I am becoming a barfly, sorta

Ever since Hubby discovered the Blues Open Mic down here, we've been attending. And through that, we found ACME Blues Company, which is a fantastic blues band. So we've been going to their shows, whenever we can.

I am becoming a regular. The bartenders all know me. The dancers see me with my camera and know I'll send them photos, the next morning. The band guys' girlfriends know my name.

It is all very Cheers, except I am the one drinking diet cokes. So, instead of a hangover, I am just...peeing all night.

But, man, you need to come out with me. SO MUCH FUN.

You like me! You really, really like me!

Thanks to everyone who voted for me in the caption contest, yesterday. I won. Wooo! Plus, a friend (an actual, living, non-SPAMming friend) I emailed about the contest found me on MySpace. So, I feel fabu. Sometimes, virtual life is a lot more fun than actual life.

Can't wait to see that bracelet.

I think I still want a diet soda, thanks.

A new study says that aspartame causes cancer. It turns out that according to this study of rats, people might show an increased risk of cancer if they consumed twice the acceptable daily limit of diet soda.

For a 150-lb adult, that would mean that FIFTEEN CANS A DAY would give you cancer. For a 50-lb child, that would mean FIVE CANS A DAY.

Hey, I loves me some diet soda. But, um, that is a hell of a lot of soda. Is there anyone out there who really drinks that much? And if your child drinks 5 cans of soda a day, is there any room in that little bod for anything else?

I think I'm safe with my 4 or 5 bottles a week. But, um, thanks for checking.

Vote for me! I'm in a caption contest!

I am in a photo caption contest. Come on over and vote for my hysterical caption.

My entry, of course, is the top one, the one about the strained veggies and self-soiling. Because although my kids are huge now, I do remember.

Vote for me! I want to win!

I am sooooo busted

Tonight I went out for chips, salsa and conversation with a good friend. She mentioned that she and 2 other friends want to nominate me for What Not to Wear.

"Not that you look that bad, but...we know you shop at the thrift store."

Ugh. I think I need professional fashion help.

Words of Wisdom

I am still painting.

Hubby has said that if I can get the wall/ceiling line straight, I can keep the 2 blue walls I love. So now that I've painted the walls and trim everywhere else white, I am working on the line.

Picture me, standing on a chair, using a child's art brush taped to a yard stick to paint over my old wobbly line, to straighten it. My eyeballs are square (hence the blogging break).

Hubby walks in, sandwich in one hand, mug in the other.

"Too bad you're short. You know, they have that surgery where they break your legs, and put bone in, and you convalesce for 2 years, and when it's over you're tall."

"Yes, hon, but that is for midgets. I am just short. People in my position, we just marry someone six-foot-two, and let THEM reach high things for us. Plus, we are improving the gene pool, so our children don't have to deal with being short."

"Too bad you married someone tall and lazy."

They're finally listening to me about my breast cancer risk.

Since only my paternal grandmother had breast cancer, and there are no other women (like a mother, aunt, cousin or sister) with breast cancer in my family, I am considered low risk. It doesn't matter that my sister is younger than me, and that I have no aunts with cancer BECAUSE I HAVE NO AUNTS. I have no cousins with cancer because, up until about 5 years ago, I had NO COUSINS.

So, yeah, it turns out that breast cancer risk CAN be passed from the paternal side, and that it CAN be hard to spot in families without a lot of women.

Like, me.

But, hey, I got enough on my plate, without worrying about breast cancer.

A reason to be glad I'm turning 40

Compiling the monthly Parent Line Community Calendar, I came across a kids' day camp that includes instruction in...Hand Washing.

Being a kid ain't all it's cracked up to be, these days.

Repaint, and sin no more

In an effort to show Hubby that I really do love him and care what he thinks, I gave him the ultimate super-secret Father's Day present---I have been painting the walls white. He never liked the colors I picked, and hated the generally unprofessional look, so white it is. I must admit, it is easier to make white look even, than colors, on the walls we have.

I've been painting since yesterday, and my arms are just...dead.

What Fun Looks Like: a Tutorial

They are performing. There is no cover charge. And they want you to join them. Because open mic night is fun.


This is Dana. Dana will dance with you. Dana will tell you you are the most attractive woman in the room. Dana will then tell your husband to go home and have sex with you. Dana loves women. Men who love women are fun.


This is Lisa, with her sisters-in-law. They are having fun. Because leaving the house is fun.

In 2 weeks, I am going again. If you have the sense God gave you, you will be there.

Get up offa dat funk, and dance til you feel better

OK, as the Privilidged Few are well aware, I am in a funk. But my tiny kitchen garden makes me feel a little better. Here we see some Christmas cactus, lemon grass, mint, several types of basil, a bonzai plant, amaryllis, avocado pit, cilantro and chili peppers. I would plant more stuff, but this window is really the sunniest location we've got. Plus, it is right near the coffee pot, which I use to water the plants.

Once upon a time, I had a green thumb. For ages, I didn't bother planting anything at all, because I knew I'd forget to water it. But now, I am enjoying my little window of green stuff.

Anybody want some basil?

For this, I went to college

This afternoon, Son #4 was in my room, watching TV wearing a spiffy ensemble of long, navy dress pants and a wool crewneck sweater. Which would be fine, if it weren't June, in the northern hemisphere.

He is out of clothes again.

I do laundry just about every day.I clean, dry, fold, and return their clothes to their bedrooms. All Son #4 has to do is put those clothes on his shelves. He rarely does.

So, the clothes end up on the floor, in a pile, and the dog goes in and pisses all over them. Several times a week, I do a load or two of crisply folded, dog-urine-soaked children's clothes. I'll be doing yet another glorious load, this afternoon, thanks to a totally bullshitted "Yes, Ma'am, I Put All My Clothes Away" that I believed, yesterday.

