Even unsolicited gifts come with strings attached

As some of you know, a couple of years ago my car fell apart. Windows broke off, the battery constantly needed to be recharged, things got quirkier and quirkier by the day. We needed a new car, but it was not our highest priority--we figured we'd save up for it, and get one when we could. Then my mother in law offered to help us buy a car. We did not ask her to, we did not beg for a loan, she just got tired of seeing me drive around with saran wrap instead of a window, I guess. And she can make these bold, expensive gestures.

She offered us a chunk of money towards a car. She also all but insisted we buy a certain model, but the one she liked wasn't big enough for our tall sons, and it was also a lot more expensive than the one we ended up getting--so, yes, we would have had to pay a lot of our own money we didn't have for a car not as good as the cheap one. In fact, the car the Sons now call "The Powerful Mom 5" actually cost less than my mother in law had originally offered to give us "toward" the car. So we ended up needing less money than she'd offered, which kinda pleased us.

She stroked the check. We were grateful. I LOVE my car. And we have made it clear that we are thankful. It has been amazing, feeling like she just DID this for us, out of kindness, and never asked for anything in return.

Then yesterday we went out to lunch with her, in my car. And she asked the Sons all to be quiet and listen to her, because she had something to say.

"You know I bought this car for YOU. This is YOUR car. You're just letting Mom drive it, until you're old enough. And that's really nice of you, to let Mom drive your car. So, you should wash and vacuum it every day, because in a little while it won't be Mom's car anymore, and you want it to be in good condition when you get it from her."

I'm just gonna love that, the day the Sons decide I need to start hoofin' it everywhere. Thanks, Mom-in-Law, for the undermining. I really needed that shit, yesterday.

Christine's doing something....right?

Last night, after jumping up to sing backup on Mustang Sally, a woman with whom I'd shared a microphone pulled me aside.

"Do you have a sister named Tonya? You look EXACTLY like my friend Tonya."

She then pulled me around to her group of friends.

"Doesn't she look JUST like Tonya? If she had blond hair, they'd be twins."

Everyone in her group agreed. I am a dead ringer for Tonya. So, naturally, I asked:

"So, who is this Tonya? Is she nice?"

"Tonya's a hooker!"

Please Mind the Hunch

Sons:

Your mother has worked as a freelance writer since 2001. That means you have had more than 6 years to observe her and her work habits. And more than 6 years' worth of repeated requests to Leave Mom Alone When She's Working.

A tutorial:

If Mom RUNS down the hall, half dressed, clearly crazed, and throws herself down in front of the computer

If she hunches over the keyboard, wild-eyed, typing as fast as she can

If she is clearly ignoring you

Really trying hard to ignore you

Looks like she is mumbling to herself

and starts making odd head movements, like she hears music in her head

DON'T TALK TO HER. MOM IS WORKING. YOU CAN HANDLE IT. IT CAN WAIT.

I swear, my children refuse to acknowledge that I have anything better to do than answer their every question, the second they think to ask it.

I love them, honestly I do. But I wish, sometimes, I had an office with a door.

Holy crap, Crystal, you ARE my role model

You've got to read this. Talk about pulling out your maternal A-game. Scroll down to the entry entitled "role model". And be ready to crack up.

You can guarantee her son won't pull the "I know it's 6pm on a Sunday the first week after school started and my grandparents are here but I need a graphing calculator by tomorrow morning" thing I got last week.

my teen is too mature for MySpace

I got one of those "friend requests" on MySpace today---and the name looked familiar, so I was looking at the friends lists of some of my friends (repeat yourself much?) to figure out where this guy heard of me.

Son #1 looked over my shoulder and said, "YOU are on MySpace? Isn't that kind of CHILDISH? I think you're a little OLD to be hanging out with the kids on MySpace, Mom."

"Yeah, well, LOOK at my friends. They're not teenagers. All my MySpace Friends are old people, too."

"Yeah, Mom, and that's kinda creepy. They're all weird."

I've been schooled by my own offspring.

Hubby: An icon of sympathy

In the middle of my sniffly morning, I look over at Hubby and all I can think to say is, "I'm turning 40, sweetie."

He's 43. He's been there. And when he turned 40, I did what I could to let him know that 40 was no big deal, that he was as hot as ever, that he had a lot of adventure ahead of him, that he was just hitting his stride, really, with enough experience and wisdom to pull it all off.

I figured I'd get some of that back. Here's a quote:

"Not 'til October, Christine. Don't come cryin' to me! Forty? I KNOW."

I think I need to sit down

I am having a wave of "I'm turning 40 in October" this afternoon. For the record, I am not handling 40 well, at all, thus far.

It's all a matter of perspective

Last night was Open Mic Night. I LOVE Open Mic Night, because I dance like a fool all night. But last night was especially fun:

Son #1 saw me in my jeans, denim jacket, understated makeup and platform wedges and said I looked "A little prostitutey, but not in a bad way, Mom!"

This made me a little nervous, so I asked several Adult Peoples for their opinion. The consensus was that I didn't look prostitutey at all, but rather
A) fine (yes, ladies, that was my husband who tossed out that heartwarming compliment. And no, he did not say I looked "fiiiine". It was just "sure, yeah, you look fine." Hubby is a guy.)
B) a little hot
C) like a biker chick
D) "Good. I mean, you look REAL good."

I especially liked that last one, as you can imagine. Men who can sling a compliment like that are AWESOME.

Also fun, and a personal first: As I walked into the bar, the singer who leads Open Mic Night saw me and yelled, "Hi, CHRISTINE!" I felt like a total band fixture. Which is a major goal for me, these days.

I also discovered, over the course of the evening, that I actually still AM capable of dancing in platform wedges. This is a skill I have not used since 1986, when I met Hubby, who is an awesome musician but not one to dance. So, yes, 21 years later, and after just a little nervous shuffling on the dance floor, I was able to work it like I meant it. 'Cause I most certainly do.

First day of school

Sons #1 and 2 got on the high school bus, this morning, and all is well. Meaning:

-they were bored, but not morbidly so
-there is an "adorable, tiny, genius girl" in Honors English
-Son #1's former health teacher was fired over the summer, for child molestation (but Son #1 didn't see it coming)

Today was also the first day of school for Sons #3 and 4. Homeschooling 2 is easier than 3. Homeschooling 2 is infinitely easier than 4. My house is quiet and I have hardly anything to grade, this evening.

And lastly, today was the day my new, Oasis washer and dryer arrived. They are fast. They are efficient (or so they say). They are nearly silent. I am quickly catching up on heaps of laundry, because they are massive. Plus, they are a stylin' blue. Can't beat that.

I am burning cinnamon candles, which smell great to me and the Sons, and smell like "something's burning!" to Hubby.

And now, I shall fill out the reams of demographic forms required by the state, and fold my fluffy, warm, dry clothes. That's an evening's entertainment, right there!

Things I said because I'm a Mom, #102

"Come ON, boys! You know the difference between clean and dirty, so get it DONE. I don't have any STUPID children. This is not rocket science. Just clean the den so that it looks clean!"

I don't sound particularly like my own mother, but I think I was channeling some mom, somewhere, just then...

For Kim

Encore Antiques, Mechanicsville, Maryland

Give me a man who looks like a man...

But, um, I think having chest hair implants is against the whole spirit of retrosexual manliness.

Oh, yeah, I'm on Facebook, too

Beth told me to get a Facebook page, so I did.

