on a cracker, I could have spit nails.

So did I do ok? Please? I hope so.

Thanksgiving with the in-laws

This year, I will not mention that I saw the Salvadoran restaurant employees bringing the entire meal in the door, or my mother in law cramming the fully-cooked restaurant turkey into her microwave oven.

I will not ask my brother-in-law if he brought his girlfriend--the girlfriend his kids aren't supposed to know about.

I will not suggest that my nephew has a poorly chosen name, or that my other nephew had no choice but to turn out badly, considering what a crappy upbringing he received.

I will not contradict my mother in law when she talks about what a great mom she was to my husband.

I will not ask why they didn't make the unbelievable carrots.

I will not say "there's no way I am buying that for your daughter for Christmas", even if I am horrified and amazed at the request.

I will not think evil thoughts, because darn if those thoughts don't just leap out of my mouth.

For the first time in living memory, I will shut up and eat, or drink, or whatever it is I have to do to not say something truly horrendous. By all that is holy, I swear I will write it all down, instead, and publish it in a book and make godawful amounts of money off of it.

There's something to be said for NOT knowing where you stand

The other day, in a moment of motherly squishyheadedness, I looked up at my two oldest sons and realized how fast they're growing up. I tousled the hair of Son #1 and said, "You two are getting so big and old. Will you take care of me when I'm old?"

His response?

"Can't Son #2 do that?"

So I turned to Son #2, and told him of my question and his brother's response. Son #2 hugged and kissed me and said, "Sure, Mom, of course I'll take care of you. After all, I do everything else around this house, anyway."

Times like these, I have mixed feelings about raising a houseful of smartalecks.

Clydesdales!

The Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales hitch team are in town for Veterans' Day weekend. After much pestering on my part, we took the boys to see them today. Gotta love the Clydesdales.

Furniture polish: the universal symbol

Last night, I was so hurt and angry because of The Shatstorm in my online group, I stayed up cleaning until 3am. Woke up for our biweekly salamander study timeslot and was at it again. When my friend came by to join us for the trip to Salamanderama, she took one look at the furniture polish in my hand and said:

"Oh, no, Christine, what happened?"

Furniture polish: the universal symbol of fury cleaning.

Today I bought my third pack of cigarettes, ever

Today I received some nasty emails from a group I'm in. The whole thing seemed so strange and vaguely accusatory and out of the blue. I was furious, couldn't stop thinking about it. Finally realized that the couple of times I've felt like this (way back in college, years ago), the Marlboro Man has come to the rescue. I smoked my single cigarette, and felt better. Talked to a couple of friends about it, and felt better. Came home and, like a fool, looked at my email again, to discover that the root of this whole mess is that some unnamed people have the suspicion that I am stealing from the group, and have been discussing this with other members of the group.

Now that I know that the whole thing is built on the idea that I am a thief, I am angry again. Thank God I didn't throw the pack away.

And THANK YOU, to the friends who reassured me tonight that I am not at fault here.

Fire BAAAAAAAD! #1

The best part of our Time Magazine subscription is laughing at the letters. The November 14th, 2005 edition has a classic. Scroll down to "A Quiet Revenge?"

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1126726-3,00.html

The thing this intellectual giant doesn't realize is that avian flu is not spreading in the chicken factories of Maryland's Eastern Shore. It's not spreading among de-beaked hordes of chickens, crammed into tiny cages. It's spreading in countries where people live with their birds, and the birds get to hop around the yard, visited by migratory wild birds and young children who like to pet them. In other words, these chickens are living at least as comfortably as the chicken sellers themselves.

Congratulations, PETA, on convincing yet another person that thinking isn't as important as parroting the party line.

Haha, I said "parrot".

Who's dumber? The jury's still out...

Today Son #1 saw the dog out in the yard. He used that time-honored dog-fooling trick to get him back inside--he waved the leash and offered him a walk. Completely unaware that he's already outside, the dog always runs for the leash. We are superior. Our dog is clearly an idiot.

Then, the dog got out again. A second time, the leash trick got him back in the house.

And again, he appeared in the yard. He was successfullly leashed a third time. At this point, we finally thought to check the garage door. Which was, in fact, open.

my weekend off

Hubby took the sons camping for the weekend. I stayed home to read, watch trashy television, and organize the toys.

You'd think I could get more done in 48 hours, or even better that I could think of something fun to do out of the house, but somehow I have forgotten what people do when unencumbered by the whole maternal thing. I called Hubby in desperate, bored loneliness, halfway through their trip.

On Monday morning, I still have a heap of stuff to do. Now I understand how people can win the Lotto and 2 years later still be broke.

You can always count on Howie for a laugh

I caught a bit of this on TV while wolfing down my pre-trick-or-treating dinner. Howard Dean clearly has been told that people like less government, so he will find a way to call the Dems the party that leaves people to live their lives without excess governmental interference. At least Chris Matthews noticed...

http://msnbc.msn.com/id/9883824/