Right now, I am spending the afternoon sitting in Son #4's room, pointing at the things that he needs to clean. I am going to sit here, and point, until the room is clean.

I am hating every minute of it. I need out.

Now, he calls me "Do Rag"

I am, in the words of Hubby, "whiter than bleached sheets". I also have a headful of recalcitrant curls. They are getting curlier as the years go by, and frizzier, and more likely to break. It is a source of great annoyance. It is also the reason why a couple of my friends have suggested that, way back, I maybe am a little less white than I assume.

Well, I am not about to try and figure that out. But, it got me thinking. If I pretend that, for styling purposes, anyway, my hair is of African descent, what will happen?

Today, on the advice of a particularly attractive beautician, I got myself a head scarf at the dollar store. It is supposed to condition my hair, while I sleep, and help my hair stay straight after I flat-iron it, so I don't have to iron it so often. This is not something I have considered. Sleeping in a head scarf is just not part of my culture. We bleached sheet types just don't do it. However, anything that improves me while I sleep is worth pursuing.

So I am in my adorable little satin head scarf, feeling like a hippie and looking forward to happier hair, when Hubby walks in.

"Is that a do rag? Can I call you 'do rag' now, for the rest of your life until the day you die?"

He can call me anything he wants...I have built-in growth promoters, for longer, stronger hair while I sleep.

Not that I'm going to sleep. I've been up since 3am.

Saturday night? Anybody?

This Saturday, I am going to go see Acme Blues Company at the Country Store. It sounds like bringing the Sons is kinda sorta an option, but I am not sure I am up for that. After all, live blues on a Saturday night is pretty much my idea of a night OFF, for Mom...but we'll see if the homeschooler in me wins out, and I chalk it up to Music Education.

Anyway, those of you who are within driving distance absolutely should come out. They are AWESOME. Just...trust me on this one. Get in your car, and come listen. If you don't love every second of their show, I owe you a Coke.

Why moms are all a little crazy

Today I took the Sons to see a movie. We got out of the theater at 6:30. They immediately started talking, about nothing. They continued talking about nothing, without a break, until 8:20. I then had 5 minutes of blessed peace.

And then they turned on the TV.

I think my brain is going to explode.

Jimmy Carter has an opinion!

I say, shut UP, hostage boy!

Kudos to the White House for not just firing back "It takes one to know one."

Score a point for martial law

Last night, I took the oldest three Sons to the mall. This is a bigger deal than you might realize, as our mall is an hour away. We go maybe twice a year, when Son #1 needs to see the kindred spirits at Hot Topic.

Our mall has had some problems, in recent years, with assaults and roaming wads of rambunctious teenagers. So I told the Sons, in the car, that I would gladly take them to any store they wanted to visit, but they had to be with me. Because unaccompanied youths are banned, in our mall, on a Saturday night. The boys thought this was blatant age discrimination. (and plenty of people think it is racist, too, but I didn't go into that)

I had no idea, though, that since our last visit the mall had totally beefed up security. There were not just mall security guard types, but actual law enforcement officers, everywhere. Which was a little disconcerting, at first, but after a while you realized that the increased police presence had pretty much eliminated the marauding teen thing. It was just families, shopping, and eating in the food court. No bad language. No shoving. No groups of kids staring you down if you ask to be let past them to the sale at Lane Bryant.

We had a good time.

What are Parent Teacher Conferences for, again?

The way I see it, there are two kinds of parents: Parents who give a crap, and therefore do whatever they can to make sure their kids are doing what they should, and parents who don't.

Parents who don't give a crap aren't going to suddenly change, because they spent half an hour in a school desk. Parents who do, are ALREADY telling their kids to work hard, have a good breakfast, get plenty of sleep, and do their homework on time. They are, if need be, ALREADY tearing their hair out and threatening the child in question with a lifetime of bitter regret, if they do not push themselves in every class, every day, even if it is not fun.

So, what's the point? Have teachers ever actually met with a parent, to have the parent say, "I had no idea I was supposed to encourage my child to attend class. What a great idea!" and then had the student's grades improve? Or is this just a system that we are all stuck with, that everyone knows doesn't actually make a difference?

Fortunately, I have found a teacher who is willing to conference by email. I can get the information I need, she can get the information she needs, and neither one of us has to move mountains to make time for it. Plus, I have a written record of it all. Which, as I have said more than once, is absolutely crucial in dealing with any large organization that has your kids by the scruff of the neck.

I want a rejection notice

Other writers complain about the stacks of rejections on their desks. I would LOVE one. Not that I crave rejection, per se. I just am way too used to sending out queries, or spec pieces, and never...hearing...anything...at all.

Rather than be one of those crazy writers the editors all complain about in writers' forums, I don't repeatedly email them, asking if they've considered my latest pearls of genius. I just...wait.

Blah.

The few times I've been officially rejected have actually been kinda nice. At least I know that they read my stuff, and liked it enough to respond to it.

Beware the Finger

This is my poking finger. I have been exercising it quite a bit, lately, in dealing with the administration of Son #1's school.

Persistent errors on a report card that the teacher says only the guidance office can fix, but the guidance office says only the teacher can fix? Poke.

Referrals that refuse to use the words "self defense", perhaps because the school doesn't want to admit that they put my son in a position where he was obligated to defend himself? Poke.

Administrators that keep shuttling my son back and forth, because he wants to start an after school organization that maybe doesn't appeal to them? Poke.

Secret hoops for Son #2 to jump through, before he starts there next year? Poke.

I will be poking with this finger for the next eight years. I plan to develop a mighty poking callus, a strong wrist, and an easily tracked email-paper trail.

Ask not for whom the finger pokes. It pokes for the Sons.