If Beth told me to jump off a bridge, would I do that, too? Probably not, but, you know, Beth is cool.

It may not be on the Metro line, but...

we do get to see stuff like this, out in the Happy Boondocks.

See, this is why I can't get anything done

Tomorrow is Hubby's mom's birthday. I, of course, already arranged for her to receive a fantastic edible arrangement, tomorrow.

Hubby's family, however, is more of the spontaneous sort. They decided, yesterday, that we will all get together tonight for dinner. Great idea.

But it also means I need to bring a gift.

For my mother in law.

Who has everything.

Hubby suggested I print out a photo of the family, and frame it. Easy, right? I found the perfect shot of Hubby, the Sons, and Hubby's Aunt Gloria, taken while we were on vacation last month. I went to Target, with my memory stick.

Target has 2 photo printing machines. One was broken. The other one was dominated by a woman who didn't know how to use it. When she finally gave up, I realized that the non-broken machine was not compatible with my memory stick. Target is also where I saw this lovely sign. So enthusiastic, they are, about being slightly less helpful!

Wal-Mart is becoming a Super Wal-Mart. So their photo thing is down for the next week.

K-Mart doesn't have one anymore.

Best Buy and Staples don't use photo paper--just regular printer paper.

The CVS near us no longer accepts my memory stick.

But the CVS downtown, the SEVENTH STORE I VISITED, was able to process my photo.

Aw, my son can't tell I'm past my sell date

On the way home from the orthodontist's office, Son #2 opened The CD Mom Always Keeps in the Car and Usually Plays, Unless Dad is There Because He is Sick of It.

Because, the Sons are not yet tired of ACME Blues Company, and are almost as happy to listen to them as I am. They even sing ACME songs, for their own enjoyment. Or, in the case of Son #4, to charm Mom with a kiss on the hand and a couple of bars of "Sugar Mama".

Anyway, Son #2 noticed the autographs.

"How did you get them to sign this?"

So I told him, "We asked them. They play really small places. We talk to them, sometimes, between sets. That's how we first started to go see them: Dad knows their bass player."

He was suitably impressed. Also, completely clueless.

"Ya know, Mom, if you've got married women with children asking for your autograph, you must really know you've made it."

The Blogger Next Door

Uncle Sam (well, actually, those "Pueblo, Colorado" consumer people) is creating a government blog. Sure, I'd love to know what the government had for breakfast, or why the government is annoyed by its visiting relatives, or whatever adorable thing the government's kids said this morning.

Anyway, long story slightly less long, they're surveying all us opinionated American people to find out which name we prefer for the blog. I voted. Because I am nothing if not opinionated and American.

Go ahead and take the survey, yourself. Call it practice for election day.

I bet you can guess which one I picked. Because smart blog readers can Read a Blog Entry Title and Get a Clue.

My Editor is an Idiot

It's been a while since I last blogged about my editor. This one, though, you will love.

Yesterday I interviewed a doctor. It turns out I had interviewed her about a year ago, when she was in a group practice. But, you know, after I submit my articles I don't generally read them--just grab a copy for my clip file, mainly to remind myself to send an invoice if my paycheck doesn't arrive. So, I hadn't looked at the article from last year, although I planned to, post-interview, if I needed some background information.

I showed up for the interview, and got the cold shoulder. This is a doctor whose practice opened 2 days ago. She has no patients. There was no one there but the doctor, her receptionist, the doctor's 2 children (who immediately excused themselves to go to the library) and me. But for some reason the doctor made me wait 20 minutes, before she would meet with me. "How rude!" I thought. "What is up with this? Do doctors HAVE to make you wait?"

All shall become clear.

When I finally got her to speak with me, the interview went well. I got everything I need. And then I pulled out my camera.

"You took a lovely picture of us, last year," she said. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me the 'not thin' doctor, this time."

It turns out my editor had printed, as the caption to the photo, the notes I'd sent her to help her identify the 3 people in the picture, all of whom were wearing those white lab coats.

There was a male doctor. OK. And 2 female doctors. One of whom was the lady I saw yesterday. The other was skeletally thin. Mary Kate and Ashley thin. It was actually one of the few instances in which I thought someone was so thin as to be unattractive. So, yes, I had told my editor that she was "the thin one, with darker hair".

And she printed it. For 49,500 families to see.

Hubby, of course, said, "Well, it's not like you said she was The Fat One. And you didn't even mean for that to be published." And he is right, on both counts.

But as a chunky chick myself, I completely understand how that poor woman could remember, a year later, the exact wording she'd read in the paper that morning. I was mortified. If making me wait 20 minutes was the best she could do, heck, that's OK by me.

But let me reiterate: my editor (also a woman, by the way) is an idiot. I'm gonna have to be a lot more careful about how I describe my photos.

Busted

"Ya know, Mom, I had no idea you were raised Catholic, until Mom-mom mentioned it, this weekend."

Thanks a lot, Son #2. That'll help me get along well with your grandmother, for years to come.

Incorrigible--a salty post, for those who can handle salt

"Ya mean I can't say 'piss'?"

"'Bitch', is that a curse word?"

"You're kidding, really? You don't want me to talk about shit? Why not? Man, I've got to really watch out. I guess I can't say 'fuck', either, huh? You know what they say, you can talk about fucking, you can fuck, but you can't say 'fuck'."

"You know, if I had breasts, I'd never get anything done, because I'd just be playing with them all day."

No, this is not everything that came out of Jesus Bill's mouth today. Just a sampling. Since, like dinner. Which was around 7. And he went out to be in his camper around 8:30. And I think I blanked out about half the time.

By the time we parted, he was muttering "Jesus, Bill!" after every other sentence.

Son #4 visits Loveville

Yesterday, I dropped the Sons at a friend's house for a sleepover. On the way, we passed through Loveville.

Loveville is just a town. Nothing special, except at Valentine's Day, when everyone drives there to have their mail sent from the Loveville post office.

But yesterday, Son #4 saw the "now entering Loveville" sign, and cracked up.

"Look, Mom, we're in Loveville. Rainbows are going to appear over the road, and all the people will look like this (jazz hands and full, twinkly smile) and bunnies will hop out to wash your car."

The magic of Son #4 is that not only does he crack me up with stuff like this, I also find myself looking for rainbows and dancing pedestrians and bunnies with little rags and bottles of Windex. His cheerful, silly vision is just contagious.

And, somehow, when the road is just a road and there are no dancers and no rabbits, I don't feel disappointed, either. More like, "Oh, well, I didn't see it, but it's gotta be out there, somewhere."

Son #4 makes up for most of the crap of life.

The Second Coming of "Jesus, Bill!"

Hubby's brother is in town. He's camping in our driveway. This is his second visit to the Happy Boondocks. Last time he was here, he earned the moniker "Jesus Bill".

Bill says whatever he wants. Bill pretty much DOES whatever he wants. So, for example, he'll sit in a minivan full of the Sons and discuss his opinions on abortion, the Iraq war, Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts, and intestinal mucus. His opinions are predictable and outlandish, and he brooks no disagreement. He also will not refrain from airing those opinions, loudly and at length, no matter what.

Last time he was here, Hubby and I were constantly trying to get him to mellow out on the inappropriate language and subject matter, while around the Sons. We were totally ineffective.

Every time he'd start, I'd either send the Sons to another room for some trumped-up chore, or start babbling about whatever came to mind, just to redirect the conversation. I am not very good at conversation redirection, so I end up sounding like an idiot who can't stop talking about trivial crap. I must really be making an impression, with the inlaws.

Hubby, on the other hand, would whip his head around to his brother and say, "JESUS, BILL, the boys are right here!"

And so, a nickname is born. All hail "Jesus Bill".

The creepy totems of motherhood worship

I have 4 kids. Everybody knows this, not least my mushy abdominal section.

I stay home, and have curtailed my career, mostly because of those 4 kids. I am gearing up for my 6th year of homeschooling. My calendar is black with their social engagements and sports practices and school events and whatnot. I have Mommy Cred, ok?

But I really don't need the creepy totems of Motherhood Worship.

Like this necklace, which my mother gave me today because SHE ALREADY HAS ONE JUST LIKE IT. Can't we have kids, and raise them, and love them, without having to wear a dorky billboard around our necks, advertising the existence of our kids?

I'll wear this the day you see me in a Christmas sweater.

I can't stop tweaking my MySpace page

Yes, for stupid reasons known only to the chosen few, I have a MySpace page. I don't need one, it's silly, I already have a blog and a couple of web sites and email addresses out the wazoo, but there ya go. The pull of MySpace is stronger than gravity.

Lately, I admit, I am spending way too much time playing with my profile, on MySpace.

I should grow the heck up, already.

Do I have to spell it out for you?

Hubby and I are going away for the weekend, in celebration of 19 years of wedded bliss. We'll be leaving the Sons and dog at my parents' house, conveniently located halfway to our beachy hideaway. You know where this is going, right?

Son #1 is throwing a royal conniption. He is mature enough to stay home alone. He can take care of himself. There is only a little more than 2 years before he hits "the magical age of 18, when I can take care of myself, so what's the problem?"

So far, he thinks we are taking the unreasonable step of sending him to stay with his grandparents because:

we think he's retarded
we think he's a criminal
we think someone will break into the house and kill him
we don't realize that he stays home alone when we go out for the evening, and a weekend is the same as an evening

He has been muttering and kvetching and refusing to shower or pack for the past 2 hours.

First of all, he is ka-razy if he thinks I'm letting a 15-year-old stay home alone for 2.5 days. Just, no.

But secondly, can I just tell you how hard it is to keep from laughing, when his behavior this morning is PROVING beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is no way he is mature enough to be left alone for the weekend. The bickering is annoying as hell, but at least it reinforces for me that Hubby and I have made the right choice.

Ah, those teen years.

My accent...

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.
Philadelphia
The Inland North
The Midland
Boston
The South
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Study says young adults don't have health insurance

Ya know why young people don't have health insurance?

Because most young adults don't need it. But then they get married, they start thinking about having kids, and they realize that their kids need health care. And they get established in adult jobs, which generally have some kind of insurance provision. And they start paying into those flexible healthcare spending accounts.

Young adults aren't "adopting an attitude that their youth protects them." In the vast majority of cases, their youth actually does protect them.

Honestly, until I was 24 (and married, and pregnant, and both of us employed) I could handle just about everything that came my way with aspirin and a can of chicken soup. And if I hadn't been pregnant, I wouldn't have noticed our medical coverage, even then.

In fact, I don't really remember needing to see a doctor for my OWN health for anything other than an annual girly exam until I was about 29.

And Hubby, well, aside from the occasional stitch, that freakish bout of the mumps, and the time he scalded his throat so bad he couldn't swallow, he didn't need a doctor until he broke his leg (spectacularly, I might add) at 42.

Granted, I am one of those annoyingly clean-living people. If I were a heavy drinker or a smoker or a drug user or liked risky sports, I guess I would have been in the doc's office more.

But, hey, that's why if you don't have health insurance, you better do whatever you can to protect your health...and find a job with benefits. The universe rewards those willing to plan a bit.

MySpace revelations

I got a MySpace page, not too long ago. Today, I got one of those emails from MySpace, telling me to look at my comments...which I did. And as I was admiring my page, with all those little photos of my Friends on it, I realized something.

My MySpace Friends are:
2 musicians
2 bands
a DJ
a dancer

I think I am one of those talentless music junkies who hang out with the cool kids and make them cookies. I had no idea.

How do you do it?

As a homeschooling mother of 4 Very Talkative Sons (one of whom, I swear, is a gold medalist in the Talking Olympics, somewhere), and a freelance writer with aspirations of writing More than Just the Stuff on My Deadlines Calendar, I am often asked HOW I get anything done at all. This usually comes from people with one kid, or no kids, who I guess picture me Mary Poppins-ing all day and whipping literary genius out of thin air. When really I am just kind of an average Mom, on a good day, and a hack, most of the time.

Today, I spent a chunk of time doing 12 loads of laundry at the laundromat, and then I went to the gym so I don't completely fall apart, and then I went home to tidy up the mess that appears when I'm gone for 5 solid hours. And then I wrote Hubby an email, because tomorrow is our anniversary and I want him to know that I noticed.

It is now 8pm. I am kinda beat (after all, I was up 'til 2 last night, and got about 4 hours of sleep). I am up against an important deadline, and there is a TV on down the hall, and Talking Boy is at it in the basement, and my corner-of-the-living-room office is not cutting it, Cones of Silence-wise.

I spent a few minutes imagining what life would be like if I had a real office, with walls and a door, and ten-inch thick walls. I decided, on second thought, that if I really did have a soundproof room, I would probably never come out. And that would be bad.

So I did the next best thing. I am wearing earplugs.

They are surprisingly effective. I can barely hear anything.

They are also unbelievably uncomfortable. Perhaps that will help me write faster, in anticipation of removing the giant, pink, expand-o-pains in my head holes.

Woooo!

Got back from the ACME show a bit ago.

A quick recap:
2 members of the band hugged me (they always do, sweet guys that they are)
A band girlfriend seemed genuinely happy to see me
A bar regular danced with me half the night, and introduced me to all her friends
2 men told me I was pretty
2 men asked me to dance
2 men told me I was a good dancer
I took some pictures that are almost certain to be grainy as crap, but I don't care
and I got home less than 20 minutes after the band stopped playing, to a house full of boys lifting weights

In other words, I had a total blast, even though none of my loser friends came out to the show and my poor, non-loser husband was too exhausted to make it, either. Work, and responsibilities, and important stuff like that puts a cramp in your party schedule, sometimes.

ACMEeeeeeee is coming! But that takes some explaining, apparently

Hubby and I have been telling EVERYONE to come out with us to the Country Store in Leonardtown tonight to hear our favorite blues band, 2006 WAMMIE-nominees ACME Blues Company.

At work, at the salon, at the drive-through coffee place, everywhere we go, we put in a plug. Because they are awesome, and we want to pack the house.

Yesterday, I ran into someone at the gym, so naturally I told her to come.

"Blues? What is that? Is that like bluegrass? Country?"

OK, I think I see, maybe, a little bit of the problem. We live in the middle of nowhere. No one knows anything.

I shall be the Ambassador of Cool for the Happy Boondocks.

Clutter

I try, a little every day, to eliminate the clutter that has taken over my house.

So far, that has led me to get rid of almost every piece clothing I do not absolutely LOVE, and 90% of the books I'd kept around since college. I have very few knick-knacks, except for photos, shells I've picked up on the beach, and the occasional Thai thing we brought back when we returned Stateside.

I do not buy videos. I do not buy CDs. I only buy children's books that we need for school, and most of those I re-sell at the end of the year.

Same with clothes for the Sons--when they outgrow it, stain it, rip it beyond repair, it is out the door.

I generally can resist the latest kitchen gadget, or any other space-consuming thing.

When my birthday comes around, I tell people not to get me anything, and I MEAN IT. Because I don't want stuff taking up space in my house. I want to see the bare floors, clean surfaces, and, most importantly, I want to be able to spend my time doing stuff, instead of maintaining things.

So, why is my house completely crammed with crap? I can't stand it. Can't. Stand. It.

Oh, sure, I can pull THAT one out of my hat...

"Mom, I'm going for a walk. After I get back, can you teach me two things?"

"I don't know---what two things?"

"Algebra, and how to use a fountain pen."

That Son #2. He is a hoot.

The joys of almost 40

My heels are like tree bark, I swear. And I used to have cute feet! I'm just racking up those satisfying moments. And 40 is just...a couple of months away. The excitement that awaits! I can't stand it!

Cosmic Mama at Park Rock

Hubby's new band has a name, at last: Cosmic Mama.

And they will be playing Park Rock Fest, in September.

And I will be tie-dying and silk-screening t-shirts, to sell at Park Rock Fest.

And you will all come.

That is all.

Come out and see ACME this Saturday, with me!

Hubby and I will be at the Country Store in Leonardtown this Saturday night, to see ACME Blues Company. Ya gotta go. It'll be great. TRUST me. Have I ever steered you wrong?

And, in more exciting band news, Hubby's band seems to be solidifying. He's at practice as we speak.

They even have a tentative gig scheduled for October.

No name yet, but I'll let you know when they pick one. Woo! Hubby's gonna be back on stage! I can't wait!

Fun Molly Hatchet show, last night

I'm travelin' down that lonesome road.
Feel like I'm dragging a heavy load.
Yeah! I've tried to turn my head away,
Feels about the same most every day.

I've been tagged! (yes, I begged for it)

So, thanks to ALF, here are 8 of my habits:

I check my email obsessively, and am so hooked on AIM that I carry my laptop all over the house so I can talk with my friends while I clean.

I like being weighed down, while I sleep. So, I often pile pillows on top of myself, in bed. It's cozy.

I swear more than I should. I swear less than I do in my head, though, so cut me some slack.

I have to clean the kitchen before I cook. Dinner takes a while, around here.

When I'm upset, I listen to really loud music, while cleaning. If you smell furniture polish, assume the worst.

Every year or so, when we drive to Florida, I have to stop at South of the Border to buy Blenheim's Diet Ginger Ale. I let myself have a bottle maybe twice a week, until they run out.

If you talk through the movie, I will hate you.

I can't shop with other people, because I tend to buy what THEY like, and hate it when I get it home.

Oh, and Andrea, Kerry, Kim, Nancy, Carol: TAG, you're IT!

I've gotta call Dad

This morning, my mother called to inform me that I needed to Save the Date in October, because she has reserved a table for us at a "vintage wedding gown fashion show and tea" at her church. My sister will be modeling my great-aunt's wedding gown.

"DOESN'T THAT SOUND FUN?"

"Well, not really, no."

"Women LOVE going to teas. It'll be lovely."

Oh, holy mother of God.

Those of you who knew me (way back in the way back of 1988) will remember that for my own wedding, I was leaning towards running off to the justice of the peace, and having my best buddies meet us for nachos, afterwards (Yes, Andrea, that means you!) To keep the peace, I pretty much agreed to anything and everything my mother wanted, for my wedding. I was just glad to live through it.

And those of you who know me now, know that I'd sooner have dental surgery without anesthesia than sit for tea. Chug iced tea while screaming and jumping up and down in front of my favorite bands, yes. Eat cucumber sandwiches with my mother's church friends while Mom pretends my sister is getting married? No.

I will either have to enlist Dad in the "explaining to Mom that Christine would rather strap weasels to her face than go" effort, or I will have to fake catastrophic, contagious illness on the day of the event.

OK, readers, I have less than 3 months. Can you give me some tips on how to feign something really gruesome and communicable? Gimme your best shot.

'Cause Mom, Dad, and Denise share a phone.

A Jolly Rancher is Not a Sprinkle, Sir!

We just got back from the Happy Boondocks Horrible Theater. The Simpsons Movie is hysterical. We all loved it. People were clapping, in the theater. And then we just had to walk down to the 7-11 to get Simpsons tie-in junk food.

If you have any inclination at all to see this movie, GO, I tell you. Yes, there were a few shocking moments (gotta earn that PG-13) but it was the best movie I've seen in ages.

The worst part of Hubby's Band Cycle

I love it when Hubby is in a band. He's having a blast, I go to all his shows, I get to take pictures and dance and have a good time, and between sets we hang out. It's great.

When Hubby's not in a band, that's OK, too. He's bored, so we go out to listen to other bands, or so he can join open mic nights. Again, I get to take pictures, dance, have a good time, and hang out.

Today, however, we are in that in-between stage: he is practicing with a new band, but they are not yet ready to play out. So he's busy, he's tired, he's heard enough music lately, he doesn't want to go out. Tonight is the regular blues open mic we've been attending all summer--him to play, me to watch & listen. Tonight is also practice night, for the new band he's joining. So, he's not really expecting to want to go out.

But me? I want some live music! Darn.

We'll see what happens....

Terrorist attack attempt? Could be.

Hubby works on a Navy base. This is the email he received today. Great googly moogly.

Yesterday we got briefed by NCIS on an incident that occurred out in
town that directly affected the security of our base.

Around 1700 Monday, 23 July, a truck driver of Middle Eastern decent
approached a Hispanic man in the San Souci parking lot area offering
him
$200 to drive his trailer truck on base. The Hispanic man turned him
away and then reported it to the authorities. No one knows what was
in
the trailer truck nor did the trailer truck attempt to gain access to
the base. The Security group wants to spread the word so everyone can
be very vigilant and report any suspicious activities to the
authorities. They are asking that if anyone notices anything to please
call 911 and identify their location and what they have seen. Local
authorities are aware and are on the lookout for this individual or any
other suspicious activities.

Please disseminate this information to your groups, the more awareness
we have, the better.

Respectfully,
V.M.
NAWC Anti-Terrorism Officer

Nothin' like a new pair of jeans

Yesterday, I'll admit, was one of those massively crappy days. I should not have gotten out of bed, I think, except to go to the gym.

Son #1 also managed to have one of those days. It's a hormonal harmonic convergence. So, I took him to Walmart to buy more black jeans and t-shirts, since he lives in them and school starts in less than a month.

While I was there, I tried on the next-size-down jeans. And they fit. Perfectly. So I bought 2 pair, and I am wearing them now, and I feel ever so much better.

I may be completely messed up in the head, but I am at least getting back in shape.

Hi! How are you?

So far today, I've been to the high school, the bank, the grocery store, the newspaper office, and a fast food restaurant.

9 people have asked me how I was. Each time, I smiled and told them I was Great! and asked how they were. They, if they bothered to respond, were also Great! Even the guy with two broken fingers on his dominant hand.

Nine times, today, I felt like the only real response would have been "Shitty! But, hey, thanks for askin'!"

Boys and Men, Redux

We've been back for 2 days.

The night we returned, the Sons spent with their best friends. Great for them, great for the friends, great for me and Hubby because we could enjoy a silent house.

Son #1 puts on his swim trunks, and his friend takes one look, and says:

"Where'd you get that suit? The Gay Store?"

Son #1 knew exactly what to say.

"Why, Jack? Are you attracted to me?"

Open Mic in Indian Rocks Beach, FL

We spent most of yesterday with Hubby's cousin and his wife. Great couple, lots of fun. Plus, they brought the world's largest tub of fudge stripe ice cream, so the boys will be happy for the rest of the week.

Then we went to an Open Mic at a bar down the street. Hubby played bass and drums.

He was, as always, awesome.

The regular, standing drummer really kinda stank. But, hey, it was his drum set, so what can you do?

If you are Hubby, and hear the guy completely butchering song after song, there will come a point where you will take off the bass you've borrowed, and insist that its owner learn Little Wing right there, instead of letting you play it on her bass. You will then run around behind the drum kit, and tell the crap drummer that you ARE going to play that song, because you KNOW it. You will then take the sticks right out of his hands, and proceed to tear the place UP.

Then, you will feel a little sheepish, and offer to help the guy carry his equipment. But he's not going to let you.

More proof that men are just bigger, meatier boys

Went to my brother-in-law's for a barbecue, yesterday. Brother-in-law takes one look at Hubby in his stylin', Hawaiian print swim trunks, and asks,

"Where'd you get that suit? The Gay Store?"

Hubby immediately fires back, "Why, Bob, are you attracted to me?"

If you give a moose a muffin...

If at 5:30, you suggest you'll go cook dinner....

Hubby will suggest you go out to eat, instead.

If you agree to go out to eat...

Hubby will insist he drive around looking for good places to go, first.

If he finds some great places...

He'll decide he'd rather go there tomorrow, and grill tonight.

If you agree to grill...

He'll decide he'd rather have steaks, than the seafood you have in the house.

If you tell him you don't want to be doing dishes at 10pm...

He'll swear it'll just take him a minute to get steaks.

If it in fact takes more than an hour...

you'll be sitting here blogging, at 9pm, waiting for Hubby to come home with the steaks you are too tired to eat.

That's what I get for trying to be cute

We're on vacation. For the Sons, that means "only wear the bear minimum of clothing Mom requires". For Hubby, that generally means "no office clothes". For me, thinking of all the time I won't be spending scrubbing toilets and scooping dog poop, vacation is a chance to wear the cute clothes.

Today, I pulled out my favorite, crisp, white shirt. It is great, any time, but just fantastic, with a little bit of a tan. So I woke up, put it on, and instantly felt beachy-glamorous.

Floating on vacation waves, I went downstairs to make the Sons and their cousin Belgian waffles. And that was my big mistake. The Belgian waffle maker was less than clean, and it left several greasy smears on my shirt.

I pretreated it, I washed it, the smears were still there. So I pretreated it again, and washed it again, with the next load of laundry. I just pulled that out, and my fabulous white shirt is now covered in blue dye, from, I think, a beach towel.

I just put it in the wash for the third time today, with all the bleach I think it can stand, all by itself. My hopes are not high.

I should just wear crap clothes, like I do at home. Who's looking at me, down here, anyway?

Well, you can tell I'm on vacation

...because I am dropping F-bombs, on my blog. So sorry, to those of you with delicate eyeballs.

But, I guess you're not too delicate, or you'd be looking elsewhere. So, if I want to say it, I'm gonna say it.

One Word Meme

I stole this off of Curly Girl's blog. Check her out.
One word meme

1. Where is your cell phone? bedroom

2. Relationship? steady

3. Your hair? tangled

4. Work? fun!

5. Your sister? tall

6. Your favorite thing? quiet

7. Your dream last night? private

8. Your favorite drink? tea

9. Your dream car? motorcycle

10. The room you’re in? dining

11. Your shoes? thongs

12. Your fears? stagnation

13. What do you want to be in 10 years? sexy

14. Who did you hang out with this weekend? family

15. What are you not good at? discipline

16. Muffin? buttery

17. One of your wish list items? band

18. Where you grew up? Maryland

19. Last thing you did? journal

20. What are you wearing? jeans

21. What aren’t you wearing? makeup

22. Your pet? multitudinous

23. Your computer? portable

24. Your life? busy

25. Your mood? torn

26. Missing? waist

27. What are you thinking about right now? Shutterfly

28. Your car? cluttered

29. Your kitchen? crammed

30. Your summer? relaxing

31. Your favorite color? teal

32. Last time you laughed? sunrise

33. Last time you cried? writing

34. School? life

35. Love? writing

The Police

We saw The Police last night.

We'd been told by several people that they SUCK, this time around. Some people complained that they "can't jam...they only played things exactly like on the record. Why go see them, if you can listen to them at home and it sounds the same?" We'd also been told, by other people, obviously, "they didn't play ANYTHING the way it was on the CD. It was all re-mixy and weird."

So, Hubby and I kind of went into last night's concert expecting The Police to find some way to really disappoint.

We also were told that the seats we had were some of the worst seats in the St Pete Times Forum. That, basically, ANY seats would have been better than the ones we blew outrageous sums of money on. So, we figured, "Well, if they suck, at least we won't have to look at them."

We were told that parking was impossible.

We also were given about 6 different sets of directions, each of which had no connection to the others, so we pretty much assumed we'd miss half the show.

And then we got there. About 10 minutes before the Police came on. We breezed into a parking place. We settled into our seats, AND THEY HAD MOVED THE STAGE, so it was directly in front of us. We had some of the best seats in the house, except for those first couple rows on the floor.

And The Police, they ROCKED. They were flippin' awesome. They played just about everything we wanted to hear (though I could have used Murder by Numbers, and Hubby spent the whole night screaming "SYNCHRONICITY!!!!!!!" like Sting was going to look up, wave at him, nod, and say, "You know, man, you are absolutely right, we'll play that one next."

Some songs were very much like we remembered them from when I was a teenager and too young to attend concerts. Which was terrific.

Some songs were very UNlike those memories. They'd play a few notes, and then we'd realize, OH MY GOD! I LOVE THIS SONG! and it was a new, totally cool thing.

Sting was, well, Sting. Sting is great. There is a REASON he only needs the one name.

Stuart Copeland was fucking fantastic. Hubby said he was a little less energetic than twenty years ago, but honestly I couldn't stop watching him. Just terrific.

And Andy Summers? I admit, with a few notable exceptions, I usually don't notice guitarists. I am, as a rule, all about bass and drums. Perhaps that's why I loved The Police so much, as a teen, and still do---it's bass and drums, and, oh, yeah, they have a guitarist, too. And he was good, last night.

But, you know...

If you're going to be on the Jumbotron...

And they're going to zoom in on your hands, while you play leads...

And you're not 30 anymore...

Maybe you should wear a pair of gloves to cover up those liver spots.

We stayed long after the show ended, hanging out in the suite with my brother in law's friends. Fun guys, and I think they are going to come see Hubby play here in Indian Rocks Beach, later this week.

By the time we got out of the suite, all the vendors were packing up. Since they are just wage slaves, and none of them owns the company, they refused to sell us a t-shirt (and for $35, I want my t-shirt to come with Stuart Copeland IN it, not just his picture ON it, but that's a different story). They refused to sell us a poster. So we left.

You know, the elevator had posters, too. Free posters.

And so we went outside, looking for The Police, hoping they'd sign our poster. No sign of them. We did, however, find a member of Tampa's Finest. And he signed it for us.

Nothing beats a stolen poster, except maybe a stolen poster autographed by a cop.

We have escaped the Happy Boondocks

...for the week, at least. And in a stroke of genius, we have fed the children and are leaving in a minute for Dinner at a Decent Restaurant, Just the Two of Us.

People tell me I'll miss having children, but at this point I have to take their word for it. Because a dinner with just my husband, someplace that serves food my kids would rather starve than eat, sounds flippin' awesome.

Aaaah! Raogarnane! Gimme da one! Gah!

We are leaving the Happy Boondocks for a few days in the veritable Lap of Luxury. Today was pack day...which also included short trip to the ladies' clothing department, because I wanted to be stuffing my duffle with clothes I actually don't mind wearing.

So, I had the Sons evaluate my purchases. They are fairly happy with my choices, although there was some disagreement on a certain black, lacy, cap-sleeved thing. (Son #1 thought it looked Goth, and cool. Son #3 thought it looked Goth, and, um, not cool. But all the boys defer to the fashion sense of Son #1, who, after all, is the only kid in the house with strong fashion opinions, based on what he sees in the outside world).

We are also packing the obligatory "one fancy outfit, just in case". So, I pulled out my 2 fairly nice dresses. One got the immediate nod, from all and sundry, as they had seen me in it just a few weeks ago. The other required a quick view, before Son #1 was willing to vote.

"Sparkly dresses, well, they can look nice, but they can also make you look kinda fat. You don't want to look like the Crazy Cat Lady."

Son #1 put the kibosh on the dress.

"You don't look fat, you don't look like the Crazy Cat lady, but the shoulders are...boring. They don't look like they go with the rest of the dress."

I may not have raised a son who will diaper my grandchildren or wash the dinner dishes, but my future daughter in law can rest assured that he will tell her exactly what he thinks, without making her feel like a sea cow.

I feel so...proud.

UPDATE! Because, the minutiae of my day is so important to y'all

Son #1 came home from the park this afternoon and told me that he had run into The Other Boy Who Might Have Been Under a Death Threat This Week.

Said Boy had no idea, of course. But his first response was not the "Holy crap!" one might expect. What did he say?

"AGAIN?"

Yup, apparently, this happens all the damn time.

Also, I found my keys. They were in the basement, in the middle of some sort of lego/Monopoly hotel/airsoft gun pellet village. So, my keys are safe, my car is safe, my sanity is no longer in question. It was The Boy, all along. Shoulda known.

And now, I can go do the stuff I've been wanting to do all afternoon, but have neglected in favor of looking at every surface in my house as if it would magically sprout keys.

Woooo!

Where are my KEYS, dammit?

A few days ago, I was driving around town running errands/mulling life/writing in my head, desperately trying to hold my thought long enough to get out of the car and to my desk to write it down.

As I entered the house with my armloads of groceries, all the Sons and the Hubby all started talking to me. Like, one after the other. This tends to shut my brain down.

I put my keys down, somewhere, and I have no idea where. I have been searching all over, to no avail. And today, was even doing the "look through all your dresser drawers" thing, which netted me a lot of stuff that can go to the thrift store, and a dresser and end table that no longer need dusting, but still no keys.

We now only have my husband's spare set. I am not liking this at all.

Read about it here, Part 2

So, this tiny teacher woman (she is not even five feet tall, sweet young thing) and I discussed the whole mess, quickly and quietly, in the hall. She suggested that Son #1 attend her second period class, so he would be out of class when the girl was there, in an unexpected place at a time he usually would be home, and so that he could get the classroom instruction he needs, without interruption. She also agreed with me that the next place to go, for me, was the police.

So I drove The Son to the state police barracks, and spoke with Officer Tyer. Officer Tyer took down all the details, and said that though he agrees that the school (and especially this particular high school) absolutely needs to report stuff to them that they generally choose instead to sweep under the proverbial rug, that until she actually brings a weapon into the building and starts shooting people, it is not a police matter. The school has jurisdiction, where threatening speech is concerned.

He also thought it was a bad decision not to let the teacher know what was going on, but since I had handled that part of it, he didn't need to.

He said he'd call the school, and make sure they were doing everything they needed to do on their end, including things like watching her enter the building, to ensure she wasn't wearing voluminous clothes and a giant satchel that would be good hiding places for weapons. He told me that he would call me if he felt they weren't handling things, but that if I didn't hear from the state police I could assume he had checked it out and decided it was not something I needed to worry about.

So Son #1 and I went out for breakfast. He ate an entire Subway restaurant. And then we swung home, to kill a little time until second period class was ready to start. And I re-checked my cell phone, looking for the message the assistant principal swears he left me on Tuesday afternoon. As I suspected, there was no message, because he is a lying, ass-covering weasel.

Then we went back to the school. As we pulled in, a few minutes before first period is scheduled to end, we see The Girl's dad, walking towards the school. And The Girl, walking away from the school, with a guidance counselor. We pulled out of the parking lot, and waited across the street at a convenience store until it looked like they were going to leave. The Girl and Her Dad left the school, and I walked Son #1 in to touch base with his teacher.

Apparently The Girl sat through the first third of class, like a stone, and then asked to be sent to the guidance office, where they did whatever they do, and she left. She will not be coming back tomorrow. When she comes in for the final exam, on Monday, her parents will be in the classroom with her.

As it stands, I guess The Girl is getting some help. The teacher is furious that the administration was ready to leave her completely in the dark about a potentially violent classroom situation. And Son #1 feels relieved, and ready to finish out the last couple hours of school.

And me? I am glad that it seems to be resolving itself. I am reassured, also, that This Fabulous School on the Richer Side of Town is really not any better than The Ghetto School My Kids Attend. And, I am all hopped up on adrenaline.

A big part of me, though, wishes I could go find The Girl and hug her, hard. And let her know that though I have ratted her out to the authorities (geez, repeatedly, now), I really wish her only the best. May she grow up and get better and graduate and get a job and a husband and children and a happy, productive life, and look back on these days with wonder at the girl she used to be.

Read about it here, but hopefully not in the newspapers

Son #1, who went back to public school after 4 years at home, missed the first quarter of the school year. Soooo, he ended up needing to take a semester of algebra, over summer school. This has been a pretty positive experience: his teacher is making the work easily understandable. He has 3 days left of class.

This Tuesday, That Girl Who Bit Him Last Year and Was Subsequently Committed passed him her phone number. Then she told him that she was going to check back into the mental health facility, this coming Monday, because she "had a nervous breakdown with her psychiatrist, and told him that she can't tell the difference between dreams and reality, and she wants to kill all her friends and herself."

Son #1 told me this in the car, on the way home from school.

Upon our arrival home, I made three phone calls. First, I called Hubby to tell him what was going on. Then I called the school, reminded them that this girl had been in and out of a mental institution last school year and that she had physically attacked my son in the past, and told them all about what she'd said that morning in class. The Assistant Principal in charge of summer school, Mr. Myers, assured me that they would investigate it, handle it, and report back to me.

Then I called the poor girl's mom, to let her know. She was very apologetic, and it was clear to me that the whole family is trying everything they can, to get this girl the help she needs. She said that they had thought she was getting better, and that she had not mentioned these kinds of thoughts or wishes. She said, "I guess she won't be going back to school, we'll have to take her back to the hospital."

Then it was July 4th, and I was all about going out for pizza and shooting off undocumented alien fireworks with Hubby and the Sons. But I figured the smart thing to do would be to escort Son #1, the boy who stole my heart, into the school building a little early, this morning, to talk with the assistant principal and get his assurance that this girl would not be in the building.

So, today I headed over to the school and asked to speak with Mr. Myers, the assistant principal, and he told me "we have handled it."

I asked what he meant, by "handled it": Did "handled it" mean "we know she will not be in school today, tomorrow, or Monday, because we know she's been committed"?

No.

"Handled it" meant, "we have done all we are going to do, and we are not going to tell you anything, to protect her privacy".

So I asked, "Is she going to be in the building, today? Because my son is not going to be in the building, if she is. He and one other student are the only ones who have, according to her parents, treated this girl with anything approaching kindness, so when she says she wants to kill her friends, MY SON IS ONE OF TWO PEOPLE SHE IS TALKING ABOUT."

The assistant principal and a woman who did not introduce herself, but whom I assume to be the school counselor, offered to let Son #1 take all his assigned work into the media center, and work on it alone, so he wouldn't have to be in class with this girl. But, um, the reason he's in school is to spend time with the teacher. And being all alone in a library is not exactly the same as being protected from a girl who has stated her intention to kill you.

So, I suggested that maybe I should talk with his teacher, and see what she thought was the right thing to do. Maybe Son #1 could meet with her privately, instead of during class time, to complete his last 3 days of school.

We ran into the teacher in the hall.

She had not been told about the threat.

The assistant principal had come to her classroom and asked her cryptic questions about the girl, but didn't tell her why, and didn't tell her where the investigation led. It was all news to her, and if I hadn't told her she wouldn't have known. So, I would say, that is about the most piss-poor version of "handled it" that I can imagine. Wouldn't telling the teacher be the first thing any reasonable administrator would do?


I have to run, but I will post Part Two of the Saga, later today.

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.

Join me on The Artist's Way?

I am finishing reading The Artist's Way, A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. It has been an interesting and illuminating 12-week course.

I picked it up at the library sale, for a quarter. It has a lot of notes and underlinings and highlightings from the last reader, whose name was Susannah--her name tag was stuck to the cover, when I bought the book.

I feel I've gotten a lot out of it, and want to pass it on. Anyone want it? Let me know and I'll send it to you. Great book, gently used, almost magical...free for the taking.

Son #3: Speaking truth since 1995

"They're paying all these grown-ups millions of dollars to prove they're smarter than a fifth grader. Why don't they pay kids a million dollars, for going through fifth grade?"

There oughtta be a law...

If you have several children. Male children, who do not think ahead or participate in the womanly arts.

If the grandparents of those children insist that they come over, on a Wednesday, and stay from before your oldest child arrives home until the second you need to drive another child to the library.

If you have deadlines out the wazoo.

If your spouse is busy (and legitimately so).

If your doctor has made it clear that regular exercise, rest, and time away from the daily grind are no longer optional for you, but rather crucial to recovering anything like normal health.

If one of your children has braces, and those braces broke this week, requiring an emergency visit to the orthodontist.

If you have a dog whose favorite pastime is peeing under your desk, followed closely by pooping on the rug beneath your bed.

If you regularly wake up at 2am, and find it difficult, if not impossible, to get back to sleep, meaning that you go through your days in a mental fog.

If all these conditions are met, then, and only then, are you allowed, as a teacher, to assign my son the following, on a Wednesday:

Bring in a cake, decorated to represent the 8 places Odysseus visited in his wanderings. Extra credit if you also bring in other food items that fit with the Odyssey theme. Due Friday.

UPDATE:

Our cake won the Edible Map competition. By a landslide. Not only was it cool, with a map of ancient Europe made of cocoa and colored sugar as a backdrop for our fondant Olympus, pig, flaming goat, Siren, whirlpool, diamond ring, Trojan horse, and eye, and with lines tracing Odysseus' wanderings...Son #1 was able to tell everyone every little detail about the story, in order, with detail, and special emphasis on the fact that we placed our little figures accurately, based on historic research.

Yay, us! We totally kick butt.

Grab Your Tiger

My latest anthology has arrived...ok, the whole anthology is not mine, but at least one story in it is. Yay, me! At some point, I will read the rest of the stories. Today, though, I only peeked long enough to see what the editor did with it, and to note that I am on page 31.

Not that that means anything.

So, ignore the cheesy cover art and visit www.grabyourtiger.com.

Hiding in Plain Sight

or...

Necessity is the Mother****er of Invention.

I swore to my husband that I would save him enough leftover khao soy to enjoy when he got home from work today. But Son #1, otherwise known as the Insatiable Food Consuming Teen, loves khao soy, too.

Guess where it is? Yes, Hubby, you will find your fine snackables in 3 containers tucked into a giant salad bowl.

Ooh, I'm an underground force of nature

I found out today that someone read one of my recent blog posts aloud to a group of parents working to form a charter school. I feel...special!

Would you believe....I'm working?

I have spent the past week looking at my computer and barely chipping at my big writing project for the month. It is starting to make me want to panic. The thing is, every time I sit down, I either am consumed with thoughts of the laundry that needs folding (or whatever else needs to be done around here) or the thoughts in my head are drowned out by boys talking at/to/around/over me.

I need the damned Cones of Silence.

Mixed Feelings

Today while sitting in the lobby of the local high school, I saw:

A trophy for the school's "Academic Top Dawg" Champion.

A girl (14? 15?) coming to school with a Dora the Explorer backpack...and an infant.

I just, um, well, I...

Like I said, my feelings are decidedly mixed.

I'm just here for the comic relief, folks!

I made my son's principal laugh, tonight.

The school was scheduled to have a "lockdown drill" this week. It had been on the schedule for quite some time. And then the Tech shootings happened, and it seemed, on the one hand, especially important that they practice the procedures for responding to a violent attack. On the other hand, it was, well, perhaps a bit too timely, for some parents.

The basics of the drill are: Lock your classroom door, and have all students huddle in the corner out of the line of sight of the one window that faces the hallway.

It occurred to me that this is exactly the sort of behavior that got people shot, at Tech, when they couldn't keep the doors closed. And also that it is better, and somehow more American, to jump the attacker and pummel him, instead of cowering in fear.

After the drill, Son #1 said that it went pretty well, although his classroom cowered too slowly. They were informed that they'd all be dead, in the case of an actual emergency.

Tonight was a "principal's forum"--a chance for parents to talk to the principal about what's going on at school. I went, and there were less than 20 of us, including staff. So she sees me coming a mile away. Which is OK, mostly. The forum was informative and helpful. But then the subject of the lockdown drill came up.

The principal apologized for holding the lockdown drill. Some parents, it seems, felt it was too soon after the Tech shootings. I guess there are two ways to look at it.

The other night, I was discussing the Tech shootings with Fiddlin' Writer. My thoughts are, generally, that what we need are people with a strong sense of self-preservation. People who, also, are equipped. With a handgun. Having a licensed, competent shooter in those classrooms would have stopped Cho after just one or two killings.

I'm not saying that everyone needs a gun. Just that, there are some people who, if they had a gun, would be able to save the rest of us. And those people should be free to carry their weapons. Big, burly guys who love to hunt and target shoot. Men (and women) who are confident in their ability to act swiftly and surely. People like that. Every group has them, and there are about 1800 people in that school, every day. Gotta be a few teachers (and maybe the occasional 18 year old senior) who would qualify, and who would get together regularly for target practice, right?

So, I asked, at the forum tonight: Has there been any discussion of arming some teachers?

She just laughed, at first.

And then, when I told her I was serious, she laughed again.

"No. None."

OK, then. Hope all goes well.

Easy Care, or Dry Clean Only: The Test

Not sure if your clothing item is "dry clean only"? The Total Waste of Time Gang has found a foolproof way to decide.

Place all or part of the item on the floor.

Wait.

If it stays clean and dry, it is machine washable.

If the dog pees on it, you've got to go to the dry cleaner's. Like, today.

Ya know what I blame this on the breakdown of? Society.

Dad always used to say that "women civilize men". I thought this was bullshit. Pure, unadulterated bullshit. And then, I saw women stop trying.

Women today don't want to make men play our game. We want to play THEIR game. So we have stopped insisting they treat us like ladies. We have stopped insisting they behave like gentlemen. We dress like skanks. We dress our DAUGHTERS like skanks. We curse. We drink until we puke. We flash strangers--and coworkers--for cheap, plastic beads. We declare ourselves bisexual, at 14, even though we're not interested in kissing our supposed "girlfriend", because being bisexual is cool. We go on Girls Gone Wild. We work the pole.

And then we wonder why men don't treat us like ladies. Like people, even. God, we are stupid, if we can't see what we've done. We thought we were fighting for equality. What we got was just degradation. And the cads still get the last laugh.

Our big "wins" all seem to be wins for the men. And not even decent men. We've worked hard, as women, to make being a woman harder and being a crass bastard completely acceptable. The pornification of society just keeps rolling, and it bugs me.

Women may not civilize men, anymore. But that just means that we are de-civilizing, ourselves. Sorry, Dad, you were right, again. Must suck, being right all the time.

Lessons Learned From My Kids: Don't keep checking the rules!

The Sons are downstairs, playing with a neighbor. This neighbor is particularly legalistic. The Sons are, well, generally not. It is a clash of cultures, every time this kid visits. I am never sure how it's going to turn out, but my rule for the Sons is: You don't have to invite him over, but if you DO invite him over, you have to be nice.

Today being a rainy, cold one, they have opted for a game of Monopoly.

With every move--his own, or one of the Sons, Neighbor Boy says, "Let's check the rules." It is driving the Sons completely insane.

Moral of the story: rules are great. But it's also important to be able to cut loose and play the darn game.

my visual DNA

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Anna! Anna! Anna!

So, they have determined that Larry Birkhead, the photographer, is the father.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this but, I told you so," Birkhead, a Los Angeles photographer, said outside the court in Nassau. "Nothing's really determined except parentage and I'm the father."

"I'm going to the toy store," he said.

What do you want to bet "toy store" is a euphemism for "Porsche dealership"?

My Kind of Easter Miracle

Mom insists my sister and husband and I hunt Easter eggs, every year. When we explain that adults don't DO that, she gets all whiney and teary and shouty and insistent. We do not get to eat dinner, until we have gone through this. It is degrading, and ridiculous, and annoying as hell. It pretty much makes me dread Easter.

For the past few years, hubby and I have told the Sons that if they can find our "adult" eggs, they can keep them. The Sons have enjoyed this--the adult eggs have a bit more money in them (though, no, it is still not so much cash that we are blinded to the fact that we are adults, playing a child's game to make my mother happy).

This year, Sons #1 and 2 are old enough to feel silly, hunting eggs. I told mom that they would not be hunting. She complained, briefly, and then let it go.

Yesterday, Sons #3 and 4 hunted eggs with their small cousin, and had a good time. The rest of us stood on the sidelines, and had a good time. Nobody had to act like an idiot. Nobody yelled at us for being "no fun" until we toed the Easter line.

It was awesome. Thank you, Jesus.

Don't Steal Music

Son #1's iPod was broken, so we sent it back to get the screen fixed. Today, it arrived. With a big sign on the front, saying "Don't steal music".

I'm sorry, but your assuming I am a thief makes me want to go out there and steal music, right NOW.

Thank you, Universe, for explaining to my son...

why we require him to leave his High School Language at school.

Son #1 has started talking like a public school student. I accept that as part of the deal we have made--we send him to get an education, and he damn well gets a motherf--king education, bitch. Well, ok, he doesn't take it that far, but you know. It is a bit shocking.

I constantly am reminding him that, A, he kisses his mother with that mouth, and, B, he has younger brothers who don't need to hear that language yet, especially from a big brother they respect and admire.

For those of you who are laughing hysterically at your keyboards, NO, the fact that I tend to swear like a sailor the minute the Sons are out of earshot is totally immaterial. Because, duh, Out of Earshot.

This drives Son #1 nuts. "EVERYBODY talks like this, Mom. I'm not saying anything unusual." Which is absolutely true. But, I still reserve the right to require a little self-censorship, in the interest of domestic civility.

Anyway, this back-and-forth has been going on for months, with Son #1 mostly catching himself before I shoot him The Look, and occasionally arguing for more linguistic freedom. Then, yesterday, he spent the day at a friend's house.

He came home and asked me if his voice "sounded gay".

Knowing this had nothing to do with tolerance of alternative lifestyles, and everything to do with what some kid must have said about his evolving manliness, I replied, "No, your voice sounds like a normal voice, what do you mean?"

"Some little 10-year-old girl rode by on her bike and told me my voice sounded gay. Then she started saying all this other stuff, cursing at us, and stuff. I asked her where she learned to say all this stuff, and she said, her sister."

Son #1 then gave me the sweet, innocent, boy-I-love-with-the-long-eyelashes look, and before I could even start in with "See, I told you so!", he said, "Yeah, Mom, I know what you mean. I don't want them talking like that."

19, 19, 1985

Sometimes, synchronicity is the only explanation.

I am in full-on, nearing 40, stay-at-home mom, midlife crisis mode. I am having a hard time seeing any value in the way I spend my time. And I just want to sleep. It's not a great way to go through your days...distractible, cranky, frustrated; it's hard to shake, and on days when I can't shake it, I get hardly anything done. And on days when I've gotten hardly anything done, I feel...

You get the picture.

Son #1 and I have been engaging in a playful give-and-take in musical education. Youtube is great for this--you can see music videos that haven't been on MTv in decades. So last night Hubby and I introduced him to Rush--which he appreciated, which is cool. He says none of his friends at school would ever like it, because they are all into death metal and rap. But HE liked it.

Earlier in the evening, he asked me about Bowling for Soup. Now, I have never been really good about knowing what band performed which song. I have loved songs for years before realizing they were performed by the band that performed OTHER songs I loved. I just never make the connection. So I had no idea who Bowling for Soup was.

Then he played it for me, and it is my theme song:

She was gonna shake her ass
On the hood of White Snake's car
Her yellow SUV is now the enemy
Looks at her average life
And nothin', has been...
all right since

Springsteen, Madonna
Way before nirvana There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985

He was surprised to find that not only did I know the lyrics better than he did, but that I also graduated high school in 1985. We sang and danced in the kitchen like a couple of dorks. It made me feel better. Son #1 is a good kid.